Chapter Five: Rescue

Cross-referencing the car, Lander and an address had been a matter of moments. Napoleon had grabbed an agent as back-up and hared off to the modern office block in Midtown where Lander's clinic was housed.

All the lights were off but he was not ready to accept that no one was home. Napoleon checked his watch—after office hours: well, he wasn't waiting till the morning. Ignoring the look of disbelief on his back-up's face, he deliberately broke and entered. In the distance he registered an alarm sounding. Closer to hand, he made it silently through the entrance lobby and into the suite of consultation rooms.

After checking the ground and second floor, they climbed the stairs to the third aware that every second counted. Three of the rooms were empty offices; the fourth door was locked. Napoleon crashed through it, gun in hand, ready to take on whoever and whatever he found.

It seemed a bit of an anticlimax when he saw Illya, under a spotlight sitting quietly in a chair, his legs and chest strapped in. He seemed uninjured, if a little pale and Napoleon's heart leapt at the sight. A smile broke out on his face and his pulse gradually started to slow. This was so much better than he had imagined.

He holstered his gun, flicked on the main light switch and walked casually over to his partner. Idly, he noted that the straps over Illya's arms had been undone and he frowned. Something was not right with this picture. Why hadn't Illya freed himself?

"Syringe here, Mr. Solo," said the agent who had entered the room after him.

That was it. Illya had been drugged. Napoleon started smiling again and undid the heavy buckles.

"Don't worry, partner, the cavalry's arrived." He started to help Illya out of the chair.

"I am perfectly capable of walking." Illya's voice startled him with its monotone defiance. Napoleon backed off, hands in the air. Illya stood up and took a couple of steps but the hours he had spent in the chair had taken their toll. Unable to keep his footing, he fell forward and Napoleon caught him.

"Just take it easy, Illya," he reassured him. "You're in safe hands."

His partner shot him a hollow look in answer which Napoleon would have challenged but for the presence of the other U.N.C.L.E. agent and the desire to get Illya out of there.

Thornton, the chief medical officer, was speaking.

"Superficially, he's in much better shape than he normally is when he reaches us. There's evidence of a blow to the base of the skull, a minor cut or bite on his lip that I don't think was self-inflicted and an abrasion on his shoulder. His muscles are stiff from the confinement and he may be hungry and thirsty but I would hardly call him malnourished or seriously dehydrated. Blood tests show traces of a paralysis drug. There's a few anomalies—we're continuing to check."

Napoleon saw Mr. Waverly nodding and he shifted restlessly in his chair. Something was very, very wrong with Illya. He had feigned unconsciousness on the way back to HQ and said no more than two words to Napoleon after his arrival. More unusually, he hadn't protested once when the medical staff had undressed him and put him to bed. A little hurt and very much confused by Illya's behavior, Napoleon had left him lying, staring at the ceiling.

"We can address all that." Thornton turned to face them. "What's concerning me is his refusal to tell us what happened. Illya isn't talking. Not to me, anyway."

The last words were laden with meaning and Mr. Waverly nodded at Napoleon. "Go and find out, Mr. Solo. Don't come back until you know."

Illya's eyes were still fixed resolutely on the ceiling when his partner entered the medical section. "Go away, Napoleon," he warned.

Napoleon ignored him and moved closer to his friend, perching on his bed. "Would you rather talk to Mr. Waverly?" He left the thought hanging in the air.

It had the desired effect. Illya's gaze flickered and came to rest on his partner's face. "I don't want to discuss it."

"Obviously. But you need to. And you know you need to." Napoleon cocked his head on one side. "Come on, Illya, talk to me," he coaxed.

"Napoleon…" Illya closed his eyes. "Don't…"

"Don't what? Don't make you?" Napoleon could feel himself getting angry. Whatever Illya had gone through, he wanted to put it right but he couldn't unless the stubborn mule he called a partner opened up. "Illya, I only want to—"

"Help. I know." And still he lay there, eyes closed, unmoving.

Sympathy wasn't working: time for another tactic. Napoleon stopped biting down on his anger and let rip. "Illya, I've seen you in here after you've been whipped, electrocuted, beaten to a pulp, drugged out of your mind…you've lain here half-incinerated with nearly every bone in your body broken and on more than one occasion, I've sat at your side willing you back from certain death."

He was into his stride. "Now, I've spent what seems to be one of the longest days of my life picturing you dead or worse. When we learned Lander was involved, I thought I was going to find you minus your legs. Instead you're practically unscathed and you're ten times worse than the cheery little patient you normally are when rescued."

He took a deep breath before continuing: "Where's your fight? What happened that was so bad you lost your nerve?"

Haunted blue eyes looked up at him and Napoleon brought the weight of their friendship to bear as he returned the stare. Again, it had the desired effect.

"She took my hands." It was little more than a whisper.

Napoleon felt himself staring stupidly down at Illya's two hands lying motionless on top of the blanket.

"She what?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Who she?"

Illya was silent, not trusting himself to speak and then began a dispassionate monologue accounting for his time spent at Carlotta's pleasure. His voice shook a little as he started to relive the nightmare.

As Lander operated, Carlotta kept Illya's head turned towards her, her eyes on his. She spoke softly, irresistibly, with the insane logic that more than anything else marked her as her father's daughter.

"It's very simple. The fingers comprise bone, nerves, blood vessels, and tendons. There are two sets of tendons in each finger: the flexors, which allow the fingers to bend in to the palm of the hand, and the extensors, which, as their name suggests, allow the fingers to stretch out, away from the palm. Dr. Lander is currently severing all the tendons in your fingers. Don't worry, he'll make a very neat job. You won't be able to tell from the outside that your beautiful hands are useless."

She had then undone the leather straps holding his arms in place; with the drug in his system, they were unnecessary.

"Think, Mr. Kuryakin. After Dr. Lander has finished, you won't be able to hold a gun, throw a knife, hit anyone…no more chess or poker…no more music…you'll need help to dress, to wash, to feed yourself, clean yourself… What use do you think you'll be to U.N.C.L.E. then?"

Licking her lips, she had leaned in and whispered the coup de grace.

Napoleon held his emotion in check with difficulty as he dragged the tale out of his unwilling partner.

"Then she—they left me there." He repressed a shudder at the memory of the farewell kiss Carlotta had forced on him. "The drug wore off. I couldn't move my fingers." Illya turned his face away. "I can't move my fingers."

Napoleon reached forward and pulled Illya into an embrace. The Russian's stiff body relaxed slightly as Napoleon held him. He would not, could not ask for comfort but neither could he refuse it when it was offered. The trauma of the day washed over him and he started to shake. Napoleon rocked him gently till he stopped. "Enough," he whispered. "Sleep now."