The Spot the Zebra Affair
Chapter 3 – A Little Help From My Friends
Author: Llinos
Solo said nothing more during the short helicopter ride, lost in thought about his partner's untimely end. He felt even more depressed when he saw from the helicopter how close they had been to a road, probably less than a mile. If it hadn't been for my damn carping about the pain in my back, Illya would probably still be alive.
The small glass-domed craft followed the dirt track for another two or three miles and finally landed beside a building which, although conspicuous, blended in well with the local culture. It was a wooden and straw construction, about 100 feet long and raised off the ground on criss-crossed stilts, about four feet high. There were several smaller buildings made from similar materials around it and the whole had the appearance of a normal African village.
Solo was carried into the large building and dumped on a small cot made of wood and raffia. Unlike the usual long-house, this place was divided up into a series of small sections, with a corridor running down the centre. The agent had been put in a room half way along the building.
A beautiful dark-skinned woman in a sarong brought him some water, fruit and flat bread. Napoleon spoke to her, but she appeared, or preferred, not to understand. Another half an hour passed before a short, rotund, ruddy-faced man dressed in a white safari suit and smoking a fat cigar sauntered into the room.
"Well, well, Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E.'s finest." The little fat man shook his head and rocked back on his heels chuckling. "What a sorry state in which to find so illustrious an agent."
"Should I know you?" Solo said in a disdainful voice. He may be down, but he was not yet out. Not 'til the fat lady sings, he thought, and she's not even clearing her throat yet.
"Jeremiah B. Sting at your service Mister Solo." Sting gave a low mocking bow to the agent. "Or should I say, you're are at my service?"
Solo not only hated this man already because he was THRUSH and had almost certainly ordered the death of his partner, but the agent was also irritated by the way the man sarcastically emphasised words as he spoke. "Oh yes." Solo closed his eyes as if in deep thought. "I seem to remember seeing your name in an U.N.C.L.E. file. One of the lesser minions of THRUSH as I recall."
"That may be Mr. Solo, but not for long." Jeremiah B. moved over to grab hold of the agent's arm, pushing his face threateningly into Napoleon's. "Once I've perfected the energy damper we have been testing, and delivered you to THRUSH Central, I assure you I will be more than a minion."
"Well I suppose it's good to have an ambition." Solo pulled his arm away from the man's offensive grip. "THRUSH has developed energy dampers before you know, they have never worked."
"Ah but this one will, Mr. Solo." Sting, like all THRUSH megalomaniacs, enjoyed bragging. "It is based on all the previous attempts to make such a machine, but this one has more control. It has a target locator and is directional."
"Hmm, I see." Solo didn't rush with his next observation. "So I presume you meant to bring our plane down. But how come nobody came to see the result?"
Jeremiah's face turned even more ruddy. "I assure you Mr. Solo that we brought your plane down, it was quite intentional. My men obviously believed you had been killed in the crash."
"Yes but we weren't." Solo gave an ironic grimace. "Were we?"
0-0-0-0-0
Illya Kuryakin was teetering on the verge of consciousness when he heard the THRUSH men returning from dumping his partner in the helicopter. He could hear them talking and walking back towards him.
"Bullet through the head," the first voice said. "Quite humane really."
"Well be quick about it." The second voice. "We haven't got all day."
Kuryakin felt the muzzle of the gun being placed against his forehead…
…and leave it again.
"Hey!" the first voice said. "Isn't that the critter this guy was holding when we first saw him. Look it's got something strung around its neck. D'yer think we oughter get it?"
"Might as well," the second voice confirmed. "Shoot it and we'll take a look."
Not Spot as well! Both agents always felt a professional responsibility for the innocents who accidentally got caught up in their struggles with THRUSH, even if, as in this case, it was only an animal. Kuryakin tried to move but the pain from his wound had sent him into shock and he was still losing blood.
A shot rang out above his head. "Damn! Missed it."
"It's taken off. Never mind, leave it. Just shoot this one and we'll be back in time for chow, I'm starving."
Illya felt the cold steel of the gun against his head again. He held his breath … There was a click, no bullet, just a click.
"What's the matter?"
"Damn gun's jammed. You'd better go and get yours."
"Oh leave it. The other guy said this one was blind, so he won't last long out here. He'll probably bleed to death from that wound anyway. Either that or the smell of blood will attract lions or something. Let's go."
Kuryakin could hardly believe it. Okay Napoleon, you're not the only one to get lucky sometimes. I'm not going to die now. I'm going to survive this. He gritted his teeth and lay still until he heard the helicopter take off. Then he tried to move again. The Russian managed to sit up, his hand still clutched to the bullet wound. He made it to his feet and took a couple of steps towards where he thought the water can might be. But the loss of blood was making him weak and he sank to his knees, gasping for breath. The last thing to run through his head before he passed out was, This is going to be more difficult than I thought.
