He heard sounds outside, muffled through a thick door as they approached and then silence

He began to twist at the ropes, turning until he thought he could get a purchase on the restricting cord and felt fresh blood flow as they cut into already proud and swollen flesh.
 
His brain began to intersect the known events. Ah yes; now he remembered. He had been with Illya. The assignment was over and the operatives had been told to stand down and make their reports direct to the controller.  They had planned to get some dinner and he went into his room, watching, as had become his habit of late, Illya retreat into his own room and close the door.  And then a crushing pain as he closed the door; darkness, faces and then nothing.

A sharp draft of cold air assailed him and with it a jeering commotion.  A foot found his ribs and kicked hard. Rolling into a ball he felt the impact and while he moaned with pain, was relieved when no bones gave way.

 There was something else, a new presence, and one that stayed even after the door slammed shut and the bolts jolted into place.  It was a smell, sickly sweet, heavily laden with musk and sweat and through it all a sharp tang of blood, warm and running freely. Napoleon cursed silently into the gag, the smell familiar from too many visits to hospital wards and crisis centers.

Napoleon moaned softly into the gag. Moving, he found pain seared at him again and overtook his senses, washing him down into darkness filled with nightmare images.

How long he had lain unconscious in the tomb of darkness he had no idea. The cold had seeped into his bones and the smell stayed with him.  Moving again he found his ribs tender, but managed to right himself.  He felt a soft cold hand pull the blindfold from his face and followed it down with the gag.  The hand moved onto the ropes that bound him solidly and when it touched warm flesh, withdrew quickly.  Taking a few minutes to accustom himself to the change, he looked about for Illya in the darkness.

“Hello?” His voice was hoarse and hollow in the empty room.

Napoleon Solo had the dubious title of one of the longest serving and hardest agents Waverley had ever placed in the field. And those who knew him never ceased to be surprised by the changes in this most mercurial yet sophisticated of men.  Yet now, sitting in the darkness, hands bound, what he saw broke his heart and stilled his breath.

Illya Kuraykin sat huddled in the farthest corner, having retreated since his abortive attempt to free Solo. His clothing, what there was of it still intact, was stained with blood and torn, his pale face, beaten and bruised.   One blue eye swollen totally shut and he was shivering.

“Illya,” he called softly.  The Russian would not return his gaze, but kept his eyes averted and rocked slowly.  Napoleon cursed under his breath as he moved again, twisting the ropes, desperate for his freedom to soothe the hurt he saw.  “Illya!” His voice was imperious and commanding of the younger agent.  Still the Russian made no move towards his bound partner.  “Mr Kuryakin!” Napoleon’s voice thundered, caught on the knife-edge of pain and fear as he sensed something deeper, some other hurt bestowed upon the shivering near-naked man in the corner.

Illya finally looked up and over at Napoleon. The broken look the American saw behind the blue eye ripped into him as he called again. “Illya – please untie me.” His voice was soft in the darkness.

The Russian looked confused and afraid, not trusting what he saw, and Napoleon cursed the chemicals that he feared THRUSH must have used.  He sat back, trying a different tack, “Illya please, I won’t hurt you.” His voice softened, almost crooning, and the Russian responded resignation and a deep-held terror still clearly evident in his gaze.
 

The fingers that found the knotted cord at Napoleon’s back were ice cold.  Solo was caught off guard as he noted the fine sheen of sweat and the barely controlled trembling of the Russian agent.  He suspected that Illya had been drugged and yet he saw no such telltale signs, no needle marks and his movements, though stiff, were controlled and direct.  No drugs had played a part in this travesty.  Freeing one hand with fumbling fingers, Illya helped Napoleon undo the other and then skittered again to the farthest corner of the room.
 

Rubbing feeling back into his stretched and tortured limbs, Napoleon limped forward to Illya, stopping short when the blonde head turned into the wall.

“Please, don’t.” The first words spoken were soft with anguish as he moved closer into the cold unyielding stone.

