June, 1962, New York City ...

Napoleon Solo stood by the window smoking. Mr. Waverly, his boss, had just told him something that he had heard in the grapevine for weeks. It was now confirmed. He would be partnered with a man who was from the United Soviet Socialist Republics, a Slav named Illya Kuryakin. He had heard of the man, someone with an impressive intellectual and physical repertoire and almost no personality that could be discerned.

People who knew him said that he was a shy person, quiet and intellectual with a streak of stubborn irascibility that was hard to fathom. He was strong in spite of his stature and tough in a way few were. In short, he was a dangerous and lethal weapon.

He was also Solo’s new partner.

Napoleon sighed, aware of the contrast between them. He had come from money, old money and this man was a Soviet. He had little to go on about him other than the thin dossier that the Soviets had given to U.N.C.L.E., a listing of birth, schools, army service and so forth.

For a Soviet citizen, coming from a place where you had to keep internal passports or you didn’t exist officially, this Kuryakin fellow had gotten around. He had a scientific background and education and was skilled in languages, shooting, explosives and other esoterica not normally in the public school curriculum. It should make for few dull days.

A couple of friends who had met him told Solo about the Russian. "He’s not very friendly, Napoleon. Not much on conversation. He can shoot and handle himself very, very well. Just don’t expect to talk much."

Solo sighed, well aware of his own urbane personality. He was outgoing and self-assured. He was conversational and witty, someone people liked to get to know and more times than not, the life of the party. Now they were saddling him with a man who not only didn’t talk much but seldom was seen in the company of people, especially women. He preferred his own company apparently.

Turning at the sound of the door opening, Solo noted a pretty woman entering. Behind her, dressed in a black suit and tie, Illya Kuryakin followed. He schooled his face into a pleasant expression. The woman smiled at him, winking, and stopped before him with a smile. "Napoleon Solo, I would like to introduce you to your new partner, Agent Illya Kuryakin. Mr. Kuryakin, this is Chief Enforcement Agent, Napoleon Solo."

The two shook hands, brown and blue eyes meeting levelly as they took the first measure of each other. The woman stepped back, a smile on her face. As she did, she handed Napoleon a dossier. "This is the Silk Road case file, gentlemen. If there is anything more you need, please let me know."

"Thank you, Martha," Napoleon said with a smile. They both watched as she left the room and then turned to each other once more. "Welcome to U.N.C.L.E, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Illya," he said, his voice almost musical with an accent that had been refined by foreign travel.

Napoleon smiled and nodded. "Napoleon." He gestured to a nearby desk, moving to sit in the chair behind it. "Shall we get busy?"

The Russian nodded and moved a chair nearby, beginning between them a partnership that would last the rest of their lives.

Cascade, Washington ...

Blair Sandburg leaned against the desk, the one that Jim Ellison used. He had crossed his arms as he watched Simon and the stranger greet each other. He had walked over and casually assumed a position that would give him a straight line of sight into Simon’s office. They had both sat down and were talking, Simon sharing the data on his desk with the enigmatic figure. As he did, Jim Ellison walked inside. Moving to his desk, he removed his coat, hanging it on a hook. "I thought you were going to wait outside."

Blair nodded, his eyes riveted on the conversation in Simon’s office. "I was but I had to help someone. A man arrived who wants to see Simon so I brought him up."

Jim turned and looked toward Simon’s office, noting the two men inside talking. "Who is that?"

"A man from New York City. He said his name was Illya Kuryakin," Blair replied, glancing over his shoulder at his partner.

Jim paused a moment, a frown coming over his face. Glancing at the office once more, he looked at Blair. "Illya Kuryakin?" he asked, surprise on his face.

"Yeah, Illya Kuryakin. Sounds Russian. Why? Do you know this guy?" Blair’s interest was piqued and Jim stared at him for a moment, hesitant to continue the conversation. Blair straightened up and turned, facing his partner. "So ... give."

Jim shrugged, memories of another place and time forming themselves before he shoved them back inside the corners where they had lurked all these years. That was another place, another time and he didn’t want to revisit it. He sighed at the look on Blair’s face. "I know him. His name is familiar to me. He works for an agency involved in international crime prevention, an organization not known to very many people. It’s called U.N.C.L.E., United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. He’s sort of a memorable man."

"U.N.C.L.E.? I’ve never heard of U.N.C.L.E.. Why?"

"You’re not suppose to. They sprung up in the Cold War, an idea of a man called Alexander Waverly. He proposed an international effort to combat crime, especially cartels of criminals that made things difficult for everyone. You know ... spies ... the Kremlin ... ‘bang-bang, you’re dead’ ... that sort of thing."

"And this Kuryakin? Is he famous or something?"

"Or something," Ellison agreed, sitting down to face the mountain of paperwork that never seemed to get any smaller. He sighed. "Are you going to help me or am I on my own on this one?"

Blair grinned. "I will if you tell me all your stories about you and this man."

Ellison frowned. "There are no stories."

"You’re lying. I always know when you’re lying," Sandburg replied, crossing his arms in a stubborn imitation of the older man. "Tell me or enjoy your life, such as it is." He grinned brightly, enjoying the struggle within Ellison and crowed when he finally caved.

Ellison sighed long-sufferingly and nodded. "Tonight. After dinner. You cook it."

"Me? Why me? I’ve been doing the laundry lately and who cleaned out the shower?"

At that moment the door opened and Simon called out. "Ellison, come in here."

Jim rose and moved to comply when he felt Blair at his elbow. Pausing, he looked at the young man. "He called just me, Sandburg."

"So. I’m coming too. We’re partners, remember?"

Blair stepped past and entered the office, moving to lean against the wall. Ellison sighed and shook his head, following his partner inside. Once there, he closed the door and turned, noting the figure sitting in the chair before him, cup of coffee in his hand. They stared at each other, both remembering the other but neither spoke of it.

Simon watched and then moved closer. "Detective Jim Ellison, this is Chief Enforcement Agent Illya Kuryakin of U.N.C.L.E., the North American Division. This other fellow--"

"Mr. Sandburg," Illya interjected with a nod. "We’ve already met."

Blair smiled and glanced at Jim, noting the tight expression around his eyes. The stranger was someone who had gotten under Jim’s skin, making him nervous and wary. The stories he expected to extract from his partner ramped up a notch in his expectations.

Simon cleared his throat. "Agent Kuryakin is here about the murders. He’s interested in the path of bodies that has led from overseas to Cascade."

"You’re looking for linkage," Blair ventured.

Kuryakin nodded. "This string of murders, all neat, all within the cartels that operate in America -the Chinese, Italian and Russian Mafia- has left a trail from the Middle East to here. We’ve traced a number of inexplicable similarities through our brother bureaus all over the world. We find that they appear to be dead ending here, in this city."

"What would they all have in common? Besides the killer’s M.O?" Jim asked.

Kuryakin shrugged, rising and setting his cup on the counter nearby. "That’s what I’m here to find out. Our agents are gathering information on the structures of this trio of different entities to find the common thread they share, besides death of course. I am convinced that this began a long time ago and is only now bearing fruit for a very old and very ruthless foe."

"And?" Blair asked, caught up in the enigmatic man’s soft recitation.

"Have you ever heard of a crime organization called T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

They sat a moment, considering his words. Simon glanced at Jim, the tall man listening quietly as he leaned against the wall. He nodded. "I heard about it when I was in the army. They were a foe and a half if I remember. They had their hands in every criminal activity coming out of the Middle East and in the disintegration of the old Soviet Union. They were a force to reckon with as I recall. Then they disappeared."

"They didn’t disappear," Kuryakin interjected, standing by the window, watching as fat droplets pelted the clear panel. "They operate on another level now, mastering entire stratas of commercial endeavor while compromising entire political systems. It is no coincidence that my country collapsed. The internal decay had been set in motion by T.H.R.U.S.H. a long time ago."

"Why would they be here, killing Mafiosi in Cascade? What would it mean to them to be here?" Blair asked, drawing a withering glance from Jim. He ignored it, concentrating on the intense man staring out the window.

"There must be something in the city that means something, that this place is a place worth their interest. Right now, someone is sending a message. It could be that T.H.R.U.S.H. is making this city their own. What we have to do is found out who is doing it and what they want. That’s where you come in," Kuryakin said, turning and staring at the three men. "I have to go to New York tonight. I will be back in three days. I would suggest that you consider who has the most to gain from the diminution of the usual criminals and their controls. That might lead us back to the source of this shift in power. It is that, you know. A realignment of the power that undermines everything and everyone it touches."

For a moment there appeared to be more to the comments of the quiet man before them and then they were gone. He sighed and shrugged. "I must go. I would like to remain in touch with you gentlemen," Kuryakin said, pulling a card from his pocket. He handed it to Simon, nodding to the others. "Thank you for the coffee and the time. I will be in touch with you shortly."

With that, he turned and walked out, moving toward the door with purposeful steps. Blair glanced at Jim, at the preoccupied expression on his face. "Well? What do you think?" he asked, watching as Simon stared at the card Kuryakin had handed him.

Jim turned to Blair, shrugging. "I’ve learned it’s a futile thing to try and figure out this man."

Simon nodded. "Right now, I want you to organize a flow chart of every gang and tong in this city. I want to know who’s riding who and what the word is out there. If another organization is muscling in on the game here, we could be seeing just the tip of the ice berg in terms of murder and mayhem."

Jim sighed deeply, the shadows of another time on his face. "If that man says you can expect it, you can take it to the bank." He turned to the others, his face grim. "Trust me on this one."

Blair stared at him, a feeling of unease filling him. "We better get on it then."

With that, the two men walked out the door and onward to their priority assignment. Little did they know where it would end.

The Cascade Affair: Act II: "Ours is not to reason why..."



November 23, 2000, somewhere over Wyoming, 41,000 feet ...

"Hello."

"Hello yourself."

"How did it go?"

"Fine. I saw an old acquaintance there. Someone I didn’t expect to ever see again."

"Who?"

"Jim Ellison."

There was silence a moment and then a sigh was heard over the comm link. "Come home. I miss you."

"I’m on my way," Kuryakin replied, leaning back into the cushioned seat of his jet. "I will have to come back again. This is going to be delicate."

"I know." There was silence a moment. "Perhaps I can come too."

"We’ll see," Kuryakin replied worriedly. "I don’t want you in danger, Napoli."

"Nor you, Illya," Napoleon Solo replied. "Come to the apartment when you get in. I’ll be there."

"In three hours," Illya confirmed. "I’ll come straight there."

"Good," Napoleon replied, his voice lighter. "Come back to me soon. Solo out."

Illya nodded, sighing. "Soon," he whispered. "Kuryakin out."

The line went dead and he sat in the chair, holding the pen communicator for a long time before he slipped it into his pocket once more.


Rome, August, 1964 ...

"He went in there."

Napoleon followed the nod of Illya’s head to a bohemian club whose entrance was halfway down an alleyway. It was dark, the shadows of a street light barely piercing the gloom. "How did he get in? Is there a door man or some sort of recognition signal?"

Illya shrugged. "I didn’t see one. Doesn’t mean there isn’t one."

"You’re a lot of help."

Napoleon Solo stared at his partner of two years and grinned slightly. Sometimes he expected even more from Illya than Illya did from himself. He turned and looked at the doorway, a portal into the mystery that the silk road cartel posed. Glancing at his partner, he turned and nodded, the two of them stepping out together. They moved to the door, pausing. Napoleon glanced at Illya, noting the blond’s calm facade. Turning, he rapped on the door.

For a moment nothing happened and then it opened, a tall heavy-set man peering out. He looked them over, his eyes pausing on Napoleon and then he stepped back, letting them come inside. They walked through a short ante way and into a smoke-filled room. A bar fronted one long wall, men sitting here and there on stools drinking and smoking alone. Scattered around a small stage, men also sat tables, drinking and watching the contortions of a young man who danced suggestive gyrations in the middle.

For a moment they were transfixed and then they gathered themselves, shrugging into their duties once more. Walking toward a table, sitting down without making eye contact with each other, they ordered their drinks from a half-naked man who came to their table immediately. When he left, Napoleon leaned forward, bemused by his partner’s obvious discomfort. "So ... what kind of clientele do they cater to here do you suppose?"

Illya looked at him with a sour expression. "Shall I draw you a picture?"

"You don’t have to," Napoleon replied, accepting his drink from the waiter, who miraculously materialized at his elbow. "Mother didn’t raise any dummies."

Illya looked around, the sour look still on his face and then he spotted their quarry, the slim young man sitting on a bar stool by himself. He was drinking feverishly, smoking too much and looking way too nervous for his own good. Illya glanced at Napoleon, noting that his gaze was distracted by the dancer. Frowning deeper, he rapped the table lightly with his knuckles. "Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt your wet dream but our man is at the bar," he whispered.

Napoleon glanced at Illya and then the bar. "So he is." His gaze returned to the dancer.

Illya watched him, noting that Napoleon’s eyes never left the dancer. The young man, clad only in a g-string, his body well oiled, caught his gaze and began to make motions in Napoleon’s direction. With an emotional state fluctuating some place between revulsion, fascination and aggravation, Illya tapped on the table again, his vodka forgotten for the moment. "Napoleon!" he hissed.

Napoleon sighed and turned his gaze on his partner. "You called?"

"Get your eyes off that prostitute’s penis and pay attention! Our mark is at the bar."

Napoleon downed his shot and leaned back, studying the youngster for a moment. He sighed and glanced at his partner, noting the frustration evident in his posture and the disapproving frown on his pale face. He smiled inwardly. "Do you suppose he’s cruising?" he asked, his eyes guileless.

"What do you mean?" Illya asked, wariness creeping into his voice. "What has that got to do with our mission?"

Napoleon smiled. "Maybe everything. If we could get him drunk and in the sack, maybe he could tell us what we want to know."

"Are you serious?" Illya whispered. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"No. I haven’t, my fine feathered friend," Napoleon said, smiling at Illya’s discomfort. "I’m fully sober. If you have another way to get what we want, let me know now."

Illya stared at Napoleon for a full two minutes. "We can shoot him and take him with us."

"Been done. Besides, I don’t want to ruin my new suit," Napoleon replied amiably. "I think one of us has to go over there and seduce him."

Illya stared at Napoleon, a strange look on his face. "Count me out."

"Why? What’s the problem?" Napoleon needled, a grin spreading across his face.

"He’s not my type."

Illya stared at him, an intractable expression on his face. Napoleon smiled and sighed theatrically. Rising slowly, taking his glass with him, he shook his head at his partner. "You disappoint me a little, Illya. I figured you’d be more worldly than this."

"In my country you get a bullet in the back of the head for things like this. If you’re lucky," he said, his eyes focused on the man at the bar. He glanced up at Napoleon. "How far are you planning to take this seduction?"

"All the way to home base if necessary," Napoleon said, turning to go. He paused, looking back at his partner, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "You *do* have my back, right?"

Illya smiled a brief second. "As long as it’s only your back, Napoleon."

Solo snorted and moved toward the bar, sitting on the stool next to the young Englishman. He glanced at Solo, first without care and then again, long and interestedly. Kuryakin considered the level of alcohol he must have consumed and considered that the ‘seduction’ should be short and sweet. He hoped so for Napoleon’s sake. The American had surprised him even though they were short on options. This kind of plan had never reared itself before and he was still uneasy in the extreme about it.

The two men were talking, their heads close together and then the Englishman placed a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, caressing him as he whispered into Solo’s ear. Napoleon glanced back at Illya, grinning slightly at his disapproving expression and then leaned closer to the youngster. For a moment there was only talk and then the youngster looked over Napoleon’s shoulder at Illya sitting nearby. Blinking, Illya schooled his face and body to utter boredom and waited.

Napoleon smiled and rose, waiting as the youngster shakily raised himself from the stool he had been sprawled upon. They moved to the table and sat, the Englishman moving his chair closer to Napoleon. He smiled at Illya and turned to Solo, leaning in and rubbing his face against Napoleon’s cheek. The UNCLE agent sighed, smiling at Illya. Kuryakin sighed disgustedly and picked up his drink, downing it in one gulp.

"This is Lawrence, Illya. Illya, Lawrence. Say hello, Lawrence."

The Englishman was very drunk and he giggled at the dour Russian sitting before him. "Hello, Lawrence," the drunk man said, leaning against Napoleon with a snicker.

Illya rolled his eyes in disgust, grimacing at Napoleon as he did. "So, what now. If I may ask."

"You don’t know?" the drunk asked, smiling broadly.

"No. I haven’t been enlightened about that part yet," Illya replied, more to Napoleon than the drunk nearly lounging in the older man’s lap.

"Tell him, Nappy. Tell him what you told me," the drunk said, sliding his hand into Napoleon’s jacket top as he bit on Napoleon’s ear lobe.

Napoleon winced and pulled back slightly, shaking his head with long suffering. "Not here. Let’s go some place else. Some place where we can work things out."

"Work out ... I like that. Nice word for it," Lawrence said, patting Napoleon on the shoulder as the older man pulled him to his feet.

They turned together, Illya rising last and moved to the doorway, passing the huge silent man that let them inside. Stepping outside into the darkness, they half carried, half dragged Lawrence between them, moving to where their car was parked. They stuffed him inside, a not so easy task due to his inebriation, and they climbed inside themselves, Illya driving. "Where to?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at his partner and the suddenly very amorous young man from Cambridge.

"Home, James," Napoleon managed to say before he was pushed back in the seat and set upon.

Illya turned onto the main street and continued to the light, his eyes flickering between the road ahead and the chaos rising in the backseat. Napoleon and the Englishman were making out, kissing in a way that went straight to the middle of Illya’s gut. He swallowed hard, his mind racing at mach one. Driving faster, he glanced and noticed how the youngster was kissing down the middle of Napoleon’s chest, having ripped open his white dress shirt with his bare hands.

"Napoleon?" Illya asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

Napoleon opened his eyes, staring over the top of the front seat at the driver, who was heading toward their hotel near the waterfront. He swallowed hard as the youngster reached down and gripped his crotch. He groaned, removing the alien hand from his groin and sat up a bit straighter. "Hurry, Illya. I don’t think we have much more time before someone gives here."

He spurred the car on, racing through the streets until they reached their destination. Pulling up into a parking place, Illya shut off the car and turned in the seat, watching as Solo struggled with the deeply amorous and very drunk young man. Solo, looking up from the chaos of the back seat, glared at his partner. "Don’t just sit there! Help me here," he cried, gripping the young man’s wrists as Illya hurried out of the front seat.

He raced around and opened the back door, tugging at the feet of the man sprawling on top of his partner. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so indiscreet. Illya glanced around when he finally pulled the man out, looking for any sign that someone was coming. Solo slid out. "Thanks," he said, pulling his clothes together.

Taking an arm, the three staggered toward the building in the hotel complex that held their suite. Walking inside and up the stairs, they managed to make it to their room, opening the door and mercifully disappearing into the darkness inside. A stumbling, serenaded walk to a back bedroom took care of Lawrence. They dropped him onto the flat surface like a sack of floor.

"Well," Illya complained, straightening his suit. "Wasn’t *that* fun?"

Solo laughed in spite of himself and looked at the man on the bed. "I thought so. So, are we still on?" He turned and looked at his partner, his pale face staring back at Solo with a deeply perplexed expression.

"What do you mean?" Illya asked, watching as Solo dropped his jacket and tie on a chair near the bed.

"The threesome," Solo replied, turning and staring at the tattered front of his expensive white dress shirt. He frowned and glanced up, catching a look of outraged amazement on his partner’s face.

"*Threesome*!" Kuryakin replied.

"How do you think I lured him away from the bar?" Solo replied smoothly.

Illya stared at Solo and then at Lawrence, who was lying on the bed making babbling sounds as he rubbed his chest with his hands. "Not on your life," he replied, staring at the drunk as he lay talking to himself. "I don’t think there are enough rubles in the universe to make that a reality in this or any other lifetime that I have to endure."

"Endure?" Solo asked, grinning slightly at his partner’s discomfort. "Don’t tell me you’re getting all philosophical on me now."

Illya shrugged, tossing his jacket on the dresser. His gun holster stood out darkly against the white shirt he favored as attire. He stared at Lawrence. "So, how far really were you preparing to go here, Napoleon? All the way, as you Americans are so fond of saying."

Solo shrugged, staring at the slender youngster slipping into sleep on his own bed. "I can’t see a limit, Illya. It would be my patriotic duty to my country to ... give my all."

Kuryakin looked at him with a blank expression, his eyes evaluating the man standing before him, tattered shirt and all. "You’re a strange one, Napoleon. I personally draw the line at giving my ... *all* to a total stranger."

Napoleon smiled. "Would you do it for a friend?"

Illya looked at him, his expression unfathomable. "I’ll be outside if you need me."

With that, he turned and exited the room. Napoleon watched him go, a thoughtful look on his face. Turning, he gazed at ‘Lawrence’ and sighed. "Well, whoever you are ... time to get down to business." With that, he moved to the bed and began to coax the drunken man to tell him everything that he ever knew about every subject he ever studied, read about or pondered.

Budapest, 1964 ...

Two days later in Budapest ...

"You've been quiet lately."

"Forgive me if I confuse easily."

Napoleon smiled. "The other night."

"The other night," Illya repeated. He shifted in the seat of his chair, bumping his elbow against the iced tea that sat on the small table between them. They were in Budapest, sitting at a cafe, waiting for their mark to leave the next hotel meeting on his long agenda of meetings. Rome was two days past and they had been moving with the Englishman, Lawrence Stoddard, as he went the rounds of his assignment. Of course, he didn't know that. He only knew them from a drunken haze and even then, it was dubious at that.

Napoleon sipped his tea and considered the man beside him. The Soviet Union, he had learned from experience as well as hearsay was a surprisingly repressed culture. They frowned on excess in all its many gaudy forms, unless you were an influential member of the Politburo or some Commissariat and the punishment list for infractions of the social order ranged from imprisonment for hooliganism to death by gunshot to the back of the head. It would have an effect upon impressionable minds, he considered, Illya's no less than anyone else.

"I understand the deep Russian puritanical streak that forms such a large part of your make-up, my dear Illya, but I would point out that you are a worldly and well educated man. Surely, after all the corrupting influence of western culture upon your very, shall I say, proletarian tastes, you have seen the error of your ways."

Napoleon sat a moment, waiting for the baiting hook to sink in. He didn't have long. Cool blue eyes turned to stare at him.

"Ordinarily, when you fling your decadence into my face, I merely shrug it off, Napoleon. However, since you feel content to presume things here, let me set you straight. 'Golden boys' do not last long in my country. They get shot or sent to the gulag. You learn to shut your mouth and move in shadows."

"Are you speaking of experience?" Solo asked, curious at the amount of information and its possible meanings the usually taciturn man let slip.

A shrug and a disgusted look encompassed most of his reply. "You Americans ... you always think with your dick."

"And you don't? I heard that Russians make lousy lovers. I hear that they're not romantic and they are self-absorbed. Does that remind you of anyone you know?"

"Where did you hear such lying propaganda?" Blue eyes narrowed as they considered Napoleon. "You really have to stop reading the Christian Science Monitor, Napoleon. It's dulling your almost passable wit."

Napoleon smiled and sighed. "You Russians. You think you invented everything."

"We did. Although ..." Illya paused, staring into his glass.

"Although?" Napoleon prompted, curiosity rising.

"Although in terms of sheer decadence, I will concede the part about sex. Obviously, to an American, sex is more important than it is to Russians."

"You admit it then," Napoleon said in triumph.

"I admit nothing, my friend," Illya said, turning bemused eyes on his partner. "I will concede that if one had to choose which among the two of us leads with his dick, you win hands down."

Napoleon snorted and laughed out loud. Illya watched him with satisfaction. He had scored a point, even if Napoleon didn't get it yet. Taciturn to the point of obtuseness, he had decided on his
present course of action in relation to their evening two days ago in Rome. Obsessed as he was with their mission, he still had a big desire burning that had been kindled by Napoleon's surprising behavior. However, being taciturn to the point of obliqueness, he was unwilling to say it out loud. The idea that he could entertain the point was enough and the game of pursuit would be enormous good fun.

"You make me laugh," Napoleon said, saluting Illya with his tea. "I hope you know how much that means to me."

Illya nodded, inwardly inordinately pleased. "And you, me, my friend."

At that moment, Lawrence Stoddard came out of the hotel, walking down the sidewalk to a bus stop. Illya and Napoleon rose, Illya hurrying to join the mark on the bus. He was chosen due to the lack of personal contact between him and the mark and Napoleon flagged a cab, entering just as the other two did the bus.

"Driver, follow that bus," he said, speaking flawless Hungarian.

He nodded, not the least surprised by the request and they drove onward through the city, pausing long enough for Napoleon to get out on a less than desirable street. It was on the outskirts of the city, drab and gray and Napoleon followed Illya and the mark as they continued on.

Stoddard had his hands in his pockets, his jacket collar turned up even though it was not cold in the least. He seemed nervous but he continued onward, pausing to glance around before disappearing down an alleyway. Illya watched from the corner as Stoddard went to a doorway and knocked in a pattern on its hard and scarred surface. The door opened and he entered, the door closing quickly behind him. Napoleon caught up to Illya and they stood, staring at the place Stoddard disappeared.

"Well, this appears to be history repeating itself," the Russian replied sarcastically.

Napoleon smiled. "Shall we?"

"What if he recognizes us?" Illya replied uneasily.

"After the drugs I gave him in Rome, I would be surprised if he could still recognize his mother."

"You didn't seduce him 'all the way' then?" Illya asked casually.

"Wasn't necessary," Napoleon replied, grinning inwardly. "'Dr. Feelgood' took care of it."

"That's nice to know. Virtue is a hard thing to come by in the decadent west, Napoleon," Illya said as they turned and walked toward the door.

"How inscrutably oriental of you to notice," Napoleon replied, watching as Illya recreated the knock. The door opened and they entered, a room very similar to the one they had left earlier in Room. It was filled with men, sitting and standing about, liquor glasses in their hands. Eyes noted their presence as they moved to a table, sitting and ordering drinks from a gaudily dressed transvestite 'waitress'. Soft jazz played on a radio in the corner of the bar. Looking around, Napoleon spotted Stoddard sitting at the bar, glass in hand and cigarette in mouth.

Illya sighed. "This feels like a rerun of a bad B movie."

Napoleon grinned, watching as a man stared at his partner from across the room. "Don't worry. Keeping your virtue intact will be priority one while we're here," he said, noting that the stranger had risen and was walking toward them. He paused at their table, his eyes never leaving Illya. The blond shifted uneasily in spite of himself before exerting his iron control once more.

"May I join you?" he asked, his Hungarian heavily accented.

"Please do," Napoleon replied flawlessly.

"Are you two together?" he asked, sitting next to Napoleon. He kept his eyes on Illya, ignoring Napoleon, who sat bemused beside him.

"Yes, we are," Illya replied icily. Cold hard eyes flickered to Napoleon. "We are, aren't we ... darling."

It was spoken rather than asked and Napoleon through Herculean effort stifled the belly laugh that threatened to erupt out of him. Reaching over, he took Illya's tense hand into his own. "But of course, my love," he replied, biting the inside of his mouth to suppress his amusement.

Illya turned his glacial stare from Napoleon to the stranger. "Is there something you want?" he asked coldly.

The stranger's smile grew, never reaching his eyes. "Yes. There is."

Napoleon watched silently, wincing slightly as Illya's hand squeezed his too tightly.

"Well, that's nice," he said, trying to turn the conversation. "Perhaps you would allow us to buy you a drink?" he asked, the three pausing as the 'waitress' served them.

"That's not necessary," the stranger said with a sigh. "I would be interested in dancing with your ... friend. That is, if you don't mind?" He turned to look at Solo with cold and humorless eyes.

"Well, I don't--" Solo began before Illya cut him off.

"Neither do I. Dance, that is," Illya snapped. "Perhaps some other time?"

The big man gazed at Kuryakin for a long moment and then rose, nodding without comment as he turned and walked back to his table. He sat and continued to stare at them, the unease in the Russian rising with each passing moment.

"Wasn't *that* interesting," Napoleon said, pulling his hand back.

Illya clutched harder, turning to hiss at his partner. "Leave it. You brought me here. You will leave your hand in mine."

Napoleon smiled. "Sure. But do you think that's enough?"

Suspicious blue eyes met Napoleon's warily. "What do you mean?"

"Look around you," Napoleon said, nodding to knots of men sitting closely together. Some were kissing and others talking very close together, their hands touching intimately the one they were with. "This is hardly the Waldorf at dinner time."

"Surely your not suggesting that we ... that we become intimate here?" Illya asked, his expression souring at the invasion of his privacy.

"Why not?" Napoleon replied, moving his chair against Illya's. He leaned in, sliding his arm along the back of the Russian's chair, his face coming within centimeters of Illya's. "This isn't so bad is it?"

Illya sat still, mentally agreeing with his partner, even as his face began to burn with embarrassment. Napoleon rubbed his lips against Illya's cheek and then moved to nuzzle the soft skin of Illya's neck. The Russian's eyes closed in spite of himself. A small voice inside cried out against the breaching of his personal privacy barriers, the ones that prevented everyone he knew from looking too closely at the interesting and vital man inside. That is, almost everyone. Napoleon
had a peculiar ability to breach them, such as now and when he did the sunlight of the American's personality warmed his wary soul. Such as now. He closed his eyes in spite of himself, allowing the intimacy even as his pragmatic brain screamed against it.

"You taste good, Illya," Napoleon said, sighing against Illya's neck. It was warm and tender in the crook of the Russian's neck, his soft blond hair tickling Napoleon's face.

"I'm Russian. I would," Illya replied softly, luxuriating in the sensation of lips on his skin in spite of his many reservations. For a moment he wished they were some place else. Sighing, he opened his eyes, the big man across the way making contact with him. He flinched slightly in spite of himself and turned, meeting Napoleon's bemused eyes when he did. "Finished?"

"For now." Napoleon smiled.

From the corner of the room, he watched as the big stranger rose and walked to the bar to get a drink. Stoddard glanced up, noting the size of the man beside him and smiled. The stranger paused and then sat down, striking up a conversation. For a moment or two the U.N.C.L.E. agents watched, noting that the men were speaking in a soft tone. Then they rose and walked toward the back, going down a hallway. When they arrived halfway down, the big stranger held a curtain back and Stoddard entered, followed by his newly minted friend.

"What does this mean?" Illya asked, uncertain in the ways of western male sexual promiscuity.

"They're going to have sex. Come on," Napoleon replied, pulling Illya to his feet. Ignoring the astonished and reluctant expression that crossed the Russian's face, Napoleon pulled his partner along, entering and walking down the hallway until he reached the cubicle where the two had disappeared. He pulled a curtain back and shoved Illya in, entering the cubicle next to Stoddard's. Looking around, he found what he wanted, a small hole cut about viewing height in the wooden wall that separated them. Sitting, he peered inside, swallowing hard as he did. Illya watched him, amazed at Napoleon's knowledge of what to do, where.

"What's happening?" he whispered, halting as Napoleon's hand signaled for silence.

