The "Ah, Rio!" Affair

SOMEWHERE IN VENEZUELA

Mid March 1963

            Napoleon Solo was about done being the silent type.  The next blow that landed was going to be quantified, qualified  and responded to.  Enough was enough.  Yell, damn it!  It hurts less when you yell.

            The solar plexus!  Ah yes, damn good place to start.

            “Aaahh!”  Boy, what a relief, thought Napoleon. 

            “The Fascist pig is ready to squeal!  Manuel!  Did you hear that?  Maybe we get somewhere with you now, eh?”  Ramirez hit the same spot again with all his weight behind the blow.  The body strung up by its wrists recoiled back into the solid rock wall behind it.

            Napoleon struggled for the breath to yell again – couldn’t find it – and had to settle for giving his tormentor a scathing look instead. 

            Ramirez stepped back, disappointment showing on his ugly face.  “Wassa matta, pig?  Not hard enough for you?”

            “You…give…me…time – I…sing.” Napoleon gasped out.  The main problem was going to be staying conscious.  If he passed out and dear Ramirez continued to beat him, his head would break against the rock behind him. 

            I really, really don’t want this to be my last memory.  That isn’t the face I want to take with me into the great beyond.  Ugly.  Stone ugly. 

            “Hey, Manuel!  Come on, my hands is startin to really hurt!  Your turn, amigo.”  

            Manuel looked up from his seat on the cold stone of the cavern.  “Give it a break, Ramirez.  We got to wait for word from Vasquez.  Seems like maybe we got ourselves a big fish here.  Maybe this pig needs to be conscious when Vasquez gets here, eh?”

            “Si, but we don’t even know his name yet, Manni.  How can I, Ramirez the Unstoppable, face Vasquez without getting this pig’s name?”

            “Told you once.  You wouldn’t listen, oh unstoppable one,” said Napoleon in an even, let’s be reasonable voice.  This was a huge effort, since his jaw felt like it was dislocated and his cheeks were swollen to twice their normal size. 

            Glad there’s no mirrors.  I could wish for a nice soft bed, though.  There’s not one of those either.  Want a hot shower – no, make that a hot soak in a huge tub.  Some morphine, a hot tub, big bottle of Remy… Illya.  Where are you, Illya?   Why the hell aren’t you here?  Huh?.  Illya, can you hear me?  I need you, buddy.  Ooops.  Sorry.   You don’t like buddy.  Help me, tovarisch! 

            Ramirez, who really was the type not to give up, brought his left knee up sharply, hitting the helpless prisoner squarely in the groin.

            Okay.  That’s it.  Checking out of this hotel.  ILLYA!           

HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK

“Ah, Rio!”

            “Mr. Kuryakin?  What on earth are you doing?”  Mr. Simpson asked, alarmed.  “That’s a very delicate piece of equipment!”  He stared aghast at the item Illya had dropped, it’s delicate wiring trailing from countertop to floor.

            The white coated, slender man did not pause in his headlong rush out the door.  

            I knew it was a bad idea to let him go by himself!  I knew it! 

            Illya’s initial reaction upon learning that Napoleon was going to Rio de Janeiro without the benefit of his company had stunned him.  Until that moment, Illya had thought of himself operating primarily in a singular mode.  He was a loner by nature, was he not?  What, then, was this terrible sinking feeling when Alexander, who by nature was a efficient master of resources, decided that Solo should fly solo on this assignment?  Napoleon was perfectly capable of taking care of himself!  Himself, and whatever opponents crossed his path, usually. 

He had been sent alone to South America a week ago.  Between then and this morning, Napoleon had checked in with Headquarters quite regularly – as far as this could be said for the Chief Enforcement Agent, a notorious loner himself.

            “I believe, Mr. Solo, that you,” Alexander had pointed the stem of his briar pipe at Napoleon, “operating as a lone investigator, will be the most efficient use of manpower on this assignment.”

            Napoleon, of course, had smiled his easy smile and refused to acknowledge Illya’s sudden movement to his left.  Damn the man, anyway!  The one time I want his attention, he is not responding!  “Of course, Sir.  Illya, you’ll just have to cool your heels here, partner.  Mess about with some test tubes or something.  Rio calls.  Ah, Rio.” 

Rio de Janeiro was one of Napoleon’s favorite places on the planet.  It was the tail end of winter in the fine state of New York.  Miserable leaden skies had dominated the entire week.  In southern Brazil it would be boiling hot – August heat times two - a humid, blanketing heat.  Which, of course, meant the ladies would have on the absolute minimum legal attire – at least in most public places.  There were some beaches where nothing was required…ah Rio!  The nightclubs would be full of scantily clad local beauties.  The December through February tourist season would be well over.  His American citizenship notwithstanding, Napoleon’s least favorite encounter in foreign countries was the typical American tourist, with its loud plumage and equally loud and raucous voice.  Rio de Janeiro!  Hot winter nights under a full moon on the deserted beaches…

“Napoleon,” Illya whispered, interrupting Napoleon’s visions of lovely bare flesh spread out on a towel in that soft moonlight.  Alexander was temporarily distracted by a priority call.  “Napoleon!” 

“Hmmm?  Illya, what ever is the matter, old son?” Napoleon whispered back, not bothering to open his eyes.  Behind them, the lovely senorita put her arms over her head and her naked breasts shimmered in the moonlight.

“Take me with you!” Still whispering, but louder now – very insistent.

“Oh, come on tovarisch!  We just got back from Vermont.   You did nothing but grouse about how you wished you were here at Headquarters for two weeks.”

It was true.  It had snowed heavily during their peaceful two weeks in Vermont.  It had been extraordinarily nice of Napoleon to arrange for the two of them to take the make-work assignment, which entailed watching over the Premier of Moldavia and his entourage during their ski vacation.  Nice because it had solved the problem of the upcoming karate competition and Illya’s adamant refusal to participate.  If you were on assignment there was no penalty for missing it.  But the snow had put Illya in a sour mood.  He loved it and he hated it.  Heavy snow like they’d found falling endlessly in Vermont at the end of February made Illya homesick – which angered him to no end.  The result was a surly moroseness that wouldn’t lift no matter what Napoleon did.  Upon their return to New York, Napoleon had politely but firmly distanced himself from his difficult, moody partner – which Illya understood, being able to see himself through other’s eyes so often.  However, this assignment needed the both of them – Illya knew it, and had to wonder why Alexander Waverly didn’t ‘know’ it, as well.

“I should go with you, Napoleon,” Illya repeated.  Pins and needles seemed to be poking at his skin – an itchy, horrible feeling he’d never experienced before. 

“Well you’re not.  Going, that is.  No room for surly Russians in Rio!  It’s too hot for you there anyway, Illya.  You’d be a puddle on the sidewalk in no time.  I can just see it!  Liquefied Kuryakin.  All that would be left is that mop of blond hair.”

“I survived the Sudan, I believe I can survive Brazil,” Illya shot back, glaring.  Damn it!  The prickling was intensifying.  He had never before had a knack for precognition.  Personally, he did not believe such a thing was truly possible.  He had studied the problem from a physics point of view for an exhausting six months last year - on and off between assignments, that is – and his scientific mind had rejected the possibility of faster than light travel of sub-atomic particles that would allow for such a phenomenon.  These particles would travel backwards in time, went the theory, informing a receptive mind of future events.  No!  Ridiculous! 

“Well, there’s always a next time, Illya.  This baby’s all mine.  You saw the expression on the Old Man’s face.  Don’t make waves.”

Always a next time?  Are you sure about that, Napoleon?  

Between Napoleon’s soft mocking and Alexander’s set face, Illya realized he’d either have to succumb or disobey.   As he walked out behind Napoleon, he vowed to keep his mind open and his body fit.  That way, when the call came, he would be ready.

He was sure – backward time traveling sub-atomic particles or no – that the call would come.

And now it had.  And now it was time to apply himself as he had been used to doing in Russia.  When Illya Kuryakin really wanted something….

Secretaries bent over backward to get him in to see the people in charge.

Alexander took one look at the thundercloud that hovered over his protégé’s head and admitted that Mr. Solo had been remiss in reporting in for his last two periods.  A short, intense conversation ensued, the upshot of which was that Alexander caved in to Illya’s sharp voiced requests with hardly a protest.

The Weapons Master dropped what he was doing to put together a full kit for a restless, impatient Illya Kuryakin who didn’t request but demanded full assault gear.  Within an hour he was ready to depart. 

The helicopter on the roof of the Headquarters building was ready for takeoff.  But this was the end of the smooth sailing. 

Illya flew from Headquarters to JFK and spent an intolerable two hours waiting for his malfunctioning, delayed flight to Miami.  In Miami he spent a further three hours waiting to find out if his flight to Rio would even be possible.  There was a monster of a storm brewing in the Caribbean.  Even the young man pacing the mezzanine with the darkly gleaming eyes buried beneath a tense lowered brow could do nothing about the weather.  Nor could he do anything about the ultra-safety-conscious habits of American airline pilots. 

He called Alexander.  The pressure-laden Chief of North America gave him an open ticket to requisition any transportation available from any U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters located between himself and Rio de Janeiro. 

Now he was back in an arena where he had some authority – albeit borrowed.  

Miami to Port au Prince ate up four hours.  Stalled in Haiti, the now frantic and disturbingly furious Russian came close to biting the waving, cautionary finger of the man in charge of flights in and out of the small coastal airport off in his clenched teeth.   Illya stood in the gloomy, small staging area, weighing the consequences of unauthorized dismemberment of civilians.   Outside the storm raged.  They seemed to compliment each other very well.  Into this ultimate stormy atmosphere walked a man who immediately diverted the young Russian’s attention away from the closed mind of the flight coordinator.

Mid-menace, Illya whirled about to stare at the rain-drenched figure stamping his feet on the mat by the door.

“Hey Dub!  You look ‘bout as drown as those last bunch of pink-eyed whelps my bitch threw this mornin’!” This pleasant observation passed for hello in the relationship between the surly flight coordinator and the man who stood in the doorway dripping on the bare wood floor. 

Illya, furious at the delays he was encountering in getting to his destination, understood not one word of the quick exchange that followed.  He only understood that this small, unobtrusive looking man was a different cut of human than he’d ever encountered before. 

It became very quiet in the small room for a few minutes as the Cajun and the Russian studied one another.  Or rather it seemed quiet to the two of them.  Inside the small building the coordinator continued to spout opinions and observations.  Outside the rain poured down in sheets and the wind intensified to a constant howl. 

There was something hidden in this man – something as untamable as the storm which raged outside was Illya’s first impression of the short, sandy haired man with the faded gray eyes. 

Those eyes were set in a weather beaten face whose age could only be guessed at – like a cowboy who’s spent his life in the open and may be in his thirties or his sixties.  Calm gray eyes.  Calm.  This was the second impression Illya got.  The third impression was that beneath the calm lay a great strength.  An unknown species of strength.  This man was not like Waverly; not like Krasnov and certainly not similar to himself – but…

“You need ta be gittin somewheres, son?”  Dub Crehan was doing his own private assessment of the skinny youth who stared so unabashedly at him.  Dub’s was a bit more simply put, but got characteristically right to the crux.  He’s as bright as the sun.  Flash fry me if I ain’t wary.

The man’s voice was quiet.  His accent and the way he put together his words rendered his speech nearly unintelligible, but Illya had the distinct feeling that he liked the man.  It was a rarity – but it happened – this instant acceptance. 

Illya listened carefully as the man, Dub?, came closer to the desk and spoke unintelligible words to the coordinator.  He tried hard to decipher the meaning of the words spoken between the two, and finally had to give it up as a lost cause. 

“I need to get to Rio de Janeiro today,” he interrupted, speaking to the coordinator. 

“Yup.  Unnerstan dat, son.  Jack’s beetch ain’t da onee un pitchin a gaddam fit t’day,” the new man answered, turning to Illya and giving him stare for stare.

Illya understood yup and the word bitch.  He was just deciding not to take offense when the coordinator started yelling.

“No fuckin way you gonna take a bird up in this shit!  Man says the shitstorm ain’t gonna die down ‘fore tomorra, Dub!  This here fella can cool his jets!”  The man, Jack, continued to express these two facts in several colorful ways.

“Excuse me, sir, are you a pilot?”  Illya asked Dub.

For Dub, that quiet voice, strange accent and all, cut right through the noise of the bullshit and the storm.

            “Yup.”

            The invectives from behind the desk increased in volume and the scope became truly heroic.

            Trying hard to ignore this, Illya held out his hand to Dub and introduced himself formally.  “Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, sir, at your service.”  His hand was taken into the small but powerful hand of the pilot, and Illya gave his slight bow.  With the touch, Illya got the strongest urge to do something about the intervening noisy coordinator.  Without thinking much about it, he raised his left palm toward the offensive source and said simply, “Go to sleep.”

            To his astonishment, Jack’s head hit the desktop the next second.

            “Whooo eeee!” warbled Dub, in surprised glee.  To anyone who had spent any time in the south, and particularly in Louisiana, that alone would have identified him as a Cajun born and raised.  The sound itself was so full of outright merriment that Illya laughed himself, a open mouthed “Ha, ha, ha!”  Loud and full of its own power.

            “Dat one fine ting, son!” sputtered the Cajun and the gray eyes took on a delightful inner glow.

            “Yup,”  quipped Illya, looking at the now slumbering Jack. “May I have your name again, sir?”

            “Dub Crehan,” the man pronounced it slow – dub CREEhan – and held out his hand once more. 

            Taking the proffered hand in his, Illya began, “Mr. Crehan, are you willing to take me to…”

            “Ya do know where you want ta go, huh?”  Purposefully cutting back on the Cajun patois, Dub let his hand be held for the few extra seconds the suddenly glassy eyed youngster seemed to require.

The prickling feeling Illya had experienced for the last few hours was intense now.  Something was wrong with his final destination!  God damn it!  Napoleon, why aren’t you in Brazil?

Holding on to the calloused hand, the correct information seemed to coalesce out of thin air.  The man was an amplifier!  Illya had heard of this kind of effect.  His eyes snapped back to the laughing gray ones that regarded him calmly.

“Yes.  Yes, I do know.  It is much closer than I thought.” Illya consulted the map of South American in his head.  “I suppose Caracas would be the closest airport to my destination.”

“Dependin on da final destination, son, I cud prob’ly git ya a bunch closer dan dat.”  He smiled now and whatever reservations Illya had flew out the window.  “Dis a rescue ting?”

Dis equals is this.  Ting must be – thing.  I think that was ‘rescue’ in the middle, followed by a question mark.

“Yes,” Illya answered, his boyish smile peeking out.

The next question was totally untranslatable.  After four tries Illya understood he was being asked if he were some kind of law. 

“Yes and no,” he informed his pilot, suddenly sure Mr. Crehan did some business that might qualify as unlawful.  “You certainly have nothing to worry about, Mr. Crehan.”

“Got dat right!” grinned Dub in turn.  Half his business was transporting Cuban cigars into the United States.  But, as Illya liked him, so he liked the young blond boy, too.  ‘Sides, the law didn’t hire nobody below twenty-one.  And this kid was just that – a kid – once you got past those eyes and that jaw.  “Is mebbe yo Daddy you lookin’ ta fetch?  He in a bad spot?” 

After a long pause, Illya answered, “No, a friend, a very good friend who has helped me out of many bad spots.”

The Cajun’s expression grew grave.  “Den we go.  You tell ol’ Dub where we’s goin’ as we’s goin’.  Dat ‘bout it?”

“Dat ‘bout it.”  Illya returned Dub’s accent and manner of speech without thinking.  He collected accents like some people collected stamps. 

No offense was meant, and miraculously, none was taken.

Somehow they established that between them they had enough weaponry and equipment to storm a small fortress and win through to rescue Illya’s friend.  Dub’s face took on new respect as Illya showed him his throwing knives as well as the modified P-38 that was the U.N.C.L.E  special.  There were many, many other things stowed about Illya’s person, but time was of the essence.  Illya would have loved to watch the Cajun wield the wicked whip secured under his flight jacket.  Later perhaps, Illya thought distractedly.  Dub grabbed an extra medical supplies kit and lengths of rope, military-type food like substances and two light weight blankets from the back storage area as Jack slept serenely on.  Then the two heavily laden men braved the elements.

“Dis my sweet beetch!  I’nt she sumpen?  Fly hersef smack tru da worse blow dey ever was!”  Dub pounded the side of the medium sized seaplane on the small runway and smiled at Illya, then at the Cajun Lady. 

**********

“She goin’ get much worst,” was Dub’s sole comment during the first three hours of the flight.

 “Why?”  Illya knew very well why.  His temples ached with the dropping atmospheric pressure.  A sure sign the storm was intensifying.

Despite the danger, and the worry about Napoleon, it was wonderful to watch the Cajun handle his small craft under even such conditions as the ones that persisted today without letup.  Fleetingly, Illya wondered if U.N.C.L.E. could woo Mr. Crehan away from plying his somewhat shady trade and into service as a flight instructor.  The cabin reeked of sweet tobacco and the sharp scent of gunpowder, under-laden with oil.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what comprised most of Dub’s usual cargo.

Wishful thinking that such a one could be tied down to a position with the Command, no doubt.  But he would certainly like to take a lesson or ten with this man as his instructor.

