The Circuitous Maze Affair

by

gm

---

PROLOGUE

***

Istanbul

"I need to know how much information you have passed on to UNCLE, Mr. Kuryakin."

The clipped, British accent made the request sound formally eloquent. As if Illya Kuryakin had just been asked if he preferred polo or cricket for entertainment. The Russian was tied to a metal chair in the laboratory of an utter madman. If the situation had not been so serious, Illya would have been amused at the stereotypical 'mad scientist' scenario. Without attracting attention, he continually scraped the rope that bound his hands on a loose screw in the back of the chair. His calm demeanor displayed none of his efforts, or the turmoil, which churned inside him. Kuryakin's voice held a cold superiority he had to force himself to create.

"I have nothing to tell you, Mowbry."

The tall, lean scientist paced away from the blond agent. Dr. Simon Mowbry was the foremost chemist in the ranks of THRUSH. The elaborate laboratory in which he stood was perhaps the most advanced chemical lab in the world. THRUSH had spared no expense. Mowbry glanced back at the young UNCLE operative who was tied to a support beam.

"I need that information," Mowbry admitted frankly. "And I promise you will give it to me, Mr. Kuryakin. No one knows I am holding you two here in Istanbul. There will be no rescue."

The Russian clenched his teeth together and shook his blond head. Outwardly, he hoped he projected a mask of neutrality. It would not do to let Mowbry know how painful it was to watch his partner suffer. Napoleon could be arrogant, egotistical and pompous, but he had been the best teacher and most friendly agent Illya had ever met in America.

In the years they had known each other Solo's charm had thawed some of the Russian's icy reserves and Illya did not want to lose someone he considered his only friend. After several years of partnership he cared very much about Solo, and this was a lousy time to figure that out, he realized. They had worked together on and off for two years and Kuryakin wanted to keep the relationship. They had learned a lot from each other; they worked well together, and Illya did not want Solo's death on his conscience. With a fleeting stab of honesty he realized he did not want to go back to the solitary -- boring -- life before Solo.

Strapped to a stretcher, Solo writhed in pain, shaking his head. "Don't give in, Illya!" he hissed.

Mowbry strolled over the senior agent. "Live subjects are very instructive," he casually stated as he patted Napoleon Solo on the shoulder. "We will learn so much from this little exercise.

On the far side of the lab a door opened and Alexandra Mowbry entered. She carried a tray of syringes and phials. Tossing the Russian a deceptively sweet smile, she joined her husband next to the senior UNCLE agent.

"Isn't Mr. Solo talking yet, dear?"

"No." Mowbry growled. "Nor is Mr. Kuryakin."

The woman tsked at the blond agent and picked up one of the phials. "We have several little sweets here to loosen a man's tongue."

She walked toward him and Kuryakin calculated the timing and distance. This could be their only chance and he had to make it count. As she stepped into range he delivered a roundhouse kick. It sent Alexandra sprawling backwards, into her husband, who fell atop Solo. The agent grabbed onto the doctor's shirt with one hand, twisted and stabbed the needle into the chemist with the other. Mowbry yelped, struggling to get free. Alexandra scrambled on the floor to retrieve the phial containing the antidote for the toxin just injected into her husband.

Illya shimmied down to the floor and kicked a scalpel over to the pole, where he maneuvered into his hands to cut the rope. Solo tipped over the stretcher and was wriggling out of the straps. By the time Kuryakin had the senior agent released, the Mowbrys were gone. Hoping he had read the label correctly, Illya injected what he prayed was the antidote into his partner's arm.

"That was close," Solo gasped, barely conscious. "Remind me to always keep you as my backup."

"I don't think my nerves can take it," Kuryakin retorted.

"Didn't think you had nerves, Illya," came the amused reply.

"I do now," the Russian admitted reluctantly, shaking the recumbent agent back to awareness. "Don't fall asleep, Napoleon, I don't want to have to carry you. You eat too many American cheeseburgers."

"Do my best," Solo promised wearily.

"Just try not to make me rescue you too often."

"Promise."

New York

The view from the window high above New York's East Side was bleak. The sky was grey and clogged with close, cold clouds. Napoleon Solo stared at the colorless-washed city with a numbness that had cloaked him for almost two months. He would always associate winter with death. The grim emptiness and numb-chill born of loss; of directionless static, of progressive momentum halted in mid-stride. November 22nd had brought all those morose feelings crashing down on Solo, on an entire nation. Camelot had fallen. It would take a long time to pick up the pieces. He would have to reach deep within himself and pull out the damaged idealism, the deflated optimism.

"Mr. Solo?"

Solo turned from the window and focused his attention on his superior, Alexander Waverly. The chief of UNCLE HQ New York put aside a sheaf of papers, indicating he was prepared to address his newly appointed Chief Enforcement Agent.

"There is a problem with the Zaire assignment."

The soberly delivered, euphemistic understatement defined 'problem' as a serious crisis. Napoleon felt his stomach tighten. Illya was on a one-man mission in the Congo. It had been too much for one agent, but no one else was available and Solo had been forced to appoint his best agent. It was the first time, in his capacity as the new head of Section Two, that he had sent Kuryakin on an assignment. Solo was finding out the responsibilities of leadership were sometimes difficult; sometimes agonizing, when his decision cost the life of an agent, or a civilian.

"What happened?" Solo asked calmly. No reason to let Waverly see his concern.

"Mr. Kuryakin was interrupted in his last communication, but indicated THRUSH has established an experimental lab for germ warfare on the Dark Continent. We have the coordinates. Mr. Kuryakin strongly urged we destroy the complex if he does not make contact within twelve hours. Please assemble a strike-and-destroy team."

Solo clearly understood the order, but refused to blindly accept the decision. "And Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Captured or killed. We can't be certain." Waverly concentrated on refilling a pipe that had smoldered out. "Mr. Kuryakin is a trained professional, Mr. Solo. His on-the-scene recommendation is to destroy immediately." Waverly pierced the young American agent with eyes steeled with resolve and purpose. "We hope it will not cost the life of Mr. Kuryakin, but this lab is too dangerous to delay action."

Solo couldn't accept losing Illya. Not now. Not when he had sent his partner into a deadly mission. Not when optimism and hope had ebbed to an all-time low in his life. More than ever before he needed something positive to cling to; something solid to which he could anchor himself. He could not, would not accept losing Illya. Period.

Some spark in his soul fired a responsibility to maintain the torch of hope for a better future, even though that hope now was no more than an insignificant flicker. Some indestructible, innate core of optimism would not let him give up trying. Perhaps that spark had been flamed to life with this threat to his closest friend. Never one to rely or trust in others too much before this, Solo now knew he could not lose Illya.

"I'll take care of it, sir," Solo replied crisply.

Waverly merely nodded, already turning his attention to some other important matter. Solo left the office, mentally mapping out a rescue plan.

Zaire

Much to Napoleon Solo's irritation he had not only failed to rescue Kuryakin, but he had been captured himself. Worse, if they did not escape within a half-hour  the UNCLE bombs scheduled to obliterate the base would kill both of them.

At this moment escape seemed a very remote hope. Mowbry's wedge to elicit information from Kuryakin was not torturing Illya, but Solo. The bond between the new Chief Enforcement agent and the Russian was well known to Mowbry who had previously held these two agents in captivity. During their first encounter in Istanbul the scientist had observed Illya's concern for his friend  This time, the cruelly brilliant chemist had gradually injected tiny amounts of poisons into Solo. It was only a matter of time before the accumulated toxins killed the agent.

Already Solo had trouble with concentration. His head reverberated with pain. Nausea and chills made his body shake. Solo could barely focus his eyes to see his partner across the room. Yet even at this distance he could sense Illya's turmoil.

"I believe the alkaline is next," Mowbry commented almost to himself. He took a syringe from a tray held by a young female assistant and jotted down some notes on a pad of paper. He stabbed the needle into Solo's red-pocked arm.

"Anything to say, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya kept his eyes on his partner as he continued to covertly fray the rope binding his wrists. In only moments he would be free. Impatience -- desperation -- urged him to hurry, but he would have to take his time to remain undetected. "No."

Suddenly Solo jerked against the bonds. A sharp cry of pain jolted from his throat.  "Don't -- give --" Solo demanded, cut off by a cry of pain.

"Napoleon!"

Kuryakin strained at his ropes. There was little point in keeping up an aloof pretense if Napoleon was dying. Alarmed, the young assistant jumped away from the table.

"Dear me," Mowbry commented as he peered closely at Solo's sweaty, pain-contorted face. "I believe Mr. Solo is having an allergic reaction from something in that alkaline compound." Mowbry stepped away and placed the tray of syringes on a table. "I can't give him any more," he explained in disappointment to Kuryakin. "The convulsions will start soon. Death will follow in a few hours. Maybe it will take all night. Some people take the longest time to die."

Kuryakin's eyes chilled with cold hatred. "Can you save him?" He cast an imploring look at the assistant who was frozen, as far away as she could get from the writhing victim. "Do something!" he pleaded.

Mowbry rummaged through a tray of phials. He placed one at the edge of his lab table. "This would help," Mowbry admitted as he filled the syringe with the antidote. His voice took on an edge of harshness. "Just like Istanbul.  But I will have that information first."

"No!" Solo yelled in a gasp. "He'll kill us both anyway," he warned, straining to get the words out, fighting the pain that ripped through his muscles and nerves.

The chair tipped over and Solo writhed on the floor. His tormented wrestling enabled him to break free of the chair. Mowbry reached for the agent, and Solo threw out a savage kick. His foot caught Mowbry's leg and sent the scientist crashing into the lab table. Kuryakin's bonds finally snapped and he leaped to tackle the scientist.  Too late. The wiry doctor had slipped around the table and was running for an exit.

Kuryakin did not attempt a chase. He immediately seized the antidote and injected his shaking partner.

"Napoleon?" No verbal response, but the eyes were focused in recognition. Relief was so painful it turned immediately to anguished fury. "Don't EVER do that again!"

"Tortured?" Solo whispered in confusion.

"Yes! No!" Kuryakin vacillated in anger. "I was doing just fine on my own! I could have escaped! But no, you come in and get yourself captured and -- and -- ruined everything!"

Momentarily the American's hazel eyes shaded in ire. "Argue later. Have to -- get out -- " Solo said through gritted teeth. "Bombing."

"Must you always wait until the last minute for the really important news?" the Russian snapped. He yanked the American to a standing position and dragged, half-carried him from the lab.

Kuryakin's mind was crammed with overloaded thoughts and emotions as they raced to safety.  During this disastrous capture he had been forced to confront several nasty realizations he had heretofore ignored: a) The use of someone else as a pawn to extract information from him. b) Controlling the life and death fate of someone in such a direct situation, c) Having that same someone's life in jeopardy trying to rescue him. d) That 'someone', the only person he had really befriended (who had befriended him), the only person willing to put his life on the line for Kuryakin was the one at risk.

Their past had held some sticky situations, but none quite this bad. The future would hold more dilemmas -- more choices between his partner's life and his duty to UNCLE. It could only get worse since his bond with the quixotic American became stronger with each assignment, with each day. The responsibility of friendship was something Napoleon obviously took very seriously. Illya felt that responsibility just as keenly, but less obviously. There would undoubtedly be more death-defying rescues for both of them. Given their careers there was little he could do to alter the pattern. However, Kuryakin made a private vow to himself: no matter what the future held, he would never allow his friend to die because of him. And he would do anything in his power not to allow a repeat of this scenario.

Supporting his trembling friend, Kuryakin rushed out of the lab and up the nearest stairs. A shadow cast on the wall alerted him to opposition and he dove to the side just in time to avoid a rake of bullets. Just above him, on the landing, was the shooter. The pistol jammed, and Kuryakin grabbed the enemy's gun, pulling the opponent head-first down the stairs. The horrible crack of bone on metal made him cringe as the assailant hit the stairs with a terrible thud and rolled to a stop at his feet.

"Oh, no," Illya breathed.

Solo groaned. "Alexandra Mowbry," he identified, of the dark woman whose sightless eyes were covered with blood. Beyond her was Mowbry's nameless assistant, also dead. "Nothing else you could have done, Illya."

Kuryakin gave a curt nod of agreement and grabbed the pistol. He slid back the slide and the jammed bullet ejected. Once more supporting his partner, they made it all the way to the ground floor before Mowbry intercepted them with a machine gun. Illya emptied the pistol in the scientist's direction and managed to get them to the nearest exit. The first bomb hit on the far side of the building, throwing the Russian and his burden to the ground. Illya scrambled up, grabbed Solo, and dashed out the door as the second bomb exploded nearby. They could hear Mowbry screaming for his wife as the third bomb fell and Kuryakin and Solo tumbled into a ditch.

"Are you all right?"

The space of several minutes passed before Solo caught his breath and nodded.

Kuryakin growled, "Good. Then I shall have the pleasure of killing you myself!" Solo raised his eyebrows in mute surprise. "What gives you the right to barge in and rescue me?" Illya shouted in livid ire. "I do not need your patronizing arrogance to think that I need my life saved!"

