Friday, May 9, 1969

Two days later, Kuryakin was up to his elbows in wires and vacuum tubes. Installing the new computer system was tedious work, and while it certainly was less dangerous than fieldwork, he didn’t think he would last long if he had to do this regularly. Still, it was satisfying to see the results of his work, or rather their work. He and Rebecca Keeven had been working nearly round the clock to install the new system. Another week and it would be complete. It was such an improvement over the old system with tapes instead of cards. No one besides UNCLE and the military had a system that was even close to this sophisticated. Who would have thought that a computer could fit in just one room? Okay, it was a large room, but the last system had taken up much of one floor of UNCLE headquarters. They were surely coming along. Kuryakin had an idea in the back of his head for something different and had mentioned it once to Solo.

“Partner,” said Napoleon, “I know you are brilliant, but don’t get carried away with yourself. A computer that can fit on your desk? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Well, it was certainly an idea worth working on, thought Kuryakin, although he was in no hurry. Once this job was done, he was ready to go into the field again. Dangerous or not, he knew he was hooked on the adrenaline rush attached to his job. But for now, he would make the most of this rest. And Rebecca was a much prettier partner, even if she was a short-term one, than Napoleon.

The inside work also seemed to be a little better on his nerves. He was still a little confused by his performance in the commissary a few days ago. Maybe Mr. Waverly was right. Maybe he did need to take it easy for a few days. He certainly had not had a recurrence of his angry outburst. Okay, so maybe his boss wasn’t punishing him when he set him up with this two-week respite from dodging Thrush agents. Maybe all he needed was a rest. He mood had certainly improved.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” said Rebecca. “It is ten o’clock. Do you think we could continue tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “And please, I have asked you before, please call me Illya. After all, we are working together. I am not your supervisor.”

She smiled. What kind of smile was that, thought the Russian. You know if I were Napoleon, I would probably ask her out for a drink. Somewhere dark with the slight scent of sin. But I am not Napoleon, he thought.

They walked out together. “Would you like to get something to eat?” Illya began. “I have a favorite place. It is a little coffee shop that serves great sandwiches till midnight. It’s just a few doors from where I live.”

“I…,” she stammered. Kuryakin had a reputation for being somewhat aloof when it came to the ladies at UNCLE. She, like most every other woman who worked there, had often let her mind entertain itself with fantasies of nocturnal interludes with the enigmatic Russian agent. He rarely even spoke with any of the women – or anyone else - unless it had to do with business. And here he was inviting her out for …for what? Just a sandwich, she told herself. Calm down. It’s not as if he is taking you to a dark, sultry bar to seduce you. She could only wish. Oh, well, a sandwich was better than nothing. Who knows what might develop?

“Sure,” she smiled. “And I’m not too far from there, just a little south of you.” Oops, she thought. I’ve just let him know that I know where he lives. As if she hadn’t walked past his apartment on sunny spring days when she was out for a jog. She had to walk somewhere so why not down Carmine. She had played the scene out in her mind so many times. She would come walking by just as he came out of his building. They would meet and he would invite her for coffee. They would talk for hours about art and music and all the things she was sure they had in common. And then maybe, if she was lucky...

“Great,” he said. “We can grab something to eat, and then I can escort you back to your apartment. I have a motorcycle at my place if you don’t mind getting a little wind blown.”

Illya hailed a cab, something he rarely did. Napoleon always took cabs, but Illya had to admit that he was usually just too cheap. Well, not cheap, but for the cost of a cab ride or two, he could buy another book or maybe a new jazz record. Tonight he thought he would splurge. He was hungry and the subway would take too long. Besides, he was beginning to realize just how attractive his computer partner was. That lab coat hid one hell of a figure. Good thing, he thought. I wouldn’t have been able to get as much work done. Her blouse was cut just a little bit low, not enough to suit Napoleon’s taste, but enough to be interesting. And enough to make Illya wonder what was under that cream colored silk.

*********************************************************************

Paul Farthing was happy with his new waitress. Peggy, she said, with just a hint of a southern accent. She had come to New York to be an actress, but like so many other girls, had found herself waiting tables. Anyone who saw her would describe her as attractive, with a brash kind of beauty just a little shy of trashy. She told him she was from Sikeston, a little town three hours south of St. Louis. She worked hard and joked with the customers and gave them all a warm and friendly smile. She made them feel comfortable. Comfortable enough that they stayed longer and ordered more. Yes, Paul Farthing was happy with his new waitress.