SOMEWHERE IN VENEZUELA

            The Brazzi family had lived in Ciudad Bolivar, Venezuela for sixteen generations now.  They lived in a modest house perched on a slope in the moderate sized town.

Untold millions passed through their hands, but they kept themselves and their family in an unobtrusive manner. This would change as soon as the eldest brother, Ricco, decided he’d made enough through the heroin trade to retire in splendor – along with all his brothers and his sisters and their husbands and various children, mothers, fathers, and grandparents.  

            This ultimate goal might be closer than he had even dreamed if the organization behind the myth of Carlos the Jackal paid its price for his newest acquisition.  This acquisition was secreted in the cavernous mountains that overlooked the Orinoco River about 300 miles inland from Angel Falls.  The prisoner had been taken in Rio three days ago.  He was caught poking his nose into the Brazzi family business.  Asking questions – the right questions of the right people, and generally making a nuisance of himself. 

Ah, but he had been so easy to trap.  Consuela had come in so handy once again.  She had taken a photo of this man as a matter of course, sending it along to his contact in Brazil, who promptly forwarded it to Ricco.  Ricco, in turn, had sent it to his newest friends.  These friends lost no time in expressing their interest!  And the price they would pay – Mother Mary and all the saints be blessed!  Provided the bait survived the uncontrollable team of Manuel and Ramirez, of course.

Sitting in his mamma’s kitchen, Ricco frowned and knocked back another shot of the local libation.  Damn the storm anyway!  It made communication impossible.  He would have to send more men into the mountains just to make sure Ramirez didn’t kill Napoleon Solo just for fun.  Sick animal! 

But there were tools and tools – animals and animals.  Consuela, for instance was somewhat of an animal. And as useful to him, from time to time, as his machete on a walk through the foothills.

Ricco smiled as he pictured the delectable Consuela.   Her usefulness increased as she progressed from a tender fourteen to a nubile eighteen.  A sweet pot of honey guaranteed to catch any fly – or spy.

**********

Somewhere Along the Orinoco River - Venezuela

            Napoleon swam to consciousness layer by layer.  It was tough going against a heavy current. 

            By the time he opened his eyes, he was completely puzzled.  First, of course, you pretended to be still out cold, and listened.  Trouble was – there was no sound to listen to except the sound of his own labored breath.

            Next you peeked through slitted eyes.  Trouble was – there was nothing to see.  Absolutely nothing.  The only way he knew his eyes were open was the feel of the slight breeze flowing over his eyeballs. 

            When you had been beaten as badly as he had been, you hoped for something to distract yourself with.  Something to look at maybe.  Even the mad eyes of your tormentor.  There was nothing.  There was black nothing.  A corner of his mind woke up and began to signal panic. 

            You are dead.

            No.  Being dead wouldn’t hurt this much. 

            Somewhere below Napoleon’s armpits the pain began.  Above them, he was numb. 

            You are dead.  This is hell.  The pain is part of your punishment.

            Stop it!  Think man!  Where am I?  How the hell did I get here?

            His ears and his mind registered a low rumble.  His body vibrated with it ever so slightly.  The rock itself trembled.

            That’s it!  I’m in a cave and all the lights are out.  Okay. 

            Napoleon Solo, still hanging like a side of beef from the roof of the cave, began to remember how he’d managed to get himself into this particular mess. 

            The girl.  Of course. 

            Illya will never let me hear the end of this one. I could leave her out of the equation.  But then how would I explain being caught by amateurs? 

            Napoleon was wrong about these people being amateurs.  The Brazzi Cartel had been in business for over a hundred years.  He had not been trapped by amateurs but he was correct in thinking his current keepers represented the usual danger of being held by people who hardly understood what they were doing.

            It was his own fault that he’d ended up trussed like a side of beef in a cooler.  On the way here Napoleon had made two aborted escape attempts.  His first attempt had been foiled because he hadn’t guessed the number and strength of the gang that first trapped and trussed him.  He’d had all his hidden equipment stowed in various, reachable places.  Half a mile and three dead bodies later, the rest of Napoleon’s captors subdued him once again.  This time they seemed better informed of what his business might be.  He was thoroughly stripped and professionally searched.  They got most of his fancy gadgets.  Next came an unnecessarily vicious blow to the back of his head and a long time of knowing nothing and feeling little except vibrations in the floors of various modes of transportation.

            He came out of his daze to find himself tied securely to a stout chair in the middle of a wooden hut, surrounded by swarthy men discussing different ways and means of forcing him to talk.  None of these methods sounded particularly pleasant.  

            Being good at playing possum stood him well, and left alone for a few precious minutes, he applied his watch’s clever little incendiary device to the thick ropes that bound his hands behind him.  He got first and second degree burns out of this and broke free for another hour or two.  Then, being unfamiliar with the terrain, and trying to evade people who knew the area well, he was caught once more, knocked out again, and woke up suspended and ready for fun and games with Ramirez and Manuel. 

            Apparently the rest of the gang had left for the day, for all he saw, when he was conscious, was those two ugly, vacuous faces.  All he heard was their maddening, repeated questions.  All he felt was pain.  And pain.  And pain.  

            Another six hours in this chill, damp, lightless cave, without food, water or respite from the pressure of hanging by his wrists and he would die.  Anyone in less than excellent shape would have died sometime during their first day of hanging like this, and though there was no way for Napoleon to know this, he was entering his forth day of captivity – the second inside the lightless cavern.

            Manuel, sick of the sight of Ramirez beating the prisoner, and even sicker of hearing his mad-dog of a compatriot complain about the pain in his own fists, had taken over.  His style represented a far more sophisticated method of torture.  Left in the complete darkness, with nothing but his own pain to note, the prisoner would be reduced to a spineless mass soon enough.  By the end of today, surely.  This method had worked for Manuel even with people he knew were inured to torture.  Si!  By tonight, the American would change his mind and tell Manuel all about what he knew and how he knew it.  The American would cry and blubber and beg for release. 

            The thing was – Manuel was right.  Even a man with Napoleon Solo’s resources would break under such conditions.  Except for one or two happy circumstances.  The storm outside let the man buried under tons of rock remain aware of a world outside his own circle of pain and uncertainty.  Then, sometime between Napoleon’s return to consciousness and the passing of an unknown amount of dark time, the short hairs on the nape of Napoleon’s neck performed their stand-up act. 

            Illya Kuryakin was in danger. 

            The merest bit of pressure on his numb arms was relieved by stretching his spine out and pointing his toes – which meant one of them reached the surface below him..  It was enough of a release of pressure for some of the blood to return to his tortured upper extremities.  Heart beating wildly with renewed hope and new arenas of pain, Napoleon concentrated on restoring the feeling to more parts of his arms. 

            Illya was on his way.  That’s why he was in danger. 

            Finally gathering his wits, Napoleon closed his eyes and concentrated on his partner’s image.  He called his name out in his mind.  These were things Napoleon and Illya had never discussed.  Somehow, though, Napoleon knew that doing these things in particular would assist his multi-talented partner in his search.

**********

            An hour ago Illya had asked Dub to wake him if he needed him.  Dub had nodded, sparing Illya one short, evaluating glance. Three minutes after the Russian’s pronounced intent he had achieved his goal. 

            The storm had intensified over the Caribbean as both men knew it would, and now they were getting dangerously low on fuel as well. 

Two things reached Illya’s mind simultaneously - the pronounced shuddering of the seaplane and Napoleon Solo’s strident, beautifully directed call for help.  Illya had not been asleep, precisely – more like in a trance.  He could force this trance when sleep deprivation might impinge on his upcoming performance.  He had not been sleeping well for four days, and not at all the night before this unplanned trip.  Drastic measures were therefore called for. 

            Illya!  Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin!  Tovarisch!  

            Napoleon Solo’s voice, clear and loud!  Nearly deafening.  In a half-wake state Illya reached out to the mind of his friend, demanding to know exactly where in the mountainous country along the river he might be.  This was mostly wasted effort on Illya’s part since Napoleon was a sender and not a receiver.  At least Illya was quite sure this was the case.  Or had been up till now – maybe this could change? 

            Napoleon had never talked to Illya about his body hair trick. 

            Along with the voice of his friend he received an impression of black – followed quickly by an interpretation of pain.  This Illya blocked to the extent that he would not feel it – which would render him totally useless – but was aware his partner was in dire straights. 

            Fucking strength, Illya thought - his favorite epithet. 

            Illya!  Please!  I need you! 

            Excellent, Napoleon!   I hope you keep this up!   The last thing he could afford now was to react with emotion.  Cold determination would have to do for now. 

                Dub Crehan reached over to touch his arm, wishing to bring his attention to the deep black swirl of clouds off to their left and Napoleon’s exact location came bludgeoning through like a sledgehammer.  The U.N.C.L.E. remote sensor in Rio might report Mr. Solo’s location as still in Rio de Janeiro – the sensor in Illya’s head, exquisitely attuned to the man who called and amplified beyond a doubt by the touch of this unknown talent that flew a mean seaplane, told a far different story!

            One hour and fifteen minutes later the seaplane landed on the broad Orinoco river about six miles upstream from Napoleon’s place of captivity.  It was not a good landing.

            You will not pass out.  Not.  Not.  Not.  You cannot afford to waste a minute, let alone hours. 

            By will alone, Illya remained conscious. 

Dub, much better protected by the configuration of onboard equipment and the extra padding and webbing that surrounds the pilot on such aircraft, was unhurt.  Dazed, white lipped and knuckled maybe, but not hurt, he had brought the sea-plane down in a sort of controlled plummet from about 2,000 feet to the raging river’s surface. 

            Outside, night was drawing down.  The torrential rain and high winds continued unrelenting.  Inside, the blood from a gash on the back of his head soaked the collar and back of Illya’s flight jacket.  He heard some nonsense syllables being growled nearby, and struggled mightily to remember who was this person with him in…?  Was that language? 

            The Cajun was swearing a blue streak, something Illya himself might have been doing if he weren’t so groggy.

            “You okay, son?”  Dub looked away from the rushing water beneath his precious plane long enough to check his passenger out.  What he saw worried him until he discovered it was a head wound.  They bled, looked alarming as hell, but rarely were are bad as all the blood would indicate.  Since he liked this young man so much, he found his flashlight and shone it in his face, watching for dilated eyes that would signal concussion.  A little dilation, not much.  “We be goin’ down da stream bout fas nuff dat we gone cum out da mout into de oceyon soon ‘nuf.”

            “Stoh?” grunted Illya.  “Gdye?”

            Worried again, Dub shone the flashlight into Illya’s eyes once more.  Illya groaned and shook his head – a bad move.  The world swam. 

Reaching into a waterproof bag in one of his pockets he found a foil packet and removed one of the small white pills provided by Medical.  One of these would clear up any befuddled head for about four to six hours.  After that…well…better be somewhere safe.  Which had better be the case anyway, because his internal radar told him Napoleon was getting closer by the minute, and was not in the best of shape.  Shrugging, he crunched the little white pill up and swallowed it.  His head cleared almost immediately and tremendous energy built its way up from his toes to the top of his head.  Now he remembered who this was and where they were – in a downed seaplane on the Orinoco, apparently going in the right direction.  He could feel his friend growing closer.  Maybe five miles away now.  Let the river do the legwork, then, Illya thought, amused.  I’ll get ready to abandon ship at the right point.  

**********

            “Shit!” Manuel jumped up from where he’d been sleeping two levels below the prisoner’s abode.  Too much time had passed since he’d checked the prisoner’s condition.  Vasquez would rip his throat out if he let the pig die without getting information.  He kicked Ramirez’s sleeping ass as he stumbled to the exit of the chamber.

“Shit,” the voluble Ramirez echoed, “it’s fucking cold!  What’s up, Manni? The boss here?”

            Manuel didn’t bother answering.  He was making haste to see if the hanging pig was still alive or dead.  Ready to squeal or beyond even that.

            With a kind of elation, Napoleon saw the light of a lantern approaching and heard the raspy voices.  Above all, he needed a change of venue.  Despite knowing Illya was on his way, and a return of feeling in his arms up to his elbows, he was close to giving up the ghost and he knew it.  Before the heavy curtains were drawn away from the entrance to his private torture chamber, he sagged into a defeated slump and dangled helplessly, slowing his breathing. 

            “Shit, shit, shit!”  Manuel cut the rope holding the prisoner’s hands above his head.  Despite his best intentions, Napoleon screamed out his pain as his shoulder sockets returned to their rightful places and he fell to the hard, cold stone, truly unconscious. 

**********

            Illya Kuryakin and Dub Crehan had spent a busy fifteen minutes in the seaplane traveling at approximately 10 knots downriver.  For most of them, Illya had been trying to talk Mr. Crehan into staying with his plane while Illya went after his friend.  All this while Dub had been ignoring the advice and stowing his weapons in ingenious places about his person.  Last to appear was a knife in a sheath of such intriguing workmanship that Illya forgot to continue the one-sided argument and politely asked to be shown the weapon. 

            Incongruous white teeth flashed in the weathered face of his companion.  “Now dis here beauty has saved da life of dis Cajun more ‘n once,” Dub said, looking at his favorite with the reverence it deserved.  “Kinda lak I be willin’ ta bet dat un has you own.”  He patted Illya’s left forearm.

            Illya’s head snapped around to gaze at the passing bank on the left side.  “Time to throw the anchor, Mr. Crehan!”

            “We’s close, den?”

            “Yup.”

            “You got yosef a hat, son?”

            Illya shook his head.

            “Tek dis un den.  How you gon see what you hittin’ wit dis rayon in yo face?”  Dub held out a wide brimmed hat.

            Illya took the hat and jammed it on his head.  It fell down to his ears, but Dub was right, he’d need it.  They would need a lot of luck now, too, for once they threw out the anchor, the raging current would play hell with the little seaplane.  Then there was the question of how they were going to get to the right shore.   Illya voiced his concerns as they got ready to heave anchor.

                “You jus’ watch, son.”

            They threw the anchor.  Dub braced himself and Illya followed suit.  The abrupt halt nearly threw both of them anyway.  The little plane, at the mercy of the current whipped this way and that. 

            “Hole on t’ dis strut and hole on ta me!” shouted Dub as they started swinging toward the left bank.  He pulled the big whip out and uncoiled it – waited until they’d come close enough to the bank and wielded the whip with such expertise that it anchored itself to an obliging downed tree along the bank.  Illya would have whistled his appreciation if he hadn’t been so busy being an anchor himself. 

            Next the Cajun brought out the heaviest coil of rope he’d brought and tied it to the sturdy undercarriage of the plane.  Illya was left to act as anchor all by himself, and the effort of holding the whip’s handle nearly tore his arm out of its socket as the current pulled hard right. 

            “Now haul!” shouted Dub, and came behind the struggling Russian, securing his body to the outside strut with another length of rope.

            “Haul?” repeated Illya.

            “Yup.”  Dub made hand over hand motions.

            Somehow Illya managed to haul the little plane over close enough for Dub to jump to the relative safety of the shore.  He secured the other end of the heavy rope to a bole of an even better tree and motioned for Illya to deplane.  Illya drew his blade from its sheath, cut the rope securing him to the strut and looked down at the four feet of white water between him and safety.  If he fell into this current carrying this much equipment he would be drowned in no time at all.  He understood why Dub didn’t want to bring the plane any closer to the shore.  Any closer and it would be smashed repeatedly against the rocks that lined this stretch.  As usual the strong current ran strongest right along the deep space near the bank, which would keep the seaplane at a safe distance…

            “Come on, son!  Jump!” Dub yelled.

            Dub had made it look so easy…but Illya carried most of the supplies.  His mind made some quick calculations and screamed at him that he needed more room for a running start. 

            He almost made it.  His hands flew up and grabbed the taught rope suspended between tree and shore and he hung suspended, up to his torso in the rushing water. 

            The standing long jump will never be my favorite event, Illya thought and hauled himself along the rope until he could brace his feet against the rocks. Dub hurried over and relieved him of some of the heavy encumbrances secured to his shoulders and he heaved himself up and onto the bank. 

            “Well, that was easy.  Now all we have to do is find our way to the right path to get to the right cave!” Illya shouted still prone and gasping for breath.

            “Yup!  You grab on to me when you need to, son.  We git dere!”

            So! Illya thought, a warm feeling stealing into his heart, he understands completely! 

            He grinned up into the smiling face of his oddball companion and nodded his understanding.

********** 

Halfway up the path to the caves, a small contingent of men made their perilous way to the hideaway.  Not so difficult on a nice day in the sunshine, today the trip was complicated by high winds and a decrepit looking rope and plank bridge suspended over a modest drop that swung alarmingly to and fro. 

            Rafael Vasquez and his cuadrilla[1] would have crossed this bridge without a second thought, but the man from THRUSH took one look at it and stopped dead.

It was all Rafael could do to keep the contempt out of his voice as he spoke with the nearly cowering THRUSH official.  “This is the only way into the caves, Senor.  We have made this trip countless times.  There is little danger if you step carefully.”

Senor Alvarez rued his decision to come along in the first place, but the lure of taking possession of Napoleon Solo and delivering him to the individual who offered THRUSH a substantial reward for such services was just too sweet. 

