THE LITTLE WHITE LIES AFFAIR
A Round Robin
Part 1
By Katriana

Napoleon shivered convulsively, and pulled the collar of his wool coat closer about his neck. Reaching for the thermos of hot coffee on the back seat of the car, he spared his partner a withering glance. It was 21 degrees outside, and while Napoleon was freezing his balls off, his partner didn’t even have his coat buttoned, nor was he wearing gloves.

“Don’t you ever get cold, or is that ice water running through your veins?” Napoleon said acerbically, as he poured the last of the coffee into the thermos cup, downing it in three long gulps.

Glancing sidelong at him, Illya replied complacently, “I guess we Russians are just made of sterner stuff than you spoiled Americans. Central heating has made you soft.”

“Hmpff,” Napoleon snorted. “Well, if you’re not going to use that scarf, give it to me.” Without waiting for permission, Napoleon slipped the loosely dangling scarf from around Illya’s neck and tightly wound it around his own.

Chuckling softly in amused tolerance, Illya kept his attention fixed on the building they were observing. Heaving a deep sigh, Napoleon, too, returned his attention to the apartment building. As a rule, Napoleon hated stakeout duty. He really hated it when the person they were staking out was the home by 6 type, with nary a hint of action to be had during the long night. He especially hated it when it was 21 degrees outside, and it was only early December. And, more than any other reason, he hated it when any greenhorn rookie could be sitting in this car watching the empty streets and sidewalks for hours on end.

‘Well, at least the company is pleasant,’ Napoleon reflected as he snuggled into the warmth provided by his partner’s scarf, inhaling deeply of the subtle combination of scents that lingered there, creating the essence of Illya. It was a heady mix, one that, increasingly in recent months, sent his senses reeling, creating an internal heat that could no longer be denied. Napoleon surreptitiously studied his partner. The silky blonde hair was slightly ruffled, and it took a mighty effort on his part for Napoleon not to reach out and smooth it into place. Instead he permitted his eyes to take a long, languorous tour of the slight, but finely muscled body. Of course, he only allowed himself this liberty because Illya was turned away from him. No, it wouldn’t do for Illya to catch on just yet. No, Napoleon had determined that to catch a Kuryakin, one had to be subtle and crafty. And catching a Kuryakin was exactly what Napoleon intended to do.

Clearing his throat, and hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt, he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Hmm,” Illya looked at his partner with slight confusion in his eyes. “What question was that, Napoleon?”

Exasperated, Napoleon rolled his eyes and swatted Illya on the arm. “Will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“Hmm.... Let me see if I have this right. You want *me* to go to dinner with you? Tomorrow night? *Friday* night?” Illya said with a slight frown of consternation.

“Yes, that’s the general gist of it. Dinner. Tomorrow night. *Friday* night. Why does that surprise you so much?”

“Oh, maybe because whenever we’re in the city and off duty on a Friday night, you always wine, dine, and bed some voluptuous beauty from the secretarial pool. But this time, you invite me. Why, really, Napoleon, whatever are your intentions? Should I be in fear for my virtue?” Illya said, smiling coyly from underneath his fringe of golden bangs.

Flushing, this being rather too close to the truth for his comfort, Napoleon said, “Illya, if you don’t want to go, just say so! If you find it so strange that I’d want to spend some time with my partner, my *friend*…. Well, just forget it.” Napoleon hunched into his corner of the front seat.

A small frown again creasing his brow, Illya said, “I’m sorry, Napoleon. It ’s just not your usual behavior, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m in the mood for the unusual.”

“Unusual?” Illya squinted suspiciously. “Do you mean unusual as in strange, or- “

“I mean unusual as in, you’re one of a kind, Illya.” Raising his hand placatingly, Napoleon continued, “I mean that in a good way.”

The trilling of Napoleon’s communicator sang from his pocket, cutting off Illya's reply. Pulling out the slim pen, Napoleon answered, “Solo here.”

The gruff voice of Alexander Waverly replied, “Mr. Solo, I’m sending Mitchell and Roberts to relieve you. As soon as they arrive, I require yours and Mr. Kuryakin’s presence in my office immediately.”

Napoleon glanced at Illya hopefully. “Are we being taken off the case sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. Waverly out.” With that, the communicator cut off.

At that moment, Mitchell and Roberts pulled into a space a few slots down. Using his communicator, Napoleon briefed them on the status of their quarry on this particular case, and on the placement of the other UNCLE teams participating in the stakeout. Then smiling widely at his partner, he turned the ignition on, gleefully turned the heater up full blast, slipped the car into gear, and headed for NY HQ.

“So, dinner tomorrow night, then?” Napoleon asked trying to keep the eager note out of his voice.

Smiling slightly, Illya replied, “I’m sorry, Napoleon, but I have a date tomorrow night.”

Disappointment shooting through him and damning the timing, Napoleon was nevertheless not unduly concerned. While not the ladies man that Napoleon was, Illya did date frequently. And like Napoleon, no woman ever held his attention for very long, the vagaries of their profession and the natures of the women themselves making a long-term relationship either inconvenient or unappealing.

Ignoring the tiny worm of jealousy squiggling in the pit of his stomach, Napoleon quirked his brow at Illya, and said, “Oh? And who would the lucky lady be?”

Blushing faintly, Illya murmured something unintelligible as he turned his face towards the car window.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Napoleon asked bemusedly.

Sighing, Illya closed his eyes briefly before turning away from the window. Gazing fixedly out the windshield, Illya replied, “I said his name is Peter Dunlap.”



Part 2
by Valerie Thomas

Napoleon sat back, nonplused. The tiny worm of jealousy grew to a wave, followed by an irrational spike of hope.

"Look where you’re driving, Napoleon. What if there had been a policeman to see you do that?"

"And who is this, er...?"

"Peter Dunlap, Napoleon. He’s an... acquaintance."

"An acquaintance? Should I be jealous?" he asked in a teasing voice.

"Look, it’s something I’d rather not discuss, all right? And I think you *should* be paying attention to where you’re driving. You almost went over the yellow line. Really, Napoleon!"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just that, well, my partner has a ‘date’ with another man. It’s natural that I should worry about you."

"It’s not a ‘date’ as in romance, Napoleon. He’s here in answer to some inquiries I’ve been making lately," Illya revealed, hoping that would satisfy his partner. He should have known better.

"Inquiries? What kind of inquiries?"

Illya sighed, knowing his answer would hurt his partner, but unwilling to say anything further until he had more information. "Personal ones, Napoleon."

He looked over to his partner. Yes, the hurt was there. Some things never changed. Napoleon always wanted more from Illya than the younger man was willing to give.

"I’m sorry, Napoleon. This is something I’ve been working on for a long time now. I don’t want to get my hopes up until I know something more."

"Something you’ve been working on? Sounds intriguing," Napoleon said. He’d seen that Russian wall go up before. He knew it was wrong of him to press the issue, but he had to know what was going on.

Illya began to fan himself. "Really, Napoleon, do you have to have the heat up so high? It’s boiling in here." He reached over to cut the heater down.

"It’s *freezing* in here. Open the vent if you’re that hot." He turned the heat back up to full blast.

Illya sighed again and opened the vent on the right side of the dashboard, letting the cold air hit him directly in the face.

"So where are you taking him?"

"What?"

"Where are you taking this *Peter Dunlop* on your *date* ?"

"That’s ‘Dunlap’ and it isn’t exactly a date, Napoleon; I told you that. He has some information I need." Illya was beginning to get annoyed. The man just didn’t know when to give up. It was, of course, part of what made him such a good UNCLE agent, but it could get irksome in personal matters.

