PROLOGUE

 Napoleon Solo brought the sailboat about with a neat and practiced maneuver, which caused a shift in the normally sardonic expression of the dour passenger to one of amused appreciation.

 “How long have you been practicing that move?” Illya Kuryakin asked amusedly. The fact that the nearest boat to them was loaded with a half dozen partying girls wasn’t lost on the attentive Russian.

 “Like the Scouts say, ‘Be Prepared’.”

 “Leave it to you to bend the meaning of a noble motto to the breaking point.”

 A toothy, confidant smile was all the fair-haired sailor received as a reply and he knew that the smile wasn’t aimed at him.

 The Pursang split the swells smoothly and with powerful confidence, a true reflection of its captain. Illya had to admit his partner cut an eye-catching figure at the helm. They surged by the happy women, who all waved enthusiastically as the wind carried the pair by.

 “What?” Illya asked, surprised. “No mid-sea rendezvous?”

 Solo’s grin never faded. “I know where they’re going. We’ll meet up later, my friend, don’t you worry about that. I just want to enjoy the speed and freedom right now.”

 “Trust me, worry never crossed my mind. Then again, a boat transfer in the middle of the ocean may be difficult with the cast on your leg.”

 “Minor detail. It will be off in six weeks or so. For now, the call of the sea and the beckoning of the ladies make me forget my wounds.” He deeply inhaled the wind with the same appreciative smile. “We all have our own therapies.”

 “Don’t you get tired of playing the game?”

 “What game?”

 “The game of tag you naturally dive into when faced with a member of the opposite sex.”

 Solo’s smile never dimmed but Illya could tell he was, for once, seriously considering the query as the salty wind parted his brown hair like the Pursang parted the water. “You know, our scars tell us our history really happened. I guess it’s my way of erasing them for awhile.”

 Illya was both surprised and impressed by the response. Not normally verbally reflective about his lifestyle, the depth of the comment gave the Russian pause; being out here on the ocean put his partner in another place - a place free of his everyday stresses. For the first time, Illya began to appreciate the healing powers of the open sea.

 Unable to tell his friend about the mission he had been offered and ultimately accepted, Illya Kuryakin turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes, taking the moment to appreciate the feeling of freedom and friendship.

 It would be weeks before he would have those feelings again.

 ACT I: It’s Just My Way

“Mr. Kuryakin, I know that Mr. Waverly and Dr. Towers have both explained this procedure, and that you have researched the technique on your own. Before we initiate the treatment, I’d like to know if you have any questions.” The middle-aged man adjusted his thick glasses as he watched his subject. The repetitive tic of his upper lip caused his thin moustache to twitch like a rabbit’s nose, and if Illya Kuryakin hadn’t read Dr. Stubbs’ qualifications, he would wonder about his ability if he couldn’t even control his own lip.

 “No questions,” the UNCLE agent replied. Even with all his knowledge, he didn’t like the idea of someone messing with his mind and this level of messing would be deep. He also knew that, compared to the stakes at risk for the rest of the world, this personality bending programming was warranted. He’d made his decision; it was time to follow through.

 Dr. Stubbs rustled some papers. “Final formalities, Mr. Kuryakin, and then we will proceed. I’m to remind you that there is a trigger statement to reset your personality. It will be known only to me, Mr. Waverly and, only on a need-to-know basis, other personnel. Understand?”

 “Yes.” Kuryakin settled back into the reclining chair and focused his attention on the doctor who then injected his patient with a yellow liquid. It was the first step of a days’ long program that involved coaching and sessions like this one, as well as the chemical blocking of certain receptors in his brain centers. In the end, he would project his new personality for an indefinite period of time.

 Up in the viewing gantry, Alexander Waverly watched one of his top agents voluntarily fall under the influence of a powerful drug. He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, the blue smoke making a lazy trail to the ceiling, and felt a pang of regret that this was necessary. Getting dirty was part of an UNCLE agent’s job; broken bones and visible scars were expected and accepted. It was a rare instance that this level of subterfuge was required, and he didn’t like it one bit. It made a statement about a state of the world he’d rather not dwell upon, but knew he had to. It was his job. Another part of his job was to send out the best person to change that state and he knew he had that in spades with the agent below. Kuryakin’s upbringing and background made him a perfect candidate for the assignment; they just had to alter the man a bit to fit the situation.

 The role needed someone versed in science, languages and negotiations – all skills that Kuryakin mastered – but profiles of subjects in this role on the criminal side tended toward a sociopath personality. Kuryakin had a little too much loyalty and sense of fair play to be convincing. He could be successfully altered with this treatment and given a brand new name to go with the new man, and then be easily reformed back into Illya Kuryakin when he was through. It was a proven technique, albeit seldom used. Waverly had confidence in both the doctor and the technique, but to risk such a man to such an assignment always made him think deeply about the responsibilities of his position. Kuryakin and the few before him that had experienced this technique put all their trust in their boss, and it was a trust he took very seriously.

 Waverly rose slowly and checked his watch. He’d been here less than a day, with Napoleon Solo standing in his place in the New York office. This whole Affair and its preparations were to be overseen by Waverly from this separate location under the guise of a vacation. No one in the New York office, outside of Waverly, Dr. Towers and Dr. Stubbs, knew about this mission. That way, there was no chance of a security leak. History had proven itt to be the best methodology, as well as the safest thing for the vulnerable agent.

 The head of UNCLE New York simply wished that all this knowledge would make his regret vanish.

 It didn’t.

 *****************

 The black raincoat flapped around the legs of the blond man as he stepped from the small aircraft parked on the tarmac of a secluded airfield. He paused at the base of the steps and squinted into the sun. He could see a trio of dark figures moving toward him, backlit by the golden orb low in the sky. The sun’s yellowness promised heat, but the promise was chased away by the biting chill of the breeze that swirled around the men.

 The blond man’s hand moved to pull the coat in tighter but in reality, it was a smooth motion to undo the single button that was between his hand and the gun tucked at his side. He mentally gauged the distance to the nearest cover – the landing gear of the small craft – and set his feet at a skewed angle to the approaching men in an unconscious posture that offered a smaller target. The attaché he held rested on his leading leg as a shield between them.

 He waited, heart calm and mind active.

 One of the dark silhouettes raised his hands in an open gesture and slowed his gait. “Mr. Keyes, we’ve been waiting for you. Let us show you our hospitality.”  The man stopped, reading the body language of the newcomer. “I must say, you don’t look anything like I expected.”

 The blond had already fully assessed each one of the three men within seconds of appraisal. He knew where the weapons were and who would strike first. He already had his cover and retreat plotted. He also knew the speaker was not to be trusted, under any circumstances.

 “What did you expect?” He asked quietly, his crystal blue eyes sharp and clear.

 The dark man saw the icy eyes and immediately thought of a snake. “The contact that suggested you gave the impression of someone a bit - bigger. My name is Mr. Evans. Come with me, please. La Prima is waiting.”

 “La Prima? I will be working for a woman?”

 Mr. Evans chuckled softly and stepped aside, motioning the blond man to walk with him. After a moment, the guest stepped forward but kept his distance. His glare made it clear the other two men were to stay on the other side of Evans. A nod from the dark man confirmed the unspoken order and the two escorts fell to one side.

 When they turned to the limo, Evans spoke. “You haven’t been chosen yet, Mr. Keyes. This is merely an interview.” After a few steps, the blond one tilted his head to one side and gave a grin that made Mr. Evans feel like he was about to be eaten by a wolf. He squared his shoulders to dismiss the discomforting feeling it gave him.

 “And merely a formality,” Mr. Keyes stated in a matter of fact tone

 Keyes’ attitude was maddeningly condescending. “Rather self confidant, aren’t we?” Evans bristled. It was disconcerting how this stranger put him on edge.

 “If she wants the best,” the visitor said with no question in his tone, “that is me.” He slipped a pair of dark glasses from the coat pocket and donned them, becoming completely unreadable.

 There was no more conversation on the ride to the meeting place.

 ***************

 Wide swaths of darkness fell across the face of the squat building from the towering cypress that surrounded it. The building appeared old and non-descript, and sat at the edge of a small township away from all other buildings. Mr. Keyes’ eyes darted everywhere behind the dark glasses as he assessed the small town. He approved of the distance that separated the meeting building from the town, and instantly marked the strategic areas around it in his mind. There was a man at each of those points, and although they were dressed as townsmen, Keyes knew they were really wolves in sheep’s clothing. He appreciated the feel of the place.

 He followed Evans and allowed the watchdogs to tag along behind. Keyes had studied them in more detail during the ride in and dismissed them as unworthy of his attention. He also knew that although Evans was merely a mouthpiece, he would most likely be the one to watch in a conflict; the man was a coward and cowards were unpredictable in a fight.

 Evans swept the front door open after flashing a small device that fit in the palm of his hand. Keyes noted when he stepped through the doorway that the building, which looked old, was actually state of the art and he mentally commended the architect. Inside, there a pair of thick and bulky men dressed in blue overalls who waited by a counter on the far side of the lobby, their role obvious at a glance. Behind the counter was a petite Asian woman with a sharp cut to her short hair that matched the angular planes of her face. Her eyes were like a cat’s, dark and inscrutable; her role was less clear and Keyes focused on her as the threat in this room.

 Evans motioned Keyes to stop in front of the pair of bored looking men in blue. “Please surrender your case and allow yourself to be searched. It’s La Prima’s standing procedure,” he said.

 Keyes slowly removed his glasses and slipped them in his pocket as if in thought.

 “No,” he said. His turned his eyes to the woman; she unblinkingly returned his stare.

 One of Evans’ escorts behind him laughed shortly. Evans voice was tight; he’d had enough. “No search, no meeting. Those are the rules.”

