Partners

By

Patricia J. Foley

“...To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part”

The Book of Common Prayer

“...Men of few words are the best men...” William Shakespeare

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, NYC, 1970

“The mid-day mail and dispatches,” Heather announced, setting a respectable pile of paperwork on his desk.

Solo scowled at them, reaching for the ‘CONFIDENTIAL/URGENT” stack first. “Could you order me some lunch, Heather? Something light. Oh, and see if Illya is in the building and free.”

“He’ll just tell me ‘No man is free who must work for a living,” Heather replied dryly.

“Especially since he works for me,” Solo replied. “Ask him anyway.”

“Yes, Mr. Solo,” Heather said primly, leaving Solo smiling as he slit open the seals on the first packet. Ever since he had taken over for Waverly, Heather’s approach to him had been as decorous as if they had never dated. Not that he didn’t agree or approve. The only other option would have been a transfer, something neither had wanted. For his part, he genuinely liked Heather, and no one knew the old man’s filing system so well. On her part, she preferred being at the nexus of power and was as aware as himself of the impropriety of continuing their on-again, off-again relationship now. The result was a mutual agreement to move on. Heather was now happily dating a recent transfer to Section Two, a rising star in Enforcement, and they had both relegated their past history to the past. So everything had worked out well.

He’d always been lucky that most things worked out for him. He was also pragmatic enough not to overly dwell on past failures, and shrewd enough not to take future successes for granted. As a life’s philosophy, it worked for him. As the current Continental Chief for U.N.C.L.E. North America, it was the only sensible approach to a crushing load of responsibility, and he not even forty yet. Though that milestone was fast approaching. And judging by the rigors of his job, he wondered if he would be as fit handling it at eighty as the old man had been. At times, it made fieldwork look like a child’s game.

He sighed went through the documents, most of them from his fellow Continental Chiefs and not the least bit urgent or confidential. He stopped, frowning slightly, at one document from London HQ, confirming their approval and acceptance of the transfer of one Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin from Section One Security, North American HQ, New York Office to Section Two, Number Two, Western Europe HQ, London Office, subsequent to Solo’s authorization. He set that one aside, resolving to deal with that when Illya arrived. At the bottom of the pile was a envelope in rich cream linen paper that looked vaguely familiar. When he turned it over, he noticed a hammer and sickle burned into the red wax sealing the envelope. He slit it curiously. It only took a second to read the contents. He sat there, frowning, the opener in his hand like a dagger and said, “Damn,” very softly. The word echoed in the empty room, vibrating softly in the hum of electronic equipment and computer consoles. But suddenly the room was emptier than it had been only a moment ago.

Or was it half a lifetime ago. Or many lifetimes ago?

How many times had Illya pulled him out of danger and vice versa? Certainly far more than either of them had bothered counting. Each time they had cheated death; till sometimes Solo felt himself almost dangerously immortal. A sensation that didn’t last much longer than the next bitter crisis. Still, he’d managed a lifetime of critical saves in a career that depended upon such teamwork.

He hadn’t been willing to give that up for Illya’s misjudged sense of what was proper exile for extraneous partners, regardless of his ex-partner’s feelers to London. But the Soviet Union might be a bit harder to budge than it’s sole representative to North American HQ. And while Solo had been able to so far block or at least delay Kuryakin’s London move, sidestepping the Soviets might not be so easy.

He punched the intercom to Heather.

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you get in touch with Illya yet?” he queried.

“Mr. Kuryakin said he would be up as soon as he finished some arrangements with the fifth exit sir,” Heather replied. “You did say it wasn’t urgent.”

“Call him back and put him off,” Solo said. “Tell him something has come up. And bring me his file.”

“His complete file?” Heather said, not sounding at all surprised.

“That’s right. Including the charter documents Waverly signed to get him in here.”

“Right away.”

Solo stared at the blood red of the hammer and sickle, now broken along the lines of the envelope, blurred and cracked. Heather had known what he would want. She’d seen the envelope before she’d brought it in, had left it last in the pile, knowing his reaction. His musings were confirmed when Heather delivered the file, a full two minutes faster than she could have if his request had caught her off guard and she’d had to dig it out of the archive. She deposited it on his desk and left without comment. It stared up at him, across from the open envelope with its broken hammer and sickle seal. An ordinary manilla folder, with a name typed on the tab in courier script.

