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IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP
October 28, 1967
Just a few paces behind his partner, Napoleon Solo slid to a halt at the stone parapet of the old bridge. Upstate New York. Rustic. Scenic. Breathtaking in the autumn!
An unexpected place for a showdown between two UNCLE agents and a THRUSH agent.
Yet, here they were, barely seconds ahead of a freight train whisking the dangerous criminal out of reach! Once beyond their sight there were plentiful escape routes available for the cagey and deadly man to flee. They had to stop him here! Now!
He caught his breath to vocalize the rhetorical conundrum on both their minds. “So how do we stop a train?”
Already within earshot, they could hear the rumble of metal-on-metal as the locomotive approached. There, just at the near curve a few hundred feet away the plumes of smoke preceded the black beast chugging toward them.
“Bruce Partington Plans.”
It took a moment for the senior agent to recognize the inference of Kuryakin’s quiet thought/word.
“The Sherlock Holmes story – the top of the train! You want us to jump from this bridge onto the top of a moving train?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute!” The idea was insane! Yes, they might catch their prey! Control to their death! The insanity!
“Get to the next stop – “
Their first time on the job since Ilya’s terribly debacle of brainwashing. Was this his partners way of overcompensating? He thought there wasn’t any lingering guilt -- that had been resolved. He thought.
“What are you doing?”
Illya vaulted onto the stone railing with the lithe agility of a cat.
“If you’re going I’m going!”
Before Solo could react, the blond was over the side and atop the third freight car!
Shaking his head, muttering about crazy Russians, Napoleon followed.
It was a terrifying balancing act as his shoes hit the rounded top and he skidded. Like a surfer, he had to balance his momentum with the force of his landing and the unsteady, rickety gait of the jiggling train!
Maybe surfing would be a valuable skill-set to learn next time he was in Hawaii?
He went to his knees and held onto the top ridge of the car to stop from sliding off the side! Illya fared better, well balanced toward the front –
Above the din of the engine he heard an all-too-familiar CRACK!
Illya threw himself down to hug the roof.
The THRUSH was up ahead, running, firing at them! Drawing his Walther, Napoleon – yet on his knees – popped off two shots as Illya also fired from an unsteady stand. The foe flew back and kept on rolling off the train!
As they rounded a curve and swayed Solo held onto the ridge.
Horrified, he watched Illya miss a handhold! The momentum of the carriage knocked the Russian away from the center and over the side!
“Illya!”
Sliding to the end of the car Solo climbed down the ladder and jumped. Rolling in the dirt he came up without serious injury. Running back, he found Illya crumpled in a heap in a patch of grass.
“Illya!”
There was blood in the matted blond hair. Gently turning over his partner, he noted some rips in the jacket and scrapes on the arms. Maybe not too bad, he tempered, concern still knotting his throat. Repeatedly demanding his friend respond, his initial fears were allayed when Illya groggily nodded.
The cut at the back of the head was bleeding.
He gripped the back of Kuryakin’s neck. “Illya. Talk to me.” A wince from the injured man still squeezing his eyes shut. “Illya. Any broken bones? That was a bad fall. Illya!”
“You are – “ he miserably snapped, then whispered, “shouting,” Blinking open his eyes, he squinted, then closed them again. “You are blurry.”
“Not a good sign.” He pulled the communicator from his pocket, his hand shaking. Frowning, noting his own suit coat and trousers had been ripped in the melee. “No, not a good sign at all,” he grumbled. Gently patting his partner’s arm, he assured, “Don’t worry, tovarich, we’ll get you to a hospital.”
“I don’t want to go to a hospital, Napoleon –“
“You’ve got a concussion!” he barked, then mellowed at his friend’s flinch. “Sorry. You fall from a train and think I’m blurry means you are going to a hospital.” Sighing, shaking his head, he brushed uselessly at the dirt smeared on his once-pristine suit”
“I can’t believe you were so wreckless! What got into you?”
“It seemed a good idea. You were not to follow me.”
Overcompensating for the brainwashing? The silent accusation would not go away. Was this his partners idea of protecting him? After the brainwashing Illya’s recovery was shaky. His friend was in no condition is now. It would certainly have a serious talk. Soon.
“While I get the privlidge of explaining this to the boss.”
“Mmmm,” the Russian moaned. “Did we at least win?”
Solo grunted. “Well, after I tell Mr. Waverly – well -- that remains to be seen, my friend.”
IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO DIE FOR – IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO LIVE FOR
October 30, 1967
Swallowing hard, Illya Kuryakin gripped onto the hand rests of the metal chair to which he was strapped down. For the millionth time he tugged and pulled on his bonds, more desperate than ever to free himself. Karmak had visited him frequently while awaiting his prey. Karmak – a man they had – mistakenly – left for dead. Miserably, Illya was afraid it might be the most disastrous error of his life.