"He’s meeting me at a cafe."

Good, good; that meant Illya wasn’t taking him back to *his* place. The wave of jealousy slithered back to the pit of Napoleon’s stomach.

"Really, Napoleon," Illya started, trying again to change the subject. "If you think this is cold, you should visit Siberia in the winter. This would seem balmy in comparison." He reached to turn the heat back down again.

"I’d like to see where you grew up." Oops, the wall was firmly back in place now. Napoleon cursed his own stupidity.

"Napoleon, *I* don’t even want to see the place where I grew up again. It wasn’t exactly pleasant."

Silence.

"Napoleon..."

"Illya..."

Both men laughed slightly as they began to speak at the same time. Ever the gentleman, Napoleon allowed Illya to start first.

"I’m sorry, Napoleon. This is something that is very important to me. He may have information that I’ve been looking for for a long time. I don’t want to get my hopes up only to find that he doesn’t know anything."

"I’m sorry, Illya. I can be pretty insensitive at times. I know I shouldn’t press, but you’re my partner and..."

"Yes, Napoleon, I *am* your partner, but there are some things that even a partner doesn’t need to know."

Touche. Ouch, that hurt! Napoleon wanted to know everything about his partner, but didn’t dare tell him that. That would definitely push him away!

A blue light behind them caused Napoleon to curse below his breath. He pulled over to the side.

A police officer moved over to the side of the car and motioned for Napoleon to roll down the window.

"Yes, officer?"

"Going a little bit fast there, weren’t you, sir?" the officer asked, shivering.

"I’m an agent for the UNCLE. We’ve just been called in to the office on an important mission." He showed his ID badge.

"Yes, sir. Do you need a police escort?" he asked hopefully.

"No, I think we can manage. Thank you."

Illya snickered as Solo pulled off again. "You really should have let him give us an escort, Napoleon. I can just picture Mr. Waverly’s face when we pulled up with a police car leading the way, sirens blaring."

Napoleon didn’t share his partner’s sense of humor and told him so. They drove on in silence until they came to the entrance of UNCLE NY headquarters. As they stepped from the car, Illya let slip a nice little morsel of information. For some reason, it was important to him that Napoleon have no misconceptions about tomorrow night’s "date."

"Napoleon, this Mr. Dunlap might have some information regarding the whereabouts of my brothers and sisters. That’s why I’m meeting him and I don’t want to get my hopes up."

"Your family? Really? After all this time, who would’ve thought that you could find out something about them."

"That’s just why I didn’t want to tell you, Napoleon. You naturally assume that he’s going to have some news, and that it’s going to be welcome news. Did you ever stop to think that it might be bad news? Or *no* news?"

"I’m sorry, Illya. I didn’t think..."

"It seems to be a trait of Americans to ‘look on the bright side’ of things," Illya said, annoyed again.

Once inside UNCLE headquarters, the secretary informed them that Mr. Waverly would expect them in his office in ten minutes.

"Oh, and Mr. Kuryakin, you have a telephone message from a Mr. Dunlap." She looked up at him hopefully.

"Where is it?" he asked impatiently. He read the proffered message and shoved it in his pocket.

As they walked on to their office, Illya tried to think of a way to get rid of Napoleon so he could make this call in private. Fortunately for him, his partner was waylaid by a member of the secretarial pool before they reached the door. Who would ever have thought he’d be grateful for Napoleon’s indiscretions?

After shaking off the unwanted attentions of the little brunette, Napoleon wandered over to the office he shared with Illya. He managed to overhear only the beginning of the conversation.

"Piotr?" Illya asked.



PART THREE
By Jatona

"Illya Nikovetch", came the reply.

Illya stiffened at the formal reply. "You have news?", he asked, a purposeful edge to his voice.

"I have. The good news is that you have two brothers and two sisters - you are the eldest of the five."

"And the bad news?"

"They know of you existence but want nothing to do with you."

Illya gasped as if stung by a million wasp. "Why?", was all he could trust himself to ask.

"According to them you abandoned the family."

Now anger welled inside the Russian. "That is a lie!" he snapped. "Who told them this?", he asked as an afterthought.

For a moment there was silence; then Dunlap spoke. "Prepare youself, Illya. What I am about to say will truly pierce your soul."

Illya drew in an audible breathe but did not release it. "I am prepared."

Dunlap sighed. "Your parents", was his reply.

"That is impossible. My..." A pause. "Correction, OUR parents were killed in the War. I was sent off to be raised by father's parents."

"Wrong. Both sets of grandparents died in the War. The people who raised you were of no relation; plus they were well-paid to keep silent." A pause. "Also...."

"Also?"

Dunlap swallowed hard. "Your parents are very much alive."



PART FOUR
by PEJA

The color fled Illya's lean features. He set the phone back in it's craddle and drifted down into his chair, staring sightlessly from glazed eyes.

A choked sob burst from his lips, and he buried his face in his hands.

Hearing the distressed sounds, Napoleon eased the door open and entered the office. He paused long enough to lock the door before rushing to his partner's side.

Going down on one knee, he enfolded Illya in his arms. The smaller man struggled against the embrace for a moment, then settled down to shudder his grief out on Napoloeon's sturdy shoulder.

Tears done, Illya leaned away from his partner. "Forgive my weakness."

Napoleon gave him a crooked smile. "I owe ya one....."

Illya nodded and made to turn his attention to the workload on his desk.

"....Times a thousand."

Illya smiled grimly. "We have work, Napoleon."

"Work can wait." Napoleon spun the office chair around so Illya faced him. "Want to talk about what just happened here?"

A stubborn frown creased Illya's high forehead. "You embraced me."

"Well, yeah...."

"I found it quite....endurable." Illya heeled his chair around again.

"You are a stubborn Russian."

Illya smiled again, this time a more real smile. "Yes, I am."

"You have no intention of telling me why your upset, do you?"

Illya gnawed on his lip. "I think....no."



PART FIVE
by Loke

"You'll cry on my shoulder but won't tell me why?" Napoleon asked.

"It was . . . very distressing," Illya replied, "and very personal. I need time to decide what to do now."

His parents were still living, and had told his younger siblings he had abandoned the family? Why? Why had he been raised by people who were no relation, and why were they paid to keep silent? Or had they been paid to raise Illya? Was the love they gave him paid for as well?

It was what he'd asked Piotr -- Peter Dunlap -- to find out, if he could. Dunlap had agreed to make more inquires, but warned it would cost extra. Illya agreed to pay it -- what else could he do? -- and they made plans to meet Monday evening.

He wasn't about to tell his partner the change of plans, however. He knew if Napoleon found out he had no plans, he would badger him into going to dinner, then pester the whole story out of him. A story he wasn't ready to tell, because even he didn't know the end.

He pulled his attention back to his partner, who was speaking again.

"You said earlier my embrace was . . . endurable. Care to clarify that?"

Whatever clarification Illya would have made was lost as the phone on Napoleon's desk rang. He picked it up, spoke briefly, and returned the receiver to its cradle. "We're wanted in Mr. Waverly's office, for a mission briefing."

Illya hoped the mission wouldn't keep him from his Monday night appointment as the pair walked briskly to Waverly's office.

It turned out the mission would keep them in New York unless things became complicated, which had an appalling tendency to happen.

They had a spate of good fortune -- not only did they not have to leave New York, they managed to finish the assignment over the weekend, leaving only the paperwork to do Monday. Illya finished his reports with his usual dispatch and gave them to his boss to be reviewed by simply placing them in his "In" box.

