The Boxing Affair Chapters 8-12

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Chapter 8

If Victor Gervais had suspected anything threatening or covert about his new acquaintances, he gave it little time to develop. Although it was his business to be careful and untrusting, the two men with whom he and his daughter had dined put his mind at ease concerning hope for the current generation. If only Thrush were populated by more men of their quality and temperament, his job would be easier and his worries much diminished.

He had come here to this tropical country in order to spearhead an operation of unbelievable potential to Thrush, and to him personally. He would no longer find it necessary to supervise the minions under him, on any continent, should the experiments go well. A new age was ready to dawn on unsuspecting mankind; Victor Gervais intended to be the master manipulator when it was revealed.

Illya and Napoleon had excused themselves from their dinner companions at just the right time, leaving monsieur and mademoiselle Gervais both enchanted with their company, and disappointed at an early departure. The two agents claimed a need to discuss some aspects of their business before retiring, and took refuge in the hotel bar.

It was not a lie, and both men were beginning to feel the lack of sleep now that the hour was getting late. Neither of them had taken time to nap or even rest since they had left New York. The flight had been taken up with reading and studying the information regarding this assignment; the long day had been one activity after another.

"I am ready to climb into my bed and hope to not be disturbed until morning. Do you think that is a possibility?"

Napoleon grinned at the chagrined sound in his partner's voice. When Illya actually admitted a need, it was serious business. He had to admit, he was also very tired.

"I hope so, Illya. Since we've established how we're going to proceed, we should be able to afford a few hours sleep. I expect we'll be hearing from Gervais tomorrow; he's going to find some way to invite you to join him on his project, I'm sure of it. It beats having to go traipsing through the jungle in hopes of discovering it ourselves. This couldn't have been planned better if we'd tried."

The two men raised their glasses in a toast, the icy vodka and smooth bourbon reflecting the men who held them.

As the sun rose and the heat of the day began to fuel the humidity that never seemed to rest, both UNCLE agents emerged from their rooms and converged in the small sitting area. The hotel was equipped with several large suites, theirs being one of them. It was always a bonus to have the luxury of space, and considering the cover that had come into play, this suited their roles nicely.

Napoleon had begun to wonder if Alexander Waverly knew ahead of time that Victor Gervais would also be in this hotel; it was not normally the type of accommodation he allowed for his agents, the budget always being a concern.

"Call up for coffee, will you? I'm going to get in the shower, unless…"

Illya shook his head.

"No, it's fine. Shall we breakfast here, or downstairs?"

"Hmmm…downstairs. Just in case Gervais is in the dining room. We want to make sure we run into him again."

Napoleon closed the bathroom door as Illya was dialing for room service. Tea and coffee would be up shortly. Before he had hung up the phone, a knock at the door prompted him to go back to his room and grab his robe, dreading the extra clothing on his already warm skin. Still, it wouldn't do to go to the door in his boxers…

He opened the door, holding his Special in the pocket of the robe. He hadn't been able to wear it last night, and even now he wished he could put his holster back on and feel more at ease in the comfort of its confinement.

"Mr. Kuryakin? This message was left for you at the desk."

Only slightly surprised, Illya nonetheless was not prepared to offer the man a gratuity for his service. He motioned for him to wait as he turned to check for any cash that Napoleon might have left on the table. In that instant and without a warning intuition regarding it, the messenger launched himself towards the agent, tackling him and drawing him down onto the floor.

Having been totally unprepared for the attack, Illya was momentarily at a disadvantage. He quickly rolled the other man onto his back, unable to avoid completely the knife in his hand before he knocked it away and delivered a jaw crunching blow to his assailant.

That was enough to put the man out, as Illya flashed back to the last time when he had been on the receiving end of a knock out punch; he was getting up just as Napoleon emerged from the bathroom.

"Ah, room service. I see they have a different way of doing things here."

Illya nodded, his hand not leaving his side.

"Yes, you might say that. He said he had a message; I just wonder who it's from…'

As he said that, he turned his head towards his friend, his eyebrows raised in a questioning expression, the blue eyes accentuated by a ray of sunlight as it pierced through the gauzy curtains on the window. He felt the blood oozing through his fingers, but said nothing. Napoleon looked again at the man on the floor.