0-0-0-0-0
Solo had been left pretty much to his own devices since his confrontation with Jeremiah B. Sting. The pretty, saronged woman appeared again, this time with water, soap and towel for him to wash, together with a safety razor and mirror.
"So what's your day job?" he asked conversationally.
"This not a job." She looked puzzled. "Mr. Sting tell me, clean you up."
"I see." Solo pulled a long face as he stretched his chin to shave off the two-day stubble. "Do you have a name?"
"I have name." Napoleon suspected the woman had been told not to talk to him.
"Well my name is Napoleon. Now I've told you mine you can tell me yours; isn't that fair?"
At last he had elicited a small smile. "Nap-o-le-on. It is strange name."
"Well I'm not a strange man." Solo persisted. "So it would be perfectly safe for you to tell me your name." He added in a whisper, "I won't tell anyone."
"It is Lana Turner."
Solo's eyebrows rose in enquiry.
Lana Turner smiled a little more at the American's surprise. "Before my mother gave me birth, she went to the big city, long way from here. There she see film show - um, movie. It had famous star called Lana Turner. She called me for her."
"Well Lana Turner is a beautiful lady and you are just as lovely, so it was a good choice."
"But I think she had hair of yellow, not dark like mine." Lana Turner ran her hand through her tight curls.
"Oh I think dark hair is just as lovely as yellow." Solo's voice caught just a fraction, as the reference to hair colour reminded him of one blond he would not see again.
"You are sad, why do you feel so?" Lana Turner looked at him, puzzled at the sudden darkening of his face.
"Er well you see Lana, can I call you Lana for short, it's my legs." Solo knew that his partner would not want him to wallow and there was still a lot to do. "I can't move them. Maybe if you could help me with a little massage or something I could make them work again."
"Yes, I know much about medicine," Lana assured the agent. "My mother taught me how to make ill people better. I know many herbs also. I will look at your legs when you finish with the washing."
"Well, I'm all finished here." Solo rubbed the last of the moisture off his face with the rough towel and Lana took the bowl away, removed Napoleon's shoes and undid the American's trousers, carefully stripping them off. She ran her hands gently over his legs with a touch that felt quite professional.
"Is not your legs." Lana announced confidently. "Everything is good there. I will turn you over and see your back."
Efficiently and with surprising strength, the woman turned Napoleon onto his stomach. Her hands ran down his spine and felt vaguely sensuous. What she did next however, felt extremely sensuous. Napoleon realised that she had leaned over him and was gently probing his backbone with her tongue.
Eventually she stood up and Solo managed to turn over on his own, using his arms, and looked at her enquiringly.
"It is your back that has injured, Nap-o-le-on." Lana smiled down at the prone agent. "But I can maybe fix."
"How?" Solo did not want the injury made worse.
"I use some heat, some herbs - very special herbs and I massage, move wrong piece back to right place."
"Why do you use your tongue to make a diagnosis?" Napoleon put his head on one side. "Not that I minded you understand."
"More feeling. It tells me more." Lana Turner finally broke into a beautiful smile. "And you are very sexy man."
0-0-0-0-0
Illya came awake slowly. He woke from a bad dream, only to find himself in another nightmare. He figured by the temperature that it must be night. Had he been the panicking kind this would have been an excellent moment to indulge it.
The pain from his recent wound had reduced to a dull throb and the Russian could not begin to guess how much blood he had lost.
Kuryakin climbed to his feet, moving automatically. Then he stood still. Where am I going? How do I get out of this. I must have been in worse situations. He considered this for a moment, then concluded. No, I don't think I have.
Locked in a cell, there was always the possibility of escape. Being tortured, there were obvious choices, talk, die or escape. Even when facing imminent death, there was usually a choice, kill or be killed.
But this! Blind, wounded and alone in the middle of the African wilderness. Illya suddenly felt almost overwhelmed with a desolate sense of isolation. He sank down onto his haunches, clutching his injured side, rocking to and fro on his heels, trying to muster his thoughts and figure out what to do next.
Something hit him in the side and knocked him over. He rolled onto his back and pulled himself up into a sitting position, his heart pounding.
The second nudge was against his face and the Russian let out a long held breath, his anxiety vanishing.
"Spot!" Illya climbed to his feet and put his arms around the zebra's neck. He did not even wince at the pain in his side as he hugged the surprised animal. "Am I glad to see you."
Spot was a little alarmed at the unusual display of affection from the Russian, so Kuryakin undid his grasp and gently stroked her nose. "Spokoino, dushka. Steady baby," he whispered.
Kuryakin felt in the home-made rug bag, which was still hung around Spot's neck, and produced a peppermint. The zebra crunched it quickly and nudged the Russian for another.
Illya caught hold of Spot's trailing rope and tied it to his wrist. He did not want to chance losing her again. Then he removed the rug sack from around the animal's neck and, sitting down on the ground, carefully went through the contents.