With a shake of his head the senior agent released a sigh. "My apologies. I felt it was my responsibility."

Kuryakin stared at the burning wreckage. "Don't talk to me about responsibility."

Napoleon could hardly tear his eyes away from the blazing building across the dirt street. He finally glanced to the left where his partner leaned against the wall beside him. Without a word he looked back at the building where Mowbry's lab had been housed.

Illya's hands trembled slightly with nervous energy; with aftermath adrenaline surges. He tenderly rubbed skin-worn, circulation starved wrists. "I didn't want that to happen," he admitted with quiet revulsion. Obviously feeling a natural disgust at any unnecessary killing. The deaths of two women were especially distasteful for a man ingrained with a natural, old-fashioned kind of gallantry.

"It was self-defense," Napoleon supportively responded. His voice was uneven, dark. He was still trying to catch his breath, still striving to calm racing nerves.  "I just don't like it to end like this." He closed his eyes. "I'm the Chief Enforcement Agent. I'm in charge now. My responsibility."

Kuryakin glanced at his moodily subdued friend.  He almost -- almost -- reached out, his anger at Solo endangering his life for him subsiding. How could he remonstrate his friend when Illya knew perfectly well he would have done the same if Solo's life had been in danger?

Even as Illya's hand raised he clenched his fist and folded hands in his lap. Times like these  brought out a rare vulnerability in the clever, suave American. Illya wanted to reach out and help, assure his friend that he was not alone.  That they shared profound extremes of fear and relief every time they survived a dangerous mission.  Illya could understand him -- as only another operative could understand -- perfectly.  Only those who danced with death could hear the unique strains of the perilous music of mortality.

Something in Illya's character -- some insurmountable wall of reserve -- forced him to pull back from anything resembling too much contact.  Neither of them could afford too much of an emotional stake in a friendship (although their friendship was already strong and fast; too close for any smart spy). So Illya would continue to deny he cared about what his partner felt or experienced. Napoleon's well-being was important because Solo was a good agent. And UNCLE agents needed to maintain a professional perspective at all times.

"Don't take blame upon yourself, my friend," Kuryakin wisely counseled. "I killed them." 

"I'm the senior agent. I sent -- I ordered -- YOU out here."

Despite his silent promise, his voice was sympathetic, holding no chastisement or reproach. "There is no reason to feel guilty for doing your job, Napoleon. You sometimes feel too much. There are some situations you cannot control." There was an underlying tone of concern, the hint of emotion edging toward a confession of -- of what? Friendship, of course. A very alien trait for a Russian to harbor for an American. How could he say that out loud? He could barely admit it to himself -- he could never actually confess it to his friend. Napoleon thought his irritation was about killing innocent people and NOT about Solo risking his life for Kuryakin. To keep his partner misled -- with an inner compromise -- Illya offered a gentle warning couched in the words. "Especially you should not be burdened about me. I am your best agent -- of course you would send me out for dangerous missions!"

Solo glanced back at his partner and studied the impassive face. Despite the wry attempt to lighten the tone, the comments were a sure indication of how upset Illya was about this little episode. Napoleon was deeply touched because he could read the worry in the Russian's eyes; in his voice, in his wording. Over the last few years he had learned to read the Russian as well as anyone could. He knew when Illya revealed the slightest bit of outward concern -- there was a hidden wealth of emotion that remained under the surface. The consideration helped lift some of the burden he felt. More important than the thoughtfulness, he realized, was the comprehension of what was really unfolding here. Illya's remonstrations were because of friendship, not professionalism.

After a moment Solo looked away. He tiredly rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the tension and residual unpleasantness of the nearly fatal drugs. He offered a weary smile to alleviate any concerns. "A personality flaw of mine, Tonto. I guess I need to learn some of your objectivity." There was just a touch of irony in the tone and Kuryakin blinked at the subtle message.

"That will be a start," Illya responded agreeably.

Napoleon snapped his head up, automatically preparing a defensive volley to that attack on his ego. He halted his retort when he saw a glint of humor in his friend's eyes. This was Illya's method of pulling him out of an inner darkness.

He responded lightly. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Kuryakin almost smiled. "Shall I list in detail?"

Solo shook his head, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Cute, Illya, cute."

Several moments of silence between them passed. Around them the street bustled with activity, but the agents were oblivious to the outside world.

"You amaze me."

"Da, da. I could say the same about you, tovarich," Napoleon responded gratefully. "Thanks for the timely assist."

"That's not what I meant," Kuryakin dryly corrected. "And you're welcome."

One eye opened and without leaving the support of the wall he turned his head to observe his companion. "Oh, comrade?"

"I mean, you amaze me," Kuryakin repeated, a wry emphasis on his delivery. "I hit a little snag on an assignment and look at the trouble you create." The Russian was smugly superior.

A grin threatened to emerge, but Solo repressed the show of amusement. It was a game they played, and he easily slipped into the spirit of the competition.

Illya had set a wonderful mood of concern and support, then lent a perfect sense of timing and humor. A stroke otherwise known as a display of friendship, Solo noted. He had stopped shaking, his stomach no longer felt trembly and weak. The traces of fear were fading. In the true, exemplary ideal of a friend, one person had reached out to help the friend in need. Illya had helped him far more than any three UNCLE psychiatrists, or a fifth of scotch could have ever accomplished for his mood.

He wanted to reach out and hold his friend, respond to the gestures with his own open gratitude. But that would be inappropriate to the odd angle of relationship they had established unique to their personalities and career. So Napoleon responded in the only way he could.

He opened his other eye and looked squarely at his partner. "Incorrigible, aren't I?" He let his voice, his eyes and expression fill in the message that words or actions could not convey.

Illya's eyes smiled in response, though his face hardly changed from his smooth expression. "Yes, you are," he admitted in full agreement.

This time Napoleon did grin. He turned his head back and closed his eyes again. "And do you have a solution to this problem?" he asked, relaxing with a new peace of mind.

"Not yet. It could take years," Kuryakin diagnosed with a dramatic sigh. "I'll have to keep an eye on you until my good influence can reform you."

"Hmmm."

"I do wish you would stop endangering yourself like this," Kuryakin continued in a gentle chide.  "I CAN take care of myself you know."

Glancing over to his friend Illya sighed.  Solo breathed contentedly as he drifted into a light sleep.  One of these days Illya was going to really chastise his friend for jumping in and saving him, when Illya was completely capable of taking care of himself. Some day. The admonishment would have to wait until later.

THE CIRCUITOUS MAZE AFFAIR

I

"Another fine mess . . . "

England

Before Napoleon Solo opened his eyes he took stock of his predicament. The fuzziness of unconsciousness slowly lifted and he sorted memories and sensations into proper categories.

His face was pressed against a cold, jagged surface -- stone, he decided. The dungeon. The last coherent memory was the clandestine entry into the castle in search of his captured partner. Where else would they put prisoners, but in the dungeon? Now he knew where he was, and that he was not alone.

"Are you going to sleep all day, or are you going to get up and make yourself useful?"

Solo tentatively opened one eye. There were no unpleasant surprises from his viewpoint of the dark ceiling, so he opened the other eye and rolled onto his side to face his partner.

"Is that the thanks I get for coming to rescue you?"

"Rescue?" the Russian repeated incredulously. "Is that what you call your blundering?"

"Oh ye of little faith," Solo muttered depreciatingly as he rubbed the sore spot at the back of his neck. "I haven't completed the second phase of the operation."

Illya Kuryakin shook his head in obvious irritation. "You want me to believe you planned to be captured?" He scratched the beard stubble on his face.

"I never PLAN on being zapped by a sleep dart, old son." Solo let out a long, deep sigh. This reunion was degenerating to a sniping match -- not at all what he had intended when he set out to rescue his friend. But he knew the Russian hated extended captivity and cold dungeons. Mostly, he resented that this was the fourth assignment in a row where Solo had been obliged to rescue the agent. Still, Illya seemed unusually snappish. Solo mentally shrugged. Illya would tell him what was wrong -- eventually.

"Really? And I was giving you a graceful out."

"What you're needing is some gratitude, Mr. K. I WILL rescue you!"

Solo slowly came to his feet and surveyed the small cell. Dungeons were depressing, uncomfortable places, but Solo had been in worse. Three stone walls and a stone ceiling. The unusual factor was that the fourth wall was a barred gate that was open.

"What's the game plan?"

His irritated tirade vented, Kuryakin focused on his partner with a level stare. His voice was detachedly controlled. "You know how Mowbry loves games."

Napoleon felt his stomach constrict at the mention of Mowbry's name. He understood Kuryakin's anger -- fear. This had been a well-engineered trap of vengeance. They had foiled the mad scientist three times in the last four years. Each time Mowbry's mania and rage grew. Now they were snared in the evil genius's trap and Mowbry had brought them here to die.

"Our cell is the center of a maze," Illya continued calmly. He brushed eye contact with Solo -- long enough to see the American caught the full implications of their captivity. Neither of them showed any signs of the fear they felt. "For the last four days I've explored every corridor," he gestured toward the open door. "They all lead back here."

"That is because you were never meant to escape, Mr. Kuryakin." The voice came from some indistinguishable point beyond the bars. The blurry resonance indicated the announcement came from a hidden intercom. "We had to wait for Mr. Solo to make an appearance."

"You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble," Solo quipped casually as he ventured into the corridor. He could see no intercom. He could see nothing beyond the few feet where the corridors curved into darkness. "I hate to be fussed over."

"No trouble at all, Solo." There was a brittle, derisive laugh. "It was simplicity itself. All I had to do was capture Mr. Kuryakin. I knew you were sure to follow. Your foolish commitment to each other is so predictable. As usual, I will work that to my advantage."

The British accented voice was edged with a hatred that chilled Solo's skin like the edge of a blade. But the UNCLE agent kept his face coolly expressionless. No point in letting the opposition know how much of a psychological advantage he had already. Not only did Mowbry scare Solo, but also it DID irritate Napoleon to be so predictable.

"I owe you a little something for Istanbul, and Gibraltar. But mostly, I owe you both for Zaire. Do you think I could ever forget Zaire?"

Kuryakin joined his partner in the corridor. The sober expression in his blue eyes acknowledged the memory of the Istanbul operation. It was an incident none of them would forget: Solo and Kuryakin had saved the world from a deadly chemical virus. In the process they had destroyed Mowbry's lab and accidentally killed his wife. Mowbry had been after them ever since, but they always managed to find him first and destroy his work, if not him.

"So why the maze?" Solo wondered.

"I wouldn't want this to be too easy," Mowbry responded harshly. "I owe you too much pain. The corridors are filled with deadly little devises of my own creation. If you can find the exit you are free."

The UNCLE agents exchanged suspicious glances. 'I don't like it,' Solo mouthed as he shook his head. Kuryakin nodded in silent agreement. Mowbry made no comment on their exchange, which indicated they were not under visual surveillance.

"And you will set us free just like that?" Illya countered skeptically.

"Not quite," Mowbry admitted slyly. "Many of the little traps have some nasty alkaline derivatives. You'll have to be careful of those, Solo," he sarcastically warned. "You wouldn't want a repeat of your exquisite pain that you felt in Zaire, would you? Oh, you will feel that pain again, Solo. The pain of Zaire! I can never forget it and neither will you!"

Solo refused to acknowledge the chilling fear that snaked along his spine. The Zaire operation had taken its toll on Kuryakin as much as himself. It had been the first assignment when hey had been used against each other and had so very nearly been killed. They could not give in to the fear, now. They needed to stay cool. Mowbry was the unbalanced lunatic, they were the experienced agents. If they played it right they could both get out of this alive.

"And what if we decide not to play the game?" Solo retorted defiantly.

"I don't think UNCLE's finest would sit in a cell and placidly await death."

Napoleon scowled. He hated being so predictable.

"The only requirement is that only one of you can leave alive," he laughed with deranged delight. "Did I forget to mention that?" He giggled until he was out of breath. "Only one of you can live!" he shouted a moment later. "One will die horribly and the other will live in pain forever. Because I want you to know what it's like to lose someone you love and suffer for years. That's what I will give to you two! Death and pain, gentlemen, death and pain!"

Napoleon's expression was sour. Kuryakin muttered something under his breath.

"You're insane, Mowbry," Solo dismissed.

"Mad, Solo!" Mowbry screamed back. "Angry, hurt! But not so insane to miss a perfect form of execution for one of you." Mowbry's voice was almost hysterical as he recounted disjointed details of his wife's death, of his own suffering. The tirade deteriorated into almost incoherent mutterings. Mowbry was completely deranged. "You are both trapped in a maze of your own making! You will die in this maze! And I promise before you die I will fill you with as much pain as I have felt!"

The intercom went dead. The agents stood in silence, staring at each other for several minutes. No suitable comments came to mind as they contemplated their bizarre death sentence.

"Another fine mess you've gotten us into," Kuryakin snapped.

Solo sensed more than just tension emanating from the man a few feet behind him. Kuryakin was brooding; submerging some form of moodiness that bubbled just beneath the surface, hinting at an imminent explosion. Solo's impression was that Illya's incisive barbs were directed at him -- blaming Solo for this whole mess. If so, it was something he didn't want to confront until the problem of survival had been solved. Right now they needed to pull together -- work together, or die together.

