Edmund Richter, microbiologist extraordinaire and newly recruited THRUSH operative, shifted in his seat uncomfortably, attempting to ease the stiffness of his cramped muscles. Having been apprehended by U.N.C.L.E. agents several hours earlier, he was currently bound, hand and foot, to a hard, metal chair, awaiting inquisition. In direct contrast to the elaborate interrogation rooms at THRUSH Central, which boasted a truly remarkable number of sadistic devices, the chamber in which he found himself was totally devoid of all appurtenances, containing only the cold chair to which he was bound, a leather razor strap that dangled from a nail on the wall, and a single, dim light bulb that hung from the ceiling.
To say that he was scared, or even nervous, would have been doing him a disservice. He was more bored than anything. So far, the unfortunate situation in which he found himself, though tedious, hardly inspired fear. The agent who captured him - Solo, he heard someone call him - had done nothing more than shoot him with a tranquilizer; and even the old man, whom, Richter presumed, was the head honcho of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York division, hadn't done more than dispense the routine threats. And the other one - the petite Russian with the absurd glasses, who lurked in the corner - had cracked his knuckles ostentatiously when told he'd be in charge of interrogating the prisoner; but he was so...well...dainty, that the implied threat was merely comical.
No, to say that Edmund Richter was scared would not have been accurate at all. He had little confidence in the competence or ruthlessness of his enemies. Already he was mentally composing his report for when he effected his escape, and returned to THRUSH. Central.
The door to the tiny room opened, interrupting the scientist's thoughts, and the slight Russian entered, closing and locking the door behind him. "I am Illya Kuryakin," he announced. His accent was thick, but his English was precise and impeccable. "I don't believe in wasting time, so we'll get right to business. Your name, rank, and serial number?"
Richter stared at him, thoroughly nonplussed. This bantam buffoon was the one U.N.C.L.E. sent to interrogate him? It was almost insulting.
Kuryakin's lip curled in what might have been a half smile or a sneer. "It was a joke." He removed his suit jacket, laying it on the floor and rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down. "Relaxing beforehand helps to mitigate the pain - or so they tell me."
"So I'm to believe you're going to torture me?" Richter snorted. "I thought you U.N.C.L.E. pansies were above such things."
Kuryakin gazed at him steadily, his face inscrutable behind the dark glasses.
"It is a cold world we live in, Mr. Richter," he said. His voice was soft, smooth, and deadly, like a viper slithering across silk. "Good and evil may be black and white, but the grey area remains, in the form of the age-old question - do the ends justify the means?" He withdrew from his pocket a straight razor and walked over to the razor strap, taking it in his hand and methodically running the blade over the smooth leather. "And within that question, or the answer to that question, lies the distinction between good and evil. And the answer to that question is, 'What are the ends'? For you, world domination, or destruction. For us, it is to save the world. And to that end, yes, we will stoop to the crudeness of torture, and still retain our claim to the moral high ground. It is a cold sort of ethicality...but in our case," he ceased sharpening the razor and turned back towards his prisoner, running his thumb along the edge of the blade, "yes, the ends justify the means."
Richter swallowed once or twice, his eyes fixed on the straight razor, and the blood that blossomed on Kuryakin's thumb as he brushed it lightly across the keen edge. He was feeling considerably less secure now, and he swallowed again before he spoke; though, to his credit, his voice did not quite tremble.
"A pretty speech, to be sure. But I'm afraid you're wasting your time; I - like you, doubtless - have been conditioned against torture; especially such rudimentary tactics as you appear to be about to employ." He just managed a convincing sneer. "You'll get nothing from me." Kuryakin smiled.
"THRUSH has programmed you well. I believe I shall enjoy breaking you, you sad little pawn."
An irrational flare of anger coursed through the prisoner at the callous insult, and he strained suddenly against his bonds, as if trying to reach the enemy that stood so coolly before him. "And what are you, Mr. Kuryakin, but a pawn for U.N.C.L.E.?" he blazed. "You will never break me!"
