Act III: I am three
Three days later Alexander Waverly returned from Switzerland and Napoleon Solo was released for-active field duty. He and his partner, Illya Kuryakin, were immediately sent out on assignment. There had not been another incident similar to what had occurred in Solo's apartment; yet was it silently understood between the two men that she was constantly with them: the golden-eyed girl.
Neither "spy" had any idea in what further direction to take their investigation. For the moment they were stymied and instead tried to put it completely out of their minds as they resumed the usual hectic pace of lives as Command enforcement agents. But such purposeful amnesia was not to be. In the midst of their mission, the golden-eyed girl very much made her presence known.
A typical Thrush satrapy had to be taken out. Yet it became apparent, as Solo and Kuryakin got the lay of the land during their initial exploratory forays, that many of the denizens were naught but trainees newly turned to the cause of Thrush. Most of these were little more than teenagers. Thus both Napoleon and Illya thought it possible, more than possible, that some of these adolescents could be brought round from the supra-nation's tenets and safely re-integrated into normal society.
With this idea in mind, the two agents decided on a method to proceed. As was standard practice, Kuryakin set explosive charges to take down the facility. However he used less than he normally might for such a task, pinpointing those pyrotechnics where they would do the most harm to operations rather than personnel. He also would not actually arm the charges until it became evident most of the youngsters were clear of the immediate concussion range. Solo, from an undercover vantage point, replaced the cartridge in his Walther with one filled with sleep darts. This he did in anticipation of tranquilizing at least some of the trainees as a shift of them emerged from the building for daily drill at the outdoor shooting gallery within the compound.
Suddenly a decidedly huge blast rocked the building, sending the trainees in the rifle range scattering in every direction. And then shots were fired into that crowd of terrified trainees, dropping many in their tracks.
"You weren't supposed to blow the compound yet!" Napoleon yelled at Illya as the other man came rushing into proximity of Solo's hiding spot. "Nor use so much damn explosive!"
"I didn't! And I never armed any of the charges anyhow!" responded Illya in an anxious rush.
"Accident then?" questioned Solo as he aimed another shot.
"Maybe, but what the hell are you doing?" Kuryakin demanded in his turn.
"Knocking out the Thrush junior trainees for later pickup by an U.N.C.L.E. cleanup team," answered Napoleon in some agitation. "What the hell do you think?"
"Napoleon, look at that field! Those downed bodies are bleeding! That's not sleep darts you're firing!"
In a state of quiet panic, Napoleon flipped open the chamber of his Special and glanced at the housed cartridge. It contained sleep darts, no question. Such ammunition magazines were always clearly marked. Jamming the cartridge back into the locked-and-loaded position, he cocked the pistol and shot one round into the ground. Picking up the spent round out of the dirt, he examined it quickly and then extended it toward Illya for the other man to assess.
Illya's jaw clenched. "Sleep dart," he vocalized what they both clearly saw held within Solo's fingers.
"I had been thinking… feeling," corrected Napoleon, "right before I shot… how abysmally alone those youngsters had to consider themselves in order to be seduced by the 'we are the combined elite' philosophy of Thrush. "
Illya's face grayed. "Right before the explosion," he began his own confession, "I had been thinking… feeling… intensely hungry for revenge against Thrush for so often compromising the young."
"We have a problem, Illya," Napoleon put into words what they both realized only too well.
Kuryakin nodded solemnly. "That we certainly do."
Fortunately the mission did not turn out to be quite the disaster it could have been. Facets of each man's personality had overridden the sheer dynamism of whomever or whatever was the golden-eyed girl. Napoleon's inherent optimism kept him from truly considering death as a merciful means to ultimately end the loneliness of those adolescent Thrush trainees. Thus, as incongruous as it seemed, none of his shots proved a kill shot. In Illya's case, his innate pragmatism kept the armed charge range of the concussive blast from including what turned out to be the shared dormitory rooms of the trainees, sparing the off-shifts of youths housed within. After all, if one wanted revenge against an enemy for compromising the young, you didn't in the end compromise them yourself.
Thus perhaps it could indeed be argued that luck was a cosmic force, in terms at least of what goes around tends to come around. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had again and again risked their lives to protect innocents. Thus in the end the universal order would not permit them to be the inadvertent cause of the careless destruction of the lives of any such innocents.
Still, both agents were worried and knew they should be so. They didn't know how far extended the reach of the golden-eyed girl. And they really didn't even know if the things they sensed from her were purposely meditated or purely instinctual. After all, one could not blame a wolf for attacking any viable prey as doing so was only part of its nature for survival. But you could undoubtedly blame a higher-thinking being for assaulting vulnerable targets at will to no seeming purpose..
