Chapter Three

Tears and Raindrops

First thing the following morning, a furious deputation arrived at headquarters from the Russian Embassy, demanding explanations from the chief for the death of their agent. Alexander Waverly closeted himself and the Russian diplomats in his office for three hours in closed and secret discussions, whereupon the visitors finally left. What Waverly had arranged with them was unknown to his staff, and Waverly himself enlightened no one. He remained in his office, unusually silent and surly, knowing that another unpleasant interview was ahead of him. Finally, at midday he resolved himself and had himself flown to the home of Napoleon's family to make known the devastating news. He returned white faced and silent, and as soon as he reached his office, he pressed the intercom and demanded the immediate attendance of April Dancer and Mark Slate.

Mark and April arrived commendably quickly, considering the fact that when the summons came, they had been up on the roof of the HQ building, just staring across the city, trying to come to terms with what had happened. April's eyes were slightly red from weeping; Mark was looking strained, but holding it together. The whole thing seemed to them like some kind of nightmare. They both found it hard to shake the feeling that they would awaken and find that this whole thing had been some kind of horrible dream. Alexander Waverly was looking severe when they arrived.

"Mr. Slate, Miss Dancer. You two are now my senior agents. I have information to impart to you, information you need because it has a direct bearing on your new assignment. Now, you are aware Mr. Slate, that you were sent to China with Mr. Solo because Mr. Kuryakin was indisposed."

"Yes sir."

"I am aware that the general assumption has been that he was sick with mumps or measles or something. That was not the case. Mr. Kuryakin received some very devastating news for which he needed time to try and come to terms. Whether he succeeded in that, I suppose we will never now know. However, it is important that you know what happened. Mr. Kuryakin had a brother named Mikhail, who was ten months his senior, but in all other ways the two of them were like twins. They were very close as children it seems, but the war-time strife in Ukraine tore the two children apart, and they became very different men as adults. Whilst Illya was dedicated to upholding law and order as an UNCLE agent, his brother Mikhail, unbeknownst to Illya had become the chief scientist and biochemist for the THRUSH organization."

"A THRUSH? Poor Illya."

"Indeed. But the point is this. The Soviet authorities recently destroyed a newly developed THRUSH base in the Ukraine, and every member was killed. Mikhail was among those found dead. Now, among the paperwork discovered was a document in Mikhail Kuryakin's own handwriting, personally claiming that his younger brother Illya was too great a liability, and a material danger to the continued existence of THRUSH, and recommended that he be terminated forthwith."

"Oh my…" Mark began, his eyes wide. "No wonder the poor bloke needed some time on his own."

Waverly nodded soberly.

"Now of course, it is only a matter of time before THRUSH find out what has happened. I want you two to keep your eyes and ears on everything that is going on with THRUSH. If this order from Mikhail is to blame for their deaths, or for the other recent narrow escapes they have had, I want you to find those responsible and shut them down. Whatever it takes, just ask. I want THRUSH to learn the folly of contracting against my agents."

"Yes sir. Er, Mr. Waverly…about the funerals…?"

"They have been taken out of our hands, Miss Dancer. Mr. Solo's family have declared that they wish to take charge of Napoleon's funeral, and because the two men were such good friends, Illya's as well. I will be attending tomorrow along with some of our people; and no doubt the Russian Ambassador or his aide will be attending; but you will both be busy. I want you on the next flight to Russia."

"Russia, sir?" Asked Mark in surprise. Waverly nodded.

"Indeed Mr. Slate. Most of our current intel on THRUSH has come from our Moscow HQ. On arriving you will report to the chief, Wilhelm Tarasov."

Mark and April said nothing to each other as they returned to their office, but as soon as the door was closed, Mark turned to her, his face a flaming red.

"We don't even get to go to the guys' funeral! Besides you, they were my best pals, and we have to miss their funeral! What is the old man up to April?"

"I guess this is more important. Someone needs to make THRUSH pay for what has happened. That's you and me partner. I think Napoleon and Illya would agree, don't you?"

