Collection 3 - Year One Read online

  "C'est la guerre," the Russian repeated, but his eyes focused briefly on another nightmare. When Solo continued to say nothing, Kuryakin looked back at him. "'When trees are felled, splinters fly'," he quoted and yawned his apparent indifference to the course of the conversation.

  "Lenin," Solo supplied. "Is that what you're trying to say? 'The end justifies the means.'"

  Illya smiled at the unintentional double entendre and Solo's temper flared. "This is not remotely funny. Don't even suppose that was planned."

  "You would have made the pun a few days ago. In fact, I've heard you use it." Kuryakin pushed up to a sitting position, still trying to get comfortable, frowning down at the needle in his arm as though noticing it for the first time. "Why should it be different because it's me this time?"

  Solo began to answer, then stopped himself and found truer explanations. "First, I've said things like that because, as we both know, I'm a fool. And because it is easier not to think about such things; I don't want to think about it. I'm not as secure as you are."

  The Russian's eyebrows raised to touch the thin bangs. "You are the most confident person I know."

  "Not in this." When his partner continued to stare at him dumbfounded, Napoleon tried to put his thoughts into words. "Illya, if what just happened to you had happened to me, I don't think I could live with it. I --" Dr. Lawrence's words came again and Solo paused, then met Kuryakin's startled eyes. "I guess what I want to say is that I'm proud of you, Illya. You survived. You have enough courage to keep going. I don't think I could. It attacks the very notion of who I am. The core of my personality -- my belief in my strength, my wit, and my sexuality. And my ability to ultimately control my environment, my circumstances, and everyone I know."

  Kuryakin stared back at him, eyes unreadable now. "Are you saying that because I don't feel --"

  "God, no, Illya. Don't let this be directed at you." What were those words? "You survived. I'm proud of you. I am."

  Lawrence stopped apologetically at the door, then entered the room and handed Kuryakin two pills and a glass of water. "Getting a bit uncomfortable?"

  Kuryakin smiled grimly, nodding.

  The doctor looked from him to Solo. "Have you gotten any sleep yet, Napoleon? There's another bed there that's not in use -- why don't you swallow that pride and lie down? I think you should stick around tonight; I want to make sure you're all right," he added, keeping eye contact with Solo as he tilted his head toward Kuryakin.

  Napoleon started to argue, then understood and shrugged as though he had conceded for lack of grounds, and he stretched out on the bed. He turned to say something to his partner, but stopped at the apprehensive glazed look on Kuryakin's face. The Russian was sitting motionless on the bed, his shoulders hunched, staring at the pills and water. "Illya?"

  Lawrence sat down on the edge of the bed, watching Kuryakin carefully. "Can you take them?" he asked in a low voice.

  Kuryakin reluctantly raised the glass toward his mouth, but his hand began trembling and before the glass could touch his lips, he gagged, the water spilling on his hand. He shuddered and without meeting the doctor's eyes directly, he shook his head and held out the glass for him to retrieve.

  "Try again," the doctor encouraged quietly.

  "No."

  Solo watched, not understanding what the problem was, but aware Lawrence had expected Illya's response.

  "It's okay. Don't worry about it." The doctor took back the pills, but set the water on the bedside table as Kuryakin lay back on the bed, eyes closed, face white. Lawrence left the room for a moment, returning with a hypodermic needle that he injected into Kuryakin's hip. "That'll take the edge off the pain and help you sleep. Now, the water is right in front of you. Eventually you are going to have to put something in your mouth. You realize I can't let you leave this room until you can get past this."

  Kuryakin nodded as he lay on his side and stared cheerlessly at the glass of water as though it contained some deadly poison.

  Lawrence readjusted the bed railing behind Kuryakin, but left the other side down. "Get some sleep. You can try again tomorrow." He massaged the tense shoulder muscles. "It's a normal resistance, Illya. No need to be embarrassed or agitated about it."

  "I'm not. I'm just tired, Sam."

  After Lawrence exited the room, there was a long silence as Solo stared at his partner contemplatively. "I thought everything was fine with you?"

