The 'Til Death Do I Trust Affair
by: RAC
Rated R
SUMMARY: Gervaise Ravel wants her revenge on Illya for killing Harold Buffington, the man she loved.
NOTES: Set a year after The Thrush Roulette Affair, because in my little world, IK and NS stay together. (And thanks to the MFUfic and Channel W gang who supplied me with episode info). This story is a long time follow up to The Quadripartite Affair and The Giuoco Piano Affair, but you don't need to have seen them to know what's going on.
FEEDBACK: Absolutely.
THANKS: To Morr, my partner in crime! She threw this plot bunny at me, so blame her if you don't like it, LOL. And thanks to Lee the T for beta assistance. And to Dword for keeping such good care of all my stories. Go visit them at: http://www.dwordslist.net/rariindex.html
The 'Til Death Do I Trust Affair: Part 1
Napoleon stretched out his legs and took a last sip of his brandy. "I'd better head for home. We've got an early day tomorrow."
Illya drained his glass of Stoli as well. "Why did Waverly schedule the briefing for so early in the morning?"
Napoleon grinned. "To torture us? I know he's not planning to be there."
The phone rang. Both men looked at the phone with some surprise. Napoleon didn't think the phone had ever rung when he'd been at Illya's. Ever.
Illya picked it up. "Kuryakin."
Napoleon watched as Illya listened for a minute. His partner had an odd look in his eyes. Napoleon was tempted to casually move into the bedroom and pick up the extension. But then, before he could move, Illya hung up.
"Who was it?"
"Wrong number."
Napoleon gave Illya a look of disbelief. "You never said a word. How did they know it was a wrong number?"
Illya shrugged. "I don't know. They hung up."
"Well, what did they say before they hung up?"
Illya shrugged again. "Nothing important."
Napoleon considered Illya for a moment. Curiouser and curiouser. Illya still had an odd look in his eyes. "No, really. What did they say?"
Illya waved a hand, dismissing it. "Come on, I need to show you something before you go home."
"You can show me tomorrow. It's late." Napoleon stood and reached for his coat.
"No, I need to show it to you now."
Napoleon cocked his head to the side and stared at his partner. "Does this have something to do with that phone call?" He glanced around suspiciously. "Is this a practical joke? Was that Mark?"
Illya shook his head. "No. It was a wrong number. I just remembered that I have to show you something. It's important."
Napoleon shrugged into his coat. "Okay. But, this better not take long, or you'll be giving the entire briefing in the morning."
Illya walked to the door and opened it up, taking a step into the hall.
"Don't you want your coat? It's cold outside."
"No."
Napoleon made a face at Illya's terse answer. "Excuse me, oh King of Siberia." He followed his partner out the door and scrunched his face up when the Russian headed down the hall. "Illya? Aren't you forgetting something?"
Illya turned. "What?"
"Locking your door?" He shook his head. "Never mind, I'll get it." Napoleon drew out his own set of keys and searched for the one to Illya's apartment. He locked the door and then moved quickly to follow his partner, who was disappearing down the stairs. "Hey, where's the fire?"
Illya didn't answer. Napoleon sighed. Illya was being particularly inscrutable. Napoleon knew there was no point in haranguing his partner either for information or for excuses for his behavior. When Illya didn't want to talk, there wasn't much that would make him talk.
When they got outside, Napoleon lifted the collar of his coat, protecting his neck from the heavy falling snow. "You sure you don't want your jacket?" He blew out a ring with his frosty breath, and then realized Illya was already half way down the block. Wishing he had his gloves, and a scarf, and definitely a hot toddy, Napoleon cursed, and ran after Illya.
When he reached him he grabbed his arm. "What is this about, Illya? It's freezing."
"We are almost there, Napoleon."
Napoleon let out another long sigh, and hunkered down in his coat, dreaming of his warm bed. He spent a few seconds dreaming about whom he'd like to be sharing it with. Pamela? No…Kathy? He shook his head. Donna? He grinned. Donna. He looked up and realized he'd lost his partner. "Damn it." He sprinted to the end of the block, only narrowly avoiding slipping on some ice and falling on his ass.
