-- find more
"Take off your tie."
Illya flattened a palm against the thin black tie that matched his plain black suit. Standing in the warm rays of the west coast sun, Kuryakin shrugged under the inexpensive jacket and stared at his partner. He didn't know what was going on within the convoluted mind of Napoleon Solo, but he wasn't going to admit that to the arrogant American.
Associated with Solo for the last few years, they were now considered, by the head of New York's UNCLE HQ, a permanent team. Since '60 they had been partnered on a regular basis. Their first few assignments had proven effective and successful. Starting out on a polite level of mutual respect, each brought different talents to the unit. While they liked each other on a personal basis, they individually felt the need to prove their worth in constant one-upmanship efforts. The results were sterling successes unparalleled by other agents. Both men were compatible within a team effort, despite the vast differences in personalities. While methods sometimes differed, they quickly learned to adapt their techniques to work within a partnership.
At first both independent, proud, contesting men had been surprised at the boss's reasoning in such an alliance, but Waverly's sagacity had proven cannily astute. Solo's experience, daring and competitive ego seemed overbearing sometimes, yet countered perfectly with Kuryakin's introspective intellect, courage and competitive slyness. They had quickly become the top partnership based at the New York office and were garnering reputations around the world as UNCLE's most skilled duo.
Fame -- infamy -- had its price. Both of them had reacted differently to the notoriety within UNCLE and other enforcement agencies. Such acclaim drove Kuryakin further into the shroud of mysterious anonymity. The popularity flamed Solo's already inflated ego. Then there was the reaction of their enemies. Criminals seemed to hone in on them easily -- frequently -- and they often found themselves in more threatening, death-defying circumstances than any other five UNCLE teams.
Typically, Solo felt the challenge stimulating, insisting the danger only enhanced their skyrocketing reputations. As if the playboy needed any more attention from the fair sex, his personal popularity with female allies and enemies increased dramatically. Privately, Illya acknowledged it had not hurt his highly rated dating scale, or exalted reputation either, but he would never admit that to his arrogant friend.
It was always the little details that got to Kuryakin. Overall he appreciated Solo's literal life-saving skills in the field. Personally, he liked his partner whom he now considered a friend -- an extremely small population within the Russian's sphere. What Illya didn't like was Solo's continued tendency to be domineering -- even in the little things in life. Like their little tiff this morning about the rental car. They were assigned to tail a gun smuggler and Solo, typically, rented a red convertible! Too proud to admit to his own sense of insecurities, Kuryakin's irritation turned to petty exasperation.
He was still miffed at his partner for the trick in Austria last week. Being conned into going back into the barn -- then caught there by the irate farmer -- well, Solo had a lot to answer for sometimes. Illya mentally smirked, knowing the farmer's daughter prank had not been nearly as good as the deception Illya played on Napoleon in Scotland last month. The American had nearly frozen when Illya suggested the papers they were looking for had been thrown into the water.
Their competitive natures could be the death of them one day, but it had strangely worked in their favor. The rivalry enhanced their skills and seemed to bond them tighter as a unit. As friends. As long as they didn't kill each other from their own cunning.
Now Solo was dictating how he should dress! The heat, fatigue, and pride flamed Illya's impatience. As if he could or would compete with the American's expensive taste in London tailored suits or pricey shoes. And what was wrong with a tie in Los Angeles? True, the city of the Stars (Angels if translated strictly from Spanish, but known commonly as the city surrounding the movie stars, Illya categorized), was much more casual than New York, but still, the blond did note some men wearing ties. Most, however, he admitted only to himself, wore casual shirts without ties or jackets.
"Come on, Illya, lose the tie. We don't want to be late for the first pitch."
Reluctantly Kuryakin threw the tie into the car and joined his friend, who was already quickly striding toward the front gates of Dodger Stadium.
"Nifty," Solo smiled, obviously pleased at the compliance. At Illya's raised eyebrows, the dark-haired man grinned. "Slang." Kuryakin nodded, the translations of idioms and strange American customs now common between the partners.