The older man sat and watched, noting the features of the big stranger and the fact that he wore a gun. Stoddard was on his knees, sucking on the biggest dick Napoleon had ever seen until now. He was working it like a pro too and the big stranger was holding his head as he pumped the Englishman's mouth. Stoddard gripped the stranger's hips, struggling to accommodate the penis as it pistoned in and out of his mouth. He was clearly enjoying himself as his expression reflected.
Napoleon sighed as his groin responded. Illya tapped him on the shoulder and he moved, allowing the Russian to sit and take a peak.

He grinned as Illya's face flushed, a crimson red rising up his neck. Illya sat in spite of himself, watching with a tingling and repulsed fascination the first man-on-man blow job he had ever witnessed. For a second the stranger just fucked Stoddard's mouth and then he paused, pulling his huge erection free. Pulling Stoddard up, he pressed a brutal kiss on his mouth and then turned him, pushing him against the wall.

"Drop your trousers," he whispered in heavily accented English. "I want to fuck you."

Stoddard sighed and nodded, reaching down and unfastening his slacks. They fell to his feet and he shoved down his shorts, his bare ass free for the stranger. Big hands roamed it, squeezing and caressing it and as Illya watched, he felt the fire rising in his gut.

The stranger reached into Stoddard's coat pocket, pulling a small container of petroleum jelly out. He unscrewed the lid and greased his cock from top to bottom. Stoddard braced himself and waited, his legs spread as far as he could in the pile of clothing that lay gathered at his feet. Illya watched, clear on intent but unclear on procedure. The stranger gripped Stoddard's hips and without fanfare, shoved his dick into the Englishman's ass. Stoddard tensed, groaning as the stranger entered, withdrawing slightly and humping farther in. There was no technique, no finesse. All the stranger wanted, obvious as it was to a layman like Kuryakin, was a good, tight, hard fuck.

And he gave it to Stoddard. The grunts and groans that came from Stoddard were overwhelming and Illya relinquished his place to Napoleon, who sat staring through the hole with absorbed fascination. Stoddard jolted into the wall with each thrust and groaned with each movement of his body. The stranger had his hips, holding him as he took what he wanted and when he came, it was with a low guttural hiss. Stoddard stood pinned, standing on his tip-toes and the stranger spasmed, emptying himself into Stoddard's ass.

Napoleon swallowed hard, a painful reminder of his own sexual heat blazing in his crotch as he watched the stranger dismount, ignoring Stoddard as he used the Englishman's handkerchief to clean up. Pulling up his pants, he turned, noting a flash of color in a hole nearby. Moving much swifter than Solo believed possible, he stepped out of the cubicle and moved toward their own.

Napoleon saw him move and rose swiftly, gathering Illya into his arms. He pressed a kiss on him even as his hands slid down Illya's body toward his ass. Caught in surprise, Illya's arms wrapped around Napoleon's shoulders for balance even as he struggled to absorb the kiss that was sending shockwaves of electrical bliss all over his body. He could feel Napoleon humping him and he pressed back, aware of what might be motivating this sudden splurge on the part of the American.

The stranger watched, sighing. Turning, noting Stoddard dressed, they exited and went down the hallway. Napoleon heard them go but continued, caught up in the moment and his best friend's body. Illya groaned, closing his eyes as he was held fast, riding along with each hard thrust of Napoleon's body. Napoleon pressed him against the wooden wall of the cubicle and he gripped Illya's thigh, pulling his leg up as he rubbed and humped against the quietly keening man.

Harder and faster, rubbing as hard as he could against Illya, Napoleon felt the fire gather behind his eyes. Illya was clutching him, their height difference no problem due to their strength and as he did, he caught a glimpse of Illya's face. His eyes were closed and he looked in pain, his face flushed with sensation as Napoleon manipulated him. It was beautiful to Napoleon's eyes and he felt the fire explode and flow from his dick to the ends of the universe. He tensed and felt only
peripherally Illya's similar response. It felt like hours but only seconds later they were sitting on the floor, hot, dazed, sweaty and panting.

Illya rose slowly and leaned against the wall, his eyes closed and his breath coming in short gasps. Napoleon looked at him, inordinately pleased with his efforts and then he rose slowly, tacky and sticky all over. He reached down and took Illya's hand. Leaning in, dropped a kiss on Illya's lips. Dark lashes fluttered open.

"What was that for?" Illya asked, struggling to straighten his clothes and hair.

"For duty above and beyond the call. I salute your Mother Land," Napoleon said, smoothing himself back into perfection. "Come on. Our mark might be leaving.?

Kuryakin watched as Napoleon left unruffled and followed, a look of disgust and aggravation on his face. When they reached the other room, it was in time to watch Stoddard go. They followed him, calling a cab and trailing him to his hotel. Deciding that Stoddard would be there for at least a little while, they left to go to their own hotel. It was a short and silent walk to the room that they shared on the eighth floor.



At the hotel, one half hour later ...

Entering, Illya walked toward the bathroom, pulling his shirt off as he did. Staring at his chest, he turned, a frown on his face. Napoleon sat on the bed, pulling his shoes and socks off. Looking up, he noticed Illya's frown. "What?"

"How long was Stoddard and that gorilla in the cubicle next to us?" he asked, his eyes narrowing warily.

"What gorilla?" Napoleon asked with an innocent expression. He chuckled as he ducked a shoe throw at him by his partner. He lay back on his bed, satiated and comfortable, if not a bit sticky and tacky. "You were great. Are you sure you've never had men before?"

Illya stuck his head around the corner, an unreadable expression on his face. Napoleon stared at his uncovered chest. "What makes you think that this was a first for me?"

Napoleon smiled slightly. "Oh, perhaps your puritanical indignation from about nine o'clock this morning until about ten minutes ago would do it."

"Puritanical? You Americans think you invented sex," Illya said, turning and moving out of Napoleon's sight.

"You conceded that to me earlier. Remember?" Napoleon bantered back.

"A moment of weakness, I assure you," Illya replied over the sound of the shower running.

Napoleon smiled and stood, stripping slowly as he savored the interlude in the cubicle. The noises that Illya had generated with only friction were promising. His Russian alter ego was certainly one for the advanced choir. Dropping his clothes in a valise that sat on the floor by his dresser, he turned and walked to the doorway, standing naked as the day he was born. Illya, not noticing he was there was drying himself off, one foot propped on the toilet.

"Nice ass," Napoleon suggested conversationally.

Illya started and turned, looking at Napoleon through cool eyes. "You have a habit of making me jump. Have I ever told you that?"

"I don't think so but if this afternoon is any example, I'll take your word for it."

"You're pretty proud of yourself aren't you," Illya said, wrapping a towel around his waist. He slipped past Solo and walked to the bedroom, pulling clothing out of a dresser drawer. Napoleon watched him, the smooth by-play of muscles on his pale back, and felt want again. It wasn't for the first time but this time was unique. It was out in the open now and he felt Illya's curiosity. If the Russian wanted to make this another of his games, a cat and mouse chess match for the ownership of his chastity, Napoleon was more than up to the moment. It would be fun he considered as he walked into the shower. Cool water sluiced his body and he felt clean once more, an important item in the catalogue of necessary sensations to this well-experienced and practicing hedonist.

Stepping out and toweling off, he wrapped a towel around his slim waist and walked out, more than aware of surreptitious glances his way by the silent blond on the next bed over. Illya tied his shoes, feeling much more comfortable in jeans and cotton shirt. Fancy dress was over for a while and he ran his fingers through the still damp strands of his hair.

Napoleon removed his towel, unself-consciously drying his hair. His penis was limp by his leg and he noted a quick flicker of gaze by Illya toward it.

/... good boy ... keep looking .../

Moving slowly around the room, he dressed in another pair of slacks with a short-sleeved shirt. Sitting and putting on shoes and socks, he yawned.

"Tired out from your exertions?" Illya asked sarcastically, standing by the window as he wound the heavy military watch that he always wore. Napoleon nodded, grinning slightly.

"Sex always makes me tired."

Illya looked at him, cool blue eyes meeting bemused brown ones. "It makes *me* hungry."

Napoleon stood and stretched, turning to his partner. He stared at him and smiled. "All right," he said. "I'll buy you dinner. Least I can do."

Illya snorted and shook his head. Walking to the door he paused and turned, scowling at the smug look on his partner's face. "Can you spell anomaly?" he asked as he turned and walked out the door.

"I-l-l-y-a," Solo recited softly as he followed his partner into the hallway.



November 26, 2000, Cascade ...

Blair sighed and turned to his partner, expectation on his face. They had finished dinner and were sitting on the couch and the floor in the living room, sipping beer and kicking back. "Well?" Blair asked. "I made the dinner, I waited until you were comfortable. Now it's your turn."

Jim Ellison looked at his partner and sighed. Very little could be kept from him when he was on the trail of knowing something. He was relentless. He settled in, letting his mind wander to other times long ago. "I was in the army when I ran into Kuryakin's partner, Napoleon Solo."

"Napoleon Solo? Is that a real name?"

Jim grinned. "It was. Solo was still Chief Enforcement Agent of the New York office of U.N.C.L.E. then. Or so my British Army counterpart told me at the time."

"How come I don't know about U.N.C.L.E.?" Blair asked, rising to sit on the couch. He pulled his legs up, turning and leaning on the back of the couch. "So, they're a secret spy organization. How is it that in this time and age, very little is known about them by the general public? This *is* the information age after all.?

"They have a special mandate, one that encompasses one hundred and eighty different countries. Their budget, their personnel and all of it, they keep it secret. They're almost always the first on the spot when things go wrong and they have a source for nearly anything that needs knowing. It's pretty damned amazing. I considered joining them myself but the Army kept me going."

"This Solo ... what's his story?" Blair asked, taking a sip of his beer.

"He's like some kind of movie ideal of a spy. He's suave and debonair, deceptive and smart, a charming, handsome man, impeccably dressed ... that sort of thing. He's witty and urbane and probably as lethal in his own way as Illya is."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Blair said, noting how quiet Jim had gotten.

"I do," Jim replied. "I was on a mission with my team, some place still classified. It was the headwaters of the source supplying the drug trade from the Middle East. You know, Afghanistan. We weren't supposed to be known to be there and we still aren't. There were people there that we were sent in to train, the Mujahedeen, the freedom fighters who were fighting the war with Russia. We trained them to fight the Russians and they were pretty incredible. I don't think there is a more dangerous and vicious foe on the planet outside of them."

"How long were you there?"

"Long enough to get into trouble," Jim said with a sigh. He thought a moment, sorting out the tense days of captivity that almost led to his death. "I was caught by a Russian patrol and taken to a base camp. I lied about who I was and what I was doing there but they didn't believe me. The Mojos tried to get me out. They're fiercely loyal to their own and when they give hospitality, it's this big honor thing. You can't allow your guests to be harmed or it's a huge loss of face and respect. They were after me. So, even though I was scared, I wasn't hopeless. Mostly.

"Anyway, I was kept in this mud hut for days, chained up. Then I heard a car come and I figured I was headed to Moscow and the gulag, or maybe a firing squad. I didn't know. I just knew it wouldn't be good. A man got out, Kuryakin, and came to the HQ they were using in this valley. He was dressed in black and spoke only Russian. I didn't know what he was saying but he had a huge argument going with the C.O. of the place. By the time the talking was done, I was bundled into the car and away we went. We drove for hours and I remember he didn't speak a word. I didn't talk to him. We were going down mountain roads, so I didn't want to distract him."

"Kuryakin is Russian. He'd be able to get you out. Wouldn't he?" Blair asked, studying Jim's face. "I mean we *are* talking about Russians here."

"No, I don't know. I only know that he was there and he somehow found me. I later heard that he was in the area following up on a case that involves murders, murders that were never explained."

"But that area was at war. What's one more dead body among many?" Blair asked, sipping his beer again.

"These were different," Jim began. "These were dif-- ..." For a moment he sat still and then he turned and looked at Blair. "These were identical in M.O. to our murders."

"What do you mean? Our murders are cold-blooded executions and they happen only when it rains," Blair said. "You told me, 'only when it rains' and it never rains in Afghanistan, does it?"

Jim was sitting silently, staring into space.

"Jim?" Blair asked again, moving forward with concern. "Jim? Are you there?"

"It pours in Afghanistan in the mountains, rain and then snow," Jim said softly. "It was raining like fury when I was caught. It was the reason I was. My jeep got stuck. I was stuck in the mud. They caught me on a high up mountain road because I couldn't run. That's how ..." He paused, shaking his head. "The murders ... they were execution-style, I was told. One clean shot to the head. Forehead drilled ..." He sat quietly. "The common thread is Kuryakin. He was there when those happened and he came here when these did. I remember something else."

"What?" Blair asked, his voice quiet in the still room, almost as if he was afraid to raise it.

"I remember asking someone about him, about Kuryakin. He dumped me off and went away. I asked some officers what he was doing here, that he could just materialize in the middle of nowhere and save me like that. They said he was in the country investigating a shake up in the drug and gun smuggling syndicate that was running the country at the time. It was code named Silk Road. The British officer told me about it, about the murders a few days before I got unlucky. Silk Road ..."

"That would make sense. The Silk Road ran through the middle of Afghanistan. It has always been a central hub in trade for thousands of years, the path traders took to move goods from one end of the world to the other."

Jim exhaled. "I remember wondering how he got me out. Most of the people caught by the Russians never got away, especially people who were helping the Mojos. I wonder what scared the Russians into giving me over to him?"

Blair sat quietly a moment, considering the question. "I don't know. If they weren't moved by the Mujahedeen to back down until twelve years had passed, what was there about this man that would make them agree to turn you over to him with only one conversation?"

Jim nodded. "That's just it. I've always wondered. He came in and took me out, dropping me at a place where I could be smuggled back to my team. I remember standing there listening to him talking to a chieftain in Arabic. The men talked and he turned and walked past me, heading toward his car. I remember turning and walking toward him. I wanted to thank him but he wouldn't wait. He was cold, Sandburg. He was stone cold."

It was silent a moment. Then Blair stirred, resettling himself once more. "It appears to me that we have only one real lead here. I mean, consider how many groups are involved ... the Russian Mafia. That right there would be a link to this guy. The Chinese and Italian Mafias maybe
not but the Russian?"

"He talked about T.H.R.U.S.H.. You know, Americans are really big on acronyms. They name everything shorthand that way. T.H.R.U.S.H. could have been a part of the problem in Afghanistan. They were the main reason that U.N.C.L.E. came into being. They could be the one he is tracking. I don't know. I know he feels that T.H.R.U.S.H. is part of this. We need to know more, about him, about T.H.R.U.S.H., about the murders in other places."

"We need to know more about this man and Napoleon Solo."

Jim nodded. "When I was smuggled out of the Russian held territory, I was taken by plane to a forward base. I saw him there. I saw Solo. He was sitting on a jeep hood talking to someone and waiting for a helicopter. When it arrived I was coming out of the medic tent and saw him run to it. The door opened and he climbed in, then it circled and moved toward me taking off. The pilot was Illya Kuryakin."

"You remember this?" Blair asked.

"Yeah. I don't like to remember those times. I don't like remembering how close I came to disappearing for good. The whole thing, the whole business over there ... it was bad all the way around."

Blair nodded sympathetically. "Sometimes it's good to talk about things that suck. Once told, twice divided. Or something."

Jim grinned. "Or something. I never went on a desert mission again. The Peru thing came up and I took it. No more deserts for me."

"We need to find out about Solo and Kuryakin. Do you have any contacts inside places that can crack that file for us?" Blair asked.

Jim was quiet for a moment and then nodded slowly. "Maybe. Maybe I do."

"Good. Because I don't know about you ... this would make one helluva spy movie."

Jim grinned and rose, picking up the empty beer bottles. "Another beer, Chief?"

"Sure," Blair replied, kicking back on the couch. "By the way, the Jags are still alive."

Jim turned and smiled. "Good. Then this whole day wasn't a waste."



November 24, 2000, New York City ...

The light in the living room was on when he came in. Hanging up his coat, he peered around the corner. Napoleon was lying on the couch, arm thrown over his face as he lay dozing. Illya felt his chest clutch, cold fingers gripping him and he walked over quietly, kneeling beside his lover of nearly forty years. He took a hand and kissed it softly.

"Napoleon?" he whispered, calming when the dark lashes fluttered and brown eyes gazed up at him. "I'm home."

The arm reached out and snaked around his head, pulling him in for a soft kiss. He sighed against Illya's lips, smiling softly. "I waited for you."

"You shouldn't have. Have you eaten?" Illya scolded gently.

"I waited for you," Napoleon repeated, moving slowly to sit up. He rubbed his face and checked the time. Eleven o'clock at night. Rising, he hugged Illya and kissed him again. "I'll fix you something."

"No," Illya said gently. "I'll fix *you* something. You sit and talk to me."

Turning, they walked into the kitchen, Illya moving to the refrigerator. The wall at the back, the one where they sat for meals, was a glass window that revealed the city sparkling at night. Napoleon moved to the table and sat down, watching with great fondness and relief as his partner began to make dinner.

"Eggs and cheese, toast and coffee. Something light, Napoleon. Something to keep the medicine down," Illya said lightly, his gaze darting to the silent figure sitting at the table. "Are you feeling
unwell?" he asked, pausing.

"I feel tired. Tired of being without you," Napoleon replied, drawing a smile from his partner.

Illya looked at him, the familiar pain in his stomach receding a little at the warmth in Napoleon's eyes. He walked to where he sat and touched his face with his hands. "I'm not very good at words but I hope even without them that you understand how much I love you," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

Napoleon slipped his arms around Illya's waist and hugged him close, listening to the strong heartbeat of his lover. He sighed and smiled. "You speak everything I need to know just holding me," Napoleon replied, closing his eyes as his lover comforted him. "I love you too."

Strong hands caressed his hair as Illya whispered to him in Russian. It was an old poem, one that he had told Napoleon long ago and he spoke it now as a lullaby. He could feel Napoleon's tension recede as the older man held him and as he did, he renewed his vow to solve the mystery that had taken so much of their peace of mind. He would do what it took to keep Napoleon safe and even the score on the bastards who had haunted their dreams all these long years.

No matter what it took, he would even the score for both of them.

The Cascade Affair: ACT III: "Sticks and stones ..."

"No!"

"Why? You have to admit this is too cozy to be accidental."

Simon Banks turned and glared at Jim, his mind racing over the multitude of reasons why Ellison's request was poison. He stared from Ellison to Sandburg and back again. "Do you know what you're asking here?"

"Yes," Ellison replied calmly. "I'm asking you for the tools to do my job. Illya Kuryakin is the common thread that runs through this whole business. I want to know more about him, about Napoleon Solo, his partner, about the murders in other places and an operation code named Silk Road."

"And you believe that this has relevance to our case here in Cascade?" Simon countered. "Murders that may or may not have happened twenty to forty years ago and agents who have more secret security layers to protect their privacy than the President of the United States?"

"Yes," Jim insisted. He sighed with frustration. "You want us to solve this. *Give* me the tools to do it. Authorize an information request. You can you know."

Simon glared at Ellison. "Don't tell me what I can or can't do." He stood a moment and then nodded. "All right. You won't get anywhere. No one investigates U.N.C.L.E.. *No one*." With that, Simon Banks turned and walked into his office, slamming the door. Jim watched him go and then turned, meeting the gaze of his partner. "Maybe it was time someone did," he said softly, walking to his desk to prepare his request.



December 10, New York City, in the present ...

Illya Kuryakin sat at his desk in the Operations HQ of U.N.C.L.E., New York. He sipped his tea and read through the myriad of dispatches that had flooded them the night before from bureaus all over the world. Down the hall, sitting in his palatial quarters overlooking Manhattan, Napoleon was probably doing the same. He sat back and sighed, noting with comfort the familiar surroundings that had been his home for forty years. This was once Napoleon's office and he himself was only the second man to occupy its space.

The rule of 'forty and no field work' had been suspended for him personally once Napoleon had been made director of North American Operations for U.N.C.L.E.. This network, the major clearing center and command control for most of the daily operations of U.N.C.L.E. worldwide had become so important that operatives of Illya's caliber could no longer be furloughed upstairs the way Napoleon had been. They were too valuable. Illya had been indispensable. He was in a class by himself and he still went on certain field operations, leading younger men and women through the dangerous work of counterespionage.

That is, he did up until a few months ago. The number and type of operations were changing lately and so was his level of personal involvement and anxiety. For forty years he had been hunting for someone, a particular someone. This person would be able to change his life and Napoleon's forever. They had dealt with the blow back of a long ago failed operation for most of their lives and he longed for normalcy. He longed to feel that there was hope. Right now, pursuing leads among the steady stream of data that crossed his desk, he felt all the tiger instincts of younger days fill him once more.

Illya Kuryakin, sixty-seven years old, a Ukrainian by birth, a Russian Soviet by nationality was a dangerous man when roused. His instincts were feral at times and they had kept him and his partner alive for decades in a business where the slightest slip could mean the end in seconds. Napoleon was his other half, the emotions and fire that played so well off his own icy analytical control. They had been teamed the entire time of his involvement with U.N.C.L.E., at first a stunt to facilitate closer ties to Moscow that was initiated by Mr. Waverly, and at no time during their historic collaboration had they spent more than a few of their days apart. They were the top operatives of their division and often on loan to the other major players, U.N.C.L.E., Europe and U.N.C.L.E., Asia in particular.

Lethal, smart, intuitive, multilingual and thorough, they had together become a legend in the tightly controlled and secret world of international espionage. Often the mere mention of their name was enough to get something taken care of. No one wanted to deal with these men. They almost never failed to come through. When they did on occasions almost too few to mention, it was spectacular.

Failure rankled Kuryakin. He was the product of a system that brooked none. Failure meant demotion or perhaps a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave. At the time of his transfer from Moscow KGB to the U.N.C.L.E. HQ in New York City, the cold war was raging hot between east and west. It was audacious, this request of Waverly's and when he was chosen to be the one to go to New York, it was with great care. The Russians sent a trusted son of their soil to the decadent west and he went.

What the Russians didn't count on was the unwavering interest, the intense curiosity, open-mindedness and fundamental decency of their choice. They hadn't seen the hidden well of compassion and empathy for those that suffered that he had so carefully kept from view of his superiors. That was covered over with a silent and icy facade that kept people at bay.

Coming to America, working in a free country, working for the downtrodden and against the forces of evil, Illya Kuryakin felt unconstrained and anxiety-free for the first time in his life. He was dour and wary, shy and internally directed, a barrier against the possibility of disappointment as he adjusted to the very real idea that one could live where one wanted, travel without an internal passport and speak one's mind without fear of reprisal. The first two years were testing ones, of reaching out into the freedom that surrounded him and waiting for it all to be proven an illusion. When it wasn't he was changed forever.

Then Napoleon happened.

Their partnership had been an incongruous pairing. Mr. Waverly had personally put them together, seeing something in their chemistry that neither had seen themselves. It had been a short period of adjustment before they found in their bantering, diametrically opposed manner and style, a deep friendship that would become the most important thing in their lives. For Kuryakin, this American with his genteel facade and humor was the first true friend he had ever made. No one in the Soviet Union had ever come as far into his psyche as Napoleon had and no one ever would again. Napoleon was more than a friend, more than a brother. He was the only person besides his mother and grandmother that Illya Kuryakin had ever loved with all his heart.

Rising, moving to the window, he watched as snow fell outside. He liked winter, remembering the faded memories of life in Moscow, the cold water flat and the hard days and nights of work. The things he had to do had been a pall on him in certain ways but he loved his country, the homeland of his ancestors and he did his work without complaint. However, knowing who he was now and the roads he had traveled to get there, he could never do them again. That part of his life, the harsh reality of working for the KGB was over, never to return.

Of course, he could still be a ruthless bastard when he wanted to be. All it took was threat to Napoleon. Then he would do anything, no matter how terrible to ensure that his lover was made whole again. Napoleon would only grin at him, aware of the terrible power he could raise in Illya with only a glance when there was a crisis. He never took it for granted nor did he trade upon it. Illya's emotions were something to be cared for and guarded, Napoleon had learned, these hidden and volcanic well springs into his partner's soul. Napoleon had depended upon him like he had depended upon no one else. Of all the multitude of friends that Napoleon had, and they were legion, he only loved Illya.

He sighed and turned, putting his cup down on his desk. Noting the time, he stepped out and walked to Napoleon's office. It was time for his daily injection. When they were together, Illya and Napoleon both preferred to have Kuryakin do the duty. Needles were a way of life and had been for forty years. No one knew anymore but a few people who were responsible for supply of the serum that kept Napoleon alive. He personally had kept it that way. Illya came through Napoleon's outer office, nodding to the young woman sitting at a big desk. Rapping lightly, he entered, catching Napoleon absorbed in a computer dispatch. He glanced up and smiled. "Hello. Is it that time?"

Illya smiled back. "It is."

Napoleon sighed and rose, moving around the desk while he removed his suit jacket. Placing it over a chair, he began to unbutton his sleeve and roll it up all the while watching Illya as he moved to the wet bar in the corner. Opening a small refrigerator that was built into the wall, he reached inside and took a vial from a container that held several more. Setting it on the counter, he opened a sterile packet and removed a needle, injecting it into the vial and pulling back the plunger. Clear liquid filled the syringe.

Illya did it with ease, years of practice making him as expert with this chore as he was with all others he had to pursue and then he turned, walking to his lover. Napoleon watched as he rubbed alcohol onto his bicep. Sighing, he looked away as Illya injected the liquid into his arm. Pulling the needle out, Illya rubbed the spot with the alcohol swab. Turning, he tossed the evidence into a wastebasket and turned again, watching as Napoleon returned his sleeve to its former glory. "I'll be glad when we can dispense with this," he said for the hundredth time.

"We might never be able to," Napoleon said, turning and gazing with affection on his most significant other.

"Don't *say* that," Illya chided with his usual gruffness. "I refuse to give in to the illogic of your position."

Napoleon smiled. "I bend to your greater will."

Illya smirked and moved closer, helping Napoleon into his jacket. He smoothed the lapels with his hands, resting them on Napoleon's shoulders. "If I thought this was all there was, I would find it ... difficult," he said softly, his blue eyes filled with emotion. "I want peace for you, Napoleon. You have suffered long enough."

Napoleon leaned in and kissed Illya softly on the lips. "I want to make love to you like I used to. I want to make you feel something when I touch you, the way we used to before this. I'm sorry, Illya-," he began before fingers stilled his lips.

"You make me feel everything," Illya said softly, stroking Napoleon's cheek with his fingers. "You have no idea how it was for me before I met you. I hope you know that even if the words don't come easily, you saved me in a way. I was so alone, Napoli."

Napoleon pulled Illya into his arms, holding him as tightly as he could. He could feel the odd sensations of dissonance and fatigue that were part and parcel of his life fading under the ministrations of the drug. He held Illya tightly, comforted by the strong embrace his lover gave back to him. He felt warm and loved and the demons were gone for another day. "I love you," he whispered, sighing with relief as a more normal feeling filled him.

"I love you too," Illya echoed, gripping Napoleon tighter.

At that moment the intercom buzzed and Napoleon sighed deeply. Squeezing Illya, he stepped toward the desk, conscious of intense blue eyes watching him. "Solo here."

"Sir, there's an encrypted message for you, eyes only. Shall I send it to your terminal?" his secretary said, her voice reflective of her Norwegian origin.

"Send it through on level four security, Dagmar," he said, moving to the screen sitting on a corner of his desk. Illya joined him and they watched as code filled the viewer, sent directly by the field operative working at the small satellite station in Seattle. For a moment it was only code and then it changed, forming into English. They read it together silently, Illya's face becoming grim as he did.

"Well, it appears that our Cascade friends are playing a hunch," Napoleon said, straightening up and glancing at his partner. Illya's face was cold as he considered their situation.

"Napoleon, I knew it would be trouble with Ellison. He saw us in Afghanistan."

"You would have to go and save him from your countrymen," Napoleon chided gently, a grin on his face.

"My mistake."

"Your good side showing itself again?" Napoleon bantered, sitting on his very plush desk chair.

"My weakness," Illya answered dryly. "So ... Ellison wants to know about us, about the Silk Road Affair, about everything. He's made a connection of some kind to me and you and the murders."

"There is, isn't there? The murders that is?" Napoleon asked, searching Illya's face. It stilled, blue eyes filling with emotion.

"You needn't trouble yourself, Napoleon. That affair has cost us ... cost *you* enough. I'll take care of this matter."

"I know you will, Illya. I know you will," Napoleon soothed. "I just wish you would tell me about this problem more that's all."

"That wasn't the deal," Illya said, his voice cold. He looked at Napoleon and his expression gentled. "I'm sorry, Napoli. I just ... we made a deal. I'm holding you to it."

Napoleon nodded. "Had I understood truly what a burden I had placed on your shoulders I would never have agreed to it. Even a strong man can break."

"I won't, Napoleon. There's too much riding on this for me to give," Illya said, his voice as determined as his expression. "I want what was taken from us, the years of our lives. I won't rest until it has been returned to us in some measure."

"And if it isn't?" Napoleon queried, noting the same expression of implacable will that always was elicited by that simple question. Hard blue eyes looked at him without rancor.

"I cannot countenance failure."

For a moment it was only silent and then Napoleon nodded. "All right, my friend. What do you propose to do about this inquiry?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Napoleon," Illya said, his expression distracted by the intensity and speed of his thoughts.

"I never worry about anything but your safety." For a moment he sat, unable to continue. "You're my lifeline to sanity, Illya. I can't imagine a life without you in it."

Illya turned, his face awash in emotion. His eyes stung and he nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. "Nor I, you," he whispered. He moved closer and leaned down, kissing Napoleon softly. Over and over, softly Illya kissed him until he stood back up, sighing emotionally. "You are the only one who can reduce me to tears."

"They're nothing to be ashamed of," Napoleon replied, his eyes dark with emotion.

"For you. You're Italian. We Russians are a stoic lot. Our peasant heritage I suppose."

"There's nothing peasant about you, my friend," Napoleon said, reaching out and squeezing Illya's hand. Illya squeezed back, rubbing at his eyes. "Will this take you away from me?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not sure. I have to check some things." Illya turned to him and kissed him. "I'm going to do that now. Let's lunch some place nice today, some place out."

Napoleon smiled and nodded. "I'll make reservations at our usual place."

Illya nodded and leaned down, lingering on Napoleon's lips once more. "I'll be in my office or the data center. Com me if you need me."

Napoleon nodded and watched as Illya walked from the room. He reached out and absently rubbed his arm, sighing with weariness over the conundrum that had squatted in the middle of their lives for so many years. But more than that, he felt the familiar pain that Illya's absence from home always gave him. With that in mind, he turned back to his duties once more.



December 11, 2000, Cascade ...

Blair Sandburg walked through the slushy snow toward the restaurant. It was dark now but the familiar cheer of Christmas filled him with his usual joie de vivre. Jim was waiting there, calling him to remind him that they were dining out tonight. He had hurried, moving swiftly to his little car, braving traffic and finding, mercifully, a parking space near Jim's truck. Walking in the brisk air was bracing and he entered the restaurant, moving through the cheerful groups sitting together until he found the booth that Jim had reserved. Joining him, Blair smiled. "Hi."

"Hi, Chief," Jim said, smiling. "About time you got here."

"Sorry, Jim. One thing led to another," he said, smiling in his usual good-humored way.

