Collection 3 - Year One Page 2

  But if you are not going to meet me in Vanderville, Napoleon, I have no intention of going there alone. He spun on his heel and fled down the hillside, trying desperately to make up the time he had wasted without breaking his neck.

  It took an hour to make the return trip. Illya collapsed beside his partner's body, relieved to see the man was still alive. In an underground treasury vault one week previous, he had almost been too late and Napoleon nearly suffocated to death.[1] He threw some wood on the dying fire and then carefully rolled Napoleon onto his back.

  "Hi." Solo smiled up at him weakly. "What are you doing back here?"

  "I finished what you wanted. What's wrong with you? Were you injured?"

  "No, I'm just sick."

  Illya touched his forehead, feeling the low-grade fever. "I can see that. When did this begin?"

  "Hmm?" Napoleon's eyes drifted shut.

  Illya shook his shoulder urgently. "Don't go to sleep! Talk to me. I need to know what's wrong."

  "Okay…"

  "Where do you hurt?" Napoleon's arms were locked around his stomach, so Illya started there first. "Did you eat something? Is it food poisoning?"

  Napoleon started to laugh, then changed his mind and doubled over in pain. "That would be unlikely since neither of us has eaten or slept for twenty-four hours," he said through gritted teeth. "And whatever was in my stomach has long since come up..." He gave another smile and shrugged slightly.

  Not asking permission, Illya gently pulled Solo's arms away from his guarded abdomen and carefully examined him. Napoleon gasped and knocked his hand aside as he touched a tender spot.

  "Napoleon, can you cough?"

  Solo nodded and coughed experimentally, eyes bulging as the pain ricocheted through his stomach. "Ouch," he said with a comical grimace.

  "Show me where it hurt when you coughed." Illya sat back on his heels and felt his heart sink when Napoleon pointed to the right lower side of his abdomen. "When did it start to hurt, Napoleon?"

  "Well, doctor, I first noticed some discomfort about, oh, four hours ago, shortly after we abandoned our car to head over here toward the transmitter. Hey, if you are a doctor, where's the nurse?" Solo arched his eyebrows in a poor imitation of some vaudeville comic.

  "Napoleon, please listen to me for a minute. I think there might be something wrong with your appendix."

  "Are you saying I have appendicitis? Don't be silly, Illya. U.N.C.L.E. agents do not get appendicitis in the middle of an assignment. We get shot. It's in all the rule books." Napoleon tried to sit up, but fell back dizzily. "They especially do not get appendicitis in the middle of nowhere in the winter."

  "Napoleon? I think you have appendicitis. In the middle of nowhere. In the winter."

  Solo sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

  It was already eleven-thirty at night. Illya stood at the summit of the hill and stared down into the next valley. Reaching Vanderville, and the U.N.C.L.E. staff they were to rendezvous with there, was impossible. He would have to find some place closer. A few lights several miles in the distance caught his searching eyes and he reluctantly figured the path they would have to take to get there.

  He turned finally and traced his steps back to where his partner lay huddled by the fire. A frown crossed his face as he looked down at Napoleon, noting the perspiration on the man's forehead glistening in the glow from the low flames. Time allotted for debating his choices was trickling away, just as Napoleon's strength was fading. If he was going to move him, he had to begin now.

  The trouble was, Thrush knew they were here somewhere. Although the transmitter was now destroyed, it had broadcast the two-minute coded message and that would be enough time for their enemies to calculate approximately where it was located. As long as the U .N.C.L.E. agents were in the vicinity, they risked detection.

  But was the distant town safe? Had Thrush already traced them this far? Could he trust the local people to help them? As Illya pondered that, he also wondered if he would be able to discern if they were the genuine authorities or if Thrush agents had infiltrated the town, taken over, and were posing as them.

  Even if Thrush wasn't there, the townspeople themselves posed a problem, Napoleon was the expert in dealing with people, not he. He knew he had little experience with ordinary Americans. Under normal circumstances, his accent alone was enough to make them distrust him. Would they act out of fear and attack?

  Would he be signing both their death warrants if he brought his partner there?

  Make a decision, Illya Nickovetch.

