- Chapter four -

Berliner

Principal Evans: "Mr. and Mrs. Abagnale, this is not a question of your son's attendance. I regret to inform you that, for the past week, Frank has been teaching Mrs. Glasser's French class."
Paula Abagnale: "He what?"
Principal Evans: "Your son has been pretending to be a substitute teacher, lecturing the students, uh, giving out homework, uh. Mrs. Glasser has been ill, there was some confusion with the real sub. Your son held a teacher-parent conference yesterday and was planning a class field trip to a French bread factory in Trenton." — Catch Me If You Can, 2002

"Tell me, what did you see?"

Right now, I don't see a fucking thing. Why can't he fix that light? "A man and a woman. They were visiting the boat, together. I was too far away to hear their conversation. Sir."

He chuckled, his voice deep and clear, echoing off the tiled walls. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, almost as old as the place itself. They always met here, though it had never become clear why, and the place held that same unsettling atmosphere as the day this all started.

"Is that what you came to tell me? That a man and a woman, on a Monday evening, visited an abandoned fisher's boat with nothing of any value in it? Do you realize I postponed a deal for this bullshit?" His voice was even, almost monotonous, and that was far more worrying than his usual outbursts.

"No, Sir, what I meant to say is—"

"What you meant to say is: Sorry, Sir, I'm a fuck-up, Sir, terribly sorry for wasting your precious time. Now allow me to drown myself in the shower like the pathetic weakling I am." He stood up slowly, and lit a cigarette. "You're dismissed, Nic."

Out of the corner of the room, a shadow moved. He's right, I am a fuck-up, a useless piece of shit. But he needs to know, he needs to know or he'll be blindsided and it'll be my fault.

"Please sir, you need to—"

"What I need is for you to get the fuck out. Anthony, love, tell the Doctor we're availa—"

"She works at Bova Bakery!"

Silence. The cigarette was hanging limply from his lips. His eyebrows furrowed, then his face was a blank canvas again. He walked around the table separating them without breaking eye-contact, and took the cigarette from his lips to allow a small smile to creep across his face.

"Let's try this again. Very slowly this time, Nic. What did you see?

Illya adjusted his fake glasses, and absent-mindedly turned a page. Behind the newspaper, the red bricks of Hummingbird's house gleamed in the morning sun. His eyes fell on the date. October 8th, 1963. A Tuesday. To Illya, the best day of the week, because of one simple reason.

No judo class.

In the lining of Illya's coat, a quiet crackling disturbed the silence. His eyes remained glued to the newspaper.

"Pst. Peril. Do you copy? Over."

To an outsider, it would look like the spectacled man sitting on the bench was deeply engrossed by his newspaper. Only a trained eye and mind could spot Illya's thumb moving to press the push-to-talk button of the walkie-talkie hidden in his coat.

"Loud and clear, Cowboy. I'm in position. Over."

"I assumed. Good for you. That's not why I called, though. Over."

Illya nodded to an elderly man passing by. The moment the stranger was out of range, he thumbed the button. "I'm listening. Over."

"Peril…I'm bored."

Illya had to stop himself from groaning out loud. And this was his problem because? These walkie-talkies were already proving themselves to be a nuisance. Waverly had given them at the start of their mission, who in turn had received them as a gift from Donald Hings. Illya supposed those were the perks of being commander of U.N.C.L.E. and a former MI5 spy. Waverly's career had earned him more favors than a man was able to collect in a lifetime.

"Did you get a hit on Robin?"

"Affirmative. Deceased. OD'd in the Nest on Monday. Over."

Illya bit his lip, frustrated welling up in his chest. Their only lead, Simon H. code-named Robin, had escaped their nets. They were back at square one. Illya glanced at the house. Everything was quiet, then the walkie-talkie crackled.

"One more thing, Peril. About Hummingbird. Over."

"Proceed. Over."

A long pause. Illya was just about to repeat his message when the walkie-talkie spit out: "Hummingbird is related to Phoenix. Over."

Illya stopped scanning the newspaper. His first thought was that he'd misheard the message. As far as he knew, Waverly didn't have any family left. Both parents were orphans, now deceased and had no brothers and sisters. At least that's what the file said. So why was he currently spying on a woman's house with Waverly blood?

He chose his next words carefully. "Related how? Over."

Solo's response was curt. Illya flipped another page. Uncle… Interesting. Illya wasn't sure how, but his gut told him that this piece of information changed everything. In his world, there was no such thing as a coincidence. The universe was rarely so lazy.

No, there had to be a reason for this. Waverly's family was now involved. Situations like these were hardly routine. What struck Illya as odd was that Waverly had chosen to leave out this information during their briefing on The Brave Challenger. Illya's mind listed several explanations, but without any context there was no way of prioritizing them.

