Somehow he managed to get out before the mangled car exploded in a huge ball of fire and flying glass. He’d pulled himself as far away as he could before he simply gave out. His reserves tapped, he turned his head to look back at the car just as it ignited. Debris rained down as he laid pressed into the dirt.
Hurt, exhausted, no longer able to go on, he shut his eyes and, shivering in the chill night air, slipped into a world where no pain existed and no one was trying to kill him, a place where he could find peace and no one could find him.
*****************************************************************************
“Where was Napoleon supposed to meet you?” Illya Kuryakin asked the little man referred to as “Oliver” but whose real name was doubtless something else.
“Mr. Solo, the dark-haired man from U.N.C.L.E.? Yes, yes, I was supposed to meet him here,” the man stabbed at the map on the table in front of him. “I went, but he never showed up, my friend.” He smiled at Illya, a toothy grin that held no good will. The act only succeeded in making his cold eyes colder.
“And you are saying my friend never showed? Is that correct?”
“It is the truth, Mr. Kuryakin. I swear to it.”
“The information he was seeking? You still have that?”
“Of course, monsieur. It is in my safe-keeping. I did not bring it here tonight for fear of a trick. You will come with me and I will give it to you?”
“Yes,” Illya said, throwing some money on the table and pushing out his chair. “Let’s go.
I will drive.”
“Of course, of course.”
The pair stepped outside into the crisp night air. It was very cold and the temperature was dropping, but Illya, to whom snowy Russian winters were comfortable, barely felt the chill. He climbed behind the wheel of the rented car and Oliver into the passenger side, directing Illya through the streets of the little town only miles from the U.S.-Canadian border.
After a short drive, Oliver led the U.N.C.L.E. agent to a small cabin in the woods, accessible only by a narrow, winding road. “They are calling for snow tonight,” Oliver observed, climbing out of the car. Illya didn’t answer. Instead, he moved around the vehicle, putting Oliver between himself and the cabin.
Oliver stopped and gestured for the agent to go first.
“No, after you.” Oliver shrugged and walked onto the porch, stomping the dirt off his boots. He reached over and pushed open the door, simultaneously diving to the side as shots rang out. But Illya had anticipated a set-up and moved fast, so none found their mark.
Firing blindly into the room, the U.N.C.L.E. agent was rewarded with a moan and a thud as a body hit the floor. Whirling, he turned to Oliver, who was reaching under his shirt.
“I wouldn’t.”
“But I would,” Oliver said as he raised the barrel of the big semi-automatic. Illya’s gun coughed once, twice, and the strange little man slumped to the porch, his gun falling from limp fingers. Illya kicked the gun aside and knelt quickly beside the dying man.
“My friend, Mr. Solo, what did you do with him? Tell me.” Oliver laughed and the laugh became a cough, as flecks of blood stained the man’s lips. “He is dead, Kuryakin, just like you will be. You and your precious U.N.C.L.E. will soon be cut down to size. Very, very soon.”
*****************************************************************************
“And that’s all he said, Mr. Kuryakin?” Alexander Waverly posed the question to his field operative from his office deep inside U.N.C.L.E.’s New York headquarters.
“Yes, sir. He died before I could get anything else.”
“An unfortunate but unavoidable development. I assume, Mr. Kuryakin, you have already searched the cabin?”
“Of course. The information was not there. But I did find one unusual item -- an airline ticket in the name of “Jon Watkins”. The flight leaves tomorrow morning. Destination -- Mexico City.”
“Very good. I will have your new passport and identity papers delivered to you. Be on that plane as Mr. Watkins and keep me advised.”
“Yes, sir. About Napoleon, sir....”
“Yes, nasty business, however, you are to catch that plane, Mr. Kuryakin. The mystery of Mr. Solo’s whereabouts will have to be resolved when we’ve finished with the business at hand. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
***************************************************************************** **
The briefing, which had taken place two days earlier in Waverly’s office, had been typical Waverly: short, professional and to the point. Napoleon Solo had looked a bit haggard. He was working off a late night assignation with a buxom blonde who had a small part in a Broadway show. She left the theater at about 11:30, and the two had spent the balance of the night having supper, dancing and engaging in a bit of romance. The dark-haired agent was flawlessly dressed as usual, but his eyes were slightly bloodshot and he looked like he could use a couple of aspirin.
His partner, Illya Kuryakin, was enjoying every opportunity to exploit Solo’s discomfort.
“Gentlemen, I’d like to direct your attentions to the photographs in front of you. You will note they are of the same man, taken at two different times. Do you see any difference in these photographs? Mr. Solo?”
Solo, whose eyes had remained at a merciful half-mast during the meeting, opened them most reluctantly. He glanced at the pictures. “Um, he’s wearing formal attire in one photo and dressed casually in the second one?”
Illya, on the other side of the table, sighed loudly.
“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin? Did you notice anything more compelling than Mr. Solo’s foray into the world of high fashion?” Solo winced at Waverly’s choice of words. The agent’s head felt as though his date had tap-danced on it. Briefly reflecting on the previous night’s activities, Solo allowed himself a slight, nostalgic smile. From what he could remember, the night was worth the pain he was experiencing. Illya’s response brought him back to the table.
“He’s taller, sir,” Illya said. Solo’s smile evaporated into a sputter.
“Taller?”
“Yes, Napoleon. His clothes are different, as you pointed out, but in both photographs he is exiting from the same doorway. In the first, the gentleman appears to be approximately 10 to 12 inches under the doorway. In the second, he almost has to bend over to pass through. He has either grown nearly a foot in between these pictures or he’s wearing elevator shoes.”
Waverly nodded, satisfied, while Solo reexamined the photographs.
“Show off,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that, Mr. Solo?”
“Uh, nothing, sir.” He ignored Illya’s half-smile, the one he invariably wore whenever he trumped his partner.
Waverly cleared his throat, refocusing attention to the photos. “You are quite correct about the subject’s apparent growth, Mr. Kuryakin. If you gentlemen will direct your attention to the documents in front of you, we’ll continue with this briefing. Mr. Solo, I suggest you have another cup of coffee. Perhaps that will sharpen your wits.” Illya favored him with a lifted eyebrow, which Solo ignored by turning his attention to the file.
It was strange, a compilation of whispers, rumors and reports from field offices all over the world. They implied THRUSH was perfecting a drug that could alter a person’s size. Even without a hangover, Solo couldn’t see the point to such an operation.
“Why would they want to do such a thing?”
“That’s an interesting question, Mr. Solo, and I’m afraid we don’t have an answer. Except for the obvious reasons, such as building a larger than life security force, we see no long-term practical application for a growth process. That question is one you’re going to answer.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Solo. You are to proceed to a small town located in the wilderness at the Canadian border and meet with this man,” Waverly turned to the screen. A small man with an odd smile stared out at them.
“And what am I to elicit from him?”
“He purports to have information on the Thrush project. Take a look at what he has Mr. Solo. If it appears to be something we can use, we’ll pay the man for it.”
“Pay him?”
“Yes. He claims to be a Thrush defector who has lifted information on the growth project and its intended goal. It’s called “Project Gulliver”, by the way.
“As in Swift?” Illya asked.
“Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin. As for your job, while Mr. Solo meets with this fellow,” Waverly gestured toward the screen, “You will fly to San Francisco to talk with Dr., uh, let me see, Dr. Monroe Wharton. Dr. Wharton is a geneticist, Mr. Kuryakin, and he can perhaps shed some light on what possible use Thrush could have for such a process.”
“So Illya goes to Fisherman’s Wharf and I end up in bear country.”
“Correct, Mr. Solo. Perhaps the fresh air will do you good.”
“Or at least leave you feeling better than Boopsy did,” Illya said.
