The Man from Yesterday

A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story

by Darklady

Prologue and Introduction:

Pairs: Napoleon Solo / Illya Kuryakin (what else)

Rated: About R. Some chapters are PG-13 for mild adult reference ( mostly political) while others are R+ for male/male sex. Individual chapters will be rated, but none are intended for minors. Please be advised that this is a slash story.

Disclaimer: The following is a work of Fan Fiction. The television series Man from U.N.C.L.E. is the property of whoever currently holds the television rights. Who ever it is, it's not me. Ditto for all the other borrowed characters. No commercial use is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. This story is to be viewed as `satire' for purposes of law. All original material is property of the author. This disclaimer is to apply to all chapters, whether or so it is so posted.

Language Notes: I will not differentiate, as text tools can screw up peoples e-mail, Please assume all characters are speaking the local language unless informed otherwise.

Weirdness warning: This is not your usual Man from U.N.C.L.E. story. It will be a long time before you get to the first car chase. This evolved from the statement ( I forget who by ) that Solo and Kuryakin are `men of the sixties', combined with a bit of time-travel fic read elsewhere, combined with some personal knowledge of the `changing times' which "I do not chose to discuss at this time". Lets just say that life is weirder than art.

Sex warning: There is some, and it's hot..but it will be a few chapters before you get to it. This thing has a *plot*. Which I do not broadcast, so you have to read for clues. If you're not into spy stories you probably won't like this.

Length warning: This will be a very long work. I will try to get it out ASAP.

Archive: To FanFiction.Net, File 40, Ravens Lair, WWOMB & certain other sites. Interested parties may ask.

Thanks To: Nickovetch, who actually volunteered to beta this mess. Greater love hath no fan...



THE MAN FROM YESTERDAY
By Darklady


Chapter One: Good Morning Starshine (The Earth Says Hello)

The world is grey. No, red. Dark red.

"Mr. Kuryakin."

The world is red, and it hurts, and I have to...

"Mr. Kuryakin? Don't struggle." The red becomes sound, and the sound becomes words, and the words mean... "You've been drugged. That's why you feel sick." Drugged? There were no drugs. No drugs, only the machin es that....was that what...at the edge of hearing? The machines? "But you'll be fine." Fine? Suddenly the world lurches into the present. I am - once again - in a hospital.

Which one? That was always the question. Good sheets. Perhaps the station clinic? I risk a shallow breath, only to feel my lungs catch and spasm. The scent of blood and disinfectant. Those are to be expected. Smoke or diesel fumes, but too faint for the city. Not U.N.C.L.E. At least not New York.

Hands on my chest, rubbing. Firm but not painful. Not T.H.R.U.S.H. then. More words. "Try to breath deeply." Reasonable. It is good to breath. Another shallow breath, then deeper. Not as painful this time. Only a little spasm, followed by a dry cough. My throat stings. From the drugs? But there were no drugs. Unless...Not important for now.

The hands return, to my chest and to my back, rubbing and soothing. Rather pleasant hands, even if they are somehow too small. The too-high voice sounds pleased. "Very good." A warm dampness touching my face. Water? Too fluid for blood. And the voice is becoming louder, more present somehow. " Again please." It seems best to obey. Focusing, I press out my chest, pulling is as much as as possible against the strange constrictions somehow more within then without. I breath in, the rush of alcohol scented air bitter within my lungs. Then out, aided by the pressing hands. If feels good, even as the hard coughs come in series. Coughs hard enough to lift me further from my warm...wherever."Excellent." The voice near my ear seems quite unduly satisfied.

The warm dampness moves again against my face, brushing over my lashes and clearing away the sticky sand. When damp goes away there is light in my eyes. Red. No, white. White and... I blink, smearing the vague colors,and with painful abruptness the room snaps into focus. A young woman in an ugly green blouse looks down at me with distracted concern. A nurse, obviously.

"Mr. Kuryakin." I consider the accent. Lower Ukraine. I suddenly realize she has been speaking Russian all along, but until this moment I had not considered that. At least not as a matter of significance. Some of the nurses at U.N.C.L.E. often will, out of courtesy. But, if I am not at U.N.C.L.E. - and I most evidently am *not* - then, where am I? More to the point, where is.....

"Do you think you could sit up a bit?" The nurse pauses, but not in the manner of someone requiring a reply. " I'm going to raise the bed." A grinding noise, and a pressure under my shoulders as the world begins to tilt. "Very slowly." A moment's vertigo, then the room is stable again. "Good. Careful of the IV in your left hand." IV? I glance down. The world spins again at the act. No matter. My vision soon returns enough for me to see the clear tube in my left hand. Now that I see it I can identify the sensation, but in a universe of pains it does not stand out in particular. Part of my mind takes a moment to speculate what drug T.H.R.U.S.H. has given me now. Poison? Truth serum? A deep sigh at that thought. I have always *hated* the truth serums. Sometimes more then the pain of more `conventional' questioning. But I do not remember...? Speculation is useless. At least it appears there is an antidote. Good.

A new friction on my chest returns my attention to the nurse. "Another deep breath." The request is getting redundant, but I comply. This time the cough is minor, barely annoying. "Wonderful. Would you like a sip of water?" the nurse asks as she brushes a curved straw against my lips. The question awakens a thirst. She holds the straw while I take a deep sip. The cool liquid feels very soothing in my mouth. I draw harder. " Not too much." She pulls back the straw. "Your swallow reflex may be weak. We've just taken you off the ventilator." Ventilator? That would explain my sore throat. But - I give my aches a quick consideration - there are no pains sharp enough for a bullet wound. Why had I needed one? "You should have a sore throat for a while, but otherwise there is no serious damage."

Interesting. I had suspected as much. My pains are mild, but not blurred as they would be were serious traumas being dulled by morphine. What I feel, I feel. Which leaves a far more serious question. Ignoring the pangs from abused neck muscles, I turn my head to the right. Not there. Perhaps the left?

"Would you like your glasses?" The nurse is back. "Here they are."

The glasses perch awkwardly on a swollen nose, but they do help. Now, where is..?

"You have a visitor." Ah. I rest back. That is right. I close my eyes as the nurse goes to the door.

"Not very long, please. And try not to stress him." My visitor. I feel my smile stressing chapped lips. Everything will be fine.

But the voice which answers is female, and quite unknown. "I believe Mr. Kuryakin is able to deal with stress." Russian again.

Low heels snapping against a hard floor. "Mr. Kuryakin?" A sharp voice. Moscow accent and very insistent. I consider simply closing my eyes and seeing if she will go away. Not likely. I try anyway. She simply waits , until it is evident that I will have to open my eyes again.

As I thought. No one from U.N.C.L.E. Blonde, perhaps thirty, wearing some oversized white jacket over a uniform shirt. Military? Likely. But which one? Hard to make out the the details unless... my eyes focus and I catch a glimpse of the collar tabs. Damn. Mine.

Well, that was better then T.H.R.U.S.H., I suppose. Probably. "Where.....?" I falter, startled by the roughness of my own voice.

"You are in the Gugarin Military Hospital. How much do you remember of your last mission?" She manages to sound interested, but not insistent.

I ignore her question in favor of my own, "Where.. Solo?"

"Mr. Napoleon Solo?" Her voice takes on a smile. Most women's do when it comes to Napasha. "Your partner? He's here as well."

"Got to..." I try to rise, but the nurse presses back on his shoulder.

"No, Mr. Kuryakin." The nurse speaks to me, but looks at the officer. A bad sign. "You need to rest. But I assure you Mr. Solo is here. You can visit him as soon as you're able to sit up."

"In a moment." The military woman speaks to the nurse but watches me. "Please." She moves her face into my field of vision. "Do you remember me?"

I gaze at her indifferent pretty face for a long moment before realizing that ...I do. Somehow. "You were there when...." Memory blurs. When what? That is the question. "What happened?"

"Quite a lot, but you're safe now. Everything will be all right." Her reassuring smile is perfect, and almost reaches her eyes. "Just relax."

"Who?" Her face drifts out of focus as my concentration fails.

"I am Major Yelena Hovsepian. I'm with the KGB. I've been assigned as liaison during your recovery. Do you remember who you are?"

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Section two, Number Two - U.N.C.L.E." Which she should already know.

"And your mission? What do you remember of that?"

Stupid question. Who does she think I am."I do not feel inclined to discuss that matter at this time."

"Right answer. Straight from the book." This time the laugh does reach her eyes. "Fortunately I *do* feel inclined." She pauses a moment, then begins to speak in the clipped voice universally associated with reports. "You and Mr. Solo were taking out a `satrap' - I believe that's what they were called - in western Mongolia. Lead by a Professor Grimlove? You believed they were working on a device to steal or disable the Volga power grid. You infiltrated with the intent of destroying his machine. You had successfully planted the explosives, but were discovered before you could complete your escape. In the gunfight that followed, you followed the Professor into his laboratory, and into what has been described as a 'short whirling tunnel'."

"I do not.."

"Feel inclined to discuss the matter? At least not with me." The smile grows even broader. "Very well. I could show you my ID, but such things are easily faked. Just rest." She reaches over to pat my undamaged hand. "Your friends are nearby. I'm sure your doctor has informed them that you are conscious, and they should be here soon."

Her glance at the nurse brings a nod in return. Whatever that means.

After a breath she continues. "The important thing is this. When you come out of the 'tunnel' we were there. Do you remember? You are with friends now, and you are going to be fine."

A smile and a final pat and the Major is gone. Strange. Very strange. I am calculating my chances of getting out of the bed when the phone rings. My nurse answers, listened a moment, then rests the speaker by my ear.

"Illya?" A flat American accent. Very familiar.

"What." My voice catches, and I swallow.

"This is April Dancer. Number Four, Section Two. Do you remember me?"

Strange question. We had lunch together just last week. "Yes." I answer.

"Good." She seemed unnecessarily gratified. "Your Doctor just called me, and I'm on my way in. You've had one hell of a shock, but you're back now, and everything's going to be fine. Just rest while I get there." I want to say I would rest better if I knew what was going on, but that might be indiscreet on an unsecured line. She pauses a bit, then adds. "And Illya? Don't let Napoleon seduce the nurses."

I ease back into the pillows and close my eyes. If that was the problem, everything *would* be all right.


Chapter Two: You Ain't Going Nowhere

I take advantage of the quiet to check out the room. Not bad for a hospital. In the last few years I have had the opportunity to become something of a connoisseur of such things. One bed, water faucet in the cupboard by the wall, telephone within reach. Decent light from a large window. From the bits of greenery glimpsed through the blinds, very possibly on the ground floor. Private nurse, if I am to judge by the way my sloppily garbed companion sits reading rather then leave the room. Only one thing missing,

"Nurse?"

"Mr. Kuryakin?" She puts down her book. "Try to rest."

"My partner." The command is not as forceful as I would wish, loosing more then just volume in its passage through a graveled throat.

"Mr. Solo?" That brings the same smile I had seen on the Major. " He's fine. Not out of shock yet, but...." I try to rise but she is faster, out of her chair and beside me before I can clear the covers.

"Please, lay back!" I ignore her. If I am a prisoner, best learn that now. She pressed against my chest briefly, then releases. "Oh, very well. Dr. Bastajian said you were to be accommodated. Just wait for one minute."

One hard push to put me back on the pillow, then she vanishes through the beige door. So I can have privacy. Useful information, although just now I can not judge what to do with it. Things seem almost safe, except for my utter certainty that U.N.C.L.E. would never leave an agent alone in foreign hands. Not even `domestic' foreign hands. If Napasha is injured and April is on her way - where is Mark? Or even one of the local hemispheric officers?

I have barely enough time to form these questions before the nurse returns, this time with a rather large man in tow. Bad sign. But the man waits by the wall while the nurse comes over to my bed.

"Just a bit while I disconnect the IV." She smiles, reaching for my strapped hand. "This might sting."

It does, but that is the least of my discomforts.

Unhooked and bandaged, I watch with interest as the large man unfolds a wheelchair. Orderly, I decide, although these people's shapeless green clothing show no indications of rank. Once the chair is assembled and rolled up beside the bed, the nurse shakes out another blanket and spreads it carefully.

"Can you sit up?" she asks.

Of course I can. And do. After a bit, the dizziness passes.

`I'll transfer you to the wheelchair. Right leg first.."

I know the routine. A clumsy operation, although the crew seems quite competent at it. I must start walking soon. For now? This will do. As long as it gets me to Napoleon.

The nurse produces another blanket, tucking it around me like a child. Even, for a moment, over my arms. I protest that, forcing my hands free. Bad enough that someone will push me. I must have some freedom.

An empty hall, bland with closed doors. Mine is number twelve. A very short ride brings me to number sixteen. We must be expected, because this door opens before the nurse can knock.

Quick scan. Another room identical to my own. Two chairs, one nurse, and in the bed... at least he is breathing. I can see no serious injuries, but he is so pale.

Ignoring the orderly, I reach for the wheels. One hard crank maneuvers me up by the head of the bed.

"Napasha?" I whisper. No response. Then louder, " Why is he...?"

"Ah. Mr. Kuryakin?" Another green clad man, this one older and thinner, and wearing a stethoscope. " I'm Doctor Bastajian. Mr. Solo is still sedated. I'm afraid it required a slightly heavier dose to prevent his convulsions, but we are expecting a full recovery."

Convulsions? Was that the source of my aches? No matter, they appear to have passed without effect.

"When?" That was the relevant question. "When will he...?

"Two to five hours." By which I assume the doctor means consciousness, not full recovery. " You should be able to talk with him tonight. Perhaps after dinner." Very well, I decide. It could be worse. This seems like a comfortable place to wait.

I check the angle of the light. To judge by that, this appears to be summer. Five hours to dinner would make this just about noon. Possible. The light casts very few shadows. After a quick calculation, I decide we are on the south side of the building, and somewhere much farther north then Minsk.

*BUZZZ*

Not the telephone. A communicator in the doctor's pocket. The angle prevents me from getting a good look at it. He speaks briefly before addressing me.

"Sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. You'll have to return to your room now. You have a visitor."

I almost refuse, but remember that April is expected. "Yes." The orderly is reaching for the handles when I ask. "Bathroom?"

"Of course." Dr. Bastajian appears embarrassed at his oversight. He glances at the nurse, who nods at the orderly. "Ragsac, if you'll help Mr. Kuryakin."

So. Now I know the man's name. And have guessed correctly at his rank.

The second door leads to an attached bathroom. Toilet, shower, tub, and sink. These are luxury facilities. The orderly guides the wheelchair near some convenient rails.

"Do you think you can stand ?" he asks. Southern accent. Maybe Turkistan.

"Yes."

"Good. It will make the transfer easier." I unwrap my blanket while he drops the rails. "Best you do this sitting. Not a problem?" I nod. Not a problem at all. He grabs my hands and positions them. "Hold the rail here, and here. On three. One, two three....." I know the routine, and manage without too harsh of a bump. "Good." He nods. I stare back. " Oh. Privacy thing? I will go behind the screen. But you call if you think you are going to fall. You get hurt now and I do punishment detail."

Reasonable request. I will not fall.

The privacy is required for more than my bladder, which is not yet that uncomfortable. It gives me a chance to check my injuries. Minor. Scrapes and bruises, but no burns, and any stitches required have since been removed. A very good sign. Once Napoleon is awake, we will be mobile.

Still, since I am here? It is good to find that everything still works. Relived, I look behind me for the handle.

"Finished?" Ragsac steps away from his screen.

"The handle?" I ask.

"Photo cell." He points at a small red light on the lid. "It will flush when you stand up. Ready to transfer back?"

"I can walk." At least, I suspect I could if I had to. Now is the time to find out.

"So you say. But Doctor Bastajian says you ride. And he is one man I do not argue with. So for now?"

He reaches for my arms. I give him the *look*.

He stops, then. "Compromise? Once you are in the hall, you can steer"

No answer. Just another *look*.

"If you insist. I will call for a walker."

Unacceptable. Another *look*.

"That is my best offer. Otherwise I carry you!"

Not likely. He is large, but I have an excellent angle on his elbows.

"Very well." He surrenders. "Nurse? Can you help me?"

The nurse brings a robe and slippers. Navy plush with a complex embroidered logo. The base insignia, I assume. Very nice.

It is a slow walk, and I use the nurses arm for balance, but I manage. We are almost back to the room when `my' nurse reappears.

"The other room." She nods at a door just across the hall. "More space , and we can clean this one."

"Very well." I answer, and she opens the door for me.

It leads to an inside room, windowless but well lit. Tall lamps plus a ceiling fixture. Sofa, two stuffed chairs, and a large television in its cabinet placed against the side wall. A table with a samovar in the corner. Seascapes in oil on the walls. Who do they normally treat here? Generals? Several additional chairs have been brought in, but there is still room to move comfortably.

A badly barbered young man in a rather strangely tailored blue suit is seated near the back, next to the blonde woman I spoke with earlier. The loose coat is gone, and now I can see the tabs of her uniform. She *is* a major. Rather a high rank for her apparent age, but the display of field ribbons may explain that. No unit designation. Not surprising, given her service. She is either executive or covert. Perhaps both.

The pair wait patiently while the nurse helps me into one of the soft chairs.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" The young man in the suit stands. I'm Daniel Quinn, C.I.A. I'm the American task-force representative for this operation. You've met Major Hovsepian?" He phrases it as a question, but it is not one. I ask my own.

"C.I.A.? Where is U.N.C.L.E.?"

"How are you feeling?"

He ignores my question, so I return the favor. "U.N.C.L.E.?"

The Major answers "That is who we are waiting on."

The CIA man nods agreement, clearly getting the message.

"I would have preferred to wait until Mr. Solo could join us, but" she shrugs " Dr. Bastajian expects him to sleep for a bit longer." Which clearly annoys her. Too bad. I also would prefer otherwise. "And your personnel profile suggests it might be" she pauses, looking for words "an *error* to delay.... so..." She smiles, intending to be charming. "We will brief you now, and your partner later."

A strange choice of words. Not, I think, accidental. "Do not you mean de-brief?"

The Major looks relieved. "No. Not at this time. Although, when you are stronger, Dr. Stejan has requested a full report, if you would, and ..."

"Illya?" A familiar voice comes from the open door.

"April." Finally. The chair is deep, but I turn and....what is this? That woman is at least fifty, although she looks...."April???"

I hear the others stand up behind me.

"Hello, Illya." She perches on one chair arm and smiles a familiar smile. "Do I look that bad?"

"No. Not bad, but....."

"We should have told him." Quinn again.

"He would not have believed you", the woman named April answers him. "I'm not at all certain he'll believe me."

"Illya." She smiles comfortingly. Even her teeth are like April's. "Good news or bad news? The good news is...... you're home. You're back, and you succeeded." So I have been told. What I do not know is where they think I have been. "The bad news is....... it's been a while?"

Long enough for April to age so visibly? Perhaps amnesia? I glance down at my hand. It does not appear to be aged.

"Here." The April woman hands me a thick report with a familiar cover. The paper does feel rather brittle. I ignore that. Such effects are easily reproduced. "The lab report on Professor Grimlove's machine. What we could recover from it."

I flip through it. The format appears correct. Too many pages to read quickly.

"That is.." The CIA man starts to object, then stops at April's glare.

"Agent Kuryakin's clearance is higher than your own... and I see no reason to change that as this time."

"Yes ma'am." He sits down, chastened.

"Short form?" April waves at the report. "It was a ' time machine' - we think. Or perhaps more like 'suspended animation'? You vanished into Grimlove's 'tunnel' on January 30, 1968. You reappeared six months ago. January 30, 2001."

I do the math. Thirty three years. Ridiculous. I ignore that. If I have been in the hospital six months? That is not a pleasant thought. No wonder my injuries have healed.

"I don't fully understand it, but.." she laughs slightly. It is a familiar sound. " You're the scientist. You go over the report and fill in where you can. And yes, that's an order." She laughs again, a bit more sincerely. "At least I think it is. There could be a bit of a jurisdictional question.

She gives Quinn a *look*. He tries to appear innocent. The Major tries to disappear altogether. Excellent. Whatever the difficulties, U.N.C.L.E. clearly has the upper hand.

Satisfied, April continues. "We've been waiting for you, of course. Professor Grimlove survived the explosion, and under the circumstances.....well, he was all too eager to assure us we would 'get our agents back' . Unfortunately, he couldn't say when. So we... waited. A bit longer then we expected but... you're here now. That's all that matters today." She reaches over to take my hand, and I do not refuse. "So, Illya Nickovetch. Welcome back."

She smiles expectantly. I do not know what to say.

"Questions?"

She waits. So do I. Questions can be as dangerous as answers.

"Would you prefer the others to leave the room?" She matches the words with one of our hand signals. If this is a trap, it is very well prepared.

I risk a signal in answer.

"Really, Ms. Dancer......" The man named Quinn starts to object again. It earns him another glare.

"Mr. Kuryakin is *my* agent. I believe you can trust me alone with him for five minutes." This time the laugh is far less pleasant. "Of course not. Well, I'll make it an order, then. Out. Both of you. And come back *after* you have called Moscow and complained."

They grumble, but they go.

The April woman produces a small box from her purse and places it between us. One tap produces a faint green glow. "There. Secured."

I look, but say nothing.

"Oh." She fumbles through her purse again, and this time come out with a more familiar tool. One of our `cones of silence'. I check it carefully. It appears to be working.

"Who are you." My first question. She produces a slightly unfamiliar ID. Black, with gold letters. April Dancer - Chief Policy Officer, Hemispheric Operation, North America."

One from the top - if she is telling the truth. Which is impossible. Still...

"Director Dancer." She does not seem surprised at the title. Very smooth. " If this is an U.N.C.L.E. operation, then.....

"Why the fellow spooks? Professional courtesy?" She smiles, then continues. " Well, this *is* Russia. We can't expect them to let us operate without some 'assistance', now, can we? And Quinn? He's there to make sure Hovsepian doesn't assist us to too much."

No surprise there. I say nothing.

"When you and Solo first vanished - we though it would be for one year. Professor Grimlove said the machine worked in year increments, so... we were there. In force. But you didn't arrive. Not that year, not the next, not the next."

Or for several more, if her story was to be believed. Which it was *not*.

"And - the world changed. T.H.R.U.S.H. was destroyed. It never recovered from the blow you gave them. Never. You did that." She smiles up at me, and I can almost see tears in her eyes. Most effective. " You ended T.H.R.U.S.H. So - U.N.C.L.E. changed. I still have that ID. We never abandoned the charter. How could we? We had agents in the field." She pauses, as if the thought hurt her. "Illya. We never gave up hope!" Her tone becomes insistent. "We were there!"

"But...in truth?", she searches for the words. " There are other agencies now. Including the one I run. Don't ask. Not yet. Later - I promise." She shakes her head, then continues. "Our treaty for the site post included a KGB monitor. That's reason one why Major Hovsepian is here. But with U.N.C.L.E.- altered - you have noticed this is a Russian military hospital. It was convenient. So the Major has some authority. But don't let her push it. You still outrank her, if it comes to that."

"Mr. Quinn? You can ignore him. No real authority. But as long as Hovsepian has an American citizen? I wouldn't let them separate you two. This is going to be rough enough. There will be major changes. I know it will be difficult. Some of my advisers were worried. I'm not. I have faith in you and in Napoleon."

She sits back, finished. "It's a very different world, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. But - I think you'll like it."


Chapter Three: Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News.

It is not discipline that keeps me silent. More a matter of incredulity. To a story like that, what is there to say?

I watch as April Dancer turns off the U.N.C.L.E. machine, and then her own, and drops the pair of them back into her infinite purse. Another fumble brings out keys, a lipstick, and finally a small black case. Perhaps a compact, although it seems a bit large. Also rather plain for feminine tastes.

She shakes the lid open, and then presses three buttons. They beep musically. Some sort of code, but not one I recognize. "Mishca" She speaks into the lid. "Tell the mob they can come back in now."

"New communicators?" As questions go, that one would seem safe enough . And I am curious.

"What?" She looks almost surprised at the item in her hand. "It's a cell phone."

A special phone for calling cells? And if she did wish to communicate with her coverts, why be so open about it?

"A telephone. Illya. They are portable now." She glances at the table, where a real telephone disputes her words. "Most of them, at any rate."

She hands it too me. Interesting. It does appear to be a communications device of some sort. Solid-state electronics ; very compact. No apparent dial, merely a grid of numbered buttons below a plastic plate. Same sequence as a telephone. The speaker was in the upper portion. That much I can identify. Antennae in the top. Battery slot in the back. Other then that? This will take time to fully analyze.

"Keep it." April says. "My number is already in there. *4 for home. *2 for office. Call any time."

This Mishca must be a very local contact. After a polite tap the door opens, and both Mr. Quinn and the Major reenter. With or without the phone call to Moscow, they have clearly gone for reinforcements. Doctor Bastajian, who I recognize, and with him a shorter man in a traditional white medical jacket but without the stethoscope. The last through the door is an older man in a regular Army uniform. General's insignia, but a caduceus on the collar. Medical branch. The base commander, I decide. Standing would be difficult wrapped like I am, so I merely nod. He does not appear to take offense, simply gestures for the others to take their seats.

The April woman stands, and they shake hands before she speaks. "OK, people. Let's try to make this as quick and painless as possible."

A fine idea. Why do I think it unlikely?

"This is Doctor Bastajian. You've seen him before, I assume." April says to me. "And your psychiatrist, Dr. Goldak." She waves towards the man in white, who nods in acknowledgement.

"Psychiatrist?" I ask.

"Just a formality." The Major interjects. "Army regulations require that therapeutic support be offered after all hospital stays longer than two weeks. But I believe we can dispense with him now."

"Hardly," the white jacketed man bristles. "Mr. Kuryakin has just had a very stressful experience. And this is no longer the dark ages! Your dismissive attitude does not help." His voice rises, then drops again as he turns to me.

"Mr. Kuryakin. I know that you are very confused right now. That's to be expected. So I won't bother you today."

Good. I would prefer if a psy-operations agent was to bother me *never*.

"I just want you to know I'm here for you. We can talk tomorrow, if that's agreeable?" Hardly. But that is seldom a wise response, so I again say nothing. He seems to accept it. "I won't press. Just let the nurse know if you want me."

April smiles at us both, trying again for charm. "General Safaryan, Commander of this facility."

"Sir."

"An honor, Mr. Kuryakin."

"And Major Hovsepian. Whom you have already met. She will be your briefing officer."

That statement brought an improbable cough from the far wall.

"Along with Mr. Quinn, of course."

"Briefing officer?" Another question. I must watch that this does not become a habit.

"Yes sir." Mr. Quinn jumps into the opening. " We are here to bring you up to date. Answer any questions you may have, and..."

I cut him off. "Just one."

"Sure." He gives me what Solo would call a shit-eating grin. "Whatever."

"When do I get out of here?"

"Out?" The grin wavers. " Well..perhaps..

"Please!" The Major cuts in. "You are *not* a prisoner, Mr. Kuryakin. You could leave now if you wished."

"I wish."

That kills her smile as well. "Dr. Bastajian ?"

"I would not advise it." He steps forward, addressing me as he would a class of interns. " You have had a severe systemic shock. You have spent six months in induced barbiturate coma, with all the loss of nerve function that implies. You are at least fifteen pounds underweight, anemic, and still showing mild signs of hypothermia. I would advise you to remain for at least a week or until your blood work returns to normal and you can walk unassisted." Which apparently finished the lecture. He sits back down. " That is, however, just advice."

"Dr. Goldak?" The Major seeks another ally.

"Mr. Kuryakin is an adult, and quite competent. I could not say otherwise. Although I agree that more support work is advisable. Perhaps in a community setting. "

"Well... " She looks up at the General, who says nothing, "If there is any particular place you wish to go, I suppose we could arrange..."

I ignore her. "You are saying I could just walk out of here?"

Dr. Goldak snorts at that. "Not likely. I doubt you have the strength to walk down the hall. I'm am merely saying you are free to try."

Which answers nothing. I turn to the base commander. "General?"

"I have no orders to the contrary. But it would be insane..."

"We can provide....." That is Quinn, cutting in again.

"Enough!" April raises one hand and the room falls silent. She scans them all, then turns to me.

"Mr. Kuryakin, you have a choice. Stay here with Mr. Solo, or come with me to my hotel. And I *do* have the authority to make that an order."

Leave my partner? Nyet! "Here." I answer.

"That settles it."

Another tap in the door, and this time it is a young woman in a privates uniform pushing a cart.

"Good." April waves her over. "Hot tea. That should put everyone in a better mood."

April Danger waits as the young woman serves the General, then the others. Mine she puts in a plastic cup with a partial lid.

"Would you care for a straw, Mr. Kuryakin?" the young private asks.

"No. I can drink."

"Raspberry jelly?" Major Hovsepian offers, holding out the pot and spoon. I must have shown surprise, because her laugh was back. "It's in your file, Mr. Kuryakin. I have had a great deal of time in the last months to spend on my reading. Appearances aside, we do want to make you stay comfortable as possible."

Perhaps. She has read the file at least. The comfort I do not expect. Although.... I decide to make no judgments - for now. April helps me steady the glass while I stir a bit of jam into my tea, and sip. "Excellent."

That appears to reassure the Major somehow. She stands, straightens her papers, and begins in her formal voice. "Let us start at the beginning. What we know about operation ........"

*BUZZZ*

Another interruption from the doctor's pocket. This time I get a better look. His communicator is much like the one April handed me. Perhaps somewhat larger. It is also louder. I can overhear the nurse on the other end.

"Dr. Bastajian? You asked to be informed when Mr. Solo showed signs of waking?"

"On my way."

"If you will excuse me?" He nods to the General, then to the room.

April Dancer pauses a moment, then stands. "Perhaps we should all go now, and finish this in the morning. General Safaryan?"

"If it can wait thirty-three years, it can surely wait one day more."

I say nothing, but I give her the *look*. She understands.

"Escort Mr. Kuryakin to Mr. Solo's room. I'm sure Mr. Solo will find that far more reassuring then a roomful of scrub-clad bruisers."

True, I think. And with good reason. I reach for the arms to push myself up.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" She smiles. and I would almost swear I see my friend again. " Use the chair. That *is* an order."

************

"Illya....watch out....... the beam......"

Perhaps Napoleon Solo is awake but he is not conscious.

"I'm here, Napoleon, I'm here."

No response. Without a watch I can not be precise, but I think at least one hour has passed since the orderly found me a space beside my partner's bed. Allowing for another fifteen minutes of sitting in the hall while green-clad personnel rolled out cart after cart of machines and supplies, and five more for delay and travel time from the meeting to here.... I do not like that answer. Napoleon should be free of the drugs by now.

Base...explosions.....no door....Illya...

"I'm here, Napoleon, I'm here."

A bit repetitive, but what else is there to say. Here I am. Here I will remain.

"Out... must get..... in there.....where..."

I lean back, trying to relive the tension in my shoulders. They are beginning to cramp from the strain of my twisted position. This wheelchair is too low - or his bed is too high. No matter. I have felt worse, and have no intention of releasing my partners hand until my Napasha is back and fully aware. Which should, according to the nurses earlier words, have been at least half an hour ago. Perhaps Dr. Bastajian had misjudged his dosages. If so, I will have to... discuss..the matter with him later.

At least Napasha's voice is stronger now. For the first half hour I could barely make out the words when Napoleon moaned. Now they were almost at normal volume. A good sign of lung function, or so the nurses insist. Both doctors have been pleased. The harsh coughing is past, and now Napoleon speaks with nearly his old tones. He has been given water, and swallowed without assistance. All very positive.

"Illya...Illya?...Illya!"

"Hush, Napoleon. I am here"

At last - finally - the limp hand closes on mine.

"Illya?" The voice drops back to a whisper.

"I am here. We made it out. You are in the hospital." A long moment while I watch the breathing catch, then return. Dark lashes flutter, then fall closed.

"How bad?"

A good question. But now that Napoleon was back...? "Nothing serious, they tell me." True enough. That is what they have *told* me. "Hold still, the nurse wants to remove the IV."

The nurse hesitates. Even though this nurse is a large man, I do not blame him. Hurting a man as thoroughly trained as Napoleon Solo is never a good idea. No one has mentioned any details, but I suspect that some of the caution the staff showed in my presence may have come from their earlier efforts at treating *him*. It also, I suspect, explains the disappearance of the attentive young ladies who had previously flitted around. They were most considerate, and doubtless quite knowledgeable, but they were not anyone's choice when it came to dealing with an injured warrior like Solo.

"It is all right." I assure the nurse. "He is good with pain, as long as he knows it is coming."

One smooth pull on the silver needle. Napoleon shies away, but does not strike. Good. "Illya..?"

"I'm here." I reach out and wash his lids with a warm cloth. "Can you open your eyes?"

His lashes flutter again. I reach out my free hand to shield him from the light until his pupils have a chance to adapt. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus. I watch as his eyes dart, taking in the room, his own injuries, and the hulk in green poised at the foot of the bed. Finally his eyes come to rest on my own.

"Illya?" Napoleon asks. "If this is a hospital, what did you do with the beautiful nurses?"



Chapter Four: Dangling Conversation

Another ten minutes waiting. They push me out of the way while Dr. Bastajian comes in to check and fuss. Napoleon fades a bit, but in the end I get back to find him propped up and comfortable. One nurse remains on duty, but he sits near the door and reads, leaving us almost alone.

"Where?" Napoleon's voice is low, but intentionally so. The earlier weakness has all but vanished.

"Gugarian Military Hospital."

"No nurses?" he asks.

"Several. Mostly men." Actually, his nurse is a pretty young woman, but I cannot resist teasing just a bit.

"Oh." He looks at my robe and hospital shirt. Not my usual garb, even if I am not the clothes-horse he is. "You?"

"I woke up myself less then three hours ago. April has been by." I hesitate at that, uncertain. "April Dancer." I have some doubts about that , but we can not discuss them with an observer in the room.

"Mark's partner." If my doubts creep into my voice, Napasha does not catch them. "Where's Mark?"

That was my question also. "I do not know. She did not say."

"T.H.R.U.S.H. base?"

"Destroyed." Or so she had said. "Quite thoroughly." I consider what I remember of my explosive charges. That, at least, was quite likely the truth. "Rest. The briefing has been adjourned until tomorrow, so you can join it." My briefing will come tonight - in private.

Napoleon lays back again. He is paler than I would wish, his skin more jaundiced then olive. Six months in a hospital would do that, although? In truth, that part of the story is almost as impossible as the rest. If I had been in bed for six months I surely would not be able to walk. Yes, I decide. That disproves their story in and of itself. I lay my head back against the support and rest my eyes. A moment only. Just to rest.

*******

I wake at the sound on heels on concrete. The large male nurse is gone, replaced by someone far more to Napoleon's taste.

"Dinner, gentleman?" This pretty blond I had seen before. Napsha's real nurse. I watch that awareness pass over his face along with his most beguiling smile. Four hours out of a coma and already flirting. That was my Napasha.

"Something tasty," he answers.

"Food!" Her voice is sharp, but I notice her eyes are not. Some men just have it. "You are still in bed."

"Exactly." His smile grows teeth.

"Behave, Mr. Solo."

How often had I heard that tone from his flirts. Exasperation warring with warmth. "We have been warned about you and your 'appetites'. I am not on the menu. So - perhaps some ham?"

She produces bed tables for both of us. Place mats, napkins, heavy stainless cutlery stamped with an emblem to match my robe. Which reminds me of one I *hadn't* seen. Removing two covered trays from the cart beside her, she places the warm plates in front of us.

I raise the lid. It is ham. Very thick and edged with spices. Mashed potatoes and cabbage centered with butter. Green peas. Sliced beets. Dark rye bread with more butter beside it. Suddenly I am very hungry.

"Sorry for the bland diet." she says. "Doctor's orders."

We say nothing, just eat. I am halfway through when Napasha raises his fork.

"Illya, this is excellent. And you were always criticizing the military food."

"It appears there have been some changes."

He gives me *his* look, but.... not now. Not here.

"Later", I grumble. " Just eat."

We finish our meals in silence.

"That was wonderful." Napasha drops his fork on the tray. "Or perhaps I was just hungry. I could swear I haven't eaten for a week."

"At least." I mutter, thinking of April.

The nurse removes the trays out to the hall, which grants us a precious moment alone. I gave him the signal.

"What?" he whispers.

"Problem, Napoleon."

"Not safe?"

"Who knows? Napoleon, just before you woke...? I came out of a conference with a woman who identified herself as April Dancer."

"Identified herself?"

"Things are... strange." I think what she had said, then about our luxury rooms and fine dinners. Make that improbable. I rest back against the neck support. "Napoleon? Either we are in the most elaborate triple-think operation in the history of T.H.R.U.S.H. or.....we are really in trouble."

I stop . The nurse is back. With ice cream. It is vanilla, and excellent, and just as I remember. Some things, at least, are unchanged. We eat it without comment.

"Finished?" the nurse asks as my spoon hits the tray.

"Yes, thank you." I smile. My smiles do not always work as well as Napasha's. Still..

"I'll just clear this away. Now if there's anything you might want" which brings a smile and a *look* - "other then that, Mr. Solo - just buzz. The red button on the bed table?"

She turns to me. "If you want to return to your room, Mr. Kuryakin...."

"I would rather stay here." With my tone I make it - I am *going* to stay here.

"Well, visiting hours are officially over, but I suppose I can make an exception in your case. Would you care to watch TV?" A strange question. Before I could formulate an answer she hands me still another black box with buttons. "Just keep the sound low. People may be sleeping." She opens a wall cabinet to reveal the tube.

I wait until she was out of the room.

Napoleon gives the box an interested once-over.

"I believe that is a radio controller," I say, holding the box where he can see it.

"Interesting idea."

"Perhaps. They seem - very popular around here." I examine the face. More numbered buttons. Channels, I assume. The number is correct. Various arrows for volume and tone. Nothing marked on. "The red button , do you think?"

"The one marked power? Try it."

I do. The screen roars to life. In color. Reasonable. Given the other luxuries here, they could be expected to provide a color set. It was some music program. The screen showed a man playing a violin. I push the volume button a few times. Not too much, I have no wish to attract the nurse.

"There, enough noise to cover our conversation." I lean closer to Napoleon. "According to the April woman we are in Russia. In summer of the year 2001. She said the we had been - suspended in animation was the term she used - by Professor Grimlove."

"What!" He drops his voice again. "Illya."

"I did not believe it either. It is impossible. But the woman named April was most convincing." I hesitate, then..."She... looked like April would in her late fifties. I think. She sounded like her. She recognized and responded to all our body codes. I handed her my tea glass, while it was hot, and .... I believe she had April's fingerprints."

"Still. How gullible do they think we can be?"

No answer for that. My hand tightens on the box, which brings a instant change to the sound. "The arrow buttons would appear to change the channel." This time it was some woman in a hat, kneeling beside some flowers. A gardener? She is too well dressed for a real farmer, but perhaps she is an actress in some show on agricultural production.

"Try it again." Napoleon says. "See what we can get."

"They will be doctored signals."

"Even so..." He holds out his hand for the box. I give it to him. *click*click*click* He stops at the image of a woman behind a desk. A news show. Good choice. Even disinformation can inform. She is pretty, and the presentation is very fast and colorful, with many films inserted. I watch with.....well....

`Chechen rebels attack home in Grosney'?

`Headless body found outside Kiev'?

I look at Napasha.

`Court delays espionage trail at *lawyers* request?'

`State gas company to repurchase stock in effort to raise value of shares.'?

He looks at me.

`President Vladimir Putin meets with German Chancellor Gherhard Schroeder.'

We look at each other.

"President Vladimir Putin?" My voice rises, incredulous. "Of Russia?"

"Brother, wasn't he?" Napoleon asks. It is not really a question.

"From enforcement." I consider the chances. Not likely, but... "It does look like him."

The television continues in the background, almost ignored except...

"Napoleon." I look over. "Did she just say `Polish Command of NATO'?"

"Illya, I think we are in a lot of trouble."

This must be psy-ops, but..."Check the other channels."

He clicks again. Annoying music, strange angles, and young people dancing. I am confused until the camera pans in on one young woman's buttock. It is an ad for Levi jeans.

"Napoleon, now I *know* we are in a lot of trouble."


Chapter Five: Splish Splash

I return to awareness when the television stops. "Mr. Kuryakin?" The nurse is calling from just out of arms reach. "You really should return to your room now. It's late, and you both need your rest."

I check the window. Light still comes through, but the color is wrong. Field lights, I decide. What sky I can see is quite dark, although the cloud cover that blocks the stars does show a certain reflected glow. Likely there is a city nearby.

"I do not wish to leave." My tone makes it I have no intention of leaving - under any circumstances.

She seems a bit nonplused by my answer. Reasonable. Military nurses, even more then their civilian counterparts, are accustomed to compliance. She pauses, about to argue. I give her my frostiest glare.

"Oh...well.." She tries to meet my eyes. "Let me check with your doctor." Another assessing look, and then she is out the door.

"Why did you...?" Napoleon starts.

"To see what will happen." I answer. "I do not believe either T.H.R.U.S.H. - or the K.G.B. - would welcome defiance."

"So you gave them some."

A habit which some argue explains my familiarity with hospitals. No matter. I have always felt information was worth the price. We have no further time for conversation, as the nurse returns with her answer. From her sour expression, that answer does not well suit her - but at least the responsibility is now off her back.

"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. Dr. Goldak insists you shouldn't be stressed. I'll have the orderlies bring in another bed." She pauses, then adds sternly. "But in return, I want your word that you will get some sleep. Not stay up all night watching old movies."

Napoleon smiles. She does not.

"Agreed?"

I nod. I had not realized a movie had been on.

"Here." She reaches for the handles on my chair, rolling me out of the way of the two orderlies and a nurse who now come in with another hospital bed. "Let me help you, Mr. Kuryakin."

With the sudden movement, my intestines reminded me of my very substantial dinner.

"Bathroom?"

"I'm sorry. Of course.. How about you Mr. Solo?"

His smile takes on a pained edge. "Please."

She gestures at the larger of the green-clad men. "Nurse Fazilat will help you while I get some fresh pajamas."

He looks us over, then rolls another chair up to Napoleon's bed. "You first, Mr. Solo." The man says in decent if heavily accented English. "Give room for others to work."

Reasonable. Solo makes no protest as they go through the transfer ritual. Like me, he has done this before. More often then I would prefer to remember.

As soon as Napoleon is out of the bed, the female nurse strips and replaces the sheets. When that was done she made up the other bed for me. White sheets and extra pillows. Very impressive. We are fortunate that we are in such a fine hospital. There is plenty of room for an extra bed. Of course, in a less fine hospital, we might have had to *share* a bed. I clear my mind. This is neither the time or place for such thoughts.

By the time they are finished Nurse Fazilat returns with Napoleon. The whole transfer ritual is repeated in reverse as he efficiently helps Napoleon back into bed. Then he turns to me.

"Ready, Mr. Kuryakin?"

We go through the same seating process. And the same unseating process in Napoleon's bathroom. This time Nurse Fazilat has the professionalism to turn away unasked, which I appreciate. I am growing stronger by the minute, which explains why I am also feeling... dry. No, dirty. I do not like to feel dirty. Perhaps? I look at the tiled cabinet.

"Shower?" I ask.

His gaze follows mine, then sweeps down my exposed limbs. "No dressings? Very well. If it will help you to sleep better."

He pulls a plastic armchair from a towel closet and places it in the shower, angling the seat so the back was supported by two walls. Then he brings up my wheelchair.

"I can walk." I tell him.

"That would make this easier, but hold on to my arm. If you slip, I am the one who will take the fall."

Three steps and I am seated in comfort.

"Here", he says, handing me a thick terry washcloth and some soap. He starts the water, adjusting the temperature to be warm enough to relax muscles, but not scalding. Then he closes the curtain and sits down to wait.

The shower head is large, and attached to a long cable. The temperature handles are low, and designed to turn easily. A bit of adjustment to get the water hotter, and then the perfect rush of heat over my skin. A bit of investigation with a lever on the side, and I find that the water jet was adjustable. Even - I twist a knob - pulsating. I lean back into the throbbing pressure and sigh. If this is the future, Soviet technology has made some wonderful strides. I wonder briefly if such things are exported to America. Perhaps I could bring one back with me? My bathroom is small, but Napasha's shower is almost as large as this one.

I reach up. My hair is very short now. I consider that. For some reason they must have cut it when I was drugged. No matter. It will grow. For now, it is easy to wash. I spare a thought for my favorite lemon shampoo. Soap will have to do. No chance that Soviet production has advanced that far.

I am grateful for the chair. Somehow today's walk of perhaps fifty yards is enough to start my calves aching as if I had run ten miles. I rub the soapy cloth over then, massaging out the knots. I twist my arms, feeling the burning sensation of shoulder muscles stiff from the absence of exercise. If it has not been an impossible six months, we have still been here longer then I would wish. I stretch my spine, estimating from the ache. A week at least. The rushing sensation is wonderful as the hot water pounds into my shoulders and chest. I aim the pulsing stream lower, then stop. No. Not now. Not here.

The tanks must be huge. There is still hot water when Fazilat calls in "Finished?"

"Yes." I answer. I suppose it would not be possible to say here all night. Besides, I have to return to Napoleon.

Once the water was off, Fazilat hands me a very large, very thick towel. Then another for my hair. The industrialization plan must have succeeded beyond expectations. I push the thought aside. This is *not* the Soviet future. This is a T.H.R.U.S.H. trap. Although - if it was the future - it would be a very nice one.

Nurse Fazilat offers me a soft pair of flannel pajamas to replace the hospital gown. Much better. Warm from the shower, I do not require the robe.

Ignoring both the chair and Fazilat's offered arm, I walk carefully back to my new bed. I will rest arm's length from Napasha. Very good.

Fazilat leaves, and Napoleon's nurse helps me into bed. "Comfortable?" she inquires.

"Yes."

She points to a button on the nightstand. "If you need to get up at night, buzz me. I do not wish you to fall and break any bones on my shift." Then she smiles. " You spies can do that on your own time." At the door, she pauses. "Anything else you would like?"

"Other then vodka and cigarettes?"

She laughs, reaching for the light switch. "This is a hospital. Put the remote away until morning - and get some sleep!"



Chapter Six: I Read it in a Magazine.

I listen carefully, waiting for the pause in the nurses step that would indicate surveillance, but the heel taps vanish steadily down the hall. Once they are gone, Napoleon sits up.

"Well. That was interesting. Who is Dr. Goldak?"

I shrug. "My psychiatrist. So he says."

"Ouch." Napoleon has the usual professional opinion of psy-ops agents. Which is not high.

"Agreed." It is an opinion I share, although not in public. "I don't know what Goldak's game is. He keeps going on about 'stress' - but so far, no one has tried anything." Personally, If I wanted to `stress' partners I would separate them. But...that is no longer my field. Phy-ops is always trying out new ideas. Could this be a preparation stage? If so, I find it ineffective. Perhaps instead they are hoping for incautious disclosures? In that case, there should be some surveillance. Cameras or tapes. I signal Napoleon that we will need to check the room.

He taps back his agreement. From the slight sounds of movement he is starting his isometric routine. I wish I could offer a massage, but this is neither the time or the place. No matter. He will manage. We have both learned how to move past pain.

Pulling the blanket over my head, I drape it over the pillow and my rolled-up robe. Not overly artistic, but perhaps enough to deceive a careless observer in this near-dark. Then I slip out the far side. My bed being a recent addition, there is a decent chance that side is in limited view to any unseen observers. At the very least, it is dark.

I follow the floorboards, feeling for lumps that might indicate covered wires. Nothing. I tap the wall, listening for the uneven echoes that mark cables and cameras. We dare take no chances. Even with the room `dark' enough light comes in through the windows to supply a sensitive lens. Nothing. By the time I reach Napoleon's side of the room I am convinced there are no recent installations. That means either no wires, or equipment so permanent as to have been built with the room. Either, of course, is possible. But which is likely?

I signal Napoleon, and he, too, stuffs his bed and rolls out to join me. Together we go through the many cupboards and drawers built in on his side. He is almost through the last one when he raises his hand. I freeze. What is it?

He slides over to show me his discovery. Someone has left a small pen-light in one drawer. From the black plastic cover, I assume it is for examining ears or throats. No matter. Now it will provide a source of shielded light.

Given light, I am able to check the mirror between the shelves. Not that I thought it a likely hiding place. From the position, it would appear attached directly to the outside wall. Still...I check. Nothing. Any cameras must be near invisible. Perhaps another excellent sign for the progress of Soviet engineering. I would be happier at that prospect if I was not the target of those advances. A final check of the ceiling molding. Nothing. I signal all clear. As best I can determine without electronics, the room is clean.

"Think this is Russia?" Napoleon whispers.

"No", I answer. "The accents are right but the details are wrong." I think back carefully. "The ham was likely German, not Polish. The butter was unsalted. Perhaps Danish. The Major's collar does not quite fit her tabs. The tires on this wheel chair say Goodyear. More then that - the entire story is quite ridiculous."

"So where do you think we are?"

"If this is July, Finland. I do not believe they could have built this large an installation in Northern Alaska without attracting...notice."

"Chances of that?"

"Well" I consider. "Going by muscle tone we could not have been drugged for more then a week - maximum two weeks. I checked carefully, and while there are some pressure marks I have no noticeable bedsores. You?"

"None. Given my weight loss , a week sounds about right. Ten days at most."

"Then this is still February. I saw the light both before and after noon. The shadow pattern was summer, and likely well towards the pole. So... if this is not July in Russia, it must be February in the southern hemisphere. To be that for from the equator, I would guess South America. Certain Australian islands are also possible, but the air does not smell of the sea."

"T.H.R.U.S.H.," Napoleon states.

"Stewart again." I agree. Stewart and his plans have been the source of many of our troubles.

Napoleon nods agreement. "If so, he may only have a limited number of `good actors." He considers. "Did you see what the nurse was reading?"

"Not clearly - but you are right. A periodical will have a date - perhaps even an address."

He slides to the door and rises up against the knob side. "Think there is anyone in these other rooms?"

"Not that I saw." I point to the latch side. "Nurse's desk."

He risks a glance. "Someone there. A woman. Reading."

I slip back to my bed, then return."Napoleon?" I whisper."I have an idea." I hold up the `cell-phone'. "The April woman gave me this."

"What?"

"She said it was a telephone. I think I remember the number of the phone in the briefing room. Let me see."

He holds the light while I punch the buttons. Nothing. Perhaps like the television? I press a red button and the band at top starts to glow. Well, that is something. I try the number again, and this time it appears in black letters against the green. Progress. But not quite... I try the other button. A buzz, followed by a series of rapid notes. It is transmitting. Now to see if my memory had served. I signal Napoleon to be ready.

I muffle the device with a pillow as the ringing in my hand is echoed by another down the hall. The sound of heels on concrete. Contact.

Napoleon vanishes.

I hear three more rings before a voice answers,"Gugarin Military Hospital, Wing 1S. May I help you?" I wait through two repetitions before I cut the power off. Hopefully, that is time enough.

Napoleon slides back through the door just as heels begin to sound in the hall.

"Here, look this over," he says, holding up a battered magazine. "This was in the trash"

"No cover." Which means no address or date, but perhaps the articles will give us some clues. It is in cyrillic, so he hands it to me. Napasha's spoken Russian is excellent, but the alphabet sometimes gives him problems.

"Any chance this is actually Russian?" he asks.

I scowl at the flashily undressed young woman hawking cigarettes on the first page.

