Sequel to:

The Double Image Affair

Based on the A-Team episode "The Say Uncle Affair"

Alternate Universe

UNCLE/A-TEAM/ CROSSOVER

THE

RETURN OF THE BROWN FOX

AFFAIR

By

GM

Summer 1987

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. Janice Joplin.

Illya would be surprised he knew a line from a Janet Joplin song. Napoleon Solo had learned about things he never wanted to know during his imprisonment in Southeast Asia. Old rock and roll being one of the least destructive and painful. The guards used to play it --

Abruptly he stopped the thought cold. He didn't want to think about the past. Not between 1983 until 1986. He wanted to erase those horrendous, torturous years from his mind. The psychiatrists wouldn't let him. That was why he had escaped the confines of the hospital that had turned into a prison to -- wherever they were now. Arizona. As far remote from the jungles of Vietnam as he could possibly be.

He moved away from the tourist jewelry shop on the main street of this little mud spot near the Grand Canyon. The next store -- a gallery specializing in Native art -- was playing country music. Not to his taste either, but more tolerable. In POW camps, Communists Chinese guards did not play anything from Nashville.

"We have no room for a painting in the car."

The mildly accented voice behind him was soft and lightly tinged with humor, with wry drollness.

"Just looking." Solo sunk his hands in his pockets and glanced up to observe his friend staring at him in the reflection of the glass. "It's still strange."

"Yes, I know." He gestured with his arms. "Freedom. It means something new now."

"Nothing left to lose."

Illya frowned and shook his head. "Lyrics to a song that are shallow. A song I am surprised you even know about."

The Russian’s pale face brightened, the blue eyes sparkling with rare energy and vitality. During their partnership at UNCLE Illya Kuryakin had rarely displayed overt emotions. He was a cool cat, noted for his stylishly avant guard attire of black turtleneck sweaters, black jackets and long blond hair fashioned in a Beatle cut. More than a decade later now, they were older and much more worn. Illya was regaining a little bit of the old flare, the valued wry wit, the sardonic, usually cynical view of life. When they had met again Illya had been thin, sallow complexioned and hollow eyed. Now he was looking pretty good, returning to the natural, almost ageless state he had been blessed with.

With a critical eye, Napoleon Solo gazed at his own reflection. Yes, extremely older than he had been in those golden days when he had been a top agent at UNCLE. When the world was his playground and the life and death dangers he faced all part of the big, entertaining game of espionage. He was so much older now; dark/greyish hair cut short, wrinkles lining the tanned face that had seen too many Asian summers and monsoon winters. And his eyes -- he glanced back to his friend, unable to look at his own eyes in the glass. There were still ghosts reflected from his soul. Too visceral and close in memory -- both waking and sleeping -- to examine them too closely in his eyes.

"Freedom, for us, is real, Napoleon. America is a big place. And there is so much room!"

The rare ebullience tugged a smile from him and he could only agree. "Yes, the world is wide open. We didn't get to ever stop and look at things very much. This is our chance."

Turning to walk down the sidewalk of the hot Arizona town, Solo took in the sights of the busy tourist area, but kept glancing at his companion every few moments. When their eyes caught for the third time he smiled. Kuryakin broke into a gentle chuckle.

"It's still pleasantly strange having you back at my side."

"Yeah, but better than I have imagined for a long time."

There was a lot of history for them to make up for. Solo had spent three years as an anonymous, forgotten prisoner of the Communists in Vietnam and other Asian lands -- wherever his captors took him. While in Thailand on a mission, he had been injured in an embassy bombing. He awoke to discover he had been kidnapped by Chinese agents and sold to a prison camp along with leftover POW Americans from the Vietnam war. He and the other Americans had been shuffled from region to region to avoid detection by outsiders. Eventually the prisoners were forgotten by everyone, even the people who owned them. They were just nameless, faceless slaves. Over the years, their numbers thinned and finally only a hopeless handful were left alive. Tough survivors of the various merciless conditions; escape attempts, the torture, the illness, the depression.

Glancing quickly at his friend, walking in the warm sunlight of the American West, Napoleon could hardly believe this was reality. He had dreamed of freedom, fought for it, but had he really believed it could happen? After his miraculous rescue and return, he was heartbroken to learn of his friend's fate in those terrible years. Illya had in spent most of the time in a mental institution. At opposite ends of the world they had suffered in their own terms, but somehow survived to be together now.

With back pay accrued, they were rich and had taken to the road. Driving across country. It had taken two months to savor the scenery and zigzag from Washington DC to Arizona. When they reached LA they were going to stay in the land of sun and surf for a while. Then they would reevaluate again. Safety, freedom, money, time, companionship. They had been denied those luxuries for so long they were still uncertain of their course in life. And they had agreed that perhaps no set path was the right thing for now.

"You still haven't decided if you want to drive to the canyon or fly over it." Illya stopped in front of an ice cream store and perused the menu of delectable treats. "Perhaps drive?"

"So you can snack on the way?" Solo turned his face up to bask in the warm light. He still reveled in the heat, the wonderful starkness of hot and sun as opposed to tepid, wet jungle. "Why don't I go get the car and you can order us some malts or something."

"I think I will make mine a double chocolate." He flashed an evil grin. "Yours will be a surprise."

"I can't wait."

Solo walked down a few blocks to a side street where they had left the government issue sedan loaned to them by the generous General Hunt Stockwell, Retired. The enigmatic general was now working for a mysterious and nebulous intelligence organization that employed the infamous A-Team. Stockwell and A-Team member Murdock had rescued Illya from the mental institution, for which Napoleon would be forever grateful. Then, in a magnanimous show of generosity, Stockwell had allowed the A-Team to rescue Solo and the refugees imprisoned in Asia.

Indebted more than he could ever repay, Napoleon had questioned the reclusive leader of the A-Team's assignments. It had been unnerving that first meeting, when Solo had come face to face with a version of himself. Illya had admitted to being jolted back to near sanity when he had seen Hunt, who was an eerie look-alike for Solo. Or rather, for a Solo who had lived a healthy and happy life for the last decade.

Stockwell was a man who was confident, officious and military right down the line. Used to having his every whim obeyed, he had incredible power to make almost anything happen anywhere in the world. The contrast to the thin, distrustful, ill Solo was profound. It was like looking into a fun-house mirror that should have reflected himself, and instead, showed the dark and light, the good and bad, the distorted shadow of paths taken.

In a twilight zone-style weirdness, Kuryakin also had a double. Hunt's old CIA partner, Ivan Trigorin. A Russian. A twin for Illya. In a bizarre twist of fate, Ivan had succumbed to torture and betrayed Hunt many years ago, although Hunt only found out last year when his old partner kidnapped and tortured him. Solo shivered. He would much rather have his reality than Stockwell's. If Illya had ever done that to him -- which he never would, but if he had -- life would not be worth living. How could you possibly feel about your other half, your main reason for living, if he betrayed and hurt you?

