A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Thirteen - Walk a Crooked Road
Rated: PG
FYI: Samara is a town in Siberia.
******
As soon as we walk through our door, Dr. Bastajian is waiting to once again poke and prod. Plus Ms. Chan. Plus Dr. Goldak. I am beginning to think the entire world is now being paid by the hour.
"Well, gentlemen." Dr. Bastajian scrawls a final note in his file. "I have to give you a clean bill of health. Despite Dr. Goldak's arguments."
Goldak is undeterred. "I just believe they need more follow up, perhaps a vacation..."
"A vacation?" The Major looks interested. "Do you think you could do that?"
"If it means...?" Napoleon sounds seriously interested. A plan that will both get us out of here and into some resort at U.N.C.L.E. expense? That is his version of a flawless plan.
"Well, I suppose..." Dr. Goldak begins.
"Wonderful!" Major Yelena is practically picking the feathers out of her teeth. "Then Doctor, you can certify them both fit as of tonight."
"I still don't like your blood gasses..." Bastajian begins, then stops. "Very well. Tomorrow morning. But not for return to duty. Only for outside rest."He scribbles across the bottom of our charts. "Please, gentlemen, for the next few weeks - try to stay below 1000 feet."
Major Hovsepian takes her victory and herds them out before Dr. Goldak can put in an argument.
I look at Napoleon.
He looks at me.
"Where do you want to go on vacation?" I ask.
He smiles. "You don't think they are actually going to let us walk out of here?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." I shrug. "Either way, we do have to tell them something. So...where?"
"I don't know . It's summer. How about Cannes?"
"Too crowded."
"St. Moritz?"
"Too tall. The Doctor wants us to stay below 1000 feet."
"Italy, then?" Napoleon picks up his book. "Venice might be nice."
"Venice could work." I agree. I leave him to his reading. I have one place I must visit first.
**********
The guard at the door is happy to show me to the correct office.
"Dr. Goldak?" I call from the doorway.
"Mr. Kuryakin?" The doctor hurries around his desk. "Or do your prefer Dr. as well? Or General?"
"Either." I have no preference as to what these people call me. I would prefer to leave here and never speak with them again. I think. "I have come to ask you for... advice."
"That's what I'm here for." Goldak waves me to a seat, then offers "Tea?"
"No thank you. I will be brief. It involves my resignation papers."
He takes his seat. "Nasty business, that."
"Then you would not think I should sign them?" I question.
"Absolutely NOT!" He looks disgusted at the thought. " That is the worse think you could do right now."
Closer to the answer I would normally expect, but... "Why?"
"Mr. Kuryakin." He steeples his fingers below his chin. " Consider. You have just been through a very traumatic experience. You personal support structure has been reduced to -- well, practically nonexistent. Your blood pressure is elevated, which Dr. Bastajian assigns to shock but which could also be occupational stress. You are underweight, and your blood sugar is low. And, frankly, I feel that Major Hovsepian is exerting a bit of undue influence. Nothing against her as a person, but her management style is very regressive."
The doctor sits back, a man in his element. "My advice? My advice, Mr. Kuryakin is to rest, get positive emotional support, and see a lawyer before signing anything. Beyond that......? Ms. Dancer has already refused my suggestions for transitional teaching."
Reeducation? I am suddenly very grateful for U.N.C.L.E.'s overarching authority.
"Well, I will leave that to Ms. Dancer's people in Venice." He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pad. "Your records indicate that you draw?"
"I have had some instruction."
"Perhaps you should consider art therapy? Or a pet? Dogs are wonderful. So warm and soft. Their love and closeness can really help with life issues. And there is so much less social judgment with pets than there is with stuffed animals."
He wants me to consider what? I say nothing.
"OK. You spy types don't *do* stress. Be stoic."
He scribbles a few lines on the top sheet and hands them to me. His handwriting is terrible, but it does appear to be a prescription... for a dog. Well, a 'therapeutic animal companion'. I presume that is the same thing. I put the paper in my pocket.
"You are a young man, Mr. Kuryakin. You have had an 'adventurous' life. I understand that. You are not mentally or physically in a position to retire, regardless of your resources. You still need work to add to the purpose of your life. I understand that as well. But wait. It is just too soon for you to make those decisions well."
He starts scribbling again. This time the sheet he hands me says 'Two weeks total rest' and 'min. 3000 calories/day'. I wonder offhand if that will help Mr. Waverly accept Napoleon's restaurant bills.
"Oh. And be careful around the Major. She is definitely on a recruiting drive. Nice woman, but ambitious. Very. If she can get *both* you and Mr. Solo to sign up... well... her career would be made." He shakes his head slowly. "Don't trust her promises. She would have both of you on the train to Samara before you can blink."
I stand before he can start to write again. "Thank you, Doctor. I will certainly consider what you said."
******
Napoleon is waiting when I came back in. Expectant. "What did he say?"
I start to ask 'who', but stop. Napasha knows me too well. Often it seems he knows my actions before I do. "Dr. Goldak said I should rest." I take the seat beside him and reach for my magazines. " And - he said I should get a dog."
"What?" That gets Napoleon's attention.
"Goldak said I should find something warm and furry to pet."
"Oh." He goes back to his reading. "Well, once we're out of here we can work on that."
I pretend to read, but I can not. My mind circles constantly back to my 'resignation'.
Were they so willing to part with me?
Why are they so willing to part with me?
They parted with me once before. True. I put that aside. That was different. That was an honor. When Vladimir told me of the mission, I was *proud* to go. Eager. I left not as the least but as the best. The flawless professional. The 'Ice Prince'. The one who would uphold their honor an the face of those who considered us no more then thugs and jailers. I would prove them wrong. I would prove incorruptible. I would be their ambassador, their avatar, their eyes and ears at the center of the world.
When I left for U.N.C.L.E. I knew it was ... permanent. My new loyalty would forever supplant the old. But I believed I would be honored in memory, welcomed back in age. Perhaps not to live in Russia, but most certainly to live *of* Russia.
Now?
I left a prince. I will not return a beggar. If that makes me a fool, I will be a fool with pride.
END CHAPTER THIRTEEN