At first, when he regained consciousness, Illya was informed by his kidnapper that he was bait. In an extraordinary trap, Kuryakin was bound inside a glass and metal booth that was airtight. Suspicious contrivances outside the locked door indicated this was a gas chamber of some kind.
Lurid speculations from his captor were his dubious companions. Details of the ambushes set throughout the neighborhood made Illya cold with fear at what his friend would face if he arrived for a rescue.
If? Was there any doubt?
In an attempt to second-guess himself, Illya tried to believe Napoleon would not fall for such an obvious trap. But in his heart he knew his foolish, heroic and dedicated partner could do nothing but willingly plunge into the jaws of death for him.
Between derisions Illya willed survival thoughts to his partner. He repeated over and over again how Solo had to save himself this time. It was not right to sacrifice his life when Kuryakin would die anyway. Causing his friend's death would be the most agonizing final moments he could imagine.
'If you are willing to die for me, moi brat, you must be willing to live for me.'
It was a desperate thought that he wished through the air to his ridiculously stubborn and altruistic partner.
‘You can not die saving me! Not after I nearly killed you! I refuse!’
If only his defiance could materialize into a miracle.
"I would like to offer a wager, Mister Kuryakin," the arrogant hunter taunted through the glass cage. "When your partner comes, I say he is killed within the first fifteen minutes. A normal person would not last so long. But Solo is talented."
Ignoring him, Illya fought down a chill. The thin pajamas he was wearing when kidnapped from the hospital made him feel vulnerable. Aside from being a helpless prisoner, strapped inside a gas chamber! And cold. He lived at the whim of this madman. He and his partner. Years ago they thought they killed him in South. Illya hated South America!
Now Karmak was back with a vengeance, set on killing them.
Years of festered hatred, planning and scheming their tortured deaths was a lot to overcome. But Napoleon was motivated, Illya knew. He would bet on Solo over any enemy. Karmak had rage and revenge on his side. Napoleon had his oath as a partner and friend. Napoleon would come for him. And that made him more worried than sitting inside the gas chamber.
"Come, Kuryakin. What is your wager?"
Glaring at the madman, he tartly retorted, "I seem to have left my money in my other trousers."
Karmak heartily laughed. "Very good, Mister Kuryakin. Keeping a sense of humor while facing death. So like you and your partner. Do you think it will be you or I who will be laughing when I drag Solo's body in here for you to observe. I will do my best to make sure there is a breath of life left in him. That way I will have the pleasure of him dying before your eyes."
His face a cold mask, Illya's heart cringed at the thought. He believed Napoleon would rescue him. But how damaged would he be when he got here?
After more taunting, he gave his best annoyed expression and voice. "You expect him to come. Do not be so certain. UNCLE has a strict policy against bargaining with madmen."
This time Karmak's laughter was bitter. "You think I am mad? Who would not be filled with rage after what you and Solo did to me! You left me for dead in that jungle!"
That had been the mission goal. He did not mention that to the deranged captor. Regretting they had failed that initial assignment, he now concentrated on how he could possibly escape on his own and finish the task now.
Face up to the glass, the enraged captor snarled, "And don't pretend Solo will allow you to die without doing everything in his power to stop the execution! I know you two would do anything for each other! Did you think I would forget your camaraderie in South America?"
There was no response to that. Without question Napoleon would come for him. He would fight, sacrifice and go through anything to rescue him. His chest twisted with anguish knowing there were no limits for Napoleon when it came to keeping him safe. It made him sick thathe could be the cause of pain, perhaps death inflicted on his friend. It was so irritating to be predictable to the enemy.
As if a switch had been turned inside his twisted mind, Karmak was now smiling. "Come, now. Don't you think hunts are more entertaining with wagers?" He slapped his leg with the shotgun in his hand. "If Solo reaches this building, I will allow you to live, Mister Kuryakin." As if talking to himself, he amended the offer. "No, if Solo reaches this building before I kill him, then I will release you so you can go through my little survival maze."
It elicited only a glare from the agent.
Angry at the silence, the captor slammed a fist into the glass panel. "Should he reach this basement . . . ." He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at the prisoner. "Should he still be alive and reaches you – hmph," he snorted. "Then I have a dilemma. Allow you to watch him die before you die? Or allow him to watch you die, locked in this booth, and him helpless to free you. Then, of course, I will kill him, too."
Grinding his teeth, Illya stared at the door, his mind working on the problem of getting out of a hermetically sealed cage. Trying to solve the puzzle could not keep the anguish from his heart. This was a no-win trap. One or both of them would probably die this time. And he had no illusion that it could very well be his friend who perished first. Before his eyes? While trying to save him? Then Karmak would have devised the worst torture. There could be nothing more painful. It would be the fulfillment of Illya's greatest fear.
Snapping back, lashing out with the only weapon he had, Kuryakin retorted, "He knows it is a trap."
"Hah!"
The villain did not doubt Solo would come for him. Neither did Illya.
Karmak again described his brilliant snares in the condemned neighborhood. As more death traps were defined, the Russian fought down despair. Then an alarm sounded.
With a confident smirk, Karmak turned to him. "Ah, the perimeter has been breached, Mister Kuryakin. Your white knight has arrived. Savor your last moments." He looked down at the panel outside the booth. "You are running out of time."
When the madman turned his back Illya furiously worked at his straps. He had to get out of here and warn Napoleon! But it was hopeless. There was no escape this time. For either of them.
Updates came with each of Karmak's visits – proclaiming Napoleon Solo entering the condemned neighborhood, then the abandoned old buildings where Karmak had built his maze of horror. Agonizing snippets of injuries and attacks were painstakingly related. He tried to ignore the taunts, but each description of wounds or defeats stung like a poisoned blade to his heart. How much could Solo endure before he succumbed to the cunning snares of the madman?
II
A shadow fell on the staircase. Illya watched as his ragged, wounded partner rushed into the basement. Startled at seeing Illya inside the glass booth, Solo desperately worked at opening the door.
"No!" Illya shouted. "Go!" Didn't he know Karmak expected him to come here?
Cornered, this is where Napoleon would die if he did not ignore the prisoner and defend himself!
"Go!"
Denunciations bounced from his brain to his tongue, lashing out at his ridiculously heroic friend. Obviously, already weakened from injuries that left Napoleon's clothes torn and blood soaked, a look of dazed desperation remained on his determined face. One arm bleeding, almost useless. It was an expression that sent chills of terror along Illya's spine, because underneath the resolve was fear. Mirrors of the Russian's emotions intensified to a chilling crescendo.
While Kuryakin shouted to Napoleon to "GO!" over and over again, Napoleon was set, indomitable. He is not going to stop. No doubt, he would do all he could to save his friend. Or die trying.
Then Karmak attacked Napoleon! As the time ticked down to the release of the gas, Napoleon fought back, then turned to free him. Finally, Napoleon wrenched open the door and worked at the wrist straps while Illya berated him.
Committed, Solo paid no attention to the selfless pleas to save himself.
As they fled the glass booth, Karmak came at them again. Napoleon fought back with ferociousness, and pushed Illya clear. The automatic door slammed shut when the clock ticked to an end, and poison gas filled the cage where Karmak was now trapped in his own death room. The agents watched in frozen shock as their enemy slid to the floor, dead.
They shepherded each other up the steps. Slowly. Both worn physically and emotionally. As if talking would drain precious energy, they said nothing as they reached the strange, dark room with long shadows and bizarre carnival props of archaic weapons and a guillotine.
Solo flinched as they walked past the spooky and macabre fixtures. When they reached the street, Illya's eyes widened when he saw the dead jaguar. Glancing at Solo's torn, blood-smeared clothing, he was astonished.
"You had to fight that?"
Solo simply nodded.
Stopping at the end of the empty alley, Illya studied his friend in the wan cast of moonlight. Pale, exhausted, Napoleon leaned against a building. The expression was difficult to interpret. Relief, triumph, utter fatigue. He reached over and gripped Illya's neck, the blood on his cold hand moist against Illya's skin. When Solo started sliding down, Illya grabbed him and pushed him against the old bricks.
"You need to rest," he ordered.
Solo shook his head. "My car is – over – is over – by the barricades." He leaned his head back and flicked the shadow of a grin. "Bad form if I pass out during my brilliant rescue."
Concerned, Illya held onto his arm. "I can drive the car over."
Solo shook his head. "I'll be fine. Let's just take it slow."
Kuryakin kept a hold on his arm as they walked. "By the way. Thank you."
"Da, da." He squinted his eyes at his friend. "Despite your ridiculous shouting for me to leave you behind. Why did you waste your breath?"
Illya pulled him to a halt. "Why do you think? Did you expect me to sit there as the helpless bait and watch you die trying to save me?" The heat of anger blossomed quickly. His teeth gritted, the words wrenched out with anguish. "You are always so ready to die for me! If I am important enough to die for then I am important enough to live for!"
Shaking his head, Solo continued a slow pace toward the barricades. "Complex philosophy, Mr. K,” he replied rubbing his head. He stopped and squinted, staring at his partner. “You are important enough to live for. Or die for. Anyway, I would never abandon you to an enemy." Somber, he stared at his friend for a moment. "I will never abandon you."
Irritation spent, Illya nodded. "I know."
