So, Napoleon had disappeared, once more time, under very strange and hardly believable circumstances. Illya Kuryakin rubbed his forehead. He felt a little dizzy again. Alexander Waverly was still talking, unusually garrulous. The young Russian frowned. He had things to report, but the Old Man's voice sounded worried. His young agent had not fooled him.
-How are you doing, Mr Kuryakin?
-I am fine, sir, really.
A logical question and a logical answer, necessary prelude to any further explanation.
The Russian closed his eyes. Perhaps he didn't need to listen.
-We are looking for you. As soon as we'll have located you, I'll send people to take you back.
No. No, they couldn't do that.
-Mr Kuryakin? How are you doing?
Alexander Waverly drummed mechanically his fingers on the desk. The specialists needed time, and the Old Man had heard this calm, but unusually dull voice, the delivery, slightly broken. For all he knew, his Russian agent had been injured, shot in the back. He was fine... His own words. The typical Kuryakin's answer: « I am fine. »
-Mr Kuryakin? Illya?
The Russian opened his eyes and replied.
-No, sir.
And he realized that his answer was not the right one. He gripped the phone tightly and forced himself to speak clearly.
-I am fine, sir. We have to be careful. This man wants to take a revenge.
Making short sentences helped him to steady his breath.
-He'll bring Napoleon here.
-We don't know, Mr Kuryakin. Mr Solo is perhaps following a trail and...
-No, sir. They had him for months, and they have probably conditioned him, in order to call him back. That's why they had « freed » him.
Alexander Waverly knew that he was right.
-What do you think, Mr Kuryakin?
-I have to get rid of the guard. Then, I'll be a good, obedient prisoner.
-To get rid of the guard?
-That's my part, sir.
Alexander Waverly felt so uncertain. The reinforcements were on their way to join the island. They had to wait Illya Kuryakin's signal... Or Waverly's one, if all hell broke loose. Waverly was not a pessimistic one; He was realistic, and worried.
Illya Kuryakin knelt heavily next to the body. He had not intended to kill him, but the young Thrush guard had managed to loose his bonds. He had tried to stun him. Though the Russian was injured, however, they were not evenly matched. The guard lacked experience. The Uncle agent sighed, grabbed his arms, and dragged the limp body, slowly, painfully, away.
They wouldn't find him. He closed the door, and leaned against it. The twilight gave way to the night. When would they come back? He had eaten, showered carefully, trying to keep the dressing dry, and put on fresh clothes. He felt better. Just a little.
They had Napoleon, again.
He hoped that his friend would do well; The enemy was obviously eager to settle a score with them. Why? It was a personal affair. They had defeated so many Thrush operatives, thwarted so many Thrush plots, and probably hurt or killed so many of their guys... Illya Kuryakin guessed that the man would choose the spectacular way, that he would gather them, in order to get his own back on the two Uncle agents.
His heart pounded in his chest, because he could be wrong.
The man could have changed his mind and chosen another way.
He could have killed his partner. An unpleasant thought.
He walked towards the kitchen, to check the underground rooms. He had erased the traces, but just in case... They would look for the guard...
Napoleon Solo tossed and turned on his seat. Earlier in the afternoon, something had happened, but he didn't exactly remember what. His head was heavy, his memory vague. The man sitting next to him was reading. Who was he? Suddenly, someone tapped on his shoulder, gently.
-Mr Solo?
Solo? Ah, yes, he was Solo. The man who talked to him looked quite serious, though he smiled. A concerned smile.
-Yes, sir?
« Sir ». The man, obviously, was someone he could, he had to address as « Sir ».
-Mr Solo, we have to talk about your mission.
Instantaneously, Napoleon Solo was back to himself. His mission. His prey.
-yes, sir. Where is he, now?
His superior frowned and peeped around, as if he feared that their enemy could hide himself in the car.
-For all we know, Mr Solo, he is on an island, next to the coast. His HQ is here, and he lives in what looks like a holiday house.
-But of course, it is not.
-Of course, Mr Solo. We'll leave you at the opposite side of this island. You'll have to be very careful, this man is dangerous, and...
Napoleon Solo smiled coldly, tapping casually on his holster. He sneered.
-I know him, sir. I know all about his tricks. But he'll be alone? Are we sure of that? It's amazing.
The other man raised a hand, waving it.
-A rare opportunity, Mr Solo. This night, you'll be face to face with him. I trust you, you know that. I am sure you'll fulfill this assignment, as usual.
Napoleon Solo nodded and looked again at the photo the man handed to him.
Such a familiar face, such an innocent face.
And such a dangerous villain.
-This time, Mr Solo... Well, I am afraid you won't like it.
Napoleon Solo raised an eyebrow. His superior was staring at him with concern.
