The Long Way Home Affair
by threecee

Somewhere behind the Iron Curtain

"Chort! De ti, Napoleon?" Illya thought as his tormentor poked the lit cigarette into his navel.

The punches, kicks, shallow knife cuts, and burnings with cigarettes had gone on for hours, possibly days or years for all Illya could tell. He was in a small cell with concrete wall, floor, and ceiling, a steel door with a grid-covered spy hole the only variation in the scenery. He was naked, his wrists fastened directly to the wall above his head by tight steel cuffs that he couldn't get out of. He hadn't been given any food or water since he was captured by these suchi sini.

The irony of the situation was that his mission had nothing to do with these miserable excuses of security forces for the local dictator. His mission had been to penetrate a minor THRUSH satrap, steal a list of individuals targeted for assassination, coercion, or bribery in a THRUSH attempt to take over the governments in this part of the world, and destroy the satrap.

He and Napoleon had succeeded in getting the information and Napoleon had headed out of the ancient fortress with the documents while Illya set the explosives. Then things had gone wrong. A number of guards had blocked his escape and shot him in the left thigh. He was forced to find an alternate escape route and he'd been trying to signal Napoleon from the far side of the building when it blew up. A piece of the building hit him on the head and it was dark when he regained consciousness. He ripped off a shirtsleeve to bind the leg wound and began trying to contact Napoleon. His communicator was missing and so was Napoleon. He searched for both for a long time, finally finding the communicator crushed under a larger piece of the former fortress.

As the sun rose, he started back toward the town where they were staying, counting on finding Napoleon at their inn. It was a long walk with a headache and a bullet lodged in his leg. Suddenly, a group of the local security forces appeared around a bend in the road. Illya didn't have time to hide and was stopped and searched. The gun and the scent of cordite and explosives on him was taken as evidence that he was involved in the mysterious explosion at the old fortress. He was quickly bound and taken to the local Security Headquarters for questioning. After he presented his UNCLE ID and explained his mission to prevent a THRUSH takeover of the country's government, he began to be pressed for information on the list's whereabouts. He belatedly remembered that the local dictator and the head of the Securitate were both in the "blackmail" category on the THRUSH list.

Then he was bound, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of an army truck to bump painfully over the roads for a long time before being hauled into this cell. Now he was just trying to stall while Napoleon got back to New York with the list and organized an extraction team to come back for him. He'd long ago given up trying to convince them that the list was destroyed and now confined himself to grunts, moans, and curses as they tortured him.

Finally, they left him alone in the brightly lit cell. He just breathed for a few minutes, slowly returning to awareness of the outside world from the place he'd retreated to in his mind. Then he evaluated his situation again. There were no openings other than the door, not so much as an air vent. He couldn't work his hands through the tight cuffs even though they were now slick with blood. His wounded leg was still seeping blood and throbbing, the area around the wound bright red. The other leg was trembling with fatigue. The floor around his feet was slick with his blood and urine. The urine was bloody now too, thanks to all the blows to his genitals and kidneys.

He closed his eyes, hoping for a little sleep or at least unconsciousness. After much too short an interval, he heard the cell door open again. Only one guard entered this time. Illya came to greater mental alertness without letting it show on his face. The guard stood in front of him, looking him over for several seconds with a smile that Illya knew from experience boded ill. He held a metal cup with water under Illya's nose. "Thirsty, beautiful? If you're good for me, I'll give you a drink."

He put the cup down some distance away and returned, pulling out his gun and a key ring. "You just be a good boy and things will be fine." He unlocked the cuffs and turned Illya to face the wall. "You're skinny, but you have a fine ass." He pressed closer to Illya as he reached to reattach the first cuff.

Illya drove his left elbow back hard into the guard's stomach while reaching for the gun with his right hand. The gun went off as they struggled; ricocheting off the concrete walls, then it went off again, putting a large hole through the guard's throat. Illya fell to the floor, dragged down by the dead weight.

Quickly he took the gun and key ring, and got himself to the door to see if the shots were bringing more guards. No one. Returning to the guard, Illya stripped him of his uniform and boots and donned them. Both were too big, but much better than being naked. He opened the door, locked it after him, and started slowly down the corridor, gun at the ready.