“If you can get him here, to me, without too much damage being done and in good time, I will reward you handsomely,” the disembodied voice over the communications unit had instructed.  It was not the first time Senor Alvarez had heard this voice, but the hollow, unidentifiable sounds behind it always set his teeth on edge.  “Here” was somewhere in Nepal – on the other side of the planet.  All Alvarez had to do was to take a live Solo to this unnamed person and THRUSH would gain close to 15 million dollars.   Much more if U.N.C.L.E. did not learn of the abduction.   Enrico Alvarez, second in command of THURSH regional headquarters in Santiago, Argentina had traveled a long way in a big hurry once the Brazzi Cartel had informed Central of the man they had in their possession.

Enrico Alvarez looked up at the wildly swaying bridge and shuddered.  “Very well.  How much further after that?”

“A mile or two, senor.  It will be good to get out of this storm, no?  We have food and drink in the caves as well.  And,” Rafael looked up at the darkening sky, “places to sleep.  This storm will only get worse, senor.  It is rare we have such a storm this time of year.  When we do, it is wise to take shelter until they blow over.”

Alvarez, who didn’t fancy two forays over that bridge in total darkness, could only agree. 

**********

Manuel’s short wave radio squawked to life startling the hell out of him.

            “Hello?” he said with uncertainty.

            It was Vasquez’s turn to be embarrassed in front of the VIP from THRUSH.  Muerde!  Hello!  Vasquez turned and hunched over his radio, “You son of a dog!  Stupid hairless woman! Hello?!”

            “Lo siento[2], Senor Vasquez!  It has been a long day and I did not-”

            “You did not think, eh, Manuel?   Never mind.  I know who you are and you know my voice.  You also know there will be adequate punishment coming to you when I finally arrive.  Is the prisoner still breathing?”

            “Si.”

            “You see that one?  The one who looks completely out of place?”  Illya whispered to Dub as they crouched behind an outcropping of rock about five yards from where the wet little band had stopped below the bridge.

            Dub nodded.

            “Him we need to take alive.  Also the one with the radio in his hand.  I will take care of those two first,” he whispered, removing one clip from his Special and slapping in another.  “You take down  the rest however you see fit.”  The rain, wind and cracks and groans of the trees had taken the challenge out of the stalk.  But for once, Illya would not mind having an easy time of things.  The trip up the side of the mountain had been arduous.  Dub had followed just behind him the entire way without a sound.  Illya had the feeling that even without the curtain of sound afforded by the storm he would not have heard his silent companion.  About halfway up, Illya had detected the small group making their way half a mile ahead of them and two hundred feet up.  He had an uncanny feeling that Mr. Crehan had long known of their presence, but had left it to his young companion to mention it first.  Taking another look at Dub’s lowered head, Illya had to smile in admiration. Having come to know the wily Cajun quite well in a short time due to the extreme situations they had shared, Illya knew Dub would let him lead unless he saw Illya do something seriously wrong.  This didn’t feel like patronization - more like a test of ability.   Knowing this and wanting to do well under this scrutiny, Illya thought again about the best way to proceed.

            If the group did as he thought they would, the peons would go first over the shaking rope and plank bridge and their leaders would follow.  But it was the two men so obviously a cut above the rest that he was so interested in acquiring, so…shoot them first and hope the rest would scramble over the bridge?  Why not?  At worst the remainder would head back down the stony path and right into Illya and Dub’s line of fire.  At best they would continue across the bridge and could be picked off easily.

            The Cajun’s eyes glittered under the brim of his hat as Illya explained their plan of action.  He loosened his clothing and readied his collection of throwing knives.  Illya drew a bead on the man with the clean face and hands dressed down in travel worn khakis.   

            Move! Illya silently urged.

            The leader of the banditos, he who had been talking on the wireless, called to his men to begin their traverse of the treacherous bridge, and Illya smiled in grim satisfaction. 

            Events went so smoothly from that point that it made Illya wonder if some of the famous Solo luck had finally rubbed off.  The six peons started over the rain-slicked planks suspended between lengths of soggy ancient rope.  The one going first got halfway across then fell with an audible cry, his leg going through the rotted wood of one of the planks.  This happy circumstance gave Dub a cluster to take down, and Illya two stunned, staring men on the near side who had their attention solely on their  companion’s plight.  Even from this far away and in the deepening gloom, Illya could see the aristocratic face of his first victim pale through the scope of his modified Special.

            THRUSH!  There was a look about the man that screamed it.  A leader unused to such challenging physical situations, no doubt.

Wasting no time, not wishing the two on solid ground to hear the screams of the men about to die on the swinging bridge, Illya took them both with a dart.  Behind him, Dub rose like a silent wraith, cocked his arm back, and threw his first blade.  The man who had cried out after falling ceased to be afraid of falling.  The next man in line clutched his side and lost his footing, falling over the side onto the rocks below.  The next four started back the way they had come, and were mowed down by bullet and knife before one foot hit solid rock. 

            Illya had to squash the yell that threatened to come up out of his throat.  You never knew how many more enemies might be lurking nearby.  And besides, the Cajun wasn’t making a sound.  He had crouched back down and now touched his young companion on the shoulder.  “Dat wus fine!”

            “Yes, I have to agree!” Illya whispered back, once again galvanized by the touch.  Information came flooding in unbidden.  He shared it without hesitation.  “My friend is being held in a cave by two men somewhere above us.  I should be able to pick the right opening when the time comes.  We will have to cross that bridge…” he smiled to himself, “when we come to it.  There are no other people on this mountainside.  Shall we see what we have captured?”

            The Cajun kept his hand where it was and pulled his young companion back down.  “You fren, you tink he be feel up to getting’ down dis mountain?”

            This was something Illya did not want to concentrate on yet, but he knew there must be a good reason for the question.  “No,” he admitted after a short pause, “my friend is in a bad way.”

            “Reason I axed, son, dat dere bridge sho don’ look good.  We might betta cross witout all dis geah, but if we’s gotta stay, it gotta go wit us.”

            The statement didn’t take long to make sense to Illya since he’d been thinking along the same lines.  “You got us safely here and out of the plane, I will take care of the portage.”

            Unable to wait any longer, Illya jumped from his hiding place and went quickly to where the two downed men lay motionless in the lessening rain.  Having opened up the question of how his partner might be faring his anxiety about Napoleon was escalating rapidly.  As he pulled out his duct tape and secured the two men thoroughly, his mind cataloged what it knew. 

            Napoleon Solo was close to death.  He had been beaten within an inch of his life and…hung?…in the cold dark for far too long. 

            On the other hand, Napoleon’s captors must have been planning to turn him over to this THRUSH official, and they usually wanted their captives alive for questioning. 

            Yes, Illya, think of that – not of the other.  If you think of Napoleon dying you are lost.

            His anger growing despite attempts to thwart it, he tore open the clothing of the clean faced, aristocratic looking fellow and searched for clues to his identity.  Finding none, and getting angrier, he blasted into the slumbering mind – kind of like using a sledgehammer to hang a picture frame. 

            Well, Senor Alvarez!  Your future has changed.  If I cannot find a way to get you to the plane and off to headquarters, you will die here on this mountain.  And as for you, Senor…Vasquez, you can answer the questions my friend came here to ask, and quite nicely!

            Dub interrupted this silent interrogation by asking him for the loan of his Special.

            “She so quiet, an dem fellas down der too noisy,” Dub offered in explanation miming target practice. 

            Now that Dub had mentioned it, Illya could hear some pathetic noises coming from below and to his right.  Illya handed over his personal weapon without a second thought.  It wouldn’t do to warn the two captors ahead of time.

********** 

            “Shit!” exclaimed Manuel for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

            “Manni?   He gonna make it?” Ramirez asked.

            “Don’t know.  Shit!  I wish we’d known they wanted him in good condition!”

            The prisoner lay on a rock slab in the lower cavern now, looking like a badly bruised corpse.  His breath whistled in and out faintly.  Shock and dehydration would kill him if he weren’t handled just right, and Manuel had no real knowledge of how to treat these conditions, only how to create them.  Ramirez was sent to fetch some water from the stream outside the cave’s mouth.

            He stood poised over the body, knife in hand, ready to cut the rest of the bonds when a voice came from behind him, cold and even, “Put it down.”

            Manuel started to turn. 

            “One more move, senor, and your life is over.”

            Manuel froze. 

‘Put it down.’  Napoleon heard these three words through the haze in his head spoken in the soft accents of his friend and thought them the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard in his life.  After those three words, he heard nothing more.  The world receded.

            “Now, move as and when I tell you and you may yet live to torture another helpless victim,” Illya instructed.  “Back away to your right, senor.  All the way to the wall, if you please, and tell me, quietly, where your partner is at the moment.”

            “I don’t know, Senor.”

            “That kind of answer will get you killed.  Turn around!  Face the wall!”

            Manuel did as told, hoping this would-be rescuer would be stupid enough to come up close behind him.  Most would want to bring the weapon they wielded up against their victim, letting the victim feel the threat of cold steel.  Manuel was a very adept fighter and could disarm the owner of the cold voice if he were inexperienced enough. 

            It was not Manuel’s lucky day.

            Illya, who knew Napoleon had been aware of his presence at least when he’d first entered the cold chamber, let that knowledge calm his rage and ease his panic.  Caution prevailed.  It wouldn’t do to come this close and then blow it all.  There were only the two men here.  One was in his sights and the one unaccounted for would have to get past Dub to get in here.  Strange that he couldn’t feel the other’s presence, but then one never knew.  Perhaps the other man was ‘dark,’ and unknowable.  Perhaps he’d only sensed the other through Napoleon’s mind. 

            Napoleon.  Good God, what a horrible mess they have made of you! 

            Illya inched closer to the stone slab that his friend’s still body occupied, keeping a close eye on the bastard facing the wall and another on the entrance to the cavern.  His need for close, physical examination and succor was becoming overwhelming. 

            Where the fuck is the other man?

            Having lost the comfort of Napoleon’s being at least conscious, Illya’s mood was darkening rapidly.  He would count to twenty.  If nothing happened – if the other did not come in, of if Dub did not come in bringing the other in tow, he would kill this one and see to his partner. 

            “Adin, dva, tree, chitirye, pyat…” Illya’s soft voice counted out the seconds in the cold, dimly lit chamber.

            He’d not reached dyevitnatsit when the loud noise of an un-silenced revolver broke the stillness.  In that second, Manuel moved, going for his pistols slung around his hips.  He was incredibly fast.  But it was not his lucky day.  He died soundlessly, sliding down the rock wall leaving an unsightly mess along the way.

            “Your friend is dead!” Illya yelled to his unknown opponent.  “It is all your fault!”

            Silence and the whistling of Napoleon’s breath.  Where was his crafty Cajun?  Surely the unknown man could not have gotten by such a sentinel!  Illya would not alert the other man to Dub’s presence by calling to him.

            Illya’s confidence in his new friend was well founded but the two gang members they faced had been chosen to hold this captive not because they were particularly bright but for their legendary skills at dealing death as well as being prodigious torturers.  They had no fancy weaponry, true, but both were deadly and quick with their pistols and both were vicious street fighters.  

            Ramirez was definitely the more skilled assassin of the two.  He left the thinking to his partner, but he could move silently and quickly, and was a sure shot with any weapon of any make.  He’d managed to wing the man who stood just inside the cave’s mouth as well as to reason that if one was left on guard that meant there were more inside.  Then had come the voice in Spanish, telling him that his long time friend, Manuel, was dead. 

            Red rage blossomed behind Ramirez’s eyes.  He and Manni had been boyhood amigos.  They had played in the dusty streets as kids and grown up together; had been recruited by the local branch of the powerful Brazzi Cartel together – shared the same whores, drank and pissed and laughed together now for fifteen years. 

            “He died like a woman!  Begging for his life!”  The cocky voice from inside informed Ramirez.

            Motherless, whoredog, piece of shit!  You, you fucker, will die a death so horrible that hell will seem like a vacation when you get there!

            Incensed beyond his capacity to stay cool, Ramirez strode by the wounded man at the mouth of the cave and removing his hard soled boots, began a silent stalk down the stony corridor he knew like the back of his hand. 

            Ah!, thought Illya, it worked!  Having the unknown man’s rage directed against him brought him into dim focus.  Now he could sense him!

            With as much care as he had time for, Illya lifted Napoleon from the stone slab and hid him behind it, effectively shielding the helpless man from flying bullets.  The feel of Napoleon’s cold, clammy skin made his stomach turn over with frantic worry, but the one who approached now down the rock corridor must be dealt with first.  Remembering that he had two blankets rolled into a pack on his back he tore one off and quickly bent to cover the body on the floor.  The movement saved his life.  Two deadly steel-jacketed projectiles invaded the space his head had occupied a second before.  They ricocheted wildly and a piece of one cut a furrow across his back.  He dropped down and shielded the body of his friend.

            Trapped now in the small space behind the rock slab and the back wall of the cavern, he had no choices left.  His hand on Napoleon’s chest told him the heart inside that chest was fluttering wildly in an attempt to remain serviceable.  He could not afford a standoff.  A maniacal charge would have to do.

            Damn!  No, wait!  Don’t be stupid! 

            Reaching beneath his soaked jacket he removed a foil packet.  Tear gas, the great leveler, would do nicely in this situation.  Nothing deadlier or the environment would become deadly for all involved.  The toss would have to go well and inundate the corridor beyond this chamber.  Napoleon wouldn’t survive even as benign a chemical as tear gas in his depleted state.

            I am out of time.

            Illya stood and rushed to the door of the cavern.  Bullets tore around his body and one seared his left arm.  He threw the pellet of concentrated tear gas from the entrance and fell flat, snaking along the rough floor until he was under cover once more. 

            The irritating gas found its primary target, the pellet breaking precisely at Ramirez’s feet.  One indrawn breath later, Ramirez was reduced to helpless coughing and choking. 

            There was the sound of another unsilenced shot from the corridor, followed closely by a choked, unearthly scream of pain.

“Son?  Where you be?”

            Dub!   Thank God!

            “Here in the chamber! I want that one alive!”

            “So, do I, son.  So do I,” Dub’s chilling whisper didn’t reach Illya but it matched his voice in savagery.  Having no compunction to spare the writhing, coughing, bleeding man on the floor any pain, Dub settled for the one shattered knee.  Holding his breath against the cloud of tear gas, Dub ignored the injured animal that had managed to get the drop on him, and went to help his young friend.

            “We must get him warm and comfortable,” Illya was telling the Cajun, spreading the other blanket on the ground and tearing off his jacket. 

             The Cajun didn’t waste any words telling his young friend that he, himself, was bleeding profusely from several different spots.  Nor that Dub’s own blood was running down his left arm unchecked.  The poor man on the floor, unconscious and gray hued, was much more in need of immediate attention.

            “Do you see anything soft we could put under him?”  Illya’s attention was entirely focused on getting Napoleon warm first.  The cold would kill him.  Insulation and heat were absolutely essential! 

            Dub found the filthy blankets the two men had been using as bedrolls and dragged them over to where the unconscious man lay. 

            “Thank you,” said Illya, distractedly.  “Could you help me lift him onto those?”

            “Yup.  Son, ya know I been callin’ you son, cause I cain’t ‘member your name.”

            “I have been called worse,” Illya said, never taking his eyes or attention from his friend.  His hands traveled over Napoleon’s body searching for dangerous swelling and broken bones beneath the thin blanket.  So far he’d found nothing life threatening.  But then, one never could tell without a full medical exam.  I have to get him warm!  Now!  His skin feels like cold, wet paper!  I cannot stand it!

            Together they lifted Napoleon onto the soft, makeshift bed.  A low groan was torn out of Napoleon.  This cheered his partner to no end.  Any sound was better that that wheezing breath! 

            “He needs water, son.  Looks like maybe it’s been awhile since da sumbitches give him any,” Dub prompted gently.  “You try an git em awake a lil bit and drinkin’ some.  I go find some dry wood for a fire.  Be right back.”

            Yes, water and warmth. 

            “Napoleon,” Illya stroked the clammy cheek with one cold hand.  “Napoleon, please!  Wake up just a bit, milok!  I have water ready for you.  You must be thirsty!  Napoleon!”  He had to abandon the soft caress and apply a sharp slap.  It was imperative to wake him up enough to force water down his throat.  It hurt his heart to see Napoleon in such physical peril.  Hurt like mad to have to elicit another groan with another sharp slap to a badly damaged cheek.

            “Napoleon!”

            “Cold,” whispered Napoleon though lips that were turning blue.

            “I know, Napoleon.  I will get you warm.  But first you have to drink a little water!”  Illya levered his friend up carefully and brought the canteen to his lips.  He almost cheered when the offer was taken.  Dispensing the life giving water in small sips to a half conscious injured Napoleon, Illya felt better than he had since forever.  “Slowly, moy padroog!  Not too much right now.  There is plenty.  You will be all right now.  I have you,” Illya crooned softly to his friend as he allowed the water to slide down the injured man’s throat. 

            “Cold, Evan, so cold.”

            The depth of disappointment and physical agony caused by Napoleon calling him Evan surprised Illya.  Even so, he did not bother to correct his friend’s mistake.

            “One more drink, Napoleon, and then I will get you warm.”

            “Knew you’d come,” croaked Napoleon, a semblance of a smile reaching the swollen mouth.