KURYAKIN, Illya N.

He’d never bothered to ask for it, not even when he subbed for Waverly and had the clearance for it. And when he’d taken over for the old man, he’d had a lot more on his mind. But now he reached for the folder, and opened it, spilling out ten years and more of history. Illya’s own and his intertwined. The dog-eared file displayed a mute contrast to the stern parchment document and stark black type:

It has come to our attention that the agent on temporary loan to the United Network Command has been transferred from the field. As this negates the contract which our agency has with the U.N.C.L.E., we are exercising our option to reclassify the status of said agent, pursuant to Clause 4B of Section 12.

Captain Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin is hereby recalled to active duty in Moscow by order of the First Directorate, and ordered to report for reassessment and reassignment at 14:00 hours, January 12, Staraye Square. An acknowledgment of these orders is required.

Yorkshire England, 1959

Illya Kuryakin finished his climb up the steep hillside in the high Pennines and dropped down to the turf, setting his back against a rock wall, displacing a number of small songbirds hunting for ants in the stone chinks. An lazy early morning wind cut around and through him, ruffling his hair and nipping his ears. He closed his eyes and ducked his head against it, turning up his collar, grateful he was still warm from the climb. Though only late summer, in the early morning the air was beginning to be nippy in these lonely stretches of high hills, a reminder that autumn and winter were not long off. Below, stretched out before him like a scene from an old English tapestry, rolled the sheep-nibbled turf, hummocks of heather and gorse bushes, a flock of heavily fleeced ewes and their well-grown lambs, the silver ripples of brooks and rills, and, snuggled against the side of a hill, his real purpose for being here, a Thrush lab.

He’d been watching it off and on for weeks, under the guise of a local farm-hand. He knew next to nothing about sheep, and thought little of creatures too stupid to take shelter at night without the prodding of the dogs. He cared even less for the sheep dogs that really guarded the flock, and they returned the suspicion. He hadn’t been bitten; the dogs were too well trained for that. But they weren’t above the occasional snarl if he got too close. That was fine with him; he was more than willing to keep his distance, content to affect the manner of a lackadaisical shepherd, going out every day behind the sheep dogs with a packet of sandwiches on coarse, home-made bread, and spending the day ostensibly watching the sheep and actually recording the coming and goings in the lab.

The wind nipped him again, and his shoulders flattened against the wall, rubbing its lichen-scarred surface. When the sun crested the surrounding hills later in the morning, this spot would be drenched with a clear, translucent light, and by noon he might find the basking rays too warm for comfort. But now it was a cold, damp, desolate spot. He reached for the thermos of hot tea he’d brought with him, and the packet of honey-laden bread he made for his breakfast. He’d just undone the thick oilcloth when he heard the familiar twitter of his communicator.

He glanced around the wind-swept hillside reflexively, then huddled further back against the wall and took out his cigarette case/transceiver. It was an incongruous device for a simple shepherd to have, not that anyone was close enough to see or care. Still he hunched into the wall and kept his voice muffled as he answered, “Kuryakin here.”

“Illya.”

Kuryakin sat up a little straighter at the sound of his superior’s voice. “Mr. Ireson. I wasn’t due to report in for another —” he checked his watch, “six hours, sir.”

“You’re going to have to cut short your assignment.” Ireson was an easy-going man with a broad North Country accent, a huge pipe, an affection for bitter, and a less standoffish manner than most area chiefs had for their field agents. Kuryakin knew he had to be exceptionally tolerant to have put up with the unexpected addition of a Soviet agent dumped into his division during the hot-potato shuffle that had so-far characterized Kuryakin’s U.N.C.L.E. career. Kuryakin liked Ireson, so far as he allowed himself to like anyone, and had condescended to take a pint or two of stout with him in the local pub when he met his chief for weekly reports. Ireson had actually apologized to him for the unprepossessing assignment, promising him something more exciting in the future. Kuryakin hadn’t commented, well aware from experience that the newest agent to any office got the worst jobs, and actually not too discontented with his lot. He was not ill-suited for solitude. By the time this job was over, he expected he would have picked up the local accent well enough to mesh more credibly with area operations. His proper Oxford British was acceptable in London, but it limited him severely here. The chief had agreed, and had amusedly coached him a bit in the broad Yorkshire that was the local exchange. But now Ireson’s strong, gruff voice was unusually tense, with no trace of camaraderie, either affected or real. “Something’s come up.”

