7

Napoleon drove north on Highway 91, weaving deftly through metropolitan traffic, just enough above the speed limit to feel he was making progress without drawing too much attention from the police.

The day was clear and cool. The drive gave him plenty of time to think about what he was doing, what he'd done -- what he'd almost done -- and what the hell he was going to do if this didn't pan out. Mr. Waverly wasn't likely to bust him down to filing reports or the like, but he'd be well justified.

But then Mr. Waverly was already keen to assign Napoleon to new fieldwork without Illya. If this effort failed, he might never find his partner. And if he didn't...

Napoleon gripped the wheel tighter. He couldn't imagine giving up field work. That would be too much like simply lying down to die. He also couldn't imagine a lifetime of assignments without Illya.

A new partner ... Napoleon's gut knotted into anger and resentment just thinking about it. Betrayal. It felt precisely like betrayal. It also wouldn't be fair to that agent -- to be yoked to a partner who wouldn't be able to accept him or her, who'd constantly be comparing -- who could measure up? He and Illya were the best. There'd be no settling after that.

Alone. That was the other option. Slightly less intolerable ... but still unacceptable.

Napoleon didn't believe in magic, or fate -- he realized he'd been having to say things like that to himself a lot lately -- but there were no rational words that touched what he and Illya had. It couldn't be replaced. It could not be lost. If he had to keep searching forever, using a hunch, a crystal ball or a goddamned divining rod, he'd do it.

Napoleon pressed a little harder on the accelerator, zipping past a produce truck to find open highway.

One of the guards efficiently bandaged the flesh wound in Illya's thigh and he was taken back to Dr. Xavier's laboratory.

"I can see I need to accelerate my conditioning program if I hope to keep you ... under control," Dr.  Xavier said as he positioned himself behind the console. "Tie him securely," he told the guards. They shoved Illya into the chair. Panic, clenched in the iron fist of his will, writhed to break free.

Illya strained with all his waning strength at the stiff leather bonds, wrenching his aching body this way and that. Not even the pretense of calm this time -- he tasted the acid of fear in his mouth. Taut, eyes on Dr. Xavier, he paused to breathe, scrambling for clear thought.

And the nightmares struck again.

"One of the most interesting things about the human mind," Dr. Xavier was saying, "is its ability to lie itself."

Illya blinked, blinked again.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Kuryakin?"

He could see his own thighs. Black jeans, the left leg torn and bloody, with a dirty white bandage about it. He could see his hands, pale, bruised claws clenched tight about the ends of the chair arms. He lifted his head slowly and inhaled. Dr. Xavier stood a few feet away, arms crossed, smiling at him.

His indrawn breath was stopped by the hard strap about his chest. Although it didn't seem likely, if asked Illya would have said that it was at that point his heart started beating again. Blood returned to his extremities. His leg began to throb, a split second after each heartbeat; his arms tingled. It came last, it seemed, to his brain.

"Yes. My machine and I take advantage of that propensity. You may have realized that for yourself. I understand you are a scientist also, and I know you perused my working notes in Bogota."

An image flashed in Illya's mind. "They were in German."

"Indeed yes. The language of my mentors, the language of the mind. But my point is that one of the reasons my technique works so well is that it electronically stimulates and alters deep thought patterns without touching the conscious, surface patterns, those thoughts and words and acts that are most voluntary."

Illya's stomach lurched. He couldn't yet understand Dr. Xavier's words, but he felt their danger.

"How do you feel?" Dr. Xavier asked.

"Sick," Illya admitted.

"That will pass. As I was saying, the subject, once successfully implanted with those directives necessary to achieve my desire, can depart still believing in his own innocence. Still believing he's stood firm, still believing he hates me and all I stand for."

Illya grit his teeth, groped for rational thought. I am alive. I must get away. Dr. Xavier and his machine must be destroyed.

"I know what you're thinking," Dr. Xavier said, smiling. "Or what you think you're thinking."

