Snapshots~ "Caught in the middle of a revolution"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

It was raining, something that was long overdue in this arid area. Napoleon Solo hobbled along with hundreds of other refugees, most carrying their meager belongings balanced in bundles on their heads. Their care-worn faces filled with resignation, a tiredness of the conflict within their country. It was the faces of the children that tore at his heart, the ultimate innocents caught up in an adult pissing match. Life just wasn't fair.

Solo carried nothing, and huddled to himself, crossing his arms across his chest as he sloshed along in the growing mud puddles. His once immaculate khaki shirt and pants were tattered and torn.

Someone passing by took pity on him and handed him a blanket, draping it over his head and shoulders.

“Merci.” He said, burying his cough in his sleeve. He looked up, wanting to see the face of his good Samaritan.

“Illya?”

“No sorry,” a shaggy blond haired man answered. “My name is Emile, Monsieur. Please let me help you, my house is nearby.”

Napoleon became light-headed, staggering into the man’s waiting arms as he passed out.

When he woke up, he was dry, comfortably dressed in simple but clean clothes and bundled up in a blanket on a cot.  There were a number of people in the room with him, all laying or sitting on cots as well, some drinking from small wooden bowls,

“Hello Monsieur,” the familiar blond greeted him.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked again until his vision cleared, realizing it wasn’t his partner.

“Welcome back. Do you remember my name is Emile? Could you use some soup?”

“Umm, yes to both questions.That would be good.” Napoleon sat up slowly, taking the wooden bowl from Emile.

“It is only a thin broth, but better than nothing. As you can see we have many mouths to feed. This war is has made for many hungry refugees. S'il vous plaît mon Dieu, I pray it will be over soon. My people, the Pied-noir, those of us who are European-descended, have been here for generations, but I fear in the end we will become refugees ourselves, and returning like exiles to France as strangers in a strange land."

Napoleon slowly drank the soup, finishing it off before he spoke again.

“Thank you Emile. Say, can you tell me where I am?”

“You are most welcome, but first may I know your name?” He gently asked.

“My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo.”

“Mon Dieu, Napoleon is not the best name to have here right now, given we’re at war with France.  Though I detect by your accent that you are an American.”

“Perhaps you’re right Emile, how about you call me Tony right now...my middle name is Antony.”

“To answer your question, you are just outside the city of Ghardaïa within Ghardaïa Province. Now I have answered your question, so perhaps Antony, you can tell me your story. Why are you here in Algeria in the middle of our war?”

Napoleon hesitated for a moment. Truth or cover story? Did it matter at this point?

For once he opted for the former. “I work for an international organization called U.N.C.L.E. and we were seeking to prevent outside forces from interfering with the natural course of events during your struggle for independence from France.”

Emile scratched his head. “Really U.N.C.L.E.? I have recently met someone from this organization, a man...who said he was looking for an American. He said the man’s name was Anthony Solamente….hmmm that sounds awfully similar to your name...Napoleon Antony Solo.”

“Was he blond like you perhaps? His name Illya Kuryakin?”

“Blond yes, though I think he was a Russian. He did not tell me his name. Who is he? You called me Illya several times.”

“He’s my partner...do you know where he is?”

“Right behind you my friend,” Illya whispered into Napoleons ear. Having gotten that close undetected, he actually startled Solo; though his momentary alarm turned into the patented smile for which he was so famous.

“Really good to see you chum.”

“Even better to see you unscathed and in one piece,” Illya returned his grin.

“Yes Monsieur...Napoleon. Your friend here has stayed by your side while you were unconscious, he only walked away a few moments ago to eat some soup.”

“Thank you Emile,” the Russian said. “And I apologize for not telling you my name. It is indeed Illya, Illya Kuryakin.” He offered his hand in gratitude to the man. “Now if you could excuse us for a few minutes, I need to speak to my friend in private.”

“But of course. Call me if you need me.” He disappeared, taking the empty soup bowl with him.

“I am very relieved to see you alive my friend,” Illya smiled again. “What happened to you? Mr. Waverly was nearly ready to give up on you as there was no word from you for over two months.”

“Wow, that long?” Napoleon ran his hand through his hair, and across his chin, taking mental note to himself that he was in need of a haircut and a shave. “I was waylaid by our feathered friends but eventually I managed to escape, though not before destroying their satrap, and taking out the men spearheading the interference with the revolution.”

“A job well done Napoleon. The intelligence report of the destruction of the satrap was the clue that you were still alive and I convinced Waverly to let me look for you.”

“So how goes the revolution?”

De Gaulle announced Algeria an independent country just after you disappeared months ago. A cease-fire has been declared but the OAS has unleashed new terror. Mr. Waverly has surmised they are seeking to provoke a breach in the ceasefire by the National Liberation Front, but the wanton attacks now are also aimed against the French army and police enforcing the accords as well as against Muslims. Like all wars, it is a complicated and messy business.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would say T.H.R.U.S.H. has a hand in this.” Napoleon closed his eyes with a sigh, still exhausted from his ordeal.

“Thanks in part to your handiwork, our feathered friends have been taken out of the equation.”

“When can we go home?” Napoleon asked. He was beyond tired and had nothing left to give.

“As soon as you are able my friend. There is little else we can do here. Now rest, get back your strength.”

The American didn’t hear his friend's words as he was already sound asleep...

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thanks. Glad you felt his weariness as I wanted that to come across. He's the optimist and always on the move but eventually even the best can be over-whelmed. ( even though I don't reveal how he came to be in this state)