Napoleon could see Illya entering a door half way down the block toward the right. Napoleon muttered under his breath. "Oh, sure, he gets to go inside." He hurried down the block and grimaced at the garbage surrounding the door. Even the freshly fallen snow couldn't make this alley scenic. Napoleon tried the door and was relieved to find it unlocked.
The hairs on the back of Napoleon's neck began to rise. He pulled out his gun and standing to the side, gingerly opened the door. Illya stood there, in the dark. Napoleon began to feel annoyed. "Can you get to the punch line, Illya? I'm starting to lose my sense of humor."
Illya plucked the gun out of Napoleon's hand. "You won't need that."
Napoleon stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. It was only nominally warmer in here. He brushed off some snow that had collected on his shoulders. "Well, that's very reassuring, but what the hell are we doing here?"
A muffled voice came out of the darkness, distorted through some electronic gadget. "We'll take it from here."
Napoleon spun at the sound, his eyes narrowing, trying to determine the source of the voice. "Illya, what's going on?"
A fist came out of nowhere, slamming into his face, spinning him around, knocking him into the door. Napoleon tasted blood and felt a sharp sting, and knew his lip was split. He spit out blood. Napoleon searched for his partner, afraid for him. He was shocked to see him simply standing there, watching.
In that moment of distraction, he was hit from the back, a painful punch to his right kidney. It brought him to his knees. Before he could struggle to his feet, a broad kick to his back knocked him flat. A foot pressed hard against his neck, immobilizing him. Napoleon gasped out a plea. "Illya, do something."
The voice came out of the darkness again. "He already has, Mr. Solo. Delivered you to us, just as I asked."
Napoleon's heart pounded. He shook his head in denial. His whole body was shaking. "Illya?"
Illya just stood there, Napoleon's gun in his hand.
The taunting voice seemed to come from everywhere. "You've fulfilled your part of the bargain, Kuryakin. Very efficiently."
Napoleon spat out more blood, and struggled up against the foot on his neck. The pressure was removed, but only for the foot to viciously kick him in the side. Napoleon let out a pained grunt. He began to roll, knowing he had to get up to defend himself. He was struck by a heavy net, which shrouded his entire body.
Desperate, he sought the edges, trying to get out from under it. But it grew tighter, caging him within the ropes. Something started to drag him farther into the room. He put out his fingers, trying to get some traction to stop this nightmare, but the rough cement only abraded his fingertips.
He threw another frantic look at his partner. "Illya. Help me." He still refused to believe that Illya had no intention of helping, that he was going to stand there and do nothing. He was dragged farther into the darkness.
Despite the fact that his partner was doing nothing to help, Napoleon was suddenly seized with an irrational fear of being parted from him and yelled, "Illya. Don't let them take me." He received a painful kick to his thigh, followed by another one near his knee. Napoleon curled into a ball, trying to protect himself. It also brought his hand closer to his boot, to the knife he had hidden there.
He felt the sting of a dart. Napoleon felt the paralysis setting in, the numbness radiating out from the site of the dart. His muscles began to grow heavy and slack. As his vision began to blur, even now looking to Illya for assistance, Napoleon searched for him. At first he thought he was seeing double but then he realized that somebody was speaking to his partner. Illya nodded, and then without a look back at Napoleon, he opened the door and walked out of the building.
Napoleon's eyes stung with tears. With his last conscious thought, he cried out. "Illya!" Then everything grew dark.
Part 2
Napoleon was late. Illya looked at the clock again. Really late. They had driven separately as it was Friday, and Napoleon always had dates on Friday nights. Illya thought back to last night, wondering if he had missed something.
Napoleon had known there was an early morning briefing; they had discussed it. Illya couldn't seem to remember any specifics of what they talked about after that, but Napoleon had definitely known. Illya picked up a phone and called his partner's number. He hung up after letting it ring twenty times.
He glanced at the clock one more time. Time to start the briefing. He cursed under his breath, promising to get back at Napoleon for leaving him on his own for this. Once it was over he was going to go to Napoleon's apartment and thoroughly enjoy throwing cold water on him if he was still in bed.
*****
Illya let himself into Napoleon's apartment. "Napoleon?" There was no answer. He headed right for the bedroom. It was empty. The bathroom was empty too. Going back to the bedroom, Illya began to search for clues as to Napoleon's whereabouts. The bed was made, but Napoleon could have made it this morning after he got up.
