They set the chopper down roughly a mile from the building. Not only would it give them away to come in closer, but there were no clearings in which to land. A single track wound from the main road to the building, and that was not quite wide enough for the rotors to clear. Cartwright had spoken about the possibility of waiting until dark, but Napoleon would not entertain that even for a moment. It was too risky. Thrush people were often volatile, and even if they fully intended to keep Illya alive there was a chance of them killing him by accident, or in temper. No. They would go in now.

They landed in a ploughed field just at the edge of the wood, close enough in towards the trees that the helicopter wouldn't be immediately obvious. And then they stalked in through the tall pines, constantly on the alert for patrolling guards or booby traps. The clear forest floor was one mercy. The thick canopy allowed for very little undergrowth, and so Solo and Cartwright were stealing in over a slick carpet of fallen needles which made very little noise underfoot. Cartwright held a compass in his hand and kept them oriented while Napoleon kept the majority of the lookout for threats. He was far more experienced as an active agent.

'Little more to the south,' Cartwright murmured, touching Solo's arm to turn him. It was easy to get thrown off a direct route when one was constantly having to dodge around tree trunks.

'How much further?' Solo asked.

''Bout a quarter mile, but – yeah, look there.'

Cartwright stopped and pointed up ahead. Through the straight boled trees Napoleon could just make out the glint of something silver.

'Fence?' Napoleon asked.

'Yeah, and a tall one.'

'Electrified?'

'I don't know.'

Napoleon considered that. 'You got any tools?' he asked.

Cartwright patted his hand against a neat bundle at his belt. 'A few. Gloves and wire cutters if we need to disable an electric fence. At any rate, we can cut our way in, and bridge it in case it's alarmed.'

Napoleon suddenly recalled the similar conversation with Illya when they had first made their way to the Westchester lab. It had been Illya who had cut the hole though the fence. It always was Illya. He was just good at that kind of thing. And although Cartwright was a fine man, he was not Illya. Napoleon would have trusted Illya to lead him into hell and get him out safely again.

'You all right, Napoleon?' Cartwright asked him.

Solo shook himself. 'Yeah, I'm all right, Jack. Thank you. Let's go.'

((O))

The morning brought nothing good for Illya. He had finally fallen asleep last night curled in the corner in a bundle of blankets, and had slept fitfully and painfully, waking often as a muscle cramped or his back spasmed in pain. He had let himself hope that he would be wakened by a team from U.N.C.L.E. crashing in through the door, but he was woken instead by the sound of the lock turning and then the clatter of a tray being put on the floor.

He opened his mouth to say something to his visitor and found that after last night's screaming he had no voice at all. But the person left as soon as they had put the tray down, and Illya shuffled across the floor to it hopefully, suddenly starving.

The tray contained nothing but some cold toast and a cup of water. He had been hoping at least for a warm drink to ease his vocal chords, but perhaps Hugo Ward was determined this morning to impress upon him the truth of what he had said last night, or to punish him for causing him trouble. He was not Illya's saviour. He just wasn't as twisted as Sophie Winslip.

Grimacing at the tightness of his lash wounds and the aching of his muscles, Illya went into the bathroom to tip the cold water away and fill the cup again with warm water. It wasn't luxury, but it might help his throat. He sat on the floor dipping the toast in the water so it did not scrape so badly on his sore throat, and running his fingertip under the collar that he wore, idly trying to find a weakness. There was none, and he wasn't surprised, but he wished he could take the thing off. It was an unpleasant reminder of Winslip's domination of him, and of the fact that rape was almost inevitable at some point in the future. He feared the needle more, but his skin crawled at the thought of her hands on him again.