Illya escaped with surprising ease, encountering only one guard patrolling outside the building. He shot the guard with some regret because he hated unnecessary killing, but he had neither mercy bullets nor the strength to subdue the guard with a karate chop. He felt a little better when he recognized the guard as the one who had been so proficient with the knife cuts. Adding the guard's extra pistol clips, jacket, and cap to his possessions, Illya moved away from the prison as rapidly as he could limp.

He soon realized he was actually in the capital city and headed toward the airport, keeping away from main roads. Once in the airport, he found a flight headed for New York, but there were too many security police around to get near the ticket counter or the public telephones. He was certain that the identity papers taken from the guard he'd killed in the cell would already be invalidated.

He casually worked his way toward the cargo handling area and located the staff locker room. He barked "Out! Get back to work!" at the three men playing cards in the locker room. They glowered at him, but accepted that his government security uniform allowed him to order them around. Once they were gone, Illya quickly found a baggage handler's jumpsuit that was close to his size and changed into it, keeping the pistol, ammunition, and boots. He dumped the uniform and ID papers into a trash barrel on his way out to the tarmac.

Hitching a ride on the back of a luggage train, he waited until he was close to the plane headed to New York, then grabbed a suitcase and jumped off. He fell as his injured leg collapsed under his weight, but was quickly back on his feet and headed to the plane, just as the baggage handlers were about to close the luggage compartment. "Wait! One more! Some big shot arrived at the last minute!" he called. "I'll secure it and close the hatch; you go ahead," he told the grumbling workers.

They took him at his word and he was soon aboard, securing the hatch from the inside, and looking for a secure place to rest during the flight. He found a spot between some lashed down crates and curled up on the floor. He woke some indefinite time later, shivering with cold, to the sound of thumping and bumping nearby. To his relief, whoever was making the noise was speaking American English.

Illya rose to a crouch, nearly toppling over as the injured leg buckled beneath him. He clutched a crate for balance and slowly began making his stealthy way toward the open hatch. He managed to get all the way to the taxi stand before he ran into his next challenge. No money! He tried to convince the cabbie to take him to Del Floria's and that he would be paid there, but the cabbie, suspicious of Illya's battered appearance and unpleasant fragrance, insisted on seeing his money first. The next cabbie took the same dim view of humanity as the first.

Over the next hour he found that he was a much better spy than panhandler. No one was willing to give him money for the payphone. He barely eluded airport security a couple times. They would have eventually phoned UNCLE, but probably not until he'd spent at least one night in jail. Illya finally managed to convince a soft-hearted matron to pay his bus fare into the city. From there he started walking toward UNCLE headquarters.

Time passed in a sort of waking nightmare of pain and fatigue, his vision frequently blurring as he limped along. The leg with the bullet wound was swollen, oozing blood and foul-smelling pus, and he could barely put any weight on it. It was dark when he reached the block where Del Floria's was located. Thoughts of water, food, pain relief, and sleep danced in his brain as he tried to hurry toward his goal. A part of his brain recognized the sound of someone coming up behind him, but his wounded leg buckled as he started to turn toward the potential threat. Off-balance, he fell headlong down a short flight of steps. The last thing he was aware of was the thwack of his head hitting the cement.

Images swirled through is mind. Something was dragging at him. Wolves, guard dogs? He was too weak and confused to fight.

Next he was back in the cell being tortured again. The faces of his tormenters kept changing, looming toward him from his past then receding to make way for others. A female voice made Miss Diketon and her cattle prod appear. She shocked his injured leg repeatedly, and then disappeared as other, earlier enemies took over his torment.

Vaguely, he felt his head being lifted and something cool and wet pressed to his parched lips. He tried to lash out, but could barely move his arm. Then a soft, cool hand rested on his forehead and a feminine voice was gently speaking calming phrases in Russian.

"Shush, shush. You're safe. Everything will be fine. Drink a little water."

The cool wetness touched his lips again. He drank greedily until the glass was gently removed. He struggled to speak, "Mama? Babusya?" A cool cloth stroked his face, then rested on his forehead. "Sleep now.

Blackness, then more nightmares as he watched the Nazis kill the people he loved. He cried out and struggled, only quieting when he felt that gentle hand on his forehead again.

At last the nightmares faded and he found himself staring at a white ceiling. At least he thought it was the ceiling, yes, he was lying on his back, on something that felt like a bed. His vision was blurry, but he thought it might be the ceiling from his childhood home in Kiev. There had been a figure of a small faun playing his pipes for a rabbit in the corner just above his bed. He was sure he saw that now. Home, he was home, and his mother and grandmother would take care of him. Even his stern grandfather would be kind if he'd been sick, maybe playing some music to soothe him.

He slept again without dreams and woke to the sound of a door opening. He tried to blink his eyes into focus as a young woman with blonde hair approached his bed from somewhere behind him. She was wearing black slacks and a white Russian style blouse embroidered in dark red. An old scar ran across her right cheek, marring her otherwise fine skin.

"Awake?" she asked softly in Russian. "How do you feel?"

"Who are you?" Illya asked.

"My name is Anna. Anna Nikitichina Pasternak. I'm a physician. Can you tell me where you feel pain?"

"All over, but mostly my left leg and my head. Where am I? What is this place?"

"You were shot in the leg, do you remember? I removed the bullet and cleaned out the infection. You also have a concussion and cracked ribs plus a lot of bruises, small cuts, and cigarette burns. Don't worry, you are healing up very well, and you will be fine." She popped a thermometer into his mouth and slipped a stethoscope into her ears as she talked. Turning the covers down a little, exposing his bare chest, she added, "You are in my apartment. I found you lying on the pavement outside and brought you in. I wanted to send you to a hospital, but you begged me not to let anyone know where you were, so I have been treating you here."

She flashed a small light in Illya's eyes a couple times, removed the thermometer and read it, and nodded. "Good! Your fever is down and the concussion seems to be clearing up. Do you happen to remember your name?"

"Illya Nikovich Kuryakin. You say you found me outside your apartment?"

"Yes, two nights ago. Do you think you could sit up and eat a little soup, Illya Nikovich?"

"I'm sure I could." Illya tried to push himself up, but found his arms were shaky and willingly fell back when he was ordered to wait.

Anna brought two rust and cream striped bolsters and supported him with one arm while arranging them and his pillow so that he could sit up fairly straight while leaning on them. When he was settled comfortably, she moved out of his line of vision. "Do you remember who hurt you? You don't need to tell me who it was; I just want to know how badly the concussion affected your memory."

Illya tried to remember, but villains in a variety of uniforms blurred together in his memory. "I'm not sure. I think several people have injured me over the years."

"Yes, your scars testify to that. You were talking about Nazis in your sleep. You do remember that we defeated them decades ago?"

"Yes, but there are still a few around, aren't there? I seem to remember having to be one for a while."

Anna moved a small chair next to the bed, and then brought over a painted metal tray with a white napkin spread on it holding a bowl of soup, a slice of rye bread, and a small glass of water. "You couldn't have been more than a child when we won the Great Patriotic War. Were you taken for the Lebensborn? You have the right coloring."

Illya shuddered. "I remember being taken by the Nazis to someplace in... Poland? ... I'm not sure. The doctors kept examining me and measuring me and giving me mental tests. I was beaten a lot for refusing to speak German and for trying to run away. Finally they decided I was defective and sent me to a children's labor camp."

"I think you mean 'defiant" not 'defective'", Anna said as she carefully placed the tray on his blanket-covered lap, steadying it with one hand as she flicked open a second napkin and spread it over the lower part of his bare chest. When she was sure he had the tray secured, she let go to pull up a small chair and sit next to him.

Illya took a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent of the soup. "Shchi!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "I haven't had shchi in so long!"

"I hope you like my recipe. Is there enough sour cream on it for you?"

"Perfect!" Illya sighed as he took a second spoonful.

Anna sat beside him, chatting idly about the recipe which was her cousin's and the food she remembered her mother making when she was a child.

Eventually, Illya put down his spoon. "I'm sorry, I can't eat any more. It was delicious though."

"You did very well for your first meal in several days."

As he put the napkin back on the tray, Illya noticed the embroidery in the corner and the matching embroidery on the napkin covering the tray. "Nice embroidery."

"Thank you. I used the same pattern to stitch your leg."

Illya did a double take, then realized she was teasing. "Medicine, cooking, embroidery. Is there anything you can't do?" He joked back.

"Fly an airplane," she answered seriously. "When I was a child, I'd hear the planes at night going to bomb the enemy. One of our fighters had a sister in the Taman Night Bombers and told me about those women who terrorized the Nazis. Since I heard her story, I've always wanted to learn to fly."

"I was a pilot once. In the Navy."

"Your memory is coming back quickly. I need to change your bandages now, and then I'll make some tea, all right?"

"I need to use the lavatory first, please." Illya started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, then realized that he was completely naked and pulled the covers over his lap. "May I have my clothes?"

"Slowly, my friend! You aren't ready to stand on your own yet. You only had a filthy, stained maintenance jumpsuit and a pair of oversized army boots when I found you. I threw them away in the trash cans behind a store when I went to get medicine for you. They weren't worth trying to clean. I'll get you some decent clothes when you are ready to leave."

"Meanwhile, how am I to get to the lavatory with no clothes?"

"It's right over there. No one will see you except me and I've already seen everything that doesn't require an X-ray machine to see."

Illya blushed. "Maybe a towel at least?"

Anna smiled. "It's a good sign when patients start to get their modesty back. Let me see if I have something that might fit you."

She searched through a closet behind him for a moment and came back with a wrap-around robe. It was a soft rose color with dark rose piping and sash, simple but very feminine. Illya scowled at it, "Is that all you have?"

"All that might fit you. I'm afraid we aren't the same size," was the cheerful reply as she helped him get into the sleeves.

With a sigh, Illya tied the robe and allowed her to help him to stand. The robe was tight over the shoulders and gaped wide on his upper chest, but did fit his waist and hips well enough to protect his modesty. "What I have left of it," he thought wryly to himself.

The walk to the bathroom felt much longer than it looked and Illya was quite willing to agree to sit on the toilet and stay there until helped up in exchange for a little privacy. The bathroom was very small, with pink and black tiles, black floor, white upper walls, and white fixtures. The shower curtain around the bathtub had a pattern of pink flamingoes. He stared at that for a while, wondering why it seemed out of place in a Russian bathroom, but finally gave up and went to the sink to wash his hands.

Anna was there immediately, "I told you to stay seated! I don't want you falling and bleeding all over my bathroom!"

"Yes, Mother." Illya answered in a good imitation of a sulky child as he examined his black eye and several-days growth of beard in the mirror.

Once Illya was back in bed, Anna began changing the dressings on his injuries. She uncovered a small portion of his anatomy at a time, removed the bandages, and made approving sounds before covering that bit up and going on to the next item on her agenda. The only bandage that was replaced was the one on his head. She explained that this was the most recent injury.

"You bled all over my steps and sidewalk too. I had to clean that up. You owe me for that in addition to medical services, so I hope you can do something useful to repay me." He was startled for a moment, before he saw her lips twitch in a repressed grin and realized her blue eyes were sparkling with mischief again.

He struggled to remember what he did for a living, but couldn't remember anything recent. "If you can get hold of a small airplane, I could teach you to fly. Or I could teach you to play the guitar or English horn if you like music."

"Are you a professional musician?" Anna asked with interest as she carefully uncovered his left thigh and began cutting off the heavy bandaging there.

"No, but my grandfather was. He was first violin for the Kiev Opera Theater."

"Humm," she poked gently around the edges of the wound which was packed with gauze. "I think this is ready to be stitched shut." Opening a black medical bag, she removed some items and began to prepare an injection.

"Is an injection necessary?"

"Yes. This was badly infected and the bullet was still in it. You're lucky you didn't lose the leg to gangrene. This is just a local anesthetic to numb the area I'll be working on. I'm sorry that I have to use a needle, but I don't have a pressure injector. Have you ever seen one of those?"

"Pressure injector? No, what's that?"