“Bitsy, Illya, her name is Bitsy.”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
**************************************************************************
Dr. Wharton had been most generous with his time, but equally mystified as to the possible implications the new and improved, giant economy-sized THRUSH agents might have. In fact, Dr. Wharton had politely suggested that U.N.C.L.E. recheck its data.
“Other than stocking the colleges with potential basketball players, Mr. Kuryakin, I can’t see why anyone would want to genetically engineer giants. Most geneticists involved in size issues are working toward solutions for dwarfism and other genetically-linked size deficiencies. Very little work has been done in the opposite direction. Most societies don ’t consider height, except in extreme cases, to be a problem.”
Illya had to concur. He also had problems understanding why THRUSH would desire such a thing. There had to be more to it, he just had to find it. He briefed Waverly and asked what Solo had found.
“As a matter of fact, we’ve not heard from Mr. Solo since last night. He was supposed to rendezvous with this fellow, Oliver. Attempts to raise him have proven unsuccessful. Perhaps you had better check on him, Mr. Kuryakin.”
Illya was on the next flight out of San Francisco.
***************************************************************************** **
The room was warm, almost hot, and he clawed at the rough wool blanket, only to have it pulled firmly back up under his chin. A voice he didn’t recognize spoke to him, but he didn’t understand.
He was thirsty and called out for water. Just when he’d given up and started to drift back across the darkness, fingers pried open his lips and a few drops of water rolled onto his tongue.
He swallowed and opened his mouth like a baby bird, wanting more. A few more drops materialized, then more. Finally, sated, he allowed himself to dip back into the void.
*****************************************************************************
Armed with false identity papers supplied by U.N.C.L.E., Illya Kuryakin stepped off the plane in Mexico City and fervently hoped no one there knew what Jon Watkins, or whoever was supposed to travel in the name of Jon Watkins, looked like. He was banking on the supposition someone would contact him. If no one did, then it was possible the trail would go cold. A search of the cabin had turned up nothing else of value.
Scanning the crowd waiting for incoming planes, Illya was slightly surprised to see a sign held by a chauffeur, “Senor Watkins”. Well, he thought, at least that solves the dilemma of where to go from here. But to play it safe, he palmed a small transmitter that would broadcast a steady signal that U.N.C.L.E.’s Mexican office could track. He’d plant it in the back seat once the car was underway.
“I am Senor Watkins,” Illya told the chauffeur. The man did not look surprised. He smiled and reached out to take Illya’s bag.
“No, that’s quite all right. I will manage.”
Shrugging, the chauffeur led him to a shiny black limousine parked illegally at the curb, opened the door and ushered Illya into it. The U.N.C.L.E. agent slipped the small directional transmitter under the seat and clipped it out of sight onto the upholstery. The car pulled smoothly away from the airport while Illya made mental notes as to their direction of travel and landmarks they passed.
Once out of the city, the driver picked up speed, traveling though the outskirts into the countryside, and finally pulling into a fenced-off private drive posted with many warnings to trespassers. They came upon a gatehouse with an armed guard who glanced inside the limo and nodded, then went into the gatehouse. Seconds later, the gate slid open and the limo glided silently inside, traveling the drive until it stopped in front of a long, low building.
The chauffeur sprinted to the door and held it open, gesturing for Illya to exit.
Illya, sunglasses cutting the glare of the Mexican sun, stepped out of the limousine and glanced at the chauffer who motioned toward a large set of intricately carved doors. They opened at his approach and a young Mexican woman held her hand out to take his luggage.
“No, thank you. I’ll keep it with me,” Illya told her in Spanish. “That’s fine, that’s fine. Leave us, all of you,” a voice called out from the top of a winding staircase that dominated the entry way. The servants scattered and a moment later an elegant older woman made her way to the entry, holding her hand out.
“Mr. Watkins, how nice to see you. I trust you have brought the information,” she said as
Illya bent over her hand. Information? What information? He had no idea what she meant. Better play for time, he thought.
“That depends on you, Madame,” he said, favoring her with a slight smile.
She laughed.
“I see, Mr. Watkins. You wish to be courted. Very well. I’m game. You will see our organization can offer much more than Thrush or U.N.C.L.E.. We have resources at our disposal they could never dream of having. I will show you. And when I am finished, you will be begging to come aboard, I promise you that.” She took his arm. “Come, Mr. Watkins -- may I call you, Jon? Yes, then you must call me Elisia. I will show you to your room to freshen yourself and then we’ll take a short trip, yes? And I will reveal for you the wonders that await if you are a wise man and choose to join with us.”
***************************************************************************
Illya looked out the window. The private jet was beautifully appointed with every luxury imaginable. Normally he would enjoy traveling as one of the privileged, but not this time. He and Elisia had been airborne for nearly two hours and still he had no idea where they were heading or what information he was supposed to be carrying. Too late to worry about that now, he thought ruefully.
He shifted in his seat. Yes, he still had his communicator and weapons, in fact all his gear remained intact, a set of circumstances that surprised him. Whatever organization Elisia represented, they were either overly trusting or had no reason to fear the mysterious Mr. Watkins. Illya assumed the Mexico City U.N.C.L.E. office had been able to trace him to Elisia’s estate and then to the private air strip where the compact, but very impressive, personal jet had been standing by.
Once on the plane, the Russian had activated a small homing device planted inside one of his back molars and leaned back, trying to make sense of what he’d been told. He knew Jon Watkins was aligned with no organization and there was reason to believe both THRUSH and U.N.C.L.E. wanted him -- or what he knew or could do. That Watkins was somehow associated with the mysterious size experiments was an assumption, but not a certainty. Illya knew he had to be very careful not to tip his hand. He would talk as little as possible. For the taciturn Russian, that was a simple matter. No one else aboard the plane was talking, either. Instead, there was the quiet hum of the jet engines and the tinkle of ice in glasses as the steward served drinks. Beside himself, Elisia, and the flight crew, there were two others on board: a large, husky man with a dark complexion and massive eyebrows that ran together in a slash across his forehead and a smaller man who wore sunglasses, even in the plane.
Illya had studied both intently and checked his remarkable memory for men who matched their descriptions. He’d turned up nothing. With little else to occupy him, he settled back in his seat and allowed his thoughts to return to his missing partner. Solo was extremely capable. Illya knew that and he also knew his partner -- like himself -- recognized the dangers inherent in their profession. There had been so many close calls in the past that both men privately believed they were living on borrowed time. How many death-defying escapes was one entitled to have in their business? Illya had no answer for that one, but he hoped Solo had at least one more left in him. He was worried Solo could have been injured and left somewhere to die alone. And that in slaying Oliver, Illya might well have killed the only person who knew his partner’s whereabouts. He closed his eyes for a moment. Emotions were not good baggage to carry about and he needed to stay alert or he’d be in the same position as Solo. Better to think about the jet and Elisia and the matters at hand.
Pushing thoughts of his partner away, Illya plumped up the pillow the steward had given him and shut his eyes, appearing to nap. In reality he was listening to everything that was going on inside the cabin. Perhaps someone would say something to let him know where he was going. Or they might even know where Solo was. Illya liked the thought even though it was far-fetched. But when he listened, all he heard was the sound of the plane making its way through the clouds to some unknown destination.
***************************************************************************** ***
Waverly had promised Illya he’d send someone to look for Solo and he’d been as good as his word. Two U.N.C.L.E. field agents had spent the better part of the day in the woods around Oliver’s cabin, with no success. They’d also checked the town and spoken with local law enforcement and no one admitted to having seen him either alive or dead.
They reported back to the Section One Chief and he’d told them to leave a number with the constabulary and clear the area. If Solo was still alive, he’d find a way to let them know, Waverly was sure of it. And if they didn’t hear from him, he’d have to assume the agent’s luck had, this time, simply run out.
