Part 3

[leethet]

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At the back of the bar under the shadows of a beam Napoleon sipped his scotch, eyes on the door. Illya walked in 20 minutes before his appointed time, which was expected, and cased the joint, giving no sign whatever that he realized he was being watched.

That also was expected. Illya’s body language said plainly he was not there to meet a friend. He moved through the mildly jostling crowd to the bar, slid one blue-jeans-clad hip onto a stool, and waited, not removing his battered leather jacket.

Napoleon had chosen his spot well; when the tall, cadaverous black-haired man (one of the three in the bar Napoleon had thought likely) crossed the room and sat next to Illya, Napoleon was in a position to see them both in profile as they spoke. He would never have been able to hear them if not for the bug (again, and not coincidentally, one of three) he’d planted earlier that evening.

The tall man ordered two of what he’d been drinking all evening: vodka. The Russian accent Napoleon had suspected flowered in the next sentence.

“Good to see you again, Illya Nickovetch. You’re looking well. America suits you.”

Illya said nothing. The man waited, finally went on.

“Did you bring the data?”

Illya replied, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The tall man smiled, half surprised, Napoleon thought, half amused.

“Very well. We will play no games.”

“What do you want?”

“You. More specifically, the knowledge you have stored away in that rock-hard head of yours.”

That would have told Napoleon, had he not already realized it, that this was someone who knew his partner.

“Particularly that data you’ve acquired most recently,” the man went on. “Our country needs it.”

“Our country? Since when was your master back with the KGB?”

The tall man smiled again, a thin, almost pained look. “Not for a long time. But we still serve the Motherland in our way.”

“How sweet. Why are you bothering me? I don’t owe you or Malikov anything.”

The vodka came. The tall man sipped his, said, “Then why did you come?”

“Because you issued a threat. I simply wanted to respond. To warn you.”

“I am listening.” Another sip of the vodka.

“Try it and I will kill you. And Malikov. You have no hold over me. Remember that.”

The tall man shook his head. “You are mistaken and that shall be shown to you. So you won’t come quietly?”

Disgusted, Illya said, “You’ve been watching too many American movies.”

The tall man downed the drink. “I think, comrade, so have you. Until we meet again.”

He set down the empty glass and strolled out of the bar.

Illya sat glaring into space for a moment, then, in a show of anger so surprising it made Napoleon, 20 feet away, jump, he slapped his own untouched glass of vodka across the bar and onto the floor, where it shattered, glass shards skipping across the wood. The noise of the bar vanished for about two seconds; when the rest of the patrons resumed their conversations, Illya handed the bartender a few crumpled bills – for the glass, presumably – and stalked out of the bar.

Napoleon waited fifteen minutes, then went home.



Once there, he stood at his windows overlooking Manhattan, sipping a glass of his own infinitely superior scotch and thinking. One of the things he kept coming back to was how hard it was to simply, logically think about this problem. A quiet but nagging fear kept prodding him in the back, distracting him.

His doorbell rang and, for the second time that night, he jumped. Who are you and what have you done with unflappable Napoleon Solo?

He went to the door, unsurprised to see his partner. Many locks and monitors were deactivated. Illya strode past him the moment the door was opened, into the living room. Napoleon sighed. Worse than he expected. He reactivated everything he’d deactivated, followed his partner, finishing off his scotch and suspecting he’d be in need of another one soon.

Illya faced him, radiating cold anger. “Why did you follow me?”

Napoleon hesitated, trying to read his partner’s anger, but at the moment he couldn’t get past it to see what it was made up of. He’d known Illya would spot him, of course, just as he would have spotted Illya had their positions been reversed. Aside from being excellent agents they had a sixth, or possibly seventh, sense regarding one another.

“I didn’t follow you,” he said, a preliminary thrust of humor aimed at disarming Illya’s anger. “I was there first.”

“You know what I mean, damn it.”

Napoleon set down the glass. Okay; no easy way out. “Two reasons. Reason one: You said you had a problem–”

“I said a personal problem,” Illya snapped.

“That’s reason number two.”

“Did Mr. Waverly send you?”

“Yes.”

Cursing in Russian Illya spun away, stalked growling to the window.

Napoleon followed, stood a gingerly distance from his partner. That had two benefits: it kept him out of reach and suggested to Illya that he was fearful of actually being struck, which generally had a mollifying effect.

“Can you listen?” he asked gently. The blue eyes closed briefly and Illya took a slow breath.

“Yes, Mr. Waverly sent me. Or rather, he suggested I send someone to follow you. That can’t surprise you, when you told him about the meeting yourself.” He paused, let that sink in. “The reason I came myself is ... well, firstly, I was concerned about you. Secondly, I knew if it was something ... something others shouldn’t know, there was no one else I could count on to keep it quiet.”

Illya glanced at him, the glacial anger in his eyes gone. “That’s the same reason.”

Napoleon smiled. “I guess so.”

Another exhalation, more a sigh, and Illya relaxed. “I suppose I should have expected it once I’d told Mr. Waverly.”

“Now, shall we sit down and talk reasonably about this?” Napoleon indicated the sofa. On the table, next to the scotch, sat a bottle of vodka in a bucket brimming with ice. Illya smiled ruefully.

“Well,” Napoleon said modestly. “I figured by the time you got here you’d be regretting that you didn’t have that drink Boris bought you.”

They sat; Napoleon poured the drinks and said, “So who is Boris, and who is Malikov, and what does he want, and what can I do?”

Illya, raising the glass to his lips, paused. “You heard us?”

“Bug.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed. “Where? Not on me.”

Napoleon chuckled. “No, not even I could get a listening device on you without you knowing about it. On your tall dark and loathsome friend.”

“What did you do, bug everyone in the bar?”

