Dennis Collins stepped from the limo and sighed deeply. The sky was a pure warm cerulean blue, the bright sunshine pouring through the budding trees. It was a beautiful day, a glorious day, it was the very worst day of his entire life. He offered a hand to Ceala as she stepped out of the backseat. Twenty feet from them, the polished oak casket covered with flowers was being removed from the hearse. Gladiolus, he been trying to remember the name of the thick stalks of flowers all morning. 'Funeral flowers', his mother used to call them. It was strange how the mind focused on trivialities at a time like this. It was almost as if by concentrating on the flowers on top of the casket he might somehow forget that inside was the broken body of his oldest and dearest friend.
"Are you all right, Dennis?" Ceala took his hand in hers and held it tenderly.
"I just can't believe this is actually happening, Ceala. He's been my best friend from the day we started school. It's like some bizarre nightmare. I keep thinking any moment I'll wake up and it will all be over."
Ceala studied Dennis Collin's pale, drawn face. The past few days appeared to have aged him ten years. David Harnett had been Dennis' friend since kindergarten. They'd gone to Harvard together and it had naturally followed they would go into practice together. Unlike most of Dennis' high school friends, David had taken the revelation Dennis was gay quite matter-of-factly. He had gone so far as to feign insult when Dennis assured him that he was not attracted to him in a sexual way. "Oh, come on now, Collins, I know I'm not gay but you at least have to admit I'm pretty hot looking?" Harnett had protested. "You aren't my type." Dennis had countered. The relationship between the two men had never faltered.
Squeezing Dennis' hand gently she led him toward the tent where David's family and friends had started to assemble. Fr. Michael Cooney led the mourners in a series of prayers. He spoke poignantly of the paradox of loss and hope. They were words he had learned from experience. Thrush had destroyed the lives Ceala and Michael had lived in Ireland. Three of their dearest friends were dead, and they had been forced to break all ties with friends and family there in return for the new lives Alexander Waverly provided them here in New York.
"Man, thou art dust, and to dust thou shall return." For just a moment she was in the graveyard of the small Catholic church outside of Belfast. Four coffins, her parents and three brothers, killed by a terrorist's bomb. The baby, Daithi, too tiny for a coffin of his own, had been buried with his mother. The shaking of Dennis' hand returned her attention to the present. They were about to lower the casket into the ground, and Dennis was struggling against tears.
"I wish it was me instead of him," Dennis whispered.
A terrible coldness overcame her as she watched the gleaming wooden box disappear into the bright green turf. Napoleon. It would be Napoleon in the coffin, and Illya the one left behind.
"I wish it was me instead of him." This time it was Kuryakin's voice in her head. Ceala wrapped her arms around Dennis Collins, and wept uncontrollably.
Kuryakin shifted uncomfortably in the leather chair and stared at the cup of coffee Lisa Rogers handed him.
"He's running a bit late in the budget meeting," she smiled apologetically. "He hasn't forgotten you."
Kuryakin studied his reflection in the glass of the framed watercolor over Alexander Waverly's desk. He had changed clothes three times this morning before coming here for the meeting with his boss. What was the proper attire for such a grim task he wondered? The combination of his dark suit and dour countenance seemed perfectly funereal, and he felt the knot in his stomach tighten.
"Can you wait with me, Lisa?"
"I was just about to take a break," she responded and poured herself a cup of coffee. He was certain, in fact, she had a tremendous amount of work awaiting her attentions, and had no doubt this little tete a tete would cost her dearly later. "When was the last time you slept?"
"I honestly don't remember." He sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly, settling herself in the chair next to him.
"No." He stood and walked to the window. He remembered the first time he stood in Alexander Waverly's office and looked out this window. He had stared at the throngs of people below scurrying about, busy living their lives, blissfully unaware of the things that transpired here. It was his preferred view of people, distant, abstract, safe. Individual persons on the other hand he found terrifying. They had vulnerabilities and needs and he often felt ashamed he had so little in himself to offer them. Attachments brought complications, and consequences.
Even in his brief marriage, he had not felt love for his wife. Renate had become pregnant with his child, and he had honored his obligation to her. Though he had not loved her, he had fallen in love with the child the moment he learned Renate was pregnant. It had been a most curious and unexpected thing. He had never really thought of the possibility he might have a child someday; he had never thought of himself as a father.