***************************************************************************** ***
Solo was indeed among the living, although he felt like death warmed over. He’d awakened to the sensation that he was being roasted alive. It was hot, hotter than the proverbial hell, and he sat up, pushing the rough wool blanket away from him, and put his feet on the floor.
It was cold despite the heat in the room, and the movement made him a bit dizzy. Rubbing his face, dense with stubble, Solo tried to focus on the scene around him. He was in a room of some sort, very rustic looking, with a huge fireplace only a few feet from the cot.
That was why it was so hot, he thought and gingerly pushed himself to a standing position. His leg immediately collapsed under him and he found himself tumbling unceremoniously back onto the cot. But Napoleon Solo didn’t get where he was by giving up. Gritting his teeth so hard it hurt, he forced himself again to a standing position. For a moment he balanced precariously on his bare feet, but he continued to remain standing despite a terrible pain in his leg. I’ve got to find out where I am.
The door opened and Solo turned quickly toward it.
“Why, you’re awake! Very good. But wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you had on some clothes?”
Solo looked down and reddened. He was completely naked, a fact that normally wouldn’t concern him except that the person who was addressing him was a child -- a little girl of about nine years old from the looks of her. He quickly sat back down on the cot and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
“Do you know where my clothes are?”
“Yes. But they won’t do you any good. We had to cut them off to treat your wounds. You were hurt very badly, you know.” The girl stood next to the cot and smiled, a sweet and perfectly lovely smile. She looked just like a little angel.
“We?”
“My brother and me. This is our place.”
“Could you go and get him?”
“Sure. But don’t try and get up again, OK, mister? My brother says you need to rest so that leg will heal the right way.” She left the room, returning a minute later with a boy who appeared to be about 12 years old.
“This is him, my brother, I mean.” Solo looked at the boy and inwardly sighed. Children!
“What about your parents? Do you have a mother or father or someone else here....”
The boy shook his head. “No. It’s just me and my sister, Missy. This is our family’s cabin. Sort of a retreat.”
“Where are we?”
“In the woods. Way back in the woods, far away from the town. You need to sit still, mister. Your leg’s hurt really bad and you lost an awful lot of blood. We didn’t think you were going to live.”
“What happened to me?”
“Car crash. Your car went over the side of a mountain. Guess you were thrown clear. We saw the fire from the wreckage and found you, nearly frozen and bleeding. There was a wolf that found you, too. I think he was going to make dinner out of you, but I shot him first.”
“How’d you get me here?”
“Mule, mister.”
“Solo, my name’s Solo. How long since you found me?”
“About three days.”
“Do you have a phone?” The boy shook his head. “Don’t have phones this far back in the woods.”
“Look, don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I have to make a phone call. It’s really important....”
“Not right now you’re not. You aren’t well enough to travel by yourself.”
“By myself?”
“That’s right. We can’t go with you.”
“On the run from the law?” Solo said it with a slight smile. The boy’s face turned dark.
“Not the law. We just want to find him before someone else does.”
“Him?”
“Watkins. Jon Watkins.”
“Why do you want this Watkins fellow?”
“We want him to put us back like we were.” The girl nodded her head in agreement.
“And how were you?”
“Mr. Solo, I am a 30-year-old man, or I was before Jon Watkins got hold of me. And my sister, here, she’s almost 27.”
Solo looked at the pair with disbelief. The little girl nodded.
“It’s true, Mr. Solo. I’m Melissa Corveay. I hold a doctorate in Biogenetics.”
“And I’m her brother Matt. I just graduated from medical school two months ago.”
Solo’s head hurt. How on earth could the two golden-haired children standing in front of him be what they claimed?
“It’s not possible.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s all my fault,” the girl said.
“Miss Corveay....”
“Missy. That’s what my friends call me.”
“Missy. Can you tell me what happened and how this Watkins fellow figures into all this?”
“Sure. But let me get you some clothes, first. I think you’ll fit into some of Matt’s things -- or the things he used to wear before this happened.”
***************************************************************************** ***
Illya was surprised when the plane jolted down onto the runway. He’d fallen asleep after all. It was night time and he watched the sporadic lights of the private air strip race past the plane as it coasted to a stop. Elisia was up and out of her seat before the jet quit moving. Placing her hand on Illya’s shoulder, she pointed out the window.
“Over there, see that car?”
Illya nodded. he could see a pair of headlights moving toward them. Two more sets of lights followed. Welcoming committee, he thought. Sure hope the natives are friendly.
“You’re going to be very surprised at who is in that car.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, Mr. ... I mean, Jon. Ah, they’re opening the hatch. Shall we?”
Illya stood up grasping the briefcase, his mind racing. What could the surprise be? Does the person in that car know Jon Watkins? If so, the U.N.C.L.E. agent knew he’d better be prepared to move quickly. It was doubtful he’d have a second chance to escape if he failed in his first attempt.
Illya had unlocked the handcuffs that attached the briefcase to his wrist. It contained only meaningless papers and would be a deficit if he had to fight and run. His U.N.C.L.E. special was still in the holster. He quickly palmed a small piece of plastique designed to explode on contact with something solid. Straightening, Illya followed the woman down the steps in the cool evening breeze.
A long black car glided up and came to a stop beside them. Elisia smiled as the door opened and a man unfolded himself from the plush interior and stepped out. Holding out his hand to Illya, he, too smiled.
“Mr. Jon Watkins, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Jon Watkins,” Elisia said.
***************************************************************************** ***
Although trapped in children’s bodies, the Corveays still possessed their adult minds -- that is, if they were telling the truth. Solo had to keep shaking his head as the story spilled out. But, as fantastic as it was, he had to believe it. The proof was before him. Melissa Corveay told him she was a biogeneticist, working on a top secret project for ChemCo., a small, privately owned company. The owner was Jon Watkins.
“He had us looking for the fountain of youth, Mr. Solo. Something that would keep people young, forever. The lab teams believed our research would be used to take people back to the times before they became ill to allow us to alter the course of their illnesses. Like in the case of a cancer patient -- we’d be able to pinpoint the cancer the minute it became evident, remove it surgically and return the patient to the present, cancer-free. Or at least that was the theory we were operating upon.”
Dr. Corveay and her team found the key in a chemical that altered genetics, a little-understood field that was just becoming more prominent. They excitedly informed Watkins who insisted on field trials.
“It wasn’t ethical to experiment on people. We told him that. We wanted to work on animals, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He arranged for two subjects to submit to the procedure and it worked. We took a grown middle-aged couple and reverted them to teenagers. Watkins was beside himself. He told me to put together the data in a presentable form and bring it to him the next day, but later I overheard him telling Oliver -- his head of security -- to kill me as soon as I turned over the information. I called my brother -- that was a mistake, the call was probably traced -- and told him to meet me at the cabin. Our parents left it to us and it’s where we go to relax and get away from things.”
Oliver had followed her and taken both Matt and Missy captive. Searching the files, he found samples of the genetic-changing chemical and forced them to take it. Then he took another sample and placed it in his pocket. “We don’t know what for, Mr. Solo. Maybe for himself.”
They were held in a cabin Oliver had rented and were able to escape when he left. The pair made their ways to the cabin in the woods, leaving just long enough to check on Oliver’s cabin and find Solo.
“Did you find anything at Oliver’s cabin?”
“Yes. Watkins showed up. When we saw him, we became frightened and didn’t go back again. The next thing we knew, you were on the side of a mountain, looking like you were on the short end of a fight,” Matt said.
Solo could put the rest of the story together. U.N.C.L.E. received a call from Oliver wanting to make a deal on the process he called the “Gulliver” and he had been dispatched to meet with the man. Why Oliver had tried to kill him was a mystery, though. The kids didn’t know, either. “But why would Oliver give you some of the chemical rather than kill you outright?”
