A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Six - I Read it in a Magazine.
Rated:PG
**************
I listen carefully, waiting for the pause in the nurses step that would indicate surveillance, but the heel taps vanish steadily down the hall. Once they are gone, Napoleon sits up.
"Well. That was interesting. Who is Dr. Goldak?"
I shrug. "My psychiatrist. So he says."
"Ouch." Napoleon has the usual professional opinion of psy-ops agents. Which is not high.
"Agreed." It is an opinion I share, although not in public. "I don't know what Goldak's game is. He keeps going on about 'stress' - but so far, no one has tried anything." Personally, If I wanted to 'stress' partners I would separate them. But...that is no longer my field. Phy-ops is always trying out new ideas. Could this be a preparation stage? If so, I find it ineffective. Perhaps instead they are hoping for incautious disclosures? In that case, there should be some surveillance. Cameras or tapes. I signal Napoleon that we will need to check the room.
He taps back his agreement. From the slight sounds of movement he is starting his isometric routine. I wish I could offer a massage, but this is neither the time or the place. No matter. He will manage. We have both learned how to move past pain.
Pulling the blanket over my head, I drape it over the pillow and my rolled-up robe. Not overly artistic, but perhaps enough to deceive a careless observer in this near-dark. Then I slip out the far side. My bed being a recent addition, there is a decent chance that side is in limited view to any unseen observers. At the very least, it is dark.
I follow the floorboards, feeling for lumps that might indicate covered wires. Nothing. I tap the wall, listening for the uneven echoes that mark cables and cameras. We dare take no chances. Even with the room 'dark' enough light comes in through the windows to supply a sensitive lens. Nothing. By the time I reach Napoleon's side of the room I am convinced there are no recent installations. That means either no wires, or equipment so permanent as to have been built with the room. Either, of course, is possible. But which is likely?
I signal Napoleon, and he, too, stuffs his bed and rolls out to join me. Together we go through the many cupboards and drawers built in on his side. He is almost through the last one when he raises his hand. I freeze. What is it?
He slides over to show me his discovery. Someone has left a small pen-light in one drawer. From the black plastic cover, I assume it is for examining ears or throats. No matter. Now it will provide a source of shielded light.
Given light, I am able to check the mirror between the shelves. Not that I thought it a likely hiding place. From the position, it would appear attached directly to the outside wall. Still...I check. Nothing. Any cameras must be near invisible. Perhaps another excellent sign for the progress of Soviet engineering. I would be happier at that prospect if I was not the target of those advances. A final check of the ceiling molding. Nothing. I signal all clear. As best I can determine without electronics, the room is clean.
"Think this is Russia?" Napoleon whispers.
"No", I answer. "The accents are right but the details are wrong." I think back carefully. "The ham was likely German, not Polish. The butter was unsalted. Perhaps Danish. The Major's collar does not quite fit her tabs. The tires on this wheel chair say Goodyear. More then that - the entire story is quite ridiculous."
"So where do you think we are?"
"If this is July, Finland. I do not believe they could have built this large an installation in Northern Alaska without attracting...notice."
"Chances of that?"
"Well" I consider. "Going by muscle tone we could not have been drugged for more then a week - maximum two weeks. I checked carefully, and while there are some pressure marks I have no noticeable bedsores. You?"
"None. Given my weight loss , a week sounds about right. Ten days at most."
"Then this is still February. I saw the light both before and after noon. The shadow pattern was summer, and likely well towards the pole. So... if this is not July in Russia, it must be February in the southern hemisphere. To be that for from the equator, I would guess South America. Certain Australian islands are also possible, but the air does not smell of the sea."
"T.H.R.U.S.H.," Napoleon states.
"Stewart again." I agree. Stewart and his plans have been the source of many of our troubles.
Napoleon nods agreement. "If so, he may only have a limited number of 'good actors." He considers. "Did you see what the nurse was reading?"
"Not clearly - but you are right. A periodical will have a date - perhaps even an address."
He slides to the door and rises up against the knob side. "Think there is anyone in these other rooms?"
"Not that I saw." I point to the latch side. "Nurse's desk."
He risks a glance. "Someone there. A woman. Reading."
I slip back to my bed, then return."Napoleon?" I whisper."I have an idea." I hold up the 'cell-phone'. "The April woman gave me this."
"What?"
"She said it was a telephone. I think I remember the number of the phone in the briefing room. Let me see."
He holds the light while I punch the buttons. Nothing. Perhaps like the television? I press a red button and the band at top starts to glow. Well, that is something. I try the number again, and this time it appears in black letters against the green. Progress. But not quite... I try the other button. A buzz, followed by a series of rapid notes. It is transmitting. Now to see if my memory had served. I signal Napoleon to be ready.
I muffle the device with a pillow as the ringing in my hand is echoed by another down the hall. The sound of heels on concrete. Contact.
Napoleon vanishes.
I hear three more rings before a voice answers,"Gugarin Military Hospital, Wing 1S. May I help you?" I wait through two repetitions before I cut the power off. Hopefully, that is time enough.
Napoleon slides back through the door just as heels begin to sound in the hall.
"Here, look this over," he says, holding up a battered magazine. "This was in the trash"
"No cover." Which means no address or date, but perhaps the articles will give us some clues. It is in cyrillic, so he hands it to me. Napasha's spoken Russian is excellent, but the alphabet sometimes gives him problems.
"Any chance this is actually Russian?" he asks.
I scowl at the flashily undressed young woman hawking cigarettes on the first page.
Napoleon smiles. "Not your standard Soviet constructivism?"
"It must belong to the Poles; or to that Quinn idiot." I answer, breaking the spine and handing Napoleon half the pages. If he is determined to look at pictures , he will just have to cope with the grammar. Not that the literary level looked any more elevated then the art.
"Illya. Am I reading this right?" He points to a headline that proclaims 'Exercise your Love Muscle' in blazing pink ink.
"I think so", I answer, "but...." I shake my head at the thoroughness and improbability of the charade.
We go back to reading.
"Napoleon?" I ask, looking at a bright blue headline.
"What?"
"Do you believe that redheads are the most passionate lovers?"
"What?"
"It is a study in this magazine." I point to the page.
He grabs it from my hand. "Who the hell did they find to study that?"
"Well" I ask. "Are they?"
"No", he answers, rolling the papers tightly and sliding them into the cabinet. "Blonds. Definitely blonds."
"Napoleon?"
What?" he asks.
"I think our captors are trying to drive us crazy."
"I think they're succeeding." He clicks off the light. Squeezing my hand gently, he adds. "We will deal with that tomorrow. For now - we should get some sleep."
We get some sleep.
END CHAPTER SIX