*********************************************************************

Duncan Moore had recently made friends with a pretty college coed whom he had met at his favorite coffee shop on Amsterdam just a few blocks from Columbia. He was trying to ease back into his life after a harrowing ordeal in South America. He had been there as part of an international human rights group and had been arrested and jailed without trial. Without the help of UNCLE, especially the Russian agent, he might still be there. Now here he was back in New York, finishing the paper that would earn him credit for his independent studies political science class and thinking about summer classes.

He had met Meredith a few days earlier. She was reading Death in Venice, one of his favorite novels, and they had struck up a conversation that lasted from lunch till dinner. She was easy to talk to and witty , and she seemed very interested when he talked about the problems of South American peasants. It seemed like the beginning of what could turn into a great friendship. And it seemed that she was looking for the same thing.

Many of the women he met in classes wanted more than the handsome Ivy Leaguer was prepared to give. He didn’t speak openly about his relationship with a pre-law student, but he didn’t hide it either. Duncan knew his father suspected he was gay, but they never talked about it. He tried to keep his proclivities private, worried that disclosure might hurt his father’s political career. So many of the coeds in his classes sought after him, thinking him a great catch. Good looking, intelligent, sensitive, ethical, and rich – a perfect combination.

It was nice not to have to fend off advances from Meredith. He could sense right away that she just wanted his friendship. Just days ago, he had told her all about his ordeal and how grateful he was for his rescuers.

“So have you had a chance to thank him?” she asked.

“Not really. After the rescue, I was whisked away in a private jet and the agents headed back on an UNCLE plane,” said Duncan.

“Don’t you think it would be nice to contact him and let him know how much you appreciate what he did? Ask your roommate what he thinks. I bet he’ll agree with me.”

The idea sounded like a great one to Duncan. When he got home that night, he would call his father’s office to see if someone could help put him in touch with Kuryakin.

Joel was preparing dinner when he got home that night. Duncan hung his jacket on the hook next to the door and walked behind Joel, pulling him close and rubbing his chest.

“Looks good,” he murmured.

“What, the dinner or me?”

“Both, actually,” said Duncan. “And I would like both, either order.”

“Well, dinner is about five minutes from being done. Why don’t you relax till it’s finished?”

“Okay. Do I have time to call my dad’s office?”

“Sure. What for?”

“Well, I was telling Meredith about the fun times in South America, and it occurred to me that I have never really thanked the agent who rescued me. I was hoping that Dad’s staff could find out where he lives.”

“You’ve been talking about this Meredith a lot,” Joel said as he came into the living room.

“Stop being so paranoid,” Duncan said, pulling him close. “We are friends and nothing more. She is taking the same comp lit class I took last year. I enjoy discussing the reading with her. That’s all.”

“You’re sure?’ queried Joel.

Duncan flashed him a wicked grin. “I’m sure.”

“So what about this agent that you’re trying to get in touch with? Is he good looking?”

“Gorgeous,” Duncan admitted, “but don’t get all bent out of shape about it. I just want to thank him. If I didn’t have you, that might be something to pursue,” he teased. “But you can relax.” He leaned over and gave Joel a long, passionate kiss.

Around nine, the phone rang. Duncan was in the shower so Joel took down the address that his roommate had asked for. He repeated it to the staffer at the other end. “Sixty-three Carmine? Yeah, I have it. Yeah, I’ll give him the message. Sure.”

*********************************************************************

Ola had been working at the Left Bank Café just two days. She was disappointed that Kuryakin had not shown up, but she could be patient. He only lived a few doors from the café, and he usually stopped in a couple times a week. It was a long narrow restaurant with tables lined up in a row with seats facing or backing up to a brick wall. She had seen him there several times before she took the job. She noticed that Kuryakin preferred the seats backing up to the wall. He didn’t have to watch his back, she guessed, and he could see who entered while he sipped his coffee. He would feel safe there, she thought. Safe and careless, and she would be waiting.

*********************************************************************

“What’s wrong?” Rebecca asked as Illya rubbed his temples with his thumbs.

“Nothing, I just have a slight headache. Too many hours in the lab today, I suppose. And too much caffeine. I think this is my third cup. Do you mind if I take you home?”

“No, that’s fine,” said Rebecca, poking her fork at the last few pieces of lettuce on her plate.

The waitress brought the check and a smile. “It was sure good to have you folks here tonight,” she drawled. “Hope to see you again. I just been workin’ here a few days, and I don’t know who’s a regular.”

She smiled as Illya handed her a dollar more than the seven-dollar check. “Why, thanks, sir,” she said again with a smile.

She picked up the dirty dishes and headed to the kitchen. The smile melted and something more sinister took its place. Ola had just completed part two of her plan.