            Agony made a second trip from somewhere around Illya’s heart to his head, and burst into fresh pain as Napoleon again whispered Evan’s name, throwing his head side-to-side.

            You stupid, sentimental fool!  What did you think?  That you would replace Evan in this man’s affections?  They were partners for five years! 

            Even as he berated himself for his romantic notions he was removing the rest of his clothing.  His partner needed warmth.  He would provide that warmth.  The wet clothes would have to go and his body heat would do the job.  Skin to skin, the warmth would build.  The bittersweet irony of this situation hardly made an impression.

            Dub returned with some few pieces of sorry looking kindling.  “Gottam sumbitches dint have sense nuff ta store dry kindlin’!  Dat un out dere sleepin!  Live but sleepin. You friend okay?”  He stopped dead in his tracks and watched the slender blond remove most of his wet clothes.  He only paused a second, then understood exactly what his young friend was doing and nodded.  “I go look for more dry kindlin’.  Might take awhile.  Meantimes you got da right ideah, son!  What is you name?”

            “Illya.”

            “Eel-YAH?”

            “Da.  This man’s name is Napoleon, believe it or not.”

            “Na-pol-YON.”  Both names rolled off Dub’s tongue with the easy grace of true French.  “Eelyah a Napolyon!  Kinda dah law – kinda not, eh?”

            “We belong to an organization that concerns itself mainly with international crime syndicates.  Have you ever heard of U.N.C.L.E.?”

            “Non!  Vraimon?”  Dub looked hard at Illya trying to see if his leg was being pulled.  He had indeed heard of this organization, but could hardly believe his young friend could be an agent – a spy.  In New Orleans there thrived a species of law that was like no other.  Power was mostly wielded by what could only be termed Families, much like the Mafiosa, only not nearly as large or generally as well funded – too lawless to be that well organized; too clannish and far too proud. 

            “Yes, it is the truth,” Illya said quietly and prepared to slide beneath the blankets to begin his job of being the warmth his partner so desperately needed.

            “Un moment!” Dub came up close and pointed to the various cuts on Illya’s fair skin.  “You git in dere, dose dry tings get damp.  Un moment!”  He got out a medical kit and quickly unrolled several bandages.  “Turn round.”  First the long gouge on Illya’s back was dressed with minimum time and fuss.  Next the large gash on the back of his head, which had begun to bleed profusely with all the activity and finally the left arm.  His own superficial wound had been seen to while he was out searching for kindling.

            “Merci!  And your own wound, Monsieur?  I heard the gunshot.  Are you injured?”

            “Not so’s you’d have ta take note, no.”  Dub patted Illya lightly on the shoulder and left in search of dry wood.

            Illya, starting to shiver himself in the cold dampness of the cave, quickly located two more medical kits and a flashlight, and pulled these items close before sliding under the relative warmth next to Napoleon.  This would be a case of truly unorthodox first aide, but it was the best course he could think of. 

            Lying down carefully next to his partner, he took him gently into his arms, making skin contact wherever possible. 

            Napoleon was not shivering.  That was the frightening thing.  Shock had robbed his body of even that most primitive defense, so when, finally, the body Illya held so close did begin to shake it was cause for hope.  Under the assault of Illya’s body heat the deep chill soon fled, and Napoleon began to shake in earnest, from head to foot, teeth chattering audibly.  The awful grayness left his friend’s face and with it, the blue tinge of the lips. 

            If not for having been called ‘Evan’ twice, Illya would have begun his affectionate croon once more.  If Napoleon had known what he’d inadvertently said to stop this outpouring of affection from a man he desperately wanted it from, he might have torn out several handfuls of his own hair.

            Napoleon wasn’t actively bleeding anywhere.  There was much dried blood on his chest – probably from his nose and mouth, and Illya’s searching hands found the raw burns on both wrists.  These would have to be carefully dressed and watched closely.  Other than that, Illya thought to himself, he would come out of this in relatively good shape.  The heavy shivering elicited no grimaces of pain or groans, which bore witness to Illya’s first tentative examination.  There were no gross, life-threatening injuries aside from the dehydration and shock.

            After forcing a bit more water through the chattering teeth, Illya’s four hours of grace provided by the little white miracle pill were over.  Worry, exhaustion, loss of blood and his mild concussion pulled an unavoidable blanket of darkness down over his mind and he slept.

            While he slept, his newborn sense of security and belonging seeped out and evaporated in the cold air of the cave.

**********   

Napoleon came out of a heavy, dreamless sleep to the incredible warmth provided by the nearly naked body twined around his own.  Before he registered whom it was that held him he gently stroked the soft skin under his right hand and found the first jarring note.  There was gauze wound around the bicep.  Oh.  Before he opened his eyes he nuzzled the warm head of hair that tickled his shoulder.  The scent was familiar…but again there seemed to be something there that shouldn’t be there.  More gauzy stuff. 

            Damn!  Am I sleeping with the victim of a car crash?   If I am, I think I was in the vehicle, too!

            Total awareness hit not half a second later.  The scent - Illya’s undeniably sweet scent - no matter how much dirt and sweat covered his partner, beneath it all Illya always smelled good – flooded his nostrils.

            To his left a roaring fire lit the chamber of stone with rosy, flickering light, the smoke going in a steady stream up and out the roof of the cave.

            Must be a crevice up there, thought Napoleon dreamily.  Mmmmm.  I am rescued.  Hi, Illya.  Nice to feel you…I mean see you…I mean…hell, yes, I mean feel you!  How came you here, and what oh what ever possessed you to grace me with your elegant presence like this?  What happy, or unhappy, circumstance made you drop your guard this way?

            For a full two minutes, Napoleon’s entire awareness remained centered on the glorious feeling of being this close to his partner.

            “You wake?”

            Dub had returned to find both men sleeping soundly.  The injured Napoleon had finally ceased his shivering and shifted to hold his smaller companion closer.  The ease of the man’s movements told Dub that probably the kid was the more severely injured of the two.  And now that the shock and cold had been relieved, his young friend would need more attending to than this larger, robust man stirring once again beneath the piled blankets.  Besides building the roaring fire, seeing to the unconscious animal on the floor in the corridor, keeping watch on the entrance and setting crude but effective booby-traps outside, he’d managed to find more dry bedding, extra flashlights and had fashioned a couple of pillows for the sleeping pair and covered them with two more layers.  He’d also made a smaller bedroll for himself and prepared food.  

            “Easy Napolyon!”  Dub cautioned the startled man.  “Move cautious.  I am friend, not foe.  Came up here wid dis crazy fool kid, lookin’ ta save yo ass.  You all busted up on da outside but soun’ inside, seems like.  He kinda hurt hisself.”  Dub motioned to the sleeping Illya.  “So, be easy,” he finished softly.

            The wild menace died in the brown eyes of the man called Napoleon, and Dub smiled and offered water. 

            Napoleon, with no little regret, disengaged himself from the warmth of Illya’s body and sat up, reaching out for the offered canteen.  “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” he croaked after several swallows of sweet liquid.

            “William Crehan.”

            “Hello William Crehan.  Thank you for your assistance in getting my headstrong, crazy partner this far!”  Napoleon meant his words in the best possible way.  Dub, however, heard the unconscious condescending note beneath the polished veneer of Napoleon Solo’s charm. 

            Probably doesn’t even know he shows it, thought a disconcerted Dub.  Don’t think dat boy belongs to anyone but hisself, neither.  But he don’t realize that.  Nosiree

“Welcome,” Dub said curtly.

“Illya has quite a talent for getting himself banged up, Mr., ah Crehan.  Do you know the extent of his injuries?”  This second statement nailed the coffin shut, so to speak.

Yah, I bet he do!  Getting’ yo precious skin outta trouble, Napolyon.  “Can’t say f’sure.  Got cut up some.  Deys been seen to.”

Testy bastard, thought Napoleon feeling the deep freeze but not understanding the cause of it. 

“Well, uh, thank you again, Mr. Crehan.  Could you tell me about where we are?”

“’bove da Orinoco, ‘bout tree hundret mile from da beginning of dis long stretch a river.”

“Venezuela?  How did I end up in Venezuela?”

The Cajun shrugged.  How ‘bout axing how we foun’ you where you ain’t supposed ta be?

“Did you do the bandage job on the both of us?”

The Cajun nodded.  Yup.  And while I performed the service, mister Napolyon, your young partner said some things that even though I can’t understand his native tongue, nearly pulled my heart in two.    

“Nice work.  Thank you again.”  Damn!  What a character!  You sure can pick ‘em, Illya!  “Have you noticed any strange electronic sounds coming from any parts of my friend, Mr. Crehan?”

“Nope.”

“Would you hand me his jacket, please?” 

Taking the jacket eagerly he plumbed the pockets and found the slim silver pen. 

Channel D was full of meaningless static.  Channel L was empty.  Napoleon went through all the possible channels, one by one and raised no one.

Dub took this opportunity to study Napoleon Solo.

Good-looking fellow, even all banged up like this.  Probably from a privileged background.  That’s why he has a hard time finding old Dub at the end of his troubles and not Mr. James Bond.  Tain’t right having to rely on dis ugly Cajun is it, Mr. Napoyon?

Dub chuckled low in his throat.  Both at Napoleon and himself.   Napoleon for being such an unconscious snob, and himself for reacting so negatively to something he’d put up with all his life.  People dismissed him out-of-hand every day – unless they knew him personally.  Unless they’d crossed him or been helped by him, they tended to consider him the white trash he knew he appeared. 

This was one reason the younger man’s treatment of Dub had gone down so well. He’d shown an honest respect long before Dub did anything at all.  Besides the way the blond shone, and reacted to his own innate shine – damn but it was good to meet someone he didn’t have to fight with or for to gain respect!   

But Illya considered Napoleon worth the risk of life and limb, and the man had supposedly performed the same service for him.  There was probably a lot more to Napoleon than met the eye.  And wasn’t there a glimmer around the guy?   Not a sun like his partner, but something? 

Drop it, you old fool! 

“Heah, put dese on.  Dey dry now.  And den mebbe you a lil bit hungry?”

“Huh?  Oh, yes!  Yes, sir!  It’s as warm as an oven in here now!” Napoleon stood and dressed in the ragged clothing Dub handed him, trying hard not to seem ungrateful by allowing his lip to curl at the smell of them.  He had the distinct feeling he was on trial – thought he wasn’t sure for what.  Thank God his own shoes were in that pile!  Sighing, Napoleon slipped the soft leather shoes over the dirt-encrusted socks.  Then he turned to inspect his partner.

  He pulled the heaps of blankets off the sleeping form and bent over close reaching to turn Illya’s head to one side –

And found himself on his back looking up into the retreating smoke, a new ach in his battered face demanding his attention.

Dub, who witnessed the move, had never seen anyone move so fast in his life!  Even the fastest street fighter in his native New Orleans had never moved like the slender blond. 

“Whooo eeee!” Dub warbled for the second time.  This was a sound reserved for showing the utmost appreciation.

Illya had come to his feet and was now bending over Napoleon with concern.  “Prazteeya, Napoleon! Are you all right?”

“Well, I was…getting there, Illya. Now I’m not so sure!”

“I am so very sorry.”

“I just forgot your reflexes, partner.  My fault entirely.”  Napoleon levered himself to a sitting position and stared up at his partner, puzzled.

Illya, aching and irritable from the letdown following the action and the wearing off of the drug’s effects, fought to still his shaking hands.   Why had things changed?  By now he should recognize Napoleon even coming out of a coma!  He had been sure he’d overcome this unfortunate reaction to Napoleon’s touch!  Why this…?  Ah, yes.  Damn the subconscious and its manifestations anyway!  Very few people were able to touch him when he was hurt without getting hurt themselves.  Alexander Waverly was one of them.  Napoleon had been one of the few, once Illya had begun to fully trust him…until now.  Again cursing his subconscious for taking a step back from his partner just because of a name, he shrugged the whole issue aside for now. 

“I assume Mr. Crehan has introduced himself?”  Illya smiled over at Dub.  Without waiting for an answer, registering the aromas of food, he exclaimed, “Yes!  Sustenance!  Are you up to eating, Napoleon?”

“Well, I see the miracle of food has taken away the need for medical attention,” muttered Napoleon.

“I am fine, and in no need of attention,” Illya said firmly, grabbing his discarded clothing and slipping into it.  “What do we have, Dub?”

Well, I’m glad I didn’t make a fuss over dis un!  And dat I didn’t point out to Napolyon dat Illya has dat huge bump on da back o’ his head.  He’s young - he’ll get through dis okay.  Shee-it!  What an uppercut!

“K-Rats.  Army’s finest grub!  Tink it corned beef hash and peaches and crackers and choc’late.  But doan’ hold me to it.”

The food was at least twenty years old.  K-Rats had become C-Rats sometime in the fifties.  To Napoleon, though, even this assault on his palate was bearable.  Four days between meals makes the pickiest man satisfied with the worst grub. They settled down in silence to eat.  Illya ate the crackers and peaches and some of the chocolate bar.  Ever mindful of his digestive problems, he did not dare eat the heavy main course.  They would have to move out of this place soon.  No use adding severe stomach cramps to his personal problems.  There was no mother here to disappoint.

Cramming his food down, Illya finished before the other two; he rose, grabbed a flashlight and went to reconnoiter the area. 

There was a dead body in the corridor. Ah well, no loss there.  The only reason Illya had wanted him alive was to make him pay for the damages to Napoleon.  From the look of things, the man had died in enough agony to make up for his crimes.  The duct tape covering his mouth bulged out…no, Illya didn’t want to dwell on it.  He had taped the two downed men below together and then to a tree, adding heavy rope bonds just to be sure.  They were the concern.  Those two and the thought of the Cartel sending more search parties up this mountain.  Yes, they would have to move out soon.

Illya reached the mouth of the series of caves and blinked at the steady rain.  Evening was approaching.  Nearly twenty-four hours had passed between their arrival on this slope and now!  The main brunt of the storm had passed, but it would be full dark before he, Napoleon and Dub could hope to get across that damned bridge.  Oh well, the sleep seemed to have done his partner a great deal of good. 

It never even occurred to Illya that what had done the most good was contact.  

**********  

            Returning to the warm cavern, Illya walked into an uneasy silence.  The Cajun was drawn up into himself.  He poked at the fire and did not look up. Napoleon paced restlessly.

            Illya knew that pace and the carriage of the head.  Napoleon was angry about something and trying to hold it in. It could simply be that the Cajun did not like him, and this rankled.  It was highly unusual for someone not to like Napoleon.  Generally his easy charm hid the innate snob beneath the friendly veneer.  This snobbish side of Napoleon had confronted Illya from time to time from day one.  He had learned to accept it, then to ignore it, and even to emulate it.  He gave an inner shrug.  It was easy to emulate, because smugness was a part of his makeup, too.  He’d seen it reflected in his mirror at his apartment and in the disgusted looks directed his way as he explained the more complicated workings of computers and encryption while working for the KGB.  Determined not to be pegged as a ‘smart ass’ in his new career, he had rarely displayed his intellect and abilities beyond the level he might be expected to have acquired.  The only one he was apt to reveal the depth of his knowledge to was Mr. Simpson.  When they were alone, out came the 200+ IQ.  The only trouble was, they were rarely alone for long. Alexander Waverly knew, of course.  But then he knew everything.  

            Illya sighed heavily and cleared his throat.  Napoleon glanced at him sharply then turned quickly away.  But not before Illya caught the renewed anger in those brown eyes.  “I hope you are ready to travel, Napoleon, because the time has come to make our way back down the mountain.  I have the usual compliment of medications dispensed by our New York Medical department, if you feel you need anything.”  Oh, he’s angry all right, but at me, not Dub!  What the hell did I do wrong?

            “Oh, I think I’m ready to totter down the hill, Illya, with or without your -” 

            “Napoleon, I do not expect a thank you, but I will not put up with this ridiculous anger over something I am not aware of.  If something I have done has offended you then come right out with it now!”  With the anger came the headache he had felt building since the rough landing.

            “I am not angry,” said Napoleon in his quiet ‘I am angry’ voice.

            “No?  Excuse me; of course, you are furious.  And it is directed at me!”

            “Excuse me, Illya.  Your friend’s anger is all my fault,” Dub spoke up in perfect, if strangely accented French.  “I meddled where I should not have.  Perhaps told something to your friend he did not realize.  Though I cannot think how he would not know!” 

            “And what might that be, Monsieur?”

            “That you are too young to be doing what you are doing.” 

            “Ebitskaya sila!”[3] breathed Illya.  “Gdye pizdets?”[4]

            “It ends right here, Illya,” said Napoleon in a more reasonable tone of voice than he’d last used.  “I don’t know why I never saw it before, but now that I do I can’t un-see it!  I think I even understand why you had to lie all this time, but damn! that hurt!  Now, let’s drop it, and get on with what you were saying.” 

            “Very well.  We have to go.  There is no telling how long we have before the Brazzi Cartel sends more men to find out what happened to your escort party, Napoleon.  We left two VIP’s about halfway between here and Dub’s seaplane.  One is a THRUSH official from Santiago, the other, one of Ricco Brazzi’s top enforcement men.  The Cartel was offered a great deal of money for turning you over to THRUSH.  It would be best if we were well away before those reinforcements show up.”  This all came out in a hollow voice as Illya started packing up supplies and stowing weapons. 

