TRUE COLOURS

by Kitty Fisher

PROLOGUE

It had only ever happened once. One moment when they had let the boundaries of society slip and trusted to their feelings rather than their carefully constructed individuality. If Napoleon had been less ruthless, then possibly the sex wouldn't have mattered quite so much. Or then again, maybe that one night's excess was always destined to be a catalyst for unease.

It had — for both men — been a matter of need. Though the American thought his was greater than it really was, and the Russian, underestimating nothing as was his wont, and knowing the exact measure of his own need — being able to gauge it with nuclear precision — still gave himself unequivocally to the moment. Of course it had been Napoleon who had...asked was too polite a word...demanded, was closer to the mark. Illya, cool self–possession disguising volcanic intensity with practised care, had nodded and laid himself naked upon Napoleon's ice–blue sheets, tasting there for the first and last time, perfection.

It had been over too soon. Leaving an aching void that hinted at more than loss and physical distress.

Illya tried not to dwell on it. But sometimes the absence of previously unvalued intimacy reminded him. And sometimes Napoleon's mere presence was all it took for a lifetime's training in independence to be worn away just that little bit more. A fact which worried him. For when the erosion was complete, what would be left, if anything at all?

* * * * *

PART ONE

With one shoulder propped against the black painted wall, Illya Kuryakin gazed solemnly at the packed dance floor. He'd given up trying to tell how many bodies were crammed onto the strobe lit area, all writhing to the latest acid–inspired music, but instinctively, despite the crowd, he knew exactly where Napoleon Solo danced.

Frowning, he ran fingers through hair bleached from blond to white by the flashing lights, and shifted his weight slightly. Quite why he was here, when the last intention he possessed in the world was to dance, was a mystery that made the vertical line in the centre of his brow deepen. But he was. Although this was hardly the best evening he'd ever spent, at least it was better than sitting alone and worrying about what his errant partner was up to.

Dressed in black — jeans and a Merino wool rollneck that moulded every plane and curve of muscle and bone — he should have blended like a chameleon into the wall. But long, pale hands, one resting at his side, one with its thumb pulled casually through a denim loop, along with the stark outline of profile and silky–smooth hair, delineated his body graphically against the darkness.

His state of mind could hardly be called unhappy — he was stoically aware that this was one rod that he had cut for his own back — but neither was he happy. In retrospective moments it was clear to him that happiness was un–Russian, hence he was wasting energy in pursuing it, along with all the other parts of the American dream that had once seemed worth the time and trouble of acquiring dual nationality for. It had all seemed far simpler in the Soviet Union. Though perhaps that was only because he had never known the simplicity of happiness there; that purgatory being reserved for New York, where it centred disconcertingly on a penthouse apartment in the Upper West Side.

Illya sighed, forcing himself to concentrate on the music. He succeeded so well that the image of blue pillows and the startlingly fresh memory of the feel of Napoleon's skin gradually faded from his mind.

He started when a hand tugged at his sleeve.

"Illya, it might never happen." Napoleon had leant in close so that he was audible above the music and the smile and the lips and the eyes made Illya Kuryakin swallow hard. He shook himself. There was, after all, no point in conceding every victory to the American.

Expressionless, he answered, his accent more marked than usual, "No, you're right, it might never."

Bulldozing with his customary confidence over the dregs of Illya's self–esteem, Napoleon Solo was laughing, but unfortunately it was into Salty Oliver's ear, the heat in his eyes still burning for the woman he had woken from virgin child into sensuous siren. Her breast was pressed close to the shiny mohair of his suit, and as Napoleon spoke into her ear, she giggled.

Hating himself, Illya looked away.

No, he thought, it will definitely never happen again. And more fool me for wanting anything else.

"We're going to get a drink — you coming?"

Shaking his head, Illya gathered a smile. "No, I think I've had enough of New York's nightlife for one evening. Thank you for inviting me, Salty, but I'll leave you both to dance till dawn. Me, I'm going home to a good book and a nightcap."

"A book! Illya, how dull." Salty was laughing, her protests only token. She liked both men, but the blond agent was too distant, too difficult for her to understand and she found his occasional sharp sarcasm too disconcerting. Besides, when he'd gone then she and Napoleon could leave whenever they wanted to. "What're you reading — War and Peace?"

"No, The Brothers Karamazov."

"I hope it's a comedy. You need cheering up."

"Yes, Salty," he smiled, unconcerned by her.

"Illya..." Napoleon turned his head, paused, then drew his woman closer. "Salty, darling you go to our table, hijack a waitress and I'll be over in a moment." He slapped her rump, making her grin over one chiffon–draped shoulder. Napoleon winked, and as she walked away, leant on the wall next to his partner.

Napoleon Solo wasn't quite drunk. U.N.C.L.E. agents never got really out of their heads, but he was at the point where caution gives way to recklessness, and Illya, who in his eyes had been a party–pooper all evening, was making him mad. Buoyed by Salty's admiration, Napoleon smiled at himself and ran his hand through the crisp white ruffles of his shirt. He thought, with a very slight touch of self mockery, mad, bad and dangerous to know — especially for uptight Russians who should know better than to play in the big boys' league.

With cool eyes, he raked over the subdued figure. When he spoke his voice was pitched low, its timbre steeped in honey. "Are you sure you want to go home?"

Several aphorisms regarding the home: its desirability and its relevance to ones nearest and dearest went through Illya's mind. He almost smiled, but Napoleon was looking at him. "Yes, I feel too much like a wallflower."

"A wallflower; a very pretty one, too."

Illya didn't have the stamina for this sort of badinage; he shook his head, refusing to even try and respond. The way he felt at the moment, Napoleon would make minced–meat out of him. It was cowardice, true, but what the hell.

The glint in Napoleon's eye was positively rapacious as he leant closer. "Well, if I can't persuade you otherwise you'd better be off. Goodnight, Illya. Think of us when you're tucking up in beddy–byes." He could see beads of sweat on Illya's top lip — well it was hot in the nightclub, but still, it made Napoleon smile. "Sweet dreams, Illya. I wonder if you dream in Russian or American? I hope you don't suffer from, ah... insomnia, now. Though come to think of it, if you do, you know what the best cure is, don't you." His gaze lingered somewhere in the midst of Illya's groin.

Then he was smiling again, levering away from the wall to push past the silence; leaving behind the scent of his cologne and the bitterness of Illya's arousal.

With a groan that almost stayed behind gritted teeth, Illya closed his eyes. It was all becoming too much. Far too much. He knew that one mistake had been in showing the American his attraction, especially how deep it went. He shivered once, despite the sweaty heat, and wiped his mouth on unsteady fingers.

No, this was all his own fault. And considering how aggressively macho Napoleon was, it was surprising that they had fallen into bed together even that once. But Napoleon was also insatiably curious and at times, at least that one time, wild. Regret for might–have–beens and melancholy ruefulness were not normally part of Illya's nature. But they had been forced upon him, their very strangeness making him awkward in their handling. Helpless longing wasn't the best addition to his partnership with Napoleon, and it wouldn't be long before Alexander Waverley appraised himself of the situation. Hardly a cheering thought.

Kuryakin swore to himself in a highly personalised mixture of eight different languages. Still, there was no point in staying here. It really was time to go home. Home to fight the dreams that recalled, with minute accuracy, everything that he wanted to forget. To dream about what Napoleon was doing to that young woman's body, to wish against all hopelessness that he was lying in her place.

He knew it was a waste of time. In fact it was futile, stupid, and adolescent. It wasn't even the slightest bit Russian — not that he felt the ties of his blood very strongly. He wondered what had happened to his carefully cultivated sangfroid; to the created bedrock of his past that had served him so well till now. Well, it had grown unstable, leaving a shifting base of which he could no longer be sure. In fact, he was no longer sure of anything at all.

Walking blindly to the exit, Illya slipped through the narrow doorway that gave on to a dark alleyway. It was a curious phenomenon, the way the trendiest nightclubs were always situated in the roughest areas. Perhaps the clientele liked their evenings spiked with a touch of danger. Well, they certainly got it here; even the cab drivers demanded danger money.

Inner city decay. The hidden heart of the American dream.

Run–down tenements, rubbish strewn alleys and boarded up shop–fronts; hardly Gracious Living, but it suited his depression. With the distant rumble of highway traffic only serving to heighten his sense of isolation, he walked past the deserted factories that were the battered remains of immigrants dreams and emerged at a road junction. He paused for a moment, ignoring the enticements thrown at him by the black whores, the jostling city sharks, especially the whistles from languid–eyed hustlers. He considered for a moment, then backed away from the lights and the noise, away from reality, heading into the dimly lit network of narrow streets and alleys.

At least here there were fewer people. He needed to walk, to think, to sort out the confusion. Picking up his pace he turned further into the ghetto.

Illya Kuryakin had been walking for about ten minutes when he finally realised that someone was following him. His sixth sense was usually quicker to pick up on such events. But it was possible that tonight he'd been thinking too hard about other things.