 The uniformed muscle men drew themselves to their full height and flexed their biceps as the seconds passed. Slowly, Keyes turned his head and locked his glacial eyes on Evans, who mentally ordered himself to stand still. The piercing look nearly stopped his heart, but the voice sparked it into racing speed when Keyes said simply with a shrug:

 “New rules.”

 When the blond man’s head turned away one of the beefy guards moved in, followed closely by his uniformed twin. One of Evans’ escorts also stepped forward, eager to put this small man in his place.

 The error of their ways was quickly and efficiently pointed out to them in the form of two broken arms, several broken ribs, a burst spleen and several cracked vertebrae. The second of the armed escorts lay dead on the floor, shot by his own gun still in his own grip. Evans found himself dangling in a vice-like grip around his throat and fighting for breath. Blue eyes, calm but hard as ice, held his gaze. It had all happened in a blur of seconds.

 “That’s enough.” The woman’s voice was level and unflustered. Keyes had ended up with the choking man directly between him and the Asian. Evans squeaked pitifully and tired to peel away the fingers at this throat. The angled woman had a very large handgun pointed at Keyes’ head. Keyes noted that the path of the bullet went right through Evan’s skull, but with the caliber of the weapon it would still reach its target without compromise. “He’s pathetic, but La Prima is somewhat fond of him. Release him please.” Her voice was heavily tinted in an accent Keyes identified as Chinese.

 Keyes moved Evans aside, dragging him in a short arc, to get a good look at her and smiled appreciatively. Just when Evans’ eyes began to roll back in his head and his clawing was reduced to ineffective paws, Keyes released him. Evans landed with a soft thud on top of a guard squirming in pain.

 Keyes held his arms out to his sides and produced a lopsided grin. “I can only hope you will frisk me,” he said brightly; his expression was deceptively open. There was no sign of exertion – his breathing was even and his clothing unrumpled.

 The woman’s lips twitched in amusement. “Perhaps later, Mr. Keyes. Please come in.” The door to the left of the counter cracked open with a loud click. She hadn’t moved a muscle.

 Keyes picked up his briefcase, one corner of which was now sticky with blood, and stepped over the bodies to the door.

 **********

 “Ian Keyes. Welcome to my office.”

 The woman that spoke was in a dark corner of the room but her body glowed in the sparse light. The dress was white satin and snug, her body curvaceous and well endowed. Her nails, manicured into red spikes, tapped curiously on the crystal champagne flute between her fingers. Diamonds sparkled at her wrists and bosom. She raised the glass to her lips, her face hidden in shadow.

 Two men flanked her, each with a gun pointed directly at the blond man. With the barest of hesitation, Keyes smiled charmingly and raised a brow. “La Prima, I assume?”

 She took her time, sipped, and lowered the glass slowly. “Yes. That was quite a show you put on in the lobby.”

 Keyes dropped the attaché on an overstuffed chair upholstered in an intricate flower pattern. The entire room screamed femininity in an expensive, tasteful way. Keyes walked a small circle and took it all in as he slipped off his coat and draped it over his attaché. When he finished his examination, he stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him. His smile never diminished and his eyes sparkled with humor. “It was not a show. It’s simply my way.”

 A low, sensuous chuckle came from the shadowed face. She stepped forward and carefully placed her glass on a small side table. Her eyes were beautifully made up, their jade color perfectly accented. Her hair was smoldering red and swept up off her neck with diamond-encrusted combs. One corner of her red lips curled up into a knowing smile. “You will allow these men to search you, Mr. Keyes. One move and you will be shot.” Her smile faded and she nodded sharply to one of the men.

 The man stepped forward and stopped less than a foot from Keyes. “Put your arms up,” he growled as he tucked his gun away and massaged his hands in preparation. The blond man obeyed, slowly raising his hands high with a flourish of wrist. When the guard began his pat down, Keyes puckered his lips threw a kiss at the man then smiled wolfishly and winked. Enraged, the guard swung his brass-knuckled fist up into the grinning jaw and dropped Keyes like a rock.

 La Prima tisked and shook her head as the guard dropped to his knees and roughly continued to pat down the visitor. Her perfect teeth peeked out from her full lips as her smile grew. “And it’s simply my way, too, Mr. Keyes,” she cooed to the unconscious man.

******

 The world came back to him slowly and painfully; he enjoyed every second. When he finally cracked his eyes, he knew he wasn’t alone; he’d listened carefully before showing signs of wakefulness. After hearing a rustle, he smelled perfume and instantly located the woman in the room. Still on a high from the jarring pain in his jaw, he carefully positioned his head so when he did open his eyes, they would fall on her first. She’d expected it, as she was sitting and staring directly into his eyes.

It was dark, the room warmly lit by lamps somewhere behind the garishly flowered couch on which he lay. The angular Asian was barely dressed in a scant black teddy, her legs crossed casually at the thigh. She reclined back on a red velvet settee with her arms stretched out to either side on the top edge. The color of the settee perfectly matched her unsmiling lips. Her crossed leg swung lazily while the silver chain that encased her ankle flashed with caught light, throwing it back into the room in a scattered, bouncing pattern. The six-inch spike heels were shiny silver metal whereas the rest of the strappy shoes were polished black leather.

Keyes didn’t stir or drop his gaze. After a moment, she slowly undraped her leg and rose to her feet, uncurling like a cat. She cocked her head to one side just before she stepped to him and threw a knee over his hip. With the same expressionless face, she settled down on his crotch, straddling him comfortably. Keyes was still dressed, but his shirt was ripped open and pulled from his pants. His belt and shoes were missing and he was sorry to note that his pants were still on. He rested his hands on her hips and firmly gripped their sharp narrowness. He pushed her downward and rotated his hips, a grin pulling on one corner of his mouth. In response, she laid her hands flat on his belly and slowly rubbed upward to his bare chest. Her eyes burned, and ever so slowly, she leaned forward and brought her pouty red lips within a hairsbreadth of his, then parted them.

In the next instant and with a surprised hiss, she found herself on the floor with the side of her face pushed firmly into the garden print carpet. The wiry blond straddled her back. She struggled and issued a noise close to a growl, but her lips were smiling. “Get off of me,” she ordered.

“In time, my sweet.”

She felt his hands all over her, carefully checking every crevasse and taking his time with some of them. He chuckled, and finished his tour while she panted excitedly and ceased struggling.

“Time to report in?” He asked sweetly as he rose to his feet and pulled her up by her hair. He stood behind her and let his hands feel her breasts, stomach and crotch, lingering on the more entertaining spots. He breathed warmly in her ear. “Only when it’s my idea, love.” He pushed her roughly toward the door. “Tell La Prima I’m ready to see her now.”

The woman clenched her fists for a moment, then squared her shoulders and nodded once. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. She turned on her heel, snatched the black robe draped on the arm of the settee and let herself out. Keyes chuckled again, and pressed his palm to his forehead, as he suddenly felt lightheaded. He sank onto the flowered couch and frowned at his sweating hands, momentarily confused.

Who am I? He thought briefly. Then the lightness passed and he brushed the incident off as a side effect of a concussion. Tenderly, he pressed the bruise on his jaw and reveled at the pain, then began pull his clothes back together.

*********

 La Prima watched interestedly as the blond man adjust his clothing on the small monitor. “He will have no idea what happened?” She asked, clearly happy.

 “None,” the other woman replied. “His mind is so tweaked he doesn’t even remember his real name, let alone that he’s an UNCLE agent.” The speaker rose to her feet and wiggled her empty champagne flute at the guard. He jumped to fill it for her. “You are very lucky I was here to identify him, Nicole. Illya Kuryakin would have ruined your whole operation within days. Thrush would not have been happy to lose one of its up-and-coming members.”

 “You are right, Angelique. It was fortuitous that you were here.” They clinked glasses and turned back to the monitor. “I suppose I’d better come up with a good reason why three days have passed since he got here.” 

 Standing side by side, the two women looked like bookends. One blonde and one redheaded, they shared similar builds, features and ambitions. They could have been sisters to the casual observer.

 Angelique laughed throatily. “Oh, honey, he’s so centered on himself right now I don’t think he’s going to notice the time. According to the doctor, his ego and superego are suppressed to the point where he’s full bore id.” She licked her lips at the thought. “That makes him quite an interesting subject, if you ask me. I love Freudian psychology - imagine functioning on decisions made totally on what you want and how you feel, the rest of the world be damned. I bet he’d be wild in bed.”

 Both women laughed knowingly. “Well, since I bruise easily I will leave that adventure to Miss Fan. She likes that sort of thing.” Nicole, known as La Prima to those outside this room, studied the blond with renewed interest. “If what you and Thrush records tell me is true, he’s smart and ingenious enough to get the things we need quickly, including the blame! What shall we call him?”

Angelique leaned back and turned her glass between her fingers thoughtfully. It would be fun to make up a name and really mess the boy up. But then again, why mess up one when you can mess up two? Illya Kuryakin doing all these things under his own name would simply torture Napoleon, and he deserved it for the missions he had disrupted for her. She smiled smugly. “Why not let him do these things in the name of UNCLE? I’m sure the Committee would be tickled.”

La Prima shook her head in amazement. “You are a wonder, Angelique. Illya Kuryakin it is.” After a moment of reflection, she spoke again. “You know, this latest mission I’ve taken on will make Thrush a world wide superpower. Our negotiating position within the organization will be very powerful and Thrush may have a female Committee much sooner than we planned.” Her green eyes burned with the thought of power.

The laundry list of things Thrush needed to make its own bomb had fallen into La Prima’s hands by accident after an affair with a Committee member. She fully understood the desire for secrecy, and this opportunity was unique. Kuryakin would be perfect.

