Very late, Illya Kuryakin returned by bus and then walked the last block to his apartment, missing Napoleon by minutes. He was dejected at his failure to find the dreaded diary that had come back to haunt him from half way around the world. The book, once his salvation, keeping a part of him safe from dwelling on the evil surroundings in his young life, was now an enemy. A piece of him to be feared and destroyed. Where and how was the problem.
Illya walked the stairs up to his third floor residence. He could hear the TV in Mrs. Payne's place. The old lady never seemed to sleep and he didn't want a confrontation with her tonight. In his present mood he just might kill her, if only to make himself feel better.
As if on a mission he sneaked by her door, careful not to make a noise on the stairs, skipping the first step because of how it creaked. Near the second floor landing Illya could smell the stale beer coming from the apartment where the alcoholic lived. The guy seemed to guzzle whatever money his long suffering wife didn't use for rent or food.
Once Illya reached the third floor and his tiny place he let himself in and reset the extra locks. He sat on his ragged second hand sofa and ran a hand through what he still felt was too short, flaxen hair, too tired to think. Stress, especially around Napoleon, kept him from thinking straight and it worried him. All manner of possibilities ran through his head. He was trying not to imagine the worst of them: Expulsion back to the Soviet Union. Their torture techniques-and they would torture him, of that he had no doubt-made THRUSH's feel like child's play. He'd decided long ago he'd put a bullet in his own brain before he let himself be shipped back to his homeland. He loved his countrymen, the land, the language, the food, but not that much. A nice place to visit but he never again wanted to live there.
Miserable with recent events, Illya didn't bother to eat. He sighed and went to bed. Without undressing, he lay on the mattress and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Tired as he was he still couldn't close his eyes. Eventually, he fell asleep, only to be awoken by the ringing of his phone.
Illya groaned as he rolled out of bed and stumbled to the front room to answer it. "Hello?" He never answered his home phone with his name. Very few people he wanted to talk to knew the number and he didn't want anyone else to know his name.
"Dima?" said a young man, his voice edge with hysteria.
"This is he."
"It's Johnny. I-I'm sorry to call you so late, but, well, I didn't know who else to turn to."
"It's fine, Johnny. What's wrong? Did something happen?"
Johnny gave a strangled laugh. "Yes No. I'm not sure."
"Tell me." Illya didn't bother using his exaggerated accent.
"My dad. My dad met with David last night and he signed on with my dad's company. I was right outside the door, but they didn't know it and I stayed to listen to what they were saying. Dima." Johnny's cracked in what sounded like a broken sob. "I think David told my dad I betrayed him! I think-I think . . ."
"Take a deep breath, Johnny." Illya waited until the young man did so. "Now tell me the rest."
"My dad was furious. He just believed David without question! What kind of father does that sort of thing?"
"A bad one."
"Dima, I think he's going to kill me," Johnny whispered. "I just . . . He's going to kill me."
"Johnny, listen very carefully to me. Where are you?"
Johnny's breath hitched. "Pay phone. Outside that diner you like to eat at."
"Stay out of sight, but stay there. I'm going to have someone go get you. You'll be able to trust them. Don't show yourself unless they tell you Dima sent them. Got that?"
Johnny repeated it. "Y-yeah."
"I'm going to hang up now and call them. Just be careful."
"I will. And, Dima?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Stay safe."
He hung up and grabbed his communicator to call for someone to go pick up the young man. His little spat with Napoleon and previous need to stay off the acting Chief's radar fell by the wayside in his need to keep anything from happening to Johnny.
The advent of morning and sunny clear skies did nothing for Napoleon's growing anger over Illya Kuryakin's recent behaviors. He stormed into UNCLE surrounded by a palpable cloud of tension.
He overlooked greeting the check in girl and cut straight to the point. "Has Illya Kuryakin shown up yet?"
"Er... no sir," she replied, handing him his badge. She normally pinned it on Napoleon personally but today she had the feeling he might bite her if she got too close.
