Kiss and Tell      Kiss and Tell by Blondie  
 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York, 1956  

They say that mighty oaks from little acorns grow. 

It had certainly been the case where the U.N.C.L.E. were concerned. Since
the Second World War, and its subsequent creation, the organization had
grown, both in stature and reputation. Alexander Waverly had been there at
its birth, watching as it grew through shaky adolescence to confident
adulthood. 

Occasionally he thought back to those early days, like today for instance,
as he looked out the office window onto his adopted home, New York City.
Each week new buildings, like glass fingers pointing skywards, seemed to
have grown overnight, relentlessly changing the skyline. Such was the
nature of man's existenceconstantly evolving, inexorably moving onwards.
As would this branch of the U.N.C.L.E. soon. 

Currently they were housed in an office block fronted by a busy insurance
company as cover, but not for long. Times were rapidly changing, worldwide
crime was increasing and, in proportion, an increasing number of recruits
were being inducted into the organization every year. This building was
old and U.N.C.L.E. New York, like the hermit crab, had simply outgrown its
shell and it was time to move on and seek larger premises. 

The organization had recently purchased a large brownstone building in the
heart of the city and was in the process of converting it for their covert
needs. A façade was needed for the new building, something innocuous and
unobtrusive, where the agents could enter and leave without provoking
undue attention. Waverly had already penciled in a name for the operative
who would front the secret entrance; Salvatore Del Floria, a trusted old
war horse Waverley had worked with from the early days. Sal had spent the
last seven years behind a desk at U.N.C.L.E.. At sixty, he was due for
retirement next month, but Waverly knew the static life wouldn't suit this
loyal old colleague. This position as front guard, however, most certainly
would. 

Distracted by a knock at the door, he paused in his study of the
blueprints pinned to the wall. "Come in," he called, returning to sit at
his desk. The door opened and a tall, fair-haired man entered. He waited
for an invite to sit and at Waverly's gesture pulled out a chair. 

"Now, Charles," Waverly said, "I have a little something here I would like
you to take care of." 

Charles Derwent watched in amusement as Alexander Waverly sifted through
the clutter on his desk. Derwent was familiar with his superior's
deceptive 'absentminded professor' act. He had worked with Waverly for
several years in England before his superior took the post as head of
Section One in New York, and at Waverly's request, Derwent had made the
move with him, accepting the role and responsibility of Head of Section
Two. 

"Ah," Waverly suddenly said, victoriously holding aloft the dun colored
folder. He passed it across to Charles, trying to shuffle the remaining
files into some semblance of order. "When we move into our new premises I
really must see about getting a much larger and more practical desk," he
muttered. When he looked up, Charles had removed some of the papers and a
photograph from the file. Waverly wagged a gnarled finger in its
direction. "Clive Jameson. You may remember him from a brief confrontation
we had with his organization, Thrush, a couple of years ago." Thrush, the
antithesis of U.N.C.L.E., had grown rapidly in the last few years,
spreading around the world as insidiously and malevolently as a disease,
its only goal being the total subjugation of humanity. 

"Oh, yes. Swarthy man, face like a sick bulldog. A most unpleasant chap, I
recall. What's he up to now?" 

"One of our undercover agents in Washington says he's been invited to
Paris, tempted by the offer to purchase a book." 

"A book? Jameson doesn't strike me as a book worm. What's so special about
this one?" 

"It's said to be the notebook of a prominent Russian scientist, containing
formulas and notations of his experiments. Apparently, one of them was
with a gas that induced docility. Imagine how easy life would be for
Thrush, should this get into their hands. I want that book, Charles.
Locked safely away." 

Derwent waited patiently for more information while his superior set a
flame to the pipe in his mouth. After a few satisfying puffs, Waverly
removed the pipe, letting the aromatic smoke drift towards the ceiling.
"The book is to be sold by auction at a place known locally as Zenana. The
owner of this, ah, establishment is a Turkish gentleman, a..." Waverly
glanced down at his notes, "Mustapha Fariq. He intends to sell the book to
the highest bidder. It's already attracting quite a bit of interest from
the more nefarious sections of the chemical industry as well as from
Thrush itself. I want that book before it falls into their hands." 

"Seems simple enough." 

"Yes, doesn't it. That's why I want you to allocate this to another
agent." 

Charles frowned. "Any reason I can't take care of it myself?" He sighed.
"Paris is lovely this time of year." 

"Besides the fact that Jameson might recognize you, I have something far
more important that requires your attention. Send one of the junior
agents. The experience should do them good. The address is in the file.
It's a bordello, one of the busiest in Paris." He looked up as he cleared
his throat. "Or so I'm told." 

"A bordello?" Derwent looked over the contents of the buff folder, quickly
running through the possibilities in his mind, and slowly smiled.
"Actually, sir, I think I have the perfect man for the job." 

 

The Zenana, Paris 

Napoleon Solo paused in the busy foyer of the Zenana, taking in the
surroundings with a practiced eye. It wasn't the first time he had been in
one of these places, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He reckoned he
could recognize a whorehouse blindfolded, just by the smell; an unpleasant
combination of cheap perfume and sweat. 

A former hotel, this particular establishmentone of the most popular in
Parisalso boasted a barroom, where its clientele could spend a little time
and a lot of money on watered down booze, and wait for someone of his or
her choice to became available. 

Napoleon Solo and Antoine Verise, on loan from the Paris office, were here
for more productive reasons; to locate and obtain a stolen notebook. The
sale of the book was scheduled for the weekend, which meant Napoleon had
only two days to find its hiding place and relieve Fariq of the trouble of
an auction. Several interested parties had already arrived, staying in
some of the rooms in the extensive building. Napoleon already recognized
one of the men here from an U.N.C.L.E. file: a high-ranking Thrush
official, Clive Jameson. 

Napoleon, posing as a representative for a fictitious American chemicals
organization, arrived with his fellow agent this morning. After checking
out their rooms, they decided to make their way down to the bar to look
over the place. 

The bar was busy, its regular clientele mixing with the influx of invited
guests attending for the auction. The smoky atmosphere cast a haze that
made it difficult to see properly in the subdued lighting. 

At first glance, it appeared to be like any other bar, with couples
sitting in booths, lit by subdued lighting. Some couples were simply
chatting, some were more actively engaged, necking or openly caressing
their partners. Others were dancing on the small dance floor, the women
moving sinuously to the music playing from the hidden speakers. 

Napoleon turned his attention back to his temporary partner as Verise
prodded him in the side. They were perched on stools at the bar with a
perfect view of the entrance. A group of four men had entered. Verise
leaned closer to Napoleon. "Fariq and his entourage. The big one in front
is the man himself," Verise said, quietly. 

