The days had started to blend into a terrible grey misery, but Illya thought it had been a month now since he had arrived at this place. There had been four Sundays, he thought, two bath days, and two chances to be shaved. He carried the lice around with him like friends, despite the baths and the shaving. Sometimes he picked them out from the seams of his clothes and crunched them between his fingernails, and felt a kind of power he had at no other time. But then sometimes he felt pity on them, because really he was no better than the lice.
The world outside seemed to be expanding away from him, or perhaps it was shrinking. Anyway, the world was becoming very white. He thought perhaps it was because of the white place he went to when he was raped, but the white place was too precious to leave behind. He went there every night. Every day he dreaded the setting sun and the walk back to the barracks, and then when the men came he found his white room and locked himself in.
Sometimes when he looked up he realised dully that someone had dropped a bell jar over him, and that sounds were very soft and sights were far away. All the colours were gone. He had been wrong to say that to Ivan about the snow. The snow wasn't all colours at all, and it wasn't white, either. It was just grey.
He knew he had to move on with his mission. Rollin had said they had spoken to Permyakov, hadn't he? Spoken in front of Permyakov, whatever it was they said they were going to do. He thought he had. He remembered it had taken longer than they meant it to, but Rollin had said something one morning, he forgot when, about titillating Permyakov by mentioning Illya's knowledge of physics. But he still couldn't get close.
He would have to try to talk to his target today. He had to. He had only been here a month and he was starting to fall apart. Talk to Permyakov, persuade him, get him to understand that the prospect of extraction was real, not just some trick of the establishment. He had been hoping for Permyakov to approach him since Rollin had passed on his message, but Permyakov still walked by with his nose in the air, probably put off by the stench of stale urine from his clothes as much as the stigma of his position. And Illya feared approaching him. Once he revealed himself he risked Permyakov bolting, betraying him, betraying them all. If Illya were discovered Rollin might be in danger too, Jim might be in danger, they might send out teams and find the others in the forest. God help him, they might find Napoleon, and that thought was more terrifying than any of the rest.
But how to go about it without spooking the man? It should be easy. He thought it should be easy, but something was happening to him, and he couldn't think. Everywhere he turned were those glass walls of the bell jar, and he couldn't push through them, barely had the impetus to push through them. There was nothing for it, though. He had to make the contact. If not, he was going to die or go mad.
He sat on his bunk wrapping his feet in the foot rags Rollin had given him. It was good, he supposed, that he had them now. His feet were a little warmer. He knew abstractedly that it was good, but it was hard to separate that word out and give it any emotional meaning. It was just that his feet were warmer, and before they had been too cold. But sometimes men had to make boots from old tyres, so valenki and foot rags were a luxury, he supposed.
He went out into the yard, and instantly dropped his head so he met no eyes. But he could see Rollin not far away, lolling as he did so often near the well, smoking a cigarette.
He altered his steps so they brought him close enough to Rollin to speak, just close enough.
'Pair me again with Permyakov in the forest,' he said, barely moving his lips, his voice a dull monotone
Rollin just barely gave a nod. It could just be a twitch of a neck muscle, but Illya recognised it for a nod. He exhaled slowly, and carried on walking. Then he realised that Rollin had fallen into step behind him.
'Illya,' Rollin said very quietly.
Illya gave no sign that he had heard. He supposed he should be incredulous that Rollin was trying to sustain contact, but he couldn't bring himself to feel that.
'Illya, you're depressed,' Rollin said.
'Oh, is that what it is?' he asked without inflection.
'Prisoner!' Rollin said then, sharply and loud, grabbing Illya's shoulder to jerk him round.
Illya met his eyes dazedly, reeling a little. He seemed to have forgotten how to keep his balance. Had he once studied gymnastics? Had that really been him?
'What are you hiding in your mouth?' Rollin barked. 'Open it, prisoner!'
Illya dropped his mouth open without question. He didn't know what Rollin was doing but he didn't have the impetus to ask.
Rollin poked a finger into his mouth, tilting his head up. Then Illya felt something against his tongue.
'All right,' Rollin said grudgingly, as if disappointed that Illya had nothing there. Then he said very quietly, 'Swallow it. It will help.'
Illya swallowed, and carried on into the mess hall to get his food.
