The chilly air was of only slightly less concern than the messenger he'd just encountered. Illya didn't know who these people were, and yet they knew him; fairly well, if the tone of the conversation were any indication.

Illya's arms ached from being held behind him for what must be hours. He had a vague memory of being in that unpleasant place with the foul odors. Someone else had been there, a blond man…

Joseph Farina. He was Thrush, and they had killed him, he was certain of it. The man hadn't known the formula or the codes indicating where it would be released, so they had killed him.

I know. I know all of it. I suppose it will perish along with me when I finally die from exposure and starvation.

He hadn't eaten in days. With a metabolism like his, that could mean real trouble when combined with the threat of hypothermia. No food, no water, no heat…

"No Illya."

The sound of his voice in the still of this icy cave produced another round of shivering.

Napoleon was waiting to hear back from New York on the possibility of a jamming device nearby; if one was located, then they would have little trouble finding his partner somewhere within range of it.

Ned approached his boss, each of them a victim of the emotional toll this mission was taking. A Thrush bullet had killed his partner, Casey Reardon, on day three of this affair. They had been so close to finding Kuryakin, or at least thought so. Instead, what they encountered were the remains of a Thrush contingency, still holding down what was left of the satrap the Russian had found. Carl's partner, Johann Burgh had also been cut down in the gun battle. The original six-man team was now only three; the satrap was destroyed, but the object of their search, Illya Kuryakin, still remained in the grasp of a third, unidentified group.

The Intel was practically nonexistent regarding this new threat, and yet had successfully derailed the most nefarious group of megalomaniacs on the planet, and snatched UNCLE's number two agent. That was quite an impressive feat for an organization that had snuck onto the scene anonymously. It might be large, or merely a few individuals. To have overcome Kuryakin, though, indicated some kind of talent at work.

Ned spoke up, stirring Solo out of his gloomy thoughts.

"Napoleon, any word yet?"

The American shook his head, weariness creeping into the usually unaffected man. Under most circumstances, he could endure a variety of hardships and still look unscathed by his surroundings. Now, with this situation, the hours and miles were telling.

"I expect there will be something soon. If there is something blocking communications, then…"

As if on cue, Solo's communicator signaled to him.

"Solo here…"

"Yes, Mr. Solo…'

The familiar and comforting tones of Alexander Waverly invaded the somber environs in which the agents found themselves.

"I'm here, sir. Do we have anything useful, or helpful from Communications?"

"We do, indeed, Mr. Solo. Approximately 2 miles from your location, on the northernmost face of that coast, there is a very definite jamming device in operation. Nothing is going in, or coming out of its sphere."

Napoleon grinned, cautiously; the news was good so far.

"That's excellent, sir. We should assume that Illya is somewhere within that grid of activity. We will leave immediately, if you'll just have Communications forward us the location…''

"No, not just yet, Mr. Solo. There is a tactical element here that we must address. Mr. Kuryakin is in possession of some extremely dangerous information. That formula was destroyed in the labs you have only recently left behind; our clean up crews ascertained no indication of any remaining logs or samples. We believe that the virus was never actually produced, only formulated."

Napoleon winced visibly, the two other agents noting the tone of Waverly's voice, and recognizing what must come next. Was it possible that Kuryakin was now considered a liability?

"Sir, I'm not sure I understand what it is you're…"

A long pause was unwelcome at this juncture, but present nonetheless.

"Mr. Solo, you and your team will proceed to the location of this jamming device, but you will not immediately go into this lair of what is, it seems, a new enemy. You will wait for reinforcements."

Napoleon was seething inside. This was not another case of being expendable; it wasn't acceptable to leave Illya there, possibly hurt and most certainly in danger.

"Sir, how does it benefit us to not go in after Illya? He's not given up the formula, we can be assured of that. Illya won't…"

A harrumph of displeasure came through…

"Mr. Solo, I am not asking you for advice or even agreement to my methods. You will not go in until reinforcements have arrived. Is that clear?"

The two other men in the room held their breaths until Napoleon replied; the unthinkable act of abandonment accompanied by their own recent losses was crushing to them.

"Yes. Sir. I do understand. Will there be anything else, sir?"

All pretense at agreement was gone, merely the contested act of obedience remained.

"I will give you over to Communications, now. Waverly out."

The ensuing information gave a definite point of origination, which meant the three men could easily go in and rescue Kuryakin and, most probably, put an end to whoever had taken him.

Carl spoke up first, his confusion at their superior's orders in conflict with his own sense of duty.

"Why do you think Waverly is doing this? What possible reason could there be to not go in and just clean out the place?"

