Chapter Seven: Despair and Hope

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

Alexander Waverly sat alone in his office with his thoughts. He had seen Illya briefly the previous evening before they had known the full extent of his injuries. Today he had accompanied the specialists to the medical section and stood while they examined half of his top partnership. A vital half, a half that he needed—no, he corrected himself, that U.N.C.L.E. needed back to full fitness.

Waverly had exchanged barely half a dozen words with Illya but he had accurately read the young man's despair. Thornton's experts had done nothing to lift the mood and the U.N.C.L.E. chief had struggled to hide his irritation at the way they had treated their patient as little more than a textbook problem, standing either side of Illya and arguing amongst themselves. As he stood at the foot of the bed, he had met Illya's eyes and had glimpsed the naked wretchedness therein. While the doctors were quarrelling, the silent conversation between the agent and his superior went on.

Now, he sat and contemplated the next step. Even without the full use of his hands, Kuryakin could still be of enormous use to U.N.C.L.E.. Waverly had already thought about employing his knowledge of languages as a code breaker or his scientific talent in the research labs. However, even though he did not think Illya would object to working out of the field, he could not see the proud, self-sufficient Russian asking for what he would perceive as charity. That meant at work and at home.

He knew that he must act quickly. Illya's pessimistic nature would doubtless be working on the worst case scenario. Sending Solo out on assignment had been a stalling tactic. He knew instinctively that Kuryakin would not do anything foolish without speaking to his partner. Waverly wanted to make sure that he did not do anything foolish at all.

The day had passed strangely for Napoleon. He had had little success making contact with the Countess: she had missed her morning archery lesson and at the afternoon's classical music recital, she had been moved to tears by the performance and had rushed out of the hall and away before he could approach her. He had been slow there, he conceded. He should have been ready with a large handkerchief and soothing words but he was working on autopilot: his mind was most definitely elsewhere.

Now he was back at U.N.C.L.E. HQ and as quickly as he could, he made his way to Medical. Illya was waiting for him.

"Well?"

"Not very."

"What did they say?"

"McCormick suggested grafting new tendons into my hands."

"That sounds promising."

"It's experimental surgery. He's looking for a guinea-fowl."

"Guinea-pig," Napoleon absently corrected. "What about Delamare?"

In answer, Illya nodded towards the bedside cabinet. Napoleon picked up the prosthetic hand that laid there.

"He wants to amputate my hands and fit me with two of those."

"Christ, no. Damn it, Illya, there must be something else we can do."

His partner lay silent for a moment, then apparently made up his mind and began to speak.

"Actually, there is. It's something Carlotta whispered to me before she left. She said I would need the help of a good friend and I think she had you in mind."

"Anything, you know that."

Illya took a deep breath. He'd been preparing this speech for most of the day. "I'm willing to let them try to repair my hands but if they can't do anything, Napoleon…I can't imagine a life without independence and freedom not after the life I've led…I want you to promise me that if that's the case, you'll—"

"No!"

"Napoleon, I am resolute on this."

"There is no way on earth I will help you!" Napoleon shouted the words with a real venom.

"My friend, you are the only one I can ask this of…the only one I trust—"

"Hell can freeze over first." Turning on his heel, Napoleon stalked out of the medical section, his face like thunder.

Illya sighed and laid back against the bank of pillows. It had gone pretty much as he expected.

"So tell me, is he contemplating suicide yet?"

Napoleon whipped round in his hallway and saw a woman matching Carlotta Merrick's description leaning against a neighbor's door.

"I just wondered how far gone he w—"

She stopped as Napoleon covered the ground between them at lightning speed and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Unable to speak, she clawed at his hands as they squeezed the life-breath out of her. Eyes wide, she saw death in the man's face and knew that she would not have the chance to talk.

For his part, Napoleon had switched into killer mode—no charm, no distractions, just the simple task of dispatching this woman who had harmed his partner.

From a distance he heard the sound of a safety-catch being disengaged but it took the pressure of a gun muzzle against his forehead before he let go of her and she dropped in an undignified heap on the floor.

Getting to her feet, rubbing her throat where she could picture the dark bruises forming, Carlotta nodded her thanks to her helper.

"I came to deliver a message," she croaked.

Napoleon cocked his head on one side, seemingly listening but in fact sizing up the opportunity of wresting the gun away from its owner. Carlotta's next words however held his attention.

"I can arrange for Dr. Lander to reverse the operation he carried out."

"Why would you?"

"I have my reasons."

Napoleon considered. "And what do you want from me in return?"

Carlotta smiled and leaned back against the wall, her former composure regained.

"And they said Kuryakin was the brains of the operation."