  He bent down again and touched his partner's face, aware the fever was slowly rising. "We are going to go down the hill, Napoleon."

  Solo nodded. "Sorry about this," the dark-haired agent said softly, beginning to shiver. "This wasn't part of the deal, was it?"

  "Let's go." Illya helped him to his feet and steadied Napoleon as he doubled over in pain from the movement. "Ready? I will take it slow, but it's not an easy descent."

  Napoleon wiped the sweat off his face with one hand, draping his arm around the younger agent's sturdy shoulder. "Lead on."

  They almost made it to the town before Napoleon collapsed from the pain aggravated by walking. Illya caught him, staggering under the dead weight, then lowered him to the ground. It was obvious Napoleon could walk no further; he lay motionless, unwilling to move or talk, his face white. Illya wriggled out of his jacket, spread it out over the snow, and rolled Napoleon onto it.

  Then he ran.

  The town was dark. His watch said it was two in the morning; nothing was open. He ran down the one main street and peered into store windows, searching for anything or anyone that would help him.

  At the end of the street was a doctor's office that said 'Day Surgery' over the door, and Illya ground to a halt, a smile of relief on his face. If the doctor had medical texts in his office, he might be able to figure out if it was Napoleon's appendix that was the problem or if it was something else that would heal on its own. If it was just a stomach ailment, a non-emergency, he could wait until Napoleon had rested and regained his strength before continuing on.

  He went around to the rear of the building and examined the door, determining he could enter it easily. He debated checking the information he needed immediately, but decided Napoleon should not be left alone outside in the cold air. He made his way back and pulled the semi-conscious man to his feet, then bending his knees into a partial squat, Illya hoisted his partner over his shoulder, grasped his wrists, and returned to the town, taking a short cut stumbling across the local school's football field.

  No one stopped him. The town was asleep. Even the sheriff's office had no light. The young man moved slowly, the day's events beginning to wear at his resources. Napoleon was heavy and Illya felt his legs shaking from the effort of carrying him.

  He set him down at the back entrance and picked the lock on the door. Once inside, Illya scouted through the premises, finding an examining table in one room that would double as a bed. At least it was off the floor and he wouldn't have to further strain his back by bending over to check his partner.

  Since it was an interior office with no windows, he felt safe in turning on the overhead light. He flicked off his flashlight and brought Napoleon in, settling him on the table. His partner's clothes were wet from the snow, so he wrestled with the laces and snaps and belt and managed to remove them with minimal help from Napoleon. He covered him with sheets and blankets from a storage shelf, noting how his friend shifted beneath the covers, his right knee slightly bent.

  "I'll be right back, Napoleon."

  "Take your time. No rush," the senior agent mumbled.

  The doctor's private office had a library of medical books. Arms laden with diagnostic texts, Illya returned to the middle room and started searching for answers. Napoleon was no longer responding to his queries and Illya moved to gently wipe the perspiration from his face. With one text open across Napoleon's chest, he checked off the symptoms and kept read
ing, wondering what he could possibly do to relieve the pain his partner was in.

  INSERT NASOGASTRIC TUBE IF PATIENT IS VOMITING.

  Well, Napoleon appeared to be past that stage. Besides, he wasn't sure how one went about inserting a nasogastric tube.

  PLACE VEINWAY AND START GLUCOSE/SALINE SOLUTION WITH ELECTROLYTES ADDED AS INDICATED.

  He puzzled over that one, then realized what the words meant. He had had personal experience with IV tubes over the past few weeks, and U.N.C.L.E.'s resident doctor, Sam Lawrence, had explained the workings to him. His KGB emergency medic training would finally pay off. He searched the office for the items he needed, finding most of them behind a locked door and in a small refrigerator.

  The needle was inserted easily, and within a short time he had run the correct tubing and had the solution dripping into his partner's veins.

  Now for the pain. He scanned the Emergency Procedures text, trying to find a reference to pain relief. WITH A LOCAL ANESTHETIC, he read, THE LOCAL ANESTHETIC SOLUTION IS INJECTED AROUND THE SURGICAL SITE, MAKING IT INSENSITIVE TO PAIN. USE THE LEAST POSSIBLE AMOUNT OF ANESTHESIA ALLOWING THE SURGEON TO PERFORM THE SURGERY AND THE PATIENT TO BE COMFORTABLE. That would certainly do - at least it would be better than giving morphine with its complicated dosage. He cross-referenced the directions for local anesthetic and went to work.

  Napoleon was either asleep or unconscious by the time he finished. He's okay for now but I should call Vanderville and request help. He returned to the doctor's office, surprised that the telephone was primitive, with no direct dial. Hasn't civilization made it this far? A neatly typed note from someone named Betty-Lou was taped on the phone, requesting no calls between ten-thirty at night and seven in the morning, unless it was an emergency. Well, this was an emergency, but how to go about scrambling a call connected manually through a telephone operator left Illya scratching his head. And if Thrush has already taken over the town, the telephone lines would be the first place they controlled.

  He was tired. His cigarette case/transceiver was... where was it?

  Probably a half mile outside town with the pack he had discarded when he had to carry Napoleon. He checked his partner's clothes, but Napoleon must have also had his tranceiver in his backpack. He couldn't go get them -- according to the book, it was unsafe to leave a patient under anesthesia; he had to monitor Napoleon's breathing. He set up an oxygen tank and mask, then decided to put it on his partner right away. A bit of oxygen would keep him calm, the text had said.

  He smiled down at his handiwork, pleased with the result. At least Napoleon was quiet and the local anesthetic was keeping the pain away. He kept reading. REMOVING THE APPENDIX IS USUALLY A SIMPLE MATTER OF MAKING AN INCISION OVER THE APPENDIX. Simple? Really? Maybe.. . He read the rest of the surgical procedure, skipping over the words or terms he didn't know. It all made sense; the directions were clear and straightforward. He had done dissections and incisions for his numerous biology classes and had always found them fascinating. According to the text, this was simply making an incision, dissecting down, separating fat and muscle until reaching the lining of the abdominal cavity. Find the small bowel, follow it to the large bowel and colon, suture off the blood vessels to the appendix. Remove the appendix by cutting between two sutures. Close.

  "Hey. I can do this." Euphoria swept over him, followed by relief that he could help his partner without endangering their mission or risking detection from Thrush. Fatigue was knocked away as he grinned at the instructions.

  Fifteen minutes later he was standing over the table, staring at the line he had drawn on the lower right quadrant of his partner's shaved abdomen. Illya stared hard at. the diagrams on the text, the first shred of doubt trickling down his spine. I should have had some coffee before tackling this. No, it would probably make my hands shake more.

  He began the first incision, the blood startling him as it ran down his partner's side onto the table. His head reeled as he leaned over the table for a cloth to wipe it up.

  The blood was very red and the gauze did not stop it from coming through the narrow incision. One hand tried to find his place in the textbook, but the words blurred. He looked back to the blood.

  Suddenly nothing made sense.

  The sheriff entered the room silently, but the slight sound of his weapon's hammer drawing back caused the intruder to jerk in alarm and the man spun around.

  "Freeze." He held his gun steady on the assailant, shaking his head. It was just a kid, by the looks of him, clad in black, blond hair poking out from beneath a black wool cap. His face was smudged with dirt, but his sleeves were rolled up, the arms scrubbed clean. Blood covered the young man's left hand. "Drop the knife. Now." He had expected to deal with a trespasser, or a thief stealing drugs, but he had not expected an attempted murder.

  The weapon slipped between the slender man's fingers and fell to the floor.

  "Move away from the table."

  The intruder stumbled backwards until he hit the wall. He seemed dazed, his mouth half open and his eyes moving from the gun to the man on the table, bleeding.

  "Hey, Jack. Get in here," the sheriff called. He glanced at the blood on the floor and on the injured man. When his assistant joined him, eyes round at the scene, he immediately ordered, "Call Betty-Lou and have her tell Doc Henschell we've got an emergency here, then put a cloth tight over that poor guy's wound. I'll take care of this punk."

  The young man made no effort to escape, staring vacantly at the handcuffs as they were put on. He spread his legs as ordered and did nothing as he was searched. Various equipment, most of it used in professional burglaries, was taken from his pockets. The sheriff scowled at him, trying to figure out what the kid had hoped to gain from slicing a man open.

  The doctor arrived, wide awake, and promptly applied a proper dressing to the wound, glancing at the medical texts scattered around. "What in heaven's name were you up to?" he asked the prisoner incredulously.

  "Appendix. I was taking out his ... "The words trailed off. As they escorted him from the office, the young man looked over his shoulder at the patient on the table. "Please help him."

  Drugs, the sheriff figured. Kids today -- wouldn't they ever learn? He pushed the suspect ahead of him down the street, noticing the unsteady walk. What were foreign city punks doing in his isolated town?

  Once inside the small jail, he locked the silent man in the lone cell and checked the identification he had taken. Russian name. Well, he didn't want a crazy Russian causing trouble in his town. As soon as Jack Fletcher got back, he would drive the prisoner into Harrisonburg, the county seat, and let them handle him.

  * * * *

  City Hospital

  Harrisonburg, Virginia

  Friday morning

  "Mr. Kuryakin?"

  His head shot up, awareness slamming against his sleep-fogged brain.

  A man stood before him, local U.N.C.L.E. identification held out. "I've been asked to have you accompany me."

  "To where?" He glanced around shaking his head; he was alone. Trish and Norm had been sitting with him during the long night, but they were gone. He didn't remember them leaving.

  "Mr. Waverly would like to speak with you immediately," the Virginia agent said.

  Are you alive, Napoleon?

  Suddenly wide awake, his heart thumping, Illya followed the man through the maze of hallways and into a private wing. The agent paused outside a room and spoke with another guard, then the door was held open for him. Alexander Waverly stood blocking the entrance with another man ... he had seen the elderly gentleman before, at the small town medical clinic.

  Waverly peered at him seriously from beneath bushy eyebrows. "Sheriff Wester has informed me that the charges against you of breaking and entering, brandishing a weapon, and inflicting bodily harm have been dropped. Dr. Henschell has accepted my personal assurance that we will pay for the damage done to his clinic and that the events of a day and a half ago are not likely to be repeated."

 
Illya stared at him, waiting for the bad news to come. There would be bad news. There was always bad news.

  Waverly moved to one side and Illya saw Trish and Norm Graham standing inside the room. Strangely, they looked as though they had been laughing. As he took another step, he saw Napoleon. Napoleon?

  Napoleon propped up in bed with pillows, impossibly alive and smiling at him. "Illya! They found you. Good. Come here."

  He couldn't move, rooted by the door.

  Waverly cleared his throat. "I believe that was an order, Mr. Kuryakin."

  He moved, cautiously approaching the bed.

  Napoleon kept smiling. "Sit down, my friend."

  Friend? Illya sat on the edge of the bed. "Did they tell you what I did?"

  Napoleon nodded, sparkling eyes glancing over to the Grahams and the others. "Doctor Henschell filled me in. I'm told you finished the assignment in record time -- sent the message and destroyed the transmitter."

  "Yes. I did that first."

  "Smart of you... And then you decided to remove my appendix?" Napoleon's face was blank now.

  Illya looked away. "Yes," he answered carefully, examining a loose thread on the blanket.

  Waverly and Dr. Henschell excused themselves and left the room and the Grahams pulled chairs up close to the bed. Napoleon began to chuckle, then grabbed at his side, choking back the laughter. "You are certifiable, my friend!"

  "I don't understand."

  "You are certifiably crazy." He held his right arm out, hand raised, and Illya stared at him warily, not sure what was expected.

  Norm leaned over, taking the Russian's right arm and showing him how to grasp Napoleon's hand in an upraised shake. At Illya's questioning glance, Norm explained, "It's like a handshake, but of comrades."

  Illya looked back to Napoleon and to their locked hands. Americans went about things differently and times like this totally confused the Soviet-born agent. He knew what Napoleon had said, that he was not fit for duty, but then the American had offered his hand in friendship. Did Napoleon mean he should be treated in a psychiatric hospital? The comrade handshake seemed to contradict that.