There was so much he didn't understand. Slowly restoring his health and recovering enough mentally to function outside of the jungle, there had been little time to really talk to Stockwell. Once, when they were staying at the general's retreat with the A-Team, Solo had asked the military man why he had rescued the POWs. Hunt had enigmatically replied that he was obligated to do so. Napoleon doubted the man was under obligation or command of anyone. So why had he done it? Illya and Murdock had speculated that he could not turn his back on spies that were so much like himself and Trigorin. Whatever the case, he was thankful for the compelling reasons that had bought his freedom and brought him back to Kuryakin.

Taking a deep breath of the sharp, hot atmosphere, he had better things to think about and began pondering if they should make reservations for a hotel in Vegas, or if they would linger here for another night. It was only when he was falling toward the dirt that he realized something had hit him hard in the back of the head and he was not only plunging toward the ground, but into unconsciousness.

***

Kuryakin just finished his malt and started on Napoleon's neapolitan shake when a shade of concern filtered into his thoughts. What was taking his friend so long? Did he stop for petrol? Did he meet a beautiful woman who needed a ride across town? He took the shake with him and walked to the location they had left their car. The rental was gone! Now anxious, he stopped at the nearest pay phone and called the hotel. Perhaps Napoleon had become ill? Should he call a hospital?

When the hotel reported Solo had not returned, Illya automatically, without a second thought, started an investigation. As if he had never paused in his career as an enforcement operative, he began asking people in the nearby shops if they had seen anything unusual. Controlling his ever-increasing apprehension, he took note, for the first time in years, of his surroundings, of the people around him. Suspicions ran rampant, while logic reminded him -- futilely, that he was still in Arizona and what threat could there be here?

In a small mineral and ore shop, he found a cashier who had noticed a man of Solo's description being helped into a white sedan by -- by someone who looked amazingly like Kuryakin. The sedan had driven off toward the west. The intelligence set him completely off-guard and Kuryakin continued the questioning, but had the strangest feeling the report was correct. The woman seemed certain. Especially the way she looked at him, as if she wondered if HE had lost his mind.

For a terrible moment, a thrill of horror shot up his spine. Was he losing his mind again? For eight years, he had smoldered in a torture chamber of his own making -- his own mind -- while his partner had suffered the physical torments of captivity. Trapped in their separate prisons, Illya's had been self-imposed. If only he had snapped out of the pity and delusion he might have gone back to Asia and discovered Solo was still alive -- rescued his friend from a living hell. But he believed Napoleon dead -- reports all confirmed Solo’s death in the embassy bombing. Instead of further investigation, he had simmered in his own purgatory of mental imbalance.

Resolutely he pushed aside the recriminations and guilt. They did him no good now. Napoleon was missing and a thin blond-haired man had taken him away. Illya swore he would find out what had happened and get his friend back.

He walked another block to the city center of the small town and gave a report to the local police. They thought him ridiculous to report his friend kidnapped when there were a number of perfectly normal and legitimate reasons why his friend had driven away with a stranger. The lone deputy at the small station promised to take down a report and make some calls, but Illya knew it was just to get rid of him. While filling in the lines on the standard form, Kuryakin noticed the secretary, then the deputy, studying him closely. He looked up, instantly alarmed at their curious, surprised expressions.

"What is it?"

"You said the sedan was white with government plates?"

He could only nod. No words, no breath could escape his panic-tightened throat. All his sensed shifted from concern to near-panic. Bad news was on the horizon, he could feel it. And with it came an un-namable fear that clutched his heart.

"The car seems to have been wrecked. Driven into a ditch and crashed into by a road maintenance truck."

Gripping the edge of the counter, Illya forced himself to function, not freeze in the face of the disaster. "My friend. Is he alive?"

The young sheriff shrugged. "Weird," he said to no one in particular, his brow creasing with perplexity. "The vehicles were burned to a crisp, both of them, but the Highway Patrolman on the scene says no driver’s bodies are anywhere to be found. For either vehicle." He shook his head at the conundrum. "A couple in an RV says they passed a green Mercedes heading west, driven by a guy with shaggy blond hair." He stared hard at the Russian, and Illya returned the suspicion with a blank expression. "We'll check it out." He made a face of unpleasant confusion. "Maybe your friend is, you know, trapped under the dash of the wreckage or something."

Illya followed the young man out the door, quickly and adamantly refusing to be left out of this investigation. The accident scene was another strange experience; pacing the charred remnants of twisted metal, searching the nearby sagebrush coated desert for bodies that might have flown out of the vehicles. Trying to deconstruct the events of the maintenance truck plowing into the four door sedan without either auto making an effort to stop. No skid marks on the road at all.

The fire crews and patrol investigators were still there and Illya ignored them all, pacing around the car, peering inside the smoldering remains, searching for a sign of his friend. There was no evidence anyone had escaped the wreckage. Adversely, there was no indication there had ever been drivers behind the wheels.

A set up. He had seen so many when he was in Section Two. Had orchestrated his fair share of such deceptions. Now he knew that something was terribly wrong with this scenario. A mantra he repeated as he studied the crime scene -- yes, crime scene -- and filled his mind with hope to keep at bay the opposite, horrific option. At least there was no body, and he would hold onto that lifeline -- the literal and figurative salvation -- that his friend was still alive. There was no choice, he had to believe Solo still lived. He didn't know what would happen if the alternative became reality. And that unknown abyss of fear made him terrified of facing the future without his friend.

***

Kuryakin's hand shook as he held the phone against his face, listening to the ringing. His insides were layered with a numbing cold that nearly incapacitated him, but he forced himself to continue to function. He had found hope in the empty remnants of the sedan. No body. No sign that anyone escaped. Eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth. For him, truth meant that without a body, he would not believe his friend dead. Then where was Napoleon? With the other blond, of course.

Napoleon had been taken before the crash, and the accident arranged as a blind to fool him. Why? Who was after them? Who would want to put him through the agonizing repeat of the collapse of his life eight years ago? Napoleon had supposedly died in the explosion in Thailand. This time the ruse was elementary. As if not to convince, but to buy time. For what? Who was his look-alike in the green Mercedes?

The phone clicked and someone answered with a bright, "Hello, anybody there?"

The comical voice was easy to recognize. In another instance, Illya would have been amused by the clownish personality of Murdock. Not now.

"Murdock, this is Illya." His words were steady and amazingly level. All his effort was channeled into getting through this in one step. Napoleon's fate depended on him keeping his head in a sane place.

"Hey, buddy, I got your postcard from New Orleans. Where are you now?"

"I need help. I need you to get Stockwell."

"What's up, Illya?" The tone was immediately serious. "Something wrong?"