First, she had to clean up some loose ends. She sent Miss Fan out to find the middleman that had sent Kuryakin their way; she wanted it to be difficult to have him traced back to her. In the meantime, Kuryakin would be sent out to obtain the first item: a nuclear trigger. Outside sources said that there was one available in the Ukraine

Angelique’s thoughts went in a different direction. She was fascinated with what Kuryakin had become in the past few days. She’d known Kuryakin for a long time, through both research and personal contact. What she was seeing right now was well beyond what she’d expected of Thrush’s manipulations of his brain chemistry. What she’d expected was a trained agent with amnesia and a malleable ethic they could twist for a little while to embarrass UNCLE, then either dump him, useless, on UNCLE’s doorstep or dispose of him. She liked the first plan the best; the idea of upsetting Solo was what she liked most.

Things, however, had changed when Kuryakin became something quite different and unexpected. She wanted to know why. With a little more study and discussion, she came to realize that the Thrush treatment he’d been given wasn’t the only thing at work here - UNCLE had done something to him beforehand, and that thought completely astounded her. It was so Thrush-like! “I wonder if he had any say in the matter,” she mused often to herself.

Opportunity was never lost on Angelique. This could be something quite valuable to her organization and she wanted to control it. Ever fair, she’d already dismissed Kuryakin as her friend’s toy and expected a huge payback for that someday. Nicole would go far, she could tell, and to be in her good graces could only be beneficial. But, if she, Angelique, could get her hands on the UNCLE preconditioning treatment plan, she could corner the market on Thrush-loyal, amoral soldiers.

She smiled to herself and decided to stick around to see how things worked out here. Amoral soldiers are nice, but if they weren’t controllable, it could be a problem. She could learn a lot watching Kuryakin perform for La Prima.

ACT II: Boom!

Kuryakin attended the endless planning meetings only because he knew what followed. Today had been particularly boring. La Prima went over the plans to get the trigger device ad nauseum, but he did manage to whet his aggression with a work out afterwards in the small gym. Sparring had been particularly satisfying, especially when he snapped the wrist of the trainer. The man’s yelp of pain had been so very satisfying, he’d felt that thrill of ecstasy. But, then, he’d been shot with that damned dart gun. Again. Whenever he began to feel that rush of pleasure when sparring, he was darted. No matter - the waking up was worth it.

He rubbed the bruise of the sleeping potion injection site and felt a prick of pain. He smiled and pushed it again. As expected, he was back in his bare room on his hard bed. He opened his eyes to see the delicious Miss Fan waiting, her black eyes burning into him. She was dressed in painted on black leather micro shorts. A wide leather band was all that covered her breasts. Her shoes were the steel and leather pair he favored. She sat facing him with her knees spread wide and her hands resting flat on the chair at her sides. She didn’t move. Her face held the same flat expression as when he first saw her in the lobby days ago, but this time her eyes were on fire.

Kuryakin could feel the drive stirring in his groin and stood quickly. He stepped close enough that she had to tilt her head back and expose more of her soft and lovely neck, dotted yellow with faded bruises. He could see the rushing blood that made her carotid artery undulate and he had to touch it. He grabbed her throat with one hand, the throbbing artery beneath his thumb, and felt a thrill of power – with little effort, he could snuff the life right out of her, right here, right now.

And she got her own thrill with the idea. Miss Fan was quickly turning into the best workout in the building. She not only loved getting roughed up, she could give back just as rough, and their tangles resulted in deep bruises and screaming release. Her shrieks of rapture never failed to bring him to a powerful climax. Their robust joinings were hardly a secret; in fact, their activities came as a relief to most of the staff. At least their masochistic energies were focused on each other instead of on a hapless staff member.

La Prima not only allowed it, she encouraged it. Both of them were easier to handle as a result and she didn’t have to find staff replacements as often.

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

When the sleek black sedan slewed to a sideways stop in the isolated open area, the passenger door burst open and a man tumbled out spitting expletives. He jumped to his feet and angrily brushed off his dress pants while standing is a cloud of dust boiling from the wheels. Laughter drifted from inside the car. “You’re crazy, you know that?” The man yelled through the open door. “Do you have a death wish or something?”

The dust settled and the car’s engine popped with heat when the motor shut off. The driver door slowly opened. Kuryakin stepped out and wiped his eyes, trying to control his laughter. He wasn’t completely successful, and his speech was peppered with guffaws. “German engineering, you know. It was made to push the envelope!”

“Push it, you asshole! Not tear it completely!” The passenger checked the elbows of his jacket for holes. As he did so, Kuryakin, still trying to control his mirth, ambled to his side. When the passenger’s self inspection was over, the angry man stood up to the blond’s face and glared. “I’m driving back. Give me the fucking keys.”

Kuryakin’s eyebrow rose curiously. He slowly drew the keys from his pocket and dangled them just out of the man’s reach. After a moment’s hesitation, the man turned his eyes to reach for them. A blur of motion instantly found him with one arm jacked up the middle of his back and something sharp pressed into his Adam’s apple. Kuryakin had him firmly from behind, and he realized that it was the car key cutting into his neck. He gagged and struggled but abruptly stopped when he felt the key dig in. A warm trickle ran down the side of his neck, followed by hot words whispered in his ear.

“I don’t think so, Simon.” Kuryakin said lightly. “Maybe I get car sick when I don’t drive. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” He dragged the key a little further along. Pain flared blindingly.

“N. . . no. No. ‘Course not,” Simon choked. The pressure disappeared immediately. He grabbed his neck and fell to one knee.

Kuryakin strolled away, whistling and spinning the key ring on his finger. “I wonder where this elusive contact is? I do not like being kept waiting.”  He scanned the nearby countryside.

Simon held his bleeding throat tightly and wondered about the sanity of his partner. It appeared that the rumors he’d heard were true after all. The nut job called Kuryakin slept on the flight from the airport near La Prima’s to Bulgaria, and kept to himself on the train to Bucharest. Simon thought all the things he’d heard about the blond man were overblown, and then he was alone with him in the car for the drive to the meeting place. The transformation had been sudden and frightful, and he didn’t care to repeat the ride.

Right now Kuryakin looked like a caged lion as he paced back and forth, smoking cigarette after cigarette like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Simon went over in his mind some of the rumors he had heard about this man, rubbed his throat and hoped he didn’t run out of cigarettes. He was saved for the moment when a plume of dust announced the arrival of their contact, and, hopefully, new victims to take the heat off of him.

Kuryakin dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his toe while he impassively watched the arrival of the car. Simon quickly wiped his throat clean with his handkerchief and stuffed the bloody rag in his pocket just as the aged Volga stopped next to their sedan. Two people hesitantly stepped from the car and glanced around nervously.

The driver was a man dressed in plain, working man’s clothes and the other was a young woman similarly dressed, her hair tucked up in a plain babushka. There was nothing notable about the pair, but Simon was alarmed to see the sparkle in Kuryakin’s eye when he saw the woman. Alarms went off in his head.

“You from La Prima?” The man asked in Russian.

Kuryakin replied in kind before Simon could step up. Since his own Russian was passable but rough, Simon simply stayed close and monitored. He was impressed by the professionalism of the blond enigma and his ability to control the situation without looking like he was in control. Their contacts were to escort them to the anonymous trigger dealer after viewing the money. Simon produced a case from the trunk of the black sedan and showed them the contents. The couple indicated that they were to follow them.

“Must be the Russian equivalent to the Mafia,” Simon whispered as they were lead to the Lada. Kuryakin snorted in response and climbed into the back seat with Simon, who carried the case in his lap. The woman in the front passenger seat turned around and pointed a gun at Kuryakin’s chest.

The man spoke in broken English. “I am Kris, that is Torya.” He slid behind the steering wheel. “And the gun is insurance.”

“Of course!” Kuryakin said brightly as he settled down for the ride. They hadn’t gone a mile before he was asleep. Simon was astounded.

After an hour, Torya tossed two black bags on their laps. Kuryakin woke instantly. “Put them on,” Kris said shortly.

Simon didn’t miss the flash of anger that crossed the blue eyes of his partner. It was squelched just as quickly. His skin crawled when he also saw the brief look the blond gave Torya just before he slipped on the black hood. Simon hesitated, more fearful of not being able to see his partner rather than the escorts. Finally, he slipped on the hood with a feeling that things were irreparably heading out of control.

They drove on for at least another hour before the car bounced to a halt. The escorts exited the vehicle and pulled open the back doors. Simon and Kuryakin stepped out, and were patted down and relieved of their weapons. Then they were lead through soft dirt and a narrow door that lead directly to a downward set of stairs.

“The hoods weren’t part of the deal!” Simon complained. In response he felt a gun muzzle pushed against the back of his head and received a long litany, in a dialect he didn’t understand, which lasted until they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Kuryakin chuckled. “He said, ‘So?’”

Simon felt like he was in a very scary dream. The hallway smelled dank and dusty. An underground facility? He thought, trying to control his growing fear.

Guided through a short maze of halls, they finally were pushed into a room where a solid sounding metal door closed behind them. Simon’s hood was pulled off, and he blinked at Kris and Torya standing in front of them with handguns pointed at their heads from a safe distance. Kuryakin remained hooded and stood like he was completely relaxed - his shoulders hung loose, his hands quietly clasped in front of him and his knees slightly flexed and feet a bit apart. Simon was sweating profusely and mentally cursed Kuryakin’s outer cool.

Simon looked beyond the escorts and saw a figure behind a large glass window looking in on them. He wore a cowl that only revealed his eyes. After a moment, he nodded slightly to Simon. Taking the cue, Simon cracked open the case and flashed the cash. The cowled man then gave a box to a small man next to him. The small man bowed quickly and disappeared from the window. He appeared again when he opened a metal door to one side and placed himself in front of Simon, where he opened the box. It looked like a nuclear trigger, but that’s why Kuryakin was here.

“My partner needs to inspect the goods,” Simon said, trying to sound firm. He could feel cold sweat rolling down his back and just wanted this to be over.