“Okay, okay.” Napoleon’s voice was heavy with concern. “What’s going on Illya?”

Illya shivered again. Napoleon took the moments to visually inspect the wounds on the blond’s body and caught the bile in his throat when he saw the blood on his thighs, blood that shouldn’t be there. The smell and visual proof he witnessed collided with his memory and he reached forward, instinctively to calm. He stopped his hand and instead he stood, removed his jacket and coming closer, and laid it about Illya’s bare shoulders.

“Please don’t touch me, Napoleon.” The slender form huddled on the floor against the cold stone shivered again convulsively.

Napoleon kept his approach calm and slow as he reached forward again. Illya’s trembling grew in intensity until Illya turned his face into the wall and began to heave, the stench of bile assailing Napoleon and causing waves of nausea to crash over him.

His hands gripped the slender pale form, and pulled it forward until he rested against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon.” The tiny voice was weak and muffled.  The American held the trembling form closer against his good side.
 

The next few moments happened so quickly.  A soft scuffling sound alerted Napoleon to a presence outside the iron door.  He pushed Illya behind him and dragged him to his feet.  Covering as much of Illya’s body as he could.  He prepared to fight his way out, or die trying he thought His smile feral and wild, either way he would not let them have Illya again.

An explosion rocked the door, blowing it from the hinges.  Dust and smoke filled the room as the metal blew in with force against the rock.  Two armed men stormed the room, one taking point, rolling as he came in to the cell; his gun leveled at the two men by the wall.

“Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuraykin?” the first of the men asked.

Napoleon stood firmly in front of Illya, protecting him with his body. “I’m Solo.”

“Sir, I’m Webster.” He extended a hand to Napoleon. “Geneva office.” Napoleon shook the proffered hand. Belatedly Webster nodded to his companion. “ Mr.Brevans.” He flipped the small communicator open and spoke quickly.

“Geneva?” Napoleon was pulling Illya away from the wall and wrapping the coat about his body.  Illya paused in the doorway his hands to his face against the light, he looked so small and vulnerable Napoleon had to check himself before he could speak again.

“Yes sir.” This was Webster again, a quiet, well-cultured English accent. “Mr. Waverley has had us on alert.  Sorry we took so long.”

Illya leaned against the wall. Brevans had moved closer meaning to offer support to him when Napoleon heard a small whimper of pain and turned towards them.  The fingers on the proffered hand had not made contact, yet that they reached towards the Russian was enough.  Illya shrank against the wall, his face contorted into a mask of fear, and all of his cool control slipped and left him for the entire world looking like a cornered and wounded animal.

A low moan issued from Illya’s lips and Napoleon saw him move into a fighter stance and coil, ready to launch at the approaching man.
 

Sensibly Brevan's moved back his hands going slowly to his sides.  Webster spoke in urgent tones into his communicator and Napoleon placed his own body in front of Illya.  A few moments passed before recognition worked its way into the aristocratic features.

“Mr. Solo, we have no time left, we must evacuate now.” He saw Webster send Brevans to point. Wrapping a firm arm around Illya’s shoulders, Napoleon pushed him forward with Webster taking the retreat.
 

Agonized and stumbling, Illya was propelled forward by the solid bulk of his partner, stubbornly refusing to give in, to surrender to the darkness that threatened at the edges of his mind.  A dozen agents found their way out into a courtyard. A medical team was on stand by, strapping people into stretchers. Another dozen or more agents milled around, being given cursory treatment, then hauled into the back of the vans that parked on the compound. A helicopter sat on the grid; her rotors beginning to beat the cold still air as agents filed into her open bay.

Illya saw the ambulance and realized where he was his hand clutched convulsively on Napoleons arm and finally his feet gave way.  It was as if all the terror in those impossibly blue eyes were trained on the ambulance and white coats.

“Tovarisch.” The tone was soft and pleading. “No please, not the ambulance.”  Napoleon looked down and across at Webster.  The English agent nodded and pointed to a car parked on the edge of the compound, her engine already running and lights illuminating the dark gothic scene.
 

