by LRH Balzer
Kuryakin made no attempt to leave. If Solo thought of him only as a partner, then he would say what a partner could say. "We have just returned from a series of assignments. You had a bullet crease your shoulder two days ago. You are supposed to be resting."
Solo appeared in the doorway, staring coolly across the room, his voice harsh. "Don't tell me what to do. Get off my table, Illya. I'm tired, I have a plane to catch, and I don't want to fight with you about this."
"Who is fighting? I just do not understand why you want to go to a memorial service for Colonel Morgan. He was a thief, a traitor to your country, he deceived you, tried to kill both of us––why are you going to this thing? Why do you wish to stand in front of a room full of men you have not seen in twelve years and say nice things about him?"
"He wasn't always like that. Alan Morgan was a good leader. He saved my life once. I wasn't even one of his own men. Maybe I want to honor him for that." Solo crossed to the front door as the bell rang, paid the delivery boy from Del Floria's for the rushed dry cleaning, and laid the uniform carefully over the couch.
Dark navy fabric appeared from beneath the paper, gold braid on the sleeve marking his rank as commander. Solo folded the uniform pants and placed them in the weekend case as his partner slid off the table and came over to finger the wool jacket.
"This is not an American uniform."
"Royal Canadian Navy."
Kuryakin glanced at him, puzzled. "Canadian? I thought you were––"
"Dual citizenship. It's a long sordid story. I went to Korea with the navy, on board the HMS Cayuga." Napoleon took the uniform jacket and folded it, appearing lost in his thoughts. It wasn't until he placed it in the suitcase that he acknowledged Illya's expectant silence. "My captain's name was Jeffry Brock, Commander Destroyers Pacific. I was a green kid who had never served on a ship, apart from one summer in cadets. At the end of June 1950, at the onset of the Korean war, I was pulled from the Kingston, Ontario, Military College and given a rank because I had a bit more training than most of them."
"I figured you for West Point. Or Arlington."
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because my father wrote and suggested that I go there. So I took my grandfather's suggestion instead and enrolled in the Royal Military College. He hated his son-in-law as much as I did."
Fair brows rose at the tossed-off comment, but Illya remained silent, wrestling inwardly with his own insecurities. Now was not the time to deal with them: the ingrained fear of speaking at the wrong time, of asking the wrong question. And of being punished for the arrogance, however unintentional. He was by no means unfamiliar with Napoleon's scornful looks at a mistimed remark or what was perceived as a presumptuous question. Even with a friend––a partner––such as this one, it was wise to choose questions with care. Or else find a different way to ask them.
At his lengthy silence, he felt Napoleon glance up at him and Illya looked back steadily, the question in his eyes, if not on his lips. You've never mentioned your father before.
Solo shrugged and folded the jacket. "I... uh... barely knew him. Saw him maybe four or five times, at most. Something like you and Kolya[4]," he said, finally. "No real connection."
I am still my father's son. Are you? "Is he still alive?"
"No." Solo paused and gave a little shake of his head. "Actually, I have no idea. I stopped caring when I was a kid. Seemed better to go it alone."
Illya nodded, but no further reflections were offered and he still had no indication of whether it was appropriate for him to inquire further. At least he had a few new pieces to the jigsaw puzzle that was Napoleon Solo, and he filed away the information. He stared at the uniform, feeling his own memories crowding. "I was in the navy for a while." He blinked in surprise that he had spoken aloud, even now.
Solo stopped packing, for an instant his expression softening as though appreciating the confidence. "I know. It's in your file. That's why we sent you undercover in the Soviet Union during the Neptune case[5]." He crossed to the hallway linen closet and withdrew a uniform cap from its box. "How long were you at sea? The notation was rather vague."
