"You can't do that. It would be gambling, Alex. Gambling on..."
"I am not gambling. We can't delay the meeting. I am practical-minded. Napoleon Solo will stand up for Mr Kuryakin. It's just putting people's skills to best use." Alexander Waverly paused, scolding at the other man. "What are you muttering?"
"I don't mutter."
"You do, Jules. What's the matter?"
Jules Cutter stood up, sliding his thumbs under his belt. He headed to the window, taking time.
"The matter? It's simple, and you won't like it. Napoleon Solo is unreliable, I mean, untrustworthy."
the Old Man was about to harrumph, but Jules Cutter raced back to the desk and leaned over it.
"I know. The Doctor said that everything was normal. Medical provided confirmation. Nothing bad happened... yet. You can fume, Alex. The truth, is, anyway, that you didn't take him back as your CEA." Alexander Waverly shrugged his shoulders impatiently, but Jules Cutter ignored him." And don't come and tell me you wanted to spare Kuryakin's pride."
Alexander Waverly frowned slightly.
"Illya Kuryakin pestered you to call back Solo. Then he pestered you to restore his friend to his post, and you refused. Why?"
The Old Man smiled faintly.
"Because as you would say Illya Kuryakin proved to be a damned good CEA. I put people's skills to best use."
Jules Cutter had been about to go on arguing, he knew better of it. Alexander Waverly had his Sphinx face. Wasting his breath would be no use. Taking his leave, he went out.
Waverly sighed: Napoleon Solo himself had made his position clear in his chief's office. Jules Cutter had doubts, the young man had the same.
"He survived. He is alive, and..." The man was hysterically adamant. Forcing himself to calm down, he caste a look at the office. It was deserted. The other kept silent. "And don't expect me to..."
"To finish the job? That's to say to "finish" our Russian friend off?"
The Doctor yelled desperately.
"I won't! You... You can do what you want! I won't."
The snake's voice hissed with a sugary tone.
"Your young wife is a charming lady, and little Leane is a cutie.. You're a lucky man, Doctor." Suddenly the tone turned sharp. "You'll do exactly what you'll be told to do. Is that clear?"
Yes, it was. Yes, he would obey, for he had no choice, for it was too late. He was quivering with shame and terror. The other man was perversely silent, again, enjoying his trouble. Then, he sneered maliciously.
"Some things are better left undone, Doctor. Don't worry. At the moment, Mr Kuryakin's death wouldn't be any use. For the time being, his safety, his comfort will keep his people occupied.
Illya Kuryakin had survived. One more time. It was a bit infuriating. Corgy didn't believe in miracle, he didn't believe in spell, and, by the way, he didn't undervalue his enemies. Uncle agents were well-trained, efficient, but they weren't magic creatures. The Russian had been lucky. Corgy was rocking backwards and forwards on his chair. Lucky? Was he, really? Illya Kuryakin had survived. At best, he would live as a complete vegetable, as an insane dribbling creature. At worst, as an invalid unable to cope with everyday life. Eventually, wasn't it the most evil revenge? For a few minutes, he toyed with the idea of a smart Thrush card, "With Our Best Wishes For A Speedy Recovery". Waverly would choke with fury.
"Napoleon!... Napoleon? How are you doing?"
At the sight of the devastated face, Mark Slate felt a sudden pang of anguish, but the words were making sense in Napoleon Solo's mind. He shook his head, forcing a poor smile
"I am fine, and, well, I think Illya.."
He released the grip he had kept on his partners hand. Mark Slate cleared his throat.
"Mr Waverly is expecting you in his office, in two hours."
Expecting? The expression was quite unusual.
"In two hours? Yes, Mark, I'll..."
Mark Slate cut in, waving his forefinger theatrically.
"No, no, Napoleon! Now, you're just going to..." He tapped himself on his temple, as if he were summing up his ideas. "Comediante", Napoleon Solo thought. " ... to shower, to shave, to rest... and to change. Don't even look daggers at me. The Old Man's orders are very clear." Mark Slate came up to the bed. "I'll keep vigil over him for you, Napoleon. He's my friend, too."
As Napoleon Solo didn't react, the young man pursed his lips, frowning.
"It wouldn't be any use your collapsing here. Illya will need us, he'll need you, Napoleon. He'll need your strength, your will...
The dark haired man felt the weight of the past hours, of the past days, of the past years. He felt the weight of his whole life. Suddenly, he felt like he were a very old man, useless, powerless. They were right. He got up, reluctantly, bent over his friend, whispering.
"You can do it, Illya. Remember. Mikey, Mikey and Mousehole. I'll take you there."
The pale face remained impassive.
"Mm mm, Illya, you look fine! At least, you look better than the partner of yours!"
Mark Slate turned to Napoleon Solo, winked at him, and pointed at the door, insistently, until he left the room.
"This guy is really stubborn... Well, Illya, let me tell you about April's last assignment... She'll be mad at me, but I can't resist..."
Stop chattering stupidly, Napoleon Solo thought. Illya didn't like that. Mark Slate went on talking, with a light, somehow reviving tone. Eventually, perhaps, it would help. As he peeped at his own reflection in a glass door, he sighed. Showering, shaving, changing clothes... calling Mikey. Two hours.
Illya Kuryakin was tossing around At least he thought he was, but he wasn't. He wasn't even able to stir, to open his eyes, to give the importunate talker a scolding. He heard a voice, both familiar and anachronistic. It occurred to him that it was a strange term, nevertheless, what the voice was saying was out of time. He understood the words, but they were uninteresting, idiotic. He had so many things to do.
Jules Cutter flattened himself against the wall, waiting for Napoleon Solo to leave the area. The young man was obviously exhausted, doubtful, worried.
Cutter had met many talented young men. Young women, too, for April Dancer's sake... He coerced them into achievement, no matter the price. Napoleon Solo had been one of the best agent he had ever trained at the Survival School, until Alexander Waverly had pulled the Russian out of his hat. They had been matching perfectly. As Waverly, Cutter was good at his job, damned good. As Waverly, he was thinking about his succession. Napoleon Solo had caught Waverly's attention, because he was good at managing people, at building consensus, at making decision, at avoiding to offend sensibilities. Jules Cutter's eyes twinkled. As Waverly, Napoleon Solo would need a stimulus, a contradictory, a counterpoise, an indestructible support, an indestructible friendship. Waverly had Cutter. Solo would have... Illya Kuryakin. No. He cursed. In such a disaster, there was no time for daydreams, for regrets. What were the odds on Napoleon Solo getting Waverly's job? What were the odds on Illa Kuryakin ruling the Survival School? Jules Cutter frowned as he was heading to the Russian's bedroom. Who was spouting like that?
"She had bleached her hair, I told you, you remember? And when she ran through the gas, it turned... green!"
"That's really interesting, Mr. Slate."
The comment sounded ironical, but Jules Cutter nodded approval. He had understood the young agent's purpose.
"If you please, Mr. Slate, I'll stay with Mr Kuryakin for awhile."
Mark Slate slipped away discreetly.
The room was silent. The talker had gone away. Mark, the talker was Mark Slate. April and her green hair. It was a dream, it could be nothing else. The room was silent and deserted. Illya Kuryakin was trying to remember, a silent, deserted and dusty place. Déjà vu. Not dusty. Not deserted. He heard something, a breath, next to him.
What could he say to the man who lay there? What promise could he make?
"I don't even know if you can hear me... You have to come back, Illya. Waverly... Waverly needs you."
Brilliant, Jules Cutter thought, really brilliant.
Another voice? Slightly harsh, urging, and familiar. Illya. The voice had called him Illya. The voice was insistently asking him to wake up, to open his eyes. Déjà vu. Illya Kuryakin decided that he wouldn't obey. He wouldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't move. Withdrawing into himself had saved his life in the jail. The man wouldn't fool him.
Jules Cutter froze. He had been about to give up scolding the young Russian, realizing how useless and unfair it was, but he had just noticed the shadow of a tensing on the pale face.