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It's over— at least this time. At least for now. The burning sedan is extinguished, its carcass dutifully stripped of evidence. Martin's explosives and the detonator he carried are carefully collected and stowed. His body is loaded into the back of an unmarked van. Five minutes ago Napoleon heard it coming up the dusty, winding road and carefully pulled the girl away, so that she wouldn't have to see. You're not entirely sure it was a kindness. There can be some comfort in finality.
Who were the boy's parents, you wonder as the cleanup team from Athens finishes their work. Two bright-eyed innocents from some midwestern state who accepted the wrong scholarship, sent their boy to the wrong school? Or a pair of THRUSH agents, matched decades ago by some eugenic algorithm? Both are unsettling possibilities. You're not sure which you like less.
The long afternoon begins to shift into evening. An unpleasantly cool breeze blows from the direction of the reservoir, which collects less heat than the land around it and becomes an area of low pressure. It chills the sweat on the back of your neck. As they finish cleaning the scene, one of the agents from Athens expresses confusion at Martin's choice of target. Why Antinos? The sleepy little village in the valley below the dam has no strategic or tactical importance. There's no reason for THRUSH to wish it wiped it off the map.
That is exactly the point, of course. For some the exercise of power has always been its own reward.
Miss Hobson leaves with the Athens team; she'll be checked over by Medical and then debriefed. You and Napoleon walk slowly back down the winding road to your car. You're heading back to Athens as well, but not to UNCLE headquarters. To the airport. Two days ago in Vienna, you trailed Martin to a THRUSH rathole fronted by a Michelin star restaurant, and the Northeastern sector is having what Mr. Waverly calls a "spot of bother" tracking the rats as they scatter.
There's no point in protesting that you ought to get at least a day off to play tourist. It's been one thing after another since Summit-Five, barely two weeks ago. The Northeastern sector is in understandable disarray and UNCLE is moving half a dozen projects forward as quickly as possible before their new codes can be analyzed and broken. For their part THRUSH is either lashing back or running scared. It's blitz chess, move after move, no time to think and no end in sight. Some honest rest and relaxation would do Napoleon a world of good. His appetite is off, and he hasn't been sleeping. Of course he's said nothing, but you can tell.
Two weeks ago you were in the bowels of UNCLE Berlin, watching from behind a one-way mirror as your partner was subjected to what another UNCLE agent referred to as special methods. Special indeed. Drugs to mimic the effects of sleep deprivation and long-term isolation. Electronic fields carefully tuned to enhance confusion, susceptibility, stress. Nothing so uncouth as physical violence, of course. Nothing that would do permanent damage to a potentially still-valuable asset, as Strothers so carefully explained.
You had to bite your lip so as not to snarl at the Athens communications agent as she relayed your new orders. It's not her fault. It's simply the way things are. A dark joke: if Napoleon had been tortured by a THRUSH agent he'd have gotten the weekend off. But since it happened at the headquarters of the UNCLE Northeastern sector, under the supervision of the division chief himself, and since UNCLE doesn't do that sort of thing—
You sigh and let the mental images dissolve. (Napoleon with his sleeves rolled up drinking retsina on the beach. Leisurely games of backgammon at a kafeneía. Napoleon in a loud tie taking the same pictures of the Acropolis that everybody takes, with the mountains behind and crowds of other tourists in the foreground. Napoleon charming some woman in a nightclub, some woman just right for his current mood: clever enough to know the score, sweet enough not to be cynical about the game. And Napoleon in the darkness that lingers after dawn, held in the deepest sleep after dreams have faded. The faintest hint of a purple sunrise falling over his face through the drawn curtains. As the picture fades you realize that you'd put yourself in it, still and calm at the foot of the bed. Gun in hand. It's only natural. When Napoleon gets like this— strained, anxious— he sleeps better when you're in the room.)
You should've known better than to make plans, even in the privacy of your own head.
"To the airport, Jeeves," Napoleon says, fitting himself carefully into the passenger-side seat of the car.
You don't bother giving him a worried glance. He'd only take the excuse to go on a charm offensive, trying to convince you that he's in high spirits and fine condition. Let him save the energy. He needs it.
