Pulling himself up the harsh stone wall, Tintin felt a twinge of sympathy for the Bordurian warriors of old who would have been forced to hopelessly scale the formidable fortress of Belliscow. He had a good enough grasp of Syldavian folklore to know that no army had ever succeeded in breaching these walls. But then, thought Tintin with a quick glance at his struggling partner below, The Captain and I are hardly an army, and therein lays our chance.

The fortress was a sight to behold, particularly against a bright moon like the one that shone tonight; an intimidating blend of medieval strength and modern security, it seemed to be built partially within and partially over one of the many mountains that marked the Bordurian/Syldavian border, with the round castle sitting atop the range like a long crown. The four keeps that surrounded the castle had been fitted with large searchlights that cast heavy beams of sickly-white. The shifting silhouettes of armed guards took form behind them. The river that ran down the ranges had long since formed a moat at the base of the mountain and continued flowing out in a long blue tongue about a quarter-mile thick. Ships could sail downstream, away from the fortress, but not in the opposite direction.

"Impenetrable indeed," Tintin murmered when Kronic briefed him during their journey. Marshal Sponsz had organised a ZEP contact to meet them across the Syldavian border, where they had traded their book-laden wagon for a quartet of sturdy horses. The reporter had initially been excited for a chance to stretch his legs, but the journey through the dense woods and over the steep rangers had taken its toll on his body. Twice the team had ridden too close to the main roads and signs of Syldavian patrols and had forced them to push their steeds to their limits in the other direction. It was sundown before they sorely dismounted and set up camp a mile downriver from the fortress, just out of range from the guard towers and patrols.

"Muskar's response to the United Nations' mandate is due tonight," Kronic informed them, though naturally the fact had been haunting Tintin all day. "Security will be on full alert, naturally, but they will be expecting a Bordurian Special Forces unit, or perhaps an airstrike. You two may have a chance to slip in unnoticed amongst their over-preparation."

"I like your confidence," Haddock said gruffly, checked the iron sights on a Syldavian-made shotgun.

Klumsly grabbed the brutish weapon. "No guns."

"Well, that's very nice," Haddock said angrily. "You two stay nice and cosy on the riverbed while we stroll into that little nest of vipers completely unarmed."

"Any weapon will only slow your ascent, Mr Haddock." Kronic said.

"Captain Haddock, you nefarious necromancer!" Though he had consistently dismissed the notion throughout the day that it was deliberate, Kronic's habit of addressing Haddock by his non-preferred title never failed to infuriate the Captain. "My name is Captain—Haddock."

"We don't need guns, Captain," Tintin said with a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "We're not here to hurt anybody. I only want a word with my old friend. Muscar will stop this madness—I know he will." The frailly of the plan hit him once more, but he choked down the familiar sense of dread.

They watched the castle from their camp on the riverbed. Besides the men in the keeps, guards patrolled the rim of the squat, coned roof and sporadically marched across the long stone balconies that lined the wall. Just below the roof, a series of huge glass windows lined the entire wall, all of them heavily-tinted—no doubt three-inches thick and bulletproof as well. Dokovic's work, Tintin surmised. Even in a castle, the playboy could not be without a penthouse apartment. Under the cover of night, Tintin and Haddock made for the mountain carrying only their climbing gear and Calculus's umbrella between them, which remained crooked on to the back of the Captain's belt (the agents had insisted they leave that behind as well, but Haddock, convinced it was the only thing that had kept him alive so far, would not hear of it). They climbed in silence for an hour and a half, until they were high enough to fire a zip line into the castle wall. Tintin couldn't help but notice his companion's hands shaking as he hooked onto the taut wire. "I never took you for a man afraid of heights, Captain."

"Heights are fine," he responded in a coarse whisper. "It's the 'falling to your death' part I can do without." The line quivered but held as the Captain took a deep breath and sailed through the still night and crashed ungraciously into the fortress. Tintin joined him a few moments later.

They clung to the wall without any harness or ropes, using only the natural handhelds provided between the eroded stone blocks. The sound of the churning moat below served as a constant reminder for what would happen should they slip or lose strength. Tintin pressed himself against the harsh stone and eased a hand off just long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow. Muskar would be on the top floor, he knew, and it would be easier to try and access it form outside than inside. And if Dokovic was there as well? The Prime Minister was just a power-mad playboy, the reporter told himself. Another bully like Bobby Smiles, who thought he could do whatever he liked if he had enough money. Still, there was a frightening presence behind those dark sunglasses, he could not deny, and some sixth sense made his stomach tense at the idea of coming face-to-face with the man who had single-handedly sparked an international crisis.