  Kuryakin looked over at him, then rubbed at his hip, a smile slowly forming. "To quote again: 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.' It is merely a physiological reaction, Napoleon. My body is holding a grudge at the moment and I seem unwilling as yet to force it. It will fade." He shrugged, stifling a yawn. "So, my friend, are you going to tell me about this woman who occupies your thoughts? How is she?"

  "Serena?" Solo leaned back against the pillows and studied the ceiling tiles. "I don't know how she is, Illya." He talked about nothing until he saw his partner had at last fallen asleep, then he stripped and had a quick shower in the adjoining bathroom, sleep hitting him at once as he fell into the other bed.

  And dreamt of her.

  4

  Confrontation

  So how are you going to get out of this one, old man?

  Napoleon Solo frowned at his steamy reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. The sleep and a long hot shower again in the morning had helped; he felt ready to tackle the day. Nervous energy or restless drive, it didn't really matter. The job was waiting.

  No way out but through, I guess.

  He didn't think about the resignation letter; time enough for that. He pulled on the freshly-pressed shirt and suit, glad for the unexpected kindness; one of the nurses had thought to gather his clothes the night before and take them to Del Floria's and he had woken to find them cleaned and hanging at the foot of the bed.

  Must call Serena. She'll be worried.

  But that would have to wait. What did Waverly assign him? Strastown. Had Illya been able to find out anything before they moved him to Omegar? he wondered, frowning again. He hated to stir up those memories, but it might help focus his partner... not that he needed focusing. I'm the one that needs focusing.

  He sighed. Serena... what have you done to me? He could not even think her name without his heart cramping. Waverly suspects her of being involved in this… Impossible. She's on holidays. She's been with me almost constantly. I would have known. I'm sure I would have known.

  He backed away from that particular assignment and concentrated on the other two. Strastown and Illya Kuryakin. At least those were connected. He glanced at his watch. Garcia had arrived back from Central America yesterday; the meeting that was to have been held with Kuryakin and him on Monday had now been switched to this morning at nine o'clock. Waverly at ten.

  He walked out of the bathroom and looked down at Kuryakin curled sleeping on the infirmary bed. The sides had been pulled up again. His partner looked pale under the bruises, clutching a pillow in his arms.

  Okay, my friend. I need you at my side and Sam tells me you need to be at my side right now. So how do we do this?

  Dr. Lawrence entered with a nod to Solo and checked Kuryakin's pulse and blood pressure. Illya opened his eyes at the touch, saw Napoleon at the foot of the bed, and went back to sleep.

  "When can I have him, Sam? I need his assistance at a meeting in forty-five minutes."

  Lawrence whirled around, his eyebrows raised in disbelief at Solo's wording. "When can you have him?" he repeated. "Don't you want to know how he is? How he's feeling?"

  "I don't know if I have time for that. Pretend I'm Waverly. What would you tell him?"

  Lawrence frowned. "As I said last night, as soon as he eats and drinks something, you can wheel him out of here if he's not up to walking. But I want him to make that hurdle first."

  "And --?"

  "And I don't think he's ready for that yet."

  "Why not? You believed in his recuperative ability yesterday. Are you doubting
him already?"

  "I'm not doubting him," the doctor was angry now, "I'm doubting you -- and your attitude."

  Solo took the glass of water from beside Kuryakin's bed and dumped it in the bathroom sink, refilling it with cold water. "Funny thing about attitude. It has a lot to do with history. And friendship. And belief in a person." Then he smiled at Lawrence as he set the glass on the table and with remarkable gentleness shifted Kuryakin onto his back and raised his head. "Come on, Illya, wake up. It's Napoleon. Drink this for me."

  Barely conscious, Kuryakin opened one eye and gaped at him, then closed it and opened his mouth automatically as the glass touched his lips. He swallowed a few sips, then gagged slightly, but opened his mouth again to slowly finish the glass at Solo's quiet urging.

  Lawrence grinned, bemused, as Solo lowered Kuryakin's head to the pillow. "What about some food? That'll be harder. Feed him one of your pancakes."

  The breakfast Solo had ordered from the commissary had arrived while he was coaxing Kuryakin with the water. "No problem, Sam." The damn fool trusts me, you see. Especially when he's not quite awake and there are still some drugs in his system. He propped up his drowsy partner with pillows. "Okay, my friend, I need you to eat this. Open your mouth. It's important. Eat this for me."

  Kuryakin's eyes remained closed but after a moment he compliantly opened his mouth and ate the piece of pancake Solo fed him.

  "See?" Solo smiled as he broke off another piece and gave it to his partner. "It's easy. You just have to be omnipotent," he added, grinning back at the laughing doctor.

  Kuryakin opened his eyes at that remark. "He is, you know, Sam," he mumbled. "I read it in his resume." Kuryakin reached for the pancake, taking it from Solo's hand. "I can eat it myself, thank you."

  "Are you awake?"

  "I'm awake."

  "Eat quickly; we have a meeting at nine o'clock."

  "Do I have time for a shower?"

  "You'd better. I'll go get some clean clothes from your locker."

  He returned twenty minutes later to see Kuryakin standing outside the bathroom with a towel wrapped around himself, dripping on the floor and fuming. An intern was standing out of his reach, nursing what probably would be a black eye. Sam Lawrence had arrived on the scene only moments before the Enforcement Chief.

  "What happened?" Solo asked incredulously as Lawrence tried to examine the damage to his attendant.

  "This guy hit me! I was supposed to go help him and he slugs me!" the intern exclaimed.

  Kuryakin's towel fluttered to the ground as he approached the man, one fist raised, the other supporting his lower rib cage where abused ribs were probably aching from the movement. "You snuck up on me. What do you expect? I didn't ask for anyone's help. I don't need anyone's help!" he yelled at Lawrence as Solo retrieved the towel and the intern escaped the room.

  Kuryakin didn't appear to notice he was being dried off by his partner as he continued his shouting rampage at the doctor. "I am perfectly capable of stepping out of a shower by myself, Sam! I can take care of myself. I ate my breakfast. I am up and walking around. The intravenous tubes are gone. I am not an invalid," he insisted to Lawrence, who nodded in agreement, trying not to meet Solo's laughing eyes as the agent helped Kuryakin into his shirt without the small Russian noticing.

  Kuryakin spun suddenly to address Solo, whose face instantly become solemn and understanding. "You believe me, don't you, Napoleon?" Illya asked, fumbling with his shirt buttons.

  "Of course I do." Solo grabbed hold of his wrist, keeping him from turning around as the doctor approached them.

  Behind Kuryakin now, Lawrence let the grin take over his face again as he applied salve and bandages to the reopened cuts on Kuryakin's bruised lower back and hips, while the Russian trembled in outrage and kept up his stream of frustration to his partner.

  Kuryakin was talking to Solo about how he didn't need help and Solo was agreeing, looking Illya right in the eye as he did up his partner's shirt buttons when Kuryakin's scraped stiff fingers couldn't. Illya grabbed at Napoleon's forearms as Lawrence continued his ministrations, still speaking intently but hardly concentrating on what he was saying, repeating himself endlessly.

  What's wrong? Solo wondered, frowning slightly, and then Illya flinched and he knew. Oh, he's handling you, isn't he? You knew this was coming and you're scared stiff.

  Napoleon smiled gently and steadily met his partner's frantic eyes, noticing that Lawrence had also figured out that the enraged soliloquy was to cover the fear of being touched again and was working swiftly to finish.

  When the doctor stepped back, Kuryakin swallowed and turned back to him, telling him he was fine, he had eaten breakfast, he would be fine. Lawrence nodded and handed him his underwear and corduroy slacks, watching calmly as Solo casually steadied Illya as he struggled into his clothes while still talking. Twice, Lawrence stopped them and adjusted a bandage, Illya freezing for the duration.

  Finally fully dressed, Illya looked cautiously back to the doctor. "Is it over?"

  Sam Lawrence nodded, relieved to see the slight smile on Illya's face.

  "Good." Kuryakin turned back to Solo. "Let's get out of here."

  "By all means."

  The first meeting went smoothly. Garcia's notes were impressive, documenting the shift in personnel from the Thrush Central American office to the Strastown Northeast office. Kuryakin pointed to a photograph of a missing Nicaraguan Thrush operative, identifying him as the deputy who insisted that Kuryakin be kept in a solitary Strastown cell.