The cowled man nodded slightly. Kris moved forward and put the hood back on Simon. Simon hugged the money close and heard movement in Kuryakin’s direction, followed by the sound of the hood being pulled off. The small box rustled open again and there was a moment of silence. Simon nervously bit his lip.

Then room suddenly exploded in chaos.

First, there was a grunt, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Then a yell preceded a flurry of gunfire. Simon dropped to the floor and pulled off the mask as bullets zinged overhead. He crawled to the wall using the case to cover his head and cowered there until the bullets stopped flying. Cautiously, he peeked out and was shocked at what he saw.

The small man and Kris were obviously dead. The cowled man was draped across the jagged edge of the broken window, where he moaned and weakly struggled as the jagged edges slowly disemboweled him; a great lake of blood gathered on the floor below him and his fingers gently brushed the surface as his struggles weakened.

Simon tore his eyes from the gruesome sight and sought Kuryakin. The blond madman had Torya’s back pressed against the wall with his body and her own gun pressed to her temple. The look of fear on her face turned Simon’s stomach; Kuryakin’s free hand was under her clothing and roughly exploring her body as he murmured in her ear with a wolfish grin. Simon managed to pull himself to his feet and keep from vomiting at the trail of intestines that drooped to the floor from the cowled man, now definitely dead.

Simon tried to speak, choked, and managed to squeak, “You have the trigger?” He tore is eyes from the grisly site and saw that Kuryakin’s hand was between the woman’s legs. She was crying silently. “Hey!” Simon barked, finding his voice. “The trigger! You have it?”

Kuryakin stopped his ministrations with a sigh then tapped Torya’s head with the gun butt. She dropped with a tiny sob. “Yes, Simon, I have it.” He brushed off his sleeves casually.

“Then let’s go, for God’s sake!” Simon started for the main door but the sound of shouting and running feet in the hall stopped him. Kuryakin turned him to the room behind the glass where they found an escape from the gory scene.

They moved down the hall much too slowly for Simon’s taste; Kuryakin appeared to be sight seeing as he casually shot anyone they came across. Simon counted four victims before his partner came to a stop in front of a locked metal door with large, red Cyrillic lettering on it. Kuryakin brightened with a happy grin, immediately shot off the lock and let himself in. Simon frowned at the writing and finally made out the biggest word:  EXPLOSIVES.

“Ohhhhh crap,” he moaned as he finally found a gun to keep their escape clear. It was a very tense several minutes before Kuryakin stepped from the room and headed down the hall at a trot without saying a word. Simon simply followed and didn’t bother to ask anything because they appeared to be finally headed toward an exit. How Kuryakin found it so directly was a mystery Simon didn’t care to question; he was too happy to find an upward sloping staircase that lead to daylight.

When they popped into the daylight, they were on the edge of a large, ploughed field. Several small wooden buildings surrounded the field, and Simon realized that they housed staircases that lead to the underground facility; it was a perfect hidden compound. Simon snapped out of his reverie when he saw Kuryakin headed toward the ancient Lada, calmly picking off anyone that appeared from the buildings as if it was a target shoot. He jogged to catch up. Kuryakin’s eyes looked far away in thought as he shot.

Simon tossed the money case in the car. “We don’t have the keys!”  He bounced nervously on his toes by the open door, eager to leave. His partner didn’t respond, still distracted by something unseen. “Hey! I said we don’t have the keys!”

After a second Kuryakin threw him a sideways look punctuated with a crooked grin. “Boom!” said softly.

Instantly, the ground roiled and great cracks split the field. Smoke and dust rose heavenward; the two of them were thrown to the ground as it bucked convulsively. Finally, in gut-wrenching slow motion, the field gave way and a great, smoking crater appeared. When his ears stopped ringing, Simon heard some very faint screams from under ground in the sudden silence. He stared, aghast, and shakily rose to his feet. Then he heard whistling and turned to see Kuryakin spinning car keys on his finger as he slid behind the wheel of the Lada.

***********

La Prima was thrilled at Kuryakin’s talent. He’d obtained the trigger and the plutonium quite easily with only the loss of one Thrushman. Simon didn’t want anything to do with a second assignment to get the plutonium, but was swayed by the promise of a cash bonus. Kuryakin had returned alone with the plutonium. No one asked any questions about what happened to Simon.

La Prima, meanwhile, had also discovered the pitfalls of having a henchman that was completely self-centered. He was talented, true, but to get that talent to work for her she had to come up with the right incentives.

“Freud says that the id consisted of amoral, irrational, driving instincts for sexual gratification, aggression, general sensual pleasure,” Angelique and the Thrush doctor told her. “Use that. And remember, his impulse control is stymied, but it’s still there. He should perform magnificently when enticed correctly.” La Prima had found that Miss Fan topped the list of enticements.

La Prima had spotted the sultry Asian in Shang Hai last year and saw potential. Miss Fan was a sado-masochist that had a penchant for torture, which came in very handy, but she also was quite difficult when bored, and she bored easily.

Miss Fan had little time for boredom now - Kuryakin and she were like fire and gunpowder when together. La Prima only fretted that Kuryakin would kill her someday, or vice versa, and then either her Thrush plans would be dashed or she’d find herself minus a good torture expert.  She sighed at the thought of allowing their trysts; it was simply one of those risks she had to take to make it to the top.

It had been almost five weeks since Kuryakin had come into her possession and there was only one more part of the bomb puzzle needed. They had moved their base of operation from northern Greece to Malibu , California , since the last parts were in southwestern America . Angelique had tagged along and La Prima was content to have a like-minded woman by her side. Angelique had proved to be a great source of information and was quick to locate the nuclear physicist they needed.

Curious and reluctant at the same time, La Prima decided to send Kuryakin and Fan out as a team to retrieve the man. She stressed firmly the need for the man to be unharmed, but worried until the scientist was brought to her. He was shaken, but physically intact. Miss Fan returned with a missing finger and a broken arm and was unable to take part in the turn-around mission to get the Los Alamos papers.

No one else was willing to go along with the frightening blond.

With that, Angelique saw an opportunity. She knew UNCLE should be looking for their wayward agent soon, if they weren’t already, and she knew exactly who they would send: Napoleon Solo. With the right set-up she could turn Kuryakin over to him in exchange for information on the formula given to Kuryakin before his assignment to Europe. Then she could make her own amoral soldiers to order!

The trick was to keep the wild Russian in her sights. Currently, Kuryakin was an excellent retriever, but extremely untrustworthy. On a whim, he’d burned down the scientist’s house and barely eluded the Las Vegas police. La Prima wanted some insurance that the files would make it into her hands in California in one piece, so Angelique volunteered to stay with Kuryakin. He was ordered to turn the papers over to her before returning to Malibu.

La Prima was glad there was a watcher for her man, but she wasn’t naïve. She knew Angelique had something in mind and told Kuryakin that if Angelique tried to do anything with the papers other than deliver them to her in California, he could stop her any way he saw fit. He smiled his chilling, feral smile in response.

Women should stick together, La Prima thought, but that didn’t mean they had to trust each other.

ACT III: “My Men Are Professionals, Mr. Solo, But They Won’t Be Martyrs.”

Kuryakin would depart from Malibu for Albuquerque the next morning. He was pleased that he was going in the field again. Blowing up the underground facility outside Bucharest, burning the scientist’s house near Las Vegas and watching Simon die a slow and painful death had been excellent job perks so far. He was somewhat disappointed that Miss Fan wasn’t going this time, but he had to admit, she was distracting. He smiled and felt warm at the thought of her fighting him, and decided to say goodbye.

He reached her tiny apartment and found the door locked. He pounded on it and there was no response. Anger rose in his throat and he broke the door open with one kick. The sultry woman was in a sheer black negligee standing at the far end of the small sitting room. One arm was in a fresh cast, the mangled hand wrapped thickly in gauze, and the other hand held a knife. Her eyes burned and her mouth twisted into a perverted smile.

Kuryakin pushed the door shut with one hand and advanced. The perverse smile grew bigger as he grew closer, and by the time she took the first swipe at him with the knife her teeth showed in a snarling grin. He knocked her hand away but she was able to follow through the motion and slice his forearm through his sleeve.

“Oh, yes,” he groaned as he stopped the hand and bent it around her back. She struggled and growled as he pushed her into the bedroom and against the wall. She tried to maneuver to hit him with her cast, but he grabbed her hair and threw her on the floor. The knife clattered away. Miss Fan grabbed his arm and attempted to bite him, but he shook her off and slammed her face down on a dainty desk, toppling a lamp and cascading files onto the floor. The lampshade shattered against the wall with a satisfying sound. She swore at him hoarsely in Chinese as he ran his hands roughly over her body.

When he was done and they both panted in exhaustion, he noticed that she’d cut her lip and blood oozed in one corner of her mouth. Just before he left, he pulled her close, bruising her bicep, and slowly drew his fingertip through the blood on her lip. Her hot breath was hard on his hand, her eyes glazed but intent on his. Then he put the finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.

Grinning, he released her and let himself out of the apartment, enjoying her smell on his body and the taste of her blood on his lips.

**********

Now that he had plenty of time to fulfill his rightful duties as Chief Enforcement Officer Napoleon Solo wondered if the extra pay was worth the hassle. True, there were the fun jobs like assigning agents to duties, directing training and setting up security details and the like, but on the flip side were the other duties: Approving reports - slogging through those written with questionable writing skills as he tried to figure out what actually happened - disciplining the occasional wayward agent and on the bottom of his list, informing the families of agents lost on duty. Fortunately, he didn’t have to perform the last of those duties in the six weeks of his recovery. He did, however, have plenty of the rest and by the time his broken leg healed, he was more than ready - itchy, in fact - to get into the field again. He wondered when Illya would get back from his current assignment.