Pearce had lost more than a partner with the death of Johann Burgh. The man had been like a brother to him; more than that, if possible. Seeing Burgh fall to a Thrush bullet had nearly killed him as well. Now, looking at Napoleon and understanding everything he was feeling, it was difficult to imagine being this close to Illya's location, but forbidden to go in and get him to safety.

Napoleon attempted to reply without intoning the bitterness he felt.

"I don't know. But, ours is not to reason…"

He left it to just hang in the air. The unspoken quote so often bantered between Illya and him no longer held any amusement or even truth.

Do or die? They weren't doing either, and yet Illya was probably in danger of death if they didn't go in there… Meeting the need for leadership, Napoleon stood and reaffirmed his stature as Chief of Enforcement. His men needed that from him.

"Let's head out to this location, and perhaps by the time we get there, Waverly will have either changed his mind or be willing to tell me what's really going on."

Carl and Ned were ready to go on Napoleon's command; whatever he decided, they'd back him up on it. Two men was already too high a price, and losing another one wasn't an option. No matter what the old man said, there was now an unspoken agreement that when the time came, the three of them would do whatever was necessary to get Solo's partner out. Hopefully, it wasn't too late.

Napoleon visualized his friend and called out to him, mentally willing Illya to know help was on the way. He didn't give a damn what Waverly wanted; no way in hell would he leave his partner to die as long as he was close enough to save him. And they were so close. It would be two miles through a dense forest, situated on a cold slab of land in the North Atlantic. It was time to move.

Napoleon took the lead as he and the other two agents began their journey through the forest, heading north, towards the coastline of this northern fjord. The terrain was uneven and rocky, finally giving way to the treacherous cliffs that faced out over a forbidding descent into icy waters. This region was a sliver of neglected land, as yet unclaimed by more powerful neighbors. That time would come, but for now its primary importance was tied to the search for Kuryakin.

Solo spotted a trail of some sort that looked as though it were cut by hand; it was more than likely a pathway down to the place they sought. Pausing to let the others catch up to him, he played over the situation in his mind. It was still difficult to believe that Waverly wouldn't allow them to go in, which led Napoleon to wonder if there was more to the intelligence than had been revealed.

They would need to rappel down the face of this cliff, and deal with whatever they encountered. There was no visible landing spot, nothing beneath them except the water of this inlet, long ago carved by glaciers and time.

Napoleon needed to figure this out. He spoke as fast as his brain could spin out ideas.

"Caves. It must be a cave system. There's no other way."

Napoleon figured there must be another way in besides scaling down the face of this cliff. If they got to the opening, he and his men would be easy targets for whomever they encountered. It wasn't a good plan, and he began to reason with himself about Waverly's insistence that the three agents wait for back up.

Carl and Ned nodded in agreement. There was no one better in the field than Napoleon Solo, and they would follow him wherever he led.

Illya Kuryakin heard something reaching out to him, a voice…that voice. Illya recognized the sound of his unidentified host, and shook his head to try and loosen the web of crystals that he imagined were forming around his brain. Even if they didn't let him freeze to death, he doubted whether he could summon up the information they sought from him; it was becoming difficult to remember why he was even here.

The taunting voice was shrill amidst the glacial surroundings. It was obvious, even to the faltering Kuryakin, that hospitality was not a facet of this person's agenda.

"Illya, are you hungry yet? Really hungry…"

The Russian couldn't discern hunger anymore. He was cold. Cold and sleepy; he doubted he would be able stay awake any longer. The voice should try and help him stay awake, perhaps then he would get his appetite back.

Once more the voice invaded Illya's icy cave. The voice sounded very far away, as though it were spanning a very large room.

Or perhaps a glacier, he thought. Illya was part of a glacier, probably, soon to be encased in ice for eternity.

Kuryakin didn't respond to the voice. He could no longer speak, it seemed. His mind tried to coalesce his thoughts into something verbal, but his mouth refused to utter the replies that lingered on his tongue. Too sleepy, too cold…

Another voice called out his name, and this time it seemed familiar, comforting.

"Illya? Can you hear me?"

There, in the distance, very far away.

Alexander Waverly was tired. He didn't often admit that, not even to himself. His decision making was too often tinged with regret these days, and as an old war horse, that was unacceptable. The information carried by Illya Kuryakin could ruin the population of the planet, something the Russian had known going into this affair. The unfortunate circumstance of his being in the hands of hostile forces changed the tactics necessary to contain this new threat to humanity. Kuryakin knew the score, understood the risk every time he left this office, and destroying the formula and those who would use it was paramount here.

There was nothing to be done about it now, the UNCLE chief wearily reasoned, and the young man was, he repeated to himself unconvincingly, expendable.