He counted out 24 peppermints, 14 pain tablets - 12 after he quickly dry-swallowed two and a bottle of something from the first aid kit. He sniffed the contents and decided to put it on his wound, only later, as it would probably hurt like hell. The U.N.C.L.E. Special with half a clip of ammunition and the broken communicator.
Except it wasn't broken. Napoleon had adapted it into a homing device.
"Well Spot, I think we're in business. I've got a gun, a homing device and medicine and you've got two good eyes and 24 peppermints."
0-0-0-0-0
Lana Turner could have made herself a fortune if she lived in New York, Napoleon decided. As she rubbed hot, pungent oil into his back and manipulated and massaged, the pain gradually seemed to lessen and he felt a minuscule sensation of sciatic pain running down his legs. She also gave him a syrupy potion to drink which gave him a warm feeling as it oozed down his throat, easing away the aches and throbbing.
"Your legs can't work because this bone.." Lana suddenly pressed hard into the lordosis, making Napoleon yelp with pain. "…is moved across to wrong place."
"Ahh! Well thanks for the warning." Solo groaned again.
"I hurt you too much?"
"No that's just fine." The American was startled to be getting so much feeling back so quickly. "You carry on."
"Is not broken," she diagnosed. "Maybe small fracture, but I can push into right place. Are you ready?"
"No time like the present."
The woman hitched up her sarong and knelt astride the prone agent. She placed her knee against the small of Napoleon's back and her hands on either side. With a sudden movement that made Solo see stars, she pressed her knee and pulled with her hands and the agent felt, rather than heard, a sharp click in his spine. The sciatic pain in his legs grew and, although it hurt, Napoleon could at least feel some sensation there at last.
Lana climbed off him and helped him to roll onto his back. "You rest for a while and then we see what has happened. How does it feel?"
"My legs are hurting." Solo reached down to feel the back of his thighs. There was definitely feeling there. "That's good, I suppose."
"Yes, that is good." Lana covered Napoleon's bare legs with a thin sheet. "I must go now, but I come back in a while and we see if your legs move."
Solo was surprised that Jeremiah B. Sting had not reappeared and that he had received such attention from Lana, but perhaps THRUSH was just using local help and not monitoring what they did too closely. After all, as far as he knows, I'm crippled so what danger could I be. Solo reasoned. He obviously doesn't know he has a medical genius on his staff.
0-0-0-0-0
Illya had eventually gritted his teeth and applied half the contents of the bottle (it smelt like some kind of iodine) to his wound. Then, once he had recovered his senses, he unravelled some bandage from Spot's rope and bound up the injury as best he could.
He eventually found the water can and, after he and Spot had taken a long drink, decided to rest until he felt the sun come up again. Apart from needing the rest, the sun helped him to navigate. He had lost the cigarette lighter; Napoleon probably had it in his pocket. With some coaxing and a couple of peppermints, he managed to get Spot to lie down. The Russian used her as a pillow and hot water bottle and was able to get several hours of healing sleep.
When he awoke the sun was in his face and Spot had shrugged him off and regained her feet, pulling impatiently at the rope.
"All right, I'm coming, dushka." Illya climbed to his feet, feeling for the peppermints. "Here have some breakfast. No, just one, you've got to make them last now."
They took some more water and Kuryakin allowed Spot to graze for a while, as he fiddled with the communicator again to try and get some kind of signal. The agent was sure the instrument was working, but he couldn't get any response.
"All right Spot, we'll try away from the sun to begin with for an hour and then, if there's nothing, we'll go two hours the other way. Do you think you can manage that Dushka?"
He climbed up on the zebra's back and urged her forward. Spot was used to being led rather than just ridden, but she got the hang of what was wanted quite quickly and trotted obediently forward.
At least when he was riding Spot, he didn't keep stumbling over and the zebra soon picked up a good pace. Illya was careful to keep the sun in his face as he rode.
An hour, measured by Kuryakin's internal clock, revealed nothing on the communicator. So he turned Spot around and they travelled back the way they had come, this time keeping the sun at his back.
After two hours, just when Illya was starting to get despondent again, the sound of a faint but regular bleep emitted from the instrument.
"Spot, you've just earned yourself a lifetime's supply of peppermints - just as soon as I find Napoleon and… well, whatever else I have to do." He climbed off Spot's back and let her rest and graze for a while. Then they finished off the water between them and had a peppermint each, before resuming their journey.
0-0-0-0-0
When Lana returned, Napoleon was actually standing shakily beside the cot, supporting himself against the wall with just one hand.
"Oh Nap-o-le-on! You are moving so soon." Lana looked quite surprised at her own medicine. "You must be very strong man."
