Illya poured his second large glass of vodka when someone knocked at his door. His heart dropped into his shoes. Not Napoleon's coded knock. Unwise to see his partner at the moment but he'd prefer him to any of the other possibilities that streaked through his mind. Should have run while he had the chance rather than sitting here drinking and feeling sorry for himself. Too late now. Or maybe not. He had a few things stashed both in his clothes and, in a couple of cases, in his body. He would make sure he found a way to escape whether by running away or dying. Either way didn't matter to him as long as he didn't end up in Sarkov's hands ever again.
The knock sounded again. Sounded a bit too polite to be KGB here to drag him back to the Soviet Union, but maybe they actually sent someone with some class for a change. He took a deep breath to calm and center himself before setting the glass on the coffee table and moving to answer the door. The last person he expected to see at this moment stood on the other side.
"I assume you still remember who I am, Mr. Kuryakin," the man said with wry humor. "I wasn't gone that long."
Illya shook himself out of his shocked stupor. "Of course, Mr. Waverly. Please come in." He hurriedly moved aside to let his superior into his home. "May I take your hat and coat?"
"Please." Waverly shed the outer garments and handed them to Illya who turned to hang it on a coat rack just inside the door. He moved into the small apartment and settled on the threadbare sofa.
"I was just having some vodka," Illya said when Waverly noted the glass on the coffee table in front of him. "Can I get you some? Or I can make tea?" He didn't really want to hear what the Old Man had to say. It couldn't be good if he came here personally to deliver the news.
Illya's heart thumped when the older man reached out and picked up the bottle and read the label with raised eyebrows. Ivan gave Illya the vodka out of his private, personal stock.
"I would never turn down a taste of real Russian vodka," Waverly said at last. "I find the kind we can buy here in the Colonies to be lacking."
Illya released a small sigh of relief and gave his superior a tiny smile. "As do I." He went to the hidey-hole that comprised his kitchen and found a clean glass. He inspected it to make sure it had no dust in it before bringing it out and setting it on the table. He poured two fingers and handed it to Waverly before grabbing his own glass and sitting down in the ratty chair arranged opposite the sofa.
Waverly took a sip and nodded in appreciation.
Illya took a small sip. Didn't want to let Waverly know how rattled he was by downing the entire glass in one shot. "I got it from a friend of mine. I was going to tell you about it once I knew for certain you had returned."
The watery, grayish blue eyes twinkled at him in amusement. "You wanted to tell me about vodka?"
"Well, no sir. Not exactly. I recently ran into my KGB weapons trainer."
That got Waverly's attention. The humor left his eyes, leaving behind what Illya thought might be concern. "Was it deliberate on his part?"
"I don't believe so," Illya replied. "I chose a random bar and grill in Little Russia and he happened to be the bartender. Actually, he owns the bar but he takes a shift when someone doesn't come in. There's no way he would know I was going to stop in his bar that day."
Waverly sat back and regarded him. "Is that the only contact you've had with this man?"
"No, sir." Illya never lied to his superior. He had too much respect for him for that. He might leave out some details in a report, but when asked a direct question, he always answered truthfully. "I've spent a little time with him since then. He-" He paused but decided since Waverly knew of his odd needs he had no reason not to say it. "He and I were very friendly when I was young. If not for him-" He shook his head. "He and my uncle Alexei are the only reasons I'm still sane. He used to take me out shooting when I became particularly stressed out. Even after all these years he recognized the signs and took me to the woods for some shooting practice. That's when he gave me the vodka. He invited me to have dinner with him and his family but I thought I should talk to you about it, first."
"Good man," Waverly said. He pondered it for a few minutes. "Is he still KGB?"
is either on detached service like me or so deep undercover few people know about it. I'm relatively certain Sarkov has no knowledge of him being here but I think he may still have contact with Andreov."
"You feel your uncle sent him here to keep an eye on you?"
Illya shook his head. "I don't think so, although it is possible."
"I see." His piercing gaze settled on his agent.
Illya always felt like Waverly could see every dirty little secret in his dark soul. He kept himself from squirming like a little boy.
Waverly apparently saw what he wanted to because he harrumphed. "Did your little side trip with him help?"
