by N.L. Hayes and C.W. Walker
Act I: "There are no guarantees...."
New York, U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, early November, 1968
Staffing in headquarters had already dropped to its weekend numbers, and they encountered few people as they made their way to the lower level where the interrogation rooms were. The door swooshed open automatically for them, and they entered the stark room. The monotony of the gunmetal walls was unbroken by decoration of any sort. A rectangular conference table and three chairs were the only furnishings, except for the nearly invisible cameras in strategic corners of the ceiling and the invisible microphones.
Kuryakin reached into his pocket and felt the green visitor's badge he had picked up while Solo was in his office. It had been part of his plan for placing Solo most accurately into the role of captive, but he changed his mind. Taking away his gun was hard enough. "Have a seat," he said.
Solo pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, crossing one leg over the other to get comfortable, though he felt anything but.
It was ridiculous, he chided himself, to feel such apprehension. Despite the palpable shift in mood, this was still Illya. Still a simulation. Still the same room he'd been in a hundred times. No matter what happened, he was still here, safe, in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.
Napoleon was right, Kuryakin thought as he watched his partner. It was different in the field. Oddly enough, one felt less vulnerable among strangers, even when it came to something as simple a being armed, or wearing an identity badge. Strangers mattered less. They were people you'd most likely never see again, often because you'd had the satisfaction of killing them. In any case, whatever they found out about you would go no further. It didn't bear too close examination, to think of having to work with them later.
Although, they did that all the time with other agents in the field. No, not really, Kuryakin decided. It was one of the things partners did for one another � shielded them from prying eyes, even friendly ones. Especially friendly ones. He remembered the still unsettling encounter he had had with a fear-inducing drug, sent to Marian Raven in a box of chocolates. Long afterwards he remembered the sensation of fear all too well. But what he remembered even more clearly was the look on Solo's face when he had found him, whimpering and retreating and totally helpless.
"You're safe here, Napoleon," he felt the need to reassure his partner explicitly. "Whatever might happen, you'll be here, and we'll be certain to protect you. No matter how important Waverly may feel this drug is to U.N.C.L.E., it's not as important as his Chief of Enforcement. I won't let him forget that."
He pulled the envelope from his pocket. "And one other thing: there is a sort of antidote. The way this drug works, we can short-circuit it biochemically. It wouldn't be a complete reversal, but it would be a start. Naturally, an agent in the field won't be carrying the antagonist drug � what would be the point? But I have it."
That was also good to hear, Solo thought. If things went off-track and the effects were either more severe or more freakish than expected, at least Illya could step in. Solo had put more than his mental well-being in his partner's hands before and would do so again.
"Are you ready?" Kuryakin asked.
Solo nodded. He desperately wanted another drink, but a cigarette would do, just to take the edge off. But he knew he was getting neither. At least for now, while he was still aware that he did want them. "I'm ready," he said. "This is still a pill, right? No needles." Solo hated needles.
"No needles," Kuryakin assured him. "No water either, I'm afraid. You're unlikely to have that luxury in a real emergency. Just bite down, hard, and swallow. I can't swear to its success, but I have made an effort to flavor the capsule �. pleasantly." Not exactly Glenfiddig, the Russian knew, but closer to Scotch than thiouricil.
He handed over the small green capsule. "Mr. Solo, consider yourself captured."
"Hmmm." Solo made a sound deep in his throat as he took the pill. It was green this time, but just as innocent and mundane looking as the original Capsule B. He popped it in his mouth and followed Kuryakin's instructions. Then he sat and waited. A few seconds ticked by. A few more.
"Y'know, I don't feel anyt�"
And then it hit him: a hot rush that started somewhere in the back of his head and spread quickly, washing through his scalp, across his face and down his neck. It was like someone had just opened up his skull and poured 200 proof moonshine into it.
"Oh, Jesus," Solo murmured, reaching a hand to his forehead.
"Napoleon �. what is it?" Kuryakin asked, concern evident in his voice. This isn't supposed to happen.
Shifting in the chair, Solo leaned forward, wracked by a sudden dizziness. Nausea rose so high in his throat, he could taste it. The room began to teeter, as if he was on a ship in high seas, and for a fleeting moment, he had the image from an old horror movie of Dr. Jekyll turning into Hyde. He clutched the arms of the chair for purchase, his knuckles going white.
"Napoleon, � say something." Kuryakin controlled the tone of his voice, as well as the instinct to help his partner. It's safe. I know it's safe, he reminded himself. This was, after all, the point of the exercise, and the need to remain intellectually distanced from what was happening was paramount. "What's happening? Is this what it was like the last time?"
Was it like this last time? Solo had no idea because, mercifully, a gun butt had knocked him out right after he took the pill. "I ... don't ... know," he managed, rasping out the words, his eyes squeezed shut. But that wasn't going to help Illya, so Solo tried to concentrate through the haze and the pain. "It feels ... like my ... brain is on ... fire." Mindlessly, he tried to rise, but he was too shaky, so instead, he leaned back in the chair. Forcing himself to look around, he found an obviously worried Illya standing close by.
"Gee," Solo said, forcing a smile, "I really hope this is going to be worth it." And then his eyes rolled back, and he passed out cold.
Kuryakin was at his side in time to stabilize him as he lost consciousness. Chort vozmi! He looked at his watch. Unbelievably, it had been no more than 30 seconds since Solo had bitten into the capsule. He pressed two fingers against Solo's throat and counted. His pulse wasn't particularly fast, no more than might be expected in any stressful situation, but it pounded unusually hard against Kuryakin's fingers. What the hell was happening?
