THE EVOLUTION AFFAIR – Episode Three continued

 

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The UNCLE jet touched down on a dreary late winter afternoon; taxiing down a small runway at Kennedy International, right on time to meet the special ambulance and heavily armored limousine sent by Waverly.  The transfer to the waiting vehicles took no time at all.  None of the seven conscious passengers felt or heard the narrow-banded cry for help, sent by Alexis exclusively to her father.

 

The drive to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters New York took over two hours.  During those two hours, unnoticed by anyone, Illya began the interminably slow rise to consciousness triggered by a vague sense of unease.  This unease would grow to panic soon enough.     

At Headquarters, Alexander Waverly began to wonder why, just when everything had to go smoothly, nothing did. During the two-hour transit from plane to vehicle to destination of the awaited group, Waverly had been apprised of the disaster, which had taken place in the suburbs. 

Sir John detailed two teams.  One of these was to go extract Mr. Rasheed from the hospital he’d been taken to, as soon as prudently possible.  One was to prepare for immediate rescue of the hostage.  At least, Alexander prayed, we hope she is a hostage.  The other possibility could not be borne.  He tensely waited for word of communication from the kidnappers.  Only then could a plan be formulated.  Damn the luck that Kuryakin’s latest innovation hadn’t had time to be put into full operation yet.  Then they would know at any time, where anyone was.  For now, though, it was only possible to wait.       

 

 

As the stretcher was being carried into the subterranean Special Admissions room and on its way to Medical, Illya became semi-conscious.  The unease had grown to alarm.  Movement and incoherent sounds alerted the people wheeling the gurney down to the IC section, that their patient was coming round.  Fortunately, Mr. Slate had insisted on accompanying Illya to his new quarters.  So when he noted they were about to administer yet another 5cc’s of something, he raised strenuous objection.  The doctor in charge of admissions, Dr. Susan Beauchamp, rounded on him angrily.

“Mr. Slate, you are not in charge of this patient!  Get out of the way and stop interfering with my people.”

Mark, who had known Susan for some time, spoke with some hope of avoiding a knockdown, drag-out fight:

“Dr. Beauchamp, I am sorry, but it is the patient’s wish that no further sedatives or drugs of any kind be administered.  Now you know Illya.  (She did indeed.  He’d been under her care for much of the three years of his recovery from interrogation and torture.)  Do you recall our many talks a few years ago?  Well, this is another special situation.  I’ve given Illya my word.  Please, Susan, one more time….trust me!”

“All right, for a small space of time I shall take your advice.”

On the gurney, Kuryakin was throwing his head side-to-side in agitation, trying to hurry up his progress.  Finally, coherent thoughts formed.  With them came the full awful knowledge of the present threat to his daughter.  It was enough. 

Fortunately the gurney was at a standstill, as Illya woke fully.  He sat up and ripped off the bandages covering half his face.  The attendants gave shouts of alarm, as he pulled the IV out of his arm, and swung his legs over the side of the steel platform.

“Now, hold on Old Man,” Mark began in alarm, “you’re in no condition to go traipsing about.”

Illya grasped where he was in a heartbeat, and was damned glad it was HQ New York.  Waverly would be here.  The fully shielded main control room would be activated.  He had to pause a moment to push away the pain in his head as he stood up.  Despite his best efforts, his knees buckled.  Susan and Mark caught him before he could hit the floor.

“I must get to the Main Control Room, Mark, and fast.   They have Alexis!”

That was enough to get Mark’s full unquestioned cooperation. 

“Hop on Illya.  We’re almost there.”

It would have been comical, under different circumstances, to view the next few minutes from an outsider’s point of view.  The gurney propelled by Mark and Susan careened around corners, commandeered elevators.  Residents and workers in the huge complex stared goggle eyed at the spectacle of the well-respected personages doing this Marx Brothers routine in this, of all places.  The only thing that kept anyone from amused comments was the look on these peoples’ faces. 

In what used to be Sir John’s Command and Control Room, the console lit up.  Waverly depressed the button and listened in amazement and alarm as the normally staid, unruffled secretary, who announced the approach of visitors, practically yelled into her speaker:

“Mr. Slate, Dr. Beauchamp, and Mr. Kuryakin to see you, Sir.  Approaching at about 15 miles per hour!” 

Waverly hastily activated the automatic door.  

