Where There's Smoke, There's Fire
Been a while, cousins. RL has been beating me up, but it will never get me! Hope you like my latest offering.
Title: The "Where There's Smoke, There's Fire" Affair
Rating: R (I tried, but the NC17 stuff just wouldn't be written. Maybe next time.
Warnings: None
The “Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire” Affair
It was time, and Illya Kuryakin was ready. Well, he was dressed and packed but, as for the rest, he was experiencing feelings he could never remember having known before; extremely unpleasant feelings. The familiar knock, although expected, caused him to jump. His mind commanded his feet to move the few steps to the door, but he found that he was rooted to the spot.
“Illya?” came the voice of his partner, Napoleon Solo. “Are you all set?”
The blond haired, blue eyed U.N.C.L.E. agent opened his mouth to answer, but not a sound could he make.
“Illya!” A note of alarm eased its way into the final syllable, and the spell was broken.
“Coming,” Illya responded, in as normal a tone as he could muster, under the circumstances.
He swung the door open and there stood a vision, in dark brown corduroy pants and a forest green, flannel shirt over a light green tee shirt; hair soft and falling over the tanned forehead. Typically, Napoleon tended to adopt an air of casual amiability that complimented the charm that was his most effective weapon. Today, though, his golden-brown eyes were shining and the Cupid’s bow mouth was grinning from ear to ear - that is, until he caught the first glimpse of Illya’s paper-white face.
“Illya, what is it?” he asked quietly, pushing into the apartment and reaching into his shirt for his U.N.C.L.E. special, all at the same time.
Knowing that Napoleon wouldn’t be satisfied until he had searched the premises, Illya stood aside and waited. It didn’t take long to cover the single bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. In less than two minutes, Napoleon was standing in front of him, gazing intently into his eyes.
“What is the matter with you, partner?” he asked gently, taking the slighter man into his arms and holding him close enough to feel the tremors that were coursing through the tense body.
“I don’t know,” came the answer, muffled against the soft, green flannel. “I have never felt this way before. My heart is pounding, my legs feel like jelly, and something is flying around inside my stomach. I think I am sick, Napoleon.”
Illya was surprised, and a tiny bit hurt, to hear Napoleon chuckle. “You are not sick, Illya. You are nervous. It’s perfectly natural.”
Illya looked up and smiled wanly. “It is?”
“Of course,” Napoleon reassured. “Come on. The sooner we get there, the more quickly the difficult part is over with.”
A quick kiss and a pat and Illya was cajoled into grabbing his suitcase and following Napoleon out the door and down the stairs. Napoleon had talked Illya into doing this, and Illya’s discomfiture nearly caused him to change his mind. It was time, and past time, though. Once they were settled in the cab, he snuck a glance to his right and saw that Illya had his game face on. Good. That, he could deal with.
**********
Pan Am flight 27 touched down on the Sea-Tac runway at 5:32 pm and deposited two rumpled, drowsy men onto the tarmac.
During the flight, Napoleon had insisted that he was cold, giving him an excuse to ask the stewardess for a blanket, under cover of which he and his partner held hands. That seemed to calm Illya’s nerves.
About an hour into the trip, the golden head fell to Napoleon’s strong shoulder and began to snore daintily until lunch was served. The last bite of veal cutlet had barely been swallowed when Illya’s blue eyes slid closed and his head found its favorite pillow, once again. Napoleon smiled; enfolded a large, warm hand in his; laid his cheek on the fragrant, silky hair; and dozed happily until the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign lit up.
The terminal was extremely crowded for a Wednesday evening. Of course, it WAS the day before Thanksgiving. Napoleon led the way to the car rental counters; mourning the certainty that the luxury car he had reserved was, most likely, long gone.
The Avis booth was easy to spot; there was a huge red and white banner across the front, proclaiming, “We’re number 2, but we try harder.” Napoleon approached the pretty redhead behind the counter, and turned his thousand watt smile on her.
“Hello… Alice,” he read from her name tag. “My name is Napoleon Solo and I have a reservation for a luxury car,” he purred silkily, causing Illya to scowl slightly, “something sleek and powerful. You know, the sort of car you would like to be picked up in, if a fellow were to be fortunate enough to escort you out for the evening.”
Alice blushed crimson as she giggled, then abruptly turned somber. “I am so sorry, Mr. Solo…”
“Napoleon, please,” he charmed mercilessly.
“…uh, Napoleon. It has been a madhouse today and we don’t have much left. In fact,” she turned to the back wall and plucked a key from a nearly empty peg board,” this is pretty much it.”
To his deepest sorrow, a Volkswagen key dangled from the ring. Napoleon looked out the glass door that led to the rental lot and, sure enough, there sat a lonely little ‘beetle’. Well, at least it was red.
Licenses were checked and the contract was filled out and signed and, at last, they began the final leg of their journey. For once, Napoleon didn’t quibble when Illya hopped into the driver’s seat.
It didn’t take long to find their way onto Interstate 90 and out into the countryside. There was just enough light from the waning day to see Mount McKinley in the distance. It was a breathtaking sight, the clouds gathered at its base causing it to look as though it was suspended in space. Illya’s eyes gleamed as they made a quick measure from base to summit, and Napoleon could almost see the visions of ropes and pitons dancing in his head.
Traffic was surprisingly light and they made excellent time. A little less than two hours later, they passed through Monitor, the final town before they would reach Wenatchee, and Illya started to hum; a sure sign that the nerves were returning.
“Illya,” Napoleon soothed, “you have been drugged, tortured, shot, and hung upside down. How can you possibly be so apprehensive about this?”
“Yes, but I was trained to deal with those other situations,” Illya replied hesitantly. “I have never done anything like this before, Napoleon. I don’t know what to expect.”
Napoleon laid his hand on his partner’s muscular thigh. “I promise it will be okay,” he answered comfortingly.
The humming didn’t stop.
Within twenty minutes, they pulled up in front of a two-story, red brick house with white shutters. Napoleon counted the cars in the circle driveway. Good, Lincoln had already arrived; it would be easier on Illya to get it all over with at once.
They retrieved their bags from the trunk and stepped onto the large, cement front porch flanked by two white, Roman columns. Napoleon boldly reached for the gold handle on the ornate, white front door and found it unlocked. Excellent. Their arrival would be a surprise to the occupants.
At first, the vestibule and the living room, beyond, were deserted. Then a slim woman, in her late fifties, with salt and pepper hair - untying a yellow apron from over her tailored, brown dress - came out of what must have been the kitchen, considering the enticing aromas that followed in her wake. At the same moment, a tall, dark-haired, bespectacled man - who looked to be in his early sixties, but powerfully built - approached from a door on the opposite side of the room. Before anyone could react, a younger version of the man came bounding down the mahogany staircase and walked, expectantly, toward them. Napoleon stepped forward.
“Mom! Dad!” he shouted with joy, gathering them both into his arms at once, as he winked at his brother over their shoulders.
He finally released his parents and pulled Illya forward. “This is my mother, Victoria, and my father, Hadrian,” he announced.
“It is a great pleasure,” Illya offered cordially, with those old world manners that no one could resist.
“We are very glad to have you,” Victoria replied. “Napoleon has spoken much about you in his letters and phone calls. We feel as if we know you, already.”
“Thank you,” Illya said sincerely, beginning to wonder just what he had been so worried about.
Napoleon’s parents parted, like panels of a curtain, to allow the two siblings their moment of reunion. Lincoln’s countenance was one of unmitigated welcome until his eyes lit upon Illya, and the shock of recognition registered on both men’s faces, in the split second before Napoleon engulfed his brother in a bear hug and lifted him off the floor. Illya took advantage of the reprieve to compose himself and, upon being introduced, was able to greet the youngest Solo as though they were complete strangers. He knew he would have to tell Napoleon - but how?
**********
Victoria had excused herself back to the kitchen, with firm directions to the new arrivals to repair to Napoleon’s old room, now converted into a guest room, to freshen up before dinner. The two weary men had gratefully complied.
The room was nearly as big as Illya’s whole apartment, and he sat down on the double, four-poster bed to look around. Besides the bed, there was an armoire; a dresser that took up most of one wall; a highboy; an en suite bathroom, which Illya was thrilled to see; and a large, plush sofa that looked out of place. He silently thanked, and apologized to, whomever had moved the heavy thing from wherever it usually resided, and then turned to point it out to Napoleon. He was brought up short, however, by the sight of his partner, standing beside his open suitcase with his hands full of immaculately folded shirts, staring silently into space. He decided to change tack.
“Your family is lovely,” he said lightly. Expecting Napoleon’s typical oratorical response, Illya was surprised into continuing.
“This will be my very first American Thanksgiving in a house, with a family,” he prattled on. “I think I’m going to like it. It was awfully nice of THRUSH to…”
“Stop it, Illya,” Napoleon commanded forcefully.
“Wha…”
“I said, stop it!” he repeated, turning to focus steely eyes on his partner. “I am a trained spy. Do you think I didn’t see? Besides, there are only three situations in which you ever speak in more than monosyllables: when you’re showing off, when you’re acting a part, and when you’re hiding something. Should I pick one - or two?”
The silence hung heavily between them as the world seemed to suspend its rotation. Illya had to make a snap decision.
If he told the truth now, before he had figured out a way to soften the blow, it could devastate Napoleon; but to put it off could strain their relationship to the breaking point. He would, simply, have to take that chance.
Even before they had become intimate, Illya had learned that Napoleon, who was a very tactile person, could be equally as influenced by touch as by words. He slipped from his perch, walked to the other side of the bed where Napoleon was standing, and took him by both hands. Then he slid his own hands up the taller man’s arms and across his shoulders, where they came to rest on either side of his neck. Gazing into the frozen brown eyes, he spoke as though he were gentling a wounded animal.
“Napoleon, I do know your brother - or, I did, once upon a time. It was very long ago, before I ever met you. You need to know about this, but it is not something we should discuss right now.”
“Then, when?” came the irritated response that cut Illya like a knife.
“When I can figure out the least hurtful way to tell you. You see, not only did I never expect to see Lincoln again; I had no idea, until today, that he was your brother.”
Napoleon sniggered mirthlessly. “Are there so many Solos in the world that you couldn’t put two and two together - or, should I say, one and one?”
“He went by a different name, then,” Illya explained contritely. “Please, my friend, can you trust me, just this once?”
Blue eyes watched brown ones, in a state of near-panic, until they became less frosty.
“I have trusted no one, except you, for five years. How am I going to stop, now?”
Napoleon kissed him on the forehead and stepped away to remove his clothes. They showered together, but only for the sake of expediency, and were dressed and downstairs in less than ten minutes.
Even with all the preparations for the following day’s Thanksgiving feast, Victoria had managed to lay a mouth-watering spread of pot roast; red potatoes; and asparagus with hollandaise sauce; followed by coconut cake and coffee. Illya was surprised, and relieved, to find that Lincoln had other plans for the evening and would not be joining them.
It wasn’t long before Illya discovered that he was going to have to attempt to divert the others’ attention from the preternatural silence Napoleon had adopted. Although he usually chose to allow his partner to be the social one, a role that Napoleon normally relished, Illya could turn on the charm when pressed to do so.
“Napoleon tells me that you are in the timber business.” He introduced the subject, meeting Hadrian’s eyes with interest.
“Yes, it was kind of an accident. My grandfather settled here to raise apples, but a blight hit his orchard the very first year the trees began to bear fruit. To keep from starving, he built a saw mill and began selling lumber and firewood to neighbors and friends. The next year, he dug some pits and started producing charcoal.”
“Then the depression hit, and we nearly lost everything, until my father stumbled onto a government contract to provide lumber for their various recovery programs. When world war two began, those contracts proliferated, and here we are now, with fifteen hundred acres of timber land. I am surprised Napoleon never told you the story.”
“Napoleon,” Victoria interrupted, “are you not feeling well, Son? You haven’t eaten a thing.”
“I guess I’m just tired, Mom,” he countered. “I think I’ll go up to bed, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Son. Good night.”