"And you are some magician, Lana." The agent gave her his very best seductive smile. "That was a brilliant piece of doctoring." Napoleon sank down to sit on the cot, his hand on his back to ease the strain. "Tell me, does Mr. Sting know that you've been healing me?"
"Hmp!" Lana turned her nose up. "I don't tell him anything unless he asks."
"So why are you working for him?" Napoleon could guess the answer but he needed to hear it from the woman herself.
"These men came here and promised the village great riches." Lana sat down on the cot next to the agent. "They built this long house, but we are not allowed to use it. They say we can have it when they have gone. But there are no riches, only threats… violence."
"What kind of violence?" Solo asked gently.
"The head man complained because all the women had to work cooking and looking after Mr. Sting's men and they are not looking after their own men. So Mr. Sting shot him dead with his gun. Then he says he will shoot anyone else who complains. What else can we do?"
"You could help me some more. Perhaps together we can get rid of Mr. Sting and his men."
"But, Nap-o-le-on, you are just one man who can hardly walk." Lana looked at him with a glimmer of hope. "What can you do?"
"Well, let's see. Is there a room with a radio transmitter? Or a room with a lot of electronic equipment?"
"Yes, there is radio room at far end of house, but we are not allowed to go near it." Lana gave a small frown. "Next to it is bigger room with equipment. But that one always has men in it."
"Uhuh. Is it possible to go to the radio room without being seen from the other room?"
"Yes I think so. They only go in radio place to send message. No one guards it."
"Okay." Solo was beginning to see a way through. "If you could steal one of those uniforms for me and then let me know when most of the men are out of the way… I'll see what I can do."
"I think I manage that well, Nap-o-le-on." Lana kissed him on his cheek. "I fix your legs, you fix my village. It is good bargain."
"A very good bargain, Lana."
0-0-0-0-0
The signal was growing very strong now. Illya pulled Spot up and rummaged in the little bag until he retrieved the U.N.C.L.E. Special. "Now dushka, this is the tricky bit."
He slid off the zebra's back and led her along, paying very careful attention to the signal strength.
Spot butted him every so often and he swatted her away. "Not now Spot, you can have a peppermint when we've finished." He absentmindedly fondled her neck and head, scratching her just behind the ears, something she seemed to like.
Suddenly Spot arched her head and pulled up. Kuryakin felt her ears prick backwards, alert and nervous. "What is it Spot? What can you see?"
Illya listened very carefully. He could hear voices and movement, ahead of him and slightly to his left, about 500 yards he reckoned. A dog barked and someone called out.
Can they see me? Illya thought. He had no idea how out in the open he might be.
He put Spot on the side the noise was coming from and crouched down beside her, keeping his head below the level of her back. "Perhaps a zebra wandering up, won't cause any suspicion, Spot. You'll have to be my camouflage. Come on, dushka, slowly now."
Gradually the two edged their way forwards, Kuryakin keeping a tight hold on Spot's halter to keep her between him and the noise.
0-0-0-0-0
Solo noticed the occasional THRUSH guard wandering past his room, but generally the security and activity in this particular satrapy was lower than any he had ever encountered. He reasoned the location was probably so remote there was very little threat of discovery or interference from outside and they seemed to have the local people pretty much under the thumb.
Napoleon did not want to practice walking in case he was seen by the guards. He did not want anyone alerted to his recovery until he was ready to make his move on the equipment room. However, he had been flexing and rubbing his legs, exercising them discretely, so that when the time came he would be ready.
As he lay back relaxing after a strenuous bout of moving his knees up and down, Jeremiah B. Sting appeared once more.
"I hope you are enjoying our hospitality Mr. Solo." The man's words were out of kilter with his tone. "Make the most of your rest while you can. I have notified Central of your capture and they will be picking you up tomorrow. I'm sure they have many questions to tax you, before your final disposal."
"Find out what happened to our plane yet - hmm - did you?" Solo had found a weak spot and was determined to exploit it. "It was a mistake, wasn't it. I'll have to mention that to the boys at Central."
"It is just possible that someone messed up in bringing down your plane Mr. Solo." Jeremiah puffed a large cloud of smoke from his cigar and flicked the ash on the floor. "But I don't think Central will be too worried about us accidentally bringing down an U.N.C.L.E. plane."
"So it was a mistake! Huh?" Solo smiled triumphantly. "In my experience THRUSH Central doesn't like mistakes of any kind. They can be most unforgiving."
"They're not going to be interested in you blabbing about that, Solo." Sting turned on his heel to leave. "You'll be too busy singing about all U.N.C.L.E.'s little secrets, and I'll be busy collecting my promotion."
"We'll see," Solo said more to himself, since Sting was already out of the door.
0-0-0-0-0
"Who you hiding from, Mister?"
Illya jumped at the voice. It was whispered and childlike. Then he realised that was because it belonged to a child. He reached out towards the voice and encountered a curly head about three feet off the ground. The head jumped back at his touch, obviously shy or alarmed or both.
