by LRH Balzer
He waited, not sure of his own feelings on the matter. He looked again at Napoleon, studying the reddened skin, the aura of pain on his partner's face. Napoleon had somehow survived and pulled him along with him in that web of good fortune that his partner lived in.
Well, it was not yet his birthday, still several days away. Dynasties and kingdoms had risen and fallen in so short at time. He would see what the future held, one way or the other.
Illya closed his eyes, surrendering to his body's demand for rest.
* * * * *
Napoleon woke at noon, alone in the room. He stared at the empty bed beside him that showed no sign of his partner ever being there. He lifted his head and looked around, wondering if had been a dream. His head felt heavy, his eyes reluctant to focus on anything.
He turned his head at a soft footsteps in the hall outside and the sound of the door opening. The nurse had returned, but with her was a young man, dressed only in a white cotton kansu—a long white gown the natives wore. She assisted him into the bed, waved her finger at him in admonishment, then left them alone.
Illya crossed his arms stubbornly and watched her leave, then turned to Napoleon with a wide smile.
It took Napoleon a moment to fit it all together. He wasn't sure which was the greater shock—Illya Kuryakin alive and walking around, or the grin spread across the pale face.
"Good. You are awake. How are you feeling, Napoleon?" Kuryakin stretched cautiously, obviously enjoying the stunned expression on Solo's face.
"How—?" Solo asked, fighting for words that escaped him entirely. He struggled to get up, but the sharp wave of pain across his eyes and head prevented him from sitting upright. Before he knew it, Illya was out of his bed, and Napoleon reluctantly allowed him to tuck some pillows behind him. "You look ridiculously healthy," he said, finally.
"You just look ridiculous, Napoleon. You have red and white stripes on your chest." Illya's head tilted to one side staring down to where the sun had left bizarre markings through Napoleon's shredded shirt. "We are quite a pair. I am a leopard with my spots, and you a tiger with your stripes."
"I don't mean to sound insensitive, but why are you out of bed?" Napoleon knew he was staring but he no longer cared. "I'm not even sure why you're alive."
"I'm alive because of a series of shots and a partner who helped dig eighteen darts out of my chest and back," Illya answered succinctly.
"Okay," Napoleon said, waving the answer off. "I already knew that part. Why are you out of bed? My body doesn't even want to think about moving yet."
"I wanted to check something in their medical lab, and the nurse decided I was still an invalid and therefore somehow unable to function in a laboratory setting." Illya shrugged, unable to understand her reasoning.
"Norm was here," Napoleon said suddenly.
"I thought he might have been," Illya admitted. "I know I wasn't... uh, totally aware of everything for a brief time, but it seemed an unusual thing for my mind to conjure up. Why was he here? Has he gone or will he be back?"
Napoleon told him about the meeting scheduled that day, then added, "You stopped breathing twice." He stared at his partner, unable to pull his eyes away.
"The nurse said I stopped breathing four times, but she may have exaggerated for effect," Illya said. "And you—how do you feel?"
"Aching, sore, burned, reluctant to take a deep breath, but damned lucky to be alive."
"So... what exactly happened to us? Who attacked you? Thrush or native?"
Napoleon shrugged. "Thrush. At least Thrush-trained... There were moves that were familiar." He described the kick/release that he had seen two of the men perform. "Four men in all: one white, three native. And you? Do you remember what happened?"
"Vaguely. I remember a group of men, a weapon, and running for my own weapon." He eased himself down to his bed, closing his eyes briefly as his stomach muscles cramped.
"How many?"
"Four or five. I remember a white man there. Beige hunting jacket."
"Yes, the white man I encountered had a beige jacket, as well."
"Let's hope they were the same group." Illya frowned. "There was something more about them, something unusual..."
"Well, there was the weapon. Why did they come after you with it and not me?" Napoleon shifted, trying to get comfortable. "For that matter, why not kill me outright? Why go to all the trouble of tying me down? It would have taken hours or days for me to die."
"Maybe they were just keeping you there... until the weapon arrived. I recalled one man saying something about needing someone to experiment on."