"Yes." He took a breath, fighting his unstable nerves into courageous intent. He had to do this. He could not fall apart. In had been only a few months since he had been released from the mental institution, and this was his first crisis. The ultimate fear that had collapsed his sanity years before. The only thing that kept him going was the certain knowledge that Napoleon's life depended upon him and he would not fail his friend this time. "There's been an accident." This had to sound logical and reasonable. No ravings. No desperation. "Napoleon is missing. I need your help."

"What do you mean?"

"He's missing. I don't know what happened, but I know it's not right. Please -- please contact Stockwell." He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on coherent thoughts. "There's something sinister going on. It's possible he was kidnapped."

"Who would kidnap him?"

"I don't know. But whoever it is, he looks like me."

***

Illya started at the pounding at his door. Sunlight was peeking through the bottom of the drapes in the hotel room and he blinked, brining the time into clarity. NineAM. He must have dozed off at some point in his restless night. The knocks continued. He automatically reached for his left side, then growled at himself for the foolish slip. He had not carried a gun in a shoulder holster for years. Some instincts never died apparently.

"Who is it?" he shouted, warily approaching the door.

"It's me, buddy, Murdock. Open up."

With a sigh of relief, Kuryakin snapped open the door. Murdock rushed in, chattering about how he was here to help and everything was going all right, but Illya heard little of the tirade. He was riveted on General Stockwell, who slipped into the room after the A-Team member. Illya knew intellectually it was Hunt Stockwell standing there staring at him, but it looked so much like Napoleon that his stomach contorted with wrenched disappointment.

Obviously also disconcerted at this meeting, Hunt closed the door behind him and paced the room instead of looking at the Russian. "Since your call we've done some checking, Mr. Kuryakin."

He didn't sound too much like Napoleon. The officiousness, the strident, harsh, commanding tone was not like his friend's deep, almost pleasant voice. It helped jolt Illya back to his center of gravity. The looks were spookily similar, but the men were not. This was not Solo, but he was a much needed expert who could find the missing former agent.

"What did you discover?"

Stockwell paused across the room, as far away from the Russian as possible. "The green Mercedes was rented in Phoenix the same day you and Mr. Solo were there. Rented by a blue-eyed blond man about your build. He spoke with an accent. Possibly Russian."

Hunt turned to stare at him and Illya held his breath. Was the general accusing him of masterminding his friend's disappearance? He didn't understand. Then slowly the hurt and betrayal on the general's face registered. No, this Russian wasn't the suspect.

"Your counterpart," he croaked. "He took Napoleon because he thinks he's you."

Hunt's mouth was a grim line of sorrow. "That is the most likely scenario."

"Then we must find him."

The man so like Napoleon, and so not like him, gave a curt nod of agreement. "I think I already have."

For the first time since yesterday afternoon, Kuryakin's heart seemed to come to life again. "Where? When do we leave?"

"I am going --"

"Your old partner has kidnapped my friend!" Illya snapped out and crossed the room to grab onto Hunt's muscular arm. "You are not going without me!"

Eye contact lasted a fraction of a moment. Then the taller man surrendered with a sigh and a shrug as he turned away. "I understand. But you have to be prepared for what -- for what you might find."

"I'll deal with that at the end of the journey.”

***

Waking with a start, Solo’s reaction was little more than a jolt. Then he lay still. Conditioned response to years of captivity and torment had trained him to be cautions at all times -- waking and sleeping. His eyes remained closed as he assessed the sense input: audio, olfactory, temperature. It was warm and humid and smelled of the damp jungle and the ocean. Birds chattered and the rush of the surf washed upon his senses. He was back in Cambodia or Laos or wherever he had been imprisoned. The fantasy of rescue and America and the reunion with Illya was all a cruel dream. It had seemed so real. He had been so certain it was real . . . .

“You may open your eyes now. I know you are awake.”

The voice was brutal, hard, and tinged with malevolence. And an accent. One that was strikingly familiar. The confusion was enough to drive him from the dark unknown and he opened his eyes.

Expecting to find himself in a rickety POW camp, he was not surprised at the rustic wood room. The open window showed blue sky and a small piece of dark blue ocean below. He was laying on a cot with his right wrist handcuffed to the side. Assessment finished, his interest was more in his host, and he turned, his breath punched out in a gasp by surprise.

“Ah, yes, I am told the resemblance is remarkable.”

It was Illya. Blond, blue-eyed, slight. But it was not Illya. The forbidding anger exuding from the eyes, the taut stance -- the disfiguring scar that marred a face so familiar, proved it was not his friend. He looked away.

“Who are you?”

“Your executioner.”

Swallowing hard, trying not to show the fear creeping into his nerves, Solo fought to think this through. He had been a prisoner for a long time. He wanted to scream at the injustice and cruelty of Fate. With effort, he stayed calm and cool, knowing there had to be a reason for this. He was not back in a POW camp. This was something different. He could handle this.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

“As a pawn, I take it?”

The man laughed and Solo glared at him. So much that was similar, but really, nothing like his friend.

“You are clever, Mr. Solo. Yes. You are unfortunate enough to look very much like an enemy of mine. I want him to suffer. And then I will kill him. And you.

“Why?”

"Because this is the final game between the brown fox and the black wolf. And I am going to win."

***

The bruises had healed, the pain dissipated, the drugged disorientation faded. But the real trauma deep inside had not diminished. Hunt wondered if it ever would.

It had taken weeks for him to sort through his feelings after his reunion with his 'old friend' Ivan. Surprise had been the first emotion -- surprise at being captured by someone he desperately WANTED to trust. Stockwell felt a rueful regret at falling for an old trick like the gas-loaded watch. And he could never forget the pain, both physical and mental of Ivan's effective torture. Then followed the hate for Ivan, who had sold out all those years ago in Cuba; sold out again when they last met. Finally, Hunt was oppressed by the mixed feelings as he had pulled the trigger to kill the only man he had permitted himself to call friend.

After the A-Team rescued him, Hunt had realized the full impact of the betrayal. Then came the flood of emotions he still could not cope with -- strange, conflicting, indefinable emotions stemming from the revelation that Ivan had not died in the van explosion, but had miraculously escaped the inferno of death and was still at large. The few months that followed had been a blur of activity for Stockwell. Obsessed with locating his nemesis, the retired General had focused his vast intelligence network on tracking the Russian fugitive. So far, that quest had been unsuccessful.

However, the search had narrowed to only a few global locations. It wouldn't take long to run his prey to ground. He was following a mind he knew as well as his own. Some habits never changed and Ivan Trigorin was a man of few habits. One of which was survival. Stockwell knew he should have faced that grim reality long ago. After the disastrous mission in Cuba Hunt should have known the truth -- subconsciously DID realize it. He had refused to acknowledge that his friend had sold out. It had been the only time in his life he had permitted personal feelings to cloud his judgment; a near fatal mistake he may yet pay for with his life.