Solo had been so busy cramming nearly a year’s amount of training schedules, filling Waverly’s shoes and catching up on paperwork in the past six weeks he’d hardly noticed the absence of his partner. His unofficial inquires gave him vague information about an undercover Affair assigned shortly after Solo was injured. He never bothered to follow up on the details; actually, he didn’t have the time and figured he’d find out eventually as he usually did. It was one of those ‘eyes only’ affairs that was turned over to the Berlin office. Illya would spill the details on his return.

Alexander Waverly had even taken advantage of Solo’s infirmed state to take a vacation and leave the healing agent in charge. He’d only returned two days ago, but didn’t seem much rested to the CEA.

It was his first day back to regular full duty. He breezed happily through the agents’ entry in his normal chatty manner and informed to report to Waverly’s office immediately. His first thought was that that the Old Man needed clarification or follow up on one of Solo’s orders issued in his absence. The handsome agent wasn’t worried, and he whistled his way to the office of New York UNCLE Section Chief in a cheery manner, greeted all he passed with a pleasant hello and arranged several day’s worth of lunch dates with eligible ladies that caught his eye. 

When he reached the desk of Mr. Waverly’s secretary, Lisa Rogers, he paused at her serious expression.

“What’s up, Lisa?” He asked brightly. “The Old Man in a mood?”

“He’s in a mood, all right, Napoleon, and the cause for it is in the room. Watch yourself.”

Instantly serious, he asked, “What’s going on?”

She replied in a quiet tone, her brown eyes guarded. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t look good. I have a very bad feeling about this; there are representatives from just about every security agency in the States in there.” Her statement ended as the intercom lit up. Mr. Waverly’s voice boomed from the small box.

“Miss Rogers, is Mr. Solo here yet?”

“Yes, sir, he’s only just arrived.”

“Then send him in immediately!” They both winced at the sharp click that disconnected the box.

“I see what you mean,” Solo mused as he straightened the cuffs of his dress shirt and strode to the office door.

“Good luck!” he heard Lisa whisper to his back.

The door swooshed aside and he stepped into the office that always seemed to have the slightest tang of Isle of Dogs tobacco in the air even when the boss’ pipe was unlit, as it was now. The large, circular table was attended by several men that Solo didn’t know.

A pair of agents from the CIA stood out in his memory, however, and he immediately bristled. In a rare instance of an investigation that combined UNCLE with the CIA, he’d found the men to be close-minded, resentful and generally difficult to work with. Only Solo and Kuryakin’s astute abilities to think on their feet and be flexible in implementing a plan had saved the missions. The CIA, however, had taken credit for the jobs. Since Waverly was the only person they cared to impress, Solo and Kuryakin let them have it. Waverly knew the details.

And here they were again, probably wanting to make me and Illya some kind of fall guys, he thought he took a seat, keenly noting the absence of his partner. He managed to keep his face unreadable as he nodded acknowledgement to the two men. Solo could tell that they were not happy to see him here, and he wondered why.

“Mr. Solo, let me introduce you to everyone here.” Waverly’s voice had a rare, tense tone. He grumbled the introductions. “Zimmerman and Hyde from the CIA I think you already know. Gene McFarthing and  J.J. Bautista from NIS , François Sauvignon of INTERPOL, and finally Larry Dickerman and Steven Savage from the FBI. Gentlemen, Napoleon Solo, my Chief Enforcement Agent for the North American office of UNCLE.”

Murmured greetings circled the room but no one broke a smile. Solo felt immediately on the defensive for reasons he could not pinpoint; the only people in the room that would meet his eyes were his boss and Thomas Hyde. The former’s eyes were unreadable, but the latter’s burned with anger that Solo could feel across the wide table.

“Mr. Solo, we seem to have a serious problem.” Waverly’s voice was tight. Solo wisely stayed silent. “Each of these agencies has come to the same conclusion, independent of each other and through four different investigations involving four separate incidents in the past five weeks. These two incidents occurred in Europe and involved the sale and movement of weapons grade plutonium and a nuclear trigger. Two incidents took place on American soil. One revolved around the kidnapping of a retired nuclear scientist in Nevada and the other had just occurred hours ago - the theft of top secret papers from the Los Alamos nuclear facility in New Mexico.

“Sounds like someone wants to make a bomb,” Solo stated quietly.

“Damn straight, Solo,” Hyde snarled. “And you know who it is.”

Solo immediately bristled. Although he kept an outer cool, his fingers dug into the arms of his chair as he opened his mouth to demand an explanation. Waverly’s voice stopped him.

“We know no such thing,” the Old Man snapped.  “You have insufficient evidence to support such accusations. We’re here to get proof, Mr. Hyde, not point fingers.”

“I have all the proof I need.” Hyde replied sharply. His open hand swept over the papers in front of him. “All these investigations point to the same man. All we need to do is find him and arrest him.”

Solo swallowed his acid comment and turned his attention to his boss, managing to ask in a flat, level tone, “Who is it all this supposedly points to?”

Waverly slid a folder to his top agent and began to chew on the stem of his unlit pipe as Solo flipped the folder open. The agent swallowed hard his initial reaction of shock. There, on the top of the thick report, was a black and white photo of is partner and friend.

“Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, Mr. Solo. All of their intelligence points to him.” Waverly sounded disgusted and busied his hands by organizing the papers before him.

Solo’s response was a short laugh. He looked around the table, and by the eyes now on him, knew that no one else found this the slightest bit amusing. “Then they are wrong, sir. Illya can’t be responsible . . .” He was cut off by one of the FBI men.

“Why not? His background makes it quite possible.”

“But you don’t know . . .” He was interrupted this time by the NIS officer.

“You can’t know him very well, either. You’ve only been partners, what, three years?”

“Yes, but he can’t be involved in anything like this. I know this man!” As he said that, a cold flush of fear rolled down his spine to his gut. He thought he knew Illya, anyway. His gut told him he did, but the stack of paper in front of him said otherwise.

“And that is why we are here, Mr. Solo.” The INTERPOL man’s accent was heavy French. “We need you to flush him out.”

Speechless, Solo felt his jaw drop. He turned to his boss for an explanation. Waverly gave it slowly and thoughtfully. “These men contacted me after they had conferred and agreed to approach UNCLE as a united front. I have agreed to help them. We all agree that you are the natural choice for the job of finding Mr. Kuryakin.”

You have certainly been busy since you’ve been back, Solo thought bitterly, feeling somewhat cornered and betrayed.

“Mr. Kuryakin has been under deep cover and incommunicado for the past four weeks. He was investigating a cell of terrorists that work in central Asia . No one has been able to locate and infiltrate the group, which is suspected of numerous attacks on foreigners and their interests in the Orient, Africa and Eastern Europe. When we picked up the rumor that they were looking to recruit a scientist, we sent Kuryakin. He was supposed to figure out the leadership structure and working routine, and report back. He was  immediately contacted for a meeting and then disappeared. Which isn’t unusual for this type of deep cover assignment, I might add.”

Solo wondered what he meant by that last comment.

Waverly’s tone was level and professional, neither giving weight to the other agency’s claims nor completely disregarding it. It was a hard line to toe. “We will call him back, gentlemen, and get to the bottom of this. I will not sacrifice my agent. He deserves the chance to report in.”

“He deserves to hang,” Hyde growled.

Waverly snapped right back. “And may I remind you that all of you are here at the request of your superiors as their representatives. Keep that in mind, gentlemen. We have agreed to work together.”

The old fox sure knows how to command respect, Solo admitted, satisfied that the others would keep their mouths shut in this office, at least.

Waverly continued. “You all may go while I bring Mr. Solo up to speed. Dismissed.”

After a few moments of grumbling and shuffling feet, the others left the room. As soon as the door closed Solo was on his feet. “Sir, I . . .”

“Don’t start, Mr. Solo. I’ve been monitoring Mr. Kuryakin’s movements since he was given this assignment. We lost contact with him after a meeting was set up by a known terrorist. The terrorist showed up dead within days of the meeting, and we still do not know who Mr. Kuryakin spoke with, or where the meeting took place. I’ve been following these escapades,” Waverly tapped the fat folder presented by INTERPOL, “but did not confirm that our agent was responsible until shortly before INTERPOL did. I have to admit, they have a legitimate concern.”

“You don’t believe Illya did all this, do you?”

Suddenly, Alexander Waverly looked weary. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, then began unconsciously searching his vest for tobacco. After a few thoughtful moments, he said, “I don’t want to believe it, but what I believe doesn’t matter. What matters is proof of his innocence and we are sorely shy of that right now.” He gave up his tobacco search, and laid the pipe down on the table. Bushy eyebrows framed darkly serious eyes when he turned to Solo. “This assignment is very important to the future of this organization and Mr. Kuryakin. It needs to be cleared up as soon as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before you go, you need to know what Mr. Kuryakin’s assignment is. It is classified ‘eyes only’ and ‘need to know’.” He slipped a sealed folder out from a drawer in the desk and spun it around to his lead agent. “Most of the information in here is top secret and confidential. None of the other agencies need to know any of this, but you need to know what you are going to get into.” He stood slowly and absently searched for the pipe with his fingertips. “You leave for Los Alamos within the hour. It’s the location of the last incident, the report thefts, which occurred less than two hours ago.  The FBI is investigating and the two representative agents will be traveling with you. I suggest you start reading. That folder must stay here. It explains exactly what was done to Mr. Kuryakin, and what to expect.”

The words gave Solo a chill. Waverly moved away from his chair to leave the office and paused behind Solo. For a moment, he rested his hand on the agent’s shoulder. His voice was low but strong. “I want you to bring him home, Mr. Solo. Alive.”

***********

Solo’s head swam with the information he’d absorbed from the file. Illya Kuryakin had been changed into a new person, Ian Keyes, via a level of conditioning deeper and more involved than anything he’d seen before. The false identity of Ian Keyes was intricately documented in all pertinent records, as if he’d been around for years.

