THE
MY PARTNER THE
GHOST
AFFAIR
by
gm
Winter 1969
Dried,
dead winter grass crunched under his steady footfalls; a different crunch than
the hard packed snow patches that covered most of the hillside. With slow, methodical
steps he navigated through the old grey monuments weathered by time and sea
winds. Bitter conditions had crumbled the somber tombstones over the centuries.
'Some view,' was his abstract, caustic observation as he paused near the
edge of the cemetery. A grey sea rolled and dipped in the short distance the
limited visibility afforded. 'Why
did UNCLE ever pick this godforsaken edge of desolation? These must be the
economy plots.'
The
freezing, stiff wind rushed off the drab North Atlantic and numbed his face. He
resisted the impulse to put up his collar and turn away from the gale. To turn
his back would be a useless gesture -- the cold would assault him with
unmerciful persistence, just as tumultuous emotions battered relentlessly at
his consciousness. The hands in the coat pockets were clenched into tight
fists. He did not want to expose them to the raw weather, nor did he want to
watch them tremble.
With
a discontented sigh, he stepped back to the unkempt path in search of his grim
target. The new gravemarker would not be hard to find. Two days old, it was the
only addition to the cemetery in almost a century. He swallowed the lump
constricting his throat. Two days ago he had been just across the channel on
assignment, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in Britain. Only this morning
had he heard the devastating news. His numbed mind still could not digest and
comprehend the reality he faced.
They
had come so close to death so many times, but always there was a rescue -- a
last minute escape. What had gone wrong this time? Though he logically knew
their glorious partnership was merely mortal, he was not prepared for it to
end. Not yet.
The
graveyard was the grim and depressing journey's end. Colorless, lifeless --
some alternate dimension for the physically dead and emotionally dying. What a
terrible place to say goodbye to a friend.
Purposeful footsteps reflected the anger that still lingered. Why hadn't
he been called in to assist? Why had they waited two days to tell him! The
anger was magnified because he already knew the answers to the rhetorical
questions. Death was sudden in this merciless occupation. And his responsibilities
to a job could not be supplanted by sentimentality.
None
of the first ragged emotions had faded. Thoughts were still so confused he
could not yet sort through them. The anger and disbelief would fade soon. The
grief and the guilt would linger for a lifetime. Nothing could ever erase the
pain. He wished the cold, impersonal wash of anguish would numb the lacerating
stilettos of hurt just as the cold wind numbed his face. Reason denied self-condemnation, but his
conscience insisted his friend's death was his fault. If he had been there . .
. that regret was the deepest cut of all. The emotion that would never
diminish. 'Might-have-beens' were the
hardest spectres to live with.
He
stopped abruptly. There it was. A small square slab of insignificant stone
placed during the burial, as was the custom in this area. Snow blanketed the
mound of earth and the ledge of tombstone. The new grave was heartbreakingly
forlorn in this forgotten corner of winter.
For a long time he stared at the simple words that said nothing. Names
and dates -- a pitifully inadequate and meager message for a man who meant
everything to him.
Fat
flakes of snow leisurely drifted to earth. He knelt and rubbed unsteady fingers
across the etched names. He brushed away the fine powder imbedded in the
letters that spelled Illya Kuryakin. Irrelevantly, he was angered that there
was no clever epitaph or droll message in keeping with the personality of the
deceased. But then, no verse could appropriately do justice to the eclectic
Russian.
With
an intensity of emotion he had never before experienced, Napoleon Solo was
overwhelmed by a crushing loneliness. Never had he known such despair and
desolation. Together, Illya and he had been indomitable. Now . . . it was as if
the world had suddenly emptied of color, depth, and pulse. Solo pressed his palm against the cold slab
in a gesture of final farewell. This was the end of the world -- his world. No
miracles or brilliant escapes from this prison. He had harbored the fantasy
that the report was a mistake; not much of a body had been recovered, no
absolute positive proof . . .
Reality
could no longer be stayed. Feeling the cold slab, Napoleon could not ignore the
truth. Time to accept -- really, emotionally accept -- the death. Suffer the
agony now and let time heal, as much as this desolation could ever be mended.
Leaning
his face against the cold, rough stone he trembled. "Accept this,
Napoleon," he whispered in a dry, shaking voice. "Admit you've failed
to save your best friend. Try living with that reality," he finished
bitterly and punctuated the sorrowful condemnation by pounding the stone with
his clenched fist.
One
day professional insensitivity would bind this deep tear of guilt he felt. Eventually
time and logic would blunt the killing-edge of regret. Duty would impel him
through the motions of a life filled with echoed memories. At this abysmal
moment, nothing could ease the anguish.
"On
your feet! Both hands in sight!"
There
was such a gulf of separation from reality, several seconds passed before the
order registered on Solo. Instinct for survival snapped instantly into place.
He remained perfectly still as he evaluated the situation. He sensed -- felt --
the presence of three men almost directly behind him.
