Behind Blue Eyes

by paulaH and GJ

This tale follows the events as laid down in the stories "Don't Pay The Ferryman", and "Save Me". It is part of the Full Circle Tales by paulaH and GJ.





No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To bethe sad
Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free

No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you

No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through

But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool

If I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat


No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

--BEHIND BLUE EYES By The Who




"Tell me about your childhood." Dr. Hermann Kopf, the new psychiatrist of U.N.C.L.E., flipped through the file in front of him. It was absurdly thin. He looked back up when no answer was forthcoming. "Your childhood?" he prompted, trying to keep his irritation in check with this most infuriating of patients.

"It's classified." The Russian accent barely tainted the man's British English.

Kopf scowled at him, his hold on his temper slipping slightly. "That's absurd. No one's childhood is classified."

Illya Kuryakin, the only Russian agent of U.N.C.L.E., New York, raised one elegant eyebrow. "Mine is," he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Kopf growled through clenched teeth. "You have been ordered to cooperate with me."

"To a point, Mr. Kopf," Illya replied coolly, deliberately omitting the man's professional title. "You reached that point several sessions ago. I am merely coming here because I have also been ordered to show up for this. You have long ceased to ask questions pertinent to my time in Arabia." His time in Italy had not yet come up, and if he had anything to say about it, it never would. He was confused enough about his feelings about Antonio, not to mention those about Napoleon. He didn't need this quack making the waters of his life even murkier.

Kopf scowled. "That's only because you also won't talk about that, either."

"You don't ask questions I can answer."

"Like hell I don't!" he exploded. "You just keep hiding behind Waverly's edict that you don't have to answer anything you feel doesn't pertain. I have no idea if you're lying or telling the truth or what does or does not pertain."

"Perhaps you're in the wrong profession, in that case. You should go into something more suited to your personality." A tiny smile flitted across Illya's lips. "Proctology comes to mind."

Kopf had had enough for one morning. "Get out."

Illya's eyes widened and he scrambled out of his chair, retreating before Kopf could change his mind.

The psychiatrist sat staring at the door as it closed behind the blond Russian. Little bastard, anyway. He defied his doctor's authority at every turn. The agents were bad enough as it was, but Waverly coddled his Russian agent and let him get away with impertinence in a way no other Section Two could.

It was outrageous, but Kopf had not yet figured out a way to get around it. Every time he'd discussed the problem with the head of U.N.C.L.E., New York, the old man basically told him to mind his own business. The one time Kopf threatened Waverly with approaching the rest of Section One, the wily old bastard threatened him with his job. Kopf had no illusions as to who would win that particular little struggle. He'd be thrown out on his ear.

With a sigh that sounded more like a snarl, he reached for another file on the desk. This one he'd had to use some underhanded tricks to get. It contained the notes from other psychiatrists in U.N.C.L.E. employ who had interviewed Kuryakin. For some odd reason it wasn't kept with the usual medical and psychiatric records, but in a section reserved for past employees that were now either dead or no longer with the company. It could be the result of misfiling, but somehow he didn't think so.

He opened it up, adjusted his glasses, and started reading.



Illya gave a low warning growl to whoever went near him the rest of the day. Kopf was enough to turn his entire day, no make that week, sour. He still couldn't understand Waverly's tacit compliance with the man. It almost seemed as if someone in U.N.C.L.E. was out to get him.

A thought bloomed inside Illya's head. Someone in U.N.C.L.E. had to be behind this. Waverly had gone to a lot of trouble to garner his assignment to the organization and jeopardizing it by this constant psychiatric, for lack of a better word, counseling was not something the man was likely to do without careful consideration. If someone were out to topple the head of U.N.C.L.E. New York by discrediting Waverly, then how better to do it than my proving his prime example of cooperation in the Cold War to be an unstable maniac ready to explode. He'd have to look into that more.

A cold knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't an unstable maniac, but he wasn't what would be termed completely stable, either. He didn't need to be a psychiatrist to know that. No one, including Napoleon, understood just why he kept such a tight rein on his emotions. True, he did it to keep himself distant from everyone else. He also kept them pinned down because he feared what he could, and would, do if they ever got away from him. If Kopf ever figured it out, he would not only pull him from the field, he might actually slap him into a mental ward. Illya knew he wasn't crazy now, not really, but that would drive him to it.

If the realization of that prospect weren't enough to top the day, then the too smug face of a smiling Napoleon Solo entering the lab was it. "What do you want?" Illya snapped with a sharp bristled tone.

"Now is that any way to talk to your partner?" Napoleon asked as if rubbing the fact in. He was still reveling in the aftermath of the last affair in Naples. The lengths to which Illya had gone to to save his life had proved that the man cared about him more than he let on.

Illya curled his lip and looked down at the floor. "I'm busy. State your business."

"I was hoping you might consider dinner tonight," Napoleon murmured.

"No thank you," Illya replied holding in all the rage still swirling inside him as he maintained a cold dispassionate exterior. "I have to stay home and wash my rabbit."

"Your what?" Napoleon asked puzzled and then he recalled Illya's old tricks. "Uh.... Do you mean hair?"

Illya smiled falsely. "Yes. That's it."

"Your hair is fine," Napoleon said. "You showered after your workout in the gym this morning."

How did Napoleon know I went there this morning? "Are you following me now?" Illya replied, unsure how he felt about that.

"No," Napoleon replied casually. "I just happened to be going to my physiotherapy and saw you coming out."

Illya was reluctant, but it would be impolite not to inquire as to Napoleon's recovery. He tried to relax a little and asked, "And how is that going?"

Napoleon must have taken that as a sign of Illya's warming demeanor. "Pretty good. The knee is almost ready to take some light running. Why don't we get together for dinner and chat later?" he asked.

Inside Illya cringed. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Napoleon asked folding his arms in an offended gesture. "Don't tell me you're planning on getting it on again with that lab rat in the other room?" It was apparent that he knew about Illya's occasional liaison with Webber.

"You ARE following me!" Illya's temper flared and his voice got lower. A warning sign to those who knew him. "Where I go and with whom is none of your business. I don't care what you do with the secretarial pool. Nor do I want to. And if you want to keep your teeth, you will treat my personal life with the same disinterest."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow knowing Illya wouldn't dare attack him as an enemy. "You don't? You could surprise me by the way you complained about it often enough. What's wrong with you anyway? You've been this way ever since Italy." His eyes narrowed. "Now that I think of it, you were rather chummy with that Vicente fellow while we were there."

Something flashed through Illya's eyes. Napoleon could swear it looked like yearning. Desire. He laughed, stung at the idea there was yet another man Illya preferred to him. Not that it mattered. The Fallen Angel Affair was over and Illya would never see Vicente again. Especially after what had transpired there. "You don't really think that big pompous goof in Naples will want you after the way you deceived him, do you?"

"Get out of my lab," Illya growled balling his fist and quickly shoving it in his pocket to keep from doing something that would only get him disciplined and sent back to Kopf's couch. Antonio Vicente was neither pompous nor a goof. If one compared, Napoleon would fit that description far better than Antonio.

Realization dawned on Napoleon's face that he'd touched a nerve. One that might push Illya too far at the moment. He backed off and tried to look casual with his usual suave smile. "Call me later. We'll talk."

Illya watched him go. That smug attitude grated on him. It was just the thing to remind him of what was really going wrong around here now. If it wasn't bad enough suspecting Waverly of being up to something now Napoleon was back on his case.

Illya shifted his gaze over to his desk and then back to the door again. Waverly. It was best to concentrate on one thing at a time, and Napoleon could go find any old floozy for the night. Illya had to figure out where to start finding out Waverly's motives for this bizarre situation with Kopf.



Dr. Hermann Kopf read through the previous evaluations of other U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrists. He scoffed at the idea. Evaluations, indeed! More like short notes. About ten of them in all, yet the file was thinner than Twiggy.

Patient responses are given readily but do not contain much information. I believe a direct order from his superior is needed in order to complete a proper evaluation. --Dr. Joshua Reed

Mr. Kuryakin is not forthcoming with his answers. It is impossible for me to give a true accounting of his mental state without a complete and total evaluation. Please advise the agent of his need to cooperate or I shall have to pull him from the field until he is ready to do so. --Dr. Armand Martel

A comprehensive evaluation cannot be done at this time due to lack of information on the part of the patient. Mr. Kuryakin MUST be willing to subject himself to intense psychiatric testing in order to keep him field certified. --Dr. Hiro Hitache

On and on the documents ran from various doctors over the course of the ten years since Kuryakin joined the ranks of U.N.C.L.E.. Waverly's response to each and every request was exactly the same.

You must work with him within the parameters I and my Section One colleagues have put forth for this particular agent. His upbringing was unorthodox and you are quite likely to misinterpret many of his answers. Therefore we believe that as long as he does not show strain in the field, he shall remain field certified. If you wish to pull his certification, you must show proof of his inability to perform within the policies of this organization. ---A.Waverly

What kind of unorthodox upbringing? Was it because Kuryakin grew up during World War II in an area torn apart by the German army? Perhaps. In his opinion, that didn't excuse Kuryakin from a full psych evaluation. Far from it. It made it that much more important for the Russian agent to have one. Who knew what kind of scars his early experiences during that horrible time left on the man's psyche?

Kopf sighed. It was time he dashed off a note to the head of U.N.C.L.E., New York for himself. Perhaps he could be more persuading than his predecessors.

I understand Mr. Kuryakin was a child in war-torn Kiev and that he was a witness of the horrors at Baba Yar.

His file indicated at least that much.

I believe I can be of great service to Mr. Kuryakin in this respect. I, too, grew up in a country torn by war. In my case, I lived in the country which committed such atrocities as what happened in Kiev, and my family and I were ashamed to be German at that time. We were part of the underground, which helped smuggle German Jews out of the country.

Therefore I believe I have the background to understand Mr. Kuryakin's upbringing. As such, I implore you to order Mr. Kuryakin to cooperate with me fully and answer any and ALL questions I have so I may finally establish a complete psychiatric profile on him. I believe it will not only be in the best interest of U.N.C.L.E. to do so, but also in the best interest of Mr. Kuryakin. --Dr. Hermann Kopf

Although the desire to threaten to pull the agent from the field ate at him, he refrained from doing so. It hadn't worked for the other psychiatrists and he doubted it would work for him. On the contrary. He felt it would turn Mr. Waverly against him without the man even considering his plea. No, his message conveyed compassion for the young Russian's plight, not idle threats.

If he received the stock answer from Mr. Waverly, he would have to figure out a way to go at this from a different angle. The only thing he knew for certain at this point was that he would not let a curt dismissal from Waverly stop him.



What a stupid idea. Illya wondered what possessed him to believe a direct confrontation with Mr. Waverly about the ordered psyche evaluation would get him anything but a scathing dressing down. He refused to fidget as he sat in Waverly's outer office waiting to be called in for his appointment, so he sat completely still, back ramrod straight against the uncomfortable chair.

Yes, it was stupid, but it was too late to back out now. If he left without following through, Mr. Waverly would simply send for him to find out what he had wanted. He swallowed a sigh of frustration before it could escape. All he needed was for Lisa Rogers to notice his nervousness. If she did, the grapevine would work overtime as the gossips wagged their tongues about the reason for the Iceman's-their nickname for him, not his-visit to their fearless leader.

That would not do. Not at all. He worked hard to keep the speculations about him at a minimum. It didn't work completely, of course. There were always those who delighted in making up things about people when they lacked the facts. He could always dismiss false rumors, though. The ones based in reality bothered him. He perked up at the quiet beep from the console on Lisa's desk.

She flipped a switch and nodded. "Yes, sir." She glanced at him with a small smile. "He's ready for you, Illya."

"Thank you," Illya answered formally as he stood and headed for the office. The door whooshed open at his approach.

Waverly didn't look up as his agent seated himself in his usual chair. "You wished to see me?" he asked gruffly, shuffling papers on his desk.

Illya knew it was a ploy to let his agent know he was wasting valuable time and to get on with it. He got on with it. "Sir, I have just been to see Dr. Kopf yet again."

The older man glanced up sharply, focusing his intense gaze on his Russian agent for the first time since the young man had entered. "How did it go?"

Illya cleared his throat and shrugged. "He asked me questions I couldn't answer."

Waverly folded his hands on the desk giving Kuryakin his full attention. This was one meeting that could prove very difficult. "Such as?"

"About my childhood. About . . . things." Kuryakin straightened, resolution in his eyes. "Sir, when I first came here, we had agreed it would not be in the best interest of either myself or this organization for an in-depth psychiatric evaluation. Why have you changed your mind on this point?"