"Yes."
The older man nodded. "Accept the dinner invitation. Spend as much time with him as you'd like. If he means ill, perhaps you can ascertain what it is. If not, at least you won't have to worry about having a friend that can take care of himself if something happens. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that." He finished his drink and levered off the sofa. "Get me all the information you have on him to me tomorrow and I will see what I can find out about him. I expect to see you in your office first thing in the morning. We need to save what we can of the University Affair."
Illya jumped up from his chair. "What about . . . Did Mr. Solo not brief you on what happened?"
"Of course he did. I disagreed with many of his conclusions." He scowled. "Not to mention how he handled it. But it was his first real time in the position. He will learn soon enough. You and Mr. Ponce were under the influence of drugs. I have amended the report to reflect that." He glanced at his confused agent. "As for the other issue, Mr. Kuryakin, I believe I owe you an apology. Professor John Stillwell is a friend of mine and someone I trust with my life. He is the one that translated your diary. I must ask you, is my trust misplaced? Did he misuse classified information?"
Illya stood rooted to the spot. "I-no, not exactly. He used no specifics, just generalities. What he spoke of could have come from anyone who survived Baba Yar. I just recognized it as mine and it struck me just how stupid and dangerous I was by not destroying that diary in the first place."
"Is that why you broke into my home? To find and destroy the diary?" Waverly hated the deer-in-the-headlights expression on the young man's face. He waved away his distress. "I understand. In your place I very likely would have done the same thing." He retrieved his coat from the rack and pulled the diary from an inside pocket. "Which is why I've decided to return this to you. I strongly suggest you destroy it this time."
Illya hurried over and practically snatched it from his hand. "I will, sir. Thank you."
Waverly gave a curt nod and donned his hat and coat once more. "Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin. I will see you in the morning."
"I'll be there."
He locked the door after his superior. He stared at the diary. He warily opened it and read the childish scrawl on the first page. He remembered his confusion and fear on the day it described. Oddly enough, instead of the memories overwhelming him as they had when Kopf abducted him, it gave the impression of distance. Like he watched what happened on the page unfold on a movie screen in a darkened theater rather than the reality of the memories in his mind.
Amazing how something so small and innocuous held so much power over a person. Over him. His jaw tightened in determination. No more. His past had reared its ugly head and nearly destroyed everything he held dear. Time to return the favor.
He stalked to the kitchen and retrieved the box of matches he kept there to light his stove burners. He didn't even consider doing this at the table or in any kind of comfort. The child in these pages had very little comfort and he would honor the boy he once was by standing for the entire ordeal. It was far less than he'd had to endure in the hands of Sarkov.
He took the journal and matches into the bathroom, closed the door, and opened the tiny window set high in the wall next to the combination tub/shower. He stood in front of the sink and caught his own gaze in the mirror. He could see Subject 437 lurking in his eyes, afraid but hopeful. Ready to be put to rest.
Illya set the matches down on the counter and opened the book to the first page. He read it front and back before savagely ripping it from its binding. He held the tip of one corner, lit a match and held it to the opposite point of the page. The fire took hold and crawled up the paper, dropping ashes into the sink. He stared in the mirror while it burned, watching the flames reflected in his eyes. When the fire reached his fingers, he dropped the small bit into the sink to finish burning among the rest of the ashes.
He repeated the ritual with every page, ignoring the cramping of his legs from standing unmoving in one place. When he finished, he washed away all that was left of Subject 437.
The skies were gray and the morning chilly as the bite of autumn air filled the city now that it was mid-October. Napoleon stood at his apartment's balcony window contemplating going in to work. Mulling over the day before and the time spent in review with Waverly made the day seem even gloomier than it already looked.
The thought of going into U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, exchanging pleasantries with all the ladies, making small talk with Illya, filling out endless reports and more debriefings made him nauseous. Calling in sick crossed his mind but that would only give him one day to get over his hurt feelings. That didn't seem like it would be enough.
Napoleon was hurting. He wanted nothing more than to hold someone. Talk to someone. Be loved by someone. He couldn't understand why Illya couldn't see that. Why couldn't Illya just tell him that he cared for him? He thought that the Russian should at least be grateful for the way he tried to save him from Waverly's folly. The walls Illya put up between them were stronger than his attempt to get through and it made staying in the same city intolerable.
