Part 4

[leethet]

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Napoleon woke up to a throbbing headache; in fact, his whole body was throbbing. After blinking and thinking for a moment he realized at least part of the throbbing was the vibration of the plane he was on, strapped into an insufficiently padded seat.  It was a small plane that had seen much rough use; his section, with hatches at both ends, held about 12 battered seats and him. In an aisle seat, he could see only clouds out the small windows. He examined the straps that held him down at ankles, thighs, wrists and chest; nylon, of the sort they made seatbelts from, but without any visible latches, and tight enough that he couldn’t slip out of them.

The hatch at the front of the cabin opened to admit the tall blackhaired man Napoleon had first seen in the White Dog, Boris Golkov, and a shorter, stouter man with close-cropped brown hair and pudgy, hard eyes. He approached, arms crossed before him, smiling an oily smile. Golkov stayed by the door, a trained guard dog.

“I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Solo.”

“The pleasure’s all yours, Mr...”

“Malikov. Andrei Sergeivitch Malikov.” He smiled, showing small yellowed teeth. “And you are right; the pleasure is mine. Your partner is in the forward cabin.” He nodded that way. “Each of you is insurance that the other will cooperate.”

Napoleon said, “I don’t believe you, and I have no intention of cooperating.”

Malikov blinked. “Well, in your position you’re as cooperative as we need you to be for now. Once we reach our destination, Illya Nickovetch’s cooperation will be taken out of your hide.”

“You have a way with words,” Napoleon said.

“And other things, as you’ll find, if your partner doesn’t elect to be helpful.” Malikov glanced toward the front cabin as the door opened and a muscular, redheaded, sallow-faced man came out. He and Boris spoke, in Russian,  but Napoleon understood them to be discussing the fact that Illya had insisted on seeing him before he would cooperate.

“Bring him!” Malikov barked. Both men started and went forward, returning a few minutes later with a rather beat-up Illya Kuryakin, hands bound behind his back, looking very small between his escorts. His eyes sought and found Napoleon; the minuscule slump of the Russian’s shoulders was the only outward signal of his disappointment that Napoleon had been captured.

“Nice of you to come visit tourist class,” Napoleon said heartily.

Deadpan, Illya replied, “I tried to get you bumped up, but it’s pretty crowded up there, what with the cabaret and the champagne cart.”

Boris nodded at his muscular sidekick, who shoved Illya into a seat across the aisle from Napoleon.

“Relax,” Malikov said. “We have about an hour before we land.” He beckoned his henchmen; the three men went forward again with a disheartening lack of concern about the chances of their prisoners getting loose.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon,” Illya began, his tone heartfelt. “I ... I had no idea they would do this.”

“What? Kidnap you? Or bring me along?”

Illya’s eyes roved the inside of the plane. “I think they’re taking us to a secret installation just inside the Russian border. I heard the pilots talking before they realized I was awake.”

“What exactly do they want?”

“From me? The formula for Substance XX. It turns out Malikov was the reason Dr. Holberg wanted UNCLE’s protection. I think Dr. Holberg was cooperating with him at first but had a change of heart.”

Illya’s eyes at last came to rest on his partner. “As for what they want from you...”

“Yes,” Napoleon said drily, “Malikov already indicated they planned to use me as an argument.” To forestall the apology he could see in his partner’s eyes he added, “Serves me right for sticking my big fat American nose into this.”

Illya sighed, bent double and quickly managed to work his manacled hands from behind him to in front of him. Napoleon watched, impressed as always with his partner’s ingenuity and flexibility.

“Some day you’ll have to teach me that trick,” he said as Illya sat back in the seat again, working his shoulders. Illya looked at him.

“If we survive this I’ll be happy to teach you all my tricks. But you’ll need to get a lot more flexible ...”

“I’m sure you’ll be an excellent teacher,” Napoleon said, his expression 99 and 44/100 percent pure. “Of both tricks and flexibility.”

Illya actually blushed as he realized the double meaning of his own words. And, maybe, of the single meaning behind Napoleon’s.

Napoleon took pity on him and said, “Any idea where we’ll be landing?”

“I heard them mention Chop. That’s a town in Ukraine, not far from the Hungarian border. It’s mostly flat farmland there, not very populated. A good place for a secret landing site.”