Whether Napoleon was sincerely interested or not, Illya took advantage of the question. At least it was dialog, even though it was once again his life they were discussing. "One of the fleet captains was suspected of treachery—some sort of crime against the people––and it was decided he needed to be watched. They dumped me on board with three hours training, most of it to learn the appropriate navy jargon and what I was to look for. It only lasted two weeks. The actual assignment was a disaster... but I've often wondered..." The pale eyes concentrated on the far wall for a few minutes, while neither man spoke and Solo continued his packing.
In the silence, Illya's eyes closed, remembering. The air smelled alive. I felt alive. He had been lent out before, but never to the Soviet Navy. He had asked later if he could go back sometime, perhaps permanently, but they had quickly moved him hundreds of miles away and he had understood that he could not ask again. But he could remember. He could still hear the crash of waves, the undulating motion, the power of the vessel beneath his feet. The heavy salt odor. The stench of oil and machinery fumes. The men calling to each other across the roar of the ocean and the hum and vibration of the engines. I felt alive. Damn them.
He opened his eyes to see Napoleon relaxing, looking at him oddly. Some of the tension was gone from the dark eyes. "Did you like the sea?" Solo asked quietly, obviously amused at his transparency.
The blond agent turned from his musing and dropped into a leather armchair nearby: "Didn't matter." He didn't want to talk about this. Not now. Napoleon was shifting the topic away from himself, as he always did, turning the tables. Instead, Illya gestured at the uniform. "If you were in the Royal Canadian Navy, may I ask how you got from there to end up serving with Morgan in an American army unit?" he asked, trying to find open ground to tread on.
Solo tucked the uniform jacket into the garment bag, zipping up the side. "Got myself caught by the North Koreans, a year or so into the war," he said, lightly.
"How? If you were on the ship––?"
"I was a liaison officer between the fleet commander and the United Nations task force. On leave, I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"What happened?"
"I was taken north with some other POWs. Beaten up a bit. Interrogated."
By Russians, I suspect. Is that why you have never told me about this?—But then, you haven't told me anything. Including why you would consider going to this reunion. "And Morgan rescued you?" Illya prompted.
"More or less. He had a big hand in the operation. He saved my skinny little hide, along with seven other soldiers." The suitcase was snapped shut with a finality that signaled the end to the conversation.
Solo set the luggage by the door, then returned to stand quietly before Kuryakin. "I'm going, Illya. The memorial service is tomorrow afternoon. Bob Laurier said many of Morgan's Ranger Unit are making an effort to be there. I knew a lot of them. I haven't seen most of them since the war. I want to go."
So why don't I want you to go? Illya shifted uncomfortably. I feel it in my bones that you shouldn't go. He glanced up at Napoleon. I can 't protect you there, but then, I didn't do a good job of protecting you in London, either.
Napoleon seemed to pick up on his thoughts. "I'll be careful. Besides, the man is dead now."
I remember. I shot him. Before he could shoot you. He was going to, you know. If I had waited in the car as you suggested... you would be dead now, too.
Three months earlier, Solo had been contacted by Alan Morgan and asked to go to the Middle East to help the war hero's cause. Napoleon had immediately committed himself to go, even though U.N.C.L.E. had not found any indication there was a cause, and although the Chief Enforcement Agent was not sure why, Illya had tagged along. It wasn't a whimsical decision on Kuryakin's part; he'd had to fight Waverly for the time off to accompany his partner sinc
e the Old Man was not convinced there was justification for even Solo leaving.
But it had felt wrong to Illya then, that Napoleon was involved, just as it did now. There was the same uneasiness clutching at Illya's stomach. It was a feeling he had learned to listen to, for it had saved his own life on several occasions. And it had saved Napoleon's life that night in Marseilles.
The feeling should have vanished when the bullet left his gun, when the danger to Napoleon had ended, or at least when Morgan was pronounced dead. It had lessened, of course, but it remained, a scar reluctant to heal. There were unexplained times in the last few months when he woke in the middle of the night and thought about it; it didn't seem to matter whether they were on assignment abroad or in New York City. Even in Maine, two months before, lying on a cold cement floor in the Thrush genetics clinic, captured himself and seeing no way out, he had found himself wondering about Morgan. He had become convinced that there was more to the story than what Napoleon had told him, and there was more about Morgan than Napoleon knew.