"My mind hasn't changed."

Confusion flashed in Kuryakin's blue depths, but was gone before it fully took hold. "Then why did you order continuing sessions with Dr. Kopf now? The Arabian fiasco is behind me, and nothing else has happened which might require psychiatric attention."

Waverly thought he heard a subtle note in his agent's voice that said that might not be true. "I'm not certain that is truly the case, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, softening his tone.

Kuryakin eyed him warily. "Sir?"

"Naples." One word. Such a simple one, really. Yet his normally cold, stone faced agent flinched at its intonation. Yes. Something definitely happened in Italy. Probably the something Waverly had been concerned about when assigning this particular agent to that mission.

"Italy was a success, sir."

Waverly nodded. "So it was. Unfortunately I am not the only one in Section One who knows of your previous history involving that city. It was at their insistence that I had to order this present battery of evaluations." He sighed, a slight concession to his beleaguered agent. "Do the best you can, Mr. Kuryakin. I have confidence in your ability to get through these sessions and convince Dr. Kopf of your sanity." Kuryakin would do as his boss ordered, even if it meant his own destruction. Waverly had just given him permission to do whatever necessary to get under the psychiatrist's radar, including subterfuge and out and out lying.

Kuryakin brightened considerably, reading between his superior's lines. As Waverly knew he would, of course. A brilliant mind in this one. He would twist Kopf around until the doctor wouldn't know which way was up. As a result, he would pass the test with flying colors.

The Russian agent left with lightness in his step that hadn't been there upon entering. Waverly sat and pondered the man and the situation. He had hesitated to send Kuryakin to Naples, but in the end he could not avoid it. The missions must come before personal feelings and before his agents' needs. Although he tried not to harbor personal interest or to have favorites, sometimes it just proved impossible.

As with this man. Every time he looked at Illya Kuryakin, he thought of the young man's background and saw the embodiment of the very reason he and the others now known as Section One had formed this organization. To fight against those who would take the innocence of the Kuryakins of the world and manipulate and mold them into the monster this particular agent sometimes came close to being.

He knew one reason Illya Kuryakin wasn't that monster was because of the one man whose foresight sent the young Russian to the U.N.C.L.E. in the first place. Alexei Pavlovich Andreov. The then Major in the KGB-now a General-took Kuryakin under his wing and protected him as best he could when Colonel Sarkov-now Major, in a twist of irony-inducted the boy into an experimental program. Sarkov's theory was that if he could get hold of a child of high intelligence and even higher survival instincts, subject him to intense, specialized schooling and training, he could mold the child into the perfect killing machine. Bloodthirsty, ruthless, with no remorse or conscience to keep him from sleeping at night.

A theory not too far off the mark, at that. Waverly was convinced only the bond Andreov had forged with the boy coupled with the strong influence he wielded had kept that particular experiment from successful fruition. Illya Kuryakin was as bloodthirsty and ruthless as they came under the right circumstances. He did have a conscience, though. A very strong one. Oh, he slept well enough at night when the blood of the day had merit. He could kill anyone without blinking an eye if it meant others would be saved from the same ravages and horrors he'd experienced in his childhood.

Even if a resulting death had no real merit, the Russian could do it and walk away. He could kill a child if ordered to do so. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without emotion of any kind.

Then the young man would go home and be plagued with nightmares for weeks until he could deal with the guilt and lock it away wherever he put such things within himself.

That was the main reason Waverly feared a psychological exam on this agent. Kuryakin could probably handle a psychiatrist with relative ease, telling the man, or woman, what he wanted to hear. Waverly had no doubt the Russian could manipulate any doctor into believing he was perfectly sane.

It was a lie, though, and both he and his agent knew it. Kuryakin wasn't insane. Far from it. He just wasn't quite. . . stable. As long as he could keep his horrors buried, though, Waverly believed the young man could carry on without real problems indefinitely. An in-depth psych exam might stir up old ghosts and release them from their prison. If that happened, Waverly had no idea how Kuryakin would react. He did know the explosion-and subsequent implosion of his agent-could have dire repercussions not only for himself and U.N.C.L.E., but also for the world. Kuryakin knew too much and was far too skilled not to be able to wreak whatever havoc he may desire.

He let out a long-suffering sigh before angrily reaching for a pipe, filling it, and lighting up. Kuryakin would either get around Kopf or he would become a ticking time bomb. If that happened, Waverly's only choice-no matter how repulsive the idea-would be to make sure rather than exploding, Kuryakin would implode.

He hated his job sometimes and if this scenario came around, it would be one of those times. Difficult as it was, though, he would have to set his personal feelings aside and ensure the only one destroyed would be Kuryakin. Unfortunate as it would be, the needs of the one sometimes had to be sacrificed in order to protect the needs of the many.



At seven p.m. in the gentleman's club frequently visited by Dr. Hermann Kopf, the good doctor sat sipping a cocktail and chatting with a friend and colleague of his.

"I'm telling you this case is driving me mad," he said. laughing at the term coming from a psychiatrist's mouth. "Every time I get the least bit close to touching on the root of this patient's psyche. either the time is up, he totally shuts down. or he evades the issue. What I need is an in-depth study to get a real evaluation."

"That's easy," his friend said. "Commit him for a few days. Twenty-four hours observation. If he's a danger to himself or others, then you have to for the public safety."

Kopf shook his head. "I'd like to. I'd really like to, but my hands are tied on this case. I tried increasing his appointments, hoping I could wear him down that way, but it's been useless."

"Wear him down?" the man replied. "You'd get farther by gaining his trust than wearing him down."

Again Kopf shook his head. "That has been impossible. The man is paranoid beyond belief."

The man looked puzzled. "Just what can you tell me about this case?" he asked as one professional to another.

Kopf sighed and put down his drink. He sat back in the lounge chair and made sure they were speaking in private. He lowered his voice and said, "This patient has been raped several times over a long period of time. As a youth he was orphaned during the war, but I have been told almost nothing of the time before he came to the states. I suspect there is a lot of abuse that went on during those years. He represses all emotion, but I can see it there seething beneath the surface. With his access to weapons and placement in dangerous situations, I'm afraid that the public in general is in great danger around him."

"That's all the more reason to have him committed for observation," the man replied. "It's your duty as a doctor, Hermann. We have given our oath to help humanity even if it means doing something against a patient's will if it's in his best interest."

Kopf shook his head. "It's not that simple."

Gustav put a hand on Kopf's sleeve and said, "Then tell me more. I know how hard police officers can be to deal with."

The U.N.C.L.E. shrink almost opened his mouth to deny the police officer statement but rethought it before giving away any secrets. A police officer was close enough to the truth without breaking any rules of secrecy. "This one is a tough nut to crack. Unless I can prove him unfit, my hands are tied."

"You have to get around that if you believe it's in the public's best interests. I'm telling you, it's your duty as a licensed practitioner." He sat back and took a drink of his cocktail. "I would. I don't care who was pressuring me. I took an oath and so did you."

Kopf took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he digested the opinion of his colleague. The man was right. Waverly be damned. U.N.C.L.E. be damned. He had a duty to fulfill and a higher honor to uphold.



Illya peered through the appropriately named spy hole in his door. The misshapen image of Kopf stared back at him. Illya scowled. What did the little weasel want now? He takes up enough of my time at Headquarters. Why should I let him invade me here?

He considered not answering, letting the man think his reluctant patient was out painting the town red, white, and blue. Of course, then he'd probably have to answer to Waverly in the morning about where he was tonight rather than at home awaiting the psychiatrist's visit. He could lie to everyone, Kopf included, and quite convincingly. Unfortunately, he had a personality flaw that prevented him from lying to two people: Waverly and Napoleon.

His scowl deepened. He'd have to let him in. Illya cracked the door. "May I help you?" His polite tone belied the maliciousness glinting out of the small bit of blue that showed through the slit.

Thin lips pursed, Kopf squinted at the crack in the door in search of the owner of the voice. He blinked when he found the hostile slash of blue staring back at him. "Oh, um, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm glad to find you at home."

Illya allowed himself a tiny smug smile at the man's stammer. "Is that all you wanted?"

"Er, no." The psychiatrist rocked slightly on his feet, hands inside the pockets of his brown sweater. With the slight hump he sported, the man looked a little bit like a camel in it. "Actually, I need to talk to you. May I come in?"

What Illya supposed was meant to be an open inviting expression settled on the round face. A fist in the center would close it back up again. Illya's fingers tingled with the thought, but he held back the impulse. He was good at that. He had lots of practice.

"Please," Kopf wheedled. "I just need five minutes of your time."

As if I had a choice, Illya reluctantly admitted. He let the door drop open as he turned around. He might have to allow the man into his home, but he didn't have to be gracious about it. Rudeness might make Kopf uncomfortable enough to leave just as quickly as he came.

Illya heard the snick of the door behind him as he went to plop on the couch. "Just what is it you want?" The last word was barely out of his mouth when he registered Kopf's presence right behind him instead of working his way around to the front of the couch. Before he could react, he felt the prick of a needle and the quick burn of liquid flowing into the puncture now in the side of his neck.

Illya yanked away feeling the sharp pain of the needle snapping and leaving a part of itself buried in his neck. He thought he leapt off the couch, but it seemed more like moving through a vat of molasses. The room swam around him. He tried to throw a vile Russian invective at Kopf, but his thick tongue stumbled over the words.

Kopf's lips moved. "I'm really very sorry it had to be like this," he said, the words slurring like a 78 record played at slow speed. Illya heard no more as his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward.

Kopf attempted to catch him, but he did not maintain the same healthy, strong body as the enforcement agent. What he ended up doing was merely cushioning Kuryakin's fall with his own soft body. He fell backwards, his breath whooping out of him when he hit, the unconscious Kuryakin heavy on his chest.

He wheezed as he struggled out from underneath the blond man and to his feet. "You're heavier than you look," he panted accusingly at the man on the floor. As expected, Kuryakin didn't answer.



"He has training that we will have to get around. I know the procedure, though. After all, I help set it up."

Twelve-year-old Illya lay on the cold metal table. He kept very still and breathed evenly so the Lubyanka psychiatrists would think him still asleep. No point in moving, anyway. They had him strapped down so tightly he could barely twitch his fingers.

"He'll wake soon."

Illya knew that voice. Hated that voice and the man behind it. The psychiatrist that headed the KGB behavioral modification department at Lubyanka. The man whose job it was to break the boy they'd trained so intensely for the last two years. Probably talking to Sarkov, the KGB bastard that oversaw that training. The man who saw him not as a boy, but as an experiment. A project that would help launch him into higher ranks of the KGB.

Illya hated him completely. Hated them all.

Except Andreov. Uncle Alexei when no one else was around and there was no training involved. He liked Alexei. He loved Alexei's sister, Anna, and her husband Sergei. He'd lived with them for the year between the time Andreov found him trying to survive on the streets of Kiev and when Sarkov took him away to become his Experiment.

Sarkov contended he could make the perfect agent if he could get hold of a child old enough to understand the training, but young enough to still be pliable enough to mold to Sarkov's specifications.

He supposed it worked. To a point. What Sarkov didn't understand was that a boy who'd survived on his own on the streets of war torn Kiev wasn't terribly pliable. Illya suppressed a wolfish grin. Not that Sarkov knew that. Illya was a very good actor.

A sigh from the psychiatrist. "Hmm. He should be coming around by now. I thought this one had a better constitution than this." Another sigh. "Let's go get some coffee. Maybe he'll be awake when we get back."

Something nagged at the back of Illya's mind as he listened to the men exit the room. He knew the voice, yes. It was a psychiatrist. But the accent wasn't right. It didn't sound Soviet. Suddenly he was aware he wasn't as awake as he'd originally thought. He fought to bring himself back to full consciousness.

Illya cracked his eyes to make sure he was alone before opening them wide. The dream . . . memory . . . faded into the background as he became fully aware of his surroundings. He now realized this was not the Lubyanka and that he was no longer that boy strapped to a gurney. No. Now he was an adult man strapped to a different gurney.

Disjointed memory stammered in his mind. Kopf! Injected something. Why? Was he THRUSH? A traitor?

Illya looked around for clues as to where he was. Not the medical section. He knew that place intimately and this wasn't it. Not a THRUSH cell, although he supposed it could be one of their labs. No instruments of torture in evidence. That made it a maybe, maybe not.

The place smelled of antiseptic and disinfected sickness. THRUSH labs usually had the scent of new and old spilled blood, chemicals, and fear-that coppery tang, an unmistakable odor. That turned the possibility of this being a THRUSH lab into a probably not.

