"And who is this jolly looking fellow?"
Illya looked up from his guidebook and watched as Napoleon snapped a photo.
The statue took on a foreboding air even at this time of the day. "According to the guide book, it isIl Commandatore, the statue that was on the grave of a man Don Giovanni had killed in a duel. Apparently the statue that command Giovanni to repent. He refused and was dragged off to hell or so Mozart would have everyone believe."
"Poor Giovanni.
"Trust you to side with him." Illya delivered the line with a sly smile to let Napoleon know he was ribbing him. "Where next?"
"Well, we've hit the Charles Bridge, Prague Castle, the square and the Strahov Monastery, what's left?" Napoleon stretched his back. "I, for one, hear a long bath calling my name. Being a tourist is hard work."
"I suppose we could leave the Jewish Quarter for tomorrow." Again that sly smile.
"Excellent choice. Shall I hail a taxi?"
"You go. I want to look around the theatre a bit more."
"Okay, dinner at eight?"
"I will meet you at the bar if not back in our room. And it's your treat." Illya took off at a quick pace to catch up with a passing tour group. He waved back to his friend and was lost in the crowd.
"Now I know why he's so anxious to exercise. This is going to cost me," Napoleon muttered toIl Commandatore. For its part, the statue remained silent.
The feeling started in the pit of Napoleon's stomach as the clock's hour hand drew closer to the eight. Illya liked to play tourist as much as the next person, but Napoleon never knew his partner to pass up a meal voluntarily.
He had thought Illya would have been back long before now, limping and complaining about his shoes. But the time went by and Napoleon grew increasingly restless.
He slipped on his jacket, then took it off and reached for his holster. He pulled that on, adjusting the straps until it fit comfortably enough. That accomplished, he pulled his jacket back on and then went to his suitcase. His communicator was clipped onto an inside pocket, looking for all the world like an ordinary pen. That went into his inner breast pocket.
He didn't know why he suddenly felt the need for his weapon and communicator, but he'd long ago learned to trust his instincts.
There was no Illya at the bar, but that didn't surprise him as much as it should. He waited for a few minutes just make sure and then headed back out into the Prague night.
He returned to the Estates Theatre and to the statue of Il Commandatore. It was the last place he'd seen Illya, so it made sense that it would be a good place to start.
The statue was even more unsettling in the night with its artfully-placed up light. It almost seemed to breathe, but Napoleon didn't have time to spare admiring it. He walked quickly and silently, tracing the path he'd seen Illya take.
He was just about to turn back when he saw something on the ground. It was the cover of Illya's tour book. Napoleon recognized it from the creased front page, created when Napoleon accidently sat on it that morning.
How odd, Napoleon thought. Then he saw something else a short distance away. It was a page describing the theatre and the statue. He knew Illya was sending him a message, but what?
There was an abrupt echo of approaching footsteps and without even being aware of it, Napoleon moved to the shadows and drew his weapon.
"There's another one." One of two shapes pointed to a crumbled piece of paper.
"Damn Kuryakin. Good thing his partner is the dumb one and didn't pick up on this." The second shape hurried to pick it up. "Thank God he didn't come looking for him."
"Solo? With his reputation? He's probably on the bottom of a girl pile at this very moment. He won't even realize Kuryakin is gone until his corpse is pulled from Vltava River." The first shape looked around. "Okay that's it. Let's get back to it. Kuryakin might be conscious by now."
"Excellent!" They hurried away and Napoleon followed closely behind. Their comments hurt him to the quick. While it's true he did love the ladies, he never put them before the safety of his partner… did he?
The fear for Illya was nearly as great as his guilt. He had wanted to go back to the hotel to see if he could arrange a rendezvous with a young lady he'd met that morning. Sadly the phone at the number was answered by her Papa and he wasn't inclined to let Napoleon get anywhere near the girl, or at least that's what he thought the man shouted at him. His Czech wasn't very good, but he recognized a curse word or two.
The two shapes disappeared into a room, its light escaping feebly beneath it and through a dirty window.
"Open Channel L. Prague office, please." Napoleon kept his voice low.
"Channel L is open. Welcome, Mr. Solo. How are you enjoying Prague?" Sylvie's voice was velvet smooth on his ear.
"Well, it was great up right until my partner was kidnapped. I am guessing THRUSH."
"Where are you?" The voice was suddenly all business.
"The Estate Theatre, by the statue of Il Commandatore."
"I know it. I can have agents there within the hour."
"I'm not sure Illya has an hour. Do what you can. Solo out."
He crept up to the window and peered it. It was a sort of workshop and the best he could tell, Illya was not have a good day. There was a group of them and they seemed pretty intent upon getting some answers to something.
He couldn't hear what they were saying, but Napoleon knew he needed to do something, but what was the question. "
Then he saw a door marked Kostýmy and he smiled. Going to the door, he had it open in a matter of seconds. Stepping in, he fished a small flashlight out of his pocket and aimed it around. Costumes. Just what he needed.
He went through the racks and then he spotted it, a great heavy robe and a thought wormed its way into his head.
He was risking a lot with this, but he'd discovered that frequently the element of surprised worked even more than the fastest weapon. Hopefully the armor breastplate he wore over his shirt would be enough to stop any flying bullets.
Walking quietly back to the storeroom, he gathered his courage and pushed open the door.
"JsemDeath!" he announced as he spread his arm wide, his voice muffled by the many folds of the robe. "Kát se!"
One man screamed and jumped through a window and raced away. Two more followed him.
"Il Commandatore! Mercy!" Another threw himself on the ground at Napoleon's feet.
"Ho!" Or least Napoleon hoped that meant him in Czech. He was treading on shaky ground.
"Take him." The man dragged a barely conscious Illya from the chair and threw him at Napoleon. He barely managed to catch his partner
"Whaa?"
"Hold on, Illya," Napoleon murmured softly. He took a step back, half dragging Illya along. "Moje!"
"Your accent is terrible," Illya mumbled and slumped down, the fight out of him.
The man on the ground seemed to suddenly come to his sense and pulled his weapon. He shot and Napoleon staggered back a step, then straightened. "JsemDeath!" he cried taking a step and the last remaining thug raced for the door, only to end up in the arms of an UNCLE agent Napoleon knew from the Prague office.
"By all that's holy," the agent started as he passed the thug over to another agent.
"No, just me." Napoleon pushed the hood back. "We need medical help for Illya."
"And a language course for you." Illya coughed and somehow got up to his feet.
"The ambulance is right outside."
"Some vacation, huh?" Napoleon asked his partner as they settled him on the gurney.
"One thing I can say about you, Napoleon. You always know how to make an entrance." Illya attempted a smile. "That was truly inspired."
Napoleon watched the ambulance drive away and then carried the costume back to its rightful place. The bullet had dented the armor and Napoleon hoped no one would immediately notice it.
Back out in the court, he started to walk back to the front of the theatre where his colleagues had gathered. As his passed the statue, he nodded. "Děkuji. Il commandatore." And for a moment, he could have sworn the statue nodded to him, but it had to be just a trick of the light. Didn't it?