He should have seen it coming. Ivan never had been fervently dedicated to the Agency. The Russian had been the tricky, adventurous fox while Stockwell had been the ruthless soldier; loyal to 'the cause'. They broke any rules to accomplish missions -- Ivan always went along with his daring schemes for the thrills of tempting danger and death. When Hunt started chasing Ivan, it was nearly a full time occupation. Yes, an obsession. Trimming his responsibilities in his organization, he left most of it in the hands of a capable assistant. The A-Team had been pardoned and released from his service. Hunt had devoted his time and energies to tracking a wounded Fox, who would be more dangerous and cunning than ever. Now the cunning fox had turned the tables and brought in the former UNCLE look-alikes to confuse the issues -- to muddle the emotions and raise the stakes of the game. Ivan wanted to kill them all, he guessed. But not easily. With as much emotional pain as possible. Why couldn’t he hate his former partner for the cruelty? For the torture? He just couldn’t.

Stockwell looked up from the fax he just received and glanced at the anxious Russian sitting in front of his desk.

“What is it?”

“Ivan likes to travel in style. I checked with jet charter services. I think I found him.”

“Where?”

Hesitating, Hunt did not want to involve Kuryakin further. This was between him and Ivan, but kidnapping Solo brought a new element to the mix. Why? He didn’t understand that part of the game, yet. He did know that Ivan was alive, and leaving very obvious clues for him to follow. Obvious for someone who knew him like a brother. Why? Because he wanted to be caught?

“I don’t think you should --“

“I’m going with you. Your friend kidnapped Napoleon as a lure, yes?”

Stockwell nodded. “I think so.”

“Then he will ensnare two of us, because I’m not staying behind while you try to find Napoleon. Where is he?”

“LA .”

“Then that is where we will go.”

***

When Ivan Trigorin released him on the pretext of allowing the prisoner some fresh air, of course Napoleon made a dash for the door. It was all calculated -- he could feel it. Ivan wanted him to make the attempt. And Trigorin beat him back, fighting the weaker American until Solo was barely conscious, huddled on the floor, gasping for breath and trying not to cry out from the hurt. This Russian knew how to inflict pain as well as his counterpart, but Illya, of course, would never do this to him. He had to get over the spooky look-alike angle, but he could not.

Patient, maddeningly patient, Trigorin waited until he could crawl to his knees, then ordered him to sit in a chair. For now, he would comply. It was a simple request. He had to save his strength for whatever the future held. He was going to survive this. His motivation was simple -- he wanted more than anything to live. After years of suffering and captivity, he now had everything he had ever wanted out of life. This spy was not going to rob him of freedom and Illya.

"Why do you hate Americans?" he asked as Ivan tied him to the chair.

"Because you all think you're cowboys. Even your president."

He wiped blood from his lips. "He is a cowboy."

Trigorin ignored his comments. He wasn’t even looking at him. "But I really only despise one America. Obnoxiously brave and filled with bravado and verve and everything that is crass." He slapped Napoleon. “That is why I hate you. You look like Hunt. You act like him. You corrupted your Russian friend just as Hunt once corrupted me.”

Solo scoffed. "Really? I think you need him. You hate him because you need him."

Ivan hit him again. "It is irrelevant what you think. I will kill you both."

"I hope we beat you to that. But if not, then killing him will be merciful."

Ivan was perplexed and the anger faded momentarily. "Why?"

"Because Illya told me that you once meant something to Stockwell. You were like us."

"Like a worn out old spy and his lap dog Russian pet? Like you and your pathetic friend? I think not. I was never a whimpering shadow of Hunt. We were equals."

Solo shrugged. "My mistake."

"He hates me.” The tone was harsh, certain, but curiosity, however, was piqued. “Why would it be a mercy to kill him?"

"Trust me, it's better than him seeing what you think of him. He's your lifeline and you are his. Tied together. Hate? Loyalty? Sentimentality? Whatever the cord is made of, it binds you together. Don't you think I understand that? It's the only thing that kept me alive in the jungles. The hate is keeping you two alive. If that's what you really think of each other. Which I doubt."

Curious, Trigoran paced around the bound captive. Coldly, he denied the theory. "That does not make sense."

Solo shrugged. "It would if you had any feelings left. Or if you admitted them."

Trigorin slugged him again.

***

The stopover in LA was hardly more than a few minutes. Hunt talked to the jet charter service used by Trigorin. Ivan had chartered another private jet. For Hawaii. Under the name of Fox.

Hunt ordered his jet refueled and told the pilot they were going to Honolulu. He didn’t bother asking if Kuryakin was coming. There was no getting rid of the Russian. With a pang of regret, Hunt wished it was his former partner who was so loyal and devoted. But it was not. His partner was the one filled with hate and a quest to kill him.

He knew at the end of this one or several of them were going to be devastated. There would be death, perhaps more than one. How would he deal with it? Could he really kill Ivan? What would happen if Kuryakin or Solo died? They would feel the loss just as he would if Ivan died.

***

From 30,000 feet there was little of visual interest to catch his eye. Blue sky and patches of wispy clouds framed by the window of a small jet held a monotonous similarity above any portion of the world. 'Monotony: the definition of his own thoughts these last few months', Hunt Stockwell reflected ruefully as he allowed the innocuous blue yonder to mesmerize his mind. He was blind to the placid view. Instead, his mind's eye saw a haunting replay of scenes he had not been able to erase for several weeks. And always dominating the visions was a familiar face as permanently etched in his mind as if it were a searing brand.

The jet sloped into a gentle descent and the general sighed in satisfaction. The last act of a convoluted play was about to begin. It had taken weeks to trace Ivan's old haunts and decipher certain clues. With last instructions, he had left his intelligence network behind not expecting to come back. In some kind of twisted destiny a battle was about to be joined and it could only end in the death of one or both participants.

Like so much of what had happened to the former partners, the clues to Ivan's whereabouts had been imbedded in the past. A retreat that had become a refuge for them when their dangerous missions had driven them to a place of solitude. There was no logic to the supposition, but Stockwell KNEW with instinctive certainty, he would find Ivan on that small island in the Pacific. They seemed inexplicably drawn together by some unseen fate. Had destiny now decreed this final conflict?

Honolulu had changed since his last visit to the Pacific crossroads of the world. He had passed through Hawaii several times in the last few years but it had been the better part of a decade since he had stayed on the Islands. He stood on the tarmac and glazed across the miles to the familiar landmark of Diamond Head. Small white rectangles indicated the skyscraper hotels which hemmed the extinct volcano; signposts of change and the passage of time.

Hunt knew the years had changed him as much as they had changed the landscape of Hawaii. Once he had been as idealistic and naive as the beaches were pristine and white on these islands. Years of deceit, lies, and betrayal had left him bitter, turning him into a hopeless cynic as jaded as the Waikiki tourist traps. He had transformed into a black wolf -- distrustful of everything and everyone.

Again, everything was too easy. Trigorin had rented a limo at the airport. A few phone calls connected the dots. At the airport he had arranged for a charter boat out of Hawaii Kai. Hunt and Kuryakin were about to take a cab out there, when a black limousine pulled to a stop next to the jet and a husky Hawaiian driver stepped out.

