It was quite unlikely that he could hope to move faster than the young man holding them captive. Perhaps there was a trick he knew that their captor didn't, a feint that the man wouldn't expect – but he would react. He would answer whatever action was attempted, and he was not yet ready to sacrifice another. He was not yet desperate enough.

The man watched him. He watched him back, but he was not seen. He let his hate for his sort to fill him, to pour out of his eyes – to disguise the planning and cold scrutiny that progressed beneath the anger. British reserve covered up old pragmatism, and he waited the opportunity that would surely come.

Codewords? Had he thought it would be necessary, he would have set up some system – or Jethro would have. But he was – had to be – a doctor. A medical examiner. Hardly one of the most vaunted roles – who would willing spend their days with the deceased – but it hardly meant that he was without intelligence. Jethro would undoubtedly set up some system in the wake of this to prevent a repeat occurrence – but in the interlude, he could only depend upon a phobia and an instinct.

It felt wrong, and yet it felt right. He was standing on the brink of something – preparing to either step back or fall within – and he felt as if he could breathe freely again. Half of him was relieved, the other confused, and over it all he could hear the same fondly mocking voice that had followed him through the years. It told him he was old, that he would not win; and he retorted with the story of the tortoise and the hare – a fitting answer. Or perhaps a bear and a snake would be more fitting.

It was a game. The pieces were dusty and his hands were old – but the moves were carved and stained upon his memory and soul. Their captor moves this piece, he counters with that. A knight is moved in answer, and the bishop steps out. A stalemate is effected, and above Jethro works to bind the trap around them.

It was familiar, in a stark and faded way. The memories he had – the muscles that demanded that he do something rather than struggle to preserve the life of the one man; that warned there would be no good if this was not resolved immediately – were within his hands, and yet they stood across a vast chasm. The voices that counseled him, that pointed out the advantages and disadvantages of the room, were silent and cracked; and yet they spoke clearly in to his ear.

Their captor watched them, taunted them. He revelled in his position and strength, calmly worked to complete his mission. He shot a man and did not blink – was willing to kill him, and did not care. A bird, showing off its striking plumage. But birds are sporting targets – small little things, never staying still. Could one strike off a feather or two without harming the creature itself? He ached to try.

It had been very long since he had been in this position, and it was more comfortable than he was used to. The Agent stood beside him, but he still felt alone. In the end, Jethro would come through and he would simply stand by and watch the proceedings. It was likely that their captor would escape – he was too calm for it to be otherwise – but there were no plans for chance meetings.

He would meet him again someday, when there were no others; and he would have his turn. And there would be no consequences for misdirections.

AN: Title translates to 'misdirection, misguidance'. Companion to Strašnyj Son, and another character study of sorts -internal this time. Again, I have only seen about four episodes of Man from U.N.C.L.E. and am basing most of this off of fanfiction characterisations and spies in general. So, more in line with Ducky likely than Illya. so...forgive me, please. This doesn't really probably work – but I did not really make it to be compatible with the entire NCIS canon at this point as I am not qualified to. 1-21-2016