"I don't think Gervais would do this. He has no reason to suspect, and in any case, this doesn't seem his style. Someone else then…but who?"

As if to punctuate the question, another knock at the half open door, and then a gasp of discovery from the man who stood there.

"Mon dieu! What has happened here?"

Victor Gervais stood at the door, gasping at the scene. Both he and Napoleon seemed to notice at the same time the blood on Illya's hand as he pulled it away from his side; it had been hidden by the robe.

"Illya…"

Both men were at his side as the blond began to waiver, the loss of blood and the sudden drop in adrenaline now serving to make him slightly dizzy.

"No, really…I'm fine. It's not that bad…"

It was Napoleon who caught him as he finally passed out. Gervais was on the phone immediately, calling for an ambulance, or a doctor…whichever would be the quickest. He was assured there was a doctor in the hotel, and would be up immediately. He hung up the receiver and went to the sofa where Illya was now conscious, if not entirely alert.

"How did this happen? Do you know this man?"

Gervais was insistent on an answer, and wondered secretly if one of his own inept employees had, for some reason, targeted the scientist.

"I simply answered the door. He said he had a message… I turned away to get money for a tip. From now on I shall keep cash in my robe pocket…"

He smiled slightly at that, and then grimaced at the pressure of a towel being applied to his wound. Napoleon had gone for that immediately upon getting his partner to the sofa.

Gervais' concern over the incident was interesting, and reaffirmed to the American that he intended to take the Russian scientist under his wing, so to speak.

It was fortunate that Illya's gun hadn't been discovered. It was still in the pocket of his robe; it wouldn't do for Gervais to know about it.

As far as he was concerned, Dr. Kuryakin was important enough to merit the attention of an adversary, and a dangerous one at that. If it wasn't Thrush who was after him, then who might it be?

Victor Gervais would handle things from now on. Dr. Kuryakin needed his protection, and Thrush needed Dr. Kuryakin.

Chapter 9

The hotel manager was alerted to the violence, and in turn called the police in order to clear up the room and settle the cause of this unwelcome event. His hotel was known as a tranquil place of respite. It would not do for this to get out, and he certainly did not want anyone to know an intruder had attacked a guest. No, this would not do at all.

Without spending too much time questioning the victim, the police officer reassured all parties that the perpetrator would be dealt with, and all answers would be forthcoming as soon as they were known. Perhaps it had been random, he surmised in his ignorance; all parties in possession of the knowledge had failed to mention the man's use of the name Kuryakin.

Two other policemen hauled the surly intruder out of the room as the others watched. Illya lay on the sofa, his hand holding the towel to the wound, and Napoleon and Victor Gervais stood close by, each with his own set of concerns.

By the time the physician had arrived, the bleeding had stopped and Illya was certain the wound was not serious. It appeared to have made a hole in the flesh without hitting anything internal. After a quick inspection, Dr. Wheaton, a guest who conveniently happened to be a physician, confirmed the same and reassured Napoleon and Victor Gervais that their friend would recover without need of hospitalization. He applied a topical pain killer and was able to stitch the wound together, apply a secure bandage and, to Illya's relief, say goodbye. As he closed the door, the blond was already up and heading for his room.

"Are you certain you are all right? It seems inconceivable that you should sustain this injury and then…"

Gervais shook his head, marveling at the man and even more certain that this was someone he needed on his team of scientists. So far, they had only the German, Dr. Schmidt, who was beginning tests in the mines to the west. They were behind in their schedule, and plans for their presence at the Pan American Games in Sao Paolo was beginning to look bleak indeed. All of this was going through his mind as he watched the Russian.

"I assure you, I will be fine. A broken bone would be much worse than this."

Illya excused himself and returned to his own room, closing the door behind him and collapsing onto the bed. It hurt, and he felt weak, but Gervais mustn't know it. Napoleon would find out soon enough, but for now he would rest for a little bit longer. Otherwise, he probably wouldn't be of any use to his partner as the day progressed.

"Victor…'

Napoleon didn't want to lose his access to Gervais, but he needed to get him out of the room. It wouldn't do for him to wait for Illya to come out, because the agent was pretty sure his partner was in no hurry, in spite of his protests about being fine.

