by LRH Balzer
He glanced at his watch, adjusted the time in his head, and realized it was after eight o'clock in the evening. He had been there for almost four hours and still hadn't come close to finding out the information he was looking for.
"I must apologize. I see I am keeping you," he said, trying to smile in a what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "I appreciate your help. I'd like to come back tomorrow and ask some more questions of your venom expert. What time do you open?"
"To the public, nine o'clock," the head of the facility said, firmly.
"Nine o'clock," Kuryakin repeated. "I'll be here." He used their telephone and called a cab, then left with them as the center was locked for the night, assuring them he was quite comfortable waiting outside for the cab to come. They warned him that it might take a while.
He sat on the top stair, grateful for his sweater in the cooling temperatures, and wishing that he had thought to bring his jacket. He had honestly not believed he would spend that amount of time at the research center, which was poor planning on his part, he chided himself. The temperature at this time of year could drop from a pleasant mid-seventies to mid-fifties at night, but for the time being, he was fine.
The streets around were quiet, the business area he was in closed for the night. From where he sat he could see the Machakos Hills rim the city in the southern horizon, appearing as darker shadows against the night sky.
The stars had not yet come out, but a crescent-shaped moon hung in the evening sky, large and pointed-tipped, and he thought of Russia. How far he had traveled since his youth, since making the leap from Russia's hands into those of U.N.C.L.E. How far he had come. How different he was now, and yet, the same.
How far he had traveled since he was that young child who watched his brother die and waited for his mother to return for him.
While he had always had a vague memory of what had occurred, he had not considered his feelings on the matter before, and they came to him now, prickling at his skin and his thoughts and his heart.
Mother Fear had been more dangerous than he had first anticipated. Back in New York, he had found her name in the U.N.C.L.E. records and had discovered her degree in psychology, and that she was believed to be a clinical therapist. She was also someone who had had access to his files in the Thrush databases, and he wondered now exactly what was in those files. How much did Thrush know about his life, things that he did not know?
What really did he know? What memories were real after so long a time? Traveling with Kolya, his father, he had been another child, another name and history, and he had forgotten much of what was real, caught in the lies that had kept them alive in the Soviet Union and later in the Netherlands during World War II...
And later, while still a boy, another name and another history with Mikhail Zadkine, his foster father. And more lies with the KGB and GRU, until he no longer remembered who he really was.
He had come to U.N.C.L.E. so uncertain of many things. And he had found answers there, first with Alexander Waverly, then with Norm and Trish Graham. From this American family he found his heart, his dreams, his desires.
But it was the CIA in America who had told him his birth date and who had given him a copy of his birth records, the previous January. It was the CIA who had showed him a picture of his mother. It was the CIA who had given him her small Russian Bible. He had wondered, at the time, how they had discovered these things, when he had not been able to do so. And he had wondered if they were true, but had not voiced his question in the days of celebration which had followed. Norm Graham and Alexander Waverly had accepted the information as true, so Illya had bowed to their discernment, but he had stared at the picture later, and wondered who this woman was. He could not find her in his memories.
Mother Fear had said...
But she was lying, of course. She was trying to force information from him and she would have said anything to make him give the location of the Section One, Western Hemispheric conference.
But she had said it almost in passing, as though it were not important, and that in itself had bothered him. She had said it as if it was something he should have known already, something he knew already.
But she was skilled at this sort of thing.
But was it true, regardless?
He had grasped hold of the thought, had clung to it as the strap had fallen on his back. He had focused on the idea as Mother Fear had brought out the riding crop and continued her lashings on the already red and bruising skin. As each bite of the leather sliced into his back.
And then later, when she tried to convince him further.
Then he had let it go. And had awoken in the cell alone, his back on fire, pain clouding all thoughts from his mind except two. He wondered where Napoleon was and if he would come. And he wondered where his mother was.
And who she was. And if she was...
* * * * *
The cab came finally, and after a careful negotiation of the fee to take him to the Norfolk Hotel, he arrived safely. The keys to his room were waiting for him at the front desk of the hotel, and Kuryakin pocketed them and read the note from Napoleon as he climbed the stairs to the U.N.C.L.E. suite.
With a sigh, he opened his room, checked it quickly, then knocked on the door separating his suite from Napoleon's.
"Come in."
He walked in and crossed the room to where Napoleon sat at the table, papers spread out around him. Napoleon waved him to an empty chair. "How did it go at the spider place?"
He smiled, despite his weariness. "The spider place? Fine. I'm going back tomorrow to find out more. The man I needed to talk to was not there today."
"Have you eaten? Room service is available for another hour. I've already eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"You should probably eat-"
"Yes, I know." He went over to the telephone and ordered some soup and bread to be brought up. "There. I will eat."
Napoleon was busy studying a map of the country. "I spoke with Muliro. He said there have been numerous attacks with the poison darts, all in one area of the country."
Illya peered at the topographical map. "Marsabit District. Where is that?"
