Chapter 4

Solo finally reached the top of the hill and laid there until the pinball machine in his head came out of full tilt. He stood with effort and started walking. His unsteady gait nearly had him falling down the embankment again several times, but he avoided that only because of his staunch determination to rescue his partner. He would crawl naked through fire and over broken glass to get to Illya, so this was a piece of cake.

As the west perimeter rounded to become the south perimeter, Napoleon found a slightly overgrown trail that wound through trees and high bushes that would give him good cover. He took his time so he could spot any traps.

He finally got to one of the out buildings—the smithy most likely. He waved his communicator from one side to the other slowly until he was sure where the signal from Illya's transmitter was strongest. Of course, there was no guarantee Illya and his communicator were even in the same building. Furious with himself for this pessimistic burst, Solo took a few calming breaths.

Several stealthy moves toward it brought him to the mansion, where he hid in a hedge of mature spicebushes at its rear. It took him a few minutes to realize he needed to go higher if he wanted to see anything useful. And the answer stood, all green and brown and majestic, between the hedgerow and the house.

He hated climbing trees. He could do it, almost as good as Illya, who he thought was part monkey, but hated it nonetheless. Plus, he had the handicap of a concussion. He took a few moments to psyche himself up for climbing the oak tree. Just take it slow, pal.

He was lucky that this tree had many sturdy branches close together, perfect for an amateur climber—and for one with faulty vision and a swimming head. Finally, he reached an acceptable height with an accommodating break in the greenery. He sat and held on tightly to a nearby branch as if his life depended on it, which it did.

It didn't take long for him to conclude that extricating Illya wouldn't be simple or straightforward, what with ten guards in constant motion around the mansion, surveying the grounds. He was lucky he had gotten this far without detection. He spotted only one person who was wearing a white lab coat and talking to the only guard standing still. He could see no other way of taking them out than by shooting them from where he was.

Okay, Lady Luck, we're up. Illya and the world needs us. He squeezed his eyes closed then opened them, repeating this pattern until his vision improved somewhat. He willed the vertigo to at least slow down, which of course it didn't. He took a deep, centering breath and began firing.

To his punch-drunk astonishment, every sleep dart hit home. As the non-tranquilized guards reached the back on their rounds, he was able to shoot them before they could raise an alarm.

The climb down was harrowing as his vertigo increased and his vision fuzzed more. By the time he touched ground, he was shaking from fatigue and dread. It felt as if he was aboard his sloop in rough, heavy seas. He vomited this time, bile burning his throat even after he was done.

Gamely, he wiped his wet forehead with a sleeve and started for the mansion's rear door. He passed through the summer kitchen to enter the mansion itself.

Again, he was lucky. No one was in the indoor kitchen and he heard no one close by. He checked his tracker again. The signal was definitely stronger and coming from his right. He clipped the transceiver under his lapel to muffle the sound. Hopefully only he would hear it.

Creeping along as quietly as he could, using whatever wall was convenient to help keep him upright, Napoleon advanced, noting the increasing signal telling him Illya was close.

Out of nowhere, a guard opened a door and stepped into the hall a few feet in front of the UNCLE agent. He was in the process of zipping up his jumpsuit when the sleep dart pierced his neck.

Napoleon, brain whirling like a dervish, helped the man to the floor for a quieter landing. For a second or two, he thought he might join the THRUSH but some deep breaths and closed eyes kept that from happening. He took several more deep breaths to prepare him for his next task—dragging the sleeping THRUSHman into the bathroom.

"You should be more careful. Most accidents in the satrapy occur in the bathroom," he said as he painstakingly curled the unconscious man around the toilet. That done, he took a few moments to rinse out the vileness in his mouth with warm water from the faucet. He wanted to drink, but he doubted his stomach would appreciate it.

Solo resumed his search. He passed several rooms with open doors. A fast peek around the jambs informed him each room was empty. Nevertheless, he proceeded with near-silent care.

He noticed a subtle decrease in the signal from Illya's communicator. Experimenting, he took a few steps back; the signal grew stronger. But there was nothing on this floor.

Then it hit him: nothing on this floor. He unclipped his transceiver and raised it above his head. The signal faded ever so slightly. Next, he lowered it toward the floor. The signal became stronger.

Basement! Now to find the door and staircase to take him to the lower level. Who knew how long that would take. He wracked his brain to come up with faster alternatives when he recalled a dumbwaiter in the indoor kitchen. He ran back the way he came.

In the kitchen, he went straight for the dumbwaiter, its doors open. It was fortunate that it now ran on electricity. A look at the bottom assured him it went down to his ultimate destination—Illya.

He holstered his weapon then squeezed into the small chamber. His head swam from the effort. Once it settled, he pressed the down button, hoping it would take his weight. He crossed his fingers as the frame descended, hoping it would land him near Illya.

He was almost at the bottom when he heard an agonized, terror-filled scream that invaded his being like a poisonous boa constrictor determined to strangle all hope from him.

Too late? he thought, wallowing in his own newfound agony, as he, pistol already back in his hand, bounded from the frame. He ran, unsteady but purposeful, to the sound that still echoed in his entire body.