"If there's nothing more you need me to do," he told Napoleon after giving him the reports, "I'm going to lunch, and I'll be in the lab this afternoon if you need me."

Napoleon was tempted to tell his partner just what sort of needs he wanted Illya to fulfill, but was still uncertain how such a revelation would be met. He nodded and let him go.

Illya found it difficult to concentrate on his work that afternoon, anticipating the meeting with Dunlap that evening. He completed one more experiment and discovered it was nearly the end of the workday. He cleaned up his work area and prepared for his meeting with Dunlap.

When he arrived at the coffee shop where they'd agreed to meet, Dunlap greeted him with more bad news -- all his sources had suddenly dried up. He suspected they'd been warned not to talk to him anymore, but couldn't discover who'd threatened them or why. When Illya asked him if he could speak to the sources himself, Dunlap refused.

"They'll only talk to me, and now they won't even do that," he said.

The spoke a little while longer, with Illya pressing him to find out what he could, then parted. Dunlap said he had a few more places he could check, but for Illya not to get his hopes up. Illya nodded and went home.

Three hours later a knock came on his door. Two men who identified themselves as New York police detectives asked to speak to him. He allowed them into his apartment after scrutinizing their badges -- one could never be too careful.

They asked if he knew a man named Peter Dunlap, and Illya said he did. The next thing he knew they were shoving him against the wall and handcuffing him. When he asked why, he was told Dunlap was dead and he was being arrested for his murder.



PART SIX
by Kei

"Stubborn little Russian..." Napoleon Solo found himself muttering to himself, frustrated in more ways than one. His partner was like a Chinese puzzle box, so many levels, infuriatingly complex. At once fire and ice. Crying on his shoulder one moment and then hiding behind his mask of steel the next as if nothing had happened.

He didn't know why he put up with him except...he couldn't really envision himself paired with anyone else, and that, too, was increasingly in more ways than one.

That -and *he* was stubborn too.

Stubborn enough to attempt something as potentially dangerous as it was foolhardy. One didn't press Illya Kuryakin to reveal more of himself than he truly wished to share -he had learned that lesson before- but neither could he forget Illya's broken-hearted tears of despair spilling onto his shoulder that day...the tears of a man who needed help even if he didn't want it.

Napoleon sighed as the elevator reached the floor of Illya's apartment, steeling himself as the metal doors wooshed open against a possible angry confrontation when, suddenly, he heard the sounds of a violent altercation and knew almost instinctively that the row was coming from the direction of his partner's home. "What the HELL!"

Even as Solo turned the corner, the door to Illya's apartment flew open with a splintering crash and a man dressed in what appeared to be a badly damaged policeman's uniform hurtled out to hit the opposite wall with a sickening thud, followed by another similarly garbed man who immediately met the same fate. "Illya..?"

From with his rented dwelling, Kuryakin sharply met his partner's eyes, the Russian's tongue darting out to remove the trickle of blood from a split lower lip. "So," he said, gesturing with his still cuffed wrists. "Are you going to help me or what?"

Glancing back at the unmoving human pile, Napoleon fished a set of lockpicks out of a pocket of his suit coat and set to work on the steel bonds. "So tell me..." he said, "am I interfering with policemen in the course of their duties and aiding and abetting a felon?"

"They were not officers of the law."

"Oh?" Solo muttered as he heard a tell-tale click and the cuffs fell away from Kuryakin's wrists. "And you could tell this -'how'?"

The Russian grimaced. "Something I picked up on almost too late -'New York's Finest' do not arm themselves with `Glock -7's `."

"Nor do they, whoever they are, know how to deal with a Russian UNCLE agent who has been trained to fight with his hands tied behind his back." Solo hissed in grim appreciation at the darkening welt on Illya's jaw. "They got in a few good licks, though, I see. We should call-- Illya..?" Ignoring the senior UNCLE agent, Illya had knelt before the two inert forms and was carefully patting them down. "Ah, Illya, what are you doing?"

"I want to know who -ah!" Searching hands carefully removed a thin billfold, allowing it to fall open. Illya's fair skin blanched a sickly white. "Bozhe moi..."

Napoleon took the billfold from unresisting hands, eyes widening at the contents. "*K.G.B.*!?"



Part 7
by Jatona

"Illya?"

Illya sighed and sat down in the middle of the hallway. "I know you're angry with me, Napoleon...", he began. A finger on his lips interrupted his tirad.

Eyes almost black with concern met the blue ones. "I'm not angry, Illya, just concerned. I only want to help...." Solo paused not certain how, or if, he should continue. There was so much he wanted to say yet, once said, he feared the consequences.

"Why?", the Russian demanded.

"Well, first of all we're partners; second, we're friends and, most important of all **Here goes, old son!** because I love you." **There, its said and I'll loose him!** Suddenly sick to his soul, Napoleon rose and headed for the stairs. Once there, he stopped and leaned against the banister.

Illya stiffened remaining where he was too stunned by this revelation to speak. Now all of his partner's behavior of the last few days made a lot of sense. "Let's get these devils back into the apartment and we will talk, okay?"

Silence.

"Please, Napoleon", Illya pleaded, understanding the American's distress all too well.

Napoleon nodded, returned to the Russian's side, held out a hand and helped him to his feet. Together, in silence, they drug the bodies of the KGB agents back into the apartment, bound, gagged and locked them in the bathroom. Once done they sat, side by side, on the large sofa/bed that occupied most of Illya's livingroom. The silence stretched between them.

Finally, knowing the next move was his, broke the silence. "Before we go any further, Napoleon, I need a question answered."

"Ask."

"What you said in the hallway, about loving me. Did you mean it?"

"With my heart, soul and life, Illya. I would never lie to you about anything so important to us."

** 'Us'** Illya's mind reeled. Almost from the beginning, once they had gotten to know each other, Napoleon had insisted their partnership be equal. That equality had spilled over into their friendship. "Forgive me for doubting you, please."

Napoleon turned to face his friend and reached out a trembling hand to caress a pale cheek. He stopped just short of his goal. "Why didn't you believe me, Illya?", he whispered.

The blond too the offered hand and covered it with one of his own. "I've had many dreams, Napoleon. A few of them have come true. My greatest, however, was to always find someone of my own. When we first met I prayed, Napoleon, to whatever God would listen that you would be the one......"

"....and my track record with the ladies didn't exactly inspire confidence", Solo finished, both intrigued and apprehensive.

"Yes. Precisely, Napoleon. For the sake of our friendship and partnership I kept silent. But, enough of this for the moment and let me explain to you what Peter Dunlap discovered for me."

For one somber hour - doing which time Napoleon, as he had done earlier in their office at UNCLE HQ, pulled the unresisting body close with his free arm and listened as Illya verbally poured out his soul.



PART EIGHT
by Carol

Solo couldn't understand what had provoked the KGB attack on his partner, but he was determined to not break the feeling of warmth that his friend generated. The two friends sat wrapped in each others arms. It would have been difficult for a "peeping tom" to have told where one friend ended and the other began, but their agony was plain - Illya for the betrayal of twenty-plus years of familial loss that now seemed to slap him in the face and Solo's concern for his friend.

Solo was curious about Illya's revelations to say the very least, but he was determined to let Illya say what he wanted. Finally, after repeating all that Dunlap had revealed, Illya grew quiet. Solo knew that his blond partner was shaken, but felt that he should intervene at this point with an inquiry.

"Tell me what you remember about the time before you left Russia."

"My father was a political Commissar who survived the purges of 1938. We lived rather comfortably but simply. My mother doted on me and constantly told me that I would one day be a great man. I was an only child and benefited from a good education in an era when the Five Year Plan of work to make Russia strong was the norm."

