Chapter Three
Changing Tactics
Gwen Rodgers had only been at UNCLE behind the scenes long enough to make a name for herself. She'd watched, unimpressed, as the secretaries around her swooned at the mention of Napoleon Solo like he was the next James Bond. The fights between who got to approach him when were more vicious behind the scenes than Mr. Waverly would ever suspect. Gwen found it all nonsense.
Agent Kuryakin was more to her taste. Reserved, judgmental, polite to the women in a way that Solo could never match and loyal to a fault. Doubtfully he knew she existed.
"Hold, Mr. Solo" Gwen set down the microphone "Mr. Waverly, Agent Solo's on the line. Sounds important"
"Thank you, Ms. Rodgers"
Gwen nodded respectfully to the head of UNCLE, handing him the line. As far as she could determine, the only way to get Illya to notice her were either through Solo or Mr. Waverly. She'd been tempted to leave a note on his desk on several occasions—one of those secret admirer stunts and watch the bafflement fill his face. There'd be bragging rights if she ever did that. Illya was dead clever; nobody could fool him though Gwen suspected he was less knowledgeable about matters of the heart. Especially his own.
"The file…no, no…but the organization is trustworthy. We've had…dealings…" his hand tightened against the microphone suddenly, knuckles whitening. "I'll have it verified."
Gwen waited, hoping he'd ask for a file. She wanted an excuse to snag Illya's. No one would notice if she borrowed it long enough to have a look.
"And return contact when the situation changes." Mr. Waverly cut off the contact. "Ms. Rodgers, look up the file on the IMF—Impossible Mission Force—there should be one and bring it to my office."
"Yes, sir." Simmering with excitement, Gwen left to enter the records room. Going through the files, she searched out Agent Kuryakin's first, which she tucked protectively beneath her arm, then proceeded to find the assigned file.
"Mr. Waverly, the file you requested." She strode into the room. She saw him snap a file on his desk closed and fold his hands over it. There was something about that one that screamed suspicion. Perhaps when he left, she could sneak a look at it.
"And that one?" he had noticed the file she still held. He was sharp. "Whose is it?"
"Mr. Kuryakin's" she replied easily. "Medical wanted to verify some information in it. Something about not being up to par with health certification" she added for a bit of credibility.
His gaze was still fixed on her; eyes seeing right through her. He might know she was lying from the start. "I don't recall authorizing that. May I see it?"
"O-of course, sir" she handed it over. Sweat slickened her palms as she watched him confirming her allegations.
"Well it would indeed seem that Mr. Kuryakin has been lax on keeping his records up-to-date. Overdue for blood work, I see. Ah, just make sure to return the file as soon as Medical's done with it."
"Yes, Mr. Waverly." Gwen backed out and headed right for her desk to review the information before anyone else saw her with the file. Still musing on the file Mr. Waverly had been trying to hide.
MIMIMIMI
"This one?" A male profile came up on the screen. Average height, on the heavier side with a drooping mustache.
"Too large"
"Not handsome enough"
Another image. Dark, clean-shaven, shifty eyes.
"Maybe. That beard was definitely a fake. I've felt the real ones."
"I wouldn't know." Illya suppressed a yawn, resting his chin on his forearms. Hours of this with only the vague promise of coffee from Napoleon; lucky Napoleon who got to get the tour of headquarters. "Any others?"
The agent handling the visuals glared at him. He was clearly tired of this too. "The contact wasn't any of those?"
"Not those, nor the past two hundred"
Jane nodded to the computer. "Let's keep going. I'll know the one."
"We'll be through every man in the city before we find him. And if we don't, we'll start covering the surrounding cities and states." The agent rubbed his eyes. "This might not work."
"We knew that before we wasted four…four and a half hours on this," said Illya.
"Then what do you suggest?" said Jane, annoyance creeping into her voice. "If you have a better idea, say it."
"One of our organizations or both has to have some file on this agent. We track that down. If we go at this any longer, THRUSH will be too far ahead of us. I will check with my own organization. Tomorrow."
MIMIMIMI
Illya staggered into the room, making for the nearest bed. He managed to force off shoes, jacket and gun belt before collapsing on the bed and sinking into sleep…
"Illya, Illya" the unwelcome voice of his partner penetrated his dreams, pushing past that veil of blissful sleep. Giving the Russian a shake to emphasize his insistence.
The exhausted spy moaned, flinging an arm over his eyes and blindly striking out at his opponent with the other. "Not now" he grumbled.
"It can't wait."
"It can." He rolled over in the other direction.
"Well I'm sorry to wake you up, but you'll want to hear this."
Illya buried himself under the covers, wishing he had been granted his own room. No Napoleon…no hated waking hours…no…
He swore in Russian when Napoleon shoved him out of the bed and he landed hard on the floor. "That was not necessary."
Napoleon smirked, realized his mistake and fought to keep his expression neutral. He backed up several paces, hands raised in submission as Illya rose.
"You better have a very, very good reason for this," he said with a glare.
"Let's suppose there was another agent who was familiar with THRUSH"
"Once in a lifetime ago, most everybody knew THRUSH in one way or another" Illya folded his arms "and we were at the front of that line. Your point?"
"Suppose an agent here knew about it and with a bit of friendly persuasion…oh I don't know…he might recall the location of the base, some names…"
"Who? Ethan?" Illya loosed his defensive position. "No wait." He frowned. "Brandt?"
Napoleon gave a nod. "He has an unusual fascination with the organization. While you were off trying to nail our informant down, Brandt gave me the tour and, unintentionally, valuable information about himself. I'd almost say…he was one of them."
"A wild assumption even for you. You only met the agent a day ago and you already are making assertions about him? Which file—the one here or in THRUSH central?" he said cynically. "I'm all for risking my life to break in to a deathtrap just to satisfy your suspicions."
"I was serious, tovarich."
Illya heard the accusation in those words and eased off, returning to the bed and closing his eyes. "You cannot be sure the file here will have everything or that we would have any chance of accessing it. The rest of the team wouldn't know?" he fell silent, fighting sleep as he considered the possibilities. "Very well, the file it is. Or will you even bother asking first? You always want me to do the difficult parts. Napoleon? Napoleon!" he looked over to see his partner lounged on the other bed fast asleep with a classic Solo-esque grin on his face.
"Typical. Wake me up with suspicions and leave me to do the planning," grumbled Illya to himself as he tried once more for sleep.
MIMIMIMI
His arms had been wrenched behind his back, tendrils of taunt cords cutting into his wrists. Cutting deeper the more he pulled. The room was small, a completely empty sterile prison.
"Trespassing through restricted areas, why?" the agent demanded. "What were you looking for? What organization sent you? Who sent you?"
He murmured an incoherent retort that fell deaf on his own ears. He could barely keep focused…
He saw the glint of an interrogation needle and turned his head away, tensing against the prick in his arm. Mind fogging, he struggled to remember the mental defenses he'd been taught.
"You aren't turning me into a defect," he spat.
A crack on the head with the butt of a gun. "Once more, Agent Brandt, who are you working with?"
He sees them readying another hypodermic. When he sneers in reply, the interrogator nods and the needle is plunged into his arm again.
A fire burns in his veins…mind is numbing…has he told them anything? He moves and it stirs up old pains. Dimly, he's aware they're inflicting more on him…a nightmare of agony he can barely feel anymore. The only things he can hear are the screams of a desperate man…his.
With a start, Brandt awoke. It was too real… he rubbed his eyes, seeking to erase the kaleidoscope of images that still burned from his dream. The phantom pain that still lingered. It hadn't just been a dream. Hands trembling, Brandt shoved the sweat-drenched sheets off; he held up his arm to examine it, expecting to see the marks of needles. Nothing. For several minutes, he stared into the darkness of his room still fighting off the surge of adrenalin, holding the mental images in his mind and turning them over and over, until they became too hurtful to dwell on any longer. He pushed himself up, moving to the adjoining facilities to douse his face in ice-cold water. Haunted eyes stared at him from the mirror.
Why this? Who am I? He snagged a shirt and padded barefoot down to central. Might as well get work done since I got all the sleep I'm gonna get.
The computers were idling—he took a station and keyed in his passkey. He had the urge of needing to be somewhere else, but he couldn't point out where. Where else should I be? This is my organization. There aren't any others… at least, I thought… A current assignment file came up but he only stared blankly at the tiny lettering.
THRUSH. That's where it started. The memories, everything I can't remember.
"Who are you working with?" he remembers the questioning, ponders over it. Who was I working for before? How much longer can I keep this from the others before I become a liability? Or… giving up, he closed the open file and instead began a search for THRUSH. Only one thing stood out in his memories, one thing he could still remember.
Being in New York.