Looking out over the peaceful countryside, Kuryakin happened to catch the eye of one of the border collies. It raised one lip over a gleaming set of incisors, lowered its head and growled low in its throat, perhaps reacting to his own subtle changes in body language. He shook his head slightly and deliberately relaxed, reminded of his cover as an indolent shepherd. “Yes, sir. Where do you want me to go?”

“One of the Pros from Dover is down,” Ireson said shortly.

Kuryakin’s breath caught in his throat. A golf madness affected many of his colleagues stationed this close to the sport’s birthplace. He never found any point to the game. Still, he did understand the current reference. Pros from Dover was the local office’s quasi-affectionate reference to the crack enforcement team flown in by Alexander Waverly as a whip against the regional Thrush satrap. Kuryakin was too lowly an operative to know the specifics, but he knew his own surveillance monitored part of the satrap’s outlying operations, and was passed onto New York’s enforcement group. Now it looked as if something in that operation had gone horribly wrong. Kuryakin noted that Ireson hadn’t said injured or hurt, but down. When an agent was down, it was a euphemism for a bad, generally fatal injury.

Kuryakin didn’t ask any details. It wasn’t his nature, and if he’d needed to know them, he’d be told. Pragmatic and practical as always, he cut to the chase. “What is my assignment?”

Ireson told him. Kuryakin noted the specifics while inconspicuously gathering up his few things. Within moments after Kuryakin signed off, the wind cut along the hills again, stirring the sun-warmed fleece on the sheep and ruffling the heather, but when it reached the intersection of turf and stone that formed the wall, it flowed, unobstructed, over it and the down the steep hillside toward the rills. Kuryakin was gone.

New York, 1969

Solo narrowed his eyes at the sight of the highway sign up ahead. 90 more miles to New York. Another hour and a half, he calculated automatically. Two hours if they ran into traffic, though that wasn’t likely so late at night. He looked across at Illya, behind the wheel as usual, giving him the same speculative glance he’d give a potentially serviceable weapon. But though a bit worse for wear, his partner seemed functional enough.

If you’re getting tired, I’ll take over for awhile,” Solo offered perfunctorily.

Kuryakin glanced at him, torn from whatever reverie he’d been lost in, then shrugged. “This keeps me awake.”

Solo found the knobs for the radio, and twisted the tuner till he found a station not too jarring to be raucous — his own head was aching too much for that — but not so soothing as to be sopophoric.

Kuryakin nodded approval, and they drove on silently for a while, the tires eating up the black ribbon of the road, the tinny sound of the rental car’s cheap AM radio a counterpoint to the steady drone of the engine. Solo leaned back in his seat, trying to stretch his legs as much as possible in the cramped space and looked out at the night sky. A thunderstorm was brewing; stars appeared and disappeared through the clouds and swatches of heat lightening crossed the sky. After a time, the radio signal faded and then broke up into static. Solo fiddled with the dial again, but the station was lost, leaving then a choice between a few jarring rock and roll stations or an evangelist interspersing messages of doom with requests for money. Either caused Solo’s headache to spiral.

“Don’t bother, Napoleon. It’s three in the morning,” Kuryakin noted, stretching as best he could from behind the wheel. “You’re not going to find much.”

“AM radio and rock and roll,” Solo shrugged and turned the radio off. “Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“I’d rather not stop and switch,” Kuryakin said. “We’ll be there soon enough.” Thunder rumbled again and then crashed. Rain began to fall against the windshield, the first drops just creating enough liquid to smear the glass to an quasi-opaque shield. Kuryakin sprayed the windshield with fluid to clean it. Then the rain came on in earnest, and Kuryakin switched the wipers on high.

“We’ve only another hour or so.” The Soviet agent shifted again restlessly and resettled his shoulder holster. “Talk for a bit.”

Solo cast about in his mind for a subject. “What about?”