Napoleon considered. It made sense that the landing site wouldn’t be in Russia; Russian airspace was well monitored and the comings and goings of Malikov’s plane would no doubt be noticed. The Russians monitored Hungarian airspace, too, of course, but there was nothing they could do about a small plane landing on a private airstrip across the border.

Illya gave him a sardonic look. “Any ideas?”

“This is your problem, remember? Not mine.”

“Oh, now you’ve decided to mind your own business?” Illya got up and moved to a window, peering out. “Overcast. Boris said something about a base. My guess is they have some site in the country. How he hopes to manufacture, let alone distribute, this Substance XX, I can’t imagine.” He turned from the window, crossed the aisle and laid hold of the strap at Napoleon’s chest. “I find it hard to believe Malikov’s suddenly acquired an army.”

“He doesn’t have the cash?” Napoleon tried to sit still as Illya worked at the straps.

“He doesn’t have the charisma. He was semi-worthless in the KGB, always coming up with grand, impossible schemes. How he’s managed to come up with this much of an organization on his own ...” Illya trailed off, stopped. Napoleon, watching his partner’s face, said, “Are you thinking he didn’t manage this on his own?”

Illya shook his head. “Malikov is cruel and ambitious, but he’s not very intelligent. All this – a plane, a private airstrip, apparently some sort of secret installation and the money and manpower to run it – it just isn’t likely he’s done this on his own.”

Napoleon said softly, “Will we meet Malikov’s puppetmaster once we land? Perhaps a puppetmaster with feathers?”

Illya shrugged, resumed work on the straps. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

After an uncomfortable few minutes Illya stopped. “There. It’s still fastened, but one sharp pull should get you loose.”

“I’ll save it for when we’re on the ground again,” Napoleon said. “Although I’m wondering about the wisdom of attempting to make a break for it until we know exactly where their base is.”

“On the other hand, UNCLE doesn’t know where we are, or even that we’ve been taken,” Illya said practically. “We’re on our own.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You and your past.”

“I’m sorry,” Illya said, low.

“I was kidding,” Napoleon said. “It’s not as if I don’t have a passel of enemies of my own.”

Illya sat on the arm of the aisle seat across from Napoleon. “But this didn’t involve you. That is, it shouldn’t have. You should be safe in New York.”

Napoleon gazed levelly at his partner. “If I were kidnapped and on a plane bound for Russia, would you want to be safe in New York?”

“Yes,” Illya snapped. He got up and paced the cabin. “I’d stay in New York and get a new partner. Someone who doesn’t stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong, someone I don’t ... someone who won’t constantly drive me up the wall.” With his hands clenched in front of him as he paced, he looked like he was searching for someone to strangle. Then he stopped, glaring at Napoleon. “Good riddance, that’s what I’d think.”

 If not for the fact that he needed to appear tied up until they had a shot for freedom, Napoleon would have dispensed with the bonds and taken his agitated partner in his arms right then and there, Malikov and his goons be damned.

A tiny voice pushed him, saying you might never get another chance. But he didn’t believe that. It wasn’t in Napoleon’s nature to give up. On anything.

Gently, he said, “If things go badly amongst your old compatriots, you might get your wish.”

Illya turned away with a muttered curse – in French, which was a good sign; he resorted to his native tongue for invective only when genuinely angry – and resumed pacing.



The plane rattled to a stop on what Napoleon would have sworn was a gravel pit. Illya, in a window seat, said:

“Farmland. Dirt runway flanked by fields, then trees. Maybe 30 yards. We might be able to make it to cover.” He looked at Napoleon. The odds didn’t need stating. Illya darted to the other side of the plane. “More of the same. No. Here comes a truck. One man in it.”

“Oh, good, our ride has arrived,” Napoleon said. The door opened and Malikov and his goons came into the cabin, rifles slung.

Malikov hesitated to see Illya had rearranged his own bindings, then waved his men forward.

Boris approached Napoleon; Sergei advanced on Illya.

Napoleon glanced at Illya. The Russian sat outwardly calm, watching him. Napoleon waited until Boris was bent over him, prepared to work on the straps, then surged upward with all his strength. The bonds snapped free and he barreled into Boris. Malikov shouted something as Boris flew backward into him; Napoleon shoved them against the bulkhead and glanced back.

