It should have been easy. It should have been a walk in the park, or a lark.
What it should not have been was dangerous, or treacherous or…
Napoleon Solo sighed with all of the weight expected in the midst of a completely failed assignment. lllya was lying in a hospital bed with a hole in his shoulder and more needle marks than a heroin addict. As for his own condition, the CEA of UNCLE Northwest thought he might have broken a finger when he took a swing at a THRUSH guard; something that would slow him down but not put him on the critical list.
Illya was on that list, and all of it because the two of them had been unable to tame the fury of a THRUSH femme fatale named Irina Petrov. The Hierarchy had lured several former KGB into their ranks, and this woman was one of the most dangerous of that group. The misfortune of her recognizing Kuryakin from some chance encounter before his departure to Paris in the 50's had set the entire mission on end. A bad end.
It should have been a simple courier run, an added task after the conclusion of a successful affair. The misfortune of being spotted by Irina Petrov had been a catalyst to something totally unexpected on a day intended for a job usually reserved for less than UNCLE's top agents. Irina had seen things differently.
Irina was dead now. That had not been Napoleon's intention, but when he finally found his partner strapped to a table and looking like a human pin cushion, he had shot the woman just as she was hovering over Illya with another injection of the poisons already streaming through his system. Solo shot a tranquilizer into Irina's shoulder, unaware that she would have an acute and deadly reaction to the UNCLE formula.
Irina fell to the floor, gasping for air as the tranquilizer began to create swelling in her respiratory system, suffocating her before Napoleon could do anything to stop it. She lay lifeless before him, halting his progress only momentarily as he made his way towards the equally lifeless form of his Russian partner.
Upon closer examination it was obvious that Illya had been shot, the wound now bandaged but still bleeding. It was unclear whether the bullet had been removed, but getting the man out of this room and into Solo's waiting car was his only thought. Illya was dead weight as he lifted him over his shoulder and, as quickly as possible, made it out into the night past the bodies of men already in the twilight of Napoleon's mercy bullets.
The English countryside slipped past silently as the car headed towards London. Solo called ahead to prepare the medical team to receive them, not completely confident as he looked at Illya, that his friend would survive this time. It was impossible to know what type of poisons were coursing through his veins, or how much blood he had lost from the bullet wound. Napoleon's stomach was tied in a knot the size of a grapefruit, his emotions battling for space alongside the need to be professional, efficient.
Now it was time to wait. Napoleon sat stoically in the waiting room as the medical wing of London's UNCLE facility hummed with the sound of machines and implements made of steel. Nurses looked sympathetically at the handsome American, his obvious affection for the blond patient calling out to their own concerns. The two were known here in London, and Illya Kuryakin had once been a part of this office.
He was remembered as slightly shy, notoriously alone, with brilliant blue eyes that made a woman want to wade into their depths.
Napoleon had drifted off into a weary sleep, his head canted to one side as his body slumped in the uncomfortable chair. One of the nurses, Miss Denham, spoke softly to him, avoiding the contact of which she had been warned.
"Mr. Solo, wake up Napoleon." She stepped back, aware that agents were sometimes physically aggressive when awakened. Thankfully this wasn't one of those times.
"Wha… what? Is Illya …?" He didn't know what to ask, his mind was still webbed with fatigue and worry.
"Mr. Kuryakin is awake now, you can go in.' Keira Denham had long been enamored of the American, and even now resisted the urge to hug him and offer some measure of comfort.
"He's fine Mr. Solo. He's going to be fine." Napoleon looked more closely at the young nurse. She was quite pretty in that way so often found among the British; big brown eyes and a complexion like cream within a frame of wavy auburn hair. He was suddenly smitten with her beauty and how it was enhanced by such kindness.
"Thank you Miss … May I call you Keira?" She blushed, nodding her head and smiling the answer to the question that would inevitably be asked. For now she led him into Illya's room. The lights were lowered, making the stark white of the sheets like an illumination of some sort. Illya was pale, but that was normal. The thought of it made Napoleon smile. Pale was preferable to the grey of death.
Keira closed the door behind her, relieved for both men that their worst fears had once again been overcome by living through the threat of their demise.