TRUE COLOURS

by Kitty Fisher

PART TWO

It had been a whole week since Salty had last seen Napoleon and she was definitely not going to allow the bastard to drop her as if she was worth less than nothing. She had cursed him, cursed the Russian and cursed Callahan. She had rung him twice daily — only to have all calls intercepted by U.N.C.L.E. headquarters — and she had visited his apartment as often as she could, sitting outside his door on one occasion for three hours of wasted time.

If only he had left a message. Or if someone would take the time to tell her where he was.

The hospital wouldn't let her near the carefully guarded sick–room, so as far as she knew he could be living there to mop the patient's fevered brow. The thought irritated her immensely.

On the fifth day Salty tried a different tack. Carefully dressing in her sexiest clothes; a tight Chanel dress that made the most of her subtle curves, spike–heeled black shoes, a short mink jacket — and enough Joy to flatten the seventh fleet — she headed for Del Floria's. By smiling nicely she was admitted past the smoothly–sliding doors, given a visitor's pass and escorted to see Mr. Waverley.

Half way there, they were met by Napoleon.

"Napoleon!" Salty hid the surge of triumph; you could always beard a lion in its den — if you had the courage. "I haven't seen you for ages, how's things?"

"If by 'things' you mean Illya, then he's getting along fine. He's..."

"Wonderful. I was wondering if I'd bump into you; I remembered something I should have told you."

He raised a querying eyebrow at her and wondered how he could ever have preferred her to Illya. "Well, go on, I'm listening."

Salty looked at the swarthy agent who had accompanied her from reception and hesitated. Napoleon sighed. "It's okay, Reynolds, I'll make sure that Miss. Oliver gets safely to her destination."

Putting his hand under an elbow, Solo steered her to an interview room. "There, is this private enough?"

"No, not really." Salty wriggled slightly, managing to convey through the movement that the only place she would consider private enough would be Napoleon's bedroom. He didn't move a muscle. Conceding, she said, "But I can see that this will have to do." Her voice was overly bright, anger simmering just below the polite facade.

"Come on, Salty, what have you got to tell me?"

"This and that." Salty promptly forgot her good intentions as all the hurt took over. "Why haven't you been to see me, or rung, or anything? I've missed you, you beast and now that your friend's safe and sound I thought we could resume where we left off." She slipped out of the jacket and stepped towards him. "I love you, Napoleon and I thought you might like me a little bit, too."

"I do like you, Salty. But I'm afraid," he took a deep breath and considered that he'd rather be dealing with a THRUSH agent wielding a machete, "I'm afraid that I can't see you any more. Illya..."

"Illya!" She interrupted him, almost spitting the word. "I don't know why you don't just take him to bed you're so wound up with him. Oh, I do realise that you've been using me to get on his nerves, but I never thought you meant it. Okay, so that iceberg of a Russian is a fag, but you're not." She paused and in a different tone went on, staring all the time at Solo's averted face. "We were good together. You can't deny it... I thought..."

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." Napoleon hunched his shoulders. He felt drained of any emotional strength that would let him deal gently with her. The past ten days had been so gruelling that the last thing he wanted was a scene like this. "You're right, we had some good times; but they are all in the past. I really didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry."

"God, how many times are you going to say it. At least you could try and mean it at least once."

"Stop it, Salty, you know I mean it. It all just got out of hand..." Straightening his back, he felt runnels of tension tug at over–tired muscles.

"What exactly got out of hand, Napoleon. Me or Illya? Perhaps you should really take my advice and...and fuck him." The word was alien to her lips, though it was Napoleon who had forced it there. She almost choked. "Maybe you should marry him you're so fond of him. Then see if he comes anywhere near to my standard; if he can do for you what I could..." Napoleon had turned to face her; it was like ice–water hitting her veins. "My God. I've been so naive." Realisation made her flush and she shook her head, hating to admit what she already knew to be true. "You are sleeping with him. That's why you were so cut up about what Callahan did; he was stealing something you considered to be yours. My God, you must have thought me a fool. Did the two of you laugh at me when you were in bed? Did you have little experiments to see how far you could get me to go, or to see if I measured up to his level of expertise." Salty backed away, reaching for her coat, desperate to get out into the street and fresh air, to get away from all this deceit.

"Salty, it's not like that.."

"Isn't it? Well, swear to me that Kuryakin isn't your...your catamite. See, you can't." The truth was written over Napoleon's features. Salty swallowed bitter tears. "Well I hope he hates you after what's been done to him. I hope he can't bear to ever let you touch him again." The doors swished open as she reached them. "Goodbye. You won't have to worry about seeing me again either, I wouldn't come near someone like you if you paid me, you're...disgusting." With a slight stagger she turned, then hesitated. "And you can take this as a memento; Callahan made me take it and I didn't give it to you because I thought it would hurt you too much — well more fool me, I hope you choke on it." Pulling an envelope out of her pocket she flung it on the floor, then ran down the corridor, blindly seeking a way out of her humiliation.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Napoleon swallowed hard. Well, he thought, that'll teach you to congratulate yourself on your technique for ending affairs. Her pain filled the room, adding yet another layer to the bedrock of guilt that was forming.

The envelope contained a lock of hair; its shades running through a spectrum of blond, from white to the richest of old–gold. Napoleon fingered its heavy strands, remembering how they moved when Illya turned to give one of his quick, infrequent smiles.

Salty would get over her hurt. But what of Illya? He was safe, true, but would he ever be sound?

Tucking the lock carefully into his wallet, Napoleon hoped that his plan would work, for if it didn't, then he wasn't at all sure of the future.

Leaving the interview room, he headed towards Mr. Waverley's office. The old man owed him enough favours, probably more than could be counted, though it was unlikely if he saw it that way. Just before entering the inner sanctum, he touched his wallet once for luck; he would need it, plus all the thespian skill he'd ever learned to use.

"Ah, Mr. Solo, how is Mr. Kuryakin? Recovering, I trust."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, sir. Illya will be released from hospital at the end of the week. He's physically much better, though of course he won't be fit for duty for a while." Napoleon sat down and concentrated on looking as tired as he felt. "I was wondering, when were you planning on sending him to the analyst for re–evaluation?"

"I hadn't considered; the specialists seem to think it will be quite a while before he'll be well enough. What makes you ask?"

"Well, sir, after what he's been through — I mean he was in a pretty bad way only ten days ago — I was thinking he could do with a break."

"A good idea, but I'm sure you didn't come here just to advocate me letting Mr. Kuryakin have a holiday, what is it you want?"

"Three months leave for both of us."

"Indeed."

"I'm tired myself, sir. It's been a long time since I took any time off."

"And what if THRUSH decides to take over the world?"

"Obviously, I will be available in case of emergency, but other than that I was hoping you'd put me on the suspended list."

"Well it has been a year since your last vacation." He considered for a moment. "And you undoubtedly need the recuperation period almost as much as Mr. Kuryakin," Waverley conceded with rough grace. "Very well. But three months is out of the question, it'll have to be three weeks, I can't spare you for longer than that. Do you intend on spending the time with your partner?"

"That rather depends on Illya."

"Very true. I think you'll find that he won't rest properly unless someone stands over him. I'm visiting him later today, I'll see what I can do to make him agree."

"A direct order would do the trick, if you felt like issuing one," Napoleon shrugged and stood up, "though I'm hoping he'll come of his own free will."

"You'll just have to make sure he believes that's what he's doing. Are you visiting him this afternoon?"

"No." Napoleon slid his hands into his pockets and stopped himself from avoiding eye–contact. "I'll pop along later, after I've made a few arrangements."

Quite aware that his agent was telling a slightly modified version of the truth, Waverley nodded, deciding against his better judgement to trust in Napoleon's.

* * * * *

After an absence of nearly four weeks, the corridors of Network Command looked almost alien; all high–tech steel, determined workers and electronic noises he couldn't easily identify. It felt strange to be back; a strangeness probably due to unfinished healing. Used to being easy in the shell of his body, Illya was finding it hard to adapt to the demands his injuries made. Impatient and careless of medical advice he should have been resting, but an unscratchable itch in his mind had forced him here.

Waverley had grudgingly agreed to see him in half an hour's time. Wonderful. He hadn't expected to be treated as a nuisance. No, that was unfair, not a nuisance, just a spare part. Illya knew that he shouldn't feel as irritated as he did, but a certain degree of welcome would have helped.

He had almost no friends among the staff, his nature the sort to make few friendships and then only where he could trust implicitly. Somehow only Napoleon had ever fitted the bill. No, that wasn't specifically true, there had been others, but a variety of deaths had overtaken them all, leaving...well, leaving Napoleon, who despite everything still counted, at least in Illya's eyes. What Napoleon thought was a mystery.

Perhaps Waverley would know where he was. Well, he undoubtedly did know, but perhaps he would deign to share the knowledge.

Not one visit in the whole time I was in hospital. Illya was so hurt by Napoleon's absence that it had coloured every hour of every day he was well enough to notice. Not even a card. He'd hardly expected flowers, but some sign of solicitude would have been...pleasant. Uncomfortably, he almost felt as if this was some sort of punishment for some unknown misdemeanour; a feeling that made him irritable and impatient with the slow process of recovery.

There was also the feeling lurking in his mind that Napoleon's non–appearance was directly due to the photographs. Napoleon knew everything, all the worst of it, the things Illya would have hidden from himself — let alone anyone else.

Feeling sorry for himself and, if truth were told, distinctly unwell, Illya headed for the laboratories where he knew he could sit out the wait in peaceful isolation. Even U.N.C.L.E. staff had the luxury of a lunch–break, so it was extremely unlikely if anyone would bother him there for twenty minutes or so.

