John Truman Kovac-Carter grabbed the chart from Randi and headed up
the hall to Exam One. Flipping over the pages as he went, he
familiarized himself with the patient's symptoms. "Good afternoon,
Mr. Kuryakin?" Chicago was home to a large Slavic population, so
John's pronounciation wasn't too bad for a first try.
The patient was a surprisingly young-looking man for someone in his
early forties; with startling blue eyes and hair the color of pale
gold. He was accompanied by an elegantly attired dark-haired man who
held the remains of his companion's suit coat. John pulled up a stool
and moved over to examine what was described as a deep laceration on
the chart. He looked up at his patient after checking out the
damage. "This is a bullet wound." Over twelve years working as a
trauma doc had more than prepared him to correctly assess the nature
of the deep furrow in the man's side.
"We ran into some old enemies." The dark man said smoothly.
"This will need stitches."
"Please doctor, I know what is required. Get whatever you must have
and get started." The patient said flatly.
John scooted his stool over to the supply cabinet and pulled out a
suture tray. "You know I'll have to report this to the police?"
"We'd rather you skipped that part." The other man said quietly as he
pulled out his wallet. He showed the doctor an ID card featuring a
full-figure male silhouette standing next to a stylized globe. The
letters "U.N.C.L.E.", his picture, and a serial number were
superimposed over the image.
"UNCLE?"
"The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. In other words,
we *are* the police."
"And Mr. Kuryakin?"
"My partner." The man who had the unlikely name of Napoleon Solo
explained. "We are in somewhat of a hurry, doctor."
"Okay." John went to work after ascertaining his patient had no
allergies and was not currently taking any prescription meds.
Cleaning and suturing the wound took less than thirty minutes during
which the patient never flinched. "All done. Keep the stitches dry.
I'm writing you a prescription for an antibiotic ointment to be
applied to the wound. At home, it's best if the site remains
uncovered. If you need to go out, bandage it lightly. The stitches
may be removed in a week to ten days."
"Thank you doctor." The Russian spoke more politely this time. He
swung his legs off of the exam table. When he stood up, he swayed.
Before John could steady him, Solo had taken control of the situation.
"Easy does it, Ilya. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Somewhat dizzy thanks to that knock-out gas, but otherwise
I am quite fit."
"Uh-huh. Let's get you home and into bed, mon vieux. Our friends have
surely flown the coop by now." Solo's voice was soft in contrast to
the exasperated look he gave his partner.
"Don't be such a mother hen, Napasha. All I need is something to eat.
Let's get out of here."
John smiled at the pair as they headed for the door. If he was any
judge, they were more than mere "partners." All during the procedure,
the one called Napoleon had been holding the Russian's hand. Shaking
his head, John disposed of the sharps, removed his gloves, and went
off to his next patient. It wasn't everyday he found himself
ministering to genuine secret agents.
JC*LK*NS*IK
"Doc Magoo's?" Napoleon sounded dubious. The greasy spoon diner was
surrounded by an aroma all its own: stale fat from the deep friers,
onion-scented smoke, and a top layer of carbon monoxide from the
nearby parking lot. "The food here will be more lethal than bullets,
Ilya. Let's go find something a little more upscale."
"This will do fine, Napasha. Every now and then you need to rub
elbows with the proletariat." Ilya's voice was censorious but his
eyes shone with suppressed mirth.
"Suit yourself. One heart attack on a bun coming up."
JC*LK*NS*IK
"You'll never guess who I wound up treating today." Dr. John Truman
Kovac-Carter gave his husband a peck on the cheek.
"Elvis?" Luka Carter-Kovac yawned as he fastened his seatbelt.
"Close. A genuine bona fide secret agent."
"CIA?"
"Nope. You know those guys never carry real IDs. This guy was from
UNCLE."
"You're making this up."
"Nope. Shoulder holsters, automatic pistols, the works." John backed
out of their parking space and pulled out of the garage into the late
afternoon traffic.
"What was wrong with him?" Luka fished a stuffed rabbit and blanket
out from under himself.
"Gunshot wound. Couple of inches to the right and we'd have had to
admit him. As it was, he got off with a deep graze."
"Some folks will do anything to keep themselves busy." Luka yawned
again.
"Tell me about it. I wonder what they were doing here?"
"We'll probably never know."
"Yeah. That's the only problem with our jobs, we rarely get the whole
story."
JC*LK*NS*IK
"No sir. Ilya was shot. It wasn't serious but we did have to get
treatment. I left two of our Chicago operatives on surveillance."
Napoleon Solo was talking into his communicator which looked like an
ordinary cell phone. Actually, it was an ordinary cell phone with
satellite uplink and several secure channels.** The man seated across
from him, stuffing himself with french fries and beet soup had been
instrumental in the redesign of their communications equipment. "Sir,
it looks as if the nest was recently vacated. We'll continue our bird-
watching until somebody sings. Solo out."
The two agents finished eating and retrieved their car. "Any ideas,
Napasha?"
"No, but let's head over to their last known address. Maybe we'll get
lucky. 1256 Huron."
JC*LK*NS*IK
John pulled his Jeep up in front of 1254 Huron. They'd been delayed
by a minor traffic accident less than a block away. Luka got out and
headed into the building. It was a private elementary school. Ten
minutes later, he came out again with a little girl in his arms. She
climbed into the back seat where her father buckled her in. "Here's
Robert and his blanket." Luka smiled as Katerina immediately clasped
the bunny in her arms. "Next stop, home."
"Blast off!" The little girl said with enthusiam as the car moved
back into traffic. No one noticed the car parked across the street
with the two agents inside.