A quiet "ding" sounded from an intercom, followed by an announcement requesting Doctor Cline in OR One. A hospital. What in the world was he doing in a hospital? He was healed from the injuries of his last mission. The physical ones, at any rate. His mind shied away from any other thoughts of his mission in Naples but he forced it back. Was that it? Did Waverly surmise his agent's emotional entanglements that resulted from the resurrection of the Angelo persona and order Kopf to do something about it? To terminate Angelo once and for all?

He shivered at the idea. In order to do that, Kopf would have to do some serious toying with Illya's mind, and Illya Kuryakin hated such things. If he wanted to be brutally honest with himself, he'd realize hate was too mild a word. Terror fit much better. Terrified at the thought of a psychiatrist digging into his psyche.

No wonder he'd flashed back to the trauma of those days-weeks - he was never sure-spent in Lubyanka. Those psychiatrists had done unspeakable things to the twelve-year-old boy.

He shivered as the memories of that time strained to break free of the confines of his tightly controlled emotional prison. He clamped down tighter, desperately trying to hold them back. To let them free courted disaster.

Too busy trying to hold himself together, he didn't hear Kopf's return until too late.

"Good!" Kopf crowed in delight. "You're awake." Kuryakin's eyes popped open and Kopf took a step back at the wild look in them. He mentally shook himself. An after effect of the drug. Poor man. Kopf hated his need to resort to these tactics, but he'd really had no choice. Of course, once this was all over, he would probably lose his job, but his conscience simply couldn't look the other way when a man with the skills and responsibilities of Illya Kuryakin, number two of Section 2 of the U.N.C.L.E. might be unstable. It was a danger not only to the members of society but also to Kuryakin himself.

He would try to make this as easy as possible for Kuryakin, though. He owed the man that much. He smiled and reached out to tenderly brush the sweaty blond hair away from his patient's face. At that moment, the eyes instantly transformed from those of a frightened, uncertain innocent to those of a cold-blooded killer.

"Don't touch me."

Kuryakin's tone blew over Kopf like an icy wind. He snatched his hand away from Kuryakin's face, an automatic response to an implied threat.

The doctor steadied himself and straightened his jacket as if to show who was superior here. He cleared his throat. "For the moment I will honor that wish," he said in a slightly shaky tone. "As our sessions progress, that may need to change."

"What sessions?" Kuryakin growled not flinching an inch on the outside although his stomach quivered with anxiety at what lay ahead. "When Waverly learns of this, you will be dismissed from your job and U.N.C.L.E. if not facing legal charges as well."

Kopf shrugged "Even if that were the case, I would still do this because my conscience would be clear, and that is of utmost importance when it comes to the greater good of public safety."

"You're mad," Kuryakin hissed. "Where am I?" he demanded to know.

Kopf looked around at the room and shook his head. "A hospital, of course. In fact, it is a private hospital run by a colleague of mine. There is no sense trying to talk your way out of here with the staff. They've already been informed of your delusions of being a spy and law enforcement agent. And if you talk to the other patients at all, you'll find out that they have a George Washington here as well as two Elvises. Saturday night entertainment in the patients' lounge can be quite good."

If the whole thing hadn't been so outrageous, Kuryakin would have laughed at the preposterousness of it all. "You're mad," he repeated incredulously.

Kopf laughed. "No but I believe you possibly could be. I aim to see that you are cured and returned to the world a safer and more stable person."



Napoleon wasn't concerned to not see Illya first thing in the morning. Nor was he concerned that he hadn't seen the moody Russian by lunchtime as he worked in his office that morning. He did want to talk to Illya though and wanted to make sure the man didn't leave the building without meeting up with him, so as late afternoon approached Napoleon wandered down to the labs.

Unlike his usual charming self, Napoleon gave Frank a slight sneer as he passed on his way toward Illya's private office where the man was probably sequestered trying to avoid the constant pestering of his partner.

"Illya?" he called out after rapping lightly on the door without answer.

"He's not in," Frank offered as he walked over. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Solo?"

Running his gaze down and then up Frank's body as he neared, he then gave him a dismissive glance. "No. I was just looking for Illya. Did he leave early today?"

Frank frowned and shook his head. "No. Never came in as far as I know. I thought he was in section one today but he didn't come down for the daily briefing. Maybe he's on assignment."

No he's not. I'd know since I'm Number One of Section One, he wanted to retort but didn't feel like giving Frank the satisfaction of including him as an equal. Whatever Illya saw in the man, he couldn't understand.

"Never mind," Napoleon replied. "I'll talk to him later."

As Napoleon walked through the corridors toward his office again, he mulled over where Illya could possibly be. The gymnasium was one likely place. A learned man, Napoleon at once pictured the origins of the word, Greek - to exercise naked, and that brought a pretty picture of Illya's tightly muscled backside to Napoleon's mind. As he was to find out moments later when he stopped by, Illya was not there nor had he been all day.

Napoleon spent about half an hour looking around the building trying not to look as if he were searching for his partner. He chatted with several people slipping the question -oh have you seen Illya by any chance- in each conversation. With each negative response he was getting more and more concerned. In the end there was nowhere to go but Waverly's office. He couldn't imagine the old man sending Illya out on a solo mission right now but it wasn't out of the question.

Ultimately it came down to standing outside the head man's office, contemplating what to say. Napoleon stood there puzzled until Lisa looked up from her desk.

"Napoleon? Did you want to see Mr. Waverly or do you just want to stand there staring at the door?"

He moved toward her turning on his charm without even thinking twice about it. "Perhaps I won't need to if you can help me," he cooed.

The reaction was typical and almost instantaneous. "That depends on what you have in mind?" she said automatically slumping forward in her seat exposing her ample cleavage his direction.

Moving in closer Napoleon revved up the sex appeal. "Information, that's all. Just a little bit of information."

Batting her eyelashes she licked her lips with alluring intentions. "That depends on what kind of information."

"Nothing too top secret I'm sure," he teased.

"So what is it you want to know?" she asked.

"Miss Rogers," Waverly's strong tone echoed in his words. "Would you please save that kind of display for your bedroom? Send Mr. Solo in when he has a moment if you would."

She sat up straight and closed the top button of her blouse out of modesty. "Yes sir." She looked up at Solo with an admonishing expression. Don't keep him waiting or we'll both be in trouble.

Solo blew her a discreet kiss before getting up to follow Waverly into the office.

"If you're quite through contaminating my secretary with your flirtatious drivel," Waverly began, "I have something to discuss with you. Please take a seat."

Napoleon sat down in his usual chair although it felt strange to be there without Illya. "If this is a mission sir, perhaps we should wait for Illya."

"He's not here," Waverly stated. "I'll be sending you out with Burke on this one. Just a short mission to meet with a potential source of THRUSH information."

"Oh? And where is Mr. Kuryakin?" he asked as if trying to be casual about it.

"Vacation. He sent in a letter of request yesterday and it was granted."

Illya? A vacation? That's not like him at all. Solo kept his misgivings to himself. "Where's he going?"

"It was just a request and Dr. Kopf supported the application. I signed and returned it. Now if we may continue with the briefing?"

Solo nodded and gave him a weak smile of acceptance although his mind was racing to explore more of this new development.



The nurse hesitated. "But Dr Kopf, this drug hasn't been approved for use on patients yet."

"I'm well aware of that, Nurse Robins. This is a special case, though, and I want it administered every six hours." Kopf knew that the usual drugs would be useless on Kuryakin. It was U.N.C.L.E.'s practice to administer a blocker regiment of drugs to counteract most common psychotropic drugs used in interrogations. This was new and almost ready for human trials to treat the schizophrenics, and Kopf thought he'd have a better chance with Kuryakin's therapy by using them.

"Yes, Doctor," she said dubiously. She took the vial and syringe out of Kopf's hand and headed for the patient's room. She stood outside for a moment composing herself. No good letting the patient see how uncertain she felt about his treatment. A deep breath. A smile plastered onto her face. A push on the door and a hearty, "Good morning, Mr. Curry!"

"Kuryakin," the patient growled.

The smile faltered slightly. "Pardon?"

"My name is Kuryakin. Illya Kuryakin. If the good doctor insists on kidnapping me, he could at least get my name correct."

Nurse Nanci Robins felt a renewed pang of uncertainty and then relaxed as she remembered this man was suffering from the delusion that he was a Russian spy. At least he'd come up with a Russian sounding name. "If you prefer to be called Mr. Kuryakin, I'll do so. For now. Eventually, though, you'll have to come to terms with your real name and real circumstances."

Illya scowled. "That is my real name." He gave an exaggerated scan of the room. "And unfortunately these are my real circumstances. That madman Kopf warned me he'd told the staff that is the reason I'm here. I assure you, however, Miss . . ." He read her nametag. "Robins. That is not the case. I really am an agent for an international agency called the U.N.C.L.E. I can give you a phone number to call and verify that I am not the least bit delusional."

She smiled. "I'll do that. What is the number?"

The patient's eyes widened in surprise at her willingness to believe him. He quickly rattled off the phone number.

Nanci patted his hand. "I'll call them as soon as I leave here." Of course, she had no intention of doing so. Experience taught her these people often forgot about the little matter of verification right after they demanded it.

She felt a little better about the drug treatment the doctor prescribed now. This man was even more delusional than the Elvis, she thought. At least the Elvis wannabe answered to his real name a majority of the time and seemed to know on a certain level he was lying to himself. This man obviously had immersed himself into his lie.

She stuck the needle into the vial and prepared the shot.

The man flinched away from her. "What are you doing? Please call my employers before you fill me with Kopf's vile potions."

"Don't worry," she cooed, tapping the syringe and depressed it enough to expel any air trapped inside. "This is just to help you relax. You'll sleep awhile and when you wake up, I'll have already made the call."

"I don't suppose I have a choice in the matter," he mumbled. He clenched his jaw but remained completely still as she plunged the compound into his vein.

Robins stayed with him until the drug took effect to make sure he had no bad reactions. While she did so, she studied his features. He was a good-looking man, no doubt about it. Blue eyes that were bright with awareness but rapidly dulling due to the drugs in his system. She wondered what really lurked behind those blue eyes. Fine facial features. Ethereal. The face of an angel but with a hardness that suggested he was perhaps one of the fallen ones instead of God's chosen. Blond hair that just cried out to be touched.

Without thinking she reached out and did so. Just to give him comfort, she told herself. It was as soft and silky as it appeared. At least the parts not drenched with sweat. He was scared. Poor thing. "It's all right, Mr. Curry. This is an excellent hospital. We have a very good recovery rate. I'm sure you'll be well soon and this will all just seem like a bad dream."

"Don't. . .need. . .anymore. . .bad. . .dreams," he slurred, head lolling to one side. His lovely eyes fluttered in an attempt to remain focused on her face.

"Don't fight it, darling," she said soothingly. "It won't be painful. I promise."

Little did she know just how wrong she was in her assessment.



Burke frowned as he drove toward Maine. "You aren't very talkative."

Napoleon gave a slight grunt for a reply.

"That's what I mean," Burke responded. "Penny for your thoughts."

Napoleon looked at him like he was nuts. "Just keep your eyes on the road."

"They are, but there's nothing wrong with a little conversation. You haven't said two words since we started out. Something bothering you?"

"No. What makes you think that?" Napoleon asked.

"You were never this quiet when we were first paired up when I first joined U.N.C.L.E."

Napoleon took in and slowly let out a long deep breath. "I was your training agent back then."

"We would have made a great team if they kept us together," Burke surmised aloud.

"Illya is my partner. I like it that way," Napoleon responded in no uncertain terms.

Burke was quiet for awhile. He wondered if there was any way he could break through that seemingly devoted attachment that Solo for some reason had for that scrawny Russian. "Well, a change is as good as a rest, they say."

"What do you mean by that?" Napoleon asked wondering if Burke was up to something.

"Nothing," he said with a smile and a shrug. "I guess Kuryakin taking a holiday is kind of like giving you a holiday, too." He glanced at Napoleon's expression and decided to add, "Uh...sort of... right?"

Napoleon turned toward the window and made a disapproving face. "If you value your chance of having children someday, you'll watch what you say from now on."



Illya tried working his wrists free with slow determination. That was until the medication began to dull his senses and interfere with his normal coordination. He was finding the task impossible for as long as he could concentrate on it.

Finally his head began to swim, and the thoughts that formed were bizarre and confusing. He felt so relaxed as if he was floating on a cloud. It was an unnatural feeling for him, but for some reason he didn't really care.





