-Here? We explored this place, we went through it with a fine-tooth comb! That's ground, nothing else!
Illya Kuryakin let his fingers play with the gravels for a few seconds. Then, he replied, calmly.
-Weber loves circus, and among all, magic tricks.
One of the other agents took some steps forward.
-Magic tricks? Are you kidding?
The Russian nodded.
-No. I met the man, and he is fond of magic tricks, truquage, delusion, fake...
The agent turned to his fellows.
-We were there, outside. We didn't see anything, we didn't hear anything, but when we came back, Napoleon Solo had disappeared. We... It could be.. We could...
They jumped. A dull noise. The Russian was keeping his hands on the ground, listening attentively, and they jumped, moving as he motioned them to, until he raised his head, suddenly. Looking at each face, he nodded. They jumped again, and they felt. They felt the ground quivering. A slight vibration, and a different sound. The ground?
A dusty ground, some old paving, dense, hard, covered with gravel wasn't expected to quiver, but it did. The Uncle agents turned to the Russian, and Bob Milton couldn't help smiling. A few minutes ago, they had looked at the blond man with a mix of despise and disgust. At the moment, they were obviously expecting him to give new orders. Undoubtedly, Waverly's new recruit was very ... interesting.
Illya Kuryakin was concentrating himself on the gravels. He raised his head.
-Would please jump again? And, please, look at the gravels.
The agents jumped again, and the older man stared at the gravels attentively. They moved. Slightly, but they moved.
Napoleon Solo forced himself to breathe slowly, calmly, because, unexpectedly, he could still breathe. He had still some rare air. A lot of worrisome things had happened, but he could breathe. He found it difficult to gather any precise memory, but he was alive.
The Uncle agents knelt down, being about to clear the ground, looking for a trap-door.
-No!
The word had cracked like a whip. They stopped, amazed, and turned to the blond man. Illya Kuryakin insisted with an urging tone.
-Don't do that.
Bob Milton was puzzled.
-But if Napoleon Solo is here, below, Illya, we have to...
The Russian shook his head.
-No, we can't do it this way. We...
-No? And why? What the hell are you saying?
The other man had barked, and the others nodded. What was this Russian babbling? Illya Kuryakin got up, slowly, staring at the agents, his blue eyes turning ice-gray.
-Weber isn't a fool. I told you that I met him. He has managed to abduct Mr Solo, in a very theatrical way, and probably there are to be some surprises in store for us.
Yes. Milton sighed. Of course.
The blond guy was right, and they knew it. Though, it didn't please them.
The Russian knelt down, bent over the ground, and started to brush away the gravels and the dust, carefully, patiently, his fingers flying, moving, pausing, digging imperceptibly. Suddenly, he stopped.
-There is a crack, here; it might be a trap door. And this...
He motioned them to come closer.
-This is a wire.
-A wire? You mean... It's...
-Booby-trapped.
Napoleon Solo had no idea what Weber's intentions were. Though he hated the thought, he depended upon his enemy's plan, or his fellow agents' help. He was a prisoner, and... and he wasn't. Not an ordinary one. The Thrush villain could have killed him. He had abducted him, locked him in this strange cell, and... nothing. No questioning, no drug, no torture. The Uncle agent had been there for hours. Hours?
It was an unpleasant situation, a very unpleasant one. He remembered how tired, how exhausted he had felt, suddenly. He had lain down on the ground, all he wanted was to take a nap. To lie down, and to sleep. A nap? In the middle of an assignment? He could have called his men, he should have, but... Napoleon Solo was panting, he leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly.
The warehouse was as silent as a cathedral, the Uncle agents clearing carefully the ground. A trap door was now visible, A small trap door, and some wires. Bob Milton smiled imperceptibly. He had read the young Russian's file. Explosives. This was Illya Kuryakin's field, with Jules Cutter's agreement. That was something.
He tilted his head, thoughful. A small trap door, quite close to the wall.
It was an unusual cell, Napoleon Solo thought. Though the walls weren't damp, it smelled ... humidity. Not dankness. Just... humidity. And... the Uncle agent breathed in... And something metallic.
-I hope you're fine, Mr Solo.
The nasal voice gave him a start. He looked around, but the room was deserted. Though the light was so dim, he knew it for sure.
-Don't worry. The game will end soon. Let's wait for the finishing piece...
Illya Kuryakin stood up, creased his nose, raised an eyebrow. Then, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving a group of quite stunned Uncle agents.