AFFAIR

Part Two

By

gm
 
 

  VIII

August 1976
 
 

"So you can tell Mr. Waverly the amnesia drug is very effective."

Illya studied the report from the lab chief, interested in the possibility of using the new version of a memory wiping drug on the bad guys. The prototype had been pretty effective years ago when used experimentally on Napoleon. [episode -- The No Where Affair] He pushed the thought aside. Every day he thought about his former partner, but it never got any easier.

When the expected contact had not happened, Illya feared something was wrong.  Then he started to investigate the detraining. To his horror, he discovered Waverly had ordered a complete memory wipe of his friend. Nothing would be left! Solo would remember nothing of his former life! He might not even remember who he was! The thought terrified Illya, who had visions of Solo wandering the streets of some inner city as a bum, sleeping on the sidewalks and oblivious to his identity.

Covertly searching the United States, then the world, Kuryakin launched an all out, desperate quest for his friend. So far to no avail. Now, as he read the report on the amnesia drug, he saw the experimental chemical was used on a detraining subject on the same date Napoleon was fired. He felt sick.

"Your test subject. Who was it?"

The technician looked at his notes. "I wasn't present. One of your Section Two chaps, I seem to recall. Must have been in a bloody great mess. Waverly himself ordered a massive dose of the amnesia drug along with some harsh hypnosis." The young man was a recent transplant from London. He had no clue of the machinations of politics in the NY office, nor that the person he was talking about was the Section Two chief's best friend. "Yes, here we go. Solo. The subject's name was Solo."

Illya found it hard to breathe.

"Amnesia drug successful. Before this Solo chap left the building he no longer had a memory. Don't know how much of a mind he had left."

Kuryakin dismissed the young man with a hoarse croak. Placing his head in his hands he pulled at his long hair in frustration. He had let his partner -- he would always -- ALWAYS  -- be his partner -- go alone to detraining. There they had destroyed the man he knew as Napoleon Solo. They had robbed that friend of everything important to a human being -- his identity, his past -- his friendship with a very foolish, very miserable  Russian.
 
 

 September 1976
 
 

The view from the dingy, dirty, rain-streaked window was bleak and depressing. Napoleon Solo's shabby apartment looked over a narrow alley in an urban neighborhood of Zurich. Solo sat on the sill, staring at the smoggy skyline as he scratched the stubble on his face. The grey sky promised an early snow storm by evening, he reasoned. He took a gulp of scotch from a spotted glass and automatically rubbed his sore shoulder and chest.

His left arm and hand were almost back to normal proficiency. A deep soreness lingered in the cold climate, but he was learning to live with it. Just as he had learned to live with many unpleasantries of life in the last few months. Since his night-flight escape from New York he had moved through Europe with surprising speed. He had touched base with former contacts, searching for some kind of job. Illya was right, his money had not lasted long. Truth be told, there was very little money anyway.

Not that his tastes were the same, either. He was a different man than the Napoleon Solo UNCLE agent. He had drifted into quasi-legal jobs where his considerable talents could be used effectively. The underworld community of Europe knew he had been ousted from UNCLE with a dishonorable discharge. Such sensational events were telegraphed quickly in the tunnel of intrigue. Offers arrived almost immediately and he more or less fell into this new and strange life. And there was almost nothing he DIDN'T remember of his former life at UNCLE. The detraining had seemed to work initially. On his flight to Europe he had been in a mental, zombie-like state where he had no identity, no past, no future. A few days later he had woken up, extremely ill, in a small hotel room in Brussels and remembered everything. Days later, when he recovered, he started his new profession on the really seedy side of espionage. And every day he missed the friend he had left behind in new York, the friend he would never see again. After his change in status, a former partner he never wanted to have see him.

The only profession left open to him was what he knew, so he dropped onto the other side of the light and became a mercenary. Living on the edge of society and the law was something uncharacteristic for him. He didn't like it, he didn't know why he continued. Perhaps the challenge, perhaps because it was the only craft he knew. For whatever reason, he was compelled to survive. All his adult life his skills as an espionage agent/burglar/killer had been honed and refined. His art brought generous monetary rewards, and required no commitment. He worked with no one and established no loyalties

There was no desire for entanglements. In fact, he studiously avoided any possibility of involvement. A few of his contacts mentioned Illya was trying to find him. Solo went deeper into hiding. This time there would be no coercion to break the rules. He didn't want to see Illya now. He had changed too much. They had to leave the past alone.

A knock at the door startled him back to the grimy reality of his Zurich flat. He was expecting a new employer. He cautiously opened the door. Joseph, an old informant Napoleon had met in Bonn, was at the door with a tall, aristocratic looking silver-haired man

"I have someone for you to meet, Herr Solo."

Solo stood aside and let them enter. The instinctive wariness never faded; his hand rested on the Walther under his left arm.

The silver-haired man was introduced as Gadoni. His manner was crisp and abrupt. He knew Solo, had watched the former agent these past months, and now offered a chance of real employment

"A way to recognize your true talents, Mr. Solo," he finished, his cultured voice only slightly traced with an -- Italian accent -- maybe? Napoleon was not the half of the partnership adept at languages

"What do you have in mind?" he cautiously asked

"I am empowered to offer you membership in an exclusive cartel, Mr. Solo. We deal in only one industry. Assassination."

For a moment Napoleon thought the room would spin out from under him. Some instinct testified that this assassination cartel was the organization he and Illya had pursued long months ago. Strange how life offered such complexities. He was being offered the perfect opportunity to infiltrate, and eventually crush, a viciously efficient and dangerous cabal. He would have to handle himself very carefully to pull this off. But, he had been the best once, certainly good enough to destroy a cult of assassins single-handedly.

Like his namesake he had a talent for extricating himself from tight spots, for denying limitations. Most of all, through an uncanny mixture of bravado, skill and luck he could win against the most uneven odds. Like Bonapart, he thrived on adventure, conquest, the test of his skill and mettle against the foe. And like the French Emperor, he could not give in after Waterloo, he had to pick up the gauntlet and continue the fight.

In his best show of mock wariness, Solo declined the offer. Gadoni was understandably surprised

"You are an excellent craftsman of murder, Mr. Solo," Gadoni complimented honestly

Solo's response was wry. "Thanks. But that was for UNCLE."

"A worthless organization that stripped you of pride and profession and left you destitute in the world."

Solo almost grimaced from the dramatizing. But he controlled his inner attitudes and put on a convincing front. "You know what happened?"

Gadoni inclined his head in an air of omnipotence. "I know enough. You are a skillful mercenary, Mr. Solo. Like a comet blazing across the heavens, one day you will burn out -- prison or death. Make your talents count in the only meaningful way -- in making your life a comfortable and profitable existence."

Solo was skeptical, clearly indicating his reluctance. True, he had fallen from grace in Camelot. True, his existence now was a mien and disenchanted life. Yet, he was unsure if he could become a made-to-order assassin.

"You have the talent, Mr. Solo. I know your past very well."

'Gee, what a compliment,' Napoleon mentally, snidely commented.

"Mercenaries are men who trade a rare talent for money. They are all men courting danger. Perhaps some elaborate form of suicide," Gadoni reasoned. "Why not live well, Mr. Solo. You have no more causes to follow. You have been evicted from the Round Table."

Napoleon almost flinched from the so-apt description of his present circumstances. He unconsciously glanced at the pewter knight, the only decoration on the old wooden dresser next to the bed. 'I see in the distance Camelot,' he though in a rare turn of poetry. 'My tarnished soul no longer dwells with the exalted honored, with the true in heart.'

Every espionage agent wears the automatic stigma of alienation -- from normal society, from normal ethics and standards, from typical perceptions and emotions. The things he had seen and felt during his years with UNCLE had established wildly polarized pinnacles of depths and heights. At last he had been pushed deeper into a shadowy existence -- farther than ever from the light. His armor now was tarnished grey, the indistinct shadow between light and darkness; between black and white, good and evil

This incredibly lucky chance to break the cartel was a personal sanctification. A chance to finish an assignment he and Illya had not had the opportunity to complete. He could accept this mission as a token of retribution, to pay back a wrong against UNCLE, against Waverly. He never did like incomplete missions anyway . . .

Of course, to successfully infiltrate any criminal organization, he had to be believed as a criminal. Not easy in an assassination squad. He would be forced to play the part for real. Was he willing to commit murder -- again -- in the name of good and right and whatever else he was fighting for? He knew he would have to pay the price. For his own self-esteem, his own reason to live, he had to do this final act of righteous justice. Somehow he was not surprised that the idealism and crusaders-code had never died. How could they? They were such an innate part of his character. These last months he had been disoriented and lost -- now, with a new cause he was again himself

A few more comments were traded, philosophy and money debated. Finally, Solo gave a grudging consent. A very pleased Gadoni gave the former agent a first-class ticket to Hong Kong, keys to a penthouse suite, and keys to a Mercedes. Instructions on his first assignment would await him in Hong Kong.

After Gadoni left Solo packed his few personal effects into a suitcase. He had abandoned his expensive suits in New York along with most of his belongings. He no longer traveled in that class. Perhaps he would have to return to that lifestyle now as part of his new façade.

There was no place on this dark, desperate mission for symbols of a fallen kingdom, an abandoned idealism. He twisted the iolite ring still on his little finger, debating if he should return the highly personal gift to the giver as well as the knight. No, he couldn't let go of everything. He'd worn this ring, the first Christmas present from Illya, since their first year of partnership, complete with homing device, to keep track of him. It was too special to give up, even if he had changed so much, even if it recalled a different world and a different life.

Napoleon tapped the Walther snugly in the shoulder holster. He pulled a piece of metal stock from his breast pocket. The metal pistol stock with the initial 'K'. This had become his new symbol; a standard of the man with no allegiance, the sign of broken dreams. He didn't know why he kept the chunk of metal. Perhaps for the same reason he kept the Walther. Some things could never be understood or defined, just accepted.

He picked up the bags, the package, and left Switzerland for the more temperate and pleasing environs of Hong Kong.
 
 

IX

Kuryakin pulled into the underground garage and parked the Jag in his slot as the security gates automatically closed shut behind him. Grabbing his dry cleaning and a bag of groceries, he juggled everything in his arms, keeping the keys in his hand. He didn't come home to this new apartment often. In the months he'd been here he had traveled a great deal. It was like coming back to a familiar hotel room, no special sentiment or feel attached to the place where he kept his belongings. One spare room was locked, partially filled with the meager belongings of another. The day after Solo's departure, Illya had gone to his friend's apartment, dismayed to find nothing had been taken; no personal items, no pictures, no clothing. Checking with the travel bureau section, he had learned Solo had made his flight -- but they would not tell him where -- and the former #11 of Section Two was gone. He had taken nothing with him but the briefcase he had carried out of UNCLE. Not liking mysteries, that's when Illya had started a covert, subtle search, starting with London, and stretching through Europe to the rest of the world. He wanted to know where Napoleon was and if he was all right.

After that, Illya had moved across town to a new location. That was what he wanted -- new, different, unfamiliar. A departure from the old, the memories that were too contained in his old neighborhood and flat. Much had changed in the past six months, more of an unraveling at the seems of his existence than any planned events. Like a string of dominoes, situations altered after Solo's flamboyant departure from UNCLE. Kuryakin avoided field work when possible. Mark Slate had requested and received transfer to the Tokyo office. April Dancer had been through three partners in four months and was now working on a liaison case with the MI6 in Munich, after which, Illya expected their relations with that organization would be strained for decades. McDowell and Bennett had been promoted to the London office with full honors.

As for Illya, as the new Section Two chief, he could write his own ticket for most assignments. When Waverly assigned him something specific, with a specific partner, he would fulfill his duty, of course. Left on his own, he would pick missions where he could work alone, or little tidbits of labor that could be done in the NYHQ labs. He made a point to steer clear of any permanent partners and Waverly seemed to sense this, or perhaps just didn't bother trying anymore. Illya's cooperation level with other agents was at an all time low -- even worse than when he had first signed on with UNCLE. In those early days he had been hardheaded, independent and used to working alone. Solo. As some kind of punishment, Waverly had given him a mentor who shared all those irritating qualities. He was, in fact, such a loner as to live up to the name of Solo. Waverly's strategy had proved more successful than anyone could have imagined. Even Waverly was surprised, pleased, then disappointed, in the ultimate results of the legendary partnership that changed their lives.

Every day he could, Kuryakin sifted through information from around the world, hoping to pick up clues on the whereabouts of his former partner. There had been no word from Napoleon these long months. He had expected none after the complete memory wipe. Worried about his friend, he wanted other trusted friends in the business to keep an eye on Solo. Wherever Robert McCall (CIA), John Steed(MI6), Oscar Goldman (OSI) or Brian Devlin (retired agent) ended up in various parts of the world, they were fulfilling their own business, as well as searching for Napoleon. Even McGarrett in Hawaii was alerted, but Illya was sure Solo would not return there -- or if he did he would not remember his connection with Steve and thus would not let McGarrett know he was there.

In the reception area, Illya greeted the night watchman Miller.

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin, you have a package." Miller held it up to the agent. "Don't worry, it doesn't look suspicious. Delivered by the mail man."

Miller understood the reclusive Mr. Kuryakin worked in some kind of security business and had assigned himself the task of screening mail. Illya thanked him and glanced at the small box. Postmarked Switzerland. Addressed in a very familiar, bold, sloppy style. Illya's hands shook, the dry cleaning slipping to the floor. Only Miller's quick action saved the bag of groceries from dropping.

"What is it, Mr. Kuryakin? Is it a bomb?"

"No," the Russian finally gasped. "No, no, thank you, Miller, everything is fine. I'm just surprised to get this from -- from Switzerland. It is something I -- I had given up on receiving. Since my move -- and -- and everything."

He gathered his things and rushed into the elevator, the helpful Miller guessing it was a box of expensive, imported chocolate. Illya slipped the box into his jacket pocket until he was in his apartment sitting down. For some time he studied everything about the box; the writing, the tape, the lack of a return address. It was from Napoleon, there was no doubt.

How did he know he know he had moved? What was so important to send after six months? Most importantly, how had Napoleon remembered him? It didn't matter. The great news was that Napoleon DID remember him and had retained enough natural investigative skill, or memory, to track Illya to new digs. There was no way to answer those questions without seeing what was inside.

Illya tore off the tape and opened the box. Protected in crumpled newspapers was the small pewter knight he had bought Napoleon at Disneyland many years before. Carefully examining the box, the papers, even the statue, he was disappointed there was no note. So, the statue itself was the message, and Illya depressingly thought he knew the motivation behind that. Napoleon HAD remembered part of his old life and no longer wanted to be associated with some of it. With Illya? With the chivalrous memories this knight represented? Napoleon obviously understood the loss of their old life, and now found himself in circumstances that no longer deserved his appointed role as knight-errant. Confused and depressed, Kuryakin placed the knight on his mantle, between the lead crystal sword-in-stone paperweight Napoleon had given him at the end of that Magic Kingdom affair, and the picture of the two of them at the Disneyland castle.

Those days in Camelot were behind them now, but obviously not forgotten by either of them. More motivated than ever, Illya determined he would find his partner. He would find out why Napoleon had sent back the knight, and why the former agent's detraining, thankfully, had not worked.
 
 

 ***

Determined as never before, Illya had managed to obtain a copy of Solo's closed file. He was appalled at the complete memory sweep ordered for detraining. They might as well have given Solo the full dose of amnesia drug the UNCLE labs had invented years before.