Mark nodded reluctantly, his anger dissipating a little at his partner's calming tone.

"You're right. Come on, let's get moving."

It was a common thing for most if not all section two agents to keep a packed suitcase to hand at all times in case of last minute travel. All they had to do was ensure they had their thermal gear in case of sub-zero temperatures, collect their tickets from Lisa Rogers and they were off to the airport.

During their ten-hour flight, the two agents found plenty of time to speculate about what THRUSH might be up to, what information might be waiting for them in Moscow. The last day at HQ, since the death of the two top agents, had been telling indeed. The women without exception had all been creeping around the base with red eyes, the men with furrowed brows and long faces. It was almost as if this was the beginning of the end. If Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin could be killed whilst on an otherwise routine assignment, then what hope was there for anyone else? The atmosphere had become gloomy and somewhat oppressive, and despite having to miss the funeral, Mark and April were secretly not disappointed to be out of it. They both felt the need to be doing something useful rather than reading reports and debriefing junior agents, which as the new top team, they knew they would have been doing if they were still back in HQ right now.

All the same, April found herself unable to sleep. Every time she tried, her dreams were so vivid she would wake up with a dry mouth and a pounding heart.

"Damn!" she declared aloud at last, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands. Her partner beside her opened his eyes and yawned.

"You okay luv'?"

"'Keep having a nightmare. The same one every time I drop off. Is this really happening?"

He reached out and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"We'll get 'em. We'll make 'em pay for what they've done. You'll see."

"UNCLE Moscow. That's where Illya was serving before he was transferred to New York. They'll all know him there. I suppose their chief will have told them about…"

Mark knew how desperately sad April was, how she had been staunchly stifling her emotions in public in order to set a good example for everyone back at the base, but she had no need to pretend for him.

"April, you don't have to keep being so brave all the time. I know how much you miss them. Me too."

"But I do…"

He twisted in his seat so that he was half facing her, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and held her to him. He felt her resisting for a moment, then she buried her face in his shoulder. He felt her hair tickling his face, then she started to weep, making no noise at all, her tears wetting the soft material of his jacket. Finally, she pulled away, and accepted his proffered handkerchief with a small smile.

"Thanks, partner."

Mark smiled at her.

"I think we'll be landing in twenty minutes or so if you wanted to use the facilities."

That prompted a laugh.

"You mean so that I can blow my nose, wash my face and make myself look presentable again?"

"Well you can do that too if you want." He agreed. April chuckled, and grabbing her handbag, she quickly vanished, heading for the washroom.

To their relief, they found two section two agents waiting for them at the airport once they were through customs. One tall and burly with dark brown hair and muscles like Hercules, the other tall and gangly, with red hair, freckles and horn-rimmed glasses. The Herculean agent held out his hand and spoke in good, though heavily accented English.

"Agent Polokofiev at your service. UNCLE Moscow, section two, number two. This is Agent Molovotski, section two number one."

Mark and April shook hands warmly and introduced themselves.

"Will you come with us? Mr. Tarasov is looking forward to meeting you. We have some valuable information waiting for you that will help your investigation."

"Er yeah…about that. "Mark began, hesitantly. "I know Illya…Mr. Kuryakin was based here before he came to New York, so you must have known him a long time."

Polokofiev exchanged a glance with his partner. Molovitski responded.

"Yes, Kuryakin was a great loss to Moscow. We were all very sorry when we were informed of his death. Here…"

They alighted from the van onto a very ordinary looking street and into a tailor's shop called Del Floria's, almost as though it had been transplanted complete from New York. With the strange feeling that they had somehow been transported back to America without their knowledge, they entered the fitting room, through the wall and into reception. The young woman smiled and handed them their badges. Attaching their badges to their lapels, they followed their hosts through very familiar looking corridors until they reached what, in New York, would have been Mr. Waverley's office. Molovitski knocked, and opened the door. He spoke in rapid Russian for a moment and then turned to the visitors.