The equipment crowded room was familiar territory; he always spent longer here when he was at HQ than anywhere else. The accoutrements of the scientist were a gentle balm to his nerves. Apparatus never decided whether it could trust or not — a distinct advantage over most people, regardless of their nationality. Part of Illya's mistrust of other people stemmed from their suspicions of him. A Russian who had spent so long amongst foreigners that his citizenship was in danger of being revoked. A semi–naturalised American who spoke with a trace of Russian in his accent and knew more about communism than he did capitalism. No, he would mistrust himself if he didn't know better.

He sighed, allowing himself to limp as he wandered around, checking absently on what was in progress. At the far side of the room was a new notice board. Curious, he went over to it. And stopped, his skin greying as realisation of what the images were sunk in.

His first thought was to wonder bitterly if Napoleon had stood and ogled them along with the rest. Even if he hadn't, Callahan had sent the vile things to him, so he'd have had a good look before handing them over.

If you looked at them clinically the photographs were appalling. If you viewed them as Illya did, as a record of iniquity, then they were beyond sane comment.

And by now all of U.N.C.L.E. had seen them.

How could he... Illya put out a steadying hand as a surge of dizziness threatened his balance. Napoleon. Why...? He leant forward, forcing himself to focus. Yes, it was all there; a complete record. He wondered if they'd enjoyed the peep–show. Perhaps he should think himself lucky some joker hadn't made one into a Thanksgiving card — one of the more lurid. What a joke; they were all lurid.

Testing himself Illya carefully registered each photograph. When he got half way along the second line, he stopped, a rush of nausea sending cold sweat pricking over his skin. He shook his head in silent denial. It wasn't true. He'd remember...

Four minutes later Illya swept into the controller's office without any announcement.

Alexander Waverley raised his eyebrows guardedly at the ghost standing before him. "Mr. Kuryakin, I don't believe that it's two o'clock yet." His visitor looked blank for a moment; as if he was speaking gibberish. Waverley considered why the Russian was in such a state. "Well, never mind, sit down."

"No, I'm not staying. I've come to hand in my resignation. Where is a form I can sign?" He appeared to expect the relevant paperwork to materialize out of thin air.

"Ah. Would you like to tell me why?"

"Isn't what I've just been through good enough reason?"

Waverley considered. "Maybe. I don't know. You didn't say anything to me at the hospital, why not?"

"I..." Kuryakin was becoming more distraught, any reason he gave would be dismissed by the man who had put so much money into his training. Typically, his outward demeanour became more aloof. "Can't you just accept that this is what I want and be done with it?"

"Not if I don't believe you."

More mistrust.

"I'm surprised you ever employed me, if you don't believe what I tell you."

"I don't mistrust everything you say, don't be melodramatic."

"Melodramatic... Well, if you see it like that, there's really nothing to say. You can send the paperwork on to me."

"Mr. Kuryakin." Waverley was becoming impatient. "You must tell me your supposed reasons. I really can't allow you to just up and go..."

"Can't I." Illya banged his fist on the round table, making himself blink as pain shocked through him. Then he was back to the icy control that worried Waverley so much. "So you don't believe what I say? I'm sorry, but watch me then." And he walked to the door.

It refused to open.

He touched it lightly with a trembling hand. "Let me out this instant." If possible his skin lost even more colour, bleaching to the colour of paper.

"I really don't think that would be advisable, Mr. Kuryakin. Wait until you are...calmer and then we can talk."

Illya turned, his face shaded with anger and bewilderment. "I don't want..." He broke off in mid sentence as the doors opened and two section seven security agents walked in. "You wouldn't..." He looked wildly from the guards to Waverley, seeing pity and curiosity but not an ounce of charity in any of their faces. "I thought this organisation was supposed to be different from the KGB and THRUSH; shows you how mistaken it's possible to be."

Waverley tutted, "This isn't anything like that; you just need to calm down and consider." He gestured for the guards to keep back. "They came because you set off the desk alarm; they aren't here to intimidate you."

Curling his lip scornfully, Illya lost some of the blankness that made him seem so innocuous. The guards stepped closer.

"What were you saying, Mr. Waverley?"

"For goodness sake, just go with them." The guards came and stood either side of the Russian, dwarfing his slight build. "Come back and see me in a couple of hours..."

"When they've worked me over?"

"Don't be ridiculous. They're taking you to the rest area; nowhere dubious."

"Just because I want to give in my resignation?"

"No, because you look uncommonly like death warmed up. Now go away and come back when you are feeling better." Tiring of the issue, Waverley waved them out of the room.

But Illya held his ground, frowning as the guards took hold of his arms. "Mr. Waverley, I think you should know that I mean every word I've said. This won't make me change my mind."

"We'll see, Mr. Kuryakin, we'll see."

"No we won't..." And though he knew the odds were outrageously stacked against him, he fought, elbowing one man hard in the ribs and turning on the second. Throwing 200lbs of ox across the room was very satisfying — even if painful — and he was through the doors before either of the men had recovered. But there his luck ran out. More guards were coming, many of them men and women he knew and though their attempts not to hurt him hampered their progress, eight minutes later he was locked into an interrogation room.

The aftermath of adrenalin left him weak and dizzy; he'd fought out of cussed determination and without any real thought. Now his body was unceremoniously reminding him it was only just out of hospital; where the doctors had been very careful to tell him how skilful they'd been in putting it all back together.

Drained, weary, swamped by despair, he dragged the chair out from under the table and sat heavily in it.

Betrayal from all sides. Well he had always liked life to have no loose ends. Straightening his tie, tidying his cuffs, Illya smoothed the dark wool of his jacket into a semblance of order. Placing both hands carefully on the table he quieted himself, staring into space. After all, he'd survived the worst of Callahan, let alone Lubyanka and a hundred other people and places that most ordinary citizens never knew existed. So, he would survive this. He would even survive the knowledge of the photograph. What did it matter if they'd all seen it? Nothing at all. Napoleon would never know how much that particular joke had hurt. Never. As long as he could get out of here. And away from U.N.C.L.E., then it would all be fine. Yes, he thought, then it will all be perfect.

Two hours later, he was still seated in the same position, hardly seeming to have moved a muscle. The only reaction he made to the swish of doors opening was an involuntary pulse of a nerve under the taut line of his jaw.

"Are you going to let me go?"

"If that's what you want." Napoleon Solo spoke quietly, stepping through the doors and letting them close. "Is it what you want?"

"Of course! Do you think I've got so used to prison that I enjoy it? Durak!"

It was always a bad sign when Illya started in with Russian. Napoleon sighed. "Okay, so I'm whatever, a horse's ass or worse. But I need to talk to you. Please, Illya, tell me what's up."

"What's up! I was manhandled in here by two goons from section seven who seemed to think they were auditioning for THRUSH, I've been locked in here ever since and you ask me... You are an idiot and worse." Illya shook his head in disbelief.

"You managed to damage three of those guards before they got you in here. Did you know that?"

"Good... No, I don't mean that, they were only doing what that conniving bastard Waverly told them." He hesitated. "Are they all right?" For the first time, Illya turned towards Napoleon, who winced to himself at the state of his friend.

"Better than you, by the looks of it."

"I'm fine.

"Yes, I know you are Illya; if you'd just had all your teeth out without anaesthetic you'd still say that." There was fresh blood staining the bandaging around Illya's hand, not that Napoleon dared make any comment. "Why are you retiring?"

Retiring. Not, trying to retire. The difference was heartening. Napoleon was leaning against the wall, his hands deep in his pockets, his head at a characteristic angle. A surge of the old desire echoed through Illya's mind. It hurt.

"Why did you put Callahan's holiday snaps on display for everyone to have a good look at? If you felt like that about them I'm surprised you didn't auction them off to the highest bidder."

Confused, Napoleon shook his head in denial. "What are you saying? The photos went to the lab for analysis, now they're in the vaults along with the rest of the evidence."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"Just that. I knew you enjoyed laughing at me, but I somehow never realised you could...despise me enough to do that." He shook his head, going back to studying his hands

"Illya, will you stop talking rubbish and tell me what on earth you're going on about?"

The seated man took a deep breath. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't know about the peep–show in the laboratory? Mr. Napoleon Solo, the man who knows everything, doesn't know about that? Hah!"

It was quite clear from the tension in Illya's body that this was important. More than important. Napoleon moved and placed a hand on the table, close to where the graceful, pale fingers rested next to bandaged ones. They skittered away at his approach, the injured hand being tucked away, out of sight. "Illya, I'm going to see what it is you're going on about, I'll be back in a minute, don't go away." He hesitated, wanting to touch the cool reserve, to promise Illya that everything would be all right; that there was no need to worry. But something in the slump of shoulders stopped him; with Illya his resolution was now to avoid making promises that couldn't be kept. "Wait here... And Illya..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just wait for me...I won't lock the door."

Illya waited, hope a nascent glow that refused to be quelled. Perhaps, despite appearances, he was wrong and Napoleon had nothing to do with it.

Perhaps.

Calmer, his body less rigid, he waited.

When the doors opened again, Illya Kuryakin looked up and saw the truth in Napoleon's face. No one could act that well. "You found them." It wasn't a question.

"Illya..."

"I'm sorry."

"Jesus Christ! You're sorry. And you thought I'd... No. Let me say now, I didn't kn..."

"Stop." Napoleon looked as if the pain of that accusation could pull him apart. Illya shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it looked as if..."

"Yeah, I suppose it did." Napoleon shrugged, the bitterness in his mouth tasting of self made purgatory. "I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy, let alone you. God, what must you have felt when you saw them?"

Illya shook his head, unable to answer for the lump that choked his throat. He'd felt too much, still felt too much. But Napoleon's concern helped. Though it didn't explain anything of his absence. "Napoleon, I'd really like to go home. Am I still under lock and key?"

"No."

"Then I want to leave."

