When he was a little boy, he did that : he caught snowflakes ; when he opened his hand again, the snowflakes had disappeared. It was so frustrating... So would the sunbeam...

The narrow path was sandy ; it slopped down to what must be the shore and the embankment, bordered with grey rocks, and various wastes : old cans, broken timbers... Some grass, too.

Illya Kuryakyn bitterly smiled. He was a first choice target. A sitting duck. He started his walk along the path, slowly. He remembered similar scenes, when he had been part of some exchanges of prisoners, on a bridge or a catwalk. Extreme strain, step after step. Everybody waiting for a breaking. A shot. But you knew, he thought, you knew that your friends were at the end. They would bring you back. They would save you. They would, at least, take revenge.

This was a one way ticket. He tried to concentrate on the landscape, below. Not so bad.

The sky was of a milky blue, turning milky grey. The water of the lake, quite glassy, was turquoise, and its colour shifted to green. Sea gulls wheeled above him. A gentle breeze caressed his face. Beautiful. Pleasant. He went on and didn't take his eyes off the lake.

A nasty twinge ran from his neck to the small of his back, along his spinal cord.

His mind desperately drank images, feelings.

His body rationally waited for the shock of the bullets.

He wouldn't look back. Neither in the reality of the moment... nor in memory.

Sky.

Lake.

Birds.

One step after one step.

And the twinge getting sharper and sharper.

The odour of the lake. The lapping.

The sloping path was changing direction. In a few seconds, he would be out of range. He closed his eyes and stopped. Just time now, for memories. For familiar faces. One face. He could have asked for paper. He could have written... No.

-Hurry up, boy. No time to sleep ! Eh ! Need some help ?

He opened his eyes : lower down on the path, an old man stood with arms akimbo. Long grey hairs were escaping from a cap above a smiling tanned wrinkled face. The man was coming closer. Illya Kuryakyn stiffened and slowly turned his head toward the jail. The walls were deserted. There were no snipers. No guards. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder while the other grabbed the case.

-Come on, boy. We are wasting time. We'll have a rough crossing !

The old man dragged him on the path, and they rushed down to the embankment.

-Get on, I cast off !

Illya Kuryakyn obeyed. He could barely think, again, and it was so easy to let himself go...

It was a fishing boat, a simple fishing boat. The old man jumped on board, and started the machine. The boat moved slowly out of the small dock, putting on speed when they reached open water.

-You should get your case down, boy. Just hope you aren't seasick ?

The old man showed him the horizon. The sky was turning yellowish-grey. Illya Kuryakyn smiled sheepishly.

-I'm afraid that might happen, sir...

The man laughed.

-Don't worry ! Oh, my name is Mikey. M. I. K. E. Y. I am not a mouse !

-Illya. Illya Kuryakyn.

-Welcome on board, Illya. Can call you Illya, boy ?

The Russian nodded. Mikey didn't even raised an eyebrow, hearing an obviously Russian name. He had noted it. Period. No question. No comment.

The lake surface was still. Illya Kuryakyn leant out of the planking, beside the cabin. After all, he was alive...

They quietly passed the South End.


-I can't believe it, sir.

Alexander Waverley sighed, and looked at his agent with concern. An appalled Mark Slate was sitting on his bed.

-It's not a nice story, Mr Slate...

-How could you believe that, sir ?

Alexander Waverly frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

-The odds were against him, Mr Slate. Mr Kuryakyn himself thought that he was guilty, and ...

-But you should have known bett... I beg your pardon, sir.

-No, no, you're right. I probably should have known better.

The younger man shook his head.

-No, sir, you have been trapped. All of us have been trapped : it was a very nasty and very clever plan. You see, I have already been abducted. This time, they have locked me in a room, with toilets and a shower, and they didn't question me. I didn't see anyone, except the guard who get me some food. It was so unusual, so amazing. I stayed there for a few days. At least, just after a lunch, they came and dragged me to another place. And it was quite a relief, because, well, I knew what to expect... But I ended up in a large room and...

Mark Slate's eyes blurred. Alexander Waverly stayed silent.

