Harnett and Collins. Elegant gold leaf lettering marked the entrance to one of New York's most prestigious law firms. Ceala paused at the heavy antique oak and leaded glass door, unconsciously her slender fingers traced the graceful script letters. The charismatic young partners David Harnett and Dennis Collins had been best friends since preschool. When the other children played Cowboys and Indians, the Harnett and Collins boys played law firm. With imaginations fueled by Perry Mason reruns, they had turned the treehouse in David's backyard into an ersatz courtroom where they had defended a steady stream of neighborhood cats, dogs and an occasional Barbie doll charged with various and sundry violations of the penal code.
Through the glass door Ceala saw a small animated crowd armed with microphones surrounding Dennis Collins. Collins stood six feet two inches tall and had the wavy dark hair, intense dark eyes and perfectly chiseled features which made him seem more like a movie star than a litigator. As she pushed open the heavy glass door she was assaulted by the frenzy of noise and activity.
"So, the police have no suspects in David Harnett's death, Mr. Collins?" a tall, willowy blonde asked. Ceala recognized the woman as one of the local television news reporters.
"Really, Miss Jennings," he responded, his voice strained and tired. "I've told you all everything the police have told me. I must ask all of you to leave now. This has been a terrible tragedy for all of us. The staff here is very close, like family. This is very hard time for all of us."
Cassie Jennings started to open her mouth to ask another question. "Please," he whispered softly. The tall blonde woman nodded, an almost sincere look of sympathy on her perfectly made-up face. "If you hear anything..."
"I'll have someone call you, Cassie." Collins sighed and rubbed his eyes. Ceala slipped past the reception desk and headed to the small kitchen that linked David and Dennis' offices. She filled the kettle with water and set the burner on high.
"Tea?" Collins forced a weak laugh as he entered the kitchen. "Irish Voodoo?" He reached for the mug on the counter.
"The tea's mine." She stood on tiptoe to plant a light kiss on his cheek, then handed him a tumbler filled with ice and Red Breast. He took the drink from her hand and led her into his private office. Surrounded by sumptuous dark mahogany, softly gleaming brass and expensive antique lighting they settled themselves onto one of the leather couches. These were the trappings of success, and Dennis Collins was indeed a very successful man.
"I'm so sorry, Dennis." She set her mug down on an end table and took his hand. "I heard the news on the car radio while I was driving home. I just couldn't believe it."
"I know." He took a long gulp of the icy whiskey. "When the police came to tell me, I kept thinking it was all some ridiculous mistake."
"What happened?"
"It's really just speculation at this point, but everything seems to point to a carjacking."
Collins checked his watch. "The police want me to come down and identify David's body. Just a formality really, as often as his picture was in the paper half the city could ID him."
"Would you like me to come with you?"
"No." He shook his head and set the drink down on the desk. "It's something I have to do myself."
Sprinting down the corridor, Kuryakin caught the elevator doors just before they snapped closed. Breathless, he pressed the button for the third floor, then checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty. Napoleon was to have been released from the clinic at ten; it had been nearly eleven when Lisa put Ceala's call through. Her voice was anxious and tired and he found a curious apprehensive feeling crawl over him as she spoke.
"What's wrong?" he'd asked her.
"I'm not sure" she'd answered him, the tension in her voice was unmistakable, and he had instinctively known she was hiding something.
"Can you come down here?"
"I'm on my way."
Three twelve, he found the room at the end of a long corridor. Ceala sat by herself in the small room. His assessment had been correct; she looked unsettled and exhausted.
"Where's Napoleon?"
"They're running more tests." She folded the newspaper she'd been reading and set it on the table next to the bed.
"What kind of tests?"
She stared at the floor for a moment as if collecting her thoughts. Kuryakin felt his apprehension evolving into full-fledged fear.
"What kind of tests, Ceala?" He repeated his question with a bit more force, struggling to keep the anxiety from seeping into his voice.
