by LRH Balzer
Solo tried to sit up, but Lawrence pushed him back to the mattress. "Just wait until I have a chance to check you out. Anything other than your arm, a bump on your head, and smoke inhalation?"
He shook his head, not trusting his voice yet.
"We'll check out your partner first, then."
He's not my partner, Solo wanted to say. He's a boffin. A scientist. He never should have been there. But he couldn't say anything about it, since it had been Waverly's decision.
But he 's not my partner.
* * * * *
Once inside the infirmary's emergency room, Solo lay impatiently on the stretcher as Dr. Lawrence looked over his two patients quickly, cataloging injuries and deciding treatment. Both men were conscious, but both had been unconscious when they were placed in the ambulance, although Solo claimed he had just been stunned by the blow to his head, not truly unconscious. Regardless, there were certain procedures that Lawrence was insistent on following with his staff and with the two less-than-cooperative patients.
While the doctor was bent over Kuryakin, Solo carefully sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the stretcher. Aside from a headache and the pain in his arm, he was convinced he was fine. Even the pain in his arm was fading as the painkiller wiped the annoying uncomfortableness away. The oxygen he was receiving through the face mask was helping clear his head, and what he decided he really wanted was a cup of coffee to clear out the smoke-taste in his mouth.
Lawrence glanced back at him and scowled. "Teller! Give me a hand here. Our feared Section Two leader is about to attempt a quick getaway."
"Can I use your phone?" Solo asked, ignoring the droll humor.
"Can it wait a few minutes?"
"Not really. I need to report to Mr. Waverly."
Teller, the U.N.C.L.E. intern, slid in the room, going first to Lawrence's side and adjusting the overhead lamp for the doctor, then Teller was redirected to Solo. "Let's get you cleaned up, sir," the man said, with the confidence of someone used to the restless agitation of enforcement agents.
"Now? Can't it wait?" Solo pulled the oxygen mask from his face. "Hey, Sam, who was handling the backup?"
"No idea. Not my department," Lawrence said, without looking up. "Napoleon, let him check your arm. Teller, get him an ice bag for that bump on his head."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, could someone find out?" Solo asked.
"Find out what?" Lawrence growled, intent on his more withdrawn patient.
"I need to know who was handling the backup."
Teller cleared his throat as he handed Solo the ice bag, then checked the dressing on Solo's arm. "Garcia," he said softly. "Garcia was in charge, sir."
"Xavier? Has he reported in yet?"
Teller shrugged, then took Solo's hand and put the ice bag against his forehead. "Leave it there, sir. And sorry. I just heard it was Garcia leading the second unit. Sam?"
Hands raised, another man's blood staining the sterilized gloves, Lawrence turned to them as Teller pulled Solo's dressing free so the doctor could take a good look at the senior agent’s wound. "Looks fine," Lawrence pronounced, then smiled at Solo and turned back to his primary patient in the emergency area of the infirmary. "No problem there. Should heal up fine, Napoleon. You can chalk that up with your other lucky breaks. You bandaged it well on the scene, which makes my job easier later. And keep that ice on your head."
Solo nodded carefully, remembering Kuryakin's deft fingers in cleaning and bandaging his wound. It occurred to him then that Kuryakin had already been shot at that point and hadn't said a word to him about it while he had bandaged Solo's wounds. There was something irksome about that. "Great, Sam. That's what I wanted to hear—We're pressed for agents right now and I can't afford to be sidelined or restricted to my office. I need to call Mr. Waverly, and then I should go check on what's happening. The mission was under my direction."
"Give me two minutes here, and I'll be right with you." Lawrence turned back to his other patient, the nurse adjusting the light over the man's side. "Close your eyes, son. Count backwards... There we go." The nurse hovering at Lawrence's elbow moved aside a mask, placing it on the tray beside her. She adjusted the light again, the doctor speaking softly to her. While the nurse prepared his equipment, Lawrence said in a louder voice, "Teller, go ahead and redress Mr. Solo's arm. I'm not going to bother with stitches on him. Yes, Napoleon, I know, I heard you; you need to make a phone call. Make it as soon as you're bandaged. Teller, help him with it—I know Mr. Waverly is waiting for a report. And Napoleon, when you're done, just wait a moment before you go tearing off into the hallway looking like that; Janice says that Mildred will be in shortly with some clothes for you."