            Napoleon nearly groaned aloud.  That was the voice of the man - no wait - the boy who had first arrived at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters two years ago.  Dub was undoubtedly right.  Illya was probably in his teens…which meant he was too young to…oh Lord.  Why the hell hadn’t he seen through Illya’s façade before?  He’s grown two inches since he first came on board.  Napoleon Solo, you are a blind idiot!

            Napoleon looked over to where his friend was furiously stuffing material into a large backpack and knew he couldn’t let this go on another minute.

            “Illya,” he laid a hand on the bent back.

            “What, Napoleon?  I am sure you have much to say, but it will have to wait!”

            “No.  This won’t wait.  Hold it a minute, tovarisch.  Illya stop!”

            “I do not wish to discuss it.”

            “I do.  Illya, this changes nothing, really.  You are who and what you are, but now I understand a little better what you’ve been through.  Will you stop, please!  GOD DAMN IT, HOLD STILL AND LOOK AT ME!”

            “All right.  I am still and looking at you.”

            “I don’t like being lied to.  You know that.  I know you are under orders not to divulge your true age and god knows what else, so my anger doesn’t have anyone it can lash out at.  This makes it hard to deal with.  Just tell me, how old were you on your last birthday?”

            “Eighteen, Napoleon.”

            “Thank you, Illya,” Napoleon said, senses reeling.  “Rest assured no one will know I know.” 

            You were sixteen when you came on board and sixteen when you lost your love.   Sixteen when I rescued you from that bunker.  Christ Almighty!  No wonder it’s been a rough two years!

            “It is rather a relief, Napoleon, to be truthful.  It has been a bit of a strain because…”

            “Because I’ve been such a pain about it.  And not just that, but everything, haven’t I, Illya?”

            “You have been absolutely insufferable,” Illya pronounced, that totally smug look Napoleon knew so well in place.

            Although he wanted to laugh, he held it in.  It would hurt all his bruises and it would wipe that look off Illya’s face – and right now that look was too precious.  “Thank you, Illya,” Napoleon repeated.  “Now we’ll tell one another the truth about everything, right?” 

The high-planed face closed down tight. “Yes, Napoleon.  All our deep, dark secrets.”   Absolutely deadpan.  “It will give us something to while away the hours as we await the torturer’s return or on future stake outs.  A new age of discovery has dawned, and into this glorious day walk the renaissance men, Eelyah a Napolyon, eyes wide shut.”

            “Is that humor, tovarisch?”

            “I am attempting it, yes.”

            “It’ll improve with age.”

**********   

            What a relief, Illya thought as he finished his packing.  Such a small thing, but…

            But you hate lying to the man.  And he knew you were.  Now, if somehow I could only stop myself blaming him because he slew Josef - which in turn caused Elana to die…But I do not know if this is the truth.  Why don’t I know?  Who could have kept her hidden from me for so long?  What force on earth could have kept her from reaching me?  God I am tired. 

            Bending over and straightening up with the gathering of items strewn about the cavern, Illya’s vision doubled, then trebled – his head aching ferociously.  He stole glances at both Napoleon and Dub, trying to see if they noted his occasional sway.  They apparently did not, being occupied themselves.  Dub was still silent – had not said a word since confessing his supposed guilt to Illya.  Illya wanted to thank the man for finally getting the issue out in the open, but knew he’d better wait for some privacy. 

            Both he and Napoleon had taken advantage of the miracle of chemistry afforded by the little white pills.  Illya knew this was extremely unwise of him, but there was nothing else for it.  Once they were down and away, he would confess his infirmity.  What was the use now?  No one could carry him down the mountain.

            Napoleon’s color had improved beneath the black, blue, red and purple of his bruises.  Illya had to give him due credit for an amazing recovery.  Twenty-four hours ago he had been at death’s door.  Now his partner was in better shape than he was – typical end to a typical escapade. 

            No one but Dub had seen Dub’s injury.  And Illya guessed that was the way it would remain, too.  Still, watching him, you’d never know he’d taken a bullet in the arm.  No.  Now was not the time to tell on himself. 

            The three men were ready to depart.  And a motley looking crew they were, too.  Illya in his torn, blood-encrusted khakis, brown boots and wide-brimmed tan hat, appeared to have lost a fight with a grizzly bear.  Napoleon, dressed similarly, but shod in a ridiculous pair of soft Italian loafers, had a black beret perched on his head and might have just finished ten rounds with that new heavy weight champion Cassius Clay.  Dub – looked like he always did, Illya supposed.  Worn, comfortable jeans and chambray shirt topped off with a bushman’s hat.   Dub was the only one who had had the opportunity to bathe and change into a clean set of clothing. 

            Napoleon, stepping lightly along the smoothed rock of the corridor towards the mouth of the cave, regretted not having had the chance to bathe and shave.  If there was one thing he could not abide it was being unclean.  He could stand the clothes on his back being fragrant.  He could handle not shaving, though he disliked the look and feel of his five-day-old beard intensely.  But being dirty beneath those clothes and that beard was too much.  There was no delicate way to put it – he stank.  This simple thing, among all their woes as they began their trip back to civilization, was hardest for the fastidious Napoleon to bear.    Second came the fact that he had lost everything and gained nothing.  No information on the group he’d been sent to gather hard data on.  

The Command knew that Carlos the Jackal, supposedly responsible for several heinous acts of terrorism in the past few years, was a myth.  In reality, all the actions of this ‘super terrorist’ were the actions of several groups of criminals and terrorists.  With the new spate of skyjackings rendering air travel between North and South America a survivor sport, Waverly and the rest of Section One had sent Napoleon to debrief a would-be turncoat in Rio.  He had not even met the man (?) before being shanghaied to Venezuela.  Before being charmed into undressing in Consuela’s little hacienda on the beach…before being drugged and dragged and beaten and …oh hell. 

His miserable musings were cut short by a very unusual occurrence   In front of him, his partner made a misstep and went down to one knee.  He bit back his alarm, glancing back to the Cajun.

Dub had already decided his snap judgment of Napoleon was in need of changing.  This silent appeal and question brought the tall dark man into better focus and a grudging respect was born.  Dub pointed to the back of his own head and to Illya, who had resumed his feet and his march, then to his eyes. 

Concussion, thought Napoleon, nodding his thanks to the Cajun. Have to watch Illya carefully all the way down. 

Now that he had something else to focus on, his own hurts and noisome stench bothered him less.  He walked a little faster and stood a little straighter. 

They reached the mouth of the cave.  Round two of the storm was getting ready to unleash its fury.   They’d slept through the lull. 

“Illya!  Have you reported in to Headquarters in the last twenty-four hours?” asked Napoleon, coming to stand beside his friend.

“I…no,” Illya admitted somewhat aghast. 

“I tried while you were sleeping.  But then we were buried under tons of rock.  Hand me your unit.”  The little silver pen seemed utterly out of place in his grimy, torn hand.  Napoleon blinked at it in stupefaction as Alexander Waverly’s voice, thin, but clear, answered with its characteristic gruffness.

“Situation, Mr. Solo!” barked Alexander Waverly.

No surprise.  No ‘Mr. Solo, are you all right?’  Napoleon knew he should be used to this by now, but somehow, tonight, he wanted a little concern rather than this towering impatience.

“Sir, I never made contact with the traitor in ranks.  Before I could, I was detected and waylaid.”

Napoleon heard a low sound of disapproval and grimaced himself.  Waverly was inquiring about his location when Illya made an impatient motion for Napoleon’s attention.  “One moment, Sir.  What is it, Illya?”

“If they are still there and alive, we have two prisoners to be picked up.  One of them is a THRUSH official and one a Cartel hit man or something.  Both should be full of useful information.  Did I not mention this before?”

Damn it!  He had!  Must be fuzzier in the head than I thought.  “Did you hear that, Sir?”

“I did, Mr. Solo.  Your location is coming through now.  What are you doing in Venezuela?”

Napoleon shrugged and handed the pen back to Illya who would be better able to answer the further questions Napoleon knew would follow.

“The Brazzi Cartel is based in Venezuela, Sir, in Ciudad Bolivar.  Mr. Solo was taken in Rio and transported to a mountain hideaway for safekeeping.”

“The Brazzi Cartel?  One of the organizations behind the terrorist activities, I suppose.  You said we have two prisoners to be picked up, Mr. Kuryakin, can a helicopter get into and out of your location?”

“If they are quick, Sir.  If you have an exact fix on our position inform the pilot please that there is no where to land, but the two men are secured to a tree approximately a thousand feet below this point.  It is dark here, Sir, but the rope bridge may stand out as a landmark.  The two prisoners are secured to a tree on the eastern side of this bridge.”

“I will dispatch two helicopters to your specified location.  There will be enough room to pick you and Mr. Solo up as well, provided you can be there in an hour.”

“Yes, Sir.  We have a fifth party who will require evacuation, Sir.”

“I see.  Yes, it is possible.  Waverly out.”

“Sir?!”   It was no good; the channel was empty.

“You had a further question, Illya?” Napoleon asked with amused interest.

“I would like to know precisely where we are, Napoleon.  In my short question and answer period with those two down the mountain, the issue did not come up.”

“Why don’t you know, Illya?  Oh!  No, let me guess!  You were asleep when you landed, right?  You flew in here in the middle of a hurricane and you were peacefully sleeping for most of the trip?”

            “This is not a hurricane, Napoleon,” Illya began patiently.  “The season is all wrong.”

            They had all but forgotten their third party.  Dub now spoke up.  “Dis da first blow of da rain season.  Can be very touchy, tryin’ to get ‘roun now.  Dry season jus’ endin.  We’s in the narrows of dis rivah ‘bout three hunnert miles from da source.  In Amazonas, ta be exact.  An I ain’t gonna fly outta heah in no copter, neither!  Not while my plane be tied safe and soun’ below!”

            Illya pulled Dub aside and walked him a few feet away from Napoleon.  “Dub, we may be in deep trouble here.  I have a strong feeling that more men from the Cartel are on their way.  Neither Napoleon nor myself will really be able to get much farther than that bridge tonight.  I brought you into this, and I wish to get you out.  If your plane is lost, the organization we work for will replace it.”

            “I came of my own free will, monsieur.” Dub returned in French, hackles rising.  “You are not responsible for me or for my plane!”

            “I beg to differ, monsieur!  Allow me my own pride, please!” Illya returned, voice strident.  “Chances are, if we are going down this mountain and the Cartel’s men are coming up by the same route, your Cajun Lady has been seen and destroyed or taken.  I do not wish to leave you stranded on this mountain side!”

            They stared at one another, sparks flying.  Dub capitulated finally.  The young man was right.  It wouldn’t hurt to have a new seaplane, either.  Besides, these two hurt puppies needed him.  He shrugged and smiled at his young companion in the gloom.  “Well, let’s go den!  We’s got a ride to catch!”

            “Thank you, monsieur!” Illya said with a great deal of relief.  He had not even considered trying to push the Cajun mentally.  He had a strong suspicion that he could neither push nor read him.

            “You having an argument with your new-found friend, Illya?” Napoleon said quietly as the three of them began their trip down the treacherous terrain.

            Illya shook his head carefully no.  “One does not argue with a Cajun, Napoleon.  I put down the facts as I see them and he apparently found them valid.”

            “And what are those facts, my far-seeing young friend?”

            “You realize, do you not, that you are a very irritating man?” Illya said and lengthened his stride, terminating the discussion.

            Napoleon waited with a semblance of his usual patience for Illya to return and continue.  He would not be able to withhold the information for long.  Sure enough, he slowed and turned.

            “There are about twenty men coming up the side of the mountain now, Napoleon.  I cannot tell if they are well armed, but we must assume they are.  I had better call Headquarters so they can relay to the pilot of the helicopter.”

            “How important are these prisoner’s of yours, Illya?”

            The thunder boomed directly overhead and a fresh downpour began as the two U.N.C.L.E. agents stared at each other for a moment.  Both new what this would come down to.

            “Very,” Illya said simply.

            “Then let me call Waverly and advise that we’ll lay down cover fire while the crew picks up the prisoners.”

            Illya looked unhappily at Napoleon.  “You need medical attention, Napoleon.  When the wonder drug wears off, you will be in no shape to travel.”

            “I’m not the only one, Illya.”

            “Then let us hurry.  Perhaps we can reach the bridge before the other party shows up!”

            “What bridge?”

            Illya’s expression took on that of extreme excitement and frustration.  “Oh!  I forgot the bridge!  We crossed it on the way up, of course.  There is no way around it.  But…”

            “Come on, man, we’re running out of time!”

            “But it is deceptive, this bridge.  It looks like it might fall down any second…and the wood parts are disintegrating, but…”

            “But?”

            “But the rope part covers the steel beneath.”  Illya stopped dead in his tracks.

            Napoleon stopped his angry prompting.  Something was cooking in that blond head.  He was opening Channel D as they stood in a small huddle and his partner fought the cobwebs in his brain. 

            “It’s much sturdier than it looks.  Which means the caves…  Napoleon, I think we need to go back to the caves after we help the helicopter get away!”

            Napoleon got through and gave Waverly, and through him, the pilot, their intentions. 

            “Mr. Solo, I would rather you two evacuated with the prisoners.  I do not see any reason for your remaining there.”

            “One moment, Sir.  Illya?  What do you think is in those caves?”

            “Whatever goods the Brazzi Cartel traffics in, perhaps!”

            “Did you get that, Sir?” Napoleon inquired of his Chief.

            “Indeed.  Well, Mr. Solo, we will send in reinforcements as soon as possible.  Keep me updated on the conditions you find yourselves in.  Waverly out.”

            “Mr. Crehan, are you up to a stand-off and a good old fashioned treasure hunt?”

**********  

            Napoleon lay stretched out in the jump seat of the helicopter in more pain than he could ever remember and also about as miserable as he’d ever been.  Above him the helicopter blades roared.  In his veins the morphine stilled the worst of the multi-point clamor of agony. 

            The gang of three and the gang of twenty-plus reached the opposing sides of the clearing before the bridge at the same time.  The twenty-plus gang was heavily armed, and it had been a close thing, getting them to leave the area and let the helicopter pick up those two limp bodies secured to the tree.  At one point in the festivities, the two agents had shared a meaningful glance and wordlessly agreed that they would have to destroy the bridge.  Illya had been correct – beneath the wet rope was sturdy steel cable.  

             You know, tovarisch, when you get back to New York, I am going to beat some sense into that head of yours!  I don’t care how long it takes, nor what instruments I might have to use!  Eighteen he might be, but I am damned glad he’s on my side!

            As they had approached the other side of the bridge, they had heard two things – the slight sound of the approaching helicopter between rumbles of thunder and excited shouting from the ground when the Cartel’s men were already gathering about the tree where Illya had secured the prisoners.  Napoleon had one of U.N.C.L.E.’s Uzi-type sub-machine guns thanks to the full assault gear that Illya had lugged up, but couldn’t see a thing in the deep gloom.  Illya motioned for both he and Crehan to stop, got out his pen and contacted the helicopter.  Napoleon heard something about a radar bath and smiled broadly as Illya pulled out a pair of red-tinted glasses.  Okay, your show, partner!, he remembered thinking.  As he and Dub found cover in the trees on their side about five yards from the clearing where the bridge was anchored.

            Illya pulled out his red-tinted glasses and put them on.  Only one pair per assault kit.  He wished heartily that Napoleon had a pair also.  The world went an eerie green.  He attached a second flash suppressor to the one already mounted on his special.  Now, if he was very careful, they would not be able to see where their sniper was positioned.  They were twenty-five at his best count and each one carried an Uzi, those popular, deadly little ‘toys’ from Israel. 

            When the pilot of the helicopter obligingly painted the area where the bad guys gathered with illumination only Illya could see, he took a careful bead on the two closest to his prizes.  They went down noisily and around them their compadres began to shout; then they scrambled for cover. He got five more before they managed to hide from his view.  “In the trees to the rear,” Illya whispered into his pen.  The helicopter obligingly laid down its own fire.  It was hard to tell how successful they had been.  It was too noisy between the helicopter, its guns and the thunder and downpour to tell if the bullets found their marks.  After a five-minute barrage, the chopper apparently decided it was safe to approach and came in low enough to throw its ladder to the ground.   All was quiet until the two darkly clad agents were halfway down the ladder, then someone opened fire from behind them.

            “There is always one who refuses to lie down and die,” Illya though grimly as he searched the dense foliage of the opposite side for the muzzle flash.  The chopper assisted by bathing the area again and Illya had him!  But not before the outlaw hit one of the U.N.C.L.E. rescuers. 

            The two men continued down the ladder to the ground; the one hit maintaining until he reached set foot on the rocky shelf.  Illya swore vehemently as yet another flash of fire from the trees to their backs sent both of them sprawling.  Even with the extraordinary light it was hard to spot a target moving among the swaying bushes.  He would have to break cover and cross over.

            “Turn off all illumination,” he whispered into the mike just as the pilot apparently had the same thought and killed the radar gun and the small spotlight with which he’d given his comrades a better view of the ground below. 

