THE
THIS ONE'S FOR YOU
AFFAIR

By

gm

---

PROLOGUE

"It's been a hell of a few years. . . . "

France

DECEMBER 1975

The sleek UNCLE vehicle took the turn too wide and too fast. The side of the silver coupe scraped along the metal guardrail, hemming the car from edging off the steep cliff. Smoothly readjusting, the car pulled back into the lane as it raced toward the next curve.

"Clumsy," the passenger chided.

"I can always pull over and let you drive," Napoleon Solo offered as he ground the gears into a racing downshift and slid into the next turn. The tires skated on the rain slick pavement and the rear bumper collided with the mountain they were speeding past. "Shall I?"

With one hand holding onto the gull-wing door, the other aiming his UNCLE special, Illya Kuryakin balanced between the tasks of remaining in the car and shooting at their pursuers. At top speeds, on a winding mountain road in rainy France, the veteran agent's skills were taxed to the limit.

"No, go ahead, Napoleon, kill us and save the cartel the trouble."

Solo groaned as the right wheels slid on some dirt and the rear of the car nicked a rock cliff. "I am trying to ditch these clowns so we can make that meet in Lyon."

"You mean you're trying to get us there alive? I hadn't noticed."

Ignoring his partner's insult, the senior agent shifted into a higher gear as they momentarily climbed on a short straight-away. He took advantage of the few seconds of level driving to dig out his communicator. With deft, practiced skill he one-handedly opened a channel and requested back up assistance from the local office. The nearest UNCLE team was in Lyon and because of the stormy weather no airlift aid could be provided. As usual, the agents were on their own.

“Why didn’t the engineers think of putting a movable window in this car!”

“To test your skills it seems – whoa!” Solo yelped as a tight curve surprised him and the car went airborne momentarily.

The road angled into a sloping, decreasing radius curve and Napoleon's communicator tumbled to the floor as he alternately shifted/powered the sports coupe through a series of switchback turns. As the UNCLE car swept past the next outcropping of mountain, the edge of the door scraped the rock and wrenched the door back, nearly taking the blond agent with it. Solo instinctively grabbed onto his partner with one hand and held onto the wheel with the other as they spiraled along the road, sliding across the asphalt and down a sloping bank of wet grassland. The car came to a bumpy halt at the edge of a thick grove of trees.

For several moments both agents were perfectly still, frozen in the shock of the last few seconds of chaos. Neither could move, stunned that they were alive and intact. Kuryakin was the first to come out of the stupor when he noticed the passenger door was nearly wrenched off it's hinge, parts of the interior scraped and bent from the wild ride. Turning slightly, he realized his left arm throbbed with pain from the vice-like grasp of his partner. Pale and still, Solo still gripped onto him as if he would fly out the door. Illya knew he would have been ejected from the car save for Napoleon's death grip.

"Like I said," he breathed shakily, "very clumsy driving, Napoleon. As usual."

"The auto lab boys are going to kill me," Solo sighed resignedly.

The reactions were inane and typically distorted. Neither would admit to the residual fear pumping in their veins, thumping through their racing hearts. They had come very close to losing their lives and neither wanted to verbalize that, nor acknowledge how grateful they were that disaster had been averted yet again in their partnership.

"I think the cartel will beat them to it if we don't get out of here and cease being excellent targets."

The headlights of a stationary car could be seen on the ridge above them. Two men with flashlights were carefully picking their way toward the forest. Solo observed the wrecked front end and predicted their transportation was terminated. He tried to restart the car, but the engine wouldn't turn over. Kuryakin slid out of the damaged passenger side into the drizzly rain and gave his partner a hand across the bucket seat. Solo stumbled, nearly falling to his knees, and the Russian caught him under the arms.

"Hurt?"

"Dizzy."

Kuryakin scowled when he noted blood on his friend's face. He tenderly touched around the scalp.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry. We have no time, Napoleon -- "

"No, no, don't worry." He brushed off the concern, gingerly probing the side of his head. Straightening, he took a few tentative steps, drew his weapon, and spread out his hands. "See? Just a scratch."

Kuryakin wiped wet hair from his eyes and shook his head. "I hope so." He gestured to the approaching men. "I don't think they'll take prisoners."

Solo's face twisted as if he had swallowed something sour. "But they will take that code book if we keep standing here."

The cartel codes they had stolen from the courier were minor and major keys to operations throughout western Europe. If the UNCLE agents eliminated their pursuers and returned with the book intact, it would cripple the assassination consortium operations in France and several other hot spots around the world. The international murder league had sprung up after the fall of THRUSH in '69. Renegade THRUSH leaders managed to gather, along with various mercenaries and former THRUSH agents, and create the cabal. Solo and Kuryakin could not afford to lose the book, nor could their foes afford to let them keep it. One way or the other, it was a life and death fight for both sides.

Illya suggested they run downhill, just inside the tree line. In the dark, cloudy night, they could easily lose each other if they had no landmarks. Solo patted the Russian's chest where the book was pocked inside Kuryakin's coat.

"I'll be your bodyguard. Let's go."

They jogged as fast as they dared in the dark, unfamiliar countryside. Both agents took several spills in the thick undergrowth, but quickly regained their footing and hurried on as quietly as possible. Their pursuers were still behind, but gaining fast, aided by the flashlights. As they continued downhill, Solo slowly lost more ground. Each stumble jarred his throbbing head and made it harder to keep going. Wet from the rain, he also suspected some of the dampness down his face and collar was blood.

Once more he stumbled, this time his shoulder falling into a tree. The impact sent him reeling, jarring his senses until he could hardly see. There was no way he could continue on, so he opted for the second best assistance to his partner. Pushing his back against the tree, he held his pistol in both hands and waited. The two cartel pursuers had split up. He couldn't see them both, but one was coming within a few feet of his position. He waited until the bobbing flashlight was just a few feet away before he popped two bullets into the man. The enemy went down in the wet, leafy underbrush of the forest, the flashlight dying as completely as the man.

The quiet coughs of the Walther seemed unheard by anyone else. Just to make sure Solo waited for a few minutes, hearing nothing aside from the rain in the woodlands. Where was Illya? Where was the other cartel man? Confirming the downed man was dead, he edged over and confiscated the flashlight, hitting it several times until it resurrected. The former owner certainly did not need it now.

***

Kuryakin crouched perfectly still and waited. In the silence he listened for his pursuers, or for his partner. He heard nothing but the rain. That was both unnerving and disturbing. He knew Napoleon had been behind him, covering the rear, but he hadn't thought Solo was so far back. Could the cartel men have him? Worse, could they have taken him down without a sound? Then where were the cartel agents now and why weren't they after him? Thinking back to the beginning of their run, Illya grew ever more concerned for his partner's safety. Napoleon had taken a bruising in the crash and had stumbled getting out of the car. Possible sign of a concussion or other serious injury. What if he was somewhere back in the woods? There was no way Illya could backtrack and find him without drawing attention to himself.

A sound to the right alerted him and he held his breath. The instant flash of a light glowed in the woods, then died. One of the cartel men. Farther away there was the louder swooshing of movement in the forest, and another flash of light, indirectly reflected among the trees and brush. The second cartel agent. Where was Napoleon? The nearest flashlight reflected off the outer edge of the Walther in his hand. The flashlight slid up toward him and Illya fired a split second before the cartel man. The foe went down and Illya scrambled over, confirming the kill, and confiscating the man's flashlight. Now, he could sneak up on the other enemy, using the flashlight as a deception, and make the second kill. Then he would go about finding his partner.

***

Through the dark, swaying trees came the loud rustle of underbrush, the glow of a flash of light. In the rain it was hard to distinguish the exact point of the sound, and the strobe of light had been so brief, Solo had to guess at the position of the second target. Literally swaying through the forest, his head throbbing with pain, he was more than aware of the excellent mark he presented. Well, he just had to hope for one clear shot quicker than his enemy, that would be all he needed. Head wound or not, he could take down a cartel man with just one good pop.

***

Suddenly a flash of light illuminated around a blurry figure. He popped off two shots and was rewarded with a muffled groan and the sound of someone falling. He stumbled over to the fallen form, picking up the flashlight. Shining it on the prone man, Illya froze, his heart stopped in mid-beat. The body sprawled on the matted floor of the rainy forest was all too familiar to him. Napoleon Solo lay still, his chest dark and glistening with an ever-growing bloodstain surrounding a ragged, bullet-burned hole in the dark coat.

"Napoleon . . . " His breath caught in his throat. "No . . . ."

Kuryakin fell to his knees. Trembling hands on the torn chest, he could feel the lungs working, the heart beating.

"Illya." Napoleon gasped for breath. "Still have -- the book?" The broken whisper gurgled harshly in the muffled night.

Illya completely forgot the reason for the chase, the mission resulting in the most crushing act of his life. Without really caring about the answer, the blond searched for the book in the lining of his jacket. He gave a nod, numb to anything but the most automatic responses.

"I got one -- bad guy --" With difficulty Napoleon dragged in another breath. "Careful of -- the other."

Illya's voice was tight and dry. "I got the other -- I didn't know, Napoleon . . . . "

"Not a very good bodyguard, am I?"

"Neither am I." The Russian's agonized whisper barely audible.

The American patted the hand on his chest. "Okay. Just get safe -- safety . . . ." An embarrassed smile twitched at his mouth. "I think -- I'm going -- to faint -- Illya . . . ." His eyes rolled and the dark head dropped to the side.

"No, Napoleon!" Kuryakin shouted. He kept a hand on the wound and double-checked for a pulse, even though his friend's heart was beating against his palm. "Don't die, Napoleon!" With the flashlight in one hand he checked the wound with the other. The bullet had gone in through the right side of the chest or abdomen. "So close," he choked out, unnerved that he had delivered a bullet that could so easily have killed. Would have killed if conditions had been just slightly altered. Might kill yet. But then, if the light had been better or he would have had another second or two to prepare, he would have seen the silhouette in the forest was his partner, not an enemy! "Don't die," he implored repeatedly as he removed his jacket and covered his friend, then ripped his shirt into pieces to provide a pressure bandage.

Kuryakin used his communicator to call the local office. Weather and mountain terrain interfered with the transmission and would also hamper a rescue effort. Homing in on the signal, they would send help as fast as humanly possible. It was a meager thread from which to hang his partner's life, but it would have to do. Illya urged them to come with all possible speed, then signed off.

The wound itself was not life threatening, but the internal harm could be. Damaged ribs or other injuries could be a few of the problems. Carrying his friend to safety would be dangerous, possibly fatal if the ribs were broken and splintered into a lung, so he would have to make do with this location. Carefully he pulled Solo next to a tree trunk where the branches were thickest and the ground driest. He placed logs under the feet to alleviate shock. Gathering sticks and dry leaves, he started a small fire and settled in next to his friend.

This scene happened too often, he mused. One of them wounded, or captured, or presumed killed. The other suffering. There had been terrible circumstances in their years together, but Illya trembled at the knowledge there was nothing compared with the agony of this tragedy. He had shot Napoleon! What a fool, what an utter idiot he was! He would rather have shot himself instead, but there was no way to reverse the bullet on this one.

This was worse than the time, a few years back, when he had been programmed to kill Napoleon. Brainwashed, he half-heartedly attempted to kill his closest friend, and Solo had fought him, finally overpowering the induced command. Napoleon had always maintained it was never a serious attempt, therefore, it was never a threat, but Partridge had done an all too frightening job on Illya. [episode --THE THRUSH ROULETTE AFFAIR] This was much worse. This shooting was his blunder, his terrible mistake. And he cursed himself for hurting -- nearly killing -- the person closest to his heart.

Tovarich. Partner. Another part of himself.

When they met in '64 Napoleon had been a flamboyant, dashing, arrogant, egotistical young agent. Illya, a new, reserved, cynical recruit from London, was suspicious of the notorious New York operative in those early days. Paired as a team for a South American assignment, they had meshed better than either ever imagined. The brilliantly successful mission was followed by others, until, over the course of several years, Solo and Kuryakin were the best UNCLE team in North America, then the best in the world.

Personalities had changed very little, but the attitude and respect for each other had magnified from that very early experience. They learned to overlook the foibles and irritations and concentrate on the skill, the wit, the intelligence. Later, as situations grew more dangerous, and as injuries and captures became more frequent, the level of personal concern escalated as a natural outgrowth of the partnership.

They could not function so well together without deepening that obligation to watch over and protect one another. Living and working together in life and death circumstances quickly bonded them. The camaraderie even extended to Solo pushing the reticent Russian into socializing. Somewhere along the years the team evolved into a friendship woven around and through the partnership and the professional links. Then the friendship had intensified to dependency and commitment exceeding anything they could have imagined, anything they had signed on for those long ago years at the beginning.

Saving the life of his friend had shifted to the subtle, profound need to protect his friend even at the risk, or the sacrifice, of his own life. Then, when that precious life was so close to extinguishing, and there was no option for trade, no opportunity for heroics, came the quiet despair of anguish, knowing his life was part of his partner's life. If one were lost, there would be no future, no purpose, for the other.

Napoleon shifted and groaned. Illya moved over and placed a hand on the injured chest, checking the bandage. Blood was seeping through the white padding. He pressed his hand down and Solo flinched.

"Oooo."

"Sorry."

Solo's eyes fluttered, but slowly closed. His face was drained of color. "Cold."

"There is very little dry wood for a fire." The Russian apologized, teeth chattering. "Don't talk. Help is on the way."

It was so easy now to allow his anxious, tender feelings to surface. The sniping and badgering they engaged in seemed so meaningless in times like this. What really mattered to both of them was that they survive to the next assignment, to the next week, or month. The competitive complaints and silly arguments were foolish and regretful. In these moments he feared his last impatient words to his friend would be the last Napoleon would hear. Yet, tomorrow, or the next day, they would be back to their usual habits as if the fear and guilt never existed. Perhaps that was how they coped with facing each other after the danger, after the concerns. This time, however, was going to be entirely different. This time HE had put his friend in the hospital -- nearly in the morgue -- the specifics were yet to be seen on that count. Tomorrow, things would be different, he promised himself.

Napoleon opened his eyes, his body shivering from the cold. "You're okay?"

Kuryakin guiltily admitted that he was.

The wounded agent touched the sleeve of Illya's damp T-shirt. "A bit casual -- even for -- you. Not everyone," he whispered with difficulty, "would give -- a partner the -- shirt off his back."

Kuryakin bit his lip, suffering under the culpability that not every partner shot his best friend. Sacrificing a shirt was not much of a trade. "The least I could do," was Illya's tight reply.

"Something's wrong," Solo evaluated wearily.

The Russian shook his head, feeling cursed at being so readable to the one person who knew him best -- to the person he did not want to know the evil truth. Gasping, Solo insisted on an answer. After several false starts, Illya finally put the tragedy into words.

"I didn't know -- I couldn’t tell it was you, Napoleon." He tucked the jacket tighter around his shivering friend. "The flashlight -- I thought it was one of the other agents. I -- I was the one who shot you."

Solo pushed aside the coat and placed a hand on Illya's arm. "Bad shot."

Irritated at the stupid comment, Kuryakin snapped back, "Is that all you have to say?"

"If it was -- an accident it was -- a bad shot," he hoarsely clarified. "If it -- was intentional I'm -- still -- still alive -- and still -- bad shot."

"This is not funny, Napoleon!"

"I'm not -- laughing," was the serious reply, "but it does neither of us -- " his teeth clenched as another wave of chills shook his body. "Can't worry . . . too cold. I'll make -- you pay later . . . ."

Kuryakin rubbed Solo's arms to keep the circulation going, careful not to aggravate the injury. He kept up a mental chant for his partner to stay alive; to keep fighting, help was on the way. At some point the conversation became audible because he realized Solo was muttering incoherent responses. The phrases, the words, were meaningless, perhaps useless, but Kuryakin couldn't bring himself to stop. If it helped keep his friend alive, if it helped get both of them through this awful night, he would do whatever was required of him.

White lights crisscrossed in the forest and Illya tensed, drawing his pistol. He extinguished the fire and waited until one of the men called him by name. He still waited until he recognized one of the local agents before identifying himself. The UNCLE relief-team called in the four-wheeler at the edge of the woods, and within minutes Napoleon was carefully transferred to a stretcher and to the back of the vehicle.

***

"Hello."

Blinking, Solo's vision slowly cleared, somehow not surprised to see his partner staring at him with sober intensity. "We've got to stop meeting like this," he sighed wearily. "I feel like I spent the night on a bed of rocks. I hope we got the bad guys after all this trouble."

Kuryakin blushed and assented. "Don't you remember?"

"Some. Things are a bit vague. You okay?"

 Illya grimaced, most assuredly not all right. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Like who shot me?" was his gentle reply. Pale at the confirmation, Illya closed his eyes. They snapped open when Solo groaned reaching over to touch his friend's hand. "I take it all this remorse means I'm going to live?"

"No! I mean -- No, I'm not sorry you're going to live -- yes, you'll be fine, the wound was along your ribs, no serious damage . . . ." He released a flustered breath. "You will make a full recovery."

"There, then why are you so glum?" the senior agent teased. "Illya, it was an accident."

The blue eyes were tortured. "I SHOT you!"

"And I forgive you," Napoleon countered quickly. Grimacing with pain, he settled back to a more comfortable position. "Illya, the conditions --"

"I am a trained agent! I --" he waved away the excuses he had been reciting during the long hours of waiting for his partner to regain consciousness. "I nearly killed you."

"And if I let you, you'll suffer for it beyond all reason." He shifted slightly to achieve a better angle for eye to eye contact. "What do you want me to say, that I hate you? If you want a divorce, just say so. You want to split? Waverly would be happy, but is that what you want?"

"No."

"Do you want ME to say we should never work together again because I can't trust you?" There was no response. Illya seemed to be holding his breath, as if worried that was exactly what Solo would say. "Nothing has changed, Illya. I still trust you."

Illya glared at his friend, angry that the calm and forgiving American had robbed him of all his reasonings and self-recriminations. When used as Napoleon's arguments, they seemed absurd and even selfish. Yet his guilt told him there had to be some kind of retribution, some payback for his heinous crime. There had to be something to take away the painful remorse, and his friend's generous and sympathetic nature was not helping.

"How can you trust me?" the Russian brooded.

"The same way I always do," was the quite reply. "With my life. There is no one else I trust with it, tovarich. What happened was an accident. Don't let it rob us of what we've built."

Illya was not so confident. "How can I simply forget what I've done?"

"You can't. I won't for a while either," he offered with a sardonic grin, rubbing his chest. "But is it more important than keeping our partnership intact?"

"No," Kuryakin agreed.

"Then try to get past this. For me. Can you do that?" Illya stared mutely at the floor. "Illya, if we don't show a united front on this, we're through. The partnership is worth the effort, isn't it?"

"Yes." His sigh was heavy and reluctant. "Then you must promise me something in return."

"Anything."

"Do not be so hasty. If you ever have any doubts, at all, you must be honest with me. Promise."

The soberness of the pact brought a smile to the American. "Done." He made a show of crossing his heart. "As long as you still trust me," he said with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "I'll get my payback in my own good time."

Illya rolled his eyes at the dramatics, amused despite himself. Solo's habitual humor for grim situations had gotten them through two lifetimes of crises. He would have to lean on that to get through this.

"I don't know why," the Russian countered with a casual sigh," but I agree it would be worth it to keep you as my partner. New agents are so difficult to train properly."

"Ahhh, but will Waverly think so?" Napoleon shrugged, then winced at the customary movement. "We'll just have to convince him. This will give him a good reason to try and split us."

It was a recurring threat Waverly used on his top, independent-thinking agents. It had been years since he had complete control of the team; years since he could count on them to place the importance of a mission ahead of the importance of a partner's life. He played them against each other, knowing it was the greatest weapon he had to ensure their cooperation. Judging their idiosyncrasies were worth their high level of success, he tolerated the aberrations, but just barely. All of them suspected it was only a matter of time before the partners overstepped the bounds Waverly was willing to stretch, and then the team would be dissolved.