"No problem."

Illya stood up slowly, his eyes scanning around the bare room before they rested on Napoleon. "I'm not coming back, you know."

"Decide that later..."

"No. I mean it, this is it."

"Because of the photographs?"

Illya shook his head, but not really in denial. "Can't even you accept what I say without an inquisition?"

"I'm sorry. We'll talk later, come on, I'll drive you home."

"No, I'll make my own way, thanks all the same."

"Ah," Napoleon fingered his top lip, "I'm afraid that won't be possible; you see Waverley wanted you to stay until you'd seen the psych section." At the look on Illya's face he hurried on, "But I managed to persuade him that you'd be with me, so he grudgingly agreed. You know what he's like, he didn't like it much." Realising he was waffling, he stopped, then shrugged. "It seemed to me that you'd rather be out of here with me, than in here on your own. Or with the head–shrinkers upstairs, was I right?"

"As far as it goes, yes."

Napoleon closed his eyes in relief. "Off we go then."

"Wonderful, what I've always wanted — a nanny."

"Be thankful I don't chew the upholstery."

For a moment Illya looked completely blank, then he almost laughed, "Not that sort of a nanny. You are a fool, did you know that?"

"Yeah." Napoleon agreed, but for reasons he wasn't sure had been meant. "Come on, home; we can stop for a take–out on the way."

By chance, or by some careful plotting on Napoleon's part, the corridors that led to the outside world were empty of spectators. Only the receptionist oversaw their departure, and she smiled pleasantly as they handed in their badges.

The journey to Illya's apartment in SoHo was traversed in relative harmony. Solo had obviously decided to defer any arguments about resignation and Illya was content to go along without making a fuss.

If the worst came to the worst, then there were ways to disappear that even U.N.C.L.E. surveillance couldn't track. The thought was a clearly defined possibility, for though he trusted Napoleon with many things, if it came to a division of loyalties, there was no doubt that he would lose every time. Surprisingly, the availability of escape had a calming effect.

The apartment was unchanged and after cranking up the central heating Illya sat on the couch and sighed for his departed energy. What he really wanted was a shower and then something good to read to deflect his mind away from thought. But Napoleon was busy with cartons and chopsticks.

Acting unconcerned was a feat Napoleon felt deserved an Oscar, but he coped, even managing to eat some of the food that he'd bought. Ever since the emergency call had summoned him to HQ, he'd been wanting to ask a thousand questions of Illya and of Waverley. And of the miserable bastard who'd made a show out of the photos. Of all the bad luck that Illya should walk into the laboratory just then, for according to the hapless lab technician concerned he'd been too busy to take them down and had meant to later that day. Though that didn't excuse the pictures being there in the first place, of course. The culprit had been left in the none too tender care of U.N.C.L.E's boss, though it was highly unlikely he had much of a career with that organisation left to talk about.

But the revenge had been only momentarily satisfactory, for Napoleon knew he should have personally monitored the photographs' movement. Though that would have been difficult from two hundred miles away — and that particular errand had been essential. It was all coming together, this plan that had seemed so hare–brained. The only thing left was to fit Illya into the scheme of things.

The food was undoubtedly delicious. It always had been, so there was no reason to doubt it now; there must be another reason why it tasted rather akin to ashes. But under a watchful brown eye Illya ate a good portion and wondered if all Italian–Americans were this obsessed with the restorative powers of food. Though if this had been one of his own people, then it would probably have been vodka forced down his throat. That didn't seem very appealing either. He pushed the remains of his meal away and wondered what Napoleon would do now. Unfortunately, simply going away did not seem a likely option.

"Illya."

Here it came. "Yes, Napoleon, I'm still here."

"Yeah, I noticed. I was wondering, why don't you go and pack a bag?"

"A bag of what?"

"Clothing, all the things you'll need for a couple of weeks away."

The question almost elicited real interest. "Where am I supposed to be going, a nice retirement home for agents improper enough to want to say sayonara?"

"Your paranoia is showing, Illya; it's nothing like that.

"I wasn't paranoid until I'd spent a few hours in a what felt remarkably like an U.N.C.L.E. cell. So, do you promise?"

"What?" Napoleon was confused.

"That I'm not being taken to the funny farm.

"Ah, cross my heart, okay?"

"Okay." The rigid set of his shoulders eased fractionally. "So where am I being taken? Don't tell me, I'm getting an all expenses paid trip to the Bahamas, courtesy of my U.N.C.L.E. insurance plan."

"I'm afraid it's nothing as glamorous as that. No, I thought we could spend the time at my family's cabin up in Maine. You need time to convalesce and hell, I could do with a break."

Illya smoothed the fabric over his knee, unsure if the prospect of a vacation with Napoleon was frightening or just plain insane.

Sensing the hesitation, Napoleon hurried on, "You liked the cabin when we were up there a couple of years back. You've got to admit at least it's peaceful, so it's got to be better than New York."

"How did you get the time off? Waverley normally needs a doctor's report in triplicate before he'll let you go."

"I'm afraid I resorted to old–fashioned blackmail."

"And the next question has to be, why did you bother?"

Napoleon frowned; the reasons were so obvious that it hurt for Illya to ask. "Because I can't bear to see you hurt and because I think you'll heal more soundly if you're given the space and time to do it. If you stay here, U.N.C.L.E. will intrude on your life, it always does — look how you went to HQ today."

"I won't make that mistake again. Like I told you; I'm retired." Illya glared at Solo. "Or is this all some plot to get me to change my mind?"

"If at the end of the trip you still want to leave, I won't stop you." He held his hand up as Kuryakin opened his mouth to protest. "And I won't try and persuade you either way. If you want, I'll make another promise."

"No," Illya spoke slowly, "I believe you." The smile he got in response was ample reward for the smallness of the lie. "I'll go and pack." And standing awkwardly, he left the room before Napoleon could see his uncertainty and fear.

He left Solo silenced by the ease of his acquiesence.

A couple of weeks in the country would be enough to ease Illya through the worst of it, maybe hopefully give him some strength before the psychiatrists got at him. He'd need it. Napoleon dismissed the talk of resignation with cheerful disregard. The trauma of the episode at HQ compounded with what had gone before would be enough to set anybody off the rails. Time would change that. Illya wasn't suited to life in suburbia. The very thought was amusing, though Napoleon realised he had no idea what on earth his partner would even think of doing. For all he knew, Illya could be a closet fashion designer or maybe a brain surgeon; either was as likely as the other, the Russian had multifarious talents. What he spent his spare time indulging in was a mystery; one that had suddenly become fascinating.

The furnishings and interior of the apartment gave no clue. Apart from endless rows of books, some of which were in languages Napoleon couldn't even recognise, there was little to define the owner. No ornaments, no photographs. Just simple but comfortable furniture, a slight eastern influence in the large cushions on the floor and an esoteric collection of long–playing records. A conundrum.

Napoleon decided there was nothing he liked better.

Half an hour later, there was still no sign of Illya, so Napoleon knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer. Unsure, rattled by uncharacteristic uncertainty, Solo opened the door.

Illya was sitting on the side of the bed, hands clasped between his knees. He'd changed into jeans and a roll–neck and his hair was darkened with water, as if he'd taken a shower, the bandage on his hand was clean, fresh and less bulky. He was staring at an empty holdall.

"Illya? You all right?"

Empty grey eyes found the figure in the doorway. "Napoleon?" It was said in a tone of faint, almost unsure, identification.

"It's me. Couldn't you think what to pack?" He said it jokingly, then realised it was more than likely true; Illya looked a world away from even the least important decision. The surprising thing was that he'd got this far at all.

On very unsafe ground, Solo stepped into the room that held Illya's bed and tried very hard not to think of it. It wasn't difficult — in the light of recent events — not to think of sex, but he couldn't help but imagine all the things that might be going through the other man's mind.

Napoleon was many things, but he was almost never deliberately cruel. The trouble was, the last person he had indulged himself with sat before him, too wounded to take him to task.

"Illya, I'll just throw a few things into your bag. What do you want, another pair of jeans..." Napoleon talked as he packed; the contents of Illya's wardrobe as familiar as his own. Most of it was black, so there was little problem in colour co–ordination. Disconcertingly, throughout the process, Illya only sat and watched. The surely illusory placidity was difficult to cope with. Napoleon began to fidget, then dropped a handful of sweaters. He was on his knees refolding them, when Illya came to kneel beside him.

"It's okay, I'll do this."

Mutely Illya disagreed, his once quick hands folding dark wool with slow, awkward precision.

"Look, it's not a problem, why don't you sit down, I'll be finished in a moment... Illya..." Napoleon breathed his friend's name in anguish. "Please..." He could cope with many things, but Illya in tears was not one of them, for despite the silence, what spilled from Illya's eyes were definitely tears. "Don't, we don't have to go away if you don't want to, we can stay here, Illya..." He reached out to touch, to comfort, to make everything right.

At his touch, Illya's unsteady breathing broke on a sob. He curled over, shielding the rawness of emotion from sight.

But he didn't pull away. With a knot of emotion strangling his insides, Napoleon turned the touch into a slow, gentle stroking that soothed himself as much as his friend. He'd never seen Illya weep. Never from pain or desolation, or even from laughter. It was a bit like watching some strange astronomical event like an eclipse; awe inspiring, frightening.

If he had known it, for Illya the touch of Napoleon's hand was a reassurance. Its rhythmic, impersonal stroking of his arm a binding point to reality. He was puzzled by the hated tears because he never cried, not since he was ten years old. But they wouldn't stop; almost silent, burning, dragged from his heart by, of all things, kindness and belief. Disconcertingly, it was a long time until they stopped.

It was awkward on the floor, as Napoleon had to keep body contact to a minimum. A month ago, if Illya for some reason had broken down in front of him, he'd have held him until it was all over, but that wasn't possible, perhaps it never would be again.