There was still an edge Illya had that no one else possessed. The old Christmas gift he had once given Napoleon was still working -- the ring with a hidden tracking device. If Kuryakin, or another agent friendly to his cause -- were close enough (within the same city for example) they would pick up the constant signal from the ring. All Illya had to do was issue tracking units to April and a few other friends and he could narrow down the search for his friend very quickly.
 

 November 1976
 
 

The moment Illya Kuryakin entered the room, he realized something serious was afoot. Waverly had taken to smoking a great deal of a particularly strong brand of tobacco whenever there was a crisis of great magnitude. Illya took a seat at the circular table and restrained from waving the smoke away from his face. Such an overt gesture would displease the Number One. Waverly already held an expression of extreme displeasure on the weary and wrinkled countenance. The Chief had aged a great deal the last few months, and Kuryakin worried about his health. He wondered if part of it was due to Solo's disgrace, but that would mean Waverly felt an emotional attachment about an agent, and that was just not the old man's style.

Waverly had been slated to retire a few months before, but had extended his tenure until the cartel business was concluded. Illya often got the feeling the old man was grooming him as a replacement. Gossip around HQ was rampant that he would be the successor. A few years ago he had failed a test to assure him that promotion and he had been glad to fail because he had refused to betray his friend. Now, with Napoleon gone, Kuryakin had little taste for leadership anyway. Fleetingly, he pondered the possibility of taking on the role of Section One Number One, just to manipulate Solo back into the organization. But with the hypnotic blocks and Solo's now compromised life away from UNCLE it would just not be possible. When Waverly left Illya would request a transfer to the labs and bury himself in chemicals and misery for the rest of his career.

A file folder cycled by as the table top gently turned. Illya took the folder and thumbed through the report. The Swiss assassination cartel was stronger than ever. It rankled the Chief of Section Two that Napoleon and he had never completed their assignment against the cartel. Months ago. . . . Illya caught a sigh before it escaped his throat. He could not get trapped in 'might-have-beens' now. It was late November, a beautiful winter in New York. Less than a year, but so long it seemed, since his life had changed so drastically

He still drove the jag convertible. Too flashy for his tastes, really, but he kept it out of sentimentality. Just as he had saved many of Solo's things and packed them in his new apartment. It kept some tiny fragment of hope alive; hope that someday his life might return to normal, that Solo might one day return. Kuryakin knew that was a vain, impossible hope, but it existed nonetheless. It was a better fantasy to encourage than his deepest fears about Napoleon's mental health. Detraining for someone at such a high level of power was probably risky, uncertain, even dangerous. The records were confidential, even Illya could not access Solo's files anymore. For the former agent's safety, for Illya's peace of mind, he needed to find him, he rationalized. Then what, he wondered? What would they say to each other after the strained farewell? It didn't matter. He just needed to find him.

The Swiss cartel had eliminated the last two UNCLE agents assigned to break the corporation. Kuryakin had not been involved in those missions. He had been out of New York only a few times in the last year, on those occasions tracking leads on his former partner, not on vital UNCLE business. Most of his interest in the thrill-seeking adventures of an agent had been buried under the demands of administration; buried by his own lack of interest. Without Solo's energetic, jet-set influence, field work had become dull.

"As you can see, the Swiss cartel is extremely dangerous. At the recent Summit Five it was agreed they could become as powerful as the late THRUSH if they are not stopped," Waverly briskly explained. "I am assigning you to lead the investigation, Mr. Kuryakin."

If they had been in London instead of after Landis in Toronto . . . . . well, he couldn't ponder those frustrations now. It was far too late. With a growing sense of satisfaction, however, Kuryakin found himself surprisingly eager for this new challenge, this opportunity. Fighting the cartel would be a kind of justification for the last few months. For the unfinished mission Solo and he had wanted to complete but were never given the chance.

Little of interest had occurred in the last few months. Only the pursuit of the elusive Solo proved a challenging task. The pewter statue of the knight remained the only contact from Napoleon; Illya had not expected anything at all, and even the returned statue was a positive move. Initially, it surprised Kuryakin that his friend remembered enough about UNCLE, and him, to return the knight. It saddened him to understand the implicit message, that Solo was considering himself fallen from grace and wanted no contact with Illya. Obviously the cagey Solo wanted to remain lost, but Illya had to find him and know why he returned the old present, why and how he remembered what he should not, and, mostly, how he was doing. Illya sensed it was because something, for the worse, had happened to his friend. He had to know what, and had to help if he could.

Napoleon was a master at the game and had covered his tracks well. Illya had enlisted the aid of April Dancer and his other friends as allies, but she was always a few steps behind Solo. When possible, they tried tracking Solo's homing device hidden in his ring, but so far, no trace of the former agent was to be found. In the last four months, he had widened the little band of conspirators to help. Disappointingly, he had learned that it was a very big world, and his small group of allies might never find Napoleon. Still, as the head of Section Two, he had a great deal o flexibility and power. One of the sweetest forms of revenge had been sending McDowell and Bennett back to London. He directly blamed them for everything that had happened to Solo, and hoped never to see them again in his life.

"You will start in Copenhagen, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Good," Illya agreed. That was the last place Devlin had tracked Napoleon. Only a week ago!

"Our Berlin office had a lead on one of the cartel assassins," Waverly was saying.

Illya was impressed. "That will be the first identity we've had."

"Yes," Waverly said. "This operative is linked to the assassination of General Motar in Libya two months ago --"

"Hmm," Illya commented caustically.

Waverly pierced him with a disapproving glance then continued. "He is also associated with Garerra's murder in Guatemala."

"The man should be awarded a medal," Illya pronounced. "Those despots were animals and --"

"Mr. Kuryakin, we are not here to judge political figures."

"Yes, sir."

Waverly covered a few details, then finished with a comment tinged with an odd tone of speculation. "The Summit Five leaders have chosen you for this mission for a special reason."

Illya was surprised. "Why is that, sir?"

Waverly pinpointed several details connected with the assassinations in Guatemala and Libya. There was a distinct, unmistakable pattern. "You should recognize it, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya studied the dossier again. Interpol narrowed down on a few specific traits and styles, methods and descriptions of the assassin. Kuryakin looked up in surprise.

"This distraction technique with the water truck --"

"Yes?"

"It was an exercise at Survival School." He referred to the UNCLE training center for future agents. The school was a survival test, both physical and psychological, to select the operatives who could conquer the challenges of 'basic training' and thus become worthy of the organization.

Waverly nodded. "Anything else?" he probed.

Illya warily glanced at the dossier again. "The jungle ambush that's not really an ambush, but a lure --"

"It should look like an imitation of one of your Chilean affairs, with Mr. Solo, back in '66. And the aborted assassination of General Westmoreland in Japan, observe the flat tire ploy and think back to a 1970 mission when you and Mr. Solo were in Brazil."

Illya did not like the tone, nor the direction of the case Waverly was building. He said nothing, allowing the chief to continue with more evidence. Slowly, he placed the file on the table. "You think the assassin is an UNCLE agent?"

"Former UNCLE agent," he stressed. "Mr. Kuryakin, the coincidences of these ploys are too much to overlook. We know the newest member of the assassination cartel, because the assassin is Mr. Solo."

"Impossible!" Illya hotly denied.

He pushed away from the table and stalked to the other side of the room. So incensed, so disturbed he didn't trust himself to be too close to Waverly or to speak to him. The wise Number One did not argue with words, but sent around another folder. When Kuryakin would not read the contents, Waverly related there were links to Solo with mercenaries suspected of dealing with the cartel. Solo was positively placed in the countries when the men were assassinated.

The evidence was countered by Kuryakin's passionate defense against vague suspicions and coincidence. He knew Napoleon was no assassin. Cornering his prey, Waverly challenged the Russian to back that belief with proof. No one knew Solo as well as Kuryakin. If anyone could track the former agent, it would be his former partner. Illya was ordered to find Solo and bring him in for questioning. If Solo could prove he did not assassinate the men --

"NO!" Illya snapped suddenly. "You're asking me to hunt my friend, who you have already condemned as guilty --"

"He is not the Napoleon Solo you once knew," Waverly suggested. "Something has gone wrong with the detraining procedure, Mr. Kuryakin. For the security of this organization, and the good of those we are sworn to protect, Mr. Solo must be brought in. He should not remember any exercises or strategies at all. He should remember nothing of his life here. And if you confront him, he should not remember you at all. You must treat him as an enemy agent who is extremely dangerous."

Kuryakin demanded an explanation of those statements, and Waverly admitted the extreme detraining procedure used on Solo at his dismissal. The Russian was again appalled that they had wiped the former agent's memory away, secretly pleased some of that memory was now returning. Waverly, however, dashed that hope by theorizing that the extreme measures used for such a complete 'wipe' seemed to have warped the former agent in a way that was not anticipated. Detraining on this level was still experimental. Most rogue agents, of such a high placement, were taken to 'relocation camps'. Illya shivered, knowing the hell-hole nicknamed Tartarus, was a very real place and he was thankful that Napoleon had not been sent there.

"The detraining. How much memory was it expected to eliminate?"

"Everything about UNCLE and his experiences here. It was necessary because of Mr. Solo's high rank. He will not -- or should not -- remember you. Unfortunately, according to our evidence, he remembers selective ploys, but none of the morals or ethics he once possessed. So we have no idea how his memory, or personality, were really affected. He will be a dangerous opponent, Mr. Kuryakin. Do not consider this assassin your friend. He is your enemy now."

Illya shook his head. "I can't believe that," he vehemently denied.

"To confront him would be suicidal, Mr. Kuryakin and I forbid it! I refuse to lose anyone else to Mr. Solo's gun!"

"Napoleon would never hurt me."

Illya believed that as surely as he trusted that the sun would rise in the morning. And despite what Waverly thought, he knew in his heart Solo had not become an assassin for hire. No matter what happened to his friend, Napoleon would never sink so low. Silently, Illya did agree that something adverse had happened for Napoleon to send back the statue, and he was going to find out what that was. He would also find out about these implications with the cartel, and how he could get his friend out of yet another mess.

"Mr. Solo is a wanted man, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly sharply returned. "It would be better for Solo if you were the one to track him and subdue him somehow without endangering yourself."

There was an ominous tone in the warning, and Kuryakin did not choose to explore the undercurrent of the message.

"Pursue him like a wild beast?"

"He is a rogue operative on the wrong side of the law. If you retain any regard for Mr. Solo, which you obviously still do, I advise you to find him, then alert other agents."

Illya walked to the window and leaned against the wall. He stared out at the bright, cloudless New York skyline. "You always advised us against 'regard'," Illya almost sneered

"And I hope your sentimentality for your former partner will not blind you," Waverly assured in a crisp tone. "You are both different men, Mr. Kuryakin. And you have an important job to complete."

There was a painful ache inside Kuryakin's heart. He recognized it as a mixture of betrayal; of emptiness, of aloneness. Emotions his partner had been feeling for months. No matter what paths and experiences Napoleon had traveled, there was still a link between them. Still, an indestructible bond stronger than loyalties and ethics. Although there had been no communications between them, Illya was sure that invisible, mutual thread of understanding and support still existed. He empathized with the loneliness Napoleon must have suffered.

'I could have handled it so much easier,' he was sure.

 He was used to the bitter aloneness, used to the pariah aloofness. Napoleon was the opposite; a social creature who needed a certain amount of acceptance and interaction with others. There was a temptation to take this assignment just so he could find Napoleon and join him on the other side of the world, the other side of society and legalities. No matter what they did it would be together. Wouldn't any price be worth the reunion of the partnership? At this moment he had never wanted anything quite so badly.

"If you do not go, other agents will be assigned," Waverly commented. "If you find him first there may be a chance to reason with him --"

"You've condemned him before you've heard his side of this. You're the one who dismissed him! I think you owe him a chance to explain this."

"If he agrees to turn himself in that would be best, of course." Waverly seemed to shrug. "I doubt that will happen. It is believed he is linked with the disappearance of the two London agents--"

"Napoleon would never harm an UNCLE agent! No matter what!" Illya countered angrily. He had pushed away from the wall and now leaned his knuckles on the large table. He confronted his superior with fire in his eyes. "Any more than he would hurt me!"

"Then you seem the ideal choice to bring him in," Waverly countered in a calmly. "May I remind you, Mr. Solo is a murderer. He changed once when he thought you were dead. He killed then for loyalty and sentiment. Perhaps, through detraining stresses, he has changed again into a killer, this time for profit."

Waverly wanted to corner him, Illya realized. Little did the Section One leader know Illya had been trying to track Napoleon for months. Now he would have the full resources of the organization behind him. As long as he found Napoleon first.

'A new angle on the fox and hound game, old friend,' he thought. He was not sure who was the fox or the hound. It really didn't matter. He would have to alert April and the others, at least vaguely, about the new wrinkle in the old game.

"Not Napoleon," he loyally maintained. "What will happen to him if I bring him in?"

"Judge him fairly, of course, Mr. Kuryakin. We are not the Spanish Inquisition here. His mental state, the detraining and so forth, will be taken into consideration, I assure you."

Illya was not satisfied. "And if he's found guilty?" Waverly hesitated. "Tartarus," he concluded from the silence. His chest tight with anger and anguish, he shook his head, unable to agree to the terrible choice before him, but unable to allow someone else the assignment to track down his partner. He could never betray his partner. But he could find his friend and get to the bottom of this terrible dilemma.

"This is partially my fault, Mr. Kuryakin, so I will be as lenient as I can with Mr. Solo."

Illya cleared away the dry catch in his throat. "What do you mean?"

"The other four Section One leaders thought you would crack first. Your psychological profiles have been questionable the last few years," he explained academically. "We've had our eyes on you two. But your usefulness outweighed the risks, so you two remained our most effective team."

Stunned, Illya leaned against the table. Long ago theories and suspicions came wisping into his mind like betraying tendrils of smoky truths. Before Toronto, Napoleon had suspected something was going on, some reason why they were pulled off the cartel assignment. It didn't all fit yet, but he knew it was all there, if he could just put it together.

Section One leaders -- around the world -- had been watching Napoleon and him for years. They were reckless, daring, and successful. Of course they were observed. But their foibles, their vulnerabilities and weaknesses had also been docketed. There truly were few secrets in the secret agent business and Illya felt claustrophobic with the new knowledge of betrayal and vulnerability. To them, it had been life and death and loyalty. To their superiors, it had been a giant chess game with agents as pawns.

"I must admit," Waverly continued, "I always suspected Mr. Solo would be the one to fall from grace somehow, although his eventual exit was even more dramatic than his usual flamboyant style." Almost sadly he shook his head. "Mr. Solo had the soul of outdated chivalry and wore his heroism like rusty armor, I'm afraid. You could survive this business, and life, without a friend, Mr. Kuryakin, because you have it in your nature to return to a solitary existence if necessary. Hence, your inclination toward isolation since Mr. Solo's departure."

Illya nearly sneered at the euphemism of 'departure', but let it pass. The other opinions being revealed were too staggering to focus on anything else. Their personalities and weaknesses had been dissected and split open like laboratory rats, and, as usual, they had performed against the grain. Even in the maze constructed around them, they had broken out and altered the game. It was the only ray of positive hope to come out of the dismal story. It was the only thread of hope he had to hang onto for the future.

"I suppose, Mr. Solo was destined for this in a way. Ultimately, he would have sacrificed himself at some time or another, but I suspected what that sacrifice would be. For you, Mr. Kuryakin."