Missy shook her head. “We don’t really know for sure, Mr. Solo, but I think he wanted to make certain he had the right stuff, so he made us his guinea pigs.”
“But why leave you alive?”
“I can answer that, Mr. Solo,” Matt said. “Oliver used to follow Missy around like a love-sick puppy. And my sister’s too soft-hearted to give him the brush. I think he just couldn’t bring himself to do her in.”
“That would explain it. But I’d like to know why Oliver tried to kill me if he was so intent on selling the formula. Perhaps he’d made deal with Thrush or someone else to sell the formula and simply wanted U.N.C.L.E. out of the way.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised at Oliver for trying a double-cross,” Missy said.
“Missy, you developed the chemical. What about an antidote?”
“We hadn’t gotten that far. This was the result of the first phase of our research. The next phase would have been to formulate a way to bring the participant back to his correct chronological age. Remember -- this was supposed to be a way to treat serious illnesses, not forestall the aging process.”
“But somebody had other ideas....”
“Yes, and that somebody was Jon Watkins.”
***************************************************************************** ***
Illya had been prepared to move and move fast -- his life had depended too many times on thinking ahead to all possibilities and he’d been certain he would be unmasked at some point. The question had been -- when?
Looks like now, he thought, and, as Jon Watkins Number Two automatically started to put out his hand in response to the introduction -- a dead give-away he wasn ’t a trained agent of any sort -- Illya used the moment to shove the useless briefcase hard into his stomach. Watkins doubled up and fell back onto the pavement as Elisia’s two goons jumped into action.
The Eyebrow snatched the smaller U.N.C.L.E. agent from behind, but he’d underestimated his adversary. As Sunglasses closed in, Illya kicked him across the nose, breaking it and sending his sunglasses flying across the tarmac. Illya then brought back an elbow in a hard jab to Eyebrow’s stomach. Eyebrow momentarily lost his hold on Illya.
He used the brief respite to spin around and grab Elisia, placing the woman in front of him as a barrier. He’d quickly palmed his U.N.C.L.E. special and held it hard against her head. All action ceased.
“Don’t move or I will be forced to rearrange the lady’s hairdo,” Illya said, backing carefully toward the plane’s open ramp. Eyebrow and Sunglasses glared at the agent, while Watkins was unsteadily regaining his footing. Illya, all his senses running hot, took slow, careful steps backwards, the woman held firmly in his grasp. But just as his foot reached the base of the ramp, he detected a rapid shift in Eyebrow’s eyes. His eyes flickered momentarily to the space behind the Russian and the woman, then back to Illya. Being careful not to telegraph his move, Illya spun suddenly around with Elisia still in front of him just as the plane’s pilot came down hard with a crowbar. It landed across Elisia’s face, splitting it open and sending her crashing to the ground, writhing in pain. Illya had thrust the woman away from himself and into the pilot, who also lost his balance and fell.
Realizing his back was now exposed, Illya took advantage of the brief moment of surprise before anyone else reacted and turned to fire a few quick rounds, forcing the three men still on the tarmac to scatter. Then he took off running. Without a hostage, Illya knew he’d never persuade the co-pilot to unlock the door to the cockpit, and he didn’t have time to negotiate. Instead, the U.N.C.L.E. agent opted for putting as many yards between him and Elisia’s men as possible.
Running hard, gun still in his hand, Illya heard a few shots behind him, but none found its mark. Once he turned and fired a return volley just to keep his pursuers off-balance. Ahead, Illya could see where the landing strip ended, melting back into trees and underbrush. I wonder where I am? The thought crossed his mind for a split-second, but he had little time to pursue the concept. For at that moment he heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine, running hard and fast behind him. By the next breath he was caught in the headlights, suspended like a specimen on a slide. The chauffeur gunned the engine and stepped up his speed. There was only empty runway on either side and the woods were too far to make it. One choice remained and it didn’t look very promising: stand and fight.
He’d been in tougher situations and managed to make it through them. Illya turned and leveled his weapon at the speeding limo, aiming it directly at the driver’s side of the windshield. The bullets shattered the glass into an alligator pattern, but the windshield was intact. For a brief second Illya could see the hint of a face, but he had to act and act immediately -- the speeding vehicle was quickly cutting his options.
He still had the plastique explosive. With had only a split-second to ready himself as the car hurtled toward him, Illya mentally steeled himself to wait until the last possible moment. He faced the car until impact seemed inevitable. Then, tossing the plastique into the car’s path, he dove to the side. The front of the big limousine exploded in a ball of fire and jagged metal, fishtailing out of control. There was one brief, horrible scream that cut into the night air, then the gas tank caught fire and a second explosion lit the night. Illya had rolled as far away as possible, but debris scattered for yards and he couldn’t protect himself completely from the metal that kept pouring from the sky. He had pulled himself up and began to run toward the dark haven of the woods, when a sharp piece of metal caught him high in the back. The force pushed him to his knees but Illya forced himself back to his feet and continued his quest for the wood line, ignoring the pain in his back. He was almost there, reaching out to touch the leaves of the nearest tree when he heard the report of a rifle and, almost simultaneously, felt the sting as something struck his right leg, causing it to collapse under him. Illya fell into the edge of the woods, his cheek resting on the damp ground. He could hear the men approaching, yelling to one another, but he was beginning to move into darkness. Alone, neither wound was severe enough to put him out, together, he was losing too much blood to stay awake.
He never saw Eyebrow and Sunglasses when they found him. And he never felt it when Sunglasses kicked him viciously in the side of his head, over and over until Eyebrow finally reached out and pulled him away.
“Don’t kill him yet. The boss might want to do that,” Eyebrow said. “If she doesn’t, he’s mine,” Sunglasses said.
***************************************************************************** **
Alexander Waverly’s voice showed no surprise at hearing from Solo, although he had privately believed the agent had stretched his luck a bit too far this time. He merely greeted the man and inquired as to the extent of his injuries.
“My doctor here says I should be ambulatory. No broken bones, just a few ugly cuts and gashes. I’m not pretty but I’m functional,” Solo said, glancing over at Matt, who nodded his agreement.
“And you say these children are not really children, but the results of what Thrush is calling the Gulliver project, Mr. Solo?”
Solo then explained what he knew of Gulliver, Oliver’s demise and Jon Watkins, including the fact that Watkins was apparently offering the formula to a group outside of U.N.C.L.E. or their time-honored nemesis, THRUSH. Waverly paused for a moment to drink in the information. Like the high-speed super computers the organization often used, the Section One Chief could digest and analyze information almost instantly.
“That explains some recent traffic we’ve intercepted involving Thrush. It appears the agent sent to make contact with Watkins has also disappeared.”
“Also? You mean like me?”
“No, Mr. Solo. I mean like Mr. Kuryakin. We sent him to Mexico masquerading as Jon Watkins. We know he boarded a small private jet and, once on board, he activated the direction-finder in his back molar.”
“So you know where he went?”
“Yes. We’ve pinpointed the landing strip. But our surveillance indicates that soon after landing, Mr. Kuryakin’s signal went...uh...dead, for lack of a better word.” “The only way that could happen would be if Illya himself inactivated it or someone else found it.”
“Quite so, Mr. Solo, and a thorough acquaintance with Mr. Kuryakin’s work habits convinces me he did not inactivate the device on his own initiative.”
“I agree. When do I start looking for him?”
“Mr. Solo, please understand this is not a rescue mission. However, since it appears Mr. Kuryakin was on the trail of this phantom organization, the two objectives appear to merge.”
“And Thrush? You said Thrush had also lost an operative?”
“Yes, we’ve reason to believe one of their operatives may also have been killed or captured while pursuing Watkins. But that can wait, Mr. Solo. I will have an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter pick you up within the hour.”