"They have them at the Swedish Red Cross treatment center for war-wounded and tortured in Uppsala. I did a post-doctoral fellowship there. Many torture victims have developed a terror of needles, so they use these special devices to force tiny particles of the medication under the skin with compressed air."

Injections finished while Illya was distracted by her conversation, Anna went to wash her hands yet again, then returned, and pulled on surgical gloves. As she gently removed the packing and began examining the wound, she returned to the earlier topic of conversation, "So you aren't a professional musician. You seem well-educated. Did you attend university?"

"Yes. Actually I have a doctorate in quantum mechanics."

"A violent study to judge by your scars."

"The conferences are hell," Illya said straight-faced.

Anna chuckled as she stitched the wound. "Want to try to tell me why you choose my front door out of all the doors in all in the world where you could have collapsed?"

Illya frowned. "I honestly don't remember. I think someone may have hit me on the head."

"You didn't look worth robbing. I thought you were a drunken derelict at first.

You didn't have any money or identification on you. You did have a very dirty, rusty, old Makarov with a couple ammo clips."

"A Makarov? That seems wrong. It should be ... a Walther?"

"Definitely a Makarov. I cleaned it for you while I was waiting for you to wake up. I take it firearms maintenance isn't something they teach physicists?"

She retrieved it from a drawer and showed it to him. It was very well-cleaned and oiled, and unloaded.

"It isn't my gun. I, um, got it from the same man who let me have his boots." For some reason Illya didn't want this girl to think he would take poor care of his gun although she probably knew worse things about him by now. He handed it back and she put it away again.

"Was he the same man who entertained you with the knife and cigarette?"

"One of them."

"No loss to the world then. Where did you get the Aeroflot jumpsuit?"

"I stole it from a locker at the airport, so I could get onto the airplane."

"You are a defector then? I may be able to find someone who can help you." Anna pulled off her gloves and gently drew the covers over his re-bandaged thigh.

"I ... I'm starting to remember things. Could we wait until morning to discuss this?"

"Of course. Would you like tea now? Or do you just want to sleep?"

"Sleep I think."

She shook some pills of a couple bottles, closed her medical bag, and brought a glass of water from the sink. "Antibiotics and pain pills. Drink as much water as you want with them."

"I don't need the pain pills. Really I feel fine."

"All right, just these three pills then." She picked one pill out and put it back in a bottle. Illya was fairly sure he had seen her take two pills from each bottle, but his head and leg did hurt quite a lot despite his routine protest against pain medication.

When he had swallowed the pills and finished the water, she settled him comfortably and turned out most of the lights. He heard her moving quietly in the kitchen area washing something as he fell asleep.

He woke to sunlight streaming in the window of the apartment. Anna was just emerging from the bathroom, looking fresh and cool in a light blue floral print dress, her blonde hair still damp and curling around her face.

"Good morning, Doctor Pasternak."

"Good morning! There's no need to be so formal. After a man has spent three nights in my bed, I usually allow him to begin using my first name" Anna replied with a wicked grin.

"Very well, Anna, please call me Illya. And please loan me that robe again, so I may use the bathroom."

After he'd used the bathroom and washed a little, even brushing his teeth with a new toothbrush Anna offered him, she settled him in the armchair next to the window with his leg on a footstool and the blanket from the bed over his lap. While she cooked breakfast, he looked idly out of the window at the cement area and stairs leading up to the sidewalk and the three and four story buildings across the street. His mind was much clearer this morning and he remembered everything up to the point where he got into the cargo hold of the airplane that he was sure had been bound for New York. After that things were very fuzzy. He knew he needed to contact Mr. Waverly and report as soon as possible however. Napoleon would be putting himself at risk trying to find him.

"How do you have so much time to spend on one patient, Anya? Don't you have to work?"

"I don't have any work right now. I had to leave my last job in an emergency room to care for my dying cousin who raised me after the rest of my family was killed in the war. I have been looking for work for a month, but there aren't any jobs here for trauma specialists right now and I have been procrastinating about moving somewhere else."

By the time they had finished a breakfast of cheese omelet, fried potatoes, rye toast with raspberry jelly, and black coffee, the traffic and pedestrians outside the window had increased. Suddenly, Illya saw a Yellow Cab go past followed by a bus with an advertisement on the side for Colgate Toothpaste.