Illya looked ill. "Ah, I'm afraid you won't like this, Napoleon."

The expressive American screwed his face into a sour expression. "I already don't like this."

The Russian studied the floor. "I put myself on suspension pending an inquiry."

"You wha -- AHHH!" he yelped as his sudden movement jolted the wound.

A bulky male nurse stepped into the small, private room. "What's going on here? No excitement for Mr. Solo!" he snapped at the blond in a thick German accent. Then he narrowed his gaze on the recuperating agent. "So, Rip Van Winkle, you have something to say," he asked, the heavy accent making translation difficult. "Or are you to rest quietly like you supposed to?"

"Like I said," Napoleon humbly commented, staring at the medical attendant, "There's already so much I don't like about this."

***

"Suspension and psychological evaluation!" he shouted incredulously. He cleared his throat, striving for a calm, reasonable approach he didn't feel capable of achieving. "Sir, it was an accident! I do not hold Illya at all responsible --"

"But he was," Waverly cut in sharply. "And the incident must be investigated thoroughly, Mr. Solo. How could you ever trust Mr. Kuryakin again as your field partner, if you did not feel you were safe with him?"

The small telecommunications room in Paris HQ echoed with the reverberating volume of the debate. It was hard for Solo to argue his case over a transatlantic monitor, but he was doing his best. Waverly could, and was, easily dismissing him, rarely even glancing at the camera.

Napoleon cleared his throat and managed a calm response. "That has never changed, sir. I still trust Illya with my life. This is too harsh --"

"What? The suspension, or the testing?"

Careful not to appear too stiff, Napoleon tried to shift with a natural ease, gritting his teeth as the stitches strained with each twitch. He smoothed out a wrinkle in his trousers and met his superior with level eye contact. It was the testing that frightened him, of course. Afraid of what those psyche demons would find when excavating his friend's mind, knowing the mental health of an agent was sometimes more important than the physical well being. For most active, daredevil Section Two field agents, however, it was the emotional questions they feared most; the psychological second-guessing could end a field career nearly as fast as a bullet. The inner tickings and dissections of the brain could expel them from the organization because of the stress of the deadly work.

"Both," Napoleon replied reasonably, half-truthfully.

Waverly nodded sagely. "Perhaps I should accede to the requests of the psychologists and have YOU evaluated after this incident, Mr. Solo."

The Section Two leader felt his blood drain. "I don't think that is necessary," he quietly, but firmly insisted. If Waverly was expecting the threat to silence him, or make him back down, the old man was wrong. "Neither do I think it's necessary for Illya."

After a moment of scrutiny, Waverly backed out of camera range for a moment, turning his attention to filling an old brier pipe. "In the last several years Mr. Kuryakin has, under duress, or from conditioning against his will, had you tortured and supposedly killed with a simulated death capsule. He has attacked and tried to kill you, and now he has accidentally shot you. Most disturbing. It has been almost ten years since either one of you have undergone a complete and thorough test regimen. There are new techniques now, as I'm sure you'll remember from recent memos. I must insist on a full psychological evaluation for him, and suspension from field duty until the test results are returned."

"What about the cartel investigation? We didn't finish --"

"Your informant was killed -- the same night of the accident. That avenue of your investigation is now closed. I have assigned the code book tracings to another team."

"Sir, that was ours!"

"Mr. Solo!" Waverly sternly interrupted. The cold glare and the voice silenced the indignant younger man. "The assignment belongs to another team now. Next week you will proceed to Australia and assist in security for the Summit Five conference next month."

Curbing his impulse to object, Solo gave a curt nod of acceptance. The best he could come up with here was a partial victory. Suspension and, unfortunately, testing for Illya, a desk assignment for himself until he was physically back in condition. He wouldn't push the cartel question again right now. Losing a case they had trailed for months was not easy, but there was a more important question to be answered.

Relationships between the top office and the leader of NYHQ Section Two had been rocky the past few years. Insubordination from Solo and Kuryakin reached an all time high earlier this year when both agents had failed a fabricated test of leadership ability to determine who would replace Waverly when the older man retired next autumn. [fanfiction -- THE GAME PIECE AFFAIR] The shake up had resulted in temporary suspension of Solo and Kuryakin and the temporary arrival of Emil Sobaneau as the Section Two Number One leader. It had been a disaster and soon Solo and his partner were reinstated in their former -- natural -- slots as the two top field agents in New York.

Since that fateful test Waverly had made it clear his trust in the agents was limited, countered by their talents in successful missions. An uneasy truce existed now, with Napoleon and Illya given the toughest assignments, Waverly still keeping them on a tight rein.

Things did not improve in the spring when Solo was adamant about tracking down an international renegade spy they had encountered in Vietnam. [fanfiction --SOME WARS NEVER END parts one and two] Waverly was watching Solo carefully these days and if the agent wanted to keep his job, he needed to be cautious, patient and curb his rebellion.

"And after that, sir?" was Napoleon's oblique inquiry. He wouldn't get into specifics, but he had to know if there was a chance the partnership would remain intact. More than once he had thrown away everything to save his alliance with the Russian. They were both way past the point of no return.

"We shall see what the evaluation tells us, Mr. Solo. Until then, you may rest and recuperate. The travel section will notify you of the arrangements. I shall see you in Sydney next week, Mr. Solo."

"Yes, sir."

***

"Skipping town without saying goodbye?" Solo accused conversationally. Without invitation he slid into the seat next to Kuryakin's at the airport lounge. "You're taking the rules very literally these days, aren't you?"

Under blond bangs, the blue Russian eyes stared without humor at the senior agent. "There seemed little to say."

"You were trying to avoid me."

Kuryakin sighed in acceptance of the harassment. "Yes, I was."

"You're worried about the psyche test," Solo countered easily. "You'll do fine. You're too clever for them."

The compliment brought the slightest of smiles to the sober face. "Perhaps. Do you think you can manage to stay out of trouble while I am in New York?"

"I'll try." Solo seriously studied his friend. He worried that this would be the end of their partnership. If Illya failed the psyche test then by the time Solo returned to New York the Russian would be out of Section Two. He tried not to think that far ahead. Illya would beat the test -- he had to. "You stay out of trouble yourself."

"Not hard with you gone," was Kuryakin's retort, delivered with a smile to soften the words.

The flight to New York was called to board, and the agents stood, walking slowly to the gate. Napoleon wondered if Illya could or would try to trick his way through the test. It was doubtful he could remain in Section Two without some kind of guile -- too much had happened over the years for either of them to be considered mentally stable agents.

Now Solo suffered an uncharacteristic lack of confidence and wondered if Illya wanted to slip past the tests. Did he want to fight for the partnership as much as Solo did? The accidental shooting still weighed heavily on Illya and Solo desperately hoped his friend could get over the guilt enough to rally for their team. He had to believe his friend wanted this as much as he did.

Napoleon stopped the Russian, holding onto his arm. "Do your best, Illya," he urged, just short of a plea. "I need you back."

"I will," he promised. There seemed to be more he wanted to say, but the words did not form. He gave a nod of his head and turned away.

Solo watched him until he disappeared into the plane. For the millionth time he wondered how his focus in life had shifted from being the top agent in UNCLE, to being the best partner to Illya Kuryakin. As always, he did not analyze the ponderings, but accepted them and moved on. They would get through this, he promised himself. Then they would go on to the next assignment as if no serious breech ever disrupted their lives.

NEW YORK

January 1976


The New York streets were wet with the cold drizzle of winter rain. Mist-shrouded lamps cast pale, inadequate dots of light along the murky sidewalks. The neighborhood had slipped ungracefully into old age; the apartments and shops displaying the wear and tear of decline. It was not an area which offered a safe haven for casual evening strolls.

Napoleon Solo stopped at the corner and studied the yellow lights inside the corner pub. Rain slithered down his face and drenched hair, but he was oblivious to the downpour. The weather, the night, was all window-dressing; a strangely appropriately melancholy setting for his murky mood and his mission. He had walked the half-block from Illya's apartment without regard to the chill and pelting rain. His mind was burdened with storms much more damaging than his physical discomfort. When he found his partner was not at home, he knew exactly where to find the Russian. Illya lately had frequented this seedy pub for USSR expatriates. Although he was not a social drinker or mingler, Kuryakin recently had come to depend on the brooding atmosphere and harsh liquor of his homeland. A definite sign of discontent and disturbance in Illya's usually low-key personality.

'I wonder what the psyche boys would conclude from the pattern,' Solo automatically pondered.

Psychology was pressingly -- worryingly -- preying on his mind of late. It was his reason for being on this cold, shadowed street in this disreputable neighborhood at eleven-thirty at night instead of in his warm and comfortable bed. With a flash of self-honesty he admitted there was no longer a place where he felt warm and comfortable much anymore. There was no where to hide from his mental burdens, no escape from the darkness which pressed almost constantly into his consciousness.

He drew in a deep, unsteady breath and very slowly released it where it transformed into a cloud of condensation. 'How did we ever get to this mess, Illya?' he asked himself rhetorically, rubbing at the soreness on his side that ached with a sharp pain on this cold night. 'Where do we go from here?' They were questions which continually attacked him. Inquiries he would never ask his friend because he himself had no answers, and he was afraid of the answers Kuryakin might conjure up.

Shoving the long, soaking hair from his face and with another deep breath of resolution, he crossed the street. He was here as the bearer of good news. Why did he act like a pall bearer? Driving the depression from his mind he forced himself into a semi-cheery facade and entered the cloying, musty, smoky interior of the pub.

The barkeeper/owner, Max, gave him a subdued nod of greeting. A second nod toward the far corner of the room indicated the location of his target. A nod of Solo's indicated the usual drinks would be required and Max gave a final nod in acknowledgment. Simplicity and reputation were appreciated here. Solo slipped into the booth and forced a sunny brightness into his voice and expression. It was a mask to dispel the gloomy shadows from this displaced corner of unreality, from the recesses of his mind.

"You're up a little late for a working boy." His low, but chipper voice was a crackle-thunderbolt of light in the shaded, depression-laden silence of the booth.

Kuryakin stared at his companion with eyes dreary from too much liquor. The pale illumination from the dim overhead lights kept most of the Russian's face in shadow, yet Solo could see a fatigue settled on the still-boyish, but sulking features of his partner. A double Scotch and another vodka were delivered to the table by a silent Max. Solo waited until the man was out of earshot before he picked up his monologue again.

"You're back on duty beginning in the AM, Illya," he glibly rephrased.

Kuryakin nodded in understanding. "So I gathered by your appearance."

Solo sipped at his drink. "And not a day too soon. Time off does terrible things to your depressive nature, my friend."

Kuryakin offered only a scowl as a reply.

Irritation easily toppled Solo's thin act of buoyancy. He had his own ghosts haunting his thoughts now. He felt inadequate to deal with those, let alone Illya's. He forced patience into his strained voice.

"You've been brooding over this psyche evaluation for weeks, Illya. You passed. You're back on full field status again. I thought that's what you wanted."

"Psyche tests aren't that difficult to get around," was the cryptic response. For the first time Illya made direct eye contact. His eyes were intent and troubled. "It is largely a game, which I can more or less manipulate."

Solo was confused at the attitude and comments. He didn't know how to pick it all apart and ask the right questions to get some straight answers from Kuryakin. He picked the item that snagged first in his brain.

"If you can manipulate the test why were you so worried?"

Illya downed the rest of the vodka in his first glass and slid the replacement front and center. Amusement momentarily lightened his expression. "As Chief Enforcement Agent shouldn't you be more concerned that I CAN manipulate the test?"

The incredible breech of security had not even occurred to Napoleon. His only thoughts had been concern for his partner's problems. Strange how easy it was to ignore the regulations when it came to his friend. There wasn't even a second thought anymore. His only interest was in Illya's well-being. That was one element of his emotional profile he hoped to hide from the psychology meddlers when his own test was taken in a few weeks.

"Well, I guess I should take some pointers, eh? Now, don't change the subject," he countered easily. "What's bugging you?"

Kuryakin almost snorted and took a long, slow drink. His gaze dropped to an intense study of the tabletop, clearly not wishing to discuss whatever was troubling him. It had been obvious to one who knew him so well, that for some time Kuryakin had been unsettled by something in his life. His brooding and drinking had increased over the last few years, even before the disastrous shooting incident in France. His usually distant nature was now remote. Many times Solo had wanted to ask, but Illya's shield of privacy and Solo's own reluctance to probe into dangerous emotional territory kept him silent.

Now Illya's lack of enthusiasm to return to work showed there were still problems. Napoleon could relate to those feelings. He, too, had mixed emotions about his friend's return. While he felt incomplete and alone without his partner around, he also felt a sense of relief. As long as Illya was off of field duty, he was safe. Out in the real world where they courted danger every day, his friend was at risk.

'Another feeling I can't let slip to the psyche department,' Napoleon automatically warned himself. 'How can they let me continue with a partnership that is much too vital to me personally, and a constant worry to me while we're in the field?'

Solo suddenly knew the problem -- their mutual problem. They were both worried. They shared some very basic apprehensions and emotional disturbances, yet could not afford to let those fears surface to psychoanalysis, or to each other. It was ridiculous. For their profession, it was a stupid risk. It was, however, the way friendship worked.

"You know what is troubling me," Illya responded after some time. "You're my superior. You had to read the test results." There was a mingling of regret, bitterness and embarrassment in the tone. "I have few secrets left now."

In a career which demanded layer upon layer of subterfuge and deception, agents became experts at harboring personal secrets. Beneath levels of falseness they hid intimate feelings from the world, from each other, and frequently from themselves.

The test had been extremely probing and ruthless in its invasion of a very private person. If Kuryakin hid yet more secrets then they must be incredibly confidential and painful. The thought sent a chill of anxiety along Solo's back. What would his own test reveal? To pry Illya out of this depression what would he have to reveal or admit to his partner? He was embarrassed that as part of his job he had evaluated Illya's test and added his own official sanction for a return to field duty. Solo felt he should offer something personal and sympathetic to Illya in return for the enforced prying. Immediately, Napoleon knew he could not find that kind of honesty within himself. What could he say to ease his friend's embarrassment? He would have to do something, though. Illya -- they -- could not function with these disabilities.

Obviously there were lots of cracks in the psyche tests where emotions could slip through unnoticed. Solo was relieved at the flaws. They offered him a slight hope for his own upcoming tests -- because he did not share Kuryakin's advanced skill at manipulating psychological probes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, half-hoping the offer would be declined. He knew the Russian had some submerged rifts he did not want to know about, he intuitively guessed the problems concerned their partnership and him.

Kuryakin's reply was rueful. "I hardly know where to begin."

"Isn't that the truth?" Solo agreed. "It's been a hell of a few years since the last tests."

The edge of Illya's lip twitched in amusement. "That is the most incredibly inane understatement I have ever heard."

"I guess so." Napoleon grinned.

As bad as it had been, a lot of the pain was behind them now. The wounds were still there but the fact they could somewhat joke about the terrors they had experienced was a sign the scars were healing. Some of the traumas still hurt even in this distant remembrance.

Their business seemed more difficult these past few years. Solo could have attributed it to old age, since he was over forty now, but age was still a sensitive weak spot for him. He blamed it instead on the collapse of THRUSH as a unified organization, and the up cropping around the world of little criminal masterminds who were THRUSH expatriates.

At the end of the sixties and the fall of THRUSH, the team of Solo and Kuryakin had fielded the last of the really rough, menacing and personally destructive assignments. Tortured at the hands of a fellow agent in Berlin -- Napoleon still had nightmares about that -- and Illya's anger at their mutual anguish was still obvious. [The Summit Five Affair]

Torture at Illya's hands; although they both understood it was part of the infiltration of the neo-Nazi group, was a particularly dark event they did not want to repeat -- ever. [The Gurnius Affair]

Illya's capture and drugged interrogation by Valandros; used as a pawn to manipulate Napoleon into working with the defector Mandor, was still a sore spot for the senior agent. [The Master's Touch Affair]

Illya kidnapped and held as a hostage by the mad Karmak was a fresh haunting he had never fully put behind him. [The Deadly Quest Affair]

Those last two incidents were still agonies Solo would probably never recover from and frequently relived in his nightmares even though they were years ago. The guilt was still vivid at being used to cause pain to his friend. The flip side of the coin was also true. Partners in everything, it seemed, Illya had suffered through some particularly rough trials, as well. Twice in '68 it had seemed a certainty that Solo was dead (one even 'witnessed' by Kuryakin [The Maze Affair] ), and he knew Kuryakin suffered silently but deeply from those incidents. [The Seven Wonders of the World Affair]

The worst for Illya, before France, however, had been Partridge's brainwashing. Conditioned with drugs and mind-altering techniques, Illya had been trained to kill Solo, and had nearly succeeded. [The THRUSH Roulette Affair]

From the results of the psyche test, Solo knew the brainwashing incident was the most difficult guilt for Kuryakin to come to grips with. Adversely, the manipulated attempt on his life hardly bothered Solo at all. Certainly nothing like the fear he felt when he thought of how close he had come to losing Illya at Karmak's hands; or to Valandros' drugs.

Obviously they each had their own fears to deal with. Every time their lives were in peril, they reacted on a different emotional level to the danger. It was only natural that peril to their partner was more traumatizing that hazard to oneself.

Kuryakin's psychological results revealed the brainwashing had been accomplished by preying on his deepest fears. Disturbingly, those fears had been betrayal and rejection by Solo. Partridge had convinced Illya that Napoleon was a traitor, and Illya had set out to kill him.

It upset Solo to think there was some deep, inner doubt harbored by his partner. Implicit faith was something he had taken for granted in their relationship. The psychologists explained these repressed doubts came from Illya's natural reticence to trust anyone. Doubt of loyalty was only a subconscious, instinctive reaction. Solo hoped they were right. He was disturbed to think Illya might really distrust him.

The thought reminded him of the psyche doctor's comments on the straw-that-broke the-camels-back-mission in France. Fighting down a shiver, Solo would keep the evaluation confidential from his friend, but he hated the official psychiatric board thinking there was a chance Illya was a threat to him. On some deep, psychological basis, they questioned Illya's loyalty. Nothing so overt to even hint at danger, but the seeds of doubt were planted and Waverly had pounced on those elements of discontent like a tiger to a helpless kid. Since there was nothing to suggest the speculation was anything but mind doctor theorizing, Waverly had let it pass.

Of Solo's own fears and doubts he tried not to ponder. What if he had been the one captured and conditioned by Partridge? What were the fears they could have turned against him to kill Kuryakin? There were none, he realized. His greatest fear was of Illya dying -- especially from some cause inadvertently initiated by him. What if he had been the one to accidentally shoot Illya? It would have torn him up like nothing else could. Willingly -- gladly -- he took the bullet this time. If called upon to consciously do that in place of his partner, he would not hesitate. Far better to be the one in the hospital than the one hanging on a breath and hoping there would be no dying.

The fear of losing Illya had turned him into an overprotective mother hen. Over the last few years he found himself keeping Kuryakin away from any risks he could avoid. He tried not to partner anyone else with the Russian -- even over Waverly's objections -- striving to keep his personal eye on his partner. It was a task made simpler by his authoritative position as head of Section Two. Then this last year everything seemed to fall apart. Despite his best efforts, terrible mortal dangers had attacked them with maddening consistency. Several times in tracking an international assassination cabal, Illya was injured or nearly killed. Then the bad luck seemed to culminate with an incredibly dangerous and harrowing mission in Vietnam earlier this year. The war, the encounters there, had brought the partnership to a new level of strain. {fanfiction story: Some Wars Never End}

The more the danger intruded on their lives, the more obsessed he became with keeping Kuryakin safe. With those external, mortal threats, also came the threats from Waverly to split the partnership, along with the ever-present threat to retire Solo from active field duty because of his age. Agents were usually retired from Section Two at age forty, but Solo and Kuryakin were still the elite in their profession and rules could be manipulated in the best interest of the organization. Until they outlived their usefulness, which was a serious concern considering the psyche tests, they would remain in Section Two, and probably remain partners. More and more, however, they were sent off on lone missions, or even partnered with other agents. Waverly knew their weaknesses and was testing to see just how good they were separately. So far their strength was still in the partnership, and Solo intended to keep it that way, while somehow keeping both of them alive.