Solo's eyes were cool as he glared at his partner. "Something's been eating at you since I got here. Why don't you just get it out."

Kuryakin shrugged a shoulder. "There is no point. What's done is done."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Solo snapped. Even as he tried to stop it, he could feel the impatient anger slipping beyond his strained control. He knew they had gone too far. They were going to argue this out now -- against all common sense -- against the fatal time clock they were trying to beat.

Kuryakin nodded, almost an agreement to Solo's introspection. Their minds so often worked on the same wavelength, it was no surprise their thoughts were in tandem now.

"This entire charade could have been avoided," Illya explained curtly. "If you had minded your own business and left me alone I could have escaped on my own."

Solo was incredulous. "You're mad because I rescued you again?"

"Something you always have to point out."

Several seconds passed as Solo tried to collect his confused thoughts. It wasn't like Illya to be so resentful over a bit of teasing. There had to be a deeper reason, and that would require a more probing interrogation.

"You were captured!"

"I could have escaped," the Russian countered quickly, defensively. "I do it all the time -- because of you I might add! Just as I am constantly rescuing you! And if you had left me alone we would both have the chance to stay alive!"

The cutting words were delivered like machine-gun fire. Once loosed, they revealed more than Kuryakin had intended. He abruptly stopped the tirade.

"Fine. I'll just throw myself into this pit. That should solve the problem!" The angry, piercing words were volleyed back, before Solo could stop the rash invectives.

Kuryakin's expression and body language told a different story than his recently resentful words. Solo knew that -- but was unable to stop his vicious retort.

In the flickering firelight of the torch, Illya actually paled at Solo's remarks. He turned away, trying to hide the fear elicited by the threat. The resentment was suddenly clear to Solo. Illya's reaction was a backlash of feelings harbored over many missions and years. The Zaire incident had been one of the sorest grievances, but one they both ignored, hoping it would go away along with the other painful times they had experienced. Neither of them could ever come to terms that one partner was forever risking his life to save the other. Like a mobius strip, the rescuer/rescuee scenario was a circuitous peril they seemed destined to repeat ad infinitum. Illya's anger now was an almost guilt reaction. Solo had placed himself in danger again to save the Russian. But neither of them could expect any solution. They could not overcome the instinctive desire to protect each other.

Solo sighed wearily, frustrated at the inevitability of this confrontation. He was suddenly very unhappy with the complications of life -- of life and death situations. He did not have the resolve to face this emotional Rubicon, nor did he feel this was the right time or place. Yet, if they were to survive, they had to work together. Divided, they would both surely perish.

"Perhaps we should concentrate on other matters," Kuryakin wryly suggested as he faced Solo again. The Russian was back in control. "We need to find an exit. You know how impatient I am."

Solo nodded, reading the full meaning behind the words.

II

"Let the games begin."

"So, what shall we do"

"We can sit here and starve," Illya grumbled.

"Too late for you already," Napoleon countered blandly. He stepped farther out into the corridor, walking to the edge of the light and peered into the darkness. "But I do hate being so predictable."

"I know." Kuryakin joined him, scowling as he stared into the black. "I don't like it."

"We don't have much of a choice, do we""

"That's why I don't like it."

Napoleon grinned and patted his friend's shoulder. "Come on, McDuff. We'll take it slow and careful and I'll stand you for dinner at Simpson's."

"The Savoy if you're paying, Napoleon," he countered as he followed his partner.

Their first few steps were cautious and slow, both reluctant to lose the tiny circle of light from the cell. The stone floor and walls were slick with slime and aged moisture. Each step was taken with caution and consideration. They waited every few paces to allow their eyes to adjust to the dark. Just before they lost the light completely, Illya stepped in front of his partner.

"Let me go first."

"Why should I? It's not your turn to be the hero, is it? It's my rescue, you know."

"The poison."

Napoleon frowned his disapproval. "There could be worse than poison up ahead. I'll go first."

Kuryakin glared at the American. "I have explored this maze already. I should go first."

Solo nodded his approval of the plan and fell into step behind his partner. He also suggested that every few feet they scrape the wall with the heels of their shoes to mark the trail. Kuryakin's knowledge came to little use since his explorations had taken place with lighted corridors. They came to a branch in the corridor and arbitrarily chose the left direction. Twenty more paces brought them around a curve where they were in complete darkness. Inching their way forward, Kuryakin snagged onto something with the side of his foot.

"Ooch! Oooo, hot! Don't touch the walls, Napoleon!"

"What?" Solo halted in midstride. "You hurt?"

"Cut and singed." He carefully reached down with his uninjured hand. "A nail or spike in the wall by the floor. Nasty." He sniffed his fingers. "No poison on the nail, but there was something on the wall. When I touched it with my hand it burned. Acid"

Solo's sigh of relief was loud in the still corridor. "How bad?"

"Just a scratch. Let's keep moving."

"Be careful. I'll be in front."

"No, let me, I might be able to recognize some to the area."

"All right, for a bit, then we'll switch. Deal?"

"Deal," the Russian reluctantly agreed.

Tediously they stumbled carefully forward. Soon their eyes adjusted to the dark and they were able to see shapes of the walls and cracks of light occasionally. It was not a completely sealed maze and they whispered theories on what must lie on the other side of the stone.

Neither of them had gone unscathed. Countless cuts and abrasions marked their hands, arms, faces -- any exposed skin, but without a trace of poison. Twice they passed areas of hallway where their scrape marks were dull against the slick walls. It was difficult not to scream with rage and fear, but Solo kept a firm hold on his nerves and emotions.  Dread prickled at his skin along with the sweat.  Illya was with him, which offered moral support and practical help, but was also hard on his nerves. Now he had his friend to worry about, not just his own skin. If something happened to Illya -- no -- he wouldn't let the fear consume him. If something happened, they would deal with it and get out of here. That was the only option. He would not accept anything less. Somehow, they had to make it out of here together.

There was no way to avoid some of the invisible chemicals lining the walls and coating the hidden booby-traps: blades that shot from walls, flying weapons imbedded in the stone, trap doors that dropped into pits of fatal chemicals. Several near misses had them both jumpy.

Kuryakin was a step ahead when the floor slid down a forty-degree slope. His shoe slipped on the slick stone and he yelped as he slipped along the rough stone. Napoleon made a grab for his friend, instinctively dropping to his knees, grabbing for a handhold on the wall, and snaring his friend's arm. Kuryakin's momentum carried them down, scraping their skin on the jagged stone as they tumbled and rolled until they hit a solid object with full force.

"Ahhhhh!"

Kuryakin had plunged shoulder first into his partner. The cry of distress indicated more than just the painful abrasions from the slide, or the impact of him falling against Solo.

"What is it?"

"Ooooo," Napoleon hissed in agony. "Sharp pain. Shoulder. Whatever I hit is spiked."

Kuryakin came to his knees. "Don't move. Let me try and pull you --"

He reached back, but Solo grabbed his hand. "No, could be poison." He trembled and doubled forward, tearing free of the barbs. "Ahhh," he cried out, his fingers digging into his friend's arm. "Damn," he grated. "Poison. I can feel it. My back -- everything's turning to fire."

The sound of a speaker crackling to life rattled through the corridor. "Well, well, it didn't take very long, did it? I was so hoping you two experts could give me some entertainment. You're so disappointing."

"What did you do to him?" Kuryakin shouted, his rage overtaking reason and control. Of course he knew what happened. He also knew this was just the response Mowbry loved to feed his hatred. None of that mattered now. His friend was in agony, suffering in his arms and he could do nothing. "Damn you, Mowbry! Is it the alkaloid?"

Subdued lights snapped on. Illya saw the back of Napoleon's shirt was spotted with jagged, red-smeared cuts. His friend writhed in pain, still holding onto him, bruising his arm. Kuryakin held tighter onto Solo.

"He's reacting to the poison . . . "

"Napoleon!"

"He will die, Mr. Kuryakin. Only you can be saved. "

"Don't cooperate, Illya," Solo warned between clenched teeth. "He just wants us dead. No matter what happens to me, Illya, get out! Save yourself!"

"I can't, I won't, Napoleon. Please just shut up. Can you walk? If I help?"

"Leave me."

"You know I won't do that. Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I'm just weak."

"I'll help you."

They struggled to their feet and Kuryakin waited for a moment as he shifted Napoleon to a stable position at his side. He felt his friend jump when he placed his arm around the injured, lacerated shoulder, but there was nothing for it, the pain would have to be endured. Illya could feel the warm blood seeping through his shirt and cringed at the damage he could only imagine.

There had been no more communications from Mowbry. Presumably he was watching, waiting for the climax to his games staged in the seemingly endless underground maze. Now they could see because of the illumination, but the corridor curved just ahead and Illya was hesitant of the unknown. He was also leery of the glimmering objects lining the walls and floor ahead. Taking a few tentative steps, he navigated them to the curve. Up ahead there was another branch, this time three narrow corridors, each one only wide enough for one man. The good news was that there were lighted torches in all three halls. They consulted for a moment, Solo lending little more than grunts of advice. The pain was nearly unbearable for him and more and more Kuryakin was taking the bulk of his weight. They decided on the left again and Illya edged ahead, dragging his partner along a foot at a time.

"At this rate it will take a century to escape," Illya whispered darkly, harshly.

Solo refused to respond to the Russian's pessimism with anything other than a forced optimism. "Have a little faith in the Solo luck, IK."

"I think your luck is all bad today," came the caustic reply.

Hours had passed since Illya and he had left the cell. Nerves were as raw as their wounds. Stretched almost beyond endurance, tension permeated from them as profusely as the sweat. They were racing against time -- against a madman -- against the odds. Conversation had deteriorated to occasional grunts, groans and Kuryakin's morbid predictions. Solo could hardly breath, hardly move, and soon collapsed to his knees. There was no room to carry his friend on his shoulders -- Kuryakin slid down to sit next to the wounded agent.

"You can get out of here on your own."

"I will not even acknowledge that comment," Kuryakin nearly growled. "Let's just get going."

The low ceiling sloped up to a large cavern area, while the floor of the dungeon sloped down. They crawled, single-file. Illya came to a stop and leaned on his elbows as he studied the terrain. Solo drew up beside him.

"Definitely a trap door." Kuryakin indicated the floor a few feet from their position.

"Too obvious," Solo countered, voice trembling, and body shaking from the pain and poison.

"What do you suggest, walking across it?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Testing the trap door."

Kuryakin broke off a rock that jutted from the wall. He threw the rock onto the dungeon floor. Nothing happened. The agents exchanged nervous glances. Illya held his torch at the very end and waved it near the floor. Still nothing happened.

Solo weakly dislodged another rock and threw it at one of the walls. There was no result.

"I know it is a trap." Kuryakin was certain.

"Yes," Solo agreed thoughtfully. "But how do we spring it without springing us?" He leaned his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes. "Got to be careful. You need to get out." he whispered, barely coherent.

"Let me try something," Kuryakin suggested, glancing at his friend, desperate for a solution.

"Careful."

Kuryakin leaned his back against the nearest wall and slowly slid along the rock. Inch by inch he cautiously studied every crevice he could see in the dim light of his torch.

"There's a crease-line in the wall," Illya pointed across the corridor then inched toward it.

SNAP!

Illya rolled away from the wall, just missing the spikes that shot to the surface. At the same instant deadly spears dropped one at a time from the ceiling. Illya was rolling right into their path.

"Illya!"

Solo struggled up and lunged the last few feet to tackle Kuryakin. The momentum tumbled them across the floor. The roll was halted only when a spear dropped into Solo's back and jammed them to a stop.

Solo dug his head into Kuryakin's back to stifle his scream of pain.

"Napoleon!"

"Don't move," Solo grated as he gripped onto Illya's shoulders and pressed his weight against his partner. "Could be more booby-traps."

Kuryakin barely nodded. "How bad?" he whispered.

"Along my side," the American breathed raspily. "Hit my ribs."

"I'm going to slide out," Kuryakin warned. He slowly, carefully inched out from under his partner. He was almost free when Solo clutched his arm in a bone-breaking grip.

"Alkaline," Solo said with gritted teeth.

Illya quickly scrambled up and examined the wound. The short spear was imbedded on the side of Solo's back, one barbed edge snagged under the skin. He could see no trace of poison on the barb, but knew Solo's internal detection system was never wrong. Already the wounded agent was instinctively curling from the constricting pain. Illya firmly placed a hand on Solo's back. He would have to remove the spear to prevent further poisoning. He hesitated, unwilling to cause his friend more pain, especially when it was so futile. Napoleon was already as good as dead.

"Get away --"

"Shhhh." Kuryakin pleaded, pressing his fingers against solo's lips. "We've already had this argument. Can you walk? We have to get out of here. Try and stand."

"It'll be all right, Illya . . . The bombers are coming. You have to leave."