Napoleon bundled Illya into the back of the car with all the care he could afford as Breavans reached back and handed him a blanket and cushion.  Wrapping Illya in the blanket he carefully placed the cushion against his shoulder between the door and a nasty purpling bruise.  Illya shuddered again, his hand clenching on the armrest.

Within minutes the stone walls of the manor retreated into the darkness.  Illya moved as far as he could from his partner, taking his place in the furthest corner of the car.  His face, impassive and blank did not even register the faint shudder the car felt as the explosion that ripped somewhere deep within the earth and blew part of the stately old building asunder.

Illya closed his eyes and sighed.  His hand twisting in the coat as Napoleon reached forward to touch him. The Russian avoided Napoleon’s hand again pressing himself into the furthest corner of the seat. With a sigh finally passed out.

The drive back to the Geneva Headquarters took just over three hours.  In that time Illya neither stirred nor, it seemed, moved.  Napoleon watched his friend’s shallow breathing and tense face for hours and just after 2am exhaustion and the comfortable warmth of the car lulled him into an uneasy sleep.

A gentle hand on his shoulder shook him awake. Looking instinctively for his partner, Solo panicked when he was nowhere to be seen.  At first Napoleon did not recognize where he was, and as if sensing the other man’s discomfort, Breavans offered, “ We’re at the Geneva Office sir, Mr. Kuraykin has gone on ahead Mr. Waverly is waiting to see you.” Breavans held the car door open for the tired and bruised Solo.

Neither being considered by the powers to be the walking wounded, nor feeling cold, dirty, tired and hungry did not place Solo in the best of temperaments.  He stalked the Geneva office like a large hungry cat, prepared to feast on the flesh of any hapless agent who came his way.  His mood was barely improved by a quick cup of lukewarm coffee and a brief shower before he met with Mr. Waverly in the ornate timber-lined conference room.

The section head looked tired and his pipe lay unattended on top of a pile of manila folders.  Napoleon stood at ease in the room and waited for the debriefing to begin.

Moments passed as the older man took more notes from folders and with an irritated sigh, turned at long last to the agent before him.  Even in his current state of partial dress, his tie missing, a borrowed slightly too large shirt with his sleeves rolled up Napoleon maintained the look of elegant calm.

Yet the controller knew too well the haunted and pre-occupied look under the suave exterior.

Mr. Waverly waved at him to take a seat.  Pulling out the overstuffed conference chair Solo sank into it gratefully, finally aware of the bruising on his body.

“Feeling somewhat refreshed, Mr. Solo?”  Not accustomed to being kept waiting Mr. Waverley frowned. Ah Napoleon thought, that was about as close to a reprimand Mr. Waverly had given him in some time and he flushed a little a sure sign of his exhaustion.

“Yes sir, thank you.”  He watched as Webster came into the room and, leaning close to the controller, whispered.  Mr. Waverly frowned and sighed distracted from the American in his presence.

Waiting to be left alone he finally spoke. “It would seem you need to keep your partner on a shorter string Mr. Solo.”

It was the American’s turn to frown. “Sir?”

“Mr. Kuraykin has gone.”

“Gone?”  Solo almost drawled.

“Yes, Mr. Solo. It would appear that before medics got to give him the all clear, he liberated some clothes from a locker and took it upon himself to leave.”

“Hell.” The expletive was softly uttered.

“Mr. Webster has alerted security and they will pick him up soon, I should imagine. Do you have any idea as to where he might be?”

Solo frowned. “Not off hand sir, but if Illya has gone to ground I doubt any agent would find him.”

“Quite so Mr. Solo.” He shuffled the manila folders in front of him and selecting the top four handed them across to his young agent.  “You will of course know of these men.”

With a flick of a switch the paneled window with its spectacular view of Lake Geneva darkened and became a screen displaying faces that swam in the endless oblivion of celluloid.
 