  There was definitely a strong Thrush presence in Strastown although Kuryakin was convinced he had not been identified as an U.N.C.L.E. agent at that point. It seemed the vehement reaction of the Thrush agent had simply been to his Soviet background, which Kuryakin also believed was the reason for his transfer to Omegar. That and the fact he had smashed the man in the face while he was 'drunk'.

  Lazarev's notes had mentioned that although the original settlement had been Russian, over the past few years the actual population balance had shifted and the Russians were now in the minority, treated with little respect by the local city hall and sheriff's office. Even Sheriff Fedorov's position seemed superficial, without any real authority in the town, serving only as a figurehead for the tourists and state government.

  The ten o'clock meeting in Waverly's office was more difficult. For several hours, Waverly challenged each statement, demanding more information, further proof, or documentation and grilling Kuryakin until Solo stepped between them. "I think that's enough, sir."

  "Oh? Why is that, Mr. Solo?" Waverly replaced his pipe on the desk, bushy eyebrows knit together.

  "We need a break." Napoleon tilted his head meaningfully toward his partner. Kuryakin sat hunched at the round conference table and Solo knew the man's body language well enough to see that whatever pain killer he had taken was wearing off quickly.

  There was really no reason to continue the meeting. Solo felt pushed, as though Waverly were testing him, checking his commitment. He could feel the U.N.C.L.E. Chief watching him and returned the look calmly. If you want me to do my job, Boss, you're going to have to trust me, too.

  Waverly agreed suddenly, putting the meeting off until later, but Solo felt the old man's shrewd stare as the dark eyes followed them out of the room. The Enforcement Chief took Kuryakin by one elbow, supporting him carefully as they walked into the corridor.

  "Why did he agree to a break?" Garcia asked, his voice tired from a day that had started too early. "Usually he has lunch brought in for us."

  "Not today." Solo paused when he reached his own office door. "I'll let you know when the meeting resumes, Xavier, but I'm willing to bet it won't be until this evening or tomorrow. Can you handle the rest of Lazarev's debriefing? See if any of your photos match. Lazarev took a few public tours, including one of the town site, so you might be able to correlate your findings. Beyond that, I think we've exhausted all our data." And our agents. "The next step will be the attack -- and
we'll schedule that as soon as we can get our forces together, probably tomorrow afternoon. We don't want to wait or Thrush might get word of it and bail out. Mr. Waverly and I worked out the attack procedure on Thrush Northeast on Saturday after you left -- check with one of the other men and they'll fill you in."

  The Filipino agent left and Solo examined his partner who was leaning against the wall wearily, no longer bothering to hide the pain.

  "Napoleon, really -- why the break? Because of me not being able to keep up?"

  "The truth? Because I resigned yesterday... and I was taking responsibility for you. He had no choice."

  "Who had no choice? I don't understand. You resigned?"

  "That was yesterday and I've changed my mind. I'm allowed to, you know -- senior agent and all that. Besides, I've got some scores to settle first." He offered his arm again and seeing there was no one in the corridor, Kuryakin gratefully leaned on it. Solo was quiet as they approached the elevator. "Are you up to eating some lunch?"

  "As long as I can lie down to eat. I can't take much more sitting," Kuryakin admitted. "Napoleon, please, why did you want to resign? Because of me?"

  "No. Because of me."

  "And her?"

  Solo smiled, nodding. "And her."

  * * *

  He waited until Kuryakin had eaten and was asleep before leaving his bedside, mentally ticking his internal checklist. In his office again, he saw the phone messages and dialed the number to her suite automatically, only realizing his actions after her voice filtered through the telephone receiver.

  "Hello?"

  His mouth went dry, realizing he had no idea what to say to her.

  "Hello? Who is this?"

  "Napoleon."

  A small gasp. "Where have you been, darling?"

  The taste in his mouth turned sour, wondering if he could trust her or would he always have to wonder. "I've been busy, Serena. I just want you to know that I'm back."

  "I'll come right over."

  "No, don't come. I'm not at home. I'm tired. I need to be alone."

  She sounded doubtful. Hurt. "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure." He thought about it again. "No, I'm not sure. Have you had lunch?"