by LRH Balzer
"Napoleon?" Illya asked, coughing, trying to move his arm, but it was restrained by the blanket that had been wrapped around him. Why was he so cold?
"He's going in the first ambulance. He's still sick and he may have broken some bones in his hands." Again, the gentle smile and Scott nodded to himself', as though confirming something he had suspected, then clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "You'll do fine, my man. I think I heard a wall falling awhile ago. Just make sure he doesn't repair it too quickly."
"I won't let him," Illya mumbled, fading into the darkness.
*****
Saturday morning, May 29
"Wake up, man."
No. He turned over.
"Come on, Illya. They've just brought Napoleon in." Someone poked his ribs.
No. "Go away." The words triggered another coughing fit and Kuryakin sat up and glared at Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott. "I'm sick. Leave me alone. Napoleon can..." His words trailed off as he looked around at his surroundings. He flopped back on the infirmary bed, staring at the ceiling in horror. "Oh, God. Where are we now?" He shut his eyes, blocking out the sight of pink glittered ceiling tiles and sky blue walls with fluffy clouds painted near the top. It was another nightmare. It had to be. Oh, please, let it be just a nightmare and I'm going to wake up.
"You're in the L.A. office U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. Napoleon is being admitted now and we thought you'd like to see him."
Kuryakin stared down at his two bandaged feet. "Let him come to me. I'm tired of coming to him. I feel lousy. He made me sick. Let him come to my rescue." He had a headache. And his throat was sore. And he was hungry. He sat up again, his finger jabbing the air at Robinson. "Hey. Where's my cake?"
Kelly stared at him blankly. "Your what?"
"My cake. You promised me a piece of cake. Where is it? Did you eat it already?"
Robinson looked over at his partner, then back to the Russian agent. "He ate it," he said politely, pointing to Scott.
"I have no idea what you two are talking about." Scotty pushed a wheelchair forward. "Come on. You are going for a ride. We want to see Napoleon before we have to leave."
"Go away. Goodbye," Illya mumbled, pulling the blanket higher, not bothering reopening his eyes.
They didn't go. Instead the two CIA agents moved his bandaged feet aside, picked him up, and deposited him in the wheelchair. Scott tucked a blanket around his legs and Kelly handed him a Kleenex box. "Are you ready?"
"Certainly. What is taking you two so long? Napoleon's waiting." Kuryakin held on to the arms of the wheelchair as it was maneuvered at top speed through the corridor to the room at the end of the hall.
Napoleon was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking thoughtfully down the top of the nurse's uniform as she removed his cloth hospital slippers. His left arm was in a sling, his hand bandaged, but not in a cast. He looked healthier than he had in a month. Solo looked up as they entered. "I was wondering what happened to you."
Illya sneezed.
"Oh, oh."
He sneezed again, trying to look pitiful. "Why, Napoleon? I came out here. Risked my life for you. Saved the day. And this is the thanks I get?"
"That won't work with me, partner. I don't buy that helpless routine. And it's not the plague; it's just the flu. It'll only last a few days. By the time your feet are ready for you to get out of bed, it'll be gone." Illya groaned, his head falling back to look at the ceiling. At the white ceiling. He opened his eyes wider.
"I want this room. Can they put me in here?" he demanded. "There's another bed. If you want to repay me for my kindness, exercise your rights as CEA and don't let them take me back to the room from hell."
"Go ahead. Who needs peace and quiet anyway? Besides, I've been ordered to bedrest for the next few days, so I'm stuck here, too." Napoleon nodded to the nurse, who smiled wantonly at him and left to confirm the change.
She was back quickly, and helped Kuryakin from the wheelchair into the bed, sticking a thermometer in his mouth. By the time she finally left him alone, Illya realized the three men next to him were talking about Carter. Illya rallied himself to listen in. "Start again," he ordered, interrupting them. "What happened to Carter?"
"Stay with the game, partner," Solo teased, softening it with a smile.
