The drive over to U.N.C.L.E. HQ took place in silence. Illya puzzled over the situation he now found himself in, turning the events of the past few days over and over in his mind. One moment he had been annoyed at Napoleon's proprietary air, the way that the American seemed to demand something extraordinary from himself in relation to Illya's well-being. Then, even as he was still bristling from that attitude, he had found himself stepping out into uncharted territory, risking the abyss. And he had not fallen, as he had always feared he would. That Napoleon was a passionate man came as no surprise - how could it, when they'd been partners for so long, let alone when he'd seen the ardent way his friend chased whatever women were nearby? But that this passion could be directed at him alone, that gave Illya pause for thought. If only they had not been interrupted. No. He would not think of that, not now - after all, it had been such intimacy that had nearly destroyed them before. Illya knew, despite the way that he wanted to throw himself head-first into the chasm that opened up before him, that Napoleon had to dictate the speed at which they moved this time. He knew that the time ahead would be difficult for both of them, he was resigned to the fact - all Illya could do was trust that what Napoleon seemed to feel for him was real and could survive the coming days.
Napoleon glanced surreptitiously across at his silent partner as they drove to U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Even as they were parking, and all the way into Del Floria's he watched Illya when the Russian was not looking, not liking the silence that was there between them. It worried him so much that Napoleon almost forgot to flirt with the receptionist that greeted them - almost. A sidelong glance from Illya, when the expected words failed to appear, was enough to bring Napoleon back down to earth with a jolt. He trotted out some banal compliment - it sounded real enough to convince the receptionist, and Napoleon was not sure that he'd imagined the look that flashed across his partner's face. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," Waverly greeted them when they finally appeared in his office. His voice was cold, and one glance at the grimness of his face was enough to stop whatever glib response Napoleon had been about to come out with. Waverly gestured impatiently for the two agents to take a seat, absently playing with an unlit pipe as they did so. "Do we know any more, sir?" Napoleon asked cautiously. "It seems that our mole was not alone, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, with a scowl. "He claims to have had help from a highly-placed agent within Section Two." "Do we have any idea who?" "Indeed we do, Mr. Solo," Waverly said calmly, pressing a button on the desk in front of him. At his summons, the door behind them hissed open, revealing three heavily armed agents. "He claims that he received his instructions directly from Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya froze in his seat as his name was spoken, not even daring to look round at his partner. He heard the footsteps of the three newly arrived agents as they came to stand round where he was still seated, U.N.C.L.E. Specials clutched ready in their hands in case he should try to resist. "That's ridiculous!" Napoleon blurted out. "Illya would never betray U.N.C.L.E. like that." "It's alright, Napoleon," Illya said quietly, pushing himself up slowly from his chair. He was aware all the time of the three sets of eyes focussed so intently on his every move. Illya reached slowly into his jacket and loosened his shoulder holster, before removing it, and the gun it held, and handing them to one of the agents who stood nearby. "Tell him, Illya!" Napoleon ordered, turning to face his partner for the first time since the accusation was spoken. "Tell him you had nothing to do with this." The unspoken plea in Napoleons eyes was as clear as the words he had said - tell me you had nothing to do with this. "I can't," Illya said finally, his eyes falling to study the surface of the desk in front of him. "I can't... because I don't know that I didn't. I don't remember." "That's ridiculous." Napoleon spat out the words. "Please escort Mr. Kuryakin out of here," Waverly said, breaking the spell