"The tests that came back this morning indicated Napoleon has a brain tumor."
"A brain tumor?" He sat down in the chair next to her stunned. "Are they sure?"
She nodded softly. "Dr. Alexander thinks that's why he fell off of the ladder. He probably blacked out for a few seconds."
A brain tumor? Kuryakin tried to process and analyze this information. The majority of tumors in humans were benign. The odds were in Napoleon's favor that this would be only a minor incident. Surgery to remove the growth and then a few weeks to recuperate. Knowing Napoleon probably a month at Club Med. The legendary Solo magic, Kuryakin mused his partner truly led a charmed life.
"Is the tumor malignant?" he asked.
"They don't know yet. That's why they're running more tests."
Kuryakin sighed. Waiting had never been one of his strong suits. Patience was a virtue, and he did not consider himself a particularly virtuous man. He stood up and drifted toward the window. It was raining outside, the grey light reflecting off of the glazed streets bathing everything in an unearthly glow. Bright yellow cabs and the odd yellow rainslicker punctuating the otherwise unmitigated dreariness below.
He returned his attention to Ceala. She looked exhausted; the redness of her eyes suggested to him she had been crying. Then he noticed the headline on the folded paper.
"The man who was killed yesterday, he was a friend of yours." His voice was soft and without thinking, he found his fingertips softly brushing her hair. He had expected her to pull away from his touch and when she did not, he felt an inexplicable wave of comfort.
"Yes, he's…was, Dennis' law partner. It's just so awful. He was such a wonderful man, very sweet and kind. I can't understand why someone would do that, to take a life. Over what? A joyride in a fancy car. Poor Dennis, he had to go to the police morgue and identify David's body last night. I offered to go with him, I know how traumatic that is. I had nightmares about the morgue in Baltimore for weeks."
"Baltimore?"
"When Napoleon and I went to Baltimore…they took us to the morgue to identify…your body."
He was surprised by this revelation. Neither she, nor Napoleon had ever made mention of it before. He knew Cartiers' men had put his clothing on the body of a man they had killed in order to keep U.N.C.L.E. from looking for him. He had only been told Napoleon had known the body was not his.
"We thought it was you." Her voice was strange, as though they were on the telephone with a bad connection. "The man had been shot in the face," she added. "It was… ghastly. I had to hold on to Napoleon, I could barely stand." He continued to stroke her hair and she leaned her head against his shoulder. "I whispered into the dead man's ear..."
"Mr. Kuryakin?" He recognized the woman who had come on to him in the emergency room the day Napoleon had been admitted. Scrutinizing the scene she'd walked in on she cast him a petulant glance.
"Yes."
"They're bringing Mr. Solo down from the MRI floor. The doctor will be in to discuss the outcome of the tests with you in about an hour."
"Thank you," he responded. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he handed to Ceala. "I don't think we want him to see any tears." he coaxed gently.
It was close to four when Dr. Anderson finally arrived at Napoleon's room.
"I'm sorry for the delay," he apologized. "We rechecked all of the test results."
Kuryakin felt a sudden rush of unease. No one rechecks good news.
"I'm afraid the outcome was not as we had hoped. Mr. Solo"-he turned his full attention to the darkhaired man lying on the narrow hospital bed-"your tumor is malignant, and because of its location there is nothing that can be done surgically." He paused for a few moments, as if giving them time to absorb the implications of the diagnosis.
"But there must be some course of treatment?" Kuryakin asked.
"We have a specialist, Dr. Garrick Turner. He's heading a research team which has had some promising results on tumors such as yours. He has agreed to come and handle your treatment personally.
"I want to go home."
"Napoleon!" Kuryakin countered sharply.
"Dr. Turner and his team will examine you tomorrow. If all goes well you can go home a few days after the first treatment. We'll do the rest of the treatments on an outpatient basis. How would that be?"
"It will have to do I suppose," Solo replied grudgingly.