 At first glance, Alexander could tell Illya Nickovetch was aware of the threat to his daughter.  There was no misreading the rage suffusing those features.  So without preamble he said:

“They have yet to contact us, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“She is airborne now.  Help me to the console.”

Mark and Susan, after a quick apologetic look at Alexander, and receiving a small nod of acquiescence, complied.

Illya swung the wheeled chair over to a recently installed bank of switches, knobs and keyboards.  His fingers flew over the keys of the middle board.  He activated a switch, and a panel went up, disclosing a glowing screen.  With more commands from the keyboard, a map overlay and a green sweep appeared.  More commands, and a little red spot appeared on the map. Illya swung around to Waverly.  The movement made the room swim sickeningly. 

“That’s where they are now.  They are headed to Zagreb.  I must….”

“You must wait until they are no longer airborne, and have arrived at their location, Mr. Kuryakin.  You know that, and so do I.”

“Alexander..”

“There is a fairly large task force being equipped and readied that will move as soon as we have a precise location.  Mr. Solo will has been appraised of the current situation and probable landing points.  Fully equipping and transporting the invasion force from there to Zagreb will take approximately 6 hours.  Are you quite certain of their destination?”

“Yes, Sir.”  The old habit of address kicked in, and Alexander was glad to hear it.  Some control had been established. 

“In the meantime, Mr. Kuryakin, may I strongly suggest you give yourself over to Susan for a thorough going over.”

“Sir, I have no intention of leaving this room until I am sure she has arrived safely.  They will contact us, that is another certainty.  When they do, I must be here with the shielding up.”

Alexander Waverly, who knew Illya’s capabilities better than anyone alive, decided to capitulate even to this outrageous demand.  But the man would receive medical care.  That he’d insist on.  Very well, this control room would turn into a medical ward, a cafeteria and sleeping quarters for, ah let’s see, ah yes, five people at least.  Himself, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Slate, Dr. Beauchamp and of course Miss Dancer, must all gather in this room for the duration.  Unprecedented, maybe, but do-able.  Sir John would handle all other current operations in the alternate Operations Control room.  Waverly gave instructions; and it was so.

 

      April Dancer escorted the three guests from Admissions to their temporary holding quarters on level four.  Anxious to get to Waverly’s office, she was rather brusque in her words and deeds.  But then, the three remained rather stiff and uncommunicative themselves.  The three fugitives occupied three separate chambers.    April gave a short stab at reassurance at each door, then walked quickly to a panel on the wall of the corridor.  She started to request the whereabouts of Slate and the rest, when she was interrupted by Waverly’s voice, instructing her to come to the Command and Control Room post haste. 

 

As she approached her destination, all of her senses reported danger.  Illya was there and awake!  Something was drastically wrong.  The sense of extreme danger emanated from him.  She was actually afraid to enter the room.   Taking a deep breath, she entered.  Dr. Beauchamp was upset, that was apparent.  Mark and Waverly were worried, and trying to adopt calm demeanors.  Illya was sitting in the chair in front of a new console.  He radiated fury.  It was this fury that registered on her sensitive brain as danger.  But surely, she thought, it isn’t directed at the occupants of this room.  Is it?  Lord the tension in here is making it hard to breathe.  Say something, her mind instructed.  This is what you are good at.  Saying the right things. 

“Illya, I can’t breathe in this thick atmosphere.  Tell me what I can do to rid myself of the distinct fear of bodily harm.  Or at least give me my choice of ways to meet my doom.”

Temporarily released from the stranglehold of anger, he turned to face her, the icy fury in the blue eyes softening as he held out a hand to her.  Then was shocked to see her retreat.  “April, please…” he began, “there’s no need for that.”

Everyone else in the room held their breath.  Alexander knew only April would know the full extent of the possible dangers here.  He watched the struggle between these two people with great interest, and not a little trepidation.   

 Finally, April mastered her fear.  She walked back over and took the proffered hand in hers.   Upon contact, the tension drained from Illya.  Exhausted from the struggle to heal and overcome various drug’s effects; not to mention the strain of “coming-up” through his self-induced trance, he slumped in his chair, his head saved from hitting the desk by April’s cushioning hands.  The atmosphere changed at once.   

Susan was at his side in a heartbeat; taking his pulse.  She requested of the room at large, that her instrument bag be brought swiftly. 

“Now, surely, Mr. Waverly, you will allow me to take him down to medical and…”

“No, Doctor, it will be as I said.  Bring the necessary equipment in here.   We will all dance attendance until further contact is made.”