"Mr. Tarasov is waiting to see you. Please go inside. We will take care of your cases for you until you are ready."

"Thank you." April replied, and followed her partner into the room. It was very like Mr. Waverly's office in New York, except that where Waverly had a bank of computers against the furthest wall, this office had a door. They could hear a lot of noise coming from the other side of the door, leading them to the not unreasonable conclusion that Tarasov's computers were in the room through the door. Tarasov himself stood up and smiled.

He was perhaps approaching fifty, an erect man with salt-and-pepper hair, and soft grey eyes. He shook both their hands welcomingly.

"Welcome to UNCLE Moscow. You are Mark Slate and April Dancer, yes? Among New York's finest."

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Tarasov." April replied. "I only wish it could have been in happier circumstances."

"Yes, now that is one of the reasons you are here. I have a couple of visitors in my computer room who I believe will be able to help you make a start on this case. I think I should bring them in to see you before we begin our meeting."

Ten o'clock in the morning, around three hundred miles away from New York City, the rain fell down bleakly from a leaden sky as a thin stream of mourners finally left the chapel. Colleagues, friends and family of Napoleon Solo, and friends and colleagues of Illya Kuryakin had watched miserably as two coffins, side by side, slid slowly and gracefully into the furnace. The Solo family had requested that Napoleon's body be burnt, and his ashes returned to them so that they could scatter them on their land, the land where he had been so happy as a little boy. Kuryakin's people, once his death had been confirmed, had no interest in his remains, and so the Solos had taken charge of him also. He was Napoleon's best friend, and he had found a second home with them. It was only right that he be given the chance to gain some peace finally, on the Solo family land, even though it was thousands of miles away from his own homeland.

The crematorium sat in several acres of luxurious woodland, just now at the start of the year, starting to show signs of coming to life after a long winter. Some of the attendees took the chance to walk among the trees, to breathe in the fresh air and try and soften the hard, solid knot of fear and grief lodging in their throats and hearts. Heather McNabb and Lisa Rogers walked together, saying nothing, but both still blinking the tears away.

"I still can't believe that they have gone." Heather murmured softly to her companion, pulling her coat closely round her. "Illya and I had a date lined up for this Saturday…"

Lisa sniffed her agreement, and blew her nose.

"I know. I have…I mean I had a date arranged with Napoleon."

"I feel sorry for Mark and April too, sent off straight on another mission without even being able to come to the funeral and say goodbye."

"At least they're keeping busy, and what they are doing is for Napoleon and Illya. Their task is to investigate the intel we're getting from Russia and make sure anyone from THRUSH that deserves to pay is made to pay."

Heather looked up at Lisa.

"You mean that there's a chance their deaths were not an accident?"

Lisa laughed ironically.

"Have you ever known Illya make any mistake when it comes to explosives? No, I can't believe that what happened was an accident. I believe they were murdered by THRUSH."

They stopped at the edge of the trees, and watched Napoleon's family climbing into cars, wiping their eyes and shaking hands.

"I still can't believe they're gone. They were both so alive, you know?" Lisa nodded. She well understood Heather's feelings. Her heart was aching too. She slipped her arm through Heather's.

"Come on, you. Let's get back to the others. When we get back to town, we'll go and have a drink…in memory of the boys."

"A whisky or a vodka?"

Lisa smiled.

"Both, in their honour."

The two women resumed their walk.

Wilhelm Tarasov invited Mark and April to sit, and strode across the room to the door in two steps and flung it open. He stuck his head into the room and spoke in English.

"Excuse me for a moment, but the two New York agents we have been waiting for are here and are eager to make your acquaintance."

He stepped back and stood with his back to the window, watching Mark and April closely. The two agents looked up, as Tarasov's visitors came into the room, smiled and said;

"Hello you two. Have a good trip?"

They gasped.

Standing there, smiling shyly, bruised, beaten and battered, but alive were Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.

To be continued…