Kuryakin paused for a moment, then said diffidently, “How do you think the old man is doing?”

Solo shifted, trying to see his partner’s face in the darkened car. “That’s a strange question.”

“Not so strange. He didn’t look all that well before he saw us off on this one.”

Solo fumbled in his suit pocket for the cigarette case he still carried, and lit one, using the time to ponder Kuryakin’s question. By the glow of his lighter, Kuryakin’s expression was characteristically grim, but that meant little. The nicotine kicked in with the smoke he inhaled, sharpening his mind and chasing the cobwebs away. He wondered, not so much at the question, but at Kuryakin’s reason for bringing it up.

‘He’s due for a vacation,” Solo rationalized finally. “He’ll be better when he comes back from it.” He opened the window a crack to let the smoke out, then pulled back as rain slashed him across the face. He was now wide awake.

“He’s well due for retirement,” Illya said gently.

Solo ground out his cigarette, suddenly irritated by the harsh smoke. “That’s not my call.”

“I wondered if you were thinking about it,” Kuryakin prodded.

“As little as possible,” Solo assured him.

Kuryakin made a rude noise. “I know that’s not true. With all your faults, you’ve never been deliberately unprepared for anything. And you must see the danger.”

Solo turned. “Danger?”

The Soviet agent frowned at him across the darkened car. “With Waverly failing, taking out his successor would be a double blow to U.N.C.L.E. You’ll need to be extra careful now.”

“They’ve been trying to take me out for years,” Solo pointed out. “Without success.”

“Never-the-less.” Kuryakin frowned inexorably at the road ahead. “When you take over for Waverly during his leave, we’re going to guard you very well.”

Solo considered the meaning behind his partner’s words, the increased security, the lack of privacy and freedom, the constant hours, and shifted uncomfortably. Knowing he’d been tapped to be Waverly’s successor was at times a heady thought. There was a minus side to it as well that he preferred not to dwell on, but Illya, with his pragmatic nature, would naturally consider first. “This is too gloomy a conversation to have post-mission,” he commented, effectively closing the subject.

“When should we have it?” Kuryakin countered. “Obviously, not during a mission. Directly before a mission, there are more immediate concerns. In the interstices, you’re too busy chasing skirts.”

Whose fault is that? Solo wondered, then immediately buried that thought. “Skirt-chasing” as Illya so rudely called it, actually had begun to have less of an appeal for him. A bit surprising considering he was approaching his fortieth birthday, a time when even dedicated family men were supposed to resurrect the habit. But then, since he’d never dropped the habit, he supposed that approaching middle age wasn’t an excuse.

In quantity, he supposed, he’d hardly slacked off at all, but personally, the thrill of the chase had paled from him a little. Women seemed to still fall into his lap, perhaps because of his reputation. But he sought them less, his practiced charms were more ingrained habit than conscious effort, and as the chase grew less interesting, he occasionally yearned toward the idea of coming home to a familiar face and spending a quiet evening. But only briefly. As an agent, he still couldn’t seek any long term relationship with a woman. As Waverly’s successor, any wife he chose he’d put at significant risk. He found it rather irritating that his colleagues and even his superior commented derogatorily on his habits when his profession really only gave him a choice between playing the field or abstinence. He couldn’t imagine spending every night at home alone. But a glance at Illya reminded him that his partner managed abstinence rather well. Unlike his other detractors, Illya might be censorious, but at least he wasn’t a hypocrite. Solo struggled past his annoyance to concentrate on the actual subject.

“All right. Waverly doesn’t leave for two weeks. We’ll find time before then.”

“Morton will be here on Monday. We should be ready before then.”

Solo scowled at that. “I still don’t see the point in bringing Morton back from London.”

Kuryakin shrugged. “Section One didn’t take the problem with his fiancee very much to heart. We’re all vulnerable to such things. And once burned, twice shy, as they say. He won’t be making that mistake again.” The Soviet agent shifted his shoulders again.

“Is your shoulder bothering you again? Sure you don’t want me to take over?”

“I’m fine. Just give me one of those lemon drop things medical handed out.”