"Then, June 22, 1941, came and the Nazi juggernaut swept over my homeland. Kiev was in the direct path of the 'blitzkrieg'. As a Commissar my father would definitely have been a target for the Germans. I was only 8 years old, but I remember vividly my father talking to my mother, in hushed tones, deep into the night about what would happen. My parents decided to send me to live with my grandparents who lived so far away that I had not seen them since I was a baby and remembered nothing about them."

"My father was called up to an army unit near Vasil'kov, and my mother decided to move near there so the family was going to be split up - perhaps, for good."

"Unfortunately, the Soviet Army was unable to hold against the invaders. Piotyr told me that those people were not really my grandparents, but people who were supposed to raise me in secret. As the Nazis got closer to where I was, my "grandparents" decided to try and get me out of Russia and to the United Kingdom. It seemed that papa had already prepared for this eventuality and had left some sealed papers with them for me. Since I spoke fluent German and did not look like an "untermenschen", it was felt that I would be able to pass as a German going through German territory. Papa also had some friends near the front who would facilitate the journey."

"I packed a few items - underwear, a favorite book, and some food. My father had already left for the war front, and my mother had followed him so only my "grandmother" was there. It was a very sterile farewell. The future seemed very bleak."

"Somehow through good luck, my father's plans, and my own intelligence I made it to England. After many weeks of terror, I arrived at the port of Portsmouth - speaking German and Russian, but little else."

"I was searched and interrogated. Quite frankly if I had not been a child, I would have been turned away. Even though I was Ukrainian and my country was an ally, I was still looked upon with great suspicion and the only papers I had were the ones given to me by father."

"I was taken by a family who cared for me throughout the war. I never looked at the sealed papers given to me until one day in 1946, when I began to talk about returning to Russia. Since I was only 13, the family felt that it was unlikely that I would be able to do so, especially since the harsh feelings between Russia and the West had already begun to materialize. I was convinced that those papers would work a miracle for me and somehow permit me to return home to find my relatives. I rushed to the small chest where the papers were kept, broke the seal, and found only some valueless forms. I suppose I should have known then that something was wrong, but being young I supposed that papa must have placed some value on them. It never dawned on me to consider that these might not be the originals."

Solo had listened quietly - constantly nuzzling the tender neck of his partner. He decided that Illya had calmed enough that he could ask, "You never tried to search for anyone after that?"

"No, I forced myself to concentrate on the future. The Cold War had turned hot in your war, Napoleon. and Russian nationals couldn't afford to make inquiries about relatives. I went to university for several years and eventually earned my doctorate. Then, as you know, I was recruited for U.N.C.L.E. which changed my lifestyle permanently. **You changed my lifestyle permanently.**"

"Now Piotyr is dead. My feelings about his news have made me wonder about my past, and even though I know the acusations are not true, I now feel that I must pursue this to whatever end there is."

Solo felt that his friend was near to breaking, but had to ask, "Illya, are you sure those KGB men were telling the truth and that Piotyr is dead? AND for that matter, how do you know that Dunlap was even telling the truth about your family?"

STUNNED, Illya turned even more pale - thought a moment - and then whispered, "Well, I am going to find out - no matter what!"

"But we have another assignment coming up in a few days; how much can you do in that time?"

"I do not know, but I will discover the truth even if I have to resign so that I have that time."

Napoleon''s heart froze at the words, but the determined look in the blue eyes stopped his voice for the moment. What would happen next was unclear, but Solo knew that he wanted to keep his arms around his much-loved partner for as long as possible.



PART NINE
by S

"Illya, I know this is difficult, but you have to be rational." //That's strange--telling Illa Kuryakin to be rational when he's one of the most rational men alive. "We need to know if the KGB men are telling the truth."

"I'll find out."

The older agent glanced at his friend. Knowing Illya, he would find out; but Napoleon didn't want any diplomatic problems to develop because of it.

"I just happen to have a vial of truth serum with me so why don't we do this the easy way? If Peter Dunlap is truly dead, then we can go from there."

The blond looked at his partner. "Napoleon, there's no need for you to become involved in this. This is my family we are talking about. Mr. Waverly will not look too kindly on any agent, even a CEA, who 'upsets' the Soviet government right now."

"I agree; but the faster we find out the truth, the faster we can go back to doing our jobs. I don't want it to become necessary for you to resign."

Illya Kuryakin looked at him again. "I do not wish to leave UNCLE; however, I have spent my whole life without a family. If I do have brothers and sisters, I wish to know them." His tone dared Napoleon to object.

"Illya my friend, I understand that and I'm happy to help you. I just want you to be aware that it could all be a lie."

"Piotyr would not lie to me about such a thing.

For one instant Napoleon felt jealous about the trust his partner had in this Peter Dunlap. There was no question about the trust between Napoleon and Illya, but somehow there seemed to be more Illya's relationship with Peter Dunlap than just friendship.

"Well, let's not put the cart before the horse. Let's go interrogate the KGB."

"Excellent idea since I'm not interested in horses or carts." His partner chuckled.

After a few minutes, the KGB men confirmed the death of Peter Dunlap. Immediately Solo sensed a change in Kuryakin who grabbed the bottle of Stoli from the freezer and took a few swallows.

The CEA then arranged pickup of the KGB personnel. Within 30 minutes, their annoying presence was taken care of. By the end of that time, Illya had consumed nearly 1/4 of the bottle.

"I'm sorry about your friend Dunlap."

"He only got into this because of me. We've known each other since school in England where we were the only two Russians at the time. We stuck together through university and afterwards remained close."

//How close?// Awareness of his feelings for his partner made Napoleon feel the green-eyed monster in his veins.

"Now he's dead just because I asked for his help."

Solo wanted to say something, but knew his Slavic partner needed to mourn in his own fashion. "Well now we must find out why Dunlap was killed and what it is they want from you."

The blond head nodded. "Yes, I owe it to Piotyr--and myself."

"It's too bad you never looked in the pouch before 1946."

"It was sealed. I would never have violated my father's trust. I wanted to return it unopened after the war." Illya sat down on the couch, head in hands.

Napoleon studied his partner. It was obvious that he was exhausted and the vodka hadn't helped. "Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll go make some inquiries from a few contacts."

"NO! There's no time. I have to find out about Piotyr. I must arrange about...his body. He has...had no one else."

Napoleon Solo flipped open his communicator. In a matter of minutes he had the information they needed about Peter Dunlap. "The NYPD has the body. I've authorized UNCLE to take over the case. As soon as a post mortem is done, they'll release the body to you."

In a hushed voice Illlya responded, "Thank you." Then in a firmer tone he added, "He would not want a religious service..... He came from Stalingrad you know. He was evacuated just before the 6th Army began its final push into the city. Piotyr always wanted to go back, but I think he couldn't stand the idea of how the city had changed." Illya walked towards the window to look out.

"Let's get out of here for awhile. I need to walk."

"Fine. I'll treat you to lunch."

Usually Illya Kuryakin's appetite resembled the Mongol hordes, but today he barely consumed half of his sandwich. "Not hungry?"

"No, I guess not.

Napoleon touched his arm. "Don't worry. We'll find his killers and we'll find out the truth about your family."

Illya's eyes held such pain. "Napoleon, I...do you think I'm right to do this?"

"Are you afraid of what you might find?"

His partner nodded. "To know they exist and for them to hate me... I just do not understand how my parents could send me away."

"Maybe it was to protect you?"

