At last, Illya thought, when the guards came to escort him from his cell. He tried to shuffle slightly, stooping his shoulders, wrapping his arms round himself as if he feared he'd fall apart. Inside, Illya was like a coiled spring, waiting to strike. He'd marshalled his strength, even as he'd played the part for which he had cast himself, and the looks of the people he passed in the hallways only strengthened him. All he hoped was that Waverly would play his part, keeping Napoleon with him till he'd reached the interrogation room, or till their traitor had made a move. It would only take a look from Napoleon for this carefully-constructed façade to shatter - Illya knew that it would be impossible for him to continue this role if his partner were there, if only for the simple reason that it would hurt Napoleon too much. He should not have to see me like this, Illya thought. This is not who I am any more, and so much of that is thanks to him. Even as he travelled the winding corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ with his escort, Illya's mind was far away, thinking of how much had changed for him since he'd first walked these halls. Back then, he'd been a novelty, a refugee from a foreign land, tolerated rather than accepted. Illya had no illusions about the role he was being asked to play, the qualities that had brought him there. His scientist's mind made him want to examine everything, probing for the motivation behind every action, the reason behind every decision. It was in his nature. And Illya had survived. He'd survived U.N.C.L.E. in the same way that he'd survived the labor camps of his childhood, by locking his true self away, playing every part he'd been assigned, never truly being himself. Truth was too dangerous. The truth, for Illya, was that he'd been in love with his partner from very early on. With Napoleon he'd found an unexpected acceptance and in turn he'd allowed himself to be led upwards in the hierarchy of U.N.C.L.E. when every instinct made Illya want to be inconspicuous. Illya could deny his partner nothing, watching with a benevolent mixture of admiration and jealousy as Napoleon worked his way through what seemed like every woman they met. And now the American had turned his attention to him - he'd dreamed about that moment so many times that he now dreaded that he'd wake and find that this was all it was. With every person who approached them in the hallways, Illya's conscious mind snapped back to reality, his eyes surreptitiously travelling over each one as he assessed them for threat. As he neared a junction his brain registered movement and he whirled in that direction, his disguise thrown aside immediately, spotting dark hair and a face he recognized. There was a loud crack, the gunshot slammed Illya against the nearest wall, then darkness took him.
Napoleon had left Waverly's office only moments before he heard the commotion. The sound alone was enough to make him break into a run, charging down the corridors heedless of other people, some primitive instinct telling him that Illya was at the center of whatever was going on. When he rounded the final corner, coming across a knot of people, the first thing Napoleon saw through a small gap was one of Illya's shoes. He'd stared at that very shoe so many times, focussing on it to prevent betraying himself, that he knew it straight away. Napoleon felt as though he had been struck, his breath stolen away, as he stared at the way Illya was lying there, slumped bonelessly against the wall. He stepped back, shoving his way out through the gathering of people, feeling the world spin around him. Napoleon rested a shaking hand against the nearby wall, letting his head hang as the reality of his loss hit him. All his hopes of happiness had been torn away from him by Illya's ill-conceived plan. He'd trusted his partner to pull this off, letting himself be swayed by Waverly's words to let Illya do this alone, and he'd been wrong. Now both he and Illya would pay for his mistake. Once he had caught the assassin, that is. Napoleon gritted his teeth, pushing down the cold rage that threatened to sweep away all that he had formerly held to be important. He'd once believed in justice but now he only wanted revenge. As he stood there, his hand still on the wall, Napoleon could hear the muttering of the people gathered in the corridor, the racing footsteps of the medical team, a voice shouting for everyone to get out of the way. Too late, Napoleon thought bitterly. Too late for both of us. I should never have allowed myself to feel this way. He moved slightly, turning his face towards his arm, both to hide and to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall. "Thank heavens for Kevlar," a familiar voice said, from close by.