It was only when about to slip away, that he found himself anticipated and rather disconcertingly surrounded. So, your sixth sense isn't infallible, he reprimanded himself, that's not very good, is it? To have cornered him like this, they must have trailed him from the club.

They were all youths. Drainpipe trousers, leather jackets, slicked hair. The youth of today remembering the images of ten years before when Brando stalked the waterfront, and rebels didn't need a cause. Illya sighed. Even at five to one he could get out of this, but he really didn't want the effort.

He stopped and turned, a slim figure in the wan streetlight. Assessing, he realised there were more of them; more like ten than five. Even with all his training, these odds were suspiciously uneven, and suddenly it was more than necessary to slip quickly away.

At the sound of a whistle they began to stalk closer to their prey. Clear in the night air came the skin–pricking sound of switch blades clicking open.

Discretion was definitely the better part of valour.

He was jumping for the first flight of a fire escape when they pulled him down. Their hands tugging hard, the baying of the pack loud in his ears. He held on grimly until his fingers, one by one, slipped away from the rusty metal and he fell back into waiting arms.

The fight was short and vicious; Illya stayed on his feet longer than expected, but the satisfaction of knowing he'd hurt several of his attackers was short lived. There were too many of them and eventually one punch too many set his ears ringing, the world somersaulting, until he ended lying at their feet; foetal to protect the softness of his belly, hands curled about his head, spine and kidneys left to the not very tender mercies of their booted feet.

He was on the edge of blackout when the beating finally stopped; so close to oblivion that afterwards he would never know if the memory was true or false. Sightless, hearing was the last of his senses to remain. The panting breaths of the gang as they stood around his body, their laughter, the occasional groan, all sounded precise and distinct in his ears. There were footsteps, voices, a sum of money changing hands, more laughter and whoops of delight as the gang ran off.

Then another hand was turning him over, uncurling his body. It touched his face and there was a hissing sound of satisfaction. Then more hands began to lift him; the beginning of movement sending all perception flying.

* * * * *

"But, Napoleon, you promised we could have breakfast at Kuchinsky's."

"I know, Salty, honey, but I've been thinking, it would be much more fun back at my place."

His hand shaped itself to the small of her back and his eyebrow lifted slightly in suggestion. Salty licked her bottom lip — even after a month she was still addicted to Napoleon Solo. "Well," she hesitated, hating him to think her too easy, "as long as we've got some bagels for breakfast."

"Lunch."

"Okay..." The hand pulled them together, the kiss light and slow, but as always it set her heart beating faster.

"Bagels and anything else you want." Leaning forward to nuzzle behind her ear, he whispered. "Anything you want at all." And straightening he gave a smile of such wicked promise that Salty's knees seemed suddenly unsteady. His hand guided her towards the exit.

"Hang on — I've just got to pick up my coat."

"Off you go, don't get lost."

She smiled and walked away, totally conscious of the sway of her hips and the effect it would produce in Napoleon.

And appreciated it was. Hands in pants' pockets, Napoleon almost whistled. Salty's body was over–brimming with sexual awareness, a far cry from the frump she'd been when they met. He took a deep, self–congratulatory breath. Yes, the results had been well worth while.

Now, if only that damn Russian was as malleable, then life would be just fine and dandy. Being expert in the field of attraction, Napoleon was fully aware of his effect on the calm interior of his U.N.C.L.E. partner. And it amused him to play with the super–cool, super–detached Russian's emotions. He knew what Illya wanted, had even granted him a fix on one occasion. He'd even enjoyed it himself. Who wouldn't? When Illya had spread himself for Napoleon's pleasure it had been one of the most arousing moments in the complex erotic pattern of the American's life. Very nice. But it was the unspoken declaration of love, need and undying devotion that had made him pull back so fast it was surprising he hadn't singed himself. Oh, no, no commitments. Thank–you–very–much. No, none at all.

Not even to Illya.

Mistaking the flare of need that twisted deep within himself, Napoleon thought, maybe one day I'll put the poor guy out of his misery — it certainly wouldn't be a chore to fuck him again. It was fun watching him suffer, though; it was fun playing games. Well, Solo considered, suffer was too strong a word, perhaps sweat was better. Yes — it was fun watching him sweat. Besides, if he played the other agent well enough, Napoleon would then be sure that Illya would be desperate enough to do whatever he wanted. Anything at all. And that was a very pleasant thought, one that had him thinking that sooner might be better than later.

Why he should need it to be so, he avoided considering at all.

"What're you looking so smug about?"

"Nothing, Salty, nothing at all. Let's get a cab..."

* * * * *

Reality came back with reluctance, accompanied by a sudden escalation of pain.

"He's awake."

"Good. Open your eyes, Mr. Kuryakin."

Despite himself Illya obeyed, wincing as brightness skewered through his eyes. Surprisingly, he found himself able to move and, carefully ignoring the discomfort, pushed himself up until he was sitting.

The room was white, plain and clearly part of a house — not like some of the laboratory condition prisons he'd been housed in. Illya found himself naked but, in the light of everything else, it was hardly a concern. Summoning energy, he stood to face his captors.

There were two of them. One was dressed in a dark green uniform, the other in a dark suit that exuded Saville Row from every expensive inch. There was no doubt that they were THRUSH.

With an inward shrug, Illya tried for a bluff.

"Who are you...why am I here?" He took breath to continue but was cut short.

"Kuryakin — stop it." The man was actually laughing.

"I'm an American citizen and you have no right..."

"No! There's no point pretending innocence, or whatever you were about to do. We know who you are; do you think you came into our hands by chance? Oh, no. It has taken a good deal of planning, skill and utilisation of our resources to get you here, and let me tell you — all of it's been worthwhile." The voice was as English as the suit, though it was overlaid with American intonation. The full mouth smiled with charming candour. "We know all about you, about U.N.C.L.E. and also about your lover, Napoleon Solo"

"He isn't..."

"Please..." The man tutted, as if reproving a child. "Your lies are no concern of mine; I'm not interested in your opinions about anything."

"Not even my opinions of your ancestors?"

The open–handed slap rocked him on his feet.

The captor took a deep, steadying breath and studied his subject. "I've got a feeling you could get yourself hurt very badly, very quickly, if you aren't careful. So keep your mouth shut. Your stay here has been very well planned; I wouldn't want to start the proceedings too early."

"Why not?" And without preamble Illya launched himself forward. He landed one blow before the guard took him in a vicious hold and a sharp pain caught at his arm. Twisting he caught sight of a hypodermic the instant the drug hit his system. Released by the supporting arm, he collapsed painfully to the floor.

He lay still for a long moment, then very slowly fought to get up, gathering each limb into a semblance of order until he got as far as onto hands and knees. Any further seemed as impossible as attempting Everest barefoot. The drug conspired with gravity to hold him down and Illya gave a small sound of frustration as he knelt unsteadily, fighting the appalling weakness that was draining all power from his muscles. He'd almost forgotten that he wasn't alone when a hand tilted his sweating face up, "There, that's better. Not being so difficult now, are we?"

Illya wanted to reply that he wasn't being difficult at all; but the drug had turned his brain to soup and his voice wouldn't co–operate.

"I want something from you, Illya — give me your hand."

Frowning, Illya fought to make sense of the request — his hand? The man released his head. Without support it hung between his shoulders and he stared at a splash of bright scarlet that dripped from his lips to stain the floor, its shape spreading like a flower blossoming. Why his hand? Then with a lurch he realised what his gaoler wanted. With extraordinary effort he closed the fingers of his left hand into a fist.

"Don't be like that!" The voice chided, "I only want the ring as a keepsake to send to Mr. Solo."

"No..." Illya clenched his fist tight around the gold band, refusing to give it up. But the man didn't ask again, merely gestured to the guard who reversed his rifle and with one swift movement smashed Illya's fist into the ground.

He had no breath to scream. The drug dulled none of the pain as he tried to curl in on himself. He thought it was almost bearable, but then they pulled his arm viciously up and the ring was wrenched from his spasming fingers. He was nearly sick.

"There. You see there is no point resisting. I don't care if you get hurt, in fact that's exactly what I do want."

His hand was dropped carelessly onto the floor and Illya pulled it slowly into the shelter of his other arm, trying to gather the wounded part of himself close; to somehow ease the overwhelming pain that was spreading in blazing rivers through his body.

The two men were laughing; their voices hollow in his head, the sound beating him down until finally, miraculously, the drug kicked in and darkness over–rode all sensation.

* * * * *

The second bottle of champagne was at the perfect temperature. The room was warm, the sheepskin rug burnished gold by the open fire, its light touching the two entwined bodies with gentle romance. As orgasm rippled through him, Napoleon stiffened, thrusting once, then once again into the slimly curved body beneath him before pulling out and slumping to her side. He murmured incoherently into her ear and with a possessive arm wrapped about her middle went to sleep.