"But then why did they not contact me when the war ended? Why let me believe they were dead?"

"I don't know, Illya; but we'll find out--if you truly want to know. Just be sure you do because once we start to look, it may be too late to turn back."

Just then the communicator went off. "Uh yes, this is Napoleon Solo. Fine. Mr. Kuryakin and I will report in at 3:00."

"Mr. Waverly wants to see us at 3:00." Since it was 1:45, they decided to walk back to UNCLE headquarters.

As they walked, Napoleon noticed the way the sun glinted off Illya's hair. He wanted to touch his partner and assure him of his affectionate support but decided not to. While their relationship had the potential to evolve into more, Illya was intensely private so Napoleon preferred to move slowly.

As they approached DelFloria's, Illya said,"I guess Mr. Waverly wants to discuss the KGB men. Not that I blame him. He took a chance letting me work for UNCLE. He doesn't want the Soviet government to withdraw its support at this date."

"Illya, you're far more than just a liaison to the Russians." //And you're certainly more to me.// "Mr. Waverly will help you."

"I know, but I do not intend to tell him unless I have to resign."

"What?"

"I will not compromise UNCLE, not even to find my family."

"Dammit, we can use their resources."

"I do have some of my own. I will say once again, Napoleon, please do not jeopardize yourself for me. I will find my family myself."

"You stubborn Russian, we're partners and I...." Even as he was talking to Illya, he saw a change in the blond. His face paled to ghost-like pallor and his body began to tremble.

Napoleon turned towards the spot where Illya's attention was fixed-- just some trees across the street. "Illya, what is it?"

"We have been followed from the restaurant."

"More KGB probably."

"I...I must go, Napoleon. Please tell Mr. Waverly I am sorry." He crossed the street almost getting hit by a car.

Solo rushed after his friend, practically tackling him. "Oh no you don't. We're going to see Mr. Waverly."

"No, please let me go! Please!" Illya's eyes were wet, almost as if he was ready to cry.

"Partner, we're going to see Mr. Waverly. That's an order." For a moment he thought that Illya might defy him, then he felt the slight body slump in submission.

He looked into the blue eyes. "Who did you think you saw?"

"I believe it was...my father."



Part 10
by Loke

Napoleon would have loved to discuss it, but they had to report in to Waverly. The pair went into Del Floria's and through the changing room, stopping to get their badges and proceeding to Waverly's office.

Alexander Waverly was sitting behind his desk smoking his pipe. He gave the pair a stern look as they entered. "May I ask why this agency is investigating a murder totally unrelated to anything we're currently working on? Incidentally, Mr. Kuryakin, what were those two KGB agents doing in your apartment?"

"Arresting me for the murder you just asked about," Illya replied, and proceeded to explain he'd hired Dunlap without going into why. "I should like to take some time to resolve the matter personally, if that's possible."

"That might not be possible," Waverly said. "The Soviet government has requested this agency and its operatives stay out the private affairs of their nationals. They also want their agents back."

"The matter is one I cannot ignore," Illya told his boss. "If I cannot do this as a member of UNCLE, then I'll resign to pursue it on my own."

"That's not necessary, Mr. Kuryakin," the older man said, pulling out a leather folder. "I've been aware of your attempts to find your family for some time. I've even gone so far as to have our Moscow office do some checking, and here are their results." He handed Illya the folder.

Within were a number of documents: copies of his parents' marriage certificate, his birth certificate, a second marriage certificate dated 1946 for his father and another woman, and four other birth certificates dating from 1947 to 1954. There were also medical records, including a death certificate for his mother, presuming a date of death sometime in 1944. It was noted on the certificate no body was available and identity had been established by records of arrivals and survivors of the concentration camp.

"My mother died and my father remarried," Illya said. "Why, then, did he never try to contact me after the war? He could at least have told me of my mother's death."

"Perhaps he wanted to put the past behind him, and had learned you were being well cared for in England," Napoleon suggested. "He couldn't for one reason or another track you down, or he might have been too busy with his new family."

Why don't you take the folder with you to your office and read it over thoroughly?" Waverly said.

Illya nodded and left, but Napoleon had caught his boss' signal and remained. "Was there something else you wanted, sir?"

"Yes," Waverly replied. "There's far more to this than meets the eye. The Soviets are trying to cover this up, and I want to know why. Keep an eye on your partner, and the two of you try to discover what the Soviets are hiding, and why."

"We'll do our best, sir."

"You always do. Go find your partner; he's about to learn something distressing, and he shouldn't be alone."

Napoleon complied, wondering what Illya was about to learn.

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

Illya was glad he'd sat down to read the folder thoroughly -- the information contained in the medical data was shocking, to say the least. His blood type matched neither of his parents: they were both type "O", while he was a type "A". The conclusion was obvious -- he was not his father's son, and may not have been his mother's. Who was he, and who didn't want him to learn his true parentage? He wished his mother was still alive so he could ask her.

He heard the doorknob rattle, and looked up to find his partner entering the office they shared. "Find anything interesting?" Napoleon asked.

"Only that the next person who calls me a bastard will be speaking nothing but the unvarnished truth." He went on to show him the blood types in the medical records. "It would seem I have no family after all -- my mother is dead and my father is unknown."

"I'm so sorry, Illya," Napoleon said, "but if it helps any, you still have me, and always will."

"Not always, Napoleon," Illya reminded him. "One never knows what tomorrow will bring." He turned to more mundane paperwork, and finished his day dealing with it.

Napoleon made an excuse to go back to his apartment with him, and the pair immediately noticed something wrong as they approached the door. The security lock had been overridden. They drew weapons and kicked in the door.

"Do not shoot, please," a tiny woman with graying blonde hair said, "I am unarmed." She held empty hands over her head as she scrutinized the two men. "Illya? Poppet?" she asked, turning to the Russian.

"Poppet?" Illya echoed. "No one ever called me 'poppet' except --" He stared at the woman, shock erasing both expression and color from his face. "Mother?" he whispered.



Part 11
by Kei

"Mother..."

Illya said the word again in his native tongue, in a voice smaller than a whisper as he stared at the tiny woman who stood before him, hair burnished gold that was heavily stippled with silver...eyes as wide and blue as his own. From the dark, vague recesses of infant memory, came a time-dimmed image...barely there at all...of being so very small and helpless, of feeling safe and protected in gentle capable arms as tiny uncoordinated hands reached for the warm and loving face of a young woman with white-blonde hair as she softly cooed some long-forgotten Russian lullaby.

No...

The present rushed back with an almost painful jolt. Illya Kuryakin met the eyes of this somehow familiar woman who had called him by a pet name that seemed just as familiar...and yet, after the past few days -after having come to know that many of the truths onto which he had held so dearly were nothing but a pack of lies- he realized one thing if nothing else...and that was that he did not dare trust too easily. Illya became aware that his partner's eyes were upon him, silently questioning -Kuryakin spoke first. "*Who* are you?"

The glistening of unshed tears began to shine in the intruder's eyes -if this was an act, it was a very good one. "Illya Nickovetch...my Illyusha...do you not know your own mother?"

"I..." Illya voice caught in his throat for a moment. "I know who you *appear* to be...who you wish me to *think* you are."

"You see, ma'am..." Napoleon, ever the gentleman even under the most awkward situations, had stepped forward, placing a calming hand on the small Russian's tension-rigid shoulder. "Even if we were to ignore the fact that the average citizen is *unlikely* to know how to circumvent the lock on the door to this apartment, to our knowledge -you are *quite* dead."

