by LRH Balzer
"Remember, Napoleon, that I did not see the second man. I wouldn't be able to identify him."
"Well, we need something—At least with a photograph we have some idea what he looks like."
"I may not have seen him, but I'll remember his voice. Always."
* * * * *
Dusk was upon them, cold and gray, when they arrived at the Jasper Park Lodge and Napoleon pulled into the parking lot of the luxurious accommodations. Illya's step was dragging, weariness apparent to Napoleon's trained eye. His partner's shoulder hurt, yes, but there was a hint of something else around his eyes.
"Do you have a fever?" Solo asked, his hand going to Kuryakin's forehead.
"Would you lay off about the fever?" Illya grumbled, slapping his hand away. "Haven't we been through this before?"
"I'm not fussing over you. Can't I just be concerned? Is it so hard for you to accept the fact that I might have a stake in whether you're well or not? Now, do you have a fever?" Napoleon repeated, his voice lowered as they approached the front desk.
"Probably. Are you happy?" Illya tossed back. He adjusted his sling irritably, shifting uncomfortably as Napoleon signed the guest register and arranged for their suitcases to be brought up to the room.
"Thrilled," Napoleon said, rubbing his forehead when the front desk clerk left to get a room service menu. "Is it okay if we order something in, instead of going to a restaurant? I'd like to lie down for a while before my cousin gets here."
"Whatever. I'm not hungry." Illya calmed himself, his gaze darting to the small bandage on his partner's forehead. "Just order some soup and bread for me. It doesn't matter what it is." He looked back at the counter. "Does your head hurt?"
"A bit. Being vertical will probably ease it. At least this one doesn't bother me any more." Napoleon turned and showed him that the bump he had taken at the airport was gone. "And a few aspirins will take care of my headache. Same with you?"
Illya shrugged, but didn't volunteer any more information on how he was feeling, despite the opening Napoleon had left for him.
The clerk returned, and Solo scanned the menu and placed their dinner order quickly. By the time they got to their room, their suitcases were already there.
Illya tossed the sling on the bed, then carefully peeled off his outer coat. "If you don't mind, I'll have a bath. Call me when the food arrives, although the thought of eating right now is not doing my stomach any favors."
You okay? Napoleon asked silently, raising his eyebrows in question.
"I'm fine. The bath will help. I'll eat something and then rest for a while," Kuryakin said resolutely, heading into the bathroom.
"Well, let me know if it gets any worse." Solo pulled out his transciever and made his report to New York. He was just ready to sign off with Waverly, when Doctor Lawrence came on the line.
"How are you doing, Napoleon? How's the head feeling?"
"Oh, just peachy, Sam. I was waiting to eat before I take one of these painkillers you prescribed. I don't want to fall asleep when I'm expecting company."
"Has the double vision cleared up?"
"Yes, around noon. It was never very serious, just annoying."
"What about your partner? How is the shoulder?"
"It seems to be paining him right now. He's probably in the same situation; he doesn't want to take a painkiller until he has some food in his stomach."
"Well, you make sure he takes something. If he doesn't get a good rest tonight, he'll certainly be regretting it tomorrow. If he balks at taking it, call me and I'll have a word with him."
"I think I've already crossed the line in talking to him about medication and how he feels. He's running a temperature, which always makes him a bit irritable—"
"A fever?"Lawrence broke in. "How high is it?"
"I've no idea. I don't have a thermometer." Napoleon paused, frowning down at the transceiver. "Why? Is there a problem?"
"Only if it climbs. Napoleon, I'll be in the office here until late—Call me if there 's any change. And try to get that pain medication into him."
"Easy for you to say," Solo muttered, closing down the connection. Their dinner arrived and after a moment's consideration, he dropped the contents of three of the capsules into Kuryakin's teapot. I have a feeling I may regret this... "Illya! Food's here."