The first face was that of a low-grade industrial chemist, known to be in the employ of THRUSH; he was a small beady-eyed man with a mean disposition and a taste for the seamier side of life.  Constantly on the verge of poverty this was Jonathan Wilkes.

The second face, a well-known local banker, rumored to be financing the operation of THRUSH operatives into the international banking cartel.  Napoleon had dealt with him before – Mr. Anton Beau Clerc.

Lastly a face that had Napoleon been in the mood to laugh, would no doubt have caused hysteria. Peter Grant Conrad, playboy, motor racer, and very dead – thanks largely to Mr. Illya Kuraykin.  He remembered this man, more perhaps than he should,

Even then Solo had had a tiny doubt, which nagged at him about his growing affections for his partner. Conrad had magnified that doubt and he knew then beyond doubt Illya was important to him.  When he finally understood this in himself he realized almost too late the unhealthy interest the dear departed had in Illya.

Here Napoleon paused – only three faces and four folders.

Several days in Conrad’s company had changed Napoleons attitude forever.  Illya, unaware of it had sailed straight into a trap laid to intimidate and destroy their partnership.  It had failed, of course, but nevertheless Illya had retreated further into the ice-cool exterior and gave little of himself to even his dearest friend.

The screen faded back to the lake view and Mr. Waverly watched the reaction his agent had to the faces.
 

Napoleon shrugged elegantly. “So we have a seamy chemist, a banker, and a dead playboy. What sir does this have to do with my recent incarceration?”

“You no doubt remember our dead playboy – as I seem to recall, it very nearly ended your partnership with Mr. Kuraykin.”

Napoleon winced at the memory and looked up, suddenly aware of Illya’s absence fear pricked at the back of his neck.

“Yes, of course you do.  What we did not know, Mr. Solo, is how far he would go for revenge.”

“From beyond the grave?” Napoleon began to twist the signet ring on his left hand, as he became more distracted and the prickle of apprehension grew.

“A little over a week ago Mr. Wilkes who is on the verge of bankruptcy flew first class to rendezvous with Mr. Beau Clerc.   Another man was present at this meeting held in the Chateau Lyonesse in Lusanne.” Solo shook his head slightly. "You have just spent seventy two hours there Mr. Solo.” The American’s face cleared.

“And the other man?”

“Mr. Lucien Francis.”

His preoccupation gone, Solo sat up straight. “The terrorist?”

“Amongst other things, it would appear THRUSH is recruiting from the cream of sociopaths these days.”

“So it would seem.  Wasn’t the Chateau under surveillance by the IMF for a top level meeting?”

“Yes.   We have had some vague concerns of late that THRUSH would attempt to undermine the economy of at least two Third World countries, both of whom trade almost exclusively in the drug market. Webster has some rather valuable information on this front. I want you to read the files and report back to me in forty eight hours.”

“Sir, what has this got to do with Conrad?”

“Ah.” Mr. Waverly drew his brows together as he took a more diplomatic approach with the young agent. “Whilst you were incarcerated – what interest did they show in you, Mr. Solo?”

Solo shook his head the dark hair glistening.  “None sir.”

“Yet you are a top agent.   Surely the opportunity must have existed for something to be required of you.”

“No sir, nothing, not even a word, a mouthful of dirty hanky and a boot in the ribs but not a word.”

“And of Mr. Kuraykin?”

“I don’t know, I was unconscious for most of the time and when I did get to see him we were liberated soon after.” He looked down at his hands.

“The liberating officers stated that he…ah….” obviously uncomfortable with the subject the older man cleared his throat before continuing, “sustained personal injuries.” He rested the glasses easily on the end of his nose as he looked over the frames.

Solo clamped his hands together to stop the shaking. He quickly lowered his head but not fast enough to stop Mr. Waverly noticing the dark and dangerous mood. “Yes sir,” he finally answered when he regained his calm.