-And I saw Illya. He was awfully pale, sir. He held a gun, and he was aiming it at me. Beside him, a Thrush man was talking to him. He told him to shoot me... And Illya struggled, sir. He withstood the pressure. He fought. I could see the sweat on his face, and he looked at me. His eyes in mines. and suddenly , he... smiled, defiantly, and he raised his gun, sir. He raised it to his own face. He was going to do it, sir, I knew that, he was going to save my life... I called his name, I told him.... I yelled... and I passed out, hearing a shot, and thinking that Illya was dead.

Mark Slate took a deep breath.

-When I regained consciousness, I was back in the cell, and the Trush man was in front of me. He looked satisfied. He sat down, and he began to... explain.

-To explain ?

-I was a bait, sir, just a bait A bait for Illya, for Napoleon, for you, for Uncle. Thrush scientists have set a new drug, a very efficient one. Undetectable. Memories can be manipulated, wiped, changed... Will is controlled. They had given it to Illya. But, well, you know him, sir, he never gives up... He didn't make things easier for them. And he was alive...

Wawerly was puzzled.

-What did they want ?

Mark Slate bitterly smiled.

-They have nearly achieved it, sir. Uncle was expected to suspect Illya, to seize him. To condemn him, because he was a murderer, because he was a traitor, a Thrush agent. This... man looked so delighted, sir... He told me that if I was lucky, Illya would be condemned to death.... In this case, I would be freed after his execution. At least, a life imprisonment, as a traitor, in an Uncle jail, would do as well. I would just have to stay with them longer... They wanted to make our life a hell on earth. And « the icing on the cake » ( his words, sir) : the return of Mark Slate, alive. The living proof that Illya Kuryakyn was innocent. That Uncle had executed the most faithful of his agents. Or had destroyed him, after a year or two in its jails. Scandal. Blames. And guilt feelings, sir. Unbearable guilt feelings for Illya's friends. Our destruction.

-Unbearable guilt feelings, Mr Slate. You're right. I've been more than a valuable helper, in that plan, and I'll have to account for it.

-No, sir : April told me. You let Napoleon, you let her investigate. So April pointed the trick. And Napoleon found me, in this clinic.

-Pure luck, Mr Slate.

-Napoleon's luck, sir.

-It was so ... unfair. Mr Kuryakyn...

-Pure chance, sir. You could have assign Illya to this solo mission. They would have abduct Napoleon. They wanted one of them. Solo, Kuryakyn, it was all the same, to them. Illya... Illya will be okay. He'll understand. Napoleon will care for it.


-Illya ! Boy, are you « lake »sick ?

The Russian smiled No. He wasn't. He felt quite drunk with the air, but he wasn't sick. He noticed that the old man was inquiringly watching the sky.

-Well, I hope that no one is waiting for you at the Charon's pass... We won't make it, with this storm.

Illya Kuryakyn shook the head. However, he wasn't sure of that. They hadn't killed him on the path... They could eventually be there...

-Charon's pass ?

-The local harbor of the Big City ! Funny name, isn't it ?

-Charon smuggled the dead across the Styx, to go to Hades' kingdom...

-The Inferno... My son's friend told me the story. I guess, a jail is a sort of nice inferno...

So, Mikey knew. He knew that it was a jail. He logically knew that his passenger was a prisoner. A freed prisoner, but a « criminal »...

-We are going to head for Mousehole ... Yes, Mousehole ! Don't chuckle, boy ! Mikey, from Mousehole ! I live there. If we are lucky, we'll be at home at the beginning of the storm. I have rooms. We'll see about what to do tomorrow morning !

Illya Kuryakyn's blue eyes met the fisherman's green ones.

-Mikey, It's a jail... You know what I mean : I was a prisoner and...

-None of my business, boy. You were, okay. You aren't any longer. And camping isn't a very good idea, with the storm.

-But you have to know...

The old man cut him down.

-Illya, my boy, you know Greek mythology perfectly well, but you're quite a dense guy ! In this country, we don't stick our nose into the others' business. You are now a free man, and...

-Mikey, sometimes, they free guilty people... Free doesn't mean innocent, and...

The fisherman stared at him and chuckled.

-Boy, I am an old man, but although you are very young, I think I could throw you overboard with a single hand...

The Russian whitened, and sheepishly smiled.

-No, Mikey. No, you couldn't.

The green eyes narrowed. No fear. Just... a gentle understanding. Mikey smiled, too, with a wink.

-No, Illya, I probably couldn't... So, as you are not ( not yet ?) seasick, I could do with some help.