((O))
Perhaps the tablet helped, whatever it was. It was hard to be sure of anything, but he felt he had a little more energy, that he saw more colours in the snow. Ivan spoke to him on the march to the forest, and Illya spoke back, but he still didn't really feel as if those sounds outside his ears were connected to him in any way.
He stamped the snow from the tops of his boots in the clearing and then stood there as his squad leader started to give out directions for the work. He was telling Ivan and Illya to start loading logs onto the low trailer that would take them to the river. But then Phelps was there, striding over, barking different orders. His face was a mask of fury when Permyakov argued, but then there was a glimmer of something in Permyakov's eyes, and he acquiesced. Illya found himself over by a felled tree with one end of a saw in his hands, and Permyakov was holding the other.
Something sparked inside him. This was the chance. At last this was the chance. He was so relieved that tears almost fell. He stepped forward. And then Permyakov sneered, 'Keep to your end of the saw, faggot. You stink.'
He did stink. Permyakov was right. He gripped his hands hard around the saw and pushed in Permyakov's direction. Permyakov pushed back. Illya started to set up a rhythm, but Permyakov was jerky and kept breaking it. He had to talk to Permyakov. He had to break through... But he couldn't think. Why was it so hard to think?
Physics. That was their one link. Permyakov despised him, despised his type. But there was physics. Illya pushed the saw back, and started to speak. The words came to his memory without prompting. He hardly knew what they were. But he was reciting a paper about mesons. The words flowed, and he pushed the saw to their rhythm.
And then Permyakov looked up, as if he had been shot.
'How – how do you – ' he began.
Illya carried on reciting, a river of words leaving his mouth. They were comforting. They reminded him of Cambridge, of that cosy time. Sitting in the quad, books up to his elbows, scratching on paper with his fountain pen. The words flowed like tears.
'Hey,' Permyakov was saying. 'Hey, how do you know that? Is it true what I heard them say?'
He couldn't stop. The words came. They were a blanket. And that blanket expanded to envelop Permyakov. He was starting to push the saw to the same rhythm. He was staring at Illya as if he had gone mad, but he was relaxing. He was absorbing that which was familiar, that from which he had been separated for so long.
'How on earth do you know Dr Kuryakin's paper off by heart?' he asked eventually.
Illya stopped as if he had been slapped. His paper? Suddenly he couldn't remember another word, his photographic memory whiting out. Then he said, 'I am Dr Kuryakin.'
He was, wasn't he? He was Illya Kuryakin, not Ilya Lagoshin. That was right?
Permyakov's jaw hung slack. 'I – don't understand...'
The sense of purpose was like a slap. The bell jar had cracked, and there was sound out there. Permyakov's eyes were reaching his.
Illya pushed his end of the saw again, and instinctively Permyakov pushed it back.
'I am Dr Illya Kuryakin. I work for – an international organisation. The West want you, Dr Permyakov. They want you badly enough to send a team in to get you out. I am your contact.'
'But you're – you're opushchennye. You're – '
Permyakov dropped his end of the saw and walked away. Something rushed over Illya, a roar of abject fear, and he turned away from the fallen tree and vomited. It was over. It was all over. He dropped to his knees in the snow, reaching out a shaking hand to the tree trunk, tasting the bile dripping from his mouth. He pushed snow into his mouth to take away the taste.
He saw feet near him, and looked up slowly. Permyakov had returned, a kind of wild expression on his face. He was holding out his hand and looked as if he were going to babble.
'Dr Kuryakin – '
'Shut up!' Illya hissed. 'Do you want to betray both of us?'
Permyakov's hand was still out, and Illya took it and got to his feet.
'Get back on the saw,' Illya told him urgently, and thank god he obeyed.
'You've been through all this – ' Permyakov stuttered, retaking his end of the saw. 'I can't believe anyone would – If you hadn't been able to recite that paper...' Then suspicion clouded his eyes, and he stared hard at Illya. 'Anyone can learn to recite.'
Illya huffed. 'Then quiz me. Ask me questions. Let me prove it.'
The morning was lost in a litany of questions on quantum mechanics. Illya didn't understand how he managed to answer them, because he felt dull as a rough stone, but with each answer Permyakov relaxed a little more. Some part of his mind locked away from the hunger and trauma and exhaustion told him the answers, and he repeated them. By that evening, as he trudged back in the dark and bitter cold, he thought he had Permyakov's trust.
