He woke up all of a sudden, sweating, unsure for a split second of the place he was in.
Nightmare?
No. He slipped his hand under his pillow, getting his gun, slowly. UNCLE agents didn't have nightmares. He listened, motionless. UNCLE agents' homes were supposed to be safe, highly protected, but cautiousness often meant survival.
Silence.
Nothing except for his own controlled breath. Nothing except for the ticking of the clock.
No. Suddenly, he didn't hear it any longer.
By the way, he wasn't sure whether he heard it before.
Silence.
The situation was pretty ridiculous, he scolded himself. The apartment was deserted and silent. In the same move, he slid down the bed, switched on the bedside lamp and watched around.
Nothing.
According to the clock, it was... midnight. He peeped at his watch... Midnight, too. Fine... He had a close look around and checked the alarm, just in case.
Nothing.
Gun under the pillow, bedside lamp switched off... He shut his eyes.
Vainly.
He was awake, fully awake.
Insomnia?
No. UNCLE agents didn't have insomnia.
It was something else. Something familiar.
A feeling of urgency.
A matter of necessity.
And no clues about it.
At least, he realized with relief, at least he had fallen asleep. A calm, serene though distant melody was lulling him to sleep. Flute, oboe and a strange rhythm. No threat, no trap, no trick. Just... music.
UNCLE agents didn't have nightmares but they dreamed. He dreamed. This was pleasant. Pleasant but strange.
He knew this music.
Suddenly, things appeared. More exactly, pieces of a puzzle which fluttered about, whirled around him. He tried to catch one them but failed. Pieces faded and vanished when he touched them, materializing again a little further. Though, he noticed that the pieces were gathering to the point that he could eventually identify hair grass, a river... or a lake, a wooden bark... There was a silhouette in the bark. A woman with long hair, apparently, but she remained blurred.
He knew her.
All of a sudden she held out her arm towards him, her long thin, pale, almost translucent arm. He found himself stretching out his own hand, almost inadvertently. At the very moment he was about to touch her, he realized that she was ethereal. The pale gray fingers were cold as an icy mist and the puzzle shattered.
He woke up all of a sudden, sweating, unsure for a split second of the place he was in.
Nightmare?
No... No?
Just a dream, a strange, cryptic dream which he couldn't really manage to remember. It was strange. And there was this feeling of urgency. A matter of necessity... and no clue about it.
He tossed and turned, trying to fall asleep. Vainly. So, he took with relief the beep of his communicator until he heard Alexander Waverly's voice.
Never good.
"Mr. Solo?"
"Yes, sir."
The Old Man kept silent for two seconds. Unusual and...
"Mr. Solo... Mr. Kuryakin is missing."
Napoleon Solo was speechless. Missing?
"Mr Solo?"
"But... he wasn't really on assignment... I mean... it was..." You're babbling, Solo, he thought. "I'm on my way to the HQ, sir."
UNCLE rules were clear and unbending. Field agents couldn't marry. If they wished to, they left the field... and sometimes the organization.
He knew the reasons. A wife, children, family were targets. They would be agents' Achilles heel.
And, Napoleon Solo sighed bitterly, of course, there was the financial point. UNCLE would have to provide financial support to families if... when...
Cold and practical rules.
Field agents couldn't marry.
They forged links. Partners turned out to be friends. More than friends.
His partner... his partner was his lover. No More than a lover. He was the man he loved.
They were efficient, brilliant, top agents. They were a formidable team.
They trusted each other with their lives.
They trusted each other with their love.
Physical and spiritual bonds.
Illya was missing.
***
The day before...
"Mr Kuryakin, you heard about the Lady of Shallott..."
It wasn't a question. Of course, the Russian heard about... He took off his glasses and bent forward.
"The Lady of Shallott is the heroine of a ballad by Tennyson, based on one of the Arthurian legends about Elaine of Astolat... She suffered from a mysterious and terrible curse. She couldn't look directly out at the world. She had to watch its reflection in a mirror and she wove images on her loom. She was awfully lonely and felt so sad when she saw reflections of lovers. Once, she saw Lancelot in her mirror and couldn't help watching him directly..."