With sudden deliberate steps, Napoleon turned from the glass doors and strode to his closet where he kept his suitcases. He removed all the U.N.C.L.E. issued gadgets and packed his good clothes and personal items. He was due vacation time. Quite a bit of it, actually. Waverly and his wants could be damned for all he cared right now. Starting right this second he was on vacation and that was that.
An hour after his decision Napoleon's car was packed with two suitcases and three garment bags of suits and shoes. The building manager knew he would be away for some time, informed as Napoleon paid his rent 3 months in advance. Housekeeping would cover the furniture when they came for the next cleaning and then wait to hear from him again to resume service at a later unknown date.
Napoleon returned to his apartment one last time and picked up his communicator. He flipped it around in his hand a few times as he thought of what he would say. He wasn't about to change his mind but if good enough wasn't good enough for Waverly, for Illya, anymore, then it was time to take a step back and withdraw from the situation. His words to Lisa Rogers, when he called in, were succinct and to the point. As of this moment he was taking a vacation. U.N.C.L.E. issue equipment was at the apartment ready to be picked up by anyone they chose to send for it.
Lisa was aghast at Napoleon's tone. He didn't give her a chance to say anything beyond hello. She barely managed to utter a few mumbled whats and buts, never getting in an entire sentence.
"You really should talk to..." she tried to say.
"No. I am not talking to anyone. I'm on my way out the door now. I'm entitled to this vacation and I am not asking for it. I'm telling you I'm going and going now. You can tell Mr. Waverly whatever you like."
She sighed into the receiver. At least he kept a civil tone and he wasn't taking his anger out on her. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do for you to change your mind?" she asked.
Her answer came in the form of an audible click at the other end.
"Napoleon?...Napoleon!" She sat there looking at the phone for about a minute before reluctantly hanging up. She knew this wasn't like the Napoleon she was familiar with.
Before Lisa could ponder on it further another of U.N.C.L.E.'s fine agents entered the office with business of her own. She put down the phone making a mental note to talk to Mr. Waverly as soon as he became free.
"That is my report in full Mr. Waverly," Illya said sitting up straight in his chair. "Mr. Solo had the essential details correct although his interpretation of those events are somewhat in error. I think we need to get that formula analyzed as soon as possible. THRUSH may have more nefarious uses for it if this is just their testing phase."
Waverly sat back in his chair with the pipe smoke swirling about his head. "I agree Mr. Kuryakin. I think you are the man to do it too. Perhaps assigning you to the lab is just what this case needs right now. You seem eager to begin as well."
Illya gave him a small, almost wry grin. It certainly didn't give away how happy he was to be back and have Waverly in charge again. He hoped it would go as well with Napoleon once he returned to their shared office. Too much disagreement passed between them recently for him to have much faith in it. The prospect of working in the lab again gave him focus as he looked at life through fresh eyes once more.
"Yes, sir. I agree completely," he concurred. "I already have ideas on what I may be looking for."
"Then I suggest you get right on that," Waverly said. "I have much work to do."
Illya stood and gathered his files. His superior's body language, easily readable in this familiar situation, was his notice of dismissal to return to duty. With quick easy strides he headed to the door that slid open representing the reopening of his life again.
He gave Lisa a brief nod as they passed in her office.
Chilly fall temperatures and light drizzle faded as Napoleon drove away from New York through New Jersey. The weather started to clear and the sun even broke through the clouds. If leaving his anger and frustration behind was his plan it seemed to be working.
Perhaps it is a sign, Napoleon thought, as he turned on the radio and a new hit this year ~ Born to be Wild ~ was playing. Like it was telling him he was doing the right thing.
His one and only plan had been to get out of New York and head west but he began to wonder where. He would have to stop sometime so a destination might come in handy. Right now just the feel of the car's speed as his foot put pressure on the accelerator was enough to move him onward.
Illya decided to get the initial confrontation over with and headed toward his office. He thought things over in his mind as he walked.