As he walked back into the dark yard he saw Rollin there. The man fell into step beside him as if merely joining the guard as the zeks lined up to be counted.
'He trusts me,' Illya murmured.
'Start carrying the communicator,' Rollin replied.
((O))
It was late evening, and Napoleon, Barney, and Willy were huddled around the small stove in sleeping bags playing cards and drinking. The tedium of this place was almost unbearable. It had seemed like a winter wonderland to Napoleon at first, when he could thrust his worry about Illya aside, but after a month of sitting here, waiting for news, waiting for action, staving off the cold with alcohol and subsisting on freeze-dried rations, he had had enough. Some evenings it was all he could do not to just burst out of the tent and start off on the eight mile hike to the camp where Illya was being held, to just bust him and Permyakov out of there by force. He was going stir crazy.
He was just a little warmed by the brandy when the radio sounded. They never drank too much, always ready for action. Barney dropped his hand of cards immediately, carefully, though, so their faces couldn't be seen, and picked up the radio.
'Barney.'
'Jim,' Phelps' voice crackled through the radio. 'All right, Barney. Rollin just contacted me. Illya thinks Permyakov trusts him. We need to get a plan for extraction together.'
The relief in Napoleon's chest was huge. After a month kicking his heels in the tent he felt like suddenly the sun had burst into being. Adrenaline started to rush.
'We need to get them out without them being shot,' he said quickly. 'So they can't try to slip out of the convoy as they walk to the logging place and they can't try to slip into the trees.'
'No, I know,' Jim said seriously. 'And we have to extract Rollin too. Don't forget that. If they realise they had outside help they'll investigate all the new personnel straight away. Rollin won't be able to convince them, not under that kind of interrogation.'
Napoleon was inclined to say, damn Rollin, but he bit his tongue. That wasn't fair.
'I've told Rollin to slip out as soon as he can,' Phelps continued. 'He'll rendezvous with Cinnamon and get a truck in the nearest town. Now, this is the plan, so listen up...'
((O))
Illya lay on his bunk that night after Kuznetsov's visit, just shaking, trying to pull himself back from that white place. The white place was good, it was safe, but it was a closed room and he was useless when he was inside it. To be able to function he had to drag himself from the white room and let sensation and sound and colour slap rawly at him, no matter how much it hurt. And everything hurt. His mind hurt, and his body hurt so much.
Rollin had slipped him another pill, but he didn't know if it helped. He needed to pull himself out of this funk, but all he could do was shake. He needed to secure the communicator as Rollin had ordered. He had to do that. But every morning they were patted down before they left for the forest, and every evening they were searched again. Oh, it was so hard to think...
He settled finally on using the thin fishing thread to tie the thing to the inside of his thigh. There were almost a thousand zeks to be searched every morning and evening when they came back from their various work assignments, and the guards were rarely thorough. Yes, he would tie it to his thigh, and he could slip it back into the mattress every evening. He would have to judge it well, get it hidden before Kuznetsov came... What if Kuznetsov found it when he stripped off his clothes? He would end up in solitary, he would be beyond help...
He pressed his fist into his mouth to stifle his sobs. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Sobbing came so easily. He had never been a man who cried. Now he could crush a fingernail of lice and then sob in remorse.
A hand came out of the darkness and folded around his. Ivan. Always Ivan. If he got out of here he would leave Ivan behind.
'Vanya,' he whispered. 'Oh, Vanya...'
He would remember him. He must always remember him. Ivan's hand stroked his face, gently pulled his fist from his mouth and kissed his knuckles. He clenched his hand so hard it hurt, and Ivan kissed it again.
'Shush. Go to sleep, Ilyusha,' he whispered.
He lay awake, eyes hot and staring hard into the darkness above him, until he was sure Ivan was asleep. And then he pulled out the communicator and peeled it from from condom, and for a moment he just cradled it, because Napoleon was in there. Then he slipped his trousers down and tied the thing hard to his thigh, then rearranged his clothes, and tried to sleep.
