THE

G O O D N I G H T

S W E E T

P R I N C E

AFFAIR

by

gm

I

"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."

Spring 1969

Napoleon Solo balanced a stack of file folders in his arms as he rushed through the automatic doors into his associate's office.

"I'm finished with my report on the cartel affair," Solo quickly informed. Illya Kuryakin glanced up from the desk, but Solo immediately continued. "Don't be startled! All you have to do is sign these," the senior agent assured as he put the stack of folders on his partner's desk.

Kuryakin glanced at his watch. "I think this breaks your old record for what you define as a completed report."

The dark-haired, dapper agent sat on a corner of the desk. He grinned and suggestively raised his eyebrows. "I have great motivation. Nine o'clock. The Oriental Garden. Magnificent Millicent. Need I say more? And I have to meet Blue Midnight in an hour."

Kuryakin returned to a study of reports. "Only you could have an informant named Blue Midnight."

"Why do you always try to read things into my simplest attempts to do my job?" Solo asked innocently.

"Because you are the only agent I know with an informant who is an exotic dancer named Blue Midnight," the Russian replied dryly. "With your reputation, need I say more? And I hope I won't have to retype your report."

"You won't," Solo assured, then shrugged his shoulders in dismissal, "Why make it a term paper? I tracked down two operatives for the assassination cartel. We had a shoot out. I was better. How much room can that take up on a report?"

"Hmm," was Illya's cryptic reply, but the Russian managed to make it sound like a chastisement.

His question was rhetorical. Traditionally, Section Two agents were the worst record keepers in the UNCLE organization. As in almost every other facet of skill and achievement, Solo led the section in this category. If not for their Section Two assistant who corrected and sometimes retyped their paperwork, the administrative side of the operation would be reprimanded.

"So how's the work coming?"

Napoleon asked as he took the Slinky from Kuryakin's desk and manipulated the toy in various contortions. The fascinating object had been a joke gift from Solo -- a distraction for those times when Illya's mind was hard at work unknotting some complex problem and this was a lazy alternative to pacing. Besides, Illya was fond of toys and gadgets.

"As well as can be expected," the Russian replied, again buried in his work.

A few moments of silence passed before Illya slapped his pen onto the desk and looked at his partner. The Russian's blue eyes were bright with suspicion. "I have a midnight flight to catch, Napoleon. What do you want?"

Solo's face wrinkled into a scowl. For brief seconds he debated; should he confess to the ulterior motives, or should he still try to get on Illya's good side? Mentally irritated at himself that he was so transparent -- that Illya could read him so well -- he determined that a little buttering-up couldn't hurt.

"I know you want to get away early." He laid down the Slinky and picked up a small stack of files from the pile nearest him. "I can finish these tomorrow."

"What about Magnificent Millicent?"

"She's tonight. Tomorrow night is -- someone else."

Kuryakin's expression had lost none of its doubt. Solo was being evasive. Was it because he wanted something? Or was he hiding something? Like who he was dating tomorrow night? A quick glance into the brown eyes confirmed to the wary Russian that Solo WAS concealing something and Illya did not need to know what that was. "What do you want, Napoleon?"

Out of patience, irritated that tomorrow night his friend was probably going to break rules Illya didn't want to know about, he simmered and out-waited the American.

Obviously prevarication was useless with his perceptive partner. Solo chose to lay his cards on the table. "Well, I thought after you were back from Toronto you could take a look at the Jag."

"Napoleon, I am not a mechanic -- "

"But you're very good with cars."

Solo almost held his breath. Illya was attending a symposium for physicists. A great deal of behind-the-scenes planning had gone into clearing a three-day weekend for one of Section Two's top operatives. However, Solo had scheduled backups for backups to secure Kuryakin's weekend. Other agents covered everything short of worldwide disaster. The symposium was extremely important to Illya. Solo was not above asking for a favor in return.

"What's wrong with the shop?" Illya asked a bit impatiently.

"They're scalpers when they see an expensive sports car," Solo fervently assured. "And she never runs the same after those grease monkeys are through. And," there was the slightest of sighs, "well, it is the end of the month."

"Ah," Illya nodded in understanding. "You're broke."

Napoleon scowled. "Almost." He steeled himself for another lecture on extravagant living and spending next month's paycheck.

Kuryakin's voice was sharply acerbic. "And I suppose you want to borrow some money?"

Solo winced at the tone. "No. There's plenty of room on my American Express."

"Why don't you just cancel your date for tonight? Or tomorrow?"

"Because April will kill --" He bit his lip. "You didn't hear that."

The comment did not appease his partner's irritation. Illya disapproved of Napoleon and April breaking company policy about fraternization. Obviously, he had miscalculated Illya's mood. A hasty retreat seemed in order.

"Look, forget the Jag," he said as he tucked the files under his arm and walked to the door. "I'll take it to the shop Monday."

"Napoleon -- "

"Have a fun time with all those crusty scientists," Solo said as he backed out of the door. Almost as an after-thought he poked his head back into the office. His tone was easy, unaffected by Kuryakin's mood. "Better take a raincoat. I heard there's a storm moving into Toronto."

He was gone before Illya could comment on the teasing Parthian shot. "Storm indeed," he muttered. In spite of his best efforts at dourness, he felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His incorrigible partner had a talent for lifting his spirits.

Solo's buoyant disregard for life sometimes irritated the Russian. Today, Illya's own irritation at himself had been exacerbated by his partner's casual attitude over the cartel affair. The assassination group was deadly and they knew Solo was on their trail. Extra caution was advised.

A dark chill snaked across his shoulder blades. Momentarily, Illya wondered if this was a good time to be leaving town for three days. Fingers twitching with nervous instincts, he battled his sense of danger with the comforting knowledge that his partner's survival instincts were the best. Napoleon would be fine for the weekend. But Illya would have to have a talk to Napoleon about his concerns. Later. It was useless to discuss anything serious with Solo when only Magnificent Millicent and April Dancer filled the agent's thoughts. Illya would have to wait until his return from Toronto.

***

The street was slicked with a fine sheen of wetness. Rain drizzled down in a steady, heavy mist. Solo turned onto the slick street and accelerated toward the corner. From the corner of his eye he saw a large, dark blur rumbling upon him from the right. Fractional seconds passed as his mind identified the scenario: Truck, alley, and collision.

Solo instantly comprehended there was no time left. He was about to die.

Before his muscles could react to the alerts from his brain, the huge truck and trailer rig smashed into the low Jaguar. The sports car was catapulted off the street, across the sidewalk, and smashed through the glass panels of a storefront.

II

"A hit, a very palpable hit."

The sudden sound of alert klaxons startled Kuryakin, his pen piercing a hole in a report form. The next second he had leaped up, grabbed the jacket flung on the back of his chair, and ran to the door. Several other Section Two agents were already in the security room when Kuryakin arrived. The Chief of Security, Briers, was busy issuing orders to agents within the room, agents outside HQ, as he consulted various monitor pictures.

"Townsend approach with caution. That baby's about to blow."

Kuryakin looked at the visual monitors of Del Floria's entrance, of the garage entrance, of the Masque Club. All were clear. It was one of the far-range monitors that showed the reason for the alert. An eighteen wheeler gasoline truck had plunged into a cleaning supply store at the end of the street. Kuryakin only got a glimpse of the scene before the monitor was washed in a white light. Seconds later there was a slight vibration of the floor, and Illya felt more than heard the rumble of the explosion. The bright light faded to reveal the orange/red flames that now engulfed the truck and the store.

"What's the alert?"

"External attack. Code Twenty-two."

Twenty-two. Agent or agents dead. Possible attack on Headquarters. Security teams must sweep the area before anyone can enter or exit HQ.

"Space patrol leader to mother ship," came a casual voice over the speaker.

Briers answered the call with restrained patience. "Townsend, you are not a member of Star Fleet. You and your codes ought to be in the Hollywood office. Report please."

"All quiet on the western front. No Thrushies or other aliens sighted at this time. We're closing on the UFO."

"The gasoline truck?" Kuryakin curiously asked the Internal Security Chief. "It's at the other end of the block."

"Yes, but --," Briers stopped and looked Kuryakin straight in the eyes. "The truck deliberately hit an agent's car. No question. Assassination."

Kuryakin stared at the monitor filled with the dancing flames that shot high into the night sky. Little explosions from the cleaning supply store added small pockets of fire to the huge inferno of the fuel truck. Illya forced his eyes away from the scene. He could sense what was coming next. Some sixth sense foretold the dreadful fear he could feel. He wanted to run away, but there was no where to hide from this terrible truth.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Illya. That's Solo's car at the bottom of the fireball."