“No, just the likeliest suspects.”

Illya shook his head again, marveling. “I sometimes forget how good you are, since you’re usually on my side.”

“I’m always on your side,” Napoleon said. “I would have gone with you, you know.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to. If ... if Malikov thinks I have no ... no allies, no friends in this, it makes it easier for me.”

“For us, you mean?” Napoleon said lightly, lifting his glass.

Illya rolled his eyes, muttered, “Interfering American.” But his tone was warm again, and Napoleon knew he was forgiven.

“Who is Malikov?” he asked. “You said he isn’t KGB.”

“No. He was. I knew Andrei Malikov when we both were recruited into the KGB. Boris Golkov was his toady even then. I know Malikov was ejected from the service some time ago. I have no idea what he’s been up to, but I imagine it can’t have been anything beneficial to mankind.” He gave his partner a tiny, sardonic smile. “I had not heard from or thought about them until three nights ago at the soiree.”

“It was Malikov on the balcony?” Napoleon said. “Or Boris?”

“It was Boris. I suppose he saw me with Dr. Holberg as he was taking aim. Obviously Malikov wants the will gas, and thought he would acquire it through me. Hence the note.”

“The note,” Napoleon echoed. It made sense; any government or faction would give its executive branch to have an effective, nonfatal, cheaply manufactured will gas. “The ... invitation.”

“It was more of a ... threat. It seemed easier to find out what they wanted, perhaps find some way of settling it, than to ignore it. Mr. Waverly agreed.”

“A threat?” Napoleon scowled. He knew Illya had no family, not even in Russia.  At least, he thought he knew that. No wife, no children – who could this Malikov possibly have threatened that Illya would cooperate even to this extent?

“I thought if they wanted information,” Illya went on, “I could provide them with something false, reveal them to the CIA or the FBI, or even the KGB, and eliminate the problem. I didn’t realize they wanted me.”

“Well, they can’t have you,” Napoleon quipped. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Illya glanced at him sidelong, smiled faintly. “ I think it might be a good idea for me to go along with it–”

“What?”

“–in order to eliminate Malikov and his threat. The KGB are bound to consider him a rogue and an enemy, but he’s always hated the West too. Somehow he’s found out about Substance XX and wants to use it.”

“Against us, or against his own people?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shrugged. “Either, both – I don’t know. His chief interest has always been his own power.”

“So you’re thinking of turning yourself over to him?” Napoleon said. “And telling him what?”

“I don’t know. Lies. Something that will flush him out so either the KGB or the American authorities can eliminate him.”

“And if he kills you after you talk?”

Illya had no answer at first. After a moment he said, “Malikov and I have had differences of opinion in the past. He would probably not kill me right away.”

Chilled, Napoleon shook his head. “Jesus, Illya.”

“Well, I haven’t had time to formulate a solid plan,” Illya said defensively. “I had intended to spend tonight considering that. Then I saw you in the bar.”

“And you decided to come over here and upbraid me–”

“Deservedly–”

“For doing exactly what you would have done in my place,” Napoleon finished, stern.

Silence and scowls. Napoleon cupped a hand to his ear, brows raised.

“You were saying, my secretive Russian friend?”

Illya glanced at him, pained. “There is no reason for you to be involved in this.”

“Wrong,” Napoleon said. “If I have to spell out the reasons  ... well, then one of us hasn’t been paying attention for the past five years.”

 

Illya sighed. “That’s not what I meant.” He knew if he started this he wouldn’t be able to get out of it. He shouldn’t have come, he should have gone straight to Waverly and explained. He’d probably already be on his way to Malikov right now, alone. Safe.

That stopped him.

Safe. Safe not because he was safe, but because Napoleon was.

He downed the rest of the vodka, told himself to just get up and go.

“Then what did you mean?” Napoleon asked.

Illya closed his eyes, sank back into the seat. “Napoleon–” Don’t be so damned ... caring. “I can deal with this on my own.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

With all the coldness he could muster –  which was formidable – Illya looked him right in the eyes and said, “Has it occurred to you that I do not want your interference?”

But that ice hit Napoleon’s concern and melted in an instant. He’d long known how to get around all the devices Illya used to keep people at a distance.

“It occurred to me,” Napoleon said. “That’s beside the point.”

“Which is?”

“That I could no more watch you dodge bullets – however ably – and not interfere than I could shoot you myself.”

Illya said nothing. In mild chastisement, Napoleon added:

“I shouldn’t have to say that.”

Illya smiled grudgingly. “It was a good image.”  He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m not up to plotting just now. It’s been a long few days.” He waited, almost ready to blurt out the truth, but Napoleon said nothing about his avoidance of the last three days. The moment of courage – or recklessness – passed. “I think I’d better just go home.”

Napoleon got up along with him, walking him to the door. “We can talk to Mr. Waverly about this cockamamie scheme of yours in the morning.”

Illya scowled but said nothing.

At the door Napoleon tried again. “Illya?”

His partner paused, but didn’t turn to look at him.

“Is there a reason you didn’t simply ignore them?”

Illya chuckled silently, sourly. “Yes.”

“Would you care to share it? You said they threatened someone.”

“Da.” He turned around, resigned, it seemed, to the conversation not being over.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Napoleon said delicately. “It was my understanding you left no one close to you behind in Russia...”

Illya’s smile seemed pained. “I have no loved ones in Russia. My relatives are long dead, and friendship was not permitted.”

“Then...I don’t understand what kind of hold Malikov could have over you.”

Illya looked long at his partner, wondering as he often had how he had let things get to this inexcusable state. The usual way, maybe. One day, one mission, one heartbeat at a time.

No, you don’t understand. And I’m going to do everything I can to keep it that way.

He turned the doorknob and the world exploded.