He refused to admit to himself that he was wrong. He refused to acknowledge the instinct that urged him to go after Illya. The desire to admit the hidden confessions of true love, denying to himself they existed. Napoleon returned to Waverly's office and locked the door behind him. He walked over to the wall containing the situation board and stood there staring at it, hands clasped behind his back. Pins dotted the United States and important spots around the world, each holding a small tag in place labeling the mission underway. He stepped closer and focused on the west coast. His field of vision narrowed and then further narrowed until he was staring at one pin in particular. The name underneath, Kuryakin.
In one swift motion Napoleon pulled the pin and the name card with it and threw it across the room. Anger washed over him. An anger that had been building over weeks. Blind rage the likes he'd never known clouded his vision and in the center of the emotion was the face of Illya Kuryakin.
A tightness gripped Napoleon's chest. His jaw clenched
His mind drifted back to watching his father flattering another in a long string of nannies, a naive young girl bashfully smiling at the attentions of the handsome, powerful ambassador. He could see the kiss upon her neck through the keyhole of the nursery where he was supposed to be asleep. He could hear her giggle and saw the shiver run up her back as the older man ran his hand up her arm before they moved out of view to her bed. Then the noises that fascinated him began. Out of sight by then Napoleon would return to his bed and wonder why his father never kissed his mother like that.
There was never time to talk to his parents. He saw little of them, always trained to be quiet and stand straight in his good clothes for the receiving line at parties. Then he'd be hurried off again into his nanny's care for lessons before bed.
The nannies never lasted long. A few weeks, a couples of months and then another argument between his mother and father. It was always after one of those that another nanny would show up. It would hurt too much after a while so he made a conscious decision to stop caring because it always ended up as a mistake.
Napoleon didn't want to leave his parents when they came and told him where he'd be going. They at least provided a diplomatic attitude sparing him the bitterness he always felt flowing between the two of them. He didn't know his grandparents that well when he was sent to live with them but it proved to be the best thing for him.
It was on his Grandfather's hobby farm / ranch that Napoleon finally knew peace and happiness. He saw the real love between a husband and wife. There were no nannies to earn his affections only to be sent away without warning or notice. There were homemade meals eaten around a small dining room table where his Grandparents would actually talk to him and ask about school or the movie matinee he saw in town. His Aunt would visit with some of his cousins. He had friends that lived on nearby farms and in town at school.
Napoleon sat down at the big round desk/table and looked at the stark empty room. Compared to his memories of the farm, life at UNCLE now felt just as empty. He was tired of being the suave, debonair playboy surrounded by beautiful women throwing themselves at him. It was all for show, just like his father and the pretty young staff he could never keep his hands off of. He always swore he would never become his father. Looking back at the way he swam through the UNCLE's secretarial pool he realized that he had.
Napoleon knew what he wanted as he leaned forward, head in his hands trying to avoid thinking of the big scene he just had with Illya. It was the feeling he used to have back on the farm in his late teen-hood. Again his mind drifted back to his youth.
Best friends since he first went to live on the farm, Napoleon and William Wright would often take their horses and ride out into the fields and the woodlands nearby. They could talk about nothing and everything. It was just contentment. A favorite pastime was to get a packed lunch, some towels, and ride out to a pond for an afternoon of swimming.
The two of them would splash around in the water and compete, trying to catch the fish bare-handed. Later they would eat their sandwiches and lay back on the grass watching the clouds and talk. It seemed so natural the first time they experimented with touching each other intimately. They talked of Napoleon's grandfather taking his stud stallion to service the mares on Wright's farm. The boys laughed about watching and seeing the horse's stiff penis entering the mare from behind. They chuckled as Napoleon's bathing shorts bulged and he pulled them down to expose his growing hard on. The look in William's eyes when he asked to touch it gave Napoleon a thrill he'd never experienced before.
The boys didn't know what homosexuality was. They were just following their instincts that summer. It began with exploring masturbation individually, then mutually, and led to full intercourse over time. The following winter they would go out to the barn, up to the hay loft and have sex there. Napoleon enjoyed receiving fellatio. William was the one on the receiving end of their fucking. They kept it secret, never telling any of their friends. At school dances they would invite girls just like the rest of their male friends.
As high school neared graduation, Napoleon and William planned to go to the same college. They thought it would be ideal to share a room together. Those plans came to an end when William's father suffered a heart attack and needed his son to stay home to help with the farm. The next Napoleon knew of them was when he returned after the first year away. William's father died in a farm accident and the farm was sold. The family moved away and Napoleon never knew where.
Napoleon missed the way he and William could just look at each other and not even have to speak to know what the other was thinking. It used to be like that with Illya, too. He didn't know what to do anymore. It left his heart wrenching.
Days passed. Illya stayed in his apartment worrying about the future. Waverly would return shortly. Would that mean expulsion from UNCLE? Banishment back to the Soviet Union? He knew what happened to dissidents, traitors, and enemies of the state. How would his government look at his return?