Illya felt his heart stop. He had to force himself to breathe again. For countless moments he stared at the screen and tried to grasp what it was he should do next. Actions should be automatic, but his mind suddenly refused to function. His only thought, only instinct was to race to the street, to go out there and prove Briers wrong.

"No -- you can't be sure."

"I saw it happen, Illya."

The Russian shook his head in denial.

"I saw it," Briers insisted. "Napoleon was a top target. He's always monitored in and out of the building. I saw him leave, in his Jag. I saw the truck come out of nowhere -- "

"No!" Kuryakin fervently countered.

" -- the truck smashed right over the Jag."

"Then he got out," Kuryakin insisted. He started out the door and Briers seized his shoulder. "I can't let you out until the recon teams report it safe."

Kuryakin pulled away, but the bulkier Briers' pushed him against the wall. "I'm going out there -- "

"Look, Illya, my security people can pin you to the floor if I give the word. We're under a Code Twenty-two blanket. No one leaves for any reason!"

Kuryakin shrugged his shoulder away from Briers. He nodded agreement, his throat too tight to talk. He stayed in the far corner of the security room and watched the small square that played out the most traumatic drama of his life.

There was an odd sense of detachment watching the action on the small screen. Like a televised play. Once it was over he would walk out of HQ and into the real world. The illusion on the screen would vanish. Napoleon would appear out of nowhere -- slightly amused at all the fuss – upset about his Jag -- and they would step back into HQ together, like they had countless times before. As if no crash had ever happened.

Illya for once was grateful for the orderliness of the routine. A standard file report, a composed report, business as usual . . . He needed some kind of crutch of normalcy. He waited, pacing, then standing like a statue in the corner, then pacing more, until an initial, verbal report filtered over the communications channel.

A creeping sickness clutched his stomach when he listened. He felt the blood drained from his face. There was no way to believe any of it, of course. Napoleon was not dead. Reason and hope shouted out defiance as Kuryakin heard speculation that the Jag had been smashed -- crushed and burned to a charred pile of twisted, compressed metal. A license plate registered to UNCLE, blown clear of the wreckage, was the only source of identification. No discernable body was found in the wreckage. The truck that had broad-sided the small sports car was a double trailer rig carrying highly combustible liquid chemicals. The explosion and intense fire had left very little behind.

Kuryakin carefully watched the monitors as the fire finally extinguished and emergency crews disipated. He issued a few instructions to Brier, then quickly left the room. His pace was rapid, purposeful, as he entered the nearest lift and slammed the button for the garage. Strange that he could stay on his feet when his whole body felt numb. The detachment was odd, as if he were an observer, going through the motions; visit the scene of the crime, interview police, and reconstruct the accident. So much to do, so much to prove to everyone -- to himself. Somehow prove Napoleon was not dead.

Illya waited just inside the security reception area for the underground garage. He watched the activities on the monitors. The security teams reported in at various times. Police and fire units came, dealt with the danger, and left. The security teams scoured the area. Nothing was left but the smoldering ashes. Code Twenty-two was lifted. It was safe for the Section Two Number Two agent to leave the building.

***

The white light from portable lamps washed the crash scene with unnatural brightness. It lent a macabre tone to the misshapen, black skeletal frame of the burned truck. Fire companies had extinguished the fire long ago. Now only the cold, damp, disfigured monument of metal remained as testament to the accident. Kuryakin stared at the wreckage for a long time. The black, warped sculpture mesmerized him. He found it difficult to look away, and impossible to turn his thoughts from the gruesome evidence.

Only a fertile imagination could think of this hulk of metal as a truck. There was no trace at all of the Jaguar that was pinned beneath the huge lumps. Tow trucks tugged pieces of metal apart. Hours passed slowly as layer by layer the wreckage was identified and hauled away. When Illya had first arrived, he had scoured the nearby area for signs of his partner. Napoleon could have jumped from the car, but there was no evidence of an escape. The police were convinced the truck came out of a side road -- without stopping at the stop sign -- and ploughed into the Jaguar without warning. The lack of skid marks supported the theory.

Clouds covered most of the sky. Just as a pink tint of dawn spread on the far horizon, light raindrops sprinkled the area. Kuryakin pulled up the collar of his jacket and stood under the shelter of an awning. The storm front had moved in. With a grinding scrape a huge, square chunk of metal snapped free of some obstruction and was tugged away.

"Here's the sports car," one of the policemen shouted.

Kuryakin's throat tightened and he rushed over to join the investigators. The smashed, blackened distortion curved around the metal rebars of the damaged building could have once been a Jaguar. It was hard to tell. Part of a steering wheel, a broken rearview mirror were scattered nearby. Illya picked up the shattered mirror with melted glass. It was shaped right for a Jag . . . .

A police photographer snapped pictures as each piece of wreckage was pulled away, as each item of the car was spotted on the ground. The police were being meticulous in their investigation. They wanted to look good under the scrutiny of the UNCLE organization. Against Illya's objections, Waverly had given the police a hand in the investigation. The UNCLE techs here were to cooperate with the local authorities. The protocol angered the Russian, but Waverly was in one of his 'cooperation' phases, and would not exclude the civilians. Nor would Section Two be given the assignment of investigating what Illya was convinced was assassination – if Napoleon was dead – which he was not! Until the body was identified as Solo's, Illya stubbornly refused to believe the worst.

"That's part of a hand," one of the techs announced.

Illya gulped down his nausea and forced himself to watch as an UNCLE agent pulled a molten lump of gold from the wreckage.

"A wrist watch," the tech identified.

Kuryakin closed his eyes, unable to watch anymore. He stumbled away, barely able to reach a lamppost before his weakened legs collapsed. He had thought his hope, his determined resolve that his partner was still alive, could carry him through this investigation. But he could not sustain the objectivity. Illya could not force from his mind the doubts and traitorous whisperings of doom that filled his mind.

In his career he had seen death and destruction in many forms, but this was drastically different. He could not see the wreckage without fearing the charred, broken damaged remains belonged to his friend. The mere thought that his very alive and energetic partner would die like this was sickening. Death was never pleasant, but Kuryakin could not cope with this kind of horrifying conclusion.

A slight, misty drizzle still wafted through the morning air. Kuryakin leaned against a building, hands in pockets, and stared across the street. The gutted store no longer smoldered. The fires were out. The twisted metal from the truck had been cleared off the street. The misshapen lump that had once been an expensive foreign sports car was now gone. Only Kuryakin kept vigil at the accident scene, like a hovering spectre in limbo with nowhere else to go.

There was no where else for him to go. He had stayed on the damp street for hours. Waiting, thinking, analyzing. Over and over his mind worried at the conundrum: How had Napoleon escaped? Where was he? Why had this happened? The hope-against-hope optimism was instinctive. How could he believe his friend was dead? He had not been here. There was no body left. Therefore, Illya would not believe Solo was dead. Or rather, the stunned shock of fear and pain coated him with an inability to believe what he had seen.

In the back of his mind there was a shadow of dread that hovered just beyond conscious reach. When that shadow touched him he would feel the full impact of the pain and grief. But for now Kuryakin ran from that shadow. He was not ready to face it, not ready to deal with a sorrow that would never again be lifted from his soul. Without looking back at the crash site, he walked back toward HQ and raced away from the wreckage of his life.

III

"Something rotten in the state of Denmark."

The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked on the waxed linoleum of the hallway. Kuryakin wiped his sweaty palms on his jacket sleeves. Usually his black turtleneck sweater and black jacket could ward off the coolness of New York's early spring. Today he felt a chill across his shoulders even though his face and hands felt hot. He sighed impatiently and pivoted on his foot, turning around to pace in the other direction.

There had been no sleep, nor change of clothes, nor food for the last night and morning. His street corner vigil had ended at the light of day. Then he had hidden in his office, tracing possibilities that ended in disappointment. No evidence existed that his partner was still alive. The only hope left was another negative -- this time from the coroner.

Kuryakin had been outside the UNCLE coroner's office for nearly an hour. He had been invited to watch what could be termed an autopsy in only the loosest definition, but Illya had refused. His nerves were fragile enough without witnessing the impersonal, gruesome task of examining what was left of the body from the accident. There had only been one body in the Jag. Preliminary evidence indicated the truck was radio controlled and set to explode. Very professional and effective. There was no doubt it was an assassination.

The coroner should have been done by now, but Illya knew the doctor was taking extra care with the identification. Kuryakin and the coroner were not on good terms, and this case was too important for any margin of error. When the Russian had returned to HQ, the office was buzzing with the news of the accident. What angered Illya was that everyone already assumed the body in the Jag was Napoleon's. Illya would not accept that. Not without proof. The set up was just too pat to assume Napoleon was dead. Kuryakin's natural suspicions refuted the evidence.