"I believe Illya will probably need a few minutes, and then we do have some business to attend to. Perhaps we can plan on dinner again this evening. I'm sure we'll all have plenty to talk about, including this little drama. Shall we make it eight o'clock again?"

Victor Gervais acquiesced to the obvious request for privacy. He also had business affairs in need of attention. Travel arrangements needed to be made for a trip to the Thrush mine near the Venezuelan border. He was still hopeful that Dr. Kuryakin would be accompanying him, but he knew not to push too hard. He wondered what business had prompted the attack; the two men he had found so charming and sophisticated obviously had enemies. He would need to do a little investigating of his own to discover just who had wanted the scientist dead.

"Yes, yes of course, Napoleon. You must make certain that Illya doesn't push himself too soon. You must call on me if you have need of anything…anything at all."

Napoleon smiled, shaking the older man's hand as he walked him to the door. When at last he could close it, he locked it and began a thorough inspection of the room. Someone knew they were here, and if it wasn't Victor's man who had attacked Illya, just who was he? Confident that the room was clear of bugs of any type, he sat down and opened up the cigarette case/communicator, dialing his connection and opening up the channel he needed.

"Open Channel D, please. This is Solo…"

"Yes, Mr. Solo. I have been wondering when I might hear from you."

"I apologize, sir. Illya was attacked here in our room. We've only just cleared it of police, doctors and…Victor Gervais."

"I see…and how is it that Monsieur Gervais was present for this…attack?"

"Oh, no he wasn't here when it happened. He was coming up to our room to…well, I don't actually know why he was here. But he seemed genuinely shocked about the attack. Mr. Kuryakin is going to be fine, by the way, sir. It's a knife wound, but it didn't damage anything internal. A doctor was available and stitched him up."

"That is good to know, Mr. Solo. Do we know why Mr. Kuryakin was…attacked? If not a Thrush move, then who?"

"I'm afraid I don't know…yet. The police thought it might be random, but Illya says the man had a message for him, and called him by name. Is there anyone else who might be aware of our presence here…someone who has a reason to object?"

"I suggest you make it your business, Mr. Solo, to find out just that. Please let me know when you do. Waverly out."

Napoleon knocked on Illya's door before entering. It was a formality, but he intended to check on his partner in any event. In spite of the reassurances from both him and the doctor, the man had lost enough blood to set him back a bit. Besides that, there was the question of who had sent the assailant. He was fairly certain that Gervais had nothing to do with it.

Considering where they were and the political climate the country was dealing with, Napoleon had to consider the possibility that Illya had been targeted because of his Soviet citizenship. There were several factions at work here, and at least two of them were against what they assumed Kuryakin stood for.

Their trip here could have been misconstrued by any number of political types, and the Russian would be the most likely target. Napoleon could see now that he had his work cut out for him.

It wasn't just Thrush they needed to be concerned about; now he was probably dealing with the CIA and British Intelligence.

Nothing was ever what it seemed.

Chapter 10

DISCLAIMER: I know nothing about quantum physics, and am parlaying some finite research into a story line. I hope no one is offended if my science fiction is more fiction than science. Thanks

"Illya…"

Napoleon walked softly into his friend's room, fully expecting to see him asleep. Instead, he was propped up in his bed, still in his boxers and the very efficient looking bandage the doctor had wrapped around him; he was reading what looked like a scientific journal of some sort.

"I guess I should have known a little skirmish with a knife wouldn't be enough to put you out completely."

He smiled at his own remark, realizing that Illya had fled the room partly to get away from people. He was like a cat in that way; he would rather lick his wounds in private than be on display.

"Napoleon, do you know anything about quantum mechanics? Because the presence of gold suggests, in combination with this need for quantum physicsists, that there is something being done in regard to relativistic quantum chemistry…'

He noted the glazed expression in his partner's eyes, and backed up a little to try and help him understand.