"Anya! Anya, what city is this?" He shouted in English.

"New York. You don't know what city you are in?" The astonished reply was also in English.

"No! You have only spoken to me in Russian, so I thought that was where I was!"

"Oh, Illyusha, I'm sorry, but you were speaking in Russian when you were unconscious, so I thought you didn't speak English."

"I need to phone someone right now!" Illya saw the telephone on the nightstand just beyond the head of the bed and started to get up.

"Sit!" Anna snapped the command in Russian. Illya sat.

"I'll dial the number for you and give you the phone, but don't try to stand."

"Dial Plaza 3-6098 and just hand me the telephone when someone answers."

A couple seconds later he was speaking to Mr. Waverly.

"If you can send someone with clothes from my locker, I'll report back immediately, sir." He concluded after quickly explaining the delay forced on him by the security forces and his injuries and learning that Napoleon had returned safely with the documents. "I'm not sure of the exact address, Anna?"

"Give me the phone." She held out her hand for the receiver.

"This is Dr. Pasternak. With whom am I speaking?

"Do I understand that you are Mr. Kuryakin's employer, Mr. Waverly? You should be aware that he has suffered significant injuries and needs continued medical care. I will not hand him over to anyone except a qualified physician. Also he cannot walk more than a few feet, even with assistance, so some transport must be provided.

"Arbitrary or not, sir, Mr. Kuryakin is my patient and those are my requirements. If you choose not to meet them he will just have to remain here until he is fully recovered."

Illya was shocked to hear someone laying down the law to his formidable boss. Even UNCLE's physicians, who were often testy with agents, never attempted to issue ultimatums to Alexander Waverly. He frantically grabbed the phone back.

"Sir? Kuryakin again. Sorry sir. Actually, it might be a good idea for Dr. Pasternak to accompany me back to headquarters. She has some skills that might be useful to us and is looking for employment."

When Anna gave him her address, Illya was shocked to learn that he was actually in the building next door to Del Floria's Tailor shop—the entrance to UNCLE headquarters that he had been heading for when he lost consciousness. As soon as she put the telephone back on the nightstand, Illya began struggling out of the bathrobe while trying to keep as much of himself as possible covered with the blanket. "Anya, hide this pink thing! Quickly!"

The robe disappeared into the closet, just as Illya's partner Napoleon Solo knocked on the door. Anna waited for Illya's nod that the visitor was the one expected before opening the door.

"Good morning, miss! I understand you want a Russian removed from your premises?" Napoleon gave her one of his best smiles, partly because she was a pretty girl and partly because he was relieved to have located his partner.

"I'm afraid I can't afford to keep feeding him, but I hope you can find him a good home," Anna replied with an answering grin.

While he helped Illya dress in the extra clothes he'd brought from Illya's gym locker, Napoleon explained that he had gotten the documents safely back to headquarters, and then gone back to look for Illya, tracking him as far as the airport before losing his trail. He had just returned to headquarters in hopes of getting new leads when Illya's phone call came through.

With help from his partner and his doctor, Illya managed to walk to the next building and in through the agent's entrance. Once inside reception, he was met by a nurse with a wheelchair and promptly ordered by Anna to sit down. The nurse seemed somewhat awed by the usually intractable agent's uncharacteristic docility as she escorted him with Dr. Pasternak to medical.

While Illya spent another two days in Medical, getting his strength back in the wounded leg, Anna had an interview with Mr. Waverly, followed by security interviews and background checks. A week later, just after Illya had finally been allowed to return to desk duty, he learned that Dr. Anna Pasternak had been hired as the new assistant head of UNCLE New York's Medical division.

"I may regret this, Napoleon," he said to his partner. "Anna is a good physician, and wonderful cook, but she is bossy. We won't be able to bully her into letting us out of Medical early like some of the other doctors."

"You may need to bully doctors, tovarishch, but I've always found that charm works much better. And she's a very pretty girl; I'm sure I'll do just fine should I need her gentle ministrations."

Illya snorted in disgust and turned back to his reports.