The overnight lows are expected to be in the single digits, so you better get everything ready folks. This is going to be a cold one here in …
The snap of the radio dial conveyed Napoleon's disgust with the announcer's prediction of cold. It was bad enough to be in the middle of nowhere with a dead man in the car, but Illya was in bad shape… again.
Which was why the other man was dead.
Five hours earlier…
"What exactly is the point of this trip into the wilds of Nevada? How much trouble can THRUSH be causing in the middle of this vast nothingness?"
Illya Kuryakin disliked the desert, high or low. No amount of stunning vistas and breathtaking sunrises could overcome the millions of acres of beige. And sand.
"Just a few more hours tovarisch and we'll be on our way back to civilization. This particular THRUSH is looking for a way out and he's bringing some vital information with him; at least according to our briefing. You were paying attention in there, weren't you? It's unlike you to disbelieve a briefing."
That brought a smile to the Russian's face; far be it from him to doubt a superior.
"You are, of course, correct. I just dislike this environment, and it is entirely possible that my prejudice against our current location is affecting my attitude towards this pick-up. If the intel on this man is correct then it seems very likely that THRUSH will be close by in order to stop his defection. These rarely go well."
That made Napoleon think back on some other so-called defections. Illya was right, they usually had substantial snags.
"Maybe this time will be different… successful. First though, let's go in and have some breakfast. If things go to plan, this diner is where we'll meet our mystery man; we might as well take advantage of the location."
Illya agreed… heartily. As he turned to reach for the door handle a jackrabbit hopped out from behind a tumbleweed that had become stuck between a bus stop bench and a mail box. He watched as the animal made its way across the two lane road that fronted the parking lot where the agents sat. Expertly avoiding being hit by a car, the rabbit was soon across the highway, past the diner and on his way to whatever lay in the desert beyond.
"Did you see that Napoleon?" Solo had watched his partner as he watched the rabbit, more interested in Illya's reaction than the path of the animal itself.
"Uh, yeah… He certainly caught your eye. What would you do with him if you caught him? He's sort of big for a pet." Illya laughed at that, actually it was more of a derisive snort when Napoleon thought about it later.
"I would shoot him and have him for supper. Come on, I am hungrier now than before."
The UNCLE agents emerged from their nondescript sedan, aware of the space around them, of windows reflecting sunlight and what might be behind them. As they approached the diner the door flung open, a large man in overalls exiting followed by a smaller man in similar dress.
"Good morning…" Napoleon held the door for them, garnering a nod of their heads in passing.
"Friendly types I take it." Illya felt the chill of apprehension crawl across his shoulders and up his neck. Not those men… something else.
A perky waitress seated the two men dressed in suits, her imagination wandering with speculation of who they might be. Suits were not common here, nor were their accents when they spoke. The blond wore a dark turtleneck beneath his jacket, another exotic aspect of their appearance.
The dark haired one was very handsome, and she wondered for the briefest of moments if he might be an actor. She hadn't heard of a movie being filmed nearby, but it wasn't uncommon for it to happen. Vegas wasn't that far away and they made movies there…
"Coffee?" One word, two nods.
She poured very carefully, hoping to catch the eye of the blond. He was … cute. She liked blue eyes, but something about his as he looked up at her caused her hand to shake slightly…
'Oh, I'm so sorry. Here, let me …" Illya caught her hand before she could touch him with that rag.
"No… really, it is fine. It doesn't even show." He looked up at her again, only this time he looked somehow … younger, more vulnerable. She couldn't figure out what had spooked her.
When the waitress walked away, Napoleon shook his head in amazement.
"Did you see the look on her face? I think she wanted to take you home and feed you herself, which is quite an accomplishment after you scared her with that 'I am Soviet' look on your face."
"What do you mean? She was merely skittish, you see how it went. I am nothing if not genteel." Napoleon almost laughed out loud, but Illya wasn't smiling anymore.
"What is it? Is he here?" The American read something on his partner's face, and it wasn't the arrival of their breakfast.
"This cannot be right, this man is…" Illya looked stricken, and as Napoleon turned to see who it was had caused his partner to be so distressed, the person in question spoke.
"Hello Comrade Kuryakin. I see you are surprised at my presence here. THRUSH however is everywhere, even Moscow."
It took a few moments for Illya to regain some composure, not something that Napoleon had observed often.
"Napoleon Solo, this… Yuri Petrovich, of the KGB."
Napoleon managed to catch his chin before it hit the floor. What was a KGB agent doing with THRUSH, and more to the point, why was he here defecting from…?
"Mr. Petrovich…' Napoleon didn't hold out his hand. He wasn't certain yet that this wasn't beneath social niceties.
"Are you also defecting from the Soviet Union? Forgive me, but this situation is very unusual, to say the least."
Yuri Petrovich was nodding his head, a crooked half smile a crack in the otherwise somber expression.
"I am, as they say, coming in from the cold. Illya knows me, although he seems still unbelieving that I am here. THRUSH lured me into their criminal fold, and before long the KGB was investigating me. It was only a matter of time before… Well, you understand, yes."
Kuryakin did understand, and Napoleon had a pretty good idea of what lay in wait for a KGB agent whose loyalties were shared with an organization like THRUSH… or any other entity for that matter.
"How long have you been with THRUSH, comrade? Were you involved with them when I was sent to join UNCLE?" Illya was dumbfounded, truly shocked that this man, someone he had known and feared to some degree, was actually THRUSH. It was inconceivable to him, but then again perhaps not. Perhaps the KGB and THRUSH were not that different, would not push a man past the limits of his conscience, if indeed the man possessed one.
Yuri Petrovich flinched imperceptibly, a sudden lack of confidence in his scheme shot up his spine like the first chill of winter.
"You know how it is comrade, the passing of time and money changes us all. Do not try and convince me that you have not embraced the luxuries of the West, sat at table with the whores of capitalism, eh. Do not judge me Illya Nickovetch for the choices I have made."
Napoleon felt certain that were they anywhere else but this diner the two Russians would be drawing pistols in an old fashioned shoot-out. Breakfast had taken on a sickening and somber mood, and judging by Illya's stony expression he was no longer hungry.
"I suggest we all remove ourselves from this eatery and put some miles behind us. If THRUSH is watching you,' Napoleon indicated Yuri, "then we're liable to be in for a dangerous trip back to Las Vegas."
Illya reached into his pocket and took out several dollars, enough to cover the uneaten meals as well as a tip for the waitress. As she emerged from the kitchen with two plates full of plump eggs and extra bacon she received a parting word over Napoleon's shoulder.
"Keep the change Katie, we have to run."
The three men got into the sedan, Napoleon behind the wheel, and within minutes were traveling south towards Vegas and the nearest UNCLE satellite office. From there they would request a helicopter to transport Petrovich to Los Angeles where he would be fully debriefed.
Illya was contemplating this turn of events, distrustful even now of this man whose life's work in the KGB had been to torment, subjugate and terrorize military and civilians, all in the name of the State. It was not so much shocking that he had joined THRUSH, more so that he would leave either of them.
The journey from Hidesville to Vegas was going to take about three hours, all of it through that vast landscape of sand and distant mountains. Yuri was quiet, his backseat offering a modicum of comfort and solitude. Thankful that the two UNCLE agents had not searched him, he contemplated his next move. It was a great show of confidence for his THRUSH compatriots to have given him this task, an even greater folly on the part of UNCLE to have met his demands for the escort now sitting in the front seat. Kuryakin had always been too young and too idealistic, his willingness to live in the West all of these years a testament to his lack of allegiance to the Homeland. Not even THRUSH had delineated that line of loyal service in Yuri; no, that was about the money, nothing more.
This journey through the desert was also about the money, and the added pleasure of seeing Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin die like the traitorous dog he was. Solo, well that was a bonus, and one he would put in his Swiss account for his soon retirement.
In the front seat Illya continued to think and reason with his suspicions. Petrovich was not the sort of man to simply give up, and for what purpose? He was a mean spirited son of a bitch, and his love of money had led him to THRUSH. What could possibly entice him to leave both of his professional avocations? Certainly not conscience, but fear perhaps? Fear of what?
"Napoleon, I think we should pull over and search our guest; we are far enough out of town to not draw any interest from passersby."
Napoleon nodded his head, but instinctively he understood that Illya had some concerns about Petrovich, and he was inclined to the same doubts.
"Here looks good…' Solo pulled off the road and put the car in park. Illya smoothly exited the front seat and opened Yuri's door, his face like stone as he watched this former nemesis scoot across the back seat. A split second was all it took for the wily KGB agent to reach into the zippered boot he wore and withdraw a small pistol. Illya's view was blocked by the door and Napoleon was still seated behind the steering wheel. Petrovich stood up and made a small movement towards the other Russian, catching him off guard.
One shot at close range.
Illya collapsed as the bullet found its mark, his face registering shock as well as pain; Petrovich felt a surge of elation as the smaller man fell at his feet. Moving towards the front of the car in order to deal with Solo, Petrovich fired again but his aim was off as he attempted to finish off the American. The bullet struck metal as it punctured the front grill. A hiss of steam camouflaged his view, allowing Napoleon to take aim.
Yuri Petrovich felt the white hot flash of lead as it pierced his chest, rupturing a heart so laden with hatred and greed that it barely registered with the duplicitous Russian he was dead.
Napoleon's aim had been perfect, as it almost always was. He had no regret as he rushed to Illya's side, hopeful that his partner was not dead, that Petrovich's aim had somehow missed its intention, if not the target.
"Open Channel D, Solo here… agent down." Napoleon choked back an unbidden sob; his friend was dying, betrayed by a countryman whose larceny and greed now threatened to end Illya's life.
"Mr. Solo, what has happened? Is the contact alive?" The agent spat back a reply, regretting only momentarily the betrayal of his emotions.
"The contact, sir, is who shot Illya! Petrovich is dead."
Silence on the other end indicated the Old Man was considering how to respond, and Napoleon scarcely cared that it might be a reprimand.
"I see. Help is on the way Mr. Solo. How severely is Mr. Kuryakin wounded?" And then it was there, that subtle show of concern that sometimes crept into Waverly's inquiries.
"He's… it's bad, I think. Mr. Kuryakin was the target, sir. A bullet struck the car sir, I don't know if it's drivable.' His mind was reeling as the situation rolled out like the road beside him.
"All along, it was about …"
"Yes, I think I understand, Mr. Solo. The team from Las Vegas should be there within the hour, they are fixed onto your homing signal…' Napoleon thought he heard a sigh coming from the communicator.
"Do what you can… Waverly out."
Napoleon managed to get his partner into the backseat, staunched the flow of blood with a scarf Petrovich had been wearing. If it was only blood and not an organ …
The car battery was still good so Napoleon switched on the radio, hoping for something like good news.
The overnight lows are expected to be in the single digits, so you better get everything ready folks. This is going to be a cold one here in …
The snap of the radio dial conveyed Napoleon's disgust with the announcer's prediction of cold. It was bad enough to be in the middle of nowhere with a dead man in the car, but Illya was in bad shape… again. He crawled in next to his partner, hoping against hope for something better than how it looked.
"Illya, come on buddy… " A groan from the blond elicited an almost joyful response from Napoleon.
"Petrovich?" One word, that was all he could get out of his mouth.
"He's dead. Help is on the way Illya, you're going to be fine. You're always fine, right? Hand in there… please."
Illya tried to smile but it was diffused by the pain in his chest.
"I think … ribs. I will most likely live." Napoleon almost laughed; he could trust Illya to self-diagnose, and right now he chose to believe that the know-it-all Russian was correct in surmising the bullet had hit a rib bone.
"Then I guess we're still on for dinner. Under the circumstances, my treat."
Illya didn't hear that last promise of a free meal, he lapsed into a blissfully unconscious state, relieving him of the pain and the approaching cold. When he awoke it was within the warmth and security of Southern Nevada Memorial Hospital, newly renovated and funded in part by UNCLE's charity front. Section VII would garner the gratitude of many agents in this part of the country for its hand in securing an UNCLE wing within the desert hospital.
The Russian had been correct, the bullet had struck a rib and most probably was the reason he wasn't dead. Although a lot of blood was lost he was otherwise intact, something that several of the nurses were hoping would be useful in cajoling the taciturn agent into a dinner date. Thus far they had been hugely unsuccessful with him, although Napoleon had a date for the next two evenings. He was not averse to channeling his concern for the Russian into an active social life.
The two men were discussing the events of the past twenty-four hours when Napoleon's communicator began to warble its familiar tune.
"Solo here…"
"Ah, Mr. Solo. All is well I trust, Mr. Kuryakin is mending and you are seeing to the aftermath of our unfortunate liaison with Mr. Petrovich."
Illya had to snicker at that, seeing as how Napoleon was mostly seeing to the nursing staff.
"Uh, yes sir… it's all going very well. Mr. Kuryakin is scheduled to be released tomorrow and I have been in contact with the support team. We are waiting for word from the Soviet consulate as to where Mr. Petrovich should be sent."
The pause.
"And I suppose you have also investigated the source of Petrovich's intelligence, the satrapy from whence he emerged?"
Now Napoleon smiled. He had in fact done just that.
"Yes sir, we have a lead on that and I have made arrangements for agents Ledder and Bhatt to fly to France. It seems that Victor Marton may be involved, and would have been quite amenable to eliminating Illya… er, Mr. Kuryakin. Sir."
Another pause.
"I see, well that is good work Mr. Solo. I shall look forward to your report and that of your team in France. Give my best to Mr. Kuryakin and, …"
Napoleon didn't want to hear that he should head back to New York. He was enjoying his stay in Vegas.
"Yes sir?"
It was impossible to see the expression on Alexander Waverly's face, but his tone conveyed it well enough.
"Take a day or two, and please accompany Mr. Kuryakin back here when he is fit for travel. Waverly out."
Napoleon sat back and smiled at his friend. Illya would live, Nurse Regina would be ready at eight…
"Illya, life is good. Sometimes I'm amazed at my own good luck, but this time I'm grateful for yours."
The blond laid his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes and smiled.