As he recognized the boat, the man cursed. Then, he smugly smirked. It didn't matter. It didn't matter at all. They would be late. A hint of regret crossed his mind... Eventually, he could have managed to kill the three of them : Cutter, Solo, Kuryakyn... However, Kuryakyn would be of more use alive than dead. For the moment. He deftly threaded his way through the other boats. When he heard the blast, he didn't even turn his head and speeded towards the Charon's pass.
A muffled rumble, and the ground quaked. The wall shook, some stones fell, but it held out. Anyway, nobody looked at it. They were all gaping at the two silhouettes walking down the path, one supporting the other. Two moving statues of dust and soot. They staggered, faltered in their steps, each one with an arm around the waist of the other. But they went on. Although they were hardly recognizable, the men, on the Janice III, knew exactly who they were. Cutter threw away his oxygen mask, the fisherman cursed, and they jumped on the quay, followed by Evan Stellon. They rushed towards the two walking statues when the wall collapsed, and a heavy cloud of gravels swallowed all.
-What ?
The new hit the New York Uncle headquarter. Everything, every one froze. From the tailor Del Floria to Alexander Waverly's secretary, receptionists, doctors, nurses, cafeteria employees, archivists, Lab technicians, all section agents... Months ago, Mark Slate's death, Illya Kuryakyn's imprisonment had come as a terrible shock to all of them. The relief brought by Mark's come back, by Illya's proven innocence had spread out a blissfull veil of optimism. Uncle, New York, could hold its head up again. A very few malcontents had muttered, of course, but all the Uncle headquarter, generally speaking, was waiting for their top section II agents, to fete them... And... No.
A very cold, very inscrutable Alexander Waverly had officially informed the whole Uncle that, by an unfortunate combination of circumstances, Mr Cutter and Mr Solo had been killed in a blast. Mr Kuryakyn's death was to be deplored, too ; he had been buried under the debris, as he was trying to help them.
The loss was considerable. The Survival School's legendary boss, the CEA, his so brilliant partner...
Many of the Uncle employees had never met Jules Cutter. But they had heard of him. The ones who knew him... at least respected the professional. He was one of Alexander Waverly's friend... Everyone liked Napoleon Solo, admired him, or at least envied him. Months ago, if one had asked about Illya Kuryakyn's guilt, many people would have politely kept silent. Now they would answer that they had never believed it, that they had always been convinced of his innocence. Most of them were genuine. Genuine in their words. Genuine in their thoughts.
-I can't believe it, Mark. Really, I can't.
Mark Slate squeezed his partner's hand, and pulled her in a comforting hug.
-Neither do I, April, neither do I. But... it happened. And some one will have to pay for it. He will, they will pay the highest price...
A harsh voice cut him up.
-Revenge is none of Uncle business, Mr Slate. What happened... happened. We've now to look forward.
-But, sir... it doesn't make sense.
Alexander Waverly icily stared at the two agents.
-As you know, Uncle agents are expendable. All of them. However, expendable doesn't mean that they are to be wasted. Mr Cutter, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakyn died. It's... regrettable. But it was avoidable. If they had followed orders.
And the Old Man stormed out, leaving two section 2 agents taken aback.
-Damned old...
-Shhht, Mark. Mr Waverly didn't mean it...
-Of course, he did, April. A new chapter begins. Period. Remember how easily he let the Commission sentenced Illya !
-No, Mark. You weren't there. I was... He fought, Mark. He fought the Commission, really. They might have sentenced Illya to...
April's voice broke.
-They might have sentenced him to death, Mark. He was supposed to have shot you, and, he... didn't deny it. Waverly fought the Commission. I know that he called the Russians... And he knew that Napoleon was still investigating. That I was studying again and again this film. He let us do. He helped us. He supported us, Mark.
Mark Slate shook his head, doubtful.
-You heard him. They are dead, and he won't do anything.
-Or he'll let us do...
-I am sorry, Mikey.
Jules Cutter sat down beside the fisherman.
-How are they doing ?
-The young Stellon is writing the report. He is okay. Napoleon has some broken ribs, and it's quite painful. He needs a little oxygen, and some rest. But he'll live...
-And Illya ?
-I am fine, Mikey.
The young Russian lithely sat in front of the two older men, his right arm in a sting. His wrists and his hands were covered with scratches and burns. His forehead and his left cheekbone were dressed with plasters. Jules Cutter smiled, stood up and went away, waving his hand. Illya Kuryakyn bent forward, with a concerned look.
