Part Three
Part 3:
*******
Back at UNCLE headquarters, Mr. Waverly stared unseeingly out the window. He was standing in an almost brooding sort of manner, his back facing the door.
A sound broke the silence as his secretary buzzed him at his desk. He turned, and walked slowly towards it. Wearily, he pressed the switch.
“Yes, Sarah?”
There was a click as she responded. “Mr. Walsh has reported seeing Mr. Kuryakin. He just crossed 24th street. “
Waverly nodded. “Very good, Sarah. Tell Mr. Walsh to keep in touch.” He flipped the switch back and returned to his position by the window, his mind returning to what he was thinking about previously.
He sighed. Sometimes this business could be very difficult. He thought of all the tough calls he’d had to make over the years as head of UNCLE headquarters in New York. Strangely, he didn’t have any regrets. If he could do it all over again, he would have made the same decisions. He had no doubt about that. He wished he could say the same for this particular situation. He felt sure he was right, but there was always that dreadful ‘what if’. It was that ‘what if’ that was troubling him. Perhaps he hadn’t made the right choice, after all.
Mr. Waverly sighed again, leaving his post by the window to pace the room. He felt confident that Mr. Kuryakin would find Mr. Solo. Of that he had no doubt. The man seemed to have an almost uncanny sixth sense when it came to his partner. Yes, no matter where Mr. Solo was, Mr. Kuryakin would find him. Waverly was much more worried about the other part of Mr. Kuryakin’s mission; the outcome of which he was anything but certain about.
*******
Something-a sound, a sense of danger shocked Napoleon awake. He jerked up midway before realizing he was strapped down to the bed. Napoleon blinked confusedly. Where am I?
Recollection swept over him like a crashing wave. He remembered. He was at the hospital. The empty room… the wires on his arms… the figure at the door--and Illya!
Tears began coursing down his face. Where was Illya? The last Napoleon had seen of his partner he was at the mercy of Thrush… and precious little mercy they’d shown the blond UNCLE agent.
The image of Illya’s face, all battered and bruised loomed unbidden into Napoleon’s thoughts. Napoleon winced. It was just like Paris, except in Paris, Illya had been in even worse shape. After helplessly watching his partner go through unrelenting interrogation for what seemed like forever, Napoleon had gone crazy and had actually tried to kill Illya to save him. Thrush agents had caught him before he was able to do so, and they’d dragged him off. Napoleon didn’t see his partner again until he’d escaped and returned to UNCLE HQ, only to be welcomed by Illya himself!
At first, Napoleon had been shocked and confused. The last he’d seen of Illya, his partner had been so injured that he could barely walk and yet here Illya was back in New York safe and apparently uninjured. It had taken Napoleon a while to fully grasp the doctor’s explanation that his experience in Paris had only been an illusion; a reality based on an experimental hallucinogenic drug. It was hard enough having to deal with the emotions that resulted from his ordeal, but to find out that none of it was true, and that it was all one horrible nightmare made those emotions much harder to contend with. Napoleon was used to realities… realities could be faced, conquered. But he was powerless against the demons of his own mind.
And now it was happening again. Suddenly, Napoleon felt tired… so tired. Fighting seemed so futile, but he had to keep fighting… for his partner’s sake, if not for his own.
“Illya.” His voice shattered the empty stillness. “Illya...” There was strength and comfort in that very name. His eyelids opened and closed intermittently. Napoleon could almost feel himself taking leave of his senses and it frightened him. He had to stay awake… to stay sane. Illya needed him. Illya…
Napoleon’s throat felt parched. He needed water.
The room felt like it was closing in on him. There was a creak. Napoleon watched the door open in what seemed like slow motion. He could barely make out the figure in the doorway. Napoleon tried to speak, but his voice refused to come.
Illya suddenly loomed up out of nowhere. He stood over Napoleon, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
“Help me,” Illya gasped hoarsely. “Help me, Napoleon.” Then ‘Illya’ disappeared, and in his place stood a man in what looked like a white doctors’ uniform.
Napoleon stared at him. Something about him seemed so familiar…
The man stood beside him, slowly pulling on latex gloves. “Your friend will die if you are not more forthcoming, Mr. Solo. Answer our questions and you will both live.” He hovered over Napoleon. “Now, tell me, what is this information that you are keeping from us? You will tell us, you know.” As he spoke, he fitted a new bag on the IV, and adjusted the drip count.
Napoleon made no answer. The man smiled… it was an unsettling, evil smile.
And then, Napoleon remembered where he’d seen him. His eyes narrowed. It all suddenly made sense. It was exactly like Paris… the mind games, the intertwining meshes of illusion and reality… and now he knew why. The man was his UNCLE psychiatrist.
*******
Illya pushed his cleaning cart through the corridors of a Thrush facility, carefully keeping his face down so as not to attract attention. He was undercover as a janitor. Not the most prestigious job he’d ever had undercover, but it would provide him with the anonymity and security clearance he needed in order to proceed undetected. He knew they were holding Napoleon somewhere in this facility… the question was where?
On his left there was a room marked Supplies. He ducked in, taking his rattling cart with him. He wondered if Thrush purposely used these carts so that they would know even where their janitors were at all times.
He pulled out a gun that he’d smuggled in. He rapidly screwed a silencer onto the muzzle, rolled the gun into a large cleaning rag, and put it into the trash section of his cart. He grabbed some chemicals from the supply room and expertly mixed them together. He smiled grimly. Just a nice little distraction for the Thrushies…
Leaving it smoldering thickly in a corner of the supply room, he rattled his way out and quickly maneuvered his cart to an elevator at the end of the corridor.