"You see, gold is, as I'm sure you know, one of the heavy elements and so, you see that the relativistic effects are more prominent in heavy elements, because in these elements electrons attain relativistic speeds. These are necessary in reaching light speed, which in turn, some believe, produce something …

Look, Napoleon… two soviet physicists, Viktor Ambartsumian and Dmitri Ivanenko, discovered that not only the quanta of the electromagnetic field, photons, but also other particles such as those with a nonzero rest mass, may be born and disappear as a result of their interaction with other particles. This idea is the basis of modern quantum field theory and theory of elementary particles. There are some who believe that by manipulating heavy elements, such as gold, in a relativistic speed dynamic, it is possible to simply lift a solid object out of it's current environment and place it elsewhere."

He stopped, slightly breathless form his spontaneous presentation, and watched as the signal lights slowly began to burn in Napoleon's brain.

"Time travel? Is that what you're talking about?"

"Well, not exactly but close. It allows for the particle to simply disappear from sight. It requires the exact and perfect combination of all the possible elements, but there are theories. It occurred to me that Thrush might be in the market for this, considering the shopping list they've produced thus far. A gold mine, at a certain elevation in a region known for suspicious occurrences of weather and seismic activity…"

Napoleon nodded, his imagination beginning to grasp what could only be fiction…

"And quantum physicists to push all the right buttons."

They were both grinning now, and Illya was flush with excitement. As much as he didn't want to help Thrush develop something of this nature, the opportunity to be present when it happened was nearly more than he could be expected to relinquish. It was wild and it was unproven, but it was possible.

"Okay, then, I see that we have a lot of work to do. I'll contact Mr. Waverly and see what he thinks of this. Illya… just how likely is it that this could actually… I mean…?"

"Oh, it's highly unlikely, and only the likes of Thrush would be seriously considering it as a means to conquer the world. But, if it were possible, and Thrush did find a way to overcome the natural laws as we know them, they would be unlimited in their ability to reach into secret places and snatch the people who safeguard sanity in this world. It would be very bad."

He shook his head, not quite sorrowful at the prospect of witnessing something this fantastic. Still…

"Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say. Why don't you get some rest, or just keep on reading, since I suspect that's what you're going to do…"

The blond head was already bent forward, his glasses obscuring the blue eyes that were absorbing every word as his brain began to formulate just how it might be done.

Napoleon turned and started toward his own room, then remembered that he'd never had his coffee. Not that the adrenaline surge hadn't more than compensated for the caffeine kick, but somehow the day wasn't the same without his morning cup. He decided to finished getting dressed, since he was still only in his trousers and a tee shirt; he would go down to the dining room and see what there was to see. Perhaps another conversation with Victor Gervais was in order.

As it turned out, Napoleon was a little relieved to be able to have his coffee in the quiet and solitude of the dining room. He found a table near the French doors and let the gentle whiff of the ceiling fan keep him cool. It was a strange compulsion to have that morning cup of hot coffee, especially considering the approaching heat of the day. Some things deserved a place in life, however strange and unpredictable that life might become. Coffee was a stabilizer; it meant that there was a balance in life that wouldn't be upset. At least not today.

As he sipped the last of the rich brew, he saw Evangeline Gervais descending the stairs. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and accentuated by a bright pink scarf. She was wearing a white dress, belted with patent leather of the same hue as the scarf. Her white sandals echoed the effect of the dress; her pedicure had been finished off with a similar shade of hot pink.

Napoleon thought about approaching her, but decided to just observe. He left his tip for the waiter and slowly took up the challenge of spying on the daughter of the other spy. It wasn't likely that Evangeline was involved in this Thrush business, but then it wasn't entirely out of the question either. With Illya upstairs pouring over his quantum theories, and Gervais nowhere in sight, this seemed like an interesting and, possibly, rewarding diversion for the morning.

Rather than drive or take a taxi, the girl started out on foot. If the day became much hotter, this could get to be tiresome. Napoleon had wisely decided to not wear a jacket, opting instead for a lightweight blue cotton shirt that he wore loosely over linen trousers. There was no point in not looking like the natives, and they certainly understood how to keep cool.

Evangeline walked briskly past the hotel park, heading straight towards a shopping district that was located at the end of the avenue on which the hotel was situated. The cul-de-sac seemed to have been constructed solely for the purpose of the Hotel George, perhaps a site of an original edifice constructed by the early British settlers. He might have to look into that, just as a matter of curiosity.