Doubt reached for Illya, like the hands of a corpse from a fresh-dug grave. He shut it out. True or false, he had to ignore it. Dr. Xavier was lying. He hadn't been brainwashed yet. Persuading him that he had been was simply a way of weakening his defense.

"Yes," Dr. Xavier said. "Excellent. While the surface mind believes itself free, the deeply implanted suggestions bide their time for coming forward."

He paused, visibly struck by a thought. "Really, I was foolish to have my niece killed, despite her disloyalty. That very disloyalty would have made her an excellent test subject. And she was so young and lovely. And so fond of you, for some reason, Mr. Kuryakin. After all, she died trying to save you."

Illya's fists reclenched. "If you truly believe I am your creature, take off these restraints and see how long it takes me to kill you with my bare hands."

Dr. Xavier chuckled, turned his head away. "Guards."

The two musclemen came in.

"Take him back to his room."

As they unstrapped Illya, Dr. Xavier said, "One more session before we set you free. If you want to call it that. But in the morning. I'm quite tired."

Illya lunged at Dr. Xavier as soon as he was loose. The guards caught him in the air and carried him between them as easily as if he were a corpse.

Nightfall found Napoleon on a narrow country road that wound through pine-carpeted hills, leading deep into the mountains.

He'd had to make a few stops at various crossroads, pausing like an idiot to let the little voice tug him in one direction or another. So far the technique, though deeply embarrassing, had kept him on track -- as far as his inner voice was concerned. All his other voices were telling him he was so far off track it was time for some psychiatric counseling.

He hunched over the wheel, stiff, eyes pinched with fatigue. Every once in a while he was surprised -- as if he'd just awakened from sleep and found himself here -- by the beauty of the countryside. On his right a lake stretched still, black and silver in the moonlight. Great pines marched up the side of the valley to his left. He rolled the window down to breathe in the cold, pine-tangy air. Good. Keep me awake.

Anxiety had long since devoured his stomach and was now eating into other major organs, and he was exhausted. He wasn't going to stop, though. Not 'til he dropped. Not even then.

The road and he came around a curve offering a good view of the lake. Something -- not his brain -- shouted Stop! to his muscles, dropping a rock into that pool of acid inside him. He'd stomped on the brake before he saw the black square on the lake: a car rooftop.

Napoleon stopped the car in the road and flung the door open, stripping off jacket and gun even as he ran, stumbling on half-numb feet, down the grass and sand to the water.

He plunged in, teeth clenched against the needling shock of icy water, and stroked powerfully toward the car.

Ducking under, he tried the door. It opened sluggishly and he pushed himself into the cold blackness inside. Immediately he touched a body. He grabbed it and pulled himself out of the car, breaking the surface and hauling the victim up after him. The first shock: black hair. The second: it was a woman.

Napoleon heaved her dead weight onto the roof of the car and dove back under to doublecheck. A search-by-touch of the interior revealed no other victims. He swam back out, grabbed the girl and took her to shore, drawing her up on the beach to perform CPR.

After only a few breaths and compressions she stirred and coughed. Shivering, Napoleon lifted her ice-cold body and turned her over to help her expel water. She coughed wretchedly for a minute or so, while Napoleon caught his breath, then lay limp in his arms.

He gently lifted her into a sitting position, pushing hair out of her face to reveal dark eyes wide with shock. She started shaking and Napoleon said automatically:

"You're all right. Take it easy." He picked her up and carried her to his car -- almost dropping her at the door when she started to flail violently.

"It's okay," he said, setting her feet on the road and holding her, trying to get her to look at him. "It's okay, miss. I just want to get you warm."

She stopped, staring full at him for a long moment, and the terror drained from her eyes. She limply allowed him to help her into the car. He shut the door and went back to collect his gun, jacket and shoes, puzzled. The urge to plunge into the lake had been overwhelming; Napoleon had been certain it was Illya in that car. So -- why hadn't it been?

He returned to the car, throwing his dry clothes in the backseat and replacing his gun in the damp holster; the leather shouldn't transfer too much moisture to the weapon, and anyway he wanted it on him.

