Collection 9 - The Changeling Read online

  "Good." Waverly sat down in the offered chair, his eyes still lingering on the Russian scientist. "Your initial report said we lost two men on this assignment."

  "Yes, sir." Solo rubbed his forehead, gingerly, his fingers passing over the bandaged lump above his right eyebrow. "Unfortunately, Plotnik ignored my orders to wait in the van until the area was secured, and he decided to join Newton and me as we cased the area. He ended up walking out into the street, triggering an alarm of some kind, I suspect, which in turn sent a group of Thrush agents out of the building. Two or three of them overturned the van parked down the block. I'm not sure how Mr. Kuryakin escaped it."

  "I was in the backup unit waiting a half mile from the site. When we lost contact with Solo's group, we decided to try a drive-by and see if we could see any trouble. We found the van overturned with Philip's body near it, Plotnik's body was on the street, and we could see Newton's body inside the Thrush site," Garcia put in. "Looks like Kuryakin had popped one of the windows of the van, and somehow he got out through the back without being detected."

  "Why did Mr. Plotnik decide to join you?" Waverly asked.

  "I've no idea. Kuryakin might know. They were both under explicit orders to stay in the van. Newton and I were at opposite ends of the loading dock trying to deal with the Thrush agents, when I suddenly saw Plotnik walking down the street. He waved at us, trying to get our attention, with his gun visible in his hand, then he saw the Thrush agents leave the warehouse and tried to aim the weapon at them. He was dead within seconds—single bullet through the forehead. He never got a shot off."

  "And Newton?"

  "We were trying to save the mess Plotnik had started; I went around the side of the building and Newton was trying to get to the other side, but he was in the open when Plotnik made his move. He didn't have a chance. A few minutes later, I was joined by Kuryakin, and we put up quite a fight before they dropped some gas on us."

  "How many agents do you estimate they had?"

  Solo shook his head. "Xavier and I have been trying to figure that out. An estimate: ten security, another ten general Thrush minions, and considering there were several labs on the lower level where we were held, another ten or more scientists. Add to that those in charge... I'd say close to 45 in all."

  "And how many bodies were recovered, Mr. Garcia?"

  "We are working with the fire department, but at present time, only twenty bodies have been recovered from the wreckage."

  Waverly took his pipe from his pocket, held it in his hand for a moment, then seemed to remember where he was and put it back in his pocket. "How many were seen fleeing the scene?"

  "No more than one car full. There's a strong possibility that one or more carloads got away prior to our arrival."

  "Mr. Solo, please explain to me again why you chose to go in the building prior to the arrival of the backup teams?"

  Solo felt his headache intensify. "Newton and I moved along the side of the building, sir, simply to get an idea of the number of guards on duty, and to see if we could spot any camera surveillance. Mr. Plotnik then took matters into his own hands and attempted to join us." He glanced over to Kuryakin, just beginning to come out of the anesthetic, his eyes blinking open as he took in his surroundings. Solo looked back at Waverly. "If I may add this, sir... I was not comfortable with the idea of bringing Section Eight scientists with us on assignment. They are not trained in combat, nor in battle tactics. Nor are they certified with weapons or hand-to-hand fighting." He took a deep breath. "I'm sad to say that this mission has only proved my point."

  Waverly stood, his body tight with controlled tension. "I suggest you speak with George Shakely regarding this matter. I authorized only one of his scientists, Mr. Kuryakin, as his file shows his training matches or exceeds even your own in firearms and hand-to-hand combat. Add to that he has mastered several branches of martial arts and other eastern forms of self-defense."

  "Regardless, he doesn't have the experience necessary—"

  "Did he conduct himself correctly while on assignment?" Waverly broke in.

  "Kuryakin, yes. But Plotnik—"

  "I did not authorize Plotnik to go on that assignment," Waverly said, coldly, then turned to leave.

  Dr. Lawrence came in from his lab, clipboard in hand as he stared at the top sheet of a mass of papers fastened to it. "Ah, Alexander. I'm glad you're here. Before you go, I'd like you to look at something."

