The fisherman must be a good poker player. He just raised an eyebrow with a quite credible amazement. Although, Cutter had no time to waste.
-Don't try and fool me, man. Mr Kuryakyn is in your house. I want to talk to him.
Mikey pleasantly smiled, but his eyes were still icy. He defiantly waited, compelling Cutter to go on.
-You helped him, rightly. You offered him a refuge. He needed that. But... now, Mikey, you can't do anymore. We can. He believes for sure that he is a murderer, and he isn't. He has to know that.
-Where is he ?
-Sir, it's none of your business.
The smile was brightening, contrasting with the scathing tone. A very clear answer. Concise.
-My name is Cutter, Jules Cutter. Illya Kuryakyn has to know.
-He will.
Cutter could have triumphantly smiled : he had eventually deluded the fisherman. He knew better. Mikey stayed unflappable. He didn't admit. He just underlined an obviousness. However, he condescended to point up.
-Illya is a free man. Leave him alone. I'll tell him, and he'll decide whether or not to see you.
-Illya Kuryakyn isn't free. He won't be until he'll know what happened. You can't fix it. Neither does Mr Solo.
Mikey ironically chuckled.
-I have been told that he was Illya's best friend. A friend in need is a friend indeed...
-Their friendship... Their friendship had been badly strained, Mikey. Illya rightly could bear a grudge against his partner for having abandoned him. You have probably noticed Napoleon's feelings of guilt. That's why I sort of get rid of him for a few time.
-I have noticed Illya's feelings of guilt, about so many things, Mr Cutter. No anger. No claim for revenge. And I don't think that he'll blame his friend for anything.
The fisherman shrugged his shoulders. The smiled had disappeared.
-You want to see him, to talk to him. He doesn't, Mr Cutter.
Cutter suddenly took some steps on his left, so that he turned now his back to the house. He raised his voice, with a threatening tone.
-That's enough, sir. Where is he ? I give you fair warning !
The voice was harsh, but Cutter was mischievously smiling. Mikey was puzzled. What the hell... ?
-Tell me, man, immediately, or...
-Let him go. I am here.
A calm voice.
Cutter gave Mikey a wink.
-Nice to see you, Mr Kuryakyn.
Then, he turned toward the Russian. The fisherman crossed the terrace, and approached the young man's side. He made his position clear.
The last time Cutter had seen Illya Kuryakyn, he was a sort of waxwork, all his emotions, all his feelings amputated.
A blank look. Worse. Lifeless. Bleached mop of hair. White face. White clothes.
The young man actually was a sight to see. Old and torn blue-jeans, striped sweater. Blond hairs, longer than usual, flying in the breeze, barefoot. A very young boy...
Then, he turned his glaze to the strained face. There was an obvious sorrow in the Russian's eyes. He clearly wished to be anywhere else. But there was no escape. Cutter had cornered him, and he faced out, calmly, so vulnerable. Apparently. Cutter knew that for sure. He had once undervalued Illya Kuryakyn. He wouldn't again.
-Mr Kuryakyn, we have to talk.
-So we'll talk.
The voice was dull, but the tone ironical. Cutter took the bull by the horn. He got his communicator out his pocket.
-Alex ? Cutter. Yes, he is in front of me. No. Not yet.
He handed the communicator to the young man.
-Some one would like to speak to you...
Illya Kuryakyn mechanically took the communicator.
Napoleon Solo knew that he was under observation ; all those people, on the marketplace, peeked at him. Discreetly, but they did. Cutter had tried to keep him away from the fisherman's house. And Solo agreed with that. He felt relieved. However, he wouldn't wander around the town , aimlessly, for hours. He halfheartedly set out for the wooden house. He hastened towards the lane.
And froze.
Just in front of him, on the terrace, a well-known silhouette. Golden locks flying in the sun.
Napoleon Solo was an honorable man. He couldn't lie himself. He had longed to see his partner again. He had wished that they could work together again. He had hoped that they could ... talk. For weeks. For months. He had tried, harder and harder, to find some clues.
And now his tension was increasing. Illya was free. He was just here. And Napoleon Solo was getting into a panic about that.
He straightened his back. He wouldn't run away.
He had to face his partner.
He had to face his reproachful look.
Perhaps his contempt. His despair.
Worse : his indulgence. His forgiveness. He remembered that dream. Had Napoleon been put in this jail, Illya would have blown it up. Then he would have tried to find some clues. Solo knew that for sure.
As for him, he had been the good, well-mannered, obedient boy. The good CEA carrying out Waverly's orders. Illya might forgive him. Napoleon Solo couldn't forgive himself. Napoleon took a step after another. Slowly. Very slowly.
The Russian's pale face even whitened. He was listening, and the two older men could see him quivering. Then he asked, with the faintest voice.
-Are you sure of that ?
He shook his head in disbelief, and handed back the communicator to Cutter.
-Jules ? Give me five minutes, I call you back.
Cutter gazed at the Russian who looked dizzy.
-Mr Kuryakyn ? Illya ?
The blue eyes stared at the lake. In the same move, Cutter and the fisherman came closer. Mikey grabbed the other man's arm, and gently pull him back, whispering.
-Let me, please.
Mikey leaned back against the logs, beside the Russian.
-So, boy, do you remember ? My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened. What happened happened, and you'll have to deal with it. You went through hell. Through many hells. But now you are truly free, boy. And... innocent...
The Russian put a hand on Mikey's shoulder and stared at Cutter.
-What do you expect me to do ?
Cutter felt uneasy. There was no irony. Illya Kuryakyn meant it. He cleared his throat.
-No, Mr Kuryakyn, the good question is : what do you expect us to do ?
The young man bitterly smiled. No, not bitterly. Rather... shyly.
-I... I am not sure that I still know the word, Mr Cutter. And I am not sure that I can believe .... all that.
The communicator provided a safety valve. Cutter listened, and handed it again to the Russian who shook his head. Cutter hung on, and the young man gave up.
A true, boyish smile lit up his face. Illya Kuryakyn raised a hand. He looked ... delighted.
-It's ... It's Mark, Mr Cutter. Mark...
Cutter gently squeezed the young man's hand. Then, they saw him go away on the other side of the terrace and sit on the floor. He spoke in a whisper, so they can't hear, but everything seemed to be all right. The two men looked each other with relief.
Two things happened nearly at the same time.
First, Napoleon Solo pushed the door and reached the lower terrace.
Secondly, Illya Kuryakyn put the communicator on the floor, stood up and climbed to the upper terrace.
Time froze.
Then, the communicator beeped. Cutter rushed to pick it up.
-Mr Cutter ?
-Yes, Mr Slate. What happened ?
-I don't know. I ... told him all the story. He was really happy to hear me... Eventually, I said that I longed to see him, and that we'll met soon at Uncle headquarter...
-And ?
-And he just said... no.