![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Part 5
* * *
* * *
UNCLE Budapesth was entered via a small storefront office in one of the oldest neighborhoods of the city, near the
“Mr. Solo!”
“I need to see Armand,” Napoleon said without preamble, naming the acting chief of the Budapesth office. “Right now.”
Fifteen minutes later, he sat with Armand Florescu, a bandage on his arm, a cup of coffee beside him and a map spread on the table before him.
“We don’t have the kind of manpower you need,” Armand said. “We have three agents, Napoleon, and two of them are on assignment. I want to help you, but don’t you think you’d better get your reinforcements from Mr. Waverly?”
Napoleon scanned the map. “No time. I think I might have a better idea, anyway.”
Armand, having had some experience with Napoleon Solo’s plans, rolled his eyes. “You’d better tell me.”
Anatoliy Karchoff was astonished when his secretary told him he had a call coming in from the Budapesth office of the United Network Command For Law and Enforcement. It wasn’t that the KGB didn’t have contact with UNCLE; it was simply unusual for an officer of his level to be contacted directly by an agency that was usually, to put it politely, at odds with the philosophiam vitae of the
“This is Karchoff.”
‘This is Napoleon Solo with the UNCLE.”
“What can I do for the UNCLE?” Karchoff asked warily.
“On the contrary, Mr. Karchoff, there’s something I’d like to do for you.”
“Really.” The one word expressed worlds of skepticism.
“Well, for both of us, then.” Napoleon explained the situation with Malikov and his secret base. “His intentions are ... deleterious to both yourselves and us. We thought you might prefer to deal with them yourselves rather than ...”
“Yes, yes...” Karchoff considered. He had the authority – barely – for a small-scale strike against such an installation as the UNCLE man described. He knew something of Malikov – stupid and ambitious – and it was KGB policy to keep UNCLE out of the
“How long might it take you to put together such a team?” Napoleon asked.
Karchoff said. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I have a friend in the vicinity whom I would like to get out of the vicinity before you begin your cleanup operation.”
Karchoff considered that. “A captive of Malikov?”
“An unwilling guest, let’s say,” Napoleon said. “If you could allow me a window of a few hours it would be much appreciated.”
“We have no interest in your ... friend,” Karchoff said. “We can allow you a few hours. It would take that long to assemble the force in any case.”
Karchoff hung up and immediately told his secretary to call
After it became clear that Illya was not going to talk “easily,” Sergei rested his battered knuckles while Boris tossed the Russian into a small cell across the compound from the main building. Illya hit the bare cold floor and stayed there, for a length of time he had no way of measuring. Then he worked himself into a seated position, leaning his bruised back gingerly against the wall and stretching his cramped and aching legs out in front of him.
The cell had no windows, not even a hole in the door. Illya crawled over to a small ventilation grate in the floor, but his remaining strength didn’t budge it.
From the one eye he could see out of, as he’d been half-carried across the compound, he’d noticed barrels of petrol stacked next to a couple of trucks. If he could get to that, perhaps when they came back for him, it would only take him a moment to rig up a decent explosion and fire. The presence of the THRUSH man in the lab coat also suggested some sort of laboratory, which would proffer materials for mayhem; perhaps if he “broke” and suggested he’d show the man how to manufacture the gas ... they weren’t likely to trust him much, but it might be worth a try.
He leaned his throbbing head against the wall, lightly fingering his puffy face. Nothing broken, yet; they were apparently anticipating a lengthy period of persuasion and Sergei was being careful to avoid too much damage at first. But he definitely hurt. All over. And the worst hurt was inside, deeper than Sergei could ever reach with fist or knife or brand.
Don’t. Until you know he’s dead – until you see a body – he’s alive.
Illya crawled into a corner and tried to relax his battered body until they came back for him. He suspected they’d wait long enough for the worst of the sharp pains to fade – long enough for him to fear fresh pain – before they returned, and so they did.
His struggles as they crossed the compound again were futile against the strength of Boris and Sergei. He went limp as they carried him up the stairs, composing himself to endurance, and again said nothing in response to Malikov’s now somewhat anxious questions, though he filed away the idea that THRUSH was getting impatient.
He was unconscious when they carried him back to his cell the second time.
Two guards met on their rounds and stopped to talk, one gazing out into the dark, quiet countryside around the compound, the other staring idly at the cluster of wooden buildings.
“I’m bored,” one muttered to the other.
The other hunched his rifle up on his shoulder. “Not as bored as I am.”
The first guard dug in his jacket pocket for a battered pack of cigarettes. “I’ll bet I’m more bored than you.”
