by LRH Balzer
He tried to turn his head, but at the slightest movement, a searing pain lanced through his temples. He placed a weak hand shakily over his eyes and felt the ointment on the back of his sunburned hands and face. He glanced down and saw he was stretched out on a narrow bed, his red blistered skin slathered in the medicinal salve, a thin sheet spread over his lower body. His ribs were bound, the bandages around his torso making it difficult to take more than a shallow breath.
It was twilight or dawn; the room he was in was filled with dark shadows, a bed lamp the only source of illumination. Still he did not know where he was. There were four beds in the room and his was the only one occupied. At one end of the room was a desk and telephone and a door to the outside. At the other end of the room was another door, light seeping beneath the crack at the bottom.
A medical clinic? Yes, it had the look of a small hospital. He could hear a generator humming in the distance, providing electricity for the lamp and the wooden fan. He was in a field hospital, then, not in the city...
Then he remembered why. The breeze turned chill.
Illya was dead.
Before he had time to catch his breath, a remarkably stunning figure in white entered the room and came into his field of vision. The Kenyan nurse saw he was awake and approached him, smiling gently. "Jambo, bwana Solo."
A cool cloth was placed across his forehead. Reflexes at work, he smiled up at the beautiful African woman and cleared his throat to speak to her, trying to get past the tightness in his chest and the stinging tears in his eyes.
She placed a finger over his mouth, and carefully lifted his head, helping him to swallow some water and painkillers. "I've taken you off the IV now. Go back to sleep, bwana. Bilita mpatshi—good dreams. When daylight comes, we will see what the day holds." As she eased him back against the pillows, she placed a thermometer in his mouth and busied herself by the desk at one end of the long room.
Good dreams? How? Illya was dead.
So, it was over. They had lost. He closed his eyes, his head pounding, feeling a deep pain in his chest that he knew would take some time to fade.
Bilita mpatshi? Not likely.
Napoleon lay dazed, his features hardening as he stared at the fan turning, wondering how he could continue on alone and yet knowing he would, already plotting how he would effect his revenge. There was no shock involved this time; Illya's premonition of his death and his growing acceptance of it had been warning enough. But had they given up too quickly?
A moot point now. He was dead.
At least Illya hadn't been alone when it happened. It was little to take comfort in, but it was something. Towards the end, the pain had faded for his partner, lost in a numb world beyond the suffering, and as Napoleon had lapsed into unconsciousness himself, he had felt the life flutter from his friend. The help that had arrived, had come too late.
The nurse returned and retrieved the thermometer, glanced at the reading, apparently satisfied, then left his side.
He could turn his head now without the sharp pain. The clock on the wall said 6:38. Morning or evening? From the nurse's comments, he thought it was evening. How much time had gone by? One day? Two? Had they buried his partner already in this hot climate? Had the body been sent back to New York? Did Waverly know what had happened?
He could picture the U.N.C.L.E. chief at his desk and hear the man's gruff voice responding when he told Waverly that Illya Kuryakin was dead. "These things happen," Waverly would probably say. "What is important now is the case and what Thrush's next move is."
But right now, he didn't care about Thrush. He wanted a bottle of bourbon. Something to deaden this ache. He had lost his partner once more.
On their very first assignment together, he had thought Illya was dead and even at that early date, he had been devastated by the loss. Then, a few months later, his partner had been kidnaped, gone for months and declared dead, missing in action. During the affair in Paris, he had been talking with Illya on the phone when his partner was attacked, and for hours he had feared the worst. During the Love Affair, he had thought Illya was dead when the car the Russian was driving was blown off the road. How many other times had there been injuries and bullet wounds and the potential for the unimaginable?
Illya was like a cat with nine lives, rising from the dead to keep fighting. The worst case scenario hadn't really happened. He had yet to bury the body.
What made it different this time was the finality of it. Those other times, Napoleon hadn't been there. He hadn’t watched his partner die. He hadn't felt the pulse still beneath his fingers. This time...