  Waverly stood in place, near the door to the infirmary, Teller blocking his path. "Samuel—"

  "Only a moment, Alexander. I can give you a demonstration of this, if these tests prove to be correct." The doctor went straight to Kuryakin, pulling out a penlight and shining it in the young man's eyes, then he sat on the side of the bed with his stethoscope pressed to the Russian's chest, listening to his heart and lungs. "Okay. Bear with me, Illya. This won't take long." With a gentle to squeeze to the young man's hand, he got up and motioned to Solo. "How do you feel now, Napoleon? How's your stomach?"

  "I noticed it starting to become uncomfortable about ten minutes ago." Solo shrugged. "Nothing serious, just a slight queasy feeling."

  "Fair enough. Napoleon, I want to try a little experiment. I'd like you to go stand next to Mr. Kuryakin."

  Solo stood and crossed the short distance to Kuryakin's bed.

  "How do you feel, Napoleon? Any different?"

  "About the same." He paused, then shrugged. "I feel fine, actually. The movement must have helped."

  "Okay, now, slowly, walk back to the desk."

  Solo returned to where he'd been sitting all afternoon.

  "How far would you say that was, Alexander?" Lawrence asked.

  "Eight feet. Not far."

  "And how do you feel now, Napoleon? How's your stomach?"

  "No real change—Well, not much anyway. That queasy sensation is back."

  "Now, Napoleon, keep walking away from Mr. Kuryakin, over to the far counter. Teller, go alongside him."

  Solo took a few more steps, feeling the muscles tighten across his stomach. He frowned, glancing to Teller's concerned stare.

  "Stop, Napoleon," Lawrence directed. "Stay where you are for a moment. How is it now?"

  Reluctantly, the enforcement agent admitted to the growing discomfort.

  "Illya?" Lawrence asked. "What about you? How are you feeling?"

  "I am fine," Kuryakin whispered, his voice still rough from surgery.

  Lawrence returned to his side, bending over the bed again. "Illya, this is vital that we get accurate information. The truth, please. How are you feeling? How's your stomach?"

  "Distinctly nauseous," Kuryakin answered, his British-tinged accent sounding clipped.

  Lawrence stood up, looking over at Solo. "Okay, Napoleon. Another two steps, then stop."

  After one step, the first wave of pain hit Solo, by the second step, he thought he was going to pass out. He tried to turn as he heard Kuryakin's involuntary gasp of pain, but was assaulted by dizziness. "What's happening?" he managed to gasp.

  Teller grasped hold of his arm, leading him back to the desk, then a few steps beyond that to the agent's empty bed, next to Kuryakin's. "Just lie down, sir. We think this will pass in a few moments." He helped the agent to recline on the mattress, Solo curling around his abused stomach.

  Lawrence was still sitting at Kuryakin's side, gently rubbing the young man's back and talking him through the wave of pain he'd experienced. Teller brought over a hypo, which the doctor injected into his patient's hip. "Napoleon, I'm not going to give you anything. Illya's just recovering from surgery, and I want him to remain as relaxed as possible. I'm actually going to knock him out for a few minutes, and we'll try something else."

  Solo could feel the pain begin to dissipate as he slowly stretched out on the bed. He glanced over to Waverly and Garcia, still standing where they were a moment ago, then he looked back to the doctor. "Sam? Want to fill me in on what's happening here?"

  "Can you sit up yet?" Lawrence asked, wi
thout looking over at him. "Illya's unconscious now. See if you can sit up and when you're ready, walk over to Alexander and Xavier."

  Almost reluctantly, Solo eased his body upright, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. With a puzzled frown, he got up, grabbing Teller's arm for balance, then proceeded to walk to Waverly and Garcia, then past them to the far end of the office and back to the desk. "It's not bad. Not like before. But I can still feel it," he said, looking at Lawrence accusingly.

  "Let's talk, gentlemen. We have a problem on our hands."

  *****

  There was a scratchy sound, pen on paper.

  Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin once more struggled awake, trying to get his bearings. He was in the infirmary, still, it appeared. It took him a moment to remember the gunshot wound, and another moment to remember the additional concern.

  "Hi, there."

  He looked over to Samuel Lawrence, sitting beside his bed in a chair. The doctor had been writing on a clipboard, the source of the sound that had woken him.