With all this heavy on their minds, the two men entered the office of their superior shortly after their return to New York. Illya was of the stated opinion that they had to confront Mr. Waverly immediately, but he was at a loss how best to do this. Napoleon advised him to follow his lead and let him initiate that confrontation, as he was more than sure how it needed to be done.
"I was surprised at the sloppiness evidenced in your latest mission scenario, gentlemen," the Continental Chief commenced the interview once his two operatives had seated themselves before his round desk-cum-conference table.
"Yes sir." Napoleon didn't argue or protest this point. Meanwhile Illya waited anxiously for his colleague to do what must be done.
"Fortunately it turned out all right in the end just the same," conceded the Old Man. "All those teenagers are recovering from your thoughtless gunshot wounds, Mr. Solo. None of them were life-threatening. And few personnel, Mr. Kuryakin, were actually killed in the concussive blast of your precipitately set explosion, and none of the trainees.
"So let us table discussion of that matter for the moment," Waverly continued without real pause. "Instead what I wish to discuss currently is another matter entirely. A matter of internal security and also of some sensitivity."
"Yes sir." Napoleon responded simply once more, his eyes never wavering from those of the Continental Chief.
"You know what this is about, Mr. Solo?" put forth the Number 1 in Section I.
"Yes sir." The Number 1 in Section II again answered just those two words.
Illya was at a loss. What was going on here? Something in the manner of these two men was all but giving him gooseflesh, he was so apprehensive of what might happen next. But he trusted Napoleon… with his life …with his career …with his very sanity.
"You used your privileges as my second to gain access to my private files," stated Mr. Waverly at last straight to the point.
"I did, sir," came Napoleon's admittance to the clandestine activity in question.
"You knew there would be a record of that access?" further prompted Waverly.
"I did, sir," Napoleon repeated his previous answer.
Illya's head was reeling. There was some kind of logged evidence of their trespass into the Continental Chief's confidential files? Perhaps he should have realized that would be the case; perhaps he should at least have suspected as much and voiced that suspicion. Yet he hadn't; thoughtlessly he hadn't. He had trusted in Napoleon as he had learned in countless less-than-ideal circumstances to do.
"And you talked Mr. Kuryakin into aiding you in this endeavor?"
"No sir," stated Napoleon unequivocally. "As Chief of Enforcement, I ordered Mr. Kuryakin's cooperation," he emphasized strongly.
Illya was flabbergasted. Was Napoleon aiming on taking all the blame upon himself? Was that how he intended to approach this? "Sir, if I may—" the Russian attempted to staunch this particular flow of the conversation.
"All in good time," Waverly interrupted his Number 2 in Section II, though his glance never left the dark-haired man seated beside Kuryakin. "For the present I am questioning my Chief of Enforcement." Then he returned his full attention to Napoleon. "Why the devil would you do something like this, Mr. Solo?" he demanded to be told.
"That proof of access you mention, sir, also provides details as to exactly what file was retrieved," Napoleon pointed out, his gaze still steady on that of Waverly. "Thus you already know the answer to your own question."
There was a long moment of standoff between the two men, causing Illya to hold his breath in sheer dread. Napoleon's methods of achieving a desired end had surprised him in the past to be sure, but this was something he had never even imagined his friend doing. The challenge to the Northwest Continental Chief by his Chief of Enforcement was clear in every rigid line of both their bodies and the surprisingly even planes of their faces.
Finally Waverly sighed. The impasse was broken and it was the Continental Chief who blinked.
"I suppose you are entitled to an explanation, gentlemen."
"Who or what is Dr. Rimheac's chimera, sir?" Illya now realized he was free to make his own inquiries.
Waverly shook his head in frustration. "Who knows? I'm not sure even Dr. Rimheac does himself."
"Does?" Illya caught the current nature of the verb. "Dr. Rimheac is still alive?"
Waverly nodded wearily. "We have him in hiding."
"Sir, why were we told he was dead?" Napoleon posed his own query.
"An official determination after consideration of all available options at the time, Mr. Solo. His… Well… His supposed demonstration turned out to be something I never approved. And thus I didn't believe he could be trusted in any way. It seemed advisable he should be kept close and away from all contact with others, particularly the two of you."
"Why particularly the two of us?" Illya sought for the logic in that statement.
"Because you were the subjects of his experiment, what he euphemistically called his demonstration." Waverly provided the sought-after logic.
"We were guinea pigs?" asked Napoleon incredulously.
"Never with my assent, gentlemen," Waverly assured them. "But yes, I think categorizing it in such a way is not inaccurate."
"And it didn't seem that this might be of especial concern to us?" Illya now asked just as incredulously.
"There seemed to be no tangible adverse effects," Waverly hedged. "So I decided to let the issue rest. Then last year, when you both in your post-trauma sessions mentioned the Rimheac Affair, I contacted the doctor for more cohesive data. He informed me at that time that he had gained some form of control over the… creature or phenomenon or whatever it is, and thus assured me it was all over and done."
"Sir, it's definitely not all over and done." Napoleon apprised his superior without prologue.
Alexander Waverly looked from one to the other of his two best agents, scanning their faces with a practiced gaze. The shadows under their eyes told him in terms far more eloquent the any words the unvarnished reality of that appraisal.
"I suppose you'll want to talk directly with Rimheac?" the Continental Chief solicited of his subordinates.
Both men seated across the table mutely nodded their mutual desire in that regard.
"As soon as possible, sir," requested Solo.
"He's been ill some months." Waverly let them in on the latest status of the former Thrush scientist. "Taken to his bed. Perhaps in such case any control he was able to leverage has now slipped. I will make the necessary arrangements, gentlemen. That is all."
Dismissed from the inner sanctum, Solo and Kuryakin made their way through the pneumatic door to the hall beyond.
"You had my heart beating like a kettle-drum in there, Napoleon." Illya enlightened his friend once that automatic door has closed behind their exits. "I can't believe you took the risk of standing up to Mr. Waverly like that."
Napoleon shrugged. "I couldn't and wouldn't have done it if I hadn't firmly believed in my heart the Old Man felt guilty about some aspect of the Rimheac affair. And if he in truth hadn't felt any such guilt, he would never have blinked."
The Command safe house where Solo and Kuryakin were sent to meet with Dr. Rimheac three days later was something entirely new in such facilities.
"It's all electronically serviced and monitored," Napoleon informed his partner. "No physical presence by U.N.C.L.E. personnel at all."
"I didn't realize we had anything like this," marveled Illya as they passed through the several layers of security features required to enter the inner building.
"It's one of a kind," Solo continued. "As far as I knew, it wasn't even completely set up for operation as of yet."
"Seems its readiness is something else Mr. Waverly didn't share with you as CEA."
Napoleon frowned. "Seems so," he agreed.
Once at last inside the locked-down structure, the two agents walked into a cozily appointed, combination sitting room and library. On a sideboard resided a silver coffee and tea service, the pleasant aroma from the filled pots warmly perfuming the air. The room itself lacked the comfort of good light though, as all the drapes were closed tight against the intrusion of the morning sun with no artificial sources utilized to compensate.
"Please help yourselves to refreshment, gentlemen," spoke the voice of Rimheac. "I'm still a bit too weak to play proper host, I'm afraid."
It was a moment before either Solo or Kuryakin could discern the figure of Rimheac, seated in an overstuffed chair and bundled with myriad blankets, in the very darkest corner of the room.
"Mr. Waverly told us you had been ill." Napoleon casually initiated what all the participants realized was going to be a very awkward conversation.
"Unto death I ride the winds of change," Rimheac responded poetically and somewhat cryptically.
Illya passed Napoleon a wary glance. Napoleon nodded almost imperceptibly, wordlessly acknowledging that he shared his partner's apprehension.
"You wish knowledge of the chimera, yes, gentlemen?" It was Rimheac who plunged headlong into the heart of the matter.
"We do," Illya stated equally straight-to-the-point.
"We need such knowledge, Doctor," Napoleon supplemented Illya's answer, "for our continued peace of mind."
Rimheac made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "What you need and what I can provide are likely two different things. The best intelligence I can offer regarding the chimera is simply that it is."
"It is what?" pressed Kuryakin determinedly.
And it was then it happened: Rimheac's voice changed, became the higher-pitched tonal range of an adolescent female.
"Three," spoke that voice. "I am three."
A cold shiver spiked its way down the spines of both agents. It was Napoleon who saw it first: the image of the golden-eyed girl superimposed over that of Rimheac, her eyes glowing brightly in the darkened room. Just a hairsbreadth shy of simultaneity, the image rose before the gaze of his partner as well.
"Why?" It was Illya who first regained his senses sufficiently to ask.
A simple shrug. "I am always three," came the unsatisfactory response.
"And you've somehow bonded to us? And to Rimheac?" Napoleon now recovered his own stunned senses enough to pose the next pertinent question. "To be three?"
"You are you and he is he and I am three," was the circuitous answer of the chimera.
"And if we do not desire to be part of this sometime symbiosis?" Illya demanded bluntly.
"I am three," the chimera repeated. "I am always three, else I am not."
The image of the golden-eyed girl faded, leaving only the sight of a somewhat crumpled Rimheac in his chair.
"And now, gentlemen," the doctor stated a bit breathlessly but once more in his own voice, "you know as much as I."
…continued in Act IV…