section7mfu | Non Challenge Fic - The Reluctant Traitor Affair Part 2

Second chapter. Hope you like it.

Part 1 was here

The Reluctant Traitor Affair

Two days went by with nothing. Illya had no doubt that the information he had provided was being checked out and his message considered. It didn't make the waiting easier.

In the meantime, he occupied himself with being unbearable. There were plenty of voices speaking up in his defence, indignant that he was being sent away, and plenty others eager to commiserate or suggest ways he could get back in Mr Waverly's favour, and the fact that he met each soft word with sarcasm and bile was a source of almost physical pain. It wasn't as though he'd thought himself hated, but he'd always maintained a certain professional distance. He'd had no idea he was so popular. Of course there were those who took pleasure in his supposed downfall, but even they were at least hiding their smiles behind their hands.

It was, of course, worse facing his fellow Section II agents. They were the ones he'd worked with closely, the ones who had relied on him in the field, and even at his rudest – even with his unprovoked attack on Mark – he hardly compared to the usual threats they faced. April and Mark in particular took to hanging around in his office, trying to lull him into talking, until eventually, in desperation, he drove them away with a series of cutting remarks about Mr Waverly.

“He does not care for what this organisation stands for, all he cares about is the influence he can leverage across the world. We are all just pawns to him, expendable and insignificant. My country has seen a string of men like him.”

When they walked away, he could see the disappointment in their eyes. He told himself it didn't matter.

Really, the way he was going, fairly soon he wasn't going to have a place here at all. If THRUSH didn't jump, he might still have burned all his bridges.

Consequently, it was actually a relief when on his way into work on the third day, an old lady with a shopping cart collided with him and he felt her slip her hand into his pocket and place a note. At last.

He apologised without looking too closely at her, and walked half a block before concealing himself in a doorway with a crowd of loud smokers and carefully unfurling it.

'Meet at Ricardo's hotdog stand at noon. Your contact will be wearing a blue flower. Come alone.'

Well, they were prepared to find out what he wanted at least. “May I borrow a match?” he asked the man next to him, and he lit the note on fire and let it burn to ash. He caught the man staring at him oddly and smiled. “I am trying to quit,” he explained.

He got into the office late again, not that it particularly mattered. With his responsibilities taken away, and his transfer back to the USSR being imminently arranged, he didn't have much work to do at all. Mr Waverly had sent him on a couple of milk run courier missions within the city, probably to lend the appearance of a further insult to keep him angry, but in reality he suspected Mr Waverly simply couldn't abide the thought of an agent sitting around headquarters doing nothing.

At any rate, there wasn't much to do but sit and play tic-tac-toe with himself and leave the door ajar to listen to all the speculation as to who was to take over from him. Walter Lewis and April Dancer were the two names most often mentioned. They both had their merits, but personally he thought April could use a little more experience, and Walter didn't have quite the attention to detail he would like...and now he was seriously considering who should step into his shoes. This was almost like he was here, watching the world go by after his death. He was a ghost. What a ridiculously fanciful thought.

He glanced over at Napoleon's empty desk, wondering what his friend would say. The gossip was that Mr Waverly was waiting until Napoleon returned to make any sort of official decision regarding the new number two agent. Were this real, Illya might think that cruel. Even as it was, he knew Napoleon would be walking back into far too many things that would make him angry. It was tempting to leave him a note, explaining everything. After all, he was not altogether confident that he would be returning from this assignment. That would mean that the last time he saw Napoleon would have been the night before Napoleon left on his vacation. He'd invited Illya out for a drink, but he'd said no because he wanted to finish studying the laser they'd found in Paraguay. He should have said yes. Why hadn't he said yes? There was no neat ending here. He could write a note, hide it in Napoleon's desk...and if someone else found out, he'd be sure to end up dead. No. That was not an option.

He left early; stepping out into the corridor just in time to hear William Hart loudly ask “But if Napoleon does decide to promote Walter, he'll have to be partnered with him, right?” before he turned and saw Illya and the embarrassed silence spread instantaneously.

Really, he might as well be ringing a bell here.

He affected not to notice and walked straight past. Somehow, he didn't think Napoleon would take another partner, no matter what happened.

He got to the hotdog stand in plenty of time and waited, trying to spot snipers from the surrounding windows, or idling cars waiting to pounce. If it turned out this Rex didn't have much curiosity, he could be setting himself up for a very short and unpleasant time. There was nothing obvious though, and at three minutes to twelve, a tall, willowy brunette in a white dress with a blue flower stuck through her elaborate hair do strode up to the hotdog stand and stood just beside it, tapping her foot impatiently.

Interesting. He didn't imagine she was Rex, but then it was very unlikely that Rex would make direct contact himself at this stage. More than likely they were expecting some sort of official approach....or a rather clumsy trap.

He gave it five minutes before strolling over himself, taking note of the way her eyes widened briefly. Probably there had been some discussion as to whether or not he would show up. He wondered whether he was being considered brave or foolish. “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly.

“You came alone?” she asked in an undertone, looking behind him.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Although I suspect neither of us can guarantee with one hundred percent satisfaction that we have not been followed. You know, it's going to look much less suspicious if you buy me a hotdog.”

She stared at him for a moment. “You're certainly no gentleman, Kuryakin,” she said huffily, walking up to the stand. “Two, please,” she said, reaching into her purse and producing the money with ill-grace.

Illya took the opportunity to look inside her purse. A small revolver. Good. He liked knowing where he stood, and there wasn't much room in that dress to conceal any other weapons.

“Here,” she said, holding out the hotdog towards him grumpily.

He smiled and reached out and took the one in her other hand. “Thank you,” he said.

She laughed, half-amused, half-scornful.“A little paranoid, aren't you?”

“My present circumstances suggest a healthy dose of paranoia may be called for,” he told her.

“Yes. We've heard about that.” She eyed him curiously. “So what is it that you want?”

“Mustard,” he said decidedly, pushing past her and layering up the mustard and ketchup onto the sausage. “Other than that....I find myself in need of a new job. I heard your organisation might be hiring.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“You want to join THRUSH,” she said at last. “You...want to join THRUSH.”

“Want to?” He shrugged and took a large mouthful of hotdog, making sure to take his time savouring it. He needed to appear completely at ease with the idea. “Not especially. However, I think it might be the most sensible move at this stage. You can provide me with what I need and I have particular skills that your organisation would find exceedingly useful.”

“No doubt....” she said slowly. “Alright. Say I buy it. Why Rex? You specifically addressed your little note to him. Why?”

“I don't know him,” he pointed out. “That suggests that he is good at being discreet – a trait I prize. More importantly, it means there are no annoying personal grudges to get in the way of our business. Also, he is local, which as I am on a deadline here, is an important factor to consider.”

Still, she hesitated.

“Look,” he said intently. “Let us be honest here. I need your help, and helping me is good for your career. I have no doubt the reward for successfully turning an UNCLE agent must be something impressive.”

“Oh, it is,” she retorted. “But the reward for killing one isn't bad either. And that's far less likely to end in betrayal. “

“Perhaps,” he said, letting his lips curl in an enigmatic smile. “But when has playing safe ever been fun?” Internally, he rolled his eyes just listening to himself. He sounded like Napoleon. But then, by the look on her face, it had been exactly what she wanted to hear.

“Alright,” she agreed, a trifle breathlessly. “I'll set up a job interview for you with Rex's right hand man. All Bar One, tomorrow night at nine. Ask for Mr Fleming's table.”

“Thank you,” he said formally. “I look forward to working with you.”

She clicked her tongue. “Don't get ahead of yourself Kuryakin. I still don't know if we can trust you.”

“You'll need to wait and see,” he said, and he turned and walked away, letting the remains of his hotdog drop into the bin. One step closer to joining THRUSH. He felt his stomach roll.

Alexander Waverly left his office late; with Alice safely away with the grandchildren there wasn't much to hurry home for. And he had a lot on his plate at the moment, with the new operational station being set up in Caracas and, of course, the small matter of THRUSH informants within headquarters. Not to mention he was having to shoulder the burden of the unavoidable disruption in Section II. He supposed he should just appoint an interim number two to replace Mr Kuryakin, but it seemed no man was entirely immune to superstition. It had felt too much like tempting fate.

He reached his car and nodded to the driver holding the door open for him as he settled into the back seat. Placing his briefcase on the seat beside him, he quickly checked again that he had all the papers he was planning on reading through tonight. Everything looked fine.

He glanced forwards to the driver as they pulled away. He had his cap pulled down and his collar turned up. “Is all this cloak and dagger stuff really necessary, Mr Kuryakin?”

“I was concerned that making contact with THRUSH and then going straight to see you might give the right impression, sir,” Mr Kuryakin explained, seemingly unsurprised to have been spotted.

He nodded. “Good point. I trust, incidentally, that my regular driver isn't lying unconscious in a broom closet somewhere?”

“No, I made some changes to the schedule.”

Another security breach. He supposed he shouldn't complain that his agents were quite so adept at finding loopholes in even the best security arrangements. “So what happened?”

“I made contact this afternoon,” Mr Kuryakin said. “The contact was a woman – I didn't recognise her at the time, but I spent the rest of the afternoon in records and I believe she is a Lucie Swift – she was a minor part of a satrap four years ago. Evidently she has been promoted.”

“Or she is considered expendable,” he suggested.

“No,” Mr Kuryakin disagreed. “She asked what I wanted and when I told her I was looking to join, she immediately told me to go to All Bar One tomorrow night at nine and ask for Mr Fleming. She feels she has the authority to make that decision.”

“You could be right,” Mr Waverly agreed slowly. “Tomorrow night? Evidently they're taking you seriously.” Or they were planning on assassinating him. Unfortunately, he was unable to completely dismiss that possibility.

“She bought me a hotdog,” Mr Kuryakin said contemplatively.

He snorted in amusement, well aware that his agent was trying to hide his unhappiness. He had no truck with self-pity, but he could admire stoicism in its place. “Well, that's something at least. I would hate to think that we were destroying your reputation for no reason.” He grew serious. “You know that we cannot risk you acting as a double agent within UNCLE, even for a few days. There would be too much they could ask of you.”

“I'm aware, sir.” He nodded approvingly at the even tone.

“Here,” he said, retrieving the little bottle of pills from his briefcase and passing them forwards. “Section VIII whipped these up – they should provide you with some resistance against the latest batch of truth serums THRUSH are using.”

“Are there side effects?” Mr Kuryakin asked, slipping the bottle into his jacket pocket.

“Of course,” he said. “They react directly against the serum, causing tachycardia and a severe headache at least. They haven't been field tested yet.”

“As ever, I am happy to play the guinea pig,” Mr Kuryakin said wryly. “Thank you, sir, no doubt it will come in useful.”

No doubt. THRUSH would expect considerable assurances that Mr Kuryakin was no longer an UNCLE man.

“I won't expect to hear from you,” he said finally as they pulled up in his driveway.

“No, sir,” Mr Kuryakin agreed. He hesitated; clearly there was something more he wanted to say. “Sir, I appreciate in the circumstances I can hardly risk updating this, but I was hoping you could hold onto it for me and file it should it become necessary.” He held out a familiar red folder. “My will,” he added unnecessarily.

All Section II agents were required to file their wills and any last messages they wanted to pass on. They were encouraged to update them regularly, but he didn't know one of them who did. Indeed, he suspected that the only change Mr Kuryakin had made here was to include a letter to Mr Solo specifically regarding this assignment. He wasn't going to pry. He might be the leader of the largest spy network in the world, but some things were quite simply not his business.

“Of course,” he promised steadily. “I'll take care of it.” He offered no meaningless reassurance – they both understood what the risks were here. “Thank you, Mr Kuryakin.”

He left the car and walked inside, regretting the empty house more than ever. Some days this job left him feeling cold.

Everything had been quiet for the last few days, which should probably be a nice thing, but now, April felt like this was the calm before the storm. What that storm might be, she didn't know, but she had a feeling it was going to be a doozy.

Illya beating up Mark had been the first rumblings of thunder. The revelation that Mr Waverly was planning on giving Illya back to the Soviets had been the second. And now, the last few days, there had been nothing but she wasn't fooled. Eventually, all storms had to break.

And she just didn't know quite what to think about any of it. She'd been furious when she'd heard that Illya had attacked Mark – because even in the context of a sparring match it had been an attack, of that she had no doubt. And Mark had explained what Illya had said like that explained everything and really, April wasn't so sure. Because Illya was always so controlled, and lashing out like that just wasn't like him. And no matter how awful things might be for him she couldn't easily excuse him taking his bad mood out on his friends.

And then too, she just couldn't believe that Mr Waverly was actually planning on sending Illya back. No one seemed to know exactly why, except that it wasn't so much about something that Illya had done, as about some political advantage it won them. The USSR had never fully embraced UNCLE, and if having Soviet agents was stopping the countries that did support their work from supporting them fully, she supposed that pragmatically speaking, a single agent didn't balance out. Except this was Illya – her friend, one of their top two agents. And she really couldn't believe that Mr Waverly didn't see his value. No, she thought that maybe this was all part of some plan of Mr Waverly's, and he was going to cancel the transfer at the last minute.

Only Illya himself really didn't seem to believe that, and if that was Mr Waverly's plan, surely he'd have let Illya in on it at least? Oh, she just didn't know.

“Penny for them, luv?” Mark's voice broke in to her thoughts.

She looked up and flashed a bright smile at him. He was standing by her desk, proffering her a piece of fruitcake on a napkin. “Where did that come from?” she asked.

“My sister,” Mark said patiently. “I told you, she sent it across along with some decent chocolate and stuff.”

“Oh, of course,” she nodded. “Thank you,” she added, taking the cake. “It looks...delicious.”

“Little Janey helped her bake it,” he said proudly as she took a bite.

She swallowed with difficulty. Yes. That certainly tasted like it had been made by a three year old. “It's lovely, darling,” she smiled bravely.

He looked suspiciously at her, but thankfully didn't question the lie. “So what were you thinking about?” he asked.

“Oh...” She sighed. “Illya. Everything. I just wish there was more we could do.”

“We tried talking to him, remember?” Mark said, ruefully rubbing at the healing bruises across his nose. “It didn't go well.”

No, it hadn't. She grimaced. “I don't know, maybe we should call Napoleon after all?” She was sure that Napoleon would want to know about all this as soon as possible. Only when she'd suggested that to Illya he'd just glared at her and told her again to mind her own business.

“There was that memo went around,” Mark reminded her. “It said that contacting agents on holiday was causing all sorts of problems and had to cease immediately.”

They shared a look. Yes, the timing of that had been a little too pat. “I think it's going to cause more problems if Napoleon comes back to find Mr Waverly has deported his partner,” she pointed out with a sigh.

Mark shook his head. “He'll be back before that,” he said. “Napoleon's due back in a week, and apparently it's going to take twice that for things to be sorted out between their government and ours.”

That was something at least. “Where did you hear that?” she started to ask, but she was interrupted by the intercom summoning them to Mr Waverly's office.

Good – an assignment could be just what she needed. Getting out of the office for a while sounded like a great idea.

Mr Waverly's expression was grave as they walked in. “Good morning Miss Dancer. Mr Slate. Please, take a seat. I'm afraid I have a difficult matter to discuss with you.”

“What is it, sir?” Mark asked.

“This is going to be difficult to believe, but I have reason to believe that someone within Section II or Section III is betraying us to THRUSH,” he said, his hands steepled together as he looked at each of them in turn.

“What?” she blurted out. That just couldn't be. None of them would do that.

“There's got to be a mistake,” Mark agreed.

“I'm afraid not,” Mr Waverly said regretfully. “The evidence appears clear. Further, it appears as though this traitor has another meeting scheduled with their THRUSH contact tonight – nine o'clock at All Bar One. Details are in these folders.” He passed them over. “I need you to go along, unmask the traitor and capture both him and the contact. We need to know what information has been passed on so do take them both alive if possible.”

Never mind finding out what had been passed on, April wanted to know why.

This was all so wrong.

All Bar One was a bright, modern bar over two floors. Judging by the suits, most of the patrons were city workers enjoying several drinks before heading home. Not really Illya's sort of place, but at least it was circumspect. It needed to be – he'd had to spend half an hour losing his KGB followers before heading to the rendezvous. They were a constant presence outside of his apartment now. He'd even found some listening devices inside last night, and that just made his skin crawl. The oppressive atmosphere was unbearable. He'd managed to fool himself into believing he was free of all that.

With an effort, he left his dark thoughts outside. He had to focus on THRUSH. “Good evening,” he said to the hostess. “I am looking for Mr Fleming's table?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mr Fleming's representative is just over there.” She pointed towards the bar, and a dapper-looking man in a blue suit waved cheerily at him before coming over.

“Mr Kuryakin?” he said, walking over and holding his hand out. “I'm Nick Gulley. It's good to meet you – I'm a fan of the work you've done with your uncle.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I'm surprised to hear that, Mr Gulley.”

“Oh, please, call me Nick,” he said. “Now, let's just head over to the coat check quickly, shall we?”

There was a very large man waiting at the coat check who glared at Illya suspiciously.

“A friend of yours?” he murmured.

Nick smiled. “Yes,” he said, carefully removing his coat and letting Illya see the gun tucked inside. “I always think that job interviews go better when no one is going to get shot, don't you?”

He hesitated for a second before handing over his own gun and coat. “Yes, but now you have your heavily armed friend here,” he pointed out. “While I have no friends at all.”

“Don't worry,” Nick said. “Kurt here is going to wait right here while we talk. Now, what are you drinking?” He led Illya to a table on the upper level, near the stairs and with a good view of the exits and most of the bar floor.

“Vodka, please,” he said absently, looking round for any sign of a trap. Nothing, as far as he could see....no. Wait. That table in the far corner. That looked like Mark and April. He was ashamed to feel a flash of relief. Back-up. He could really use it.

“With coke, or with tonic?” Nick asked expectantly.

He blinked and looked around. “Straight. And cold,” he told the waiter.

“And a Martini for me,” Nick said. “Dry, with an extra olive. Thank you.”

“I have never actually had a job interview before,” he said slowly. “But do they normally start with alcohol?”

“From everything I hear, you're a man who could use a drink,” Nick smiled. “So, Illya – may I call you Illya?” He nodded. “Why don't you tell me what THRUSH can do for you?”

And here it began. His mouth was dry. “You are aware that my organisation is intent on sending me back to the USSR,” he said, his eyes fixed on Nick's. “I don't want to go. However, I'm well aware that if I simply vanish on my own, I will have the KGB, the US government, UNCLE and THRUSH after me. Alone, it's unlikely that I would be able to survive against all of them forever. The US government obviously does not want me, UNCLE and KGB have already thrown me away. But THRUSH...” He shrugged. “You have the resources to protect me. And you are hardly discriminating in who you will work with.”

“A reasonable speech,” Nick agreed. “You make it sound like the practical choice. But you know, Illya, your loyalty to UNCLE has always been beyond question. We've never even tried to make you an offer because it's always been regarded as pointless.”

“I should have refused any offer you made before now,” he said immediately. “Before this week, UNCLE always met my price. But loyalty is a two way street. If they are not loyal to me, why should I stay loyal to them?”

The drinks arrived and he took a long sip and watched Nick's face across the table. The man was a closed book. But not convinced, he thought.

He sighed, and turned his glass round and round between his fingers. “You are aware that UNCLE removes its agents memories when it discards them?” he asked.

Nick nodded slowly. “I've heard that. A good disincentive to prevent us from abducting your people when they retire or quit.”

“UNCLE's people,” he corrected. “And yes. But my countrymen tend to be more stubborn. When I am sent back to Moskva, I will likely end my days being tortured within the basement of Lubyanka for information I no longer possess. KGB methods tend to be cruder than yours. They like fire. And knives. And if, by some chance, I escape that fate I will be summarily executed for my failure, or else die a slow death in a forced labour colony. You know the conditions in those camps? The squalor, the beatings, the starvation, the...the отчаяние. Do not ever let anyone tell you that the gulags died with Comrade Stalin.”

Was it his imagination or was Nick looking paler?

He sighed and looked down at the table for a long moment and when he finally looked up and spoke again, he let a little more Russian creep into his accent. “Please understand me when I tell you; I am not afraid to die. I simply enjoy living.”

Nick gazed at him for a long moment before awkwardly clearing his throat. “Boy,” he said, in a clear expression of sympathy. “UNCLE really screwed you over, didn't they?”

“Yes,” he said, maybe a little too quickly, soul still raw from so much honesty.

Fortunately, Nick didn't seem to notice anything strange in his eagerness – perhaps there wasn't. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I can certainly see why you want to join us, Illya. Now, what are you offering us? Information?”

“No.” He shook his head decidedly. He had to stop that thought dead if he could. “No, if information is a man's only value then that man ceases to be worth keeping around the man once the information dries up. I wish to work for you as an agent.”

Nick nodded, not looking especially surprised. “Then I guess this is the point of the interview where you try and dazzle me with your resume.”

He took a drink, struggling for a second beneath a wave of unreality. “Well, I am sure you already know my background,” he said dryly. “I am a crack shot, a skilled hand-to-hand combatant, and I speak eight languages fluently and can get by in a dozen more. I have extensive survival experience, I can fly a plane or a helicopter. I am a demolitions expert, and I hold a PhD in Quantum Mechanics. I studied a Tbilisi, Cambridge and the Sorbonne, and have plenty of experience using that knowledge in the lab and the field.” This was ridiculous. But Nick was looking amused. So far it hadn't been the practicalities that had impressed him, it had been the human connection. “As far as experience goes, I can point you towards a great many THRUSH operations that I have shut down, often in creative and lethal ways. I can neither cook nor sew, but I can dance a passable tango.”

“That's funny,” Nick said with a snort of laughter. “You know, your file suggested you don't have much of a sense of humour. I must remember to update that.”

Hraised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I was joking? Really, was there anything there you did not already know?”

“No,” Nick said. “But I wanted to see what you thought I would think was important.”

Hmmm. He ran back over what he'd said in his head and wondered if that was good or bad.

“Now,” Nick went on. “You said earlier that UNCLE didn't meet your price. This is the part of the interview where we discuss just what that might be.”

He'd have thought that obvious. “Security, first of all,” he said, leaning back to look at Nick. “I require protection against UNCLE and the KGB and anyone else who might be looking to send me back or arrest me.”

“And beyond that?” Nick asked.

He hesitated momentarily. Beyond that? “A British passport,” he said after a fraction of a second. “A genuine one, naturally – I can get fakes for myself.”

Nick nodded. “British? Not American?”

“My American accent is...a work in progress,” Illya admitted. “The UK is easier for me to blend in.”

“So security and a passport,” Nick said. “Anything else?”

“Money,” he said with a shrug. “I have found I rather like it. I am a man of simple needs and desires, but still I want to be able to indulge them and I want the freedom to do so.”

“As an agent of THRUSH, you will find your basic salary far exceeds what UNCLE offers,” Nick told him. “Plus there are numerous opportunities to earn bonuses. Anything else?”

“Isn't that enough?” Illya asked. Then he caught sight of the waiter walking past. Mmm. Actually.... “A steak,” he said decidedly. “Well done. I don't care for the taste of blood.”

“A steak,” Nick agreed with a laugh. “Well, I've heard worse reasons to turn traitor. Thank you, Illya. I don't think that any of that should present a problem. Now, what we need to do - “

“ - don't move!” Mark's voice rang out as cold as ice. He looked up to see the junior agent standing over the table, his gun half-concealed in his jacket but still indisputably covering them. His eyes were hard and expressionless. April was standing a little behind him, flanking them. She looked...well, she looked like she'd just caught him betraying everything she believed in.

And to think he'd thought he had backup. Stupid, stupid. Too caught up to see the larger shape of the plan. No doubt there'd been a listening device concealed on the table. He should have spotted that, but all his attention had been on THRUSH.

He had to find a way to handle them. Some way to get out of here without making the situation worse...and without getting shot.

He sighed and looked at his watch. “Twelve minutes to intervene when you believe your fellow agent is betraying UNCLE secrets?” he asked disapprovingly. “Really, I would have thought better of the two of you. Mr Waverly is going to be very disappointed at the results of this little test.” They didn't believe him, not completely, but he could see the tiny creases of doubt, the way Mark's gun dipped slightly.

“Test?” Mark repeated. “That didn't exactly sound like a test to me, mate.”

“Mr Waverly's idea,” he said coolly. “Here, I will call him if you don't believe me.” He reached towards his jacket and his communicator.

“Don't,” Mark warned, terse and predictable.

He made a point of freezing, his right hand resting on his lapel. “It's like I told you earlier, Mark,” he said with a crooked smile as, unnoticed, he reached down with his left hand to the second gun in his ankle holster, and in one easy movement, drew and shoot beneath the table. Mark crumpled to the ground instantly, the sleep dart soundly embedded in his thigh. “You drop your guard when you should not,” he finished. “Please don't move, April,” he added sincerely, already aiming at her.

The shot had been silent, but Mark falling hadn't, and there were gasps of shock and exclamations of confusion from all around. This was no place for a gunfight. Particularly if THRUSH got involved with their more lethal guns...though it looked as though Kurt at the coat check was nowhere in sight.

“How could you?” April asked, her voice low and angry.

“Very easily, as it happens,” he said, keeping her covered while he reached down and grabbed Mark's gun. “Now, April, you're going to back up and let my new friend and I walk out of here.”

“That's not going to happen, darling,” she flared. She was angry, he noted clinically. As well she might be.

“You had a second gun?” Nick asked disapprovingly.

“Don't tell me you did not,” Illya said, though really in this situation, less weapons was probably a good thing.

“No,” Nick said. “One of us at this table is a man of honour.”

“Honour is overrated,” he said dryly.

“Clearly,” April snapped. “How could you betray us like this, Illya? We were friends. And Napoleon - “

“ - it's nothing personal,” he cut in quickly, not wanting to hear her thoughts on what Napoleon would make of all this, “I just want to survive. You can understand that, can't you April?”

“Of course.” She spoke scornfully. “Anything to survive, just like a rat.”

The hatred and disgust in her voice were so alien that for a bizarre moment he wondered if it was all an act after all? If maybe Mr Waverly had decided to take her into his confidence? But no – that was wishful thinking. He didn't deserve her ire, but he had earned it. And now he must play his part to the end.

He kept her covered with Mark's gun and pointed his own towards Mark's head. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you move back and let us go. Or else you will leave me no choice but to kill your partner.”

“Really, darling?” she demanded. “Do you actually expect me to fall for that? I've already seen your gun is loaded with sleep darts.”

“A dart is still a projectile which travels in excess of a thousand miles an hour,” he told her calmly. “From this distance, fired directly into Mark's eye...well. The effect would be quite unfortunate, I assure you. I have made use of it a few times, when our orders conflicted with my desires.”

“You're lying,” she whispered.

Yes. Oh, yes. He shrugged. “If that is your choice...” he said, taking careful aim.

“Stop!” she said, like he knew she would. In her shoes he thought he would do the same.

“Alright,” she said in a low voice, taking a couple of steps back.

Room enough to stand up without risking her reaching him.

“We have a car waiting you back,” Nick said. “In the circumstances, Illya, I think we can take your recruitment as read.”

“Thank you,” he said ironically, taking a careful step towards the stairs. There were people gathered around, but none of them seemed inclined to intervene. Good.

April made as if to follow, but he shook his head threateningly. “At this point, there is no way for you to capture us. Give up.”

She gazed fixedly at him. “This isn't going to end well for you, Illya. You know what happens to traitors. We will hunt you down.”

He should be so lucky. He took one last look at her. “Please. Tell Napoleon I am sorry.”

To part 3