"It's all right, I won't hurt you. Do you like candy?" He thought perhaps what worked with Spot might well work with this newcomer.
"Uhuh," said the small voice. "You got some?"
Kuryakin felt in his pocket for the dwindling supply of peppermints. There were about half a dozen left. "Here you are." He held out two mints towards the child, batting Spot's greedy nose away. "What's your name little boy?"
"Not little boy, little girl and my name is Matty."
"Sorry Matty. I can't see you. My eyes don't work." The Russian felt Matty's hand gingerly help herself to the candy. "Can you tell me what's here?"
"It is my village, where I live." Matty unwrapped the peppermint and began sucking noisily.
"And who lives here? Are there many people about?"
"We all live here." Matty explained with the wonderful simplicity of children. "And some new men, I don't like them. They don't give me candy."
"Are these new men, soldiers?" Kuryakin asked. "Do they have uniforms and guns?"
"Yes. Do you have more candy?"
"A little. Matty, tell me what the village looks like and I'll give you this." He reached in his pocket for one more peppermint.
"There is lot of small houses where we live and one big house where new men live. Can I have candy now?"
"First tell me where the big house is. How far away?" Kuryakin kept the bribe clutched in his hand.
"Long way. Behind trees. I came here to get firewood."
Kuryakin released the treat and reached in his pocket for one more, silently apologising to Spot for using up her supply. "Do you want another, Matty"
"Uhuh." The child was too busy slurping on the candy to answer properly.
"I want to go to the big house, but it's a secret. Do you understand secrets?"
"Uhuh."
"Okay. I don't want anyone to see me. Can you take me there without anyone seeing me?" It was a long shot, but the best one he had at the moment.
"We can go round trees and up steps at end. Sometimes man is there, sometimes not. I can make him chase me if you want."
"Are you sure he won't hurt you?" Illya was not about to put a child at risk from THRUSH.
"He chased me before, but he never catch me. I runned too fast." Matty giggled.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. You take your zebra too?"
"No. I think we'll let her go." Kuryakin reluctantly took the halter, rope and bag off Spot. He was quite sad to let her go, but she might be in the way and if anything happened to him, it was better to release her now. The U.N.C.L.E. Special was stowed in his belt and the communicator in his pocket with the three remaining peppermints.
"All right, Matty. Are you ready?"
"I ready. We keep very quiet though."
"We will." Kuryakin agreed.
The child took the agent's hand and began to lead him along.
"Mister." Matty stopped. "Your zebra is coming too."
"Hmm." Kuryakin sighed a little. "She's like you Matty. She can't resist the pulling power of peppermints."
0-0-0-0-0
Lana returned, as promised, with the uniform. She had not been able to steal a THRUSH gun, but all Solo needed was to get to a radio and put in a call to U.N.C.L.E. They should then be able to get a fix on the radio signal to locate the satrapy.
"All men are eating now," Lana said, helping Napoleon into the overalls and slanting the beret at the correct angle. "There is only one man before room with radio. I can go to talk to him. I think he likes me."
"That, Lana, would be wonderful." Solo tentatively tried his footing and was relieved to discover that he could manoeuvre reasonably well. Slow, but adequate.
He peered surreptitiously around the door to watch Lana saunter sexily up to the guard and lean on the wall next to him. Hmm, she's a real pro, he thought. Proper U.N.C.L.E. material if ever I saw it.
Lana reached into the man's pocket to find his cigarettes and he let her take one and lit it for her. She laughed at some joke or ribald comment he had made, then turned to face him as she stood against the wall.
Solo took the opportunity. He moved quietly along the corridor of the long house towards the room at the far end.
As he drew level with Lana and the guard, the THRUSH man seemed about to turn around, so Lana quickly put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him forward into a lingering kiss. Napoleon speeded up as much as he could without making noise and made it to the radio room and closed the wood framed raffia door behind him.
As Lana had thought, once he was inside he could not be seen, although he could hear men talking in the larger room next door.
Wasting no time, the agent moved to the sophisticated set-up and switched it on. The battery level was high and it seemed to be quite a powerful transmitter. Solo grooved the dial to the right frequency. "Open Channel D - emergency transmission from Napoleon Solo." He kept his voice low, so that he would not be overheard.
The speed of the response startled the agent. "Channel D open Mr. Solo, what is the problem?"
"I want you to locate this frequency and send in an U.N.C.L.E. task force immediately. This is top priority. I have stumbled upon a THRUSH satrapy and they are developing a new weapon. Mr. Kuryakin is dead and I am to be handed over to THRUSH Central."
"Understood Mr. Solo. We are homing in on your location now. Please try to keep this channel open until we pinpoint your position. In the meantime I'm patching you through to Mr. Waverly."
"Mr. Solo?" His boss's voice came on the line almost immediately. "What is your situation and what has happened to Mr. Kuryakin?"