He clutched the badge so tightly the plastic permanently creased as he fumed through the corridors to Waverly's office for his morning update. One week till the Old Man was back behind the massive desk, a job Napoleon was sure wasn't suited for him anymore. The years being groomed for the position now left a sour note in his mind when he thought of being the eventual CEO of the New York office.
As he reached the huge office, that also served as a meeting room, department heads had already gathered for the morning staff meeting and reports. Napoleon stopped briefly and let out a long breath. He wanted to deal with Illya first but that would break with standard protocols in place. For now he would have to stick to the schedule and Illya would have to wait.
Just as that thought went through his mind while he walked around the room to get to his place and exchanged greetings with the others gathered, Lisa Rogers rushed up to his side and whispered. "Mr. Kuryakin is just signing in."
Napoleon stopped and was about to say - have him report to me now - but paused to think a moment first. "Tell Mr. Kuryakin," he said almost gritting his teeth, "to report to security for debriefing. Then call ahead and have Vickers escort him to interrogation room 3. Hold him there until I come down."
It was an unusual order that made Lisa cringe internally. "Yes, Mr. Solo." She hurried out of the office and pushed the button to close the doors behind her.
A phone rang behind Illya at the reception desk as he left and hurried for Waverly's office. He didn't want to talk to his partner but Johnny's well-being took precedence over his disagreements with Napoleon. The acting chief of North America had plenty to answer for, such as why he sent Javier packing and why the hell he closed down the investigation at such a critical juncture. He saw no reason except for Napoleon's jealousy and that had to end.
"Mr. Kuryakin!" a woman called, the ratta-tat-tat of high heels moving swiftly across the hard floor coming up from behind him.
He stopped and turned to wait for the receptionist he'd just left. "Yes, Miranda?"
She smiled and blushed slightly at being remembered by the exotic agent. "You're to report to Security for debriefing."
Illya frowned in confusion. "Security? Not Mr. Waverly's office?"
She shook her head. "No, sir. Lisa specifically said Security."
"Very well. Thank you." He gave her a nod and continued down the corridor towards the elevator. Once in the small car, he punched in the number for the lower floor that housed Security and, consequently, the interrogation rooms. He wondered if, and how, Napoleon found out about David already.
Maybe the results on the marijuana came back and Napoleon had David picked up for questioning. If so, it explained why Napoleon sent Javier packing and why he, Illya, discovered himself pulled from the mission. He relaxed in relief. He had feared his former lover did all that out of jealousy. His mood lightened with the knowledge that Napoleon had a good explanation.
Vickers waited for him as Illya stepped off the elevator. "Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin," he said.
The closed expression on the security man's face made Illya nervous. Vickers was a pro at smoothing his face into blankness when necessary. Under normal circumstances, though, Vickers would not feel the need to show that blank look to one of his comrades.
"Good morning, Mr. Vickers," Illya replied warily. "Am I to question the boy I've been investigating, then?"
The man's mouth turned down as he tried to keep a look of what Illya thought might be dismay off his face. "Mr. Solo would like for you to meet him in Interrogation Room 3."
Illya didn't care for the fact the other man had not answered his question. Vickers waved him to go first. Illya's sense of disquiet grew as he led the way down to the Interrogation block. He stepped into room 3 and stopped. "Will Napoleon be here soon?"
"He has a meeting at the moment. He'll be here as soon as he can," Vickers said. He moved to stand beside Illya and gestured towards the table set in the room. The table ran parallel to a mirrored window. Instead of three chairs like one would expect if he and Napoleon interrogated one of the boys together, only two sat arranged at the table. One faced the mirrored observation window that made up most of one wall of the room while the other had its back to it. Illya started for the one facing away from the glass.
Vickers cleared his throat. "Um, please sit in the other chair."
Illya spun to stare at him. "Pardon me?"
Vickers' mask fell, apology written on his face. "I'm sorry, Illya, but I need you to sit in the other chair. Please," he added at Illya's glare. "I don't want this anymore than you do, but I can't go against orders."