In his favor were several strong facts. 1) Napoleon was an expert driver and could avoid almost any traffic situation. 2) The body was so charred and smashed there was little hope for positive identification. An obvious ploy to use to make UNCLE and everyone else THINK Solo was dead. 3) This was not a typical hit. It would take a great deal of resources to set up this kind of hit -- and Solo was not on any current cases.

Conversely, evidence supporting the agent's death was enough to convince Waverly -- though Kuryakin was not swayed by circumstantial evidence. True, Solo's luck could have finally run out. True, Solo was good, but he could have confronted an enemy who was better. In the end it came down to the fact that lllya simply refused to believe Napoleon was dead. That admission would bring down such crushing destruction Kuryakin could not cope with the thought. He would rather hide his head in the sand for as long as possible than accept the anguish, which hovered so threateningly close.

There had been other journeys through this limbo of uncertainty, when evidence -- observations with his own eyes -- told him Solo was dead. Kuryakin had survived those nightmares, telling himself he would deal with the painful reality after the assignment, after the criminals were caught, after the death was avenged. Then by some miracle Napoleon had returned alive and well, and the fear of death receded until the next deadly mission.

This time the 'death' was so unexpected. A surprise attack in the midst of calm. The threats from the cartel were looming, but no extra precautions had been established. There had been no danger beyond a dinner date and a scientific conference -- both now forgotten in the shadow of a graver situation. No, that wasn’t quite true. He had ‘felt’ some sense of foreboding, but had dismissed it without warning his friend. Illya thought back to those last moments in his office, and winced at the memory. If he could fold back time he would rework his last conversation with his friend. He would swallow the regretful irritation he felt. He would give anything to bring back the sports car that was now a lumped mass of melted wreckage, the friend who might now be lost.

The automatic door, swished open and Kuryakin turned to face Doctor Salinger. The Doctor was taller, leaner than Kuryakin. A no nonsense, humorless man in his fifties, he had never appreciated Section Two agents. He had supported all personality conflicts with operatives, particularly Solo. The Chief of Section Two went out of his way to make Salinger miserable and Salinger returned the compliments at every opportunity.

"This is the completed autopsy report," Salinger said as he handed Kuryakin several pages of forms. "Would you like the condensed version?" The Doctor was business-like, almost bored with the routine. Illya matched the professional tone, too stubborn to reveal anxieties. Beneath the confident countenance, Kuryakin's nerves quavered with trepidation.

"There was very little to examine," Salinger needlessly pointed out. "The body was terribly smashed and burned. But a tooth, a few articles like cufflinks, were what we used to ID the victim."

Kuryakin swallowed hard, angry at Salinger's blind acceptance of circumstantial evidence. Illya was forced to ask for an answer that would shatter his world, or give him a reason to keep sane.

"Who is it?"

"The details are there." Salinger indicated the forms. "Positive ID. Agent Napoleon Solo."

Illya forced himself to think, to keep enough composure to hold together under Salinger's watchful -- gloating eyes. He would not give the Doctor any satisfaction in this tragedy. Only firm resolve kept him from slugging the coroner in the smug face.

"How can you be so sure? It is circumstantial."

"Ninety-nine percent sure, Kuryakin."

"Ninety-nine." Kuryakin ruminated aloud, anger lending firmness to his voice. "You can't be sure."

"It's Solo, Kuryakin. Don't look for loopholes this time. No other remains were found -- no hair, no skin."

"That's your evidence?"

"You would accept it for any other corpse, Kuryakin. It's official. I've already signed the death certificate. If you don't like it, take it up with Waverly. Solo already exceeded the average life expectancy of most Section Two agents. Just feel lucky you weren't in the car this time."

The Doctor left the agent standing alone in the corridor. Nevertheless, fingers dropped the papers to the floor. Kuryakin thought he would have collapsed as well but the residual anger and defiance kept him on his feet. There was a slight element of doubt. And the Russian would use that narrow one percent to shield himself from an awful truth he could not accept.

He could fill that one percent with many doubts. Why kill an agent by utterly destroying the body unless there was a reason to confuse and conceal the identity? It was the oldest trick in the book. That led to other questions. Where was Napoleon if he was not dead? Why fake Napoleon's death? Too many questions, too little evidence to validate those questions. But the burning doubts fuelled his hopes. As long as there were any questions left unanswered Kuryakin could not believe Solo was dead.

IV

"They bleed on both sides."

For the second night Kuryakin doggedly remained in his office. His search for elusive clues that Napoleon was still alive was futile. No proof existed. Being the only person at HQ unconvinced of Solo's death was a handicap but Illya had endured worse situations. He was too stubborn to admit defeat yet. Although now even his hope was flagging. He wondered it he refused to believe the death simply because it was less painful than accepting the loss. He didn't want to think that, but he was enough of a realist to recognize his desperation knew no boundaries.

The automatic doors sighed open and he glanced up. April.

'Another doggedly stubborn person,' he reflected gloomily. Except unwavering in a bad direction. April Dancer was determined to undermine his quest. Kuryakin didn't resent her attitude. Perhaps it was easier for her to accept Napoleon's death than live with the uncertainty of what had happened. What he did resent was April's continual mothering -- trying to protect him from "the inevitable pain of loss," as she had put it. EVERYONE was being so solicitous and careful of him it was disgusting!

Napoleon often teased him that women loved to mother the Russian He DID NOT want to be mothered or patronized. He wanted to be left alone to complete his work. IF Napoleon was dead, Illya had to know that for a certainty. Then, he would concentrate on vengeance.

He tried not to let irritation color his greeting to Dancer. "Good evening."

April placed a box on the desk.

"I'm not hungry,"

"It's a present I received."

Illya's head snapped up at the tone. Her voice was cracking with raw emotion. He noted her eyes were watery and she seemed on the verge or tears. Inwardly he cringed. April had been surprisingly strong so far. She had cared very deeply -- too deeply -- for Napoleon. Kuryakin didn't want her to crumble now. His own emotions were too precariously balanced on the edge of confusion and hope right now. Uncertain of what else to do, Illya came to his feet and joined her on the outside of the desk.

"What is it?"

April opened the lad and pulled a scraggly arrangement of black weeds from the bowl. She handed him a care. "It's been checked for prints and any nasty surprises," she confirmed, her voice a low whisper.

Illya read the outside or the card:

To April Dancer -- Widow's s Weeds.

Inside, the card read:

NOW CRACKS A NOBLE HEART.

GOODNIGHT SWEET PRINCE AND FLIGHTS OF ANGELS SING THEE TO THY REST.

With confusion shading the blue eyes Illya glanced at his fellow agent. "Hamlet."

April nodded. "Do you understand it?"

"No."

She took a deep breath and recounted her first assignment with Solo. Mother Muffin, their adversary, had been a fanatic for Hamlet. After capturing the UNCLE agents she had gone so tar as to dress Solo in the costume of the Danish prince. Since Mother failed to thwart UNCLE on that mission, she had disappeared from view.

"I think she's back," April's voice cracked again. With a vengeance."

Illya placed the card in the pocket of his black sports jacket. He refused to accompany his colleague down this path of morbid speculation.

"She killed Napoleon --"

"He's not dead!"

"Mother Muffin killed him!" April nearly shouted in return. “Hired by the Swiss cartel to get Napoleon out of their way!"

Kuryakin took refuge behind his desk. He refused to agree with her theory. Using his own logic against him, she pointed out the tremendous skill and professionalism of the hit. With piercingly cold blows she leveled his reasoning and arguments that Solo was still alive. The assassin had murdered Solo and sent this bouquet as a final statement of victory. Bit by bit Illya felt his resolve and surety slip away. Muffin was a psycho -- he had read the reports of the affair in London. The mission had been wonderful ammunition for mercilessly teasing Napoleon about Mother's affections. Yet, there had never been a doubt of her deadly skill at assassination. Or her psychotic dementia.

"Why would the cartel hire her?" Kuryakin countered. “She is unbalanced. They have their own assassins."

"Maybe she's, one of them," April suggested.

"She's history," Illya returned, his conviction slipping.

April's theory was gaining strength. As much as he didn't want to believe it there was a validity here. The cartel had the resources the manpower, the skill and the motivations for killing Napoleon. Kuryakin had not probed into the cartel because he didn't believe Napoleon was dead! Even now he recited the litany by rote. There was no heart left in his argument. Yet he still couldn't adult defeat.