Napoleon tried to look without being too obvious as the small party made
their way across the room. In his mid thirties, Fariq was an imposing
figure, tall and muscular. His olive skin gleamed with sweat and his
frame, a little on the heavy side, dwarfed the smaller figure walking
beside him. Fariq's companion, a blond male, was young and slim. The two
gentlemen walking behind, looked like professional boxers. 

"The men at his back," Verise continued, "are his bodyguards, Jean-Piere
Jules and Cristof Boudet. The blond by his side is his Russian catamite,
Illya. I'm afraid the first name is the only information I have on that
one." 

Napoleon looked the skinny figure over. He couldn't have been more than
five foot nine and a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. Dressed in a
short sleeved white tee-shirt and jeans, he looked young and vulnerable as
he gazed nervously around at the patrons through large, fearful eyes.
Napoleon took a sip from his glass and grimaced at the sour taste. "This
wine must be at least three days old." He pushed the glass away from him.
"What about Fariq's apartment?" 

"He has a suite of rooms here, on the top floor. Access is by way of an
elevator. There is a fire escape at the back of the building, but it is
always guarded." 

Their conversation paused while a fellow patron walked up, attracting the
attention of the bartender. They waited until he'd received his drink and
left before continuing in low tones. 

"We do know that Fariq has a safe and it's pretty certain that is where
he'll store the book. We managed to find the manufacturer who supplied the
safe but, for legal reasons, they refused to divulge where it was
located." 

"What about the Russian?" Napoleon asked. "How much does Fariq trust him?"


Verise shrugged. "It's difficult to say. Why, do you think he might know
where the safe is? It is possible. He has access to Fariq's suite on the
top floor." He looked his colleague over as the American stared at the
boy. "What are you thinking?" 

"That it'll save time beforehand if I can find out where Fariq's safe is
located." 

"How will you persuade him to tell you?" 

"I hope he might be open to my powers of persuasion. Perhaps he even knows
the combination." 

"You're going to charm the information from him?" Verise chuckled. 

Napoleon turned to look at him. "What's so funny?" 

"Something my secretary, Yvette, told me this morning." Napoleon looked
down, the trace of a smile on his face as he recalled the time he spent
with the pretty brunette. Verise seemed to read his mind. "Oh, the rumor
of your prowess has reached our ears, Napoleon. You're gaining quite a
reputation for yourself. She warned me to keep moving while in your
company, said you would screw anything that stood still too long." 

Napoleon didn't take offence, but he did sigh in exasperation at the
erroneous assumption. "Actually, I was thinking more along the line of a
financial reward as bait." He studied the blond, a thoughtful look on his
face. "However, if that doesn't work...." 

Verise shook his head as he clapped his comrade on the shoulder. "Bon
chance, Napoleon." 

They watched as Fariq and his party seated themselves at a corner table.
Someone brought a platter of food and placed it on the table in front of
Fariq and his companions. Napoleon watched the blond pick at the leafy
salad while the Turk quickly demolished a chicken drumstick in just a
couple of bites before reaching for another. 

"He eats like a pig," Napoleon observed. "It's a wonder he doesn't crush
his bed-boy." 

"Oh, he doesn't sleep with him," Verise explained. "Fariq is a voyeur, he
likes to watch." 

Napoleon raised the glass of cheap tasting wine to his lips and thought
better of it. He pushed the glass aside and slipped off his stool. "I
think it's time we went over and introduced ourselves." 

Verise followed him across the room to their host's table. Fariq's
bodyguards watched their approach cautiously, relaxing visibly when
Napoleon offered them one of his most gracious smiles. 

"Mr Fariq, I'm Thomas Jackson, from the Chempro Corporation, and this is
my associate Monsiuer Dumont, from our Paris branch." 

Fariq rose, wiping his hands on a napkin and briefly shaking their hands
before sitting down again. "Mr Jackson, Mr Dumont, here for the auction?
Come, sit down with us. Have some wine." 

Napoleon sat, but politely waved the bottle away. "Thank you, no. Perhaps
later." His eyes were drawn to the blond sitting silently by Fariq's side.
His age was difficult to estimate, the boyish straight hair cut giving him
the appearance of a teenager, but the watchful eyes held a lifetime's
experience in them. The fair head was lowered, but startling blue eyes
looked coquettishly up at the American through dark gold lashes, anchoring
Napoleon's gaze. 

Napoleon reluctantly dragged his attention back to his host. "I just
wondered what time the auction started on Saturday? We didn't get any
details." 

"That's because I didn't issue any. I am waiting for some late arrivals
before I set a time, and tomorrow night, I will hold a party, where you
can meet your opposition, eh? Until then, why don't you avail yourself of
the hospitality offered by my humble establishment?" He leaned forward, a
glint in his eye. "All auction customers are being offered a fifty percent
reduction. Do you see anyone who takes your fancy?" Unintentionally,
Napoleon glanced again towards the blond. "Um, well, I...." 

Fariq laughed. "Taken a fancy to my little Russian, have you? And why not?
He has the face of an angel, no? I tell you what, you can have him for
free." Fariq leered in Napoleon's direction. 

Suspicious, Napoleon asked, "That's a generous offer. What's the catch?" 

Fariq shrugged, as if the matter was inconsequential. "You let me watch."
He reached out, grabbing the blond by the scruff of his neck and pulling
him nearer. "He is good, this one, as tight as any virgin I'm told and as
pretty as any woman in this place, eh?" With his free hand, he made a
sweeping gesture that took in both Napoleon and Verise. "He will take you
both at the same time, if you wish. Now, that would be a sight I should
like to see." 

Verise shifted uncomfortably and Napoleon took pity on him. "Actually, no
offence, but if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer a game of singles.
I'm not sure I can, er... perform, with an audience," he said, good
naturedly. 

Fariq laughed, a loud raucous cackle. "As you will. I will be sorry to
miss it, but I am in business to make money. If you wish to have him, then
he will cost you more than the others." He leaned forward, whispering, "He
is practically a virgin." That, Napoleon thought, was like saying someone
was only a little bit dead. 

"Give me your room number, I shall send him up later. But watch him
carefully, Mr. Jackson," Fariq warned. "He is a lazy individual, this one.
He will try to finish you off as quickly as he can. Oh, you will enjoy it,
I'm sure, but if you are paying, I think you will want your money's
worth." 

 

It was almost ten and the Russian still hadn't shown up. A little
disappointed, Napoleon assumed the young prostitute wasn't coming and
decided to take a shower before retiring early to bed. He'd barely had
chance to dry off when a tap came at the door to his room. He hastily
pulled on a robe and glanced around, tucking his gun was out of sight
inside his jacket before opening the door to his visitor. The young
Russian hesitated a moment, his eyes flickering over the American before
walking in at Napoleon's invitation. 