"He's in jail at the moment. All three of them, Carter, Jackson, and Clay Reynolds are locked up." Scotty shrugged, as though taking no credit for his role in the operation. "They have been charged with kidnapping both you guys, extortion, importing illegal antiquities, possession of illegal antiquities, and armed robbery in my cousin's pawnshop––which he has on film, by the way. And the FBI has contacted the Atlanta police regarding a possible tie-in to the murder of Thomas McGuire."
Napoleon nodded, absently rubbing his arm, but looking satisfied with the outcome. "The local U.N.C.L.E. office is cooperating with the Los Angeles police and they'll try and work it so we don't have to testify. Besides, Kelly says that Jackson has made a statement that in exchange for a new identity for himself and his family––seems some dissatisfied customer will be after them shortly––he will give evidence against his partner. Regardless, there'll be a closed hearing and trial, due to the circumstances involved. Mr. Waverly insisted on it."
Kelly spoke then. "You were saying, Lee, that you heard from your friend Zia?"
"Right. New York relayed a call from her this morning to the hospital. The premier does have the scepter in his private treasury; it's safe and well guarded. We've advised him that there is a frustrated buyer out there that wants it as part of his collection, so they're being extra careful now. Doubling up the guards."
"How is Zia?" Illya asked, closing his eyes against the headache.
"She's fine. She said she would be heading back into the city." Napoleon eased off his bed and dabbed at his partner's face with the cool cloth as he spoke, and Illya decided he must feel guilty about passing on the flu. Well, if he was going to feel miserable, at least Napoleon should feel contrite. A little honest guilt was good for the soul, Trish Graham always said.
"Where are you off to now?" Napoleon asked the CIA team.
"Back to Hong Kong. An assignment. You know how it is," Kelly shrugged. "Noses to the grindstone, that's us. No rest for the weary. They've given us a whole week to crack this one, then on to Singapore."
"He's got two dates lined up already," Scotty supplied. "It's a rough life."
"Hey, they're valuable sources of information."
"We don't need their kind of information."
"I was a good Boy Scout. I like to be prepared."
"I was a Boy Scout, too. And if you play with matches, you get burned," Scotty replied calmly, winking at Illya who was peering at them through slit eyes. "What did I tell you? Two of a kind."
Illya nodded. "So I've gathered. Does he start flirting with a female in the middle of a case and almost get you killed in the process?"
"At least once a week Does Napoleon come up with wild schemes that usually have YOU wearing some bizarre outfit while HE wears the tuxedo?"
"Constantly. Does Kelly––" Illya coughed as the damp cloth was shoved in his mouth.
"I think that's quite enough." Napoleon relented finally and withdrew it, but kept it posed just in case.
They kept on talking, sitting around the two beds and passing the time until the CIA agents would have to leave for their flight. After awhile, Illya dozed peacefully, thinking about how different this felt from a few weeks previous at the Safe House when he had listened to them talking in the other room and had felt more than just physically apart from them. He still had no idea what they were talking about half the time, but it no longer mattered. They had accepted him. He was distantly aware when Kelly and Scotty said their goodbyes, nodding sleepily to whatever it was they had said to him. He'd see them again.
He woke later to find Napoleon still sitting up in the next bed. "I think I'm feeling better."
"Good. Me, too. They took your temperature awhile ago and your fever
is gone. And they let me get up and walk to the bathroom and back—I had an hour nap after that."
"Don't rush it, Napoleon. You were pretty sick when I got here."
"Yes, doctor."
"I'm serious."
"I know." Solo leaned back against his pillows. "You did a good job of it all. Figuring out what was going on, taking care of me, planning the scam, setting everything up. Impressive."
"Next time I expect a little more cooperation from you. You're my partner and my friend. I felt like neither for the past few weeks."
Napoleon nodded. "I apologize for that. I have been on my own for so long, I've forgotten what it meant to have a friend. I meant what I said in the letter."
Illya struggled to sit up, stretching. The headache had gone. He coughed experimentally, but even that seemed to have cleared up. "Have you been awake all afternoon?"
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About Soon Hee?" he ventured.