He was looking for a culprit in a switch-kidnapping. Mother Muffin presented real possibilities as a murderer, but not as the inventor of a master switch operation. There would be no point. She had tried once to kill Napoleon. Did she succeed this time? Again, the resolve slipped another notch. A little over forty-eight hours had passed since the accident Concerned associates had assured him it was useless to believe Solo was still alive. Officially Waverly had declared the agent dead.

Almost as a defense against accusing himself of betraying his friend Illya wanted to continue believing Napoleon could be alive. Mostly, however, Napoleon had to be alive because the alternative was too impossible to comprehend. The other half of Illya’s heart and soul HAD to be with him, still! To be without his partner was unthinkable. Just the threat of losing his friend had twisted him with grief. He could not survive the real affects of the death.

"I think the cartel ordered the hit," April said with a firm conviction. "Waverly thinks so too. He's assigned me to go after them." She paused for a moment. When there was no response she continued. "Do you want to join me?"

Illya folded his hands and stared at the fist so tightly clenched that his fingertips turned white. What if April was right? If the cartel ordered the hit -- if Napoleon were dead -- too many 'ifs.' For Illya to take the assignment would mean he was admitting the death. To refuse would mean April would probably accomplish this vengeance. Justice would be served but Illya would not be a party to avenging his friend's death. IF Napoleon was dead!

The course of his decision could dictate a part of his future. If he did nothing to avenge his friend, a kind of betrayal would forever haunt him. He listened to that inner instinct he had relied upon in the past. His instincts -- or wishes -- urged him not to give up, to keep believing Napoleon was still alive.

Illya shook his head and finally looked at April. "You go ahead. I'm staying here."

Tears were in her eyes as she nodded her head an acceptance "I wish you were right, Illya," she sighed in a broken whisper. "But he's dead. I hate to see you suffer . . . I'm going after the people responsible."

"Good luck, April."

Dancer took a cassette tape from under the box on the desk. "Mr. Waverly wanted you to take care of this as soon as possible."

Illya did not take the videotape. He knew what it contained. To accept it would be tantamount to an admission of Solo's death.

"He's not dead," Illya impatiently sighed.

"To UNCLE he is," Dancer countered sadly. "Do you want me to --"

"No!" Illya interrupted. "No," he said with a more subdued tone. "I'll take care of it."

Dancer impulsively reached over and held his hand. "I'll be in touch," she assured. She picked up the box with the 'widow's weeds' and turned away.

"Do you want me to take those?"

She stopped but did not look back. "No. I want them as a momento," she answered. There was a cold edge to her voice, the tone of a professional agent with a mission The she left the room.

Illya understood her commitment for revenge. This was April's method of dealing with the 'death'. He glanced at the video tape case. He wondered how he would deal with this next step in the official process of details. He well knew this final matter could push him over the edge of resolve and into the dreaded acceptance.

***

"Surprisingly, this is a bit difficult. I doubt that's much of a comfort."

Napoleon Solo smiled ever so slightly with obvious nervousness. The agent was dressed in a meticulously tailored navy blue suit and looked every inch the important executive. Self-consciously he straightened the perfectly knotted grey and navy silk tie. The urbane agent cleared his throat yet unflinchingly stared ahead. His sincere expression reflected a hint of discomfort, an assumption of a sober duty he was compelled to complete.

"This is really not my attempt to be maudlin or dramatic. Policy. Just so this is – uh – on the record. And I don't think I could be accused of sentimentality," rueful depreciation was accompanied with a slight grin. "Well, I guess I just wanted to say goodbye."

Solo's image on the TV monitor reflected nearly the same degree of warmth and sincerity as it the agent had been there live and in person. It was a mark of the vibrant, magnetic personality; the legendary charm of the charismatic agent.

"You'll receive all the paperwork." A sad smile flickered, he looked away. When he looked back at the camera his brown eyes were shaded with disappointment. He forced a grin. "Typical that I'm leaving you the extra work. Sorry." He folded his hands and leaned against desk in front of him. He seemed a bit more relaxed. UNCLE was moving rapidly into high-tech conveniences. Video taped messages were being used for such diverse aids as training films and wills. Along with the official documents and papers Solo had left behind, he had also left this videotape.

Illya Kuryakin's entire body was coiled with tension. He had not wanted to watch this film but Waverly had insisted. Solo was considered dead. As his executor and replacement Kuryakin was responsible for the details and quickly taking over as Number One Section.

It was all happening too fast for Illya. He had not yet decided if Napoleon was even dead. If there had been a body it would barely be cold by now. Yet, in the interest of efficiency Solo was being swept aside. Illya was afraid of this tape. It marked a finality he did not want to admit. This tape was a very personal, emotional and touching gift left from one friend to the other. This would take the place of a funeral or memorial service (since Napoleon had pointedly requested no such trappings conclude his life on earth). There was a fear of the raw grief that would be exposed, the vulnerabilities laid open by this candid last message. The finality was too enormous to comprehend.

"Chances are I won't be able say goodbye in person," Solo stated evenly. "It's probably better this way. We aren't much for melodrama, tovarich. Better something quick." He turned away from the camera and cleared his throat.

Shivering chills ran down Illya's spine. 'How right you were, my friend,' he thought with a sadness so profound he could hardly breathe. He hoped Napoleon -- a surprisingly intuitive man -- had not felt some kind of premonition of his death.

Solo glanced back and seemed more composed and calm. "Since you're watching this I'm dead arid you're not, lllya. I hope you don't feel any guilt or blame. I've always trusted you totally and implicitly. If my luck finally ran out please don't feel at fault. You have always done everything possible, and more, to keep me alive."

The tone and expression were so intent, familiar, Illya could tangibly feel Napoleon's presence. The Russian's tension was overwhelmed by a crushing mourning that smothered him.

"There's really not much else I need to say, my friend. We've already said it all I think.” His expression grew even more serious. “That’s not true. It was the unsaid, tovarisch, that was louder than our words. So maybe I should just say it now. I won’t be there to see your embarrassment.” A quirk of a smile. “You were the best thing in my life, my friend. Now that I won’t be around to rescue you all the time, please take care of yourself. Be careful. I --," he sighed deeply. "I don't know what else to say. Except that -- you know what's in my heart. I wish I didn't have to hurt you like this." A grim smirk played at his lips. “Sorry, Illya. Take care."

The screen went black. Kuryakin stared at the void.

What kind of life could he live without this friend who was, to him, like the brightness of day in a shadowed world? Illya felt every bit of that blackness in his soul right now. He realized it was the bottom depth of finality. He had at last accepted that Napoleon Solo was dead. The proof was in the twisted agony inside him, as molten and misshapen as the Jag under the flaming truck. The evidence of his grieving the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

V

"Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood."

Before he was even tempted to open his eyes, Napoleon Solo knew he was about to experience the full, irritatingly unpleasant after affects of yet another sleep gas.

'I ought to write a book!' he reasoned acidly.

As individual as fingerprints, every knock-out potion had its own special little surprises: nausea, disorientation, queasiness, vertigo, headaches, muscle aches, etc, etc, ad nausea. In this case Napoleon was able to detect this as a new species of drug -- something he had never experienced -- because of the wonderful, new and unique effects. These reactions were rather disturbing. His eyelids were unusually leaden; his brain turgid, almost detached and drab, his muscles and nerves and joints ached even in a relaxed position. He hated to think what would happen if he tried to walk, or even sit up.

That brought him to the next problem -- he COULD NOT sit up or move! His arms and legs were securely strapped to the solid surface on which he lay. Right now he didn't feel confident enough to test the bonds -- why needlessly embarrass himself? The next difficulty to overcome was to open his eyes. What a disturbing prospect -- but an unavoidable next level. He could continue playing opossum, but what was the point? His insatiable curiosity forced his to answer the questions in his mind. Where was he? Who had captured him? And, why?

He had no memory of how he came to be here. He couldn't pinpoint anything as a 'last-conscious thought'. His memory was a grey fog -- which was disturbing, too. He had to confront his present difficulty and work backward, then forward, from there. Several times his eyes blinked open. There was a blurry swirl of brown, white, tan --. The image finally was blinked into focus and Solo hicoughed with shock! A return to consciousness like this was worse than the drugs. He 'knew' this -- person. He couldn't quite grasp the identity, but his mind told him he was in big trouble!

"Good afternoon, Mr. Solo," she cooed in a deep, lecherous tone.

A chill slid along his nerves and he fought to keep the anxiety from his expression. He cleared his throat, struggling to find a steady voice. No sound came out. Did shock or the effects of the drugs block the words? As soon as she had spoken the name and identity that matched the mummified visage had sprung into his mind. With recognition came a flood of most unpleasant memories. She placed a very warm, dry hand on his arm. He could feel the parchment-like skin through the thin sleeve of his clothing.

