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Round
Robin: Hobson's Choice Affair |
Napoleon stopped and leaned against a wall as he tried to catch
his breath. "Hey Illya, can you wait...wait up a bit," he called.
Illya turned to look back at Napoleon and frowned. By his reckoning, they
had been walking for over an hour, and still had a considerable distance to
go. Not that he was taking the most direct route of course. While the odds
of anyone having followed them from the clinic were pretty slim, he was still
taking no chances. Of course, in spite of his injuries, he could still have
traveled faster if he hadn't had to watch out for Napoleon. But leaving him
behind was not an option...to abandon him now, when THRUSH were aware of his
existence, would be tantamount to a death sentence. For better or for worse,
he had saved Illya's life, and was now his responsibility.
"Is it much further?" asked Napoleon. He glanced at Illya, and wondered again
just how such a slight figure could have so much reserves of strength. He
had thought that *he* was in pretty good shape, but after the exertions of
the previous night, coupled with being nearly killed only a few hours earlier,
all he wanted to do was collapse on a bed and sleep for a week...well, maybe
after a long hot shower to get rid of the smell of smoke that clung to his
clothing. Illya however - in spite of the injuries that he had suffered earlier
on - looked as if he could go on forever. But then, mused Napoleon, it was
obvious from the scars that he had seen on Illya's body while Helen had been
treating him, that the younger man was no stranger to physical pain. Under
the layer of fresh bruises from the beating that Napoleon had witnessed had
been scars from both gun and knife, and even a few that Helen were sure had
been made by a whip.
"We will be there soon," said Illya, taking Napoleon's arm to pull him along.
"You can rest then."
"Where is this so called 'safe house' anyway?" asked Napoleon as he allowed
Illya to pull him onwards. "You *do* know where it is, right?" The only response
was an icy glare from the Russian. Napoleon continued, "It's just that we
seem to be going round in circles."
"The shortest distance between two points may be a straight line," said Illya,
"But it is not necessarily the safest route." He glanced behind them as he
spoke.
"You think we're being followed?" asked Napoleon.
Illya shrugged. "It is always a possibility, hence the circuitous route which
we are using. But I think that if somebody had been following us, then they
would have made their move by now."
"You think? What if you're wrong?"
Illya's smile was cold as he replied, "I have made a habit of *not* being
wrong."
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Fortunately, Illya was not proved wrong and they made it to the safe house
without any incident.
"That's it?" asked Napoleon looking across the street at the house that Illya
had indicated. "It looks so...so ordinary."
Illya rolled his eyes, "You were expecting perhaps a fortress?"
"Well I thought that a 'safe house' would look a bit more secure...I mean,
there aren't even any bars on the windows."
"Appearances can be deceiving, my friend," said Illya, with a slight smile.
"A fortress would look rather out of place in this neighborhood. But rest
assured, it is not as vulnerable as it looks."
Napoleon said nothing as he followed Illya across the street. To his surprise,
Illya didn't head for the front door, but instead ducked down an alleyway
to the right of the house.
"Did you think that we were just going to stroll up to the front door?" asked
Illya, a half smile on his face as he led Napoleon to a manhole in the middle
of the alley. He crouched down beside it and pressed a few studs on it, apparently
at random, before beckoning Napoleon to give him a hand.
"I guess I did," admitted Napoleon, as they lifted the cover. It was surprisingly
heavy...not that he had much experience with things like that. It wasn't until
the cover had been lifted clear, that he noticed that it was also much thicker
than he had expected. The reason for this was soon revealed, as Illya fiddled
with the underside of the cover, before removing a small box from it.
"Under other circumstances you would have been correct," admitted Illya as
he removed two torches from the box. "But as you can see, I neglected to bring
my 'key' with me. And so we must use the alternative entrance...you first."
He handed Napoleon one of the torches and pointed to the manhole.
"Wait a minute," said Napoleon, as he caught a whiff from the sewers emanating
from the hole. "You can't be serious? I mean, those places are filthy...and
the smell..." He made a gagging sound.
Illya made an exasperated sound. "It is a bit late to be worrying about getting
dirty," he said, dryly as he indicated Napoleon's suit. "And there is no other
option."
"Can't you pick the lock on the front door or something? I thought secret
agents were trained in all that sort of stuff."
"Firstly, I do not have the required equipment and it would take too long
to procure a substitute. Secondly, even if I were able to pick the lock, the
security system would kick in and we would be rendered unconscious within
thirty seconds. Thirdly, if you are not climbing down that ladder by the time
I count to three, I will be forced to knock you out and carry you, and trust
me, you do not wish me to knock you out. One..."
A quick glance at Illya's face, showed that he was serious, and Napoleon was
on the ladder before Illya had gotten as far as 'two'. "This used to be a
nice suit," he muttered as he quickly climbed down.
As Illya watched the dark head disappear below ground level, he sighed quietly.
He was well read enough in psychology to know that it wasn't really the smell
or the damage to his suit that was really bothering Napoleon. This whole experience
was bound to come as a shock to one who was clearly used to the finer things
in life. Focusing on the little things was one way of avoiding having to think
about the greater problems that were facing him, like the fact that only a
few hours earlier, a close friend of his had died...or that he was currently
on the run from a malevolent organization that were willing to kill anyone
who got in the way of their plans for world domination.
Illya climbed onto the ladder and balanced himself precariously as he reached
for the manhole cover. It was as Napoleon had suspected, no ordinary cover,
and once in place would lock automatically, releasing only when the correct
sequence of studs on it had been pushed. He could feel the strain on his ribs
as he dragged the cover closer, tipping it on its edge, so that he could let
it fall into place. Even under normal circumstances, it was an awkward maneuver,
and more than one agent had ended up with broken fingers and/or a severe concussion
when they had mistimed things.
Napoleon reached the bottom of the ladder and glanced around him. "Safe this
might be, but boy does it stink," he muttered to himself. Looking upwards,
he could see Illya at the top of the ladder, maneuvering the cover back into
place. He was just about to call up to him, when he heard the sound of a gunshot.
There was a loud clang as the cover fell into place cutting off all light,
and then there was silence except for Napoleon yelling "ILLYA!"
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