Illya had hit the wall hard, the force of the bullet slamming into the bullet-proof vest that he wore, and spinning him slightly with its impact. He had felt his shoulder hit first, then momentum had snapped his head back into the concrete as well and the darkness had overwhelmed him for a moment. When he'd begun to come to, Illya had found himself surrounded by a crowd, his eyes automatically searching it for the one face he wanted to see more than any other. The world still spun slightly, and it took a moment for him to register that Napoleon was not there. As he struggled to his feet, Illya was surprised by the number of hands that reached towards him, offering their assistance to pull him up from the undignified position he'd found himself in. Pushing through the crowd, Illya felt the presence of his guards, their previous lack of alertness now replaced by an edginess that made him feel a little uncomfortable. One of the men reached out a tentative hand, as if to reassure himself that their charge was still alive, stopping the gesture when Illya glared in his direction. It was then that he saw Napoleon. His partner was a little way down the corridor, standing with one hand resting on the wall, as if he were preventing it from falling down into the hallway. His head was hanging, and even from that distance, Illya could see the minute tremors passing through Napoleon's body, the almost imperceptible way that his shoulders were shaking. He was there in a couple of strides, his guards shadowing him silently as he moved to his partner's side. Illya knew instantly what Napoleon had thought - his partner had obviously appeared just in time to see the way he'd been slumped against the wall but not stayed there long enough for the next part. As he reached where Napoleon was standing, Illya was faced with a dilemma. He wanted to say something but dreaded the likely emotions that his partner's response in this public setting might betray. "Thank heavens for Kevlar," he said, after a moment's thought. All Illya could do was hope that his partner could see past the words, through to the reality of the feelings that lay behind them.
For the longest moment, Napoleon was unable to move - the words that he'd heard echoed in his head, the voice the last one he'd ever dared hope to hear again. Even the tone was perfect, the right mixture of coolness and humor, the matter-of-fact words hiding a depth of emotion. When he could move again, it was as though his heart had skipped a few beats, settling down into a regular rhythm once more. "Illya?" he whispered, aware that they had an audience of two extremely nervous-looking guards. "I..." Illya shook his head minutely, his eyes full of concern at the emotions crossing Napoleon's face - Napoleon could almost hear the thoughts running through his partner's head. Taking a deep breath, Napoleon straightened up, running one hand absentmindedly down his tie as he eyed the two guards. "I need to speak to Mr. Kuryakin about this attempt on his life," Napoleon said, calmness returning to his voice far faster than he expected. Am I getting that used to Illya's miraculous escapes from near-death situations? he wondered idly. The older of the guards nodded, his eyes serious. "We..." Napoleon looked round hastily. He needed to speak with Illya, but not here. Crossing to the nearest office door, Napoleon pulled it open, glancing in quickly to see if the room was unoccupied. "We'll be in here," Napoleon said, watching the younger guard make a swift reconnaissance of the room in question. "Contact Mr. Waverly and tell him that the plan worked." With those words, Napoleon placed a hand on Illya's shoulder, half-directing and half-pulling him into the office, before closing the door behind them with a definite bang.
"Napoleon, I..." Illya was unable to finish his sentence - the moment the door shut, his partner was all over him, hands travelling in an almost frantic movement, as if to reassure himself that Illya was indeed alive and well. At the same time, Napoleon's eager mouth met his, sucking out the words Illya meant to say, driving all thoughts of apologies and explanations from his mind for the longest time. When they finally separated, their mutual need for oxygen driving them apart, Napoleon still seemed reluctant to allow much distance between them. Steering Illya towards one of the office chairs, Napoleon took the other, one hand coming out tentatively to touch the torn material of Illya's turtleneck. His eyes were dark with emotion, as his fingers touched the edges of the hole the bullet had made, feeling the material of the bullet-proof vest beneath torn by its passing. Illya glanced down, watching the movement of Napoleon's fingers as they traced the edge of the material, moving gently over his heart. "Too close..." Napoleon muttered, before looking up at Illya again. "Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" There was no reproach in Napoleon's voice, Illya realized, with some relief. "I had to do it, Napoleon," Illya replied, knowing that this didn't really answer his partner's question. "There was no other way to find out who the real traitor is." "I know," the American agreed. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it, Illya. If you hadn't been wearing the vest..." His voice trailed off, and Napoleon sat back in his chair, his hand coming away from Illya's turtleneck. He looked away, swallowing. Illya felt the loss of contact like a cold wind blowing over him. "I knew that the traitor was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Napoleon," Illya said, gazing intently at Napoleon, even though his partner was not looking back at him. "As a rule, agents are taught to aim at the body, as the largest target. It was a calculated risk." "Did it work, Illya?" Napoleon asked, finally looking back at the Russian, his emotions under control once more. Illya nodded. "I know who the traitor is."
