-Mr Kuryakin?

Things never really turned out the way you expected. Illya Kuryakin had believed that he could eventually do here as he had done for months in London. Obeying orders, getting assignment, managing to fulfill them. Merging into the crowd. Surviving. Alexander Waverly was staring at him. Partner? Yes, of course, it was logical. They wanted to try him out and this was part of a CEA's job.

-Sir? May I ask something?

But things never really turned out the way you expected. A deafening ring. A crisis. The newcomer he was had just to flattened himself against the wall. In a not so figurative sense, though Alexander Waverly had not dismissed him. A young man, dark haired, with a determined look, had raced into the office, holding a file, frowning, obviously concentrated on the problem. Nevertheless, he had stopped for two seconds, turning to him, and his expression had instantaneously changed. The brown - hazel? - eyes had warmed, and the man had smiled. A true, genuine smile.

-Oh, you are Illya? I am Napoleon Solo.

He had shaken hands with him, before going on with Alexander Waverly.

Witnessing, listening, watching, learning. The New York Uncle HQ didn't operate the same way as The London one, and Illya Kuryakin immediately spotted why. Here, there was a chief, a real one. Alexander Waverly could look like an old man. He was the man in charge. He knew, he listened, he argued, and eventually, he decided. There was a CEA. Young, quick-witted. They trusted each other. They worked together. Illya Kuryakin stared at them. The Old Man, knitting his bushy brows, taking puffs at his pipe. Napoleon Solo, pursing his lips, rubbing his chin.

-He left London last year, and...

-Six months ago, sir.

Both Alexander Waverly and Napoleon Solo turned to the Russian agent who repeated softly.

-Werner has left six months ago. His plot failed, he lost his henchmen but managed to escape. For all that I know, he took refuge in Spain, first. Then, he flew to Mexico.

-And now, he is in there...

Napoleon Solo was puzzled. The new Russian agent had looked like to be lost in thought, but he had been right on the mark about Werner. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Alexander Waverly's eyes twinkled.


Why was he there? Had he made the right decision? Napoleon Solo was gone, waving a casual good bye at him. Alexander Waverly had dismissed him, Bob Milton had shown him through the headquarter, and now, he was back home. Home. The older agent had asked him for dinner, but Illya Kuryakin felt dizzy with exhaustion.

He had locked the door, set up the alarm. He was at home, a place where he could isolate himself from the outside world. He had needed it in London. A vital need. He had to free himself from the suspicion, from the jealousy, from the despise. Here... Here, it could be different. He would have to deal with some suspicion, probably, but more than anything, he would have to deal with Alexander Waverly's expectations. Illya Kuryakin hadn't met so many people he could trust. « Trust no one, trust yourself! ». A lesson from his childhood, his youth in Russia, his life as a student... Same lesson at the Survival School, at the London Uncle HQ. The Russian chuckled with amusement. " I know that you'll serve Uncle loyally..." His answer had been defiant, provocative. "Unless you'd ask me to betray my country, sir.". Alexander Waverly had just said that it wouldn't happen. That meant: "I trust you, you can trust me." Illya Kuryakin had been about to ask... why. Why the Section 1 Number 1 was that sure he could trust the red/pinkie/commie mole the Soviet had sent in order to spy them.

He leaned his head on the back of the couch, closing his eyes with relief. The next morning, Bob Milton would take him to the HQ, and he would be, officially, a Section 2 agent. The number 2.

In a few days, Napoleon Solo would be back. A partner? The Old Man's hobby-horse, Milton's words. Alexander Waverly believed in partnership... A partner. Someone he would have to share things with. Someone...


Napoleon Solo felt tired, so tired. The place was deserted. Deserted and empty. This damned Werner had given up, or he had fooled them. They had watched around, looked for any trace. Nothing. It was discouraging, and the heavy silence reflected their sullen mood. The dark haired man suddenly wished he could find a bed, a couch, a cot, anything he could fall on, and sleep, sleep soundly. He should report. He should have reported. All he had to do was to get his communicator. Where were the three others? Outside? Exploring the surroundings? Had he given orders about that? He felt tired. So tired. He would report, but first, he had to sit down. No, to lie down, just like that, and to sleep. Napoleon Solo realized that all the hell was breaking loose.