Napoleon grinned at him. "Have I told you that you're getting too smart for your own good?" He rubbed his forehead, then looked down at his bandaged hand, as though seeing it for the first time. "It's strange. It's been twelve years since she died. I've hardly mentioned her name aloud since I came back from Korea."
"Where did you meet her?" Illya watched the emotions trail across his partner's face as Napoleon dragged up the memories. "Tell me about her."
Napoleon swallowed a few times, then found his voice and talked. How they had met. What her job had been. How it had been for them. The reaction to their courtship and marriage. How they had wondered about the future, what they would do after the war was over. The talk of children.
But even for Napoleon, it was too long ago. There were a few memories that were clear, but much of it had faded, lost in isolated moments of remembering, unexpected things like Soon Hee hating green lima beans. A walk in the rain. Finding a gold ring they both liked in a jewelry case at the officers' surplus store.
Napoleon talked and Illya listened, enjoying the sound of Napoleon's voice, relaxing in the camaraderie that had freed his friend to think his thoughts aloud. It was a pleasant afternoon, one repeated the next day, when they talked some more about her. A few times, Napoleon stopped and apologized for boring his partner, but Illya only asked him another question, and leaned back in his pillows and listened.
EPILOGUE
Friday, June 4, 1965
New York City
The door opened. "Thanks for coming up."
Illya nodded, moving past him to one of the couches and falling onto it, the crutches dropping beneath the coffee table. "I wasn't busy. Just staring out the window."
"Anything interesting?" Napoleon asked, settling into the chair across from him.
"The usual."
Napoleon nodded, and stood up. Illya watched as he walked to the kitchen, turned around, and came back to the living room. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A drink?"
"Tea will be fine. Black. No sugar," he added. "Last time you put sugar in it."
"Then what do you want in it? Jam, oh, Russian friend?" came the voice from the kitchen.
"Black is fine. Paddy Dunn said I should not perpetuate the myth." Illya smiled to himself, alone in the room. Truth be told, he preferred it with jam, but he felt no need to be predictable today. He reached forward and touched the metal box on the coffee table, the lid already ajar. What story would come from it today? The box had held a lot of pain. And an envelope of dried chrysanthemum flowers.
Napoleon set the kettle on and returned again to the living room. He stood for a moment, then turned to go back to the kitchen.
He was nervous. There was something in the box that made him nervous. "What is it, Napoleon?"
"What do you mean?"
"You asked me to come here. What's the matter? Is there some reason this box is here?"
"Yeah. Yes, there is." A longing glance to the kitchen, probably hoping the kettle would whistle and pull him back "It's nothing really. I was just looking at some stuff There's a package on the dining room table that I should open. I didn't want to be alone when I opened it, that all. It's from my father-in-law."
"When did you receive it?" Illya glanced over at the package and remembered seeing it in the closet. It had been addressed to Napoleon Solo at an address in Canada.
"About ten years ago."
Ten years? And never opened. I could not live with that, not knowing what was in it. I would rather have my bad news at once, so it was out and in the open. So it would not come unprepared from elsewhere later. Rising up out of unsecured graves.
Napoleon had a lot of things buried. Finally. Tommy Sorgensen was buried. And so was Soon Hee. Carter would probably not hang for her murder, but Jackson had officially agreed to testify against his brother-in-law in exchange for a new identity. Carter, also, had been surprisingly cooperative, but he probably felt he was safer in police custody than on the street right now.
Two days previous, Solo and Kuryakin had returned to New York, feeling rested and strangely uncomfortable with each other. As if too much had been said too quickly. Too many things not spoken of for years, suddenly shared with another. Vulnerability stinks, Napoleon had said, trying to laugh about it, but he had felt a strong need for privacy and they had not seen each other since the ride home in the cab. They had each taken their luggage to the elevator, then parted company when the lift door opened at Kuryakin's floor.
And now he was back in Napoleon's apartment and at some point, Napoleon would talk again. Because he wanted to. Because he trusted him.
And Illya would listen. Because he wanted to. Not because he had to.
Napoleon was in the kitchen, dealing with the boiled water and the tea bags. The pendulum clock on the mantel made a small chime on the half hour, echoed a moment later by the grandfather clock. Illya stared at the metal box wondering if the letter with his name on it was still there. Or the poem on L.A. Hilton stationery with the message for him at the bottom. It would be nice to have it, if Napoleon no longer wanted it, for his own box.
His friend came back in the room, smiling, bearing two teacups on a tray. One was black, one with milk. Illya sipped the black tea surprised to find no sugar in it. It was not like his partner to remember. Usually, what he made for himself, he made automatically for Illya, assuming it was what Illya would also want.
It was strange the way things had changed. That Napoleon would remember the tea.
"Open your package, my fiend," he said, sipping on it, his feet propped up with pillows on the couch.
Solo wiped his hands on his suit pants—he always wore suit pants, Illya had noted long ago. Personally, he preferred to change to his black jeans when he was not required to dress as Alexander Waverly dictated, but Napoleon was comfortable in a suit.
The lid to the metal box was closed again before Illya could see if the hotel paper was there, but he knew Napoleon had not purposefully shut it so quickly. The package that occupied Solo's thoughts was opened and an envelope removed. Napoleon took the letter opener and slit the side, pulling the thin sheet of paper out. He scanned the note quickly, nodding. "It is from my father-in-law."
"I know." Napoleon looked at him questioningly and Illya added, "You told me earlier."
"Oh. He says these are things of Soon Hee's he thought I should have." Napoleon glanced up again at his partner and then handed the letter to Illya to read. "About a month before the package arrived, he had sent me a letter telling me about it. He said not to open it until I was ready."
The tissue paper was yellowed, but the thin porcelain vase Napoleon unwrapped had weathered the years well. There was a note with it. "He said this was in his family for many generations. He wanted me to have it, since I married his only child." Napoleon held the milky white vase gently, his fingers tracing the blue and red design that had been painted onto it. It was only five inches tall and Illya leaned forward and studied the stylized chrysanthemum flower that dominated the pattern.
"It's beaut
iful," he said, finally, leaning back.
Napoleon placed it carefully on the coffee table, and turned back to the package. Next to appear from the tissue was a woman's blouse. Ivory, with a row of tiny pearl buttons. Napoleon sat and stared at it for a few minutes, lost in his private thoughts, fingering the buttons. He started to say something once or twice, then. shrugged and said nothing. Their eyes met briefly, and Illya nodded in understanding.
Napoleon wrapped it in tissue again, then set it on the couch beside him. He sat for a while, staring across the room, thinking. He drained his cup of tea, and went in the kitchen to make more. He was gone five minutes. The clock on the mantel chimed four in the afternoon. When he returned, he brought the teapot and refilled their cups, adding milk and sugar to his own. The hand with the milk pitcher stopped briefly over Illya's cup, then he remembered and put it down.
He went back to the package and took out a few more little items. A comb. A necklace. A kerchief. He held the kerchief to his face and smelled it, smiling at his partner weakly, then placed it with the rest.
Illya shrugged, not knowing what else to say.
There was a diary, but Napoleon passed it on to Illya, who glanced inside at the beautiful Korean writing, interspersed with one word he recognized, Napoleon. Illya smiled, then handed it back.
Napoleon gathered everything up, rewrapped it all, and put it back in the package. He put the letter and the diary in the metal box, shutting it and thumbing the combination. "Nice of him to send all of that. He didn't have to."
"Yes, it was thoughtful... Is it well with you, my friend? All of this...?" Illya asked, pouring himself a cup of lukewarm tea. He poured one for Napoleon, adding a bit of milk and sugar.
Napoleon nodded after awhile and drank his tea. "I should call him. See how he is. He's the only family I really have left." He laughed, embarrassed, but spoke his thoughts. "I told Kelly that you were all the family I needed. I was right. I don't know the man anymore who wrote that letter and sent that package." He picked up the box and the package and took them to his bedroom. Illya could hear the closet open, then close.
