THE BRING 'EM BACK ALIVE AFFAIR
by
G M
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-- All the usual disclaimers apply -- I own nothing -- just borrowing these guys for a while --
A subdued thud snapped Illya Kuryakin's eyes up from his paperwork. He waited, wondering what had caused the unusual sound. Another, louder thud came from the corridor. Instantly he was on his feet and moving to the door. What could have caused impacts of such force that he could bear them inside his office? The specially refined titanium-alloy walls of U.N.C.L.E. HQ were sound and bulletproof and it would take a substantial impact for him to hear it.
Before he reached the door it swung open. He paused, waiting. No one came in, but from the shadow cast across the corridor he knew someone was standing close enough to his office to have activated the motion sensor for his door.
"Come on, Ted, calm down."
The strained, resonant voice was Napoleon Solo's. It sounded as if he were just outside.
Kuryakin's sense of urgency heightened, he cautiously peered around the doorway. Facing him was a tense Solo, concentrating on disarming rookie agent Ted Morris. What momentarily confused the Russian was Solo's expression of sympathy and sorrow, two emotions inconsistent with the possibly dangerous situation he faced.
Ted, his back to Kuryakin, stood near the wall, a metal chair upraised in his hands. IIlya's immediate concern was for Solo's safety; only secondarily did he question what had driven a good, albeit rookie, agent to such a showdown.
Solo caught Illya's eye --acknowledging his partner as back up. Illya stepped forward and firmly took hold of the chair. Solo rushed to seize Ted's arms.
Angrily the tall young man wrestled free of Solo.
"Don't touch me!"
"Ted --"
"Get away! Jeff's dead and all you can do is talk about a new partner! You don't know the first thing about partners, damn you! Go to Hell, Solo!"
Napoleon winced at the stinging words, but never lost his cool. A small crowd had gathered in the corridor. Morris leaned against the wall. His shoulders shook.
"Ted, we need --"
"Shut up, just leave me alone," he cried, his conviction waning.
Solo waved the others away and gently took Morris by the elbow and led him back into his office.
"I think you have seen enough of the show," Kuryakin distastefully commented to the lingerers in the hall.
For a moment he contemplated joining Napoleon as moral support, then decided against it. Morris might feel better exposing his grief alone with Solo. Besides, Illya had no wish to be a witness to the emotional detritus of sorrow. Illya returned to his office and sat at the desk again, his concentration shattered. Every Section Two agent constantly faced the possibility that one day he could loose his partner. Whenever a colleague went down, the fleeting fear became a little more real.
The small office now seemed oppressive. He finally gave up trying to work and went to the communications center looking for activity to take his mind off Morris. Waverly, and Solo via a three-way connection to his office, was they're dealing with a priority call from an agent in Bangkok. The police had uncovered a dangerous, international white slavery ring and requested UNCLE's help in dealing with the problem. No agents were available from the London HQ, so New York was the secondary source. Waverly ordered Solo to take care of it -- assign --an agent to investigate and more to follow if necessary.
When Kuryakin entered Solo's office a few minutes later, the Chief Enforcement Agent was alone. The Russian slumped into a comfortable, plush chair placed against the wall next to the desk.
"Who is going to Bangkok?"
"My, what big ears you have," Solo replied with a sidelong look at his partner. He pushed the papers away from the edge of his desk and propped his feet up. "Morris." His expression dared a rebuttal.
Kuryakin simply nodded. "I hope his shots are current."
Solo laced his hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling for some time. "He's a good agent. It was his first time with -- with that kind of loss; that's why he lost control. He'll be fine in Bangkok."
"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"
Napoleon tossed him a sour glare. "He needs to keep busy or he'll go crazy. You can't stop and think too much when your partner goes down." He sat up and studied his hands for a moment. "You think it was wrong to send him out so soon? You think he'll do something rash? Out of control?"
"I did not say so."
"You didn't say anything," Napoleon responded. "You'd rather let me talk myself into a corner."
Kuryakin shrugged. "I think this is the most difficult part of your job and I am glad it is your duty and not mine. None of us wishes to be reminded of these unpleasant possibilities."
Solo nodded in agreement and rested his chin in his hand.
"Getting Morris out of the office is a good idea," Illya said. "He wears his grief on his elbow too visibly. Not good for the other agents."
Napoleon smiled --and shook his head. "He wears his heart on his sleeve," he corrected. "He's only a kid, Illya."
Not unkindly Kuryakin reminded, "He is a professional and must learn to deal with these losses. It is not your burden to shoulder."