"Of course not," Illya snarked through clenched teeth. The Russian held tight to his resentment-he'd save that for Napoleon-and stepped around the table to sit in the chair reserved for prisoners. Illya schooled his own expression into one of complete apathy and sat down. He couldn't hold it, though, when he heard the jingle of the manacles attached to the chair arms click over his wrists. He stared at his bound arms in shock. When he felt Vickers' hands on his ankle a second before he heard the click of the lock closing around it, the beginnings of panic twisted his gut.
"Now, Subject 437," a slick, oily voice said in Russian. It belonged with the recently dredged up memories Illya thought he'd finally reburied. Like a snake resisting hibernation, it returned with a vengeance and slithered through his mind. "We will discover just how well you hold up to interrogation."
Vickers blessedly shattered the moment. "I'm truly sorry, Illya. But my orders-"
"The hell with orders!" Illya snapped as he fought to hold the panic at bay. "You don't treat a comrade-in-arms like this without a damned good reason! What is Solo's damned good reason for this?" He yanked hard at his bindings, the metal cuffs digging into his skin. It didn't break through the top layer but if he kept it up it would only be a matter of time.
"Mr. Solo is the Acting Head of North America," Vickers replied in a cool tone. He stepped back. "I have to assume his reasons are good ones."
"And they call me an automaton. You'd do very well in the KGB," Illya sneered.
Vickers wordlessly turned his back on Illya and left the room with steady-if rapid-steps. The door closed behind him, leaving Illya alone with his resurging memories.
A knot of fear threatened to choke him as the visions of Kopf, KGB psychologists, and now Napoleon, Vickers, and U.N.C.L.E. swirled through his head. Winding, twisting, interlocking like the pieces of a dark, sick puzzle. Illya thought of the damned diary and added Waverly to the mix.
Where had he lost his vaunted control? I haven't, he told himself sternly. I'm just letting others convince me I have. He ruthlessly asserted that control now, crushing the fear and intimidation into a little ball and shoving it down into the dungeon for such things that he'd created as a child. Locked it behind a door forged of his iron will. Then he opened the cage where he stored his anger and let it explode into freedom.
Illya had a temper and often let his irritation and ire peek out. He seldom allowed people to see his true anger, its depths far too frightening even to him to allow it to roam free. It reflected the darkness of his soul, a part of himself that he hated even as he embraced it. When he did release it, he was never sure just how it would manifest. Sometimes it erupted in bouts of white hot rage. This time it pelted through him like the fury of the worst blizzards of Siberia. It ran through his veins and iced his blood. Rebuilt the thick walls around his heart that Napoleon had once melted. The suave American would not be able to do so again. Napoleon would answer for this.
If Napoleon thought Illya was going to sit here quietly and meekly while waiting for the "acting head of North America" to decide to grace him with his presence, the man had another thing coming. With grim determination, Illya started working on ridding himself of the cuffs.
The meeting did not go well. Napoleon snapped at everyone so much he felt the need to apologize. He didn't, of course. He couldn't let the other department heads smell blood and decide to exploit his weakness. Not that the U.N.C.L.E. put up with that sort of thing-much-but office politics invaded any company and was almost as insidious as a THRUSH domination plot. The U.N.C.L.E. was really no different in that respect.
The second he ended the meeting, everyone rushed the door, more than ready to get out of Solo's ire. He couldn't help the self-satisfied smirk that crossed his lips as he watched them all scurry away like roaches in sudden light. He'd never liked the Old Man's machinations that resulted in agents tripping over themselves as they hurried to do his bidding. He now understood the twinkle he often saw in Waverly's eyes at such times. It wasn't actual enjoyment of the apprehension the agents displayed, but the feeling of power and spike of adrenalin it gave. He supposed if he could no longer be in the field he would like these moments, too. He frowned, wondering what that said about him.
Lisa entered the office as the last of the meeting attendees fled. "Mr. Solo. Vickers says Illya is trussed up and waiting for you in Interrogation Room 3." She didn't mention how uncomfortable Vickers was with the instructions Napoleon told her to give the security man. She practically jumped in surprise when Solo stepped out of the meeting long enough to bark out the orders, disappearing back into the office before she could even acknowledge him. He's more like Mr. Waverly than I thought, she'd mused.