His love for the child had been so overwhelming that it began to encompass Renate as well. If he was not in love with her, he found himself feeling a genuine affection for her and took great satisfaction in finding ways to please her. The two months that followed had been the happiest of his life.
The promise of the child had filled him with an uncharacteristic spirt of optimism and hope. But his hope died two months later when Renate and the child she carried were killed. They had died because of his stupidity. The trap had been set for him, but it was Renate and the innocent child whose lives were taken. Their blood was as much on his hands as the man who had killed them.
He had only the vaguest recollections of the three months following Renate's death. Madness had attempted to seduce and he had come perilously close to allowing the darkness to swallow him. When the transfer to U.N.C.L.E. New York materialized, he had accepted in a desperate attempt to salvage some small portion of his life.
In reclaiming his sanity, he had made a conscious decision he would never allow himself to become attached to another person again. To that end, he had requested he be allowed to work alone, without a partner. But Alexander Waverly had ignored his request. Then, as if adding insult to injury, he had assigned him to work with the flamboyant Napoleon Solo. The match had seemed doomed from the start and he had seriously considered getting back on the plane and returning to Kiev when Solo introduced himself that snowy morning at the airport.
That had been thirteen years ago. Quite a bit had happened in those years. Since coming to America he'd managed, after a fashion, to get on with his life. But the guilt and pain were never far away, lurking quietly under the cool detached veneer he'd cultivated.
Attachments brought complications, and consequences. Those consequences were now a painful reality. His friend was dying, and there was nothing he could do.
"Napoleon has an inoperable brain tumor," he said without turning to face her. "The doctors aren't particularly hopeful."
"A brain tumor?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so." He pressed his face against the cold glass, struggling against a wave of nausea.
Lisa stood and moved to join him at the window. "Surely there must be something they can do for him?"
"The doctors at the clinic have proposed an experimental course of treatment. They've had some encouraging results in a handful of cases, but they can't promise anything except that it may buy him some time."
"How much time?"
"Perhaps a few months."
"I'm so sorry." She touched his cheek tenderly, then wrapped her arms around him. It was an unexpected gesture from the normally aloof and professional Rogers, and Kuryakin, who would ordinarily have been embarrassed by such a demonstration, was startled to find himself receptive to the comfort she offered.
"Mr. Kuryakin." Alexander Waverly entered the office. "Really, I would expect this of Mr. Solo, but I thought you had better sense." Startled, Rogers released Illya from her embrace
"I'm sorry, sir." Kuryakin joined Waverly at the conference table.
"Yes, very well. Now what was it you need to see me about, Mr. Kuryakin?"
Illya handed him the file folder with Napoleon's medical records. "I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing news about Mr. Solo..."
Pain. Absolute, unmitigated pain—it attacked him from without and from within. It was everywhere soul searing—inescapable. He tried to scream but nothing came.
Focus on the mission. But what was the mission? Why couldn't he remember?
Illya? Did they have him as well?
Miraculously the tide of agony began to ebb and he felt his body begin to relax. The light overhead shone in his eyes blinding him to his surroundings. His survival training kicked in. Deep breaths—get the blood flowing and oxygen to your brain. Use your other senses. Cold, he was lying, on something cold and hard—a metal floor or perhaps a table. There was a strong smell- antiseptic like a hospital.
A soft whirring sound in the background and a steady rhythmic beeping sound that reminded him of a heartbeat. The way the sound echoed around him meant the room was small and he wasn't on the floor. He felt certain he was in some sort of medical setting. But why? Before he could ponder further, he was swept into another wave of agony.
Someone was speaking in the distance. "One last cycle and we'll have our baseline."
"Are you sure he won't remember?"
"Stop worrying. We tested this on hundreds of subjects and there was no appreciable breakthrough for ten days after the treatment."
"But after that?"
"It doesn't matter, he'll be dead long before that."
In the sanctuary of his private lab, Kuryakin unearthed the bottle of Russian vodka secreted in the freezer. He poured a large glass of the clear liquid and settled down in front of the computer. He had a tremendous backlog of work waiting for him, and now would be taking on Napoleon's work as well. Alexander Waverly had appointed him interim CEA, until the board could meet and make a decision about a permanent replacement. His work, when despair had taken him into madness it had been his work that brought him back. It was the constant in his life, the thing that kept him from giving up. He finished the glass of icy cold liquor and quickly refilled the glass.
"Nasdrova!" he toasted. There would always be evil; he would always have work.