Without a single glance in Illya’s direction, he thanked his mother for dinner, bade his parents good night, and hot-footed it upstairs.
Illya had done a lot of acting during his U.N.C.L.E. career, disguising himself as everything from a Chinese rickshaw driver to an American Indian; but the part of the appreciative house guest, while agonizing over the state of mind of the man he loved, was the most difficult of his life. He managed to help with the dishes, and then have a brandy with Hadrian, as he told lies about his and Napoleon’s adventures during their world travels as buyers for Macy’s, before he excused himself for the evening.
When he entered the bedroom, it was obvious that Napoleon was pretending to be sound asleep. As Illya shed his clothes, once again, and silently slipped into bed, he couldn’t help but wonder about his partner excusing himself from the table prematurely. The plan had been to reveal their relationship to Napoleon’s family this evening; but now that he was faced with the reality, was Napoleon having cold feet? Illya finally dozed off sometime after dawn.
He was awakened by a light tap on the door and Hadrian announcing, “Breakfast.” The voice was so similar to Napoleon’s that Illya was disoriented for several seconds. Once fully awake, he smiled when he realized that while they were sleeping, Napoleon had wrapped both arms and one leg around him possessively. ‘To Hell with breakfast’, he thought to himself as he snuggled into the cozy embrace - until his stomach growled so loudly, it woke his bedmate.
“Either it’s time for breakfast or there is a wolf in our bed,” Napoleon quipped.
“Very funny,” Illya grumped and rolled out of bed to grab a clean set of clothes and head for the bathroom.
Despite the reassuring words of the previous evening, Napoleon was distant and preoccupied, and Illya knew the issue hanging between them was far from resolved. With a sigh, he followed his partner downstairs for breakfast.
Once again, Victoria astonished them with pancakes and pure maple syrup; scrambled eggs; sausages; and coffee that tasted freshly ground. After a hearty “Happy Thanksgiving” to his parents, Napoleon fell on the food hungrily, Illya noted with relief.
“Has anybody heard from Linc?” Napoleon queried between bites.
“Yes, he called this morning, just before you came downstairs,” Hadrian explained. “He spent the night with a friend, but he will be here for dinner.”
“That little fink,” Napoleon grumbled good-naturedly. “I haven’t seen him in twelve years, and he spends all his time with an old friend. If I know my little brother, there is subterfuge afoot.”
After breakfast, Hadrian, list in hand, was sent to the A&P for last minute ingredients. Napoleon and Illya gallantly offered their services, but found themselves shooed outside like two little boys sent out to play, Victoria’s foot tapping as they ran upstairs to get their jackets.
“Come on, partner,” Napoleon said brightly, “I’ll show you around a bit.”
They crossed the well-manicured back lawn and headed off into the forest. The trees broke after a few hundred feet, and they entered a virtually empty field, studded with a few gnarled, wizened, old trees.
“This is my grandfather’s apple orchard,” Napoleon enlightened. “My father could never bear to destroy it.”
“How come you never told me about all this, Napoleon?” Illya asked casually.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Napoleon gazed out across the ghost orchard. “We’ve never really talked about our childhoods. Let’s face it, you can be a very secretive guy, Illya.”
Illya fell silent, sensing that further conversation, at this point, would be a mine field. They walked on past the orchard, flushing squirrels and rabbits as they went.
Normally, when they knew they were completely alone and hidden from condemning eyes, they would embrace as they strolled. Illya ached to slide his arm around his lover’s trim waist, but knew that if Napoleon didn’t return the gesture, the pain would be too much to bear; so they walked side by side, without touching, as though the entire world was watching.
Illya’s teeth began to itch at the silence between them. “So why haven’t you seen your brother in so many years? I know you have come home several times since I’ve known you.”
“It was just a matter of logistics,” Napoleon answered. “I joined the army in 1951 and was shipped off to Korea not long after. I came back to the states a year later and, after a thirty day furlough, was stationed at Fort Hood for two years. I was recruited by U.N.C.L.E. directly out of the army and went straight to survival school. Meanwhile, Linc went off to Wake Forest for four years. After he graduated, he moved to L.A. and we lost touch. I figured it was probably safer for him - and me - that way, so I left it at that.”
About that time, they drew abreast of a large, dilapidated, old shed with a tin roof. There were pieces of rusty metal scattered about, some still attached to rough, wooden handles.
“This reminds me of my Uncle Boris.” Illya dropped his head and his voice became tenuous, as though he had spoken out of turn.
“Did he own a sawmill?” Except for an off-hand comment every now and then, that may or may not have been true, Illya never talked about his life before U.N.C.L.E., and Napoleon’s interest was piqued.
“Yes,” Illya replied, “until the Nazis took what of the tools they could carry, killed my uncle and his workers, and burned the structure to the ground.”
Napoleon, at a loss for words, suddenly understood why Illya was reticent about his past. He took a large, competent hand in his, and Illya’s heart turned over in his chest. He knew it was only an act of sympathy but, right then, he would take what he could get.
They walked on, hand in hand, for about an hour. All at once, they came completely out of the trees and the sun was shining full in their faces. The sudden increase in temperature caused them to begin stripping off their jackets.
Illya looked around in amazement. An area of about three acres was completely bare of trees. When they reached the center of the clearing, there were three large holes, each about eight feet across, dug into the ground to from a triangle. Illya cautiously peered inside one and saw only bits of wood and rope. The peculiar part was that the interior of the hole, and around the outside edge, seemed to be blackened by something.
“What is this?” he inquired wonderingly.
“This is where they used to make charcoal,” Napoleon responded.
“That’s right, your father told me about that. What is the process?” Illya pressed, in full scientist mien, now.
Napoleon looked bored. “I don’t know a lot about it. I do know that a square, rope-and-wood rack of sorts was placed in the bottom of the pit and the fire was built inside it. Then the logs were placed against the rack, on end, in a kind of pyramid shape. The fire would have to be tended constantly to make sure it didn’t go out and, five days later or so, there would be charcoal.”
Illya proceeded to pepper Napoleon with questions, some of which he could answer and many of which he couldn’t.
“I’ll tell you what,” Napoleon finally offered out of self defense, “there is a file, full of my grandfather’s notes about charcoal making, at the house somewhere. Why don’t we go back and see if we can find it, hmmm?
When they neared the orchard once again, Illya looked longingly in the direction of the house.
“I wonder what’s for lunch,” he stated off-handedly.
Napoleon chortled. “There won’t be any lunch, today. Mom always wants to make sure everybody is good and hungry for the feast.”
Illya’s face fell.
“Never fear,” Napoleon announced valiantly, “I have an idea.”
He turned and walked into the orchard, stopping to examine each tree closely, and yelled “Eureka!” when he reached the fifth one. Illya would have sworn he could hear the poor old thing groan as Napoleon plucked at it several times, and then wrapped something up in his jacket.
“Here,” he offered proudly and unfolded the dark blue cotton to present four wrinkly apples.
Illya took one and bit into it, after examining it for worm holes.
“This is delicious,” he exclaimed, “but I thought the blight ruined everything.”
“These few trees made it,” Napoleon reposted, chewing happily. All at once, he went very still and his eyes hardened. “Sometimes, not enough of something survives to make it worth while to carry on.”
Illya dropped his apple into the dirt and walked briskly away. By the time he reached the yard, he had made up his mind that, tonight, he would tell Napoleon everything, come what may.
**********
Napoleon swallowed his mouthful of apple and watched the love of his life moving away from him at a near-run. ‘How could I have said that to him? No wonder he won’t tell me about Linc’, he thought to himself. ‘It’s ridiculous to be this upset over something that happened before I even knew him’; but he was, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.
Meanwhile Illya met Hadrian, arms loaded with paper shopping bags, in the driveway. He held out his hands to relieve the older man of, at least, part of his burden, but was waved away with the back of one hand.
“I have it balanced perfectly,” Hadrian laughed, “and if you take one, I’ll drop everything. Just get the door for me.”
Illya accommodatingly ran up the steps and opened the back door, standing aside to allow the puffing man entrance.
Once they were inside, the bags had barely reached the kitchen counter when Illya voiced his request. “Mr. Solo…”
“Illya, I think you can call me Hadrian, don’t you?”
“Hadrian, Napoleon was showing me where the charcoal used to be produced and, when he got tired of answering my questions, he said that his grandfather’s notes were still somewhere in the house. Would it be alright if I read through them?” The devil, himself, couldn’t have said, “No,” to the intent sparkle in the blue eyes.
“Of course,” Hadrian offered genially. “I can’t be certain, but I think they’re in the desk in the study; bottom drawer on the right. You may have to dig for them. No one has touched them in decades, but help yourself.”
“Thank you,” Illya said with a brief smile and a small bow, and then hurried off to the study.
As he passed through the living room, Napoleon was just coming in the front door. The two men silently looked at one another, and the sadness on Napoleon’s face was so profound, it was all Illya could do to restrain himself from walking over and throwing his arms around his partner. As it was, they merely circled each other like two male tigers disputing territory, and went their separate ways; Illya on to the study and Napoleon toward the stairs.
“Napoleon,” Victoria called out when she glimpsed him from the kitchen door. “I hate to ask this of you, but I am running so far behind.”
“Anything to help, Mom,” he responded, congratulating himself that his mask of good cheer was obviously hiding the turmoil inside.”
“Please, Darling,” his mother rejoined, “would you polish the silver for me?”
“Of course,” he said with an affectionate smile.
Meanwhile, Illya had dug out the brown accordion file full of ragged, hand-written pages that would answer all his burning questions about charcoal-making. He smiled at the pun and picked up the folder, but froze when he saw what lay beneath it. At the bottom of the drawer was a green, leather ledger with decorative gold scroll work on the front. There was nothing noteworthy about it, except that, in the center of the cover, there was a white oval with a familiar black bird inside it.
Illya’s first impulse was to call to Napoleon, but then he realized that was a bad idea, on so many levels. Instead, he secreted the ledger inside the accordion file and went looking for a secluded spot.
He had noticed a glassed-in room at the end of the house, so he turned left into a hallway and soon found himself in a solarium. He rearranged some of the many large potted plants so he would be hidden from view for several seconds, should anyone enter the room while he read. Then he made himself comfortable on one of the wide array of floral print, rattan chairs and opened the ledger.
It wasn’t very interesting, just page after page of pick up and delivery locations. Each entry did include a contact name, but it was evident that they were all coded. After all, who would be named Red Robin and Baby Bunting? What did catch Illya’s attention, however, was the initials, V B, in the right margin beside each drop-off entry. It was certain that this person was a THRUSH courier. It was also certain, from the dates of the entries, that it was a long time ago; but V B?
Illya decided to have New York headquarters run some of the pseudonyms listed, to see if they could give him any information. Just as he reached for his communicator, he heard a click and noticed a previously unseen door opening in the glass wall.
“Hello, Mr. Kuryakin,” the intruder declared quietly from behind a very steady gun pointed at Illya’s head. “I have been following your exploits with interest over the years; but who would have thought the fates would, once again, bring us together, this way?”
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Blue.” Illya’s voice was level, but his mind and body were wound like a steel spring. “It has been a long time since Paris, Vincent.”
“Now that the courtesies have been observed, I must ask you to accompany me.” The dark head tilted to indicate that they would exit the same way he had arrived.
Once outside, Illya was divested of his P38, and they began to retrace the same path he and Napoleon had traversed only a few hours before. The sight of the desiccated apple orchard reminded Illya of Napoleon’s cruel words; but then he recalled the misery in the gentle brown eyes and wondered if he would ever see his partner again, and if Napoleon would ever forgive him.
**********
The sun had been up long enough to warm the air, even under the trees, and Illya was perspiring heavily by the time they reached the charcoal pits. He had spent the ninety minute hike looking for a chance to escape, but his captor was smart. He walked far enough behind his prisoner to be well out of reach; but close enough that, should Illya make a break, he could shoot him before he made his escape.
“You can stop now,” said the gunman, when they reached the center of the triangle formed by the three pits. “Sit down,” he instructed.
Illya sat down on the ground.
“How did you know where to find me?” he ventured.
“I didn’t,” Vincent retorted. “I had finished my preparations here and was looking for you. I decided to check the house and when I passed the solarium, lo and behold, there sat my old friend, Illya.”
“Now,” he continued, “pick up that length of rope in front of you and tie your legs together, nice and tight. I’m watching, so don’t pull any little tricks. If you do, I will be forced to shoot you. I had planned to, any way, the first chance I got. Then I came upon the pits during one of my rambles and it dawned on me that, this way, your death couldn’t possibly be traced back to me.”
Wondering what his abductor had in mind, Illya began tying his legs together. Just as he was finishing the knot, he felt a sharp sting in the back of his neck.
“Don’t worry,” Blue confided as he waved a syringe in front of Illya’s face, “it’s only to incapacitate you for a little while. I want you to be able to anticipate your untimely demise. I want you to suffer, as I suffered because of you.”
With that, he knelt in front of Illya, whose head was already spinning, and tied his wrists securely. Then he helped the bound man to his feet and hopped him over to the rim of one of the pits.
“You will pass out in a few minutes but, before you do, let me explain what is going to happen.”
Illya leaned over to look inside the pit and was assaulted by a blast of heat. He saw what looked to be a large, black ball surrounded by fire.
“Inside each pit,” Melvin continued, “is an iron pot, filled with wood, and a second iron pot welded on top to form a sealed lid. Beneath each pot is a large fire. As the wood heats, it will emit copious amounts of various gases. These gases will build up inside the pots until they explode.
You, my dear Mr. Kuryakin, will be placed on the ground, equidistant from each of the three pits. If the explosions don’t kill you, the shrapnel and debris will; or, should the wind cooperate, you may simply die from smoke inhalation.”
By this time, Illya was nearly unconscious. The last thing he remembered was being dragged back to the center of the fiery triangle.
**********
Napoleon found the silver-chest in its usual place, in the china cabinet, and set to work. He was glad to have something to keep his hands, and mind, occupied.
No matter what mental exercises he had tried, reciting the U.N.C.L.E. organizational chart; making his Christmas card list; identifying each of the beguiling scents wafting from the kitchen; he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Illya.
He had never had a male lover before. Oh, he’d had sex with men, but it was always just part of the job. Then he had been saddled with this scrawny, hard-headed, powerhouse of a Russian smart-ass and, four years later, finally admitted to himself that he was in love.
Now he had hurt Illya, whose only transgression had been to ask that he trust in him for a little while. Of all the people in the world, there were exactly two who had earned his trust. One was Alexander Waverly, chief of U.N.C.L.E., New York, and there were times when Napoleon questioned even his motivation.
That left only Illya on whom he could rely entirely; Illya, who had taken bullets, and much worse, for him; Illya, who had willingly followed him into battle and into the unknown; Illya, who loved him the only way he knew how - fiercely and completely.
Napoleon looked down, astonished to find that he had finished the five place settings they would need for dinner. Well, so much for keeping his mind occupied, but that was okay, because he now knew what he needed to do. He laid the final fork on the table and went in search of his love.
The bedroom, living room, kitchen, and study yielded nothing. Of course! Like a cat, Illya would have sought out the warmest, most deserted place to do his reading; but when Napoleon breathlessly entered the solarium, all he found was the file lying on the couch.
A stray Illya wasn’t necessarily cause for alarm, but Napoleon had developed strong instincts where his partner was concerned. Klaxons blared in his head as he raced to the table by the stairs and grabbed the keys to his father’s pickup truck.
“Going out,” he yelped, to no one in particular, and ran for the door.
The truck started easily and Napoleon manhandled it onto the main logging road before he became conscious of the fact that he had no idea where to look. It would take hours to cover fifteen hundred acres, and he had a feeling Illya didn’t have that long. He needed to calm down and try to think.
That’s when he smelled it. Wood smoke! Sure enough, off to the left was a plume of white.
As a child, it had been instilled in him that such a situation was to be reported immediately.
He slid the truck to a halt on the loose dirt, made a perfect three-point turn, and proceeded back to the house.
“Dad!” he practically screamed before he even opened the front door.
“What is it, Son?” Hadrian questioned, concern apparent on his face.
“There’s smoke off to the east,” Napoleon reported frantically.
“Where were you going?” his father inquired. “You shot out of here like a bat out of Hell.”
“I was looking for Illya.”
Illya was missing and there was fire in the forest! Something bitterly familiar churned in Napoleon’s gut.
“Come on, Dad,” he ordered, not even glancing back to see if the older man was following.
Neither of them spoke for over thirty minutes, as the truck clanked and rattled over the rutted and pot-holed road. Finally, Hadrian pointed toward the cloud of smoke.
“That’s either at, or very near, the charcoal pits,” he declared.
Despite the condition of the road, Napoleon pressed even harder on the accelerator, and they arrived at the clearing in record time. As they breached the trees, it was plain to see that the smoke was coming from the pits.
“Stop here, Son,” Hadrian warned. “We don’t know who set those fires. It may not be safe.”
Napoleon slammed on the brakes, causing the truck to careen crazily before it slid to a stop, and then threw open his door and began to run toward the billowing smoke at breakneck speed.
“Napoleon!” shouted his father.
He may as well have saved his breath because, at that exact moment, a gust of wind revealed a glimpse of wheaten hair atop a struggling body.
Napoleon would never know if time condensed in his perception, or if terror endowed him with super-human strength; but the next thing he knew, he was kneeling at his partner’s side. Not only were Illya’s hands and legs tied, but his body was criss-crossed by ropes attached to metal stakes that had been pounded into the ground.
Napoleon was sawing through the ropes with his pocket knife when he heard the pickup pull up behind him and the door slam shut. Footsteps approached and then stopped abruptly.
“Linc?” he heard Hadrian call out. A tiny part of his mind wondered at that. Perhaps his brother had happened upon them and was coming to help.
All the staked ropes finally severed, Napoleon didn’t take the time to free Illya’s hands and legs, but picked him up and carried him beyond the smoke before setting him gently down and hurriedly cutting the rest of his bonds. He helped his partner to his feet then glanced around to see his father staring back the way they had come.
“Linc,” Hadrian called again, “is that you?”
Illya stood and Napoleon stepped to Hadrian’s side just as all three men saw movement at the top of a nearby hill, and then the glitter of sunlight off a gun barrel. Hadrian raised the rifle Napoleon didn’t know he had retrieved from the truck and squeezed off one shot. The figure on the hilltop disappeared.
“Wait here,” Illya directed, and trotted off toward where the figure had fallen.
Napoleon and Hadrian watched him climb the gentle slope, pick up the body in a fireman’s carry, and lope back to them.
“Good shot,” he congratulated, and dropped the body in the dirt.
“Linc,” Hadrian breathed, and passed out in Napoleon’s arms.
Being the only live person in the group who wasn’t in shock, Illya knew he had to take charge of the situation before they all got blown to smithereens. He hauled Lincoln’s body over his shoulder, once again, and tossed him into the bed of the pickup. Then he maneuvered Napoleon and Hadrian into the cab and, after retrieving the rifle, drove them all back to the house. He left Napoleon, semi-conscious, in the truck and helped Hadrian to the door. Mrs. Solo met them and, at the site of her husband’s ashen face and the fresh blood on Illya’s clothes, started firing off questions.
“There was an accident,” was the only explanation Illya gave her as he supported Hadrian up the stairs and onto his bed.
“Elevate his feet and cover him warmly,” he told Victoria cavalierly, in a hurry to attend to Napoleon. He turned and looked at her devastated face. “Stay with him,” he said more gently. “He’ll be alright.”
By the time he got back to the truck, Napoleon was already on his feet. The withering look he turned on Illya was enough to deter any assistance he might have offered, but he stayed close enough that he caught his lover when he collapsed just inside the door.
He tenderly lowered Napoleon onto the couch, removed his shoes, and piled throw pillows beneath his feet. Then he ran upstairs and yanked the comforter from their bed to keep the stricken man warm until he recovered.
Exhausted, Illya plopped into the nearest chair, but there was one more chore to complete before he could take a breather. He pulled his silver communicator pen from his pocket and assembled it.
“Open Channel D,” he requested in a hushed tone.
**********
It had been an exhausting day, mentally and emotionally. Dusk had fallen when Illya awoke with a scowl, a stiff neck, and the sound of someone sobbing nearby.
Napoleon was still on the couch, curled into a fetal position, crying as though his heart was breaking. Illya suddenly realized that it probably was. Riddled with guilt, he sat down beside the trembling man and took him in his arms, rubbing his back and rocking him like a child. It further pricked his conscience that it felt so good to hold Napoleon again.
Before long, footsteps on the stairs announced Victoria’s arrival. She physically pushed Illya away and, throwing her arms around her devastated son, they wept together. Illya decided it was a good time to do some house cleaning.
He returned to the solarium and retrieved the ledger, along with the charcoal-making notes - which no longer held any interest - and arranged them back in the bottom of the desk drawer. While replacing the stack of papers on top of them, one slipped out and fell to the floor. Illya glanced at it as he picked it up. A closer look made everything crystal clear.
**********
Illya closed the desk drawer and realized he didn’t know what to do with himself. He decided, since Napoleon was being tended to by his mother, that he would check on Hadrian; but when he reached the study door, it was blocked by a disheveled, tear-stained, angry Victoria.
“My husband is a zombie, my son can’t stop crying, and you are covered with blood. Tell me what is going on, Illya.”
He could tell she was close to hysterics, so he sat her down on the oxblood leather sofa and knelt in front of her. She searched his eyes for a moment then stood abruptly to begin pacing the room.
“You know, don’t you?” Her voice quavered. “How?”
“By accident. I found your ledger when I was looking for the charcoal notes. It took me a while to figure out the initials... until I saw your marriage license. V B - Victoria Blue. From there, it was easy to make the connection.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell Napoleon,” she accused.
Illya’s smile held no warmth. “No. It was a long time ago, and I think he has dealt with enough betrayal to last a lifetime, don’t you?”
She nodded slowly and Illya changed the subject.
“So Lincoln used your maiden name. Did you know about him?”
“Yes,” she admitted weakly, “it was my idea. He’s a smart boy, but was never good at school, like Napoleon. I had connections and I thought it would be a good career for him, but I had no idea what THRUSH even was. I mean, I was never involved in their activities. I only picked up packages and envelopes at one place, and dropped them off at another, to earn money for college.”
Illya took her by the arms and turned her to face him.
“I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but your son’s ‘good career’ has left him dead.”
The blood drained from her face and her knees buckled. Illya caught her and sat her back down on the sofa. Once she had recovered, he related to her the circumstances of Lincoln’s death.
Her green eyes grew wide as he told her what Lincoln had nearly done to him, then she wept more tears when he calmly explained how and why her husband had shot their youngest child. It took some time, but he waited while she came to terms with the situation, gave her time to compose herself, and then assisted her down the stairs.
Napoleon and his father were standing in the living room, staring at one another, when they arrived. The whir of rotor blades caused all three of them to turn to Illya with questioning looks.
“Napoleon, I told your mother about what happened at the pits. I am going to take Lincoln’s body back to New York with me. I think you all need some time together, as a family, to grieve and work things out between you.”
“No!” Victoria yelled.
“Mom,” Napoleon addressed her, “there is something you should know. Illya and I are not buyers for Macy’s. We are U.N.C.L.E. agents. I never told you, in an attempt to keep you safe from our enemies, who wouldn’t think twice about using you and Dad against us. Any way, Linc’s body, if it is Linc’s body, has to be taken to headquarters for a positive identification. We have to figure out what’s going on. I’m sorry.”
He wondered, briefly, at the look that passed between Illya and his mother; but the helicopter chose that instant to land in the back yard and the moment was over.
**********
After loading the body into the helicopter, Illya went back inside to say, “Goodbye,” hoping that he was bidding farewell to only two Solos, not three.
He turned to face Napoleon’s father. “I have not thanked you for saving my life. Please know that I am grateful.”