There was a quiet knocking at the office door. "Come in," Napoleon called, looking round. The door opened, and the older of Illya's two guards looked in, a sheepish expression on his face. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, "Mr. Waverly would like you to report to his office as soon as you can." Napoleon suppressed a small smile at the guard's respectful attitude towards Illya, such a marked difference from their previous encounter outside his partner's cell that morning. Looks like Waverly's spilled the beans, he thought. "Tell him we're on our way."
"Come in, gentlemen." Waverly gestured the two men towards the chairs that faced his desk, his eyes clearly taking in every detail - he frowned slightly when he noticed the bullet hole in Illya's turtleneck as the Russian sat, his jacket falling open. "Mr. Kuryakin?" The question, simple as it was, was a clear one - the unspoken concern for Illya's well-being pleasing Napoleon as much as it obviously surprised Illya. "I'm fine, sir," Illya replied. "The plan worked perfectly." "Good." "It seems our traitor is someone I hadn't suspected," Illya began, obviously aware of the scrutiny he was receiving from both men. Not Dawson then, Napoleon thought, wondering if Illya knew of Dawson's scornful attitude towards him. He'd no intention of enlightening his partner if that wasn't the case. "But I saw him shoot at me, so I have no doubts now," Illya concluded, pausing. "Well?" Napoleon had blurted out the question before he even realized that he'd spoken. He reddened slightly as both Illya and Waverly looked at him, noticing the amusement in his partner's eyes. "Sometimes," Illya continued after a moment, looking back at Waverly, "as Freud said, a cigar is just a cigar. The most obvious answer is often the correct one." Waverly nodded, one controlled movement, frowning at the idea that one of his agents could truly be a traitor to the organization for which they all worked. "Dawson," he said. "Dawson," Illya echoed. It was only as the two men were leaving Waverly's office that Napoleon saw it. He was following Illya and was startled to see the small trickle of blood that had dried on the back of his partner's neck. He waited till the door had closed behind them, stopping in the corridor. He spoke Illya's name quietly - Illya turned, a look of enquiry clear on his face. "You hit your head," Napoleon said quietly, the tone of his voice brooking no dispute. Illya nodded. With a frown, he reached round to the back of his head, bringing back fingers coated with drying blood. "I didn't realize..." he began, frowning as he stared at the red. "It must have happened when Dawson shot at me and I hit the wall." "Come on," Napoleon said, walking away from where the Russian was still standing. He glanced back, to see Illya still transfixed, his eyes intent on the blood that coated his fingers. "Illya!" Illya jerked, as if startled back from wherever his mind had wandered. "What?" he asked, looking back at Napoleon. Napoleon shook his head slightly, concern for Illya taking over from the annoyance that he'd been feeling. The idea that Illya had been injured struck Napoleon with a sudden pang of guilt. "Let's go," he said, watching Illya as his partner neared him in the corridor. "Time to hit the infirmary again." Illya frowned again, but said nothing. "It's SOP for head injuries," Napoleon said, answering Illya's unspoken argument.
"It's settled then," Napoleon said, leaning back against the doorframe as he looked at Illya. "You'll stay here in the infirmary overnight, then we'll start to look for Dawson tomorrow." He ignored the glower that these words drew from his partner. That was easy - all Napoleon had to do was think of the bruise that marked Illya's chest, dark purple and black over his heart, let alone the partly-healed cuts that his previous captor had inflicted. "I'm fine, Napoleon," Illya said, annoyance in his voice. "I don't need to stay here." "Humor me?" Napoleon asked, with a smile. Then his face changed, a more solemn expression taking the place of the smile. "I need to know you're okay, Illya." Illya stared back at his partner, his eyes seeming to measure the truth behind that statement. "Very well," he said, finally. "One night." Napoleon smiled again. "I'll see you in the morning, my friend. Get some rest."