"Sure." Solo tried to keep still as his wound was cleaned, turning his attention elsewhere. "So, how's Kuryakin?" he asked.
"Nasty wound, but he's out for a few minutes. We'll prep him, then we'll move him to an operating room and stitch him up and hope that wound didn't get infected along the way. He's going to be weak from loss of blood, but he's a strong man in excellent condition and health. He'll bounce back quickly," Lawrence said, stitching the wound, apparently satisfied that any internal damage would heal on its own.
Solo frowned. "You know this guy? He's been down here before? How dangerous is Section Eight these days?" The enforcement agent sat up straighter when he saw the doctor freeze, as though caught in a lie.
Lawrence shrugged off his tension with a laugh, but didn't turn around. "I just meant that you can tell by looking at him that he's kept himself fit."
"He's a scientist. Maybe he gets bored staring into microscopes all day."
"Maybe. You can use the phone on my desk there."
Nice redirection, Sam. Solo watched the doctor work for a moment, wondering what had made the usually unflappable doctor tense. So you know young Kuraykin, I see.
When Teller stepped back, satisfied with the bandage, Solo hopped down from the table, one hand still holding the ice bag in place. At least, the dizziness had passed. He was actually feeling fairly decent, and with any luck—for which he was famous—the ice would take care of the bump.
He dialed the four digit number to Waverly's private office. "It's Solo."
"Yes, Mr. Solo. I've just received a report from Mr. Garcia, who is on his way back to Headquarters. He seems satisfied the... infestation ... was contained. His words," Waverly added, "but I felt 'infestation' was an accurate description of this particular satrapy of Thrush."
"I agree. I'm curious about what else was happening in the building besides its use as a warehouse, sir. We were held in some sort of lab, one that appeared to be fully stocked with medical apparatus. There was also a strange... well... weapon of some sort. I'm not sure what it was. Green energy."
"What is Mr. Kuryakin's assessment?"
"We've not had time to speak. Dr. Lawrence is taking care of him right now, cleaning and stitching a gunshot wound."
"He was shot? Why was I not immediately informed? "
Solo's eyebrows rose. He could have sworn that Waverly had jumped up at the news. Over a boffin? "Sir?"
"Have Dr. Lawrence report to me when he's finished with Mr. Kuryakin."
"Yes, sir. I'll check in with Mr. Garcia, and we'll prepare our report for you."
"Do so, Mr. Solo. That will be all." Waverly hung up a bit quickly, and Solo had the distinct impression that Waverly was possibly embarrassed by his previous reaction to Kuryakin's injury.
As Solo turned to speak with Lawrence, a nurse came in with a clean pressed suit for him, complete with shirt and tie, underwear, shoes and socks. She smiled coyly at him, long mascaraed eyelashes batting his way. "Need help, Napoleon?"
Lawrence moved to the far side of the operating table, glancing up to see the young nurse. "Mildred, he'll be fine on his own. Can you find some clothes for Kuryakin?"
"Yes, doctor," she said quickly, looking away from Solo, looking at the face of the young man lying motionless on the table, apparently stil
l under the anesthetic. "Who is he? New here? Does he have a set in the enforcement agents' lockers?"
"No. Mr. Kuryakin is Section Eight—get something from Wardrobe. He lives here' he can return them later. His clothes are on the table there—just check his size from the labels."
"He lives here?" Mildred asked, obviously interested. "At headquarters?"
"In one of the dorms."
"I thought they were just for security agents on twenty-four-hour call."
"He spends most of his time in the lab, so Mr. Waverly authorized a room for him."
"Oh."
It made sense, actually, for a boffin to live in the dorm area, Solo thought, as he scooped up his clothes and ducked around the partition to change. The Network's technicians had a reputation for being resourceful and quick-thinking, often required to find solutions for complex problems on short notice.
Lawrence finished cleaning the Russian agent's wounds and preparing him for surgery as Mildred collected his and Kuryakin's damaged clothing . When Lawrence finished, Janice covered the patient with a cotton blanket, tucking it gently around him. As Solo emerged from behind the partition, he caught Lawrence's amused look. Both women were lingering longer than was necessary, smiling down as Kuryakin's blue eyes opened and the Russian looked around the infirmary with the dazed expression of someone still heavily drugged.
"Thank you, ladies," the doctor said. "That'll be all, for now. " Lawrence waited until they had left, the leaned over the young man, smiling softly as the scientist managed to focus on him. "Illya, you're fine. We're going to take you to the surgery to take a better look at the bullet's path and to give you a few stitches. Lie still for a few minutes and let the anesthetic take hold."
A wary nod, and Kuryakin closed his eyes.
"Illya?" Solo whispered to Lawrence as the doctor came over and assisted the enforcement agent in putting on his shirt and doing up the cufflinks. "What does that mean?"
"That's his name. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. You haven't met him before?"
"No. Not really. How new is he?"
"Almost two years." Lawrence glanced up at him, then back to Kuryakin. "Was there a problem?"
"No. He did okay today. We got through it all. A few awkward moments, but nothing we didn't weather."
"I don't see why he wouldn’t. His English is excellent now."
"That's not what I meant. I meant he was put in an awkward situation, and he didn't panic." Other than trying to kill himself, that is.
Solo shivered, putting that whole incident aside for now. First he would talk with Kuryakin, before recording the incident with the gun for his report. He had forgotten about it until now. "I'm going to go see if Garcia is here yet. He should be arriving shortly," Solo said, crisply, as Lawrence helped him into the sling for his arm. "I've got to get going, but let me know Kuryakin's condition when he's fully awake. I need to talk to him before I finish my report. I'll need a copy of his chart, as well," he added.
"I'll notify you when he's out of surgery. It's standard procedure to send the chart to your office," the doctor said, waving him out of the room.
Solo was scarcely out the door when felt the first wave of pain, rippling across his stomach and catching his breath. A few feet later, he was leaning against the wall, trying to keep upright when his body was screaming to double over. One more deliberate step and his legs gave out as wave after wave of pain swept over his body, radiating from the pit of his stomach. He lay on the floor of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, curled in a ball, gasping in agony, as the alarm bells clanged in the corridor and doors locked tight in defense. No doubt his collapse had been witnessed on the security cameras.
Somebody shouted. Footsteps pounded toward him. Through the haze of pain, he saw the guards, weapons drawn, looking for who or what had caused his collapse. Then a hand on his shoulder, someone yelling at him, calling his name, but he couldn't catch his breath enough to answer. He could barely make out that it was Todd Webster, a junior agent in Section Two. Solo pulled one hand away from his abdomen, expecting to see it red with blood, but no bullet had caused this pain.
Teller appeared from the infirmary as soon as the doors released, sliding through the doorway and skidding to Solo's side to help him up. Together with the Section Two agent, Webster, Teller assisted Solo inside and lying back down on the stretcher in the infirmary.
The pain was pouring over Solo, spasming his gut, twisting his intestines. Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking his shirt.
"Napoleon?" Lawrence bent over him. "Just breathe out. Don't hold your breath. Let it out. That's good. Lie still—Let me check my other patient."
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Easier said than done when your insides were being turned outside. But once he lay immobile in the infirmary for several minutes, Solo realized he felt considerably better. I must have been hit harder than I thought at the warehouse. Although, much as he tried, he couldn't think of any time he'd been hit in the abdomen, just the upper arm. He took a deep breath and eased upright again, surprised that other than a slight residue tightness across his stomach muscles, he really did feel fine.
"Sam?"
Lawrence looked back at him. "You two have terrible timing," he said, releasing the blood pressure cuff from Kuryakin's arm.
"What do you mean?"
"Just as the alarms went off in the corridor, I saw Kuryakin was doubled over in pain. While I was helping him, the security doors released, so I sent Teller and Janice out to see if medical assistance was needed in the corridor. Janice comes back a moment later to tell me that you were out there in severe pain, too."
"What's Kuryakin's problem?"
"I'm not sure. Possibly the alarms startled him and triggered an abrupt reaction, then the pain from the bullet wound flared up when he moved." Lawrence had his hand on Kuryakin's shoulder the entire time he was speaking. "I'm going to put him under for surgery, so if he did any further damage, I'll find out soon enough."
Kuryakin lay on his uninjured side, facing Solo, his eyes closed, still breathing in short pants around the pain that visibly seemed to diminish with every drugged inhalation.
Solo carefully sat up, testing his body, but he did appear to be over whatever it was that had waylaid him. "Sam, I'm going to head out again. If this happens a second time, I'll let you know."
"Do that. Actually, Napoleon, come back here after you've checked in with Xavier and Alexander. I know you're not crazy about the idea, but I'd like to give you a complete physical—try and see if we can find some explanation for that attack you had." When Solo started to protest, he continued, "What if it had happened when you were on assignment?"
How did one argue with that?
Solo nodded reluctantly and hopped down from the stretcher a second time, satisfied that at the present, at least, he was feeling fit—well, as fit as a man with his arm in a sling and a bump on his head could feel.
He made it down the corridor an extra few feet this time before falling to his knees, his forehead almost touching the linoleum. It wasn't as bad as the first attack, but he still couldn't move unaided. Teller had been watching him from the doorway of the infirmary and was at his side in seconds. When it didn't appear to be abating, the intern helped him up and into the infirmary.
*****
Lawrence shook his head slowly, staring at the test results. "Alexander, I don't have a clue what's wrong with them. Something is affecting both of them. I had to put Napoleon out so I could get to surgery with Illya."
"How so?"
"I was moving Illya to the surgery area, but Napoleon had another attack, again in synch with Illya. I put Illya under, then went to deal with Napoleon, but his pain had stopped. I ended up putting him under as well, so I wouldn't be running back and forth between the two of them while in surgery. I thought it might be something in the corridor that was triggering Napoleon's attacks, but the third attack was right in the infirmary."
"Some time-delayed drug they were both given?" Waverly frowned, reading
the drug toxin report. "No trace of it, but it could be a new drug on the market. Or maybe it's all in their minds. They've been brainwashed to react this way. Mr. Solo did mention they were held in a laboratory of some kind."
"Could be. I'm going to have to do more tests. But for now, I'd like him to stay here."
Waverly nodded. "I'll defer to you on this, Sam." He stood to leave, then paused in the doorway. "Uh... how is Mr. Kuryakin? The surgery?"
Lawrence smiled. "Well, that's the only thing that's gone right here. He'll be fine. The bullet passed right through him without hitting anything major. He'll need some bed rest for a few days, then a light schedule for a week or two."
"Where is he now?"
"In the infirmary. I've got the two men both there so I can keep an eye on them. Napoleon isn’t happy at all at being confined to the infirmary, but we've run another complete set of tests on him, and I've got our labs going over them, Meanwhile, we have a tiger caged, and he's not pleased."
"Is he ambulatory?"
"At the moment. He seems fine, actually. I've cleared my desk in the infirmary for him to use, so he's making calls and trying to keep working. Garcia's in there with him now. If you want to meet with them, do it there instead of in your office."
* * * * *
Napoleon Solo and Xavier Garcia looked up as their superior entered the infirmary. "Sir? Mr. Waverly, have a seat, please," Garcia said, jumping up to pull out a chair for the Head of Section One.
"I'm sorry you had to come down here, Mr. Waverly. I would have come to your office, but the good doctor has restricted me to this room for the time being," Solo added, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
"And with good reason, from what he tells me." Waverly glanced toward one of the beds in the ward and at the man sleeping in it. "How is Mr. Kuryakin?"
Solo shrugged. "Fine, I guess. He's still sleeping off the general anesthetic from his surgery. Haven't really had a chance to talk to him yet, but Sam—Dr. Lawrence—tells me he'll be awake soon."
