In Spring Eternal Hope Lives
Illya Kuryakin rubbed his eyes. They felt as gritty and tired as his heart. Overhead a woman was droning on about an arriving flight. Her voice made his head throb. If only he'd stopped for just a moment to listen to Napoleon and humor him, all of this would be just a bad dream.
"Hey, Illya!" Napoleon came through the door, slapping his hands together.
"What now, Napoleon?" Illya didn't care that his voice was cold. He was tired and just a bit more than annoyed at being stuck with all the section reviews.
"Ah, I was sort of hoping that you'd let me making things up to you." Napoleon's voice was hopeful and Illya grudgingly lifted his vision from the file folder to the face of his partner.
"You don't have enough time or money," Illya answered, making a face.
"Try me. I was thinking we could grab ourselves a couple of dates and head over to the Palm Room. Nothing like a night of dancing and romancing to put a smile back on a man's face… even yours."
"Did you or did you not tell Waverly that these reports were a priority and had to be handled with all due haste."
"Yes, but I didn't mean –"
"And that it was imperative that I be fully versed in the procedure as part of my training."
"That's true, but—"
"Thank you, but, no, Napoleon. Please go. Find a willing secretary and dance the night away. I will still be here when you return."
Those words haunted Illya, for Napoleon didn't return.
Illya was just finishing up the last file when the phone rang. It made him practically jump out of his skin. The gallons of coffee he'd drank didn't help.
"Kuryakin."
"Mr. Kuryakin, have you seen Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly's voice was troubled.
"I'm not his social secretary." The words were out before he realized it.
"I beg your pardon?" To his own credit, Waverly did sound surprised.
"I'm sorry, sir. I've been up all night."
"I see. Well get a couple of men and check it out." The phone went dead in his grasp and Illya felt his temper rising. Once again he was getting stuck cleaning up after Napoleon.
"Yes, sir." But Illya wasn't in a hurry. He took a leisurely shower and even had breakfast, or at least what passed for breakfast in the Canteen. Only then did he wander down to the third floor and knock on the door of his Section Three counterpart.
It slid open and Richard Duarte raised a hand in greeting as Illya entered.
"Hey, stranger, what brings you down to the murky depths of Section Three?"
"I need a couple of men. Napoleon has gone off Mr. Waverly's radar and he wants me to follow up. I suspect it's just that his one night stand has taken on epic proportions, but-"
"An order's an order. I can let you have Rice and Jordan. They could do with a breath of fresh air."
"Sounds good. Have them meet me in Reception in ten?"
"Good as done."
They drove to Napoleon's apartment in relatively high spirits. The two Section Three agents were discussing the fine points of last night's basketball game and Illya just let them talk. There were times when he just liked to listen and it gave him something to do besides giving way to the gnawing fear in his stomach. There was something not right. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on. This certainly wasn't the first, nor would it be the last time Waverly had sent him on this fool's errand.
He pulled up a block from Napoleon's apartment and led the way. The Section Three agents had grown serious. They were working now, as was Illya. Dangers could hide anywhere in the busy streets and Illya kept his attention moving, looking for anyone with that look to him or her.
Riding up in the elevator, Illya pulled Napoleon's key from his wallet and looked at it. He'd had cause to use it a dozen times, just as Napoleon had used his key to Illya's place.
"Okay, it's at the end of the hall," Illya instructed as they stepped from the elevator.
"Illya, the door is ajar." Rice had drawn his weapon and the other two men did the same.
"Stay behind me," Illya said.
"But…" Jordan started, but let the sentence trail off at Illya's look. "Yes, sir."
The penthouse apartment was a tribute to all things male. The deep paneling and thick carpet were just surface decorations, though. Illya had spent enough time here to know what should and should not be there.
They split up and Illya went to Napoleon's bedroom, pushing open the door. Then he gasped and rushed in.
On the bed WAS a woman, bound and gagged. Her eyes grew large at his approach and then she relaxed. He recognized her from the secretarial pool.
"Agnes?" He holstered his gun and immediately went to her and eased off the gag. "Agnes, what happened?
"They took him. They took him." She started sobbing as Rice entered. He exchanged a look with Illya and shook his head.
"Who's they, Agnes?" Illya caught her chin and studied her eyes. The pupils were dilated with fear.
"Men. Big men. Napoleon fought them, but he didn't have a chance. They were all over him."
Illya worked at the knots, wincing at the raw edge in her voice. He knew Napoleon would do whatever it took to protect a co-worker. The ropes fell away and that was the moment Illya realized the woman was naked.
He averted his eyes and spotted Napoleon's ratty blue robe. He grabbed it, with the intention of handing it to the sobbing Agnes and something fell.
Rice scooped it up and passed it over as Illya tossed the robe to Agnes. "What is this, Illya?"
It was a ring. No, it was THE ring. Napoleon always wore it and Illya had his answer to who.
"THRUSH."
The ransom demand came the next day. Waverly stalled, trying to give Illya the time he needed. Illya crisscrossed the globe for what felt like a dozen times now in an attempt to find Napoleon, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins in his wake. Illya Kuryakin was not a man to dally with and he made sure THRUSH knew it.
He was with Waverly when the intercom buzzed.
"Yes, Miss Rogers?"
"Sir, I have Victor Marton on Line Four."
"Marton?" Illya asked. "What could he possibly want?"
"Let's find out, shall we, Mr. Kuryakin. Miss Rogers, put the call through." Waverly waited for the first ring and then punched on the speaker button. "Yes, Victor, what do you want?"
"So cold a greeting for an old colleague, Alexander?"
"Ex-colleague and not one with whom I care to bandy words."
"It's your Mr. Kuryakin."
Waverly glanced over at Illya, who shrugged his shoulders. "What of him, Victor."
"Well, as you know there are certain… parameters… that one must follow in our line of work. He has violated those, Alexander, and I am quite cross with him."
"You are speaking in riddles, Victor."
"He has become a one-man demolition team. We have suffered great loss of property and countless man hours."
"Then give me what I want," Illya said.
"I see that unfortunate young man is in attendance. And what is it you want, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Napoleon."
"Ah… Alexander, might we continue our conversation in private?"
"Mr. Kuryakin, you are dismissed." Illya hesitated and Waverly hit the mute button. "I will handle this to both of our satisfactions, trust me."
Then Waverly did something he'd never done before. He offered a trade. They had a dozen top THRUSH officials in a secluded spot, well hidden and well protected. He was willing to release someone in exchange for Solo.
The bartering went on far too long for Illya, but he knew better than to press his luck. The fact that Waverly was willing to do anything had come at a surprise.
"Mr. Kuryakin?"
Illya came awake with a jolt. He'd taken to sleeping at HQ rather than even attempting to go home. He had everything he needed here and more to the point, he was close in case of a break.
Waverly was bending over him and Illya was struck at how tired the old man looked. Immediately, Illya sat up. "Sir?"
"It's done. THRUSH has agreed to an exchange. We have a dozen THRUSH officials in a secluded spot, well hidden and well protected. Victor was willing to accept someone's release in exchange for Mr. Solo and my assurance that you would stop reigning havoc upon them."
The words washed over Illya. There still was no guarantee that Napoleon was alive. Everyone, except him and Waverly, had given Napoleon up for dead, but Illya knew. Don't ask him how, but he just knew Napoleon was alive.
"Where is the exchange to be made?"
"On your old stomping grounds. In three days at the Moscow airport."
"Moscow?"
"THRUSH seemed to think it would be a hardship for you to travel within your homeland."
"Then it would appear that THRUSH doesn't know everything."
It was a surprise when the latest Intel brought him home to Moscow. THRUSH mistakenly thought that Illya was not welcomed in his home country. They were wrong. The authorities were more than accommodating to UNCLE.
It was odd to climb off the small UNCLE jet onto Russian soil. His soul seemed to hum with excitement, but Illya wasn't sure if it was that he was home or one step closer to Napoleon.
The two agents who accompanied Illya looked less happy.
"Howard, what's wrong?" The man was staring at a sign.
"We really are in the USSR, aren't we?"
Illya smiled. "Yes."
"I can't read a single thing."
"It says that baggage claim is to the left and one level down."
"How…? Oh, that's right, I keep forgetting that you are Russian."
For some reason, Illya wanted to laugh. So much for all the concern about having Russian agents. "Yes, I am."
The awaiting car whisked them off to the hotel and that's where they parted company.
"You are not staying with your friends?" The driver question was in thick accented English and he seemed confused.
Illya gave him an address. He grinned at the man's expression. Up to this point, they'd only spoken in English, for the sake of his fellow agents. Now Illya was free to finally lapse into his mother tongue. "No, I am going home."
The drive seemed to take much longer than he remembered, but soon the streets became less stranger and he looked upon familiar landmarks.
Walking up to the house, he knocked and waited. A moment later, the door opened and Illya smiled at his father.
"Papa, you are looking well."
For a moment, the man seemed too stunned to move, then he wrapped Illya in a bear hug.
"My boy, my son." He repeated over and over. For the first time in too long, Illya relaxed and relished his father's embrace. Finally released, Nicholas brushed Illya's hair from his forehead. "They let you wear this so long?"
"They do. How is Mama?"
"She is in the library by the fire. Always cold that one." He turned to call and Illya shook his head. Grinning devilishly, Illya set down his suitcase and followed a familiar path to his favorite room.
Her back was to him as he entered and he was careful to keep from her peripheral vision.
"Victor, just set tea down on the table and leave me." While Illya had inherited his brains and stamina from his father, his looks were that of his mother, slender, and blonde. One look and there was no doubt he was her child.
"What of your guest?" Ilya pitched his voice deeper and his mother shook her head and turned in her chair.
"Illya!" For a second time, Illya happily tumbled into a loving embrace. She kissed him a dozen times and then paused, cupping his chin. "You are too thin, sweetheart, tired and so pale."
"Yes." He knew she spoke the truth. He was shocked when he saw himself in the mirror that morning. He looked like an old man.
"You will stay with us and rest?"
"I'm on business."
"For how long?"
"I don't know."
"You will celebrate Easter with us, at least."
"When is that?"
"Illya!"
"I've lost track of time, Mama." He shrugged and she hugged him again.
"It is bad?"
"Yes."
"Then we do not speak of it now. There is always time for trouble tomorrow."
It had been too long since he had the opportunity to observe the Orthodox Easter with his family, but even now, his thoughts were elsewhere.
As if his mother had known, she'd prepared a marvelous feast of borsch, and a variety of salads. She followed it with ham baked in a flaky crust, kurniks, a savory pie with chicken, rice and mushroom filling in a creamy sauce and Illya's favorite dranikis, a potato pancake stuffed with potatoes, onions and garlic.
However, it was lost on Illya. He would take a bite of kulich or paskha, then wonder how long it had been since Napoleon had eaten. The food would turn to ash in his mouth and Illya would struggle to swallow it.
After a while, Illya gave up even trying. The temptation to let the vodka wash away his worries was too strong and he would need his wits tomorrow. There was no telling what THRUSH might have waiting for him.
Illya walked out onto the small back porch and settled on the stairs. It was cold and the wind bit at his skin. He was glad for it, as if was the only thing he felt safe trusting now.
A hand settled on his shoulder and he glanced at his father as he sat beside him.
"You are carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, Illya Nickovetch." His father dug out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered Illya one, who shook his head.
"No, thank you, Papa. I no longer smoke."
"That's good. It can kill you or so they tell me. So far I'm still here." He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into a pile of not-quite-melted snow. "Who is Napoleon?"
"How… how do you know Napoleon?" Illya tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. To his knowledge, he'd never told his parents about his partner.
"Your mother tells me you cried out to him last night."
Illya sighed. "Some cool secret agent." His parents knew something of his work. It had been necessary for Illya's agreement for his move to the West. "He is a friend, a good friend."
"Never be ashamed of your love for a friend, Illya Nickovetch. For in the end, what do we have but our family and friends? Family we have no control over, but friends." He took Illya's hand and squeezed it, then placed it over his heart. "Friends we carry in here, in a special place where family cannot go. And in the end, it is that place we draw our strength from."
"When did you become a philosopher, Papa?" Illya took the cigarette and took a deep drag on it, then returned it. He blew the smoke out and watched as the wind carried it away.
"The same time my son became a cool secret agent."
Illya turned from the observation window back to the hustle of the Moscow airport. People were darting here and there, making it like just about every other airport in the world.
It was hours past the rendezvous time and Illya's shoulders sagged with disappointment. He'd had a hopeful feeling this time.
With a heavy heart, Illya turned to make his way out of the airport. That's when someone caught his eye. It was a homeless person staggering and wheeling down the concourse, people turning from him to avoid making contact. But there was something familiar and with a strangled cry, Illya started to run, pushing people out of the way until he reached the man. Not just any man but his partner.
He caught Napoleon just as he was about to collapse and eased him to the floor, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. Nothing mattered to him except that Napoleon was home.
"Sorry, I'm late. I meant to be here hours ago, but I'm moving sort of slow these days," Napoleon mumbled. He was barefoot and his feet looked raw and half frozen.
"These days? You always made me wait," Illya grumbled as he chaffed Napoleon's hands. Napoleon was thin and bruised, but his eyes were clear.
"I knew you'd find me." Napoleon coughed and shuddered. Illya took off his jacket and wrapped it around the shaking shoulders.
"Mr. Waverly never gave up hope. Neither did I." Illya helped him to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up. Then I have a plane standing by for home."
"Good. Home would be good." Napoleon paused. "Illya? Thank you." Napoleon sagged against him as Illya's two UNCLE companions approached with a wheelchair. Illya didn't even know they'd been standing by. Apparently Waverly had had a feeling as well.
He watched the men help Napoleon into a wheelchair and he followed, relieved and misty-eyed. No, my friend, thank you for being strong enough to hold out until I found you.
Illya waited until Napoleon had been tucked into a gurney for the flight home. There was an IV supplying him with needed hydration and nutrients. From the distant look in Napoleon's eyes, Illya suspected some pain medication had been added.
He moved to the cockpit. "All ready to go?" Illya asked their pilot.
"Just about. I'd get everyone back there strapped in for takeoff. The man never looked up from his instruments. Illya paused and looked back to the terminal. Less than twenty four hours early, he'd stood there, desperate and broken hearted. The pilot slipped the headphones off. "Is there a problem, Illya?"
Illya slapped the man's back. "Not anymore. Let's get out of here and don't spare the horse power."
"You got it, boss."
Illya returned to Napoleon's side. "We are about to leave."
"That's the best news I've heard all day."
Illya smiled and turned to leave, then snapped his fingers. His heart caught as Napoleon jumped at the sound. It was going to be a long road back for Napoleon, but Illya would be there every step of the way.
"I have something for you." Illya dug out his wallet and shook it. A ring fell out and Illya slid it back onto Napoleon's pinkie.
"Thanks for keeping it safe." Napoleon smiled sleepily. "I thought it was like me, gone for good. You're a good friend."
"What do we have but our friends? We carry them in a special place in our hearts. And in the end, it is that place we draw our strength from." Illya didn't think his father would mind him paraphrasing.
"Is that a profound Russian saying?" Napoleon's voice was so soft that it was barely audible over the jet's turbines. His eyes closed and Illya smiled sweetly.
"No, my friend, it is the truth." He squeezed Napoleon's shoulder and went back to his seat. It would be good to be home.