Solo ate what he could, then moved over to his bed and stretched out on top of it while Illya—his appetite apparently restored by his shower—finished off the food. The older agent waited until the drugs had taken affect before easing from his bed and steering his lethargic partner from where he slumped at the table to the other bed, all ready for him with sheets turned down.
"I don't understand..." Illya mumbled, as Napoleon's hands carefully removed his bath robe. The cloudy eyes fluttered and slid shut.
"You can blame me in the morning. But at least you'll have a good sleep. I put a tranquillizer and a few painkillers in your tea. If you would take your pills when you are supposed to, then I wouldn't have had to slip you them."
"Damn you."
The whispered words, full of anger, drew Napoleon's attention back to the bed. "Go to sleep," he said, firmly.
"No choice, have I?" The eyes opened and for the first time in a long time, Napoleon saw resentment in them, resentment aimed solely at the senior agent. "Thanks a lot, partner."
"I did what was best for you," Solo said, trying to sound reasonable as he stared down at him. "If you're too stubborn to acknowledge you're in pain and should take something for it, then you force me to make that decision for you."
That seemed to hit a nerve, injecting more awareness into the sedated man. The Russian half sat up, glaring at him, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "By what right?"
"What?" The sudden aggression took Solo off guard. "Calm down."
"Taking medication is my prerogative. You presume to always read me and know what's best for me. Well, you don't. I will not be treated like a child or an imbecile. What gives you the right to make those kinds of decisions for me?"
"Besides the fact that your own doctor, Sam Lawrence, told me to give them to you, I am—" Solo began, defensively, preparing to number them off on his fingers.
Kuryakin cut him off. "How the hell do you think I survived this long without your over-indulging solicitude? I did quite well before I met you, Solo. I wonder how long you would have lasted in some of the outfits that I have worked for. And you can tell that to New York's wonderful Sam Lawrence..." A wave of dizziness hit and he swallowed quickly, his fists clenched. "Damn you—I took the full dosage when I got out of the shower..." He fell back to the bed and groaned, holding his left arm, his head lolling to one side.
Once the words made it through his thick skull, Napoleon grabbed at one of his partner's wrists, alarmed at the rapid pulse. He retrieved his communicator and flicked it on. "Open New York Channel. Sam Lawrence."
A long moment, then, "Dr. Lawrence here."
"Sam, it's Napoleon. I think I made a mistake."
"Excuse me while I go mark this on my calendar."
"I'm serious, Sam. Illya might be in trouble here."
It could have been much worse, Solo realized, when he had a chance to think again. There could have been serious complications—he could have even killed his partner if there had been a dangerous reaction. As it was, the cumulative effect of the combined medication had effectively knocked Illya out, but was not enough to do any critical or lasting damage.
The fever was the greatest concern to Lawrence, not the double dose of drugs. "Napoleon, there 's a possibility that this is a relapse of the dengue fever he had a few weeks ago."
"Illya said he never had dengue fever."
"We don't know that. The rash may not have materialized, but he had something then—and the fever now could be a relapse. I don't want to take a chance."
"What can we do?"
"Not much. I've notified the Edmonton office to send some first aid supplies along. The bandaids and tensors you two carry arou
nd with you are not enough... Napoleon, where are you in your case right now? Is this putting you at risk? Should I send someone to deal with him?"
"We just got here. We were going to go into town tomorrow and look around. How soon can you get someone here if I need to leave?"
"An hour. It wouldn't take too long to helicopter someone in."
"Then I'll keep an eye on him tonight, and we'll see how he is in the morning."
"Okay. When the supplies arrive, take his temperature. If it 's more than 103°, have them take him to the Edmonton office straightaway. Anything under that, and we'll just monitor it. Keep me advised though, if there 's any change— Just how angry is he at us?"
"At you, a bit. At me, a lot."
"Well, I guess we deserve it. Have him call me when he 's a bit more rational and I'll tell him I put you up to it."
