The blare of a car brought him back to life. He opened his eyes, looking around, and sighed with relief. He was in his bedroom, in his apartment, at home. It had been a dream. A nightmare, an horrible one, though he hardly remember it. He could see the daylight through the curtains. Morning? He sat straight in order to get up. Too hastily. Error. He sank back immediately onto the pillow, and closed his eyes, trying to convince the walls, the furnishing, the objects to stop twirling around.

-He is still alive. Shall I finish him off?

Words. They came to him. He heard them, put them together, until it made sense. The voice was hungry. Almost... ravenous. This man, whoever he was, looked really eager to kill him.

It must have been a dreadful night. He steadied his breath. A few minutes later, he opened back his eyes, applying himself to sit slowly. He felt better, except for that headache, and some stiffness in his neck. A result of his last assignment. His last assignment? Logically. But what had happened, exactly? He wasn't sure. He sedately got up and made his way towards the bathroom.

He should have rolled over. He knew it. He should have shot the men. He could get his gun, discreetly, and shoot them. All he had to do was to slide his hand under his jacket, and to grab his weapon. All he had to do. Those were words. Those were ideas about which his mind was thinking. His brain gave orders. His body ignored them. He felt the floor under his fingers, but his hand refused to obey.

He was thirsty. Desperately thirsty.

Reflected in the mirror, he looked at the face in front of him, and sighed. He recognized this face, strained, unusually pale, his eyes slightly bloodshot. He must really have had a dreadful night. He had to shave, no need to rub his chin to know that. He did, however, and froze. He stared at his hand, his wrist in the mirror. He saw blood, dried blood on his hand, on his cuff. Because – he realized it – he was fully dressed: pants, shirt. The said shirt stained with blood. He checked. He wasn't injured. Something had happened. He didn't know what, he didn't know when.

-No, Mr Kuryakin...

Someone was approaching. He heard his shoes. Suddenly, the man kicked him, not violently.

-... is done. Help us with the other.

The other ? His partner. Where was Napoleon? A warm liquid ran under his lips.

Napoleon Solo went back in the bedroom. The first thing he saw was his jacket laying around, and next to it, his gun. He stiffened. He could come back home exhausted, injured, beaten. He could lie down with his pants and his shirt. He hung up his jacket in the closet, and slipped his gun under his pillow. His rules.

But he was at home. Home was a safe place. So, he sneered at himself, and bent forward to pick up the offending jacket and the gun. Hastily. Too hastily, and things started to twirl around, again. He stood straight, closing his eyes, breathing slowly.

A few minutes ago, when he had waken up, everything was fine. He knew who he was, where he was. He vaguely remembered a nightmare, a frightening one.

He was Napoleon Solo, the CEA, Section 2, Number 1, of the N.Y. Uncle HQ. Was he? Of course yes. Del Floria's shop. Alexander Waverly. Illya. Illya Kuryakin, his partner, his closest friend, too. It was clear. But he was unable to define precisely what had happened the night, the day before. He opened his eyes and came up to the living room. When he pushed the door, he stopped, facing an indescribable mess.

He could not roll over. He could not move his hand. He could not take hold of his gun. What could he do? He could breathe, hardly. He could think, more or less. He was thirsty, again. He did not hear anything. Were they gone? Where was his friend? Open! Perhaps his eyes would obey.

A limp bloody body lay down on the floor. Some blond locks, stained with blood tumbled onto his face. Napoleon Solo cursed; forgetting headache and dizziness, he raced to his friend and knelt next to him. Illya.

Alexander Waverly peered at his agent.

-You looked tired, Mr Solo. You should get some rest.

Napoleon Solo turned to his superior. Tired? He did not remember having done anything, but he was tired. Exhausted.

-I am fine, sir.

-You are not. The doctors are taking care of Mr Kuryakin. It's no use you being here. He'll need you later.

If he survived. Napoleon Solo sighed. His friend was fighting for his life. The dark haired man looked blankly at his shirt.

-I was sleeping. In my bedroom. And Illya was laying down, in the next room. Dying. I don't know what happened, sir.

Alexander Waverly kept silent. Napoleon Solo felt uncomfortable, but he had to be honest.

-I don't remember anything, sir. What happened yesterday? There is a blank. What was Illya doing there?

Alexander Waverly hesitated, but his agent's honesty deserved an honest answer.

-Yesterday? No, Mr Solo. There is a blank, a gap in time. About three months ago, I assigned to you a very special mission. An undercover one. We set up a story, you played your part, and I played mine.

About three months?

Napoleon Solo was abashed.

-Your part, sir?

Alexander Waverly explained, slowly, almost reluctantly.

-You had resigned. You had left the Uncle. I had to convince everybody, here. Especially Mr Kuryakin. Unexpectedly, he just acknowledged the fact. But I knew that he was endeavouring to make up his mind.

The Old Man went on explaining. Napoleon Solo was barely listening, however. He tried desperately to remember. In vain.

-Six weeks ago, I lost contact with you. You were probably in trouble, but I couldn't take any risk. I put Mr Kuryakin on the track.

Alexander Waverly paused.

-I asked him whether he had heard...

-of me, recently.

Alexander Waverly frowned, but kept silent again, knowing better than to break his agent's memories. His eyes twinkling, Napoleon Solo bent forward.

-He told me about you, and... and about a Thrush bird, who had asked the same. We were in the kitchen. But I can't remember when, sir.

Whether I had heard of you, recently... Napoleon Solo closed his eyes. He saw his friend, sipping coffee, he heard his voice.

He saw other things. His friend's gun, on the table. His own hand, holding his own gun, taking aim at his partner. That, he could not tell. He leaned back on his seat, and peeped at the Old Man. Waverly was lost in thought.

-Whatever happened, Mr Solo, we'll discover it. Don't worry.

Don't worry? He worried. About his partner, about himself. He rubbed his neck.

-Mr Solo, you need some rest. You had some tests done. We'll wait for the results. I'll let you know about Mr Kuryakin. Consider that as an order.

Napoelon Solo gave up. Obviously, his superior didn't point the fact. He stood up and went away.

He refused to eat or to drink anything, and the nurse left him alone, with a compassionate smile. He would not sleep. He could not. He was shivering, not with cold, not with fever. He was angry. Furious. His memories were like the lost pieces of a dilapidated jigsaw: those pieces told him that he was probably the one who had shot, perhaps killed his friend. He felt worried, frightened, but not guilty. Whatever he had done, he knew for sure that something, someone had maliciously led him to do it. He trusted Illya as he trusted himself, and he knew that it was a mutual trust. More than trust, absolute confidence. He could have shot his friend, but though he could not remember, he surely had struggled with himself, with the drug.

The drug? He had been drugged. He did not feel guilty. He felt furious with Thrush. And terrified. His partner was fighting for his own life. The bullet had hit him in the back, but did not go through. It was somewhere in his lungs, next to his heart. What hell was the drug which could have had him shoot Illya Kuryakin in the back?

He could not believe it. In his guts, he could not.