Kuryakin said nothing for a moment, merely standing and gazing at him from behind the dark glasses. Then he removed them, folding them neatly and tucking them in his breast pocket; and Richter, meeting his eyes for the first time, stopped struggling, and felt a small shiver of genuine fear slip down his spine. The Russian's eyes were cold, standing out in his pale face like two chips of blue ice; and the small smile that curled across his lips was colder still. Looking at him now, with his eyes unmasked by the glasses, Richter knew - whatever U.N.C.L.E.'s claim to ethicality might be, here was a man that would kill him, and kill him without a second thought. The realization chilled the captive THRUSH agent, and Kuryakin's words, when he spoke, chilled him still more.
"Of course I am a pawn." His voice was still soft and even, possessing an almost hypnotic quality. "We are all pawns, fighting for an intangible ideal; vying for a victory that is nothing more than an illusion; and waging an endless war, in which neither side can prevail. I, an agent for the forces of good, am forever locked in an interminable battle against evil, a battle I cannot win; for as long as man exists on the face of the earth, evil will exist also. Look at us, here, now; consider the depths to which we stoop, and the pain we willingly inflict on others, to get what we want from them. Is evil not the innate nature of mankind? It cannot be stamped out, nor held at bay forever. And so here I am, a pawn, a mere foot soldier in a war I cannot win.
"And you, a THRUSH fledgling, strive for power, for control; but it, too, is a futile endeavor. True power comes only when every living being is subject to your supremacy; when all life bows before your preponderate rule. But that will never happen, for there will always, always be someone, somewhere, to oppose you. Someone will rise up against you; there will always be an insurgence for you to fight to suppress. And so you see, in the end, it is a useless struggle. Absolute power is an intangible daydream, that can never be attained."
He walked slowly across the room, and very deliberately placed the cold edge of the straight razor against Richter's neck.
"Now tell me, Mr. Richter...are you afraid to die?"
The scientist swallowed hard, feeling a trickle of blood run down his neck as the slight movement caused the finely honed blade to nick his skin. "I will gladly die for my cause-" he began; the Russian cut him off.
"Of course you will. It is in your programming." He withdrew the blade, twirling it skillfully between his fingers. Richter caught himself staring at it, mesmerized, and forced himself to look away. "You have convinced yourself, at others' urging, that to die for THRUSH would be your greatest honor; that as long as you perish in the line of duty, your death is not without cause. I've no doubt you are glad to give your life for your objective. I asked, Mr. Richter, if you are afraid to die."
Kuryakin stared at his prisoner for a moment through half-closed eyes, still slowly twirling the straight razor. Sweat broke out on the scientist's forehead. He opened his mouth, but no words were forthcoming, and the Russian continued, as though he expected no answer anyway.
"Undoubtedly, you are. All men are. Death is inevitable, and so is the fear of it. The innate will to live is ingrained in us; we seek, every day, to prolong our lives, and delay the ineluctable fact of death. We eat when we are hungry, we sleep when we are weary, we seek shelter and warmth when it is needed - why? Because survival is our instinct. Because the inherent will to live wars against the inevitability of death, denying, to the very end, the mortality of mankind.
"Now here you are, Mr. Richter, staring death in the face, and I would dare to swear that you are frightened. You have sustained yourself, to this point, with the thought that your death would not be in vain, that you will protect the secrets of your organization for your confreres to continue your mutual work; but it is not enough to negate the fear. It is not enough to keep you from counting every heartbeat, and treasuring every breath, now that you're faced with the reality of breathing your last."
Richter's eyes were wide, and sweat ran freely down his temples. He felt as though the small, slender man had taken hold of his mind and turned it inside out, exposing the fears and weaknesses that he had suppressed for years. He tried desperately to think, to distract himself, and shut out the words of his tormentor; but there was no escaping it.
The Russian's voice continued, soft, level, and implacable.
"And now there is the fear that you will die in vain; for you see the futility of the battle for which you so willingly give your life. You understand, now, that you cannot win - THRUSH cannot win - and our two sides will be locked in a ceaseless struggle, 'til the end of the world itself; a struggle in which there can be no victory, and from which there is no escape. You see it, you understand it; and you know now that, if you die here, it will be for nothing."
The Russian leaned forward, his teeth bared in a smile that was horrifying in its ferocity. He placed the razor against the other man's jugular, and prepared to cut his throat; his voice, when he spoke, was a low snarl.
"I see it in your eyes, Mr. Richter. You are terrified to die."