An hour later the high–pitched squeal of the telephone awoke Salty. She twisted within the embrace and poked Napoleon in the ribs. He groaned and finally admitted to hearing the ring.

"Ignore it, it'll go away..." At least it wasn't his communicator.

"Napoleon..."

"Oh, hell. Hang on." The noise would go on forever if he didn't do something. Reaching for the receiver, he said, "Solo."

"Good morning, sorry to break up the love nest, but I think I've got some news you might like to hear about your partner."

"Who are you?" Napoleon fumbled for the switch that would record the conversation, silently cursing the sleep that slowed his brain and fingers.

"You'll learn that soon, but you might remember my father — Governor Edward James Callahan."

"Oh..."

"Yes, indeed. Well you see, I remember him as well, and why he died, and who killed him. Well, the Russian fell into our hands early this morning, and I'm going to revenge my father's death. Why him you ask? Well, why not? It wasn't anything personal, it could have been either of you. But don't thank your lucky stars too soon — your lover might be going to die slowly, but your fate will be equally excruciating."

"But we aren't..."

"Ah, you both stick to the same story. Well, I'm sure you know the one about the lady who protests too much." The voice was laughing. "We know the truth, our information about certain things is never wrong, so, please, no more lies. That's all for now. This has all been far easier than I dreamt it would be...perhaps you are getting soft, Mr. Solo. Or old. Goodnight." There was a minute pause, then a small laugh, "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Go to your door, there's a little present for you. I'll be sending more as we make progress with your lover..." The word was almost a caress, and Napoleon was left holding a telephone receiver that signalled a disconnected line.

Forgetting the presence of the woman, Napoleon ran naked to the door. There was an 8x10 envelope in the wire mail–catcher. Swallowing hard on lungs deprived of air, he pulled it free and with only a brief hesitation opened it.

There were four polaroid photographs; featured in each of them was Illya Kuryakin.

Napoleon leant hard against the wall; the images burnt into his memory despite closed eyes. Illya. Oh, hell...

At least he was still alive. Though only one of the photographs showed the Russian fully conscious, it was still clear he was alive. In none of them did he look like a corpse.

Alive.

So far.

Gathering himself he fought for calm; it would do Illya no good for him to run off in raving hysterics. Carefully examining the envelope, he realised it wasn't empty. Upending it he caught the other enclosure in his hand.

It took a moment for his brain to register what the gold band was, or what the stains darkening its rim could be.

Thirty seconds later he was speaking to Alexander Waverley.

* * * * *

Illya was awake for a time before anyone came to visit him. The cell was, this time, truly a cell. Faintly smelling of damp, windowless, he knew it for part of a cellar or basement, the only way out was a single door constructed of metal bars. It was extremely cold.

Determined not to let any hidden spectators view his despair, Illya went through a series of gentle warm up exercises that did little for his headache, less for his nausea, but managed at least to make his bruised limbs a bit more flexible. They were all made more difficult by the state of his hand, but he tried to ignore the pain as much as was possible. At some point rags had been wrapped around it, but after an initial exploration that had made him sick to his stomach he hadn't cared to examine inside them too closely. The plus points of his incarceration were that the guards had considerately provided him with a bucket and a tattered mattress, but nothing else.

Kuryakin decided that, as usual in this sort of situation, the worst problem was in not knowing anything. As an U.N.C.L.E. agent there were improbably large amounts of people who would like to play prisoners with him, all for extraordinarily varying reasons.

It had to be a completed assignment, for since the affair of the THRUSH Ultimate Computer there had been a marked lull in operations. Neither of his captors seemed familiar, but they were quick, efficient and, as he had noted before, more than likely to be employed by THRUSH.

He was unfazed by the thought of torture, after all he'd suffered its indignities often enough. But the simple loss of liberty was quite galling; the prospect of loss of life even more so.

Settling down on the thin mattress Illya tried to think himself warm. He knew that in the long run it would help to stand out against them if he could keep a positive attitude. There was no doubt in his mind that they would use some sort of violence — they usually did, whatever their fundamental reasons. Besides, if they had intended anything else he would simply be dead; the gang could have seen to that with a few more kicks, or less judicious use of their switchblades.

Being alive wasn't any help in positive thinking, though it should have been. But it was something he'd been finding difficult to achieve in normal life, let alone here. No, he realised that was wrong. There was one thing that made this easier.

Napoleon wasn't here.

Now that was a strengthening thought. Quite ridiculously so. If they had threatened Napoleon with torture or death, then Kuryakin wasn't quite sure if positive thought would be within his capabilities. Illya gave thanks for that small mercy; seeing his partner tortured had always hurt more than his own physical pain. And now? Well, now it would be well nigh impossible to endure — a fact that in itself did little for his self esteem.

Idly, Illya wondered what they wanted; how long it would be before the questions began. But the thought was only idle, and he soon turned to less emotive subjects.

Napoleon's reaction when he opened a parcel containing the ring he didn't care to think about at all.

He was sitting cross–legged, trying to think himself out of the headache when the door slid open.

So, the uniforms and guns proved him correct: THRUSH.

"Where am I?"

There was no verbal reply, but a hard backhanded blow knocked him against the wall.

"I only asked a simple question." His lip was bleeding again. Illya dabbed carefully at it with the back of his bandaged hand.

"Be quiet and get up."

"You ask so nicely." But assisted by impatient hands he obeyed, only to be held still while, careless of his injuries, they cuffed both hands behind his back. With the intention — or so he told himself — of conserving energy, he allowed them to usher him out of the cell, down a long corridor and into another room.

Gloved hands pushed him hard, and losing his footing he fell awkwardly to the floor. Expecting — and receiving — no assistance, he climbed wearily back onto his feet. The door was bolted behind him and a quick glance showed the guards flanking either side of it.

With a sense of tired inevitability, he turned to the centre of the clinically white room. It was furnished rather like an operating theatre, with various appliances he really didn't want to know the use of. In its centre was a metal table fitted with restraints.

There were two men waiting for him, one was the besuited captor he'd met before, the other was a white–coated technician of some kind. Refusing to be cowed, Illya spoke calmly into amused eyes, "You again. You wield a mean syringe."

"Of course. If I do something, then I do it well. Besides, I'm sure Mr. Solo appreciated your little gift." He smiled at Illya's carefully cultivated air of indifference. "You are treating this very lightly, when I'm sure you realise that this room will be the last place you'll see."

"Maybe." Illya shrugged as eloquently as he was able, his mind cataloguing details of the room and its occupants. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me who you are and exactly why you want me here?"

"My name, as it seems to interests you, is Peter Callahan." The accent was definitely biased towards England, perhaps Oxford. "You dealt with my father recently."

"Ah." Suddenly everything became clear.

"Yes, indeed."

"Is that why I'm here?"

"I think that's rather obvious." Callahan moved evenly across four or five paces until he stood very close to the agent. "One of the few emotional concepts I really understand is that revenge is sweet. In fact, it is the sweetest pleasure. You see, however good or bad my father was, he was mine. I can't let you live after what you did to him."

"He got his just reward. You can't plan to control the world and think that there won't be somebody who'll try and stop you."

"You've got it in one; stop. Yes, I can understand that, but killing, that's different. But I'm not going to argue with you. I'm sure that U.N.C.L.E. has you well indoctrinated in the validity of its cause."

Illya stared calmly into the round face, seeing the premature beginnings of grey in the sideburns, the cold implacability in the pale green eyes. He did however try once more, "You don't have any qualms about killing me though."

"No. But, you see, as a senior member of THRUSH I am one of the future rulers of the world. Something I would be now if my father had succeeded, which he would have done if it hadn't been for you. It is my right to do as I want, especially in the matter of revenge. Think if I had killed your lover. You wouldn't rest while I lived, would you?"

"No." There was no point in arguing.

"There, you see, you agree with me after all, Illya. You will have to put up with me calling you Illya; it's less of a mouthful than that Russian surname of yours. Tell me, does Napoleon call you Illyusha?" The round, cat–like face smiled into the set features. "Or is it perhaps sweetheart, or a pet name maybe, or maybe he calls his little bed–warmer by a girl's name," he laughed. "I might even make you tell me what it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The hot breath from Callahan was clogging Illya's throat. When a finger was run down his bare arm he couldn't help a small but unmistakable flinch as it flicked over his hand.

"Oh, I think you do." The fingers were stroking now, the THRUSH man walking around, touching an arm, then a rib, sliding his hand over the forced passivity of his prisoner. "It must be very convenient being partners in bed as well as at work. Except that, of course, Solo plays the field. I wonder if you ever get to take your turn with him, or are you just a convenient arse–hole?" The hand clenched tight over a curved buttock and involuntarily, Illya stepped forward.

The other men were waiting for him.

"Tie him up."

Illya fought. When the handcuffs were undone he battled against the new restraint but lost, defeated by superior muscle and his own weakness, to end hanging suspended from the ceiling. After that the guards carefully avoided getting near enough for a kick to be worth the effort, so Illya concentrated on trying to ease the over–stretched muscles of his upper body and — less successfully — to ignore the spike of pain that shot from his left hand.

