Authors' note: We don't own Man From U.N.C.L.E. More's the pity.
This is the 4th installment of the Full Circle series.
Behind Blue Eyes
By paulaH and GJ
This tale follows the events as laid down in the stories "Don't Pay The Ferryman", and "Save Me". It is part of the Full Circle Tales by paulaH and GJ.
The Who - Behind Blue Eyes LyricsBy The Who
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To bethe sad
Behind blue eyes
No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies
But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free
No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you
No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through
But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free
When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool
If I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes
"Tell me about your childhood." Dr. Hermann Kopf, the new psychiatrist of U.N.C.L.E., flipped through the file in front of him. It was absurdly thin. He looked back up when no answer was forthcoming. "Your childhood?" he prompted, trying to keep his irritation in check with this most infuriating of patients.
"It's classified." The Russian accent barely tainted the man's British English.
Kopf scowled at him, his hold on his temper slipping slightly. "That's absurd. No one's childhood is classified."
Illya Kuryakin, the only Russian agent of U.N.C.L.E., New York, raised one elegant eyebrow. "Mine is," he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact.
"Mr. Kuryakin," Kopf growled through clenched teeth. "You have been ordered to cooperate with me."
"To a point, Mr. Kopf," Illya replied coolly, deliberately omitting the man's professional title. "You reached that point several sessions ago. I am merely coming here because I have also been ordered to show up for this. You have long ceased to ask questions pertinent to my time in Arabia." His time in Italy had not yet come up, and if he had anything to say about it, it never would. He was confused enough about his feelings about Antonio, not to mention those about Napoleon. He didn't need this quack making the waters of his life even murkier.
Kopf scowled. "That's only because you also won't talk about that, either."
"You don't ask questions I can answer."
"Like hell I don't!" he exploded. "You just keep hiding behind Waverly's edict that you don't have to answer anything you feel doesn't pertain. I have no idea if you're lying or telling the truth or what does or does not pertain."
"Perhaps you're in the wrong profession, in that case. You should go into something more suited to your personality." A tiny smile flitted across Illya's lips. "Proctology comes to mind."
Kopf had had enough for one morning. "Get out."
Illya's eyes widened and he scrambled out of his chair, retreating before Kopf could change his mind.
The psychiatrist sat staring at the door as it closed behind the blond Russian. Little bastard, anyway. He defied his doctor's authority at every turn. The agents were bad enough as it was, but Waverly coddled his Russian agent and let him get away with impertinence in a way no other Section Two could.
It was outrageous, but Kopf had not yet figured out a way to get around it. Every time he'd discussed the problem with the head of U.N.C.L.E., New York, the old man basically told him to mind his own business. The one time Kopf threatened Waverly with approaching the rest of Section One, the wily old bastard threatened him with his job. Kopf had no illusions as to who would win that particular little struggle. He'd be thrown out on his ear.
With a sigh that sounded more like a snarl, he reached for another file on the desk. This one he'd had to use some underhanded tricks to get. It contained the notes from other psychiatrists in U.N.C.L.E. employ who had interviewed Kuryakin. For some odd reason it wasn't kept with the usual medical and psychiatric records, but in a section reserved for past employees that were now either dead or no longer with the company. It could be the result of misfiling, but somehow he didn't think so.
He opened it up, adjusted his glasses, and started reading.
Illya gave a low warning growl to whoever went near him the rest of the day. Kopf was enough to turn his entire day, no make that week, sour. He still couldn't understand Waverly's tacit compliance with the man. It almost seemed as if someone in U.N.C.L.E. was out to get him.
A thought bloomed inside Illya's head. Someone in U.N.C.L.E. had to be behind this. Waverly had gone to a lot of trouble to garner his assignment to the organization and jeopardizing it by this constant psychiatric, for lack of a better word, counseling was not something the man was likely to do without careful consideration. If someone were out to topple the head of U.N.C.L.E. New York by discrediting Waverly, then how better to do it than my proving his prime example of cooperation in the cold war to be an unstable maniac ready to explode. He'd have to look into that more.
A cold knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't an unstable maniac, but he wasn't what would be termed completely stable, either. He didn't need to be a psychiatrist to know that. No one, including Napoleon, understood just why he kept such a tight rein on his emotions. True, he did it to keep himself distant from everyone else. He also kept them pinned down because he feared what he could, and would, do if they ever got away from him. If Kopf ever figured it out, he would not only pull him from the field, he might actually slap him into a mental ward. Illya knew he wasn't crazy now, not really, but that would drive him to it.
If the divination of that prospect weren't enough to top the day, then the too smug face of a smiling Napoleon Solo entering the lab was it. "What do you want?" Illya snapped with a sharp bristled tone.
"Now is that any way to talk to your partner?" Napoleon asked as if rubbing the fact in. He was still reveling in the aftermath of the last affair in Naples. Illya saving his life had proved that the man cared about him more than he let on.
Illya curled his lip and looked down at the floor. "I'm busy. State your business."
"I was hoping you might consider dinner tonight," he said quietly.
"No thank you," he said holding in all the rage he had as he maintained a cold dispassionate exterior. "I have to stay home and wash my rabbit."
"Your what?" Napoleon asked puzzled and then he recalled Illya's old tricks. "Uh…. Do you mean hair?"
Illya smiled falsely. "Yes. That's it."
"Your hair is fine," Napoleon said. "You showered after your workout in the gym this morning."
How did Napoleon know I went there this morning? "Are you following me now?" Illya replied, unsure how he would feel about that.
"No," Napoleon replied casually. "I just happened to be going to my physiotherapy and saw you coming out."
Illya was reluctant, but it would be impolite not to inquire as to Napoleon's recovery. He tried to relax a little and asked, "And how is that going?"
Napoleon must have taken that as a sign of Illya's warming demeanor. "Pretty good. The knee is almost ready to take some light running. Why don't we get together for dinner and chat later?" he asked.
Inside Illya cringed. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" Napoleon asked folding his arms in an offended gesture. "Don't tell me you're planning on getting it on again with that lab rat in the other room?" It was apparent that he knew about Illya's occasional liaison with Webber.
"You ARE following me!" Illya's temper flared and his voice got lower. A warning sign to those who knew him. "Where I go and with whom is none of your business. I don't care what you do with the secretarial pool. Nor do I want to. And if you want to keep your teeth, you will treat my personal life with the same disinterest."
Napoleon raised an eyebrow knowing Illya wouldn't dare attack him as an enemy. "You don't? You could surprise me by the way you complained about it often enough. What's wrong with you anyway? You don't really think that big pompous goof in Naples really wanted you after the way you deceived him, do you?"
"Get out of my lab," Illya growled balling his fist and quickly shoving it in his pocket to keep from doing something that would only get him disciplined and sent back to Kopf's couch. Antonio Vicente was neither pompous nor a goof. If one compared, Napoleon would fit that description far better than Antonio.
Realization dawned on Napoleon's face that he'd touched a nerve. One that might push Illya too far at the moment. He backed off and tried to look casual with his usual suave smile. "Call me later. We'll talk."
Illya watched him go. That smug attitude grated on him. It was just the thing to remind him of what was really going wrong around here now. If it wasn't bad enough suspecting Waverly of being up to something now Napoleon was back on his case.
Illya shifted his gaze over to his desk and then back to the door again. Waverly. It was best to concentrate on one thing at a time, and Napoleon could go find any old floozy for the night. Illya had to figure out where to start finding out Waverly's motives for this bizarre situation with Kopf.
Dr. Hermann Kopf read through the previous evaluations of other U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrists. He scoffed at the idea. Evaluations, indeed! More like short notes. About ten of them in all, yet the file was thinner than Twiggy.
Patient responses are given readily but do not contain much information. I believe a direct order from his superiors are needed in order to complete a proper evaluation.
-Dr. Joshua Reed
Mr. Kuryakin is not forthcoming with his answers. It is impossible for me to give a true accounting of his mental state without his complete and total evaluation. Please advise the agent of his need to cooperate or I shall have to pull him from the field until he is ready to do so.
-Dr. Armand Martel
A comprehensive evaluation cannot be done at this time due to lack of information on the part of the patient. Mr. Kuryakin MUST be willing to subject himself to intense psychiatric testing in order to keep him field certified.
-Dr. Hiro Hitache
On and on the documents ran from various doctors over the course of the ten years since Kuryakin joined the ranks of UNCLE. Waverly's response to each and every request was exactly the same.
You must work with him within the parameters I and my Section One colleagues have put forth for this particular agent. His upbringing was unorthodox and you are quite likely to misinterpret many of his answers. Therefore we believe that as long as he does not show strain in the field, he shall remain field certified. If you wish to pull his certification, you must show proof of his inability to perform within the policies of this organization.
What kind of unorthodox upbringing? Was it because Kuryakin grew up during World War II in an area torn apart by the German army? Perhaps. In his opinion, that didn't excuse Kuryakin from a full psych evaluation. Far from it. It made it that much more important for the Russian agent to have one. Who knew what kind of scars his early experiences during that horrible time left on the man's psyche.
Kopf sighed. It was time he dashed off a note to the head of UNCLE, New York for himself. Perhaps he could be more persuading than his predecessors.
I understand Mr. Kuryakin was a child in war-torn Kiev and that he was a witness of the horrors at Baba Yar.
His file indicated at least that much.
I believe I can be of great service to Mr. Kuryakin in this respect. I, too, grew up in a country torn by war. In my case, I lived in the country which committed such atrocities as what happened in Kiev, and my family and I were ashamed to be German at that time. We were part of the underground, which helped smuggle German Jews out of the country.
Therefore I believe I have the background to understand Mr. Kuryakin's upbringing. As such, I implore you to order Mr. Kuryakin to cooperate with me fully and answer any and ALL questions I have so I may finally establish a complete psychiatric profile on him. I believe it will not only be in the best interest of U.N.C.L.E. to do so, but also in the best interest of Mr. Kuryakin.
-Dr. Hermann Kopf
Although the desire to threaten to pull the agent from the field ate at him, he refrained from doing so. It hadn't worked for the other psychiatrists and he doubted it would work for him. On the contrary. He felt it would turn Mr. Waverly against him without the man even considering his plea. No, his message conveyed compassion for the young Russian's plight, not idle threats.
If he received the stock answer from Mr. Waverly, he would have to figure out a way to go at this from a different angle. The only thing he knew for certain at this point was that he would not let a curt dismissal from Waverly stop him.
What a stupid idea. Illya wondered what possessed him to believe a direct confrontation with Mr. Waverly about the ordered psyche evaluation would get him anything but a scathing dressing down. He refused to fidget as he sat in Waverly's outer office waiting to be called in for his appointment, so he sat completely still, back ramrod straight against the uncomfortable chair.
Yes, it was stupid, but it was too late to back out now. If he left without following through, Mr. Waverly would simply send for him to find out what he had wanted. He swallowed a sigh of frustration before it could escape. All he needed was for Lisa Rogers to notice his nervousness. If she did, the grapevine would work overtime as the gossips wagged their tongues about the reason for the Iceman's—their nickname for him, not his—visit to their fearless leader.
That would not do. Not at all. He worked hard to keep the speculations about him at a minimum. It didn't work completely, of course. There were always those who delighted in making up things about people when they lacked the facts. He could always dismiss false rumors, though. The ones based in reality bothered him. He perked up at the quiet beep from the console on Lisa's desk.
She flipped a switch and nodded. "Yes, sir." She glanced at him with a small smile. "He's ready for you, Illya."
"Thank you," Illya answered formally as he stood and headed for the office. The door whooshed open at his approach.
Waverly didn't look up as his agent seated himself in his usual chair. "You wished to see me?" he asked gruffly, shuffling papers on his desk.
Illya knew it was a ploy to let his agent know he was wasting valuable time and to get on with it. He got on with it. "Sir, I have just been to see Dr. Kopf yet again."
The older man glanced up sharply, focusing his intense gaze on his Russian agent for the first time since the young man had entered. "How did it go?"
Illya cleared his throat and shrugged. "He asked me questions I couldn't answer."
Waverly folded his hands on the desk giving Kuryakin his full attention. This was one meeting that could prove very difficult. "Such as?"
"About my childhood. About . . . things." Kuryakin straightened, resolution in his eyes. "Sir, when I first came here, we had agreed it would not be in the best interest of either myself or this organization for an in-depth psychiatric evaluation. Why have you changed your mind on this point?"
"My mind hasn't changed."
Confusion flashed in Kuryakin's blue depths, but was gone before it fully took hold. "Then why did you order continuing sessions with Dr. Kopf now? The Arabian fiasco is behind me, and nothing else has happened which might require psychiatric attention."
Waverly thought he heard a subtle note in his agent's voice that said that might not be true. "I'm not certain that is truly the case, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, softening his tone.
Kuryakin eyed him warily. "Sir?"
"Naples." One word. Such a simple one, really. Yet his normally cold, stone faced agent flinched at its intonation. Yes. Something definitely happened in Italy. Probably the something Waverly had been concerned about when assigning this particular agent to that mission.
"Italy was a success, sir."
Waverly nodded. "So it was. Unfortunately I am not the only one in Section One who knows of your previous history involving that city. It was at their insistence that I had to order this present battery of evaluations." He sighed, a slight concession to his beleaguered agent. "Do the best you can, Mr. Kuryakin. I have confidence in your ability to get through these sessions and convince Dr. Kopf of your sanity." Kuryakin would do as his boss ordered, even if it meant his own destruction. Waverly had just given him permission to do whatever necessary to get under the psychiatrist's radar, including subterfuge and out and out lying.
Kuryakin brightened considerably, reading between his superior's lines. As Waverly knew he would, of course. A brilliant mind in this one. He would twist Kopf around until the doctor wouldn't know which way was up. As a result, he would pass the test with flying colors.
The Russian agent left with lightness in his step that hadn't been there upon entering. Waverly sat and pondered the man and the situation. He had hesitated to send Kuryakin to Naples, but in the end he could not avoid it. The missions must come before personal feelings and before his agents' needs. Although he tried not to harbor personal interest or to have favorites, sometimes it just proved impossible.
As with this man. Every time he looked at Illya Kuryakin, he thought of the young man's background and saw the embodiment of the very reason he and the others now known as Section One had formed this organization. To fight against those who would take the innocence of the Kuryakins of the world and manipulate and mold them into the monster this particular agent sometimes came close to being.
He knew one reason Illya Kuryakin wasn't that monster was because of the one man whose foresight sent the young Russian to the U.N.C.L.E. in the first place. Alexei Pavlovich Andreov. The then Major in the KGB—now a General—took Kuryakin under his wing and protected him as best he could when then Colonel Sarkov—now Major, in a twist of irony—inducted the boy into an experimental program. Sarkov's theory was that if he could get hold of a child of high intelligence and even higher survival instincts, subject him to intense, specialized schooling and training, he could mold the child into the perfect killing machine. Bloodthirsty, ruthless, with no remorse or conscience to keep him from sleeping at night.
A theory not too far off the mark, at that. Waverly was convinced only the bond Andreov had forged with the boy coupled with the strong influence he wielded had kept that particular experiment from successful fruition. Illya Kuryakin was as bloodthirsty and ruthless as they came under the right circumstances. He did have a conscience, though. A very strong one. Oh, he slept well enough at night when the blood of the day had merit. He could kill anyone without blinking an eye if it meant others would be saved from the same ravages and horrors he'd experienced in his childhood.
Even if a resulting death had no real merit, the Russian could do it and walk away. He could kill a child if ordered to do so. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without emotion of any kind.
Then the young man would go home and be plagued with nightmares for weeks until he could deal with the guilt and lock it away wherever he put such things within himself.
That was the main reason Waverly feared a psychological exam on this agent. Kuryakin could probably handle a psychiatrist with relative ease, telling the man, or woman, what he wanted to hear. Waverly had no doubt the Russian could manipulate any doctor into believing he was perfectly sane.
It was a lie, though, and both he and his superior knew it. Kuryakin wasn't insane. Far from it. He just wasn't quite. . . stable. As long as he could keep his horrors buried, though, Waverly believed the young man could carry on without real problems indefinitely. An in-depth psych exam might stir up old ghosts and release them from their prison. If that happened, Waverly had no idea how Kuryakin would react. He did know the explosion—and subsequent implosion of his agent—could have dire repercussions not only for himself and UNCLE, but also for the world. Kuryakin knew too much and was far too skilled not to be able to wreck whatever havoc he may desire.
He let out a long-suffering sigh before angrily reaching for a pipe, filling it, and lighting up. Kuryakin would either get around Kopf or he would become a ticking time bomb. If that happened, Waverly's only choice—no matter how repulsive the idea—would be to make sure rather than exploding, Kuryakin would implode.
He hated his job sometimes and if this scenario came around, it would be one of those times. Difficult as it was, though, he would have to set his personal feelings aside and ensure the only one destroyed would be Kuryakin. Unfortunate as it would be, the needs of the one had to be sacrificed in order to protect the needs of the many.
At seven p.m. in the gentleman's club frequently visited by Dr. Hermann Kopf, the good doctor sat sipping a cocktail and chatting with a friend and colleague of his.
"I'm telling you this case is driving me mad," he said. laughing at the term coming from a psychiatrist's mouth. "Every time I get the least bit close to touching on the root of this patient's psyche. either the time is up, he totally shuts down. or he evades the issue. What I need is an in-depth study to get a real evaluation."
"That's easy," his friend said. "Commit him for a few days. Twenty-four hours observation. If he's a danger to himself or others, then you have to for the public safety."
Kopf shook his head. "I'd like to. I'd really like to, but my hands are tied on this case. I tried increasing his appointments, hoping I could wear him down that way, but it's been useless."
"Wear him down?" the man replied. "You'd get farther by gaining his trust than wearing him down."
Again Kopf shook his head. "That has been impossible. The man is paranoid beyond belief."
The man looked puzzled. "Just what can you tell me about this case?" he asked as one professional to another.
Kopf sighed and put down his drink. He sat back in the lounge chair and made sure they were speaking in private. He lowered his voice and said, "This patient has been raped several times over a long period of time. As a youth he was orphaned during the war, but I have been told almost nothing of the time before he came to the states. I suspect there is a lot of abuse that went on during those years. He represses all emotion, but I can see it there seething beneath the surface. With his access to weapons and placement in dangerous situations, I'm afraid that the public in general is in great danger around him."
"That's all the more reason to have him committed for observation," the man replied. "It's your duty as a doctor, Hermann. We have given our oath to help humanity even if it means doing something against a patient's will if it's in his best interest."
Kopf shook his head. "It's not that simple."
Gustav put a hand on Kopf's sleeve and said, "Then tell me more. I know how hard police officers can be to deal with."
The UNCLE shrink almost opened his mouth to deny the police officer statement but rethought it before giving away any secrets. A police officer was close enough to the truth without breaking any rules of secrecy. "This one is a tough nut to crack. Unless I can prove him unfit, my hands are tied."
"You have to get around that if you believe it's in the public's best interests. I'm telling you, it's your duty as a licensed practitioner." He sat back and took a drink of his cocktail. "I would. I don't care who was pressuring me. I took an oath and so did you."
Kopf took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he digested the opinion of his colleague. The man was right. Waverly be damned. UNCLE be damned. He had a duty to fulfill and a higher honor to uphold.
Illya peered through the appropriately named spy hole in his door. The misshapen image of Kopf stared back at him. Illya scowled. What did the little weasel want now? He takes up enough of my time at Headquarters. Why should I let him invade me here?
He considered not answering, letting the man think his reluctant patient was out painting the town red, white, and blue. Of course, then he'd probably have to answer to Waverly in the morning about where he was tonight rather than at home awaiting the psychiatrist's visit. He could lie to everyone, Kopf included, and quite convincingly. Unfortunately, he had a personality flaw that prevented him from lying to two people: Waverly and Napoleon.
His scowl deepened. He'd have to let him in. Illya cracked the door. "May I help you?" His polite tones belied the maliciousness glinting out of the small bit of blue that showed through the slit.
Thin lips pursed, Kopf squinted at the crack in the door in search of the owner of the voice. He blinked when he found the hostile slash of blue staring back at him. "Oh, um, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm glad to find you at home."
Illya allowed himself a tiny smug smile at the man's stammer. "Is that all you wanted?"
"Er, no." The psychiatrist rocked slightly on his feet, hands inside the pockets of his brown sweater. With the slight hump he sported, the man looked a little bit like a camel in it. "Actually, I need to talk to you. May I come in?"
What Illya supposed was meant to be an open inviting expression settled on the round face. A fist in the center would close it back up again. Illya's fingers tingled with the thought, but he held back the impulse. He was good at that. He had lots of practice.
"Please," Kopf wheedled. "I just need five minutes of your time."
As if I had a choice, Illya reluctantly admitted. He let the door drop open as he turned around. He might have to allow the man into his home, but he didn't have to be gracious about it. Rudeness might make Kopf uncomfortable enough to leave just as quickly as he came.
Illya heard the snick of the door behind him as he went to plop on the couch. "Just what is it you want?" The last word was barely out of his mouth when he registered Kopf's presence right behind him instead of working his way around to the front of the couch. Before he could react, he felt the prick of a needle and the quick burn of liquid flowing into the puncture now in the side of his neck.
Illya yanked away feeling the sharp pain of the needle snapping and leaving a part of itself buried in his neck. He thought he leapt off the couch, but it seemed more like moving through a vat of molasses. The room swam around him. He tried to throw a vile Russian invective at Kopf, but his thick tongue stumbled over the words.
Kopf's lips moved. "I'm really very sorry it had to be like this," he said, the words slurring like a 78 record played at slow speed. Illya heard no more as his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward.
Kopf attempted to catch him, but he did not maintain the same healthy, strong body as the enforcement agent. What he ended up doing was merely cushioning Kuryakin's fall with his own soft body. He fell backwards, his breath whooping out of him when he hit, the unconscious Kuryakin heavy on his chest.
He wheezed as he struggled out from underneath the blond man and to his feet. "You're heavier than you look," he panted accusingly at the man on the floor. As expected, Kuryakin didn't answer.
"He has training that we will have to get around. I know the procedure, though. After all, I help set it up."
Twelve-year-old Illya lay on the cold metal table. He kept very still and breathed evenly so the Lubyanka psychiatrists would think him still asleep. No point in moving, anyway. They had him strapped down so tightly he could barely twitch his fingers.
"He'll wake soon."
Illya knew that voice. Hated that voice and the man behind it. The psychiatrist that headed the KGB behavioral modification department at Lubyanka. The man whose job it was to break the boy they'd trained so intensely for the last two years. Probably talking to Sarkov, the KGB bastard that oversaw that training. The man who saw him not as a boy, but as an experiment. A project that would help launch him into higher ranks of the KGB.
Illya hated him completely. Hated them all.
Except Andreov. Uncle Alexei when no one else was around and there was no training involved. He liked Alexei. He loved Alexei's sister, Anna, and her husband Sergei. He'd lived with them for the year between the time Andreov found him trying to survive on the streets of Kiev and when Sarkov took him away to become his Experiment.
Sarkov contended he could make the perfect agent if he could get hold of a child old enough to understand the training, but young enough to still be pliable enough to mold to Sarkov's specifications.
He supposed it worked. To a point. What Sarkov didn't understand was that a boy who'd survived on his own on the streets of war torn Kiev wasn't terribly pliable. Illya suppressed a wolfish grin. Not that Sarkov knew that. Illya was a very good actor.
A sigh from the psychiatrist. "Hmm. He should be coming around by now. I thought this one had a better constitution than this." Another sigh. "Let's go get some coffee. Maybe he'll be awake when we get back."
Something nagged at the back of Illya's mind as he listened to the men exit the room. He knew the voice, yes. It was a psychiatrist. But the accent wasn't right. It didn't sound Soviet. Suddenly he was aware he wasn't as awake as he'd originally thought. He fought to bring himself back to full consciousness.
Illya cracked his eyes to make sure he was alone before opening them wide. The dream . . . memory . . . faded into the background as he became fully aware of his surroundings. He now realized this was not the Lubyanka and that he was no longer that boy strapped to a gurney. No. Now he was an adult man strapped to a different gurney.
Disjointed memory stammered in his mind. Kopf! Injected something. Why? Was he THRUSH? A traitor? Or did he do this at the request of Waverly and U.N.C.L.E.?
Illya looked around for clues as to where he was. Not the medical section. He knew that place intimately and this wasn't it. Not a THRUSH cell, although he supposed it could be one of their labs. No instruments of torture in evidence. That made it a maybe, maybe not.
The place smelled of antiseptic and disinfected sickness. THRUSH labs usually had the scent of new and old spilled blood, chemicals, and fear—that coppery tang, an unmistakable odor. That turned the possibility of this being a THRUSH lab into a probably not.
A quiet "ding" sounded from an intercom, followed by an announcement requesting Doctor Cline in OR One. A hospital. What in the world was he doing in a hospital? He was healed from the injuries of his last mission. The physical ones, at any rate. His mind shied away from any other thoughts of his mission in Naples but he forced it back. Was that it? Did Waverly surmise his agent's emotional entanglements that resulted from the resurrection of the Angelo persona and order Kopf to do something about it? To terminate Angelo once and for all?
He shivered at the idea. In order to do that, Kopf would have to do some serious toying with Illya's mind, and Illya Kuryakin hated such things. If he wanted to be brutally honest with himself, he'd realize hate was too mild a word. Terror fit much better. Terrified at the thought of a psychiatrist digging into his psyche.
No wonder he'd flashed back to the trauma of those days—weeks - he was never sure—spent in Lubyanka. Those psychiatrists had done unspeakable things to the twelve-year-old boy.
He shivered as the memories of that time strained to break free of the confines of his tightly controlled emotional prison. He clamped down tighter, desperately trying to hold them back. To let them free courted disaster.
Too busy trying to hold himself together, he didn't hear Kopf's return until too late.
"Good!" Kopf crowed in delight. "You're awake." Kuryakin's eyes popped open and Kopf took a step back at the wild look in them. He mentally shook himself. An after effect of the drug. Poor man. Kopf hated his need to resort to these tactics, but he'd really had no choice. Of course, once this was all over, he would probably lose his job, but his conscience simply couldn't look the other way when a man with the skills and responsibilities of Illya Kuryakin, number two of Section 2 of the U.N.C.L.E. might be unstable. It was a danger not only to the members of society but also to Kuryakin himself.
He would try to make this as easy as possible for Kuryakin, though. He owed the man that much. He smiled and reached out to tenderly brush the sweaty blond hair away from his patient's face. At that moment, the eyes instantly transformed from those of a frightened, uncertain innocent to those of a cold-blooded killer.
"Don't touch me."
Kuryakin's tone blew over Kopf like an icy wind. He snatched his hand away from Kuryakin's face, an automatic response to an implied threat.
The doctor steadied himself and straightened his jacket as if to show who was superior here. He cleared his throat. "For the moment I will honor that wish," he said in a slightly shaky tone. "As our sessions progress, that may need to change."
"What sessions?" Kuryakin growled not flinching an inch on the outside although his stomach quivered with anxiety at what lay ahead. "When Waverly learns of this, you will be dismissed from your job and U.N.C.L.E. if not facing legal charges as well."
Kopf nodded but also added, "But my conscience will be clear, and that is of utmost importance when it comes to the greater good of public safety."
"You're mad," he hissed at the psychiatrist. "Where am I?" he demanded to know.
Kopf looked around at the room and shook his head. "A hospital, of course. In fact, it is a private hospital run by a colleague of mine. "There is no sense trying to talk your way out of here with the staff. They've already been informed of your delusions of being a spy and law enforcement agent. And if you talk to the other patients at all, you'll find out that they have a George Washington here as well as two Elvises. Saturday night entertainment in the patients' lounge can be quite good."
