"The Oubliette part 7"~ for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge 3/25

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Solo crossed the hall to his room, slowly opening the door before he stepped inside. It was caution out of habit he supposed, as why would Labé booby trap it when he went to all this trouble to bring them across the Atlantic ocean.

He found the tux exactly where Labé said it would be, but instead of changing, he wandered the room checking the walls as Illya had said.  Tapping and listened, looking for hidden levers but there was nothing, everything was solid. It was going to be harder than he first imagined...

Walking into the bathroom; he ran water in the sink and splashed it on his face. The area round the cut on his cheek was beginning to turn black and blue, and he applied a wet compress with a washcloth, for all the good it would do.

Napoleon sighed, resigning himself to getting dressed. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he smiled at the perfect fit of the tuxedo. Granted Labé could have had his measurements taken while he’d been unconscious, but it had been tailored, very well tailored.  So far Solo hadn’t seen anyone else...surely there had to be servants or minions in this place. So far their host had only mentioned a nurse.

He supposed dinner would reveal some of the help. He exited his room, walking slowly along the hall and downstairs; eyeing his route, looking for anything that might serve as a secret entrance to some sort of tunnel. Illya was right, these old castle had them.

“If I was the lord of this castle, I’d want an escape route that would be easy to reach in case of an emergency. Given the Irish were persecuted by their English rulers for practicing their religion it would make sense there’d be something here.  Secret rooms, and escape tunnels but they could be anywhere.

Napoleon reached the arched entrance to the great room and just as the grandfather clock next to the doorway chimed the hour, he stepped inside.

“Ah, punctual Mr. Solo. I like that in a person. Would you care to join me in a drink.” Labé stood beside a small liquor cart.

“No thank you.”

“Oh perhaps you think I’ll drug you again?”

“The thought passed my mind…”

“Suit yourself then, please be seated.”

The long dining table had been set for two with quite expensive porcelain place settings and when Napoleon seated himself, he examined the flatware more carefully. Sterling silver. He thought for a second about palming the knife, but that would be too obvious.

Labé seated himself, and rang a small dinner bell to his right.

Finally a new face appeared. A middle-aged gentleman dressed formally as a butler. He was pushing  a serving cart containing two covered dishes.

“This Mr. Solo is Seamus. He will help you with your every need, but don’t try to engage him in any sort of conversation or question him about the castle as he no longer has his tongue.

The poor fellow grunted his greeted as he bowed his head to the American.

“Now Seamus if you would be so good as to serve?”

He carried one of the dishes to the other side of the table, setting it in front of his master, lifting the cover and revealing an ornately prepared dish of pheasant.

“They’re raised here on the estate you know. Nice and fat and not in the least gamey,” Labé smiled.

Seamus returned to the cart, carrying the other dish to Napoleon and setting it down in front of him. Strangely the man backed away as if he were expecting something to happen.

Napoleon reached for the cover, hesitating wondering why the cover  hadn’t raised it for him as well.

“What, afraid of a booby-trap? Please Mr. Solo, why would I bring you here to do something so...childish.”

“No perhaps not.” He lifted it, expecting pheasant but he was served something different.

On the platter was what looked like white meat in a brown sauce. It was surrounded by a ring of carrots and green beans.

“What is it?” Napoleon sniffed.

“Oh I think you’ll enjoy it. I had it prepared it especially for you and your partner. Well I actually had a soup made for Mr. Kuryakin, as it would be easier for him to eat.”

Napoleon speared a piece of the meat, popping it into his mouth and chewing it. It’s taste was unidentifiable,  though not exactly pleasant.

“Yes we outdid outdid ourselves preparing rat just for you.”

Napoleon nearly choked, spitting what was left in his mouth into his napkin.

“You bastard Labé.” Napoleon pushed his chair back,  heading upstairs to his partner and leaving Labé as he howled laughing.

Solo burst through the door finding a woman dressed as nurse spooning soup into the Russian’s mouth.

“Illya stop! It’s rat...the soup is made from rats.”

“Yes I know as I am familiar with the flavor...at least this time it is cooked and the spices in the soup have enhanced the flavor.”

“He served me roast rat for dinner,” Napoleon kept himself from gagging at the thought.

“You must get over these things my friend, food is food,” Illya waved the nurse away as he’d had enough. His appetite still wasn’t up to it’s usual hearty self.

She left the room, not saying a word, taking the dinner tray with her, though for a second she stopped to eye the handsome American, and out of habit, Solo did the same.

“Hello there,” he smiled.

She shook her head no, and hurried shyly from the room.

“Don’t tell me, she’s mute?” He asked the Russian.

“Seemingly so, though I am not really sure. I simply assumed she was refusing to answer my questions. Did you check for tunnels?” Illya asked once she was gone.

“Yes but so far nothing.” He kept the thought to himself that perhaps this castle was like one big oubliette, one way in and no way out.

“Have you not tried to overcome him? Surely one karate chop would do it, as Labé hardly seems capable of defending himself?”

“He made sure of that,” Napoleon pointed out the ankle cuff. “Gives one hell of an electric jolt if I get too close to him.”

“If you can find me some tools, I might be able to disable it. In the mean time keep looking for a tunnel. There has to be…” Illya began to cough violently, so much so that Napoleon had to pound him on the back to help break up the congestion.

He said nothing as he help his partner lay back on his pillow, replacing the oxygen mask as Illya tried to gain his composure from the episode.

Napoleon worried more than ever as he was getting worse instead of better.  Was Labé really giving Illya the medication he needed? He had no way to know for sure.  There were no breathing treatments, and that was obviously causing a problem.   Perhaps if he talked to Labé he could convince him to get Illya the treatments.  What was the worst the man could do, say no?

Or perhaps this was part of Labé’s plan to let Illya languish and die slowly while his partner helplessly watched...just like in the oubliette.

There already was the threat of death hanging over both their heads…maybe this was the death Labé was referring to for Illya. Napoleon wondered what this lunatic had in store for him as well.

.

April landed the Learjet with ease at Shannon airport, not far from Limerick City.  Mark had turned over the controls to her nearly three quarters of the way there, as he could no longer keep his eyes open.

The flight had been smooth with little turbulence.

Once taxied to a stop the jet was put in a private hangar and the U.N.C.L.E. agents passed through customs.  Their identification made for an expedited approval, and luckily Waverly had wired documentation ahead as neither of them had their passports with them.

They quickly acquired a rental car, though Mark was nonplussed at the size of it, April was surprised at the size of the Austin Mini Cooper S.”

“Guess you’ve never been to the U.K. luv. The sub-compact car is a necessity here as the roads aren’t exactly built for a full sized automobile. Wait until we’re face to face with a lorry on a road barely passable for one, then you’ll see why a such a small car is so much better.”

“This is how people get around in... this?” She gestured with her hand, still astonished at the size of the car.

“Oh no, in most parts of the country here it’s very rural and people get around on foot, bicycle or even by horse cart. Sometimes the old-fashioned way can be more quaint and satisfying. Alot of the homes don’t even have modern conveniences….a thatch cottage can be pretty nippy on a cold night with only a turf fire in the hearth.”

“Really, sounds positively cozy. I wish we could find a little time for some sightseeing once we’ve gotten things wrapped up here and Napoleon and Illya are safe.”

“Doubt it, but first things first. How’s the homing signal.”

“Strong, but they still have quite a few hours lead on us, and not knowing the lay of the land is going to slow us down.  Looks like the signal is north of us.”

“Then north we go,” Mark started the mini Cooper, putt it in gear and headed out along the one main road leading from the airport. Two miles long, it was perfect for getting acclimated as he re-engaged his left-side driving skills that came back to him as easily as riding a bicycle.

To be continued...

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

I'm as evil as Labé? You cut to the quick. (hee hee) The big finish hopefully next week.Thanks for keeping up with the story and commenting.