When he reached the little Mercado, it was not just a collection of tourist oriented shops, but a single destination that was divided into individual stores that appeared to carry high end merchandise. Whether they were European, or American perhaps, Napoleon couldn't immediately tell. What he did see was Evangeline slipping into one store that sold jewelry, her interest seeming to land in a display case of gold jewelry of varied descriptions. Napoleon hesitated about getting too close, then determined to just be bold. That usually worked for him.

"Why, hello mademoiselle. I thought I recognized you when I passed by this shop."

The smile was disarming when she turned around, and the American thought that among all of this gleaming gold, she seemed to reflect some of its splendor. Napoleon felt elated at the sight of her, and glad at his decision to follow her here.

"Ah, monsieur Solo…Napoleon. So, you are shopping today also?"

He grinned like a little boy, just a little embarrassed at the lie he was going to tell her. He was a spy, and lying was part of the job description. Why should it be a problem for him now?

"Yes…yes I am. And, I saw you and decided to take a chance that we might enjoy some shopping…together."

Now, that part was true. He did want to spend some time with her. He had seen the look on Victor's face when Evangeline sized him up. He could cope with that; it's not like people actually still did things like shotgun weddings. Besides, he would be all business…

"Oui, yes…that sounds delightful. And perhaps lunch later? I have heard there is a wonderful little café not far from here that serves some wonderful fish dishes. It is, as someone told me, off the beaten track. Is that right?"

He chuckled at her, enjoying the naiveté she displayed. Wow, he could really get himself in trouble with this one.

Chapter 11

At the same time that Napoleon was resisting all manner of temptation regarding Evangeline Gervais, Illya was up in their suite engrossed in his exploration of all things quantum. It took several rings before he thought to answer the phone, and when he did it was more than regret that swooped in upon his short lived abandon.

"Mr., or is it Dr. Kuryakin?"

The voice was unfamiliar, and held no accent; it was not someone local.

"To whom am I speaking?"

He didn't answer the question, merely posed one of his own.

"I can tell by your accent that you're the man I'm looking for. I think we should talk, Dr. Kuryakin."

The title of doctor was drawn out, as though spoken by a person who disdained such things. His tone was at once condescending and petty, although Illya recognized the inflection of someone educated, or at least from some privilege. CIA operatives were notoriously well educated, and often Ivy League alumni.

"I do not yet know to whom I am speaking. Perhaps we can start there, unless you're so covert as to have forgotten."

It would be impossible to out-disdain Illya Kuryakin, not to mention be more condescending. This other man was an amateur.

"Oh, I think you know who we are. You're here on borrowed time, Kuryakin. In spite of your UNCLE covering, it is not polite of you to show up here in a country that's trying to avoid becoming a satellite state of your government. The Soviets aren't welcome here, Mr. Kuryakin, and you would be wise to get out…now."

Illya just stood there, wanting to heed his partner's advice and not antagonize the enemy. This was the enemy, at least to him. How long did one have to reside in America and work for a multinational organization like UNCLE, in order to not be suspect?

"You are obviously not informed, perhaps due to your own low station in the order of things. I am not going to fill in the gaps for you, so perhaps you should talk to your superior, and he can speak with his superior and finally the links in your chain may obtain enough height to finally speak to my superior. As for your assassin, he failed, obviously. I had hoped for more civilized behavior from the CIA."

With that he hung up the receiver and stood until his head ached again and he felt the need to sit somewhere.

Without hesitation, he determined to not give any more thought to the phone call or the CIA agent on the other end. He wondered how he was going to take a shower with that big bandage the doctor had wrapped him up in, and decided to take it off and risk getting the stitches wet.

He stripped off his shorts and headed for the bathroom, relishing a hot shower with a cold rinse to help him shake off the anger and disappointment he now felt.

Lunch came and went while Napoleon and Evangeline talked of traveling the world, fantasizing a life without conflict and more time to spend on the beach. Each of them proceded cautiously, each for a different reason.