"I live, as you obviously see, and I *am* Anna Natasha Kuryakin. May God forgive me for the lies I have told and the deceptions I have helped to perpetuate. I had no choice." A single tear slid down the weathered cheek. "I never meant to hurt you, my Illyusha...my poppet."

"You lie." It was too much; too many hopes in the past few days that crumbled into nothing before his eyes...too many lies. Illya, anguished, angrily shook off his partner's steadying hand and stalked into the small kitchenette where a chilled bottle of vodka waited. So hard to think clearly...this day, he had thought he had seen his father and now, this woman swore that she was his mother -what was he to believe anymore?All he had wanted was the one thing he had often found Americans failed to appreciate: a family of his own. *His* family.

*Who* was his family?

And why all the lies?

Illya half-heard Napoleon -*always* the gentleman, he thought again with a vague smile- talking to this new intruder in that unique way of his: questioning without betraying the fact that he was one of UNCLE's premier inquisitors, a way that worked equally well with men as women. Illya thrust the cold bottle back into the refrigerator, its contents untouched, the bottle unopened -he needed a clear head. This would not give it to him. Perhaps...

There was a soft "pop" and the window facing the street exploded inwards.



Part 12
by Carol

"Illya, get down."

Solo's concern for his dear friend was paramount as he reacted to the "pop" by drawing his weapon and rushing to the window. Hiding behind the curtains, Solo looked out to see nothing. Checking to see his partner's whereabouts and that he was safe, Solo rushed to the door and ran out.

Illya reacted in a different way because at that moment, he heard the soft moan of a female voice. The gray haired figure lay on the ground with blood spread over the upper portion of the body. **Mother**. Illya rushed to check her vital signs.

"I will phone for an ambulance - lie still."

The frail hand reached out weakly and stopped him. With a whisper, "No, listen to me, Poppet."

"What is it, Anna Natasha?"

"No, I am Anna Ivanova, and I am your cousin.. Anna Natasha was my cousin."

"You are not my mother, then?"

Illya felt a deep, crushing disappointment hit him, but he forced himself to listen to the weak tones, "Your mother was sent to live with me in 1941, when your father's unit was called away from Kiev and the city was overrun. We lived on a farm until early 1944, when both of us we're herded off to a concentration camp. We were both named Anna so she went by Natasha and I used my patronymic. I am sorry that I tried to be her for a few moments. I have lost everything and everyone that I have ever loved. For a few moments, I hoped that you could be my boy."

The ice that had been around Illya's heart thawed slightly, "I do not remember you."

"There is no reason why you should. You were so young the last time I held you. I can still see you cuddling in my arms and pulling out my hair. Of course, it was more blond then, but still you were so loving."

Napoleon rushed back in, at that moment, and, gasped, "I relayed what happened to UNCLE and an ambulance is coming."

Both men crouched closer to the old woman when they noticed a grimace of pain cross her face.

**Damn, where is that ambulance?**

"Poppet, do not worry, I will not leave you until I have told you what I have come to say."

Illya's concern for the old woman was evident, but his curiosity was even greater.

"I do not understand Anna Ivanova, what do you have to tell me?"

Gasping, the bluish lips continued, "My cousin, Anna and I became close while on the farm. She constantly talked about you and her husband, Pavel. But, I could tell that she held many secrets to her bosom. I could hear her weeping in the night, but during the day she was a quiet, strong woman."

With great bitterness in her voice, Anna Ivanova continued, "It was the camp that broke her. She struggled from day to day until the cholera struck. Within days she was so weak that she couldn't even write. She begged me to write a letter for her. Weakly she dictated her words, and I wrote them - within hours she was dead. I have kept that letter all these years, and when the camp was liberated, I brought it with me."

A faint wailing coud be heard in the distance, and Napoleon went to the lobby to direct the paramedics to the right apartment.

"The letter is in my purse - read it and know the truth, Illya Nickovitch."

The blue eyes welled up with tears as they closed briefly before catching Illya's blue eyes again.

"My beloved Anna Natasha was so proud of you. How I wish my Nicholas had returned to see Anna and her family, but it was not to be."

Sighing the old woman's words ceased. Illya continued to hold her hand, but didn't realize it until the stretcher arrived. As the stretcher was lifted, the old woman's eyes fluttered open, and she gasped, "Be careful, Illyusha - your father lives."

Unconsciously picking up the old lady's purse, Illya and Solo followed the ambulance to the hospital. Within a few minutes, however, the ER surgeon notified the two men that the old lady was gone.

Not really knowing why, Illya felt shattered, but the next few hours were filled with forms, reports, and questions. The only thing that made it bearable was Napoleon's constant support and protective interference when the demands got to be too much.

It was only hours later that Illya remembered the letter in the purse. As he was sitting on his sofa with Napoleon's arms around him, Illya's shaky hands pulled out the thin scrap of tissue. Reading in his native language:

"My Beloved Son,
You will read this if Anna Ivanova survives and fulfills my request to deliver it. It is difficult to tell a son that all he knew in his early life was based on a terrible secret. My time is short, but I feel compelled to tell you the truth.
Your father was recruited as a member of British Intelligence while fighting the Bolsheviki during the civil war in 1919. He had met a British officer who promised help if Pavel would work his way up in the Soviet hierarchy and keep Britain informed.
When I married Pavel, he recruited me for that work. That is why you were able to get out of Russia so long ago. The British helped get you and your valuable information to Britain.
That terrible secret now rests with you, my son. If you read this, you will know that Pavel and I worked against the Soviet homeland. I know nothing about your father's survival, but I know, in my heart, that he would do anything to keep this secret from being exposed to the world.
You are my future, my son. The day you left my heart died. The body that exists now only awaits its fate. I kiss and hug you one last time.
Your mother"

Illya sat there trembling and repeating, "No, no, noooo."

Suddenly he pulled out of Napoleon's arms, "Well, what do you think of your partner, now, Napoleon Solo? I am the son of a traitor and "possibly" the traitor's target as well?"



Part 13
by S

Napoleon Solo ignored his partner's grief-filled question. Instead, he walked over to the freezer. took out the bottle of Stolichnaya, and poured a large glass for his friend.

"Drink this." Solo stood there, not allowing Illya the luxury of defiance. The blond tossed back a large swallow. Then another. Almost immediately the warmth spread through his veins, or was it the look in Napoleon's eyes?

The senior partner then prodded the Russian to sit down. This time Solo did not sit near his friend, but across from him so that he could look into the blue eyes.

"Illya, I know there's nothing I can say that will change what your father did--but you are not your father. If Anna Ivanova told the truth, then we need to concentrate on your father's whereabouts. Do you think that he's the one who killed her?"

"How should I know? Maybe he wanted to kill me--his 'beloved' son! Poor Anna just got in the way."

"Allright, you may be correct, but why now after more than 20 years? If he survived the war, why didn't he just find you and have a reunion?"

"He didn't...want me."

"Even if that's true, why didn't he continue to let you believe that he was dead? Why try to kill you? He had to know UNCLE would never let your death go unavenged. **And I certainly wouldn't let the man who killed you, live.** This just doesn't make sense."

Illya Kuryakin hung his head. "Nothing has made sense for a long time. I fear that asking Piotyr to find out about my past has opened Pandora's Box."

"So it would seem. Now we have to find a way to close it."

Defiance reared in the beautiful eyes. "I am going to find out if this is all true. I don't care what happens. I need to know."

"Relax, I know this is important to you. Since Mr. Waverly was able to find out so much information before, we are going to ask him to investigate these claims by Anna Ivanova and your mother."

At that word, Kuryakin drained the remainder of the glass he was holding. "Fine, let's go to UNCLE now!"