Illya went back into the bathroom. He pulled back the shower curtain. The bath was completely dry, which was unlikely if Napoleon had taken a shower, and Napoleon always took a shower in the morning. Illya began to get that nervous feeling, the one that always prefaced bad news.
He walked down the hallway and opened the hall closet. Napoleon's coat was missing. So that meant that either Napoleon had never gotten home last night, or something happened on the way from his home to headquarters this morning. Illya cursed when he realized that he hadn't bothered to check the garage for Napoleon's car.
Locking the door behind him he raced to the garage, only to find Napoleon's car parked in its usual spot. The nervous feeling grew. If the car was here then something happened to Napoleon between the time he left Illya's apartment and the short elevator ride up to his.
He started the search in his own apartment, looking around quickly to make sure Napoleon wasn't there. He began painstakingly to look for any signs of a skirmish, any evidence Napoleon or any possible abductors may have left behind.
Illya's lips tightened as he found himself back at Napoleon's apartment with nothing to show for his efforts. He pulled out his communicator and called headquarters, alerting them to Napoleon's absence and the probability of foul play.
When the conversation was done, Illya recapped the communicator and headed back down to his car. If someone other than THRUSH were holding Napoleon it was possible they would contact UNCLE headquarters with their demands. If it were THRUSH, eventually news of their latest scheme would find its way to headquarters and Illya intended to be there when it did.
As he rode in the elevator down to the garage, Illya couldn't help but wonder if Napoleon had called out to him while he was being overpowered, as Illya had been comfortably ensconced in his apartment. The thought of letting down his partner, even through ignorance, was not a comfortable one.
*****
It had been an exhaustive and unproductive day. There had been no news, no demands, and every free agent had been out scouring the city, calling on their contacts, trying to unearth information. Illya had gone over the very long list of ne'er-do-wells that wanted him and Napoleon dead, and tried to ascertain their whereabouts. There were too many unaccounted for to even begin narrowing it down.
Illya had finally headed for home at Mr. Waverly's insistence and promise that he would be called if any information came in. He let himself in and dropped, disheartened, on the couch. He didn't even have the energy to pour himself a drink. The two glasses he and Napoleon had used last night were still sitting on the coffee table, water rings surrounding them.
Illya furrowed his brow, thinking it odd that he had left them there. While not too fastidious a housekeeper, he was pretty consistent with cleaning up used dishes. Too many years of living with cockroaches had taught him that. Picking them up now he walked to the kitchen and placed them in the sink.
He found himself vehemently wishing that Napoleon would walk in the door, easy explanation on his lips, hand outstretched for a fresh drink. He scowled when the front door remained closed and Illya suddenly felt very lonely. For a brief moment he imagined what it would be like if Napoleon never walked through his door again. Even that brief second was too long, the imagined empty life leering like a gaping black hole. Illya let out a pained curse.
Without another word he left the kitchen, entered his bedroom, and threw himself on the bed. All he wanted was to fall asleep and wake up to find Napoleon pounding on his door, teasing him that he had overslept. Instead, Illya was certain he would be denied the respite of sleep, and that there would be no best friend at the door, an irresistible smile on his lips.
Illya reached forward to pull his pillow down, wanting to cover his head, as if that might help keep his thoughts at bay. His hands encountered something hard and his fingers ran over the object. Illya lifted his head, pushing the pillow aside with his other hand. It was a gun.
Illya turned the light on and inspected the weapon. His face scrunched up in confusion when he realized it was Napoleon's gun. He couldn't imagine why he had his partner's gun under his pillow. He sat up, trying to fill the gaps in his memory.
They were still fuzzy. Frustrated, Illya examined Napoleon's gun, imaging the dark haired agent in his mind. Illya let out a gasp when the image he had created was supplanted by another. He saw Napoleon on the ground, trussed in a net, his face bloodied, calling out to his partner to help him.
The image was so real, so vivid, that Illya stood, his heart pounding so hard his chest hurt. Where had that come from? More images appeared. Him leading Napoleon down an alley, him standing as Napoleon was attacked, him ignoring his partner's anguished pleas, leaving Napoleon behind as he walked home, entered his apartment, got ready for bed, put Napoleon's gun under his pillow and fell asleep, without giving his injured friend another thought.
