Illya Kuryakin stared at the familiar silhouette. It was Napoleon Solo himself, obviously getting out of bed, barefoot, and taking aim at the visitor. He looked like the usual Napoleon. He was fine, perhaps a little suspicious. Well, more than a little.
The Russian felt amazed, relieved, delighted. All at the same time. No more anger, no more doubt, no more fear. He was relaxed. Questions could wait. He smiled faintly: Napoleon had kept his gun. As a keepsake? He laid down his own weapon, slowly. It wouldn't be any use.
Napoleon Solo stared at the familiar silhouette. It was Illya Kuryakin himself, obviously amazed - amazed? - and taking aim at thim. He looked like the usual Illya. He was fine, perhaps a little tired. Well, more than a little.
Napoleon Solo felt amazed, too. He felt uncertain. Was Illya here in order to rescue him? Surely not. He felt dubious. Every detail matched: the blond locks, the blue eyes, the features, the slender frame, the casual dress, the ring... This man was obviously Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon Solo frowned. He was really alike. But he was not Illya Kuryakin. Logically, he could not be. Napoleon Solo had been abducted by Thrush. He had been their prisoner for... weeks, probably. For all that he could guess, he was still their prisoner. He remembered the cells, and he knew for sure that he had not escaped. Neither on his own, nor with his partner's help.
This blond man was drinking coffee. "I come for you, but I 'll have my coffee first!" Napoleon Solo had noticed the mug on the table. The guy had looked so astonished. "Oh, you are here?"Now, he smiled. Faintly, but he smiled, obviously relieved. Why? Because Napoleon Solo had not shot him? Not yet. He was really smiling, now. A perfect imitation of Illlya's rare delighted smiles. Those men were evil. This one was devilishly good, but he was a fake. Just a fake.
Oh, yes, boy. Lay down you gun, and smile, smile. What are you doing?
Illya Kuryakin put his weapon on the table, slowly, carefully, and took some steps back. The crease, on Napoleon's forehead, his black, ice-cold gaze didn't worry him. Napoleon Solo had left the Uncle, he had resigned. Whatever the reasons. He heard noise, and woke up. As a well-trained professional, he had grabbed his gun. Just in case. He had found his ex-partner in his kitchen, drinking coffee. Napoleon was angry. He was rightly furious. It didn't matter, however. Illya Kuryakin would apologize. He stopped smiling and stared at his friend.
Oh, Illya's poker face, now? No, he did not fool him, anyway. Napoleon Solo was ready, on the alert. He hesitated. He could shoot the man, right now. He could play the game, their game. Shooting the fake in cold blood would not cause him to lose any sleep over it.
And Illya Kuryakin shivered. It was not fear, it was an overwhelming horror. He read his friend's eyes. He knew this look. His ex-partner, Napoleon Solo, his closest friend was about to shoot him, in cold blood. He dint' read anger, he read hatred, despise. Apologize? No, this man just wanted to kill him. The Russian sighed. He stood some chances of getting his gun back, and of shooting Napoleon. Some damned good chances. He would probably be injured, but he could shoot his... opponent. Napoleon Solo was a marksman. But Illya Kuryakin was a little quicker. It was not presumptuousness, it was reality.
Of course, he would never do that, whatever the price. Napoleon knew it. He hoped that Napoleon knew it.
Napoleon Solo couldn't help smirking. The blond fake was worried. That was not very Illya! He had realized that the prisoner was not drugged, and that Napoleon Solo was the one who held the gun. Of course, Illya Kuryakin would have got some good chances of picking up his weapon and of shooting him. Illya, yes. Not that fake, with his arms dangling, trying to hide his fear. Powerless.
-They asked me...
Napoleon Solo stiffened, raising an eyebrow. The voice was perfect, the intonation, too. But the fake was giving up. He was a hired man, an actor out of work. « They asked me to delude you. Please, don't kill me! ». The blond man took a deep breath and went on, ignoring the scornful look.
-They asked me whether I had heard of you, recently, Napoleon.
This man was a damned good actor, eventually. Voice, intonation, accent. He looked so genuinely concerned! Napoleon Solo took mentally his hat off to the guy, but he suddenly remained open mouthed: the blond man had picked up ... his mug, so quickly! It might have been his gun, all the same. Now, he was sipping the coffee, with a grimace. Napoleon Solo's finger had quivered on the trigger, and the man was innocently sipping his coffee!
-Lukewarm.
Illya Kuryakin hated lukewarm drinks, vodka, tea or coffee. The man was not frightened. Napoleon Solo himself was taking aim at him, ready to shoot him and the guy did not mind. He drank his coffee, leaning back against the sink, his gun now really out of reach. He was a sitting duck, and he did not mind.
-Who asked you that?
It was a whisper, a faint hissed whisper, but Illya Kuryakin applied himself to hide his relief. Napoleon agreed to talk. He distrusted him, obviously, but he agreed to talk. His friend did not look that fine, the Russian realized it, now. His eyes were bloodshot, his features drawn. Whatever the situation, Napoleon Solo knew that he could trust to him to save the day. But something had happened. Napoleon Solo was not mad at an irksome ex-partner. He was fighting for his own life, against a merciless enemy.
-First, a Thrush bird, Napoleon, a few days ago. And yesterday, Waverly. The Old Man, himself. Exactly the same words. « Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently? ». Would you like some coffee?
Napoleon Solo gulped. Illya? The Illya fake? What about a Thrush bird? Alexander Waverly? The young blond was staring at him, worried and resigned, almost desperately resigned
Illya Kuryakin looked down at his cup, and turned back to put it in the sink. It could me a mistake, a fatal error of judgement. He had to convince this man that he was not his enemy. Napoleon Solo was hesitating, but still on the defensive.
-I am sorry, Napoleon. My apologies for all that trouble.
He took some steps forward, pointed an inquiring hand at the gun. Napoleon Solo, puzzled, didn't move, still aiming at the guy, however. Slowly, Illya Kuryakin got his gun, and put it back in its holster. He walked towards the living room, still at an arm's length, both his hand in sight, and disappeared.
Napoleon Solo cursed, and shook his head. He should have followed the blond man! He had been stupid! He came up to the doorway, silently. As he was about to crane forward, a shot startled him. A shot, and a familiar muffled sound. A body falling limply on the floor. He raced in the room. In a blink of an eye, he saw his partner's body lying on the floor, bloodstains, two smirking men. He heard another shot and felt a twinge of pain in his neck. A hoarse voice, behind him, as he was passing out.
-Tststs, Mr Solo, you can't be trusted, really!