THE SAN RICO AFFAIR

ACT 2 "WHAT EXACTLY IS WRONG WITH HIM…?"

Illya was woken by a foot. He felt a soft kick at his side. He blinked against the strong morning sunlight that hit his blue eyes as he half opened them. 'W…what?' He looked across to see Napoleon sat on the side of the bed.

Napoleon had a slight smile on his face. 'Mind if I have my gown back?'

Illya looked confused for a second, then realised what Napoleon was referring to. He realised he was curled up in his partner's old blue dressing gown. 'Oh, sorry,' he said. 'I was cold in the night. It was the nearest thing available.'

'It's ok,' Napoleon replied. 'Keep it a while. I'm going for a shower.' He rubbed the dark stubble on his face. 'And a shave.'

Illya looked at his watch as Napoleon got up. He frowned at the time it told him. He had slept longer than he meant to. Mr Waverly was keen for his agents to get back to New York as soon as possible, and they were running late if they wanted to catch the flight their boss had arranged for them. Illya was just about to say this aloud when he heard a thud. Illya jumped up and hurried to the bathroom.

'Napoleon!!'

Illya's heart was in his mouth when he got to his knees beside the figure lying flat on the bathroom floor. Napoleon groaned, much to his relief.

'Napoleon, what's wrong?'

'Just…ah…felt dizzy,' Napoleon croaked, slowly pulling himself up. Illya quickly grabbed an arm to steady him.

'I take it you still don't feel well,' Illya frowned.

'No, I don't,' Napoleon growled. His previous bad mood was obviously fast returning. He leaned against the side of the bath and groaned against the pain he felt.

'Just take deep breathes,' Illya instructed. When he was sure Napoleon wouldn't fall if he let go, Illya released his grip on Napoleon's arm and fetched him some water. Napoleon drank it down fast.

They were both silent for a while, as Napoleon waited for the worst of his suffering to pass and Illya watched. Napoleon eventually pushed himself away from the bath and began to stagger to the bedroom. 'I'm going back to bed,' he announced.

Illya kept a hand against his partner's back during the short but painful walk. Napoleon flopped back into the bed and pulled the duvet high, groaning.

'So what are we going to do?' asked Illya. 'Our flight is in 4 hours.'

Napoleon glared at him over the top of the duvet. 'I'm not going anywhere. Except back to sleep.'

'It will be better if we get on that plane,' Illya tried to persuade. 'You can get checked at Medical and we won't have to face Mr Waverly's wrath…'

'Look, I'm sick, alright?' snapped Napoleon. 'Damn the plane. You can explain to Waverly why I'm too ill to make it.'

Illya ran a hand through his already messy blond hair. He felt yet another pang of guilt. Yes, this was his fault. He knew that. Napoleon was obviously suffering after-effects from the damage Illya had done to him yesterday. Still, Illya knew his partner too well. Napoleon had fallen into a sulk. And while he didn't doubt Napoleon was genuinely suffering, he couldn't help suspecting that Napoleon was also playing on it.

'It's not going to work, Napoleon.' Illya folded his arms.

Napoleon's brow furrowed in confusion. 'What?'

'You know what. Stop trying to make me feel guilty. You're a trained agent. You should be able to handle torture.'

Illya had rarely seen such barely-controlled fury in Napoleon's eyes. He could almost hear Napoleon's teeth grind. 'If I didn't feel so bad, I'd get up and punch you through the floor. You miserable little…I don't think I even know you anymore, partner.' He almost spat out the last word.

Illya's arms dropped to his sides. He immediately regretted what he had said. 'I…I'll go and find Terry and tell her we won't be leaving yet. And I'll explain everything to Mr Waverly.' Head down, he hurried to put some clothes on. He had the world's fastest shave and then left the hotel room as quickly as possible.

* * * * *

'Ill? What do you mean he's ill, Mr Kuryakin?'

'He's not well at the moment, sir.'

'Well what exactly is wrong with him? A cold, perhaps?'

'No sir.' Illya paused before answering. He looked around where he stood just outside the entrance of the hotel. It was a very warm morning and there were a few people milling around, but no-one close enough to hear the conversation he was having through his communicator pen. 'Mr Solo was injured yesterday.'

'Oh.' There was suddenly a slight hint of concern in Mr Waverley's voice. 'In what way?'

Illya shut his eyes. He wished Mr Waverly wouldn't press him on the matter right now. 'He was tortured, sir, with electronic charges. I was forced to do it.'