It was a moment before they paid their victim any more attention, Callahan coming to stand at Illya's side. "I want you to take this very personally, Illya. I want you to remember why you are here, up to the very moment you die. I almost wish I could make you suffer longer than that, but unfortunately, that is beyond even my powers." He flat–palmed his hand over Illya's stretched torso, tracing ribs and the dark shadowing of bruises. Illya kept quite still until the searching fingers slid over the hard jut of his pelvis to touch his genitals, then despite himself, he twisted slightly in reaction away from the intrusion. Hard fingers moved to force his face around, locking their eyes. Callahan smiled, "Guard."

"Yes, sir."

"Use the whip — beat him well enough and there might be a reward in it for you." Callahan smiled. "And while you're doing it I'll take a few snaps to send to Mr. Solo."

"What!"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" The hand threaded itself through Illya's hair, pulling hard. "This, my dear, is all on candid camera. I thought it was unfair to make you suffer alone, so I thought up a neat way of making your partner suffer too. A camera, simple but very effective — so decent of the Victorians to invent it, don't you think?" Stepping away he toyed with the plastic box, amused by the horror that was beyond Illya's power to conceal. He gestured the guard to begin.

"No! Isn't it enough that you have me? Why send the photographs?"

"I think...because it amuses me."

"You can't..." Illya broke the word, biting down to hold in any reaction to the lash's descent. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the room and all it held.

"But I can, in fact I can do anything..."

He could hear that Callahan was smiling, though after a while neither his captor's amusement, nor the pain, not even the counterpoint of light as the flash pierced his closed lids, had any reality at all.

* * * * *

Even though the U.N.C.L.E. agency thought themselves prepared for every eventuality and were determined to catch the deliverers of the next set of photographs, they were mistaken. A nine year old boy was paid five dollars to post the envelope through Solo's letter–box and he could give them no hint as to who had paid him.

There were four more images.

Napoleon closed his eyes on the burning that prickled ominously behind their lids. It was too much. Illya whipped bloody before his eyes. Worst of all was the appallingly vulnerability; the power and deadly skill contained too carefully, leaving no possibility of counter–attack.

But Napoleon couldn't keep his eyes shut; they forced themselves open, making him examine the images. In two of the pictures Illya was moving, trying to twist to escape the clawing pain, his face tight drawn, starkly pale in the flash's bright light, in another he was crying out.

Yet in all of them he retained the innate dignity that made Illya so remarkably himself.

It made the shame slightly easier to bear.

For of all the emotions the pictures conjured, shame was the most bitter; shame for everything he had tormented Illya with. And shame at the final photo that he should ever have seen it.

Illya's captor obviously cared nothing that they saw his face, for it was clearly visible in the final shot. At first Napoleon had been confused — why send this picture? It was seemingly the most innocuous of the eight sent so far. Then he'd realised that the man wasn't just standing close to Illya.

He was raping him.

And the pictures had to be examined by virtually every U.N.C.L.E. department, looking for clues that might lead them to where Kuryakin was held. But exposing Illya's pain had been in the end for nothing. They found no sign, no clue, no hint at all of where the clinical room depicted in the photographs might be.

All that any of them could do was wait, hoping against hope that THRUSH would make a mistake and that Illya could be rescued before it was too late.

* * * * *

Fully aware that Callahan meant every word he said, Illya refused to indulge himself in the luxury of hope. Fatalism was easier to live with, or — come to think on it — die with.

He shuddered, remembering the finale of the last session, curling further into himself on the mattress, cradling his hand to his chest. The whipping had been the least difficult pain to cope with.

Callahan had left no doubt in Illya Kuryakin's mind that death was the only option left to him. It was doubtful if Napoleon would find this house — wherever it was — in time to do anything. No, Callahan had been very carefully explicit in everything he said. And did.

Suppressing a shiver, Illya moved slightly, his cheek pressed to the crook of his arm, sighing into the dank–smelling mattress. Besides, what would Napoleon be thinking now? With eyes pressed tight closed, he battled with the memory of the flash–gun. Perhaps it was just a further means of humiliating their prisoner, or maybe the photos really had been sent to Napoleon.

Now that thought was almost worse than reality.

Physical violation was, Illya supposed, something many people had to cope with in their lives, but so far he had been lucky. There were no incidents like yesterday's. Although if there had been perhaps it would be simpler now. To have some frame of reference would perhaps make this easier, to enable him to deal with it all with more clarity. This was all outside any of the conditioning he'd been subjected to and he wasn't sure why; normally U.N.C.L.E. pre–empted almost any move its enemies made. He couldn't be the first agent to be assaulted in this particular way; there should be some training that would help make it less confusing, less...humiliating.

The only thing he had to fall back on was memory, though even that was playing him false; reproducing the past for his fogged imagination in a way that could only echo the truth. When he needed cool disinterest, it eluded him.

He shifted uneasily, mobility almost not worth the effort. Each time he moved it awoke deep seated pain that served — should he need such a thing — as an aide memoire.

Time, though he was not quite sure how much of it, had passed. Partly unconscious, partly half–aware, it had only been a few hours since his brain had begun to function with any lucidity.

Something that had mixed benefits.

It did occur to him though, to wonder — and be thankful — why only Callahan had touched him. No one else had been allowed to state their superiority in the same way. And after all, that's what this was all about: dominance. Dominance and power. The grown–up boy's world of the spy. What a stupid world to work in.

There had been compensations, though. Working with Napoleon Solo for one. Who would have thought that an ex–Soviet Intelligence Officer who had moonlighted for the KGB, and a dyed–in–the–wool American nationalist would get on so well. Certainly neither of those two. It had been...he sought for the word...enlightening. Yes, that was right. Napoleon had enlightened him. About all sorts of things: fun, enjoyment, cavalier disregard for morality, maybe things Illya would have discovered in Leningrad or even New York if he'd had the time, but maybe not; he'd never been particularly inclined towards hedonism. Until Napoleon.

It had been mildly shocking to discover that his upbringing could allow such lax thoughts; thoughts like physically wanting another man. It had been shocking, outraging and finally fulfilling, to know he wasn't entirely a product of his rigorous past. If it had ever felt like a betrayal, then that was now wiped clean as well. He was what he was. The past was unalterable, even should he have wanted to change it. It helped him, as it always had before and that was an added reason to thank Napoleon.

The truth about Illya's own nature had been blinding. Crashing into his ordered life with all the power of a supernova, it had opened him up, thawed him even to his own eyes, explaining much about his nature that he'd always expected would remain a mystery even to himself. Maybe Napoleon or any outsider would never notice the difference, but to himself Illya felt as if the essence of his self had been melted and reformed.

And Napoleon had made love to him once.

That memory was a comfort. It didn't matter that for Solo the entire affair had almost been very close to a joke. It had happened. And it had happened before this. Perhaps there was a God after all, despite what all his teachers had insisted.

Napoleon was so beautiful naked. Of course Illya had showered and trained and seen an unclothed Napoleon on countless occasions, but there was a world of difference between casual impersonal nudity and blatant naked arousal.

Cold and aching, Illya dwelt on the good time, remembering the sure touch that made nothing of the sameness of their sex. Trust Napoleon to be skilled even in that.

Illya had wanted to be possessed. If time had allowed he would have, perhaps, wanted in turn to possess. But on that particular night all he'd required was to be filled, consumed, consummated. Oh, he'd given pleasure as surely as he'd taken it. To this moment he could recall the smooth satin head of Napoleon's cock sliding past lips and teeth to reach for his throat. And Illya had opened his jaws wide, wanting the smell of musk to fill his nostrils, his mind, his self. To feel the strength of Napoleon's need, to know that the salt drops of passion caught by his tongue were conjured by himself.

And now Callahan had fucked him. Illya thought it should have meant more than it did. But Napoleon had been there first, nothing could take that away. A small consolation, perhaps. Though he needed something, for at the moment any consolation was better than none.

There were many regrets, but death was near and none of them seemed worth worrying about. It was better to remember the good times. To dream of what might — what should — have been.

The metal bars slid open and Callahan, with two of his guards, entered.

"Your back looks painful Illya, I wonder if I could improve it for you." And before the prisoner could anticipate the movement, Callahan kicked the prone body hard in the ribs.

Illya gasped against the hurt as in curling away from one source of pain, his back came in contact with the wall. After a second he found his breath. "I love your bedside manner."

"Do you really? How interesting; because you'll be sampling more of it." He gestured to the guards. "Bring him along."

Inconsiderate, the two men hauled Illya upright, scarcely letting his feet touch the floor, even though he fought every step of the way for the right to walk along by his own will.

"So, how are you feeling?" Callahan was smiling, Illya wondered if he ever stopped.