"Anything?" Napoleon's voice asked softly.
"There's nothing here. Not even dust. A forensics crew is on the way.
If they left anything of importance behind, we'll know by tomorrow.
Mendoza out."
The THRUSH agent limped towards the nearest El' station. He was
wearing a janitor's uniform and had used the secret exit through the
elementary school to make his escape. He noted the car across the
street and took ten seconds to secrete a computer disk in a kid's
backpack along with a homing device which resembled a loose button.
The tall dark-haired man with the little girl in his arms had no idea
how complicated his life was about to become. The homing device would
activate itself in two hours. A small matter of breaking and
entering; retrieval would be a cinch.
By the time the silent signal began transmitting, the Kovac-Carter
household was nearly done with the evening routine. Katerina had had
her bath and was in her pajamas. The dishes were washed and three
dark heads were bent over paperwork on the dining room table.
Katerina was drawing a picture of two men riding in an ambulance. Her
fathers were grading their med students' work. The large ships clock
in the living room chimed eight.
"Come on, Kitten. Bedtime for Robert." John picked up the little girl
and paused to admire her drawing.
JC*LK*NS*IK
"John?"
"Wha?" It was four in the morning.
"I think someone's in the apartment." Luka quietly rolled out of bed
quickly followed by his husband. A small noise from the living room
froze them where they stood. "Give me five seconds, then turn on the
light." Luka whispered against John's ear. He edged to the door
picking up the softball bat from wall next to the bathroom. Cooke
County General's amateur league had played two evenings ago.
Luka silently made his way up the hall towards their daughter's room.
He never saw what hit him. John, followed instructions and turned on
the light seconds before the front door slammed shut. Abandoning
caution, he raced to Katerina's room and fell over Luka's unconcious
body. Stumbling to his feet, he switched on the light in Kitten's
bedroom. She was gone. Her stuffed bunny was lying on the floor next
to the bedraggled blanket that "belonged" to him. John called the
police then went to see to Luka.
The sirens were now silent. Lights from police vehicles flashed on
the walls as the forensic team went over the apartment with fine-
toothed combs. Hair samples and fingerprints were taken from John and
Luka to be used as comparisons. The two men sat dazed and tried to
answer the officers' questions. A female detective arrived and the
questions began all over again.
The concierge and security guard who were in the lobby had been
rendered unconcious by some unknown substance. Paramedics took both
men to the hospital where blood samples would be taken. John wanted
Luka to go with them but he stubbornly refused. Two hours later, the
police left after installing surveillance equipment on the phones.
Surely the kidnappers would call with ransom demands before too much
longer.
John Truman Kovac-Carter was the sole surviving son of a very wealthy
man. John's daughter stood to inherit a significant amount of money.
John called his father and broke the news of his grandchild's
disappearance. After arranging to have a very large sum of money
converted to cash, Roland Carter called his private security service.
JC*LK*NS*IK
Napoleon and Ilya had filed their reports and were preparing to leave
Chicago when Napoleon's cell phone warbled. He listened for a few
minutes then switched off. "Come on, partner. A lead just turned up.
Looks as if we'll be staying for a while longer." The two men
hastened to UNCLE's Chicago office.
Covered as an employment agency, the Chicago office was located near
City Hall. Ilya and Napoleon went straight to the computer center
where a technician was waiting. The internet had proved a boon to
intelligence gathering. Despite the most sophisticated "firewalls",
UNCLE like other intelligence agencies, found it very easy to tap
into the billions of e-mail transmissions that flashed around the
world wide web. The routine forwarding of the lab reports on the
concierge and security guard to the police for their files, set off
an UNCLE alarm. Although the mixture of chemicals used to knock out
the two men went unremarked by the hospital, the UNCLE technicians
recognized them immediately. THRUSH had been involved. A few more
clicks of the mouse and the entire police report was printed out and
handed to the two New York agents.
They both looked up after reading the name "John Kovac-Carter." "Give
me everything you can find on this guy." Napoleon asked. "I want his
life's story from conception up until five minutes ago."
The computer technician clicked a few more times then sat back as
pages started to slide out of the printer. Ilya grabbed them as they
emerged then groaned aloud. "Napoleon look at this." He pointed to an
address for Katerina's elementary school.
"Damn." Napoleon sat down. "I hate it when civilians get mixed up in
our affairs. These guys must be going nuts." Napoleon pulled out his
communicator. "Mendoza? Check out the school at 1254 Huron. I'll bet
you'll find an escape hatch that connects the two buildings. Next,
arrange for school to be dismissed. A bomb scare aught to do it. Then
get a team in there and comb the place. Get the personnel files of
the staff including custodians and crossing guards. THRUSH has run
off with one of the students, a little girl. Ilya and I are on our
way over. Napoleon out."
"Should we contact her fathers?" Ilya had finally finished reading
the background files on both doctors. "Judging from what's in here,
neither of these physicians are helpless innocents."
"No. I want to be sure the kidnapping was triggered by something
other than our brief contact with Dr. Kovac-Carter. Confronting them
with the truth will be bad enough without having to admit all of this
is our fault."
Ilya nodded as their car raced through the city.
Author's Notes:
* When the MFU series originally aired, this character's name was
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Someone was definitely asleep at the
switch. I have corrected the egregious mis-spelling of this name. The
sins and flames be on my head.
** Okay, cousins. Those communicator pens were awfully cute, but they
were also conspicuous as all get out. I mean, secret agents are
supposed to be "secret" right? Everyone from ministers of the church
to ministers of state carry cell phones plus skillions of other
folks. Now, you stand out if *don't* have one. EP
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n