The hole they were in was freezing cold, damp, and stank of fuel. Illya could see nothing at first but darkness. The cold seeped up through the concrete floor into his body, even through his thick coat. For a moment he didn't want to move. His body hurt too much.

'Illya.' Napoleon put a hand on his shoulder, speaking very quietly. It was quite possible there was still someone up there, listening. 'You all right?'

Illya grunted, starting to sit up. 'Aside from being used as a piñata, you mean? What about you?'

'I'm fine. You haven't answered my question.'

Illya raised a hand, finding Napoleon's face. He traced his fingertips delicately over his features in the darkness, wincing internally at Napoleon's audible wince. His lip was swollen, and wet with what Illya assumed was blood. He could feel swelling around his left orbital, too, and more blood on his cheek.

'Fine?' he asked. 'How bad would it be if you weren't fine?'

Napoleon took hold of his hand and kissed his knuckles softly and silently. 'What about you, Illya?'

'I'm as fine as you are,' Illya replied, although his spine hurt mercilessly, and so did his ribs. 'I decided I wouldn't do so well in a fist fight, so I decided to sit it out, but they didn't seem to want to settle for that.'

'No,' Napoleon murmured. He had kept hold of Illya's hand and was pressing it against his cheek. 'That was a good selection of insults they pulled out of the bag.'

Illya laughed, but there was something almost like a sob pushing up behind that laugh. 'I've been called faggot before. In fact, I was probably called that more often before I had you, than after. It's a favourite insult of those types.'

'Illya, they meant it,' Napoleon said in a low voice. Was there fear somewhere behind his words? 'It wasn't an empty insult this time. They meant it.'

'Yes, I know,' Illya replied.

He tried to contain his reaction to that in a little place deep inside him, but it felt like a block of ice that was creeping larger with every moment. Men's worst abuse was often reserved for people who threatened them sexually, the men they called faggots or queers or gays.

'That's not what I'm worried about,' he said, although he was worried about that. He was deeply worried. 'It's the boys, Napoleon. What are they going to do to our boys?'

'I – ' Napoleon started to say something, but it sounded as if something had caught in his throat. He coughed, and his hand tightened so hard over Illya's that it hurt. Illya raised his free hand to Napoleon's face, gently tracing across his eyes. There were tears there.

'We'll get them,' Illya said in a voice like steel. 'I promise you, we will get out of here, and we will get them.'

'Illya, there are three tons of van on top of us,' Napoleon said. 'We're in a filthy car pit with a van parked on top of us. That's a solid sheet of steel they've dropped over the top, and they parked the van right on it.'

'I know,' Illya said. 'I know that, Napoleon. I'm not suggesting we try and push that van off us. But they're not going to leave us in here. They didn't take us to let us die in here. They took us because they wanted something from us – from me. They're going to use the boys for persuasion.'

'They're going to use me for persuasion, too,' Napoleon reminded him. 'You'll have a lot to stand up to.'

'I know.'

Illya pressed his lips against the side of Napoleon's head, making the kiss so soft and quiet that no one above would be able to hear. It felt terrible to have to do that. He was used to hiding the nature of their relationship in public, but this was different. He felt dirty, knowing that any sign of his love for Napoleon would conjure revulsion and violence in the men who had taken them. It was terrible to have something so clean made so filthy.

'I'm used to them using you as persuasion,' he said. 'I'm not used to this. Not – our boys...'

'We should try to get out of here,' Napoleon said suddenly, pushing his hand against Illya's shoulder so he could stand up. Illya winced as he moved, wondering if he had a few cracked ribs. His spine throbbed where he had been kicked, and his cheek was swollen.

'Through the van?' Illya asked. 'Through the metal plate?'

He looked upwards, searching towards the scant light. There must be some holes up there, because there was a little light, but not much.

'It's not high enough to stand, is it?' he asked.

'It is, just,' Napoleon told him. 'A bit below six feet, I'd say. The right height for a man to stand and work overhead. There are a few holes in the metal. It's rusted in places.'

'How rusted?' Illya asked in a hard voice, still looking towards the light.

Napoleon laughed. 'Not that rusted, Illya. Enough for me to poke my fingers through in places, but it's pretty solid around.'

