by LRH Balzer
"Well, that's what it looks like to me."
"I'll deal with Carter for what happened to Illya. He said he would contact me in New York, which is just fine with me. I need to talk to him; I have some questions I think he has answers for."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Go back to New York."
"What about Carter?"
"He'll contact me there; he did once before. I'll be waiting." Napoleon avoided the intense scrutiny now, moving to the window and turning his back on the black agent.
"What about Illya?"
"He knows the rules. He'll do what I say."
Scott cleared his throat, using the time to glance to his partner and confirm an earlier conversation between them. "Listen, man, Kelly and I have to head up to D.C. There's a car waiting for us outside and if we want to get in a couple hundred miles by dark, we need to go soon. We have a briefing in D.C. at six tomorrow evening. There are some things we have to do, some contacts, before we head out on our next assignment."
Napoleon pulled himself back into the conversation. "Yes? And?" he prompted, impatiently.
"Do you want to come with us?" Kelly asked. "If U.N.C.L.E. can't do anything, maybe we can."
"The CIA pokes their noses into everyone's business," Scott said, his tone easy, but there was no smile on his usually pleasant face.
"Since the Company has already been mentioned," Kelly grinned, trying to lighten the mood, "and if we manage to get to DC early enough, Scotty and I can request a few files, under the pretense of it concerning a case we're on. You can browse through them and add that to what U.N.C.L.E. comes up with."
Scotty continued, "Carter won't give up this easy, not if he's already committed a murder, and not if that scepter was worth what you said it was."
Kelly gestured to the bed. "And in case you're worried about deserting him here, we've talked to the doctor and he's cleared your partner to leave."
"Yeah, said if we keep Illya horizontal, until the concussion clears, we can take him with us in the car. There's no way he can fly yet."
"And Scotty can handle the bandages."
Solo found a pause to break in on. "It's a long car trip. Why aren't you two flying?"
"Company business. We have to drop something off on the way." Scott patted his jacket pocket.
"If we leave within the hour, we can drive until dinner, make the drop, then do the rest of the trip tomorrow. We can be in D.C. by noon, time enough to check out the files before our briefing," Kelly said.
"And if we're followed?" Solo asked.
Scotty smiled grimly. "That's what you want, isn't it? To meet with Carter? If he wants information from you, there's no danger of him blowing up the car. And there's three of us."
"Four."
They turned to the determined eyes of the man on the bed.
"Four of us," Alexander Scott amended.
*****
Napoleon shifted his legs, grateful for the roomy interior in the back seat of the luxury sedan. Curled beside him, his head on a pillow on Napoleon's lap, Illya lay sleeping, propriety giving way to exhaustion, lightly drugged yet once again to camouflage the pain from his bandaged feet. It was calming, just to sit there. Feeling Illya breathing peacefully. Alive. The doctor at the Atlanta base station had assured them that the right sole would heal quickly, and the left, while much worse, would not show any long term disabilities. The concussion was moderate, the symptoms slowly clearing. The punches to Illya's abdomen and face, while leaving behind some rather colorful bruises, did not hide any internal injuries. He was lucky, the doctors said.
Lucky. Somehow, it wasn't reassuring.
A guffaw from the front of the car brought his head up. The incessant bickering was starting to get to Napoleon. Kelly and Scotty never shut up; they just kept talking and talking and talking. They quarreled about anything and everything. They debated the weather, each other's driving skills, each other's marksmanship, even—and this took a good forty-five minutes––whether or not Kelly, if he had wanted to, could have picked up the waitress at the takeout diner they had stopped by in Greenville, South Carolina.
The strange thing was that they seemed to enjoy it all.
Illya at least knows the value of silence. When they were in a car on a long drive, Napoleon like to let his mind wander, and he was grateful Illya seemed to feel the same. Of course, they talked occasionally, usually about the case they were working on or if they passed some item of historical interest that Napoleon felt required to point out to the relative newcomer to the United States. But typically the miles would pass in companionable silence.
Even if Illya hadn't been injured, the ride would have been restful. Illya didn't crowd him. Didn't place expectations on him. Illya would have respected his hangover. The detox pill worked quickly enough, but it didn't get rid of the 'morning after' pain, stretching it hours past what it normally would be. With Illya asleep, at least he had reason to bow out of the conversation in the front seat––supposedly to avoid waking him––though the two men had dutifully tried to include Solo a few times.
And to further irritate him, Kelly Robinson did not have the decency to have a hangover, a point which abnormally rankled Napoleon this day.
In snatched, between interruptions, Napoleon stared at the green rolling hills and thought about McGuire and Morgan. Korea. And her. The bandage covering those wounds ached as it pulled off, slowly revealing, bit by bit, the unhealed pain beneath. He already knew it hadn't mended and he hadn't expected it to. It was one of those things that happened to you in life that you never expected to fully recover from, and you simply built walls around the memories to help you cope. People did it every day, he reasoned. Everyone had them, the barriers around the places and events that hurt. It was the test of a man if he could rise above the pain and function not just adequately, but exceedingly well.
Like Illya had. From what he knew of his partner's background and former life, Illya had not only risen above his past memories, he soared, taking a refreshing delight in his work with U.N.C.L.E. and in the new discoveries he was making about life in the West. It somehow made Napoleon relax around him, the transparent honesty Illya usually displayed in any conversation with him, while to the rest of the world, the Russian was firmly behind his everyday business mask: polite, icy cool, and damnedly logical. It felt good to have someone trust you that much.
Which made his next few decisions that much harder.
He looked down affectionately at his partner, then closed his eyes against the ache that followed. It wouldn't be fair to dump any of this on Illya, no matter what his skill or involvement. No matter how much Napoleon wanted him along this time. Illya needed to recoup his strength. He needed to heal. Besides, this wasn't U.N.C.L.E.'s problem; this was something that needed to be dealt with separately, without once again dragging his partner through the mire of his past.
No, he would go alone. When the time came, he would just have to convince Waverly he needed the time off. At least Illya would not be saddled with the extra responsibility of running Section Two. Although part of Kuryakin's job was to be able to take over for the CEA as necessary, there was a difference between covering for a few days or taking over for a longer period of time. Just as Solo was not yet cleared to cover for Waverly for more than forty-eight hours.
Added to that, the physical injuries alone precluded any active role for Illya. That meant someone else would have to be brought in. And Paddy Dunn had agreed to do it. Illya was flexible; he would adapt to Dunn's style, and Paddy would give Illya the space he needed to work the cases his own way. Besides, it would only be for a month. Maybe two. If Waverly agreed.
Illya shuddered in his sleep and Napoleon absently patted his shoulder, but the light touch sparked a violent reaction. The man jerked as though shot, his tender bandaged soles striking the far door as his body spasmed. A choked gasp of pain tore from his throat. Eyes fluttered, suddenly wide in dream's terror, one hand darting out from under the blanket
to push against the back of the front seat. The body shuddered once more, then turned, the blond head staring up at him.
The image was frightening.
Napoleon felt his hands ice instantly. He'd seen that look before. Tommy in the shack they were being held in. Tommy, tortured already and being dragged off for another session. Tommy's eyes opening and staring up at him, asking why. Tommy dead. Tommy.
Two seconds. Tommy became Illya, but the intensity didn't lessen. Napoleon had also seen that look in Illya's eyes and knew now why it had always unnerved him. The unfocused blue horror. Primal terror. The Rotterdam warehouse. Quadripartite drugged. In the infirmary at Omegar prison.
How many other times had there been when Napoleon hadn't been there? He shook himself, trying to pull out of the memories. "Illya? Illya!" Napoleon gripped the rigid body, pressure biting into his partner's upper am
More seconds passed, then air hissed from between clenched teeth as Illya awoke, awareness returning. He twisted, drawing his legs up, his body trembling even as he fought for control, drawing in on himself in instinctive protection, eyes still locked with Solo's. Where the hell am I?
The unvoiced question was clear, hammering against all his senses. "We're in a car, heading to Washington," Napoleon whispered quickly.
Kelly had pulled the vehicle off the road and the two CIA agents watched from the front seat, their faces concerned. Scott leaned over and touched Kuryakin's forehead, checking for fever, but Illya withdrew from the contact, too aware of his vulnerability, his hand raised in warning.
"I'm okay. I apologize," Illya mumbled, as soon as he found his voice. A faint hue of embarrassment brushed the pale features. "Please. Continue driving."
"It's the drugs. You were dreaming." Solo pulled the blanket over the calming shoulders, but Illya didn't move, still lying on his side, legs tightly curled, and staring blankly now at the back of the front seat. "You were dreaming," Solo repeated.
"Yes. I was. It happens." The eyes deliberately closed and the body unwound, but Solo could almost hear the recited relaxation instructions go through the Russian's mind as the dream images were forced back with the rest of his nightmares, locking them away. "I am awake now." The words became untrue almost by the time he said them, though, exhaustion tugging him back into oblivion. The head lolled to one side, the hands that had been so tightly crossed over his chest, loosening.
Solo felt the anger inside himself threaten to boil over and it took all his concentration to keep it under tight rein, mercilessly cutting down his response. Too many people are being hurt by this. It has to stop.
"He trusts you."
Napoleon's head jerked up to Scotty's thoughtful face. "What?" The statement had appeared from thin air.
"Your partner. He trusts you."
"Yeah, he does." He does.
"Interesting."
A mile passed before Solo added, "It's what makes us work as partners. Same as you and Kelly."
"No, I don't agree," the black man said calmly, turning around in his seat to look directly at Solo. "Kelly and I trust each other. You two don't."
"Scotty..." Kelly's low voice traveled audibly through the car, as though they'd had this conversation already and he was well aware of where it was heading. "Back down."
"No, man. I'm not going to back away from this. I hate seeing anyone used like this."
"What are you talking about?" Napoleon asked, hearing the warning in his own tone, feeling his hand possessively on his partner's shoulder.
Scott glared coolly across at Robinson, then looked over back at the U.N.C.L.E. enforcement agent. "It's simple. You have a one-sided partnership. He trusts you, but you don't trust him."
"Of course I do. I'm his partner. I've worked with him for two years," Solo answered quickly. "We wouldn't be able to function without a level of trust."
"Oh, I didn't say there was no trust involved. There is a trust relationship. He trusts you, but yet you don't trust him," Scotty repeated, ignoring the plea for discretion in Robinson's eyes. "You trust the fact that he trusts you."
"And what do you mean by that?"
"Just that it's easier for you to believe—and act on the belief––that he trusts you, then it is for you to let down your guard and trust him."
"Lay off, Scotty." Kelly started the car up and signaled to pull back onto the road.
The tall dark man shrugged, but dropped the subject and turned to stare morosely out the side window. Napoleon said nothing, his good arm holding his partner in place as the car skidded on the gravel shoulder, then worked its way back into the flow of traffic.
*****
Carter glanced over at Jackson, then into his rear view mirror as the car they had been tailing, then passed when it pulled off the road, drew back onto the highway. "I wonder what that was about."
Jackson shook his head, his tall frame still trying to get comfortable in the rented sports car. "Looking for directions, maybe?"
"Perhaps. It'll be getting dark soon." Carter reached into the paper bag between them for another sandwich, slowing his speed to allow the other car time enough to catch up to them. There was enough traffic on the highway to keep at least one or two cars between them and the dark sedan, and still be able to spot them turn off the road. "I'm not sure if they'll be driving straight through or if they'll be stopping for the night."
"Where do you think they're headed?"
"New York, eventually... I'm not sure how Robinson fits into this. Those two guys didn't seem the type to get friendly with a negro or a Red."
"Are we going to follow them all the way to New York?"
"I haven't decided. I don't have a lot of time to waste and we're not prepared to tackle four men. Solo will be armed, if he's a spy."
"Maybe Robinson will drop them off somewhere."
"Maybe. If I'm going to bid on the leopard statue for Chan, I have to be in Manila by Tuesday."
"How long will you be? This isn't a good time to be away."
"Do you think we've got a choice?" Carter growled. "If I can't get Chan interested in the statue, and buy us another week or two to come up with the scepter, we might as well cut our own throats."
"I am well aware of that little detail. When do you think you'll be back Stateside?"
"I can leave once the deal is made. Maybe even the same day."
"Either way, do you have a plan yet?"
"It's coming.––Did you take care of Freddy?"
"Yeah. I dumped both of them outside of town before I rented this car. I don't think anyone will find them until we are long gone. There's no way they can be traced to us."
There was silence for almost half an hour before Jackson spoke again. "It's been awhile since you killed someone."
Carter nodded, his face, in the twilight, giving no hint of the emotions he had hidden. "If you want to know if I have any regrets—No, not if we get the scepter back. I dislike killing... I don't see as we have a lot of choice in the matter. We each have a body back there and I have no intention of returning to Atlanta. And I have no intention of letting that scepter get away from me. No matter how many bodies we leave behind."
*****
Illya woke up around six, pushed himself upright, and peered out the darkening window of the car, frowning at the countryside. "Where are we?"
"The question of the day," Napoleon mumbled, then stretched and shrugged as the bleary eyes turned on him. "Somewhere between here and there."
"Actually, we just passed a sign that says we're fifteen miles from There," Kelly supplied. "In half an hour we'll be settled into a hotel room and ordering dinner. How does that sound?"
"Answer the man. We're heading toward Durham, North Carolina," Scott said quietly.
Illya nodded, his hand shakily wiping the sleep from his face. "I'm hungry."
"Are you dizzy at all?" Napoleon asked, watching him for signs of the previous terror.
"Did I say I was dizzy? No. I said I was hungry," Illya snapped.
Nap
oleon grinned. "He's feeling better," he announced.
They pulled into a roadside motel with a small Chinese takeout place across the highway. While Napoleon went to order the food, Kelly and Scotty linked arms and carried Illya up the stairs to their room, depositing him gently on the bed. When the white-faced Russian grudgingly admitted to pain, they dug out the medication that had been provided, argued over how much he should have before eating, then spilled half the glass of water down his shirt.
By the time Napoleon returned with the food, the pills were starting to kick in. Illya leaned back against the pillows and picked at the rice, but once his initial hunger was eased, his appetite disappeared. The other three men sat on the other bed, enjoying the food and each other's company. It was the first chance Napoleon and Scotty had to catch up on what had transpired over the years; most of the conversation seemed to center around Jim Brown and the good times the four had had. Having never met Brown, and not feeling up to the rapid shift in topics, Illya was content to be a silent observer.
There were some interesting things to watch. For one, the relationship of Kelly and Scotty. They seemed so different—in temperament, in background, in education—but yet it was almost impossible not to see the bond between them. They liked each other. They enjoyed being with each other. There was a sense of family about them that made them comfortable to be around.
Illya found himself increasingly curious about the CIA partners. Napoleon was the only one he had ever been partnered to, and while they were a competent team––of that there was little doubt, even Alexander Waverly admitted to their success––Illya had had no other duo to compare them with. The brief glimpses of Kelly and Scotty intrigued him, since they always seemed to be arguing with or complaining about each other. Yet there were looks passed between them of understanding and caring. They believed in each other.
In the short time over dinner, several things became noticeable. For example, Illya could see that Scott was troubled about something. Napoleon didn't seem to notice, but it was obvious that Kelly was well aware of it, the glances between the two partners carrying on a completely different conversation than the vocal one. But Illya couldn't figure out what was wrong with Scott, or what the messages between them were about. It was as if they were speaking a language he didn't know.
