I want to be alone…
"What did you say?" Napoleon stopped himself short of betraying the encroaching sense of insanity. There was no one else in the cell with him, so he hadn't heard his partner say what he didn't just hear him say.
Or was that the insane part? He was attempting to convince himself that he wasn't hearing voices when clearly, and nothing was clear so that shouldn't apply… he wasn't hearing voices.
…..
Illya Kuryakin's inert form finally caught the attention of the security camera and the person in charge of it. How long he had been there was unknown because Eloise Hamner, the woman assigned to the job, had taken a longer than usual restroom break where she encountered Sally Hanley from Personnel, who had a tidbit of gossip concerning April Dancer and a rumor that she was having a fling with another agent.
All of that took place while Illya lay on the cold pavement bereft of shirt and socks, his black trousers torn from the rough treatment of being tossed out of a van. Bruises and scratches, and one small puncture wound from a thick needle full of THRUSH truth serum marked his body; a small patch of hair looked to have been shaved behind his left ear.
When Eloise resumed her post she nearly cried from self-recrimination at the sight of Kuryakin. It was late, past time for agents and personnel to be coming and going from that entrance to Headquarters. It was also January, and in spite of a late start to winter the temperatures at present were tending downward, something that would make lying on cold concrete without so much as an undershirt a grim circumstance for the obviously wounded agent.
Eloise called for help, sending several Section III agents to retrieve Kuryakin and take him to Medical. She called upstairs to Mr. Waverly's secretary, hoping that the delay in finding him wouldn't cost her the job she loved, and needed.
"Mr. Waverly's office, this is Evangeline…"
"Mr. Kuryakin is in Medical. He was found outside, unconscious, undressed… Is Mr. Wavery still here?" Eloise meant to try and make up for her egregious lack of professionalism, promised herself to never indulge in gossip again and… Oh well, she'd try and do her best.
"Slow down, it isn't your fault. Just… (sigh)...I'll tell him, he's been on a phone call for the past hour. Is Illya, er.. Mr. Kuryakin…?"
"Yes, I think so… well, I don't know. But he was breathing.' Eloise was calmer now, her faux pas would perhaps go unnoticed. At least Kuryakin was being cared for.
"Tell Mr. Waverly we still don't know where Mr. Solo is."
…..
Napoleon had been fed a cocktail of drugs and serums, so many that he now doubted whether or not he could actually escape from this cell should the opportunity present itself. And if he was hearing voices, well he might very well be going mad.
I told you, I want to be alone. Now leave!
Napoleon stretched his neck, turning his head first one way and then the other. He wasn't hearing voices, he was hearing a person talking. A women, now that he paid careful attention, and she seemed to be close by. So, where was he?
He got up from the little cot he had slept on for … how many days was it? Well, he got off of it and began to circle the room, listening as he walked, hoping to hear that voice again. The door to his cell, a room really, opened onto a hallway the best he could tell. Apparently there were other rooms, or perhaps…
He looked up and reconsidered a vent next to the ceiling. It was a low ceiling, and the vent looked big enough for a man. Well, certainly Illya could manage it, and so would he.
…..
Illya Kuryakin came to with a grunt and an instinctive need to lash out at someone. Fortunately for the medical staff, they were well trained to remain a safe distance from agents if they weren't in restraints, a too common condition when they were brought in under the influence of some drug foisted on them by an enemy. In this case the patient was not in restraints, but he was being carefully watched. The scratches had been treated, his body examined for broken bones or some other malady. A blood sample had already been sent to the labs to try and ascertain what the needle marks meant.
The sudden movement made Illya's head spin and he immediately fell back into the bed, all of his adrenaline spent in that one futile movement. The doctor on duty motioned for the nurse to move in a little closer; things should be fine now that the agent was awake and aware.
"Mr. Kuryakin? How do you feel?" The eyes remained closed, deep set and darkened from fatigue. The doctor repeated his name, only to have a pair of icy blue eyes stare out from behind those deep lids, sending a chill into the room and down the other man's spine.
"Uh, well then… Illya, you're back in Medical, at UNCLE Headquarters. My name is Doctor Matthews, we've not met previously." Illya's mind was racing. He recognized the room, and the nurse. Only the doctor was a stranger here and he was inclined to accept that the situation was as stated.
"How did I get here? Where is Napoleon Solo?" Two questions, and to Dr. Matthews regret, he had no answers. That made him just a little bit afraid.
"I, um… I don't really know. You were found on the steps to Del Floria's, only partly clothed and unconscious. You've been here for about three hours." Illya's face showed his annoyance with the incomplete nature of the other man's reply to his question. Where was his partner? He needed to get out of here and go find him.
"I must find Napoleon; I will be leaving, so please…'' As he attempted to get up out of the bed a searing pain cut across his eyes, taking his breath away as he doubled over in distress.
Kerry Matthews was new to the Command, but he did have experience from a tour of service in Korea. This man was not going anywhere, and no amount of glaring at him would deter the doctor from doing his job.
"You are not leaving this facility, and if you try it again I'll shoot you up with enough tranquilizers to keep you here for a week." He wouldn't really, but he was an unknown quantity to the agents here and he intended to use that to his advantage.
"Your body is still trying to rid itself of a truly diabolical concoction of drugs. Your eyesight may be temporarily affected, and you can expect to be sick; and I mean sick as a dog, vomiting, diarrhea… It's bad Illya, and you're here for the duration. I'm sorry about your partner, but someone else is going to have to bring him back home."
Illya lay still, trying to not let any part of his body irritate the roiling discomfort that threatened to erupt. Napoleon was missing and he was helpless to do anything about it.
…..
Relief and gratitude for having not eaten well the past week helped Napoleon ease himself through the vent opening. It had been a matter of turning his cot on its side for a step up, using the improbably present dime stuck in the seam of his trousers pocket to unscrew the cover and then hoisting himself into the space behind the vent. He managed to put the cover back in place and secured it with a shoelace, something he hoped wouldn't be immediately visible to searching eyes.
He was in a crawlspace, not a functioning part of any air or heat delivery system. It was merely a space where air could flow, he surmised, something indicative of the age of the building. Napoleon lay on his belly, listening for that voice he had heard. She had wanted to be alone, perhaps her request had been granted; in which case he had no idea where to go next without that beacon to guide him.
….
Alexander Waverly took things in stride if appearances could be trusted. His number two man down for the count with a mysterious THRUSH drug in his system that had reduced him to a pitiful specimen of misery. Kuryakin had commenced with the symptoms of the drug almost immediately after Dr. Matthews described them. It took two orderlies to help him into the bathroom where he would succumb to the distresses his body was enduring.
Waverly watched as Illya was helped back into the bed after such a session, his own emotions at the sight of the young man piqued by both pity and concern. He had sent two agents out in search of Mr. Solo, following a trail described to them by Illya. He and Napoleon had gone in together but had been separated when a throng of THRUSH henchmen descended upon them; Illya had wound up on the steps to Del Floria's, Napoleon was unaccounted for. It was hoped that he was alive, and where last seen by his partner.
…
The confines of Napoleon's little escape route had become somehow soothing to the weary spy. So much so that he dropped off into a light sleep, an indication of just how much duress had been imposed over the past few days. The sound of a woman's voice woke him.
"Really Conrad, can you not just leave me alone. I didn't want to come here, and I repeat to you what I have said previously; I want to be alone. You are a distraction to my concentration in this matter."
Napoleon had begun to move towards the voice, stopping when a long pause ensued. Finally a man spoke, a cultured English accent softening the harshness of his words.
"Fiona, there is only one solution to our problem. You will marry me and we can leave here and go back home. The consequences of any other response to my proposal…"
"What? Are you going to kill me like you did that UNCLE agent? Do you truly believe that I could love a man who murders for a living? You are mad, Conrad. Mad and evil. I won't marry you, and you might as well accept that as my only answer."
Napoleon thought he heard footsteps and then the slamming of a door. He was moving again, certain that the voices had come from just ahead. He saw it then, light coming up through what was most likely a similar vent to the one in his room. Was that a sobbing sound he heard? The woman, Fiona, was crying.
…
Illya Kuryakin had grown accustomed to the torment of drugs and flesh wounds; he no longer flinched at the thought of a needle, or cried out in pain when struck by a bullet or a knife blade. How had it come to this, that the abuse he endured in his body was expected?
As he lay in the hospital bed a flood of memories came back to him; memories of the mission, the ambush and then… nothing. Waking up here was all he had except for the directions to the satrapy where Napoleon was being held. He hoped that was the case, believed in his friend's abilities and, when all else was failing, the Solo luck.
Dr. Matthews watched as his patient gradually woke up, the obvious toll on Kuryakin's body and, most probably mental condition, seemed not to have conquered the man's obsessive nature. Even now, looking through the small window that was set into the door, Matthews saw the Russian looking around the room, probably hoping to see his clothes. He had no doubt that getting dressed and leaving was foremost in Illya's mind.
Illya looked up, a thief caught in the act, or at least that was how it felt. The doctor, Matthews he had told him was his name, was grinning at him, amused by a patient who could barely life himself off of his bed and yet still determined to go out and find his partner.
"Mr. Kuryakin, I know you think that just possibly you might be able to pull this off. I assure you, that isn't the case. You're young and strong, but those drugs have ripped through your system and left you operating with a deficit. Mr. Waverly has sent help for your partner, and you aren't going to an asset to anyone's attempts to help Mr. Solo."
Illya stared at the man, aware within himself that even the glare he used to back people down was probably ridiculous looking to an observer of this scene. That is if he looked as bad as he felt, and he was fairly certain that he did.
Just then another round of nausea hit him, causing him to nearly fall on his face as he tried to rush to the safety of the bathroom. Dr. Matthews was there at his side, helping him and holding on as he spewed out his insides.
…
Napoleon eased himself as close to the vent as he could get, focusing his eyes on Fiona. She was just in view, seated at a small writing desk. He had unscrewed the vent in order to get in, but how was he going to do that from inside? It was worth the risk, something he decided in an instant, and so he called her name.
"Fiona… Fiona, up here." The woman looked up, afraid at first to hear her name coming from seemingly nowhere. Napoleon tapped on the vent, hoping to direct her attention and praying she didn't call out to anyone.
"Who the devil are you?" And then, just as she asked the question, the answer came to her.
"You're the other UNCLE agent aren't you. How did you… oh, wait…"
She pulled the chair from the desk over to the wall and produced a nail file. A few turns of the screw and she removed the vent, allowing Napoleon to drop down into the room. She hadn't moved out of his way sufficiently so that when he landed he had to grab her shoulder to avoid hurting her. That in turn caused them both to fall back onto the bed, rolling until he was on top of her and looking into green eyes that beckoned to him. In a sudden impulse that was not entirely out of character, he kissed her. And she kissed him in return.
…
Two agents had been sent to rescue Napoleon. Both of them were new to the New York office, one of them new to the Command. Mark Slate and April Dancer arrived at the location described to them by Illya Kuryakin, a large house with guards at the big gate and more beyond, patrolling the grounds.
"So luv, any ideas?" Slate was British, well bred according to English standards with an easy manner and a charming smile. The young woman, April Dancer, was the Command's first female agent. Pretty and audacious, she already had a reputation as a good shot and an even better spy, before arriving in New York.
"Mark darling, I think this is something that perhaps I'm better suited for. After all, THRUSH won't be expecting a woman."
And so April approached the gate guards, feigning distress by saying her car had a flat tire and could they, oh please… could they help? More than willing to aid the pretty redhead, their good will was met by a sleep dart from Slate's pistol, allowing the two agents to enter the grounds unhindered.
Using the same logic, April emerged from the bushes and approached the guards on the front lawn, once more asking for help. The moment's hesitation from the THRUSH allowed Slate to once again dart his prey, and thus gain entrance to the house.
Napoleon immersed himself in the kiss, Fiona was an expert and her hunger for something, someone was evident. She had loathed Conrad from the start, hoping against hope to be rescued from his grasp. And now, here he was; his kiss was all she had hoped for.
The two finally came up for air, each of them aware of the other in a way unique to a sudden onset of lust between two people.
"I, uh… ahem… I am Napoleon Solo. As you have said, I work for the U.N.C.L.E., and was being held prisoner by, umm…"
"Conrad. He goes only by Conrad, like some insipid rock star. I too have been his prisoner, but perhaps now you have found us a way to escape." Napoleon could hope it was so, but he didn't know where that crawl space would take them. But something else was more pressing.
"You said something earlier about, about Conrad killing an agent. I haven't seen my partner in days, don't know what happened to him. Did you…' He didn't want to know but he needed to have the truth of it.
"Did you see the man that Conrad killed?"
She didn't have a chance to answer because the door swung open and there stood Conrad. He had come back to Fiona's room to try and persuade her once again to remain with him. But this, this was going to be the end of Napoleon Solo.
"I should have killed you first Solo. As it is, your Russian friend ought to be dead by now. We put enough drugs in him to kill any man, especially a skinny runt like Kuryakin. I was even going to shave his head, just to make my point, but..."
"And what exactly is your point Conrad? Kidnapping innocent women, killing UNCLE agents... Is THRUSH promising you something in exchange for all of it? If my partner is dead then you're a dead man too, you have my word on it and I always keep my word."
Conrad started to respond by suddenly a look of surprise came over his face. Napoleon and Fiona both watched as Conrad fell to the floor, a dart from April Dancer's gun neatly placed in the neck of the man. Napoleon was relieved to see his fellow agents, quick to take command as he ushered all of them, including Fiona, out into the hall way.
"Which way is out?" Mark pointed in the direction of the front door and led them out. Several guards lay strewn in the floor along the way, all of them victims of the sleep darts. A clean up crew would be in shortly, but for now the priority was to get Solo back to HQ; back to his partner.
"Mark, April, this is Fiona. She is looking for safe passage out of here. Let's show her how we do it at UNCLE."
"Darling, we'd be happy to. And Illya will be happy to see you." Napoleon let a sigh escape, relief flooding him as he dismissed the fear that Illya had been killed by Conrad.
…..
It was another two days before Illya was allowed to leave Medical, and at that point he was allowed only light duty inside Headquarters. He scowled with disdain when he looked at the place above his ear where Conrad had started to shave his head. The thought of it sent a chill up his spine, something he shook off as he ran his hands though his hair.
Napoleon was checked out and found to be in very good shape, and five pounds lighter than his last weigh in.
Fiona decided she wasn't going to stay in New York, but instead flew back to London where she embarked on a new career: romance novelist.
Conrad escaped, only to be hit by a bus heading for the Adirondacks.
Eloise slipped up again and was transferred to the dead file room to serve as a clerk. So far, so good.
Mr. Waverly is still watching over his people.