Solo continued to stroke the bony curve of spine even after the storm had passed. He felt that even this acceptance of his touch was an overwhelming honour; that after everything Illya could allow this. It was a gift; the gift of trust. It brought the prickling of tears to his own eyes.

After a while, Illya must have slept briefly from exhaustion, for when he stirred it was with a sharp intake of breath. Napoleon carefully stood up and went out of the room. A few minutes later he returned with a glass of vodka, straight from the bottle in Illya's freezer. "Drink this."

"Bossy." Re–seated on the edge of the bed, Illya obeyed, downing the liquid ice in one draught. It at least brought some colour back into his cheeks.

"Better?"

Illya nodded.

Careful inspection of the drawn features left Napoleon doubtful about what to do, but he had his own reasons for wanting to leave tonight. "Do you still want to come? The journey will take until morning...we could leave tomorrow if you'd rather?"

"If after that stupid display you still want me to, well, let's go now." Illya stood up. His eyes were red–rimmed, his face showing a degree of embarrassment.

"My Mother used to say that you could wash the world of grief away in the river of tears. I don't think she was entirely right, but it's better than getting blind drunk."

"I tried that the other night. It didn't work either."

"So much for home–spun philosophy." Solo inspected the contents of the bag. "Have I forgotten anything?"

"If you have, then I'm sure the local store will be happy to help out." Illya paused, considering his automatic, before rejecting it. It would have to be returned to U.N.C.L.E. eventually anyway, so it was time he got used to life without it.

With one final check around the apartment, Illya picked up a couple of books before locking up and following Solo's footsteps down the echoing stairwell.

* * * * *

In fact it was well into daylight when they arrived at Grandfather Solo's land. Illya stirred from desultory sleep as the car bounced off the black–top on to a dirt track.

What Napoleon described as a cabin, was to Illya's Russian eyes far closer to palace. Perhaps the Czars had once described their Summer House in the same sort of terms — and because it only had a tenth of their usual quantity of bedrooms, meant it.

Napoleon's use of the word cabin, was a direct result of his grandfather's vaguely socialist leanings. He'd come to America fully believing in the equality of mankind (though of women he wasn't quite so sure) and had been hard hit by his own easy ability to make money. Guilt had made him careful of the way he spoke to less fortunate men, though it hadn't stopped him from making his houses as luxurious as possible. The cabin was meant as a rural retreat, so it was built of stout wood. It even managed to look a little like something Thoreau would have appreciated. But the four–bedroom house was set in idyllic isolation by a lake stocked with fish, the maple and birch woods were full of game, the land was private and the interior of the house had to be seen to be believed. It even had central heating — though that had been a later addition installed by his second wife. A New England theme had been scorned by the interior designer, instead the rooms were laden with Italian peasant furniture, hand painted terracotta pots and woven rugs from Palermo. It was also remarkably comfortable. And the heating was on.

"Napoleon, how come it's warm in here? I thought this was a spur of the moment idea."

"Oh, I came up a couple of days back; just to check that everything was okay. Come on, which bedroom d'you want, one with a view of the lake or one with a comfortable bed?"

Somehow the niggling suspicion that Solo wasn't telling him everything was swamped first by a clutch of decisions, then by overwhelming tiredness that had him in bed by mid–day and asleep solidly for close on fifteen hours.

In fact for the first few days he did little but sleep and sit listlessly on the porch. It was quite clear to Napoleon that Illya's mind was blanking the world out until it had made inroads on the way to recovery. It didn't bother him that Kuryakin was a silent companion; at least he wasn't actively hostile. There was an odd sort of companionship between them rather than the vaguely expected acrimony. Solo knew it must be galling for the Russian to have to be here; at the best of times Illya hated being told what to do — unless, of course the telling referred to their work. Yet for all that he was here; though where he would be if he was completely fit was another matter.

Napoleon was careful not to fuss, though he was worried that his distancing might be taken as lack of interest. But in the end he realised that Illya hardly knew he was there. The fact didn't concern him; he was waiting patiently for the moment when it would be right to talk, limiting himself to making surreptitiously sure that Illya was changing the bandaging on his hand regularly

He also cooked at all the times when food was traditionally eaten and Illya — through picking absentmindedly at everything — ate more than he thought, though no needed flesh went on to replace that stripped off by the rigours of Callahan's hospitality. Not even caviar did the trick, though the guy in the deli had promised that it was the best and the price had certainly concurred. Napoleon listened to the radio, or fished, all the while monitoring where Illya was and what he was up to without really trying; his seventh 'Illya' sense serving him well. Communication would only be a matter of time. The simple fact that the Russian was here at all told him that.

On the morning of the third day — and considering all things — Illya awoke feeling remarkably well. The room he had chosen faced south–east and as the day had promise of being beautiful, it was full of a bright sunlight that cocooned him in warmth. Tucked under the covers he wriggled his toes, the quiet combining with the remote noises of nature to fill all the spaces in the room. If he discounted the hollowness inside him that echoed coldly on careless thoughts, it was almost as if Callahan had never existed.

Even in the choice of room Napoleon had anticipated him, for when he'd settled into bed for the first time an envelope containing Illya's ring had been tucked under the pillow. Neither of them had mentioned it, but Illya had slipped it onto his right hand and proceeded to try and forget everything about it.

He stretched out, feeling his body slide smoothly against the sheets, feeling at home in his skin for the first time since...well, almost since he could remember. The discomfort that was left could be handled; there had been no major trauma, all vital organs still functioned, fractured bones were knitting together, abused muscles and joints were easing and apart from a medley of scars everything was slowly approaching normal. Callahan had either been very careful, or luck had finally decided to play on Illya's side.

It was about time.

Joining U.N.C.L.E. was supposed to have been a new beginning. Now it was at an end, so yet another new beginning was needed. Still, practise makes perfect, he thought. One more could scarcely be any harder than any of the others.

Ridiculously, what he was going to regret most about leaving would be the loss of Napoleon's company. The fact that they had slept together was a foolishness he should have regretted, but now it seemed a fitting farewell. When this vacation was over, then he'd quietly disappear. That at least would mean he'd avoid the barrage of psych tests U.N.C.L.E. wanted to throw at him. He'd always healed himself before, there was no reason to doubt he couldn't do the same now.

There was a light scratching noise at the door. Illya sat up, tucking the covers around himself and called out, "Yes?"

Napoleon's head peered around the door. "You're awake."

"The rural air must have improved your observation." Any tartness was denied by the undoubted welcome on Illya's face. "Good morning."

"Yeah, it's lovely. D'you fancy breakfast?"

Illya considered the portion of Solo visible between door and wall. "Is that an invitation to eat, or an invitation to cook?"

"To eat, of course." Napoleon restrained himself from pointing out that cooking would be a messy business with one hand mummified in bandages still. "There's ham and eggs, or toast and marmalade." He smiled, it had been a last minute thought to pack Illya's favourite preserve; one that was worth while from the definite chuckle that lifted his spirits.

"I'll be down in a minute, get the tea ready."

"The coffee's on, so hurry up."

He closed the door on Illya's indignant protest.

It really was a beautiful day. After breakfast they strolled around the lake, hardly talking, content. The comparative ease in Illya was a surprise to his companion, not so much ease with the world — which was lacking — but with Napoleon himself. He avoided contact, true, but didn't show any aversion to being kept company. An hour into their gently paced walk a huntsman approached through the woods, his dogs foraging before him. Illya visibly tensed; watching the man's approach with caution and mistrust. The man greeted them with civil curiosity and continued on his way, but Illya watched with brooding intensity until he, his dogs and his gun disappeared from view.

Watching this tautness, Napoleon catalogued the changes in his friend's demeanour; from quiet companion to wild animal poised to run in the blink of an eye. A fine layer of sweat sheened his forehead and though the language of his body spoke of readiness for flight, the expression in his eyes came closer to readiness for battle.

"Illya?" The hunter had gone, leaving them once again alone. "Let's get on."

Very slowly Illya turned his head, pausing before the muscles of his shoulders finally relaxed. Silhouetted against the lake, the darkness of his clothing etched his shape in simplicity, making the slender lines of his body seem almost non–existent. Napoleon wished very hard that he could turn the clock back; not just to before Callahan, but to before his own self–centred games. To take back time; to re–live the past two months with the advantage of hindsight. It would all be so different.

Perhaps, if this plan worked then the future could come close enough to what should have been for the past not to matter. He wasn't quite sure whether to cross his fingers or pray. Perhaps dancing round an oak tree at midnight would help...

"Napoleon...come back."

"Sorry! I was day–dreaming. Right then, back to the cabin. What do you want for lunch?"

The sun obligingly shone for the rest of the afternoon. They meandered home where Illya sat on the porch and read while Napoleon pottered around the house listening to music. Towards dusk Illya came inside and settled quietly in the main room where Napoleon was building up the fire.

The first of a series of surreptitious glances told the American that Illya was tired; that was to be expected, but there was a pinched look about his eyes that was worrying. When nudged he took a proffered glass of wine with an abstracted nod. It could hardly be expected for him to recover overnight — one breath of fresh air and instant recuperation — but the fragility of his mood and health were unusual enough to be worrying.

There was a sound like pipes rattling; though it was only because Napoleon was inspecting Illya as he in turn stared seriously into the flames that his small jump of alarm was noticed.

"The rats are restless." Illya tried to disguise the flare of panic. He listened again, but the noise was gone. Taking a sip of wine he glanced at Napoleon. Curiously, the dark head seemed to be listening as well. "I said, the New England rats are restless."

Napoleon shook himself and answered, "It's probably the central heating pipes. Or the generator. I'd better take a look."

"D'you want a hand?"

