Alexander Waverly was undecided, and, so to speak, he didn't like it. The clinic was a logical choice. Its safety, its medical disposal and its nearness were obvious assets. On the contrary, Mousehole would be source of countless difficulties.
But the Head Doctor he had just talked with didn't help, though.
"He needs rest, sir, in a place where he'll be comfortable, with people he'll trust..."The Doctor had sighed. "We know, all of us, sir, what Mr. Kuryakin thinks of Medical, Doctors... and clinics"
But Jules Cuter had hissed: "Mikey is family."
But Napoleon Solo mistrusted the clinic and its Doctor. He deluded the subject, but Waverly knew his agent.
He pushed the door and stopped silently to observe the familiar scene: an agent keeping vigil over his partner, talking to him, determined to stay, whatever the nurses, the Doctor, perhaps Waverly himself would have to object to it...
"You told me something..."
The Russian's eyes peeped over his friend's shoulder.
"Sir..."
Napoleon Solo stood upright immediately, but Waverly stepped forward, gesturing him to sit down.
"You had us worried, Mr. Kuryakin."
The dark-haired man gave a slight smile. It wasn't uncharacteristic for the Old Man to inquire about an agent's health, to express concern about him. The tone was just warmer... Alexander Waverly had kind of a soft spot for Illya...
"It was a close call, sir." And the Russian added immediately: " But I am fine!"
"Of course you are. I can see that."
Pale, some dark shadows remaining under his eyes... Yes, Illya Kuryakin was ... fine. Waverly pointed his pipe at him;
"I expect you back as soon as possible, Mr. Kuryakin." The pipe slipped towards Napoleon Solo. "I asked Mr. Solo to stand in for you concerning the meeting."
The pipe came back to the blond man.
"I talked with the Doctor. He told me that he would probably qualify you for light duty..."
"In one month, sir, at the very most!"
Napoleon Solo tried again to hide a grin. Alexander Waverly pursed his lips, shaking his head, but his eyes twinkled with amusement, too. Déjà vu...
"We'll see about the "at the very most", young man. According to the Doctor, basically, you need rest – I mean, real rest...- and some light physical therapy." The blue eyes and the miserable face wouldn't fool him. "There is no point in arguing about that."
He paused, staring at the two men. Good.
"I intended to send you to Mr. Solo's clinic."
Said Solo gasped: Mr. Solo's clinic?
"But your partner disagrees." The pipe slipped again towards the dark haired man. "Mr. Solo?"
A soft voice stated calmly.
"Mousehole... Napoleon thinks I should... go to Mousehole, at Mikey's home..."
The pipe hesitated. Illya Kuryakin repeated.
"Mousehole... and Mikey. I remember. ...You told me about that, Napoleon... I heard you."
He leaned back against the pillow closing his eyes lids.
"Illya?"
"The blond man answered, keeping his eyes closed.
"I'm fine..."
Alexander Waverly frowned.
"You aren't fine, young man! You're exhausted. We'll talk about this later. At the moment, you're going to take some sleep."
Had he any choice? Had he really? He felt tired. It wasn't unpleasant, though. He forced himself to look at the Old Man.
"Sir..."
"Mr. Kuryakin, I told you..."
"I... I would... Mousehole..."
Bushy eyebrows hid the pale blue eyes for awhile.
"We'll see at this. Would you mind, now, just obeying orders? Mr. Solo?" He motioned the agent to follow him.
The Russian looked like to have fallen asleep.
He could smell a delicious scent which he recognized immediately. Mikey's coffee He could feel the breeze swaying gently the curtains. Mousehole...
Napoleon Solo peeped again at his friend before going out.
Alexander Waver tapped him on his shoulder.
"Don't worry, Mr. Solo He's fine. Remember. The Doctor told you! Mr. Kuryakin is doing well. Why? How? We don't know, but he is doing well."
" He was, but... suddenly..."
"I talked with the Head Doctor, Mr. Solo. We thought that Mr. Kuryakin was unconscious, in a coma. Most of the time, though, he was fully awake. Being locked in oneself, struggling vainly to escape, that's exhausting." Waverly paused a few seconds, resting his hand on his agent's arm. "He'll do well. Let's go, now. We've to see at some details about the meeting... and Mousehole."
"I want you to arrange something as soon as possible"
The two men peeped sheepishly at each other, anxious to content their chief after their pitiful failure.
"I want you to make an attempt at killing Solo."
They stood, taken aback, their mouths wide-open until one of them managed to articulate.
"But..."
The other sighed impatiently.
"Can't you make out what I say? An attempt at killing Solo, whatever the way."
"But... Not Solo? ... You mean... Kuryakin?"
The older man shook his head with a scornful consternation.
"Solo. I mean... Solo."
"But... you asked us to get rid of the Russian, because you wanted Solo..."
The Thrush executive sneered maliciously.
"Oh... Shortsighted cretin... I want you to make an attempt. A.T.T.E.M.P.T. Nothing more than an attempt." He paused, narrowing his eyes in an icy look. "You're good... at attempting, aren't you?"
The two men at a loss thought better of replying and waited.
"As I expected, Waverly asked Solo to take over the job from Kuryakin." He bent over the table. "Waverly is an old crafty fox, though. He could have doubts. Solo will narrowly escape death, as if by a miracle. He will escape.. unharmed, of course." His smile froze the two men. "Worries will be dispelled." He stared at them. "And... you failed to kill Kuryakin, let's hope you won't fail to miss Solo..."
Napoleon Solo hissed a long bored sigh. Thanks to the Uncle impressive means of communication the Chiefs of every Uncle HQ could talk, discuss, argue, decide. Everyday, every night.
But... No. They wanted to meet on a regular basis. They wanted to get together. Why the hell, he couldn't say. Meetings meant trouble, worries, restless nights and risks, useless risks. The legendary Summit Five Affair could seem kind of a caricature. It had been one. It could at least have taught them a lesson. But... NO.
Trouble, worries, restless nights...
Icing on the cake, this meeting would take place in the US. Alexander Waverly the Chief of the Northwestern Uncle, had made himself clear. The meeting would be perfect. No unexpected incident, no unforeseen events.
Of course, the Section 2, number 1, the CEA would be the man in charge
Illya.
At the moment, himself.
He had to call Mikey but before, he'd go back to his friend's bedroom.
Alexander Waverly stared at the painting in front of him absent-absentmindedly. Illya Kuryakin's plan was elaborate and brilliant. He had suggested different suitable locations, different places, all of them perfectly fit out, secured, comfortable. People were preparing, setting up things in strict secrecy. Each of them believed for sure that the meeting would take place there...
Clever. Brilliant.
Waverly sighed. There was no more Harry Beldon among Uncle executive directors – he crossed mentally his fingers – but they couldn't be lulled in a false sense of security.
Alexander Waverly felt still unsure, and he still didn't like it.
The attempt made on Illya Kuryakin's life wasn't only a glorious feat. Thrush wouldn't waste time and energy without strong motive, and this meeting was one.
Napoleon Solo had got the better of the villains' conditioning. His partner out of the fight, he could take over him. Thrush's plan failed.
Did it?
Things fitted together perfectly. Too perfectly, Jules Cutter thought and stated clearly. Too perfectly, Napoleon Solo himself thought, obviously.
The Old Man played with his pipe mechanically. Too perfectly?
As Napoleon Solo was back, he hadn't asked him to work again as his CEA.
Because Illya Kuryakin was doing extremely well.
Because it would have been pretty unfair though Illya Kuryakin himself had pestered him to do it...
Then, the Russian had been put out of the fight. Napoleon Solo was the logical choice, undoubtedly.