Kopf sat back in the leather chair and gazed out the window of the office at the secure grounds of the hospital. He felt fortunate in having such a close associate with unquestioning access to the place. Now all he had to do was get his patient talking so that he could help the man.

Kopf turned around and began to write notes in the secret chart he created for Kuryakin. He began with the date and then a brief introduction.

Patient: Ian Curry - personal details to follow

Mr. Curry exhibits signs of extreme paranoia and has the potential to be extremely violent. His childhood, family, parents, schooling, etc. are all closely guarded secrets; possibly the source of the paranoia and even his threatening behavior. Many co-workers express fear in his presence.

(He refrained from naming himself among those fearful of Kuryakin)

The simplest of questions bring threats and it seems the man is on the verge of breaking down totally. This may stem from recent events in his life such as being the victim of kidnapping, slavery, and homosexual rape. Repeated homosexual rape. The man refuses to discuss his feeling on these incidences with more than blas comments. Any in-depth probing beyond that is met with stonewalling tactics.

Treatment of this patient will consist of analysis with the aid of medication to relax his mind and body with the eventual goal of gaining his confidence and exploring the background sufficiently to make him face the events in his life and deal with them rather than suppress the anger until the only outcome is to explode in violent uncontrolled rages.

MDMA - Methylenedioxymethamphetamine - has developed a reputation for enhancing communication, reducing psychological defenses, and increasing the capacity for introspection. It would normally be my first choice of treatment but the patient would be unwilling to voluntarily take the medication. Although anal insertion is possible with this drug, it would also be difficult to administer it to the patient. I am not convinced this medication would be strong enough to effectively limit the barriers set up in the patient's mind either.

The advantage of continuing the treatment of this patient here at the hospital is that in the controlled environment, he can be safely contained and treated with HMDMA, a further refined derivative of the above mentioned Methylenedioxymethamphetamine. It is stronger and easier to administer since it can be used in a liquid injectable state. Unlike the relatively large difference between effective dosage and lethal overdose of MDMA the HMDMA has a narrower margin for error. Although not approved for testing yet, I feel this merits the usage due to the urgency of this case.

Kopf put down his pen and read over his entry before slipping the papers into the file folder and tucking them into a drawer in the desk. He turned the little key in the lock and then tucked it into his vest pocket for safe keeping.



"Did you administer the shot?" Kopf asked the nurse upon his arrival to Illya's private room.

"Yes, sir," Robins answered. Her brow knitted in puzzlement. "He's been mumbling."

"Oh? What has he said?" The portly psychiatrist loosened his tie and took off his expensive Italian tailored jacket in preparation for the coming session. He expected it to be a long one and wanted to be comfortable.

Nurse Robins blew out a breath in frustration. "I really don't know. He's not speaking English. Is his psychosis so ingrained in him he actually thinks in Russian?"

Kopf cleared his throat. "It is possible." He had thought of every problem that might arise during this little charade and devised plausible reasons for all of them. Except this one. He never thought about how Kuryakin, a Russian, might think in Russian and might respond to an interrogation in that language. At least while under the influence of drugs. Luckily, Kopf understood Russian and wouldn't need a translator.

Translator! Good idea! "He, uh, is a translator for the UN," he said, mind working rapidly. "He translates for the Russian contingency. I believe that's why he's latched onto the Russian spy scenario. It started as paranoia about the Russians for which he translated being spies, then he segued into being a spy himself. Very interesting case."

"Oh, my!" Robins exclaimed. "Well, that makes sense."

Kopf smiled in relief, glad she accepted his flimsy explanation.

Kopf nodded. "Yes. Well, I'd like to start my first session. You may leave now. I'll call you if I need you."

She glanced at him, startled. "Oh. Yes. Of course." She left the room softly closing the door behind her.

Kopf turned to Kuryakin and rubbed his hands together. "Let's get this started, shall we?" He pulled his chair next to the head of the bed and sat down where his patient could see him. "Hello, Illya," he said in his friendliest tone.

Kuryakin blinked at him owlishly as his brain chugged sluggishly in an attempt to place the face. "You work for U.N.C.L.E. Doctor...Doctor Schiesskopf?"

Kopf's lips tightened at being called Doctor Shithead. Even under the influence of powerful drugs, the little bastard could get his goat. Kopf forced himself to remain calm and keep the smile on his face. "Kopf," he corrected with a false joviality.

Illya stared at him for a long moment. "Are you sure it's not Schiesskopf?"

Kopf kept his lips stretched in a parody of a smile. "Quite sure."

"Oh. Pity." Illya's gaze never quite focused as he looked around.

The drug didn't seem to be doing what it was supposed to. Kopf looked at his watch. Maybe he hadn't waited long enough for it to kick in or perhaps the dosage wasn't quite high enough. "Why don't you rest for now? I'll be back shortly."

"I look forward to it," Illya said in a dry tone that suggested he really felt otherwise.

Disappointed, Kopf went to find the nurse. Since Kuryakin so often got drugged, his resistance to them was probably quite high. The dosage would need to be upped in order to overcome that resistance. "Did you give Mr. Kurya...Curry the dosage I requested?"

Nurse Robins blinked. "Of course, sir," she said indignantly.

"I think we need to up it a bit." He wrote a notation on "Curry's" chart. "Please administer this right now."

She took the chart from him and glanced at it. "Are you sure?"

He glared at her. "Are you questioning my orders?"

She blushed. "Well, no sir, not exactly. This just seems like a lot, especially since it's a relatively experimental drug."

"Mr. Curry has a high resistance to drugs. I was hoping to circumvent that with the lower dosage, but apparently it's not going to work. Rest assured I wouldn't put my patient in jeopardy. Administer the drug and then monitor him closely until I return." He put a paternal hand on her shoulder even though what he really wanted to do was to wrap it around her interfering neck.

"Yes, sir," she relented, her eyes still reflecting her concern. Even so, she was a professional and she went to administer the shot.

Thirty minutes later Kopf entered Kuryakin's room once more. "How are you feeling at the moment?" Kopf asked.

Illya licked his lips. "Good." He smiled at the man standing over him. He wasn't quite sure why he hated this man. He knew there were reasons, but right now they just didn't seem to be important. "Relaxed." He looked around. "Where exactly am I?"

"In a psychiatric hospital U.N.C.L.E. uses." Kopf knew he would have to keep Kuryakin believing this was an U.N.C.L.E. sanctioned situation or even with the man drugged to the gills Kopf didn't think he would talk to him. "Waverly ordered you to be brought here and for me to treat you."

The added authority of Waverly should ensure cooperation. The drug was not a truth serum so he knew he couldn't treat Kuryakin as though he were under the influence of one. What he hoped for it to do was to force Illya to a level of cooperation he wouldn't normally have. The combination of the drug and Waverly's authority should do the trick.

Kopf smiled. This was going to work out just splendidly. "Do you mind if we have a little talk?"

"Mr. Waverly asked for me to do this?"

"He did, indeed."

"Then I guess I don't mind," Illya said as he yawned and attempted to stretch. The restraints stopped him and he frowned. "Are these really necessary? Did I try to hurt someone?" He blinked. "The last thing I remember was letting you into my apartment. His eyes widened. "Did I try to hurt you? I can't seem to remember much after that."

Kopf stared at Kuryakin's stricken face, amazed at the difference in the man's attitude. He had no doubt that without the influence of the drug, the Russian would be asking the question with hope in his eyes, not concern. "As a matter of fact, you did try to choke me," he lied. Couldn't tell him the truth. That wouldn't go far in establishing his patient's trust.

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry," Illya said apologetically. "I hope I didn't cause permanent damage?"

"Not at all." Kopf patted his arm, pleased to see Kuryakin neither flinched nor recoiled at the touch. This was going well already. Excitement made his heart flutter. This was going to work! "If you promise not to try anything again, I'll unfasten the restraints." He didn't think he would need them anymore. Kuryakin appeared docile enough.

"I promise."

Kopf kept a close eye on his patient as he unfastened the padded cuffs. Kuryakin rubbed his wrists but didn't try anything otherwise. Kopf sat back down convinced he would have no trouble from the man as long as he was under the influence of the drug. "Let's get this started, shall we?" He clicked on a tape recorder and picked up his notebook. "Tell me about your childhood."



Burke was growing restless, and the proof of that was how he kept getting up and pacing in front of the window. "Where is he?" the inexperienced agent asked.

Napoleon tried concentrating on a game of solitaire to pass the time. Calmly, as he turned over another card, he replied without looking up. "I know as much as you. Our orders were to check into the Boston Bayshore Inn and wait for them to contact us." It was difficult to do even as he spoke the words. He couldn't wait for this assignment to be over so he could go see why Illya suddenly would do the unthinkable and take a holiday. It was so totally out of character for the Russian.

Burke sighed and then frowned. "So you're just going to sit there and play cards by yourself."

Napoleon glanced up at the man and raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're over there pacing like an expectant father. I can't very well play cards with you while you're doing that."

"They could have sent the last woman in the secretarial pool for this instead of wasting the time of U.N.C.L.E.'s best agents."

Napoleon was growing tired of Burke's self admiration. Already on edge from his own nagging worry about Illya, he snapped back, "I think you'll have to have a few more affairs under your belt before you can claim that distinction."

Burke cocked his head at Napoleon. "Well, I'm not likely to get it sitting in this dump waiting for a no show contact."

"If you had any sense, you'd realize just how important times like this can be." Napoleon wished he could enjoy it. Relax. Be happy with the mundane nature of the situation but it just wasn't happening.

"You must be getting past your prime if you think this is fun, Napoleon," Burke stupidly stated.

The tension already built up inside of him, Napoleon stood up and walked over to Burke with deliberate intent in his eyes. "I've had just about enough of you. It's time you learned what real agent work is all about."

Burke shook in his boots at Napoleon's approach. It was then he learned just what made Solo so feared by THRUSH agents and baddies in general.

Napoleon didn't leave a mark. There were no witnesses. Not a sound escaped that attracted attention.

The only evidence that anything unusual had occurred was the fact Burke had to change his pants and would need to do laundry. He couldn't possibly face anyone and tell them he'd shit himself out of pure fear. The only thing more humiliating than that was the realization he'd just pissed off the one agent he so badly wanted to be working with. It left him with a lot to think about.

Napoleon left the room to have a cigarette outside on the walkway. Drawing in a long puff of smoke, he tried to calm down. It upset him to have lost his temper like that. Especially since it was one of their own people. Why did Illya have to do this to him? Why did his life seem to be falling apart just when he thought he had it made?



"Push him too far and he'll let you know," Mark said with a grin to April Dancer. Slade and Agent Dancer were back from a month long assignment in France.

"Napoleon is much too sweet for that kind of thing," she replied. "You'd have to really irritate him to get him that mad."

"I'm telling you, if Waverly doesn't put Illya and Napoleon back together again so they can straighten out what's going on between them, something or someone is going to blow." He lowered his voice. "Napoleon doesn't want another partner. He wants Illya back permanently."

She shook her head. "I've talked to Illya, and he likes working in the lab. He'd like to be in the field, but every time someone mentions Napoleon he gets that look in his eye like he'd rather be in the lab than anywhere near him."

"This argument is really pointless anyway. Maybe Waverly has already put them back together."

April spotted her bag on the luggage conveyor. She dragged it from the moving belt. "They've been together longer than any other agents have before. I think he'll separate them just because of that."

Mark shrugged. He knew from the backup position he held in Naples that there was more to this whole situation than she understood. "Well, it's not for us to decide. The old man knows what he's doing."

"It's been too long," April said. "I think this separation is eroding both their talents. Maybe it's too late already."

Mark grabbed his bag and hauled it off the conveyor. "Let's get a cab and get out of here. I'm tired and just want to get home."

April sighed. "Yeah. Me too," she agreed and then they headed outside.



"My childhood?" Illya frowned. "I don't really want to talk about that. Let's talk about something else. Like love." The frown deepened. "Let's not talk about that, either."

Kopf heart leaped. Illya Kuryakin even mentioning love? This was going to work fine. He kept his enthusiasm in check. Didn't want to make Kuryakin clam up again. "Are you in love?" It must be uppermost on the Russian's mind in order for it to be the first thing he mentioned.

"I . . ." Illya's brow furrowed. "What's it like?"

Kopf blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"What's it like?"

"Love?"

"Yes."

"You don't know what it's like to be in love?" Kopf was astonished. Yes, okay, the man didn't exhibit many emotions, but he was human. Surely he'd been in love at least once in his life.

Kuryakin's laugh held a note of sadness. "I wouldn't know, now would I?"