"I'm afraid Illya was killed by THRUSH, sir." The words were hard to say. "Our plane was brought down three days ago and we were attempting to get to safety. It's a long story, sir. The immediate problem is to secure this satrapy and the energy damper THRUSH is developing here. The man in charge is Jeremiah B. Sting."
There was a brief silence, then his boss came back on the line. "I am very sorry to learn about Mr. Kuryakin, he was an excellent agent." The chief's voice moved away from the microphone. "Ah yes, thank you." Waverly spoke directly to his agent again. "I have the details on Mr. Sting now. He is not a very high-ranking THRUSH operative, but extremely dangerous and ambitious. Please take every care Mr. Solo; I can't afford to lose both of my top agents."
The first voice broke into their conversation. "We have the co-ordinates for Mr. Solo now, sir and can despatch a small task force from our central African headquarters. May I have your authorisation Mr. Waverly?"
"Yes, yes, go ahead, Miss Err. We'd best send them in straight away."
"Thank you sir." Solo exhaled heavily. Probably a moment too soon.
The raffia door burst open and two guards levelled their guns at the agent's midsection. Behind them Jeremiah B. Sting was holding Lana by the wrist. The THRUSH chief marched into the room, dragging the woman after him. He switched off the radio transmitter and turned on Solo. "So U.N.C.L.E. is sending in a task force. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you Solo, but it will make a good test target for our newest weapon, don't you think?"
"Let the woman go Sting." Solo ignored the very real threat the man had made. "She has done no harm."
"On the contrary, Mr. Solo. She distracted the guard so that you could get in here." Sting jerked Lana's wrist, pulling her round to face him. "She also seems to have made you able to walk somehow."
"She was just being kind. A strange concept to you no doubt." Solo squared his shoulders displaying a power he knew he didn't have right now. "Leave her alone."
Sting ignored the non-existent threat and pushed Lana towards the two guards. "Lock her up and don't let her sweet-talk you." The THRUSH chief pulled a revolver from his inside pocket and pointed it at Solo. "Go together, so as you can keep an eye on each other. I don't trust that woman now."
He waved the small gun at Solo as the guards took Lana away. "You, Mr. Solo, can come into the weapon room and watch us bring down your task force. You may find it educational."
Solo lifted his arms resignedly into the air and walked ahead of Sting into the adjoining room.
There was a large array of equipment along one side of the room. Two technicians were bent over the dials, monitoring the information.
"We are expecting a special target, gentlemen." Sting smirked at Solo as he addressed his minions. "I would like you to scan for incoming aircraft and bring them down."
Solo stood quietly and counted up the odds. Two technicians, who appeared to be unarmed, Sting, armed with just a revolver, an armed guard in the hall, two more guards - whereabouts unknown.
Okay, he decided. There's a chance, I just need to wait for the right moment. God, Illya! I could really use your help right now.
0-0-0-0-0
Illya and Matty came quietly around to the end of the long house. Once, as they made their way, Matty tugged urgently on Illya's arm and the agent immediately dropped to the ground.
They lay still for a moment. "Okay now, man has passed by," Matty whispered.
"Matty," Illya whispered back, "you're a natural at this."
"Can I have candy now?" the child breathed in response to the compliment.
Illya doled out another peppermint. "Where are we now?"
"Stairs are in front of you. About twenty steps away." Matty pulled his hand to indicate he could stand now. "Big man is at bottom of stairs, but he can't see us. Shall I make him chase me now?"
"Are you sure it's safe?" Illya was still concerned that the child could get hurt.
"I've done it before - lots of times."
Without another chance for the agent to protest, the child pulled her hand away and he heard her run forward, stop for a moment, then run forwards again. There was a sound of a rock hitting wood and Matty's voice shouting out. "Yah, yah! Fat nose. Yah, yah! Fat nose." Illya realised another stone had been shied at the building, and the THRUSH took the bait.
"You little devil, stop throwing rocks at me or I'll tan your hide."
Another rock, followed by a scream and running feet.
Illya concentrated hard, working out who was where. A butt in the back knocked him forward, breaking his concentration. "Go away Spot." He batted at the zebra. "I don't have time right now. Oh what the hell!"
Kuryakin decided to take his chance and make a dash for the stairs. He ran towards the building, visualising from Matty's description where he was going.
He hit the side of the building and found the entrance quite quickly. He ran to the top of the rickety stairs and felt his way through the opening at the top. Crouching down, he listened intently. Voices were coming from a room immediately to his left. What now? He thought, I can't even see! God Napoleon! I could really use your help right now.
0-0-0-0-0
Solo watched the radar readout on the screen in front of him. He saw the blip that indicated the incoming U.N.C.L.E. task force.
"There she is, men!" Sting announced triumphantly. "Set the equipment."