Illya shook his head, dropping the gun, sagging back on the bed. This couldn't be true; it wasn't possible. He tried to push the images away but they were relentless, and all of a sudden, his memory of last evening wasn't fuzzy at all. It was painfully, shockingly clear.
He drew in a shuddering breath. Then he was up and running, out the apartment door, not even closing it, let alone locking it. He followed his path of last night, his sense of direction unerring, hoping against hope that it might all prove unfounded; that there wouldn't be a building where he'd acted the Judas.
Despite his avowed atheism, Illya was praying as he rounded the last corner. But the prayer was in vain. The building was there; the door was there. He approached it as if it might strike out at him like a death adder. His hand was shaking as he reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked and he turned it slowly.
Still clinging to the shattered pieces of his hope he stepped inside. It was pitch black. Fumbling for a light switch he was gratified to find one, and surprised when flicking the switch actually resulted in a yellowish glare from an unprotected light bulb in the ceiling.
He didn't want to look, deathly afraid that he'd find Napoleon's body in a corner of the room, not sure what he'd do if that were the case. There was a mental flash of him in his apartment, Napoleon's gun in his mouth.
Illya shook his head and forced himself to look. He released the breath he hadn't even known he was holding as he saw that the room was empty. He only allowed himself a flicker of relief before he looked harder. He moved to stand where his memories placed Napoleon.
Acid rose in his throat when he saw the splatters of blood from the split lip, the blood trails from Napoleon's fingers as he had desperately tried to cling to the cement to keep from being dragged away.
He had stood there and watched it all, had listened to his partner cry out to him for help, and done nothing. Illya turned, stumbling, and then he dropped to all fours, retching.
Part 3
Alexander Waverly felt a surge of anger as he watched Illya Kuryakin toss and turn in the infirmary bed. He had seen much cruelty in his reign as head of UNCLE, but this seemed particularly vicious. Especially as it involved two men that he had come to care for, in a profession that seldom lent itself to the softer emotions.
It vexed him deeply that they had so little information. Only that his two best agents were in agony. One from physical torture, and one from mental anguish. Whoever had planned this had planned it well.
Waverly turned as he heard footsteps. "Anything, Doctor?"
Mark Wilson shook his head in frustration. "I just listened to the tapes again. It's clear he was programmed, but I can't find the key. I suspect he's still susceptible. I tried every deep veridical I could to get to his subconscious mind but all I ended up doing was putting him to sleep. Maybe it's a mercy."
Both men peered in through the window as Illya let out a cry and thrashed in the bed. Waverly's lips tightened. "I suspect this particular ghost will haunt him awake or asleep."
A frustrated expression crossed the doctor's face. "It doesn't make any sense. When Barnaby Partridge brainwashed Illya, Illya shot at Napoleon but he missed. We both know Illya's too good a shot to do that. It's a textbook example of the fact that it's impossible to brainwash someone into doing something they would never ordinarily do. And for Illya, that includes betraying Napoleon."
"So how do you surmise they achieved their goal?"
"The only thing I can figure is that the programming must have been repeated over an extended period of time. And that means someone who has ready access to Illya. As he hasn't been taken prisoner for the last few weeks, there's really been no opportunity for anyone to work on him." There was a heavy pause and the doctor swallowed. "Unless it's someone he knows."
Waverly had quickly come to the same conclusion. "Have you discussed this with Illya? Did you get the names of everyone he sees on a regular basis?"
"Yes. They're all being checked out as we speak. The problem is that the majority of the list are employees here at UNCLE."
Waverly scowled at that thought.
Mark let out a similarly depressed sigh. "Did they find anything of use at the site where Napoleon was taken? Do you have any idea where they might have taken him?"
Waverly shook his head. "All we know is that he was dragged for some distance and then it appears he was lifted and placed in a vehicle. Forensics is going through all the evidence with a fine tooth comb but there was depressingly little to find." Waverly himself had gone to see the place in the hopes that his weary but experienced eyes might see something the others missed.
"Why are they doing this?" Mark had taken care of both agents on numerous occasions, and while neither of them were particularly good patients, he had a vested interest in them.
Waverly shifted his weight to his other leg. He felt very old tonight. "Two possible reasons come to mind. The first is a calculated plot to destroy UNCLE's two top agents. If this is the case I suspect we will get proof of Mr. Solo's demise. It must be assumed they believe Mr. Kuryakin's guilt will destroy his future effectiveness."
He glanced at the doctor, his eyes beneath his bushy brows dark with worry. "The second is revenge. In that case the person responsible will no doubt try to contact Mr. Kuryakin to make his victory complete."
"So, in either case, the only possible way this can end okay is if we find Napoleon before they kill him."
"Quite right. Unfortunately, the man most suited to that job is…" Rather than finish his sentence, Waverly looked meaningfully at the man lying on the infirmary bed. "Even if he were not sedated, until we know the programming has been removed, if he found Mr. Solo, he might do him more harm. I'm afraid he cannot leave this room until you can assure me that he is free from his conditioning." Waverly cleared his throat. "Or until Mr. Solo is dead."
Mark slammed his open palm against the wall. "Sometimes I hate this job with a vengeance."
Waverly gave a tired nod. "I quite agree, Doctor. I quite agree."
*****
Napoleon came to with a snap. His eyes opened and he saw that he was in some sort of hospital room. He let out a sigh of relief. "Illya?" He knew his partner had to be close by if he had been wounded.
Then he remembered and he covered his eyes with his hand as if it might block the memory of Illya standing there, watching him as he was beaten. The apparent betrayal made his heart hurt, but his longstanding faith in his partner forced him to believe that there had to be a reason.
"Ah, you're awake. I'm so glad. Now the next phase of my plan can begin."
Napoleon recognized that voice. He dropped his hand and pasted a smile on his face. "Gervaise Ravel."
"In the flesh." She smiled coquettishly, and batted her eyelashes. She was dressed in a figure flattering blue wool suit, a string of pearls around her neck. Standing next to her were two large men with thick necks, armed with machine guns, both pointed directly at Napoleon.
"I thought you were still in jail."
She pouted and shook her head. "The accommodations were much too provincial for my taste."
"How'd you get out?"
"Let's just say that some young woman who had the misfortune of looking an awful lot like me hasn't seen the light of day for a long time." She let out a satisfied sigh. "But enough about me. Let's talk about you."
Napoleon twisted his lips to the side, considering her. "All right. Let's." He gestured for her to begin.
"I'm afraid my boys here were a little rough on you last night, so I thought I'd let you get a good night's sleep before we got started."
"What's your game? I know I'm a brilliant conversationalist but this seems a bit extreme just to partake in a little witty repartee."
"It's simple, really. I'm going to have you tortured, and then I'm going to have you killed. I just wanted you to be in good shape when we started. It's so much more entertaining to start with a fresh canvas."
Napoleon gave her a mocking grin. "Ah, you're taking up painting. Lovely hobby."
"No, photography, actually. I plan to take pictures of you."
"I'll expect union wages."
"I'm afraid you'll be doing this for free."
"Do I at least get to have a pretty woman to pose with?"
She gave him an annoyed brittle smile that quickly dropped off her face. She turned to go.
Napoleon needed more information and that meant keeping her in the room. "Bored already? I must be losing my touch."
"No, Mr. Solo. Not bored at all. In fact, I haven't had this much fun in a long time. Revenge really is a dish best served cold."
"Revenge? For what? Putting you in jail? That seems petty, even for you." Napoleon was thinking furiously, trying to understand how Illya had gotten involved in this.
Gervaise's eyes flashed. "Petty? You think having the person you care the most about gunned down in front of you, petty?"
"Buffington? This is about Buffington?"
Her voice was filled with dramatic rage. "Yes, it's about my Harold. Your partner killed him, so I'm killing you." She dabbed her eye with a tissue. "I know I wasn't as good to Harold as I might have been, but I've managed to work through my guilt." She gave Napoleon a gloatingly evil smile. "I don't think poor Mr. Kuryakin will be as lucky."
It all fell into place. "What the hell did you do to him, you bitch?" Napoleon lunged at her but was shoved back to his cot by the painful jab of a rifle point.
She laughed. "The right drugs, the right words. It's amazing what modern science can do. And I think he must truly hate you, Mr. Solo. He was so easily trained."
"I don't believe you. He would never betray me."
"Oh, but he did. You saw him. He stood there and did nothing while my boys here worked you over. If he was standing here, he'd let me kill you, and never lift a finger."
Napoleon was furious. "Only because you did something to him. Only because you fucked with his mind." He spit the words out.
"It is heartwarming to see your loyalty to him. Too bad it's so misplaced." Gervaise admired her nails for a moment. "I will, of course, tell him that you agree with me and despise him now."
Napoleon lunged for her once more, but he was again blocked, and a powerful fist was jammed in his stomach, doubling him over, stealing his breath away.
Gervaise frowned at one of her nails, and fishing in her small purse, she pulled out a nail file. She started working on the defect. "I plan to take pictures of my boys torturing you and send them to him as a small token of my appreciation. Then, in a few days, I will tell him you're dead." She looked up from her filing. "You may or may not be. I haven't decided. I may decide I like torturing you and keep you around for a while."
"He'll find me and get me out." Napoleon was sure of it. Despite what the bitch had done to his partner, Illya would find him. He always did.
"Oh, I don't think so." Nail smoothed to her satisfaction, she put the file back in her purse. She pulled out a small compact, and checked her make-up. "They can't figure out what I did to his mind. Your Mr. Waverly is afraid he'll try to kill you again. He's under heavy security in the infirmary."
Napoleon's heart sank. The only way Gervaise could know that was if she had someone on the inside. Someone who could get to Illya.
She confirmed it with her next words. "Don't worry. After he knows you're dead, I'll make sure he gets whatever he needs to get the job done."
Napoleon gritted his teeth. "To get what job done?"
"Why, to kill himself, of course."
He almost got to her this time. Napoleon saw the flash of fear in her eyes. But then the butt of a rifle crashed into the back of his head, and he fell on the floor, stunned.
Napoleon fought to stay conscious as he was pulled up and dragged out of the room. Another door was opened and he was shoved inside. He tried to struggle against the two mountains of muscle, but within seconds he felt cuffs being snapped around his wrists and ankles. When the two men moved away, he found himself chained in the middle of the room, his wrists over his head, suspended by chains from the ceiling, his legs spread apart, the floor chains firmly secured to opposite walls.
He tested the chains, but he only had an inch or two of give. Napoleon forced himself to relax. Glancing around he saw that Gervaise had followed them. He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing his frustration. He let out a sigh. "I was sure I asked for a nicer room when I made my reservations."
Gervaise stayed a safe distance away. "I'm afraid the amenities have taken a turn for the worse. So sorry, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon was just sorry she wasn't standing closer. He wanted to spit in her face. "Well, if this is the best you have to offer, I suppose I can make do." He looked around the room, as if considering the decorating possibilities.
She flicked her hand at one of her boys, annoyed at her captive's nonchalance. "Time to go to work, boys. I need it to look good for the pictures I'm going to take." She gave Napoleon a malicious glare. "I want your partner to see what he's done to you."
Napoleon tested the chains again, hoping for a miracle, hoping for a weak link, so he could lash out at her, take her pretty neck and snap it in two. "He's tougher than you think."
She shook her head, smiling. "No, he's not. Not when it comes to you." She brushed down her suit. "I don't want to get blood on my outfit. I'll come back in an hour." Gervaise sent an approving look at the two men. "You boys have fun. Just remember, I'm counting on you to make it last." She turned on her high-heeled shoes, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Napoleon looked at the two men. "I thought she'd never leave." He rattled his chains. "If you let me down we can play a few hands of poker."
One of the men moved to the corner of the room, and opened a suitcase. Napoleon winced. From where he was standing, the contents of the suitcase didn't look good. The man returned with a knife in hand and with a few quick motions, Napoleon's shirt was lying on the ground. Napoleon looked at it sadly. "I liked that shirt."
He grunted as a fist landed in his midsection. Not being able to double up made the cramping even worse. The man circled behind him and punched him twice, both kidney punches. Napoleon bit down to keep from letting out a cry. He tasted fresh blood as his split lip tore open again.
He kept his eyes open, trying to anticipate each punch so he could try to guard against it. It helped a little. Napoleon suspected it wouldn't help for long. Not if the plan was to keep this up for days. It didn't matter. Illya would come. All Napoleon had to do was stay alive. The punch to his groin took him by surprise. Through the pain he kept that thought. All he had to do was stay alive.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~