Could Solo's own over-cautiousness be a risk to them? So intent was he to keep his partner from risk, was he blinded to other perils which were assailing them? Not to mention the failure of the mission, or the cost of other lives. Was this pattern spiraling to a literal dead end? It was ever easier to throw himself into direct line of fire than to allow Illya to be the target. A dangerous habit which could easily end with his own death. How long could he keep up the facade of normalcy? He wasn't sure he had been able to conceal his motivations to Kuryakin. He suspected Waverly was more than aware of the ever-increasing tendency to protect his partner, thus the change in procedures. Was the precious, vital team, which had become synonymous with his existence on the brink of imminent dissolution? Either from his own misdirected heroics, or through Waverly's edict? Yet they always came back together, because they knew -- Waverly knew -- they were the best. Even after they both turned forty, mandatory retirement age from field work, they were allowed to remain a partnership and in the field, because they were the best. He felt, however, they were living on borrowed time.

Was there even a danger of disruption from within? Illya's doubts and guilt, Solo's own distortions of priorities between UNCLE, Illya, and even his own life, were blurred. It was all a confusing morass of uncertain moral and ethical questions he could no longer answer. He felt disillusioned and distraught and questioned his own confidence and ability to salvage his life. In fact, the only thing he WAS certain of any more was his unswerving commitment to Kuryakin. As the rest of the world crumbled about him, he knew his loyalty to his partner, and Illya's corresponding devotion, was the only solid anchor in his life.

With a glance the Russian plunged into what had so heavily weighed on his mind. "Your recommendation for field duty was a significant factor in my return."

"Ah, you have spies in headquarters, I see."

A devious humor played in the blue eyes, which seemed to lighten with the easy conversation. "Habit. Why did you make the endorsement?"

Solo was startled. "Why shouldn't I? You're certified as sane -- what passes for sanity in you -- enough to come back in the field. I was tired of Waverly assigning me to agents even stranger than you." At the continued brooding, he grinned. "You're my partner, Illya. What more of a reason do I need?"

Kuryakin ignored the flippancy. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Kuryakin's fingers nervously tapped the table, but his eyes did not waver from Solo's. "I was given a medical leave of absence for a reason," he reminded forcefully. "Not just what happened in France, I believe. After the -- stress -- of these last months -- years -- they felt I was in need of a complete psychological reevaluation." He paused for breath, then continued. "Do YOU think I'm stable enough to return?"

"I've always doubted your sanity." A reassuring, cheeky grin and the obvious affection in the tone softened the comment.

"Napoleon, I'm serious," he chided impatiently. "Can you work with me -- trust me? I've tried to kill you --" He took a breath. "We will be going out in the field again for the first time since I shot you! Can you handle that?"

Solo placed a hand on his friend's arm. Kuryakin's blue eyes were bright with intensity and he seized Solo's wrist with a bruising grip to emphasize his desperation for honesty. Napoleon thought back to the brainwashing incident. With a chill he defined that harrowing experience back in '67 as the worst: His best friend tried to kill him. He had been torn between his own survival and not wanting to hurt his partner. It hadn't taken long to overcome the programming, but it had been a terrible few minutes.

It had been easier with the shooting incident, since it was an accident. Solo had put it behind him in the wake of other incidents, which had been more traumatic. Kuryakin had not forgotten at all. According to the psyche guys, the repressed guilt had built until it was an overriding anxiety in Kuryakin's life. His subdued guilt; his quiet, hovering, solicitude which seemed to increase after each dangerous mission, were factors of the lingering self-doubt. That was why the psyche boys had sidelined Illya, and they were convinced the years-old guilt was behind him now.

Solo's throat tightened with emotions that were all too close to the surface. He cleared his throat and squeezed tighter onto Kuryakin's arm. "I have always trusted you, Illya. My life is in your hands. Nothing can ever change that. Nothing you ever do will change that, because I trust you. I know you. Don't let the men in the white coats cause you to doubt my faith in you."

Kuryakin gulped, his eyes shining in the dim, reflected lights. With a tap of silent gratitude he released Solo's wrist and Solo released his own grip.

Solo stared out the foggy window at the blurred lights on the street. He looked back at his friend. "I know it was an accident. You would never do anything to hurt me." His mind flashed to the motivations listed on the psyche sheet: Betrayal, abandonment, rejection.

'I would never betray you, your trust,' he silently vowed, but was unable to voice the fervent oath. He wasn't ready yet for a blatant admission of what he was feeling. To overcompensate for his own nervousness he forced firm confidence into his voice. "I'm not afraid of anymore accidents, or flashbacks or anything like that. I have total faith in you, partner." He winked and flashed a quick grin. "I'm not worried about you, so you shouldn't be either. Let's forget it."

"I don't think we can ever forget," Kuryakin responded, but his tone had lightened considerably.

"Maybe not. But we can put it behind us and go on with life."

Uncertainty clouded Illya's eyes and tone. "Is it that easy? You're very good at locking away the past in a convenient attic box. I find I can no longer keep the lid down on my memory-file."

Solo shifted uncomfortably. For some time the lock on his memory-box had been broken. He could not cope with these experiences any better than his partner. He found his role of confident supporter slipping.

"What's the answer, then?" he asked with no attempt to disguise his own confusion.

"The truth," was the stark reply. "Otherwise I will never be able to face you -- to work with you -- to face myself." Illya leaned forward and with alarming openness stared into Solo's eyes. "You know of my fears -- what I felt -- how Partridge broke me --"

"He never broke you!" he snapped back fervently. So this was about so much more than the shooting in France. "That was the past, Illya. I've forgotten it, and you need to do the same."

Kuryakin's voice was even and somber, ignoring the consolation. "I tried to kill you. I think that qualifies as breaking --"

"They tricked you!"

Kuryakin sat back in the cushions and silently studied his partner. Solo fidgeted under the intensity; pushed himself into the corner and looked everywhere but toward his partner.

"You can't face it, can you?" Illya accused softly, understandingly, sympathetically.

Napoleon couldn't respond. He looked deep inside himself and found blockades and walls. There were unbreakable barriers inside and he was unable to reveal the hidden secrets to Kuryakin or himself. As a young boy, all but abandoned by a career-obsessed father and a society-darling mother, he had learned to block away emotions which were painful; hide from the hurting truth and invent new truths which were less destructive. Not even for Illya could he give in and open up -- although part of him wanted to give in -- clear away the walls. Honesty would crumble all of his emotions; he would fall apart and he could not allow that. He was not even sure if he was capable of such honesty.

"I'm sorry," Solo finally whispered in a thick voice. "There's a lot I can't really face."

"I understand."

Solo glanced up and saw there was no recrimination or censure on Illya's face. Only a deep empathy. "All I can do is swear I don't doubt you, and I will never do anything to cause you to doubt me. Our partnership is the only thing that means anything anymore. When we started out in UNCLE there were clear lines of black and white, criminals and good guys. But after we destroyed THRUSH things have blurred. Not just for us, but all over the world. Terrorists killing Olympians, hijackers murdering tourists. Everything around us is unraveling, Illya. The only connection to sanity I have is you. I trust you completely, as I always have, Illya. With my life. And I promise you can put the same trust in me. Always. Is that enough of an answer?"

"That is the only answer I need," Kuryakin assured.

Napoleon released a sigh of relief. It was the only confirmation they had needed for years: their mutual loyalty. Whatever else happened around them, they would always have that core of solid faith to strengthen and sustain them. He raised his glass in a toast, Kuryakin touched it with his, a pact that the covenant was binding to both.

THE THIS ONE'S FOR YOU AFFAIR

I

"You're going to be the death of me!"

March 1976


The workload was unusually light for a Thursday afternoon -- for any afternoon at UNCLE Headquarters in New York. Illya Kuryakin glanced at the desk clock. The digital numbers ticked past 5:30pm and he felt justified in ending his workday. As he locked away the current files, he considered various options for his evening activities. Pick up the dry cleaning from Del Floria's (convenient being headquartered above an establishment which also washed and pressed his laundry), pick up the new suits he ordered from Macy's (replacement suits were constant necessities in his line of work), and then -- he sighed, at a loss for ideas.

In New York for most of a quiet week in the international enforcement arena, the break had been filled with detective work rather than active fieldwork. Part of February had been spent in Australia for the Summit Five conference of all the Section One leaders in UNCLE. For the last month Kuryakin and Solo had been globe-hopping in Europe, on the trail of the nasty international assassination cartel. Last week in Paris their most promising lead was found garroted and floating in the Seine. They were then summoned back to New York to regroup and start again. He had explored a promising paper trail to Switzerland, but wanted to go over the details with Napoleon before presenting the theories to Waverly.

With the recall Tuesday he felt dishonored. With time to rest and think, he reluctantly admitted Waverly's decision prudent, but not particularly necessary. The cartel business would be a long, tough battle and the agents were brought home to regroup. That left Kuryakin with the unique dilemma of an empty social calendar and almost too much time on his hands. He would probably die of boredom if he ever lived long enough to retire from the Enforcement section.

He wondered what Napoleon was up to tonight. His friend returned that afternoon from London tying up loose ends about the cartel. Solo had been in debriefings all day. Usually Solo would have informed him at least three times in the course of the day if there was a hot date pending. Details; with whom, where they would go and if Kuryakin wished to find a date and come along. No such announcement occurred. Perhaps Solo was free. More likely he had simply not had time to discuss a social calendar with him. Still -- Illya's inactivity brought out his deeply buried social itch. He would invite his friend to that way off-Broadway musical April Dancer and Mark Slate were discussing at lunch. Napoleon could skip a night's sleep, being nearly immune to jet-lag.

Kuryakin double-checked to make sure all was secured at his desk, then went next door to Solo's office. He stopped just inside the room and was nearly clipped by the automatic steel doors as they shut.

Oblivious to the newcomer, the Number One Section Two sat at his desk, critically appraising his face in a hand held mirror. Napoleon's usual sartorial nattiness was today bordering on the elegant. Quickly, Kuryakin mentally assessed the clues; black/grey pin-striped suit, maroon/grey paisley tie with matching handkerchief. Solo retouched every hair to perfection, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles around the eyes and took one last, pleased gaze at the reflection as he finished by straightening his tie.

The evidence was so obvious Kuryakin was amazed he had not realized it before. His oversight was excused; Napoleon should have been exhausted from the assignment and the long flight. Fatigue, however, was never an obstacle to Solo's libido.

'Silly of me,' he silently chided. This is Napoleon Solo. The maddeningly smug Solo had a very important date tonight. With someone he wanted to impress, and someone he did not want to advertise. A scowl twitched the Russian's mouth into a crooked line of disapproval. He thought he could guess who the mystery date was.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the vainest of them all?"

Solo jumped at the voice and the mirror dropped onto the desk. Surprise was quickly replaced by irritation. "Very funny. Don't you ever knock?"

"You wouldn't have heard. You were too busy admiring yourself." He sat on the corner of the desk and fingered through some of the papers.

Subconsciously, Solo patted his tie into place. "You're in a grouchy mood for someone who's had such a light workload this week." The words were light, but the tone was strained.

Kuryakin shrugged and settled on the perch on the edge of the desk. His partner's face reflected lines of stress and weariness, but his eyes seemed bright and a bit too alert and red-rimmed.

"Inactivity breeds carelessness. So do drugs!" Illya snapped angrily.

"The Kuryakin family epigram?"

"Damn it, what do you think you're doing, Napoleon? You're playing with your life -- with my life!"

Solo held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, have you gone crazy?"

"Look at you -- I mean," the irate Russian stammered, "you're on stimulants!"

Solo was incredulous, certain his partner had lost what little sanity was possessed by the crafty Kuryakin. He assured -- promised -- he did not now, nor had in the past week, taken any company issued stimulants. It was an all too common practice among Section Two agents, but a habit the top two partners never indulged in. They understood the downward spiral of amphetamines and preferred to rely on their wits and own reserves to get them through a situation. A colleague on drugs was just too unstable and undependable -- someone they would never put their lives on the line for.

Enunciating every word carefully, the dark-haired agent assured, "Illya, I have been through the wringer the past thirty hours, please don't complicate my life any more than it is. I AM NOT on drugs! How could you think that?"

Kuryakin gave him close, critical study. "My apologies," he muttered unconvincingly. "Your appearance and manner are -- deceiving."

Solo scowled dramatically. "Thanks," was the sarcastic retort. "As if the London wrap up wasn't dismal enough, then I had to debrief with Rawlings. Waverly is out of the country--"

"Wonderful impression for the perfectionist of HQ," Illya volleyed waspishly. "Did he think you were on -- anything?"

"If he had I would be in mandatory de-tox right now. They issue the nasty little pills, then make you kick them after every assignment. Great company policy. Amazing any fool takes them at all. Who wants to go through that? Besides, nothing but perfection for our sweet Section One Number Two, Mr. Rawlings! He wants me to give the full report tomorrow, with options for the next phase of our operation. Well, as of now, there is no operation."

"Excuses, excuses," Illya clucked. "But you have time to go on a date."

"To make my life completely miserable today," Solo continued, ignoring the reprimand, "do you now who was in London with me? McDowell and Bennett!"

This gave the Russian pause. "On the cartel mission?"

"Not assisting with the clean up, but hovering nauseatingly close. They sat next to me on the plane all the way from London to New York."

"What are our chief rivals doing in New York, I wonder?" the Russian ruminated aloud. "Rawlings has always liked them. I wonder if he is trying to make room for them here."

Simon Rawlings, the Number Two Section One was Waverly's right-hand man in administration of Section One, Policy and Operations. Rawlings, never having been in Section Two, was a frequent thorn in the side of the flamboyant, aggressive and tough team who led Section Two. Waverly would never mediate between the two antagonistic factions, and so the agents and the administrator kept a cool distance from each other.

Solo shrugged. "I think the Number One there -- ah, Donnaly, was trying to work them in on our action. And of course Rawlings did nothing about it! He sent them back to Toronto, but I think they'll be crossing the border to haunt us." He exhaled and stared at his partner, whose expression revealed no sympathy. "Okay," the American conceded with a grudging grin. "You're right, excuses."

Unappeased, Kuryakin made an acute study of his partner's face and eyes. "If you are not on drugs, then you should get some rest."

"Oh ye of little faith," Solo tossed back with an injured expression. "I had to finish the reports before I landed today. Then Rawlings. Then -- everything else." He straightened his tie. Again. "For all the recent disappointments in my life, I need a little reward." He raised and lowered his eyebrows suggestively.

Kuryakin paced to the far side of the room, anger simmering under a loose lid of fragile control. He was ashamed to admit his own lapse in judgment concerning his partner, but the evidence seemed so clear; the red eyes, the nervousness, the almost agitated jumpiness that was all so unlike his friend. That his partner might use the UNCLE issue stimulants was a personal betrayal. The two of them never needed the artificial, standard-issue additives offered in many chemical forms to every agent. Section Two operatives were issued a variety of pills for each mission; stimulants, sedatives, truth drugs and suicide capsules. Secretly, many of the agents came to depend on those drugs until the need was an addiction. Officially, the top brass would condemn addiction and suspend or fire agents who abused drugs. Unofficially, many agents indulged in the drugs and section leaders turned a blind eye to the practice. Sometimes the artificial stimulants were the only things keeping agents on their feet -- or even alive. Napoleon was smarter than that, but still, this new behavior in his partner's experience worried Illya. Was there something else bothering Solo? The dark, senior operative drummed the desk with nervous tension and seemed singularly distracted and glum. Most unusual for Napoleon Solo.

"What happened in London?"

Solo dismissed the question with a flick of his hand. "Tedium. No leads on the murder. Scotland Yard was less than cooperative and Waverly yanking me back further undermined our authority over there. Donnaly was no help at all and McDowell and Bennett were completely obnoxious."

"Is that what's troubling you?"

"No." Napoleon sneered and leaned back in his chair to give his partner full attention. "When I returned this afternoon, I was immediately waylaid to psyche."

"Your evaluation!"

Solo nodded with a scowl. "You guessed it."

The Russian uttered nasty remarks under his breath. Fatigued from jet-lag and on edge from a sour assignment, it was a low blow to give Solo the anxiously anticipated tests that had been put off for months. Upon reflection, he realized that was probably WHY it had been scheduled today -- to get the veteran agent when his barriers were at the lowest ebb.

"How did it go?"

Solo shrugged, but it was an unnatural, forced gesture. "Guess we'll find out too soon."

Illya released a sigh. "They probably think you're on drugs."

"I don't think they noticed." On Kuryakin's silent surprise, Solo amended, "They were too busy picking apart my mind." Following a glum sigh he forced a false smile on his face. "It'll be fine." He tapped his friend on the knee. "Let's not worry about it."

Illya turned back and found his partner staring at him with obvious anxiety. Good. The anger about the drugs had unsettled the supremely overconfident American. "Take this as a warning. No stimulants, even though you insist on burning the candle at both ends and the middle."

Solo made a sour face. "Anything, I promise, as long as you don't lecture me."

Illya gave a nod and moved onto another subject that concerned him. "You're going out to flirt with danger tonight anyway."

Solo suggestively wiggled his eyebrows. "That makes it more interesting." He rubbed a hand over his eyes, then wrapped his knuckles on the arm of the chair. "Knock on wood, evil will be just a little bit behind us." He smiled; a brilliant flash of amusement and appreciation. "So, Sherlock, how did you know I was playing on the edge tonight?"

Illya settled onto the sofa against the wall and put his feet up on the arm of a chair. He counted off the clues; the meticulous attention to appearance, the formal three-piece suit, the day-long silence about the evening's plans.

Napoleon laughed when Kuryakin came to the last deduction. "Am I that predictable?"

"Painfully," Kuryakin assured with a near grin.

Solo joined him on the couch and lightly tapped his arm. "Come on, Illya, lighten up. It looks like we have a whole weekend off! I need to get my mind off of work and relax. Tonight I have this hot date, but the rest of the weekend is free. Let's go sailing or something. What do you say? We'll forget about psyche freaks and assassin cabals and rival secret agents and go have some fun."

The Russian grumbled some noncommittal noises. Solo returned to the desk and straightened up. When he picked up the mirror, shards of glass cascaded to the floor.

"Seven years bad luck," Kuryakin supplied.

Solo scooped the broken glass into a trash can. "I hope not. I can't afford it." Pointedly he glanced at Illya. "Neither can you since we're inseparable."

Kuryakin's tone was dry. "Speak for yourself."

A mock scowl was returned for the mock insult. "Listen, why don't you find yourself a date for tomorrow night and we'll go double? Images of you moping around your apartment all weekend with only old jazz recordings for company is already depressing me."

"Why not tonight?" the Russian baited.

"Because I have only two tickets to the theatre, and my first date is much prettier than you. No, and stop fishing. If I wanted you to know, I would have told you."

Kuryakin was on his feet and leaning over the desk, staring at him for a moment. "I don't have to fish. I already know." He shook his head, searching for the right epithets of anger to hurl at his partner. "How could you? You know the policy --"

Solo rolled his eyes and finished cleaning the desk. "Please not another lecture, Illya. You know what I'll say. I know what you'll say --"

"So you'll go on taking stupid risks and you think I'll stand by and do nothing about it?"

"It is not a risk --"

"It is a danger to your career! Aren't we under enough suspicion? This affects me through our partnership! And April's career!"

"Only if Waverly finds out."

"Oy vey, you're going to be the death of me!"

Solo ruffled the blond mop of hair. "I sincerely hope not, it's hell breaking in new personnel. And since when are you turning Jewish?"