“By whom?” April asked.

“EWI, I’m afraid,” was Waverly’s chilling answer.

 

 

 Exponential World Intelligence, or EWI as it was called (well, between Mark and herself she’d called it eewee, like Bawbrwa Wawa saying eerie; an apt name if she’d ever heard one) was truly enough to chill anyone’s bones.  That is if you knew enough about it.  Unknown to the world at large and known to the world of the Command only by a select few, the organization was the worst new threat on the horizon.  So far, the only thing the Command was sure of was that these people were largely the results of genetic experimentation in the former Soviet Union.  They were mentally adept, generally above average in intelligence, and homicidally inclined.  An organization of psychically adept sociopaths, was how April had come to think of them.  This group had been responsible for great many successful criminal operations on a worldwide, devastating scale.  The Command’s efforts to foil these operations almost always ended in defeat and death for the operatives involved.  It was to counter this threat that Illya Nickovetch had returned to the Command.  No one knew, really, just how many people (?) comprised EWI.  It was believed there were at least five major “Talents” at the head of the organization, directing an unknown number of underlings employed to carry out their bidding.  April wondered if these underlings had any choice in the matter.  What would it be like…

“Miss Dancer, if you’ll please rejoin us?” Alexander prompted.

“Oh, ah, forgive me, Sir.  You were saying?”

“I was saying,” he harrumphed and raised his bushy eyebrows in her direction, “that the four of us will remain in this room to avail ourselves of the um, er, extraordinary protection provided by Mr. Kuryakin’s newly devised cloaking device, which affords protection, currently, only to this particular room.”  He looked over to the couch where Illya was laid out, receiving attention from Susan.  She was putting another IV into a still bleeding arm, watching a small monitoring device hastily set up on the table beside the couch.  This showed all biorhythms.  A wealth of information sped across its small screen.  April rose to view it quizzically, though she knew she could read little of the data. 

“He is doing reasonably well,” was Susan’s terse remark.  “He needs sustenance though.  I need a glucose solution, and hydrators as well,” she further directed into her small cell phone.  “He needs rest too.”  She looked at Waverly.  “He needs isolation, Sir.”    

   For the next five hours the room lights were dimmed and the tired new arrivals attempted to rest in uncomfortable positions. At the end of the fifth hour, the quiet was interrupted by Waverly’s private line warbling softly.  Mark, having given up on sleep, sat forward to take the call at Waverly’s nod.  In the soft red and green lights of the consoles lining the wall in front of him, Mark’s face appeared drawn but calm, as he answered.  “Go ahead, Marcie.”

“Mr. Slate, Sir, inform Mr. Waverly that there is an urgent communiqué coming from an unidentified source.  Who ever this is knows our digital code for ID and precedence.  The source is scrambled, Sir.”

“Very good Marcie, hold one second,” and Mark activated the large video screen and associated audio circuits. 

On the couch, Illya sat up with a speed no one though him capable of.  Getting up swiftly, he again quickly disengaged the IV’s from the ports taped into his arm and hand and stumbled to a chair facing the screen.

 

The aforementioned screen came to life.  Mark wished it hadn’t.  The visage on the screen belonged to a nightmare.  Something terrible had happened to its contours.  The mouth was almost non-existent, the eyes burned with unholy fire.  A nightmarish voice, matching the image, filled the room. 

“Alexander Waverly,” it croaked.  “Although I cannot see you, I know you are present.  I will come right to the point of this communication.  You have something and someone we want.  We have someone whom you may wish to save from unnecessary harm.”  The ghoulish figure moved out of the way of the lens to show a very young girl, trussed up upon a table.  Two goons stood nearby, arms folded, rock-faced.

In the Control Room of the Command, Illya rose from his seat, giving an involuntary cry.  Then both rooms descended into chaos.

            Mark heard a strange, guttural voice boom unfamiliar words in a language his brain struggled to place, but couldn’t.  Simultaneously, Alexander sprang forward to restrain Mr. Kuryakin, belatedly realizing the danger they might all be in.  Items of furniture, those not bolted down, rose and fell, just an inch or two, booming back to the floor with a terrible crash.  Alarms clarrioned, and Mark’s chair went crashing to the floor as he glanced at his friend’s face and involuntarily leaped away.  It was a face and a persona Illya had certainly never shown him before.  If Mark had seen this person coming at him, even he would have retreated in fear.

            The other room appeared to have developed a more serious problem. Items flew about the room as if a small but powerful hurricane had struck.  The three men crumpled to the floor like puppets whose strings have been cut.  The child opened her eyes.  Looking dazedly at the large monitor in the wall she said tremulously,

“Daddy?”

 

 

 

 

“Deactivate the shield,” barked Kuryakin.  Mark, recovering a bit, moved to do so.  “Deactivate the alarms.”

“Listen carefully, Little One.  Don’t be afraid anymore.  I’m here and I’ll protect you now.  I’m sorry,” he choked briefly, “I am so sorry.  Daddy was hurt, and you couldn’t reach me, could you?”

“I tried.  Daddy, Kier was hurt when the bad guys came.  Is he OK, too?”  The soft voice betrayed little emotion.  She could see her Daddy now that the shield was deactivated.  Things could be dealt with later.  “Are the monsters dead, Daddy?”

Kuryakin, who had hoped against hope that she’d remained unconscious throughout, groaned miserably with his hand covering the microphone.

“Never mind that, Sweetheart.  Listen carefully.  Help is on the way.  I will be right here watching you until the good guys arrive, OK?”

“OK.  I’m hungry.  Hope it won’t take long.”  Her hopeful smile smote him with love and pride.      

Talking to her constantly, he reset the screen, pinpointing her location.  Pointing to it wordlessly, he impatiently motioned for someone to come within whisper range.  April was still unable to move.  She had received the full brunt of backlash, and still sat stunned, her mind blasted by the power that had been unleashed in this room.  Alexander Waverly had moved to leave as soon as the incident was over.  Mark was sure he was directing operations in Zagreb, waiting for the pinpoint location.  He admired the Old Man even more, for being able to hold on through that whirlwind.  Better give the Boss what he needs, Mark thought, and steeled himself to approach the man in the chair.

Illya, not noticing the hesitation with which Mark approached, merely motioned him over close and took his attention away from his daughter long enough to tell Mark where exactly the precious being was.  He glanced sideways at Mark and then further turned and stared at his friend.  Mark was trembling all over; shaking uncontrollably, but still jotting the directions down on a small pad of paper. Illya was jolted by the realization that HE was the cause of this fear. 

“Good Lord, Mark, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize.”

“No worries Mate,” Mark said in a voice that shook also, “I’ll get over it.”

He did not saunter out the door, he practically ran.

Illya, not wanting his concentration broken any further, dismissed this disturbing turn of events from his mind, filing it away for later.

An hour later the rescue team arrived on the scene, untied the little girl and made their way out of the strange conclave that was the western European stronghold of EWI, photographing and taking samples of all they saw. 

 

Kuryakin finally turned away from the monitor.  His gaze swept the room.  Only April and Susan remained.  They gasped when they saw his face.  The incisions had broken open and blood still seeped slowly down his cheeks into his collar.  His shirt was soaked with what appeared to Susan to be about a pint of blood.  He gave a ghastly grin.  “I think I need help.” And once more, Illya Nickovetch passed out.  This time his head hit the console with a sickening, resounding thud.

 

 

“Illya, can you hear me?”  April’s soft voice came through the roaring in his ears.  His head throbbed with an intensity that threatened to black him out again.  He tried in vain to suppress it to no avail.  Evidently, he had reached his limit. “Illya, please give me something.”

“Praz tee tye.”  (forgive me)

“Shhhh, Darling.  It’s all right now.  Alexis is safe, and here.  Pon ne mi’ yu?” (do you understand ?”

“Da, pa zhal ul sta.” (Yes, thank you)  a pause.  “Gdye zdees?” (where’s here?)     

The answer ceased to matter, and April sighed deeply.  It had been nine hours since the incredible events in the control room.  With only three hours sleep in the last forty-eight, she was about at the end of her effectiveness.  Alexis was indeed safe and sound, and in the building.  She hadn’t been so much as bruised.  Well at least she isn’t hurt on the outside, April thought miserably.  Her face screwed up in an attempt to be brave, the girl had first demanded to see Daddy.  They let her stay with Illya until she fell asleep, then carefully moved her to the next room, leaving the door open and a very sympathetic nurse on full alert never left her side.

  April’s eyes closed and her head fell toward her chest.  Jolted awake, she blearily looked around at the bed adjoining Illya’s.  Susan, looking up from the other side of the room, where she was dictating notes into her personal recorder, wordlessly directed April to lie down.  Sleep blanketed her exhausted mind.