By M. Willow

Disclaimer:  Man From Uncle Characters don’t belong to me.   I’m working on the house though.

Roses dotted the landscape surrounding the porch of the Queen Anne Victorian house.

They were pink with a delicate blending of white.  Napoleon’s house had become well known for its spectacular display of flowers, both exotic and local, but it was the roses that garnered the most attention.  Solo knew that it took the care of two of his best friends, April and Illya, to produce such beauty.  And so the garden had a special place in his heart.  

Now, he watched the tree lined road as the sunlight streamed across the porch, the heavy scent of roses in the air.  A gentle breeze caressed his face as he sipped a glass of ice tea.  It was the hottest day of the year, so he had made a pitcher of the amber liquid to share with his friend Illya.  Solo had not seen the Russian in four months.  Not since the blond agent was kidnapped and tortured by Thrush.

Illya had been rescued two months ago.  The Russian had suffered a complete nervous breakdown and was residing at a special clinic for UNCLE agents.   Contact between the two agents had not been allowed at Illya’s request.  This disturbed Solo—they had always supported each other.  It had been the hallmark of their eight year partnership. Still, Napoleon realized that Illya had endured more in this particular affair than ever before.  So he respected the Russian’s desire for privacy.  

It was Waverly who suggested the Victorian house for Illya’s recuperation after the dismal failure of the psychiatrist clinic.   Napoleon had purchased it less than a year ago because of a desire to put down roots.  A horrible incident had occurred in which Illya had been imprisoned behind a wall in the house by a man name James Triton.  Illya was eventually rescued, but Solo never felt the same way about living there.  It  had taken both Illya and April to convince him not to sell the house.   Now it was used as a retreat by all three agents. 

In preparation of Illya’s arrival, Napoleon had spent weeks discussing psychiatric difficulties with UNCLE medical experts.  He was told to expect a man very different from the friend whom he had come to know and love as a brother. The psychiatrist, would not, however, provide details about what had actually happened to the Russian during his captivity.  That was left to Illya to disclose.   Napoleon was prepared to do anything to recover his partner’s sanity, even if it meant giving up UNCLE.   He was aware of the psychiatric hospital for UNCLE agents who never recovered and he was determined that Illya would not spend the rest of his life living there. He had already made arrangements for their disappearance if needed. 

.

 In the distance, Napoleon spotted the yellow cab coming up the oak tree lined road.  He was uncharacteristically nervous as he observed the approach.  Soon the cab was in his driveway.  He steeled his nerves and walked toward the cab as Illya descended.  It took all of his trained agent experience not to react to the site before him.  Illya had lost at least 20 pounds, so his clothes hung loosely about his body.  His blond hair was cut in a short, severe style, and seemed dry and lifeless.  His eyes were distant, pained.

It was like looking at a different man.

Illya moved toward him, then suddenly stopped and staggered.  Napoleon moved quickly to prevent him from falling.  The Russian righted himself, grabbing the door of the cab.   “I’m fine Napoleon,” he said with a thick accent.  “I promise I will not faint in your driveway.”

“Would never think of it, Tovarish.  I was merely coming to help you with your bag.”   He said that indicating a bag that Illya held protectively at his side.

“I can carry it!” Illya said angrily.

Napoleon was shocked.  The Russian had never spoken to him in that tone before. Still, his friend had suffered greatly in the past four months.  Solo resolved to help him get through this and decided not to respond to the angry outburst.  He quickly went to the trunk of the car, grabbing his friend’s luggage.  He paid the driver and ushered Illya into the house. 

 “Perhaps you would like to go upstairs and rest, Illya.  I have everything ready for you and later all the food you can eat.”

Illya smiled.  “Thanks Napoleon.  I didn’t mean to shout a minute ago.  I am just so tired of people treating me as if I am a fragile doll.”  He looked down to the floor than looked up at his friend. 

Napoleon could see the pain in the Russian’s eyes.  He had never seen his friend so emotionally scared.   He walked toward the stairs still carrying the luggage.  “That’s okay.  Don’t worry about it.”  Napoleon changed the subject.  “So you heard from April?” he questioned.