*********************************************************************

Illya and Rebecca walked a few doors to his building. She sat on the stoop while he went to the tiny yard behind the building to get his motorcycle. It was just a short drive, and maybe if it were earlier and he didn’t have a headache, he would walk her home, but the motorcycle seemed like a better idea. They arrived at her building in just a few minutes.

“Hey, do you have something at home for that headache? If not, I have something. It’s prescription and stronger than aspirin. Do you want to come up?” Rebecca mentally crossed her fingers. Maybe she could talk him into something else to relax him.

“Yes, actually that sounds like a good idea. Suddenly I don’t feel very well. I am not sure about getting back on the bike. If I didn’t know any better, I would think ….” He let the thought trail off. “Yes, and maybe some cold water.”

They walked five floors to her apartment. Goddamn it, thought Illya, why the hell did she have to live so far up? Was she kidding? If he hadn’t had to take her home, he would be half asleep in his own bed by now. This damn well better be worth it.

Rebecca was a little disconcerted by the sudden shift in mood. That must be one heck of a headache, she thought. Maybe a backrub to ease the tension she could see building in his face and neck.

*********************************************************************

The slap came as a complete surprise. They were in the living room, with Illya sitting on the ottoman and Rebecca behind him on the overstuffed chair. She had rubbed some lotion between her palms to warm it and was just getting started on Illya’s neck. He jumped up and spun around.

“You stupid bitch!” he spat out. “Didn’t I tell you that I have a headache. What are you trying to do to me?” Every nerve in his body felt as if it was an electrical wire carrying too much juice. His skin felt on fire. What had begun as a relaxing massage quickly turned into torture. He bristled at her touch, her hands sandpaper scraping his shoulders.

It went from bad to worse. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her from chair, shaking her violently. Her eyes filled with fear, spilling hot tears down her cheeks.

“Illya, I don’t…”

“Shut up!” he screamed as he slapped her hard. “Just shut up!” He covered his ears to muffle her cries, but it didn’t help. His anger became an animal, ready to pounce and attack. The punch came swiftly; she was on the floor, holding the left side of her face. He grabbed his jacket and left.

*********************************************************************

Saturday, May 10, 1969

Illya awoke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. Knocking that grew louder, more insistent. His eyes felt glued shut. Cautiously he opened them and then realized that he had fallen asleep in his clothes. There was blood on his hand, not much but enough to make him wonder. He couldn’t find any injuries except for slightly bruised knuckles. Would you stop that banging, he thought. He stumbled out of bed and shuffled to the door.

“Napoleon,” he started with a slight grin. “What are you doing…?”

“What the hell is going on with you? I just came from Rebecca Keeven’s apartment. She called HQ to say that she wasn’t coming in today; Jenny took the call and called me. Said she sounded like she was upset, crying. I drove to her apartment and found her with a swollen lip and a black eye. She said you attacked her!”

“Napoleon, I can assure you...” Illya stopped. He realized that he couldn’t assure Napoleon of anything. Slowly the scene from the previous night dawned on him. “My god, I did. It seems strange like in a fog or something, but I can picture it.” He walked dejectedly to his tiny kitchen and grabbed a bottle of clear liquid and a small glass. His hand shook as he poured a hefty amount of vodka; it trembled even more as he raised the glass to his lips.

“How could I have done this? Is she all right?” he asked, looking up suddenly as he remembered the fearful look on her face.

“More or less,” said Napoleon. His initial anger had dissipated and was replaced by serious concern. This kind of behavior was totally out of character for his partner. True, Illya had tried to shoot him once under Thrush mind control, and there was that time in Suburbia Affair when both of them had experienced serious anger problems, but there was no explanation for his behavior this time. The blood test had come back negative, but Napoleon didn’t think it would be a bad idea to have the lab check Illya out again. He needed some logical explanation, especially when Waverly found out.

“Boyzhe moi,” he muttered. “What am I going to do? I can’t make this one up with flowers.” Illya buried his head in his hands.

*********************************************************************

Illya sat on the exam table in a flimsy blue examination gown, waiting for the results of a multitude of tests. Normally he would have been irritated at the process and anxious to get back to work. Today, however, he wore a look that showed serious worry and regret, not irritation. He played last night’s scene over and over in his head. He had been fine till he got to her apartment, and then all hell broke loose. Surely there had to be something physical to explain this. The other possibility scared the hell out of him.

Dr. Trousdale walked into the cubicle where Kuryakin waited with his partner. She wore a perplexed look on her face.

“We have run every test I can think of to search for some kind of toxin. There is simply nothing there. At least nothing that shows up on tests.” She looked intently at Kuryakin. “I think we need to explore other explanations.”

“Are you implying?” Solo started.