"It's perfectly all right my dear, Mr. Solo. Your lovely voice soon will return. The drugs are inhibiting your vocal chords. Only temporarily."

Solo tried to flinch from her touch, but the bonds were too secure. With monumental determination he pushed back the percussive flicker of panic that fluttered at the back of his mind. Napoleon Solo was stronger than that! He would not allow this madwoman to win any psychological games. He cleared his throat again.

"Have you something to say, dear Napoleon?"

A muscle twitched above his left eye, a reaction of involuntary anxiety. To cover the instinctive fright he fought out a hoarse response. "Yes," he croaked. "Why am I here?"

"You are under Mother's protection," Mother Muffin replied with a sickeningly sweet smile that displayed her large teeth. "Anything you need, dear Napoleon, you only have to ask."

Solo shivered with suppressed fear. Mother's closeness and intimacy was revolting. Several years ago he had encountered Agnes Twicksury, alias Mother Muffin. His first assignment with the delightful April Dancer had been a London mission against Mother Muffin and her assassins. Mother had indicated a 'crush' on Solo, much to April's amusement and his distaste. April and he had emerged victorious from the affair and Mother had thankfully disappeared to an untrespassed portion of his memory. Memory. A vague recollection was returning; an accident, New York HQ, a crash . . . . Was he dead? This was certainly a horrific purgatory for a spy!

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

Solo swallowed hard, ignoring the suggestiveness of her tone. "Water," he requested tightly.

She brought a goblet into view and placed a hand at the back of his neck to lean his head forward. He instantly froze! The water in his mouth choked in his throat and spattered in an inelegant shower across his chest and across a black silk pajamas! The mere implications of these garments created a deep scarlet blush from his hair to the base of his neck. He could feel the hot flush and was further embarrassed by his inability to control his thoughts and reactions. He was going to have to do a lot better!

Mother tenderly stroked his cheek. "Are you quite all right, Napoleon my dear?"

His eyes rolled back. The drug was claiming him again and he didn’t fight it. He welcomed the escape to blessed, numb blackness.

VI

"Doomed for a certain time to walk the night."

Waking the second time had been a lesser trauma than the first experience. Solo had regained consciousness in a well-furnished room comparable to any first class suite in a major hotel chain. The difference here was the cell door at the entrance to his suite. He was still experiencing the unpleasant after-effects of the drugs. Still his mind was muzzy, his muscles and joints weak and jelly-like. From the reflection in the mirror over the mantle he noticed slight abrasions to his face and neck -- glass nicks from the accident he surmised. He was remarkably intact for someone who was nearly mashed under an eighteen wheeler. The memory of the crash had returned. With it came confusion: How had he escaped alive? The driver must have been remarkably skilled.

He had paced across the room to study the cell door. The short journey had tired him and the lock looked unbreakable in present circumstances. There was no desire to try the door -- he did not feel up to the failure. He sat back on the bed and waited. Thoughts were very slow and disorganized. It frustrated him to know this was not the natural order of his mind. He had the awareness to know the mental and physical processes were inhibited, yet he had no inclination to find out why. Lack of initiative was another sign of the drugs. After a while he looked at his arms (Still in the disgusting pajamas, he noted bleakly). There were tiny red pinpoints tracing his veins. Needle tracks.

"So, you've discovered my restraining method," Mother Muffin said from the cell door.

There was no sign of a guard. She opened the door effortlessly. Intensely embarrassed at missing such an obvious escape, Solo's mind seemed to blank out for a millisecond. Why hadn't he tried the door? It was so disturbing to KNOW something was wrong, and be unable to discover the source of the problem. Now the agent wondered about surveillance; was the room bugged or under cameras?

Mother approached him and Solo instinctively came to his feet. It was a defensive tack mistaken for a show of politeness. Mother slightly bowed in return.

"How are you feeling, dearest Napoleon?"

The agent shrugged. "The way you want me to, it seems."

Mother took a seat at the end of the bed. Solo moved a few steps away.

She seemed surprised. "Do you understand what I've done?"

He shook his head. "But I know when something is amiss," he conceded.

"I am sorry, but it is necessary. I am afraid you might try to escape." Her tone became grim, her expression menacing. "I can't have that."

"Any special reason?" Napoleon asked as he took a seat in a chair across the room. He fleetingly thought of rushing out the door. However, Mother was taller and bulkier than he was. She would probably wrestle him to the floor effortlessly! He decided not to take the risk. His mind blinked again -- there was that uncharacteristic defeatist attitude again! His overriding thoughts were negating all his instincts! Without anything but a hunch, Solo put the blame of his strange behavior onto the drugs.

"It grieves me to be the one to say this, Napoleon," Mother was saying. "But you are dead."

Unconscious instinct made him put hands to his arms and face. He felt remarkably alive -- he stopped and folded his arms. 'She is speaking figuratively,' he angrily realized. This mental handicapping was getting very irritating. Mother continued to explain her incredible plot. The truck had been a remote control unit. A homing box on the Jag timed the crash to occur at just the correct moment. Mother's assistants had pulled Solo from the wreckage just seconds before the car and truck were destroyed.

"UNCLE believes you are dead. Your associate Mr. Kuryakin has already taken your place."

This was a mental blow Solo had not considered or prepared for. He felt strangely depressed that Illya believed him dead. 'Won't you be surprised at my stunning resurrection, old son?' he smugly thought. He fleetingly wondered how that would be accomplished, but did not waste time on detail. He briefly thought of how his death might affect Illya. The Russian would be upset, of course -- he certainly would be if their positions were reversed. If Illya really thought him gone, then there would be no rescue attempt. Napoleon realized there were many details he had to consider before escape. However, escape he would, and as soon as possible!

"And that little Tart will no longer torment you," Mother added.

Napoleon was confused at the reference. "Blue Midnight?" he asked, still thinking about the crash and his faked death. He had been lured out on the pretext of a meet with strip – uh -- entertainer.

Mother seemed confused as well. "No, Napoleon," she softly corrected. Her expression quickly altered to a vicious sneer. "That -- Miss Dancer!"

Muffin hated April (jealousy, April had maintained).

"You didn't hurt her --"

With a many-ringed Mother waved away the suggestion. "Tut, tut. I have wiped her from my mind. As must you, Napoleon."

He deeply breathed with relief. Illya and April were safe. Now he had to deal with his own predicament. "Why am I here, Mother?"

"I am protecting you," she reminded.

"From what?"

"The cartel ordered your assassination, dearest," she answered with a sickeningly sweet smile. "I gave them that in a fiery blaze! But I didn't have the heart to really kill you."

'Thanks for nothing,' Solo almost replied. He restrained the sarcasm. No sense in antagonizing Mother just yet. He had always been patronizing with the old girl. She was clearly psychotic and he did not want to risk her unrestrained wrath. No telling what she would do to him The imagination boggled --!

"So you will stay with me."

Suddenly there was a catch in his throat. "For how long?"

Mother smiled. "Forever."

Solo's fists gripped onto the arms of the chair. He desperately scrambled for a reasonable alternative. The thought of spending a long time -- any time with Mother-- made his skin crawl with revulsion. "Can't you just let me go back to work?"

Mother waved a finger at him, as if he had said something naughty. "No. The cartel would try to kill you again."

"I am capable of protecting myself," he insisted sharply, pointedly ignoring his most recent capture.

Mother adamantly shook her head. "I can't let you return to such danger." Her expression softened to a caricature of coyness. On her it was a disgusting look. "Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love."

'Though this be madness there's method in it,' he despairingly thought.

"And I won't let your reputation be stained."

Napoleon didn't want to ask, but curiosity compelled him to respond. "My reputation?"

"It would be terribly stained if it became public knowledge we have lived together."

Solo gulped. 'Lived together?!' He automatically coupled (wrong word! he instantly corrected) 'living together' with wonderful pleasures such as romance, intimacy, etc. Even the hint of a thought of those pleasantries associated with Mother made him ill; made him gag! The definition of 'scared to death' had never found comprehension in his mind until now. The thought of being 'kept' by Mother was enough to drive him to suicide. He wondered if he was leaping to conclusions. Perhaps Mother looked at the relationship in a protective --'motherly' -- way. He was too afraid of the answer to ask her.

"And we can work side by side."

"Work?" he weakly asked.

"You can help me, Napoleon," she continued. "Your wonderful skills could help me retain a respected place in the criminal world again." She shook her finger at him once more. "After all, it was your naughtiness that pushed me out of the limelight."

