-Stop, Evan...
April Dancer took hold of her companion's arm. She looked around. The young man understood and did the same. The street looked desert. Desert and silent. But not dusty, April Dancer thought.
-Evan ?
-Yes, miss Dancer ?
-I have something to tell you. About Illya. Mr Kuryakin.
They headed straight for Del Floria's shop.
-A problem, sir ?
Cutter had toned down his words. Understatement wasn't usually Cutter's field.
Illya Kuryakin turned white. He repeated his partner's question.
-A problem, sir ?
-Miss Dancer is late. Very late.
Euphemism, again ? Waverly cleared the point.
-She should be here, now. And she doesn't answer.
A silence. A heavy one.
Illya's grim voice.
-It's my fault.
A bitter statement.
-Your fault ? And would please tell us, Mr Kuryakin, why ?
Alexander Waverly asked.
But he knew. He knew why. He knew what the young man blamed himself for. He knew that it was ridiculous, wrong. And eventually he knew that the Russian wouldn't easily admit it.
-You must face the fact, sir. I left her. Alone. My plan ...My so brilliant plan...
-Yes, Mr Kuryakin, you had a plan. It was clever, but the situation had evolved... You couldn't know it. Is that clear ? You are not to be blamed. Mr Kuryakin ?
-Yes, sir. That's clear.
The « how interesting » tone. .. Jules Cutter cleared his throat.
-Mr Kuryakin... Miss Dancer isn't a poor innocent lady. You are aware that she is a very competent Section 2 agent, aren't you ? She didn't need any escort.
-Apparently, she did.
Napoleon Solo met Mikey's eyes. Reproving eyes. The CEA forced a chuckle, and came up to his friend.
-She'll scratch your eyes out for that, my friend.
Not even a ghost of a smile. Alexander Waverly cut in the vain argument.
-We have no clues, however. Miss Dancer is late... and...
-She is not late, sir. April... April is never late.
Waverly shook his head with impatience, when someone knocked at the door. Lisa. She craned forward.
-You asked me to tell you, sir. Miss Dancer is here.
Waverly took notice, and just answered.
-Thank you, Lisa.
Illya Kuryakin whispered.
-Eventually, she was late... Just ... late.
-Sir ? Miss Dancer isn't alone. Mr Stellon is with her.
Alexander Waverly's office was unusually crowded. Surprise. Satisfaction. Congratulations. Cheerfulness. Stellon's obvious delight...
All froze. Except for two silhouettes. Walking along the street. Quickly, but carefully. Obviously on the alert. Bayle leaned his forehead against the window. He suddenly burst into laughter. A crazy, mad laughter. Hysterical. The icing on the cake... He had foreseen it. April Dancer. Free. Free and with... Stellon. His knees gave way beneath him. How ? Why ? He couldn't think. He could take his gun, and shoot them. Both of them. It wouldn't be of any use. Just to make him feel better. But he saw reason : the situation had evolved... but had it really ? Yes, Kuryakin was alive. Dancer had escaped... And... Stellon. But, then, the mole... the mole was still there. He had to go away. Dancer and Stellon was entering. She would tell... Uncle agents would investigate... probably find his lair...
But he wouldn't give up. At least, he wasn't without resources. Thanks to Simmons...
Questions. Answers. Many questions, but not so many answers. Stellon had been shot with sleeping darts at the Survival School. He had woke up in New York. In a damp cell. He had fretted himself, tried to escape. Vainly. Until this evening. April Dancer had been abducted in the street. Near the Uncle headquarter. Almost in front of the entrance...
Waverly had got up and put an end to the meeting.
-Are you sure, Alex ?
Mikey give them a sign and entered the hotel.
-Mikey will be safe...
-Mikey isn't the problem.
-Stellon and Miss Dancer are at the headquarter..
-They could need medical examination..., I know. She was quite pleased with this idea...
-Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin came back home.
-Yes...
-Back to normal life, Jules.
-And Bayle ?
Alexander Waverly looked out the light of the city.
-One man, Jules. Thrush leaders don't forgive failure. Bayle... failed.
-But he almost...