"Mister Wolf?"

Unaccustomed to the alias Stockwell paused for a few seconds before acknowledging the question. “Yes. Who’s asking.”

“I was hired by your friend, to pick you up here.”

“It’s a trap,” Illya whispered.”

“Of course. Can you think of a better way to find them?”

“No.”

“My friend?” Hunt asked politely.

“Mr. Fox.”

Hunt smiled. “As expected,” he nodded.

He and Kuryakin stepped into the back and slouched comfortably in the plush seat. Hunt relaxed and noted Illya had already closed his eyes. Sleep came too easily, too quickly for his suspicious mind to register.

***

The sun was bright and hot on his face when Illya awoke. The all too familiar aftereffects of sleeping gas registered -- old habits form long ago easily brought back to his recollection now. Even in his groggy state there were more vital issues at the forefront of his mind and he quickly brushed aside the trick. He moved cautiously, realizing sand was underneath him. Not interested in wary self-protection or what he might be facing, he was anxious to get answers, so he opened his eyes without further investigation.

He was on a beach. A beautiful, tropical beach. Probably still in Hawaii. Next to him, Hunt Stockwell was still unconscious. The resting general was so terribly like Napoleon it was disturbing, and he checked for a pulse. Relieved his companion was alive, he shook his shoulder, urging him to wake up. This, too, was all too familiar and it disturbed him tremendously. Not so used to being drugged anymore, Stockwell was slower to return to consciousness. After a few moments he groggily assessed their situation. Two sets of gear had been left for them -- two rifles, two packs with ropes, snacks and water. The men first checked the rifles and were surprised the M16s were loaded with three rounds each, but they found no extra ammo in the packs.

“Why did Trigorin bring us here?” His voice was harsh and sharp -- accusatory to the disoriented man. Illya didn’t care. In away, this was Hunt’s fault, he critically condemned, although intellectually, he knew that was untrue and he was just trying to find someone to attack in his frustration and fear. “Where is Napoleon?”

Stockwell rubbed his face to stimulate his energy. “This is part of the game.” He groaned, surveying the beach. “The limited supplies -- it gives us the impression we have a fighting chance. A piece of the puzzle. I think the goal has to be that we have to find Solo.”

Illya looked way. The mannerisms were just too close to the real person. In his mind, he realized, he considered Hunt the impostor. “What kind of game?”

“Same as always. Hide and seek.”

The Russian’s retort was clipped and livid. “I am not interested in playing games. I want to find Napoleon.”

“Then I suggest we start at the beginning.”

“Into a trap.” He hated games. He hated the danger. That was supposed to be far behind him now.

“Certainly.” Hunt looked around, frowning, trying to think in his enemy’s place and finding his mental gears a little too rusty at this. Once, he had been so close to Ivan they could move, act and sometimes think in tandem without verbalization or even looking at each other. Now -- now Ivan was out for his blood and the whole world was wrong, twisted and inside-out. “Why else would the clues be so obvious?” Tense, depressed that he knew all too well the complex sport his old partner was engaged in, he knew there was only one course. “If you want to find your friend this is the fastest way. Ivan isn’t interested in you or Solo. You are pawns. This is between him and me.”

Motioning to the tracks leading away to the right, Stockwell started walking along the sand, hefting the pack. It was not especially heavy, but he was not used to survival games anymore. He fought his battles and plied his cunning wit behind a desk, fax machine and phone these days. Where the jungle encroached on the sand, two clear sets of tracks diverged. One going into the jungle, one along the rocky shore to the right. Illya chose the left path, Stockwell continued to the ocean. Beach terminated at a sloping lava shelf and Hunt carefully made his way along the jagged precipice. The thunderous rush of advancing and receding water was loud here and he could hear the echo as the sea swept in and out of the narrow lava tube nearby. With complete surprise, the bullet slammed into his leg with the impact of a pile-driver. The leg collapsed from under him and he tumbled down the lava escarpment almost before he realized he had been shot. Hunt wildly scrambled for purchase as he skidded across knife-sharp ridges of rock only a few yards from the whirling surf below.

The rifle and survival pack slipped from his hand and fell into the ocean just ahead of him. His feet had already hit the water when he finally stopped the tumultuous descent because his left wrist had wedged between a crack in the rocks. For timeless moments, he clung to the lava until he regained the breath and strength to ease his hand from the crevice. His shoulder felt dislocated and he tried to protect it as he used his blood-smeared, lacerated right hand to grip onto a narrow shelf of lava. For some time he paused and waited to summon the strength to pull himself up. One glance at the churning, foaming tide smashing against the perilous lava convinced him he better do his best to climb up. He KNEW he didn't have the strength to swim to safety. So his brilliant idea of a Fox trap had turned out to be a Wolf trap instead. Hoist by his own petard. In the back of his mind, a small voice whispered: Was this the plan all along?

His own psychological block of killing Trigorin was as deep and tangled as anything inside the Russian's head. In that perilous moment of suspended life-times when he had aimed the revolver at Trigorin's van his shot had been completely off target. That told him his bitter words of hatred were lies. ‘If I had known you betrayed us I would have killed you myself.’ He told his old friend. His heart told him something else, otherwise Trigorin would be dead. Now, pitted in a deadly entertainment of Ivan’s working, he had the chance to kill or be killed. Could he really kill someone whom he still considered a brother? In the last, tense game of hunt-the-man in Los Angeles he had never inflicted serious wounds to Ivan -- injuries only damaging enough to slow the chase. Had it been because of some sub-conscious block which prevented the final death-blow from being delivered by his hand. It seemed he could no more kill Ivan than Ivan could kill him.

***

The tracks in the dirt were clear to read. Too easy. Kuryakin warily followed the scuffed shoe traces in the red volcanic ground. Circumspect of the surroundings, he nonetheless hurried, anxious to find Solo. If Stockwell was right, he was the target and Napoleon was just bait. Two trails, two paths. Obviously Trigorin wanted Stockwell to himself. Did Illya choose the right path, though?

Climbing up past some volcanic crags he stopped, sliding back down to hide behind the rise. Wedged near the top of the ridge was a small cabin. He waited, studying the structure, listening. Nothing but the sound of the distant surf and various birds from the nearby jungle. Far away a plane flew parallel to the island. No noise was audible from the cabin. He scrambled back to the tree line and used the thick brush as cover to circle the building on three sides. Edging back to the rocks he looked over the cliff, surveying the fourth side of the cabin. No sign of movement or life.