Illya broke into a low run and was putting his first foot on the crossed rungs of the bridge before Napoleon realized what was happening.   In the dark all he could see was Illya’s blond head.  He had been straining to see it all along.  Now he did and it filled him with horror when he realized what was happening.  “Christ, no!  Illya, no!” Napoleon whisper-shouted.  He stood up and brought his weapon to bear on what he could see of the trees on the other side.  Now that he knew where his partner was – bless and damn the white blond head anyway! – he could lay down covering fire.

Halfway across, sidestepping along the slippery rope, Illya lost his footing as Napoleon opened up on his left.  The Uzi was loud. 

Illya hung suspended from his hands for a few exhilarating seconds before his scrabbling feet caught the lower string of rope again.  “Napoleon!  Hold your fire!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

The bridge was beginning to sway alarmingly with his movement and the increasing wind.  Illya did not fancy being hit by a friend any more than by an enemy.  A bullet from his right tugged at his shirt and he redoubled his speed throwing caution to the wind.  He didn’t fancy falling into the abyss, either. 

Once his partner stopped swaying, Napoleon motioned to Dub to get moving and headed towards the bridge. 

Illya hit solid ground and ran straight into the bushes on the other side.  There had been only the two isolated but well-placed shots.  The other two agents were busy tearing the tape off the two captives, and only caught the movement out of the corner of their eyes. 

“That’s Kuryakin,” the wounded agent said to his partner.  “Hard to miss that hair!  Hey!  This one’s dead!  God damn it all to hell!”  Senor Alvarez’s fortune had changed again.

Dub, sure-footed and mostly unhurt, reached the bridge and stared over ahead of Napoleon.  He crossed the bridge rapidly and fell to the ground, pulling out his heavy caliber revolver.  He now had a damn fine view of all friendly faces.  Illya’s hair gave his position away to the Cajun’s eagle eye.  He fired into the bushes to Kuryakin’s right, where he was pretty sure the last of the invasion force was hiding. 

This close, Illya heard Dub’s bullet hit flesh; heard the cry of pain from the lone man.  He stood up in the complete dark and looked directly at the Cajun sprawled on the rock shelf on his side of the bridge, holding his right hand in sight, thumb up.  To his lasting surprise, Dub returned the gesture.  Illya was just wondering if the man had eyes like a cat when he heard an alarming sound.   A horrible twang; then another, as the steel reinforced rope gave way.  This wouldn’t have been so alarming – but Napoleon was only halfway across.

Napoleon felt it going.  Just before it gave way altogether, he got a death grip on the length he had in his hands and quickly whipped the suddenly loose material around his left leg as he fell like a stone.  The breath was knocked out of him as his body slammed into the smooth rock side of the ravine.

 “Halooo!” a voice from above penetrated the haze.

Peering up, Napoleon could just make out the shape of a bush hat.  He waved his free right hand feebly.  The left was still miraculously gripping the rope and his left leg wound tightly in it as well.

A minute later his partner’s blond head appeared at the top of the drop off.

“Napoleon, hold on!  Be right there!”

“I’ll be right here,” Napoleon choked out. 

A minute later he was bathed in light from the helicopter’s powerful spot and saw Illya beginning his descent.  The fallen bridge was now a shaky stepladder above his head  and Napoleon’s breath stopped as he realized Illya was using those rain rotted boards to support his weight.

What he couldn’t make out was the strong nylon cord firmly attached to the hovering helicopter’s pulley and to Illya’s belt.

The demon wind chose that moment to show its full power and the two of them took a little ride to and fro.  Illya gave up caution once again and scrambled down to where Napoleon hung.  It was slippery, this little carnival ride of a rope bridge.

“Dobray veercher, moy padroog!” Illya said as he made contact with Napoleon.

“I’m stuck, Illya.  Don’t dare loosen my grip!  Should have brought another rope!”

“Always a critic!”  He unsnapped the nylon cord from his own belt and moved to secure it to Napoleon’s belt loop when the second huge gust hit them broadside.  All this whipping about unwrapped the dangling cable from Napoleon’s leg and he slipped down a few inches. 

  Above him, Illya swore a blue streak and slid down himself.  “My wrist!  Napoleon, grab my wrist!”

“Are you crazy?  We’ll both go down!” Napoleon shouted.

“Grab it now!”

A grip like iron settled over Napoleon’s right wrist and he was pulled up just enough for Illya to secure the hook to his belt loop.

“The other one, Napoleon!  Or you will hit that ledge when you start-…”

 WHAM!  The right side of his body hit the jagged protruding rock of the ledge Illya had been so concerned about.  SNAP!  This was a horrible sound – a horrible deep sound that traveled through Napoleon’s body and came from the vicinity of his right leg.  He bounced again and again heard another snap; this one smaller but no less alarming.  The pain was immediate and immense.  A living fire-breathing dragon of a pain.  The solid sheet of red agony reached his head and exploded between his eyes.  Only the adrenaline flowing through his veins kept him from passing out.   

“Take him up!” Illya screamed into his open communicator, and the pulley at the other end pulled the nearly unconscious man up the side of the ravine.

“We have more company,” the pilot’s controlled voice came back.  “Another party approaching from below.”

“Then evacuate!” yelled Illya, hanging upside-down from the stinking rope bridge’s criss-crossed rungs. 

Well, that’s twice, Illya thought with maniacal glee as he hung upside down from his knees in the dark.  But the second time, I damaged the merchandize, he added.  Now how am I going to get up?

As he hung there swaying, his little silver communicator fell out of his pocket and tumbled end over end into the darkness.  If it had had really sharp ears it might have blushed to hear the language that followed it down.

A few minutes later, his sentiments, if not the breadth of the curses, were mirrored in the evacuating helicopter.  Napoleon, against all odds, maintained his grip on conscious thought, fighting the oblivion the morphine induced.  They were heading away from the ravine!  Leaving his friend and Mr. Crehan behind!

“Hey!” he yelled.  Well, he thought he yelled.  No one seemed to hear him.  With a monstrous effort he sat up.  “Hey!  Where are you going?  We can’t leave them there!”

“Sir, we’re under fire!” yelled one of the two agents in the belly of the helicopter.  “And the wind will take us all down if we stay!”  My partner’s wounded, he thought dismally.  You’re in terrible shape yourself, Mr. Solo, and the chopper’s taken a few hits herself. No.  It was now or never.

“Turn this fucking thing around!” Napoleon roared.  Rather, he thought he roared. 

“No can do, Mr. Solo!” the pilot yelled back.  He knew Napoleon, and knew the savagery in his voice well.  “Tim, open the local channel and get hold of Kuryakin!”

“That’s Mr. Kuryakin!” snarled Napoleon.  “Give me that fucking communicator!”

The open channel crackled and hissed.  No matter how Napoleon shouted, no matter how he cursed, the instrument remained mute except for the static.

Hanging upside down wasn’t going to help, Illya decided.  He heaved himself up and made a grab for the rope above his knees.  Again.  Again.  He heard the rattle of gunfire from above.  One more heave and he grabbed the ropes with one hand.  It was truly dark now.  He’d lost his special glasses and the helicopter must have had to pull up and away. 

A thick rope hit him in the face.  He grabbed onto it and felt himself being pulled up rather quickly.  A quick mental memory showed him no other protuberances in the sheer rock so he relaxed and assisted.

Dub watched carefully from his cover behind the tree he was using as an anchor for the body to show up at the lip of the drop-off.  As soon as he glimpsed Illya’s head he had to abandon helping the boy up, secured the rope so it wouldn’t slip and snatched the discarded Uzi from the mud at his feet.  He sprayed a withering fire into the approaching group of men who were mostly concerned with the departing helicopter.   They fell like trees fall to one of those manglers that were invading the South American jungles.  He didn’t know what they were called, only that they chewed down trees like nobody’s business!  Hoo weee!  Gotdamn!  This was fun.  Watch them suckers fall!  Cain’t even spot dis ole Cajun, can ya, boys?  Got you though, dead to rights.  

Illya hauled his aching body up and over the lip of rock.  He realized what must have happened, so when he got his last leg over he rolled for cover.  Rolled right into a conveniently placed Uzi with two extra clips as a matter of fact.  His practical brain saluted the Cajun’s, as he picked up the offerings and continued to roll into the bushes at the edge of the clearing. 

“Hsst!  Illya!”

“Prasteetye menya za toh, stoh yah alazdal!” Illya called out as he located a moving target and fired his Uzi.

“Huh?”

“Sorry I am late!” he corrected himself, rather embarrassed.  But oh, how his head hurt!

“You okay, son?”

“Da.  Ah vye?”

“You doan sound okay, son.”

“Prasteeya…svlochi!…sorry, Dub.  I am tired and speaking in Russian, when I am tired.”

“Jest a few more hombres, son, and we’re all done for today.  You lookin’ like…”

“Like shit.”

“’Kay.  Dat about it.”

**********  

Headquarters, New York

            “Repeat!  I say again, repeat!”

            “Dis de Flyin’ Fool callin’ Uncle New Yok!”

            The communication’s desk supervisor raised an eyebrow at Alexander Waverly who nodded.

            “Go ahead, Flying Fool, this is Uncle New York.”

            Dub switched to French, hoping his co-workers, like his delirious young friend, were multilingual.  “I have your boy here.  He’s talking a lot but I cannot understand what he’s saying.  We need help getting out of the area.  There are a lot of locals with a lot of ammunition coming up this mountain regularly.  I can’t hold them off much longer.  You copy that?”

            “Copy that, Flying Fool.  Help is on the way.  ETA two hours.”

            “Yeah, okay.  Going to have to move out.  Too many coming now, Flyin’ Fool out.”

            The comms officer turned to Waverly.  “Could you make out what Mr. Kuryakin was saying in the background, Sir?”

            “Yes I could.  It has no bearing on their situation.  I want those two picked up and I want to be notified the second they are.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            Yah khachu damoi, Elanochka!  Pazhalsta!  I want to go home, Elana.  Please. 

            Alexander sighed heavily, and returned to his office to wait for further word.

**********

            “Coffee, please, Sal.  And is that some of your special crumb cake?”

            “Ummm-hmmm.” 

            “You look worried, Sal.” This would have been funny to Miss Dancer any other day, because the face of the overnight dispenser of coffee and stale sandwiches always looked grumpy and worried.  But her nerves were pulled tight for no discernible reason, and Sal always knew what was going on.  Now if she could just cajole him into talking…she looked around the silent cafeteria.  They were alone.  It was 1:30 in the morning, after all.  She and Mark had just flown in from London after a three week stay and her internal time clock told her it was time to wake up. 

            “Would you join me in a cuppa, dear man?”  She smiled sweetly at him.

            “Sure,” grunted Sal.  He liked this girl a lot.  She pumped him regularly for information and he usually gave in just to bask in her fresh-faced beauty.  He wondered if she knew how much the Big Boss paid him to report on who said what and when?  He wondered, too, if she knew he’d never told on her once in the three years she’d been with the organization.    She never talked to anyone else in his cafeteria about anything sensitive – just asked him occasionally what was new.  He’d tell her and rest easy, knowing she could keep her mouth shut.  “Common through.  Anybody wants anything can ring that buzzer till their finger gets sore.”  He put the bell on top of the counter and motioned her through to his back area.

            April selected the biggest piece of crumb cake she saw and a fork and followed.  They sat at his little table in back and fixed their respective coffees.

            “You just get in?” he opened with his usual question.

            “Yes indeed.  What’s up?” she asked simply.

            “Solo’s all busted up somewheres in South America.  Been dere for over a week now.  Dat kid went down to git em, and now he’s missin’.  Sal spoke slowly, filtering out all the usual cuss words that were part of his normal speech. 

            “Ah.  I see.  Anything else?”  So that explains my nerves, she thought.

            “Mr. Waverly was down here ‘bout an hour ago, lookin’ wasted.  He’s worried.  Hell - ’scuse me, Miss Dancer, I’m feelin’ kinda antsy.”

            April lost her appetite and her good mood altogether as her intuition solidified into knowledge.  Yes, Illya was in emotional distress.  He was coming through, albeit dimly.  A deep sorrow and an even deeper desire…to go home?  She could feel his emotions quite clearly now.  It helped to call up his name and visualize those adorable blue eyes.  He felt like  - wanting to go home.   She knew the feeling well.

            “He lit on outta here lickety split two days ago.”

            Translation:  Illya left in a rush with little preparation.  Sal rarely called Illya by name.  It was always ‘the kid’ or more often just ‘he.’   April frowned prettily, and Sal waxed eloquent.

            “I always says ta youse kids ta take da life God gave ya and git on outta here!  But ya never pay ya tab, an’ ya waltz in, dead a da night, hungry and tired.  ‘Sal, gotta pot brewin’?  Sal, ken I have a lil sumpin to keep me on my feet?’  It’s disgustin’!”

            “How is our dear Mr. Solo down in South America, Sal?” 

            “Oh, dese women having a fit about Solo!  Dey moan and groan and roll dose eyes!  Leastways he’s layin’ in some hospital and not missin’!  Some day, Miss Dancer, one a dose girls gonna git her claws in deep and nevah let go.”

            Translation:  Napoleon would be fine.   

             “So Napoleon is going to be coming home soon?”

            “In a coupla days, yeah.”

            “Thanks, Sal.  I’m going to actually pay today!”  April smiled again, and plopped a five on the table. 

            “Hey!  Don’t ya go git some sleep?  Hey!  You ain’t goin’ down dere are ya?”

**********    

Somewhere in Amazonas, Venezuela – Along the Orinoco

            Dub groaned and put his hands in the small of his back as he stretched.   Every inch of his spine popped in protest.  Well, at least now he could relax a bit.  The local witchdoctor of the Yanomami was doing his thing inside the raw wood enclosure.  It had taken a bit of doing to get the suspicious tribe to take them here.   Disease was rare among the tribe, except that brought in by foreigners.  Dub had explained and shown the headman of the village that the flaxen haired youth suffered not from disease but from an infected cut along his back. 

            Illya had stumbled through the jungle at Dub’s side most of the morning.  By the afternoon, Dub was carrying him fireman style.  They had reached the river yesterday morning, but Dub’s plane was nowhere in sight.  They had lost their packs and all but a couple of weapons in the various battles they’d fought with the Brazzi Cartel’s men.  The small radio set Dub had used to get through to Uncle New York had been demolished.  Dub had his whip and his knife; Illya his knives only.   Every ammunition clip being empty, they had abandoned the Uzi’s and even Illya’s personal weapon sometime last night. 

            He stretched again and listened to the rise and fall of the native doctor’s stream of words.  He understood nothing; this people had their own language and did not speak Spanish at all.  They were a good-looking people.  Dub had been among them before; not in this particular place but under much the same circumstances.  He had been cut up some and, like Illya, had succumbed to infection.  Cuts didn’t heal here in the heat and humidity.   Dub had walked away from the hut of the witch doctor two days later, clear headed and full of zip.  Yep. Now he could relax.

**********    

Headquarters, New York

            Alexander paced his spacious office, his hands clasped behind his back.  It had been two full days since any word had come in about the lost agent.  Napoleon Solo was under heavy sedation in the Infirmary on the second floor.   The Caracas Headquarters had secured the caves in Amazonas.  The one surviving prisoner from Venezuela, Senor Vasquez, had arrived just this morning, and was being interrogated in the holding cell on the second floor.

            But against his better judgment – against his will, one might say – he had sent Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate down to Venezuela to assist in the search for Mr. Kuryakin.  Miss Dancer had come into his office yesterday morning, looking refreshed and carefree, for a debrief on the team’s London assignment.  She’d breezed through the details, then began campaigning to be sent to South America, reading Alexander’s worry as if it were written plain as day on his face. 

            Blast it!  Things were getting out of hand with that young woman!  What brass!  What brazen disregard for her own and Mr. Slate’s well being!  Alexander’s policy was never to send agents back into the field until they had recuperated for a decent time following an assignment.  Unless, of course, there was a dire need.

            One agent lost did not qualify as a dire need!  Blast it all to hell!  Where is my humidor? 

            She can find him.  She can track him using her innate radar, and you know it!  This qualifies, Alexander.   

**********    

Caracas, Venezuela

            “That is no place for a young woman, Miss Dancer!  Mr. Slate, I can assign you a team of agents and one helicopter, but might I suggest-”

            Mark took a step back from the table and prepared himself for the onslaught he knew was coming.  No one told his companion she was too delicate a flower to survive in a harsh environment and got away with it!  He glanced April’s way and smiled, waving her on.  The roses bloomed in the pale cheeks, and her brown eyes flashed fire.

            April’s usual musical voice flattened, she ground out, “If I do not go, Senor, he does not go!  We do not need your permission or your help.  Come on, Mark, I don’t have time to waste in argument!”

            “Senorita, ehsskoosahr, por favor!  I did not mean-”

            The door shut behind the two, cutting off his apologies. 

            “What happened to your usual genteel diplomacy, Miss Dancer?” Mark ventured.  There was no humor in his voice. He had never seen her dispense with her expert cajoling techniques.  April could convince a snowman to take a vacation at the equator if she tried. 

            “I detest being undressed while I make a simple request!  Damn it, Mark!  This Spanish machismo gets under my skin!  I don’t need him and his help or his condescension!  I’ve got this!”  She tore open one pocket of her khaki shirt and flashed her Command issued credit card.

            Oh boy!  Wonders would never cease!  Mark grinned and followed the grim young agent out the door.