“You’re more boring than I am. Shut up and give me a smoke.” The second guard reached out and took a cigarette and a match.
“Did you see the guy they brought in?” the first guard asked, lighting his own cigarette. His compatriot shrugged.
“Now we’re taking prisoners,” he said. “You’d think there was a war on.”
“Not much of a war, one little guy locked up in the storeroom.” The second guard took a deep drag on his cigarette.
“Maybe we’ve won, then,” the first guard said sarcastically. His colleague snorted a laugh.
“Better get moving.”
They nodded to one another and continued their rounds.
Napoleon, crouched behind a bush outside the fence, waited until the guards were out of sight. Then he holstered his gun and picked up the wire cutters.
He slipped through the hole and darted across the compound to the garages, where three heavy trucks were parked, alongside a supply of gasoline. He wondered that the guards had spoken Russian, not Ukrainian. Possibly Malikov didn’t trust the natives; that might even explain some part of his animosity toward Illya.
Crouching between the wall and one of the trucks, Napoleon scanned the compound. Besides the garage there was a big building, no doubt main offices and barracks (and, if they planned to manufacture Substance XX here, labs), and a couple of smaller one-storey structures. If Illya were the prisoner the guards mentioned, he was likely to be in one of the smaller buildings, but Napoleon would still need a little time and a medium distraction to enable him to search.
His mind’s eye focused on the guards and their cigarettes. A plausible diversion came to his mind, and he dug into his jacket pocket for a box of matches.
Malikov rubbed one pudgy hand across his damp brow. “He’ll talk.”
“When? After you’ve killed him?” The THRUSH scientist sat in cool ire on the couch. “Face it, Malikov. We gave you the chance you begged for, and you’ve failed. You should have forgotten about your old friend Kuryakin and focused on the formula itself, as we originally agreed. I’m calling Central in the morning.”
“What about Kuryakin?” Malikov asked, though what he wanted to ask was “What about me?”
The scientist shrugged, rose from his seat. “We’ll deliver him to Central. Maybe they can make him talk. We’ll salvage something of this.”
“But ... but my ... my plans ... my proposals ...” Malikov sank back against the edge of his desk, seeing his future crumble to ash. “You need me,” he said without conviction.
The THRUSH smiled, headed for the door, then stopped. Malikov heard a soft explosive sound, as if from a distance. The THRUSH scientist moved to the window.
“What in hell..?”
Malikov heaved himself to his feet and hurried to the window to see flames and smoke billowing from the garage.
“Your damned guards and their cigarettes,” the THRUSH scientist said as the two men moved for the door.
Napoleon blew the lock and entered the room. In the dimness he saw a small shape in the corner. Too small to be Illya, he thought – until it moved, trying and failing to rise.
Napoleon crossed the small cell, kneeling before his partner, fury boiling up in him when he saw the battered and bloodied face. Illya had been the recipient of a fair amount of persuasion in the 24 hours since their separation.
He heard his name whispered, and Illya reached out, shaky. Napoleon seized his arms, not missing his partner’s flinch. He gently pulled the Russian to his feet.
“
At the door Illya stopped, clutching his sleeve. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Boris said ... he’d killed you.”
Napoleon looked at his partner, unable to read his face in the dimness, but feeling his anguish. Unfortunately there was no time to deal with it kindly. “And you fell for it? The oldest trick in the book?” He squeezed him quickly. “I’m immortal, remember?”
“Oh.” A ghost of humor shadowed his partner’s voice. “I forgot.”
“Now, let’s get the hell out of here before that gets tested.”
He eased Illya out of the storeroom, around the side opposite the fire and the shouting men trying to put it out. They crossed the darkened yard as quickly as Illya’s abused body could manage, and slipped through the hole Napoleon had cut in the fence. Outside they dashed across the road and ducked behind the bushes on the other side. To the west was the long descent to the river.
Both men looked back at the camp. Illya, seeing the flames, glanced at his partner.
Napoleon shrugged, pushing the ever-errant forelock off his face. “I needed a little distraction of my own before your former colleagues in the KGB get here with their big distraction.”
“You reported Malikov to the KGB?” Illya asked softly. In the distant flicker of firelight his swollen, bloodstreaked face looked alarming.
“I considered it my patriotic duty,” Napoleon said, as a convoy of trucks came rumbling along the road.
“I think the party’s arrived,” Napoleon added.
The trucks stopped, lining the fence, and men with rifles poured out. Somehow those inside were ready; machine gun fire hammered the night air, peppered with shouts and cries as the new arrivals ducked for cover.
A distinctive hollow boom made the agents exchange a look, their eyes saying “rocket-launcher?”