It seemed strange to Illya to be alone again. So much had happened in the past 24 hours that he was secretly glad of the chance to reflect on the days' events, not that he would have admitted it to his partner. Napoleon's protectiveness both warmed and irritated Illya. He'd grown so used to relying on his own abilities that working with a partner had not come easily to Illya - it had been a reassuring discovery to the Russian that his new partner had found it equally difficult. If it were not for the stubborn streak that ran through both their personalities one or other of the two men might well have gone to Waverly to request a release from this partnership. But that would have been to admit defeat and neither man had liked that idea. So the two of them had struggled on, learning to work together, learning to trust one another. Napoleon being protective was just a part of who he was and Illya had long ago learned to accept his partner as a whole, knowing that to change one facet of Napoleon's character would make him someone other than the man he was. And Illya could not allow that. But sometimes Napoleon went too far. This was something that Illya had difficulty with - he'd been so resolutely independent for so long that the kind of trust that Napoleon required was not natural for him. It required an effort. It also required knowing when to submit, judging the finality of his partner's statements with an accuracy that time had honed. Illya knew that this time he stood no chance of winning the argument, so he conceded as gracefully as he could manage. His thoughts turned inexorably to Dawson. He'd never liked the man. Illya prided himself on his ability to tolerate other people, choosing the path of least resistance where relationships with other agents were concerned - as long as they did their assigned tasks to the best of their ability, then that was all he asked. But Dawson. He'd seen the way the man looked at him when he thought himself unobserved. It reminded Illya of nothing more than the kind of look a dog gives to a particularly juicy bone and the coldness behind those looks frightened him a little. He'd seen that look before, in the eyes of the men and women who had run the camp where he'd spent his childhood. The ones who created terror in the hearts of the people living there, not because it was a part of the job but simply because it was something that they enjoyed. He'd seen that kind of attitude close up so many times that Illya had become particularly equipped to recognize it, no matter what disguise it wore.
All Napoleon wanted to do was collapse onto the nearest soft surface and sleep for as long as he could. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept properly, sat down to a meal, or observed any of the other social niceties that most people regarded as essential. In the morning, he and Illya would start looking for Dawson. It was always difficult when a trusted U.N.C.L.E. employee turned traitor. There would be a core of people who'd refuse to believe it, others who would proclaim that they had always suspected his duplicity, but the majority would operate in stunned silence for the time being. As he opened the door to his apartment, Napoleon thought back on leaving Illya behind in the infirmary. That the stubborn Russian had not insisted on going home himself had been nothing short of a testimony to the relationship that existed between the two men. A relationship that Napoleon desperately hoped would be deepened by the intimacy that had taken place between them. He wanted nothing more than to be bringing his partner back to this apartment, to have the chance to show Illya how much he cared for him, to demonstrate the depth of the emotions he felt towards his partner. Even though the vulnerability he felt where Illya was concerned frightened him a little. As Napoleon stripped, his eyes travelled regretfully over the rumpled material of the suit he'd been wearing. When had he put it on? He couldn't remember. Within moments, he was on the bed, sinking with a groan into the softness of the mattress, wishing, not for the first time, that Illya was there with him. The thought of Illya sent a shudder through Napoleon's body and he closed his eyes to facilitate his imaginings. He wanted to see Illya lying there, naked, relaxed, his eyes full of unspoken invitation. He longed to see a look of sheer desire on the face of the man he loved more than he had ever loved anyone else, who he wanted more than he had ever been able to imagine wanting or needing anyone else. It was no