"Pity," you say. "I've been craving souvlaki since we got here." You start the car, carefully backing up in a wide arc so that you can head back down the hill. Back the same way you came. "To Vienna, then."
"Think cheerful thoughts, Illya." Napoleon half-smiles at something over your left shoulder. "Maybe we can get that vichyssoise recipe."
You drive slowly, taking the curves carefully. Napoleon closes his eyes and after five minutes, to all appearances, he might be sound asleep.
Might be, but isn't.
You woke early the other morning in Athens, looked across the room at Napoleon's hotel bed and saw his fingers curled tightly, the muscles in his arms tight, straining against nothing. Prying the door open at UNCLE Berlin, you realized. Trying to rewrite history in his dreams, stop the whole chaotic debacle before it started? A chill rushed over you as you watched. Napoleon huffed softly with effort. An impossible fight, one man against that cold complex, that inhuman machinery. You didn't like the look of the Berlin office from the start: empty and sterile, every door locked and sealed shut. Electronic communications, electronic surveillance. Their security system was airtight, Strothers had said. In your experience, airtight spaces tend to be fatal, to those unlucky enough to find themselves in one. And all to 'minimize the human factor.' Strothers apparently said that. Napoleon repeated it verbatim for his report, without editorial comment, but you could hear the snarl under the smoothness.
You thought about crossing the space between the two beds, sliding your hands into his. Drawing out some of that tension. Let him clutch your hands as hard as he likes; you can take it.
You should have.
"Take a left here," Napoleon says without opening his eyes. "Unless you want to get us stuck in traffic for the next—"
He cuts off, perhaps realizing that's exactly what you intended to do. You scowl at him and follow his direction, putting you directly on the most efficient route to the airport.
"In a hurry? You don't like my driving, perhaps?" you snipe, hoping to draw him out.
Napoleon says nothing. He's never liked being 'nursemaided,' as he calls it. Well, he can damn well learn to like it. This has gone too far.
Back in Vienna. Some time has passed. A day or two, maybe, though it feels longer. The jet lag is starting to really set in. You're loitering under a tree in the small park outside the Votivkirche, the neo-Gothic architecture offending your eyes and the faint taste of bad coffee in your mouth. The sky is a rapidly darkening gray. It's cold, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying to keep your blood flowing, trying to stay alert and ready. Trying not to let the chill sink in too deeply. You've been waiting some time. Napoleon is late, and he has your UNCLE communicator, so you can't even open a channel to see if he's checked in. You shouldn't have let him go off on his own. You knew it even as you watched him go.
A short middle-aged woman with a motherly face, British judging by the shoes and purse, leaves the church and crosses the park. She's not walking directly towards you, but she's not quite giving you the distance that an unaccompanied woman usually gives a strange man, either. You brace yourself without visibly bracing. As she passes, she smiles, gaze flickering to yours. Perhaps you should have removed your sunglasses.
"The museum is lovely, but the gift shop is so expensive," she says. A Londoner, by her voice. A little nervous. Not bad for a beginner. She passes by, and you watch her go from behind your sunglasses without moving your head.
A streetlamp sputters to life as she passes, gleaming on her greying hair. She leaves the park, crosses the Rooseveltplatz, passes a hotel, turns a corner and disappears into the night.
A damp chill encloses you as you step into the Votivkirche. Of course there's not actually a gift shop, but there is a small area designated as a museum, showing off the odds and ends of history, old architectural drawings and icons and such. You pretend interest, slip through to the back, and find yourself in an old low-ceilinged hallway. It's deadly silent, here, enclosed by the thick stone walls. You are careful, not moving too quickly. Haste is almost never helpful, and besides, Napoleon's canary did not seem overly concerned. Of course, Napoleon is a very good actor.
Slipping off your sunglasses, you follow the signs: the purposeful scuff of a shoe against linoleum, the scrape of a signet ring against dingy plaster. Eventually you find what looks like a mop closet, judging by the tracks and traces that lead in and out.
In Athens airport, on arrival, you slid open the door to a maintenance room and discovered the corpse of a worker, efficiently knifed by the THRUSH boy. Just for a moment a hideous déjà vu envelops you. The closet is surprisingly large, though not quite large enough for Napoleon to fully stretch out; he is half-lying, half-sitting, braced against a metal mop-bucket on wheels. The handle must be jamming uncomfortably into his back. His eyes are closed, his face pale.
You push the door shut behind you, too hard, and hear it rebound off the doorjamb. Your breath catches in your chest as you kneel. For a moment you're not sure whether the pulse in his neck is his or your own heartbeat, jarred by a sudden rush of adrenaline. But then his eyes flicker open. His face is hot and flushed under your hand.
"Did you get the disk?" you say brusquely. Your right hand is searching over Napoleon's form with careful familiarity, precise and judicious. Your left hand is still cupping his flushed and over-warm face, your thumb brushing the delicate skin under his eye.
"I have it," he says, and tries to sit forward, his face paling rather impressively, and you push him back. You don't think anything's broken, or at least not too badly, but he's taken quite a beating. You chafe his cold hands in between yours, trying to warm them, feeling Napoleon carefully flex each finger and turn his wrists. You can almost feel Napoleon's pins and needles in your own hands. A familiar illusion. Well. If they didn't get the disk, then Napoleon must have set them a false trail, pretending to make a dead drop somewhere before he gave them the slip and holed up here. How long were you waiting out there while Napoleon was inside, feverish with pain and half-unconscious? You would swear any oath that you don't flinch at the thought, but Napoleon of course reads you easily. Pulling one hand from between yours, he raises his good arm and gives your cheek a gentle pat.
"How long until they double back?" you ask sharply; priorities, please.
"Well," Napoleon says with a rather charming smile, barely diminished by a burgeoning black eye, "I wouldn't bother hanging new curtains— painting the kitchen—"
"All right," you say, "up," and slide your arm under his, pulling him to his feet. It's a careful, close operation, trying not to jog the shelves or knock over a broom, trying not to jostle Napoleon's injuries any more than absolutely necessary, and the gunman is in the doorway—
—and your gun is in Napoleon's hand, and the THRUSH agent falls backward, a needle in his neck. His gun lands with a soft thump next to his open hand. The hot scent of gunpowder and blood floods the small room.
You turned your body to the doorway, instinctively. You're still on your feet. You take a breath.
Napoleon's head is bent; his hand scrabbles at your side, searching. Finding the tear in your shirt. His hand lands on it, presses in hard, and that's when your brain and your body finally start to communicate. It's not so bad, you think, teeth sinking into your lower lip as a huff of sound you can't suppress escapes. Just a thin line of fire along the ribs. Messy, but not too serious.
"Watch where you're going, why don't you," Napoleon snarls in your ear, pushed beyond charm.
"It's nothing," you manage. "This shirt is for it, though." You reach up and put your clean hand over his bloody hand, then try to turn him, close as a waltz in this small space. "Here, wait—"
"You wait," he says, pushing back, "I'll—"
"Napoleon," you argue, but he's pushing you back against the wall, stepping close, deep within your space. He rests his warm face against your cool cheek, hot breath gusting over your ear, then pulls back and takes your mouth, hand still pressed hard against the scrape the bullet left. It's a discombobulating mix of sensations, and perhaps that's his intention; you blink once and you're left leaning against the wall while Napoleon crouches with a hiss, dragging the THRUSH agent into the mop closet, tucking the gun into the back of his own trousers.
It looks as though it takes the last of his resources to do so— he's wavering as he straightens up, and as you watch, his face pales further. You step forward, irritated at your own inaction, and catch him just as he's about to pass out. Ducking under his arm, you sling it over your shoulder, kicking the door closed behind you as you step into the hallway, half-dragging Napoleon behind you.
"Now what," you gripe, pulling Napoleon further down the hallway. You saw a back door back here somewhere— ah, there. You could pretend to be a pair of drunkards and try to get a room in the hotel across the street— as if that wouldn't be the first place they'd look. Steal a car? You flex your hands. They're shaking. You could do it, but it would take too long. Napoleon could probably manage it quickly enough, even one-handed, but his good hand is keeping a folded handkerchief pressed to the bullet wound in your side, and you're not sure what it would take to convince him to let you go.
"You'll have to go on," you tell him as you approach the dark wooden double door that leads out into the park.
He laughs at you, fondly. After all these years, it's still utterly infuriating. "Pessimist."
You ignore him, pushing the door open a crack and casting an eye over the rapidly darkening park outside. It's the worst time of night for this; the street is too populated for you to escape totally unobserved, but not so busy that it would be easy to slip into the crowd and disappear. Could you wait here till the evening rush of tourists thins out? But that THRUSH agent may not sleep for long. These days even low-level thugs are injected with countermeasures to UNCLE sleep-darts and their reactions can be unpredictable. You hate to think you should have used a bullet instead... but there are times when you have less options than you would like.
"This church was built to celebrate an unsuccessful assassination, you know," Napoleon says cheerfully.
"I mean it, Napoleon." There's a valet stand at the hotel across the street. If Napoleon could make it there, if he could acquire a car— If pigs could fly. "You'll have to try to make it on foot."
"To UNCLE? Too far."
"The American embassy, then." You close your eyes and visualize. "East for six or seven blocks, then north along the river. Circle back and cut across the Liechtensteinpark. You could be back here in twenty minutes." Probably more like forty, thirty-five at best, but—
"Not without you," he says, and he makes it sound so easy.
You grit your teeth. Try to relax your jaw. "Drag me down the street like this and half the THRUSH agents in Vienna will be on us like piranha—"
"Oh, Illya, you worry too much," Napoleon says, cold hand tight against your wound, as if sealed there by the hot blood soaking your thin shirt. At the edge of your vision, a car pulls to a stop, one bare inch from the curb. You tense and turn. It sits there, engine running quietly.
Napoleon's tourist is driving a sensible little older-model convertible. She's tied a floral scarf over her hair and she doesn't look in your direction, but stares straight ahead, hands on the wheel. You sigh, experiencing a sharp and sudden urge to sink your teeth into the nape of Napoleon's neck.
Napoleon lets his head fall softly towards you as though he can't hold it up any more, and purrs into your throat: "Have you met Elise? She drove an ambulance in London during the Blitz."
"Unbelievable," you mutter, and half-carry him down the white sandstone steps of the church.
"I'm not the one who got himself shot just so he could sit on the beach for a week and read Greek poetry," Napoleon replies, leaning into your side to keep himself steady. He settles you into the back seat, slides in and pulls the door shut behind him. His hands are trembling; the adrenaline is wearing off. Looks like you got here just in time.
"Drive," you tell Elise.
She drives.
Later you'll blame the blood-loss, but somewhere along the way, you look up at Napoleon, bruised and beautiful. At the stars behind him in the night sky. The wind ruffling his hair. You can't help but find it romantic. "We should go to Antinos."
"Antinos?" Napoleon lays the back of his hand against your forehead, then hisses in concern. Elise spares you a glance, then puts her shoulders back and accelerates. You're actually impressed with the speed she manages to achieve, weaving through the traffic and passing slower drivers.
"He worries," you tell her. "I'm fine." You raise your eyebrows at Napoleon. See how he likes it.
He shakes his head. "Sure," he says. "All right. Goats. Ruins. No bookstores. No restaurants. What's not to like?"
Sun and quiet, you think. Long days. Longer nights. Birdsong in the mornings. The sort of sleepy place where no one even bothers to lock their doors. And of course, every man, woman and child, going about their lives. Saved, for the moment, from incomprehensible malignity. If you save a single life, you save the whole world: you believe that. But you and Napoleon so rarely get to live in that world. It will do him good to stop the clock and step off the chessboard. To rest, instead of moving on to the next blank, empty, interchangeable square.
"Just for a while," you say, and close your eyes. Napoleon is holding your hand. You squeeze tightly, once. He squeezes back, twice. "Just for a little while."