CHOICE Part Four

The chalet was in darkness. Outside the long day had finally sunk into the kind of translucent night beautiful summer days often turned into. Napoleon, knowing that his partner would lock the door whether he was out or in, fitted his key and turned the rather cheap handle, opening the door slowly and going in. He could see immediately that the flimsy curtains on the windows either side of the door were drawn and that his partner's bed was empty.

He put down his bag on the bed behind him and switched on the bedside light. Drawing back Illya's bedcover, he picked up the rather lumpy pillow and squeezed it. A small card dropped out, advertising a shop offering 'smart suits at great prices.' Napoleon stared at the card for a few moments and then opened the wardrobe, where in the jacket pocket of a remarkably smart black suit, a flimsy page was folded into a very neat, tiny rectangle.

D has explained. Bedtime duties followed by dinner (Our Lady OPN). Will return at 10. I.

Solo looked at his watch. There was no indication whether Illya had managed to change her mind, but soon it wouldn't matter anyway. He smiled at the religious reference, remembering Kuryakin's comment as they had stared into the Italian restaurant the camp had provided for those who might prefer a candlelit dinner to the more basic cuisine of the canteen. 'Our Lady, ora pro nobis' he had muttered almost to himself as he had stared up at the rather bosomy painting of the Madonna on the outside of the restaurant named 'Sancta Maria' in her honour.

But it was now a quarter to eleven. The chalet suddenly seemed stuffy and claustrophobic, the thin wooden walls capable of moving inwards to stifle him. He rummaged inside his jacket and drew out a tiny key which enabled him to withdraw his gun and holster from the hidden compartment at the side of his bag. Illya's lateness made something within him reach for his communicator to reassure himself that his partner was still enjoying his evening out with the girl, even though Solo's heart told him differently. He flipped open the lid and turned the dial, waiting. After a few more attempts, he replaced it in his jacket and, after locking the door, ran down between the chalets towards the flat roofed buildings ahead.

'I understand why you would want to travel and have new challenges in your life, but I find it hard to believe you would abandon your family, your country so easily, at the behest of a comparative stranger.' As soon as he had said it, Illya shook his head at the irony of his words. In describing her actions he had described his own not many years before. He remembered the letter again, lying patiently within his jacket waiting for an answer.

Illya lent back, a perfect view of the restaurant afforded by his position on the back wall. It was reasonably busy, mainly with couples of similar age to himself and Dorothy, escaping from the canteen to enjoy a more intimate but not necessarily better meal in the subdued lighting of the 'Sancta Maria' restaurant. Nobody, either amongst the waiters or the clientele stood out to him as being suspect in any way; nobody seemed interested in the blond man and his red-headed girlfriend except the waiter bringing them their rather anaemic plates of spaghetti set in a Bolognese sauce that seemed as far from its native land as he felt from his.

'Family?' Dorothy replied rather aggressively, moderating her voice as she saw his rather startled expression, 'What family? Mam spends her whole life apologising for her existence and as for him . . . .' Illya lent forward into the light of the flickering candle which had been plonked between them earlier by the waiter.

'He's not your father, I presume' he said quietly. She gazed at him for a moment, reaching out to touch his hand as he pushed the plate away.

'Mam never said, and I grew up thinking that there was something wrong with me, something about me that made him hate me so much' she said fiercely. 'Eventually I worked it out, especially when Alan came, but she's never admitted it, never.' She smiled, forcing back other feelings as she contemplated him, the new haircut with its short soft fringe framing the broad forehead and his serious, brooding eyes beneath. If her origins were mysterious to her, it was nothing to the aura of mystery surrounding the man who now sat opposite.

'Have you ever asked her?' he said, making her suck her lips slightly. She shook her head.

'No, I . . well there never seemed to be the right moment . . I mean he was always there' she said rather lamely, looking down. She felt him grasp her hand, the size of it encasing hers with a firmness she felt curiously empowered by.

'Ask her' he said simply. 'Besides, even if you consider abandoning your parents, there is always your brother to consider, and brothers are important.'

Dorothy frowned, her brow crinkling at his words. 'Illya' she said slowly, 'You tell me not to go with Mr Grollé, even though I can't imagine getting a better offer for the next fifty years. You tell me not to trust strangers but, well, what do I really know about you?' She stared at him for a moment before continuing, 'You're not a student at all, are you?'

'Not exactly' Illya began hesitantly, having difficulty with his words, as he reminded himself was often the case with women. 'I work for an organisation dedicated to, well, protecting the world against those who wish to control it for entirely immoral purposes' he said, immediately hating himself for sounding so utterly pompous.

'Entirely immoral purposes?' Dorothy said, half laughing at his earnestness. She leant across and kissed him, flicking his hair as she sat back. 'You are very funny, you know that? Now try again, and this time, in plain English, OK?'

Illya sighed. 'What I'm trying to say is that your research, it's so important, but it could be used for bad things, to threaten people with, to destroy even, as well as to give life and hope, don't you see?' He saw her expression change, an immediate empathy with his words flashing across her face.