            The heat was stultifying.  There was fire in his veins and running along his back.  A low voice chanted sonorously in the background.  Illya faded out completely again.

            The dark was a living, breathing entity, full of sounds and sensations.  Illya listened a moment, trying to identify the strange sounds.  Strength flowed through his limbs.  A hot, fiery strength demanded he come fully awake – that he get up.  Find out where you are and whom that was bending over you earlier.  A fierce set of black eyes – the rest of the face covered by some hideous painted mask had filled his vision for time un-knowable, as he lay weak and unable to move.    He remembered his dreams going from the frozen wastelands of Siberia to an unidentified warm place by the sea to…here.  Yes!  He had been here in his dreams – but not as a man. 

            A sudden fierce desire arose in him to go back and dream once more…the wonderful fire in his veins had to do with his dream.  No stranger to self-induced trance, he re-entered the interrupted dream…

            Strength.  Muscles like steel yet as liquid as mercury.  The world turned monochromatic but the world opened up to him in many, wondrous ways that had little to do with vision.  His olfactory senses reported several little living things being quiet in the underbrush and among the trees.  Sharp acrid smells of dirty fur and the underlying sweet flesh and intoxicating blood beneath that fur awoke a raging hunger in his belly.  A sharp stench came bowling him over and he stopped and crouched in the shadows.  Urine.  Territory.  He turned and fled.  The ground moved strangely below his…four feet…no - paws. 

            It felt good to run.  Running was ecstasy! It even overcame his gnawing hunger.   Everything that moved in a certain way caught his sharp vision – vision that was in shades of gray with a touch of green and black. 

            Stop! There!  Next to the bole of that tree stood what he sought – what his belly needed. He crouched and sprang, claws unsheathed, mouth open.  Had he thought running was ecstasy?  No!  This was ecstasy!  The feel of the large animal caught in his maw!  It’s terrified squealing and squeaking!.  The blood flooding into his mouth as he broke the skin!  Rapture!  Let me do it again!  He let the mortally wounded animal go and watched with a kind of amusement as it struggled to its feet, taking a few staggering steps toward the thick foliage.  Playfully he pounced and bit again.  Savage glee made him release the prey once more just to watch it twitch.  The large rodent-like animal fell heavily on its side, feet still trying to run.  His hunger overcame his playfulness, and before the feet stopped he tore open its belly and ate.

            Contented with the largish meal, there was but one thought on his mind.  Find a safe branch and sleep.  He finished licking his bloody whiskers and paws clean in the darkness beneath the tree and ran lazily for home.  It was not far away, this tree-limb he called home.  Once there, his claws and the exhilarating strength in the long, low body made climbing the tree to his wide branch a lark.  Belly full, he draped himself over his favorite spot and purred himself to sleep. 

            He awoke to a movement.  The flap of the hut was thrown aside and in strode a dark-skinned man.  Illya sat up, not alarmed, but terribly interested.  The morning light streaming in through the open door of the wooden hut let his wondering eyes catch every detail of this unknown man’s manner of dress and ornament. 

            No, it is not dress, but paint.  His skin is not so much black as it is brown.  The black is paint. 

            On the head rested a cap of black fur with white splotches.  The face was painted black with stripes of yellow and red.  Out of this wonderful painted mask the white of his eyes hit like something physical.  The black irises were huge and reflected no light.  Armbands of the same black fur embraced both biceps; large white painted lines ran across and down his chest like a sort of wavy tick-tack-toe board.  There were sticks planted in his earlobes and a large staff was grasped in two powerful hands that were held before him.  He stood motionless, seeming to study Illya with the same fascinated interest.

            He whirled and left without saying a word.

            “Wait!” Illya tried to shout.  His throat wouldn’t work right.  His mouth felt strange and full of something that didn’t belong there.  The ‘wait!’ had come out a gurgle-growl.  He did not leap to his feet, just sat and wondered at everything.  That had not been the same man who had stood over him chanting.  Unless this fierce warrior was the shaman unmasked?    What is wrong with my throat?  The hut was dark once more, but tiny shafts of sunlight broke through the cracks.  Illya held up his hands to his face, half expecting…but no.  They were his hands.  They were clean and when he raised them to sniff they were sweet smelling as if he had had a bath complete with soap in the last few hours.  He cleared his throat, swallowed, and tasted a thick, sort of sweet, coppery wetness. 

            Mark Slate looked on with quiet amusement as April stood up and approached the man who had just come out of the hut.  Feet planted firmly, fists clenched she stopped and stared into his eyes.  At five-four, Miss Dancer usually had to look up into a man’s eyes.  This man’s eyes were level with hers.  “Tell him I want to go in and see my friend!” she said loudly to their pilot and guide while maintaining eye contact.  Piwe translated her request, couching it with the respectful tones and words the young lady had neglected to use.

            The shaman did not look away from those deep brown eyes as he made his reply and Piwe held in his gasp of surprise.  Yakuri-wanimi accepted this female nape’s right to question his judgment!  Piwe translated the shaman’s words, keeping the low, respectful tone in which they were uttered. 

            “Your friend is not done with the change yet.  In a short while he will emerge.  We must wait.”

            “Come on, April.  Let’s let the Russian wolf finish changing, for heaven’s sake, luv!” Mark said, rising to go to her side.

            The shaman asked Piwe to translate again, and when he heard the words his eyes smiled.  He spoke again, laughter in his voice.

            “Yakuri-wanimi says you are mistaken.  He is not a wolf.”

            April!  April is out there!  Illya’s spirits soared.  He cleared his throat again and tried to call out to her.  This time a more human sound emerged.  “Arrrilll.”  It was a soft sound and he liked it.  He made it several times, listening closely to the growl just underneath. 

            The outright exhilaration of his dream filled him again and he rose to his feet, tingling all over.  He paced back and forth in the small enclosure for a few minutes, working his throat muscles around her name and was full of a fierce joy.

            Memories began to surface – memories of the past few days.  But – nothing hurt!  Not his head, not his arm, not his back – nothing!  He finally noted that he was dressed in nothing.  He also noticed that he was suddenly hungry.  No, not just hungry! 

            “Yakuri-wanimi says your friend will be very hungry when he emerges.  Are you also hungry?  A meal stands prepared in the center hut of the village.   The villagers invite you all to eat heartily and drink your fill!” 

            All meant the four of them.  April, Mark, Dub and the as yet unseen Illya.  Dub sat quietly in the shade of the nearest tree, back up against the boll.  He was pretty sure he knew what was and had happened.  The shaman and his tribe had been quite excited since yesterday.  Dub had noted much coming and going around the shaman’s enclosure where the young blond man lay.  No one but the shaman himself entered though.

            Dub smiled beneath his turned-down hat brim.  A shine that bright was apt to be noted and recognized by all and sundry.  These people, attuned to the spiritual in a way their more civilized cousins had long forgotten, had no trouble recognizing the blond youth as deserving of honor.  Idly he wondered what animal his young friend had revealed under the shaman’s incantations?  What spirit lived beneath that pale skin and golden hair?  From all the excitement of the tribe and the offerings laid at the door he’d guess it was the big cat – the jaguar. 

            “Shori?  Would you please go in and assist the young man?  Yakuri-wanimi thinks he would be more comfortable emerging if he were readied in the western way.” 

            “Sure ting!  Need some water and a whetstone, Piwe, and maybe dat spare pair of britches outta you plane!”

            Piwe brought the items requested and Dub disappeared into the gloom of the shaman’s hut.

            “How come he gets to go in?” April wondered aloud to Mark as they took their places in the shade.

            Mark’s hackles were belatedly rising.  Something was or had gone on here that was way, way out of the ordinary. 

            “Let’s just be good kids and wait like the nice witch doctor said,” Mark answered.

            “Hole still!  Dis baby sharp now!  You sho doan look lak da same one who I lugged in heah!”  He scraped his newly sharpened blade over the delicate skin, removing the week-old growth of hair that adorned Illya’s face. 

            “How long has Miss Dancer been here?” Illya whispered.  He had his own throat again, it seemed – and his teeth, but could not produce a sound louder than a soft whisper.

            “Oooh, son, she hoppin mad!  Dat young man, Mark, he keepin’ her outta dis place.”  Dub chuckled.  “Not to mention ole’ Yakuri-wanimi hisself!  But to answer you question, dey come in las night.”

            “Yakuri-wanimi.  He is the shaman?”

            “Yep.  You know anything’ ‘bout dis stuff?”

            “I think I’m going to learn.  I think I have learned quite a bit,” Illya whispered.  “Are you almost done?  I am famished.”

            “Tilt you head up, Ilyah.  Dere!  Ain’t you jus fine to gaze upon!”

            “Dub!”

            “What, son?”

            “When I go back to New York…would you come with me?”

            “Oh, now.  I like you, too, son, but dere ain’t no place fo dis big time smugglin’ bastahd in dat city!”

            Illya looked at the man in the faded khakis silently for a moment, then shook his head.  “You are right.  Perhaps though I can talk you into giving me flying lessons?”

            “Now dat can be arranged!  Yep!  An I want you to meet my son, Tom.  I have a feelin’ you two get on right nice.  Now, put on dose duds and come outta dis place.  Time for some sunshine on dat pale mug a yours.”

            Illya had about two seconds to anticipate what a ‘hoppin mad’ April might look like before he found his arms full of her.  Without thinking, he scooped her up and planted his mouth over hers.  That mobile mouth opened beneath his and they kissed as they had in that long ago time in his apartment.  A different kind of raging hunger surged through him.  He broke the kiss, glancing around.  Everyone had disappeared!  He recaptured that hungry mouth with his own and savaged it.   

            Dimly he became aware of a small voice pleading with him.  Oh but she is mine!  And I will have her now! 

            “Illya,” April said around her own gasps.  “Please, put me down!”  He had thrown his head back and she had the damnedest feeling he was about to howl…or roar…or something, um, outrageous.

            He blinked down at her.  She felt so light in his arms.  He could, if he wanted, have her in the dirt, here and now.  He shook his head violently.  Then stood quietly, panting in the morning sun.

            “Put me down, sweetheart, please,” she said, caressing one gaunt cheek with one soft hand.

            He set her down and immediately caught her as her knees buckled. 

            “You see?  I told you, you don’t have to worry about him!  Why won’t anybody listen to me?”  Mark grumped.  April and Illya had walked, side-by-side into the clearing in the middle of the village.  Hand in hand, too, he admitted, grumping some more.  He threw a murderous glace at the blond sitting on the other side of the small cooking fire, stuffing his face.  Shit!  If Armageddon came, he had little doubt that after the debacle was over Illya Kuryakin would be in a safe place scarfing down somebody else’s grub.  “You call Waverly again?” he asked April, trying not to let his jealousy make a fool of him.  She was watching the Russian with rapt attention, hardly eating but drinking steadily. 

            “What, Mark?”

            He repeated his question.

            “Yes.  Hours ago.”

            “Shouldn’t we be getting ready to depart, April?”

            “I told him we might better stay for a couple of days, Mark.  Let Illya regain his strength.   Besides,” she turned to him finally, all smiles, “tomorrow is my birthday.”

            “And you want to spend it here?” he asked incredulously.

            “Yes.  I like it here.  The people are friendly and we are due a few quiet days.”  Her gaze turned back to the Russian.  She observed the elegant hand reaching into the communal food bowl; watched the lean face break into a smile as he spoke with his new friend, Dub.  He looks so much at home here, she thought. 

            This Yanomami village, like most, was situated right on the banks of the Orinoco.  It was a collection of rough wooden huts.  But to April it was much more than that.  It was the people and their way of life and the uniting spirit that made up the village.  Unspoiled would about cover it.  The children ran about and played and the adults went about their business happily.  They killed meat to eat and foraged for their greens; laughed, played, bathed in the river.  That was the most surprising thing.  They were very clean. For the two days that she stayed in the small village without a name, she observed that every member of the tribe bathed in the river at least three times a day. 

            Following the feast everyone laid in their rough-fashioned hammocks and slept for two or three hours.  Upon arising, everyone headed for the river for a wash and a romp.  Of course everyone was naked.  She stared in astonishment as Dub shed his clothes and joined them.  Illya, glancing at April and Mark, shrugged and joined them, too. 

            “Come on, Mark!  Let’s go native!”  April cried, and headed for the river.

            Mark sighed and remained in his hammock.  “Too bloody much!”

            In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to shed her panties.  Nobody cared, and she was soon splashing and yelling and playing with the children as if she were one herself.   She looked around, trying to find Illya in the melee of bodies, but couldn’t. 

            The river was running gently now that the storm was over.  Illya plunged into the water and his body seemed to remember doing this before, though he could not have said when.  He spent most of his time underwater, only surfacing for air when his lungs couldn’t hold out any longer.   He swam against the current, letting the exercise drain the excess energy he was still full of.  Finally, feeling a little bit fatigued he emerged and let the river carry him back to the village.  He watched the sky and the banks and stared at the not so distant mountain peaks and gloried in all of it. 

            An errant thought hit like a freight train.  Napoleon!  Strength!  How could I forget to ask about Napoleon?  He pulled himself out of the water and grabbed his pants, tugged them on and went in search of Mark and April.   He found the Brit drowsing in his hammock. 

            “Mark!”

            “Illya, old son!  Done wrestling alligators?”

            “What?”

            “Never mind.  Where’s the River Nymph?”

            “Who?”

            “Where’s April?”

            “I thought she would be here with you!  Do not tell me she is…Oh!  This I have got to see!”  He whirled and started to trot back to the river’s edge.  Ah, yes, Napoleon!  “Mark, did Napoleon get back in one piece?”

            Mark looked disgusted with him.  He had to wonder why.  “No, not exactly in one piece, but he will mend, Illya.  I’m surprised you haven’t called him yet.”

            Pulled two ways, Illya shrugged again and let the lure of seeing April cavorting naked in the Orinoco win.  “I should like to call, but I have no communicator!”  He turned again and vanished.  Mark slumped back into the depths of the hammock. 

            The tribe was about done with their afternoon bath.  Most of the people were out already.  April had been diving deep into the depths of a sun-dappled patch of river near the opposite bank when she noticed the absence of noise. Oops, playtime is over!

            On the village’s bank Illya settled down on his haunches and watched April swim and play.  Not aware she was observed she was completely carefree, and he felt a twinge of guilt.  But then, wouldn’t the River Nymph, formerly known as April Dancer, do the same to him, if roles were reversed?  Yes, she would! So he sat and watched and waited for the Nymph to notice him.

            She finally did.  Under his direct blue gaze, she felt suddenly naked and wished he’d go away so she could come out and get dressed.

            “Hi!” she waved.

            “Hello yourself.  Its lovely here, isn’t it?”

            “Yes it is.  Um, would you be so kind as to turn around?”

            “No.”

            “Illya!  Shoo!”

            “No!”

            “At least turn around, then.”

            “Absolutely not!  You have nothing I have not seen before, lovely River Nymph!”

            She came closer to the bank, crouching, but closer and he held his breath at her beauty.  If he were absolutely truthful with himself he would admit that he found April more attractive physically than he did any other female. 

            “Come out, April.”

            “I will not!  You have my clothes you sneaky Russian.  Drop them and go away this instant!”

            “April!  Come out now!”  Illya pointed to the middle of the river.  There was one ugly looking log with eyes swimming against the current coming up fast behind her.

            April made a small sound of distress and Illya leaped into the water.  She stood and ran and he grabbed her arm and pulled.  They barely made it to shore before the caiman did.  “A lone swimmer is fair game,” Illya pointed out to an angry April. 

            “Give me my shirt!” she sputtered.

            “I apologize, lovely Nymph!  Here you are!” 

            Oh how his eyes gleamed!  Oh how she wanted to slap him and kiss him at the same time!  Here she stood, naked breasts heaving, standing on the sunlit bank of the river, and Illya was staring into her eyes and smiling.  She realized she’d made no attempt to take her shirt from him and cover her nakedness.  So why the stupid urge to slap the beloved face of her admirer?  Didn’t make any sense.  She forgot about being angry and outraged and stood like a statue, smiling up into those blue eyes. 

            He lay on a pallet inside one of the huts reserved for visiting dignitaries.  He burned and tossed and turned and tried not to think of the lovely woman in the next hut and how those lips felt under his.  If she came to him now, he would not hesitate.

            She lay on a pallet inside of the huts, her body on fire with need.  He could put out this fire.  She would welcome an end to this yearning for him that sometimes seemed to consume her, and other times was banked to a bright ember that only needed thoughts of Illya to burst into flame.  She should go to him.  She lay on her pallet and burned.

            “Little daughter, if the nape woman does not go to the hut of the jaguar, you will.  Keep watch, my beauty.  Wait until the moon sets.  If he is still alone, go to him.” 

            Yakuri-wanimi’s young daughter nodded her understanding.  She sat in her family’s hut and watched and waited.  No nape crept into hut by moonset, so she went silently to the door and slipped inside.  There was no fear, only a healthy curiosity.  It was a great honor to have been chosen from among all her father’s tribeswomen to perform this act with this visiting stranger.  If she were very, very lucky, she would bear his child some months from now. 

            Illya Kuryakin did not have a chance to resist.  She slipped under the covers and pressed her young sleek body against him, and his lust carried him away.  Several times. 