"Since Ira and Irving keep shanghaiing me to the shop."

Napoleon plucked at his jacket sleeve. "I know. The best thing we ever did, tovarich, was rescue the Levinson brothers from East Berlin. Who would have thought a physicist and his brother had such a turn for fashion?"

"You just like them because they give you tailored suits."

"They know how to treat investors."

"I invested two thirds, you invested one third and you get a new wardrobe."

"Ah, but they're naming the company after you, their Russian patron."

"I am not Uncle Vanya."

"I know, but Uncle Illya just doesn't have the same ring to it."

The intercom squawked and both agents simultaneously scowled at the interrupting machine. Solo answered. It was a summons for the partners to go immediately to Waverly's office, the Number One just returned to HQ and wanted the agents for an immediate interview. The Chief Enforcement agent acknowledged and closed the channel. His face twitched with an expression of concern.

"He's back," was Solo's dismayed comment. "You don't think he -- we're not bugged, are we?"

Illya treasured the moment. It wasn't often he saw Napoleon squirm with nervousness. "You never know."

Napoleon looked like he wasn't sure if he believed Kuryakin or not. He sighed heavily. "Seven more years to go."

The partners strode out of the office side by side.

"Did Waverly seem just a bit grouchier than usual?" Kuryakin blandly speculated. "Perhaps he's heard about -- your date."

"If Waverly had heard about my date, we would have heard. Definitely."

The agents found Number One, Section One bent over the huge circular table dominating the power center of UNCLE HQ NY, i.e., Alexander Waverly's office. Solo and Kuryakin took their places next to their usual chairs, not sitting until instructed to do so by their superior. Solo glanced out the window, wistfully thinking of the beautiful winter evening, which would more than likely be wasted on hunting bad guys instead of pursuing pleasure with April Dancer.

Murphy's Law seemed to apply to his whole week; dictating to the world various crises engineered specifically to ruin his romantic life. Did the broken mirror promise seven years of this? Only if he listened to superstitious Russians who delighted in his personal tragedies.

"Take a seat, gentlemen," Waverly invited, barely glancing up, as if only just realizing they were there.

Solo slipped into the chair next to his partner and looked on while Illya opened a data folder. Expecting an explanation, he glanced at Waverly, who was staring at him. For the most fleeting second, he saw an unguarded, readable expression on the old man. Fatigue; something more -- regret? Waverly looked away. Solo shivered from the chill running down his spine. He felt like someone had just walked over his grave.

Napoleon brushed imaginary grey hairs from his brow and self-consciously straightened. Were they about to be asked to save the known world from some malignant, insidious threat? He forced away the cynicism. Waverly was just tired. He had been Number One for -- forever, it seemed. Since the early Fifties, before Illya and he came aboard. It was into the decade of the Seventies now. Maybe the old man was just worn out. Maybe he was worn down from sending so many young men and women to their deaths. Solo rubbed his forehead and pushed away the cynicism that pervaded his thoughts. HE was the one who was tired. He focused his attention on his superior, determined to finish this interview and then get on with the evening, whatever that happened to be.

"Dr. Sajid Landis has been found, gentlemen," he announced without preamble. Solo and Kuryakin exchanged surprised looks. "He is hidden in a complex outside of Toronto. It is the final stronghold of the THRUSH expatriates."

"That's what they said last year," Illya commented under his breath, just loud enough for his partner to hear.

Solo hid a smile behind his hand.

After decades of battle, the super criminal organization of the world collapsed over the last few years. Weak holdouts were scattered in a few countries, but not many. Landis, an experimental scientist, was near the top of the UNCLE most wanted list of THRUSH agents still at large. The man was the archetypal evil genius and UNCLE hoped to pick his brains till the end of the century. When they captured him. Riskier than just terminating the chemical warfare genius, but he supposed the intelligence opportunities were worth the danger to him and his partner.

Solo allowed the smile to flourish. He and Illya would be the ones to move in for the kill -- so to speak. They would want this rat captured alive and well. That was why they were sending in the first team. Finally, something substantial and rewarding instead of chasing the insidious, invisible ghosts of the European cartel. Finishing off the last of the nasty THRUSHIES, now that was worth spoiling his date with April.

"Do you find something amusing, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon cleared his throat and the smile. "No, sir, I'm just naturally pleased that Mr. Kuryakin and I will be the ones to bring Landis in."

"Wouldn't it be wiser to execute Landis?" Illya wondered.

"Perhaps wiser," Waverly conceded curtly, "but it has been agreed by the Summit Five leaders that Landis is worth capturing."

"To experiment on I hope," Kuryakin muttered.

"You'd have to take tickets and line up for that job," Napoleon agreed.

Landis's chemical warfare experiments were infamous among enforcement agencies around the world. His vicious, painful virus's and diseases were horrendous. The doctor was known to use captured agents -- mostly UNCLE agents -- as his test subjects. There wasn't an operative in the building who wouldn't give his eye teeth to execute this worthless scum of a THRUSH agent.

"You will ASSIST in bringing him in, Mr. Solo," Waverly sharply corrected. "You will be under the direction of the two Canadian agents --"

"What -- "

"The Toronto office tracked him and will be in charge of this assignment. Two agents whom I believe you know. They were just in London with you, Mr. Solo, agents McDowell and Bergman."

"McDowell and Bergman!" Solo cried out. To Illya he said, "This gets worse and worse."

Kuryakin ignored the openly rude quip.

Waverly glared at the senior agent. "I expect this operation to be handled in a flawless manner, Mr. Solo. No personality conflicts. Or I will assign someone else to accompany Mr. Kuryakin --"

"No -- no, sir, that won't be necessary," he shot back too quickly and earned a sharper glare from Waverly.

Kuryakin asked, "What about the cartel case, sir? After we capture Landis --"

"The cartel is no longer your concern, Mr. Kuryakin."

The Russian audibly drew in a sharp breath. "We've been working on that for months! I have a connection tracing them to Meringren --"

"It is no longer your concern," Waverly repeated darkly. "You are assigned to bring back Dr. Landis, if you two think you can obey orders."

The agents exchanged the barest of glances. In that look, they mutually agreed the old man was on some kind of tirade and they were the undeserving recipients of his wrath.

Between grinding teeth Solo replied, "We can handle the job."

"I expect nothing less," Waverly demanded.

The Number One outlined the basics of the mission. The agents studied the maps of the area, the diagrams of the complex, the number of guards and all the other vital statistics important to the excursion. It would be difficult for the handful of men chosen, but they could do it. Any army would be too overt. Stealth would accomplish here what numbers could not. And although the American and Russian did not like the British/Canadian team, they were the four best agents on the Continent.

After the briefing information was discussed, Waverly sat in his chair and stared at his two top Enforcement agents. Solo tried not to twitch under the glare, but he did meet his superior's appraisal, refusing to look away or blink. There was a problem here, and Solo wouldn't be the one to back down. One part of his mind recognized his extreme reaction, while the other part raged at the injustice of the orders.

"Of late I have been less than impressed by your performances, Mr. Solo," Waverly admitted after a moment. "I think it is time for a change after this mission."

Napoleon cleared his throat, but the tension in his voice remained. "Sir, if you have complaints about my abilities, I'd like to know your specific --"

"I will be happy to make you a list, Mr. Solo," the Number One replied acidly. "After Dr. Landis is safely tucked away in our cells." He glared at both the men. "I have allowed too much leniency with you two, I'm afraid. As long as THRUSH was a formidable presence in the world, I needed you together as a team, to combat the enemy. Times are changing, gentlemen. I believe your partnership has outlived its usefulness."

Solo looked to his partner to jump into the fray, but Kuryakin's lips were pressed together, his expression closed. Obviously he was not going to help on this one.

"I can't believe that," Solo retorted before he could analyze a tactical response to the verbal attack. "Illya and I are the best you've got, especially compared to the younger agents! McDowell and Bennett don't have seniority here. We're still better together than separately; when we were fighting THRUSH or some terrorist or a punk bank robber! Is this about our failure in Paris? You're the one who called us back!"

Kuryakin placed a tempering hand on his partner's arm.

Waverly's glare frosted to anger. "You are dismissed gentlemen."

They came to their feet, but Solo didn't turn to leave as did his partner. "Is this about my psychological evaluation? There hasn't been time for a proper --"

"No, Mr. Solo, I do not have those results yet. You will certainly be notified when I do."

"You have to reconsider, sir. Our record speaks for itself."

"That is all, Mr. Solo," Waverly released.

Illya tugged at his partner's sleeve. Flushed with anger, the senior agent spun and stalked from the room, Kuryakin at his heels. The shorter Russian had to jog to catch up with Solo's angry, hurried stride through the empty corridors. They held their frosty silence until they had collected kit bags from their offices and were on their way to the garage.

"Losing your temper helped things enormously," he chastised acidly.

Napoleon stopped. "And your silence helped?"

"It didn't antagonize --"

"Waverly didn't NEED antagonizing in case you didn't notice!"

"Which justifies your recklessness?" He grabbed onto his friend's arm and literally anchored the American to a halt. "What is wrong, Napoleon?" Looking closely at his friend, he could swear Solo was high on drugs, but he had to believe his partner when he said there had been no stimulants. Then why the intense, erratic emotions in front of Waverly? Normally, Solo was the master of cool. What was wrong with his friend? "Arguing with Mr. Waverly is not how to handle this."

Biting back the angry words on his tongue, Solo continued down the corridor. In the elevator he slammed his fist on the buttons. Once out of the lift they strode in simmering silence through the garage. When they reached Solo's Jaguar, the senior agent stopped and held up his hands.

"All right, it was stupid of me to argue," he admitted in a sharp apology. He rubbed his face with his hands and drew in several deep breaths and released them slowly, easing ragged nerves. "But I couldn't just let him split us up without a fight! This is our partnership we're talking about! Don't you think it's worth an argument?"

Kuryakin was slumping against the door of the low-slung sports car. He nodded without looking at Solo.

The American crossed to the driver's side, unlocked the door and folded the soft-top down. "Come on."

Kuryakin nodded and got into the car. "Must we drive with the top down?"

"It's a beautiful night."

"It's barely fifty degrees."

"This from a Russian who spent his winters in Siberia?"

"Georgia."

"It's only to the airport."

Illya growled. "Maybe Waverly's right," he muttered darkly. When Napoleon did not return the quip, Illya glanced at him. After a long silence, Kuryakin accused, "Your gloomy expression means you have thought of something sour."

"Yes, a very nasty little suspicion." He glanced around the garage and shrugged. "Never mind. Chalk it up to lack of sleep. Forget it."

Illya stopped him from starting the engine. "What?"

"No, it's --"

"Napoleon!"

"All right. But remember, you forced me." He glanced around again. "Let's get out of here first." He spun the low sports car out of the parking structure and drove several blocks to a relatively open, deserted parking lot of a department store.

Solo shifted to face his partner. "What if Waverly was under pressure to kick us off of the cartel case?" He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder as the Russian started to object. "Whoa, wait a minute. You wanted to know. Shall I continue?"

Scowling with a mixture of displeasure and curiosity, Kuryakin nodded agreement.

"We know we were getting results in Paris. We could have cracked it wide open given another few weeks. The informant was killed, but we got some of the information. Why kill him? Why are we ordered back to New York suddenly? Why is Waverly so uptight about the partnership -- worse than ever this time? This Landis assignment didn't come in until today -- long after we were both back here."

Kuryakin was ruminating, pondering the betraying suggestions. "We were called back separately."

"Already working on the division between us, I suspect," Solo finished hotly. "And McDowell and Bennett, they're after our slot, Illya. They've never worked well with us."

Illya was startled. "You really believe this."

Solo laughed nervously. "I don't know. I don't want to get carried away with my own brilliance, but either I've become hopelessly paranoid, or I'm right. Can you see another explanation?"

"Not one that I like any better," the Russian admitted, his brows knit together with irritation.

Solo gave a silent, questioning look.

Illya shook his head. "My paranoid suspicions are worse than yours. Breeding."

Solo smiled at the typically droll wit of his comrade. "So why isn't your brooding Baltic blood picking up on this suspicion?"

Kuryakin held eye contact for only a beat, then looked away. "Perhaps I am not so desperate to grasp at straws."

"Oh, thanks for the support, partner --"

"Napoleon --" Kuryakin sighed and let the statement pass. "Breaking the partnership was inevitable. We've seen it coming for years."

Angry at the lack of support, Solo turned and started the car. "This is about more than just us. Modesty aside, we're good, Illya. Despite some of your questionable judgments, we are the best. Why split us when we're better together than separately? Because we've hit on something big. Something someone can't let us continue. We know the cartel has powerful, influential members. If they didn't, they couldn't execute and elude with the impunity that they do."

He trailed off, allowing Kuryakin to draw his own conclusions.

"No," the Russian adamantly disagreed. "Not Waverly."

"I agree. But Waverly isn't the ultimate authority. He takes orders, too. I don't think he's even aware --"

"Listen to this nonsense!" Illya countered. "Can you hear yourself? You can't admit failure. We failed in Paris, Napoleon. It was a dramatic loss and collapsed UNCLE's best chance at getting information on the cartel. In punishment, Waverly is exacting a sentence that has been over our heads like the sword of Damocles. It was only a matter of time, Napoleon. Be realistic."

The lecture was delivered with a harsh, sharp rebuke. There was no room for compassion or understanding. Kuryakin clearly believed the partnership was doomed and was dealing with the blow like a stoic Slav.

Napoleon leaned his head back and gazed at the black sky. White wisps of clouds were drifting through Manhattan with the edge of a cold wind, obscuring some of the barely visible stars. He was dealing with the split like a petulant child who was forced to change schools and separate from his comfortable friends.

Friend. Illya was right to take it straight on the chin, without the self-pity and melodramatic conspiracy theories. Distance and objectivity were the only views they could cultivate now. Such clarity, however, was beyond the mangled nerves of the senior agent. Fear ruled his emotions now; fatigue, strain, anger, supported the anxieties he could not control. The partnership he depended upon for sanity, for life, was being ripped from his grasp and there was nothing he could do about it. Not now, at least. Later. He would not let this go without one hell of a fight.

Solo opened out the engine on the freeway and let the high speeds, the racy feel of the car, the wind in his hair blow the steam out of his anger. This split had been tried before. For years Waverly occasionally shifted them with other partners, or sent them out on single missions. The success rate was never as high as the Solo/Kuryakin teaming. So after the experiment, Waverly would always put them back together.

With their combined skills and talents they were almost unbeatable.  They would have been the first to admit -- grudgingly -- there was a flaw in the partnership. It was the partnership itself. The shared dangers and life and death experiences forged a friendship that was an unshakable bond. Waverly's lectures and efforts to sever the personal relationship always failed. Years and trials only served to strengthen the loyalty and commitment between the American and the Russian.

So far, the advantages still outweighed the faults, and they had retained the team. There were too many times, however, when one of the agents had ignored or abandoned a mission to help the other partner. Somehow, they still sometimes managed to salvage the assignments and turn failure into success. By the law of averages it was only a matter of time, however, before the delicate balance was tipped and either a mission or an agent was sacrificed. If left up to them, it would certainly be the mission.

Solo cruised through the not too heavy traffic and the Jag coursed easily through the lanes until the freeway was clogged not far from the airport. They had settled into an edgy silence, neither Solo nor Kuryakin spoke. They had enjoyed a longevity unprecedented among covert operatives of any agency in any country. Their partnership had endured more tribulations and politics than anyone ever thought possible. He should cultivate his usual, casual outlook on this. Life was a gamble and they had beat the odds for years. Now they had to cut their losses and deal the best cards they could. It wasn't as if they would be on opposite sides of the world. They just wouldn't work together in the field anymore.

They would have to relearn and rethink every move, every thought, every action on every assignment. They would have to break in someone new and never again know for certain if that partner could be trusted with complete and absolute faith. That kind of relationship took years to cultivate, and it was rare to be so completely in sync with anyone. He couldn't expect lightning to strike twice in his career. Besides, he was over forty. He would have to retire from active field duty soon anyway. What was the point of fighting this separation? Because he knew life would never be the same. He had grown comfortable with a partner who was a best friend. Spoiled.

"You're right," he relinquished, shouting above the wind. "It was renegade paranoia," Solo agreed easily. We should look on the bright side. Instead of frostbite in France or Switzerland, we're cruising in New York with the top down. Tonight we take down a major league criminal and tomorrow night I fulfill my social obligations."

"You're just going to let this drop?" the suspicious Russian asked. The plastered smile of his partner gave him the answer he expected. "What is up your sleeve, Napoleon?"

"For tonight? Nothing, my friend. Tonight, we do our job. Tomorrow, well, we'll see. Tomorrow night, that's private."

Not ready to engage in flippancy, Kuryakin shook his head. "Napoleon, you're not still thinking about --"

"Always."

"You're insane."

"So I have been labeled before, Mr. K."

II

"Isn't the job dangerous enough?"

White frost caked the pale, stiff grass of the hillside around the multi-storied building at the crest of the rise. In the grips of an unusually cold spring, the night was chill on the outskirts of Toronto. Tufts of condensation wafted from the mouths of the agents whenever they spoke. Conversation was sparse, low and increasingly irate as Solo and Kuryakin awaited a signal from the first strike team already in the building.

For the tenth time Solo glanced at his watch. "How long does it take a Canadian and a Brit to sabotage alarms, eh?" He stifled a yawn, nervously tapping his fingers on the face of his watch. His nerves were tied in knots and he was bone weary with fatigue. "Well?"

"Is this a riddle?"

"No, I think it's a bad joke." He muttered curses under his breath. "We should have never agreed to work with them."

"I don't recall Waverly putting it up for a vote, or asking your consent," Kuryakin reminded stiffly. "You just don't like them."

"Neither do you."

"We are both Cossacks."

Napoleon snorted his displeasure. "I AM senior agent -- even on Canadian soil!" The speed of the complaint was in proportion to his defensive need to assert the authority of proper field hierarchy. McDowell and Bennett were technically the home team, but Solo still outranked them and that rankled him. His tirade continued, knowing he had a sympathetic ear. "They are arrogant, insufferable and damn pushy! Admit it, old son," he emphasized by tapping his partner on the shoulder. "You don't like them any more than I do." He removed his gloves and rubbed at his face for circulation.

The Russian couldn't conceal an amused grin. People probably said the same things about them behind their backs. He was able -- just -- to see the humor of the reverse situation even when Solo was not. The senior agent's worst personality foibles (evident because of the fatigue that was catching up to him, and the strain of the end of their partnership) prevented any such objective analysis.

"You just don't want to share the glory," he accused lightly. "Your ego prevents compromise." He brushed damp bangs from his forehead.

Solo made a sour face and shook his head in mock reprisal. The effect was lost as he released another yawn. "And you're not?" His fingers fumbled in the pocket of the fatigue vest. "Some glory. Freezing on the damp soil of Ontario. Maybe I should have brought some midnight assistance."

"You promised not to take any."

"I NEVER took any, Illya! And I won't! It was a joke! What's happened to your sense of humor?"

"Your interpretation of humor." Kuryakin curled his lip in disapproval. "Drugs put you on edge." He glanced pointedly at Solo's drumming fingers. "They increase your stamina, heighten your alertness and sink you to unconsciousness when the inevitable crash comes. As it is for you right now," was his pointed warning.

They arrogantly believed in their own skills, in the luck and talent of the other partner, to pull them through any situation. The combined talents were more effective than any artificial stimulants.

"I told you I didn't take any! I am telling you the truth!"

"It better be."

Solo's temper flared at the distrust, but he let it go. This was the last place they needed an argument. Another yawn robbed him of his bitter retort, anyway. "Don't let me fall asleep. I'd hate to miss our Canadian brothers face off against Landis." He surrendered another prodigious yawn. "They've decided to capture Landis themselves," Solo decided. "They want my job." He looked to his friend. "And yours. They'll send you to Arizona, Illya. And I'll end up in Seattle. Better than Tartarus."

Kuryakin shivered. "You are rambling, Napoleon and don't even joke about Tartarus. Myth has it it is a place for recalcitrant spies."

"Like us?"

Kuryakin was tired, his partner beyond exhaustion. The easy irritation, the incoherent commentary were some early symptoms. Solo's personality foibles were more pronounced in moments like this and the Russian countered the traits with glares.

Recognizing the non-verbal disapproval, Napoleon grimaced. "Sorry. Fatigue. I've been up for two days and nights. I haven't seen my apartment in -- I can't remember when. Why do I keep the lease?"

Illya realized his partner had moved into phase two fatigue; mild self-pity. He countered by changing the subject to something they could argue over. "Because when you're in New York, you don't want to engage in your foolish liaisons at headquarters."

Solo smiled wolfishly. "Ah. Thank you for the reminder."

"Why take the risks? Obviously you don't care about your own skin. But I've invested a considerable amount of flesh and blood in your life. If you're so determined to end it, I believe I should have some input on the method of suicide."

Solo took a deep breath and a mental step back. This debate had worked itself all out of proportion. The evolution was much too intense and hot for the simple banter they had been engaged in. It was the stress of the assignment and the end of their partnership he knew more than anything else. However, he didn't make the mistake of minimizing Illya's objections. When the Russian argued this passionately, it was important.

"Illya, this is a dalliance. A fling. When April comes back to New York, we have some fun. It's a distraction, but nothing more than any other distraction. It takes nothing away from my job performance."

The Russian was skeptical in his silence.

"You know that, or you wouldn't be out here with me tonight. You'd be with McDowell," he finished with a grin.

Kuryakin smirked at the joke, the tension broken. "The best of a bad lot," he insulted. "You are, however, deluding yourself if you really believe your feelings about April are nothing more than casual."

Solo shrugged, not daring to examine that statement too carefully. "We're casual lovers and friends. I care for her as a fun date, nothing serious. There can't be anything more in this business. Besides, we're mutually consenting adults --"

Illya pierced him with a knowing look.

"Just as partners aren't anything more than partners," Napoleon finished the lie hovering between them. "Emotions are part of the risk, aren't they?"

It was a debate they exchanged on and off for the last several months. Not unheard of that male and female operatives broke the rule of sexual fraternization, it WAS a serious breech of the code for the Chief Enforcement agent to have an affair with another Section Two agent. Field agents were under enough stress without adding emotional commitment to their work; one reason Waverly and other superiors disapproved of partnerships that evolved into close friendships. It was especially important for the leader of Section Two to keep his emotional distance from all those operatives he was responsible for. Despite his reputation for womanizing, Solo was careful to keep his romantic liaisons completely severed from his work.

Napoleon had been warned of his friendship with Kuryakin after several missions where their loyalty to each other had jeopardized their success. Those reprimands would be nothing compared to Waverly's wrath if he knew how intimately Agent Dancer was involved with Chief Enforcement operative Solo.

Kuryakin warned, "Waverly should not to be discounted. Not to mention Mark."

An expression of distaste wrinkled Solo's darkly handsome features. "Yes, please, don't mention Mark."

A rift between April Dancer's protective partner, Mark Slate, and Solo, had emerged since the romantic relationship had been discovered. By some minor miracle Waverly had not heard of the rivalry through the usually efficient gossip mill of HQ. Probably in part because all involved with the matter were anxious to avoid discovery and recrimination. Their careers and partnerships were literally on the line, and none of the four wanted reprisals for what was an unfortunate, but understandable lapse in judgment. All four were deeply committed to their respective partnerships, already understanding the thin line between partnership/concern to loyalty and love.

There had been veiled threats from Slate, who held the high cards in the undercurrent conflict. If Waverly discovered the tryst, his punishment to Solo, the senior agent and section chief, would be much greater than to Dancer, or Kuryakin and Slate. This conflict would be serious for the American who was already at odds with Waverly over missions, partnerships and psyche tests.

From the corner of his eye, Illya observed his partner, nearly asleep in the cold grass. Sometimes it was hard to remember why he invested so much emotional dependence on a partner who could be so troublesome. The cynical doubts were quickly swept aside by uncounted reminders of the many times Solo had saved his life, or defended him to Waverly and others, when there was every reason not to side with the Russian, except that they were partners. Too many times that impulsive American foolhardiness had been displayed in his favor, and it was one of the irritating/endearing characteristics Kuryakin came to expect from his friend. The ingrained pessimism, however, whispered that Solo's personality would some day be the downfall of the daredevil agent.

"Just be careful," Kuryakin sighed.

Solo gave him a grin. "I always am when I play with fire." His expression sobered. He rolled over on his back and studied his partner. "We're already in enough trouble with Waverly."

"Don't worry, I'm sure you passed the psyche test."

"Hmm," was the skeptical non response.

The Russian was about to respond when their communicators beeped.

"Finally," Solo sighed.

They scrambled to their feet. "After you, Mr. Solo," Illya offered. Solo sprinted up the hill. Illya was at his shoulder. "Shall we test the defenses first?"

"You don't trust them any more than I do," Solo smirked. In an instant the senior agent was the first to stop at the fence and threw his backpack against the metal. There was no fiery display of electricity. They climbed through the hole and ran toward the building. "Guess we underestimated them," he concluded.

"This time," was the Russian's skeptical reply.

Walthers drawn, the agents swiftly ran past the neutralized guards on the bottom floor and ran up to the second level. They arrived at the main lab with no sign of the scientist or the other UNCLE team.

"Must be in one of the other labs," Solo concluded, bringing the weapon up to rest on his shoulder. "It's so quiet."

"We better split up," Illya suggested. I'll take the one on this floor," he volunteered and started off.

"Bet I find him first," Solo challenged.

"Dinner at Mama Petrovich's, all the trimmings," was Kuryakin's reply as he ran toward the other end of the hall.

"Just be careful, my friend," was Solo's whispered response before he turned and jogged down the nearby stairs.

Constantly on the alert, Solo scanned every room in the huge laboratory complex on the bottom floor. Everything was empty and quite. He didn't like the feel of this. He could sense something -- an almost subconscious chill under his skin alerted him that something was wrong with this whole mess. He was tempted to break radio silence to get an explanation from McDowell and Bennett. Their communicators, however, were all tuned to the same channel for quick communications. A call could endanger Illya, or the other two agents. For now, he decided it was better to maintain silence until he heard from another agent.

Assured the bottom floor was empty, he jogged back up the stairs to meet up with his partner. AS soon as the door to the corridor opened, he heard muffled gunfire -- from a Walther -- prickled at his ears. Weapon ready, he carefully peered around the corner.

"Napoleon--!"

It was a distant, strange cry. He couldn't tell where it was coming from, but there was no doubt that was calling for him.

"Illya!"

He started out in the direction his partner had gone in. He yelled his friend's name as he checked each room. Precious moments were wasted, as he had to search every area in the large lab section. The ground beneath his pounding feet rumbled and shook, then rocked violently. He was thrown back, blown completely off his feet, sliding along the corridor as the force of a tremendous explosion swept through the hall. He was thrown against the wall, then heard an ear-shattering crash; the rending of concrete and metal. The heat of fire burned his skin and his ears rang from repercussions of more explosions.

Dazed, it took him several attempts to come to his feet and lean on the wall for support. The building still felt like it was rocking, and he thought it was his own imbalance, dazed vertigo. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his mission.

The hall was choked with dust. He could barely see more than a few feet ahead. Coughing and unsteady, he made a slow track down the corridor, holding onto the wall with one hand and his gun in the other. Chunks of concrete and bent pieces of metal beams clogged the path. Beyond the grey ash and dust was the crackling and orange glow of fire. He called out for Kuryakin as he wove through the debris. There were dots of wet red splattered on the grimy floor. He had gone several feet before he realized it was blood dripping from his own head.

Ahead stood a figure, dark and wavering against the spurting flames.

"Illya!" he coughed out.

He staggered over a large chunk of ceiling materials and matted wires. A man formed out of the dust. Solo's instincts sensed danger before his eyes confirmed the enemy. As the man fired at him, Solo dropped and rolled. knocking the man down. He easily wrestled the pistol from the thin, clumsy Dr. Sajid Landis.

The Walther was pressed against the man's jugular. "Where's my partner?"

Landis giggled.

"Where is he, damn you?"

It would be so easy to kill the scientist. Cold-blooded killing, in this instance, would not phase him, if he really believed Landis had killed his partner. The only thing that saved the man was the possibility he could still lead Solo to the missing agent.

The scientist's giggle turned into a fit of coughing. Solo's lungs were stinging, his eyes teared with burning smoke, his clothes dripping with sweat from the nearby heat. Tiny explosions popped from various rooms as chemicals and glass instruments exploded in the flames. There was very little time left. If necessary, he would shoot the man and go find his friend himself. He seized the man's collar and nearly strangled him.

"Where is my partner? He was down that corridor with you, wasn't he?" He slammed the man against the floor. The scientist screamed and cried for mercy. "Where is he?" Disgusted with the quivering man, Solo struggled to his feet, bringing the enemy with him to pin against the wall. "Damn you, I'll find him myself!"

Solo climbed through the wrecked hall. He could hardly stand, his lungs aching and starved for air. Finally, too consumed by smoke to see or breath, he collapsed to the floor. He felt hands drag him away. He lost consciousness struggling to call out his partner's name.

III

"It's not over 'till it's over."

The computer screen blurred from eyes staring too long at a blank image. A blistered hand scraped across his tired, stinging eyes. The minor burns were a mild irritation, but then, he found almost everything an irritation. No one worked fast enough, or good enough to suit him. Nothing could keep his mind off the impatient frustration that gnawed at him every waking minute.

He had been away from Toronto for almost two days and still Napoleon could not get the vision of the destruction out of his mind. The former THRUSH complex now reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes. The vision of a beautiful green meadow, backed by a wide, clear stream was marred by the charred skeleton of the building. Ashes clung to the leaves and grass like fine powdering of grey snowflakes.

Solo had stayed there for more than twenty hours after the explosion. He had meticulously searched the nearby woods, the river and even some of the wreckage. There had been no trace of Illya Kuryakin. The absence of a body -- of any trace of any bodies -- bothered Solo. He sensed something was wrong, but just as that fateful night, he didn't know what exactly was amiss. It had been a feeling persistent with the whole mission. He was, he decided, just letting the latent suspicions seep over to exacerbate his denial instincts.

He blinked several times to bring the words on the screen back in focus. This time he really tried to concentrate on the job at hand. There was always the tedious necessity of paperwork to deal with and even Section Two agents were expected to keep up their share -- particularly the head of the section. It was always a bothersome task he tried to foist off on others, most often Ill -- He dropped that thought, burned at the stinging reminder of his friend's absence.

His rank did, however, grant him the power to back his authority in any operation (paperwork excepted) and the last few days he had been taking full advantage of his rank. He did everything he could to push, shove, intimidate and demand unreasonable levels of performances by his staff. The bullying had accomplished only negatives. He had alienated agents, fostered resentment among operatives in other sections, and made himself a pariah among the various section heads. Worst of all, the efforts had garnered no further information to what happened to Kuryakin.

Solo massaged his temples, forcing away the pressure that threatened to split his head open. His life had become finely-focused on a narrow, single-minded purpose these last few days. All other matters had been dropped -- delegated or forgotten, in the looming shadow of the only thing he could think about; finding his partner. The obsession burned with an all consuming passion and he would let nothing stand in his way. Even sleep was swept away in the onslaught of anxiety. Fleeing from the nightmares that came when he had occasionally dozed off; he had resorted to the stimulants of alcohol and uppers to give him a much-needed edge. Temporarily, he promised himself, only until he found Illya.

The driving force was good for him. It kept so many other things out of the way so he didn't have to deal with them. His anger was first and foremost. Dealing directly with McDowell and Bennett for another. And, of course, as long as the motivation was ongoing, he would not have to face any grief. As long as he believed Illya was alive, there was no reason for despair and mourning.

Finally giving up any attempt at pretense, Solo switched off the screen and stared at the blackness. Almost instantly the anger seeped into the idle mind. Involuntarily his fingers reinitiated power to his monitor and he called up the information that he had gazed at a hundred times.

There had been only one known survivor of the explosions at the THRUSH complex. Not Illya. Dr. Landis. Solo muttered a curse at the name. The meddling scientist was secured in one of the top secret cells in the heart of UNCLE HQ. Solo was not allowed anywhere near the cell block during the high level interrogations. Bennett and McDowell were, of course, but not Napoleon.

Just as well, the agent thought. It gave him more time for the really important matters. It was irksome that his search for Illya was contained to the information available on a computer or communications with the field teams in Toronto. After Solo had threatened to shoot the agents ordered to cease the search (only half joking), he had been ordered directly to the old man's office and given some extreme ultimatums. Then, Waverly delivered standard lecture number twelve about emotional attachments and partners. So Napoleon had been banished to his office for the next few days to deal with paperwork.

New data flashed across the screen. Interrogation reports he had illegally tapped into from Section Four's data bank. There WAS some value to forms and paperwork after all. The print was small and again he rubbed his eyes, then leaned his head forward to rest on the monitor. He desperately wanted to sleep. It had been more than four nights since he'd had anything more than a momentary lapse into unconsciousness. He'd never made it back to his apartment that night -- never met with April. If Waverly saw him like this, he'd be given a sedative and placed in the HQ infirmary for a few days. He couldn't afford that. He needed the freedom to move when he got word of Illya's whereabouts. And he WOULD find Illya. He was certain of that. But the waiting -- that was the hardest part.

He reached into a drawer and fumbled for one of the little red pills in a phial, popped it into his mouth and realized the coffee carafe was empty. Rummaging through the desk he found a bottle of vodka and washed the pill down, nearly choking on the harsh liquor. Not the best idea on an empty stomach, but he'd finished off the last of his scotch last night, and he didn't feel like going down to the cafeteria. He drank the last of Illya's reserve, promising he'd replace it for the Russian when he got Illya back. He looked at his reflection in the glass; unshaven, no tie, shirt open, sunken, dark eyes, hair uncombed. He looked as bad as he felt.

Halfheartedly he made an effort of improving his appearance. The pills and alcohol provided a little buzz of energy. That was enough justification for the temporary crutch, just to see him through this crisis. Normally he never touched the pills or the excessive booze when on the job. But he had to keep on his feet now. After this was over, he wouldn't need it.

His stomach protested at the abuse. He hadn't eaten in -- he couldn't remember. It didn't matter. After Illya came back, they'd go out on one hell of a night on the town. When -- yes, when, not -- if. He wasn't going to accept anything but the gold this time out.

Solo returned his attention to the computer. He started to sort through the files dealing with Landis. He scrolled past most of the documents, only scanning the background information. Other related files were included in the interrogation reports, and Solo flipped past them until his eyes automatically snagged on his partner's name. He stopped the scroll and read. It was a standard death notification form, signed by Waverly. Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin, Section Two Number Two, had been declared legally deceased.

Napoleon gasped, the sound harsh and grating in the silent room. His chest tightened with pain and he struggled for breath, just as he had in the THRUSH complex. The ashes hadn't even cooled and the death was signed, sealed and accepted.

The hot, flaring anger that had been there all along, simmering under the surface, now exploded into the forefront of his thoughts. It pushed away the surprise, the traces of betrayal, the denial. It sharpened and clarified his thoughts and emotions.

'Illya is not dead,' he insisted. 'He has more than nine lives! He's not dead! I'll never believe it -- not until I hold the dead body in my hands!'

The building rage vaulted him from his chair. Without rational thought he rushed through the corridors toward Section One. The ante-room/communications center that was the real power hub of UNCLE was where he found Waverly talking with agent Lisa Rogers. Rogers was thought to be one of the most powerful agents in the HQ. As personal assistant to Waverly, the long-haired, darkly exotic, cold and distant Rogers was a force to be reckoned with if any agent displeased her or the boss.

Oblivious to the attention he garnered by his abrupt entrance; by his shockingly ragtag appearance, by his rude plow through the other agents, he charged over to one of the five most powerful men in the world.

"Mr. Waverly!"

Every eye in the room was on him. Everyone was held in frozen expectation.

Alexander Waverly observed him with the cold, detached glare of a Zeus monumentally disturbed with his earthbound Prometheus.

"You filed Illya's death form," he accused without preambles. His tone was raw, harsh and more revealing than he had intended. It was his own first clue that he was teetering on the precarious, razor-edge of control. "He's not dead," he completed, too far gone now to hold anything back.

Miss Rogers ran interference for her surprised superior. "Mr. Solo!"

Waverly waved her to silence.

The elderly, wrinkle-scarred leader of UNCLE NY stared at his subordinate with unflinching, silent censure. The head of Section Two had breached uncounted protocols and publicly humiliated himself, his department and even his deceased partner. Waverly could not, or would not, issue compromise nor compassion now.

"Mr. Solo, this is not the time or place --"

"Sir," it was almost a plea, "Illya's not dead. I know he's not. We can't give up -- not without a body!"

Napoleon was straining at the last, thin thread of control. Years of instinctive respect for Waverly was the only vestige of discipline keeping his temper in check. He didn't want the heat of his rage to spill out into words he would regret; verbal weapons which would injure and alienate a very wise, revered superior who was the one still keeping faith with the rules of the game. Solo had broken those mandates long, long ago, and there was no going back on the road of rebellion. Neither would he back down from his adamant, justified grievance.

"Sir, you know how resourceful Illya is. We've thought he was dead before -- so many times. You've thought I was dead. But we've come back. You'll see -- he'll come back this time."

The ravings of a lunatic, he judged, even to his own ears. He had stepped far beyond the pale this time. Somehow, he had slipped over that thin line of reason and sanity. Catching his reflection in the spotless glass partition, he saw a stranger in his place. Haunted eyes stared out from darkened hollows; the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, hair falling across his forehead. The three-day nightmare had transformed the usually natty, urbane agent into a wraith of his former self. The old eyes of Waverly regarded him with cutting detachment. Yet, Napoleon thought he saw a glimmer of emotion there: pity or regret, perhaps. Nothing even close to sympathy or agreement.

He swallowed hard, knowing he had just killed his last chance of getting anything out of Waverly. He had probably just ended his job as Chief Enforcement agent, as well. There was no understanding or compassion for Illya or himself. In that infinitesimal flicker of recognition, he understood. He resisted and denied it, yet he already knew the truth. This was swinging at windmills. The real battle was already lost.

"I am sorry, Mr. Solo," the Chief admitted quietly, his deep, British voice intoned. "The evidence found this morning is overwhelming. I intended to inform you. We will conclude this in the privacy of my office."

Evidence? Napoleon swallowed the lump knotting his throat. Suppressing the turbulent emotions threatening to bubble to the surface, he settled his features into a stoic mask and followed his superior. When they reached Number One's office, Waverly picked up a large manila envelope and handed it to Solo. The Chief then crossed around the massive circular table and sat in his customary chair. Napoleon remained standing.

"Those items were found at the site," Waverly explained.

Solo did not open the envelope.

Without glancing at the younger agent, Waverly started filling a pipe with strong, dark tobacco. "The contents are itemized if you prefer not to open it just now."

Solo quickly ran his eye along the list taped to the front of the envelope. Standard evidence form for personal effects of a deceased agent. He had filled out enough of these to recognize it at a glance. Communicator, Walther, money clip. The only items sturdy enough to survive the intense heat of the explosion and fire.

Now there was no attempt to disguise his bitter skepticism. "This is the evidence?"

It wasn't enough for him. There would have to be a body for him to believe if, certainly more than this circumstantial residue, for him to accept his friend's death.

"It is all we need."

The comment struck Napoleon as oddly -- evasive.

"Illya isn't dead." It was a calm, forceful belief rooted in certainty. The anger was thrusting the words out with more volume and speed than normal. There was a defensive desperation to the tone. "I'm going back to Toronto tonight --"

"The investigation is over," Waverly cut in with a hard edge to his voice.

"It's not over till it's over!" he snapped back almost viciously. He couldn't let this go. This had become his obsession, his reason for living. Illya was out there, somewhere, needing to be found. Obviously no one else could do it but him. "He's not dead!"

"You are off the case, Mr. Solo!" Waverly dismissed the subject with turning his attention to papers on the desk. "Good day, Mr. Solo."

Stalking through the halls, he thought he heard someone call his name, but he was too furious to let a distraction sway him from his mission. Once in his office he would set things in proper motion and be damned with the rest of the organization!

"Napoleon!"

The hand on his shoulder startled him to a halt and he spun around to face April Dancer. Her eyes were puffy and red. Of course she had heard the news. UNCLE had a powerful grapevine and this kind of news; the death of a top Section Two agent and Solo's ensuing rampage, was probably the talk of every floor and every department. April had heard the assessment and she believed the official line! It was a personal betrayal that this close friend would give up. Even in grief the redhead was beautiful and charming, but her usual electric effect on him was gone now. He was entirely focused on his mission.

"April, stay out of this!"

"Napoleon, let's go for a drink," she replied calmly, her arm slipping around his.

Forcefully, he disengaged the contact. "He's not dead, April. I don't care if all of you believe he is! I'm not giving up on him!"

"Don't destroy yourself over this," she advised kindly, but firmly. She pulled him into his nearby office and rooted herself inches from him. "Please, don't do this."

The pity in her voice and expression were too much and the anger intensified. "If you're not going to help then stay out of the way, April."

"I can't let you destroy yourself, too, Napoleon." Stubborn tears streaked her face. Abruptly she yanked the envelope out of his hand. She rattled it. "This is what remains of Illya, Napoleon!" she declared with sharp, brutal harshness. It was a deep wound. She used her last parry for a blade straight through the heart. She emptied the contents; the scarred Walther, the charred communicator, the warped money clip, onto his desk. "This is all that's left! Illya is dead! You have to let go!"

Something in the delivery, or the tone, or the words cut through his battered defenses. The assault penetrated -- shattered -- the shield of hope he had been wielding as his protection against the facts. In that moment of pierced rage the righteous anger and sustained blindness collapsed from under him. There was nothing left, not even ashes. There was no survivor, no Illya, no hope . . . . .

He staggered to the sofa and fell into it, his knees suddenly weak. There was a desolation in his heart that swelled to consume every part of him; every breath, every thought. In that instant something deep within his soul stopped living. The stubborn fighter wanted to rail against the flagging spirit, but there was no strength to sustain the faith against the overwhelming reason. The weary, demoralized, cynical agent lost the battle against his own doubts.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon," she apologized in a sob. She sank down beside him and held him tight. "I miss him, too."

IV

"A little more objectivity and professionalism."

The interview was not going well. Waverly's terse opening remarks were grating and irritating. Solo held his objections in check. The suave agent displayed a smooth, calm, even placid exterior. A closer look would reveal the hard, lean, uncommonly cold plains of his handsome face. There was almost no outward sign of the sleepless hours, the continuous strain, the ragged emotions. Only the unrelentingly stark eyes, almost cruel in their intensity, reflected the pain behind the facade.

"I hope you can conduct your next assignment with a little more objectivity and professionalism," Waverly informed as the bottom line to the lecture.

"I don't want another assignment, sir," he instantly returned.

The agent ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He noted the hand was shaking and thrust it down to grip the arm of the chair. He was still angry with himself for the hot emotions that had governed his actions recently. For displaying personal anguish in public, for losing control in front of Waverly. Impulsive tantrums were embarrassing, rookie pitfalls that were completely out of character for him. He had not climbed to the top of Section Two, maintained his incredible skills, or stayed alive, by being a hot head. Certainly the last few days had not been like any other period in his career, and he felt physically and emotionally off balance from the terrible strain, but those were excuses. He vowed he would restrain his temper and keep his feelings to himself. From now on he would keep his legendary cool, fleetingly wondering how he had managed to let it disappear so easily.

The answer was simple. From the start his erratic behavior could be blamed on the stress, the drugs, the liquor, the lack of sleep, the heartache. Those were the symptoms. The cause for all of the extremes was, in two words, Illya Kuryakin. Yes, he could lay it all at Illya's door, blame his partner for clumsily dying and feel absolved of the consequences.

There should have been emotional preparation for this eventuality, but his optimism, his incredible faith in their luck and skill, combined to give him a false sense of immortality. What their wits and training had not overcome, their luck and audacity had accomplished. He was still dazed at the concept of failure. That would be too deep a question. Where was the inadequacy? In his actions that night in Toronto? In his incredible dependence and faith in a mortal partner? No, he couldn't accept that anything so good and positive as their friendship and partnership could be a mistake. Even though the end of that bond was more hurtful than anything he could have imagined, it was still the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Objectively, he recognized he was passing through several stages of mourning without really admitting Illya was dead. The denial was still overwhelming, but along with that came the anger and the blame in almost equal proportions. Waverly, Landis, McDowell, Bennett, took parts of the condemnation. Death, that indescribable and unjust spectre --denied; escaped, ignored and beaten, took another portion of censure. The largest slice of blame was saved for himself. He was still unclear about the whole picture, but he was Illya's partner, he had not saved his friend in the greatest hour of need. The crisis had occurred and his performance was found lacking and insufficient. He was the one to blame.

"Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do I have your complete attention?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was saying, you have a job to do. You must put your emotional attachments behind you. They are out of place in a Section Two agent, and you well know it! You will take this assignment. If you intend to stay with UNCLE you will act appropriately. And that is to obey orders."

It was the second time in his career Waverly had offered resignation to him. Another reminder there was no room in this business for personal problems. A different time, a different situation where Illya was missing and needed help. [The Concrete Overcoat Affair] As Waverly must have predicted, Solo had not taken the bait. Just as now, he couldn't leave. UNCLE was all he had left. If nothing else, he had to see it through to the end of the Landis case. Then -- well, then he would stay anyway. There was no where else for him to go.

"Sir, I'd like to help the team collecting evidence on Landis --"

"Out of the question," Waverly shook his head. McDowelll and Bennett have that assignment."

Napoleon restrained a sneer, but just barely. He sighed and shrugged his acceptance. As long as justice was served, did it matter if he was the one holding the gun and pulling the trigger? In his heart it did, but perhaps if he could let go and observed the process, it would be acceptable.

"When will the case be --"

"It is not your concern, Mr. Solo. Please direct your attention to the mission I have given you!"

Napoleon bristled at the abrupt shutout. Was this punishment for his behavior? Was he to be banned from all matters to do with the case? For the first time he became uneasy with traitorous, suspicious thoughts. What WOULD happen to Landis? The murderer was one of the most heinous criminals they had ever brought in, with the blood of many agents -- the most precious blood -- on his hands. It had been their last assignment --

Well, he wouldn't let it just drop, not like he had allowed the cartel assignment to be swept out of their hands. He had been suspicious of that, wondering what machinations were going on behind the scenes. Now he wondered the same thing about the captured scientist. Landis was in his personal sights until the execution, and Solo would see that justice was done.

"Please pick up your travel documents from the travel desk this afternoon. I expect you on that plane for Lisbon first thing in the morning."

There, in the briefest flash of eye contact, there had been -- something. Some kind of subterfuge, or lie. Suspicious, an occupational hazard, Napoleon was instantly guarded. What was the reason behind the fast shuffle off to Spain? Again, just like the incident with the cartel case. Was Waverly keeping something from him? Momentarily he wondered when he had considered himself on opposite sides with Waverly, when he had stopped trusting the man who was his mentor. He couldn't answer those questions now -- didn't want to spend the time nor the self-honesty to find them now. Whatever was happening, he would find out. Not by the front door.

It was a dismissal and Napoleon eagerly took it. He had a lot of work to do before morning.

V

"This one's for you, my friend."

For a long time Solo sat at his desk, attempting, and failing, to function. There was a great deal to do in preparation for his trip to the Continent. Paperwork and managerial tasks for the Section Two chief had been backlogging for some time. Between the extended cartel investigation in Europe, and the recent tragedy in Toronto, details like deskwork were too trivial to warrant his time. To prove to Waverly, and himself, that he could still function as an agent, he had to close out this terrible chapter of his life and move on.

Progress was slow. Brain cells turgid from alcohol, stimulants and shock refused to grasp the normalcy of his duties. Physically he felt sick from the artificial toxins and the lack of sleep. He pondered if that was some kind of self-torment, but chose not to investigate that line of thought too closely. He stared at the papers, forms and flickering computer screen with only marginal attention. In the penholder on the desk two red pills remained of his last batch of stimulants. There was a real temptation to pop them, but he was resisting. If he could stay awake until his flight, maybe he could catch up on some sleep during the long trip. It was a fleeting concern, however, because most of his mind was still preoccupied with Illya's death.

Yes, he could think it now -- form the two words together in one sentence, one thought. Illya was considered dead. He still told himself there were doubts and questions, but his heart no longer believed. With a deep sigh he admitted defeat and gave up on the forms. He shoved the top level of papers into his desk drawer. Exposed now was the envelope containing the evidence from Toronto. With a shaking hand he dumped the contents onto his desk; a last duty to finish before he left New York.

Solo just studied the articles, each one containing a memory and significance to the partnership. It was probably the numbing shock that saved him from total insanity. He could only fathom a portion of the devastation that nibbled at his soul. A slow deterioration of emotions; a reversal of the process of a priceless friendship. The other part of himself, his life, was gone. With the aid of his last fifth of vodka, which he hated, he let the liquor insulate the memories into some hazy reminiscence.

The Walther, now distorted and bent from heat damage, was the most obvious piece of history. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, gently running an index finger along the mottled, misshapen barrel and grip.

A painful stab of guilt gripped him. Why had he given in so easily? He had given up now, when so many times before it seemed Illya was dead. He had never believed it before, why now? Perhaps the guilt WAS the core reason he had accepted the death. The guilt of his failure crushed his hope.

Napoleon traced the silver, inlaid "K" on the stock. A sob collected in his throat and he gulped it away. All this time he had sustained the exhausting pace, the fight, the denials, the emotional and physical demands taxing a devastated mind and body. It was threatening to overwhelm him now and he couldn't give in to the grief and desolation. It was not yet time to lay Illya Kuryakin to rest. Neither was it time to remember so many dangerous recollections that could easily destroy his thin shields of self control. All of these items, the communicator, the money clip, the monogrammed pistol, were frozen memories still fresh in his mind.

August 1964. The first monogrammed Walther had been given to Kuryakin as a joke. The fourth pistol that year to be replaced, Napoleon did it as a jibe to Illya always losing equipment. A month later when he had returned from a mission sans Walther, there was a new pistol waiting on his desk, with the letter "S" on the stock. It had been a tradition frequently maintained over the many years and pistols.

If it were true that the dead achieved some from of immortality through recollections, Illya Kuryakin had reached an exalted level of Valhalla. He was vivid and animatedly alive in Solo's mind, as if the Russian would yet walk through the door in proof of his longevity. The memories were so potent his trembling hand gripped the stock. Part of the heat-fatigued metal snapped and the piece with the initial broke away. Turning the initialed fragment over in his hands several times, he then placed it in his breast pocket.

Napoleon shoved the rest of the items back in the envelope and locked them into a drawer. He could not continue this way. He was a survivor and he WOULD get through this. Nothing would be the same again, he had to accept that and make a new start. There was still his work, and he could learn to deal with the personal loss, somehow. Beyond the emptiness and loneliness there would be some kind of future.

The computer screen flickered with incoming data and he checked through the files in case there was anything of immediate attention he needed to finish. Through the usual bureaucratic channels, memos and forms on the recent THRUSH prisoner, were sent to the Chief Enforcement Officer. Chilled, he read the information on interrogations and status of Dr. Landis. He read through the documents three times, triple-checking that what he read was right. Little wonder Waverly was sending him out of the county! Obviously someone overlooked the fact that this volatile information would automatically come to his computer! It was the most costly mistake possible.

A cold hatred gripped his soul like nothing else he ever experienced. It was a possession, an overtaking of reason and logic and even grief. Rage scraped along his over-stressed, savagely mangled sensitivities. It tapped into the darkest core of his being, where there was a depth of animosity unknown, a passion so intense it eclipsed everything else in his world.

Napoleon downed the two red pills in a single gulp. Because of the flagging energy and lack of mental acuity he needed the stimulation to get him through this new event. According to the report, Landis had made a deal. Instead of execution, or even imprisonment, the scientist had defected to UNCLE! He was to live at a secure facility and continue experiments under UNCLE control!

It was more than the overburdened emotions of the Chief Enforcement Agent could accept. It was more injustice than Napoleon could allow for his murdered friend. Tears stung his eyes as he read Landis's account of the explosion, how he had overpowered an injured Kuryakin, and set the rest of the lab on self destruct. He had left Kuryakin behind, helpless to escape the demolition.

Napoleon tried to shut out the grotesque images that vodka and stimulants could not wash away. Not all the drugs, distance and time in the world could dilute the terrible reality. "If I had been there . . . . If I had been quicker . . . "

The second guesses, the pain, the rage, the guilt, were now unbearable. Landis was directly responsible for Illya's death and he would pay for that crime. If UNCLE would not institute retribution, then Solo would. Lucidly, his mind cleared as it focused on the mission. There was an injustice to right and a friend who was owed a debt.

Solo scanned the computer logs for exact details. As he read, a plan took shape in his mind. There was no time for elaborate schemes -- this would have to be spontaneous.

"You would be disappointed by the crudeness, tovarich, but I have no time for one of your convoluted plots."

Removing his Walther, he popped a bullet in the chamber so the Special was ready to fire. A man on a mission, he stalked through the corridors with brisk strides that carried him to the lower levels of the huge, underground building where the holding cells were located.

Reason, instinct and training were overwhelmed by the rage and hot passion, drowned with a wave of hatred for the man who murdered his friend. There was no stopping him now and his whole body shook. Nerves and muscles were gripped in the reaction of the incredible emotions tearing him apart. Illya had paid the ultimate, terrible price of his life, for nothing! Napoleon knew he would pay in anguish for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be. Whatever happened it would be worth it. This act would not stop the pain, but it would allow justice to bind the wounds and he could live with himself again.

Running down the last few flights of stairs he arrived at the detention level with moments to spare. Voices drifted around the curve of the corridor. The grip on the Walther tightened. Desperation was threatening to cripple his skill, and as he and his partner had so many times in the past, he turned that emotion to his favor. The despair threatening to distort his concentration and training was pushed into the heat of vengeance. This was his last chance to do something for his friend and it had to be right. With practiced focus on his mission, he turned out the raw emotions barraging his senses. He fine-tuned his thoughts to only one goal, one act.

It was said that every man had a price. Napoleon knew his price, his limit, now, the level reached to sell out. Instinctively, for years, he had known duty, UNCLE, morality, were nebulous citadels of fealty that were only figureheads. His true commitment and loyalty had subtlety altered over the years. Not money, nor power, nor fame, nor even the threat of torture and pain could buy him. For years he suspected it was friendship that finally owned his soul.

Loyalty held a high plateau in his scruples. His ideals now tottered in the quicksand of doubt, balanced only by the stability of his partnership. That partnership, and his crutch, was gone. Still intact, however, was his private code of ethics. Illya was no longer with him to witness this repayment to a debt of honor, but Solo would pay the price necessary and submit this final quid pro quo

Taking a stance next to the service elevator, he forced his arm and hand to relax, the pistol resting comfortably in his palm. Strange how his body could shake inside, yet his right hand be perfectly still; his nerves gelatinous, heart pounding with grief and adrenaline, while his finger rested lightly, coldly on the trigger of the Walther. This was the only atonement he could lay at the altar of sacrifice to make up for his failure to his friend. His career, even his life, were ultimately meaningful, but diminished in the shadow of the debt he felt morally obligated to pay. A deficit to himself for the grieving emptiness he suffered with, a debt to his partner who deserved a better justice than what UNCLE offered. A debt of loyalty to a great agent who had died in the course of duty and been abandoned by everyone else.

"This one's for you, my friend," he quietly whispered in a voice thick with emotion.

There had been no chance to say goodbye. There would be no funeral, no memorial service, and no parting catharsis. This would be his only chance at farewell. A surprising calmness surrounded him now. Breathing easily, his nerves and muscles and mind suddenly in tune and prepared. This final piece of justice was his last, best tribute to his friend. Solo now felt so detached and ready it nearly seemed like someone else awaiting the appointment for death.

Three men rounded the corner. Agent Matt McDowell, Landis, and Agent Tom Bennett, the nemesis team, somehow fittingly the players in this last act. They stopped abruptly when they saw the path blocked by the senior agent.

He never acknowledged the other agents. A desperate, ragged image of his former self, this Napoleon Solo was not the Number One Section Two of UNCLE New York. This man was a wounded soul driven by love and hate to the brink of sanity and murder. With a steady hand and cold eyes focused only on his target, he leveled the pistol at Landis.

"Ahhh!" the scientist cried.

McDowell and Bennett went for their weapons.

"Don't!" Solo warned.

"You're mad!" Bennett accused.

The opposing agent's hands hovered close to their jackets.

"We should have killed Solo instead," McDowell whispered to his partner.

Solo blinked at the confusing comment, but gave it no more than a second's thought. His intense focus was literally in his sights. In the midst of a calm, every thought, every action, every word was controlled, smooth and purposeful.

"This one's for Illya."

The Walther kicked with the recoil as two rapid-fire shots exploded from the barrel. Both bullets ploughed into Landis's head, shattering the skull, catapulting the scientist into Bennett. Both bodies fell against the wall. Before they slid to the floor, McDowell fired at the renegade agent. The 9mm slug slammed into Solo's upper chest and threw him to the floor where he slid for several feet.

The strange sensation of the ceiling closing down on him was disorienting. A grey, then black cloud closed around his periphery vision. He was losing consciousness as the jumble of pain and confusion and satisfaction mingled to distort him to a level of odd unreality. He felt an unholy pride for his achievement. Landis deserved to die and justice was served.

What had McDowell meant -- he should have died -- no -- should have been killed? Instead of who? He didn't understand. It didn't matter anymore. He was drifting away. He was going to meet Illya.

VI

"Send in the clowns."

Every agent in the building had suspicions about where the secret entrance/exit was for the Number One of NYHQ. Illya never dreamed he would utilize the private entrance, and was dazed at this incredible privilege atop the other tumultuous events in his life in the last several days.

Countless times there were revivals from unconsciousness; various forms of drugs and injuries had rendered him mentally removed from normal levels of awareness. This time was the most confusing of his returns. Brought back to consciousness by McDowell and Bennett was bad enough. To learn five days had passed since the explosion at the former THRUSH base was incredible. To be whisked into HQ via the private entrance -- through a secret tunnel connected to the East River!! -- was astounding.

Now, standing before Alexander Waverly, Kuryakin waited for the other shoe to drop.

"No doubt you wonder at the methods of your return," the chief began cryptically. "What have you been told?"

"Only that I have been gone five days."

Waverly nodded. "What do you remember?"

"Of the raid? Mr. Solo and I split up. I think there was an explosion. I'm not sure. What happened, sir?"

Waverly briefly sketched out the events of that night. He quickly glossed over the fire, the capture of Landis, the mistaken assumption that Kuryakin was dead. The foreboding lurking in the back of his mind came farther to the forefront at this intelligence. Waverly showed not a flicker of emotion, but being classified as dead brought a chill to the Russian. Quickly following that flash of morbid acknowledgment came a deeper sense of dread. How had Napoleon reacted to this unfortunate mistake, and where was his obviously absent partner now?

"Which brings us to the reasons of secrecy," Waverly was saying. "I did not want you coming through the halls, Mr. Kuryakin. Gossip and unrest are at an all time high. Your abrupt and public appearance would cause too much of a sensation."

A lesser man might have felt slighted at that pronouncement. In these unusual circumstances, however, it was an ominous note. Illya forced the chill away from his voice. "Why is that, sir?"