Illya struck Sergei sharply on the back of the head with both hands and the man fell as Illya rose. Satisfied his partner was behind him, Napoleon darted through the door.

The forward cabin was empty, the door to the cockpit closed. Napoleon went to the exit and stood to one side of the open door, peering out.

Illya bumped up against his back. “What are you waiting for?” he hissed. “A welcoming committee?”

“I forgot my passport,” Napoleon said as he scanned the runway. Seeing no one, he flung himself down the steps and onto the hard dirt. The truck was parked on the other side of the plane; the driver was getting out. Napoleon ran for the cover of the distant trees, his partner behind him, hearing the shouts from inside the plane as Malikov and his men came after them.



Illya ran some ten feet behind Napoleon; when the first rifle shot cracked the air both men started to zigzag. Napoleon was nearly in the trees when Illya, zagging when he ought to have zigged, stumbled over a clod of earth and went down, hard.

He caught himself quickly and pushed up from the damp earth, but before he could get his feet back under him someone landed on his back, slamming him to the ground again.

He heard two more rifle shots and a shout he couldn’t make out. Then his arms were seized and he was hauled upright and shoved back toward the plane. A voice cursing in his ear told him Sergei had captured him. He twisted in Sergei’s grasp, trying to see whether Napoleon had made it to the shelter of the woods, but Sergei jerked him around and kept him moving toward the plane and the truck, where Malikov stood waiting.

“Where is Boris?” Malikov barked.

Sergei nodded toward the woods.

The three waited and watched. Sergei held Illya by both arms, fingers digging cruelly into the flesh. Illya started at a lone rifle shot, then stilled himself, iron will clamped down on shrieking nerves as he scanned the distant trees and bushes for any sign of Napoleon.

Boris came trudging toward them across the damp field. Behind him another man followed, a large limp bundle humped over his shoulder. Illya’s gaze touched the man-sized, cloaked shape and darted away, fixing coldly on Boris as he spoke quietly to Malikov, slightly out of breath after his chase over the fields.

“We’ve got him,” Boris said. The other man waited, breathing hard.

“Put him in back,” Malikov said, turning to Illya. “Well, that’s put a bit of a crimp in our original plan.” He watched the two men open the back doors to load the bundle into the truck. Then he returned his gaze to Illya as Boris shouldered his Kalashnikov.

“It was not my desire to have Boris kill your friend,” he said, cold, matter-of-fact. Illya’s heart froze.  “But I could not allow him to escape. We shall have to find some other means of ensuring your cooperation.”

Compelled, Illya glanced toward the bundle. It was clearly a body, but wrapped completely, so that he couldn’t tell if it was Napoleon. Who else it might be, in an area this unpopulated, he couldn’t guess...

“Let me see,” Illya croaked out. Ignoring him, Malikov got into the truck, behind the wheel.

The back doors slammed as Boris and the other man finished their grisly lading. Sergei hefted Illya and put him bodily into the cab, then got in beside him, pistol in hand, while Boris went around to the driver’s side.



Napoleon grasped the rough bark of a tree with his good hand and swung around the trunk as another shot whinged past. Pressed against the bark he waited, catching his breath, listening with every pore. He heard nothing – a good sign in that it indicated he might have eluded his pursuers, but a bad sign because it also meant he and Illya had gotten separated.

Napoleon peered around the tree trunk, seeing only bushes, trees and grass.

Come on, Illya, come on ...

His shoulder burned – he touched his palm to the tear in his sleeve and it came away warm and wet. Glancing down he saw blood trailing down his sleeve, but as he could use his arm, despite the pain, it had to be only a graze. Slowly he slipped around the tree, silent, moving like a hunting cat back toward the airfield.

Back he crept, down the grassy, tree-studded slope, over the little creek and back up the other side. After sidling through the underbrush for a few minutes he heard a distant shout and ducked automatically. Silence followed. He pressed forward cautiously until his head poked out between two bushes and he could see the airstrip across the broad grassy field.

A truck sat beside the still-running plane. Napoleon could make out several figures by the truck, including one with an unfortunately unmistakable mop of blond hair. He groaned as his partner was loaded into the truck. It drove away, east, and the plane lumbered down the runway, accelerated and took off in the opposite direction.