Hadrian approached him hesitantly and shook his hand. “Illya, I have no idea what to say to you. I don’t dare say that I’m glad you came, but I am glad that we met. I hope, after what we have been through together, that you feel like part of the family, now.”
“Well, Dad,” Napoleon cut in, “he has, kind of, been part of the family for nearly two years, now. You see, Illya and I are not only working partners; we are partners in everything.”
Both parents looked inquiringly at him.
“What I mean to say, is that Illya and I are together - a couple - in love.”
There was one second of absolute silence, during which Illya started, staring at Napoleon in joyous disbelief; and then smiles and congratulations all around. Illya found it difficult to announce that he had to be going, but go he did, in a flurry of hugs and handshakes.
All the fear, guilt, and tension, that had permeated the room only moments before, had melted away in the light of Napoleon’s confession. Love had caused the healing to begin.
**********
Illya was almost to the helicopter when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Only Napoleon could sneak up on him, that way. He turned, not knowing what to expect.
Napoleon grabbed him by the hand, pulled him into a shadow, and kissed him soundly. By the time it was over, Napoleon knew he would have to wait a few minutes before going back inside, if he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his parents.
“There are still a lot of details I don’t understand,” he protested.
“I know,” Illya smile wryly, “but the helicopter is burning fuel that Mr. Waverly is paying for, and I don’t want to find it on my expense account. We will talk when you arrive home. Until then, I love you.”
A single tear traced down Napoleon’s cheek. “I can’t imagine how that could possibly be true, considering what an ass I’ve been; but I love you, too.”
Illya leaned forward so their foreheads touched. “I know that, now.”
A ghost of a frown fleetingly touched Napoleon’s face. “One thing I can promise you, I will never doubt you again, my love.”
“And I will never keep anything from you,” Illya avowed.
One last kiss, and he ran for the helicopter.
“Wait,” Napoleon called above the din and Illya looked back. “You said you knew Linc by a different name…”
“His THRUSH code name was Vincent Blue,” Illya shouted back before leaping into the rising whirly bird.
He watched Napoleon wave until the darkness swallowed him, secure in the knowledge that they would be together in a few days. Together. Such a beautiful word.
**********
Eleven o’clock, the following morning, found Illya waiting in his boss’s outer office. The cup of coffee Waverly’s secretary, Lisa Rogers, had given him had long since gone cold. He didn’t have an appointment - in fact, he and Napoleon had been granted a long weekend for the holiday - but Illya had decided to write up his report and get the debriefing over with so he could put the whole disaster behind him.
“Illya,” Lisa’s melodious voice brought him back to himself, “Mr. Waverly will see you, now.”
As usual, the “Old Man” peered at him from behind a stack of files, which Illya knew were just for show. Not that Waverly wasn’t constantly aware of each of his operatives situation at any given moment, but nearly every word in those files was indelibly ingrained in his memory.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” the elderly man greeted him, “aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
“Yes, Sir,” Illya answered respectfully, “but there was an incident yesterday and I thought you should have the report as soon as possible.”
He handed over the black notebook with the U.N.C.L.E. logo on the front, and took his usual seat at the round table.
“Oh, yes, the Vincent Blue homicide.” Waverly’s tone was matter-of-fact.
He opened the folder and began to read with the air of a man who had seen it all before. When he had finished, he studied Illya briefly.
“Mr. Kuryakin, I have also read the original report you wrote after your first encounter with Mr. Blue, uh, Solo. So THRUSH was conducting an experiment in recruiting young people by sending an undercover man into the Sorbonne, in Paris. I understand that you were fresh out of survival school and Mr. Blue was equally new to his profession.”
Illya cleared his throat. “Yes, Sir. Because I was an alumnus, and familiar with the area and social conventions of the school, Harry Beldon thought I was the best candidate for the job. I was sent to flush out the agent and dispose of him, while gathering what information I could about any possible similar operations.”
“And you found him; in the…” Waverly referred to the report, “gymnasium, I believe.”
“Yes, Sir. Breaking into the dean’s secretary’s office to obtain Blue’s class schedule and dorm address was simple enough. I befriended him and he invited me to join him in using the free weights in the evenings, when the gym was empty. He was there when I arrived, and ambushed me.”
“And you nearly bled to death, from a gunshot wound to the abdomen, before backup arrived.”
“Yes, Sir. Beldon had thought it a bad idea to equip me with a communicator, in case Blue became suspicious.”
“Yes,” Waverly muttered, as if to himself, “I never did fully agree with Beldon’s way of doing things.”
His head came up and sharp, gray eyes briefly stared into troubled blue, as though trying to read Illya’s state of mind.
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal, Mr. Kuryakin. I think we can close the book on Vincent Blue. Go home, young man, and get some rest. I don’t expect to see you here until nine am, Monday morning.”
“Yes, Sir,” Illya agreed, rising from his chair. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly called after him, causing Illya to turn back to face his chief.
“The autopsy report indicated that there was something carved across Blue’s back. It seemed to have been there for quite some time and wasn’t completely legible but, from what the medical examiner could make out, it read, ‘Failure’.” The gray, bushy eyebrows rose, and the point was made.
Glad to have it all behind him, Illya nodded his understanding and exited the sliding door. As he rang for the elevator he realized it wasn’t over, at all. Despite the events of their final minutes in Wenatchee, Napoleon still didn’t know the whole truth.
**********
At nine-sixteen on Monday morning, Illya was at his desk, dutifully filling out routine paperwork, when a large file was slapped down on his desktop with a “thwack.”
“Vincent Blue,” Napoleon asserted forcefully. “There’s a picture, and everything.”
Illya looked up at his partner’s handsome face. “I was hoping to break it to you, myself. Did you read the whole file?”
“I skimmed over it. How come I didn’t know about any of this?” Napoleon implored.
“He was a secret, undercover operative,” Illya clarified. “I only knew him because I was assigned to ferret him out. There was no reason for you to know.”
“I do need to know one thing,” Napoleon declared. “Why did my brother want to kill you? Was the breakup that bad?”
“Breakup?” Illya quizzed. “What are you talking about?”
“I have thought about it a lot, and I can take it now. It’s okay that you and Linc were lovers. I mean, we didn’t even know each oth…”
“Napoleon, is that really what you thought?” Illya contended. “There was never any romance between your brother and me. I didn’t want to tell you he was a THRUSH agent because I knew it would ruin your Thanksgiving and your time with your family, so I was going to wait until we returned to New York.”
“That’s it?” One dark eyebrow rose to emphasize the question.
“Yes, that’s it,” was the gentle response.
“So, why did he try to kill you? It seems to me that you should be the one holding the grudge, since he left you to bleed to death on a gym floor.”
“It wasn’t personal, Napoleon. Besides, I am fairly certain he thought I was dead.”
Napoleon hoisted his hip onto the edge of his partner’s cluttered desk. “Well, I’m sure glad you weren’t.
Illya’s eyes became unusually bright and he blinked twice. Could it be this easy? Could Napoleon simply forgive that Lincoln had died because of him?
“I’ll tell you what,” Napoleon was saying, “sometime, when we’re both a little drunk and there’s nothing else to do, you can tell me the story of how your first meeting with my brother made him want to kill you - or not. As far as I’m concerned, you were born the day we were introduced. I know that’s the day I started living.”
“There are many things I want to tell you about my past, and how I came to be the person I am,” Illya stood and reached for his coat, “but not here. In point of fact, talking is not truly what I have on my mind, at the moment.”
He stood and walked around the desk to where Napoleon sat. Turning his back, effectively shielding Napoleon from the security camera, he cupped his lover’s genitals in his hand and squeezed deftly.
Napoleon couldn’t quite restrain a groan as he felt himself harden from just that simple touch. He led the way out of the building and to his car, his smile pure lechery. Illya followed with anticipation, as he watched his partner’s backside appreciatively.
Napoleon expected, as usual, for Illya to be all over him as soon as they entered his apartment. However, he closed and locked the front door and turned to find his partner standing in the middle of the living room with his hands folded in front of him, as if overtaken by shyness. The mid-morning sun, shining through the large window, embraced the alluring body as though enthralled. It struck the planes and angles of Illya’s face, sparked off his hair, and glittered in his eyes; turning him to a creature of blue and gold.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are, Illya?” Napoleon’s voice was thick and sweet as Cumberly honey.
He watched the blush begin at the roots of the golden hair and spread to below the collar of the blue cotton shirt. His heart swelled with love, even as he felt the familiar tingle of arousal. He held out his hand and was grateful, beyond belief, when Illya came into his arms. They spent several minutes simply breathing each other in, each allowing the other’s warmth to fill the places that had grown cold over the past few days.
After a while, Illya pulled away and walked to the window, where he turned and stared down at Central Park. Napoleon decided to just wait him out.
“How can you simply ignore what happened?” Illya finally entreated. “Your only brother is dead, because of me. If I had told you right away, we could have captured him and he would still be alive!”
“But you didn’t kill him, my father did, possibly saving all our lives,” Napoleon rebutted. “Even if you had been the one to pull the trigger, it would have been self-defense.”
Napoleon again enfolded his lover in his arms and held him tightly. “You couldn’t have foreseen what happened. Besides, Linc was THRUSH. You know what that means.”
Illya raised his head and looked dubiously into his partner’s eyes.
“Illya, if our roles had been reversed; if your brother was an enemy agent and was trying to kill me; what would you have done?” Napoleon countered.
“I would always save you,” Illya answered sincerely.
The smile teasing his lover’s lips made Napoleon jealous, so he took over. They kissed for a long time, each taking and relinquishing control in their turn, as they did with everything.
A memory tickled at the edges of Napoleon’s consciousness, and then dropped with a clang into his brain. He pulled away from the luscious mouth, just far enough to be able to speak. Illya looked at him cross-eyed and he would have forgotten what he was going to say, had it been a little less important.
“You know, I can’t believe I never told you before that I love you. I knew how you felt about me because you show it every day. I suppose that flirting and seduction have been my tools of the trade for so long, and have become such a part of my intrinsic nature, that it makes it hard to tell, huh?”
“Well…” Illya hedged, managing to purse his lips and smile smugly at the same time. “What do you say we move this to the bedroom?” he purred.
After they each kicked off their shoes, they took turns undressing each other - a shirt for a shirt, a sock for a sock - until they stood, naked, under one another’s admiring gaze.
Their lovemaking had always been more than satisfactory. Both of them were well trained in the art of seducing information from men and women with hand, mouth, and cock. The orgasms were always explosive; but the kisses, the caresses, the movements all seemed practiced; as if choreographed.
This time felt different, though. It was as if their ordeal had opened up their souls and laid them bare to one another. This time, it wasn’t sex by the numbers, but a unique mixture of raw need and heartfelt affection.
After hours of talking, laughing, kissing, and playing, two bodies became one as two souls conjoined; and two hearts melted together in such a way, that to pierce one would cause the other to bleed. When they reached orgasm, within seconds of one another, there were no skyrockets; but a gradual unfurling that left them sated and at peace.
“I feel so close to you right now,” Napoleon breathed into the delectable ear that was pressed against his lips. “I always love you, always need you, always want you near me; but now I feel that we are two halves of the same person in separate bodies. It’s as if I hear your thoughts; see through your eyes; feel your heart beating in my chest.”
Illya lifted his head and gazed into his lover’s eyes, his breath catching in his throat at the adoration and devotion he found there. He wasn’t sure if he read it in those intense brown orbs, or if it sprang from his own being; but, all at once, he understood the difference between sex and love. For the first time in his life, it wasn’t about finishing; it was about the journey, together, with the person he loved most in the world. As he became immersed in warm chocolate, it occurred to him that family isn’t about blood; but about respect, love, and trust.
One day, he would tell Napoleon about his revelation, but the eyes he had been staring into had closed, and the breaths that were expanding and contracting the chest beneath him had evened out and deepened. The future was fraught with peril, but they would face it together; for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till… Illya slid into repose before he could finish the thought. He would never know it, but his peaceful smile exactly matched the one on his sleeping lover’s face.
Title: The "Where There's Smoke, There's Fire" Affair
Rating: R (I tried, but the NC17 stuff just wouldn't be written. Maybe next time.
Warnings: None
The “Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire” Affair
It was time, and Illya Kuryakin was ready. Well, he was dressed and packed but, as for the rest, he was experiencing feelings he could never remember having known before; extremely unpleasant feelings. The familiar knock, although expected, caused him to jump. His mind commanded his feet to move the few steps to the door, but he found that he was rooted to the spot.
“Illya?” came the voice of his partner, Napoleon Solo. “Are you all set?”
The blond haired, blue eyed U.N.C.L.E. agent opened his mouth to answer, but not a sound could he make.
“Illya!” A note of alarm eased its way into the final syllable, and the spell was broken.
“Coming,” Illya responded, in as normal a tone as he could muster, under the circumstances.
He swung the door open and there stood a vision, in dark brown corduroy pants and a forest green, flannel shirt over a light green tee shirt; hair soft and falling over the tanned forehead. Typically, Napoleon tended to adopt an air of casual amiability that complimented the charm that was his most effective weapon. Today, though, his golden-brown eyes were shining and the Cupid’s bow mouth was grinning from ear to ear - that is, until he caught the first glimpse of Illya’s paper-white face.
“Illya, what is it?” he asked quietly, pushing into the apartment and reaching into his shirt for his U.N.C.L.E. special, all at the same time.
Knowing that Napoleon wouldn’t be satisfied until he had searched the premises, Illya stood aside and waited. It didn’t take long to cover the single bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. In less than two minutes, Napoleon was standing in front of him, gazing intently into his eyes.
“What is the matter with you, partner?” he asked gently, taking the slighter man into his arms and holding him close enough to feel the tremors that were coursing through the tense body.
“I don’t know,” came the answer, muffled against the soft, green flannel. “I have never felt this way before. My heart is pounding, my legs feel like jelly, and something is flying around inside my stomach. I think I am sick, Napoleon.”
Illya was surprised, and a tiny bit hurt, to hear Napoleon chuckle. “You are not sick, Illya. You are nervous. It’s perfectly natural.”
Illya looked up and smiled wanly. “It is?”
“Of course,” Napoleon reassured. “Come on. The sooner we get there, the more quickly the difficult part is over with.”
A quick kiss and a pat and Illya was cajoled into grabbing his suitcase and following Napoleon out the door and down the stairs. Napoleon had talked Illya into doing this, and Illya’s discomfiture nearly caused him to change his mind. It was time, and past time, though. Once they were settled in the cab, he snuck a glance to his right and saw that Illya had his game face on. Good. That, he could deal with.
**********
Pan Am flight 27 touched down on the Sea-Tac runway at 5:32 pm and deposited two rumpled, drowsy men onto the tarmac.
During the flight, Napoleon had insisted that he was cold, giving him an excuse to ask the stewardess for a blanket, under cover of which he and his partner held hands. That seemed to calm Illya’s nerves.
About an hour into the trip, the golden head fell to Napoleon’s strong shoulder and began to snore daintily until lunch was served. The last bite of veal cutlet had barely been swallowed when Illya’s blue eyes slid closed and his head found its favorite pillow, once again. Napoleon smiled; enfolded a large, warm hand in his; laid his cheek on the fragrant, silky hair; and dozed happily until the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign lit up.
The terminal was extremely crowded for a Wednesday evening. Of course, it WAS the day before Thanksgiving. Napoleon led the way to the car rental counters; mourning the certainty that the luxury car he had reserved was, most likely, long gone.
The Avis booth was easy to spot; there was a huge red and white banner across the front, proclaiming, “We’re number 2, but we try harder.” Napoleon approached the pretty redhead behind the counter, and turned his thousand watt smile on her.
“Hello… Alice,” he read from her name tag. “My name is Napoleon Solo and I have a reservation for a luxury car,” he purred silkily, causing Illya to scowl slightly, “something sleek and powerful. You know, the sort of car you would like to be picked up in, if a fellow were to be fortunate enough to escort you out for the evening.”
Alice blushed crimson as she giggled, then abruptly turned somber. “I am so sorry, Mr. Solo…”
“Napoleon, please,” he charmed mercilessly.
“…uh, Napoleon. It has been a madhouse today and we don’t have much left. In fact,” she turned to the back wall and plucked a key from a nearly empty peg board,” this is pretty much it.”
To his deepest sorrow, a Volkswagen key dangled from the ring. Napoleon looked out the glass door that led to the rental lot and, sure enough, there sat a lonely little ‘beetle’. Well, at least it was red.
Licenses were checked and the contract was filled out and signed and, at last, they began the final leg of their journey. For once, Napoleon didn’t quibble when Illya hopped into the driver’s seat.
It didn’t take long to find their way onto Interstate 90 and out into the countryside. There was just enough light from the waning day to see Mount McKinley in the distance. It was a breathtaking sight, the clouds gathered at its base causing it to look as though it was suspended in space. Illya’s eyes gleamed as they made a quick measure from base to summit, and Napoleon could almost see the visions of ropes and pitons dancing in his head.
Traffic was surprisingly light and they made excellent time. A little less than two hours later, they passed through Monitor, the final town before they would reach Wenatchee, and Illya started to hum; a sure sign that the nerves were returning.
“Illya,” Napoleon soothed, “you have been drugged, tortured, shot, and hung upside down. How can you possibly be so apprehensive about this?”
“Yes, but I was trained to deal with those other situations,” Illya replied hesitantly. “I have never done anything like this before, Napoleon. I don’t know what to expect.”
Napoleon laid his hand on his partner’s muscular thigh. “I promise it will be okay,” he answered comfortingly.
The humming didn’t stop.
Within twenty minutes, they pulled up in front of a two-story, red brick house with white shutters. Napoleon counted the cars in the circle driveway. Good, Lincoln had already arrived; it would be easier on Illya to get it all over with at once.
They retrieved their bags from the trunk and stepped onto the large, cement front porch flanked by two white, Roman columns. Napoleon boldly reached for the gold handle on the ornate, white front door and found it unlocked. Excellent. Their arrival would be a surprise to the occupants.
At first, the vestibule and the living room, beyond, were deserted. Then a slim woman, in her late fifties, with salt and pepper hair - untying a yellow apron from over her tailored, brown dress - came out of what must have been the kitchen, considering the enticing aromas that followed in her wake. At the same moment, a tall, dark-haired, bespectacled man - who looked to be in his early sixties, but powerfully built - approached from a door on the opposite side of the room. Before anyone could react, a younger version of the man came bounding down the mahogany staircase and walked, expectantly, toward them. Napoleon stepped forward.
“Mom! Dad!” he shouted with joy, gathering them both into his arms at once, as he winked at his brother over their shoulders.
He finally released his parents and pulled Illya forward. “This is my mother, Victoria, and my father, Hadrian,” he announced.
“It is a great pleasure,” Illya offered cordially, with those old world manners that no one could resist.
“We are very glad to have you,” Victoria replied. “Napoleon has spoken much about you in his letters and phone calls. We feel as if we know you, already.”
“Thank you,” Illya said sincerely, beginning to wonder just what he had been so worried about.
Napoleon’s parents parted, like panels of a curtain, to allow the two siblings their moment of reunion. Lincoln’s countenance was one of unmitigated welcome until his eyes lit upon Illya, and the shock of recognition registered on both men’s faces, in the split second before Napoleon engulfed his brother in a bear hug and lifted him off the floor. Illya took advantage of the reprieve to compose himself and, upon being introduced, was able to greet the youngest Solo as though they were complete strangers. He knew he would have to tell Napoleon - but how?
**********
Victoria had excused herself back to the kitchen, with firm directions to the new arrivals to repair to Napoleon’s old room, now converted into a guest room, to freshen up before dinner. The two weary men had gratefully complied.
The room was nearly as big as Illya’s whole apartment, and he sat down on the double, four-poster bed to look around. Besides the bed, there was an armoire; a dresser that took up most of one wall; a highboy; an en suite bathroom, which Illya was thrilled to see; and a large, plush sofa that looked out of place. He silently thanked, and apologized to, whomever had moved the heavy thing from wherever it usually resided, and then turned to point it out to Napoleon. He was brought up short, however, by the sight of his partner, standing beside his open suitcase with his hands full of immaculately folded shirts, staring silently into space. He decided to change tack.
“Your family is lovely,” he said lightly. Expecting Napoleon’s typical oratorical response, Illya was surprised into continuing.
“This will be my very first American Thanksgiving in a house, with a family,” he prattled on. “I think I’m going to like it. It was awfully nice of THRUSH to…”
“Stop it, Illya,” Napoleon commanded forcefully.
“Wha…”
“I said, stop it!” he repeated, turning to focus steely eyes on his partner. “I am a trained spy. Do you think I didn’t see? Besides, there are only three situations in which you ever speak in more than monosyllables: when you’re showing off, when you’re acting a part, and when you’re hiding something. Should I pick one - or two?”
The silence hung heavily between them as the world seemed to suspend its rotation. Illya had to make a snap decision.
If he told the truth now, before he had figured out a way to soften the blow, it could devastate Napoleon; but to put it off could strain their relationship to the breaking point. He would, simply, have to take that chance.
Even before they had become intimate, Illya had learned that Napoleon, who was a very tactile person, could be equally as influenced by touch as by words. He slipped from his perch, walked to the other side of the bed where Napoleon was standing, and took him by both hands. Then he slid his own hands up the taller man’s arms and across his shoulders, where they came to rest on either side of his neck. Gazing into the frozen brown eyes, he spoke as though he were gentling a wounded animal.
“Napoleon, I do know your brother - or, I did, once upon a time. It was very long ago, before I ever met you. You need to know about this, but it is not something we should discuss right now.”
“Then, when?” came the irritated response that cut Illya like a knife.
“When I can figure out the least hurtful way to tell you. You see, not only did I never expect to see Lincoln again; I had no idea, until today, that he was your brother.”
Napoleon sniggered mirthlessly. “Are there so many Solos in the world that you couldn’t put two and two together - or, should I say, one and one?”
“He went by a different name, then,” Illya explained contritely. “Please, my friend, can you trust me, just this once?”
Blue eyes watched brown ones, in a state of near-panic, until they became less frosty.
“I have trusted no one, except you, for five years. How am I going to stop, now?”
Napoleon kissed him on the forehead and stepped away to remove his clothes. They showered together, but only for the sake of expediency, and were dressed and downstairs in less than ten minutes.
Even with all the preparations for the following day’s Thanksgiving feast, Victoria had managed to lay a mouth-watering spread of pot roast; red potatoes; and asparagus with hollandaise sauce; followed by coconut cake and coffee. Illya was surprised, and relieved, to find that Lincoln had other plans for the evening and would not be joining them.
It wasn’t long before Illya discovered that he was going to have to attempt to divert the others’ attention from the preternatural silence Napoleon had adopted. Although he usually chose to allow his partner to be the social one, a role that Napoleon normally relished, Illya could turn on the charm when pressed to do so.
“Napoleon tells me that you are in the timber business.” He introduced the subject, meeting Hadrian’s eyes with interest.
“Yes, it was kind of an accident. My grandfather settled here to raise apples, but a blight hit his orchard the very first year the trees began to bear fruit. To keep from starving, he built a saw mill and began selling lumber and firewood to neighbors and friends. The next year, he dug some pits and started producing charcoal.”
“Then the depression hit, and we nearly lost everything, until my father stumbled onto a government contract to provide lumber for their various recovery programs. When world war two began, those contracts proliferated, and here we are now, with fifteen hundred acres of timber land. I am surprised Napoleon never told you the story.”
“Napoleon,” Victoria interrupted, “are you not feeling well, Son? You haven’t eaten a thing.”
“I guess I’m just tired, Mom,” he countered. “I think I’ll go up to bed, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Son. Good night.”
Without a single glance in Illya’s direction, he thanked his mother for dinner, bade his parents good night, and hot-footed it upstairs.
Illya had done a lot of acting during his U.N.C.L.E. career, disguising himself as everything from a Chinese rickshaw driver to an American Indian; but the part of the appreciative house guest, while agonizing over the state of mind of the man he loved, was the most difficult of his life. He managed to help with the dishes, and then have a brandy with Hadrian, as he told lies about his and Napoleon’s adventures during their world travels as buyers for Macy’s, before he excused himself for the evening.
When he entered the bedroom, it was obvious that Napoleon was pretending to be sound asleep. As Illya shed his clothes, once again, and silently slipped into bed, he couldn’t help but wonder about his partner excusing himself from the table prematurely. The plan had been to reveal their relationship to Napoleon’s family this evening; but now that he was faced with the reality, was Napoleon having cold feet? Illya finally dozed off sometime after dawn.
He was awakened by a light tap on the door and Hadrian announcing, “Breakfast.” The voice was so similar to Napoleon’s that Illya was disoriented for several seconds. Once fully awake, he smiled when he realized that while they were sleeping, Napoleon had wrapped both arms and one leg around him possessively. ‘To Hell with breakfast’, he thought to himself as he snuggled into the cozy embrace - until his stomach growled so loudly, it woke his bedmate.
“Either it’s time for breakfast or there is a wolf in our bed,” Napoleon quipped.
“Very funny,” Illya grumped and rolled out of bed to grab a clean set of clothes and head for the bathroom.
Despite the reassuring words of the previous evening, Napoleon was distant and preoccupied, and Illya knew the issue hanging between them was far from resolved. With a sigh, he followed his partner downstairs for breakfast.
Once again, Victoria astonished them with pancakes and pure maple syrup; scrambled eggs; sausages; and coffee that tasted freshly ground. After a hearty “Happy Thanksgiving” to his parents, Napoleon fell on the food hungrily, Illya noted with relief.
“Has anybody heard from Linc?” Napoleon queried between bites.
“Yes, he called this morning, just before you came downstairs,” Hadrian explained. “He spent the night with a friend, but he will be here for dinner.”
“That little fink,” Napoleon grumbled good-naturedly. “I haven’t seen him in twelve years, and he spends all his time with an old friend. If I know my little brother, there is subterfuge afoot.”
After breakfast, Hadrian, list in hand, was sent to the A&P for last minute ingredients. Napoleon and Illya gallantly offered their services, but found themselves shooed outside like two little boys sent out to play, Victoria’s foot tapping as they ran upstairs to get their jackets.
“Come on, partner,” Napoleon said brightly, “I’ll show you around a bit.”
They crossed the well-manicured back lawn and headed off into the forest. The trees broke after a few hundred feet, and they entered a virtually empty field, studded with a few gnarled, wizened, old trees.
“This is my grandfather’s apple orchard,” Napoleon enlightened. “My father could never bear to destroy it.”
“How come you never told me about all this, Napoleon?” Illya asked casually.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Napoleon gazed out across the ghost orchard. “We’ve never really talked about our childhoods. Let’s face it, you can be a very secretive guy, Illya.”
Illya fell silent, sensing that further conversation, at this point, would be a mine field. They walked on past the orchard, flushing squirrels and rabbits as they went.
Normally, when they knew they were completely alone and hidden from condemning eyes, they would embrace as they strolled. Illya ached to slide his arm around his lover’s trim waist, but knew that if Napoleon didn’t return the gesture, the pain would be too much to bear; so they walked side by side, without touching, as though the entire world was watching.
Illya’s teeth began to itch at the silence between them. “So why haven’t you seen your brother in so many years? I know you have come home several times since I’ve known you.”
“It was just a matter of logistics,” Napoleon answered. “I joined the army in 1951 and was shipped off to Korea not long after. I came back to the states a year later and, after a thirty day furlough, was stationed at Fort Hood for two years. I was recruited by U.N.C.L.E. directly out of the army and went straight to survival school. Meanwhile, Linc went off to Wake Forest for four years. After he graduated, he moved to L.A. and we lost touch. I figured it was probably safer for him - and me - that way, so I left it at that.”
About that time, they drew abreast of a large, dilapidated, old shed with a tin roof. There were pieces of rusty metal scattered about, some still attached to rough, wooden handles.
“This reminds me of my Uncle Boris.” Illya dropped his head and his voice became tenuous, as though he had spoken out of turn.
“Did he own a sawmill?” Except for an off-hand comment every now and then, that may or may not have been true, Illya never talked about his life before U.N.C.L.E., and Napoleon’s interest was piqued.
“Yes,” Illya replied, “until the Nazis took what of the tools they could carry, killed my uncle and his workers, and burned the structure to the ground.”
Napoleon, at a loss for words, suddenly understood why Illya was reticent about his past. He took a large, competent hand in his, and Illya’s heart turned over in his chest. He knew it was only an act of sympathy but, right then, he would take what he could get.
They walked on, hand in hand, for about an hour. All at once, they came completely out of the trees and the sun was shining full in their faces. The sudden increase in temperature caused them to begin stripping off their jackets.
Illya looked around in amazement. An area of about three acres was completely bare of trees. When they reached the center of the clearing, there were three large holes, each about eight feet across, dug into the ground to from a triangle. Illya cautiously peered inside one and saw only bits of wood and rope. The peculiar part was that the interior of the hole, and around the outside edge, seemed to be blackened by something.
“What is this?” he inquired wonderingly.
“This is where they used to make charcoal,” Napoleon responded.
“That’s right, your father told me about that. What is the process?” Illya pressed, in full scientist mien, now.
Napoleon looked bored. “I don’t know a lot about it. I do know that a square, rope-and-wood rack of sorts was placed in the bottom of the pit and the fire was built inside it. Then the logs were placed against the rack, on end, in a kind of pyramid shape. The fire would have to be tended constantly to make sure it didn’t go out and, five days later or so, there would be charcoal.”
Illya proceeded to pepper Napoleon with questions, some of which he could answer and many of which he couldn’t.
“I’ll tell you what,” Napoleon finally offered out of self defense, “there is a file, full of my grandfather’s notes about charcoal making, at the house somewhere. Why don’t we go back and see if we can find it, hmmm?
When they neared the orchard once again, Illya looked longingly in the direction of the house.
“I wonder what’s for lunch,” he stated off-handedly.
Napoleon chortled. “There won’t be any lunch, today. Mom always wants to make sure everybody is good and hungry for the feast.”
Illya’s face fell.
“Never fear,” Napoleon announced valiantly, “I have an idea.”
He turned and walked into the orchard, stopping to examine each tree closely, and yelled “Eureka!” when he reached the fifth one. Illya would have sworn he could hear the poor old thing groan as Napoleon plucked at it several times, and then wrapped something up in his jacket.
“Here,” he offered proudly and unfolded the dark blue cotton to present four wrinkly apples.
Illya took one and bit into it, after examining it for worm holes.
“This is delicious,” he exclaimed, “but I thought the blight ruined everything.”
“These few trees made it,” Napoleon reposted, chewing happily. All at once, he went very still and his eyes hardened. “Sometimes, not enough of something survives to make it worth while to carry on.”
Illya dropped his apple into the dirt and walked briskly away. By the time he reached the yard, he had made up his mind that, tonight, he would tell Napoleon everything, come what may.
**********
Napoleon swallowed his mouthful of apple and watched the love of his life moving away from him at a near-run. ‘How could I have said that to him? No wonder he won’t tell me about Linc’, he thought to himself. ‘It’s ridiculous to be this upset over something that happened before I even knew him’; but he was, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.
Meanwhile Illya met Hadrian, arms loaded with paper shopping bags, in the driveway. He held out his hands to relieve the older man of, at least, part of his burden, but was waved away with the back of one hand.
“I have it balanced perfectly,” Hadrian laughed, “and if you take one, I’ll drop everything. Just get the door for me.”
Illya accommodatingly ran up the steps and opened the back door, standing aside to allow the puffing man entrance.
Once they were inside, the bags had barely reached the kitchen counter when Illya voiced his request. “Mr. Solo…”
“Illya, I think you can call me Hadrian, don’t you?”
“Hadrian, Napoleon was showing me where the charcoal used to be produced and, when he got tired of answering my questions, he said that his grandfather’s notes were still somewhere in the house. Would it be alright if I read through them?” The devil, himself, couldn’t have said, “No,” to the intent sparkle in the blue eyes.
“Of course,” Hadrian offered genially. “I can’t be certain, but I think they’re in the desk in the study; bottom drawer on the right. You may have to dig for them. No one has touched them in decades, but help yourself.”
“Thank you,” Illya said with a brief smile and a small bow, and then hurried off to the study.
As he passed through the living room, Napoleon was just coming in the front door. The two men silently looked at one another, and the sadness on Napoleon’s face was so profound, it was all Illya could do to restrain himself from walking over and throwing his arms around his partner. As it was, they merely circled each other like two male tigers disputing territory, and went their separate ways; Illya on to the study and Napoleon toward the stairs.
“Napoleon,” Victoria called out when she glimpsed him from the kitchen door. “I hate to ask this of you, but I am running so far behind.”
“Anything to help, Mom,” he responded, congratulating himself that his mask of good cheer was obviously hiding the turmoil inside.”
“Please, Darling,” his mother rejoined, “would you polish the silver for me?”
“Of course,” he said with an affectionate smile.
Meanwhile, Illya had dug out the brown accordion file full of ragged, hand-written pages that would answer all his burning questions about charcoal-making. He smiled at the pun and picked up the folder, but froze when he saw what lay beneath it. At the bottom of the drawer was a green, leather ledger with decorative gold scroll work on the front. There was nothing noteworthy about it, except that, in the center of the cover, there was a white oval with a familiar black bird inside it.
Illya’s first impulse was to call to Napoleon, but then he realized that was a bad idea, on so many levels. Instead, he secreted the ledger inside the accordion file and went looking for a secluded spot.
He had noticed a glassed-in room at the end of the house, so he turned left into a hallway and soon found himself in a solarium. He rearranged some of the many large potted plants so he would be hidden from view for several seconds, should anyone enter the room while he read. Then he made himself comfortable on one of the wide array of floral print, rattan chairs and opened the ledger.
It wasn’t very interesting, just page after page of pick up and delivery locations. Each entry did include a contact name, but it was evident that they were all coded. After all, who would be named Red Robin and Baby Bunting? What did catch Illya’s attention, however, was the initials, V B, in the right margin beside each drop-off entry. It was certain that this person was a THRUSH courier. It was also certain, from the dates of the entries, that it was a long time ago; but V B?
Illya decided to have New York headquarters run some of the pseudonyms listed, to see if they could give him any information. Just as he reached for his communicator, he heard a click and noticed a previously unseen door opening in the glass wall.
“Hello, Mr. Kuryakin,” the intruder declared quietly from behind a very steady gun pointed at Illya’s head. “I have been following your exploits with interest over the years; but who would have thought the fates would, once again, bring us together, this way?”
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Blue.” Illya’s voice was level, but his mind and body were wound like a steel spring. “It has been a long time since Paris, Vincent.”
“Now that the courtesies have been observed, I must ask you to accompany me.” The dark head tilted to indicate that they would exit the same way he had arrived.
Once outside, Illya was divested of his P38, and they began to retrace the same path he and Napoleon had traversed only a few hours before. The sight of the desiccated apple orchard reminded Illya of Napoleon’s cruel words; but then he recalled the misery in the gentle brown eyes and wondered if he would ever see his partner again, and if Napoleon would ever forgive him.
**********
The sun had been up long enough to warm the air, even under the trees, and Illya was perspiring heavily by the time they reached the charcoal pits. He had spent the ninety minute hike looking for a chance to escape, but his captor was smart. He walked far enough behind his prisoner to be well out of reach; but close enough that, should Illya make a break, he could shoot him before he made his escape.
“You can stop now,” said the gunman, when they reached the center of the triangle formed by the three pits. “Sit down,” he instructed.
Illya sat down on the ground.
“How did you know where to find me?” he ventured.
“I didn’t,” Vincent retorted. “I had finished my preparations here and was looking for you. I decided to check the house and when I passed the solarium, lo and behold, there sat my old friend, Illya.”
“Now,” he continued, “pick up that length of rope in front of you and tie your legs together, nice and tight. I’m watching, so don’t pull any little tricks. If you do, I will be forced to shoot you. I had planned to, any way, the first chance I got. Then I came upon the pits during one of my rambles and it dawned on me that, this way, your death couldn’t possibly be traced back to me.”
Wondering what his abductor had in mind, Illya began tying his legs together. Just as he was finishing the knot, he felt a sharp sting in the back of his neck.
“Don’t worry,” Blue confided as he waved a syringe in front of Illya’s face, “it’s only to incapacitate you for a little while. I want you to be able to anticipate your untimely demise. I want you to suffer, as I suffered because of you.”
With that, he knelt in front of Illya, whose head was already spinning, and tied his wrists securely. Then he helped the bound man to his feet and hopped him over to the rim of one of the pits.
“You will pass out in a few minutes but, before you do, let me explain what is going to happen.”
Illya leaned over to look inside the pit and was assaulted by a blast of heat. He saw what looked to be a large, black ball surrounded by fire.
“Inside each pit,” Melvin continued, “is an iron pot, filled with wood, and a second iron pot welded on top to form a sealed lid. Beneath each pot is a large fire. As the wood heats, it will emit copious amounts of various gases. These gases will build up inside the pots until they explode.
You, my dear Mr. Kuryakin, will be placed on the ground, equidistant from each of the three pits. If the explosions don’t kill you, the shrapnel and debris will; or, should the wind cooperate, you may simply die from smoke inhalation.”
By this time, Illya was nearly unconscious. The last thing he remembered was being dragged back to the center of the fiery triangle.
**********
Napoleon found the silver-chest in its usual place, in the china cabinet, and set to work. He was glad to have something to keep his hands, and mind, occupied.
No matter what mental exercises he had tried, reciting the U.N.C.L.E. organizational chart; making his Christmas card list; identifying each of the beguiling scents wafting from the kitchen; he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Illya.
He had never had a male lover before. Oh, he’d had sex with men, but it was always just part of the job. Then he had been saddled with this scrawny, hard-headed, powerhouse of a Russian smart-ass and, four years later, finally admitted to himself that he was in love.
Now he had hurt Illya, whose only transgression had been to ask that he trust in him for a little while. Of all the people in the world, there were exactly two who had earned his trust. One was Alexander Waverly, chief of U.N.C.L.E., New York, and there were times when Napoleon questioned even his motivation.
That left only Illya on whom he could rely entirely; Illya, who had taken bullets, and much worse, for him; Illya, who had willingly followed him into battle and into the unknown; Illya, who loved him the only way he knew how - fiercely and completely.
Napoleon looked down, astonished to find that he had finished the five place settings they would need for dinner. Well, so much for keeping his mind occupied, but that was okay, because he now knew what he needed to do. He laid the final fork on the table and went in search of his love.
The bedroom, living room, kitchen, and study yielded nothing. Of course! Like a cat, Illya would have sought out the warmest, most deserted place to do his reading; but when Napoleon breathlessly entered the solarium, all he found was the file lying on the couch.
A stray Illya wasn’t necessarily cause for alarm, but Napoleon had developed strong instincts where his partner was concerned. Klaxons blared in his head as he raced to the table by the stairs and grabbed the keys to his father’s pickup truck.
“Going out,” he yelped, to no one in particular, and ran for the door.
The truck started easily and Napoleon manhandled it onto the main logging road before he became conscious of the fact that he had no idea where to look. It would take hours to cover fifteen hundred acres, and he had a feeling Illya didn’t have that long. He needed to calm down and try to think.
That’s when he smelled it. Wood smoke! Sure enough, off to the left was a plume of white.
As a child, it had been instilled in him that such a situation was to be reported immediately.
He slid the truck to a halt on the loose dirt, made a perfect three-point turn, and proceeded back to the house.
“Dad!” he practically screamed before he even opened the front door.
“What is it, Son?” Hadrian questioned, concern apparent on his face.
“There’s smoke off to the east,” Napoleon reported frantically.
“Where were you going?” his father inquired. “You shot out of here like a bat out of Hell.”
“I was looking for Illya.”
Illya was missing and there was fire in the forest! Something bitterly familiar churned in Napoleon’s gut.
“Come on, Dad,” he ordered, not even glancing back to see if the older man was following.
Neither of them spoke for over thirty minutes, as the truck clanked and rattled over the rutted and pot-holed road. Finally, Hadrian pointed toward the cloud of smoke.
“That’s either at, or very near, the charcoal pits,” he declared.
Despite the condition of the road, Napoleon pressed even harder on the accelerator, and they arrived at the clearing in record time. As they breached the trees, it was plain to see that the smoke was coming from the pits.
“Stop here, Son,” Hadrian warned. “We don’t know who set those fires. It may not be safe.”
Napoleon slammed on the brakes, causing the truck to careen crazily before it slid to a stop, and then threw open his door and began to run toward the billowing smoke at breakneck speed.
“Napoleon!” shouted his father.
He may as well have saved his breath because, at that exact moment, a gust of wind revealed a glimpse of wheaten hair atop a struggling body.
Napoleon would never know if time condensed in his perception, or if terror endowed him with super-human strength; but the next thing he knew, he was kneeling at his partner’s side. Not only were Illya’s hands and legs tied, but his body was criss-crossed by ropes attached to metal stakes that had been pounded into the ground.
Napoleon was sawing through the ropes with his pocket knife when he heard the pickup pull up behind him and the door slam shut. Footsteps approached and then stopped abruptly.
“Linc?” he heard Hadrian call out. A tiny part of his mind wondered at that. Perhaps his brother had happened upon them and was coming to help.
All the staked ropes finally severed, Napoleon didn’t take the time to free Illya’s hands and legs, but picked him up and carried him beyond the smoke before setting him gently down and hurriedly cutting the rest of his bonds. He helped his partner to his feet then glanced around to see his father staring back the way they had come.
“Linc,” Hadrian called again, “is that you?”
Illya stood and Napoleon stepped to Hadrian’s side just as all three men saw movement at the top of a nearby hill, and then the glitter of sunlight off a gun barrel. Hadrian raised the rifle Napoleon didn’t know he had retrieved from the truck and squeezed off one shot. The figure on the hilltop disappeared.
“Wait here,” Illya directed, and trotted off toward where the figure had fallen.
Napoleon and Hadrian watched him climb the gentle slope, pick up the body in a fireman’s carry, and lope back to them.
“Good shot,” he congratulated, and dropped the body in the dirt.
“Linc,” Hadrian breathed, and passed out in Napoleon’s arms.
Being the only live person in the group who wasn’t in shock, Illya knew he had to take charge of the situation before they all got blown to smithereens. He hauled Lincoln’s body over his shoulder, once again, and tossed him into the bed of the pickup. Then he maneuvered Napoleon and Hadrian into the cab and, after retrieving the rifle, drove them all back to the house. He left Napoleon, semi-conscious, in the truck and helped Hadrian to the door. Mrs. Solo met them and, at the site of her husband’s ashen face and the fresh blood on Illya’s clothes, started firing off questions.
“There was an accident,” was the only explanation Illya gave her as he supported Hadrian up the stairs and onto his bed.
“Elevate his feet and cover him warmly,” he told Victoria cavalierly, in a hurry to attend to Napoleon. He turned and looked at her devastated face. “Stay with him,” he said more gently. “He’ll be alright.”
By the time he got back to the truck, Napoleon was already on his feet. The withering look he turned on Illya was enough to deter any assistance he might have offered, but he stayed close enough that he caught his lover when he collapsed just inside the door.
He tenderly lowered Napoleon onto the couch, removed his shoes, and piled throw pillows beneath his feet. Then he ran upstairs and yanked the comforter from their bed to keep the stricken man warm until he recovered.
Exhausted, Illya plopped into the nearest chair, but there was one more chore to complete before he could take a breather. He pulled his silver communicator pen from his pocket and assembled it.
“Open Channel D,” he requested in a hushed tone.
**********
It had been an exhausting day, mentally and emotionally. Dusk had fallen when Illya awoke with a scowl, a stiff neck, and the sound of someone sobbing nearby.
Napoleon was still on the couch, curled into a fetal position, crying as though his heart was breaking. Illya suddenly realized that it probably was. Riddled with guilt, he sat down beside the trembling man and took him in his arms, rubbing his back and rocking him like a child. It further pricked his conscience that it felt so good to hold Napoleon again.
Before long, footsteps on the stairs announced Victoria’s arrival. She physically pushed Illya away and, throwing her arms around her devastated son, they wept together. Illya decided it was a good time to do some house cleaning.
He returned to the solarium and retrieved the ledger, along with the charcoal-making notes - which no longer held any interest - and arranged them back in the bottom of the desk drawer. While replacing the stack of papers on top of them, one slipped out and fell to the floor. Illya glanced at it as he picked it up. A closer look made everything crystal clear.
**********
Illya closed the desk drawer and realized he didn’t know what to do with himself. He decided, since Napoleon was being tended to by his mother, that he would check on Hadrian; but when he reached the study door, it was blocked by a disheveled, tear-stained, angry Victoria.
“My husband is a zombie, my son can’t stop crying, and you are covered with blood. Tell me what is going on, Illya.”
He could tell she was close to hysterics, so he sat her down on the oxblood leather sofa and knelt in front of her. She searched his eyes for a moment then stood abruptly to begin pacing the room.
“You know, don’t you?” Her voice quavered. “How?”
“By accident. I found your ledger when I was looking for the charcoal notes. It took me a while to figure out the initials... until I saw your marriage license. V B - Victoria Blue. From there, it was easy to make the connection.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell Napoleon,” she accused.
Illya’s smile held no warmth. “No. It was a long time ago, and I think he has dealt with enough betrayal to last a lifetime, don’t you?”
She nodded slowly and Illya changed the subject.
“So Lincoln used your maiden name. Did you know about him?”
“Yes,” she admitted weakly, “it was my idea. He’s a smart boy, but was never good at school, like Napoleon. I had connections and I thought it would be a good career for him, but I had no idea what THRUSH even was. I mean, I was never involved in their activities. I only picked up packages and envelopes at one place, and dropped them off at another, to earn money for college.”
Illya took her by the arms and turned her to face him.
“I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but your son’s ‘good career’ has left him dead.”
The blood drained from her face and her knees buckled. Illya caught her and sat her back down on the sofa. Once she had recovered, he related to her the circumstances of Lincoln’s death.
Her green eyes grew wide as he told her what Lincoln had nearly done to him, then she wept more tears when he calmly explained how and why her husband had shot their youngest child. It took some time, but he waited while she came to terms with the situation, gave her time to compose herself, and then assisted her down the stairs.
Napoleon and his father were standing in the living room, staring at one another, when they arrived. The whir of rotor blades caused all three of them to turn to Illya with questioning looks.
“Napoleon, I told your mother about what happened at the pits. I am going to take Lincoln’s body back to New York with me. I think you all need some time together, as a family, to grieve and work things out between you.”
“No!” Victoria yelled.
“Mom,” Napoleon addressed her, “there is something you should know. Illya and I are not buyers for Macy’s. We are U.N.C.L.E. agents. I never told you, in an attempt to keep you safe from our enemies, who wouldn’t think twice about using you and Dad against us. Any way, Linc’s body, if it is Linc’s body, has to be taken to headquarters for a positive identification. We have to figure out what’s going on. I’m sorry.”
He wondered, briefly, at the look that passed between Illya and his mother; but the helicopter chose that instant to land in the back yard and the moment was over.
**********
After loading the body into the helicopter, Illya went back inside to say, “Goodbye,” hoping that he was bidding farewell to only two Solos, not three.
He turned to face Napoleon’s father. “I have not thanked you for saving my life. Please know that I am grateful.”
Hadrian approached him hesitantly and shook his hand. “Illya, I have no idea what to say to you. I don’t dare say that I’m glad you came, but I am glad that we met. I hope, after what we have been through together, that you feel like part of the family, now.”
“Well, Dad,” Napoleon cut in, “he has, kind of, been part of the family for nearly two years, now. You see, Illya and I are not only working partners; we are partners in everything.”
Both parents looked inquiringly at him.
“What I mean to say, is that Illya and I are together - a couple - in love.”
There was one second of absolute silence, during which Illya started, staring at Napoleon in joyous disbelief; and then smiles and congratulations all around. Illya found it difficult to announce that he had to be going, but go he did, in a flurry of hugs and handshakes.
All the fear, guilt, and tension, that had permeated the room only moments before, had melted away in the light of Napoleon’s confession. Love had caused the healing to begin.
**********
Illya was almost to the helicopter when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Only Napoleon could sneak up on him, that way. He turned, not knowing what to expect.
Napoleon grabbed him by the hand, pulled him into a shadow, and kissed him soundly. By the time it was over, Napoleon knew he would have to wait a few minutes before going back inside, if he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his parents.
“There are still a lot of details I don’t understand,” he protested.
“I know,” Illya smile wryly, “but the helicopter is burning fuel that Mr. Waverly is paying for, and I don’t want to find it on my expense account. We will talk when you arrive home. Until then, I love you.”
A single tear traced down Napoleon’s cheek. “I can’t imagine how that could possibly be true, considering what an ass I’ve been; but I love you, too.”
Illya leaned forward so their foreheads touched. “I know that, now.”
A ghost of a frown fleetingly touched Napoleon’s face. “One thing I can promise you, I will never doubt you again, my love.”
“And I will never keep anything from you,” Illya avowed.
One last kiss, and he ran for the helicopter.
“Wait,” Napoleon called above the din and Illya looked back. “You said you knew Linc by a different name…”
“His THRUSH code name was Vincent Blue,” Illya shouted back before leaping into the rising whirly bird.
He watched Napoleon wave until the darkness swallowed him, secure in the knowledge that they would be together in a few days. Together. Such a beautiful word.
**********
Eleven o’clock, the following morning, found Illya waiting in his boss’s outer office. The cup of coffee Waverly’s secretary, Lisa Rogers, had given him had long since gone cold. He didn’t have an appointment - in fact, he and Napoleon had been granted a long weekend for the holiday - but Illya had decided to write up his report and get the debriefing over with so he could put the whole disaster behind him.
“Illya,” Lisa’s melodious voice brought him back to himself, “Mr. Waverly will see you, now.”
As usual, the “Old Man” peered at him from behind a stack of files, which Illya knew were just for show. Not that Waverly wasn’t constantly aware of each of his operatives situation at any given moment, but nearly every word in those files was indelibly ingrained in his memory.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” the elderly man greeted him, “aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
“Yes, Sir,” Illya answered respectfully, “but there was an incident yesterday and I thought you should have the report as soon as possible.”
He handed over the black notebook with the U.N.C.L.E. logo on the front, and took his usual seat at the round table.
“Oh, yes, the Vincent Blue homicide.” Waverly’s tone was matter-of-fact.
He opened the folder and began to read with the air of a man who had seen it all before. When he had finished, he studied Illya briefly.
“Mr. Kuryakin, I have also read the original report you wrote after your first encounter with Mr. Blue, uh, Solo. So THRUSH was conducting an experiment in recruiting young people by sending an undercover man into the Sorbonne, in Paris. I understand that you were fresh out of survival school and Mr. Blue was equally new to his profession.”
Illya cleared his throat. “Yes, Sir. Because I was an alumnus, and familiar with the area and social conventions of the school, Harry Beldon thought I was the best candidate for the job. I was sent to flush out the agent and dispose of him, while gathering what information I could about any possible similar operations.”
“And you found him; in the…” Waverly referred to the report, “gymnasium, I believe.”
“Yes, Sir. Breaking into the dean’s secretary’s office to obtain Blue’s class schedule and dorm address was simple enough. I befriended him and he invited me to join him in using the free weights in the evenings, when the gym was empty. He was there when I arrived, and ambushed me.”
“And you nearly bled to death, from a gunshot wound to the abdomen, before backup arrived.”
“Yes, Sir. Beldon had thought it a bad idea to equip me with a communicator, in case Blue became suspicious.”
“Yes,” Waverly muttered, as if to himself, “I never did fully agree with Beldon’s way of doing things.”
His head came up and sharp, gray eyes briefly stared into troubled blue, as though trying to read Illya’s state of mind.
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal, Mr. Kuryakin. I think we can close the book on Vincent Blue. Go home, young man, and get some rest. I don’t expect to see you here until nine am, Monday morning.”
“Yes, Sir,” Illya agreed, rising from his chair. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly called after him, causing Illya to turn back to face his chief.
“The autopsy report indicated that there was something carved across Blue’s back. It seemed to have been there for quite some time and wasn’t completely legible but, from what the medical examiner could make out, it read, ‘Failure’.” The gray, bushy eyebrows rose, and the point was made.
Glad to have it all behind him, Illya nodded his understanding and exited the sliding door. As he rang for the elevator he realized it wasn’t over, at all. Despite the events of their final minutes in Wenatchee, Napoleon still didn’t know the whole truth.
**********
At nine-sixteen on Monday morning, Illya was at his desk, dutifully filling out routine paperwork, when a large file was slapped down on his desktop with a “thwack.”
“Vincent Blue,” Napoleon asserted forcefully. “There’s a picture, and everything.”
Illya looked up at his partner’s handsome face. “I was hoping to break it to you, myself. Did you read the whole file?”
“I skimmed over it. How come I didn’t know about any of this?” Napoleon implored.
“He was a secret, undercover operative,” Illya clarified. “I only knew him because I was assigned to ferret him out. There was no reason for you to know.”
“I do need to know one thing,” Napoleon declared. “Why did my brother want to kill you? Was the breakup that bad?”
“Breakup?” Illya quizzed. “What are you talking about?”
“I have thought about it a lot, and I can take it now. It’s okay that you and Linc were lovers. I mean, we didn’t even know each oth…”
“Napoleon, is that really what you thought?” Illya contended. “There was never any romance between your brother and me. I didn’t want to tell you he was a THRUSH agent because I knew it would ruin your Thanksgiving and your time with your family, so I was going to wait until we returned to New York.”
“That’s it?” One dark eyebrow rose to emphasize the question.
“Yes, that’s it,” was the gentle response.
“So, why did he try to kill you? It seems to me that you should be the one holding the grudge, since he left you to bleed to death on a gym floor.”
“It wasn’t personal, Napoleon. Besides, I am fairly certain he thought I was dead.”
Napoleon hoisted his hip onto the edge of his partner’s cluttered desk. “Well, I’m sure glad you weren’t.
Illya’s eyes became unusually bright and he blinked twice. Could it be this easy? Could Napoleon simply forgive that Lincoln had died because of him?
“I’ll tell you what,” Napoleon was saying, “sometime, when we’re both a little drunk and there’s nothing else to do, you can tell me the story of how your first meeting with my brother made him want to kill you - or not. As far as I’m concerned, you were born the day we were introduced. I know that’s the day I started living.”
“There are many things I want to tell you about my past, and how I came to be the person I am,” Illya stood and reached for his coat, “but not here. In point of fact, talking is not truly what I have on my mind, at the moment.”
He stood and walked around the desk to where Napoleon sat. Turning his back, effectively shielding Napoleon from the security camera, he cupped his lover’s genitals in his hand and squeezed deftly.
Napoleon couldn’t quite restrain a groan as he felt himself harden from just that simple touch. He led the way out of the building and to his car, his smile pure lechery. Illya followed with anticipation, as he watched his partner’s backside appreciatively.
Napoleon expected, as usual, for Illya to be all over him as soon as they entered his apartment. However, he closed and locked the front door and turned to find his partner standing in the middle of the living room with his hands folded in front of him, as if overtaken by shyness. The mid-morning sun, shining through the large window, embraced the alluring body as though enthralled. It struck the planes and angles of Illya’s face, sparked off his hair, and glittered in his eyes; turning him to a creature of blue and gold.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are, Illya?” Napoleon’s voice was thick and sweet as Cumberly honey.
He watched the blush begin at the roots of the golden hair and spread to below the collar of the blue cotton shirt. His heart swelled with love, even as he felt the familiar tingle of arousal. He held out his hand and was grateful, beyond belief, when Illya came into his arms. They spent several minutes simply breathing each other in, each allowing the other’s warmth to fill the places that had grown cold over the past few days.
After a while, Illya pulled away and walked to the window, where he turned and stared down at Central Park. Napoleon decided to just wait him out.
“How can you simply ignore what happened?” Illya finally entreated. “Your only brother is dead, because of me. If I had told you right away, we could have captured him and he would still be alive!”
“But you didn’t kill him, my father did, possibly saving all our lives,” Napoleon rebutted. “Even if you had been the one to pull the trigger, it would have been self-defense.”
Napoleon again enfolded his lover in his arms and held him tightly. “You couldn’t have foreseen what happened. Besides, Linc was THRUSH. You know what that means.”
Illya raised his head and looked dubiously into his partner’s eyes.
“Illya, if our roles had been reversed; if your brother was an enemy agent and was trying to kill me; what would you have done?” Napoleon countered.
“I would always save you,” Illya answered sincerely.
The smile teasing his lover’s lips made Napoleon jealous, so he took over. They kissed for a long time, each taking and relinquishing control in their turn, as they did with everything.
A memory tickled at the edges of Napoleon’s consciousness, and then dropped with a clang into his brain. He pulled away from the luscious mouth, just far enough to be able to speak. Illya looked at him cross-eyed and he would have forgotten what he was going to say, had it been a little less important.
“You know, I can’t believe I never told you before that I love you. I knew how you felt about me because you show it every day. I suppose that flirting and seduction have been my tools of the trade for so long, and have become such a part of my intrinsic nature, that it makes it hard to tell, huh?”
“Well…” Illya hedged, managing to purse his lips and smile smugly at the same time. “What do you say we move this to the bedroom?” he purred.
After they each kicked off their shoes, they took turns undressing each other - a shirt for a shirt, a sock for a sock - until they stood, naked, under one another’s admiring gaze.
Their lovemaking had always been more than satisfactory. Both of them were well trained in the art of seducing information from men and women with hand, mouth, and cock. The orgasms were always explosive; but the kisses, the caresses, the movements all seemed practiced; as if choreographed.
This time felt different, though. It was as if their ordeal had opened up their souls and laid them bare to one another. This time, it wasn’t sex by the numbers, but a unique mixture of raw need and heartfelt affection.
After hours of talking, laughing, kissing, and playing, two bodies became one as two souls conjoined; and two hearts melted together in such a way, that to pierce one would cause the other to bleed. When they reached orgasm, within seconds of one another, there were no skyrockets; but a gradual unfurling that left them sated and at peace.
“I feel so close to you right now,” Napoleon breathed into the delectable ear that was pressed against his lips. “I always love you, always need you, always want you near me; but now I feel that we are two halves of the same person in separate bodies. It’s as if I hear your thoughts; see through your eyes; feel your heart beating in my chest.”
Illya lifted his head and gazed into his lover’s eyes, his breath catching in his throat at the adoration and devotion he found there. He wasn’t sure if he read it in those intense brown orbs, or if it sprang from his own being; but, all at once, he understood the difference between sex and love. For the first time in his life, it wasn’t about finishing; it was about the journey, together, with the person he loved most in the world. As he became immersed in warm chocolate, it occurred to him that family isn’t about blood; but about respect, love, and trust.
One day, he would tell Napoleon about his revelation, but the eyes he had been staring into had closed, and the breaths that were expanding and contracting the chest beneath him had evened out and deepened. The future was fraught with peril, but they would face it together; for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till… Illya slid into repose before he could finish the thought. He would never know it, but his peaceful smile exactly matched the one on his sleeping lover’s face.