Waverly swiveled in his chair, turning to look out the windows at the New York skyline. "We believed you were dead, Mr. Kuryakin, and closed your file. My apologies."

"Uh, yes, thank you, I think, sir."

"Thinking you were killed by Dr. Landis, Mr. Solo, in a misguided act of vengeance, murdered Dr. Landis. As you can imagine, this has put a great strain on our normal routine."

Illya had to catch his breath. He was completely speechless, unable to think of anything to say or do. Anticipating this kind of shock, Waverly filled in for him, continuing with business as usual.

"You are forthwith promoted to Number One Section Two as Chief Enforcement Agent. You will immediately assume those duties in your new position. The sooner we return to our regular routine the better. There must be no pause in operations or duties. Is that clear, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Still unable to speak, Kuryakin could only nod his head. Waverly stared at him, momentarily revealing a measure of compassion in the old, aged eyes. The emotions were quickly replaced by a stern glare.

"I have allowed Section Two to become much too lax recently, Mr. Kuryakin. That will not continue. Is that clear?"

Kuryakin managed a nod. The shock was beginning to dissipate slightly and questions and concerns were surfacing now. The uppermost worry was the notable lack of mention of his partner.

"Sir, where is Mr. Solo?"

The glare now escalated to a scowl. "In the hospital wing. He was shot in an attempt to stop his irrational act of murdering Landis. Unfortunately, not all Section Two operatives are as quick or as good of marksmen as Mr. Solo."

"Shot! By our own people? How is he?"

"Alive. For now." Anger now laced the old man's voice and face. "Oh, his wound is not fatal, Mr. Kuryakin. "But he will wish it was when he regains consciousness."

Illya opened his mouth to speak, but found his tongue once more insulated with shock.

"There is much for you to attend to, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly dismissed. "I suggest you see to it immediately."

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged as he came shakily to his feet. "Sir," he stopped before leaving the table. "What will happen to Napoleon? He thought I was dead. He --"

"That is enough, Mr. Kuryakin. We have had quite enough of heroics in the last few days. I forbid you to speak of his act, or to plead his cause in any way. His fate is no longer your concern."

For the first time that day Illya finally felt some kind of solid ground beneath his figurative feet. He could not silently stand by and do nothing while his partner was in such trouble.

"Sir, I disagree. It is most certainly my conc --"

"Mr. Kuryakin! If you wish to remain in this organization, you will not refer to the matter again. Is that understood?"

It was the closest to shouting as Illya had ever heard the old man. Startled, Kuryakin nodded and left the office. The expression on the usually icy mask of Lisa Rogers, assistant to Mr. Waverly, was almost worth the whole subterfuge of entering in the private entrance. Illya gave her a nod and left. He was sure by the time he reached his office the news of his dramatic return to life would be through the entire building. It was a minor consideration. As soon as he checked in with the Section Two secretaries, he was going to the hospital wing. UNCLE could function for a few more hours without him. He had much more important business to see to.

***

The first thing Solo saw when his eyes fluttered opened and focused, was a grey ceiling. He had been staring at a ceiling before, but different. In a different place. With slow drifts of recollection, the memory of terrible images warped through his mind in indistinct visions. Now he was in a hospital; obvious by the smell and sounds and general ambiance. Hospitals were places he knew well. There was an IV in his arm, a lumpy, too-firm mattress beneath him, stiff bandages on his shoulder and the antiseptic, cloying odors of a medical wing. Also obvious was the muzziness of medication, a sensation much different from the detachment of drugs or alcohol or the headache of being knocked on the head, or the nausea from sleep-gas.

It was hard to keep his eyes open. Painkillers always made him so sleepy, but he wanted to stay awake. There was someone there with him and he wanted to see who it was. There, just beside the bed, just out of focus. He blinked several times trying to clear his eyes. The person stepped forward and leaned very close.

Solo blinked again. A breath caught in his throat. Something was wrong, but he didn't know exactly what or why right now. It seemed so natural -- expected -- to see his closest friend watching over him in the hospital. What was wrong with this picture?

"Illya?"

It was a hoarse croak that edged on the brink of subconscious panic. Kuryakin placed a hand on his partner's uninjured shoulder. It was a gesture of reassurance for both of them.

"Well, you've finally awoken," he returned quietly. His voice was unusually shaky, his eyes bright and intent as he stared at his friend. "Your beauty sleeps keep getting longer with age."

The American's face wrinkled with perplexity. It was all strangely disorienting. He glanced at the hand firmly gripping him, then back at Illya's face. This was such a normal scenario, yet it seemed so out of place with -- with what? What had he expected? The horrific images flashed into his mind like incomplete disaster footage. He was so mixed up and confused. He reached up to hold onto Kuryakin's arm; connecting with his partner, the only sure thing he could use as an anchor.

"We've done this all before."

"All too often."

Solo gulped down a shiver, his voice trembling. "I had a terrible nightmare . . . . "

"Don't talk about it now, Napoleon," was the Russian's gentle advice. "Rest now. We can discuss this later."

Solo tried to grasp onto the threads of reality and separate them from the foggy, horrible images crowding his mind. Illya had died -- no -- Illya was alive, obviously. He could feel the strength in Illya's grip and was holding onto the arm of his friend like a literal lifeline. Obviously Illya was alive. The recurring memory of Illya dying seemed clearer with every minute. Not just dying, Illya had been murdered! Landis, the murderer -- he had executed Landis!

He shook Illya's arm. "I killed him! I thought you were dead and I killed him! You were dead ---"

Kuryakin held onto his partner's hand with both of his. "I am here now and I am fine," he reassured, trying to stem the panic. "The nightmares are over. Don't worry about that now. Your first priority is to recover. Agreed?"

Solo slowly nodded his assent as his eyes closed, heavy with fatigue. "Don't leave again."

"I won't," came the subdued promised.

When he awoke again, Illya was sitting in a nearby chair, staring at him. Solo stared back at the Russian, never saying a word. Several times he opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to find an expression for his shock. Kuryakin tried to lighten the mood.

"This is one of the few times I've seen you speechless." At another mute attempt by his friend to speak, Kuryakin grinned. "I think I could almost live with you when you hold your tongue."

The sarcasm jibed him into an automatic quip. "Very funny. You would be bored to death."

For suspended seconds they froze at the unintentional reminder of Illya's recent demise. Then, spontaneously, both broke into laughter. Solo held onto his shoulder, trying not to jar the injury.

"Ouwww. Oh, that hurts."

"Your puns are as terrible as ever," Illya countered. "Only you find humor in your awful jokes."

"You were laughing."

"Contamination from your bad taste."

"Okay, okay," Napoleon conceded easily, the smile fading slowly. "It's good to have you back from the dead, Lazarus."

"Where I am obviously needed," Kuryakin replied, trying to be stern and lecturing. Instead, his voice was soft with compassion. He stepped over and placed a hand on his friend's arm. "You're supposed to dodge bullets, remember?"

"Must be slowing down in my old age."

"At this rate you won't be getting much older."

Solo's face reflected his grim tone. "For a while it didn't matter anymore."

Illya released his hold of his friend and stepped back. "I know you don't mean that!" he snapped. "Don't even joke about it!"

"All right," Napoleon agreed quietly.

The Russian settled on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms. Through persistent interrogation of the staff, he had ascertained Solo's medical condition and related it to his friend. The bullet had broken the collar bone and damaged muscles. With time and patience, he should make a physical recovery. The mental side of the picture was something no one would discuss with him, so he let that subject pass.

After a moment of silence, Solo demanded, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You don't think you can rise from the dead like Lazarus and not explain it, do you?"

Kuryakin's face screwed up in irritation. "There is very little to relate, I'm afraid."

He recounted what he remembered of the night in Toronto at the old THRUSH complex. The lighting had been poor and there was a brief image of Landis hiding behind a table or something. There had been an explosion, but he wasn't sure where it fit in.

"I woke up on a riverbank," he admitted with chagrin. "It was daylight and I was completely dry. I followed the river back to the complex. It was leveled, burned, only a few clean up crews remained. I think you can imagine my surprise when they told me four days had passed since the explosion!"

Napoleon was incredulous. "That's it!? It's so -- so anticlimactic! You get knocked out and wake up four days later?"

It was so insignificant compared to what Solo had gone through in those four days. If he had only gone back -- but Waverly wouldn't let him. Where had Illya been for four days? Not just lying in the woods -- he'd checked, and so had other search teams. How could they have missed him? If only he'd gone back, disobeyed those minor orders, he could have saved himself so much agony. No, he could not go down that road. What was done was done. He had made the decision to kill Landis, now he had to face the varied, bittersweet consequences of his actions. He wasn't sorry he killed Landis, in his opinion it was still justified homicide. He would never regret the wonderful, ironic, resurrection. It was worth anything to have his friend back, alive and well.

"It's really odd, isn't it?" Illya ruminated almost to himself. "I had no concussion, or injuries from the explosion. The staff checked me out while you were having your beauty sleep. No head trauma, just a slight headache that is no more prevalent with when I am drugged."

Solo's eyebrows shot up. "You always get headaches when you're drugged. Yes, and slight disorientation." Unable to quite make sense of any of it, he made a sour expression. "Is that how you feel now?"

Kuryakin's mouth twisted with the trace of an ironic grin. "I have felt nothing but disorientation since I woke up, but I think we can blame that on extreme external factors." He gestured to his arms. "No needle marks, no other signs of drugs. My blood was tested, but the results aren't back yet. Besides, why would they drug me when they could have killed me in the explosion? And who is responsible? Landis was the only one I ever saw and he wouldn't bother."

"No, you're right. I never saw anyone else either." They fell silent, each wrapped in their individual theories. "Are you all right now?"

"Fine. No trouble since I woke up. I contacted the Toronto office and I was flown back to New York this morning -- " he faltered. "I mean, uh, that's when I heard you were -- in trouble again. Your worst habit," he finished lamely.

"Ah," the older man nodded in agreement. "A usual Russian understatement." He sighed and closed his eyes. "I've outdone myself this time, old son."

"An American understatement," was the glum reply. "One thing about you, my friend, you never do anything halfway."

Solo opened his eyes and gave his partner a weak, humorless smile. "Losing my timing this late in my career. Send in the clowns." He stared at the wall, his voice dull, his expression melancholy. "Don't bother, they're here."

Kuryakin forced his voice into an optimism he did not feel. "It seems it will take all our talents to release you from this mess." When his friend did not respond, he laid a hand on Solo's arm. "We'll do whatever it takes Napoleon. I won't let you go through this alone. This is my fault, too."

Finally, Napoleon glanced back at his friend. Solo's sober brown eyes reflected no acknowledgment of the false confidence. "This one's for you," he whispered. They fell into stillness, a familiar, comfortable silence of long years of understanding. There was relief, affection, and faint gleam of humor in the expression. "By the way, did I tell you I'm glad you're alive, tovarich?"

Illya shook his head, a slight grin pulling at the sides of his mouth. "Not in so many words," he admitted, his eyes bright. "But I did receive the message."

***

The office seemed incredibly, inordinately quiet. Kuryakin could hear the faint rush of air in the circulating system. The tap of fingertips on the desktop was a loud rattle in the near-silent, near deserted room. He glanced at his watch and noted only a few moments had passed since the last check.

The morning had been a trail of nerves. The long and anxiously awaited day of Solo's release from the hospital had been tempered with anxious anticipation. A subdued, strained undertone permeated the almost dreaded return to main HQ. Solo went immediately to his meeting with Waverly without stopping in to talk.

Illya had spent a restless night, the possibilities of the interview churning in his imagination. Solo had been strangely reticent, distant about what might happen, as if he was afraid to think too far into the future. Not for lack of interrogation; Illya had tried every means to elicit speculations, if for no other reason than to calm his own anxieties. Solo, however, would not yield; no concerns, fears or hopes. Kuryakin could not blame him. He didn't want to imagine the punishments and retributions Waverly might serve on the Chief Enforcement -- former Chief Enforcement Agent. Napoleon had already suffered so much.

'Yes, my impulsive friend you were rashly, legally wrong,' he sighed mentally. 'But I cannot fault you for following your convictions, the dictates of conscience. This is my fault, Napoleon, not yours. My clumsy handling of the raid, my despicable timing in returning. If justice is to be truly served then I should shoulder some of the blame.'

Muttered curses in several languages broke the silence as he remonstrated against his partner determined to play the martyr and face this judgment alone. "'This one is for you,' " he whispered, quoting the curt explanation Solo had offered. "I didn't want this, Napoleon," he whispered to the empty room.

He felt cheated. Not by choice, he had been the catalyst in a terrible chain of events directly affecting the life and future of his closest friend, and ultimately, himself. Alone, betrayed, devastated, the passionate, compulsive and chivalric Solo had chosen a destructive crusade to champion. And Illya was left with a terrible foreboding that their lives were changed forever.

VII

"Don't expect many post cards."

"Mr. Solo."

Napoleon gave his superior a nod and stiffly took his customary chair at the large, round table. His hands were shaking and he gripped one onto the armrest while the other folded over the sling suspending his left arm. He wished he could say the trembling was completely from the residual effects of toxins in his system, but he knew it was mostly nerves. He twisted his ring and tried to calm down.

"Good morning, sir."

Waverly's undivided attention pinned the agent's every move.

"I see no reason to prolong the inevitable, Mr. Solo. Remonstrations are superfluous since we cannot change the past. We must deal with the consequences and move on. The consequences of your actions in this case leave me very few alternatives. You will be dismissed from UNCLE immediately."

There it was, as instant and abrupt as a guillotine blade to the neck. He was out. His stomach was in his throat. It felt like someone had just pushed him off a cliff and he was falling, with no parachute and no ground in sight.

"You will be granted no rights or privileges attached to this organization. Section One agents will complete declassification as soon as you leave this office. Section Five agents are waiting for you outside the doors. Due to the extreme circumstances of your position of leadership and trust, the declassification will have to be the most excessive measures available."

Solo's throat was dry. Nightmare images of Tartarus and the rest of his life in a mind altering prison camp chilled him to the bone. He had known many forms of fear in his career, but this one gripped him in frozen tendrils of shocked immobility.

"You will have no memory of UNCLE at all; no memory that you belonged to this organization, or what you did here. Do you have any questions?"

His heart had just plummeted to the earth. Solo cleared his dry throat. So this was the way it was going to end. It was almost a relief. The alternative of a concentration camp for wayward spies was not only possible, but he had expected it, or worse. Execution had not been completely out of his mind, either. The intense degree of relief testified to that; he had obviously been anticipating a firing squad. Or worse: Tartarus, the rumored, mythical hell-hole where spies who no longer conformed to the rules were sent for "rehabilitation."

"You will be given the lab's strongest amnesia pill as well as the deepest possible mind sweep."

Well, his memory of UNCLE would be wiped clean. Maybe he could recall the words to Blackbird, but not remember who Illya was or when he had been taught an appreciation for the Beatles. {fanfiction: The Music Box Affair} With the amnesia pill, he may not even remember who the Beatles were. Suddenly, death or Tartarus was beginning to sound pretty good, was his caustic, ironic conclusion. At least in Tartarus he would remember everything -- Illya. Now he would be left with nothing.

"We have never ordered such extensive deprogramming." Waverly continued to glare at him, the unforgiving resentment unrestrained. "I think you are fortunate this organization does not practice 'an eye for an eye' philosophy. Your actions were unforgivable and irreparable, Mr. Solo. I expected much more of you. Much more."

Napoleon looked down at the table, not able to even look his superior in the eyes. The disappointment was more than he could stand. Waverly had groomed him, counted on him, and trusted him. He had betrayed UNCLE, but worse, he had dishonored Waverly.

"However, there were mitigating circumstances to the entire, unfortunate situation. It would have done little good to execute you, or send you to a rehabilitation camp. We will accept your dismissal and memory erasure as punishment enough, and all of us can move on with our lives. You will be relocated of course. After the declassification procedure you will be given plane fare to a new location and temporary quarters."

Reeling from the breathless blows to his psyche, he was unprepared for this last bit of news. "Relocation?"

"Yes. You will not remember anything of your life here at UNCLE, but if you remained here, particularly in New York, there might be a tendency on the part of your -- colleagues -- to contact you. We cannot have that, Mr. Solo. Misguided friendship has caused enough damage to this organization, I will have no more of it. You are persona non grata to all personnel. When you leave here it will be a closed chapter in your life and a closed relationship to those who have known you. Do you have any comments or questions before I close your file?"

Solo met the old eyes with as much dignity as he could manage. Waverly had meant a lot to him. He swallowed down the trepidation and anguish twisting his throat into knots and burning his stomach with agony. This was no more than he deserved with his misguided chivalry in the name of friendship. He stood guilty at his failure to perform as he should have. His morals as former Chief Enforcement Agent were still intact, and he, above all others, recognized the terrible wrong he had committed. There was no way to make up for the past, so they would all have to step onto a new future. The emptiness of that prospect burned at the back of his eyes, but he could not let that show to Waverly. This was the last time he would ever see the old mentor, and he wanted to maintain some last shred of personal dignity, if that was still possible.

"I'm sorry things turned out this way, sir. I regret that my rash actions have caused you disappointment, but I'll never regret my partnership. Mr. Kuryakin and I were the best team UNCLE has ever had. It was our friendship that made the partnership strong, and I couldn't be remorseful about that, ever. It made us better agents and gave us some kind of sanity and humanity in this netherworld we live in. Even if I don't remember anything about my life here, or about Illya, I don't regret anything, except that it's over."

He took a breath and cleared his throat, embarrassed and upset that his passionate speech was shaky with emotion. He wasn't good at curtain scenes, and he wanted to say more and less all at the same time. In the end, however, it wouldn't matter, because he would never remember this, and Waverly would do his best to forget it as soon as the doors closed behind him.

"By the way, Mr. Solo, it seems rather anticlimactic, but you may be interested to know your psychological evaluation was returned last week. In all the commotion, I was unable to review the results with you."

Napoleon was nonplussed. "The psyche test?" It had seemed so important, so vital a few months back. From somewhere, his natural, sardonic humor surfaced. "How did I do?"

"You failed it, Mr. Solo. I am not one to believe in Fate, but I think your destiny has been clear for some time. I am sorry I allowed it to reach this climax. Now, agents Stuart and Amakai are outside to escort you to detraining. Mr. Kuryakin, because of his obvious bias in this matter, is not supervising this procedure. Do you wish to stop by your office and collect any personal items? It seems rather superfluous, but you may do so if you wish."

"Ah, well, I, uh, guess it doesn't matter much under the circumstances, but there are probably a few things I should -- I should close out."

The sage, elderly man gave him a knowing nod, understanding he was talking about a friendship, not cleaning out his desk. His career had blazed out in a fiery climax like a descending comet, and the only lasting thing left, the only thing that ever mattered, was what had started and ended it all.

"Very well. Although you won't remember me, or any part of this portion of your life, I want you to know now, I regret things have turned out this way. You had a great deal of promise at one time, but once on this irrevocable course, you seemed destined for this end. Do the best you can. Good luck, Mr. Solo."

"Uh -- thank you, sir."

"Yes, well, goodbye, Mr. Solo.

"Goodbye, Mr. Waverly."

***

He stood just in front of the automatic doors and waited. 'For what?' he silently wondered. A miracle? He had already used them all up. His pockets were drained of miraculous last chances and cheating tricks. There was nothing left but an empty reality. Napoleon Solo had never put much stock in reality. He had always been one to shape his own destiny, to mold his own opportunities and chance. He had never believed he would empty the mythical magic cauldron of his personal luck.