The technicians twiddled their dials and flicked switches. An opposing beam appeared on the radar, shadowing the blip.
"That's it, Mr. Solo," Sting crowed. "It's set now, the U.N.C.L.E. plane will lose power in about five minutes. There's nothing you can….Aargh!"
Solo had leapt forward, grabbing Sting's revolver and twisting his wrist upwards until the agent gained possession of the weapon. The technicians turned to them in alarm. Solo held the small gun against their boss's temple. "Tell them to switch it off, or you are a dead man," he threatened. "Stay there!" Solo shouted at the technicians. "You make one move and he gets it."
The technicians sank back into their chairs once more and looked at each other in confusion. They were not warriors, they were scientists, leaving the strong arm stuff to men like Sting and his guards.
"It's too late, Solo." Sting laughed in spite of the cold steel pressed against his head. "The equipment is set."
"Then I'll just shoot it out." Solo turned his prisoner round so that they were both facing the equipment. Sting jabbed his elbow into Napoleon's stomach and, as his gun hand moved down slightly, caught hold of the barrel and wrestled the agent for possession. Neither of them won. The gun was grappled from Solo's grasp but, before Sting could get a firm hold of it, the revolver dropped and slithered down the slanting floor.
Jeremiah B. Sting was short, but had plenty of weight, and was surprisingly agile. He leapt on Solo as he tried to dive after the gun. The small man was too breathless to shout for help, but determined the U.N.C.L.E. agent would not prevail. He punched Napoleon in the back, bringing a gasp of agony from the still tender area. He then heaved his bulk on top of the downed agent, sitting firmly on him.
Solo watched in horror as the blip on the screen started to waver. The U.N.C.L.E. plane was coming down and there was nothing he could do about it. After all we've been through, after Illya dying, it's going to end in failure.
"Napoleon! Where are you?"
He must be hallucinating! Solo saw his partner push through the door, an U.N.C.L.E. Special grasped in his hand.
"Illya! I thought you were…" No, Solo thought. No time for that. "Illya, point the gun straight ahead of you."
"No! You men - stop him." Sting shouted in alarm. "Guards! Guards!"
The technicians left their places but backed to the side of the room. They were not going to get caught in any crossfire.
"Okay Illya." Solo ignored Sting's pummelling. "Now, left, left, stop! Up, up, stop. Left, stop. Fire!"
Kuryakin fired.
"Again"
He fired again.
"Down! Illya, down!
The Russian dropped to the floor as the console exploded, scattering shrapnel across the room.
Sting unintentionally shielded Solo from the worst of the explosion, but a piece of flying metal embedded itself in the THRUSH chief's neck, killing him instantly.
Solo took a deep breath and rolled out from under the dead weight. He ignored the cowering technicians and walked over to his partner, who was now sitting up, the U.N.C.L.E. Special still firmly gripped in his hand.
Solo looked down at the Russian, shaking his head in amazement and delight, grinning from ear to ear. He reached a hand down and caught Kuryakin under the arm, helping him to his feet. He spoke with a casualness he did not really feel. "What the hell kept you?"
0-0-0-0-0
"Good grief! Are you still eating? You are such a pig, Illya. If there was any justice, you would be the fattest person on the planet?"
"Good morning to you too, Napoleon." Kuryakin did not bother to look up, his eyes were still bandaged, so he could not see his partner in any case. "Yes I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking."
"Can I help you with anything." Solo walked over to where his partner was sitting at a small table in the hospital room, busily working his way through a large steak dinner. "Cut your meat, so you can eat faster?"
"No. I'm fine thank you."
"I see you're ready to go as soon as the bandages come off." Napoleon pulled the visitors' chair over from beside the bed and sat down opposite his partner. "What's the prognosis."
"Not sure." Kuryakin stopped eating and turned his face towards Solo. "But whether I can see or not, I'm not staying in here any longer."
"Hmm... well..." Solo trailed off. The doctors would have to fight that battle if it came to it, he thought. Change the subject. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"
"I am pretty bored," Kuryakin said between mouthfuls of steak, trying to suppress a smile. "You could read to me."
"What! Your scientific journals?" Solo picked up two unread, incomprehensible-looking, magazines from the table and frowned. "That's pushing partnership too far, Illya!"
"Well you asked." Kuryakin realised his food was all gone and pushed the plate away. "Is there anything else to eat?"
"There's ice-cream, but it's mostly melted now." Solo stirred the dessert round in the bowl, making it into a gooey mess.
"I'll pass, thanks." Illya leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "What I could really do with is a nice long vacation. But I imagine Mr. Waverly, otherwise known as the slave-driver, will want us back on duty as soon as I get out of here."
"Hrump, hmm." The throat clearing sound was unmistakable. "Mr. Kuryakin, I trust you are making a speedy recovery."
"Oh, aha, yes sir. Err sorry sir." Illya sat up straight in the chair again.