Approaching slowly, he studied the footfalls. The hiking boot trail he had followed was smeared by a dragging sweep. Like a body had been placed on the ground. Checking for booby-traps and alarms he found nothing. Taking a deep breath, he kicked in the door, rolling to the side and springing to his feet as quickly as possible. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior. Near the center of the nearly bare, single room, Napoleon Solo was bound to a chair. Carefully drawing near, his stomach tightened when he saw his friend’s bleeding and battered condition. Head hung on his chest, Illya didn’t know if he lived or not. Automatically his eyes checked for hidden wires or devices. By the time he knelt beside his friend he was certain the only thing left behind for him to discover was a terribly wounded pawn. Gently, he touched the scruffily bearded cheek, thankful it was still warm. He could feel Solo breathe.

“Napoleon, he whispered, supporting the limp head and using his other hand to untie the bonds at the wrists. “Napoleon,” he gruffly called, his voice scraping with rage and sorrow. “Time to wake up.” He rubbed a spot on the face where there were fewest abrasions. “Please, Napoleon, I’m here. It’s time to leave.”

Blinking groggily, the brown eyes never focused, never looked at him. “I told you, I’m not with the army.” The words were lethargic. “Not everyone in Laos is in the military.”

Groaning, Illya finished freeing his friend and firmly shook his shoulders. “Napoleon!”

Sharply reprimanding out of fear, he had to shock his friend back to reality. Solo had slipped back to captivity – to the torture and torment he had known for six years. All too well, the Russian knew the horrors of mental weakness. He would kill Trigorin for this. Delusions and pain could warp a mind. His had been gone for those six years. So had part of Solo’s. If his friend didn’t come back – no – he had to, or both of them would be destroyed. He could not lose Solo again.

“Napoleon!”

Solo blinked, finally, turgidly, turning to look at him. The transition was visible; a mind retrieved from the brink of oblivion. Memories snatched from Darkness into Light. Unfathomable anguish misting into marginal trust.

“Illya?”

Kuryakin nodded, too choked to respond.

“This isn’t Laos.”

“No,” Illya assured, his voice cracking. He felt warm tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’ve been waiting,” he whispered. He touched Illya’s face, wiping away the moisture with a trembling hand, then pulled him into a tight embrace. “It’s all right. You’re here.”

Holding firm to the sobbing man, Illya knew he was crying almost as much, gripping onto his single anchor in a precarious reality. He would have died if his friend had not been alive. Now, though, they were together again and everything would be all right. At least after he killed Trigorin.

***

Climbing up the rock cliff was slow, methodical work. Several times foot and hand holds were lost as pieces of lava crumbled under Hunt’s grip. He worked with single-minded purpose until he finally reached a leveled spot where he could get to his feet. The leg throbbed in pain during the arduous journey. He kept his mind off the wound by thinking of Ivan. The Russian was nowhere in sight, but Hunt knew Ivan was nearby. He was an easy target, why hadn't Ivan killed him?

When Stockwell reached the top of the ledge, he collapsed on the hard lava. Sharp rock points pressed into his face. The new source of pain kept his head clear as he coalesced these amazing theories into a solid pattern. This battle was not over yet. Ivan would have to kill him to end the game. Because of this bizarre new perspective of their relationship Stockwell was betting the Russian couldn't do it.

Footsteps crunched on the black lava and Stockwell wearily sat up to face his adversary. "I love it when a plan comes together," he quipped sarcastically with a tired sigh. “You'll forgive me if I don't stand."

The Russian's eyes were the cold blue of an arctic sea, unforgiving, boring into his vanquished opponent.

"No need, General. You are close enough to your knees."

Stockwell scoffed. "What, and beg for my life?" He shook his head almost sadly. "You know me better than that, Ivan."

Trigorin raised the rifle in his hand and placed the barrel on Stockwell's forehead.

"Plead for your life, damn you! Even the great Hunt Stockwell must be human enough to fear his own death!" Ivan savagely taunted and gave the rifle a shove. His next words were spat in a low, desperate, hoarse shout. "No, not death. You've never feared death. Your only fear is failure! And, Hunt, my dear old enemy, you have failed this time!"

The metal was hot against Hunt's skin. He ground his teeth together determined not to give Ivan the satisfaction of seeing him in pain as the barrel pressed into his skull.

"You have failed your last, most important test!"

Taking the biggest -- possibly last gamble -- in his life Stockwell reached up and pushed the barrel away. As he expected Trigorin offered only token resistance as he negligently aimed the rifle in Hunt's direction again.

"Just as you failed?" he volleyed back with contempt. "You can't kill me, Ivan -- and that is the failure you hate yourself for!"

Trigorin responded with a backhanded blow that knocked Hunt to the ground. "I WILL kill you," he breathed in a dangerous tone. "First I'll break you -- then kill you!" Ivan spat defiantly.

Hunt struggled back to his knees. Blood streamed from his nose and lips and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"You know you'll never break me," he replied with quiet finality. "You can't stop hating me for that."

"Shut up!"

"You can't break me or kill me!. Because in the most important test we ever faced I did not fail. Only YOU failed!"

"I won't listen to this!" Ivan almost gasped. "For twenty years I've squeezed every emotion but hatred from inside me."

Hunt pressed the point with the confidence of knowing his life was no longer in danger.

"You never wanted my death. There were a hundred times you could have killed me, but you didn’t. Even last year, you couldn’t.”

“Because you had to break --“

“And you knew you couldn’t do that, either!” Ivan’s face was pale, stricken as the weapon-words hit him in the heart. “You wanted my hate! You wanted me to hate you enough to kill you -- or kill us both!"

"NO!" Trigorin cried in an agonized voice filled with a savage wrath. The passion recoiled in his arm as he threw another punch.

This time Stockwell caught the arm and held it in a steel-like grip. Using the Russian as an anchor, he pulled himself to his feet and faced his adversary from only inches away. With words as deadly as bullets; as cuttingly sharp as the jagged lava beneath their feet, Hunt revealed the whole, convoluted theory of psychological revenge.

In stunned muteness, Ivan listened to the revealing conclusions and explanations behind the strange cat-and-mouse game they had played. His face, at first so filled with rage, now washed to a pale picture of incomprehension.

"You could no more kill me than I could kill you!" Hunt said and tightened his grip on Ivan's hand. "We're still part of each other!"

Hunt recounted each missed chance of destruction; from the Cuban jungle to this strand of Hawaiian beach. He finished the devastating conclusions with the accusation that Trigorin could never kill him because that would be the ultimate guilt Ivan could never live with. An indelible stain, just as Lady Macbeth's hands were forever bloodied.

The intense history confessed, Hunt ended his tirade and caught his breath. Retelling their tumultuous history had been a catharsis for his pent-up agonies. Now he felt tired -- drained -- void of passion and hate. He wasn't sure what emotions or feelings were left.

With quiet resignation, he finally, tiredly, revealed, "Which explains why you were so easy to find."

"I trapped you!" Ivan contested hotly. Anger briefly flared and died on the wan features. The Russian's voice a reflection of the uncertainty in his expression.