“I am not implying anything,” the doctor said. “I am simply stating that I cannot find any easily discernible reason for Mr. Kuryakin’s behavior. His blood work is fine, there is no evidence of a head injury, and no other physical cause that I can use to explain his conduct over the past week.” She shuffled some papers and placed them in a folder. “I have contacted Dr. Davenport with my findings. I have an appointment set for tomorrow. It’s Sunday and not so crowded around here.”

Illya’s head shot up. Davenport was head of Psychiatry at UNCLE. A surge of panic hit him. A physical cause could be remedied, or would at least provide an explanation that would not bring into question his capabilities as a field agent. But a mental health issue? That could quite simply cost him his job. No one wanted a live wire running around, someone whose actions were totally unpredictable and irrational. Kuryakin’s reputation was built on many things, his cool headedness, his sharp mind among the top. Waverly would certainly not trust an agent whose mental faculties were under question. And would Napoleon trust him in the field?

“This is ridiculous,” Solo began. But he knew she was right. There was no way UNCLE could send his partner into the field until they were sure his mental state would not jeopardize a mission or lives. “It’s nearly six, and he has been poked and prodded all day. I will have him back here tomorrow.”

Solo waited patiently outside the cubicle as his partner dressed.

“Can I give you a ride home?” he asked.

“No,” replied Illya. “I will take a cab. I think I will just pick up something to eat and then go to bed. My headache has not gone away, and I feel exhausted."

“All right, but I’ll be by to pick you up in the morning. About nine, okay?”

“Fine,” said Illya. Fine, he thought. What a simple word. Nothing was fine, and he worried that things could only get worse. “Fine,” he repeated, as if he might will it so by speaking it.

He hailed a cab, which took him to Carmine and 7th, and then he walked to the Left Bank Café to grab a sandwich. The friendly new waitress took his order and packed it to go. Wordlessly, he paid her and grabbed the brown bag, heading out the door and down the street to his building. He walked mechanically to his fourth floor apartment and went inside, shuffling to the kitchen in the back and heading straight to the freezer for some liquid relief for his anxiety. Two glasses later, feeling slightly relaxed, Illya opened the bag and removed his dinner. He barely tasted the sandwich, but he ate it anyway. It was sustenance and something to do to pass the time. Sitting at the small table in the tiny room, he poured glass after glass of vodka till he had emptied the bottle. Getting drunk was probably not his best choice with the psychiatric exam the next morning, but he didn’t care. The temporary relief it afforded him was worth it.

Groggy, he made his way down the narrow hall to his bedroom and crashed into his bed, not bothering to undress. Sleep came quickly. It was not quite eight o’clock.

*********************************************************************

Sunday, May 11, 1969

Twelve hours later, he was awakened by the sun streaming through his window. His lids still closed, he reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes. His hand felt oddly sticky. Slowly he opened his eyes, looking in bewilderment at his blood-streaked hand. He hadn’t remembered falling, hitting his head or anything, but he had drunk an awful lot of vodka last evening.

He sat up, gasping as he viewed the scene in his bed. Next to him was the naked body of a young man covered in blood, lying face down on the left side of the bed, his hands bound and tied to the iron headboard. There were five, maybe six puncture wounds on his back. It took Illya a minute to realize that he was also naked and spattered with the blood of the young man.

“This can’t be real,” he said aloud. Illya was sure he had never seen this young man before and hadn’t the slightest recollection of anything that could have led to this scene. He quickly went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, washing the blood from his skin and hair. He grabbed a t-shirt and jeans from his dresser and quickly dressed. As he started towards his study to call Napoleon, he heard sounds coming from downstairs. A quick look out the window confirmed his fear as he saw several police cars parked in front. How had they gotten here so quickly? How would anyone know what was in his apartment? He knew that he had been set up, although how he could not begin to imagine.

He dashed to his bedroom and flicked a small button hidden behind his headboard, and a secret panel opened. He quickly slid behind it and closed the entrance to the tiny hiding room. He had constructed the coffin-sized room several years ago as a place to escape in an emergency. No one, not even Napoleon, knew of this room, which from the outside was completely undetectable. He held his breath as he heard the police bashing in his door. Of course that would set off alarms at UNCLE, and he was sure that Napoleon would be there within minutes. What would he think when he arrived? Would his partner know that there was no way that he could have done this? Or would Napoleon consider the events of the last week and wonder if he had simply gone off the deep end? For a minute, Illya wondered himself. His heart racing, he reviewed the horrible scene in his bed, recalling the unmistakable smell of blood and sex. No, this was not like the other incidents that had happened earlier this week. Those he remembered vividly, but he had no recollection of this at all. Something had happened that he could not yet explain, but he felt sure that he had done nothing. If only he could convince someone else of that.