Napoleon fingered the light blue sleep shirt. "Especially in your jammies. Now let's get you back to the hospital before you catch cold."
"I am not the one who needs a hospital – Napoleon!"
The senior agent collapsed against the car and was of little help getting into the passenger side before he lost consciousness.
Pulling away, Illya glared at his slumbering friend. "Sometimes you can be so difficult to live with. Do you not understand?" he brokenly whispered. "I would rather die than have you killed trying to save me. You must stop being so willing to die for me. Live for me, Napoleon," he barely whispered. He stared at his friend for a long moment. "Unfortunately, you feel the same way."
III
It was the strangest hospital visit. Illya returned to the same hospital from which he had been kidnapped, where Napoleon had been admitted. While his friend was examined and patched up, Illya went in search of his personal effects that were left behind.
Gladly he changed into real clothes, and felt much more confident wearing trousers, a turtleneck, jacket – real shoes -- rather than his pajamas. In all the excitement, the staff overlooked – happily – that he be readmitted as a patient.
Napoleon was diagnosed with a mild concussion, a broken arm, numerous lacerations and bites from the jaguar claws and teeth and general cuts and bruises. Following his still unconscious friend to a room, a frantic, tall red-head confronted him.
"You must be Napoleon's friend. He sent me away. I guess it turned out all right. Except he doesn't look so good."
Perplexed, but not exactly surprised, he assessed her. Leave it to his partner to enter a crisis and meet a stunningly beautiful and quirky woman. "Illya Kuryakin," he introduced, then gave her a nod.
"Is he going to be all right?"
"All in a night's work."
She walked along toward the elevator with him as he stepped beside the gurney carrying his friend. "He was sure worried about you."
Looking at his partner, Illya kept his face a mask of impervious control. He had imagined what Napoleon was going through. Correctly. Knowing the reverse was true of his own anxieties.
From the outside, they seemed opposites. Different looks, methods, backgrounds and specialties. Casual onlookers would be surprised to understand how matched they were – and perfectly in tune when it came to the partnership.
Torn between affection and irritation at his partner's habitual sacrifices for him, Illya changed the subject. He learned the girl was an offbeat artist working in the condemned slums. Aimlessly chattering, in the manner of many of Napoleon's vapid women, Illya tuned her out. His mind could not jolt away from the terrifying events of the night. At the hospital door, he agreed to accompany Margo to her gallery opening the following night.
Continuing on with the gurney, he stayed as Solo was settled into a room. The patient was just regaining consciousness. Illya sat on the side of the bed and watched eyelids blink open, the brown eyes settling on him.
"Hey." A wavering smile brightened his distracted expression. "You okay?"
Kuryakin nodded. "Yes. Better than you."
"So tired . . . " he yawned. Eyes closing, he reached out and held onto Illya's arm. "Glad the good guys won."
"As am I," Illya whispered. "But it was very close this time, my friend."
IV
After serious sleep and a day of brooding, Illya stood outside the hospital room and straightened his bow tie. This was a strategic visit. He had to check on his partner because he was still anxious about Napoleon's health. Possible infections in the wounds from Karmak's big cat were an issue.
The visit, however, had been pushed to the last possible moment because he was irritated with Napoleon. For saving his life.
Not proud of his selfishness, Illya felt a sliver of justification. Napoleon had walked into a deadly trap: been heinously injured, could have been killed numerous times, and fought – at his extreme peril -- to free him! As usual, at the last possible second!
This was not an isolated event. Quixotically, these incidents typified a love-hate cycle of peril-rescue-peril. The life-and-death crises brought out the heroic, the gallant, even noble. All too often it was Napoleon putting his life on the line for Illya. It humbled him, made him angry, indebted and touched.
Never far from his mind was the worst experience. When brainwashed he tried to kill his closest friend. He had nearly accomplished where so many enemies had failed. Now this sacrifice.
Could he ever come to terms with this?
Placing his hand on the doorknob, he took in a breath, not sure how he felt toward his maddening partner at this moment. When he stepped in, Solo’s eyes were closed, his bandaged arm prominently resting on his chest.
Opening his eyes, he studied Kuryakin, sizing him up and down, narrowing his eyes at the tuxedo. His frown denoted confusion. "I think one of us is overdressed for a hospital."
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I went five rounds with a monster."
The comment spurred Illya's illogically aggrieved feelings. Napoleon had traded places with him in the hospital only because of his foolish quest to save his life. While grateful, of course, his resentment surfaced. Self-serving? Yes. Selfish. Yes. Yet it was the hallmark of their relationship. What would he do if one of these times Napoleon rescued him but did not make it out alive?
Their lives were important enough to each other to die for. It was made up for because they were – in each other's eyes – important enough to live for.
"It serves you right."
The eyebrows arched up and Solo's eyes narrowed. "I'm still drugged. I'm getting the impression you're mad at me."
"For rescuing me."
With a sigh, Solo gave a shrug, then winced at the movement. "You know the drill. I have no choice in these matters."
"You were nearly killed."
"So were you."
"I tried to warn you."
Solo thoughtfully pondered the actions. He nodded. "I ignored you." He rubbed his temple. "Illya, you know this will never change. It can't."
"It does not mean I deem it acceptable."
"Neither is the alternative," he sourly concluded. "So why are you dressed in a tux?"
"I am accompanying Margo to her gallery opening."
Solo's faced soured. He flexed his hand, squirming in irritation. Kuryakin's expression mellowed, knowing his friend was correct. They were willing to die for each other. That made the living all the better, he supposed. The devotion and risk for each other would never change. Not easy to accept. Taking pity, he offered a thin smile. He should be pleased with the results. They were both alive, and for a change, he got the girl.
October 31, 1967
"Good to see you back, Mr. Kuryakin. Section Two has not been as efficient without you or Mr. Solo to oversee field operations."
The rare praise was more of a homecoming than Illya expected from the gruff Waverly. The leader of UNCLE New York never indulged in personal asides, and so the Russian was both surprised and wary as he stood in the bustling command center of headquarters. Lisa Rogers, Waverly's assistant, came up behind him and handed him a folder.
"Medical insists I keep you on light duty for another week, Mr. Kuryakin, so you will have to supervise this Brazilian affair from here." Waverly was shuffling some reports and had not looked up from the desk since Illya's initial arrival. "Roberts and Pennington are in the field for this mission. Ought to do them good tracking THRUSH's missile installation in the jungle. They aren't very experienced with field work, but they know how to follow orders at least."
He raised his eyebrows at the enigmatic remark that was spoken with such adamant condemnation. Was that supposed to mean something to him? Apparently. He had only come back to work this morning after interrupted recuperation from the concussion. Trading places, Napoleon was now in the hospital.
Typically, he had received little in the way of details from his partner. They both had come out of another desperate situation alive -- what else was there to say? A lot, actually, he ruminated, but he had decided -- considering Napoleon's weakened condition -- the senior partner did not deserve his wrath just yet. He would wait until later to tell Solo what a fool he had been to risk his life to rescue him. He was grateful to be alive, of course, but watching Napoleon blithely walk into a trap -- used as the helpless bait to lure his friend to an ugly death -- had been most distressing.
"Is that all, sir?" Illya asked, rather anxious to be on his way. He sensed a lecture coming on and was unsettled because he really did not know why Waverly was angry. An educated guess would reason it had something to do with Napoleon and the recent rescue. "I have a great deal of work to catch up on."
For the first time in the interview Waverly looked up at the agent and stared at him for a moment. "At the end of the week I shall be utilizing you again in the field, Mr. Kuryakin. I think with Agent Rand. Someone who can complete an assignment without confusing emotional ties with professional obligations."
"Mr. Solo will be out of the --"
"Mr. Solo is on indefinite suspension. Mr. Rand will be your partner starting next week." He looked back at his desk. "That will be all."
Disturbed, but masking it completely with an icy facade, Kuryakin slipped from the room, not acknowledging Lisa Rogers – Waverly’s assistant -- as she kept pace beside him. After the doors closed to Waverly's office, she slipped him a second folder, then wordlessly walked away.
Solo kept teasing him that Rogers had a crush on Illya, but there was no flirting involved between the two.
Not peeking at the material until he was in the privacy of his own office, he sat behind his desk and read the report detailing what had happened after his abduction. Karmac's diabolical message via the myna bird, the luring of Solo into tracking him. The clear notation in the report that Waverly was blanketing the area with troops to find him, even though it would endanger him, probably precipitate Karmac killing him. And finally, the specific instructions that Waverly had forbidden Solo to go off on his own into the certain ambush set by Karmac.
No wonder Waverly was upset about agents not obeying orders. The head of Section Two was not supposed to voluntarily throw himself into obvious snares of jeopardy.
Angry, Kuryakin again wished to lash out at his partner for the rash behavior. Yes, he was alive thanks to Napoleon, but what would he have done if the plan had worked and Napoleon was killed instead of him? His chest tightened at the familiar apprehension.
‘You should have a care about your own life, moi brat! I nearly lost you when I was brainwashed! You cannot keep risking yourself for me!’
So many times they came close to death -- too many times. For his friend to throw himself into the path of doom -- again -- for him -- was too much. Perhaps, he reasoned with an air of glum martyrdom, Waverly was right. Maybe it was time for their partnership to come to an end before it killed one or both of them.
II
When his pen beeped Illya was startled. He was engrossed in paperwork and did not expect anyone to signal on the communicator while inside HQ. That meant it was likely his partner.
"Kuryakin here." He almost smiled, wondering if Solo was going to complain again about the strict, unfriendly nursing staff of the hospital. It did the arrogant American good to be humbled by the forceful, domineering women.
"Illya, I need you to save my life."
He did smile then, but made sure it did not translate into his tone. "I believe I have already exceeded my quota for this month --"
"Illya! Just bring me some clothes as soon as you can. Please! My life depends on it!”
The Russian checked the clock. It was nearing five in the afternoon. Catching up on the paperwork he had lost track of time. His amusement turned to momentary concern that Solo wanted to release himself. Ribs and an arm bone had been cracked in the fight with Karmac's jaguar. More serious was the possible infection from the claw and teeth lacerations received in the wrestling match. He was about to voice his worry, then thought better of it. He would discuss it with his partner when he reached the hospital.
"When can you be here?"
"I am so busy, Napoleon."
"Partner --"
"No use pleading, Mr. Solo," the Russian delightfully teased in his most stern manner. "We know your type --"
"Illya, please! Anything!"
"Anything?" he repeated with wicked savor. "Hmm, what is it worth --"
"Illya." Entreating turning to stern irritation.
"What will you do if I do not rescue you from your savage confinement? Perhaps the nurses would like to see you escape without clothes --"
"Illya!"
Considering the recent misadventure the joke was not amusing. Besides, the beseeching was too much and Kuryakin took pity on the poor wounded agent. "All right. I will finish up here and drop by your apart --"
"Just grab the carry on bag in my office. Please. I'll explain everything when you get here."
Just for an instant Illya was anxious about the urgency of the request. Was Napoleon really in danger? Could there be THRUSH agents lurking in the hospital? Had Karmac's minions returned to finish the revenge? He had been snatched from the hospital . . . .
"Please."
He knew that tone and grinned. Napoleon was not in mortal peril, but some other kind of fix and he could probably name his price for the rescue. Too much had happened to them recently to consider blackmail or extortion. He owed Solo way too heavily to play too many games. But he could play a few.
"Of course, Napoleon." he responded seriously. "I can be there after I finish this report for Mr. Waverly. It will only take about an hour --"
"Illya!" Solo nearly gasped. "You've got to be here before five-thirty! The night duty nurse, Miss Carstairs, is coming for me. You don't want my suffering on your conscience, do you?"
He remembered Carstairs. Well. Not even Napoleon deserved her nasty methods of coercion and domination. Tone dry, he levelly admonished, "You are a fortunate man, Mr. Solo, that I have such a capacity for compassion."
"I will grovel at your feet later, partner, but please, just get here quickly."
"Only if you promise to reveal the entire, ugly truth behind you and the Carstairs woman."
"That is not funny!"
"I will be there in ten minutes." He clicked off the communicator and smiled. It was good to be back to the old games.
III
Riding through the quiet night streets of Manhattan, Napoleon felt a little foolish at his overly dramatic pleadings to his partner. At the time, desperation had been real and the risk of unknown danger certain because he had run afoul of the head nurse at the hospital. Illya performed rescues on a regular basis -- hospitals included. It was only logical he come save him tonight. Now settled in the car with a thoughtful, silent colleague, Napoleon wondered what was going on inside the complex Russian mind.
Sighing, he turned to his friend who was unusually intent on driving. "Long day at the office?"
"Long enough. Paperwork."
"Ugh. So, how is everything?"
"Fine."
Mmmm. Even more stoic than usual. Definitely something untoward and probably unpleasant had happened at HQ. Finding out obviously would not be simple. "News? Gossip?"
"Not much." His shrug was casual. Illya brushed at the bangs off his forehead. "Denton in Section Five is being transferred to Costa Rica next week."
"That will do him good."
"Mary Komi is getting married. She sent her condolences -- something to the effect that you lost your chance." Solo gave a slight grin at that. "Oh, and I'm getting a new partner next week."
"What?" Solo abruptly sat up and cringed at the pain lancing from his ribs and arm. "Waverly can't!" he sputtered angrily.
"Can't what, suspend you for disobeying direct orders?" The tone was neutral and bland. "Replace you because you do not listen to your superior?"
Napoleon winced in spite of the fact that he knew he was justified in all actions concerning the Karmac affair. Now, he understood the reasons for the cold shoulder.
Disconcerted that Waverly was not the only one angry at him, he sighed. "I didn’t really have a lot of time to explain earlier.”
The face of the Russian was glacial. “I am listening now.”
“There was a time limit. I had to do what I thought necessary to save you."
"I know."
The tone was rather coolly colorless and Solo thought it best not to say anything until he could gauge his friend's mood. What did Illya have to be upset about? He saved his life! He ended up in the hospital! And managed to bring down the long expected final curtain on their partnership.
Good going, Solo. The operation was a success, but the patient died.
IV
Once settled on his sofa, grateful to be back home to his apartment, Solo calmly observed the Russian go through the motions of making coffee and rummaging for snacks in the fridge, then the cupboards. When Illya arrived in the living room with mugs of coffee and a plate of cookies, he started to relax. This was routine. Illya wasn't really mad at him. Give the guy some food and time to cool off and he'll be fine. They could smooth this out. . . .
Then the Russian moved to pace in front of the record player. Without selecting an album. Without eating or drinking. Solo's spirits sank.
"Well, spit it out."
"What is there to say?" Kuryakin asked waspishly. "It was not enough for me to kill you myself?”
Solo rolled his eyes. “You have to drop that! I do not blame you!”
“Then I can focus on more latest sacrifice? Thank you for endangering yourself to save me again? For being hunted like an animal, attacked by a wild jaguar, and being baited by a lethal enemy? Thank you for proving Waverly's fears correct -- that we can not work together without fouling up an assignment because we care more for each other than we do for UNCLE?"
The tirade managed to provoke his anger. Already hurting from the injuries, disturbed by Wavlery's actions, Napoleon loosed his wrath on his friend. "I was supposed to just sit around headquarters and let you die in my place?" Solo snapped back sharply. An edge of impatient sarcasm lilted his tone. "Or stand back and watch through the glass of that locked room while you died from poisoning?" he flung out hotly. "I suppose you don't think I should be upset that you wanted to sacrifice yourself -- you pleaded with me to let you die to save my life!" Groaning from the exertion, cradling his bruised chest with his injured arm, he rested his head on the back of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. "What did you expect me to do?"
Kuryakin flopped onto the floor by the sofa, anger instantly dissipating to moroseness. "To act in character, I suppose," he sighed glumly. "This is a dilemma of our own making. In preserving our lives we have destroyed the partnership we were striving so to safeguard."
"Well, if there was a choice to be made, saving your life was more important than preserving the partnership." Reaching across to pat his friend's arm, Solo struggled for a lighter tone. "This separation won't last. Waverly will change his mind. No one else is as good as we are."
His bravado expired when he saw that he had not convinced his friend. A shaft of betrayal splintered his confidence, stealing into his heart like a blade. What if Illya didn't want to save the partnership? What if he really was tired of the hairs-breadth escapes and terrible peril? Weary and disheartened, he sighed, unable to think of anything else to say in their defense.
Understanding the impasse, equally unsettled, Kuryakin left without further comment.
V
A few days later Solo entered Kuryakin's UNCLE office and found the blond studying a map unfolded on the desk. They had not spoken since Kuryakin's departure. There had been nothing to say that had not already been debated and dissected over the length of many years and missions.
Ironic there was distance between them at the moment because of their closeness. Solo refused to allow danger to come to his hostage friend so he disobeyed orders and barely escaped with his life. The heroics cost him the very partnership he fought so hard to preserve. Well, better to save the partner than the team. Success on one hand, failure on the other.
Illya did not look up, but the disapproval was clear in his stiff demeanor and curt tone. "What are you doing back so soon?"
He had hoped his surprise return would ease the tension between them, allow a new track for the strained silence since the ordered split. This was not at all what he had expected from saving his partner from Karmak.
Alone in his apartment for the last few days he thought a little levity and persistence would help mend the gap imposed by Waverly. Illya's continuing obstinate attitude proved that the problems were deeper than obedience to UNCLE.
"Just coming to see how you're doing." He smirked, battling to maintain his humor. "Office gossip is a terrible thing. I heard Rand is out sick from appendicitis."
Illya grinned briefly, then smoothed out his expression to a vague, bland glance at his friend. He removed his reading glasses. "At least you cannot be accused of poisoning him."
The epitome of innocence, Solo placed a hand on his chest. "Me? Who just happened to convince medical to put me back on the active duty list?”
Casting a glance at his friend he assessed, “No cast.”
He wiggled his fingers but did not move his arm. “I’m fine. And just happen to be available for --" he glanced at the map " -- an assignment to Latin America?"
“I hate South America.”
“I know. Glad to see you're taking this well and over the doom and gloom."
“Then you are misreading the situation,” the Russian replied gravely. “Perhaps I agree with Waverly this time. If we go our separate ways peril to our lives would diminish.”
Solo’s blood drained from his face. “You don’t mean that.”
For a moment Kuryakin stared at him with a sober chill in the blue eyes. “If it would mean you not sacrificing yourself on heroics for me,” he looked away. “Then yes, I mean it.”
Shaking his head, Solo ignored the depression weighing against his heart. He was always mad when there was a daring rescue and Solo barely saved them. He got over it. He felt the same when the situations were reversed. “We need each other, Illya. Okay, be mad. Just don’t say you want this to be over. Our strength is depending on each other! It’s how we stay alive!”
There was a depth of shadow in his eyes that denoted resistance to put too much into the positive idea. “The team will not last. He is determined to split us for good."
The return was somber. “Do you really want the partnership to end?”
Flinching, question was absurd and painful. “No.”
“You’re sure? Do you trust yourself? You don’t hold any deep, lingering doubts from the brainwashing? Do you doubt the worth of a team that adds an emotional risk with every perilous missi—“
“Stop!” Exasperated instead of angry he grimaced, shaking his head. “Trust myself?”
The question he had asked for this, the longest week of his life. Faced with all the other anguish he was surprised at what he felt when he searched is heart to respond to Napoleon’s disturbing inquiry. The guilt he had carried so long no longer lived within. It had been replaced by an older, more familiar, ever present fear.
“It is you I cannot trust to protect yourself.”
As smooth and cultured as he always was, Napoleon gave an easy smile. “That is one reason I keep you around.” Reaching over he squeezed Illya’s arm and winked. “That’s what partnership is all about.”
Ready to debate or argue or remonstrate, he was unprepared for the relief washing away so much distress. His anxiety over the threats to their lives -- Napoleon’s life -- was an ever-present cloud in the back of his mind. Pushing that away on the wind of optimism and friendship was the continual comfort when he leaned on friendship.
Yes saving each other was what the partnership was all about -- and so much more.
With a thoughtful tilt of his head, Solo moved to the door. "We shall see," he enigmatically proclaimed, confidence springing from some unknown source hidden within his soul. “Now I need to go tell Mr. Waverly I’m available to share your assignment.”
"We are expected in his office."
Solo's smugness collapsed. "Waverly knew?"
"That you arranged the medical clearance so you could accompany me? Yes, and he is being suspiciously cooperative." Illya folded the map and gathered some notes.
"What does that mean?"
Kuryakin stopped and stared at his friend. "That this is probably an isolated incident in reconciliation. He needs us for this assignment. We are conveniently available due to your foolish and premature release from restrictions."
Ignoring the shades of pessimistic doubt from his dour friend, he really believed they had more going for them than just the convenience of the moment. Their partnership was worth more than just being in the right place at the right time. He couldn't bear to think the association was over and stubbornly forced himself to hope they could convince Waverly to allow them to remain as a team. Or perhaps his instincts were telling him that despite their flaws, they were the best and Waverly knew it.
Forcing a quirky grin, he brushed up against his friend shoulder to shoulder. "If we do very well south of the border, he might just reevaluate his position and reward us with more missions."
"You are deluding yourself."
"I'm optimistic, tovarich." He grinned irrepressibly. "And willing to back up my confidence with a little monetary wager."
"You have no money."
"Ah, tomorrow is the first of the month."
"You want me to win this bet and then have you borrow from me the rest of the month?" Illya scowled. "I think I will just hold onto my money."
"You just know I'm right," Solo insisted as they stepped into the elevator. The doors closed and Solo scrutinized his companion.
Staring at him, the normally closed expression lost its cool indifference and he scowled anxiously. "I hope you are.”
Solo breathed out a marginal sigh of relief. “Then we’re okay? Why are you still mad?”
Kuryakin’s lip twitched. “There is no point in sustaining my irritation at you, Napoleon. For one, it fails to have any redeeming effect on you." He frowned at Solo's widening grin. "Secondly, I am a creature of habit. I am accustomed to constantly rescuing you," he sighed with superiority. "And third, I believe Mr. Waverly has acknowledged what we have known all along. That it is better to know we are together causing mayhem than if we are separated and causing trouble for him. Not to mention annoying him persistently. It is easier for him to keep an eye on us."
At the end of the monologue Solo laughed heartily, holding onto his aching ribs. "You are priceless," he shook his head. "In other words, that's Illya-speak for you need me as much as I need you, tovarich." His smug confidence shaded his tone. "Waverly knows that, too." He was feeling a lot better about the whole matter.
"I hope so," Kuryakin countered neutrally, not allowing his friend to see the worry he quickly controlled.
Kuryakin shook his head as they strolled down the corridor to the nearest elevator. The lift stopped and the agents emerged, walking silently astride toward the Section One offices. A few co-workers paused, offering comments about Solo's return. Most ignored them -- Section Two leaders parading as the walking wounded was a common sight in these halls.
He desperately did hope Solo was right. They had done so much in the name of friendship; sacrificed everything to bring the other back from death's door. They deserved one more chance to preserve what had become so important to them. Important enough to live for.
"I hope so," he sighed.
THE END