-I can't believe that, sir. I can't.
-You'll have to, Mr Solo. We'll have to.
Waverly's voice was dull. He compassionately stared at his agent who stubbornly fixed his eyes on the file.
-I heard him, Mr Solo. He... sort of owned up to having betrayed us. Hearing him, Mr Solo, I couldn't believe it... but, he said...
Waverly stopped. He wasn't sure that his agent was hearing him... He breathed heavily and went on.
-He said that it would be, at least, the greatest victory of Thrush... that being part of it was ... was quite an amazing reward. He was so calm, Mr Solo.
-I still can't believe it.
Napoleon Solo was just able to parrot again and again the same sentence.
-We have the film. He shot Mr Slate. He shot him in cold blood. Mr Slate was begging his friend to have mercy on him. He shot him. You have seen the film, Mr Solo.
-Thrush... They have drugs, sir. It has already happened that...
-No, Mr Solo. No drugs. Not the lightest trace of it. No tricks in the film. And you have to know that he didn't deny... He has killed Mr Slate. On purpose.
For the first time, Solo raised his eyes and looked at the Old Man.
-What will... What will happen to him, sir ?
-Uncle jailhouse, Mr Solo. He has been sentenced to life imprisonment. The Commission's decision.
Solo bitterly smiled.
-Jailhouse ? Such a crime deserved a sentence of death, sir. Someone have doubts... You have doubts.
Waverly puffed at his pipe.
-He's still a Russian citizen, Mr Solo. It saved his life. You know, by the way, that Uncle jailhouse, for a traitor is a fate worse than death.
Solo felt dizzy. His eyes were blurred with tears, but he wasn't ashamed of it.
-I would like to see him, sir. I want to talk to him, face to face. I need it. I... I still can't believe...
His voice choked with emotion.
-No, Mr Solo. It's too late. He is already in solitary confinement. You know the rules. The Commission's decision.
The Old man had aged ten years. Napoleon Solo noticed that he was red-eyed.
-In a few days, his apartment will be cleared out. All will be destroyed. In a few days, Mr Ku... the traitor won't exist anymore.
-But...
Waverly stretched his arm and put his hand on Solo's shoulder. His stare became penetrating. He repeated, slowly.
-A few days, Mr Solo. A few days. Exactly three days, Napoleon.
Napoleon Solo was taken aback. He suddenly came back to life, freed himself from the grasp and rushed out the office. He very nearly collided with someone he didn't even notice.
The visitor caught the door before it slammed, and came in. Waverly was sitting behind his desk. As Solo, ten minutes before, he was staring at the file. The man coughed.
-He can't believe it.
-Mr Solo was his closest friend, Alexander. However, I can't believe it either.
Waverly burst into an ironic laugh.
-Oh, Jules, please... Have I to remind you of our arguments, five years ago, about having a Russian as an Uncle agent ? You ... foamed ! You prophesied the worse, the death of Uncle. You warned me about him. I should have paid attention to your advice... You were right.
Jules Cutter sat down in front of Waverly.
-I was wrong, Alex. You know, at the Survival School, I pushed this man beyond the limits. I worked hard at him. I couldn't break him. Then, he has been an asset to us, for five years. I don't want to boast, but I know much about men, my friend. This man isn't a traitor. He can't be. What happened might be a Thrush operation, or... a witch hunt.
The Old Man threw him an exhausted look.
-You don't boast, Jules. You know much about men. So do I. However, he has deluded us. Perhaps from the beginning.
Jules Cutter opened the mouth, but Waverly stopped him.
-I talked to him, Jules. We were alone, face to face. No witness. No bugs. He didn't deny anything.
-He didn't deny ? Okay. Did he actually confess having done anything ?
Alexander Waverly closed his eyes. He went through agony.
-No, he didn't. In fact, he didn't say anything, except...
-Except ?
Waverly opened his eyes.
-I asked him about Mark Slate. He answered that... as we had proof that he had killed him, it had to be the truth.
-That's not a confession, Alexander.
-That's an understatement. Mr Ku... he had a gift for that. He shot Mr Slate, Jules. In cold-blood. The poor Mr Slate didn't understand... he was waiting for his friend's help and...
-I've seen the film, Alex. Are you sure that it isn't a dirty trick?
-Our technicians looked for that. They didn't find anything. Then he added that it would be, at least, the greatest victory of Thrush, that being a part of it was an amazing reward.
Cutter cursed.
-Still not a confession, Alex.
-You haven't seen him, Jules. He didn't explain anything. He was sitting in front of me, with handcuffs. He stayed aloof, almost absent-minded. I've grabbed him, shaken him. Whatever he had done, he must have strong motives. I just wanted him to tell me. All I got was a blank look.
Alexander Waverley sharply added.
-There is no doubt about his guilt, Jules.
Jules Cutter thoughtfully looked at the Old Man.
-Although... you look still doubtful, my friend.
-You are wrong. If you will excuse me, Jules, I have to prepare Mr Slate's memorial service.
That was a dismissing. A civil one, but a dismissing. Jules Cutter headed to the door. Before going out, he muttered.
-And I've still a few odds and ends to do.
Alexander Waverley felt uneasy. He was waiting for someone whom he was dreading to see. He took the mission reports and began to read them. He didn't know what he was reading. Things had gone on. Uncle had gone on, for the three last months. Gone on. Gone on with missions. As if nothing had happened. But there were silences. Looks. Those gaps between a question and its answer. The always efficient, so respectful and so cold Napoleon Solo. Those almost accusing stares. Or was he to become completely paranoid ?
The door opened. The visitor hadn't knock ; he never did.
-Jules.
-Alexander.
Well. By now, Waverly felt quite angry. Cutter had ... schemed. It was the appropriate word. Cutter had circumvented Waverly's orders. He had managed to get from the Commission the permission to go to the jailhouse. No. Worse than that. He had managed to get the order to go there. And now, he was in front of him. Waverly couldn't read anything on his face.
-So, Jules ?
Jules Cutter handed him a file. Waverly opened it and couldn't suppress a shiver. A photo. A young man, dishevelled, so pale, so thin. Clenched teeth. Blank face. Absent look. No defiance. No resignation. A complete lack of concern about himself, about what was happening to him. Waverly shook his head. No. No mercy. This man was a traitor. He had deserved that. He 'd have deserved worse. There was nothing else than the photo in the file. Waverly repeated.
-So, Jules ?
-So what ? A small white cell, with the minimum for a living . No window. Light, night and day. No book. Perpetual humiliations. It must give you complete satisfaction, I guess. Your orders...
-I haven't ordered anyone to do that. The Commission... It's a procedure...
-A hell of a procedure, Alex ! Is that a crowing cock ? Is that a bleating coward ?
-Is that an innocent claiming justice, Jules ?
-Do you know his nicknames ? The Ice Prince, the Man of Ice, and so on. He could claim mercy, he could claim justice for someone else. Not for him Never. I talked to him, Alex.
Waverly was amazed ; he had to face Solo's faith in his partner. Ex-partner. The traitor. He had to face April Dancer's faith in a man who had obviously shot her partner. An astonishingly long list. What he couldn't have imagined was Jules Cutter's faith in the Russian agent. Ex-agent. The traitor. What he wouln't confess, even in the worst Thrush torture chamber was his own unjustifiable, irrational doubts. He looked at Cutter.
-So, Jules ?
No more anger in the voice. Just something like a faintest hope.
-He was tied up to the chair. He didn't tell me anything, Alex. I talked about Uncle, about his partner, about his friends, about you. I told him about my doubts. About our doubts. He didn't react. Except ... I was to leave, and I put my hand on his shoulder. Don't ask me why, Alex. For a few seconds, he... he saw me. I saw his eyes. I saw his sadness, his despair. And he shut off.
Waverly gave up. He couldn't conceal his true feelings anylonger.
-What can we do, Jules ? He has to talk to us. We are fighting against enormous odds. We can't fight without him. I'll give orders, for him to be decently treated. That's all I can do, under the prevailing circumstances.