He lay still and silent as he listened to the police enter his bedroom. From their conversation he could surmise that someone had called them, saying they had heard screams. But the body had felt cold; whoever had called had waited an awfully long time to call. Would the police wonder about that?

He could tell from their conversation that they were examining the scene, taking notes and looking around the room. They found a wallet belonging to the dead man and a name with it: Duncan Moore.

“Jesus Christ,” said one of the cops. “This kid was only nineteen.”

“Duncan Moore? Isn’t that Senator Moore’s son?” said a second officer. “Shit, don’t touch anything till homicide gets here. We don’t want to make any mistakes on this one.” He went to make his call as the other officer stood watch over the murder scene. Illya’s heart beat harder and faster as a familiar voice sounded.

“What’s going on here?” asked Napoleon, his UNCLE badge already out to display to the officers. “My name is Napoleon Solo, and I am an enforcement agent with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

“Officer Cavallini, sir. We received a call about a disturbance at this address and came to investigate. This is what we found when we arrived. Please, sir, don’t touch anything.”

“Of course,” said Napoleon. “I’m just looking.”

“Sir, I don’t know if you should even be here. This is a local matter.”

“I respect that, but until I get more information, I need to stay as an observer.” Walking into the hall, Solo pulled his communicator from his coat pocket and spoke calmly, masking the panic that he felt inside. “Open Channel D.”

“Yes, Mr. Solo?” came Alexander Waverly’s voice.

“Mr. Waverly, I will be late this morning. There is an urgent matter which requires my attention.”

“Aren’t you responsible for getting Mr. Kuryakin here for his appointment with Dr. Davenport?”

“Yes, sir, but the matter involves Mr. Kuryakin. I am at his apartment right now. Along with several New York police officers.”

“Police officers? What does this have to do with Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I don’t know yet, sir. Illya is not here, but there is a body in the apartment. Stabbed to death it appears. And that is not the worst of it. It’s Duncan Moore.”

“This is most distressing. Stay and find out what you can. Report back to me as soon as possible. I will call the police commissioner to make sure that they cooperate.”

Solo replaced the communicator pen and went back to Illya’s bedroom, just behind two homicide detectives who had just arrived, along with a young man with a medical bag. Solo introduced himself and asked to help gather information.

“Sir, I don’t know,” said the younger detective, who had identified himself as Detective Abernathy. “We have to make sure…” He stopped as the phone rang in the next room and the other detective went to answer.

“He’s all right,” said the other detective as he returned, pointing to Napoleon. “That was Captain Hill. We are supposed to let him help with the investigation. I am Detective Shannon, and this is Dr. Winston from the medical examiner’s office.”

Winston put on gloves and walked to the bed. “Let’s start with some photographs,” he told his assistant. When they finished photographing the murder scene from every possible angle, they turned to the body on the blood soaked bed. Winston, a young pathologist who had a reputation for flippant speech but complete professionalism in his job, was examining the body. The youngest member of the medical examiner’s office, Winston was on the cutting edge of the newest techniques in the rapidly advancing forensics field, although his superiors did not always agree with his unorthodox conclusions.

“Looks like there is more here than just blood,” said Winston. He swabbed the inside of the victim’s mouth and placed the swab in a plastic bag. “I would say that young Moore here has recently performed oral sex on someone. Let’s see if that is all.”

This is insane, thought Napoleon as he watched Winston finish his examination of the body. This can’t be happening.

“Looks like he’s had a bit of the in and out as well,” Winston said mechanically. “There are also some ligature marks around his neck, perhaps from a tie. But I don’t think that’s what killed him. There is too much blood. Of course, I’ll know more when I get him to the lab.”

Shannon turned to Solo. “So the guy who lives here, what can you tell us about him?”

Solo took a deep breath, holding on to his professional demeanor. “His name is Illya Kuryakin, and he is also an enforcement agent for the UNCLE.”

“You know him well?”

“Professionally,” replied Solo, not wanting to raise their suspicion concerning his objectivity. “But I can’t tell you much about his personal life.”

Illya, hidden in his coffin-like sanctuary, smiled just a little. He knew what Napoleon was doing. Don’t give them any more information than is necessary.

*********************************************************************

Ola Cwiklowski sat in a rented blue Volkswagen Beetle across the street from the Left Bank Café from where she could easily view the scene at Illya’s building. Smiling smugly, she murmured, “Phase three is done. Let’s see Mr. Kuryakin get out of this one. Maybe he will kill himself in prison the way our father did.” She lit a cigarette and adjusted the mirror. “Or at least rot there,” she said as she pulled away.