Illya groaned. "No, Napoleon. We're not in Zaire. We're in England." He felt his friend's hot, flushed face and leaned head-to-head, touching the fevered skin with his. "Please hold on."

Blood-smeared dirt coated the palm of his filthy hand as Napoleon wiped sweat and grit from his eyes. This level was dry and dusty and there was very little airflow at the bottom of the dungeon floor. His throat felt choked from the centuries-old dust stirred by their disturbance. His senses were distorted; light-headed from the heat, the lack of oxygen, the slight traces of poison circulating in his system -- preliminary symptoms of illness from the drugs. That was why the flashbacks of Zaire came so easily -- so readily to his memory. Not that he could ever forget the way his muscles and nerves had reacted to the poison. The exquisite pain so intense he still shivered from the memory. With effort he returned his mind to the present difficulties.

"Got to get the blade out," Napoleon whispered close to Illya's ear. "Get the poison out."

Kuryakin quietly shushed his partner, angry and anguished at the same time.

"This is our chance," Solo whispered urgently. "I'll play dead. Only way out."

For silent seconds Kuryakin reviewed his alternatives. Solo's only chance was escape. Even if they were freed it seemed a toss up whether Napoleon would bleed to death or die from the poison. However, Illya was not going to wait around to find out.

Kuryakin squeezed Solo's shoulder. "My performance will be unforgettable," he assured. "Now hold on." He closed his eyes to concentrate -- to avoid catching Napoleon's reaction to the agonizing operation. "And remember, do not get too carried away with your role."

"Gottcha."

One hand pushed on Solo's back as Illya yanked out the spear with his right hand. Solo bit into his arm to cover his scream, and then went limp. Illya could not tell if it was an act or unconsciousness. He removed his shirt and pressed it against the wound.

Desperation -- real fear, anger and anguish permeated his tone. "You killed him!" Kuryakin shouted into the air. "You murdered my friend!"

The crease-line in the wall widened and Mowbry emerged from a hidden corridor. He was smiling in triumph.

"Just as I hoped. Do you know now what it felt like when you and Solo killed my wife?" Mowbry stepped aside and gestured toward the newly revealed corridor. "This is your path to freedom, Kuryakin."

"I just walk away?" Illya questioned, his voice shaking.

"Yes. That's part of my vengeance. Your reward is a lifetime of guilt," he snapped bitterly. "Your friend died saving your life, Kuryakin. Live with that!"

"Murderer," Illya breathed, his voice low, trembling.

He felt every bit of the agony Mowbry had described. This was his fault. The anguish was nearly overwhelming. It was the anger that cleared his head. The cold, vengeful madness that filled his mind with purpose -- with the balm of revenge.

In an economy of movement Illya threw the spear -- straight, hard and true. It struck Mowbry in the shoulder. The scientist fell back with a cry of pain. He crashed onto a brittle layer of flooring, which crumbled into a pit. The echo of Mowbry's cry reverberated against the rocks for several seconds until there was silence from the jagged crevice.

Kuryakin deeply sighed. His nerves felt rubbery in the aftermath of the crisis. He dropped his head down to lean on Solo's shoulder, then released another long, shaky breath. It was hard to believe it was over. He sat up and looked at his partner. Almost over. Mowbry's last tirade echoed in his mind. This terrifying fear would never really be over. There would always be anxiety for his friend. And if Napoleon died? The guilt would never ease. He could never live with that kind of purgatory.

Illya was trapped in the emotions of friendship as surely as he had been trapped in this maze. A circular maze of concern for his friend's safety -- of responsibility for someone very important to him. There seemed no way out of that trap. Illya slowly came to his feet and picked up his unconscious partner. He walked into the secret corridor without ever looking back at the torturous maze.

III

"The time has come . . . "

He methodically, neatly stacked the manila file folders on the far left side of the desk. Aside from the files the desktop was empty. 'A fitting analogy,' he fleetingly pondered. He glanced from the nearly deserted surface to the paper bag on the floor which contained the few personal items he had removed from the desk. 'Another apt comparison,' he decided. Meager materialistic residue -- easily packed away as he now stuffed and stored part of his life into an imaginary attic of the past.

***

Napoleon Solo walked toward his office with a glowing feeling of satisfaction. He had released himself from the hospital not quite an hour before. He felt a sense of freedom in escaping from the sterile confines and reentering the real world. His world. UNCLE HQ was his true home, where he spent almost all of his time, where his friends -- his life -- were centered. Added to the sense of homecoming was the relief that he almost always felt when Illya and he returned from a dangerous mission; once more victorious, one more time cheating death.

This time the margin had been very slim between life and death. Solo still felt weak and sore. Recovery seemed a little slower with each year, with each injury. Yet each recovery brought a greater sense of gratitude that he, or Illya, had been given another chance.

As he passed Kuryakin's office he gave in to a sudden impulse to see his friend. He entered the office and stopped dead in his tracks, almost getting pinched by the closing metal doors. He had seen Kuryakin in varying emotional stages, but never in a cleaning fit that wiped all clutter from the Russian's office. Kuryakin looked up when Solo entered the room. It was the strange expression of confusion and -- regret? -- that transfixed the American into immobility.

"Spring cleaning?" The words were clumsy, delivered from the depths of a throat dry with suspense.

Kuryakin looked squarely into his friend's brown eyes. "No. Packing." He barely paused for a breath. "I've been transferred. I'm the new Number Three Section Two at London HQ." The explanation was shot out with a speed that almost blurred the words.

Surprise was quickly flooded over by anger. "Waverly can't do that!" Solo hotly insisted. "I won't let him!"

He turned to exit the room. Kuryakin vaulted over the desk and grabbed Solo by the arm, bodily pulling him back far enough for the doors to close.

"Owwww! Illya -- !"

"Sorry. Napoleon you can't go to Waverly," Kuryakin said breathlessly.

"Why?"

"I'm the one who requested the transfer."

The close blue eyes were so intense Solo instantly knew it was the truth. For an eternal moment he felt weak -- unbalanced in a world without reason. Only Kuryakin's firm grip on his arm kept him from falling against the wall. Napoleon told himself it was a reaction of his weakened physical state. It seemed like a long time before he could even think coherently. So many confusing thoughts crowded with equally confused emotions -- cluttered and swirled within his mind. He tried to sort out the debris of irrelevance and seize onto the most vital thoughts.

Napoleon shook his head, stuttering, incredulous. "I don't believe it."

"Napoleon --"

"Waverly can't do this. I can't lose you --"

"Napoleon! It's done! The transfer is final!" The raised voice echoed unnaturally in the room and he calmed down, took a breath, and started over again. "This is the best for everyone, Napoleon. Don't contest it."

"Why?" he finally asked, fighting to keep that simple word impartial. But he could hear part of his confusion and hurt had crept into the question.

"I believe our partnership has outlived its usefulness," Kuryakin began carefully. His voice had achieved a perfected level of neutrality. "We have fallen into a trap of carelessness because we depend upon each other too much." Solo opened his mouth in protest, but Kuryakin held up a hand to gesture a halt. "Please, let me finish."

The explanation was reasonable, sensible, a well thought out presentation, which covered all the salient points. It detailed instances when one or the other of them had become lax, relying on the other partner to save him. It included several examples of the many risks and rescues they had endured for each other.  Toward the end of the speech Kuryakin's attitude altered to a gradually escalating acrimonious tirade.  A long list of examples where Solo put himself at risk -- Zaire, England, Argentina, Mexico -- to save Illya.   In those same situations Illya had not been allowed to give in to save Napoleon.  Kuryakin now realized he WOULD HAVE given in -- broken, confessed, surrendered -- done whatever required to save his friend.  And that, perhaps, was the greatest reason the partnership should end.  Kuryakin no longer had the objectivity to function as a proper agent.

Solo wanted to argue with every point, debate each issue, but Kuryakin refused to be interrupted. As Solo listened to the indictment he found his emotional objections whittled away by the relentless logic of his partner's theories. He sensed meanings beyond the words -- the things he had felt, Illya had felt, but could never put into words: The warnings that one day the foolish risks, the impulsive rescues would kill one or both of them. They had always known that. Somehow the strength of the partnership had negated those risks. Now Illya had lost that faith in their indestructibility. All the arguments in the world could not bring that imperviousness back. Without that faith, neither of them would be indestructible. Without the implicit belief in their luck/skill/partnership, the magic no longer shielded them, no longer existed.

"I believe, separately, we will be able to revive that edge of skill we have lost," Kuryakin concluded almost questioningly, hoping for Solo's confirmation. He waited for a response. His expression, for once, was very readable and open. There was obvious resolve in his face, but the eyes contradicted with eloquent regret.

Fatalistic acceptance drowned out the hottest wash of emotions -- the anger, the resentment. Solo should have foreseen this separation. He had half-expected Waverly to split the team over time. Too many of their rescues were too dangerous, or too selfish. What hurt most was that Illya had instigated the split. The painful self-pity made him strike out in a futile rebellion he had no heart to support.

"You need time to recover from this last mission," he offered, a faint trace of pettiness noticeable in the comment.

"I gave this a great deal of thought, Napoleon. Not just since this last mission, but that is a perfect example of what I'm concerned about. Mowbry knew exactly how to get to us because he understood our friendship. He's not the only one who's done that, because we've become notorious targets for our enemies --"

"Because we're effective, Illya. We're damn good!"

"We are also targets. We are too high profile --"

"And we get the job done!"

"The decision is overdue, Napoleon. This is for our survival. It's the only answer," was the firm reply. "It is time for us to go in different directions for awhile."

"This is what our friendship means to you?"

As frequently happened when Solo lost his temper, he cruelly attacked with uncanny accuracy. He always regretted the word-weapons he could never retrieve. This time he saw his barbs had deeply wounded his victim -- more than he intended. But then, he never intended to hurt his best friend. It was a sour, defensive instinct that caused him to attack when he as being attacked.

The accusation brought pain to the Russian's eyes, narrowed to ward off the verbal blow. "I want to improve our chances for staying alive," Kuryakin responded in a clipped tone. "It should not affect our friendship."

"And this won't?" was the sharp, incredulous retort. "We're stronger together -- we've always been more successful together! That's how we survive, Illya!"

The imploring met only Kuryakin's troubled blue eyes. For several silent moments Solo struggled on another track of confusion. He had always felt their friendship was enmeshed with the partnership, their careers, etc., etc. . . . . Traitorous whispers of betrayal entered Solo's mind. He knew Illya was not telling the whole truth. There was something the cagey Russian was concealing. But Solo's emotional response was overwhelming his reason. He was reacting now with impulse; with the desperate realization he had just lost the most important fight of his life.

"You're feeling responsible about our problems with Mowbry," Solo snapped, feeling his sense of control slipping away. He was unable to rebuild the crumbling emotions that filled him with a dichotomy of emptiness, and overpowering despair. "You always feel guilty when things go wrong. Well, I'm responsible too! Or is this your way of blaming me?"

As he knew it would, the harsh attack closed Illya to any avenue of reconsideration. The Russian's face became coldly resolute.

"I have made my decision, Napoleon. You cannot change my mind."

"And it's the biggest mistake of your life," Solo condemned, his voice low.

The harshness of tone reflecting the wounded pride, the sense of loss expressed on his face. Without another comment he left the room, knowing he was making the biggest mistake of his life; by not fighting, by not arguing and bullying Illya out of this decision, by walking out on the most important person he had ever known.

IV

"Different sides of the same coin."

San Francisco

The Molitov cocktail exploded just a few feet from Solo. He was saved from the deadly glass fragments by quickly ducking around a corner of the nearest building. The rally had turned into a full-blown riot on the scenic streets of Berkley, transforming the pretty suburb of San Francisco into a battle-zone. Solo slipped back into the street and tried again to infiltrate the mob of college protesters. It was a tricky assignment to keep out of the way of both the police and the rioters. No easy task given the volatile tempers on both sides. Away from the riot lines, the streets were peaceful, empty. The warm California sun toasted the spring blossoms and lent a faint, sweet fragrance in the air. There was now no sign of the THRUSH agent who instigated the violence. Naturally the operative had taken advantage of the confusion and slipped away when the confrontation became physical.

Solo managed to weave around the hottest spots of the riot. He would corner the agent at the small apartment that had become a headquarters of the protest group. Napoleon was determined not to let this THRUSH slip out of his grasp. THRUSH had made the mistake of allowing one of its riot instigators to be captured on the evening news. It had confirmed Solo's theory that THRUSH was behind some of the most violent protests around the US. Waverly had finally given him permission to track down the culprits.

The mission had been more distasteful than Napoleon had anticipated. For the most part he was sympathetic to the protesters. The small residual traces of political conscience left inside leaned him against the current US policies. He had lost most of his political idealism when Kennedy had been assassinated. Almost no hope had survived the last devastating months when King had been murdered -- then only weeks ago when Bobby was killed.

Solo disagreed with a lot of his country's policies, with the involvement in Vietnam . . . . But UNCLE agents were apolitical by necessity. Patriotism was supplanted by the international credo of the worldwide organization. Investigating college peace organizations had been a real challenge. Solo was instantly categorized in the 'over-thirty' crowd and instantly distrusted by most of the students. There had been no time for growing long hair and a beard (even if he would have, which he doubted).