"Well, you know what it is like for someone to love you. Your mother and father and the like."

The frown returned, marring the man's handsome features. "I suppose it would depend on whether my mother and father disappeared because they had no choice or if they did because they didn't want us."

Kopf scribbled into his notebook furiously. He had found the key to getting Kuryakin to talk about his childhood. Talk around it and lead him carefully into the past before he realized that he was telling Kopf all about it. "What do you think?"

Kuryakin didn't respond immediately. Finally, though, he sighed. "My father, maybe. My mother . . ." A shrug. "I think my father was whisked away and killed for his convictions. My mother...I'm not so sure. She went to get food one day and never came back. She might have run into some Germans. On the other hand, she might not have wanted to keep taking care of three young children. With her it could have been either. I always had the feeling she resented us." He stirred restlessly. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Of course," Kopf said smoothly, happy with what he had so far. No need to push him. They had plenty of time to explore that line of questioning further later. "As for what being in love feels like." He sat back and tapped his pen to his lips. "You think about the other person all the time when you're not with her. Can't wait to see her again. Feel happy when she's with you." He glanced at his patient with an expression of humor. "You DO know what it feels like to be happy, don't you?" he said in wry amusement.

"I know what contentment and satisfaction feel like," Kuryakin answered sounding defensive. "That's enough."

Kopf studied the younger man. The blue eyes refused to meet his gaze, staring instead at a spot on the ceiling. He's serious, Kopf realized with a jolt. "You've never been truly happy?" he asked, voice filled with compassion.

The Russian's gaze slid over to touch Kopf's face then moved away again. "No," he finally answered, so softly Kopf barely heard him. "Although I think I came close more recently."

Kopf sat back in mute shock and horror. No wonder the man was so unbalanced. To have never experienced love or even happiness would be enough to unhinge anyone. His pity for the man overwhelmed him, and he vowed to make this poor wretch whole again no matter how long it took.



Illya lay on the bed thinking about the conversation he'd had with Kopf. Kopf. For the life of him, he couldn't remember why he hated the doctor. A good man. Full of compassion. For me.

The thought was really quite astounding, and Illya mulled it over for a few minutes. The idea that someone actually cared deeply enough to go to such great lengths to help him practically brought him to tears.

His mind shifted to their conversation about love and happiness. Love. A word he'd never thought of in relation to himself until recently. Until his affair with Napoleon. Then the time he spent with Antonio in Naples. How was it possible that a man like him, a man who had never experienced love, could find it twice in so short a time?

His euphoria faded as he remembered how each relationship had ended. Napoleon didn't love him. Only saw him as he saw his women. An outlet for his raging libido and a stroke for his enormous ego. A novelty, yes, but still relegated to the same place in Napoleon's life as the man's other lovers.

They'd had such a strong bond already formed as partners and friends. Best friends, Napoleon once said. Napoleon managed to break through all the barriers, melt the ice around his frozen heart. Because of that Illya had allowed the relationship to expand. Allowed the sex because he thought it would simply enhance the feelings they already had for each other. How could he be so wrong?

He snorted derisively. He knew. The two months with Laheeb shifted his way of thinking about love and sex so drastically it was inevitable he would make such a huge mistake with Napoleon. Not that he'd loved Laheeb. Far from it. Yet in the Arab Prince's bed he'd found an odd sort of happiness. He'd been Laheeb's slave yet he'd felt freer than at any other time in his life.

It was the first time he allowed himself to enjoy having sex with a man. Always before he did it for a mission. Found pleasure in it only to further that mission, or so he led himself to believe. Until Arabia.

Laheeb loved him in his own weird, twisted way. After Illya returned home, he felt so empty. So . . . alone. Lonely. He had thought he'd destroyed that particular state of being within himself as a child, but being Laheeb's love slave awoke the beast once more. He had been miserable those first couple of weeks afterwards.

Then Napoleon suggested they have sex again, and Illya's world turned upside down. Napoleon cared for him, too? He had thought so, but he'd been wrong. Napoleon was disgusted by him and only fucked him because he wanted to keep his partner in line and focused. Why else would he run to some woman's arms the moment he pulled out of his partner's ass? The love he'd felt for Napoleon quickly soured once he discovered that turn of events, and he hovered precariously close to hatred for his partner. Yet he couldn't quite achieve that, either, because he still cared about Napoleon's health and life.

And Antonio. Ah, that was a whole other kind of festering wound. Unlike Illya's partner, Antonio Vicente loved him passionately, deeply, and completely. Sort of. At least he loved Angelo, the persona Illya had taken on for both the mission he'd done for the KGB the first time he met Antonio and this last mission for U.N.C.L.E. when he'd met the big Italian again.

Illya knew his own heart became compromised during the mission. Exactly which mission he was unsure about. He thought he'd fallen for Antonio the first time. This last time just brought it all back and strengthened it. Until Antonio found out Angelo was using him to get to the real target.

The look of hurt and betrayal in Antonio's beautiful brown eyes had been almost too much to bear. The contempt he showed towards him afterward struck Illya in a heart he found out too late was not the withered, frozen lump he'd always thought.

Illya closed his eyes in pain, trying to hold back the fat tears that wanted to squeeze out from between his clenched lids. Why was this happening? Why was he feeling this so acutely now? Where the HELL was his vaunted self control?

Just as his previous sense of euphoria phased towards anger, Nurse Robins arrived with yet another shot.

Twenty minutes later, Illya couldn't remember why he had been so upset. Life was good and he drifted in a sea of happiness.



In his office Kopf couldn't have been happier. He could barely contain his glee. With a drink of fine bourbon on his desk to celebrate, he began to make another entry into his notes.

The increase in dosage of the prescribed treatment has brought forth promising results. Illya Kuryakin, known as Ian Curry while here in the hospital, believing the process sanctioned by U.N.C.L.E., and relaxed sufficiently by the medication, has begun to relate childhood memories.

Of course, these are just the preliminaries of what is undoubtably going to be a long term analysis which is much, much overdue.

We have scratched the surface of the man's feelings of abandonment and lack of emotional nurturing in his youth.

I must go deeper into his memories, but it will be a slow process. As long as he believes he is following U.N.C.L.E. requirements, his cooperaation is ensured. I will have to keep him belieing that is true.

With the notebook closed again, Kopf leaned back and took a long sip of his drink. This case would surely make him famous in the medical journals when he wrote it up years from now.



Mark stretched at the desk. The bones in his spine cracked loudly as he leaned back and extended his arms over his head. He yawned and flexed his shoulders.

"I wish we could just come home and leave the reports till tomorrow."

April closed the folder on hers. "Well, I'm done. There is nothing else that can't wait until tomorrow," she said. "I'm going home."

"I can give you a ride if you like," he said as he put down the pen. "We could stop for a nightcap on the way."

She shook her head and walked over to give him a friendly peck on the cheek. "No, thank you. I have an errand to do on the way home."

"Oh? And what would that be?" he asked, standing up to stretch some more.

"I promised Illya a bar of swiss chocolate from that shop in Paris. I'm going to drop it off on the way."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Pick me up on your way in," he told her and patted her arm as they parted ways.



April yawned as she waited at the stop light. The trip back to the United States had been a long one. All she wanted was to get home and sink into a nice hot bath and lounge the night away.

Traffic was getting bad at this hour, and she really wondered if her errand was that vital. Illya could probably survive the night without his chocolate as long as he didn't know she was back from Paris with it yet. If he was that keen on having right away, she thought he could even come to her place to get it.

She smiled to herself as she thought of the last time she brought the chocolate. Napoleon had asked for a small piece, and Illya was too stingy to share even the smallest morsel with him. There was something about chocolate that was like gold to Illya. He never would explain it to her.

A car honked after a few moments of the green light when April showed no signs of moving. She snapped out of her thoughts and looked around before waving and proceeding onward. April took a long deep breath and decided she would deliver the chocolate tomorrow. Illya wouldn't starve without it, she was sure.

The next corner April kept going straight and went toward her own apartment building. Illya would understand.



Burke spent a restless night in bed. He was nervous listening to Napoleon sleep in the other bed. The memory of their discussion, although that was a poor word for it, left him feeling so totally demoralized and defeated that he wasn't sure this was really the right move for him. The RCMP in the wilds of the Canadian wilderness seemed tame compared to the events of the past day. He didn't want to leave U.N.C.L.E. He'd spent so much time and effort to get into the organization and when it came right down to it he really loved the idea of being an agent.

Working with, or even for, Napoleon again was simply not something he wanted to do. He didn't think he could manage to pretend that he would. There was only one way to go as far as he could see, and he'd talk to Waverly about it when he got back from this assignment. His mind was made up and he pulled the covers up closer under his chin and cowered to sleep.



"It's getting late Mr. Curry," Nurse Nanci said as she made her rounds to get the patients back to their rooms. She walked over and turned off the television. A couple patients let out a groan of protest but made no aggressive moves over the rules.

Illya looked up from the chessboard where he was studying a very tricky situation he remembered reading in one of his journals some time ago. "It is not late," he said, stating a fact.

"Well the hospital has rules Mr. Curry. You don't want me to get in trouble, now do you?" she asked walking over to him. She found herself more attracted to him now that he was much calmer. As she studied his eyes, a window into the soul she believed, it almost took her breath away. She steadied herself thinking that it was the motherly instinct in her although she was single and childless at the moment.

"Why should you be in trouble for me playing chess?" he asked not understanding the reasoning.

She stood next to him casually and placed a hand in her pocket. The fingers touched the wrapper of the chocolate bar she'd tucked in there from her lunch kit. "Will you be a good boy for me if I give you a treat?" she asked and pulled out the bar just a smidge for him to see.

His gaze touched on the chocolate, flicked to the chess board, then up to her face. No guile there. Just genuine interest and concern for her patients. He sighed and turned to put away the chess pieces. "No, I don't want you to get in trouble."

She accompanied him to his room, followed by the big goon of an orderly. Today was the first time he'd been allowed out into the public areas of the hospital. A nurse and an orderly escorted him that time, too. He supposed it was all understandable. This didn't appear to be an U.N.C.L.E. facility. Not the usual modus operandi for the organization but not unheard of either. Apparently Waverly wanted this evaluation to stay under wraps, thus the civilian facility and the alias.

Once inside the room, Nurse Robins helped him take his robe off. He was still a little wobbly from all the drugs. "Thank you," he said formally as he eased onto his bed.

"All part of the service," she replied with a bright smile.

She was really quite pretty. Dark chestnut hair with rich gold and red highlights, bright eyes the color he could only describe as blue hazel, and a ready, caring smile. It was the smile that made him like her. That and her willingness to ply him with his favorite treat.

"I believe you promised me some chocolate?" he flirted, head tilted and eyeing her pocket from under his lashes. The "little boy lost" routine as Lisa Rogers once dubbed it.

It worked wonders on Nurse Robins. She melted faster than the candy bar in her pocket. She pulled it out and handed it to him with an indulgent smile. "A promise is a promise."

He paused in his assault on the chocolate wrapping to look up at her. "Do you really believe that?"

She blinked, surprised at the question. "Of course. Why?"

He shrugged. "Most medical personnel don't ascribe to such a policy. To them a promise is just a controlling tool. I never believe them." He turned his attention back to the candy, more for something to do other than look at her than to eat it. He preferred to eat his chocolate in private. A holdover from the days when Alexei Pavlovich Andreov would give his young charge chocolate as a consolation for having to endure whatever outrage Sarkov had put Illya through that day.

Her face scrunched into an expression of distress. "How can you say that?"

"Let's just say my experience with the medical, especially the psychiatry, world has not been good."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. He cringed at the touch but didn't pull away. He felt relatively certain she only wanted to comfort, but in this type of situation in the past, touching just preceeded drugs and pain.

She pulled her hand away. "You don't like to be touched, do you?"

He shrugged.

"Can I ask why?"

He shrugged again, fingers worrying at the candy wrapping without really doing much damage to it. "As I said, I've not fared well at the hands of mental health professionals."

"I'm sorry," she said softly, voice filled with compassion. "But I won't hurt you. I promise."

He looked up at her. "Please don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'll keep it. I always keep my promises. I told you that."

"If Doctor Kopf orders you to put more of those toxic drugs into my body, you'll do it, will you not?"

Her mouth opened then closed. Her face fell, losing its brightness. "I'll have to. But that's not to hurt you. It helps you."

He shook his head. "It hurts me in ways you can't possibly imagine. It brings up memories better left where they are."

"I know you don't like the idea, but taking those memories out to face them is the only way to truly rid yourself of them."