This time, you'll have to get rid of him. I mean, definitely.
It was true. Well, he didn't like that. But killing this blond, blue eyed man would probably save the world, at least the peace of the world, and many lives. It was worth the price. He smiled and nodded gain, coldly.
A high-pitched beep startled him. Some lights were flashing on the wall, and a strip of paper appeared. Illya Kuryakin picked it, read it and couldn't help chuckling, bitterly. How amazing! He looked at the message again: so, the guard was supposed to reach the creek, and to leave the island, as soon as possible. The creek? Leaving the island meant that there was a boat, there. So, they wouldn't look for their guard. But why? They wanted him alone, on this island. Alone, until they would bring Napoleon here.
The man wanted a revenge. A spectacular and very personal revenge. An island, two preys... It reminded him of an old movie.
« The Most Dangerous Game »? Their enemy as the Count Zaroff? So, he was eager to hunt them? That was why he wanted him fit. It would be funnier. Yes, it would be funny. He had to report to Alexander Waverly.
-Sir?
Alexander Waverly had listened, and now kept silent. He didn't comment.
-Mr Kuryakin, you'll have to be careful. Perhaps, you should try to find this creek, and...
-No, sir! Of course, I'll be careful, but...
-No. Mr Solo... Mr Solo had joined them, willingly. Our reinforcements are on their way, but the others will be there before them.
Illya Kuryakin sighed bitterly. Yes, they would. Probably. And so, what? He was not an innocent defenceless creature.
-It is not what I meant, Mr Kuryakin.
Waverly's voice was unusually grim, urgent.
-You know that. Mr Solo... your partner might be out of his mind.
-I beg your pardon, sir?
The Russian was appalled. Waverly's understatement was so clear.
-Our enemy is evil, Mr Kuryakin. You'll have to be on your guard against him. And against Mr Solo.
-Sir!
-Remember: they managed to call him back to them, and he obeyed, willingly. Our Thrush enemy might have set up an especially malicious plan.
Alexander Waverly was wrong. Definitely.
Brainwashing.
Thrush had already used this trick against them, and they had failed. Always. At the very last second, something – he couldn't say what: a word, a voice, a look...- had broken the evil spell. Even if Napoleon Solo had been conditioned into believing that he was the enemy, it would not work.
Illya Kuryakin was not the optimistic one, but that... That, he knew. He knew for sure.
They had been face to face in his friend's apartment. Napoleon was taking aim at him, coldly, though he had put his own gun on the table. But he had not shot him, despite all, despite his obvious doubts, his fear. He had not, and he would not. He would never do that.
Trust. Friendship. Confidence.
For years, as a kid, in the USSR, during the war, as a very young man, later, he had turned down even the idea of trust. He trusted himself; he relied on himself. Period. He had fellows. No friends.
Then they had sent him to work for Uncle. Being a Russian, working for an international organisation, living in New York, in the US had been a challenge. A real one But Illya Kuryakin had left the matter to his old strategy. Trust yourself, rely on yourself. And he had met two men. A chief. A partner. He had found himself unable to turne down some very new, very amazing feelings. Trust. Friendship. Confidence.
Relying on someone else, and knowing that someone else was relying on you. It had been frightening. Terrifying. Exciting, and extraordinary.
He closed the trap door, and stared at the weapons he had picked up from the cellar. Of course, the boat in the creek could be a problem. They would see it, and... Anyway, he had no time for that. He would leave the house, and hid himself somewhere. Wait and see.
The small boat drifted slowly towards the coast anf finally beached on the sand. It was a very dark night. Napoleon Solo craned forward before sneaking out of the boat. This beach was deserted, and he couldn't see any light around. The Uncle agent sneered at the pleasant thought of the blond villain, soundly asleep in the deluding safety of his private island.
The villains could be efficient, brilliant. They were often pompous, full of themselves. This one was, too.
Napoleon Solo clenched his teeth. The man looked boyish, but he was a murderer, an abject, soulless murderer. He had killed his partner. His friend, his closest friend, in cold blood, like a coward.
Getting rid of him, definitely? It would be a real pleasure. As he was making his way towards the dune, he tapped again on his holster. He didn't intend to shoot the guy like that. Too easy. Too simple. He felt grateful. His superior had left this battle to him. He would take revenge on the guy. He owed his partner that.
The man leaned against the plating but he couldn't see the small boat any more. He stretched himself, staring at the dark shape of the island.
The scenery.
The two actors.
The plot.
The tragedy could begin. A tragedy, in the literal meaning: everything was written.
The Fate.
He went back to his cabin, and switched on the screen. The images were very dark and hazy, but Napoleon Solo was walking towards the house, and those camera didn't need that much light.
The die was cast.