surprise that his last conscious thought was of Illya and that Napoleon fell asleep with a smile on his face. "Wake up, Solo." Napoleon groaned, trying to roll over and go back to sleep - his fogged brain took a long moment to realize that there should not have been anyone else in his apartment and that he was no longer in his bed. "I know you're awake," the insistent voice continued. Napoleon's head felt as though it were stuffed with something. He struggled to open his eyes, feeling strong fingers grasp his chin and turn it, pulling his face upwards. When his eyelids finally opened, he was blinded by the brightness of the light. He tried to pull away from the fingers, but to no avail. "Finally..." Napoleon focussed his eyes, squinting against the brightness, but the sight that greeted him only confirmed his suspicions. It was Dawson. "What the..." Napoleon began, jerking suddenly away from the face that was in front of him. His sudden movement was halted before it even began. Dawson let go and Napoleon looked down - he was dressed at least, so at least that particular indignity was spared him, but he was tied to a chair. "What do you want, Dawson?" he asked, his throat parched and his voice a mere croak. "What do I want?" Dawson echoed. "I want your partner." Napoleon stared at the traitor, a cold anger starting to grow within him. "This is different, isn't it Solo?" Dawson asked, with a mocking smile. "How many times has Thrush used Kuryakin to catch you? And now here you are. This time you get to be the bait." "He won't come," Napoleon said, knowing the words to be a lie before he even spoke them. He could only hope that there was some truth in them - no matter what happened to him, he had to keep Illya safe. "He will," Dawson said coldly. "And then he'll die." "Why are you doing this, Dawson?" Napoleon asked. "Why betray U.N.C.L.E.?" He'd seen the expression that had flittered across Dawson's face when Illya's name was mentioned and it sent a cold shudder down his back. Like so many that he and his partner had encountered, Dawson seemed secure in his arrogance, all too willing to share his motivations at the slightest encouragement. "You want to know why?" Dawson began to laugh, a cold rolling laughter that echoed. Napoleon looked round then, for the first time since he had regained consciousness. There was very little light but he recognized his surroundings instantly. They were in the warehouse where Illya had been held captive, where he'd been tortured. Suddenly, Napoleon was glad of the darkness, glad that he could not see the blood that marked the concrete floors, blood shed both by Illya and his captor. "I swore to serve U.N.C.L.E.," Dawson said. "I pledged my life to that organization and how did it repay me? I was an Enforcement Agent, that was all. You started in U.N.C.L.E. the same time as me and now look at you! Number One of Section Two and everyone knows that Waverly has you in mind to replace him in time." "So it's just thwarted ambition?" Napoleon jeered, his tone cold. He had to goad Dawson into anger if he could - after all, if he were dead, then he was no longer of any use as bait to trap his partner. "You were jealous? Of me?" "I hated you." Dawson ground out the words, coming closer to loom over his captive. Napoleon stared back at Dawson, whose eyes were cold, promising only death. Dawson took a deep breath then, getting his temper under control once more, before he turned away. "My father was friends with Waverly," Dawson began again, his back to Napoleon. "He promised I'd have the best partner possible, that nothing would stand in the way of my progression through the U.N.C.L.E. ranks. But he lied." Napoleon said nothing, staring resolutely at the back of his captor. "You were the best, everyone said so - I thought..." Dawson hesitated. "I thought we would be partners, but instead Waverly paired you with that... that Russian." Dawson spat the last word like a curse, his voice full of hatred - he turned back to where Napoleon was, his eyes gray and cold. "And look what he's done - Kuryakin has made you weak, corrupted you. You would have been a worthy successor to Waverly if I'd been your partner, but now..." "So," Napoleon drawled, putting as much scorn as he could into his voice. "You wanted to be the power behind the throne." "It was my right!" Dawson snapped, stepping forward again. Napoleon made a conscious decision not to flinch, his mind screaming for Dawson to do something, to make some mistake that would help him save Illya. "We are the same, after all, you and I."