  "How are you feeling?"

  I've no idea how to answer that question. 'As compares to what?’ comes to mind. "Redefine your question," he murmured, hearing the doctor laugh.

  "Point taken. How's your stomach? Has the nauseous feeling left yet?"

  Kuryakin nodded, moving his head to see Solo on the phone at the doctor's desk. "What's happened?"

  "The quick version? Thrush has managed somehow to do something to the two of you, so if you are more than six feet away from each other, the symptoms start. Six to eight feet, nausea begins. Eight to ten feet, severe discomfort. Ten feet or more, profound pain. When you were drugged for surgery, the sensation for both of you eased considerably, but the moment you became conscious, it started again. Simple sleeping pills don't affect it, but anesthetic and other stronger medications seem to do the trick."

  "What are you talking about? You're babbling, Sam," Kuryakin mumbled.

  "I wish I were, Illya."

  Kuryakin frowned at him, eyes widening as he made an attempt to sit up. "You're serious? We are handcuffed together? Can it be altered?"

  "Just relax. We're working on it," Lawrence assured him. "The best thing you can do is get better."

  Kuryakin stared at Solo on the telephone, jotting notes as he spoke to someone. Sitting in the infirmary, making his phone calls. Trapped. Realization of the scope of the situation flooded him. "Napoleon Solo has to remain in the infirmary, because I cannot leave here?"

  "Yes."

  "I am like a ... an albatross around his neck." Kuryakin shook in horror. "I can't—Wait, you said drugs disabled the symptoms. If you keep me drugged, he is free to move around—this is correct?"

  "Yes, it’s true, but we can't keep you drugged all the time. You've got to heal from this surgery."

  "This is not important. I am crippling Solo. This is important. He is head of Section Two, Chief Enforcement Officer. I am nothing—"

  "Illya, Thrush meant for this to hamper him. We're not sure exactly what they did, or how long this lasts, but we're working on it. Meanwhile, he'll—"

  "If you need my permission, go ahead. I'll sign whatever you wish. I do not wish to be a weight around someone's neck."

  "And you aren't. Mr. Solo will cope. Won't you, Napoleon?" Lawrence asked, raising his voice.

  Solo had hung up the phone and looked across at them now. He rubbed at his forehead before answering. "Won't I what, Sam?"

  "You will cope with this."

  Solo laughed harshly. "Sure. Why not?"

  "Napoleon, I'm serious—"

  "So am I." The laugh faded abruptly, leaving his voice cold as ice. "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of winning. We've got all available staff working on this. They did this to me for a reason. They could have killed me, but instead they did this. I want to know why. Why me? Why with him?"

  The Russian felt his harsh stare and closed his eyes against the accusation. "I—" Footsteps approached the foot of his bed and stopped.

  "Kuryakin?"

  He opened his eyes and met the furious face of Napoleon Solo.

  "This isn't about you." The Chief Enforcement Agent turned and walked away.

  Kuryakin gripped the rail at the side of his bed as pain hit suddenly, cutting through the lingering dregs of anaesthetics from his surgery. His stomach felt like it was being twisted, the knife-like thrust into his wounded side taking him to the edge of awareness as a strangled moan escaped his mouth. He could hear Sam Lawrence talking to him, telling him to breathe through the pain, then Solo's voice came by his ear.

  "Kuryakin? Illya? Shit. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Just— Just—"

  The words faded out, Illya gasping as the ringing in his ears threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to catch his breath, to rise above the diminishing pain, but his skyrocketing heart rate made it difficult to do anything other than hold his breath and hang onto the metal railing.

  He was distantly aware of the doctor pushing Solo to a chair next to the bed. "Sit there. Don’t move," Lawrence ordered, then the doctor's hand returned to Kuryakin's arm, kneading the tension and gradually helping him return to normal. Or as a normal as someone coming out of surgery after being shot through the side could feel.

  Another few minutes passed, and the sensation of pain vanished, leaving him with the aftereffects, his sweat-slicked hands slipping off the bars to lay trembling on the blue cotton blanket. Lawrence left his side then, returning a short time later with a hypo that he injected into the Russian's right hip.

