-No, I am not... Sorry, Mr Simmons. Oh, no ... I were you... I wouldn't try it...

Simmons frowned, and suddenly relaxed.

-So, you survived, both of you.

-Yes, we did. And I you want to know, Illya Kuryakyn is alive, too. He has been injured, but he is alive. You failed, Simmons. You lamentably failed

Napoleon Solo felt uneasy. He couldn't have explained it. They were alive? Simmons was cornered. He was alone. But precisely... Simmons was cornered. He was done for... First, he clearly had been taken aback. First... Now, he was amazingly composed. It wasn't resignation, it wasn't the acceptance of the failure. Napoleon Solo, himself, was a good player, who was able to admit a defeat, a failure. It was not that. Simmons wasn't a good player. He was waiting. Waiting with the absolute certitude that what he was waiting for would happen. Or whom he was waiting for ... would come. And someone knocked at the door. Alexander Waverly and Jules Cutter glanced at it. Solo stared at Simmons. A good poker player...

-Come in...

Napoleon Solo kept his eyes on Simmons, but Waverly's smile and Cutter's nod made him to relax.

-Miss Dancer, Mr Slate... Nice to see you...

Simmons' voice was soft, but ironical. For all that outnumbered he was, the man went on swaggering.

He cursed. He cursed in all the languages he knew. And even in those he didn't. What he had just seen... was impossible. Neither Solo nor Cutter could have survived... Alexander Waverly had officially given notice of their death...

However, he couldn't deny it. Solo and Cutter, well... were alive. They had just passed Del Floria's door. Right now. At least, the Russian wasn't there...

He had to rely on Simmons. He would be no use, in there. Simmons would have to manage... If he succeeded... the man frowned. If he failed, things would be easier. If Simmons failed, he would die... And everybody knew that : it's always the people that aren't there that get blamed... When you are dead... you aren't there. If he succeeded, Simmons would become the hero. The man who would have overcome all the difficulties. And his fellow's incompetence. Especially his fellow's incompetence...

The man knew for sure that even if he came in to assist Simmons, he wouldn't get any reward for it. Simmons was an ambitious man. A sort of careerist. He wouldn't miss such an opportunity to shine...

So... he hesitated. It was out of the question for him to assist Simmons... He would wait and ... cross his fingers. Or... he could force a little the hand of the destiny. He could change sides. But it wasn't really a good idea. There were limits to Napoleon Solo's and Jules Cutter's sense of humor. And the man knew that he had already gone out of line.

-What do you mean exactly, Illya ? Because, if you think that you'll get rid of me...

Illya Kuryakyn smiled and shook his head. As he was swaying, apparently on the edge to collapse, the fisherman rushed closer to steady him. The Russian's hand naturally came on Mikey's neck, and the fisherman lost consciousness. Illya Kuryakyn, wincing, held him back although, sat him down on a chair and leaned him forward on the table. Mikey would be mad at him, but here, he was safe.

He looked at his hands. He doubtfully waved his fingers, one after another. They worked... more or less. He took hold of his gun, and loaded it. His left hand was number than the right, but his right shoulder still hurt. He would have to choose the lesser of two evils.

Napoleon had saved his properties. Alexander Waverly knew it. In other words... he had agreed with that. And... Napoleon had needed some help : April ? Jules Cutter ?... He owed them all a lot. In the box, apart from his gun, his ID, there was a small key. With its key ring. A sort of metallic token.

That was interesting. Illya Kuryakyn packed his bag, gently looked at Mikey and reached the car. Yes, that was interesting. He had now for sure that Alexander Waverly had approved. Napoleon himself didn't know anything about the key. This key... Well, not exactly the key. The key was... the key ring. The token opened a door. A very, very special door. A very, very secret one. The Number One, Section One's private door...

A few months after he had joined the New York Uncle headquarter, Alexander Waverly had called the Russian into his office.

Illya Kuryakyn drove away. He remembered the scene.

As usual, Alexander Waverly looked like lost in thought. For a few minutes, Illya Kuryakyn could have believed that it was just a trick. How to make fun of the Russian commie... But Lisa wasn't the sort to do that. She was rather kind to him. Now, he knew his chief's ways... Then, Alexander Waverly had begun to speak, to explain. Without looking at him, just motioning him to sit down with his pipe..

Alexander Waverly just wanted him... to wreck the Uncle Security Section's plans, about his private escape route. Waverly's opinion was that if too many people, although trustworthy, knew something, it wasn't a secret. Illya Kuryakyn had to prove that the escape route wasn't safe. That it wasn't really a secret. That it could be broken. He had succeeded. Then, Waverly had called him again. This time, he had been asked something even more amazing, for a young Russian agent : he had to think up a really safe escape route. Something absolutely private. He had just said, and it wasn't really a joke...

-I'll do that, sir... And then, you'll have to kill me.

-Well, Mr Kuryakyn, I'll think about it. But I could first try to entrust this secret to you... couldn't I ?

This simple token was the key. He knew how he would go in the Uncle headquarter.

Napoleon Solo's uneasy feeling didn't clear away.

-Miss Dancer, Mr Slate, I suggest that... you could take Mr Simmons in a more convenient place ?

April Dancer took a few steps forward. And all hell broke loose. A succession of bangs. April fell down. Napoleon felt a sharp twinge in his neck, and before he could think to get his gun, he was lying down. Conscious, but unable to move. Simmons appeared in his field of vision. An amazingly blankly looking Mark Slate was aiming his own gun at Waverly.

-A real marksman, Mr Slate, isn't he ? Well, er, Mr Solo, Uncle's sleeping dart were really no fun. Ours... Ours are really nice. They thwart. Yes. But our victims aren't simply asleep, as you can see... They can enjoy themselves. They are still conscious... as you are. Unfortunately... victims eventually died. This drug has, at long, a disastrous effect : it paralyses muscles. All of them. So...

Simmons turned towards Waverly.

-So, Waverly. Sorry, Mr Waverly ... if you are okay, we could leave your friends, now, just for a little privacy ? I have been told about a discreet escape route...

Alexander Waverly harshly answered.

-You haven't a hope, Simmons. I won't tell you anything about it, and... you'll have to drag me along the corridors... Or to kill me.

With an hollow worried look, Simmons shook his head.

-As you said, a little before, Alexander, I... I beg to differ. Here is...

He got a box out of his pocket, and showed it.

-Here is the antidote. If you choose to come with us, willingly, by this escape way... they'll survive.

Alexander Waverly glanced at Napoleon Solo. Eyes in eyes. An instant gaze. Then, he averted his eyes. He was looking at April, at Jules Cutter. His worried look said it all. Then he stared at Simmons. Icy look. Icy voice.

-Uncle agents... Uncle agents, Simmons, are heroes. This young woman, these men are heroes. They are extraordinary. But ... they are expendable. All of them. All of us.

-So, you are going to sacrifice their lives ? And yours ? Alexander... your choice. I don't mind.

Alexander Waverley raised his hand.

-Simmons, tell me, what was your plan ?

-Well, I had the choice : the New York Uncle headquarter's heroes making themselves look quite ridiculous...and you, my dear Alexander, you... could have been an extraordinary... trophy. This poor guy, Mr Slate... of course sentenced to life imprisonment... for treason. That's reminds me of our Russian friend. Well, this one will count his blessings... The other choice ? Yours, Alexander. Eventually, the most pragmatic : instead of ridiculous heroes, we'll have dead ones. Less fun, more efficiency. Mr Slate ?

-No !

Alexander Waverly had yelled. Mark Slate froze on the spot. Simmons giggled...

-Oh, Alexander, man is a reasoning animal, eventually...