Now, to find Napoleon.
*******
Napoleon was drowning in the depths of his subconscious. He could even almost feel himself gasping for air, desperately trying to reach the surface. He struggled, causing the murky waters around him to recoil. Exhaustion pulled at his muscles, threatening to overwhelm them. His body felt like lead. Panic gripped him as he felt every ounce of strength rapidly draining from his limbs.
“Napoleon.” The voice faintly echoed through the deep recesses of his subconscious. Somehow, the voice reached down the corridors of his mind and slowly dragged him up towards the surface of reality. He moaned.
The voice called him again, “Napoleon.” He’d know that voice anywhere… it was Illya’s.
Illya had found him! He was safe. His eyes weakly fluttered open. He could see a form… he tried hard to focus his vision. Illya’s face gradually came into sight.
Napoleon smiled in vague relief. “So, now you’ve come to rescue me?” he asked in a weak attempt at humor. Illya smiled, but the smile was forced. Something was wrong.
An alarm sounded. Clattering feet could be heard clamoring above and around them. Napoleon’s eyes widened slightly in alarm.
“Don’t worry. I set off the alarms on purpose,” Illya explained.
Napoleon relaxed, but only slightly. He could still sense that something was bothering his partner.
Napoleon looked at Illya. “What is it, tovarish? What’s wrong?” Illya looked down, refusing to meet his partner’s eyes.
Napoleon tried to lift his hand to raise his partner’s face to his, but his hand weakly fell back on the bed. Illya stared at the limp hand like one frozen in time. Napoleon studied his partner’s face, watching the different play of emotions. It was clear Illya was thinking something, but the varying expressions on his face were far too fleeting for Napoleon to decipher. Unexpectedly, Illya’s eyes filled with tears.
“Napoleon…“ Illya choked on the name.
Napoleon looked at him. “It’s okay, tovarish.” His hand came up again and this time, it was caught by Illya’s stronger hand, instead of falling back down again.
Illya swallowed, fighting tears at the sound of the familiar endearment which only Napoleon used. The silence overflowed with unspoken words, thoughts, emotions.
“No.” Illya shook his head. “No, it’s not okay, Napoleon.” Illya said, still holding firmly to Napoleon’s hand. “Things have been going on at UNCLE since you’ve been away.” He told Napoleon the whole story, carefully gauging his partner’s face all the while. Through the whole story, Napoleon kept his eyes fixed on Illya’s face, never once allowing them to stray. When Illya finished, there was a short pause.
“You were right, you know.” Napoleon said unexpectedly.
Illya looked confused. “About what?”
Napoleon still gazed at Illya’s face. “That day at the café… you were right. I have changed.”
Illya waited for him to go on, watching Napoleon’s face with concern in his eyes.
Napoleon went on, his voice rising and falling as he spoke. “I don’t want to be the great… Napoleon Solo… anymore. Or even an UNCLE operative.” He looked at Illya. “I’m tired, Illya.” He said simply. “I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. I’m glad that he sent you…” he trailed off.
For a minute Illya looked confused until he suddenly realized that Napoleon meant he wanted Illya to kill him. Illya gasped.
“I’m glad that he sent you.” Napoleon repeated. He cleared his throat weakly and continued. “If it had been anyone else, I couldn’t bear it. With you, it’s different. You’re my partner, my friend.”
Napoleon could see Illya tearing apart inside. He watched as Illya’s soul suddenly became embodied on his face, letting Napoleon see all of his inner turmoil, his pain, his intense sorrow. Napoleon felt Illya’s grip on his hand tighten.
“Tovarish, there’s something… I want… to tell you.” Napoleon could hear his voice getting weaker and weaker.
Just then, Illya glanced towards the IV bag. His face suddenly froze and he involuntarily let out a strangled cry.
“Yes.” Napoleon said, immediately realizing what his partner was thinking. “I’m going… to die anyway. Once they realized… that I wasn’t going to talk… they no longer… needed me alive.” Napoleon gave a short, humorless laugh. “Now you see… why I wanted it to be… you?” He wheezed, “But I wanted to tell you… I wanted to tell you-“ He looked up at his partner earnestly. “-that I love you, just in case I never… got the chance.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. His face contorted, as if he was in pain.
Illya couldn’t speak. His hand shook visibly. Napoleon tried to squeeze it with his own hand, but his fingers didn’t have the strength. “I had to let you know… before…” He left his sentence unfinished.
Illya finally found his voice. “I’m glad you told me.” He tenderly brushed Napoleon’s hair back from his face. For a moment, they just sat there: Illya stroking Napoleon’s hair; neither of them saying a word.
Napoleon suddenly remembered the doctor. He needed to tell Illya that his UNCLE psychiatrist was a double agent. “Illya,” his voice was barely a whisper.
“What is it, Napoleon?” Illya leaned closer.
“The psychiatrist… the one I was seeing… he’s a double agent. Tell Waverly.”
A strange look settled onto Illya’s face for a minute, but it disappeared as swiftly as it came. “I’ll tell him.” Illya reassured him.
Napoleon relaxed in relief. He coughed. God, he felt so weak. Illya gave Napoleon a questioning look. Napoleon nodded. “I’m ready, tovarish.”
Illya took the gun, then looked at his partner. “Are you sure…?” he left the words hanging in the air.
Napoleon smiled almost serenely, “I’m positive.”
Illya hesitated.
”Do it, tovarish.” Napoleon pleaded faintly.
Illya raised the gun… and pulled the trigger.