"In the Eastern Province, in the north part of Kenya. Ethiopia is to the north of Marsabit District. The area we are concerned with is to the northwest of the Marsabit National Park and Game Reserve, between there and Lake Rudolf."
"And the attacks have occurred where precisely?"
"All have been within the North Horr, Loiyangarani, and Laisamis Divisions. According to this information, the land there is mainly non-arable, desert-like."
"The roads, I assume, are passable but slow?"
"On a good day. At least we aren't in the rainy season."
"It rains on the desert?"
"It floods in areas, run off from the rain." Napoleon looked up. "You said you were going back to the spider place tomorrow? Is that necessary? I have a flight out for us at nine in the morning."
"I have to be at the Araneiden Research Center at nine. I am to meet with a scientist who specializes in spider venom. Can you book us on a later flight?"
Napoleon nodded. "I'll try. Why don't you have a quick shower before your food comes and I'll see if I can reschedule?"
Illya took a shower, changed into his pajamas and returned to Napoleon's room to eat his soup, waiting for him to get off the telephone. It took awhile for Napoleon to find someone at the U.N.C.L.E. office who could help him, since the office was only manned by two people during the night shift, and neither felt they were authorized to make changes to something John Muliro had set up. Napoleon had to remind them of his own rank, which was at the same level as Muliro's, if not higher, since he had Alexander Waverly's personal approval of this decision.
Evoking the Head of Section One's name seemed to do the trick and finally his partner put down the receiver. "Okay, they'll rebook your flight. You'll be leaving at eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. That should still give you time for the flight and ple
nty of time to make the drive to Bondolo compound before dark. That's limiting your time at the research center to two hours."
"That should be adequate. "
"I'll still take the nine o'clock flight, which gives me time to look around."
"I wanted to talk to you about that." Illya took a mouthful of the soup, waiting until Napoleon looked up from his maps. "Why take separate flights? Can you wait and fly up with me?"
"I'd rather not. This way, I can take my time checking things out up north. Just call me on the transceiver when you arrive at Maikona, and we can meet somewhere." Napoleon was busy studying a map of the east coast of Lake Rudolf.
"There are bandits in the area. It may not be safe." Illya bit off a piece of bread.
"The shifta? Yes, I've heard of them. Muliro mentioned them, but he said there have been no disturbances in the last few months. It should be safe." Napoleon looked up at him then, the dark eyes seeking out his. "Unless you think..."
The words trailed off, and Illya realized what Napoleon was thinking. "No, I don't have any specific premonitions of disaster here. It just seems to be a waste of money to fly us separately, rent two vehicles, and duplicate the effort, when we could travel together."
"I ran it by Waverly, and he didn't comment on the expense. He wants us to tie up the affair and get back to New York." Napoleon yawned, then smiled. "Sorry. It's been a long day. I'm beat."
Illya popped the last of the bread in his mouth and finished his soup. "I'm heading for bed myself. See you in the morning, then." He returned to his room and turned out the lights, getting into the remarkably comfortable bed. Sleep came quickly. As did the dream.
He was waiting for her to come back, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. Day turned to night, the hours passing as he grew hungry and thirsty. Sometimes the sky would light up orange and red and the noise would hurt his ears.
But he didn’t want to leave in case she came and he wasn't there.
Then a bus came up and stopped just a few feet from him. Kolya—his father—was behind the wheel this time. Illya could see him, but he did not see Illya, sitting on the sidewalk. The door to the bus swung open, and the occupants came out. Children he had known in Rotterdam, now all nameless faces. Childhood friends from the ballet school in Leningrad. Students from Ecole Figliano, their faces staring at him in hatred.
Then Mother Fear came out of the bus, holding the hand of a blond child, about six years old.
"This is Mitya," she said to Illya.
The little boy stared at him, saying nothing.
"He is your older brother," she added. Smiling.
Illya looked at the little boy, then over to Kolya, but his father just stared ahead out the front windshield of the bus and said nothing.
Then the little boy looked up at her and called her 'Mother'.
Illya screamed. And he ran.
Eyes followed him as he moved down the narrow road. Twin balls of fire, they hovered three feet above the pavement, pacing his frantic race through the streets. Orange lightning streaked out toward him, then came the impact as it hit him, throwing him into the air, his body falling to lie crushed and broken by the side of the road, his sightless eyes to forever reflect the bombs' red glare.
He woke with a start and wiped the sweat from his face, then sat up in the darkness, breathing deeply to calm the tremors that shook him.
It was only midnight. He had seven more hours to go.
* * * * *
Napoleon woke at two in the morning, needing to use the bathroom. One of the curses of multiple time zones was that it always threw his body systems out of kilter for a day or so.
Coming out of the bathroom, he passed by the open door between his suite and his partner's and he could see the bedside lamp on, the bed empty. He had taken a step closer, checking to make sure all was well, when he saw Illya on the small balcony of his suite, sitting staring up into the night sky, his arms wrapped around his chest, the thin pajamas inadequate for the cool evening breeze.
He paused for a moment, then stepped into the other room.
