Collection 3 - Year One Page 6

  He returned inside to the warden's office and sat down with the major in charge of the National Guard, the prison administrators, and the state representatives to hammer out a plan.

  They made one attempt at midnight and failed. A second assault was scheduled and Cell Block B was finally secured early the next morning. The prisoners were forced back into their cells at gunpoint and the barred doors were locked from the outside. The guards went through the building removing the wounded and dead from the corridors where they had been left.

  After a quick walk through the packed infirmary and the makeshift morgue, Solo trapped Lexam and pushed his U.N.C.L.E. credentials and influence to the max. "The riot's over. I insist on being let into the area where my partner was held. I'm pulling him now, Lexam."

  Sometime during the night he had revealed that 'Dombrovsky' was actually an undercover U.N.C.L.E. agent. Lexam had fumed about the information not being immediately disclosed and had complained loudly to the state police and everyone else that had descended on the prison.

  Lexam now grabbed his register and stalked down the battle-scared passageways of the prison, furious with this further imposition on his time. His Louisiana accent had thickened over the course of the riot. "I have a million crapping things to do and you prance in here waving your U.N.C.L.E. papers and order me to find one man? Then the President of the U. S. of A. calls and advises me to cooperate with you in locating this one man -- and a commie, at that? If he is so important, why did you let him out of your goddamn sight? U.N.C.L.E. thinks it controls America! You can't wait ten crapping minutes until we take a roll call of the prisoners and get them all back in their correct jail cells. No, I have to run out and find your goddamn agent for you."

  He stopped dead in his rampage and planted his index finger hard against Solo's chest. "And I want you to know that we will not be held responsible for any damage your agent has undergone."

  "Let's just get him out of there. I'll handle the rest." His face rigid, Solo followed him through the guarded entrance.

  3

  Consequence

  Solo walked down the long echoing corridor behind Lexam, his footsteps loud and jarring in the oppressive silence. He felt burned by the eyes that watched him from beyond the bars as he passed, eyes squinting, cold and dark with anger. He could hear them breathing. He scanned above to the other floors, lined with cell after cell after cell, all filled with faces that belonged to hands that would not hesitate to kill him if they had a chance, a moment. He had never felt such animosity, such cruel hatred focused on him, directed at him, simply because he was free, walking among them with men guarding his life, protecting him and allowing him to enter their midst.

  Around him were the remnants of the riot: slit mattresses and pillows, beds upended, papers scattered, whatever personal belongings they had scattered around the hard cement floor. The men that stared at him were bruised and bloody from fighting the guards and each other, their clothing perspiration-stained and torn. The place stank of musty sweat and urine and blood and gunpowder.

  Lexam stopped at last, double-checked the number above a cell door, then peered into the small room. "He should be in here. Where is Dombrovsky?" Lexam asked the lone prisoner, 'Smith' according to the records. The heavily muscled man, his bare chest tattooed with faded pictures, smiled with a smile evil beyond imagination and said nothing.

  Solo felt the bile rise to his throat. "What have you done with him?" he asked as he stepped closer to the bars, his eyes searching for some sign that his partner had even been there briefly.

  "WHERE IS DOMBROVSKY?" Lexam shouted into the echoing building, the sound reverberating and bouncing off the scarred concrete walls. The prison administrator turned to Solo. "You checked the infirmary? And the morgue?"

  "He wasn't there." Solo looked back at the men who stared at him, vile mimicry of smiles pulling at their faces. They knew. When he found his voice again, his words were a low growl -- the precise promise of retribution. "Where is Dombrovsky?" He heard the absolute unforgiveness in his tone and knew it was aimed at himself.

  The man in the cell only spat at him, grinning at his powerlessness. A prisoner laughed and others joined in, the heinous sound chilling Solo to his soul. Two floors above came the clatter of metal against bars: clang, clang, clang, clang. It was picked up elsewhere, accompanied by taunts and jeers, until gunfire suspended the commotion.