“And the Corveays? We can’t just leave them here.”
“Yes, of course, uh, you’re quite correct. I will see to it the helicopter’ s large enough to accommodate all three of you. Please be ready to leave when it arrives.”
***************************************************************************** ***
The pain was excruciating, but it was something to focus on in the dark nothingness that had become his world. He’d lost track of time entirely: his body clock no longer functioned, dividing the days into convenient categories of day and night. For Illya, it was always and forever night, for the room where he was being held was always dark. He’d had quit wondering what time of day it was on the outside, nor did he know how long he’d been there -- wherever “there” was.
All he knew was that he was in constant, unrelenting pain. His back hurt from where the jagged piece of metal hit him and his leg throbbed from the bullet that felled him. But it was his face that hurt the most. Illya thought his cheekbones might be broken, perhaps even his jaw. He knew he’d lost some teeth, including the molar with the transmitter. That was going to make it hard for anyone to find him -- if indeed, anyone was looking. If Solo were still alive, the Russian agent knew he’d stood a chance of being found. The two men were more than just partners, they were friends. And, although both readily knew the job came first, they never willingly abandoned each other. Solo would come for him if he could. Illya knew that as well as he knew his own name. And it was that small hope -- that Solo was still alive -- that kept him from simply dying outright.
But he was fading rapidly. The pain made it difficult to eat, so he hadn’t. He’d taken a little water from a bottle left on the table near him. He couldn’t move his jaw, so he’d just dropped a little in his mouth and swallowed. The water would keep him alive for a while, but Illya knew he had to have food to maintain what little strength he had left. He was growing weaker with each passing moment. A man in lesser physical condition would have never have lasted as long as he had, but Illya wasn’t an average man. He had experienced pain before and this was nothing he couldn’t handle, but combined with the loss of blood and lack of medical care, he was starting to lose the fight. He was finding it more and more difficult to break through to the surface. It was just so much easier to quit and give himself over to the black void. At least the pain stopped for a moment. He could feel himself flowing in and out of consciousness, cruising through the labyrinth of consciousness until he felt the pain, rising higher and higher until he reached the limit of his endurance and plunging back again into the darkness. Vaguely he worried about gangrene, especially in his leg, which still held the bullet. But he couldn’t do anything about it. He needed help and he knew it.
Where that help would come from was a mystery. Illya never saw anyone else, never heard anyone else. He only knew he was being held captive. And except for when someone brought him food or water, he was completely and utterly alone. Alone. The practical side of Illya Kuryakin recognized that for what it was: the most likely way for him to die.
***************************************************************************** ***
Napoleon Solo looked like he’d run into an airplane propeller. His normally handsome features were marred by a number of cuts and bruises, with one particularly bad gash above his right eye. He was still limping a bit, but it was better than using the cane Matt had recommended. Solo knew if he used a cane around U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Waverly would never send him on this mission.
He looked at the map spread out before him on the conference table. Waverly was giving him some background on the terrain, climate and difficulty in penetrating the area, which was deep in a tropical rain forest in Central America. Solo absently scratched at a scab on his arm while his boss continued to talk.
“So, you see, Mr. Solo, this is not going to be an easy assignment. Getting in will be difficult. Getting out may be impossible.”
“Yes, sir. That’s all we know about the complex?”
“I’m afraid so. Our intelligence has found very little concerning these people and their operation. All we know is where they’re located and that this woman, uh, let me see, where is it?” Waverly shuffled through some papers, “Here it is. Elisia Marconi, age 50, widow of the international financier, Alberto Marconi, resides outside of Mexico City. Marconi, uh, the husband, not the wife, made his fortune in pharmaceuticals. His laboratories and manufacturing facilities were located in Mexico. It is rumored he was trying to develop a drug that would restore youth. As far as we know he never succeeded. He died about four years ago.”
“Fountain of youth? That would make sense,” Missy Corveay said. The scientist, in miniature, was perched on a chair with a telephone book added to help her reach the table. She quickly scanned the data on Marconi Pharmaceuticals Company.
“Yes, this all adds up. She must be pursuing her husband’s dream of eternal youth.”
“Or, her husband was pursuing her dream....” Solo said, wincing slightly as he stood up.
“Are you OK?” Missy asked, prompting a critical glance from Waverly.
“Yes, Mr. Solo, that’s an excellent question. Perhaps you should undergo an evaluation at the hands of our medical staff before setting off on this expedition. You may not be up to the rigors of such an undertaking.”
“Mr. Waverly, I am just fine,” Solo said evenly, shooting a warning glance at Missy. “In fact I’ve never felt better in my life. Just ask the wonderful medical staff, which has prodded and poked me for the past two days and taken enough blood to start a completely new human being.”
“Very well. You’ll leave tonight. I’m going to assign you a partner....”
“I already have a partner.”
“Who may or may not be alive, Mr. Solo. This is no time for sentimentality. I don’t want you dropping in on Mrs. Marconi without assistance, particularly since you’ re not completely recovered from your ordeal.... Solo opened his mouth to protest, but Waverly quickly silenced him with a well-directed scowl, then paused a moment to suck thoughtfully on his unlit pipe before continuing.
“I’m not unsympathetic to your attachment to Mr. Kuryakin, however, the evidence doesn’t make his recovery -- alive -- a very promising premise. And if he has managed to stay alive all this time, Mr. Solo, going in to find him without being in top form will only endanger his life and yours. That’s unacceptable”
“But sir, I know Illya better than anyone. I know how he thinks and reacts and what he’ll do under stress. There is no one better qualified to follow him on a mission than I. Dead or alive, he’s been there before me. I know what to expect.”
Waverly sighed. “Yes, yes. I know. At any rate, I’m sending, uh, let me see now, Mr. Gomez with you. He speaks the language and knows the country. He will be ready to leave when you do.”
Solo nodded, inclined his head at Missy, and left the room, walking without any trace of a limp. It was a tough charade and one for which he’d pay dearly when the day was over. Walking on his injured leg was incredibly draining. But he knew if he showed any sign of weakness, Waverly would pull him off the case. And he wanted to go. Illya would know that Solo would come for him if he could, and Solo was going to do just that.
He negotiated the corridor with Missy trailing miserably along behind. Up and down the hallway, young female employees stopped the dark-haired agent to stroke his cheek and cluck over his wounds. Solo would have loved to add the limp but he knew that no matter how effective the gambit was with women, it would only serve to give Waverly reason to jettison him from the mission.
“Are you mad at me, Napoleon?” A small voice inquired at his elbow.
“Mad? Why should I be?” He continued down the hall, making his way to the office he shared with Illya.
“For asking if you were OK? I’m sorry. Really I am. I’m just worried about you....”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be worrying about me?” Solo pushed into his office and held the door long enough for Missy to follow. Matt was in medical, undergoing a battery of tests that, as a physician, he was uniquely qualified to participate in.
“You forget, I’m a grown woman.”
“It’s kind of hard to think of you in that capacity, especially since right now you come up to my elbow.”
“After this is over and I get back to my old size, would you take me out, Napoleon? To a nightclub and dancing and dinner? I’ve never been to New York City before. Would you?”
Napoleon glanced up to see Missy’s eager little face. “Certainly, Missy. I’d love to. Now you need to go back to Miss Lord’s office. Do you remember where it is? Good. Run along and be a good girl and I’ll see you just as soon as I return.”
“With your partner?”
“With my partner.”
***************************************************************************** ****
First there was light. Just a little light, but light nonetheless. Then there was the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Yes, Illya thought, there was definitely someone else in the room. He could feel their presence, hear them as they rustled around, smell them, even. They smelled sweet, like a woman. It had to Elisia, he concluded. She was the only woman he had seen there. Not wanting her to know he was awake, he carefully cracked his eye, and immediately shut it again. Even a little bit of light was too much after none at all.