As the nurse passed through the door into another room, Napoleon heard a weak scream that cut through his thoughts, shattering the direction they had taken him in. In a brief second, he replaced one reality with another, accepting the new scenario immediately.
Because he knew that voice. He turned his head in the general direction, seeing the light from beneath the doorway, and listened to other voices talking, muted by the closed door, and he knew where he had to go. Napoleon blinked away the perspiration and carefully sat up, then wrapped the sheet around his waist as he stood. The floor threatened to come and hit him, but he took some steadying breaths and let the world settle around him a little more graciously as he inched his way to the back room door, one hand protecting his ribs.
He heard another gasp of pain again from the other room and felt both jubilation and sorrow as he leaned for a moment on the closed door, his forehead resting on the painted surface as he pulled himself together.
He turned the door knob with difficulty, the ointment on his hands making it almost impossible to twist the knob. Someone heard his tries and opened the door on the other side, and his eyes were bombarded with faces and bright lights and far too much information for his drugged mind to cope with.
Before he could get a good look at the patient, he realized that one of the men in the room was none other than Norm Graham. No, that couldn't be right. Norm should be in Washington, D.C. running the U.N.C.L.E. office there. Norm wouldn't be here in a frontier outpost in Northern Kenya.
But Norm Graham looked up at him, frowned, and looked back at the man on the table. With his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, Norm was standing facing Napoleon on the far side of the surgery table, his attention focused on the writhing patient, his hands bracing Kuryakin's shoulders as the sweat-drenched agent twisted on the table. "Easy. Easy," he whispered.
The room began a slow spin and Napoleon shivered. "Illya."
The Russian's wrists had been tied together, palms bandaged. A Kenyan agent stood holding down Illya's legs, while the nurse Napoleon had seen earlier mopped up the blood as the doctor attempted to remove the remaining objects from Illya's back. From the numerous small, blood-soaked bandages Napoleon could see, they were almost done.
Norm Graham looked up again, his face pained, eyes haunted. "Napoleon, you should be resting. We have the situation under control. Please, go lie down."
"What are you doing here?" Napoleon mumbled, his eyes on the back of Illya's head. "How is he?" Why isn't he dead? he wanted to ask, but the words failed him. He really didn't want to know. He was more than happy to add this to his collection of times-Illya-was-almost-killed. But-wasn't.
The doctor swore, tossing his instruments into a basin. "I have to take a break. I can't see straight any more. If I'm not careful, this one is going to break; it's caught on a muscle." The doctor had the nurse take his place, watching as she sponged off the areas he had just cleared.
"How many?" Solo tore his gaze from his partner to look at the doctor.
"How many left? Just this one, and one more." The doctor lifted the hair at the nape of Kuryakin's head to reveal another one at the base of his skull. "This is the one I am most concerned about. I was hoping he would pass out again, as it is imperative that he not move while it is removed. I would prefer not to anesthetize him." He took the glass of water the other agent handed him and drained it before handing it back.
"What kind of people would do this? This is barbaric. Poison darts that are almost impossible to remove and cause such excruciating pain. I don't know if we can keep him alive."
"He'll live. If you've kept him alive this long, he'll live. He's too stubborn to die." Napoleon met Norm's eyes and stumbled around the table to stand next to the man who was for all intents and purposes his partner's father. He could see Illya's face now. He lay panting, his eyes half-open and glazed but determined to stay conscious. His face was gray, his lips faded, his bare skin glistening with sweat, his body twitching. He was conscious, but barely so, as his body fought the poisons it was absorbing.
Norm leaned over to retrieve a damp cloth, placing it across Illya's forehead, and Illya's eyes closed.
"What are you doing here, Norm?" Napoleon asked again, clinging to the side of the surgery table. "How'd you get here?"