He cast a quick glance below. Haddock was edging himself up the wall with some great difficulty, the umbrella swaying almost comically from the heavy man's back like a tail. Tintin grimace as he grabbed another hold; the muscles in his own arms and legs ached heavily as he climbed and his cheeks and jaw were grazed from flattening himself. Occasionally the beam of white lights would lazily sway across the wall but never exposed them. The Bordurian agents would be watching from the riverbed, he knew; would Kronic and Klumsy be holding their breath, praying for their safety every time they reached upwards? Tintin doubted it; it was much easier to imagine Kronic criticising 'Mr Haddock's' climbing technique.

When he felt sure his arms were about to fall off, Tintin found himself beneath a squat, square balcony that served as a lookout post for the guards. They were almost at the top. The post would be manned; they knew as much from observing the patterns of the guards earlier. He would be looking out, and above. But not below. Below there was only the river, and that was no danger from that. Edging themselves up, limbs spread like spiders, the duo positioned themselves on either side of the balcony. Tintin quickly looked to Haddock.

The Captain nodded and unleashed a single, obvious cough, loud enough to catch the guard's attention. Summoning the last of the strength, the Boy Reporter hurled himself over the railing and fell awkwardly onto the stone the other side of landing before gathering himself and shouldering the distracted guard into the wall. The blow knocked the wind out of him and deprived him of a chance to call for help. A lit cigarette fell from his mouth and the grip on his rifled loosened. Another quick hook to the side of the head knocked him out cold and the uniformed body slumped against the railing.

"Good work, my boy," Haddock whispered, panting heavily as he joined Tintin on the balcony.

Tintin tossed the rifle to his friend, keeping the guard's automatic pistol for himself. He also slipped into the man's emblazed combat uniform and helmet. "Stay here and keep watch. I won't be long. Whistle if we have to make a move and we'll head back to the zip line. Hopefully we'll be back in the mountains before anybody notices we've been here."

Haddock primed his weapon and tested it against his shoulder. "I'll see you soon, then, boy. And if you meet up with that Dokovic clown…"

Tintin smiled. "I'll be sure to pass on your regards."

It was quiet inside. Electric heaters hummed overhead but Tintin could still feel the sharp draft of night air cutting through the medieval walls. He was in living quarters, he guessed; mostly empty as the soldiers took patrols, allowing the reporter to drift like the ghost he was through the old, stone hallways until he found the winding stairs that led to the top story. Dokovic's penthouse suite.

He immediately came face-to-face with another guard and tensed, before remembering his own stolen uniform and giving a cheerful smile. The big man scowled and kept on walking. Tintin waited anxiously until he rounded a corner and then went back to look where he had come from. He cast a careful peek around a corner. The corridors here contrasted heavily with those below, each furnished garishly to a playboy's tastes, with works from some of Syldavia's most seminal artists adorning the polished wooden walls. He spied a lone door the end of the hallway with two armed standing resolute on either side. It could only be the King's quarters. He had no cover to use to sneak upon them unseen and took a different tact, striding toward the pair with the all the bravado of a young solider, hoping it would be enough to distract them from the fact he wasn't wearing the same boots or carrying a gun.

"What the devil do you want?" one of them demanded in Syldavian, glaring at this insolent colleague from behind bushy eyebrows.

The reporter boisterously cleared his throat—and quickly landed a hard punch into the man's guts. The other guard reacted instantly and reached for a brass lever beside the door—no doubt hooked up to an alarm system, but Tintin was quicker and brought the handle of his stolen pistol down onto the man's wrist, followed by another swift knock to the side of his head, sending him into a crumpled pile onto the floor. His comrade soon joined him, both men groaning as the fell into unconsciousness.

Not waiting to see how long his luck could hold, Tintin bungled through the door as quickly as he could—only to find himself starring helplessly back at the pale eyes of a grey-haired stranger and the short barrel of a nub-nosed revolver. He froze in place, "I'm—"

The man took a step backwards at the sound of his voice, his hand trembling but not lowering the weapon. He almost tripped over his long, untied dressing gown but caught his balance and levelled the gun at the intruder's head. He didn't want to talk—he was too scared, Tintin realised. Instead, he hastily clicked back the pistol's hammer and straightened his aim.