Chapter 4.

Here is the updated design for Maxime Drancy (just remove the ""): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"kck6wvL

Unknown location, Wilfred's p.o.v.

Wilfred quickly checked Drancy's pulse again, he could tell that this episode was particularly bad. The French agent was staring at him with wide eyes as he struggled to breathe. Wilfred smiled as he noticed that Drancy was weakly reaching for him with his right hand. He gently caught the agent's wrist and laid his arm back down on the floor.

"Hold on, Maxime. Just a little longer...", he whispered in Drancy's ear before he jumped to his feet and rushed to the door. He started banging on it and calling for the guard he knew was standing just outside the room. He heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened. The guard immediately pointed his gun at him.

"Get Monroe, the prisoner is dying!"

The man stared at him, obviously confused and suspicious.

Make an effort, my little friend...

"Your superiors clearly stated that they wanted this prisoner to stay alive!", he continued urgently, pointing at Drancy. "If he dies, it's on you."

"What's wrong with him?", the guard asked, glancing at Drancy.

"Heart arrhythmia... Look, just tell Monroe something's wrong with his heart, he'll know what to do. And hurry!"

The guard seemed to hesitate for a few more seconds, then he finally rushed out of the room. Wilfred's eyes shifted back to Drancy. Hopefully, the agent would stay alive long enough. Fortunately, he did not have to wait long. Just a few minutes later, the guard was back with Monroe who was pushing a cart with a portable defibrillator on it. The doctor's face was flushed, probably with both anger and exertion.

"What the hell, Wilfred?! They said they still needed Drancy alive!", Monroe exclaimed as he crouched down to check on Drancy.

"He was fine during the torture sessions...I may have gone a little too far..."

"A little too far?!". His fellow doctor stood up and gestured at Réant's dead body, still tied to the chair. "What the hell were you thinking, killing Réant right in front of him..."

Relax, Monroe, you'll give yourself a heart attack...

"Cuff him, and if he does anything suspicious, blast him.", Monroe said, addressing the guard who was still standing near the door.

Wilfred stepped back and let the guard cuff him while his colleague got the defibrillator ready. He was not worried, Monroe was the best person for the task. He had taken care of Drancy while the French agent was recovering from his bullet wound, he would know exactly what to do to fix his heart.

And to fix my little problem...

He waited a few more seconds, then he slipped his left hand out of the handcuffs, reached behind his back with his other hand, pulled out the same knife he had used to stab Réant's heart, and thrust it into the guard's throat before the man could even react, then he brutally twisted the blade in the wound and jerked it out. Alerted by the sudden noise, Monroe turned around and the look of surprise on his face suddenly turned into one of pain as Wilfred delivered a devastating punch to his gut. The doctor doubled over and Wilfred seized the opportunity to pull him close and snap his neck. Wasting no time, he rushed to the door and used the dead guard's key to lock it, then darted back to the center of the room. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it off, and starting feeling his ribcage, pressing hard with his fingers in hopes of pinpointing the right spot. But to no avail. Of course, he was reluctant to shock his heart. Shocking a healthy heart was never a good idea. But if he really wanted this to work, there was no way around it. It would hurt. But that wasn't much of an issue. There was also a possibility that it might kill him. That would be slightly more problematic. No way around it. And no time to waste. He checked the energy level on the defibrillator, quickly grabbed the paddles, stepped over Drancy's body – who, surprisingly, was still conscious – and sat down, his back against the wall.

Here goes...

MI6 building, Solo's p.o.v.

"So, apart from the fact that Solo is still popular with the ladies, we haven't learnt much, have we?"

"No, Sir. It's a shame that after all that hard work, someone went ahead and shot Harlow dead before we could learn more."

Napoleon glanced at Wolf just in time to catch the French agent's furious glare.

Waverly gave him a polite smile.

"At least you're alive, Solo."

Napoleon was about to retort but the look in his handler's eyes made him reconsider. Waverly was obviously not in the mood for their bickering.

"Do you think that what happened at your apartment could have something to do with the investigation?", Gaby suddenly asked, providing a welcome change of subject.

"It's hard to tell, Miss Teller. But considering everything that has happened since the beginning of this investigation, I would not be surprised if it were the case."

"Did they steal anything?" Now it was Wolf's turn to ask questions, the fact that Waverly's apartment had been broken into was apparently more interesting to him than the actual investigation.

Waverly stared at the French agent for a few seconds before he answered.

"Well, they did make quite a mess but nothing was stolen. Whoever did this obviously didn't find what they were looking for."