'If Illya would have been here . . . .'

He savagely pushed the thought away. Months of silence had slowly passed without talking to, or hearing about his former partner. The break-up was still a painful wound for him. He had tried to convince himself he could do just fine without the Russian. However, the internal debate was never convincing.

Napoleon took a short cut through a back alley and came up to the boardinghouse from the back. He was almost onto the first of the old wooden steps, when the THRUSH agent came around the corner of the house. The initial instant of eye contact established the tone of the deadly confrontation. Both operatives knew this would be a fight to the death. The THRUSH man dove around the corner as he drew his pistol. Solo ducked behind the meager cover of the staircase. Before a shot could be fired a lady exiting the back door of the house interrupted them. The THRUSH agent seized her as a hostage.

"Throw the gun where I can see it and come out with your hands up."

Solo almost laughed. "You're kidding! That's suicide."

"Are you going to let this lady die instead?" The agent's hand over her mouth muffled her protests.

"You'll kill her anyway," Solo countered, mildly surprised at his own callousness.

It sounded like a bluff, but he knew better. He didn't really care right now about the woman, or about his own survival. He wanted to kill the THRUSH agent. That was the only cold, desensitized thought in his mind. There was enough of a trace of objectivity left inside him to recognize his humanity had drained away. The realization made him numb with cold fear.

"Drop the gun or I kill her on the count of three. One. Two . . . ."

Solo stood, aimed his Special, and fired. The bullet struck the THRUSH agent in the head, throwing the body several feet. The woman fell back with the operative's hand still around her face. She frantically freed herself from the dead man's grip and screamed in hysteria. Solo turned around and walked away. He felt no ability or interest in comforting the woman. He felt almost nothing, except that cold, confused fear that he was dead inside. Somehow his core of optimism had been disintegrated by the years of erosion in the spy business. He no longer cared why he was an UNCLE agent. He went through the motions because it was a job -- the only thing he knew.

A fleeting shaft of blame shot from his thoughts and attached to his former partner. He would like to condemn Illya for this emptiness, but he couldn't. If anything, Illya had been a stop-gap, a floodwall against the cynicism; against the ruthlessness of a cruel profession. Though Kuryakin was known as a brooding, pessimistic agent, Illya's unique brand of humor -- yes, of friendship -- had been a grappling hook for Solo's slipping ideals. No matter how dark the world became, Illya had always been there; to bolster him, to support him, to care. Without that solid support, Solo's newly acquired fatalism had overwhelmed the idealism. Napoleon felt a renewed desolation, a deeper deflation of spirit than he had ever known. He knew he had finally hit rock bottom. He had lost more than a friendship those infinite months ago. He had lost a part of himself that could never be regained.

***

"Four minutes."

Illya Kuryakin took another quick look at the complex wiring on the bomb. It was an ingeniously constructed explosive. Too sophisticated to disarm in four minutes. Too much of a risk with the lives of the three CID detectives who huddled next to him in the dingy, damp basement of the small hotel in northern Scotland.

Kuryakin had been closing in on the small satrap in this region. An UNCLE strike team had raided the building less than an hour earlier. One of the UNCLE men had been killed in the raid. The bomb had been left as a parting present from the THRUSH agents.

'Napoleon would have risked the defusing,' he thought. "Let's go," Illya ordered, shoving aside any other thoughts. The CID men followed him out of the basement and into the drizzly day.

The four men jumped into a waiting jeep and were driven to the police barriers at the edge of the small town.

The residents had been evacuated. They watched as part of their village disintegrated in a blinding orange ball of flame.

Kuryakin covered his eyes from the brightness. As senior agent he had made the decision to evacuate the town instead of risking the possibility of a premature detonation. He knew he had made the right, logical choice. So why did he feel so depressed? As he packed his gear into the UNCLE vehicle Kuryakin tried to avoid the answer that nagged at his thoughts. He knew why he had played it safe this time; just as the last mission, the last year.

His tour of duty in London HQ had been rather uneventful, comfortable (dull). He found very little interest in the field assignments. He played it safe, routine. Kuryakin knew he had stopped growing, stopped stretching himself when he came to England. Now he knew why. There was no reason for risk; for stretching, for the competitive edge that kept his mind sharp and his instincts honed. The game had become boring, the -- fun -- was gone. The everlasting purpose of saving the world was no longer enough. Even the loss of one of his men was hardly more than a disappointment -- except for the relief it had not been Solo. Kuryakin felt almost detached from feeling anything deeper than a sense of obligation to the organization.

The realization suddenly brought his whole life into perspective. Pessimistic by nature of his childhood hardships, Kuryakin had joined UNCLE as an opportunity to do something important with his life. Early in his career he had been teamed with the effervescent, ebullient Solo. The American had turned around the natural darkness which shrouded Kuryakin. Napoleon had taught him how to care about people again, how to make perilous dangers worth the incredible risks, how to trust his life to someone else.

Initiating the split of their partnership had been designed as a survival step. However, it had instead become a long journey through limbo. The noblest parts of his feelings, his motivations, were gone. Illya knew he would never regain them without regaining his partnership with Napoleon. But to reestablish the partnership (even if they could -- if Napoleon would), would mean the same insoluble problems Illya could not reconcile before.

He would have to resign himself to this meaningless existence in a limbo of his own making. It seemed the less painful of two distasteful options.

V

"Turn about is fair play."

Madagascar

"Welcome to Madagascar, Mr. Solo," Raymond Tupelan greeted as he shook hands with the American. Tupelan was a tall, fair skinned Venezuelan. "Is this your first trip to our office?"

"Yes," Solo distractedly replied as he followed the Section One agent who was the head of station.

The Madagascar office was small and compact. Solo automatically compared it to New York HQ. He had not been back to his 'home base' in almost five months. He constantly compared other HQ's with New York for some irrelevant reason. Habit, he supposed. He had no sentiments attached to buildings or grey corridors -- just with the memories he associated with New York.

For most of this year he had done his best to avoid New York. Administrative duties for Section Two had fallen on his Number Two. Solo made it a point to push from one assignment to another. He kept busy, forcing his mind to deal with constant activity so there would be little time for reflection or regret. Yet no matter how he crowded his life with risk, danger and violence, he could never fill the emotional void inside. Nor could he ignore the persistent spectre that haunted his thoughts daily. He was distracted, disheartened. There had been some notable set backs in his life recently. Mission failures, then Illya, then more failures.

"We don't see much action here," Tupelan said conversationally. "This assignment is an exception."

"Any others here?" he asked uninterestedly.

"Yes. You are the last to arrive, Mr. Solo. The others are coordinating the details."

UNCLE knew a massive, worldwide THRUSH operation in the works. At various parts of the globe THRUSH was mounting stockpiles of men and equipment. Select UNCLE agents were called to meet in Madagascar to divide targets and discover THRUSH's nefarious schemes and destroy them.

"The last of our team is here, gentlemen," Tupelan announced as they entered the large war room.

Solo was introduced to the other eight men in the room, but he barely heard the names. His attention was focused on the familiar person who watched him from across the room.

"And I believe you know Mr. Kuryakin," Tupelan concluded with a thinly disguised hint of curiosity.

"Yes," Solo nodded, not sure of what else to say.

He had visualized this meeting since March. Each time he imagined a different reaction from Illya, from himself. Some of the fantasized encounters reflected the bitterness that had mellowed somewhat with time. Other speculations were colorless scenes of a formality foreign to his nature as well as the legendary partnership they had formed.

In that moment of introduction Solo was acutely aware of the others in the room. The mysterious split of the famous Solo/Kuryakin partnership had been the gossip of UNCLE stations all over the world. These spectators now waited for a reaction from the participants -- watching to see which theory of speculation for the break-up would be substantiated by this surprise reunion. Napoleon wryly reflected the others would be surprised to know Illya and he probably didn't understand the real reasons anymore for the termination of UNCLE's most elite team. Months had blurred the sharp edges of perceptions and arguments into a confusing haze of uncertainty. Solo was as confused as he had been from the beginning. And he was as uncertain of his reactions and feelings as he was of Illya's, and anyone else in the room.

The doubt was clearly reflected in Kuryakin's vivid blue eyes, though it was an emotion only Solo could read. The ability to decipher Illya's mood -- even after all this time -- jolted Solo back into a familiar track he had been a stranger to for many months. For the first time since the split he felt like the world was on its proper axis again, that his own domain was glued together again. He took the lead, his reaction natural, instinctive and easy. As if there had never been a day when Illya was not by his side. Happiness almost bubbled inside him. A genuine warmth returned -- one he hadn't felt for a long time. He smiled broadly.

"Hi. I see they've sent for the best."

Illya inclined his head ever-so-slightly. An acknowledgement of the communion. A near-smile played on his lips. "That is why we are here."

Solo winked -- silent receipt of the unspoken message: the invisible bond that tied their lives together still existed. They stepped to the large map table that dominated the room. Side by side they examined the assignments.

The meeting lasted all-day and long into the night. They had pieced together every bit of information from agents all over the world. They had approximated locations for five new major THRUSH bases. The general consensus was that THRUSH was massing for a consecutive attack. Before UNCLE could commit heavy assault forces at divergent points of the globe, there had to be more specific information. The elite nine agents in the room were the top UNCLE operatives in the world. They would investigate and report on the THRUSH satraps. They would determine the magnitude of the threat.

Kuryakin had followed the details of the meeting, but his attention was distracted by the ease of the reunion with Napoleon. As they attacked the problems of the mission the two agents had slipped subconsciously back into a union of thought and effort. So much of what they discussed was in familiar unison as if there had never been a separation.

Solo had taken the lead with his open welcome. Even as they discussed business Kuryakin could feel the palpable warmth of companionship Solo had always contributed to their friendship. Illya doubted if all was forgotten -- he knew he had deeply hurt Napoleon with the request of the split. But perhaps Solo had forgiven, had accepted the inevitable just as he had. There was an illusion that nothing had changed, but Illya was continually aware of the change in their status.

For months he had wrestled with the disappointment that had become second nature. He was never satisfied with the agents he worked with; never at home in the London office. Worst of all, he was constantly aware he had been right to break the partnership, and miserable because he had. Solo's parting words had been correct -- splitting with Solo was the best for them both -- and the biggest mistake he had ever made.

Always a loner, Kuryakin now almost qualified as an isolationist. He had not been on a field assignment in months. He disliked teaching young agents who tagged at his heels. More and more the Russian found solace -- refuge -- in the solitude of the laboratory. The responsibilities of assistant administrative and fieldwork for the huge Section Two for the British Isles were enormous. He felt a keener respect for Solo, who had retained a pleasant nature regardless of the rough, even brutal aspects of a leadership position.

Over coffee and sandwiches they quietly talked. Illya was embarrassed to recount his exceedingly dull career. Solo was reluctant to share his distasteful assignments and clumsy missions. As Kuryakin watched his friend he regretted the months of absence. Solo had changed. There was a sharp, cynical edge to some of his comments. Flashes of nearly vanished idealism surfaced. Illya wondered what he had missed; what his friend had experienced that had chipped away at the core of hope that had always been part of Solo's intrinsic worth. Kuryakin did not want to think he had been the cause of the change.

Neither of them had known they would be thrown together on this mission. Kuryakin wondered if this was a second chance -- a way to renew the partnership without the terrible threat of death. No, they could never be free of that ultimate threat. That had been the one main reason for the separation. Kuryakin still could not live with the fear that Solo would recklessly come to the rescue once too often; would lose his life trying to save Illya's. Kuryakin still could not permit that risk. He knew he would never survive the guilt. Ending the partnership, as painful as that had been, was preferable to the devastation if Solo died saving him.

Yet they seemed destined to be thrown together. Illya knew he would have to cope with that basic fear. The possibility of reestablishing the partnership was too strong to ignore. In all honesty, he looked forward to the reunion.

Then he remembered their last assignment. They had come too close with Mowbry. Every time Illya regretted the decision to leave, he remembered the stark fear that Solo would die in that dank dungeon. The memory was still strong enough to disperse any doubts. But nothing seemed to diminish the regret. Chiding himself for the useless, tangling emotions, he forced himself into his expected mode; the cool, aloof Russian who was inscrutable and untouchable.

As the meeting wound down to a close, Napoleon found himself suddenly nervous. Would they be free to choose their own assignments and partners? More than anything, he hoped that was the case. This conference had been so good, so casual and warm, and proved to him his connection with his friend was still a solid reality. Maybe he could talk Illya into working with him again. Just like old times.

He glanced over and caught his friend looking at him. The blue eyes were shadowed with impenetrable neutrality, the expression remote. Napoleon's heart sank. There would be no reunion. This chance meeting would be just a passing moment. Illya did not want to renew the partnership.

"Which target do you two want?" Tupelan asked Solo and Kuryakin.

Illya glanced at his former partner and felt his heart freeze. Solo's expression was closed; shuttered from revealing any indication of what he might be thinking or feeling. As closed as that last meeting in New York. Illya literally felt the warmth withdraw from his friend. In that instant he knew Napoleon would not/could not bridge the chasm between them.