"I acted of my own free will, Sam. If it was the other way around, I'd be furious at him for not trusting me enough to sit down and tell me his concerns, and to pass on your advice. He's right. I blew it."
"He should have talked to you."
"Why bother? I'm telling him that I treat him as an equal, and then I pull something like this."
"And I still think of him as that youngster I first dealt with. He surprises me, though. Even this summer, Illya was still flushing medication down the toilet rather than take it."
"A CIA doctor gave him those meds, what did you expect? I think I would have done the same thing."
"Trusting souls, aren't you?"
"Hey, we're still alive." Napoleon put the transceiver away and stared at his sleeping partner.
An hour and a half later, the Section Two Chief of the Edmonton U.N.C.L.E. office helicoptered in, hand delivering the medical supplies Lawrence had requested. "What happened?"
Waving aside any response to the question, Solo took the sealed package from his cousin, tore it open, and stuck the thermometer in his partner's mouth, waking him up enough to keep the thermometer in. "Have a seat, Roz. I want to make sure he's okay before your helicopter goes." Only when the thermometer was read, the helicopter given the okay to leave, and Sam Lawrence notified of the temperature, did Napoleon look over his shoulder to his cousin, hovering nearby. "Thanks for bringing this stuff."
"Is he okay? I didn't know the supplies were for your partner."
"Sam Lawrence, our Chief Physician in New York, says he'll be fine; he's only at 101.5°. If the temperature drops soon, Illya will be fine in the morning."
"Did Thrush do this to him?" Rostand picked up a towel and wiped the thin sheen of perspiration from Kuryakin's forehead.
"No, actually, I did." Trying not to notice as Rostand clamped down his surprised expression, Solo continued with a tired laugh, "This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I suggested we meet here for a drink tonight."
Rostand pulled his jacket off and tossed it on the couch. "No problem, Nap. I'm here now. How can I help?"
Solo rubbed at his forehead. "I don't know... I'm not thinking very clearly. I can't believe I did this. You know, the man saved my life yesterday and I repaid him by doing this..." Illya's head moved slowly from side to side, as though reacting to the tension in his partner's voice.
Rostand smiled. "So you're a jerk. We both knew that already—what's the point in denying it? What happened to his shoulder? And your head?" Solo told him and Rostand nodded, impressed. "He's stronger than he looks."
"Yeah." Napoleon straightened his shoulders and smiled wearily at the other man. When he actually looked at his cousin, he was surprised at the changes that had occurred in the last three years. There was gray now at Rostand's temples, weathered lines etched into his face. The strain of leadership rested heavily on the other man. "How've you been, Roz? I hate to admit it, but it's been years since we last spoke."
"We each headed in our own direction. It's the way of life." Rostand shrugged. "I tried to contact you last Christmas, but they said you were on a priority assignment."
"Illya was undercover and had been shot; I was trying to track down who did it. It was a messy case, trying to sort out who was doing what, between Thrush and the KGB and the GRU. What was wrong at Christmas?"
"Nothing really. Uncle Pierre's funeral. Some legal questions. I needed some advice, but I ended up finding an alternate solution."
"I heard you had separated from Annie. How long has it been?"
"We got divorced this spring. Have you seen her at all?"
"No. I was out that way earlier this month, though. Saw your parents. They're looking well."
Rostand nodded. "Haven't seen them since the funeral last year. It was quite the event. The whole family was there. All the older generation came crawling out of the woodwork."
"So I heard."
His cousin gave a little laugh, appearing uncomfortable. He glanced up at Napoleon and saw the look on his face, correctly guessing the problem. "I guess you heard he was there."
"Your father mentioned he was at the funeral. Did you talk to him?"
"No. He was looking good though, better than he was the last time I saw him, at any rate."
Napoleon stared at Rostand. "What are you saying? That you've met him before?"
The smile fell from Rostand's face. "A few times. He has something to do with the university in Toronto. Why? When was the last you saw him?"
"When I was seven years old. I thought he was dead all this time."
