-You have condemned him for treason ! There is no treason ! No murder, either ! So , stop arguing ! I want Mr Kuryakyn, my agent, back as soon as possible, and you have to know I have already sent Mr Cutter and Mr Solo to the jail ! Is that clear enough ?
Alexander Waverly hung up. A very long day. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The nightmare was ending. It had been a nightmare. A dreadful one, but eventually nothing more than a nightmare. No, Waverley quivered. No. Nightmare wasn't the appropriate word. Not for Mark Slate. Not for Illya Kuryakyn.
Mark Slate lied in the Uncle Medical Section. Thrush had drugged him, but as soon as the drug would be out of his system, he would awake. The room was almost full to bursting, but the doctor knew better than to object. Alexander Waverly, number one, section one, his CEA, the director of the Survival School, Mr Slate's partner... were waiting.
Alexander Waverly knew that he would remember for his whole like of that moment. The young agent had twisted in the sheets and opened his eyes. He had looked around, as he didn't see them. Then, he had stared at them. A faint smile had appeared, getting brighter as it went along. Suddenly, the smile had faded. A croaky voice.
-Illya ? Where is Illya ?
Mark Slate was now asleep. The doctor had thrown them out the room. Back in the office, Solo, Cutter and Dancer had gathered around Waverly, and they had discussed what to do. The Old Man had exercised his authority, sending April Dancer keeping vigil at his partner's bedside. He had thought that he would use sleep darts to quiet his CEA down, however.
-I leave immediately, sir. I must bring him back now.
-Yes, Mr Solo, you'll go, but I have to report to the Commission, and... Jules, please, I know : a hell of a Commission ! Anyway, you'll need its members' backing, to free Mr Kuryakyn. I am going to call them, then the jail's director. See to ask Mr Fraser to write a very precise report. Then, both of you...
Napoleon Solo and Jules Cutter were on their way to the jail. Of course, Alexander Waverly was relieved. Many things were always to be cleared up, but Illya Kuryakyn wasn't a traitor. The members of the Commission had acknowledged. He smiled. He had ruthlessly assumed his responsabilities, as Number One, Section One. Alexander Waverly, as a human being, hadn't agreed with that. He had calmly ignored Solo's and Dancer's secret activities. Worse. He had hoped that they would succeed... And they did !
A very long day, but a very happy one.
So... why had he this uneasy feeling ?
They had dimmed the light. He didn't try to sleep anymore, however. They had left him on his own. It only remained for him to ... switch off. Complete . Someone knocked at the door, and time froze. The door usually opened ; guards came in, went out. Not a word. Someone knocked again. The door opened, slowly, as if the visitor was afraid to disturb him. It was ridiculous. It was totally preposterous ! What was going on ? No. No way. That was none of his business. He closed his eyes.
-Sir ? Mr Kuryakyn?
The words... a name... his name. The shock could have killed him. He couldn't remember... , No, he didn't want to remember when Jules Cut... when someone had talked to him, there, mentionned his name... Was it a new torture ? He had come to believe that he would be able to evade all emotional feelings. All feelings. But he opened his eyes, and peeked at the door. A guard stood in front of the cot, looking at him... almost sheepishly.
-Mr Kuryakyn ? The Director, would like to meet you...
He sat up straight, quickly. Too quickly. He felt dizzy, and winced. A strong hand caught his arm.
-Are you okay, sir ?
-I am fine...
The guard had called his name. The guard had talked to him. The guard had touched him, to help him. The guard had asked him a question... and he had answered, automatically to this question, almost unconsciously. His voice. His own voice... His lines, too.
-Sir ? I... I brought some clothes... If you whish... I'll wait in the corridor. Take as much time as you need.
And he disappeared. He shut the door. But didn't bolt it.
Jules Cutter stared at his neighbour. Napoleon Solo was asleep. A brilliant agent. An efficient CEA. A loyal partner. Very loyal to one partner... He had given them a rough time...Solo because he was damned good. Kuryakyn because he was a Russian, a damned good little Russian. And they had given him a rough time, too. He smiled as he remembered that.
He thought back to the man he had seen, some days before, and stopped smiling.
