The Antarcticia Affair

by WendieZ

Undercover,Illya flies to Antarctica with a Section 8 scientist to upgrade the UNCLE station's monitoring equipment. The real mission: find the THRUSH infiltrator among the scientists who has been leaking important information.

4. Act IV: This is the end of the game

Antarctica Affair

Author's notes: The problems of posting parts of a story are somewhat evident here. I tend to come up with a general idea and let the plot grow as I write. Often, I don't know exactly how it will end, or how it will get to the ending, which is what happened in this case. Illya, with his usual efficiency, has needed less time to get to this point than I allotted him, so there are some minor changes in the first act. I apologize; I was just so excited about posting this one, I couldn't wait until it was completely finished. Besides, I really do like cliffhangers. Thanks for the wonderful comments earlier. Hope you like the resolution—WendieZ

Act IV: "This is the end of the game."

Carl Pinchot stole way from the repulsive scene of a disgraced Illya Kuryakin on his knees, wrapping the body of the director in sheets of heavy plastic. The task was performed under the watchful eyes of the entire constituency of the station and his own UNCLE Special was in Lester Milton's hand, pointed at him. Carl hurried down the hallway to his room and secured the door against interruptions. The brass case was exactly where his roommate said it would be. He pulled the inner piece out, set it to Channel D and spoke quickly: "Open Channel D, priority and scramble."

The device was silent for a moment and a male voice responded. "Channel D is open. Mr. Kuryakin?"

"No, this is Dr. Carl Pinchot. I have a message from Mr. Kuryakin. 'Twitter-patted.'"

A moment later, the voice replied again. "Understood. ETA six hours, five minutes. Perth, out." The communicator fell silent and Carl returned it to its hiding place. He fingered the revolver in its calf holster, somewhat relieved that his friend was not completely helpless if his captors did not know of its existence. There were voices in the hallway and when he opened the door, he saw Kuryakin approaching, bearing the weight of the shrouded Robin Baxter. The procession passed and continued towards the airlock to the outside. Carl followed at a discreet distance, pausing at the doorway of the dining room.

Gloria and Dr. Milton allowed Illya to put on the heavy outerwear that would protect him from the cold, then motioned with the agent's gun to proceed with his task. Kuryakin was back inside within twenty minutes, and removed his coat. He was ushered back through the dining room. At the doorway, the blond agent paused and looked inquiringly at his roommate, an expression that his captors would not be able to see from behind him. Carl sighed heavily and looked down at his feet but as his head lowered, he added an almost imperceptible nod. "I'm sorry, Illya. I wish I could help."

"Everything will be all right, Carl. You're not involved." Dr. Pinchot looked up and saw a smile on the Russian's face. "Spasiba," he murmured and passed through the doorway.

Dr. Pinchot turned away from the doorway and wandered over to the coffee urn. He was trying to be nonchalant, but equally so, he was in serious need of significant amounts of caffeine to relieve the throbbing in his head. He wondered, not for the first time, how Section Two agents could accept the indignities and injuries associated with this job. Surely mindful of what abuses awaited them courtesy of the sadistic minds of THRUSH would make a normal person question the sanity of deliberately walking into hell. And Kuryakin had just done it again, with a smile on his face and knowing rescue was "only" six hours away.

Illya sat quietly in a chair in Robin's office, his hands handcuffed behind him, while Gloria rifled through his room. Les sat on the desk, examining Illya's gun. "So, this is the UNCLE Special. Doesn't look very special to me."

Kuryakin looked up. "We like it," he said evenly.

"And it shoots those ridiculous mercy bullets. Whose stupid idea was that?"

"Sometimes, I wonder that myself."

"I would have expected you to feel that way."

"Because I'm a blood-minded Russian, right?" There was the tiniest trace of a smile on Illya's lips.

Before Les could wholeheartedly agree with his prisoner, Gloria stormed into the room. "Look at this," the redhead said and extended her palm towards Dr. Milton. "He had their room bugged. And you missed it, Les. Dumb."

Dr. Milton stood. "You missed it, too, super-spy. So, he was on to us from the beginning."

Gloria turned around. "No, idiot. He was on to you from the beginning." She looked into Illya's passive face. "You never would have put yourself in the position you did if you had known about me. Would you?"

Illya looked up into her eyes and the corners of his mouth still turned up in a tiny smirk. "Wouldn't I?"

The green eyes flashed in anger but then she smiled sourly. "You know, you were quite a topic of discussion when I was training under Angelique. Do you want to know what we called you?"

"Not particularly, though I'm sure it was endearing."

Gloria laid her hand on his head. "'Solo's lapdog'." She patted the top of the blond head. "Good boy."

Illya did not change his expression. "Woof—" he whispered, and the smirk broadened, even after she slapped him hard across the cheek.

"Take off his clothes!" She snarled, but she was angrier with herself for letting 'Solo's lapdog' get the better of her. "Underwear, too—I want him naked as the day he was born." She stormed from the room.

Les sighed heavily. "It's not smart to antagonize her."

"Then, I guess it's fortunate for me that you have my gun."

"Where's the other gun?"

"What other gun?"

"I never knew a cop who didn't have a back-up."

"Well, you know one now. It's not standard practice for UNCLE agents."

"Maybe it should be. Unless you guys really like getting caught with your pants down. Like now." He gestured. "Get on your feet."

Illya stood up slowly. "Now who's not being smart?" He locked his stare with the THRUSH doctor's.

"I have the gun, Kuryakin."

Before the final syllable of his name left his adversary's lips, Illya's foot connected with Lester Milton's groin. The man collapsed, curling around his genitals, his mouth open in a silent scream. Kuryakin sat down quickly on the floor and forced his cuffed hands past his feet to the front. "No," he said quietly to the man in a fetal position, "you have my gun and I want it back." He reached into the middle of the tangle of arms and legs to retrieve the semi-automatic. "I'd love to stay and talk 'shop', but I have to see a lady about her bad manners."

The body on the floor was still immersed in vision-dimming pain and made no move to stop him. Illya checked the hallway for unfriendly persons, and seeing none, headed towards the dining room, to stop at his room on the way.

Dr. Pinchot was sitting on his bed when he entered and jumped when the blond agent barged into the room. "Illya! What happened? How—?"

"I don't have time to talk. Where is everyone?"

While Carl answered, Illya pulled his lock pick from a flap of mucosa inside his mouth and began to work on the handcuffs. "Everybody's gone back to their rooms on Gloria's orders. They're afraid of her and she's got a gun."

"I would have been surprised if she didn't. Carl, she has to be stopped. She trained under Angelique LaChien, but she doesn't have the control over her emotions that 'spider-lady' does. Gloria is spiraling out of control." He threw the handcuffs on his bed.

"What are you going to do?"

"If I thought it would help, I'd try reasoning with her. I'm going to have to capture her and keep her locked up." He smiled. "Turning the tables, as it were. Dr. Milton is in Robin's office, a little indisposed at the moment."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get everyone into one room. Barricade the door. And don't let anyone in, unless they use the codeword."

Dr. Pinchot cracked a small smile and nodded. "I understand."

Kuryakin held out his hand. "I need the other gun, too." He stuffed the back-up gun into his waistband. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Dr. Pinchot said, but it was to an empty room.

The Russian agent went to the source. The door to Gloria's room was shut and he pounded loudly on it, hoping she would think it was Les. The door opened slightly and he threw his weight against it to force it fully open. He barged into the room, but stopped short when he saw that the furniture had been rearranged and the occupant, seemingly, had taken refuge between the open door and the wall.

"Come out from behind the door, Gloria. Dr. Milton can't help you now. It's over."

The room was silent.

"I know you're behind there. And I will take you out of here by force if I have to."

Still no sound.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to retain the dignity you denied me, but I won't play the waiting game with you." It was apparent that Gloria was going to try to force him into a confrontation. He decided to leave her in her room, but seal the room somehow to prevent her from escaping. The doors, however, had no locks on them, consistent with an academic community where everyone could trust everyone else and where a closed door was signal enough for privacy to be respected.

He turned to leave the room in search of materials to barricade the doorway when he heard a soft moan from behind the door.

Cautiously, he inched forward. "Gloria, are you hurt?"

There was another moan, which sounded like the vocalization one might make when returning to awareness from being stunned.

Switching his weapon to his left hand, he reached for the doorknob to pull back the door. He moved it slowly, ready for it to suddenly come at him, but it did not, and he pulled it back to reveal Gloria sitting on the floor, knees pulled up and holding her head. "Are you able to stand?" he said quietly with the gun easily visible.

"I thought you were Les," she said looking at Kuryakin's outstretched hand of support.

"I was hoping you would. Stand up, please."

"You always this polite to the enemy?" She grasped his hand and began to raise herself up to her feet.

"Not always." He raised the gun. "You and Dr. Milton will be confined to Robin's office until my reinforcements arrive."

"How did you manage to get a message out?"

Illya smiled. "Trade secret." He motioned with his gun. "Shall we?"

Gloria sighed heavily and took a step forward; the blond agent retreated a step. She suddenly exploded into action, throwing herself at him in a cross between a tackle and a linebacker's block. She had played Illya well; he had relaxed just enough for the attack catch him off his guard. With all of her strength and momentum, she pushed him sideways towards the head of her bed, the metal head railing being just high enough to catch him across the ribs of his left side. There was a searing flash of pain and he cried out audibly, matching the internal cry of his insulted body. His gun flew from his hand and landed on the bed, and he recoiled from the railing to fall on his good side at her feet.

Viciously, she placed the ball of her foot on his injured ribs and pushed him roughly onto his back, smiling with pleasure at the strangled groan it wrenched from her victim. The game isn't over yet, mon connard russe crédule—" (my gullible Russian asshole) she spat at the incapacitated man on the floor. "Not by a long shot." She pulled the gun from his waistband, picked up her gun from the table,and left to search for Lester or the rest of the staff, her next action to be determined by who she found first.

Stifling a groan, Illya rolled to his bad side, grasped the bed rail with his right hand and hauled himself to his knees. He hung the arm over the rail while he caught his breath, and tried to ignore the sharp bite in his chest each time his ribcage moved. He could have easily talked himself into hanging there, languishing in his pain, but the cold determination which drove him during times like these, forced him to lift from one knee, then the other, until he stood. He found his gun on the bed and picked it up, feeling its cold, dark metal complete him for the task he had to do.

Stealthily, he crept from the doorway and made a left turn to follow the hallway leading to the dining area. If Gloria and Dr. Milton were going to try to effect an escape attempt using the airplane that was in the hangar, they would have to use the airlock off the dining room. It would be easy to see them in the hangar from the dining room as well, but he would not be able to stop them without being seen. He was inclined to let them escape, and turn the matter over to UNCLE, Perth. Surely, they would not be flying towards the certainty of freedom. THRUSH would soon learn of their failure and would mark them for elimination. The piercing stab of his broken ribs had him wishing fervently for an empty hangar.

The dining room was deserted, and there was no evidence that anyone had been through the airlock since his little foray earlier. The plane still sat in the hangar and if he looked carefully, he could see Robin's plastic-wrapped body. So, be it, his pragmatic nature decided.

He would check the hallway to the recreation room, and the matter would be settled

The director's office was the first room and where he had escaped from Lester Milton with his well-placed kick. The door was open and the doctor was gone, implying that the man had recovered well enough to walk upright. He moved quietly towards the next room and the first closed door. He laid a drinking glass against the door and listened carefully. He remained at the door for a long time, knowing that it was very difficult to be absolutely silent for an extended length of time. Sooner or later, there would be a noise. He remained at each door for what he

estimated as five minutes before moving to the next, with the exception of his own room, where Dr. Pinchot had gathered the rest of the staff.

As he approached the recreation room, he heard the sound of furniture moving. So, it appeared that they were hoping to barricade themselves in the largest room of the station, but for what? he wondered. A last show-down? Kuryakin smiled to himself; just like the Clint Eastwood movie Gloria had found so incredibly boring. He heard Dr. Milton's angry words complaining to his cohort about her choice of rooms. "At least with the dining room we could've gotten to the plane. We could've gone to one of the other stations!"

Yes, Illya thought with amusement. Both Vostok and Mirny are just a few hundred miles away. The Soviets would welcome your altruistic attitudes.

The argument continued, growing more heated until Kuryakin heard the sound of a flat-handed slap on flesh. It was followed by a string of vulgar insults from both parties and then Lester snarled, "Give me that gun of Kuryakin's. I'm going to find him and settle this." Footsteps approached, but Illya quickly ducked into the nearest room and closed the door. After the hallway was quiet again, he returned to his former place near the doorway to the rec-room.

She had her back to him, obviously confident that nothing would have been missed by her partner, so Illya slipped into the room and hid behind the nearby ping-pong table. She was still moving furniture as he approached, ready to catch her unawares. He grabbed the back of her belt in a tight right-handed grip, while his Special in the left, pressed against the very ribs which throbbed in his own chest. She gasped loudly.

"Throw down the weapon and put your hands on your head. This is the end of the game."

Gloria pulled the gun from her waistband, but instead of dropping it, she thrust it down to her side, the barrel pointing behind her and pulled the trigger. Hot metal tore into Kuryakin's thigh. The Russian agent screamed from the exquisite pain that flashed up to his skull and down to his feet. He staggered backwards on the injured limb and the bone snapped with an audible crack. Another cry erupted from his throat and he hit the floor, moaning.

Through an increasing grey-red haze, he saw Gloria turn towards him, the gun raising. His own gun had hit the floor several feet behind him, and he pushed frantically with his good left leg across the floor towards it. His good right hand grabbed it and he met Gloria's challenge with his own, as he continued to back away from her in hopes of finding some cover. His shoulder hit the top of an overturned table, but by now, he was too weak to struggle around it. He raised his gun, his arm trembled visibly from hand to shoulder not only from the effort, but the almost unbearable agony of the newly-fractured femur, and the fire across his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

"Now you're right, you UNCLE pig. Watch how the game ends—"

The haze now obscured his vision, but in his mind's eye, he saw the flash of the gun; the last thing he heard was the thunder of the gunpowder exploding. Then, it was all blackness and silent.

Dr. Lester Milton walked around the table where the Russian lay slouched against the table top, and went to the red-headed corpse sprawled on the tiled floor. The face bore an astonished expression, the green eyes wide and staring. On her forehead, a dark crimson pit of blood revealed the cause of her astonishment. The gun in his hand, still hot from the discharge, fell from his hand and hit the floor within what would have been her range of vision. Dr. Milton heard a throaty moan from behind him, went back to the still-living body of the UNCLE agent and knelt down.

Illya awoke with a raspy intake of breath and his face twisted into a contortion plainly conveying his level of pain. He pressed his left forearm against his broken ribs, supporting them as he held his breath to easing the burning. Numbly, he tried to scan the room without moving, and immediately his gaze fell upon the body of a young woman with bright red hair, green eyes that stared back at him, and bullet hole in her forehead. A puddle of clotting blood pooled under her head and matted her hair. There was little question that she was dead.

He looked down at his lap and his legs splayed out in front of him. More crimson under his right leg caught his attention and he saw a ragged hole in fabric of his black jeans. Beside his leg, his Special lay in his loosened grasp. He looked at the dead woman again and for some reason he couldn't fathom, he felt grief.

He sensed another person beside him and raised his weapon in a shaky grip. "So, Mr. Kuryakin," the person said. Illya looked up, resignation in his face and his gun arm dropped to the floor. "Looks like Waverly's pet Russkie has really put his foot in it this time."

Kuryakin made a noise in his throat and his head began to lower to his shoulder.

"Oh, no, you don't," Dr. Milton said, lifting the injured man's chin. "You need to hang on so you can help me get you to the clinic. I'm not carrying your Russian ass." He put his arm around Illya's waist to lift him, unaware that the injury there was not bruised, but broken ribs. As soon as pressure was applied, the blond agent let out a scream and his hands clawed the doctor's shirt, grabbing tight fistfuls. The Russian's face suddenly went ashen and he fell forward into Les' arms, unconscious.

"Damn," the doctor growled and lowered Kuryakin's body to the floor. "What just happened here?" he asked himself. Gingerly, he palpated the chest and sputtered an oath. A broken rib must have punctured the pleural membranes, destroying the vacuum, resulting in a pneumothorax. He laid his ear against the injured side. Lack of breath sounds confirmed his suspicion. Suddenly, this was not an enemy UNCLE agent, or a Russian son-of-a-bitch he held in his arms; he was a gravely injured patient who would die if he didn't try everything he could to stabilize him until the UNCLE plain arrived.

For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Dr. Milton had a purpose to his life and that knowledge burned like a fire in his being. With a new clarity of thought, he ran to his clinic for the two items he needed to transport Kuryakin: a sheet and the oxygen cylinder. He fitted the oxygen mask over his patient's nose and mouth and maneuvered the body carefully onto the sheet. He tied a large knot at the bottom forming a papoose-like sling and dragged the body back to the clinic. Then, the real work began.

Many times in his career, Kuryakin had passed through the sensory void toward the twilight dream world of returning consciousness. Most of the time, waking up was waking into pain, despite the drugs meant to blunt the sensation. He had learned early on that pain was not necessarily a bad thing, for pain told you that you were still alive. And God, was he ever alive now—

He was trying to solve the elusive puzzle of how to coax his eyes open when a familiar, but unwelcome voice spoke to him. "How's the pain?" it said with uncharacteristic sympathy.

The voice was enough of a distraction from his discomfort that he was able to half-open his eyelids. His vision had a soft, slightly out-of-focus quality to it that blinking didn't seem to be able to clear. He didn't need clear vision to know that he had not come back to himself under the best of circumstances.

"I can give you some more morphine if you need it," the voice of Dr. Milton told him.

Illya narrowed his eyes in disbelief and he shook his head; he didn't want anything from this man.

"I know you trust me about as far as you can throw me at the moment, but I want you to know, that I'm going to do everything I can to keep you stabilized until your reinforcements get here."

Kuryakin reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from his face.

"You really shouldn't do that," the doctor said.

"Gloria—" he whispered weakly.

Dr. Milton took a deep breath. "Gloria's dead."

Illya's lips moved but producing sound was difficult.

The question anticipated was answered. "I killed her. You were barely conscious."

"Confused—"

"Join the club," the doctor admitted.

His immediate curiosity satisfied, Kuryakin carefully began to explore his injuries. His right hand felt his ribs, his fingers brushing the chest tube.

Immediately, Dr. Milton reached for the hand. "Don't pull on that. Your lung collapsed when I tried to get you up. I didn't know you had rib fractures. The chest tube will help re-inflate the lung." When Illya's hand moved to his leg, he did grasp it at the wrist. "Stop right there. You'll undo all my hard work."

"Tell me—"

"When Gloria shot you in the leg, the bullet hit the bone. You must have put weight on your leg, which finished the work of the bullet. You have pretty badly splintered compound fracture. I've put the leg in traction and reduced the fracture as best I could. You need a hospital as soon as possible."

"Everyone else—all right?"

"I don't know where they are." Dr. Milton reached for the oxygen mask. "You need this back on. You're becoming cyanotic."

"My room—tell them.'Twitter-pated'."

"Twitter—what?"

Illya nodded his head, a faint smile on his blue-tinged lips and closed his eyes, spent. The doctor readjusted the oxygen mask, checked the vitals and went to release the rest of the staff members.

Dr. Pinchot and the other scientists were more than ready to beat Lester Milton to a pulp when they discovered that the UNCLE agent who had been sent to them for their protection now lay on an infirmary bed in serious condition. That the same UNCLE agent had freely given him the code word was only the argument that diffused the situation. Carl Pinchot sat beside Kuryakin's bed and marveled again at the dedication and courage that were the hallmarks of the men and women in Section Two.

He went back to his room and heard a two-toned warble, characteristic of the Section Two communicators. He dug the instrument out form under the mattress and turned it to Channel D. "Channel D is open."

"Illya?" Napoleon voice responded.

"Napoleon, this is Carl Pinchot. Illya's not able to answer, he's been seriously injured."

"Damn—" the CEO whispered. "I don't know why, but I've had a bad feeling about this ever since we got your first message. We're about two hours out yet. What's the situation?"

"It's secure now. There were two infiltrators; one has been killed. There's also another casualty, the director of the station."

"The other infiltrator is in custody, I presume?"

"Actually, the other THRUSH, who happens to be the station's doctor, would like to talk to you about quitting his old employer, keeping in mind that saving Illya's life is a point in his favor."

"I think we can accommodate him; for a price."

"He says that Illya needs to be taken to the hospital as soon as possible."

"We'll see that Mr. Kuryakin is well cared for, Dr. Pinchot. Solo, out."

Dr. Pinchot was waiting for the passengers of the airplane just inside the airlock. "Welcome to NULL station, Napoleon," he said, extending his hand.

"Thanks, Carl. If you would brief the team about what happened here, I'd like to look in on Illya."

"He was resting fairly comfortably the last time I checked. He's back that way." Carl pointed. "Turn left."

Solo hurried across the dining room to the hallway indicated. He stopped at the doorway and Dr. Milton looked up. "Mr. Solo," he said, standing.

Napoleon came into the room and looked down at his partner who lay sleeping with the oxygen mask in place. He always hated to see his friend in this state: pale as the sheets he lay on, and the only outward sign that he was alive was the rise and fall of the sheet that marked his breathing. "What are we looking at here?" he said softly.

"Three broken ribs on the left, one of them caused a pneumothorax. I've got a chest tube in to help re-inflate the lung. Gunshot to right thigh, about mid-way. Compound fracture of the femur. He's lucky, no major blood vessels involved; otherwise he would have bled out. I've done a temporary reduction, packed the wound, and the leg's in traction. He'll need surgery for that as soon as possible."

Napoleon sat down on the chair vacated by the doctor and laid his hand across his friend's forehead. "He feels warm."

"Slight fever, probably from the trauma."

Solo removed his hand and saw a pair of unfocused cornflower blue eyes gaze back at him. "Didn't I tell you not to go outside without your hat and mittens? What am I going to do with you?"

The mask muffled the Russian's answer until Napoleon pulled it away from his mouth. "Say again, Illya."

A pinched look crossed Illya's pale features and the blond head rolled back and forth. "I couldn't do it, Napoleon—" the lips whispered.

Solo looked up at the doctor. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Gloria, my partner in all this. She's the one who did this to him. They were facing off, but he was one the floor, bleeding, in shock. He could barely hold his gun up. She was crazy. She was going to shoot him in the groin. So, I killed her."

Napoleon looked down at his partner again. The lips were still moving, but there was no volume. "Hey, tovarisch, you're too much of a gentleman. It's okay, do you hear?"

Illya closed his eyes unable to fight the morphine and his own weaken condition.

"Why are his lips are turning blue?"

"Put the O2 mask back on him," Dr. Milton pointed and Napoleon readjusted the mask.

"He lost more than a little blood and he's only working on one lung. We really need to get him on the plane."

"I've got to stay here to secure the place. Will you stay with him?"

"You sure about this? I'm THRUSH."

"That's funny, you act like 'doctor' to me. I'm going to radio Perth HQ and give them the head's up. It'll be up to them to decide what to do. I suspect they'll want to talk to you at length."

"Just as long as you don't execute me."

"Is that the line they're feeding you these days?"

"They can be very persuasive."

"So can we, except we prefer to use the truth. I can't say you'd be able to work for UNCLE, but you'll keep your head and your medical license. Oh, but you won't be able to go back to THRUSH."

"I think I can live with that."

"So how are we going to transport one slightly-used Russian out to the plane and then, on the plane for six hours without breaking him further?"

"We have an old dog sled we don't use anymore since we got the snowmobiles. I think it'll be perfect."

An hour later, Kuryakin had been secured on the sled and was being pushed out to the waiting airplane. The remaining staff of scientists was also told to go for the Christmas holiday.

Dr. Pinchot would remain behind with Napoleon and his team to finish the upgrade work. As much as Napoleon wanted to be on the plane with his partner, his position as the leader of the team had to take precedence. But, he watched the plane bearing his friend until it disappeared from sight.

Epilogue:

Three days later, UNCLE Headquarters, Perth, Australia

Dr. Carl Pinchot and Napoleon made a beeline for the Medical Section as soon as they arrived at UNCLE headquarters. The Perth office had been updating Illya's medical condition via communicator so both men were relieved to know that they would be seeing a much improved Section Two agent. They entered Illya's room and found him sleeping soundly.

Solo stood at his friend's bedside. "I was expecting to see him sitting up in bed, steaming, because they wouldn't discharge him."

"That would have been just a little optimistic," a voice from a chair opposite the bed said. Dr. Milton stood up and greeted the two men.

"How is he doing? The reports didn't go into much detail, but I was under the impression that he was doing all right."

"He is, when you consider what needed to be done. The orthopedic surgeon set the leg with a long rod called an intramedullary nail, which is inserted through the shaft of the femur and stabilized with external screws. It's going to make the femur much stronger and more stable in the long run. There was some infection of the fracture wound that needed to be dealt with and they re-inflated his left lung. Quite a lot for just a few days."

"And you've been here all this time?" Dr. Pinchot asked.

"Yeah, they were nice enough to let me sit with him. There was a lot of initial pain."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd go out of your way for him because of his nationality." Carl looked up at Solo to explain. "He was nothing short of hostile to Illya from the moment we arrived." Then he turned back to Dr. Milton. "Why the change of heart?"

Dr. Milton shrugged. "I guess Gloria just brought out the 'best' in me. She had a way of doing that. She was indoctrinated into it by that THRUSH bitch she trained under."

Solo raised his eyebrows. "Which THRUSH bitch are we talking about?"

"Angelique LaChien," Carl answered. "Illya told me, but he thought Gloria was also mentally unstable."

Solo smiled. "My, my, what a small world it is." He motioned to his two companions. "Since Mr. Kuryakin is apparently not ready for visitors, why don't we adjourn to the nearest pub and you can tell me all about Gloria and whether or not she brought out the best in him." And he pointed to the occupant of the bed.

Two days later

Napoleon could tell that his partner was on the mend. The Russian had become testy and the nursing staff was ready to have his meds changed to twenty-four hour sedation. Kuryakin was sitting up in bed, but was not allowed to get out of bed for any reason.

"They won't even let me hop on one leg to use the loo!" he complained.

Solo always found it amusing to hear his partner speak British colloquialisms with a blended Russian accent. "Well, then one of the nurses would have to watch to make sure you don't fall over." He grinned.

"It's demeaning! Napoleon, would you stop enjoying my misery?"

"Far be it for me to laugh at your misfortune, my friend."

"That's not the half of it! They want to keep me here for two months of rehab! First, I won't need two months and second, I don't want to do it here!"

"So what would you like me to do, Illya?"

"Perhaps you could persuade them, in your usual charming way, to let me go back to New York next week. I'd much prefer to be around familiar surroundings. Better for the healing process."

"Well, there's Dr. Milton."

"He doesn't have practicing rights in this facility. They haven't exactly decided what to do with him anyway."

"But I'm sure he'd come to see you everyday."

Illya narrowed his eyes at his partner. "You're not angry that I didn't tell you about this mission, are you? Because I was under orders and if you are, you need to take that up with the Old Man."

"No, I'm pretty much okay with that. It's happened before."

"So, why am I getting the hard sell with you?"

"It's not the hard sell. I was just interested in a little matter in this affair that I know you won't be putting in your report."

Illya looked at him quizzically for a moment, then his expression turned sour. "You've been talking to Carl—" He slapped the table with his palm. "Proklyatiye! Chyert voz'mi! He gave me his word that he would keep it between us—"

Napoleon leaned forward. "Cool down, my friend. Before you go off and have the poor guy roasted, it wasn't Carl."

"It was Milton, then. Oh, yeah, that makes sense; you can't rehabilitate a THRUSH—"

"Actually, he was concerned."

"About what?"

"Well, you seemed rather distraught that you weren't able to pull the trigger when it meant killing a woman. That you're too sentimental or something."

"Oh, well—I don't know that distraught would be the correct word. I was, after all, practically unconscious at the time. So, no, I wasn't upset." He looked away from his partner to hide the embarrassed flush he could feel rising from his neck.

Solo bent over to catch the Russian's eye. "What's wrong, Illya? What did you think I was talking about?" And he grinned widely.

Finis