He closed the door, turned the heater on and started off up the road. Although he knew better, he said, "There wasn't anyone else in the car with you?"

Staring at him, she shook her head. Then, softly, "Thank you."

Don't thank me. Thank my crazy little inner voice for deciding to take a detour.

 "You're welcome. Care to tell me what happened? Accident?"

She said nothing.

"Who are you? Where can I drop you off?"

"Who are you?" she asked instead. "Are you a cop?"

"No. I'm Napoleon Solo. I'm with the UNCLE."

He felt the electricity crackle between them even before she exclaimed:

"Oh my God -- are you looking for Mr. Kuryakin?"

He hit the brake and they both flopped forward, then back.

"Where is he?" He twisted soggily in the seat to face her.

"I don't know. They shot him."

"When?" Napoleon barked, and she flinched. "Where?"

"Here." She pointed a shaking hand back toward her car. "I don't know how long ago. Not long. I was running away, and Mr. Kuryakin was with me. But they caught us there. My uncle said ... he said to drive me into the lake. Mr. Kuryakin tried to stop them."

"Is he alive?"

"I don't know. I saw one of the guards fire his gun, and I saw Mr. Kuryakin fall. Then they put me in the car." She hugged herself, white-faced, staring at Napoleon.

"Your uncle?" Napoleon asked.

"Dr. Xavier."

So he was alive. "Where is your uncle?" he asked, transferring his foot from brake to accelerator.

She didn't answer.

"Look," Napoleon said, "I need to get there. There's a chance Illya's still alive. If your uncle tried to have you killed, you have no reason to protect him."

He looked at her. She jerked her head left, right.

"I don't ... I'm afraid."

Then Napoleon understood. "What's your name?"

"Lily."

"Lily, you don't have to go back there. Is there somewhere safe I can take you?"

"Outer Mongolia," she said.

"I have to get there," Napoleon pressed. "Do you have any friends in the area? Is there a hotel?"

"He has guards. With guns," she said flatly. "They'll kill you."

"Don't worry about that. Just tell me how to get there." He could find the place himself if he had to -- he'd driven 8 hours on that conviction -- but it'd be easier and faster to simply have directions.

"Just you?" she said. "On your own? There's a dozen men with rifles. Don't you have any ... what do the police call it? Backup?"

"Well, usually Illya's my backup. As it is, I'm sort of on my own."

"You're out of your mind."

"I know. Just tell me--"

"Turn right here -- yes, right here."

Napoleon yanked the wheel over and the car jerked onto a narrow dirt road.

"There's no hotel," she continued in the same dead calm voice. Napoleon suspected she was in shock. "There's ... I have no friends here. There's nowhere you can drop me off."

Napoloen said nothing, waiting for her to finish whatever decision she was making.

"You should just turn around now and get the hell out of here," she said, a little anger enlivening her tone.

"I can't," he said.

"They'll kill you," she repeated. "They'll kill him and you. My uncle's insane."

"I understand that--" he began, soothing. She exploded.

"No you don't! He tried to kill me! My own uncle tried to kill me."

Napoleon considered mentioning that his UNCLE regularly did the same to him, but she was clearly not in a fit state to appreciate humor.

"Lily, I'm sorry. I don't want to drag you back into this after what you've been through."

She stared at him, shaking, bedraggled, tears running down her face.

"But Illya is my partner and my friend. I'm going to get him out. I'll do all I can to see that you're safe--"

She choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. "That's what he said. Then they shot him and ran my car into the lake." Crying and laughing, she curled into a ball on the seat, against the door, as far from Napoleon and what he was asking as she could get.

"Lily, if you can get me within walking distance of Dr. Xavier, you can take the car and go. I don't want to endanger you."

She lifted her head. "There's a bridge. Turn left just before it. That's the road to the house."

Napoleon breathed, carefully. "Thank you, Lily."

After they'd turned Lily said, "If they know he's here, why didn't UNCLE send a lot of people after him?"

"Ah ... we didn't know," Napoleon hesitated. He was disinclined to elaborate, but he sensed her uncurling, showing interest, and he wanted to keep her from retreating again behind her fear -- mostly because he didn't want to lose the car. "I had a hunch."

"A hunch?"

"My organization doesn't put too much stock in hunches. That's why I'm here alone."

"You should call for help," she said. "If you had a phone."

"Good idea." He'd forgotten he was following actual testimony now, not just dream voices. Mr. Waverly would probably be willing to send him some backup, although Napoleon wasn't about to wait for it. Still, his boss deserved to know the situation, if only for putting up with his CEA's erratic behavior.

Napoleon slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket. Then his outside pocket. Then, in increasing annoyance, and awkward contortion, all his other pockets.

"Damn."

"What?"

"My communicator. Must've fallen out of my coat when I took my little moonlight swim." He gave Lily a brief, rueful grin. "So much for backup. Looks like I'll have to go it alone."

"You're insane."

"I'm well aware of that."

"Don't do it. Get help."

"I can't wait. They might kill him."

"And you." She stared at him. "Is this bravery?"

He smiled wryly. "No. You might as well call breathing brave."

The road hairpinned around a pile of boulders. Napoleon slowed the car to go around the curve.

"After all," he said reasonably, "you tried to help him. And nearly lost your life over it."

"That was different," she argued, shaking her head. "I didn't know I would almost get killed. Now I know. And you know."

"You still helped a stranger. You had no reason to. I have reasons."

"What reasons?"

He shrugged. "Every reason there is."

"He'll kill you."

"Well, I believe he'll try," Napoleon argued, mildly offended at her confidence in his failure.

"Slow down. You'll be coming out of the trees and onto the grounds soon. You'll want to--" She stopped as Napoleon doused the headlights, slowing the car to a crawl.

"If he's your friend he wouldn't want you to get killed," she said, clearly surrendering.

"And vice versa," Napoleon replied. "Tell me when to stop."

"I already did," she groused. "This side of those rocks right there." She pointed to two whitewashed boulders set on either side of the road. Napoleon parked the car but left it running.

"Go ahead and go," he said to her. "If there's anything resembling a telephone in the vicinity, call the police. Tell them to contact UNCLE in New York City. Tell them--"

"There's no telephones for miles except in there," Lily said, nodding up the road. "The only other house for miles is the commune, and they don't have a phone. The nearest town is an hour away."

"Go," he repeated.

"Go around through the woods at the back of the house," she said. "The lawns have lights, but the guards don't go into the woods at all, and the back yard is smaller, so  you can get closer to the house without being seen."

He grabbed extra clips from the glove box. "Where are they keeping Illya?"

"I don't know. That is, the room he was in is on the second floor, the --" she did some quick math-- "fourth big window from the right side of the house. But if my uncle has him in the lab, that's on the ground floor at the back, off the garage."

"How long has your uncle had this house?" Napoleon asked, traps and sensors on his mind.

"It's not his. He's been here about two months. It belongs to the people who are financing all this. Some big organization. My uncle didn't tell me who."

Napoleon thought: THRUSH.

"The guards are all from them too. I'd've thought it was some foreign country, you know, out to overthrow our government, but I think the guards are all Americans." She shrugged. "All I know is they're big and mean. They beat up Mr. Kuryakin when he tried to escape. The first time, I mean."

Napoleon opened the car door. Lily slid behind the wheel, said, at his questioning look:

"I'm going to turn the car around so it's facing the hell away from here. Then I'll wait as long as I can stand to."

Napoleon beamed at her. "Thank you, Lily."

"If any of those men come I'll be gone so fast it'll make your head spin," she said earnestly.

"Fair enough." Napoleon looked down at himself. "Hand me my jacket."

She pulled it out from the backseat. He hated to put a dry coat over a wet shirt, but the shirt was white and the jacket grey. "Wish me luck," he said, pulling it on.

She nodded, gaze intent on him. He had the feeling then that she'd wait, no matter how scared she got. He crossed the road and made his way into the darkness under the trees.

Richly scented damp undergrowth and forest debris cushioned his steps as he moved. Around the corner the house, a sprawling two-storey brick structure, came into view, the ground floor ablaze with light, the upper storey dark.

The drive crossed a broad stretch of well-kept lawn before descending to a basement level garage. Through the open door Napoleon saw a dark late-model sedan and a van.

He stopped behind a tree about 50 yards from the north end of the house as a burly man with a rifle left the garage and walked along the drive. Another man came around the front of the house. The two exchanged a nod and continued.

He ducked a little deeper into the cover of the woods, drew his gun, and continued on around the perimeter. He passed two more guards on the way.

At the back the woods ended about 50 feet from the house, which boasted a long covered brick patio and some white wooden lawn furniture. Light oozed from several curtained ground floor windows, but there were no yard lights.

Napoleon knelt at the edge of the woods and watched for a few minutes, cursing silently when two men came from either side of the house and crossed in the middle. He knew he should wait for their next intersection and time it, but anxiety burned away any patience he might normally have had. Illya was the patient one, anyway. Thinking of him spurred Napoleon forward.  He holstered his gun -- a shot fired now would carry to too many unfriendly ears -- and darted for the patio.

The guards stopped at the elevator, chuckling, and dropped Illya on the floor as one of them hit the up button.

The scant length of his remaining will from throwing up, Illya considered doing so on the guard's shoes. Small comfort, but you had to take your pleasures where you could find them. When the elevator door cranked open they heaved him into the lift and again dropped him. He fell to his hands and knees on the cold metal floor and stayed there, eyes focused on the slowly narrowing gap between the sliding door and the wall.

"I'm sick of this," one guard said. The other hmmed agreement.

"I can't wait to get back to civilization."

With a quick fierce hope that he'd judged rightly, Illya flung himself through the doorway just before it ground shut. He hit the floor outside hard, heard the shout cut off behind him, and scrambled to his feet, lunging dizzily down the corridor.

Two doors faced one another about 10 feet along the hall. Illya slammed into the wall beside the one on the left, leg and head throbbing explosively. He tried the knob. Unlocked. He opened it, heard the elevator door grinding open behind him, launched himself across the corridor and fumbled that door open. He slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind him, hearing heavy footfalls pound up the hall outside.

He peered around the darkened room. A piano featured prominently. There was a bay window, with a cushioned window seat.

"In here," he heard a guard say in the corridor, then quiet. He staggered to the window, grateful he'd misdirected his pursuers for the moment.

He knelt on the window seat and tried the sash. Sealed. Locked, anyway, and all his waning strength couldn't budge it.

He paused, gasping for breath, then got off the windowseat and opened it. Morbid thoughts of "Arsenic and Old Lace" spun in his head as he climbed inside the storage space and closed the top.

A moment later light trickled through the crack between seat and box.

"Where the hell could he have gotten in five seconds?" one guard growled.

"We'd better sound the alarm."

"No! Xavier'll have our asses. We'll find him. He could barely walk. Come on."

The light went out and Illya allowed himself to breathe again. Cold, shaking with exhaustion and nausea, he had little confidence in his ability to get far; the desire to do so would have to suffice.

Illya hauled himself out of the window seat and sat on it for a moment, thinking. If the guards were working their way up the corridor, in a few minutes he could make the elevator. From there he thought he could find his way back to the garage, hotwire the car (don't think about Lily, in the other car, at the bottom of the lake, thanks to you)...

Illya shook his head violently. No time for guilt. If he couldn't start the car he'd run. Or walk. Or crawl.

He got up, swayed, caught himself, one hand on the wall. His eyes wouldn't stay focused. He pushed himself off the wall toward the door. It opened a crack and he spun sideways, taut, back to the wall, ready to strike.

A man entered, his furtive movements startlingly familiar, and shut the door behind him. Electricity flooded Illya. He reached up and flipped on the light.