Waverly smiled at the embarrassment he had caused the Russian. "Mr. Solo may remember that the slave-driver had just told him you should both take a week's vacation, before you got yourselves into this latest escapade."
"Yes I do remember, sir." Solo stood up to offer his boss the chair. "But I can't say it was the best time I ever spent."
The conversation was abruptly halted by the arrival of the doctor. Solo found himself holding his breath as the bandages were unwound, and coughed, clearing his throat, to relieve the tension.
As the blue eyes were revealed, Illya blinked rapidly at the sudden and unaccustomed light.
"Can you see?" Solo was impatient to know the result.
"Just a moment, Mr. Solo." The doctor shone a pencil torch into each pupil to check the dilation, hmming and harring in the irritating way of medics and car mechanics. He held four fingers up in front of Illya's face about two feet away. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Illya squinted then blinked rapidly again. "Err three - no, four."
"Don't worry doctor." Solo smiled. "He can see, he just can't count."
0-0-0-0-0
"Well gentlemen." Waverly sat in the chair vacated by Solo. The doctor had cleared Kuryakin for release, warning that his vision might be a little blurry for a few days and that he should try to avoid too much reading or paperwork. "Since Mr. Kuryakin won't be able to write his report for several days and I did promise you a vacation - I can't officially put you on leave, but perhaps you would like to go back to the village where we picked you up. There are still some loose ends to tidy up, which should take a couple of days but shouldn't be too taxing. Also, you can say your thank-yous to those that helped win this latest battle with THRUSH. I do like my agents to be well mannered."
"That would be most appreciated, sir." Solo was clad in a white safari suit, almost as if he had guessed what their next assignment would be. "There is a young lady who needs a very special thank you from me."
"Hmm well." Waverly looked at his suave top agent suspiciously. "Just remember you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Mr. Solo."
"And I have a certain young lady to thank as well," Kuryakin put in, then corrected himself. "No, two young ladies actually."
"Really!" The chief looked at the younger, generally more reserved, agent in surprise. "Are you and Mr. Solo having some kind of competition?"
Illya smiled broadly at the suggestion and shook his head. "No sir. I assure you I have no romantic involvement with either of the young ladies concerned."
"Very well gentlemen, that's settled. Is there anything you need before you leave?"
"Yes, sir." Kuryakin looked straight at his boss with a deadpan expression, as if he were about to ask for a miniaturised atom bomb. "A very large bag of peppermints."
0-0-0-0-0
"Illya how are you going to recognise Spot? All zebras look the same." Solo stood with his partner just outside the village where they had overcome the latest THRUSH menace. Lana Turner affectionately had her arm entwined in his. Matty, her little sister, held the American's other hand and sucked noisily on a peppermint. In front of them was a large herd of zebra.
Kuryakin did not turn his head but continued to scan the herd. "Napoleon, there is a story by Tolstoy, about a very wise judge. One of the cases brought before him was two men in dispute over the ownership of a horse. They both appeared to have equal claim on paper, so it was very difficult to decide who was the rightful owner."
"So what did he do?" Solo searched his memory, but Russian literature was not his forté. "Threaten to cut the horse in half?"
"That was Solomon - and it was a baby." Kuryakin continued with his story. "He let the horse decide. Both men had to call to the beast and the one it went to was declared the owner."
"The point being?"
"I may not be able to recognise Spot, but I'm sure she'll recognise me."
"She's probably long gone by now, Illya. Come on, leave it. I expect she's met some handsome zebra stallion and is deeply in love."
"I suppose you're right." Kuryakin turned and walked back with the others to the village.
The people had now taken over the long house and were arranging a grand feast in the agents' honour.
Kuryakin stood under a tree, sheltering from the fierce sun, watching the happy activity. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the tree trunk, suddenly feeling extremely weary.
Something banged into his ribcage. It was a very familiar sensation. He opened his eyes in surprise. There was a handsome young female zebra, her nose nuzzling into his hand.
"Spot!" Kuryakin fondled her ears and ran his fingers through her stumpy mane. "Dushka, you remembered."
He called out to his partner. "Napoleon, have you got the peppermints? There's someone here to see us."
Napoleon, Lana and Matty all came to see, together with half the village. Spot was a little anxious with all the attention, but soon calmed down when the peppermints arrived.
Illya continued to make a fuss of the animal, looking at her with growing puzzlement on his face. "Napoleon, I know this is Spot, but where is the blemish on her."
"What do you mean?" Solo was even more puzzled.
"I imagined that she had some sort of mark, perhaps on her forehead or her hindquarters."
"No – she's just a regular zebra."
"Well, why did you call her Spot?"
"Illya, it was a… Never mind. I just thought it sounded better than Dinner."
"Napoleon." The Russian looked at his partner with his most serious expression. "Nothing sounds better than dinner."
THE END