Located in a place called Chavez Ravine, the later afternoon weather was cool in the June afternoon, weather reports called it a marine layer. Kuryakin shrugged under the jacket appreciating the needed the attire to conceal their shoulder holsters. In a wry mental note of asperity, he concluded that was a good thing, otherwise Solo might have had them don some unusual American attire for the game. Knowing Americans, he dared not guess what else he would have to experience today. What irritated him more was that solo was loving every minute of this ritual, completely ignoring the fact they were working and supposed to be following a suspect.
As they neared the gate Solo pulled out his billfold and actually paid for two tickets. At Illya's raised eyebrows, the American smiled. "My treat. I would feel guilty taking to your first ball game and not being generous about it."
Kuryakin trailed him into the park where the senior agent bought game booklets that Napoleon explained would allow them to follow the game play by play. Plus, they could keep score -- itemizing balls, strikes, errors, hits and runs. It was all too complex for the Russian, and nothing like cricket, which he enjoyed watching, although when at Oxford he had little time for such frivolous pursuits.
"We are here to find Logan and arrest him and his accomplice," Kuryakin reminded curtly.
"I know," the dark-haired agent smiled. "There's no reason we can't enjoy the game while we're here."
Illya knew that look. Solo was pouring on the charm, trying to get his way in this latest example of the minor turf war that they engaged in nearly every day. It was the American verses Russian tug-of-war that they played all the time. Napoleon always wanted to indoctrinate Kuryakin into American society. Illya always resisted. It was a game that at first was territorially-based on national pride. Now it was amusing diversion that both secretly enjoyed but would never admit.
In the strange dichotomy of their relationship, both men were highly private, even secretive individuals in their hearts. Illya cool and distant on the outside; Napoleon friendly, carefree. Inside they both guarded their pasts, their feelings. Secret depths unfathomed for both of them.
Sometimes, when Illya realized that Solo was winning in this little conflict between east and west, he was irritated at himself for giving in so much to these trifles. Then he would turn the irritation onto Solo. It never lasted more than a few hours. By the end of the assignment Kuryakin would admit -- to himself -- it had been a good experience and he felt even closer to the partner he had first accepted, then embraced, as his friend. Literally embraced sometimes. Napoleon had taught him it was okay to be touched by someone non-threatening. A gentle hand on the arm, ruffling fingers through his hair, were signs of affection that Solo had instigated that Illya at first found irritating and pushy, but later adopted as part of the price of partnership. A price that was not very high, really. On good days.
Illya remembered little but pain and torment from his childhood in Russian. Taken to England as a student, he was probably more English in sentiment than anything else, but this game with Solo was much too fun to admit any of those nagging details. Between them it would always seem American against Russian -- highlighting the differences; physical, cultural, ideological -- while underneath they were much more alike than they would ever acknowledge.
The stadium was huge and crowded, Illya noted sourly. "How are we going to find Logan?"
"He always sits along the third baseline."
"What?"
"Never mind." Solo slapped a hand across Kuryakin's chest. "Hey, you've never had a ball park dog, have you?"
"What?"
Solo clamped a firm hand on his shoulder and steered them to a man in the aisle shouting about hot dogs. Napoleon ordered two Dodger Dogs -- foot long hot dogs! -- loaded with everything.
"I don't want a hot dog," Illya insisted just to be obstinate. It was a marvel that the usually broke Solo was buying food, even if it was a hot dog, and normally the Russian would have jumped at the chance to leech off the American for a change of pace. Napoleon's generosity -- when Illya was miffed at the man -- was annoying. "I don't like mustard and ketchup."
"You can't come to a ball game and not eat a hot dog!"
The vendor stared at the blond as if he was from another planet. "Never eaten a Dodger Dog?"
Never one to turn down a free meal from the cheap senior partner, Kuryakin dutifully
accepted another treat in this strange experience. "I have never been to a ballgame," the Russian stiffly corrected, "so no, I have never eaten a hot dog here."
The man stared at him with squinted, suspicious eyes. "Sound funny, too." He laughed as he poured on the mustard to both dogs. "What are ya, from Russia?"
"Yes," Kuryakin snapped back proudly.
Solo groaned. "Illya -- "
The man shoved the dogs aside and loomed over the slighter blond. "You're a Ruskie?"
Napoleon shoved a few bills into the man's pocket and grabbed the food. "It's a long story."
"I'm not selling my dogs to no Ruskie --"
"He's got every right to be here!" Solo defended hotly. "This was a free country last time I checked!"
Dogs and game programs all in one hand, Solo grabbed Illya by the arm and quickly rushed them away. "Let's go."
"Are Russians not allowed to ball games --"
"Look, Illya, after Kruschev and the Disneyland thing, and Berlin, let's not make an issue of this."
Most of his years in England had been during the cold war. When he came to America, Illya had found himself in the frosty clime of international strife between his homeland and the US. Most UNCLE agents did not care about nationalities and Kuryakin had found little problem dealing with the Americans in New York HQ. The citizens outside the walls of UNCLE were a different story and Illya's plight had not been easy. He gravitated toward an older neighborhood with numerous Slavic immigrants and kept a low profile. In the few incidents that had occurred within and without of UNCLE, Solo had been one of the first to step forward and defend Kuryakin, even before they were committed as partners.
At first Illya had resented the brash intrusion so typical of his counterpart. The more he got to know and trust Solo, however, he came to understand the chivalrous soul of Napoleon's nature would not allow him to ignore the underdog. Many times, Illya was convinced the senior agent was far too idealistic and romantic to make a good spy. He would have made a fine knight in King Arthur's court, but he was just too susceptible to gallantry for his own good. In retrospective, Illya admitted it had helped him out a time or two, but it had also caused them more trouble than not.
Irritated at the bigotry and his partner's tendency to dominate everything, Illya snapped back, "You were ready to start an argument --"
"I was mad at his comments. And you have every right to be here," he sniffed critically. "You're my partner."
"And I do not need you to defend me," Kuryakin countered with growing ire. Why did the American frequently pull rank -- so arrogantly -- treating him like such a young -- inexperienced -- beginner? Kuryakin was only a few years younger than his partner and joining UNCLE only two years behind Napoleon. Did he really think he was that superior? "I am completely capable of taking care of myself!"
Astonished at the castigation, Solo stopped in the wide walkway and steered them over to a wall. "I'm well aware of that --"
"Then why do you consider me such a novice?"
Speechless, Solo could only shake his head in confused mystification. Seeing he had a rare advantage, Kuryakin blasted the older agent with long-suppressed grievances. Too many times Solo would take the high-ground, seemingly keeping track of the times they were captured, always making the decisions. After all these years in the field, Kuryakin was in his own right a top agent. Everybody seemed to recognize that but his own partner.
Instead of creating an argument of sarcastic volleys, this chastisement actually stunned the conceited operative. His brown eyes shadowed, he sniffed disdainfully, his ego obviously bruised from the criticism. In actuality, Illya was a little shocked at the vehemence of his reprisal. Had he really harbored such antagonism toward his friend? And they were, in truth, he admitted, friends. Perhaps he had just had enough of Napoleon's smugness, his continual patronizing.
"I don't."
"You do. If we are a team then I should make more decisions instead of you constantly giving me orders."
"If I seem to treat you like that, I apologize," Solo replied quietly, his tone a mixture of hurt irritation. His eyes eloquently expressed momentary disappointment. "I would be the last person to think you are incapable of taking care of yourself. Or me," he finished, his eyes now twinkling with wry charm. "You've proved that often enough, tovarich."
Kuryakin grunted in agreement.
The speakers blared out the announcer's call that the players were coming out on the field.
Napoleon stared at him for a moment and Kuryakin wanted to squirm at the confusing emotions that he couldn't read in his partner's face. Usually his friend was an open book, but now something had closed down between them and Illya knew it was because of his impulsive and over-reactive comments.
"We'll talk after this assignment," the dark-haired man suggested quietly.
Illya agreed and suggested they get to their seats and try and find Logan. On the way Solo bought peanuts and beers and guided the Russian to the correct seats. Three rows in front of them was Logan, a short, stout man with thinning hair who was easy to spot. He was loud and active, shouting at ball players and umpires, waving his arms excitedly.
The recent disagreement was quickly forgotten as Solo explained every play on the field, while still keeping an eye on Logan. Napoleon Solo could be irritating, overbearing and domineering, but he was also a consummate professional. Illya had learned a great deal while being his partner and despite the personality flaws of the American, there were hidden treasures inside that Illya appreciated. One of the most important was Napoleon's obvious caring for him as a friend. Until today, it had never irritated Kuryakin and he wondered why it did now over something as insignificant as a slight on his nationality.
The game was confusing and tedious in Illya's opinion, but Solo seemed
to enjoy the experience. He insisted he saw Bob Hope behind the Dodger
dugout. Was that John Wayne in the seating behind home plate? Illya didn't
care, but couldn't argue that if nothing else, Americans knew how to eat
at a ball game. And Napoleon was still paying! After popcorn and more beer,
Illya was hoping Logan would stay for the whole game. This was much more
pleasant than tailing a suspect on the LA freeways.
***
At the end of the eighth inning Solo had to nudge Kuryakin awake and explained Logan was leaving. The Dodgers were leading the other team -- Kuryakin forgot who -- by ten points -- runs -- and apparently Logan was bored. The sun was down past the tall palms surrounding the stadium. Logan turned left at the front gates and Solo started to trail him.
"What are you doing?" Illya demanded, instantly irritated that solo was making a plan without including him -- an unfortunate habit that had gotten them into trouble in the past.
"Go get the car and I'll keep in touch," he patted his chest where his communicator rested in a breast pocket. Then he stopped abruptly, an odd expression of disturbance on his face. "Unless you think I'm being too demanding?"
The tone was caustic as only Napoleon Solo could be -- whippingly astringent with the mellow voice of a cobra. His authority -- his ego -- had been bruised and he had run out of patience with his associate.
Illya stared at his partner. "I'll follow Logan, you go get the car." A slight, perturbed, smug, smile flitted at his lips. "You always like to drive." Without waiting for a response he jogged off to the left.
"Russians," Solo muttered and loped towards their rented car.
***
Napoleon wheeled the rented vehicle through the parking lot at record speed. He could not see the Russian or Logan and he was beginning to wonder what had happened. Flipping open his communicator, he signaled his partner. No response. Where could Illya be?
A pick-up truck darted out from between two rows and nearly collided with Solo's car. Slamming to a stop, Napoleon recognized Logan, behind the wheel of the truck. Before Solo could react, the man in the passenger seat leveled a gun at his face.
"Outta there!"
As the agent quickly contemplated his options, he saw a flicker of movement from the back of the truck. It distracted him enough that the man with the gun fired off a warning shot that pierced the windshield and plowed into the seat to his right. One hand went up to instinctively shield his face and the other grabbed for his pistol. When he threw himself out to the pavement he used the door as a shield. Coming up on one knee, weapon raised and ready to fire, he stopped cold.
Illya Kuryakin was leaning against the far side of the pick-up bed, Logan holding a gun to his head.
"I think this belongs to you," Logan shouted. "Throw down the gun and come out with your hands up!"
"No!" Illya warned. The side of his pale face was bleeding. "They're going to kill us!"
The pistol was shoved into his head and he winced from the jab. Logan pulled the hammer back. "You Feds wanted to tail me, well here I am. Now throw down the gun or your partner gets a bullet in the brain."
Sighing, Solo threw out his weapon and slowly came to his feet. He hoped the smuggler wasn't a cold-blooded killer, but he couldn't be sure of that, he unpleasantly reflected. And where were the security attendants when they were needed?
"Step over here to the truck with your pal."
Eyeing the Russian, he noted Illya had several abrasions on his head and face. Probably taken by surprise by Logan's associate. Otherwise, his partner looked fine. Two seasoned UNCLE agents could take these two small time smugglers, but they were dangerous and unstable. Was it worth the risk? The way Logan held a grip on Illya's collar, the way the pistol dug into the blond skull, Napoleon didn't want to take the risk.
"What's this --"
"Don't try anything. I know you're following me," Logan cut in. "Who are you, working for? FBI?"
"As if we would tell you," Kuryakin snapped back. It earned him a twist of his collar and he yelped, squeaking from lack of air.
"Then you don't want to mess with us," Solo coldly replied. "Let him go."
Logan dug the barrel deeper into Illya's temple. The Russian paled, but remained silent, still having trouble breathing.
"You tell me who sent you and what you got on me."
"And then you'll kill us?" Solo finished sourly. His instincts were telling him this was not an execution. Logan was dangerous, but not a criminal with a past that indicated shooting down unarmed enforcement agents. Being a betting man, he took a chance. "Do you think you could get away with that?"
"Maybe. Maybe I'll just put you in your trunk while I gain some ground. But if you don't talk in the next minute they'll be only one of you breathing in that trunk." He moved the pistol to press deeply into Kuryakin's neck. "One bullet to his jugular and it's over in a matter of seconds. And you'll have the pleasure of watching him bleed to death. Slowly."
"No," Solo quickly capitulated.
Kuryakin's eyes widened. "Don't --" he coughed.
"We're with UNCLE."
Logan's face screwed in confusion. "Huh?" He jabbed the Russian again. "Don't play games!"
"United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," Napoleon rushed out waspishly. "You want my ID?" Now he was mad. "We know you've been smuggling drugs into the States, but we don't know how."
"Napoleon!"
Solo continued, simmering with frosty ire. "Our job was to follow you and find out your secrets. There are two more agents waiting near the on-ramp of the freeway to pick up the tail once you leave here." His voice was as cold as his expression. "Now release my partner and get going."
"How did you get onto the operation?"
Solo shrugged. "Not my department. We were just sent to follow you."
"Then we'll take the long way around," Logan assured and shoved Illya's upper body over the side. "Out!"
Fog was rolling in on the Pacific coast twilight. Ungracefully, Illya climbed out of the truck, glaring daggers at his partner. As promised, the agents were unceremoniously tied, gagged and dumped into the trunk of their rental car. Facing each other from less than an inch, wedged together in the tight space, they awkwardly struggled to free themselves of the ropes. After much exertion they discovered if they worked together, they could loosen the bonds. After a time their hands were free and they removed the gags from their mouths.
"How could you be so stupid?" Illya indignantly accused.
Solo's ego was bruised, not to mention much of his body in contorting in the small space. "That's the thanks I get for saving your life?"
"How could you fold so easily? I was in no danger --"
"A bullet to the jugular is no danger?"
"I had a plan," Kuryakin assured with less confidence. Eye to eye and folded atop his partner, it was hard to maintain the exasperation. "I would have been fine," he insisted with less conviction. "You did not have to come to my rescue!"
The vexation instantly washed away as he realized the pique motivating his partner's emotions and Napoleon smiled. When his friend looked away, he knew he had the Russian pegged correctly. He had damaged Illya's pride. Again. He would have to get used to this give-and-take within a partnership -- he still didn't have the nuances down yet. He wasn't called Solo for nothing. His pushy, over-achieving confidence sometimes overpowered the less confident, less assertive Russian. He didn't mean to step on toes, but there was so much he wanted to share. Being a loner since childhood, reinforced by his ugly experiences in Korea, Solo didn't know how to work within a team yet. He hoped he could manage things with a little more customary finesse so he did not alienate a partner he had come to depend on, a friend he had come to cherish.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your plan."
"And you don't have to give in to the bad guys for my sake!" He pushed his friend's elbow off of his ribs.
Napoleon cleared his throat. "Illya, there's always another chance at danger or heroics or saving the world or getting tortured." The mellow tone, perhaps the pleading voice caused Kuryakin to face him again. "There will only be one Illya."
Kuryakin turned away, his lip twitching under the effort of trying to maintain strict control of his expression. His eyes closed and he shook his head. "Why?"
What was the angle here, Illya wondered, fighting the stab of emotion piercing his heart. What did Napoleon mean there would only be one Illya? As if that meant something incredibly important to him. No one had ever held his life in that kind of value before. And that's not what they taught at UNCLE Survival School! Napoleon was breaking the rules for him! He forced the innate suspicion within to overpower his sentiment. He couldn't allow someone to feel that kind of commitment toward him, because he couldn't afford to feel that for anyone in this cutthroat business -- especially not an American partner.
Solo, while seemingly friendly and caring toward him for years, had always had a sly, wily side. There must be hidden motives here. To make Kuryakin look bad to Waverly, and in turn, make him look good? There was always a subliminal competition between them and this would only enhance the senior agent's reputation and ego. All his life those who wanted to benefit from his intellect, his talent, and his survival craftiness had used Illya. Why would Solo be any different? They were friends, yes, Illya admitted obliquely, but that didn't mean a friendship of such deep devotion. They'd risked their lives for each other, but did it really mean anything beyond the job? He didn't want to admit that it did. Yet, if their positions had been reversed, he knew he would have done anything rather than let Napoleon be killed, wouldn't he? Yes, he would, he realized.
Even though his heart told him that was not the case this time, he could not being himself to trust that there could be anything but selfishness on Napoleon's part. Why would the senior agent risk a blemish on his soaring career for a novice Russian? For friendship? Illya refused to allow himself to trust that much. He allowed Solo trust for his life, but his emotions? That was too personal, too close. How could he do that?
"Why what?"
After a snort of exasperation, Illya opened his eyes, favoring him with a frosty glare that was unmistakable even in the dim light of the trunk. "Why would you care?"
The tone was sharp, abrasive, confrontational and dark with suspicion. The eyes were shaded with a vulnerability Solo could not remember seeing in his partner before. Just as the confident senior agent had suspected when he first met Illya, there were deep insecurities under the mysterious and aloof surface of the Russian. The cool exterior was really a shield to fight off personal contact. Easily recognizable by someone who used the same technique in varyingly different methods. Slowly, over the last few years, Napoleon had been peeling away the protective layers of Illya's defense -- at first in a kind of superiority game, then as the sincere caring of a friend. Now he wondered if his continual pushing had irreparably damaged what had already become the most important relationship in his life.
Instead of being insulted, Napoleon wanted to smile, acknowledging how alike they really were, although they adamantly insisted to any and all who would listen that they were fiercely independent and considered themselves to be loners. And as different as their partner as night and day -- as Russian and American, he smiled. Maybe Waverly saw that in them a few years ago when he started placing them together on assignments.
There was no doubt he had managed to win a subtle, uphill battle of slowly earning Kuryakin's trust and -- he hoped -- friendship. He wasn't going to let this verbal setback damage his battle plan. There were still a few little skirmishes left to defeat the cold Russian winter within his friend's heart. Nothing like a little bit of Yankee hot air to melt the frosty skepticism. Because he was determined to win this cold war -- dissolve all the barriers between this Russian and himself. Over the years he had seen glimpses in Illya that were too reminiscent of what he saw when he bothered to look within himself. In Illya he saw a brother-spirit -- a shadowy reflection of the insecurities, the mistrust, the suspicion he had felt in his own past.