  They kept walking the blood-stained corridor, eyes scrutinizing the individual cells. It was Lexam who saw him first, a leg half-hidden behind a torn mattress. The cell door was unlocked, the two prisoners within were removed at gunpoint, and only then was the U.N.C.L.E. agent allowed to enter by the National Guardsmen.

  Lexam grabbed the edge of the mattress and held it while Solo bent to retrieve the naked body huddled on the floor underneath. He lifted it carefully, gently, hardly able to look at it himself but blocking the sight from the rest of the staring prison. At least he could feel life beneath his hands, but he could also feel the terror of his touch on the terribly-bruised scraped skin and hear the rapid, shallow breathing. He whispered his name until the battered man understood who he was and uncurled slightly to cling to him, the icy body convulsing in pain and cowering against his chest in shock.

  Solo tried to swallow, but couldn't. He looked down at his partner's face, the blackened eye, and the swollen cut mouth. At the blood and the bruises covering his friend. The hands that clutched at him weakly, shaking violently. Eyes that had looked out at the world clear and calm, now were dull and haunted, only semi-conscious, pain-racked from twenty-four hours in hell.

  Courtesy of Napoleon Solo.

  Lexam handed him a blanket and left the cell. With one hand, Solo covered his partner, wrapping some warmth around the narrowed shoulders and sweat-stained body. He waited a few moments, then lifted the slight weight, the screaming ache in his gut twisting as the man moaned in agony at being jarred.

  Refusing an offer of help from Lexam and the other guards, Solo walked out into the corridor with his burden that was no burden, his face hard and blank, his footsteps retracing the path out of this nightmare. Around him, he heard the laughter, the mocking calls, the sexual innuendos, and the vile threats, but it wasn't until he heard the "Sleep tight, sweet uncle," that he stopped and turned around. Still cradling the awkward form tightly in his arms, he walked back ten steps and stared at the man who had spoken, the man identified by the unlikely last name of Smith.

  The tattooed man who had been Illya Kuryakin's cellmate smiled at him again, yellow rotten teeth showing between the cruel lips that blew a kiss in his direction.

  "What did you say?" Solo asked darkly, knowing without looking that the man he carried had instinctively hidden his face in his hands, not wanting to see or be seen by the man beyond the bars.

  The smile dropped from Smith's scarred face, turning into a malevolent scowl. "Sleep tight with your little U.N.C.L.E. agent," Smith repeated with pure animosity. "We did."

  * * *

  Stepping among the wounded blocking the entrance to the prison infirmary, Solo pushed his way in and gently lowered the shivering body in his arms to the examining table. He clamped his hands on either side of the white face, forcing Kuryakin to look at him and not where the doctor's hands rapidly probed and cleaned the worst of the injuries. Scraped raw fingers clutched at his wrists as he tried to convince the Russian to lie quietly and let the examination happen, that it was necessary and would be over soon.

  He saw in the gray-blue eyes the horror of the offense relived, the body's memory of the abuse in the gasps and twisting and small moans of 'no', and he knew it was not so much the pain of it but the wounding of the imperturbable spirit that thrust a knife into his own soul.

  And still the eyes he hardly recognized looked to him for strength, for help in getting through the next few minutes of indignity and nameless terror. As the doctor moved Kuryakin onto his side, the eyes widened further in distress at what was happening, at what the unseen
hands were doing to him, but he was locked into Solo's gaze and listened to Solo's voice with every ounce of determination and concentration he had left.

  As Solo spoke -- and later he had no idea what it was he said -- he could see the eyes calming, becoming a little less frantic as the overwhelming anguish dissipated and awareness returned, as his partner knew he no longer had to fight, that someone else was there to do it for him and the pain would soon be over.

  Solo's throat and heart and soul ached. He had traded this life, this friendship, this unequaled trust -- for what?

  For what?

  A few hours of pleasant recreation? A pipe dream of happiness-ever-after with his enemy?

  * * *

  As soon as the prison released him, the U.N.C.L.E. ambulance attendants carried Kuryakin's stretcher down the stairs to the unmarked van that would take them to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York. Solo wordlessly handed his car keys to an agent on the scene and got into the back of the ambulance.

