The Master of the Hunt Affair
Chapter Four: A Whole Lot of Nickels
Waverly looked up from the paper he was examining. "Where did you come by this, Mr. Solo?"
"A contact of mine, sir – um, from the enemy camp. It's all the information I could get on Illya's kidnapping."
"It's that blasted jumbled-up numbers nonsense!" Waverly grumbled, turning the paper sideways to see if it would suddenly make sense if viewed differently. "I don't suppose your contact told you how to decode it."
"No, sir. But in light of what she told me concerning Illya – " Napoleon found he had to take a breath before he could continue. "I think I can guess what it says."
"A death-notice on Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly harrumphed, and then turned his attention to his master board, where he began throwing switches and barking orders. Solo found himself sinking into a chair, suddenly tired.
"No time for that, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, over his shoulder. "It will take more than a scrambled message and rumor to close the file on that young man. If I had a nickel for every time – "
Napoleon blinked and shook himself. "Yes, sir. I'm sure you're right."
"Of course I am." Waverly turned and looked at his top agent. "Go home, Mr. Solo. Get some sleep. I think that things will be moving very quickly very soon. I want you in top form when the word comes up."
xoxox
Illya leaned back against the wall of his cell and watched the tops of the trees through the tiny window. The sky beyond was hazy blue, the young day already swelteringly hot. He could hear the complaints of birds crackling though the moist air. The floor and walls were still cool, however, and he took advantage of this small comfort as he reflected on all the things he had learned of his host.
Koschei, of course, had to give his guest the exciting highlights of his best Hunts, while walking though his horrific trophy collection. Illya had listened with only half an ear, focusing most of his attention on the men around him; evaluating, waiting.
Before they began, Koschei had fingered the elaborate buckle on his belt and the cuffs on Illya's wrists had sprung open. Good to his word, if not to his fellow man, Koschei upheld his promise to his prisoner; Illya walked out of that hall unfettered and unhindered, although not unguarded.
Garrard hovered at his back while he politely followed Koschei though the grotesque tour. He kept his demeanor submissive, and was rewarded by slightly relaxed vigilance on the part of his guards. Obviously Garrard and Flickinger had heard these tales enough times to be bored by them. Koschei ignored the guards, completely mesmerized by his latest embalmed trophy, whose sad history he spelled out for Illya in tedious detail.
When the tour ended, Illya was guided right back to his cell. Fortunately, they took the same route that they had come by, giving Illya an opportunity to exercise a talent he had once learned from a grateful Gypsy he had befriended in Turkistan. Thanks to his half-bored guards, he managed to fill his pockets with all manner of potentially useful things.
Rubbing at the dried blood on his face, he sat and pondered his next move. He could leave this cell, he was sure – they had taken his Special and his communicator, but had not despoiled him of his clothes or other useful accessories – but once free he would be at a serious disadvantage. He did not know where he was, other than some tropical location. If the things he had overheard from Flickinger and Plucket could be believed, he could be anywhere from Florida to some exotic point south of the equator.
Also, there was Koschei to consider. The images summoned up inside Illya by that diabolic name would have been enough to chill the young Russian, even in the heat of a tropical day. And his estate, named Buyan – also from Russian legends – implied an inescapable island filled with peril.
Illya was not superstitious, nor was he easily intimidated, but being a very practical and cautious man, he knew he would be wise to consider all that he had learned, however fantastic. So he let himself think in the privacy of his cell. His thoughts eventually sifted down to deciding that, once evening had begun to settle in, he would excuse himself from the guest house of the 'Master', find some food and water, and if not transportation, possibly a map that could show him where he was and where he might go for assistance. He suspected that Koschei wanted him to try to escape immediately, but in the full sunlight and heat of the day, he knew he would be seriously disadvantaged.
The heat of the day continued to grow. Illya sat on the corner and closed his eyes to get what rest he could.
Warmth on his ankle woke him. The sun had long since passed its zenith; the sunbeam slanting through his tiny window had shifted across the floor and was now creeping across his foot. He stood up and stretched; his muscles were stiff from the hardness of the floor and from dehydration. He needed water. He could hear the drip-drip-drip of water somewhere beyond the door; the dryness of his throat made it hard to ignore.
Other, louder noises were now coming from beyond the door; he heard the clink of keys and cursing. He moved away from the back of the cell, giving himself room for whatever action might become necessary.
Flickinger pulled the door open and showed Illya the barrel of a gun. "Just stay there, little man," he said scornfully. "The Master ordered that you be given something to eat – but I'd just as soon feed you a few ounces of lead." He moved back to allow Plunket to enter, carrying a tray.
"Mmmm… smells good!" Plunket said as he raised the tray to his nose. The wiry man looked around for a place to set the tray, but there was, of course, no table or chair in the barren cell. "Um, here," he awkwardly offered the tray to Illya. "Take this."
"No, thank you." Illya backed up to the wall. He could have rushed them, knocked the skinny one into the one with the gun and made his escape, but he didn't like the timing. Beside, it had occurred to him to try another approach. "I'm not hungry. Why don't you two have it?"
"The Master said – " Flickinger began to say. Illya interrupted him.
"He's your master, not mine. I won't eat it, so you can either take it away or scrape it off the wall." Illya shrugged. "Your choice."
"Fine! You won't get a chance to starve to death." He yanked the confused Plunket back by the collar of his shirt.
"Hey! You'll make me drop it, Flick! Fean's cooking shouldn'a be wasted!"
The door boomed shut. Illya sidled up to the panel and pressed his ear to the crack. He could hear the two men eating sloppily; a clatter of dishware and chewing that went on for several minutes, punctuated by squabbling over choice morsels and the last piece of bread.
Not long afterward, he heard the unmistakable sound of vulgar yawning, followed soon by the sighs and thumps of two bodies sliding out of chairs onto the floor.
If I had a ruble for every time someone tried to drug my food… Illya smiled and used the whip knife he'd filched from the dagger collection to pick the lock to his cell.
Stepping among the snoring bodies of his erstwhile guards, he helped himself to two guns, two belt knives, and a cosh. He searched the small room swiftly, but couldn't find anything to carry water in, so he drank as much as he could take from the dripping faucet in the corner. There wasn't a scrap of food, but Illya took whatever he could find that might be useful, including Flickinger's cigarettes and lighter.
Koschei would expect him to be drugged and out of the picture for several hours. He could use those hours now to find the other things he needed: transportation or a means of communication – both, for a best-case scenario. Worst-case, he'd be tossed back in this cell. The master was unlikely to cheat himself of his favorite sport.
The sun was sinking quickly, the day was still hot and humid, but the time felt right. Illya crept up the stairs.