            Illya awoke sometime before sunrise to find his visitor still sleeping in his arms.  She was relaxed and quite oblivious to the rest of the world.  He took this time to reflect on the possible aftereffects this physical unity might have on her, and wondered how he was going to make it right if things went wrong.    It was a peculiarly guiltless wonder.  He had not asked for this.  She had come to him last night and given him no quarter.  He could not talk with her, and there was certainly no way he could explain the complicated problem through an interpreter!  Nevertheless, something would have to be said! 

            “I do not know your name,” he whispered into the tiny ear.  She was tiny and delicate and hot and juicy and…

            “I am Muri,” she said in a low, captivating voice, and licked at the skin of his neck with her small, smooth tongue.

            “Muri, you are wonderful.  I am very honored that you share yourself with me.”

            “I not have much English.”

            “You are good, so good!” he clarified.

            “I know good!”  She sat up and straddled him, smiling beatifically.  “You know kiss?”

            “I know kiss.”  He pulled her down so that her body covered his entirely and demonstrated.

            “I not kiss till now.  Kiss is good!”

            Of course, he thought, fascinated all over again.  They do not kiss.  What else had he done with her last night and this morning that she had never had done before?  Illya would have been content to hold this pliant young woman for an eternity but she got up suddenly and pushed him down when he started to rise also. She shook her head.  He was to stay here.  She ran out on light tiny feet. 

            He would never forget the sight of her naked buttocks bouncing in the thin light of near dawn as she ran from his hut.   He would never forget the exciting musky taste of her – so distinctly different from any other woman he had enjoyed.  He supposed it was all over now and sighed with regret. 

            The sun was well up by the time April and Mark emerged for breakfast.  They waved to Piwe who sat around the cooking fire and took a place in the shade.  Piwe ginned broadly at something one of the village females whispered to him and rose from his crouch, disappearing into the shaman’s hut for a moment.  He came back all smiles and joined April and Mark in the shade. 

“All is very well.  Yakuri-wanimi wants to know if you and your friend can stay another night!”  He grinned at the two of them, well pleased with the situation.  It was always uncertain whether or not napes would be welcomed or declared enemies.  Obviously these particular napes would be granted somewhat higher status within the tribe than subhuman, which is what the word nape meant.  They could never be fully human since they were not Yanomami, but it was a step up!  Perhaps they could attain the shori status!  Certainly the young blond in the visitor’s hut had!  Strong magic in that one, Piwe thought, to have been accorded congress with the shaman’s daughter! 

            “I do believe we were planning to stay, right April?” 

            She nodded.  She looked, Mark thought, a little sad this morning.  He pulled Piwe aside for a quick exchange.  “Listen, mate, it is April’s birthday today.  Does the tribe celebrate birthdays?”

            Piwe looked nonplussed for a moment, then his face cleared and he whispered back, “No, mate, but we can fake it!   You leave it to me, okay?”

            Mark slapped him on the back and Piwe positively beamed.  He quickly slapped Mark several times on the chest and back, delighted that the foreigner had finally shown himself to be a friend.   

            “Sit down, Mark and keep your hands to yourself!” muttered April.

            He gave her a sour look and asked, “I wonder what that was all about?”

            “Probably you just challenged him to a duel and he is looking forward to adding your skull to his collection.”  Her entire body ached.  She had not slept more than a couple of hours. 

            “My, my, not in a very good mood this morning, April Love?  You know if we were back in New York I could have taken you out and shown you a bang-up time!  But since you like it here so much, you’ll have to wait to see the present I bought for you.”

            “Oh do tell, Mark!”  April brightened immediately. 

            “Absolutely not!  Happy birthday, April!”  He leaned over and kissed her chastely on her cheek.  To his delight, she turned his head and planted a kiss on his lips. 

            This was the sight that met Illya’s eyes as he finally came out for his own breakfast.

            “Open Channel D, please.”

            “Mr. Kuryakin, how nice to hear your voice!  How are you?” Maude Waverly’s day was definitely made! 

            “Miss Waverly!  Is your famous uncle in residence?” Illya asked. 

            This was the first time Illya had ever said anything even remotely out of the ordinary to her, either on an open channel or in person.  She had to take a deep breath and swallow before she could make a sound.  “No, sir.  Not at the moment.  I can have him paged if you like, sir.”

            “This is not necessary, Miss Waverly.  Please tell him I checked in and that all is well.”  He was hesitant to make his next request.

            “Shall I switch channels, Mr. Kuryakin and ring Napoleon’s room for you?”

            “Please…”

            Call me Maude! – the young lady silently urged.

            “…Maude.  That is very kind!”

            A dim, confusing  - thank you, thank you, thank you! – came into his head and he stared at Mark’s slim pen quizzically.   He chastised himself for not realizing the niece of Alexander Waverly might be a bit psychic herself.

            “Transferring.”  Maude fanned her hot face with the flyer she’d been perusing. 

            “Illya.  Is that you?”

            “Napoleon, are you up to talking for a minute or two?”  Illya tried to shut out the last sight he’d had of his friend.  What a nightmare that would be when it finally broke through into his dreams!

            “Where are you calling from?  You sound strange.”  Napoleon’s heart felt like it was constricting into a hard metal ball.  He hadn’t been fully conscious for much of the intervening time, but when he had been his thoughts had swerved crazily between anger and such a longing to see his partner that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.  They were almost there now.  Napoleon looked around for his nurse; she was ignoring him for the moment. That was good.

            “I am still vacationing along the Orinoco.  Are you all right?”  Beneath the static he thought he heard a choked sound.

            “Yeah.  Illya look, here comes my next meal, I’ll call you back.”  Napoleon put the receiver back in its cradle and covered his eyes with that hand.  What the hell was this?  Is this me nearly in tears because that arrogant, crazy son of a bitch finally thought to call?  I hope its all this medication, because I really can’t afford to feel this way!

            “Here Mark, and thank you.  Napoleon was not very talkative, and Mr. Waverly was out.  When are we scheduled to leave?”  Illya had his hat pulled down and his entire face was in shadow.  Mark ignored what he thought might be an overdose of emotional tension and told Illya what day it was. 

            “Her birthday!  It is April first?  Already?”

            “It is.  Let’s give the old lady a treat shall we?”

            “Of course.  You look like you have a plan.”  Mark’s eyes twinkled with good humor.  Illya felt like he could use some of Mark’s foolishness just now and listened attentively.

            They did everything two young men who happened to be head over heels with a young lady and understood the way her mind worked, might do.  All attempts at maintaining an U.N.C.L.E. agent’s usual deportment were thrown to the wind today.  Anything went.  

            They made mud cakes and decorated them with flowers, feathers and war paint. It turned into a contest to see who could get a sillier looking concoction to stay on the rough wooden platters that had to serve as cake plates.  At the second showing, when Mark realized Illya’s was far superior, he upended it over the Russian’s head, mashing the mud, feathers, and petals into the blond hair with a vengeance.  A mock battle ensued that got the attention of the entire village.  Things almost got out of hand until the two young men convinced the warrior-like tribe that they were truly playing. 

            April watched with hot fascination as the two handsome men – played!  It was the most erotically strange-damn thing!  She’d seen Mark be silly; she and Mark made a point of being silly at least once a day.  She’d seen Illya in a playful mood for short spurts when he was alone with her; she’d tried like mad to escalate these displays to the point of silliness, but had never succeeded. 

This morning Mark was giggling steadily and Illya’s smile was plastered on his gorgeous face.  April laughed out loud as the two made their third trip to the river bank for more mud at a dead run, her mind stripping both of the loose trousers they wore.   Mud flew and backsides were presented.  Oh April, get hold of yourself girl!  They finished loading their plates and were racing back up the bank when Illya’s foot flashed out and Mark fell face first into Illya’s new cake. 

            What happened next would live on in her memory forever.  Mark picked Illya up and ran with him back to the river and threw the now laughing man-child into the muddy water then stood there panting with effort in the hot sun.  Illya’s laughter…that was the thing that secured this moment in her permanent files.  Mark’s stillness told her he felt the same way. 

            Still chortling, Illya took a huge breath and immersed himself for a long while, working the mud out of his hair.  The water was so churned up by this time that Mark could not see him and after two minutes, got a little nervous. 

            “Fetch the foul knave!” commanded the birthday Water Nymph, “And bring him to me for judgment!”

            Mark turned around, mud plastered in his hair, caking his face, and made a grand bow.  “It shall be as you command, milady.”  He dove in, half playing, half wondering if Illya had found himself another crocodile to wrestle and was loosing the battle. He had seen no bubbles and no hint of a body in the churned up water.  Mark was, in fact, groping blindly when he was grabbed from behind.  The strength of the grip surprised him.  Last time he’d paid any attention, Illya was just as skinny as he was.  Mark knew he was skinny and was destined to remain that way.  He was quick and deadly with a weapon, but no match for the bands of steel that wrapped themselves around him now, immobilizing him. 

            He’s going to drown me!  Maybe that last move of mine was too much for his dignity to suffer.  But no, he had been laughing!  Hadn’t he? 

             Mark heaved mightily.  It was no use.  He went limp, and was rewarded by his captor standing up and letting him breathe.

            “Surrender Slate!  Graceful or otherwise!” yelled an excited April.

            “Do as the lady says, and you will not be hurt,” growled the Russian behind Mark’s ear.

            “Too bloody much!” Mark exclaimed as the hackles the back of his neck stood at attention.  The rest of his primitive internal alarm systems went off signaling that he might be about to be eaten – which would have been funny but he had always thought the Russian a wolf…but the shaman had said no, not a wolf.   Not a bear, that felt all wrong somehow.  Though that would be good – the Russian bear.  “Let up, Illya, you’re about to break my arm.”

            An eerie growl was his only aural answer, but the grip relaxed, and his arm, which had been wrenched behind his back, was allowed to come down a tad.  Mark raised his eyes and looked around at the natives.  They weren’t laughing anymore; they were silent and staring – expectant.

            Mark hated being frightened.  He could count on one hand the times he had felt like this. God damn it! The back of his neck tingled alarmingly, like it was about to be fastened upon by large teeth.  No!  This was his gentle musician friend who ate his food and laughed at Monty Python and Saturday Night Live – who also happened to be a highly trained killer.  “Illya?” he whispered.  “You win, old chap.  Now let’s start phase two of Operation Birthday.”

            They were standing still at the water’s edge.  “Then march right smartly,” Illya said in a quiet voice, “and make your apologies, as they are due.”

            Head up as high as the grip on his arm allowed, Mark allowed himself to be marched up to the feet of the Nymph.

            “I bring you the despoiler of beauty!  Foul betrayer who lives by treachery and deceit!” Illya cried and released Mark, who promptly fell to his knees in the sand.

            April had no breath with which to answer for the moment.  She felt like a wild mix of the Queen of Hearts, Salome and a carefree hoyden.  The tableau, whether pretend or otherwise, had her blood racing.  The look of Illya with his deep-set eyes glinting from beneath his lowered brow was fiercely primal.  An unexpected side of her personality awoke and trembled with sympathetic savage vibrations.

            When had Illya become an obsession?  The answer came easily.  Shortly after his arrival, of course.  If she let it, this obsession would take over completely.  Just now she could not tear her eyes from his, even if they were only hinted at in the shadow of his face.

            “Get-,” she started and had to stop to clear her throat, “get up, you rogue!   And you, you – ” 

             Illya’s bared his teeth in a feral grin.

            “Step back,” April choked out.

            She was about to demand apologies from both of them for such an unseemly display when Mark and Illya glanced at one another and sprang at her before she could utter a word. 

            The tribe members watching were laughing once more as the two carried a flailing April Dancer to the bank, heaved and hoed her back and forth a few times and threw her in the muddied water. 

            “These are my last clean clothes!” she wailed as she flew through the air. 

            Illya and Mark shook hands and bowed to hoots and laughter. 

            Later they peeled her fruit and hand fed her as she lounged in her hammock.  Then all and sundry repaired to shady spots for the afternoon siesta. 

            Illya had been waiting and watching since this morning for a glimpse of the lovely Muri, but she made no appearance.  When everyone else went to sleep through the hottest part of the day, Illya went in search of Dub.  He found him on the village’s perimeter, sitting quietly watching the river go by. 

            “May I interrupt you, Dub?”

            “Set yasef down, son, and speak you mind.” Dub answered.

            “That might take more time than we have,” Illya began, meaning exactly what he said.  There were at least twenty things he would like to discuss with this man, and that was just the beginning. 

            Dub chuckled.  “Den let’s have a piece of it, anyways.  Start wid the firs’ ting dat’s mos’ troublin’ you head.”

            Illya thought this simple advice was something he ought to follow more often.  Most of the time a thousand things whirled in his head, crowding one another for space.  These pressing issues tended to cancel themselves out and he would end up saying nothing.  “Yes!  Thank you, Dub.”

            The Cajun nodded his understanding and spared a smile for the young man.

            “Last night I was visited by a young lady of this tribe,”

            Dub’s head came around so fast Illya heard the tendons protest.  “You doan say?” 

            “I do!” Ten more questions came roaring up and were beaten back with whips and chains.  “She shared my pallet until dawn.  This, in itself, would not be a problem, but…

            One thing at a time!  Get it out Illya!  He will understand.  Somehow he will!   

            Dub had expected the young face to blush, instead all the color washed out of it.  “Illya, dere ain’t much you cud say dat I ain’t heard, son.”

            “Somehow I do not think you have heard anything like what I am about to confide to you,” Illya said low.  He outlined to his new confessor many of the details of his past lover’s woes.

            Dub didn’t bother questioning the veracity of this confession.  He did look beyond the obvious and did not offer condolences.  He got right down to the current problem.  “Well, okay.  Firs’ off, you cain’t take dis yungun wid you.  Dey nevah leave da tribe.  I haf ta tell ya, son, I ain’t nevah heared of no such ting happenen’ ‘fore now.  What da young lady name?”

            “Muri.  That is all I know of her, except that she is young and very pretty.  Do you –” Illya stopped dead in the face of Dub’s look of utter astonishment.

            “She da shaman’s daughtah, son!  You sure ‘bout dis?”

             “Da.”

            “Whooo eeee!” came the soft warble.  “Tell you one ting off da bat, Illya, chainces are her daddy knows sumpin ‘bout you dat mebbe you doan even reelize yet” Dub leaned back on his elbows and thought about this for a god while. 

            Illya respected this silence and flopped down on his stomach beside Dub.  After a few minutes of staring absently into the jungle, focusing on nothing, his body began to tingle all over and became a cauldron of heat.  Color was starting to wash out of his vision even as his perceptions sharpened to incredulous clarity. 

            The jungle is calling.  Blood is waiting to be shed. 

            He tasted the breeze that flowed into his mouth and over his tongue.

            Five miles from where he crouched, a female was going into heat.  He could almost hear her grunting, lust filled utterances.  Life would be so simple if he allowed the jungle and his prospective mate to have their way.  Simple and savagely satisfying!

            “Oh ho!  I can tell you have a choice to make, young Illya!” Dub kept his voice calm and even with great effort.  “Illya, can you hear me, son?  If you can, I need ta tell you dat if you give in to dis ting now, you might nevah come back out of it!  Dis you choice, son.  But I tink you one young man dat has a ‘hole lotta bizznez ta take care of in dis man’s world.”  Attired in only the loose trousers, Illya’s twitching muscles were easy to observe.  All Dub’s instincts screamed at him to leave this troubled young man alone and let him escape his human existence.  A big part of his mind, though, knew there was something Illya was responsible for doing in the world of man, as he’d already said aloud.  So, regretfully, and with no little trepidation, he laid a warm hand on the trembling, incredibly hot back.  “Common back, son.”

            Writhing and half ready to tear this human apart, Illya fought with his already beloved jaguar-self.   Dub’s words had penetrated and tolled a deep-voiced bell of truth.  Slowly the world returned to its familiar paradigm.

            “When I was hurt once and in dese parts, da same kinda ting happen’ ta me.  Da village shaman, not ole’ Yakuri-wanimi, but one jus’ lak im, cured me a da fever.  Dat night I wus flyin’ ovah yonda peaks, lookin’ down an seein’ everting clear lak I wus no more’n ten feet away.  Dats when I lost all fear of dyin’, son, and truly learned to fly!  Goddam, now dat was fine!”

            Profoundly touched and shaken, Illya closed his eyes and asked the question nearest his heart.  “Can you still become…still do?”

            “Once in a while, son.  I doan tink it evah really go away.  Mebbe not so strong as it were dat firs’ time, but jest as satifyin’.  Mebbe more so, cause ya git more control as time go by.”

            Silence reigned for a long while.  Finally Dub mastered his rapture and started speaking again.

            “Since you so special, son, and da shaman know it, I somehow doubt Muri be havin’ any problems come time for y’all ta leave.  Howevah, if I come back heah, which I tink I be doin’, cause I do lak it s’much, I be axing and lookin’.  Den, “he smiled down at his young soul-mate, letting the love shine clear, “I come see you.  Let you know.”

            “Sounds like a good plan,” Illya managed, then let his control slip away and allowed himself to cry silently, head buried in his arms.  Dub said and did nothing except let his stillness communicate his understanding and acceptance. 

            Tired from a long night of sexual acrobatics, a day of unaccustomed play and finally the incredible relief of being fully understood, Illya fell asleep until evening darkened the riverbank.          

The End