She usually liked Napoleon's smiles. The one that graced his face now made her want to run screaming after the people that just left. She'd always figured Napoleon would set up the enemies and then step back while Illya pulled the trigger. From the look she saw on Solo's face now, she realized she needed to revise her opinions on the matter.
"Tell Vickers I'm on my way," said Napoleon.
"Yes, sir." Outwardly she remained as unflappable as usual, even as she quivered with concern on the inside. Poor Illya. He was in for a bad day.
Illya stared straight ahead when Napoleon entered the room with a file in his hand. His vain partner hated not being the center of attention and Illya knew ignoring him now would drive him to distraction.
"Illya," Solo greeted, his tone deceptively mild. Illya didn't flinch when his partner slapped the file down on the table. That, too, would irritate the American.
Napoleon pulled the chair over and sat down directly in the Russian's line of sight. Illya stifled a smirk as he shifted his gaze to a spot to the far left of the other man's shoulder. When it came to a battle of wills, he knew he had the advantage. Napoleon Solo was known far and wide as a master manipulator but Illya knew him far too well. Besides, Illya Kuryakin was just as famous for his stubbornness, something Napoleon grinned about when it stymied their enemies but hated when it turned on him.
The suave American just folded his hands on the table and stared at him. The silence dragged on and on. The tactic came straight out of Illya's own playbook, one he'd learned at the feet of the most feared interrogators in the KGB.
Naturally, it wouldn't work on him. He remained completely still, gaze stuck to the spot on the wall.
Napoleon broke first. He reached under the table and Illya heard the click of switches being turned off. "The cameras and audio are now off. I also ordered all security personnel to leave the area. No one will hear anything we say so you can speak freely."
He sounded calm and reasonable. Couldn't have that. If Napoleon was going to push his buttons, Illya would push right back.
"Kuryakin, Illya Nicovetch. Section 2, Number 2," he intoned, giving his version of name, rank, and serial number.
Napoleon's mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish. "What?"
"Kuryakin, Illya Nicovetch. Section 2, Number 2."
A scowl settled on Napoleon's handsome face. "I know who you are!" he snapped, slamming his hand on the table. "Why are you doing that?"
Illya finally turned his cold gaze to him. He jiggled the chains from beneath the table. "If you're going to treat me like an enemy, I shall act like one." He sat back in the chair and returned his gaze to the spot over Napoleon's shoulder. "I have given you my name and rank. You shall get nothing more from me."
Napoleon's patience frayed. "Damn it, Illya! What did you expect me to do? You've been avoiding me for days!"
"Balderdash!" Illya exclaimed, still trying to keep a tight rein on his fury. "I've been doing my job! You, on the other hand, have neglected your present duties so you could follow me around! And now you've pulled the plug on this mission! Tell me, Napoleon. Was it even finished?"
"Of course I did," snarled Napoleon. "Despite what you think, I've been doing the job Waverly entrusted to me. Don't worry about that. As soon as I'm finished here I'll be ordering Johnson and Patel to go pick up that Johnny kid."
"Johnny? He's just a kid who was forced into doing something that went against his better judgment. David's the problem! He wanted to join THRUSH and he did so this morning! Johnny was picked up and brought here for his own safety hours ago!"
"Really?" Napoleon said with a twist of his lips. "And why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I've been cooling my heels in here trussed up like a Christmas goose, you numbskull. Johnny was in danger! He called me this morning to tell me his father signed David on and he was afraid of what might happen to him. I came here to discuss the best way to get Johnny away from his father and bring David and his new THRUSH comrades down!"
Illya jumped out of the chair, the now loose manacles clanging against the metal. His shirt cuff frayed where he'd ripped out the lockpick he had hidden in the hem, the white material stained red with the blood oozing from the tears in his wrists that happened while trying to get loose. He pointed at the door. "You need to send someone to get David if nothing else."
Napoleon studied him. "Are you sure about this?"
Illya stared at him in shock. They did not ask each other if they were sure about something. If one said something was going to happen, the other acted on it without question. They had each other's back, damn it, no matter what kind of personal drama might be going on. For Napoleon to ask him such a thing cut deep.