Napoleon smiles. "Not your standard Soviet constructivism?"

"It must belong to the Poles; or to that Quinn idiot." I answer, breaking the spine and handing Napoleon half the pages. If he is determined to look at pictures , he will just have to cope with the grammar. Not that the literary level looked any more elevated then the art.

"Illya. Am I reading this right?" He points to a headline that proclaims `Exercise your Love Muscle' in blazing pink ink.

"I think so", I answer, "but...." I shake my head at the thoroughness and improbability of the charade.

We go back to reading.

"Napoleon?" I ask, looking at a bright blue headline.

"What?"

"Do you believe that redheads are the most passionate lovers?"

"What?"

"It is a study in this magazine." I point to the page.

He grabs it from my hand. "Who the hell did they find to study that?"

"Well" I ask. "Are they?"

"No", he answers, rolling the papers tightly and sliding them into the cabinet. "Blonds. Definitely blonds."

"Napoleon?"

What?" he asks.

"I think our captors are trying to drive us crazy."

"I think they're succeeding." He clicks off the light. Squeezing my hand gently, he adds. "We will deal with that tomorrow. For now - we should get some sleep."

We get some sleep.



Chapter Seven: Sweet Talking Guy

I wake to a bright light. Blinding. Hurting. Someone near. Turn, reach, and.....

"Good morning!".A cheerful voice chimes from the foot of my bed. "Let me get that shade." Napoleon's nurse walks over to the window. "Is that better. Sorry. We are on the south-east side, and the morning sun can be vicious in summer. I didn't mean to wake you."

"When?" I ask. It does not feel like I have slept at all. I notice Napoleon is also looking weary, and he is normally an early riser.

"Time? Five-thirty. Far too early, I agree. Just go back to sleep, and ring when you are ready for breakfast."

I roll over and grab the pillow when my stomach grumbles. Loudly. Enough so the nurse can hear.

"Sir." She looks distressed. "Why don't I get you some juice? Just to start." She looks at me, then at Napoleon.

He sits up. The mention of food has captured his interest.

"Orange?" she offers. " Or would you prefer pineapple? Or tomato?"

Napasha smiles. "You sound very....generous."

"Oh, Mr. Solo." She blushes. A dangerous habit for blondes. It is hard to conceal. "Behave!" She tries for exasperated. She succeeds at thrilled. " You have both lost weight, and I am under doctor's orders to see that you eat well."

Napasha catches the blush and moves in for the kill. "If you could help me out of bed?"

"Certainly." She eases one shoulder under his arm, only to gasp when she discovers where his hands wind up. "Watch the hands!" She blushes again, deeper this time. " We have all been warned about you."

Only fair. I wondered when *that* talent would find its way into his surveillance file.

"Behave, or I will call an orderly. Can you stand?" She turns to me. "I will help him first, Mr. Kuryakin. Unless you would prefer to return to your own room?"

"No." If Napasha is here, then this is my room.

"Then just rest a moment."

"I'll wait for you here." I agree, enjoying the show. We could both walk. Napasha is just enjoying his game. And he is *so* good at it. I hit the button to raise up the back of the bed so I can watch the show in comfort. Napoleon is milking the situation for all it is worth, leaning against her breasts and pretending to `stumble' so his hands can `slip'.

His game serves its purpose. She waits outside the bathroom, giving him a few moments alone. Not likely of much use now, but the knowledge that we *will* be left alone is itself of value. Even so, she is waiting the moment the door reopens.

"I will help you back into bed." He grins at that before she adds, "alone." Her voice swings between amusement and exasperation. "Really, Mr. Solo. Keep this up and I will report you for harassment." There is no heat in her tone. I smile to myself. I know just she feels.

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I can walk unassisted."

"Very well." I think she would like to argue, but she does not. " Just take my arm for balance. I'd hate to see you fall - you could end up in the hospital."

"Very funny." I allow her to help me out of bed, but not afterwards."I will call if I require aid." Apparently Ragsac has sent the word around, because she does not press the point.

I am still moving rather slowly, so by the time I am finished the nurse has been wherever and has returned with a basket of small boxes and cans. "I'll just leave this here, and you can help yourself." She points to a large card. "And here's the breakfast menu." She swats down Napasha's hand one more time and is gone.

"Illya." He is holding one box marked `Minute Maid'. "Check the dates on these cans." He hands me another marked `V8'. The top closure is a silver film marked `sell/by 10/10/02 . Someone is going to quite a lot of work to be convincing.

"Even if the date is correct." I pause, considering all I have seen. " Even if we are somehow in the future." Which I do *not* believe, but I will use it as a hypothesis. "That is no reason to assume we are *not* prisoners of T.H.R.U.S.H."

"Or someone else" Napoleon adds.

I look over the cans carefully. Then check the one marked `guava'. The dates match. "Do you think they are poisoned?" I ask.

"Probably not." He smiles. " Why bother?"

I consider the question. He is right. "Well, then.... I'll have the pineapple." It is excellent, and I am now aware of just how hungry I am. After I finish the peach nectar, I turn to Napoleon. "Did she say breakfast menu?"

"Yes. I think so." He picks up the white card.

I hold out my hand. "Let me see that." I scan the choices. Eggs, porridge, ham, sausage, German pancakes, Belgian waffles.. Belgian waffles? With bananas and raspberries?

"Napoleon?"

He turns. "I have reconsidered. This is not a T.H.R.U.S.H. plot. And this is not the future. We are dead. I am in heaven."

*****

"Brinng* I try the call button. The tapping of heels follows immediately.

"Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo. Ready for breakfast?"

"Yes." Napasha hands over the menu we have marked. "Would you know where my suit is?"

"Clothes?" She gives it a thought. "Not that I have seen, but I'm sure I can find something."

Napoleon offers her a smile for motivation. "Preferably something without the drafty back." He leans forward, flashing shoulder. "Even in summer, this place is not that warm."

She smiles back. "I'll see what I can do."

Damn, he is good.

******

This time we get to sit at a table with regular chairs. Two men in green set this up for us before removing the wheelchairs of last night. Another orderly brings our breakfast. He also waits while we eat, and clears it away afterwards. We do not see the nurse again until she reappears with what looks like a bundle of rags.

"No luck finding your stuff." She smiles at Napoleon. "So I borrowed some t-shirts and sweats from the intern's lounge." She shakes the items out for our inspection. Gym clothes. And not Pasha's designer versions. "Not much for looks, but at least they should be warmer." She looks at Napoleon, uncertain. "If you need some help, I should call the orderlies, but..."

"I will aid him if required." I answer.

"Oh....well" She hesitates. "Thanks. Ring if you need me. Or nursing is 2-16." She pauses again, but despite her eyelashes Napoleon gives her no further opening, so at last she leaves.

"Nike?" he asks, holding up a white work-out shirt lettered in flowing green. "Isn't that some Greek goddess?"

I catch a glimpse of the back, and I laugh. It is lettered there as well.

He turns the shirt around, and snorts. "Just do it?"

I try to look stern. "You already do enough." I consider my choices. "Pass me the black one. What, do you suppose, is an Addidas? I decide on the baggy black pants. No underwear, but that is not a problem because the fabric is very soft. And at least in black it is thick enough. Napoleon's pair is grey.

Finished, Napasha looks in the mirror. "Do you really think this is current fashion."

I shrug. "A lie would be more believable."

He tugs at the knit cuffs and gives himself another look. "Illya. I really am in a lot of trouble."



Chapter Eight: Electrical Banana
(It's Sure to be a Sudden Craze)


Warning: Kids, Do Not Try This At Home! The side effects of Electronic Muscle Stimulation are *sometimes* as described. Sort of. Involuntary responses can be painful. Think muscle cramp, not sex. EMS is a serious rehabilitation tool. No reputable therapist would use it for entertainment. Consult your own health care professional.

Napoleon and I are dressed - in a fashion - and we have finished all the juice. Television is possible, but frankly makes my head ache. There is no chess set. I am looking for a deck of cards when this morning's orderly returns, along with Ragsac and two other bruisers. Oh well, at least I had breakfast.

They are polite enough, but *very* insistent. Napoleon signals `go along'. We do not know where we are here. Perhaps a better chance to escape will appear as we are moved. That often happens. I concur.

Unfortunately, we travel only as far as the end of the hall. A fair sized room holding a large steel tank, two padded tables with straps, surfaces covered in plastic. This does not look good. Several more large men in green are there, along with a Asian woman. I hate when it's women. There always do the most damage.

They walk me to one uncomfortable looking table, and Napoleon to another. Even worse. I hate `team sports'.

"If you could just undress?" The woman holds out a towel. "This will really be easier without the clothes."

"Do I have a choice?" I ask. Just in case.

She shows her teeth. "Not really."

Perhaps she wishes for psychological advantage. This entire scenario, I remind myself, is likely a psy-ops operation. I nod. It will make no difference. I have fought naked before. I wrap the towel around my waist.

"Sit down please." Courteous, but the woman is clearly in charge. She positions herself just in front of where I have been seated, and says. "Hold out your arms like this."

Shocked, I do so. Out, up, forward, bend.The exercises are reassuringly familiar. Perhaps this is not T.H.R.U.S.H. after all.

"Not your first time for this?" She asks.

"I'm familiar with the concept."

"Excellent." She starts another series of moves. "It's always more effective when people know what to expect."

Napoleon shadows my moves at the next table. His trainer is one of the bruisers. Perhaps the nurse was being truthful when she said the staff had been warned about his charm.

The movements are not easy, and I am beginning to reconsider the prospects that this might indeed be torture - all be it in a strange form - when the third `therapist' calls out. "Time."

She points to the man standing in front of Napoleon. "Hot tub."

The other man helps open the freestanding steel tank surrounded by pipes. The water is bubbling , and I catch the sheen of oil on the surface. I tense as they guide Napoleon over. Boiling oil is a very nasty thing. Napasha touches the surface, sighs, and slides in. Obviously, it is not unendurable.

The dark-haired woman turns back with that smile that I do not trust. "And for you, Mr. Kuryakin, we have something really special."

I follow her through a door into a much smaller room. One `couch', flexible interrogation lamp, and a large device topped with cables. One pillow and a small blanket folded neatly on the only chair.

"Given your background, you should appreciate this."

I consider an escape, but...there are no visible restraints. And Napoleon is not in a good position. And we still do not know where we are. So - I glance at the wires. Very thin. They would break easily. And the door has no lock. Decided. If I see no restraints I will cooperate. For now.

"Lay down," she directs.

I do, sliding the pillow under my neck.

She opens the drawer and removes a small tube of thick gel. She smears it on the contact pads. I was right. Electricity. The size of the pads match the reddened spots I had observed in the shower. But why would you torture someone in a coma? Sense memory? If torture was even what they had in mind, which for some reason I was beginning to doubt. Just a little.

"Huum..." She ran a finger around the marks on one shoulder. "Damage. I'll have to try some new sites." The thought apparently displeased her. She continues to hem and hum as she fixed the pads to my shoulder, arms and legs. Finally she removed the towel covering my groin. "Bad," she muttered. "Not enough..." I felt a bit insulted. Perhaps I was not in top form, but I had seldom before recieved *that* criticism. I was relieved when the finger poked again. Apparently she was referring to the red patches at the top of each hip. Better. I took no particular pride in my hips. After a few more thumps, she finally places the new pads slightly in.

"Stay still now. I wouldn't want the pads to slip." She turns to the machine. A red light flashes, then a green. I hear the hum, and feel a slight tingle at the contacts where the current passes. I observe a few twitches of involuntary muscle response. Nothing severe. "Tell me if this hurts."

Tell her what? I would tell her nothing!

"Here is the call button." She turns one more dial, covers me with a towel, and leaves.

I ignore it. I would not give her the satisfaction.

More green lights come on as the current gets stronger. There is a gauge on the side indicating voltage. Rather large numbers. Very large. The amperage must be low.

Very interesting. I watch my toes twitch with each swing of the needle. Standard neurological response. But why? To cause later sensitivity? The program seems unnecessarily complex. Treatment? I can think of no positive reason to wish one's limbs to jerk like a pithed frog's. Still, it is *not* unpleasant. I lean back. Not unpleasant at all. In fact? Another pulse, then a tingle, and I become aware of a movement below the terry cloth. I pull the fabric away.

The current has somehow shifted course. Interesting. I watch the needle swing and feel my cock contract in response. A very peculiar sensation, but not - I decide after some thought - in any way painful. Just...different. The sensation is centered at the root, almost in my balls. Not in the head as customary.

Strange, I decide, but not bad. Not bad at all.

The current has a rhythm of sorts, Two light jolts, one heavy. Then a pause. It is...erotic.

I lean back, pressing my thighs together a bit to ease the tickle in my balls. It helps - somewhat. But the pressure seems to intensify the contact.

Each pulse of current brings a certain numbness, so it is a while before I notice my cock beginning to fill. I watch with a certain detachment as it curls up, shading red, then towards purple as the blood swells the head. A drop of pre-cum beads on the tip.

The needle swings, and I feel a sharp charge slice up the underside of my cock. My foreskin pulls back in sympathetic response. Obviously semen is an excellent conductor.

With each pulse a new surge of blood presses against the sensitive head, reminding me of how long it has been since Napasha and I were safe in New York.

I would reach down, but the tangle of wires limits my movement. I do *not* wish to risk a sudden shock. Not at these levels. Not there. Not now.

Another surge. Shoulders twitch, thighs twitch, and half a pulse behind my cock twitches. I watch it jerk forward, each movement coordinated with the swing of the needle on the electrical machine. And with each twitch a new drop of fluid leaks out to catch more of the current.

I grip the side of the table, watching the needle and counting the surges that now seem to race solely to my groin. I breath deeply. I will *not* moan. This is *not* unendurable!

My balls jerk up, twisting in response to the electric waves. I close my eyes as a final surge of current sends a shower of seed splashing onto my chest. Clear and white. It looks healthy.

I taste a bit. Same as always. At least it doesn't *seem* burned. I decide that there has been no damage. And my release seems to have altered the circuit again. I watch my twitching toes with a sense of calm.

With the towel, I clean up as best I can. I still feel sticky. Perhaps I should ask to try Napoleon's tub. But how would I phrase the request?

A tap at the door. I roll the towel and toss it under the bed.

I have just steadied my breathing when the Asian woman enters. She looks at my now-bare body, and hands me a robe.

"Sorry," she says. "Were you hot in here?



Chapter Nine: Nowhere Man

Major Hovsepian is there when we reach our room.

"Mr. Kuryakin." She nods. "Mr. Solo." She holds out her hand. "Good to see you looking so spry."

He takes it gently. Napoleon has made an art form of shaking hands with women. From her expression, that art loses nothing when translated into Russian. I do not know whether to be pleased or annoyed. I supposed that will depend on the Major's actual affiliation.

"Our clothes?" Napasha smiles, radiating charm.

The Major smiles back. "I'm afraid yours did not come through in the best order. We took them to the lab, and while I'm sure you can have then back...."

"You won't want them." A familiar voice finishes.

"April????" Napoleon spins.

The woman called April Dancer is standing in the doorway. "It's me, Napoleon. In the no-longer-twenty flesh."

"I don't believe..." He gestures, referring either to her presence or her appearance. Perhaps both.

"Of course not." She drops into a chair and checks through the juice cans, abandoning the quest when she finds them all empty. "I wouldn't believe it either. And there's no reason you should."

The nurse observes April's search, leaves for a moment, and comes back with a fresh basket and clean glasses. Good. My previous ... exercise has left me rather drained.

"Please, Ms. Dancer." The short man in the white jacket from yesterday's briefing has come in behind her. He sounds pained.

"No reason at all," she counters. "Whatever Dr. Goldak may say to the contrary."

"You're here for our de-briefing?" Napoleon asks, helping himself to a fresh can of mango nectar and tossing the pineapple to me.

"Don't be silly." She waves at chairs, inviting us to be seated. "There is no way either of you are going to say anything. Not under these suspicious circumstances. Which I respect." She takes a deep swallow before putting down the glass. "I won't put you to the work of making up convincing lies."

Napoleon takes the chair beside her. "When will we be returning to New York?" he asks.

"New York?" She discovers a sudden interest her glass. "Any time you want."

"But not U.N.C.L.E. ?" It is not a question.

April Dancer hesitates, then; "That might be a bit more complicated. Not something we need to deal with today." She pulls two large envelopes out of her purse. " While you do not yet believe it, it is in fact the year 2001. Which gives us a few complications, as I don't believe either of you could convincingly pass for 60. So..."

She hands the envelopes to Napoleon, who passed the one marked INK to me.

"Updated birth certificates, passports, drivers licenses, checkbook, bank and credit cards. Pocket cash. All quite valid. We thought you would like to keep your names."

I count the cash. 10,000 in American dollars, 16,000 in Swiss francs, more then 200,000 in rather strange looking notes bearing the emblem for rubles. If these were equal amounts? I left the math for later. Then I wondered when T.H.R.U.S.H. had added counterfeiting to their schemes. If in fact they had. This was getting stranger by the minute.

"Officially, you gentleman have both been on active status , so your checks have been deposited to your accounts. Just as before. That should provide you with at least some resources."

Dancer looks at the Major, who hands me another envelope. This one was thinner. Slightly.

"Mr. Kuryakin, with you we may have one slight problem."

Major Hovsepian steps forward, very formal. A bad sign. "In view of your.. affiliations, we decided on a Russian passport. But you were born in Kiev. If you would prefer to be a Ukrainian citizen?" She pauses. I say nothing. "We....believe you have that right. And we will work something out. Somehow."

April nods. "Ambassador Dabaghin can be a bit ... difficult..... but we do have higher resources."

Was this some strange test of my loyalty? "Russian ...is fine."

The April woman looks relieved. "Just think about it. There's no rush. The British one is also valid, so you should not have any problems." She motions for the Major to continue.

Major Hovsepian clears her throat. "The other question is.... I'm sorry, but while you were gone we retired you from the Navy."

"Retired me?"

"You had an uneventful career as a submarine Commander. What can I say?" She shrugs, suddenly very human. "They needed to make some force reductions, and people who don't exist are easy to reassign. Also it saved money. It is possible that you could challenge this..

"No." I reply. "Retired is....fine."

"Good." Now Major Hovsepian looks relieved. "I truly do not need a fight with Admiral Voronkhin." From the looks they exchange, April Dancer agrees. " If you could read over the letter in your packet, and sign it sometime before you leave ? It's your formal request for separation." Her tone takes the smug sound of one from a superior service. "The Navy is in love with its paperwork."

I open the packet. She is apparently telling the truth. The first stack starts with a retirement form dated 1984. Apparently I am now a thirty year man. Another envelope is folded beneath it. I pull it out and unfold the layered papers.

"The other is your resignation from the KGB. April of 1993 as a General Officer. That one is optional." She hesitates, then adds. "I assure you, the services would be very happy to have you back. I'm sure we could find a place for a man with your talents. It's just that.."

"More budget cuts?"

"Exactly. Also - you reached mandatory retirement age."

I read the letter. It says I wish to 'pursue other career options'. "You want me to sign this?" I ask.

She smiles."If you would."

"I do not know...."

"Then do not." Dr. Goldak speaks up. "There is no need for hasty decisions."

The Major's smile falters a bit, then turns persuasive. "You can always rejoin later - if you want to."

"I will think about it." That is true enough. This game is getting very complex, and I suspect the wrong move could be lethal indeed.

Napoleon has finished counting his cash, and has stowed the papers and wallet in his various pockets. "Is that it?" he asks.

"Hardly." The April woman replies. "But that's it for now."

******

They are leaving when Napoleon stops her. "April?"

She turns back.

He hesitates, then asks. "My... family?"

"All fine." she answers, a touch too quickly for my tastes. " Except....I'm sorry, Napoleon. Your Aunt Rebecca passed away in 1986." She came over and patted his shoulder. "Your sister is a bit frail. She had a stroke last winter. But she's still at home. Both of your nieces are married, and doing well, and your brother-in-law just ran for the Vermont State Assembly." She laughs at that. "Lost by a landslide, but still.."

"It's an honor to be asked." Napasha finishes. "Can I see them?"

"I can't stop you."

His face shows nothing beyond his usual mild interest, but I have grown adept at reading where others can not. That was not the answer he had hoped for.

"Napoleon." April sits down again. " We don't exactly have a lot of experience in this. We're making it up as be go along. So - use your best judgment. You know them better then we can, and your professional assessment has always been...flawless. If you think they can stay quiet..?" She takes a deep breath. "Just... be discrete. It's much better for all of us that way. If you make the tabloids, I will have to disavow you. I really don't want to do that. Not when we have you back again."

"Mark?" he asks.

"My old partner?" She smiles again, clearly glad to be on safer ground. "Mark retired back in 1980. Just after Waverly..." A cloud passes over her eyes. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. We lost Mr. Waverly back in 1978. But Mark is doing fine. Nowadays he teaches international policy at Berkeley. Lectures on the evils of espionage. Occasionally pickets the CIA building. He's very happy - and I know he'd love to see you."

She takes a breath, searching for something more to say. Then she *really* smiles. "I just remembered. U.N.C.L.E. policy always required at least two weeks down - time after a long mission. I think this one qualifies. Why don't you take some time and go see him?" She pulls out a card and scribbles something on the back. "Call me in New York after you've had time to settle in and think things over."

She closes her purse and stands up again. "Illya?" she says to me. "Take care of him."

"I always do." I answer.



Chapter Ten: Tell Me True

After they left it was Dr. Bastajian's turn. Me first, then Napoleon. The doctor thumped, and poked, and jabbed fingers. The usual medical drill. I have always hated doctors, but this familiar annoyance was almost reassuring.

"So, Doctor?, " Napoleon asks, rather pro-forma. "Are we free to leave?"

"If you insist. But with these blood gases?" Bastajian shakes his head. "You should not drive until the dizziness has abated completely. I would rather you waited another two days, rest, get back on a regular diet." He flips through the chart, frowning. "With the lung damage? At least a week if you intend to fly anywhere."

"What about a pass into town." Napasha pulls again at his cuffs. "I do not intend to dress like this forever."

"Perhaps if someone else drove?" came a voice from the opening door.

"Major Hovsepian?" Dr. Bastajian did not sound particularly pleased to see her.

"Please." She ignores the doctor and walks over to Napasha. "Yelena Sergiova."

"Napoleon." He replies warmly. "My friends call me Leo."

"I had planned on going in to town tomorrow morning. Of course, on Sunday many of the stores will be closed... but not all of them. I usually leave at 8:30." Her smile grew wider. "Is that too early?"

"Not at all, my dear Yelena Sergiova."

"Wonderful. You can join me for 9:30 mass if you would like, and afterwards we can cruise the arbat. The food is good, and at the least you can pick up some decent jeans." She grimaces at his outfit. Apparently even here Napoleon's fashion sense remaines infallible. "Do you have rubles?" She asks, and practically beams when he nods. " Good. Not everyone takes dollars."

From her body language she would be quite delighted to settle in and discuss the currency exchange, or fashion, or just about anything that would hold Napasha's interest. One of the flip sides of his charm. The effect can be a bit hard to turn off. And just now the lady is one more obstacle to our privacy. In the end I solve the problem by lowering myself into a chair and looking pale. Dr. Bastajian quickly herds the major out, insisting we both need more rest.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

"Did she just say what I thought she said?" he asks.

"I heard her." I admit.

"This is incredible." He takes the chair beside me. "What do you think they are up to?"

"I don't know. It will be interesting to see what excuse she makes for not going in to town." I considered that for a while. Their efforts to keep us here might become `interesting'. All the more reason to wish to leave.

"What should we do next?"

"I don't know about you," Napoleon answers, "but Mr. Quinn called while you were in the tub and asked me to meet him for coffee."

"Dr. Goldak has implied as much to me. Interesting."

"I think so." Napasha pushes his chair back. "I think it's time for both of us to meet with our `brothers'."

*************

I stop by the secretary's desk, but she just waves me on. Obviously, I am better recognized then my introductions should have justified.

"General Safaryan?"

He rises from behind his desk to shake my hand. "Can I help you, Mr. Kuryakin?" He waves to a chair in front of his desk. I sit.

"Perhaps." I consider how to best phrase my questions. Finally..."Does the KGB really want me to ... leave?"

"Of course not!" The General responds, looking suitably horrified. "Please! Major Hovsepian did not mean to insult you in any way, and if she did..... well, I am honestly sorry. We very much respect and appreciate you service. We truly do. I've read your files - what I have clearance for - and I am frankly impressed. No one would ever *want* to lose an officer of your caliber. It's just that....." He waves again.

"Things have changed?"

"Exactly." He sounds relieved at my supposed understanding. "Not to say that there isn't a place for you. There is. You could teach. Or do research. Or even go back into the field. Men with your talents are too rare to be parted with easily." He steps to the samovar, pours a glass of tea, and offers me one. I accept, nodding my thanks.

I sip deeply, then ask the question that has been constantly on my mind. "But they will part with me?"

General Safaryan sits back behind his desk. "What choice do they have?"

We both drink in silence while I consider his answers.

He speaks first. "Don't sign anything now. Just rest and recenter yourself. Then, once you are clear on things..." He raised his glass in a mock toast. " I will *gladly* be the one to call Moscow and tell them Illya Kuryakin is coming home."

"And my partner?"

"Mr. Solo? Do you think.."General Safaryan rubs his chin slowly. "I don't know what relationship Mr. Solo may have to other organizations in his own country," he says carefully. "I do not have the authority to...shall we say 'offend' any allies, but if for some reason Mr. Solo *wanted* to stay in Russia, well.... he is also a man of many valuable talents. I would be delighted to pass that question to Moscow as well." He looks at me speculatively. "Do you think I should?"

"Not..yet," I answer carefully.

"Very well." He sits back, content. "Dr. Bastajian mentioned that you are going into town with Major Hovsepian tomorrow." He makes it a question.

"I need something to wear." He may take that as an answer.

Safaryan nods. "I'd offer you a General's uniform, but I'm told when the merchants see that - the price goes up."

***************

I am in our room reading the Grimlove report when Napoleon comes in. Trying to read it rather. Most of the verbage is dissolving into an exhausted blurr. Not that I would admit as much. I smile at Napasha as he takes the chair beside me.

"Illya, are we in trouble?"

"I do not know. General Safaryan said I should hold off on the resignation until I was 'centered' - whatever that means - and if you want you stay in Russia that's fine with him."

"Then it's a recruitment."

I consider that. "Possibly, but if so its the most casual one I have ever encountered. What did Quinn say?"

"About the some thing. We should take a long vacation, and afterwards, they will talk to me about a job. Oh, and I should remind you that your U.S. residence is still quite valid."

So much for Hovsepian and Quinn. The important question is "What do you think happened to U.N.C.L.E.?"

"U.N.C.L.E.?" Napasha sounds shocked. "Nothing. You don't really think this is 2001, do you?"

"No." I reply slowly. "But....if it is?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You are the scientist on this team."

"I know." I answer, putting down the book I have been studying. "I studied his machine, both then and now, and in theory...... it might be possible to create a state of temporal flux, given enough power... and if....."

"Illya," he growls in his `command' voice. "This is some elaborate triple-think operation. I'd like to know who's behind it and what they are up to, but right now the first order of business is to get to U.N.C.L.E. and tell them we're coming home."

"That's what the General said." I look down at the envelope full of papers. "He wanted to tell Moscow that Illya Kuryakin is coming home." So did I, but more than that I wanted to know......where that home was.

*******

I have scant time to worry on that point. For people not under surveillance, it is amazing how little time Napoleon and I manage to get alone.

"Dinner , Napoleon." The pretty nurse is back. "Something light, since Ms. Chan says she wants to work you over some more this evening. She hands us something that resembles a cross between potato soup and a day-old milkshake. The food service is definitely going downhill.

"The Asian lady?" Napasha gives the metal glass a suspicious glare. "This was her idea?"

The nurse giggles. "Who else? She told Major Hovsepian not to expect results if she will not give her time to work on you, and that this morning she barely got started."

"Did she?" he asks.

I taste the potion. It tastes like salted chalk. If the intent is torture, this `dinner' is a good start.

"Yes." The nurse hands Napoleon a straw. "But the Major said you were hers all day tomorrow, so if Chan wanted a shot at you she would just have to stay late tonight."

"And what did Miss Chan have to say to that?" Napoleon asks.

"She said she'd take it." The young woman shrugs as she collects the empty juice cans and drops them into the dinner cart. " What choice did she have? I mean, Moscow's not going to like it if they spend all that money to bring her out here, and then she just sits on her ass all day." Which, from the tone, Chan *had* done. "But she wasn't happy. She even went to the General, but he said it was Major Hovsepian's project, and let her run it. So then she was *really* mad." The volume drops, confidential. "Chan and her people aren't really part of us, if you know what I mean. They brought her in just for you two. But with you sleeping so long...well.. she didn't get much opportunity to show off."

Napoleon rewards her with his most charming smile. "And now?"

"Now she's really annoyed! You better watch out, or she'll take it out on you. And on the rest of us."

I gulp down the swill as Ragsac and his companions appear at the door. "Are you ready?" The orderly hands over two limp green rags. "You are to put these on."

Napoleon's nurse seems pleased. "Good idea. I'll take your outfits down to laundry. If I rush, they can have them back for you by morning."

So that is that. Another trip down the hall.

The woman named Chan is waiting for us. This time she starts with the boiling oil. After the first shock it is really quite pleasant. With a towel rolled behind my neck, I lean back to observe. Napoleon is on the table in front of me. He is getting a massage. From the occasional grunts it may be a bit enthusiastic, but it *is* a massage. I am beginning to accept that this agent - at least - wishes us well.

When Chan calls `time' Ragsac presses a white strip against my forehead, then hands me a towel. It is time for the changing of the guard. I am not enthusiastic, but I allow them to lay me on the other table. After the heat, the cool air is rather pleasant.

My masseur learned his art in the same school as his comrade. Lucky for him Russia is a socialist country. This man could never make a living in Sweden. I am again reconsidering their intent when Miss Chan comes by. "Mr. Kuryakin" She pokes me as a housewife would a plucked chicken. " Nice and relaxed. Good."

"Your earlier therapy was most effective," I answer, keeping all tone from my voice. Let her wonder what I mean.

She nods at my masseur. "Twenty more minutes." That decided, she walks over to where the other hulk is apparently attempting to dislocate one of my partner's shoulders. It least, that is what it looks like from here. She gives Napoleon a look, then a tug. "We need to work on your range a bit, Mr. Solo." She thumps his back like a melon." Would you like to go with more massage or some EMS.?"

He looks up, uncertain.

"Napoleon." I volunteer. "Try the electricity."



Note: Illya might not be *quite* this ignorant of church services, but I don't think he would have ever seen one in Russian. I have. The music really is wonderful. If you ever get the chance to attend an Orthodox service - take it.



Chapter Eleven: Going to the Chapel

Oh. Disclaimer: Patriarch Alexy II is a real person, and I don't own him either. I think he's famous enough that I don't have to say that - but better safe then sorry.

I would wish to talk to Napoleon, but by the time Chan is finished it is all we can manage to drag ourselves from therapy to the bathroom to our beds. If I were back on station, I think I would ask for the wheelchair again. But here? I will not give her the satisfaction. Neither will Napoleon. But the result is that both of us are out almost before our heads hit our pillows.

Yesterday's clothes are waiting for us when we wake, along with uniform shoes and very ugly grey socks. I do not complain. They will at least make it possible to walk outside.

I shower and dress quickly. It is later then I had anticipated, and I do not know how much time we will have. As it is, I am barely decent when Major Hovsepian taps on the door.

"Good morning Gentleman. Ready to go?" She stands there in Levis and a loose knit shirt very similar to ours. Perhaps that magazine was not as deceptive as I had assumed. I glance down at the `fashion' I have on. I am not Pasha, but lifetime of such outfits is not a pleasant thought.

She smiles at Napoleon and they off down the hall, lightly saluting the sentinel outside the door as she passes. I follow, curious to see how far we will go.

A small brown car is parked outside. She opens the passenger door, then motions for us to get in. I take the back. She smiles. Naturally. Napoleon is the one she wishes to have sit beside her.

"Sorry for the car," she says as she settles into the driver's seat. "I could have checked one from motor pool, but I prefer to drive my own. Small, I know. But at least it's not a Yugo."

The roads are bad. Major Yellena's driving is worse. Even compared to Napoleon, she is reckless. No wonder she wanted a fast car. Not everyone shares her objection to a Yugo. There are enough of them on the road. Likewise Fords, BMW's, Mercedes, and Volvos. Along with other unknown models. And trucks. About the only make I do not see is the Zill limo. Perhaps all the officials are taking the day off?

The roadside is forested, primarily scrub and pine. That would fit with the near polar climate in summer. I try, but I cannot remember the foliage expected in South America. But...... I notice a sign at a crossroad... in Cyrillic..... this certainly *looks* like northern Russia.

I have ignored their chatting, but now I ask. "Excuse me, but.. what is the name of this town we are going to?"

The Major looks back, surprised. "Don't you know? Oh. I guess this hospital was not built when you....left. We are in the suburbs just outside St. Petersburg."

"St. Petersburg?" I repeat.

"Petrograd, isn't that what you called it? She pauses. "But no one call it that any more."

"Leningrad," I mutter under my voice.

"So." Napoleon easily recaptures her attention. "Where are we going first."

"I generally go to church at Saint Sophia's,"she answers. "Nearer the base, and far better parking. Today I thought we could go in to Saint Isaac's. That way I only have to park once. As long as you don't object to a bit if a walk?"

That gets my attention. "You... are a Christian?"

"No. Straight Russian Orthodox." She shrugs. "A lot of us are. The service tends to make people conservative - or maybe that is just who is attracted to the service. Good question for the recruiters, no?" She smiles at Napoleon. "But I'm not at all assuming you are. If you would care to go somewhere else? Or even nowhere?"

Except to her room, I think, but I only ask "This isn't a problem?"

She shakes her head. "I think I could find almost anything in downtown St. Petersburg. Or I could check the phone book."

What can I say? She has the car. And the map. "St. Isaac's will be...fine."

"Great." She turns back to Napoleon. "I just love the music there. That alone makes it worthwhile to pay for parking."

*********

I must admit, this looks like St. Isaac's. Same pillars, same carving, same gold dome. Not that I am ignorant of the Potempkin village. Still. This seems like a great deal of bother. Even for T.H.R.U.S.H.

We arrive early. I think. At least the parking lot is reasonably empty. Napoleon pays the attendant while Major Hovsepian makes vague threats about what will happen should her car not be properly watched. I rethink South America. Except for the architecture, perhaps we are back in New York.

We follow the Major as she avoids the main door and heads for a smaller portal on the nearest side. A short passage leads to the inner door, then we are inside. The huge room is covered with frescoes and mosaics. Impressive. Of course, I do not know what the inside of the original is supposed to look like, but if this is not it? I decide not to worry yet. Whatever will happen, for now it is best just to watch.

"We are here early." She summons Napoleon to a bench near the platform. "So we get the good seats - near the front."

I suppose they are good seats. At least they appear to be in demand, as the area around us fills quickly. I wonder what type of performance we should expect to draw such an audience. The lights dim and organ music begins. I sit back. It would appear I am about to find out.

********

Several dark garbed men march up the center row, flanked by candles. The outfits look historical. Something like Rasputin. The music is followed by some sort of group recitation. Difficult to make out over the clicks of a misadjusted sound system. I do not know the words, but the major does. At any rate, she recites with enthusiasm. Personally, I feel it could be better coordinated. I consider that. The entrance had also seemed poorly organized. Perhaps this is not one of the more professional performances.

Several of the men make speeches, which the squeal on the sound system renders impossible to understand. The old man talks longest. Then he reads. Then he talks some more. The major appears enthralled. I do not see the attraction.

Then they sing. Then everyone else sings. Napoleon has an excellent voice, even if he does not know the songs. I ignore the words and just enjoy the sound.

Finally they start serving some sort of beverage. From a single cup. The Major suggest we join the line going up to drink. I decline. It strikes me as very unsanitary. When Napoleon does likewise, she decides to remain seated with us. I am sorry if she is disappointed, but Napasha can buy her a drink later.

After about an hour the group on the stage takes their bows and leaves, marching out the way they came in. No one applauds. Very rude. Not that the performance deserves much reward, but I would think? Whatever. Perhaps it is not the custom.

We sit a while, waiting for the crowd to clear. The major looks at us, expectant.

"That was.....interesting," I say finally.

"Wasn't it?" She looks enthusiastically at Napoleon. "Patriarch Alexy II is such a wonderful speaker. We were lucky we came early enough to find a seat."

"Clever of you." Napoleon flatters. I just nod.

She points to the other door. "If you are up to a walk? It's about a mile to the Arbat. But I know a nice little restaurant there. Blini with caviar and sour cream. Sometimes you have to wait - but it's worth it."



Chapter Twelve: A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

Chapter 12 Note: The word `gypsy' does not mean Romany (an ethnic group). It is used through most of Eastern Europe ( and some of the West) as a general term of low esteem. Arbat is used in the generic, as we would use the term `flea market'.


It is late, and I have not had breakfast. Major Yelena buys three perogies from a man on the sidewalk near the gate."Here." She says as she hands them to us. " Just a little something on the way. You don't want to ruin your appetite."

I take a sniff. Cabbage and cheese. Excellent. These ruin my appetite? Not when we are going to hike half way to the Volga. Still, the exercise loosens up my legs, and by the time we pass the Admiralty Park I am feeling very good indeed. Most of the buildings are offices, and closed, but where she stops it looks like the space has been over-run by a gypsy caravan. There are booths, and tables, and people everywhere.

"This is the Arbat?" I ask.

"Quite a mob scene." She pulls me away from a table loaded with radios. The sound is appalling. "Watch out for the electronics. All garbage. And I wouldn't guarantee all the food." Which is not comforting, as we are supposedly here for lunch. "But if you know where to look you can find some wonderful fashion. I know mostly the women's shops, but the people I know will know who you should see... for a commission, of course." She weaves past an untalented group of musicians, clearly intent on some destination. We can only follow.

"A commission?" I ask when I catch up with her.

"If you would eat fish, you must get in to the water." She laughs. "They will expect one - and I will expect one too. That is business."

Which makes me question what business she is in.

I stop again by a kiosk of magazines. Perhaps I can find a copy of Astrophysica, or something else worthwhile to read while Napoleon tries on suits. I have been shopping with my partner before. It is never an expeditious process. I am flipping through an import called `Science Digest' when I feel a pressure on my pocket. Without thought, my flattened hand whips down.

*THWAAAK*

"Aaah"

Both Napoleon and the Major turn at the sound.

"Oh", Major Yelena says. "And there are pickpockets everywhere." She looks at the man who is now holding his wrist rather then my wallet. "Try not to break any arms. I could handle the local police - but it is better to avoid the trouble."

The would be thief vanished into the crowd, even less interested in `trouble' then the Major. She watches him go, debating the prospect of his arrest and quite clearly deciding againt it. "Excuse me, gentlemen," she says suddenly. Then she takes off again. Napoleon puts down his copy of Moda Itallia and follows. So I get no magazines. Perhaps, I think, after lunch.

We catch up to her not in a restaurant, but in an alley off the main street, where she has backed a black-clad young man against the wall. He is drunk, and clearly unhappy, but as neither he nor his flashily dressed companion is bleeding, I do not quite understand her rage.

"Private Slovak!"

The young man tries to come to attention, but he wobbles. "Wha? Ma'am? That you?"

"Private Slovak , you are drunk!"

"No ma'am, I just....." He shifts the bottle behind his back.

"Do not lie to me!"

"No ma'am." He tries again to come to attention,and this time to bottle drops to the pavement.

"You are drunk!" she repeats.

He nods, careful of his head. "Yes ma'am."

"You are disgusting!"

"Yes ma'am."

"Your pass is revoked. Consider yourself on report as of now!"

"Yes ma'am." He attempts a salute, but manages to hit only his nose, then the gypsy earing he has stuck through one ear.

Her lips tighten, "How did you get here?"

"Bus, Ma'am."

"Well, that's something." She pauses. "Not enough. Return to the base. Report to your sergeant, and tell him *exactly* what I told you. I will deal with you when I get back."

"Ma'am?" He considers arguing, then...... "Yes ma'am."

"And wash your face! You are a disgrace to the uniform you are not wearing!"

"Sorry ma'am."

"Dismissed."

The young man glances at his companion, then staggers off in the direction of the bus stop.

The major turns back to us. "My apologies, gentlemen. I regret that you had to see that."

She shakes her head and heads back to the main courtyard. "Drunk in public. You may consider me harsh. So be it. I am not one of those soft modern officers in fashion now days. For which I do NOT apologize. The FSB has a tradition of discipline and duty and I am PROUD of it. No excuse that the hospital staff acts badly. He was one of mine."

What? My ears catch. "FSB?" I question. " Not KGB?"

"OOps." She mock-winces and grins. "You caught me. Federal Security Service. It's the same thing, really. Close enough. They just changed the name because.... no reason, really. Just silly politics. But Dr. Goldak thought something recognizable would reassure you. Aid in recognition. My CO gave me his old tags when I took this assignment."

"Which was?"

"A year and a half ago. Too damn long. Sorry, but.. to be totally honest I wasn't thrilled to get it. I am ambitious. Sitting in an empty mine shaft is not my idea of a career making command." She smiles at Napoleon, intent at taking the sting out of her words. "That was before you showed up." By implication, his arrival would make a much longer wait worthwhile. "Then you even survived. Now? If you will just stay healthy, I will probably make Lt.-Colonel by next year."

"So." I decide to change the subject. " What will happen to your unfortunate private?"

"If he were an alcoholic, that would be Dr. Goldak's problem. But I believe this is a first offense. I will speak to his sergeant. Perhaps a few week's kitchen duty will teach him some self-restraint."

"And the ..other young man."

"Another drunk. Not my problem. Likely from the college, which means he has a deferment. Although a few months in the service would do these spoiled brats some good. But the politicians.. I am sorry. I did not mean to let my personal complaints spoil your lunch."

I marvel. For a spy, the major is painfully obtuse.

Another few steps take us to a red door on the far side of the crowd. Several people are standing in line outside, but our guide sails past.

A heavy middle-aged man wearing a white apron looks up as we come in.

"Yelena, who are your friends?" he calls.

"Rich tourists - but don't think you can double the bill, Vanya, you old gypsy!"

He makes a face of exaggerated innocence. "Would I do that?"

"Only if you didn't triple it!"

"You know me too well, child." The man pulls back a chair. " Well, I have a table for you. Do you need a menu?"

"I don't." She motions us to sit. "They might."

Napoleon smiles at her. "I'll have the blini - since you recommended it."

"As will I." I answer the man. "But I would also like to see a menu. Just in case."

"And coffee first." Major Yelena adds at his retreating back.

The man turns. "Coffee, and then ten minutes."

**********

The coffee is wonderful. Here it is brewed dark and rich, not like the American dishwater I have come to endure. The blini are even better. I follow them up with a big bowl of karcho soup. No matter if this is Russia or not, the cooking most certainly is. I make a note. When we get back to New York, I will make more of a effort to eat at Yakov's, rather then always going to the Italian place.

Even Napoleon has paid attention to his food, rather then just flirting like he usually does. From him, that is a very high complement.

Finally, I sit back, savoring the last bite of jam-covered cake.

"Wonderful." Napoleon sets down his fork. " Do you eat here all the time?"

"Of course not." Major Yelena shakes her head. " Neither my wallet or my waist could withstand that much of Vanya's cooking. But it is a nice treat. And I am under orders to fatten you both up." She reaches for her purse. I reach for the bill. It is *very* high. Then again, the food was very good. And U.N.C.L.E. has been very generous.... I think. It was worth it.

"Then perhaps you should submit the bill on your expense account." I suggest, facetious.

She pauses, considering. "That - is an excellent idea."

"I'll get it," Napoleon says.

"No." She holds out her hand. "Mr. Kuryakin is brilliant. I will submit this - headquarters will pay it - and I will be commended for working on a day off. If I learn to be that clever I will make General."

The aproned man comes over to collect the money. "Vanya?" the Major asks. " Where is a good place to go for men's clothing? Not too expensive, but nice. And none of your rocker crap. Nice suits and casual."

"Italian or British?"

She looks at Napoleon.

"Italian" he answers.

"Either" I shrug. Any place I could get some better pants.

The man rocks back on his heels. "Try Moshi. He has some nice leather in. Or Sergi around the corner. He just got some new Italian in. And he has American shirts."

The first stop is a small shop two doors away. Outside, it is nothing. Inside, it is much like Del Florio's. Without, I hope, the revolving fitting rooms.

"Yelena Sergiova" A skinny little man comes from the back to greet us. "Vanya called and told me you were coming. What do your friends need?"

"None of your lousy Polish crap," she answers. "But if you have something decent?" She lets the sentence trail off.

"Pants," I say, looking at his racks. The workmanship is very good. "Perhaps some roll-necks. In black."

He vanishes, then returns with an armload of boxes. "Fresh from Scotland." he insists as he hands them to me.

The knit is thick but the fiber is excellent. True cashmere. And they *do* look like the pictures inside Napasha's magazine. I select four. Two black, one grey, one cream. I find two pair of black wool pants to go with them. It seems strange to wear pants cut so wide, but Major Yelena insists that such is the fashion. And they do match the posters scattered about the shop.

Napoleon is inspecting shirts with the attention others would give to T.H.R.U.S.H. battle plans. Possibly more.

I settle down with a fashion magazine. It will be a long wait.

In the end, he settles on a grey suit with a narrow collar. I do not know fashion, but it does look good on him. Most things do. But this looks good *and* like the pictures. The shopkeeper makes various marks and - after some pressure from the Major - agrees to have our purchases ready by the time we come back from out next stop.

The price is astronomical. Normally I would protest. Today? It is either U.N.C.L.E.'s money, or T.H.R.U.S.H.'s. Whichever way, I have decided not to quibble.

Next, apparently, is the Moshi place. We both need shoes.

His shop is even smaller, and on the second floor, but again the stock is excellent. And again the proprietor knows we are coming. Whoever runs this network, I commend their efficiency. This time even Napoleon does not complain. I find a nice pair of loafers and a better pair of low boots. Napoleon picks some wingtips. When I smile at that, he just says "For now."

The shop also has some heavy leather pilot's jackets. I do not truly need one but..... even in summer the nights can get chill. We have already spent so much that Waverly would yell, so...why not? There is one in black that fits me perfectly. I pick another in brown for Napoleon. Then two leather valises. We will need something to carry our purchases in.

The major looks at the bill and smiles.

With our main work done, the Major suggests we stop at another place she knows for cakes and tea. This time a open storefront with iron tables set spilling into the sidewalk. We serve ourself from the samovar while the Major picks out pastries from the glass fronted counter. It is delicious, and I am hungry. I do not even ask if this is another of her `commissions'.

We make one last stop for necessities. Toothbrushes and combs. Socks and briefs. More of the loose fitting colored undershirts these people wear constantly. At the Major's insistence we each get a pair of what she calls `jeans'. I can not foresee a need for dungarees, but she insists they are indispensable. I am relieved to find they now come in black. Perhaps I can wear them in the lab.

We return to the tailor's where Napoleon's suit is, of course, waiting. My trousers are still to be hemmed, so I wait with him while he dresses.

"Decent?" he asks.

"You look like Napoleon Solo."

He gives the mirror a last look. "I suspect I will have to burn the tie."

The tailor gives him an approving once-over. "Very nice. Now for your hair, I know a good place..."

"Not today, thanks." Napoleon shakes his head.

When the man leaves to get my pants Napasha turns to me. "I may be forced to trust a Russian tailor. I will never be desperate enough to trust a Russian barber."

I am too tired to calculate the money we spent today. That is probably a blessing. Napoleon may have tried Mr. Waverly's patience with his expense reports on occasion, but today? I look at the well packed leather bags. Today we have set a record.

I step back to the major. "For that price, I hope your 'commission' is substantial."

"Inflation is terrible everywhere," she agrees. " But truly, I think you managed some bargains. Cashmere isn't always so easy to find."

I shrug. At least now I will be comfortable.

"Well," she smiles "You both have enough clothing to see you through the next few days. By which time you should be home." She thinks a moment. "Is there anything else you need while we are here?"

"Perhaps." I reply. " Would it be possible to find a bookstore? Or at least stop for some magazines at that stand I saw?"

"Television is a vast wasteland." she replies, agreeing. "As long as you don't need this week's best sellers, there's a really good used book store right around the corner."

Everything here is just round the corner. I am beginning to figure that much out. It is actually more like two corners. No matter, the walk is worth it. The dusty store is a big room is packed floor to ceiling with books. Wonderful place. A young woman sits at the counter reading and sipping coffee. Finally, I think, a Russian clerk. She looks up when we pass by. "Anything I can help you find? Mystery to the left, science fiction to the right."

"Classics?" I ask. That at least should be familiar.

"To the back just beyond poetry."

Napoleon turns over a few volumes on the counter. "Anything in English?"

"Your Russian is perfect!" The girl answers.

He smiles, charming. "Not for easy reading."

She looks sad. "No too much. Left hand to the rear. Mostly leftovers from the university kids."

Near my destination. He fingers a few worn volumes without much interest. My section is almost as bare. Obviously the popular taste has declined in more then clothing. I have decided against rereading Dostoevsky when I see it.

"Napoleon." I whisper.

"Yes?" He comes over instantly.

"Look at this." I hand him the book with `Gulag Archipelago' flaming in gold letters on the cover.

Major Yelena comes up. "What? Is there a problem?"

I hand her the volume. "Why is this being offered for sale?"

She gives it a look of utter disgust. "You're right. That is in dreadful condition." She flips open the cover, horrified. " For how much?" She waves over a man who is sorting books on the side counter. "Mikail Petrovich, you should not be robbing your customers. This should be on the bargain table."

He takes the volume in question and shrugs. "I can't help it if a book is popular......"

The Major gives him a look harsher then the one she had aimed at the unfortunate private. He crumbles. "OK - for you, half price. Or I have a nice fresh copy in hard cover. Very Nice."

"Don't bother," she snorts. Then she turns to me. "I'll lend you my copy. This Cossack charges too much."

I put down the book. "I think I'll just stick to some science journals. If you have them."

The man starts to answer, but another look from the Major changes his mind. "Not much." He points to the rack on the far wall. " Most of these are a week old - or more. But...." He looks confident again. "If you want them I could give you a bargain...."

The Major looks at her watch, then at us. " We should be getting back." She glances at the two bags, then at my growing pile of magazines. "It is silly to walk so far with packages. Why don't you two stay here while I go get the car?"

Napoleon offers to walk with her but she declines. Regretfully, I think.

I pick up four issues of Astrophysica, and a few more of magazines I do not recognize that look interesting. The dates do not matter. If this is 2001, to me they will all be current.. Napoleon pays for them along with some paperback. That done, we sit on a bench to wait for our ride.

"Illya?" he asks. "What was the problem with the book. I know you are a neat freak , but..."

"Napoleon. Last time I was here, reading a book called Gulag Archipelago could get you sent there." I look at his bag. "What did you get?"

"Murder mystery. Something called Gorkey Park. Cover looked interesting. You should like it. Hero is a KGB officer hunting for a serial killer."

"What?" I look at the cover, which is laden with awards and praises. " The killer is a foreign spy, or a counterrevolutionary?"

"No." Napasha flips to the blurb on the inside. "I think he's some bureaucrat - it isn't really clear yet."

I reach for the book. "Let me see that." He is right. That is what the back says.

"Napoleon - I am beginning to think we *are * in 2001. And we are still in a lot of trouble."



Chapter Thirteen: Walk a Crooked Road

FYI: Samara is a town in Siberia.

As soon as we walk through our door, Dr. Bastajian is waiting to once again poke and prod. Plus Ms. Chan. Plus Dr. Goldak. I am beginning to think the entire world is now being paid by the hour.

"Well, gentlemen." Dr. Bastajian scrawls a final note in his file. "I have to give you a clean bill of health. Despite Dr. Goldak's arguments."

Goldak is undeterred. "I just believe they need more follow up, perhaps a vacation..."

"A vacation?" The Major looks interested. "Do you think you could do that?"

"If it means...?" Napoleon sounds seriously interested. A plan that will both get us out of here and into some resort at U.N.C.L.E. expense? That is his version of a flawless plan.

"Well, I suppose..." Dr. Goldak begins.

"Wonderful!" Major Yelena is practically picking the feathers out of her teeth. "Then Doctor, you can certify them both fit as of tonight."

"I still don't like your blood gasses..." Bastajian begins, then stops. "Very well. Tomorrow morning. But not for return to duty. Only for outside rest."He scribbles across the bottom of our charts. "Please, gentlemen, for the next few weeks - try to stay below 1000 feet."

Major Hovsepian takes her victory and herds them out before Dr. Goldak can put in an argument.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

"Where do you want to go on vacation?" I ask.

He smiles. "You don't think they are actually going to let us walk out of here?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." I shrug. "Either way, we do have to tell them something. So...where?"

"I don't know . It's summer. How about Cannes?"

"Too crowded."

"St. Moritz?"

"Too tall. The Doctor wants us to stay below 1000 feet."

"Italy, then?" Napoleon picks up his book. "Venice might be nice."

"Venice could work." I agree. I leave him to his reading. I have one place I must visit first.

**********

The guard at the door is happy to show me to the correct office.

"Dr. Goldak?" I call from the doorway.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" The doctor hurries around his desk. "Or do your prefer Dr. as well? Or General?"

"Either." I have no preference as to what these people call me. I would prefer to leave here and never speak with them again. I think. "I have come to ask you for... advice."

"That's what I'm here for." Goldak waves me to a seat, then offers "Tea?"

"No thank you. I will be brief. It involves my resignation papers."

He takes his seat. "Nasty business, that."

"Then you would not think I should sign them?" I question.

"Absolutely NOT!" He looks disgusted at the thought. " That is the worse think you could do right now."

Closer to the answer I would normally expect, but... "Why?"

"Mr. Kuryakin." He steeples his fingers below his chin. " Consider. You have just been through a very traumatic experience. You personal support structure has been reduced to -- well, practically nonexistent. Your blood pressure is elevated, which Dr. Bastajian assigns to shock but which could also be occupational stress. You are underweight, and your blood sugar is low. And, frankly, I feel that Major Hovsepian is exerting a bit of undue influence. Nothing against her as a person, but her management style is very regressive."

The doctor sits back, a man in his element. "My advice? My advice, Mr. Kuryakin is to rest, get positive emotional support, and see a lawyer before signing anything. Beyond that......? Ms. Dancer has already refused my suggestions for transitional teaching."

Reeducation? I am suddenly very grateful for U.N.C.L.E.'s overarching authority.

"Well, I will leave that to Ms. Dancer's people in Venice." He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pad. "Your records indicate that you draw?"

"I have had some instruction."

"Perhaps you should consider art therapy? Or a pet? Dogs are wonderful. So warm and soft. Their love and closeness can really help with life issues. And there is so much less social judgment with pets than there is with stuffed animals."

He wants me to consider what? I say nothing.

"OK. You spy types don't *do* stress. Be stoic."

He scribbles a few lines on the top sheet and hands them to me. His handwriting is terrible, but it does appear to be a prescription... for a dog. Well, a `therapeutic animal companion'. I presume that is the same thing. I put the paper in my pocket.

"You are a young man, Mr. Kuryakin. You have had an `adventurous' life. I understand that. You are not mentally or physically in a position to retire, regardless of your resources. You still need work to add to the purpose of your life. I understand that as well. But wait. It is just too soon for you to make those decisions well."

He starts scribbling again. This time the sheet he hands me says `Two weeks total rest' and `min. 3000 calories/day'. I wonder offhand if that will help Mr. Waverly accept Napoleon's restaurant bills.

"Oh. And be careful around the Major. She is definitely on a recruiting drive. Nice woman, but ambitious. Very. If she can get *both* you and Mr. Solo to sign up... well... her career would be made." He shakes his head slowly. "Don't trust her promises. She would have both of you on the train to Samara before you can blink."

I stand before he can start to write again. "Thank you, Doctor. I will certainly consider what you said."

******

Napoleon is waiting when I came back in. Expectant. "What did he say?"

I start to ask `who', but stop. Napasha knows me too well. Often it seems he knows my actions before I do. "Dr. Goldak said I should rest." I take the seat beside him and reach for my magazines. " And - he said I should get a dog."

"What?" That gets Napoleon's attention.

"Goldak said I should find something warm and furry to pet."

"Oh." He goes back to his reading. "Well, once we're out of here we can work on that."

I pretend to read, but I can not. My mind circles constantly back to my `resignation'.

Were they so willing to part with me?

Why are they so willing to part with me?

They parted with me once before. True. I put that aside. That was different. That was an honor. When Vladimir told me of the mission, I was *proud* to go. Eager. I left not as the least but as the best. The flawless professional. The 'Ice Prince'. The one who would uphold their honor an the face of those who considered us no more then thugs and jailers. I would prove them wrong. I would prove incorruptible. I would be their ambassador, their avatar, their eyes and ears at the center of the world.

When I left for U.N.C.L.E. I knew it was ... permanent. My new loyalty would forever supplant the old. But I believed I would be honored in memory, welcomed back in age. Perhaps not to live in Russia, but most certainly to live *of* Russia.

Now?

I left a prince. I will not return a beggar. If that makes me a fool, I will be a fool with pride.



Chapter Fourteen: Go Where you Wanna Go

Napoleon has gone to get a car. I am staying to pack...or so I said. Perhaps I am staying to stay. I can not believe this is my future, but I do not believe all I have seen is a lie, so..... what is my future?

I look at the simple envelopes I have been given. So small a thing to have such power over me.

The nurse comes to the door. "Mr. Kuryakin, your friend is here."

Napoleon is waiting. I leave the Navy form signed on the nightstand. The other I put in my pocket.

**********

Dr. Goldak is standing at the door, and at his insistence I allow him to carry one of the bags. From his expression he would like to make one more argument for stress reduction or community therapy or whatever it is he has been badgering the major about. Given my expression, he thinks better of the idea.

When we reach the sidewalk the car is waiting. No need to ask which one. Somehow in the middle of Russia Napoleon Solo has managed to find a red convertible. However does he do that? It is perhaps not the wisest choice when even the summer days do not often rise out of the seventies, but it is *so* Solo.

The top is down, so I throw the bags into the rear set. "Nice car." I comment as Napoleon detaches himself from the major. " Did you find the bugs."

"None I could see," he says, jingling the keys in his pocket.

Then they must be really well hidden, I think. I say nothing, because Major Yelena has once again caught up with us.

"Gentlemen," by which she means Napoleon, "your papers."

That line, at least, is familiar. I take the stack she holds out and check quickly. Maps, train schedules, an itinerary with a list of reservations. Four days to reach Venice? She has never experienced Napasha's driving.

She produces two more envelopes. Fairly small ones this time. "Mr. Solo. You are a trade advisor to a software firm called Compsys. Good company. Quite real. They have been told who you are, and will back you up if called."

Napoleon gives her one last smile as he tucks the newest papers into his jacket pocket.

That distracts her a bit, but she recovers enough to pass the second envelope to me. "Mr. Kuryakin. We've assigned you to the Department of Weights and Measures. No one should challenge that ...well, except the Brits."

She turns back to Napasha. "You two have open visas for everywhere except the Slovak states. Not that you'd want to go there anyway." She smiles at her own joke. "Don't worry, the route we gave you is perfectly safe. I am the Triple-A of espionage, no?"

I read through the documents, which appear to be as she says. Nodding at Napasha, I slide mine into my pocket.

Major Yelena is still running down her list of travel questions. "Do you have your phone? And the numbers of your contacts in Venice? And the numbers of our offices along the way?"

Napoleon takes her hand and reassures her that he has it all.

"Here." She reaches towards the soldier who has appeared with one final box. At her nod it, too, is lowered into the back seat. "We've packed you a lunch."

Napoleon gives her a quick kiss before dropping into the driver's seat.

"Give me a call when you reach Warsaw?"she calls. Perhaps surveillance. More likely the Great Seducer has made another conquest.

Dr. Goldak turns to me, serious. "You are sure you want to do this? I'm sure Ms. Dancer could authorize a longer stay."

"Thank you, Doctor," I say as I take the passenger seat. " But I think this hospital is not good for my stress."

********

We are past the last view of the building when we talk again. "What did you do with the phone?" are Napoleon's first words.

"Buried it inside a humidifier," I answer. "Lots of metal to block the signal."

"Good." He smiles. "And our clothes?"

"No tampering I could discover."

He makes a sharp turn onto a side road. Not the route we were given, but... "Do you have the map?" he asks.

Opening the packet in the glove compartment, I pull out a bright accordion of paper printed `St. Petersburg- City & Surrounding Areas' and fold it open to the location marked `Gugarin Military Hospital'. From the looks of things, we are about 45 miles outside the city. That would match with yesterday's time-line. I glance at Napoleon. "How far do you think we will get?"

"I don't know. We'll just have to see."

Spotting a road sign, I search for the name on the map. And find it. So that is where we are. "Turn right at the next crossroad." He does so. Nearly taking out a truck in the other lane, but I will not quibble. "Right again when you come to a major road."

"What for?" he asks.

"That should take us back to the city. I want to go back to the Arbat and pick up a travel book."

"We have reservations in Venice..." he starts to say, then he catches my meaning. "Right. Then let's not go there."

**********

I spot the bookstore before we get into town. It is in a small cluster of shops, tucked in between a laundromat and a shop selling clothes. Not a large establishment, but sufficient. We park in front, and I leave Napoleon to watch the car while I go in. As he says, he does not read as well as he speaks.

The young clerk smiles when I ask for travel books, but they have them. Shelves of them. Asia to New Zealand.

"Business or vacation?" she asks.

"Two weeks vacation. Doctor's orders."

"I wish I could find such a doctor. I've never been out of the country, except to Turkey once with my mother. Travel is so expensive."

I hand her the books I have chosen, one Fromer's guide to Europe, and another labeled Eastern Europe. Plus a local road-atlas. Just in case.

"Where I really want to go is Australia," she continues. "Have you been there?"

"On occasion."

She rings up the sale, still chattering. "That's so cool. When I get out of school my friend and I are going to take the whole summer just to see the world. We'll pick up jobs where we can, and just get the chance to learn about people and cultures. Find out about things. Make our own discoveries. My mother is so down on that, but I think I should. Did you ever do that?"

I hand over some ruble bills. "I went to school in England."

"Kewl. I'd like to do that. One of my friends went to school in Los Angeles, and she loved it. It gets expensive, though. Did you have a scholarship, or did you get a job?"

"I had a job," I answer, reaching out for the parcel and my change.

"Smart. Maybe I'll try to get one. They say that's how you really get away from yourself and get in touch with the native culture. Well, you have a good time - and do get better."

One more truth of the new world. Travel would appear to be much more common. Good news for Napoleon and myself. Perhaps better news for me. Even beyond the fancy clothes and food and cars, if the nation is now rich enough to send every giggling schoolgirl to study overseas... well, the struggle was worth it.

Napoleon has a newspaper out when I get back to the car. Folded to the back. Perhaps he is checking his stocks? That is a thought. In this new Russia, anything is possible. He tucks it away as I walk up. "Anything else you need?"

"The keys," I answer. "I will drive. We are already avoiding four services - we do not need to add the traffic police."

He gives me the *look* but I stand firm. Finally, he sides over to the passenger seat. "Want to try for Finland?"

"Napoleon." I pull carefully back out onto to the road. "You are telling me you wish to try and run the world most heavily guarded border in a red convertible?"

"OK. Scratch that." He picks up the travel book and flips to the first map. "What do you remember about the crossing to Estonia?"

"Estonia? There is no...! Give me that!"

I pull over as he passes the book. There is....the map..... I flip to the numbered page. "Estonians....since independence in 1991 have transformed the former Soviet outpost....."

Since their independence? Former Soviet? 1991? I look at the map. Sick. Then I look at Napoleon. Then I hand him the keys. "You drive."

********

It takes one hour to read and reread it all. Not much, but too long.

Oh my Russia, what has happened to you? It had seemed so pretty, with the restaurants and the fancy stores, but now?

How could they have? All the struggle, all the sacrifice...

What could?...how could? ...who could?

Oh, my Russia, my mother, what has happened to our world?

*******

Napoleon has seen my face, for all my efforts at control, and after I close the cover he pulls over to the side of the road. We are far outside the city by now, alone with the grey skies and quiet pines. All alone. Totally alone.

"Illya?" Napoleon questions. "Are you OK?"

"I am..fine."

"You are wonderful, but that's not what I asked."

I hand him the book. It takes him a few moments of staring and blinking at the map, but then he sees as I see. Where once there was a nation there is now...what? Ten? None?

"I am...What am I to do?"

He takes my hand. "Survive. Somehow. I have faith in that."

"Easy for you. You did not lose your country."

He snaps. "Just my family? Nothing much?" His face falls. "Illya - I'm sorry...I..."

"No, I am sorry. You are right. I had forgotten... Oh, Napasha..."

He reaches down. "Illyusha. Here." He hands me the English paper he had been reading. Something called U.S.A. Today.

What? Why? I unfold it, and the headline jumps at me. `California Governor Warns of Power Shortage - Blackouts Expected." Then slightly lower `Separatists Bomb Omaha Post Office'. In America? No. It is not possible. Is it? "Where did you get this?"

"From that idiot Quinn." He tosses the paper to the rear, then takes both my hands in his. "Illya, I don't know if this *is* the future - or what that future is. I haven't wanted to believe - haven't wanted to let myself believe... but... Christ... who knows. Maybe we will get to New York and it will all be the same and this will be a bad dream. Some T.H.R.U.S.H. mind game against us. Waverly in his office and Aunt `Becca complaining because I didn't marry the Kennedy girl. Maybe. Or maybe I'll walk in and find they just refought the Civil War. I don't *know*." He takes my hand, and his voice is dead serious. "What I *do* know is... 'escape, evasion, return'.....we have our duty." He hand me the keys. "Here. You drive."

********

The roads are terribly familiar and familiarly terrible. We reach Narva just after lunchtime. The border crossing is as I remember it, with concrete stations and heavy gates. The gate, however, is open.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

He whispers, "showtime."

I coast gently to the painted line and wait for the guard. From the corner of my eye I spot two others in cover position.

"Papers, Gentlemen?" The main guard holds out his hand.

We hand over the passports we have been given. This is the moment of truth.

"Just passing through? Anything to declare?" He stamps the pages, hands them back, and adds, "Thank you, gentlemen. Have a nice vacation in Estonia."



Chapter Fifteen: Stairway to Heaven

It is less then five hundred kilometers from Len.... St. Petersburg to Tallin. We have been on the road for eight hours. Granted, some of that was evasion. Switch backs and turns to watch for followers. Now, I think, we are just lost.

"Check the map," Napoleon tells me again. "We should be there by now."

I am already looking at the map. "We should have been there an hour ago. Perhaps we should call?"

"Do you trust the phones?"

"This far out?" I consider the chances. "Maybe... no."

So we drive on. The book says there should be a historic windmill. I would settle for a road sign. All we see is trees. Then more trees. I look at the map, then the road, then at Napoleon. "How come you can find a drop site in the middle of the Sahara, but you can't find a hotel in Tallin?"

Napoleon pulls out around a truck. "It's not the hotel I can't find - it's Tallin. Look for a windmill near a church."

How hard can it be to find a nation's capital? Even a nonexistent nation like Estonia? I spot a something like a stone silo near what looks like large barn. "Is this it?"

"According to the book." Napasha turns right, then right again at a barely visible sign marked `hotel'. Another ten minutes brings us to a partially open gate in a stone wall. Something is behind the trees. Napoleon steers through the ironwork and takes the graveled road through the trees. It dead ends in a parking lot next to a large building, also stone.

This is Napasha's great hotel? "It looks like a castle. Ivan the Terrible's castle."

"But they restored it for Catherine the Great. Which is after the discovery of plumbing. I think this is the place." He cuts the motor and jumps from the car. "At least we can ask."

A middle-aged woman meets us at the door. She looks more like a housewife them a concierge.

"We are looking for the Kadrioru Hotel?"

"Wonderful." She steps back. "Come right on in. Do you have reservations?"

"I'm afraid not." Napoleon begins.

"No problem." She does not even wait for the smile. "We still have some excellent rooms." With a flourish, she pulls the bound register from behind the counter. "You are together? We don't have any paired rooms just now. Perhaps 133 and 139? At least those are on the same floor." She runs a finger down the page, frowning slightly. " We do have a lovely suite with a view of the lake. Very restful. And really, it costs no more then two singles."

Napoleon looks at me, then answers. "The suite will do quite well."

"Then if you'll just sign in?" She spins the register. " Will that be Visa or Mastercard? We charge a two percent surcharge for foreign traveler's checks. One percent for rubles."

"Do you take American dollars?" Napoleon asks, holding out a pair of bills.

Now she has the charming smile. "Love them."

"Konstantin!" She calls at a young man slumped behind the counter. "Show these gentlemen to suite four." She hands Napoleon a pen and adds. " Welcome to Tallin."

Napoleon hands his bag to the man. I keep mine. Just in case. As always. When we get to the room, I am still the one who finds a small bill for the tip. Even thirty-three years do not change some things.

********

The suite appears clear of listening devices. And the plumbing is excellent. At the price they are charging, it should be gold, but still...

Napoleon is at the window, pausing a moment before shutting the drapes. "It really is a beautiful view."

I ignore that, checking the main bedroom. Why, I wonder, did they put chocolates in the middle of the bed? Some quaint Estonian custom I was never briefed on? I toss them on the nightstand.

"Chances that we are under observation here?" he asks.

"Zero." I answer. "How can they know where we are? We barely know where we are."

"Which is the idea." He hangs his jacket in the closet, then his tie.

"Exactly." I hand him my jacket as well.

"So?" He smiles.

So I kiss him.

And he kisses me. It is a very good kiss. Not up to his best, perhaps, but still wonderful. And a wonderful Napoleon kiss is a force strong enough to curl the tips of my toes. Among other bodily parts.

"We need.." I breathe.

"My shaving bag." He kisses me again. "Hold that thought."

While he is gone I hang my pants and fold my new rolltop. Even in this new world there is no need for indolence. Besides....I *like* my new clothes. I am folding down the bedspread when I feel the puff of breath on the back of my neck. I turn into warm arms. Strong arms. For the first time I *feel* like it has been thirty-three years. At least.

Running my hands down his now-bare back, I shudder at the hard edges of bone there were not evident when we left New York. Ignore that. He is here now, and well now, and for now.....I will not think of that. My tongue moves from lips to cheek, rasping on a days growth of beard. So often he shaves first. Wise, as whisker burns could be lethal to our discretion, but... I have always loved his texture. And his taste.

His hands track to my waist, pulling me tight against him. His lips brush back my too-short hair, seeking the tender spot behind my ear only he knows of.

A mutual flip,and we are centered on the mattress, which leaves legs free to wrap and rub, bringing us chest to chest and cock to cock.

"My Napasha," I whisper to his throat. "I need you tonight."

He twists sideways, and my lips wander from cheek to nape as I fumble for the shape of the lube on the nightstand.

Napasha pulls back my hand. "Already done." He knows me so well.

Kissing his shoulder, I send my other hand down the trail of soft hair to the treasure I desire most. Napasha is huge and hard, and every heartbeat that sounds in my ear is echoed by the twitch of his cock. I would love to spend the night suckling there. And I will soon, I promise myself. But for now, my need drives.

My finger enters him first, learning the truth that he *is* ready. Very ready. At the first brush of my penis against his entrance Napasha thrusts back, taking me, compelling the breath from my lungs in a gasp of pure pleasure. I clutch at his thighs, pulling myself even harder against him. Hot bliss. My free hand cherishes his balls, while the other pumps his cock in counterpoint to my thrusts. He curls back, pressing me harder against his sensitive gland.

It has been too long. The need is too great. Far to few strokes and I am splashing within him, burying my cry of `lyubovnick' in his mink-dark hair. Too soon. But for him it has been just as long, and his shouts join mine as his pleasure fills my hand to overflowing.

I raise that hand to my lips, licking the taste of my beloved from my fingers.

He rolls to his back, and I settle in his arms. With my head cradled against his shoulder, I close my eyes and hear a secret voice in my heart whisper `Tell Moscow that Illya Kuryakin *is* home.'

**********

I am on the verge of sleep when his voice draws me back. "Illyusha, whatever comes? Together?"

"Yes, My Napasha." I rub my cheek against his chest. "Together." Dr. Goldak was correct. It is very relaxing to have something warm and furry to stroke.



Chapter Sixteen: Plasair d'Amore

*Brriingg* The phone . I reach for the nightstand, fingers stretching for the gun that is not there.

"I'll get it." Napoleon's voice at my shoulder. Far too cheerful unless I have overslept substantially. I feel the mattress bounce as he slips out from beneath my arm. "Suite four."

I blink back the blurred edges of my vision, slipping on my glasses with one hand. "What time is it?" I pick up my watch. 8:00? Not too late. Rolling on to one elbow, I enjoy the sight of a naked Napoleon. One of the world's great art treasures, and my favorite way to greet the morning.

" Illya?" He asks. "Do we want breakfast brought up? It comes with the room."

Not really, but I remember the sharpness of Napoleon's spine under my hands. If he will eat... "Tell them yes."

"Coffee or tea?"

"Too early for coffee. Tea for me."

I roll for the other edge of the mattress, only to be restrained by a warm hand and warmer lips. That is very tempting, but... "No, Napasha. Bathroom." I drop a promissory kiss on his deprived palm. "Later."

The bathroom is as splendid as I remembered. Even better. Whoever restored this pile of stone may not have understood architecture, but he clearly appreciated the value of hot water. In volume. At high pressure. The shower here is even finer than the one in the hospital. Two shower heads, and the flexible one has a button marked `pulse' as well as the spray and massage.

Napoleon stands by the shower door, an abstract shape against the mottled glass. "Room in there for two?"

Switching over to the main shower head, I ease open the door and step back. "If there is an energy shortage, then we should not waste hot water."

He joins me, leaning close so the water splashes over both of our shoulders. The steam brings out the red marks on his skin. Remembrances of electrodes. I would once have said torture, but in light of recent experience? Perhaps sexual excitement is now neuron therapy. I have always considered Napasha an effective anodyne to my various aches and pains. Perhaps it was not just affection. I shall have to add that to my list of research subjects. Later. I drop a kiss on his marked right shoulder. Then another on his left. Much later. For now? I shall rely on empirical experience.

The water covers us both as I follow the trail of dots from shoulder to elbow, to waist, to hip, to... well, that is also red. But I do not think I should blame Ms. Chan for that. In fact, I would prefer to take all the credit myself. I give the bright head of his penis a quick lick, then a kiss. A further swelling and Napasha's groan is reassurance that - yes indeed, for this discomfort I am responsible. And, being so, it is clearly my duty to alleviate matters.

I cradle his balls as I guide the long shaft between my lips. Delicious as always, and so tender. The rough edge of my teeth brushing the long vein makes him shiver. Every lick, every glide of my tongue below the head brings a gasp, and when I pull him back against my throat he clutches my shoulders for balance. Good. I try that again, and feel his balls tighten in my hand.

"No. Illyusha... please."

The words are slurred, but I understand him. Leaving my sport, I kiss my way back up his body, following the trail of dots back to his lips. Our tongues join, rough and urgent.

"Need you," he murmurs against my lips.

I am loath to break the kiss, but a shower is no place for gymnastics. And the bed is too far away. And I want him *now*. I brace against the walls and open myself to him. Soap slick and ready. Waiting. Welcoming.

I love this. His long fingers loosening me, preparing me, enticing me. His muscled thighs spreading mine. His wide hands on my cheeks. The bright fire of entry and the deep warmth as he comes inside me. Perfect strength and power as he drives deep into me. The near-pain pleasure sparking from my prostate with every touch. Nothing is better. Nothing is more perfect. Not even his voice whispering silly mispronounced Russian love words in my ear, not the wide roughness on his palm rushing over my cock in perfect counterpoint to his every stroke, nothing. The pleasure takes my body, and my release joins the water swirling around us as I feel Napasha tense in completion. Then I feel the warm splash of his seed inside me and I think, this is heaven.

I turn to kiss him, relaxed and at peace. He shakes the water from his eyes and flips the shower back to include the lower head. We lean together as he guides the wide jet slowly over both our bodies. The architects here must have used a booster shell for a water tank, because the flow is still perfectly hot. I roll my sore shoulder against the top jet. It is definite. I will install one of these the minute we reach New York.

Squeezing the water from my too-short hair, I force myself out of the pleasant warmth. Time to go to work.

There are only four towels, but each of them is big enough for two bodies. A fact which Napasha proves by experiment. Very successfully. I must see about finding some of these towels as well. Perhaps I should not condemn the Major so harshly. This new world might turn me into a sensualist as well.

********

A knock from the door. Napoleon tightens the belt on his robe. "I'll get it."

The Konstantin lad again, this time with our breakfast cart. And, wonder of wonders, this time Napoleon comes up with the tip.

I pour a cup of tea and look at the tray. Bread and cold cuts. Nothing that Napoleon would choose. I put together a sandwich and hand it to him.

He chews distractedly while leafing through our travel books."We need a plan."

"We need breakfast. Here." I hand him a photo brochure I found in the `information' folder on the desk. `Tallin Yacht Club' is printed in bold blue over a picture of food-laden tables.

He whistles appreciatively at the clear view of the water framed by the picture windows. A view which extends clear to the Finnish coast. "Nice view."

"I thought so." I turn the page over to the pictures of boats. "If there are pleasure craft, that will give us another route out."

"You hate the water."

"So no one who knew me would expect me to take that path. And Napoleon - if there is anyone still following now - they are those who know us very well indeed."



Chapter Seventeen: (Everybody Talks About A )New World in the Morning

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER 17 NOTE: FYI: Baykonur is the Russian space base from which they launch the Energiya boosters. Or is the Ukrainian space base? That's one of those `interesting' questions.
PS: I assume you do remember `Get Smart'

Dedicated: To T.J. - For making the world better one steppe at a time. And to TvH. - Who knows all the Ships that pass in the night.

Tallin does have a yacht club. The club does have a restaurant. An expensive one with the requisite water view.

The maitre-de is female. Napoleon is charming. We get a good table by the window. There is a beautiful view of the Baltic Sea, and not enough serious traffic to tell me anything. No submarines. No coast guard patrols. No Finnish sonar sweepers pretending to be fishing boats. Plenty of pleasure craft. Nothing large enough to be commercial. Motor yachts and dozens of those pretty sailboats Napasha lusts after. His enjoyment makes up for the lack of information.

The buffet is excellent if unexciting. The usual mix of American breakfast and French lunch that these things universally tend to. Even if food is not our primary purpose in coming here, I still have the good sense to fill my plate. Who ever knows what is for dinner? Napoleon nibbles a bit of mine until I go and get a plate for him. He is too thin. I smile a bit. That is his line, I know, but the difference is in this case I am right.

We chat through breakfast about nothing. The well-dresses diners. The occasional `pony-boat' zooming like an aquatic motorcycle between the more conventional craft. The net-decked fishing boats in the distance, apparently back from actually catching fish. That is rather a change. Unlike the masked radar-boats I had expected, these wooden craft are riding low, weighed down by their catch. It must be a good season for fish. It makes for a pleasant morning, if none too productive.

The waitress is handing me our change when I catch the eyes of an older man coming through the door. I give Napoleon the signal to vanish.

"Demitri Ivanovich Kronsteen?" I ask, incredulous.

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?" He stops dead, then waves his party on. "There have been rumors, but...." His look is openly assessing. "My god, you look so good - it must have been bad." He clasps my back, welcoming. "How many surgeries.. no - do not tell me. It is none of my business."

Returning to our table, he takes Napoleon's chair. "You are back. And that Solo fellow. Him as well?"

"He was with me." I admit, cautious.

The waitress brings over coffee and another cup. Demitri takes a deep drink before continuing. "I always knew you two were alive - probably. The men from the company, they would come in, and tap their ice cubes, and say Tsarivich - and I knew they were toasting you."

He makes the gesture as he speaks. If true... I smile inside. At least somewhere I was remembered. And if remembered.....? This was my chance.I sip my coffee, slow and casual. "You are still in the Air?"

"Hell, yes." He smiles. "Base commander at Baykonur. They even made me a General."

Excellent news. "They made me one too. Or so I'm told."

He lifts his cup. "Congratulations."

"It was a retirement promotion."

"Ouch." His face falls. "If it's medical..."

Which it might be. I had not considered that, but... "Not important. Demitri Ivanovich, I need some hard information. What has really happened?"

He leans back and raises his hands. "I am long out of that, Illya Nickovetch. I have no real contact.."

I lean forward. " Not that." And for that, a man who would tell I would not trust. "Just background. I have been - out of touch. Until just recently I ... received no news."

"Since?" He relaxes again.

"The time I left. Last of January, 1968."

That stiffens his spine. "Such deep cover? Where ever... no. I do not *want* to know."

"What happened?" I press.

"What?" He looks momentarily confused, then.. "Oh, you mean the..." His wave encompasses the Union, perhaps the world.

I nod.

He takes a deep breath. "Tough, no? It took a lot of our people that way."

"Tough?" That would not be my word. "Our entire country..."

"Not entirely." He makes the gesture for `keep down your voice'. I am shocked. I did not realize mine had risen.

"Illya Nickovetch..." He considers, then. "Try to think of it as... an ugly victory."

I say nothing.

He shrugs. " Well, when have we had any other? When everything was spinning out of control, what with inflation, and the country bankrupt, and every petty province declaring independence and then declaring war - on us and each other, and all the crime and hatred and madness and genocide - maybe you're lucky you missed it." His shakes his head. "There were times I missed Stalin. Hell, there were times I missed the Tsar. It was crazy."

The Tsar? Someone considered bringing back the Tsar? Crazy is not strong enough!

He pauses, then adds. "But.. in the end... well... What did we want?"

What did we want?! "The Revolution was..."

He stops me. "Illya Nickovetch, the first step in battle is to define victory."

He reaches over to pat my hand. "We have democracy, almost peace, and a standard of living Lenin would not have dared wish for."

"So because you all get rich, that is all you..."

"No." His voice is serious now. "That is *not* all. While you were out playing spy those of us in the working army managed to hold out through insurrections, undeclared wars, and a damn long year without supplies or pay. We sure as hell were not getting rich then." His look is more Siberian then mine. " We did it for *our* Russia. The one we have now. The one with obnoxious television and tacky headlines and borders where I don't have to station troops to watch the civilians."

He stands, dropping a bill beside his cup. "Maybe we don't yet have everything we hoped for, but what we have I can live with. Gratefully."

He takes a step away, then turns back. "Kuryakin? If you truly want to work for the future?" He hands me a business card. "We are doing thirteen launches a a year. I'm planning to double that." He gives me a questioning look, then adds. "Give me a call once you are... more settled."

******

I catch up with Napoleon down at the pier, where he is talking to an American tourist. American tourist? That is a strange enough thought, but after my talk with Demitri? Enough! Napoleon is right. Escape, evade, return. And then...? I will think about that when I have to.

"My partner, Mr. Kuryakin." Napoleon smiles at the tourist.

The thin, rather balding man offers me his hand. "Maxwell Smart." He looks me up and down, and whatever he sees seems to satisfy him. "Yes. My wife and I were sailing to Riga, but... sudden call to Berlin. Business conference." He sighs dramatically. "It's not easy being Chief."

"You have a boat?" I ask to be polite.

"There." He points proudly to a fragile-looking structure of teak and canvas at the end of the dock. Shinny, with an impressive display of brass and bright striped sails. Perhaps forty feet from stem to stern. I suppose it is considered large for its type. "The 99."

"99?" That is odd. I though such craft were supposed to have `clever' names.

"Yes." He waves at a dark haired woman farther down the dock. "I named it after my wife."

A sad indication of the effect of thirty years of `flower children' on American culture. And American's had little enough culture to begin with. Still, the name is not as bad as some I have heard.

"Like I said to your friend", he continues, "we were sailing to Riga when we got called in."

Napoleon nods. "Mr. Smart and I just agreed to our renting his boat and finishing that part of the voyage for him."

I consider the craft in question. When I suggested leaving by sea, I had in mind something larger. Like a freighter. Perhaps an aircraft carrier.

Your choice, Napoleon signals.

I make the effort to smile at Mr. Smart. "How kind of him." To Napoleon I signal my assent. Unpleasant or not it is still a wise idea. It will not kill me, and this way we will be completely removed from any `alphabet' sorts.

I am trying to keep the enthusiasm in my face when a phone rings.

"Sorry," Mr. Smart says, "I need to get that." He steps away and slips off his shoe. In this future people keep phones in the strangest places.

I turn to Napoleon. "We will need deck shoes." And I will need Dramamine, I think but do not say.

"Good idea," he says. "Why don't you pick up some while Mr. Smart and I go over to the harbormasters and sign the contract?"

I say nothing. The suggestion to leave by sea was my own. Of course, Napoleon being Napoleon I had rather expected him to finagle a cruise ship - not a wooden box. Still, the voyage will not kill me. I will only wish it had.

******

I ask the woman at the restaurant, who is delighted to direct me to the local overpriced source of such supplies. I pick out shoes, hats, and sea-sickness pills. Several packs of sea-sickness pills.

By the time I get back Napoleon is waving goodbye to Mr. Smart and his wife, and reassuring them that their precious boat will be well treated by himself and the `professional yachtsman' he has apparently hired.

I take one look at the young crewman, then *give* a look to Napoleon.

"What?" Napasha tries to appear innocent. "The harbor master recommended him as a navigator - and I do want the boat to reach Riga."

"Napoleon." I mutter, sotto voice . "I *was* in the Navy. I *am* a perfectly competent sailor, even if I do not share your enthusiasm for the process."

"You are a perfectly brilliant *everything*." He gives me his most `Solo' grin, then drops his voice. "Which does not matter as I have no plans for sailing much beyond the next pier." He whispers in my ear, and I smile. There is a reason he is CEO.



Chapter Eighteen: Midnight Train to Georgia

It was my favorite sort of cruise - short. Very short.

We wave goodbye to our new `friends' as the yachtsman tilts the sails into the wind and the boat slowly pulls into deep water. Napoleon is still laughing at the over-trimmed Captains hat I chose for him - but I note that he also is wearing it. So much gold braid would hardly seem to match with our deck shoes and jeans, but on him somehow it looks right. Everything does. That is one of his less irritating talents.

I chose a comfortable spot and watch while Napoleon entertains himself with the rudder and ropes. He learned to sail as a child, and tells me he enjoys it. Before we were...together... he would go down weekends and sail on the Potomac, crewing for various friends. He has not done that lately. Perhaps I should encourage him to do so? We have so little time, but one weekend alone would be nothing if it would make Napasha happy.

The water is very calm - or perhaps the drugs are very effective. Either way, I almost enjoy our departure from Tallin. The sky is blue. The wind is warm. There is a very nice view of the harbor...and an even better view of Napoleon. Now if we were only here alone - and on dry land.

He steers the boat out into the mouth of the Baltic Sea -just past where the submarines are *not* - then back again. Turning tight into the wind, Napoleon slips us into the shadow of a large motor yacht. The yacht's Captain grumbles a bit, but Napoleon just waves. After all, as a wind powered vessel we have the right-of-way.

Twenty minutes later we are back at Tallin. Pulling up along a larger pier in what I gather must be the section reserved for the fishing fleet. Not quite as freshly painted as the Harbor Club, but better for us because of its constant traffic.

As we pull up beside the pier our `professional yachtsman' takes over the sails. He seems a decent young man, and I trust the boat will arrive in Riga on time and in fine condition. With any luck, the harbormaster there will never learn it should have had two more passengers. Napoleon slips the sailor a few large bills and a map before grabbing his luggage and jumping for the dock. I follow.

No chance of finding a cab this far from the restaurant section, but a quick word with a man in the parking lot and a handful of rubles is all that is required to secure a ride to the train station. Good. Taxis may smell better, but they also keep records - and Napoleon and I prefer to be on a boat headed for Riga. Not a train headed for Vilnius.

The station is dirtier than I remember it. The ticket line is shorter, and the tickets cost more. Other than that? Tallin is Tallin. Securing a double cabin in first class, we catch the express for Lithuania with fifteen minutes to spare. Just enough time to buy vodka and cigarettes at the kiosk. Napoleon looks amused, but I am a veteran of the Northern train system. Cigarettes are for tips. Vodka is a necessity. But I am a loyal partner. They have scotch, and I pick up a bottle for him.

The train is very familiar. Same bad track. Same surly conductors. Same graying sheets that likely have not been replaced since my last travels through Latvia. When was that? I think a moment. 1955. Just before I left for U.N.C.L.E. What is that they say? How time flies? But then - how is indeed the question for us.

Napoleon looks around the cabin and shakes his head. A four by ten tin box with one window too dirty to let in light and two folded bunks too narrow to let a man sleep. One twisted shelf I would not trust to support a glass - much less any luggage. No chairs, and no room to sit if there were any. I shrug. Napoleon is right. This is no place to stay . At least, with luck, we will not actually have to *sleep* here for more then one night.

There is a club car - of sorts. The sort that reminds me not to join any club that would have me. The menu makes me grateful for a large breakfast. One look at the fly-specked sandwiches and I am convinced. This *is* Estonia - whatever the date.

I grab a pair of reasonably clean glasses and look for a table. Left to myself, I might prefer the bottle. At least I know that is sterile. But that is one of my habits that irritates Napoleon, and as - for the moment - he is in my good graces... the glasses are acceptable.

No empty tables. Naturally.

Seeing my survey, the one occupant of one window table waves us over. "First time on the Warsaw Express?" A sturdy-framed graying man in his well-managed fifties stands and offers his hand to Napoleon. "I recognized the horrified look."

Napoleon accepts the handshake. "Not your first, I take it?"

"Every other month. Worse luck." He waves at the extra chairs. "Col. Steve Austin USAF, retired."

"Napoleon Solo, Compsys. My partner, Mr. Illya Kuryakin."

"Good company. I compete mostly with Avian Solutions, but I've heard of you guys." He looks at me, then back to Solo. "Joint venture?"

"Of a sort. You?"

"Launch advisor for Global-Sat Telecommunications. Checking the lift prospects south of Finland."

"Polar launch?" I ask.

"If we can't get Florida." He retakes his chair. " The Finn's aren't about to budge. And the Russians are damn slow - no offense."

I set down my bottle. "None taken."

"Even so, better Russian then French. Now if I can only convince the Estonians."

Of what? "Where are you headed?" I inquire casually, easing into the chair by the window.

Col. Austin answers. "Vohma."

"My sympathy."

"You've been there? Miserable flyspeck, but well supplied with nothing ...which for launch sites is all to the good. Not a decent road there - thus the train."

"You don't fly?" Napoleon sounds surprised.

"I'd love to fly. I just don't like to ride." He taps his leg, which rings hollow."Bad landing."

"Understood." And I do understand.

He looks over at me."You a pilot?"

"Navy. Retired, but I still fly."

"Turtle?"

"Wager your donkey." I gesture at his glass. "Vodka or scotch?"

"Was gin." He drains the last half inch. "What have you got?"

Napoleon grins. "A new deck of cards."

"Good enough. Drink up and shuffle."

I pour a shallow drink and check my cards. Napoleon does likewise. Poker is a counting game, and today it would be wise neither to win or to lose. We are quarter-way through the bottles and about even as to cash when two men in uniform come through the club door.

Col. Austin turns, following my eyes. "Oh, shit! Latvian Feds."

"Problem?"I ask.

Napoleon slides his chair back, giving me room to move.

"No." Austin turns back to his cards. " Just a nuisance. I have a connection I'd rather not have ...delayed."

I watch the two men pass through the room, moving passenger to passenger and checking each ones papers. Ours were apparently quite good enough, but still...

By the time they reach our table, both Napoleon and the colonel are studiously concentrating on their poker hands. "Papers?" one officer asks.

I hand mine over. The younger of the two checks the photo and hands it back.Then he does the same with Napoleon. Then Austin.

I turn to the older officer. "Trouble?" It is a safe enough question, and total disinterest might be more suspicious.

"Sorry gentlemen. I must warn you to be alert, especially to keep an eye on your luggage and any high-value items. Interpol has notified us that known criminal may have a ticket for this train. If so..." He tries to make the pause ominous.

Austin tucks his papers back in his jacket. "Tell ya what. If I see any international jewel thieves, I'll call you." He reviews his hand and flips down a card. "Now, Solo. I believe I was about to raise?"

We play another few hands. My cards are average, which allows me to consider this development - but I reach no conclusions. After perhaps half an hour the colonel empties his glass and closes the deck.

He stands carefully. "'Scuse me, gents. Got to recycle." As he makes his careful way through the door, a red-headed man looks up, then follows. Napoleon catches the movement even as I do.

"Strike you as a bit....coincidental?" he asks, nodding at the retreating backs.

I lay down my cards. "I believe I have.... a similar need. You keep an eye on the table. Just in case."

If it was the bathroom Austin was headed for? I check the outer door. Locked. A most excessive modesty. I listen against the thin door, and nearly loose an eardrum to a *thump* that rattles the frame. So. Someone is in there.

One well placed kick takes out the lock.

Col. Austin has bruises. The other man has a knife. Not that it appears to have given him much advantage, but it least it indicates which side I should be on. One round kick to the kidneys sends the red-head into the far wall - and into oblivion.

"Thanks." The American looks down at his recent assailant. "I've heard that the Russian Navy is tough. Must be true."

"What did he want?" I try to sound merely curious.

"Just a thief. Sorry."Austin picks up his dropped briefcase, muttering "Hate when these creeps involve innocents." He reaches over and straightens the twisted inner latch. "Cheap Bulgarian construction."

I am still looking at the fallen man when the conductor walks in... and runs out. Thirty seconds later he returns with the two policemen we had met earlier.

Colonel Austin steps forward. "This man tried to rob us."

"Is this...." The younger police man searches the fallen man, and produces some very interesting electronics. Not your usual burglar's kit. He looks at us, then at his superior. "These two were together in the club car. "

The older policeman nods. "You both will have to come with us."

I finger my I.D., uncertain. Would either my gold card or my more recent papers be any help? Or more of a stumbling block? I do not want to attract attention. I know I do *not* want to spend any time in the local jail.

As the older officer reaches down to take the electronics from his associate, I notice the edge of a tattoo on his wrist. The hilt of a dagger. Interesting. Perhaps providential.

I motion Austin back. "I'll take this"

"Can you?" he whispers.

"I hate having to involve innocents."

"What are you saying? What do you have to do with this man?"The senior officer questions, stepping between the Col. and myself. "That one on the floor is the criminal we were looking for. "

I direct a hard look at the older mans wrist. "What a coincidence, comrade." I say slowly. "I believed he was a traveler on the road to Samarkand."

"A wha.."The younger policeman starts. That exclamation earns him an elbow in the ribs from his superior..

"He...? yes..... exactly sir..." The senior officers's eyes move carefully from the American traveler, to the man on the floor, and back to me. A short pause, then. "Take this thief up front," he snaps at his confused subordinate. "Tell the engineer that we will get off at the next station."

I slide my I.D. deeper into my pocket. "You never saw me."

He looks past my shoulder. "You were never here."



Chapter Nineteen: Shelter from the Storm

When we reenter the club-car a rather handsome blonde woman is waiting. Sitting with Napoleon, naturally. "Steve, darling." She rises to give Austin a light peck on the cheek.

"Mr. Kuryakin. My wife Jamie." He smiles at her. "I see you've already introduced yourself to Mr. Solo."

"Yes, dear. He's told me all kinds of things about his work in computers." She seems impressed. I am more so. Napoleon does not *know* anything about computers. After a moments thought I add `that I know of'. Still, that seems a detail Mrs. Austin is willing to overlook. "But I came in here looking for you, dear. Oscar called. Seems a general meeting has been called, so we're getting off in Riga and taking a plane. Your other business will just have to wait."

"You know I hate flying commercial." Austin grumbles. But he also folds up his cards.

"So does Oscar. He says he'll try and have something waiting."

"Sorry, gents." He gives us the `what can I do' expression. "The wife rules."

Mrs. Austin beams at Napoleon. "Good luck with your business."

"You too." Col. Austin shakes hands with us both. "Good luck in Vilinus."

Hopefully better luck at any rate, I think, but I only say "Thank you." I sit back and sip my vodka until I am quite sure they are gone. Then I give Napoleon the signal for `we must talk'. Not that he did not know as much before. He, and only he, can read my face. Or perhaps it is my mind he reads. I have never been certain.

He waits until we are back in our cabin with the door and window locked before he speaks. "Are we going to Vilinus?"

"Not any more." I brief him on my little `adventure'.

He nods when I mention my trick. "Think it will hold?"

"Perhaps." Which truly *is* my best answer. Without knowing the senior police officer's background, or training, or contacts? If the man asked someone? If he even still knew *who* to ask? Would that person still know me? "I would be more comfortable *away* from Latvia before the man can check up on any details."

*************

Thankfully we have little to pack. When the passengers get off in Riga station, we slip out the back door. Simple, and of very little risk. After all, we *have* tickets. First class tickets at that. If the yard bosses finds us, we are merely tourists who somehow got turned around. Napoleon can appear admirably idiotic, and I do not speak the language.

A short hike brings us around the switching house and back to the front of the station. There are several taxis waiting. We take the third in line.

The street boss yells something, but our driver simply peels out of line and returns the one-fingered salute. "Where to?" he grunts.

Napoleon hands him a stack of rubles. "The airport."

******

Even ignoring the speed limits, by the time we arrive we have missed all the suitable flights. There is still one to Moscow, by way of Minsk, but that could be a greater risk then the train.

We purchase three first class tickets to Madrid. Stops in Warsaw and Milan. Not the perfect destination, and Warsaw is questionable, but it is the first morning flight. For once, a purchase is amazingly *inexpensive*. A few smiles get us shifted to the last row of the forward cabin. Excellent. I hate having people sitting behind me.

While Napoleon finishes flirting with the counter clerk I slip the tickets into my pocket and ask. "Where to?"

"Check your guide book." Napoleon shrugs. "Or we could ask a driver." I am still thumbing through the chapter marked Riga when he adds "Or the tourist desk."

Napoleon points to a poster cover kiosk marked `Welcome to Latvia, Jewel of the Baltic'. A pretty blond sits listening to an older woman. "Have a nice stay in Riga, Mrs. Polifax," she chimes, handing over a stack of bright brochures. Intourist service with a smile? If I were not already convinced we were transported , that surely would do it.

Napoleon waits for his opening. I stand back and watch the master at work. Even from twenty feet I can see her posture change as his charm starts in. If she was congenial before, she is practically affectionate now. And somehow skilled enough to dial a number without looking, as her eyes never leave Napoleon. She listens a bit, then shakes her head sadly. I begin to think the magic has failed, but one pat on her hand has her dialing again. Then again. Three phone calls in as many minutes? That is more then Vladimir could convince Intourist to make all day. And he could shoot them. But I question if even the Solo luck can produce a luxury hotel in Riga.

He returns waving a small slip with a scribbled address. "Town is full, but the Karavella does have one *biznesmyeni* suite left for a pair of computer executives."

"Which we are?" I ask, handing him his case.

He takes it and heads for the door marked with a cartoon car and bus.

"Well. I am." He answers. "According to your major."

"More likely yours." I mutter. It has been a long day, and I am beginning to tire of enamored blondes.

The door leads to a concourse jammed with disorganized traffic. We dodge between luggage carts and passenger cars, making out way to the outer rows of traffic. "Since when?" Napoleon waves for a cab, which appears magically at his side. " Those collar tabs didn't say `Semper Fi', my friend."

"Touche'." Although if Major Yelena was an example of the the brotherhood's finest, then recruiting standards may be the only thing in this new Russia not to have `inflated'.

My partner hands over the paper and another wad of rubles. If I cannot read the address, the taxi driver surely can. Within minutes we are at the wide glass doors of a shining new skyscraper. Napasha watches as I survey the thirty stories of stark sable glass. "Not quite Moscow, torivich?"

I watch the red-suited bellman rush up to open the door, while another heads for the trunk for luggage. "Not even New York."

The maitre d'hotel greets us, and after a few sympathetic words about our `lost' luggage summons another pair of uniformed flunkies to show us to our suite.

"Not to your taste?" Napoleon whispers to me as we follow our guides.

"This place has more staff then the Contessa's." I growl back. "And their livery is gaudier."

******

Napoleon continues in a teasing mood all the way to our rooms. He pretends to fumble for the bellman's tip, then produces it just as I pull out my wallet. Most people find it amusing. I know it for a sign of fraying nerves.

I don't watch what he gives them, but it is enough to convince them to relinquish their hold on our luggage. Good enough. I nod at the last man politely, but close the door quite firmly behind me.

The guest rooms are as stylish as the lobby - and as excessive. If the Kadrioru went for fin de ceil charm, here the designers had preferred modernist discomforts. Glass topped tables and chrome edged chairs with oversized polychrome `art' hanging unframed on the walls. No matter. The beds look soft enough.

"Restaurant or room service?" Napasha asks, checking the nightstand and telephones. Not that bugs or cameras are likely, but.. caution is an ingrained habit. He finds neither of those, but does come up with a set of menus.

I look over from where I am checking the television and window frames. "You choose." I do not care, although after a long day I am rather hungry. Room service would be comfortable, but if Napoleon wanted to go downstairs? I am not particularly tired.

He says nothing, so I glance over. He is reading the menus with a serious dedication that most probably means we are headed out.

Reaching for my luggage, I pull out my shaving kit. "I have to clean up."

He does not reply.

Living room and bedroom cleared, I open the bathroom door. "Napasha."

"Illya?" Napoleon turns, instantly alert.

"Come here."

He moves up cautiously. "What?"

I point to the wide tiled platform below the mirrored window. "I think that is what they refer to as a jacuzzi."

*********

It is amazing what hot water can do for the human spirit. Napasha had been growing more edgy since we left Tallin. By the time we reached the airport he was at his most charming - which is to say his most tense. A good pounding will relieve some of that tension. Not that it will not be beneficial for me as well.

I survey the tiled platform surrounding the deep basin. It is much larger then the tank back at the hospital. The basket on the counter holds a small bottle marked `bath-oil'. I crack the seal and sniff. A bit floral, but pleasant. It feels very slick on my fingers. Excellent. Virtue may be its own reward - but I have never felt it should be required to be.

I suspect Napoleon had intended to convince me of the pleasures of fine dining in Riga. An improbable concept. Also a foolish risk under the circumstances. If so, he has abandoned the idea without hesitation.

"Room service?" He gives it the tone of a question, but I know his decision is made. Napasha may occasionally twit me about my `fetish' for bathing, but in truth he shares it.

Two quick turns on the water taps is answer enough. I check the flow, then the volume, deduct my own mass and Napoleon's, then do some fast math. From the size of the tub this might take a while. No matter. If the kitchen was fast, we could always eat *first*.

Napasha locates the towels and drops several conveniently near the edge. "Think they have pizza here?" he asks.

They do, but not at this time of night. We settle for the house supper. The local version of a deli plate. Lots of cold cuts and good cheeses served with sweet butter and dark breads. Hard boiled eggs spiced with paprika. Sharp flavored pickles. Tiny little mushroom pastries. Four bottles of the excellent local beer. The first sip reminds me why I have always hated the American versions. They even found Napoleon some ketchup, although when the waiter mentions it he smirks at the strange tastes of foreigners.

I hand Napoleon a tip sufficient to reconcile all dietary sins. The waiter thanks us profusely. I just smile and say nothing. In the flurry of checking in the management somehow forgot to ask for *my* passport. Their records doubtless show two Americans. All the better to frustrate any detectives looking for one Russian.

Ignoring the service plates, I grab a handful of pastries, popping one in my mouth and passing the other to Napasha. They are delicious. Just as I remember.

He glares at my enthusiasm. "Don't you people eat hot food?"

I ignore that. Napoleon is just tired. And worried. Also homesick, I suppose. Americans are not used to European food, and for all his Italian grandfather Napoleon is sometimes *very* American. That is one of his moderately irritating traits.

By the time the door closes again, I can hear the water reaching the brim. What a choice - food or my favorite snack. Fortunately not a decision which needs to be made. Napasha carries over the tray and positions it carefully just with arms reach of the taps. Not too close. Soggy bread is distasteful . Still, close enough for tub snacking if both residents are....cooperative.

I fold my jeans and shirt carefully into the hotel laundry bag. They smell from the sea and train ride, but not intolerably. There will be no time to clean them, but no need to abandon them either. For once, Napoleon has no comment. He merely peels off his clothes and hands then over. Wise. We are both on edge, and in no need of an argument over my parsimony or his profligate habits.

Turning off the taps, I check the temperature. Just below scorching. Perfect. Glancing over the control panel, I decide against the bubbles but start the jets.

Napoleon slips carefully into the hot water, sighing as he shifts so the hard jets reach his left shoulder. He was shot there once, and despite his recovery there is a lingering soreness a cramped train would have aggravated. Also, from the Chan woman's remarks I have the impression he was in worse shape then I was when we left the hospital as well. Not that he will say anything. Napoleon does not discuss his weaknesses - not even with me. Sometimes, I think, even less with me. No matter. I know. I alone know.

Oh, he complains often enough, but that is for show. Chatter about his suits and his cars and his ruined dates. Never a word about his pain. How many times have I pulled him out of cells and chains, then listened while he insists to the clean-up crew that his captors were `perfect gentlemen'? How many times has he chatted brightly at Waverly or some medic, assuring them that `they just used truth serum' and that all he needs was an evening's rest? How many times afterwards has he collapsed in our room, leaving me to patch and bandage and salve? To work out cramped limbs and stressed tendons so that he can stroll back into headquarters and insist he is again ready for duty.

And I do, because I know his gloss is his first defense and part of his strength. Not all of it. Not even the greatest part. Under the slick shell of mystery there is warrior even I would not wish to face in darkness. And that, as much as love or friendship, is why I help his game. Likewise why he helps my fiction of Ice Price and soulless scientist. So that neither of us has to acknowledge all that we might be.

"Coming?" The tone is snappish. He is talking to talk.

I set my beer down and ease in on the other side. The tub is large, although hardly party-sized. A cozy fit, but comfortable.

I press my back against a low jet. The hard pressure of water relives cramps that I had not been aware of. Pain is often like that. Something ignored until it vanishes, whereupon the comparison testifies to how bad it was. We rest in our opposite ends, touching but alone, until enough of the ache has passed to let me come out of myself.

When I reopen my eyes Napasha is holding out a pickle. "Bad?"

I bite down on the salty sweetness and lick the juice from his fingers. "Better."

He follows the first treat with bites of egg and slivers of spiced ham. When I reach to feed myself he lets me, but then reclaims my fingers, licking between them to share the flavors.

I pick out a crisp gherkin and hold it while he nibbles down its length, snatching the last edge from my fingers with nipping teeth.

We finish half the platter like that, alternating snacks and kisses. Until that appetite is satisfied.

Napasha reaches for me, and at the first brush of fingers on my shaft I float against him.

I slide my hands down his back, steadying myself against the stream as I circle a finger around each sensitive vertebrae. He arches into my touch. Long fingers grip the curves of my ass, pulling me closer and open at the same time. His lips settle on my neck, biting and kissing their way toward my lips in a familiar rhythm. I send my hands lower. Reaching the end of his spine, I curl one finger around the sac of swollen balls, stroking lightly over the flesh until he moans against my cheek. I turn my lips to his, and as our tongues join I swing my knees up to clutch the sides of his chest.

My balls rub over the head of his cock, telling me he is in position. I ease down, as with one hand he guides himself within me. The oil has made us both slick. His enters me easily. The water takes my weight, and leaves me free to move against him. Each thrust of his cock moves his belly against the sensitive head of my own. Each withdrawal sends sparks of bliss throughout my body.

I press my fingers against his entrance, echoing the rhythm he has established.

Heat is supposed to deaden sensation as it increases endurance. You could not prove that by me. Far too soon I am moaning against his mouth as the spasms of pleasure claim my body. Lips locked, I allow myself to whisper "Pasha." A dangerous indulgence, but I must have some follies. As I fall against his chest, I feel the hot splash of his own release. We slide together, too relaxed to grip but too comfortable to let go. The water supports us, and the warm jets coax us chest to chest in an easy embrace.

We float in the swirling water until we are flushed from the temperature as well as exertion. We should get out, but it is hard to leave such comfort.

Napasha presses the button for the whirlpool, knowing the bubbles will cool us down.

I reach up and brush a few beads of sweat from his forehead. "See." I murmur against his lips. "We Europeans do have a hot supper - sometimes."



Chapter Twenty: Hearing the News ( Ain't like Bein' There)

CHAPTER TWENTY SIDENOTE: President George Bush Sr. was with the CIA ( executive, not operative) and he does enjoy fast boats. (Then ex) Vice-President Richard Nixon did negotiate the deal for distribution of Pepsi in Russia. President Vladimir Putin of Russia does have a reputation for clever negotiation, and also for a very quick temper. Prime Minister Sharon was an early and active Israeli nationalist. The movement was centered at the King David Hotel. I don't know any of the gentlemen personally. Any opinions expressed by the boys are their own. This is a work of fiction.


We lay back on the nearest bed. I am finishing off the last of my second beer and listening to Napasha click past channel after channel of what the hotel calls satellite television. Nothing holds his attention for more then a few seconds, but the scan is still a lengthy procedure. According to the bedside brochure there are almost a hundred channels - many showing exactly the same movies. I can recall Loomis in communications watching three movies at once. That was strange enough. But why would anyone want to watch the same movie thrice at the same time?

I would rather read. Which I should be doing now, but somehow my eyes do not wish to remain open. I slide a card between the pages to mark my place and lean back. Napoleon's arm curves around my shoulder. Rolling to my side, I let my cheek rest a moment against the soft curls of his chest. Unshaved, my chin must scratch a bit, because he shifts slightly at the touch. I drop a kiss in apology and he pulls me closer.

I should not indulge myself, but we have so little time to be together. Only a few days unobserved engineered between our assignments and the demands of a agent's life. If April Dancer was telling the truth - or if she was not - perhaps soon we will have even less. If I must leave the service, what reason can we give to remain together? I must capture what joy there is while I can.

Napoleon must feel the same, because he snuggles and drops light kisses on my hair. It is a sweet time, these minutes on the border of dreams.

I am fading when Napoleon jerks up, clicking rapidly to regain the channel. "Illya?"

I sit up, suddenly awake.

He points to the screen, where a vaguely recalled face is making some sort of speech. The man looks familiar. Was there not a..?

"George Bush." Napoleon waves the signal box at the television. "C.I.A. out of D.C."

"Bush." I search for the memory. "He was... the one with the thing for planes...."

"Boats." Napoleon corrects. "He was into fast boats."

"No wonder you remember him."

"Not that well. I mostly sailed. And after I started spending time with you..." He needs not finish. I do not like water. Our time spent together is *not* spent on a boat.

The camera pulls back, showing the podium with its brightly painted a seal. The eagle and stars. The American flag at the man's side confirms Napasha's I.D. The other flag I recognize as that of Israel. "The Americans made G.H. President?"

"No, that's his kid."

"Little Georgie?" I pull up a vague picture of a little boy and a dog. I do not have much experience of children, but he seemed a well behaved child. I say as much, and add "The son is probably decent enough."

Napasha just smiles. "According to the commentator, Old George Herbert was President eight years back." Napoleon shakes his head in disbelief.

"Is he less likely then Vladimir?"

"Vladimir Putin was a... never mind." Napoleon snorts. "Just say I'd believe old Vlad the Impatient could wiggle his way into being President of the U.S. - never mind Russia. He's that type of schemer. But George...?"

I relax back on my pillow. "Is that stranger then the Ambassador from Pepsi?"

He nods acknowledgement at my answer. I do not understand the whims of American politics, but so far their country has seemed to survive it. Although to think of those men both reaching so high? Fate is strange.

I glance back at the screen. An older man, also marginally familiar, steps up to shake Bush's hand. I can not place him until the commentator give me his name. Ariel Sharon. Prime Minister Ariel Sharon. "Sharon?" I echo, shocked. "The Man from the King David?" Has the whole world been taken over by spies? "Napoleon? We are maybe not the only ones in a lot of trouble."

He clicks off the screen, and I feel the mattress bounce as his head hits the pillow. I lean down and kiss his cheek, then start to rise. "I should go now."

"Rest." He pulls me tighter against him. "I'll go mess up the other bed."

"But.."

A few kisses close my eyes and lure me down to the sheets.

"Tomorrow is likely to be tough. Stay here tonight." Another bounce of the mattress tells me he has risen. In a few seconds he returns, and this time he pulls the blankets over us and turns off the light.

In the darkness I feel the rough hair of his leg slide against me.

"I thought you were tired?" I murmur.

"I am," he whispers against my ear. Napasha nibbles down to share one last kiss before we each claim our separate pillows. "But there's always morning."

********************

Why did I wake?

He was careful. I did not feel the shift of the mattress or the withdrawal of his arm. There was no sudden light, no betraying sound. Nothing significant. No special loss of warmth or absence of breath. These losses are the common coin of years of caution. Such deprivations do not wake me. Nothing then. Nothing but the special linkage I have with my partner. That alone opens my eyes, pulls me to my feet, draws my sight to the faint insignificant edge of light marking the closed bathroom door.

I ease to the door. No movement. no sound, no threat ... so why am I worried? I test the knob. It is unlocked. I edge the door open.

At the first movement Napoleon straightens. He gives me his bland look of indifferent curiosity... but his eyes are pink. Not red, no... but still pink. And there is a damp washcloth on the counter.

"Pasha?" I make it a question, for all I do not know what the question is.

"Illyusha." His voice is even. Bland. But he reaches for my hand.

"Where are they?" His words are steady, for all their quietude.

"T.H.R.U.S.H.?" I answer. " U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Two days," he continues. " No assassins, no bombs, no drugs.... nothing." He shakes his head. "Do you think they know where we are?" A pause, then "Do you think they care?"

"Do you..?" I begin, without any idea how I would finish the sentence.

"Illya. We have traveled over a thousand miles. We have been through at least seven major cities. Seen the papers, the magazines, the television. However mad, I have to accept that this is, in fact, 2001."

"Which?"

"Which means that woman was most like April Dancer, and possibly even telling the truth."

"This is bad?" From his tone it is very bad, although I do not see why.

"Consider. If that woman is April Dancer, then she *is* our support."

"Which she provided... until we evaded her." At least, I can name no provable error in her conduct. But... perhaps.. Napoleon has caught something I missed.

Obviously he did. He gives me the `rookie' look, which stings. And his voice is *far* too kind. "Where are our Specials?"

Our...! My hand reaches automatically to the shoulder harness that is not there. The packets we were given had held money and I.D. But not our weapons.... or our communicators. "Bait?" I ask. The likeliest answer, for all the lure appears untaken.

"Perhaps."

His tone says it all. Mine was the most benign possibility. At best we were left as well guarded bait to lure an enemy. At worst? A stalking horse sent out for the slaughter. A bad asset disposed of at a profit. "So..." I look at my senior. "What do we do?"

"Go home." He drops the washcloth over the rod.

"It makes no difference?"

"Of course not!" The shock in his voice is unconsidered and unfeigned.

"Not even if...?"

"Not ever." Napasha runs his thumb over my scared palm. "The day I let reality affect my actions is the day I will be useless as an agent."

I can give no answer to that except... "Come back to bed. We have an early flight."



Chapter Twenty-One : Leaving (On a Jet Plane)

Yes. I know K.A.O.S. was from Get Smart. James Bond had S.M.E.R.S.H. - but somehow mentioning them didn't seem polite with Illya there.

I know I set the alarm. It was somewhat challenging, given the new technology, but not so much so that I would doubt my results. Why then was I waking to the feel of warmth on my groin rather then the sharp buzz I had anticipated. Not that I am complaining.

Through slitted eyes I look down at the thick curls tickling my waist. Napasha has always had the softest hair. Even shaggy as it is now, it is beautiful. Make that *especially* as it is now. If that dark hair is always a pleasure to see, how much more so do I enjoy seeing it against my navel when that means his cheek is against my thigh and his lips are...oh yes ...on my cock.

My eyes spring open. I twist to the side, not thinking until my glance falls on the bedside clock. Six o'clock? Our plane leaves at 7:15! "We do not have time for this."

"Time enough." He murmurs, increasing his pressure.

"We will miss breakfast." A stupid comment, but my brain has little space left for conversation. All my attention has ventured south to catalog the pleasures of each separate nerve under Napasha's agile tongue.

Napasha pauses for a moment and licks his lips.

I reach for him, but he bats away my hand. Apparently he is in one of his moods. So we will do it his way - for now.

I give myself up to the sensation of wet heat and pressure. Of his hands on my balls and his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. Within seconds I am past control, gripping the sheets and spilling blindly within those talented lips. I am still gasping when Napasha rises to his feet, heading for his valise with the bland air of a man for whom nothing has happened.

I will repay him, I vow. As I am quite sure he knows. But he also knows that just now we are out of time.

We shower and dress quickly. There is no time for games. Fortunately, we have nearly nothing to pack, and Napoleon can dress quickly when he must. In less then ten minutes we are downstairs and standing at the front door.

The uniformed man at the door materializes a taxi and bows us into it. Napoleon appears to take such servility as his due.

I scowl.

He gives me a cat in the cream pot smile. "Still missing breakfast?"

Decadent American. Not that I do not love him for it, but still.... "You may have dined... I have not."

"Complaining?"

No. I am delighted. Still, it would not do to say that. Not here, where there might be ears. Not now. Perhaps not ever. So I keep silent.

Napasha grins. "Besides, it's a meal flight."

I smile back, conquered. He knows me too well.

Napoleon gives the driver our destination, then turns to me. "Illya. Got a hundred?"

"You bribe the driver." I answer. "It is your fault that we are running late."

***************

The cab driver must race in his spare time.

We make the airport desk with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, we have no check-in luggage. The desk clerk looks put upon, but not to the point of disaccommodating first class passengers. Riga has clearly reverted to feudalism. He checks our tickets and our passports and waves us on to the stairs.

The plane is full. I am glad Napoleon insisted on following procedure and purchased three seats. We take ours - window and aisle at the back of the forward cabin. Right across from the rest rooms. Very secure.

We have just stowed our cases in the overhead bin when a well tailored young man strolls up with the stewardess. "Pardon, Miss." He has Napoleon's smile and a British accent. "I rather believe I'll sit with these gentlemen."

"Well.." I give her a winter look. She wavers. "I don't think..."

His smile stiffens and he pulls a leather ID case from his breast pocket.

She glances from it, to me, to him. "If you insist."

"Gentlemen." She smiles at Napoleon, but keeps one eye on me. "I'm sorry. The plane is going to be full. I know you purchased that seat, but if it's not used I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to give it up for this gentleman."

She give me a hopeful smile. I do not return it.

She turns to Napoleon. "You'll be compensated, of course, and it won't be for the full flight - just as far as Warsaw."

"I don't think..." I begin.

"Don't worry, chaps." He raises one finger in mock salute. "I'll take the window seat." A gesture of trust - perhaps. Or perhaps the knowledge I would offer no other. He speaks to Napoleon but hands me the black case. "Bond, James Bond."

I look over the card. James Bond. British Foreign Service. That is what it says, but.... I remember Mr. Bond, and this is not him. Something of my thoughts must reach my face, because he shrugs. "Shall we say Bond 007.4?"

Well, yes, they do replace. As do we. I wonder at the fate of his predecessor, but such questions are never polite. I will wait to get the report from Intel.

Napoleon stands. Apparently we are going along with this. I do likewise, handing the newcomer his papers and moving over to the center seat. Proper handshakes all around before we resettle ourselves.

We strap in, and conversation is halted for the takeoff and cabin announcements. Nothing new there, although the forced joviality is a touch annoying. We wait until the signs go off before loosening our belts.

Napoleon sits back, apparently relaxed. "Strange coincidence."

Bond catches the question and is clearly not deceived by its tone. "Catching this flight was an coincidence. Rush call to Berlin. Sitting with you? No choice. Rather plonk with blokes who I know aren't K.A.O.S.?"

"K.A.O.S.?"

"Nasty chaps. Rather like your T.H.R.U.S.H. fellows." He makes a vague gesture of dismissal. "How did I tag you? Called in at the start. Think half the world was, to speak plain. Half *our* world, any rate. Day you chaps showed up at that mine, Auntie whistled up the troops. Me? I drove a lorry. Mother can be a bit protective, you know. And the Belaruse? Slimy buggers. Sell their sister for a used Yugo."

"So you recognized us?"

"After a sort." This time the smile was a honest grin. "I must say you chaps are looking worlds better. Rather a bad show down there - but you'd know better then me. Good to have you back in trim, as it were."

I am not fully reassured of his intentions, but perhaps the chance of information will outweigh the dangers of discovery. Especially since the later is a given. I am still considering a suitable question when the stewardess is back.

"Mr. Bond? You have a call?"

"Sorry. I'd best take that."

He unlatches the telephone receiver set in the back of the seat in front of me. "Bond here." He listens, and after a few seconds produces a beige disk from his jacket. Some sort of scrambler, I assume. He snaps one end over the earphone and stick the ear piece in this ear. "Go on."

Napoleon is once again in the back of a newspaper provided by the plane. This time the London Times. Checking his stocks, I assume. Why, even for a capitalist, a man with as little actual ability to hold on to money as Napasha should be fascinated by that....shell game... I can not understand. Still, it does fascinate him. I suppose it is another form of gambling. One that the Americans have somehow declared respectable enough to discuss at work. Myself? If I were to gamble I would prefer some honest waste like poker. But I have always known that American morals are strange. Still, his one visible hand gives the signal for `listen in'. As if I would have to be told. He knows me, as I know that from behind his paper he is actually watching the plane.

Wishing to appear polite, I pick up my much traveled copy of Astrophysica and pretend to read. Not that there is now anything in it I have not been through twice - and even the first time it was less interesting than the partial conversation beside me.

"Yes?" The British agent's tone is polite but bland.

I listen carefully, but there is nothing to hear. Or rather, there is speech, but Mr. Bond is quite professionally vague. Even so...

"Oh, Please! I rather think first class." The offended tone is quite sincere.

That is the Bond I remember. The Brits spoil their `elite'. A foolish waste and a danger to cohesion. More so, since I knew the previous Bond was a Scots peasant until he got the call. Then suddenly he was a `gentleman'. Such nonsense. Still, what better can be expected from a country that prides itself on remaining a monarchy? At least the Americans claim some democratic ideals. Although Napoleon would be no better if Wavery did not exert some discipline.

"Remind Q that makes four suits this month. My tailor is getting a bit chuffed."

That is *very* Bond - and Napoleon is worse.

"Bother M." He taps his fingers on the tray. A bad habit. "Very well. I'm listening." After thirty minutes of tapping and listening. I am bored enough to start reading.

"Gentlemen?" The stewardess is back, this time with a drink cart. Bond waves her off. I consider the offer, but it is to early for vodka - even if I truly deserve some. I settle for coffee, and Napoleon orders the same.

At the first sip I realize my mistake. This is the nasty American stuff. No matter. At least it is hot. I drop down my tray. Napoleon can use it, and still have free access to the aisle. And it will block our British friend.

He notes the movement and signals the stewardess for a third coffee, never turning from the phone. Apparently the conversation is of some interest. At least, he is listening closely. It is another ten minutes before he speaks again. "Charming chap."

Whatever that means. For the tone, it is not a compliment. A few sips of coffee and he goes back to listening.

Another long pause. Our British friend produces a black plastic pad from his pocket and starts jotting down notes. Nothing I can see. He shields it well, and it would be unadvisable to look obviously. Quite an improvement on the old equipment. I doubt this electronic pad leaves impression sheets.

It is another half hour at least before the stewardess returns - this time with breakfast trays. Again our new companion ignores her. We do not. This is very much an American breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Not my favorite. No matter. I am hungry and it is food.

Napoleon greets his tray with approval. This is his favorite. If not up to his ideals, at least it is familiar. He has more bad coffee. I switch to orange juice. It has a tinned taste. No matter. It is good enough, and I very much appreciate the vitamin C.

At a word, she leaves an extra glass for Napoleon. He needs it for his bruises. Not that he considers such things. I do, so I will see that he drinks it.

We finish breakfast in relative silence. I would like to talk with Napoleon, but our new company rather limits the topics. No matter. We will have time later. When we are finished the stewardess picks the trays and offers magazines and more drinks. I accept the first and pass on the later. Not that the magazines are much better then the coffee. Financial journals and some pink thing called People full of the trite misdeeds of the Hollywood set. I pass them to Napoleon and return to the reading I brought.

After a bit longer I feel the plane start down. Almost there. Our British colleague is still frowning at his phone. "Very well, but have it waiting."

He pulls the mouthpiece off and places the phone back into its cradle in the seat in front of me. "Bloody Krauts," he mutters, slipping his equipment back into his jacket. " They think the only car on earth is the BMW."

I nod at that. "Convertible, I hope."

"Rather." He sound almost outraged at even the question. "One does have some standards."

Yes. I believe this man is now Bond.

The stewardess returns and reminds us to prepare for landing. There is the usual business of strapping and the usual announcement of connections missed and delayed. Whatever the time, that part of air travel endures unchanged. We all sit quietly until we are on the ground.

Bond stands. "Lovely meeting you," he says as we shake hands again. "Give me a call up when you're in London. Mother has my number."

We also stand so he can leave.

I wait until he is out the door before turning to my partner. "Did you believe that?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I wonder how they found us?"

I leave the "they" unquestioned. It does not matter. Made is made. Time to evade.

We wait until the others have left the plane. Thirty minute layover. Not long, but if challenged we can claim to be looking for decent coffee. One sip if the on board stuff should prove back-up enough.

It is a large terminal, and busy. An easy place to vanish if you understand the technique. The usual lobby- and -wings format of any decent sized airport.

Napoleon signals `follow at a distance'. Any tail will have a hard time watching both of us, and if he makes the effort we may see him first.

The path to the main terminal is clearly marked. Within ten minutes we are seated at a `coffee bar' sipping overprices espressos. I do not complain. It is hot. It is caffeine. And the view of the concourse is excellent. "Where to now?" I ask.

"This place looks large enough." Napoleon pitches his green paper cup into the nearby bin. "Pick a plane."


Chapter Twenty-Two : Wild World

While these are absolutely *not* the books mentioned below, may I recommend `Chekisty: A History of the KGB' by John J. Dziak and `Shadow Warriors - The Covert War in Korea' by William B. Breuer. They are not the best, but they are in English and in print. (The books Illya purchased are -Polish? Well, maybe one is in Russian and one is in English. I'm fairly confident Illya would read some Polish, but Napoleon? Nope.)

The concourse is filled with tiny shops. Most of then are tourist frivolities - quite useless - but one by its sign claims to be a bookstore. Rather small. No matter. Even a good magazine stand might help. I turn to Napoleon. "You buy the tickets. I need to do some research."

I was right. A good magazine stand is closer to what this is. Most of the shelves hold pulp romances in a range of languages. That, and dubious English pot-boilers. No matter. In the history section I find several works of interest.

Picking up what I need, I pay the clerk and catch up with Napoleon at the ticket desk. "London?" I ask, glancing down at the tickets in his hand.

"Next flight out," he answers, "and we both had friends there."

True. Although time is more the question. Old Survival School lesson. The quicker we move, the better our chances. As it is, we make this flight with only a few more seconds to spare then our last. No problem. This plane is far less crowded, and with a few words to the stewardess Napoleon secures our preferred seats.

We are in the air before he takes notice of my purchases. "What did you get? Roman murder mysteries?"

I hold up a paperback titled - Sword and Fire - My Life in the KGB in Peace and War. It was a shock to see such a thing, but I am desperate for answers. Not yet desperate enough to want the truth on every airport counter - but just now even pravda will help.

Napoleon grins and snatches the book from my hand.

"What are you...?" I start.

"What I always do with histories." He grins and rifles the pages. "Checking the back to see if anyone I know is in there. Kassourny. Kochova, ah. Kuryakin. Page 327."

"It cannot be...."

"Dr. Illya Kuryakin joined me in October at the base in....."

"What?" My voice rises despite myself. "That is classified." I reach for the volume but he moves it out of range.

"Not any more." He reads quickly down the page. "I didn't know you were with the atomic program."

I crane over his shoulder to see a picture of a very young blond in a lab coat standing before a chalk board, surrounded by several older men in uniform. It takes a moment for me to recognize myself. Was I ever that young? I do not remember being so, although I remember the room and the occasion.

When I sit back, Napoleon continues. "Makes sense. Your degree in physics and all that." I hold out my hand, and he wisely surrenders the book. "So that's where you got your bomb-building skills?"

I *look* at him. "Explosives are explosives - and I am *still* not talking about it."

"No need." He gives my an intolerably smug smile. " But now I know why Research was so hostile when Waverly tagged you."

Annoying man. He never could tolerate mystery. In our profession that can be a blessing - and a curse. Just now, I would tend towards curse.

"Here - read your own book!" I hand him one of my other purchases. Ghost War - Special Forces in Korea. Hopefully that will bring some discretion.

"Hey!" He takes the book and again flips to the back. "Colonel Morgan is in here. I wonder if he mentions me. We were together at Hyesan."

"Please." Taking my own book, I turn carefully to the introduction. "Spare me the sordid details of your military adventures."

I have a bit of peace while he scans through this volume ,sporadically reciting a name or location that brings back some memory. Ocassionally he checks over my shoulder for anything I may have found interesting. For the most part I ignore him. I am too busy calculating the damage in my own volume. No time for a through review. I am reduced to Napoleon's technique of scanning the back for clues. Fortunately, I find none of the *truly*
sensitive names I know. Small blessing, but just now I will take what mercies there are.

*********

When the stewardess arrives with the drink cart we tuck away our respective books. Not that they were not on public display, but still...we can finish them later.

"Anything for you?" She smiles at Napoleon.

"Yes, Vodka," I answer. It is still early, but I have earned it.

"Scotch." Napoleon looks up. "Double." He hands her a bill in exchange for the little bottles, then waves off the change. So. Despite his bonhomie Napoleon is not enjoying his little cruise down memory lane. Not that one could tell from his expression - but one never can. Not even from his eyes. Annoying in a lover, but an asset for a spy. He takes a long drink before asking. " Any other little revelations in your bag?"

I give him his choice. The Time/Life Review of the Twentieth Century, or The New York Times European Edition. Lighter, but enough for now. Napoleon, being Napoleon, chooses the pictures.

I am in the middle of an interesting article on EU produce standards when Napoleon sits up, shocked. "Illya. They outlawed flirting!"

"What?" I look over at him. "I do not believe that is possible."

"Here." He folds open the pages and hands it to me. "Look!"

I skim the page. Napoleon is right. There is a long article about someone named Clarence Thomas, who apparently ended up in court for offering some woman a soda.

Napasha drops back into his seat. "I could be in a lot of trouble!"

I flip through the pages. This story is part of a whole section titled `Sexual Politics'. No wonder Napoleon read this part first. I am about to hand it back when another page catches my eye. Something about San Francisco and Pride? I scan down. No. Even in the moral decay of America, that could never be possible. But...? "Perhaps you can flirt with me?"

"I wish."

"Do you?" I hand him the article. "If we are ever assigned to California, perhaps it is you who will be in the trouble."

"Who ever said I minded trouble?" is his automatic response. Then he reads the page. And re-reads it. Carefully. "Do you think?"

"In New York?" My tone is answer enough. "Do not be ridiculous." Although in the Village...I put the question from my mind. Some things are too dangerous even to dream about. Certainly not safe to discuss where there are ears. "I am going to sleep. Wake me when we are about to land."

*****************

"We're landing." Those are the first words I hear. Napoleon has let me sleep, and I feel much better for the rest. Hungry, perhaps, but better. We say nothing more as we go through the landing ritual.

Heathrow is more crowded then I remember, but the layout is the same. We find a quiet bar and reconnoiter. A trouser clad waitress brings our drinks and leaves us alone.

"Should we try for New York?"I ask.

Napoleon considers as he sips his Scotch."It seems the only option left."

"They will likely know we are coming."

"Yes." He looks down at his drink.

"Perhaps we should just call April and let her know?"

"Do you still have the number she gave you?" Napoleon asks.

"Naturally." I *never* lose information.

"No." He finishes his drink and puts a bill under the glass. "I am beginning to trust, but still - let's try and surprise them."

***********

I wait in the lobby and watch. Napoleon checks the overhead monitor then targets a ticket desk. One marked Executive Service Only. A pretty red-head is alone behind the counter. "Hello beautiful." Even from here I can feel the charm. His charisma is at top voltage. "What is your next best flight to New York?"

She does not even resist before she crumbles. "On the Concorde? I think that's full, but.. perhaps ..."

An even flashier brunette cuts in. "No. It's not. We just took three cancellations." She throws her shoulders back and hits Napoleon with a blinding smile. " Lucky for you."

"My lucky day."

The brunette has managed to elbow the redhead aside. "My manager was pashed, because it was a VIP cancellation."

"How sad.... for him." His voice is a caress.

"I don't mind." By her tone, she was delighted. "He was an old guy. Kelly Robinson? Do you remember him?"

Napoleon recognizes the name, and his smile gets wider. "Tennis player?"

"Used to be. Now he owns some pudding company. Always on TV. But rich?" She makes a gesture of exaggerated hautur. "You better believe it. Still travels to all the games with his old coach. Big fuss when they flew in last week. Mr. Willis wanted photogs on the way out. But instead they are going over to Berlin. Bad for old Willis. Good for you."

The red-head cuts back in. "Lucy, isn't there a standby list?"

That earns her a look of sisterly contempt. "And he... is standing by."

Napoleon gives the two women another look that has them both blushing. Soon they are working together to issue the desired tickets. With a final kiss of hands, he is back from his mission.

"Overnight flight."

"I thought you said they had outlawed flirting."

"So I'm a criminal." He waves the ticket envelope. " At least I'm a successful criminal." Which is, in the end, what matters.

He hands me my ticket. I check the departure time and check the airport clock. "Four hours." I reset my watch. "Nearly dinner time. Shall we try for the city?"

"Let's check if there's a decent restaurant nearby."

"I did not pack a suit." In fact, I may now not even own one. Not a fashion item I would truly miss, but few decent places will seat a man without a tie.

Napoleon pauses. "That shouldn't matter so much at an airport." He turns and heads back to the ticket counter. "Lucy, darling?" He asks the brunette. "Is there a really first rate restaurant in this place? Somewhere I could take someone... important?"

"Why, yes." Her chest gets impossibly bigger. I am amazed her lungs can hold that much pressure. "The Aerosquadron. Or the Stratotower if you really want a splurge."

"Thanks." He gives her a little salute. "We'll have to check it out when I come back.

When he gets back to me he is humming. "Ready for dinner, Illya?"

I give him the *look*. "Now I know why I work in law enforcement."

**********

Napoleon being Napoleon, he inevitably picks the more elaborate choice. The Stratotower is just that - a tower rising well above the main buildings, with a magnificent view of the runways below. I can remember times I would have been grateful for such a view for other reasons then esthetics. Now they let people up here to drink? Oh brave new world.

The tuxedoed maitre-de sniffs a bit, but does not comment on my attire. Merely waves over a black-gowned woman who shows us to an excellent window table. One with a perfect view of all three runways.

The interior is the traditional splendor of red carpet and white linen. I know Napasha expects a protest, but... my heart is not in it. Not today.

A young man brings us the menus, and tuxedoed woman carries over a wine list. Napoleon hands it back and orders something complicated and French. From the lady's impressed look, it was either an excellent choice or an expensive one. Knowing my partner, more likely both.

I look over the menu. Some new things. Some familiar. Rather a lot of pasta for anyplace that isn't Italian. Although from the dishes, it's somewhat a question just what nationality the chef is striving for.

Napoleon grins at me, anticipating a comment.

"Expensive." It would not do to disappoint him. And I often suspect that half his pleasure in extravagance comes from my complaints.

"Who cares." The young woman has arrived with the wine, and they go through the ritual of cork-sniffing before he lets her pour. " We have more then enough to reach New York."

There is that. I check the other diners. Amazing. At least half them men here are garbed as casually as I am - or more so.

Napasha catches my distraction. "What are you watching?"

"The clothes."

Napoleon follows my glance to one especially outrageous table, where a muscular black man has replaced the traditional neckwear with an endless succession of gold chains. He is surrounded by a flock of young women, and deep in debate with a spectacularly handsome blonde man wearing a well tailored suit. A third man, brunette and intense, ignores them in favor of shredding bread rolls, while the oldest puffs his cigar and views the whole contremps with amused disdain. Whatever the argument, I know who will settle it.

"I told you I would have to burn this tie."

"Burn all of mine too." I offer. "From the looks of things, I will never have to wear a tie again."

"Well, that's something." He raises his wine glass. "To Thursday."

"Thursday." I answer with mine.



Chapter Twenty-Three : Observation from Flight 285

Yes, that really is a song title. Merrilee Rush and the Turnabouts. Lousy song - but great title.

I read over the description card in the chair pocket. This is amazing. A supersonic aircraft for passenger service. The last time I flew this fast, I wore a helmet. Also a uniform.

Napoleon is asleep in the inside chair. I have the watch. Not that there seems much to be cautious about. The service has been excellent, but at this time of night even the numerous flight attendants have settled in to a sort of watchful waiting.

Not that they were not attentive earlier. Astoundingly attentive for the French.

Our late night meal was almost as elaborate as the previous restaurant, and Napoleon once again had the chance to amuse himself with a show of labels and corks. Not that he passed up the chance to grumble a bit, but to my taste this bottle was equally as good as the last.

The food was hot, the flat wear heavy, the china light. I can not understand what the passenger in front of us was complaining about. So the plane is a bit narrow? The seats are wide enough.

The stewardess had again wanted the third seat, but this time Napoleon insisted we required it `For the package'. Not that there is anything in that package. It is merely a box he purchased and had wrapped in brown paper at a stand, then decorated with various stamps and seals. No matter. Between his serious look and my bureaucratic ID, they were convinced of its irreplaceable fragility. Thus, we and our empty seat were left in peace. That is the only virtue to a capitalist culture. If you pay enough, people will let you get away with nonsense.

After dinner the attendants brought by hot towels. Very nice. Also headphones. There are several good channels of jazz, as well as classical music. Very relaxing. Also more drinks. No charge, but Napoleon insisted on tipping the girl. Apparently against policy. So? She smiled and stammered, but I recall she did not refuse. And afterwards, the service was even better.

By the time the lights dimmed and they came by with pillows and blankets, most of the plane was ready to sleep.

I told Napoleon I would take first watch. He told me to wake him at midpoint. I will, but not just yet. Not now, in this fragile moment of peace.

Tomorrow we reach New York. What else, I do not know. Perhaps U.N.C.L.E., perhaps...? I do not even know what to dread. Change? My world has changed before, and I have dealt with it. Loss? I can accept that and go on. I have before. I always have before. But now? I look down at my sleeping partner, then away.

I should prepare. Do something useful. But what? I have checked and rechecked our fellow passengers. After our last encounter, even paranoia is not caution enough. But? From every indication they are an unthreatening bunch. One man seated up front sent up a few flares as he came on. A
middle-aged British gentleman in a bowler, whose cane rang a bit too metallic on the entrance way. He has the bland face and unexplained edge that might mark a professional. But the woman with him? Physically good enough, perhaps, but a twenty-something flash willing to wear her lethality as a fashion statement along with her black leather suit. I flatter myself that our foes would hire better.

I have finished my book, and Napoleon's, and every tolerable magazine in the airplane selection. I now know more then I would ever wish to about the follies of this world, an less then I ever imagined about myself. Now I have only to watch. To watch the plane, the crew, and Napoleon.

He lies there. The unasked center of my world. Trusting me. Left to myself, I would let him sleep. Tomorrow will be ...difficult. But I dare not. Napoleon values my care, but he requires my obedience.



Chapter Twenty-Four : The First Hello. The Last Goodbye

Dedicated to 8R - maker of very fine steel. Illya would have appreciated your art.

Tribute : To Anne Higgins. Yep, these are *those* pictures. Only surviving copies. LOL

"We're landing."

Napoleon wakes me when we start our decent. Enough time to wash up, but not to brood. He knows me too well.

At my insistence he goes first. In the time I take to locate my kit he is back, having somehow managed to shave, brush, and magically restore his suit to the same sharp crispness it had when we boarded for Warsaw. From appearances one would be more inclined to believe he had spent a quiet night in his own apartment, rather then nearly twenty-four hours in the air. But then -I mentally concede - that is the Solo style.

I shave quickly in the cramped airplane bathroom. Not the best location, but I have been in the air long enough to begin showing shadow - blond as I am - and I have always had a personal quirk about meeting `interesting' situations well pulled together. Not that I am the slave to the mirror that Napasha can be at times, but life in America has taught me the virtues of a professional appearance. After that, a quick splash of water and and a few runs of the comb make me as neat as possible under the circumstances. For one I am grateful for my current unnaturally short hair. At least it's care takes little time. And I do not wish to leave my partner alone over-long.

By the time I return he has brought down our cases and stashed them below the window seat. Wise. We may wish to move quickly.

"Welcome to New York Kennedy Airport, local time 10:15 a.m.," the Captain begins.

I listen to his announcements with half an ear. We have no connections to worry about. Still, it may be best to mix with those who do. We wait until the crowd has started , then mingle in. There is a well dressed man in front of us, and we shape our body language to look like we are with him. That is, until he is swept into the embrace of another man waiting at the exit.

Napoleon looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Perhaps that is his brother?" I say.

"The man's black."

I shrug. "Stepbrother."

*****

I wait by the exit watching while Napoleon rents another convertible. Green this time. They must be out of red ones. He keeps the keys and tosses me the maps. Naturally.

A smiling young man brings it right up to the sidewalk stand. As he drops our luggage into the trunk I ask Napoleon . "Do you want to drive over to Vermont first?"

"Why?"

I am shocked at the question. "To see your family?"

Napoleon just flips the keys. "If I walk through that dressing room in Del Floria's, and Waverly is sitting in his office, I'll see them at Thanksgiving."

"And if he's not?" I ask.

"Then I won't."

I control my face, but something must show because he stops. "I'm serious, Illya. If this April woman is April Dancer, then she *will* sanction."

"Even you?"

"Especially me." He unlocks the door and motions me to get in. " I would never have tolerated an agent that would not."

*****

Napoleon roars into traffic with his usual flare, heading into the city. I wait until we reach a familiar off ramp, then say, "Turn left here."

Napoleon does so, then looks over. "Where are we going?"

"Shopping," I answer.

"Here I though I was the materialist in this partnership."

"That would depend upon the material."

I give him a few more directions until we pull up in front of a small storefront. This is on what is euphemistically called a `business' district, by which is implied the same `lack' of business that provides us with a parking space directly by the door. Twenty minutes left on the meter, which should be enough. I add some change anyway, using the action to cover a careful scan of the neighborhood. Other then the expected pedestrians and bums, the area is quiet. I check out the flyer-covered frontage of `Omar's Cutlery and Camp Supplies'. A bit shabbier then I remember, and the place was never a center of culture. I am glad it is still in business.

I head for the door, and after a second Napoleon follows.

Opening the door, I step carefully over the sleeping dog and skirt around a box of cheap hatchets left almost blocking the aisle. The store is dark and shabby and wonderful. Not because of the displays, which are mostly flashy letter openers and fake Swiss Army knives. No, because of what is beneath that display.

Omar is still behind the counter. Thirty years older, perhaps, but still unmistakably Omar. It takes him a moment to place me, but then, "Illya Nickovetch?"

"Glad to see you're still in business."

He looks me over warily. "Likewise, I guess."

"What have you got for me?" When he hesitates, I add "In a knife."

"Knife, eh?" He chews his cigarette a bit, then turns for a box under the back counter. "Hooked up with a new guy. Does good work."

Interesting. Cable Damascus. Flashy pattern, perfect balance. I give it a flip at the target set in the far wall. Steady flight. "Wrist sheath?" I ask as I walk over to retrieve it.

He shrugs. "I can find one."

"This man - does he do boots?"

Omar doesn't bother talking. Just slaps another box on the counter, and goes back to searching through his leather supplies. I check out half a dozen. They are all good. No, excellent. I settle on a nice pair with leaf blades and flat bone handles. Decent flyers. Very nice to grip.

When I put them by the cash register, Omar produces the boot clips unasked. Then the wrist sheath. Very good leather. Thumb safety. Wide straps. I adjust the straps while he is ringing them up. The total is... high... but I do not comment. Good equipment is a necessity.

Napoleon waits until we are back at the car to tease. "Just the thing for the well dressed man about town?"

I smile. "I never leave home without it."

******

Signs pass as we head back towards our accustomed turf. At the most familiar I ask, "Shall we try your apartment? Or mine?"

"Not yet," Napoleon answers. "If it's there, it's dangerous."

"If not?"

"Then it's even more dangerous to be looking."

*********

He cuts across streets a few times. Swerves around a truck. Nearly clips a tourist bus. The usual evasion tactics. Not that we are being followed. It is simply the done thing. But in the end, we arrive where we must.

Napoleon slows the car as we pass the well known address. "This is it." He gestures at the familiar sign. "Del Floria's."

"The shop is still there." I nod, rechecking my tools. Nothing left but to try it out.

***************

Napoleon wishes to go first, but I insist. He is the senior agent, so by definition the better. According to the book he should cover me. Therefore I enter first, and he strolls in behind me. Convincing enough if one does not know what to look for... although I can not imagine how here that could be the case.

Del Floria's is Del Floria's. A few racks have been moved, but the basic layout is unchanged.

Napoleon stops by a rack of shirts near the dressing room as I go through. Yes, the door is there. I stick my head out the door. "Excuse me? Could you bring me that shirt?"

He grabs the first one to hand and slips in behind me.

"Here." I pull out my knife and use it to flip the door latch.

He locks the dressing room door behind us then follows me through.

The reception desk is there. Unchanged, but...empty. Also dusty. And dark. Only one light in the long ceiling fixtures appears to be working. I slide over to take the point while Napoleon searches the desk. If our badges exist, they will be there. He tries both drawers, then stands up, shaking his head.

I am about to suggest that we risk entry anyway when the side door opens and a young black man in a black suit and dark glasses steps out. He is holding two plastic triangles. Number 11 and number 2. "Were you looking for these?" he asks.

An older man in the same outfit follows behind him. "Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin. We were told you might show up here." I am raising my knife when he signals, and another pair appear behind him. One man, one woman. Both also in black. Under the circumstances, I decide to put it away.

Napoleon looks over at the crew calmly. "You are?"

"Jones, Chief Control Officer." The older man holds his hand out for the two triangles - and receives them.

"Your badges, gentlemen. I believe we have the numbers right?" He hands us each one badge - accurately. " I'm afraid this site is used primarily for storage. But you are quite welcome to look around. Escorted, of course."

Napoleon nods at that. "Of course"

"And what will we see?" I ask.

"Whatever you want, I'd imagine."

Well, that is no answer. Still, to look is more informative then not to look.

I check with Napoleon. He signals yes. We take our badges and, followed by the two silent agents, head off down the hall.

The rooms are still there. Napoleon's office, Mr. Waverly's office, mine. They are there, but they are changed. New old paint. New old furniture. And boxes. Everywhere boxes. And dust. I know that can be manufactured, but... this dust feels real. "May I see my lab?" I ask.

The woman shrugs. Well, at least that is not a refusal. I glance at Napoleon. He nods. Together we make out way past medical to my laboratory.

That, too, is there. Like everywhere else it is dusty and cluttered, but there. Unless? I head for the workbench and pull out the bottom drawer. Long ago, when I first came to U.N.C.L.E., I had altered that drawer. Is it? Yes. As I reach down and sideways I can feel the release clasp of my hide-a-way. Not that I ever needed it. U.N.C.L.E. New York was as honest as Waverly had claimed it to be. After the first month, I was even a bit embarrassed at what I had done. I had never stored anything there but a few pictures captured from T.H.R.U.S.H. Now, as I reach in, I can feel the edge of brittle paper. I ease them out.

Yes. I glance down at the clouded membrane. The color has faded, but the scene is still recognizable. I quickly slide the photographs into my pocket. The two guards must observe my actions, but they chose to ignore them. That done, I turn again to Napoleon and signal, `What do we do now?'

Before he can answer the senior agent walks in. "Finished, gentlemen?" he asks. From the tone, I doubt it is a question.

"If we are?" Napoleon's voice is dead level, revealing nothing.

"I'd ask you to accompany us."

"If we decline?"

"You are free to go." Mr. Jones gives us a very unconvincing smile. "And you'll never see any of us again."

Napoleon looks at me.

I look at Napoleon.

After a second he signals `Go along.'

******

Our next stop is vehicle storage. That is as dusty as everywhere else, but far less cluttered. Only two black cars occupy the concrete floor.

The young black agent holds the door as we get in. I try to believe that it is a courtesy. Of course it is. But once we are seated, the doors lock on their own. Then the windows turn opaque. The driver turns to us as the interior partition rises. "Sorry, gentlemen. Security requirements."

Obviously. The only question is whose.

*********

A short ride. Either with good streets or good shocks. Whichever, I can not feel the road or follow the turns. Our destination is another garage. Just as grey, but this time with far less dust. There are several more cars as well. All large. All black.

Our babysitter again goes through the charade of holding the door. Does he think we were planning to camp in the car? Whatever. We have no choice now but to go along.

At Napoleon gesture we follow the young man past the vehicles to a bank of elevators. The driver follows. He presses his palm to a plaque set in the wall. The door opens and we get in. Only two men now. They are armed, but still. If pushed, we could take them. But why? And where would we run? For now, we must cooperate.

The door opens on a plain looking office hall.

The woman called April Dancer is standing there. "Illya." She beams. "Napoleon, dear." She waves us forward. "I've been waiting."



Chapter Twenty-Five: Secret Agent Man

April Dancer has a nice office. Wide desk, deep carpet, big leather chairs. It would be even better if the windows worked. The are dead black - just like the cars. The driver again holds the door while we enter.

April is still chatting. "You are both looking wonderful." Heading to the wet bar, she pours us each a coffee. "Have a seat." She hands them over as she herds the black-clad crowd from her office. Only when the last is through the door does she settle.

"Napoleon." She crosses her arms. Such a remembered gesture. "What have I done now to peeve you?" Her tone is sharp and bright. So very much like the April I remember.

Napoleon remains standing. "Our Specials?"

"Oh." Her face twists like she had bit into a sour peach. "That could be a glitch. We don't use those any more."

I move behind her, sipping my coffee. "Lack of enemies?"

"Hardly." she snorts. "New technology."

"I'd offer, but..." Dancer shakes her head as she drops into her chair. "You two are a bit off on qualifications. And *seriously* past review date."

Napoleon says nothing. Just stands there.

"OK. Maybe if..." She looks up from under thick lashes.

He still says nothing.

"OK. Let me see." She punches a few buttons on a box on her desk. "Mr. Grimm? Dancer here. Could you come up to my office?" Very polite, but it does not sound like a request.

The man must hear it the way I do because there is a knock in the door before we have finished our coffee. April stands as he enters.

"Mr. Grimm. My Ordinance Chief."

We shake hands. Napoleon first, being nearer, then me. I take the opportunity to check him over. Another man in black. Perhaps fifty. It is hard to tell. Grey hair, solid build. The no nonsense expression that screams `former field agent'. I am impressed. Wary, but impressed. Not many of us reach mandatory retirement age in a shape to keep working.

"Grimm." Dancer says. "I have a problem. Overdue certification"

"How long?"

"1968" She waves off his shocked expression. "Don't complain - solve!"

He rubs his chin. "Something....shelf?"

"OK. Fine. That will work." She points to Napoleon. "Take Mr. Solo here to the range. Find him something usable. If he passes cert, I will sign for a Temporary Federal Permit."

"That work?" she asks the room.

Napoleon smiles. The Dancer woman appears immediately relieved.

"Thanks. " Napasha says as he steps beside Mr. Grimm. "Illya?"

I start to follow, but...

"Illya can stay here and chat with me, " the lady insists. When Napoleon frowns, she just smiles wider. "Mr. Grimm can only handle one of you at a time. You first. Then, when you're finished, Illya can come down."

Napoleon looks at me. I signal `Why not?' We have no proof of treachery. And very few other options.

"Sit, Illya." she says.

Charming, but with the edge of command. I take a chair.

Once we are alone she pours vodka. Very good stuff. I wish I could drink it. After she hands me mine, she sits down as well. "You are very sure you would not like to be Ukrainian?"

I start to rise.

"Just joshing. Relax."

"What is this fixation with the Ukraine?"

"There is a joke - not too funny. `What is the Russian word for Ukrainian? Traitor.' She takes a deep sip if her drink and sighs. "What can I expect? Every senior Ukrainian military official ... well? Twenty years ago they were all senior Russian military officials. Now? Lots of hard feelings. If I can get two to work together for fifteen minutes, its a miracle." She shakes her head. "But... there are gobs of missiles still in the Ukraine and we have a contract to make them go away. Which does not mean sold to Iraq or North Vietnam. With your background and knowledge? Your reputation? You would have a lot to contribute."

I touch the glass to my lips. "I am not certain I am still interested in enforcement."

"Yes well....."

"And I am no longer qualified for Section Two."

"I would not say...."

"I would." I interrupt her. "If thirty years is long in history, it is impossible in science."

"Not if the damn science is also thirty years old."

Odd response. Over-close to matters best undiscussed. Time to change the subject. "My partner?"

"Napoleon? I sure *hope* he'll be with us." April takes another sip. "The details would have to depend on your separate decisions. We have the usual anti-discrimination and domestic policies." She shrugs and adds, " For what they are worth."

That is a strange statement. I am wondering how to respond when she continues. "I absolutely would not hesitate to assign you separately if that was my need. Domestically? You know we discourage any sort of family ties in our field agent, preferring to have them more flexable- but in your case? I will not make any promises, but I believe I can place you in the same sector. At least between assignments."

"Which in my case would be counting missiles in the Ukraine?"

"Not quite like the old days, is it?" Another sip finishes her drink. "No car chases, or shootouts, or blowing up islands." She puts her empty glass down on her desk. "We still do good work. Treaty monitoring, tracking sanctions, weapons violations."

"And If you find one?" I touch my glass again.

"We report it to the United Nations, or to the contracting country."

I show nothing but she knows me well enough to imagine my surprise. She stands up and walks over to pat my shoulder. "Illya, the world in no longer a place for cowboys."

"I do not know.."

"Think it over." She his another button and her door opens. A handsome young man enters wearing a lab coat. White. Apparently there are some exceptions to the dress code.

April introduces the new man. "Dr. Saint-Pierre, Dr. Kuryakin." We shake hands as she continues. "Dr. Saint-Pierre will show you around. Not everywhere, natch, but I'm sure we have enough open work to tweak your interest. We work in an expanding field. Here, we have the resources to expand with it. You could find being back with us very comfortable."

I nod attentively, but answer "I would prefer to join Napoleon."

"Very well." She throws up her hands. "Let's all go."

***************

Grimm is cleaning his hands when we enter the range. "He passed."

"Good." Dancer answers. "Send the paperwork up to Mari and I'll get it started." She pauses, then adds. "Now that's done, why don't you find something for Dr. Kuryakin? He can check out while Napoleon and I catch up in old times."

At my hesitation, April just drawls "Relax. You guys have been safe with me for years. I'll keep an eye on Napoleon and guard him from the typing pool. You just do the drill. Then Grimm can bring you up to my office when you're done."

Napoleon signals `go along' , so I do.

Grimm leaves with them and comes back with a pistol. Smith and Wesson. Standard automatic. Long in the barrel, but workable.

I check the load. "What is passing?"

"Minimum? 85% of 100 rounds."

I don the ear protection and take my place on the line. Five clips. This piece throws to the right. After three shots I have learned to compensate. Even so, the sights will have to be reset.

I finish, pull the clips, and check the barrel. That is also a bit off, I think. I mention the flaw to Grimm. He starts to argue, then thinks better of it. He leaves again, and this time returns with a Makarov.

"This suit you better?" he asks.

I strip the clip. Eight rounds. Not my model, but close enough. I take a few test shots. Much better. This model is light, but accuracy is more important then range. I empty another five clips, reload, then fire again. That should be more then sufficient.

I wipe down the weapon, then hand it to Grimm. He checks it over while his assistant resets the target.

"92%. You pass."

"Thank you." I answer, holding out my hand for the gun. "I would like another box."

"Why?" Grimm asks. "You passed."

"With a new weapon, It will take at least a thousand rounds to become accurate."

He shrugs, but hands over the box. I pick the shoulder holster off the counter and strap it on.

The assistant leans over. "You might get closer without the knife."

"I need to know how to fire accurately with the knife."

"Why? Do you sleep with that thing?"

"Generally."

I finish two more boxes. One for target, one for draw. Not enough, but it will have to do. I have places to be. Such as upstairs. With Napoleon. I clean the gun, holster it, and turn to Mr. Grimm. "Perhaps now we should rejoin Miss Dancer?"

****

Napoleon is drinking Scotch and being charming. From all appearances he is having a marvelous time. But he stands as I enter the room.

I turn to the Dancer woman. "Thank you, April. You have been very kind."

"Absolutely wonderful." Napoleon adds.

"But we should go. It has been a long trip."

"Sorry, doll." Napasha strolls over and drops a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be thinking about you."

I doubt she is fooled by our routine, but she accepts it. "Where are you staying?"

Napoleon raises one eyebrow and her smile edges into embarrassment. "I'm afraid your apartments have been turned."

"One can't rely on rent control forever - even in New York."

"Mark and I packed up your stuff. Furniture and clothes and all that. It may take a bit but we'll find it." April laughs a bit. "When did a bureaucracy ever toss anything?" Then she pauses. "I think Mark may have kept some of your personal papers. He never would completely trust Sir John."

"There's always the Ritz."

"On my tab?" April shakes her head. "I'm not Waverly, but I'm not a fool. I know you far too well, Napoleon. Besides, New York hotels are all famously terrible. You deserve better then that." She makes a show of shuffling through papers. "I think...yes..we do have one apartment open in your old building." Reaching over her desk, she presses another button. "Mari? Could you find the keys to building 4, 2-C."

A young woman - Mari, I would assume - comes in and hands us each a set of keys on a black fob. From her speed, it is obvious this offer is far less spontaneous then implied. So? It is smoothly done.

"Not quite home, but at least you'll know the neighborhood." April nods at Mari, saying "Call a car." Then turns to Napoleon. "The driver will drop you back at the shop. From there you know the way."

April hands us each laminated cards."Keep these on you."

I check out the plasticized rectangles. They say ` Interstate Federal Firearms Permit' and are signed April Dancer. The photos are from our old files. Obviously some things are more easily found than others.

"Boys?" she adds. "Please don't shoot anyone. You have no idea what a hassle that could be."

*******

Napoleon says nothing until we are back at our car. "So?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "All are not cooks who walk with long knives."



Chapter Twenty-Six : Once I Had A Secret Love

The second floor apartment is almost familiar. Same layout as Napoleon's, only flipped to the right. Bland Danish furniture. Oversized television with what the magazines identified as a movie player. I assume any movies would be in the drawers below.

"So." I comment. "Your place." I take my case and head to what should match his guest room.

He heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle. "I can see why this is not your apartment. There is food in the kitchen."

I glance over. Vodka and Scotch? This offer is seeming less casual by the second. But I answer "Not yours either if the vodka is cold."

Stepping down the short hall, I open the left hand door. That should be the guest bedroom. No. It is an office or library. Desk, chairs, books - but no bed. No couch to conceal a bed. Strange. I open the other door. One bed. King size, but still only one. As my eyes search the walls I call out "I think perhaps we should go out to eat tonight."

Napoleon catches my tone and comes over. He looks at the bedroom, then at the other room which is *not*. Then at the myriad pictures and moldings which might conceal a camera. Then at me. "I'll take the couch," he says, straightening his tie.

******

We say nothing more on the subject until we are seated at Mama Mia's behind large plates of spaghetti. Good food, and the restaurant is only three doors down. No one on the staff appears to remember us, but the food is still excellent. As is the wine.

The restaurant is busy. Young couples, families with children, larger groups starting off on an evening's entertainment. I check for `company'. This close to April's building it is more than possible that some of our cheerful fellow diners are brotherhood, but stripped of their black suits there is no way to be certain.

Napoleon raises his glass, but does not offer the toast. He only drinks. After a long moment, he mutters "I just cannot believe that our April would try to trap us like that."

"What I do not understand is why?" I add. "What could she gain? Our removal? We could have been killed in the hospital, and who would have known?"

Napoleon puts down his fork. "What did she say to you?"

"She wanted to talk about missiles in the Ukraine. You?"

"Public relations."

That is such an incredible idea, I think this time my face must move.

"Exactly." Napoleon says. "Not Section One, is it?"

I take a deep drink. "No."

We eat in silence. Not until we are finishing our cannoli does Napoleon speak again. "That's it then. We are what.. ex-spies?"

Evidently, but...I shrug. "At least we are living ex-spies."

"True." He raises his glass towards me. "So. What do you want to do?"

I raise mine. "Go back to school, I suppose. Get a job. I do not have family money." When he says nothing I add. " Well, what else is there? I do not want to count boxes for April, and I don't understand a word of the new physics." Still no answer, so I ask. "You?"

He gives me a very strange look "Sail, I guess. Golf. Sell insurance. I just never thought it would end like this."

"End..." My breathing stops. "Napasha! This is not the end!" I look at his frozen face. "Is it?"

"Isn't it? What do we have left?" He finishes the glass and refills it. "You'll manage. Hell, you'll be brilliant. You always are. Go back to Cambridge and the KGB will rush to recruit you all over again. But me? April'd find me a desk somewhere just to avoid the embarrassment, and I'd be a fat old has-been rotting away in a basement who nobody needs and nobody cares about, and..."

"No!" I interrupt. "Napasha! Is it not enough that I care?"

"How long will you care, now that I have nothing to offer you?"

This time it is vision that stops. The world turns red. Just for a second, but..."Napoleon Anthony Solo?" The name comes in my winter voice. "You will apologize. Immediately. And if you ever again insult me in that manner, I assure you that I will break at least three of your bones."

"Illyusha."

"Do you doubt me?"

"No."

"Good." I sit back. "I am waiting."

He takes a deep swallow of his wine, then starts. "I'm sorry, Illya. I did not mean ... I just feel so lost. So... inadequate. But I did not mean to insult you."

"But you did."

"Yes. And I am sorry. Truly."

"Very well. I will believe you." I reach for the bill. "Lets go back to the apartment. We will consider our future careers in the morning."

When we get to the living room I look at the couch. It looks rather hard. Also short. Too short. "Give me the quilt." I tell Napoleon. "You take the bed. And Napoleon? Sleep on the left. You will want them to get your good side."

***********************************

It was a hard night, after a long trip, and I am still trying to sleep when Napoleon bounds into the room and throws open the drapes.

"Good morning Illya!"

I roll over and pull the quilt over my head.

"Time to rise and shine."

"Napoleon," I growl, "Is it not too early for such... cheer?"

"Not at all. Dress up and pack up. We are on the road."

I pull down the quilt and blink at the light. "I don't suppose you would reveal the cause of your...enthusiasm."

"Not yet," he answers, plucking my glasses of the nightstand and holding them out to me. "It's a surprise."

Very well, I do not know what has affected him so, but when Napasha is in one of his moods? I have long since learned it is wisest to cooperate. I shower and dress quickly while he packs up our bags. By the time I am ready, he has the car waiting out front.

"I don't suppose you could tell me where we are going?" I ask.

"Many places. But first of all...breakfast."

He drives to Central Park, pulling up by the Tavern on the Green. "Come on, Illya" He flips the keys to the valet. "Time is wasting."

Apparently we have reservations. Beyond the reservations I constantly have when Napoleon gets ... creative. At least, the lady at the podium smiles at his name. "Would you gentlemen like a menu."

"No need," he replies. "Stuffed French Toast and Pink Grapefruit Mimosas."

I look at him.

He smiles back. "That's what they're famous for. Why else would we come here?"

The lady shows us to a prime outside table and bustles off.

"Very well, Napoleon," I say, looking around at the assembly of vacationers. "Exactly what is all this in honor of?"

"It's a birthday party, tovarishch. A celebration of our new lives." A pause, then, "I have been thinking."

"Obviously."

He ignores that. "Perhaps you should go back to school. Perhaps in Berkeley."

"Berkeley?" Where is that from? "Why Berkeley?"

"I confess," he laughs. "I called Mark Slate this morning. Got his home number from directory service. Once he forgave me for pulling him out of bed, it was... interesting. No, unbelievable."

"So April Dancer told the truth. Mark is teaching in California."

"Full Professor, U. C. Berkeley. He's invited us out to stay with him."

Mark was a good comrade, but.. "Should we go?"

"Absolutely. You said I could flirt with you in California."

A young man hurries over with our drinks. Tall and bubbling, and garnished with sliced strawberries. Napoleon raises his toward me. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. I give you Saturday - and Sunday."

*******************************

This time we get to the airport early. Which is all to the good, as checking in with firearms has become seriously complicated. Still, after a review of our papers we are eventually permitted to carry them on board. After a call to April, we are even allowed to keep them loaded. I look at our tickets. "Only two seats?"

"No more expense account." Napoleon smiles at the joke. "Besides, we have the entire row."

True. It is not a large plane, but the seats are very comfortable. I check the layout in the seat pocket as the stewardess goes into her usual lecture. "How long does it take to fly to California?"

"Eager?" Napoleon asks.

"I cannot quite believe that.." I do not finish the sentence. Some words are impossible.

"I told you what Mark told me." Napoleon answers as he makes a show of checking his seat belt, then mine. "Soon enough, we can see for ourselves."

"True, but it seems...inconceivable."

His hand covers mine. "We were inconceivable once."

"I remember, but... are you absolutely certain that he said..?"

Napoleon draws back his hand. "Your choice."

"Well." I unfold the flight blanket and carefully spread it over both our laps. "I suppose we .... might." I stretch my left hand out carefully until it brushes against his right. The dividing center arm conceals our movements. " But only until someone comes."

His strong fingers curl around mine. Our palms match. The sensation is very warm, very... intimate. It is very strange to risk such a thing in public. Strange, even frightening, but...I am glad.

He pulls me closer, brushing the back of my hand against his thigh. The wool of his pants is very fine, but still... it tickles. Just a bit. Just at the top, where my cuff catches against the twill. I had never imagined that skin would be so sensitive.

After a moment his thumb brushes my wrist. Very slowly. Very gently. My eyes close. For now there is only him. Only my Napasha. Only that sense of... connection. I grip him harder, not believing what we have. What I dream we *can* have. Perhaps, I pray to gods I cannot name, what we *will* have.

"Gentlemen?" I start up and snatch my hand back to my lap. Did she see? Is she...? Will she...? "I'm sorry to trouble you but I have to ask..." I freeze. "Would you care for the chicken or the beef?"



Chapter Twenty-Seven: Two Fine People

When we get off the plane this time, our reception is waiting.

Mark Slate is recognizably Mark. Older, of course. He must be nearly sixty. He does not look it. A bit heavier perhaps. A touch of grey at the temples. But still very much the man I remember from the field. "Illya." He calls out. "Napoleon."

We push through the crowd to where he is standing.

"Mark, you look fit." Napoleon says.

Mark sweeps Napoleon into a broad hug. "You guys look great. How was the flight?"

"Too long," I answer, holding out my hand.

"It always is nowadays." He replies, accepting the handshake. "Terrible service, and the food keeps getting worse. But, hey, you're here now. Luggage?"

"Only this." I point to our bags.

"Great," he replies, setting off down the hallway. "I left David to park in short term. They give thirty minutes free. If you want to rent a car, it's smarter to do it in town. Better rates." Which might explain the rush. I do not recall Mark having Napasha's trouble with his expense accounts.

The airport is cool, but outside the night air is warm. I begin to regret the holster that makes me keep my jacket. Mark guides us through a maze of concrete and cars, past the elevators and up a flight of open stairs. Within minutes we arrive at a new looking green sedan, besides which a middle aged man is standing. Graying black hair, sun browned skin, a bit thick at the waist , can this be...? The man looks up. "Mark. These are your friends?"

"Yes." Mark opens the trunk and holds a hand out for our luggage. "Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, spook of spooks and scourge of evildoers everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. This is Dr. David Martinez, my partner, and the terror of the Berkeley economics department."

We shake hands all around. David Martinez looks a bit younger then Mark, but not as much as I had expected. And he was also a professor? Dr. Martinez opens the back door and waves us in. "They were just shocked to find they had hired a free-market conservative."

Mark slams the trunk shut. "Standards are dropping everywhere."

"It's not a bad department, really." Martinez says, starting the car. "Lots of bright students. But after spending the day fighting the Bolshevik hordes - I could use a drink."

"So say we all," Mark snaps back. "Several, if you're going to go all Keynesian on us."

"Please." Martinez makes a theatrical clutch at his heart. "Careful with the insults." He pulls on to the freeway, steering sharply to avoid an on-coming truck. Finally, I think, I have found someone who drives even more recklessly then Napasha.

I sit quietly, listing to Mark and his friend swap soft insults with the confidence of long familiarity. There is something different to their chat, and it takes me a while to realize what it is. They banter like any old married couple.

I hesitate, looking at Napoleon.

"Mark? " he asks. "You are really....?"

"Twenty-six years come September."

Napasha glances at me , then asks Mark, "The University does not object?"

Mark chuckles. "The University gives us benefits and threw a nice party for our Silver Anniversary."

"Not that nice," Martinez snaps back. " Cheap Paso Robles wine."

"You're joking."

"David Never Jokes." Mark answers in mock solemnity. "He's into Hayak. He's also a wine snob."

Martinez snorts at that, but he does not deny either claim.

Our driver honks at a pickup and slips over three lanes to make an off ramp, while Mark turns around in his seat to look at us. "Rather, I'm the one who's dead serious. That's one of the reasons I invited you two out here. There's a whole new world waiting, chaps, but to get there.... you're going to need your friends."

The car pulls to a stop beside a two-storied Tudor house on a well manicured lawn. Hidden lights illuminate the twin strips of rose bushes that separate it from its neighbors. "Home sweet home." Mark quips, hopping out and opening the trunk "Now, before I bring in the luggage, are we going to play one room or two?"

Napoleon hesitates, then says, "Ask Illya."

Mark looks at me. "I suppose....one," I answer.

**********************

Mark takes up our luggage while his friend guides us to the living room. It is very... comfortable. Even inviting. Nice leather sofas, good walnut furniture, exceedingly good rugs. Here and there sits an exotic piece that is clearly a souvenir, although whether of Slate's adventures or of more plebeian travels I could not guess. Such a lovely house, much like the ones I remember from my Cambridge days...except Californians have either discovered heating or learned to manage without it. Given the outside warmth, it could be either.

David Martinez opens the top of a large globe and pulls out two glasses. "Chivas and vodka. Have I got that right?"

Napoleon picks a well positioned leather chair and settles in. "If you have it."

"Chivas Regal Premium Label. Purchased for the occasion." He hands Napoleon a glass, then brings another to me. "I made Mark spring for the good Polish stuff."

"Thank you Dr. Martinez."

"David, please. Unless you really want me to call you Dr. Kuryakin. Although, with my lead ear for accents, I'm not even sure I could."

"Very well." I raise the glass. "David." He is right. The vodka is excellent. Perhaps even better for being served warm.

David pours two stemmed glasses of dark red wine and closes the globe. "I'm delighted to meet you two - at last," he says, taking a place on the sofa. "Mark doesn't talk much about his secret agent days, so I can hardly claim to know you second hand, but when he heard you were coming? He was like a kid at Christmas."

"You will destroy my aura of mystery." Mark is standing in the arched entrance.

"What aura of mystery?" David pats the cushion beside him. "Nowadays I can barely imagine Mark as a spy. His face shows everything."

Mark takes the seat indicated and reaches for his wine. "It does now, David. You didn't know me at my worst."

"Worse than...?" He shakes his head at some old memory. "I wish I had."

"I'm glad you did not. It was bad enough..."

David shrugs. "Liberal guilt. What can you do?" He takes a sip if wine, then turns to me "So. How are you two enjoying the new millennium?"

I think for a moment. "It is... interesting."

"As in the Chinese curse? Don't listen to the radio crazies. We have our problems, but ... I think you'll like it here."

We sit for a bit, listening to Mark and Napoleon revisit our good times.

David rises. "I have to go check the kitchen."

"Would you care for some help?" I ask.

"You cook?"

"Not well, but after the Russian Navy? I know how to follow orders."

He laughs. "Five minutes, guys."

Martinez is serious about his cooking, but after a minute of close observation he declares me qualified to toss the salad. An honor, since in this case it is a exceedingly complicated affair of spring greens and crudities. While I mix, he adds the last garnishes to a platter of new potatoes and pastry wrapped salmon.

I carry it all to the dinning room while David brings up another bottle of wine. Officially white, this time, although the actual shade is darker then the fish. After pouring, he passes the label to Napoleon. Soon they are off on another discussion of exotic vintages. Which again leaves me to talk to Mark.

"Mark. I cannot believe you left the agency early?"

"I can't believe they let me. I resigned in protest over.. well...certain policies. Waverly died in 1978. Did April tell you that?"

"No, but when she said she was CPO.... well." I hesitate. "We would have expected you to hold the post."

Mark shrugged. "Might have, eventually. I took Enforcement, but I never quite had the Solo style. Sir John took over after Waverly, but.... it wasn't the same. He was more of a player, and he let things get.... political. You are lucky you missed it."

I ran through the history book I had finally finished on the plane to California. "If you resigned in 1980, it must have been the matter of Afghanistan."

"I'd rather not discuss such things. Not necessary."

"Right answer," Napoleon agrees.

David looks at the three of us and shakes his head. "And here I thought the FBI was paranoid."

Mark was right about his companion's gourmandise. He brings out third bottle with desert. Sweet liqueur with fruit and cheese. Very European, although David Martinez proudly assures us that it is all local produce. Napoleon is impressed, and they fall into a chat about crus and curvees. That leaves me to talk with Mark.

I mention my `resignation', and the strange advice of the general and Dr. Goldak. "What I cannot believe is that my people want me to leave."

"Things are different now."

"So I have been told."

Davis looks up from his lecture on the wine label. "You know, Mark, Illya really should get together with Grustov in Languages." He turns to me. "Demitri runs a quiet little support group. Very low key."

"What is a support group?" I ask.

"Peer support." Davis answers. " People to talk to? Like A.A.? Except his is for ....well....you know. Very non-partisian. There's always been a big C.I.A. presence in the area."

"You want me to meet with the C.I.A.? I do not think...."

"No! Illya! David did not mean that!" Mark sends a sharp glance across the table to his friend. "David. Be a bit sensitive!" He turns to me, calmly reassuring. "Demitri Grustov retired as a Colonel in the G.R.U. All very kosher. I checked." At that, Mark grins. "I mean, I would never knowingly hire an *active* agent. This is a state school."

David rolls his eyes at that, but Mark continues. "Grustov applied with the language department. They wanted someone to teach Turkish and Slovenian. He wanted to come to California. Very good deal all around. PoliSci picked him up later. Goldstein was bitching about faculty balance for the R.O.T.C. instructors."

That is no explanation. "If he is not active, why does he run a group?"

"A support group... oh, never mind, that's just one of the things that has changed. You'll catch on."

David changes the subject. "Can we convince you two to stay in Berkeley?"

"I was thinking of going back to school."

"I though you already had your Doctorate?"

"Yes, Quantum Physics from Cambridge. 1954."

"Ouch!" David makes a pained face. "That field has changed beyond belief. I think we have a pretty decent department here, but the real work is being done out at Santa Barbara by the Chaos Math guys. Very radical." He rises and begins collecting the plates. "I can show you around, but I don't know too many people in that department. Economics is not considered a hard science."



Chapter Twenty-Eight: Before the Deluge

Dinner was lovely, and three glasses of wine on top of the vodka have given the world a soft, pleasant edge. At least I tell myself it is the alcohol. Otherwise I would have to acknowledge that it is the sight of Napasha hanging his shirts beside mine as if they belonged together. Impossible, because then I would have to acknowledge my greatest hope. The wild mad dream that somehow in this strange world perhaps they do. Great hopes, I have long learned, lead to greater loss.

I am sorting through our bags and dropping the dirty clothes into the bathroom hamper when he turns to me. "Twenty six years?" He says it in a voice of wonderment. "Do you really believe that Mark..?"

"In a six bedroom house, only one has been regularly used,"I answer. "And there is at least two weeks of dirty laundry in the main bathroom hamper."

"Yes, but...twenty six years." He sits down on the bed. "Who would ever have thought it?"

"Why not?" I ask. "We are here."

"I was always pretty sure we were ... unique."

"And now?"

He pats the mattress, and I go over to sit beside him. "I still do," he says. " No matter what, I refuse to believe that anyone ever loved anyone the way I love you."

"Right answer."

"I thought so." He laughs, pulling me over for a brisk kiss.

I lean in and lengthen it just a bit before pulling back. Soon enough, but I have business first. "What do you make of that Demitri Grustov bit?"

"Clumsy. Very clumsy." Napasha leans his chin on his hand.

"That is what I thought. If Mark wanted us to know about an active ring in the area, why did he not just tell us? If David wished to put Grustov in contact with me, why did he not do so when you were not there?"

Napasha nodded. "So what are you going to do?"

"I believe I will have lunch tomorrow.... in the language department."

"Smooth." His voice is rich with amused approval. "Very smooth."

We move together for a deeper kiss. I taste a touch of scotch on his lips, over the richer taster that is Napoleon.

His lips leave mine and head south as he eases me back to the wide bed.

Clicking off the lamp as I fall, I reach for his broad shoulders. I cherish the flex of his back beneath my hands, the smooth warmth of his arms, the curls beneath them. He brushes his cheek against my chest, teasing my nipples with his evening beard.

I feel myself grow hard as he fills and lengthens against my leg.

His hands claim my ass, pulling me still tighter against him. "Why do I want you so? It hasn't been that long."

I pull him up as I open my thighs for him. "Ignore time. However long, it is always too long."

I feel his fingers at my opening, slick and hot. Teasing me. Preparing me. "Now!," I demand, and in one long stroke he comes into me. This is bliss. This warmth. This union. This song that reaches my heart from every nerve.

He rocks against me, his belly stroking my cock with every thrust. His hand claims by balls, warm and gentle as his thumb strokes the base in counterpoint to his deeper thrusts. I rise against him, impatient to finish what I can not bear to end. Soon, too soon, I feel him gush within me as I abandon myself to my own pleasure.

Weak limbed, boneless, I sprawl back on to the pillows. Napasha lays in my arms, still but not asleep. Not tucked close as I wish him to be.

"Trouble?" I whisper.

"Just thinking." He reaches out to pull me to his chest. "I have never before made love to you without a lock on the door."



Chapter Twenty-Nine: New World in the Morning

Napoleon has gone down before me, and I do not spot him as I enter the hall.

"Good morning," David calls to me. "Breakfast is almost ready Why don't you have a seat?"

I look from the barren dining room to the bustling kitchen. No table in there. Where are we eating?

Mark is squeezing oranges, and when the pitcher is full he heads out the sliding glass doors. Is this a picnic? I follow him into the back yard. Interesting. Here in the back yard the British formality gives way to wildflowers and fruit trees. A shaded table is set on the brick patio overlooking the pool. Very pleasant in the morning warmth.

Napoleon is already seated at the table, nibbling on grapes. He pours a cup of coffee and sets it at my place. Judging from the aroma, this brew is excellent.

"Ready?" David asks, bringing out plates of something golden, swimming in a red sauce. He puts them at each place, along with platters of bacon and crisp pork rinds. At my uncertain look, he smiles. "Fried cornmeal mush with raspberry salsa."

"Try it," Mark encourages, taking his seat. "It tastes better then it sounds."

Napoleon takes a bite. "Wonderful."

I test a bit. Napasha is right. It is delicious. Richer than pancakes. Fresher than syrup. I look at the laden table. "Do you always eat like this?"

"Hell no," Mark answers, snatching up a strip of bacon. "David's just putting on the dog. He keeps me on granola."

"Mark," David begins.

"It's the truth!" Mark insists in a tone of outraged innocence. "The last time I ordered fried pork chops, you sulked for days."

"Good health is a matter of personal responsibility."

"It's my blood pressure."

"But *you* are mine," David snaps back smugly. " I am far to young to be widowed. Besides, I'd look terrible in black."

"Do you know?" I said, looking over at Napasha. "I have had the same thought recently."

David laughs.

Napoleon looks thoughtful.

"So," Mark asks as he picks up a last bit of bacon. " What would you two like to do today?"

"I thought I might go over to the campus," I answer. "I could check out the facilities, and perhaps meet with Professor Grustov. If you think he will be in?"

"Very likely. Almost everyone keeps Saturday office hours. You could ride in with me, if you like," David offers. " I have some paperwork to finish."

"I think I should find a car." Napoleon adds. "California is supposed to be impossible without one. Then I need to set up an appointment with my broker. I can't find half my stocks in the listings." He shrugs. "Thirty years is a long time to ignore matters."

Mark clears the plates. "You best be off then."

David stands. "Conference with Nachiem. You likely won't see me till well after lunch."

Mark smiles at David. "Don't let her spoil your appetite." And then, without any warning, Mark leans over and kisses him. On the lips.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

I gather my courage, nod, and .... I feel his lips brush my forehead.

"Good luck, Illyusha."

"Take care, Napasha."

****************************

The campus is larger then I had expected. Acres of modern architecture set on well-groomed grass. Not just classrooms, but restaurants, shops, charming picnic spots. Quite a thriving little community. David points out the major landmarks on our way in. I ask him to drop me at the administration building. That should be a good place to find a map.

I am right. The young lady at the first desk hands me a thick guide and marks the directions to Professor Grustov's office in the Language Arts building.

Even on a Saturday the grounds are busy. Somewhat from classes, more so from the social life that forms anywhere you gather a few thousand of the twenty-something. Still, other then a few intrepid skate boarders, I pass unimpeded.

I smile at the cluster of casually clad students seated on the grass around an older woman. A seminar class, I suppose. At least, several of the young people have open books. Although given that they also have radios and snacks, I doubt their attention is totally focused on the subject matter. I remember such images from my Cambridge days, although back then I never had the spare time to join such frivolities. Now, perhaps? It might be very pleasant to learn that way.

Or perhaps to teach? Not the sciences, of course. Mine is not a field for the undisciplined. And I have more to learn there then to teach. But perhaps language? If this Grustov can serve in two departments? I will read over the catalog closely, and see if they are lacking any languages where I am fluent.

The building is open, and I head up to the faculty floor. Several offices are empty, but when I come to Grustov's the door is open and a young lady is busily sorting papers.

"Professor Grustov?" I ask.

She waves me towards the far door. It is unlocked, so I open it and look inside. A heavy-set man in his fifties is sitting at a book-covered desk. "Professor Grustov?"

He glances up from his papers. "Yes?"

"Illya Kuryakin."

"Who does not need any language classes at all."

I ignore the challenge. "I'm a friend of Mark Slate."

"Your pardon, I thought you might be greetings from home. Your accent, you know." He shrugs. "You have a very military bearing."

"That too." I pass him the most Russian of my ID's.

"Sorry. Not interested. My secretary will show you out."

"My apologies. You really are retired." I look over his wall of diplomas, and my eyes are caught by his thirty years certificate. Meritorious service with highest honors.

He follows my glance.

I shrug. "Not too often I've seen one of these."

"Give it another fifteen years or so."

"Actually, I believe I have one now." I hesitate, then add. "In theory."

"Medical?" Grustov questions, giving me an accessing look.

I smile back blandly. Not a bad assumption if he chooses to make it.

"Sorry, but you look a bit young to have put in twenty years."

"As you say." I agree. "I just flew in from St. Petersburg, where they ..... `retired' me, I believe was the phrase used. I find myself at a bit of a loose end. David Martinez suggested you might have some ideas as to how I might ... occupy my time?"

"Well then," Grustov says, opening a file drawer. "Would you care for a drink?" He pulls out the familiar blue-labelled bottle and fills two glasses.

"You know?" I say, taking a sip and appreciating the familiar burn down my throat. "You are the first man this week to offer me Russian vodka. I was beginning to think we stopped making the stuff."

He raises his glass. "That is the bosses for you. They have gotten puritanical in my old age."



Chapter Thirty: Both Sides Now

I take a cab home. Napoleon is waiting when I arrive.

"How did lunch go?"

I shrug. "Grustov gave me vodka, bought me lunch, quizzed me on my Chinese, and then offered me a job - in the language lab."

"So it's a total waste."

"It was good vodka."

"Any chance it was a contact?"

"Anything is possible, but..... I am almost ready to believe these people are telling the truth." A thought so preposterous as to bring a smile to my lips. Which reminds me of another preposterous thought. "Oh, and Napasha? The ex-spies club meets on Monday nights at the Faculty Club. We now have a standing invitation."

I wait until he stops laughing before I add, "How was your day?"

Somehow that question was even funnier. So it is a bit before he tells me. "I got together with a stock broker at the company April told me was handling things. Seems she was telling the truth abut our salaries. Remember that stock fund, the direct deposit thing I talked you into? Well, she kept up the deposits. Our entire salaries. Which, between regular investments, and some long term growth .... and a little luck." He pulls out a thick sheaf of papers and hands them to me. "I don't think money's going to be a problem any time soon. Even at these prices."

I read over the first page. "Very impressive."

"I'm not authorized to discuss your account, so I told him you'd be by to talk later."

I take a much closer look at the figures. I start to add them, then give up. "Perhaps, if he gives me equally good news - I will forgive you for talking me into becoming a disgusting capitalist." I look again at the letterhead. Apparently there is a direct line for information. Excellent. That will save a drive.

I dial it. The young lady who answers asks for my social security number, then my mothers maiden name. Strange questions, but after I answer them she does get the man on the line.

Napoleon excuses himself, heading for the kitchen.

"Mr. Chalmers? This is Illya Kuryakin. Mr. Solo spoke with you earlier today?"

That was all that was required to set the man off on a flurry of numbers. I try to take notes, but soon give it up. Between dividends and reinvestment and share-averaged returns? Nothing he says makes sense to me anyway.

"Very interesting," I insert when he finally runs out of breath. " Do you think you could mail that to me?"

My question inspires another volley of verbiage, but in the end he agrees. Good. It would have to be clearer on paper. Although... I look at the final number I had been given.

Napoleon steps back carrying a plate of sandwiches and two glasses of wine.

"How did it go?" he asks, handing me a glass.

"Apparently Russians are now even more disgusting capitalists."

"What?"

"When you *insisted* that I join you in that retirement scheme, the man asked where I wanted to invest. I naturally directed the company to support Soviet Heavy Industry," I explain.

"Very patriotic."

"I thought so."

"And the result?"

I hand him my scribbled figures.

"Very nice." Napasha raises his glass. " Smart, blond, and now rich. I always knew I had good taste."

I look again at the impossible numbers. "Napasha, either the world has gone mad, or I have."

"Probably us." When I look up, he chuckles. "You have to admit, it is the more logical choice."

"Yes."

"Do you mind?"

I look again at what I had written. "No."

********************

This is Mark's night to make dinner. Apparently that means steaks on the barbecue. I once again have salad duty, while Napoleon is deputized to choose a wine.

Mark has fired up the garden heaters. We are eating outside again. Interesting. The restaurant where Grustov took me was outdoors as well. Californians seem have developed some strange aversion to buildings, although they build enough.

The sunset is turning pink as I finish setting the table. A breeze is swaying the fruit trees , but it is warm and pleasant. Only enough to carry the scent of roses from the front yard. Two hummingbirds flit around the feeder on the back fence. No wonder the people here live outdoors. With this weather, who would not?

I have just set out the glasses when David comes in. "Dinner ready?" he asks, dropping into his chair with a sigh of mock exhaustion. "Great, I'm starved."

"I told you not to let Nachiem ruin your appetite," Mark answers as he slips the steaks on a platter, and we all sit.

"Napoleon, I see you found a car." David comments, taking a deep swallow of wine.

"BMW Convertible. It will do for now." Napasha spears a steak and passes the platter to David. "The rental place delivered it around noon. I wanted a Porsche, but apparently none were available." He tries for a look of long-suffering as picks up his wine. "Oh well. Once Illya is settled, I suppose I should buy one."

"Unless April can find yours." Mark scoops up some salad. "Corr, that thing would be a classic. What did you have? Six thousand miles?"

"I don't remember. I was never home to drive it."

I help myself to a baked potato. "I told you private cars were a waste."

"Get used to it, Kuryakin." David laughs as I hand him the platter. "If you live in sunny California, you'll both need one."

Mark lifts his glass and adds,"At least one."

One each? Well, that is a thought. Not exactly a pleasant thought, but if extra driving is the price for such a life? I have paid more for less. "How was your day?" I ask David.

"Hellish. Head of the department somehow learned that you were visiting with Grustov, and she wants you to speak to her class."

"What?" I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. " I am not an economist."

"Neither is she."

"David!"

"Mark, the woman drives a Yugo!"

I hesitate, but.. Mark is a friend. A *brother*. If I cannot ask him, what trust is there? "That is the second time I have heard that. What is wrong with driving a Yugo?"

"Nothing. It's a political thing."

"With her" David snorts. "Everything is!"

"What do you expect?" Mark's voice takes on a tone of forced tolerance. "She's a registered communist - and they haven't been having it so easy lately. You could show a little compassion."

I look at them both. "What has that to do with her economics class about which I know nothing?"

"She's just hoping you'll show up and bitch about how California sucks." When Mark gives him another look, David subsides, but grumbles. "That's what all her guests do."

"How would I know if California 'sucks', as you so elegantly put it?" I ask. "I have only been here one day." I check my watch and add, "Not even that."

David grins. "No problem. When you teach economics - everything sucks."

"One of the advantages of Political Science," Mark agrees. "For us, everything is wonderful - at least for 51% of the time."

"Except in Florida."

"That was an exception."

"That was a disaster."

Mark takes a drink. "Not for people looking for jobs in the polling industry."

"True," David agrees, reaching for his glass. He turns to me. "Plans for tomorrow?"

"I think I will spend it in the library," I answer.

"Good idea," Mark says. "I'll sign you in for my department so you can check out reference books. Faculty privileges."

*****************

After dinner, we sit by the fire sipping brandy. Soft jazz is playing over the garden speakers. Mark and David are debating some incomprehensible political point about some poet I have never heard of. There is a slight wind, but it is only cool enough to make the heat of the fireplace as welcome as the flickering light.

I look up at the hazy stars and consider my day. My very busy day. My very strange busy day.

"Napasha." I raise my glass. "I am rethinking my opinion. We are sane. It is the entire planet that is crazy."

*****************

Warm, showered, and bonelessly comfortable, I relax against the pillows. Half asleep, unworried, my glasses lying on top of my pistol on the nightstand. The window is open, and a stray zephyr carries the scent of roses.

Napasha lifts the sheet and slides in beside me. He smells so good. Orange blossoms and wood smoke mingle somehow still in his hair. He feels so warm, a constant sun, a light and life to my soul. And tonight? He is again with me tonight.

I roll over, flinging my arm across his chest. He strokes my hair, and his lips press the soft flesh above my ear with infinite tenderness.

Suddenly, I have the beautiful moment of realization that we will, perhaps, do this every night for the rest of our lives. That we will go to bed at night and wake in the morning and live every day without madness or lies or fear.

"Napasha?" I whisper.

"Yes, my Illyusha?" he murmurs, his breath teasing the short hair at my nape. "What is it?"

I press my face into the soft curls of his chest, feeling them catch in the fluttering of my lashes.

"What do you want, Illya?" he asks again.

I feel the blush rise, flaming in my cheeks as the words die unspoken.

"Illyusha?"

I lay a kiss in the hollow of his throat. "Could we...?" I start, then the words fail me.

"Anything you want," Napasha whispers, brushing the fallen bangs from my forehead. "Anything."

I clutch his shoulder, reveling in the strong play of muscle, the known strength of arms built by hour after hour of effort. The deep power of his chest.

"Could we...?" My breath catches as his tongue passes tenderly over the crest of my ear.

"Anything, lyubovnick"

I take a shuddering breath. "Do you think we could.... sleep?"

"Yes." Napasha chuckles gently as he pulls me closer. "We can."



Chapter Thirty-One: A Day in the Life of a Lucky Man

Trivia note: As to why Illya did not find `new bills' in the pack of cash he was given by April Dancer. `Eurodollars' have not been fully replaced yet. Especially in the Eastern bloc countries, where banks are somewhat low on the distribution list. Also, there is somewhat of a prejudice in favor of the old currency - and April (if offered a choice) would have given them the most desirable forms of currency.

I finally wake to a perfected world.

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Napoleon Anthony Solo is sleeping in my arms. He is so handsome in the sunlight, with his strong legs tangled in the printed sheets. The dark hairs reflect bronze highlights in the shaft of light that comes through the window and warms the tanned gold that is his skin. The rich mahogany that is his hair. Such soft, thick hair.

The alarm starts, but I end it before the harsh tone can disturb his rest.

Napasha shifts, and I see his cock rise, half full from the dreams of the night. I cannot resist. I ease down until I can place a soft kiss on the blushing peach shaft. Then another. As always, I am amazed by the miracle of that velvet flesh filling and lengthening. A damp stroke of my tongue over the rosy head brings a groan, and his eyelashes flutter. The first drop of fluid is salty and slick on my tongue.

"Lay back, Napasha," I murmur before taking his shaft deep into my throat. It feels so good there. I pull back, running my tongue over the sensitive head, then dive again to claim his full length.

He leans over until he is parallel to me, his cheek leaning against my thigh. I am hard already, and the first touch of his lips brings out a groan. Da. He is so good at that.

I stifle my cries with the nearest thing at hand. His cock.

His lips close on me even as mine seal on him. Taking his cock deep into my throat, I let the sensitive flesh absorb the vibrations wrought by its owners mouth. A mouth which responds with more and stronger licks. Which brings out more moans and whimpers to tease his eager rod. Precious feedback, and all too relished. Within seconds we are both spurting, too frantic with pleasure and haste to be subtle.

"What a nice wakeup call." Napasha smiles up at me. "I'll have to sleep late more often.

"That is the nice thing about a warm climate. Very few blankets."

He places a tender kiss on the back of my knee before getting up from our bed. "One more nice thing about California. Very large showers."

I grin at the invitation in his voice - then I accept it.

**********

"Good morning," David calls from the kitchen. "Breakfast should be here soon."

As I walk across the hall, the doorbell rings.

"That'll be the tamale man now." David looks up from where he is slicing papaya. "Illya? Could you get that? I've left a twenty on the hall table."

I give the man the note, accept in exchange a heavy plastic bag from which the rising steam carries a most appetizing scent. Too hot to touch, I have to hold the foil wrapped package carefully by the hand holds. The delivery man fumbles in his pocket, and after a moment hands me back a bill, which I accept without looking. My error, for when I do... "I'm sorry David, I seem to have received some counterfeit."

"What?" Mark takes the bag and looks over at the oddly misprinted five dollar note I am holding out. "Oh, that's one of the new bills."

"New?"

"Treasury added holographic threads to discourage counterfeiting."

"And to show on the airport detector." David adds. "I tell you, it's a fascist plot."

"David!" Mark's voice takes on a firm tone. "These two guys might take you seriously. Then where would we be?" He turns to me and adds reassuringly, "Relax, Illya. There is no indication whatsoever of fascist infiltration of the treasury department."

Mark takes the bag as David pulls down some plates. "So, which do you want?" he asks. "The chicken or the pork?"

****************

The tamales are excellent. Somewhat unusual for breakfast, but excellent. I mention as much to Mark, who then regales us with stories of David's cooking and their early California days. Apparently Tamale Sunday was a Latino custom Mark did not learn about until *after* they had moved west. Apparently also it is a local sacrament. David's mother could accept an English `son', but to accept English *cooking*? Some things are just to
much to ask!

I consider my recent meals, then drift back a bit to my Cambridge memories. Yes, I conclude. Mrs. Martinez was a very wise woman indeed.

I over-indulge with one of each, while Napoleon makes inroads into the fresh papaya and lime.

We are stacking the plates into the dishwasher when David calls out . "Mark! You had better hurry, or we'll be late for church."

"Be right along,"he shouts back, then turns to us. "Not Episcopalian, right?"

Napoleon shakes his head. I say nothing.

"I'm afraid you chaps are on your own for a bit." Mark says. "Won't be back until well after lunch."

Napoleon grins as David hurries down the stairs with Mark's jacket. "Never knew you were so devout."

"I'd give this Sunday a pass, but I'm on the building committee. High finance, dontcha know."

"That's just because you gave then that window," David snips, looking over at Napoleon. "After the big earthquake took out all the glass, Mark donated a beautiful stained glass window. St. Crispin. Told them that was his grandfather's patron saint."

Napoleon rubs his chin. "St. Crispin, eh?"

"Had quite a nice dedication Mass. Wednesday before Easter. Grandda's birthday, and all that." Mark heads for the door, calling back. "One should always do something to say thanks."

I glance at Napoleon as I reach for my own jacket. "Do you have plans for today?"

"I thought I might go to the library with you," he answers. "There are a few private matters I'd like to look up."

"As long as you promise not to flirt with the college girls."

"Why would I do that? It's so much more fun to flirt with you."

************

I am rereading a paragraph on implied particles when Napoleon drops into the chair beside mine. "Illya."

"What?" I mutter, not taking my eyes from the text in front of me.

"Look at this," he insists. "This is incredible." He holds out a black slab covered with buttons.

"A keyboard?" What is so strange about a keyboard? Although it does look small. So? Many things are miniaturized now.

I start to return to my reading, but Napoleon keeps on. "This is a computer."

"Do not be ridiculous." I look up at the flat plastic, which is now a bright moving display. The box in the center is a list of various capacities. 128K? I shake my head. "That much memory would take up the entire room. No doubt it is linked to a machine in the basement."

He flips it around. "Then why are there no cords?"

What? My eyes scan the glossy black surface.

"Look at it," he insists.

I pick it up...and almost drop it. The whole thing does not weigh ten kilos. I check for a radio transmitter, but there is none. "This is incredible. Where did you get it?"

"From the librarian." Napasha smiles at a young lady sitting behind a long counter. " All the stations were busy, and when I told her that ... she let me borrow hers."

"So.. the charm is back."

"It never left."

"Good."

"And Illya?" Napasha raises one eyebrow. "I thought I had no charm."

I ignore his teasing and focus on the machine in front of me. "Napasha? Where did she get this?"

"From under her desk."

"No." I scroll down the programs and check out the cache size. "Before that."

"I have no idea." Napasha stands up. "Want me to ask?"

I am still inspecting the machine when he returns, waving a scrap of paper.

"What is that? Her phone number?"

"Of course," Napasha preens. " Along with the address of her favorite shop that sells such things. Right on campus."

"Do you think they are open?"

"Why?" Napoleon snatches back the paper. "Did you want to go there?"

"Do not tease!"

"We can head over now," he concedes, "and afterwards you can buy me lunch. Preferably at someplace with a roof."

******

Napoleon stops dead two feet past the doorway. "Look at these phones." He plucks a red one off of the display. "This is smaller then the one April gave you."

"Which you made me leave behind."

"It was probably bugged," he reminds me.

"True."

"Perhaps we should get a pair?"

"Perhaps." I inspect the smallest unit. "How much range do you think they have?"

He snatches it up and punches a quick set of numbers. "Let me try something."

Two short rings and a woman's voice answers.

"Which girlfriend is that?" I ask.

He holds out the unit so I can hear the words. "Date and time. In Fiji."

I nod. "We get two."

A long haired young man in dungarees and a printed undershirt strolls up. "Can I help you dudes?"

"You sell computers?"

"Sure, man. All sorts of electronics. What did you have in mind?"

******************

Four hours later, Napoleon strolls back in , finishing the last bites of his hamburger. I collect my boxes while Napoleon trashes the McDonald's bag. "Happy now?" he asks.

"Very."

"You should be." He picks up half the purchases. "I've had cars that cost less."

I give the glossy black side a little pat."I will take better care of this then you do of your cars."

"True," he chuckles. "But you could say that about everything."

Stroking the black nylon case, I whisper . "This... is beautiful." Then I gather up another stack of brochures and add them to our bags.

"Napasha?"

"Yes, Illyusha?"

"When we get a house... I want a base station, too."



Chapter Thirty-Two: Prelude Pour Une Nouvelle Amour

Mark looks up as Napoleon helps me unload my purchases. "First notebook?" he asks.

Napoleon gives me an indulgent look and answers. "First personal computer, period."

"Lord luv it, I remember that now. Reel to reel. The whole bloody room." He chuckles a bit, then adds. "Oh, ducks, are you going to enter a whole new universe. Wait until I explain the World Wide Web."

***********************

I am reading the Report of the National Commission for the Review of the National Reconnaissance Office when Napoleon walks in, carrying a cup of coffee.

I point to the screen, with its satellite and rocket symbol transposed over the title. "They have a comment box. I wonder if I should...no, let them find out for themselves."

"It's midnight, Illya. What are you reading now?"

"A report on American Spy Satellites." I reply without looking up.

"What?" Napoleon pulls up a chair and sits beside me.

"I asked for rocketry and radio electronics. This was on the list. They have the site and the general frequencies." I click to the display page. "But so far I have not found the trigger codes."

Finished, I close that window and type in Rocketry + Radio electronics + Russia. The bar spins, and after a few seconds another list appears on the screen. I pick the most promising. It opens, then gives me a choice: Public access, or restricted. I click restricted, and watch as another screen appears. This one asks for my ID number. I start to type, then hesitate.

"Illya?" Napoleon stares at the screen, setting the hot cup beside me on the desk. "What are you doing now?"

"Just wondering."

"About what?"

"I wonder if my old codes still work."

"Why?"

I type in a remembered babble of numbers and letters. Another spinning bar, and then a page of text appears. "If they do... yes..... let's see just what they have to say about us."

"No, Illya." Napoleon declares, taking on his command voice. "You are NOT going to hack the Kremlin. No!"

"I am not hacking. That is my authorization code."

"No, Illya."

"Very well." I cancel that address and type instead one I remember for the CIA.

"Illya!" Napoleon snaps as the familiar seal appears. "Not them either! This has got to be illegal."

"Why?" I ask reasonably. "No one has revoked my security clearance."

"That's because you're supposed to be dead."

"Not this week."

"NO!" he repeats. It is his command voice.

I close the window and cancel the search. "Very well. I suppose I should show some respect." I give that a moment's thought, then add. " How do you feel about the Canadians?"

***********************

"You still up?"

I look over to see David standing in the doorway with a pot of coffee in one hand and a thick sheaf of papers in the other. "What time is it?" I ask.

"Six thirty - in the morning." He smiles at my shocked expression, then shakes his head. " Don't worry about it. The Web does that to people. Especially their first time out. You'll get used to it." Picking up my empty cup, he pours a fresh brew. "By the way," he adds, holding out the papers, "I collected your messages."

I flip through them. "Who are these people?"

"No idea about some of them," David replies. "Avian is a big electronics place down the coast. Global-Sat? I think they are in Santa Monica. Way south. Hughes and Rocketdyne are pretty much everywhere. Trans-Tech has a place just off campus - and they called twice."

"What?" Mark quips, joining his partner in the doorway. "Nothing from Larry's? They are usually a bit quicker than that."

At my perplexed expression, David adds, "Standing joke. Every physicist that lands on campus, they call the next day. One lunch - then you never hear from them again."

"Who is this Larry?" I ask.

"Rad lab?" David answers. "Laurence Liverpool Laboratories?"

I give him a *look*. "I do not believe they would wish to hire a Soviet spy. Even if my degree was not thirty years our of date."

"Wouldn't be the first," David chuckles.

"Sadly true," Mark acknowledges, " although those folks we aren't supposed to know about." He shrugs. "Sorry, Illya. Security problem a few years back. Turned a bit nasty. All over now, thank God, but it caused quite a row on campus. Nothing to do with you." He gives that a thought, then adds. "You are retired, aren't you?"

"Not officially," I answer. "I have yet to sign the papers."

"Oh. Then I suppose that might bollox your security clearance just a tad." He rubs his chin, glances at the papers, then adds, "Your business, but if you plan to stay...associated.... you probably ought to tell the recruiters up front. Save them a lot of time and hassle with the CI chaps." Another pause, then he adds "Still, it shouldn't be a problem for everyone."

"That is what these calls are?"

"What did you think?" Mark answers. "Reputations get around. You two are the hot new prospect in town." He glanced down at the various names and numbers. "Some of those are tech. Most are probably management. With the new configurations.. well, there are a lot of joint projects. Site managers that can pass two or more sets of security are getting scarce." He purses his lips, clearly recognizing some of the names. "Don't rush it. You'll meet a lot of people at the Cold Crew. They can give you better contacts then these. And you don't want to look too eager."

"You mean there is really a job market for ex-spies?"

David laughs at my shock. "Ex or otherwise."

"Damn straight," Mark concurs. "We keep it quiet but - other people's business is big business around these parts."



Chapter Thirty-Three - Just another Manic Monday

"What do you want to do today?" Napoleon asks brightly as I finish my third double-expresso.

"I *want* to sleep." I grumble. "What I will do is go back to the library, if you will drop me off there. I still have quite a bit of research to complete. And you?"

"Call back on some of these." He ruffles though his own stack of notes. "Go into town. Check into some real estate. If you plan to stay here we will need to get a place."

"True," I answer. Not that Mark and David are not wonderful hosts, but we cannot impose on them forever. We will need a place of our own. Which means we will have to make some decisions as to where we want to live. Which in my case means finding either a school or a job. Better both. Although, I realize suddenly, the interesting financial news I had been given on Saturday makes employment less of a pressing issue. Still, I
can not see myself as a social parasite. I will have to do *something*.

Napoleon reaches for his jacket...but not his shoulder holster.

"You are not wearing your gun?" I ask, shocked.

"I'll keep it in the glove box," he reassures me.

"Very well," I nod. "But remember to turn on your new telephone. I will leave mine on as well." I hesitate, then... "I get nervous, now that Channel D is no longer available."

"Yes, Illya." Napoleon sighs, making a show of tucking the telephone into his pocket, "but neither are our enemies." Dropping a kiss on my forehead, he adds "I'll try to pick you up for lunch. If not I'll call."

"Do that." I answer. "And remember to be early back. We have a party invitation tonight."

"Christ, yes." Napoleon smiles as he tucks his notes into his jacket. "Half these calls are from people who want to meet me there. You know, Illya? Of all the things I never expected to see, I never expected to see a university with an Old Spies Club."

********

It is just after one when Napoleon walks into the library. A bit later than I would have wished to eat, given my disinterest in breakfast, but since he had called I had no real grounds for complaint.

He is carrying a shopping bag. A large, heavy shopping bag.

"I see you found something."

"They had a few rather decent men's shops in town." He answers, taking the chair beside me. "I picked up a few shirts and a suit. Need it for the party tonight."

I give that a moment's consideration. Perhaps I should have asked him to purchase a suit for me as well? No. Mark would have warned me if one was necessary; and left to myself? I am inclined to view the abolition of cufflinks as a major triumph of social justice.

Napoleon makes a space for his packages beside the large stack of notes and xerox sheets in front of me. "How did your research go?"

"Very interesting." I answer. "David was right about the physics department. Santa Barbara is much more advanced them Berkeley."

"You're interested, then?"

"Perhaps." I allow, then add. "I have an appointment with the lab director for lunch tomorrow."

"That's good. If you're going to spend all those years in classes, it should at least be somewhere you enjoy."

I separate part of the papers and hand them over. "David was also right about the phone calls."

"Really?" Napoleon reads rapidly through the xerox sheets.

"I have made up files on all of yesterday's companies. Plus six more that called Mark asking for you today. You should go over them before the party. And Laurence Livermore did call me. The director's secretary said he wanted to have lunch."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I was still active KGB. And that I was living with another man."

Napoleon chuckles. "What did she say to that?"

"That she would get back to me."

"I bet."

"She did." I take off my glasses and tuck them carefully into my jacket pocket. "We are both having dinner with the director and his wife at their home tomorrow night. Some project involving a space-station reactor. But I do not believe we will be interested."

"Why not?" he asks, curious.

"As I recall, Russian space launches are from Siberia," I explain.

"Lousy climate."

"Exactly."



Chapter Thirty-Four : Bad Man's Blunder

Napoleon shifts restlessly in his seat. "Where do you want to go for lunch?"

"The mall." I answer, gathering together my papers and filing them neatly in an accordion folder. At his shocked expression, I add, "I also have some shopping to do."

"What? My non-materialistic Illya?"

"If I am to drive three hundred miles tomorrow," I explain, "I would like better music then the be-bop your radio stations grudgingly provide. The more so since that toy car you selected has some ridiculously elaborate sound system."

"Which you will enjoy."

"Which I will definitely enjoy... provided I have some decent music to play on it. I asked the librarian, and she recommended I try a store at the mall." I reach back into the folder and pull out one sheet. "She also gave me a map."

He takes the sketch from my hand. "OK, the mall it is."

***********

I survey the immense structure, its walls brilliant with polychrome signage. There must be a village of shops under this one roof. The directory lists several shops as selling music, but... I am hungry. "Food first," I decide.

Napoleon shakes his head. "It always is, with you."

The restaurants are all located at the center. Following the directory, we arrive at a wide courtyard surrounding a fountain. The various levels are filled with small tables, clustered around potted palm trees, and off on three sides the walls are composed of stand after stand of food vendor. Panda Inn, Pizza Hut, Fresh-Mex Express, Hawaiian Grill...it would seem that every cuisine on the planet is represented here. Even - I scan the list at
something called Soup Plantation - borscht.

"Imagine." I count quickly. "Twenty-five restaurants."

"No restaurants, Illya," Napoleon retorts. "And I already had to tolerate a bag lunch because of you yesterday. I thought I told you someplace with a roof!"

"This has a roof," I point out in my most reasonable voice.

"Yes, well." He casts a disgruntled glare over the open table area. "I would prefer a few walls as well."

"If you wished for walls, you should have specified walls," I tease. " Next time be more exact as to your architectural requirements, and I will naturally strive to comply."

He gives me a *look*, but his eyes sparkle, so I know he is not serious.

There is a long line at the Chinese stand, so I opt for Indian food instead. He chooses Greek. Once we collect our lunches we rejoin at a table near the fountain.

"This is interesting," I comment, studying the infinite array of shoppers seated around us.

"This is terrible."

I look at his kabob plate. Certainly it appears appetizing, but perhaps? "My food is excellent." I spear a bit of lamb curry and hold it out to him.

Napasha makes a show of licking it carefully off the fork, then smiles. "Not the food, Illyusha, the ...culture...or lack thereof."

I follow his eyes. A young man with pink hair and oversized pants is groping a young lady with *no* hair and earrings enough to furnish an entire family of gypsies. At his feet, an oversized radio broadcasts what most resembles an emergency distress call overlaid with a particularly rhythmic static. As no one is responding, however, I assume it is some sort of performance.

"Granted the ...music? ...is painful," I concede. "But surely there are... compensations?"

I reach across to him and he takes my hand. "There are at that."

********

Four different shops are listed as selling music. I choose the nearest. Not the most scientific criteria, I grant, but without data? One must start somewhere. Although I do not hold much hope for a wide selection. The shop is very small, and I mention as much to Napoleon.

"Yes, but the records are smaller now too."

"Everything is," I mutter, picking up one hand-sized plastic case.

My grumbling must amuse Napasha, for he gives me a *most* indecent smile and whispers, "Not everything."

Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately, as this is a public shop - he is distracted by one of the promotional posters. "Lord, are they still around?"

"Who?" I ask as Napoleon snatches a brightly illustrated box off the display marked `new release'.

I slip on my glasses as he holds it out to show the distinctive `Beatles' logo. "This is one of my favorite groups. Good to see that they're still together."

"A complement to your taste, I am sure." I turn left, heading back to the section marked `Classic/Instrumental'.

The selection *is* limited, but not to the degree I had feared. I find most of the major composers, although not always represented by the orchestras I would prefer. Still, they should suffice for a distraction. I am reaching for one marked `Timeless Classics' when a particularly flashy title catches my eye? `Strauss for Stress'? Is this one of the outside programs Dr. Goldak was babbling about? I pull it out, and notice another in the series. `Mozart for Mornings?' The paragraph on the back insists that listening to these particular compositions will `reduce stress, induce well-being, increase efficiency and create a positive attitude.' I seriously doubt that, but.... I add both CD's to my selections. What could it hurt?

By the time I reach the counter Napasha has, once again, managed to find a dozen new things to purchase. I make a mental note: When looking for a place of our own - we will need a *large* house.

******

We are walking back to the car, having finished off our shopping with a final stop at the ice-cream kiosk. Thirty-two flavors, including chocolate chip mocha. A double cone. With sprinkles. I would have refrained, but Napoleon insisted. For a self-indulgent capitalist, he does have his good points. We are so busy chatting that I almost miss the sudden acceleration of a car engine very near by..

"Napoleon?" I hold up my hand.

It is fast. Too fast. For this crowded warren, much too fast. I freeze, searching the echoing concrete for signs. Nothing on the marked lane. A shadow. To the right. Coming the wrong way, and...

"Back!" I shout, flipping backwards as the dark sedan scrapes the fender of the parked car beside me with a scream of rubber and chrome. The tires pass within inches, leaving the sour tang of scorched rubber to mix with the duller scent of metal sparks. Then the car is gone.

Napoleon reaches automatically inside his empty jacket as I gasp, "No. Hold fire. I am...fine."

He pulls me close until my breathing steadies, then sits back. "You are sure?" he questions anxiously, sweeping the short bangs back from my forehead. His finger tips trace the scrapes from my ear to my chin.

I reach for my fallen packages. "The car did not even touch me." The Strauss case is cracked, but the stress-reducing record inside appears intact. Good. I think perhaps I will be needing it.

"Do you think?" He stares at the now innocent ramp with warrior's eyes.

"No." I hold out my hand and permit him to help me to my feet. "We must no longer be paranoid, Napasha. Some accidents are merely....accidents."

Napoleon does not argue, but I notice that he puts his holster on *before* he starts the car.



Chapter Thirty-Five: Oh, Very Young

We come down dressed for the evening. Napoleon is looking natty in his new suit. I am wearing my black pants and sweater, which David has somehow arranged to have dry cleaned overnight. Mark is already downstairs, having agreed to be our guide.

"Have something to eat before you go," David insists, bringing over a platter of roast vegetables and tortillas.

"David just doesn't want me to eat the food at the club," Mark says.

"Bad enough that you drink there." David folds up a vegetable taco and and passes it across to Mark. "If you eat the cheese sticks you will start another ulcer."

"Do not worry. We will not likely be staying long enough to eat or drink very much," I reassure David. "If I am to be in Santa Barbara tomorrow, it will have to be an early night tonight."

"Heading down the coast, eh?" David passes me the guacamole. "You should go with him, Napoleon. Lots of work going on in the Lompoc area. If Illya likes the school, you could find a lot of opportunities around the base."

"Santa Barbara." Mark smiles. "That's a nice area. Some really good restaurants. David and I spent a week near there last year. Something of a second honeymoon."

"Which," David mutters, "was majorly better then the first!"

"Quite?" Mark looks up.

"You weren't bleeding, I wasn't terrified, and nobody got killed. I think that qualifies as a step up."

"Yes," Mark nods, "but the first time I was with this really hot bloke."

"And the second?" David gives him an unconvincing glare.

"Um." Mark makes a show of scratching his head, "I was with this really hot bloke?"

"Right answer!"

"Good save," Napoleon chuckles,loading up his tortilla with tomatoes and sour cream. "But that does sound like quite a story."

Mark waves it off. "Nothing special."

"Oh?" David's glare is back, and this time a bit more legitimate.

"Not you, luv." Mark holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "Just well.. usual bloody random events. All rather a bit of a balls-up."

David rolls his eyes. "Mark just doesn't want to admit to losing a fight."

"I did *not* lose..." Mark begins, only to be cut off.

"Then how come you were the man with the bruises?"

Mark gives David a *look*, but only mutters, "Should have seen the other chap."

"No, thanks." David sits back. "You were mess enough."

"OK." Napoleon grins. "You've hooked me. What happened?"

"Well.." David looks at Mark, who shrugs. Permission granted. "Mark and I had been...together a bit... but....I wasn't counting on it leading anywhere." A vague wave dismisses the quirks of romantic fate. "Then out of the blue he calls me - from Paris, of all places. Says he's flying in, and do I want to have dinner tomorrow night - his place. I'm flattered, so I say yes..then rush out to buy a new suit because I was... never mind."

Mark gives David a smug look, which he ignores as he continues. "I'm at home, all ready to leave when I get this call. Mark again.. but he sounded terrible. I mean, I couldn't even really recognize his voice. Once I can make out the words, he says he's `a bit under the weather' and could we get together later." At which lame excuse David again rolls his eyes - and I concur. "My first thought is to be PO'd, because I figure he's drunk and at a bar somewhere and he's now got a better offer. So I slam down the phone."

"Latin temper." Mark shakes his head.

David again ignores the comment. "Later... well, I think ...he *really* sounded bad. And I had never seen him drunk. And... the doorman calls up and my cab is there." David shrugs. "Seems in all my sulking I forgot to cancel it. So...I give the man the address and I go over. I don't know what I was planning to do when I got there. Yell at Mark, or kick out whoever he was with, or punch him or what. I never got that far. I knocked on the door. And he answered it. And he was a *mess*."

Mark looks over at Napoleon and myself. "Not that bad."

"Bad enough," David insists.

"Cuts and bruises." Mark dismisses the matter. "No broken bones."

"Would you like some?" David's voice takes on an edge.

Mark smiles. "No thanks luv."

"Good. So." David returns to his story. "Mark was a mess. Back then I didn't know about his *business*. He'd told me he was a lecturer in foreign events at the Madison Institute." David shakes his head at his past credulity. " I...innocent type that I was..... figured `he`s just gotten careless walking out of the wrong bar.' Embarrassing, but it happened to the best of us. At least, it did back then. Not so much now, thank God. So, while he's standing there, I just *dump* the wine bottle I had brought over with me. Just in case he really did have a cold or something innocent, and not some other date."

Mark picks up the story. "David doesn't even say hello. He just heads straight back to the bathroom, pulls out the witch hazel and towels, and says `Take off your shirt.' Struck me as a bit forward for a fourth date, but..."

"Nothing I hadn't seen before..." David snorts. " Well, except for the claw marks. Those were different."

"So," Mark continues. "Here he's got me flat on my back, wrapped in hot towels and steaming like a lobster, and he says `You should watch where you party'. And me... fool that I was, I grunt out `Work'."

"Which really cooked his goose, because," David adds, "Mark had told *me* he was teaching. So I tap the longest cut and ask `What is this from? Harsh faculty review?' And he gives this strangled laugh and says `Lab accident'."

David gives Mark a soft look, then continues. "So we get into a bit of a talk about what he *really* did - not that he told me much, but hang out with the Georgetown set and it doesn't take much to get the idea - and I'm frankly thinking `He's cute, but this I *so* do not need,' when the door buzzes again." Davis shrugs. "Well, I think it's the won ton soup I ordered."

"Not chicken noodle?" Napasha questions.

Mark grunts, "Chinese delivers, Jewish doesn't."

"Like I said." David reclaims the floor. "I think it's the delivery boy, so without asking I just go over and open the door."

I look at Napoleon. "Bad idea."

"Totally," David agrees. "There's this lineman standing there with a gun in his hand. I'm wondering if I should scream or faint or maybe just have a heart attack and get it over with.... when *pop*... the guy is down with a large hole where his face used to be."

A second's pause, and even now I know that this is not an easy memory. For all his bravado, David Martinez is an innocent. He shakes it off. "I feel this hard shove, then I'm on the floor, and Mark is standing there wearing bandages and a really harsh look on his face."

"And nothing else?" I see Napoleon smile at the mental image.

"My Special," Mark answers. "But I don't think that counts."

Napoleon mutters. "Sometimes it's all that counts."

"Pravda," I whisper

"Well." Mark lightens the mood. "There were two other thugs out in the hallway, but they got away. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem all that appropriate to give chase."

We do not argue the point, and David resumes the tale. "So then I'm having the vapors, and Mark just strolls over to the desk,and picks up his pen, and calmly calls someone to `pick up the body before the Chinese guy gets here'."

"Disastrous date." Mark adds.

"Absolutely." David agrees. "Some strange men come, and they pick up the corpse and have a word with Mark, and by the time the soup arrives it's like...it never happened. Except for my nerves. Which are *gone*. Then... I'm sitting at the table, chopping the wontons and cabbage into little pieces so Mark can eat them, when I realize that anyone with any brains at all would be leaving at light speed. And I also realized I wasn't. Ever. As long as I had a choice. So... I looked over the table, and I took his hand, and I said `You're a loco. And you're going to get yourself killed one of these days. So it's really shitty that I'm in love with you'."

David gives Mark a very deep smile. I think there may be tears too, but if so they are deeper then the smile.

"And he said `As long as I don't get *you* killed, that works for me'."

Napoleon looks at Mark. "That was it?"

"That and the best blow-job I ever had in my life." Mark laughs. "Make's a real difference when you care for someone. Just took a poke in the eye to get my attention. David with a gun at his head? That got my attention. Cured my roving on the spot."

"That and the Martinez secret bruise cure."

"That, too. Wonderful stuff," Mark agrees. "So we...stayed together. Not that we could move in or any of that . Random surveillance, after all. But... I spent a lot of time at his place."

"Safe enough." Napoleon says. "Lots of field agents didn't like sleeping at home on a regular basis. Too predictable."

Predictability was the thing that got agents killed. Not that I would say so with an innocent in the room. Before I can feel required to say anything, Mark continues. "David was a real trouper. He never complained, even though I was crazy back then."

David passes Mark another taco. "I've told you. I never minded the shooting lessons. Or the driving lessons. Those are useful skills to have. I'm just glad I never actually had to use them."

Mark takes a bite. "Like I said."

"But I will admit, I was the happiest man on earth when Mark resigned."

"Which you did *not* tell me at the time."

David gives Mark a *look*. "You're an idiot if you thought for one minute that I *liked* the thought of you getting tortured by terrorists and kidnapped by madmen. What should I have said? You had enough stress at work. My job was to support you when you got home."

"Still, it was wonderful." David folds another taco and puts it on Mark's plate. "Mark got a job at Berkeley. I found a place at a junior college over in Oakland.."

"Which was *far* beneath you," Mark comments, reaching for the guacamole.

David passes him the salsa instead. "It was only for six years, until something here opened up. We bought a duplex down in the city and fixed it up. Lived there until we moved here in `92. So you see, it all worked out."

"Except the time we had your parents over for dinner."

"How was I to know you couldn't cook? You could do everything else in the world so perfectly."

"I can cook! Just not by Martinez standards."

"You lie like a spy." David laughs and turns to me. "If I had not insisted on cooking classes, the man would still be eating beans for breakfast."

"Yes." I agree with him, spearing a perfectly roasted yellow pepper. "The British are that way."



Chapter Thirty-Six : Dangling Conversation

Dedicated: To V & V - friends for lifes.

As we step through the unmarked door, Mark pulls two pins out of the announcement board and sticks them in our collars.

"Map pins?" I ask?

"White means a member. Green means a visitor. Gold means an outside member - usually a spouse." I check the board more closely, and observe that all the pins are now blue. An ingenious transfer system, really. "Red means - well, nothing good. Some time we have unvouched-for visitors thrust upon us. Usually university administration. You can talk to red . Just don't say anything."

Demitri Grustov spots us from the bar and comes over. "Gentlemen. Welcome in from the Cold."

"Demitri." Mark holds out his hand. "You've met Illya. This is his partner, Napoleon Solo. I was just going over the code."

"Welcome." Demitri says, shaking hands with Napoleon. "The only forbidden topics are insurance and real estate - you'll soon figure out why. Other then that - use your own discretion. Our members all have very bad memories."

Mark smiles. "More so after a few drinks."

"Cash bar." Demitri slaps his forehead. "That I must warn you about. After three drinks they take your keys, and when you want to go home they call a cab. Or you can try the breathalizer. Berkeley has very strict drunk driving laws. And they hold the bar responsible."

"You agree to that?"

"Comrade Kuryakin." He gives me a patient look. "I arrived in a cab."

I nod. "How's the vodka?"

"Polish and excellent."

Mark steps up to the front of the room and taps his glass for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen. I would like to introduce our two new visitors. Mr. Illya Kuryakin, Russian Navy, KGB,and UN Jurisdiction. Mr. Napoleon Solo - UN Jurisdiction and regular army. Friends of mine. They are considering a move to Berkeley, so I know you will want to make them feel right at home."

*********

No sooner have Mark and Demitri stepped away than a tall man steps up. His bright Hawaiian shirt is florid enough to almost hide the white pin on the collar.

"Bill Valley," he introduces himself. "You interested in this area?"

"Perhaps," Napoleon answers. "Although Mr. Kuryakin here is also looking at Santa Barbara."

Mr. Valley shakes my hand. "Great area , Santa Barbara. Nice climate, good houses. Cheaper than the Bay area." He turns back to Napoleon. "If you're down there, you might want to give a call to a friend of mine at Avian Solutions. He's always looking for people with talent in international, and when he heard you were in the area? He told me his boss said they could envision big operations for you. Here." He pulls a business card from his pocket. "His number."

"You're serious."

"Please, give him a call. I guarantee he'll take you to lunch, and the fish down there is excellent."

"Perhaps I will." Napoleon glances at me. "Illya was thinking of being in the area tomorrow anyway...."

Our new acquaintance takes Napoleon's arm and starts to lead him away. "Let me buy you an drink, and then... there's someone here you really ought to meet."

I smile and let him go.

******

Demitri Grustov walks up and hands me a fresh glass. "You look like a man with questions."

"Why do so many people seem to be so aware of our arrival?"

"Contacts. We *are* spies, you must remember. Even retired, people have friends, who have friends." He scans the room. "I know Thomson checked you out with Kronsteen at Baykonur; who, by the way, has nothing but good to say about you. What did you do? Save the man from a burning whorehouse? And Hans? He's a Berliner. They know everyone."

"Stazi?"

Demitri's voice flattens. "There are no Stazi."

"Of course."

"Fleming tapped into your alma matter." Demitri resumes. "Old school tie and all that."

"Cambridge man?"

"Oxford *and* Cambridge. Ancient languages, but still...."

I nod. I remember the `class solidarity' of Cambridge...all too well.

"I personally am not always...comfortable with `Sir' Ian. Still," he shrugs, "the Cambridge Club is very big in some circles. If you were to renew your association....?" He tosses back his glass. "Any path to victory, eh?"

A sudden flurry at the door attracts both our attention.

"They came! Wonderful." Demitri gives me a big smile and tugs on my sleeve. " Come. Here are two people you *must* meet."

He points to a grey haired couple being welcomed enthusiastically at the door. After waiting a bit for the crowd to subside, we make our way over to them by the pool table.

They are...not.... distinctive, but there is an air of authority about them which is... impressive. I scan their collars, but they are wearing no pins at all.

Grustov's posture becomes suddenly formal. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin? Permit me to introduce you to Valen and Vasallissa Smith. Two of our founding members."

The man's hand I shake, the lady's I kiss. I do not know why. Instinct, perhaps. She accepts it graciously, as her due. "Russian?" I ask.

"Not really." The lady answers in a flawless Moscow accent.

"Then you are..?"

Grustov snorts. "There are rumors, but with these two? We still don't ask."

"So, Mr. Kuryakin?" the man asks in equally flawless Russian. "Are you interested in work, or just a job?"

"I believe I have decided to go back to school. A teaching post is starting to appear....very attractive."

****

"Illya." Napasha catches up with me at the edge of the crowd. He has two ladies with him, but they vanish like the professionals they are.

"Napoleon?" I raise my glass. "Busy night?"

"I haven't received this many mash notes since freshman rush week."

"I know." Finishing my vodka and setting the glass back on the counter. " Everyone has a friend who wants to buy us lunch."

"And dinner," Napasha agrees. " And drinks."

I shrug. "That is one way to cut down on the grocery bill."



Chapter Thirty-Seven : Black is the Color of my True Loves Hair

Napoleon is putting away his shoes when I come out of the shower. Nice view. I fold the towel and place it over the bedside chair.

"Early day tomorrow." Napoleon flips back the sheets.

I move the alarm clock to my side and set it for five a.m. "Not that early." Not for our prior life, at least. Now? I am reassessing early rising as a virtue. Perhaps I will work on `early to bed' instead.

"Too early to do this in the morning." He leans over and places a kiss at the base of my spine.

I freeze, not wanting to risk any movement that might take me away from those tempting lips. Continuing up my spine in a series of nips, he places both hands on my waist and guides me back to the bed. When my knees hit the mattress, I allow myself to collapse on top on him. Such a warm resting place. So...accommodating.

"Far to early," he mutters again.

"So?" I make it a question although I roll over and indicate with my kisses on his shoulders that I already anticipate his answer. Anticipate it with great enthusiasm, in fact. Only one conclusion is possible, and I offer it gladly. "So we should do it tonight!"

"Illyusha," he answers, his breath catching on the words as I stroke him and wrap my tongue around his ear. "I have always admired your....strategic thinking."

He kisses his way down my chest, stopping at each nipple to taste and cherish. Then his tongue is at my navel, gently exploring, before I recapture breath enough to answer. "I have always admired your...ohh..ability to improvise."

"Like this?" He takes one ball into his mouth with a gentle suction that somehow gathers every nerve in my body into a single bundle.

"Yes...ohh. Exactly like that," I moan.

He releases it in order to nibble his way up my swelling shaft. "Lucky you never have a problem getting...up..in the morning."

I feel his fresh hardness growing against my leg. "You are.....ohh...up already."

"So are you."

"Yess....", I hiss. "Now."

His lips brush the head of my shaft, moving to consume it. Pure pleasure, but... I open my legs in blatant offering. "No. Want you....in me.."

"OK." He slide along my body, teasing every inch as the tight curls of his chest catch and tickle.

The slide of a drawer, a hint of cold, and his fingers are on me. In me. Opening and preparing me.

"Now," I plead.

A flash of pressure and he is within me. Just the head, but that is enough to start the first hum of pleasure along my spine. Then more, inch by inch as he sinks deeper and I thrust up to meet him.

His hands circle my cock, stroking and squeezing in rhythm to each thrust until I somehow forget where he ends and I begin. At his deepest reach, the brush of hot flesh sends fire along each vein. Enveloping me. Consuming me. Reducing the world to two then opening it again in a sudden unsustainable glory of infinite pleasure. I accept my own release even as he floods within me, warming me somehow deeper then just in the body. Warming somehow the entire world.

As we rest together, Napasha pulls the blanket up and tucks it around my shoulders. "Rest, Illyusha. You have a long day tomorrow."

****

*Brrrring* *Brrrring* Napoleon's portable phone rings as I am pulling on my boots.

"It is five-thirty in the morning?" I ask. "Who could be calling now?"

"Answer it," Napasha groans, rolling back into the pillows.

I pick it up and press the button."Yes?"

"Mr. Napoleon Solo, please." It is a man's voice from the other end. Considering the hour, he sounds obscenely cheerful.

I cover the receiver. "For you."

"What moron..?" he begins, but pushes himself up and holds out his hand.

I hand it to him without comment.

"Solo speaking," he snaps, jacking up the volume and holding the phone out so I can also hear.

"Excellent. Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before you went out for the day. I'm Joe Bierbaum, from Avian Solutions in Montecito. Right near Santa Barbara."

"Bill Vally's friend."

"Exactly. He called me last night, and mentioned that you might be down in our neck of the woods today."

"Yes?"

"Wonderful," The voice gushed. " Any chance we could get together today? Let me show you some of our set-up here. Perhaps take you out for lunch? I know a wonderful fish place."

"Let me check."

Napoleon drops the volume back to normal and places his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Why not?" I suggest. "If the lab is at all interesting I will probably have lunch with the faculty. If not - I will go to the library. If you drop me off at ten-thirty , you should easily be able to meet him wherever. And .... I would appreciate your company on the drive."

"OK," Napasha says, returning to the phone. "Lunch is good. Give me your address." He snatches a scrap of paper from the nightstand and scribbles. "Very good. I should be there by... shall we say eleven thirty?"

Napasha listens a moment longer, then says, "I'm looking forward to it as well."

"So am I." I give Napasha a bright smile as I pull on my shoulder holster and unplug my phone.

"You get the car ready while I grab a shower," Napasha replies, reaching for the closet. "If we want to get there on time I had better get moving."



Chapter Thirty-Eight : Someday I'll be a Farmer

Napoleon reaches the car just as I am loading the hamper into the back seat. "Don`t tell me David packed breakfast?"

"Mexican sweet bread. Organic fruit juice. Hot coffee." I hold up a thermos. " Also a list of recommended restaurants if we choose to stop for dinner on the way back."

"Not a bad idea." Napoleon opens the driver's door and holds out his hand for the keys. Naturally. "Either way it's going to be a late day, but a stop in the way back for a quiet dinner...?"

After a moments thought, I relinquish the keys. To have Napasha's company for the long drive? It is worth tolerating his driving. For all my complaints he is competent. Inclined to speed, perhaps, but competent. Our training requires that.

"We could take Highway One back." I take the passenger seat and set the filled coffee mugs in their special holder. "It is slower, but I have always enjoyed the ocean."

"Well, then." Napoleon starts the car and pulls out into the empty street as I fasten my seat belt. "Pick something nice off David's list and we'll celebrate your new education."

"You speak as if my attendance in Santa Barbara was already decided?" Not that I had not been impressed by my previous day's conversation with Dr. Decker, but I had long before learned to take no plan for granted. Not before every aspect was settled. Not even once it was in operation. Sometimes not even when finished. Finished operations had a lethal habit of becoming *unfinished* at the most inopportune times.

Napoleon accelerates as he approaches the freeway on-ramp. "If not, then we'll celebrate your new education somewhere else." His smile dismisses the distinction as unimportant. " Either way, today we're both bound to learn something."

"Also, we already have an appointment for dinner," I remind him.

"Oh, Thats right. Larry's"

Pulling around a truck to reach the fast lane, he hands me one of his recently purchased CD's. I hesitate, but...why not. We are in California, in a convertible, with the top down, driving towards the coast as the first pink light turns turquoise in the eastern sky. If there was ever a perfect time for rock and roll, this surely is it. Popping the bright rainbow disc into the player, I wait until the first notes begin. `All you Need is Love'. How very true. I raise my coffee cup towards Napoleon.

"To... today."

***************

Once past San Jose, the city and suburb opens into a gentle countryside. Not the combine stripped wide plains of wheat or corn, but the well tended acreage of produce and fruit.

"Beautiful countryside." Napasha gives an accessing look as we pass a large mission-style stucco ranch-house flanked by pink-blooming almond trees.

I check over the fields. Strawberries perhaps? Some low-flowering crop. The rows are neat, the plants healthy. "It is rather nice."

Napoleon drives a few miles further, then looks over at me. "What do you think houses out here cost?"

"Quite a lot," I answer. "Everyone knows California real estate is expensive."

He turns his attention back to the road, but not after a final glance at the grove of peaches on our left. "Still. It is beautiful."

********

"I wonder what they are growing?" Napasha asked idly.

"Grapes," I answer, taking in the endless rows of wired greenery.

"Grapes?" Napoleon sounds surprised at my answer. Why, I do not know. I spent enough time in farm labor as a child to remember any number of crops.

"This is the coastal wine country." I point to the wire-strung rows of glossy leaves. "Those are grape vines. Probably pinot noir."

"Wine country?" Napoleon's gaze fastens on the passing countryside with a strange intensity. "Like in France?"

I am tempted to begin a lecture on the geographical differences. For all Napoleon's infinite knowledge of wines, it apparently has escaped his purview that the original produce must be farmed somewhere. I settle for, "Much the same."

He looks over the flanking fields. "I wonder what it would be like to have your own wine?"

"Expensive." I answer.

"Yes, but.." he give a suddenly possessive look at the verdant landscape. "It is beautiful."

*************

We stop outside of Monterey for breakfast. The highway department has apparently built a number of delightful little parks right beside the road. Very convenient. In this particular instance unbelievably so, as a local club has for some reason decided to provide free coffee as well. Not as good as David's coffee, to be sure, but a major step up from the airlines.

The charming grandmother at the kiosk not only gives us fresh cups, she insists on refilling our thermos as well. Such kindness. We enjoy David's breakfast on a table overlooking the ocean. It is beautiful there. So peaceful as we sit in the shade of our ramada and watch the seagulls dive for scraps thrown out over the water. I can understand what Mark found here.

But today? I have an appointment. As does Napoleon. And those, more then the waves or the birds, will determine our futures.

*******

The final miles past Santa Maria twist through the foothills. Not tall, they are still enough protection to soften the salt of the air and shield the fields from the colder ocean winds. Here the fields are again green and white with the alternating plantings of orange groves and vineyards, broken occasionally by a pasture of glossy-coated horses.

I let my eyes wander over the red-painted barns and white -topped greenhouses. The rose-planted fences banked by wildflowers. The large brick and stucco houses set to catch the high ocean breezes. This is farmland, but *rich* farmland. Not only in its produce, but in its people.

As I finish my survey, a blue flash catches the corner of my eye. Is it? Yes. "Napoleon?" I hold up my hand.

"Yes, Illya?"

"Do you see that car behind us?"

Napoleon makes no betraying movement, but his eyes go at once to the mirrors. "The blue one?"

"Exactly," I confirm. "It has been behind us since we passed Atascadero."

"Probably just a coincidence."

"Perhaps," I grant.

He checks his seat harness. "Maybe I should speed up a little?"

"Maybe you should slow down?" I suggest, taking the cups from their holder and securing them under the seat. Then I check my harness as well.

"That would work too." Napoleon lifts his foot slightly, and the car slows imperceptibly but inevitably. "What are they doing?"

"They are still behind us." I recheck the side mirror. "About the some distance."

"Bad sign." He clicks off the music.

"Very."

I am about to suggest acceleration when a brightly painted sign catches my notice. `Wine tasting - two miles on right.'

"Napoleon?"

"Illya?"

I point slightly at the sign. "I think we should go to that wine tasting."

"Good idea." Napoleon accelerates and moves into the farthest lane. "Hold on", he adds unnecessarily. Waiting until the last second , he cuts over into the rose-bordered driveway.

The driver behind us is good, clearly a professional, but Napoleon has left him no time to strategise. Move or lose. He chooses to spin sharply and follow us. Tail confirmed.

"Remember," I add as Napoleon races through the vine-decorated parking lot. "April did not want us to shoot anyone."

Napoleon glances back at the blue car, still in unyielding pursuit. "Not if we can avoid it." A sudden left has us plunging through the rose hedge and on to a dirt road.

Pulling on the harness straps, I spin in my seat to face the trailing car. No need for discretion. They know we've seen them. And that we care. And they're still coming. The only question is why?

Sliding out my pistol, I brace my wrist against the neck rest. Hard to aim with the car bouncing so, but....they are not firing yet. A whiz past the window and a ping on the door. Make that *were* not firing. Between the movements of the car and Napoleon's evasive tactics it is hard to get a clear target.

The front passenger leans out, bracing for a shot. I stay tight and fire along the car. Two rounds. The first one misses. the second hits. Low arm, I think. Pistol falling, our attacker jumps back into his seat. Disarmed, but not disabled. Problem. I have to assume he has a backup weapon.

I have six rounds left. My partner has ten, perhaps eleven if he has loaded the barrel. Not enough for a fire fight with three men. Nothing to waste on mere deterrence. I will need to pick my shots carefully.

"Hold on!" Napoleon shouts as he corners sharply, slapping the branches of one of the oaks bordering the rows of vine and scattering twigs and leaves in our wake. The furrow track is narrow - barely wider then our wheels- and grape flower and leaves splash across the windows as he accelerates between the green boundaries.

Our pursuers copy, but not quickly enough. They clip the oak and land on a post. For a moment I let myself hope they are out of the game. No. A roar of motor and tires and they are back. Farther back, but still....

The end of the row. A sharp right and we are back on the farm road, heading around and back to the winery. I look at Napoleon. He gives the sign *hold fire*. Very well. I brace myself. Our car slows a bit. Not enough to be noticed, but... The other car gains on us rapidly. The driver is almost on our back fender and I can see the rear driver aiming when...

A quick flare of red lights, as Napoleon stomps the brakes and cranks the steering wheel, sending the car into a tight spin.

The pursuit driver freezes, brakes, evades. He misses our hood... but not the irrigation ditch to their left. Impact at fifty. The passengers are flung forward, while the nose of the car forces itself deep into the thick red mud. I check out the window. No signs of movement.

Restarting the motor, Napoleon carefully pulls past them and drives on.

"Amazing." I look at the twisted metal behind us, and at the oblivious groups of tourists now leaving the winery. " You did not wreck the car."

"Of course not." Napasha manages to sound shocked at the suggestion.

One of the vineyard workers apparently spots the wreck, because he herds the tourists rapidly back. Several of the brightly dressed figures ignore the man, running though the fields for a better look.

As we pass the parking lot, I hear the first sound of sirens in the distance.

Napoleon restarts the music. "Do you think we should go back and explain matters?"

"I think you should just drive. Slowly and carefully."

We reach the exit, and he pulls back out onto the highway. "Slow and careful. Good idea."



Chapter Thirty-Nine : (I Get By) With A Little Help From My Friends

The freeway is open. Ocean on one side, asphalt and fields on the other. Very few on ramps out here. This is poor territory for an ambush. Even so, we stay alert.

"Who knew we would be here?" Napoleon opens his jacket and readjusts the holster.

"Every spy in California ....if they were at the party last night."

I check my clip. No extra ammo. Perhaps it would be worth a stop in the next town? The next little city is named Los Alamos. Not the significant one, however. Otherwise we *would* be in trouble.

"Even if *they* weren't there themselves," Napoleon adds, "Everyone seemed to have friends..who have friends."

"I am beginning to question the sincerity of such friendship."

"You don't say?" Napoleon checked his tie in the mirror, at the some time reviewing the road behind us. Two pickup trucks and a older sedan. None of them behaving suspiciously. I had already checked. Holding up fingers with the count, he continues: "Valley was CI. Miss Davis was CIA. Mrs. Peel was something British. Dumas didn't say, but he's clearly overseas French.

I nodded. "Grustov is GRU, Hans Streck is *not* Stazi, and Fleming is a blue-blood from MI5. Dan Briggs looked like a freelancer, but either American or Canadian. Shapiro is openly Israeli. The Smiths are mysteries, even for that crew."

"Seven countries just from our drinks list." Napoleon takes the off ramp, pulling over a few minutes before taking the paired onramp back up to the highway. "That does tends to make for a wide field."

When we reemerge, the three car I had seen before were now far in front of us. Good. I do not see anything else that looks like a threat.

"Maybe we should call April?" I suggest. "Someone does not seem to respect our retirement."

"Do you remember her number?"

********

Napasha clicks off the music while I dial. There are three rings, then the line picks up.

"Director's Office, Mari speaking."

So this is indeed April's direct line. Excellent. "April Dancer, please."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Illya Kuryakin."

"Just a moment, sir."

She apparently remembers the name - or else has a secure callers list. Either way, the next sound I hear is the click and hiss of a line scrambler coming on. Then a series of beeps. Likely my call is being transferred. It is only a few seconds before a more familiar voice comes from the phone.

"Illya." April's tone is pleasant. "How are you doing?"

"Interesting question." I turn up the volume so Napoleon can also hear the call. "At the moment I am alive, but I believe someone just tried to alter that."

"What?"

I clap my hand over the speaker. Amplification plus her shout combine a bit too loudly in a small car.

"Three men in a blue automobile just tried to run us off the road," I reply.

"Are you sure?"

"Reasonably." I look at Napoleon, who signals `why not'. "If you would care for another opinion, perhaps you could ask the other driver? Or either of his overly armed passengers? We left them in a ditch, and from the sound as we left they should be in police custody by now."

"Where are you?" An added hum in the background tells me that our conversation is being either recorded or shared. Perhaps both. " What road? What county?"

"Why?" I ask

"So I can send a team out." More clicks. I would bet that team has been dispatched even without my consent. "It's probably just industrial, but...... I very much want to know what is going on." A pause, and the dead air of a phone set to mute. Only a few seconds, and then April is back. "But you are all right?"

"Yes."

"Is Napoleon with you?"

"He was driving."

That brings a chuckle. "And it was the other guys who ended in the ditch?"

"April." Napoleon takes the phone. "That was cruel."

"You forget, my dear Mr. Solo - I've seen you drive." Her voice sobers as she gets down to business. "You don't have my phone, so..."

"How do you know that?" Napoleon interrupts.

"Because Major Hovsepian shipped it back to me, of course. Give me your number, and as soon as we learn something I'll have someone call you. Unless you want to come in? I could send a team.."

"Please, April." Napoleon's voice takes on hard edge. "Just when did you decide we were incompetent?"

********

*brring* *brring*

I unplug my phone and flip it open.

"Yes."

"Ah, Illya," April Dancer's soft soprano comes from the speaker. "With such a charming greeting, that must be you."

"Yes." I am neither charming or charmed.

"I have some good news and some bad news."

"What is the bad news?"

I again turn off the music and set the volume so Napoleon can hear.

"We found a photo in the car. Apparently they were in fact after you two. Professional thugs. Not too high level. Kidnapping run, we assume, although we haven't gotten the name of their employer."

Napoleon leans over. "What's the good news?"

"Ah, Napoleon. The incident let me wrangle you full sanction authority. You are both now in at Policy Level One."

He looks at me. I say nothing.

"You are still headed to Santa Barbara?" April asks. "One of our people will meet you at the police office in Goleta. And Illya? Try not to shoot anyone unnecessarily. I do not need the political hassles. Really I don't."

**************************

Goleta is a small town. Rather convenient in this case, as it renders the police station easy to locate. Sitting between the courthouse and the post office, it was a rather drab concrete building with federalist pretensions in the details.

Napoleon, with his usual flare for such things, pulls into a metered parking space directly in front of the main steps.

"Illya? You have a quarter?"

I start to reply with my automatic complaints, then stop. This day has been long enough already. And I no longer have the hope that it will soon be over.

Our contact is waiting by the reception desk. A fit-looking Asian man in black jeans, black undershirt, and a black and white printed shirt worn loose enough to cover the shoulder holster. Just the thing for a relaxed afternoon funeral. The distinctive black glasses are unchanged, and behind them I can discern little expression.

I look at Napoleon.

"California casual?" he whispers.

I reply, "At least we will not need to ask for directions."

"Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin?" The young man approaches us with one hand outstretched.

"Lee. Regional Control Officer. I believe these are for you?"

I begin a handshake , only to stop when I realize his palm is not empty.

The shiney black cards have our names engraved on the surface.. and nothing else. As I give mine a careful inspection, Mr. Lee explains. "Magnetic encryption. Also an implanted chip. If necessary, the public information can be read on any credit card machine. Not that we hope you'll be showing them to too many people. Company policy is to keep a low profile."

"Yes, well. " Napoleon gives the man an impatient look. "That was my policy until about an hour ago. Now I have a new policy. One that involves *not* being shot at. If at all possible."

"We are proceeding on the assumption that Agent Kuryakin was the target. Most likely as the result of the altercation on the Warsaw Express. Not that there is yet any direct connection, but it's the best motive me can come up with. And the only likely target. He had the appointment, and there was no way for anyone to anticipate that you would be in the car."

"With the exception of Vally and Bierbaum. Also possibly his employer."

"OK. We'll check them out. But it's a long shot. Too tight a time frame to hire the muscle. Unless you're suggesting Avian keeps thugs on their payroll?"

Why not? I thought. Everyone else seemed to be hiring. Fortunately I have considerable experience in keeping my opinions to myself. I contented myself with asking, "Will it be safe to proceed with our appointments?"

"I don't see why not." April's officer shrugs. "If these guys wanted Decker, they could get him any time."

I put the card in my pocket and start to turn.

"Before I forget." He calls us back. "You'll also want these." He reaches down and produces two flat black cases from a paper grocery bag stashed under the desk. Laying then on the desktop, he directs. "Place your right hand on the surface and pronounce your full name."

I do so. The case springs open to reveal a dead black pistol devoid of markings. Beside it in the eggshell foam lay several snap-ons. Silencer, I assume. Sight. Several colored cases I assume are clips.

"The firing operation is fairly straightforward," Lee continues. "Two hundred shots per clip, more penetration and less recoil then you are probably used to. The red clip is explosive.The blue is sleep darts. Other then that?" He give us an unreadable look. "If you know how to shoot, you know how to shoot."

"Although." He gives me a careful inspection. "If you could avoid any further shoot outs we would all be most appreciative. It's really not done these days."

"Indeed?" I ask, closing the case. "And how does the other side feel about that?"

As we settle back into the car Napoleon turns to me. "I hope Dr. Decker won't mind that you're a few minutes late."

"I will blame it on the traffic," I reassure him. "Every delay in California can be blamed on the traffic."

*********

With his usual driving style, Napasha gets me in front of the Fig Memorial Sciences Building only a few minutes after my scheduled time.

I step from the car and walk over to Napasha's side. "You have your phone?"

He pulls back his suit jacket to show the flat case clipped to his belt. "Yes, Illya."

"Good. I have programmed in April's number. That is number two. The local office is number three."

"What are you, Illya?"

I give him a wide smile. "I, lyubovnick ,am number one!"

"Always!" His eyes sparkle, and I suddenly regret we must part even for an hour. Foolish thought.

"I will expect you at two? Call if you are delayed. If you get here after two, I will be at the library."

"You always are." He starts the motor.

As he presses on the gas I suddenly say "Oh, and Napasha?"

Expecting another question, he looks up. And I bend down and place a kiss on his cheek. "Have a nice lunch."

As I watch him drive off, I think, `That was incredible'. Which it is. Something I never would have *thought* that I might do before these days. Even if I have to study for a hundred years...It will be worth it.



Chapter Forty: If I Knew

I stroll across the well kept lawn, taking the opportunity to check out the scene. It is very pretty. Very green. Freshly painted buildings and well scrubbed students with `individualistic' jeans and t-shirts worn as the uniform of their supposed diversity. Abstract modern sculpture surrounded by geometric Victorian flower beds. Almost a movie-set parody of the campuses I have known.

This section of the campus is quiet. A few young women are skating around the parking lot, and one affectionate couple at the far end of the lawn is pretending to study between kisses, but otherwise the area is nearly empty. In this section, only one man sits reading on the bench in front of the Sciences building.

"Dr. Allen Decker?" I find it improbable that the middle aged man in faded denim with his graying hair pulled back in a pony-tail is the world-renowned scholar I have come 300 miles to meet, but there is no other likely candidate visible.

"Dr. Kuryakin?" The man gives me a through if quick inspection, but his face indicates nothing of his conclusions. Merely a relaxed and general good humor.

"Yes." I hold out my hand.

He shakes it firmly. "Allen. Please."

"Illya Nickovetch." I glance casually at the book he was reading. Something rather serious looking in German. "My apologies for being late. There was an accident on the road behind me."

"Late?" He looks up at the clock tower over at the administration building. "It's 10:45. That's early by beach time."

"I am still getting used to American ways."

He smiles. "Not sure you'll find any here - at least not that Lompoc crew would claim.They'll tell you most of our students are majoring in surfing. Not true." After a moment, he adds, "Well, not entirely true. Although we do have our share of beach bums." He nods to indicate the direction, then heads off across the lawn at a rapid pace. "Don't let that spook you. Whatever you're into is cool here. This is a pretty eclectic campus, so if you
hang around you're bound to fit in somewhere. I have an office up there...," which by his gesture I assume means the Sciences building, "but the suits have this weird thing about locking up at night. So we all moved over to the lab annex."

Waving me to follow, he takes off down the path that winds behind a screen of oleander bushes. I follow him past several temporary structures set on a bare lot in what I had assumed was a construction area. A few cars are scattered on the hard dirt at seeming random.

"More space here," he continues, "and housekeeping doesn't bitch at us about the espresso machine. Not to mention we all get parking right at the door."

He strides up to a low concrete block building with air conditioners wedged in the few un-boarded-up windows, raps twice on the door, then lets himself in without awaiting an answer.

A young Asian man in an unbuttoned shirt and battered shorts looks up from the lab bench where he is working on some unexplained complication of wires and switches. "This your Russian dude?"

"Yep."

"Righteous!" The young man spins twice in his chair before sending it gliding to our side of the room. "Welcome to the Mad-house. I'm George Tomashi. His TA. Let me show you our lab."

Reaching past us, he taps a rapid series of keystrokes that set different patterns of colored lines dancing on the dozens of monitors positioned at seeming random about the room.

Decker gazes approvingly at the display. "We basically study the rules of nothing."

"'Cause," the younger man adds enthusiastically. "Nothing in this world makes sense."

"Uncertainty?" I question.

"No." Tomashi answers. "Every *thing* is certain in chaos physics."

Decker adds, "Just not in *this* world."

"It's a matter of boundaries." Tomashi hits the keys,and the shifting lines snap into near-parallel formation. "Given enough space, the pattern forms." He hits another, and the lines fall apart at seeming random. "Compress the data so it interacts. Chaos."

I nod. "Or only apparent chaos."

"Exactly." The young man spins his chair again, clearly delighted at my comprehension.

"Not everyone agrees with that, of course." Decker wanders over to the bench and begins poking at the bundle of wires there.

I look closely at equation on the screen. "Oh, I think I have experience with... incomplete patterns. Pick the right data? The whole sequence is clear. Too little ...or too much.... and the information is distorted beyond observation."

"But still there." Another keypunch and order is restored, although the outline is altered.

"Yes." I agree. "The actual pattern would still exist. Only our understanding would have failed."

"So totally true." Tomashi suddenly stands and holds out his hand. "I was told your background was in quantum physics?"

"Yes." I say, surprised at the sudden formality. Still, to respond would seem the proper thing to so. "Although I fear I am many years out of date. I was.... distracted."

"*Government* job, eh?" The words come with a look of cynical commiseration. "We all damn sure know how that goes. And yes, I dig, `you are not inclined to talk about it at this time'." He drops back into his chair. "Nothing like that around here."

Decker nods his agreement. "Our work here is pure theory."

I consider the lab set up. For all its apparent squalor, the equipment is both modern and extensive. Someone is putting money into this operation. "How do you manage?" I ask carefully.

"Money wise?" Decker shrugs. " It's tight. You'd get a better salary almost anywhere else." He looks at his assistant, who sighs theatrically in agreement. "But our people think the work is worth it."

"Then I do not know if you would find an obsolete Russian worth the investment."

He turns suddenly serious. "Dr. Kuryakin," he replies. "If you are willing to take over Freshman lab - you are priceless."

As I consider my reply, a young lady bursts suddenly from the back room. "Dr. Decker?"

"What?"

She holds out a plastic handset. "Phone call."

Decker takes it and turns aside slightly. Perhaps I should not listen, but...old habits die hard. "Excuse me..Yes? She did? Well then, why didn't they...? OK. OK! I'm coming over. Just tell her to hang tough until I get there."



Chapter Forty-One: I'd Do It All Over Again

"Thank you, George."

"De nada." The young TA answers as he guides me to the library through another maze of temporary structures. "At least, not if we have a chance of getting you down here on a regular basis. I know the salary sort of sucks compared to the cities, but our neighborhoods are way better. We do have the climate. And besides, you can always consult up around the base."

"That is something I will have to consider." I nod politely. "Please, give Dr. Decker my best wishes for his daughter, and tell him I will call within the week."

"Sure thing."

At the sight of the library, George spins and leaves me on my own. I check my watch. It is early, but..? I press the *1 buttons on my new phone.

Two rings and his voice answers. "Yes?"

"Napoleon?" He sounds rather put out. Perhaps I should have waited?

"Illya." His tone lightens. "Don't tell me. You've fallen in love with the lab and you're staying late."

"Actually, today I am finished early. Although if you are busy....?"

"Not at all." There is a faint clatter, perhaps the sound of a chair pushing back. "We were just finishing lunch. I'll be right by."

*************

The benches built into the library entranceway provide an acceptable view and solid cover from three sides. The perfect place to wait. Also, there is a vending machine nearby holding copies of the campus paper. Always a useful source of data. I am checking the `speakers and activities' list when a squeal of tires announces Napoleon's arrival.

I get in quickly. No sense standing still longer then required.

Presumedly Napoleon agrees. He pulls back out into traffic as soon as my door is closed. Then again, knowing Napasha...perhaps it is just his natural tendency to disregard the speed limits.

"How was your meeting?" he asks.

"All considered, very good." Carefully fastening my seat belt, I move the shoulder strap away from my holster. "Merely somewhat shorter then I might have wished." The covered cups are back in their holder. I heft mine. Full. Most considerate. I take a deep sip. Still hot. Good coffee, too. I give Napasha an appreciative smile before asking "Your's?"

"The fish was wonderful," Napoleon shrugs, "but the deal was fishy. The last time I heard a man use that many adjectives with that few nouns, I ended up taking a scenic tour of Korea."

"My sympathy."

"One bad interview is not a problem." Napasha accelerates up the ramp to pull into traffic just in front of a large delivery truck. "If you like Decker's program we can definitely stay here. Mark and David were right about the recruiters. Three more calls today. Plus whatever came in as messages. I'm bound to find some company I can tolerate. But as you left early I assume...."

"No," I answer carefully. "Dr. Decker was very kind, and his Mad-house is ... interesting. It is merely that he had to go and pick his daughter up from school. An earache, I believe."

"Poor kid." A sharp honk, and the beige sedan beside us moves over, yielding Napasha the lane. "Where is her mother?"

"Working, I believe."

"Oh yes." Napasha pulls into the fast lane. "Women do that now days."

*****

The afternoon is quite hot, compared either to Moscow or New York, but at freeway speeds in an open car the effect is merely one of pleasant warmth. In this direction most of the road is on high ground, and the limited entrances make ambush unlikely. Even so, we are well past Salinas before I can pull my eyes from the mirrors.

"Sorry we couldn't stop at the beach." The Beatles have finished singing. Napasha pops out his disc and replaces it with my `stress' album. "Perhaps next time."

"Thank you, but I believe I have had enough distraction for the day." I raise the volume slightly. I do not know that the music will be effective, but at the moment? I am willing to give it every chance. "Have you heard from April?"

"Nothing much." Napoleon glances at me. "Do you think that was payback for the Tallin affair?"

"Possibly," I concede, although I set my voice to imply the opposite. "Although I do not see why anyone would gain an advantage. Even if they believe I hindered that one theft...I am not an on-going problem. They will have other chances at Col. Austin."

"I don't like that answer either. But what else could it be? We haven't *seen* anyone interesting since 1968."

"Except Mr. Bond." Who was a most improbable someone. "I am still uncomfortable with that *co-incidence*."

"Likewise. But....." Napoleon pauses, clearly in mental calculation. "No. I can't see it. If `Her Majesties' wanted us gone..?"

"We would both be in Belarus," I finish. "At the bottom of a mine shaft."

Napoleon pulls over to pass a truck that is blocking his view. "But if all our old enemies are dead?"

"At least retired."

"At least according to April."

I look at Napasha. "That leaves us with?"

"Funny looking guns, monotonously dressed allies...and no target."

The mention of guns has me shifting again. Perhaps I should have changed over? No. Until I can practice, I am better staying with the familiar Makarov. Even with only seven rounds remaining. Still, I slide the strange black case out and tuck it tightly between the seat and the door. Faster access there. Just in case.

Noticing Napoleon go through a similar check, I am reminded. "Do you think we should tell April about the incident in the mall?"

"Not...just yet. If she's already checking things out..."

I nod, acknowledging the near infinite possibilities. "Do you know, Napasha? I think perhaps life was simpler *before * we retired."

**********

Just past Gilmore, my eye is caught my a crudely painted sign propped up by the roadside. `Farm Stand Ahead...fresh organic strawberries, raspberries, Olallaberries, Fresh pressed organic Cider.'

"Olallaberries?" I ask.

"Never heard of them."

"Do you think David might want some?"

"He's almost as fond of food as you are." Napoleon signals his move over into the right lane. "Besides. It will be a chance to switch drivers."

"You actually want me to drive?" I strive to sound shocked.

"For once, yes." He makes the off ramp with time to spare and moves slowly into the gravel parking lot. "It's been a long day, and if we still have dinner tonight? I could use the break. Just promise me you wont get a ticket for going *below* the speed limit."

Napasha, with his usual luck, pulls into a just-emptied space right in front of the shop. The white painted stand is simple, but larger then I had expected. Long shelves hold flat after flat of ripe apples and pears, while a glass fronted refrigerator case in the back is packed with little green baskets of plump berries. I am reminded of just how long it has been since lunch. Perhaps, in addition to a gift for Mark and David, we should get a small snack for ourselves as well?

Once I have stepped from the car, Napasha carefully puts up the roof and locks the car before doing likewise. I start to tease him about protecting his Beatles' records, then realize.... we are in clear view from the highway. This will also be a good chance to be certain we are *not* being followed.

"Shall I..?"

"No need," Napoleon answers. "You shop. I'll stay with the car."

It is a quick matter to purchase a flat each of the three kinds of berries. The cheerful young lady behind the counter even wraps them in plastic so they will not stain our trunk, and her schoolboy brother offers to carry them out for me. I accept. It is better to have my hands free. And of course I should be glad not to risk berry stains on my jacket. Even so... as I carefully watch the packages being loaded... I realize. David will enjoy the berries. I would have enjoyed buying them with Napasha.

*****

Napoleon hands me the keys, takes the passenger seat, and we return to the road unhindered. All the cars that once shared the road with us are now vanished far ahead. Good. Perhaps April was right, and this morning was merely an industrial incident. In that case once the thieves learn of their error they will stop squandering their resources on a profitless target.

By the time we have passed Milpitas I have all but convinced myself this is true, and am considering what questions I should prepare for this night's dinner. Not that I have not in past days had a list of questions to ask the Director of Laurence Livermore Labs should I ever had the fortune to find myself alone with the man...but somehow I do not think those are quite appropriate to a job interview. At least not for any job I would *want* to do. And really, it has been *years* since my interrogation training.

"Illya?" Napasha interrupts my reverie.

"Yes, Napoleon?"

"Do you see the car behind us?"

I check the mirror. "The green car?"

"Exactly." He makes a slight adjustment to his side mirror. "It has been behind us since San Jose."

"I will slow down."

"Or you could speed up."

"Yes. That would work too." I press down gently on the accelerator. Not enough to appear unnatural, but enough to send us past the regular flow of traffic. "What are they doing?"

"Still behind us. Same distance."

That is bad. I am considering cutting between two trucks to force them in to open action when I spot a large billboard just off to the right. It reads `Tiny Naylor's - Next Offramp - One Mile'

"Hold on."

Waiting until the trucks are in block position, I cut between them and bounce over the median barely making the off ramp. The pursuit car almost falls for that trick, which would have brought them under the truck, but at the last moment the driver breaks and safely cuts behind. Worse sign. The man is a pro. Very well, no easy out.

"Can you get a shot?"

"Soon." Napoleon braces himself on the seat.

I cut sharply right, then left again, sending us into a tight turn. The other driver sees the first turn, but misjudges it, pulling to the left in an effort to pass us. Instead he runs past.

Two sharp pings. There is a shooter in the back. One experienced enough to anticipate this chance and cool enough to take it. Almost accurate enough to make it count. Very bad.

Napoleon snaps off five rounds. One for the drivers window, one for the rear, and three for the trailing tire. The first two miss. At least one of the last three makes contact. The tire explodes, and at this speed the driver has no chance to compensate. More so since he is currently trying to break. He spins out and slams passenger-side into the sound-wall. The force sends the car sliding hood first into the drainage ditch running below.

I drive past carefully as Napoleon watches for movement. There is none. Good.

As I turn carefully up to the on-ramp, Napoleon asks. "Didn't we just do that this morning?"

"I think you had best call April.

Napoleon looks at his watch. "Eight PM in New York. Do you have her home number?"

******

He clips the phone to the drink holder and turns up the volume so I can hear it. Five rings, then... a young voice. " Yes. Who is it?"

"April Dancer, please."

"Mom." A shout. "It's for you. Some guy."

A sound of doors, then...in the background.. "Hang up, dear. I'll take it in the den." Another few beeps, then.... "Dancer here."

"April?"

"Napoleon?"

"I'm afraid we just left another car in the ditch."

The sound of a chair shifting. "I knew you couldn't drive."

"Illya was driving."

"Illya ditched a car?" She sounds properly incredulous.

"Well," Napoleon becomes charming. "Not OUR car."

"Don't tell me. Another car chase." The sharp background sound of a scrambler comes over the line briefly, then she continues. " You didn't shoot anyone, did you?"

"Of course not. You asked us not to. Although I think they took a shot at us. And the rental company is not going to be happy with bullet holes in the paint"

"OK," April sighs. "Give me your location and I'll send out another team. Or should I just send back the same one you had this morning?"



Chapter Forty-Two: (Turn and Face the ) Cha-Cha-Changes

"Welcome home." Mark meets us in the driveway. "Was the recruiter enthusiastic?"

"Very." Napoleon tucks his new pistol case under one arm and heads for the trunk.

I put up the roof and lock the car. "We were shot at. And someone tried to run us off the road. Twice."

"That does seen a tad aggressive. Especially since your not signing up for the football team." Mark picks up the berries and starts back to the house. "Are you sure it isn't just someone you annoyed, Illya?"

"I do not annoy people."

Napoleon looks over at Mark. "You don't sound surprised."

"April called." Mark sets the berries down on the outside table and unlocks the front door. "By the way, your new car should be here within the hour. I hope you like black."

"I have had no particular opinions on that color before." I answer as we step into the hall. "But it is fast becoming an acquired distaste."

"Any idea why you chaps made the hit list?"

"Gunmen were local rent-a-thugs." Napoleon shrugs. "April thinks they were sent to even up a little inconvenience we caused a thief on the train outside Tallin."

Mark hands the berries to David and locks the door behind us. "You believe that?"

"Any reason she would lie?" A bitter question, but one that must be asked.

"No." Mark shakes his head slowly, then faster. " No, April's OK that way. She's still..one of us." His fingers brush over his scared palm. "And she's probably positioned the best to solve this."

"If she can." I make it a question.

"Oh, if it's just a money thing, the perps will catch on fast enough." Mark checks the bolts. "I had a bit of a...discussion.... when we first came out. One or two of the China trade blokes didn't want to respect my career change."

"And you persuaded them?"

"With a bit of help from the brothers. It's all just business the dealers. Pop a few underlings, and as soon as losses hit the bottom line, they catch on. Might take a bit more if you riled someone personally, but... I wouldn't sweat. April knows just how to get that message across."

"Just watch out." David came back from setting the berries in the kitchen. "People in her position don't do favors for nothing."

"What could she want from us?"

Davis gives Mark a significant look, but says nothing.

"Mark." Napoleon cuts in. "If she wanted us back in U.N.C.L.E., we'd be there. It's not like we asked to leave. She's the one who offered us desks." Turning to David, he adds. "She's also offered us a safe house. I was not certain we should even have come back here tonight, but...."

"You've been in this house four days already," David finished. "If anyone was going to move on you here, they would have."

"Even so.. I.."

"Won't endanger an innocent?" David reaches back to pull out his own derringer. "Trust me, Napoleon, after twenty-five years of Mark I'm a lot less innocent then I was when we started. This wasn't be the first time I covered the front door. Probably won't be the last.

"I regret that.." I begin.

"Don't, Illya." He cuts me off. "I'm a grown man. I caught what I was getting into the first time Mark took me to the range."

"You're a prince."

"No, I'm a queen."

Mark snorts a bit at that. "David's right. You are very welcome to stay. Which you *should* know. Seriously. I built this place. It's harder than it looks. With the shutters closed?" Mark flips open a panel on the wall that I had mistaken for a fuse box. Despite the apparent rows of circuit switches inside I now gather it is not. He flips a switch and the living room shutters slam shut. Two more, and the same sound echoes from the rest of the house. Mark smiles. " Blast steel. To get past that, they'd have to bring up a tank. And I don't think the bridges are built for that."

"Impressive," I concede.

"That's nothing compared to our old place." David turns up the lighting to replace the now-covered windows. "Mark put gun-ports in the bathroom doors. I used to live in fear some poor old bum would break in to the `other' apartment while we were at work and run into that mine-field he built in the unused entry hall."

"Really," Mark insists. "You will be better off among friends."

No doubt. But that leads to the question... "Which April is? Or is not?"

Mark thinks, then answers carefully. "April's a blood sister, Illya. Still and always." He pauses a bit. "But her people? I don't say they're bad... but your going to find a lot of blank palms in the ranks."

"They don't..." I unconsciously rub my palm.

"One of the other reasons I left." Another, longer pause, then Mark continues... "After Sir John came in, he started to hire from the companies. Took people in above the training level. It got to where there were ...regional tensions, and.. a lot of blank palms on the management level. Rather a question of trust."

"If.."

"Not like you, Illya. You never lied about where you stood. To anyone. But it's one thing to think about the oath, then take it. It's another to take the oath.. then think about it."

"You mean they.." I could not say the words.

"A traveling brother found the whole thing written up in an MI5 file. Words, names, everything. Whole sodding de-brief report."

"Did you...?" Napoleon looks serious.

"No. Not quite a sanction level matter, after all. But after that? Folks got a bit more careful about who came in." Mark shrugged. " Once there were more that weren't than were? It was never the same."

"And now?"

"The black-suit boys? We don't even think to ask."

*************************

A quick shower. No time for more, if we are to make this night's appointment without being `fashionably late'. That is concept which might amuse Napoleon, but one I will never be comfortable with.

Briefs, my white sweater, and..denims. Black again. The only color I have. Perhaps a trip back to the mall is in order? Something in light tan might be nice.

As I step from the bathroom Napasha is adjusting his newest tie.

"Nice suit." It is. Another new one. All of Napoleon's suits are always nice. Or possibly he simply has the knack of looking stylish in them. Me? Even when I try to look tailored, I rumple. Not that I would let it bother me, but... it is good such things apparently no longer matter.

"Thanks." He slides his jacket on and adjusts it to lay smoothly over his shoulder harness. "Since it is an interview dinner." He raises one eyebrow at the clothes I am pulling from the closet.

"I will wear my best jeans." At his unconvinced look, I add. "Honestly, Napasha. If you could have seen what Dr. Decker looked like. I don't think they would have let a janitor into Cambridge dressed like that.

"That bad?"

I pull up the stiff denim and tuck in the edges of the knit top. "At least my pants do not have holes in them.

Napasha says nothing. Just shakes his head.

***********

I left my jacket downstairs, so I am still adjusting my holster as I follow Napoleon down to the hall. Mark and David are sitting in the living room when we get there.

David looks up. "You two are still going out to dinner?"

"Should we not?" I ask Mark.

"No reason not to." He smiles and tosses Napoleon a black fobbed bundle of keys. "The new car is a virtual tank. Besides which, April's people told me they are fairly certain they have all the actives in custody."

"How would they know?" David snaps. "The punks haven't even said who they work for."

"Probably because they don't know." Mark shrugs. "Strict work-for - hire types. A pair of gang bang punks and their crews. Makes it more likely that it's just an industrial job. And my own net is catching nothing against you guys."

"Still..." David begins.

"We cannot remain indoors forever," I remind David. "Otherwise why not just move in to April's safe-house."

"No," David replies quickly. "You're better here."

"And the rad lab has more security then we do," Mark reminds him gently."Besides, luv. If the local crew isn't in on it...the boys may still want the job."

True enough. And, for all my inherent discomfort with the alliance, Livermore was one of the first places to ask for both Napoleon and myself as a team. Which may reflect a better access to sealed documents rather then a better personnel policy, but it still makes their call among the most interesting. If matters are truly changed..? I admit to a certain...curiosity, and it cannot hurt to hear what the man has to say.

"Maybe.. Just be cautious." David hands me my jacket. "Some of these electronic companies play rough."

**********

The new sedan is very comfortable, and very quiet. Whatever shortcomings Mark may attribute to April's organization, their hardware at least is excellent. Our short drive through the home dotted countryside is very pleasant, and as we pull up in front of the well-maintained `hacienda' where the director lives the first bright streaks of fuschia and turquoise sunset are starting their journey across the evening sky. I wish I could see it through the smoke of the glass.



Chapter Forty-Three: Games People Play

A beautiful house. All peach stucco and black wrought iron. Not large, but surrounded by the acre of fruit trees that seems ubiquitous as the sign of local affluence. A tall ironwork fence surrounds the property, but the driveway gate opens as we approach. Quiet proof that, for all the bucolic calm, we are being watched.

Napoleon parks at the top of the long driveway. As I get out, my eyes follow the red pavers and blue Spanish tile that shows our way to the vine shaded front door. Tiny pin-lights mark the edge of the path, and brighter spots pick out the occasional well-trimmed oleander. All very casual, and yet expensively maintained. The California flavor of ostentatious.

Before we can ring the bell, Dr. St. Armot greets us at the door. He is much as I had expected. Middle age, middle weight, aggressively middle class; but with eyes far sharper then he would wish to have noticed. It is not wise to be careless around such men.

"Dr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo." He shakes our hands, then waves us into the living room. "Welcome."

"Dr. St. Armot." Napoleon brings out his `bonhomie' smile. "So nice of you to have us."

I check out the fashion magazine living room. Good leather furniture. Better Turkastani rugs. Garish abstract art that I'm sure is finer still, if one were to ask a curator. Heavy velvet drapes that block all light from the street, and would do much to deaden even the noise of speech. Not that anyone would be listening from the street. But of course not. But I think if one were they would gain little here.

"Something to drink?" Dr. St. Armot pulls three glasses from the
bar.

"Scotch."

"Vodka."

As he pours, a well dressed woman comes in from the kitchen. Blond, sweet faced, to all appearances the perfect executive wife. Only the green eyes are wrong. They remind me of a tiger I once met in the jungles of Burma. Except that I won the fight with the tiger. I do not think I could rely on such fortune again.

"Gentlemen." St. Armot lifts his glass. "My wife Elaine."

"Welcome." She shakes my hand as her husband pours her a glass. "It's so nice when I get to welcome new friends to the neighborhood. I thought we'd eat on the patio. The weather is so fine at this time of year."

"A wonderful idea." Napoleon takes her hand with the twist of his lips that says he would rather kiss it.

Center target again. Damn the man. Mrs. St. Armot twinkles a bit as she adds. "I hope you like Italian."

"Very much." Napoleon's smile deepens. "Elaine."

"Wonderful." Her tone says she has spotted the game, but will play anyway. "I made lasagna."

"I love lasagna."

We follow her out to the back patio. It is much like Mark and David's. Only somewhat larger, and without the pool. Instead there is another wet bar, a fireplace large enough to roast a boar, and a fountain. Also fruit trees. Dozens more fruit trees. A foolish thought catches my mind. Whatever do the local gentry do with all that produce? I can not see this elegant pair with a produce stand. Especially not Mrs. St. Armot. If her smile is acquired, the pearls below them are clearly hers by divine right.

She serves us pasta and salad, and we chat a bit about traffic and weather and the constant difficulties of building just the right house. Mrs. St. Armot is serving dessert before her husband decides to get down to business.

"So," He smiles at us both. " You gentlemen are thinking of moving into the area." It is not quite a question.

"Perhaps." I answer.

"So cautious." The Director glances at his wife, who only smiles. "I get a lot of that. Comes with the turf." He takes a deep sip of his cappuccino, then continues. " This is a wonderful area. Full of opportunities. And , of course. I like to think the rad lab is high among them."

I am perhaps strung up from the day, but the courtesy is getting excessive. I decide to be blunt. "Forgive me, Dr. St. Armot. But I would not think that the premier American Nuclear Weapons Development Center would have any opportunities for a Russian scientist of my background. At least, none you would wish me you finds out about."

"Please, Dr. Kuryakin." His face takes on an expression similar to real hurt. " Livermore Labs has far more going for it then just producing weapons of mass destruction. Not that I will deny that we still take some restricted work, which I do not..."

I finish the sentence. "Choose to talk about at this time?"

"Exactly," The Director concedes fraternally. "But there are other projects. Power generation, for instance. We are doing some major work for the international space project. And we are at the forefront of legitimate cold fusion. Both of those are multi-national operations, and they require science trained people to lead them."

"So you are interested primarily in management skills?"

"At this time, yes." He searches my eyes carefully. I do not think there is anything to be seen, but after a pause he adds. "Not to say we would not offer research opportunities. We can and do. But.... what I need primarily is science-trained people who direct the work between a ...variety...of personnel. People who can function well within a high-level governmental setting. Those are skills the two of you gentlemen offer in abundance."

"I would think that would be common?"

St. Armot shakes his head. "Hardly."

It is Mrs. St. Armot who smiles knowingly, and then answers. "This area is long on genius. But I fear it's sadly short of diplomacy."

Napoleon quizzes the Director about cold fusion funding over the final port and cheese. Quite extensively. I don't believe that Napasha has much information on the subject. Then again, I didn't think he knew computers, either. For that matter, I am still uncertain on that subject. Perhaps he wants answers. Perhaps he is just being charming. With Napoleon, it is impossible to ever be sure. Except... if he learns something, he will tell me
when we get home.

Ten o'clock. Napoleon stands, signaling that it is time to leave.

As we head for the door Napoleon and `Elaine' exchange the usual polite farewells. I turn to our host. "Thank you, Dr. St. Armot." We shake hands a final time. "You have given me a great deal to think about."

*****

We are back on the road before Napoleon says anything.

"Not impressed?"

I shrug. "It's nice to know I could get a job, but - no. I would rather go to work at the college. You?"

"I would rather go to work for Iraq. The man was a snake. And his wife?" Napasha shivers dramatically.

I am surprised. From his tone Napoleon seemed to like both the St. Armot's exceedingly. But then, that is his skill. "You are certain?" I ask.

"I should know how to spot a snake," Napoleon snorts. "I am one."

True enough, I agree mentally. All I say is. "But you are such an attractive snake."

"You think so?"

"I have always admired your... coils."

That earns a laugh. "Let's go home - and you can admire them up close."

****************

We have just turned onto the main highway when I notice something in the side mirror. Something..?

"Napoleon?"

"Yes, Illya?"

I tap the window. "The headlights behind us?"

"Not again?" He shifts to the slower lane, watching as the lights behind us do likewise. Then he speeds up a bit. No change.

I gauge the distance as he speeds up a bit. No change. "I think so."

"Damn it." Napoleon loosens his jacket. "This time I am going to shoot someone." He glances at me quickly as I pull my pistol. "Are you steady."

"Absolutely,"I answer, pulling my new pistol. "I only had one drink."

I pop the glove box and pull the red clip. According to the manual this one should contain light explosives. At the least, it will give me the better mass. Only one quarter the capacity of the black, but if I need more then fifty rounds we are already dead.

"Good." Napoleon hesitates a moment, clearly checking his memory. "The road should narrow ahead, with a cliff on the right side. I'm going to speed up, then break back into the second lane. With luck, they should end up beside us. Let's see what that does."

Unspoken orders. If they are beside us, they will never pass us. I lower my window. A deadly clue in daylight. In the dark, they should not spot the danger until they are trapped in killing ground. Tightening my harness, I brace against the armrest and wait.

Napoleon is smooth. He keeps the acceleration gradual, almost incidental, until we are pushing even freeway believability. Then, just as the following driver begins to show signs of suspicion, he counts. "Three, two...now."

He slams the breaks one half second after he cranks the wheel. Tight maneuver. Done wrong, it will send the car skidding out of control. Done right?

It was. The follow-car breaks, but not quickly enough to stay entirely behind us. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.

Two shots craze the rear windshield. Visibility almost gone, but for now it holds. I return fire, but the angle is bad. Two Joshua trees vanish in splinters. Double miss. And the follow car is slowing just past our tail. Bad position.

"Plus two," I tell Napoleon.

He cranks left, whipping our rear into their fender. With both sides prepared, it's not enough to take them off the road. Unfortunately. But it does force the driver off the breaks in order to steer. Good enough. I lean out. Another round. This one low and almost down our side. No chance to aim. As it is they get two more rounds into our frame. No matter. Our metal holds,and their tire does not.

Off balance but not out, their shooter sends another volley into our frame. Amateur. He should have waited another two feet and been fully along side. He is too anxious. At this range and with their angle I would have had both gunman and driver.

"Brace," Napoleon commands, responding with a full side slam. The impact sends damaged glass raining over the back seat, but our harnesses hold us in place. Now locked, Napoleon accelerates to the right until the opponent is pushed through the low guardrail.

The drop is sharp. At least fifty feet near vertical to the hard ground below. My door bends out with a scream of stressed metal. For a moment I fear the cars are truly locked, and we will go with them down to the rocks. We do rock severely, but at the last our breaks hold. The follow-car slips free and we remain above, teetering on the verge but still safe.

Napoleon drops the automobile into reverse and backs cautiously away from the unstable edge. Only once we are safely back on the paved roadway does he look at me. "What time do you think it is in New York?"

*********

Pulling out my phone, I press the buttons for April's home number. This time there are fifteen rings before the phone is answered with a grunt.

"April?" I ask.

A thump, then the background sound of a masculine baritone groaning. "Honey, it's for you."

Another few thumps and a hiss before a more familiar voice comes on the line. "Napoleon?"

"Illya," I answer.

She yawns and hits the scrambler. "Not another wrecked car? Please."

"Sorry."

"Oh, Lord." I hear the scratch of cloth. Most likely sheets. Then.. "Where do I pick this one up?"

"With a crane, I'm afraid." I look at the rock wall, which is reflecting occasional flashes of light from the flames below. "Napoleon sent them over a cliff."

"A cliff," April repeats wearily.

"At least we did not shoot anyone." I remind her. "You were most insistent about that."

"Much appreciated, I'm sure." Three beeps indicates the connection of another line. "What is your position?" Another pause before asking, "Do you need help?"

I look at Napoleon, who shrugs.

"No," I answer, reading our location off of the roadside pole. "Our car will still drive."

"Fine. Go on home. I'll send out a team." Another few beeps and a hiss, followed by a brief silence on our end while she talks to whoever is on the other line. " Call me again in the morning. I want a debrief. And Illya?" Her voice takes on a edge of maternal endurance. "Do you think the two of you could get through the rest of the night without incident?"



Chapter Forty-Four : (What I'll Give You) Since You Asked

We make it back to the house without further incident. Our car is damaged, but not badly enough to attract unwanted attention at this late hour. Mark and David are waiting, but they are too polite to press us with questions. At least not now. Mark will quiz April, and David will question Mark, but for now at least we will be left in peace. They simply lock up behind us and say good night. We are back in our room before Napoleon ceases to be charming.

"Illyusha. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I answer. "I am uninjured."

"I know that. But I also know you. You've been far too quiet since that last car - even for my stoic Russian." He pulls off his tie and draws it lightly over my wrist. "Give! Or do I have to interrogate?"

I drop my wallet on the nightstand. Then my glasses.

He drops a kiss on my shoulder but I move away.

"I am sorry." I hesitate but..I owe him an honest confession of my weakness. "It is just that... I had this....fantasy." I drop to the chair, not certain of how to explain what I do not myself fully understand. "We would find some pretty house... perhaps on the water. Where you could keep a little boat for the weekends."

Napasha brushes one finger through my hair. "You hate boats."

"No." I kiss the hand before returning it. "I hate sea-sickness. The new drugs are supposedly very effective. Anyway - that is not important." I pull out my phone and plug it into the charger. "Perhaps instead we could have a little dacha in the country with the grapes..."

Napasha hangs up his jacket and holds out his hand for mine. "Go on."

"You would do something...charming....and clever. Where your suits would not always be ruined from being shot or crawling through sewers..."

"I'd go for that."

"And I?" I slide off the holster and place the new pistol beside the Makarov on the nightstand. "I would go to school, and teach freshman lab, and maybe translate sometimes for the visiting lecturer series. And we could go to the ballet, or even to a concert for your Beatles, and I would NOT have to worry about bombs or poison or guns or any of those things. And we would only have to be spies on Monday nights."

"We *can* do that. I promise..." Napasha reassures me, placing his watch and pistol by his phone.

I cut him off. "There are steel shutters on the windows and a gas-proof air filtration system on this house."

"Today, yes." He sits on the bed, very near me. "But... we will find out who is doing this. And April *will* take care of them, just as she did for Mark. And maybe not today, but eventually.....well..."

"Napasha." I turn to him."It is not just that. It is..." This is the hardest part. But he is my partner, and he must know me if I am to be useful to him. "When they started firing...I felt...alive. Awake. For the first time since I woke in that hospital I felt...like myself."

"So.. you want back in the game?"

"That does not appear to be an option."

"We are team one." Napasha leans back. "We are never out of options."

I shake my head. "You heard April. She does not want team one. She wants to put me under some mountain counting boxes."

"April isn't the only game in town."

Reaching for the top drawer, I pull out a much-folded form. "They do not seem to want me either. And I will not.."

Napasha plucks the form from my fingers and tosses it back, sliding the drawer shut for good measure. " Never. I know. But... How do you feel about France?"

France? That is a strange leap even for Pasha. "What has France....?" I start.

"You remember Marie Dumont?"

"Section 2. Europe." Marie Dumont was my `boss' when I was assigned there early in my U.N.C.L.E. career. Dark haired woman. Rather pretty, in the athletic way all sisters tend to be pretty. Good with explosives. Degree in chemical engineering from Montana. No one so special that Napoleon should mention her now.

Napasha must see the awareness in my eyes, because he nods. "She surely remembers you."

"And?"

"She was a friend of mine. Not like that... OK." He gives me a bit of a guilty grin, like a little boy caught stealing cookies. " Like that, but before I even *met* you. Anyway, she was one of the people who called on Monday. I wasn't going to mention it if... you wanted to go to Santa Barbara, but...? She's heading up a project for the CNES. The Centre' National de Etudes Spatiaels?. The Ariane Rocket program?"

Ariane? I review my searches of Sunday night. "I remember reading something about that. Small rockets."

"Portable launch platform," Napasha confirms. "They test over the Med and from French Guiana, but they're based in Toulouse."

"So?"

"They are running a 50% loss rate, and she was hoping we might change that."

"Napoleon." I search his face but see nothing. "That is flattering, but I am forty plus years out of rocketry, and it was not my field even when...."

"Illyusha!" He grins widely, pleased at having fooled me even briefly. " No one's math is that bad... not even the French." Then he becomes serious. "Not that she's been able to *catch* anyone in sabotage. The official explanation is software failure, but...." No need to finish the sentence.

"Da," I nod. "That type of change."

"When Marie heard that we weren't staying in New York with April, she got our number and called to find out if I was open to...other offers. When I told her we both might be...well." He gestures broadly. "She asked me to hold off a bit.."

"Why?"

"Well, she *is* in direct competition with Baykonur. Or rather would like to be. Always diplomatic to let Kronsteen make the first bid. And according to her you haven't quite turned the man down. But? South of France? Mediterranean climate? French food?"

"Demitri Kronsteen was speaking to Marie Dumont?" That is a strange image. Demitri Ivanovich being diplomatic to anyone is a strange image. "What did he want?"

"I have no idea." Napasha give me his blandest look. The tease. "I've never met the man."

"He was in Tallin." I try to remember what Demitri said. What I was too distracted at the time to truly hear. Something about the future...? Not that Napasha and I could have a future in my homeland. Could we? I look up at Napasha hovering so nearby. "You would never..?"

"Instead of France?" He takes my hand. "I'd...listen."

*********************

When Napasha pulls me forward I freeze. Not intentionally. Not even consciously. Just...too many memories.

"Sorry." Napoleon releases my fingers. "I can..sleep next door if..."

"No!" I clasp both his hands and raise them to my lips. "I was just ... distracted a moment."

He leans forward and kisses my forehead. "If you want.. to just sleep..."

"No," I answer, fervent, looking into chocolate eyes. "While I have you.. I want you."

"And you do have me." He opens his arms and I go into them. "That I swear is true."

Pressing kisses to his throat, I vow, "And you me. For however long you wish."

"Then that is forever."

"I do hope so." Leaning forward, I roll with him onto the bed. Still dressed, but that is familiar enough. With easy skill and practiced aid I free him from his garments, even as he strips away mine. Later perhaps I will fold them , but for now shirts and trousers can crumple to the floor. Strong hand claim my shoulder, then sweep down to my ass. They pull me closer, into the heat of mouth and tongue and palm. I do likewise, reaching for him, finding him hard and ready. Aching even as I ache.

With both hands I circle him. Inelegant, perhaps, but I have no patience tonight for tricks and games. Napasha is here, and I need him. In my life, in my bed, in my heart. And, when by fortune I can have him, in my ass. And fortune it is that he wants even as I want.

As soon as we are bare I urge him forward, opening my thighs for him and pulling him down on top of me. He follows eagerly, sliding one hand to brace my back while the other prepares me for his entrance. Not that I need much help, eager as I am. Eager as he is.

In one smooth movement he enters me, completes me, pulling me against him even as I surge up to met him. My own cock is trapped between or stomachs, and each thrust becomes a stroke of delight. Soon, far too soon, I feel him flood within me. But I have no more patience then Napasha, and that final sensation lures me over the edge of my own pleasure, splashing between us in a wave of warmth and salt.

************

Later. I am tired, and yet I can not sleep. I rest my head against Napasha's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Feeling the drum of his pulse beneath my fingers. Breathing in the mixed scent of salt and musk that is Napoleon Solo. I am still. I have learned to be very still. But Napasha is not fooled.

"Illya?" He rolls so we are face to face. "What is it?"

"Nothing." I rub my cheek against his chest, both a comfort and a distraction.

"Illya!"

I drop a kiss down that hair-dark center line.

"Illyusha!" Napasha rises on one elbow.

I look at he pillow, the ceiling - anything but him. "If I wanted to go back in....?" I raise my eyes to his, looking for...I don't know what.
" Would you..?"

"That would depend," he answers, his tone not comforting, but rather dead honest. "On the offer and the game."

That is a Napoleon answer. Or rather non-answer. But when does he ever answer a question directly. "Always so tactical." I tease.

"Hey," he smiles. "It's what I do."

Another Napoleon answer. But below the wit there is always a truth. One I have learned to read. "I will not if you object.." I start.

He closes my lips with a light kiss. "I'd prefer France. but...I know you've missed your home."

"And you will not?"

"Sometimes.. maybe." He drops back to the pillow. "But I think you're the only real home I've ever had."



Chapter Forty-Five: No Expectations

David has the table set in the dining room when we come down. It is very cheerful, with pink and orange napkins and bright paper flowers, but it is still indoors. I say nothing, as they will say nothing... but it marks the trouble we have brought into their lives. Not that the risk of innocents is anything new, but thinking of *Mark* as innocent? That is so strange I am not certain even now I quite manage. But... I miss the patio.

Napoleon has his Monday night suit, but with the Russian tie. Chosen for it's color, no doubt. I think he would rather burn it, but after leaving the other on the floor all night, that suit is in need of more then just a quick steaming. I am also wearing black. Not from diplomacy. Those are merely the clothes I have left. Perhaps when this is over we should both go shopping.

"Sit down, guys." Mark comes in with a pitcher of juice. "Since you picked up berries, we get waffles today. I was hoping for blini, but the health police..."

David follows with a wrapped basket. "You want a heart attack? Get one." He places the basket in front of Mark, right between the honey and the raspberries. "But not in my kitchen." Then he vanishes back into the kitchen.

"Did you hear that?" Mark takes his seat and spears a golden waffle still steaming from the iron. "Don't kid yourself about relationships. They are never equal. It's our house, but it's *his* kitchen."

David comes in on that, but says nothing. I fact, from the looks he gives Mark I would suspect he agrees. "The white bowl is creme fraiche with vanilla." He places the bowl between myself and Napoleon before taking his seat. "And Mark, you go easy on that."

Mark ignores him, loading his waffle with berries and creme. "So Illya ...Napoleon . What do you plan to do today?"

Napoleon takes a deep sip of juice before preparing his own waffle. "Find a new car?"

I take a waffle, and Mark passes the berries. "Did April get the first one patched yet?"

Napoleon shrugs. "I haven't checked the messages this morning." Then he turns to me. "I think we'd best go down to headquarters - wherever that is - and have a talk with the local people. Three times is definitely enemy action."

I say nothing. He is too obviously right to require a response.

Mark nods. "Take my car." Pulling out a heavy chain he removes two keys. "It's been in the garage. With the other outside? Odds are mine is clean. Really." He exchanges a look with his partner. "Less chance of it being spotted, and I'd prefer to ride in with David."

That brings a snort from David. "You? Let me drive?"

Mark ostentatiously pulls his boot pistol, checking the clip before handing it to David. "You drive better than you shoot. Besides, if something goes down April will walk me for her own sake."



Chapter Forty-Six: I Don't Believe in If Any More

The two young men who arrive to retrieve the damaged car provide not only an address but a map. Apparently the local director has anticipated our request. Either that, or they wish to interview us for reasons of their own.

I am watchful all the way, but we arrive without incident.

This time the headquarters is out in the semi-suburbs. A pretty brick building with Victorian details. According to the sign out front, an independent geologist's office shares space with a fiduciary management company. The upper windows boast a sign offering document storage. A step up from a tailor's shop, but I assume the principal is the same. All very innocuous looking, but as we drive down into the parking garage, a steel door rolls down behind us.

A smiling young man in an orange cap and vest over his black shirt and pants directs us to the spaces at the side, where one parking space bears a hand-lettered sign marked S/K. Right by the elevator door. Very polite.

As we step up the elevator opens without being summoned, and once we are inside the doors close without a floor being pushed. Not that it would matter. All the buttons are for floors above us - but the elevator goes down.

The doors slide open on a beige hall with grey carpeting. Very innocuous, if boring.

Mr. Lee is waiting. This time he is wearing a suit. Black, naturally. As is the grey-haired man at his side.

"Mr. Solo. Dr. Kuryakin." Lee makes the introductions. "West Regional Director, Mr. Smith."

"Gentlemen." The older man acknowledges as we shake hands all around.

He leads us down the hall to an unmarked door. A briefing room, to judge by the large central table and peripheral computer stations. These are occupied by several black-suited agents who he does not bother to introduce. Smith waves us to the table, where two seats on the near side have been marked out with thick file folders. Obviously those are for us .

Smith takes his seat at the head, leaving Lee to sit across from us. "Director Dancer has informed me that you are both elected at policy level one. That is a full sanction level. She has also directly ordered me to place the full resources of this office at your disposal."

"Which clearly thrills you." Napoleon is not *always* as charming as he can be.

A young lady in a black dress comes by with coffee. Lee and Napoleon take some, but I decline. From the smell of it, it is the usual American brew.

"Should it?" Smith pushes a button and a photo of the first wrecked car appears on the wall behind him. "Mr. Solo, you and your partner have caused quite a stir around here. This office has not had three fire-fights in the last year. You manage to be involved in that many in less then a day."

The picture changes, this time to a shot of three young men. Caucasian but tan, most likely local, I would put them in their early twenties. They also look rather bruised. I assume they were the unfortunate passengers of that car. I glance at Napoleon, but he shakes his head. They are as unfamiliar to him as they are to me.

"Mr. Solo?" Lee asks, glancing up at the wall. "Are you sure you don't have personal enemies?"

"How could I?" Napoleon shrugs as a second set of unfamiliar faces appear. "I've been dead since 1968. Nobody's boyfriend holds a grudge that long."

Lee pulls out his palmtop and reads the screen before correcting Napoleon. "1969".

So Waverly did wait a year, as April had said. Interesting information, but hardly relevant now. I store that and return to more pressing issues. "How do you know that Napoleon is the target?" I ask Lee. "Yesterday Director Dancer believed it might be me?"

"We found a circled photo in the second car." The wall decor once again changes, this time to a candid shot of Napoleon entering his apartment. "With his name on the back."

"When was that?" Napoleon studies the photo closely. "I think I remember the suit."

"July 26, 1967." I answer. "Six months before our last mission."

"God." Lee looks up, impressed. "You people are good. How did you know that?

"There is a date on the newspaper."

"Oh." He blinks at the vending machine just visible behind Napoleon's back. "Yeh, well..." He turns again to Napoleon. " Who hated you back then?"

"Other then all of T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

I am considering the suggestion that it might be simpler to ask who in the business did *not* hate us, when Smith finally decides to comment. "There is no more T.H.R.U.S.H.!" His voice dismisses the possibility with the irritated edge of self evident truth.

"Excuse me, sir." A trim looking woman in her late forties rose from one of the consoles. "There is no more T.H.R.U.S.H. like there is no more U.N.C.L.E. The organizations are gone. That doesn't meant the *people* aren't still around." She steps over to Napoleon. "I mean... you're still here. I'm still here.."

"You are?" Napoleon rises, holding out his hand.

She takes it firmly. "Janet Trent. Communications and Decryption."

Only from my perspective could one see the swift slide of thumbs over palms.

Trent drops her voice and adds, "That too."

"Communications?" I rise to offer my hand as well.

"Conversationalist."

"Understood." Our eyes lock as her thumb glides under mine.

Napoleon turns to Smith, claiming command. "Mr. Smith, have your people run a cross check on all known T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives -all dates - all levels - against the listed the population for...?" He looks at Trent. "Five hundred miles? At least to start."

"Yes, sir," Janet Trent acknowledges without looking at Smith. "Also known allied independents."

"Excellent." Napoleon picks up his files and signals me to be prepared to follow.

Trent is already back at her station when the operative beside her objects. "I'll have to load that from files." The young man sounds rather put out by the prospect. "T.H.R.U.S.H. is in the back data."

"Then do it," Trent directs. "And get it to me the minute you find anything."

Napoleon nods at Mr. Smith. "When you have something, Kuryakin and I will be on the range. As I recall, I'm not qualified on this." He taps his shoulder harness. "And I'd hate to violate policy in my own office."

**********************

I am cleaning my pistol while Napoleon finishes his second clip. At two hundred rounds each the process takes a while. Still, it is necessary. It also has the virtue of keeping us occupied at a location where conversation is evidently impossible. Just in case Smith wishes to protest. Or rather - since quite obviously he must *wish* to - I should perhaps say if he decides it is worth the risk to try.

I have no idea where our authority ends, but neither does Smith. Neither does Napoleon, for that matter, but he has never been inclined to concern himself with such details. Waverly he would obey. More likely because Waverly was Waverly then because Waverly was Hemispheric Chief. Beyond that? Napoleon did what it took to do the job. Then he dumped the paperwork on me. As he no doubt will do here. Thirty three years may change many things, but never that.

Cleaning the new weapon is delicate and unfamiliar work. That, combined with the ear protection required even for `quiet' loads, must explain why Agent Trent is almost to the counter before I notice her. That and the fact she moves like a sister.

"Excuse me, sir?" She signals me to pull off my headset.

"I ran the search you requested and..." She breaks off in seeming embarrassment. Never a good sign. " And.... there are twenty-seven names in the listed area. Low level suspected operatives."

I take the printout and read down the list of names. None I remember particularly. "Nothing much here."

Napoleon has noticed the newcomer. He changes his clip and holsters the gun before coming over. I pass the list to Napoleon. He taps one name.. "I'm not certain. Was he..?"

While Napoleon is searching his memory Trent continues. "More then that. It appears they all live in the same town. Fifteen of them in the same neighborhood. And they all work for the same company. Avian Solutions."

"Avian Solutions?" My startled exclamation meets Napoleon's equally astounded glance. "That is where you had lunch yesterday! With Bill Vally's `friend'." I check over Napoleon's shoulder. "Joe Bierbaum is not on this list."

"Even so, I'm glad I met him at the restaurant."

"I am glad you did not go back for the 'tour' after lunch." I retort. "I do *not* want to get back into the habit of rescuing you."

"This is it?" Napoleon hands the list back to Trent.

"I'm not sure." A politely phrased answer with a meaning closer to `not a chance'. "We haven't finished running the list. But there are at least this many."

"Damn." Napoleon holsters his pistol and reaches for his jacket.

Trent nods. "A whole damn satrap, right beneath our noses, and we never knew it."



Chapter Forty-Seven: One More Time ( For the Good Times)

FYI: The Vice -President of Azerbaijan is NOT Adil Babayev. I took this name from two different musicians. The name has been invented because this is a world wide medium, and I do not want to make anyone nervous by implying or suggesting ill fortune to any significant figure on the world stage. This is strictly a work of fiction, and no relationship of people or events in the real world is either expressed or implied.


We are back in the briefing room, along with Smith, Lee, Trent, and several new faces too briefly introduced. Ordinance, Transportation, and a statistics maven named Tawny Dawn borrowed from the Census Bureau. For once I am the one grateful for the inclusion of a pretty young woman. She is the only person there not wearing black.

With her help Janet Trent's list of `birds' is now up to thirty-six. Which gives us the link to our now-identified assailants.

The prison `mug-shot' of the first shooter is glowing on the wall. "A run of W-2 forms shows Jose *Bent Penny* Dias employed by Avian solutions as a janitor back in the first two quarters of 2000," Tawny Dawn says. "A check with Avian's personnel office lists him as fired for non-performance, but.."

"Obviously an effort at plausible deniability."

"As you say, Mr. Smith." Miss Dawn flips to a similar picture of the driver. "Mr. Jose Dais's cousin, a Mr. Juan *Do-Wop* Dias, has a less direct link. He did, however, work for a gardening contractor who was hired by Mr. Bierbaum earlier this year. And by several other of the T.H.R.U.S.H. names on our list."

"Another link?" Napoleon asks Lee.

"I think it's more likely Juan came in through his cousin." Lee consults his notes. "*Bent Penny* is the older, and has the worse criminal record."

Miss Dawn does not comment, putting up the faces of the remaining four from the first two cars. "The others have various co-employment connections with each other, but no direct ties to Avian Solutions. They do, however, all come from the Montecito area."

"So.." Lee summarizes. "Vally tells Bierbaum you're in the area. Bierbaum, or more likely his boss, tells this *Bent Penny* to take you out. Private contract, since we found the cash on them at arrest." Lee nods at Miss Dawn, and a evidence photo including a thick stack of bills replaces the faces. "Penny screws up the first try, but they have his cousin and crew waiting at the factory."

"Where I decide at the last minute not to go," Napoleon adds.

"Precisely," Lee agrees. "Do-Wop* and his crew have a tracker on the car, and they know your departure time, so they decide to catch you on the way up. Probably on the narrow road just past Pismo." A marked map now shines from the wall. "You must have been driving plus 80. "

I give Napoleon the look which says `He's right'.

Agent Lee continues, "Because they didn't catch up with you until past San Jose."

I check the map. "We stopped at a farm stand in Gilmore. I believe the family name was Miller."

"Thank you, Dr. Kuryakin." Janet Trent makes a note of the name. "We'll check them out."

"After you managed to take out the second crew." As Lee mentions them, another photograph of a smashed auto appear overhead. "Avian gave up on local talent. The third crew was pro." Miss Dawn sends up a pair of photos, one an old mug shot, the more recent a Polaroid from the morgue. " Not the best, but the Bird was hiring on short notice. And Avian wanted the hit enough to pay *them* as well."

I turn to Napoleon. "That would explain the last group's greater competence."

The man from Transportation flips though his report. "I don't believe that was mentioned..."

I give him the look designed to silence officious desk officers. "You did not observe the damage to our car?"

Smith cuts that off. "What do you think this `satrap' is working on?" He looks at Napoleon. "It must be major, if they are going to take the risk of assassination."

"Especially by a method which so publicly tips their hand," I agree.

That brings several solemn nods. If this incident had not forced T.H.R.U.S.H. into the light, the Avian Affair could probably have continued unnoticed for years.

"Ms. Trent?" Smith signals to the Communications Officer. "See if your section can pull a PR file. What are they doing in the next few weeks that would be operational?" He stands. "Until then? You are released for lunch."

There is a brief flurry as the various agents gather their reports and excuse themselves, but the room is soon quiet again.

"I have to apologize, Mr. Solo." Smith drops his voice as he steps to our side of the table. "Dr. Kuryakin." His glance politely includes us both. "When Director Dancer told us to work with you, I thought she was just being political, but... damn. You guys are as good as your reputation makes you out to be."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith." Napoleon rises. "We just do what we can. As do you."

*****

We eat lunch with Mr. Smith in his office. Hot pasta, cold salad, and polite conversation about houses and traffic. Those two topics seem the local equivalent of the British weather. All quite light. Mr. Smith is a pro. He knows it will get heavy enough once the second report is ready.

We are sipping espressos when his secretary comes in. "Ms. Trent believes she has something, sir."

We stand. Time to go back to work.

*********

This time, rather then photos, April Dancer is on the wall. A live video link to her conference room, where she is flanked by a duplicate assembly of black-suited agents.

"Sir. Ma'am." Janet Trent addresses the camera as an assistant passes out new black binders. "I think we have a probable. The Vice -President of Azerbaijan will be coming here to tour several high tech companies as part of an economic visit."

"Including Avian?" April asks.

"No ma'am," Trent replies. "But he will visit Global-Sat Telecommunications, which is one of Avian's biggest rivals."

"Where the loss of even a minor world leader...." Smith leaves the question unfinished, but evident.

April nods. "I think you could safely say that would ruin their chances of further government contracts."

"Global-Sat?" I check with Napoleon. "Was that not Col. Austin's company?"

"Janet, dear," Napoleon charms. " Do you think you could get a line on a thief arrested in Estonia Tuesday before last? I'm afraid I don't have a name, but they would have taken him in on the Warsaw Express between Tallin and Riga."

"You think that is where they first noticed us?" I ask.

"It would fit with April's theory." Napoleon acknowledges the Director though the camera. "And it's the earliest starting point I can imagine." Then he turns his attention back to the agents at our table. "This Adil Babayev?" He slows to pronounce the name correctly. "When is the man due?"

"That's the bad news, sir." Lee scans down his report. "He flys in tomorrow."

Smith nods. "That could explain the rush."

"No chance for anything elaborate." April Dancer informs both rooms. "Put a perimeter around Avian Solutions. Discreetly. Get a tail on every name we can find. Ditto kids and spouses. Global-Sat Telecommunications should be getting Foreign Affairs coverage, but have it matched with our people."

Smith frowns at his papers. "I'll have to borrow to do that."

"Then borrow," April commands. "Call up Hays at the Secret Service. The Treasury Department owes us big time for the Democratic National Convention in LA. And the BATF. If we hadn't stopped them last time they got their maps wrong, they would have raided a nursery school. And you have my permission to remind Tomlin of that if he gives you any lip."

"As for you?" Even over several thousand miles of wire I can feel her eyes focus on me.

"Illya?" Napoleon smiles in triumph. "Was Global-Sat Telecommunications on our list of callers?

"Yes." I pull out my memo book." For both of us. Three times." I find the call note and offer it to him. "Here it is."

"Good." He pulls out his phone. "Give them a call. I think tomorrow would be a good day for the two of us to tour *their* facility."

*********************

I borrow a quiet office for my call, and catch up with Napoleon afterwards in the map room. He and Smith are setting up road coverage. Black suits on point, loaner personnel between. Not a perfect arrangement, but the best that can be done with limited resources and short notice. Still, my first glance at the map leaves me with a sinking feeling in my gut. This was never enough. Not even with U.N.C.L.E. troops. If T.H.R.U.S.H. wants to get in, they likely will. Which means...it's our show.

"Good news, Napoleon." I sit beside him on the edge of the table. "We have a ten o'clock appointment with Michael Schoenberg, the head of projects at Global-Sat, tomorrow."

Smith looks up, clearly surprised."With Babeyev coming, they still want to interview you?"

"Desperately." I keep the triumph out of my face, but possibly not completely from my words." "Apparently Col. Austin was quite vocal about out little session on the train." At Smith's nod, I continue. "Schoenberg tried to put it off, but I told him we had an offer from Dumont at CNES, and we would be flying out on Friday."

I glance at Napoleon, who smiles approvingly.

"Then going on to Moscow to speak with the ESA liaison." When Smith frowns, I add. "I called Kronsteen, and his office will definitely support such a story."

Smith makes a note on his binder, but says nothing as I continue.

"Besides, Demitri Ivanovich suggested that the Azerbaijan project may be one of the projects they want us for. It would fit the profile. His operation has the satellite launch contract, and he will send over his files for background."

"Baykonur launch?" Napoleon leans back. "That means Russian personnel approval required at the the launch stage. We are definitely in."

Yes. We are definitely in. I look again at the map. Now if there were only some promise that we would get back out again. "Any sign of action?" I ask Smith.

"None yet." He waves at the map. " Enforcement has all the main roads covered, but... this close to the date?"

I understand what he does not say. All too well.

Smith looks at me, then at Napoleon. "I would suggest you two stay here tonight. If Avian is set on your removal... they are running out of time."

"True," Napoleon agrees. "In fact, we had better bring Slate and Martinez in as well. If T.H.R.U.S.H. has been watching the house, they may now be targets."

"Covered." Smith flips though his notes. "No report of adverse surveillance at that location."

"Then they're even more at risk." Napoleon corrects him. "T.H.R.U.S.H. may still think we are there."

Smith reaches for the call button. "I'll send..

"Only if Mark Slate agrees." Napoleon rises. "Slate's a pro. He'll know how he wants this handled."

******************************

I am rechecking our updated list of potential T.H.R.U.S.H. contacts with Janet Trent when David and Mark come in.

"David. Mark." Napoleon goes over to greet them. " Sorry for the inconvenience, but..."

"So," David asks, openly curious. "This is one of your safe houses?"

"No," Napoleon grins. "We're crashing at the office tonight. Lousy beds, I'm sure, but this close to operations? Who sleeps anyway? Except Illya, of course."

"I would not think this would be your first time in protection?" I ask David, rather surprised. If they were in New York for five years?

"Oh, Mark took a desk once Waverly died." David looks around calmly, taking in the controlled chaos of the command center. "And back then.... I was never on the spouse list."

Napoleon takes Mark's arm and draws him over to the map display. "Sorry to pull you in, Mark. But I need someone I can trust to cover my back."

"I thought that was Illya."

"Illya's taking the lead."

"I also am sorry that we had to pull Mark in," I tell David, walking with him over to the coffee. "Such poor repayment for your hospitality.

David takes a cup. "What is that line? A man has to do what a man has to do?" His expression is, not grim, but serious. "I've stood at Mark's side and at his back for a quarter of a century. For better or for worse. I'm not changing now."

After a brief consultation our partners rejoin us.

"I think it's set," Mark confirms. "Smith has a reaction team at our house. Another driving the car, although I can't imagine T.H.R.U.S.H. falling for that old trick. Avian is all but locked. And Babeyev is covered every inch of the way."

Napoleon nods, gratified. "Then the only other thing I need to know is... what is this town's best restaurant?"

"Humm," Mark ponders for a moment. "I have a suggestion."



Chapter Forty-Eight: I Only Want to Dance With You.

The restaurant Mark suggested is not large, and from the outside not particularly well marked, but it clearly is doing business. The parking lot is full, and Napoleon slips the valet a hundred to keep our car near the door. Partially a provision against a rapid departure, but partially just Napasha being..... himself.

As we step through the door, a grey-haired man in a tuxedo greets us and checks our reservations. Made under another name, of course. Wednesday night, and David insists we were lucky to get them. Looking at the crowded lounge, I begin to believe him.

The dining room is......conventional, I suppose. White linen, dark wood, dim lighting supplemented by shielded candles. All the usual apurtances of wealth and style. Napoleon will be in his glory here.

A small band fills a low platform in one corner. In their midst a remarkably convincing `lady' stands crooning unknown but familiar sounding love songs. Long red hair flames above a deep blue dress beaded thickly enough to shine under the spotlights. Wide green eyes and high cheekbones. Only the poster in the lobby convinces me that `she' is in fact a `he'.

David waits until we are seated to ask, "Do you always go out to dinner before...?"

"U.N.C.L.E. custom," Napoleon smiles.

"Solo custom," I correct.

"No." Napasha closes the menu. "I didn't introduce it. I only introduced it to you."

"Because none of the rest of us had the balls to blow off our expense account with the Ice Prince watching." Mark likewise drops his menu on the table. "And sod it, half the crew suspected you were eyes for the Old Lion."

"Waverly?" David blinked a bit at the reference. "Why would Waverly want to spy on his own people?"

"Because he was a spymaster," Mark answers. "That's what they *do*."

"I never know if you are paranoid, or if the world is really that weird."

Mark chuckles. "Go with paranoid, luv. The sense of control will make you feel better."

"You..." David mock-glares at his partner, "*are* that weird."

Mark just smiles smugly. "Then I'm lucky you have exotic tastes."

"True enough..." David looks around the splendid room, then rises." Well, if we're going to trash the plastic on this event, at least we should dance."

"Right you are." Mark stands, nods to us, then takes David's hand. "If you'll excuse us?" They move off onto the small dance floor tucked in front of the band at one end of the dining room.

"When *did* we first do this?" Napasha strokes my hand. "Together."

"Paris." I close my eyes at the memory. "Just before the Reign in Spain Affair . You insisted we *live*, before..."

"Oh, yes, I remember." Napasha's eyes darken with memory. "You sulked all the way through the chateaubriand; then ate both our desserts."

"You were not going to finish yours." I turn my palm to meet his. "It would have been wasteful to just leave it."

Napasha's fingers close around mine. "That's my good bolshevik. I think I fell in love with you a little that night."

"Only a little?" I try to sound offended.

"A little? A lot?" Napasha dismisses the question. "How do you measure ? But... that's when I knew you *were* my partner."

Interesting. "Not.....Hong Kong?"

"No." Napasha's fingers tighten just a bit. Not painful, just firm. "You know me too well to think I've ever confused love and sex. That was just... the natural result of something that already was."

"Perhaps for you." I stroke his wrist, just below the sharp white cuff. "For me? It was a revelation."

"Ah, but, Illya." He has a wolf's smile. "That is where I had the advantage. To me, you were always a revelation. I'd become accustomed to the shock."

Mark and David return, so we say nothing more. At least nothing to that point. Light chat about the band, which Mark finds admirable, and the food, which David assures us will be impressive. I take another look at the menu. Given the menu prices it should impress. And it will. Napoleon would have nothing less then the best.

"Wine list?" A young man in a well-pressed tuxedo holds out a red-covered folder.

"Certainly." Napasha glances at the bottom. "I think the Chateau Del Lago merlot. The 1984.

The waiter hurries away, clearly impressed.

David shakes his head. "Gunmen after you and you're going to drink?"

Mark pats his hand. "Half a glass at most."

"Then why...?" David's eye catches the hand-written list as the waiter returns swiftly with our bottle. "Mark! That is a four hundred dollar bottle of wine!"

"Don't worry, David." Mark watches as the young man carefully pours the blood-red fluid into the fragile stems. "If we catch the birds tomorrow April will cover it."

"And if you don't?"

Mark holds out his glass. "Then it's a very good wine. Should we toast Thursday?" he asks.

"Yes." I nod, raising my glass to the light. "I suppose we should."

***************

We are finished with our dinners, sitting back sipping our wine and listening to the singer, when a nice-looking blond man in casually expensive clothes eases up to our table.

"Excuse me?" he asks politely, looking at Napasha.

"Yes?"

He steps back a bit, allowing Napoleon room to rise if he wishes. "I don't know if you are all together, but....if you're not?" He looks at Napoleon hopefully. "Would you care to dance?"

"No thank you." Napasha's voice is polite, but firm. "I have a partner."

At which the man smiles, shrugs, and excuses himself. Which spares me the necessity of a warning glare. I consider a moment, then send one after his departing back anyway. Just in case.

Napasha notices the look and lifts his hand towards me. "Do you want to?"

"I'm sorry, Napasha, but..."

"No, I'm sorry." The hand drops back to the table. "I never want to push you."

"No." I touch his arm, hoping he will understand. "It's not that..it's that... I am not a very good dancer. And this music is not familiar."

`No problem." Napoleon pulls out his wallet and flags a waiter. Within seconds he is asking the man, "You think the band could manage a waltz?"

That brings no answer, but as soon as the waiter reaches the bandstand the chanteuse finishes the current medley and begins crooning something about a `Lady in Red'. Unfamiliar words, but a very familiar three-four time.

Napasha stands and holds out his hand. "Just follow my lead."

I smile a bit as we move to the dance floor, and as he draws me into his arms I whisper, "That...is familiar."

We have never danced together before, and it takes a moment to adjust to moving backwards, but....I feel strangely natural in his arms. We have practiced together, clasped in ten thousand different judo holds, loved together, grappled in endless foreign beds, but this is ....different. The perfect place to spend a night on earth.

His lips brush near my ear. Almost touching. Not a kiss, but the memory of one. Or perhaps the promise of kisses to come. Not of tomorrows themselves. Such things are uncertain. But at least of tomorrow's intent.

I lean in, bringing my cheek almost to his. That is my answer. The future is...unknown, unclaimable. So be it. Whatever future I have, I will offer to him.

When we return to the table, Mark is standing. "Sorry chaps." He drops a short stack of large bills on the table. "Bird spotted on the wing. Time to go in."


Chapter Forty-Nine: Promises, Promises

Note: Just a bit of fluff - but flight is currently the ultimate bribe. And hey...If the Russians are willing to send up James Cameron ( and he is on the flight list for later this year) then the passenger list is really being relaxed.

This used to have a long intro justifying the possibility of the RASA sending people up for reasons *other* then pure science - and mentioning several civilian names on the projected cosmonaut list. But now - all I'm going to say is - *This was written in January 2001, long BEFORE the Russians got approval for `space tourist' Dennis Tito.* And there are plenty more on the list.

Four a.m. by the clock. I am officially napping on the fold-out couch in the ready room. It is not that uncomfortable, and someone has found both a quilt and a pair of `sweats' to use as pajamas. I am an experienced field agent. I have long been familiar with worse. So why can't I sleep?

There have been the usual quiet visits as updates come in. Target tracking and and radar updates from Azerbaijan Two. Back in New York Waverly would have handled such, but Napoleon is Chief here. And I am lead. So... we get the reports.

Napoleon is restless, but he always is before an operation. I am the one who sleeps.

I try to lay still. Nervous energy is wasted energy, and tomorrow may be rough. But as I roll over into the pillow Napasha looks up from his latest list, and our eyes meet.

"You're not sleeping."

"Da?" I slap the pillow and lay back. "You never sleep well before a mission."

"I don't have to, you do it for me."

"Napas...Napoleon." I pull the quilt up and close my eyes.

"What bothers you?" I feel the slow give as Napasha sits on the cushion beside me. "Something about the operation?"

"No." I drop the quilt and scoot back to lean against the upholstery. "Smith's plan looks solid." Which is true. And we have often gone in with less.

"Then....." He drops one hand on my shoulder. "Give, Illyusha."

I hesitate. It is foolish, and nothing to do with our mission. I have no *obligation* to report such matters to my Chief. Not even to my partner. But if he is also my *partner*? I had not before considered that the liberties of this new world would carry their own constraints.

"You know I spoke to Demitri Kronsteen?" It is not a question, but I make it one.

"To back up our resume," Napasha nods. "Very smart."

I carefully inspect the ceiling. "That is... not all we spoke of."

"Kronsteen's one of your...old friends?"

"That, too, although we were never in the same operational units." I also check out the wall moldings. "Still, technicals do tend to know each other."

"He wants you back." Napoleons's voice is completely neutral. Which means, of course, that he is not.

"Yes." I change my focus to his face; his eyes. There is something there...but I do not know quite what.

After a pause he says, "Makes sense. Gossip was Hemispheric Europe had to damn near use nitro to get you from them in the first place."

"Do not be ridiculous," I answer automatically. "I was a volunteer. It says so in my files."

"Who wasn't," Napoleon snorts. "My little tour of Korea taught me the definition of `volunteer.'" Then his eyes darken. "What did the man say to upset you?"

"Very likely what Marie Dumont said to you. Demitri Ivanovich went from the MDI to the RASA, and is now in charge of the heavy lifter program. That is not only the commercial satellite program, but also a major part of the support for manned space flight. And lately...he had had a few... unexpected aborts. He lost a Proton. Also an SS-18. And he does not always trust the post-analysis. Especially he has troubles with the Ukrainians."

"More Ukrainians? I thought they were April's problem."

I ignore that last remark."He thinks we could..handle matters."

"It's possible." Napoleon rests back against the cushions beside me. "He'd have to make one hell of an offer to trump France, but....I said I would listen."

"You would not have a problem with...different loyalties?"

Napoleon waves in dismissal. "I can't imagine he's blaming NASA for his misfires?" He eases a bit closer. "What's the real problem?"

"I never told anyone this but... I tried for....that program. I just... was not accepted."

"Illya." He reaches out to wrap one arm about my shoulder. "Illyusha. Every kid on the planet wanted to be an astronaut at one time or another."

"Yes, but.... Demitri Ivanovich has a ...very ambitious launch schedule. And the crews are much larger now. He...implied..."

"You want to go up." Napasha eyes are lighter now, and there is the first hint of a laugh in his voice.

"To be a cosmonaut..." I look away, unable to finish. " Do you think...?"

He pulls me closer. "You could ask."

I rest my head on his shoulder. "The last time they offered flight time to an engineer, it was a pure bribe."

"Did it work?" The question is casual, but truly curious.

"Well, yes." I nod against his neck. "The Voskhod launched two years ahead of schedule, but...."

"I guess this Kronsteen likes to go with a plan that works."

"Do you really think?" I look up, searching his eyes.

"Who knows?" Napasha brushes my hair and pulls me back down. "But you've got about twenty years left to find out."

"Napoleon.."

"Illya Nickovetch." He drops a light kiss on my hair. "I love you. And I'd go with you anywhere. Even Siberia. At least ... in the summer."

"Kazakstan."

"Gezuntite."

"They launch from Kazakstan. The weather is not so bad there."

"Where ever." Rising, he tucks the quilt back around me before he returns to his own chair. "Now. Get some sleep."



Chapter Fifty: Two for the Price of One

Morning comes. Too early, but that is the way of things. Smith is pacing in the Command Center when we come up. Lee is reading reports and muttering. Janet Trent at Communications Central looks neat but wired. No longer quite used to pulling the all-nighter, I gather. At least I am well rested. Napoleon gives every appearance of calm, except when I check his eyes. There the fire burns. But that is Napoleon Solo, and it means he, too, is ready.

The new crew has shown the expected efficiency with dry-cleaning, so Napoleon's suit is again perfect. As are my roll-top and trousers. Other then being black, of course, and I do not imagine that complaint would find an understanding in these ranks. At least Napasha's tie is blue. That is something.

We eat breakfast without conversation. Smith is there as well. This is the time for receiving final briefings. No visible movement from Avian. Right. That just means they were already in position before we started.

Our car is checked and waiting in the garage upstairs. We are again driving Mark's, just in case surveillance has been sloppy. Wasted effort, I would imagine. Any operation that could find us three times on the road will notice we have vanished for a day. Even so...

I hand my briefing folder back to Janet Trent, who alone has come with us up the elevator. Lee has his men in position. Smith has the other agencies coordinated. One final phone call with Dancer and we are go.

***********

Quite a large complex. Not much can be seen over the iron-topped brick walls, but the size alone is impressive. And the steel gates are manned by not two but three watchmen. Global-Sat, it would seem, is taking no chances...even without the the reasons we have for apprehension.

Napoleon slows our green sedan just outside the gates, and I open my now modified cell-phone to make a few last calls.

"Mr. Smith." I speak carefully into the shielded phone. "We are at the gate. Any signs of hostile movement?"

"Nothing definitive." He sounds calm, if a bit tired. "You are still go as primary."

"Thank you." I switch channels. "Mark. You have us?"

"Absolutely." The familiar voice comes in clearly. "Best turn your set off while you go through reception. I'm sure they have scanners. Not that this is supposed to pick up, but...why risk it? Turn back on once you're past reception." There is a brief buzz as he locks on to our tight frequency. "The offices? They are shielded, but not with anything that will give us grief."

"And the motorcade?"

"So far on schedule." Mark whispers a bit to whoever is with him, then adds. "I'll switch off at the gate and go in as a walk-along."

"Good." I switch channels again. " Mr. Lee? Are your forces in position?"

"Yes sir. We are good to go."

Excellent." I nod at Napoleon. "We are now going in."

*********

Global-Sat Telecommunications. The words are set out in bright steel letters arcing over the massive main entrance. One of six gates into this complex, but this one is the most recognized, the closest to our target, and the one we will use. After all, today we are here by invitation.

We roll up to the gate behind a large catering truck. Part of the reception arrangements, I assume. One would hope that Smith has checked out everyone involved, but at his short notice? Unlikely.

Napoleon rolls down his window. "We have an appointment with Michael Schoenberg?"

"Yes." A second guard consults his list as the one on my side makes a show of writing down the license number. The third ignores us completely in favor of adjusting the music on the guardhouse radio. Despite their numbers, the significance of the guards decline sharply. "I have you listed." He points down the road. " Main building on the right. Here's you car tag." He passes a cardboard hanger to Napoleon, who in turn passes it to me. "Visible in the Front left please. Visitor parking is right up front."

I check it for a moment, but the pass *is* only cardboard. So I drop it on the dash and turn my attention to the compound itself.

Even more impressive from within. Three low modern buildings, all black glass and steel, surrounding a fountain centered reflecting pond. Obviously the site of the reception, as the open-space patio is now filled with a bandstand and catering tents.

Never the ideal security set-up. And the presence of the press will only complicate matters. I glance over the smattering of logo-painted cars and radar vans clustered at the near end of the parking lot. They will be a problem for communication. No matter. What we cannot alter we must endure.

Napoleon and I have had tougher assignments...just not in this decade.

****************

The main reception area is as modern as the rest of the compound. All chrome and smoked glass. Expensive, but it echoes like a prison. I understand why they prefer to entertain outside.

Before we can give our names to the receptionist, a trim-looking middle-aged man hurries up. Plainly dressed, no tie, but I notice his shirt has French cuffs.

"Mr. Solo, Dr. Kuryakin." Schoenberg shakes our hands as he speaks, making it subtly clear that he knows which is which. "I'm so delighted you both could come. Forgive the confusion." He waves generally at the immaculate reception area. " We are all at sixes and sevens today since we are going to host a *major* trade delegation."

"Vice-President Babayev," I answer carefully.

Schoenberg guides us down a short hall to an unused office. "Practically a countryman of yours."

Hardly, but I let the comment pass.We takes our seats as Michael Schoenberg pours coffee. Napoleon accepts. I decline.

Napoleon pick up the thread. "That's the country bordering Armenia and Iran, if I'm correct. And I assume they will have representatives here as well?"

"Yes." Schoenberg's smile grows even wider. "And also the representatives of the Goskomsyyaz." That last is accompanied by another glance at me.

"Quite a distinguished gathering," I answer, careful to sound just a bit impressed. "Do you have such visitors often?"

"Absolutely." Schoenberg seems all but ready to dance. "Global-Sat Telecommunications is at the forefront of international technology. Absolutely cutting edge. Which is why we can offer so many wonderful opportunities. We expect our work to go fast and far in the very near future."

"So I've heard." Napoleon starts the charm. "You've established a considerable presence on the eastern coast."

"Which we intend to build on in the coming years. This latest trade visit is expected to solidify our absolute leadership in that area." Schoenberg's comfortable tone turns almost gloating. "Babayev is not only Vice-President, but the leading force in the reindustrialization movement. And the representatives from the World Bank will be with him today. Within the month we expect to get the satellite broadcast contract for the entire country. Plus cable. Television, telephone, data - the entire infrastructure. At least twenty seven major installations."

"Quite an ambitious project," Napoleon answers approvingly.

"Global-Sat is an ambitious company." Schoenberg nods again to include me in the conversation.

"An admirable characteristic," I reply carefully. "I myself have been called ambitious at times. Sometimes unreasonably so."

That was the right answer. Schoenberg sits back in his chair. "All human progress was made by unreasonable men. And here at Global-Sat we are committed to guiding that progress."

"So," Schoenberg leans forward,and his smiles takes on a sharp edge. "Dr. Kuryakin. My resources tell me you have experience with a rocketry management system?"

"Yes." I answer carefully. "Primarily with the SS-18 launch platform, which I understand from your launch contract you will be using in the near future."

"How?" The man's eyes widen just a bit. "Oh, yes, I'm told you know General Kronsteen."

"Demitri Ivanovich?" I use the personal name deliberately. " Yes. We have been acquainted for several years. I worked with him just after graduation on a project related to satellite launches."

"Which is?" Schoenberg edges forward a bit.

"Something I'd rather not discuss." I start with my tone cold, then relent to add, "But you are welcome to ask him, if you wish."

"Oh. Of course." He sits back. Apparently that is *always* the right answer. Then, with a sideways look..." But you do have familiarity with the `Satan' class ballistic missiles."

Amateur. I answer "I have experience with the SS-18 orbital launch platform. The Russian Federation *has* no ballistic missiles that I know of, and certainly none by the name you mention."

"Understood completely." Another right answer. His smile grows *very* sharp. "And we here at Global-Sat have absolutely *no* interest whatsoever in weapons of mass destruction. Not that you would know anything about such things."

Which I believe - not.

Schoenberg scribbles something on his file. "As for any more recent .... interactions?" He leaves the implications in the air.

"Both Mr. Solo and myself had breakfast with General Kronsteen in Tallin ...Tuesday before last."

"That would be the same day you meet our Col. Austin?" Schoenberg glances down at his notes. "He ...speaks quite highly of you both."

Napoleon takes that. "It was...a pleasure to meet the gentleman. And he said some excellent things about Global-Sat."

Schoenberg nods. "We like to think of Global-Sat as not just a company...but as a family."

"A... new home?" Now Napoleon's smile takes on the sharp edge.

"Exactly. You do understand where I'm coming from, Mr.Solo." Schoenberg takes another glance at his notes before starting a new question. "You both also know Dr. Dumont?"

"I have worked with the lady on...certain electronics projects," I acknowledge. " Primarily tight frequency and light weight communications systems. But there Mr. Solo would have the better acquaintance."

"Which, of course..."

"I always let the lady answer such questions." The edge to Napasha's smile gets a bit sharper.

"You would not object if we contacted Dr. Dumont?"

Napoleon glances at his watch. "Do you have her home number?"

"No, but... well." Another note as Schoenberg changes the subject again. "As you know, all launch personnel at the final stage are subject to approval from the Baykonur authorities. Do you think there would be any...difficulties with your receiving such approval?"

"The Russians seemed friendly enough two weeks ago." Napoleon sips his coffee. " We were both in St. Petersburg at that time, and General Safaryan was quite hospitable. That would be a week ago Monday."

"The day before you had breakfast with General Kronsteen." Another note. "Yes indeed. And you, Dr. Kuryakin?"

"I would not expect any objections from the site management. I can't speak at this time for the Ukrainians."

At that he looks up. "I thought you are born in..."

"Kiev? Yes."

"But you're still Russian. And....uh..." Another glance down. "British?"

"I have a British residency passport." And hell will freeze before I become subject to any `Queen', I add mentally. But that is an inappropriate thought for this interview, so I discard it.

"Cambridge, yes?" I nod and Schoenberg becomes thoughtful. "That could be useful later, although at the moment we aren't launching from China. Well." He makes another note. "If the Azerbaijani like you, the Ukrainians shouldn't be an impossible problem. And you, Mr. Solo. American and Italian? You've never formally renounced the Italian connection?"

Napoleon dismisses the question. "It never seemed like a problem." His tones adds an unspoken, `Is it?'.

"Not at all." Schoenberg is all but rubbing his hands. "That should sound *very* good to the ESA. A few too many Germans, you understand."

No. I do not understand. But as I also could not care, I let that pass.

Michael Schoenberg closes his file and his posture turns very serious. "Gentlemen." He looks at us both. "I assume, given your connections, you are aware that we lost a satellite in a Proton launch last year. the Intercosmos report attributed the failure to mission software, so RASA is giving us another launch window...but..."

Napoleon finishes, "Such losses are expensive in more than an economic sense."

"With the Chinese and French trying for every launch contract?" Schoenberg agrees carefully. "A second `error' would be injurious to our reputation. Although at 70 million a launch, the bottom line impact is nothing to sneeze at."

"So you want a special management overview to assure that there are no further...mistakes. No...errors in judgment."

"Exactly." The teeth are fully out and fully sharp. "I am so glad we are on the same wavelength."

He almost holds out his hand, then stops. "One last thing. I understand from my friends that you are looking for an assignment together.."

That is bad. I would lie, but given out recent indiscretion such evasions would prove not only blatantly ridiculous but detrimental. No repair now for past errors. So... I nod.

Michael Schoenberg shrugs and...blushes a bit? I know the subject can be uncomfortable, but..

"I do hate to ask personal questions, but..." He shakes his head slightly, then starts, "Global-Sat has quite a bit riding on this project, and - on a remote site - personal tensions can cause mission problems, so.. I am sorry, but... stability is important to us. I must ask. Am I right to assume your is a ...long term...partnership?"

I look at Napoleon before answering. "Almost five years."

"Excellent." Schoenberg lets out an actual sigh of relief. "I *am* sorry I had to ask, but..."

"Not at all." Napoleon is all charm and forgiveness. "We do understand. It's important to know and trust the people you work with."

Michael Schoenberg stands, smiling. " Mr. Solo. Dr. Kuryakin. We've gotten along so well.. would you life to meet OUR president?"

Victory. I see Napoleon practically glow with charisma. "Absolutely."

***********

Schoenberg takes us upstairs to a very well furnished suite with a spectacular view. One clear sign of its owner's power. Another was that this office was *not* a tribute to modernist discomfort. Chinese rugs and Victorian florals persuaded this expanse to actually come close to cozy.

We were clearly expected, because the president himself opened the office door for us.

"Mr. Napoleon Solo. Dr. Illya Kuryakin." Michael Schoenberg makes the introduction as we shake hands all around. "Jonathan Van Ort."

"Gentlemen." Van Ort waves us to comfortable seats set in a `living room' arrangement. At his level there is no need for desks. "Such a pleasure." He waits while one young lady pours coffee (quite decent, to go by the scent) and another produces Mr. Schoenberg's jacket and vest. "So." Van Ort starts once we are all settled. " Michael's bringing you up here must mean you are interested in our Azerbaijani project?"

"It sounds like quite a major undertaking."

"That it is!" Van Ort leans forward. "But at Global-Sat we are up to it. Satellite telecommunications is the future."

"Yes, I believe you are. And Mr. Schoenberg has made it very tempting for us to be a part of that future."

"Let me go over a few of our..other advantages, and see if I can make that temptation...irresistible."

I listen quietly as Napoleon and the other two men go deep into a discussion of stock options and completion bonuses. Mostly because I would have nothing to contribute. I do not even know half the terms. As my teacher used to say, `this is Greek to me'. Except that I know Greek. I do not speak `money'. No matter, since Napoleon clearly does. With impressive thoroughness. I will still tease him, naturally, but for once I am grateful for Napoleon's constant obsession with such things.

They are in the midst of something called currency equivalency when the small box on the table buzzes.

"Mr. Van Ort?" A young female voice interrupts apologetically. "Vice-President Babeyev's motorcade is almost here?"

"Oh, Damn." Van Ort and Schoenberg rise. " We have to go....."

Van Ort give us both an an accessing look, then reaches a decision. "Tell you what. Why don't you join me? I'm sure the Vice - President would appreciate your enthusiasm for the project. After all, I expect you may very well be working together soon..?"

Napoleon grins. "Great idea. If he is the visionary that you are... I can clearly see this project going somewhere - very fast."

"Indeed," I add carefully. "There is...explosive potential...here."



Chapter Fifty-One: Every Time is Going to Be the Last Time

(Italized indicate that they are spoken in Russian)

The cars are driving up as we reach the lawn. A long row of Lincoln limos flanked by radio vans, with the motorcycle escort peeling off as the slowing procession drops them below stable speed.

Everyone waits in the sun through the usual rituals of power. Mr. Van Ort greets the Vice-President, then the delegates, then introduces his own staff. All very formal, and strictly managed by the protocol officers.

That done, they all pose for still photos and smile for the news cameras. In some sense that is the true purpose of this trip. Fifteen seconds on the evening news will do more to shore up Sat-Com's stock price and Azerbaijan's foreign exchange then all the hard infrastructure this ten years of proposed engineering will provide. Something about that rubs against my proletarian background, but.... one does not remain an effective agent by
denying the truth.

Napoleon and I watch quietly from the edge of the Sat-Con delegation. It is actually a very effective vantage point. We have an excellent view of both lines of defense. I make a mental note. Perhaps we should try infiltration as prospective employees more often.

Van Ort waits until the entire ritual is finished and we are under the reception tent before he draws Napoleon and I over.

"Mr. Vice-President, let me..."

A bland-faced young lady at his side holds up her hand. "The Vice-President does not speak English."

"Does he speak Russian?" Van Ort asks her.

"Of course."

"Then.." Van Ort's tone slows, and takes on the careful accent of someone whose words come from language tapes rather then conversation. "Mr. Vice-President. This is Doctor Kuryakin." Van Ort stops again, clearly searching, then turns back to the young lady. "Can you tell the Vice-President that Dr. Kuryakin will be coming on board to join us in this important project?" Apparently a review of social introductions was the sum of the executive's Russian lessons. Although, given the usual American distaste for such studies, I suppose I must give him credit for the effort.

She whispers to an aid, who in turn whispers to Babeyev. This is painful. I decide to end it.

Vice-President Babeyev." I step forward, nod formally, but do not offer my hand. In a diplomatic situation, that is the senior's prerogative. "Mr. Van Ort has suggested that my partner and I join in the coordination efforts for this project."

"You are Dr. Kuryakin?" Babeyev gives me a careful look, as if trying to place me by accent and features. " You are Russian?"

I nod again.

"I was hoping for a competent Engineer."

Clearly the man was not elected based on his personal charm. Then again, he is the *Vice*-President. And this is not the occasion for debate.

"I received my doctorate from Cambridge," I reply. It is not an answer, but he will likely take it as one.

"That is good." He holds out his hand, now clearly quite willing to welcome me into the project. Apparently Grustov was right about the school connection. Oh, well. As Demitri said, `any path to victory'.

I am reaching out when a sudden shift at the right catches my eye. Just over the Vice-Presidents shoulder. One of his security men looking suddenly serious. And the man's hand is moving up along his lapel as if.. A threat behind us? I try to follow the eye pattern, but...*Blin*... he is looking at me. No...at...

I grab Babeyev's forearm with both hands and roll him below me, simultaneously yelling, "Down! Hostile! I have one!"

*ping*

The traitor's first shot misses Babeyev. I think it may graze my jacket, but if so it does no harm.

Now everybody is shouting. Still on top of my principal, I pull and fire. Two shots centered on the guard's chest. He is down.

*ping* *ping*

Chyort. That does not sound like defense. Wrong direction.

*prang* *prang*

Return fire. A shout and a curse. Not English. Napoleon must be covering me.

I shove Babeyev behind a potted palm. He should be semi-safe there. Two of his men dive on him. Good. As long as they are straight, he has a chance. And now so do I.

I roll off the ledge and risk a look. Most of the other innocents have had the good sense to drop. Van Ort is wisely crawling under a table. Not that plywood will do that much good in a fire fight, but at least it clears the visual for more active targets.

Two men in blue suits are running across the lawn. Babeyev crew from the colors, but whether assault or defense? No way to tell. The are both ahead of Napoleon, so..

*ping*

One turns and fires. Napoleon rolls. Decided. Assault. One round only, then the man is running again.

A foolish error. Perhaps fatal. Napoleon returns fire, and he does not miss. One down. One active. As Napoleon jumps to his feet I follow.

The last hostile will try for the parking lot. That much is obvious. He will need a car, both for transport and for cover. And the sacrifice of his colleague has given the fleeing man an edge. Napoleon dodges left. I go right. As we reach the near edge of the reflecting pond I spot Mark and a crew of black-suits coming up from the gate.

That is good in the sense that it limits escape, but it also removes any safe field of fire. For us at least. The hostile has a range of targets, and still several possible exits. Best if he goes down soon. I holster my pistol and pick up speed.

Napoleon is closest. He catches up with our target just before the man passes the central fountain. Open tackle. Good effort. It catches the would-be assassin off balance and almost takes him down. Almost. The assassin's gun goes flying. Very good. But not good enough. The man grabs at Napoleon and flips him, using the momentum to toss him over-body. Napoleon kicks back, taking the fall and turning it to a roll. Grabbing the target's arm, Napoleon pulls the hostile under him just before they both hit the water.

The target comes up coughing, but by then both Mark and myself are close enough to put an end to any delusions of escape. And two sets of conventional security are coming up fast at my back.

Looking down the barrels of over twenty assorted firearms, the now sodden hostile makes the decision to surrender. Under the circumstances, it would seem his best option. As the various security forces debate possession of the now-prisoner, I hold out my hand to help Napoleon.

"Damn, Illya." He runs a finger over the bullet shredded shoulder of my jacket. "Why is it always you that they shoot at?"

I hand him my handkerchief. "Why do you always fall in water?"

"There is that." He squeezes out his hair, then wrings the sleeve of his dripping jacket. "And I once again ruined my best suit."

"At least this time you will not have to explain to Waverly why he should replace it."

Napasha grins ruefully. "Think April is going to be more reasonable?"



Chapter Fifty-Two: When All is Said and Done

Post operations is the usual chaotic mess. Even well organized chaos, as such things go. Michael Shoenberg's secretary proves quite helpful about finding towels, and Lee is unexpectedly efficient in getting all `unofficial' personal out of range of the press vultures. Even so, it is a long, chilly, and rather damp drive back to headquarters.

I get shuffled off to medical, where I waste far too much time explaining that I am *not* in shock, and that the jacket is *not* considered a vital organ. Then Janet Trent wants a situation report. Then Ordinance wants my gun for ballistic comparison. Then Property wants to know were I bought the jacket. So many reports. And Napasha used to complain about U.N.C.L.E. paperwork. With all the required procedures it is mid afternoon before I have a chance to reconnect with Napoleon.

I finally catch up with him again in the Command Center, where he is chatting with April Dancer. Or rather, with the wall broadcast of April Dancer. Debriefing session. Like I remember with Mr. Waverly. Indeed, April is sounding *just* like Waverly.

"Really, Napoleon. Another suit?" That is the first line I hear as I take my seat between Napoleon and Mark.

"Another suit plus a leather jacket." Napasha smiles over at me." Illya's jacket was ruined too."

"Plus a car. Two cars! Plus last night's dinner tab?" April gives a most unladylike snort. "I'm beginning to question exactly how much of an asset you are."

Napoleon just grins. We broke the plot. We stopped the assassination. And he also managed to annoy the accountants. Even in borrowed gym clothes he is in his glory.

April sees that all-to-familiar expression and sighs. "Very well, Napoleon," She gives in graciously. "But please...no more four-hundred dollar bottles of wine. I do have a comptroller to justify these things to." With that, she blinks out.

"So." Napoleon turns to Mr. Smith " I gather everything is now under control?"

"Apparently." Smith nods and reaches for his briefing binder. "We'll leave the high security in place just in case, but to all appearances the crisis is over. The three men inside and the two that Lee's people caught at the gate were the full operation team."

A secretary bring me my own report, which I scan through quickly. No interrogation reports yet. "One question. Have any of the prisoners given up their connection with T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

Smith shrugs. "Turns out there wasn't one. Avian Solutions is legit." Seeing the shocked expressions on Napoleon, Mark, and even myself, he adds. " Well, reasonably legit." He flips quickly to a back page. "When T.H.R.U.S.H. went south, the local remnant decided to turn their resources to making money. Thus Avian Solutions."

Napoleon looks at me, then at Mark, and finally asks, "Then why?"

"Why did Avian hire thugs to try for you? Well, this turns out to be not *quite* a T.H.R.U.S.H. operation. Personal enmity."

Lee mutters, "More like personal stupidity."

Smith ignores the comment, still adressing Napoleon. "Do you remember a man named Frederick Trask? He's currently Avian's Chief Financial Officer."

"Trask." Napoleon rubs his chin, clearly thinking back. " No. Not off hand, but..."

"Turns out he remembers you rather well. In the arrest report he says something about a brunette in Madagascar. So when Bill Vally told his friend Joe Bierbaum you were in town, naturally Bierbaum told Trask, and well..."

"See, Napoleon." I give him what I hope is a severe look. "I told you your charm would get you into trouble."

I must be losing my edge, because Mark just shakes his head, and Napasha quips back, "You told me I had no charm."

"That too." I try hard not to smile. "No more brunettes for you."

"I promise," Napasha places his hand over his heart. "Only blonds from here on out."

"Blonds?"

His voice drops, and his eyes darken. "One blond."

"That is better," I answer. Then I smile.

Napasha turns back to Smith. "You're telling me this Trask hired a bunch of thugs to kill both Illya and myself because I seduced his girlfriend...thirty years ago?"

Lee answers from the far end of the table. "It's more like his wife. And you threw her off a roof."

"Oh." Napasha stops for a moment, slightly nonplused. "I suppose I can see where that might be memorable."

"Mr. Lee." I move the conversation back to more useful channels. "What is going to happen to Mr. Trask?"

The young man shrugs. "Realistically? Not much. His lawyer has him out on bail, and unless he does something stupid he'll probably cop probation and community service. I mean, he does have a very good record in with local charities. And when it comes down to it you're *not* dead. Of course, with Avian at risk of losing its high-security contract status, I suppose his shareholders will be none to happy with him.. "

"You think they will take him out?"

"No." Lee shakes his head. "More likely they'll reduce his bonus. Might even fire him if he gets convicted. But he's not our problem."

"And the assassination attempt?" Because T.H.R.U.S.H. or not, *someone* was shooting at me.

"There was one, obviously." Mr. Smith takes back the conversation. "Simply not by T.H.R.U.S.H. The assassination effort turned out to be an internal affair. Standard mujahideen fanaticism. Or perhaps tribal. The two we arrested outside we cousins to the main shooter. And they have implicated several more back in Azerbaijan."

"So out presence was ...random?"

"I would rather say fortuitous. In any case, Vice-President Babeyev is most grateful. If we hadn't been on alert....?" Smith leaves the sentence unfinished. No matter. Everyone here is far too familiar with those possibilities. "So?" Mr. Smith asks as he closes the file. "I gather you two will be staying?"

Napoleon looks at me before answering. "No. I don't think so. You have a very professional operation, but it's not ..quite what we're looking for."



Chapter Fifty-Three: Love Minus Zero

The house is empty when we get back. I would say untouched. That is not David's opinion. He checks through the ground floor, clucking occasionally, while Mark heads for the bar. Mark pours automatically. Scotch for Napasha, vodka for me, and this time gin for himself.

"God. They trashed the place!" The cry echoes from the kitchen. From David's pained expression, I assume that he is referring to the two frozen pizza boxes left in the trash and a few apparently clean dishes sitting on the kitchen counter. That is the only evidence I can see. Well, that and a pile of wrapped boxes sitting in the living room.

"What are those?" Napoleon asks, taking a sip of his drink.

After a quick look at the `cleared' tag left by the clean-up crew I rip the paper off the top box. Interesting. Fruit and sausage from somewhere called Bristol Farms. "Lunch."

"Illya!" Mark reaches for the card still taped to the paper. "With thanks, Treasury Department - Secret Service - Berkeley Office." He reads, then adds, "I guess they must have a gift delivery account."

Returning from the kitchen, David pulls another package and reads the back. "Processed cheese food." His lips twist. " You don't want to eat this."

"I want to eat something." I hold out my hand for the despised cheese. " I am hungry. We had only pastries for breakfast, along with that weak American coffee. And now it is almost time for dinner." Not that a cold snack is much of a dinner, but it is *food*. I reach in again and pull out a pack of flavored nuts. "A pity the buffet was ruined. The stuffed salmon looked excellent."

Napoleon shakes his head. "Only you would notice such a thing during a fire fight."

"Well, apparently not everything was ruined." Mark slips the card from the next box. "Mr. Van Ort sent you a case of the champagne. Leftovers, he says. Seems after all the excitement most of the run was on the stronger stuff. " Mark hold up the card and reads in a sarcastic voice. "I hope this unfortunate event has not discouraged your interest in our project. Looking forward to working with you. Jonathan Van Ort. Global-Sat
Telecommunications."

"What tha.." Napoleon reaches for the card. "He can't possibly think..."

Mark shrugs. "Well, you did shake on it."

"But...."

"And from Van Ort's point of view, you've already proved out. I mean, Babeyev is alive. The State Department is grateful. Avian Solutions wont be stealing a Global-Sat contract anytime soon. Win-win all around."

"Somehow," Napasha drops onto the sofa, "Making the world safe for cable television was not what I envisioned as the purpose of my life."

"So?" Mark shrugs. "If you don't want Global-Sat? Blow them off. After this you can write your own ticket all over this town."

David opens a third package. "This one is Scotch." He hands Napoleon the card. "From Avian."

"What!!" Napoleon reads aloud. "Sorry for any misunderstanding. I hope we can set up another appointment. Joe Bierbaum." Napoleon flips the card on to the coffee table. "He's got to be severely deluded."

"Not really." Mark picks up the card. "If Frederick Trask goes down, they'll need good management to hold their field offices together. You could do it. And if Bierbaum brings you in his chances of keeping his own job goes way up."

"But T.H.R.U.S.H.!"

"Not anymore. You heard Smith. They're straight now. Well, semi-straight." Mark swallows about half his glass. "A lot of people in this town wouldn't hold the company's past against them."

"When they tried to kill Illya?" Napasha comes nearly off the couch. "And myself?"

"OK. Forget Avian." Mark eases into a seat by the fireplace. "What's in the last box?"

David slips out the card. " With thanks from Vice-President Babeyev." He pulls open the box. " The man sent a case of Azerbaijani vodka."

"I thought the pious could not touch grape or grain." Mark smiles at the contradiction.

"Might not count," David retorts as he pulls out a bottle and squints at the rather blurry label. "I wouldn't guarantee this stuff to be from anything organic."

I pick up another bottle, crack the label, and sniff. It smells like paint thinner. Poor quality paint thinner. Watered down poor quality paint thinner. Retightening the cap, I drop the bottle back among its companions. " You are right," I tell David. Looking at the other box, I add, "But the champagne looks good."

He picks up a curved bottle. "Think this will go with Chinese?"

"Take out!" Mark clutches theatrically at his chest. "David!"

"Your spy friends made a mess of my kitchen," David answers, reaching for the phone. "Unless you want to wait until I clean it...we're ordering Chinese."

While Mark and David go off to look through the menu, I take my place on the couch beside Napoleon.

"Illya." He leans forward so I can wrap one arm around his shoulders. "Do you...?"

I rest my head against him. "Why are you unhappy, my Napasha?"

"Today..." Again he stops with the thought unfinished.

"You were perfect." I tighten my arm and pull him just a bit closer. "Even if it was not T.H.R.U.S.H., we still..." At the name he tenses, but I rub his arm until he relaxes again. "Napasha, the mission was a success."

"Yes, but..."

"What, my Napasha." I lean back a bit, letting him rest against my chest.

"Like I said. I don't *want* to fight for...I don't know...someone's telephone contract." His eyes meet mine, and the bright fire there just hours ago is somehow dimmed. He pauses, then adds, "That's not... what I thought I was here for."

Oh, my heart. My Emperor. This is so far from his nature. "Perhaps Marie?" I offer.

"She's the same thing."He shakes his head, rubbing his cheek against my shoulder. "Only with high explosives."

"So? What do we do?" And I mean it. Any path to get back my Napasha.

"I don't know. But..." His hand reaches for mine. "If we can't find peace?" Our palms touch. "Can we at least find something worth fighting for?"

What can I answer to that? Only.. "A cause?"I take a breath, and my fingers tighten on his. "My cause is gone but...if you can find one...I will fight for yours."



Chapter Fifty-Four: Both Sides Now

The room is small, and rather shabby for all its gilt and brocade. Slightly warm and just a bit stuffy. A textbook example of bureaucratic splendor. Also, just now, edging over into barely controlled chaos as the various `suits' shout over each other into their various head sets. One would hope that this many professionals would be somehow better coordinated. Well, one can always hope. For what good it does. But they *are* all professionals, and I must trust that the operation will come off smoothly.

I check my watch. 10:20 am. Ten minutes until show time.

Napoleon is looking dapper as always. No, more so. He frankly shines. Standing under a second-rate Rembrandt and chatting up an over-dressed blonde from the Academy of Sciences. She is blushing and stammering and generally looking more like a star-struck school girl then a senior government official. Several others flutter around. Male and female, they are like moths caught in his light. Looking at him, I wonder. Is this what people mean by .. ` the happiest day of one's life?'

Stepping up to the baroque mirror, I straighten my tie and adjust the elaborate eagle cufflinks that were the gift of the Smiths. My new grey suit is a gift from Napoleon, arranged my Mr. Bond and his much-put-upon tailor in Saville row. The tie is from Sir Ian. Cambridge colors. Not that I am becoming personally susceptible to such things. It is simply a matter of respect. For Napoleon, for myself, for...my county.

"Five minutes, gentlemen," One of the radio-decked aides calls.

I step back from the mirror. "I am ready."

Napoleon comes over, dismissing his court. "You are always ready. For everything." He strokes my forehead as he brushes one straying hair back into place. "So tell me." He lowers his voice, speaking to me alone. "If this Babayev guy is so grateful, how come it's the Russians who want to give us the medal?"

"Because," I whisper back. "Russia has a lot more invested in Babayev then his own country does. Azerbaijan is small, but strategic. And border wars never stay on the border. If the internal situation in Azerbaijan was destabilized, the chances of larger involvement are... very high."

"So they like Babayev healthy. Makes sense." Napasha shrugs. "And I am going along with this because?"

"Because April said to." I run one finger over his still rough knuckles. "And because it will mean a great deal to me."

"Well." He smiles. "There is that."

He is so `Napoleon' when he is teasing. I drop a quick kiss on those mocking lips before heading for the hall.

"Are you sure that was legal?"

"We are indoors." I glance back over my shoulder. "According to my web site, yes."

"Wonderful." Napasha give his cuffs a final pull, then follows. "I think I could like this new Russia. I really could."

*******

It is two hours of photographers and handshakes before the aide appears and quietly guides us to the upstairs office.

"President Putin?" I nod formally. I am not in uniform, so it would not be quite proper to salute. And besides...

"Please, Illya." He smiles. That has not changed. Wide and deep, as if he knew a secret the rest of the world did not. Which, given the source? That is quite possible. "Vladimir. Still Vladimir."

Hand clasps all around somehow end in front of a glass-decked bar. "Vodka?" Vladimir pours a glass and hands it to me. " And I believe you, Mr. Solo, drink scotch?"

Napoleon accepts the glass carefully. "Thank you, Mr. President."

"Vladimir to you too." He chuckles lightly as he fills his own glass. "I have long looked forward to meeting the man who stole my best agent from me. Of course, I did not think it would be here, but...." A slightly darker chuckle implies a Berlin alley at midnight might have been his venue of choice.

This is...unreal. "Pres.." I start, then... "Vladimir. How...?"

"How did the Chief of Department H end up as President of Russia?" He guides us over to a conversation area. "By a respectable majority, no matter what the opposition papers may say!" He waves at the chairs. "Sit, sit."

We do so, but carefully, waiting for him to reach his point.

Vladimir settles into his own chair, takes a breath, and then begins. "Thirty-three years. Things have changed, Illya Nickovetch. Things have changed."

"So it would appear."

"Suspicious as always. That was always your best trait." He turns to Napoleon. "Our friend, Mr. Solo, would not believe the sun was shining unless he checkd the spectrograph. Twice."

Napoleon raises his drink. "You say that like it's a bad thing?"

"Never." Vladimir takes a shallow sip, then sets his glass down on the table. "I also am a suspicious bastard. Which is the other reason I am President today." His voice drops and becomes serious. "As I said. Things have changed. Many for the better, I admit. But it is not all so simple. These are not easy times. Not for Russia. Not for the world."

There is nothing to say to that , so..I say nothing.

"You read the papers?" He asks Napoleon, who nods.

"It's worse than they say. Outside the cities there is literally no law. Sometimes, I think, not outside this room." He looks at me. "The world has become corrupt. Even the army suffers from corruption and disorder. Even our own service. Most I think, are good Russians. I think." Then he turns to Napoleon. "And Russia is not alone in her problems. You read the Los Alamos report, Mr. Solo? The other nations - they have the same problems. Many far worse." He shakes his head. "This is a hard time for honest men. Which is why we need them."

Another pause, then.. "You two, I believe, are honest men."

"Thank you," I answer. "I think."

"See?" Vladimir leans over toward Napoleon, the wide smile back in full force. "Suspicious. And wise."

Then he is back to business. "I have spoken with President Bush. Both of them, actually. And with Prime Minister Blair. And their equivalents in France, Spain, Germany - even Poland of all places. And..well, the usual suspects."

Vladimir reclaims his vodka and takes a deep sip. "I won't say George was ..happy..... to give you up, Solo, but...he understands. And I will say this for the man. He pays his bills."

Napoleon sits quietly and somehow manages to look like a man who has heard nothing. Or at least nothing of interest. But.. "Give?"I stammer. If Bush can *give* that can only mean.. if.. "Napoleon...you were..."

Vladimir dismisses the question. "Oh, George assured me Solo never actually flipped on anyone. But.. given the way Kronsteen was begging to bring him in at the top?"

A ...what..triple agent at the top of the Goskomsyyaz? I am torn between horror and a certain chill professional admiration.

"And the Americans call us paranoid." Vladimir chuckles again. "Although it's not like I didn't *try*...so..." He raises his glass to Napoleon in mock commendation. "Let that be all in the past."

"The relevent people had a little conference in Berlin last week, and after a bit of debate..." Or more then a bit, but Vladimir's expression still dismisses it. "What matters is that everyone important is in agreement. Our foes are multi-national. We need something more than our various national agencies. So, gentlemen, you are here so I can offer you a job." He looks first at Napoleon, then at me, then somehow at the two of us together. "Do you think that you could reestablish U.N.C.L.E.?"



FINIS

With great thanks to nickovetch, Goddess of Grammar and Princess of Punctuation. The things that are right are the instances where I listened to her - and the things that are wrong are where I did not.

Now, if anyone is still reading this (and after fifty-four chapters I am frankly impressed by your endurance) I do want to hear from
you. Because otherwise I will never believe that anyone read the whole thing. - kkreinke@mac.com