Napoleon noted that he'd changed from his earlier attire, now dressed in
black pants and a loose fitting, white shirt that hung on his slender
frame, making him seem somehow smaller and more fragile. 

"Hello. I am Illya," he said casually, as he passed Napoleon. Napoleon
acknowledged with a nod and closed the door. "Hi. Thanks for coming." 

The blond shrugged. "You are paying for the privilege." 

Napoleon walked across to a table where he'd laid out a bottle of whiskey
and two glasses. "I was expecting you a little earlier." 

"I had some other... business to see to. It has been a busy night." He
nodded when Napoleon raised the bottle in silent offer of a drink. He
upended the whiskey and filled the two glasses, turning in time to see the
blond pulling his shirt off over his head. "Whoa, wait!" Napoleon stopped
him with the wave of his hand. "Slow down, we have all night. I don't like
to rush things." 

The young man stood, shirt in hand, his hair mussed from the disrobing and
his head lowered self-consciously. There was something endearingly sweet
about the scene, as he shuffled uncomfortably under the American's
scrutiny. This hadn't originally been part of Napoleon's plan, to have sex
with the man. But he was beautiful. And willing, even if he was being
paid, and sex could often loosen an otherwise reluctant tongue. The blond
looked at the door, as if deciding on an escape. To settle him, Napoleon
said, "You can leave the shirt off, if you like. I'd like to look at you."
He meant it, too. The Russian was certainly easy on the eye. Without the
shirt, though sinewy, he looked a little on the thin side. 

"What's did you say your name was?" Napoleon asked. 

"Illya." 

"Just Illya?" Napoleon asked, hoping for more information. 

The blond gulped down the liquid in one mouthful. "Just Illya will be
fine." 

"Just Illya, it is then. Like another?" he asked, taking the empty glass
from his guest when he nodded, and walked back to the table. As he poured,
he made idle conversation. "Fariq said you're Russian, but your accent is
very Parisian. How long have you been here?" 

"Five years." 

"Why did you leave Russia?" 

"Things there were... difficult for me." Napoleon nodded. Homosexuality
was frowned upon in most societies but in some countries it was a criminal
offence. 

Napoleon passed him the refilled glass, reaching up with his free hand to
caress the handsome face. "Well, I for one am glad you left, otherwise I'd
be here alone tonight. How long can you stay?" 

"How much can you pay?" 

Napoleon smiled. Straight to the point, the somber faced Russian wasted no
time on pleasantries. "Money's not a problem. Will Fariq let you stay the
night?" 

A blond eyebrow rose, emphasizing his question, "All night?" 

"I hate to sleep alone," Napoleon told him. 

"Ah. A married man," he stated flatly. Napoleon didn't disabuse him of the
notion, watching as the blond wandered around the room, fingering
Napoleon's jacket hanging over the back of the chair, as he said, "If that
is what you wish. Mustapha will not object, if there is money to be made."
There was bitterness in the man's tone, bitterness Napoleon hoped to
utilize to his own ends. 

Illya turned back to face the American. Fine muscles twitched and flexed
as he nervously moved from foot to foot, waiting the next command.
Napoleon drained his glass and moved to sit on the bed, patting the space
next to him. "Come here, sit down." 

He wondered at the Russian's capacity for alcohol as he again gulped the
drink down in one mouthful before placing the glass on the bedside table
and slowly approaching him. He didn't sit, as Napoleon requested. 

Instead, he knelt between the American's legs, sliding his hands under the
hem of his robe and resting his arms along the muscular thighs. Gentle
fingers kneaded lightly at the junction between leg and torso, making
Napoleon shiver. 

Illya looked up and Napoleon, mesmerized by those stunning eyes, stared
back, lost to the sensation of expert hands performing a sensual massage
around his groin. He almost surrendered to the sweet stimulation as the
wandering fingers moved to wrap around his rigid cock. Fariq's warning
came to mind, that the Russian would try to finish him off quickly. That
wasn't what he wanted. Napoleon had to be in control of the situation if
he was going to get the information he needed. 

He took hold of one of the hands, pulling it gently away from its goal. 

"Come up here, next to me." 

"Don't you like this?" 

"Yes, but it's not what I want. Come here." He pulled the blond up beside
him on the bed, settling him into a comfortable position. He leaned
forward, intending to connect with those wine colored lips, but the
Russian frowned, pulling his head away. Disappointed, the American pulled
back. Napoleon loved to kiss and this mouth was such a temptation, he
ached to connect with it. "What's wrong," Napoleon asked, genuinely
concerned. 

"I don't like to kiss." 

"Why not?" 

"It's too intimate." 

"Too intimate?" Napoleon sat back, regarding the young man before him
curiously. "What about a hand job?" 

"If that's what you want." 

"A blow job?" 

"That too." 

"What about full sex." 

"Yes, of course." 

Napoleon smiled, amused. "Illya, you're willing to perform all these acts,
yet you think kissing is too intimate?" 

"It's a personal thing," the Russian said defensively. 

Napoleon shook his head, amused. "Tell you what. I'll pay you twice what
you charge for full sex, if you let me kiss you. What do you think?" 

The blond frowned. "I think you have more money than sense, Mr. Jackson."
The American seemed to be waiting for his consent. He nodded briefly.
"Very well." 

Napoleon smiled, gently applying pressure to the bony shoulder,
encouraging him to rest back against the pillows. His gaze raked over the
prostrate form, along the freshly shaven chin, down the porcelain white
neck and onto the smooth, hairless torso. There, an ugly red scar marred
an otherwise flawless shoulder. Napoleon stroked it, wanting to smooth
away the eyesore on this beautiful landscape. "How did you get this?" 

"A customer. Wanting a little more than I was willing to give." Napoleon
frowned. "Does this kind of thing happen a lot?" 

"Beatings, rapes?" The blemished shoulder shrugged. "Hazards of the job,"
he said, as if it were inconsequential. It seemed working for U.N.C.L.E.
wasn't the only dangerous profession around. 

Napoleon's conscience tapped him on the shoulder. Here he was, another
customer paying to take advantage of this young man, trapped in a soul
destroying, not to mention physically dangerous, occupation, just to earn
a simple crust. He hoped he could persuade him to take the bribe and maybe
start a new life elsewhere. 

He leaned down and kissed the scar, then moved on, planting tender kisses
along the collarbone, up the taut tendons of the neck and back to the
succulent mouth. Illya returned the kiss without passion. It hadn't been
something the young man had wanted to do and he bore it with the patience
of a true martyr. 

Napoleon put all his experience behind the kiss, trying to draw a response
from him, but the blond was just going through the motions, as if it were
a necessary chore to be endured. How many men, Napoleon wondered, had
Illya slept with in the past? Does the body's physical responses shut down
after a while? 