'Can you see anything?'

'Yeah,' Napoleon replied. 'The underneath of that van's pretty rusted, too. I'm surprised the muffler didn't fall off on our way here.'

'Anything else?' Illya asked, unable to keep impatience from his voice.

'Not much,' Napoleon said. He sounded strained, as if his head were in an awkward position. 'Wrong angle. Just little bits of the floor, the leg of a chair, I think.'

He came back to Illya, moving slowly, sitting down with a grunt. It was obvious he was in pain.

'How badly hurt are you?' Illya asked. 'Really?'

'I don't know,' Napoleon said, and Illya heard honesty in his tone. 'Really, Illya. I don't know. The regular cuts and bruises, I think. I didn't pass out at any point, but I thought you did.'

Illya smiled grimly. 'Not because of a head injury. They kicked me in the spine. It was just – very painful.'

'Illya.' Napoleon touched a hand to his neck and started running his fingers gently down his spine.

'Oof. Yes, there,' Illya murmured as the gently pressuring fingers found the bruise. 'I'd rather you didn't, to be honest.'

'If there were a bit more light in here I'd have a look,' Napoleon said.

'You couldn't do anything even if you did look.'

They fell into silence. Distantly, they could hear the wailing of the boys. To Illya, it felt as if his heart were trying to push out of his chest and go to them. The need was physically painful inside him. He held his hand around Napoleon's and rested his head on his shoulder, and closed his eyes.

It was cold down here, cold with the damp of being in the ground in winter. The scent of fuel and oil nauseated him, and the damp seemed to itch into his lungs. He tried to reassure himself with the thought that at least the boys were up in the light and warmth. He hoped they were in light and warmth.

'We need to get them,' he said, almost involuntarily. He hadn't been meaning to speak.

'I know,' Napoleon murmured. 'I know. All we can do is wait until they haul us out of here, though. There's no way we can move that sheet of metal.'

Illya didn't reply. He stayed pressed against Napoleon, sharing his warmth. He was glad they had been dressed for cold weather when they left the house, but sitting still in a place like this meant the warmth seeped out of them. There wasn't room to get up and walk about.

'I think the floor slopes,' Napoleon said after a little while. 'We're at the shallow end of the pool. If we're in here long enough, better use the other end as the public convenience, I think.'

'We'll be in here long enough,' Illya said with grim certainty. 'I know Walmersley. I know his techniques. Disorientation and dehumanisation are some of his main strategies for interrogation – always carefully within U.N.C.L.E. guidelines, of course, but he's free of those now, and he always struck me as a sadistic bastard. I wasn't sure what it was I didn't like about him, but now I think about it, it was that. That feeling that if he were allowed, he'd go any distance to get answers.'

'Yeah,' Napoleon murmured. 'I know him. At least, I've worked with him a couple of times. He's a cold fish.'

'They'll leave us in here until sometime in the small hours,' Illya said. 'If we're hungry and we've needed to use the place as a toilet, so much the better. They'll wait until they think we're asleep, and then they'll bring us out. Or they'll bring me out. We'll have to be prepared for any number of techniques. Given the way they've been talking, that could turn sexual, Napoleon,' he said seriously.

'Good luck to them with that,' Napoleon said grimly, but Illya caught the note of fear in his voice. They would have very little choice in what was going to happen to them over the next hours or days.

'What will be, will be,' Illya said fatefully. There was nothing he could do, yet.

Napoleon laughed mirthlessly. 'Well, I guess we might as well settle in and enjoy our luxury accommodation. I've been in worse places.'

They had, both, been in worse places. There were dozens of worse places Illya could call to mind. Those other places, though, hadn't had the soundtrack of his crying children playing over and over to tear him apart. He was afraid that he wouldn't be able to withstand that particular torture.

((O))

The screeching scrape of metal roused him. He was slumped against Napoleon, where they had fallen asleep at the higher end of the pit. The cold had penetrated right into his bones, and everything felt stiff and aching as he moved. He poked a finger at Napoleon, but he was already waking.

He touched his fingers over his watch face. It was four in the morning. He gave a cynical smile.