-Do that, Alex. Do that, as soon as possible.
-If he is innocent, Jules, why does he stay silent ? He could deny... He could try to explain. He has friends. I told him that...
Jules Cutter took a deep breathe.
-I am not much of a psychologist, Alex. However, I have an idea. We saw the film. He saw it, too. He saw himself shooting Mr Slate, his friend, in cold-blood. There is a very logical reason to his silence, my friend. He believes what he has seen. I think that he doesn't remember anything. As he said, « if we have proof that he has done that, it has to be the truth... » So...
Waverly frowned.
-We made assumptions, Jules : he might have been drugged. We didn't find any trace in his blood. The film might be a delusion. The technicians didn't find any tricks. No montage. Neither did Mr Solo nor Miss Dancer... They worked on it. Secretly, of course. Miss Dancer still work on it. If something was to be found... The trial has been fair. It wasn't a witch hunt.
White cell. White walls. Blank mind. It had to be blank. No days, no nights, no hours no minutes. No time, here. Thinking was a luxuary he couldn't afford. No memories. Memories meant hope. Hope was no use.
Cutter shook his head. He took back the photo and looked at it. The door opened. April Dancer came in and suddenly stopped. The blush rose to her cheeks.
-Oh, I am sorry, sir. I 'd have...
Waverly diverted the apologies with the hand.
-I take it, Miss Dancer, that you have a reason to be here ?
She surreptitiously peeked at Jules Cutter. She had expected the Old Man to be alone. Cutter wasn't really her favourite fellow...
-Miss Dancer ?
She hesitated. Waverly drummed his fingers in the desk.
-It's about the film, sit. You know, the film...
Waverley and Cutter nodded in a perfect synchronism.
-I think that... I might have found something. I.... would you come with me ?
Cutter raised an eyebrow. April Dancer added.
-And Mr Cutter, too ?
They watched the film. Once more time. And it was always the same ordeal. Waverly knew it. All the details. A silent film. Illya Kuryakyn's back. Mark Slate's astonishment, seeing his friend aiming at him. His lips articulating a few words which anyone could understand : » Illya, no, please... ». The shot. And on a mirror, on the left, the reflect of Illya Kuryakyn's face, at this right moment. Despising. Defiant. Self-possessed. And no mercy.
-And now, sir, we are going to watch it again. But before...
April Dancer pulled a blackboard ; she hid half of the screen.
-I want you to watch the small window, on the right. It lasts three seconds, it's out of focus...
They watched again. April Dancer slowed the film. And they saw it, as an evidence. However, they knew that the imagination could provide what their eyes couldn't clearly perceive. What their eyes expected. The mirror showed Illya Kuryakyn aiming at his begging partner, and shooting him in cold blood. The blurred reflect , on the window... One could catch a faint glimpse of a quite different scene. A hand holding a gun. Illya's Kuryakyn's hand. Aiming, well, aiming at ... himself...
April Dancer stopped and whispered. Her enthusiasm was weakening.
-I wanted to see the details of the room. I wanted to find where it had happened. And it's so blurred. It might be an optical illusion...
-A hell of an optical illusion, Miss Dancer ! You smelled a rat, and you caught it. Alex...
Waverly's communicator beeped. He moved away, and listened. Jules Cutter was to speak, when April pointed her finger at the Old Man. His companions saw him whitening and wincing.
-We are waiting for you, Mr Solo... Good job. Come back, we will discuss this.
Waverly came back and stared at them.
-A hell of an optical illusion, your words, Jules ? Let's go back to my office. Quickly.
Alexander Waverly shut the door behind them, and leaned against the wall. He was still pale, but his eyes were glittering.
-As you have heard, Mr Solo has just reported to me. We were observing a clinic. We suspected that our Thrush friends were using it to hide some abducted scientists. Mr Solo and Mr Fraser burst in on them. They found our scientists.
-Well, good job, Alex, but...
-They found someone else, Jules. Miss Dancer. They found someone who might be... Mr Slate. Alive.