  "Illya?"

  Kuryakin nodded, looking to the doctor, then turning his head to Solo when he realized it was the Chief Enforcement Agent who had spoken to him. The agent was standing, leaning on the railing, not quite looking at him.

  "Listen, uh, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. As much as I'm angry with this situation, this isn't your fault. You're as hampered by this as I am. But there's nothing we can do about it at the moment."

  "What can I do?" he asked, his throat raw. "If there is some—"

  "Don't worry about it," Solo said quickly. "I’m sure they'll figure something out for us."

  Dr. Lawrence moved the agent aside and covered Kuryakin with the blankets. "Illya, relax. Get some sleep, heal up so we can start some tests and get you both moving around."

  Kuryakin pushed the blankets back. "I'm fine. The effect has left and—"

  "No, you aren't fine." Hie doctor frowned down at him. "In a day or so, though, we can have you walking around. Right now, you stay where you are."

  Solo nodded and sat down in the chair beside the bed. "And until we find a cure, consider us 'joined at the hip'."

  - 5 -

  For two days—actually quite long days, Dr. Samuel Lawrence decided—Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin fought to control their restlessness. Even the endless tests and demonstrations, meetings in the infirmary with scientists and doctors—and Mr. Waverly himself—didn't ease the situation, but only seem to throw it back in their faces over and over again. They were trapped with each other, they were trapped by each other, and they were trapped specifically in the infirmary by Kuryakin's injury. Solo paced constantly, either dragging the phone cord with the telephone receiver to his ear, or while speaking to another agent, or just alone, thinking, planning, or whatever was occupying that brilliant mind.

  Kuryakin was just as intense, but scarcely moved other than trying to keep his body exercised and encourage his own rapid healing, as though by his effort alone the situation would be resolved. Solo's franticness to get out of the infirmary initially plagued the Russian with guilt, despite any assurances to the contrary. This wasn't just another agent he was inconveniencing by still being alive; this was the chief enforcement agent. Waverly's right hand man.

  Lawrence paused from his paperwork, wondering if Alexander Waverly had orchestrated the whole event. If not for the death of two other U.N.C.L.E. agents, the doctor would be convinced. Well, if Waverly hadn't planned the 'accident', he certainly had t
aken advantage of the opportunity.

  Almost as though fighting their destiny, it had taken twenty-four hours before Kuryakin and Solo were actually speaking to each another in complete sentences. But then something happened. Nothing outward, just a shift in the atmosphere. During the next twenty-four hours, the two men had the tentative beginnings to the partnership Waverly so desired—not that the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America would ever have confided that to the doctor. But Samuel Lawrence was an expert in people, and he knew Waverly had been watching both men for several years, waiting for the right moment to introduce them, the right set of conditions.

  Solo would have been the problem, under normal circumstances. His clipped orders and lack of interest in anyone as mundane as Kuryakin would have never allowed him to see past the genius of the man, to the inner soul. Solo had always objected to the use of 'innocents' in an operation, preferring the notion that such matters were best left to professionals. Besides, they got in the way and had to be coddled, something he refused to do—except with a female, possibly, if the circumstances were right. In a battle, there were always civilian casualties, it seemed, and he delegated the 'wrapping up' of such matters to others under his command.

  But there was something about being virtually imprisoned with someone that made you take the extra time to find out the scope of whom it was you were actually stuck with. Who the 'innocent' was, and how he felt about his involvement. Because unless U.N.C.L.E. found a way to unlock whatever invisible chains were binding these two men together, they were looking at a very uncertain future indeed.

  Dr. Lawrence looked down at his patient now, fingers tracing the healing wound on Kuryakin's bare side. "How's the pain here?"

  Peering at it over his shoulder, Solo winced at the swollen skin, still red from the shooting and the surgery. "Ouch. That's got to hurt."

  From his prone position on the bed, Kuryakin glanced from the doctor's face to Solo's. "It is fine. Is controllable now." He kept motionless while the doctor applied a new outer dressing. "Yes? I can go?"

  Lawrence frowned as he cut a piece of white tape and fastened the gauze to the slim agent's side. "That all depends, Illya."