Author's note:  This story originally appeared  in Book Two of the Evolution Affair.  I have cleaned it up somewhat, taking out descriptions of events that might offend.  There are several elements of…well, fantasy, I guess, in this tale.   The year changed.  Doesn't make a bit of difference, really, since the men from UNCLE and their adventures are timeless.

                Illya, Napoleon and April share a very special bond.  The readers of the Evolution Affair are very conversant with this aspect!  The man Illya meets while trying to save Napoleon has another type of special bond with nature. 

            And finally, at risk of boring you thoroughly, this story will explain, for those who might have wondered, just where and how Illya Nickovetch acquired his 'cat nature.'

 

This adventure is rated: PG 13

 

Raisa

 

 
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.