He paused, slightly puzzled. Usually, Alexander Waverly put an end to his explanations but at the moment he was just listening, motioning him to go on. "She left her castle, and floated down the river to Camelot but she died before arriving. The poem by Tennyson gave her fame." He paused again, peeping at his friend who shrugged imperceptibly his shoulders. "Agatha Christie used a line as the title of her novel "The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side" and the poem plays a part in the plot. And of course, there is this amazing picture by John William Waterhouse, The Lady Of Shallott... which is at The Tate Gallery."
"Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin."
Here we are, the two agents thought simultaneously.
"The Tate Gallery agreed to lend some pictures for an exhibition about Arthurian myths at the Met." Waverly put a hand on a file. "Our colleagues, in the U.K. found out that Thrush might plan to steal them."
Two skeptical agents creased their noses.
"They MIGHT PLAN to..., sir?" Napoleon commented.
"Slightly unsophisticated, even for Thrush." Illya stated.
Alexander Waverly knitted his eyebrows, "We've been ask to oversee the operation, that is..." he paused, "to watch over the Tate pictures during the exhibition."
"But…" Napoleon shook his head, "it isn't relevant to us. I mean... fighting Thrush, investigating, yes, but playing the security guards?"
"You'll be nice to let me decide about what is or not relevant to us, Mr. Solo!" Waverly harrumphed. He rapped on the file. "This affair was brought to us by our British "cousins" and...", he pushed the file towards the Russian, " Harry Beldon suggested that you, Mr. Kuryakin, as an expert in English poetry additionally well acquainted with the Tate Gallery, would be the most judicious choice."
Napoleon admired his friend's composure. The Russian just nodded, but the delicate lines of his jaws hardened and the blue eyes flared.
"The pictures will arrive in a few hours. An armored vehicle will take them to the museum, under escort. Everything is already scheduled, Mr. Kuryakin. All you have to do is... to oversee."
"But..."
"You, Mr Solo, will check around about our Thrush friends."
On the way back to their office, Napoleon could hear his friend muttering Russian niceties towards Beldon. Illya threw the file on his desk.
"Conveyor and museum attendant! It's just about watching people taking a box in the van, following the said van, watching people taking the pictures inside the Museum!" He pointed at the pages strewn over the desk, "Look, everything is already scheduled. I can't do anything else than... watching. It's... no use!"
"A kind thought from Beldon, my friend. Waverly wasn't happy about it, you know." He put his hand on his friend's shoulder and felt the man's tension. "Don't worry, Illya. Remember... tomorrow is Halloween... I'll pick up candies for you..."
Illya rolled his eyes but his anger melted when his friend flashed him his most charming smile, with his warm eyes, and the hand rest gently on his shoulder.
Conveyor... Museum attendant...?
Illya was missing.
"What happened, sir?"
Alexander Waverly was absolutely furious, a calm, icy, deadly rage.
"The pictures, the armored vehicle, the escort... and Mr. Kuryakin vanished. They vanished into thin air between the airport and the Museum, one hour ago." The pipe hit the desk. "I told Beldon that we wouldn't have time enough to organize this..." Second hit. "He replied that everything was okay. Armored vehicle, escort – ten all-armed men - ... They just need kind of UNCLE guarantee. "No worry, no trouble"" Waverly imitated Beldon's intonation. He pointed at the telephone. " I let him now about the events..." His eyes were icy gray, "He's "sorry". He doesn't understand. He added that of course we were not to be blamed... neither Mr. Kuryakin nor myself."
The pictures, the escort could be anywhere.
Illya.
"Illya... Sir, I'm sure that he'll manage to do something. He'll manage to contact us."
Alexander Waverly pursed his lips. "I hope so, Mr Solo. We don't have any clue." He paused and bent forward. "I had a strange feeling, Mr. Solo. Beldon... Beyond his commiserative words, he was like enjoying himself."
***
One hour before
Illya Kuryakin parked his car next to the service entrance leading to the runways and raced towards the airport. His UNCLE ID card allowed him a quick access to the landing strip. The plane had just landed. A few passengers were getting out and... The Russian cursed in dismay. Next to the plane, bathed in light, there was a huge khaki van, an armored vehicle... How discreet... Around the van, he counted no less than eight men in khaki jumpsuits, obviously armed. Of course, some of the passengers peeped at them with curiosity. So cool... Okay. He had no choice. Showing his UNCLE card, blinking at the floodlights, he joined the escort men. One of them, the older, the chief, saluted him.
"Everything is okay. Here are the pictures!"
Two more men, in the khaki jumpsuits were taking a huge wooden box in the van. Ten men. Ten all-armed men... What use am I? Illya Kuryakin thought.
"You come with us?"
"No, I'll follow you. My car is next to the entrance. Give me two minutes!"
The man chuckled. "Hey, man, let's give you a ride to it. Come in, we'll drop you..."
It was logical, simple. At the very second he entered the van, Illya smelled a rat. At the very moment he smelled the rat, he blacked out.
Don't move.
Ignore this throbbing pain in your head.
Assess your environment.
Listen. Smell. Touch.
He was lying on a cement floor, cold but not damp. Of course, he was tied off. He heard distant muffled sounds. Voices, laughters...
Splitting headache.
It smelled slightly stale. A cellar? Dust... and... wood. Pine wood. The image of a huge wooden box materialized in his mind.
Through his eyelids, he couldn't notice any light, so imperceptibly, he peeped around through his eyelashes. A small basement window - so, a cellar - provided a dim light. He opened his eyes.
A nocturnal light.
The cellar was deserted. He was alone with the huge wooden box.
Think.
Assess your situation.
Night... His stomach – and his bladder - told him that hours had passed.
Distant voices, laughters... Halloween...
He squirmed. Of course, they have stripped him of his valuable tools. Okay. Thrush. But... He squirmed again and cracked a faint smile. They missed something. Perhaps he could... No.
Wait.
Splitting headache.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a few seconds.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
Long grass rustled. He felt a gentle, soothing breeze brushing his face.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
Shadows... Yes.
They lived in a world of mirrors and shadows. Spies lived in a world of mirrors and shadows.
But both of them had their own bubble of mirrors of shadows. Spies and lovers.
They weaved magic nights... but mirror reflected other images. Spies images.
Splitting headache and fever.
Think.
He forced himself to open his eyes.
***
"Whatever happened, sir..." Napoleon walked to the huge plan, on the wall, "it happened between here..." he pointed at the terminal of the runway, "and here... the service entrance."
Waverly shook his head. "You investigated, Mr. Solo, you heard the witnesses. Passengers and employees agreed. They saw the van and the escort. The men in charge of the luggages were told to stay away until the picture would be taken in the van. Some of them saw Mr. Kuryakin arriving. He got in the van and they left."
"Yes, sir. But Illya's car is still here. He was supposed to follow the van. He wouldn't have changed his mind.", he paused, "Unless..."
Alexander Waverly joined his agent, finishing his sentence, "unless something... or someone caused him to do so. The Tate Gallery and The Met agreed about the conveyance of the pictures. The Met called on a company they're used to employ. Two conveyors were in the plane. They joined their eight colleagues at the airport. They are well trained men, trustworthy. Beyond suspicion, according their boss."
"Nobody is beyond suspicion."
He has spent the whole day investigating, seeking clues, questioning. Vainly.
"I'm afraid we have to wait for our enemy's next move, Mr. Solo."
"Mr. Solo" didn't felt patient.
A family could be a target. A wife, children...
And what about a partner? A friend? A... companion?
He studied the Met file about the Arthurian Myths.
A companion.
A man who fought with you, who'd give his life for you and for whom you'd give yours.
You could manage to keep a family safe. You could protect them from the villains, from your job, from yourself.
What about your companion?
You couldn't keep him safe. You couldn't protect him from his own job, from his own conviction, from his own determination.
He couldn't protect you from it, either.
They didn't even talk about it. It was their daily lot.
They knew it.
Carpe diem. Enjoy. Love him and let him love you.
Napoleon leaned back against his seat. Illya was resourceful... and a priceless prey. Thrush wouldn't waste such an opportunity.
He heard distant sounds.
Halloween.
On his way home, he had seen the first vampires, witches, skeletons wandering about.
Trick or treats. He closed his eyes.
All of a sudden, he woke up, sweating, and realized he had fallen asleep for a few minutes.
This music again. Distant...
Thumping rhythm.
Captivating melody.
He knew it. Ravel. Bolero. Ravel?
Somewhere in the building, someone was listening at the Bolero. He heard it distinctly despite of the insulation...
Ravel… Thrush? No. Keep calm, Solo.
Strange.
Incongruous.
As incongruous as... he froze... as the long, thin, pale gray, almost translucent arm which suddenly appeared, floating in the air. And then, he saw long hair, a woman, beautiful...
He stretched his hand out but the ethereal creature shook his head, waving her fingers. Then she floated towards the entrance door, still watching him.
Feeling of urgency.
Matter of necessity.
He stood up. The woman waved her fingers again in a stubborn invite.
He was making a fool of himself, he knew it.
He followed her.
***
Fighting headache and dizziness, he managed to sit strait and then to kneel, so he could check his soles. Yes. He smirked. They would never learn... Fortunately. He got the thin steel blade and freed himself in two minutes.
Stop.
The drug caused the walls to whirl around him. Now, he heard... music.
Thumping rhythm.
Captivating melody.
Someone in the house... No... Not in the house... Someone, somewhere was listening... Ravel... the Bolero... Ravel?
He stood up, slowly, leaning back against the wall and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
A pale, kind of misty light was floating around the wooden box.
Great.
Thanks to the damned drug...
***
Driving in New York streets during Halloween night was tricky. Especially when you were desperately following someone. Especially when "someone" was a strange creature, kind of a ghost. Especially when you knew for sure that you were making a fool of yourself.
But she still waved her fingers.
Feeling of urgency.
Matter of necessity.
***
The misty light stopped floating and turned into a blurred silhouette. Illya Kuryakin watched it with fascination. It wasn't reality, he knew it, but this was an amazing delusion.
It was a woman. Beautiful. Long Venetian blond hair... She was watching him and she was smiling. A strange smile, mix of compassion and reassurance.
He smiled in return, knowing for sure that he was making a fool of himself. He knew her. The Lady of Shallott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
Oh, great. Stop it, Kuryakin, he scolded himself.
He rubbed his eyes but she was always here, tilting her head. Suddenly she raised her hand... pale, long almost translucent fingers... pointing at the ceiling.
There was the music, the captivating melody of the Bolero from the outside. And there were... footsteps getting closer.
Think.
No weapon except for the thin blade.
No place to hide.
How many were they?
***
In the main street of the area, Halloween was in full spring but the creature was already floating towards a narrow passage. He had to park his car. He took a few steps, and suddenly, the atmosphere changed. No more pumpkins. Just distant voices and laughter. Darkness and...
Music. Bolero. Real music coming from a small house, on the left...
But the creature had stopped in front of another house. She pointed at the door before disappearing.
Fine, he thought. What...
A familiar sound brought him into immediate action. People were fighting. He got his gun, broke down the door and stormed inside, shooting three puzzled Thrushies. Localizing the fight, he raced towards the stair leading to the basement.
***
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
The two careless men had unlocked the door, switched on the light. One of them had considered the limp body on the floor and sneered until he found himself tripped up and thrown against the wall. Then, he blacked out. In the same move, the Russian had leaped on the other man. They fought for awhile but eventually, Illya knocked his opponent down, at the very moment Napoleon was showing up.
They exchanged a quick smile, still on alert, but the house was silent. Outside, the Bolero had come to its end.
Napoleon got his communicator. "Open Channel D..."
Alexander Waverly considered his agents.
The two pictures sat enthroned in the office, intact.
Five prisoners were having unpleasant conversations with UNCLE agents.
Seven conveyors were back home. They were locked in another part of the basement. Three of them were missing. The three ones who worked for Thrush... The two leaders missed too. Just in case, a trap had been set in the house.
"Your story is clear, Mr. Kuryakin. But, Mr. Solo, I still don't understand how you managed to find their hideout so quickly. And..." he waved his pipe, "Why didn't you call for reinforcement?
The two partners exchanged a look. Waverly knew these faces.
"Let's say... The Lady of Shallott showed me the way." Napoleon replied with a faint smile.
"Oh, witty, Mr. Solo. Halloween spirit?" He considered them and sighed. "Go home and have some rest. I'm going to call Beldon." The cat was going to eat the canary."But I want your report, Mr. Solo. As soon as possible."
***
They have had a shower and a snack. At the moment, they were sitting on the couch, in front of the fire place.
"What will you write in you report?"
"I don't even know what happened, Illya."
"You found me.
"As usual, tovarish."
The Russian smiled, "And as usual, just a bit late."
They kept silent for awhile.
"She... she led me to you..." Napoleon whispered.
"Yes...she did..."
Silence again.
"Napoleon?"
"Yes?"
"You told me you'd pick up candies for me..." He grabbed the bathrobe label and drew Napoleon to him. "I want my candy... Now."
They exchanged a long and passionate kiss.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace.
The Lady of Shalott."