"I suppose that 'one thing' didn't have a skirt and big brown eyes?" Jim asked, musing on the predilection of his partner to be overcome by feminine attentions. Mother deficit, he considered.

"Blue. They were blue," he interjected, smiling at the waitress as she materialized. He ordered his food and a beer and then turned back to his partner. Ellison was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. "What's up?"

"Got a bit of background on our two friends," Jim replied. "Someone who under pain of death can't be identified. They have friends who have friends ... that sort of thing."

Blair nodded. "Shoot."

Jim leaned back, sipping on his beer. "Kuryakin came to America in 1962, former KGB, former Soviet Navy, the elite submarine corps no less."

Blair nodded. "Go on."

"He's proficient in the extreme in shooting, has several science degrees as well graduation from the *Sorbonne* no less and he's not a friendly man, at least to strangers. My friend says he's painfully shy. He's also from old school Soviet society where talking too much can get you hurt. He's someone with a bulldog's tenacity in solving problems and he's totally devoted to his partner and to U.N.C.L.E.. He's a feared and respected individual."

"And Solo?" Blair asked, smiling as the waitress brought his beer.

"Napoleon Solo comes from Philadelphia, from old money ... really *big* old money and was raised well, getting a great education from Yale and Princeton. He served in Korea, entered U.N.C.L.E. by invitation after standing down from the Army and rose with lightning speed to the coveted position of Chief Enforcement Agent for North American U.N.C.L.E.. He?s the youngest man to attain that rank in U.N.C.L.E history apparently."

"How did they get together?" Blair asked.

"Alexander Waverly put them together. He wanted to branch into the Soviet Union and so Kuryakin was an experiment. Given the times, it took balls for all three of them to come together." Jim considered the rest of the information he had been given, such as it was. "They were partners for two years before they moved in together. In the sixties, it wasn't considered strange for bachelors to live together and Solo had a lady killer rep that was totally deserved."

"Live together?" Blair asked, his curiosity rising.

Jim nodded. "It appears that our two friends are lovers."

"Who says?" Blair asked. "Is it known?"

Jim shrugged. "They're not exactly 'men around town' anymore, especially about three years into their partnership. There was an operation, or affair as it's known in U.N.C.L.E., that was code named Silk Road. No one knows outside of about three people what it means. It has the highest encryption security level of any secret U.N.C.L.E. has according to my friend. Only Solo and Illya have access to the files, which are legion. Every so often, Kuryakin leaves New York on some mission authorized by Solo and it seems to be connected to the Silk Road Affair each time. Kuryakin always checks something in the files before he leaves. Other than that, he never leaves Solo's side. He's even got the age requirement waived to remain C.E.A.."

"Can we collate the times of the murders with the times that Kuryakin is gone?" Blair asked.

Jim nodded and waited as the waitress served their food. He leaned forward when she left and took the parmesan, shaking it liberally over his garlic chicken. Blair watched him, amazed once again that he could stand such a blending of strong flavors with his enhanced abilities.

"My friend is e-mailing me a listing of times and places hopefully tonight. It won't be complete. To get that information is to risk getting caught and that's something he refuses to do. This is all we're going to get from him I might add."

Blair nodded. "It's a lot, really. Consider what we now know for sure: Kuryakin has a KGB background and is a formidable force to reckon with. Solo is powerful enough to cover for him, getting rules waived that no one else could have done. Only the two of them can access the files on Silk Road and they're lovers. What wouldn't you do for me in the same situation, or me for you? This has to be about them, about something that has happened to them. Kuryakin goes on the road for Solo and does something no one can access, secret stuff, the same stuff they've been on for forty years. He's certainly got the background to be a cold blooded murderer. All it will take is putting him on the scene."

"Maybe," Jim said, spooning garlic butter over his food. "This could all be circumstantial."

"Maybe, maybe not," Blair said, gazing at his partner with affection. "Who would have thought that man was gay?"

Jim glanced up, grinning at the smile on his partner's face. He shrugged. "You can't always tell. Who do you suppose knows about us?" he asked, watching Blair think for a minute.

"Probably more people than you think, Jim," Blair said chuckling. "After all, you aren't exactly stand offish when we're together."

"Well, considering the attention you get from the opposite sex, I feel the need to mark my territory."

Blair snorted, his beer halted halfway to his mouth. "Well, okay. As long as you don't pee on me."

Jim grinned and looked at him, swallowing the hot food in his mouth. "Now there's an idea," he said with a chuckle.

New York, present ...

Illya was asleep when it came to Napoleon, the smoke-like dissonance that crept over him on regular intervals. He sighed and turned over, resting his head against Illya’s back, the silk of his pajamas soothing to Napoleon’s fevered brow. He moved closer, the anguish of his illness creeping ever closer. Slipping an arm around Illya, he groaned slightly.

Illya jolted awake, feeling the presence of his lover and raised up, looking at Napoleon as he huddled against him in the bed. He extricated himself and turned, pressing a wrist against Napoleon’s forehead. It was hot, the beginning warning of an episode. Rising, he picked up the
cell phone next to his gun on the night stand and pressed a button, waiting until a woman’s voice sounded.

"U.N.C.L.E. Medical," she said.

"Code Red, Brahman," he said, clicking the phone off. Turning, he stripped quickly and pulled on clothes, slipping into shoes that he kept for just this purpose by his side of the bed. Turning, he covered Napoleon with blankets and walked, gun in hand to the door in the hallway. Standing in the dark, he considered how hard the next three days were going to be as they grappled with Napoleon’s illness. Behind him, he could already hear the soft moaning sound that indicated rising
pain levels in his lover’s body. Steeling himself against the agony of it, he waited for the U.N.C.L.E. ambulance team to arrive.

U.N.C.L.E. Medical Intensive Care, Two hours later ...

Illya stood against the wall, leaning tiredly. On the bed before him, Napoleon lay. He had a new formula injection, one designed to counteract the agent that had caused him his breakdown, one that would only be useful for a year or less. It was always the same. The agony arrived out of nowhere and demanded a minimum three days in the hospital until they could stabilize and synthesize a treatment that would make him well enough again to function. No one outside of a small closed circle knew.

Illya licked dry lips and walked closer, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed. He looked at Napoleon, at his pale face and the IV’s that were connected to a shunt in his arms. He looked tired and worn and Illya knew that he too probably looked the same way. Sitting back, resting his head, he remembered other times when they were well, when things were manageable and the future looked bright.

He was young when he came to America, young in chronological years but old in the ways of living and the world. His life growing up in Russia during World War Two had removed a lot of his youthful illusions. Grinding poverty and hunger as well as the urges of a brilliant mind had driven him to make a way for himself in the post-war Soviet Union. School had been arranged and he had been mentored by a number of solid individuals who had recognized his brilliant mind and his many abilities, all of which he strove with blinding single-mindedness to develop.

It had been grim, the growing up and training and he had put the human part of himself, the part that was soft and irrelevant to his goals into a sort of deep freeze. He had no time to waste. People who didn’t move died. All of his family had. All of them. He had seen it with his own eyes. He never felt he would achieve a long life either. He wasn’t given to bursts of hopefulness. He was driven to live as much as he could in the short time probably allotted to him. If his mother
couldn’t live, with all the goodness that she possessed, what could it mean for him to believe he could with all his faults?

The things that other men wanted, home and family, didn’t compute in his game plan. He wanted something more, something bigger and he was acutely aware that it would never happen unless he made it so. Work was his drug, goals were planned and achieved with machine-like precision and nothing and no one else entered into the picture. Love was for others who had the time and inclination. Women didn’t count. They were detours, forks in the road where one lane led to the dead end of marriage and fatherhood and the other to his dreams. He never took the wrong turn. He never allowed it to be a part of what he was or was going to be. He didn’t feel he had the time.

The Navy had been good, its science and precision leavening for his curiosity. He had been first in his class in all that he undertook, often studying far beyond what was prudent to give himself the edge. He wasn’t overly tall nor physically prepossessing in structure but one look of his cold blue eyes was usually enough to protect him from the brutal hazing that was part and parcel of military life in the Soviet Union. Many was the time he gritted his teeth as someone was brutalized by a commanding officer, such was his sense of justice and his desire to help someone weak and unable to take care of themselves. Someone like he himself was as a child caught up in a world conflagration.

So he hid it, this annoying and distracting streak of altruism, burying it in the depths of his soul and it would stay there until Napoleon came into his life. Life would begin, a total life with feelings and moments of gentleness in the company of the self-assured, humorous and exasperatingly self confident American.

Sighing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, the marks of his reading glasses still visible on his pale face. Closing his eyes, he remembered something more pleasant, something infinitely more desirable. He remembered making love with Napoleon before the illness came. Dreams of Napoleon loving him were frequent and he came to them for the warmth and joy they represented.

Napoleon was beautiful, his body strong and his skin olive colored. He loved to contrast his own pale Slavic tones with the Mediterranean beauty of Napoleon’s own heritage. They were both children of Europe but different as could be. He was stoic and tolerant of sexual manipulation, giving over to Napoleon something he had never surrendered to anyone, his unwillingness to be led or dominated or overawed.

The first time that they had lain together, Napoleon had taken the lead, giving to Illya his experience and his desire. Illya absorbed it with all the feverish desire of a starving man, forgoing only in Napoleon’s arms the fierce independence that had been characteristic of his whole life. The pleasures that Napoleon coaxed from him, hesitant and awkward at first were so overpowering that all he wanted was to be held and touched, taken fiercely or gently, whatever Napoleon desired at that moment. It was something in his wildest dreams he never thought possible. Surrendering to anyone, let alone a man, was more than he felt himself capable of but surrender he did. For nearly forty years they had been together and together they would be until that last minute when the fates would determine what came next.

A groan caught him in reverie and he sat up, staring at Napoleon on the bed. He was stabilized but the pain was still there, a holdover from the episode that brought him here. It would last for two or more days and in all that time, Napoleon would be sedated. He would be incapable of talking to Illya and the loneliness of his silence would be Kuryakin’s burden to bear alone. Illya rose and sat on the bed, touching Napoleon’s face with his hand. He leaned down and kissed him with an aching tenderness that he could feel in his soul.

"Sleep, my friend," he whispered in Russian. "Sleep and let me do my work. I swear to you on the graves of my family that I will not let you down. Do you hear me, Napoli?"

Napoleon slept on, his dreams filled with disjointed images of their life together. He didn’t feel soft lips on his own or soft words in his ear. He didn’t feel when Illya got up and slowly, with great reluctance, left the room behind.

December 11, 2000, Cascade ...

The plane touched down and a lone figure got out, walking casually to the chain link fence that separated the tie down areas from the rest of the airport. This was a private strip on the outskirts of Cascade, Washington, a place for transient private pilots and local people who kept their own airplanes. He parked and disembarked, heading for a cab stand. Dressed in black, carrying a duffel bag, no one gave much attention to the man who had just arrived after a long transcontinental flight from New England by private plane that he had flown himself. He flagged a cab and entered, sitting back wearily. "To the waterfront."

"Where?" the cabbie asked. "Which place?"

Intense blue eyes stared back at him in the rear view mirror and he blinked, glancing over his shoulder at the slim man sitting in his car. Black jeans, black shoes and a black sweat shirt, heavy and unmarked, covered him, topped by a black knit cap over graying blond hair.

"Near Delmonico’s," Illya replied.

The cabbie nodded and pulled out, driving without comment through the countryside until they reached the main road. It was a half hour drive to the city and twenty minutes more through the evening traffic to the place specified. Illya got out and paid the man, watching him drive back into the sea of cars that filled the streets. He turned and walked down the sidewalk, turning into a flop house where he rented a room. He climbed stairs and entered, locking the door behind him.

Moving to the old bed, a dresser and a small table and chairs his only other companions, he put his bag down and unzipped it. Pulling a map out, he turned and spread it on the table. Studying it, his guns barely visible through the opening of his duffel, Illya Kuryakin didn’t notice that outside it had begun to rain.



Cascade, Washington, at a private home later that same evening ...

Dinner was over and he walked to the glassed in deck of his house, looking out to the long stretch of lawn that bordered the river just beyond. The lights of the great city blazed beyond and he enjoyed them even as he watched the young woman with him moving slowly to the music playing on the stereo. He watched her reflection, distorted by the droplets of rain that slid down the tinted panes. She was young and lush, her dress red and laced tight over her beautiful body. Long cascades of blonde hair, most of it probably actually honey colored, hung around her bare shoulders. She was beautiful, slightly drunk and his.

For twenty years he had lived here, running the money end of the business through the local banks and investment funds. No one knew that he handled millions and millions of illegal dollars for numerous crime syndicates. They just figured him to be a wealthy and philanthropic investment banker, an award-winning member of the community. The new children’s medical center at the hospital bore his name. Tonight, he was celebrating. Tonight, his wife was in Florida with their daughters visiting her mother. Tonight, he would give himself a bonus for his hard work for others. He smiled in anticipation.

Turning, he sat on a chair, draining the glass in his hand. She stared at him, a smile on her red luscious lips and he felt his groin tighten in anticipation. She moved toward him, her body swaying and kicked off her heels. She chuckled at his smile and reached down, going through elaborate motions to titillate him as she expertly removed her stockings. One after the other they slowly came off and he watched closely, his eyes never leaving the long creamy expanse of skin revealed by the stockings. He licked his lips and watched as she shed her panties, standing naked before him but for her dress.

Moving deliberately, she straddled him, settling her body on his burgeoning erection, drawing a sigh from him as he gripped her hips tightly. She clutched her breasts, squeezing the flesh between her fingers as she began to move on top of him. He grinned, removing her hands and replacing them with his own. She smiled and raised her arms, folding them behind her head as she reveled in his touch. For a few minutes there was only the two of them together and then she paused, her arms dropping to her side. She stared at him with wide eyes and then fell forward, limp against his chest. She didn’t make a single sound.

"Linda?" he asked, suddenly drawn back to the reality of the moment and as he moved to sit her up, his hand brushed a dart that was sticking out of her back. He pulled it free and stared at it, stunned by the appearance of such a thing in the middle of his moment of triumph. Then he saw it, a shadow as it stepped into the room. A figure dressed in black, his face covered as well, entering the room, a large black gun in his hand.

He started, amazed by the sight and shoved the girl onto the floor. She landed in an undignified heap, a tangle of arms and legs and long golden hair. He rose, his mouth moving but nothing came out. Raising his hands, he stood in front of his chair shivering with fear

"Don’t make a sound," a voice said, a voice whispered softly. It came from the apparition and he nodded, desperate to make it clear to him that he wouldn’t be any trouble. The figure gestured him to move with the gun and he complied, stumbling over the girl in his haste to comply. He rose, shoving his hands into the air and moved toward a bedroom that was on the second floor.

They walked up the stairs, the apparition poking him in the back with the gun and by the time they reached the bedroom, the man was keening with fear. He entered and turned, his hands still up.

"Lie down on the bed," the apparition whispered.

"Don’t kill me," he cried, murmuring with fear as he moved to comply. "Don’t kill me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know."

He lay back and the apparition moved forward, staring at him for a moment. Then he raised the gun and fired, stilling the figure on the bed. For a moment nothing happened and then the shadow figure pulled off his mask. Illya Kuryakin rubbed his face with the back of his hand and gazed with contempt at the figure on the bed. Reaching down, he pulled the tranquillizer dart from the man’s chest, putting it into his pocket.

"You will, Mr. Granger. You will tell me everything I wish to know and you will beg me for the privilege, you bastard."

With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled a vial and syringe out. With no fanfare to speak of, Illya Kuryakin, Chief Enforcement Agent for U.N.C.L.E. North America went about the business of interrogation.



December 14, 2000, Cascade State Park ...

It was drizzling that morning when Jim and Blair pulled into the park. They had caught the squeal before they reached the office. Blair sat bundled, the rain driving cold into the marrow of his bones. Beside him, grim-faced and taciturn, Jim Ellison steered, pulling into the parking place next to the M.E. van. Getting out, pulling slickers on, they walked through the rain-soaked grass to the edge of the picnic area.

Gathered around a body, men and women stood taking pictures, collecting evidence and discussing the scene. A man was laying face up, his arms and legs splayed. In the center of his forehead a small black hole was etched.

"A clean shot," Blair murmured, looking away sickly.

"Jim!"

Ellison looked up and saw a man waving. Moving closer, he saw it was Rafe, standing beside another body. A woman lay face down in the mud, her naked body marked with burns resembling cigarettes. Blair turned and walked back up the bank, waiting under the awning that covered the barbecue area as Jim inspected the body.

"She’s a looker," Rafe mentioned, shaking his head. "Someone really hurt her before they killed her."

"How did she die?" Jim asked, rising to stand. He scanned the area closely, finding decaying footprints in the water-filled mud. There was nothing distinct left about them but their size. They were medium, nondescript and utterly useless.

"Two rounds in the chest."

Jim looked at him. "In the chest?"

"Sure. The M.E. is done with her and forensics. Help me turn her over," he said as a morgue gurney made its way toward them.

Bending down, they turned the woman over, observing two holes in her chest, close together and fired at close range. They lay her back down.

"That’s outside the M.O.," Jim said, puzzling over the incongruity.

"I know," Rafe replied. "Nothing here. Nothing to tell us anything about the killer."

"He likes the rain and he takes the forehead shot. This is strange." Jim considered it and sighed, shaking his head. Turning, he walked up the hill, passing the men lifting the male corpse off the ground and moving him to a gurney. He walked to the shelter where Blair waited.

"Well?" the younger man asked.

"He fits the M.O. The woman doesn’t. She shows signs of torture and she took two rounds in the heart. Different outcome here, Chief. I don’t know what it means."

"Maybe it means nothing. Maybe he only kills men the assassin way. Maybe it means that someone else was involved. This is the first woman too. All the other murders on the list your friend sent you were men. This could be just a glitch. Maybe she walked in on him when he was
offing this guy," Blair ventured.

"Maybe," Jim replied noncommittally. "I don’t know. When we get done here, we go to this guy’s house."

"He had no I.D., the medical examiner told me," Blair said, turning and walking to the truck with his partner.

"He doesn’t need one. That was Bob Granger," Jim said grimly, moving quickly to his truck. Blair hustled to keep up with him.



Nearby ...

Illya Kuryakin sat and nursed his cup of coffee. The stubble on his face felt strange. He seldom bothered with facial hair. It didn’t come in evenly and Napoleon liked him clean shaven. He rubbed his cheek, wondering how Napoleon was. Sedated in all likelihood. Sedated and sleeping. The best thing for him, Illya considered. He sighed and sipped the strong brew in his cup and wondered what he would do with the information that he had from Granger. There were so many leads. He needed the U.N.C.L.E database. He didn’t dare use the one in Seattle. No one could know he was here.

Sitting back, he considered an old trick, hacking into the mainframe along the main pipeline that few people outside of the organization knew about. He would do that with the small laptop that he had put in the plane. He would go get it tonight and spend some time narrowing down the list of people that might be the one he searched for. Before he left, he would do more damage to the conglomerate that was attempting to supplant the established order, the local and more familiar cartels with something more sinister.

He would do all he could before he had to leave town to disrupt T.H.R.U.S.H. and her aims. Then he could go back to Napoleon. Hopefully, just maybe, he would have what he needed and beat the taunting message that was due in just eleven short days.



Jim Ellison snooped around the house, his eyes searching for anything that would give them a clue to the origin of the killings that so obviously took place here. There was very little to go on downstairs but upstairs was another story. There were ligatures on the bed posts, indicators that the torture took place there. He looked around the room, noting fibers that were missed by the forensics team. Picking them up with gloved fingers, he put them into a glassine bag and put it into his pocket.

The bed had blood stains, small and round. Obviously the woman had suffered a great deal before the killers finished her off. She had been shot elsewhere, location undetermined, as was the male corpse, the erstwhile Bob Granger. There were no blood pools sufficient to sustain the notion that they were killed here.

The house was swarming with people taking pictures and looking for evidence. He watched as computers were taken and fingerprints were dusted. As he walked around, he noticed something on the floor of the living room, something small and overlooked. Zeroing in on it, he could tell it was a small coin. Reaching down, he picked up a Soviet era ruble, one that was old appearing, rather like a keepsake or lucky charm.

Illya Kuryakin came into his mind and he pocketed it, something intuitive in him telling him to do so. Turning, he noticed that Blair was watching him, having observed his actions with the coin. He nodded toward the door and together they walked out onto the porch, moving to a corner to talk. Pulling the coin out, he held it up for Blair.

"That’s Russian."

"That’s right," Jim agreed, staring at the coin. "It’s old and looks like a keepsake. What do you make of that?"

"Kuryakin must be here. He must have dropped it."

"It wouldn’t make sense, Chief. Let’s look at this killing. It’s the anomaly of the whole series. The male is killed but not tortured. He’s killed according to M.O. The woman is another story. She’s tortured although it would make sense that she’s just a by-stander here, someone for a good time. What would she know about the Silk Road or anything else for that matter?"

"Nothing probably," Blair agreed. "So, you think there are two murderers here? Kuryakin shot the man and someone else killed the woman."

"I don’t know, Chief, but it would seem odd for Kuryakin to change his M.O after holding to it for forty years."

"If he *is* the killer," Blair interjected.

"True," Jim agreed, frowning. "This is very perplexing."

"You’re telling me. Hey, heads up," Blair said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Captain Simon Banks walked up the steps, moving to where they stood together. "What’s the word here?"

"Not much," Jim said. "Forensics is going over the place. It appears that what happened to the woman happened upstairs in the bedroom but from the lack of blood in the amounts needed, it would appear that they were killed elsewhere."

"All right. Here’s the deal. I don’t know what’s going on here but the Mayor is sitting on my face. He wants results. No one is to mention the woman until we are clearer on what is happening here. Bob Granger was a prominent member of this community and just because his murder fits the M.O of the others doesn’t mean they’re connected. However, he would like this one solved yesterday with the minimum of press exposure. Apparently Granger is a friend of his, a golfing buddy if I read between the lines correctly."

"Probably a major campaign contributor, to be more exact," Ellison proffered.

"More likely," Banks agreed. He looked around, noting that media was arriving and gathering behind the yellow tapes of the police barrier. Banks sighed and turned, shaking his head. "Amazing. Not a word."

Jim grinned humorlessly. "You know me and the media, Captain. Mums the word."

"Yeah, Simon," Blair agreed, grinning broadly. "My lips are sealed."

Banks sighed and turned, walking out to where the media stood and they watched as the frenzy began.

"When are you going to tell him about the ruble?" Blair asked as they turned to go back inside the house.

"I don’t know," Jim said, shaking his head. "I don’t really know yet."



August, 1964, Budapest, later that same night ...

"Really, Illya ... you’re overreacting."

Icy blue eyes regarded the figure sprawled in the chair. Napoleon Solo sat, glass in hand and amused expression turned on his partner of two years. Illya Kuryakin, still fuming over the interlude in the gay bar, stared back at Solo. He was clad only in boxers and stood by the window, luxuriating in the cool evening breeze. Napoleon’s teasing banter about picking up the baton and having a two man foot race to orgasm had begun to hit home. Of course, he couldn’t let the smug bastard know that.

"You actually expect me to go to bed with you? You are one smug bastard, you *do* know that?" Illya said, glaring at his partner.

"I will admit that the pursuit of beauty is part and parcel of my nature," he conceded, raising his glass to his lips. The martini was just like he liked it to be, the olives bobbing in the clear liquid like twin frogs.

"So now you tell me I’m beautiful? Really, Napoleon, there are many things that men are not adverse to hearing themselves called but beautiful is not usually on the list."

Napoleon smiled and rose, setting his martini on the dresser top. Moving closer he stopped in front of his partner, watching with amusement his unease over their proximity. "Ah, so it’s a macho thing is it? I forget how hung up on dominant male attitudes you Ruskies are."

"And you aren’t?" Illya asked, unconsciously leaning back against the low railing that bordered the balcony beyond.

"Oh ... dominance is a good thing. You do know that this is about bigger things ..." He noticed the skeptical look on Kuryakin’s face. "*Guy* things of course."

"But of course. You are asking me to have intercourse with you, a man, and I’m supposed to be, how is it you Americans call it? 'Okay with it'?"

Napoleon grinned. "You’re getting better at American slang, my friend."

"You’re changing the subject."

Napoleon shrugged and moved to sit on the bed, grinning and patting the space next to him. Illya looked at him like a skittish virgin, which Napoleon considered he probably was. He patted it again, the expression on his face hopefully cajoling. Illya grinned slightly in spite of himself and turned to face Napoleon, crossing his arms over his pale chest.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you look cute when you beg?" he asked, watching as Napoleon rose and walked to him, resting his hands gently on Illya’s shoulders. They felt strong and warm and Kuryakin made no move to remove them.

"Oh, just my last six girl friends," Napoleon replied, delighting in the light laughter that remark coaxed from his friend. He grinned. "So, the way to your ass is to appeal to your lighter side?"

"My ass? Tell me, Napoleon ... what exactly do you have planned for my ass?" Illya asked, his eyes narrowing in wariness again. "If I may be so bold as to ask ..."

"*Boldness*! That’s what *appeals* to me about you, among all your other fine attributes of course. I want to take you to bed and send you over the moon. Think of it. You’ll get there before Grigorin and all those other poseurs."

Illya struggled with his expression, wishing to do nothing to encourage the con man in front of him. On impulse, he reached out and placed his hand gently on Napoleon’s chest. The older man stilled, his dark eyes fixed on Illya’s fingers as they gently contracted, rubbing Napoleon’s soft skin as they did. He closed his eyes and sighed. Illya grinned slightly.

"If you try really hard, you can imagine that one of your many girl friends is playing with your chest at this very moment and not me."

The dark eyes opened and his expression was so serious it stilled Kuryakin. "I don’t want anyone else but you."

They stood together for a moment and then Napoleon slid his hands around Illya’s waist, drawing the smaller man into his body. Illya’s hands, touching Napoleon’s chest gingerly, slid up to his shoulders, his blue eyes following the journey. When they reached Napoleon’s shoulders the older man pulled him close and his lips found Illya’s. The kiss, long and gentle was over too soon and Illya sighed, staring into Napoleon’s face with a mix of emotions.

"You taste good, like expensive vodka," Napoleon said with a sigh.

"That was from dinner," Illya said, moving to kiss Napoleon again. They kissed over and over, lingering together and when they broke this time, it was to hold each other.

"I’ve wanted this a long time, Illya. I didn’t know how to let you know or if you’d reject me. I think I owe T.H.R.U.S.H one."

Illya grinned and looked at Napoleon, reveling in the beautiful grin on his boyish and handsome face. "Let them get their own men," he said, tilting his head for Napoleon. The older man kissed him, expending some of his great expertise on the blond of his wet dreams. They kissed and kissed, pausing for breath and when they did, Napoleon turned and lay down with Kuryakin, both of them scooting to the middle of the bed.

Napoleon propped up on his elbow, reached out with his hand and stroked his lover’s chest, the soft skin of belly and hard ridge of Illya’s nipples a contrast in sensation. He sighed. "You have no idea how I’ve waited for this moment, Illya," he said, grinning broadly. "You have no idea."

"I’m sure I don’t. It’s not in the U.N.C.L.E manual as far as I know," Illya replied. "I don’t recall this being standard operating procedure among agents."

"Fraternization would be frowned upon by Waverly and the others," Napoleon agreed good naturedly.

"That’s assuming that we have a relationship and not a single night of misbegotten and totally uncalled for passion."

"Are you up to it?" Napoleon asked, a look of concern crossing his face.

Illya took his hand and placed it on his groin. "You be the judge."

Napoleon chuckled and kissed Illya long and with great thoroughness. "I would have to give you a blue ribbon, Mr. Kuryakin, for that which I hold so fondly in my hand." He squeezed the mound under his hand and watched as Illya groaned softly with pleasure.

"Only a blue ribbon?" Illya asked, gazing at his lover with great amusement.

"Well, give me a minute and I’ll see what I have in my pants,"Napoleon replied smoothly.

Illya laughed out loud, perhaps the first time ever between them. He rubbed his groin against Napoleon’s. "I don’t think that’s in doubt."

Napoleon kissed Illya, lingering on his lips as he pushed the Russian over onto his back. Kissing him over and over, he made his way down Illya’s neck, listening with satisfaction at the exhalations of pleasure Illya was giving him unreservedly. He paused and looked down into Illya’s face. "Nice accompaniment," he complimented.

"Thanks. It’s an improvisation," Illya replied, moving his legs apart as Napoleon pressed him. He settled between Illya’s legs, his eyes closing in the pleasure of his slim and well muscled body. Illya watched his expression, transfixed. Solo opened them to gaze into Illya’s flushed face. "You are beautiful. I wasn’t lying or putting out a line. I find you very beautiful. I hope your macho Marxist sensibilities aren’t too offended."

Illya chuckled, his hands stoking Napoleon’s face as he raised his legs and wrapped them around the American’s body. "I’m not but I do need you to fuck me now."

Napoleon looked at Illya with delight. "Your wish is my command."

With that, Napoleon began to thrust against his partner, the intensity increased by the strength of Illya’s legs as they clung to Napoleon’s body. Harder and faster, the older man moved, his face pressed against Illya’s shoulder. Sweat began to trickle from his hairline and down his face, sliding into the curve of his body and onto Illya’s. They were slippery with sweat and in seconds they would be slippery with something else. With a gathering of fire in his gut, Napoleon went over the edge, gasping out his orgasm as his partner twisted through his. They shivered and then as fast as it began it was over. Illya’s legs slid to the bed and Napoleon flattened out on the hot, wet surface of his partner. It was quiet and still for a moment.

"Napoleon."

The voice was soft and breathy. It was very close.

"Napoleon?"

"Umm?" Napoleon replied, sighing with comfort in his personal afterglow.

"You weigh a ton."

For a moment he didn’t move and then he raised his head. "*Oh*! Sorry." He moved off and lay back beside his spent partner.

"Wasn’t *that* edifying," Illya replied, turning his head to look at Napoleon.

Napoleon laughed and turned to stare at Illya. On impulse, he took Illya’s hand in his, squeezing it. Illya squeezed it back, leaving his hand with fingers entwined in Solo’s. "I thought it was damned fine. Truly. I could sing ‘God Bless America’ at this very minute."

"You don’t have to, Napoleon."

"It would be no trouble," Napoleon bantered back, grinning broadly. "No trouble at all."

"I would prefer the Internationale, thank you."

Napoleon snickered and looked at Illya with fondness. "And they say commies have no sense of humor."

Illya smiled slightly, turning his face to look at the ceiling. "Funny ... that’s what we say about you capitalist running dogs."

Napoleon turned onto his side and lay his head on Illya’s shoulder, yawning as he did. Illya, struck by the sweetness of the move, slipped his arm around Napoleon and pulled him into his body. Napoleon complied and sighed deeply. "Wake me later, okay?"

Illya nodded, smoothing some of Napoleon’s damp black hair from his eyes. "No problem," he whispered, kissing Napoleon’s forehead softly. "No problem at all."

The Cascade Affair: ACT I: "That time in Budapest ..."



Cascade, Washington, late at night, 2000 ...

Illya stood at the window, the rain falling against the window pane of his flop house room in a steady and lonely-sounding patter. He had just called about Napoleon and found he was resting quietly. Memories of their first time faded from his mind as he stood alone, wishing he were other places. That time in Budapest, Napoleon always called it. A moment of mutual rubbing, bantering humor and youthful hopefulness. It seemed like a lifetime or two ago.