"No." The answer was very quick. "No, I'll be back in a minute. Have another glass of wine," and topping up a mystified Illya's glass he went.

When he returned, Napoleon took a long drink of his wine.

"Everything okay?" Illya queried.

"Sure, why shouldn't it be?"

"No reason." Playing with the stem of his glass, Illya frowned. "Is everything really all right?"

"There was an air–lock, I sorted it out."

"And got burned for your trouble."

"Eh?"

"The back of your hand; it's got a burn on it."

"Oh, I hadn't noticed." Napoleon inspected the abrasion, then sucked it, speaking around his knuckle. "It's nothing, I must have caught it on something."

He was quiet for a while, then just as Illya had got back into his book, spoke again. "Illya, do you want to talk about it."

"About what?"

Napoleon could have laughed. "About Christmas, cabbages, or kings. Whatever." At least he had Illya's attention. "About anything you want."

"What if I don't want?"

"Then we switch the radio on."

Illya slowly closed the book. It was typical of Napoleon to be this forthright and, if truth were told, it wasn't unwelcome. Hopefully it meant that their relationship was getting back — at least in Napoleon's eyes, to normal. Illya wanted that very much. For if these two weeks were the last he would see of the American, then he wanted them to be normal; for Napoleon to be all the things that made him such a good friend.

He put the paperback down on the table. The trouble was that this sort of speech was hard at the best of times. It always had been, even with Napoleon. Baring the soul. A trite expression that was so true. Baring the soul and leaving it open to all the pain that betrayal could bring.

Somehow speech was caught in his throat.

"Illya." Napoleon watched the passage of barely discernable emotion across the pale face, the blue eyes darkened by fire–light. When he had leaned forward, the sleeves of the black sweater rode back, exposing stark white bandaging edging both wrists. "I'm sorry I wasn't there at the hospital for you. I wanted to be, but something very important came up."

"Was she beautiful?"

The question was asked without intonation, yet it hurt as if Illya had screamed it out loud. "No. There wasn't anything like that. Can you believe me if I say it was important, but I can't tell you what. Not yet." Soon, please God, soon, but it wasn't time yet, Illya wasn't ready; to tell him now could cause more harm than good.

Illya curled his legs underneath him, he'd slipped his shoes off. One of his socks needed a darn.

His voice was very even when he spoke: "Have you ever been sexually attacked?"

The question was so sudden, that Solo caught his breath on the word, "No." In a flurry of shock and confusion he watched abstraction clear all identifiable emotion from Illya's face.

"Neither had I. Sometimes I still believe — just for a moment you understand — that I haven't. And then I remember...then I remember all of it." He paused. Horrified, Napoleon couldn't find anything to say. Luckily Illya went on, "Did you look at the photographs?"

Napoleon nodded, at sea with this remoteness that made any previous allegation of cold a lie.

"I knew you would have to. Do you know what it meant? Knowing that whenever that flash–bulb went off, you were there with me. Well, it helped; it was as if you were there supporting me; a partner even in extremis." He smiled wistfully. "Though I'm sure that wasn't quite what he had in mind. You see that's part of why I...hurt, when I saw them pinned up for all the world to look at. I'm sorry..."

Jolted out of dismay, Napoleon said, "Don't say that. Please, don't ever say that. I should have taken more care to be sure they were hidden away, the fault was mine."

"Mea culpa — careful,your religion is showing. You weren't the only one who should have done something about them."

"I know, but I feel responsible, they were sent to me, it was my decision to hand them over to the lab."

Illya shrugged very slightly. "What did you think of them?"

A mine–field in a question.

"They made me want to kill him."

"No...I mean yes, I understand. But, what did you think of the images, what did you think of me?"

Oh, Illya. "I thought that I wished it was me, rather than you. That I would have done anything to spare you." Truth was painful, but had to be spoken. "I remembered how I forced you into my bed and saw myself as little better than Callahan."

The idea was clearly new to Illya, for he looked directly into pained brown eyes and, for the first time, let a little of his need show. "I didn't realise."

"How could you? I haven't been here to tell you. I didn't think any less of you, for having seen them. I could see that despite what he'd done to you, you were still Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin." The man I felt more for, than any other in the world, but the words were said in his mind only.

"A long time ago when I was still a child — if I ever was really a child, that is, I watched some of the Waffen–SS kill one of my friends. You see there weren't any women left and they just took the first available body and used it. I hid. Like a coward I waited until they'd gone, then I crawled down to where they'd left him. He never recovered consciousness, though he took a great deal of time to die; he was twelve years old. A few nights after that was the first time I killed. It was a soldier wearing the same uniform and flashes that the others had. He was the first of a long line. Each time I killed one of them I remembered Andrey and washed some of his blood away in theirs."

"I'm sorry..."

"Quite an evening for apologies." Illya quirked his lips in what could have been a smile. "What I'm trying to say, ineptly, is that somehow it felt like fate finally catching up with me. Even when I thought I was going to die I only regretted the photographs. I knew you'd hate them."

"I only hated them because they showed you in pain. I didn't feel they...diminished you, please believe me." Napoleon was leaning forward, urgent.

"Not even a little bit? Not even the one where I..." He closed his eyes, fighting the overwhelming sense of his own body's betrayal. There was a touch at his knee. Opening his eyes he saw Napoleon, kneeling at his feet. Illya reached out and tentatively took one hand. "The one where I was enjoying it so much I reciprocated."

Napoleon's hand gripped very hard. "You weren't. It was the automatic response of your body, I know you too well, Illya Nicovetch, you are not into pain and you can't tell me otherwise."

"I didn't think so. But I can't remember that picture being taken." This was true pain and he bent over as if bowed under its weight. His silky hair brushed across Napoleon's knuckles and for the first time, his hold on the olive skinned hands was the stronger of the two men's. "Even when I dream I can't remember," he was whispering, "so it might not be a lie."

"Callahan was a devious manipulative bastard; apart from the physiological aspects of it, he used more drugs on you than a guinea–pig. How can you think you wanted it, how can you let him win to the extent where you don't believe in yourself anymore?"

A splash of liquid crystal burned his hand. Tears were cathartic; but my God they were difficult to bear. "Illya..."

After a moment a slightly awash blue eye peered through the fringe of hair.

Cursing, Napoleon wished that Illya would dissolve in tears if it was going to make him feel any better. He'd cope. Anything was better than this stoicism. "Illya, it's all right to cry." He disentangled one hand and hesitantly smoothed back the disarranged hair. "After all we've seen and done, you should know that."

"When did you last weep for anything?"

"When the second batch of photographs arrived." Illya seemed to be holding his breath. "You can ask Salty, if you want. I got blind drunk afterwards and threw up all over her." He wasn't about to recount the rest of that episode.

"How is she?" The question asked far more than it seemed.

"She's well. But she's not very happy with me, rightly so; I made it quite clear which of you meant more to me. I think she's moving to Chicago, before heading for Africa." He swallowed hard. "I used you both."

"No. It's the way of the world."

"In that case; then the world and I were both wrong."

They were silent for a while.

"Napoleon, I need to sleep." He was indeed drooping. "I'm sorry, can we talk again tomorrow?"

"Of course." Solo released his hold and leant back on his heels. "I could do with an early night myself — it must be all the fresh air."

"Fresh air," blowing through my mind and my life. Illya stood, disconcerted by the thought and looked down at Napoleon with a quizzical expression on his face. "Good–night, sleep well."

"And you."

Illya was at the door when he paused. "You got one thing wrong, you know. You didn't force me into your bed, I went there of my own free will; don't ever compare yourself to him. Good–night."

Solo stared at the closed door, listening to Illya's footsteps climbing the stairs.

He sat on the floor until the fire died down, only shifting when his limbs protested their stillness. Even then he hardly had the strength to move, all emotion and energy drained by the conversation and its implications. Those parting words. He shook his head. If he wasn't careful, too much could be read into them. Or maybe that was what Illya wanted.

The story from Illya's childhood was one of the first he'd ever heard. Confidences had hardly flowed from either of them, though Illya knew volumes about Napoleon in comparison to what he knew about Illya. Even after reading his dossier.

How old had he been? Ten? Twelve? Certainly too young for the horrors he had witnessed. Sanity must have been very difficult to cling to, so difficult that it had left Illya the distanced person he was.

Distanced, but not cold. Napoleon had seen him laugh and cry; though he would willingly have given up the latter privilege. Shy with women, reserved with men and after Callahan, who knew? If this vacation was to re–build Illya's self, then talks like today's were essential. But it was so hard. It would have been easier by far if plain torture had been used. In that field Napoleon would have been at home. But sexual abuse, that was a different matter; one he should have been trained to cope with

Perhaps it could be suggested to Waverley that all agents' training was modified to include such possibilities as this. Maybe knowing the psychological implications would make such assaults easier to bear for both the victim and his partner. Maybe female agents already got some sort of training in how to cope. Then again, perhaps nothing could manage that.

Groaning as his joints protested, Napoleon stood up and wandered around, locking the doors and making sure the fire was safe. They hadn't eaten dinner but he wasn't hungry, anyway the food would be fine tomorrow.

It was only ten o'clock, but he quietly made his way to bed after making one quick detour. Sleep was an elusive companion. When he eventually found her, he dreamt vividly of sunlight on snow, of black branches crossing frozen streams, of a small child watching terrified from the shadows a terrible event that for some reason remained invisible to the frantic dreamer's eyes.

* * * * *

Despite the strangeness of his dreams, Napoleon was whistling cheerfully while he prepared breakfast. The sun was shining and, as days went, it could hardly have been bettered. The distinct possibility that Illya might really open up, buoyed his spirits even higher than the glorious Fall day. He'd learned more last night than in the preceding four years about the past that drove the Russian. All he needed to do now was to find out more about the recent past, hopefully burying it in the process, so that life could get back to some semblance of normality. Or as close to normal as their lives ever got.