Napoleon shrugged. "That's a possibility. Then you came along, and they used you instead.—Are you okay?" he asked, as another spasm seemed to vibrate through his partner.
"Apparently, it will do this for a few days. It is not debilitating, just irritating."
They both turned their attention to the door as a Kenyan U.N.C.L.E. agent came in, peering at them cautiously.
"Yes?" Solo prompted.
"Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Yes?" Illya said, from his bed.
The Kenyan agent turned to him. "You asked our Nairobi office for information on Peter Kawali. I have it for—"
Kuryakin sat up quickly, the cramped muscles momentarily forgotten. "Kawali! That's what I was trying to remember. He was there when I was shot!"
"Who is he?"
"The venomologist from Nairobi. He called me Mr. Johannsen." Kuryakin turned to the Kenyan agent. "I would like a complete dossier on Kawali done, as well as any information on the three men who met with him the morning I toured the Research Center in Nairobi. The head of the research lab should be able to help you."
* * * * *
Bondolo Compound, Kenya
Monday, December 20,1965
Illya moved carefully across the compound, glad to feel the returning strength to his body. It had been a difficult two days, recuperating from his injuries and trying to ease the frustration of the case, as he felt personally unable to investigate it in his normal manner. The eighteen dart wounds were beginning to heal, only two of them showing signs of infection and both of those were now responding to treatment. The ordeal had greatly sapped his energy, but he was determined to make the meeting and any action that followed.
"Ilyusha!"
He turned to see Norm Graham striding across the compound toward him, and he waited until the older man reached him, smiling patiently as he was embraced and released, Norm brushing the hair from his forehead as if to see him more closely. "I am fine, Norm. Really."
"Trish sends her greetings." Norm studied him, thoughtfully now, not releasing his grip on Illya's forearm. "You still look pale. Have the dreams stopped?" he asked, quietly.
"No." He had hoped they would, but he had woken at four o'clock that morning, shaken from another vivid nightmare, his body cramping again from the dream's physical effect on him. "Perhaps once I am back in New York?"
Norm pulled him into another hug which he relaxed into for a moment, allowing the tension to flow out of his body. Both Norm and his Soviet-born wife, Trish, had taught him the value of being a part of a family, and he had long since given up on the idea that they would not hug him in public. Worse things could happen, he supposed, and in truth, he didn't mind it at all. For once in his life, he was loved for himself and if these people wanted to hug him as part of that, he was more than willing to let himself be hugged. Besides, Norm seemed perfectly able to function in both of his worlds, as colleague and as... well... Norm. Friend/Father.
Napoleon had become family, as well, but he expressed it in a different way. Friend/Brother. Napoleon asked him if he was 'all right' a dozen times a day, and each time, he meant it, whether it was said in a teasing way or whether it was said with a concerned frown or a wary stare. When he had been allowed to walk around outside that first day, his partner stayed at his side, attentive to how he was doing, even though the senior agent had his own injuries that Illya was monitoring. And althoug
h neither man had mentioned it, Illya remembered Solo's warm embrace when he lay dying on the savannah a few days previous.
But he hadn't died.
Not yet.
The weight on his shoulders grew heavier; he sighed and leaned into Norm's arms, feeling the momentary release from everything he was carrying. It wasn't often he took advantage of the man's paternal instincts, but occasionally it proved itself healing. It would keep him going the extra few days—or hours—he needed.
Norm released him finally with the obligatory pat to his back, something Illya had noticed males—American males included—did, maybe as a way of making light of the hug. A ritualistic slap, representing the message that 'I could have beaten you up, you know' or something along those lines, or perhaps merely an indication the emotionally tinged physical action was complete now, and life would continue as it had.
Illya stood silently, his eyes looking beyond the buildings and beyond the fence of the compound to the rolling, dry land with its twisted brown scrub brush.
"Alexander asked about you," Norm said, his voice level, one hand gripping his shoulder. "Are you ready for this assignment? The doctor here was vague about your recovery time."
"I'm sure even the great Doctor Samuel Lawrence would give me a Class Two rating. I'm not up to marathons yet, but if I'm careful, I can still go on the mission. They need every able body."