Several tries later, he managed to sneak a peak and what he saw cost him the element of surprise. Both eyes flew open.
“You!” He said, although it didn’t sound much like that since his jaw didn’ t move as well as it should.
“You!” Said the Thrush agent and sometimes Thrush betrayer, Amelia Henry, A.K.A. Sherry Shadow. (Author’s Note: See “The Oh Henry Affair” on File 40)
If Illya hadn’t a headache before, he certainly had one now. Of all people to end up with, he thought, I get someone who’s made a career out of trying to kill me. The thought was unsettling: more than likely, Amelia had been sent in to finish him off. And he was in no position to defend himself. No weapons, unable to stand and in all probability entering the first stages of gangrene, all Illya had were his hands and they were weak from lack of blood and nourishment.
So I’m going to die now, Illya mused. Killed by someone named Amelia. All these years of training, narrow escapes, beating the odds -- all to end in some misbegotten place in the jungle at the hands of a woman who had already tried and failed to take him down. For one brief moment Illya wished he had a cyanide capsule in his tooth to cheat her of the opportunity. Then with macabre amusement he realized with his luck it probably would have been knocked out along with the others. He smiled and discovered it was a terrible mistake. It hurt. He shut his eyes against the pain. He could hear the Henry woman talking about something and forced himself to concentrate on her voice. Perhaps he could at least find out where he was before she finished him off.
“I can’t believe that I can come this far and end up sharing a cell with you, of all people. Well, at least I get the satisfaction of knowing that your partner’s dead.”
She paused and saw with satisfaction that the news had affected him. She smiled. “Oh and I know how it happened, too. That nasty little man, Oliver, put a bomb under the wonderfully suave Mr. Solo’s automobile hood and dispatched him on a wild goose chase in the mountains. When he got to just the right place, it detonated and sent him and the car plunging down the mountainside. But not to worry, Mr. Kuryakin. I’m certain he died instantly. It would be terrible to think of him, half-dead and hurt on the side of the mountain, maybe lasting two or three days, hoping against hope that you’re going to come for him. And you did, didn’t you? Only you didn’t find him. And now you’ll never know whether you could have saved his life if you’d just done your job a bit better....”
With a suddenness that sent her sprawling Illya sat up and backhanded her, sending the woman flying across the room to land in an undignified heap on the floor.
She rubbed her jaw and smiled. “Good. It appears you aren’t ready to die after all. Now let me look at that wound on your leg,” Amelia rose, brushed herself off and walked back over to Illya, who drew back with a feral look on his bruised and beaten countenance.
“Listen to me, Kuryakin. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. I’m Thrush and you’re U.N.C.L.E.. We don’t have anything in common, you and me, except that we’d both like to live. I’ve been captured by Elisia Marconi and her gang, too, and I want to get out of here alive, with the formula if at all possible. Without it if I have to. They sent me in here to see if I can doctor you up a little. I guess they’ve decided you have some future value, after all. Personally, I don’t care whether you live or die, but I want out of here and the only chance I have is if we join forces and work together. Deal?”
Illya looked at the woman uncomprehendingly. His head pounded and there was a ringing in his ears.
“I’ll interpret your silence as complicity. OK, the first rule of order is to treat these wounds the best I can with what they’ll give me and get you something to eat.” She walked over to the heavy wooden door set in the wall. There was a tiny window at the top. Knocking on the window, it soon opened from the outside. Amelia spoke with whoever was on the other side. “Get me some hot water in a basin, bandages, something for pain -- the stronger the better -- and some kind of antibiotic. Oh, and bring me some hot broth, too.” She turned to Illya. “They should have no trouble coming up with the drugs. This place is outfitted with everything. Besides, that’s how Marconi made his living.” She walked back to Illya’s cot. “I know I’m going to hate myself in the morning, but I’m going to keep you alive long enough to help me get out of here. Then you can go ahead and die if you want to. But not until I get out of here, do you understand me?”
***************************************************************************** ***
They made the drop the next night, Solo and Gomez floating down as close as possible to Marconi’s camp without being caught. Solo had landed in a tree and had to cut himself free. Once he climbed down he found Gomez, whose first name was Candido, or “Candy”, was already preparing for the next leg of their quest.
“Hide your parachute over here, Napoleon. I’ve already got a fix on the location and it looks like we’re about 12 miles from the camp due east,” Candy pointed through the trees. He watched with concern as the senior agent limped slightly while disposing of his parachute. Solo’s features clearly showed the strain of the past few days, his oh-so-close brush with death and not enough time to recover before setting off on this mission. Candy knew he was also worried about Illya. It wasn’t like the Russian agent to lose his transmitter, unless.... That thought’s better left unsaid, Candy thought, and helped Solo hoist his backpack to prepare for the trip. It was only a dozen miles, but it would be a dozen long miles through thick and sultry jungle filled with a variety of animals that had no reason to welcome them. Candy calculated the trip would probably take them two days. He’d have liked to land closer, but they couldn’t risk being spotted by Marconi’s men.
Candy decided he would lead the way. He knew the terrain and the animal life and could run a little interference for Solo. Finding a long stick, he handed it to the other agent.
“I don’t need this!” Solo said, indignantly.
“Play that game with Waverly, my friend, but not with me. I need you to be at peak performance level when we find that compound. Not just for my sake but for Illya’s. Now take the stick and lean on it when you need to -- the going’s going to be rough in places. Put your pride in your pocket, amigo,” He placed his hand on Solo’s shoulder. “We want to be sure that when we find Illya, we’re strong enough to carry him out if need be. Yes?”
Solo relaxed and gave Candy a grin.
“Lead on, amigo. And give me my stick back.”
***************************************************************************** ***
Illya had to admit he did feel better. A whole lot better. Amelia, despite her unpleasant personality, had proven remarkably adept at nursing. She’d bathed and treated his wounds, then bandaged them. The one on his back, while uncomfortable, wasn’t serious, she ’d told him. It just bled a lot, leaving him weak. The facial wounds were ugly -- Illya’s one eye was almost closed and he’d lost several teeth. She was certain he’d suffered a concussion and that his nose was broken, but all in all, that was good news. Amelia didn’t think his cheekbones or jaw were broken.
“Hold still,” she said impatiently, while bathing his face with surprising gentleness. She then gave him a little warm chicken broth in a cup with a straw.
“Sip it slowly and carefully,” she told him, then examined his leg. The bullet had entered the back of his upper thigh, lodging inside. It looked nasty and, Amelia told him, she could bandage it,and give him some antibiotics and painkillers, but he would need surgery to remove the lead. “You need to have that looked at as soon as possible or you’re going to lose it,” she said.
She also explained the drug Jon Watkins had brought to the negotiating table -- the drug THRUSH wanted for itself. “It can take years off you, reduce your age and the physical effects of aging. Can you imagine how valuable that would be? To live forever and be 22 years old?”
Illya had difficulty focusing on anything at that moment. He felt pleasantly drowsy, the pain dulled slightly and his stomach full for the first time in days. He knew he couldn’t trust her, but there was no fight left in him at the moment. His guard was down and he didn’t really care.
“How do you know so much about medicine?” He asked, his words growing thicker as the painkillers began to take effect.
“I went to medical school for a couple of years,” Amelia said.
“Why didn’t you finish?” Illya’s eyes were at half-mast now and he could feel himself starting to drift away.
“That, Mr. Kuryakin, is my business. Now go to sleep. I’m returning to my cell for a couple hours and will be back here to check on you. You need to concentrate of getting better so we can get out of here. I don’t plan to die in this place.”
