Solo, his head released to movement, stared down at himself, taking in the rents in his suit and the blood. He glanced briefly about the room, noting the full horror of what he had been walking in for three hours, and still silent, held up his handcuffed hands to Illya questioningly.
Illya's blood was hot as he advanced to the place where Adams wavered between the guns of two U.N. C.L.E. agents. "If you have the key, Adams, don't hedge about it. Hand it over. Now!"
Adams smiled at him and dug out the key. "A pity," he said. "Ah, well, it's one for you, but I'll win the next one." His gaze lanced at Mada, angry and accusing. "But to be betrayed -!"
Mada cried, "Oh, Uncle Abel!" She stood in the center of the terrible room, unsure which way to go as she saw for herself what Adams had done.
Illya said for her, "She didn't betray you. You just presented her with one charm too many." He unlocked Solo's handcuffs.
His hands free for the first time in hours, Solo rubbed his wrists, but his movements were painful. The cuts and stab wounds were still bleeding and they had stiffened into fiery jabs.
Then Mada was upon him, her hands hard on his shoulders, her dress soaking up some of his blood. She peered into his eyes, her own red and wet. "I'm so sorry, Napoleon. You know I didn't mean to have anything like this happen. You know that."
Barely controlling himself, Solo stumbled back from her.
Illya pulled her off him and thrust her aside. "Napoleon has had enough Adams' hands on him for one night."
Waverly came closer, surveying the damage to his top agent. "All in one piece, Mr. Solo?"
Solo stared at Waverly, but said nothing, his jaw slack, his expression bewildered. Illya stayed close to him, watching, gauging, and as he did, the cold of ice seeped through Illya's stomach. Napoleon was too silent.
The blond agent laid a reassuring hand on Solo's good shoulder; pressing carefully. Solo tensed under his hand and shied from the contact. Illya didn't like any of it. Napoleon's eyes were dark and haunted. Illya had seen the look before – somewhere - and the recognition of it in his friend chilled him. He glanced over to Waverly.
The astute old man had caught the byplay and his scowl said he didn't like it, either.
Waverly stepped away, motioning Illya to follow. He stopped a few feet from where the captured Adams stood, and his voice was concerned when he spoke. "Mr. Kuryakin, you've been with Mr. Solo many times after an action. After an interrogation, even. Is he usually this quiet?"
Illya hesitated, peering back at the bloody, slightly huddled figure of Solo. He had to give Waverly the truth as much as he hated to. "No, sir. I've never seen him like this. He comes up cursing or making bad jokes, as a rule. Still" - he searched for an excuse - "the circumstances are most unusual. Almost... fiendish."
"Is that your Slavic, gypsy blood talking?" Waverly asked with no smile.
Adams cut in, "Why don't you ask me, Waverly? I set it up. I didn't manage to kill Solo, but I can tell you this - I ruined him! You'll never be able to use him again!"
Illya swung to Adams. "There is more to this room than the obvious knives and abuse?"
"Of course, you fools. I'm an expert on psychology. I pulled the teeth of your lion, Waverly. With three hours of my plotted treatment under his skull, you'll have to send him home to Mama for comfort." Adams laughed his short sneeze of a laugh.
Illya wanted to cross the few feet and slam into the old man with both fists, but Waverly ordered Adams away with disdain. "Take that man out to a car and secure him," he said. "See that he stays quiet."
Illya walked back to Solo, Waverly dogging his heels. The blond agent decided to play an old game. He would force Solo to look at the room that had done this to him, to face it once and for all. It would be a grim sort of shock, but he was sure of Solo's resiliency. He was equally sure that Solo must not be allowed to with draw any further into depression.
He put his hand on Solo's shoulder again, ignoring the wince it evoked, and exhaled an astonished whistle. "You're in pitiful shape, Napoleon, granted - but this is no time to feel sorry for yourself. I'd say you're lucky to be alive." When he got no response, he tried again, more bluntly, "Do you want me to pick up the knives and barbecue forks that have your blood on them? For your collection?"
Solo edged away, but Illya held him fast. "You're not going to retreat any further, my friend, unless you knock me down first. And I wouldn't say you're in condition for that."
Waverly whispered, "Easy, Mr. Kuryakin." But he understood Illya's maneuvering and was himself waiting for some starch to come back into Solo.
Solo stopped trying to pull away, his expression verging on anger. "Having a good time, Illya?" he asked.
"Not really," Illya admitted. "But now that you've found your voice, tell me, what kind of place is this?"
Solo stared about the room dully and shivered, his eyes livening. "A do-it-yourself murder scene," he muttered. "Don't ever try it." He pulled out of Illya's grasp and steadied himself against a chair, well away from the knives. There was more life in him. "I have a report to make, Mr. Waverly. Bits of information."
Waverly was scowling less as the words came from his agent. "I expect you do - but later." He took command. "Let's get out now and have our wounds licked. Two of you men stay behind and remove these knives, please. I wouldn't like any stray children wandering here in the dark."
The room came to life. Men escorted Mada out, and Illya and Waverly flanked a limping Solo. They walked slowly, giving the man time. But Solo didn't make it to the door. He lurched forward, unconscious on his feet, and Illya and Waverly caught him barely in time to save him from impaling his throat on a knife that jutted from the piano.
---
The sky outside Waverly's office was bright with sunshine when they met around the table. Solo had eased himself into his chair, dictated his report on Adams and Dundee, and now was simply waiting for the chance to take his aching body home.
It was amazing to him how the process of reentering U.N.C.L.E., having his wounds dressed, swallowing an anti-depressant the staff psychiatrist gave him, and being clucked over by the nurses had driven away the lethargy. He was himself again, and for a while he had wondered if he ever would be.
For the moment, he understood he had a thank you to offer to Lainy Michaels, who sat beside him at the table, her face bright and her entire soul caught up in playing nursemaid.
Mr. Waverly was finishing up the short briefing. "So Miss Michaels was the turning point for you, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin's alertness provided the key, but she turned it."
"With melodrama and infuriation," Illya said. His arm was again in the sling where it belonged, and from his slightly glazed eyes, Solo guessed the anesthetic was wearing off. But Solo had no words of thanks for the Russian. That was all understood.
Instead, he looked gently at Lainy. "You actually attacked Mada? For me?"
"I was boiling mad." Lainy flushed a pleasing pink. "I - well, you were always perfectly decent to me, and –"
Solo concluded for her, "And I have plans for being more decent. Now that the bleeding has stopped, I think I could use a steak, to rebuild the blood."