"I'll take Brazil," Solo volunteered. "But Illya prefers a colder climate."

Tupelan couldn't hide his surprise. "You're not working together?"

Napoleon still held the eye contact with Kuryakin. "I think we'll be more effective alone."

The inflection of phrase intimated Solo as the loner; perhaps the one who caused the split. Kuryakin looked away and caught a few expressions that implied the comment was a partial answer to silent questions. He wondered at Napoleon's motives.

"I will take Hungary," Kuryakin offered as he stared at the map with unseeing eyes.

The cold of Europe matched the chill in his heart. He was too disappointed, too stubborn to break through the wall Solo erected. Despite all the years they had worked together, they had entered their own form of cold war. Solo was the first to leave the conference room. Afraid if he lingered he would give in to the instinctive emotions that could so easily overrule his pride. Feelings he thought buried were still achingly vivid. The bonds between Illya and he were still painfully strong.

He knew the other agents saw him as vain -- thought he ended the partnership because he couldn't share. At the moment, he was happy to promote that vision -- any misinterpretation -- that would disguise the truth. Somehow it was easier to live with the image of an egotistical loner, than admit to the injured loneliness of rejection by his partner.

Solo's actions supported the image of a thrillseeker. For months he had assigned himself the most dangerous missions, took incredible daredevil risks. His subconscious whispered it was the impulsive, instinctive desire to flee from reality. Whatever the reason, his reputation as a hotshot 'solo' agent was confirmed. He refused any partners and tag-along apprentices. His partnership with Illya was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He would not accept second best.

As quickly as he could he collected his travel documents. He wanted to flee, but could not bring himself to leave as they had parted in New York. Yet, he couldn't stand another wound to his pride. He settled on something brief, casual, and witnessed by the others in the room. He made his way to Kuryakin, who stood apart from the others, his gaze tracking Solo.

"Good luck, Illya," Napoleon wished, his voice surprisingly neutral. He held out his hand.

Kuryakin shook. "Be careful, Napoleon," he admonished sincerely.

"Sure. You too."

He wanted desperately to say more, to arrange a meet when this was all over. The barriers in the blue eyes were up and he dared not approach anything personal. With a nod he released his friend and left. Walking out on unpleasantness was easier than facing it. Frankly, he was afraid to face Illya, but he didn't know why. Perhaps he wanted to be the first to reject any hint of partnership. It hurt too much to be the one rejected.

Solo flagged a taxi and sped to the airport. He was in a terrible frame of mind to start a dangerous mission,

VI

"Welcome to your funeral, Mr. Solo."

The blast from the explosion rocked the ground and sent clumps of snow cascading through the air. Illya Kuryakin buried his head in the snow bank until the ground was stable again. He looked over the rim of the ridge and unintelligibly cursed to himself. Only part of the structure had been destroyed.

THRUSH had managed to neutralize some of his bombs. Or one of the other UNCLE agents had not properly set the explosives.

'Napoleon would have never been so sloppy.'

"What was that, sir?"

An ear-shattering explosion cracked through the conversation. Kuryakin and the young agent beside him buried their heads in the snow until the debris stopped raining from the sky.

"What went wrong?" Kuryakin savagely demanded of the young man.

The agent was bewildered at the chastisement. "I set the bombs for a standard three minute delay."

"I never set a three minute delay," he muttered curtly. 'Napoleon would have known that'.

Kuryakin came to his feet and brushed the snow from his jacket with abrupt strokes of irritation. He detested novice agents who insisted on following the book. He hated being the senior-experienced agent on this Hungarian mission. His hastily formed back up team consisted of fresh agents whom he couldn't trust to cover his back. Most of all, he hated being called 'sir'!

He issued clipped orders for the mop-up operation and trudged slowly back to the equipment truck.

The young agents were not at fault. If Kuryakin had not been distracted thinking of something else -- someone else . . . .

No deep analysis was needed to discern his true discontentment. What he really hated was a dangerous mission -- any mission -- without Solo. They were too much of a team. That perfect precision had spoiled Kuryakin, and now he would never be content with any partner but Solo. Yet, he knew he could never have peace of mind working with Solo. Conversely, he would never be as good of an agent without Napoleon. Together they had always competed against each other as well as with each other. A strange dichotomy neither understood, nor questioned, but accepted as they had accepted everything else about the partnership. An endless circle.

'There are no easy answers in life it seems', Kuryakin concluded and sighed unhappily.

All he knew was that no matter the distances that separated them, they would be partners for life. A reality Kuryakin did not want to change. Months of solitude were enough. He had known it the moment Solo had walked into the war room in Madagascar. If he had learned nothing else on this mission, he knew it was time to end the breach. And he would do it as soon as this mission was over. He would go to any lengths to convince Napoleon to reestablish the partnership. Fighting Solo could be harder than fighting THRUSH. Kuryakin confidently felt up to the challenge.

***

Rifle bullets sliced past his head, missing him by inches as he dove down a jungle-encrusted slope. Without pausing for breath, Solo scrambled back to his feet and kept running. The thick vines and limbs sliced through his clothing, scraped against exposed skin as he raced through the thronging, clinging rain forest. He was close to the rendezvous point. He could hear the rush of the Amazon even over his labored breathing. Only a few more minutes . . . .

Mentally, his mind ticked off the few minutes remaining before the explosives he had set would destroy the THRUSH satrap. It would be a devastating explosion that would take out most of the jungle on this side of the river. But it would level the THRUSH base. There had been no time for Solo to call in reinforcements, only to report the crisis situation.

'Liar!' Solo mentally corrected. The truth was he had wanted the danger of the lone mission. He craved testing his luck against the forces of an entire enemy compound. He lived for the risk. 'Because there was nothing else to live for?' That uncomfortable thought had entered his mind frequently. Was his life that meaningless now? 'No,' he argued resolutely as his feet flew across the jungle floor. He desperately wanted to live, though he had lost sight of the reasons why. His need to prove himself? His resentment at losing his partner?

His actions contradicted any survival instinct. His recent headlong rush toward self-destruction was a sign of insecurity. The confidant, vain agent had lost confidence in himself, lost faith in everything when Illya had left. Now life was a constant struggle to regain a self-respect he no longer felt and didn't even know if he wanted back.

'Going through the motions.'

There was no longer any compassion, understanding or humanity in his feelings. If any nobility yet lingered it was deeply buried under the layers of disillusionment. Again he ruminated on how much he had lost when the partnership had ended. Far more than just a partner. Solo had lost an indefinable part of himself. Though he knew the Brazilian jungle was no place to try and regain his self-perspective, it seemed he could no longer run from himself, anymore than he could run from the THRUSH guards. He hoped he would at least out distance the latter first.

THRUSH had built a missile launch site deep in the Amazon jungle. When Solo arrived the missiles were already in launch position. There had been no time to investigate the details. Napoleon had breached their munitions storage and rigged the base for a gigantic blast. He leaped over a thick row of ground cover and slipped on the soft mud. Precious minutes were lost as he untangled his feet from the bushes. He looked up to see three THRUSH rifles pointed at his head. A breath caught in his throat. They had him dead-to-rights.

Solo's thoughts flashed to inconsequential questions in a few milliseconds: Which would kill him first; bullets in the head or the massive explosion? Would his body ever be found in this hopeless wilderness of jungle? Had Illya made it through his mission alive?

Realization flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt. This year of disorientation and self-examination had culminated in a final answer. Now, in the last moments of his life, he knew what he had known for years, but had never understood so clearly. There had never been a need to prove himself. He had always been a good agent, but his talents, skill, and luck had been honed to near perfection in his partnership with Illya. Without that partnership he, or Illya, would never be balanced. No matter how difficult it might be to live with each other, they couldn't function efficiently without the other. He had allowed his stubborn pride to blind him of the real meaning in his life. An old cliche, and one learned far too late.

Napoleon's greatest regret was that this simple revelation had eluded him for so long. And he would never be able to reveal the solution to Illya.

"Welcome to your funeral, Mr. Solo."

The UNCLE agent froze, his chest constricting so tightly he could no longer breath. Though he had not heard the voice in so long he could never forget that clipped British delivery. Napoleon forced himself to turn and face his executioner.

***

Results of the worldwide strike against THRUSH slowly filtered back to London HQ. The agents who had completed their missions were debriefed at the London office. Of the original nine agents, two had been killed, two others were listed as missing. Kuryakin had been back for three days. He tried not to be too obvious in his attention to reports. He never specifically asked about the Brazil mission, but it was common knowledge that was one of the missions where the assignment was open -- still ongoing. The operations room was in its normally near-chaotic state when Kuryakin arrived. Every available agent in Europe was being mobilized.

"THRUSH's last missile base has been located," Lord Simon Penter, Number One Section One of London HQ informed Kuryakin when the Russian arrived at the communications center.

Penter was a tall, silver haired man with an easy countenance. He watched the constantly changing messages on a large computer monitor. "Milton and Forvi found the real base in Greenland." The British peer was in his late 60's, but as energetic and tough as any twenty-year-old agent. "I'll need you to take a team there within the hour, Mr. Kuryakin," Penter ordered.

"Yes, sir."

"It's the last base. When you've destroyed them in Greenland, the crisis will be over. It will be a relief to know THRUSH doesn't have the world capitols under the sights of any more missiles."

Kuryakin could not register the same relief. His nerves were strangely on edge by Penter's first comment.

"Then all the other bases were destroyed?"

Penter nodded, his mind on other matters. "Yes. We received the reports from Australia and Brazil a few hours ago. Both those bases were destroyed."

"And the agents?" Kuryakin's throat felt dry.

Penter gestured to some computer printout sheets. "Preliminary reports are there." For the first time the Brit stopped his activities and faced the Russian. "Did you know the agents? Uh, Solo and Mintel?"

Illya refused to respond to the use of past tense. "Yes, sir."

"You can read Mintel's adventures. We'll never know the details on the Brazil mission. Apparently they never even found the body."

Kuryakin felt the life drain from his body. Minutes passed before he could move -- could think. For some blurred portion of uncountable time it felt as if his entire existence went blank.

A tiny morsel of refusal snagged at the back of his mind and retrieved thought and reality. Illya could not accept that Solo was dead, not now. Not when there was so much to say to his friend when they met again, so many fences to mend. But then, there would never be a time when he could accept Napoleon's death under any circumstances.

If Napoleon had been killed on the mission, Illya could only blame himself. He had shortened their odds for survival by splitting the team. It would mean Illya NOT being there had killed his partner. Kuryakin's mind could not comprehend that bitter irony. The only defense he had now was the impossible hope that Solo was still alive. Kuryakin would go to the farthest corners of the earth to learn the truth -- to find his partner. And if he discovered Napoleon was indeed dead . . . he would deal with that somehow, whenever he ended his quest.

The Russian intently stared at Penter. "Sir, I must request to go to Brazil instead of Greenland."

Penter was startled. "I need you in Greenland. The Brazil mission is terminated."

"Solo might not be dead," Illya blurted untactful. "I need to find him."

A momentary shimmer of compassion flashed across Penter's blue eyes. But it was quickly chased away by resolute professionalism. "I am sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, but I need you where you can do the most good. There is nothing you can accomplish in Brazil. Your talents are needed elsewhere. Now please assemble your team."

"I can't, sir," Illya refused regretfully. "Someone else can lead the team. Napoleon is my partner. I'm responsible for him."

Even to his own ears the explanation was lame, inane. He wondered if he had truly accepted Napoleon's death and this was some form of shock. He could almost read the diagnosis in Penter's eyes.

The Number One nodded slowly. "I think it would be safer to send someone else to Greenland," he agreed carefully. "You are too distracted to concentrate on the mission."

Penter crossed to a communications station and issued orders to another agent. When the details had been arranged, Penter walked to the computer station. He selected several printouts and handed them to Kuryakin.

"The report from Sao Paulo. Solo made an initial report on the missile base."

Kuryakin took the proffered sheets but did not even look at them.

"There were no other communications," Penter continued. "A few hours after the check-in, a massive explosion leveled a three-square mile area of the Amazon jungle. Luckily the missiles were non-nuclear. I'll say this, Mr. Solo ended his career in a spectacular fashion."

"He's not dead!" Illya insisted.

"Read the report," Penter advised and walked away. There were too many other matters requiring his attention. He did not have the time to console an agent who had just lost a friend.

VII

"So what's new?

The chilling shock of cold water in his face brought him abruptly, frighteningly to consciousness. He sputtered water from his mouth, almost gagging on the sensation of drowning. Finally circumventing that terrible second when consciousness and unconscious dream-reality melded and blurred together. For a brief moment he had fallen asleep, only to be brought back by the most disorienting methods.

Of all tortures, he disliked this one most. Napoleon Solo dearly loved a comfortable, peaceful sleep. To be deprived of that much-needed downtime of the brain was a cruel mistreatment. After several days the mind sought sleep in momentary snatches, only to be rudely yanked from that unconsciousness with violent abruptness. When deprived of those moments of slumber, the mind became disoriented, delirious, the body ached and he felt generally sick.