The snake had reared its ugly head once again, rising from the dead. Don't go. I can't explain why—I don't know why—but don't go.
Solo kicked lightly at his leg, as though realizing his partner had faded out on him. "You get some rest while I'm gone. I've lost track of how many times you've been knocked out or drugged in the last few months. I need you one hundred percent. Waverly's given us a couple of days off, so take advantage of them. This doesn't happen often. Go visit the Grahams in D.C. and get a few home-cooked meals under your belt."
"There is no one there. They are in Europe on vacation. Napoleon, are you sure––?"
"I'm going." There was warning in the voice. The subject was closing.
Kuryakin gripped the arms of the chair, refusing to move, not knowing if it was anger or terror that fired the questions from his mouth. "Have you considered that this memorial service is three months after Morgan's death? Why? Why did it take so long? Why do they want you to do a eulogy? Why have they not invited you before this? Why is it in Atlanta? Why is he receiving military honors? Why is there a reunion after twelve years and not ten or fifteen? Why is––?"
Solo's voice was cold, not allowing argument. "I am going. It is my decision. And I don't want to talk about it. Drop it!"
It is a mistake. "Can I at least drive you to the airport?" Kuryakin asked, standing.
The familiar smile flashed across Solo's face, momentarily cutting through the anger. "Thanks, but it's not necessary. I've got an hour or two before I have to go, and I think I'll lie down for a bit. I'll call a cab when I'm ready. Listen, Illya, I haven't had a chance to set up the Research and Investigations file on Dr. Egret; if you have time, could you look into that? Be sure to add the Cannes information and the serum. I was also going to check on Sully's report on our last case—maybe you could double-check it and hand it in to Waverly..."
Illya nodded absently, awkwardly feeling himself herded to the door. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away down the hallway.
*****
Solo stretched out on his bed, easing a pillow under the injured arm. His alarm was set, he was packed, there was nothing to do but try and catch some sleep before heading out. He closed his eyes. He shouldn't have cut Illya off but if he had heard one more why... His partner had a nasty ability of knowing what questions to ask, but it was rare for him to actually voice them on a personal issue like this.
So why not talk to him about it? Because I have no answers for him. Just a feeling in my gut. A nudge from the past. Five words on apiece of paper that could mean anything. He sighed and felt the memories mercilessly descend on him, creeping steadily past the barriers that had worked so well for twelve years.
Korea.
Korea... He shook his head wearily, feeling each and every one of his thirty-three years. Korea had been a very long time ago and he had been young, barely eighteen when he shipped out. The navy had given him two days warning before he left for Korea, not nearly enough time to grow up, or say goodbye to Betty or his grandparents. He never saw them again. 1950 was a year of firsts. His first assignment. His first love. His first view of death. His first killing.
Three years later, he had left Korea, feeling old and wrung out and alone. And bitter. It had taken him months to carefully seal all the memories away in a tight little box and then bury it. Korea was over. They were dead. "You must bury them. You are alive and you must decide what to do with the rest of your life. Put your past behind you." As the career counselor had suggested, Solo had stayed with the navy and worked hard, putting it all neatly out of his mind.
Korea.
It was back.
He closed his eyes and saw the hills and valleys, the snow and the rain, the icy bone-chilling cold and the blistering steamy heat. There had been friends, especially the unexpected ones, the people who had shown him kindness and taken him into their protection. And there had been enemies. Especially the unexpected ones. Korea had been a land of contrasts. Pain––more pain than he had ever known in his life. More happiness than he had known since.
But to repeat it all? Or to dredge it up at the memorial service the first telegram had summoned him to? Maybe it wasn't such a great idea. Some memories were best left in the past, half-forgotten, hidden. Buried along with the promises that would never be fulfilled.