Solo was buried in moody thought for some moments and tapped the end of a pencil on the closed file folder bearing the name of the deceased agent. Abruptly he slipped the folder under some other papers. Forcing his thoughts from their dark meditation he muttered, "No. Of course not."
The subject had been half-mentioned, partially discussed, inferred to, many times in the past. In his role as head of Section Two, Solo had the duty of sending agents on assignments, organizing partnerships and overseeing the efficient operations of Enforcement. All too often his agents did not come back.
It was impossible not to feel remorse and a measure of accountability for the losses. The emotions were implied, never discussed. When he had an opportunity to help an agent deal with the grim realities of their profession, he would do what he could.
"Morris will need an experienced agent to act as his back-up. Someone really good to help him rebuild his confidence."
"You? To assuage your guilt?"
"I don't feel guilty!"
"Then send me. I am currently assigned only to the paperwork from which I can never escape."
Solo stared at him for a moment. Rarely had he been so slickly outmaneuvered. The only way to prove he had no lingering remorse, either to himself or lIlya, was to let Kuryakin have the assignment. The only way to prove he was not afraid to send out his partner with a rookie on the emotional edge. By assigning lllya
He could show everyone, including Morris, that he was objective about his job.
With a slight nod he acknowledged the Russian's tactical superiority. This time.
"In a few days I'll drop in and check up on the bad habits you're teaching him."
"Just the kind of assignment you would volunteer for. White slavery in the steamy jungle."
Solo grinned wolfishly. "Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?"
Kuryakin rolled his eyes and shook his head -- his silent commentary to his friend.
***
Solo paused on the jungle path to take a drink from his canteen and wipe sweat from his face. Geographically he was not so far out of Bangkok, yet he felt as if eons separated him from the sophisticated steel and concrete of New York. It hardly seemed like three days since he had been at U.N.C.L.E. HQ.
He continued walking, picking his way along the slightly overgrown, narrow track meant to pass for a road. He had hidden his jeep a half-mile back-a long distance away for an escape vehicle, but necessary for a stealthy and unobserved arrival into the white slavers' camp.
He slapped away some unknown obnoxious insect nibbling at his neck. Mentally he grumbled that the entire atmosphere was an unpleasant reminder of survival school days. The Frank Buck games and survival techniques had not been his favorite or his highest scoring subjects. However, skills and experience had proved sufficient to keep him alive this long.
This time it was not a contrived tactical situation. This was real life. More than just a grade or reputation was on the line. His life --Illya's Iife -- could depend on his actions when he arrived at the slavers' camp.
When he had dealt the assignment to Kuryakin in New York, it had seemed so simple. Napoleon had not been too concerned, just a bit-superstitious-about sending the Russian on an assignment with Morris immediately after the rookie agent's partner was killed.
The mission was more a bit of observation and detective work than real danger. The assignment was to observe, report back and call for more agents and the assistance of the police if required. Elementary stuff for Kuryakin's expertise. What could go wrong?
What had gone wrong was the burning question that Solo wanted answered. When he had arrived in Bangkok this morning, as scheduled, he had found an unconscious Morris in the hospital recovering from head injuries, cause unknown. Local authorities knew only that Kuryakin and Morris had set out to find the slavers' jungle retreat and where Morris had been found. There had been no sign of Kuryakin.
Was Illya captured? For a fleeting, humorous moment Napoleon relished the mental picture of his partner in the clutches of a white slave harem. Under cover indeed! Even Solo's active imagination boggled.
Now, there would be a challenge -- an undercover, no pun intended, mission-infiltrating the slavery dens.... Solo hated thinking about wasting such an assignment on Kuryakin. Illya would turn the erotic opportunity of a lifetime into a game of spy -vs- baddies.
The comedic avenues of those scenarios quickly drifted back to the darker, more likely possibilities. Was Illya dead? Or injured and stranded somewhere in the jungle?
These were the most hated unknowns of his profession-the nerve-strained moments when he was blind to whatever tragedies might have occurred. His imaginings were always -- well, sometimes worse than the realities. He hoped he would find Illya partying with the slavers, waiting only for a chance to leave the com-pound. Somehow Solo did not think that was the situation he would find.
The sun was low, shrouded through the thick veil of tall trees in the humid jungle. Solo removed his cap and wiped his sleeve across his sweat-rimmed face. The tightly massed trees let very little light in, yet trapped the mugginess like a lid on a steamer. Now it was nearing sunset. Animals and birds skittered through the flora; their calls chattered echoes in a primeval world where Man was the unwelcome visitor in an untamable environment.
He rounded a curve in the path and spotted the compound anonymously nestled within the matted jungle. Kneeling near a bush he removed the binoculars from his pack and surveyed the quiet compound. The huts were ensconced in a small concave clearing no more than a few hundred feet away. In the middle of a primeval jungle the slavery kings did not want for luxuries. A generator powered electrical lights around the compound and in the huts. A helicopter rested on a pad at the edge of the clearing. The incongruent beat of rock music filtered through the jungle sounds.
For over an hour Solo circled the compound, surveying it from the safety of the jungle. The reconnoiter was of little value. There was no sign of Illya, no guards, no obvious place to hold prisoners. There were two vicious Dobermans tied to the rail of one of the huts. Those astute, pointed ears were already twitching with suspicion at his presence. On the positive side there was no sign of a fresh grave or a blond-headed body hanging from a tree.
There had been all day to come up with a plan. Solo had thought of several possibilities. A one-man commando attack was out unless he could covertly locate Illya. The dogs would prevent a closer skulking exploration of the huts. He smiled to himself. He could always just walk in and volunteer as a harem guard. Well --it was just a thought.
He crouched at the edge of the path and studied the clearing. It would soon be dark --
The soft sound of a footfall behind him came simultaneously with the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to his neck. So much for best laid plans.
***
Hands over his head in the universal symbol of surrender, Solo cooperated with his captor and entered the clearing. Quietly, and seemingly from nowhere, another armed guard appeared and prodded him toward the largest hut. There was an aura of professionalism emanating from these men. Barefooted, dressed in old jeans and faded shirts, they were well armed, stealthy, deadly. There was more here than a bunch of talentless thugs. The slavery ring could apparently afford the best, sartorial taste aside.
The theory seemed justified when an Oriental man barely over five feet tall emerged from the large hut. There was a familiar, wary tension in the way he moved and looked. This man was a dark reflection of himself-a fellow professional, but an opposite. Solo just hoped the man would not be so astute as to sp6t an U.N.C.L.E. agent.
"Name's Frank," he decided on the spot, falling into his 'ugly American' role.
The boisterous obnoxiousness was an instant irritation. It immediately threw the opposition into antagonistic aggression and a tendency to take the crass Yankee at face value. He only lacked a stick of chewing gum to make the image complete.
"Frank Buck."
He appreciated the role-playing persona of the famous game hunter. Truly this time he wanted to bring his catch back alive.
"Came to offer my services at a reasonable rate."
Coasting through the obstacles now, cautious and on guard, but not strained with nervousness. The spy-Vs-spy stuff was what he really excelled at. At Survival School he had been at the top of his class in role-playing infiltration.
"What is your business, Mr. Buck?" The Oriental asked in crisply enunciated English. The accent was cultured and well schooled. Like the rest of the situation, he was not what he appeared to be.
"Told ya already," Solo impatiently replied. He ran words together in a jumbled example of American slang. He took a swipe at brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. "Somma my friends in Bangkok said you might need a guy of my talents." He shoved his hands in his pockets as if he was there to stay. He pointedly ignored the guards who inched closer, their weapons still centered on him. The Oriental didn't flinch from the sudden movement. Another mark of control.
"Ya didn't have a recruitin' office in the city so I had to hike up here."
"How did you find our camp?"
"Aren't many secrets in Bangkok," Solo shrugged. "At least on my sidda the law. I specialize in covert operations, if ya know what I mean." An exaggerated wink and a leer accompanied a nudge to the man's ribs. The startled leader backed away, but not before Napoleon determined he was wearing a pistol in a belt holster.
"Your friends should have told you we don't take recruits off the street, Mr. Buck."
"I don't expect ya to adopt me! Ya gotta check me out or somethin'. Then ya can hire me." Napoleon derisively snickered. "Whattya think, I've got the Marines hidden in the jungle or somethin'?"
The Oriental barely flicked wary dark eyes toward the jungle then back to his captive. It was a little thing, but Solo felt unaccountably smug at the slight mental victory. It was a sign that the man was not astute enough to realize he was here alone. It also made him think this band of merry men were few in number and nervous. Because they had already had another stranger drop in?
The man returned to a placid stare, which he directed at the agent for several silent moments. Napoleon remained calm and nerveless, never flinching under the scrutinizing, suspicious intensity of the Oriental.
"Of course I will test you, Frank. I don't like to waste resource material."
"Good."
Qai shouted a retort laced with the anger at the agent's superior attitude. 'That makes me very suspicious of you, Frank!"
"I'm sure," Solo shrugged. "So?" The laconic sarcasm was a polished American art form which Solo had honed to perfection.