He dredged up his memories, going over each moment one-by-one. They were all they had of the passion between them and both men used them for comfort, unknown to the other, all the time since. It had been a long hard road, Napoleon’s illness, watching the toxic agent he had been stricken with work havoc on the fit and trim body of his lover. He had spent a lifetime battling its effects, finding solutions that lasted a while all the time hunting the ones responsible for this tragedy.

It was in places like this when he was alone with only his thoughts that the sadness of their problem reared its ugly head. His memories of their intimacies, memories carefully stored and called forward when needed were his comfort. No one would ever know that the first side effect of the poison that had plagued Napoleon Solo all these long years was impotence.

Illya closed his eyes, an image of Napoleon in Bermuda coming forth from the storehouse of memories he carried with him always. They had swam all day and made love in their bungalow, drinking champagne and celebrating a case solved once again. It had been golden, Illya thought. It had also been the last time that Napoleon had been able to take him. It was the last time that they would have normal relations. It would be thirty-four years to the day, this day, that this had happened to them.

Thanks to Bob Granger, he now had a clearer path to the perpetrator of this wicked and evil thing than he ever had before. With a sigh, he turned and walked to the bed, lying down on the covers and closing his eyes. He had one more day before he had to fly home and he was determined to make it pay. With a sigh, he turned off the light and willed himself to sleep.



Zurich, Switzerland, August 1, 1964 ...

They followed Lawrence Stoddard, walking along the street behind him. The young man looked ragged, the effect of too much drink and too much rough handling by strangers, not the least among them the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. Stoddard had taken a long and circuitous route through Europe, stopping along the way to deliver his message of codes, agent lists, targets for infiltration and disruption and other T.H.R.U.S.H. operational data. It had been ingenious having a man
memorize such a lot of dry facts and lists. Napoleon and Illya both admired his talent even as they loathed him for whom he worked for.

U.N.C.L.E. Europe was hard at work seeking his identity and connections. All that they knew at the moment was that he was a Cambridge graduate with honors in Economics, a scion of a very wealthy and reclusive aristocratic family and that he was the youngest son of four. No one in his immediate family circle seemed to be aware that he was a homosexual as far as they could tell, most of the pictures that were available were of him with young women and his parents. The other three brothers were not known and lived abroad. No one had a criminal record.

The father apparently was from Poland, having fled in 1919 to the west following the war to end all wars. He had been an officer in the army, ruthless and able, controlling supplies and recovered territory for the allies in his sector. A man with an uncanny knack for making money, he married the only daughter of a destitute lord, restoring both the family seat of power and their bottom line in the course of only a few years. That there were rumors of profiteering, booty confiscated illegally from the war and unscrupulous dealings was of little consequence. The family had its money as well as its secrets and worked long and hard to protect both.

Crossing the street, they watched as he walked into a big building, ornate and beautiful. They followed and entered the elevator next to the one he took, its wrought iron mesh door making the inside of the baroque building visible for their entire journey. They stood quietly, noting the floor that Stoddard stopped on. Stepping out on the floor above, Illya took the stairs while Napoleon went back down again. Getting off on Stoddard’s floor, he walked along the corridor checking names on each door. They were of investment bankers, all of them old and venerable sounding firms. When he got to the end, the place where a suite of offices were housed, the names changed. The door read, "Stoddard, Cummings, Barnable and Jade, Ltd." They were listed on the directory nearby as international financiers and traders in bullion. Napoleon turned and walked back to the elevator, Illya joining him. Pushing the button, they began the journey downward.

"It appears our friend has a family that is in international financing and bullion exchange."

"It must be nice," Illya agreed, leaning against the wall, his face thoughtful. "I wonder if *daddy* knows his son is a golden boy?"

"Well, at least *daddy* has some experience with gold," Napoleon said with a long suffering and faux sympathetic look.

Illya grinned. "I suppose this means that we have to hang around below and wait for him to come out."

"I would think so." Napoleon watched as the elevator stopped and the door slid open, allowing them to leave. As he did, he looked up, drawn by the sounds of shouting. Stepping back into the elevator, he and Illya stood silently, their eyes following the sound and movement of people above them. Their angry voices echoed off the walls of the big building, open as it was to all floors from the inside. The surprisingly Mediterranean-like interior of the building’s design was a godsend, Napoleon thought as he watched arms waving over the railings that lined each corridor. Finally, after a quietly whispered argument, the voices stopped.

Illya glanced at Napoleon and they listened as the sound of an elevator coming signaled them to move. They stepped out and moved into the shadows, falling back toward the stairwell as they waited. The elevator stopped and Lawrence got out, his face flushed with anger. Storming out, they waited a moment and followed, unaware of the figure of a tall man watching over the railing.

Stepping outside, they followed Lawrence as he walked briskly toward a cab stand. Signaling, he entered and the cab drove off, shortly followed by one with the two agents. They drove through the town until they reached the edge and there Lawrence stopped, paying and walking away toward a warren of streets that led to older parts of town. Illya and Napoleon followed him, noting where he was going through much practice. He was upset and so it was time to medicate, a mix of cheap booze and rough sex the tonic of choice.

They followed him to a club and entered, noting once again the shady clientele. It was filled with anonymous men having anonymous encounters with other anonymous men. In short, it was another hangout for men of this stripe who wanted what they wanted without strings attached. Napoleon glanced at Illya, noting his slightly perturbed expression and grinned. "Well, when in Rome ..." he said, slipping an arm around his lover.

"Don’t remind me," Illya replied sourly, allowing Napoleon to lead him to the bar. At the other end Lawrence sat fuming as he ordered the first of many drinks that night. Napoleon and Illya sat at the opposite end nursing whiskey and vodka, watching as Lawrence nervously drank and conversed with men who would come to him one by one. He would talk to them but not accept their invitations to the back room, seemingly waiting for someone to appear and for two hours no one did. Then a man arrived, a swarthy man of Middle Eastern complexion and they sat together closely for over an hour talking and drinking straight shots.

"Who do you suppose that is?" Illya asked, his voice low as he spoke to his partner in Russian.

Napoleon shrugged. "His boy friend, no doubt." Napoleon glanced at Illya, a smile forming on his handsome face. "Boy friend. You would know something about that now wouldn’t you?"

A smirk crossed Illya’s face and he looked at Napoleon with cool eyes. "We both would, it would seem."

"Yeah," Napoleon replied, leaning in to kiss Illya softly on the lips.

The Russian allowed the liberty, the embarrassment of public display only mildly acute. He sighed, looking at Napoleon smugly. "You can not keep your hands off of me, can you?"

Napoleon smirked. "No. I can’t."

At that point the men at the end of the bar rose, walking toward the back room and the inevitable sex that included. Napoleon rose from his stool, holding his hand out to his partner. With a groan and a sigh of resignation, Illya Kuryakin took it and together they followed, entering a dark passage broken up with small rooms and soft sounds of passion.

A door closed, a half door that allowed sight over the top and bottom and Napoleon checked until he found the cubicle that they had entered. The only other available one was directly across and they entered, closing the door behind them. Illya stared at Napoleon, drawing a grin from his partner with his wary look of impatience. Turning, Napoleon crouched and watched under the door, his view of the two men’s feet unimpeded.

He could see them facing each other, moving together as sounds reached them. One foot, Stoddard’s, rose from sight as he brought his leg up around his partner’s body. Napoleon swallowed and moved slightly, allowing Illya to join him on the floor. For a short while the two men across the way merely kissed and rubbed against each other and then the agents could hear murmurs. Clothes began to fall, Stoddard’s and the other man and then Stoddard’s feet turned as he braced against the wall.

Guttural sounds commenced as Stoddard stood braced and soon it was apparent that his partner was fucking him. He groaned and gasped, the erotic sounds of his predicament not unnoticed by two men on their hands and knees watching under the door. Over and over Stoddard’s feet jolted upward and then they stopped, the pause pregnant. Illya sat back, wiping the sweat off his upper lip and watched Napoleon, ass in the air, peering under the door at the cubicle across the hall. He grinned at the sight and promised to bring it up at a later and more secure moment.

Stoddard’s feet turned and they stood together, holding each other Napoleon guessed before hands reached for clothes and the show was over. Napoleon sat back, rubbing his face with his own hands and turned to the bemused gaze of his partner, sitting casually on a bench behind him. "Wasn’t that fun?"

"For whom?" Illya asked, his voice cool even if his expression was amused.

"I think I need a smoke." The smile that brought from Illya made him feel warm. Napoleon rose and offered his hand, pulling Illya to his feet. They stood for a moment, waiting for the two men to leave and when they did, they followed. Stoddard and the man left, walking in the street outside to a car that was parked near an alley. The two agents followed, hailing a cab and they pursued the small French automobile as it went through the city once more. After about twenty minutes of driving, it pulled up near a small store front athletic club, the two men getting out and going in together.

Napoleon paid their cabbie and the two men walked closer, studying the writing on the door of the club. It was in Arabic, the writing stating that the premises was the home of the Afghanistan Men’s Social Organization. They considered the man who had picked up Stoddard and moved across the street to a cafe, sitting near the window so they could watch.

"What do you suppose he’s doing with an Afghani?" Napoleon asked as he sipped his coffee.

Illya shrugged. "There might be people who would ask you what you’re doing with a Soviet."

Napoleon turned his dark gaze on the younger man. "That would be none of their business."

"Perhaps," Illya countered good naturedly. "The McCarthy element of the world will always ask."

"Fuck the McCarthy element," Napoleon replied softly.

"You won’t get an argument from me," Illya replied, his eyes shining. "This man ... I want to know who and what he is. Apparently, it was enough to get a fight going in his father’s offices."

"True," Napoleon replied. "I wonder what bothered Daddy the most ... his homosexuality or his choice of men?"

"Daddy must be part of T.H.R.U.S.H. We have to know more of this man," Illya said, glancing out the window.

At that moment, Stoddard had walked out, the man with him. They stood on the curb for a moment, their bodies very close. Stoddard had a warm expression on his face and the other man spoke to him, their lips very close together. Then he turned and hailed a passing cab, watching as Stoddard climbed in, still a bit unsteady from his afternoon exertions.

Napoleon and Illya rose, money dropped on their table and walked outside, climbing into a parked cab. As the other drove off, they told their driver to follow. For about twenty-five minutes they appeared to be driving aimlessly and then Stoddard got out at a large block-sized ornate building, the kind that housed wealthy families that lived in the city. He paid for his cab and walked unsteadily to the building, going inside past the doorman, who nodded at him familiarly.

"Well, the mark is at home," Illya said, standing on the curb as Napoleon paid for the cab.

"What now?"

Napoleon shrugged, looking up at the tall and ornate building. "Home, James?"

Illya grinned and nodded. "Home, James, whoever he is."



December 13, 2000, Cascade, Washington ...

He crept along the side of the house, noting the security alarms that wired it into a sense of safety. They would be no problem to him, their circumvention easily enough done. What would be interesting would be getting into the bedroom where his mark lay without waking anyone else. He had cased the house since noon, noting coming and going. By now, at midnight to be precise, there should be no one awake. Only the mark, his wife and his youngest son should be there. Everyone else was gone.

Mario Francetti was a wealthy man. He had gotten his legitimate wealth through importing and exporting. The illegal wealth, something that law enforcement was trying to tie to him was harder to find. He was a powerful figure in the Italian Mafia, with tie-ins to the New York Syndicate that spanned forty years. He was ruthless, smart and no one to trifle with. His enemies didn’t last long and the retribution of any attacks against him were fierce and furious.

He had been born in Cascade, growing up here when it was a middling city on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Now that it was the ‘Century of the Pacific Rim‘, Cascade’s importance had not been missed by the criminal element and their growing international connections. Mario Francetti had ties to the Columbian and Tijuana drug cartels, Indonesian drug consortiums and the Russian Mafia. That claque of vipers had seen the need of having an ‘inside’ man and had stepped up to the top man on the west coast of the biggest market in the world, America.

He had made shrewd deals, developing more and more connections until he had inadvertently tapped into the biggest and most dangerous one of all, International T.H.R.U.S.H. Of course, he didn’t know that he had been targeted years before. T.H.R.U.S.H. had been very patient, helping him outside his awareness where they could. They had their plans laid, once they had gone underground and their tentacles were reaching into corners previously unknown to them, consolidating their power, their influence and their control over resources with each small step.

Mario Francetti was just one more step in their ultimate goal of controlling not only entire countries but the world’s economy and the supply of what people most wanted everywhere. Cascade was perfectly located, one of the most important hub crossroads anywhere, a city situated in the most excellent manner for international trade and they had targeted both it and its criminal leadership for acquisition.

Illya broke the connection of the alarm to the buzzer and control station that monitored Francetti’s safety. The dummy connection that he had put on the trigger would report to all concerned that they were safe and well. He moved to a window and cut a piece out, putting it gently on the ground. The dogs that were rumored to inhabit the house were no where to be seen and so he climbed in, moving with tiger-like stealth toward the stairs nearby.

He had gotten plans from Granger, the mark of the night before and now he put them to use. Christmas parties at this house were legendary for their extravagance and the type and nature of those in attendance. Granger had been to all of them for the past twenty years and had told of the layout in great detail. Walking up the stairs, moving two at a time, he reached the upper level. There were five bedrooms here and three on the next level. Francetti slept in the first one, his wife had her own next door. He would neutralize these two and then climb up to the third and take out the son.

Opening the door slowly, he stepped inside the huge room, spotting Francetti sleeping in the bed by himself. He set his gun and fired once, noting a slight groan as Francetti was hit. A joining door was locked and so he crept out into the hallway, moving to the door that led to the room next to Francetti’s. Opening it, he stepped inside and found Mario’s wife, firing and sedating her as well. He pulled a syringe out of his pocket and slipped the needle into her arm, extending the time she would be asleep. Moving to the door, he listened, hearing nothing outside. Turning, he climbed the stairs, heading for the bedroom of the eighteen year old son of his enemy.

He could hear music as he got closer and he opened the door with extreme care. A boy was sitting, strumming a guitar and when he opened the door and stepped in, he noted another boy sitting on the floor next to him. He shot automatically, grateful for good reflexes and when he was done, he sedated both teenagers with his syringe. Placing them on the floor in more comfortable positions, he went back downstairs to Francetti’s room. Closing the door, he pulled his pack off, taking out another vial and syringe. Filling it with truth serum, Illya jabbed it into Francetti’s arm, rolling him over on the bed. Looking at him with loathing, Illya sighed grimly. "Mr. Francetti, can you hear me?"

For a moment there was no answer and then Francetti nodded, sweat beading on his face. "Yes."

"Good. You’re going to answer my questions and if you do that nicely, I’ll let you live. If you don’t, I will kill you without mercy. Do you believe me?" he asked grimly.

"Y-yes ... I believe ... you," Francetti answered, his face contorted in fear.

Kuryakin put things back into his bag and turned, noting the expression on Francetti’s face with satisfaction. "I’d be afraid of me too," he whispered as a memory of Napoleon’s suffering came unbidden. Then, without any further distraction, he began an interrogation that would last two hours.

December 14, 2000, downtown Cascade PD ...

They sat in their office, late night Cascade filtering through the window nearby. On a chalkboard, written in Jim’s precise hand, the trail of murders were laid out. They began in 1964, a smattering of unexplained and unsolved murders in Europe. There were two in Ireland, three in Hungary, a number of maybe-linked shootings in Germany, both Western and Eastern and four in England. There were a number in Africa and the Middle East but they were sketchy. Only when they were entered into international databases such as Interpol did they come to the attention of U.N.C.L.E. It was at this point, as far as they could tell, that the case was assigned to C.E.A Napoleon Solo and his new partner, Illya Kuryakin. The case would remain open and unsolved for forty odd years, the two people controlling and working on it the same two who were awarded it by the luck of the draw in 1964.

In 1966, the murders began again but they were scattered around the globe, the pattern at the time seemingly too obtuse to link together. There were murders in Indonesia, the Philippines, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Canada, China and the United States. The last ones before this spree here were in Manhattan, where Kuryakin and Solo always lived and worked and in the Sudan, a known enemy of the United States. The spree that began in 1966 continued, one or two murders with the same M.O. being carded each and every year.

Jim Ellison studied the chart, the carefully researched profile of each victim lying on the table along with their pictures, many of them black and white. Blair sat tapping a pencil, concentrating on the problem before them. Jim smiled at him, amused by the look of serious intent on the younger man’s face. He reached over and stilled the pencil, drawing a sheepish grin from his partner.

"Sorry."

"No problem, Chief. Let’s look at this for a moment. The only link they have in common is the business they were in, crime, and the way they died, a clean shot to the head. No one was ever caught, no clues were ever found yet this murderer--"

"Or murderers," Blair interjected.

Jim nodded. "*Or* murderers ... is continuing today. We have the kill record of any location around. We now have three confirmed hits, one iffy hit and one anomaly."

"The girl?" Blair asked, memories of her indignant end filling his mind.

"She’s the anomaly. Hit men with this tight an M.O don’t change it easily. This killer made sure that when they did the contract, no one else was around. Hitting Granger, even with the girl there ... that doesn’t seem right. We’re talking about a rigid M.O spanning nearly forty years."

"You know, this guy was killing people fifteen years before I was born," Blair said, a grin on his face. "You weren’t born either."

"Weird isn’t it," Jim agreed. "The only common thread that this has besides the manner of death and the fact that these men are criminals are the U.N.C.L.E. agents."

"This has to be personal. Maybe the anomaly came about because Illya Kuryakin murdered the girl. Maybe the other hits were made by the killer, for whatever reason ... maybe they hate drug dealers or arms runners, who knows ... but maybe this last hit was made by Kuryakin. That would explain how come it’s different."

"But it won’t explain the girl, not really," Jim said. "Kuryakin is gay. He’s been with Napoleon Solo at least from 1964. What gay man would torture a woman like this? This is sexual sadism. I don‘t see him doing this for kicks. What would he gain from doing it? This has sadist written all over it and nothing in Kuryakin’s profile indicates that he’s a sadist."

"Maybe not. Maybe someone with him is. Maybe he knew there would be another person there and he struck with someone else helping. After all, he is a spy. You can’t imagine the kinds of things that the government can do," Blair began, his enthusiasm growing.

"Hang on, Chief," Ellison said with amusement. "I don’t think I’m up to your conspiracy theories just now. Let’s stick to the facts. What do all the hits have in common, even this last one?"

They sat a moment and Ellison began, piecing the shattered picture together in his head. "All of the men involved were in the drug and gun running trade. They were all men on the way up or men who had arrived there. They were decision-makers for this particular organization and they all are dead with one clean shot through the head. All of them here were killed when it rained, even Granger. It was raining last night."

Blair nodded. "I don’t think the rain angle will hold up with the Sudan and Saudi Arabia but the others do. It was during the monsoon season that the hits in Indonesia and the Philippines happened. All of the others happened in the fall, well into the rainy season for most of the areas in question. This is interesting. Why rainy? Why not summer? Why not dead of winter? Why when it rains?"

"Rain keeps people away. Rain washes clues away. Most of the footprints that I have seen were disturbed by the rain. Rain muffles sound. There’s a lot of positives in choosing to kill someone in the rain. It also washes away the blood." Jim sat back, chewing on the end of a pencil. "This is fetish killing. This is ritual. This killer has stuck to a plan that he’s had for forty years. This person has a vendetta. This isn’t something that gets changed easily. I think we have an anomaly here with this woman. Something or someone else has entered the picture."

"Or ... it could be that someone has stolen this M.O. to use and the woman was just an opportunity to exercise a bit of sadism on the side," Blair conjectured.

Jim nodded and tossed the pencil on the table. "Could be, Chief. Could be any one of many things. What would be nice is to know where Kuryakin is right now."

"Maybe we can make a call? Call his house and ask him. Simon gave you his number, remember, the one from Kuryakin‘s card?" Blair asked.

Jim sat up and checked his coat pocket, finding in a pocket the scrap of paper with Kuryakin and a phone number written on it. He dialed it, waiting as it called through. A woman answered.

"This is U.N.C.L.E. May I help you?" she asked.

"This is Detective James Ellison of the Cascade, Washington Police Department. I’m trying to reach your C.E.A, Illya Kuryakin. He gave me his card and this number."

"One moment please."

He held, the silence stretching out. Then she spoke again.

"Mr. Kuryakin is out of the office today. He’s away on business. Can I take a message for you and have him call you back?"

"No thank you. I’ll call back myself. Thank you again."

He hung up and looked at his partner. "Kuryakin is out of the office on business."

"I wonder if he’s out of the state?" Blair asked, watching Jim rise and gather his coat up.

"I don’t know how to find out. I have a feeling that office has orders not to tell when he’s gone. After all, his boy friend is in charge."

Blair grinned, shrugging into his coat. "And there’s something wrong with that?"

Jim grinned and held the door open as the two stepped out into the darkened corridor. It was almost four o’clock in the morning. They walked together to the elevator, passing night shift personnel when the call came in. Walking outside, Jim’s cell went off. He opened it with a
pending sense of dread. "Ellison here."

"Jim? This is Simon. Get over to 42175 West Bancroft Drive. There’s been another murder."

"Who is it, did they say?" he asked, a frown forming on his face as he considered the ritzy neighborhood in question.

"Mario Francetti has been killed."

"On my way," Jim said, shutting off the phone. Taking Blair’s elbow, the two of them walked quickly for Jim’s truck and without a word, drove off into the night.



December 14, 2000, New Jersey ...

He walked from the hangar, exhausted and tense. Opening his car, he stowed his gear and settled, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the quiet street beyond. The night had passed and early morning was upon them. He had a long commute to Manhattan and the medical section of U.N.C.L.E. Today, they would bring Napoleon out of his sedated sleep and get him ready to go home. The new treatment, a modification of the serum that had kept him well for a little less than a year was working. He was relieved that it was, the one other time it didn’t in all their thirty-four years of fighting this problem was fresh in his memory. They had to improvise each time, making a guess among all the possibilities which one would work for a while as the toxin mutated in Napoleon’s blood stream.

He drove for an hour, entering the turnpike on his way to New York City. Cars went past him and he passed others, all of them heading toward the great city rising up before them. By the time he reached the street where the parking garage was, he was extremely fatigued. He drove in, passing the electronic surveillance and pulled into his reserved space. Beside him, his name on the small plaque fronting the empty space, he could see Napoleon’s. Swallowing hard, he climbed out and began the long walk to U.N.C.L.E.’s special medical section where Napoleon was still a patient.

Passing security, his legendary number two badge in place, he entered the corridor for Medical and walked directly to Napoleon’s room. He was sleeping comfortably, the tubes and other monitoring paraphernalia missing this time. He sighed. That was a good sign. Moving to the bed, he sat and took Napoleon’s hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it softly. Napoleon stirred, his dark lashes moving. Then he settled.

The door opened and the doctors came in, filling him in on their efforts. Napoleon had adapted and they were good for another ten or eleven months, just as they had been since 1965. He nodded and murmured his gratitude, rising and watching as they began to revive the silent figure on the bed. Napoleon groaned and sat up with help, his face ashen with fatigue.

"Mr. Solo? This is Doc Marks. It’s time to go home," he said, holding smelling salts under Napoleon’s nose. The older man jerked his head away, his face coloring slightly as he blinked his eyes. Shaking his head, he looked up groggily.

"Mr. Kuryakin, if you’d like to see to him, we’ll leave for a few minutes."

Illya nodded, watching as their close friend and ally, Jacob "Doc" Marks ushered everyone out. He moved over and sat down, his hand brushing Napoleon’s soft black hair away.

"Time to go, Napoleon. Time to go home."

He sighed and looked at Illya, at the tired but gentle expression on his pale face. "You look exhausted, Illya. Are you all right?"

Illya leaned forward and kissed Napoleon softly on the lips. "I’m fine." He rose and pulled the covers back. "Now come ... I will help you."

With that, Napoleon slowly got out of bed and dressed with Illya’s assistance. By the time they were ready to leave, his hair was combed, he was washed and revived and walking under his own two feet. Illya stood beside him, a hand on his arm as they walked to where the medical team was waiting. Napoleon smiled and offered his hand, thanking them all one by one. Illya stood beside him, his eyes only on Napoleon and when he was finished speaking to the group, they turned and walked to the elevator.

"I’ll send the serum over to your apartment," Jacob Marks said. "I’ll have the office stocked as well."

"Thank you, Jacob," Illya said as he pressed the button of the elevator. Beside him, leaning wearily against the wall, Napoleon Solo, Director of U.N.C.L.E, North America waited for the ride to go home.


At the same time, West Bancroft Drive, Cascade ...

The house was surrounded by police cars when they arrived. Men and women wearing identifying jackets of the Sheriff’s Department, the FBI, the Cascade PD, the Department of Justice, and the Medical Examiner’s Office were working, talking together in groups or walking in and out of the big expensive home that was Mario Francetti’s. At least, it was until now. They parked, pinned on ID and walked to the porch, passing a gurney with a body in a black bag. Entering, they nodded to familiar faces as they walked to where Simon Banks stood, talking with the Sheriff and the Agent-In-Charge of the local FBI office.

"Jim," Simon said, introducing him to the Agent-In-Charge. They shook hands and Jim listened to the brief outline of what was known.

"The maid and cook came to work this morning at 6:30 AM and found the family and a family friend dead. Francetti was shot through the head, one clean shot," Agent Marshall said, "and the wife was beaten to death with a fire place tool, probably a poker. The boys were found upstairs, their hands bound behind them and a couple of rounds in each head, fired from the back at point blank. Nothing was taken, at least as far as we can tell and the perp left clean. There’s a window cut open in the back that appears to be the point of entry and exit. The security system was tampered with in a way that didn’t alert the security company."

Jim sighed and nodded. "Upstairs?"

The Sheriff nodded. He turned and with Blair trailing, walked up the first flight to the bedroom. People were in there and he stood in the doorway, dialing down his sense of smell. There was blood on the bed, the stench strong and Blair turned, stepping back into the hallway to wait. Jim scanned the room, looking all over the floor for any telltale signs of the killer. Something caught his attention and he walked to the window, looking down at the floor.

Reaching out, he picked up a shiny small object and rose, turning and moving silently from the room. With Blair in tow, he walked into the next room and noted the carnage. He turned and nodded to Blair to stay and walked in, the door ajar behind him. She had no recognizable face, that part of her obliterated by a bloody piece of steel lying on the floor where a crime tech was taking its picture. She was sprawled out, dressed in her negligee and everywhere around her on the bed and floor parts of her brains and bone, along with most of her blood lay scattered. He swallowed and walked out, moving machine-like to the next floor bedrooms.

A deputy sheriff nodded to him and let Jim past, the silent figure moving into the bedroom that contained the two bodies of boys barely old enough to drive let alone to die this way. Jim felt the bile rising in his throat and after a cursory glimpse around, turned and walked out. He paused, breathing deeply and walked down the stairs. Blair followed silently, the two walking to the porch and over to where their truck sat. Leaning against the rain spotted vehicle, Jim opened his hand, staring at the Soviet era ruble that glittered in his hand. This one was newer than the last but nevertheless was Russian.

"Another ruble?" Blair asked, looking from it to Jim’s face.

He nodded. "A plant, obviously."

"How do you know?"

"How many odds are against you losing a ruble at each site when you’re taking care not to get caught? This is someone who is supposed to be clever enough to get away with serial murder for over forty years in countries all over the world. He wouldn’t make this mistake. Besides, this fucks up the whole investigation."

"How?" Blair asked, watching as two gurneys went inside for occupants.

"This has the clean shot murder but it also has three more, a bludgeoning that is clearly psychotic and two shot back-of-the-head murders of kids. This is not the same M.O. This is someone borrowing someone else’s signature."

"Maybe the killer is getting worse, maybe their mental health finally snapped and they’ve gone over the edge. Maybe the part of the clean shot is the old M.O. mingling with something newer brought about by mental breakdown," Blair posited.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Jim replied, gazing at the sky as droplets began to fall. "Maybe there’s another player altogether."


December 15, 2000, Manhattan ...

"I’d rather sit on the couch with you."

"What you want and what you’re going to get are two different things, my friend," Illya Kuryakin replied, gently steering his partner into their bedroom. Behind the king-sized bed the skyline of Manhattan soared and Napoleon stared at it with pleasure.

"The city is still here," he said, sitting and grinning as Illya knelt and began to remove his shoes and socks. "Good to see it again."

"Good that you’re here to see it," his dour companion replied. "You’ve been asleep for two and a half days."

"Feels like it," he replied, watching as his partner unfastened his pants and belt, tugging at them as he pulled them off. He grinned slightly. "Ah, this brings back memories."

Concerned eyes looked up, measuring the mood of the man before him. He moved forward, slipping his arms around Napoleon’s hips. Sighing deeply, Illya pressed his face against Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon embraced him back, rubbing his face against the soft hair on Illya’s
head.

"You feel so good," Illya said softly, rubbing his cheek against the smooth cotton of Napoleon’s shirt.

"You do too," Napoleon said, kissing Illya’s forehead. "I’m sorry, Illya. I’m sorry for a lot of things."

Illya sat back on his heels, his hands resting on Napoleon’s bare thighs. "You can never say that to me. You can’t. There is nothing to say about that, Napoleon."

"There’s oceans of things, Illya. You never let me say them."

For a moment he looked into Napoleon’s serious face and then he rose, picking up Napoleon’s clothes and walked to the closet. He opened it and dropped the shoes on the floor. "There’s nothing to say."

"I haven’t made love to you, not the way we used to for thirty-four years, Illya. I don’t know why you stayed with me."

For a moment there was nothing and then Illya spun, his expression enraged. "How can you *tell me* this? How *can you* wonder why I’m with you? What do you want me to say? How can I tell you what I feel in my heart ..." His voice trailed off and he looked at the slacks in his hands, his fingers twisting the fabric. He stopped and folded them, blinking at tears in his eyes. "Nothing could ever make me leave you. Not even if you wanted it would I go."

"I know that," Napoleon said gently. He sighed tiredly. "I wish I could touch you the way I used to. All this time ... all this time, Illya. I never said to you how much your feelings for me meant. I guess ... I guess it’s hard to find words."

"Yes," Illya said emphatically, moving to sit in a chair, the slacks still in his hands. He stared at the floor, memories flooding his mind. "I missed you for a long time but I got over it." He looked at the quiet man on the bed. "I’m not as sexually needy as you."

Napoleon snorted and grinned. "That’s a quaint way to put it."

Illya leaned back, relaxing in the chair, hugging the slacks against his chest. "I don’t know. Maybe it was my upbringing. We’re not a libertine people. I figured that you would notice that by now."

"I had," Napoleon said, smiling softly. "However, I do recall that you have the noisiest and biggest orgasms of just about anyone I ever met."

Illya blushed, looking away for a moment. "You were beautiful too. I remember when you told me that, when you said I was beautiful. I knew then that no matter what happened to us, I would never leave you. I would live with you until the day I died."

"I felt the same way." Napoleon sighed. "I wish I could feel again. I want to make love to you so much. I dream about it, you know. I go over my memories of you and I all the time."

"You too?" Illya asked, glancing at him shyly. "I do too."

"I’m sorry," Napoleon whispered.

"Don’t be," Illya said brusquely. He rose and put the folded trousers on the dresser. Turning, he stared at his partner, at the weak and tired expression of his body as he sat. "You are my life, Napoli. You have been since that day in Budapest. No matter what our life is like, living with you even ill is preferable to any other thing I can imagine."

Napoleon looked up, his eyes dark with emotion. "Lie down with me and hold me?"

Illya moved closer and took Napoleon’s face into his hands. Leaning down, he kissed him as tenderly as he knew how. He stroked Napoleon’s face gently and then he helped him lie down, unbuttoning his shirt so that he could lay his face upon the soft skin of Napoleon’s chest. They lay together, Napoleon’s arms around Illya and it was quiet for a moment.

"Tell me the rest of this story some time. Promise me," Napoleon said softly, his hand stroking Illya’s soft hair.

"I will," Illya lied as he snuggled closer to his lover. "Some day when it doesn’t matter." He sighed and closed his eyes, drifting off into a light sleep.

Napoleon lay awake, holding him and thinking about other times long ago.


December 14, 2000, Cascade ...

It was evening before they reached their home, walking inside and closing the door behind. They had grabbed a bite through the drive-in, bringing it home to sit at the table and eat. Both of them moved as if under water, the fatigue factor over the top of the scale. Blair picked up his half-eaten sandwich and half empty beer and put it in the sink, turning and leaning down as he kissed his partner.

"I’m going to shower and hit the sack," he said, moving toward the bathroom slowly.

Jim watched him go and finished a fry. Rising, beer in hand, he moved to the couch and sat, turning on the television with the remote control. Evening news was on and he watched the report on the murders, numbering nine now. The Mayor was giving a tense talk to the press. They showed crime scenes and he watched himself walk to his truck with Blair as they passed behind Simon, who had been cornered by the press.

He sighed and turned it off, sitting with his head back as he heard Blair pad down the hallway barefooted and climb the stairs. He rose slowly and watched Blair disappear, heading as he was to the bathroom. Stripping tiredly, he stood under the water until he felt clean and then toweled off, walking to the stairs naked. Pausing, he turned and locked up, memories of dead bodies filling his mind. He sighed and walked upstairs, pulling on the shorts and t-shirt that Blair had laid on the foot of the bed for him. Climbing in, he moved and wrapped his arms around his partner as he spooned behind him. Sighing with fatigue, he cleared his mind with effort and willed himself to sleep.


December 21, 2000, Manhattan ...

Illya Kuryakin walked from Napoleon’s office. The morning briefing had gone well even though the news of the killings in Cascade had disturbed Solo. He had looked at Illya, the younger man skillfully avoiding his eyes. They had broken up, each man and woman returning to their regularly scheduled activities. Since Illya had the task of assigning people to them he was sure he could manage the growing concern about Cascade. After all, this was also the terrain of the Green River Killer.

He entered his office and sat at his desk, pulling up the screen that he had minimized on his computer. On it, cataloged as so many ciphers, the extent of the massacre in Cascade was written. The boys and the woman were collateral damage. He was aware of what that might mean to the M.O. that had been so carefully crafted. However, there was nothing that could be done about it. That part of things was already beyond his power to manage. As he sat frowning at the screen, he was unaware of someone watching him.

Napoleon stood in the doorway, watching his partner struggle with the problem that he had never shared. From the first day that he had become ill, Illya had been on a tear. He was as obsessed with the idea of solving their mutual agony as Napoleon was to have it solved. But as the years wore on and his fears of Illya leaving him subsided, he had almost become resigned to his fate. Napoleon Solo was nothing if not a pragmatic man.

"You look intense."

Illya glanced up startled and turned his screen slightly, sheltering it from viewing. He leaned back into his chair, regarding the man in the door with curiosity. "Since when does one of the five most powerful men in the world come down to where the peons work?" he asked, the bantering tone just slightly edgy.

"When the peons don’t know when to ask for help."

Illya looked at him and then reached over, shutting off the computer. The hum ended and then it was silent again.

The Cascade Affair: ACT V: "We were good, weren't we?"


"Are you going to ask me to come in?" Napoleon asked, leaning against the door jamb with his usual grace and nonchalance.

"It would appear to most that you are already in." Illya watched as Napoleon stepped inside and closed the door, moving to sit in a comfortable chair that once belonged to Illya when he was number two in the enforcement hierarchy. He settled and turned to his partner, a grin slowly spreading on his face.

"This is your old chair. I didn’t know you were so sentimental."

"I kept you too," Illya said, his voice wistful.

"So you did," Napoleon replied with a grin. "Do you ever miss it? Those times when we were the terror of the civilized world?"

Illya relaxed a little, the ghost of a smile forming on his lips. "Everyday."

"We were good weren’t we?" Napoleon asked, his voice just a trifle wistful too. He sighed, turning to his partner. "I have never trusted anyone in my life the way I do you. I don’t say much. I don’t know how to sometimes. I just know that with you, words aren’t always necessary. However, that doesn’t absolve me of saying what needs to be said when it has to be. Like right now."

"Now." Illya echoed his last word, dreading the argument that would result if Napoleon pushed him. "Not now, Napoli. Not now, not ever. You gave your word to me."

"I was ill," Napoleon chided slightly. "I was sick and not thinking the way I should. I was wrong to agree."

"No, you did what you thought was right and there is no reason to believe that anything is different."

"It is, though," Napoleon replied, his dark eyes searching for understanding. "All our life together the burden of hard things has been on your back. I couldn’t half the time step in and take care of it. It was wrong of me."

"We’re a team, Napoli," Illya said softly, his eyes misting. "You do what you can and I do what I can. Between us we never fail."

"I have," Napoleon countered with a sigh. "I gave you my word when I was sick and I hadn’t thought what it might mean in the long run. All these years, all these long years of taking care of things, of searching for something that will probably never be found. It might be that it’s always like this, Illya Nickovetch. What then?"

Illya sat a moment, the impossibility of what Napoleon was gently implying warring with his implacable will. He rose and turned away, unwilling to stare at the calm concerned man who sat in front of him. He turned again, his face flushed with emotion. "No! I won’t countenance it! It can’t be this way forever! I won’t allow it!" he said, his words painful to listen to. Napoleon rose and started toward him. Illya put up his hand as he struggled to gather his emotions together again. "No. Please."

Napoleon stopped, his face a wash of misery. "Illya, you have to tell me. Tell me now. Let me *help* you. You say we’re partners. Let me *be* your partner. Don’t you know what it means to me to be shut out? No more. Please. I take back my promise. I want to help you. Talk to me. *Please*."

Illya stared at him, the agony of his emotions beating a staccato in his head. He shook his head and blinked back tears. "You can’t help me, Napoleon. I do this for you. I want you well," he said softly. "I don’t want to lose you sometime when they can’t modify the serum."

"You won’t," Napoleon said, his voice soft and gentle. "I promise you that. I promise."

"You can’t," Illya said, brushing his tears away brusquely. "That’s one promise you can’t give to me."

Napoleon took a ragged sigh and nodded, suddenly feeling weak and old. He would be seventy soon, seventy years old. The thought of it was almost impossible to consider after a lifetime lived in danger and intrigue. He turned and walked to the door, sad and defeated. Before he got there he felt a hand grip his arm. Turning, he was enveloped in a strong embrace and he returned it, holding Illya in his arms as tightly as he could. They stood together forever and then they stepped back, staring at each other with anguish.

"I will tell you soon," Illya said, rubbing his eyes with a hand even as the other gripped Napoleon’s arm tightly.

Napoleon nodded, sighing. "I want you to. I want to share the burden. I’m sorry, Illya, for all the years of not asking."

"I would have said the same thing, Napoleon. I would have," Illya replied.

Napoleon’s expression softened and he leaned forward, kissing Illya gently. "I know," he said quietly. With that, he turned and left the office. Illya stared at the door for a long time before returning to his desk and sitting wearily. For a moment he didn’t move and then he rose and threw a tape dispenser across the room.


Zurich, Switzerland, August 3, 1964 ...

They sat in a car, hour after endless hour passing before the mark showed himself again. Lawrence Stoddard, dressed in tight jeans, Italian leather shoes and a polo shirt stepped out and put on a pair of sunglasses. He was leaving his home for the first time in three days and they were glad of it. Boredom was becoming terminal between them and they had run out of trivia questions to pass the time.

He walked on, catching a cab and they joined him, hot in pursuit as Illya drove. Napoleon had received instructions the night before that they were to return unless the mark led them to the cell that was directing T.H.R.U.S.H. Middle Eastern operations. Once they had figured out how the information was passed, they had learned a lot of useful things. They had found out that T.H.R.U.S.H. was trying to corner the market on the middle eastern drug trade, especially among countries like Thailand and Afghanistan. Poppies brought hard cash and bound people to you if you could supply it safely. It was a cash cow and the funds that were earned could be used to destabilize countries and fund terrorism all over the world.

Mr. Waverly had relayed to them that the three older brothers of Lawrence were working in financial offices all over the world, including London and Rio de Janeiro. They were experts at money management and according to analysts at U.N.C.L.E., experts at laundering money through banks and depositories all over the world. They were shadowy figures, seldom seen but five times a year when they all met in Zurich to report to Papa and his own partners, people who
were almost impossible to trace.

Lawrence was the black sheep, a smart but unmotivated boy who had been born in England at the family estate. He was educated in the best schools but had done poorly until Cambridge. He took honors in Economics, proving that numbers ran in the family and had managed to hold a minor placement in his father’s London office without creating too much scandal.

Lawrence liked to drink and he liked to fuck. Men, that is. He was promiscuous and in the underworld of homosexual activity, a place that was filled with shadows and perversions real and imagined, he was known as a punching bag. He liked rough trade, sex without preparation or precaution and the more anonymous, the better. That is, he did until he met a man named Ahmed al-Zeeri. Ahmed was Afghani, a student of Foreign Affairs and International Banking at the University in Zurich and a sexual libertine.

His family had money, lots of it and it was hidden in banks all over Europe and islands off shore that belonged to Britain. He was being trained to follow in his father’s footsteps and take up the family financial empire when it was time. What they hadn’t figured on, nor had they found out yet was that their son was bisexual. Lawrence had a chance encounter and they had formed an alliance, casual on Ahmed’s part and deeply important on Lawrence’s.

Lawrence expected attention and solidarity and Ahmed expected to have his freedom. It was a stormy relationship, Illya and Napoleon had begun to see but a very important one. It had become clear to U.N.C.L.E. that T.H.R.U.S.H. had begun to take an interest in the affairs of the Afghani people and that could only bode ill for the stability of that troubled but pious land. So they sat and watched as the scion of a questionable family went to meet the scion of another, both of them red
flagged by U.N.C.L.E. as potential operatives for their enemy.

They drove through the busy streets until the cab stopped, dropping Lawrence off at the train station. Napoleon jumped out as Illya hurried away to park, the older man following Stoddard through the station. He walked to a counter and bought a ticket for Germany, surprising Napoleon. He had no gear and he wasn’t dressed for the weather front that was coming in over Europe. After a moment Illya was there beside him and together they bought tickets in first class to Berlin. Following Stoddard discretely, they boarded the train as it sat waiting. Moving down the nearly empty train, they found their compartment, which was about four down from Stoddard’s. Closing the door they sat and stared at each other.

"This is strange. He’s going to Germany without a suitcase," Napoleon said, listening as three women walked past. They peered in and waved, giggling together as they moved onward. Napoleon waved back, smiling sweetly. Illya stared at him sourly.

"Flirting are we?" he asked, nudging Napoleon’s shoe with his foot.

"Jealous are we?" Napoleon countered, sitting smugly on his side of the car.

"I’m Russian. We don’t get jealous," Illya replied.

"Really. How is that?" Napoleon asked, grinning slightly at his companion’s dour expression.

"We don’t let our lovers live long enough to do it twice," Illya said, drawing his finger across his throat.

Napoleon considered his actions and nodded. "I’ll do well to remember that."

"You should," Illya said, watching as the women came back to their compartment. He sighed and looked at Napoleon. "You speak ‘woman’. You handle this."

Napoleon grinned and watched curiously as the door opened and the three women stepped inside. One of them, a pretty, buxom girl with a deep Swedish-sounding accent looked at him and smiled as the other two took up seats on each side of Illya. He sighed uncomfortably and schooled his face in as uninviting an expression as he had in his repertoire. She began to speak in an unknown language before Napoleon held up his hand.

"Please, I’m American. Do you speak English?" he asked, a smile on his face.

They all giggled and shook their heads.

"Do you speak ... Francois? Parle vous?" he asked, getting the same response. "Spechen ze Deutch?"

They grinned and the Swedish-sounding girl sat down beside him, slipping her arm through his. She shook her head again. "Non."

Napoleon sighed and looked at Illya, himself half buried in pulchritude. "You’re the foreigner here. You try."

Illya grinned in spite of himself and looked at the woman with Napoleon. "Do you speak Finnish? Russian? Dutch? Polish? Esperanto? Swahili? Lithuanian? Greenbacks?"

Each word drew a negative and soon even the Russian was out of languages. They sat together, the smiling women lounging in the compartment as the train began to leave the terminal. Napoleon
sighed, his exasperation rising almost as fast as Illya’s. "What now?" he asked Illya, watching as a woman thread her finger through his hair.

He extricated them and glared at Napoleon. "You’re the ladies man. You tell me," Illya said, shifting in his seat as the woman on his other side slid her hand into his jacket. As she did, Illya’s hand grasped her wrist tightly. She jerked back and the others rose, pulling guns from their purses.

Napoleon stood, his elbow catching the Swede in the nose. She fell backward like a sack of cement even as the other one beside Illya lunged at him. Napoleon aimed his fist and struck her on the face, dropping her to the floor in an awkward heap. The other woman, seeing her confederates out of commission began to raise her voice. It was short lived as Illya vented his outrage on her jaw. They stood in their compartment, three unconscious women lying on the floor, their guns littering the place as well. Illya bent down and picked them up, putting them on the top of the luggage rack out of the way. He turned and looked at Napoleon, the American watching him with amusement.

"You enjoyed that punch," he said, watching as Illya gathered purses as well.

"I did," he said honestly, finding little ID in the handbags. "I can only conclude that you did too, although I will say mine are less damaged than yours."

He looked at the ‘Swede’, her clothes covered with blood from her smashed nose. He sighed and looked sheepishly at Illya. The Russian smirked and sat on the couch.

"Your somewhat gallant but ultimately misguided feelings of apprehension about striking a woman are once again unworthy of the moment, my friend," Illya said. "Remember the black widow spider."

"I will. What now? Throw them out the window?"

They looked at the window, the city beginning to fly past and knew that was out of the question.

"I think we should lock them up someplace," Napoleon said, casting around for bindings.

"We could leave them here and toss their guns out," Illya opined, sitting back and watching Napoleon as he worked.

"A kid might pick them up. Empty them and lets toss them in the john," Napoleon said, fastening the last woman with her own ribbons. He stood up, pleased with himself.

"Nice work. Remind me to have you do the Christmas and birthday presents," Illya said dryly, rising and peering out the door. He pulled both shades down and stepped back inside. "I’ll check for another compartment."

He was gone for a moment and then back again, helping Napoleon raise a groggy but securely bound woman to her feet. They took her three cars down and dropped her, coming back for the other two. They pulled down the shades and Illya fused the door lock, something that would keep them inside until the train stopped and the outside door became available once more. A short stop in the john eliminated the gun problem and then they moved on, checking surreptitiously the compartment that Stoddard occupied. It was empty.

They hurried on, checking as they went until they reached the dining car where a anxious-acting Stoddard sat by himself, smoking and sipping coffee. He stared at them, his eyes flickering nervously about and then peered out the window. The two agents sat, their gazes averted as they began an earnest conversation together.

"He didn’t recognize us," Illya said, his voice filled with relief.

"He was always unconscious or blotto before. I would be surprised if he remembered anything including his name," Napoleon said, leaning back in his chair. "Those women knew us. T.H.R.U.S.H. is on to us."

"We stay in the open then and watch Stoddard very closely. They obviously have their reasons for being here with him." Illya sighed. "This could get a bit dicey."

"Nice slang," Napoleon complimented, smiling at the waiter as he left them the menu.

"Thank you. Your corrupting influence is growing," Illya said, reading the menu and deciding.

They ordered and sat, their manner relaxed and after a bit another person came into the car, moving to sit with Stoddard. He was tall and nondescript, the sort of person who didn’t get a second glance. Only his clothes, expensive and European, stood out. Napoleon, working on an egg sandwich, watched the two over the top of his food. Illya, his back to them both, listened as hard as he could to the conversation, conducted in German between the two.

The two talked a long time, neither of them touching their food. Finally, the second man stood and walked away, passing the agents without a glance. Stoddard sat at the table, his face a mosaic of hatred and self pity. He stubbed out his cigarette and moved onward, going in the other direction of his dining companion. Illya rose and shadowed him, letting Napoleon pick up the bill. Again.

Stoddard hurried forward and slipped into a men’s room, closing the door behind him. Illya found an empty compartment and staked the restroom out, waiting for Napoleon to catch up. He pulled out his gun, checking its readiness by feel even as his eyes never left the john. Napoleon slipped in and they sat, Napoleon with a clear sight to the mark. Illya sat silently, meticulously checking his gun, slipping the clip in and out of the chamber.

"You’re nervous," Napoleon observed.

"This doesn’t feel right. Something’s going to happen and I can’t figure it out. T.H.R.U.S.H. is here but Stoddard doesn’t seem to know us. We’re still up and running and the mark’s contact met him at the appointed time even though they know we’re here. This is so strange," he said, shaking his head.

"You feel it too?" Napoleon agreed. "Stoddard is just a footman. His father and probably his brothers are the real kingpins here. I wonder what the man in the dining car wanted with him?"

"I don’t know." Illya leaned over and peered out, his gun held down out of sight. "He’s been in there a long time."

"Maybe he doesn’t get enough roughage," Napoleon quipped.

"Maybe he gets too much," Illya countered. "Although I will grant you, there isn’t much roughage in a martini."

"Depends on the olives you use," Napoleon opined, warming to a favorite topic.

They talked for a few more minutes and then Napoleon rose, walking into the hallway and down to the restroom. He tapped on the door and listened. There was only silence. He tapped again, aware of Illya at his side, his hand inside his jacket. They exchanged a glance and then Napoleon reached into his pocket for his ’tool’. He knelt and picked the lock, rising and pulling his gun. Opening the door slowly, he pushed it back to reveal Lawrence Stoddard. He was gently swaying with the train as he hung by his neck from a ceiling pipe. His belt was his rope and his face was contorted by death.

Napoleon pocketed his gun and reached for Stoddard, holding him up while Illya cut the belt. He fell limply against Napoleon and he lowered the Englishman to the floor, laying him gently down. Illya felt for a pulse and glanced at Napoleon, shaking his head, his expression serious. Napoleon pulled Stoddard’s feet inside and both men rose, stepping out. Napoleon shut the door and they turned, walking toward the dining car once more. When they got there, they would stay until the next stop when they would change trains and go back to Zurich once more.

As they left the car, a door opened and the man who had met with Stoddard stepped out, camera in hand. He smiled slightly and considered the day’s work. All in all, not bad. Not bad at all. The Chief Operative of Zurich T.H.R.U.S.H. returned to his compartment, putting the camera and its precious film into a bag. When he got to Zurich, he would develop it and make sure a packet of pictures were delivered anonymously to the offices of Stoddard, Cummings, Barnable and Jade, Ltd.

Closing his door, he sat down and pulled out a cigar, lighting it by scratching the match against his shoe. It burst into flame and he puffed until his Havana was lit. Settling back, he considered the promotion he would surely get from this day’s work. Two agents on tape with a dead body and Stoddard soon to be firmly in the bag for their team if this was handled right. Since he was going to handle it himself, he would make sure it was.

Personally.



The Cascade Affair: "Silver Bells ..."


December 24th, 2000, Manhattan ...

They sat together, enjoying their thirty-ninth Christmas Eve together. Napoleon was stretched out on the couch, shoes off and relaxed, his head laying on Illya’s lap. The Russian was quiet, reading a book as the evening passed. They both were waiting for it, the delivery that always arrived this night but they didn’t speak of it out loud. It was inevitable that it would arrive, a man having them sign for it. Illya had gotten a promise from Napoleon long ago that he would be the one who did. As they sat together, the clocked ticked forward, midnight coming closer and closer ...

Cascade ...

He gasped as he lay face down on the sheets, naked and aroused. A soft kiss to his shoulder made him shiver. He was filled with electricity, the searing kind that rendered him speechless as his lover made things happen inside him by the merest touch of lips or fingers. Blair gripped the sheets, shivering as Jim stroked him, making him ready for his body. Blair pressed his cheek against the pillow, his body arching for his lover as he waited.

Jim Ellison smiled, the fresh scent of his lover’s arousal making him hard. Fingers probed deeper and again Blair moved, groaning constantly. The sight of it filled Ellison with power, the power he always felt when they lay together. Blair was his and he didn’t take it for granted, the younger man his lifeline to sanity, love and hope. He had come into his life and eventually his bed, the two of them finding refuge from the real world around them, the world that didn’t know of or appreciate Ellison’s unique gifts or Sandburg’s ability to harness and focus them. They got the payoff, a police officer unlike any in the world, but they assumed it was because of skill rather than heredity. Ellison had one and harnessed it with the other, utilizing the groaning man beside him as the lock to the puzzle that most of his life had been.

He kissed Blair in the small of his back, running a hand over the round firm flesh of his ass. Soon he would plumb it and take what was his but that would come in its own time. For now, just touching and tasting was enough ...

Manhattan ...

The knock came and they stared at the door, dreading to break the peace of the moment by answering. Napoleon sat up slowly and Illya rose quickly, gun in hand as he moved to the door. Turning, he nodded at Napoleon, who had his own gun, a pillow covering it as he held it on his lap. Illya stuck his gun in the back of his jeans waistband and turned, opening the door slowly. A U.P.S man was standing there, ubiquitous mailer and clipboard in hand.

"Good evening, sir. I have an envelope for a Mister ... Napoleon Solo," he read, consulting his clipboard.

"I’ll sign for it, thank you," Illya said, putting his name on the paper.

The man handed it to him and turned. "Merry Christmas."

"You too," Illya said without conviction. He closed the door, locking it again, and activated the alarms, turning with the mailer held gingerly in his hand.

"Open it," Napoleon said, leaning back as he put the gun back in its place on the shelf behind him. Illya sighed and complied, ripping the seal off. Looking inside, he pulled out two papers, one a picture and another a letter. Moving to sit, he held the letter between them.

"Same old thing," he said, noting the ‘Merry Christmas from someone who wishes you were dead. However, that would be much, too much slow.’ inscription on the expensive sheet of paper. He sighed and then Napoleon reached for the picture under it, pulling it away from Illya. He stared at it, Illya looking too and then he dropped it on the coffee table, leaning back and resting his head on the back of the couch. He closed his eyes in fatigue.

Illya stood and carried the materials to the fireplace, feeding them to the flames. He stood a moment and turned to his lover, wishing more than anything he could save him from the despair this event always brought. But he couldn’t and he knew it so he walked over and pulled the older man into his arms, cradling Napoleon’s head in his lap. As he lay there, comforted by Illya’s hands, they both thought about the image in the photograph. They no longer kept them, these images of thirty-four years ago, images of an evening where someone had eavesdropped.

It was the Bahamas and they had left for vacation. They were waiting for another assignment after the Zurich dead end and a few days off were in order. They swam and tanned and walked and talked all day long, eating good Caribbean food and in the evenings they made love, mad passionate love. Somehow, somewhere, a person had obtained photos of them and one by one, over the past thirty-four years, a single photo and that same slightly askew message was always delivered on Christmas Eve. At first it was embarrassing and worrisome but they never appeared anywhere else. After a few years it became irritating and then aggravating and finally, now, it became sad and frustrating. Each year on Christmas Eve, someone who knew the full story rubbed their nose in what no longer was such a happy and vital part of their lives together. Someone reminded them each year of their deficiency. And they gloated.

Every year, because they did, the fire in Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin to find the perpetrators burned even just that much more brightly. He sighed and stroked Napoleon’s hair, comforting him with his hands even as he found words inadequate. There was nothing to say. There was nothing to say the first time, nor the fifteenth time and there were no words tonight. He just sat, holding Napoleon and humming Russian folk songs, waiting until his lover was ready to walk with him to bed.

Cascade ...

He lay quietly, staring at the ceiling. Blair was dozing, sleeping in his arms. They had made love, a gift they gave each other on this night. He couldn’t think of anything more that he could want than what he had now. They were together, working hard at what they loved and the loneliness was shoved back. He sighed and considered the feelings he had for the man lying with him and he thought about Kuryakin and Solo. They had been together for almost forty years. He wondered if he and Blair would make it that far. He hoped so. Forty years would just about do it, he thought as he absently stroked Blair’s soft hair. Forty years and then some.


October, 1967, Manhattan ...

He came in as quietly as he could, locking the door and setting the alarm behind him. He turned and noted a light on in the living room. Sighing, he braced himself. He gathered his will and nerve, moving into the living room, spotting Napoleon sitting on the couch in the gloom.

"Napoleon?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Where have you been?"

The words were crisp and precise despite the smell of alcohol. Napoleon was drunk, he deduced and he dreaded the interrogation that would follow. For two and a half years they had struggled with Napoleon’s poisoning, the older man wrestling with the fallout of the attack against him. Even as U.N.C.L.E. scientists worked to find a way to remove the toxin from his system, even as they worked to make sure that the next serum was ready when the old one failed, Napoleon fitfully railed against their conclusions.

For a man with the healthy appetite for sex that Napoleon had, this was the most personal attack against him that he had ever sustained. Even the threat of death from failing to adapt to the serum he took daily to stay alive was less of a burden on him than this side affect. They had a very affectionate and robust sex life together, the cooler blood of Illya a nice contrast to the hotter passions of his partner. Illya had enjoyed it, relaxing himself to the whole process of sleeping with
Napoleon and he had missed it too, mourning internally after each failure. Their life consisted of touching and kissing now, of Napoleon pleasing him and Illya fretting and anxious about pleasing Napoleon back.

He had come to hide the fear, the sadness and the anxiety. He bore an equanimity that was only skin deep as he faced each day with his frustrated and emotional partner. Standing in the living room, his partner drunk again, he felt anguish like he hadn’t since the war. Napoleon rose and walked toward him, stopping short of him, a glass half filled with liquor in his hand.

"I was at the lab. Alone," Illya replied truthfully. He turned and tossed his briefcase on the chair. Turning back, he watched as Napoleon drained the glass and spun groggily, throwing it into the fire place. He suppressed the sigh that act raised in him, standing stoically as his partner turned back again fixing him with his accusing eyes.

"Is that all?" Napoleon asked, his eyes filled with rage and anguish.

"Da," Illya replied wearily, falling into Russian without thought.

"English. That’s the language of this country, this country that took you in and gave you a taste of freedom. That’s what this is all about, your freedom. Isn’t it?"

Illya stared at the floor, licking dry lips. "No, Napoleon, it is not."

"Who were you with? Who’s the one?"

Illya turned and rubbed his face, weary to death with the argument and the accusations. He knew that Napoleon was drunk and he knew that he was anguished. It was the only thing that kept him from lashing out, from turning this moment into a conflagration. "You’re drunk," he whispered. "You’re drunk and you don’t know what you are saying. You know that I am faithful to you, Napoleon. You know that."

There was silence and Illya turned, his face filled with the emotional toll of their changed circumstances. Napoleon stood before him, swaying gently and then he stepped forward, embracing Illya in a bear hug. He clutched him, Illya embracing him back and they stood together, the picture of abject misery.

"I think I’m going to be sick," Napoleon whispered and Illya turned, half carrying, half guiding his lover to the bathroom. He fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet, retching until there was nothing left. Sitting back, he leaned against the wall, panting for his breath as his head swam.

Illya turned and got a cloth, wiping Napoleon’s face. "Sit here, Napoli. I’m going to take care of you."

Dark eyes opened, eyes filled with emotion. "You have, Illya. You have."

Illya looked at him, his face filled with sorrow. "I’ll help you. Sit here."

Illya rose and turned, flushing the toilet. He walked to the big tub nearby and turned on the faucets, adjusting the water until it was just right. Turning again, he knelt and began to undress Napoleon, removing his clothes layer by layer. When he was naked he himself rose and stripped, turning and helping Napoleon to his feet. Carefully, with gentle words and touches, he helped Napoleon into the tub, sitting behind him in the warm water. Pulling Napoleon back against his chest, he kissed Napoleon’s neck as he held him.

"I’m sorry," Napoleon whispered. "I didn’t mean what I said. I’m scared, Illya. I’m scared you’ll tire and leave me."

"Never, Napoli," Illya whispered, kissing Napoleon on the neck. "Never, as long as I live."

It was quiet for a moment and then Napoleon sighed. "I don’t want you to waste your life. I want you but I can’t do anything about it."

"Don’t worry," Illya said, nuzzling Napoleon’s neck. "Don’t think about it."

"I can’t help it," Napoleon whispered, anguish in his voice. "This isn’t fair to you."

"It’s not fair to *you*, Napoli," Illya corrected. "*You’re* the one who is suffering. *You’re* the one who is hurt."

They were quiet a while, Illya’s hands stroking Napoleon’s chest.

"Napoleon?"

Napoleon sighed, his eyes fluttering open from the half sleep he was enveloped in.

"Napoleon, promise me."

"What?" he asked, rubbing his face against Illya’s.

"Promise me that you’ll let me hunt them down when you become head of North American U.N.C.L.E. next month. Promise me that you’ll allow me to hunt them and find a cure without interference."

For a moment it was silent and then Napoleon’s hands tightened their grip on Illya’s legs. Illya leaned down and kissed him, his hand threading through Napoleon’s damp black hair. Napoleon kissed him back, pulling him in closer with his arm and they sat together for a moment connected in a way they hadn’t been for months. Illya broke the kiss reluctantly.

"Promise me," he whispered, his eyes peering into Napoleon’s soul. "Promise me and keep it, no matter how long it takes."

"Illya ..." Napoleon began, uncertainty creeping into him.

"I will never cease until the ones who did this pay. I will never cease until you are well and have your life back. I will never leave you, I will never stop. Give me your blessing, Napoleon. Give me your promise."

Napoleon sat mesmerized by the blue eyes that held his gaze hostage. The illness and despair, the alcohol and the sorrow rose in him and he sighed, nodding his head.

"Promise me."

"I promise," Napoleon said softly. He leaned back and closed his eyes, the arms of his lover and best friend closing around him.

Illya sighed and felt relief for the first time in months. He had Napoleon’s blessing. Today was the start of his quest, the single-most important mission of his life. He wouldn’t fail. He would never give up. He would use all his skills and the resources around him to find the cure for Napoleon’s illness before it killed him some day. He would never, ever compromise. He would never quit. On the graves of his parents, on the honor of his country, on the love he felt for this one person, he would never, ever give up.

December 28, 2000, Manhattan ...

He sat in the data center and scanned the latest input from around the globe. The one he was looking for was narrowed down. All he had to do was find him and then he could make his next move. What that was, he only had a nebulous idea. But he knew to get that which he sought, he
would kill in cold blood. It was a race, he decided, a race to the wire and so far he was pacing quite well.

The key was Cascade. T.H.R.U.S.H. had made it their target. They were going to make a base in the city and they were eliminating their rivals one by one. They were making a point to the others, the Italian, Russian and Chinese cartels even as they had already made it to the South Americans, the Afghanis and the East Asians. T.H.R.U.S.H. would be the king maker and the empire breaker. They would control the supply of drugs, prostitution and other lucrative activities on this planet to ensure a steady cash flow for that which was their first objective, the undermining and destabilization of entire countries and economies. They were already on their way in the Middle East and in the tottering Soviet Union.

Illya considered the plight of his once proud country and sighed. Even though as someone who had access not only to the truth that was suppressed from others by nature of his job and by nature of his contact with the ruling elite, it still pained him deeply to see his people and his country in such a condition. They were once a force in the world, a leading super power and now they were in some ways only a third world nation with all the prestige and power of a Uganda or a
Bangladesh.

He sighed and thought back over the summers near Kiev, the green fields where people labored and where he had played. He remembered that small faded interlude before the Nazis came and turned his entire life into ashes. He struggled once again at this stage of his life to picture the faces of his mother and father. It was harder every year, the farther he traveled from those times. After all, he was only eight years old when the Nazis came and the world as he had known it ended forever.

"What are you looking for, Illya?"

The familiar voice dragged him from his reverie. He turned and smiled, looking at Napoleon. He looked fit and well, the serum working as he had hoped. Dressed in a black Italian silk suit, he walked forward, sitting down beside his lover in an empty chair. Staring at the screen, he glanced at Illya with a questioning look. "You think Cascade is key?"

Illya flicked off the screen, turning and gazing at the man sitting beside him. "I think you’re key. You’re key to my peace of mind and my dreams."

Napoleon smiled and sat back, gazing with amusement on his partner. "You’re getting better at deflecting. You really were never good at it, you know."

"That was your forte. I’m the more direct type," Illya bantered back, a slight grin on his face.

"For the sake of argument, your grace ... Cascade is coming under duress. The reports that you get, I get too. Mafia of all stripes being murdered, some murders bearing the Silk Road signature and some not ... all of this points to something being afoot."

"What do you want for dinner, Napoli? It’s my turn to cook," Illya said easily.

"It is. Something light would do. Tell me about the investigation there. It *is* part of my bailiwick. After all, I *am* the head cheese around here."

Illya stared at him enigmatically for a moment and then shrugged. "The police are convinced that there are two murderers running amok there."

"And you?" Napoleon asked, dreading a forthright answer.

"I have no opinion. My brief is slightly different from theirs."

Napoleon nodded, almost giddy with relief at the evasion. "Who would have the desire to buck a trend like a T.H.R.U.S.H. takeover?"

"Any number of people with a suicide wish. The Mafias under threat, that’s one, although Mario Francetti had made alliances with the Russians. That means that either the Russian Mafia is having a power struggle or someone outside of the mob is orchestrating the hits. I favor the latter."

Napoleon nodded. "It makes more sense. The Mafias were coming together under his leadership. He already had ties to the Russian mob. He had meetings scheduled with the leading west coast tongs in San Francisco for shortly after the murders. This throws things into a cocked hat."

"All the more wonderful for T.H.R.U.S.H.," Illya replied, nodding.

"Nature abhors a vacuum." Napoleon mused. "We need to monitor cable traffic. They appear to have denned up in Zurich. Our office there has been in contact with me for several weeks now, reporting on the comings and goings of our friends, Stoddard and Company."

"Since when?" Illya asked, frowning. "I haven’t seen those cables."

"You wouldn’t," Napoleon replied smoothly. "They were meant for me."

"I’m your enforcement chief," Illya protested, a frown forming on his face.

"And *I’m* your boss," Napoleon replied smoothly.

They stared at each other a moment and then Illya relaxed. "So ... you’ve been playing your own game for a while. How long?"

"Almost a year."

"Why?" Illya demanded, his voice low and cool.

"Because I love you. Because I worry about you. Because a while ago, the last time I got sick, I saw the pain on your face and felt ashamed."

It was silent a moment and then Illya shook his head, sighing deeply. "You have nothing to feel ashamed of."

"I do. I made a stupid promise and you’ve paid for it all these years. You can’t keep me out any longer. I won’t permit it, Illya. I’m your boss and I’m your friend. We’ve never been as good alone as we are together."

He sat quietly, watching the war inside of Illya. The younger man rose and walked to the far wall, leaning his hands on the smooth white surface. He stood there a long time and then he turned, staring at Napoleon with an unreadable expression. "This is my fault."

Napoleon stared dumbly at him for a moment and then he sat back, his face filled with confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"This is all my fault," he said, his voice hoarse with recrimination.

Napoleon rose and walked to him, gripping Illya’s arms. "What the *hell* are you talking about?"

"Don’t you *know*?" he asked, glancing away. He pulled free and turned, rubbing his face with his hands. Pausing, he considered that night, the night Napoleon disappeared. "I was supposed to *be* there. I was supposed to be your partner, to *be* at your side. You were taken and I wasn’t there."

"How *could* you be?" Napoleon asked gently. He stepped closer, resting his hands on Illya’s tense shoulders. The younger man turned, staring at Napoleon with anger.

"How can you *care*? How can you *touch me*? You’ve suffered for forty years because I wasn’t there. If I had ... if I had only been there ..." Illya’s voice trailed off and he turned away, wiping furiously at his eyes. "I would have died to save you."

"Then it wouldn’t have been worth it."

Illya turned and looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. Napoleon smiled and moved closer, shaking his head with frustration. "Don’t you know that if you weren’t here, being well would mean nothing."

Illya dropped his head. "I should have *protected* you. I should have *been* there. I relive that moment over and over and I curse myself. I hate myself, Napoleon. I *loathe* myself."

"Don’t," Napoleon replied, moving to embrace his partner. "I love you. It wasn’t your fault. They tricked us and we paid the price. We were *both* fooled, Illya. Do you think I would have gone there had I known it was a trap?"

"No," Illya admitted softly. "I would have never permitted it."

"You were as fooled as I was," Napoleon said, shaking his head with regret. "Let’s make the fuckers pay. What do you say?"

Illya looked at him, at the old daredevil staring at him in the dark eyes of his lover. He smiled, chuckling through tears in spite of himself. He kissed Napoleon and nodded. "If you insist..." he replied.

"Oh, but I do," Napoleon said, his face becoming serious once more. "We were fools not to talk before this. Let’s not be fools again."

Illya nodded and they turned, walking back to the computer once more. For the next two hours they would sit and talk about things that they hadn’t even thought about in four decades.


January 7, 2001, Zurich, Switzerland ...

The snow was falling hard when Gabriel Stoddard walked to his car in the parking lot. Zurich in the winter time oscillated between a winter wonderland and a grim gray tunnel. He preferred to spend his winters in his home turf of Rio but his father’s growing business ties demanded him home more and more. His mother’s funeral had gathered them together, bringing attention to things long since passed by.

Laying his mother to rest alongside his brother, Lawrence, had been a wrenching experience, one important enough to make him come back to the family hearth and home. He regretted not doing so earlier, spending more time with his shy and quiet mother. She would come to Rio in the spring, spending weeks at a time with her oldest son, a bachelor and art collector, wine connoisseur and recluse. He would show her the good life that his father never had time for and she would go home to Zurich, reluctantly to the big house on the corner of the good street that they called home most of the year.

Gabriel was about normal height, nondescript in appearance and balding. He was vain about it, regretting the loss of hair. To make up for it he dressed very expensively, attending Armani shows each season and shopping in New York, London and Paris on a regular basis. He certainly could afford it. He had as much money as anyone he knew, the wages of sin paying very well, thank you.

He was gifted among a family of gifted individuals in hiding, refinancing, laundering and otherwise manipulating massive amounts of money to do the bidding of his many and varied clientele. He had surpassed his father at long last among the less courtly and more unseemly population of monied men, becoming the Stoddard of choice among the vast underworld of criminals with something to hide. His office in Rio de Janeiro was filled with antiques and good taste, reflecting his own refinement for the people who visited him with their rough ways and big bags of cash. They were impressed as he expected them to be.

Getting into his car and pulling out, driving himself a luxury he only allowed in Europe, he made his way out of the city and onward to the private lodge in the nearby mountains. The small resort didn’t even have a name, so exclusive and discreet it was. When he arrived, a liveried man stepped out and took his door, opening it for him as he climbed out. Walking away, leaving his things and his car to the other man, he walked through the ornately carved wooden door of the chalet.

It was warm and beautiful inside, classic Swiss in design and decor and he moved through the main lounge area with its roaring fire toward the stairs beyond. The room that was his was ready he knew. His clothes would be hung up and his bed prepared. The night was setting in and he decided to eat there, avoiding contact with any of the others when they arrived. Some of them were not to his taste.

Entering, he noted with satisfaction all of the attention to detail he came to expect. They were very thorough here, sparing nothing in their efforts to make him happy. He heard a sound in nearby room and walked through two more before pausing before the bathroom door. It was huge, this bathroom, just the way he liked it. Candles lit the place up and in the big golden tub someone waited for him.

Smiles greeted him and so did a flute of champagne sitting on the shelf next to the water. He moved closer, kneeling beside the tub. Without a concern for his shirt, he reached into the water and found what he was looking for, squeezing and kneading it with expert fingers. The young man in the tub, a blond with green eyes sighed and hissed, moving to the ministrations of his hand. Gabriel smiled, more than pleased with the selection. He didn’t know who the young man was but he was to his taste, the polar opposite of his own mundane and essentially bland features. This young man was handsome in a pretty boy sort of way, the kind of look that Gabriel preferred. He kept young men in Rio, dark and handsome Latin men but when he came to Zurich, he preferred the Nordic look over all.

Rising, shaking off his hand, he began to disrobe. When he was finished, he stepped into the tub and picked up a flute, sipping the bubbling wine with pleasure. The youngster looked at him, a smile on his pretty face.

"What’s your name?" he asked, his Swiss accent tinged with a Latin brio.

"Whatever you want it to be," the young man replied.

Gabriel only nodded, clearing his mind of everything but what was before him. "May I call you Napoleon?" he purred as he pulled the younger man into his embrace.


January 8, 2001, Near Zurich, Switzerland ...

The plane touched down, taxiing to the private tie down that served U.N.C.L.E. The ride over had been bumpy, the company good and by the time they stepped from the plane, they were ready to sleep. A car awaited their arrival and took them into town, pulling up at the hotel where they would be staying. A short trip through the building led to their suite and its big living room, which lead off to others including two bedrooms with big beds. Illya followed Napoleon, dropping his
valise on the floor as he watched Napoleon sit on the bed, lying back with his arms flung out.

"Tired?" he asked, a trace of worry in his voice.

"Yeah. From the ride over," Napoleon replied, turning his head to watch his partner.

Illya took off his coat and hung it over a chair, loosening his tie and removing his jacket. He looked at Napoleon and smirked, walking over and removing his socks and shoes. Pulling his own tie off, he unbuttoned his top button of his shirt, checking the cuisine on order from the kitchen.

Napoleon grinned, luxuriating in the freedom to wiggle his toes. "Thanks. That feels good."

"Your welcome. Shall I order or do you wish to check the wine list?" he asked, glancing at his still reclining partner on the bed.

"Red vino for me tonight, anything older than yesterday," Napoleon replied, sitting up and unfastening his tie. He pulled it off and rose, walking to a comfortable chair next to a table. Sitting, he relaxed. "Something that goes with red wine, a nice steak, a few fresh vegetables--"

"A cheese sandwich and a coke," Illya interrupted, sighing with some angst himself at the scarcity of selection this time of night.

"Hold the mayo," Napoleon said with a chuckle. "I have to watch my waistline."

"That’s my job," Illya said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. He gave the order and hung up, moving to sit on the other chair beside the table. It was a luxurious room, two more just like it beyond the golden doors. U.N.C.L.E. expense accounts were considerably better for Directors than for C.E.A.’s, Illya considered.

"So, what do you suppose the Stoddards are up to?" Napoleon asked as they sat together companionably.

"Nefarious evil-doing, I suppose," Illya said dryly. "I can’t imagine anything less from them. Can you?"

Napoleon snorted and grinned broadly. "No, now that you *mention* it."

Illya rose and walked to his luggage, sparse that it was, pulling a laptop free. Setting it up, he punched buttons and soon a screen with a hierarchy of the Stoddard firm was in view. They looked at it together, memorizing the complexity of the family and their subdivisions of labor and personal expertise.

Old Man Stoddard, Stanislas Stoddarski to be exact before the name change in Her Majesty‘s Courts, was approaching ninety. He went to work every day, lived a regimented and simple life in spite of his wealth and ran a ship so tight that it had taken U.N.C.L.E. two years just to get the information they were pouring over now. The mainstay of the family’s legitimate business was international investments but there were rumors that persisted that were tantalizing in their complexity and diversity.

Stoddard, et al were believed to have been a clearing house for Nazi gold during the war, at a time when the Swiss were making pains with their government propaganda that they had no side in the latest worldwide conflict enveloping them from all sides. Stoddard was said to be a discreet and capable mover and shaker of things best not remembered, such as Jewish accounts, Jewish art and Jewish real estate. They could make it disappear, making it reappear under other provenances and generally cover, obscure and destroy.

They had become a major player in complicated mergers, offering off-shore investment and advice for people racing ahead of the tax man and they were procurers, people who knew people who knew people. They were a full service organization, intensely secretive even for the gnome-ruled world of Swiss international finance and careful about who they talked to. They were becoming, in the eyes of the international law enforcement community, the bank of choice for criminals of all stripes and persuasions. That didn’t even address the problem of international terrorism and its many tentacled links to International T.H.R.U.S.H. That was where they came in.

They were here to investigate the rumor that a group of men, some of them Stoddards, were gathering to begin the work of aligning different organizations together. The sound of it was within their mandate and European U.N.C.L.E. was organizing a raid on a chalet nearby that would, if their intelligence and luck were working in concert, allow them to have a look at the first steps of T.H.R.U.S.H. in putting together an organization of bankers to handle the cash flow that they expected once they consolidated their power base in the beautiful and now wide open city of Cascade, Washington. That would be their platform, their conduit to the black economy that they would create in the international game of supplying contraband to the burgeoning demand of consumers, both legit and not.

Their food arrived and they took a few minutes to eat, chatting comfortably together about their next few days. A call earlier from Illya’s counter-part, a man named Wolfgang Mueller, set them onto the schedule already worked out from New York. The suspects were arriving, a Stoddard perhaps among them already and they had a timetable change in place for the strike. Everything was coordinated and agreed-upon and then they turned to their own business. The meeting of the active team, the one making the hit was for 0900 the following morning in a staging area near the chalet. The falling snow, building more as the hours passed, would help disguise the operation as few were expected to venture out unless forced to.

Napoleon rose and squeezed Illya’s shoulder, grinning at the black glasses he still persisted in wearing. Gathering his kit, he walked through the rooms to the bathroom. A quick shower and shave, the rest of his routine observed and then he came back to the sitting room where his partner was working. "I’m going to bed."

"Your injection," Illya remembered, mentally slapping himself. He rose and walked to his bag, pulling the implements out of a small black case. Napoleon watched him as he filled the needle and turned, the shiny instrument poised in his hand. Illya injected him with his usual precision and disposed of the evidence in the container nearby. "There. Good as new."

"If anyone asks, I have diabetes," Napoleon quoted from years before. Illya stared at him, a curious look on his face. "Don’t mind me. I’ve sort of been wandering a bit down memory lane."

"And what have you noticed in your rambles?" Illya asked, putting the black bag back into his case.

"I noticed that you’re still as sharp and as trim as you were forty years ago."

Illya turned, blushing slightly in spite of himself. "Is that so."

"Yep," Napoleon said, leaning back on the couch where he sat, barefooted and pajama clad. "I remember more gold than gray but you’re still as handsome and as desirable as the first time it entered my mind to love you."

"When was that?" Illya asked, sitting on a footstool near the couch.

"The first time you got hurt and you were so brave about it. You always were getting hurt and it bothered me, probably more than any other partner I ever had. Then with uncharacteristic candor, I considered why it should so. That’s when I realized how much you meant to me. That’s when I started to lust after you like I did."

"That was a long time between then and Budapest," Illya said, his voice soft.

"Two years," Napoleon said, sighing softly. "The longest two years of my life."

"You weren’t exactly lonely if I recall," Illya proffered, grinning slightly at his partner.

Napoleon grinned, nodding. "I wasn’t, was I ..."

"No, my friend, you were not."

They stared at each other and Napoleon sighed. "It’s been so long since I touched you and it felt like that first time. I miss that."

Illya’s expression changed, compassion and determination mingled. "It will happen, Napoli," he promised, his mind wondering how it could be accomplished. "We’re closer now than ever before. I feel something is going to happen here."

"I suppose that’s good old Slavic intuition?" he asked wistfully. Illya got up and sat down beside Napoleon, leaning over him slightly. "It’s whatever you need, Napoli," he whispered before he kissed Napoleon.

Strong arms encircled Illya and held him as they kissed. Then Napoleon let him go and sat staring at him, his emotions clear in his dark eyes.

"Come to bed with me, Illya."

Kuryakin nodded and rose, walking to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Napoleon watched him go and turned, punching off the laptop before checking the door. Walking into the nearby bedroom, placing their guns on the nightstand, he pulled open the covers and slid in, resting his aching bones on the comfortable and warm surface. He listened to the familiar sounds of Illya getting ready nearby and wondered for the hundredth or thousandth time what would have become of him without his company.

People had assumed he was a self-centered, self-absorbed man, his reputation with the fairer sex being the jumping off point for most of their views, something he did little to clarify. He was to some extent, more than willing to dally with the ladies. He liked sex. He needed it like some people needed Tabasco on their eggs. Sex was the spice of life. And he certainly liked his spices.

Then the quiet Russian stepped in and made a mockery of his life. No, that was too harsh. Illya’s presence, his intelligence, loyalty, friendship and affectionate understatement made him look at himself through different eyes. No one, man or woman, had ever trod so close to what he truly was underneath the glib facade as Illya. For that alone, Napoleon was changed.

When he considered his partner in a new light, he considered what the differences would be to a man with ... needs ... if he suddenly decided to make a commitment to something just a little off the beaten path. He considered his partner when he was naked and when he was clothed, when he was fatigued and when he was filled with energy. The capstone, the moment of truth came when he was shot and Napoleon had to help him get to safety while being chased through the jungle.

The strength of the Russian, both physical and emotional was telling and he found himself thinking about other things, other goals, other dreams. Their partnership had become the main source of his happiness and he felt more fulfilled just lounging in the company of the enigmatic Slav than he ever felt surrounded by women.

Of course, he still did love women. He just loved Illya more.

Illya didn’t mind that he needed him too. He needed Illya even before the poisoning. He liked to talk to him, to try and get him to open up and when he did after the Budapest Affair, he knew they had reached an unspoken and completely honest agreement. They were for each other. Of course, there were times between them of disagreement or conflict but they were just that. Short, trivial and over. They would take it one day at a time and even though there were occasional bumps in the road, they were determined to remain the way they wanted to be, working together, living together, no matter what came their way.

Illya walked in, a pale figure in the dim light of the street lamp that glowed golden through the window. He put his things away and turned, moving to his side of the bed. He slipped in and relaxed for a moment before inevitably turning and lying next to Napoleon on his side. He
sighed.

"You smell good," Napoleon said.

"After shave."

"How can you tell?" he teased.

Illya smiled. "It’s easier. They’re gray now."

"Oh."

It was silent a moment.

"What do you suppose we’ll find tomorrow?" Napoleon asked, his hand rubbing Illya’s neck gently.

"Justice," Illya replied, tightening his grip around Napoleon.

"Ever the optimist," Napoleon said, laughing softly.

"That’s you, Napoleon. I have other feelings keeping me going."

"Such as?" he asked, almost afraid to listen.

There was a pause and then Illya sighed. "I love you."

Napoleon smiled, surprised by the uncharacteristic response. "I love you too."

"Good night, Napoli."

"Good night, Illya."

The Cascade Affair: "Born ready."


The next morning, January 9, 2001, outside of Zurich, Switzerland ...

They gathered in a hanger, the team that would go after the group in the private chalet complex up in the valley. Napoleon pulled rank and was present, sitting with the head of the Zurich office and with the Director of European U.N.C.L.E. They would wait here, the nerve center of the operation and listen to the chat over the head sets as the teams were led by the two C.E.A.’s, Illya Kuryakin and Wolfgang Mueller. They had broken the operation down, dividing the attack into two prongs with another ops team to jam communications and block the roads in and out of the facility.

Illya would lead the team assault on the main house and Mueller would lead the next one taking out the other bungalow. Between them, there were seven known main targets to arrest as well as the security that would be in place to protect them. It was believed that at least one Stoddard was there and hopefully, enough T.H.R.U.S.H. leadership to give them a basis for belief that their efforts wouldn’t be futile.

They coordinated actions and time and then the teams began to assemble for transport. Illya, dressed in black, his usual ‘hunting clothes’ of sweater, jeans and knit cap, pulled gloves from his small bag and slipped them on. He was good to go, Napoleon noted and when the Russian looked his way, he nodded. Illya nodded back and turned, silently walking to the door and the group that would be his to lead. As he did, Napoleon held his breath. He wouldn’t relax again until he saw Illya walk back through the door once again.



January 9, 2001, Cascade, Washington ...

He stepped off the plane and walked quickly to the car that was waiting. Entering, he was taken away, driven to the city beyond. There would be a gathering, people coming to the meeting from all over the world. Proxies would be carried for those unable or unwilling to enter United States jurisdiction. Those would be coming from Zurich.

Sitting back, relaxing against the plush leather of the seats as he wound down from the journey that had taken him halfway around the world. He was tired through and through but ready to talk. This meeting had taken half a lifetime to arrange, the players in the drama that would be unfolding not all on the same page. Some carried personal vendettas against each other but the meeting was necessary. They had to agree on a number of things including territories, cuts in the profits and who would wield power over which enterprise. He preferred, as did his new found sponsors to do this face-to-face.

After all, it was not everyday that T.H.R.U.S.H. and his own operation would be able to find a toe-hold on American soil. Ahmed al-Zeeri leaned back and closed his eyes, visions of access to technology and finance previously forbidden dancing in his eyes. The organization he fronted, a confederation of different terror organizations and drug cartels were counting on his ability to broker the best deal possible in the brave new world they were planning. He would be on the spot and this would be the culmination of a lifetime of work. He was ready, he thought with a smile. He was born ready.


Blair Sandburg walked from the classroom to his quaint office, opening the door and stepping inside. Around him, stacked floor to ceiling were the detritus of a life well lived. Since the year before, he had been working with an anachronism, a miracle of composition, a real life sentinel. A throw-back to an earlier time, the prickly personality of Detective Jim Ellison was the minefield he negotiated on his path to enlightenment and somewhere along the way the affinity that a guide and
sentinel shared became permanent. He could no more leave Ellison than he could grow wings and fly. As he sat and began to shuffle papers, the phone rang. "Hello. Sandburg here."

"Chief."

"Jim," Blair replied, a smile crossing his face.

"We’ve got another. Can you come down?"

"Where?" Blair asked, picking up a pencil. He took the address down and signed off, rising and gathering his gear as he did. Bending down, he heard the door open but didn’t see who it was until he rose and felt something sharp pressed against his back. Freezing, he tried to look around but a harsh voice, European rather than American, warned him off.

"Don’t turn around. Just keep your eyes forward and let’s both walk out of here. Understand?" The sharp point jabbed him and he jerked, grimacing.

"No problem," he said, swallowing hard.

"Turn with me and let’s go," the voice said as they turned together and walked from the office. The door closed behind them and all was still again.


At the waterfront, near the West Port Landing ...

Jim Ellison stared at a body, a bullet drilled cleanly through his head. The man, a union officer named Brandeis was missing for three days before a fisherman found him floating under the pilings. There was no ID, no other signs of violence and no clues as far as Jim could see. He had been in the water too long.

He glanced up, noting a steel gray sky. Rain, he figured, the same rain that had fallen for literally weeks now. It feel from October through May sometimes, a foot of snow now and again to break the monotony. He was cold even through his all weather gear and as he stood waiting for Sandburg, he felt his irritation rising. Pulling out his phone, he called the number for his partner. It rang and rang, no one answering. Cursing softly, he turned and gave his full attention to the case at hand.


He sat in a car, a black bag over his head as someone manacled his hands behind his back. Sitting chilled with fear, Blair Sandburg worked to calm himself. He had no idea what the whole business was about but with Jim’s work in Major Crimes, anything was possible. Willing himself to be calm, he decided to be very quiet and try and listen and memorize everything he could. He was sitting between two big men, their faces obscured from his view from start to finish. Another drove, a man with thick curly hair like his own. He couldn’t see who it was at all. The car itself was black, big and nondescript, the sort of car you see a lot but can never remember its name. It had four doors and was a late model. That’s all he knew.

They drove for what seemed like an eternity and then they stopped, the doors opening and rough hands pulling him free. He walked and was half carried down an incline, the muddy ground beneath his feet slippery. They climbed stairs and a door opened. He could smell food from past meals but he heard nothing. Moving along, they opened another door and led him stumbling down a long flight of stairs until they reached the bottom.

A chain was added to his manacles and he was told to leave the hood on until he heard a door slam by the gruff voice that had taken him. He did, standing in the darkness, a hood over his head and his hands cuffed. The door slammed and he pulled the hood off, looking around with fearful eyes at the darkness that surrounded him still.

He could see tiny shafts of light streaming in from the outside and it was cold and damp where he was. A small cot was near him and a rough wool blanket. A pot on the floor informed him of the ‘facilities’ and above him he could hear footsteps. Muffled voices were too distant to be decipherable and so he turned and sat, testing his cuffs when the door opened again and footsteps came down once more.

A flashlight blinded him as someone gripped him from behind. Hands reached out to hold his head and a pair of scissors cut a length of his hair off. He groaned, holding still with ill grace and then they turned and left, the door closing once more. Moving to sit, he patted his pocket in the off chance that his cell phone hadn’t fall out when they dragged him down the slope.

He searched awkwardly and to his astonishment, he found the cell still in his pocket. Shoving it under his cot, he sat in the dark waiting for the men above him to go to sleep. He figured his luck was holding and if he fucked up, there would never be another chance to get away. Whoever these people were, they were playing for keeps. Choking back his impatience for once in his life, he sat and began to wait them out.

The Cascade Affair: "What a tangled web ..."


It was dark when they got to the chalet, mostly because of incessant snow fall and an overcast sky. The lodge was a big place, two floors of log construction and there were several access points. It was late enough the guests should be in their room or in the lounge proper. The teams were divided between Mueller and Kuryakin, the plan to take the house from both of the side entrances considered the most effective. No one expected them and it would be fast, noiseless and successful.

Hopefully.

Illya stood in knee-deep snow and considered the lights beyond the window just above him. The kitchen crew were busy and he didn’t expect them to be a problem. They were long time employees, town folk that had families and their stories had stood up under scrutiny. The problem would be with security and the guests themselves.

Security was lighter than expected for the type of meeting they were having here. However, it was probably safer not to be conspicuous and they were sure the building was secure. It would be a calculated risk, Illya thought, choosing between having guards that would stand out and electronics that wouldn’t. He hoped for everyone’s sake that they chose the least conspicuous route.

He watched as a member of his team cut into the security system, disabling it without a clue to the people inside that it was out of commission. He had used the same tactic in Cascade and the memory of Mario Francetti came into his mind unbidden. For a moment he considered that part of his journey to this point and then he quashed it ruthlessly, preparing himself for the problem at hand.

Nodding to his superior, the technician picked up his gun and slipped back into line, waiting for Illya to give the signal. The Russian checked the time and rose, peering into the window, noting that the dining room was empty. Turning, he gave the hand signal and stepped forward, leading the way to the French doors nearby that opened the room to the outside. He slipped inside, giving cover for the others to follow. They moved forward, each covering the others as they moved with
great stealth to the door that led to the great room beyond.

A man stayed behind to cover the kitchen and the small lounge and library next to it as the team made their way across the big open space of the great room. The fire was blazing but no one was there. Everyone was elsewhere, upstairs most likely and they moved toward the curving wood staircase as the other team reached them. Posting a guard, they walked together silently, each team on one side of the staircase until they reached the top where they paused.

Illya glanced at Wolfgang, nodding. He nodded back and each team moved in opposite directions toward their side of the long corridor lined with doors leading to individual bedrooms. The team waited as Illya and Wolfgang crept down the hallway, listening to doors with care. They turned and hand signaled their team, pointing out which rooms had active occupants and which were silent. When they reached the end, they turned and came back, moving to their own doors as two by two, each group made ready to strike.

They paused a moment and then Illya rose, turning and poising his gun to fire. His teammate, a young Swiss agent, moved to kick in the door. When everyone was ready, Wolfgang nodded and all hell broke loose at once. Doors cracked off hinges as men kicked at the door handles, the weakest place in a door to break. They fell forward, men and women armed and ready to shoot behind them and into the rooms they all disappeared but two, who were standing at each end of the long corridor ready to lay down fire.

Screams erupted as people were rousted and one by one they began to come into the hall, some dressed and some naked clutching bed clothes. Illya stepped in behind his partner and found himself in a room with two naked men. The incongruity of it made him freeze for a brief second as he took in the scene before him. A slightly balding man was having sex with a younger man, who was reclining on his back, his legs wrapped around him. They froze in surprise at the sight of armed men dressed in black, pointing guns as they entered the room.

Illya watched as they both scrambled back, eyes wide with surprise as he and his partner moved forward, demanding them to hold up their hands. Illya covered his partner as he swept the room and tossed robes to the men huddled on the bed. They took the robes and clutched them, tugging them on as the two gestured with guns for them to move. They did, scrambling to the door, their hands clasped behind their heads and followed a line of people out the door and down the stairs to the lounge. Illya hurried ahead and reached the lounge, noting the people in the chairs, their hands being cuffed behind their backs.

There were many he recognized and some he didn’t but in the end he would know them all. They would tell him what they knew and help him get that much closer to the end of his forty year ordeal. He had no misapprehension that this raid wouldn’t yield something that would help him with his quest. He wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t think so. Moving along the line of silent men and women sitting on the couches and chairs in cuffs, he considered the ones he knew.

Andre Prokiev, former Russian Army, former Internal Security Officer, full-time leader of the Russian mob, Euro branch. Damon Crawford, former Marine, former CIA, full-time T.H.R.U.S.H. Down the line he went until he came to two men that were more important to him and more elusive than he had ever imagined.

"You must be Gabriel Stoddard," he said, his voice glacial. He turned his gaze to the other man.

Dark eyes peered from a bitter and unremarkable face. "I am not aware that I’ve had the pleasure ..."

"Illya Kuryakin, Mr. Stoddard. I knew your brother as it were."

He looked at Kuryakin silently for a moment before leaning back, gathering his former equanimity in spite of the fact that his hands were cuffed behind his back.

"Oh?" he asked, his English bearing the brand of a good Cambridge education. Stoddard stared at him without flinching. He shrugged and turned his gaze away. At that moment, the door opened and Napoleon and his counterpart came in with several of his top aides. He walked into the room and stared at the men in front of Illya, memories of bad times filtering through the haze.

"Stoddard?" he asked Illya, glancing at his partner who continued to stare at the silent man before them.

"This one," Illya said, kicking him slightly with his shoe. "This one and several T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives. I believe this one," he said, pointing to a athletic looking older man with carefully tended silver hair, "is from the Cayman Islands. A ... how do they put it? ... man with a talent for hiding money, Mr. Barnable. His father is one of Stoddard the Elder’s partners."

"So crookedness runs in the family?" Napoleon asked, his cool gaze roving over the crowd.

"It would appear so," Illya agreed.

The silent figures didn’t acknowledge them and neither did any of the others. They were stone quiet. Napoleon glanced at his European counterpart and nodded, watching as they were all gathered up and taken out, none of them speaking a word. Napoleon sighed and looked around, watching as men and women moved in to strip the place of devices and evidence that would help them with their problem.

"Looks like things are in hand here. Care to join me?" Napoleon asked, leaning closer to his partner. Illya glanced his way, nodding without comment. Napoleon turned and grinned. "James, if you would join me."

The head of U.N.C.L.E., Europe, Sir James Headley turned and nodded, grinning as he followed Napoleon outside. The two shared a unique linkage, both being former C.E.A.’s of their respective divisions. Illya followed, aware of their personal friendship. Lingering, he fidgeted as the two men stood talking as the soft snow fell. Napoleon, aware of Illya’s conundrum finally shook hands and walked to the car that would take them to the Zurich office of U.N.C.L.E. where they hoped to talk to the suspects before they were given over to Interpol.

They climbed in, sitting in the back and the car pulled out, heading for the city beyond. Illya pulled off his black knit cap and turned his gaze to his partner. "That either went better than I thought or they’re getting lazier about getting caught," Illya said, rubbing his hair with his hand. He brushed it back, the fine threads falling into their usual place. Napoleon smiled.

"You’re as good as ever. Also, it doesn’t hurt to take along the best men and women that European U.N.C.L.E. can provide as backup."

Illya smirked, staring at his partner with a cool gaze. "So, you’re intimating that I’m too old to do this by myself?"

"Without me? What would that do to our reputation as legends in our own mind?"

Illya chuckled softly, settling in more comfortably. He slid his hand over and took Napoleon’s, squeezing it gently. Napoleon squeezed it back and held it all the way back to Zurich.



January 10, 2001, near Cascade, Washington ...

It was dark by the time he pulled the phone from under the bed where he hid it. He dialed and waited, the phone ringing over and over until at last, Jim Ellison answered. "Chief! Where the hell are you?"

Blair covered the phone with his hand and hissed. "Sh! Jim, listen to me."

"I’m all ears," Ellison said, his body stilled.

"I’ve been taken from the University. Some men have me and I’m being held in a dark basement some place. I don’t know where."

"Hang on. We’ll get a trace going," Ellison said, pausing long enough to issue terse orders. "Don’t hang up, Blair."

"I won’t," Blair said, crouching into the corner of the cot so his voice wouldn’t carry. It was silent a moment. "Jim? Are you there?"

"Yeah, Chief. Sorry. I was listening to Simon. What happened?"

At that moment, the door opened above him and feet began to descend the stairs. Blair snapped the phone shut and stuffed it behind him, blinking as the light someone carried caught him in the face. He raised his hands, the chain he was fastened to clanking.

"Hand it over."

The same voice hissed at him and he blinked, straining to see who it was. Rough hands grabbed him and pulled him to one side as another person rifled the bed. They found the phone and he was shoved down onto the cot, the people and voices and lights turning and walking away. They ascended the stairs and the door slammed shut, leaving Sandburg alone. He sat on the cot, his arms aching from being manhandled. Sitting back against the wall, pulling his collar up against the cold, he felt as forlorn and scared as he had ever felt in his life.

Meanwhile, nearby ...

"Did you get it!" Ellison called out as the phone clicked off in his ear.

He turned and saw Joel’s negative nod. Turning, he kicked his chair. "Damn!"

What the hell would he do now? Where in the big city of Cascade and all its surrounding terrain would he find his partner? Why the *hell* was he taken away in the first place? Jim Ellison stood by his desk, his mind in a turmoil and considered that he hadn’t the faintest notion of where to begin looking.


Zurich, later that same night ...

They walked into the interrogation room, silent men determined to get answers. Illya had doffed his jacket, his black sweater and black pants giving him a pale and cold facade. Napoleon sat down in a chair across from the suspect and waited for Illya to play ‘glib cop, hateful cop’. He grinned inwardly as he remembered back to when they had discussed their almost intuitive roles in relation to interrogations.

"You’re blond and icy. It just works out that you can be the hateful one and I can be the witty, debonair one."

Blue eyes gazed at him with pity. "You really have a good impression of yourself."

He remembered smiling, preening just slightly in a way that set Kuryakin off. "Yep."

He sighed and glanced at his partner who was stalking slowly around the table, every bone in his body ready for combat. When he was ready he would begin. For now, it was up to Napoleon.

"So ... we finally meet the inimitable brother of Lawrence the Unlucky."

Stoddard registered only minute outrage at the droll recital. He shifted in his chair, his face a parody of boredom. Illya leaned against the wall behind him, just out of view. It bothered Stoddard, Napoleon noted.

/... Good .../

‘Tell me ... Gabriel ... forgive me if I’m not good with names ... does your father know you sleep with men?" Napoleon asked.

"Does yours?" Stoddard shot back, drawing Illya’s menacing form closer. Napoleon could see a tightening of the body language in the
other man.

/... score .../

"My father is too dead to care. I take it that your father is still around?" Napoleon asked.

Stoddard shrugged. "You have your own information, I suppose. Don’t expect me to expand it for you."

"You don’t have to. We’ve done our homework on you and your family." Napoleon sipped his coffee and smiled slightly. "And what a colorful family, in a nondescript and rather plain Jane sort of way you are."

Stoddard stared at Solo, his face filled with contempt. "Really?"

"Sure. Let me fill you in on just the highlights. There are four of you, your late brother Lawrence, your twin brothers Christophe and Johannes and yourself. You and your brother Lawrence are gay, the other two are married and fathers. All of you launder money, finance mayhem and are planning to install in the fair city of Cascade, Washington a criminal alliance with T.H.R.U.S.H. Am I close?" he asked.

"Not even," Stoddard lied smoothly. "You can’t hold me, that is, unless sodomy is against the law in Switzerland, which means that you and your little blond girl friend here would be locked up beside me. That is, maybe you would be." Stoddard leaned forward. "I hear that with age and other infirmities, it gets harder to get it up."

A hand caught his neck and fingers squeezed, Stoddard’s face contorting enormously under the simple gesture place upon him by Kuryakin. Napoleon sat back and stared at the man before him for a moment before glancing up at Illya. The Russian’s face was a blaze of naked hatred and for a moment Napoleon didn’t speak. "You can let him go, Illya," he said, his voice soft and for a moment Illya didn’t respond. Then he let Stoddard loose and the man gagged, rubbing his neck as best he could with cuffs on his wrists.

"You bastard! You could have killed me!" Stoddard cried, peering over his shoulder at the silent but volcanic man behind him.

"We probably will," Napoleon said, his voice calm and nonchalant. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an expensive cheroot. Lighting it, he blew smoke at Goddard, watching as the man stared at him warily. "You will tell us what we want to know or I’ll let my partner rip pieces of you off."

Stoddard sat back, staring at Napoleon with a contemptuous look. "You won’t. U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t work that way. I know you very well, Napoleon Solo. My family knows everything about you."

"Does it now?" Napoleon said dryly, taking a drag on his smoke. His eyes flickered to Illya and the younger man moved, gripping Stoddard’s neck even as Napoleon grabbed his hands. With the merest flick of his wrist, he burned a hole in the man’s hand. Illya gripped Stoddard’s mouth as he screamed, muffling it. Sitting back, Napoleon tapped his smoke and looked at Stoddard, a bit of the panther of old in his eyes. Illya stood back and watched, mesmerized by the action.

"Fuck you!" Stoddard said, nursing his hand.

"Have it your way." Napoleon nodded to Illya and the younger man walked to the door, opening it for lab coated technicians to enter. They carried a tray with syringes on it and small vials with clear liquid. Stoddard looked at it and then Solo, rising even as hands gripped him. He howled as they strapped him down into the wooden chair, rolling a sleeve up as he struggled.

"I WANT MY COUNSEL! I WANT MY SOLICITOR!" he cried, jerking away as the first needle entered his arm. For a moment he cried out and then he stilled, sitting with his head hanging and his chest heaving from effort.

Napoleon watched as the drug took affect, tapping out his smoke in an ashtray on the table. Illya moved to the shadows, leaning against the wall and watched as Napoleon began an interrogation that would last three hours. By the time they were done they had the framework of the organization forming in Cascade, the time and place of meetings and accounts, actions and backups of everything that T.H.R.U.S.H. had in mind for the west coast of America for the next six months.

What they did have besides in the end was a man on the inside, an unwitting accomplice as it were. Stoddard would be released the next day and he would go home to Zurich, considering his next move. What he wouldn’t remember, thanks to their arsenal of designer drugs, was the interlude where he spilled his guts to the solemn men from U.N.C.L.E.


Manhattan ...

They walked into their apartment with a sigh. Overnight from Zurich had been a long and slightly turbulent affair. Illya walked into the bedroom, dropping his valise on the floor next to the bed. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook in the closet, walking out and unstrapping his gun and holster. Putting it on the dresser, absently removing the clip, he sighed.

Behind him, standing in the bathroom, Napoleon Solo stared at the image in the mirror before him. He turned and stood in the doorway, watching his partner of four decades absently winding his watch. "Care to talk about it?"

"What?" Illya asked, jolted out of his reverie.

"Talk. About it."

Illya shrugged, suddenly tired. "I’d rather have breakfast. You?"

Napoleon sighed and nodded, watching as the jeans and sweater-clad figure walked out the door to the kitchen beyond. He walked into the living room, draping his suit jacket on the back of a chair. Loosening his tie, he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, removing a pitcher of orange juice. Selecting two glasses, he filled them and put them on the table along with silver ware and napkins.

Illya was at the stove, scrambling eggs as Napoleon began to fix toast. Coffee was brewing and they worked together companionably, moving about the room with a long-standing ease and familiarity. Illya served the food and put the plates on the table, pulling out a chair to sit upon. Napoleon watched him, watched how he pointedly ignored eye contact and he sat himself, internally sighing. They began to eat.

"You didn’t say much about Stoddard and his information. I’m interested in your opinion."

Illya thought a moment and sighed tiredly. "I believe that he thinks he can control T.H.R.U.S.H. I think he’s fronting for his old man. I think he’s a bastard from a long line of bastards and if this were the old days, I would put a bullet into his head."

"Clean shot, forehead kill?" Napoleon asked casually, staring at his food with utmost interest.

Illya looked at him, at the unease with which his body was cast and put down his fork. "What are you hinting around at saying, Napoleon?"

Cool blue eyes appraised him as both of them worked toward the true question that lay between them. It had been there from the day that Napoleon had been found and it lay between them now.

"What are you asking?" Illya prompted, willing his lover to say out loud what they could only hint at all this time.

"Did you shoot all these people? Is this about you and me and that time, this whole rotten business?" He held his breath. In his heart, he knew it didn’t matter but he had to know. At long last, he had to finally know. As he sat, the phone rang and they both ignored it, staring at each other. Finally, with a sigh, Illya rose and walked to the wall phone, picking it up.

"Hello?"

He stood listening, Napoleon staring at him. It was silent and then he hung up, turning toward Napoleon with a strange expression on his face.

"That was our man in Seattle."

"What did he say?" Napoleon asked, watching as Illya came back and sat down.

"He said that he got a call from the Cascade PD. It would seem that Blair Sandburg, the partner of Detective Jim Ellison has been taken and found once more. It would seem that Mr. Sandburg is exhibiting symptoms similar if not equal to your own condition."

They stared at each other and then Napoleon sighed. "Is that all?"

"No." Illya sat a moment, his expression icy. "They want you to come to Cascade. It would appear that someone wants to speak to the two of us about this matter."

"The police? Ellison?" Napoleon asked.

"No." Illya sighed. "T.H.R.U.S.H."

It was silent a moment and then both men rose and walked to the other room to gather guns and coats and to move to the door and the airport beyond, on their way to the Pacific Northwest and Cascade, Washington once more.

In a private jet, in the air over America two hours later ...

Napoleon Solo lay on the bed, spooned behind his longtime lover, Illya Kuryakin. His arm was around the other man, who was sleeping curled in a tight ball. They hadn’t continued the conversation, the grim news from Washington putting that on hold, but he couldn’t help but think
about it.

All of the times and facts colluded to make him wonder. Illya was near or in the same place as every killing from the first one onward and he knew that given Illya’s determination to find a cure, nothing probably was beneath him. It was a low grade fever, an obsession that had dogged him from the sixties. It chilled Solo to consider the power he had over the willfully independent but utterly loyal man beside him. He had been aware of this hold, this control he had for decades and had been careful with it. Illya would do anything for him and as he lay on the bed, warm under a blanket, his lover in his arms, he felt dread at ever knowing the truth. It could be anything, he considered. Even his worst fears.

Especially his worst fears.

Sighing, he moved closer, the other man sighing in echo as he shifted too. Napoleon kissed Illya’s warm neck, the scent of his skin comforting. As he lay there warm and safe, memories of another day came unbidden ...

December 24, 1964 ...

It was snowing in Manhattan when he got left work, walking down to the garage where his car was parked. Illya had already gone, heading for a galleria that was showing Russian icons from the Russian Imperial Collection. He had asked Napoleon to go and he almost did but there was
catch up paperwork to do and he begged off. The disappointment in Illya’s voice almost made him change his mind but he sighed and said he would catch him at home.

What he wanted to do was get off work and pick up the gift he had chosen for Illya, a small Russian icon restored to its former glory and wrapped in gold paper for his lover. It was something he had found on assignment in Turkey, a treasure picked up in a bazaar caught by his
discerning eye. A little restoration and viola! A gift fit for a Czar.

Walking to his car, he entered and pulled out of his reserved space, driving down the ramp and out into the street. Turning into traffic, he headed for the Russian quarter in around Brighton Beach where his gift was waiting. He had found it almost by accident and had searched out an expert restorer. Illya would love it, he considered, his lack of interest in religions per se not withstanding.

He parked near the store, walking through crowded streets to the small shop. He remembered opening the door and that was the last thought that he had before waking up strapped to a bed, shadowy figures hovering over him. He didn’t remember being scared, just foggy-minded and tired. He was very, very tired. Then they began to stick needles in him and that’s when the pain began.

He sighed and reality faded back in, prompted by the shifting of the figure in his arms. Illya turned, groaning slightly in his sleep and then he burrowed into Napoleon’s chest, his breathing returning to normal. Napoleon smiled slightly, considering how tough and independent Kuryakin was when he was awake. Or, at least to the world he projected that. Now? After all these years of worry? He was a changed man ...

here and now ...

Was that good or not, he didn't know. If it meant murder then it certainly wasn't. Things had been so different before he had been taken away. That interlude in Bermuda had been wonderful. The full extent of the possibilities between them was just unfolding and then in a single instant it was all broken ...

Manhattan, December 25, 1964 ...

"Where is he?"

They turned and looked at the tense figure of their number two enforcement officer standing in the doorway, his face a pale mask. Mr. Waverly turned and regarded Kuryakin, considering what he had heard through very confidential sources. Of course, he didn’t care. These two, Kuryakin and Solo were the best. Their private life was just that and if it didn’t interfere with their professional responsibilities anymore than Solo’s womanizing ever did, than so be it.

"We found his car near a shop that restores and sells religious icons," he said, noting the flicker of emotion on Illya’s otherwise stone face. "We haven’t found him. We were hoping you could shed some light on the subject."

He had come home, home to the apartment that was theirs. Big and spacious, overlooking Manhattan, it was the safest place in the world to Kuryakin. Before, home was a suitcase or a small flat, usually with the barest amenities and just enough room for the few personal effects
that he kept with him from move to move. They barely took up a closet and space on the hi-fi shelf when he unpacked to stay with Napoleon. It had amused Solo and chagrined Kuryakin. Not much to show for his life.

But then, material goods were secondary to the satisfaction of professional achievement and the friendship that he had forged with Napoleon. When it turned to something more he was surprised and secretly delighted. He wasn’t going to be alone any more. Then this happened. He had come home and found that Napoleon wasn’t there. Calling Napoleon’s office, he had been informed that the older man was missing. The ride back to the office was a blur and he stood in the doorway, fully armed and ready to search no matter what or how long it took.

"I don’t know where he is. He wasn’t at home ..."

At that moment the phone rang and Waverly took it, listening with his usual unreadable expression. He hung up and turned, fixing Kuryakin with a steady gaze. "He’s at the hospital. Some sanitation workers found him and they took him there. They’re transferring him to
U.N.C.L.E. Medical now. He’s due here in fifteen minutes."

"Is he alive?"

The words were spoken softly and Waverly replied, nodding. "Yes, he’s alive, Mr. Kuryakin."

With that, Illya turned and walked to the emergency entrance of U.N.C.L.E. Medical to wait for Napoleon to come ...

On the way to Cascade ...

Napoleon pulled Illya close to him, burying his face in the warm neck of his lover. Illya stirred and his eyes opened, staring into Napoleon's sleepily. "Are we there?" he asked, his voice thick with
sleep.

"No. I just wanted to touch you. You don’t mind, do you?" Napoleon asked, rubbing Illya’s chest with his hand.

Illya rolled onto his back, pulling Napoleon over on top of him. He sighed, slipping his arms around Napoleon’s shoulders, raising his head to kiss him. "No. I don’t mind," he whispered, smiling slightly. He raised his legs, wrapping them around Napoleon’s body.

"Are you hinting at joining the mile high club or something?" Napoleon asked as he leaned down and nuzzled Illya’s neck.

The Russian sighed. "You mean the ‘several miles high’ club don’t you?"

"Possibly," Napoleon agreed as he kissed the soft pale skin of Illya’s neck.

"You Americans can be damnably imprecise."

"We can," Napoleon agreed cordially. He rolled over and pulled Illya onto him, the younger man sitting up as he straddled Napoleon’s body. "Careful there. We don’t have a shower on this plane. Or a medic."

Illya smiled, brushing back his hair from his eyes. "It’s the only amenity missing. Remind me to travel with you again some time."

"You always do," Napoleon said, rubbing Illya’s thighs with his hands. "You feel good."

"I do don’t I?" Illya agreed, smiling at Napoleon’s look of bemusement. "You look good on your back. I wonder what T.H.R.U.S.H. would think if they saw us now?"

"They would consider it a decadent folly, this boy fixation we both have."

"Boy? I'm almost seventy," Illya said with a grin.

"You will always be to me that young and sexy, if not a bit morose boy that I fucked senseless over half of Europe and the Middle East," Napoleon said, watching with satisfaction the dry chuckle that comment elicited from his lover.

"You’re good for the ego," Illya said, leaning down to kiss Napoleon’s lips. Strong hands slid down his back, gripping his ass and he could feel a response in his gut, an old yearning come over him.

Then the comm link chirped.

"We’re heading in for our approach to Cascade, Mr. Solo. We’ll be at the jet way in twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Tom," he said, pressing the comm link off. He pulled Illya down and they settled in together. "Stay here until we land. I love landing on my back."

Illya chuckled. "I noticed that over the years."

It was quiet until they touched down in Cascade.

County General Hospital, Intensive Care ...

They walked in, noting the silent group of men standing in the waiting room. Illya surveyed the crowd, noting the cold expressions that greeted them. Simon Banks stepped forward.

"Napoleon Solo?" he queried as he came into the room.

"That’s me," Napoleon replied, noting that Illya moved off to one side, his eyes roving over the group as if he was on guard duty. He probably was, Napoleon considered.

"This is Jim Ellison, the partner of the man down."

Napoleon nodded and turned, glancing at the three doctors they had brought with them. "These people are experts on the condition that you described to my agent, Mr. Kuryakin. They can assist your people in working out a short-term solution to the immediate problem."

Banks nodded and a detective stepped out, leading them to through the doors and into the ICU unit. He turned and fixed a cold gaze on Solo. "Maybe you’d like to tell us what’s going on here? Or would that violate some secret agent taboo or something?"

Napoleon glanced at Illya, the younger man standing by the couch, his face a mask of coldness. He turned to Banks, considering him with a quiet, calm expression. "It would be helpful if you could tell us what has happened here and maybe we can all put two and two together without any wasted motion or emotion."

Jim Ellison reached out and grabbed Napoleon’s arm. Then he froze. A gun, cocked and ready, was pressed against the temple of his head. Guns were pulled and everyone stood poised, tension thick in the air. Napoleon looked around at the arsenal that was pointed at the two of them and shook his head. "Gentlemen, you need to put your side arms away. This solves nothing and my partner *will* shoot if you don’t let go of my arm." He gazed coolly at Ellison, noting the fire in his
eyes. "He’s Russian don’t you know."

For a moment there was no movement and then Banks nodded, Jim releasing Napoleon‘s arm. The silent figure beside him stepped back, the gun in his hand lowered after the others returned their to their holsters. His was the last to be re-sheathed. Napoleon sighed and turned to Banks.
"We need to talk. In private."

"In here," he said, motioning to the back of the waiting lounge. Illya moved to the door, free to watch everyone in the room and after they all sat down, he perched on a small table by the door.

"So ... tell me what has happened," Napoleon prompted quietly.

"My partner was taken shortly after we were informed of another killing, a clean forehead kill of a union man who opposed rackets on the waterfront. He was found floating and I called Blair Sandburg, my partner, to come. He said he would and then we didn’t hear from him again until some time later. He called us from where a group of men, some of them with foreign accents had taken him."

"What sort of foreign accent?" Illya interjected, a frown on his face.

"I don’t know," Ellison said testily. "Probably just like yours." Kuryakin held Ellison’s gaze, the two locked in silent mortal combat.

"Continue," Illya replied icily.

"He called and told us he was being held and then the line was cut. We didn’t know where to search so we began to shake up the mob. That’s when he turned up at the docks."

"He was shivering, filled with pain and semi-conscious," Napoleon stated, staring at the toe of his shoe.

"Yes. You appear to know what the hell this is. Maybe you’d like to enlighten us." Simon growled, every eye on the place focusing upon Napoleon.

He sighed and Illya shifted. "You don’t have to say a word," he said, speaking in Russian.

"I do," Napoleon replied, his own Russian only slightly less perfect than his partner’s. He looked at Ellison. "I have the same problem."

It was silent a moment and then Ellison spoke. "What do you mean? This toxin? You have it too?"

"For thirty-four years," he said, shaking his head. "My partner and I have been on a quest to find a cure but so far there is none. It’s a toxin that is designed to mutate into another variation after about ten or eleven months in the victim’s bloodstream. We’ve had to adapt a serum that makes it bearable. Otherwise, it’s like being electrocuted all the time. At least it is until it kills you."

"What do you mean there’s no cure? You’ve been dealing with it thirty-four years. Surely you’ve come up with something," Jim said with emotional exasperation.

"We have tried. Lord knows we’ve tried," Napoleon said, sighing with regret. "But so far, without the exact formula for it, we can’t figure out how they did it."

"That was thirty-four years ago. Surely they weren’t that sophisticated that long ago," Joel asked.

Napoleon grimaced. "Tell that to my doctor."

"How did this get here? What has this to do with us and what the *hell* is this Silk Road shit that’s been bandied about?" Simon demanded.

Illya froze and Napoleon affixed him with a steely gaze. "Where did you hear about that?" Napoleon asked.

"Doesn’t matter. It’s all fucked up. Tell us what you know," Ellison demanded, leaning forward. Illya’s hand reached into his leather jacket and everyone tensed. Ellison sat back, watching Illya as his hand relaxed. Napoleon looked at his partner, at the implacably grim expression and knew he would hate for confidentiality to be broken but it was all too late now, he considered. He looked at Ellison and began.

"This is totally confidential. Lives depend upon your silence." They nodded and Napoleon considered what he would say and how. "In 1962, Illya came from the Soviet Union to U.N.C.L.E., North America. It was ostensibly to be a foreign exchange, a detente in the cold war raging at the time. You were all probably too young to remember how that was. He was to work with me and we were to be the team that took the hard ones, the ones that included weapons of mass destruction and those willing to use them. Needless to say, we were busy."

Illya shifted, supremely uncomfortable. "Napoleon, I don’t think this is wise."

Napoleon sat back, shrugging. "It’s almost out of our hands now. T.H.R.U.S.H has the ball and its up to us to move next."

Illya sighed and nodded, irritation and disagreement clear on his face and in his manner.

"We were given a case code-named Silk Road and it had to do with corrupt groups using the opium grown in Afghanistan to buy weapons and build armies against future excursions into terror and territory building. The Silk Road is the ancient trade route through the Near East, Afghanistan in particular, and Pakistan. They were supplying half the world’s heroin at one time. T.H.R.U.S.H was interested and decided to cut themselves in on the deal, destabilizing the King of Afghanistan and driving him into exile in Rome where he lives to this day."

"What has this got to do with Blair and this toxin?" Ellison asked irritably.

"Patience," Illya chided. All eyes turned to him and he rose, moving to lean against the wall behind Solo. "You do remember me, don’t you?"

"You got me out of Soviet custody when they picked me up in the Russian-Afghanistan war," Jim replied.

"Yes, I did," Illya replied. "You were as good as dead if I hadn’t intervened. I was there, investigating drug and arms smuggling when I was told of you. It put me in good with the Mojos to bring you back to them."

"Glad to help you," Jim said sarcastically.

"You did. I was able to document a very small but militant group of fighters who are Wahabi believers, who had now made themselves very dangerous people in the region," he replied coolly. "Wahabism is an ancient and very militant brand of fundamentalist Islam that these people practice. It’s very austere and teaches a fanatical kind of militantism that will come to haunt us some day."

"And?" Jim prodded impatiently.

Napoleon sighed. "There were murders in the country, hard to interest yourself with during war but they began to spread to other countries. Clean shots, forehead, dead aim. They were a diverse group but when you put them all together they played out a pattern. They were warning shots from an international organization that change was in the wind and it could happen to anyone. They were leaders, union organizers, military people and politicians. They were people who posed a threat either at the time or in future to the aims and goals of an organization who had just gone underground. T.H.R.U.S.H. was beginning a new game aimed at the same old goals they always had, world domination and economic supremacy of the globe. It all began and ended with the Silk Road case."

"And Cascade? How does that fit in?" Banks asked.

"The Pacific Rim is the gateway to the biggest markets in the coming century. It is a toehold in the world economy and a place to ship and receive contraband. Cascade is *the* major port on the west coast. Owning this town makes sense. Consider as well the power that T.H.R.U.S.H. has. Consider how they have cowed the Russian, Chinese and Italian mafias. Consider how they aren’t afraid to kill. The money men and killers that run T.H.R.U.S.H. make the mobs look like children."

"What has poisoning you and Blair have to do with worldwide domination and all this shit?" Jim asked, puzzling the details.

"It’s personal."

All eyes turned to Kuryakin. Jim’s anger rose. "So the fuck what? Tell us what you know."

Illya gazed at him like he was a mad child. "You misinterpret me. It’s personal."

"What? Someone has a vendetta against you? That I can believe. But Sandburg?" Simon exclaimed.

"It got us here, didn’t it?" Napoleon replied. "Think about it. There has been a strategic re-alignment of the world around this whole affair. Middle East hotheads have become connected to worldwide organized crime. People who would no more blink at cutting your throat have made a pact with serious money and technology people. The potential for disaster is incalculable."

Illya nodded. "Groups with very little allegiance to anyone or anything beyond their own goals or religion are a weapon T.H.R.U.S.H. is utilizing against the solidarity and cohesiveness of the West. My own country is struggling to contain the threat of this unleashed ethnic unrest. It has destabilized my country to a certain degree never before believed possible."

"They are in a campaign to bring down democratic groups through economic as well as traditional terroristic means. Terror is a weapon they are not afraid to use and eliminating obstacles through murder or bribery is the cost of doing business to them. Because of a lot of factors the frontline has arrived in Cascade," Napoleon said quietly.

It was silent for a moment.

"You said this was personal. How so?" Jim asked, his eyes fixed on the pale stranger by the door.

Illya stared at him, his eyes flickering to Napoleon. He nodded barely perceptively and Illya sighed, nodding back. He looked at the group and considered his thoughts. "Thirty-five years ago, we were shadowing a young man across Europe. He was an Englishman by the name of Lawrence Stoddard. His father was a refugee from Poland during the First World War and had married well, founding an investment firm based in Zurich. He had four sons, the youngest this Lawrence, a ne’er-do-well that had become a courier for T.H.R.U.S.H.

"He was having an affair with a young Afghani student who comes from a very wealthy family, who were training him to take over the family business. At the time it didn’t connect. We were on the trail of this Stoddard, boarding a train to Germany when he had a conversation in the dining car with someone who later turned out to be his brother Gabriel. Following that conversation Lawrence walked into the restroom of the train and hanged himself."

Napoleon picked up the tale. "His father was convinced that we were responsible. T.H.R.U.S.H. had pictures taken as we found him and they were sent to him along with a letter accusing us of making the whole thing happen. What we didn’t know at the time was that Old Man Stoddard was the newest member of T.H.R.U.S.H.'s ruling leadership council. He had access to all kinds of complicated things and set someone on our trail, infecting me with a toxin that had its origins in the KGB labs in Moscow."

"They infected you with it?" Simon said.

"Yes," Napoleon replied. "December 24, 1965. I’ve been dealing with it ever since."

"What do we have to do?" Jim asked.

"If we can find a combination that will counteract it, then a serum will be made that must be injected once a day, every day. After about ten to eleven months it will break down and another combination must be formulated," Illya replied. "So it has been for us for thirty-four years."

Jim stared at him, fear warring with the anger in him. "This is fucked. This is not the way it’s going to be."

Napoleon sighed, staring at him with sympathy. "It’s the way it is for now. We’ve been trying for four decades to find a cure. We have to find the original formula and from that we can make a cure. Hopefully."

"Who has the original formula?" Jim asked.

"That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. We aren’t sure. T.H.R.U.S.H. doesn’t share its secrets with just anyone. However, we believe that if we find Old Man Stoddard here in Cascade, we’ll find the formula. He wanted us here. We’re here. This has to be related. All we have to do is find him and see what he wants," Illya said dryly.

"Just like that," Simon said, rising and pacing with frustration.

"Just like that," Napoleon said, watching the big man fume. "They are supposed to have a conference here, the heads of the various mafias, criminals of all kinds and stripes and T.H.R.U.S.H. gathering together. to formulate their new world order. I can only assume that is still on. Tracking various players puts them here. We made a strike in Zurich, capturing Gabriel Stoddard and Jans Barnable, the sons of Stoddard and his partner, Willem Barnable. They told us some things and we made plans to come here anyway when we got your call. What we have to do now is to gauge what they want and why they still want us to come."

"Where is this meeting supposed to be?" Simon asked, pausing in his movement to affix Napoleon with a stern gaze.

"It is to happen at a place called White Cliffs and it is to happen in two days," Napoleon said. "However ..."

"Yes?" Simon asked.

"Our office informed us just before we landed here that we, the two of us -Illya and I- are to meet at a road house tomorrow afternoon alone."

"You’re not going alone," Simon said.

"I’ll be going with him," Illya said, his voice low and determined.

"This is my jurisdiction," Simon said, turning and fixing the Russian with a steely gaze.

"This is *our* jurisdiction," Napoleon corrected. "This matter is our mandate. However, we are not adverse to assistance guaranteed that you follow our directions. We‘ve gotten rather good at this sort of thing."

For a moment there was no sound and then Simon nodded. "What do you have in mind?"

Napoleon smiled and glanced at Illya. "Something very simple, gentlemen. Something very, very simple."


He lay on the bed, feverish and shivering. The sedative only took the edge off. He didn’t see the man sitting beside him, his face filled with fear and worry. He held Blair’s hand, sitting as still as he could as he watched the younger man suffer. This whole business, the illness and the injections, it was almost more than he could stand. He heard a noise behind him and saw a figure. Turning, he relaxed only slightly when he saw that it was Illya Kuryakin. He had slipped away from the meeting in the waiting room, coming himself to check the patient.

He saw that the man on the bed was young, handsome in an ethereal sort of way with lots of dark curly hair. He was in pain, something that Illya recognized right away. He had seen it on Napoleon’s face too many times to count. "They told me that they had formulated a serum. You will have to wait about three days or so for him to come out of it. Sedation is the only way to stand the pain until the serum kicks in," he said softly. He picked up Blair’s other hand and checked the pulse, the rate the of the younger man’s heart more than it should be. It was also a familiar thing to Illya.

"I wanted to say thanks to you that time in Afghanistan. You didn’t wait around."

Illya looked at him, nodding slightly. "It wasn’t necessary. We were on the same side."

"Could have fooled me at the time. I always wondered about you." Jim watched as Illya checked Blair’s vitals. He let him, wondering how many times he had done the same thing for his own partner.

"You and half of everyone in the western hemisphere," Illya replied dryly.

"It must have been hard for you coming to the west in the middle of the cold war, being a Soviet in the democratic west," Jim proffered, watching the older man as he stared at the monitors.

Illya stood quietly a moment and turned, looking at the big American sitting in the chair next to his partner. It touched him, watching him holding the suffering man’s hand. He sighed. "It was difficult. But I survived."

"You seem the type who would no matter what," Jim agreed. "It must be tough to be so self-contained and be held hostage to your partner’s illness."

Illya glanced at him. "You play the hand you’re dealt. If I’ve learned nothing about my life, it’s that."

"Perhaps," Jim said noncommittally. "I just think that there are some things that make life more valuable, more worth living."

"I know there are." Illya glanced around him. "I’ve done this for thirty-four years. If you’re lucky you won’t have to do the same." Illya turned and walked to the door, opening it. As he did, Jim called to him. He turned and glanced back, looking at the big man in the chair.

"Thanks," Jim said, nodding.

Illya stared at him and then nodded back. "You’re welcome."

With that, he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Jim watched him go and when the room was dark, he turned back to his partner once more.


That night in a hotel in downtown Cascade ...

Napoleon stood in the window, a cigarette in his hand. He hadn’t smoked in thirty-three years but tonight he needed the nicotine. Behind him in the other room, Illya slept. They had come in, tired and forthright about the next few days. Talking to the Cascade police had taken hours and by the time they had left, a plan of sorts was in place. The roadhouse was a small place on the highway, on the road leading to the mountains. It was raining in the Cascades, that dull gray sheet-like sort of rain and coordination would have to be solid.

Napoleon stubbed out the smoke and turned, walking to the wet bar in the corner. He splashed some sparkling water into a glass and turned, walking to a chair to sit. He sighed and sipped the drink, considering how the fates had conspired to bring them to this moment. Old Man Stoddard, as he had come to be known between them, didn’t have a lot of years left and so they figured that things were coming to a head. He probably wanted to finish them both off and put everyone out of their misery. Illya would go armed, as would he. On this matter, neither man was prepared to concede. Illya would take his gun and Napoleon would take something else, something with more authority. He had picked it up off the plane and stowed it in his coat pocket. Nothing like a little insurance he considered.

Draining his glass, he rose and walked to the bedroom, noting the sleeping figure of his partner on the bed. He sighed, the desires rising through him even if they had no place to go and moving quietly, he slipped into the bed, pulling the covers up. Illya stirred and raised his head, looking at Napoleon through the gloom.

"Are you all right, Napoli?" he asked.

Napoleon touched Illya’s face with the back of his hand, gently rubbing the soft skin. "I’m fine," he whispered, opening his arms as Illya moved to lie with him. They were silent a moment.

"You smoked."

"I know."

"You aren’t supposed to. It dulls the medication."

"I know."

Illya sighed. "I don’t know what I’m going to do about your contrary streak, Napoli."

"I don’t know what I’m going to do with it either."

Illya chuckled, his body shaking slightly. Napoleon smiled, enjoying the moment.

"Napoleon?"

"Yes?"

"I didn’t shoot any of those people."

Napoleon was silent a moment, his heart pounding. "I’m glad. It wouldn’t matter to me, Illya. Nothing could change what I feel. I’m just glad for you."

Illya nodded. "I know. Go to sleep."

"You too."

Illya nodded again and yawned, burrowing down into Napoleon’s arms. "Good night, Napoli."

"Good night, Illya Nickovetch," Napoleon said softly, his hand stroking Illya’s soft hair. It would be a while before he finally feel asleep that night.


Near the Roadhouse, thirty miles outside of Cascade ...

They sat in the car, waiting for a moment as they psyched up. This meeting had taken thirty-four years to arrive. Around them, wired in to the devices they carried on their bodies, numerous police officers listened. They were scattered in the area, arriving early and hiding away from sight. They were supposed to enter the building and wait there. Someone would come to speak to them.

Napoleon had no illusions that this would work. A lifetime lived among devious people, working in a devious profession made believing in the tooth fairy a trifle hard at this point. They exited their car and walked across the wet pavement to the rustic log establishment, entering the door and looking around inside. A jukebox played in the corner and there were tables to sit at. The place was mostly empty, a couple of waitresses standing by the counter all that they could see.

They moved to a table and sat, their view of all the doors around them unimpeded. As they did, a waitress greeted them and took orders for coffee and a danish. Illya sat back, his eyes surveying the room constantly. As he did, a door opened in the back and he slipped his hand into his jacket. A man stepped out, local-looking, and walked toward them, hesitating. He paused and nodded to Napoleon.

"Are you a Mr. Solo?" he asked.

Napoleon nodded. The man handed him an envelope. "A man came in here earlier and gave this to me. He asked me to give it to you."

"Did you recognize this man? What did he look like?" Illya asked as Napoleon held the envelope in his hands. It had no postmark and looked nondescript.

"No. He just came in, handed it to me and asked me to wait for a man in a suit and a blond man. You two fit the description. As for him, he was old, about ninety and very well dressed. He had a foreign accent."

Napoleon removed a photo from his pocket and handed it to the man. "Did he look like this?"

The man nodded. "That’s him."

They rose and thanked the man, leaving a big tip behind. Walking out the door, they moved to the car where Napoleon put the envelope into a bag. They got in and pulled out, heading toward the city once more. Behind them, alerted to the situation, several cars of police pulled out of their various hiding places and followed.


Cascade PD Forensics Lab ...

They considered the evidence, the fact that there were no fingerprints, nothing to identify who made the letter inside and beyond the man at the Roadhouse, no one could tell who and where this message had come from. The fact that a key to a locker at the bus station downtown was enclosed made things just a bit more complicated.

"The man who gave it to the worker at the Roadhouse has positively identified the elder Stoddard," Illya said, putting down the report. He had worked side-by-side with the crime lab technicians, gleaning what they could from the mailing. "This key, I am wondering ..."

"The letter sets a meet. Me, Illya and Jim Ellison. Interesting ... They knew we weren’t alone," Napoleon replied, staring at the key in his hand. "Tonight at the park on the river front. Hardly conducive to good health."

"What else can we do?" Simon asked, staring at the letter once more. "They want you to come alone. That’s too dangerous. Anything could happen."

"That’s true," Illya concluded. "I won’t be coming unarmed."

"Nor I," Napoleon said, fingering the object in his pocket. "Tonight it is. You can arrange people to back us up. The three of us go in armed. I set the pace. You two provide the backup." He turned to Ellison. "We’re much better the two of us alone, no offense, but they want you too. Probably has something to do with your partner. Who knows. I just know that when we work together, we have a shorthand. Sort of the accumulation of a lifetime of saving each other’s ass. Follow Illya’s lead."

Ellison glanced at Simon and then Napoleon again. Nodding, he rose, picking up the letter. "They want a meet. It’ll be getting along dark and the rain, it hasn’t let up. All of the murders have been committed in the rain. Any reason why?"

Napoleon looked at him and shrugged. "Coincidence?"

"Maybe," Ellison said, his gaze shifting to Kuryakin. The Russian met it, holding it levelly.

"We better move. We have to put people in place. We’ll have you covered, including the bandstand where you’re supposed to meet. Sharpshooters from Heavy Weapons will be in place before you arrive. You wear a wire and don’t do any hero stuff."

Ellison snorted humorlessly. "I think we better check out the key, don’t you?" he asked, his gaze meeting Napoleon’s.

The older man nodded, turning to Illya. He spoke to him in Russian and Illya nodded, pulling on his coat. Turning back to Simon, he swept his arm graciously. "After you."

Simon nodded and grabbed his coat, the four men walking out into the corridor. The ride to the bus station was short and they were soon standing before the locker that matched the key.

"This could be a trap. A bomb might be ignited before I can turn the key completely," Napoleon mused.

"That’s why I’m going to turn it myself," Illya said, taking the key from Napoleon’s hand. He nodded Napoleon off and he stepped back reluctantly. Illya bent down and listened, hearing nothing. Putting the key in, he turned it resolutely and nothing happened but the door opening. Looking inside, he noted a small velvet bag sitting in the middle of the large space. Napoleon moved to stand beside his partner. Reaching inside, he picked up the bag, moving to look at it in the light. Opening it, a small vial with clear liquid glittered in his hand. He stared at it for a moment before glancing up at Illya.

The look on Illya’s face was hard to watch, the mix of hope, doubt and fear clouding his expression. Tortured eyes met Napoleon’s, eyes that didn’t dare to believe. He took it from Napoleon, staring at it with anguish before the veil fell over his face once more.

"I don’t know what that is. I gave up hoping a long time ago but if that’s what I think it might be ..." Napoleon said, his voice soft with uncertainty.

"We have to get this back to the lab," Illya said, turning with the three men with him, hurrying to the car beyond. In minutes, they were gone and the man watching them, a man with a nondescript face smiled.

/... touche, you bastards ... touche .../


It was silent in the lab, all of the principle characters thinking their own thoughts. Illya, staring at the bottle sitting on the table was filled with a raging hatred so strong he felt overwhelmed. Not
since the difficult early days of his association with Napoleon and this country did he feel so filled with anger. Picking up the bottle, he turned and smashed it against the floor. Composing himself with difficulty, he turned, his glacial expression back in place. "That was a total waste of time," he said, his voice barely in control.

Napoleon looked at him, quashing his own disappointment when the cell phone in his pocket rang. Pulling it out, he opened it. "Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Solo. I see you’ve had time to analyze the formula and found that it was mineral water."

A voice, low and European spoke to him and he gestured to the others to be silent. "Which Stoddard am I speaking to?" he asked, sitting on the stool behind him once more.

"Does it matter?"

"To me it does," Napoleon replied easily. "After all, it wouldn’t be polite not to tell me."

"We’ve already met," the voice replied. "What I want to do is meet you again. Tonight, at the band shell in the park. And come with your girl friend and the cop. Might as well get this business over with."

"What business?" Napoleon asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Why the business of your illness of course," Gabriel Stoddard replied smoothly. "You do want to be well don’t you? You and that curly haired little cop?"

"And what would be the price of this miracle?" Napoleon asked.

"Find out tonight. Be there according to instructions or you’ll never be cured," Stoddard said, cutting the link.

Napoleon closed his phone and gazed at his intense partner. "The meet is on. They want to discuss my recovery. I can only imagine what the price of wellness is these days."

Illya gazed at him silently, his own mind making decisions about the outcome of the evening ahead.


That night at the park ...

They stepped from the car, all of them wired and armed. The band shell was over the rise of a small hill and they stood together, looking around. Jim could tell that someone was already at the meeting place, three men to be exact. Around him, he couldn’t see anyone close by although he could see a small figure on a building roof nearby. Stepping to one side, he whispered to Simon what he could deduce.

‘They’re waiting," Napoleon said, glancing at Ellison. "We best not keep them too long."

Jim nodded and the three turned, walking over the swell of the hill and down the other side, no one speaking as they approached the shelter of the band shell. Climbing the small steps, they entered and stopped just short of two men who were standing and one who was sitting. They stood quietly, each side taking measure of the other. Then the seated figure rose, stepping into a pool of illumination cast by a night light in the ceiling.

"We finally meet," he said, his cold eyes taking in the men before him. "Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, the men who murdered my son."

"That’s debatable. I was under the impression he hanged himself," Napoleon replied.

"You drove him to it."

"That argument you had at your office," Illya interjected. "That didn’t have something to do with it did it? You *did* know he was homosexual?"

Stanislas Stoddarski turned and glared at the Russian. "My son wasn’t a homosexual."

"Of course he was, right, Ahmed?" Napoleon asked, turning and smiling at the third member of Stoddard’s party.

The Afghani smiled and stepped closer. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"The Afghani Student Athletic Association in Zurich," Illya said casually. "We saw you there with Lawrence. Of course, there was that sexual interlude in the Bowery Club nearby. I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to prove your relationship, that is if you are truly interested in the truth," Illya said, turning his cold eyes onto elder Stoddard.

"This is just talk," Ahmed replied, his voice calm and smooth. "You harassed Lawrence to death. It’s your fault he’s dead."

"What about you, Gabriel?" Napoleon asked. The younger Stoddard turned, his face filled with wariness. "Does ‘Daddy’ know about your little peccadilloes?"

"What is he saying, Gabriel?" Stoddard asked, turning to his son.

"He’s saying whatever it takes to get what he wants. We came here for a reason. Let’s get to it." Gabriel looked at his father with exasperation. For the past three years he had been the one to keep the elderly and slightly infirm Stoddard in line, forming secret alliances with other members of the T.H.R.U.S.H. ruling council to ensure that business got taken care of. His father’s personal blind spots, his prejudices and antiquated attitudes were getting in the way of his own rising ambitions and the need to align T.H.R.U.S.H. with non-traditional groups such as fundamentalist Middle Eastern terror organizations and other slightly less than traditional allies. "Let’s get this done. You wanted to close the books on Lawrence. So do it."

Stoddard stared at his son and then turned, glaring at Kuryakin and Solo. "You caused more hurt in my family than I can allow. My wife died from the sorrow of losing her son. It may have taken years for it to finally happen but the day she buried Lawrence, she died."

"You would love to put that on us, wouldn’t you," Illya said, moving slightly ahead and in front of Napoleon. "You would love to make us responsible for your son’s death when it was your fault. Your involvement in T.H.R.U.S.H. killed him. Making him a courier killed him. You can blame everyone else if that suits you but in the end you are the one responsible."

Stoddard stared at him with fury. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. Holding it up, he smiled. Illya looked at it and calculated what it would take to snatch it from Stoddard’s hand. The old man, anticipating his thoughts, stepped farther back.

"Do you see this? It’s the antidote."

Jim Ellison tensed, his mind calculating the rate of speed it would take to grab Stoddard’s hand. He glanced out and noted that the small speck that had been on the roof nearby was no longer there. He considered the implications and made up his mind. He would charge Stoddard if Illya could keep him distracted.

"Why are you telling us this?" Napoleon asked.

"Because I want something from you," Stoddard replied. "You want the antidote and we want Cascade. Surely, since we’re all grown and sophisticated men here, we can come to an accommodation." "You want us to sacrifice a city to save ourselves?" Napoleon asked.

"I’ve come to the idea in my old age, Solo, that some things are less important with time than business."

"Spoken like a true Fascist," Illya hissed.

"I guess then," Napoleon interjected smoothly, "that your son’s homosexuality doesn’t matter anymore to you."

"Lawrence?" Stoddard asked, his watery gray eyes focusing on Solo. "My son’s ... particular perversions were never proven to me. No one can convince me that he was one. However, in my waning years I have grown magnanimous. We’re all professionals here, doing what we have to for our respective sides. You’ve paid thirty-four years for your part in his murder. Now at this point in my life, I want my legacy to be bigger than the hatred that I bear for you over my son. I want you to agree that Cascade is ours. If you do that, I will give you the antidote. Consider, Solo, that there is another whose life you will be choosing for besides yourself."

"Your legacy ... you want me to sacrifice a city for my own comfort," Napoleon replied softly, his hand tightening around the object in his pocket.

"*My* legacy. That’s right. I’ve spent a lifetime working for this moment, this crowning achievement. We will in the end win anyway, Solo, because you’re weak and soft. You don’t have the will to defeat us," he hissed.

"What about your son Gabriel? Do you forgive him too?" Illya asked, moving slightly closer to Stoddard.

The old man looked at him, puzzled. "What for?"

"Didn’t you know? He’s queer too, just like Lawrence," Napoleon said, tensing himself for the moment of truth that would be coming. "In fact, our office found out that Gabriel and Ahmed were having an affair behind Lawrence’s back. Gabriel met him on the train and told Lawrence. He saw his brother as a weak link, as someone who could get them all into trouble so he concocted the meeting, told his brother that he was fucking his boy friend and Lawrence hanged himself. Right, Gabriel?"

The younger Stoddard stared at Solo with outright loathing. Ahmed, his own face filled with anger, turned on Gabriel, grabbing his arm.

"You’re full of shit, Solo," Gabriel hissed.

"Am I?" Napoleon replied quietly. "You’re what ... sixty-two? Never been married, lives alone, keeps boys in apartments in Rio and comes to Europe five times a year to have your flings with Ahmed. You got what you want and you removed a rival from your father’s affections, such as they are. It wouldn’t be anything to check. What about it, Stanislas? Care to call my bluff?"

The elder Stoddard stared from Solo to the two younger men standing together, rage-filled. He turned, his hand lowering as he tightened his grip on the vial in his hand. As he did, Illya stepped forward and grabbed his fist even as Jim Ellison pulled his gun, short circuiting the same actions from Gabriel and Ahmed. Stoddard pulled back, jerking free of Illya and turned, flinging the vial in his hand onto the ground.

Napoleon stood watching as everything erupted around him. It seemed as if in slow motion but he knew better. It was his senses that weren’t keeping up with the sonic speed of the motion around him. He watched as the impact of the vial spewed glass and the medicine inside all over the ground. Looking up, he saw the most terrible transformation of Illya’s expression he had ever witnessed. It went from determination to astonishment to anguish to molten rage. Then time slammed in and they were all stilled by the moment.

Illya looked at Gabriel and Ahmed, the two under the gun of Ellison. He looked at Napoleon, a look of incalculable sorrow on his pale face and then he reached into his coat, pulling his gun from his holster. Turning, raising it with unerring accuracy, he fired and put a round through Stoddard’s forehead. The old man jolted, a look of surprise on his face and then he fell backward, landing like a bag of cement on the floor.

No one moved for a moment and then Illya did, kneeling beside the broken shards of glass and the rapidly evaporating elixir. As he did, he felt himself rent in two and in the darkness of the moment, cried out his despair to the universe. Napoleon, watching, felt the object in his hand and looking down, noted it once more. His insurance policy, he considered as he listened to the agonized weeping of his partner.

It was an army issue grenade.


At the hospital ...

Jim Ellison sat next to Blair, holding his hand as he slept. They had taken the two men to the station, putting them into cells. In minutes he would have to leave to help with the interrogation. The body of Old Man Stoddard was taken to the morgue, the cause of death gunshot wound to the head. A hurried conference between them made agreement that it would be ruled justified, the shooter being incapacitated and unable to speak. At this point in time, considering what it had cost them to fail, Jim Ellison considered it justifiable as well. Taking Ahmed’s gun, he put it on the ground next to Stoddard’s body, taking Illya’s into custody himself.

Napoleon had knelt beside Illya, putting his arm around his partner’s shaking shoulders. He felt numbed himself, unable to have a feeling. For a moment they just sat together and then he pulled Illya to his feet, embracing him as he wept. Simon and the others burst in at this point and Ellison filled them in on what happened over the noisy protests of the two prisoners. Banks ordered them removed and called for a M.E., telling the others to go back in, with questioning beginning shortly.

He sighed, filled with devastation that this could have happened and what it might mean for their future. Kuryakin, a man without emotions someone had once told him, was shattered. He had wept unashamedly in disappointment and Jim felt his own sorrows welling up as well. Rising, tucking Blair’s hand into the blanket, he leaned down and kissed him, turning reluctantly to the door. Sighing with pain and anguish, Jim Ellison moved on toward his duty and the two prisoners waiting for him at the station.



At the Cascade PD ...

Ahmed sat in a chair smoking cigarettes as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Sitting across the table from him was Napoleon Solo. The door opened and Jim Ellison walked in, moving to stand next to Simon. They all sat waiting and finally Napoleon shifted in his seat, leaning forward on his elbows.

"So, what about it, Ahmed? Tell what we want to know and maybe, just maybe you’ll get off with good behavior in about seven hundred years or so."

"What would that be, Solo?" he asked, smiling.

Napoleon quelled the urge to bitch slap him across the room and met his nonchalance with some of his own. "You are aware of the Alien and Sedition Act, aren’t you?" he asked casually.

Ahmed flicked some ashes away and shrugged. "Should I be?"

"You should. It gives me the right to hold you incognito until the day you die if you pose a threat to the safety and security of the United States."

"So, what you’re saying is if I don’t cooperate you’ll throw the key away and put me in some dark dank cell?"

Napoleon nodded. "Something like that."

"That would be difficult to say the least. After all, diplomatic immunity makes it possible for me to tell you to go to hell no matter what you charge me with."

For a moment it was silent and then Jim Ellison crossed the room, a gun in his hand. He gripped the front of Ahmed’s shirt and stuck the gun into his mouth. No one moved as Jim battled for the control of his emotions. He smiled without humor. "Well, well, well ... it would be too bad if I suddenly had a cramp in my finger. I bet diplomatic immunity would be small comfort for the hole I would blow in your face."

Napoleon watched without comment, giving Ahmed credit for holding it together as much as he did. Ellison pulled the gun out of Ahmed’s mouth and put it against his temple.

"You have five seconds to tell me where the serum is before I ventilate your head," Jim hissed.

Ahmed’s eyes flickered around the room, noting that no one was interfering with the actions of Ellison. He made up his mind at that moment and cut his losses, nodding to Ellison his capitulation. Ellison let go of his shirt and Ahmed fell back into his chair, moving awkwardly to smooth his clothes. He glared at Ellison as the big man stepped back to stand next to his superior, the gun still in his hand but held barrel pointed down at the floor.

"All right. I’ll cut you a deal," Ahmed said, considering how much he could give away and still not lose. "I’ll get you the formula and you can even have Gabriel. I expect in return that you will put me on a plane, honoring my diplomatic status."

"We have to find out if you have any first," Simon said.

"The formula is non-negotiable. It’s given now or I promise you, you will never make it alive to any plane that hauls your sorry ass off this continent," Ellison interjected, his face glacial with hatred.

Ahmed considered his word and nodded. "All right. I’ll talk to my people. It will be delivered to the same locker at the train station that you found the false formula. I expect that you’ll keep your word?"

Napoleon smiled, humor never reaching his eyes. "Why my dear Ahmed ... what would I be if I was a liar?"

"A board member of T.H.R.U.S.H. I would think," Simon Banks said before exiting the room to make calls.



Two days later ...

Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo stood under the awning that covered the main entrance of the Cascade General Hospital. Two days prior, Napoleon had checked in to undergo the series of injections that would make neutral in his bloodstream the toxin that had plagued his life. The side effects were difficult, vomiting and severe bouts of fever and chills but he had endured it, purging once and for all the last vestiges of an old man’s revenge from his system.

Blair Sandburg had one more day and they had paid their respects to the two men before coming down and waiting for their car. It would take them to the airport where their jet was waiting to take them home to New York City.

"I’ll be glad to be shut of the rain," Illya said, gazing up to the leaden sky.

"You and me both," Napoleon said, sighing. "I’m glad we can close the books on this one."

"Do you really think its over?" Illya asked, watching as their car arrived.

Napoleon looked at him and smiled slightly. "No."

"Me either," Illya said as he watched Napoleon climb into the car. He joined the older man and grinned.

"What?" Napoleon asked, gazing at his partner curiously.

"Say it."

Napoleon looked at him a moment and then grinned, leaning forward to the driver. "Home, James."

Illya grinned and sighed as the car pulled out for the airport. "I still have hope that some day you can explain that to me."

"Me too," Napoleon said with a grin.


At home, the next day in Cascade ...

Jim Ellison poured the soup into a bowl and placed it on the tray that would be going with him to the loft. He put the empty pot in the sink and checked things over. Since the day after the arrest of Ahmed, he had been on suspension. One week was docked against his actions in the interrogation room and he had accepted them without comment. He was over the edge and things could have been very much different than they had turned out to be. However, no part of him regretted pulling a gun and taking things into his own hands. It had saved Blair’s life. He picked up the tray and walked up the stairs, quietly moving to the bed where his lover sat, reading a book with his glasses perched on his nose. He looked up and smiled, warming Jim from head to toe. "Hey! This is nice. I guess I have to get sick more often."

"Don’t you dare."

They settled and Jim watched as Blair gingerly began to eat his lunch. "This is good. My stomach feels better today."

"Good," Jim replied, relieved. "You won’t be getting this treatment for long so don’t get too used to it."

Blair grinned at him. "You’re a fraud but I love you."

Jim looked at him, his eyes filled with emotion. "I love you too, Chief," he said quietly.

Blair swallowed and put down his cup, moving the tray to the floor on the other side of the bed. Turning, he looked at Jim, his own emotions clear on his face.

"Hold me," he said, moving slightly as the big man stretched out beside him. Opening his arms, Jim gathered Blair to his body, hugging him tightly. They were silent for a moment and then Blair sighed. "I wonder what it must have been like for those two to put up with this for thirty-four years?"

"I can’t imagine it," Jim said, kissing Blair on the forehead. "These last three days have been hell."

"Do you think that the threat is over?" Blair asked, thinking over the information that he had seen on the news and heard from Jim about the raid on a big criminal meeting held at White Cliffs.

Jim sighed, his fingers stroking Blair’s curls gently. "No."

"I didn’t think so," Blair said, sighing. He snuggled closer.

"Don’t think about it now," Jim said softly. "Think about it later."

The sound of rain pelting against the window was counterpoint to the steady patter on the roof. It was warm and quiet and they were together. For Jim Ellison, nothing mattered more.



It was hot where they were, lounging in Bermuda. They had not come back since the time before Napoleon had gotten infected. There were too many associations that he wanted to avoid. Yet, they both decided to spend a few days here, relaxing in the sun and making up for old time. It had taken a while but their love life was on the upswing.

"Want another drink?" Illya asked, peering over at his partner from the lounge chair he was lying on.

"No, I’m fine," Napoleon replied, sighing with relaxation.

They were on the deck of their cottage, the sun filtering through palm trees that lined it and beyond them they could hear the sound of the ocean. It was absolutely peaceful and restful, something they needed in spades after Napoleon’s horrendous recovery. Coming home, they had walked into their apartment, settling in after a few minutes of meandering around. Illya watched Napoleon, the idea of him being well almost more than he could comprehend after all the years of worry and struggle they had spent.

"How do you feel?" he asked for the tenth time that afternoon, watching as Napoleon reached into a dresser drawer. He pulled out a small velvet bag and turned, looking at Illya with interest.

"I feel fine. You?" Napoleon asked.

"Fine." he replied, watching as Napoleon pulled from the velvet bag a small framed object. "What about this? How long are you going to hide it away?" He held it out and after a moment Illya reached for it, taking it into his hand. He stared at it and sighed.

"It’s beautiful," Illya said, gazing with pleasure on the icon that Napoleon had been going to get that Christmas Eve so long ago. "It had bad memories for me."

"And now?" Napoleon asked, leaning against the dresser.

"Now? I think I would like to display it," Illya said, moving to the living room. He walked to the mantle and put in on the shelf, stepping back to stare at its quiet and serene beauty. "Thank you, Napoleon, for a small piece of my homeland. I don’t remember if I ever told you that."

"You did," Napoleon said, slipping his arms around his lover. "You did it each time you helped me, each time you settled for less than you deserved because you loved me."

Illya swallowed around the lump in his throat and turned, gazing into Napoleon’s dark eyes. He leaned forward and they kissed, a soft joining of their lips and Illya sighed. "I do love you."

"I know," Napoleon replied. "Its the one thing in my whole life that I know for sure." ...

A soft breeze drifted over them, taking the edge off the heat. Illya looked at Napoleon, smiling. He reached out and took Napoleon’s hand. He squeezed it, sighing. "This was a good idea," he said. "A very good idea, Napoli."

"I’m glad you agree. I have another good idea if you’re up to it."

Illya glanced at him and leaned over, listening as Napoleon whispered in his ear. He blushed in spite of himself. Smirking with his usual sarcastic expression, he snorted. "I wonder what your mother would say if she knew you used language like that?"

Napoleon rose and held out his hand, pulling his partner to his feet. "She would wash my mouth out with soap most likely."

Illya grinned and hugged him, shaking his head as they headed for the house and the bedroom that called to them once again.

"Americans. You will always be decadent. You will never change your ways."

Napoleon smiled as he followed his partner inside. "You better hope so, my little commie friend."

The door closed behind them.


Ahmed al-Zeeri waited on a dusty street corner, his contact for the important meeting he had arranged going on ahead to check arrangements. Kabul was crowded, the crackdown on people by the ruling Taliban government more extreme than even he had heard. He was more than ever sure that this alliance, in the works for months, would be beneficial to himself and the organization he worked for so completely.

Losing Gabriel had been a blow. Their relationship had been one of decades and losing someone who knew who you knew so well and shared much covered territory was hard. However, such was the way of things. Gabriel Stoddard was doing life without parole at Marion Super Maximum Prison and he was here in his homeland working for T.H.R.U.S.H. A man hurried toward him, his rifle slung over his arm. He nodded and turned, pointing down the street.

"That house on the end. He’s there and will hear you."

Ahmed nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder. Turning, he walked toward the house and a meeting that felt fateful. If he could pull this off then he had real power in his hands. All he had to do was convince one man that he would benefit his cause if he did business with him and his own people. It fell on Ahmed’s shoulders now to pull this together.

He didn’t consider it hopeless. After all, Osama Bin Laden was an educated and wealthy man just like himself. With that bit of common ground between them, Ahmed al-Zeeri knocked on the door of the house.