Social interaction was always a chore for him. Most of his communication was silent observation and answering the occasional question but after a rocky start, Napoleon accepted his personality and they became the star team in U.N.C.L.E.'s current roster. Illya didn't understand what happened between him and his partner, best friend, and could-be lover The past year was almost as bad as some of his early training.
Then there was the matter of Ivan. Illya was sure Napoleon would be informed of his old acquaintance. How would that add to their already strained relationship? Ivan was the closest thing he had to a friend throughout the old days in Mother Russia. The man knew parts of him that no one else ever could, or would for that matter. Napoleon's vanity might not be able to accept that idea.
Illya took a deep settling breath before entering his office. To his surprise it was dark, quiet, and empty. A frisson of unease traveled down his spine. Why did Napoleon not come in today? If he was in the building the light would have been on at the very least. He shook off his concern. Probably just under the weather. Illya decided he'd check in on his partner at home later. Better yet, over the communicator. In a way he felt relieved at not facing Napoleon rather than have another argument ruin what was, for him, a very good day. The face to face would keep for a couple of days, he thought, as he headed to the laboratories and getting into his scientific work.
"Calm down Miss Rogers," Waverly stated. "Mr. Solo is not some child running loose on the streets. He is welcome to some vacation time even if he hasn't requested it though proper channels. Filling my chair over the last month may have overtaxed him a little. Bring me the paperwork and I'll authorize it this afternoon. Meanwhile send over Miss Dancer to collect U.N.C.L.E. property until he returns."
Lisa nodded not knowing whether to be relieved or more worried.
Waverly looked at her and flicked the stem of his pipe toward the door. "Run along now. We all have work to do," he said. As she walked away he paused in thought ignoring that his tobacco had burned out. He felt sorry for her and her attraction to the suave and debonair man. Solo, in his opinion, could never settle down with anyone.
Absorbed in his jungle of test tubes and beakers, Illya never noticed how quickly the day passed.
He quickly packed up his notations and preliminary results to take back to his office for study first thing in the morning. He pulled out various papers and looked them over on his way through the halls. It helped him to ignore the looks he received from others. He assumed they all talked about him behind his back but that was much the same as when he first arrived in New York from London.
When he arrived at his office he could see the light under the door. Napoleon made it in after all. Time to face him again. He hoped Waverly's talk did some good and that Napoleon was in a better mood. If not he wasn't sure their partnership would survive.
With another deep breath he pushed open the door quickly and a startled voice responded.
"Oh... Mr. Kuryakin You surprised me. I thought you'd left already." Lisa said.
"Miss Rogers. My apologies for scaring you," he replied. He saw the stacks of papers and files on Napoleon's desk. "What's going on?" he asked curiously.
She turned back to her task of putting things in a box. "I'm just gathering the things from Mr. Solo's desk to turn over to another agent while he's away."
"Away?" Illya replied, this time the surprise was in his own tone. "Where did he go? Is he on assignment?"
"No. He called this morning. Apparently he's on vacation. April picked up his U.N.C.L.E. issue equipment about lunch time."
"Vacation?" Illya dumped his papers onto his own desk and took his seat. "I wasn't aware that he put in for time off." Not that they'd talked much recently. Still, they were still partners and partners usually informed each other if they left for any reason.
"He didn't," she said, continuing to put things into the box. "He called this morning when you were meeting with Mr. Waverly. Just said he was leaving whether it got approved or not. No destination. No contact number. Nothing. And then he hung up." She picked up the box now that she was done. "He took a private car. No tracking him that way."
Illya saw the sad look in her eyes. He had no words of comfort for her. No desire to comfort her. She, and a dozen others like her, were the reason Napoleon and he could never quite get together. He looked down and busied himself with his own papers, leaving her to exit without further pleasantries.
As the door closed behind her he thought about how special Napoleon was and wondered why the man couldn't have been satisfied with their arrangement. Napoleon had told him he loved him. If that was so, why had he felt the need to be with women? To be with anyone else? What they had before Napoleon destroyed it had been good. Not perfect, but, then, what was?
"It was good enough for me," Illya thought bitterly.
They could have been happy if only Napoleon had accepted that good enough was good enough.