'Three a.m.,' he murmured to Napoleon. 'Right on time.'

He tried to straighten his back, and hissed at the knife of pain that speared him where he had been kicked. For a moment he was dizzy, and he sat very still until the feeling passed. Napoleon was making similar noises of pain as he stretched himself out.

'Well, it's going to be nice to be able to stand up straight, at least,' Napoleon murmured, putting a steadying hand on Illya as he got to his knees. Light flooded the space as the metal cover was finally pulled away.

'All right, faggots. Boss wants you to come up,' someone called from above.

'They're putting down a ladder,' Napoleon told Illya quietly. 'Here, let me show you.'

Illya touched the ladder, a slim metal thing that was freezing to his already cold hands. He climbed up, and a hand gripped roughly under his arm and hauled him up from the edge.

'What a fucking joke,' the man laughed, pushing at him carelessly. 'This is the head of U.N.C.L.E. New York? A blind fag?'

Illya stayed silent. What point was there in replying and feeding their vitriol? He stood and waited while Napoleon climbed up the ladder, then walked where the hand on his arm pushed him. The blazing light of the garage space softened as they went through a door, and he looked around, trying to discern what might be there. It was all too blurry, though. The patches of light and colour told him very little.

'Take that coat off,' his escort told him; 'Both of you, overcoats and sweaters off, and drop them on the floor.'

Illya did so without comment, peeling off his thick overcoat and then his wool cardigan. There was no point in resisting. It was a little warmer in this room, at least. He thought he could smell gas, and there was the definite hiss of a gas fire. That made him a little nervous, in a room right next to a garage that stank of petrol.

'Sit down there,'the man said, pushing him backwards into what felt like an ordinary office swivel chair. His arms were roughly bound to the arms, his feet lashed together and tied to the chair's feet. His back hurt fiercely.

'My favourite position,' he murmured sardonically. 'How I've missed this.'

He listened for Napoleon. He thought he was being bound to a chair too, a few feet away from him.

'All right, Walmersley,' Napoleon said then, and Illya listened more carefully. He hadn't known Walmersley was here yet. 'What about the boys? Where are they?'

'Oh, you'll be seeing them soon,' Walmersley replied softly.

Illya clenched his fists. He wanted to punch the man's smug face, to punch it and punch it until it was nothing but offal. He felt sick with his worry for the boys.

'What do you want, Walmersley?' he asked. 'You don't need to involve the children. Take them to any U.N.C.L.E. outpost where they'll be safe.'

Walmersley gave a barking laugh. 'What on earth would be the advantage in that, Kuryakin? Don't be ridiculous. Those children are my way to crack you. I'd be an idiot to give them up.'

Illya hissed out breath. If fury alone could break bonds he would have been across the room by now with his hands round Walmersley's throat.

'To think U.N.C.L.E. trained you.'

He laughed again. 'U.N.C.L.E. trained me, of course. So did Thrush. They're not as prissy about their methods. You do remember Thrush, don't you? Back in the days when you used to be a man?'

He strained his arms against the ropes around them, but they didn't give at all. Tied properly, and without any way to cut them or unpick the knots, ropes were as good as chain. He tried to keep his demeanour calm, though. Walmersley was using all the psychological tools he had to his advantage. That was why Illya was sitting on a chair in the middle of the night, hungry, dry with thirst, and desperately worried about his children. That was why they had beaten him for his sexuality, and wouldn't leave the subject alone. It was all part of a cold plan to pull him apart.

'Why don't you just cut to it?' Napoleon asked from across the room. 'What is it that you want?'

'I want U.N.C.L.E.'s top security codes, of course. I want the names of the top contacts in all main areas. I want to be able to access the U.N.C.L.E. computer system and bring it down from within.'

'Not much, then,' Napoleon murmured.

Illya was clenching his hands so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms. He had been through this kind of thing before, with his enemies threatening Napoleon, other agents, or even innocents. But to go through it with his own children was terrible. He had always managed to withstand threats. He had always got out, somehow. He didn't know what he would do if one of his children were being tortured in front of him.