His bleary eyes were only half-open when a hand savagely slapped his face. Solo's eyes shot open, contemptuously glaring at his attacker. The Brazilian torturer was a peasant-slob-THRUSH minion. Napoleon's personal demon for the several days he had been captured. But Solo welcomed the peasant over the attentions of the only surviving THRUSH leader in Brazil.

The door of the hut opened. Solo did not turn around. He could tell by the scrape of a limping leg that Professor Mowbry was back. He could tell by the chills, which automatically coursed his spine. Somehow Mowbry had survived the deadly trap of spikes he had fallen into in the English dungeon. The mad, insane scientist seemingly arose from the grave to torment him. Mowbry also had miraculously escaped the missile base before the explosion. Inconveniently, Napoleon had fallen right onto his path.

'"I think your luck is all bad"' was a quote that came back to haunt him. Spoken so long ago in distance and experience. "That's what Kuryakin told you. He was right, Solo. What happened? Did you finally get him killed?"

Just before his capture, Solo had reconciled so much about his relationship with Illya. Now, he was grateful they had ended the partnership. Illya had been spared a final encounter with the mad Mowbry. Strange how he could comprehend so much now that he was about to die. Confrontation with mortality seemed to clarify everything. Illya had been right to end the partnership. If they had been together on the mission, then Illya would feel obligated to rescue him. At least now only one of them would die. As unpleasant as it would undoubtedly be, Solo would rather die alone than with Kuryakin. And he was glad Kuryakin was not here to make some death-defying rescue. If Illya were to be killed saving him – well -- it was all academic now.

For three days (as near as he could guess) he had been imprisoned in this shack by Mowbry and the two Brazilians. Mowbry had kept him from eating or sleeping; had kept him locked in a small room, had incessantly screamed at him and hit him. So far it had been mild torment compared to what the scientist was capable of. They both knew it. That was part of the torture -- the lingering threat of agonizing torment yet to come.

Sometime during the confinement Solo had regained, rediscovered many of the pieces of his psyche he thought he had lost. The confidence was back -- a core of belief in him, in his abilities, in his survival. That old arrogance was still intact and strong enough to outlast even the likes of Mowbry. Solo wouldn't deny that the scientist scared him; instilled in him a fear almost unmatched by any other person in the world. But the fear was controlled. Napoleon was master of any fears because control of his own self was the key to the greatest powers within.

Mowbry shuffled across the room and stopped just short of Solo. He silently observed the UNCLE agent, who was tied to a pole in the corner of the room.

"Enjoying your stay, Mr. Solo?"

The agent did not bother to reply. He ignored the scientist, never even looking at the man.

Mowbry's escape of his death pit in the English castle had not been entirely successful. The scientist's face and body were broken and disfigured. He now resembled some caricature of Quasimoto. An even greater disfigurement had occurred inside the madman's mind. His thoughts were now even more twisted and evil than before. His need for revenge greater than ever.

"Answer me when I speak!" he screamed. He struck Solo on the shoulder with his thick walking stick. Napoleon kicked out in retaliation, but the scientist was just out of range. The weighted stick, however, was not, and the scientist rained blow after blow onto the agent until Solo blacked out again.

VII

"Haven't we done this before?"

His eyes flickered to half-open when a flood of cold water splashed into his face. The abrupt shock caught him by surprised -- disoriented in the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness. For a time-suspended second his system was numb with confusion; trapped in semi-consciousness -- a swirling world of fear. Within seconds the initial terror was gone, overpowered by the overwhelming might of reality. His eyes opened to the depressing world of his prison.

The hot was cloying and dripping with humidity. Napoleon Solo fought to keep his eyes open because voluntarily facing the threat was easier than the brutal reminders of his lapses in behavior. The heat was suffocating and welcomed him to the sleep he craved; no only as an escape from painful reality, but from his body's dramatic urgency for rest. The door to the hut creaked open. Napoleon automatically tensed, muscles taut in a Pavlovian response. He could tell by the shuffling gait that his chief tormentor and torturer had arrived. The lingering, drawn-out waiting was effectively playing on his nerves. Combined with the physical deterioration, the emotional and endurance levels were considerably diminished.

If this were a ploy to gain information, the interrogator would be nearly at his goal. But this was a game of vengeance of the most intense and hateful kind. Solo was the victim; worn and eroded in preparation for some ultimately dramatic coup de grace. Into the agent's line of sight limped the master inventor of the evil machinations. A man now as physically twisted and deformed as was his brain: Professor Mowbry, the maddest of the mad.

"Not trying to nod off again, are you, Solo?"

"And miss our scintillating conversations?" Napoleon acidly replied.

The scientist smiled. On his face it was a twisted, evil-opposite of what a smile was meant to be. Somehow Mowbry had survived his own trap, but only to look like a characature of Quasimoto. The pit he had fallen into in his deadly maze had disfigured and damaged the body that housed the sick mind, a mind now hopelessly demented because of the damaged body, because of the crushing blow dealt him in his own trap. Four years of incredible hate had poisoned the already sick mind. His contempt for Solo was immeasurable. Solo had killed his wife; destroyed his reputation and career, escaped the deadly traps and lived -- while Mowbry had been so injured by those very traps.

"You still have that nasty tongue, Solo. Perhaps I should cut it out."

"I could always make faces."

Solo shrugged in disinterest, though it was difficult to shrug with his elbows tied to a stick behind his back, his hands bound in front of his chest. He could hardly move hands or arms and had determined escape would be extremely difficult. He had not given up hope, but his fatigue-numbed mind was having a bit of trouble coming up with any brilliant plans. Too bad Illya wasn't here with some bright suggestions -- for the millionth time he gave a silent prayer of thanks that his partner was not here. Mowbry's revenge plot would have been too much to take, then.

There was very little Mowbry could say to instill fear in the seasoned agent. There were a few things the scientist could do -- but even those did not freeze him with terror. Solo had made peace with himself in those wild moments of flight through the jungle just before his capture. He was not afraid to die. A little worried perhaps at what Mowbry's terrible method would be -- but not afraid.

Real fear would be if Mowbry had captured Illya. If Solo were caught in another of Mowbry's traps of vengeance for both of the partners. Napoleon would never admit (except to himself) how very effective that trap had been in that underground maze. How terrified he had been that Illya would die . . . . How ironic that maze had meant the destruction of a partnership that meant more to him than his own life. He would never give Mowbry the satisfaction of knowing his maze had wrecked such personal havoc.

"How long can you sustain this savoir faire, Solo? You think you're indestructible, but you're not!"

"I'm better at it than you, Mowbry," Napoleon snapped.

The remark pushed the scientist over the precarious edge of semi-reason. He lashed out with his thick walking stick. The club smote the agent with a stinging blow on the shoulder. He ducked to avoid another strike, but could barely move because of his bonds.

"What's wrong, Mowbry? Can't you even silence someone bound at your feet?"

He continued the taunting. It was a painful ploy, but he did not want to lose this first edge in the so-far one-sided contest of wills. He had pushed Mowbry into irrationality. He had to keep up the pressure.

The scientist took another swing, this time lobbing a blow to the side of the agent's head. Solo threw out his right leg, catching Mowbry behind the knees. The scientist toppled atop the agent, the stick cracking under the weight of both bodies. Solo struggled to grab one of the sticks, hoping to wield it as a weapon. Through a haze of sweat and blood he saw his chances slipping away as Mowbry seized the other half. Solo crashed into the scientist, breaking the pole tied to his elbows. He twisted free of the ropes, his bound hands wildly grabbing for the walking stick.

***

The UNCLE office in Sao Paulo was one of the official structures which existed more on paper than in a physical reality. A retired Brazilian Army officer was the official UNCLE representative. There was no 'office', only a computer and communications station in a back room of the officer's house. Illya had extended the courtesy of checking in with the operative. Then he had proceeded to the Amazon jungle by helicopter.

An overview of the blast destruction had been disheartening to the Russian. No one could have survived the explosion. THRUSH must have had some highly potent explosives in their stores to cause this kind of devastation. UNCLE scientists would sift through the rubble at some later date when there was time to devote to postmortems. There was no time now to search for an explanation of the explosion, let alone to search for the missing field agent. Most of the Enforcement organization was still focused on closing down the last of THRUSH's missile sites.

The crisis seemed strangely distant to Kuryakin. UNCLE would win a decisive victory over THRUSH, perhaps a fatal blow to the terrorist organization. Or perhaps at the last moment THRUSH would once again rally and go to ground. Run away to fight another day. Kuryakin didn't really care. He had left London on the first available flight. His communicator had been set on a local channel to pick up only signals from within Brazil. Though he had frequently tried, there had been no response to his calls to Solo. For Illya there was no future, no past. He was a disconnected wraith existing only in a netherworld of the moment. Neither feeling nor thinking of anything beyond his mission. His personal quest. He fine-focused his life to only one purpose: to find Solo. He could not think of what would happen after he found his friend. Of what would happen if he found Solo dead.

For two days Kuryakin had searched the jungles surrounding the blast site. A week had passed since the meeting in Madagascar. A lifetime. The sun had set behind the matted jungle trees. Only an hour or so of daylight was left. Kuryakin slid down a muddy riverbank belonging to a narrow tributary of the Amazon. He would find a suitable place to camp for the night. At sun up he would start the search again.

Angry voices echoed directionlessly through the waterways. They startled the native wildlife and a myriad of chatters and squawks filled the jungle's humid air. Kuryakin stood motionless, trying to guess the direction of the voices. He could barely hear the Portuguese words above the jungle noises. He carefully picked his way along the riverbank as he followed the sounds.

***

'I hate this,' he mentally sighed. 'I really hate this,' Solo chastised himself. There was nothing quite so disgusting as coming to a rude awakening in an awkward, even painful position. His present predicament was an all too familiarly sore bondage. His wrists were tightly bound and his full weight was hanging from a rather narrow tree branch. His feet and legs -- bare to the knees -- were suspended perilously close to the river. A narrow slice in his right calf dripped blood into the water below.

"Comfortable, Solo"?

The agent did not deign to answer the rhetorical question. He opened his eyes and saw Mowbry's gloating visage smiling at him. The scientist was safely positioned on the riverbank.

"It's feeding time for our amphibious friends," Mowbry laughed.

Solo was all too aware of his dangerous predicament. It was a bit sickening to think a crock could, at any moment, leap up and munch on him a piece at a time. Not a very pleasant way to go. He couldn't think of any last minute miracles. His mind was too muzzy to contribute much of anything useful. He had no strength to physically break away. In the old days there would have been a hairsbreadth Kuryakin-arrival . . . but it was too late for that now. Unwilling to give up, Solo fought back in the only way he knew how.

"You're getting creative, Mowbry," Naploeon commented easily. "This is a variation on a theme."

"Shut up -- "

"You remember Zaire, don't you, Professor?" he asked with maddening casualness.

The taunting was his own way of easing the fear that was starting to creep upon him. The helplessness always was the hardest for him to bear. HE remembered Zaire very clearly. He had never wanted Mrs. Mowbry to die such an agonizing death. He had never expected anyone but Mowbry to die -- especially he and Illya. He had counted on luck to get them out always knowing his own safety was in his partner's capable hands. How different it was now. If not for his pride -- no, his ego was not the only reason Illya was not here to save him this time. Illya had not wanted the partnership to continue, and in the end, he had been right. If he had been here in Brazil he would both be lunch for the crocodiles.

'I'm glad you're not here, old friend,' he thought fleetingly. What an agony it would have been to see Illya chomped as crocodile bait. 'My own arrogance has landed me here, and I'm glad I'm facing this alone. ' he chided with honest finality.

"I miss your little chemical surprises this time," he continued taunting.

"STOP!" Mowbry screamed and pulled a pistol from his pocket. The weapon wavered in the man's unsteady hand.

'Good,' Solo nearly audibly sighed. 'Better to die fast and quick with a bullet. Better to die fast than get a leg torn off and bleed to death.' The thoughts were morbidly realistic. Solo would happily stop a bullet rather than spend his life as a crippled half-man, should he somehow survive this experience. It was his own form of cowardice and he readily admitted it to himself.

"Istanbul was so long ago --"

"NO!" the scientist cried, agonized by the verbal reminder of his anguish; of the beginning of this never-ending maze of pain he had endured. He stepped forward, shaking so badly the pistol dropped from his palsied hands. "Stop," he sobbed. With his walking stick he swung out to strike the agent.

Solo swung out of range, trying to throw his legs up on the branch. He was too weak to make it. Mowbry swung again. This time Solo swung far enough to trap the scientist with his legs. Mowbry fiercely struggled to pull free, but Solo's locked ankles held the man tight. Mowbry released a horrifying, chilling scream! Solo tugged at his ropes, hoping to break free. Again Mowbry screamed at his enemy.