The realization of what Napoleon had done months ago, coupled with what was happening now, sickened Illya. Yes, it had been for him, and, unfortunately, he had to agree with Waverly's assessment, that it was inside of Napoleon all along, just waiting to come out. He would have sacrificed his life if necessary; instead he sacrificed his career and way of life, for Illya. Somehow, Illya was going to pay back that sacrifice. Trudging beyond the new, incredible information, and the threats to his friend, there was still one absolute that he had risked his life for before, and would bet his life on now.

"Napoleon is not an assassin. I will prove it to you."

"There is only one way to know for certain, Mr. Kuryakin. You leave tonight for Copenhagen."
 
 
 

X

The climb up the old, creaky steps was a slow one. Napoleon Solo was tired. He rubbed his aching shoulder and forced himself up the last few steps to the second floor of the old boardinghouse in Munich. He shook the snow from his boots and removed his gloves to retrieve the key from his pocket. He hated the cold, hated staying in these dingy, shabby holes of refuge. He had the money to stay in a suite at the Hilton. But men on the run couldn't afford first line establishments

The cartel had paid him well. Two of the last three assignments had gone well. He felt guilty about the murders, but justified them because the men were, like Landis, like so many THRUSH opponents, men who deserved to be exterminated. It was pure justification. There had been a time when he would have never killed in cold blood unless directly order to do so. Times had changed -- he had changed. Solo opened the door and closed it shut with a quiet click. He was reaching for the light switch -- and froze. He could feel the presence of another person in the room. He slid his hand toward the Walther, although his brain already reasoned an assassin would have killed him already. His hand was on the pistol grip when he sniffed the faintest trace of -- Chanel No. 5. He instinctively smiled and relaxed his hand, his breath catching in his throat.

"April," he sighed in a whisper.

The single light across the small room snapped on. April Dancer sat on the bed. Her hair was a little longer than he remembered, a new style, but April looked as beautiful as ever

There was a wide grin on her face. "You're remarkable, Mr. Solo," she complimented. "How could you know it was me?"

"The way Chanel No. 5 mixes with your body scent. It's uniquely you." He made it sound so simple. It was the kind of talent he took for granted. A significant detail given his past lifestyle. He remained wary, still standing at the door.

"But you're not wearing High Karate anymore. Old Spice?"

"Easier to find in Europe."

"I'll have to get used to it, but it's nice."

His tone and demeanor had not thawed in their icy reserve. "How did you find me?"

"Oh, I have my resources too." Her eyes ran up and down his body. "You look so wonderful, Napoleon. It's so good to see you again." She took a step closer, studying him carefully. " I didn't intend for you to find me yet. I've been trying to find you --" she took a deep breath, with an obviously pleased assessment of him concluded. "I'm so glad to be with you -- to see you remember me."

The sincerity was obvious. The mark of a true friend, he thought. She was looking beyond the lean, hard, 'street' look he had acquired over the last year. She saw with eyes clouded by fond memories. It made him severely homesick. Like a stab through the heart, he was pierced by a melancholy tug for a past he had tried, but failed, to bury and divorce.

"Why did you come?" he asked harshly, trying to push away the sentimentality.

A shadow of disappointment crossed her expression. "I wanted to see you. And Illya has been lookin --"

"Illya's here?" he gasped, angry and unsettled.

April crossed the distance to stand next to him. "He's coming over from London. He'll be here by dawn."

For the first time in a long while Solo felt trapped. His back to the wall, he was confused and unsure of what he wanted, what he should do.

"Why?" he almost sighed

"He needs to see you."

"No."

"Please, Napoleon --"

"No!" he returned and pushed her aside.

"If you'll just talk to him." She followed him across the small room and put her arms around his waist

"April, don't!" He pushed her away rougher than intended. "Sorry, I don't want to hurt you, April, but I can't do this. I can't play this game anymore. Too much has changed."

She stepped back to stand close, without touching him, but near enough for him to take in her scent and feel her body heat. "What we felt for each other hasn't changed, Napoleon. I can feel it now," she whispered, placing her hands on his chest. "I still love you and I know you -- "

"No, I don't love you April, I have never loved you -- "

She put a hand over his mouth. "Don't lie to me. You better be careful, Mr. Solo. I know how to fight dirty," she said in a beguiling, suggestive tone. She hugged him, seductively leaving a trail of kisses across his face to his lips.

Giving in, he returned her kisses, her embrace, until they were both breathless. He couldn't repress a smile. "Sounds like fun," he responded automatically. It was so easy to fall back into old grooves under the right circumstances.

"You owe me a date, remember?" she continued, now sure she had his attention. "Terrible of you to stand me up for so long."

Solo put his arms around her, no longer wanting to retreat from this battlefield. But it was still fun to make a token protest. "I have to warn you. It's dangerous to stay here."

She leaned her head on his chest. "I'm a big girl, Napoleon. How dangerous could it be?"

He rested his chin on her head. He could smell the scent of her shampoo. Some kind of pleasant, flowery smell. It was indeed dangerous -- but for him. He was already lost, entrenched in the seductive, protective arms of someone he loved and trusted -- someone who returned those emotions. Used to living close to danger's edge, he accepted this perilous situation.

"At least Waverly can't give us a lecture now," he quietly said and smiled. "I'm not in Section Two any more."

A bit startled, April pulled her head away to look into Solo's face. "No, you're not," she agreed carefully. There was no bitterness or sarcasm in the tone. Perhaps Solo had put that ghost to rest and accepted the termination.

She was surprised and dismayed at the comment. The detraining should have erased details like Waverly's lectures on dating Section Two agents. Illya had hinted the detraining was quite sweeping and Solo might not remember any of his old friends at all. That was certainly not the case. At the very least, Napoleon should have forgotten about Section Two. And he shouldn't have remembered her scent of Chanel!

Solo's astute eyes registered her expression. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," she said, but her expression and tone belayed the phrase.

"Tell me," he prompted.

She shared her confusion about the deprogramming. He agreed there was a mystery, and related his experience of waking up days after his departure from UNCLE, in a modest Brussels hotel room, with all his memories of UNCLE intact. He stared into her eyes for a moment, surprised at his own frankness.

"I probably shouldn't have told you that. I'm a security risk, and I've put you in a very difficult position." He warily stepped away. "You're going to have to take me in, now, aren't you?"

The comment hurt her. "How can you think that?"

His voice was brittle and cold. "Because if our positions were reversed, I'd have to do the same to you."

"I'm not here to arrest you," she snapped back. "Illya's had me, and a few others trying to track you. He's worried about you --"

"Track me? How?"

"He's got --" she stopped and studied him. "I don't think I should tell you."

"Why? You're beginning to see it's not such a good idea to trust me anymore, huh, April?"

"Why would you say that? After what we've felt for each --"

"Those days are over, April. I'm a different person. I can't --"

She crossed to him and covered his mouth with her lips. He resisted momentarily, then gave in, then eagerly responded to the sensual kiss. It was too easy to remember the emotional and physical relationship they shared; made spicier and more exciting because of the danger. Finally, Solo pulled away and held her at arms length.

"Please, leave --"

April kissed him again. He pulled back.

"I'm not the white knight I used to be, love. The armor's tarnished now." She started to object and he put a finger to her lips. "I'm a killer now."

"I won't believe that, Napoleon. You could never--"

"I killed Landis! Since then I've killed -- "

"Stop excluding me!"

"You shouldn't have anything to do with me ever again. That goes for Illya, too. Tell him to stop trying to find me."

"Well I'm not going." Her expression turned from indignant to seductive. "At least not until morning," she vowed, smothering him with a kiss. She pulled down his coat, trapping his arms. "You owe me, Mister Solo, and I expect pay back tonight. With interest."

He held her close and hugged her as if she was his lifeline. "Maybe only selective memories are erased," he suggested. With a sly grin he whispered in her ear, "I still remember our first date after our mission in London."

She laughed. "So much for detraining," she sighed happily and hungrily kissed him. "What else do you remember?" she wondered and melted into a passionate kiss.
 
 

"April!"

The strident voice startled her to wakefulness. Even as her eyes shot open she knew something was wrong. It was the stern voice of Illya Kuryakin who called her from sleep. Her first glance was to the other side of the bed, not surprised to see it empty. She turned to face an irate senior agent.

"He's gone," Illya sighed heavily. He tried to keep the bitterness, the blame from his voice.

"I'm sorry, Illya." She sat up, hugging the thin blanket up to her naked shoulders. Her face was flushed in embarrassment.

Kuryakin took a quick, visual survey of the shabby room. It was so disheartening to know Napoleon had lived in such a hole. His friend was desperate, on the run. UNCLE agents throughout Europe were hunting the former agent. There was little refuge for a wanted man, except these back alleys and mean streets. There had been a time when he had shared those accommodations, those perilous times, with his partner. The digs had never seemed this grim -- only because even the grimiest jobs were easier when shared with a friend.

"I'm so sorry," April sighed again. "He slipped away so quietly . . . ."

The comment elicited a rueful grin from Illya. "A habit of Napoleon's."

April blushed again. "Not very professional of me, is it?"

Frustrated, but cooler, Kuryakin dug his hands into the pockets of his coat. Only a slight trace of irritation colored his tone. He was philosophical. "It's hard not to be overwhelmed by the inimitable Solo charm."

He sat on the end of the bed and questioned Agent Dancer. What was he like, how did he look, what had she learned from Solo? Kuryakin was surprised about the total failure of the detraining. Of course Solo should have never remembered anything about UNCLE, or Illya or April, but the fact that he did, unfortunately meant he could also remember training exercises from Survival School or early missions. But his complete memory of April and Illya meant that very little, if anything was erased from detraining. It substantiated Waverly's theory of the assassination evidence, but contradicted the theory of Solo's personality alteration. From April's obvious reactions to their friend, Solo had lost none of his charm or appeal. Something was wrong, and Illya was determined to find out what it was.

"Napoleon didn't want to see me, or you," April finished gently.

"I was afraid of that. There's an alert for his capture. Does he know UNCLE is after him?"

"He never mentioned it. Tell me what's going on, Illya."

The Russian gave her a brief explanation of UNCLE's view of the former agent's conduct since leaving the organization. He was depressed to hear Solo's own confession to Dancer. She didn't believe him, she insisted, but there was loyalty, not conviction, behind the words. When she understood she was now under orders to find and arrest their friend who was now considered a renegade assassin, she refused to perform any such action and driven by her own confusion and mixed loyalties, vowed to debate the order with Waverly. April cared too much for Solo to treat him like a criminal, she insisted, but Illya could read the doubt in her tone. Napoleon had changed, she admitted, but she could never believe him an assassin.

Kuryakin let her rant and was thoughtful for several moments. "He'll go to ground. We won't find him again -- he'll cover his tracks."

"I found him once --"

Illya shook his head. "Napoleon won't make the same mistakes again."

Kuryakin stood and tossed April her clothes. "I'll meet you in the hall," he instructed. "Don't be long. I might get frostbite."

He was almost to the door when April called him back. She held out her hand. "He left this." On her index finger was Solo's distinctive blue iolite/platinum ring. He must have guessed Illya had been tracking him via the ring. She removed it and handed it to the Russian.

"I think you should keep it."

Kuryakin weighted the ring in his hand, thinking back to that first Christmas as partners, when they had just completed a harrowing mission and Illya had realized the usefulness of a homing device permanently attached to his partner. {Fanfiction story -- The December Twenty-Fourth Affair} Rare iolite; in different lights and angles the gemstone appeared shades of grey-blue/violet/deep blue. Quixotic, varied, just like his new American partner had seemed those long years past. Rare, difficult to find, but in the right setting, priceless. The ring had been a useful way to keep track of his friend. Now Illya would have to be more clever and cagey. He was up against the best opponent in the world, and it wouldn't be easy. Illya was, however, confident. There was no one who knew Solo better, and Illya was highly motivated to find his partner.

"Illya," April called, sorting through her clothes "My communicator's gone."

Kuryakin's eyebrows rose up to his blond bangs. "Why would Napoleon want your communicator?" he wondered, thinking aloud. The answer, to him, was obvious, though he didn't share it with his colleague. They wouldn't have to find Napoleon. He would contact them, whenever he was ready. Kuryakin silently prayed it would be soon.
 
 

XI

December 1976
 
   

The anticipation of the climactic finish to his master plan tingled his nerves, sent shivers from his spine to the palms of his hands. The dull ache of his shoulder from the winter cold was insignificant to his anxieties of upcoming events

For months he'd been the valued member of the cartel. Trusted now because of three successful kills and one failure he had cleverly disguised as a police trap. He had been invited to the annual meet of board members. The cartel's version of Summit Five -- where the leaders of the various world sections meet in one place at one time. Napoleon had been retained in the cartel because of his skill. Also, because he probably seemed only a temporary employee. Every police and enforcement agency in the world was after him now. He was a high-profile target. So the cartel would only have to employ him for a short period of time.

'Days are numbered,' he thought wryly. He was determined to survive just to prove them wrong.

Solo could finally spring his long awaited trap! There was a real fear in the realization that his elaborate and deadly game was about to come to an end. The fear generated from the fact he would once again have to deal with Kuryakin.

He wondered how the year had changed his old friend. Would the trust, the caring concern still be there? Or perhaps Solo had pushed himself so far from the light not even Illya would want to see him again. Napoleon did not really believe that, but whisperings of doubt and mistrust were prevalent in his mind. He had seen so much of the dark side it was hard to keep believing that anyone was really a good guy anymore. Or maybe Illya was still very good.

He gazed out the window of his small Chelsea flat. The cheap bedsitter was dreary, but clean and better than many of the flops he had inhabited in the last year. Christmas decorations still hung from windows, but he was too bitter to care. In another day he would have to leave these digs and find another hiding place. A man on the run could not stay long in one place.

The one he was most worried about finding him was Illya. The sly Russian knew him so well. They had never played the spy-tag game -- the cat and mouse ploy where one partner challenges the other to a globe-wide game of hide-and-seek. It would have been fun; so evenly matched, it was hard to tell who would win. Now they were engaged in a serious battle. There was no more opportunity for games.

He felt cornered. Solo had escaped Paris by the skin of his teeth last week. His assignment to kill Westmoreland had to be botched -- the man was too good to kill. The failure had been costly, though and he had nearly been nabbed, and had fled to London in the nick of time.

There were times when he wondered why he kept running, kept fighting to stay alive. He hated his life; the people he worked for, sometimes hated himself for what he had become. In the end he pulled himself from the moroseness and accepted the unpleasant reality: A spy's life was an empty existence. There was only surviving the game until the end. Never get close, never lose your objectivity, never confuse your job with morality or ideologies.

Napoleon had to force himself to believe the rhetoric, yet deep down knew it was untrue. He was not a robot-killing machine. He was a person with Human failings, but Human feelings and motivations. Most of all, those feelings and failings and motivation would all be disoriented when he saw his former partner again. Illya would convince him there was still meaning in the world, still reasons to fight for justice and right. For some reason Kuryakin had always had that effect on him. Whenever his cynicism and faith waned, Kuryakin would say or do something to put him back on track. Now it was time to face himself, face and excise the demons.

'Time for this spy to come in from the netherworld cold,' he thought to himself. 'If you thought it was tough facing the threats of THRUSH, INTERPOL, MI6 and CIA, Solo,' he silently reasoned, 'it's nothing compared to Kuryakin.'

Out of instinct Solo pulled the Walther stock plate from his breast pocket and rubbed the silver 'K' with his thumb. With his left hand he stiffly pulled a communicator from his jacket. Time to call for help, he determined.
 
 

XII

Illya Kuryakin sat on a plush, comfortable couch and stared at the large map of Europe on the opposite wall. The London office was comfortably furnished, well accommodated. Illya had been treated like a visiting dignitary with no shortage of assistants and gratuities. A hot pot of strong tea was within arms reach. Breakfast plates of biscuits and muffins with jams were on a nearby table. He had everything imaginable, but the one thing he really wanted.