that held the two agents together, making Napoleon turn back to face the man behind the desk. "Sir?" Napoleon pleaded. "Please, you can't believe..." Even as he spoke, he heard the door hiss open again, as the three agents left with his partner. It took every ounce of willpower Napoleon had not to turn and say something, do something, but he knew that only Waverly had the power to free his partner. "This conversation is over, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand, before turning to one of the pile of folders waiting his inspection. The feeling of powerlessness that swept over Napoleon left him light-headed for a moment - the events of the previous days, and even the passionate kiss that he had shared with Illya only a matter of minutes ago seemed like distant memories. With one order, Waverly had shattered the only certainty in Napoleon's life. He knew that there was no way he'd be allowed to see Illya, so he did not bother to ask again, turning on his heel and leaving the office without a word, careless of Waverly's gaze upon him. Could he have been wrong? Napoleon's mind raced as he stalked along the corridors, ignoring the smiles of the occasional female agents who passed by, focussed as it was on one particular smile. One particular face, the face of the man he trusted more than anyone else. He knew that Illya had been acting strangely ever since he had rescued his partner from the warehouse, bursting in to find that woman standing so close to him, the knife that glinted with Illya's blood still poised to cut again. Illya himself had hung so limply in his bonds that only the fitful heaving of his chest gave any sign that the Russian was still alive. He'd killed the woman without a second thought, then raced to his partner's side, forced to use the same knife that had been used to torture Illya to cut him free. Then Napoleon remembered tossing the knife aside, remembered wiping his hands on his trouser legs over and over again as he crouched by Illya's side, waiting for the medical team to come. It had been too close - he'd known somehow that something was wrong with his partner but never suspected that the wrongness of it all went so deep. That Illya had acted out of character, revealing a side of himself that Napoleon had never seen before, that couldn't be denied. But for Illya to be a traitor to U.N.C.L.E.? He would not, could not believe such a thing. But Illya believed it of you, he thought, the memory of Illya's accusatory tones coming back to haunt him, even in the midst of his certainty.
I should have told him, Illya thought, as he sat in the holding cell, his head cradled in his hands. I should never have let this go so far without telling him. Illya closed his eyes, thinking back to the brief moments of passion he had experienced with his partner, moments that seemed, in his mind at least, to have lasted an eternity. He'd felt so safe, so accepted, so trusted, and yet he had allowed this to happen. He'd never protested against the culmination of his plan, despite the hurt it would certainly cause his partner. Illya had made his choice - he'd decided where his loyalties lay and he'd chosen U.N.C.L.E. The door to the holding cell swung open and the light silhouetted the shape of Alexander Waverly in the doorway. "Mr. Kuryakin, are you sure you're up to this?" "Quite sure, sir," Illya said, looking up at the older man. "And Napoleon?" "On his way back to his office, if I'm not mistaken," Waverly said, coming over to sit on the one chair that the holding cell contained. "He seemed... upset. Are you sure it was necessary to keep him in the dark over this part of your plan?" "The preliminary results indicated that the mole is situated in Section 2," Illya said, hating the words even as he spoke them. "I'm not convinced that Napoleon could give a good enough performance if he knew my arrest wasn't real." "Quite so." Waverly looked thoughtful for a moment. "And this plan will flush out the mole?" "If whoever is passing the information to Thrush thinks that I am under suspicion, they may become careless, over-confident." "Time will tell." Waverly got up from his seat and headed towards the door, banging on it with his stick to alert the guards. As the door was opened, he turned back to Illya and spoke again. "Get some sleep, Mr. Kuryakin."