The guards finished binding their prisoner to the table and went to their post by the door. Illya didn't answer, there was no way he'd admit the true state of his health. He felt very vulnerable and slightly ridiculous strapped flat like this. Callahan was walking around him, indulging in his favourite habit of touching.

Illya ignored him.

"Not very talkative, are you?" Callahan stopped and considered his guest. It was well known that U.N.C.L.E. agents were difficult to crack, but he'd never been scared of difficult tasks. The softening up process was coming along nicely; but though Kuryakin's body was badly marked, his eyes were as calm as ever.

Abruptly he took a gripping hold of Illya's genitals. "I enjoyed fucking you more than I expected. So much so that I'm going to have to ration myself or I'm going to get spoiled. You're tight too; nice and tight — just how I like it."

Eyes hazing in agony, Illya finally cried out when, with a final twist, Callahan released him.

"You're sweating, are you too hot? I'll have the temperature in your cell lowered if you like? No? Well maybe I'll do it anyway." Turning away, Callahan started to take off his jacket.

Illya closed his eyes; whatever variation on the theme of torture had been dreamt up for today's entertainment was coming soon. He shifted slightly, trying to ease a ripple of cramp in his right arm.

Resignation was the only feeling he could allow himself. To cope with this nothing else could be let in. The brightness of the angled light burnt through his eyelids; a drop of sweat trickled slowly down the side of his face and neck.

A hand forced him to look.

"Don't go to sleep on me Illya — it's so rude."

Callahan was holding a hypodermic. Illya swallowed nervously, but couldn't help asking, "What's in that?"

"So you do remember how to talk, I was beginning to wonder." Callahan traced the needle down the curving line of Illya's ribs. Its sharp point left a thin, beaded ribbon of blood in its wake. "This could be all sorts of things, it could even be death, but it isn't. I could tell you it's to paralyse you, and I could be telling the truth, but would it be temporary or permanent?" The needle found its way among the dark blond curls at Illya's groin. "It could be to emasculate you. I could inject the liquid into your dick and watch it wither away, what do you think of that?" The point slid beneath the skin. "Answer me, Illya, what would you think of that?"

Refusing to look, Illya kept very still. He hardly dared to breath with the shard of metal piercing him, but managed to answered in a voice that was almost steady, "I don't think you really want an answer."

"But I do." With a jerk the needle came loose and Callahan was staring intently into Illya's eyes. "Even though I know what it would be. Well, relax — the liquid in here won't do anything permanent." Humming softly to himself, he picked out a vein in the tense arm and pressed the needle through the skin.

Illya blinked sweat out of his eye as the plunger slid home.

"There. Now we wait a little while and then we'll start again."

"What was it?"

"I told you, nothing to worry yourself over; it's just a little something Bradley mixed up for me — I forget the long Latin name for it — but it should make you more aware of what we're doing to you. You see it's a pain enhancer. Neat, eh?"

"Very."

"Glad you agree," and Callahan went out of the range of Illya's vision, returning with one of the guards. "Hit him, open–handed, not too hard, I want to know when the drug's taken effect."

Callahan watched the non–committal reaction to the blow, "Again."

The guard did as ordered. After the eighth blow, Illya could no longer disguise his response.

"Good." Callahan walked back into Illya's line of sight, he was rubbing his hands together. "Now we can begin properly."

Illya was never sure if the drug was real or not. It certainly made the rest of the day a nightmare he almost didn't survive; turning the whip and the goad and the guards' fists into refined instruments of agony. Whether it was real, or simply his belief that it was real was a question that managed to divert his mind a little.

But then Callahan raped him again and the pain was so overwhelming that the question no longer had any meaning at all.

* * * * *

The eight photographic prints were spread neatly over the coffee table. Alone in his apartment Napoleon Solo stared at the images, his intensity such that if he could have found Illya solely on the strength of his anger and will–power, he would have done so.

The U.N.C.L.E. labs had tested and re–tested the eight images but, apart from very simple chemical information about their substance, had found nothing: no trace of a thread woven by silkworms in one factory found in darkest Ceylon; no trace of an identifying developing process. Nothing.

But for all that, Napoleon could not believe the pictures wouldn't tell him something. Reaching to one side he poured another gin. God bless Lord Gordon, he thought. And though he would normally have only contemplated the gin once a hint of Italian vermouth and a Macedonian green olive had been stirred into it, now he drank it straight from a tumbler and didn't give a damn.

The drink was bland to his numbed taste–buds, tasteless and seemingly without alcohol content for he still felt appallingly sober. Sober and useless. Gods, he felt useless.

Waverley had sent him home, giving his reasons as obvious exhaustion. But exhausted or not Napoleon couldn't sleep. He hadn't even tried. He needed to...to extract Illya from the pictures. Yes, that was it. To extract him. Napoleon nodded to himself. He poured another drink, almost upsetting the glass when he realised the bottle was empty.

He stared at it, affronted by its dereliction of duty. Still, there were others. In a minute he'd get up and find one.

But his eyes remained glued to Illya.

Why the bastards had taken Illya and not himself was a mystery. They should have taken him. Though the thought of putting Illya through this mental agony was enough to make him feel sick.

Then he recalled exactly what was happening to Illya.

He staggered to the bathroom just in time.

The porcelain was cold against Napoleon's sweating face. He breathed shallowly, trying to minimise seemingly uncontrollable nausea. He lifted his head as another spasm racked through gut and intestine, though this one, finally, thankfully, left him feeling empty.

It was a while later that he realised that the sound ringing in his aching head was the doorbell. About to ignore the piercing sound, it suddenly occurred to him that it might be a message about Illya. Levering himself upright he made it to the door without knocking over any of the furniture. His hands were shaking as he released the locks and the dizziness in his head had almost nothing to do with alcohol induced sickness.

When Napoleon's fumbling had finally released the door, he almost swore, then slowly leant into the jamb.

"Hyah, Salty."

"Napoleon! What on earth..."

"I...thought it was a message..."

"From Mr. Waverley, but wouldn't he contact you on your telephone?" As she spoke Salty was guiding Solo back into the room. Her face showing all her shock and concern as she pushed the door closed with one foot and aimed the slightly unsteady U.N.C.L.E. agent towards the bathroom.

"Have you heard anything at all?" Salty could see the photographs laid out on the table. There were more of them than before. No wonder, she thought, Napoleon looks like a wreck. So did the bathroom.

"Napoleon, let's get you out these clothes and cleaned up. Eh?" First things first; she could deal with the room afterwards. "That's if..." she was pulling his jacket off, sympathy making her gentle as she realised that Napoleon had managed to get blind drunk, yet still wore his shirt, collar buttoned and tie only slightly askew. At least he had only managed to get a little of the mess on himself. "There we go...shoes first, yes, that's it. Lovely. Stand still..."

Salty sponged his chest with a warm, soapy flannel, then dried it off. Rummaging in his medicine cabinet she found some mouthwash.

"Come on — have a swill round with this."

"Salty..."

"Yeah, I know, come on, clean your mouth out." He obeyed and spat into the sink. "Come on, bed."

"What time is it ?"

"Morning. Haven't you had any sleep at all? No don't answer that; the answer's too obvious." Tutting at herself, she pulled back the covers and gave him a helpful push so that he almost fell into bed. "There." She tucked him in and surveyed her handiwork. "If you go to sleep, I'll clean up the bathroom..."

"No!"

"Napoleon...?"

"Salty, come here?"

She went to sit on the side of the bed.

"Don't leave just yet. Stay with me."

Salty hesitated, then succumbing to the silent pain in brown eyes, she stood to remove coat and dress. Lifting the covers to slide in beside him, she let him hold her in a tight embrace. Convinced that what he needed was comfort, she hummed gently as her hand stroked lightly over his back. But Napoleon had different ideas, his mouth seeking hers, joining them in what, at least on his part, was a desperate kiss.

"Salty..." His hands smoothed over her breasts, cupping their delicate curves, rolling her nipples until she arched against him, her mouth seeking his.

They kissed again, the taste of peppermint invading her senses. Still grounded partly in reality, Salty gave herself unconditionally to Napoleon, wanting to give him some measure of peace. She bit his lip, sucking it in the way she knew he liked, her fingers searching out all the places he liked to be touched. When her hand came to gently cup his sex, there was nothing — no response at all. His cock lay limply in her hand without so much as a pulse to suggest response.

Determined not to be defeated, she wriggled down and took him in her mouth, using every iota of knowledge he'd ever taught her. But nothing. After a while she conceded defeat and returned to lie at his side.

Napoleon was staring blindly at the ceiling. Salty cursed herself. It should have been obvious what he needed wasn't sex, "Hey, it's all right..."

He flinched slightly, then made an obvious effort. "Sorry, Salty. I'm not up to much at the moment." His wide mouth twitched in momentary response at the unintended humour, though his feelings were clearly well away from amusement.

"It doesn't matter. You're too wound up. You shouldn't even be thinking about making love."

"No."

She waited a moment. "Well, I think I'll go and clean up the bathroom." She wanted him to stop her, to make her stay and to hold her as he should have before.