He wondered how he would explain his side of the whole University Affair. What would show him in the best light? Blaming Napoleon? It was Napoleon who ruined the mission but that didn't make himself look responsible and trustworthy. He couldn't do that kind of thing to Napoleon either. Even though his partner had behaved like a horse's ass there was still that part of Illya that cared deeply for the man.
The latest journals and magazine subscriptions arrived. He tried sitting down to read them. It was difficult to concentrate and make the words he make sense.
His stomach growled. After Napoleon put him on leave he came home and tossed out the old spoiled food in the refrigerator. That left the few canned items in the cupboard that sufficed to keep him alive over the last few days but now the shelves were bare. Illya never liked going hungry. He'd suffered enough deprivation in his youth to dislike it immensely.
Even so, Illya ignored the hunger pangs while sulking alone in his apartment. He denied the fact he was sulking. He viewed himself as cautious where others would call him paranoid. He always assumed everyone talked behind his back at UNCLE, but now the aborted mission and his spectacular expulsion from UNCLE's hallowed halls by the acting Head would be the only thing everyone would have on their minds. They would all assume he'd botched the mission, not that Napoleon acted irrationally.
There was no reading to distract him now. He realized he'd just read the same paragraph three times and it still made no sense. Reluctantly he put the magazine on the table and again felt the rumble in his stomach. He had to go to the supermarket. There was no getting away from it.
Illya went to the window and peeled back the curtain to see if UNCLE had him under surveillance. There were neighbors' cars parked in front of the building and a taxi down the street letting out a little old lady who always visited her sister on Thursdays. Only one unfamiliar car with a dark-haired man sitting behind the wheel looked out of place. Not an agent of UNCLE though. Still, he looked familiar and as Illya searched his memory of faces on file he realized it was one of Ivan's bartenders.
Illya let go of the curtain wondering what the man was up to. Of course if Ivan wanted to interfere he could easily have blown his cover at the bar or at the campus. Still, to know the man was watching him was disturbing.
Illya recalled the old days when he was a boy forced into Sarkov's brutal regime of training. Ivan took pity on him. He'd once told Illya it was because the scrawny blond was so young and looked so innocent and fragile. He never interfered during the training but after watching Illya's suffering Ivan would come to him and sneak him a little food if he'd been starved. Ivan would take him out to the woods and teach him what he knew about shooting so he wouldn't have to see the grueling punishments so often. Maybe not as close as brothers, but Illya remembered how he grew to appreciate Ivan as a mentor. Could he still be trusted? Probably not. A lot of years had passed and they were trained to turn on their own mother if Sarkov ordered it.
With his stomach grateful for even the swallowing of his own saliva for gratification, Illya closed the curtain and prepared to leave the safety of his humble apartment. He could avoid Ivan's man if he wanted to but it was probably easier to find out what was going on if he let him follow. His UNCLE special was confiscated by Napoleon's orders-the bastard-but his own Glock tucked into a personal shoulder holster gave him security enough to venture out.
Illya timed his descent down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk to coincide with the bus on it's route. He made the comfortable dash and hopped on when it pulled away from the stop down the road. Through the window he could see Ivan's man pull out and make a u-turn to follow the bus. He took a seat and calmly watched the driver's side mirror, keeping an eye on the car.
The bus pulled up to the stop across from the market where Illya crowded in with the others getting off. The car followed the bus even as it left. Perhaps his paranoia was just that and it wasn't Ivan's man following him after all.
Illya crossed the street to get inside the market quickly in case the car doubled back. He paused just inside the door to watch for a moment making sure he was in the clear. Once satisfied he turned around to get a shopping cart and gather some groceries.
Ivan Dubrolubov entered the grocery store about 15 minutes after his man called him to report where Illya Kuryakin went from his apartment. Since the blond UNCLE agent was alone he suspected that the man's assignment was over and it would be a good time to talk to him. For show he picked up a wire basket and threw in a box of cereal and some bread as he searched the aisles for his target.
He found Illya standing by the canned soup reading a label. He approached cautiously so not to startle Kuryakin. He knew he'd be armed and he knew how good a shot he was. He also knew Illya well enough to know that the man knew he'd been under surveillance and tailed to the store.
In English, though with a definite Russian accent, Ivan said, "It's a good soup but my Irina's is far better."
Illya spun around, reaching for his gun, but Ivan stood still and didn't flinch.
Slowly, Ivan raised empty hands leaving the basket hanging from his elbow and delicately peeled back the edges of his coat. Quietly he stated, "I am not armed."
Illya frowned and removed his hand from the gun butt. "What do you want?" he asked in return.
"Can you talk freely?" Ivan asked.
Illya hesitated and then nodded.
"That is all, old friend," he replied. "Just to talk."
The scowl didn't leave Illya's face and neither did the tension in his shoulders. "Talk will only make trouble."
"We are old friends, Illya. What harm can come of it?"
"Sarkov will not approve," Illya reminded him. Not to mention UNCLE. As long as he reported the meeting, though, that wouldn't be a problem.
"Sarkov is a small potato now. Andreov can keep him in line."
They switched to Russian and walked together, Ivan following as Illya shopped. "I will not ask of your mission. I assume it is over now?"
Illya nodded.
"Things go well?" Ivan asked, not seeking specifics.
"It's over." Illya said tersely.
"Not well then." Ivan looked Illya over from head to foot and back again. "You are upset. I know your body language when you are upset."
Illya stopped and turned to Ivan. "What exactly do you want?"
"You do not trust me," Ivan replied. "I will prove to you that you can. We can still be the friends we were when we were boys. You need a friend who knows you the way I do."
The truth of the statement stung. He just lost the only other person in the world who knew him as well. "Just what are you proposing as proof?" Illya asked, his need for just one person in the world that could understand him outweighing his good sense.
Ivan smiled. This could be the breakthrough he needed. "Get your groceries. I will drive you home so you can put them away and then I will show you. No tricks. I promise."
His shift over, Napoleon returned to his penthouse apartment. The decorated walls had never seen so much of him in one week as the senior agent entered. Automatically Napoleon turned on the answering machine playback and heard the usual half dozen calls from women, some wanting dates, some thanking him for the last date, and yet in his mind they all blurred into one blank face.
As he listened to the words droning on and on, he poured himself a drink from the well-stocked bar. The clink of ice dropping into the tumbler, the sound of scotch splashing over the cubes, the echo of his own breath in the glass when he brought it to his lips satisfied him far more than the voices on the phone.
There were more women, come and gone, in his life to make a list as long as his arm. He took his drink to the sofa and kicked off his shoes. Sitting down he tried to recall some of them. Except for the most recent he really couldn't picture a single one. He wondered if his father was like that. He wondered why his mother put up with it for all the years they were together.
Napoleon opened a drawer in the sofa end table and pulled out an album. He flipped open the cover and looked at the picture of his wedding day. He stared at himself in the picture. Smiling. Standing tall with his bride in white on his arm. He tried to remember what he was thinking when the picture was taken. Why he was even there?
Napoleon's mind drifted back to the day he met with his mother and father in Quebec. They sat in the parlor having High Tea and talking about his returning after graduation from university.
"Married?" he replied, choking on his biscuit. "Mom. I'm not even interested in getting married. I'm only going to graduate in June."
"No. I agree with your mother. In fact it was my idea," his father said. "I think she is the perfect match for you. It's not like you are strangers."
"I barely know her. Sure I've met her when I've come home on holiday from school but god, that doesn't mean I want to marry her."
"Do not take the Lord's name in vain!" his mother automatically admonished. "What's wrong with getting married? You're 22. Handsome. A great future. She's a perfect political partner for you."
"Politics? Is that a reason to get married to someone?" He looked to his father for support. "You can't honestly support this Dad. I want to see what's out there. Make my own plans."
The senior Solo sat straight up with a resolute expression. "You can still do that with the right woman at your side," he said. "We've given you the best of everything your whole life. It's time you did your duty and paid us back by taking your place in the family heritage."
Napoleon swirled the scotch around in his glass before taking another sip. He remembered dating and marrying his wife. Doing his duty as his parents expected. But he couldn't follow in his father's footsteps by entering politics. That was more than he could bear.
University was a time Napoleon remembered being really free. He was athletic and often the center of attention. Girls by the dozen followed him for his good looks and status among his peers. Without William it was all too easy to let them catch him now and then. Sex was a relief, a release, a way to ease tension, but it never had any emotional meaning to it.
Then with his parents throwing him into marriage, Napoleon felt like he was living someone else's life. He wondered about the smile in the picture. It was just for a picture. Nothing emotional. No feeling. His heart was as empty the day he married as it felt now.
He closed the album. He had a clear conscience. He'd stuck by his wife during her illness and comforted her when she died. For him it was like the closing of a deal. The fulfillment of a contract. He could say to his father ~I did what you asked and now it's done~ and go on to live his life, free to be himself.
He thought having no commitments was the perfect way to live. He tried to tell himself that the affair between hi and Illya was the same as all the other relationships he had but it just didn't feel like them.
He was drawn to Illya like a moth to a flame. Illya was dangerous. Exotic. Naive and innocent in the ways of love. The real heart-felt yearning kind of love that strangled Napoleon right now. The kind of love that makes a person do anything to keep their lover from doing things that will hurt them when they can't even see what's going on around them.
Napoleon stood up suddenly. He threw the glass into the fireplace and screamed out one word in his empty home.
"ILLLLYYYYYAAAAA!"
Illya watched the roads as Ivan drove. "Where are we going?" he asked as he finished the sandwich he made to eat on the way.
"A place outside the city. Wooded area. We will not be seen." he said.
"For what?"