Carefully, he lifted Solo's inert body from the chair and lowered it to the floor. The tie was already gone, but he unbuttoned Solo's top shirt button and loosened his belt. Quickly he pulled off his own suit jacket and bundled it under his partner's feet, then returned to check his breathing. Everything seemed normal, except for the fact that he's unconscious.
"Napoleon!" he shouted and slapped both Solo's cheeks. "Na � PO � le � on! Can you hear me? Wake up!" Damn you, wake up! There was no response, either good or bad. Kuryakin sat back on his heels, knowing he had to make a choice. Ride it out or call for help.
What had he been thinking when he maneuvered his way around Simpson and Caviness? Deliberately misleading them to believe the test would take place the following week? And allowing the heads of Research and Medical each to believe that the other had possession of the capsule? If nothing else, that bit of subterfuge would have to be answered for. Theft and unauthorized use of U.N.C.L.E. proprietary substances, Kuryakin could envision the notation to be added to his service record. But none of that mattered now. The only basis for his decision had to be his partner's well-being.
He looked at his watch again. Five minutes. Too long to ignore. He got to his feet and went to the intercom on the wall. "This is Kuryakin." His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the room.
"Hi, Illya. What's up?" It was Connie from the night shift. She had a thing for Kuryakin.
"I need an emergency medical team in Interrogation Room 2. Now."
"Oh, sure. Right away! I'm on it." She knew better than to ask what was wrong, and the tension in Kuryakin's voice was enough to communicate the severity of whatever it was.
Back in the soundproof and secure interrogation room, Kuryakin couldn't hear as her voiced piped over the PA system, paging Medical personnel. He clicked off the intercom and ran a hand reflexively through his hair as he walked back to his partner. To all appearances, Solo seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and perhaps that was just what he was doing. But the risk was too great; there was too much to lose. Kuryakin almost smiled at the irony: you managed to find a risk I hadn't calculated, didn't you?
They both were going to have a lot to answer for.
The medical team arrived within minutes, the off-hours team comprised of two young men with medical training from the military � and a Section III enforcement agent with Special in hand. Wonderful, Kuryakin thought ruefully. So much for privacy.
"What happened?" one of the medics asked as he and his colleague knelt to either side of Solo and began to evaluate his vital signs. "Mr. Kuryakin?"
Kuryakin found himself concentrating on the U.N.C.L.E. Special aimed directly at him. "He's taken an experimental drug," Kuryakin answered honestly, keeping his hands well away from his sides and moving out of the medics' way. Not certain what to make of the scene, the Section III agent kept his gun trained on Kuryakin as the Russian moved. "Within seconds, he reported a severe headache, and then lost consciousness," Kuryakin continued, his eyes never leaving the gun. Safety's off, he noted.
"How long ago was that?" the medic asked, his full attention on his patient, reading off numbers which his colleague recorded on a standard incident report sheet. Neither seemed aware of the strange ballet going on around them.
Once again, Kuryakin consulted his watch, not letting his hand come too close to the Special firmly in place in his own holster. "Eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds," he replied. Solo apparently was beginning to come round without any assistance from the medics. In his peripheral vision, Kuryakin could see him moving his head a bit and felt a wave of relief. At last he said with as much authority as he could muster, "Put the gun away, Mr. Vermeer."
"No, sir, Mr. Kuryakin, sir," Vermeer said respectfully, disguising the nervousness he felt. "Not until Mr. Solo there is well enough to corroborate your story." Vermeer was obviously in way over his head, and he knew it. Kuryakin was a legend around U.N.C.L.E., but that still didn't explain why he'd be locked alone in a room with a superior unconscious on the floor. And not just any superior, but the Chief of Enforcement. There'd been high level traitors before. Vermeer had heard all about Carla Drosten and Harry Beldon. Everyone had. Rumor even had it that Kuryakin had worked for Beldon before transferring to New York.
Kuryakin took a deep breath. At this point, the best case scenario would be for the drug to be a total failure. Solo would come round and, in none too gentle words, assure his partner that never again would he agree to be a guinea pig in one of U.N.C.L.E.'s experiments. And the odds of that happening are about the same as Disney opening a theme park in Moscow.
He nodded toward Vermeer's still engaged weapon. "I realize you're just doing your job. But I assure you, this is unnecessary." And distracting me from what I need to do. "How is he?" he spoke over his shoulder to the medics.
They were helping Solo to sit up. "He seems kind of groggy, I guess," said �Johnny' Johnson, the senior medic, "but otherwise � OK. You doin' OK there, Mr. Solo?" he asked his patient in an unnecessarily loud voice.
� Solo. Mr. Solo �. The words flickered like sparks of lightning through the gray fog that swirled in Solo's brain. He came to slowly, reality seeping in as his senses switched back on, open for business. He felt strong hands grasping his arms, felt himself swing upright, felt the breath of the man speaking next to him warm his cheek. And all through it, were the words.
You doin' OK there?
No. Yes. Maybe. Solo reached for his head, cradled it in his hands and groaned. As the throbbing began to subside, he realized where he was. "What am I doing on the floor? Did somebody just hit me? Who knocked me out?"
"How're you feelin', OK? You had a little spell here, but you're gonna be all right."
Solo squinted and looked up. He didn't recognize the face, but he registered the young man as some sort of emergency worker. "Yeah. Sure. Ah � where am I?"