"Who's trap is it?" Stockwell speculated, an eyebrow questioningly raised. The twisted perspective surprised Hunt as much as it did the stunned Trigorin. Both veteran spies were only now just grasping the complexities of their relationship.

Hunt realized the vengeance of payback for Ivan’s betrayal of the Javelin network was still in his heart. The retribution was overshadowed by an older, deeper loyalty he did not want to fully understand. Perhaps there was something more than guilt and revenge to stay their murdering hands. There was a bond too deep between them. It had been forged on the cutting-edge of death, pain and tragedy and had sealed them together. The almost metaphysical tie bound them subliminally through betrayal, torture, and self-hate. The bond had shielded them from killing each other -- the metamorphosis of affection turned hate, to a confusing combination of many mixed and conflicting emotions; resentment, need, revulsion, regret, guilt, concern and nostalgic regard mingled within them both.

They seemed fated to be tied forever -- as inseparable in their mutual antagonism as they were in their strange friendship. Bonded in spirit as tangibly as they had been roped back to back and tortured in Cuba. Tied together in pain, failure, hate and ultimately friendship. The man he had loved, and been loved by like a brother, could destroy both of them, but not kill him. Ivan wanted to have them both go down together or not at all. Like a prey mesmerized by the eyes of a snake, Trigorin had listened to the incredible diagnosis. Stockwell never released the Russian's hand and continued to grip it as he waited for some reaction.

"To thine own self be true," Hunt quoted quietly just as he had in the torture chamber. "Empty advise from men who consistently fight against their feelings and instincts as violently as we do," he continued with a whisper which almost caught in his throat.

A question burned at the back of his mind and Stockwell allowed it to surface now that he felt Ivan and he were on a common level of stunned realization. Truth had blunted their sharp edges of emotions to a pliability they had never before achieved.

"Ivan, why didn't you kill me in Cuba, or leave me with the police?”

Ivan's blue eyes stared back, intently studying him. Hunt could almost hear the thoughts; feel the conflict, read the emotions rippling through the Russian -- through those clear blue eyes he knew so well. He had always been able to read the eyes of the only man who had ever understood -- whom he had ever understood. The only man who still could read him.

"How did I ever delude you about the betrayal?" Ivan wondered in a subdued voice.

"I deluded myself," Hunt responded simply. "I never wanted to see your prevarication."

"It seems a man's life STILL depends on the loyalty of friends," Ivan quoted softly, obliquely noting his voice was shaky.

The tide washed in and out and pounded against the jagged lava. Stockwell and Ivan stood on the rock, frozen in their own sea of confusion, still coming to grips with truths too painful to understand.

"Oh what a tangled web we weave," Trigorin whispered. He tossed the rifle onto the ground where it skipped against the lava and slid into the waiting waves of the sea.

Stockwell released Ivan's wrist. Beyond the pain and fatigue there was a strange sense of relief. As if the weight of twenty years of confusion had been lifted away. There were still many realities to face, decisions to be made. Yet they seemed insignificant in the shadow of the psychological victory which they had achieved. Justice and revenge had been overwhelmed by older and stronger loyalties which would never fade. Hunt didn't like that realization but recognized the impossibility to change this inevitable tide of affairs.

"It was never business."

"Never," Ivan agreed.

"Always personal."

Trigorin nodded his head in resigned acceptance. "So this is our destiny?" he asked with a trace of disappointment. He absently rubbed circulation into the hand Hunt had held with such a death-grip. "Two fools who cannot decide if they are friends or enemies? Trapped in a spy's heaven and hell?"

Stockwell almost felt lightheaded. He knew it was the result of shock, blood-loss, heat, fatigue and emotional trauma, yet the somber question actually made him laugh.

"I thought Russian's didn't believe in hell or heaven."

"I learned to believe in them both from an American partner I once had," he answered wryly. He stretched out a hand and gripped onto Stockwell's arm. "Could we learn to live with this? Both of us?" he suggested and stared levelly into Hunt's eyes.

"You once said the world has changed quite a bit since we were partners," he quoted from their initial reunion in Los Angeles. "Or perhaps it has not changed as much as we think."

"The world has many paradoxes, Hunt," Ivan said as his fingers gripped tighter to the arm. There was an old, familiar light in the blue eyes -- a light seen briefly at the Tar Pit in LA -- an expression of friendship which had not died after all. "We are one of the strangest, I think," he said with a ghost of a grin twitching his lips.

"Perhaps," Hunt agreed.

Their tangled lives were a paradoxical mixture of past and present; antagonism and friendship. He wondered if they would ever fathom their true relationship. He wondered if ever they would understand their motivations and complex reasoning. What was more important was that they were now ready to make the attempt to understand. Hunt sagged with weariness and supporting the wounded General, Ivan turned and picked a careful, slow path across the rocks. Arm in arm they made slow but steady progress back to the beach shack. There was no conversation along the way. There was nothing left to be said for now.

“Where do we go from here?” Ivan asked after a time, and stopped to sit them down on the rocks.

“Unfortunately,” he responded in a wry tone, “Ivan Trigorin was killed on this remote island today.” He had given this intense thought on their slow trek downhill. “The sad news will be distributed to the appropriate sources around the world as soon as I reach a phone.”

“Ah, many will mourn his passing,” Ivan quipped, playing along with the new game.

“What happened with Solo? You didn’t kill him, did you?”

Frowning, Trigorin’s expression was intent. “He was too much like you.” Guilt shaded the blue eyes. “I did some damage, though. Sorry.”

Not sure how to take the thought of the surrogate torture and hatred, Hunt slowly gave a nod. This was so complex, this old-new partnership. As long as he lived, he might never really understand it.

“Ah, well, nothing that can’t mend, I hope?”

“No. He is a tough American cowboy. But he won’t appreciate your alliance with me.”

“No one can object to my new free-lance consultant, Mr. Fox.” He brushed the scar on Ivan’s face with his fingertips. “The past is behind us.”

“No one else could comprehend your trust in me.”

“No,” he nearly laughed. “I don’t know how much I grasp beyond what has always been between us.”

Nodding, Ivan stood, helping his friend up. “That is enough.”

***

The warm California sun beat down on his face with a baking heat as mellow and refreshing as the sea breeze. Every once in a while, Napoleon would peek an eye open and gaze out at the ocean beyond the veranda. He would glance at the beautiful bikini-clad girls on the sand or in the waves. Then he would take a look next to him, assured Kuryakin was there, then he returned to his relaxing recreation of doing nothing.

“Remember you burn easily, Illya,” he admonished. “Don’t forget the lotion.”

The Russian’s face was already turning red.

“I didn’t forget.” He grabbed a towel off the wooden deck and draped it along his body. “The sun is too inviting.”

California was everything they needed after the horrors of six years of torment. Endless sun and girls and freedom. A month after their ordeal with Trigorin, they had settled in to a quiet routine and every passing day came to a new appreciation of life and endurance. Solo took a tropical hat from a nearby table and placed it on Illya’s face. Then he returned to concentrating on the horizon of undulating water.