"Solo!" The southern accent, the words drawled casually, broke through to Napoleon as he waited impatiently at the elevator. He didn't look round, his eyes flicking up to the numbers displayed above and then down again to the doors, as if that action alone would hurry the system. Napoleon didn't even bother to look when he felt a presence at his side, his memory supplying the name to fit the voice - James Dawson. He'd known Dawson in the army - in fact he'd known far too many people just like Dawson. Men who enjoyed their work a little too much for his liking. He'd wondered before how Dawson had managed to find his way into U.N.C.L.E., how he'd passed the stringent tests supposed to ensure the organization's agents were the brightest and the best. Still, he'd no proof that Dawson was anything but what he professed to be - mere personal dislike for someone wasn't enough to get them kicked out. As the elevator doors closed behind the two men, Napoleon glanced across at Dawson, who seemed to be studying his shoes. "Hear your partner got arrested," Dawson said quietly, without looking up. Napoleon strained to hear any note of emotion in that voice - he could feel the anger churning inside him as he thought back on Illya being dragged out of Waverly's office by three heavily armed agents. He should have known the story would already be circulating round HQ - within an hour every agent in the building would know. "Just goes to show," Dawson continued, seemingly unaware of the danger, "you can never tell." "What?" Napoleon hissed, his fury close to the surface. The menace in the single word was enough to alert Dawson finally to the peril that awaited him if he continued on this path. He glanced nervously at Napoleon, before looking back at his shoes once more. The elevator door hissed open - the car had arrived at Napoleon's floor. As he passed Dawson, the agent spoke again, more quietly. "Better find yourself a new partner, Solo." Napoleon restrained himself, though he had no idea how - every instinct was screaming at him to pound Dawson until he couldn't speak again but he somehow bit his lip and kept walking, pretending that he hadn't heard the words. He didn't want another partner - he wanted Illya. It wasn't a new thing, of course. As Napoleon settled into the chair behind his desk, hoping that the familiar surroundings would help him to make sense of what had just happened, he thought back to the first time he'd met Illya Kuryakin. He'd never wanted a partner, never wanted to have to rely on anyone else that completely - Napoleon had been proud of his own ability to survive whatever life threw at him. He'd survived the army, survived Korea and he could survive U.N.C.L.E. U.N.C.L.E. however, in the shape of Alexander Waverly, had a different idea. Later, Napoleon was to learn that he'd almost become Waverly's pet project - the older man seemed to have set himself the task of finding the American agent the perfect partner, sorting his way through a multitude of candidates, finding fault with them all. And then Illya Kuryakin had come along. It had seemed so unlikely, to everyone but Waverly. How could he possibly work with this man? This refugee from a system Napoleon could barely comprehend, educated at Cambridge and The Sorbonne? His first sight of Illya had confirmed his worst fears. The man he was meant to trust with his life was slight and blond - his eyes radiated intelligence, but there was a chilly calmness to his manner that unsettled the American. But the doubters, himself included, had been wrong. Illya proved to be an asset to U.N.C.L.E., his body far stronger than that first meeting had indicated, his brain even sharper than the list of letters after his name had suggested. And Napoleon discovered that he trusted him implicitly from very early on in their partnership - he'd learned to filter out the scornful comments he had heard other agents making about the trustworthiness of a Russian refugee, protecting Illya as best he could from the slurs directed their way. Together, the two of them had built a reputation for serving U.N.C.L.E. with everything they had - it had not taken long for a grudging acceptance of his taciturn partner to turn to open pride on the part of other Enforcement Agents. Illya had become one of them, despite every way in which he was different. But that had all been destroyed now, the partnership shattered by an accusation Napoleon knew in his heart to be false, and he found himself alone once more.
Alone. Illya contemplated the gray concrete of the holding cell floor, his eyes following the cracks while his mind raced. Had he made the right decision, when he had chosen not to tell Napoleon what was going on? He'd declared his unconditional trust of his partner, in a moment of intimacy quite unlike any other he'd ever shared with another human being. He'd seen the light in Napoleon's eyes, the passion that burned there, the trust his partner placed in him, and yet Illya had kept silent. What excuse could he give? None sprung to mind - Napoleon could never believe that Illya had forgotten the intricacies of a plan he himself had devised, so the only option left open to his partner was that Illya had lied to him. That everything Illya had said had been the necessary words to serve the purpose of U.N.C.L.E. in the long run. After all, if he'd truly trusted his partner, why couldn't he have told him the truth? Did you trust him? Illya's conscience asked. After all, when did you last trust someone that much? There was no answer, nor had he expected one. He wondered what Napoleon's reaction would be when he discovered the truth - what could he expect to see in his partner's eyes but a look of betrayal?