Napoleon Solo wasn't sleeping. He was exhausted : the last three months had been the worst of his life. All the traces of his partner had been wiped off... But memories couldn't be. He wasn't the happiest man when Waverly had partnered him with this blond Russian. Neither had been the said Russian... But Waverly was the Wise Man. And it had worked... perfectly.
Napoleon Solo knew Illya Kuryakyn like the back of his hand. He trusted him with dear life ; whatever happened, all he had to do was to wait for his partner to break in, and eventually free him. « You would do the same for me. » and of course he did. Many Uncle agents were uncomfortable about any demonstration of gratitude. A tap on the shoulder, a genuine « Thanks, my friend. ». That was all they needed. A simple look was enough for both.
Whatever happened ? No. ... This time, he hadn't been there. An undercover mission. All hell had broken loose. Illya Kuryakyn had been found guilty of treason and murder. He had been condemned. There were indisputable proofs. The trial had been fair. The Commission had cut short. Waverly had given in, and Napoleon Solo had hated him for that.
-What is this, Mr Solo ?
-My resignation, sir. I leave the Uncle. I can't work here any longer. I've got no option.
-Oh, fine, Mr Solo, fine. If that's what you want...
-You walked out on him, sir. You could have informed me...
-You talk rubbish, Mr Solo. You were on assignement.
But Napoleon Solo knew his partner : he was innocent. The proofs, the evidence didn't matter. He didn't care how long it would take. He had to get him out of the jail. Illya wasn't a traitor. He hadn't shot Mark Slate. It was simply impossible.
-I guess you aren't thinking of attacking Mr Kuryakyn's jail, alone, to free him, are you, Mr Solo ?
-What are you doing, sir ?
-As you see, I'm tearing this paper.
-It won't change anything. I'll leave...
-No, you won't, Mr Solo.
And he had searched, investigated, with April Dancer. Alexander Waverly had helped them, one way or another. Astonishingly, Jules Cutter, too.
Napoleon Solo frowned and opened his eyes. Illya would be free in a few hours, now.
-Sir ?
Illya Kuryakyn was still sitting on the cot. The guard looked at him. He looked at the clothes and sighed.
-Mr Kuryakyn, follow me, please.
He obeyed. No handcuffs, no bound ? He bitterly smiled. That was it. A very clever plan. Even the Uncle had hesitated to officially execute a Russian citizen. But unfortunately, the prisoner would have attempted to escape... Perhaps he would have killed an innocent guard. And, unfortunately, he would have been shot... Well... Why not ?
They went along the corridor and arrived in front of an elevator. In the small space, Illya Kuryakyn took pity on the unfortunate guard. He coulf feel his unease dripping.
-Whatever might happen, you are not to blame, you know.
How difficult it was to speak... The other man was taken aback... But the elevator stopped, and the door opened. The guard motioned him to go out. Illya Kuryakyn crossed the threshold and staggered. Everything was swimming around him. He was now in a vast place, so vast. And there were... windows. Huge windows. Beyond, the outside. He felt a helpful hand on his shoulder.
-Come on, sir. We're almost there.
-Plea...Please ?
-Yes, sir ?
-I would like...
His voice choked. He showed a window. The guard looked at him compassionately, and led him to it.
-I'm sorry sir. It can't be opened, but...
-Don't worry... I just want to see...
-Take all the time you need, sir. And, oh... you know, you don't have to whisper, you can speak louder...
Illya Kuryakyn didn't listen. He was looking through the window. A poor landscape : ground, gravel, a little grass, walls. The sky. The clouds. The sun. The outside. He could feel the air on his cheeks... He turned toward his companion, who stood apart.
-Thank you.
-You're welcome, sir. But now, if you please...
-I told you to give him convenient clothes !
A harsh voice. The guard winced and saluted the man who had just came in. A clearly annoyed man, with a black suit. Illya Kuryakyn softly replied.
-Did I thwart you in your plans ? I am sorry. This man isn't the one to blame. I refused to put on the clothes.
-It doesn't matter anymore, Mr Kuryakyn. All that is coming to an end, eventually. So let's try to make things easier.
A nice understatement.