((O))
A week passed, a week of tying the communicator to his thigh in the dark of night and then untying it again every evening when no call came. It worried Illya that Rollin had disappeared from the camp. More than that; it scared him. Jim had explained in a clandestine conversation that Rollin had been extracted for his own safety, but somehow Illya could only think of his own safety, how now there was no protecting presence, no one to slip him extra food. But it meant this was coming to an end, didn't it? It meant it was going to be over. He had gained Permyakov's trust completely over the last week. Permyakov thought he was better than he was, thought he was respectable and intelligent, a man under cover, not a worn-down opushchennye who let men fuck him every night. He thought that Permyakov would cooperate when the break came, but still, he hated that Rollin was no longer there.
He was woken by the slight vibration against his skin, and his hand snapped to his thigh as if he'd been stung. He had ripped the communicator from its binding almost before he was properly awake, and was uncapping it, pulling out the earpiece and slipping it in his ear. When he heard Napoleon's voice he almost sobbed.
'Illya, you there?'
He drew the blanket over his head, and murmured, 'Da,' in such a way that anyone listening might think he was talking in his sleep.
'Listen, Illya...' English... God, Napoleon was speaking English. He hadn't heard English in over two months.
He listened. He would have listened like a suffocating man would take in air. But he had to understand, too. It was so hard. All he wanted to do was have Napoleon's voice in his ear, and sob out his relief. He realised he hadn't understood a word. He asked Napoleon to repeat, and the words came out in Russian, and he had to struggle to form them in English.
'Illya. Listen, Illya, are you okay?'
Oh, but this was hard on his brain. Everything Napoleon said, he had to translate in his head back to Russian.
'Go slow,' he said.
Napoleon went slow, outlining the plan clearly and concisely. Illya soaked it in and tried to understand.
'Zavtra?' he asked slowly, when Napoleon had said his piece. 'Uh – Tomorrow?'
'Tomorrow,' Napoleon repeated. 'Illya, did you get it all? Do you understand?'
His voice was thick with worry, and part of him wondered why. Why would Napoleon worry about him, when his life meant so very little? But, oh, Napoleon's life was everything…
'Lyubimy,' he whispered. 'Lyubimy…'
He wanted to crawl into the communicator and come out the other end, and be held in Napoleon's arms.
'Illya,' Napoleon said more stridently. 'Do – you – understand?'
He opened his mouth wide, gulped in freezing air, let the oxygen shoot to his brain.
'Da,' he said. 'Tomorrow...'
When Napoleon broke the connection it was as if his heart had broken too. He pushed the communicator back into its binding of wire against his thigh and lay there, his heart hammering so loudly he thought it would wake men up. But no one stirred. The night was utterly silent. The cold pressed onto his open eyes.
When they walked past outside the barracks before dawn, clattering metal on metal to wake the men up, he was still awake, and he pulled on his boots and coat and mittens like a man in a dream. Ivan tried to speak to him, but he didn't feel as if he were there. He was half in that white room, gone away, just trying to dream his way through the next few hours. He could barely swallow his bread in the mess hall, and he pushed it into Ivan's hands.
'No, no, I can't eat your bread,' Ivan protested, and Illya said, 'Vanya, please. For me.'
Ivan peered at him hard, forehead creased in worry.
'You're sick,' he said. 'You should report to the infirmary before it's too late. They'll send you out anyway, otherwise.'
'I want to be sent out,' he said.
Ivan's face held that worried look all through breakfast. Illya tried to eat his stew but he couldn't swallow. He could feel the communicator that held Napoleon hard against his inner thigh. The stew tasted like dirty dishwater. He poured it into Ivan's bowl, and Ivan looked at him harder still, and touched a hand to his forehead.
'Ilya, you're not planning anything?' he asked.
Illya's face blanched. Ivan took hold of his hand beneath the table.
'Ilyusha, you must live through this,' he said. 'You will get home. You can't kill yourself.'
At that, Illya let out a billow of breath, slumping back on the bench. Ivan thought he was suicidal. Well, he didn't blame him. If it hadn't been for the plan, he might have been.
'No, Vanya,' he said. 'No, I don't want to die. I'm just – sick. You're right. I'm sick. But not enough to be kept back. No temperature, see.'
Ivan touched his head again, and grunted. 'No, you're cold as a dead fish.'
'It's a headache,' Illya said. 'That's all. I didn't sleep. Work will make it better. Through Labour – Freedom,' he quoted the motto from the camp gate, and Ivan hid a snort of laughter behind his hand.
He walked to the logging area feeling dazed and disconnected from things. Ivan tried to encourage him to sing in his head, but he couldn't remember any of the words. He stared at the rhythmically moving legs and backs before him, and wondered how to talk to Permyakov. He tried to remember if he needed to work with Permyakov. He didn't want to let go of Ivan for these last few hours. The thought of leaving Ivan behind was like ripping out part of his soul. He knew so little about the man; he never talked about who he had been before the zona; but he knew him so well. He would be leaving him to die, and that made tears sting in his eyes.
He couldn't let himself cry again. He lifted his head and pretended it was the sheer ice of the wind that was making his eyes wet. There was snow falling. Snow was good. It wasn't enough of a blizzard to keep them in camp, but it would help cover tracks and disguise movement. Of course, the guards knew that and were extra nervous, but it wouldn't matter. No, it wouldn't matter, not with what Jim had planned.
Jim wasn't there when they arrived, and although he thought perhaps he should pair with Permyakov, he went with Ivan instead. His thoughts whirled on how he could help him. Ivan was entitled to two letters a year, and no one wrote to him. He could send him food parcels. He could arrange all that somehow, he thought wildly, somehow through a third party. But if Ivan was handed more time on his sentence he would die in the camp. He had no doubt.
Suddenly he looked up from his work, his eyes blazing into Ivan's.
'Take care,' he said. 'Take care and live. Please live, Vanya.'
Ivan stared back at him, and then he thought he could see a grin in his eyes, a grin hidden beneath his face wraps.
'I take every day as it comes, Ilya,' he said, and bent back to the saw.
((O))
The big truck rolled up into the clearing, and Jim got out. His face appeared and disappeared through the whirling snow. He stalked between the men, making comments and criticisms, and then he strode up to Illya and barked, 'You, come with me.'
Illya smiled at Ivan, held his eyes momentarily. Ivan's eyes widened, and he knew he suspected something, but the man stayed silent. Illya wanted to say goodbye, but he didn't dare, so he just touched his fingers to his hat in a brisk gesture of farewell.
Jim got Permyakov on the way back to the truck, and kicked at a pile of off-cuts with his boot.
'Both of you, load this lot into the truck, then get in. You can unload it at the other end. I'm not getting my hands dirty with this stuff.'
Sometimes Illya felt a blank coming over him, and he couldn't distinguish Jim or Rollin from the other men who barked orders at him. He just leapt to do whatever task he was ordered to. Then a few moments later he remembered that Jim was on his side, Rollin was on his side. They were there to help. He knew that was wrong. It meant he was losing reality, spending too much time in the white room and pretending everything else was some great long film reel that would eventually run out. It wasn't good. Jim and Rollin weren't part of the film. He had to keep hold of that.
He bent down, picking up each rough and ill-cut log and throwing it into the back. Permyakov stood by him doing the same, and Illya could tell he was itching to ask if this was it; but there was a guard standing so close to them, his rifle lax in his hands. If Permyakov spoke it could spell their deaths.
Then Jim came round to the back of the truck and ordered them to get in.
'I'll come along,' their hovering guard said, making to climb up after them.
Jim laughed. 'They won't try anything. Not in this weather. It'd be suicide.'
The guard climbed in anyway. Jim met Illya's eyes briefly as he let down the canvas back of the cover, then he got in and started the engine.
Illya knocked a couple of pieces of wood into a better position, and sat on them. Permyakov did the same. The light was dim in the back, but some daylight came through the canvas and where the cover was lashed to the sides. He could see that Permyakov was shaking. Illya looked down at his own hands and realised he was too.
The truck kept on jolting and jerking along the road, and Illya could feel sickness in his craw. He didn't know if it were nerves or the slight motion sickness he sometimes succumbed to. He clenched his mittened hands onto two pieces of wood either side of him, and closed his eyes.
The truck lurched, and from the front Jim yelled something about an animal in the road. That was the signal. Illya lifted the piece of wood in his right hand and in an act more instinct than planned, he hurled it at their guard's head. The man went down instantly, without a sound.
'Out,' Illya snapped at Permyakov, snatching up the man's rifle.
The truck was moving again. When Permyakov stalled Illya grabbed him by the hand and pulled him bodily to the back of the truck. He gave a cursory glance into the whirling snow outside, and jumped, Permyakov tugged behind him.
They fell and rolled on frozen mud and compacted snow, and Illya kept the momentum going, straight off the side of the road and into the ditch. Then he sat up and looked around, and saw movement. Three people, their faces the only colour in white camo, making towards them. When hands grabbed him he saw Napoleon's face looking down at him, and all self control dropped from him, suddenly and shockingly. Napoleon was urging him to do something but he didn't know what. Then he registered. He was pulling a while coverall over Illya's clothes. Barney and Willy were doing the same for Permyakov.
And then they were up and running, away from the road, out into the spreading white wasteland, stumbling over the snow-covered stumps of trees. He was trying to keep up, Napoleon's hand was like a vice around his wrist, he was slipping and his breath came in gasps that burnt his lungs. He was dizzy, faint with hunger and fatigue, and the white room was calling him. And then they were in amongst the trees, running still. Barney had something in his hand. A compass perhaps, or – no, he thought it was a tracking sensor. They were heading for the point on the display, but he had no idea where or how far. He only knew that he was running and running, and his lungs hurt and his head hurt, and he was terrified, and the white room was the only place where it was safe.
There was a sput of a silenced shot, and then Barney said grimly, 'If they find a dead wolf, they'll know we've come this way.'
Vaguely, Illya was aware of the great shaggy corpse on the ground – but he could see no blood. He translated Barney's words in his head just as Napoleon was saying, 'Sleep darts. They won't find a dead wolf.'
And they ran on, the snow falling thickly around them now. Illya's eyes darted about, wary of enemies, terrified not of being shot but of being taken back. But perhaps the alarm hadn't even been raised yet. Jim wouldn't have to say anything until he got back to the office and looked in the back of the truck. He saw that Willy was carrying a great white-covered pack on his back, and so was Barney. Napoleon. He focussed on him. Yes, Napoleon too was carrying a pack. Shouldn't he be carrying something? He and Permyakov. It wasn't right not to be working…
And then they were bursting out of the shade of the trees onto a road that bisected the forest. And there a truck was standing, very much like the one that Jim had driven them off in. And in the driving seat there was –
Illya's heart clenched. He raised the rifle he had taken from the unconscious guard. Then Napoleon screamed, 'Illya, no!' and knocked the rifle aside. Illya stood gasping as Napoleon prised the gun from his hands. That was – No, that wasn't a camp guard. That was Rollin. He had almost shot Rollin.
He collapsed to his knees in the snow at the shock of that revelation. He curled over himself, the sobs wrenching out of him. Someone lifted him and threw him bodily into the back of the truck as if he were no more than a doll. Arms came around him, and he reached out, falling against Napoleon's chest, long, formless animal cries coming from his mouth. He tried to speak but he couldn't make the words come.
((O))
Napoleon held Illya against his chest as Rollin gunned the engine into life, and the truck rumbled on. Willy was arranging the stacks of boxes in there, pulling out the ones that blocked off the hidden compartment and gesturing them through. On the other side, Cinnamon was there to receive them, grabbing their snow camouflage as they stripped it off, and stuffing it into a crate.
Napoleon had to drag Illya through the box barricade, and then Willy blocked it off with a box so heavy only he could move it. Illya was still making those terrible open-mouthed wails, and he didn't know how to stop him. He pushed him away a little and looked into his face, stared straight into his eyes. They hardly seemed to see him.
'Illya,' he said. 'Illya, it's all right now.'
He glanced around at the others, then thought to hell with it. He reached out and stroked a hand down Illya's gaunt cheek, murmuring, 'Illya, love, lyubimy, lyubimy. Come on, honey...'
There was something in Illya's eyes, some spark of connection. The sounds trailed off and he sat there, just gaping. Napoleon lifted Illya's chin, leant forward, held him and kissed him, and to his enormous relief Illya responded. He slipped his tongue into Illya's mouth, and tasted him. He was – different. He tasted ill, not right. He tasted of bad food and hunger.
Suddenly he became aware that the atmosphere in the truck had changed. He pulled back from Illya and saw Permyakov staring at them as if he had been struck. The man said something in Russian, and Illya recoiled. Napoleon stared at Cinnamon, who was looking at Permyakov with an expression of disgust.
'Translate,' he snapped.
Reluctantly she said, 'It wasn't nice, Napoleon.'
'I don't care,' Napoleon said in a voice of steel. 'Translate.'
'He – made a derogatory reference to Mr Kuryakin's sexual preference,' Cinnamon said awkwardly. 'I don't know the precise meaning of the slang, Napoleon, but I understood enough.'
After everything Illya had been through to save his hide... Napoleon felt rage swell. He lurched at Permyakov and took hold of the collar of his coveralls, pulling him very close to his face. He glanced at Cinnamon.
'Translate this,' he said. Then he looked directly into Permyakov's eyes. 'If you ever tell anyone who it was who got you out, we will deny it. No one will believe you. But afterwards, and you won't know when, I will hunt you down and kill you. One clean shot, with a bullet that suggests KGB. Believe that I can do it. We got you out of the gulag. We can do this.'
Then he dropped the Russian scientist, leaving the translation to Cinnamon. He had no doubt she could repeat his words with exactly the same tone of menace, and by the look on her face she had no argument with Napoleon's sentiment.
He turned back to Illya, who was still huddled on the floor of the truck, staring, trying to catch in his lurching breaths. He stripped off Illya's white coverall with great tenderness and threw it aside, and then the stench hit him. Illya stank as if he had been bathing in urine for days, the ammonia so strong it made his eyes water. After Permyakov's utterance Illya seemed to have ricocheted back into his shocked shell.
'What the – what the hell is wrong with him?' he asked, trying to get Illya's arm to bend so he could strip him of the jacket. He seemed almost catatonic.
Barney looked up from helping Permyakov out of his coveralls. He was holding up clothes as if to check that they would fit. They needed to get both men out of their camp clothes as soon as possible.
'Trauma,' Barney said, rather unnecessarily. Napoleon knew damn well that it was trauma, but he had seen Illya come from sadistic torture sessions, escape from certain death in a multitude of hideous ways, recover from captivity and drugging and any number of terrible things, and never come out of it in this state.
'Napoleon.' Cinnamon's hand was on his arm, her eyes wide with that kitten look that Napoleon had learnt was only to be trusted in certain circumstances. He could trust her now. 'Napoleon, he's been through – a lot.'
Napoleon stared at her. 'I know that. Don't you think I don't damn well know that? What is it? What haven't I been told? Blast it, this is my partner. Tell me.'
Their eyes locked for a long few moments, but then Cinnamon handed Napoleon a pile of clothes and said, 'He needs to get these on.'
Permyakov was already half dressed in clothes that were padded to make it look as if he were not so thin. Barney was fitting a dark, close-cropped wig down over his shaven head and trying his best to blend the edges as the truck jolted onward. With some carefully applied make-up to hide the grey of his complexion and make him seem a bit more fleshed out, he would be unrecognisable.
Napoleon turned to Illya, tried to uncurl him enough to pull off his ragged shirt. That stank of urine too, mixed with sweat. He would have burnt the clothes instantly if he could.
'Come on,' he murmured, trying to straighten Illya's arm. 'Come on, Illya. I need you to help me a little.'
Wordlessly, Cinnamon handed him a syringe. Napoleon asked the question with his eyes.
'It'll calm him down,' she promised him. 'Trust me. I've had it myself. It's good stuff. He'll be able to function, but it'll take the edge off.'
Napoleon uncapped the syringe and held it up. The liquid was clear, almost colourless. He stopped fighting to get Illya's shirt off him and ripped the sleeve to the elbow instead. He kissed that soft inner skin, and then swiftly injected the dose. It took a few minutes, but slowly the Russian relaxed. The tremors that had been running through his body subsided to a few occasional palsies of the hands. He lifted Illya's hands then and kissed them, kissed each fingertip and each ragged nail. He was far beyond caring who saw.
'Illya,' he said softly. 'Are you ready to get changed now?'
'I'm – I'm sorry,' he said. His English was slow and heavily accented.
'It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter,' Napoleon soothed him. 'Are you ready to get changed? Let's get you out of those clothes.'
Illya looked down at the remains of his camp clothing as if seeing them for the first time. He fingered at the number on the discarded jacket on the floor of the truck.
'It's really over,' he said.
'We're not quite out of the woods yet,' Napoleon told him reluctantly. 'But yes, this bit is over. You'll never go back there again.'