Of course they did. It was an act performed for payment not pleasure.
Napoleon was determined that this encounter would be different, one the
Russian would take pleasure in. He needed him to take pleasure in it, if
Napoleon was to persuade him to part with the information he wanted.
Besides, it was a matter of pride that his bed-mates enjoyed the encounter
as much as he did. 

Napoleon continued to nibble and kiss, his hands exploring the exposed
flesh available to him. In turn, the blond slid his hands inside
Napoleon's robe, pushing if off his shoulders. Slender fingers reached
down taking Napoleon's erection in a gentle grip, slowly stroking. The
pressure was just right, the grip just firm enough. His arousal was
difficult to rein in. He wanted to surrender to the sensations, but if he
allowed Illya control, the encounter would be over too soon. 

Reluctantly, he pulled the teasing hand away, captured the other, and held
both above the blond head. The body beneath him tensed and Napoleon,
sensing his fear of the situation, kissed him tenderly. "I won't hurt you.
Be still." 

The body beneath him obeyed the gentle command. With one hand holding
lightly onto the Russian's wrists, Napoleon slid his other down the pale
body. His tongue pushed its way between the soft lips as his fingers found
a nipple, rolling the nub between his finger and thumb. By slow degrees he
applied a firmer pressure until Illya gasped and he felt the cock crushed
beneath his own, twitch. Napoleon was a master of the art of seduction and
knew that each person had a different level of arousal. It was just a
matter of finding the right combination, which buttons to press, to get
the responses he needed. 

The Russian, in his turn, seemed alarmed by his own rising loss of
control. He pulled urgently away from the kiss. "Wait. I'm supposed to be
pleasing you." 

Napoleon sighed. "It would please me if you just laid back and relaxed." 

"But...." 

"Shh." He covered the sensuous mouth, stopping any further protests as he
continued his ministrations. When he seemed to settle, Napoleon moved his
kisses lower, down the neck and on to the chest, replacing fingers with
lips. 

"Do you make much money in this business?" Napoleon asked
conversationally, around a mouthful of nipple. 

"Why? Are you thinking of changing careers?" Illya hissed as the
American's tongue rasped deliciously over sensitive nerves. "Take my
advice. Don't." 

"If it's that bad, why do you do it?" Expertly slipping open the Russian's
pants, his hand pushed the material aside and slipped under the elastic
band of the white shorts. His fingers connected with solid flesh and
wrapped around Illya's cock, tugging in a gentle rhythm. 

"I'm a simple man, Mr. Jackson, an uneducated peasant. I discovered at an
early age that my only asset was my body." His asset began to undulate
restlessly under Napoleon's hands. "Whatever I do, I will be pestered. I
may as well give them what they want and make them pay for it. It's called
survival." 

"You could do more than survive if you had enough money. Lift," he ordered
softly. Illya arched off the bed and Napoleon pulled the loose-fitting
pants off over the bony hips, pushing them onto the floor. 

"Well, I don't have enough money, so the point is moot." Illya's body
pushed up against his bed-mate. Napoleon leaned back in to kiss him and,
finally aroused, Illya took his mouth willingly, eagerly sucking in the
playful tongue, allowing it free access. 

Reluctantly, Napoleon pulled away from the kiss. "But if you had the
money, what would you do?" His hands moved up the lightly haired inner
thigh, explored the crevice behind the scrotum. His fingers found what he
was searching for, already slick with oil. The Russian had come prepared. 

Illya's eyes turned away in thought, considering Napoleon's question.
Napoleon surreptitiously studied his face, flushed with desire. Most
people had dreams, no matter how unattainable. That this young man had to
give the matter some thought, told him he had obviously given up on such
fantasies at an early age. 

The blue eyes turned back to him bashfully. "Perhaps I will go to America.
I have always dreamed of travelling the world." He hissed as Napoleon's
fingers entered him, carefully stretching as he pushed deeper. His fingers
searched for and found the sensitive prostate and the Illya jerked in
response as they connected with the gland. 

"What about your dreams, Mr Jackson?" He writhed impatiently as the
American withdrew his fingers. Napoleon's head bobbed lower, his tongue
swiping roughly over the crown of nerves at the head of the penis,
momentarily sucking the hard organ into his mouth. 

In this position, Napoleon almost lost his hold on his captive's hands as
Illya's body reacted to the oral stimulation, twitching and bucking. He
let the cock slip from his mouth and his body, lubricated by a film of
perspiration, easily slid back up along the Russian's to take possession
of that rosy mouth once more. "My dream is right here, right now," he
whispered seductively as he reached down pulling Illya's thighs apart.
Without much urging, the blond obligingly lifted his legs effortlessly
over the American's shoulders. 

Napoleon positioned himself, his cock finding its own way home, as if more
eager than its master to be inside this desirable cavity. "Aah, s'good."
The sound of pleasure escaped his lips, putting into meagre words the
thrill that went through his entire being. So hot, so perfectly tight.
Fariq had been right, he was as sweet and snug as any virgin Napoleon had
ever had the honor of breaking. The tight ring of muscle gripped him more
intimately than any whore's hand and, for a second, he worried that he
might lose control too soon. 

The Russian, striving for some semblance of normalcy in the situation,
continued to talk. "Even with all your money, there must be something you
want, something you desire?" 

"Besides you? Actually, there is something I would like. Very much." The
body beneath him shuddered with delight as Napoleon slid against that most
pleasurable of places. Napoleon paused for breath, then added, "The book."


Illya was starting to pant hard, fighting for control as the cock inside
him made another pass over the sensitive organ. "What book," he whispered,
unable to give strength to his voice. 

"The book he has for auction. I should like it very much." Hips slid
forward again, his cock stroking over the prostate. The blond gasped and
squeezed his eyes closed against the sweet torture. He reached down to
touch himself, but Napoleon intercepted the hand and brought it back over
the blond head. 

The blond's breath puffed out in frustration. "Bid for it, then," he
snapped. 

Napoleon smiled, but kept up a gentle thrusting. "I'm a man who dislikes
competition. Besides, I can think of a solution that would benefit us
both, financially." He watched the glazed blue eyes narrow carefully. "I
could pay you to tell me where he keeps it." 

"I don't know where he keeps it. I've never seen it." 

"But you know where his safe is. I'm willing to pay you five thousand
American dollars for that information alone. This way, I make a saving and
you end up with a little something." 

The blond was shaking his head. "I end up with my throat cut, if he finds
out. No." 

Napoleon rocked his hips, guiding the hard shaft over the swollen gland. 

"You could be out of here before he finds out, start a new life somewhere
else." 

"What's in this book? Why are you so interested?" 

"That," Napoleon replied, leaning down to nibble at the irresistible lips,
"is none of your concern. So, don't worry your pretty little head over
it." The blond's eyes narrowed at his condescending tone. To mollify,
Napoleon kissed the pouting lips. "I'm sorry. It's just that, it's
probably best if you don't know." 

The blond was pushing up, trying to move against the body bent over him,
trying to relieve the ache in his own cock. His head shook in frustration
as Napoleon moved out of reach. "I've only been here a month," he told
Napoleon. "Do you really believe he would trust me with the combination to
his safe?" 

"But you do know where the safe is?" Another slow stroke and the Russian
shuddered with pleasure. Sweat beaded the high forehead and Napoleon
leaned forward, licking the salty dew from his face. His hips moved again,
his cock sure as a die, rubbing over the gland with unerring accuracy.
"Tell me," Napoleon ordered. The blond head shook. Napoleon moved again,
quicker, grinding the small body beneath him. "Tell me." His hand slid
down gripping the pale cock tightly at the base, stopping its premature
release. 

"Please," the Russian begged, shaking his head and trying to pull his
hands loose. 

"Tell me. Five thousand dollars and an earth shattering orgasm thrown in.
Isn't that a good deal?" 

Napoleon knew all the tricks of torture and all the signs of impending
surrender. The Russian groaned as he blurted out, "All right! I'll tell
you! Please...." Napoleon's grip didn't falter as he waited for the
information. The blond gasped out, "It's behind the ormolu mirror in the
library." 

With a smile, Napoleon released his tight grip on the Russian's organ,
instead, wrapping his hand around the slender cock and applying just the
right amount of pressure to allow him to ejaculate. Two strokes and, with
a soft cry, Illya came hard, covering Napoleon's fingers with his warm,
sticky ejaculate. Napoleon felt the contraction of muscles around his
painfully stiff erection follow immediately after and gave in to his own
desperate need, feeling his climax wash over him in waves of pleasure He
regained his composure, chuckling to himself with relief. Another few
moments and he would have had to give in first, slave to his own body's
carnal desires. But he'd got what he wantedmore than he wantedthe book and
a beautiful playmate for the night. He carefully withdrew and rolled off
his companion, stretching out next to the perspiring body. 

After a moment to catch his breath and cool down, Napoleon leaned over and
reached into the bedside table, withdrawing an envelope, its contents
padding it out as thick as a club sandwich. He placed it on Illya's belly
and watched as the blond picked it up. "What's this?" 

"One thousand American dollars, down payment. You'll get the rest after I
get the book." 

The blue eyes glanced sideways at him before returning to inspect the buff
envelope. He pulled up the flap and took out the bundle, fingering through
the notes. He started to rise but Napoleon stopped him with a hand to the
shoulder. "Hey! Where are you going?" 

"I believe our business is concluded." 

The American smiled as he shook his head. "I'm paying for the night,
remember? A deal's a deal." 

The blond's eyes widened. "You can't be serious!" 

"I think I'm entitled to get my money's worth, don't you?" 

With a loud groan, Illya flopped back down on the pillow. "I'm not sure I
can survive the night." 

Napoleon grinned. "Sure you can. I'll give you a few minutes to get your
breath back," Napoleon teased. He couldn't help smiling to himself. Thank
the good Lord for expense accounts. 

Napoleon needed to wash up and use the toilet. Briefly kissing his
bed-mate on the cheek, he excused himself and slid out from beneath the
covers. 

When he came back out of the bathroom, he stopped in his tracks. Illya was
standing next to his jacket, Napoleon's gun in his hand, staring wide-eyed
at the weapon. He jumped nervously when he saw the American watching him,
dropping the gun hastily onto the tabletop. "I... I'm sorry." He shied
away when Napoleon approached. "I was looking for a cigarette." 

"Left hand pocket," he informed him, casually picking up the weapon and
putting it under the pillow. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blond
remove the packet of Galois and shakily light up. 

Illya drew deeply on the cigarette before resting his arms loosely across
his chest. The smoke seemed to calm him a little. "Isn't it unusual for a
business man to carry a gun?" 

Napoleon shrugged as he pulled back the bed sheets and slid underneath.
"Not where I come from. Every American has the inalienable right to bear
armsit's part of our constitution." Dismissing the issue, he pulled back
the sheets next to him. "Come back to bed," he said, holding up the
covers. 

Illya ground out the half smoked cigarette and hesitantly got back into
bed. Napoleon turned to him, soothing the ruffled youth with gentle
caresses. When he felt him relax, he gathered him back into his arms. 

"Now," Napoleon said, kissing along the cheekbone towards the tiny ear.
"Here are a couple of French words I learned on my last visit to Paris."
He nibbled gently on the soft tissue of the lobe and whispered, "Soixante
neuf..." 

 

When Napoleon woke the next morning, he wasn't surprised to find his
companion gone. The sheets had cooled long ago, experience telling
Napoleon he must have slipped away during the night. He sighed,
disappointed at the loss. There was nothing he liked better than a little
early morning loving. 

He shook his head, chastising himself for his lapse. Illya hadn't been an
assignation; he'd been an assignment, a means to an end. 

Still, he thought, as he roused himself from the seductive warmth of the
bed, this affair should be completed in less than twenty hours time. That
still left him a few hours free before he attempted to break into Fariq's
suite. At the party tonight, he'd find Illya, ask him back to his room and
spend a little time with him. Just one last union before he returned to
New York and left him behind for good. 

That idea left him oddly disconsolate. How had this Russian managed to get
so deep under his skin? Illya was a prostitute, a common whore, but
somehow, that description didn't fit. He seemed out of place amongst the
hard-faced hookers that worked here, his apparent eagerness to please
probably more to do with his eagerness to have the whole encounter over
with. It was wrong, having to endure such a life, just to make a living. 

Guilt made Napoleon's stomach churnhe was no better than the rest, taking
advantage of the situation. 

Napoleon tried to shake the feeling off as he headed for the bathroom. 

Once showered and dressed, Napoleon met up with Verise for breakfast in
the small dining room. They helped themselves to croissants and coffee
from the buffet table and chose a table in the corner. 

"How was your night?" Verise asked around a mouthful of pastry. 

"Productive. How was yours?" 

"Well, while you were busy entertaining, I did a little careful
reconnoitring. Fariq has two men guarding his suite, one on the stairs and
one at the top of the elevator." 

"That shouldn't be too difficult to take care of." He glanced around at
the smattering of people in the room. "Fariq is holding a party tonight.
About one a.m., I want you to slip out and have the car ready for our
speedy departure." 

"What are you going to do? Did you find out the location of the safe?" 

"Of course. I'll arrange to spend the night with Illya. That will give me
the excuse to slip away from the festivities. He can wait in my room while
I locate Fariq'a safe and the book. Hopefully I should be out in forty,
fifty minutes, tops. I'll have to bring Illya with me. It won't be safe
for him once Fariq discovers the book is missing." 

"Fariq doesn't have to know he was involved." 

Napoleon sighed. "I know, Antoine, but I don't like the idea of leaving
him in this place. Besides, he makes the perfect alibi." 

Verise glanced over the American's shoulder. "Your little alibi has just
walked through the door," he told the American quietly. 

Napoleon turned a little to the side to watch as the blond approached the
buffet table and exchanged a few polite words with one of the girls as he
poured himself a coffee. 

Someone else watched too. Napoleon caught the movement out of the corner
of his eye as the Thrush representative, Clive Jameson, pushed away from
his table and walked over to the pair. As Illya turned away from the girl,
Jameson blocked his way. Napoleon was too far away to hear what was said
as Jameson leaned close to whisper something in the Russian's ear, but he
saw the blond head shake a negative. He moved to one side, trying to step
around Jameson, but the Thrush man quickly moved to block his escape,
clutching the smaller man by the upper arm. 

The tight grip was obviously painful and the blond winced as he tried to
pull away, spilling coffee down the Thrush man's shirt. Angrily, Jameson
pulled the blond closer. 

"I'll be back in a moment," Napoleon told his partner as he rose from his
seat and headed for the confrontation. 

The Russian looked gratefully over at him as the U.N.C.L.E. agent
approached. "Illya," he acknowledged the blond with a nod of his head. 

"Is there a problem?" 

"Back off, buddy," Jameson said tightly, in his direction. "Me and
blondie, here, were having a private conversation." 

"I think the conversation's over. Why don't you let him have his breakfast
in peace?" 

Jameson's head turned to glare at Napoleon and, coolly, Napoleon returned
his stare. Though equal in height, the U.N.C.L.E. agent was younger,
fitter and obviously in his prime. Napoleon took a threatening step nearer
and Jameson, the coward that he was, lost his nerve. He released his hold
on the Russian and backed away, hands raised in a brief gesture of
submission before skulking back to his table. 

Illya glared at the back of the retreating Thrush. "I don't like that
man," he muttered sullenly. 

"You have taste," Napoleon told him. "He's a bad bird, all right. Are you
okay?" 

"I'm fine." 

"He didn't look too happy. Do you mind me asking what that was about?" 

The Russian sighed. "He, too, wanted to know where the book was kept." 

"Did you tell him?" 

"Of course not." 

"Why not," Napoleon asked, genuinely curious. "You could have made more
money." 

"I do not like him. Besides, his... technique was not as eloquent as
yours." Illya was wiping the sticky coffee off his hand with a napkin and
tutting at the stain on his shirt cuff. "I must go and clean up. Would you
excuse me?" 

Napoleon stood and watched the young man as he left, admiring the graceful
moves he made as he wove in and out of the tables. When he disappeared
through the door, Napoleon returned to his table in the corner. 

As he retook his seat, Verise was looking at him with a broad grin on his
face. "What?" Napoleon asked. 

"This Russian? I think you have a soft spot for him, no?" 

It was a truth, of sorts. "I just don't like bullies, Antoine," Napoleon
lied. 

 

Fariq's party was in full swing by the time Napoleon and his partner
entered the room. Napoleon glanced at his watch: ten thirty. They had a
couple of hours to kill before they made their move and Napoleon already
had plans for a way pass the time. Now, if he could just locate Illya.... 

"Mr Jackson, Mr Dumont. How are you enjoying our little soire, eh?"
Fariq's loud voice interrupted Napoleon's musing. 

Napoleon smiled pleasantly in his direction. "Marvelous, thanks. Even if
we don't win the bid for the book tomorrow, we shall still have some
pleasant memories to take home with us." 

"You certainly have, eh?" Fariq moved uncomfortably close to Napoleon,
prodding him playfully in the ribs. "You have good night, last night,
yes?" 

"Oohh, yes. That's a very talented employee you have there, Mr. Fariq." 

"Call me Mustapha, as we will be doing business together, I hope. Yes, he
was a good find, my little Russian boy. Very pretty, very athletic. Lots
of stamina." 

As his host spoke, Napoleon glanced about, searching for the gold cap of
hair amongst the sea of heads. "Actually, I had hoped to spend my last
night with him. Is he available?" 

"Alas, he is staying in his room tonight. He says he does not feel well."
He laughed loudly. The raucous sound was starting to grate on Napoleon.
"In some ways he has the constitution of an ox and in others, he is as
fragile as a butterfly's wing." 

Napoleon couldn't hide his disappointment as he saw his alibi, not to
mention his last chance for a rendezvous with the blond, slip away. 

"That's a real shame," he commented truthfully. 

Fariq nodded in sympathy. "Perhaps, instead...." He clicked his fingers,
attracting the attention of a curly haired youth standing at the bar.
"This is Emile," Fariq explained as the boy approached. "Just turned
seventeen. Eyes like the bluest ocean and skin as soft as a peach. And
very inventive." 

Napoleon was already shaking his head. He had no interest in the pretty,
young male. Besides, despite his earlier excuse to Verise, he was looking
forward to meeting with the Russian again. Just one last time before he
completed this assignment and headed for home. 

Napoleon shook his head at the offer. "Thank you, no. Actually, I think I
have a migraine coming on. I think I'll just go and lay down for a while."


Fariq sighed at the prospect of lost earnings, but offered Napoleon his
condolences as he wished him a good night. Napoleon was forgotten
instantly as he turned back to the party and apprehended another of his
guests. 

 

At twelve forty five, Napoleon left his room for the last time and, in the
guise of a drunken partygoer, wove his way towards the large man guarding
the stairs at the back of the building. He disposed of him easily,
utilizing one of the many skills he'd acquired at Survival School. He left
the man, gagged and hog-tied, in a broom closet and quickly gained
entrance to the apartment. 

As promised, he found the ormolu mirror in a small library, over a small
writing desk. The Russian hadn't lied. The hinged mirror easily swung away
to reveal the hidden safe. 

It was relatively easy to openNapoleon had trained on similar modelsand
after a few minutes effort, he confidently pulled the door open. It wasn't
a large strongbox, about forteen inches square, but obviously adequate for
Fariq's purposes. Bundles of notes in various currencies took up most of
the space while, tucked to one side, sat documents and a book. He pulled
the book out and flicked through the pages. Even without a scientific
grounding, Napoleon could recognize the numbers and figures of complicated
formulas. The writing, almost indecipherable, appeared to be in Cyrillic
script. 

He was so engrossed in his find, Napoleon didn't hear the door quietly
opening, until someone ordered, "Put your hands in the air and turn
around, very slowly." 

Napoleon froze in shock, not so much at the unexpected interruption, but
more at the familiar voice. He did as instructed, raising his hands to the
ceiling, as he turned towards his captor. 

The Russian, Illya, stood in the doorway. "Please don't try anything
heroic. Remove the gun under your jacket with your thumb and forefinger
only, and drop it on the floor." 

Napoleon did as commanded, letting his weapon slip from his fingers onto
the carpet. He looked the Russian over as he stepped nearer, impressed,
despite the situation. Ilya's accent and intonation was subtly different
now, less French and much more Slavic. Most obvious, however, was the
disappearance of the plaintive timidity, now replaced by a confident,
commanding tone that was backed up by the Russian Makarov pointing in his
direction. The weapon was held with the self-assurance and respect of an
expertunlike last night, when this same individual had handled Napoleon's
gun as if it were about to explode. 

Napoleon suddenly realized how foolish he must look, standing there with
his jaw agape. His mouth snapped shut as he looked him up and down.
Dressed entirely in black, his shoulders back and his chin raised proudly
and defiantly, Illya seemed to have grown in stature, as though this were
someone else, another being entirely. Napoleon realized, with a sinking
feeling, that this was perhaps the real Illya and that the other had
merely been a clever sham. Illya? Was his name a forgery too? 

The blond smiled slightly as if reading his mind. "Surprised to see me?" 

"Oh, sure," Napoleon said with bravado, trying to recover his composure.
"Fariq said you were too sick to leave your room." 

"You look a little sick yourself. Perhaps you should sit down." He
gestured with his gun towards a chair across the room. "Please," he said
as Napoleon started to move, "leave the book on the desk." 

Napoleon let the book slide from his grasp and drop onto the escritoire.
He walked slowly over to the chair, bending to sit on the edge, his legs
under him with his weight resting on the soles of his feet, ready for
flight. 

With a little distance between them, the Russian relaxed, resting casually
back against the wall. Napoleon could hardly believe this was the same
abashed, doe-eyed youth he'd had sex with the night before. Silent in his
scrutiny, his captor studied him with a mild look of amusement. At last,
he asked, "Who are you working for, Mr... Jackson?" 

"Actually, the name's Solo. Napoleon Solo," he supplied. "I'm an agent
with the U.N.C.L.E." 

The fair head nodded in acknowledgment. "I've heard of them. But of what
concern is this book to your organization?" 

"We just want to stop it getting into the wrong hands. Whose hands are you
working for, Mr...?" 

He seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? I doubt we
shall have the privilege of meeting again. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," he
inclined his head politely, "Soviet Committee for State Security." 

This was turning out to be just one surprise after another. With
disbelief, he looked the slender frame up and down. "You? KGB? Aren't you
a little... young?" 

He didn't seem insulted. He glanced at his watch before answering. "I have
been in service for almost nine years. I think, perhaps, I have been in
the game much longer than you." Nine years? Napoleon had still been in
school nine years ago. Kuryakin must have been a child when he was
inducted into the organization. 

"Then, you don't work for Fariq?" In answer, the Russian shook his head. 

"And you haven't lived in Paris for five years?" 

"Five weeks," the Russian replied. "It took very little time to gain
Fariq's attention." 

"I don't doubt it," Napoleon murmured truthfully. "But playing the role of
a whore is taking dedication to the job a little too far, don't you
think?" 

"We all prostitute ourselves in the service of our country. You yourself
were willing to have sex to gain information, Napoleon. You don't mind if
I call you Napoleon, do you? After last night, I think we should be on
first name terms, don't you?" 

"Not at all. Illya," Napoleon returned. He shifted, the movement
apparently nothing more than restlessness, but it brought him nearer the
edge of the chair. "I hope you don't mind me asking but I'm curious. If
you've been here a month, why did you leave it until the last minute to
retrieve the book?" 

Kuryakin reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a book identical in
appearance to the one on the desk. "Up until now, there has been little
opportunity. Besides, if I'd removed it too early, Fariq might have
discovered it had been exchanged." He placed the duplicate book inside the
safe, in the same position the other had been in. 

Napoleon gathered his feet under the chair, ready to propel himself
forward. "That book looks exactly the same," he noted. 

"It is, basically." 

"You told me you'd never seen the book?" Napoleon asked. 

"I haven't, not recently, and not here. I was responsible for the
scientist to whom this belongs, Professor Valentin Korolev, and so it was
my responsibility to make sure it was retrieved," the blond replied, as he
closed the safe door and spun the lock. He pushed the mirror back into
place, turning back to the U.N.C.L.E. agent as Napoleon asked, "Why bother
to leave one in its place?" 

"If someone is going to pay Fariq, I think they should get something for
their trouble, don't you?" And, Napoleon thought, when they find out it's
a forgery, they're going to make Fariq pay, too. A subtle form of revenge
for the abuse Kuryakin had taken. 

"Something more useful than the docility gas?" Napoleon asked, letting him
know he was aware of the book's contents. 

The blond smiled, amused. "Actually, the docility gas was a failed
experiment. Oh, it works, but only on creatures with a fast metabolism,
such as the lab rats, otherwise its effect is nothing more than a very
mild sedative. Really quite useless. This one," he said, tapping the safe
door, "contains something far more useful to them. The formula for floor
wax." 

Napoleon had to smile. Here was another side of the man's true self; a
sense of irony. 

He saw the Russian glance at his watch again. Napoleon asked, "Late for an
appointment?" 

"I have transport to catch. It will not wait if I am late. " 

Kuryakin was about to leave. Napoleon realised this was his last chance to
retrieve the book. He watched as the Russian, using his gun hand, zipped
up his jacket. The small distraction was all he needed. Like a missile,
Napoleon launched himself quickly from the chair, but he'd underestimated
the Russian's reflexes. Instantly, Kuryakin slipped into a crouch as the
American made a grab at him, jabbing rigid fingers up into Napoleon's
exposed abdomen. The simple, unexpected move was all it took to bring
Napoleon down. Doubled over with pain and shock, Napoleon fell to the
ground in a heap, gasping for breath. 

He felt himself dragged back onto the chair, surprised at the little
Russian's strength. "Please do not attempt that again, Mr Solo. I am
proficient in Martial Arts, as you have discovered to your cost." 

Yet another surprise. Deceptively, he looked as though he couldn't fight
his way out of a wet paper bag. This man had more hidden facets to his
nature than he'd allowed the U.N.C.L.E. agent to glimpse. Napoleon was
beginning to have a greater respect for the Russian. 

As Kuryakin began to bind Napoleon's wrists together, Napoleon tried to
hold his hands a little apart, to enable himself a little leeway to escape
from the bonds, but the Russian unexpectedly yanked hard, drawing the
wrists tightly together. Napoleon yelped. "Hey, steady. You're cutting off
my circulation." 

"It won't be for long, I assure you," the blond replied. Napoleon wondered
what that statement meant. He worried even more when Kuryakin reappeared
before him, withdrawing a wicked looking knife from his belt. Boldly, he
sat astride the American, resting his hands on his shoulders. Napoleon
glanced sideways at the shiny blade, just inches from his cheek. 

"Do not be too hard on yourself, Napoleon. You're not the first to make
the mistake of underestimating me and, hopefully, you won't be the last."
The Russian's head cocked to one side. "But before I leave you, I would
like you to know this. For this assignment I have had to endure many
sweaty, grasping hands and disgusting bloated bodies in order to keep my
cover. You, however, were different." A slow, brilliant smile lit up his
face. "You were good. You were very good. Perhaps my only nice memory from
this nightmare." 

Napoleon smiled smugly. "I aim to please." 

The Russian's free hand brushed back a lock of Napoleon's hair. "Hm. Your
aim was perfect." 

The simple gesture made Napoleon's heart rate pick up. He took a deep
breath to slow his pulse. "So, what happens now?" 

"Now? Well, let me see..." Illya said thoughtfully. He shifted, and
Napoleon became uncomfortably aware of the light frame of his body sliding
against his half formed erection. He knew a hard-on could be induced by
fear and at this very moment, he wasn't sure of the cause; the Russian's
close proximity or the blade that was now pressing against his carotid
artery. He trembled with anticipation and closed his eyes as a hand
grabbed at his hair and held his head in place. 

Then, unexpectedly, the Russian's mouth was pressing against his own and
Napoleon instinctively reacted, kissing him back fiercely as he felt his
cock swell to fullness beneath the lightweight Russian. The kiss was deep,
as was the tongue in his mouth. His body responded as it had before, eager
to take what it could from his willing lover. At least if he was going to
die, he might die happy. He wriggled against his bonds, desperate to touch
him, but frustrated by the expertly tied ropes. 

When Illya pulled away, Napoleon opened his eyes. The Russian looked as
flushed as he himself felt. 

"I'm sorry," Illya told his captive. "I couldn't resist, you see. I doubt
we shall ever meet again." 

He was disappointed when the blond stood, but relieved to no longer have
the blade at his exposed neck. Kuryakin picked up the book Napoleon had
taken from the safe and tucked it into his jacket. "Now, I really must go.
I should like to thank you on behalf of my government for your assistance
in retrieving my countryman's property." He paused, suddenly remembering
something. "Oh. I believe this is yours." From his pocket, he removed the
envelope of money Napoleon had given him the previous night and dropped it
into Napoleon's lap. 

When he reached the door, he paused. He tossed the knife in the air,
catching it expertly by the handle before turning it over and slamming the
point of the blade into the top of an escritoire near the door. As he
pulled open the door to leave, he turned, giving the American a wink and a
satisfied smile. 

"Goodbye, Napoleon." 

Then he was gone. 

Stunned, Napoleon stared at the open door, still dazed from the kiss. It
took the American a moment to realize that Kuryakin had left him the blade
to enable himself to get free. The chair he was tied to was heavy and it
would take a little time and some effort to shuffle across the room, but
he would make it. By then, the Russian would be well on his way,
presumably back to his masters in the USSR. He wondered if their paths
would ever cross again and found himself hoping that they might. 

 

Having reported his failure to Charles Derwent, Napoleon wasn't looking
forward to his debriefing on his return to New York. The CEA had assured
Napoleon that this would be a simple assignmentand Napoleon had failed
dismally, fooled by the deceptive persona of his bedmate. 

Napoleon felt like a complete fool. He'd felt guilty for using the
Russian, unaware that he, himself, was in fact the dupe. 

Back in New York headquarters, he'd been called to his superior's office
to give a verbal account of the affair. Uncomfortably, he supplied Charles
with every intimate detail, and once his report was completed, waited
patiently for the expected reprimand. 

Instead, Charles looked thoughtful as he took a sip of his tea. He put the
cup down and rifled through a sheaf of papers on his desk, pulling out a
carbon copy of a letter. "You say this Russian chap claimed to be an agent
for the KGB?" 

Inquisitively, Napoleon tried to make out what was on the note that
Charles had in his hand. "So he said, though to be frank, he was so
convincing if he'd told me he was the tooth fairy, I'd probably have
believed him." 

Charles wasn't listening. His attention was on the paper before him: a
letter from Alexander Waverly to the Soviet Minister for State. Recently,
the Soviet Union had formally recognized U.N.C.L.E.'s involvement in
solving a difficult situation, narrowly averting an incident designed to
fuel animosity between the Soviet Union and the United States. Waverly had
taken the opportunity raised by the plaudit to request a contribution of
an agent as representative for the Soviet Union. Perhaps, he'd suggested
in the letter, someone from their own security forces, someone versatile
and dedicated, preferably a seasoned agent who wouldn't need much
training. 

The Englishman tapped the pen against his teeth as he considered the
missive. After a few moments, a polite cough reminded Charles he had
company. He looked up and smiled as he returned his attention to the young
man seated before him. "Mm. This KGB chap. What did you say his name was
again?" 

Napoleon repeated the Russian appellation that was firmly implanted in his
mind, watching curiously as his superior jotted a note on the top of the
carbon copy, dotting the last 'i' with a sharp stab of the pen. 

Charles seemed pleased. Napoleon seemed disappointed. The CEA sighed in
sympathy. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Napoleon. We all suffer failures
from time to time. You performed well on your last two outings. You did
the best you could, you can't expect to win them all, you know. So, you
come away with nothing this time. At least the book's back with its
rightful owner." Indicating that the briefing was over, Derwent rose.
"That's all." 

As abrupt as Mr. Waverly. Napoleon gratefully took his cue and left for
his shared office to start writing his account of the affair. This was a
part of the job he really loathed, writing reports. When he became CEA, he
would inveigle someone to take on the task for him. 

He pressed on, determined to get the chore finished before lunchtime. He
had a date with the new receptionist, Donna, and didn't want to be late.
But his writing slowed and he paused, deep in thought, when he came to the
part about his meeting with the Russian. He lounged back in his chair,
reminiscing, and smiled as he recalled Derwent's words: Came away with
nothing.... 

Not exactly nothing, he told himself, remembering his one night with his
blond lover. He still had some wonderful memories of his little Russian
spy: that supple body, those talented hands and, most memorable, that
tantalizing mouth. 

Still, it was unlikely they would ever meet again. But if they
did....well, who knows...  


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