Once the tray was empty he slid it listlessly away across the floor and huddled back up in his nest of blankets, pulling them right up over his head to block out the light. His vision was even more milky this morning, the light dispersed more evenly, so he could not make out the direction of the source at all, even though he knew it to be in the centre of the ceiling. Perhaps as the calcification continued eventually the light would be blocked out entirely, and he would know nothing but darkness. He swallowed at that idea, wondering if Winslip would let him live that long, and if he really wanted her to. He wondered how many more biopsies there would be. Then he remembered that Ward had insisted on having proper drugs for today's examination, that he would be administering a local anaesthetic, and maybe a sedative. But then, should he have eaten? Was Ward qualified enough to completely understand the protocol? Would he give the correct doses?

Suddenly the meagre amount of toast in Illya's stomach felt like a brick, waiting there to choke him if he vomited when given the drugs. They wouldn't even be able to turn him with the restraints they used. He unwrapped himself from the blankets and crawled into the small bathroom and put his fingers down his throat, stimulating the retching reflex until he vomited his breakfast into the toilet. Then, shaking, he crawled back into his corner and covered himself in the blankets again.

He had to not focus on the thought of the needle. It would be all right this time, wouldn't it? Ward would sedate him. And after all, it had been the idea of the first procedure with Peterson that had been worst of all. The thing itself had been all right, hadn't it, once he was sedated and anaesthetised? It was just the thought of it, the needle slipping into his vulnerable, blind eyeball, the thought of them taking out fluid that surely, surely was vital to the eye's integrity? Just that thought made his stomach heave.

His hands clenched on the blankets around him. He had been trained better than this. In telling himself not to think about it he shouldn't have found his thoughts racing away like that. He steadied his breathing, wondering if meditation would help again. And if he could not think of nothing perhaps he could think of good things, of Napoleon crashing through the door, shooting down his enemies, leading him out to safety. He tried again, moving very deliberately into the centre of the room, pulling his aching legs into the lotus position, resting his hands lightly on his knees. He took in a good deep breath and let it settle in his lungs. He started to empty his mind. And then his calf cramped so hard he almost screamed, and he had to grab it with both hands and start to massage the muscle that was like rock.

Meditation could pull the mind away from many things, but not from muscle cramps, and he suspected he would be getting muscle cramps for some time. He went for another tactic, and instead of trying to meditate he limped into the bathroom and stood under the shower, letting the sound of the falling water and the drumming of the drops on his body soothe him like a warm rain. He should, he supposed, count himself lucky. He didn't often get the chance for a shower in a Thrush cell.

Afterwards he dried himself thoroughly, taking care to dry carefully under the collar around his neck. He thanked the fact that it had not shrunk with last night's shower and probably wouldn't be affected by this one. He spent a little time fiddling with it again, but the lock wasn't even discernible to his fingers; and anyway, what would happen if he did manage to get it off? Miss Winslip would certainly make him aware of her displeasure, and he had felt enough of that recently.

He huddled himself in his blankets again, waiting for something to happen – either for someone to bring a lunch that he would not allow himself to eat, or for Napoleon to smash down the door, or, as seemed more likely, for Miss Winslip to come for him. And in the end that was just what happened. She seemed pleased to find him huddled on the floor.

'Well, isn't it a good pet?' she asked softly. 'All clean and ready to use. Get up, Mr Kuryakin.'

Illya stood because there was no use in resisting, but his cramped calf gave under him. She waited silently while he tried again, and when he stood she clipped the hated leash onto his collar. She didn't even speak to him; just tugged, and he followed, limping painfully and trying to still the churning in his stomach. He was afraid that he was going to be taken by blind panic. He tried to control it, tried to steady his breathing, but he could feel dizziness starting. He couldn't do this. He couldn't walk into that room and lie on the table and let them strap him down.

In the elevator he stood silently as Miss Winslip prattled at him. It felt as if there were no air entering his lungs. He closed his eyes and swallowed and clenched his fists at his sides. He tried to focus on other things; on the collar that was firm around his throat, on the feeling of the floor beneath the bare soles of his feet, on the small air currents on his naked body. He lost himself so far into those sensations that he didn't notice the elevator doors opening and only realised that Miss Winslip was telling him to move when she jerked viciously at the leash and he stumbled, flailing out an arm which hit the side of the doorway hard.

