"Kuryakin?"
A sinister crackling was the only answer they got. Milton grabbed the communicator and yelled: "Illya? Damned... Illya!"
Their faces, despite the poor light, betrayed something like distress.
"I think that there is probably nothing wrong, sir. We built a sturdy shelter, and Mr. Kuryakin..."
The young man stopped as the flashlight pointed at him. Lowry's features, underlined with white and shadows were hardly engaging.
Being so young, so optimistic, so stupid... Bob Milton forced himself to calm down, smiling faintly.
"You're right. We built a sturdy shelter. Lowry, let's call the HQ!"
"You heard him? Revenge is never one of the top priorities!"
Cutter's harsh conclusion, as the psychologist was leaving the room, had caught Napoleon Solo's attention. "Revenge is no use!" The man had said. "...is never one of the top priorities." Cutter's comment gave ways...
Jules Cutter had noticed the young Solo's reaction to his statement. He added softly: "Sometimes, it's just about... evening things up."
The words echoed in his ears. Evening things up... That was what he had to do.
There was dust in the hermetically closed cell. Where there was dust, there was way. He stared at the dust motes wanderings through the dim light. There was a rift somewhere in the partition. He started on the search.
"Solo!"
Weber was cawing literally, but his tone sounded disagreeably triumphant. The Uncle agent froze, knowing better than to answer.
"Solo?"
Calm, self-control, coolness under pressure were parts of a good agent's personality. Keeping absolutely still, Napoleon Solo concentrated on two things. His eyes were looking for a rift. His ears listened at Weber's moves.
"Well, Mr. Solo, keep silent if you please. By the way... I'll attend to you soon. Don't worry."
Clickety-clack, scratching, clickety-clack again... Then, nothing. Silence, more or less. Weber had left the place. Napoleon Solo felt a little dizzy. He had tried to breathe as silently as possible. His sigh of relief turned into a gasp. The dust twirled strangely. He heard a few sharp snaps, and before he could do anything, something rolled down to his feet. Something? Someone. Someone who was at the moment cursing in Russian, getting up lithely. Illya Kuryakin.
As Napoleon Solo was about to speak, the Russian took hold of his arm, and dragged him towards the exit, in a strange circular gallery.
"It's an old water tank. Weber is looking for the car. Come on."
"But..." Solo pointed at the locked door. "How did you..."
Illya Kuryakin raised a finger. The older agent looked up at the ceiling, but gave up asking: a car was approaching. They flattened themselves next to the door. The Russian whispered: "He feels safe. He thinks you're asleep again."
At the moment, Solo saw a small cylinder.
Weber didn't waste time in walking in a stealthy tread. His footstep sounded loudly, and the self confident villain started to whistle, as he was unlocking the door. One minute later, he was lying down, tied up, powerless, looking useless daggers at the two Uncle agents.
Napoleon Solo stretched his arms with delight.
"Well, thank you, partner..."
The answer came, immediately.
"You're welcome, Mr. Solo."
"Napoleon."
The older agent looked around. The warehouse was reduced to a wreckage and a thought occurred to him. He turned to the Russian, inquiringly.
"The others? Illya, are they...?"
Illya kuryakin bit his lips, with a sheepish smile, quite convincing, except for a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
"They are safe, but I am afraid that... they're locked in the passage, at the moment..."
Napoleon Solo hesitated. Safe? Were they? How could he know it for sure? The blond Russian pointed his chin to the road., and the older agent smiled, there was a stream of cars at the distance.
"They called for the cavalry..."
Ignoring Weber, the two men sat down. Illya Kuryakin had closed his eyes. Napoleon Solo felt strangely fascinated. The Russian, his partner, was worth the sight. His clothes were torn, covered with a white dust. So were his disheveled hair and his face. He looked like a clown, or a kid who would have been caught playing with talcum powder or flour. Napoleon Solo was about to hold his handkerchief to him but thought better of it. The clown make-up was spotted with darker marks, soot and – Napoleon Solo frowned – blood.
"How are you doing?"
Blue eyes peered at him through dusty eyelashes.
"I am fine."
Alexander Waverly filled his pipe meticulously, lit it up and took a puff. Then, he stared at his agents, showered, shaved, dressed up, some Band-Aids on the Russian's face.
"Well, gentlemen, I read your notes; Interesting. Mr. Milton, Mr. Lowry and the others reported, too."
Illya Kuryakin felt unsure, though he tried to hide it. They had succeeded, without any casualties, capturing Weber, getting rid of a traitor... but Mr. Waverly didn't look like to be satisfied, his bushy eyebrows frowning... Suddenly, the blue eyes twinkled, and the Old Man smiled.
"What a better way to start a partnership, young men? See you tomorrow. You've something to celebrate, I think!"
As they were leaving the office, Alexander Waverly peeped at the report. The Russian's style was lacking of any adornment.
"I blasted the warehouse, took advantage of the smoke and of the dust, and ran towards the water tank. I climbed up because I guessed I'd find a ventilation hole. I saw the strange fitting-out, and a huge rift in the partition. I heard Weber calling Mr. Solo's name. When he left the..."
Waverly chuckled. Things promised to become very interesting.
The two walked in the gray corridor when Illya Kuryakin stopped. Napoleon Solo looked at him inquiringly.
"What did he mean? Celebrate... ?"
The dark haired man tilted his head on the right, studying the Russian with amusement. The said Russian pursed his lips.
"What's so funny?"
Solo shook his head, with his most charming smile.
"Celebrate, partner mine, means that I am going to take you to a bar..." He peeped at his watch. " No. Aren't you hungry? To a restaurant. Our success, our partnership... We have to talk! Come on, my friend..."