"Some shooting. Target practice," he said and nudged Illya with a smile. "Just like the old days. Like back in school when you could barely hold the big guns let alone shoot straight."
Illya cracked a smile. "I don't have that problem anymore."
"No, but then again, when you could, we would go out and shoot, anyway. It was fun and we always felt good when we went back to the barracks."
"Especially when I could beat you," Illya joked.
Ivan frowned but nodded in agreement. "That you could. You became the best marksman they ever created," he said. "But if it weren't for me you would never have gotten that good."
"If I didn't get that good they would have killed me for failing," he stated.
"That obviously never happened."
"I'm that good," Illya deadpanned, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
Ivan chuckled as he turned off the main road into the woods and drove down the winding path toward the river. Night was falling fast now. They passed no one and there were no other cars on the road. After about two miles they came to a place where a couple other cars were pulled off into the trees. Dark sedans like Ivan's own car, one of which tailed Illya earlier that day.
"What's going on here?" Illya asked, growing alarmed again.
"Don't worry," Ivan told him. "You are not here to be killed. We are friends. Remember?" He got out of the car. "Come. I have a treat for you."
Illya got out but kept vigilant, ready to draw his weapon on the slightest wrong move by anyone. Dry brush cracked underfoot as they approached the group of men near the river. He counted four others standing and one man on his knees, hands tied behind his back and a handkerchief stuffed into his mouth.
"Your treat as promised, Illya," Ivan said.
"Why? What's he done?" Illya asked, looking at the growing bruises visible in the descending darkness.
"Gregor, my cousin, has a 15-year-old daughter. This trash has ruined her for marriage," he explained. "Stolen her virtue by force. Her childhood." He spit at the bound man's chest.
"How do you know this to be true?" Illya asked, not disbelieving Ivan but wanting to make sure they weren't doing anything unjustified.
"He was caught in the act. He confessed his transgressions." Ivan said.
Illya nodded. He accepted Ivan's word. "Why not turn him over to the police?" he said.
"We take care of our own," Ivan stated, his expression unmoved by the man's pleading. "His family will not suffer but he will pay for what he has done." Ivan nodded at another of his men.
A burly fellow moved forward and threw a rope over a tree limb and tied the end around the victim's neck.
Illya watched the terror in the man's eyes; watched him shake his head and make guttural noises through the gag, probably begging for them not to do this. The hefty man dragged the pedophile to his feet and the other three tugged the rope to pull him up until his feet were flailing three feet off the ground. The line was tied off and the four men returned to their cars to leave.
"Takes a while, does it not?" Ivan said as the hanging man wriggled in a vain attempt to loosen his bonds.
"I thought you said we were coming out for target practice?" Illya stated.
Ivan smiled. "That I did." He walked over to a stone and picked up a revolver. He held it butt end out for Illya. "Untraceable. Put him out of his misery."
The whole atmosphere within the walls of the UNCLE had changed. People smiled and joked with each other. Their voices weren't hushed. Their footsteps were jauntier. No one snuck around in fear of foul moods any longer. Everyone was happy. Alexander Waverly had returned and sat in his rightful chair again.
Lisa Rogers actually got a lot of work caught up since Napoleon and Waverly sat in conference reviewing all the cases, old and new, the entire morning. The only time she heard from them was to retrieve specific files they requested or refresh their pot of coffee. She was in heavenly bliss at her desk the rest of the time.
Time dragged by as Napoleon Solo kept looking at the clock in the room and checking it against his watch. In the four hours he and Waverly debriefed the cases from the last month, the only one he really wanted to discuss was tabled to the end. Napoleon knew one could never rush Waverly. The man was even more stubborn than Illya when it came to the wishes of others. Fair but extremely stubborn.
It was obvious to Napoleon that Waverly had studied all the files over the weekend since returning from Europe on Saturday. The finest details were examined as if from memory by the wizened old man. Every expense had to be accounted for, each action of an agent reviewed, each decision on Napoleon's part justified. It was exhausting mentally but throughout the morning he responded to each question with concise, reasonable and, to the best of his ability, dutifully responsible answers.
As far as Napoleon could see, Waverly seemed satisfied and at times almost pleased at his performance standing in while the Head of UNCLE New York was away. Though progress through the stack seemed slow it was almost over except for the one file Napoleon thought was most urgent.
Illya Kuryakin. The University Affair. The one that gave him the biggest headache during Waverly's absence and the one he personally expressed the most apprehension about before the old man's departure. Napoleon had to bite his tongue every time he thought of how he would say ~ I told you so ~ throughout the morning.
Finally Alexander Waverly set aside the second-to-last file of the morning and pulled the one Napoleon was so anxious to review. To his surprise the file had apparently doubled since his last time seeing it only days before. Waverly must have been busy gathering all the remaining data to compile into a stack that strained the ability of the folder to contain it.
Illya sat staring at one of his few precious books in the original Russian, a cup of tea on the table almost empty and ice cold. Since the day Ivan kidnapped him and took him to the woods, Illya stayed securely inside his little apartment on his lumpy second hand sofa pretending to read as his thoughts swirled in his head. He had mixed feelings about his decision of that day. Of course, he always had mixed feelings about such things. One reason Waverly waived the psyche evaluations for his Russian agent was because he was aware of said agent's penchant for killing, a trait U.N.C.L.E. found undesirable. The Powers That Be in the agency wanted their operatives to have the ability to terminate an enemy when necessary. What they didn't want was someone who did so ruthlessly, coldly, and with a certain sense of satisfaction. Like him.
His problem wasn't the desire to kill, but a need. Just as some people drank because they simply couldn't stop, Illya found it essential to be the instrument of death sometimes. He didn't enjoy it. He hated himself for taking a certain satisfaction in watching the life fade from the eyes of a deserving victim. Hated himself even more for the innocent lives his Soviet master had forced him to take and for those lost due to his failures. What he hated most was the fact that sometimes he needed to deliver that death blow or bullet to the head in order to keep the monster that lurked deep inside him leashed.
Uncle Alexei and Ivan had mostly managed to stop Sarkov's attempt to turn Illya into a bloodthirsty fiend, but not completely. They offset some of Sarkov's barbaric and brutal training by providing the bastard's young experiment, Illya, with some positive, softer experiences. Alexei hiding chocolate bars under Illya's pillow, advanced warnings about what to expect from new training methods, and guiding him on ways to handle those new methods went a long way to keep Illya from stepping into Sarkov's abyss.
Ivan, too, helped. As Illya's weapons trainer, Sarkov told Ivan his goal was to make his young experiment not only inured and adept at killing, but to have a compulsion for it. Illya and Ivan once discussed the conversation between Sarkov and his new weapons trainer
"Unfortunately, the subject has a conscience," Sarkov told Ivan when instructing him on his duties. "Suppressing such a thing never works. That conscience inevitably returns, usually at the most inopportune moment. The leaders of such projects always end up paying the price. I will not be one of those men.
"The subject needs to enjoy the kill. Then, conscience or no, it will not matter. You will make sure this is so."
It had sickened Illya when Ivan told him of the conversation. "And what will he do? Kill me if I do not learn to enjoy it?"
Ivan shook his head. "Very likely, bratik." His orders said he couldn't call the boy by his given name and he refused to call his charge Subject 437. Sarkov never said anything about pet names so Ivan called him "little brother" instead.
"Don't call me that," Illya's younger self said sullenly. "I do not like to be called little."
Ivan just grinned. "You are small in stature, but large in heart. That is what matters the most."
"If you say so. I do know I am large in training," Illya said. He gave his teacher and friend a wolfish smile. "Perhaps it's time for me to put some of that training to use, da?"
Ivan's face scrunched in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Illya shrugged. "They made me take acting lessons. I will act like I enjoy the killing. This way I practice my lessons in effective infiltration and acting and give Sarkov what he wants at the same time."
Ivan laughed. "I think that is an excellent idea, my little friend," he replied, using the hated descriptor on purpose.
Illya had scowled at him but didn't rise to the bait.
"And I will tell him you wish to bathe in the blood of your targets. But let's not do it too quickly or he'll figure it out."
Illya nodded and readied his sniper rifle and himself for the lesson.
Illya had known Ivan had watered down the brutality of the lessons whenever he could and Illya had appreciated it. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about it now. Even Napoleon didn't understand him quite as much as Ivan. Of course, that wasn't Napoleon's fault. Ivan witnessed much of the hell that comprised Illya's childhood. A childhood Illya did not care to discuss with anyone. Not even Napoleon.
Only Ivan knew Illya's darkest secret. Sarkov may not have managed to turn Subject 437 into a complete monster that delighted in killing people. He didn't exactly fail at it, either. Illya didn't enjoy delivering death, but he could do it without blinking or a second thought. At least not at the moment of pulling the trigger. Later, after all the excitement settled, he would engage in some quiet self-loathing. Before they'd become lovers, he'd welcomed Napoleon's frequent after-mission womanizing. It left Illya alone to justify his actions to himself.
Since coming to the U.N.C.L.E. that aspect of things lessened quite a bit. Unlike his time at the mercy of Sarkov's sadistic tendencies, the people he killed for his present organization deserved their fates. He felt very little remorse, if any, for the deaths of THRUSH goons, thugs, mad scientists, and leaders. The occasional loss of an innocent preyed on his mind, but as of yet, he had never received an order to kill one himself. Once or twice he'd had to do so out of necessity, but U.N.C.L.E. tried to mitigate collateral damage as much as possible.
Even so, during the dry spells such as when their enemies are quiet or when he was injured and not allowed to work in the field, he became twitchy. His urge to pull that trigger, set off that charge, drag a knife across a deserving throat or snap some evil thug's neck came close to overpowering him at times.
Whenever he had no mission, the desire to spill blood grew in him a little more everyday. Doing reports and working in the labs helped since it kept his mind occupied, but after a few days even that didn't help. His bouts with medical leave damn near broke him. Adrenaline helped mitigate some of that. The danger of missions, especially those that required he take on a false persona and infiltrate the enemy camp, helped to keep that monster at bay
Napoleon never understood why Illya couldn't just take it easy for a few days when injured. How was Illya to explain it to him? He normally just said it was the way the KGB trained him, which was true. That reason quit making a difference long ago, though. U.N.C.L.E. showed him the wisdom of waiting until fully healed before trying to work again.
He hated lying to Napoleon about anything, but in this case he had to make an exception. Certainly couldn't tell his partner the truth. "You see, if I don't put a bullet between someone's eyes at least once every once in awhile, it makes me nervous." Yes, that would go over well.
Illya didn't enjoy the act of killing. Ending the life of another bothered him. It blackened a bit of his soul every time. He sometimes wondered if one could put a soul under a microscope if his would show any semblance of life at all. He never failed to wonder who the person might leave behind. If nothing else, he felt badly for those who would miss them. Everyone, even the monstrous ones, had someone that would mourn their passing. Even he had people that cared if he lived or died. Not many. Could probably count them all on one hand. Although at this point I doubt Napoleon would be among them, he thought sadly.
How could he ever explain to Napoleon, to anybody, the conundrum with which he lived? They would never understand the fact that the remorse he experienced from a monstrous act was the one thing that made him believe he was human.
Ivan was probably the only person in the world who did understand. He must have watched Illya closely to know just how upset and twitchy he became over the last few days. On the one hand, the idea his old comrade kept such a close eye on him made Illya's nerves twang like an out of tune harp. Oddly, it also gave him a sense of comfort to know at least someone still cared about him.
Napoleon certainly didn't anymore. He made that perfectly clear the minute he aborted the mission. Not long ago Illya trusted his partner with his life. His heart. His soul. Now he felt unsure he could trust the man not to lie to Waverly about what had happened, thus throwing him to the Soviet wolves. All because of jealousy.
Illya grit his teeth when he thought about it. Ironic that this life he now enjoyed and didn't want to leave was brought to an end because of a jealous rage by a lover who had not kept his cock in his pants and out of women during the entirety of their relationship.
Surely Waverly was back by now and the one man Illya had trusted above all others was betraying him at this moment. Was his career over? It was stressful waiting with no idea of what was going to happen to him. Would he be on a plane by the end of the day? The idea of being sent back to the Soviet Union terrified him. The motherland's policies would not lead to a happy homecoming. People disappeared there, sent to prison camps, sanitariums, or just outright killed, never to be heard from again. Ivan's treatment of the child rapist paled in comparison to what men like Sarkov and others of his ilk in the Soviet government would do to an agent returned to them in disgrace.
He looked at the black telephone on the wall by the door as if expecting it to ring. Would he have time to pack? Should he run and stay in the country illegally? Was there any way he could stay in America?
Probably not. He wasn't without his resources, however. He'd made his decision long ago about whether or not he would be dutiful and return if the time came. Napoleon always called his Russian partner cheap without once wondering why. A chunk of Illya's paycheck went to the USSR. Even so, the rest was enough for him to live better than he did. Illya watched his pennies carefully because he squirreled away a good bit of it just in case something like this came up one day. A safety deposit box in a bank in Queens kept the money safe along with several passports for various countries with various aliases along with a backup pistol and other things he would need in order to suddenly disappear, vanishing into one of the cracks and crevices of the world where he knew he could hide.
He licked his lips and glanced at the phone once more. Should he leave now or wait for the verdict first? He liked living in America and would prefer to stay here if he could. If he left without finding out Waverly's decision, his life in this country would be over even if the man chose not to release him from U.N.C.L.E.'s service.
Illya sighed. Hopefully if things went against him he would have time to grab the contents of the box and get the hell out of the country. He stood, teacup in hand, and headed for the kitchen to wash it and get the vodka out of the freezer. If he was going to wait, he needed something better to drink than tea.
Waverly flipped open the file and pretended to skim through it in order to refresh his memory. He didn't need to. He knew the contents very well, pouring over them from the moment he returned and discovered the mission to be shut down and Mr. Kuryakin on disciplinary leave. He was not happy about the way Mr. Solo handled this Affair. Not happy at all.
He looked through the file slowly. He knew his agent felt anxious to get to this particular case. The man fidgeted through their entire meeting, glancing at the bottom file each time. Well it would do Mr. Solo good to have to wait a few more minutes.
Obviously the young man needed a lesson in patience. If he'd exercised just a little of it, this mission would have finished successfully rather than turned into the fiasco it ended up. The only reason Waverly didn't classify it as a disaster was because Mr. Kuryakin did manage to ferret out the real culprit in this little drama before Mr. Solo prematurely pulled the plug.
