Napoleon Solo paused outside the apartment door, and after taking a deep breath, he unlocked it, turning the handle almost reverently. As soon as he stepped inside he entered the alarm code in the keypad on the wall.
Everything was as it should be. The books on the shelves, the cobalt blue tea set on safely tucked away in a small hutch, beneath it was a blue matryoshka doll, decorated with gold highlights.
Set up on the coffee table in front of that God-awful green sofa was an intricately carved Russian chess set, one of the few items his partner treasured.
"Illya," Napoleon dared say his name. He couldn't believe the man was dead. It was confirmed by other agents working with Kuryakin that day.
They saw him go over the side of a stone bridge, plummeting to the rocky waters below. The currents of the river were strong, and his body was no doubt carried away. It had been a month yet Illya's remains hadn't been found…
Today was the day; Security would be coming to removed Kuryakyn's belongings, as the apartment would be given to another new field agent.
Solo couldn't bear the thought of Illya's things being 'disposed of'...since there was no next of kin, and he decided he was the closest thing to a brother the Russian had.
No, his partner's belongings would be kept upstairs in his place. They wouldn't take up much room, the books, the keepsakes. The everyday dishes and furniture would stay for the next occupant.
"No," Solo said aloud; he decided the white dishes he's helped Illya buy at Bamberger's would come with him, along with that silly 1959 Wisconsin Cheesemakers Convention platter the Russian was so fond of...that had to come too.*
As Napoleon boxed up his partner's simple wardrobe, emptying first the dresser then the closet; he saw a cardboard box on the floor. Opening it, he found a golden icon and a Russian orthodox prayer book, a red string puppet and a few other odd items that obviously meant something to Illya. **These too would find a place in Solo's home.
There was a knock at the apartment door. Security had arrived.
Solo checked before opening the door. "Come in fellas," he gestured with his hand.
They came in carrying a few empty boxes.
"Hey, do you mind, I could use one of those...I'm keeping some of Mr. Kuryakin's things for sentimental reasons, you understand?"
"Sure Mr. Solo. So sorry for your loss. Would you rather we come back?"
"If you could give me about a half hour, I'll be done by then. Here," he handed them a five spot." Go get yourself some coffee and doughnuts on me."
"Gee, thanks sir. We'll be back in a half hour then."
"Thanks guys."
Napoleon finished up the packing, and moved the meager number of boxes up to his floor using the dumbwaiter in the hallway.
Security returned exactly on time, and he handed them his copy of the key to Illya's...the apartment.
"Not much there guys, so you won't be very long," he saluted them and headed up the stairs at a trot to his own place.
He kept most of the boxes packed, putting them in his study, but the tea set, the cheese platter the icon with the prayer book and the puppet, he put on display in his china closet. Their presence he supposed would bring him comfort, as they once had done for Illya.
The chess set he put on his desk, so that he could look at it every time he sat there to do his work.
Napoleon finally poured himself a scotch, but stopped as he raise the glass to his lips; snapping his fingers and cursing himself. He'd left Illya's bottle of vodka in the freezer downstairs and quickly headed out, hoping the crew would still be there.
They were just locking up when he appeared in the hallway.
"Hey guys, can you open the door for me...I forgot something."
"Sure Mr. Solo, anything for you, but there's not much left, just the furniture.
"Thanks." He hurried in and went straight to the fridge. pulling a bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer with a sigh of relief. He laughed, spotting a package of frozen yellow Easter confections called 'Peeps' sitting there and grabbed them with a smile. That brought back memories of sleepless nights and experiments at Illya's dining table with these.***
Napoleon headed back upstairs, getting a few strange looks from the cleanup team when they saw what he was carrying. Those things they'd left in the freezer while the rest of what little food was there in the fridge they disposed of in a trash bag they took with them. They figured what they left in the freezer would be a welcome gift for the next agent to occupy the apartment. It wasn't their place however, to question why Solo was taking those things.
.
Two more weeks passed and Napoleon was finally given an assignment with another agent name Rollo Murphy, newly transferred from Australia. It unnerved the American as the man was blond and blue-eyed, though much taller than Illya had been.
He was a wiz at languages, liked handling demolitions and was an excellent shot. Anyone who'd worked with him had nothing but good things to say...still he wasn't Kuryakin.
Another month passed and Napoleon had gone through no less than six partners...just like he had before he'd finally been paired with the Russian.
Alexander Waverly had just about it however, and called his CEA into his office for a good tongue lashing.
Napoleon stood there, quietly recalcitrant as Waverly gave it to him with both barrels.
"Dammit man, you are not as young as you used to be, and I can ill afford losing you now. You need to decide which of the six agents I paired you with will be your permanent partner. I understand none of them are Mr. Kuryakin, but one of them will have to do. I am not going to lose my CEA and heir apparent at this juncture. Too much time and effort have been spent on your grooming my dear fellow."
'What if I've changed my mind? What if I don't want to step into your shoes?" Napoleon finally spoke up.
"What the deuce? Have you lost your mind Mr. Solo? Of course you want to be number one Section I...it's in the cards for you. Blasted man, it's your destiny."
Waverly pounded his fist on the conference table, something Napoleon had never seen him do before.
"Mr. Solo...Napoleon. I understand you are still in mourning for your friend and partner. No one can replace him, trust me I do understand that. He was a top operative and is sorely missed, but to you he was more than that. Such concerns were one of the reasons that made me hesitate partnering people, fearing they'd become too attached to each other. In your case, your closeness with Mr. Kuryakin became a strength not a weakness, I grew to understand that…"
"I do miss him sir, I won't lie. He wasn't just a friend, he was like a brother to me, dare I say family."
"Cherish the time you had working with him then, but like the loss of all family members the grief softens, and we remember them fondly, at least one can hope for that?"
"Yes sir, you're right. I guess I just haven't wanted to say goodbye. There was no body, no closure, so part of me feels as though he's still alive somewhere out there."
"I will give you another twenty-four hours to make your decision Napoleon."
"Thank you sir, I'll have my answer for you then."
"Very well, dismissed. And I'll have no more talk of you not assuming your proper place in the Command. Our Russian wouldn't have had it any other way either, you know that."
"Yes sir." Napoleon left, heading for his office; Illya's desk beside his had been cleaned out and was waiting for it's new occupant, though his typewriter had been safely tucked in the closet, as if it were awaiting his return.
Solo sat in his chair, looking at a photograph on his desk. It was of the two of them emerging from a cloud of red smoke with their guns drawn. Security had snapped the picture during a safety drill.
"Illya buddy, I don't believe you're dead," he spoke to the image of his friend in the photograph.
Napoleon reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a request for time off form. He had so much vacation time accrued that it boggled the mind and he'd kept putting it off, putting it off and now he was glad he had.
Solo was going in search of a lost Russian and dead or alive he was going to find him.
"I'm coming moy brat, I'm coming to get you," he whispered like it was a prayer.
.
Illya was pushed farther and farther by the goon he was grappling with until pressed against the railing on the bridge. They were going to blow up the span and he along with Agents Renly and Pedersen were there to stop them from doing it.
Kuryakin was bent backwards over the railing, fighting to keep his balance, but one final shove and he went over the side. There was no time for him to even try to grab onto anything, and the sensation of falling seemed to go on forever as he drifted downwards to the river.
He hit it hard with a loud splash and though still conscious, the cold water made him gasp, filling his lungs with it. That was the last thing he remembered once his head hit a rock…
.
The blond awoke shivering as he found himself somewhere on the shore of a river, and struggling to pull himself up, he grabbed at his head. It was bleeding badly.
He got to his feet, staggering away from the water's edge, making it to a clearing before he passed out again.
When he woke, he was laying in a comfortable bed, dressed in a pair of plaid flannel pajamas. He tried pulling himself up, but stopped as his hand went immediately to his throbbing head.
"Don't touch that," a voice said to him. The accent was familiar...what was it he asked himself. Polish perhaps?
"You're hurt pretty bad boy. You were old cold in the field I just finished clearing this morning, and if I hadn't gone back to check on the bales, I would never have seen you there."
"Thank you for helping me."
"Do you remember what happened to you?"
He thought for a moment, his head too painful to concentrate.
"No I cannot remember. Come to think of it; I cannot recall who I am. Do you know my name?"
"That's not important now. You need to close your eyes and rest. We'll talk later."
"But…"
"No arguments boy. You need to respect your elders, now close your eyes and go back to sleep. Best thing for you."
And sleep he did for the next fifteen hours, but when he woke up he was as hungry as a bear.
The old man reappeared with a bowl of potato soup with a side dish of sliced kielbasa and some pierogi.
"Dziękuję," this time he thanked him in Polish.
The old man seemed taken aback for a split second.
"
Ach, więc jesteś pamiętam_ah, so you remember?" He replied in Polish.
"Remember what?"
"You speak Polish. You still don't remember your name do you?"
"No sir I don't."
"Don't 'sir' me. I'm your….Uncle boy. Uncle Tomasz and you...you are my late sister's son Roman."
"My name is Roman?"
"Yes it is, Roman Kaczak, but my name is Kaminski."
"What was my mother's name?"
"My beautiful sister, may God rest her soul. Her name was Anna, and her hair was the color of the sun, just like yours and her eyes were the bluest blue. Your eyes are the same."
Roman listened as he ate his food, eating it so fast that Tomasz thought this must have been a starving man he'd brought into his home.
He knew he was lying, as his nephew Roman was dead but it had to be true this poor skinny soul had been sent by God to help him with the farm. It was getting too much for him to handle and he prayed for assistance. Surely this man with no name or past was God's answer to his prayers. He had to be...the hair, they eyes and the fact that he spoke Polish were surely all signs and couldn't be mere coincidence.
A week later Roman was up and about helping his Uncle with the chores around the farm, taking care of the animals like it was second nature to him.
The real Roman's clothes fit him, and the way the young man took to working on the farm and with the animals convinced Tomasz even more that the stranger had been sent by the Lord. This was meant to be...
It was just over a month when the headaches returned to Roman's head, and the strange dreams started.
He would see images of faces clouded over, grey corridors, flashing red and green lights. Gunshots always gunshots. He would hear those in his sleep and wake up with a start, always his hand would dive beneath his bed pillow as if he were looking for something.
.
Napoleon got his way, taking his time off in spite of Alexander Waverly's protests. The Old Man accused Solo of putting off the inevitable of choosing a new partner, but he denied it. He said he needed to do this and rather than having his best agent distracted on the job and make a foolish mistake, Waverly granted Solo his request for time off.
The first place he visited was the river by the bridge where Illya fallen in. Though U.N.C.L.E. teams searched the area, dragging the river downstream for miles, they found nothing.
Their conclusion was the body had been either washed out to the bay or, it was still trapped somewhere beneath the surface and would eventually rise.
Not good enough for Solo. He searched along the pylons beneath the bridge, rowing out there in a small dinghy. Letting the current take him, he judge how quickly it moved and periodically rowed to shore, checking among the reeds.
It was miles down river, well past the search parameters where he made a discovery, a black leather shoe and a fairly large on laying on the shore. For a smaller guy, Illya had big feet…
Napoleon suddenly remembered something, and tapped the side of the shoe. Out popped a small blade from the front of the sole. This was Illya's shoe!
Something told Solo to walk farther inland away from the river, and after a short distance he came to an empty field. A few miles away there was what looked like a farmhouse.
He approached it carefully, looking for anyone there until he found an old man in the barn, milking a cow.
"Excuse me sir, I wonder if you could help me?" Napoleon asked, not wanting to startle him.
"Why son, give me a second to get up. The body isn't what it used to be and it takes me a bit longer…"
"Hello there, my name is Napoleon Solo," he introduced himself with a smile.
"Name's Tomasz Kaczynski. What can I do to help you?" He eyed Solo's fancy suit and shoes wondering if he was a tax man.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine who's been missing. He fell into the river here just a little over a month ago and though everyone else thinks he's dead...well I believe he's still alive."
Napoleon held up a photograph of Illya.
Kaczynski froze for a second, though Solo didn't let on that he caught the man's reaction.
"Sorry son, never seen him before.
"You live here alone Mr. Kazinski?"
"Yes sir, well me and the animals," he snickered. " My wife died some years back as did my ummm, nephew." He regretted adding that as soon as he said it. "Been working the farm on my own for some years now, can't afford help, you know how that is."
"Yes sir I'm sure it's difficult. Sorry to bother you."
"Okay then, you have a safe trip back to where ever you came from."
The agent gave a little salute, turning away; he walked towards the fields until he was out of sight in the tree line.
What he saw sitting outside the barn that told him Kaczynski was lying were two pair of rubber boots, both significantly different sizes.
He watched from his hiding place until a short while later an older pickup truck pulled alongside the barn, but he was unable to see the driver as he exited.
As the sun went down the lights went on in the farmhouse, and Napoleon returned for a closer look.
There in the kitchen, sitting at the table with Kaczynski was Illya Kuryakin.
Solo's heart leapt with joy, but still he needed to be cautious as something was going on. Why would Illya not have returned to U.N.C.L.E.?
There was only one thing to do and that was knock on the outside kitchen door, and pray Illya didn't disappear when he did so.
Solo used his special coded knock, hoping...well he didn't know what he hoped just yet.
Roman sat at the kitchen table eating his dinner with his Uncle when he heard the knock and something oddly familiar about it made his ears perk up at the sound.
"I will get it Uncle," he stood immediately.
"No boy, I will."
It was too late as Roman already had his hand on the door knob and had opened it.
"Hello," he smiled at Napoleon. "May I help you?"
Illya's lack of recognition gave Solo his answer as to what was wrong with his partner.
"Tovarishch , ne uznayesh' menya_comrade, don't you recognize me?" Napoleon spoke in Russian.
"Dolzhen li ya uznayu tebya_should I know you?" Illya tilted his head to one side, suddenly confused at his ability to answer the man with a language that felt completely natural to him, unlike Polish and English.
Kaczynski suddenly appeared with a double-barrel shotgun, pointing it straight at Solo.
"Get outta here Mister or by God I'll use this. You get away from my nephew or else!"
"He's not your nephew, he's my friend and partner Illya Kuryakin and I'm here to take him home where he belongs. He's been missing and was presumed dead, but I had a feeling that wasn't true, and now I know my feelings were right."
Kaczynski cocked the shotgun, readying to fire, but Solo pulled his Walther and darted him.
"Oh my God," Roman cried out.'You bastard, you killed him!"
He dove at Solo, grabbing him by the throat, trying to strangle him.
The two men grappled on the floor until Napoleon managed to pin the Russian, getting off a shot from his Walther and darting him as well.
"Sorry about that chum, but it was for your own good."
.
Kuryakin woke in the infirmary back at UNCLE headquarters in New York; though his memory hadn't returned yet, there were too many things here that felt right to him, unlike at the farm.
He saw the dark haired man who'd shot his Uncle sitting beside him in a chair, but when Illya went to rise, he found himself strapped to the bed.
"Why did you kill my Uncle Tomasz?" He demanded.
"He's not your uncle, and he's not dead. I used a tranquilizer round on him to stop him from killing me with that shotgun. I guarantee you the man is fine."
"How do I know you are not lying to me. Who are you? Where is this place?" Illya sounded like his old combative self when confined to a hospital bed.
"I'm not lying tovarisch, scout's honor. My name is Napoleon Solo and we're friends...best friends. We work together for an organization called U.N.C.L.E. that's devoted to eradicating evil from the world. That's where you are right now at our headquarters in New York."
Illya's fingers went to his temples, massaging them as one of his headaches had returned. Something rang true to what this man Solo was saying, deep down inside he knew it; he just couldn't remember.
His thoughts went to his dreams.
"Are all the walls here grey?" Illya looked around.
"Why do you ask?"
"I have had dreams of corridors with grey walls and there are flashing red and green lights."
"Yes all the walls are grey here, and our emergency lights are those colors." Napoleon smiled. "So you are remembering some things aren't you, but you still don't remember me?"
"No I am sorry I do not." Illya ran his fingers through his hair, making it more of a mess than it already was.
"The doctors say it'll come back, just be patient."
"Like I have a choice?" Illya shrugged."Say, when are meals served around here? I am starving."
Napoleon chuckled, at least his partner's appetite hadn't been affected.
"My name is Illya?" He finally asked.
"To be precise, Illya Nickovich Kuryakin and you were born in Kiev in the Ukraine region of the Soviet Union."
"Really? And how did I end up here in New York...I mean not now, but before?"
"That my friend is a long and complicated story, perhaps for another day after you start to remember a few more things on your own. I'm just glad you're alive, everyone else had given you up for dead. It wasn't the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last…"
Napoleon suddenly realized that perhaps he really shouldn't have said that.
The Russian crossed his arms in front of himself, studying Solo with his usual serious look. The wheels in his head were turning.
.
Six weeks later Illya had regained his memory, passed his physical, his psych exam and all his certifications to return to the field. He had another twenty-four hours of being on medical leave and was going to put it to good use.
He returned to the remote farm where he'd been found, as he needed to speak to Tomasz Kaczynski.
The black sedan he was driving pulled up in front of the farmhouse and given the day of the week, Illya knew exactly where the old man would be.
He headed for the barn and found Tomasz cleaning the stalls with a pitchfork.
Kaczynski looked up with a start as he'd not expected to see the man he knew as his nephew Roman ever again.
"Why hello son, this is a pleasant surprise."
Illya smiled. "Hello...Uncle."
"You know I'm not really your Uncle. I lied to keep you here. You have to understand I prayed to God for help and I thought He sent you to me," Tomasz stuttered."I mean the blond hair and your eyes; it was like you were a member of my family…"
Kuryakin interrupted him. "It is all right, I understand."
"Can you forgive me boy?"
"There is nothing to forgive. You took me in when I was in trouble, fed me clothed me, showed me kindness and loved me like I really was your nephew. I do remember all our talks over our meals and working together. I was happy here, you see I really have have no family. They all died during the war in Europe. The man who came here to get me is the closest thing I have to a brother."
Illya hesitated. "I wonder if I might still visit you now and again, and still call you Uncle?"
Kaczynski exhaled a sigh of relief. He'd never heard something this heartwarming in a long time.
"Of course...what's your real name again?"
"Illya, Illya Nicovich Kuryakin. Son of Nicholaí and Tanya of Kyiv Ukraine, though I am of Russian extraction." He felt confidant sharing this personal information with the man.
Tomasz held out his hand, "Well welcome to the family Illya Nickovich, though I'm a Polack, I think a Russkie is close enough."
Illya smiled, reaching out and taking the man's hand, and somehow the two men embraced in a quick hug.
"Dziękuję, wujku_thank you, Uncle," Illya said in Polish."I ask only one favor of you, please continue to call me Roman. As far as anyone is concerned, that is who I am."
"Sure," Uncle smiled, "Whatever you want, Roman." The old man's eyes welled up, and he wiped them quickly with his hands
Kuryakin spent the day with his new-found Uncle, helping him with the chores, and after supper, and clearing and washing the dishes, it was time for him to leave.
There were handshakes and hugs, with Illya promising again to return when his work permitted. He said nothing about what he did for a living, better Tomasz didn't know as that knowledge might endanger his life someday.
Illya had made arrangements for a young man from town whose father had recently passed away to come stay with Uncle Tomasz and help him with the farm, simply for room and board.
The boy, named Peter Blazejowski was grateful that he had a home to go to. Illya could easily empathize with being orphaned, even though Peter was nearly twenty, the boy had nowhere to go and the work he did could not put a roof over his head; his father's home was lost to the bank.
Kuryakin knew the boy was reliable and having a good heart; he would take good care of Tomasz, that the U.N.C.L.E. agent was sure of.
.t was less than a year later when Illya received word that his Uncle Tomasz had passed away. Napoleon accompanied him for the funeral and after the reading of the will, it was revealed the farm had been left to Kuryakin.
It was something Illya had no use for at all and Napoleon suggested selling it.
"No," the blond shook his head. "It was a gift from Tomasz, and now it will become a gift for me to give. Illya signed it all over to Peter Blazejowski.
The now twenty-one year old was blown away at 'Roman's' generosity, and tried arguing the farm belonged in his family, and not in the hands of a stranger.
Illya would hear nothing of it. "You were family to Uncle Tomasz this past year. It is yours. Just promise me you will take good care of it?"
"I will Roman, you have my word. You will always have a home here, you do know that."
"I do," Illya flashed a shy smile," That I do."
.
* ref "Snapshots: "Keeping a friend company"
** ref "Zaporoche:" and "An Iconic Image"
** ref "There are chicks and then there are 'chicks.'