  The driver warmed up the vehicle while the other attendant, Ian Kantir, quickly checked Kuryakin's vital signs. "The bleeding is under control," he said, with a reassuring smile. "He's got a minor concussion and is still close to shock, sir, but we're monitoring him and if he gets worse we can detour to a hospital. There are several on route. We'd rather take him back to U.N.C.L.E. if we can, though; it'll be better for him in the long run."

  Kantir locked the stretcher into place, peering at Solo's unreadable expression. "He's your partner, isn't he, sir? Great, he'll be able to relax knowing you're here -- watching his back, as they say. Encourage him to rest and get some sleep if possible." The man stared down at the welts on Kuryakin's face, then glanced at Solo. "It doesn't say on here-- Was he ... uh…?"

  When Solo didn't answer, Kantir took that as an affirmative and added, "Damn them to hell," under his breath before he eased his disoriented patient half onto his stomach and left side where the man seemed more comfortable. The attendant placed a few cold packs against Kuryakin's lower back, flanks, and hips, trying to reduce the swelling of the more serious contusions, the black bruises already merging into one dark stain.

  But when Kantir covered him with blankets, the tormented eyes opened at the light touch, the twisted body shuddered, and, in one darting movement, Kuryakin's hand latched firmly onto his partner's wrist. The Russian closed his eyes then, but did not release his grip. The trembling died down and the breathing steadied; he drifted into drugged sleep as the van drove carefully around the deep pot-holes on the back road that led to the highway.

  In the dim light in the rear of the panel van, Solo examined the drawn face and tried to figure out what had happened, what steps had led him to desert his partner and to renege on a friendship that had been among the finest in his life. A day and a half ago, Illya, typically self-reliant and reserved, had had to ask him for help. Always before, Solo would have immediately offered before he was asked -- he would have complained loudly about it, of course, but would have done it without a second thought.

  Here, now, the same thing. Illya's grip on his arm screamed his inner pain, still caught in the memory of some atrocity that Napoleon would not consider and, again, the Russian had had to do the asking for the reassurance. Solo could not even bring himself to lay his hand over his partner's in quiet support or wipe the cold perspiration from his face.

  And he calls you friend... What a selfish bastard you are, Napoleon Solo. What right do you have to call him friend?

  Two weeks ago he had believed confidently that nothing could divide them and their loyalty to U.N.C.L.E., but he had not believed himself capable of neglecting his responsibilities to the Network -- or worse, lying to this man, forgetting about him, and turning his back on a call for help.

  Friends? Brothers? Closer than brothers? He shrugged at his own query as the miles passed and time stood still. He had no brother with which to make a comparison, but this man was as close as he had ever let anyone get.

  This should never have happened. Or it should have been...

  A half hour into the trip, Solo realized Kuryakin's eyes were open and were focused on him. He froze, his heart caught between two beats, still unable to find anything to say to him, no words of comfort or peace. There was no sound at all in the vehicle but the endless hum of the tires on the paved surface, mile after mile. They stayed that way, locked in numb silence, until the Russian's empty eyes left Napoleon's face and slowly probed his surroundings in the darkened van, taking in his location, the medical equipment, the blankets, the quietness, and the ambulance attendants in the front of the vehicle.

  The utter impassiveness reflected in those pale drugged eyes, the lack of any trace of life, disturbed Solo more than he could imagine. When Kuryakin spoke finally, his soft strangely-calm whisper echoed through the van. "Where are we?"

  "In an ambulance heading back to U.N.C.L.E. H.Q."

  He seemed to consider that for a while, then turned back to his study of Solo's face, searching for something in the other man's eyes. He became aware of his grasp on Solo's arm and he let go of it, embarrassed, and withdrew his hand beneath the blankets layered on top of him.

  "It's okay," Solo said, clearing his throat. "You can hang on if you need to."

  Kuryakin shook his head slightly, his eyes closing.

  The false silence again. Tires continuous on the pavement. The background murmur of voices from the front of the van. Softer yet, unrecognizable music from the radio. The van stopped at a nameless corner, then turned toward a sightless destination. The vibration of the pavement changed as the road surface became freeway. Solo glanced ahead out the window, but it was gray and raining, the wipers beating at the rivers pouring down the windshield.