Standing here in the corridor would do him no good. On either side of him were young, burley agents literally breathing down his neck. They seemed to be restraining themselves from putting him in irons and hauling him away. He sighed, then made a mental note to stop so much dramatic sighing. He had to summon the courage necessary to step through that door. This would have to be a clean, sharp incision. There was no time, no reserves of strength left for a drawn-out, painful encounter

The last few weeks had done very little to rebuilt the stamina, the confidence, the inner-resolve that had once placed him a step ahead of most of his colleagues. The Solo determination and ego were nearly legendary. He unconsciously massaged the injured left arm still in a sling. Something indefinable had been destroyed when he thought Illya had been killed. Or was it when he had killed Landis? He wasn't sure. Yet, he knew something that once lived inside of his soul was now diminished, deteriorated, drained away

Whatever fledgling traces of confidence had remained, they were crushed this morning in his interview with Waverly. The Old Man had vanquished the illogical, unreasonable hopes he had tried not to acknowledge. He had walked into the familiar office expecting the worst. He had received what he deserved. And more. He had not been prepared for the disappointment; the regret, the dishonor, the blame Waverly had directed at him. Waverly's condemnation was a blow; a crushing indictment from a man he respected, revered and honored. He had not expected the erasure of his life -- he still didn't quite know what to make of it and didn't want to dwell on it. If he did he would go insane before he faced that black and white spiral machine in detraining.

Napoleon, yet, could not admit regret for his actions. He would not shirk from the penalties of his decisions. He had learned to accept the consequences of decision since he was in ROTC, when his choices cost lives in Korea, in UNCLE.

How could he feel guilt for killing Landis? Ultimately, in a refined justification, he'd asked himself to pay a high price -- a sacrifice for friendship. It had been a test, a trial, and he had not been found wanting in his loyalty or honor. That was something he was still proud of. Now part of that price was the condemnation, the punishment for his actions. Although he had not given those details much thought in the passionate impulse of emotion that caused him to pull the trigger on Landis, he still understood and accepted responsibility

On the other side of the door his closest friend was awaiting his report. He had failed to inform Waverly that he would have one last meet with Kuryakin. The boss shouldn't begrudge this meeting. It was Solo who could hardly bare the upcoming scene. How was he going to pull this off? After everything that had happened, he was losing Illya after all, in a way he had never imagined in his wildest nightmares. His actions had destroyed his life, and worse, the best of his life, his friendship with Kuryakin. Then, ultimately, to turn the screw to his heart, even the memory of that friendship would be taken from him. Somehow it all seemed more fitting for a Greek tragedy or a morbid Russian folktale than reality.

Napoleon caught himself from sighing again. His guards were staring at him with undisguised contempt -- probably convinced the murderer was now a coward. Soon he would attract unnecessary attention standing here in the corridor. He didn't want to encounter any more people. He sensed many of his colleagues were ashamed, even disgusted at his vigilantism. That didn't really matter, he had learned long ago to live his life by his own code and be unconcerned with how others perceived him. However, he did not want to deal with anyone right now. He had to mentally, emotionally, gear himself for a last interview, a final scene that would contain the hardest moments of his life. Feeling unprepared he pushed himself foreword and entered his office one last time.

Kuryakin stopped his pacing and looked up the moment Solo entered the room. Silent communication telegraphed the message almost instantly. Kuryakin read the defeated expression on Solo's face. Napoleon read the alert, the shifting emotions of denial and regret in Illya's eyes.

"I see Waverly opted out of the firing squad," Illya finally voiced. The words were flippant but the tone was still wary. "What's the bad news?"

Solo couched a response with vagueness. "That depends on whose side you're on," was the cryptic reply. He just couldn't say it all yet.

"Napoleon!"

Solo found he couldn't move. He couldn't look away. "You always did back the underdog." He almost smiled

"What does that mean -- Napoleon," the Russian interrupted his own question, impatient and tense. "What happened?"

No words would come to mind. He had rehearsed this -- unsatisfactorily -- for the entire walk from Waverly's office. He just couldn't explain, his words choked in his throat. Instead, he shook his head and walked up to the Russian. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his ID wallet, his communicator, his Walther, handing the objects out with a shaky hand

Kuryakin automatically accepted them silently, stunned at the implications.

"No firing squad, but no gold watch, either." Solo finally stated hoarsely. He moved toward the desk, unable to voice the explanation. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Kuryakin repeated, almost miffed. "As in, you are leaving for lunch, for a holiday, for the rest of the day --"

"Illya," Napoleon interrupted with an edge to his voice. He sighed, at last accepting he would have to take this painful encounter step-by-step with no short cuts and no easy paths of escape. It would be more difficult than anything he had ever faced before. But he had to -- he owed this to Illya. Days ago he had murdered for his friend, the least he could do now was the much harder task of talking honestly and openly for the last time with Illya.

This one's for you. He leaned on the desk top. His tone softened, though he did not face his friend. "I'm leaving UNCLE. For good."

"You can't!" Illya instantly countered, stalking next to the American and slamming Solo's paraphernalia onto the desk. "How can you do that?"

"Waverly has terminated my contract --"

"Why --"

"Why?" Napoleon shot back incredulously. "Illya, I killed --" He shook his head sadly. "I murdered a man! An unarmed man right in the halls of HQ! Hardly cricket --"

"How can Waverly dismiss you --"

"Like a criminal? Because I am."

"You're not!" Kuryakin insisted adamantly

Solo strove for reason. "How could he not? I've axed agents in my department for much less --"

"This is different," Illya shot back, their exchange volleyed in rapid-fire intensity

"Because it's me?" Solo shook his head. "He would never play favorites. He could have sent me to prison. He could have sent me to Tartarus. That's where Beldon would be if he lived."

The most notorious case of treachery in the history of UNCLE (probably still number one on the charts, Napoleon mused, with his infamous murder ranking second), was when Beldon, Number One of Section One in Berlin became a traitor and tried to assassinate the other four Section One chiefs. In the process he had framed Solo as a traitor and Napoleon had been tortured and interrogated by UNCLE agents, with Illya finally proving his innocence. [episode -- The Summit Five Affair] Beldon had died in the fight, but the two agents had speculated the former Number One would have been confined to the dreaded Tartarus if he had lived.

Kuryakin shivered. "That's not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

"Beldon was a traitor."

"Some say I am, too."

"There is no comparison." His face hardened. "I would never let you be sent to Tartarus."

In the midst of the extreme, incredible emotions, Solo was touched beyond all the other raging feelings racing through his heart and mind. If he ever doubted the value of friendship, this was his exoneration. The price he had paid was terribly high, but the treasure was priceless.

"Thanks, Galahad." He sighed unsteadily. "My personal guardian angel."

Kuryakin seethed. "Didn't Waverly let you resign?" Solo shook his head. "At least you could have had your pension. It's wrong."

Solo snorted in dismissal. Losing his retirement benefits was the last thing he had thought of. Losing his mind was much more relevant, and he was going to do everything he could to not let Illya know about that proviso. Atop of all the other emotional debris, his friend did not need to be saddled with that burden. He didn't have the energy to quibble over details. There was no passion left to debate ideologies and obscure points of ethics.

"It's the way it is," he tiredly sighed.

Kuryakin leaned close, his eyes blazing with defiance. He wanted to fight against anything and everything and Solo was an easy and convenient target. "You're just going to give up?" he chided. "Without a fight? It's not like you to give up," he accused hotly.

Napoleon thought back to one of Waverly's odd comments during their last interview. Waverly had admitted he was unsurprised at Solo's action. He felt the Solo and Kuryakin partnership had changed both men over the years. The friendship had intensified to a level where the men regarded loyalty to each other stronger than loyalty to UNCLE. Waverly had correctly foreseen the cataclysmic end Solo had brought about. The old man was more perceptive than they had ever guessed.

"It's been coming for a long time," Solo critiqued wearily, and explained Waverly's comments. There had been only slight condemnation in Waverly's revelations, but both partners felt it.

"Embarrassing, isn't it?" Kuryakin said with some chagrin.

"To be so predictable? Mm-huh," Solo agreed with amusement.

Kuryakin leaned on a corner of the desk and studied his friend. The Russian conversationally offered several possible alternatives: His resignation, a protest -- would a strike against the establishment work? It was finally agreed Kuryakin was needed as, in Solo's words, "UNCLE's best agent now that I'm gone."

The joke was uncomfortably humorless for them both.

"You can think of me as your inside man in UNCLE," Illya offered.

Solo automatically agreed, but knew it was an empty promise. There would never be any contact between them once he walked out that door. To bury those unpleasant thoughts -- to push those final moments away -- Napoleon made busy work of searching through his desk drawers. He kept few individual items at the office. He was not a man to reveal too much of his personal life in such a structured, professional environment. And, there had never been time for much of a life. UNCLE had consumed his energy, time and loyalty. Extracurricular activities had been no more than distractions

Solo found two sets of keys. He tossed one key ring to Illya. "You're welcome to my apartment. The lease is paid until next Christmas."

Kuryakin looked at the keys in his hand with surprise. "What are you doing?"

The other set of keys were tossed to Kuryakin. "You can have the Jag, too. I paid it off when I cashed in the insurance last week --"

"Napoleon what are you doing?" Illya almost shouted. He stood up and placed the keys on the desk

"I have to get away," Solo finally gave in to the lies he was building. "This has to be a new beginning. Don't expect any post cards. You know how I hate to write."

"You're turning your back and leaving as if nothing in your life here never existed?" Illya gestured around him. There was an angry tint to his voice. He was enraged at the entire situation, the dismissal -- at Solo's seemingly placid acceptance of an inevitability that Illya could not yet accept.

Solo drew out a manila envelope and shoved it toward his companion. Illya's eyebrows shot up when he recognized the standard packaging of articles of a deceased agent. He scowled and pushed it to the side of the desk.

"You are truly macabre, Napoleon."

"They are yours!"

"Now tell me what you think you're doing. Where are you escaping to?" Illya asked sharply. He fidgeted in the silence. "You don't expect me to obey the rules and not see you again, do you?"

Under "normal" circumstances, when an agent was dismissed, his memory of UNCLE codes, functions and personnel were wiped away. Operatives remaining on the payroll were ordered to not associate with the disbarred agent. Napoleon failed to appreciate the irony in the circumstances. He would be losing a lot more than surface operational information and he could not let Illya know that.

The Russian remained defiant. "And don't think the Section Five clowns can stop me. Now tell me what you are plotting!"

Solo slammed the desk drawer shut. "All right," he tartly countered. "I'm escaping on the first plane out to anywhere. I need time, space --"

"Is that how important UNCLE has been? If anything is important to you anymore!"

"In another ten minutes there WON'T be anything of importance left in my life!" Napoleon shouted. He turned away and wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand. He had not wanted their mutual, suppressed tension building to an argument. Over the years they had only occasionally sniped at each other with real anger. This was hardly the time to succumb to their more disagreeable habits. "Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be, Illya. We have to make a clean break here," he said, his voice not as strong or firm as he wished it could be. "Just accept what we can't change. It's time to move on."

Kuryakin was snapped back to another level of thought. He was going to apologize -- a rarity, even when he was wrong -- but Solo's abrupt comment had startled him out of his anger. He automatically glanced at his watch. His tone was wary. "What happens in ten minutes?"

Solo thrust his hand in his pocket and paced across the room to the far wall.

'There is no escape now, my friend,' Kuryakin thought, though he wanted to walk away as well.

"Waverly didn't see any reason to delay," Solo began, studying the floor with uncommon interest. "My escort is waiting in the hall. I'll be detrained as soon as I leave here." He sighed heavily. "He's probably right. It's best to get it over with."

"Detraining?" The curse was hardly a whisper. "Escort? I'll go --"

"No, I don't think he trusts you," Solo said with a quirk of a grin. "It's better this way."

Kuryakin sat back on the edge of the desk. It felt like his world had just been pulled out from under him. He knew, of course, when Napoleon was ousted from UNCLE there would be detraining -- but this soon . . . . Illya didn't want to ponder the finality. Falling back on a time-honored method of dealing with unpleasantries, he changed the subject.

"You can stay in the city."

"For what?"

Solo's voice sounded hollow, empty. The despair he had fought was crowding in, seeping through his reserves and words. Everything that had filled his life was being taken away in ten minutes. There would be nothing left. No job, no -- friends -- a man without a country. He could not linger in a city with too many old friends to haunt his every moment. No doubt if any memories remained they would haunt him anyway, but not if he could put away all the physical reminders. It was better this way; new location, new life, new memories. If he stayed, if the detraining was superficial, he would suffer the expectation of seeing a familiar blond, shaggy head, or a beautiful redhead everywhere he went. Even if circumstances were different, he could not stay. If the memory sweep was as effective as Waverly hoped -- then he would be a wraith -- a stranger in his own city. A piteous wretch. He would not allow himself that indignity. If he was to be a man without a past he would make a new life somewhere else, not where he would cause more pain for those who would remember.

An oppressive silence. Their world, as they knew it, was coming to an end. There was no way to stop or alter this inevitable force that was more powerful than their mutual aspiration.

Kuryakin took refuge in the mundane questions neither of them cared about. "What about your personal things?"

"I'll pack a few things," he said as he put items into a briefcase.

It wouldn't take long. Solo's Rule #two: 'Travel light and travel fast. Don't collect baggage along the way.' He meant emotionally as well as objects. He had stuck to the rule very well. Except for his partner -- former partner. 'There hangs the tale,' he decided. He was in a kind of dazed shock. None of this had really hit him yet. He hoped it wouldn't until he was far away from HQ.

If he were a philosopher or a poet, he could have compared a spy's empty existence to this half-empty attaché case. So little substantial evidence of a life --a life he would not even remember. He might as well throw everything in the trash.

A small, framed picture on the shelf behind his desk went into the briefcase. It was a silly photo of he and Illya on an assignment at Disneyland, complete with a Mickey Mouse shirt on Solo, the spires of the castle in the background. {fanfiction: The Magic Kingdom Affair} Then his eyes fell on the last item on the desk. It was a small pewter statue of a knight with shield and sword. It had been a gift, from that Disneyland visit, from his friend. Solo related all kinds of symbolic references to that statue: Their comparison as modern-day knights on an UNCLE crusade and the adventure and glory they had known. The meaningful gift from one friend to another. He had given Illya a miniature sword-in-glass-stone paperweight, a symbol of their partnership in Camelot. Even their personal code names, Lancelot and Galahad, were from the legend of the Round Table. As with the original version of the story, theirs too, was a myth, a fantasy that was now shattered by a harsh reality. There were no more magical kingdoms to fight for, and this Lancelot had been expelled from the Round Table by Arthur himself. In moments he would move from the glory to the meaningless, flawed by his own passions, just like the Knight in the old tale. In this story Galahad/Illya would be unable to redeem him.

'An almost meaningless existence,' he silently corrected as he placed the statue in the briefcase. Napoleon closed the snaps with finality. It was time to leave. What could he possibly say?

Illya broke the quiet. "I'll give you some money."

Solo chuckled. How many times had he borrowed money from his spendthrift friend? The Jaguar would probably just cover the debts. "No thanks," he declined with a smile. "I have a few stocks. I cashed in the insurance policy. It'll last for a while."

"With your tastes?" Illya wryly asked.

Solo put his elbow on the briefcase and leaned his chin on his palm. It was time to close this part of his life. He didn't want to. They had raced over the emotional roads and returned to this standard, calm, comfortable routine. Together there was trust and unconditional friendship. They were closer than brothers in the way they thought and acted under stress and in those rare, uncomplicated moments of calm. There were no more choices, no way to cheat their way out of this trap. They had broken the rules so much -- and a final, ultimate broken rule had brought them to this Waterloo.

Napoleon had to pull away from this companionable, welcome haven. He had to distance those feelings and try to close the wounds before they bled too much. He could feel Illya trying to shake those strong Russian defenses, seeking some kind of emotional reassurance. But Napoleon had to retreat. One thing he shared with his namesake was an instinctive grasp of tactical savvy. It was time to collapse the front and leave the field.

Introspection made Solo wonder if he had foreseen this coming -- like something out of a Tolstoy tragedy. In the end all that mattered was Illya and he. The rest of the world had become too big, too abstract to care much about. An inevitable conclusion for a partnership that had outgrown the structure of UNCLE. The result of that intense, extreme importance could only mean the eventual end of the partnership. 'Nothing good lasts forever,' was a cynical cliche' that came to mind

Napoleon was also plagued by the incessant doubts; whisperings of the ironies of fate: If he hadn't killed Landis; if he had known Illya was alive, if his timing -- if Illya's time had been better -- if -- if -- it was a vicious cycle of empty speculation. He was losing the precious friendship he had killed for, the most ironic punishment to fit the crime he had ever seen. With a single, impulsive act of driven passion Solo had sealed their futures and changed their lives. It was done. It was time to end. They would spend the rest of their lives paying the price of a friendship that transcended reason.

"Would you give my regrets to April for me, please? I'm afraid I can't keep the date I promised her."

Kuryakin forced a false smile. "Gladly."

"Are you trying to move in on her with me out of the picture?"

"Are you jealous?"

"Yes!"

"Good, it will do you good to think about that. Then maybe you will return to New York and take her away from me."

The teasing was a grim reminder of all he was about to lose and Napoleon barely kept a groan from escaping. He straightened, lifting the briefcase off the desk, then cleared his throat and put the case down again.

"Well, I can't keep stalling forever." He held out his hand. "I guess this is -- " his voice caught -- "this is -- so long."

Illya pointedly refused to shake, denying the inevitable capitulation. "There is so much more to say," he confessed in a hoarse whisper.

"There's no time," Solo reminded and retracted his hand. "Maybe we don't have to say it at all."

He swallowed the lump that suddenly caught in his constricted throat. He started for the door, fleeing before his tight control slipped beyond redemption. Atop all his other indignities, he refused to shed the tears he felt inside, refused to display the evidence that his own organization -- his own actions -- had, in the end, broken the legendary agent Napoleon Solo.

"I won't let this be forgotten like yesterday's newspaper!" Illya defiantly assured

Solo stopped, turned, and smiled sadly. "Yesterday's news," he corrected automatically, wondering if Illya's mix-up had been intentional. He wouldn't put it past the sly Russian.

"I will always be here if you ever need anything." Kuryakin offered with sincerity. Nervous and unsettled, the usually cool, reticent Russian nattered on. "Remember no road is traveled alone when one has a friend," he quoted with a subdued voice.

Solo raised his eyebrows. "That's a new one. Old Russian proverbs?"

Kuryakin shook his blond head. "Ming's Chinese fortune cookies," he replied with the hint of a grin.

"I'll try not to forget," Solo hoped and winked in reassurance.

Then Kuryakin picked up the Walther from the desk and tossed it to his friend. Solo caught the weapon in his right hand.

"For protection," Illya explained. "And you might as well keep it, I don't know anyone else with the initial 'S'."

Napoleon slipped the familiar pistol into a jacket pocket. He paused for just a moment. When he finally spoke there was a catch in his voice. "I broke my promise to you, Illya. I'm sorry."

"What promise?"

Napoleon turned to the door and stood just outside of the automatic sensor range. "I told you I would never betray you -- your trust. I was wrong. Take care, old friend," he quietly advised. He wanted to turn around and hug his friend, hold on to the last, best thing in his life, but he wouldn't do it. Unnecessary dramatics would just muddle the already thick emotions. Better to just let it go. "Until we meet again, tovarich," he whispered, then left the room before his friend could respond. The door closed behind him.

Kuryakin quickly rushed across the room, but abruptly stopped just short of the door. Instead of following his friend he walked to the wall and sagged against the solid support of the grey metal. He closed his eyes and gently pounded his fists against the wall.

"Napoleon," he whispered forlornly.

He couldn't believe it was over. He was powerless to stop the greatest cataclysm of his existence. He had allowed the most important person in his life to walk away. His tremendous power and authority as the new leader of Section Two was sadly limited in the benefits he could contribute to this crisis. In moments his friend's memories, perhaps his mind, would be cleaned and swept, leaving him, at best mentally inhibited, at worst barren of so many recollections. There was nothing Illya could do to save either of them this time.

---

THE END OF PART ONE

PART TWO

---

Man From Uncle FanFiction