"Illya, in case you haven't noticed, it's after midnight. Even Mr. Waverly goes home to bed sometimes. What do you say we do the same?"

Fear and something else entred the blue eyes. "Uh, Napoleon, do you think that this is a good idea right now?"

"Relax, Illyusha. I'd just like to be with you tonight. We don't have to do more than sleep--unless you want to." His partner nodded.

Kuryakin let the older man use the bathroom first. The light was out by the time the blond agent slipped into the rather hard, narrow bed. Illya knew that Napoleon was still awake, but didn't want to ask his friend to hold him. The Russian hated to be vulnerable before this man.

Soon Napoleon's regular breathing signaled his sleep. Despite his fatigue, Illya remained awake. Finally, he got up to find a book; but as he entered the living room, the broken window reminded him of the latest tragedy in his life. True, they had secured the window, however, that couldn't stop the memories.

**Stop it, Illya Nickovetch, she wasn't your mother.** He took out the letter to reread it. "She did love me," he whispered. Tears slipped down the pale cheeks.

"Yes, she did and so do I." **I must be out of it to let Napoleon sneak up like that.**

"Illya, come back to bed. Please." The dark-haired agent led his blond partner to the bed. This time there was no question to ask. Napoleon just took the slender man into his arms.

"Illya, we'll find out the truth about your parents. I promise. Right now I need to show you how much I love you. Would that be allright?"

"Da, please. I need, I need...."

"Shhh, I know." He kissed the tempting lips. Again and again he probed until Illya couldn't stop his moans.

"Please more, Napasha."

"All you want, Illyusha, all you want."

For some time Napoleon Solo did his best to keep his word. The licks, nibbles , kisses and bites kept the younger man at a state of unequaled arousal. The blond's moans just added to Solo's pleasure. For this night, at least, he intended that his partner should forget the unhappiness of the past weeks. Finally though, he realized that Illya had stilled his body's movement. "Something wrong?"

"No, I just need something more."

"Tell me. Whatever you want, it's yours."

"I want this." He tackled Solo with the fervor of a Siberian Tiger after its prey. He descended upon the muscular body with the same dedication for which he was famous. It didn't take long until Napoleon ached with the need to come.

"Please, Illyusha."

"Ah Napasha, I intend to give you release, but when I say so."

For one moment the CEA noticed the feral look in the arctic eyes. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

As Kuryakin nipped at Solo's nipples, he replied, "Very much so. I like to give my partners as much pleasure as I receive."

"Your partners?"

"Well, I have had a few. Most of them liked this." With that he engulfed Napoleon's shaft, sucking until the other agent nearly burst with need. Then Illya took away the hot, sensuous mouth. Solo's groan seemed loud even to himself.

"Hush, Polya, my neighbors are used to quiet from this apartment."

"Well, that's...just...too...bad."

His partner resumed his onslaught. Finally, nothing could stop the rushing tide of pleasure. It spurt into Illya's mouth to be swallowed with delight. The shudders remained as aftershocks for some time until the blond embraced his partner, soothing him in Russian.

"God, Illyusha, I don't ...I....."

"Shh. I am happy that you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed? That's like saying you like chocolate!"

A smile burst on Kuryakin's face. "That good, huh?"

"Yes, but now I'd like to finish what I started."

"It is not necessary."

"But I want to. You're not the only one who likes to give pleasure."

"I understand, but there is a slight problem."

Confusion crossed Napoleon's face until he noticed the wet spot on his thigh and stomach. "Oh."

"So you see. It is not necessary."

"Well, maybe not this minute but soon, love, soon."

The lovers embraced for some minutes before the blond went to get a wet cloth to clean up his friend.

"Now Mr. Solo, let us go to sleep as I want to see Mr. Waverly early in the morning."

"Of course, Mr. Kuryakin. Putting his arms around the slender figure, he questioned, "Would you object to sleeping like this?"

"Not at all, Mr. Solo."

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

The next morning both men dressed hurriedly. Napoleon knew that his partner needed to find out the information he wanted as soon as possible. Kuryakin even paid for a taxi to Del Floria's instead of taking the subway.

Pulling up in front of the cleaners, Illya was in a much happier frame of mind than he had thought possible the day before. Obviously, much of this happiness had to do with the latest development in the partners' relationship.

He followed the CEA out of the taxi, only to see Napoleon slump to the sidewalk. Immediately rushing to his side, he was still alert to the possibility of attack. It came in the form of a sleep dart. As the soporific entered his bloodstream, his eyes fluttered shut; but his ears caught a faint, malevolent voice. "Now, my son, you and I will settle this."



Part 14
by Jatona

Illya awoke to the feel of blood red satin sheets against his naked skin. He smiled. Of course! It's all been a horrible dream. No woman had died in his apartment. No man had hit Napoleon over the head. He was in Napoleon's bed and... He reached out toward the other side of the bed. His questing fingers encountered a solid body. Yes. Napoleon, as always, was right by his side.

Stretching sensuously he turned to face his lover. It was then he noticed the unnatural stillness of the American. "Napoleon?" Silence. "Napoleon, are you all right?"

"For the time being he is quiet well, my son", a new voice answered.

Illya sat straight up on the large bed. Instinctively, he gripped Napoleon's hand entwining their fingers. //My God! It isn't a dream!// "Show yourself!", Illya demanded.

The unseen man chuckled. "In due time, my son and for once that is not a lie. Right now, however, I would be more concerned about your friend, if I were you."

Illya's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

The answer came in a mechanical rumbling. Illya watched in fascination as the bed began to separate into two halves, he on one side, Napoleon on the other. The motion tore Napoleon's hand from his grasp. In a desperate attempt to protect his friend Illya lunged, only to pulled up short by a familiar rattle. A quick search revealed his left ankle had been chained to the foot of the bed. "What do you want?? Who are you??"

"I am your father and you are my son. I think that answer should be obvious", replied the disembodied voice.

"And if I refuse?"

"Now that would be unfortunate, especially for your friend. You see, unlike your sheets his is treated with a very dangerous chemical that, when released will, very slowly, dissolve not only his flesh but his bones. The agony will be unbearable."

Illya remained defiant. "You say this is not a lie yet that's all I've found in this affair. Why should I become a believer now?"

"Yes, you are truly my son! So stubborn. Just like myself at your age. Shall I arrange a demonstration?"

"If it pleases your THRUSH masters."

"Ah, yes, this THRUSH and UNCLE of yours." Pavel Kuryakin laughed, an evil sound. "I assure you, my son, I am far more deadly than your THRUSH. Do let me demonstrate. First of all, we need to have Napoleon awake and fully alert." Inside his hidden control center Pavel Kuryakin reached out a flicked a switch on a nearby console. "Watch carefully, Illya Nickovitch."



Part 15
by PEJA

An electrical crackle filled the air. Napoleon's limp body jerked and spasmed and his scream rent the air.

"No," Illya shouted, fighting the chain that held him on his section of bed. "Stop."

The hum faded carrying Napoleon's scream away into the silence.

"If you insist." Pavel's tone was one of absolute disinterest.

"Napoleon?" Illya babbled. "Napoleon, speak to me."

Napoleon's eyes snapped open. "Ill...Illya..."

"Hush, Napoleon."

"He's a pretty one, my son," Pavel said, stepping into the light for the first time. The old man, an older, greyer version of his son, could have fit right in with the elite society of New York City. Actually smelled of new money posing as old money. "A pity."

He sauntered across the dimmly lit room to stand over the bound agent. "You are my son's lover?"