"And this body is able?" Norm asked skeptically, poking a finger carefully in his ribs.
Illya grinned. "More or less. Let's go. I want to eat before the meeting starts, as I suspect I may be too busy after the meeting."
Norm nodded. "I agree. I'll join you. I haven't eaten since breakfast and that was at the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi, this morning. I will simply note on my report, Ilyusha, that you said you were hungry and I took that as an all-important sign that you are in good health."
"Take it anyway you wish."
* * * * *
"Napoleon!"
He turned his head at his partner's voice, easily seeking out the blond-haired agent waiting for him in the middle of the compound. Solo ran a few steps to catch up with him, enjoying the return of mobility to his muscles and ribs. As he moved alongside his partner, his sharp eyes registered the replenished energy of Illya's walk, an echo of his own situation. His ribs were still bandaged, but that was more a precaution than anything else. If he needed to move suddenly, he didn't want the added risk of reinjuring his ribs. After the assignment, then he would consider having the tape removed, but meanwhile, it afforded him the added mobility. "I thought I heard Norm Graham was here," he asked, looking around. "Did he come back from Nairobi?"
"Yes, he's here," Illya said, walking backwards for a moment to watch several trucks enter the compound, loaded with personnel. "He's inside, getting ready."
"Who is handling the meeting? Norm or John Muliro?"
Illya shrugged. "Both. Norm is acting on Alexander Waverly's behalf, but it is John Muliro's country and his people. They will have to agree on a procedure." They reached the mess hall, where the meeting was scheduled and entered the building, blinking against the dimness after the morning sunshine.
Graham looked up from his reports, waving them over to join him. "Glad to see you up and about, Napoleon."
"Glad to be on the mend. We've got a job to do, and I'm—quite frankly—more than ready to close this operation down. What is are attack force going to consist of? Did you fly here alone?" he asked.
"John Muliro came with me. If we are going to move on this, we need him to be aware of what is happening. We have five agents from Ethiopia joining us in about three hours, as well as four from our Tanazania office who just arrived with the Nairobi agents. Somali Republic has only one man to spare, but they have four agents from Egypt and several from South Africa at their office who have been rerouted to assist us."
"How many agents have been assigned to Eastern Africa?" Napoleon asked.
"In all, there are twenty Section Three, shared among the offices, then one Section One leader for each country, with two Section Two assistants and a few office personnel. Bondolo compound is shared with Ethiopia and Somali Republic."
"How many men in all will be assigned here?"
"We should have a group of thirty."
Illya took his place at the table. "You have news then? We are on the offensive?"
"Let's just say that by midnight tonight, I hope we have exterminated a nest."
* * * * *
Norm Graham glanced up from his notes to the fourteen men gathered in the mess room at the Bondolo Compound. Behind him, a map of the district was displayed, multi-colored pins showing where the different attacks had occurred. "This is a surveillance film shot by a CIA spy plane on a joint assignment with U.N.C.L.E. It shows several groupings of buildings unaccounted for by the official government map of the area, a matter of great concern to the Kenyan Minister of Tourism and Wildlife. One of these groupings is within the parameter of the killings, about forty miles beyond the road branching northeast from Maikona, twenty miles from where Solo and Kuryakin were attacked. The other two possible locations are equally suspicious, but too far away to be considered for this current infestation: one northeast near the Ethiopian border, and one much farther east, near Ramu."
Muliro frowned at the map, staring at the location flagged. "Ten buildings. A runway. Not even twenty-five miles from where we sit. Within five miles from a road leading to this very compound. How have we not seen them before?"
Kuryakin shrugged, silently tapping the eraser of his pencil on the table as he spoke. "They are good. They don't want to be seen." He gestured toward one of the surveillance photos. "I have been studying that particular photo for the last half hour, and I believe there area a lot more than ten buildings. Look at the ground cover here—and again, here," he said, using the pencil as a pointer. "See how the shadows fall? And here there is a road that suddenly comes to a halt. I suspect there are buildings beneath camouflaged roofs. We could be looking at another two or three buildings, each the size of a standard army barracks."
Graham studied the photograph, then passed it to Solo. "In an enlargement of one area, we are fairly certain there are several landrovers and trucks parked beneath camouflaged netting. We estimate about thirty to fifty men at this camp."
"Thirteen buildings,” Muliro repeated, thoughtfully. "What would they be housing there?"
"If it is a Thrush base," Norman Graham said, "there are thousands of possibilities. With the country so newly re-created, there may be even a bid to force the government to move in a certain direction." Graham handed out copies of a letter from the office of the Permanent Secretary in the Ministry of Tourism and Wildlife. "I met with Mr. Achieng yesterday, and he sent this to me this morning at the Norfolk Hotel, based on our conversation. I'll go over the points in brief." Graham waited until they all had a copy, then began. "What Mr. Achieng is suggesting in this letter, is that this current situation is related to the Mau Mau rebellion of the early 1950s."
"I was in Korea during much of that time. Could you refresh my memory?" Solo asked. "I have heard of the rebellion but I'm vague on the details."
"Certainly." Muliro clasped his hands in front of him on the table. "To be brief, what has been termed the 'Mau Mau rebellion' dates between the years 1952-56. The group was initially formed by a group called Anake a 40—the Young Men of 40. There are various reasons sited for its existence, and I'm sure if we spoke to five different Mau Mau leaders, we would have five different reasons. One large reason that they all held in common was that when many of the men returned to Kenya after fighting in World War Two, they discovered that the Kikuyu, one of the largest tribes in Kenya, were evicted from their land to make room for white immigrants. Our new President of Kenya, Jomo Kenyatta was once a leader of a political group within the Kikuyu. Because this group was anti-government, it became considered illegal, branded Mau Mau, and Kenyatta was arrested in Britain where he lived at the time, and he was held for nine years
."
"Was he the head of the Mau Mau? I recall reading that somewhere." Solo glanced from Muliro to Norm Graham, when the Kenyan seemed reluctant to answer.
Graham shrugged. "That doesn't appear to be clear. What concerns us here, and what concerns Mr. Achieng, is another group which was formed during the Mau Mau emergency. Now, one of the aims of the Mau Mau appeared to be to force the Kikuyu people by unbreakable oaths, to join with them. They were a people who took oaths and pledges dead seriously, and the Mau Mau attacked, tortured and killed those of their fellow Africans who refused to swear the initiation oath and were therefore thought likely to report them to the police. The Mau Mau set up guerrilla bases in the forests and the caves by Mount Kenya, gradually choosing a more militant campaign. The public reacted to this and what was known as pseudo gangs were formed to deal with the situation when it seemed the military was unable to do so."
"Pseudo gangs?" Kuryakin asked, curiosity peaked.
Muliro nodded. "Many members were Kenyan-born Europeans, but also ex-Mau Mau joined them, dissatisfied with what was occurring. These people were given training in small arms, grenades, unarmed combat, daggers and other weaponry, as well as the Europeans being taught the skill of moving silently through the bush, tracking, and survival techniques. Working together, they made a dangerous unit. Some Europeans, armed with submachine weaponry, went so far as to staining their skin dark to pass as Mau Mau forest fighters and infiltrate the enemy lines."
Graham moved to the cork board and began pinning photographs up. "According to Mr. Achieng, these pseudo warriors became legendary, among them these two men: Ian Henderson and Robert Pemberton, two men made famous by their daring exploits. Also among the heros to arise was an ex-Mau Mau , a gangster who specialized in making guns from odd scraps of piping, door bolts, bits of wire and metal, and even rubber bands. He is currently going by the name of Peter Kawali." Graham added the third picture, then looked over to Kuryakin. "Kawali was a relative of Dedan Kimathi, the militant head of the Mau Mau, who was arrested and finally executed by the British in 1957. At that point, the Mau Mau fell apart, partly from internal struggles and warfare within the group, partly from ongoing disease and hardship, and many of the rest simply surrendered. Some believe they won the fight eventually, since Kenya is now an independent country; others believe that they lost, as Kenya would be in the same situation regardless, with less loss of life to its own people."