Illya snorted softly. "Perhaps in some people, maybe in the majority of them. But not mine. You simply don't understand what could happen by bringing those things up. It wouldn't be pretty and Kopf should understand these things are better left buried."

She reached out to him but stopped short of touching him. "That's not true. Everyone feels like you do about it, but I've seen it work time and time again. Just give it a chance. It will help you. I promise."

"You're wrong. It's a promise you can't keep. Please don't make it." He put the chocolate bar down on the small stand by the bed and lay down, turning to face the wall in a gesture of dismissal.

She didn't move for a few long seconds. "You're right. I can't promise you a cure. I will promise to cause you the least amount of stress as possible. Will that do?"

"It will have to. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. Curry. I'll see you tomorrow evening. The night nurse will be in shortly to give you your sedative."

Once the door closed softly behind her, he heard the thunk of the lock engaging. He supposed it was too much to hope for her not to lock the door. He thought of her parting words. Sedative. He hated them in the best of times, but now, when Kopf had stirred up so many of the memories Illya'd tried so hard to eradicate, they made it worse. At least he could wake up when hit with a nightmare under normal circumstances. With a sedative, though, especially the strong kind Kopf ordered, he couldn't. The drug would keep him under, trapped in a world he'd already escaped once.

If it were just a matter of a pill, he could keep from swallowing it while convincing the nurse otherwise. Kopf knew his tricks, though, and had it injected. Short of knocking out the nurse, he had no way to prevent it. Not that he had a problem hitting a woman if necesssary but at the moment, he couldn't justify it. Waverly ordered these tests-didn't he?-and fighting the treatment would just get him reprimanded. No. He had no choice but to subject himself to it and hope he could hang onto whatever sanity he had left.

He turned around and sat up, reaching for the chocolate bar. He broke off a piece and popped it in his mouth, relishing the smooth sweetness as it melted on his tongue. He had need of this at the moment. It brought up one of the few memories of his childhood he didn't mind being reminded of. Made him think of Andreov, the man he privately called Uncle Alexei. They'd had to keep that between the two of them, though. If Sarkov found out Andreov actually had forged a relationship with Sarkov's pet project, they would both pay for it.

So in the privacy of his little room-the only consession Sarkov made to his age was to keep him separate from the rest of the camp-Uncle Alexei would bring him a treat after an especially grueling day. Chocolate didn't lessen the pain-physical or emotional-or humiliation of whatever they'd put him through that day, but it soothed and comforted him. Made him feel like perhaps there was someone out there that did care about what happened to him. Uncle Alexei couldn't make it known to anyone else and he certainly couldn't stop what happened to him without dire consequences to them both, but he did what he could to make things easier for him.

Illya thought it highly likely he would not have turned out so well if not for Alexei Pavlovich Andreov. Pretty certain Alexei's influence was the only thing that kept Illya from becoming the monster Sarkov strove to make him.

As he ate the candy, his mind once again turned to his situation. It was hard to believe Waverly had ordered this battery of evaluations. Kopf was an U.N.C.L.E. doctor, though, and nothing about this setup smacked of THRUSH. Even Kopf, as evil a bastard as he was, didn't strike him as working for THRUSH. Much as Illya hated him, he had to admit Kopf seemed to be very loyal to U.N.C.L.E.

Still, something about the situation struck him as wrong. Wriggled in his gut like a tapeworm demanding its next meal. He couldn't quite put his finger on what bothered him, though. Whatever noxious potions Kopf mainlined into his veins fuzzed his thought processes. Made it hard to understand why he didn't care for peas much less whether or not Waverly might have ordered this without informing him, first. For that matter, maybe the head of North American operations DID tell him and he just couldn't remember.

Couldn't remember how long ago Kopf brought him here, either. The loss of time bothered him even more. A day? Two? A month, a year? In and out of the drugged fugue state so often he just couldn't tell anymore. He'd asked a few times, but none of the staff would tell him. Apparently Kopf said it would deepen his delusion and ordered them to leave such questions unanswered.

That the hospital was staffed with civilians there was no doubt. None of them struck him as belonging to either THRUSH or U.N.C.L.E. They were what they said they were and they believed he was the delusional person Kopf made him out.

He tensed when he heard the door unlock and the night nurse came in followed by yet another gorilla of an orderly. Where did they find them all?

"Time for your sedative," the pinch-faced woman announced gruffly. She was totally opposite Nurse Robins. Plain in looks and coarse in manner, she didn't seem to care much for her poor charges. She was here for the paycheck, pure and simple, and couldn't care less whether a patient needed comfort or a kind word. She did her job as ordered by the doctors and nothing more. "Lie down!" she ordered. "And don't move. Wouldn't want to break the needle in your arm now would we?" she sneered.

Illya tensed, muscles bunching in readiness to lash out at the spiteful woman. He simply couldn't sit back and let Kopf do this to him. He needed to find out whether or not Waverly really ordered the evaluation. Since no one would let him use the phone or would do it for him because they didn't believe a word he said, he would just have to force the issue. He would deal with the consequences later if it turned out Waverly's orders were real.

As soon as she was close enough, Illya launched himself at her, grabbing the syringe, spinning her around while pulling her arm back into a wristlock. He jabbed the point of the syringe to her throat, pricking the skin but not actually puncturing it. "Uh-uh!" he snarled at the orderly who was slow to react. "I don't know exactly what is in this syringe, but I do know it's strong and injecting it directly into her jugular would be unpleasant even if it won't kill her."

The big man stopped midstride, looking to the nurse for instructions.

"Stay back, you big oaf!" she screamed, voice shaking with fear and anger.

Illya dragged her with him towards the door, keeping her body between him and the orderly. The lumbering man turned to watch his progress but otherwise didn't make any moves. This was where his plan turned against him. He couldn't open the door without letting go of the nurse. He had no doubt she would use the distraction to get away and sic the gorilla on him.

"Sorry about this," he told her, although he really wasn't. She was mean. He slammed his fist into the nerve at her neck and knocked her out. He shoved her aside and ducked under the orderly's massive arms that now reached for him. He sunk the syringe into the man's thick thigh and slammed home the depressor, releasing the sedative into his tissues.

It didn't even slow the man down. In the tight confines of the room, Illya couldn't quite dodge the massive paw moving his way. It connected with his temple and sent him sprawling across the bed.

The big man obviously wasn't as stupid as he looked because instead of continuing his assault on Illya, he flung open the door and bellowed for help. Illya could hear the thunder of approaching footsteps even as he flung himself off the bed and slammed into the orderly, giving him a hard punch into the kidney.

That did the trick and the huge man fell like a stone, his body holding the door open. Illya jumped onto the man's back and used his body to launch himself into the corridor. He started down it in one direction only to skid to a halt when he saw two orderlies running towards him. He spun around to find two more bearing down on him from the opposite direction.

He did a quick visual recon of his surroundings to see if he could get away without doing more bodily harm to innocents. No such luck. He took a deep breath, chose the direction of the least massive orderlies, and ran. One stumbled, shocked at the audacity of the much smaller man launching an attack at them.

The other kept his wits about him and reached for the escaping patient. In a flurry of blows, Illya took him down and was on his way down the now opened corridor. Just as he thought he might actually make it out of this hallway, three more orderlies armed with what looked like cattle prods clambered through the doors only five feet in front of him. Illya skidded to a halt and changed direction.

He wasn't quite fast enough, though, and one of the orderlies reached out with his metal rod and touched it to Illya's leg. A shock zapped through Illya's leg muscles and sent him sprawling. Within seconds five large men in white were on top of him, zapping him repeatedly with the prods. Among the electrical charges, Illya vaguely felt the sting of a needle and a few seconds later everything went black.

Nurse Grendal moaned as she came to. Then she rolled the orderly's legs off her body and crawled to her feet. The commotion down the hall told her all she needed to know. They'd captured her unruly patient.

Staggering out into the hall she leaned against the wall for support and barked her orders. "Get the patient into his bed and put a call in to Dr. Kopf. Make sure you strap him in tight, too."

She watched them roughly pick up the limp body and carry it back to the room. If this wasn't so public with everyone poking their noses out of their rooms, she'd have given him a nice swift kick in the ribs as they carried him by as well.



Kopf arrived at the hospital and was let into the locked ward after midnight. He rushed along the hallway to the nurse's station and knocked on the window to be let in.

Grendal, now sporting the ring of bruises around her neck from Illya's grip, looked at him seriously unhappy. "Your patient Mr. Curry attacked me when I was making the rounds with his medication. His violent outburst nearly cost me and one of the orderlies our lives."

He held up a hand urging her to calm down. "I don't believe he would have gone that far, but believe me it will not happen again," he said hoping he was right. "Now please give me a full report."

She took a long breath and sat back thinking before she relayed the story in its entirety. Kopf listened without comment gleaning as much information as he could from the incident. "So where is Mr. Kurya... uh... Curry now?"

"He was taken back to his room and strapped down for his own safety and ours. Will you be ordering the standard electroshock therapy for him?" she asked.

"I..uh..." Kopf paused in thought. Kuryakin had been exposed to such treatments before but always as a form of torture. Of course, this would be much less torturous and in fact done in a better controlled environment. It was reasonable to assume that it could actually help the patient calm down and control his emotions better. "I will consult with Dr. Shultz in the morning. In the meanwhile I wish to see Mr. Curry, and then I will give you my orders for him for the rest of the night."



The short-acting sedative was wearing off as Kopf entered Kuryakin's room. He signaled the orderly to remain outside but close at hand and then after hearing the door lock behind him, he walked over to the bedside.

Illya groggily cracked one eyelid open a little and barely focused on Kopf.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Kopf said.

Illya heard the words, but they echoed and warbled in his head.

"That was very naughty of you. Mr. Waverly won't be pleased when I report this to him," he said knowing that the charade would help keep Illya in line. That was as long as he was properly medicated and believed the lies. "Just when we were beginning to make good progress, too. This will be much less painful if you just relax and let us get through it quickly. These people here are only trying to help you and they don't deserve such harsh treatment by you. Innocent people who only want to do the job they are paid to do," Kopf said hoping the reasonable tone would help.

He patted Illya's arm and felt it stiffen under the touch. He didn't shrink away in fear since Illya was strapped in hand and foot.

"Now I'm going to send someone in with your nightly sedative. You need proper rest if we are to finish up your treatment and get you back to work," Kopf explained wanting to placate the man and ensure his cooperation. "I want you to accept this. Mr. Waverly wants you to accept this," he said evoking the superior man's name for reinforcement.

Illya's shoulders stiffened and he tried to pull away from the doctor but was held fast in place by the heavy leather straps. "No," he groaned in a voice barely audible under the medication.

Unfortunately before Illya could become fully aware, Kopf signaled for the orderly to enter once more. "Have Nurse Grendal's assistant bring in Mr. Curry's medication and administer it now. He's sufficiently recovered from the other shot that there will be no danger of interaction."



Napoleon got out of bed and went out onto the balcony of the motel room he shared with Burke. He stared out at the night sky to the north and whispered quietly to himself. "Illya, where are you?"

A nagging feeling he couldn't shake ate away at his insides. It was just like the time Illya was trapped in the bat cave by the evil Zark. There was that gut feeling that tugged at him all the while he was on Illya's trail. The same irritation that wouldn't let him rest tonight was haunting his thoughts.

With no other partner was the connection so intense. So genuinely real. He just couldn't let go. Partner in U.N.C.L.E. or not, Napoleon would seek out Illya when he had the chance to return to New York. Illya did not take vacations. Illya did not burn out from overwork. Illya did not need psychological help of any kind. Napoleon knew the man more than anyone. He was sure he even knew Illya better than the blond did himself.

Napoleon looked back at the sleeping form of Burke and felt pity for the man. He felt guilty for practically torturing him the way he did. At the same time he thought the man had real potential as an agent if only he could get past his hero worship. It was tiresome the way the guy tried to hang onto a partnership Napoleon did not want and actively discouraged. The relationship was so opposite to the one he had with Illya. The longer he stayed with Burke, the more he wanted to get away from the nitwit.

As Napoleon again focused on the distant sky he decided that if he didn't hear from the contact by tomorrow noon he was going to tell Waverly this mission was a bust and go back to New York. He'd go alone if he must and leave Burke to sit around waiting for the call to come.

Napoleon's knuckles whitened with determination as his body tensed with his own convictions to do what he had to do. He had to save Illya for he knew the man was in some terrible trouble.