"Alexander asked me to represent U.N.C.L.E. at a meeting later today with President Kenyatta and Mr. Muliro about this situation, but Mr. Muliro heard of the attack and requested I see for myself the results of the new weapon they are up against here. When I arrived at Nairobi airport, they had a flight waiting for me to North Horr, and I came the rest of the way by one of our vehicles." Norm glanced back at the Chief Enforcement Agent. "I suggest you sit down, Napoleon. You won't do 'Lusha any good if you fall over and worsen your injuries."
The Bondolo agent brought a chair to the side of the surgery table and Napoleon sank down onto it.
At this new level, Illya could see him. A brief smile crossed the Russian's exhausted face as he recognized Napoleon was okay. Napoleon held the gaze as long as he could, letting the aliveness of his partner register through his senses.
Norm cleared his throat, bending low to Illya's ear. "They are almost through, son. Two more. Just keep breathing."
Illya nodded, his breaths short and labored. He shivered briefly as the nurse removed the sheet covering him, replacing it with a clean one.
"How many in all?" Napoleon asked, hearing his words beginning to slur as the medication he had been given began to work. The room was spinning dangerously now, and it was all he could do to hold the focus.
"Eighteen total. Three rounds of six, all of which hit him. Nine were removed by the time he was brought here—then they were kept busy trying to treat him for shock and keep him alive. They removed five more, then his breathing faltered again and—"
"He was dead, Norm," Napoleon interrupted, closing his eyes against the dizziness. "On the desert. He stopped breathing. He died in my arms."
"The medics must have arrived just moments later."
"How did they—?"
"The agents who found you reestablished his breathing," the doctor said, returning to the table. "Well, then, Mr. Kuryakin. Let's finish this up. Please remain as still as possible." Illya's eyes were open, but he wasn't blinking, wasn't moving at all. "Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Damn it, Illya!" Napoleon rose to his feet but was shifted aside in the sudden commotion of the room. He felt Norm's hands on his upper arms, steering him away from the table, felt other hands pull him firmly from the room. "No," he whispered weakly. "I can't do this again."
There was a rushing sound in his ears and then he, quite mercifully, passed out.
* * * * *
Napoleon woke again a few hours later to the sound of soft voices in the room. It was full night now. As his sunburned eyes tried to focus, two figures in white passed by the foot of his bed and out the far door. The clock read 10:15. He swallowed, wanting some water for his parched throat, knowing the irksome lump there wouldn't fade. Beside him, he could hear the nurse's rhythmical, accented English and turned his head toward her.
His eyes widened at the sight of her taking the pulse of the patient in the next bed who was sleeping peacefully, one bandaged hand resting across his chest, his breathing steady and easy. Napoleon nodded dizzily, feeling the grin break across his face as he drank in the sight of his partner alive—hooked to an IV bottle, his face naturally pale against the white pillow—but alive.
A sandy-haired fifty-year-old man approached and Solo's eyes widened further as Norm Graham came into focus, his tired features smiling at his agent's surprise. The U.N.C.L.E. Washington Section Head sat on the edge of Kuryakin's bed, facing Solo. "Yes, he's alive and out of danger. There were a few rough hours during the earlier hours of the night, according to Dr Kitovu, but Ilyusha pulled through. I called Alexander and told him that you both will make it."
"What are you doing here, Norm?" Napoleon asked when he found his voice. "I vaguely remember talking to you before, but—"
"I had a meeting scheduled for this afternoon with the president of the country, Jomo Kenyatta, and John Muliro, Head of U.N.C.L.E. Kenya, concerning Thrush activity in the area. Since the new government took place, Kenya has not reestablished relations with U.N.C.L.E."
"Why isn't our African office handling this?"
"As you may recall, our acting head died in Switzerland during the August Affair. He was to have been appointed Head of U.N.C.L.E. Africa, but now the office there has been in flux. We have several junior acting heads who are doing a remarkable job, but none with the background to stand up to Kenyatta. Alexander asked me to meet with them, representing himself and all of the Section One leaders." Norm stretched, yawning. "He seems to be resting now, so I might go lie down. I'm beat."
"Muliro told me about the other attacks. I can't believe Illya's alive," Napoleon whispered.
Norm glanced down at Illya as the still-pale agent groaned slightly in his sleep. "He's the first survivor. They have an antidote to the venom and the poison now, but it doesn't counteract the pain of the acid or speed the removal of the hooked barbs."
The Bondolo doctor joined them, one hand resting briefly on Kuryakin's forehead, then frowning and shaking his head as he saw Napoleon was awake. He took a chair on the far side of the Russian agent's bed. "You should be asleep, Mr. Solo. You need your rest."
"Is he all right?"
Dr Kitovu nodded. "He should be. We do not have black widow spiders in this part of the world, but unfortunately, of late we are well familiar with the symptoms." With his stethoscope, he listened to his patient's heartbeat, nodding in satisfaction. "At least we have saved our first victim. He's had a dose of the antitoxin, which as of tomorrow morning, all our agents will be issued a supply. He had one other factor in his favor—Early this morning, Mr. Kuryakin was given an injection of antitoxin as a precaution, as he was handling spiders at the Research Laboratory in Nairobi. We have been in contact with the research center and they have been most helpful in providing information and a supply of antitoxin that is suitable for this kind of spider venom. They sent it to us on the same flight that brought in your Mr. Graham."
"What are the lingering symptoms?" Norm asked. "What's his recovery time?"
"For a single black widow bite, the pain can be felt immediately and lasts between twelve and forty-eight hours, gradually subsiding. In severe cases, such as multiple bite as Mr. Kuryakin has sustained, there is rigidity and spasm of most of the larger muscles, particularly of the abdomen. Fever, high blood pressure, sweating, nausea. Possibly chills, hyperactive reflections and other symptoms. So, we will watch him and see how he heals."
"What about that green fluid that came from the shaft?"
"Five shafts were broken, and in each case the wound was quickly flushed with water. We have treated the infected areas, and will continue to monitor them for secondary infections. Overall," Dr Kitovu sighed with relief, "we are pleased."
"And his recovery time?" Norm asked again.
"A few days for full recovery. About the same as Mr. Solo."
Illya twitched in his sleep, a quiet moan escaping his lips.
"He's still fighting a fever." Norm let his palm rest on Illya's forehead, then brushed back the damp hair.
"It should be dropping. We're watching him. Why don't you get some rest yourself, Mr. Graham? My staff will watch him."
"I'll
just sit here for a little while longer, if you don't mind." Norm settled himself more comfortably on the edge of Illya's bed, one hand moving covering his adopted son's hand.
"He doesn't think he'll be alive for his birthday," Napoleon said in a soft voice, once the doctor had left.
"I know." Norm's grip tightened on Illya's hand. "Maybe this was what he had a premonition of. And he survived, so maybe he'll be okay now."
"This wasn't it."
"You know that for sure?"
"I've been thinking about it, and I know this isn't the dream or he never would have let us travel on separate flights. He was uncomfortable with the idea, but not enough to fight me on it. If he had felt this was going to happen, he would have said something, even if it was only a premonition."
"Or he'd knowingly have put your life in danger... I see. Then what the hell is spooking him?"
Napoleon shut his eyes, feeling the medication once again pull him away. "I don't know. But we've got nine days to find out."
* * * * *
Bondolo U.N.C.L.E. Compound
Saturday, December 18,1965
7:30 a.m.
Illya Kuryakin blinked awake, his eyes taking in his surroundings long before he focused on any one object. The ceiling fan threw him off for a moment, but he realized shortly thereafter that he was in a hospital—no, a clinic of some kind. Much too small to be a hospital.
He turned his head and looked at the bed beside him, noting Napoleon apparently asleep. They did not appear to be held hostage. He traced back through his memories, trying to locate the firmest one amidst a swarm of images and ended up shivering, hardly able to get his limbs to settle down. Vague recollections of darts and blood and pain. Razor blades and hunting knives. Flies.
And for whatever reason, he was alive. The thought gently nudged at him, rising to the surface above the others. He was alive. Napoleon was alive. Whatever had happened to them, they had survived it.