He refilled a teacup and again focused on the map. Somewhere in Europe there was one former UNCLE agent. Illya had to find him soon -- first. With Solo suspected of another foiled assassination attempt on General Westmoreland, all agencies were searching for Napoleon. Former allies in the secret games were forced to track the 'rogue' agent.

Only the loyal few agents who remained Napoleon's friends were on his side. Their meager talents were, however, insignificant compared to the rest of the espionage community. Illya was afraid of what would happen to his friend if another agency, or even others in UNCLE, found Solo first. Illya could no longer count on the support of April Dancer. She had resigned over the whole fiasco of Solo's manhunt. She could not deny his own admission of murder (and Illya had conveniently failed to mention that little tryst and information to Waverly). Yet Dancer could not actively participate in tracking her former lover. There was no room for compromised principles in the organization, and upon mutual agreement between Waverly and she, Dancer had parted with the organization. In nervous irritation he twisted the blue iolite ring he now wore, an unconscious imitation to his partner's habit. He WOULD find Napoleon first, he had to. They had been so close two nights ago in Chelsea, but he and McCall had lost the trail at the underground tube.

The intercom buzzed and Kuryakin stepped to the desk.

"Yes," he answered

"A call for you on channel S," the communications girl informed.

The cup almost slipped from his hand. Hot liquid spilled over his fingers. He cleared his throat surprised he had a voice left.

"What channel?" he asked, forcing his tone to be calm and normal. Could he have heard correctly?

"Channel S, Mr. Kuryakin. Very unusual, we've never received on that band before. Is there something wrong?"

Illya took a quick deep breath. "No -- no. This is a priority security channel. It must be for my ears only," he ordered. It was risky to accept it at all, but he had no choice.

"Yes, sir. I'll put it through now."

"Sir Lancelot to Sir Galahad," a deep, familiar voice spoke in a crisp tone. "Study in Scarlet. Reply."

Kuryakin's mind instinctively clicked into an automatic response to the code. "Galahad accepts the challenge."

The channel went dead.

Kuryakin released a breath that had been suspended in his lungs, then checked his watch. Study in Scarlett. The first Sherlock Holmes story and an old code for London; morning meeting, Baker Street, first phone box near 221B. In that legendary meeting place of old partners, he would finally see Napoleon again. He felt a bit cheated that Solo didn't sustain the communication, though he understood it would have been too much of a risk. Even a secure channel could not be trusted -- not with Napoleon's life.

Illya realized April had been right about the detraining. It hadn't worked. Their private code was perfectly intact. And he remembered channel S, the signal that it was an extreme emergency and to be kept secret. Kuryakin glanced at his watch again, finding it difficult to contain his tension, elation and excitement. They were living in desperate times, but in a very short while part of his cracked and shifting world would be replaced. There truly would be an end to the long and wining road they had traveled.
 
 

The empty telephone box on Baker Street was a minor miracle. The miracle engineered by an out of order sign. Knowing the sign was a plant, Kuryakin stepped into the booth. He wondered if he would be contacted by phone or by communicator. He would guess the phone. It would have been already checked and cleared, safer than the risky communicator.

Solo waited in the kiosk across the busy street. When he first spotted Kuryakin he had nearly shied away from the task. Almost. It was too good to see his friend again. The Russian hadn't changed a bit. Still the same trench coat, the same hair cut -- what an incredible experience to see him again!

His heart was pounding like a trip-hammer. He could hardly restrain himself from calling before Illya reached the kiosk. Solo forced himself to wait; to temper his excitement. After all, Illya may not welcome him with open arms. Too many bad experiences had passed in these long months for things to ever be the same. How could he kid himself? How could the harsh realities be so quickly buried under the delight of seeing his old friend again?

The coins were slipped in, the number dialed before he could talk himself out of this.

The phone rang. Kuryakin almost smiled as he answered. "Yes."

Illya's calm response was edged with caution. Solo hesitated. Once he started down this path there could be no return. On one hand, Illya had no reason to trust him, no reason to honor their friendship. Napoleon was the one who had broken the faith and was a murderer, an assassin. If Illya discounted all that, as Solo hoped, then Kuryakin would never allow a retreat after coming this far. After Solo's first word there would be no avenue for escape, one way or the other. As he had so many times before, he blindly placed his future, his life, into the hands of his only real friend.

"Hello, Galahad," he finally said in a low, wary response. He could hear the uncertainty, the tremor in his tone. How would Illya respond?

"Hello, Lancelot," Kuryakin said and grinned. "It's good to hear you again, my friend."

Napoleon sighed with relief. "Have you joined the quest for the Grail?" he continued, knowing the wisdom of finishing the code before he let himself trespass too deeply into this territory.

"No," Illya answered. "I alone am on the quest for Excalibur." The 'all-clear' signal was given. An acknowledgment that it was safe to continue. "So you still remember the codes. The detraining didn't work, did it, Napoleon?"

"No. You better look into that, Illya," Solo wryly suggested. He took a deep breath and released it very slowly. He had anticipated a reaction to seeing Illya again, but apparently was not prepared for the homesickness that was so poignantly intense. "It's so good to see you again," he quietly commented without thinking

Kuryakin instantly picked up on the slip. "You can see me? Where are you, Napoleon?"

"Oh no." 'Damn, I'm careless these days,' he silently chided. "We don't have much time to talk, Illya. And there's a lot to tell."

"Napoleon --"

"Pay attention, now. Some of this won't be easy to understand. I'm not even sure if I understand it."

"It would be easier if we were face to face," Kuryakin suggested persuasively.

Solo was adamant. "Absolutely not! It's too dangerous."

During the conversation Illya was scanning the area, searching for his friend's vantage point. Solo silently debated if he should leave before he was discovered. No, there was no winning against the Russian when he was so determined.

"And stop looking -- Damn."

Too late. Illya had zeroed in with unerring accuracy. It was so strange. Two best friends who had not seen each other in months -- now stood across the street, staring at each other -- so close, yet worlds apart.

Solo gave up the pretext and hung up the receiver, never losing eye contact with Kuryakin.

"I'm coming over," Illya hoarsely revealed. It took a moment to sink in that Solo had already hung up. Slightly embarrassed, Illya slammed the receiver down. As if transfixed, he stood there and stared at the stranger across the street who had once been -- still was -- his best and only close friend.

Even from this distance he could tell Solo had changed a great deal. The little over twelve months had aged the former agent five years. There were traces of grey in the thick, dark hair that was now longish and a bit shaggy; beard stubble left a dark shadow on a lean, drawn jawline. The clothes were along the worn, workman style. Appearances so very different from the natty, Savile Row clothes Solo prided himself about -- famous for his neatness and fashion. The greatest change was in the face. Even from here Illya detected lines of stress from a harsh existence. There seemed to be a hard, unrelenting quality to the eyes. Kuryakin pushed aside the speculation, eager to meet with his friend again. He hurried from the box. Within a few seconds he had adroitly dodged the traffic and bounded onto the sidewalk.

Solo was leaning against the kiosk, hands in the pockets of a corduroy jacket. Illya came to a stop several feet away, not sure what the response should be, what Napoleon's response would be. Solo moved closer, expression tight, but the eyes confused. Then in an instant he closed the gap and threw his arms around his friend. Feeling himself shaking, Illya returned the tight embrace, like he was home for the first time in a year.

"You still don't listen to a thing I say," pulling back, Napoleon chided as he shook his head. There was a hint of humor in his tone, heavily shaded by thick sentiment.

"Of course not," Kuryakin confirmed easily. "Things haven't changed that much."

"You are still incurably stubborn," was the counter accusation. It was tempered by an affectionate grin.

Kuryakin released his grip on Solo arms and thrust his hands into his coat pockets. "And you would only contact me if you were in trouble AGAIN. As usual."

A hearty laugh escaped Solo, a reaction that surprised him. It seemed so long ago he had any reason to laugh. It was a delightful feeling, attributed to the instant return of a camaraderie that was second nature for them. He could have stood there for hours, soaking in the wonderful sense of renewed friendship. However, a subconscious wariness brought his thoughts to more immediate matters.

"We need to get off the street, Illya."

"Lead the way."
 
 

XIII

The pub was smoky, crowded and noisy. They bought pints of bitters and gravitated to the rear of the large room, just to the side of the bar. The small table afforded them a view of the front entrance and an easy exit at the back door. For a few moments they sipped their ale in silence.

"You look just the same," Solo commented with a subdued kindness. "Exactly the same."

Kuryakin's expression was perplexed, as if surprised by Napoleon's odd mood. "You're thinner," he noted neutrally. As if his natural blunt honesty was at war with his sensitivity toward his friend.

"All the exercise I get." He held up his glass and Illya clinked his to it in a toast. "All the running keeps me in shape." There was a cynical bite to the comment.

Kuryakin strove to steer the conversation back to an easy level. "Can't afford a barber?" he teased, and leaned forward in his chair to tug at the long hair at the back of Solo's neck. "Or are you trying to compete?"

Solo shook his head and smiled depreciatingly. "I've changed. Obviously." He took several long drinks of the brew. "But not that much."

"Yes," Illya agreed seriously. From the moment he had seen his friend, Illya had observed and studied the alterations. Already he had learned so much in a few minutes. Too much that he didn't like. "There are no sharp edges anymore."

A quizzical expression wrinkled Solo's brow. "What?"

"The buoyant highs," he reminded cryptically. "The acid sarcasm. The bounding enthusiasm." His voice was almost regretful. "As if the highs and lows have been filed away."

"Worn away," Napoleon corrected.

Kuryakin nodded noncommittally. "And so has your taste in clothes." He fingered the corduroy jacket. "As soon as we get back to New York you are going to see Irving and Ira. They will be appalled, Napoleon. You were their favorite customer."

"How are they?"

"Insane without your flattery. They keep pestering me to quit my unstable business and come in with them. 'The world will not always need spies, Mr. Kuryakin,' they say, 'but the world will always need clothes!' "

Solo laughed and Kuryakin paused, appreciating such a simple, shared moment that they had been robbed of for too long.

"Now that's something I'd love to see," Solo admitted. "You in the fashion business!"

Illya pretended to be miffed. "Laugh if you must, Mr. Solo, but I do have an eye for color, Irving says. He wants me to find you and bring you back so you can be a buyer."

The laugher was uncontrolled at that. After a few moments Napoleon regained his breath and admitted that was the most creative job offer he had received in a long time.

"Letting you into the fashion business would be like releasing the fox in the henhouse," Kuryakin maintained with a twinkle in his eye, "but they refuse to listen to reason."

"Thank them for me and tell them I'll keep it in mind."

"How's the shoulder?"

Solo held his left hand in front of him. The fingers were steady. "It works. But I can feel when the temperature drops."

He took another drink. There was no sense of urgency now. It was a false sense of security, yet he was willing to sustain the myth of safety. For a frozen period of time they were somehow removed from the danger and desperation of their world. Too easily Napoleon had fallen back into the world cushioned by their friendship. A created environment where no on else existed, nothing else mattered. At least for these few stolen moments.

"I guess we should get down to business," he sighed after a while.

Kuryakin shrugged. "There is all the time in the world."

Solo silently raised his brows in a question.

"I am here to protect you," Illya explained

A giggle sputtered from the dark-haired man and the dark ale splashed into the glass. "Then I am really in trouble."

"No, just drunk," Kuryakin corrected and made an act of taking possession of the ale. "Now let us finish these important matters then we will go home."

"What home is that?" Napoleon wondered seriously.

"UNCLE."

Solo shook his head. "My shield is much too tarnished, my friend. In the words of the novelist, I cannot go home again. I've done to much of the Devil's work."

A far away expression came into his eyes and he focused on a point outside the dirty window at the front of the pub. He explained his recruitment into the assassination cartel. There was no interruption or comment from the fascinated Russian as Solo outlined his several successful killings, his two bungled failures when he did not want to kill his target. There was no attempt to judge from Kuryakin, only silent support during the entire story.

No excuses were offered. Napoleon tried to keep the guilt and self-accusation from his tone, but slight traces of condemnation occasionally slipped past his control. Toward the end of his notorious career he had left deliberate clues for Kuryakin to follow. Now he wondered if it was a message, or some deep psychological attempt to be caught by his former partner. He still didn't have the answers for probing questions like those.

There were still vivid hauntings from the killings. Part of his mind accepted the murders as professional losses; he had chalked up a long body count in his years in intelligence. Part of his conscience could never forgive himself. Except for Landis. Strangely, he maintained an unrepentant attitude toward the scientist's murder. Self preservation? He wasn't sure. Relating Gadoni's image of a burning comet -- the living on the edge begging for death, he thought he had finally slipped into that mold.

"I'm one of the bad guys now."

Kuryakin adamantly shook his head in firm denial. "Never! You will never be like that, Napoleon," he assured.

His silence had been one of contemplative analysis. The nonjudgmental friend listening to a confession. A concerned, involved observer who heard the story of a sadly disrupted life, and hoped to be able to piece that important life back together.

"You were never, could never be a killing machine," Kuryakin insisted. "Your feelings against assassinations substantiate that." He leaned forward and stared into his friend's eyes with intent blue probes of understanding and compassion. "That you called me here to meet you proves you are no killer. Not earlier in New York. Not in Guatemala! April didn't believe you, either."

"You are both too loyal."

"She more than I, apparently. She resigned over this."

Solo shook his head sadly. "Damn, why did she do that?"

Dancer's resignation had immediately followed the Munich meet. No one could blame her for the bitterness she felt at the organization. In the last half year Dancer, Solo and he had been disillusion by so much of what had happened. There were also personal reasons; private conflicts and tensions that could not be resolved.

Illya speculated Napoleon and April had broken the rules too often, allowed their emotions to become too close to be untangled again. Perhaps there had been one-too-many near-death encounters for someone she deeply cared about. Kuryakin could appreciate the reasons for her departure. There were times when he wondered if the outside world could offer a better, more simplified life.

"Love?" Illya guessed.

"I hope not. I never wanted that, Illya."

"I know. None of us wishes the emotional vulnerabilities we have, they sneak up on us and take us unawares."

With a sad nod Napoleon agreed. He regretted the waste of a good agent and the loss of a good friend. Reluctantly, however, he admitted she was better off out of the nasty business that could have turned them all against each other. All but Illya, he amended with a sad smile. The Russian gave a nod of thanks and understanding. Some loyalties were worth the sacrifice of any rules, he maintained.

Solo was the first to break eye contact. His cheeks actually tinged with a blush. "Loyal to a fault," he commented gently, his voice deeper than usual.

"Only to my friend who has always deserved it," Kuryakin assured sincerely.

Napoleon looked back, determined to meet his friend's honest and supportive eyes. "What basis can there be for our friendship now? I've turned against everything you and I once fought for, once believed in. If not betrayed in spirit, certainly betrayed in acts."

It was the closest he could approach to asking if the friendship was still intact. Napoleon could guess, wanted to believe it was still as strong as ever. However, he was desperate enough to bluntly ask -- desperate enough to accept the truthful answer, whatever that would be.

Illya's response was simple, as if it was something so obvious it hardly needed to be mentioned. "If you really thought anything had changed between us, Napoleon, you would have never called me. If I thought things had changed, I would have never come."

A slow smile spread on Solo's lips. He nodded acceptance. "It is so good to be with you again." He stopped staring at his friend and released a sigh. "Well, I have quite a tale to tell, my friend. Let's go somewhere more private. I have a flat in back of here."