Napoleon knew he could never become involved with this young woman, in spite of his attraction and interest. As for Evangeline, she was not ignorant of her father's work, and had determined early on in life, in spite of her great love for Victor Gervais, that she would never fall in love with anyone like him. She held no illusions about what provided their wealth, only the hope that it would not hold her captive forever.

As the two made their way back to the Hotel George, Napoleon noticed the same policeman who had spoken to them in the morning, after the attack on Illya. He was heading towards the lobby, and Napoleon hailed him, excusing himself from Evangeline and reassuring her that they were to dine together that evening.

She checked at the desk for messages and headed up the staircase, aware of Napoleon's lingering gaze as she took each step with care.

Mr. Solo, I am glad to have run into you. I was hoping to talk once again to you and your friend, Mr. Kuryakin. Is it possible for us to speak in private…the three of us?"

Napoleon wondered why the special visit instead of a phone call.

"Certainly, why don't we go upstairs to my suite. I'm certain that Mr. Kuryakin is up to some questions. Is that what you intend, sir…questions?"

Officer De Willem had turned forty years old on his last birthday. He was a descendent of Dutch settlers who had come to this country and helped to carve out this small stretch of civilization in what had become known later, under the British, as Georgetown. He was familiar with the wrangling between powerful nations that was thrusting his own little one into political turmoil.

Now, without warning, an act of violence had opened yet another wormhole of hostility. He favored neither the American-British alliance nor the Soviets. He only wanted peace and prosperity for his country, and the sanity of such.

He allowed the American to lead the way, as he speculated a little about the new information regarding the man upstairs; Illya Kuryakin was a Soviet citizen, and the man who had attacked him was a lackey of the CIA. A despicable situation, a seemingly innocent man attacked in his own room by a hired assassin. He would rather wash his hands of the entire incident, but he feared there was even more to contend with here.

When they reached the door to their shared suite, Napoleon was unsure of the state in which he might find his partner. He figured Illya was dressed by now, but then again…

"Illya, where are you? Officer De Willem is with me…"

The blond emerged from his own room fully dressed, and Napoleon noted the lack of bulkiness around his waist, indicating the bandage was gone. Stubborn Russian.

"Good afternoon, officer. Is there anything wrong? I was just intending to go downstairs for a little fresh air."

De Willem looked around the room, re-imagining the scene from earlier in the day. Kuryakin looked tired and had circles beneath his eyes consistent with the trauma of blood loss. It was rather remarkable that he was up and about; he didn't look resilient enough to withstand that type of damage.

"I think we should all three of us sit down and have a chat. I don't imagine that you, either of you, will be very surprised to learn that the man who attacked you works for the Americans. My curiosity about all of it is quite keen, I assure you. What, exactly, are you doing in British Guiana, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya's expression remained passive, his eyes not giving anything away. Napoleon blanched only slightly at the question. If the man only knew, he would avoid asking.

"Officer De Willem, I am a scientist. I am here to conduct a survey of other scientists regarding the possibility of holding a conference here, in your country, of some of the world's leading scientific minds. Does that warrant suspicion?"

The room was warm and the fans were succeeding only in pushing that warm air around in circles. With the sun beginning already to push its way westward, the lighting was beginning to diminish, and neither man made any move to turn on a lamp. All of the sunlight had puddled near the eastward facing window, so that the conversation was being held in shadows. It was appropriate in many ways, because no one in the room was interested in shedding much light on the information he held.

Napoleon needed this man to be on their side, but he wasn't ready to reveal their affiliation with UNCLE. Better to leave him a little ignorant for a while longer. He wanted to know how the man knew about the CIA's involvement, though. That was not what he had expected.

"So, let me get this straight. The Americans sent an assassin to kill a Russian scientist? Why do you think they would do that, Officer De Willem? What would be their objective?"

De Willem decided to switch trails a ltitle…

"I noticed you are acquainted with Victor Gervais. Is he also a scientist, Mr. Solo? I was under the impression he traveled in, shall we say, different circles. How is it that you know this man, and what interest does he have in a meeting of quantum physicists?"

Napoleon and Illya were both surprised. Just how much did De Willem know? Illya considered his question and then remembered the phone call from earlier.

"Officer De Willem, I received a call a little before noon. It was a threat, and the man fairly admitted that he had sent … by the way, what is his name? I like to know who it is trying to kill me."

"His name is Otto Brezhni. Curious, isn't it? That the Americans should send someone with a name like that to kill a Soviet scientist…

Mr. Kuryakin, or do you wish to be addressed as doctor? We are in a very perilous situation, politically. Your being here is a dangerous thing, for you and perhaps others. I am merely trying to arrange the facts in front of me so that I can better protect…everyone. Are you willing to cooperate so that I can do my job?"

He appealed to them in earnest, but they could not include him in their business. They would have to remain silent on the details, while appearing to cooperate. As Mr. Waverly had said to them two days ago; the less known the better.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks that meant little to the policeman in the room with them, but they understood each other perfectly. He might think there were rules by which to play, but for them the rules were different.

This was not a gentleman's game.

Chapter 12

The three men determinedly avoided telling the whole story; De Willem knew more than he wanted to disclose for fear of tipping the scale in one direction or the other, should these two be working for a government agency. The UNCLE agents needed to protect this man from knowledge that might potentially endanger his life. Thrush would not care about killing civilians or police personnel, if it meant maintaining the status of their experiments.

When the policeman finally left, it was without answers. Napoleon showed him to the door and then turned to face his partner. Illya had sat back down on the sofa, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to deflect a returning headache.

"Perhaps you need to get some more rest. We won't be doing much today, I don't think. We have dinner plans with the Gervais. I wish Evangeline weren't here; if we have to take down her father it's going to be…awkward."

Illya knew then, without a doubt, that his friend had fallen for the girl. He always fell for the girl, so it didn't surprise him. And it would seem that he almost preferred the ones who were dangerously close to the enemy, if not one of them.

"Must you always complicate our lives by getting involved with a woman during the course of a mission? Is it not enough that I am attacked and bludgeoned by assassins, or must we also incur the paternal wrath of a Thrush chief?"

Perhaps he should lie down. That had come out rather more hostile than he had intended. He might even call it a fit of pique. Napoleon was most assuredly going to call it something.

The afternoon was beginning to dip into the most debilitating part of the day, with the temperatures near ninety degrees and the humidity soaring around eighty percent. Illya felt as though he needed another shower, and Napoleon looked slightly wilted; a most unusual sight indeed.

"You disapprove, then."

Illya had not meant to. His expression begged understanding, if not forgiveness. Americans were so sensitive about these things.

"I apologize. It is not for me to approve or disapprove. I do not want to see you…disappointed. And she doesn't deserve to be hurt by this. But, I spoke out of turn. I think I need an aspirin…'

He turned then and walked back into his bedroom, genuinely in search of pain killers of some type. He thought the doctor had left something stronger. He called out from the bedroom. Napoleon wasn't speaking yet.

"I believe you said something about dinner? What time? I'm hungry now…haven't eaten anything today."

Napoleon had been listening without paying attention. Illya was right, and the sooner he quit mooning over Evangeline like a schoolboy, the sooner he would be able to concentrate on the issues at hand. They needed to get ingratiated into the operation at the goldmine. Gervais needed to want Illya there, and of course he would go along as well.

"Illya, do you think you can direct the conversation towards something along the lines of what you were telling me this morning? I think we need to make our move on this, and soon.'

Illya came back into the sitting room, aspirin in hand and in search of water.

"You're right, by the way. Evangeline is off limits, and from now on I'm going to forego the pleasure of her company in favor of getting us up river and into the goldmine Thrush is working. So, what do you think…about tonight's conversation? Can you do it?"

Illya's expression never changed. Only a crease of discomfort remained as he willed the headache to leave. Between the two of them Victor would be begging them to join him.

During the course of the afternoon, Napoleon checked in with Mr. Waverly; the report of nothing much going on did not gain the older man's approval. To his way of thinking, his agents should have been into the mines by now, not dawdling with dinner dates and CIA assassins.

"What, Mr. Solo, do you intend to report to me tomorrow? Something slightly more spectacular than what you have for dinner, I trust."

Napoleon winced at that remark, knowing full well that his superior didn't hold them accountable for the turn of events this morning. However, he also knew that the man was right in expecting more action, sooner than later.