“Hey, how many hot dogs you want, you guys?”

Solo turned and looked at the end of the deck. Murdock, donned in a chef’s hat and apron, stood there with tongs looking like an armed warrior. Coming up the stairs leading from the parking lot, was BA, whose arms were laden with grocery bags. Glancing back at his friend, noting the wry amusement on Illya’s face, Solo gave a slight shake of his head. Sitting up, Kuryakin thanked the members of the A-Team and asked for three hot dogs for each of them.

“Perhaps I should experiment with a salad?” Illya volunteered. “What are your side dishes?” he asked Murdock.

Knowing his friend was playing an old game of antagonism, Solo sat up to defend himself from his partner’s cooking. “Actually, we appreciate your generosity, but we’re leaving soon.”

Murdock was crestfallen. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

“No,” Solo reiterated decisively and stood, gathering his towel and shirt. “We have plans.”

“But I bought all this stuff!”

“I’ll eat it,” BA promised.

Offering their excuses, they plodded down the steps of the beach house in silence. When they reached their Mercedes convertible, Illya opened the driver’s door and stopped.

“Do you think it wise to continue an association with the A-Team?”

Solo tossed the odds and ends in the back seat. Their houses were on the beach near Santa Barbara, but they were frequent visitors to the beach house/office of the A-Team in Santa Monica. Both luxurious, expensive, trendy dwellings were elements of the parting gifts from Stockwell and a grateful American government. Illya continually said it seemed like a pay-off, but Solo didn’t argue about such fantastic offerings. His false imprisonment by the Communists in Vietnam and Laos had been an embarrassment to the US, who insisted there were no more MIAs being held in Southeast Asia. So the purchase of homes and cars were a generous deal labeled as reparation.

The A-Team was not only pardoned by Stockwell, but given the Santa Monica beach house and capitol funds to start their free-lance business. Bounty hunting, righting wrongs – Hannibal, Face, BA and Murdock were still doing the same things, but now advertising and being paid handsomely for protection and other useful talents. LA was flooded with stars and executives that needed security and sometimes the extreme methods of Hannibal’s crew fit the bill.

“Why not stay in touch with the A-Team?” he countered, not sure where his friend was going with the questioning.

“Stockwell can track them easily.”

“He knows where we live,” Solo reminded dryly. Settling into Illya’s comfortable car, he studied his friend, who had not yet started the engine. “What’s troubling you?”

“Recompense or bribe? For over a month I have puzzled over this,” he explained, his face sober, frowning. He stared at Solo. “I worry he will want something from us in the future.”

“I had the impression,” Solo pondered aloud, “that he was glad to get rid of all of us.”

There had been something unsettling about his few meetings with Stockwell. They did look uncannily similar. Personalities were vastly different, though, and he shared his old friend’s mistrust of the powerful politician. “He has his own agenda, tovarich. I don’t think we are part of it.” He leaned his head back to bask in the baking sun. “Now, knowing your driving, we can make it back to Santa Barbara by sunset. That restaurant overlooking the ocean has a stunning view.”

“The one with the waitress who keeps flirting with you?”

“That’s the one. I noticed the barmaid eyeing you the other night.”

Kuryakin started the engine and backed onto an access road. “She slipped me her phone number last week.”

As they motored toward the signal, Solo tipped up his sunglasses. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t ask.”

***

Hunt opened the door of the Virginia ranch house, then closed it with a slam. There was no sense of wary defensiveness anymore when entering this safehouse that the A-team had occupied for numerous months. It felt friendly and welcoming now. No more antagonism here. Wandering into the study, he was not surprised to find his friend hunched in front of a computer monitor.

“You’re early,” Trenton Fox commented blandly. “I’m not finished with the assessment on the Bulgarian forgery.”

Pouring some brandy into two glasses, Stockwell placed one by the desk. As he sipped form his own glass, he studied the profile of his new-old friend. Trenton Fox looked very much like Ivan Trigorin. Plastic surgery had smoothed out the scars and given him a more youthful appearance to the already nearly-ageless face. Few would recognize the old spy. Hardly going out in public, though, prevented anyone in this rural Virginia community from suspecting the literary editor who worked out of his home as an intelligence analyst working for Hunt’s shadow task force. And since Stockwell had no one to answer to but himself, the covert addition of Trigorin/Fox to the operation was a safe secret.

After a month, it was still easy for Hunt to imagine nothing had happened to disrupt the partnership that had once -- and now -- seemed like it had always been part of him. As a seasoned operative, he should have more defenses up, should exhibit more wariness toward the man who was once a traitor. He could not summon the cynicism he wore like a second skin to include Ivan. Those days were over. Like a bad dream. How could he take back into his fold a man who had betrayed and tortured him? Because despite Ivan’s errant behavior, there had always been a bond between them that was stronger than brotherhood. Something too deep to comprehend – or break. He could not deny that link, so he had to live with it.

“I am almost through the KGB security codes,” Ivan offered without taking his eyes off the screen or his fingers from the computer keyboard.

“How soon?” Hunt was only mildly interested. He was so certain of his friend’s abilities he knew it was just a matter of time. A short time.

“Before dinner.”

Hunt nodded, not surprised. “Of course.”

Ivan frowned, glanced at Hunt for a moment, then back to the screen. “You are supposed to be impressed with my genius. This is not easy.”

“If it was, I wouldn’t need the best,” Stockwell conceded simply. “But I do.”

Trigorin smiled, but kept his eyes on the computer as his fingers danced across the keys. “Flattery, and that retirement villa in Florida, will get you anything.” He paused as warning signals flashed, then with a few keystrokes corrected the problem. “And I expect to take possession of that villa soon. Does the average taxpayer know what you do with their money, Hunt?”

“Of course not.” He moved to look over the shoulder of his colleague. “If they did, you wouldn’t be getting a Florida estate. But if I ever confessed anything, it would be to assure them I have ensured their hidden security with the very best.”

A thin smile traced Trigorin’s lips. “Ah, I am nothing more than a bought servant of the Western machine. Enticed like so many of my countrymen.” For a moment, he stopped typing and paused, looking at his hands. “In the last ten years I never dreamed this could happen. Now, after coming back -- it all feels natural. Like this was somehow our destiny.” He glanced over quickly, but did not hold eye contact. “I wonder -- do you think that is so?”

“I don’ know,” came the thoughtful reply. “Maybe that’s the only thing that can explain what happened.”

“I wonder if Solo and Kuryakin would agree.”

Stockwell studied the profile and gave a slow nod. “I think they might. Maybe believing this was all about destiny is easier to explain than not knowing,” he shrugged. “But it doesn’t really matter. I think we will all agree whatever transpired to bring us together and tear us apart, we are together now.”

Ivan picked up his glass and turned to his friend, who was no longer an enemy. “Together.” He toasted.

THE END