It was the tentative knock on the door that woke Illya, bringing him back from a fitful sleep, filled with strange dreams. The door opened, revealing a face he recognized, even though it was pale and worried looking. "Come in, Agent Rickwood," Illya said, shoving the pillows behind his back to prop himself into a more upright position. Melissa Rickwood stood in the doorway for a moment, indecisively, before entering and crossing to the single chair. Illya watched with interest as the agent sank into the chair with a small sigh, contemplating the pattern of the floor with great interest before her eyes rose to meet his. "Maybe I shouldn't have come," she began, her eyes troubled. "But I had to, Mr. Kuryakin. I know he's my partner, but..." Illya thought for a moment before his sleep-fogged brain finally realized that she was talking about Dawson. "What is it?" he snapped, lowering his voice slightly when he spoke again, having seen the way the woman jumped. "What do you know about what Dawson is doing?" "What?" Melissa blurted, looking shocked. "You can't think I..." "No," Illya replied firmly, interrupting her. "I know you're loyal to U.N.C.L.E. You can't be held responsible for your partner's actions." The woman agent colored slightly at these words, her eyes dropping to where her hands were wrapped together in her lap. "Tell me, Melissa," Illya coaxed, his voice a mere whisper now. There was a moment's silence before Melissa Rickwood began to speak again, her eyes still intent on the movement of her hands and the way that her fingers were entwined. "He hates you," she began, her voice so quiet that Illya had to strain to hear the words. "After... after what happened on that mission." "He was wrong," Illya said quietly. "I know," she replied, "but he is my partner." "That was no excuse for him to humiliate you like that," Illya said, his voice more firm. "Killing someone is not an easy thing to do, even if it's in self-defense. Everyone reacts differently - the way you reacted, no matter what Dawson says, it wasn't wrong, it was just... you." Agent Rickwood looked up, her intelligent gray eyes locking with Illya's for a moment as if measuring the truth behind his words. A shaky smile began to appear, which was then chased away after a moment by a more solemn expression. "He wants to kill you," she said. "Why?" "A number of reasons," Melissa replied. "You embarrassed him in front of all those other agents when you upbraided him about the way he treated me. And he has an obsession with your partner." "An obsession?" "He was always talking about your missions, about how he'd been cheated, how he should have been Mr. Solo's partner." She frowned for a moment, as if recalling something. "One time, Dawson said that he and Mr. Solo were meant to be partners really, that they were two of a kind." "Napoleon is nothing like him!" Illya snapped, suddenly angry. "I didn't mean..." It was the look of concern on Melissa's face, as much as her stammering words, that grounded Illya once more. Taking a deep breath, he focussed on tamping that anger down inside himself again. He would wait for the chance to unleash it, preferably on Agent James Dawson himself.
"I have to kill him," Dawson said, the coldness of his voice leaving Napoleon in no doubt as to who 'he' was. "Kuryakin has to die, for what he's done. And it's only right that you should suffer too, for your part in it all." "I have no idea what you're talking about," Napoleon said, injecting as much scorn into his voice as he could. In the small amount of light, he could see Dawson redden at his words and drove on, relentless in his desire to escape the role of bait. "What gives you the right to decide who lives or dies?" "Who better than me?" Dawson asked. "We both know what war is like, Solo. We're in a war now - but U.N.C.L.E. refuses to fight it with all the tools at its command, hiding behind liberal arguments that only get people killed. You have to fight fire with fire." Napoleon didn't answer. He knew then, with a terrible certainty, that nothing he could say would change this man's mind. Dawson stared at him without speaking before turning and walking away, leaving Napoleon alone in the darkness.
"Go and find my clothes," Illya said, sharply. "I have to get out of here." Agent Rickwood scurried away, the door to Illya's private room swinging closed again behind her. As he was swinging his legs out of the bed, it opened once more and this time there was a nurse in the doorway. "What are you doing, Mr. Kuryakin?" she asked, a frown crossing her forehead as she hurried to his side. Illya shrugged off the hand she placed on his forearm, smiling slightly as Melissa returned from her errand. "I'm getting out of here," Illya hissed. The nurse shrank back slightly from his tone. "Do you have a problem with that?" "I... I'm going to get the doctor," she stuttered, practically running out of the room. "You do that..." Illya muttered to himself as he checked the pile of clothing that Melissa had deposited on the bed. "What are you going to do?" the woman agent asked. "I'm going to get my partner back," Illya replied. "And you're going to help me."
She hadn't really known what to expect - that was something she hadn't been able to convince herself of in the hours it had taken for Melissa Rickwood to screw up enough courage to come and see the man for whom she feared she was the bearer of bad news. It had only been in the small hours before dawn that she'd made her decision but when she'd made it, she knew it to be right. If it had been Napoleon Solo who was currently in the infirmary, she knew that it would have been far more difficult. She only knew the Chief Enforcement Agent from briefings, from seeing his keen brown eyes range over the assembled agents, herself included, cataloguing, assessing, measuring. There was no basis there for any kind of shared revelation, not like the connection she had with Illya Kuryakin. And she knew Solo's reputation too. She'd heard the rumors that spiralled through U.N.C.L.E. HQ, the censorious tone that accompanied the latest discovery of who Solo had been seeing. She recognized the jealousy that hid itself as scorn, but just the man's reputation, deserved or not, set him in a different world, one she felt she could never inhabit. Kuryakin was different. She'd heard his reputation too, heard about him when she was based in U.N.C.L.E. London, all the stories about Kuryakin making him sound something otherworldly, not quite human. She'd heard nothing of his sexual exploits, though, which was unusual in an organization as tight knit as U.N.C.L.E. - she could only conclude that Illya Kuryakin was either celibate or far more discreet than his partner. And then she'd actually met the enigma and discovered that all the rumors and stories had done nothing to prepare her for meeting the real Illya Kuryakin. But meet him she had, on one fateful day that had put the last touches to her own partnership with James Dawson, destroying it beyond all hope of repair. It had been a straightforward mission. Till then Melissa had felt that Dawson tolerated her - she'd done everything he asked her to, to the best of her ability, but still it had never been enough. She'd no idea whether anyone could ever fulfill the high expectations that Dawson seemed to have for his partners - there was no clear yardstick for them to measure themselves against except the tenuous one that existed only in the other agents' mind. On this mission Melissa had failed to live up to Dawson's expectations and he had told her that in no uncertain terms, berating her even as she sat shaking with the ebbing adrenaline rush, on the steps of the house where she had been forced to kill a man. After the first few venomous words, only the tone had penetrated her misery, and Melissa had been painfully conscious of the presence of a number of embarrassed fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents. It was bad enough that Dawson was so enraged, but to berate her like this in front of an audience? She could see the compassion on some of the other agent's faces, as they risked the occasional glance in her direction, but no-one intervened. It was then that Illya had arrived, a cold fury ripping out from him, his words like razors. With a few choice phrases he'd torn Dawson apart, humiliating him for all to see, ordering him back to the rendezvous point. Illya had missed the look that Dawson gave him then, as he'd been speaking to her at the time, but Melissa had seen it and knew then that, if she was Illya, she'd never turn her back on Dawson again. It had been his kindness to her, his willingness to stand up for her when others dare not, that had persuaded Melissa in the end that she needed to tell Illya Kuryakin all about her partner.
"I'll wait outside," Melissa said, as Illya began to sort through his clothing. Illya nodded once, then turned his back to her as she left the room. His mind was racing - though he had no proof that Dawson had carried through on some crazy plan involving his partner, there was no arguing the fact that Napoleon was not here. If he wasn't being held by Dawson, nothing short of an international crisis would have stopped him being in the infirmary to spring his partner this morning. And even then, Napoleon Solo would have called. As he dressed, Illya thought back over what Agent Rickwood had told him. It seemed far-fetched, that Dawson could become so obsessed, but he'd seen the man in action and could not dismiss the possibility. There were very few things that were real secrets within the hive of gossip that was U.N.C.L.E.'s New York Headquarters - Illya had heard some of things that Dawson had said about him, relayed third or fourth-hand, but had chosen to ignore them. He'd considered that Dawson was all talk, no real threat, but it seemed that he'd been wrong. He was pulling on his jacket when the doctor came in, closely shadowed by Agent Rickwood. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin," she began, "but the doctor insisted." "It's fine," Illya said, turning his attention to the doctor. "I'm leaving, Dr. Cooper." "So I see," she said calmly. "Is there any point in trying to persuade you otherwise?" "My partner is in trouble." "I'll see you when you return, Mr. Kuryakin?" Dr. Cooper asked, with a small smile. Over the years she'd come to know these two agents well, but her question still held an element of uncertainty. "I hope it will not be necessary, Doctor," Illya said, heading for the door. "Thank you anyway."
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Concluded in Part 6... | |