Rostand had no reply, except for the stunned look on his face. Finally, he stammered, "You can't be serious."
"I'm very serious. So tell me, is my mother alive?" Napoleon glanced back to his partner, then moved across the room when it appeared Illya was resting comfortably. He poured them both a drink, handed one to his cousin, then stood impatiently before him, waiting for the answer. "My mother?"
"I've seen Tony, but I've never really talked to him other than a wave as I walked by. I don't know him. I never knew him. At the university one day, I just saw the name 'Solo' on an office door and walked in and introduced myself. We didn't talk much. He had students waiting." Rostand swirled his drink around in the glass. "I'm sorry, Nap. I really didn't know about this. I thought you knew about him."
"I know nothing about him."
"I wish I could tell you more—"
"No." Napoleon paced the room, restless, stopping at the foot of his partner's bed. "Maybe it's not that important. If you see him again... uh... say hello to him from me. If he wants to look me up, he can."
"What if he feels the same way? That if you were interested in seeing him, you would have made an effort to find him." Rostand shrugged. "You aren't the easiest person to get a hold of, you know. Look at us. We once were inseparable."
"U.N.C.L.E. takes up a lot of time."
"Well, maybe whatever he did kept him busy, too."
"I don't have a child at home, abandoned."
Rostand looked away, frowning at the carpet. "Look, I don't want to get involved in this, Nap. This is between you and Tony."
"You're right. So how's Edmonton?"
As though relieved to get onto a different topic, Rostand leaned back in his chair. "When U.N.C.L.E. relocated me there, I more or less lost contact with the rest of the world. I tried to put in for a transfer a few times, but nothing ever came of it, so I gave up. We've been busy lately—especially with the threat of a Thrush base nearby. I noticed from Waverly's report earlier this evening that we lost our undercover agent to Thrush. Have you been in contact with the local boys here? Were they able to find out anything more about Burle Sinclair?"
Solo shrugged. "We have a few men watching for him in town. Illya overheard Sinclair talking to another man, and, unfortunately, we've been able to identify him as Giles Nedstrom, our other mole in Thrush Western Canada."
"Nedstrom? I don't recognize the name."
"He's from the Maritimes office."
"I'll alert my men. I didn't realize there was a second man undercover with Thrush."
"He was in pretty deep. Mr.
Waverly's ace in the hole."
"I guess this is Nedstrom in the photo Waverly telexed. There's no name attached." He handed Solo a manila envelope. "How was Kuryakin able to identify him? I thought he didn't see him at all."
"It was something that Sinclair said. We just put two and two together." Solo reached to check his partner's forehead again and Kuryakin's eyes flickered open at the touch, closing immediately. There was silence while Napoleon retrieved the thermometer from the table and took his temperature again.
"How is it?" Rostand asked, when Solo shook it clear and returned it to the case.
"Much better. It's down to 100.5°. If it continues to drop, it's not the relapse of dengue fever after all. Sam said he would probably sleep all night and be fine in the morning."
Rostand moved over to the sofa. "I'd heard that you had a partner. How long have you been together? Last we talked—when were we out here skiing last? '62?—Brownie had just been killed and you said you would never take another partner again. It wasn't worth it."
"I didn't think I could go through all that again. There are still times that I really miss Brownie—and he told the best puns."
"What? This guy has no sense of humor?"
"Oh, I didn't say that—Illya has a wicked sense of humor. Puns are just a little slippery for him since English isn't his first language. More like his twelfth language. No, I hadn't planned on working with a partner again but Mr. Waverly insisted on pairing us for a few assignments and now I can't imagine working without him."
Rostand nodded thoughtfully. "Good. Good. Do they have room service here? I could use something to eat."
* * * * *
Illya tossed on the bed.
The ram looked at him, turning its head from side to side. First one eye looked through him, then the other. The horns curled endlessly, spinning. The eyes, back and forth, left and right.