The walkie-talkie buzzed again. Can't he shut up for one. Damn. Second? Illya thought, his temper flaring.

"Don't think so hard, Peril. You'll hurt yourself. It's probably irrelevant. Over." Solo's voice was casual, lazy almost, but Illya knew that tone because his mind had expressed it many times during his time as a KGB agent. It was the troubled tone of not-knowing; the possibility of being blind-sided with terrible consequences.

Illya's thumb flicked on the button, when subtle movement caught his eye. His hand pressed the button, seconds-long, when he spotted movement again. It was subtle, just a flicker of a shadow, but it was enough for Illya. Something, someone, was in Doctor Summer's house. His eyes flicked from window to window, desperate to detect that movement again, and his finger stopped worrying the walkie-talkie button.

"Sorry, Peril, I didn't catch that. Over."

"Someone's in the—" Illya started, then remembered to push the button halfway through his sentence. "—The house, Cowboy. I don't think it's Hummingbird. Over."

A curtain on the second floor moved several inches. Someone was trying very hard to remain undetected by staying away from the windows. He had to do something, now. They might have lost their first lead, but fate had just presented Illya a new one.

"—ust wait for back-up, Peril. You're unarmed. Over."

"Negative. Eagle moving in and signing out." Illya folded his paper, and brushed the dust off his pants.

"Peril, dammit, don't—"

He switched off the walkie-talkie and took off his glasses. Cowboy was being paranoid. Illya had been a KGB agent; he was trained in martial arts and excelled in it; he vaguely recalled using a motorcycle as a weapon once. Whoever this burglar was, he or she was in a shit-load of trouble.

Illya stuck his hands in his pocket, and casually crossed the street. His first thought was to go through the front, but that would set off the burglar. Instead, he creeped around the back, careful to step around any branches or leaves. Possibly, someone was on the look-out. He needed to get to them first before they could alarm their partner.

Illya inched towards the far corner of the house. His left hand snaked towards the dark brick, his eyes focused on the glass of his watch. If anyone was there, the glass of his wrist-watch would catch their silhouette. His adrenaline spiked, but he kept his breathing steady. He would not fail. He could not fail. His team needed this lead, and Illya would deliver it.

The back-door was deserted and closed. Illya slowly released a breath. Picking the lock was child's-play, and he silently entered the building. For a second, his mind took him back to Russia, to a familiar routine of slipping into someone's house seconds before assassination, leaving no trail but the blood on the floor. His hands moved instinctively to his belt, only to grasp at nothing. They had agreed on no weapons during a stake-out, because no one needed a repeat of the time a paranoid police officer had mistaken Solo for a stalker who just happened to carry a .22 in his pocket.

Unfortunately, the absence of his gun left Illya more vulnerable. He pondered the possible risks of continuing unarmed for a few seconds, before the sunlight reflecting off a kitchen knife provided a temporary solution.

He moved towards the hall, taking cover wherever he could. The picture frames caught his eye, and Illya found himself drawn towards the one with Waverly in it. For a split second, he felt hesitation. Perhaps he'd imagined the burglar after all? Illya carefully removed the picture frame from the wall, holding it in his hand. A glint flickered over the corner of the glass, across Waverly's face.

Immediately, his heartbeat spiked.

Gun.

Illya dove towards the kitchen on his right, feeling the bullet graze the top of his left shoulder before hitting the ground hard. His mind went into overdrive, and he crawled to find cover. Through the sound of his rushing blood he could hear hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. One person, male, armed. Illya's hand went straight for the kitchen knife buried in his coat. He kept his muscles tense, waiting right next to the fridge, feeling the heat of fresh blood spread across his shoulder.

No sound came from the front door at the other end of the hall. With realization, Illya's stomach dropped. No quick escape. Meaning, he's not just an ordinary burglar, and he's not planning on leaving any witnesses.

Illya adjusted his grip on the knife. He stepped closer to the door opening, holding his breath. The silence stretched on.

Illya blinked, his shoulder stinging. A gun moved around the corner.

Another bullet escaped the gun, but Illya was already pressed against the fridge out of the line of fire. His left fingers encircled the burglar's wrist, pulling hard while his other hand moved the knife towards the left jugular vein. While Illya's body moved quickly, his mind took a different approach by slowly analyzing everything it could process.

Male, 5'11", Caucasian, muscular, brown eyes.

His hand was met with a smooth block, and Illya responded in kind by effectively twisting the armed hand. The man groaned hard behind his mask, but levelled the playing field by driving his free elbow into Illya's wounded shoulder. For a second, Illya saw stars, and the knife slipped from his hands.

Krav Maga punch. Judo block. Apparent high-level practitioner in both.

It was enough time for his attacker to grab Illya in a choke-hold. Solo would have a fit if he saw this, Illya's mind supplied helpfully, struggling to regain his focus. More adrenaline filled his blood circulation, and Illya pushed with all his strength against the elbow around his neck, twisting the man's arm 180 degrees before delivering a hard kick to his gut.

Watch around right wrist. Old piece, Italian model. Most likely left-handed.

The man gasped, but surprisingly he managed to keep upright. The kick had separated them, and for a moment they both stood breathing hard, watching each other warily. It was clear that neither party seemed ready to forfeit.

Illya was the first to move.

He threw several hard punches, of which one connected with the mandible. The man stumbled into the table, but Illya had failed to notice the gold-painted book support hidden underneath several notebooks. Marble clutched in his hand, the burglar came out swinging, and the piece connected neatly with Illya's left temple.

Son of a bi—

It took everything Illya had not to pass out. He collapsed hard against the fridge, and almost tripped over something lying on the ground. The gun, Illya thought dazedly. By the time he had managed to fire several rounds, the burglar had already fled through the back door. Illya's head felt ready to split apart, and he could feel the warmth of new blood colliding with the partly clotted blood above his collarbone.

"Shots fired, I repeat: shots fired. Requesting back-up. Over."

"Roger. Stand-by, Mike. Over."

Illya reached for his coat, his brain barely catching up. Didn't I turn off the walkie-talkie? It took him several seconds to realize the presence of law-enforcement at the front door. He allowed his body to go into auto-pilot, swiping his fingerprints from every item he'd touched, down to the picture frame lying abandoned in the hall, and he pocketed the gun in the back of his pants. There was no use in taking the book stand; the burglar had been thorough by wearing both a mask and gloves.

More voices at the door. The pain in his shoulder had degraded to a dull throb, but his head felt ready to split apart. Illya stumbled clumsily towards the exit.

By the time the police had forced the door open, agent Kuryakin had vanished into thin air.

"For God's sake," Solo breathed out sharply. He turned off the walkie-talkie. Damn him and his hero-complex. Illya might have saved Solo's ass more times than he cared to admit, but sometimes his colleague was like a bull in a china shop. He just didn't know how to behave.

If he was truly honest with himself, Solo also felt a little envious of Illya. The library was exceedingly dull, and he'd rather sit outside in the sun and observe an empty house than point out the bathroom's location every twenty minutes. Besides, wasn't he far more useful somewhere else? At the hospital, perhaps?

His feet had already decided for him; it wasn't a long walk to Massachusetts General.

A centerpiece of Boston, Massachusetts General looked more like a theater than a hospital. Eight magnificent pillars stood tall below the Ether dome—a beautifully tiled structure that gleamed like the ocean when the light caressed it. Patients were scattered across the compound, most of them smoking while they enjoyed the warmth of the sun. The angles of their skin showed through their flimsy pajamas as they exchanged cigarettes and words. No one had seen Napoleon snatch a package of cigarettes lying on the worn seat of a lonely wheelchair.

I actually did you a favor there, Solo thought to himself, grinning. At your service, gents.

With confidence, he walked over to a young man about his height who was nose-deep in a book. He was seated on the stairs, his back the same arch as the Ether dome, and thin fingers slowly followed the words on the page. Napoleon had to clear his throat to get his attention.

"Need a lighter," Napoleon started, fingering a cigarette, "You have one? Hell, I probably need a second one after the day I had…"

The young man's eyes briefly left the book and locked onto Solo, before returning to his reading material. "Those things will kill you, you know. But yeah, left pocket. Just smoke over there, please, not here."

Solo hummed his appreciation, taking the entire coat as he made his way to the entrance. Interns… I bet there's not a single one who doesn't need a smoke every now and then, Napoleon mused, taking two steps at the time. He clipped the identity card on his right pocket and flicked the unused cigarette into a trash-can. The stethoscope buried in the lower left pocket found its way across Solo's neck.

As expected, the interior of the Bulfinch building was even more intimidating than the exterior. Doctors and nurses in uniforms swarmed the grey tiles, while patients filled the remaining empty space with their laughter, crying, and heated voices. There was a long line at the reception desk, so Solo casually made his way to the left wing of the building. On the inside, he felt at a complete loss. Where did you find a doctor whose job was to be everywhere at the same time?

"Moss! Doctor Moss! Jesus Christ, are you deaf?"

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, and Solo was met with the face of a disgruntled looking doctor. A pair of glasses rested low on a long nose, and the man was scribbling away at a piece of paper. He was moving into the left wing, the way Napoleon was headed, and a pager in the doctor's coat was going haywire.

"Move it, Moss. They need us in Trauma 2." Napoleon hurriedly caught up with him as the doctor kept talking, both men walking at a brisk pace. "Didn't you hear your pager? There's been a road accident at 47; we've been swamped." They turned a corner to the left, then to the right. "Did you get a haircut, by the way? You know what, don't answer that, I don't give a shit." Another corner. A gurney passed them, along with several doctors. A trail of blood followed closely behind.

As soon as they reached the trauma room, Solo took a deep breath. The stench of blood was already sickening. His ears could detect the whimpers drawn out of an injured man, and Napoleon expected a room of chaos to greet him. Instead, nurses were quietly supplying instruments, doctors were calmly discussing their patients, and in the midst of it all was the victim, brace around his neck and bloody, and a blonde-haired doctor was leaning over him to distract him with soft whispers. Oh crap.

"Doctor Summers, I brought some company, do you mind if Doctor Moss takes a quick look?"

"Of course not. Come closer." Her eyes were still fixed on their patient; her hands skimming over the man's chest with her stethoscope. In a quiet act of desperation, Solo quickly grabbed a status board from the edge of the bed in an attempt to hide his face. He was seconds away from blowing his cover, and Napoleon prayed that Mary would just go along with whatever he was going to say.

"Don't hesitate. Come closer." Mary repeated impatiently. Her stethoscope lingered on the right side of the patient. She looked up, and her smooth features grew slack, then almost as white as her uniform.

Here we go, a sarcastic voice spoke to Napoleon.

"Who is this?" Her voice was sharp to his ears, but the older doctor seemed unfazed and continued to fiddle with the patient's IV. The injured man groaned in response.

"Doctor Moss, meet Doctor Summers. Moss started here last week, remember, Mary?"

"Right, forgive me. Names sometimes escape me." She still hadn't blinked, and while her voice was perfectly steady her eyes betrayed her. She had one hell of a poker face, but Solo could recognize fear when it was staring him in the face.

"What seems to be the problem, Doctor Summers?" Napoleon began, observing another ripple of fear cross Mary's face as he stepped closer. She huffed softly, and his eyes caught the set in her jaw when she broke eye-contact.

Waverly blood, no doubt about it now, he contemplated.

"Tension pneumothorax. We relieved the lung cavity on site but I suspect that the right middle lobe has been punctured. I ordered a thorax X-ray to be certain." Her hands removed the bloody cloth that had been draped across the patient's right pectoral muscle, and the sight underneath it made his stomach churn. "Would you like to remove the drain, Doctor?"

Oh, now she was just messing with him.

"Yes, of course. Excuse me for a moment."

He needed to leave. He needed to leave before he was going to puke all over their patient. He stumbled out of the room, a muttered "fucking interns with their weak stomachs" from the old man fading behind him, and he slipped into the empty room across Trauma 2. Breathing hard, he swallowed back the bile that had collected at the back of this throat.

Within moments, Doctor Summers was in his face, cornering him against the sink.

"Give me one reason not to have the police arrest you. You were in my ho—"

"Listen, it's not what you think."

"Not what I—You're a bloody librarian! Are you stalking me? That's it. I'm done, I—"

As if on cue, the phone on the wall rang.

Mary bit her lip, her eyes not leaving Napoleon's face. "Perhaps you should take that," Napoleon started, interrupting her when she opened her mouth, "—I know, you're not done. I'll wait."

She glared at him, mouthing Not. Done. at him before she answered the phone. He rolled his eyes.

"Doctor Summers. Yes, this is she. Excuse me? Are you—Yes. I'll be right there."

Solo had stuffed his hands in his pockets, watching Mary's back go rigid from his point of view. When she turned, the phone still buried in the palm of her hand, he instinctively stepped forward. He hadn't missed the way her breath hitched in her chest.

Something had happened. Something bad.

"I know you feel like you can't trust me, but you can. Please, Mary. I'm here to help."

And perhaps it was the way he'd said 'please', or the way he'd reached for the phone in her hand to disconnect the line, or the way his free hand rested just below the curve of her shoulder, but something inside Mary's eyes seemed a little more broken than before.

"It was my son's school. Alex didn't show up in class after lunchbreak."

Napoleon's heart skipped a beat. He could feel her shoulder sagging underneath his hand and the weight of her words.

"He's gone, Nathan, Alex's gone."

A/N: DUN DUN DUN! I'm hitting all the clichés in suspense writing. I'm fully aware of it. Please let me know what you think, reviews make me feel like eating that big chunk of caramel fudge in one sitting: wonderful, slightly regretful I can't have more, and extremely bloated.