"I believe we have a very good chance of being brought into this operation, as early as this evening. Illya has happened upon a theory that might very well be what Thrush is planning. If they succeed…"

A harrumph at the other end indicated what Waverly thought of Thrush succeeding.

"Mr. Solo, you and Mr. Kuryakin are there in order to insure that Thrush does not succeed. You have twelve days before teams begin to report to Sao Paolo for the Pan American Games. Thrush has intentions of being there, for a purpose only they know. Your objective is to find out, to make certain that they do not initiate whatever it is they have planned. Do I make myself clear?"

How many times had he heard that question?

"Yes sir, very clear. We will have something to report by the end of the evening. In any event, we will make plans to head up river to the gold mining region of the country. There would appear to not be any other likely place for their operation. Illya says he will be physically able to make the trip."

"That sounds acceptable, Mr. Solo. I do not believe we can fail in this mission. I trust you will not. Waverly out."

Napoleon let out a sigh, a breath that he hadn't realized was waiting for permission to let go. Tomorrow then. They had to move tomorrow.

The dining room was nearly full when Victor and Evangeline Gervais sat down to dinner with Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Preliminary remarks of concern were offered to the wounded man, and Victor noted once again how remarkable he seemed to be; not only apparently brilliant, but brave and resilient as well.

Napoleon was courteous to Evangeline, and she in turn was nothing more than charming. She made no effort to flirt with him, having made a similar decision about him that he had concerning her. They recognized that and acknowledged it with a particularly casual and gracious manner, something the father took note of and, with a renewed sense of admiration for the American, determined to reward in some manner. Evangeline had a destiny reserved for her; the success of this new Thrush discovery would insure that she received it.

Conversation flowed from the topic of weather, to the state of affairs in the Southern Hemisphere and finally, much to Napoleon's relief, back to scientific explorations. Illya wanted to approach his theory in as natural a manner as possible, not appearing to be searching for something with a predetermined knowledge that it existed. Gervais must think that asking Illya to join Thrush was his idea.

"…Yes, I am quite interested in the potential for all types of exploration. The field of quantum mechanics appealed to me for that reason. There is so much we do not know, cannot possibly comprehend in its entirety. Why, do you know there are theories of time travel that exist within the scientific community? The ability to transport, if I may use that term, from one spot to another, within or beyond one's current time frame, or plane of existence…'

Illya demurred slightly, affecting a pose of embarrassment at having gone too far.

"I am overly enthusiastic, I fear. Please, forgive me. You would undoubtedly rather discuss something less… fantastic."

Napoleon never ceased to be amazed at how manipulative his partner could be. The calculated raising of his eyebrows into a furrow of such extraordinary innocence, the blue eyes reflecting the crystal chandelier so that they became like sparkling gems; all of it was a ruse, and no none did it better.

"Oh, no Illya. You are wrong there. I find all of this entirely too fascinating. You are a man of great vision, I can tell already. I think there are…certain companies and…organizations, perhaps, that would be only to glad to welcome you and help you realize these… comment puis-je le dire? Vous avez des rêves."

Illya nodded enthusiastically.

"Oui, monsieur! Yes, I have dreams. I have great dreams of things no one has done before. If only there was a way, if there was enough money to devote oneself entirely to these pursuits."

He affected a solemn pose at that last sentence. It was obvious to anyone, (especially Victor Gervais, if one could hope) that the man was passionate and being held back only by lack of financing. If only, indeed…

Gervais could stand it no longer. He was not an impulsive man, but the past forty-eight hours had shown him that this Russian scientist was someone who must become part of his project. It was unthinkable to consider continuing on without him.

Napoleon watched all of this, confident that they were now in. In, as in going to the goldmines to stop Thrush before they could launch some new terror on the world. Without any doubt on his part, Napoleon knew that Illya had played his part perfectly, and Victor Gervais had believed it, had embraced it for all it was worth.

He was going to be able to tell Mr. Waverly something good for a change. He couldn't help the smile that covered his face, and the rest of his dinner companions merely thought it was in honor of the bons sentiments among them. Yes, good feelings…very good feelings.

And then he considered the past twenty-four hours.

What a difference a day makes.