They went through the back door, down a small mews to an old Victorian row of flats, Through another mews and in a back door, Solo lead the way up a narrow, dark stairway to a room at the back of the house on the third floor. The bedsitter was small; one window, a foldaway bed, a desk and chair. Solo pulled the chair to the window so he could keep an eye on the street, Kuryakin flopped down on the cot.

"Now, tell me how we are about to destroy the cartel," Kuryakin enthusiastically urged, and leaned back against the wall, his feet propped on the bed.

Napoleon explained his undercover work had finally paid off. In three days there would be a huge meeting of all members of the cartel -- even with the controlling board members -- similar to an UNCLE Summit Five when the five leaders of the world sections gathered. Solo would need back up for an operation of this size. Solo's considerable talents and skills alone, however, would not be enough.

They discussed the details, planning a mission as they had so often done in the past. It felt like old times as they divided duties and debated the merits of certain methods.

"The estate is a huge place in a little valley in Yorkshire," Solo explained.

He rolled out several maps he had drawn of the grounds and the defensive perimeters. The valley was isolated and if there was a lot of air activity or ground troops, no one would notice. At this time of year the whole countryside was covered with snow. The security system was linked to a master control unit. Air and ground defenses could be terminated if the control board was destroyed. That would be Solo's mission.

"Must you return? It will be very dangerous," Kuryakin warned, concerned.

"That is my job," Napoleon retorted wryly. "Don't be a mother hen, Illya. Besides, I still don't play the percentages."

"I do. I am only trying to watch out for you worthless scalp," he returned quickly.

"I'm the inside man. The plan won't work without me, as usual." Indistinguishable mutterings uttered from Kuryakin's mouth. Solo ignored the indecipherable comments. "Strange," he said in an odd tone. "Ironic, but this is just the kind of thing Waverly would have loved."

"What do you mean?"

"The deep mole inside the cartel." Napoleon looked at the Russian. "Remember, just before we went to Toronto. We thought there might be some kind of conspiracy within UNCLE to protect the cartel?"

"YOU thought."

Solo cleared his throat, hesitant and uncertain. "What does Waverly think about me working with you again? Does he think I might want to come in from the cold?"

Kuryakin was aghast. "I am still capable of keeping a secret, Mr. Solo --"

"All right, don't be so touchy, I didn't think you told Waverly. I only wondered. Won't the Old Man be surprised?"

"Yes," Illya agreed. "He thinks you are an unrepentant kill -- " he instantly broke off the teasing banter. "I didn't mean --"

"To accuse me of being a killer? I am, Illya --"

Kuryakin waved away the objections. "We shall concoct some brilliant scheme, as usual. Too bad you can't be there to see his face when I tell him the wonderful news that you and I are working together again."

Solo grinned at the plot. "And he thought he had gotten rid of us."

"We are like bad dream returning."

"Recurring nightmares," Napoleon automatically corrected. He was momentarily contemplative. "Well, just down to the two of us again to save the world," his tone was almost sarcastic.

"Situation normal," Illya commented. "Waverly will also be surprised to see you are back."

"Back?"

"Returned. To UNCLE." From the uncomfortable expression on his friend's face, Kuryakin froze.

"No," Solo responded instantly

For over a year he had trained himself not to think of a future. The portal to UNCLE was forever sealed to him. There could be no return for this Prodigal Son. Too much blood was on his hands.

"We can get you back," Illya said with a defiance in his voice.

So many seemingly impossible tasks had been surmounted by their formidable partnership. They broke all kinds of rules; all kinds of traditions, all kinds of histories. Could they reinstate a fallen knight -- restore a broken dream? The promise, the assurance was in the Russian's sober eyes. Was that faith enough? Napoleon wanted to believe it. Once he had thought enough faith and determination could accomplish anything. Now he wasn't sure.

Nettled, Kuryakin's scowl narrowed on his companion. "You threw away your life for me, Napoleon." Solo started to object, but Illya interrupted him. " 'This one's for Illya,' you said when you killed Landis." Solo winced and turned away. Kuryakin gripped his shoulder. "Win your life back now. For me, this time, my friend, choose life, not death."

Shaken, Solo gave a silent nod. He could not deny his friend such a fervent request. "First, the cartel," he reminded unsteadily.

Then they set their visions to more practical matters. It was a good excuse to get the focus away from the touchy subject of UNCLE. Napoleon had accepted this life, accepted that there would never be a return trip to the hallowed halls of the enforcement agency. He couldn't go through all that again with Illya, not yet. There were too many unresolved emotions swirling around both of them for the subject to be tackled now. It was agreed Solo would retain the communicator and signal Kuryakin and the UNCLE troops to converge on the estate. Contacting Solo would be far too dangerous for the infiltrator.

There was nothing left to discuss, no detail left to examine. Napoleon reluctantly mentioned the meeting must be concluded. Out of habit he moved back to the window and stiffened with renewed tension. The past -- few hours -- had it been that long? -- he had relaxed his guard. Almost to his peril. He motioned Kuryakin to join him. Solo pointed to a man standing at a corner a half block away.

"Bennett!" Illya cursed viciously. "I was sure I wasn't followed. Where did he come from!"

Napoleon shrugged. "There are spies behind every bush, my friend. We were spotted somewhere along the way."

In a few hasty motions Solo tossed a few clothes into a duffel bag. "There's a back door. Can you --"

"Provide a distraction?" Kuryakin finished with delight. "I haven't lost my touch." In a quick motion he grabbed the American's wrist and placed an object in the captured hand. The iolite ring. "In case you get lost. It has a new and improved homing device."

Napoleon smiled as he slipped it on his finger. "Does this mean we're going steady again?"

Kuryakin ignored the flippancy. "Don't leave it behind again, Indian giver."

"Promise."

Impulsively Solo wrapped his arms around his friend. The last year had been a hell for him. He had never truly perceived his loneliness, his alienation, until now. Until he was confronted with what he had lost. After this moment, he may never see Illya again. So much could happen. And IF everything worked out, would he be able to leave it all behind again? Today they had worked together as if nothing had changed. A dream he had hoped for but never expected. In three days they would once more be a team. Really in the field, really fighting for all those nebulous causes that he once believed in.

"Whatever happens it will be worth the sacrifice, Illya. Remember that," he quietly said. He finally pulled away, still holding Kuryakin's shoulders at arm's length.

"Don't be fatalistic," Illya chided seriously. "It's bad luck."

"All right," he agreed with a grin.

"And be careful. Don't take the usual reckless risks."

"Da, da," Solo nodded in amusement.

"You don't have to prove anything to me!" Illya scowled, fully aware his comments were not taken seriously by his friend. "I have just gotten used to the idea of a partner again," he explained defensively. "Promise to watch out for yourself."

The American affectionately ruffled the blond hair. "Partner, huh?" He winked, as he released his grip, some of the old cockiness returning with an ease natural to the former agent. "I'll be careful if you will. We're going up against the best killers in the world."

Kuryakin shrugged. "Then nothing has changed. Us against the world."

Solo backed to the door and gave a salute. It was too good, too right, doing all this again. As he had feared, those old feelings reawakened old sentiments. He wanted nothing more than to be back where he no longer belonged, to be in the partnership that had been his life. Mingled along with those bittersweet desires was a fatalistic premonition that it could never be the same again, in fact, things would probably be worse. The world was closing in on him and he felt as if he was being pushed to the edge of a cliff. There was very little room left on the crumbling ledge, and chances were good he would plunge over before he would see his friend again. The desperate lifestyle culminated in a moment of overwhelming despair.

"Goodbye, Illya," he quietly bid.

The Russian paled, seeming to understand and feel the emotions from across the room. "This is not goodbye." Not even the last time in New York when Solo had been convinced he would lose his memory of Illya, had he said goodbye. This was too fatalistic for the superstitious Russian. "I will not let this be the end, Napoleon. Believe that. Promise you will come back."

"For you, my friend, I promise." Solo nodded, then he slipped out, quietly closing the door behind him.
 
 

XIV

Successfully diverting the agents away from Solo, Kuryakin returned to London HQ and put in an immediate call to Waverly in New York. Mobilizing the manpower needed to raid the Yorkshire estate would require permission from the very top. As soon as a visual link with Waverly was established, Kuryakin explained his meeting with Solo and the plan they had devised to collapse the cartel. Waverly instantly agreed to every measure. The final comment from the Chief was the odd opinion that he knew Mr. Solo would come through.

Illya Kuryakin was confused. All his instinctive barriers snapped up. "What do you mean, sir?" he warily asked

"You haven't realized the long-term mission, Mr. Kuryakin? Your convoluted mind is usually on top of plots of this nature."

"No, sir, I don't know what's going on. Please enlighten me."

In the most succinct and unembellished terms Waverly revealed that over a year ago a diabolical plot had been set in motion that was just now coming to fruition. At the Summit Five in Australia, where Solo had been involved with security, the Swiss cartel had been the main topic of concern. The five UNCLE leaders agreed the cartel had the possibility of becoming a threat even greater than THRUSH. At any cost the organization must be crushed. The simplest answer was an undercover agent. It would have to be a top agent inside, so the man must first be on the outside of UNCLE. So far out in the cold, the operative would be recruited by the cartel. It would have to be an agent worthy of the assassin group, one who could be believably framed.

Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin and Helmut Riecher had been the prime candidates. The five leaders could not decide between them. Scenarios had been set up, traps set, and the agents were pushed emotionally, physically and professionally, to see who would fall into the pit first. Disappointedly, the first cracks appeared in Solo during a concocted test {fanfiction: Game Piece Affair}. Then came the incident of the accidental shooting in France, which had emotionally affected Solo with fear of losing Kuryakin. The weak point for Napoleon became obvious and Waverly built the frame around the Section Two Number One operative.

Pressured about the cartel, squeezed and secretly drugged by McDowell and Bennett, Solo had predictably folded. When Kuryakin's disappearance was engineered, the downfall was more spectacular and extreme than anyone had anticipated. Kuryakin was drugged and hidden in a safehouse until Solo killed Landis, then was 'recovered' by Bennett and McDowell only hours later.

According to Solo's personality profile, the ideal way to push Solo to impulsive, destructive behavior, was if something drastic happened to Kuryakin. The inverse being true when Kuryakin shot him -- the American agent doing everything in his power to keep the partnership intact when it seemed doomed to dissolution.

The framework of the plot was already established by Solo's nervousness about the psyche exam and the imminent split of the partnership, or his mandatory retirement from Section Two. The drugs and stress, and subliminal planted suspicions administered during the psyche exam, pushed him over the edge that he had brought himself to. He was easily convinced that Landis had killed Kuryakin and that pushed Napoleon over the edge. Landis' defection had been the ultimate dishonor Solo could not live with and thus, the agent became a pawn in a much larger game. Murdering Landis was a violent surprise, but had fit the scenario perfectly.

The psychological ploy to manipulate Solo had worked all too well. Far more effective than the five leaders had foreseen. Solo's murder of Landis warranted instant dismissal. During the mandatory detraining, Solo was conditioned in subtle ways; to find the right contacts, to slide away from standard ethics, to finally infiltrate and destroy the cartel.

Only a fraction of the conditioning worked. Solo was far too independent, far too humanitarian and moral to become a good assassin. At the time of the programming Solo was living on the emotional threshold of reason and self-destruction. Once on his own, the elaborate plan had almost backfired because Solo was too good at eluding UNCLE traces. To make the charade look good, and pressure him into quick results, UNCLE had to hunt the rogue former agent, making Solo appear to be a criminal. Adding to the tension was placing Kuryakin in charge of the manhunt.

Kuryakin listened to the explanation in stunned horror. Through the entire story he could not speak -- could hardly think coherently. Too many thoughts crowded into his mind. Too much hate, betrayal and disgust. He didn't know where to begin; where to start. There was such an overwhelming wave of sickened revulsion he could not grasp onto any trace of professionalism.

They had been used -- both of them used as pawns in a power game too large, too complex to comprehend. Their partnership, so personal and important to Napoleon and him, was nothing more than a stepping stone to accomplish a goal. Kuryakin never would have believed UNCLE capable of such dirty tricks. Other agencies were renounced for their underhanded betrayals, but UNCLE had seemed so idealistic for this. What his perceptions had been were irrelevant now. The organization they had dedicated their lies and energies to had destroyed them. He could never forgive what they had done to his friend.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I know you are surprised," Waverly said in an almost apologetic tone. "But you must be realistic --"

"Stop!", the Russian almost shouted. "Do you have any idea what this -- game -- has done?" He leaped from his chair and back away from the monitor, as if he were confronting Waverly in the flesh. "I saw Napoleon today. I know what this has cost him!"

"Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly responded sternly, "you are a professional --"

"A professional what? A cannibal who preys on his own kind?"

"There is no need for melodrama," Waverly chided sharply. "Drastic measures were required for a drastic situation. You and Mr. Solo were doing your duties, just as you have in the past. The best were needed, Mr. Kuryakin. You two were the best to be offered."

"And you're telling me it was worth the destruction of an agent as valuable as Napoleon?" he wondered bitterly, unconvinced of any explanations his superior might offer.

Destroying lives, causing misery and disillusionment was not part of HIS job! The five leaders of a world organization -- like Zeuses from Olympus -- had decreed the ruin of the best agent in UNCLE. Even if Napoleon came back after this mission, he would never be the same. Illya had seen the subdued, wary, hardened man was not the same friend he had known in New York. Too much had changed forever. There was no way to make restitution. This time the offering had been too great. Sadly, his noble friend had been only too willing to make the sacrifice.

"Mr. Solo is resilient and adaptable. His talents and abilities will see him through this affair very well," Waverly assured loftily. "I must admit, I thought you would be the one to succumb to the plot, Mr. Kuryakin. After that shooting incident last year in France, I thought you might be the weaker agent. So did several of my Section One associates. But Mr. Solo proved to be the more vulnerable. You passed the psychological testing and the stress of shooting your partner. Mr. Solo could not accept his failure to save you. The drugs helped his decent, of course, but the weaknesses were there to work with all along."

There was no compassion in his face or tone. Perhaps he could not afford any. Emotional commitments were too dangerous for leaders in a spy organization. Perhaps that warning extended especially to those at the highest echelons. If so, Illya felt a moment of sorrow for those men. Once he had been too aloof and afraid to feel anything; too cautious to risk an attachment. He had been worn down by concern and affection, and he did not regret that surrender. Even in the depths of agony, the heights of friendship canceled all the negatives.

Too sickened by the plotting to address any of the conspiracy, he focused on the hopes of the future. "You've got to let him come back -- if he wants to. You owe him much more than that!" Illya finally demanded defiantly.

"I would expect him to seek other options," Waverly countered. "First, we will see how this turns out and what Mr. Solo is like at the completion of the affair. The other Section Ones will have to be consulted. They have assigned me to supervise this, and I have not apprised any of them of the latest details of this plot. They know only that Mr. Solo was conditioned to leave UNCLE and join the cartel. I will not take any case to them until I am sure Mr. Solo is still working on our side. Remember, his conditioning was subliminal, Mr. Kuryakin. There are no guarantees that he will return to his old self. Whatever happens after the cartel is destroyed, we will discuss it between Mr. Solo, you, Mr. Kuryakin and myself. Is that acceptable?"

Kuryakin was not impressed by such an easy victory. "Yes, if he even wants to talk to you! I am not sure I want either of us to return!" Suddenly the idea of Napoleon and him world-hopping as beach bums or something had a certain appeal.