He'd also, in mulling over their conversation, remembered Illya's comment about the photographs. Even though he didn't feel he deserved it, the statement of implicit trust completed his serenity.

He was spooning two eggs, sunny side up, onto a plate of neatly diced oak–smoked ham when Illya appeared at the door. Ignoring the dark circles under red–rimmed eyes, Napoleon smiled cheerfully, "Good morning, just in time for breakfast."

"Are you fattening me up for market?"

"No, but in case it escaped you, we didn't have any supper last night and I don't know about yours, but my stomach woke me up this morning feeling neglected. Sit down and eat that while I make another couple of eggs."

Illya sat; the path of least resistance being by far the easiest to take. He ate slowly at first, then with appreciation. "This is good."

"Glad you like it, pass the salt."

If Napoleon's sleeping hours had been made uneasy by dreams, his companion looked as if his had been tormented. Never at his best first thing in the morning, today Illya could have passed for ten year older than his true age. It physically hurt Solo to see the listless edge to the slim body's movements; even wielding the knife and fork seemed too much like effort.

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine." There was a slight shrug.

"Yeah, and it looks it." Napoleon snorted in disbelief, "what was it, nightmares?"

Remote blue eyes met his for a brief moment. Then Illya nodded grudgingly, though he kept silent.

"Had a couple of good ones myself, all about snow and ice and a child out in the cold."

"That'll teach you to listen to stories before going to bed."

"I'd much rather hear them than not." Napoleon cleared the plates away and poured two cups of coffee, sitting back down with an intent look on his face that made his companion sigh. "What were your dreams about?"

The coffee was very good, strong and black the way he liked it. Napoleon was waiting; that he deserved an answer Illya was sure of, but whether he could give an adequate one was another matter. "I don't think you really have to ask, do you."

"Illya, sometimes talking to you is worse than consulting the Sphinx. Yes, I could guess what you had nightmares about; Callahan would top the list..."

"No!" There was a flare of panic in his eyes that only subsided when no further comment came from Napoleon's lips. He went on more temperately, even managing to speak a measure of truth. "No, you'd be wrong; I dreamt about Andrey and the Germans." He paused, then seeming to make a decision, continued. "I saw that day, again and again, only each time I woke, I knew the boy was me." He wiped a hand over his bleak face. "There. Happy now?"

"You shouldn't blame yourself; you make life very hard for yourself."

"I don't choose to make it so; life is hard."

"Not always, surely." The tone in Napoleon's voice begged to be convinced. "That incident was far in the past, surely time has made it easier to live with."

Illya took a breath that was almost a laugh. "Life has been easy for you, my friend." He held up a hand at the look of protest on Napoleon's face. "It has to have been. I don't mean that you haven't had problems, I know you have been hurt by friend and enemy alike. But have you ever fought as if your life depended on it over a crust of mouldering bread, watched everything you held in any affection destroyed, prostituted yourself and your beliefs just to stay alive? No, I don't think Philadelphia concerns itself with such things...and I'm glad for your sake that it doesn't." His voice was very controlled, the only sign of emotion a faint tremor in his fine hands. "Napoleon, I respect you, I have trusted you with my life, but don't lecture me in what is and what isn't easy to live with." And with that he stood up. "I'm going for a walk."

Brilliantly handled, Napoleon congratulated himself bitterly, go on like that and you'll get him spilling confidences into your ear so fast your head'll spin. But he had opened up a little; a crack in those defences might presage a flood. Or it might be shored up by the time they spoke again.

He stood at the window and watched Illya shrug into a jacket as he walked towards the lake. Against the landscape he was a forlorn figure. Napoleon wanted to go to him, to bring him back, to tell him that it was all right and that they needn't talk of anything Illya didn't want to. But holding tight to the window sill he stopped himself, breathing deeply as his eyes followed the hunched figure as it disappeared into the distance.

It was long past mid–day when Illya returned; Napoleon had been close to going in search of him for nigh on two hours.

Relief made him tetchy. "You could at least wipe your boots before trailing mud all over the floor."

"You'll make someone a lovely wife." The expected edge to the answer was missing and Napoleon looked up from the novel he was pretending to read to see Illya collapse into a chair.

"Illya!"

"Yes, Napoleon, I know, Napoleon. Please, no lecture." He rested his head in his hands, wondering if there was enough energy left in his muscles to get him up the stairs and into the bathroom. The country jaunt had taken him further than his body had wanted and seemingly every joint and muscle had started complaining about two miles back. At least Napoleon wasn't nagging; there was no point, Illya had been doing the job himself for the last hour and forty minutes. He shifted in the hard chair and tentatively flexed his back. A flare of pain made him curse fluently under his breath.

"Illya, are you all right?"

Placing his hands flat on the table, Kuryakin almost choked on a snort of laughter. "I'm sorry Napoleon. I'm fine; I'm stiff, tired and stupid, but apart from all that I think I'll manage."

"Come upstairs and I'll run you a bath."

"That would be indescribably wonderful, thank you."

Still unsure of where the boundaries of safe touch lay, Napoleon went on ahead, even though he wanted to assist his weary companion. As he filled the bath with steaming water, he listened for footsteps climbing the stairs. They sounded after a moment. Leaving the bathroom, heading for fresh towels, he walked past Illya's room, only to stop dead in his tracks.

"Illya!"

As if guilty, the blond man spun around, but not before Napoleon had registered the appalling marks on his back. The horror in Illya's eyes begged some pretence of him, but it was beyond any capability in his possession. Taking two steps into the room, he commanded; "Turn around."

Closing his eyes on the unreadable expression, Illya finally obeyed. "It's not pretty." His voice was rasping, full of pain. He stood quite still while Napoleon inspected the healing skin, though his averted face burned with shame.

Napoleon could hardly recall how to speak, but he did find some words, "'It's not pretty'" He repeated Illya's words — testing them on his tongue. "You're wrong you know. It's not you that's ugly; it's what he did to you that is. You were perfect before and you still are. Gods, Illya, I'm sorry; I should kill the bastard." Choking on emotion, he only just managed to withhold his touch. Instead he planted a feather–light kiss to one thin shoulder before stepping away, muttering, "I'd better see to the bath..." and he was gone.

Left alone, Illya stood held by amazement. The rush of humiliation was gone, as if Napoleon had taken away the marks' power to continue their wounding. Fanciful, but if it was true... Illya expelled the breath he'd forgotten about and, muttering to himself, finished stripping off his clothing. Wrapping a thick robe around his body, he headed for the bathroom.

* * * * *

"I've just seen the scarring on his back, you miserable bastard." Napoleon flexed the fingers of his right hand; more marks to explain to Illya. After all his resolutions, too. But it had been worth it. He sneered at the fallen man, "I don't know how you've got the right to call yourself human, you scum." He was more controlled now the first terrible outburst of anger had passed. "If I wasn't being careful to keep you alive I'd take a horse–whip to you, just to see how you felt about some of your own medicine."

He stood back. Callahan spat blood and attempted without success to stand; after a moment he used the chain attaching him to the wall as a lever. In comparison to the elegance that had greeted Kuryakin, he was unrecognisable; bruised, as naked as he had made his own prisoner.

The fury clearing from his mind, Napoleon checked all the locks and the container of water, making sure his prisoner was both secure and in no danger of dying of thirst — hunger he cared less about though he had left dry food before he'd left for New York. Callahan was still firmly held by the bonds Napoleon had attached six days before. He looked in a far worse state though. It made Solo feel a little bit better.

"How long..." Callahan cleared his throat and tried again, "How long are you going to keep me here?"

"Until Illya's ready." Napoleon was climbing back up the stairs.

"Ready for what?"

"That's really up to him. You know you made a great mistake when you hurt him, don't you? He won't treat you with any mercy. Even if he does, I won't."

"But you're U.N.C.L.E. agents! You'll turn me over to the authorities."

The U.N.C.L.E. agent could have smiled. "Will we now?"

"Yes." Callahan was convincing himself. "You won't hurt me..." He trailed off, as if seeing the barbarity of his circumstances for the first time. "You couldn't."

"You're probably right, I really don't think Illya will want to hurt you at all."

"Then why did you bring me here? What will your lover do?"

Napoleon ignored the jibe and smiled, "Kill you, of course." And he re–bolted the door, leaving Callahan to the darkness and the starkness of his thoughts.

* * * * *

Illya was out of the bath, dressed and almost asleep, curled on the couch when Napoleon returned to the living room. He could feel a tired but inquisitive eye follow him over to the hearth where he crouched down to make a fire.

"Still having problems with the central heating?"

Napoleon grunted, "Yeah, it's being temperamental."

"Do you want me to have a look at it?"

"No!" It'll be fine now, I think I've sorted it out." He took a deep breath and smiled. Illya was frowning. "I can cope with basic mechanics you know...I'm not going to blow us up."

"Well, I should hope not. It's not like you though, to get your hands dirty fiddling with machinery." He stirred and looked down at the relevant parts of Solo's anatomy. "Or to be so clumsy as to burn yourself two days running." Uncurling, he gracefully moved to take the hand in one of his own, fighting Napoleon's gentle resistance. "Napoleon...have you been hitting the walls? This isn't a burn."

"I know. I got a bit carried away after..." He turned away, snatching his hand back.

"After you saw my back." Illya tentatively placed his hand on a tense shoulder. "It wasn't any fault of yours; you couldn't have been there, just like this morning it was my own fault that I went further than I meant. You can't watch over me every minute of every day."

"I should have been able to stop them from getting you; what sort of a partner am I if I can't protect your back?" He almost choked on the double meaning.

"The best anyone could have."