He shrugged slightly. "Okay."

There wasn't going to be any more response, so she got out of bed, dressed and with a hesitant touch on his shoulder, left the room.

When the door clicked home, Napoleon allowed the tension in his muscles to relax. Poor Salty, it wasn't her fault; it was his own. There had been no reason to try and use her like that. And considering his reaction, no point.

Damn it all.

There was a bitter stinging behind his eyes that refused to be identified as tears. Napoleon folded an arm across his face, hiding himself from the world.

Regret. Such a small word to contain so much pain. Regret for so much. Maybe most of all for the fact that while he held Salty, sweet and pliant in his arms, it had been Illya he saw, Illya he imagined crying out as he was impaled on Napoleon's cock. And not with love. On, no. What his brain had conjured instead of warmth and mutual pleasure, was a starkly white THRUSH cell and Illya raped repeatedly.

By Napoleon.

He pressed his flesh hard into burning eyes. Yes, damn the world. Damn the whole fucking world.

When Salty tiptoed in to check up on him, he feigned sleep, only opening his eyes at the sound of the apartment door closing. It was then he allowed the tears to break through to soak his face and veil his sight, though he refused to wipe them from his skin, refused to admit them at all.

* * * * *

This time they had decided to be a little more adventurous, though at this moment Illya Kuryakin hung unconscious in the bonds that fastened him to the table. He had tried before the last session began to free himself. Useless. Besides, even if some miracle had allowed him to slip free, there were still four men and a locked door between here and freedom.

The table was ingenious. From horizontal all it took was a touch of a button and it swivelled on silent hinges to be almost upright. The weight of his body put a lot of pressure on wrists and ankles, though all things considered, that was the least of his worries.

Today Callahan was wearing slacks and a sports shirt, the warmth of this room a pleasant contrast to the icy chill of Illya's cell. He looked at his unconscious prisoner and felt a surge of pride. "My father would be happy. Look at him Scot." He turned to his assistant, "Kuryakin could stay alive for weeks like this. We've done well."

"Yeah. And when you've finished playing, perhaps we can get on with some real work."

"Don't nag! There's no point in rushing any of this."

"THRUSH Central might think differently. They'll be sending someone around to find out why our quotas have fallen." Behind tortoiseshell framed glasses, Scot Bradley's eyes were calculating.

Callahan looked at his second–in–command and shook his head in gentle reprimand. He knew the exact limits of the other man's loyalty — and his sadism. "I've never let you down yet. I don't know why you're making such a fuss, unless it's because I haven't let you play with him enough." He laughed out loud, clapping the white–coated back. "You know what your trouble is?" Bradley gave him a sour look. "Your trouble is that you don't know how to enjoy yourself."

There was no reply, just a slight shrug. When the hand on his back nudged him, he grudgingly nodded, "We can't all be like you."

"Now that's true. I bet he's like you, though. I bet this blond Russian here doesn't know how to relax. Tight–arsed and uptight. I could almost feel sympathy with Solo. Well, let's see about loosening him up a bit more, then you can have a turn, if you want."

"If I want!" He turned hot eyes to the lean body. "You don't even have to ask."

"Thought so." Callahan enjoyed having his assumptions confirmed. "Bring him around and we'll start again."

His subordinate smiled. "You really are enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Of course. After what the bastard did, he deserves everything he gets."

"I know that, but I reckon you'd enjoy it anyway."

Callahan raked his gaze over bruised flesh and nodded once. "Oh yes, I'd enjoy it, but revenge adds a certain piquancy to the sauce. Come on, bring him round."

Bradley opened the doors to a large cupboard, revealing what appeared to be the contents of a couple of pharmacies. Expertly he prepared a syringe, before walking back to the table and efficiently administering the drug. Almost immediately the bound man stirred, coughing dryly as he raised his head.

Bleary eyes focused after a moment. "You again," Illya cursed the weakness in his voice. He coughed, trying to clear his throat. "What a surprise."

"Don't be like that, we're here to keep you company."

"Haven't you got any friends you can visit?"

"What makes you think I need friends when I've got you?"

"Ha. Very funny."

"Almost as funny as this, remember?"

Illya winced. "How could I forget." Callahan held a metal contraption that Illya had already been introduced to; the previous session had been prolonged and painful courtesy of its electric charge. "What's the matter, you running out of new ideas?"

"No. I'm just rather fond of this little gadget; as I'm going to have to leave you for a while, I thought you might like something to remember me by."

"You're so kind." Illya wasn't quite sure why he responded to any of Callahan's comments, perhaps only because it was one way of reminding himself that he was still alive. Though of course, pain served as efficiently for that as anything.

"I don't think so." Callahan depressed a button, holding the metal close to the prisoner's body, watching avidly as Illya fought the pain searing through nerves and muscles, making the slim body twist and fight.

When he pulled the machine away his eyes were dilated, his quick breath echoing the prisoner's.

Swamped by pain, Illya hung limply in his bonds. The world had become a dark shade of red that only slowly cleared to let reality reform. He was conscious of sweat dripping from his nose to splash on his chest, the sound ridiculously loud even though his captors were laughing with each other.

When the arc of metal touched him again he gave up all pretence of stoicism and screamed. But once started he couldn't seem to stop, until his throat was raw and finally the pain itself gave him a respite.

Illya let his mind wander, battling the pain as well as he knew, only coming reluctantly back from his half–dazed stupor when a command from Callahan to his guards penetrated the mists. His immediate thought was a silent entreaty to an unknown God. Then awareness returned with a vengeance.

Not again, he pleaded silently, staggered at how easy it had been for Callahan to bring him to this. Drugs and pain and repeated rape. A lethal cocktail. He was shaking.

None of the years of training had quite anticipated this. Not even omnipotent U.N.C.L.E. Illya caught tight hold of his thoughts. After all, what did it matter what they did? What was the difference between once or twice or ten times? None at all. Besides, perhaps they would be quick. Or they could make a mistake and kill him by accident. He knew that was possible. A long time ago, as a boy grown by necessity old, he'd watched one of his friends die very slowly after seemingly half a Panzer division had used his body.

Efficient hands released and turned him, replacing the fastening straps.

Illya battled with the spark of hope that refused to die. For despite all logic, fatalism and Slavonic detachment, he still expected Napoleon to walk in — casual elegance intact — to set him free. He tried very hard not to think it, to not give in to the hope, to the weakness that would come from relying on anything other than himself. Convincing himself was a difficult matter, for apparently even the newest–found habits take a long time to die.

* * * * *

It was Salty who received the next consignment.

Concern for Napoleon almost over–rode her worry about Illya. After all, he was there in front of her, visibly deteriorating, while the Russian was a perfect example of out of sight, out of mind. Kuryakin had always been courteous, if rather distant; she remembered him with rather hazy affection. But he hadn't changed her life the way Napoleon had; all her personal investment was with the American. Salty had expected a lot from their affair. Probably more than she'd let herself realise. However, her intelligence did allow her to realise that any hopes that might have existed were now in ruins, because it was quite clear who Napoleon felt most strongly about.

It had been a hard blow to her new–found self esteem, but it was a tribute to her resilience that she could forgive Napoleon's manipulation of her. For that was her ultimate conclusion, arrived at after hours of introspection. She'd been used to annoy, confuse and hurt, a conclusion that did the self–same things to herself. She pitied Illya and his infatuation — how could she not, when that was all that was left to herself. But most of her pity was reserved, despite everything, for Solo. Pity, allied with a small grain of satisfaction that Illya's imminent death could make him suffer so. That he was so distraught was a puzzle, but they were partners and she supposed that it would have been strange if Napoleon hadn't shown concern.

Walking through Central Park on a chilly September day she went over all these things in her mind and came to a decision. If Napoleon still wanted her when all this was over, she would go to him. Pride wasn't even worth considering. It wasn't likely that he'd want to actually live with another man, was it? There didn't seem to be much chance of the gallant and respected Mr. Solo letting himself be labelled a fag.

But there were so many 'ifs': if Illya died, what then? And what if he didn't; what if Napoleon didn't want to settle down. It was all extremely vexing.

With a sigh she unsnapped her purse to rummage for a handkerchief, walking on as she searched, stiletto heels sure on the path even though her mind wasn't really there. It was a moment before she realised that a man had fallen in with her step. Trying to appear unconcerned she cursed all men who thought a woman alone was an easy pick–up and speeded up.

"Please, Miss Oliver," the rich voice was amused. "I don't want to race."

She gasped. "How do you know my name?"

He didn't directly answer her question, but after a moment he almost smiled. "My name is Peter Callahan..."

"You bastard!"

"Ah, I thought you might know my name."

"How dare you—"

"Enough! I only want a quiet word with you, nothing to deserve hysterics, so be quiet and listen."

Biting her tongue Salty nodded, trying to memorise every detail of his appearance from the curling reddish hair, to hard features and a body that looked lightly built beneath the Vicuna overcoat.