He took off the sling and rubbed his arm, trying to work out the persistent ache. The bullet had taken him high on the left shoulder, hardly more than clipping the skin, but the wound was painful, the stitches pulling every time he shifted. His wrists still showed the red marks of burns suffered on a case three weeks previously.
Those scars were obvious. Easy to identify. That one was from a bullet taken in a London trolley. Those were from escaping from Brother Love. That was from emergency surgery. That was from the window of his car shattering during a chase and slicing open his arm.
Korea left scars that didn't show. There was nothing to point at and say, "That happened in Korea. That happened in Seoul. That happened in Pusan. That happened at the POW camp."
He served a total of seven years in the Royal Canadian Navy. As a veteran, they had paid his way through college, and feeling indebted, he had stayed. Age eighteen to twenty-five. He ended his career as the commander of an RCN corvette, enjoying the power of the highly maneuverable armed escort ship, but wanting more. Always wanting more. When the United Network Command repeated their offer, he had accepted finally and resigned his commission, not looking back, eager for the chance to prove himself.
To prove what to whom, he wasn't sure, then or now. He had no one left to prove anything to.
The doorman had handed him the telegram from Bob Laurier, the man organizing the reunion, as they had come into the building and he had read it privately in the elevator on the way up to his apartment. Then he had crushed it into a ball and refused to discuss it with his partner. It had been all he could do to keep control of the initial anger that had engulfed him, biting gnawing fury that there would be any kind of celebration for someone who had betrayed him as Morgan had.
Then he had read the second telegram.
Illya had received the full blast of his temper, the Russian's face looking startled, then surprised, and then embarrassed for inquiring about the telegrams and being so thoroughly cut down. Why shouldn't he ask? He had every right to. He knew I was angry at something. He only offered to help and I virtually told him to get lost and then ushered him out the door.
Well handled, Napoleon. Illya's been through so much emotional garbage these past few months, and you dump this on him, as well.
Yes, Korea was best forgotten. Too many people had been hurt––were still being hurt. And Morgan was dead now.
Everyone was dead.
A long time ago. Best forgotten. Best forgotten.
But someone wasn't letting him forget. Who had sent the second telegram? One line. Five words. REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO TOMMY?
He was not likely to fo
rget, but he didn't want to relive it right now. He grabbed at the memory, shoving it back in the Pandora's box before it engulfed him. Anger replaced it, surging through his body until he shut that off as well. Not now.
How many years had he told himself that? Not now.
Now he needed to remember just the facts, not the emotion that went with it. Who would send a message like that? For what possible reason? Remember what happened to Tommy... He tried to picture the faces that had known the young soldier; there couldn't have been many. Names came slowly, but no faces. Faces brought the emotions he was fighting.
Tommy had died in Korea. In one month, Tommy had died, then his grandfather had died, followed a few weeks later by his grandmother, just as suddenly. And then––
He shivered, feeling the cold settle over the bed, and reached down and drew the blanket up around hint No, now was not the time to remember. Not now. He needed to sleep a bit; the alarm would be sounding in a short time and he still had not slept.
He woke as the telephone rang and reached for it, wincing at his shoulder. "Hello?" he said, after clearing his throat.
"Lee?"
Napoleon grinned in spite of himself and sat up. Only one person still called him that–– dared to call him that. "Kelly Robinson. Where are you?"
"Well, for the sake of all listening, let's just say I'm not in New York. Did you get a telegram?"
"From Laurier? I did."
"And? Are you going?"
"Possibly. Are you?"
"Well, it's a rather long story that I won't get into over the phone, but I'm definitely going. I've a week between tournaments and Big Brother suggested I take them up on their invitation. Why don't you come along?"
"Big Brother still butting in? Listen, if you ever want a job in my Uncle's business, without Big Brother looking over your shoulder, give me a call. I'll put in a good word."
