A silence again. Waverly took a puff at his pipe. Then, he leaned forward, too, and spoke with the same suppressed voice, looking deeply in the man's eyes.
-Doctor, I want you to listen attentively. You treat our agents. You save their life. You know every inch of them.
He paused to make sure that the man was fully attentive. But there are things beyond you abilities. Of course, he could not say that. He went on.
-You might be right. Or not. That's obviously our enemy's purpose. So whatever has happened...
The Doctor nodded, faintly smiling. Anyway, he turned back to attack. His sens of duty was strong, and he couldn't give up.
-Mr Solo doesn't remember anything, sir. Whatever has happened? It doesn't matter. Whatever could happen... might be a problem. Mr Solo has probably been brainwashed, sir. He is back to Uncle, and he... I am sorry... he represents a risk. A real one. I can't assure you that he...
Alexander Waverly raised his hand, still impassive.
-I take note of you advice, Doctor. We'll care about it.
-But...
The Doctor stopped and cleared his throat. The Old Man was in his "deaf ear" mood.
-Mr Kuryakin had been taken to the mortuary, sir.
-Oh, our young guest is apparently awake!
He must have slept, or passed out. As he had been taught, he knew better than to open his eyes. The voice sneered ironically.
-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin, stop being so childish! You have regained consciousness, I know it. So spare us that fuss, please. Open your eyes.
There was light, now. He could feel it through his eyelids. Reluctantly, he obeyed. His sight was blurred, though the light was quite dim.
-That's better! Welcome among the livings, Mr Kuryakin!
The Russian tried to turn his head to the voice, but it was too difficult.. Obligingly, the sneering man came closer, and bent over him. Illya Kuryakin blinked. This one could have had THRUSH tattooed on his forehead! He was in his fifties, and looked at him with an obvious delight.
-So, how are you doing, Mr Kuryakin?
Polite words, concerned, unctuous tone, and ironical face. The Russian didn't even try to answer. Anyway, he could not. The man sighed.
-Oh, I am so sorry! I neglect all my duties! Look at those parched lips! Of course, Mr Kuryakin, you are thirsty, aren't you?
Illya Kuryakin stiffened, but something white, damp, exquisitely damp moistened his lips. Such gentleness was very unusual from a Thrush henchman.
-Easy, young man, easy. I'll give you some water, soon.
It didn't fool the Uncle agent. There was such a discrepancy between the man's kind words, his considerate acts, and his cold, malevolent face.
-So, Mr Kuryakin? How are you doing?
The Russian took a light breath and croaked a whisper.
-Where is my partner?
The man burst into very unpleasant laughter.
-Oh, yes, Mr Kuryakin. Your partner...
-Napoleon! Shouldn't you be at home?
Napoleon Solo put his finger on her lips.
-I have to talk to Mr Waverly, Lisa. Immediately.
The secretary sighed and smiled sadly. Napoleon Solo's privilege...
-Mr Solo! Shouldn't you be at home?
Alexander Waverly frowned at his secretary. The young woman muttered an apologize and went out.
-So, Mr Solo?
The dark haired man sat down and started to speak. He had to tell all. All? That meant the very few things he remembered. He had to do it, nevertheless.
Alexander Waverly listened. When his agent stopped talking, he simply raised an eyebrow.
-And, Mr Solo? You have been drugged. Whatever happened, you couldn't do anything. You know that, so do I. You tell me that you could be the one who shot Mr Kuryakin? That's possible. And what?
-And I can't go on, sir; I am sorry. This is my resignation.
Alexander Waverly harrumphed and banged his fist against the desk. His pipe bounced.
-You can't recall having shot your partner, can you?
-No, but...
Waverly's icy look forced him to stop.
-You don't recall. Well. You could have done it, Mr Solo. But remember, that was a malicious trick. A Thrush plot.
The Old Man stared at him.
-Honestly, Mr Solo, honestly, Napoleon, what do you think?
-I was taking aim at him, and...
-Honestly!
Napoleon Solo looked deeply in his superior's eyes. He didn't read any pity, any compassion. Waverly wanted him to tell the truth, the real truth.
-Honestly, I can't imagine having done that. I am sure, and it's illogical, that if I had...
Waverly tore the paper into pieces.
-We have to even things up, Mr Solo. They have to pay for what happened. You are going to take some rest. Then... you'll do your job.
Napoleon Solo shook his head.
-I beg to differ, sir. I am sorry, I can't. You know the game: they had me for a long time. I have been drugged, but not tortured. They didn't want me to give away anything. They wanted me ... to do something. Illya ... Illya is dead. I am alive. If they have killed him, they could have shot me, and they didn't. It's very in our enemy's tradition to brainwash a prisoner, and to use him as a weapon against his friends. You can't trust me anymore.
-Is that all, Mr Solo?
The Old Man stared at his pipe.
-I am quite aware of that, Mr Solo. Apparently, you, too. That's encouraging. So, we'll be careful, and attentive. But I have no intention of playing their game. So, you'll get some rest. I'll see you later.
The Thrush man was almost giggling. Illya Kuryakin looked daggers at him. In vain.
-Your partner? Don't worry, Mr Kuryakin. He is alive, and quite fine. Though...
The man bent forward; the Russian could feel his breath on his temple. He tried to turn his head, but he could not. The voice whispered.
-Poor Mr Solo is mourning. He is mourning his partner gone. Such a terrible loss.
The man' hand casually stroke the blond hair. Illya Kuryakin choked, struggling to escape. The man smirked, reluctantly stopped the offending gesture and went on.
-Everyone, at the Uncle HQ, is mourning for you. Their so, so precious Mr Kuryakin...
A new croaking whisper.
-What...?
Illya Kuryakin was puzzled.
-But... I am not... dead... He won't... believe... He'll...look for me.
The man smiled brightly.
-Oh, no, Mr Kuryakin. You know, we took all the time we needed. You remember the Uncle hospital mortuary? Your body lie there. A young, blond man, a almost perfect duplicate. Your friends didn't check, of course. Evidences... Grief... Uncle agents are so soppy...
-You are...
-Evil? Yes, Mr Kuryakin. And icing on our creamy cake, your Mr Solo is overwhelmed with both his own guilt and the others' suspicion.
The Russian clenched his lips.
-Oh, yes, Mr Solo believes that HE has killed you! I have to thank you, Mr Kuryakin. You've been quite helpful. Of course, some others think that he is the one who has shot you. Poor Mr Solo, mourning and distrusted...
Suddenly, the man grabbed Illya Kuryakin's shirt and pulled him up ruthlessly, dragging a groan out of him. His eyes twinkled with hatred. He shook him like a rag doll. The voice was harsh.
-And you, Mr Kuryakin, as you see, you are still alive. It's painful, isn't it? Painful, yes, but you'll survive. We'll see at it. The game is not over.