He slipped a well manicured hand into his inner pocket and withdrew a buff envelope. "Here, take this and deliver it with my compliments to Mr.Solo. I'm sure he'll find the contents edifying. Perhaps you could also pass on the message that I've found his catamite really quite delectable. It will really be a shame to kill him, though of course, that in its turn will be its own pleasure. Tell Mr. Solo that I'm looking forward to meeting him in person." He smiled, green eyes alight with mischief. "Be sure to tell him what I've said. Oh, I nearly forgot, give him this as a keepsake." He fished in a pocket and holding out his fist, uncurled it in front of her eyes. On his palm lay a thick lock of blond hair. "Goodbye Miss Oliver, I don't believe I'll see you again. Thank you for your co–operation."

Turning on his heel, he walked away, leaving her clutching the envelope, the silky hair caught tight in her fist.

He'd got almost as far as the sidewalk when anger released her. Stumbling slightly Salty ran after Callahan, only to see him step casually into a waiting limousine and be driven away. Breathless, almost speechless, she found a call–box and dialled the number Napoleon had given her in case of emergencies. Juggling with money, she got through to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

"This is Salty Oliver, I need to speak to either Mr. Waverley, or Mr.Solo. It's really urgent."

"Hold the line."

There was a series of clicks, then Alexander Waverley's warm, reassuring voice was speaking to her. "Miss Oliver, how can we help you?"

"He found me. Callahan came and talked to me. The bastard...I hate him... he gave me a packet and..."

"First things first, my dear. Where are you?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I'm at the south side of Central Park, in a call–box right by the Columbus Circle. Please, I don't know what to do..."

"Calm down and I'll send someone to collect you."

The U.N.C.L.E. organisation went efficiently to work and fifteen minutes later Salty was sitting inside Waverley's office, watching Napoleon's capable fingers open the envelope.

Inside there were more photographs.

From the expression on first Napoleon's, then when he handed the pictures over, Waverley's face, she knew they were bad.

Waverley was the first to find speech. "Thank–you, Miss Oliver, you acted admirably. Mr. Solo, perhaps while this young lady and I go through some THRUSH personnel books, you could take these to the lab. You never know, they might hold some clue the others didn't."

Grim faced, Napoleon nodded and without a glance at Salty gathered up the prints and walked out of the room.

* * * * *

Illya lay in a corner of the laboratory, too worn to move any of his aching muscles, awake only because the drug that still pulsed through his veins precluded unconsciousness. Callahan had left seemingly hours ago, leaving him in the hands of the white–coated medic who had grown bored with a body that showed scarcely any reaction regardless of what was done to it. He had tried unbinding Illya, but as that made no difference — and as he had strict instructions not to cause any permanent or irreparable damage, he'd tidied the exhausted body into a corner and was now working alone by the drugs cabinet.

Curled on himself, Illya was grateful for several things: it was warmer here than in his cell; Callahan had not returned; and most importantly of all, he was still centred within himself, still whole despite their impositions. Just.

Death was not a frightening prospect. He had lived in its shadow for as long as he could remember, whether it came now or later no longer seemed to matter very much. If this went on much longer, then he would positively welcome it.

Unfortunately, he also knew that this resigned lassitude was a part of what they wanted; that by giving in to it he was giving Callahan a measure of triumph. At this point the stubbornness engrained in his nature shook itself and stirred. It wasn't over yet, there was time, but for quite what he wasn't sure. Eyes still closed, he was aware Bradley was in the room and that he was working, his attention elsewhere.

He conducted an inventory of his body, assessing as well as he could how long his system would continue to function. He was quite scientific. The main problem seemed to be thirst. Eventually he decided that the risk of another couple of fractured ribs would be worth it if he actually got a glass of water.

Speech was more difficult than he'd anticipated, his lips cracked and awkward with bruises, his throat raw. After a couple of attempts his voice decided, after a fashion, to function. "I'm thirsty."

Bradley jumped at the sound, almost spilling the contents of a glass bottle. "Still awake are you? I thought you'd be away with the fairies by now."

"Your drug must...be stronger than you thought." There was a certain wry humour in the accented words.

"Maybe." The THRUSH agent clearly didn't care one way or the other. "Here's your water; don't want you fading away too soon, now."

"Thanks." Pushing himself carefully and slowly up, Illya gingerly leant a shoulder against the wall and carefully sipped. After a moment he downed every drop of water in the glass. He was cold despite the room's warmth. Though he recognised the reaction as shock, he still chastised himself for the shivering that wouldn't quieten.

It was only when the other man spoke that he realised he'd voiced the thought out loud.

"Don't worry, you've stood up better than most."

Handing back the glass, Illya frowned. "How many?"

"Too many, if you ask me, but of course he doesn't. You're one of a long line, does that make you feel any better?"

"No."

Bradley laughed. "Skinny little thing like you, too. I expected to be packing you off for dog food within a couple of days and look at you."

"No thanks."

"'S'pose you wouldn't. Bet you were kind of pretty before he got hold of you."

"Not really." At least Napoleon had never said so. Illya wrapped unsteady arms around his body, every separate ache and pain suddenly clearly defined. He battled with a wave of nausea, frowning as the room began to swim wildly, scarcely aware that the other man was speaking.

"You could do with a bit more flesh on your bones, but apart from that..." He stopped because there was no longer anyone to talk to; the prisoner had collapsed with a small sound, his body sliding inert to the floor.

With a shake of his head, Bradley stood and stared down at the unconcious man. He felt some seed of pity uncurl inside himself and gestured to the guards. "Take him back to his cell, he might as well get some rest before the Controller gets back." Shaking his head, faintly ashamed of himself, he watched them drag the battered U.N.C.L.E. agent away. Then with a sigh, returned to his task, though his face expressed a confused mixture of emotions.

* * * * *

"Are you sure that this is the man?"

"Yes. Oh, yes, I'm sure." The man was younger in this photograph than he had looked in real life, but it was quite clearly Peter Callahan. His eyes were unmistakeable and Salty suppressed a shiver as she remembered how deep they had seemed to peer into her soul. "Definitely."

"It is a great pity that we didn't think to have you followed. If we had, then this would all be over." Waverley shook his head morosely. "Still, no use crying over spilt milk. Mr. Solo, would you take Miss Oliver somewhere to recuperate, the past hours have been rather trying."

"Oh, I'm all right. And I'm sure that Napoleon would much rather be trying to find that creep."

Waverly nodded, but gave the final decision to his agent, "Solo?"

"I'll take Salty home, then I'll come back."

"Very well." He nodded as they stood up, then dismissed them from his thoughts.

Salty was half way through the door when she stopped in her tracks, an expression of horror on her face. "Oh, my God! How could I be so stupid...?" She felt hollow that the information could have slipped her mind, refusing to admit that partly it had been deliberate.

"Salty, what is it?" Napoleon pulled her back into the office and looked inquiringly at his boss, who shrugged. "Salty...?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I forgot." Salty raised imploring eyes at Napoleon. "I did forget. I didn't do it on purpose."

"Please, Salty, what? We don't know what you're talking about."

"I wrote down the number — the number of the car he drove away in."

Eight wasted hours. Napoleon could have screamed in frustration. He kept his temper by an enormous effort of will. "Salty, tell us what it was."

She was looking through her purse. "It's in here somewhere..." Lipsticks and various items of feminine frippery went flying. "Hold on. There!" She held out the scrap of paper, only to have it snatched from her hand.

"I'll get on to this right away, sir."

"Yes, I'll find someone to take care of Miss Oliver..." But he was speaking to thin air, the automatic doors already closing behind Solo's retreating form.

* * * * *

Illya Kuryakin was not totally unconscious, but he was so far into the dark world that neither of his captors realised that dregs of reality remained. Not that they would have cared; the twilight world was no use to them, they needed him alert, or as close to alert as was still possible.

"Hell, he's not responding. Try a higher dosage. I want him to feel all of this."

"He's close to total exhaustion. I'm not sure that a higher dosage won't just kill him."

"What are you — some sort of bleeding heart? Get on with it. This is like fucking a corpse." Callahan pushed himself hard into the splayed body, the violence eliciting only a strangled moan.

On his return, Callahan had ordered Kuryakin rebound to the table and woken. The guards had tried dousing him in water, but in the end Bradley had to prepare a hypodermic.

But to Callahan's intense disgust, his treatment had again been interrupted by his captive's loss of senses. Seeing the girl had stirred him up, made him remember the real reason for all this, made him determined to make the Russian suffer as much as possible.

"Just give him another shot. Come on, get on with it."

"Hold on, it's ready." Bradley searched for an unmarked vein and pushed the needle home.

Illya fought against the return, he wanted the dark place where no–one hurt him. But it was useless. With a sob he raised his head, leaning the burning heat of his face onto the cold metal.

Callahan was still pressed deep in his gut, so the respite had only been short. The drugs made him dizzy, nauseous, but enhanced every detail and refinement of the torture. They had worked their way through the THRUSH interrogation manual and not once had they bothered with any questioning.

After every session Callahan had returned to his favourite pastime of raping the prisoner. Illya had to remind himself that it was only a man's penis inside his body, but try as he might, the illusion was closer to that of a wide iron bar that burned his spine into his brain and stretched his body beyond all human dimensions.

"Come on, talk to me, Napoleon Solo's bed–boy. Or are you enjoying this too much?" Callahan laced his fingers through sweat darkened hair, pulling the head around until he could see into narrowed blue eyes. "Is that it?" He emphasised the question with a thrust of his hips, making Illya taste bile as his body fought the drugs and screamed for oblivion. "No, you're too up–tight to enjoy anything this much fun. I'd bet that Solo finds you useless in bed. Maybe that's why he's screwing that rich girl. Yeah, that must be it." He grinned widely. "Still, I wouldn't worry about it. I'm going to kill you soon. If you're lucky, very soon indeed."

The words seemed to excite him and, staring all the time into expressionless eyes, he moved again, pounding his hatred and eventually his seed into the waiting body.

Illya shuddered as the softening member slid from his raw flesh, closing his eyes as Callahan pushed his head hard into metal, turning it to assess him. Oblivion called, the only thing keeping him grounded in reality was the drug. He knew bitterly if it wasn't for that, he'd be floating free. The thread that attached his self to his body was stretched so thin that its substance was frayed almost to breaking.

Romantic thoughts of Napoleon rushing to the rescue had finally evaporated. In fact, he had room left in him for little thought at all, only a mild, remembered reaction.

When the guards finally released his wrists, he fell into a limp bundle on the floor. They seemed to leave him in peace for only a few moments before hard hands were again hauling him upright. A slap recovered his wandering attention.

Callahan was dressed again, his hair damp and curling from the shower. So time was playing tricks. Dimly, Illya's flickering thoughts considered how good a shower would be. Or a warm bath. Anything other than the cold jets of stinging water they used to hose the worst of the filth off his body. There was little hope of either.

He felt a wave of regret; regret that he'd been unable to fight them. Then laughed at himself; how futile to feel regret now. So stupid.

Callahan was saying something incomprehensible. With surreal humour, Illya realised that his thoughts had reverted to Russian. He had to concentrate hard to grasp the meaning in the English words being spoken. It was something about THRUSH Central. Then all of a sudden he could understand again.

"...six hours."

A steely hand took rough hold of Illya's chin and Callahan's face came into near focus. "I'll miss you, but business calls. If I granted one, I wonder what your last wish would be? Probably to see me dead, which — I'm afraid — won't be possible. I'll be back soon to say good–bye properly. Until then, sweet dreams." Callahan released his hold, though the places he had held burned as if touched by acid. He nodded to the guards, turning away unconcerned as they dragged Illya back to his cell.

* * * * *

Time had become very fluid, no traditional measure of it held any meaning.

Illya was alone and it confused him. Perhaps the promised execution was deferred — not that it mattered. The drugs that sent his senses jumping had almost worn off, leaving an approximation of sleep to hover enticingly close. Close, but not quite there. He wondered at his body's need for rest now, when soon there would be nothing else. But it didn't bother him much. Throughout his life he'd courted the future, even anticipated it. Now he was anticipating the lack of it. Not surprising really.

His eyes were almost closed, out of focus, so it took him a while to realise that Bradley was suddenly in the cell; that he was arguing with the guards. A falling out amongst thieves? Except they hadn't really stolen anything. Except life. Yes, they were trying to steal that.

It was curious how his mind seemed to have given in at last. A figure that was clearly Napoleon Solo appeared in the cell door and in monochrome slow–motion shot the three standing men. Very curious, but as none of it was real, not particularly interesting.

Bradley was falling on top of him; the outspread tails of his lab–coat transformed into gulls wings that enveloped him, destroying the last shards of reality.

Illya was laughing at himself and his illusions, when the solid weight of the dead body pushed him irrevocably into darkness.

* * * * *

The brightest of criminals make the stupidest mistakes. From the moment Salty remembered the registration number of Callahan's car, it was only a matter of organisation and logistics.

Finding and taking the THRUSH building was, in the end, scarcely a problem; only two men killed and one injured. All the THRUSH personnel they found were shot, including the three men who were in Illya's cell at the moment of attack.

Napoleon had convinced himself that they would be too late. In fact they almost were. A white coated THRUSH agent had spread his own blood over Illya's unconscious body; Napoleon's bullet had found its target with a minimum of time to spare.

Solo dragged the corpse away with hands that shook, hurrying to kneel at Illya's side. Naked, curled partly on one side, the sight held Napoleon still, pain taking all his breath away.

"Illya..." He mouthed the name, but no sound emerged. He couldn't be dead. No, it was impossible that after all this he...

Fighting the panic, Napoleon fumbled for a pulse under the stubbled chin. He cursed the fear that made him inept, but then it was there, beating wild and erratic under his fingers. Alive, but only just.

Fumbling for his communicator, Napoleon found his voice. "Open channel 'D'. This is urgent. Repeat, this is urgent."

"Channel 'D'."

"I'm in the basement and I've found Illya. He's alive, but get the medics down here fast and prepare a hospital room — Illya will need it." He severed the connection, trusting in the dispatcher and her efficiency.

Very carefully Solo uncurled the cramped limbs, the damage so comprehensive that he couldn't take it in. What shocked him was the clammy cold of Illya's skin. Stripping off his jacket, Solo draped it over the thin, filthy body and shivered. Gently, he brushed a lock of hair away from closed eyes, his fingers moving on to touch imperceptibly a bruise that ran along one high Slavonic cheekbone. He had to repeat to himself again and again that this was real — that Illya was alive. It was almost too much to believe.

Five minutes later, when the medics arrived, he was still kneeling on the floor; his shaking hands touching Illya's icy face, as if trying to magic his own life and energy to the unconscious body.

* * * * *

An overwhelming sense of relief left Napoleon almost incapable of independent decision. All his energy had been so wound up in willing Illya to be alive when they found him — even though he'd never really believed he would be — that he hadn't thought beyond that point. But Illya was alive. Damaged and unwell, though all the doctors were insistent that they had caught the Russian in time, and alive. Hovering in the hospital room wouldn't make the healing process speed any faster. Napoleon knew he should make a move to leave. He didn't — couldn't. Not yet. This reality was too precious.

Cleansed and bandaged, Kuryakin lay under a single sheet, wires and tubes attached seemingly everywhere, his pale blond hair and white face camouflaged against the bleached cotton. Napoleon leant on the wall, observing as he had for the past few hours, ignoring the nurse who sat in careful attendance. He understood that this was a waste of time; that the doctors were right and that Illya would be kept under for a long time yet. But Napoleon's own comfort was fixed on the slight rise and fall of the narrow chest; on the inescapable evidence of continued life.

The decision to return to headquarters lay dormant in his brain. There were a thousand things he should be doing in the aftermath of the operation; reports to be filed and reams of THRUSH paperwork to be sifted through. Waverley was probably getting ready to send round the heavy–mob and Napoleon hated to think what sarcasm would drip his way when he finally returned. Perhaps he should turn his communicator back on. Or then again, maybe not.

The fact that Callahan had escaped the net was a heavy burden, one which Napoleon bore without any ease. How would Illya cope with knowing that his tormentor had got away? The man must have the luck of the devil. Though even the devil's luck must run out eventually, he thought with satisfaction.

Napoleon shifted his weight into a more comfortable position on the wall, the steady bleep of the monitors calming his tattered nerves.

Illya is alive. The words repeated themselves in a pattern.

Alive. But in what sort of mental state would he emerge? The photos made sure that Solo was aware of all that had been forced on his friend. Callahan was a shrewd manipulator of emotions, understanding Napoleon before Napoleon understood himself.

That Illya had been repeatedly sexually abused scalded a hollow in the centre of his belly. How could anyone emerge from that whole and unchanged?

Sexual abuse.

He shivered as footsteps passed over his grave, guilt denying the luxury of hope.

What if Illya...? No, he refused to think it. The guilt was his own; all the times he had mocked Illya's attraction paraded themselves before his eyes. And the worst remorse of all: that he had taken his friend's body and given nothing — no, less than nothing, he amended truthfully, for he had left Illya with less than he started with — in return.

Karma indeed.

But how to make amends? It wasn't as if there was much chance of the balance being restored, for he had destroyed that himself long before Callahan came on the scene. Illya, just still be talking to me when this is over. If it ever is, of course.

With a desolate sigh, Solo went to stand by the high–sided bed. The nurse was turned away, concerning herself with some piece of equipment on the far side of the room. Circumnavigating tapes and tubing, Napoleon bent to place a quick, chaste kiss on the broad brow. He straightened and sighed. There would be a way to solve the problems. There had to be. His confidence refused to admit anything else.

* * * * *

PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV