Chapter 3
Napoleon hated to leave but orders were orders and in spite of his committed wish to stay and look for Illya, Waverly insisted he return to New York. With each mile passing beneath him as he flew back the ache in his stomach grew stronger. He'd never let Illya down before. This felt so wrong.
Twenty-four hours after being informed of Kuryakin's disappearance Napoleon stood before his Chief and gave a verbal report on the events of their mission. He added that in his opinion he should be in Mexico looking for the agent right now.
Waverly was immovable. "We have standard procedures in cases such as this and as CEA you know them all too well Mr. Solo. You will report to your office and remain on desk duty until such time as a new partner is assigned to you. Is that clear?"
There was no mistaking the tone in the old man's voice. Napoleon knew how stern Waverly was when it came to dealing with agents. The agent looked down at the floor and then over his shoulder to avoid Waverly's glare while he bit his lip to hold back the retort. The spot where Illya always stood just behind him, as if guarding Solo's back, was empty but Napoleon could still visualize him there. It was as if no one else would ever take his place. Sadly Napoleon nodded. "Yes sir. Quite clear."
"Then I suggest you begin by writing out your report in detail and submitting it to the records section."
Waverly lit his pipe, the signal that this conversation was at an end. The agent got up and headed out the door defeated and deflated. He'd dealt with losing a partner before but somehow this time was worse. A twisted knot in his stomach wouldn't go away. He needed to find out what happened to Illya but with no leads he could do nothing but his duty for now. That didn't mean he had to like it.
~oOo~
One day passed and then another. To everyone who saw him, Napoleon carried on at U.N.C.L.E. much as he had the first time he'd lost a partner. That one had been to a THRUSH marksman and the man responsible paid for it with his own life. Napoleon was a pallbearer at the funeral and then five days later a new partner was placed in his trust. The young blond man didn't look old enough to tie his shoes let alone hold the U.N.C.L.E. special that he'd just scored 98 out of 100 kill shots on the target range. There was something about Illya Kuryakin though. Most people were put off by the accent and the fact that he was Russian but Napoleon took a liking to him. It wasn't long before they were the top team in U.N.C.L.E. and respected by all. This time he wasn't looking forward to working with someone else. Perhaps it was because in his heart he felt Illya was still out there.
As usual Napoleon's work performance was exemplary and his status as CEA was in no danger but privately he had his doubts. It bothered him that he seemed to visualize Illya everywhere as if he should still be there. In the shower after a workout Napoleon would look over his shoulder at the other stall and see the water running down over the well-defined muscles of Illya's back and down his strong legs to the floor. He'd see him sitting on the corner of his desk, hands propped on one leg as he leaned over Napoleon's work peering at the papers. The thoughts wouldn't go away.
~oOo~
It was a miserable journey across the ocean. Illya believed that many days had passed although below decks and unable to see daylight he didn't have an accurate way to calculate the passage of time. Food was minimal but enough to keep them alive and bottled water was provided. The scent of stale salt air came from the vents and large waves rocked the boat from time to time. He'd had better vacations.
~oOo~
The Captain scanned the horizon with strong binoculars. "Slow to quarter speed. Prepare for company."
The first mate changed the settings and the ship began its slow deceleration. The heavy hum from the engines softened as they waited for some sign from their contact. Fifteen minutes later a smaller vessel approached and signaled with the correct light code.
"All stop," the Captain ordered. They had to unload their illegal cargo before heading into port. The small boat would take the new slaves to shore and have them housed until the auction at the market.
Illya allowed himself to be herded onto the new boat along with the other captives. No point in escaping here. He had no place to go but into the middle of the ocean. He wouldn't survive that anymore than the old man did. His gut twisted at the thought of the old man. Shackled and secured, Illya could do nothing to help the man when one of the ship's crew had cut the old Mexican with a knife, picked him up, and tossed him overboard.
As the moving ship had pulled away from him, Illya saw him struggling to stay afloat. He also saw the dorsal fins of several sharks moving towards him. The screams seemed to last for much longer than the three minutes the winner of the ship's pool had predicted.
That had happened only about a mile away from this spot. Illya doubted the sharks were much less plentiful here than they had been there. No, he would wait until they reached dry land before planning his escape.
As they transferred from one boat to the other, he tried to figure out where he was. Hard to tell. He was unsure just how many days they'd sailed. Two? Three? More? He was unable to tell in the dark hold. Time wasn't a good indicator, anyway. They'd stopped a number of times along the way for the slavers to take on more human cargo, so that had made the calculations more difficult. The color of the water suggested abundance of coral which gave him several possibilities. One of those was the Persian Gulf and considering they were to be sold as slaves, he thought that the most likely. He'd recently read a CIA brief to U.N.C.L.E. which talked about the problem of slavery going on in the Middle East. If he ever made it back to New York, he could give U.N.C.L.E. a firsthand account of it.
His mind shifted to Napoleon as it had so many times since his fateful ride with the ferryman. He knew his partner and best friend would be worried. If Napoleon had his way, he'd be tearing up the entire Chiapas searching for him. The question was, would Waverly let him have his way? Either way, he knew Napoleon would eventually find him if he, Illya, didn't escape first. It was more a question of timing. If Napoleon could work on it full time, Illya expected a rescue soon. If his partner had to do it in his spare time, it could take a little longer. Maybe a day, if he knew his Napoleon.
The prod of a rifle in his ribs interrupted his musings before he realized he'd thought of his partner in a possessive way. The crew of the new ship secured Illya and the others in yet another cargo hold. A much smaller one this time. They crowded together, the stench of unwashed bodies and human wastes overpowering. Illya breathed through his mouth to lessen the experience. This time they only sailed for a short time before he and the other captives were finally escorted onto dry land.
Illya glanced around, assessing the possibility of escape. The idea flew out of his brain when the guards threaded a long chain through rings on the leg shackles connecting him to his fellow slaves. Slave! He couldn't believe he was about to be sold like . . . like . . . like a couch or a car! The thought of being owned by another made him cold, even in the stifling heat. The KGB had owned him like that once. After he'd been sent to the U.N.C.L.E. Illya knew what it felt like to truly be free for the first time in his life. U.N.C.L.E. freed his body and Napoleon freed his soul. To be forced back into a situation that was as bad as, if not worse, than his enslavement by the KGB was horrifying. It made him angry. If he ever got the chance, he would blast the slaver's boat right out of the water.
Their captors guided them into the city's marketplace and over to a square dais. An auction was already in progress; on the block at the moment were a woman and her six-year-old daughter. The bidding went quickly and the two were led away only to be replaced by a man. The sun beat down on Illya's fair skin as the auction continued. Finally, it was their captives' turn. The main guard released the Russian from the communal chain, but left the hand and leg shackles in place.
The raucous crowd hushed when the handsome blond haired, blue eyed, fair skinned infidel was dragged onto the dais. Illya resisted the pull on the chain, unwilling to let this farce go any farther. Not that he had a real choice, but he didn't have to go quietly. It was a motto he'd developed long ago and saw no reason to change it now.
"What have we here?" the auctioneer sneered in Arabic. "I'm sure many of you would like to see this one working in your oil fields."
"He's too spirited," heckled one prospective buyer.
The auctioneer gave the audience a greasy smile. "Ah, but think of the pleasure breaking his spirit would be."
"How much work can I get out of a skinny fellow like that?" another objected. Omar, the right hand of Sheikh Antar Al-Fadee, leader of the small territory of Al-Asfan, knew his master would be interested. Antar enjoyed making the infidels suffer and had a standing order to buy any that came through the slave market. Omar, however, felt it his duty to make sure the infidel slave could do something besides preach the word of their god. He wanted his master's money to be well spent and not wasted on a pretty bauble with no real skills.
Illya's handler leaned over and whispered to the auctioneer, whose smile broadened. The auctioneer shouted, "His present owner says he has more to him than meets the eye. The clothes cover his best assets."
At that moment, the slaver motioned several of the guards over to help him strip the clothes off their hapless victim. The white slave remained still, too many knives flashing near his body as they cut his clothing to make it prudent to fight. His expression and demeanor remained defiant, but indifferent to the humiliation they foisted upon him.
The guards moved away after only a couple of minutes, leaving the blond's body displayed for all to see. Omar moved closer to inspect him. He hopped onto the dais and felt the man's muscle tone. Very nice. This man's small stature promoted a deceptive impression. Short and, upon first glance, skinny, belied the strength hiding just beneath the surface.
Blue eyes focused on Omar. Clear and cold, yet they blazed with a fire filled with . . . well, not hatred so much as loathing. Omar would buy him, but the first thing he would have to do was teach the man a little humility. As a beginning lesson, Omar grabbed the limp genitals between the powerful white thighs and squeezed. To his surprise, the only reaction was a slight wince at the pain. If anything, the eyes flamed brighter with defiance rather than bank with acceptance of Omar's superiority.
Omar smiled. The Sheikh always liked a challenge. "I will give two hundred riyals," he announced, an amount that added up to approximately fifty American dollars. It was a large amount for a slave, but he wanted no opposing bids, which there would be if the price were too low. The Sheikh was a powerful force in his own territory, but here the representatives of other sheikh were also present and thought nothing of bidding against his master.
The auctioneer, buoyed by such a large beginning, started haranguing the audience for more bids. "I have two hundred riyals. Who will give me three hundred?" Although murmurs rippled through the crowd, no one spoke up. "Two hundred and fifty?" he asked hopefully. He waited for several long seconds, but when no one else bid, he had to concede the sale. "Sold to the house of Sheikh Antar Al-Fadee."
Omar handed over the coin, took the chain attached to the blond man's manacled wrists, and led him away.
~oOo~
Napoleon ate his lunch in his office most days. In fact socializing with anyone at U.N.C.L.E. seemed to be a chore since Illya disappeared. It was hard to sit and do paperwork of any kind. Not that he wasn't good at it nor that he left it to Illya all the time, but he felt incredibly restless as if he should be out there looking for him instead. Truthfully, even if Waverly had let him, there were no traces. The local police in Mexico and the other U.N.C.L.E. agents that followed up later never found a thing to suggest Illya was alive or even made it out of Guatemala.
As Napoleon stared at his cheese and onion sandwich, contemplating whether to finish eating it or not, Mark Slate poked his head into the office. "Hey mate."
Napoleon looked up at him with a weak smile.
"I heard about Illya," he said as he entered. "April and I just got back from Canada. I'm sorry."
Napoleon shook his head slightly. "We all know the score when we join. U.N.C.L.E. loses agents all the time."
Mark knew Illya meant more to him than just any partner. "Yeah. We do," he agreed although Napoleon would hear what he was really saying. "How long are you going to be riding the desk?"
After letting out a long breath, Napoleon tipped his head toward the area of Waverly's office. "Later today sometime I'm supposed to meet with the new man."
"You don't sound too enthusiastic about getting back into the field," Mark commented as he plopped himself into the chair across from his desk.
Napoleon pushed away his sandwich and leaned back. "It's not that. I just have the gut feeling that Illya is out there somewhere and I should be looking for him. That's all."
"Waverly won't go for that," the Brit replied. "You're too valuable to have spending time on a missing person case. Unless it was the daughter of the King of Spain or something."
The CEA shook his head trying to purge his dour mood and sat up straighter. "Yes. I know better. I just have to pull myself together and get on with things." Yet even as he looked out the open door to the hall he could picture Illya standing there, arms and ankles crossed and shoulder leaning against the frame. His stomach turned and his lunch threatened to come back up.