Solo rooted around in his pockets, found what his partner wanted and handed one over. He almost unfurled one for himself, then grimaced at the thought of the inevitable aftertaste and shoved it back in his pocket. The latest invention of the labs, the combination of C and B vitamins in a sugar base was supposed to give a field agent a boost of energy on a mission, or temporarily assuage thirst. Solo had found them a limited success. The strong citrus flavors didn’t entirely mask their essential ingredients, at least for him, and the vitamin had a tendency to turn his stomach. But they were light to carry and occasionally useful.

He shoved the wrapper in his pocket and continued. “I can see why they brought him back from Antarctica to London. He’d done his penance. But I don’t see the need for him in New York.”

Illya laughed softly . “For someone who is so canny, you can be blind, Napoleon.”

Solo scowled. “All right. I’ll take the bait. What am I being blind about?”

“It’s obvious — at least to me, anyway — that until the event of your succession occurs, Section One is going to try various candidates as North American CEA,” Kuryakin said seriously. “This is Morton’s shot at it. His little fiasco aside, he did well enough as CEA in the UK area. New York is a reasonable step up.”

“That’s your slot,” Solo said shortly. “And I don’t see what business it is of theirs. Waverly chose his own staff. So will I.”

“Waverly has a bit more power consolidated than you will, just coming into the job,” Kuryakin noted. “Anyway, we don’t know what conditions Waverly might have had to meet, to get the people he wanted in the slots he had for them.” His voice trailed off, brow furrowed as he no doubt considered what Waverly had done to get a Soviet agent in New. York. Then he shrugged philosophically, dismissing that ancient history. “Regardless, this is Morton’s chance.”

“Scuttlebutt around HQ says that he’s just temporary help while Waverly’s out,” Solo pointed out, curious where Kuryakin was getting his information from. “Not that we need foreign imports.”

Kuryakin cocked an eyebrow, willingly taking the bait. “I’ve heard roundabout from London that Masters has been tapped for a possible assumption of the number one slot there, given that Morton works out here. Morton’s been told to get his things in order for a long term move. And HQ here has been told to put him in a permanent residence here, not temp quarters.”

“Masters is already number two in London. That’s no scoop,” Solo pointed out. “As for putting Morton in permanent quarters, he’s a CEA. They wouldn’t be likely to put him in one of those flea-traps we call temporary housing for transient agents. Rank has some privileges, Illya, in spite of how it galls your socialist soul.”

“We socialists have no souls, Napoleon, but that’s hardly the point. You could be right about Morton,” Kuryakin crunched his candy thoughtfully, considering. “He’s good, but he has some strikes against him. It’s a toss up who’ll Section One will choose.”

“It’s your slot,” Solo repeated stubbornly. “You done CEA duties often enough to have proven yourself, and you are number two. They’d have to have a damn good reason to pass you by.”

“Napoleon, I don’t know whether to admire your lack of prejudice, or be appalled by how it’s blinded you,” Kuryakin shook his head indulgently. “I’m Soviet. Section One will never accept me being given New York.”

“We do have a charter,” Solo pointed out.

“And a very pretty document it is,” Kuryakin retorted ironically. “Be practical. It would create too many problems with the local agencies to make a Soviet agent permanent CEA in New York, and I wonder if the Soviet government would be entirely easy with it. Every one in U.N.C.L.E. seems to acknowledge that but you. They’ve tolerated me as Number Two because they couldn’t buck Waverly. And if I do say so myself, I am good,” he added, with mock modesty. “But with Waverly gone,” he continued, turning serious again, “I’ll be lucky to hold onto my current slot.” I’m wondering if I should even both to try, or if it wouldn’t just be better for me to switch HQ’s entirely. London would probably be willing to take me back, particularly with Morton gone. And France is relatively tolerant toward socialists, if not Russian Communists. I do speak fairly decent Japanese, though it would be hard for me to blend in there --”

“Illya,” Napoleon said slowly. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.” Kuryakin squinted at him in the dim light. “Could you hand me another one of those candy things?”

“What, did you eat all your own?” Solo pulled his from an inside overcoat pocket and put the package on the dash before them. “You’ve confirmed your cast iron stomach. Just one of these turns mine.”

“You were dining in fancy banquet halls while I was camped out eating Sterno-heated reconstituted meals,” Illya retorted. “By comparison with those, they’re not bad.”

Solo absently picked one up, twirling the furled cellophane wrapper ends between his fingers without opening it. “You’re not going anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it, and I will. I’d have to sign your transfer papers, remember? And unless you plan to forge my signature, that isn’t going to happen.”

Kuryakin was silent for a long moment, then he said. “It probably would be for the best. If I stay in Section Two, in New York, I’d have to get used to a new CEA. That would be... uncomfortable, both for the new person and myself. There would always be suspicions of favoritism from you, since we were partners for so long --”

Solo turned sharply. “What’s this ‘were’ stuff?”

“Once you move to Section One, it’s history,” Kuryakin pointed out. “And that move is coming soon.” Kuryakin sobered. “For my part, I’m not entirely sure how well I’d deal with being supplanted by another CEA in New York. Or even with the notion of you in Waverly’s chair.”

“Illya!” Solo said, stung this time.

“It’s not what your thinking. I think you’ll handle it fine, but I’m not sure I can treat you with the ...well, with the reverence we’ve had to give Waverly.”

Solo grinned, amused at the picture that created in his mind. “I’ll have to keep you around just to see you try.”

Across from him in the glow of a passing car’s headlights, he could see Kuryakin shaking his head in frustration. “Be serious.”

“Oh, I am.”

Kuryakin shrugged. “See what I mean? I’m afraid we’d fall into our usual banter.”

“So?”

“It would set a bad example for the rest of staff,” Kuryakin argued. “The Continental Chief is supposed to be infallible, omnipotent, immutable--”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Napoleon interrupted, with mock offense.

Kuryakin ignored him. “If I stay around, people will be reminded of when you were just CEA.”

“You won’t be the only agent there who will have known me as CEA,” Solo reminded him. “We’ll deal with it. I don’t expect the same respect Waverly got, anyway.”

Kuryakin’s jaw set stubbornly. “You’d better get it, if I have anything to say about it. That job is hard enough without kibitzing from the staff.”

“My hero,” Solo said, amused. “See, you really can’t even consider a transfer. Who’d defend my honor?”

“You have no honor,” Illya shot back, in the same tone, then sobered. “Really, Napoleon, I do think it’s for the best. I’ve been putting feelers out to London and --”

“I’m beginning to think I should be the last candidate for Waverly’s job.” Solo cut in sourly. “My own partner is making transfer noises to London, and no one tells me?”

“Very quietly.” Kuryakin assured him. “Very carefully --”

“I don’t care if you asked how the weather is there, I want to know about it before you do it!” Solo snapped. His vehemence rebounded in the close car, startling them both.

Illya was silent for a moment while he assimilated that, then he asked quietly, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit presumptive?”

“You’re my partner.”

“I was investigating something which has nothing to do with out partnership. Which in itself has a short future anyway,” he pointed out.

Solo was shaking his head in denial. “Illya, we will always be partners.”

Kuryakin didn’t answer for a moment, pondering that. Then he said. “That means a great deal to me. But surely you see the problem. You’d be assigning me cases. Do you think I’d leave you open to speculation of favoritism if it could be prevented? My transfer would easily solve those issues. And it’s not as if it has to be a permanent leave-taking. We could call it a long term loan — I’d go to London, while Morton comes to New York. After a while, when you’re well established in the chair, I could return.”

“No,” Solo was smiling, but there was a look in his eyes that said otherwise. “Never in a million years will I trade you for Morton, not even with Waverly’s chair thrown in as a sweetener.”

In the darkness of the car, Kuryakin couldn’t see that, he heard only the tone. “Napoleon, will you be serious? This is going to happen. It is happening, with your cooperation or without it. If you didn’t want it to happen, you should have done something years ago, before you became Waverly’s heir apparent. You could have refused the role then, you know. One word to him would have been sufficient. But you didn’t. So since it is your promotion, and will be your HQ, I’d think you’d have your own best interests in mind.”

“Believe me, I do. I’m not signing any transfer papers for you.”

Kuryakin shook his head in frustration, hands clenched on the steering wheel. “Then Waverly will sign them. He agrees --”

“Did he put you up to this?”

“No one ‘put me up’ to anything, Napoleon. We’re just thinking of the future, as you should be.”

“Never mind. I’ll deal with the old bastard and tell him myself that your staying in New York is part of the deal. We’ve been partners for too long to split up now.”

“You don’t need a partner as head of Section One.”

“Your wrong, my friend. I’ll need one more than ever.”

Kuryakin gritted his teeth. “You seem to forget the detail that this is my life. Perhaps I want to go to London or Paris. Perhaps I’m tired of New York.”

“Too bad,” Solo said, with a complete lack of sympathy.

“Perhaps I’m tired of you, dictating too many of the shots the last few years!”

Solo’s eyes narrowed, but he let that one pass. “Maybe I have a prerogative from having deflected more than a few of those shots from snuffing you out permanently.”

“And vice versa, as I recall,” Kuryakin retorted furiously. “The obligation is mutual.”

“If you didn’t like it, you should have said ‘one word’ to Waverly years ago. There were times when he would have welcomed an excuse to break up the partnership,” Solo countered ruthlessly. “Too late now.”

Kuryakin took his eyes off the road to stare a him a moment, then shook his head, “Napoleon --”

“You plotted behind my back with Waverly in this little scheme--” Solo said cooly, beginning to be outraged over this unlikely collaboration.

“I didn’t--” Kuryakin began to deny.

“Willingly or not. Now I’m going to pull my own strings. You see to have forgotten I always win at these games.”

The Soviet agent was glaring fixedly at the road. “Not with Waverly.”

“Especially there.” Solo fixed his partner with a cool look. “Do you think I became the top field agent, or Waverly’s chosen replacement, just by accident? You’ve just discovered for yourself that pure merit alone doesn’t guarantee anything.” He paused for effect then slid the words in as ruthlessly as a knife between the ribs. “Sometimes all it gets you is a shove downstairs and a plane ticket to London. Right, partner?”

Kuryakin drew back from that. However often he watched Solo wield his considerable talents to beguile, influence or otherwise manipulate the actions of others, it was always a sharp shock to have them used against himself, abruptly cast from the role of an amused and cynical co-conspirator or bystander to the one manipulated. His tongue momentarily tied, Solo glanced across at him with the briefest smile of triumph. But reality soon inserted itself . Until Waverly stepped down, he was Number One. Not even Solo could buck that immutable force. Nor should he risk trying, merely to keep hold of a now redundant colleague. After a moment, striving for a matter of fact tone, Illya said “Still --”

“Forget it. Unpack your books, Illya, and put your London Underground map back in storage. You’re staying.”

The Russian’s back went stiff, and his chin jutted out just a bit. Solo was CEA, but in all the years of their partnership, he rarely gave him orders, and certainly never in that tone of voice. “We’ll see.”

“Leave it to Uncle Napoleon,” Solo said wickedly. “I’ll make everything all right.”

Kuryakin didn’t dignify that with a reply.

New York Headquarters, 1970

Heather buzzed him around 3:00. “Mr. Thigpin is here, sir.”

“Send him in, Heather. Transfer field calls to Morton, please and hold all the others, unless it’s something urgent.

“Yes, sir.”

In between taking calls from field agents and dealing with day-to-day Headquarters issues, Solo had read and reread the contract between the GRU and U.N.C.L.E. After the second reading, he’d sent for Daniel Thigpin, U.N.C.L.E.’s chief counsel in New York.

Solo had dealt with him rarely; legal issues didn’t come to him unless they were particularly pressing. One of Thigpin’s virtues was that he ensured that few if any became so.

U.N.C.L.E. was rife with attorneys of every kind. Most of them settled simple cases of property damage. Others handled the onerous tasks of compensation where civilian lives were lost. Some were criminal attorneys who handled cases where local law enforcement agencies mistakenly filed charges against agents after the assault or death of Thrush operatives A very few handled international law. Daniel Thigpin specialized in the latter, and in particular oversaw U.N.C.L.E.’s charter and the agreements between its member nations.

Solo gestured his council to a chair at the round table, pushed the contract between U.N.C.L.E. and the GRU over to Thigpin, the recent letter on top. Raising curious eyebrows, Thigpin settled glasses on his nose and perused the first document, then read the letter slowly. