It was Saturday afternoon, and except for Illya Kuryakin, the Fitness Center was deserted. As part of the sweeping array of budget cuts imposed by the new U.N.C.L.E. CFO, weekend staffing of Headquarters had been cut to the bare minimum. He didn't mind. It was the first bit of solitude he had found in weeks and he relished the peace and quiet the way another man might savor a fine glass of wine, or perhaps feast his senses on the beauties of a woman.
A light sweat covered his body as he struggled to best his mechanical opponent. He would be thirty-eight years old in the fall, and he was finding that keeping in shape required a greater degree of discipline of as his body aged. For an enforcement agent, being in shape was an occupational necessity. His body was a tool of his trade, and a dull or rusted tool could jeopardize the work, and in turn jeopardize his life.
He and his partner Napoleon had returned late last night from San Francisco where they had shut down a major Thrush money laundering operation. He had rewarded himself with the rare indulgence of eight hours of sleep before heading into work. He was hoping to get his paperwork caught up so he could take advantage of the brief respite between assignments without the pressure of unfinished business hanging over his head. After his workout he'd have a hot shower, then spend the uninterrupted afternoon at the computer reconciling his casefiles.
Kuryakin never considered a case closed until all of the reports had been completed and filed. His partner Napoleon, on the other hand, seemed to suffer from the delusion that left to its own devices, the paperwork would somehow magically complete itself. This fantasy seemed to play out in real life as the charismatic CEO always seemed to find an eager, usually feminine, trainee to help him with the backlog. Rank did indeed have its perquisites.
His workout completed, he headed to the deserted shower room. The water, hot and steamy, was heavenly on his tired aching muscles. Hot water had been a luxury growing up in Kiev, and the sensual delight of a long steamy shower still made him feel a bit decadent. He leaned back against the tiled wall and pleasured in the pounding rush of hot water over his skin.
"Illya, are you in here?"
"Lisa?" Startled, he poked his head out of the shower stall to find Lisa Rogers just a few feet away.
"What's wrong?" he asked pulling the thin plastic curtain around himself in a frantic attempt at modesty.
"You didn't answer your page."
"I'm taking a shower," he responded adding an indignant scowl for good measure. "Is there a problem?"
"There was a call for you. Would you like a towel?"
"Thank you, yes," he answered sharply, trying to hide his mortification as he realized how little the translucent shower curtain actually hid. Wrapping the towel around himself he came out of the shower stall. "You said there was a call for me?"
"Yes, Ceala Kavanagh called."
"Ceala?" It had been almost a month since he'd seen her, and given the quarrel they'd had, he had started to wonder if she was ever going to speak to him again. But miraculously it now appeared his banishment was at an end. The pleasure of his unexpected redemption was cut short by the strained look on Lisa's face.
"Napoleon's been injured."
"I thought you said Ceala called?"
"She did. She and Napoleon are at the Oasis Midtown Clinic."
"What happened?" He grabbed a second towel and began hastily drying himself.
"She didn't say."
He started to remove the towel from around his waist, stopped and frowned at the dark-haired young women. "Could you turn around please?"
Lisa smiled at him for a moment before finally complying. "She just said he'd been injured and she'd taken him to Oasis Midtown. She asked me to call you, and then she hung up."
Dressing hastily, he sprinted for the garage and headed across town to the Oasis Clinic.
"Ceala," Kuryakin's called out as he entered the waiting room. "What happened? Lisa said Napoleon's been injured. He's not even on a case-he signed out for the day on some personal business."
"I know, he was at St. Francis helping me paint my classroom."
"I see." Kuryakin felt a sudden rush of guilt. Months ago, he had promised Ceala he would help her paint her kindergarten classroom. He had gotten so caught up in the San Francisco affair it had completely slipped his mind, and of course the two of them hadn't been in communication in the last few weeks.
"He fell off of the ladder and hit his head. It really didn't seem that bad at first, but he had the most horrendous knot on his head. I told him he had to go to the ER. He gave me this card," she said handing him a small white laminated card. "He said for all non-work injuries he had to come here."
Kuryakin regarded the white card for a moment. Oasis HMO, their new health plan. He had one of the white cards in his own wallet as well. The memo regarding Oasis had been circulated barely a two weeks ago. In an effort to trim expenses, all non-business-related medical care would now be handled by Oasis. Napoleon had sardonically referred to it as the 'Kevorkian Health Plan'. "One office visit is all you'll ever need," he'd quipped sardonically. Suddenly it didn't strike Kuryakin as quite so amusing.
"By the time we got here he was becoming delirious. He was talking to the people on the telly- he thought they were holding you somewhere."
"Where is he now?"
"In one of the examining rooms, they just took him in four or five minutes ago. I wanted to stay with him but they wouldn't let me." There was a faint hint of tears now, and instinctively he wrapped his arm around her. Ceala laid her head against his chest for a moment, then suddenly, self-consciously pulled away. "The people at the desk need to ask you some questions for the insurance paperwork. I wasn't sure what I could tell them so I said they had to wait for you."
"That was prudent. I'll take care of it."
The woman at the desk looked up from the computer screen as he approached, smiling warmly. "Yes, may I help you?"
"I hope so. My friend, Mr. Solo, was brought in about half an hour ago. I was told there was paperwork you needed me to fill out."
Picking up a clipboard with some pale blue sheets attached she stood up from her desk and sauntered toward the counter. "We just need some information that wasn't on his card. If you could just fill in the lines I've marked with the "X". She leaned across the counter while Kuryakin studied the form.