"Illya?" Kopf said softly as he lightly tapped Kuryakin's cheek. "Illya!" he said a little more forcefully. The man was out cold. The sedative they gave him was a strong one. A bomb could go off right next to him and Kuryakin would not even flicker an eyelash. Kopf shook his head at the turn of events. He would have to find out what happened tomorrow. In the meantime, he would order that Kuryakin remain in restraints, at least for now. He left the room so he could go alter his treatment plan accordingly.

"Illya?" His name reverberated through Illya's dreaming mind, echoing a deeply buried memory and jarring it loose. "Illya!" The voice not that of Kopf in his drug saturated brain, but of someone else. Someone long gone and he thought forgotten.

"Wake up, Illya! I'm hungry!"

Seven-year-old Illya groaned as someone started to shake him, interrupting his dreams of a time when he felt loved, safe, and warm. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a cyclops. Katya, his younger sister, leaned so close to him she appeared to have a single blue eye in the middle of her forehead. "Illya!" she whispered. "I'm hungry!" "Me, too." That was Vanya, Katya's fraternal twin, who whispered directly into Illya's ear. Illya twisted his head to look at his younger brother. The twins looked nothing alike. Vanya took after the dark haired, dark eyed, olive complexion of their father. Katya had light skin and blue-eyes like Mama, with Papa's black hair. "Leave me alone," Illya said finally. He rolled back over and closed his eyes once more, unwilling to leave the comfort of the dream of his mother in order to return to the harsh reality that was now his life. "Illya!" Katya insisted, a little louder this time. "I'm hungry!" An irritated Illya jumped up from their bed of wadded cloth, the remnants of curtains and mattresses which had survived the bomb which had turned half their house into a pile of rubble. The day Illya and his siblings arrived to find their home ruined, he was glad Mama hadn't been there. She might have died of despair. Of course, he wasn't quite sure she wasn't dead anyway. She went to find food two days prior to the bombing and never returned. With his father captured--he was a freedom-fighter rebelling against Stalin's policies--and probably killed six months ago and his mother now also missing, the responsibility to feed his younger brother and sister fell to him. "Fine," he sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I'll go find us something. You two stay here and wait." He pointed to the bed he'd just vacated. "Go over there and don't move until I get back." The twins hustled to the bedding and sat down to wait. Illya wasn't concerned about them wandering off. They were both too afraid of disappearing like Mama. They were afraid he would disappear, too, but their hunger got the best of them on that point. He started off in search of something to eat. Few people in Kiev had enough food to feed their own families, much less three orphans. Still, he usually managed to scrounge enough for them by begging and stealing. Mostly stealing. He was very good at slipping into people's houses unnoticed and snatching some morsels from their cupboards. They had lived with his father's gypsy family for four months after Stalin's police took Papa away, and his grandfather taught him much about the gypsy ways, including how to break into someone's home and steal effectively. When the Nazis started targeting gypsies, Illya's grandfather sent them packing back to Kiev where he believed they would be safe. He was wrong. Their house wasn't too far from downtown Kiev, where the Germans had recently set up headquarters. There was always food there, so he headed towards it. For all their security and guards, he found it laughingly easy to sneak in. He'd done it several times already, and it seemed easier each time. All he needed was a diversion. As though the God his Babushka believed in had heard him, a diversion was spontaneously provided. It came in the form of an explosion which rocked one of the nearby buildings. Illya knew it was one of the places the Germans used. No doubt the responsibility belonged to Anatoly Krichev and his friends, rebels who had recently switched from rebelling against Stalin's regime to rebelling against the invaders. He knew the group well. His father had been their leader at one time and often took Illya with him to meetings. Illya would sit in a corner and listen to the men rant about the injustices in the world and make plans as to how to right those wrongs. Illya once questioned his father as to why he did such a dangerous thing. "If those of us who are able don't fight against those in power who seek to crush the innocent beneath their large, collective foot, the world would soon fall into chaos." After that conversation, Papa made sure Illya would be one of the ones who was able. Illya was young, but very, very smart, and he learned things easily and well. Papa and his group taught him how to shoot, the principles of sniping, how to blend in with others, to infiltrate and spy on the enemy, and tutored him in several languages in order to make that infiltration more productive. He could loiter and eavesdrop in places where adults could not. No one paid attention to such a boy cleaning their floors. One so young couldn't possibly know what they were talking about. They never dreamed the boy cleaning up after their filth not only understood them, but could also remember their conversations perfectly. All he had to do was repeat their talks word for word to the resistance group. Those he spied on assumed any child that had an IQ high enough to understand would already be in the hands of the State, learning the tools he would need in order to better serve Mother Russia. They didn't count on the boy being the son of parents who would instruct their highly intelligent son to hide his abilities to avoid that fate. "The government would take you away from us if they knew," they cautioned. Even though the government ended up taking THEM away from HIM instead of the other way around--he thought Mama might be a victim of the secret police as well--he took the lesson to heart and kept his skills hidden. At this point in time, those days with his father's group were but a distant memory, since his involvement with them ended with his father's arrest. He was grateful to them for their lessons, though, because otherwise he was unsure he and his siblings would have survived this long. If the group caused the explosion, he would also be grateful to them for that. No matter who provided his asked for diversion, the explosion worked for Illya's purposes. The guards at the front of his target building abandoned their posts and were soon joined by a large number of Germans streaming out the front door. As Illya watched and waited for his opportunity, one officer stalked out. Face purple with rage, he started to scream orders. Illya's language acumen held him well at the moment since he now knew the German officer was ordering most of the soldiers to jeeps. The officer screamed about "rounding them up," but Illya couldn't hear everything he said. It didn't matter anyway. All he cared about was the fact that between the soldiers now roaring away in their vehicles and the others scrambling to rescue comrades in the bombed building, the way to his food supply was open and inviting. He slipped in unnoticed past the chaos and hurried to the area that had the food. He had visited this building several times already, so he knew the layout. The government building sported a small mess hall of sorts and he headed that direction. Left, right, straight through this intersection, then another left. Half-eaten meals lay abandoned on trays scattered over the tables. Illya's eyes widened. So much! He glanced around quickly to see if anyone else was around. The serving line was empty of eaters and servers alike. It sounded like some people worked in the kitchen, but he felt sure he could dodge anyone who might come from there. He went around to the tables and stuffed rolls, cheese, even scrambled eggs, into the small cloth bag he brought with him. Periodically he shoved some of the food into his own hungry mouth. "Was ist das?" Illya spun at the voice behind him. A German soldier stood between him and the door. Illya berated himself for being so busy eating he hadn't heard the man enter the room. He glanced at the door, gauging the distance and his chances, thought he could do it, and dashed towards the exit. "Oh, no you don't. You just think you can get away, little mouse. I will wait until you think you are past me, then I will catch you." The man assumed this Russian child wouldn't understand his foreign words. He was wrong. Illya knew the man's strategy beforehand and dodged him. He didn't quite move out far enough and the soldier snagged the bag, yanking it from his hand. Illya stopped and turned. The door was to his back now and he could get away easily, but he couldn't replace the food. He stared at the bag now dangling in the man's hand, licking his lips. He had to figure out a way to get it back. He decided he'd try to be pitiful, even though he didn't think that would help. "Please. You have so much and we are so hungry," he said in his best begging voice. He hated that voice, but utilized it whenever necessary. Pretending to beg didn't make him a beggar. "I would be happy to give you this food, little man," the soldier sneered in barely passable Russian. "But what do you have to give me in return?" The soldier smiled. It was a hideous sight, filled with cruelty and something else Illya unfortunately recognized and didn't like. The first man that had turned that look on him had been a drunk, while this was a trained soldier. Illya knew exactly what the man wanted, but frowned and pretended ignorance. "I have nothing to give, kind sir." Kind, indeed. Evil, rotting thing that should die a horrible death. "Oh, but you do." Illya was definitely wary of the leer now on the man's face. It scared him. He didn't let the soldier know that, though. He remembered Papa always telling him never to let anyone know what he was feeling. Illya had worked on that defense in the years since his father disappeared. He prepared to flee without appearing to do so. "I don't." He shifted, unobtrusively edging closer to the food. "You are a very pretty little boy. You have a very pretty little mouth. You can use that pretty mouth to earn this food." The soldier shook the bag. Illya's eyebrows knitted in mock confusion and shifted again, putting himself a little closer. "Earn? With my mouth? How?" "You can use it to kiss me." The soldier rubbed his groin with his free hand. "Here." Illya fidgeted as though trying to decide what he should do. The fidgeting brought him imperceptibly closer to his goal. "Well, boy? You want this food or do you want to go home and tell your family they have to starve because you were too afraid to do such a simple thing?" "I-I want it." More fidgeting. He was within reach now. It would take nothing for him to grab the bag and run. "Then come and get it." The man's voice was soft and full of gleeful malice. Illya bowed his head and bashfully looked up at the man from under his fringe of blond hair. He shuffled forward as though he were submitting. The soldier lunged suddenly, but Illya was ready for him. His foot lashed out and caught the man in the groin, putting his foot where the man wanted his mouth to be. "Aarrggghhh!" The soldier dropped the bag and doubled over. Illya snatched the bag from under him and zipped out the door. He exited the building, running as though the devil himself chased him. He heard shouts in German, but he ignored them. He laughed in victory as he sped away, bag of food clutched in his hand. They would eat well today. He wandered through the city for a couple of hours, not wanting to return to his siblings until he was sure no one was chasing him. Vanya and Katya's stomachs could wait a little longer until he felt he would lead no danger to them. Finally he headed for home, picturing their astonished and joyful faces when they saw the feast he brought them. His elation turned to fear as he neared the neighborhood where he shared the burnt-out hovel with his brother and sister. He heard shouts, both in German and in Russian, peppered by gunshots and cries of anguish and fright. As he got closer, he noticed groups of people hurriedly moving in his direction, dragging their belongings with them. Illya's heart sped up as he rushed towards where his siblings should be waiting for him. Before he could reach where he'd left Vanya and Katya, a truckload of Germans squealed to a halt before the burnt out shell. Soldiers swarmed out of the truck like ants from an anthill. They began to round up everyone in the partially Jewish neighborhood. "All Jews must report to headquarters!" one guard snarled as he latched onto a passing woman's arm. She did not appear to be leaving as the others clogging the street. "I'm not Jewish!" she protested, eyes wide with terror. "It doesn't matter. You live with Jews, you are a Jew in the eyes of the Third Reich." The moment Illya saw the truck, he slipped into the shadows as his father and his friends had taught him. He skulked forward as carefully and quickly as he could, trying to blend in with the shadows in which he moved. His heart hammered in his chest while he attempted to return to his sister and brother before the soldiers made them disappear like his parents. Suddenly he saw Vanya pulled from inside the hovel. The soldier shoved the little dark-haired boy towards the throng of people being herded along the street. "Get in there with the others of your kind," the man sneered. Without thinking, Illya broke cover and hurried to help his little brother. Before he could reach Vanya, the soldier from whom he'd stolen the food earlier loomed in front of him. The man grabbed Illya by the neck of his ratty shirt and held on tightly. "Well, well! If it isn't the food thief!" he growled in his broken Russian. "You owe me for feeding you, boy. I would have liked to take my payment by shoving my cock into that pretty little mouth of yours, but your death shall be payment enough." He pushed Illya into line beside Vanya. "Where's Katya?" Illya whispered to his crying brother. "I don't know," Vanya hiccupped between sobs. "She was inside when I came out to see what was happening, but I don't know if she's still there." Illya hoped with all his heart that she was hiding where the soldiers would never find her. He resisted the urge to look back, in case that would alert the bad men there might be someone else they should hunt for back there. The soldiers herded the large group of people, finally stopping at the corner of Melnikovsky and Dokhturov Streets. Other people already gathered there, stood naked and waiting in a long line. A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd that contained Illya and Vanya. "You are to put everything you own into a pile," a soldier Illya recognized as a lieutenant told the people. "Bags, trunks, jewelry, everything, even your clothes. We will return them to you after you are finished being processed." Illya felt pretty sure the man lied. Deception gleamed in the German's eyes as he mouthed the words. Illya's fear intensified, but he remained outwardly calm so as not to scare Vanya. He took his brother's hand so they wouldn't get separated. "It will be all right, Vanya," he said, not believing his own words anymore than he had the lieutenant's. Vanya sobbed quite loudly now, but Illya didn't allow the tears that burned his eyes to fall. He couldn't wallow in emotion and fear right now. Had to keep his mind clear in order to find a way to get himself and Vanya out of this mess. The Germans instructed them to form a line and then took the first ten and drove them away from the bulk of the crowd. Illya thought he heard a clap of thunder at one point, but a glance to the sky showed no clouds. He frowned, a little concerned at the noise. Illya kept his eyes open for an opportunity to escape, but there were too many people and too many soldiers with too many guns. The soldier he had kicked kept a close watch on them, a terrifying smile on his face. A short time later, the soldiers that had left with the ten people returned alone. They took the next ten. The pattern repeated itself time after time as the day wore on. They stood in the line for several hours, waiting their turn for whatever fate the Germans had waiting for them. At one point in the day, another set of soldiers arrived. They took a group out while the first set of soldiers were on their way back, thus speeding up the process somewhat. As the shadows of the day lengthened, they started taking larger groups of forty and fifty. While waiting, Illya listened to the conversations of the people around them. Most of them believed they would be put on a train and deported. Illya didn't think so. The sound of thunder soon after each group of ten departed and right before the soldiers returned alone gave the young boy an entirely different idea. The comments some of the Germans made in their native language convinced him he was right in his guess. They were going to die and there was not one thing he could do about it. He would try to run, but the soldier he kicked watch him constantly, not giving him a single opportunity to slip away. The soldier sauntered over to where Illya stood with Vanya, who'd finally cried himself out and leaned shivering against his brother. Although the temperature was not too bad, it had a chill in the air which made one cold if standing out in it naked. The soldier loomed over the scrawny blond boy looking after the younger dark-haired one, pushing his face so close to Illya's, the young Russian could smell the soldier's fetid breath. It stank. Bad. Reminded Illya of a decaying mouse he'd once found under his bed. He hadn't let that mouse scare him then and he wouldn't let this louse scare him now. He defiantly stood his ground. "You know what's going on, don't you, boy?" the man rasped in his native German. "I can see it in your eyes." Illya felt a flicker of surprise, but quickly squelched it. Still, the man straightened, nodding in satisfaction. "You know, all right. Good. Just remember I'm paying special attention to you. If you so much as scratch wrong, I will first shoot your friend." He pointed his rifle at Vanya. "Then I will shoot you. Understand?" Holding fast to his parents' rule of not letting anyone know of his abilities, he acted as though he didn't. It didn't fool the soldier. "You understand." He returned to his post, but his eyes never left Illya. It was late afternoon by the time it was their turn. Illya roused Vanya from his shivering stupor, clutching his brother's small hand tightly in his. Luckily, the soldier who had it in for him had to remain behind to guard the remaining group. They trudged out of town, heading northward. Illya vaguely remembered there was a ravine out this way. It was one of the areas his father had taken him to teach him how to shoot, track, and hide from those tracking him. The smells he remembered from those training sessions, however, were nothing like the odor which assailed his nostrils now. Even from this distance he could smell it. Blood. Fear. And the sickening sweetness of decay. Smelled of death. Illya knew what was about to happen to the group which had arrived before them and which he could now see in the distance. The German soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders and aimed at the people lined up in front of the ravine. Shots rang out and the people dropped into the ravine. Once all the Ukrainians disappeared into the ditch, the soldiers climbed down out of Illya's sight. He could no longer see them, but he could hear the reports of their rifles as they shot anyone not dead yet. As he watched the proceedings, Illya didn't fidget nervously as so many of the others with him did. He observed the actions of the soldiers, a plan forming in his head. He turned to Vanya. "When it looks like the soldiers are about to shoot, just fall backwards, then play like you are dead," he hissed into his brother's ear. "Understand?" He looked sharply at Vanya to see if the little boy had heard. Vanya's big eyes brimmed with tears, but he nodded. Still, Illya was unsure if his brother understood. He'd have to help him along. Illya tried to keep his hold on Vanya's hand as the Germans pushed them into a line on the edge of the ravine. One soldier broke their grip. "Not allowed!" he screamed in Russian. Illya wondered why anyone should obey a death threat when they knew they were going to die anyway. Still, he didn't retake Vanya's hand. His plan depended on staying alive until they moved to execute the entire group. When the moment came, it seemed like it happened in slow motion. As the Germans raised their rifles, Illya grabbed onto Vanya's hand once again. He read the body language of those aiming his direction and knew the moment they pulled the trigger. He flung himself back into the ravine, dragging Vanya with him. They landed on the piles of bodies of all those that went before them. Illya quickly turned to Vanya to remind him to pretend to be dead only to find it unnecessary. One of the German bullets had found its home in the center of Vanya's forehead. Illya strangled a cry of grief. It would not bring Vanya back to life and it would alert the soldiers that he still lived. He pulled Vanya's body over him, as well as that of the dead man next to him and lay still. He moved not a muscle and kept his breathing shallow when he heard the Germans scramble into the ravine and start shooting. He stifled a groan when one soldier stepped on him as he searched for survivors. Eventually they left and the next group was brought forward for execution. Several more rounds of bodies fell on top of him. Illya lay still for a long time surrounded by death. He didn't even dare to move to close Vanya's sightless eyes so that they wouldn't stare at him so accusingly. He'd failed his brother and sister. He exerted all his will to keep from screaming to be let out from beneath them. To ask the Germans that they kill him, too, so he could join the rest of his family. But something inside him had rebelled at the notion, told him he must survive at all costs. He didn't know why, but his will to live proved stronger than his desire to die and he kept still. Then all went silent. No more stomping of German boots or cries of doomed Ukrainians. Luckily the killing day ended before too many bodies landed on Illya, or else he would have suffocated beneath them. He stayed there for awhile longer to be sure no one would return. After what he'd estimated to be about another hour, he dug himself out from under the bodies, glad it was now too dark to see Vanya's dead eyes. At least that was what was supposed to have happened. This time, though, he couldn't move out from under the bodies. Corpses pressed in on him, holding him down. Vanya's empty eyes glittered at vacantly at him, reminding Illya anew of his failing. Illya screamed and clawed at the bodies laying on him. In reality he had been able to get out from under the corpses and climb out of the ravine to his freedom, This time, though, he was unable to fight his way out of the nightmare.