Waverly counseled against threats. All would be differently viewed after the mission. Kuryakin's job was now to make sure his side of the assignment was well charted. Kuryakin assured him no detail would be left unplanned. HE was not the one who left agents as sacrifices to the enemy.

"Before Napoleon goes to Yorkshire he must know," Illya insisted.

"Absolutely not!" Waverly denied. "Nor will we call off the hunt for Mr. Solo. Everything must appear to be normal --"

"It's too dangerous --"

"News of this sort would destroy his concentration," Waverly calmly insisted. Assured of the Russian's attention, he continued. "Mr. Solo's mind must be on his mission. He has the illusions of what he has become. Do not tamper with his confidence now, Mr. Kuryakin. It would be a weakness and a danger to his life."

Reluctantly Illya agreed, although it increased his revulsion for the whole affair. He was now a party to the grand deception -- the illusion within an illusion
 
 

XV

Late afternoon sun streamed through the huge windows in the massive, airy library. Solo was the only occupant of the room. There had been little challenge in discovering the location of the main control unit of the defensive system. Cleverly disguised as a large, thick bookshelf, Solo had found it in only a few minutes. After all, he was a pro --.

In the same room was a walk-in safe containing a wealth of information on the cartel. With a little time and luck Solo would be able to crack the safe before the forces of law and order arrived. For a few moments he studied the controls of the defenses, which ranged from land mines to small surface to air missiles. He planned to destroy the entire unit, ensuring the safety of the attacking UNCLE forces. For right now he disconnected the perimeter defenses as a temporary measure to bring in the reinforcements. When he blew the big safe he would take out all the electronics as a safety measure.

There had been no contact with Kuryakin since the afternoon in London, but he was confident Illya had fulfilled his side of the mission. Right now an UNCLE attack force was hidden in the nearby hills and awaiting his signal. He hoped. Once more, it came down again to the ultimate faith and trust he held in his partner. Literally, his life depended on Illya being out there with the backup troops. If they were not, then his life was forfeit.

A good thing he had placed a package of explosives underneath the boiler room. If worse came to worse, he could always just blow the whole place to dust. He had collected enough material from the cartel to level the manor and a good portion of the grounds. They would never find his ashes, but at least his job would be done. The irony of that possibility did not escape him. Blown to pieces, just as he thought Illya had been those long months ago. He hoped life did not revolve around some cosmic cycle, and that history would not repeat itself.

"Lancelot to Galahad. Lancelot to Galahad. Bring in the troops."

"Galahad to Lancelot, can you stall?"

"Stall? Illya, aren't you ready? I've dropped the perimeter. Give me the word and I'll take out the defensive weapons."

"I -- "

"Illya, what's wrong?"

"Uh, Napoleon, there is a slight problem."

"Oh, good, a complication," Solo quipped back. "What now?"

"The reinforcements aren't here yet. It's down to the two of us again."

The full impact of the situation became clear. He stopped in mid-motion. "Illya, there's no one coming?"

"They'll be here, Waverly promised. Now it's only me."

Thinking fast, Solo tried to come up with a brilliant plan to salvage the operation. Why he had been left holding the bag was insignificant compared to getting his neck out from under the blade of the guillotine.

"All right, I'll get the goods, be ready to give me some cover."

"No, I can --"

"Illya, just do what I say! I'll be on my way out in a few minutes, just hang loose!"

"Napoleon -- just be careful."

A noise in the hall alerted him. He replaced the communicator then ducked into the nearest chair and grabbed one of the old, leather-bound volumes. A first edition translation of Don Quixote, he noted with wry amusement as the door opened and Godoni stepped in.

"Enjoying your quiet afternoon, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes. Taking advantage of my access to such a -- spectacular library."

The oily assassin leader slid into the next chair and nodded approval at the literature. "Interesting choice. Tell me, Mr. Solo, do you picture yourself as a man who fights windmills?"

"Only when I think I can win."

Godoni laughed with appreciation. He trailed off on a commentary of various translations in the library, comparing them to original works and finding them lacking. Napoleon understood it as an analogy. This was not just an afternoon chat, the man was fishing, but Solo was not quite sure of the motive or the goal. Outwardly, he remained calm, smooth, as unnerved as his legendary reputation once reported, but inwardly he was jittery with anxiety. He didn't think Godoni was onto his plot, but he had been known to be wrong. The coincidence of the man coming in here just moments after the outer defenses were sabotaged was incredible. The UNCLE troops -- or at lest Illya -- was waiting, Napoleon had to move fast before the breech was discovered. Conversely, he could hardly give the man the bum's rush out of the room. The weight of the explosive pack felt unaccountably heavy against his chest. If Godoni called in the troops, UNCLE would receive no evidence, but neither would they find any bodies amid the ashes. If Napoleon couldn't win this game, he was going to upset the chess board big time.

"I believe you have a purpose in these observations?" he smoothly asked the Italian after the man had wound down.

"Yes, Mr. Solo. My colleagues and I are curious about your last mission. We would like to discuss it with you." He stood and motioned to the door. "Shall we?"

There was no option for refusal, of course, he had to join the assassin. Illya and the troops were coming in and he did not yet have the evidence. If he left the room, his explosives could easily be discovered and the whole operation would be a failure. Well, not all. They could still capture some of the leaders, but other operatives -- assassins like himself -- were scattered around the manor. It would take time and cost UNCLE lives to round them all up. There was, however, no way to get out of this exclusive invitation. It sounded like he was already under suspicion and anything he did now to cross Godoni would collapse the mission. Coming to his feet, the detonator pack in the inner pocket of his jacket fell against his chest. There was always the loud, messy way out, he reminded himself, with little comfort.
 
 

Kuryakin paced the stone floor of the old, derelict sheepherder's cottage, and every few seconds glanced through the binoculars at the manor nestled in the snow-covered valley below. Frustrated at no signs of activity, he would drop the field glasses, glimpse at his watch, then look down the narrow, muddy lane crossing the rolling foothills. The sky was overcast and grey with the promise of more snow. The landscape, dotted with stone walls and bare trees, was as bleak as the tactical situation.

In anticipation of a long wait, Illya had brought along a hamper of food, portable heaters and blankets. While roughing it, there was no sense in being miserable. There was no telling when he would get the signal to move from his friend, nor could he know when Waverly's promised support would arrive. So he had set up camp, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot tea, and waited since the night before, just to be prepared for anything.

There was no sign of UNCLE reinforcements. No one had contacted him, and an hour before, when he had tried to get through to Waverly, he was told the Chief was unavailable and would get back to him. Highly unusual in any circumstances, but especially nerve-wracking under the extreme circumstances of the cartel raid. Napoleon needed his support. He had warned his friend to move fast and get out as soon as possible. Assuming his partner obeyed the warnings, which was unlikely. Illya would wait another five minutes, and then he would have to move, with or without the reinforcements. He had tried to arrange the manpower himself, through the London office, but without Waverly's authorization, without specifically revealing the mission, the Number One in London would not release any agents.

Unable to keep his silence, Illya called New York again to expedite the support on this side of the Atlantic. This time, after an uncomfortable delay, he was put through to Ian Rawlings, the stiff, proper British Number Two Section One of New York. Efficient and cold, Rawlings did his job well and stayed out of Kuryakin's way. It was a mutually beneficial relationship and both were thankful it was Waverly who had to deal with the other on a regular basis. Accepting that the critical time frame was now at critical mass, Illya begrudgingly understood talking to Rawlings was better than nothing at all.

"Rawlings here, Mr. Kuryakin. We are very pressed for time here, so please make this brief."

The reception, colder and sharper than the usual blunt disapproval, worried the Russian. He would not, however, let the manner, nor the implication of problems in New York, deter him from his mission.

"I must speak to Mr. Waverly, Rawlings. I am about to lead an attack and the reinforcements are not here."

"Please explain yourself, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I really don't have time, Rawlings. Just let Waverly talk to me for a minute -- "

"Afraid I can't do that, old chum. Mr. Waverly died of a heart attack this morning. So you see, we have our own ticklish situation here."

Illya was certainly his own heart stopped beating. Waverly dead! He could hardly fathom it. Yes, the Chief had looked so old and grey a few days ago -- just a few days ago -- in New York. But Waverly -- Waverly dead? It seemed impossible. Section Two agents were the ones who were expendable, who went out and never came back. Waverly, he was a fixture, part of the HQ, part of UNCLE. He had been there since the dawn of time and would always be there! He couldn't be dead, Illya's emotions cried, even as the logic told him some subliminal part of his mind must have known even a few days ago. The fatigue, regret and weariness were signs that the old man was giving in to the inevitable enemy of old age. Still, it was so hard to accept.

"Now, please, Mr. Kuryakin, try to handle the situation yourself," Rawlings broke into his thoughts in a farewell.

"No, wait! Rawlings, didn't Mr. Waverly tell you about the cartel operation?"

"Cartel? Yes. He told me you were sent to England to track down Solo. I assume you have found him and are bringing him to justice?"

Frigid fingers of icy panic seized onto his heart. "The cartel," Illya repeated in a strangled breath. "Napoleon was sent into infiltrate the cartel." True, it was his personal interpretation of the 'set up' the five Number Ones had engineered. It was, however, accurate in results if not in exact detail. "He's working on the inside, and he's going to deliver the entire hierarchy, and records of all the assassins. Today! The troops are going to be my back up. As soon as Napoleon gives us the signal that he has eliminated the defensive weapons we're going in!" Illya was nearly shouting now. The panic was still just under the surface, but the frustration and anger were in his voice.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Kuryakin. You say Mr. Waverly approved this plot?" The skepticism was strong in his tone.

"Mr. Waverly engineered everything!" Illya shouted. "He set up Napoleon to be publicly thrown out of UNCLE! The whole idea was for Napoleon to be recruited by the cartel! Which he was! Now he's ready to destroy the cartel and all it's leaders and operatives! I need those men here and I need them now! Napoleon will call us in any minute and we can't wait!"

There was a sputter of disbelief from the other end. "You expect me to risk our trusted operatives for a traitor --"

"He was a plant!"

"That is completely unconfirmed --"

"You don't believe me? You think I'm fabricating this story? Ask McDowell and Bennett! They were working with Mr. Waverly!"

"Bennett and McDowell are no longer in New York and I have no idea where they are, nor will I take the time to search for them."

"You think I'm lying? Why would I do that?"

"I think the entire situation is highly suspect, Mr. Kuryakin. Solo was your friend, of course you want to believe him. How do I know this isn't a trap? How do I know you didn't misinterpret Mr. Waverly's plans? There are too many variables. This office is in crisis at the moment. I have a dozen other crises to deal with and I cannot put the lives of our men, or your life, for that matter, into the hands of an expatriate killer!"

Kuryakin sank his head into his free hand. The hopes he had fostered for over a year, the justice of destroying the cartel, the satisfaction of his friend having a chance to return to UNCLE, were all about to be dashed to pieces. More drastic, was the very real threat to his friend's life. Napoleon was in there alone and he was expecting the cavalry to come to the rescue at any time. They had never suspected the cavalry to be unwilling to participate in this convoluted and disastrous final act.

"Then you won't authorize the reinforcements?" Illya asked in a dead voice.

"No, I will not. My advice is to take this up with the Number One in London. If he gives you approval, then you have my support, of course. When this is all over, you are to report to New York. There is much to be done here. Rawlings out."

Illya resisted the temptation to hit his head against the wall. Instead, he took out his frustrations on the nearest chair. He kicked it across the room and went back to observing the manor. Nothing had changed there. With a sense of despair overriding every thought, he tried to sort through his options and come up with an alternate plan. Unfortunately, there were very few options. He would not consider leaving his post and going to London to talk with Mr. Donnaly, the Number One there. Napoleon could call at any time and Illya, on his own, would be better than leaving his partner stranded. Wasn't that what he had been reminding Solo over and over again? They were still partners; their bond was still there and nothing could come between them. Not distance, nor time, nor circumstances. They were in this together, as usual, and as usual, it seemed to be them against the world. Situation normal.

Not willing to give up yet, Illya contacted the London office. The Number One refused to discuss anything over the communicator. This was information that needed to be discussed in person, in a secured environment. Kuryakin managed to convince Donnaly to send some field agents out to check out the location and bring some extra armament and explosives. Then he double-checked his pack, praying Napoleon would hold out until he could get there.
 
 

"Welcome, Mr. Solo," came a gruff, Australian accented voice from the far side of the huge hall."

'Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly,' Napoleon finished as he did as he was bid and walked onto the polished hardwood floor of the ancient room where old dukes and earls must have entertained kings and queens.

Six other men were gathered at a rectangular table longer than most buildings. They were gathered at the far end, by the fireplace as large as a car. Huge windows looked out at the back of the estate, onto the rolling hills and meadowland stretching to the horizon. Napoleon cautiously approached, recognizing two of the men as fellow assassins. The other four were unfamiliar to him. Their identities didn't matter so much as their expressions. No one in the room favored him with anything but a cold, malevolent glare. It was a gallows court and he seemed to be the star exhibit.
 
 

A helicopter swung in low between two small hillocks in the field behind the small cottage. Two men in trench coats dashed from the chopper as the blades wound down to a stop. Before they reached him, Kuryakin saw, to his distaste, his reinforcements were McDowell and Bennett. There was no love lost between them, and the animosity seemed more bitter and resentful than ever. They had been after the top position in New York for years, and had never been able to quite compete with the dazzling results of the Solo and Kuryakin team. Illya had held his own in the last year, but now realized they had probably been pressuring Rawlings, not Waverly, to be the top agents for North America. The tug of war seemed so trivial and ridiculous now. Power grabs and politics were meaningless compared to the life of his friend.

He ran out to meet them. "Napoleon needs our help. Let's take the chopper --"

McDowell grabbed his arm, nearly yanking him off his feet.

"We're here to assess the situation," Bennett replied easily. "So your old friend is in a tight spot, again. Bad habit of his."

Illya twisted out of the grasp and ran to the chopper. He fought down the anger and epithets that would be so easy to give in to now. He focused instead on what was most important as he started the chopper. "You'll sacrifice losing the leaders of the cartel, and evidence of their activities all over the world, so you can 'assess the situation'? If you want to be part of the operation, then you can join me. If not, I -- Napoleon and I -- will report your obstruction to Rawlings when I return to New York.

Bennett pulled a pistol and leveled it at the Russian. "I guess we have to tranquilize you to save your life, Kuryakin.

Illya jerked the chopper up, swerving away from the two agents. Napoleon was not going to do this alone. There would be two of them.
 
 

XVI

Solo was placed in a chair by the fire, a figurative position he did not appreciate. With the seven men staring at him, Godoni began the interrogation on the specific details of his set up and assassination attempt of Westmoreland. While he strove to comply with the orders, he was also mentally ticking of the minutes, certain any minute the explosives in the library would be discovered.

As the questions became more intense, and the direction of their decisions obvious, Solo put more concentration on trying to talk his way out of the trap. Too late, he realized the cartel was smarter than he expected. Either from basic or specific suspicions, they were not buying his theory of an accidental miss on the general. His concerns about the safe minimized and his estimations for explosions maximized as he judged what would happen to him if he exploded the boilers. He was far enough toward the center of the house that there was chance he would not escape. Suicide was not an option he had ever liked, but there seemed few options left. There would be no cavalry coming over the hill to save him, and if the cartel killed him first, then the last few months of his life would be meaningless. It shouldn't bother him so much, but he found that concept an incredible motivator. He wanted to leave something behind -- not the memory of Napoleon Solo, the murderer, but Solo the hero sounded much better.