Silence, which stretched into eternity, bit into Napoleon as he stole a glance at the controller.  Mr. Waverly was standing by the window, looking out at the lake, when he turned Napoleon saw something he had never thought to see so openly in the canny old man, fear and apprehension.

“Mr. Solo, when I recruited Mr. Kuraykin some ten years ago now I met with a great deal of resistance. Largely of course to do with Mr. Kuraykin's nationality.  Yet he has always been a valuable asset to UNCLE.”

 Solo sat quietly – he had never spoken to the section head as to how the Russian had come to be involved in UNCLE, and the fact that Waverly now chose to do so caused Solo’s apprehension to become intolerable.

Waverly continued, “There was a great deal of argument between the respective agencies and even at a government level when he defected and we offered, in fact we organized asylum to be granted.  Mr. Kuraykin left everything behind, including, I suspect, a great deal of himself.”

Napoleon smiled softly. “Yes sir, I imagine he did.”

“You should ask him about it sometime, I can say no more, except you are the closest person to him Mr. Solo….”

Napoleon stood up abruptly, his voice soft as his hands began to form into fists by his side. “You think he is in danger, don’t you, sir?”

Mr. Waverly nodded. “Even more than you realize, Mr. Solo.  Mr. Francis was Conrad’s brother. It would seem his unhealthy interest extends beyond the grave.  Your capture and Mr. Kuryakin’s have nothing whatsoever to do with the matter of the informal IMF summit, I can but surmise that it was personal and you were only taken along for the ride.”

Solo rubbed at the back of his head.  It was still tender and the headache continued. “How the hell did we miss that one, sir?”.

“I suggest you get after Mr. Kuraykin, Mr. Solo. I do believe it would be unwise, given the local hostile environment, to have him wandering at will through the streets of Geneva.”

Despite the protestations from his muscles and the desire to sleep, Solo was out the door running. On the way to the basement he collected the files, his apartment requisition, the keys to a car with full tank, sunglasses, money and another cup of the foul black liquid, which passed for coffee in the office.
 

The day had dawned crisp and cool and he knew that with Illya’s skills and temperament he could just about be anywhere.

He started with a brief tour of the street cafés. No Illya.

He continued to the better-known hotels. No Illya.

Next he tried the seamier rooms and finally the alleys. Still no success.

By noon he was even more exhausted and found himself in Zurich, where his search started again. At around eight pm he checked in with his office to insure that Kuraykin had not left the country by the conventional route and that all his passports were accounted for.

Feeling useless and almost driven to despair, he headed back to Geneva.  It was nearly midnight when he finally checked into his suite.

The short elevator ride let him out on the fourth floor, a spacious well-kept corridor that bespoke of wealth and prestige. Finding his rooms, he unlocked the door.  There was a nicely appointed lounge and a bedroom off to the left. He smiled at the size of the shower.  His aide had organized fresh clothing and a welcome package of information lay on the table.

The shower was indeed welcome. He stood in the steady stream of hot water until the pounding in his head ceased.  Then he shaved and pulled the tape from his ribs, wincing at the bruising as he pulled on the toweling robe.

“Open Channel D,” he said into the cigarette packet.

“Channel D open, Mr. Waverly here. Have you found him yet, Mr. Solo?”

“No sir. I’ve checked into the hotel.” His voice sounded thin and wan with exhaustion.

“I suggest you get some rest, Mr. Solo.  The Russian contingent arrives tomorrow and we need Mr. Kuraykin safe – his location is now your top priority assignment.”

Solo rubbed a shaking hand across tired eyes. “Yes sir, Solo out. Close Channel D. ”

Walking to the balcony he looked out over the still dark lake, seeing the couples holding hands safe and serene in the normalcy of their lives, content with each other under the moon.

He saw a solitary jogger.  Solo shook his head again.

“Where the hell are you, Illya?” he breathed into the night… “Are you safe? Are you warm?” He felt a tear on his cheek and let it go unchecked.  “Do you even know?”