The next morning Nurse Robins arrived to find her favorite patient in restraints and looking ragged and more than a little disheveled. His bed linens were damp and twisted beneath him. When he looked at her, his eyes were dark and haunted. He obviously had had a rough night. She knew of the incident of the night before, but the report she'd read on it couldn't possibly be the reason for his horrible condition. "Mr. Curry, what happened?" she asked in concern, brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead.

"Sedation," he rasped, anger chasing away whatever had haunted him.

"Now, Mr. Curry," she chided gently. "You fought the nurse and orderlies on duty last night. They had to sedate you. You brought it on yourself."

He shook his head. "No. Bastard ordered sedation, anyway. Besides, I need to get out of here. Don't believe Waverly ordered this. Must find out for sure." He looked to her hopefully. "Did you make the call?"

"Call?" Nanci asked in surprise. "What . . . " She paused, remembering her promise to him upon his admittance. "Um, yes, sure I made the call."

Suspicion glinted in the beautiful blue eyes. "No, you didn't." He turned his head away looking defeated. "So much for keeping your promises."

Nurse Robins opened her mouth then closed it again without replying. He was right. She'd not kept her promise to him on this front. When she'd made it she had just been humoring him, assuming he wouldn't remember he'd asked. He did, though. How could she expect him to trust her when she broke the first promise she'd ever made him?

Stricken, she patted his arm and left to make her rounds.



Napoleon awoke feeling like hell. He hadn't slept well at all and he was sure Illya had something to do with it. Something was wrong with his partner. He couldn't explain how he knew it nor would he want to try. He'd long ago quit questioning the eerie telepathy he seemed to share with his partner. It had saved both of their asses more times than he could count, and he was just superstitious enough not to want to think about the hows or whys. If he did, it might stop and he certainly didn't want that.

Burke turned over and looked across the room at Napoleon's empty bed. Then he saw the outline of the agent silhouetted against the incoming moonlight. He would have tried the sympathetic approach to ask what the man was doing but after the other day he didn't dare talk to him. He turned over and faced the wall instead. Napoleon Solo was a puzzle he wasn't about to tackle again.



The sound of ringing woke both U.N.C.L.E. agents just after six in the morning. Napoleon rubbed his tired eyes and took a deep breath before answering since the wake up call was not scheduled until seven. He reached for the telephone and said, "Hello?" in a sleep deprived raspy voice.

Burke opened one eye and looked over at Napoleon while he listened to the conversation. He gave him the ~who is it?~ expression.

Napoleon nodded back. It was their contact. "Yes. You're where?"

Burke leaned up on one elbow and waited anxious to hear the news.

"10 o'clock. We'll be there." He hung up and met Burke's gaze. "The public library. History section."

Burke glanced at the clock. "I'm going to go shower first," he said and rolled out of bed. "Do you want to order for breakfast or go out?"

"We'll get something and then go watch the building until meeting time. I want to make sure there's no THRUSHies around just in case."



Kopf nodded at Gustav. "I understand where you are coming from, but I'm not sure that I want that course of treatment for this patient."

"Mr. Curry has had a serious violent outburst, and we cannot have that going on. I think he would greatly benefit from the electroshock therapy. It's safe. It's been proven to be non damaging and resulted in some very positive results in numerous patients."

"And to be effective," Kopf responded, "It has to be administered fifteen to twenty times over a period of a couple weeks. I'm sure it would just make him angrier."

"You must do something. I won't have my staff in danger while doing their jobs," Gustav said severely. "It's the most prudent thing to do."

Kopf swallowed hard and then cleared his throat as he thought it over. "I'm sure you're right." In fact to stay under cover like this he would have to placate his friend and go along with his recommendations or draw undue attention to himself. "I'll schedule it for this afternoon."



"Take Morris with you," said the head nurse on the day shift to Nanci Robins.

Nanci scowled at the biggest, strongest orderly in the building before turning back. "I don't really need him to come with me. Mr. Curry won't hurt me."

"I'm sure Grendal thought that last night, too," she replied. "Just before the little bastard attacked her. Take Morris and that's an order."

Nanci sighed but didn't say anything more when Morris fell into step beside her as she made her way to Mr. Curry's room to administer his morning round of treatment. She looked at the covers in disarray in spite of the restraints that prevented anything more than minimum movement and her emotions took over.

She set the tray down on the bedside table and began to organize the covers so the patient, who looked so much like a helpless little boy, would be more comfortable. "Mr. Curry. I'm here with your morning medicine," she announced, avoiding his gaze. "You'll feel a small prick and then it will be all over," she told him kindly. "You'll really feel better when you get through this."

As she picked up her tray and then turned to leave the room a single tear welled up and ran down the side of Illya's face.



April Dancer felt much more refreshed after a good night's sleep. She lay in bed and listened to the music on the radio as she thought of getting up. There was no hurry this morning. She had two free days until she had to be back at U.N.C.L.E.

As she lounged under the covers and looked around her familiar bedroom, she spotted the chocolate on her dresser. A small twinge of guilt ran through her and she supposed she really should take it over to Illya's place. The blond agent was a friend of hers, and she knew the man had very few that he trusted. Keeping her word was important to her, so she rolled out of bed and headed for the shower to start the day.

A glance out the window gave every sign that it was a beautiful day in the city. It would be wonderful weather to spend walking from shop to shop up and down New York's Fifth Avenue. Mark would on occasion grant her his company on such an outing, being the dear that he was, but it was unlikely she could persuade Illya on that kind of excursion. The Russian was more likely to sit at home with one of his magazines or head to the library and go browsing through the rare book section.

As April took her shower, she thought about Illya and their friendship. At first the man seemed withdrawn and totally repelled any kind of interaction with his fellow agents other than when it pertained to an assignment. At first, she felt the same way about him as most of the other people did at U.N.C.L.E.; that he was a repugnant, abrasive, and uncharacteristically emotionless person. Even she couldn't see why Napoleon seemed to get along with, and even odder, like the young foreign agent. It was probably because of her good relationship with Napoleon that she even gave Illya the time of day.

Eventually she seemed to understand him more. The quiet brilliance and cautious nature were so pronounced. She learned to respect that, even admire it. She never pushed friendship on him, and he seemed to take a long time to trust her in the same way but now it was a relationship that would last a lifetime.



"I'm going to get us a map," Napoleon said to Burke as they entered the lobby of the lodging establishment. Then he ignored the other agent as he went to the wall by the counter to check for local maps. He pulled several out to look through them before selecting just the one he thought would suit their needs best. He tossed a nickel onto the counter to pay for it and then walked over to Burke again.

"Haven't you got the car yet?" the senior man asked in irritation.

Burke didn't like the attitude but was afraid to make a comment about it. He took in a tight breath. "I'll get it now. I'll be right back." He swallowed ha