***************************************************************************** ***
The trip had actually taken slightly over two days, but they’d finally come within a quarter mile of the complex, which was carved out of the jungle. The two agents had been watching the encampment for over an hour and had noted a high degree of activity. Uniformed men scurried about loading large cardboard boxes into jeeps that then left down a hard-packed mud road.
“Probably going to the landing strip,” Solo said. The two men agreed he’d stay on target while Gomez scouted the strip. The Hispanic agent returned two hours later with the news that several small jets were being loaded for departure.
“I think they’re going to take off sometime tomorrow morning, Napoleon. I heard one of the pilots talking about it.”
“Any idea of their eventual destination?”
“No, but I do think we need to arrange a complete blitz of that landing strip or those planes will get away from us. Two men on foot aren’t going to be able to do it all.”
Solo agreed and contacted Waverly.
“When do you want them?” Waverly had asked.
“We’re not exactly certain, sir, but we’d be more comfortable if you had a strike force ready to go on a moment’s notice. How far away would they be based?” There was a silence while Waverly consulted his charts and maps.
“We could have them there in 20 minutes, Mr. Solo, if they’re prepared to launch immediately. I’ll see to that. In the meantime, you and Mr. Gomez find out what you can about the compound and their fire power. You are free to locate Mr. Kuryakin if he is alive and if you can do so without arousing suspicion. There is a strong possibility the compound will have to be destroyed.”
Solo understood. Locate his partner before the final strike or risk having him die in the attack. If he was still alive. But he is, Solo thought. I don’t know how I know and I can’t explain it, but I can feel Illya’s presence. He’s nearby. Turning his thoughts from Illya, he and Candy began to analyze the compound for weaknesses and entry points. And places that might double as a prison for a small, blond Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent.
***************************************************************************** ***
While he couldn’t say he felt good, Illya could truthfully admit to feeling much, much better since Amelia Henry had taken over his care. He still didn’t trust the woman -- not even a little bit -- and she admitted to him her first loyalty was to herself.
“I am my own master,” Amelia had told Illya while changing his bandages.
“Why did you join Thrush?”
“Why did you join U.N.C.L.E.?”
“We each have our own reasons, I suppose.”
“Yes. I like to live well. And I like power, Mr. Kuryakin. Lots and lots of power. Thrush gives it to me.”
“But I thought you’d left Thrush to strike out on your own.”
“Things change. That’s all you need to know.” She told him she’d seen Elisia once or twice.
“She looks like hell. She doesn’t like you very much,” she said, a slight smile on her lips.
During other moments, the two planned their escape. As soon as Illya was strong enough -- and his strength was improving each day, despite the lingering headache and injured leg -- they would put their plan in motion.
Amelia had come up with the basic plan: she was the only one of the two who had seen the compound. At a prearranged time he would ask to see her using a special code. She would overpower the guard, then free him and together they would flee, with her providing cover for him while he stole one of the jeeps. Illya had little fear she would betray him. Up to a certain point, anyway, he was safe from perfidy: he could fly the planes, she could not. But he was an experienced U.N.C.L.E. agent and knew THRUSH minions were not to be trusted. Once they were airborne, Illya knew, he’d have to get the upper hand with Amelia. Despite her recent pleasantness to him, he had little illusion about her loyalties. She was as deadly as a cobra and twice as unpredictable. But she was his only chance. Their alliance was forged by circumstance alone, for Amelia Henry was as different from Illya Kuryakin as a person could possibly be.
And when their ordeal ended, they’d be enemies once again, trying hard to kill one another.
***************************************************************************** **
Solo and Candy decided to infiltrate the compound and call for a strike force at the air strip as soon as they had Kuryakin and Watkins in their grasp. Waiting until the sun started going down, they prepared to make entry, with Candy slipping into the enclosure to test for alarms.
There were none: Elisia felt quite safe at this remote place in the jungle. Candy radioed Solo to join him and the two men, dressed in black, faded into the compound, searching for a likely place to imprison their comrade. Meanwhile, both Amelia and Illya noted a change in the air.
Something was up. Illya summoned the guard and asked to see Amelia.
“I think I’ve started bleeding again,” he told the man.
A few moments later the guard opened the door to admit Amelia, but the agents overpowered him quite easily and left him bound and gagged in the cell.
Illya changed into the guard’s uniform before the two began moving carefully through the corridors, looking for a second guard. When they located one, the U.N.C.L.E. agent engaged him in conversation while Amelia garroted the man and dragged him into an open closet.
“You do that rather well,” Illya said with genuine admiration while they stripped the guard.
“Thanks. You’re not bad yourself,” she said and began shimmying out of her own clothes. Illya would normally have allowed her a little privacy, turning away, but not with a THRUSH agent. He kept his eyes on her, but tried to take an impersonal view. It wasn’t easy. Amelia Henry looked good in her underwear.
“I don’t have any inhibitions, Mr. Kuryakin, in case that’s what you were thinking,” she said, pulling the guard’s beret over her forehead. She adjusted it so her long hair was hidden, grabbed his rifle and handgun, checked them for ammo, and nodded to Kuryakin.
“Let’s go,” she said.
***************************************************************************** ***
Candy and Solo split up once inside the compound, with Candy checking the buildings on the perimeter and Solo taking the main complex. Meanwhile, the two escapees were moving carefully through the hallways, almost to the entrance when they came upon a half dozen guards, moving quickly down the hallway toward them.
“Uh, oh,” Amelia said under her breath. Illya quickly backed against the wall and slouched, the woman slightly behind him. The guards passed, but one stopped for a moment.
“Got a light?” he asked Illya.
“Don’t smoke.”
“Oh,” the guard said and began to walk away, then stopped.
“Hey, wait a minute! You’re not one of us.....”
Illya slammed the butt of his rifle across the guard’s nose. Meanwhile, the others heard the commotion and were on their way back to check it out.
“Run!” Illya said to Amelia, who needed no prompting. She took off. Illya knew he couldn’t keep up with her, so he quickly moved into an alcove, where he hid while the guards passed by. Sighing over the closeness of the call, he stepped out when he thought the coast was clear and looked around. Amelia had gone north, so he decided he’d go south. Divide and conquer. Only he didn’t get too far. As he rounded the next corner, he found himself face to face with Elisia Marconi.
“You! Guards!” Four burly guards surrounded him, rifles pointed at his head. Illya knew the odds didn’t favor him. Briefly he wondered if Amelia had made it out, but that question was answered for him. Down the hall came she came, hands on top of her head, followed by three armed guards.
“I should never have let either of you live. Take them out and shoot them!”
“Now, Mrs. Marconi?” Elisia ran her hand up her face, stroking the healing wound.
“Right now,” she said.
***************************************************************************** **
Napoleon Solo was hidden partly behind a tree just outside the door when a party of guards -- Solo counted six of them -- ushered two of their own outside and threw them roughly against the compound fence. Idly he wondered what they were up to when one of the guards walked over to the prisoners and yanked off their berets. Solo was in a for a double surprise. It was Illya and -- he had to rub his eyes to be sure -- Amelia Henry! And it looked as though they were being prepared for execution.
Solo quickly called Candy on his communicator, then prepared to rescue his partner. Moving as quietly and carefully as his bum leg would allow, he placed himself in a position to fire against the guards without putting Illya in the line of fire.
***************************************************************************** **
Illya faced the firing squad completely convinced he was spending his last few seconds on earth. His final thoughts were of Napoleon, hoping that Amelia was wrong about his death, remorseful because he believed he’d failed him. He considered making a last ditch effort to escape, but his injuries kept him from moving fast enough. And he wouldn’t allow Amelia to escape without him. Having Thrush recover the formula would be a vast mistake. They could control the world. Illya hoped someone else was paying attention and could stop Elisia.
It won’t be me this time, he thought. Or Napoleon.
***************************************************************************** **
Solo waited patiently for just the right shot. The guards were preparing to line up, one was joking about his weapon not being loaded. Solo didn’t want to wait until they had their rifles pointed at his partner. That was cutting it too close. But he held his fire until they were bunched together, apparently taking direction from the lead guard. Then he unleashed a barrage of bullets, taking down three of the six immediately. A fourth was walking wounded, and the other two were able to grab cover. Against the fence and prepared to die, Illya and Amelia didn’t move at first, not recognizing the gunshots were for them, not at them. But as realization kicked in, the two dove to the side, each grabbing a downed guard’s rifle.
Illya quickly shot one of the hidden guards, while Amelia took care of the other. Solo polished off the remaining one and jumped out of his hiding place.
“Illya, over here!” he yelled. Illya heard the voice and immediately broke into a smile. Napoleon! He was alive! And, he thought with joy, so am I!
“Come on!” Illya yelled at Amelia. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Right behind you.”
Illya made his way to Napoleon and was surprised to see Candy Gomez with him.
“Come on, guys, we’ve got to get out of here. I’ve set enough explosive around this place to put it in orbit. We’ve got about three minutes to clear. Jump in the Jeep.” Candy pointed to an old Army Jeep idling nearby. Solo took the front passenger seat, while Illya jumped in the back, rifle aimed behind them.
‘Where’s Amelia?” He shouted to Solo.
“She went the other way,” Solo said, pointing toward the compound. “There’s not enough time to go back for her.”
“She’s a big girl,” Illya said. “Let’s get out of here.” Candy didn’t need prompting. he was ready to move, smashing his foot against the gas pedal as he rapidly ran the Jeep through the gears, hitting the highest speed he dared and holding it on a steady course toward the air strip.
“We’ll try to commandeer a plane before the strike force gets here,” he explained. They arrived at the strip just as the first explosion sounded. Suddenly the night was full of fire balls and the ground rocked as a series of detonations shook the compound.
“Bye-bye Elisia,” Illya said. Solo climbed out of the Jeep and reached back to give Illya a hand.
“You look like you’ve been put through the wash cycle a few times too many,” he said to his partner.
“You aren’t so pretty yourself,” Illya countered. “Now let’s find a ride out of here.” They chose the nearest plane, dragging the pilot off and quickly taking off, leaving the others still on the ground. There was surprisingly little resistance.
“Perhaps they’re still waiting for Elisia,” Solo said from the co-pilot’s seat. Illya was wedged in among a bunch of boxes in the rear.
“Napoleon, how about letting the strike force know we’re up and off so they can take care of that crowd on the ground?” Candy said. Solo pulled out his communicator and relayed the information. In the distance they could hear the hum of U.N.C.L.E. planes as they closed in on the air strip.
“I’m going to put this baby up a little higher so we don’t end up in their line of fire,” Candy announced, nosing the small jet upward. Illya, who was precariously perched among the boxes, lost his hold and slid toward the rear of the plane.
“Hey, what’s in these boxes?” He asked, trying to stabilize himself to keep from falling.
“Me!” said a voice. Illya felt cold steel against the back of his head and sighed. He’d know that voice anyplace. Amelia Henry.
Solo turned back to see what Illya was talking about and found his partner looking sheepish as Amelia Henry held a small, but very deadly looking handgun against his head.
“I believe you two have met,” Illya said.
“Lovely to see you again, Amelia, now please put the gun down and let’s leave our agency rivalries for a few moments so we can finish our escape. Then if you insist on killing Illya, you may. OK?” Illya rolled his eyes at Solo.
“Now, now, Mr. Solo. I don’t want to kill anyone. I just want this plane to deliver me where I need to go. Please tell your pilot to set a course for Mexico City.”
Illya blinked rapidly and shifted his eyes to Amelia. Solo nodded imperceptibly and stood up. Amelia tightened the gun barrel against the Russian’s head.
“I will kill him. You should know that. If you’ll recall, I have attempted to do so before. The fact that I failed was not through fault of my own.”
“No, as I recall you did a very thorough job. I have meant to compliment you on your style and technique....” Solo began. Amelia shifted her attention to the dark-haired agent. Her eyes had narrowed and she looked as though she was ready to change her target from the fair blond one to the dark suave one. But as soon as she was diverted, Illya jumped at her, wrestling the gun away. She pulled free and ran over to the hatch which, in their haste to leave, had not been properly secured and yanked it open. Wind buffeted the inside of the tiny plane. Amelia laughed.
“See you later, guys,” she said and jumped out of the door. Seconds later a parachute blossomed. Illya watched the parachute float gently down and out of sight, then fought his way back to the front of the plane.
“She’s gone.”
“She won’t last long all by herself in that jungle,” Candy said.
“Don’t bet on it,” Illya and Napoleon said simultaneously. They looked at one another and grinned.
“Home, James,” Solo said.
***************************************************************************** **
Illya was a little thinner and both men were still slightly pale, but their
wounds had been
successfully treated and they were up and about when Waverly required their
presence for a
debriefing. He told them the raid had been completely successful, with
Elisia’s body found
among the ruins.
“The plane contained some of her records, and our intelligence people are looking through them. As for Watkins, it appears he also succumbed in the fire. As far as we can tell, he was trying to sell the formula to the highest bidder.”
“But what about those photos, sir? The ones of the known Thrush agent showing him taller in one photo? I still don’t understand that.”
“May I?” Illya asked. Waverly nodded.
“According to Amelia, the photos were merely to mislead us into thinking they were after something that increases growth. It was a red herring, pure and simple.”
“And Miss Henry?”
“No sign of her, gentlemen. I rather think she perished in the jungle.”
“I wouldn’t count her out, sir. She has a remarkable talent for survival,” Illya said. The doors to Waverly’s office slid open and a beautiful young woman stepped through. Her blonde hair and bright blue eyes looked familiar to Solo, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint where he knew her.
“Don’t you recognize me, Napoleon?”
“Missy! Missy Corveay! I gather the lab was able to come up with an antidote.”
“Yes, and I thank you for everything.” She kissed Napoleon gently on the cheek.
“Not so fast. I believe I owe you a dinner,” he smiled up at her.
“That’s OK, Napoleon. I’ve been seeing New York while you were in the infirmary. Candy’s been showing me around. Oh, speaking of him, we have a lunch date. I must run. Thank you all for everything you’ve done. Good-bye.” The doors closed once again as Dr. Missy Corveay exited.
“Well, it appears that’s all gentlemen,” Waverly said, and moved on to another file in a gesture of dismissal. “Have your reports on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? That means we’ll have to work all night!”
“Yes, Mr. Solo. But take heart. The cafeteria will be open quite late and they’re serving a nice club sandwich this week.” Solo and Illya rose stiffly and walked out of the office, each leaning on a cane. Together they began to hobble back down the hallway.
“To think I’m going to spend my evening with a half-crippled Russian....”
“And I have to spend my evening with Don Juan. Would you mind not flirting with every single woman in this building? It’s taking forever just to get back to our office. We’ll never get that report filed at this rate.” Napoleon smiled at a young secretary as she went by, gently caressing his hand as leaned into the cane -- a bit more than was really necessary.
“You know, Illya, I might have to invest in one of these things full time,” Solo said, twirling his cane as they entered the office.
Illya sighed and leaned his in the corner. “Please do. And while you’re at it, try brain surgery. I’m told all those bandages wrapped around one’s head is very romantic.”
Solo, his face covered with bruises, looked over at his partner, who looked like a smaller, lighter mirror image. Illya glanced at Solo, then looked at their canes, leaning together in the corner. Suddenly, they both started laughing. In the conditions they were in, neither was much of a threat to anybody, including THRUSH. But together, they were invincible, canes and all, and that’s how they intended for it to remain.
**************************THE END**************************************
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