“No, Waverly would not allow contact with anyone from UNCLE at my request.”

“I know,” Napoleon said, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. 

 They entered Illya’s room.  Napoleon laid the luggage on the floor next to the bed and said, “I’ll leave you now and prepare some lunch.  You must be hungry.   Would you like anything special?”

Illya smiled, “You know I will eat anything.”

“Well, Okay.  See you downstairs.”

“Yes.  See you downstairs.”  Illya turned and started to unpack his bags. 

Napoleon prepared a lunch of turkey on wheat, with a large strawberry pie purchased from Mavis’s bakery.   The house was warm in spite of the air conditioning. Solo was glad that he had prepared the ice tea earlier.  It was perfect for a hot summer afternoon. 

Soon the Russian appeared and sat across from Napoleon.  He was unusually quiet, with that same hunted appearance that Napoleon observed earlier.  The Russian hungrily gobbled the sandwiches, only looking at Napoleon for a few seconds between bites.  Finally, Napoleon broke the uncomfortable silence. “So Illya, how do you feel?”

“Fine.  Just a little shaken that’s all.” 

“Anything you’d like to talk about?”

“No,” was Illya’s short response. 

Napoleon was use to the Russian’s reticence.  But he had also been told by the psychiatrist that it was important to get him to talk about what happened during his captivity.  It was the only way he could truly recover. 

He locked eyes with his partner.  “You know you have to deal with this at some point, don’t you?”

“But not today,” Illya answered sharply.

“Well, I want you to know that when you’re ready, I’m here.  I mean, we can talk anytime.”

Illya looked up.  “I know.  I just need time.  It was…” and here his voice broke.  “It was unspeakable.”  At that he continued to eat, Napoleon still looking at him before grabbing a sandwich of his own.

It was one week later when Napoleon heard the study beep of his communicator.

“Good morning Mr. Solo.  How is Mr. Kuryakin?”  Waverly asked.

“He’s coming along.  We are going fishing this morning.”  Solo added.  He didn’t want to tell him that no progress had been made. 

Waverly paused.  In the background Solo could hear the old man strike a match and knew that he was attempting to light his pipe.  Then he continued.   “See that Mr. Kuryakin recovers sufficiently to resume his position, Mr. Solo.  If it is not possible for him to return, I will need to know that.  I am prepared to offer any assistance you may require. Keep me informed.”   And the communication was severed.

Napoleon thought about what Waverly’s assistance might entail.  For the first time in his career at UNCLE, he thought of the old man as the enemy. 

Napoleon and Illya sat silently at the lake.  They had not readied their fishing poles as yet, but instead observed the calm blue water of the lake.  The sounds of birds and a gentle breeze disturbed the quiet calm of morning.   In spite of the relative peacefulness of their surroundings, the sense of urgency hung heavily in the air, demanding attention.  Napoleon realized that a week had passed and still the Russian had not opened up to him, still remaining in his protective cocoon.   The UNCLE psychiatrist had suggested that Napoleon try reminiscing with his partner.  Now, he saw this tactic as his last hope.

He looked at his friend.  “Illya, remember that time in the Casbah when we were trying to get that code book?”

Illya was quiet for a second and then smiled.  “Of course, Napoleon, who could ever forget?”  He chuckled.  “I had to spend the night with a beautiful woman and so did you.”

“Hmm.  You never did tell me what happened, Tovarish,” Napoleon said.

Illya smiled and said, “And I never will.  Gentlemen simply don’t!”

Soon both men where laughing and talking about past adventures.  Napoleon felt pleased— he had finally made a breakthrough. 

 They returned to the house late in the afternoon.  Illya was more relaxed, and although he didn’t talk about his capture and torture, the Russian had readily reminisced about old missions.  Illya was tired after the long fishing trip and retired for a nap.