'You know science', she murmured, 'scientific research and discovery, it's really the best thing, but it has such, well, responsibility attached.'

'I know' Illya replied gravely.

The conversation had been so intense he had relaxed his surveillance of the restaurant and so not noticed the proximity of three men sitting at the next table. As he leapt to his feet he found his arm yanked across his back and the table screech forwards as he was wrenched sideways into the unwelcome embrace of a massive brick of a man standing against the wall. He heard Dorothy's voice, not a scream, more like a shout, demanding that they stop, just before the sharp prick in his neck caused him to stagger forward. As he lost consciousness he heard someone familiar assuring the other diners that there was really no problem, it was a police matter.

The discordant metallic sound of what could only be clattering pans awoke him.

'Cretin! Qu'est-ce que vous faites? He heard in some part of his brain that found difficulty in computing why he was now in France. He felt someone unceremoniously pull up one of his eyelids and then drop his head back onto a cold metal surface he realised his whole body was lying on.

'He's awake' another more distant voice announced, one that sent a cold sharp pain into his heart.

'J'éspère ça.'

'You'd better send your heavy boys outside to look for the kid; we might need him to persuade Miss Costelloe here to have a change of heart.'

Illya could hear Dorothy struggling quite near to him, desperate sounds coming from what could only be a gag preventing her from speaking properly.

'Now promise me, Miss Costelloe' he heard Grant Chesters say in the patronising drawl he usually used when speaking to Illya, 'that you'll try not to scream if I remove the gag, OK?' There was a slight hiatus, before he felt slight, soft hands on his head for a moment until she was dragged away and after a few moments more, he was forced to come to shuddering consciousness by a bucket of freezing cold water being thrown across his face.

Illya blinked wildly, realising at the same time that he had been stripped of his clothes, barring, he thought thankfully, his underwear and shirt. Moving his head slowly, he took in his surroundings. They were in the kitchen of the restaurant, the windows at the end of the room displaying an exterior darkness which indicated that most campers had long reached their cabins, and that cooking had finished for the evening.

An unfamiliar face appeared in front of him, one which he supposed women would be impressed by and men would admire grudgingly. Raymond Grollé was obviously taller than Illya, his regular features and impeccable grooming reminding the Russian of men he had seen gracing the streets of Paris in his student days there.

'Mr Kuryakin' he said slowly in equally impeccable English, 'are you quite recovered from the tranquiliser? I'm sorry about it, but your reputation precedes you, if Mr Chesters is to be believed' he added, glancing backwards and then giving Illya a lascivious smile that made him grind his teeth slightly.

'Let her go' Illya said without taking his eyes off Grollé. 'She's changed her mind about your apparently generous job offer, Grollé.' Grollé smiled again, running his finger across Illya's fringe in a grotesque parody of Dorothy's actions earlier in the evening.

'You didn't tell me he was so pretty, Chesters' he said, looking away for a moment, before instantly returning to his perusal of Illya. 'I know' he continued, continuing to stroke Illya's face and hair. 'That's why we're here, Mr Kuryakin. Don't tell me your lovely companion didn't tell you she'd fallen for your rugged northern European charms and changed her mind?' He straightened, his soft laugh instantly replaced by a sharper, crueller tone.

'Well that's a shame, Miss Costelloe,' Grollé said, walking towards Dorothy and feeling, with pleasure, Kuryakin's stress levels rising as he did, 'because it would have been such a productive relationship.' He came up close to Dorothy and without warning put his hand inside her dress, grasping her breast and pushing himself nearer as she squirmed in front of him.

'For God's sake' Chesters said wearily, Illya's nose assailed with the familiar smell of his cigarettes as he lit one behind him. Grollé released himself from Dorothy and walked over to the wall at the side of the table, bristling with a multitude of kitchen utensils faintly gleaming in the subdued lighting at the edge of the room. Dorothy's gasp alerted Illya to the fact that he had not returned empty handed.

'I'm getting a little bored with you, Miss Costelloe' Grollé said, tapping the side of the preparation table with a large filleting knife. 'If, as you said in your telegram, we have nothing further to offer you in the scientific line, then perhaps you can be of use to us in another way.'

Illya could hear her trying to control her fear, breathing deeply inwards before she spoke, her voice now calm and cool.

'Get lost, you horrible French creep; I'd rather die than do anything to help you or your friend, whoever he is' she replied savagely. Illya turned his eyes upwards, preparing himself for what might ensue. He could see Grollé smile maliciously before, with deft strokes, he ran the filleting knife up Illya's shirt, the buttons pinging off into space as it fell back on either side of his chest.

'Not very helpful Grollé' Illya cut in, 'besides, it was new and I don't have time to sew the buttons on again.' Grollé lent over him and suddenly brought the knife up under his chin, forcing his head backwards.