  Kuryakin gasped suddenly, burying his face in the pillow as a series of painful tremors ran through his abused body. He fought it, not breathing, his eyes clenched tight. As the ambulance pulled off the road, Kuryakin sucked in some air and his hand reached out blindly for Solo's wrist as though the physical contact with his partner would enable him to rise above the pain.

  After a quick call to New York, Kantir injected Kuryakin with a stronger drug to combat the obviously excruciating pain. While checking his patient's vital signs, the attendant's eyes pointedly looked from Kuryakin's white-knuckled grasp on his partner's arm to Solo's clenched fists and his stony face; then Kantir swore, turned away in disgust, and returned to the front seat, unable to believe that the Enforcement Chief could offer no solace for his colleague's agony.

  I'm sorry, my friend, Solo thought woodenly, observing the tightly closed eyes. But I'm here, for what that could possibly be worth to you.

  The rest of the trip passed in stifled tension, no music, no talking between the two attendants, just the increased speed of the vehicle on the expressway. Solo stared ahead past them as the long road stretched endlessly through fields and towns and then blocks and blocks of city traffic while Kuryakin alternately dozed and shivered in the twilight reality they were entangled in.

  It took Solo a moment to realize they had reached their destination, then the back door quietly opened and the tall U.N.C.L.E. physician, Sam Lawrence, slipped in. "We got the report and we're ready for him. How is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "Stay where you are, Napoleon." The doctor's flashlight lit the interior of the van as he waved away the attendants. "He seems to be resting quietly."

  Lawrence drew back the blankets carefully, but Kuryakin didn't stir. "I'm going to check him here before taking him into the bustle and lights of the triage room. It's important we keep him still and calm."

  Kuryakin slept through the gentle examination, a far cry from the rough treatment of the prison doctor. Lawrence sat back and nodded at last, finding a small smile for Solo. "I've seen much worse. I was expecting much worse. Nothing too serious here from the look of things; he was lucky. He's been kicked in the stomach and sides -- you can see the black marks that have come up already -- but besides some bruised ribs, there are n
o significant internal injuries that I can detect. I'll have him x-rayed to make sure."

  The doctor pulled the blankets back in place, covering the curled body.

  He lightly brushed aside the blood-stained fringe of hair on Kuryakin's forehead. "It looks like they piped him some time ago, hard enough to knock him out, I'm sure." He pointed to where a blunt instrument had left its mark. Several, in fact.

  Maybe Illya was unconscious through it all... Solo grabbed at the thought until he remembered the look on the face between his hands in the prison infirmary.

  The doctor took Kuryakin's pulse and blood pressure and then glanced up. "Has he spoken at all?"

  "He asked me where he was."

  "Anything else?"

  "No."

  Lawrence said nothing for several moments, then cleared his throat and spoke quickly. "Napoleon, you look like you're teetering on the edge. Talk to me. Tell me how you found him."

  "Now? Shouldn't we get him inside?"

  Sitting back on the bench that ran down one side of the van, Dr. Lawrence hitched his feet up on the edge of the stretcher. "Why? Illya's not going to wake up for a while yet. You're my patient right now."

  "Me?"

  "Don't look so suspicious. You haven't slept in almost thirty hours and your face is haunted. I find the partners of hurt agents to be just as unnerved and shocked as the injured." He gestured toward Kuryakin. "How do you explain this? For a man who never touches others, Illya is lying here with his hand like a vice on your wrist and you are so revolted by this whole thing that you can barely look at him and you can't bring yourself to touch him. So, how are you doing? How are you going to deal with this, Napoleon? Talk to me while you have the chance, because I swear to you that I'm going to be damned busy when I get in there -- and so are you. Now what happened?"

  Solo talked mechanically about the penitentiary, the riot, the prisoners, his voice catching finally when he related how they had discovered the Russian thrown into a corner like a discarded rag. "They raped him, Sam." I said it.