"Do you have any idea of what that might have been, Sir?"

"Not the faintest idea, Solo."

They all just sat in silence for a short while. Napoleon was convinced that the break-in at Waverly's apartment had something to do with the organization. Since the beginning of the investigation, he had witnessed too many odd coincidences which had turned out to not be coincidences at all. The organization was planning something and it was extremely unfortunate that they had not been able to get information from Celia Harlow.

"So, what are we going to do next, Sir."

"We keep trying. Every single name on the list. And Mr Briac, while I appreciate the fact that you saved one of my agents, I suggest that you refrain from killing any more members of the organization, at least until we manage to extract some useful information."

Napoleon saw Wolf nod in his peripheral vision. Waverly had used a neutral tone but Napoleon could tell that their handler was definitely not happy about the outcome of their mission. More than simply disappointed or frustrated, Waverly seemed on edge, preoccupied.

"There is one more thing I need to tell you."

Here it is...

"Apparently, Kuryakin's mission in Russia didn't go as well as expected. Kuryakin's handler was quite reluctant to give me details but it seems that they lost contact with the team two weeks ago."

"So we don't know where Illya is."

"Or if he's still alive..."

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Miss Teller. Kuryakin might have been forced to go into hiding. His handler did not seem too worried. "

"I very much doubt that Illya's handler cares if he lives or dies, Sir."

Waverly sighed.

"Unfortunately, there is not much we can do, Solo. The mission is your priority. I'll keep you and Miss Teller informed as soon as I know more."

Waverly's reassuring tone was just a facade, Napoleon could tell that his boss was concerned about the Russian. Illya had barely recovered from their previous mission before he had been sent on his assignment in Russia and, even though Napoleon knew that he could take care of himself, there was a very real possibility that something bad might have happened to his partner.

Please be okay, Peril, I would hate to have Wolf as your permanent replacement...

Of course, Wolf had lost interest the moment Waverly had mentioned Illya. The French agent was ostensibly leafing through a mission report, lightly tapping his fingers on the table. He obviously thought that the conversation was a waste of his time. Napoleon's eyes lingered on the fresh bandage on the side of the agent's neck.

Just one inch farther to the left...

He sighed inwardly and turned his gaze to Gaby. She, on the other hand, looked as worried as he felt. Unfortunately, Waverly was right. There was not much that they could do for Illya at the moment, except have faith in his stubborn Russian survival skills.

Unknown location, Illya's p.o.v.

"Do you play chess, Kuryakin?"

Illya did not answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the man who was pacing around the room. Cordier. He had initially been thoroughly confused when, after a long, very uncomfortable trip, his captors had brought him to this room and he had found himself face to face with the Frenchman. But then it had all started to make sense. Cordier was part of the organization. No wonder the enemy had been one step ahead the whole time. They had probably been watching Drancy and had used him to get information about the mission. And Cordier had probably not been trying to save Asher... It was now obvious that Cordier rescuing them had been damage control. Maybe Asher had somehow discovered that the French were involved and Cordier had been trying to cover his tracks. Or maybe he had simply killed him for fun. Because he knew he would get away with it. The bastard had watched Illya desperately try to revive Asher, knowing perfectly well that the young agent was already dead. Cordier had even comforted him... Needless to say that without the guards holding him at gunpoint, Illya would have destroyed Cordier immediately. Even with the guards holding him at gunpoint he was still tempted to do it... He needed answers first, though. Why had Cordier sent men all the way to Russia to capture him? Why go through all this trouble just to kill him? Maybe he had also sent someone after Cowboy and Gaby...

"Does your friend play?"

The sound of Cordier's voice interrupted Illya's train of thoughts and he exchanged a confused glance with the only survivor of his Russian team who was standing next to him. Cordier had stopped pacing in front of a desk, and was pulling something out of one of the drawers. Illya immediately recognized the object. It was a wooden folding chess box. Cordier opened it and started setting up the chess board. Once he had finished arranging the pieces, the Frenchman nodded to one of the guards who pushed the Russian agent toward the desk and forced him to sit down on a chair opposite Cordier.

"You and I are going to play a little game, mon garçon / son"

The Frenchman's pleasant smile was not fooling anyone. Illya had noticed the sadistic glint in his eyes and he suspected that this would not be a simple game of chess.

"Relax, it's just a game, you know. Nothing more than a game...", Cordier said, as if he had read Illya's mind. "White goes first.", he added, pointing at the Russian agent's side of the board.