Illya turned and stared at him, watching as he approached. "Did I wake you?"
"No. I got up to use the facilities, then noticed your light on." Napoleon sat down near him. "Trouble sleeping?"
Illya nodded. "The time change, as you said."
"And the dreams." Napoleon waited for Illya to look back at him. "More dreams?" he prompted.
Again, the slow nod. Reluctant to share, but knowing the wisdom of it. "The same as before."
"What are they of?" Napoleon asked, not certain of a reply. "Something I need to know?" he added, allowing his partner an 'out'.
Illya shrugged. "Odd memories from when I was a child mixed up with another reoccurring theme."
"The nightmare," Napoleon said.
"Of sort."
Napoleon waited, feeling the tension between them magnify, then slowly ease.
Illya stood and came back into the room, closing the door to the balcony. He looked down at Napoleon. "I'm not sure what's wrong, what's causing the dreams. It won't interfere with my work, I can guarantee that. If you think I can't handle this—" He shrugged.
Napoleon got to his feet, arms crossed thoughtfully. "Just keep talking to me. Keep me informed. It'll resolve itself somehow."
Illya laughed. "I've had nightmares before. They are nothing new."
"But they've never involved Mother Fear before. She was called that for a reason, you know."
His partner sat on the edge of his bed, glancing up at him. "Did I mention Mother Fear?"
"Are you telling me that the dreams don't involve her?"
"I just don't recall mentioning it."
It was Napoleon's turn to laugh as he headed back to his own room. "Don't forget, tovarich, that I met her, too." He closed the door, leaving Illya to his thoughts.
* * * * *
Maikona, Marsabit District, Kenya
Friday, December 17,1965
It was hotter than he had expected, stepping off the Cessna plane. After a ninety minute flight, they had dropped him at an old government airstrip four miles out of the township of Maikona. A surly welcoming party there handed him the keys to the landrover and a map, then wished him well and took off again, as though trying to avoid some lingering plague of dealing with a foreigner.
Napoleon dropped his duffle bag in the back of the landrover and sighed with relief when the engine turned over, not that there was anyone around he could ask for help if it had not been running. For the hundredth time in the last hour, he wished his partner had come with him. Or more correctly, that he had waited for Illya. There was a distinct uneasiness with being separated from the Russian, one that he could not attribute solely to the melancholia hovering around Illya.
That morning, they had breakfasted early, made plans to reunite in Bondolo, and then had gone their own ways. Napoleon had felt the tension between them, but also the strength, the bonds that united them. They had been through a lot together already, physical and emotional situations—whether personal or on behalf on U.N.C.L.E.—situations which potentially could have dissolved their partnership or cemented it. Napoleon was convinced that whatever nightmares Illya was wrestling with, they were not about U.N.C.L.E., nor their friendship. It was something deeper.
Something about dying.
If Mother Fear were still alive, Napoleon would have gladly killed her again.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wondered if that was what was causing the nightmares. Was it because the woman was dead? He had come out of the Enciente Lodge to see Illya standing to one side as several U.N.C.L.E. agents pulled her body off the waterwheel. Illya had said nothing, his face blank, unreadable. Then he had turned and gone inside the building, and put in a call to Norm Graham, asking him the seemingly innocent question about his mother.
Perhaps, when they were back in New York, it was time he had a good talk with his partner, at least verbally offering a listening ear in case there
was something Illya wanted to discuss. Neither were competent at the art of confiding yet, but they had taken steps in that direction and it was plain to see the value of one partner knowing what was going on in the other partner's head, even when he didn't know himself what was wrong. Not looking for advice, or sympathy, or anything else, but the practical precaution of both partners knowing the possible limitations of the other.
Along the lines of reporting on the operating condition of my weapons, my physical condition, and my mental condition. Napoleon smiled grimly at the memory of a previous conversation with his partner. Well, that only works when your partner is there beside you, not at the other side of the country. Illya, you were right. It was a dumb move on my part.
One of his first instructors at the U.N.C.L.E. Survival School was famous for quoting a verse from Ecclesiastes when lecturing on why the United Network assigned partners rather than sending agents to work alone. 'For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him.' The paradox existed. You were expendable; the mission was of utmost importance—lives depend on your actions. But the flip side was that you were valuable, as all life is valuable. You need to protect yourself, and you need to protect your partner.
He took a deep breath and looked away from the small airplane as it disappeared into the hazy blue sky. There was a wildness to the air around him. The frontier edge he seldom experienced, certainly not since his trip into the Australian outback. Nothing seemed stable, familiar. The smell was as foreign as the feel of the wind on his face. He felt a stranger in a strange land. His skin prickled with danger from a thousand directions, unknown variables.
He checked the time and debated staying in place for another two and a half hours, until Illya was due to arrive. Separating had been a bad idea, but it was done now, time was moving on, and Waverly had stressed the importance of getting to Bondolo as soon as possible. So he would just make this time profitable and see what bird watching he could get in, even in this desolate area.