Illya grabbed Napoleon and flung them both down the hill as a truck exploded into flames not 10 feet from their position. They rolled across the bumpy, tussocky grass, coming to a stop against a wooden fence with Illya on top of Napoleon. Nose to nose, they regarded one another for a moment.
“Hi there,” Napoleon said.
“Hello,” Illya responded, not smiling.
Both of them turned to look back at the compound. The lights gave a weird backlit halo to the men running to and fro. It was impossible to tell what was actually happening, who was winning, but one thing was certain – they were too close to it for comfort.
A bullet splatted into a fencepost nearby and Napoleon wrapped his arms around his partner, pushing off with one foot against the grass. They rolled under the wooden fence and into the grassy drainage ditch. There, hidden in the long damp grass, Napoleon stopped, still on top of his partner.
“Napoleon...” Illya’s voice sounded rather strained.
“Sorry,” Napoleon whispered, placing his knees and elbows on the ground to lift his weight from his partner. “Don’t move. Be quiet.” He scanned the edge of the ditch, hearing gunfire, explosions, shouts, seemingly far away.
“Napoleon...” The protest held a touch of wonder. Napoleon looked down at his partner. Illya’s hands were planted on his chest, not pushing, just there. “What are you doing?”
“I’m wearing black,” he said reasonably. “You aren’t. For once. Don’t move and be quiet.”
“Oh.”
The sounds of battle wavered, nearer, farther, then faded. Still they waited, and after a while came the sound they’d dreaded – booted feet, approaching. Someone was searching, possibly for them. Either the KGB had won and was looking for escaped men, or – unlikely but possible – Malikov had won and had found out he was missing one very important prisoner.
Some men stopped at the top, on the other side of the fence, talking fast, too fast for Napoleon’s rudimentary Russian skills. He craned his neck but saw only booted feet; no way to tell which “side” they were on. Neither side is ours, he reminded himself.
“What are they saying?” Napoleon whispered into Illya’s ear, and the translation poured into his own ear in the same whisper.
“Just keep looking – what the hell are we looking for – there’s an American agent, they want him – an American agent here? – they said he escaped, he’s a defector, they want him alive – An American defector? – No, Russian, you ass – come on –” Illya halted his translation as the two men moved away.
Napoleon cursed. “That bastard Karchoff said he didn’t care about you, that he’d let you go. Lying son of a bitch.”
He felt Illya chuckle weakly. “And you fell for it? The oldest trick in the book?”
Napoleon rolled over into a crouch, peering under the fence. “Come on. Now’s the time to get the hell out of here for real.” He pulled his partner to his feet. “UNCLE is tracking me, but we’re going to have to get to the border for them to effect a rescue.” He consulted his compass. “That way – can you walk? – about 10 miles.”
They stayed clear of the roads, keeping under brush or among trees as much as possible, even though the area was mostly empty fields with the occasional derelict-looking farm. They spoke rarely, but Napoleon quickly realized Illya hadn’t the energy to spare for more than walking. He stayed close, monitoring both distance covered and the condition of his friend. When they reached the cover of a thick copse of trees he said, “Enough.”
Back to an alder, Illya slid bonelessly to the ground, head resting on his knees.
Napoleon slid off his small pack, unwrapped his jacket and slid it around Illya, pulling it close in front, feeling Illya trembling, his lungs still laboring after their hike. His partner didn’t even glance up.
“They weren’t exactly easy on you, were they?” he asked.
“Did you expect them to be?” came the sour response.
“When was the last time you slept?”
That made Illya raise his head. Pointedly he answered, “Nineteen fifty eight.”
Napoleon conceded that issue. “Fair enough.” He poured some water onto a bandana and gently cleansed his partner’s face. With the blood gone it didn’t look quite so bad; the eyes were undamaged – one had merely been clotted shut – and the cuts and bruises looked as if they’d heal well.
“Try to sleep; we’re going to need light to find the rendezvous site.” He leaned his own back against a tree, drawing his gun. The night was quiet, chilly but not really cold; he sat in the silence and watched his partner shiver for about 10 minutes before he couldn’t stand it any more. He leaned over and pulled him bodily against his chest, ignoring Illya’s weak, if acid, protests.
“Shut up. You’re cold. I’m not. You’re the scientist, you figure it out.”
He felt a soft chuckle against his chest as he adjusted the jacket to cover his partner, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him, gun still in his hand. He settled again against his tree, resigned to a few hours’ discomfort – happy to suffer it in return for having Illya alive and safe.
We’re neither of us safe yet, he reminded himself. But as Illya’s shivering ceased and his tensed form relaxed against Napoleon, he found himself surprisingly at peace.