Hatred flickered in Qai's dark eyes. The casual dismissal infuriated him.
Pressing his advantage, Solo volleyed a few more jibes. "Look, I've been hikin' all day. Ya wanna get to the point?"
"Come!" Qai snapped.
Napoleon had been very lucky so far. The search had been rude but not thorough, he was being escorted to his partner, he was not heavily guarded. Now if only Illya was in halfway decent shape they could overpower the guards, free the slaves, steal the chopper and be out of here in no time. Napoleon clung to that blissfully optimistic hope. He pointedly pushed aside the anxieties of the unknown reality he was about to face.
Qai stopped in front of a small hut near the center of the compound. He barked out instructions. Two guards emerged from the hut more or less dragging a man between them. Solo easily identified his partner before the Russian came into the weak lights of the compound. A small sigh of relief escaped. Kuryakin was a bit battered from some low-grade abuse but no serious injuries were apparent. This was confirmed when the Russian ever-so-briefly brushed glances with his partner. Illya's cagey expression, the wry glint in his eyes, the infinitesimal up-curve of the lips, indicated he was playing opossum with his captors. He wasn't even bound. This might be easier than expected.
The quick, superficial contact traded by the partners was enough to exchange messages. Napoleon easily read Illya's readiness to move, awaiting only a signal.
"Aw, gee, not that kind of slavery. Sorry, he's just not my type, pal."
Only Illya could manage to scowl at Napoleon without really changing his expression.
Qai scrutinized the two men who faced each other in the compound yard. Seemingly convinced they did not know each other, Qai made his proposal.
"Actions speak louder than words, Frank," Qai explained coldly. "We will see how serious you are about employment."
Qai took a .45 automatic from one of the guards. A single bullet was loaded into the chamber then the clip was removed. Qai handed the pistol to Solo.
"You will execute the spy."
Still outwardly cool; Solo fought to control his surprise at the unexpected request. He could feel the blood drain down to his feet. He glanced toward the Russian. Illya's face had not flinched, but the sliver of humor had abandoned the blue eyes. Napoleon wasn't feeling very amused himself. A quick, peripheral check placed the guards; weapons ready, behind him.
Solo forced firm defiance into his tone, into his expression. "Kill a guy in front of all these witnesses?" He leveled his gaze at Qai and offered back the weapon. "You'll have me in your pocket."
Qai did not accept the pistol but from his pocket pulled another .45. He tugged back the slide to insert a bullet in the chamber and cock the hammer. Then he placed the barrel inches away from Solo's nose. "You will be the executioner or the executed," he simply stated. "Your choice."
Napoleon ignored the urge to wipe the sweat from his slick palms. The few hidden devises he had brought were not within easy reach. A move for his boot or inner vest would be a death warrant. Even the small bomb in his belt buckle would be tricky to get to.
"Hey, listen, man," he stalled, "this is no fun. Not what I had in mind when I offered my services to slavers, ya know?"
"It doesn't really matter, does it, Frank? Kill or be killed, as the saying goes."
"Well, if ya put it that way, guess I don't have a choice.
He turned back to face his partner. The life of his closest friend had never been so dramatically and literally placed in his hands. They both knew no power on earth or beyond could induce Napoleon to willing harm Illya. He would take that bullet to the brain himself before he would shoot the Russian and Illya knew that. On the other hand, Kuryakin would not try anything dangerous at the risk of Solo's life. The options gave neither of them any comfort.
As Solo stared at his friend his inner desperation deepened a few notches. He knew Illya was waiting for a signal, a go-ahead to leap into action and deliver them from the trap. Frantically Solo's thoughts raced through the few feasible plots, then on to the impossible, for escape. No magic formulas came to mind, no miracles. Nothing.
Solo straightened his right arm and levelly pointed the pistol at the Russian. To the senior agent's credit his hand was perfectly stable and rock steady as he looked down the sights at his friend. The charade lasted only a few seconds. His brain raced as he grasped for any way to stall any bluff that would carry them out of this debacle.
Qai took a few paces back out of arm's reach of Solo. "Kill him!"
With an inward sigh Solo lowered the weapon. Resignation clear on his expression, he continued to stare at Kuryakin. "Sorry. I guess I'm not the cold-blooded murder type.
"Kill him!"
The order was intently crisp. Conversational pleasantries had fled the Oriental. The game was over.
The revelation forced a quick reevaluation of the standoff. Qai and his men were on guard and ready to kill. There would be no easy way to slip out of the compound under the fire of four rifles and Qai's close range .45. How many other surprises were hidden in the huts? Even a brilliant diversion would buy, at best, one escape.
Solo's tone was level and deep. "Guess this is not open for negotiation," he quipped without humor touching his expression or voice. His eyes remained fixed on Illya. "I gotta do what I gotta do," he quietly delivered. The somber tone was meant to convey the double-edged meaning in his message.
Kuryakin blinked, an almost overt reaction of confusion for the stoic Russian. Either he didn't grasp the message or he didn't want to. Solo pushed out the extraneous emotions clouding his mind. His total concentration had to be focused on saving their lives. There would be no second chances tonight. Surreptitiously he detached the bomb from his belt buckle with his left hand. Illya's eyes quickly flickered to the hand then back to Napoleon's eyes. There was a dawning alarm in his friend's face but Solo ignored it.
Angling his back toward Qai and the guards, he delivered a slight nod to Illya, indicating imminent action.
Solo suddenly flicked the bomb behind him then spun, crouched, and shot at Qai.
Even before he pulled the trigger, Solo knew it was too late. He felt Qai's shot strike him, hot and painful, high in the chest. Like a drowning man he felt himself sinking, receding from the light, from the awareness of senses of touch, sound and sight. Almost instantly darkness closed around him.
There was little time for Kuryakin to react. He dove to the ground and rolled toward the nearest guard out of pure instinct. Only part of his attention registered the bomb taking out two guards, the two shots fired. He was peripherally aware that Napoleon was down, wounded badly enough to be dangerously still. Constantly in swift motion, Illya slugged one guard and seized a rifle and shot the last guard. Wounded and unarmed the man staggered off into the trees.
Kuryakin grabbed Qai's fallen .45 and scooped his partner up to half-drag, half-carry Solo from the field of battle and run into the welcome protection of the jungle foliage. His pace was spurred by knowing Solo was alive, still warm and breathing. The knowledge relieved his initial, darkest fears.
He was breathing so hard his lungs and chest ached from the exertion. His throat was dry and sore from the labored gulps of air being pushed in and out with tremendous force.
After a moment of keen listening and watching, Kuryakin was assured there was no immediate pursuit. He leaned his partner against a tree and checked for vital signs. There was blood everywhere, profusely splashed across Solo's shirt and vest. Relieved to find a pulse, Illya tore pieces from the vest and fashioned a makeshift bandage. The .45 slug had torn a nasty hole around Solo's collarbone. A cursory check convinced Kuryakin the wound was not immediately fatal in itself, but Solo would probably bleed to death if they lingered for long in the jungle. Extricating them both from this trap would be one of his more miraculous feats. Solo was in no shape to survive any extended hikes through the wilderness. Eluding their pursuers while dragging along a wounded man seriously diminished their chances of survival.
Illya leaned his head against the trunk and closed his eyes for a moment. How could he get them out of the jungle? What had Napoleon been thinking with his ridiculously rash, stupid, and selfish bravado? It had all happened so fast there had been no time to plan anything. Too soon Solo's bluff had been called. The ill-fated shoot out was a blurry vague recollection, Qai's bullet and Solo's had plowed into their respective targets at the same instant. Both men were thrown to the ground.
It was all still unfocused by shock and terror, distorted by anger. He had seen it all unfold like a slow-motion picture and been unable to stop the tragedy. He knew Solo was willing --no -- GOING to sacrifice his life to save him. Illya hated him for the stupidity of the heroics without understanding how he could detest his only friend.
Illya knew the enemies were still out there-he could feel them lurking in the shadowy depths of the steamy forest.
A noise to the right snapped him to attention. He didn't move, didn't make a sound, yet every sense was alert and ready.
A hand tapped his arm.
Kuryakin very nearly jumped out of his skin. Trained self-control saved him from external reaction, yet his heart was close to pounding out of his chest.
"Try this," Solo whispered quietly, his voice tight and strained. He placed his bloody hand on Illya's and put several small objects into Kuryakin's palm.
Illya quickly tossed the plastique discs then sheltered their heads as the explosions rocked the ground. Cries of pain echoed and died in the night.
"Targets should not wear exploding buttons," lllya commented when he lifted his head. "It's a dangerous habit."
"I never intended to be a target."
"You never do."
"And you never intend on getting captured."
Kuryakin carefully shifted away from his friend, trying not to jar Solo. "I'll check on our adversaries."
Solo nodded, trying to silence a gasp. In obvious pain, he gripped onto his injured shoulder.
This was just the kind of situation he hated; wounded, uncomfortable, many miles from the end of the journey. Being a spy was never easy. Almost silently Illya hunched through the undergrowth to rejoin him.
"Two remain armed, wounded, and dangerous."
Solo nodded, trying to ignore his partner's glare of irritation. When Illya assumed that foreboding expression of righteous indignation Napoleon became instantly wary. "What about the captives? Women, I assume?" he asked, mostly to get Illya's attention off him.
"Can you think of nothing else?" he snapped. "They are in the large building. There are perhaps seven of them."
"Seven. And what were you doing while imprisoned with seven women? Don't disappoint me, old son."
"Your smutty fantasies are wasted this time, Napoleon. They are just not your type. Trust me."
"Trust you?"
"Yes. Now we must take possession of the helicopter and get you to medical attention," the Russian said curtly. "Which would be so much easier if you had not been clumsy enough to be shot."
Napoleon interpreted Illya's anger to mean the wound was not fatal and he was well enough to be chastised for his latest foolhardiness. Although he was feeling all the unpleasant aftereffects of a gunshot wound, he was aware enough to be a little defensive. After all, his spilled blood was sacrificed for Kuryakin.
"Ingrate," Napoleon sighed, somewhat piqued. "Next time maybe I should just let them kill you."
"At least it would save me from your ridiculous theatrics!" Kuryakin snapped back with a dangerous edge to his tone.
With the tips of his fingers Solo massaged his head. It did not help to clear his muzzy mind. He felt sick and preoccupied with pain and shock. He definitely was not up to a debate with his irate and testy partner.
"Maybe it's your bad karma, Mr. K. Morris is in the hospital with a concussion."
"He is an even worse partner than you. He struck off on his own and fell down an embankment. Before I could help I was captured."
"This has just been one embarrassing foul-up after another," Solo sighed. "If it makes you feel better, it's your turn to get us out of here."
"No, it does not make me feel better!"
Napoleon's eyes snapped over to his partner. An almost visible cloud of hostility hovered about the Russian. Clearly Illya was in a lousy mood. "What is your problem?"
Kuryakin glanced at his partner then quickly glanced away. "Nothing." Then he glanced back to briefly brush eye contact with Solo. He shook his head. "This can wait until we are away from here."
"Okay. What's the escape plan?"
Kuryakin handed him a pistol. "Can you make it to the chopper on your own?"
"If I can't you'll be the first to know."
"I will remove the remaining guards," Kuryakin assured him.
"What about the women?"
"What?"
"The captives. We can't leave them behind. They'll be killed."
Kuryakin scowled, his face taking on several vile expressions of irritation and anger.
"As I'm sure you've noticed, the chopper is only a two-seater."
"Damn."
Solo shifted, as much to ease the pain in his shoulder as to stay alert. "I parked a jeep about a half-mile back on the road. Keys are under the driver's seat. The women could drive themselves back.
Mulling over the suggestion, Kuryakin shook his head. "No. But I will think of something. Just be sure to get to the chopper." His tone indicated he had doubts about Solo's ability to accomplish the simple request.
Illya was tensed to spring away. Solo abruptly seized him by the shoulder.
"Why are you treating me like some rookie? What's eating at you? My rescue was successful even if it did lack finesse. "
"It also lacked judgment, responsibility and any shred of sense!" Illya volleyed back harshly. "It was bloody idiotic! Don't ever do anything so stupid again!" he shouted.
Refusing to recognize the stinging hurt of the accusation, Napoleon countered, "We're alive. That's what's important."
"Apparently our definitions of success are different." The tone was cool and impersonal. "This is not the time or place for discussion."
Kuryakin started to slip away but Napoleon dug his fingers into the shoulder. If Illya wanted to be so blindly realistic then he could match the level. "We may not live long enough for the right time."
"Then it won't matter."
Solo's arm started to shake and he wanted to think it was from fatigue and shock. Not a physical, but an emotional reaction to the coldness and distance in his friend's tone. He had lost much more than blood in this steamy, deadly jungle. For the second time that day, he felt the insidious, desperate threads of real fear crowd into his mind. Fear that death would claim one or both of them and this time it would be before he could resolve this breech.
With a culmination of his courage, he released his grip on Kuryakin. "Let's just get out of here."
Kuryakin stood at the edge of the clearing, leaning against a tree, studying the compound. The eerie silence, the yellow lights strung a-cross the grounds, cast a surrealistic, sepia-toned displacement to the macabre scene of bodies and blood in the dark, verdant soil of the jungle. A line of sweat edged its way down the back of his damp hair and along his neck.
He did not move, barely breathed, as he watched and waited. The seconds ticked by, wasted seconds which were vital to his friend's life. Yet to enter the clearing rashly would be deadly to him as well as Solo. He could of course leave the captives to their fate temporarily, but his conscience would not allow that. If he could not personally see to their return to civilization, he could at least ensure their escape and safety.
Again Illya checked the clearing for any detail; any sound, which would indicate one of the wounded guards, was waiting for him. He sensed nothing tangible, yet as his eyes scanned the area once again he knew he was missing something. Nothing obvious betrayed a lurking danger.
Quickly he sprinted across the open ground to the nearest hut and stopped. Still no threat. He trotted to the other hut. The next building held the prisoners. Inner urgency compelled him to continue, but some nagging instinct caused him to hold his ground.
Pressing ever close in his conscience was the reminder that Napoleon had been wounded saving him and now depended on him to get out alive. Napoleon would have to wait. Other lives needed him more at the moment.
He dashed across to the wall of the big building and paused for just a moment. In the still, cloying air he heard only the distant sounds of the jungle creatures driven from the area by the gun battles. He finally realized what was missing.
The curious incident of the dog in the night.
No dog barking in the night, Sherlock Holmes had once said.
There were no dogs barking now. Had they been untied? Or were they being used by one of the wounded guards to track the agents?
He turned to run in the direction of the chopper pad, then stopped. Innocent victims were at the mercy of the guards if he did not free them. Certainly the remaining men would not want witnesses left alive and free to tell this tale.
IlIya ran to the door and hit it with his shoulder. The wood was more solid than it appeared. He gave it another few full-strength knocks before the frame separated and the door crashed in. Barely visible in the pale light from the courtyard were seven small bodies huddled together in a corner of the room. Of different nationalities and races, the seven small girls were petrified with fright.
Cautiously he approached them, belatedly hiding his pistol behind his back. "Come, we must get you out of here," he said in several languages.
One of the older girls, probably not more than eleven, took two of the girls by the hands and joined Illya. "Will you take us home?"
'Yes. But we must hurry."
One little waif hugged his leg. He could feel the moisture of her tears through his pants leg. His hand shook as he touched her cold fingers and pried them loose, taking the frail little hand in his. These terrified children needed him to save their sanity, their lives, and their world. Their helplessness and innocence cried out in desperation for his skill, maturity and care. They needed him even more urgently than the partner who had saved his life.
Like a shepherd gathering his flock, he ushered his charges toward the door. He would think of something. He could not abandon these children, or Napoleon, who was too injured to fly the chopper by himself.
He took a step outside and a bullet splintered the wood next to his face. He pushed everyone back, crouched, drew his gun and angled along the wall to get a glimpse of the yard. The girls had fallen back into the corner, crying. Illya could see nothing.
Without showing himself he edged close to the door and studied the split wood. Roughly he could guess the direction of the gunman, but the man could have moved by now. He peered past the light and into the trees where he suspected the gunman to be.
Above the muted jungle sounds came the strident barks of dogs. Gunshots cracked. Kuryakin started, nearly launching out the door. Creatures squawked and cried as they fled from the intrusion. At the edge of the tree line a glint of light-off-metal reflected like a beacon. Illya loosed off several shots. Bullets sprayed into the nearby door and Illya popped off the rest of the bullets in his clip, sweeping the area with deadly fire.
At the edge of the clearing a body fell from behind a tree. There was no more barking, no more gunfire.
Feeling the cold fingers of deathly fear clutch his soul, Illya raced across the clearing, verified the gunman dead and confiscated his rifle. He ran back and told the girls to stay where they were and handed the oldest one the rifle. At least the children would be protected.
"Do you know how to shoot?"
She shook her head.
He checked the rifle. "Just point and pull the trigger at anyone but me. Stay here until I return. I promise I will be back. There is still one more person I must rescue."
Heedless of the danger he crashed through the underbrush with all speed. He nearly flew over the edge of the slope leading down to the helipad. Still running, he took in the grim scene as he leaped over the bodies of the dogs lying on the path.
The last man was in a desperate struggle with Solo for possession of a rifle. Pinned to the ground, Napoleon wrestled for the weapon while the guard smashed Solo's hand, wrapped around the rifle, on the ground.
Then the guard shifted position and drove a knee into Solo's wounded shoulder. The agent screamed in agony, releasing the weapon. The guard raised the barrel to smash Napoleon in the face. The agent rolled away and the weapon hit the concrete. The guard aimed the gun at Solo.
"No!" lllya cried, still at a dead run. Still too far away.
The man turned the rifle at Kuryakin.
There was no time to fear for himself. There was no time for anything save that microcosm of a fractional second when he knew he was a dead man.
The guard's rifle exploded, taking part of the man's face with it.
