Warning: Some coarse language
The Traitorous Affair Part 2
Disbelief changed quickly to unbridled anger. Agent Kozlow kicked the wounded Kuryakin viciously.
"You fucking, traitorous, son of a bitch! Why did you do it, Kuryakin? Why did you kill Waverly?"
The Russian tried to respond but was unable to talk through the red haze of pain.
Kozlow swept his foot back to kick the man again, but Saunders grabbed his arm. "Easy, Stan, that's not the way to get answers. We'll take him down to the Agent Mitchell. He'll decide what to do with him."
"I say we just kill him now and save UNCLE the cost and waste of time of a trial! He sure as hell didn't give the old man any kind of a chance."
"Enough, Kozlow." That's not the way we do things or we'd be no better than those people down there!" Truth be told, I'd like to kill him myself, right here, thought Agent Saunders, but he refused to succumb to the temptation. His belief and respect for the credo of UNCLE kept him from acting on his rage.
Reaching down, Saunders grabbed the extra material on the shoulder of Kuryakin's parka and indicated for Kozlow to do likewise. Together, and none too carefully, they dragged the wounded agent down the mountainside. Kuryakin lost consciousness within the first few yards as he was dragged over boulders and deadfall.
Agent Peter Mitchell directed the cleanup operation. Some of his men gathered the prisoners and prepared them for transportation the Helena field office, others searched the building for more hostages and booby traps. He personally looked after Mr. Waverly. The body of the chief of UNCLE Northwest was laid out on a stretcher in the bed of a pickup truck. A blanket had been draped over it. Once they were out of the mountains he would be transferred to an ambulance. Mitchell walked over to the stretcher and pulled back the blanket. The craggy features of the chief had softened, the facial muscles were flaccid.
Mitchell's eyes welled with unshed tears as he gazed upon the man that had brought him back from the brink of despair so many years ago. Peter had started as a Section 3 agent. Soon after he joined UNCLE his wife and five year old son were killed in a car wreck. Mr. Waverly had kept close watch on the young agent and whenever he saw despair start to descend upon Peter, he would make a point of inviting him over to the house for dinner especially during holidays. He would find assignments that would keep Peter so busy he wouldn't have time to think about his loss. Eventually, the Old Man had promoted him to Section 2. There, under the supervision of Agents Solo and Kuryakin, Agent Mitchell once again began to feel that life had a purpose. He rose through the ranks of Section 2 until he was just below his friend and mentor, Illya Kuryakin, in rank.
"I'm sorry, Sir," he murmured, "I failed the mission, I failed you." Mitchell's voice shook with self recrimination.
Agent Mitchell heard angry, raised voices behind him. He replaced the blanket over Waverly's face and turned to see what the commotion was about. Two of his agents were dragging a bloodied man between them. Surrounding them was a large group of his agents taunting and prodding the man with their rifles. Not pleased with the mob like mentality being displayed by his men, Mitchell stepped toward the group and demanded what was going on.
"We found the bastard that killed Waverly," crowed Kozlow. "Wait 'til you see who it is!" The two men dropped their burden.
"I'm sorry, Peter," Agent Saunders spoke softly. "I know that you and Kuryakin are friends."
"What?" Mitchell looked at the man now lying at his feet. He reached down and pulled the parka's hood away from his face. "How…? Are you sure…?" he stammered.
"We saw him take the shot," Kozlow angrily replied. "We just couldn't react in time! That Commie traitor killed the old man in cold blood."
"It's true, Peter," Saunders confirmed. "I wish it weren't."
Peter Mitchell looked down at his unconscious friend. "Yeah," he muttered, "me, too." He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that Illya Kuryakin would betray UNCLE or Mr. Waverly. There were too many times when relaxing over a beer together that Illya mentioned the debt he owed Mr. Waverly for bringing him into the UNCLE organization.
He noticed that Kuryakin was shivering uncontrollably, probably a combination of shock and exposure. "All right. The two of you get a couple of other agents to help you and carry him into the building. We found an infirmary which should have the needed medical supplies until we can get a helicopter in here to evacuate Agent Kuryakin to an UNCLE facility. Get Agent Richards to help you. He used to be a medic in Viet Nam."
As the litter that carried Kuryakin was carried away, Mitchell grabbed two of his most trusted agents. "I want you two to put a guard on Kuryakin. No one is to interrogate him or enter his cell unless on my orders. The men are pretty emotional over Waverly's death and might try and do something stupid. Let's keep that from happening, okay?"
January 2, 1973
Napoleon Solo stood at the window in Mr. Waverly's office. He was on edge. An icy cold lump gnawed at his gut and the sixth sense that good agents develop nagged at him. Something was wrong. He looked at his watch for the hundredth time in the past hour, 11:30. There was a two hour time difference between Eastern Standard Time and Rocky Mountain Standard time. If the raid started at the prescribed time then they should…
"Mr. Solo, there is a scrambled communication from the extraction team coming through to you now, sir."
"Thank you, Lisa." Solo nervously strode over to the communications console. "Solo here, report."
"Mr. Solo, we failed." Napoleon could hear the shakiness and sound of defeat in Peter Mitchell's voice and he felt his own voice catch.
"Explain, Mitchell." He really didn't want to hear it.
"Sir, there was a sniper hidden on the mountainside to the east of the complex. When the guards brought Mr. Waverly out for execution the sniper beat them to it and shot him." Mitchell paused to steady his voice. "Mr. Waverly's dead."
Napoleon felt the blood drain from his face. He swallowed hard before continuing. "Did you get the bastard that shot him, Peter? Tell me you got him!"
"Yes, sir. Two of the agents shot him. He's badly wounded but still alive. Napoleon…," Agent Mitchell hesitated, "Napoleon, it was Illya. He's the one who shot Mr. Waverly."
Oh dear God! Illya? How? And why? If Napoleon's face was pale before it was positively ashen now. He sat heavily into the chair. "Pete…Peter are you sure?"
"Unfortunately yes, Napoleon. I wish it weren't. What are your orders, sir?"
Solo paused to think.
"Mr. Solo? What are your orders?"
"Ah, sorry Peter. Get Kuryakin stabilized and I want you to personally fly him and Mr. Waverly's remains back here by charter jet. We will perform the autopsy on Mr. Waverly here and interrogate Kuryakin as well. Put Agent Washington in charge of the cleanup operation.
"Yes, sir. Channel D out."
Napoleon Solo never felt more alone. His boss was gone, assassinated, and apparently at the hands of his best friend and partner. What the hell happened?
He toggled the intercom. "Miss Rogers, I'll be in conference for the next couple of hours. Please cancel any appointments and I don't want to be disturbed."
The next hour was spent in high security level phone conferences with the remaining Section 1 chiefs of UNCLE. He reported the death of Mr. Waverly and as much as it pained him to do so, he reported the apprehension of Illya Kuryakin as the alleged murderer. He confirmed that a charter plane was on its way to New York to deliver the body and Kuryakin.
"You will, of course, incarcerate Mr. Kuryakin upon his arrival, Mr. Solo?"
"Yes, sir. He is currently under medical care, but he will be placed in one of the medical holding cells upon his arrival."
"All right, Mr. Solo. The four of us will meet and decide the next step. Meanwhile make sure that Kuryakin is stripped off all privileges as well as methods of self destruction! We need to find out what caused him to be involved in such a traitorous act. We'll be in touch with you tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." The connection was broken.
Solo rose and strode over to the bar, pouring himself one finger of scotch and downed it in one swallow. All he could do now is wait for Agent Mitchell's arrival with his precious cargo and prisoner.
January 2, 1973, 20:00
"Mr. Solo, the transport from the airfield by helicopter will soon be arriving. It's ETA is ten minutes."
"Thank you, Miss Rogers. Please have all of the corridors cleared. No one is to be in the hallways." Solo didn't want any hysterics when Mr. Waverly was taken to the morgue and he wanted to protect Illya from the anger that the personnel would understandably feel towards him. He had ordered the extraction team that there was to be no discussion of the situation, but he knew the rumors would be flying anyway.
The acting chief of Section 1 made his way up to the helicopter pad on the rooftop and waited for the rotors to stop before approaching the aircraft. He unconsciously adjusted the black armband on his left sleeve. There was also an honor guard up there to bring Mr. Waverly's body from the aircraft to the morgue.
After the corpse had been delivered, another gurney was unloaded. Illya Kuryakin was swathed in several layers of blankets; every available inch of the gurney was loaded with monitors and IV containers. Medical personnel swarmed around the wounded agent and made ready to bustle him off the special wing in medical that is reserved for prisoners. Before they left with him, Solo asked them to give him a minute of privacy with Illya.
He looked down at his friend. Illya's face was pale and drawn, pinched with pain and…something else. He was conscious. Napoleon touched his left arm. "Hey, Partner, what the hell happened?"
"Na…Napoleon. How long?" the words came out haltingly.
"What do you mean, Illya?"
"How long since I shot Wa…Waverly?"
Napoleon took an involuntary step back. He felt gut punched as his friend had just admitted shooting Waverly. "About eleven hours ago."
"Napoleon, don't le…let them do autopsy! Please don't let them do…Waverly's not dead, yet."
He's delusional! thought Napoleon.
Illya tried to grab Napoleon's lapel, but his wrists were handcuffed to the gurney's frame. "Please! Promise me….no autopsy. Needs antidote. No good after thirty hours." His eyes were clear, the usual blue pupils were steel gray and he looked at Napoleon with an intensity that he had never seen.
"Okay, Tovarisch. We'll postpone the autopsy. Now let's get you down to medical."
With an anguished cry Illya whispered, "No! No autopsy!" And passed out.
"Get him down to medical, now!" Solo ordered, then retreated to his…Mr. Waverly's office.