That pain helped to anchor him. He focussed on the throbbing in the back of his hand. He focussed on the tight pulling of all of the lash wounds on his back. He focussed on the knot of pain in his calf where it had cramped so badly. But then he could feel the clinical atmosphere of the treatment room around him and he knew he was only steps away from the table.

Ward said something and, unexpectedly, his calm voice was the trigger. The panic welled up suddenly, all at once, a flood bursting through his body. He jerked away so hard that Miss Winslip must have lost her hold on the leash, and he backed until the wall touched his shoulder blades, cold and unyielding. There was nowhere to go, and he braced himself for the punishment of the cattle prod.

'No, leave him to me,' Ward snapped suddenly. 'I don't want him in this state when I have to put a needle in his eye.'

At those words acid rose in Illya's throat, but Ward came towards him, speaking very rationally.

'Now, come on. There are two men in this room with guns, beside me and Miss Winslip. You can't go anywhere and you can't resist this exam.'

'Like hell I can't,' Illya ground out, his voice still barely more than a whisper after his screaming of the night before.

There was a click, and he felt the very familiar feeling of the muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple. Ward was holding his right arm with one hand, and was holding the gun to his head with the other.

'Now, come on,' he said in a voice so gentle it almost made Illya wonder if it were someone else holding the gun. 'I don't want to have to make this a post mortem. Step forward. Come on.'

Illya took one step. The gun stayed firm against his head. Rationality spoke to him. It was better to endure this than to die. It had to be better to endure this than to die. It was only one quick insertion with a needle and then it would be over. And Napoleon would be coming. He took another step, and then another, taking in very slow breaths as he moved. With Ward's hand on his arm he climbed onto the table and lay down, and lay still as the restraints were locked around him.

'There. That's good,' Ward said, still in that very gentle voice. 'Now, I'm going to give you an examination and ask you a few questions first. I want you to answer truthfully because it will help me in my research. Do you understand?'

Illya couldn't nod because of the frame holding his head still, but he did understand. Ward was trying to devise a cure. He needed to answer truthfully. He opened his mouth to say yes but his tortured vocal chords gave up and no sound came out.

'Has he – Have you lost your voice?' Ward asked incredulously.

Still he couldn't nod. He couldn't speak. He mouthed yes.

Ward tutted in disgust. 'Oh, for fuck's sake… You see what happens when you lose control, Sophie? You made him scream so hard he's lost his voice. How in hell am I supposed to question him if he can't damn well speak?'

'Well how was I supposed to know the creature would lose it that bad?' she shrilled in return. 'I thought U.N.C.L.E. agents were supposed to be tough!'

'Sophie, you had a fucking electric prod jammed against his balls! What in hell did you expect him to do?'

Illya lay silent, eyes closed. If he hadn't been so horrified by his situation he might have found their argument amusing. He heard Ward talking about cough medicine that Miss Winslip had used last year and footsteps moved and a small door was opened and slammed closed again. Then Ward was putting a hand on his forehead and saying to him, 'Open your mouth and swallow this.'

He recognised the scent of cough syrup well enough. It conjured times when he had caught colds at the worst possible moments – on missions, at times when one had to be silent, had to be in peak condition. It reminded him of a time when he had been struck down with 'flu in his apartment and Napoleon had appeared at the door to take care of him. Now, he supposed, he would associate it with this time too. He opened his mouth and swallowed the foul tasting liquid, licking the slight sweet residue off his lips. It was an odd, mundane moment in this horrifying few days.

'All right, now can you talk?' Ward asked him impatiently.

Illya cleared his throat a little, wincing at the pain not only there but also through his stomach muscles and back.

'Yes,' he whispered.

'All right,' Ward replied. The man's hand touched his forehead again, but this time his thumb held Illya's eyes open, and he assumed that he was making a visual inspection. 'No pupil reaction to the light,' Ward murmured, and Illya realised with surprise that Ward must have been shining light into his eyes. He had not noticed a change at all. 'Pupils are dilated to – hmm – five millimetres and seem fixed. Sophie, are you noting this down?'

'Of course I am,' she spat from somewhere behind Illya's head, and Illya experienced a quiet satisfaction that she was experiencing so much trouble with her mood. As long as Ward kept her away from him he was perfectly content for her to feel as bad as she could.

'Mr Kuryakin, the light on the ceiling,' Ward said. 'Can you tell me where it is?'

Illya made to shake his head, and was frustrated by the frame holding it still again. 'No,' he whispered simply. His vocal chords weren't up to anything more forceful.

'All right, a couple more procedures...'

The soft thumb held his lids open again, preventing him from blinking. Ward murmured something and then carried on, apparently flashing different colours and strengths of light at his eyes, according to the brief explanations he gave Illya. He could perceive none of them.

'All right, it's time to take the sample,' Ward said, and Illya's heart suddenly started thrumming hard in his chest again.

'The anaesthetic,' he faltered in his hoarse whisper. 'You haven't given me the anaesthetic.'

Ward's hand touched his shoulder firmly. 'Stop it,' he said. 'I don't want you to send your blood pressure up like this. I'm going to give you the goddamn anaesthetic in a moment. I wish to god we'd gotten some sedative too. Now, hold still.'

As if he had the choice of moving. There was a needle prick at the side of his eye, and after a moment he began to feel that strange lack of sensation again. He forced his breathing to slow, to concentrate on the sound of his breaths. Any moment now Napoleon would appear. Any moment now…

The pressure against his eyeball was sudden and unexpected and seemed to last a long time. He would have jerked his head if it hadn't been for the frame holding it still. But it was different, and his lips parted, a question hovering.

'That was the tonometer test for intra-ocular pressure, not the needle,' Ward muttered in a bored fashion. 'It'll be more uncomfortable on the left eye since I haven't anaesthetised it. Blink a couple times then hold quite still, won't you? Breathe normally.'

This time the touch made him want to squirm away, making his stomach churn, but he managed to hold still for long enough for Ward to take his measurements.

'Now the biopsy,' Ward murmured, putting his hand back near Illya's right eye.

He did hold his breath this time, and as he experienced that odd pressure again and knew that the needle was in his eye his heart began to race and his fists clenched and adrenaline surged through his body.

'That's it,' Ward said, putting something down with a clatter. 'Done.'

The relief almost made him vomit. Acid lurched into his mouth and he coughed and choked until someone released the head frame, lifted his head with a hand behind it, and touched a glass to his lips. He drank gratefully, eyes streaming.

'Better give me that pad,' Ward said in a rather worried sounding voice, and Illya noticed that the light filtering into his right eye seemed slightly pink.

'Did the stupid thing tear it?' Miss Winslip asked, her heels harsh on the floor as she came across the room.

Ward sounded preoccupied. 'Don't know. I can't see through the blood. Maybe I hit something, unless it was the coughing… Damn, I hope I haven't contaminated the sample… No. No, it's clear. Must have been on the withdrawal. But I won't be able to take more until this has cleared. Here, give me some tape.'

Illya felt the soft pad being taped over his eye.

'Oh, take it from the other eye,' Miss Winslip said carelessly. 'That's why it has two. Does it really matter if you damage them?'

'Not to you,' Ward said tersely, 'but how do you think I can monitor his progress properly if both eyes are full of blood?'

'Hugo, you know this project is my brainchild,' Miss Winslip hissed. 'Now, you know that. You know how important it is.'

'Then stop trying to damage my patient,' Ward responded tersely.

'You know, I'm getting pretty sick of this,' the woman snapped. 'Your acting as if this is all your party and I'm just the – '

Illya closed his eyes, tuning himself out from this petty bickering, until suddenly he realised that his restraints were being released and he was being tugged onto his feet by the leash, and as he was dragged out of the room on unsteady feet he heard Miss Winslip call back, ' – and this time I don't want you running in and spoiling it all, no matter how much he's screaming.'