Alone. The word pulled at Napoleon, sending a responsive shiver through him - he'd grown so used to having Illya to rely on, even if his partner were a thousand miles away, that the thought of going on without him chilled the American to the bone. If it's true, and Illya is a traitor... his mind began. Napoleon laughed to himself at the irony of it all - Illya had accused him of being an impostor and now he was doubting his partner? He couldn't believe that anything could make Illya do this and the way that Illya had reacted a little while ago had been unnecessary confirmation of the truth he knew in his heart. There was no way that Illya Kuryakin was a traitor to U.N.C.L.E. So why is he in a holding cell? his inner voice chided. The tone was glacial, reminding Napoleon a little of his partner. There could be only one answer to that question - only one that Napoleon wanted to contemplate anyway. If Illya was innocent, and Napoleon had trusted the Russian with his life too many times not to believe him completely trustworthy, this must be part of his plan. In all the excitement, Napoleon had nearly forgotten that there was a leak within U.N.C.L.E. - the moments of passion he'd shared with Illya, let alone the concern he'd already been feeling for his partner's well-being, had driven that problem to the back of his mind. Damn you, Illya, he thought, as the feeling of certainty grew within him. Why did you tell me you trusted me and then keep quiet about this? Because he knew what your response would be, his inner voice replied, sounding even more like Illya. "You knew how I'd react," Napoleon said to himself. "But you did it anyway." What could he feel but pride at that thought? He'd been Illya's champion when they'd first been made partners, defending the Russian against any accusation that the needs of U.N.C.L.E. were not at the fore-front of Illya's mind, and now his partner had proved him to be irrevocably correct. His mind made up, Napoleon got up from where he had been sitting and began to pace, his mind working furiously now as he tried to figure out the best way to use this new information to help his partner.
Napoleon was seated in the cafeteria, deep in the heart of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, nursing a coffee. He sat in his usual chair, facing the entrance. It didn't escape his attention that each newcomer seemed to look straight at him as they entered and that none of them seemed surprised to see him there. In response, when he felt it was appropriate, Napoleon glowered at some, ignored others, in between periods of staring morosely into the depths of the mug which sat on the table before him. All in all, Napoleon was quite happy with his performance in the role of an agent who has just discovered that his partner is a traitor. "Mr. Solo," a voice said from close by his side. Napoleon glanced round, seeing one of the research assistants from Illya's laboratory - a moments thought provided his name. "What do you want, Peters?" he growled. "Is it true about Mr. Kuryakin?" Peters asked, his voice shaking slightly. When he received no answer, the man continued. "That he's been arrested?" Napoleon sighed to himself, lifting the mug to his lips to cover his small smile. A part of him was proud that his taciturn friend had managed to inspire such loyalty in the people who worked for him - so much so that one of them would even approach a pissed-off Section Two agent to ask after him. "It is," Napoleon snarled, mentally apologizing to the man as he did so. "Turns out my partner is a traitor!" The last few words were snapped out, echoing in the sudden silence that filled the cafeteria as he spoke. Playing his role to the full, Napoleon glared round at the handful of people there, his eyes challenging each one of them, daring them to say something. After a long silence, Napoleon slammed his coffee mug down onto the table, the small amount of liquid remaining slopping about within its confines. With one hand, he pushed back the chair on which he was sitting and stalked from the room. Must apologize properly to Peters, he thought. After we sort this whole mess out. In the corridor, Napoleon ignored the looks he was receiving from the people he passed - he knew that he looked as though he had a small black cloud overhead, and that was just the way that he wanted it. He had to look as though his only concern was not the innocence of his partner, but the preservation of his place in the U.N.C.L.E. hierarchy. Next stop, Waverly's office, he thought. Pushing past the startled secretary, Napoleon entered Waverly's office - this was one of the few times that he'd gone there without being invited and he took pleasure at the way that Waverly's eyebrows rose when he saw who his visitor was. "I hope you don't think I had anything to do with Kuryakin selling out U.N.C.L.E.," Napoleon began, knowing the door to the office