Amazing that Mr. Solo would do this to his partner. Waverly often wondered if the two men's close relationship interfered with their abilities to do their jobs. His answer was always the same. Their obsession with each other benefited U.N.C.L.E far more than it hurt it. At least until now.
He folded his hands on top of the open folder and gave his protégé a stern glare. With no little satisfaction, he noted his agent's slight squirm under the scrutiny. "Please explain the reason you aborted the University Affair," he said in a flat tone that did not give away his own opinion on the subject.
To his credit, Solo straightened up and settled in, ready to defend his decision. Waverly was pleased to see his successor's confidence in the rightness of his actions even if Waverly himself did not agree with them.
"Sir, Mr. Kuryakin acted erratically during the mission." He glanced at his boss with a defiant expression. "If you remember, sir, I expressed my concerns regarding Mr. Kuryakin's readiness for the field. Because of that, I felt it prudent to utilize a resource which happened to share a class with him."
"Ah, yes." For show, Waverly flipped to the proper page in Solo's report. "A nurse by the name of Nancy."
Solo relaxed and sat back with a smug smile. "The very same resource you used during the Kopf ordeal."
Waverly refrained from glaring at the young man. At the same time, he felt suitably impressed at the way Solo had manipulated the briefing to his advantage. For the moment. Waverly himself had yet to make his move. It would prove interesting to see who actually called checkmate on this match. A part of him rather hoped Solo would win. This time away was as much a test of his protégé's readiness to take the reins from his predecessor as much as it was for Waverly's family business.
"I asked the young lady to keep an eye on our agent, at least in class and whenever she could watch him while on campus. During one class period, Mr. Kuryakin became agitated and stormed out of the lecture for no reason."
Waverly kept himself from frowning as he scanned his array of pipes and chose one. It disturbed him when he read that section of Solo's report on the Affair. What were the chances of his Russian agent actually taking a class taught by the man who translated Mr. Kuryakin's journal? He had considered the fact Stillwell taught at the same university before assigning his agent, but saw no reason why it would be a problem. Mr. Kuryakin would not need to take a class in Russian history for the mission. Yet he had. Waverly wondered if something Stillwell mentioned hit too close to something that the younger version of the Russian agent wrote in his diary.
"He may have had a reason," Waverly said softly, pondering a question he had asked himself over and over his entire holiday. He looked inside the bowl of the pipe and blew in it to get out any unseen dust. He knew what the answer needed to be.
"Sir?"
Decision made, Waverly looked up at Solo and cleared his mind of the distracting thoughts. "Did the, ah-" He glanced back down at the file as though he forgot the woman's name. "Miss Nancy talk to Mr. Kuryakin after he left the class? What was his explanation for leaving?"
Solo's veneer of confidence showed a small crack when he shifted ever so slightly in his chair. "You know Illya, er, Mr. Kuryakin. He doesn't speak to anyone of anything important much less divulging something like that to someone who is, in his mind, nothing more than a familiar stranger."
"I will take that as a no," Waverly said, his tone drier than the Sahara in summer. "Did you speak with him about it."
"I tried, sir. Mr. Kuryakin was uncooperative."
"Was Mr. Ponce uncooperative, as well?"
"Um, well, no, sir. Not exactly."
"Then why did you send him away, Mister Solo?" Waverly allowed the steel of anger enter his voice as he placed a pinch of tobacco into his pipe and pressed it down with a thumb. He might admire Solo's moxie, but he believed the man let his own feelings about Kuryakin color his decisions in this matter.
"It's all in the report, sir."
Waverly's bushy eyebrows rose. "So it is. Your report cites Mr. Ponce's sexual activities made him negligent. That's an extremely serious allegation yet I see no examples of his negligence. If I were to worry simply because he engaged in carnal relations while on a mission, I would also have to censor you. Many times. So, tell me, Mr. Solo, which of his duties and responsibilities did he neglect?"
Alexander Waverly was very, very good at reading his agents. The tightening of Solo's jaw and a certain shiftiness in his eyes told him this half of his top team was not telling him everything. The clenching and unclenching of Solo's fists was also a dead give-away. The man only did that under extreme emotional duress involving his Russian partner. He quirked one eyebrow higher to let his man know the jig was up. "Did these activities include Mr. Kuryakin?"
Solo grimaced and looked away without answering.
Waverly's patience finally hit a brick wall. "Damn it, man!" He ruthlessly shoved more tobacco into his pipe, tamping it down tight. He pointed the stem at Solo. "What happened between you and Mr. Kuryakin that would make you want to not only destroy his career, but to get him killed or worse, as well?"
Solo's expression changed from confused surprise to shock to denial before settling on enraged. He jumped up from his seat and planted his fists on the circular desk, leaning forward. "I'm trying to save him! You sent him back into the field too soon!" Normally he would never dream of questioning his superior's orders. In this case, those orders endangered the man, the person, who meant more to him than his own life.
He pointed at the door as though the man in question stood there. "He practically fled a class for no reason, he checked out a company van and uniform and disappeared off the grid for an entire day. Perhaps most disturbing is that he engaged several times in a sexual liaison that had nothing to do with the mission. That is not the behavior of a man that is ready for the field."
Waverly's eyebrows rose again. Somehow he managed to shove even more tobacco into his pipe bowl. "That is rather hypocritical, wouldn't you say, Mr. Solo? How many times have you enjoyed a woman while Mr. Kuryakin was in need of your backup?"
At least the agent had the courtesy to look embarrassed. "Illya has never been in danger because of me in that regard." They both knew that was a lie, but Waverly let it pass for the moment. He would bring it up at an opportune moment. "At least I was enjoying a woman. Illya compromised his position by having sex with a man. Ponce, to be exact."
Irritated, Waverly stuck the pipe stem into his mouth and lit a match, which he held to the bowl overflowing with tobacco. "Mr. Solo," he said between puffs as he tried to get the tobacco to catch. "You know we like to have a certain flexibility in our agents' thinking. I've known about Mr. Kuryakin's bi-sexuality since he came to us. I have also taken advantage of it a few times. An agent like him cannot be blackmailed if I know about it, now can he? I find it interesting you are making an issue of something that you have done yourself. With the very same person you are trying to convince me has a problem."
He glared at his over-packed pipe. He pulled a piece of paper over and viciously pulled all the tobacco out so he could start over. "So you felt the best way to treat a colleague with major trust issues and that recently had a bad experience with betrayal by a co-worker by betraying him yourself?" The hard, cold snap in Waverly's gray-blue eyes belied his mild tone.
Solo straightened. "I never betrayed him."
"You arrested him, Mr. Solo. Do you really believe he won't see that as a betrayal?" Waverly felt vindicated when Solo's face drained of all color. Now to hammer home the last nail in Solo's rebellion coffin. "Even if you were correct to pull him-which I do not agree-you went about it all wrong. You reacted without thinking it through, Mr. Solo. Before you pulled him from the field, before you humiliated him by parading him through the halls in chains, before you made such a fuss that everyone in this organization knows Mr. Kuryakin is no longer trusted by his own partner, did you stop for even one moment to think what your behavior would affect him? You've ruined his reputation in the espionage world. Because of your overreaction, I am going to have to call in a number of favors and even then I can't guarantee I can save his career. At this point, I'm more concerned about keeping the man out of the USSR and alive long enough for me to attempt that."
Solo looked shell-shocked. As well he should.
"Out of the USSR?" the CEA muttered.
"Of course. Mr. Kuryakin is still a Soviet citizen. They can call him back at any time. Once they hear he had a homosexual liaison as well as mental problems, the likelihood of that happening is high." He waved his pipe stem first towards his agent. "Just what do you think they will do to him then?"
Solo blindly reached behind him to find his chair and dropped into it, his face white with shock. "I-I didn't think-"
"That much is obvious, Mr. Solo," he said dryly. He waved the pipe towards the door. "I'm sure you have plenty of reports to catch up on, especially since you don't have Mr. Kuryakin here to do them for you. Go take care of them while I try to fix this mess you created." He usually didn't talk to Solo so dismissively but sometimes the man needed to be put back into his place.
Waverly set his pipe aside and pretended to make notes in Kuryakin's file. In reality he watched his agent's stiff walk as he left the room like an automaton. Good for him, he decided. Solo's charm, confidence, and, yes, even his close relationship with Lady Luck made him the perfect choice for the job of Number 1, Section 1 when the time came. He did need to learn a little humility and how to be a little less impulsive. Putting his own partner in danger because of his lack in those areas might just be the best teacher.
Speaking of teachers- He sighed and shook his head, wondering yet again why the Russian had not destroyed that journal long ago. Yes, the man had been young at the time, but the Soviet agent knew more spycraft by the time he was fifteen than agents three times his age. He knew better, even back then.
Kuryakin was so intelligent Waverly found it difficult to see him as ever having the lack of sense of a teenager even when he was one. He found it somewhat heartening to discover the man actually acted like a child at least once in awhile.
He'd exaggerated when he told Solo the difficulty level of damage control. Not that it wouldn't take some effort on his part but nowhere near the level he'd hinted at. Still, he should not have to do any of it in the first place. He could not lay all of that at Solo's feet. He played his part in this little drama, as well. He also thought he knew what Kuryakin used the van and uniform and it bothered him the man felt pushed to that point. Might as well start with fixing the easiest part of this little fiasco.
Decision made, he toggled the intercom. "Miss, erm, Rogers, please hold all my calls and any visitors."
"Yes, sir," came the prompt response.
Secure in the knowledge no one would breech his secretary's formidable defenses and find him away from the building without his armed escort, he stood, donned his hat and coat before leaving out his secret exit.