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The Andaman Affair Chapter 2
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
A/N:Genre: Slash, Illya/Napoleon.
Warnings: Angst, H/c
*felang: foreigner
**Klongs: Canals
***Tuk-tuk (Crazy 3 wheel bike/taxi service in Bangkok)
The cool breeze for most would have been a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the day, however for Illya it was torture. Sweet torture as it cut across his sweat soaked skin, cutting him as assuredly as a razor would slash the delicate skin and he cringed. He remembered that pain, knew how insidious it worked on the psyche of even strong men. He understood the fear, the humiliation, and the degradation all as necessary evils in a world devoid of basic pleasure and security for those who lived in the shadows.
The old fan swirled the cool air and he cringed again under the thin blanket, the shivering was down to a dull tremor but his body would not hold still despite the iron will he enforced over his surrounding.
The monks were calling to prayer and he hoped that they would see fit to include him in the blessings to Buddha. Never a spiritual man right now he believed he could use all the help he could get. The fire lit again in his body and he curled against the hard floor as another spasm wracked him with agony and the dark realization hit him. He didn’t believe in miracles, in fact he just didn’t believe anymore and he sobbed quietly in the room, the high ceilings echoing his own distress back to his abused body and ears.
The cruelty was that the toxins his body fought hard to dispel were introduced by a friend. Friend. The word was sour and cruel on his tongue as he fought the urge to rail against the world at large. He fought all his adult life the inhumanity of man, at the senseless violence and stupidity. He stopped, blue eyes wide as he saw with crystal clarity his own stupidity. Life treated those of his kind with something akin to contempt and she was never one to bestow grace upon the graceless. Why now did he think he had a chance at beating the odds? Why was it possible for him to deny his own existence? It was only a moment, a simple moment that he reached out to fill the aching void for a night with a trusted friend, only to be betrayed.
His stomach revolted at the presence of the tea the monks forced him to drink and within seconds the substance was expelled into a bucket that was already half full with his life essence.
Illya stumbled and dragged the thin blanket around his shoulders again, hunched on the small landing outside his room. The sonorous chant of the monks lulled him into a dreamless sleep as life on the Choaprea River continued as it had done for centuries. The klongs** crammed full of life, of hope and beauty against a world that offered those trapped in her pretty frame little solace and little life. People simply were what they were born to be and no one questioned what they didn’t have, it simply wasn’t the Thai way, instead they celebrated what they did have and enjoyed the simple pleasures of life. Pleasure Illya felt sure in his heart he would never see or know.
With sad eyes the old monk watched the slender man rock himself into a trance like sleep, avoiding the issues that had brought him bruised and battered to their door. He’d seen over the years too many who had fallen prey to those who would abuse the tender flesh of innocence. And this man despite the hardness, the cold fire that burned in his eyes was indeed largely untouched by the violence that escalated along the path he walked.
Buddha was wise and had brought many to his door, had shown many the ways of peace and tranquillity, of oneness. Not with the universe at large, he doubted that many would ever achieve that state of Nirvana, but at least the knowledge that within themselves they were able to cope with the image they saw in the mirror daily. Western men never looked into their own eyes, never managed to find their own peace, or a place where their hearts could be free.
Addiction was an ugly word, and an uglier circumstance but this one would never seek heroin as a recreation tool. Would never under any inducement fracture the brilliance of his own mind, of his desire to be controlled in all things, to at least be in charge of some part of his own fate. He could not see this man giving that up freely, nor could he see the bruises that festooned the pale body as being part of the normal psyche that made up this complex Russian. Perplexed he prayed and paced along the long grand halls of the temple and pondered the events of the pasted few days.
Nearing midnight, crouched in a lonely archway where beggars and prostitutes sought refuge from the wicked hands around them, dazed, bruised and unable to stand he had found the felang* cradled in the arms of Buddha. He’d approached warily and with a hand guided more from the desire to comfort than curiosity he was appalled at the degradation to the slender form and the fear in the drug stoked eyes that blazed furiously at him.
He spoke a few words gently soothing the distraught man and guided him inside. The well-tailored suit was American, with no identification and no desire to cause more pain to the fractured soul he took him in. The monks were not kind in their treatment of addiction, rough justice to teach them immorality of their decision to seek refuge away from the spiritual source, they were none the less compassionate to those in need and would feed any who came to them and held no moral judgement over a soul that was in distress.
So they cleaned him, fed him and did what they knew how to do to rid him of the addiction. It would take its toll and leave him forever scared, and he prayed again that Buddha would show this man mercy. He turned his back and let the essence of life flow over him as he tended his roses and waited to be shown the way that the path would take.
Alexander Waverly chewed on the end of his pipe and peered intently at the grainy photos that had made their way to his desk. He knew that THRUSH and the KGB or for that matter any other agency that wanted to discredit their organization would fake many things, and would always where possible implicate someone considered an expandable pawn. It had been years since he considered Illya Kuryakin as expendable or even a pawn and yet the photos were unmistakable, untouched and true, even the negatives were sent to him in the unmarked courier pouch from the Middle East and he sighed.
It would be a cold day in hell before he allowed one of his top agents to be so blatantly exploited and yet still he could not quiet hold back his temper that Illya would be so damned fool as to be caught flagrante indelicate as he had. No it was wrong all, very wrong and he knew that he would have to play this game carefully otherwise an international incident would escalate and in the scheme of things he would loose Illya. The trade off was not acceptable.
“Solo.” Napoleon hunched over the balcony of his hotel as he peered down Patpong Road hoping to catch a glimpse of golden hair and get some answers.
“Ah Mr. Solo.” Waverley sounded tired and he checked the time, a little after four am in New York and the old bird was still at the office, he straightened his back unconsciously as he went back into the air-conditioned room.
“Sir.”
“Have you made contact with Mr. Kuryakin as yet?”
“Yes sir, I saw him for a few moments earlier today.”
“Ah then gratefully he is still alive. Was he able to explain his errant behaviour?”
“No sir.” Solo bit back the words as he remembered the fear he saw in the shadowed blue eyes and the general state of dishabille.
“We have a situation Mr. Solo, one that requires delicate handling if we are to bring your partner out of this alive.”
“Sir?”
“It seems that the KGB has some rather intimate photos of your partner and has decided that a case of immorality be levelled. They have declared him unfit to serve and have requested to sanction him.”
Solo closed his eyes and shuddered. He knew what that meant, knew the next sentence before he had a chance to comprehend the implications and the pain.
“They can’t, Illya is under your control Sir.”
“They can and they have, as of now Mr. Solo the duty of sanctioning your partner will, as per regulations, fall to you.”
“Surely a little indiscretion would not warrant such a harsh judgement sir.”
“In their eyes it has.”
“May I know the charge?”
There was silence as Waverly weighed the options. He knew that Solo would find the answers before he disposed of a rogue agent, especially if that agent was Illya. He gambled on that decision before he answered quietly.
“I have photo’s and negatives on my desk showing Mr. Kuraykin in a sexually compromising situation with several men of Arabic origin.”
“And medical records to back up the allegation on file at HQ?” Napoleon felt chilled.
He should have understood the purposefully vague medical report that insisted on rest. The KGB could not know that detail yet it would certainly go against Illya. Surprising that in all the years the vague allegations had always been levelled at their friendship, and in part he knew his womanising was the only thing keeping them from their doorstep. It was hardly a chore and Illya had more than his fair share of female admirers.
“So it would seem Mr. Solo. For now the distasteful duty will fall to you, however I am certain you will be convinced of the circumstances before you deliver the final verdict.”
“Sir.” Napoleon ached. He knew it was a temporary measure to buy them time, but still the ache would not be assuaged. At some point in time he would have to ask Illya about his sexuality, and in doing so might find some answers to the questions that had plagued him for years.
Solo knew that he wouldn’t find peace, but perhaps a moment of silence and in that he would be able to at least deal with himself truthfully.
“The sanction orders are being relayed to Bangkok HQ. Take care of the problem Mr. Solo.”
He recapped the pen, without a word or backward glance he clipped the gun into the shoulder holster and headed out the door. The KGB would need to be convinced as to his intention, which meant he would have to treat the spurious order as real, and in doing so may drive Illya further away from him. He didn’t know if he could save his friend, or regain his trust but right now it was the only thing he could think of, and if that meant he had to hunt his friend, he would ruthlessly.
As he passed the tuk-tuk*** drivers and taxi’s all vying for his attention he headed down the darkened streets and consciously was aware that he was watched, by whom he wasn’t certain but several sets of eyes followed him, and his resolve strengthened. If Illya was to be sanctioned it would be from his gun, he would not allow anyone else to carry out the task. It would destroy him, and he could see no future beyond that moment but still he would do it, to allow another to torment him further and to make cold sport of him was unthinkable. It would be the last thing he could do for his beloved friend, and he would not dishonour him with anything else.
Cold anger clawed its way into his blood, seeping in to still his heart and his breath. If Illya were to die, it would be by his hand and his alone.
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