was still open so that his voice echoed out into the corridor. "I have my position as Number One of Section Two to think about after all." Waverly just stared at him for a moment from where he was sitting behind the desk, a puzzled expression clear on his face - this in itself was also an unusual occurrence. "Just goes to show," Napoleon continued, stealing the words that Dawson had used earlier, though they were like bile in his mouth. "You never know who you can trust." Waverly seemed to have recovered some of his customary composure by now and gestured Napoleon into a chair near the desk, turning to dismiss his secretary with a glance and a wave of the hand. When the door had hissed closed behind her he turned back to Napoleon. "What can I do for you, Mr. Solo?" "Sir. I know what's going on with Illya," Napoleon said, leaning forward in his chair, eyes locking with those of his boss. "I know he set this whole thing up." He paused, waiting for Waverly to confirm or deny his theory, unsure for a moment which answer to expect. Waverly studied him for a long moment, his eyes seeming to go deep inside Napoleon, as if he could read Napoleon's mind - what he found there seemed to satisfy him and he spoke at last. "I knew this was a mistake," Waverly said. "But Mr. Kuryakin wanted as few people to know the truth as possible." "So I was right," Napoleon interrupted. "The accusation, the arrest, it was all a set-up?" "As I was saying," Waverly began, his voice slightly annoyed now. Napoleon had the sense to look apologetic and the older man's tone, when he spoke again, was less stern. "Mr. Kuryakin felt that you would have trouble giving a convincing performance of a man whose partner has been accused of treachery if you knew that he was innocent. The reports I have been receiving from various parts of this building, concerning your recent behavior, let alone your entrance just now, show him to have been mistaken." "Can I see him?" Napoleon asked, dreading the answer, but needing to ask anyway. Waverly looked thoughtful for a moment, before nodding tersely. "As head of Section Two, you have a responsibility to find out why your subordinate turned traitor, Mr. Solo. Remember that." "I will. And thank you, sir." The walk to the holding cells was a long one, giving Napoleon far too much time to think. He knew that he should be angry at Illya, annoyed with him for trying to shut him out of his plan, but all he could feel was concern for what his partner must be going through. Even though he pretended otherwise, Napoleon knew that what other people thought of him was very important to Illya and he'd seen a marked change in his partner over the years, as his place in the overall scheme of things had become more certain. To be locked up, subject to the scrutiny of guards who thought him a traitor, receiving only accusing glances, would be a source of torment to the Russian, despite his calm exterior. As would the idea that Napoleon thought him a traitor. As this thought hit, Napoleon quickened his pace, turning the final corner into the holding area, where he was stopped by the guards. "You're expected, Mr. Solo," one of the guards replied, ticking off an item on a clipboard he was holding. "Kuryakin is in Cell 2." It didn't escape Napoleon's notice how Illya was referred to here and his heart began to beat faster - he knew that those loyal to U.N.C.L.E. might well decide that a traitor was guilty till proven innocent and the position of a guard to such a prisoner gave ample opportunity to act accordingly. Napoleon headed over to the cell in question, feeling the presence of the two guards at his back. As he reached the cell door, one of them spoke. "Do you want one of us to go in with you, sir?" he asked, his fingers moving on the butt of his U.N.C.L.E. special as he spoke. "That won't be necessary," Napoleon snapped. "I'll call you when I want to come out." As the cell door shut behind him, Napoleon studied his partner, who seemed to be asleep on the bed. His glance swept the pale face, looking for any signs of rough justice being administered to Illya by heavy-handed guards, but there were none. Napoleon let out the breath he'd been holding with a sigh, glancing round at the tiny window in the holding cell door to see if they were observed. When he looked back, it was straight into a pair of sharp blue eyes, eyes that seemed to cut straight through him, stirring up emotions within him despite his years of self-control. "Illya," Napoleon said, then his voice gave out on him, his mind searching for the words that he wanted to say. Illya sat up slowly, running a hand through his unruly hair, his eyes never leaving his partner's face as he did so. "I'm sorry, Napoleon," he said quietly, his eyes then going up to the corner of the room. Napoleon followed his glance, his eyes coming to rest on the grille that lay there - behind it, he knew, was a microphone picking up their conversation and who knew who was listening? "Why, Illya?" he said, crossing the room to take the single chair, his eyes returning to his partner's face. "Why would you choose to betray U.N.C.L.E. like this?" I know what you're up to, Napoleon mouthed silently, smiling as Illya's eyebrows rose at the words. "I can't tell you," Illya said, "I told you before, I don't remember." I was wrong. Forgive me? Illya mouthed, his eyes entreating, shattering any doubts Napoleon might have had. "So you say," Napoleon replied, his smile widening. "But how do we know you're telling the truth?" As he said the words, he moved, cat-like, from the chair to the bed, his hand coming out to stroke Illya's face. The Russian froze, his eyes shifting to Napoleon's hand as it neared. When the touch was discovered to be a gentle one, Illya was forced to stifle a moan and leaned into it, his eyes closing. Napoleon smiled again, glancing once more at the door to ensure they were alone, before leaning forward to brush his lips across the Russian's brow, a gesture of benediction to seal his forgiveness of Illya's actions. "I can't prove my innocence," Illya said, his eyes still closed. "Doesn't the time we've worked together count for anything?" Illya's hand travelled across the rough blankets of the cot, his fingers coming to twine with those of Napoleon's free hand before resting on his partner's lap, feeling the warmth pooling there. At the same time, his face turned slightly so that the two men were now facing each other, Napoleon's hand now resting on Illya's shoulder. "Not if you're a traitor," Napoleon said, his fingers gripping Illya's shoulder gently. He smiled into Illya's eyes as his partner looked at him again. "How long, Illya?" Always, Illya mouthed, answering the only question that Napoleon truly wanted an answer for, ignoring the true meaning behind the one that had been spoken out loud. "Why don't you think about that," Napoleon said, with a smile. "Then tell me how long you've been a traitor to U.N.C.L.E." With only a momentary glance towards the door, Illya leaned forward, capturing Napoleon's mouth with his own, as if returning them to their time together in his apartment only hours before. This time, along with the passion, there was determination, so tangible that Napoleon could almost taste it - he knew that Illya had a plan and would not be swayed from it, no matter what. Pulling back for a moment, Napoleon waited till Illya's eyes were fully open and focussed on him once more, before leaning forward until his lips brushed the Russian's ear. "I trust you, Illya," he whispered. "I don't like this plan of yours, but I'll go along with it, for now. What do you want me to do?" "Lose your temper," Illya whispered back. "Hit me." Even as he spoke the words, Illya felt Napoleon stiffen and start to pull away. Illya used his grip on Napoleon's hand to hold him as tightly as he could, whispering again, more fiercely this time. "Please. We have to make this look good." "I can't," Napoleon muttered. "Don't ask me to, Illya, I can't." "Shout at me, then," Illya whispered. His free hand coming up to stroke at the frown that had appeared on Napoleon's forehead, thumb gently tracing its lines. Napoleon nodded once, tersely, then pulled away from where the two men had been sitting, getting to his feet silently and walking across the cell. "So, you don't have an answer," Napoleon said loudly. "Why am I not surprised?" "I've already told you," Illya began, his voice starting to shake, even though his face was calm. "I don't remember!" "I know you're lying!" Napoleon shouted. "How could you do this to me, Illya? Even if you don't care about what happens to you, my career is over! And it's all your fault." With those words, Napoleon turned swiftly to the door, hammering on it with the palm of his hand. Within moments it was opened and the American left without a backward glance. With every step he took away from where his partner was still imprisoned, Napoleon felt a coldness begin to grip him - the thought of leaving Illya there, though he knew it to be part of his plan to unmask the real traitor within U.N.C.L.E., tormented him. The few caresses they'd shared seemed heightened by the fear of discovery, as they played a potentially dangerous game. After all, now Napoleon knew for certain that Illya was innocent, though he'd entertained very few doubts before their meeting in the holding cell, and there was a traitor on the loose in U.N.C.L.E. HQ. As he returned to his office, Napoleon found himself scrutinizing the face of every agent that he passed in the hallway. Any one of them could be the mole, leaking secrets to Thrush, now thinking themselves safe because his partner languished in a cold gray cell. But not for long, Napoleon thought, making a silent vow to see his partner free again by the end of the day, no matter what it took.
Illya waited, counting slowly until he knew that his partner was out of earshot. He'd played a part before, in the service of U.N.C.L.E., but this was one role he knew would be impossible to play if Napoleon were there - his partner's compassion would mean that Illya couldn't take it to the extremes that might be required. It would be too painful for Napoleon to watch, helpless to prevent the lengths to which Illya might be required to go. Illya took strength from the words that had passed between him and his partner, that dangerous double conversation that had taken place. When he'd feared to see regret and betrayal in Napoleon's eyes, instead he'd seen trust and even desire. That his partner had understood, that Napoleon hadn't turned against him as a result of what might be seen as deception, warmed Illya to the core and he hoarded that emotion to himself, treasuring it. It was as though he had somehow tested Napoleon and the result had been better than he'd dared to hope for. Now would come the hard part and it must be done alone. In some ways, it felt to Illya that he was taking all the warmth that he'd felt when he'd seen the trust in Napoleon's eyes and secreted it deep inside himself. He could rely on his own life experience to provide enough raw material to work with, without scratching too far below the surface. There'd been so much pain, so much loneliness, so much anguish, that Illya was amply supplied. He remembered the first night he'd spent alone in the labor camp, shivering as much with the desolation he felt, as with the arctic wind that swept through the ramshackle buildings. Then there was the ache of leaving the few family members still left alive to build a new life in the West, the uncertainty of what Illya might experience there combining with the certain knowledge that he would never see these people he cared for alive again. And when this was not enough, Illya took the thoughts of his partner, the trust he'd seen in the dark depths of Napoleon's eyes, and twisted that emotion until it snapped, shattering into a million tiny pieces. If that look had been one of scorn, of betrayal, then how would he have survived it? The sobbing, when it began, surprised Illya as it echoed in the concrete cell and he knew that there was no way that the guards could miss it, let alone the microphone which was recording continually. From where he was sitting, arms wrapped around his legs, pulling them close to his chest as he rocked gently back and forth, Illya eyed the small window in the metal door. After only moments, he saw a shadow cross it and laid his face against his knees to hide his small triumphant smile.
As he closed his office door the communicator unit on Napoleon's desk began to beep - he was there within a matter of strides, his hand reaching out to flip the switch. "Mr. Solo?" Waverly's voice rasped from the unit. "Sir?" "Report to my office," Waverly said. "It seems Mr. Kuryakin is willing to make a confession after all." "But, sir," Napoleon began, only to realize that Waverly had closed the connection and he was speaking to the empty air. So, Illya, Napoleon thought, as he headed out of the office. You've started without me. Napoleon was ushered into Waverly's office a few minutes later only to find it already occupied by a number of other Enforcement Agents. Most of them were people he recognized, men and women he'd worked a number of missions with in the past, and the thought that one of them might be the traitor was a difficult one to swallow. Others were new to him and he noticed one or two glancing at him with a mixture of respect and scorn - after all, though he was head of Section Two, they all knew who his partner was. Taking his place at Waverly's side, Napoleon plastered a look of complete self-confidence on his face, looking round at the other agents as he did so. His eyes dared the newcomers to make something of the fact that Illya Kuryakin was now in a holding cell and he smiled to himself when their eyes dropped. "Mr. Solo," Waverly growled, glancing up at him, "so glad you could join us." Looking round at the assembled agents, Waverly leaned forward slightly until his hand was hovering over the switch of the communicator unit on his desk. "There's something I want you all to hear." The first sound that came over the communicator was the sound of sobbing, a broken choking quality making the sound echo strangely. It took a moment for Napoleon to realize exactly who was on the other end of the line and that the man making those terrible sounds was his partner. Even as the thought penetrated, he could feel his jaw begin to tighten imperceptibly and the eyes of other agents focussing on him again. "I... I can't do this," a shaky voice said. "I'll tell you what you want to know." The words were punctuated with sobs, the breath behind the words was a series of strangled gasps. Those sobs, along with each struggling breath, tore at Napoleon's heart, stirring up emotions he had not allowed himself to feel for what seemed like forever. "I know who the traitor is," the voice continued, before grinding to a halt in another bout of sobbing. Then there was silence, only the small gasps as Illya continued to breathe being any indication that the cell was still occupied. Damn, Illya, Napoleon thought, why didn't you tell me you were going to do this? As if you're not in enough danger in that cell, without setting yourself up as a target. Waverly leaned forward and flicked off the communications unit - after Illya had last spoken, the only sounds that had come through the system were the small gasps of breath and the occasional choked-off sob. It was clear that the Russian was in no condition to say any more at the moment. "So, ladies and gentlemen," Waverly began, his eyes travelling across the faces of the agents assembled there in his office. "It seems that Mr. Kuryakin was not acting alone in his treachery." As Waverly spoke Napoleon looked round the office, his gaze flicking over the faces that were turned towards his boss. Mentally, he did the same as he had done in the hallway when he walked away from where Illya was being held, looking at each face in turn and wondering which one of them was the real traitor to U.N.C.L.E. Some of the faces were familiar, belonging to agents with whom he had trusted his life in the past, in missions that had been painful, sharing the trauma of injury and death. It seemed inconceivable that any of them could be the traitor but Napoleon knew the fine line that each agent walked and could not deny the possibility. So much of their work together was based on mutual trust, on the belief that they were motivated by noble sentiments, and it only took the decision of a moment for the most honest person to turn away from that. His gaze halted for a moment on the face of Dawson before moving on again. Just because he didn't like the man, that wasn't enough reason to believe him a traitor - Napoleon knew that reality was rarely that convenient. As he looked at the newer agents, cataloguing the faces that he didn't know, hoping for some sign to determine their guilt or innocence, one of them spoke. "Sir," a hesitant voice began. All eyes turned to the woman who spoke. She looked a little nervous at the sudden attention, her face reddening a little when she realized that every occupant of the room was looking at her, but pressed on regardless. "If Mr. Kuryakin is a traitor, surely... Well, should Mr. Solo be here?" Napoleon stifled a grin, admiring the courage of the woman agent, whose name he didn't know. "I mean," she continued, her eyes intent on Mr. Waverly, "...either he was unaware of his partner's treachery, or..." Even she couldn't bring herself to make that accusation, her voice grinding to a halt as her eyes dropped to contemplate the carpet. "Well said, Miss Rickwood," Waverly replied. "And were I not assured of Mr. Solo's unwavering loyalty to U.N.C.L.E., he would currently be sharing a cell with his partner. As it is, we have another traitor in our midst." As Waverly spoke, Napoleon looked round the agents assembled there once more, his eyes meeting those of Agent Rickwood as she looked up again. The intelligence that the American saw displayed in those gray eyes reminded him so much of Illya that he was forced to look away. "Mr. Solo?" "Sir?" "You will interrogate Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "Find out who the other traitor is." "Yes sir." As the assembled agents began to leave the office, Waverly spoke quietly once more. "A word, Mr. Solo." If, as they suspected, the traitor was among the agents who had been gathered there, they had to allow him or her time to try and silence Illya before he had a chance to name names. Napoleon began to pace as soon as the door was closed, his hands twisting together of their own accord, showing the nervousness he could not disguise. It had been bad enough to know that his partner had placed himself in peril. But now there was an added incentive for nerves, in the feelings that he had discovered within himself for the quiet Russian. "Do you think Illya's plan will work, sir?" Napoleon blurted out. Even as he spoke, he regretted the words, the way that they gave away the true extent of his fears. Waverly's upraised eyebrow was all eloquence. "If Illya's right," Napoleon continued, coming to stand behind one of the chairs that faced the desk. "If there is a traitor in our midst, how will they be able to get to him?" As he spoke, Napoleon's hands gripped the back of the chair, the feel of the wood against his fingers somehow grounding him, preventing him from running out of the room and charging to his partner's rescue. "Very simple, Mr. Solo," Waverly replied. "We will let them. Mr. Kuryakin is currently being moved to an interrogation room." "You're moving him through the main corridors of U.N.C.L.E.?" Napoleon asked, incredulous. "How many guards?" "Two." "My god. I can't stay here." As Napoleon turned and headed for the door, all courtesy forgotten, Waverly spoke again, his brusque words seeming to strike like blows. "Don't you trust your partner, Mr. Solo?" "Sir?" Napoleon asked, whirling round. "Well?" "With my life, sir," Napoleon replied. And more, he thought. "Then trust him now. He knows what he's doing."
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Concluded in Part 5... | |