He wished, briefly, that U.N.C.L.E. went in for cyanide capsules in the teeth. If he thought killing himself would save the boys, he would do that. But even that was no guarantee. They would still have Napoleon. If Napoleon also killed himself, the boys would be left alone, in the hands of Thrush, still precious commodities to barter with.

There was no way out. Unless he could think of a third option, his choice would be to give Thrush what they wanted, or be witness to his children and Napoleon being tortured and killed.

'I cannot give you any of that information,' he said.

That would start the ball rolling.

'Go and get the children,' Walmersley said calmly.

Illya closed his eyes. He wished he could see Napoleon. He wished something unspoken could pass between them. He felt as though he were on an island, very far from anything that could help him.

He heard the crying before the children were let into the room. They must have been woken from sleep. Then the door opened and the crying was suddenly loud and immediate.

'You bastards,' Napoleon hissed.

Every fibre in Illya made him want to ask what it was he had seen. He heard the boys' footsteps, barefoot, and then one of them was clinging at his knee, crying and calling, 'Papa, papa up. Papa up.'

He clenched his fists harder. How could he explain any of this to the boys? It was Kolya clinging to him and pulling on his trouser leg. He could see his fair hair. Pasha had gone to Napoleon, he thought. Kolya always came to him first.

He switched into Ukrainian, saying, 'Papa can't hold you right now, Kolya. Not right now. I'll hug you when I can, I promise.'

He didn't know what he could say. Kolya was almost wordless with sobs, pulling at the fabric of his trousers, trying to get himself up onto Illya's lap. Then he was abruptly pulled away. There was a slapping noise, and Kolya screamed, and Napoleon swore. Illya pulled so hard at his bonds that it burned his wrists, but it didn't help.

'I'll give you a chance, Kuryakin,' Walmersley said. 'That is a taste of what your darling children have in store for them, but tonight I'll give you a chance. Feliz, give me the syringe.'

Illya hissed. He hated drugs. He sat in the chair listening to movement, listening to the crying of the children, listening to what he thought was Napoleon trying to shake himself free of his chair. Then someone ripped his shirt sleeve to above the elbow, and plunged a needle into his arm. He felt the effect almost immediately, an uncomfortable warmth and a slurring feeling pushing through his body. A truth drug, he assumed; something that would loosen his inhibitions. Whatever it was, it made his emotions feel much closer to the surface. He wanted to stand up and slaughter the men in the room.

He pulled at the bonds again, then jerked the chair up and down, but the pain in his back lanced into his entire body, and his strength was seeping out of him with the effects of the drug.

'Those things I wanted to know,' Walmersley asked him.

'No,' Illya said, and was disturbed to hear how slurred his voice was. 'Go to hell.'

He seemed to hear the crack a moment after he felt the impact of a palm slapping with all its strength across his cheek. He heard the plastic tap as his false eye flew from the socket and skittered across the floor.

'Jesus,' one of the men said, and another said laughingly, 'Didn't you know it was fake?'

Illya tried to close his mind to the sounds of the boys screaming. Kolya was worried for the eye, he knew. Pasha was probably more worried about the slap.

'Take those brats away for now,' Walmersley said as an aside. 'I want to save them for dessert.'

Illya exhaled through thin lips. That gave them some time. They would have a little time. He didn't know what they could do, how he could get out of this terrible situation, but it gave them some time.

The crying grew quieter as the boys were taken away. Illya wished there could be someone to hug them and soothe them into sleep, but he was afraid it would be left for the boys to soothe each other. He wanted to sob, and the drug was making him feel so close to sobbing, but he fought against it.

'All right, Kuryakin. Those codes,' Walmersley asked him again, kicking his ankle hard.

'Go – to – hell,' Illya said again through gritted teeth.

'How about your dear lover, then?' Walmersley said, moving away from him and towards Napoleon. There was the thud of a fist meeting flesh, and Napoleon grunted. 'How would you like me to work him over a little?'

'Go to hell,' Illya repeated.

It felt hard to think of any other words. He felt so full of the drug in his veins. He felt awful, as if he needed to slide from the chair and lie on the floor and empty his guts there.

There was that sound of punching again, and Napoleon gave a choked in sob. Illya closed his eyes. Napoleon knew he couldn't tell them anything. They had both always known that.