***

It was growing dark when he finally found the camp. An old, damaged boat stuck on a sandbar was the marker. Kuryakin crawled on his stomach as he approached the camp. He wiped sweat from his brow and ignored the tiny insects that tried to feast on his neck and face. He was within a few dozen feet of the camp. He could smell cooking fish. The argument in Portuguese had stopped sometime before. As Kuryakin slowly approached he heard a few words spoken by two men. They were discussing the catch of fish. There was a harsh laugh. One man asked if they should give some fish to the American.

Kuryakin's heart pounded wildly. 'Just like old times, my friend. I have come to rescue you again. Please play your part one more time,' he silently pleaded. 'Please stay live long enough for a rescue!'

He crawled around a large bush and slowly parted huge plant fronds to get a look at the camp.

The two men who stood at the fire were in tattered, but still recognizable THRUSH uniforms. Between them on the ground was two THRUSH rifles. Toward the back of the clearing were three huts. The second guard laughed harshly and responded that the American was in no need of food. He was by now the dinner of a crocodile. Kuryakin's breath caught in his throat. He was not sure until this moment that he really believed Solo was alive. Now it seemed he was too late. So close, only to miss saving his friend by a matter of moments? The UNCLE agent could not accept that -- his mind blanked out at the cruelties of a fate that had brought him so far only to find failure.

A soul-wrenching scream pierced the dusk air. Birds and animals fled from the jungle. Kuryakin felt the blood drain from his face, while his skin crawled from the chill coursing of fear through his body. The echo had barely died away when a second ragged scream rang out. Shaking hands dug into the dirt as Kuryakin launched himself from the bushes and ran toward the shriek. Terrible images crowded into his mind, but he pushed them away just as he shoved aside the long fronds of jungle flora in his wild race to the river. His quest was almost over, but a horrifying foreboding clutched his chest -- fear of what he was about to find.

There was no danger of opposition from the two guards. When the fist cry was loosed, the two men had run toward the riverbank. It would have taken more than two THRUSH guards to Keep Illya from rushing into whatever danger awaited him -- where he believed he would find his friend. Mowbry's footing on the sandbank gave way and he plunged into the water. The full weight wrenched at the tree branch and the limb snapped. Both men fell into the water. Solo was still tied to the tree and he wrestled with his bonds while trying to keep the mad scientist from beating him to death, and while trying not to drown. More waves splashed around them and Solo realized it was the frantic thrashing of Mowbry. The man was tugging at his legs -- clawing, his head below the waterline.

For precious seconds Solo was paralyzed with a fear he had never experienced before. He was completely helpless. There was absolutely no hope of rescue.

Solo slipped another few feet into the water, now chest-level in the river. There was a blur of motion at the corner of his eye. He turned to see a man dive into the water near Mowbry. His brain almost seized to a stop from incredulity. He could not believe it; comprehend it, though there was no other possible answer. The blond blur of speed was unmistakable. Mowbry was wildly tugging and clinging to his legs -- clawing to keep hold. Solo now tried to wrest free of the madman whose head was now underwater. The river around them frothed pink before Solo realized the convulsions were from a losing battle with a crocodile! A new, more terrible horror gripped him. Illya? He struggled almost frantically to break free of his ropes. He tried to call out to his friend, but his throat was so dry and tight no sound escaped.

Another violent tug jolted him farther into the water. He might drown before he was eaten -- another glum prospect. Only seconds had passed in this life and death drama, yet he could catalogue and study almost every event with agonizing clarity. His wrists and arms were raw from the battle with the ropes and limb. His back and legs were sore, undoubtedly scrapped by the rough skin of the crock. He had to gulp mouthfuls of air whenever he could rise above the water level. The water behind him exploded as an uprushing form sprang out of the river. Solo was shaking from the fear.

A knife sliced through the ropes holding his wrists and he fell back against a solid body. A strong arm wrapped around his chest and dragged him from the water. He was too numb from surprise; too drained from horror to comment or even aid in his rescue.

"Hanging around as usual," was the breathless aside as Solo's limp form was dropped, face down, on a stretch of sand far from the beach.

Kuryakin stood still for a moment to catch his breath. He studied his friend but was unable to determine a precise diagnosis. Jagged claw marks on his back and legs were Napoleon's badges of the very close brush with the literal jaws of death. There were some other bruises and scrapes generally associated with captivity, but on the whole he seemed in good condition. And all legs, arms, hands and feet were intact. Illya himself was drippy but undaunted from his wrestling match. After years of surviving Solo's sparring bouts, could a crocodile be serious competition?

The Russian fell wearily to the ground. He was at a right angle to his companion, their faces only inches apart.

A long time passed before Solo's labored breathing eased somewhere under light speed. When he felt in sufficient control of his nerves and heart to face reality, he opened his eyes. Somehow, he was not surprised to find his friend's blue, piercing, comfortingly familiar eyes staring back at him. Both their faces were pressed into the sand. Little particles of mud clung to their damp skin. Neither moved; both continued to silently stare at the other. If he had the energy left, Solo would have smiled.

"Well, just happened to be in the neighborhood?" Naploeon finally questioned with the wryest tilt to his voice he could manage.

"Of course," Kuryakin replied matter-of-factly.

A few moments of silence passed. They continued to stare at each other.

"Nothing like a tango with a crock to send the old adrenaline flowing."

"It keeps one on one's toes," The Russian philosophically countered in a sagely tone.

Solo briefly broke eye contact and glanced back at his toes. He wriggled his feet in the sand as if checking to see all parts were present and accounted for and in working order. Then he turned back to continue the staring match.

After another long, silent passage of time, Kuryakin reached out and placed his left hand atop Solo's right hand. The senior agent looked at the hands, then back to his friend's face. His eyebrows elevated into the drippy bangs of his dark hair. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it, and closed it again. Finally he grinned. Then a ripple of giggles escaped. Kuryakin scowled.

At last, Solo commented. "Illya," he said in a tone somewhere between a chortle and a suppressed giggle. "I didn't think you cared."

The Russian yanked his hand away. "Your hand was shaking," he explained sourly. "It was giving me a headache."

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Or perhaps it was his thoughts; surreal processions so slow Solo could see and analyze every action, every word, for what seemed like hours before the next reaction occurred. He could feel the water dry on his skin, watch the sand on his friend's face dry from mud to whispy pebbles. He could hear their labored breathing fade and ease to normal. Routine jungle sounds returned and filled the air around them.

He was so bone weary exhausted he never wanted to move again. Except to get something to drink. His throat was so parched he could hardly speak, or move his tongue. Every movement had to be mentally plotted and planned before his tired limbs could comply. Any mental process was remarkable considering how lethargic his mind felt. Napoleon finally, slowly reached out and picked up Kuryakin's hand by the wrist. The hand was shaking ever so slightly. Or was it his own hand?

"Must be an earthquake," he muttered.

Kuryakin curled his fingers into a fist, but the trembling continued. Solo dropped the hand. His own flopped to the sand next to Illya's.

Napoleon felt bizarre, strange; he could feel the radical mood swings that pushed his emotions so wildly out of whack. The giggling and joking atop the stark fear; the confusion and clarity all jumbled together, sobs of relief teetering on the brink of exposure. They were symptoms of frayed nerves winding down from extreme excitement. Fear had subsided to trembling aftermath; raw, jarred nerves were swinging back to normal levels.

The fatigue, weakness and soreness were overtaking all other responses. His body's backlashes were catching up with the mental experience. After days of sleeplessness, torment and tension, his body craved the blessed aftermath of relaxation. Solo fought the reactions. He couldn't yet give in to the safety and security. He was almost afraid to let go of all the anxieties and accept this reality. His mind still could not comprehend this substance -- the miraculous rescue, both of them here, alive and well. Again.

So instead of giving in to any emotional display, Solo did nothing except stare at his friend. It was so comfortable to lay here baking in the sun. There was no need for conversation right now. They could forget the past; ignore the future. In this suspended moment there were no worries or disappointments. No desperate decisions between the life of a friend and saving the world.

Would there be another chance to make this all right? Given another opportunity, Solo knew his priorities and would not hesitate to let them be known. Saving the world they could do anytime. Saving a partner -- he might only get that chance once. IF Illya ever wanted to be his partner again.

A long, deep sigh was released from Illya. "You never cease to amaze me," he breathed quietly. Incredulity tinged his words, but his eyes sparkled with humor.

A smile slowly, wearily spread on Solo's face. "You're not exactly Borscht yourself, Kimosabe."

Kuryakin displayed his most wry expression. "If that absurd mixed metaphor is an attempt at a compliment, I accept," he said with an ever-so-slight nod. "All part of the job."

"So, what took you so long, old friend?" Solo asked quietly.

"Is that all the thanks I get for saving your life? Again."

Solo was still trying to deal with the shock of his partner's arrival. The most unexpected event he could have dreamed of, yet the one that seemed so natural. It was just like old times again. Suddenly it was as if the months of confusion were washed away, but not erased. Solo curbed the elation that he felt bubbling within. He couldn't afford to misinterpret this rescue as a permanent reunion. His scarred ego could not have this faint hope crushed by another rejection. There was no bitterness or anger left -- he had resolved all that. But he knew it would hurt to count on any false hopes. He would have to wait for Illya to make the first move.

"Saving my life?" The American mocked incredulity, taking refuge in the familiarity of banter. "They were trying slow starvation. I had plenty of time for an escape plan," he assured defensively.

Kuryakin rolled his eyes in a dramatic show of exasperation. "I knew you couldn't do anything on your own but get into trouble."

Though it was hard to read Illya's feelings, the light banter was encouraging. Still, Napoleon couldn't bring himself to ask the question uppermost in his mind. He was afraid of the possible answer. "You just couldn't live without me, could you?" There was almost an imploring tone underlying the light comment. Strange that this Russian was the most important person in his life, yet he could not ask if they would reunite the partnership. Nor could he reveal his own feelings.

"Something I would never admit," Kuryakin replied with a smirk. "You are already much too conceited, Napoleon."

The dark-haired agent smiled. "Thanks anyway," he answered sincerely. He carefully, slowly pulled himself onto his knees, then sat up. "Glad to see you're back in the rescue business," he commented obliquely. This guarded, veiled reference was the only way he could find to save face for both of them. "You're very good at it. I should know with all the practice I give you."

There was almost a question in the phrase. An inquiry to corroborate the partnership was once again intact.

Illya nodded, confirming the unasked question. "It's much more interesting than desk work."

"It's probably a job that will never end," Solo advised in near warning. "For both of us."

For a moment Illya appeared to contemplate the idea. A grin tugged at his mouth. "Fortunately, I think of it as job security. Partner."

Kuryakin looked into his friend's eyes. It seemed ridiculous to keep denying the truth they both clearly recognized; the undeniable bond they shared. He thought of the empty months he had endured and knew it would be easier to live with the risks and the companionship of his friend, than to risk nothing and have nothing. Kuryakin answered the question with open acceptance -- a message understood and echoed in Solo's eyes.

Solo smiled and winked. The partnership was firmly reestablished.

The Russian suggested they start for the boat he had left downstream. The sun was almost completely gone and it would be dark soon. Kuryakin helped Napoleon to his feet and they slowly walked toward the river. They came to a stop at the edge of the water where the old boat rested on the sand. He was about to step in, when Solo grabbed his arm and stopped him.

Encouraged by Kuryakin's commitment, Solo had to bring his own feelings into the open. It would be cowardly to keep his thoughts to himself. "We'll never change the pattern, Illya. We're trapped in a maze of our own making. We have to accept that, or we might as well take separate paths right now."

"I have learned there are worse mazes in which to be trapped," Illya answered soberly as he stared at his friend. "The greater the risks the greater our rewards. I have learned to accept both."

Solo felt an inner peace that had been long absent. He let the relief and contentment flow through him. He smiled broadly, but a huge yawn broke the smile.

There would still be dangers, and death, somewhere down the road. Neither of them was deceived; the reality of their business had not changed.

What had altered were their perspectives. They could face the possibilities together; they were stronger as a team -- both professionally and personally -- than alone. They had been humbled enough to look deep inside their souls and find answers to questions they had ignored for years. Answers that had to be faced before their partnership could progress any further. Probing inquiries many agents in their business would never face. Solo and Kuryakin had looked in a discerning mirror of the personality and seen in the reflection not one man, but a team. They knew now there could be no other answer.

"What would I have to do to gain a transfer back to New York?" Illya asked as he pushed the boat into the river and started rowing.

Solo slouched down and rested his head on the side. "You're lucky, old son," he said wearily, eyes closed. "You still have a friend in high places. I just happen to have an opening. What would you think about Number Two Section Two?"

"Sounds like I would be doing a lot of your paperwork," was the wry answer.

Solo shook his head. "No, no, no. That's for Number Threes, remember? Number Twos have to come out in the field with Number Ones." He opened his eyes. "Their job is to try and save Number One from his own foolish mistakes."

"I think I am highly qualified for such a job. But shouldn't we consult with Mr. Waverly and Mr. Penter?"

"Sure," was Napoleon's generous agreement. "We'll tell them our decision as soon as we get back to civilization."

Kuryakin shook his head in amusement as he listened to his partner's gentle snoring. Once again their partnership was intact; was stronger, more secure, than ever.

---

THE END