"Illya!" Napoleon had cried at the same instant.
The voice and shot echoes faded absorbed in the silence of the jungle. They were replaced by Kuryakin's labored breathing as he came to a stop at the chopper and placed his shaking body against the cold metal. He slid down to the ground in numb exhaustion of body and spirit.
"Illya!" Solo's whispered exclamation came some moments later. "The rifle jammed. Lucky."
"Yeah, lucky."
"What you did --" he gulped in breath -- "that was so bloody stupid."
Illya looked at Solo, not surprised at the slight smirk twitching at the American's mouth.
"Yes, it was," Kuryakin admitted unrepentantly.
"Welcome to the club."
"Stop being so smug."
"You just hate it when I'm right."
"Yes, I do."
Solo closed his eyes. "Glad everything is back to normal."
Alarmed, Kuryakin crouched next to his friend. The fight had exacerbated the seriousness of Solo's condition. Medical aid was critical.
"We will be on our way very soon Napoleon."
Tramping feet and muttered exclamations came from the rim of the slope. Kuryakin scowled at the girls who cringingly stopped before reaching the bodies of the dogs.
"Girls, stay where you are."
Solo opened an eye and observed the new arrivals, then turned to his friend. "You swine. You made me think...."
"You created your own lewd thoughts, Napoleon. I merely failed to correct you."
Solo's eyes slowly closed. "I'll get you for this."
"I doubt it. Now, while I radio for assistance you must cease your criticisms and conserve your energy." The pallor of the skin frightened him. "Can you hang on?"
Napoleon gave a slight nod.
Illya lightly rested a hand on the cool face and watched Solo breathe for a moment. Assured his friend was holding his own, Kuryakin made the promised call to local authorities. A police unit would be there shortly and Kuryakin would be free to fly Solo to a doctor.
Epilogue
The 'tap, tap' of Napoleon's shoes against the smooth, sterile floor echoed hollowly in the empty corridor. It was almost dawn and this section of the airport was uncrowded. He shifted the uncomfortable sling on his arm, unaccountably self-conscious of his wound. It was not unusual for a Section Two agent, for him, to return bloody but unbowed. He usually even enjoyed the sympathy wounds could elicit from the opposite sex. The discomfort came from his own unease at his conduct on the mission.
He could not put the memory of Qai's ultimatum far from his thoughts. Involuntarily his finger twitched and he imagined the cold touch of the trigger on his skin, the cool sweat prickling his hand as he weighed his own life against a life he valued above all others. So real were the still-potent recollections that he shivered. So real was the fear.
Never could he forget the desperation -- the need to save Illya's life -- which was more important than his own. The graphic shootout was still vivid in his mind. The memory made him shiver.
He had been committed to taking that bullet to the head instead of seeing Illya killed. Perhaps his greatest revelation was the realization that friendship had no limits. To a supposedly objective, professional agent, that concept seemed more frightening than the pistol at his head. Or maybe the fear came from the loss of control, the risk to himself, to Illya. Then there was his own anger and helplessness when it seemed Illya would die trying to save him.
Spotting a lone, black-clad figure by the far windows, Solo crossed the at the departure lounge and stood behind the slighter blond man. A guarded expression looked at him through the reflection in the glass. "You were leaving without saying goodbye?"
Kuryakin's lips twitched. "I thought it mutually beneficial to avoid any unpleasantries." He turned to face his friend.
"Very thoughtful. Thanks."
The strangeness of the conversation was accentuated by the normalcy of the return to routine. It was as if the wrenching drama in the jungle had never been played out in its entire dimension and death. It might as well have been screened on television for all the affect it had on them. Everything seemed so normal.
Napoleon could not accept that. How could things ever be the same? He had looked down the sights of a pistol at his closest friend. He had willingly become the target in place of Kuryakin. Horrified, he had witnessed his partner's similarly sacrificial act to save his life. How could their lives remain the same?
Where could they go from here? What could possibly be said or done which would not trivialize the supreme, selfless emotions they had experienced? What was left after traveling to Hell and back?
Perhaps the questions were irrelevant. Their friendship encompassed so much; it seemed there was nothing they could not accomplish. There seemed no miracle, no heroism, and no impossible scheme, which they could not pull off. Their partnership was an integral part of their individual personalities and lives. It provided all the answers they needed right now.
Kuryakin gave a slight smile. "By the way, Morris was wrong.
"About what?"
"He was convinced you were insensitive to partnerships. He thought you could never understand."
Studying his friend for a moment, Napoleon allowed a wry twitch of his mouth. "I think all of us are still learning."
THE END