The scene was bucolic, with not a ripple in the water surrounding the quaint towers above the little town. Napoleon Solo had a vantage point that allowed him to see clearly the short bridge that connected the two towers; he was waiting for a particular individual to emerge from the one on the left.
Inside the building at the end of the bridge were two men deep in conversation. The taller of the two wore a dark wool coat over his modest suit, his weathered face that of someone burdened by worry.
The second man was smaller in stature, blond and very serious. Illya Kuryakin intended to convince Willem Norene to accompany him across the bridge and into a new life; a free life. Norene had been serving THRUSH for decades and, in a sudden change of heart, had contacted the U.N.C.L.E. with the offer of information that could mean the end of a particularly disturbing plot by the supranational organization.
Napoleon was listening in on the conversation, hoping that his partner would be successful in bringing this one in. Normally it would be Solo sent in to cajole and charm, but this time the skills of the Russian were needed. The two young men had only been paired up for about ten months, a seeming stroke of genius on the part of their boss, Alexander Waverly. Although each man had brought a lion's share of attitude and skill to the partnership, it had seemed to mesh into something very successful if their record was any indication. Today a linguist of Illya's caliber was needed, and Napoleon's job would be to arrive in a timely manner, in his boat, and take on the two men as they prepared to travel up-river to a drop off point where they would deposit the defector into the hands of another UNCLE team.
Inside the bridge's western tower, Illya was speaking Norene's native language, Swedish, attempting to persuade the other man of the need for him to make his decision and accompany the agent out of their meeting place and into his future … away from THRUSH. Although Norene didn't look the part, he was a brilliant scientist who had participated in developing a deadly virus, and now held the entire formula in his prodigious memory. No other member of the team could claim that, and without a written account of the research, it was imperative to lay claim to this man's mental account.
"Mr. Norene, I cannot stress the importance of moving swiftly. You have made your decision, have you not?"
Norene shuffled his feet, feeling the stress of his own fear, the irrational mistrust of the man speaking to him.
"You are Russian? How is that you have come to be with UNCLE? Are you stealing secrets from them as you now encourage me to steal from THRUSH?"
Illya was confused by that, concerned that he was losing this man. Why should he, of all people, be questioning Kuryakin's loyalty to the Command?
"I assure you that my loyalties are to UNCLE, and my intentions here are to get you safely into its care. We can give you a new life, a better life. I assure you that, as you might assume, I speak from experience."
Norene thought that over for a moment, wanting to trust the young blond agent, wishing that life weren't so complicated. After years in the bowels of THRUSH laboratories under the watchful eyes of unprincipled masters, the meek scientist wanted only to stop what he knew would be a worldwide pandemic, should this formula be used as it was intended.
"Mr. Kuryakin, I believe you are sincere and find myself being forced to trust you. I will go with you, but you must promise me that …"
His words were violently thrown into the air as a blast of gunfire erupted from the doorway. The intruders had approached from a spot not visible to Napoleon as he sat in the boat beyond and below the bridge. He heard the explosive sounds of it and yelled into his communicator, hoping to gain a response from his partner.
Illya turned to fire at the THRUSH squad who now rushed into the room. Norene was dead, the attackers foolishly destroying the very thing that they sought to retrieve. In a strange turn of events, the attackers gathered up the body of the scientist and carried him out, barely avoiding the arrival of Napoleon who had engaged the motor on his small craft and clamored up the ladder on the edge of the small dock.
Solo entered the building as the last of the THRUSH were jumping into a black vehicle; he didn't attempt to stop them, his only thoughts now were to get to his partner.
Entering the building, Napoleon was stopped in his tracks at the evidence of the violence that had concluded the meeting. He assumed that Norene was dead based on the way his body was thrown into the car. His eyes now sought out the blond hair of Illya Kuryakin. The American agent called the name of his partner, hoping for a response.
"Illya? Illya, can you hear me?"
No sounds of movement or reply. It was dark in the building, and no light switch was evident to shed light in the room. Napoleon moved cautiously, his eyes gradually adjusting to the low visibility. His foot hit a slick spot and immediately he stopped, lowering his eyes to the dreaded sight of his partner lying in a pool of blood.
"Oh no, Illya…"
Napoleon kneeled down beside the stricken agent, pulling out his communicator as he did so. Even as deft fingers were pulling back the blond's jacket he called his support team.
"Open Channel F, this is Solo. I have a man down."
"Everett here. Are you all right, Napoleon?"
"It's Illya, he's… I'm checking him now but he's unconscious. We lost Norene, I think he's dead."
"We're on our way, Napoleon. I hope … Well, better that Norene is dead than able to divulge the formula to THRUSH. Be there in ten."
Napoleon closed his communicator with one hand and began to examine his partner in earnest. The wound was in Illya's left shoulder, so not too serious. The impact had apparently thrown the man back into a stack of wooden crates, probably knocking him unconscious. That actually made Napoleon breathe a little easier.
"Leave it to you to get a knock on the head, tovarisch."
There was still no reply, leaving Napoleon to wonder how serious that knock might be.
When Everett and Sloane arrived they entered the building and assisted Napoleon in carrying the still prone figure of Illya Kuryakin out of the tower building and into the sedan they were driving. Solo would need to report this to New York, something he dreaded since they had lost the object of this mission. Moreover, he would have to report that, once again, his partner was down.
The nearest UNCLE facility was an hour away in Vienna. It seemed the safest course of action to make their way to that location in spite of Illya's medical needs. The bleeding had slowed, and hopefully within the hour drive the Russian would regain consciousness. It would be easier to ascertain his condition when that happened… if it happened.
Napoleon had an uneasy feeling about this, and looking at his partner of less than a year, the usually brash Solo was suddenly thinking on mortality and fate. He hoped his wasn't to be solo yet again.