Solo muttered an obligatory murmur of apology. He found he had no interest in her further comments. He was still numb with fear. She nattered on for some time about her plans for a return to respectability. Her plot rested on the foundation of the new drugs she had at her disposal. Solo knew the effectiveness of some of her drugs. A spark of resolve flittered into his mind. If he learned more about the operation it might offer a chance for escape. However, he would draw the line at ingratiating himself to Mother. He couldn't stomach the thought.

Any attempt to disrupt her plans must be successful. There were now greater threats than death. Some were appallingly frightening to his vivid imagination. He had survived various unpleasant tortures, but nothing instilled him with the fear that Mother implied. For the first time in his career he seriously considered the cowards way out -- the suicide pill (that he didn't carry) -- as the easy escape. With Mother's drugs there would certainly be a plethora of deadly materials --

'To be or not to be? That is the question . . . to die -- to sleep --'

Napoleon stopped this unprofitable angle. He was no quitter. He was not pushed to the limit yet.

"Napoleon," Mother called. "You don't look well."

Solo brought his thoughts back to his interview.

"You have found your mind wandering, no doubt."

Solo nodded. "Yes. The drugs?"

"Yes. I again apologize, but it is necessary for a short while only. Until I convert you to my cause."

The doubt was openly visible in his expression and his words. "I don't think so, Mother. Not even your drugs could do that."

An odd smile flickered on her lips. " 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Napoleon, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' "

Like a gentle tide, chills coursed up his arms and tingled at the roots of his hair. Could the drugs be so effective? Suddenly, he was afraid for the world, afraid for himself.

VII

"Revenge his most foul and unnatural death."

There was no concrete reason Kuryakin had remained in New York. He no longer believed Solo was alive -- at least he didn't think he believed. There was little certainty left in his life. April Dancer and Mark Slate were pursuing the cartel in Switzerland. Waverly, Dancer, Slate believed Solo's murder was perpetrated by the cartel. Illya believed them only one face of a two-headed demon. Mother Muffin had wielded the instrument of death. No proof of that theory existed, yet Kuryakin followed that trail of inquiry. The psychology of the murder pointed to a twisted vengeance. The obliteration of the body was done for a reason -- not the mark of a common assassin.

Illya pulled a lump of metal from his pocket. The melted silver molded around a blue gem had once been Solo's ring. The personal effects had been given to Kuryakin -- the ring, the communicator, the Walther. The melted and distorted remnants of his friend. All that remained from the ashes. Vengeance was an emotion Illya was coming to understand all too well. His life's focus was narrowing to his own kind of retribution. An eye for an eye. Mother's destruction was already underway.

Laborious detective investigation had revealed a broken trail of Mother's existence over the last few years. She had performed minor jobs for certain criminal organizations over the world, finally landing a few hits for the cartel. As a sideline it appeared she ran security for safe houses. Criminals requiring an hideout were given over to Mother's care at some remote place in the world.

None of Illya's sources could find out where this safehouse was. However, he did discover one very important tidbit. Mother was now on the cartel's hit list. Her sanity seemed to be in question and the cartel placed a disposal order. It seemed Kuryakin would be in competition with a cartel assassin. He could simply allow the hit man to take care of Mother. It was silly to extend the extreme effort and risk to track her himself. His goals in life contained very little reason or logic now. He considered killing Mother as a personal repayment. Napoleon would have stopped at nothing less than personal justice. Kuryakin would do no less in the name of friendship.

VIII

"Mother's Little Helper."

There had been no sound, no intrusion for a long time. There was no way to count the minutes or hours. Measurements of time did not hold an importance anymore. No urgency pressed him to leave the alcove of reclusiveness he had constructed around him. Napoleon stared at the barred door of his room. There was no lock on the door. What prevented him from walking out? Nothing. Except an invisible barrier inside his mind. Some unseen force bound his limbs from obeying his wishes. So he sat and stared at the door, constantly aware of precious time escaping his grasp; aware he could no longer act on the urgency or need to escape.

A circular flight of steps led down to a huge, cavern-like room. Cabinets and shelves of bottles lined one side of the cavern. At the other end was a spaciously appointed laboratory. Solo had the impression this was a bottom level in a castle, but it was only an instinctive guess. Most of the rooms and hallways he had traversed were constructed with modern materials. Perhaps it was the damp, bone-cold chill that permeated the air of this room that made him think of a European bastion from the middle ages. The stone floor was cold on his bare feet. And, he thought ruefully, the attire did not offer much in the way of temperature protection. The sensuous black pajamas were, unfortunately, the only clothes available to him.

This was his first lengthy trip away from his quarters. Every amenity had been offered to him. The pampered treatment got on his nerves; the solicitous attention of Mother was nearly unbearable. Yet, he thought the worst was still to come. Perhaps he would face that today. Despite the best efforts he was unable to guard against continued drugging. He could not stay awake long enough to resist injections. He had reduced food and water intake to a bare minimum until Mother threatened persuasive methods of alternate nourishment.

Questions about the drugs were ignored and Napoleon had spent as much of his mental energy as possible trying to discern and evaluate on his own. His mind was noticeably lethargic and unmotivated and he was totally aware of those absent qualities that were integral to his personality. He intellectually knew he needed to escape -- wanted to escape. Yet there was no attempt to try. He made excuses and justifications for why he did not resist or fight back. Even his embarrassment at his vanished assertiveness was gone. He seemed unable to DO anything.

Mother led him to the side of the room where the shelves lined the wall from floor to high ceiling. "Can you guess what these are, Napoleon?" she asked, indicating the bottles on the shelves.

He shook his head.

"They are a new line of pharmaceuticals I've created."

"Branching out?"

"Not entirely," she corrected. "Drugs have lately been an effective tool of assassination. So much quieter than rifles and bombs. Much neater as well."

A silent alarm resounded within his mind. Assassination through drugs. Not just murder, but the more subtle destruction of minds and wills. He was experiencing the disturbing effects himself. The scope of the drugs had to be incredible.

Mother took a small vial from the bottom shelf. She unscrewed the lid and held the glass up to his lips. "Try some," she ordered.

He shook his head. His mind told him to step away, to push the vial from her hand, yet the muscles did not obey his instructions. Involuntarily he drank the tasteless potion until the glass was empty.

A sickeningly, gloating expression dominated Mother's face. A sudden self-loathing engulfed the agent. Angry and frustrated that he could not stop the manipulation, he was more appalled at his own apathetic lack of resistance. The liquid slid down his throat. He was tensed for a reaction, wondering what the result might be. It wasn't poison he was sure. Mother would not go to all this trouble to kill him now. Not when he was so obviously under her power. Unfortunately, she may never release him, he thought ruefully.

The shift from lethargy to blankness was so gradual he did not recognize the effect until his vision went to complete darkness. He flung his arms to his sides to balance himself, but there was no sense of motion or touch. Nor was there sound. Suddenly, dramatically, he had been encased in a sensory deprivation cocoon. Yet, he was sure he had never moved.

Emotions remained untouched in this awesome nullness. Fear and confusion swelled to dominate his thoughts. Innate control enabled him to push down the fear and grasp onto some shred of reference. He knew he had been drugged; some horrific and terrifying hallucinogen that totally controlled the senses. All he had to do was control the fear and this would soon pass away. Over and over again he repeated the words in his mind. He never believed them, but the repeated echo of comforting ideas restrained a panic that threatened to wash over his mind.

Sound and touch returned before vision. He was lying on a cold, hard surface. Other people were nearby. He opened his eyes. He was on the floor in the lab. Mother stood to one side. Two men in lab coats were behind her.

"Feeling better, Napoleon?" Mother wondered.

She held onto his arm to help him sit up. He yanked away from her touch. Heartened that muscle control and his natural good taste was still intact, he pulled farther away and came unsteadily to his feet.

"Do you know what happened?"

"Not exactly," he confessed.

There was no need to say more. Egocentrics like Mother never tried to hide their genius. Especially when they believed to hold the upper hand. In this case Solo reluctantly thought she just might. After first hand experience of the power of the drug, he knew Mother held great power at her fingertips.

With a flick of her hand, Mother motioned for him to look in the dark corner of the rough stone of the wall. A body was crumpled on the floor. She then gestured to a videotape machine and monitor at the far end of the room and bid him to watch. With horror Solo observed a film of him strangling one of Mother's assistants. The gasp leaving his throat seemed to come from someone. It all could have been a trick, but with some dream-like memory of unreality, he knew he had killed the man. Without conscience, resistance or hesitation, he had coldly assassinated the man on the orders of Mother Muffin.

"These," she gestured to the vials, "are my keys to destruction."

Solo slowly studied the bottles. Subtly tinted liquids filled each row. He wondered if certain colors signified a certain type of drug. There were no labels on any of the containers. He mentioned that to his captor.