-Are you okay, Mikey ? I am sorry...
The fisherman chuckled.
-Is that a part of an agent's training, Illya ? How to express sorrows ?
A pleasant smell made them stop. Jules Cutter put two mugs of coffee on the floor, whispering.
-These guys are well organized..
He winked at them, and went away again.
-You welcomed me in your home, were here for me, when I needed a friend, although you didn't know me at all. You probably saved my life... at least, my sanity. And all you got as a reward...
-I am alive, Illya ! In a few days, more or less, I'll be back home. Your Napoleon will be fine...
Blue eyes glanced at him. The light, in the plane, was dim, but the fisherman could have bet that the young man had blushed... Mikey devilishly grinned.
-Your two other friends are okay, too. All of us could have died, buried under the stones... So, you don't have to worry about me.
Illya Kuryakyn wrapped his fingers around the hot mug and gave a wry smile.
-One minute, Mikey... One minute, I thought that I would never find him...
-But you did.
-Yes...
-As it's the moment of truth, boy... One minute... I thought that we would never see you again. But you have to know that Mr Cutter, undoubtedly, has a real faith in both of you.
-He taught us most of what we know, Mikey...
-Oh, no, boy. He trusted your Napoleon... Sorry, boy, your friend's luck, and your own stubbornness... His words...
-We'll be there in half an hour. Then we'll be taken to a safe place where we'll meet Alexander. Would you please, Mr Kuryakyn, tell me what makes you smirk like this ?
The young Russian vainly tried to keep a straight face. Jules Cutter rolled his eyes.
-Oh, Mr Solo is going to wake up. Perhaps you could go and inform him ?
-Are you sure ?
-Yes. Commissionner Simmons called Mr Waverly to account for what happened... Do you think... Do you think that the Commission could ... accuse him of...
-I don't think... anything. And you should be careful. You speak too much.
-But you asked me...
-Shhht ! Where is Mr Waverly ?
-In his office... But...
-Shhhh !
Illya Kuryakyn compassionately looked at the straight binding up around his partner's waist. Said partner opened his eyes, smiled when he saw his friend, and pulled away his oxygene mask. His smile turned forced, as he caught a glimpse of the plasters.
-Nice dressings, Illya ! Looks like you intent to play the pirat ?
The older agent coughed. The Russian got his arm out of the sting and leaned forward, to help his friend..
-Ts, ts, ts, Napoleon... Drink some water...
Napoleon Solo obediently drank, and gazed at his partner. He sat up straight in the bed.
-Illya... Today, you saved...
-We have a sort of bargain, my driend. Do you forget it ? Since we work together, you have saved my like, I have saved saved yours... and we have never kept the accounts... I don't want to start it now !
-But this time...
-This time... wasn't different, Napoleon.
Napoleon Solo grabbed his friend's wrist, and stared at him.
-It was. I... I was to give up, Illya. Really. The odds were against me. If you weren 't...
-Poppycock ! You never give up, Napoleon ! You are the optimistic guy !
Napoleon Solo shook his head, still squeezing the hand he held. He wouldn't let his friend keep on the humorous tone.
-You never give up, Illya. I just rely on you. I trust you...
Illya Kuryakyn overacted the offended man.
-You, you rely on me ? You trust me ? How interesting ! Oh, so, who tried to pull rank on me ? Who ordered me to go away ?
The dark haired agent went on, eventually answering Illya's attempt at banter.
-And who was the one who didn't obey my orders, as usual ? Who was the one who odiously blackmailed me ?
The tone turned serious again.
-Who... pushed me, pulled me, dragged me to the way out of this hell ?
Illya Kuryakyn gently freed his hand.
-We are almost there, Napoleon. We have to finish up the job... The Old Man is waiting for us. You should get up. Need some help ?
Napoleon Solo shook his head. He doubtfully peeped at the casual clothes, beside the cot, bent forward to get them and sulkily began to dress himself, aware of the smug look, on his partner's face.
-So, eventually, we are dead... Alexander Waverly chose to kill us... You know, I think he might take a malicious pleasure in doing that...
The Russian looked overwhelmed. As he slipped on the shirt, Napoleon Solo winced.
-Illya... You told me a strange thing about a dictionary...
-Oh, that...
-Please, Illya ? « Impossible... » ?
-« Impossible isn't in my dictionary. ». Your word. Well, er...Napoleon's words. You remember ? The Napoleon you have been named from...