Napoleon glared up at the elder version of his beloved and pressed his lips tight.

"Illya, look how his skin has taken on the blush of fever. His eyes burn with the fires raging inside. It is the beginning of the end for him. Unless you tell me what I want to know."

"Why are you doing this?" Illya demanded softly, his blue gaze locked on Napoleon.

"I am your father."

"And when did you decide that?"

The old man chuckled. "Last night when your loving cousin decided to bring you in from the cold."



Part 16
by Loke

"Which 'cousin' would that be? One of the KGB agents you sent after me?" Illya asked, having already guessed what the man would say next.

"Those were sent by our gracious Motherland to 'encourage' my return," the old man said. "The cousin I spoke of was Piotr -- Peter Dunlap, who was to lead you to me. He reneged on our agreement and paid the price for it."

"I doubt he was anymore my cousin than you are my father," the man on the bed said. "Who are you, and who was -- or is -- really my father?"

"What do mean? I am Pavel Kuryakin, your father."

"Then why is my blood Type A when you and my mother are both Type O, and why am I Illya Nickovitch instead of Pavevich?"

"The medical records are wrong, and you are Illya Nickovitch because you were born before we were wed and your mother had her father's name put on the certificate. You are still my son, however."

"I don't believe you, and it doesn't matter who you are. What is it you want to know?"

"What the old woman told you before she died."

"Why do you want to know that?"

"I have my reasons. What did she say to you? Did she tell you I wasn't your father? Did she poison your mind against me? You are MY SON! MINE!" The last part was shouted in Illya's face.

Illya looked into the eyes of his and Napoleon's captor and saw nothing sane.

"I will make a deal with you. Give my lover the antidote and release him and I will stay with you as long as you like, do whatever you wish, be whatever you want. What more could you possibly ask?"

Pavel Kuryakin paused to consider this new offer, and was about to give his answer when the silence was broken by the distinctive sound of a silencer-muffled gunshot. The old man crumpled to the ground unconscious, and April Dancer stepped out of the shadows.

"Happy to see me?" she asked.

"Very," Illya said, "but I need two things: a medical team for Napoleon immediately, and the key to these shackles." He held up his left leg, being careful not to let the sheets slide too much.

The key was quickly located, and a sheet-wrapped Napoleon was swiftly taken away and sped off to Medical. Illya was released next, and given his clothes, which were found in a nearby room by Mark Slate. He dressed quickly and asked one of the medics before they left for a syringe and a sample tube, and pulled a sample of blood from his former captor.

"Why do you want his blood?" April asked.

"To test it against my own, to see if he really *is* my father. Then maybe we'll start to get to the bottom of things, and I'll start getting some answers." Illya pocketed the tube and disposed of the syringe, then helped bring his "father" to UNCLE HQ.



Part 17
by Kei

Where was he?

The questions passed fleetingly through his mind as a slowly waking brain sluggishly filtered and sorted through a myriad of sensory imput. Cool, but not cold... Other sensations...sheets of stiff material, not silk.

Sounds...the soft intake of breath, the soft plop-plop of a drip, the low hum of monitoring equipment -a hospital. Definitely. UNCLE's? Scents...sterile, medicine-like, and a hint of perfume. *Perfume*? Napoleon Solo forced his heavy lids to lift, blurred eyes taking in a dark indistinct form that hovered near his bed. He struggled to force an equally leaden tongue to do his bidding. "I-Illya..?"

Vision gradually focused on a pair of eyes, full of concern, but not blue. "Take it easy, Lee..." April Dancer offered a thin, watery smile, unable to ignore the numerous bandages that covered patches of skin cruelly blistered and welted by the corrosive chemicals imbibed in the silk sheets that had too recently covered Napoleon Solo's body. She fought not to shudder at the thought. "Thirsty..?"

"Mmmn...no...thank you..." Solo seemed to drift for a moment. "I-Illya..? Where's...Illya..?"

"Um... He was really tired, Lee. He-" April sighed aloud. Napoleon had dosed off again, the narcotics in his system relieving her of the need to come up with a believable lie. The fact of the matter was that she didn't know where Napoleon's partner had gone off to after leaving his so-called "father" to UNCLE security's tender care -he'd stayed no longer than to hear that Napoleon would be all right. After that, Illya had simply disappeared. No-one had seen him leave the building, but he had failed to respond to her call when it had become apparent that Napoleon was about to awaken...yet, by the book, there wasn't yet a reason to call for a search.

Didn't make much sense -April had always assumed that Napoleon and the solitary Russian were close...friends...maybe even more than that.

Maybe she was wrong.

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

Alone.

It was better that way.

As deeply as he was coming to want him...to *love* him...Illya Kuryakin had come to the conclusion that involving Napoleon in his private quest had only put the man in unnecessary danger. He hadn't known that before, but he knew it now -and that was enough. He had seen the chemical burns on Napoleon's flesh, wounds that would have become far worse if it were not for April Dancer's almost miraculous intervention. He had no doubts that the mad man who called himself his father would have killed the man he loved regardless of any promises he was willing to make.

No... Napoleon had done enough, *suffered* enough, on his behalf on this ill-fated self-chosen mission. This part, the Russian thought grimly, he had to do alone. If caught, what he was about to do could get him into the sort of trouble he had no intention of sharing.

But he *had* to know...and he could no longer make himself wait for permission.

So many things had happened in the past few days -too many things, too quickly- *so* quickly that he hadn't had time to think straight, to sort the truths from the lies which seemed to be multiplying out of control. A mother who was not his mother, but a cousin...a father who couldn't be his father -blood tests had proven that...family who might or might not have been family...Illya shook his head in frustration -who *was* his father? And who was *he*?

Peter Dunlap had been the only link he'd had left to the rest of his family ...and now, he was gone. If there was anyone, anyone whom he could trust, left of his family willing to tell him the truth he needed to know, their names would be stored here in the computer that stored UNCLE's personnel files...even if they were family that he did not remember or know existed at all.

If only he had not been so determined to keep his quest a private affair, he could have asked for help.

But Illya Kuryakin had not wanted help...

...or more to the point, he had not wanted to possibly be disappointed in the nano-seconds it took a computer to find information...

...and yet now, it was the only option left.

In the world of spies, where one's security-level could be determined by actions of one's relatives, it had been deemed necessary to keep a thorough list of each agent's familial relations...so thorough a list that sometimes an agent would discover relatives he or she didn't even know they had -that, again, was what Illya was counting on...that he had forgotten someone.

That was also why he was here...after hours...without Waverly's necessary authorization to access his own files, permission that usually took weeks to process...but with his *own* means of accessing the digitized files -break-in skills honed by years of experience and the self-taught talents of a hacker.

Nimble fingers danced over the recessed keys before the electronic brain, meeting and by-passing blocks put there to keep unwanted visitors out as easily as he had circumvented the security system protecting the softly humming machine and its information. Finally, names appeared on the screen; familiar names of relatives alive and dead -even Anna Ivanova and Anna Natasha had been added to the list. UNCLE was, if nothing else, very quick to keep up their files. There, listed as his adoptive father, was Pavel Kuryakin, and...

A frown furrowed the pale brow -he had expected the listing "biological father" to read "unknown". Instead, there was a sealed file, access restricted to "Number One, Section One". What the hell..?

Illya's mouth became a tight, thin line as he determinedly pit himself against the computer's security system, knowing that he was damning himself and his career as he did it...and then, it was there.

...a name...

...his biological father's name...

...a name he knew as well as his own...

...*couldn't* be...

Alexander Waverly.



Part 19 soon