"There is good reason for that, dear Napoleon. Only I know what each drug will do. Only I control the effects."

Solo coursed his way along the shelves and strolled over to the shelves. His practiced, automatic thoughts for the destruction of the lab were efficient and second nature to him. He MUST destroy the factory of macabre drugs! These potent and effective weapons, in Mother's control, could wreck havoc with the world.

"Would you like to know more about these wonderful chemicals?" Mother asked.

Before Solo responded she provided an explanation. Psychoactive drug compounds could be selectively programmed for specific alterations of pinpointed brain activity. With a customized biochemical block, a drug could control or alter anyone with very specific results. The first drugs given to Solo were especially designed to blunt aggressiveness and initiative. Any of the compounds could be used to alter other specific personality or physical traits or senses.

"Good-bye LSD, hello Mother's little helper," Napoleon quipped acidly.

The dig was the initial reaction he found to cover his own fear. He was totally aware of the effectiveness of the drugs. Aware and unable to combat the drugs. Conceivably these compounds could force anyone to do anything, or force them to do nothing.

"I can see you understand the possibilities," she said with approval. "Now you know why I want your help."

"No, I don't."

"Napoleon, your wonderful skills will be enhanced. Those nagging obstacles of morality and conscience will be gone."

"Your own killing machine?" His voice was contemptuous. "You must have any number of killers to do your bidding."

"None like you, Napoleon."

She leaned close to him and rubbed his jaw with her finger. He suddenly lashed out with his hand, grabbing her wrist and whipping her arm behind her back. He pushed her against the nearest wall.

"I won't be around long enough to help you, Mother."

She shook her head almost sadly. "You have no choice."

The unconcern of her attitude bothered him. There was an oppressive feeling of pressure; of inevitability. As if there was no possible way he could win and he was the only on who didn't recognize that obvious fact. Keeping a tight grip on his captive, Napoleon maneuvered to the shelves. He picked up a few bottles and threw them at the other containers. Within minutes most of the compounds were destroyed.

"Now you're going to get me out of here," he harshly ordered.

"I can't do that," Mother replied with an insufferably pleasant tone. "You will not try to escape, dearest. And you will release me now."

The placating angered him but Solo found he was unable to issue any counter threats. His feet would not move to take those first steps to freedom. Despair filtered into his thoughts; filling a void where there should have been a will to escape. With surprising ease Mother wriggled her arm away from Solo's grip. She sadly smiled at her prisoner.

"I am sorry, Napoleon. I did try to warn you."

He backed away to the wall trying to keep the rising anxiety from his expression. His fingers tightened like claws on the cold, rough stone at his back. Very slowly he slid down to the floor, no longer possessing the strength to stand. Realization of this horror robbed him of energy. As much as he wanted to deny it, Mother was right. The vicious compounds controlled him. The drugs selectively destroyed the incentive to escape. Worse than anything was the awareness of what he had lost and what he would become -- what he was already. His will could be molded and controlled to any evil whim while he was powerless to resist; unable to even forget his transgressions.

Mother came and sat near him. With a quietly triumphant voice she explained more details of her drugs. She outlined plans to control key figures in world politics and economy. She pointedly targeted UNCLE operatives who would be killed or controlled. People he loved and respected would be destroyed. He would be a party to the insidious plot. Within his tormented mind he could not summon the indignation to fight back, to even verbally attack his manipulator.

"Do you hate me, Napoleon?"

"Very much," he admitted. There was only a hint of his disgust. The drugs were subduing the edges of his delivery.

"Would you kill me?" Mother wondered.

The answer was firm and unequivocally. "Yes."

A Webley pistol was placed on the floor next to his hand. For a moment he stared at the weapon, identifying the instrument. His fingers slid onto the grip and wrapped around the trigger with professional ease. The weight and balance of the weapon was assessed as he turned it from side to side.

"You won't kill me, Napoleon. You can't even try."

Solo raised the pistol and placed it on Mother's forehead. Automatically he noted the safety was off, the hammer cocked to firing position. All he had to do was pull the trigger. The index finger of his right hand was motionless. The muscle would not pull the trigger. Solo's eyes narrowed with concentration; his arm shook, sweat beaded on his face. His mind desperately wanted to pull the trigger; to prove her wrong. Yet nothing he could do would constrict the finger.

The expression on his face reflected the anger and frustration. He ground his teeth together from effort.

"You can not kill me, Napoleon," Mother told him in a quiet voice. "There is no escape for you. Ever."

He shook his head, never moving the pistol away from the target. "No."

"I control you, Napoleon."

"No!"

"I can make you do anything. Or stop you from doing anything."

He violently shook his head, though inside he knew she was right. It made him all the more angry and bitter. "I will escape," he defiantly responded. "You can never destroy that desire."

"Would you choose the escape of death?" she asked.

For the first time he looked at her, studied the eyes of his antagonist. She was perfectly serious. He did not have an answer. Under any other circumstance he would have never considered death. That was before his knew the realization of desperation and hopelessness. He no longer had an easy answer.

Mother pushed the muzzle of the pistol and placed it against his head. "If you wish to escape all you need do is pull the trigger."

Solo closed his eyes to concentrate. The cool metal against his head was almost a calming blessing. This was his only door out of the asylum. Did he have the courage to take this final exit?

IX

"He hath borne me on his back a thousand times."

His mind was not clear enough to be making life and death decisions. Yet the pistol remained at his head. There was so much fear, anger and confusion to deal with he could not find a reference point to start from. His life would mean nothing as a prisoner of this madwoman; if his will and secrets were no longer his to keep and protect. More than anything else it was losing control that he feared the most. He was a man who must be the master of his own destiny or perish defending that right. Yet he had never condoned suicide. That was the ultimate surrender, the weak escape for those who could not summon the courage and strength to face unpleasantness.

His hand trembled so violently the muzzle-tip knocked against his temple. Pride would never allow him to remain as Mother's prisoner. It would be a condemnation of self-hate that would destroy him. Could he ever face himself, or Illya, if he allowed himself to be a captive? Despair was not a familiar emotion. A black wave of desperation overwhelmed him; sucking him to the bottom of an emotional abyss. Tears stung his closed eyes. The warm drops slid down his face. Never in his adult life had he cried from frustration; from anger, from self-pity. He was thankful his eyes were closed so he would not have to face his captor.

The shame and anguish made his finger tighten on the trigger. It was the only exit from this pit of terror. His finger shook from the tension of the trigger-spring. Fractional millimeters away from death. A quiet, tiny voice of reason spoke in his muddled mind. It prevented his finger from moving. Some inner control of strength stopped him from this final act of surrender. Imperceptibly his finger relaxed, though he remained frozen in place, too taut to move.

X

“All that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.”

Illya Kuryakin drew the lab coat closer around his shoulders. His footsteps were purposely quiet as he carefully tread down the stone staircase. The huge cavern room was strangely subdued and he took the last few steps with extra care. The few people in the room paid no attention to him. All the occupants stared at a figure in black that sat against the wall. Kuryakin came to a dead stop. Napoleon Solo was the person against the wall with a pistol to his head. Napoleon. Alive. Illya had to cover his motuh with his hands lest his instinctive yelp of joy escape. Napoleon alive!

Obviously there was much he had missed, but Illya could only comprehend and relate to what he saw now. Abstractly he noted three men in lab coats, one man on an upper level who had just entered the room, and a person who had to be Mother Muffin next to Napoleon. Some instinctive portion of his mind noted the placement and detail. His thoughts and emotions were directed at the appalling drama unfolding with his friend. Solo was crying! He was being forced to kill himself? After losing his friend to what he thought was assassination – then finding him like this – Kuryakin was stunned to frozen shock!

Illya saw the hammer draw back fractionally.

"Napoleon! Stop!"

From the corner of his eye Illya saw the man on the upper level pull a pistol with extension from his coat. Illya drew his Walther and fired. The man toppled from the upper level. Before his body hit the ground Illya was running toward his partner. The two men escaped out of the room. From out of nowhere a tech tackled Illya sending them both to the fllor. His Walther skidded out of his hand. Quickly dispatching the man he came to his feet. Mother Muffin faced him, pointing a walking stick at him. She blocked his view of Solo so Illya would have to wait for an appraisal of his partner.

"You must be Mr. Kuryakin," Mother acidly said.

Illya slightly inclined his head. "And you Mother Muffin."

"And you are dead, Mr. Meddler."

Her right arm straightened. A gunshot reverberated in the massive cavern. The cane flew out of her hand. Illya felt no sting of a bullet as he had expected because the shot was directed at Mother, not from her. The woman collapsed to the floor. Behind her Illya saw the Webley in Napoleon's hand drop to the floor, Then Solo covered his face with his empty hand and bowed to the floor.

