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Napoleon woke slowly, his body sluggish and his mind disoriented. The surface beneath his back was cool and rigid, but the weight pressing into his chest was warm and yielding, almost comforting. He had to fight the urge to give in to its heavy embrace and fall back asleep.
He forced his eyes open and blinked, waiting for the world to come into focus. Peering around himself by shifting little more than his eyes, he saw he was lying on an old fashioned bench, wooden slats beneath him and decorative scrollwork at his feet, barely visible over the blond head snuggled against his neck.
Snowflakes drifted from above in a thick curtain, but he couldn’t discern even the slightest breeze or the faintest sound. Worse, he had no idea of where he was or how he’d gotten here. His last clear memory was of a dark, winding road north of New York City.
He and his partner had planned to rendezvous with a usually reliable contact who promised details of recent Thrush activity at a cluster of abandoned buildings in the area. After spending two hours waiting in the bitter cold, they’d given up and headed home. A few minutes later, a tire on their UNCLE sedan blew, they skidded onto the shoulder, and … there his memories ended. Here they were, in totally unfamiliar surroundings. At least, his natural optimism chimed in, he didn’t feel any sign of physical injury and he didn’t seem to be freezing to death.
“Illya,” he said, his mouth dry and tacky, a feeling he knew from vast experience meant he’d been drugged. He lifted one hand and gently shook his partner’s shoulder, then gave the other man a few seconds to rouse.
It didn’t take long. The blond head shook then stilled, the Russian probably suffering the same ache that pounded his own temples. The blue eyes squinted open a crack.
“Napoleon?” It wasn’t so much a question as a test of the vocal cords.
“Right here,” he said, knowing his own voice was a similar croak.
Illya stayed prone only a few moments then pushed himself upright and struggled to his feet, staggering for mere seconds before finding his equilibrium. He offered Napoleon a hand, steadying the dark haired agent as the world tilted and righted itself.
They both studied the oddly peaceful scene. Visibility was extremely poor both from the muted light and from the swirling white flakes. A snow dusted path led a short distance to a tiny old-fashioned chuch, barely visible even though it was only a few yards from the bench.
By silent agreement they headed toward it, the only visible shelter, its door ajar as though expecting them. Whether a welcome or a trap couldn’t be determined yet … but it didn’t seem likely that whoever had captured and drugged them had left them on the bench for the pleasure of recapturing them inside the church.
Illya climbed the half dozen shallow steps to the door and paused, patting his empty holster. He shrugged and rolled his eyes, signaling that they had no other choice than to play whatever game their unknown adversary intended. He ran his fingers gently down the edge of the door, outside the narrow gap, then gripped the brass handle, pulling to open the aperture wider. The heavy wood didn’t budge.
After several sharp but unproductive tugs, he ran a hand across the rough front surface, a puzzled frown darkening his eyes when he reached the far side.
“There are no hinges,” he said, his tone flat.
“What?”
“Look.” He brushed his gloved fingers along the shallow verticle crease where the two surfaces met. “This is solid, not a door. It cannot be opened further.”
“Huh.” Napoleon tilted his head, worrying his upper lip with his teeth. “It must be some kind of symbolism or local custom. A door left open for all. There’s probably a real door on the side or back of the church for the parishioners.” He shuffled backward on the wide stoop, eyes crisscrossing the visible walls of the building. The church’s congregation probably numbered in the low dozens rather than hundreds, given the size of the structure.
“We can get in this way.” Illya turned sideways and slipped through the narrow opening then reached one hand through and grabbed Napoleon’s wrist. “Just turn sideways and take a deep breath.”
The deep breath almost wasn’t enough. Napoleon was certain that if his jacket had buttons instead of a sturdy zipper, they would have been scraped off.
Once inside, it took several blinks for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The interior of the building was empty. Not unoccupied, but completely empty. No altar, pews or pulpit. No candles, flowers or prayer books. Slivers of light from the highset windows showed nothing but rough gray walls exactly matching the rough gray floor … the consistency of unfinished concrete rather than plaster or paneling.
It was also clear there was no other door or ingress into the building, which meant it was unlikely to be intended as a meeting place for a group of worshippers. Few adults, adult males anyway, were as svelte as his Russian partner.
Napoleon looked at Illya, expecting to see his own astonishment reflected in his partner’s blue eyes. Illya wasn’t looking around the vacant space, though. He was focused on the handful of white crystals he was brushing off his coat into his open, ungloved palm, the glove he’d removed having been shoved into a jacket pocket.
“This isn’t snow,” Illya said without lifting his eyes from the apparently not-snowflakes.
“What?” Napoleon echoed his earlier exclamation about the false door.
“I said it isn’t snow.”
“Well … what is it then?” Napoleon removed his own gloves and brushed some flakes from his coat into his hand, noting that they weren’t cold and gave no indication of melting from contact with his reasonably warm skin .
“I can’t be certain, since I have access to none of the equipment necessary for a chemical analysis.” Illya swirled one finger through the crystals, then took a small amount between his thumb and forefingers, rubbing lightly. “My best educated guess, from the weight, consistency and color, would be silicone, dried and ground into coarse flakes.”
“Huh,” Napoleon grunted, unable to make any sense of the increasingly bizzare aspects of their current situation. “So this,” he waved a hand around himself, “isn’t a church, and this,” he poked at the white crystals with one finger, “isn’t snow.” He cocked one brow. “You are Illya Kuryakin, right?”
Illya snorted. “As far as I know, Thrush hasn’t yet been able to teach a Kuryakin imposter a sufficient number of languages to deceive either you or Mr Waverly.”
“Well then, we’re either both here or we’re somehow sharing the same dream or drug induced hallucination. So I supppose our next step is to figure out where exactly we are and how we’re supposed to get home.”
“And how to deal with any enemy agents who try to prevent us from doing those things.” Illya dusted the white crystals from his palms and then began to methodically pat his jacket pockets and clothing. “No gun, no communicator, no exploding buttons,” he said, sliding his fingers beneath the waist band of his trousers. “I do have one lock pick, which I will leave hidden until we find a lock.”
Napoleon completed a search of his own person with similar results. “I have a small piece of thermite wire, maybe twelve inches long, and one detonator.”
“So we were searched but not thoroughly. And now we should explore our surroundings.” Illya led the way back to the false door, slipping easily out, then turned to watch Napoleon squirm through the opening. He didn’t quite smirk, but amusement sparkled in his eyes.
By silent agreement, the two men set off on the not-snow dusted path, past the bench where they had awoken. Although the setting was peaceful, Napoleon’s skin prickled. Something was definitely odd about their location. He couldn’t see any buildings other than the church, and there weren’t any people ... or even any animals or birds. He couldn’t see more than a few yards in any direction, just the swirling not-snowflakes against an oddly blurred horizon.
They were only a short distance past the bench, his partner a step behind his right shoulder, when his foot hit an unseen obstruction. He stumbled forward and felt a sharp rap on his exposed head at the edge of the hairline. “Ow,” he said, staggering back and rubbing his forehead with one hand.
“How odd.” Illya stretched both hands out to a spot just beyond his own head, where they came to rest, mime-like, against a solid but invisible surface.
Napoleon raised his hands until his palms came up against the clear barrier. He watched in bemusement as his partner’s broad fingers pushed forward, only to slide in a slow arc toward the ground.
“We seem to be in some sort of enclosure,” Illya said, thumping his knuckles against the surface. “Let’s see how far it extends.”
Illya turned to his left, walking slowly and keeping one hand against the barrier. Napoleon followed, still rubbing his sore head. In slightly less than fifteen minutes, they were back at their starting point, having gone a full circle to the spot where their footprints in the white crystals showed the path they had taken from the faux church.
“The perimeter is roughly circular, and the walls seem to be concave,” Illya said, peering with scientific curiosity above his head.
“I have the thermite wire and detonator,” Napoleon’s reminded him. “Thermite is probably strong enough to crack whatever this is.”
“Perhaps,” Illya said, brow furrowed pensively. “On the other hand, not knowing the composition and sturdiness of the construction, we risk having the entire structure collapse on our heads.”
“We didn’t encounter a door or opening of any kind during our walk around. Do you think they lowered us in here from above?” Napoleon stared upward but could see nothing but silicon snowflakes against a nearly black background.
“That would have been onerous and awkward, considering how they left us arranged on the bench. More likely there is a trap door somewhere on the flooring.” Illya scuffed one shoe in the mounting flakes. “We are standing on some kind of human-constructed surface, not dirt or natural rock.”
“Given the floor area, it, shouldn’t take long to find a trapdoor,” Napoleon said optimistically.
It took well over an hour. The trapdoor, a hinged piece of wood about two foot square, was hidden under a drift of fake snow, midway along the back side of the church. It opened into blackness.
“I will drop through,” Illya said, hunkering down and maneuvering his legs through the narrow opening.
“No,” Napoleon gripped his partner’s shoulder. “You don’t know whether the drop will be seven feet or seventy feet, and there could be anything at the bottom — a bed of knives, a tank of acid …”
“We will have to take the risk.”
“Why? We don’t know why we’re here, but eventually someone — friend or foe — is likely to come along and tell us. Meanwhile, unless we’re here long enough to starve or die of dehydration, we’re perfectly safe … especially if we wait in the church where no one can take pot shots at us.”
Illya shook his head. “I would estimate that we have been awake for around ninety minutes. In that time, almost fifteen inches of this has accumulated.” He kicked one foot through white crystals that now reached their knees. “This substance may not be toxic, but we will not be able to breath through it in another few hours.”
“I’ll go first, then,” Napoleon said as the Russian shook off the restraining hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We both have to do this, and I’m already in position.” With those words, Illya lowered himself through the opening until only his fingers remained, gripping the edge of the trap door. Then he released his hold and vanished into the darkness.