A partner... Alexander Waverly couldn't help admiring the young man's impassiveness. Having a partner, the Russian was not used to that, obviously. In Russia, he probably had fellow agents, no partner. Of course, no partner for a Russian agent, neither at the Survival School, thanks to Jules Cutter, nor in the London Uncle HQ, thanks to Harry Beldon. Working with someone, at his side, trusting him, believing that the other man could trust you would be something quite new. Something he would have to cope with... But it would work. Waverly believed it, he knew it for sure. From the outside perspective, Napoleon Solo looked like to be a good-natured man, nice, easy-going, though self sufficient; he was an efficient agent, a brilliant one. And an excellent CEA, too. But Waverly knew men. Napoleon Solo never let anything out. He never asked, never complained. When he did, it was obviously a joke. Whatever happened, whatever touched him, he kept it inside. He was an excellent agent, but he lacked something. Someone. A partner. Someone he would have to trust, though he was a stranger, though he was a Russian. Illya Kuryakin would be the perfect match. It would work. The Section 1, number 1 frowned: it would work if only Napoleon Solo reappeared.

The wharehouse was empty and deserted. Worse. It had been empty and deserted for a long time. The senior agent had sent the others outside, in order to look for some traces.

Napoleon Solo was inside the warehouse. He should have been inside. He wasn't anymore. The agent who had reported to him was puzzled. They had looked for the CEA, in vain. As Waverly had harrumphed, the young man had hissed, shyly, that they just had obeyed Napoleon Solo's orders. Waverly had barked.

-Stay there, look around!

The receptionist smiled at him, giving him his ID. Illya Kuryakin smiled back, thoughtfully. It was very unusual. People, there, saw him, acknowledged him. Bob Milton, the tailor, Del Floria, and now, this young woman. They saw him, and they acted... friendly. Normally.

-Mr Waverly is waiting for you, Mr Kuryakin.

And she pointed at the corridor with her chin, still smiling. Really strange, he thought, as he made his way to Waverly's office.

If he moved, he would get more tired. More tired? Was that possible? Anyway, he couldn't move. Napoleon Solo decided that opening his eyes, however, would be worth the effort. Even this was exhausting. Where were the others? Why had they let him sleep here, like that? The warehouse was very dark. But it was not the warehouse. Smaller, it was smaller, a sort of basement room, hardly lit. Exhaustion hit him again, but he had to get up. Clenching his jaws, closing his eyes again, he sat straight. A persistent headache made him feeling dizzy, and his vision was blurred. Where was he? He remembered the warehouse. He had been looking for ... For something. He remembered that unpleasant exhaustion. He had fallen asleep, and now... Now, what? The Uncle agent shook his head, immediately regretting it, as a new twinge of pain made him wince. He stopped moving, breathing deeply, trying to relax. Weber. They were looking for Weber. He was supposed to be there, but the wharehouse had been a trap. Napoleon Solo hoped that the others were safe. He managed to kneel down, slowly, carefully, and got up. This room was really small; he could touch the ceiling... No windows, no door. At least, he couldn't see any. Food? Water? Air? He couldn't help shivering, as he realized he was having trouble breathing: perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about food and water.

Alexander Waverly stared at the Russian agent, motioning him to sit down. He puffed at his pipe; Illya Kuryakin was about to tell him that it wasn't lit up, but as his eyes met met the Old Man's ones, he knew better than commenting.

-We are in trouble, Mr Kuryakin.

In trouble. Illya Kuryakin's heart missed a beat. The London HQ? The Soviet government? He forced himself to keep impassive. So, he would have to go back « home ». Or he would have to defect. That' was what Waverly was probably going to suggest him to do. But he didn't want to. Neither go « home », neither defect. A part of him knew for sure that his life, his future would be there, at the New York Uncle HQ. But a part of him was, and would still be unfailingly Russian. Had he to choose, and obviously he had to...he would come back home, whatever would happen. He breathed deeply and cleared his voice, but the Old Man went on.

-We lost Mr Solo.

Half a second of relief, but Illya Kuryakin immediately leaned forward. « We lost... »? Alexander Waverly pointed at a photo.

-You listened at us, yesterday. Mr Solo was in that warehouse, and he disappeared. The other agents were outside, they didn't notice anything, no noise, no move. But as they wondered why Mr Solo didn't come out, they entered the place, and it was deserted. No trace of Mr Solo. Not the slightest.

Waverly paused, staring at the young man.

-Mr Kuryakin... You met Weber, didn't you?

Illya Kuryakin bit his lip, smiling bitterly. Yes, he had met Weber. He had tailed him, cornered him. He knew for sure that he would have been able to track him down. It wasn't boasting, just evidence. But of course, someone else had to be the triumphant. So he had been ordered to go away. And they had pitifully failed. Waverly gave a little cough, looking at him with attention.

-I am aware of what happened, Mr Kuryakin. But you know the man. What can you tell us about Weber?

The Russian leaned back. Obeying his superior's orders, in London, had been the right thing to do, he knew it for sure. Had he disobeyed... He could have savored, in a way, their failure, but Weber...

-Evil, sir. Weber is evil. He doesn't work with Thrush for money, well, not only. He first works for them because he likes it.

Illya Kuryakin stopped. Alexander Waverly raised an inquiring eyebrow.

-What I mean, sit, is that Weber is kind of a perfectionist, when it's about to find the most malicious way of carrying out a plan.

Waverly pursed his lips. The Russian hesitated, but went on.

-Of course, it's also his weakness, and ...

-And, Mr Kuryakin?

-And it might have saved Mr Solo's life, for a few hours. Weber must be enjoying himself, at the moment, and he won't give up taking advantage of the situation. He could have been ordered to kill him, sir, but he'll take time. A little time.

Alexander Waverly frowned, sighed and replied softly.

-That's really reassuring, Mr Kuryakin.