'I see.' Mr Waverly paused. 'Alright, Mr Kuryakin, stay where you are for now. I knew that the Gurnius affair was going to be a particularly troublesome one. I'm sure you did the best you could, in a bad situation. Keep me informed and return to headquarters tomorrow, if Mr Solo's health allows.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.' Illya closed the communicator and slipped it into the borrowed suit jacket he was wearing. He felt suddenly less burdened. He hadn't expected Mr Waverly to show much understanding. He couldn't have been happy to hear that his CEA had been tortured; by his partner, no less. But the sympathetic tone reassured Illya. He briefly wished Napoleon could be as forgiving.

With Mr Waverly dealt with, he now had the easier task of telling Terry the tag-along that she would get an extra day in San Rico to sight-see. He decided he would go with her into the town if she wanted, to buy another set of clothes; the shirts and trousers he had borrowed from Napoleon were too big on him and all he had come to San Rico with was a brown suit and hat (lost in the destruction of the Thrush complex) and the uniform of Colonel Nexor. He wasn't going to walk around in that anymore.

As he walked through the main reception of the hotel, Illya was called back by a young woman behind the desk. She had thick black hair and wide-set dark eyes. She was holding a telephone receiver. 'Mr Kuryakin? Room 26?'

'Yes,' Illya paused.

'There is a man on the line asking for you. He says it's very urgent.'

Illya thanked the girl and took the receiver from her. 'Kuryakin speaking.'

An unknown voice answered him. 'Greetings from Thrush, Mr Kuryakin. It may interest you to learn that Miss Terry Cook is in our possession. She was taken last night.'

Illya's eyes widened. 'Where is she?' he demanded.

'You will meet us at the site where our complex stood, until you effected its destruction yesterday. Be there at noon. Otherwise it will be the worse for the girl.' The voice paused. 'It may also interest you to learn that a poisonous gas has very recently been planted and released in your hotel room. If Mr Solo survives, please bring him with you. Remember, noon.' The line went dead.

Illya's mouth was open, poised to speak, but he had no chance. His thoughts immediately turned to Napoleon. Throwing the receiver down on the desk, much to the young receptionist's surprise, he ran swiftly to the main staircase.

Illya briefly wondered, as he dashed up two flights of stairs, if the gas had been released slowly into their room overnight and made Napoleon ill this morning. But that couldn't be, he decided, otherwise he would have felt the effects too. After running down the corridor, Illya got to room 26 and found the door slightly ajar. He walked in, heard a long, soft, hissing noise, and saw Napoleon lying face down in bed.

There was an overpowering smell and no air in the room. Illya covered his mouth and nose as best he could with his sleeve and quickly followed the hissing noise. He found Thrush's weapon on the floor at the foot of the bed. Grabbing the small black canister, he threw the bedroom windows open and balanced it on the windowsill. He took his gun out of his holster and shot it, so that he blew it out of existence.

Leaving the windows open to try and clear the room of the gas, Illya then turned and grabbed Napoleon. He dragged his unconscious partner out of bed and across the room, out into the corridor. He was relieved to find a pulse when he touched Napoleon's neck. He rushed to get water from the bathroom and tried splashing it onto Napoleon. It worked and he slowly came round.

'S…stop it! No!!' Napoleon protested. When he opened his eyes and found himself in Illya's grip, Illya saw a brief fear in Napoleon's eyes. Did he see still see Colonel Nexor when he saw Illya? Illya tried not to let his dismay show when he considered this.

'Are you alright, Napoleon?'

'I was…I was…fine!' Napoleon cried, now looking very bewildered when he realised he was lying in the corridor. 'I was asleep, you idiot!'

'You weren't just asleep, you were being poisoned!' snapped Illya. 'Someone broke in and released a canister of lethal gas.'

Napoleon's eyes widened. 'I fell asleep after you left. I never heard anyone break in.'

'Well the door was ajar, so obviously someone did. You must have been too deeply asleep to hear anyone,' sighed Illya. His knees were becoming uncomfortable from where he knelt in front of Napoleon. He sat back on the floor opposite his friend and told Napoleon about the phone call.

'So Thrush have been tracking us,' Napoleon summarised. 'And they obviously know we're here. We've let our guard down, Illya.'

Illya nodded solemnly. He looked at Napoleon with uncertainty in his bright blue eyes, making him look deceptively innocent. 'What do we do?'

Napoleon thought for a moment. 'We fill Mr Waverly in on the details and then get up to the site at noon. We have to play it by Thrush's rules, Illya, or Terry suffers.'

Illya nodded. He brought his arm up to look at his watch. He gasped. 'We've got less than an hour, Napoleon, we've got to get moving.'

Napoleon got to his feet and then almost fell flat on his face again. Illya managed to catch him.

'Sorry your plans for recuperation have been messed up,' Illya said, sympathetically. 'But Thrush specifically asked for you to be there, if you survived their attack.'

'It's so very nice to be wanted,' Napoleon grimaced, straightening on his feet. The agents moved back into their now gas-free hotel room, to prepare for their important meeting with Thrush.