'You have a sharp tongue Mr Kuryakin' he replied, glancing over Illya's head at Dorothy. 'Perhaps we should begin with making it flap a little less.' He grasped Illya's hair and wrenched his head back, forcing his mouth to open with his other hand. As Dorothy pleaded for him to stop, Grollé's arm was gripped and the knife ripped from his hand.

'This isn't about you and your sick fantasies, Grolle' he heard Chesters say as the former UNCLE agent moved into view. 'We need them both alive, remember? I want this to look good.' Illya frowned as his mouth returned to normal and he relaxed for a few moments.

'What is this really about Chesters?' he said quietly, inviting the American closer. Chesters drew up a stool to the table and leaned across until his head was close to the Russian's. Illya could smell the stale tobacco on his clothes and breath, the outwardly smooth, successful man with something stinking and rotten at his core.

'It's been an interesting year to date, since I first joined THRUSH' he said, as if he were giving some kind of lecture to an assembled group of interested colleagues. Illya sensed the usual rambling self-congratulatory diatribe coming up from men like him and kept quiet for once.

'Your arrival in New York was the veritable icing on the cake, Kuryakin' Chesters continued, lighting another cigarette. 'Up until then we were pretty certain we had pulled it off, but when you arrived, we knew that even Waverly could be brought down too.'

Illya frowned. 'Pulled what off?' he said, swivelling his head towards Chesters as the other man blew a long stream of smoke into the air. Chesters grinned, looking back at Grollé for confirmation of his genius.

'The thing about Grant here' Grollé said from the back of the room, 'is that he's not a team player. He likes to lead, ne'est-ce pas, Grant?' he added, inviting a nod from the American. Mr Steele was only too happy to be led, was he not, Grant? When Mr Chesters here joined us, we spent quite a long time considering those men in Section Two New York who might be a serious threat to THRUSH in the future. Not surprisingly, your partner's name came up.'

'Oh' Illya said, pursing his lips. 'So . . . you engineered the. .' Grant smiled in a self-satisfied way that Illya longed to end with his fist.

'Exactly, Kuryakin. I engineered the little disasters with all those partners of your partner which eventually led to Waverly giving Solo one final chance . . . with you.' Illya closed his eyes momentarily, remembering the conversation or rather monologue he had listened to, on the night when Napoleon sat at his bedside in Medical after their first mission together had very nearly ended in disaster. Something about that night had always bothered him, something that was now re-awoken by Chesters' words.

'So I presume that night I was nearly killed was part of your plan too' Illya said coldly.

'Absolutely, Kuryakin' Chesters replied, warming to his subject. 'But luckily you didn't die, which is as well, because now you can die for an even greater cause.' Illya said nothing, waiting for the American to explain himself, as he knew he would.

'You see, Kuryakin', Chesters continued, you were picked because you were such a squeaky clean little Soviet citizen; no slimy KGB or GRU associations to prevent Uncle Sam from welcoming you to the land of the free, just one very clever, very good little naval officer with lots of letters after his name whom Uncle Alex and your admiral friend Gutskov could ship over to prove that one day in the future we could all love each other, see?'

Illya sighed audibly and waited again for the inevitable conclusion, his ankles and wrists testing the tight bands holding them to the legs of the table. He could see Grollé moving towards Dorothy again, and her inevitable reaction to his approach.

'I'm sorry, I don't really get your drift' Illya said wearily. Chesters immediately moved closer, the overwhelming smell of his strong cigarettes making Illya instantly recoil from the other man.

'Well I'll spell it out then' he said icily, forcing Illya's head round to face his. 'Very soon you and the lovely Miss Costelloe will be found dead in interesting circumstances, so interesting that UNCLE will be unable to prevent the news leaking out that one of their agents, their Russian experiment no less, was actually not so squeaky clean after all; in fact, after finding the documents we will plant on your body, they will discover that you are exactly the dirty little Soviet spy everyone thought you were. And then,' he said, a kind of gleam coming to his eye that made him appear at once both ruthless and utterly insane, 'not only your partner, but Alexander Waverly and the whole UNCLE North American operation will be seriously and permanently compromised.'

There was a bang from a door behind his head and the three men who had been sitting on the table near them in the restaurant re-appeared into his field of vision. He could hear Dorothy engaging in another verbal tussle with Grollé before he felt his wrists and ankles freed and three pairs of very rough hands drag him to his feet.

'Watch him' Chesters said sharply as they manacled his hands behind him and forced him towards the door. Before he was dragged out, Grollé appeared in the doorway, Chesters holding Dorothy tightly behind him.

'Au Revoir, Monsieur Kuryakin' he murmured, giving Illya an unpleasant smile. 'It was a rare pleasure meeting you in the flesh as it were, and of course THRUSH is grateful to you and Miss Costelloe for providing such excellent material for our little operation.' He came closer, but seeing Chester's expression, removed his hand from Illya's genitals. 'Oh, and Mr Kuryakin, in case you're thinking that your partner might be on his way to rescue you, I do believe that the Metropolitan Police are at this moment holding him for the murder of your old friend Hugh Manning, so, as they say in this country, 'Don't hold your breath, old chap.'