Illya's fury melted from the burn of betrayal. "When did you stop trusting me?" he asked softly.
Napoleon looked him in the eyes without a trace of guilt. "Since I found out how erratic you've been acting while on this mission."
The anger surged and partially broke through Illya's feelings of hurt. "What are you talking about? I haven't been acting erratic."
"Running out of a classroom after an emotional outburst is erratic."
Illya's eyes narrowed. "That nurse woman- What's her name? Oh, yes. Nancy. That nurse Nancy told you that, didn't she? I knew she was spying on me for you!" Illya shook his head. "Perhaps you should get both sides of the story before you pass judgment. The lecture that day was about Baba Yar. The professor talking about one of the worst experiences of one's life as a mere interesting blip in history would upset anyone. Anyone, including your paramour and you, would have left that classroom under those circumstances."
Guilt flashed across Napoleon's face but left instantly. His expression hardened once more. "From what I understand it was far more than just leaving the classroom. But that's not your only misstep during this assignment. You checked out a workman's uniform and a work van. As far as I know, those things had nothing to do with your mission. What was that all about?"
"That was personal," Illya said sullenly. "And none of your business."
"You used UNCLE resources for your own purposes. Also against policy."
Illya glared at him in surprise. "That's like the pot calling the kettle black. Do you wish for me to tell you how many times you've utilized UNCLE resources to find out some woman's phone number and address just so you could get a date?"
"We're not talking about me, we're talking about you. The last, and perhaps worst, mark against you is the fact you fucked Ponce every chance you got. Doing that while on a mission is not only unlike you, but yet another strike against UNCLE policy."
"That's what all this is really about, isn't it? You don't really believe I wasn't able to do the mission. You're jealous about my sexual relationship with Javier." Illya knew he hit a nerve when Napoleon shifted. He only did that if he was uncomfortable about something.
"Jealousy has nothing to do with it," Napoleon asserted angrily. "That sort of thing is against UNCLE policy for a reason. It could compromise a mission."
Illya's eyes sparked as the fury stopped fighting the hurt and merged with it instead. "You would know about that, wouldn't you? I certainly know about being on the wrong end of that compromise. I can't count the number of times you've left me out in the cold because you were too busy fucking-" He deliberately repeated Napoleon's use of the crude word. "-to provide me with backup."
Napoleon finally lost the cool demeanor. "That's it!" He reached under the tabletop and clicked some switches once more. He jumped up and slammed both fists onto the metal table, leaning menacingly towards Illya. "Agent Kuryakin, you are hereby officially suspended from duty without pay until further investigation can determine whether or not your actions deserve disciplinary action or termination from this organization." He lifted his head to speak to the room. "Mr. Vickers, did you get that there in my-uh, Waverly's office?"
"Yes, sir," Vicker's voice sounded over the rooms speakers. "I have already logged it.
"Thank you. Please fill out the proper paperwork to make the suspension official. I'll meet you there and sign it."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Solo," Vickers voice sounded over the loud speakers. "It'll all be at your office within the hour."
"Good man." Napoleon turned audio and video off once more.
Illya stared at the man he once thought he might be in love with. He didn't really know what it was to feel love, but he'd felt things with Napoleon he'd never felt with anyone before. To have that love betrayed like this was the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.
"This can destroy my career. Why are you doing this to me?"
Napoleon's expression softened. "This place is going to kill you, Illya. I realized that after the debacle with Kopf. I'll do anything to keep you alive. If I have to ruin your career to do so, then that's what I will do."
"Oh, Napoleon! For such a smart man you can be such a stupid fool! Ruining my career won't protect me! It will only result in probable torture and still end with my death."
Napoleon waved away Illya's objections. "Don't be so melodramatic, Illya. You're a very talented man. Your PhD alone guarantees you a good job. Until you get back on your feet, you will be more than welcome to live with me."
Illya bowed his head in defeat. When he looked back up he didn't bother to keep the pain from his eyes. At least Napoleon had the courtesy to flinch in the face of his former lover's anguish. "While devising this little plan you forgot the most important variable. I'm not an American citizen." He strode to the door, punched in the code to unlock it and left.