If the whole thing hadn't been so outrageous, Kuryakin would have laughed at the preposterousness of it all. "You're mad," he repeated incredulously.
Kopf laughed. "No but I believe you possibly could be. I aim to see that you are cured and returned to the world a safer and more stable person."
Napoleon wasn't concerned to not see Illya first thing in the morning. Nor was he concerned that he hadn't seen the moody Russian by lunchtime as he worked in his office that morning. He did want to talk to Illya though and wanted to make sure the man didn't leave the building without meeting up with him, so as late afternoon approached Napoleon wandered down to the labs.
Unlike his usual charming self, Napoleon gave Frank a slight sneer as he passed on his way toward Illya's private office where the man was probably sequestered trying to avoid the constant pestering of his partner.
"Illya?" he called out after rapping lightly on the door without answer.
"He's not in," Frank offered as he walked over. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Solo?"
Running his gaze down and then up Frank's body as he neared, he then gave him a dismissive glance. "No. I was just looking for Illya. Did he leave early today?"
Frank frowned and shook his head. "No. Never came in as far as I know. I thought he was in section one today but he didn't come down for the daily briefing. Maybe he's on assignment."
No he's not. I'd know since I'm Number One of Section One, he wanted to retort but didn't feel like giving Frank the satisfaction of including him as an equal. Whatever Illya saw in the man, he couldn't understand.
"Never mind," Napoleon replied. "I'll talk to him later."
As Napoleon walked through the corridors toward his office again, he mulled over where Illya could possibly be. The gymnasium was one likely place. A learned man, Napoleon at once pictured the origins of the word, Greek – to exercise naked, and that brought a pretty picture of Illya's tightly muscled backside to Napoleon's mind. As he was to find out moments later when he stopped by, Illya was not there nor had he been all day.
Napoleon spent about half an hour looking around the building trying not to look as if he were searching for his partner. He chatted with several people slipping the question -oh have you seen Illya by any chance- in each conversation. With each negative response he was getting more and more concerned. In the end there was nowhere to go but Waverly's office. He couldn't imagine the old man sending Illya out on a solo mission right now ,but it wasn't out of the question.
Ultimately it came down to standing outside the head man's office, contemplating what to say. Napoleon stood there puzzled until Lisa looked up from her desk.
"Napoleon? Did you want to see Mr. Waverly or do you just want to stand there staring at the door?"
He moved over toward her turning on his charm without even thinking twice about it. "Perhaps I won't need to if you can help me," he cooed.
The reaction was typical and almost instantaneous. "That depends on what you have in mind?" she said automatically slumping forward in her seat exposing her ample cleavage his direction.
Moving in closer Napoleon revved up the sex appeal. "Information, that's all. Just a little bit of information."
Batting her eyelashes she licked her lips with alluring intentions. "That depends on what kind of information."
"Nothing too top secret I'm sure," he teased.
"So what is it you want to know," she asked.
"Miss Rogers," Waverly's strong tone echoed in his words. "Would you please save that kind of display for your bedroom? Send Mr. Solo in when he has a moment too if you would."
She sat up straight and closed the top button of her blouse out of modesty. "Yes sir." She looked up at Solo with an admonishing expression. Don't keep him waiting or we'll both be in trouble.
Solo blew her a discreet kiss before getting up to follow Waverly into the office.
"If you're quite through contaminating my secretary with your flirtatious drivel," Waverly began, "I have something to discuss with you. Please take a seat."
Napoleon sat down in his usual chair although it felt strange to be there without Illya. "If this is a mission sir, perhaps we should wait for Illya."
"He's not here," Waverly stated. "I'll be sending you out with Burke on this one. Just a short mission to meet with a potential source of THRUSH information."
"Oh? And where is Mr. Kuryakin?" he asked as if trying to be casual about it.
"Vacation. He sent in a letter of request yesterday and it was granted."
Illya? A vacation? That's not like him at all. Solo kept his misgivings to himself. "Where's he going?"
"It was just a request and Dr. Kopf supported the application. I signed and returned it. Now if we may continue with the briefing?"
Solo nodded and gave him a weak smile of acceptance although his mind was racing to explore more of this new development.