"Jesus." He pushed trembling fingers into his eyes. This was all wrong: he was supposed to be strong, to support, to be here for Illya — not the other way around. "I'm surprised you can bear to be near me..."

His voice was almost inaudible; husky with pain and sorrow. Illya looked into the embers and wished for strength. "I can't imagine not being able to bear being with you. Don't..." He expelled a strangled breath, "don't punish yourself. It was one of those things; I'll get over it." The burning shame was a distant humiliation, there were more important things. Napoleon was more important.

"I know you will." Napoleon took desperate hold of the hand resting on his shoulder. "I know you're strong and self–controlled and capable and everything you've ever needed to be to survive, but what he did was so...awful."

"He didn't kill me, he didn't even maim me. A few more scars won't make much difference to the way I look. All of that I can cope with."

Napoleon followed the unspoken colloquy, then his own question was dragged from suddenly stiff lips, "But what about the rest; what about everything else?"

Illya's profile was etched against the dark wood of the wall, he was as remote and beautiful as a creature from the arctic wastes. His hair was longer than he normally preferred, it shone ice–bright in the reflected afternoon sunlight. He finally turned to his companion; dark circles shading the soft skin under his lashes suddenly visible, along with the doubt in his eyes.

"Illya..."

"I don't know. I really don't think I know." He glanced down at their held hands, seeing them so different in shape and skin tone yet inextricably entwined. Very gently, he disentangled his fingers and touched Napoleon lightly on the cheek. "But I promise you; you'll be the first to know."

"Is there anything you want...anything I can do?"

It was clearly a real offer, not a sop. Illya could feel the faint growth of beard under his stroking thumb; this was Napoleon. Despite everything, this really was Napoleon. "Apart from bringing me Callahan's balls on a silver platter? No, Napoleon, there's nothing you can do...except to be here."

"As long as you want me." It was not a question.

"Shall we go for a walk?" As he stood up, Illya could feel his spine cracking with tension. He needed to get away from the intensity of Napoleon's need. "It's a shame to waste the end of such an obliging day and a gentle stroll down to the lake will ease the muscles I overstrained this morning."

Hurriedly, Napoleon patched himself together, postponing the moment of telling the Russian about the surprise in the cellar. He stood up awkwardly, his own muscles protesting. "I'm glad I'm invited, after this morning I think you'll need me to tell you when it's time to turn back."

"From the look of you, you'll need me to carry you home."

And good–naturedly insulting each other, pushing all questions to one

side, they went.

It was pleasant stroll, the early evening breeze stirring their hair and clothing. They turned back after quite a short time and when they reached the house Napoleon rustled together some food, while Illya made up the fire and then sat staring into it. When Napoleon brought in his meal he ate automatically, exhaustion dragging every move. Soon after swallowing the last mouthful, he excused himself, heading up the stairs to bed.

It was many hours before Napoleon followed him. He cleared the dishes then settled down with a Jack Daniel's and a book. Though he sat over it for a long time, he scarcely registered a word, his mind turning over the problems old and new.

It was galling to realise that what he really knew of his closest friend was almost nothing at all. Oh, he'd read the dossier marked 'Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin' and could remember every word written on its meagre pages. In it his early life had been glossed over; an expanse of lost, hidden years. At the time of reading Napoleon himself had hardly bothered with them; scarcely given a thought to what was written between the lines.

Illya's lack of emotion, his icy distancing from any close friendship except for the one with himself, had not seemed worth commenting on. Of course it had been perversely flattering to have this independent, irascible, detached person choose him for a friendship that went far beyond the demands of their working relationship. And to accept an invitation into his bed. All that had been very pleasant. But it had only been Callahan's entering into the picture that had provoked a real interest; a fascination.

Seeing those photographs. Well, that had been hard. But they had made him see the strength of spirit encased in the deceptively frail shell. During the course of a hundred missions together he must have come across it, it must have helped them out of more scrapes than he could count, yet he'd always taken it so much for granted, that he'd never seen it.

Not any longer. He had no intention of ever taking anything about Illya for granted again. Especially his past. Or, come to think on it, more especially his future.

It was very late when Napoleon turned out the lights and headed for his bed. He'd made no real decision about Callahan and had spent the time trying to imagine what Illya's childhood had really been like. Then for the last hour trying to see a way of ensuring he would be happy in the future.

The door to Illya's room was slightly ajar and a soft voice reached him, "Napoleon?"

Speaking in a whisper, he peered around the door, his heart lurching at the ridiculous vulnerability of the man in the bed. "Illya." He was curled towards the door, his hair bright in the moonlit shadows. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, I was just dozing. What've you been doing?" The sleepy accent was very strong.

"Thinking, trying to read that book of yours."

"Did you like it?"

"No."

Illya laughed very softly, the sound sending shivers along Napoleon's skin. "I didn't think you would, Dostoevsky should only be read when you're feeling cheerful."

"Then why were you reading it six weeks ago?"

"Don't you think I was cheerful then?"

"I know you weren't."

"I hadn't realised I was that obvious."

"You weren't. But I'd worked very hard to make you miserable, so I know you must have been."

"Ah, Napoleon, I worked quite hard at it myself."

"No. If you'd had your way, it would probably have worked out all right; it was my infernal ego getting in the way that stopped that." There was no reply for what felt like a long time.

Solo was about to turn away, to say goodnight, when Illya spoke again. "Napoleon, did you ever really want to have sex with me, or did you do it because I was there?"

"I didn't want to have sex with you at all; I wanted to make love to you, but I didn't realise it myself until it was too late." He paused, listening to Illya's erratic breathing. "Good night, sleep well. I've got a surprise for you in the morning."

"I don't know whether I like surprises."

"Oh, I think you'll like this one. 'night." And he closed the door on Illya's echoing, "goodnight".

* * * * *

Illya stirred very late, the day was overcast so the early morning light hadn't woken him. Stretching, he considered his body as he had done every morning since he'd been well enough to do so. It was all healing well, even his back felt less like an added layer and more like his natural flesh. The ribs were fine as long as he didn't indulge in gymnastics. Yes, it was all doing well. Very carefully he flexed his left hand, grimacing for the first time. He'd taken the hospitals splints out a while ago, trusting to his body to cope without them. He would need the use of the hand as soon as possible and the best way to ensure that was to concentrate on keeping the muscles and tendons in working order rather than wasting away in immobility.

In fact, he realised, today he felt almost well. It was a relief; the presence of health only appreciated after it had been taken away. And though he knew he wasn't completely healed, the prospect of that state was at least somewhere in sight. Very carefully he prodded in his mind, looking for the worst of the hurt kept there. It was perhaps a little dulled. Better than no improvement at all; he'd always known his body to heal more quickly than his psyche.

The dreams were still around, still lurking in the shallows of sleep, but he'd had bad dreams before. He'd had sleepless nights before.

The only real problem, as he saw it, was the hollow emptiness inside him that seemed to grow worse at the thought of Callahan. Perhaps, in time this inner, frightened self would come to realise that he was free, that the ordeal was over. Perhaps, a wicked thought reminded him, it will never be over, at least not until Callahan's dead. Now that was painful. THRUSH weren't in the habit of informing U.N.C.L.E. of the deaths of their agents. Even if they did, it wouldn't do you any good, because you've resigned. If Waverley accepts, of course and you don't end up at the wrong end of an U.N.C.L.E. bullet. There were probably agents who would take the job of terminating him; not all of them had principles and a few had the sort of principles that insisted that everything U.N.C.L.E. ordered must be all right. Add the fact that a good few of them would have seen the photographs — and hence would doubt anything about him — and the future looked less than rosy.

Illya remembered the photographs and felt mildly ill. If only... There was no point in thinking like that; recriminations got you nowhere.

And a camera cannot lie.

A lie in itself.

But why should Callahan go to the effort of mocking up something like that? He wasn't to know that some stupid lab technician would plaster them all over the walls for everyone to have a good look at. And though that would have given a reason, little else did.

No, it had to be true...and, alone in his room, he felt the heat of shame scald his face.

The emptiness was growing into a chasm.

Flinging back the covers he dressed quickly. At the moment, being alone was definitely the greater of two evils.

Napoleon was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. "Morning, lazybones." His glance sharply assessed the brittleness in Illya's mien, it was quite shocking in comparison to the relative ease of yesterday. "Coffee?"

Illya was fixed at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving. He was ghost white; as wound up as he'd ever been. Napoleon didn't like to think what dreams had brought him to this. There was still no answer. Napoleon stood up and walked cautiously over, "Illya, would you like some coffee, or I can make tea if you'd rather?"

The question clearly made no sense. Not sure what was wrong, Napoleon, by dint of nudges and tugs on the wool of Illya's sweater, gently shepherded his charge into the kitchen and sat him down. He poured a cup of coffee and placed it between lifeless hands.

"Illya, drink up." The only response was a blink. "Illya!" That was better. "Drink that before it gets cold."

Kuryakin passed his tongue over dry lips and appeared to wake up. "Sorry, Napoleon. I didn't hear you."

"I think I could tell." He watched while the coffee was drunk and wondered if there was any way of knowing if this was the right tack to take. "What upset you?"

Illya shivered once, violently.

"Was it something to do with Callahan?"

"Napoleon..." There was so much pain that Napoleon closed his eyes and forced himself not to take the awkward body in his arms. "I can't..."

"Please, Illya, I can't take you being like this. Please, trust me enough to tell me."

Defeat was easier to bear than Illya had thought. He could never withhold against that certain need in candid brown eyes. It didn't really matter anyway, Napoleon had seen the picture.