"Hands
in bloody sight, mate! And come slowly to your feet."
The
crisp, British accent was undertoned with danger. If Napoleon wasn't very
careful, he would end up with a bullet in the back. However unpleasant that
prospect was, Solo wasn't about to give in. He had no tolerance for being a
prisoner just now.
"Whatever
you say," was the cool response that veiled his true intent.
As
Solo turned, his body momentarily shielded his right hand. By the time he
completed the full turn the Walther was in his hand. He leaped to the side and
rolled behind a tombstone. His shots were blind and Solo automatically noted
all three intruders returned fire. Napoleon pressed his back against a large,
gaudy monument and considered his options. Bullets ripped into the stone and
Solo could feel the vibration when they hit.
With
practiced efficiency the recent mourning was pushed aside in favor of survival.
As he calculated defensive and offensive ploys, he tried to reason out this
surprise visit. These men were not part of the drug smuggling ring he busted in
France. Were they part of Illya's case? Solo didn't even know what Illya's
mission had been. Intuition speculated these thugs were not only part of
Kuryakin's assignment -- but Illya's murderers!
Reason
was suddenly washed away by a red haze of vengeance. The men were summarily
tried, convicted and sentenced to execution. Though revenge would not change
the past, it would salve Solo's conscience and make the future somehow more
bearable. Solo sensed more than heard someone approach from his right. On his
knees, he leaned around the tombstone and fired. Before the dead assailant hit
the ground, Solo spun and shot a man just a few feet to his left. Too late, he
saw the third source of danger from the peripheral edge of his vision.
The
quietly familiar cough of a Walther from behind made him jump in surprise. The
third assailant fell dead. Still on his knees, Napoleon turned to his rescuer. A backdrop of swirling mist ringed a figure
clad in a black trenchcoat. The pale, almost transparent face belonged to Illya
Kuryakin.
A
lifetime seemed to pass as Solo stared at the indistinct apparition. Napoleon
knew this was a delusion -- from knocking his head against the gravemarker? No,
this was a hallucination, not double vision.
The lines around the figure were indistinct and blurry. Vapor from the
netherworld of wraiths? Solo wondered if ghosts shimmered. He abstractly
recognized that shock supplied the remote calm which insulated him from panic.
As these absurdities swirled through his thoughts, he sat immobile and stared
transfixed at the man he knew so well; the expressionless face that belonged to
a dead man.
With
surreal detachment he watched a dark circle of mist enclose the figure.
Napoleon realized it was his own vision closing in. Refusing to succumb to the
ignominy of fainting -- from natural or supernatural causes -- Solo rallied his
diminishing courage and forced himself to stare directly into the pale eyes of
the -- illusion? He had heard somewhere
that extreme stress caused hallucinations; visions of the person the stress
victim most wanted to see. True, he was rather anxious. A natural reaction when
people tried to kill him. And Illya WAS the person he would most like to see.
Did illusions shoot Walthers?
Solo
scraped his palms against the serrated surfaced of the gravestone. The cold,
hard tangibility of the stone became a reference to reality. IF this was
Illya's spirit (Solo wasn't even sure he believed in ghosts), there was nothing
to fear from his friend. After all, Illya had saved his life -- an apparent
constant in this world as well as the next!
Aided by the solid support of the gravemarker, Solo
came slowly to his feet. Kuryakin's neutral features contained neither denial
nor recognition. Solo decided bluntness was the best approach. What did he have
to lose?
"I
didn't know ghosts used Walther's," he gestured at the pistol in
Kuryakin's hand. The inanity of the statement was laughable. The moment was
robbed of humor by the tremble in his voice.
"I
don't think they do," the accented voice responded with a well-practiced
dryness. Then the passive features transformed into an engaging smile.
Napoleon's
wonderfully stricken expression, so atypical of the cool, composed American,
was a priceless amusement to the taciturn Russian. The dramatic entrance had
been too rich to bypass. But, now, Illya felt his first pangs of regret at the
wicked trick. Napoleon's face was ashen and the agent seemed to stay on his feet
only with the aid of the grave marker.
"Are
you all right?" Kuryakin asked solicitously and took a step forward.
"I heard your head hit the tombstone."
Solo
stumbled back into the barrier of the headstone.
"Napoleon,
you don't really think I'm a . . . ."
Kuryakin
abruptly ceased the light teasing. For several days, he had played dead to turn
the tables on his persistent pursuers. There had been no time to go through
channels on the faked death. He had hoped to finish the case before Napoleon
learned of the apparent fatality. Now, Kuryakin realized he had sadly
miscalculated several details. One, the pursuers, and two, his partner. He had
never seen Solo so off-balance, but then he supposed, Napoleon had never
experienced a grim day quite like this.
"I'm
not a ghost," Illya assured in a quiet, but firm tone.
"Of
course not," Solo responded after several seconds of scrutiny of his
partner. His voice still echoed uncertainty.
With
visible courage, the senior agent straightened and stepped toward Kuryakin.
