THE
JOURNAL AFFAIR
“Dead.”
There. He said it.
It had been three days since Napoleon Solo
watched with undisguised horror as Illya Kuryakin blew up right before his
disbelieving eyes…
The mission the U.N.C.L.E. Agents were sent on was another great success, a job
well done by a partnership that had become legend among their colleagues.
Another mad scientist was captured, a THRUSH satrapy of evil was closed down,
and the world was once again saved from the brink of destruction. The
only thing different was Napoleon had lived to accept the accolades.
Illya had not…
Alexander Waverly, U.N.C.L.E.’s Chief of Operations, had been dreading this day
with every ounce of his being. He knew only too well how much his top two
Agents depended on each other. Needed each other. Loved each
other. And if that love spilled over into a sexual relationship, then
bully for them!
Except now one was gone. And he wondered, as he had always wondered in
the back of his mind, how would one survive without the other? The man
with the nerves of steel, who was directly involved with monitoring the
tensions in the world, knew the best thing to do would be to get Solo “back on the horse”. Brooding would not bring the
irreplaceable Russian back to life.
Yet the grandfatherly man who loved both men as he loved his own children could
not bring himself to issue the order. Instead, he pulled his Chief
Enforcement Agent from active duty “for the time being…”
Napoleon wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not. Naturally, he was
relieved he would not have to face an affair without his partner at his
side. At the same time, there was nothing to occupy his thoughts.
To keep him from replaying in his mind the last seconds…
He gave himself a shake, both physically and mentally. There was one
thing he could do. Had to
do. Someone would have to box up Illya’s belongings and Napoleon was
damned if anyone else would do the job other than himself. It would be a
violation, letting strangers pick through Illya’s private papers, touch his
beloved books, pack his clothes. The clothes he would never wear--
“Stop it!” Napoleon scolded himself. “You’ve got to be stronger than
this!”
Taking a deep, deep breath, he walked over to Illya’s writing desk. It
was covered with neatly stacked papers and magazines, waiting as he left
them. Waiting for his return. It was as good a place as any to
start packing…
One of the desk drawers was locked. Not finding a key, Napoleon broke
into it with the dexterity of a master criminal. Inside he found a
fireproof lockbox, and atop it was an 8x11 hardbound book. Opening it, he
realized it was a journal of some sort.
It surprised him that his taciturn partner would have so much to say in a book,
for the pages were filled from top to bottom, from margin to margin. Once
he grasped what it was, he was quick to close it. Illya’s personal
thoughts were that. Personal. Except the book didn’t close fast
enough. One word caught his eye. His name…
He stood frozen. On the one hand, he knew
Illya would be appalled that he had read his innermost thoughts. On the
other hand, well, he was only human! Despite his resolve, he opened the
book to the first page and began to read...
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“Tomorrow we leave for
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“Napoleon is in the Infirmary, recuperating. I found him, chained to a
wall, beaten to unconsciousness. My official report reads that THRUSH
Agents were killed in a fire fight. Mr. Waverly would frown if he knew I
had killed those men in cold blood for what they did to Napoleon. My one
regret is that I could not kill them slowly. Agonizingly. But I had
to get Napoleon to safety. I do not know what I would do if I had been
too late. I do not think I could go on without him…”
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“He has made a date with the red-headed stewardess on our flight back from
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“It was my turn to be chained to a wall and tortured. My turn to recuperate in the Infirmary.
In my drugged haze I could sense Napoleon was at my side. I could smell
his aftershave, his shampoo. Heard his voice as he flirted with the
nurses. It hurts to hear him lavish attention on these women, much more
than any wound THRUSH could ever inflict upon me, yet it is reassuring to know
that he would never leave my side to be with them. Not while I am incapacitated…”
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“It is our anniversary. We have been partners now for three years.
And it was three years ago that I first fell in love with Napoleon Solo.
I had seen him around U.N.C.L.E. long before we ever met. I thought he
was the most handsome, fascinating, charismatic man I had ever laid eyes
on. I still do. I wonder what he would say if I told him how much
he means to me. Would he hate me? Would I disgust him? Would
he end our partnership? No. I could not risk that. I could
not risk losing him…”
<><><><><>
It took Napoleon over two hours to read the whole journal. Closing the
book, he wiped away the tears which had been streaming down his cheeks,
unchecked. He had no idea his partner had loved him as more than a
friend. Illya had never let his guard down once. He had never let
Napoleon see what his heart was hiding.
“Damn it, Illya!” he cursed the empty apartment. “Why didn’t you tell me
you loved me as much as I loved you!?”
He knew the answer to that as his words echoed off the walls. It was the
same reason he had not declared
himself. He couldn’t risk losing Illya. And now it was too late.
Too late to tell him that he never slept with half the women he wined and
dined. And those he had, he pretended it was his lithe partner he was
kissing, that he was making love to. So much time wasted…
From his pocket he heard the chirp of his communicator. He quickly took
his handkerchief and blew his nose, composing himself.
“Solo, here,” he said in a tight voice.
“Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly came on the line.
‘No. Please don’t call me in. Not now…’
“Mr. Solo. I’m not sure how to tell you this, but…Mr. Kuryakin is alive.”
Napoleon stared at the pen in his hand as if it were a foreign object he had
never seen before.
“Mr. Solo. Did you hear me? Mr. Kuryakin is alive.”
“But…I saw…”
“I know what you saw. And I know what the sweepers found. But Mr.
Kuryakin is very much alive. He’s here at headquarters, in the
Infirmary.”
Napoleon couldn’t remember much of anything after that. He vaguely
remembered putting Illya’s journal away and relocking his desk drawer. In
an almost drunken stupor he hailed a cab and found himself heading with all
speed to Del Floria’s Tailor Shop.
“So much time wasted,” he said under his breath. “So much to make up
for…”
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