"Do you work for Del Floria Importing too?" Her voice had taken on curiously breathy tone.
"Excuse me?" Kuryakin looked up to find the woman's face barely inches from his own. The top two buttons of her blouse were unfastened providing him a generous view of her lightly tanned breasts. He swallowed nervously, feeling certain the buttons had been joined when he came to the counter.
"I just wondered if you worked with Mr. Solo at Del Floria Importing?"
"I'm sorry...yes I do."
Del Floria Importing was a fabrication of Alexander Waverly's. Even though they were only to use Oasis for non-work-related care, Waverly still felt a need to maintain a certain level of security for his agents. He had argued against the board's decision to go outside of the agency for medical care-but in the end, he had simply been outvoted by those who were more concerned with cost containment. At Waverly's insistence, Oasis had been subjected to an exhaustive security investigation and had passed with flying colors. But the old gentleman had still insisted on the creation of the straw company to insure the privacy of his employees. Kuryakin returned his attention to the task of filling out the blue sheet.
"What do you do there?"
"Excuse me?" He looked up again to find a third button undone.
"What kind of work do you do at Del Floria Importing."
"I import things," he answered, nervously twisting the gold band on the third finger of his left hand. At one time the presence of the ring had something of a prophylactic effect, heading off situations of this nature. But in the past few years he'd noticed the erosion of respect for such social boundaries and the ring drew minimal, if any, notice.
"What kind of things?" He felt her lean closer her breath warm on his face.
"Foreign things," he answered curtly as he signed the insurance form and handed it back to her.
After taking a few moments to regain his rumpled composure he returned to the clinic's tiny waiting room. Ceala was still there, apparently engrossed in one of the severely outdated periodicals requisite for any respectable medical office. She had been staring at the magazine for almost twenty minutes without turning the page. It was becoming uncomfortably clear the magazine was merely a device to avoid any conversation between the two of them.
It was not, of course, a complete surprise to him. Things hadn't gone very well the last time he'd seen her, and their conversation had ended with a bitter argument. It had been nearly a month and she still wasn't returning his phone calls. The roses he'd sent had been returned with the word 'deceased' scrawled across the delivery ticket.
He slumped down into the chair. It seemed the longer he lived the less he understood women. Only moments ago, a woman in whom he had absolutely no interest had been trying to seduce him. Now a woman he was in love with was sitting just a few feet from him, pretending he didn't exist. At some other time, he might have been amused at the irony of the strange juxtaposition. This, however, was not that time.
"That article must be fascinating."
"It's quite informative actually," she responded without looking up. "It's titled 'Ten Surefire Ways to Stop Getting Involved with Mr. Wrong.' I'm trying to commit it to memory."
"I do realize I behaved badly the last time we were together." He did not look up from the floor, hoping perhaps a touch of penitent body language might serve to advance his case. She'd been angry with him before, but in the end, she had always found it in her heart to forgive him. But this time had been different.
Well," she glanced up coolly. "I believe that might be the first thing we've been able to agree upon for quite some time."
"I said some awful things..."
"If I recall correctly, you said you did not wish to see me anymore. I've made every effort to accommodate that wish. I'll have to beg your forgiveness for this brief lapse, once I know Napoleon is all right, I'll be on my way."
"Ceala..."
"I really don't believe there is anything left for us to say to one another. You covered things pretty thoroughly last time. I would suggest we occupy ourselves quietly until the doctor is ready to talk with us."
"Mr. Kuryakin?" An attractive young nurse summoned him. "They're finished with Mr. Solo's tests. Dr. Hamilton would like to speak with you in his office."
"May I come too?" Ceala looked up from the magazine.
The nurse looked to Kuryakin, who nodded yes. She led them down the brightly lit hallway to the office of Dr. Carter Hamilton.
"Mr. Kuryakin." Hamilton rose from the leather chair to greet them as they entered the luxuriously appointed office. The doctor turned a questioning gaze to Ceala.
"This is Miss Kavanagh. She was the one who brought Mr. Solo here." The doctor smiled and offered Ceala a chair, before sitting down himself.
"I'm afraid your friend took a pretty nasty hit to the head. There was some intercranial bleeding, but it appears it has stopped. There are still a few more tests I'll need to run."
"What kind of tests?" Ceala asked anxiously.
"Simply routine tests," he answered. "Nothing to be worried about. We will be keeping him overnight."
"I see." Kuryakin spoke. "When can we take him home?"
"As long as all of the tests come back negative, we should be able to release him by noon tomorrow."
Kara Bradwell popped open a can of Diet Coke and scrolled through the medical records on the monitor screen. She'd been at the job only four days and already it was becoming dreary. The soft whirring of the CPU announced another batch of insurance claims was coming in. The file she had been looking for was the third one in the queue. Group number 10311 Harnett and Collins. She picked up the phone and called her supervisor.
"The claim form on the lawyer just come in. Everything went fine. He was DOA. Yes, I knew you'd want to..."
She blinked her eyes in disbelief as the next file in the batch flashed up on the screen.
"Kara, what's wrong?" the man on the other end of the phone asked. Quickly she punched in the group ID number certain there must be some mistake. Group number 108149, Del Floria Importing.
"You'd better get in here, Jonathan. I think we just hooked ourselves a big one."
"What on earth are you talking about, Kara?"
"An U.N.C.L.E. agent, Napoleon Solo, was just admitted to the Manhattan unit."
"Did you say an U.N.C.L.E. agent? How delightful! Call Central, it seems our little investment in the Health Care Industry is going to pay off quite a bit more quickly than anyone ever dreamed."