They started playing and, despite himself, Illya soon found himself absorbed in the game. Cordier was an excellent player. His unfortunate teammate, not so much. One by one the white pieces were falling as the Frenchman strategically moved his own pieces across the board until...

Checkmate...

"Échec et mat. / Checkmate. You're not very good at this game, are you, mon garçon?"

The Russian agent did not answer but he shot a furtive glance at Illya. They both had a pretty good idea of what was coming, and they also knew that neither of them could do anything about it.

"Don't beat yourself up, I'm sure you would have been able to improve, if you had enough time left to live.", Cordier paused to let the words sink in. " However", he continued, "because you are just a beginner, I am ready to give you another chance. I'm not going to kill you yet."

Another pause, and this time the Frenchman did not even bother to hide his sadistic smile.

"I think we'll just harvest a body part, this time. Maybe...one of your ears.", Cordier finally said, pointing at the missing lobe of his own right ear. "I've heard that it's a popular torture method in the KGB...", he added, his smile suddenly disappearing.

Illya cursed inwardly. No wonder Cordier seemed to hate Russians so much, if he had been tortured by KGB agents... Too bad they had not finished the job. He watched helplessly as two of the guards stepped closer to the other agent. One of them started pulling a large knife out of his leg sheath.

"Non! Pas ici.", Cordier intervened. "Je n'ai pas envie de voir ça. Mais fais-le bien souffrir." / "No! Not here. I don't want to watch this. But make him suffer."

The two guards dragged Illya's poor teammate out the room and he was left alone with the remaining guard and Cordier.

"Surely you must be a better player than your colleague, Kuryakin."

The Frenchman was staring at him, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Let's play one game together, shall we?"

The only guard left in the room pressed his gun against Illya's back and grabbed him by the arm. Illya angrily jerked his arm out of the man's grip and went to sit down on the now vacant chair in front of Cordier. There was little else he could do in his situation, anyway, apart from trying to stay alive, keep both of his ears, and gather as much information as possible. At least with chess he stood a chance. Good thing Cordier was not a professional tap dancer...

"That's the spirit, mon garçon! I can tell you're more confident than my previous opponent. I'm glad, I haven't played a good game of chess in a really long time. You might even win. If you lose, though, eh bien... /well... let's just say that my earlobe is not the only body part I'm missing. White goes first."

Cordier's words echoed in Illya's mind and his heart started pounding as he slowly reached for a pawn to make the first move...

MI6 building, Waverly's p.o.v.

Waverly picked up the mission report on the table and stood up. The meeting had ended about twenty minutes before and his agents and Briac had already left. He was in no hurry to leave. He was not going back to his apartment, anyway. He would probably stay in his office for the night. He had some work to do, he needed to prepare an account of what had been said for Devanne and Cordier, who had not been able to attend the meeting. He also had a lot to think about. Although he had pretended otherwise, he had a pretty good idea of who the people who had broken into his apartment were. And he knew exactly what they had been looking for. Of course they had not found it. It was in a safe place. For now. He had decided that he would keep this information to himself until he could find out more. He was fairly certain that Solo and Miss Teller were not secretly members of the organization, but he was reluctant to share too much information with Loup Briac. He did not know much about the French agent apart from what he had read in his file and, if they had learnt anything from the Blake incident, it was that an impeccable file was hardly a guarantee. Besides, some things about the events which had led to Maxime's death were still bothering him. Everything seemed to indicate that Maxime's sloppiness had allowed the organization to track him and use him to get information on the mission. But Maxime was not sloppy. He just wasn't. And then there was the medallion – which had turned out to be a locket, sealed by a thin layer of gold – and what he had found inside. All this time, Maxime had managed to hide it from both the organization and his friend. That was not sloppy. That was the opposite of sloppy. Had Maxime been a member of the organization all along? No, not Max. There had to be another explanation... But if he had not been involved, how had the contents of the locket come into his possession? Why was it so important? And why had he been hiding it from the organization?

What were you trying to protect, Max?...

Waverly sighed wearily, no matter how much he wanted to, he simply could not rule out the possibility that Maxime had been working with the organization. And if it had indeed been the case, maybe he was not the only corrupted DST agent. At least he was almost certain that Cordier was on his side. The man has saved his agents. And more importantly, Cordier was the one who had given him the medallion after Maxime's death. Considering how bad the organization seemed to want it, it didn't make sense for one of their members to simply give it to him... Still, he would have to be extremely careful when dealing with the French... and with pretty much everyone else.

End of chapter 4.