Intent on the surface of the table, Illya said, "You remember the photographs? Stupid question, of course you do. Well, I've been trying, quite successfully I thought, trying to forget them. Then this morning, I realised the truth; that I could never ever forget...and it hurt." He was waiting for a comment, but when none came, his shoulders slumped and he went on. "I'd looked carefully at them when I found them the day I was waiting for Mr. Waverley — I'd thought I was achieving a sort of catharsis." He shook his head, running a finger along the fine grain of the wood. "You see I'd thought I could recall everything he did to me, but I was wrong; I remembered it all, except that one...thing. I thought I'd kept myself...as myself...not let him affect me...touch the part of me that is just that — me. But I was wrong, and now...well, it chews me up inside and I can't believe that you really want me here. That you can feel anything but...but scorn. Except for maybe a little pity."

"Don't you ever presume to tell me what I think." Suddenly Napoleon was seething with rage, his hands white–knuckled where they held the table. "What did you do, wake up but leave your brain asleep? If I feel anything it's compassion and anger that you had to suffer like that. It hurt to see you hurt, Illya, I could never scorn you because of something like that."

"Even though I apparently gave him what looked like extremely expert oral sex? Even after having seen with your own eyes the evidence of that?" He was close to tears, his eyes red–rimmed and wild.

"Yes, even after that." Napoleon cursed the photographs and their effect. Then he calmed down, his mind full of the list of drugs that had been used on Illya whilst he was held by THRUSH, but he didn't mention them. It was clear that his friend needed to know what had happened, not to idly speculate. Napoleon's next words were very hard to say, "Why, do you expect me to think you enjoyed it?"

"But you know I appeared to; you saw the picture."

"Stop it this instant. Do you really believe that of yourself?"

"No...but I can't remember!" It was almost a whisper, "I can't remember at all..."

"Well, you'll have to ask Callahan, won't you."

Illya brushed impatient hands over his face, denying tears and heat alike. "Oh, yes, I'd ask him, if I ever found him that is and if he stood still long enough to answer."

"You can ask him now."

"How, thought transference?"

"Nothing so esoteric." He paused, "Illya, did you ever wonder why I didn't visit you in hospital?"

"Yes." Illya answered automatically, though it was clear he was confused by the question.

"I was running Callahan to ground, it took longer than I thought — for which I'm sorry — but it was worth it. Even Waverley doesn't know, but Callahan's here; I've got him locked in the cellar."

If he had ever wanted to silence the Russian, this was clearly the right technique.

"Here?" The word had to be lip–read.

Napoleon nodded, a smile that bordered on the smug plastered over his face. "I've been saving him for you."

Illya could only stare, blank amazement strangling any words that tried to force their way from his throat.

"I thought you might like to know where he is, I thought it would be preferable to...to imagining where he was or what he was doing." There was still no change in the pallid face and a coil of unease unravelled itself in Napoleon's belly. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yes. Oh yes." Illya's face was cold, all emotion except for intensity wiped from its surface. "Take me to him."

They both stood, Napoleon leading the way they walked to the cellar door. As Solo went to undo the locks Illya put a restraining hand on his arm. "Thank you. Thank you for not killing him."

The door swung back and Napoleon watched as the lithe figure slowly descended the stairs. He couldn't decide if he felt more like Doctor Frankenstein, or Doctor Pavlov. Closing the door behind himself, he decided that it could be Doctor Mengele, as long as this worked. Confidence and self–esteem were such fragile things; and Callahan had worked assiduously to destroy Illya's not only in his own eyes, but in the eyes of U.N.C.L.E. He deserved whatever he got and in Napoleon's opinion, the bastard was lucky it was Illya he had to deal with.

Callahan stood as they descended the stairs. He stared at Kuryakin and smiled. Before he could speak, Illya back–handed him across the face.

"Don't speak until you're spoken to, that's what you said to me. Well the same rules apply here."

Callahan glanced at Solo, but remained quiet.

Illya was pacing around the almost empty cellar, inspecting the provisions made for the prisoner. "Mr. Solo has been more careful of your comfort than you were of mine." He stopped in front of Callahan and to Napoleon he sounded more deadly than was possible, considering the mildness of his tone. "Though comfort was not exactly what you had in mind, was it? As you were magnanimous enough to warn me of my impending demise, I will do the same for you. So, you can start counting the minutes; you can savour the last few fragments of your life before I take it away."

"Why didn't your lover kill me. He's the man of your partnership, isn't he? Besides," Callahan sneered, "you won't have the guts. You're too clean, too moral. I bet you've never in all your law–abiding life killed anyone in cold blood."

"I killed my first man when I was eleven. You see morality is a funny thing, it only works within a civilised framework. That man was the first of a long line; some of them were trying to kill me, but not all of them, you see they were German and so they didn't count. And I'm afraid that after what you did, you don't either." He took a deep breath and almost smiled. "So don't count on any civilising influence to save you."

Callahan swallowed, fear bringing sweat to bead his face.

"It's not so much fun being on the receiving end, is it? And I'm not even going to torture you, let alone rape you. Be thankful. Let me tell you, you wouldn't like it."

For all his bravura, Callahan was taken aback by the ice cold venom. He shook his head, denying everything. For the first time he crossed his arms across his naked body in a gesture of self–protection.

Illya smiled.

He turned to Solo. "Have you brought your gun?"

"Of course." Napoleon reached under his jacket and withdrew his U.N.C.L.E. Special.

"Good; I'll need it in a minute." Illya gave a rare smile and nodded at his friend. Turning towards Callahan again, he didn't say a word — and certainly didn't lay a finger on the naked body — but after a moment, the chained man turned his face away.

Sitting himself down on the bottom step, Solo watched the results of his experiment with slightly less than clinical interest. That Illya could be so intimidating was no surprise, though he rarely appeared quite as ice–cold as this. It was as if the Illya who joked and loved no longer existed; his place stolen by some spirit, an immortal, an angel of death.

Callahan saw it too; perhaps he even heard the sound of wings beating in his ears.

"Napoleon, you don't have to watch if you don't want to."

He sat straighter on the step and smiled, "Don't worry about me, Illya, I'm your witness that it was self–defence."

"No. You can witness that I killed him, but in very cold blood. My blood is ice–water at the moment, feel it." He held out his hand. Slowly rising to his feet, Napoleon reached out to the long fingers and felt their heat; the burning that could come as easily from fire as from ice.

He was almost shocked when Illya spoke again. "Napoleon, give me the gun."

It was Napoleon's custom built model, his initial carved on the butt. It seemed contrarily fitting to use this as the weapon. Fitting and right.

Illya took it, holding it awkwardly at his left side. He removed his hand from Napoleon's clasp with a gentle squeeze.

"Callahan. Look at me." Almost against his will, Callahan obeyed. "If you answer one question I can make this very easy. The alternative is up to you."

With a rustling of chains Callahan moved slowly to face the stairs. Napoleon watched the two adversaries and felt no sympathy for anybody other than Illya.

The gun was now held very steadily in Illya's right hand. "In one of the photographs you so...kindly took to commemorate our last meeting, there was one which puzzles me." Illya took a deeper breath, though he appeared relaxed. "In it I appear to be conscious, yet I'm performing fellatio on you. How did you make me, what did you do to me?"

"Can't you remember?" Callahan regained a little of his spirit. "It was good, yeah, I can remember."

"I don't doubt it and, as you do remember, you can answer the question — what did you do to me?"

Callahan smiled, though it faded from his face when Illya relocated the direction of the gun–muzzle.

"You see, Callahan, I meant what I said about there being two ways to finish this. The simplest is, of course, a bullet in the heart or brain which if you are lucky you might not even feel. The other is a bullet in the gut, which I can reliably inform you, can add as much as an hour to your agony. Do you want to bleed slowly to death — probably retching your own blood — or are you going to answer me?"

To Callahan, the world was compressed into the implacable grey of his captor's eyes; a world that contained no mercy, no warmth. "Jesus...it was drugs. Bradley set it up, arranged the dosages. You wouldn't remember..." He looked at the gun, wild panic distending his eyes, "Jesus...I've told you what you wanted to know, point that thing somewhere else, please..."

Very slowly, Illya raised the gun. His shoulders lost some of their stiffness. "Why did you do it?"

"Because..." Callahan was fighting with his fear, sweat drenching his body. "Because I knew you'd bite my dick off if I got it near you when you were conscious, and I wanted to make you suck me off; you, the high–and–mighty U.N.C.L.E. operative, down on his knees, crawling, sucking me off." He held his head up and finally looked in Kuryakin's eyes. "And I got more pleasure from that, than out of all the rest."

"You bastard..."

"No, Napoleon. It's all right; he's not worth the trouble or energy."

"Then why did you need to know?" Napoleon was mystified, his anger un–allayed by the confession. "Why aren't you...seething with fury?"

"Because I'd rather it was drugs than hypnotism or some sort of mind control."

It was very simple. Napoleon felt his hurt anger begin to fade. He was turning to speak, when without further preamble, Illya shot the prisoner.

The sound was almost unbearable in the enclosed space. Immediately Napoleon's stomach clenched at the familiar smells of blood and cordite. The bullet had taken Callahan cleanly in the forehead, but even so he crouched to check the body was dead.

"I promised him a clean shot."

"And you gave it to him," Napoleon nodded, "I doubt if he even heard it." There was blood all over the wall. There would be a lot of cleaning up to do later. Much later. Napoleon walked back to where Illya stood unmoving, and carefully easing the gun out his friend's grasp re–holstered it. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

Illya didn't look back at the corpse once. He followed Napoleon's lead into the living–room, sitting down on the couch exactly where Napoleon indicated. He was shaking with shock and reaction, face white and skin clammy. He could smell the blood even here.

When Napoleon left the room Illya stared at the door until Napoleon returned. Then, obedient, he swallowed the glass of water, only realising half way down that it was 100% proof vodka.

With a gasp that burned as oxygen hit the alcohol lining his throat, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin returned to himself.

* * * * *

PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV