Collection 6 - The Summer of '65 Page 2

  "Man looks on the outside. I speak of other things." Mikhail rose to his feet, one hand resting on Kuryakin's blond head. "I must go. I'm being called. I, too, have a boss I answer to," he said gravely. "Be well, Nikosha." There was a blurring to his features, a faint golden glow, and the room was empty.

  Illya drew in a ragged breath and exhaled it slowly.

  How had he known that name? How? 'Nikosha' had been his father's name for him. It was private. Private. A secret he had carried from his earliest memories. He had told no one. Not a soul. Not Sasha. Not Norm nor Trish. Not Napoleon. How had this Mikhail known?

  Is this my proof?

  He found he could move now and his limbs began shaking as adrenaline pumped through his system. He had a blinding headache, the pressure almost intolerable. He pushed himself upright, gasping as his weight rested on abused feet, and he stumbled to the bathroom, sick to his stomach. A few minutes later, he emerged, still shaking.

  It hadn't happened. He was not a simpleminded peasant who had visitations from mythical heavenly beings when the vodka flowed too freely. He was a scientist. He was educated. It made no sense. The security system was intact. The windows were shut.

  And he was out of vodka—had been for a few days.

  Yet the chair was in the middle of the room.

  Two empty beer bottles sat on the table.

  Nikosha.

  Illya swayed as intense exhaustion hit him again and he turned in time to drop to

  his mattress, his nerves taking refuge in unconsciousness, oblivious to the hands that

  appeared to pull the covers over his trembling shoulders.

  * * * * *

  Whistling quietly, Napoleon Solo held the elevator door open and stuck his head out to peer down the deserted hallway. It wasn't like his partner to be late. Illya was usually ready to step into the elevator the moment the doors opened. His apartment was next to the elevator shaft, and the sensitive ears always heard the lift as it made its way up to the top floor, then back down to his level.

  A quick glance at his watch confirmed he was on time, and after another minute, Solo stepped out of the elevator and let it continue down without him, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. He paused outside Kuryakin's door, arm raised, but stopped short of knocking. An alarm clock rang unanswered within. He listened, waiting for it to be silenced, and as several seconds passed, amusement turned to concern. Illya detested the sound, the loud, almost angry, clanging offensive to ears that were trained to hear infinitesimally small noises.

  After five more seconds, Solo was positive something was wrong. He punched in the code and slid his key into the lock, silently opening the door into the bachelor suite. He stepped inside with one practiced motion, gun before him and ready.

  The apartment appeared to be empty. Well, almost empty. Kuryakin lay face down on his mattress bed, tangled in a thin white sheet, unmoving, his head turned away from the entrance. Solo ignored him and checked out the bathroom and kitchenette, then returned to the main room and turned off the clanging alarm. His eyes reluctantly scanned the motionless body. No blood that he could see. But then, there wasn't always blood.

  "Illya?" he called, softly.

  That brought a response. The blond head lifted with a neck-wrenching crack. "Huh?" The Russian's strong arms pushed against the mattress, almost hurling his body upright. Wide eyes, forced open from the dead sleep, stared at him vacantly, then looked around the room as if he had no idea where he was. "What's happening?"

  "It's seven-thirty. You slept in," Solo said, his voice level and unaccusing, suppressing the desire to tease. That could come later, if this was all it presently seemed. Right now, though, he needed more information. "Are you okay?"

  "The alarm didn't go off," Kuryakin muttered, wincing as he got to his feet. "I'll be ready in a minute." He grabbed some clothes indiscriminately and disappeared into the bathroom, the door half-closing behind him.

  Solo slipped his Special back into the shoulder harness as the sound of the shower filtered through the doorway. It wasn't a great day to be late for work, but if Illya hurried, they wouldn't be. There would still be time to stop by the commissary and pick up a Danish and coffee before the 8:15 meeting.

  He glanced around the apartment, his eyes lingering on the collection of beer bottles, some on the table and some on the floor by the couch. One eyebrow rose, then lowered. He hadn't been too careful with alcohol himself the past month, and Illya had said nothing about it. Actually, Illya had said little about the whole mess with Carter. He was still approachable and attentive, yet there had been a quietness that went beyond his normal laconic behavior. Illya wasn't shying away, if anything appearing a trifle more relaxed around Napoleon, but there was an undercurrent of— of what? Reserve? Sadness? Loneliness?

  Was he finding solace for whatever was troubling him in a bottle? Illya had always had a healthy appetite for alcohol, and, for the most part, it had been under control. In a hotel lounge on the Riviera, a month or two ago, Napoleon had watched his partner steadily drain two full bottles of wine with scarcely a hint of intoxication.

  More than he could say for himself, remembering his own inebriated performance when he found Illya in the Atlanta hotel, Napoleon so drunk he couldn't focus on who it was lying injured before him. That had been inexcusable. This was different.

  He gathered the bottles and dropped them in the trash can, trying to keep the displeasure from his features at the empty vodka bottle already there. Instead, he covered the evidence with a few takeout boxes that littered the kitchenette's tiny countertop. His attempts at trying to convince Illya to hire a housekeeper had fallen on deaf ears. Even the offer of his housekeeper one afternoon a week was firmly, but politely, refused. Illya did not want his private turf invaded.

  The shower cut off and a minute later Kuryakin limped out, dressed and towel drying his hair. The towel flew to land on one chair back, a comb untangled the damp hair, and Illya reached for his crutches. "I'm ready. Sorry about this."

  Solo stared at him, perplexed. "Illya, it's already eighty degrees out there. You aren't seriously going to wear that heavy black turtleneck, are you?"

  Kuryakin glanced down at his clothes. "Hmm? Oh." He glanced around, looking through his scattered wardrobe for a more seasonally appropriate shirt. He reached for one, then seemed to falter for a moment, staring at the empty table top. With a barely perceptible sigh, he straightened.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yes… Yes," Kuryakin repeated, with a bit more conviction, grasping the shirt tightly.

  "Why don't you change? We've got time. How are your bandages? Do you

  need help with them?"

  "No. Sam will do it. He wants to check my feet when I get there."

  "I'll wait, then. Change."

  The Russian pulled off the turtleneck and the dark T-shirt beneath it, substituting a much-laundered polo shirt that could have used ironing. The holster and lightweight jacket covered most of it, and besides, Napoleon figured, it was unlikely Illya owned an iron. Not that he owned an iron—that's what dry cleaners were for.

  Solo passed him the comb again, and they left the apartment. Kuryakin did not meet his eyes, following the senior agent silently into the elevator, then carefully down the steps of the building, curiously detached from what was happening around him.

  There was an intensity about the unrest that made Napoleon's spine crawl. What he had originally pegged as tiredness, he could see now, on closer observation, was obviously more serious. Illya was brooding about something and despite the rumors to the contrary, Illya only brooded when he had a good reason to, around the time anyone else would be hanging on to their sanity.

  "Rough night?" Solo inquired as they arranged themselves in the tiny sports car, the top already down to catch some cooler air.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "It's just unusual for you to sleep in," he ventured, his head turned away as he signaled and merged into the traffic.

  "I told y
ou, the alarm didn't go off."

  Solo said nothing for a block or two, wondering how to broach the topic, then decided on bluntness. "I turned it off." He sensed rather than saw the startled turn of his partner's head, the heat of the reddening face.

  "You came into my apartment and turned it off? Why?" Kuryakin scowled, eyes almost black with controlled anger. "Is this some funny prank I am supposed to be amused at? A joke set up to raise my blood pressure?"

  "To do what?" A red light gave Solo a chance to return the look. "What are you talking about? Listen, mister, I heard your alarm ringing and when it wasn't turned off, I went in and made sure you were okay. I was damned worried. And you were sleeping so soundly you didn't even hear it."

  Kuryakin stared just long enough to confirm that his partner was telling the truth, then turned away again, obviously thinking hard. "I apologize, Napoleon." A deep breath, exhaled slowly, trying to shake the seldom seen anger. "As to your question, then—yes, a rough night. It was hot, my foot was throbbing, and I did not sleep well. I had some rather vivid dreams. Sometimes it is difficult to tell a dream from the real thing."

  "Especially when they're nightmares." In their line of work, there were few pleasant whimsical dreams. Solo's tended toward either erotic fantasies or nightmares.

  "Is that why you were drinking?" He glanced to his right, meeting Kuryakin's questioning look. "I cleared away some beer bottles and saw the empty vodka bottle in the trash." The blue eyes widened at his explanation. "It's no big deal. Just be careful, okay?"

  An absent nod, then Kuryakin stared out the window, concentrating on the flow of traffic around him. He cleared his throat, almost reluctantly. "About the beer... I... entertained last night. And I threw away the vodka bottle a few days ago."

  "It's none of my business," Solo said quickly, wishing he had said nothing at all.

  "Don't be ridiculous. It is your business." The intense gaze stayed focused frontward. "For the record, I am not hung over, nor am I depressed or in any pain." He shook his head, as though correcting himself. "Except for my feet; they are making themselves known at the moment. The nerves are healing, but it is nothing I cannot deal with. I simply slept poorly and," he added with a sigh, "did not hear the alarm."

  "It happens. No big deal."

  "It has never happened to me before."

  "Don't worry about it. Once every twenty-six years is allowable. If it happens again, though, I'll have to fire you." He grinned widely, making sure his partner understood it was a joke. It took a minute for the grin to be believed, then a small smile answered him, the blue eyes rolling skyward. "So, tovarishch... what are you up to today?" Again, without looking, he felt Illya tense up at the innocent question. "What's wrong?" Keep it light. Something's eating at him. "You look a little spooked."

  Another smile came and went, then Kuryakin shook his head. "Today, after Sam is finished with me, I must finish the write-ups on the four proposed machine gun attachments for our helicopters. No one thought to complete it in my absence. If they are to be approved and implemented before the year end, the recommendations need to be submitted by the middle of the month. Mr. Waverly has it top priority." There was a pause for two beats. "What about yourself?"

  Solo shot a glance at him, but Kuryakin's face was turned, studiously watching the view from the side window. Was this the problem? That they were not in synch? It was always awkward when partners were separated by injuries, one field certified, the other not. Doubly so now: Illya was incapacitated, not due to an assignment, not in the name of U.N.C.L.E., but because of his friendship with Napoleon. A month before, Jud Carter had kidnapped his partner, then taken a whip to the soles of his feet, lashing them raw, recreating an injury and the memories that went with it, geared to haunt Solo. Then, a few weeks later, before Kuryakin's feet had properly healed, the Russian had reinjured them in a successful rescue attempt of his partner, wrenching both ankles in the process.

  Yesterday had been their first day back on the job since returning from Los Angeles. Illya had shrugged off the injuries, no doubt feeling that to complain about his status would only make the senior agent feel guilty. Granted, it was nothing long-term; Kuryakin would be back active in Section Two by the end of the week but, Napoleon admitted to himself, it had been enough to make him feel uncomfortable the day before every time he had seen Illya heading the other way down the corridor on his crutches, instead of walking at his side.

  "Napoleon?"

  "Oh. Sorry. What was your question again?"

  "What are you working on today? If it is classified, do not feel—"

  "Nothing exciting. Section Reviews for personnel, but the majority of my time will be occupied with preparing for our case next week with the UN conference. I may ask for your help with that, if you are finished." The blond head turned toward him, nodding, a spark of interest in the eyes. Napoleon smiled. "Good. And don't forget our two o'clock meeting with Waverly."

  The smile widened, the eyes brightening. "Yes. That is true, isn't it? We have a two o'clock meeting today. Two o'clock. We can't miss that."

  For whatever reason, that seemed to cheer his partner up, and the rest of the drive passed quickly.

  * * * * *

  Late that morning, Kuryakin sighed as his lab door hissed closed behind him, sealing him off from the questioning eyes of the other agents, as well as the sympathetic remarks, less-than-helpful advice, and suggestive offers of dinner and a massage from half of the steno pool. The other half must be dating Napoleon, Illya mused.

  He allowed himself to be caught up with the machine gun recommendations, forcing his concentration on the minute details of distance and scope and consumption. Whenever his thoughts strayed, there was the two o'clock meeting to focus on. Angelic beings notwithstanding, Napoleon Solo could not be in two places at once. It had been a dream. It hadn't happened.

  It had been the heat. And the pain tablets. He shook his head in private humor, and turned back to his papers on the countertop.

  And saw the bottle cap.

  There, in his private lab, lying in between the delicate tools he had been using the day before to adapt the U.N.C.L.E. cigarette case/transceiver, was a bottle cap. A Budweiser bottle cap, the same brand as his beer at home.

  And he knew he had to do something. Something had to be decided.

  To his credit, he was calm. I am a rational human being. I can sort this out. He settled behind his desk, trying to get comfortable, slipping off his loose fitting loafers to let his bandaged feet relax. A painkiller would be nice, but he wanted his thinking flawless now. He took his jacket off and draped it over his briefcase on the floor. Papers were rearranged. The files, stacked to one side of the desk, were straightened, their edges lined up neatly. He glanced about the small room, eyes falling pensively on uncompleted projects stacked on chairs and the test results on the far counter.

  Illya sat motionless, his mind not certain of how to begin, how to properly analyze this problem. His strong reluctance to deal with it only emphasized the scope of the issue that needed to be resolved. It was quite ridiculous, almost pathetic, that he had effectively held the matter at bay for three hours, losing his muddled thoughts in reports and trivial papers and anything else he could find that was "more important".

  The bottle cap had tipped the scales.

  Worse, procrastination was unprofessional. I have dealt with the bizarre before. Why does this feel different? He sat up straighter, took a notebook and pen, and resolutely turned his entire attention on what to do about the visitor––whether it be dreamed, hallucinated, or whatever––of the previous evening. Something had to be reported to Napoleon, for however it had transpired, an intruder had been... witnessed... in his apartment.

  Illya put the pen down after several unproductive minutes. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his chin cupped in the palm of his right hand. He should have said something to Napoleon immediately, simply reciting what he had visually seen and audibly heard, without providing
any additional titles or emotions or commentary on the... the event.

  That's where the problem lay, he realized. In the vocabulary. It wasn't just the wording, it was the whole unrealness of the... the event. Had he just imagined the man/angel/thing? Imagined or maybe dreamed? Could it have been a dream? Could the heat have caused this? Could he have been sleepwalking and drank the beers himself while in the fugue state? That would explain the security system intact and––probably––him sleeping through the morning alarm. In that case, instead of reporting the incident to Napoleon, he should return to the medical section and have a long talk with Sam Lawrence about his sleeping problems.

  If it was a dream, then it will pass. I will purchase another fan and sleep better tonight. Perhaps drink some warm milk. And I will not have pizza for dinner again.

  Solo had once grimaced at the empty pizza boxes in Kuryakin's apartment and had warned ominously that too much pizza caused bad dreams.

  He wrote DREAM? down on the blue-lined paper, followed reluctantly on the next line by FOOD OR ALCOHOL-INDUCED HALLUCINATION? There had been no other side effects to corroborate it with and the blood samples he had run on himself first thing that morning had turned out negative. It hadn't been caused by anything he had ingested.

  What else could it have been? If it wasn't a dream or a hallucination, then the situation became more serious. Then there really had been an intruder.

  Or a very sophisticated projected illusion, he hastened to jot down, pouncing on the idea. Thrush, perhaps, trying to avert the destruction of their building by initiating a pre-strike attack? Could they have somehow found a way around the security fields in the apartment building, somehow getting into—and out of—the apartment to set it up without anyone else seeing them? Or could they have drugged him into a hypnotic trance and fed in the images?

  It was a definite reach. The technology for any one of those steps was beyond the current Thrush abilities that they were aware of. As hard as he tried to make it work, spending almost an hour scratching notes on the back of departmental reports, there were too many holes in the scenario of an image projected into his apartment. Too many concrete physical things such as the beer bottles, the turned chair, and his inability to lift the gun. The hypothesis also assumed that there really was a bomb to be placed in the Thrush headquarters, and Thrush had discovered this even before Kuryakin had, or even Solo.