Solo's right hand still clutched the Walther as his left hand touched
Kuryakin's shoulder. Once connected to a solidly mortal body, Solo dropped the
pistol and squeezed Illya's shoulders with both hands.
"One
hundred percent real," Kuryakin reaffirmed.
Solo
gripped the nape of the Russian's neck in a hold somewhere between a neck pinch
and strangulation. "One of these days I'm going to kill you," he
whispered threateningly, though his voice trembled as much as his hands. Then
he wrapped his partner in an impulsive embrace.
Illya
could feel his friend shiver. Until that moment, he had not realized how deeply
Solo had been affected by the charade. There had been so many incidents when
they had feared the worst about the other partner. Obviously, this time, Solo
had been convinced the death was real. Unreasonably,
Illya felt slightly betrayed that Napoleon would
accept his demise so easily. The irritation quickly dissolved in the face of
logic. The ruse had been all too convincing a trick and had backfired into a
cruel ploy. Illya would have to find a way to make this up to his partner.
"If
you kill me, I shall surely return to haunt you," Kuryakin threatened in a
light tone that was somewhat forced. He pulled away to study the sober
American.
"My
partner the ghost?" was Solo's almost flippant response that held a
dangerous edge. He recovered his Walther and studiously brushed snow from the
black metal. "You're all right?"
"Perfectly,"
Kuryakin admitted warily.
He
had no trouble recognizing the sudden mood change. Solo was shielding
vulnerability with the smoldering anger evident in the sharp tone. When the
dark haired agent glanced up, Kuryakin noted the concerned eyes had changed to
brown force fields of unforgiving ire.
"Well,
then, you better have a damn good explanation, or you may yet become a
ghost," he warned as he snapped the Walther back into the holster.
In a
rare display of magnanimity, and to assuage his own guilt, Illya offered to
explain the convoluted story over supper - his treat.
Solo
grudgingly agreed as he followed Kuryakin to the car.
"I'll
have the local office take care of the mess," Napoleon said as he nodded
toward the bodies and pulled out his communicator. "You could have warned
me, you know."
"My
communicator was burned with the body in the car. The unfortunate victim was a
THRUSH agent," he offered as an aside.
"You
could have phoned," Solo persisted.
Kuryakin
sighed, realizing the senior agent was not going to wait for an explanation.
"There wasn't time, Napoleon. The decision was spontaneous." He stopped
and leaned against the side of the car. "I thought I could finish the
operation before you found out."
"And
I suppose this Dickensian setting was your twisted idea of dramatics?"
Kuryakin
shrugged uneasily. "It seemed the right setting for a resurrection."
Solo
stared at the grey headstones on the hillside. He analyzed his anger as a
backlash of traumatized nerves, a reaction to his own anxieties. There were
many types of fear, and today, at this graveyard, Solo had been terrified to
the depths of his soul. Scared of not his own death, but the death -- the loss
-- of his friend. Afraid of the utter loneliness of being a solo agent again.
The
anger had a myriad of sources: knowledge that he had no right to be this
dependent on his partner, the sense of betrayal at not being included in the
ruse. It was irrational to let this ploy disturb him. Their entire careers were
based on deceits, fakes and lies. Why should it upset him that Illya was so
adept at the game? Kuryakin's cunning saved their skins constantly. These
operations were often necessary and missions could not be altered because of
feelings or loyalties. They had a job to do, and unfortunately, the job often
became quite nasty. That was why emotions and close attachments had no place in
the espionage business.
Sometimes
Napoleon hated what UNCLE agents were forced to do to get a job done. Those
regretful moments were coming to him more frequently these days. Solo took that
as a positive sign that he was not a robot, but an agent with a bit too much
humanity. The feelings made him far more vulnerable than agents with more 'professional' attitudes. But without
the doubts, the sense of loyalty, the compassion, caring, and sometimes the
hurt, he would be no better than an assassin would. Commitment to a cause or a
person meant nothing without the emotions that went with the duty. Those were
the elements that gave his life meaning.
Certainly, his partner had come to be a large part of his life. Though
the relationship was not always a smooth one, there was never a question of
loyalty or commitment. This last escapade had probably given Solo a few more
grey hairs, but it had not altered the partnership. No force on earth -- and
perhaps beyond -- could break their bond.
Solo
turned away from the graveyard and favored Kuryakin with a speculative
expression. "I hope your recent demise did not affect your credit rating.
You are really going to PAY for this, Mr. K!"
The
tone this time was casual, familiarly light. Illya knew from the voice as much
as from the mellowed expression that all was forgiven; though not forgotten.
The memory of this painful day would take a long time to fade. A good place to
start the healing was in the comfortable banter that was a hallmark of their
partnership.
Illya
eyed his partner with a feigned wariness. "Napoleon, remember I AM on an
expense account."
Solo's
broad smile was filled with the delight of vengeance about to be achieved.
"I know."
THE
END