by LRH Balzer
*****
Tuesday, May 25
The trunk of this car wasn't as fancy as the last one. The late afternoon sun beat down on the car, baking the young man inside as the sedan inched down the congested freeway. There came the fleeting hope that if he sweated away much more weight, he'd be able to wiggle out of the bonds and free himself. Not that he wanted to escape, but he should at least appear to be making an effort.
Kuryakin had been approached while having a late lunch in the hotel restaurant and asked if he had the scepter. He had said no, but that it was in a safe place and, please, he wanted to be taken to his partner. He had then followed the young man to a car. The back door was opened and he could see a gun pointing at him from the front seat. And a Polaroid picture of Napoleon held out. He had gotten in, trying to look nervous. They drove for a while, then pulled into a garage. When the car pulled out again, a few minutes later, he was in the trunk.
What was it with trunks and these guys? He had tried to work the ropes, but after one hour, he was still securely bound. The car left the freeway and took a rough, pot-holed road. Fifteen minutes later, it slowed down and there was a distant echo, a clanging of a gate being rolled back, then the car drove through and stopped, the echo repeated. Wherever they were, they had arrived. Air has an ocean scent to it, but no oil smell. Not the same heavy odor as the city had. No city noise, but the wind is strong and the sound may be lost.
Blindfolded and gagged, he felt himself lifted, the back of his skull connecting abruptly with the raised trunk lid. His head swam in waves of pain as someone's muffled, "Sorry," registered on his muddled brain. He found the energy to laugh through his gag at the man's apology, knowing they would only think he was choking. The echo is different. We are in an open doorway. The sound reverberates as I am turned. This man is not alone. Someone else has unlocked the door, and it is drawn upwards, creaking, like a warehouse of some sort. Strange there are no other voices.
He was set on his feet and stood like a newborn colt, wobbling, uncertain of balance and coordination, his strength sapped by the ride, a fierce headache, and two throbbing painful soles. It lasted all of ten seconds before his knees gave out and he crashed to the cement floor, his bound arms unable to break the fail. Concrete flooring, no grease or engine smells. Feels like sand or dirt over it.
This time, different arms hoisted him over a broad shoulder, probably Jackson's––was it Jackson who said he was sorry? Clay didn't seem the type––and he was carried fifty-seven steps and then dumped unceremoniously onto the floor as a key scraped a locked door. Big warehouse, high ceiling. We didn't move in a straight line through it. Felt like he was moving around things. My foot brushed against a wooden crate or something like that. Clay is following us with a bag of food.
The door was pushed open and Jackson grabbed Illya under his bound arms and dragged him along the ground and into the room, kicking him so he rolled over a sticky floor to come up against the sharp corner of the end of a couch. His breath exhaled suddenly into the gag as he collided with it, more surprised than injured. A back room? An office? Stale coffee and garbage and sweat and... Napoleon was there. Somewhere.
He tried to call out through the gag but Jackson kicked at his bent leg. "Shut up, you little bastard. Jud Carter will be here Thursday morning. Better have your story ready and hope he doesn't give you another thrashing. There are clothes from the hotel room and medicine in the bag for your buddy. I'll be back, in case you want to tell me where you hid the scepter. Carter may not be so... pleasant." Jackson muttered a few words to Clay, then the door closed and the sound of departing footsteps faded.
Illya twisted around, facing the couch, but the gag and the blindfold hampered his search. "Unhoheean? Unhoheean, ah oo ere?" He yanked on the cords binding him and tried to nudge the gag off with his shoulder. "Unhoheean?"
Then the weak but familiar voice came from directly in front of him. "I'm here."
Chapter 11
August 1962
New York City
Jim Brown's funeral was unbearable, the reception following was doubly so.
Funerals were awkward things, even at the best of times. No one really wanted to think about dying, especially a roomful of enforcement and security agents for U.N.C.L.E. They couldn't help look around the room at those gathered, wondering who was going to be next on the list. Whose funeral they would be at next week, or next month. Whose partner. Whose boss. Whose subordinate.
The Head of Section Two stood at the punch bowl, looking solemnly into the pink frothy drink as he poured a glass and handed it to Napoleon Solo. "Drink up. It's loaded." Solo downed it quickly, feeling it barely quench his parched throat. Too many people were coming up to him, wanting to talk. Women who had dated Jim. Agents who had worked with him. Librarians who had gotten him files. Everyone wanted to say how sorry they were.
"It's hard, isn't it?" the Section Two leader said softly, indicating the room in general with his hand 'They're telling you how sad you must be, but if you feel like I did, you 're just angry."
Solo glanced over at him, accepting the second glass of punch. "I'm very angry."
"You should be. Someone died because they didn't follow procedure. It should make you angry, angry enough to drill it into every one of the kids you'll be working with over the next few weeks. Make sure they know who Jim Brown was and why he is dead." The man turned his back on the crowd, locking eyes with Napoleon. "I've buried a few partners. I know what it's like. Sort out your anger with yourself from your anger with him. Don't blame yourself for doing what was right. Don't let his guilt lessen because you liked the guy. Or you'll be burying another partner for another useless stupid reason." There was a firm grasp on his shoulder, followed by a light pat on his back "Come to my office when you're ready to talk, when you're tired of the rookies, and we'll see what we can do. No matter how you feel right now, you can't go it alone. There is a reason why we set up our top agents with partners, just as there is a reason why there is a hierarchy to the Command. Even Waverly should have a partner. It's a shame he doesn't. There's been talk of making each Section One a two-person job, one on, one off or something. Sharing the load... That's all it is, really, Napoleon. Someone to share the load with."
Solo watched him walk off easing his way through the crowd to Jim's mother and sister, standing on the outer edge of the church basement. The two women had known Jim was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, and that his work was dangerous, but they were overwhelmed with the group that had gathered to pay their respects to their son and brother.
But he didn't know them, didn't know their names. Jim and he had never discussed personal things. He had nothing to say to them, or anyone else there. He slipped out the back way into the night.
Tuesday, May 25
Los Angeles
Napoleon was hot. Sleep seemed to haunt him, teasing him with rest and coolness, but escaping his grasp. It must be a dream, a nightmare, from the fever, Napoleon thought. What was he doing here? How had this happened? He tried to ignore the sight shimmering before his eyes, but it spoke again, the words muffled behind the gag. "Unhoheean?"
"I'm here."
"Unhoheean? Ah oor han ied? An oo un i ee?" the blond man asked, moving closer to the couch and sinking to his knees, asking to be freed from the multiple knots keeping him captive.
"Come here." Napoleon shifted to one shaky elbow, feverish eyes trying to negotiate the knots with hands that wouldn't obey his commands; it took several minutes before the secured ropes finally gave way. He sank back to the couch, exhausted by the effort, trying to control the shivering. His skin felt like it was on fire, even as the evening air cooled the sweat glistening on his body. But none of that mattered now.
Tommy reached up to undo the gag and the blindfold, then, his eyes blinking to focus, he turned to him and stared. "Napoleon?" There was a smile for him, but it didn't look quite right on Tommy Sorgensen's face. It was someone else's smile, tentative, uncertain.
He saw Tommy reach
out to touch his forehead, the hand comforting on his brow, and he reached back, anxious to feel the solidity of this mirage, this angel from the dead. "Tommy... Thank God, you're alive. But how can you be after what they did to you?" he mumbled, his gaze fastened on the other, drinking in the sight of the ghost from so long before. He lay contentedly as Tommy quickly checked him for injuries, only a little surprised at the confidence the young sailor had now. His previous first aid skills consisted of a Band-Aid and a Bloody Mary, but now-knowledgeable hands poked and prodded, finally returning to his face.
"You have a high fever. How long have you had it?"
The question came from a long way away and it took him a moment before he understood it was directed at him. The fever? "I don't know. One day. Maybe two."
Tommy pushed upward, stumbling over to the bathroom attached to the warehouse's all-purpose office. There were no cloth towels, but he came back with a few dampened paper-towels folded into a cold compress.
Again, Napoleon lay quietly on the couch and let the ministrations happen without fighting him. "Thank you, Tommy," he whispered when the blond sailor placed it on his forehead. The coolness was wonderful, instantly easing the pounding in his head, the pressure of the heat. His eyes half-closed, he felt his clothes being gently pulled off, and a welcome coolness cleansing his body. He drifted on the pain of his aching body and swallowed the bitter liquid spooned into his mouth Then he was being dressed again, but the shirt was clean and soft on his hypersensitive skin. Loose-fitting pants were worked up his legs and socks fitted over his feet.
He listened to the sounds of Tommy moving around the room. The water at the little counter sink was running, the filthy melmac cups that had been there when he arrived were being thrown into the equally dirty sink. Tommy cleaned them, scouring the tiny counter and throwing all the garbage and empty food containers into a soon-overflowing trash can. He complained loudly about the dirt and the bugs crawling around the leftover food by the sink.
Tommy had hated the bugs. The flies that swarmed around the jeep as they traveled. Fortunately, in the icy cold of winter there were no bugs to land on his open sores.
It was getting cooler in the office and the light was fading. He tried to tell Tommy that the bulbs were burned out, and finally made him understand. There was no light bulb in the bathroom, either, and back when he could think clearly and move without falling over, he had thoroughly checked the locked office with its bathroom and broom closet, but had discovered no spares. When Jackson came at night, he brought a bulb from somewhere, taking it with him when he left.
When no one was around, that first day when Napoleon had been feeling better, he had let himself into the warehouse and checked there, but there were no supplies to be found. Just a lot of crates of oriental trinkets, all stamped with customs stickers. Some had been opened, but the majority of the goods looked as though they had been there for some time.
Tommy played with the door to the warehouse silently until he got it open—pretty good for a kid with no training––and disappeared into the darkness. A while later he returned, but the only thing he had was a packing quilt that had been used to protect some valuable contents in one of the crates. It had been shaken out, and Tommy placed it over him, mumbling apologies at the mustiness. Tommy kept on rummaging in the cupboards, looking for something, trying to find something before the last rays of light disappeared. Then Tommy seemed to give up, and came over, helped him to his feet and over to the toilet, then settled him back on the couch. He brought a glass of some newly-boiled water, and Napoleon sipped on it, grateful for the heat on his throat and for the liquid. He was thirsty.
Tommy looked so discouraged. "Smile for me. Don't let them get to you," Napoleon whispered.
The blond head shook slowly, and again the tired smile came.
His grandfather used to smile at him like that, so solemn at life but so full of affection for him. The white-haired gentleman, the ambassador that everyone else was afraid of, had been at his bedside when he had scarlet fever, spending the long night with him so his grandmother could catch some rest. "Nonno, mi sento male," he said, sleepily, handing back the emptied glass.
The face swimming above him smiled sadly, brushing the hair from his forehead. "I know you're sick, Napoleon."
It wasn't his grandfather, he realized, but the voice was still comforting, calming. Reassuring by its presence.
He coughed, the abrupt movement tearing at his already strained ribs. His watering eyes opened, trying to see in the dimness. Tommy/grandfather was moving around, opening drawers, opening cupboards again. "Nonno... Tommy... Mi fa male il petto." His chest hurt from coughing, making it hard to breathe, and his eyes closed tightly.
Footsteps returned to his side. He felt himself raised slightly, then he was leaned back, half-sitting, half-lying against another body. It was easier to breathe this way. He could feel himself being shifted, the blanket and packing quilt covering him, strong arms holding him in place.
"Go to sleep now, Napoleon."
He shook his head wearily. "Can't. The dreams won't let me." He shivered and it triggered a coughing attack and he doubled over, aware of the hand soothing his back.
"You need to sleep. I'm here," the whisper behind him said.
"Why, Tommy? How can you be here?" he asked the darkness. He waited a long time for an answer. "Tommy?"
"I don't know why," the voice by his ear said. "You are sick. You have a fever. You must sleep."
He drifted, thinking about Tommy, the tears flowing down his face. "I killed you. I'm sorry... my fault. You were my responsibility. My fault..." The sobs caught in a throat already raw from retching, forcing their way through his weakened defenses, and burst out of him. Huge sobs that began in his limbs and tore through his system, leaving him coughing and shivering, tears drenching his face. Twelve years of suppressing them evaporated and the sounds coming from his mouth frightened him. He tried to gulp for air, but that only made it worse.
"No. No, it wasn't your fault. It was a war. People die in wars. It wasn't your fault." The voice held him, whispering, repeating over and over the same words, just as the arms held him, tighter now, securely.
He stopped crying as suddenly as he had begun. Minutes passed in silence, with only the sound of his coughs. Then that, too, faded, and he was in a hazy limbo. "I was responsible. It should have been me. He died and it should have been me," Napoleon reasoned with his unseen companion. He couldn't hold his head up and let it fall back "I deserted him. I left his body behind... If only... tell him... I want to tell him.. . how sorry… How much I tried..." There was nothing left. He felt himself tugged by another darkness, one that lured him closer because he had no strength to pull away. No.
"I heard you, Napoleon. I understand. I don't blame you," the voice called out to him. "I'm here. Don't leave me. Stay with me, now."
He latched on to the voice again and he nodded, his head lolling to one side. Death could wait. It held no attraction. As he lay listening to the heartbeat behind him, the pressure in his skull began to ease as though the furnace burning him up was suddenly extinguished.
"Go to sleep, Napoleon. I'm here," the voice rumbled in his ear. "I'm here."
"Illya?" he said after awhile. There was a pause, a short intake of air, and his companion froze, not answering. "Illya?"
"Yes, it's me. Go to sleep. Please," came the whispered plea.
He sighed and surrendered himself to Illya's care.
*****
Wednesday, May 26
Illya shifted on the couch, trying to bring some circulation back into his legs without disturbing his partner's sleep. He had stayed awake all night, afraid Napoleon would need him and he wouldn't know. The fever seemed to have broken, but the dead weight resting against his chest and the uneven labored breathing signaled that Napoleon was not yet ready to tackle escaping. If indeed they wanted to escape.
He had thought about it carefully and felt there was still time for his plan to work. K
elly and Scotty would not be arriving until Friday, and Carter was supposed to be back at noon on Thursday, so Napoleon had at least thirty hours to recuperate. The medicine that Jackson had provided seemed to be working.
The illness was an unforeseen development. Illya had not expected Napoleon to be sick with a fever. He had expected him to be dead. Or at least beaten and injured. He had never seen Napoleon like this before, even when they were with Clara in Terbuf. His partner wasn't helpless, ever. There were always wisecracks and schemes, yet, here he was, beneath it all, vulnerable.
Strange how comforting a thought that was. That the great Man from U.N.C.L.E., the smooth-talking, dynamic, indestructible senior agent could actually need help. Illya wiped the smile from his face.
As light returned to the office, seeping in from the narrow windows high in the warehouse ceiling, he spotted the percolator and a pound of coffee open on the counter. He had started to brew a pot the previous night, but had been interrupted when Napoleon's feverish rambling had demanded his attention. His stomach growled. Working carefully, he managed to slide out of the couch without waking Napoleon, then covered him again. The food Clay had brought with them the night before still sat in the paper bag, cold now, but probably edible. He stared at the percolator until he understood its workings, then made a half pot of coffee. When it stopped its strange hiccupping noise, he dumped the grounds from the metal basket, returned it to the percolator, and then set the hamburgers in it to let the hot coffee steam them.
While he was waiting, he checked the room, pulling himself up to stare out the dusty windows, satisfied that should he need to, there would be no problem in escaping. Since Napoleon had not already done so, there must be a reason why his partner wanted to stay. Unless he was ill when they brought him here. Or injured. There were bruises on his chest that couldn't be accounted for by the fever. Had Napoleon been brought here willingly? He looked thinner, wasted. The illness had probably cost him five or more pounds already. Napoleon's face, the bristles several days old, showed the effects of the fever that had incapacitated him. It occurred to the Russian suddenly that maybe Napoleon was seriously injured and the fever more a symptom of a deeper problem. He went back to his partner and stared at him, finally admitting to himself that Solo really did look better today, and he was worrying needlessly.