Illya grabbed his Walther and raced to Solo's side. Gently he took hold of his partner's trembling shoulders and eased the agent up. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Napoleon.” He never thought to speak the name again in anything but mourning. He repeated it again, the sound a balm to his soul. “Napoleon. It’s all right. I’m here. Are you all right?"

Solo removed the hand from his face and held onto Kuryakin. He did not yet open his eyes. Illya's heart ached when he saw his friend's face wet with tears.

"Napoleon?" He tentatively returned the embrace.

"Are you real?"

Illya nodded, then realized Solo could not see him. "Yes. What's wrong?"

Solo leaned his head against the wall. " Drugs. You won't believe them," he breathed with a sigh.

Illya glanced at the pistol on the floor. "Maybe I will," he responded, almost afraid to confront the drug capable of reducing his friend to a near suicidal emotional wreck.

Napoleon opened his eyes and blinked away the moisture. He found it difficult to face Kuryakin, but after a moment he established eye contact. There was no judgment or reprimand in the Russian's blue eyes. What he did see was a great deal of understanding and compassion.

His voice was shaky, but this time from a more positive emotion. He felt trembly and weak, but strengthened by the comforting security his friend brought. "What did you see?"

"Not much. I missed the prelude. I got here in time to see you bring down the curtain."

Solo looked away at some indefinable point in the distance. In slow words, his voice still deep and unsteady, he explained the operation and Mother's diabolical plans. There was a detachment in his tone that made him think someone else was talking. He knew it was an effect of the drugs and wondered if/when they would wear off. Maybe he would never recover. He must have voiced his fears aloud because Kuryakin responded.

"You already have, my friend."

Glancing briefly at the Russian, Solo winced and turned away again. "I had no will. I couldn't even kill myself."

Illya touched his arm. Solo flinched away. Kuryakin leaned in and gripped an arm around Solo's shoulder. "Before Mother could shoot me, you saved my life. What does that tell you?" Napoleon gave him a brief look, then stared at the floor. "It tells me that when I needed you most you -- as you always do -- saved me. The drug is not impossible to conquer, Napoleon." He almost grinned. "Between us nothing is impossible."

Leaning his head on Illya, Solo nodded. Kuryakin was confident and assured him chemical effects could be treated. On a lighter note he did wish Solo had not destroyed the drugs. UNCLE could have learned a lot from the compounds.

Solo almost smiled. "There's plenty more. She told me this isn't her only lab." He glanced to the spot where Mother was still slumped on the floor. He shivered, his nerves still tingly from the narrow escape.

"Why did she kidnap you?" Kuryakin asked.

"She wanted to keep me," Napoleon replied with indignation. He snapped his mouth closed wondering why he had ever said such an embarrassing truth. More effects of the drugs! He would have to watch what he said. He felt his face redden with a blush.

Illya's gaze evaluated his partner's attire. The Russian actually blushed as well. "You're kidding!"

Solo adamantly shook his head. "Would I kid about -- that?"

"No," Kuryakin returned and smiled.

"It's not funny!" Solo insisted without humor. "We're talking about a fate infinitely worse than death!"

Kuryakin settled against the wall next to his friend. "I can't remember saving you from anything worse than death before."

Solo rolled his eyes. "Okay, now I don't only owe you my life, I owe you everything I possess or ever will possess." He sighed. "It's worth it."

"Oh?"

"But if this gets back to HQ --"

Kuryakin put a finger across his lips and shook his head. "I will take your secret to the grave," he assured.

"And don't ask me any more questions. I can't lie to you in this state and you already have enough against me for blackmail for the rest of my life."

A moan came from the woman on the floor. The woman was near death. Kuryakin went over to examine the notorious criminal. Solo joined him. The Russian took her by the arm and turned her over. The wig atop her head fell to the floor.

Kuryakin gasped. "She's --"

Solo gasped, so speechless he could not find a phrase of amazement.

Illya stared from 'Mother' to his partner several times. "Did you know Mother is not a 'she?'"

"I think I'm going to faint," Solo muttered, sliding to the floor in shock.

Kuryakin went back and slid down next to his friend. "Please don't, Napoleon. I don't want to carry you up those stairs."

"When this gets back to HQ I'm ruined," Solo moaned. "And if you say anything --"

"My reputation is at stake too, you know," Illya countered. "I AM your partner!" Shaking his head, sighing, he stared at the man -- man dressed as a woman -- on the floor. Maybe we can just blow up the lab," he suggested.

"Your violent nature would be most welcome at this time."

" 'And in this harsh world draw they breath in pain to tell thy story.' " Illya sighed heavily.

" 'A fellow of infinite jest,'" Solo countered with an answering sigh.

The Russian hooked a hand under Solo’s arm and pulled him up, heading toward the stairs. “You know, if I were an evil person I could extract all kinds of secrets from you, my friend,” he conversationally told his partner.

The journey was slow and methodical, Napoleon still fatigued and worn from the emotional and physical toll of the drugs. He stared at the blond for a long moment. “You already know all my secrets. You saw my last testament, didn’t you?”

The truth was something substantial between them for a long time. No hidden pockets of anything. They had seen each other’s souls and hearts in every rescue, every torture, every moment when life and death hung in the balance and they fought with insane fervor to save, help or defend their partner. For a moment the despair and anguish of Solo’s death raced through his nerves again. Kuryakin brushed it away by taking in the sight of the real person next to him. By squeezing a little tighter with his grip on his friend’s arm.

“I did not need to see the film,” the blond told him. “I do already know all your secrets. As you know mine.”

Epilogue

"That it should come to this!”

"Don't say anything!" Napoleon warned with a cold glare.

Kuryakin's eyebrows shot up and nearly disappeared into his blond bangs. "Moi?" He settled back into the headrest of his seat and assumed an innocent air of ignorance. He tossed a casual smile to the airline stewardess that passed by. "Shall I order you a drink, Napoleon? You seem a trifle -- unsettled." He needed the routine of teasing his friend and Napoleon was a little too sensitive still. He wasn’t playing along as usual. The Russian persisted, not above getting back at his partner just a bit.

"No," the agent declined sharply, staring out the window of the plane.

Kuryakin sighed dramatically. "One would never know I just saved your life. More importantly, saved you from a fate worse than --"

"Ah -- but everyone WILL know, won't they?" Solo interrupted. "What about your reputation?"

"MY reputation is intact, thank you. I performed the obligatory rescue. I brought you back from the brink of --"

"Yes, thank you, I do appreciate it --"

"You don't act like it."

Solo shook his head and sighed in defeat. "All right. It's blackmail plain and simple. What do you want, fiend?"

"I don't know. Yet. I'll have to think about it. Get back to me next week. After you've finished my share of the paperwork."

The dark-haired agent scowled. "Maybe I should just tell everyone myself. I'll live with the humiliation for a week, then it will be forgotten by some other office gossip."

Kuryakin shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I should tell Magnificent Millicent about the suggestibility drug. Maybe I should just try and duplicate it and sell it. How many of your admirers would be lined up for that, I wonder? Maybe I'll ask April. I wonder what she would think? Or pay?"

As a defense against the agony of the torture, Solo closed his eyes and groaned. "I should just defect." When he opened them again and turned to his partner, he was wincing. "All right, I am at your mercy. What do you want?"

Content with the world, Kuryakin smiled. A pity he could not think of anything to 'get' out of his partner. The American was at his mercy and such an advantage might never come again. Well, it was enough just to let the arrogant Solo suffer for a few days. Type his own reports, work in the office until the paperwork was finished, no dates.

"I'll let you know." This time, at least temporarily, he had the last word over Solo.

Shaking his head, Solo rested against the seat and closed his eyes.

Kuryakin glanced at his friend. There would be few after affects from the drugs, happily. The UNCLE chemists would be pleased with yet another edge against their archenemies. Waverly would be pleased his top enforcement agent was back. Never as pleased as Kuryakin. That Napoleon had overcome the drug and come to his rescue was a testament of their friendship, of their commitment beyond anything and everything. The friendship had saved them both. Again.

Grateful for the greatest treasure in his life -- his partner -- he felt he needed little more in life. Illya sighed, relieved that once more they had cheated death. One day death would not be a plot or an elaborate vengeance, one day it would be the real, mortal end. But not today. He had rescued his partner and been rescued and they were both returning alive and relatively well. That's all Illya ever wanted. But he would never admit that to his cherished friend. Not today. Perhaps some day it would be his turn to bare his heart and soul and confess to Napoleon that his life meant everything to Illya. ‘He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.’

THE END