Solo forced his seat back into a reclined position just after take off and turned over in his mind what he knew. He’d gotten little from his FBI traveling companions and could tell that they didn’t really trust him. The scope of the thefts pointed to Thrush, but there weren’t enough facts to point fingers at any particular Thrush operative.

His fellow investigators were convinced Illya was working for another government, namely Russia . Solo would have to find his own proof in the form of his wayward partner.

Deep undercover was always risky. UNCLE did it rarely but successfully by taking the agent’s natural traits and tweaking them ever so slightly. Between Waverly’s coaching and the staff psychiatrist’s suggestions, the new persona could exist indefinitely - theoretically, that is. There was always an escape trigger embedded, usually a phrase, that would set all the original traits back in order. It was a science way over Solo’s head, and he knew that, but he understood the gist of the technique and again hoped he’d never have to be the recipient of such a treatment. Deep cover assignments were always voluntary and the stakes always high.

In this case, UNCLE had received information from two separate sources that persons unknown were shopping for the elements to make a bomb. It was assumed to be nuclear, but not confirmed. The shopping list included a person that had the scientific know how and the experience of international relations willing to pull together the various components. Known terrorist groups had been contacted for help in locating such a person. With an implanted history of international smuggling, Kuryakin as Keyes was the best bet for the list.

Finding out who was heading up the project had been impossible; several cases were stymied with the discovery of the bodies of their informants throughout Europe.

Illya reported in saying that he’d been contacted by a terrorist negotiator, and told UNCLE that a meeting with the project leader had been set up. It was the last report he made and the negotiator was found tortured to death two days later.

Shortly thereafter is when the various thefts occurred. The other national and international agencies realized that they all pointed to one man of similar description, but couldn’t find a name. A fuzzy photo from a Las Vegas tourist’s camera and a partial fingerprint from the plutonium theft in China allowed INTERPOL to eventually put two names to the face. They immediately contacted UNCLE to find out which name was real: Ian Keyes or Illya Kuryakin.

Waverly had not been pleased. With the detailed reports from the other agencies it was clear that Kuryakin had gone too far, but his reputation gave weight to Waverly that there must be more to the situation than met the eye. That’s why Solo was drawn into the equation.

The last incident, the theft from the Los Alamos facility, resulted in a security net tight enough to narrow his location down to a particular area around the facility. A normal thief would have a difficult time escaping, but Solo knew his partner. Illya only needed time to slip the perimeter. This is where Solo and the other agents were going, and he hoped they would get there in time.

For Solo, the assignment was a tough one. If Kuryakin was beyond repair, it would be impossible to replace him as a partner.  He also had to admit that it would be devastating to lose him as a friend, too. That thought turned his insides to ice.

The three of them touched down at Los Alamos and hit the ground running. The FBI agents took lead and drove Solo to the secured perimeter on the edge of a national forest. They met with the head of the Command Center for a briefing.

“We’ve narrowed the perimeter to this two square mile area,” a man in camouflaged clothing reported. He pointed to a map pinned on the tent wall. “He’s in there somewhere. It’s thick forest, as you can see.” He poked several areas. “There are hunting lodges scattered around - old, new, private and commercial. They are flagged on this map. The occupied ones have been assigned armed guards. There’s only one source of water, this river, and vertical rock cliffs here, here and here. The closest airport is fifteen miles this direction and there are two major roads, all are covered by our men. He’s trapped. It’s simply a matter of time before he’s forced to come out or be discovered.”

“Any guesses where he’s holed up?” Special Agent McFarthing asked.

Camouflage man regarded the map. “Taking into account the direction he left the facility, the time of day and various tracking clues, I’d say here.” He pointed to a rocky area near one of the main roads. “It would be the quickest way out, and the dogs have picked up fairly fresh signs in that area.” The speaker turned to face the newcomers, his eyes stern. “He’s already taken out two of my best men. My crew is anxious to get their hands on him.”

“You tell your men to control themselves,” Solo returned sharply. “We need that man alive.”

“They are professionals, Mr. Solo, but they won’t be martyrs. They will defend themselves.”

Solo could see he protests were pointless and realized that he was alone in the idea of bring Kuryakin in alive.

The three of them integrated into the established squads and joined the search. Solo took the time to study the terrain before darkness fell and tried to put himself in his partner’s shoes. Nightfall would bring action, this much he knew. He just had to make sure he was in the right place.

The agent found that he was drawn to one particular area of forest that encircled the scattered, crumbling foundations of several buildings grouped together. When he saw it, he noticed that vines crawled up the rock, which was scorched black from a long past forest fire, and the forest surrounding it was thick with rejuvenated greenery. The placement on the ruined site seemed particularly strategic - both a road and the river were close, but not that close. It was a good place to hide and bide your time.

Solo tried to get there without attracting attention, but the FBI made it clear that he was under their scrutiny. They followed him everywhere; to shake them off would only raise alarms. Solo moved to the general area in a casual manner, the compass in his head always pointing in the direction he needed to go.

It was about an hour after sunset when the dogs went wild. The pursuing teams fell back behind the snarling animals focused in one area near the largest of the burnt and crumbling foundations. When they felt they had a secure line to back them, they let the dogs go. They went howling into the night - away from the ruins.

With the help of the darkness and the teams’ focus on the dogs, the UNCLE agent faded back, unnoticed, in the opposite direction and found himself among the dead remains of largest building of the site.

The trees grew in close to this building. Solo knew there were still agents out there patrolling in the cover of the trees, and moved with stealth. He studied the site in the bare light of the rising moon.

The crumbling walls were no higher than Solo’s hip. It was a dark and foreboding night, and the ground between the walls was a maze of intertwining ruts caused by water erosion. Some of the foundation had already collapsed into these ruts, some of which were quite deep, and another whole area was at risk. These valleys also created tunnels under the walls that were in imminent danger of collapse; they were also an excellent place to hide. Ever cautious, he began to explore the crevasse that started at his feet and appeared to run under the largest of the ruins.

*************:

When he heard the dogs lead the men away, he knew his distraction would work for a short while. It was time to move.

He was exhausted, filthy with mud, blood and sweat and was ready to put this behind him. There was a certain thrill about outmaneuvering all those highly trained agents, but the whole game was getting tiresome. He checked the flow of blood from his shoulder; setting the decoy had been tricky. They almost got him, but the blood had proved to be an excellent addition to the dogs’ distraction. The wound would just have to wait to be tended so he packed it with a section of dirty cloth to stem the flow. Then he pulled a gun from his waistband and listened to the night.

Satisfied, he carefully made his way out of the dirt hollow at the base of the mossy stone foundation. The sound of footsteps stopped him and anger flared. Who was that? Quickly, he melted into the shadows and froze, gun at ready. When the vague outline of a man moved against the trunks of the surrounding trees, he dismissed use of the gun, as it would draw more men. He tucked it away instead and flexed his fingers, imagining the feel of the man’s soft throat in his hands. The shooting thrill of anticipation was abruptly cut short when something in the shadowy profile stirred his mind.

Suddenly, images flashed before his eyes - images that invoked feelings that confused him. The name came immediately - Napoleon Solo. Then an odd and bewildering idea came forth - who am I? - followed by the dull thrum of a blossoming headache.

ACT IV: The Spider and The Fly

The darkness slowly receded with the early rise of the moon. It wasn’t full, but the small amount of light was enough for Solo to discern solid ground from shadow. He moved carefully around the site, keeping to the edge of the forest. His feeling that Illya was here never faltered, and when he heard the very faint shuffle among the crumbling rock, he knew he was right.

“Illya? I know you’re here. It’s me, Napoleon.” He called quietly. “Illya? Where are you?”

The shuffling noise sounded again and Solo moved in. The noise drew him into the eerie shadows of old building’s foundation. It cast a quivering shadow in the weak moonlight.

Ragged breathing pinpointed his location. In the secluded darkness, the noise was deafening.  Solo made a motion to come close, but was cut off by a sharp order.

“Don’t. Don’t move.”

Solo stopped immediately. Something in the tone set alarms off in his mind.

“I’m alone, Illya. I think there are sentries in the woods, but I haven’t seen any yet.” He spoke softly, letting the darkness carry his words. His eyes constantly scanned the pockets of black, looking for the tiniest motion.

“Stay where you are.”

The response allowed Solo to focus on the darkest corner just beyond the deepest crevasse. The chasm between was more than physical, Solo realized. It was something in his partner’s voice that tipped him off.

“Illya, what have you gotten into?” Solo asked desperately, keeping low against the rock.

“Illya?” He replied, sounding perplexed, then after a short, hoarse laugh answered him. “More than I bargained I guess. Keep away from us.”

“Us?” Solo questioned. There was no reply, and Solo’s gut instincts were making him queasy. “Illya, Waverly sent me to bring you home.”

There was a slight hesitation in his friend’s reply. “Our scars tell us our history really happened.” He said, barely audible.

“What?” The American wasn’t sure he heard correctly, and reluctantly came to a dire decision about his friend’s mental state. “Let me bring you home, tovarisch.”

A grinding noise that ended in a thump told Solo that his partner had just sat down at the base of the crumbling wall. There was no immediate reply and, concerned, risked a tight beam of light from his tiny flashlight. What he saw in the small circle of light alarmed him.

Illya’s face was barely discernable in the light. It was black with an unknown substance, and his hair unkempt and dark with dirt and sweat. He couldn’t clearly make out the clothing, but he did see a flash of red on his friend’s fingers as they gripped his upper arm in a tight hug. Then he saw the muzzle of a handgun raise and take aim, backed by icy blue eyes squinting into the beam. “Turn it off!” The Russian ordered hysterically. “Turn it off!”

Solo snapped the light off. “What have they done to you?” He said softly, his voice flat. He didn’t dare move, fearing that his partner would bolt.

After a few long moments of panicked breathing, Illya’s voice was barely audible. “Who?” he said, sounding genuinely confused as well as angry. “UNCLE or Thrush? I don’t know me anymore. I . . .” The last was edged in pain.

Solo spoke slowly. “Illya, I’m going to say the retrieval code. You have been compromised. You need to come home. We can clear this all up.”

“No!” His partner’s voice was edged in panic. Rattling loose rock told Solo that he was trying to get away, and the dark haired agent knew he couldn’t allow that.

“Illya, listen: ‘There’s a long way to go before you sleep.’” Solo’s voice was strong and firm in the darkness. Illya had to have heard it, but he repeated it again, slowly and clearly. The rustling of rock across the chasm had lessened. He could also hear voices outside the crumbling walls - sentries. Time was running out and Solo had to move. He stepped away from the wall. “Illya, did you hear me?”

At the sound of the phrase, Illya’s legs wobbled and his knees sagged. His temples began to throb, and he sharply caught his breath. Somehow, he managed to back deeper into the angles of the remaining foundation. At the same time, stirred memories came faster and a parallel person appeared in his mind. The shock of it stopped him cold; the other person looked just like him and threw a long, black shadow across his mind..

The next thing he knew, the imposter was taking over and putting the images in order.

He had to be stopped . . .

After several tense moments, Solo risked the light again. The beam found his partner on his feet, the palms of his hands pressed against his temples and his face in a grimace of agony. “Illya?”

The dirty blond head snapped around and wild blue eyes caught Solo’s. One of Illya’s hands dropped; a gun then pointed directly at Solo’s heart. Solo instinctively threw himself back against the wall just as a bullet sizzled inches from his chest.

“Hey!” he yelped in surprise as he dropped in the dirt behind a large stone. “Illya, don’t shoot!” When his heart was back in his chest where it belonged, he peeked around the rock. Illya was gone. With a sharp curse, he pelted into the darkness after his friend, winding through the crumbling foundations just before he plunged into the surrounding forest. He’d only taken a dozen or so steps when he ran into a small contingency of FBI agents drawn by the gunfire.

The Feds read instantly what was going on and called in for back up, much to Solo’s dismay. Movement on both sides focused in the direction Solo had been headed, but he didn’t join them. Instead, he dropped back until they were well ahead, reversed course and circled around to the other side of the ruins. He picked a spot that had the best view of the perimeter and crouched down.  “Come on, Illya. Be predictable for once in your life.” The whispered words helped to bolster his instinct as he waited with crossed fingers.

The sparse moon light did little to help separate shadow from reality. The quiet that settled over the scene as the other agents moved off sharpened his hearing. Weak, erratic breezes rustled the leaves and swayed the shadows as the agent waited patiently. With each passing second, his eyes adjusted to the lay of the land and finally, he saw movement that went against the wind - slight and fleeting with no discernable shape, but it was the right size. Solo aimed carefully ahead of the movement, which melted away under his gaze. When it felt right, he pulled the trigger and with the ‘poof!” of a silenced report, the sleep dart was away. He followed instantly.

The silent shadow eluding him was now less careful. The pursuing agent could hear twigs cracking and brush rustle just ahead. Several long seconds brought a crash that seemed deafening in the dark and quiet. Solo closed in and practically fell over his drugged partner, now a collapsed heap in the darkness. Instantly and without another thought, Solo slung Illya over his shoulder and made for the secrecy of the woods.

The maps from the tent were still clear in his mind and Solo managed to take his load to a spot he was sure would be safe for a little while. He was bone weary and physically exhausted. Solo knew he’d be no match for Illya right now if he decided to fight, especially since Illya’d had the advantage of forced sleep for the last few hours. With a slight feeling of guilt, he handcuffed his partner around a stout tree and collapsed a safe distance away. After catching his breath, he pulled out his communicator and hoped the signal would find its way out of the surrounding mountains.

“Open Channel D, priority.” He spoke lowly, his breath slow in returning. He adjusted the signal against the static and tried again.

“Napoleon?” A woman’s voice inquired. “Mr. Waverly has been waiting for you. I’ll patch you through.”

“Thanks, Wanda.” He grinned at the friendly voice. He needed one right now.

“Mr. Solo? Have you located Mr. Kuryakin?” Mr. Waverly’s voice sounded as close to anxious as Solo had ever heard it.

“Yes, sir, I have. He’s with me now. Physically, any way.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I had to dart him, sir. He’s very disoriented and not himself. Something’s definitely wrong.”

“Well, that would certainly explain things if you are correct. How soon can you get him back to New York ?”

Solo bit his lip. “That may be a bit of a problem, sir. The others don’t know I have him and they are a bit hostile. We’re in a wilderness area outside Los Alamos . The closest place for a pick up that I can recall is about 5 miles to the west - an open field on the other side of the rroad. Notify the local office to be on standby for an air pick up; I’ll call in when I get there.”

“Done, Mr. Solo. And please make haste. The longer you are out there, the more chance you’ll be located by who knows who. And keep me apprised of your progress.”

“Yes, sir. Solo out.” When he closed up the communicator and slipped it in his pocket, he spared a glance in his partner’s direction and was startled to see two blue eyes studying him. He returned the stare, unable to read the look. It was carefully neutral. “Well, look who’s awake.” He said brightly.

“Why am I locked to a tree?” The very slight spark of anger that dissipated quickly in the pale blue orbs wasn’t lost on Solo. Illya’s eyes followed him as he moved in the darkness and Solo felt like he was under the gaze of a predator.

“Because I don’t think you’re thinking straight right now.”

Surprisingly the blond agent smiled, his teeth - like fangs - white against the darkness of his face. “Oh, well, I suppose I was . . . confused.”

“Confused about what?”

Illya’s cocky smile disappeared and the blue eyes went stormy when he was unable to stop the same thoughts that had come over him when Solo had said that damn phrase. He turned his attention to his situation and tugged at the cuffs - the pain in his wrists allowed him to regain control of his thoughts.

 Solo saw a brief glimpse of panic, barely controlled, and Illya’s skin had become shiny with sweat even in the coolness of the night. His shaking hands rattled the links of the cuffs, and the panic vanished.  “Release me,” he snapped. “I’m a sitting target like this.”

The American settled down in a crouch just out of kicking range, his calm exterior in direct contrast to what he felt inside. Illya was like something - wild. “We’re safe here for awhile,” his voice soothed.

The Russian laughed a short, bitter laugh. “I’m not safe anywhere.”

”You are, when you are with me.” That wiped the smile from the Slavic features, which was replaced with a hard stare. Solo couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d seen such a parade of emotion cross his partner’s face in such a short period of time; it was unnerving. “You don’t believe me?”

“I only believe in myself.”

Those words coming from that person stung, but Solo didn’t flinch. “You seem quite paranoid, so this line of discussion is obviously useless. So let’s change it.” He looked directly into Illya’s face. “Where are the things you took from the facility?”

Blue eyes sparked again, partnered with that same predator smile. “I have no idea what you mean, Napoleon.”

The use of his name sounded perverted coming from that tongue. “If you give the papers to me it will insure safe passage from here.”

“For me or you?”

“For both of us. And believe me when I say that. I’m not exactly on the FBI’s most loved list right now, thanks to you. They wouldn’t think twice about going through me to get to you.”

“My savior,” the blond captive cooed sarcastically.

Solo’d had enough. He stood and looked down on the figure that should be his friend. He spoke slowly and darkly.  “And don’t you forget it. Where are the files?”

Seeing the anger in his captor sent a thrill up Kuryakin’s spine, and he smiled broadly as he kept his eyes intent on Solo’s. “I burned them,” he said gleefully.

“What?” Napoleon hadn’t expected that, but something whispered to him that it was the truth.

“I burned them. I needed a distraction to get out of the building so I set them on fire in a closet.”

Solo stared, horrified. He’d heard there had been a fire in the most populated building of the facility just before it was closed, but didn’t get the details. He didn’t think anyone had died, but he knew there were injuries. Intentional injuries that could be interpreted as attempted murder.

Spurred on by Solo’s sicken expression, the cuffed man continued. “You should have seen the flames, Napoleon. It was so beautiful I almost forgot to escape.” The personality in Kuryakin’s body was ecstatic at Solo’s shock. “I wanted to see the destruction, but I had to go, you see. Tell me, did anyone die? Were they burned to a crisp?” His body had the wonderful tingling of a lightning bolt as he pushed the description and rose to his feet, the cuff chain scoring the tree as he stood. “Did is smell like a Sunday barbeque?”

“Shut up,” Solo growled, locking eyes with the madman in order to get control of the situation. It was just so eerie to hear Illya Kuryakin talk like that and realize the depth of the situation he had on his hands.

“Why?” Kuryakin laughed shortly. “What else do I have to do?”

Solo pulled out his gun and pulled the trigger without a second thought. Sorrow cut deep but he managed to keep his face blank as his partner eventually dropped with a snarled curse.

“Sleep. That’s what you can do.” He looked at the slumped figure for several minutes, surprised that the man could still look so innocent while asleep.

Napoleon Solo was not a sentimental fool. He knew his friend was gone for now, replaced with this . . . thing . . . and it was up to him to set his partner straight again. He also knew that if Kuryakin was sent in to get files, he had them somewhere. The originals probably were ash, which meant that he was packing film, a microdot or some other kind of copy. The agent set his jaw, holstered his gun and knelt down to search his prisoner. As suspected, he found a roll of film in a pocket and confiscated it.

***********

When Kuryakin woke, he was still cuffed but in a different location. Instantly he gauged that Solo must be getting very tired. In fact, the dark haired man was sleeping right now; Kuryakin could hear him breathing and see his vague outline in the poor light.

Out from under the microscope, Kuryakin took a moment to assess what he’d experienced earlier. Since Solo had said that phrase about being a long way to go, there had been another person in his mind, constantly watching.  At first, this shadow person had tried to force his way to the forefront of his mind, but he’d managed to turn his back on him and continue. He was always there, however, and he could feel him at his back.

He had to figure out how to get rid of it. The annoyance was a distraction, and he needed to concentrate on getting out of this situation and get to Angelique. The thought of the blonde woman made him grin with appreciation. Getting his hands on her would be enjoyable to say the least, but he knew he had to wait for the opportunity. He also knew she was crafty and oh so dangerous. He felt a stirring in his groin at that thought and before he could focus on a satisfying image that involved her, a searing pain split his head like a lightning bolt, throwing him backward against his shackles in surprise.

His mind spun, disoriented, and a white-hot pain grew as he tried to find its source.

He wanted to squeeze his temples or at least hold his head to keep it from splitting wide open. With his hands still cuffed around the solid tree, all he could do was pound his forehead against the rough bark. A guttural growl grew from his chest and exploded from his throat; the pain refused control and ran wild.

“Illya!”

The voice pierced the waves of agony that bordered on ecstasy - it was simply too much. Depthless voids of black sliced through the hot whiteness.

“Illya! Stop it!”

He fell into the growing darkness and tumbled, lost and terrified, for ages.

Then he found his feet. In his mind’s eye the ground was solid and the pain gone. He stood, panting, and looked around in confusion. His eyes were drawn to a shadowy figure just out of his visual range; he squinted and tried to focus.

“Illya, open your eyes!”

The voice came from behind. Strangely drawn to the distant figure, the words weren’t clear at first.

“Open your eyes! What happened?”

Finally, the words clear, he was forced to turn to the voice.

The first thing he felt when he tried to crack his eyes open was the thick substance on his lashes that caused them to stick together. He could feel his eyeballs rolling in their sockets, refusing to cooperate as he forced his lids to separate.

Then he felt his head rolled uncomfortably back, but when he tried to straighten it, his forehead pounded unmercifully - but it didn’t come close to the searing white that had preceded it.

“Hey! You alright?”

Illya got control of his neck muscles and managed to face the voice. It took several moments for his eyes to focus but when they did, the first thing he saw were the worried hazel eyes of . . .

“Napoleon.” His own voice sounded far away, and he cleared his throat to make it stronger. “What . . .” he started, unable to put together a question from the feelings tumbling around in his mind.

His friend’s eyes studied him carefully for several moments before speaking again. “Illya?” he questioned softly. “How do you feel?”

Illya’s mind was now focused enough to hear the wary concern in his partner’s voice. He tried to raise his hand to wipe what he now realized was blood from his eyes, but found his hands restrained. He looked down at the cuffs, confused, and felt the drying blood on his throbbing forehead crack as he frowned at his situation.

“I . . . uh . . .” A flash of violence crossed his mind. “What did I do?”

A watchful pause was followed up with a softly spoken comment. “Well, for one, you tried to shoot me.”

Illya thought for a moment. “Again?”

Illya saw Solo’s shoulders drop and his entire posture relax as a chuckle washed over his frame. Obviously, his partner’d had a very rough time of things lately and Illya couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he himself was the reason. He bit his lip, unable to share the relief.

“What have I done?” The question was quiet and intended to be redundant; visions were now flashing in his mind and a dark spot - a shadow - lurking in the corner of his mind would not be shaken or ignored.

“Well, you’ve been busy, that much I’ll say.” Solo pulled the handcuff key from his pocket and made the motion to put it in the keyhole.

Illya jerked back hard as he felt the tendrils of panic shoot from his gut. “Don’t!” His voice sounded pleading as the parade of vile visions quickened their pace and the shadow presence grew alarmingly. It was trying to swallow him, and he couldn’t allow it to swallow his partner, too.

Solo paused, instantly noting the growing confusion in the cool grayness of his partner’s eyes. “What? Don’t uncuff you?” He drew back slowly, the key still gripped between his fingers.

In the plagued agent’s mind, the shadow shaped itself into a figure, a carbon copy of himself, except for the eyes - they remained inky pools that drew him in like a vacuum. His head exploded in a flash of white as he lost himself in the eyes. In the next instant, he was watching the ebony eyed doppelganger from a distance.

Before Solo’s eyes, Kuryakin stiffened and pulled hard on the cuffs. He gasped, then worked his feet under him until he was squatting, his eyes all the while locked on some unseen thing before him as he reared back on the cuffs. A tiny spot of blood blossomed on one wrist from the pressure.

Solo didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Illya shuddered and stilled, panting, and then swallowed hard and blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched. After a few seconds, cloudy blue-grey eyes turned mournfully to him. “No, I want you to uncuff me.” His low, even tone gave the impression of weariness. “It was just a little pain in my head, that’s all.”

Solo cocked his head and studied his friend, looking for any explanation as to what just happened. Now clear, the pale eyes were wide, unblinkingly calm, and evenly returned the scrutiny.

Illya raised his arms a little, notching the soft bark of the tree. “Please?” he asked with a timid smile.

There was nothing in Illya’s demeanor to justify the caution Solo suddenly felt. The little hairs on the nape of his neck, when standing at attention like they were now, were seldom wrong. He hesitated; they would certainly make better time if Illya walked on is own, and also knowing that the longer they were out here increased the chance that they would get caught.

He really had very little choice.

“All right,” he agreed slowly, deciding to keep his reservations to himself. He removed the cuffs and tucked them in the small of his back.

Kuryakin stood and rubbed his wrists. “Thank you,” he said softly. The words, however, did little relax the hairs of Solo’s instinct.

In fact, it made them tingle with fear.

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

Angelique relaxed in the back seat of her chauffeur driven sedan with a freshly filled flute of chilled champagne and fiddled with the dial on silver box next to her. The monotonous beeping of the infernal device had changed pitch.

“Driver,” she said sharply. “Let’s reposition the car. Our quarry is on the move again.”

As the driver started the engine and obeyed, the woman, bored with surveillance, looked out the window at the darkness of the surrounding wilderness. “How could anybody live out here?” She mumbled disgustedly to herself. “The nearest nightclub must be a hundred miles away.”

After several minutes the beeping became clear again strong once again. “Stop here. This will do.” She carefully twisted another dial on the box and a steady stream of faint static added background to the beeps, which had increased slightly in frequency. Angelique studied the small gage between the two dials.

She stepped out into the cool night and began to walk up the road.

“Halt!” The voice came from a boulder-strewn ravine to her right. “What are you doing here?”

A man clad in black rose in front of the lighter colored boulders. Angelique saw that his rifle was aimed at the ground, away from her. He didn’t perceive her as a threat. That would be his last mistake.

“We have car trouble. The engine needs to cool.” She sounded convincing as a damsel in distress, a role she enjoyed playing frequently.

“You can’t stay here.” The man moved toward her and held out a canteen. “Use this water and turn around. This road is closed.”

“Really?” She acted surprised. “I didn’t see a road closure signs.”

“It’s been closed for nearly two hours.”

 “Oh. We were sitting in the car for awhile.” She accepted the canteen.  “Are you out here by yourself? Isn’t that dangerous.”

“My partner is a mile up the road, m’am.”

She smiled. “Really? Isn’t that fortuitous!”

A puzzled expression crossed the soldier’s face as Angelique drew a silenced weapon and shot him at point blank range. He dropped next to the road without a sound and she returned to the car to grab her small backpack and the small silver box. “We’re close. Lets’ go.”

**********

The running men made good time, even with the weak moonlight that barely pierced the forest canopy. Solo kept a sharp ear on his partner’s breathing; it was an accurate way to keep track of his exact location. When he could, he watched the hands of the smaller man. As an agent, he knew that’s where attack generally showed itself first.

He simply couldn’t and wouldn’t ignore the wariness he felt about Illya right now. Although he’d shown no signs of aggression or subterfuge, something was definitely wrong and Solo made sure he wouldn’t be surprised.

When the road he recalled from the maps showed itself in the darkness as a silver ribbon weaving between the trees, he hissed a warning and both men dropped in the first available cover. Crossing the open pavement would be a huge risk; the road was patrolled regularly and closely watched.

“The pick up point is just across the road.” He pulled out his communicator and his Special. “I’m calling our taxi and we’ll cross the road when we hear it coming.”

Breathing hard next to him, Illya nodded his golden head in response. Solo opened the silver pen and spoke into it as he kept a visual on his partner out of the corner of his eye. He could see the light colored eyes in the black of the night watching him in return as he finished his pick up request, and it took a moment for something to register: Illya should be watching the road.

All nerves now screaming he calmly closed the pen and slipped it away. Without warning, he moved quickly and rolled away from his watcher as he brought up his gun.

Illya was on him in an instant and the dart went wide. They crashed through the brush to the shoulder of the road where they fought for possession of the weapon. Napoleon felt his hand pounded against a rock, and the gun skittered from his grip and across the hard packed dirt.

With the gun gone, Illya turned his attention to Napoleon’s neck where he gripped it with one powerful hand and blocked his victim’s attacks with the other.

The look in Illya’s eyes made Solo’s blood run cold. He’d never seen fury like that in the normally cool blue eyes, and it was frightful. A surge of renewed energy enabled him to push away and free his throat, as well as deliver a well placed kick to his attacker. Illya grunted and doubled over, giving the American agent a precious few seconds to regroup.

He was completely shocked and surprised to suddenly feel a needle’s sting, and looked down to see one of his own sleep darts dangling from his thigh. He sank to his knees, and looked up long enough to see a second form standing over his partner, gun in hand.

“Angelique,” he managed to whisper before he blacked out.

“It’s so nice to be noticed,” she replied with a spider-to-the-fly smile.