section7mfu | Forbidden Fruit

“The forbidden fruit, Mr. Kuryakin…’ The statement was posed almost challengingly; the expression on Van Dyke’s bearded face a mocking sneer as he put his chubby hands on Illya’s head and turned it towards the bowl of ripe fruit.

“Do you believe the story, Mr. Kuryakin? Is this really the cause of all of humanity’s ills? Imagine, just one bite and the entire human race is cast into immeasurable pain and suffering.” Illya bolted against the grip on his head but Harold Van Dyke was determined to make his point. “Personally, I think it is simply a bowl of apples.”

Illya was unwilling to debate the other man on the subject of divine purpose and remained obstinately mute in response to his continuing dialogue. Van Dyke was pleased with the power he had to make men bend to his will, and much like his endless appetite for gastronomical indulgences, the quest for control of nearly everything in his path drove him like a madman. Kuryakin had not indulged him appropriately, and so now a lesson must be taught to the upstart Russian.

“Do you suppose, Illya… May I call you Illya? Well Illya, the tales of religious scribes are only a footnote to the path I am traveling. You, in your ignorance, have chosen to not be with me in this journey, and your decision will prove to be most unfortunate. Yes, very unfortunate for you, indeed.”

The grip on the sides of Illya’s head lessened slightly, enough for him to shake loose and undergird his defiance. How he detested this stereotype of megalomania, and how he relished the thought of ending the man’s dreams. It was a trifle difficult at present to actually accomplish that, but it wasn’t over yet. A timely rescue from his partner would be very welcome right about now.

As if in response to Kuryakin’s thoughts, the door to Van Dyke’s stately library opened without a sound; Napoleon crept up behind the oversized villain and silenced him with a sleep dart.

As the big man fell to the floor with a resounding thud, Illya endeavored to turn and see his partner. Tied as he was to the chair in which he sat, the effort was made more difficult, and so he began to try and move it with a hopping motion. Napoleon stood back and smiled in an irritatingly amused manner at the sight of his blond friend’s behavior.

“Really Illya, have you no patience? I’ll untie you if you’ll just hold still.” The grin was unbearable to the irascible Russian agent.

“Just do it, Napoleon…’ He growled out his instructions. “I’ve been tied up here much to long, and Van Dyke has pressed his beefy hands into my head until I have a headache.”

Just then his stomach started growling, at which Solo had to chuckle. “It sounds as though he forgot to feed you, tovarisch.” It was true, Illya hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty-four hours. No wonder he had a headache.

“Just get it done, will you? How did you manage to get past the guards? There were at least three of them last I looked.” Illya never doubted that his partner would show up, but the accounts of how they managed their timely rescues never ceased to be of interest.

“Well, they weren’t very good guards; seems they liked to relax their attention when the doors to this study were closed. I was able to sneak up on the first one and dart him, and then the next one… same thing. The last fellow was a little more obstinate but he’ll live.”

Illya was nodding his head, approving of whatever matching headaches might greet his captors. He indicated Van Dyke with a nod of his head. “And what should we do with our hefty THRUSH? I doubt that we can get him moved from here.” The sight of the corpulent mass that was Harold Van Dyke lay prone on the library’s elegant Persian rug, obscuring the better part of its design.

Napoleon removed his communicator and opened a channel to the two men waiting outside the compound. He had taken the precaution of bringing some reinforcements along, and now was grateful for the help they would provide in cleaning up this affair.

“By the way, what exactly did Van Dyke want from you? This situation seems a little random to me; no real mission attached to it that I know of.’ Napoleon had followed a homing signal from the Russian’s communicator before it was cut off. Headquarters was aware of Van Dyke’s location, which made the operation of rescuing Kuryakin a little easier to achieve.

Illya was hungry, something that distracted him slightly from the inquiry being made by his friend. “Hmmm? Oh, he thought I might want to divulge the contents of a file that he knew I had stolen from another satrapy. Seems I was caught on video at that location on the docks; Van Dyke wanted the information, was planning on taking over the entire New York operation.”

Napoleon knew how infuriating Illya could be when refusing to cooperate. Something about the Russian exasperated THRUSH in a very particular way. He nodded his head, understanding why his partner looked so mistreated.

“And you refused, of course.” Illya smiled, and then grimaced at the reminder that his jaw had been a target during Van Dyke’s interrogation of him.

“Of course. Now, may we please get on with this…’ Illya indicated Van Dyke once again. “I am very hungry and may go on strike if food doesn’t appear in front of me very soon.”

Napoleon smirked a little at the comment. Such a fussy Russian.

He looked again at the bowl atop Van Dyke’s big desk and then reached into it to find the biggest apple in the bunch. Tossing it to his hungry partner, the American was not surprised at the lightening quick reflex as Kuryakin caught it seemingly without even seeing its flight.

“Van Dyke was quoting tales of apples and the fall of man before your timely arrival. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to his own narrative.” Napoleon cocked his head like a dog trying to hear distant sounds. “What do you mean?” He was a little confused by his friend’s remark.

The idea of creation and people in a garden of delights had never been a consideration to the pragmatic Russian; his training and skeptical nature did now allow for anything less than provable theories. There was a certain literary drama, however, in the idea of temptation, actuation and reprisal that appealed to his Russian soul. These were the dualities that plagued him.

Illya bit into the apple, pleased at the crisp sound and the accompanying juicy mouthful that only an apple provided. Tart and sweet, crunchy and juicy… no wonder it had been chosen to represent the temptation of good and evil.

“Van Dyke was a man obviously given to self-indulgence. He fell to the same kind of temptation, and therefore was liable to the same sort of judgment and consequent execution of justice.”

Napoleon was impressed with the impromptu philosophizing, but not really surprised. The Russian was a man of many facets.

“Amen, brother. Now, have another apple and let’s get ourselves back to New York. I think dinner at Luigi’s is calling us.”

Johansen and Smythe arrived as Illya was chomping on his second apple, and between the four of them they managed to get Van Dyke out of the library and into the van they had driven. The three guards were handcuffed together and left for the next set of agents and clean-up crew. Napoleon and Illya drove back to Headquarters in the UNCLE car, something they both equally loathed and admired.

Illya managed to fall asleep on the ride back to New York, reminding his partner of the treatment he had been subjected to. Medical would be the first stop before an abbreviated report and then dinner at their favorite restaurant. The Russian, Napoleon noticed, had stuffed a couple of apples into his pockets before leaving Van Dyke’s house. Was that a remnant of his childhood deprivation, perhaps, or was he just hungry for apples?

As though he could read his partner’s mind, Illya answered the question without opening his eyes.

“I am taking these apples to the lab for analyzing; I am curious as to their content, aside from the obvious.” In seconds he was asleep again.

Analyzing apples? Napoleon had to wonder why, but then he had a lot of questions about Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin.

Obviously, Illya had a lot of questions about life.