Napoleon didn’t see his friend until later in the evening.  He had just finished preparing dinner when he emerged.  Napoleon smiled, you could always count on the Russian to appear when food was available.  Soon they dined on fish and rice.   Illya sat at the table hungrily devouring the fresh fish as if he had never had a meal in his life.  The Russian’s eyes where alert and responsive.  Gone was the man who had sunk within himself, replaced by a reasonable facsimile of his old friend.   Illya warmed to the topics which ranged from current events to old and somewhat new missions.  They spoke for a few minutes about the lunar eclipse expected that night.  Napoleon recalled how his grandmother always referred to the lunar eclipses as the dark moon. Later they enjoyed a quiet game of chess and then retired for the evening.

It was not just the presence in the room that awakened Solo; it was the sense of danger.   He was in bed and someone was in his room.  His left hand reached slowly under his pillow, grabbing the gun in one fluid motion.  He opened his eyes, scanning the room, looking for the source of his discomfort.    The room was cast in eerie darkness.  It took seconds for Solo to realize that it was the night of the eclipse, the night of the dark moon. 

He had recalled closing the curtains before he slept, but now they were open and he could see the face of the moon, with its dark coppery color.  The moon was in a constant state of change, threatening to enclose this room, this time in utter darkness.  A man stood in front of the window.   The man did not move, just stared at the moon.  He seemed hypnotized by its beauty.   The faint scent of roses permeated the air.  And Solo realized that the window was open.   His breath remained normal, in semblance of sleep.  He did not want to alert this person to his wakefulness.   A faint breeze stirred, moving the white curtains in a melodic rhythm. A ghostly silence fell and then the figure slowly, almost imperceptibly turned, turned toward Solo.  And then his voice, “They held me for two months, Napoleon.  Two months.  Do you know what they can do to a man in two months?”

Napoleon relaxed, but not completely.  His hand still held the gun for reasons he could not understand.  After all, this was his best friend standing here, yet something felt wrong and his hair stood on end.  He could hear Illya’s voice and the beat of his own heart.  Every instinct told him to keep the gun in his hand, to watch the window with the form of his friend still standing there. Then the room started to darken and slowly they were cast into darkness.  Napoleon’s breath caught in his throat.   He was vaguely aware that the Russian had stopped talking.  He could hear the sound of footsteps as they moved toward him, and then the room was silent.  

“Illya,” he found himself saying.   “You startled me.  I could have killed you.” 

“Maybe, I was counting on that.”  Illya paused.   “I’ve been at the window for some time, Napoleon,” he said slowly.   “You’re slipping.”  His voice was icy cold.

Napoleon’s body felt on fire with the tension of the moment.   Illya stood very close to him now.  He looked like a shadow, something that was unearthly.  Solo found that he needed light, needed to chase away the darkness.  He reached for the lamp, illuminating the room in seconds.  He still held the gun. .  His friend locked eyes with him, and for a few seconds, Napoleon glimpsed the depths of hell.  They each looked into the others eyes, the silence enveloping them, somehow separating them from the reality of the moment.   Napoleon could not move, he felt his body shudder and hoped it was not visible to the man standing in his room.  He felt guilty for he still held the gun.  And so he released it at once.  Still, the tension remained.   The man stepped closer to him, and Solo wanted to grab the gun again, wanted to feel its cold reassurance in his hand.   Instead, he said, “You want to talk, Tovarish?”

“No Napoleon.”  And at that he left the room leaving Napoleon sitting in stunned silence.

It was strange standing in his room.  So close.  I could hear his breathing as I stood at the window.  It was a game really.  How long could I stand there without him noticing me?   Not long, I discovered.  He had been awake for some time, watching me, reaching for his gun.   How easy it would have been to have just killed him as he slept.   After all, I had the information they needed.  Still there was the game.  I had long tired of just killing.  Anyone could just kill a man.  Killing should be an art form, thought out and planned. First there was poison.  A man could die slowly without ever realizing that he was being murdered.   I loved looking into the eyes of these unsuspecting victims.   Then there was the knife.  I liked this method because I had to get close to my victim to kill him.  It was an adrenalin rush, I’m sure, but fun nevertheless.

 I always carry a gun, just in case.  But I knew that it would not be needed, for Napoleon Solo would never suspect that his friend Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin is still in the hands of Thrush and I am his executioner. 

End Chapter One