"So you see, Mr. Solo," Godoni concluded as he paced next to the agent, "we no longer believe you failed by accident." The man drew a sword from one of the displays near the fireplace. "Have you any last comments?"

Incredulous, Napoleon watched with fascination as the man brought the sword tip close to his neck. He resisted the temptation to wipe the sweat from his face. His morbid imagination had expected an execution, just not something so primitive. The flash of what he thought was a helicopter blurred past a corner of the window. He tensed. Illya said he wanted to join the party and the crafty Russian had come in prematurely. Napoleon sighed, hoping his luck would hold up when the floor fell out from under him. Literally. He slipped his hand onto the detonator as Gadoni pressed the sword against his jaw.
 
 

***
 

Illya Kuryakin landed on the meadow behind the hills in back of the house. No bombs or mines were set off and he was relieved. Not that he mistrusted his partner, but the unexpected happened as a normal occurrence in this business and something going right for a change was a welcome relief. Guards were obvious, but not numerous, and Illya started toward the library. Solo had not met him outside the main entrance hall. Kuryakin had a terrible premonition something had gone wrong. Everything was just too quiet. He ran along the side of the house and toward the south wing where the library was located.

The ground shook just before he heard the explosion that threw him to ground. Several smaller explosions rocked the hill and manor and glass shattered everywhere. He shielded his face as the destruction rained around him. Screams and cries were barely heard amid the crashing of wood and masonry. He came to his feet and assessed the damage from the safety of some shrubs. The middle of the house seemed to be collapsed and on fire. Two dazed guards were staggering to their feet on a balcony in the north wing. Illya took careful aim and took both of them out. Now he would make his way to the library.
 
 

***
 

The blond head above the black turtleneck was a sight for sore eyes. Sighing with relief, Solo quietly came up behind his friend, grabbed the Russian's shoulders, clamped a hand over his mouth, and whispered, "Fancy meeting you here," with a smile. "Glad you could join the party."

Illya's white face took on normal color. "Just like an American to do everything bigger and louder than necessary." He overtly took in Solo's bedraggled appearance.

Bleeding from numerous lacerations, Solo's singed shirtsleeves were torn and smeared with blood. "I see what you mean." He steered them around the burning filled house. "We have one little complication."

"Of course, what else is new?"

"I didn't get the evidence. It's still in the library. And if any of the cartel leaders survived, they might try to get it out."

Kuryakin shrugged. "Then we better get the evidence. How shall we accomplish that?" he gestured to the burning house.

"The library is in the south wing. Follow me."

They jogged around the manor, through an elaborate garden, and across a wide lawn, to the side of the house. Flames leaped from the north and west wings, glass and pile exploding as the fire spread toward them. The south doors were bolted shut. Both agents fired at the locks until the solid wood doors creaked open. As soon as they stepped inside bullets raked their position and they dived behind a staircase. Valuable minutes were wasted as they exchanged fire with an unseen opponent. Pinned down, and losing precious time, they agreed on splitting up and making it to the library as best they could. Whoever reached the safe first would blow it with explosives and grab the evidence. They laid down steady gunshots until the assassin was hit and tumbled down the stairs. Kuryakin tossed his friend an extra clip and wished him good luck. Solo did the same as he ran down a different corridor.

When Napoleon reached the library he was amazed he had gotten there first, and amazed the fire had not reached this end of the wing, yet. He had run through several burning hallways and killed one more assassin on his way. He could hear no other gunshots, so he assumed Illya would be right behind him. Setting a line of small but potent plastique charges around the control panel, and the door to the safe. He crossed to the other side of the room, by the glass doors, and pressed his watch stem. A line of explosions rippled like a string of firecrackers. The electronic panel sputtered and crackled sending flames and puffs of smoke into the air. In a less flamboyant display, the huge metal door of the safe jarred off its hinge. Almost immediately alarms sounded through the estate.

"I was afraid of that," he sighed wryly.

Only a second of hesitation passed, then he was crossing the room to enter the safe. The files and computer tapes were methodically arranged in an orderly manner. Solo pulled several items off the shelves and made an impressive stack of the most vital evidence. If he had to blow the place he would make a run for it and take as many files and computer tapes as he could.

Solo pulled the communicator from his pocket. "Wake up, Galahad. Excalibur is mine, but the original owners will know I'm robbing the hen house." He slipped it back in his pocket, with the channel open, to keep up the conversation as he collected evidence.

"Napoleon!" Kuryakin seemed surprised, then groaned. "As usual, you have alerted the entire enemy contingent to your position!"

"Kind of, yes. Where are you?"

"Pinned down by a persistent guard in the dining room."

"I can come to get you," Solo offered, his already twitching nerves nearly strangling his throat. It was too much like Toronto again, with Illya trapped somewhere else and in danger. It had not been long enough of a separation for him to forget the anxiety that accompanied the partnership. There would never be a time he could forget the terror of that horrible mission in Toronto and his helplessness and guilt at his failure to protect his friend. "I'm coming --"

"Napoleon, get the evidence. We've gone to enough trouble over this. If we return empty handed it will be for nothing. We need that evidence!"

"To bargain for my life?" he guessed.

"Something like that," was Kuryakin's reluctant acknowledgement.

Solo released a sigh of frustration. "All right, I'll get it. You get here as soon as you can. If the situation gets worse you call me. Promise?"

"Yes."

Napoleon didn't want to break the connection. He had a bad feeling about this. "Well, then I'll see you in a few minutes. Throw a cufflink at the guard

"I'm wearing a turtleneck, remember?"

"Well, some other clever device you always have up your sleeve."

"Will do."

"See you soon."

A voice very close behind him said, "No you won't. I thought you were smarter than this, Solo."

Napoleon spun around to see Gadoni bleeding and singed, with his pistol aimed unerringly at him. "You sound disappointed, Gadoni."

"I am," he answered with a snarl. "I thought you would run, like the traitor you are."

Solo shrugged. "A traitor implies betrayal to your ideals or beliefs. I certainly don't fit into that category. I was never one of you."

The cynical response was the truth. Whatever he had once believed in was now vanishing. He believed only in himself, his talents -- and his former partner -- the only two people in the world he could trust.

Gadoni seemed amused. "You are very good, Solo. I believed you to be a true expatriate. Were you with UNCLE all the time?"

The former agent leaned against a cabinet, arms folded across this chest. "Actually, no. I am really a free agent," he smirked at his own pun.

"You are a fool," Gadoni corrected. "You knew the moment the alarms sounded you would be caught and killed -- why did you stay? Why throw your life away?"

"How do you know the cavalry won't save me?"

"They will never reach you in time," the Italian assured. "You, stupid fool. Why waste your life like this?"

Solo shrugged. "It's much too complicated to explain," he sloughed off.

There was much he could not explain to himself. He had to stay, collect evidence, and make a final attempt, perhaps, to restore himself in his own mind. When he had killed Landis he had triggered a chain of events with an almost inevitable pattern. Like a Greek tragedy, the cycle would have to end with his death. There was no way he would let the cartel leaders evade justice. He was prepared and considered the trade of his life, for the completion of this mission, a fair trade. He was not suicidal, but was astute enough to know when the game was up. There was no future, no where left for him to go. The comet had blazed a trail across the heavens, but now would burn out in its own incandescent flames of intensity. Either way, he was a dead man. Since he had the opportunity to choose, he would go out with his death meaning something.

"Now I must kill you, destroy this evidence, and make sure I escape. Farewell, Mr. Solo."

"Good riddance!"

Napoleon threw the bundle of evidence into Godoni. The pistol fired, and Solo went down atop the leader. Wrestling on the floor, Napoleon was losing the fight, weakened by the bullet, hot and painful, high in his chest. The weapon slid across the floor and Godoni scrambled after it, seizing it. A loud explosion in the hall blew the doors off the hinges and distracted the man with the pistol for a vital second. Solo lunged for Gadoni. They wrestled for the weapon, falling out the door of the safe and to the floor of the library. Nearly obscured by smoke and flames, they crashed against the metal door and the Luger, wedged between them, exploded with another shot. Napoleon fell over, his body a solid weight against his enemy.

"You are a dead man, Solo!" Godoni coughed.

"So are you," the former agent responded, gritting his teeth against the pain, using every bit of energy left to trap the man under him as the roof in the center of the room collapsed and fiery shards of wood and debris showered them.

The door was open and Kuryakin cautiously slid into the room. A silver-haired man, his charred-jacketed back to the door, stood by the desk hurriedly sorting through files. On the floor between them an injured man lay still, his face turned away. Kuryakin easily recognized the downed man as his partner. There was no obvious sign of life. Kuryakin suddenly felt cold and numb inside. He pushed away the shock and concentrated on the man by the desk.

"Raise your hands and turn around," he ordered with a harsh, grating tone.

The man turned, his right hand, blackened from a nasty burn, remained atop the files. Illya was momentarily distracted by the condemning splashes of blood on the man's shirt and hands.

"Mr. Kuryakin," he greeted, inclining his head.

"Gadoni," Illya countered.

"Obviously Mr. Solo has told you all about me." He nodded toward the inert figure on the floor. "Unfortunately Mr. Solo chose death as the price for betrayal. Now I suppose these papers will be my only ticket to freedom."

Gadoni indicated the stack of papers under his hand. Evidence UNCLE would receive if he was granted immunity, he offered. He did not want to fall into the hands of CIA or MI6. He was afraid they would not be as benevolent as the international law enforcement agency. In a heartless, mirthless joke he relayed he felt safe. UNCLE did not condone vigilantes -- Solo had been a rare exception to that rule.

Illya's finger tightened on the trigger of the Walther. He could find nothing to say. He faced the man who had just killed his friend. Grief and disorientation were crowding in on his senses. The remaining awareness recognized the ironic parallel -- history repeating itself in a grizzly travesty of fate. His partner dead, the murderer in his sights. The same scenario with all the wrong twists. This mockery of history had exceeded traditional tragedy -- exceeded all reason.

There would never be a chance to tell his friend of the frame. There would never be a chance for Solo to rebuild his life, to enjoy the rewards of his heroism. No way to make up for the wasted months, the useless suffering. What an empty sacrifice. What a vacuous existence he would be left with. Illya felt so cheated. It shouldn't have ended this way at all. Over the years he had learned to believe in an intricately beautiful structure called friendship. Napoleon had sacrificed everything in a tribute to that friendship. How could an act with the right intentions end in this kind of disaster?

An incredible cold, frosty hatred iced his mind. The frozen anger killed the tears that threatened at the back of his eyes. The promise of vengeance destroyed any reason or understanding; overwhelmed everything but the debt of loyalty and retribution.

"Well?" Gadoni was saying. "Will you accept my surrender?"

Kuryakin stared at him for several moments. His stony expression must have indicated he had no intention of accepting the defection. Gadoni's manner subtly altered to wary anger.

"So, there is another vigilante." Gadoni's hand flinched and Kuryakin pulled the trigger.

Gadoni was dead within a few seconds, even before he fell to the floor. A Luger dropped from the deadman's grip. Technically it would be called self-defense. No one would believe it. Illya didn't either. He knew he had intended to kill Gadoni all along.

Kuryakin spared only a moment to take the Luger and confirm the death. He knelt next to Solo and carefully turned the body over, holding his friend in his arms. A heartbeat skipped when he saw the slight rise and fall of the chest under the blood stained shirt. He felt for a pulse and was shocked, elated, to find his friend was definitely alive! On the shirt were two obvious bullet holes, one had traced a shallow track in an upward direction from the left side of the chest and through the top of the shoulder. He pushed a hand on the bleeding wound. The other singed hole was very near the heart, but with only a trickle of blood.

"Ouch!"

Kuryakin was so startled by the response he nearly fell back to the floor. "Napoleon!"

Solo's eyes were clear, focused on his partner with an almost amused expression. "Why is it my partner is the ham-handed one?"

Illya released a deep sigh. "Because you deserve it," he answered. "Why are you alive?" he asked bluntly.

The American scowled. "I don't know," he said. "I'm kind of surprised myself. Who could die a peaceful death with you and your Dodge City shootout?"

"I was finishing the job you had bungled," Illya countered forcefully, his nerves still rattled from the confrontation with Gadoni; from the surprise resurrection of his partner. Leave it to Napoleon to be so unnecessarily dramatic.

Solo lifted his head slightly, with his right hand he gently probed his shoulder and chest, as if making sure his wound was not fatally serious. His expression was confused and surprised. Suddenly the confusion cleared. "My pocket."

"What?"

Solo pointed toward the breast pocket of his jacket. Kuryakin rummaged through the pocket with his free hand. He removed a communicator. Then he pulled out a bent piece of black metal with a hole in a corner. Solo turned it around for him. Illya's eyebrows shot behind his blond bangs as he recognized the stock plate of his old Walther. The 'K' had been scraped by the bullet track. The metal had deflected the initial impact of the bullet enough to save Solo's life and cause only a minor wound.

"I don't believe it," he incredulously sighed and sat back on his heels. He handed the stock piece back to his friend.

Napoleon snickered with embarrassment. "I don't think I do, either."

"Your luck is incredible," Illya quietly said, still dazed by the amazing turn of events.

"Luck? This is my bad shoulder," Solo complained a little too vigorously.

Illya ran nervous fingers through his hair. He felt shaky from the extreme highs and lows his emotions had been roller-coastered through. All thanks to his partner, as usual.

"Why must you always play the hero?" he chastised in irritation.

"It's a dirty job but --"

"I've heard it," Illya interrupted blandly. "Is that your only excuse?"

Solo mocked an injured expression. "Is that the thanks I get for single-handedly crushing the cartel --"

"Single-handed?" Kuryakin shot back.

He had to push back a smile from his face. It was an incredible high to be back in the banter competition with his friend. They had so narrowly escaped a terrible tragedy. He laughed until he groaned from the aching shoulder. Illya shook his head in exasperation and helped his friend up. The building was still crashing down around them. Kuryakin scooped up the evidence bag and with his other arm supported Napoleon as they made the quickest possible escape from the exploding manor.

The ever-present threat of Tartarus still lingered in Illya's mind. Without Waverly to corroborate the Machiavellian conspiracy, there was no way to prove Napoleon was pushed into the whole awful plot. Illya had vowed he would never let that happen to his friend, but what power did he hold in the organization now?

At least there was no problem with their personal relationship. They had so easily fallen back to the usual attitudes, the jibes, insults and debates. Nothing had changed between them and nothing would.

Endurance fading, Napoleon leaned his head against Illya's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Well, Mr. K., we have plenty of time to argue the credit. I have only one request."

"What?"

"Let's get out of here and go home." It was a simple request, but the heartfelt tone conveyed much more than the simple words. Solo was ready to return and face whatever consequences were ahead. Why not? He had been to hell and back, whatever happened in the future would be easy to accept.

"Whenever you're ready, tovarich."

Solo nodded. He handed the metal stock piece back to the Russian. His serious eyes locked onto his friend's blue eyes. "This one's for you."

Illya held the gaze for a moment. He understood the unvoiced implications -- the quotation once uttered as a pledge of vengeance and loyalty was now a vow of renewed commitment. A meaningful phrase now traded between two living and appreciative partners. Illya silently accepted the worn metal plate and tucked it into his pocket, wordlessly completing the unspoken pact
 
 

"Good morning."

Solo blinked his eyes until the heavy lids stayed open. As his eyes slowly focused he took in the clues of his other senses. Illya was here with him. The smell of strong coffee almost disguised the sterile odors of a hospital. Laying on his back, numb in mind and upper body, he knew he was, once more, emerging from the effects of post-op painkillers. Finally bringing his friend into clear vision, Solo tipped his head in greeting and the Russian smiled.

Napoleon gave a rueful nod. "Dejavu," he sighed without humor.

"We must stop meeting like this," was the equally sober reply in counterpoint to the inane greeting. "Your age is showing, my friend. Do you know how long it took you to wake up this time?"

Napoleon grimaced. "Are we keeping track now? Is this a contest?"

Illya shook his head. Shades of fondness and irritation swept his expression. "Never again, I hope. How are you?"

"Usual."

The empathetic nod spoke more than any words. Kuryakin took a sip of coffee, then replaced the cup on the table and stared at his friend. As if squaring himself for battle, he shifted and faced Solo, leaning close to the bed.

"I have a story to tell you, Napoleon. Do you think you are alert enough to hear it?"

Nodding slowly, Solo fought to push away the fuzzy effects of the drugs and clear his mind. "Serious."

Illya's mouth twitched with a partial smile. "Yes, it is. I wish I could wait until you were more yourself, but I must go soon."

"Go?"

"I have been called back to New York. What do you remember of the assault on the manor two days ago -- the attack?"

"Yorkshire," he labeled thickly. Slowly the former agent related the destruction of the cartel. With more thoughtful reflection, he traced back, recounting the last few months, the infiltration of the assassin group, the killing of Landis, the erroneous assumption that Kuryakin was dead. "We got the bad guys. Why the long face?"

"Now I must tell you a very ugly precursor to the story, Napoleon," Illya gravely explained when his friend had run out of energy. "It is the other side of your saga, one you never knew. Things I didn't know until the other day, just before I joined you at the manor."

The American's expression was somber. "Is it a sad end, like a Russian folk tale?"

Illya shook his head. "It has no end yet, my friend, but yes, it is sad, like one of my tales."

Starting with the Summit Five meeting where the leaders wanted a mole in the cartel, Illya related everything Waverly had told him. The trials and tests of the three candidates; Solo, Kuryakin and the German. The set up and frame which eventually snagged Solo into the web of drugs, fatigue, stress, betrayal and the plot of killing Landis. The staged resurrection of Kuryakin, the exile of Solo, and the subliminal programming that thrust him toward a life of crime and acceptance to the assassins. Placed exactly where his superiors wanted him, Solo was able to gather the evidence to capture all the assassins in the group that did not die in the huge explosion at the Yorkshire manor. Worldwide, there were only a handful of men at large. Most of the deadly cartel leaders, and hit men, were in the manor house when it went up in flames. Few survived. Those were either hospitalized or in prison.

Illya stopped, anxious about the blank expression, the lack of reaction from his friend. Part of it was the sedatives, but there had to be more. He blamed it on the shock and the incredible maze of lies and ploys that were so outrageous as to be unbelievable.

"Napoleon, say something."

Solo shook his head, too stunned for words.

Kuryakin checked his watch, biting his lip with frustration. He had stalled for two days already, staying over in Yorkshire to oversee his friend's recovery. The new Section One of New York, Sanchez, would not tolerate another cancellation of plans. More important than obeying those orders, however, was personally explaining the diabolical deceptions to his friend. It was the least he -- UNCLE -- owed Napoleon Solo.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could break this too you in a more pleasant manner, but there just isn't time. I must continue with the story, Napoleon. Is that all right?"

Solo nodded. "Go on," he whispered. "I should have guessed this."

"You almost did. Your conspiracy theory that I so readily dismissed. You were more correct than we could ever have guessed. Waverly set the stage --"

"And I fell through the trap door," he finished sourly. "My own fault --"

"No, they used you -- us."

Napoleon carefully shook his head, his eyes dark brown blanks. "They knew how to use us, Illya and they did so ruthlessly. Our weaknesses allowed them to do their job very, very well." At Illya's angry expression he put a hand on his friend's arm. "Waverly knew I was coming apart at the seams. He knew my price." Kuryakin looked at the floor. "Did he ever tell you I failed the psyche test?"

"No."

Reluctantly, Illya had to agree with the objective assessment, although he made it clear he blamed them for ruining Napoleon's career and would never forgive them for that. Then he moved on to the next bombshell, and warned his friend it would be another shocker.

"Mr. Waverly died two days ago, just before the raid on the manor."

"Died?" Solo gasped. "He's been there from the beginning . . . ."

"And we thought he would always be there. But it gets worse."

The sardonic laugh was proof Solo's natural black humor had survived the stunning announcements. "How could it get worse? Typical, but how?"

"Waverly did not relate his plan, in detail, to anyone else except me. They do not believe me, Napoleon, that this was all a plot. They think you truly were part of the cartel."

Napoleon shivered and closed his eyes. Just when it was as black as he thought possible, there was another shade of darkness ahead. He couldn't take it all in, and he knew he was partially insulated by the drugs and the shock still controlling his physical world. The grim news was absorbed on one level without being completely dealt with on an emotional level.

Illya quickly continued, stating he was returning to New York to convince them of his claims. As long as he worked within the system, i.e., remaining in UNCLE, he could help his friend. He would try to find proof and get the evidence they needed to exonerate Solo. Then, when recovered enough to return, Napoleon could face the leader with proof of his innocence. His voice softened. He'd like to resign and take Napoleon over to design frocks at Vanya's, but Napoleon needed to clear his name first.

Solo stared at his tightly gripped hands. "It's bad this time, tovarich," he finally replied, his voice shaky and hoarse. "We may not be able to win this one."

Kuryakin sat on the edge of the bed next to his friend and gripped onto his arm. "I will get you out of this, Napoleon, somehow. I promise." He surrendered a shuddered sigh. "Trust me."

Patting his friend's hand, Solo gulped down the tightness in his throat. "There may be nothing you can do, Illya. They could just eliminate me, or send me to Tartarus to get me out of the way --"

Kuryakin pressed a hand across Solo's mouth. "No! I promise I won't let that happen! I promise to bring you home, out of the cold, Napoleon. Forever."

The expression in the American's dark eyes revealed he did not believe the vow. After all the betrayals and lies, there was not enough faith left in the worn down agent. The loss of faith was a wound deeper and sharper than Illya imagined anything could be. After everything they had been through, after losing everything, if they lost this bond, this conviction in each other, then there was nothing left to live for.

"Trust me once more, Napoleon, please. You killed for me once. Can it be so much harder to believe me now?"

With a trembling hand Solo removed the fingers blocking his lips. "You're the only thing I believe in anymore." His voice quivered, his cold fingers squeezing onto Kuryakin's hand with numbing force. "I don't know if it's enough this time." He took a bracing breath -- for courage, grasping at a last attempt at integrity. "If I don't -- if this is the end, take the money and get out of this business, Illya. Don't let it destroy you."

"I won't let it destroy either of us," Kuryakin vowed intently. With a final clutch of his friend's hand he releasing his grip and moving away. "Don't give up, my friend," he urged tightly as he stood in the doorway. "Trust me."

"For you," was the whispered reply.

With a tip of the head, Kuryakin acknowledged the message and left.
 
 

Four days after Kuyrakin's departure, two dark forms silhouetted in the doorway caught at the corner of his eye. Solo turned from his hypnotic gaze out the snowy window to assess his visitors. There was no doubt who they were, although neither agent was familiar to him. Easily recognized as local representatives, Napoleon tensed automatically. Whatever they wanted it looked official and dismal.

The two messengers stood behind Solo in mute threat of their security roles. Hardly an even match, he wondered why he was considered such a threat. So different from his last days in an HQ, where he was one of the men wearing a yellow badge, wearing the Walther under the arm, and sitting on the other side of the table. He was surprised Illya was not present, and the absence shot a tingle of fear along his spine. What had happened to his friend? What would happen to him without his staunchest supporter here?

"I think you can guess why we've invited you here, Solo. Please sit down."

Carefully easing into the straight chair, Napoleon leaned on the table. Still weak and sore from his wounds, dulled from medication, he understood he was already at a disadvantage. Pushing the discouragement from his thoughts, he forced up optimism as a shield, not a banner.

"I believe there is no need to go over the old ground about Landis, is there?" Donnaly dismissed with a statement more than a question.

"No," the former agent agreed.

"Then let's press on, shall we?" The Section One chief shoved some pages and pictures over to Napoleon. "Do you know what these are?"

"Victims," was the dead reply.

Then came a form with a familiar name and Napoleon read it more carefully without seeming to. Illya's report; the story of Waverly's plot to push him into deep cover without him even knowing it. Where was Illya? He wondered again, anxious over the absence. At this point it would be too dangerous to ask about his friend. Better to see what his own fate would be. It might be better if everyone was allowed to forget their closeness. He was not someone good to be around right now.

"What do you think of that tale?" Donnaly asked.

"What do you think?" he countered. "That is the more important question."

Donnaly sneered. "Kuryakin is biased at best, lying at worst." He narrowed his eyes and nearly spat out his accusations. "Still very smooth, aren't you, Solo? None of the rough edges I would have expected of a murderer. What is your defense? Don't you have anything to say? Is this tale of Kuryakin's the fable you want me to believe?"

The emotions were countered with a placid stare. "I think you've already convinced yourself. Anything I say won't matter, will it?"

Donnely slapped a folder on the desk. "I have facts here, Solo, not fabricated stories. The detrainer assigned to wipe your memories after the Landis killing -- dead of a stroke three months ago!" He slapped another folder down. "Waverly dead, another Section One Number One dead, both of natural causes this month. Only three Section One's left, supposedly knew Waverly wanted you undercover, but Waverly never told them anything beyond his proposed intentions." A final folder was dealt from his hand and slammed to the table. "McDowell and Bennett deny everything."

"They would."

With the back of his hand he hit Solo on the cheek, the blow nearly dropping the weakened agent to the floor.

"You disgust me, you traitor. I would like to execute you right now, but the other Section One's think there is enough reasonable doubt to let you live. They won't even let me send you to a readjustment camp."

Solo fought down the relief before it showed in his eyes.

"You're a killer and a rogue, Solo, but your powerful friends in Section One are taking pity on you. They're going to let you live."

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

Donnaly shrugged. "Maybe as an example."

With intense force of will he compelled his voice to be even, though his throat was dry with tension. "What does that mean?"

"Apparently, you will not be held accountable for your actions. Questions about the whole conditioning/detraining debacle are unresolvable. Bottom line: you must be sacrificed for the good of UNCLE." Donnaly's eyes gleamed. "You will be detrained again, this time deeply and properly and thoroughly."

The former agent gulped down a rising fear.

"You will remember nothing, Solo. Nothing." With a flick of his wrist, Donnaly called the guards forward and they lifted Solo to his feet.

Napoleon's legs were weak. It was happening all over again. He had faced down death and torture and incredible risk his whole career, but had never been unnerved and filled with fear as he was now. They would take everything away from him and -- and then what? Not the cushion of relocation like last time.  This time, only hostility and hatred.  What condition would they leave him in?  Whatever it would be, it would not be pleasant. And it would be alone. Illya would probably never even be informed of the details, since his friend was obviously in trouble as well. Fighting the despair that nearly froze him to the spot, he walked with his captors, down the long hall to the detraining center.
 
 

January 1977
 
 
Rain drizzled onto the pavement of Baker Street and Napoleon Solo dashed into the nearest doorway to crouch from the storm. The winter cold of the wetness added an extra layer of soreness to his shoulder, and he tightened the collar of his trenchcoat. It was the third morning in a row he had come here. He searched the buildings for clues, he searched the myriad, passing faces for something, someone, familiar. Nothing, as yet, seemed more than vaguely known. He had no idea what he was looking for, but instinctively knew when he saw it, he would know it was right. Until then, he had to keep coming here, to Baker Street, to find his answers.

Something light flashed at the corner of his eye. There, by the red phone box a shaggy, straw-blond haired man, wearing a black trenchcoat, was staring at him. He smiled. Napoleon laughed. Like a light snapping on, it suddenly all clicked. He had been here looking for Illya, of course. Foolish that he did not remember that sooner.

"I've been waiting for you," Solo greeted warmly. He stepped out in the rain, oblivious to the droplets soaking his head. "You asked me to trust you," was his slow recollection.

"Yes," Kuryakin replied, critically studying his friend. "Are you all right?"

The question puzzled the older man and his face screwed into an expression of confusion. "I think so." His face calmed and he touched Illya's cheek. "I feel -- safe -- now that you're here." Seeming to struggle against invisible, inner demons, he pulled Illya into a tight hug. "You asked me to have faith in you. I did, Illya."

Kuryakin nodded, careful not to bump into his friend's injured shoulder. "I knew you would."

Napoleon pulled back and stared into his friend's eyes. "I did something important for you. Do you remember?"

"Yes, that was a long time ago." Illya took his arm, and continued in a shaky voice, "It was for me. You did something very important for me. And you promised me something, too."

"What?"

"You promised to trust me." He weighed his words carefully, sadly. "There will be some things you won't remember, Napoleon, but that isn't really important anymore." He shivered as the cold rain slithered down his collar. Or perhaps from the knowledge of how severely the detraining had ravaged the mind of his closest friend. Sixteen years of memories, scraped away. Illya was mildly surprised his image was still part of Napoleon's reference frame. Perhaps, with time, they could reconstruct some of the more important recollections. Maybe if Napoleon remembered him, then circumstances and moments shared would come back eventually. Probably not, his pessimistic nature reverted coldly, but he would ensure that the past would not matter to them.

"Did you come to take me back?"

"No, I came to join you."

The dark-haired, former agent tilted his head in thought. "Us against the world." He pulled the thought from some hidden recess of memory.

Kuryakin smirked. "Yes." He steered the taller man into the doorway of a shop. "Let's go somewhere dry and --"

Solo resisted him. "Where will we go? We don't have jobs." He was suddenly very still and Illya saw some kind of change, as if the mental changing of gears had clicked in and his friend was grasping something for the first time. The brown eyes intently stared into his. "Detraining. They wiped my memories."

"Not all," Illya countered.

"I had no choice --"

"I know. You don't have to apologize for what you went through, Napoleon."

Solo studied him with sympathy. "You resigned." The Russian nodded. "Because of me."

"There was no reason to stay any longer."

Napoleon rubbed his face. "Pieces are coming back, filtering in . . . ."

"It will take some time for the adjustment. My detraining was not so -- extensive." He could only guess at the brutal extremes they had used on Solo. He had not been permitted to see the file, but he knew after Solo's sojourn into the underworld, it would have been drastic. "Be patient." Kuryakin dangled a pair of keys in front of his partner. "Shall we go somewhere dry for lunch?"

Solo's eyes widened. "My Jag --"

"MY Jag," he corrected evilly, pleased that memory was there. So many more to go to restore, so many that would never return. The most important recollections, however -- their history -- seemed pretty much intact. "I have the pink slip." He held his breath. "Remember?"

Napoleon smiled and his expression twisted with wry acceptance. "There is larceny in your heart, Illya," he chided fondly. "I concede, you hold all the high cards. And MY car!" He laughed, the tingle of freedom and sanity filtering into his consciousness.

"Good. Now, I have some plans for us. Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

Kuryakin lead him down the block. "Excellent. I thought we would have lunch and plot our future. How do you feel about Vanya's opening a place here in London?"

"I don't know. I -- it doesn't matter, does it? We're partners."

Kuryakin smiled. It was good to have his world back again A strange new world, but at least they were together. "Yes, we are. Let's go home now, Napoleon."

"Home? Do I have a home? Back -- back, somewhere?"

"No, forward."

Home. It sounded good. He wasn't sure what it would be, but Illya was taking him there and that made it all right. He nodded. Yes. Home was with Illya.
 
 

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Man From Uncle FanFiction
 

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