by LRH Balzer
The smile came again, spreading across Illya's face. He had found Napoleon. Alive.
When he had done everything he could, Illya sat on the floor, leaned back against the couch, drank his coffee and munched contentedly on his hamburger. He paused between bites, wondering fleetingly why he felt unafraid here, at home and at peace held prisoner. It was reassuring that he could escape if he wanted to, but at present, he was simply where he wanted to be. Here. Be it as Napoleon's sidekick or subordinate. Or his partner. Or even his friend. With a nod of acceptance, he finished his hamburger.
On the counter, the percolator now worked on boiling some more water they could use to drink. It had a comforting sound, the steady chortle as water was heated, then spat up the top to drop back to the rest. There were no other sounds. The warehouse must be in an isolated area, he figured.
The sudden voice behind him almost made him spill his coffee. "Did you open the box?" Napoleon asked softly, reaching to rest a hand on his back. "Illya?"
He took a deep breath. "Yes. I opened it. I broke into your apartment and opened the box. I read everything."
"I'm glad you did."
Illya thought Napoleon had drifted off but then the grip tightened and the tired voice spoke again, barely louder than a whisper. "Did you get caught on purpose?"
He nodded, then answered, "Yes."
"I thought so. You're crazy. Did they hurt you at all?"
"No."
"Good." Solo seemed happy. Relieved. The dark eyes focused on the counter and the cleaned room. "You've been busy... Sorry the place was such a mess. I wasn't expecting company."
"You have become too dependant upon maid service. There were bugs everywhere." That brought a sudden shiver from his friend, as though a different memory triggered, instead of the message he wanted to communicate. Bugs, he mouthed, pointing to the counter.
Napoleon nodded, and Illya wondered if he had understood. Then Napoleon coughed, a deep hoarse sound that echoed through the room. It seemed to drain energy from him and he sank back to the couch. At the tug on his sleeve, Illya turned around. "I need to tell you something, partner. It's important." Napoleon's scratchy throat was hard to listen to.
"What?" For some reason, Illya's heart thudded, pounding against his ribs. The hamburger sat heavy in his stomach. He reached for the cough medicine, pouring some into a spoon and giving it to Napoleon, watching as the bitter liquid relieved some of the rawness.
"I need to apologize for something."
Oh. Tommy again.
"I asked you... to forgive me once for something that... that happened," Napoleon took a deep steadying breath and let it out slowly, "but you were only half awake... and ... you didn't remember I apologized..."
What are you talking about now, Napoleon? "There is no need for you to apologize for anything. If you––"
His partner's hand waved him quiet. Napoleon's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I need to do this. I've thought about it since... it needs to be said. When we were in Paris a couple months ago, on assignment, I told you the reason you were being sent to Amsterdam was because Waverly was displeased with your performance––"
"The jewels in the furniture."
"Yes, now listen to me." The words that followed took a long time for Napoleon to get out, but Illya sat silently, letting him say what he obviously felt he had to. "I lied to you. I was teasing, but it was stupid of me to do that. Waverly wanted you to go because you were the best one to go. He told me to return to New York, as I would only get in your way. My pride was hurt a little. So you went to Amsterdam, and ended up captured y Thrush, and all I could think of for three weeks was that I had lied to you. The last thing I had ever said to you was a lie. I didn't know if you were dead or not, but I didn't want it to end that way. Do you understand?"
Illya nodded, not trusting his voice. Why are you telling me this now? Do you think that we aren't going to get out of this one?
Napoleon rolled to his side, so he could look into his partner's face. "I didn't want to die and never have a chance to tell you the truth." Illya still sat on the floor, twisted to rest an elbow on the couch, silent. "Illya?"
"I'll get you some water. There is some bread from the hamburger bun here that you should try to eat. You need to build your strength." Illya pushed up to his feet, getting the items and bringing them to Napoleon, meeting the dark eyes finally. "Thank you. But it was not necessary."
"Yes, it was." He managed to eat the food at Illya's coaxing, and drank almost two glasses of water forced on him, washing down the aspirin, before falling asleep again, some of the lines of his face eased.
Illya wandered the room restlessly, finally curling up on the floor by the couch, exhausted himself, and tried to sleep, but it took some time before he could actually turn off the emotions racing through his system.
The sun had moved midway across the room when he woke. Napoleon's forehead still felt cool, and his breathing sounded better. By the time he set another pot of coffee perking, Napoleon was awake, a grin on his face.
"I must be getting better. That smells wonderful. Is there any more of the bread?"
Illya brought him the other half of the hamburger bun and some water, even though Napoleon was eyeing the coffee pot. "Finish that first."
His partner obediently nodded, but the grin was there again. He didn't realize how he had missed that cocky smile. Whatever had been turned off on Napoleon for the last few weeks, was on again now.
Once they both had their coffees in hand, he settled down on the floor by the couch and said, his voice determined and clear, "Napoleon... I hope you are not angry, since I did this without your approval, but I contacted Kelly and told him to bring the box here. He doesn't know what's in it, I'm sure of that. He just thinks he's bringing a box of documents that you need. He doesn't know the scepter is there."
There were several long heartbeats as Solo put together a reply, the tone furious, but the arm that slid across Illya's chest and tugged him back against the couch was warm and embracing and clear. "You did what, Kuryakin?! Without discussing it with me?" Napoleon pulled Illya's head closer, half-sitting up to whisper directly into his ear, "Found the bug by the sink, did you? I only found the one. I forgot about it... That explains the cleaning spree—I had wondered where that came from." In a louder voice, he growled, "Do you know how much money you're handing over to Carter?"
"I'm not handing it over," Illya replied hotly. "He's got you on this one, Napoleon; face it. It's time to cut your losses. Carter's a businessman... so we do a little business. First, begets the scepter—that gets him off the hook If he wants the jewels that were in the scepter, he has to let you go to retrieve them. You're the only one who can get them back from Black Irish, the dealer. That guy would just as soon send me packing. He scares me. I can't believe you trust him with all those uncut stones."
Black Irish—who?—Oh... Scotty? Napoleon mouthed, then rolled his eyes and said aloud, "Black Irish is dangerous—why do you think I left the jewels with him? And let's just say I did him a favor once. Got him out of a serious mess." Napoleon's hand tugged on his partner's hair, his appreciation for the plot doubly apparent in the wide smile on his pale face. This was the best medicine Kuryakin could offer—a sting. "You know, Illya, you're right. We could probably swing a deal with Carter. Black Irish may be a deadly guard for our stuff but he hasn't been able to find reliable buyers. He's just too limited for some of the stuff we get. if we cut a deal with Carter, maybe he can unload the scepter and the jewels as well. It's quite possible Alan Morgan didn't pass that bit of information on. There's ten million dollars in diamonds there, not to mention the rubies and emeralds. And what about the other stuff we've got hidden?"
"Wait a minute, Napoleon. I can see us making a deal over the scepter, but this guy has just had you held prisoner for almost a week, not to mention what he did to me––Why are you suddenly trusting him to fence for us?" The words came easily, especially with his partner's obvious enjoyment of the
ploy.
"Like you said, Illya, the man's a businessman. We don't have to like him to do business with him. I'm sure he'll appreciate the chance."
"I don't like it. I think we should just get out of this one alive and avoid him. This is all Morgan's fault, anyway. We had no idea Morgan was already working with someone else when we told him our ideas, then he double-crosses Carter and he tries to double-cross you, as well!"
"Well, my little burglar," Napoleon grinned at Illya's pained grimace, "take care of those hands. We're a team effort. Between your burglary skills and my contacts, we've done quite well. Not even U.N.C.L.E. knows what's going on. And it is the best way I've ever found to get goods in and out of the country. Just slap an U.N.C.L.E. seal on the suitcase and keep moving. Hmm... When were you supposed to meet Kelly?"
"We made arrangements that you would meet him Friday at four at Black Irish's cousin's pawnshop. It was the earliest your friend could come. He was playing in some tennis tournament when I called him, and he said he would get the box and bring it here. I warned him not to open it. That it was rigged. And I said you'd pay him for his time. Jackson said Carter will be here tomorrow, so we'll just have to find a way to convince him that we all stand to 'make a bundle' if we team up."
"What happens if Carter wants to go with me?" Napoleon asked carefully.
"I don't know. I told Kelly that you were coming and he already knows Carter's after you for something. I don't think Kelly ever bought your line about how Carter caught you making out with his sister. Besides, what you said was physically impossible."
"A lot you know, kid. Try it sometime. Anyway, if Kelly can see I'm not in danger, or pressured, he'll be fine. But there's no way he's going to pass the stuff on to anyone else."
"He wouldn't even give it to me and I'm your partner," Illya grumbled loudly.
Napoleon laughed. "Good old Kelly. I knew he would come in handy one day. You're right, though. I'm going to have to make that meet or we may never see that box again. Kelly hates anything to do with the cloak and dagger business. If I'm not there to get it, he'll stash it and take off."
"He said he would toss it in the Pacific."
"He's flighty, always has been," Napoleon agreed, yawning loudly. He sank back to the couch, stretching out, and saying louder, "I'm exhausted, tovarishch, even after that long sleep. Whatever bug it was that I caught really took it out of me. If I don't start healing up quick, Black Irish will figure out something's wrong and won't give me the jewels." Solo's breathing evened out and he fell asleep almost instantly.
Illya sat sipping his coffee, his back resting against the couch, Solo's hand still clutching his shoulder, anchoring them both. That had better have been recorded and not just monitored, so Carter gets every word. He wondered briefly what Carter would think of Napoleon's earlier apology to him, but there was no hiding the grief of the perceived betrayal in Napoleon's voice, and that would probably work in their favor. Let them assume a more dependent relationship. Might as well put Napoleon's protective streak to use.
My friend. Tovarishch. What had Napoleon called him in the letter? My closest friend. Illya was amazed at how much confidence those few words had given him. To call Kelly Robinson and set up the sting. To speak on Napoleon's behalf, without consulting him first.
After a while, he twisted around, rested his head on his crossed forearms, and he, too, slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
*****
Thursday, May 27
Jackson and Clay came by the next morning, only long enough to off some food and, surprisingly, some towels, a razor, and a little bar of hotel soap.
After they had eaten, Illya plugged the bathroom sink and filled it with heated water from the percolator. "Come on. I'll help."
"I'm fine," Napoleon insisted, weaving his way to join his partner.
Illya snorted, obviously not believing him. "How can Carter take you seriously when you look like you just escaped from a hospital for the insane? And you smell."
"I smell? I smell? You ungrateful Slav. How many times have I pulled your filthy, scrawny carcass out of danger and you stand there and tell me that I smell?"
"You smell, Napoleon." Illya grinned and tossed the soap. "You first, then me. I'm going to put more water on." He turned and disappeared around the corner.
Solo stretched, and stared into the cracked mirror. Illya was right. He did look like someone who'd escaped from a mental hospital. His hair hadn't been washed in over a week and between the rancid hair lotion and the grease, it smelled and itched fiercely. He shaved first, taking special care to protect his aching muscles as he moved his arm, and was then surprised that they no longer hurt. He was definitely on the mend. He splashed water on his hair and lathered some soap into it. Illya returned in time to help him rinse the suds off, using a cup to pour the water over his head to down into the sink. By then he was so tired, he capitulated and accepted the needed help. Illya was quick and thorough, and by the time he stumbled back to the couch on weak shaky legs, he had to admit that losing a little pride was worth the price of being clean.
He lay back and listened to his partner splashing in the other room, happily humming some gloomy little tune. So, he wondered, did he trust Illya or did he merely trust Illya's trust in him? Perhaps there had been some truth in Scotty's words, but they no longer seemed accurate. Illya had concocted some complicated, and probably devious, scheme to get them both out of there alive and he, Napoleon Solo, hadn't demanded to know every last little detail in advance. He had let Illya–– No. He had trusted Illya with the details.
There was a difference. Was it because it wasn't for U.N.C.L.E., because it was personal? This didn't seem that different from anything they did in a case. But it wasn't the same; on an assignment, he was the one in control, calling the shots. He was always the one in control, of their partnership and their friendship. And here, Illya was in control.
Funny that Jim Brown should come to mind. The familiar ache registering even as the old anger surfaced and faded. Jim had done what he thought was right and paid the price. He had gone against orders. But not out of friendship. With Jim, there was a streak of competitiveness that dominated everything. They had been too close in age and temperament to work together. Just like it had been with Paddy Dunn. They were each––Brown, Dunn, and himself––meant to lead; it was in their nature. Maybe if he had given in to that need in Jim, been more aware of the man's abilities, Brownie would still be alive.
No, no more second guessing. Jim was dead.
For that matter, Tommy was dead. "Tommy is dead," Napoleon whispered out loud. And finally being put to rest.
Just one more and the circle would be complete.
The lock on the office door rattled, and Napoleon sat upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. They were not expecting anyone until later. A moment later, the door swung open and Jackson entered. He stood aside and Jud Carter stepped into the office, immaculately dressed in a pale gray suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy/gray striped tie. His overwhelmingly impeccable appearance made Napoleon very conscious of his own lack of toiletries. He stood slowly, his gaze level, facing Carter, adrenaline working in his favor for once and keeping him on his feet.
Illya stepped from the bathroom, stripped to his waist, drying his hands on the towel. His damp hair dripped water down his startled face and when Napoleon followed Carter's stare, he was surprised at how young his partner looked, clean shaven, his face scrubbed.
Carter turned back to him. "Lee. Good to see you again." There was a challenge even in the informal words.
Napoleon nodded at Carter. "Perhaps a book on proper etiquette would be useful. I'd offer you a seat but there doesn't seem to be one with your name on it. Your associate felt these accommodations were better than the Hilton. It just shows the company you keep."
Jackson ignored his taunt and moved a chair to the center of the room. It was hard to put a finger on the relationship between the two men. Carter was definit
ely the leader, but Jackson was no underling. He had a strength of will that was equal to Carter's, and Napoleon knew Carter would take this man's advice and counsel.
Carter glanced to Illya. "Sit, boy."
"No." The stubborn jaw was thrust out.. Another physically impossible suggestion in Russian followed, the words spat out.
Whether Carter understood him or not, the dealer drew his gun and aimed at Solo's head. "Sit down, boy."
Jackson moved toward Kuryakin, knocking him to the ground with a backhand slap, then picking him up and depositing him on the chair. Illya sat, still holding the towel clenched in his hands, his head down, almost, but not quite, cowering.
"I've been out of the country on business, or I would have been here sooner." Carter handed the gun to Jackson, then glanced around the room slowly, taking his time, as though checking out every cobweb. "I don't come here often."
"I came as soon as I got your message and could get time off. I want to settle this so I can get back to my life without worrying about seeing you behind every corner."
"Why, Napoleon?" Carter's eyes narrowed. "Why did you come? You had him back." Carter walked behind Illya, one hand resting on top of the damp blond head. Illya shifted away from him, but Jackson stepped up and roughly grabbed his hair and held him in place, a forceful cuff on the side of his head bringing forth a painful yelp from the Russian.
Solo stepped forward, halting as Jackson threatened Illya again, this time with the gun. "Listen, if you have a problem with me, Carter, deal with me. Don't hide behind a go-between," he said, indicating Jackson.