-Almost. And we have been called to order. We have been taught some lessons. We'll be less ... confident. Agents are investigating around the headquarter. Bayle is going to lie low somewhere. He is cornered, Jules. We 'll track him. Thrush will track him. He'd have better disappear.
-Someone told about fools, recently... Nevertheless... there is the mole.
-The mole... oh, yes, the mole...
-You suspected Stellon, didn't you ?
Waverly turned his face slowly to him. Yes, Stellon was a « comfortable » suspect. He had been abducted. Or not. The nasty little Indian... But he was back. And he had help April Dancer to escape.
-He was the ideal suspect, Jules. But, now... I have to think about... tomorrow. I must inform Commissioner Vernon about the situation...
-And ?
-Vernon... can't stomach Simmons's affair... He feels offended. He was not altogether displeased with Mr Kuryakin's death, and with your abduction. He pestered me with that. He'll try to make trouble for us with some investigations, questionings, suspicion... His own little witch hunt..; We know the risks, Jules.
Illya Kuryakin closed the door and set the alarm. Back to normal life. Shower. Sleep. He was lying still. Restless. Bayle was a disconcerting opponent. Malicious. Ambitious. He wasn't a Thrush agent. Not even a mercenary. A unpleasant thought. A man who fought his own battle. With very little support from Thrush. A man whose boldness had no limits. A fool ? Perhaps. A dangerous one. Waverly had dismissed them with some reassuring words. He was wrong : Bayle wasn't one to got to ground, to give up. And the mole... The young man yawned and eventually fell asleep.
Napoleon Solo cursed. Waverly's instructions were : back to normal life. Normal life ? What was an Uncle agent's normal life? He had dropped his partner, and headed to his own apartment. Many questions. Some answerable. The others... Bayle... was Bayle : dangerous, clever, efficient. But ...foolishly daring. As you knew it, you could handle... But the mole... Solo suspected Stellon. Yes, the boy had been quite nice, in Mousehole. But... A sharp little voice hissed, the honesty's voice. « You suspected him because he was a very convenient suspect. » He had. Stellon, however, was apparently innocent. The sharp voice hissed again. Okay. Stellon ... was innocent. He had helped April to escape... Napoleon Solo grimly thought about ... who betrayed them. Of course, the little voice kept silent. Back to normal life... The CEA braked suddenly. What would they have done, in « normal life » ? Illya Kuryakin was perfectly capable of coping with enemy on his own. As he was. But in normal life, they were partners. Wise or not, Napoleon Solo made a U turn.
It was silent.
It was desert.
It was dusty. No, not dusty. Sandy.
A strange light. Growing brighter.
Sunrise...
Wreckage. All around him, now.
He staggered towards a dilapidated wall,and leaned against it.
Staircase.
Silent, desert, dusty staircase.
Darkness. Footsteps.
He had to go down.
He knew that place.
He knew that corridor.
Wreckage, again.
A hand. Bruised. Scratched. Bloodied.
Rocks, gravel...
And just a hand hanging out.
He pulled, he pushed, he lifted, he tore.
Hairs. Dark hairs.
A face. Bruised, scratched, bloodied.
No.
And someone sneering at his ears.
« You didn't make it ! »
And some hands ruthlessly grabbing him.
Some hands shaking him.
-Mr Kuryakin, wake up, immediately ! Mr Kuryakin !
He knew this voice. He had heard it, once. And it wasn't a friendly voice, no matter how soft its tone was. His hand slid under the pillow. Vainly.
-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin... Open your eyes. You are fully awake, don't try to fool me !
The Russian blinked. The man had put on the light. It was still the night. It was his bedroom. He was... at home. The man stood beside him, playing with his gun. He knew this man. Middle aged, plain dark suit. A welcoming look. Alone.
-You... You are not real !
-You bet ?
The man grabbed a glass and threw it on the floor.
-Did you think about my proposal ? Safety. Peace. Happiness. Your Commission will investigate again, and... well, the Russian could be their favourite suspect... You experienced their jails, didn't you ?
The man stared at him with a very unpleasant commiseration. He remembered that. And it was still very unpleasant, because the man looked genuine.
-You are not...
The man took some steps forwards and aimed at the young man's head.
-You bet ?