Chapter Eleven – The Problem with Emotion and Logic
The return of Mark Slate and April Dancer to the New York office caused something of a sensation to say the least. Considering that Waverly had sent them off without even being able to attend Napoleon and Illya's funerals, it was the general assumption that their absence was in some way linked with the deaths of the two senior agents. Mark and April had reminded one another continually during their return flight that as far as everyone at home was concerned, the boys were dead. It would not do for them to arrive looking anything other than unhappy or grim. Beyond that to play things by ear to see the general mood around the office.
Moran on arrival, still sleeping peacefully was whisked away by security to be placed in solitary in a cell with no human contact bar a tiny hatch just large enough for a paper cup of water and a paper napkin with a sandwich to be pushed through every so often to stop the prisoner from starving to death. It quickly went around by rumour that the new prisoner in solitary brought in by Slate and Dancer was a THRUSH officer, in some way connected with Kuryakin's brother, and possessed of knowledge that might lead to the person or people directly responsible for the deaths of UNCLE's two top agents, Solo and Kuryakin. However, knowledge that the man had been placed in the highest security cells was warning enough to every member of staff that unauthorized contact with the prisoner was strictly prohibited.
Mark and April, after dealing with their prisoner and setting up the hidden camera system to record his every movement as well as any illicit visitor that might go in there, walked the corridors of command, noting the still long faces of everyone they met. Not a few sympathetic glances were cast in their direction. April and Mark found themselves in the commissary with coffee, sitting at a corner table where they could watch the comings and goings of all their colleagues.
On the surface, everything seemed exactly as normal, as it might be at every UNCLE base, but the losses were still very new and very raw. Many of the men on the base were looking more stern than usual, the women without exception all looked distraught. After watching in silence for a few minutes, April turned away and looked back at her partner.
"I can't stand this, Mark. I know it isn't their fault, but this is what they are doing to everyone. When all of this is over, will they be able to carry on exactly as they did before?"
Mark shook his head.
"I don't know luv, but I think they got the message pretty well when they appeared back in Tarasov's office. You gave him a mighty whack you know. I could see your hand print on his cheek for almost twenty minutes."
"Can I join you two?"
The partners looked up and smiled. It was Emma Linnet, a sweet young nurse from medical. The only member of the medical staff to have secured a date with Illya, and much envied by all the females on the base as a result. Dates with the blond Russian were considered rare and highly treasured, as it was known that Kuryakin much preferred to keep his dating habits personal and well away from the prying eyes and busy tongues of UNCLE.
"Emma. Hello. Of course you can. How is it going?"
Emma sat down and eyed her cloudy lemonade without enthusiasm.
"It's been pretty grim. Since the funeral we've had an unexpected rise in visitors to medical with physical symptoms of stress. The number of patients being referred to doctor Penrose has risen by three hundred percent. I suppose losing Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin like that has caused some of our section twos to suffer a crisis of confidence. No one has raised much of a smile since we lost them. People are starting to phone in sick more readily than ever before."
Mark and April stared at each other.
"But we lose people out in the field. That is a part of the job, knowing that we are expendable and that our colleagues are as well. Section two agents especially know that fact well. I can understand that everyone is overwhelmed with grief, but I can't believe in any crisis of confidence." April declared with feeling. Mark agreed with her.
"Well you haven't been around for the last few days. You weren't even at the funeral, so you haven't seen what the rest of us have seen."
"We missed the funeral because we were sent on a mission. That certainly wasn't by choice. Hey Emma, I know it's hard losing the guys. They were close friends of ours too, but it'll get easier eventually…"
Emma shrugged and sipped her drink.
"S'easy for you to say. Illya was my lover. How do you think I feel, having to try and stay cheerful and professional for everyone else knowing I'll never see him again?"
April raised her eyebrows archly, but said nothing. Mark touched her foot with his toe in a warning gesture, then gave Emma a sympathetic look.
"So it's you that Illya was buying those roses for. I didn't think he was somehow the type to use them to decorate his flat with. So I suppose it was flowers and a dinner invitation? Now he's gone, you must be really distraught."
Emma's face turned pink, and her mouth became a straight line. Mark and April resisted the impulse to glance at each other. Emma was not looking upset at all. If anything, she looked angry. Furious, even. She gulped down her drink, excused herself and got up. When she was out of earshot, April raised an eyebrow.
"What are you up to?"
"She's lying, April. Why don't you put your disguise back on and keep your eye on her? When she leaves the building later, that is?"
April nodded.
"I think you're right. The girls all know that you don't go steady with a section 2 agent. If Waverly ever found out the…well there'd be big trouble. Besides, I know Illya took her to dinner the other week, but I also know the reason; even if she doesn't. No way are they lovers. She just isn't his type. Who's on camera watch right now?"
"George Dennell. Then me. Mr. Waverly later and you in the morning if you're not still tied up following miss Pants-on-fire."
April smiled.
"I wish Napoleon and Illya were here right now, Mark. They really are the best in their field at this sort of thing."
"They were." He corrected. She nodded sadly. "Well, I'll go and change in Del Floria's, and wait for Miss Linnet to leave. Keep your communicator with you…just in case."
Mark nodded, and April left.
Mark sat alone as he finished his coffee, and made his way to the security office, where George was sitting very still, concentrating on the pictures on the video screens. He acknowledged Mark's entrance without turning his head.
"That you Mr. Slate?"
"It's me. Anything exciting?"
"Just one portly Colonel who woke up and started pacing up and down. He looks rather annoyed, but without sound wired up to this thing, there's no knowing. Why is there no sound?"
"Because anything he might have to say is classified. That's all anyone is allowed to know for the time being. Sorry George. Time for me to take watch. Not a word now."
"Very well. Enjoy it. It is truly ripping entertainment." George remarked acerbically as he left the office. Mark made sure the door was locked and removed his communicator pen from his pocket. Waverly answered immediately.
"Sir, I'm on camera watch for the next four hours."
"Very well. Is the door locked?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. I will switch the audio through to you."
"Yes sir. Thank you."
Immediately, Mark heard Moran's rantings through the speakers. He turned the sound to a level that was audible only to himself, and settled down to watch and listen carefully.
MFU MFU MFU
April Dancer emerged from Del Floria's changing room in her full head disguise of before, only rather than wearing the very loud yellow outfit, this time she wore a smart deep blue skirt and matching jacket with a neat white blouse. Looking at herself in the glass she grimaced. It was a very nice suit. She was unsure if she looked more like a librarian or a school Principal; or headmistress, as Mark would inevitably say. Her new long blond hair was twisted into a severe bun on the back of her head, without a single hair out of place. The plain looking dark rimmed glasses that completed her ensemble provided the finishing touch. She would be officially plain and officially invisible. Mark would be proud of her. She remained in Del Floria's back room for some time, waiting for his call. Finally, over two hours later, his head appeared round the door and beckoned to her. She followed him back out into the shop.
"She's just gone. Headed to the right."
"Thanks Bill."
He nodded, as she left the shop in a cool and unhurried manner. Emma did not drive, and she was too thrifty to pay out for a cab home, so April was confident that this would be nothing more than a leisurely evening stroll. Her mouth dropped open in surprise when her quarry flagged down the first available cab to pass by. April tutted in irritation, and hurried into the road, to flag down a cab of her own.
MFU MFU MFU
Napoleon was collared in the corridor by the chief, Tarasov.
"Mr. Solo, Dancer and Slate have just checked in. They have your Colonel safely in custody and sleeping peacefully. They're on their way back to New York."
Napoleon nodded.
"Thank you, sir."
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes…yes sir."
Tarasov gave a half smile.
"I've seen that expression a hundred times. That is the face of a section two agent worrying about his partner."
Napoleon smiled, but did not reply. Tarasov regarded the American thoughtfully.
"I won't ask you any questions, Mr. Solo, but please remember that I am here if you need anything…even if only for advice."
Napoleon thought about Illya, and for a split second he was tempted to confide in this genial Russian, but instead he shook his head.
"Thank you, but I guess Illya and I will work it out, as always…I'd better go and find him…."
Tarasov watched with a small smile as Napoleon walked away. Illya Kuryakin was a fortunate man to have Solo as his partner. Whatever was going on; and Tarasov knew there was something; he hoped that Illya did not go and do anything rash to jeopardize that partnership. He couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the both of them; especially Illya at this time. This place must hold some pretty powerful memories that would not be easy to vanquish. Especially for a man like Illya, with a memory that tended to keep fast hold of almost every detail he was exposed to. As Napoleon reached the end of the corridor, Tarasov called out and asked him to wait for a moment. Napoleon turned and stopped, as Tarasov approached.
"Just so that you know, Napoleon, many of the staff here have noticed your partner acting a little out of sorts. I know under the circumstances that is no surprise, but even so Illya is…"
"Surlier than usual?" Napoleon finished off. Tarasov nodded.
"I had noticed, sir. But he's all right."
"What I wanted to say is just to remind you that this place is filled with many memories for Illya; and almost all of them are…difficult memories, shall we say? For example, last time you were both here together, Illya lost both his wife and his son in what turned out to be a tragic accident. I know he is not the kind of man to dwell on the past, but there are times, even for Illya, when the past intrudes where it is not wanted, and cannot be as readily chased away. When sad memory clashes with perceived duty, Mr. Solo, it becomes all too easy to make decisions based on emotion rather than common sense or logic."
Decisions based on emotion rather than logic? Was that Illya? Normally, Solo would have said No, absolutely not! But right now, his guts were clearly knotted up with grief over his brother, recollections of his own lost childhood, and now, as Tarasov had reminded him, Illya's grief over his own dead son, whom he could not have had time to properly mourn before being shipped over to New York. There was no doubt that right now, although Illya, as a trained and experienced agent, was capable of putting his emotions aside in order to do his duty; was currently being besieged by a tidal wave of emotions that his present location and situation was definitely not helping. Whether Illya realized it or not, he was going to need Napoleon; a voice of cool detachment perhaps, calmness and logic certainly. An anchor to the real world that Illya stood in danger of losing sight of. Napoleon realized in that instant the advice that Tarasov was subtly trying to give, and he nodded his appreciation.
"I understand, sir." He said quietly. "Thank you."
He was likely to encounter arguments and disagreements from Illya, and in this most private endeavor, Illya would certainly resent any interference. Napoleon knew he would have to stand his ground. Make sure that his partner did not lose sight of reality in his pursuit of his `perceived duty'.
Napoleon squared his shoulders, and headed for the elevator.