Napoleon thought fast. Malikov wasn’t going to kill Illya immediately. That gave Napoleon some time to acquire reinforcements. Although it went against all his instincts to head in the opposite direction from his partner, he knew he needed help. His knowledge of this region was sparse, but if he remembered correctly, there was a line running out of Ukraine and, meanderingly, to Budapesth. If he could get some transportation – a train, a boat, an ox cart – to UNCLE Budapesth, he could get some help.

Maybe even a bandaid, he thought; his arm throbbed more insistently with every passing minute.

An hour later he was riding in a battered flatbed truck with an elderly, weatherbeaten man possessed of eight teeth and seven words of English – Napoleon had no trouble counting either, because the old fellow talked almost nonstop throughout the drive – and was more than happy to drop the American off at the train station in Nyiregyhaza. From there Napoleon learned it was another 6-odd hours to Budapesth and that the stationmaster was reasonably amenable to taking twice the ticket’s worth in American money.

The train rattled west; Napoleon sat clenched in a rock-hard ball of worry and stared with dry, burning eyes out the window at the endless countryside.



Malikov’s “installation” was unimpressive – a handful of elderly wooden structures surrounded by a cyclone fence in the midst of rather sparse woods – but the guards were sufficiently numerous, alert, and armed. The truck pulled in through the gate and stopped in front of a large building.

Sergei and Boris hefted Illya out of the truck as Malikov gave orders for the body to be disposed of.

Desperate to know the truth, Illya wrenched himself free of Sergei’s grip and lunged toward the men unloading the body, but a rifle butt against his shoulders drove him into the dirt, stunned. He was hauled to his feet and carried up the steps and into the building, never getting another look at the body, nor seeing where it was taken.

Inside he was ushered into a bare, windowless room. A tall, pale man in a lab coat sat behind a battered desk. Malikov, arms locked behind him, took up a standing position at the man’s left side. Illya rested his gaze on the man in the lab coat, but it was Malikov who spoke.

“This is Illya Kuryakin, doctor,” he said.

“I thought Mr. Solo would be accompanying his partner,” the man in the lab coat said, his smooth questioning tone not disguising who was actually in charge.

“We brought him,” Malikov said crisply. “He attempted to escape. Boris was forced to shoot him.”

The man in the lab coat turned to look at Malikov, reprimand clear in his expression,  even in profile.

Malikov said hastily, “No matter. Illya Nickovetch will cooperate, one way or the other. Is it not so, comrade?”

Illya said nothing. Sergei shook him, then backhanded him from behind, his knuckles cracking across Illya’s jaw.

“Yes,” Malikov said. “You will tell us the formula for Dr. Holberg’s will gas, Illyusha. Either you will speak now, or ...” He glanced at the lab-coated man. “Well, it will be harder to understand you with a broken jaw and shattered teeth, but we will do what we must.”

Illya met his eyes, cold, unafraid. Malikov had no way of knowing that there was no persuasion that could work on him if Napoleon Solo was dead.

The man in the lab coat said, distastefully, “I think you have your work cut out for you, comrade.”

“He’ll talk,” Malikov said quickly.

The man shrugged. “I hope so, for your sake. I’ll leave him to you, then, Comrade Malikov. You know where to find me if and when you acquire the information we need.”

“Indeed yes.” Malikov watched the man stride from the room, then returned his stare to Illya, who was thinking the man in the lab coat was THRUSH.

“I’m sorry your partner is dead,” Malikov said. “He was an interesting man. Most impressive record.”

“He was running away,” Boris sneered. “Leaving his ‘partner’ to his enemies.” He snorted, derisive, and Illya struck like lighting, backhanding Boris to the floor before Sergei could catch him. The big redhead grappled him to his knees, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the surprise on Malikov’s face and the blood on Boris’.

As Boris scrambled to his feet, touching his lip, Malikov said:

“There’s no need for melodrama, Illya Nickovetch. Tell me the formula for Substance XX. Or we shall ... persuade you to do so.”

Illya said nothing. His only goal now was to take Malikov and his base down before he was taken down. Malikov raised his eyes to Sergei, nodding.

The persuasion began.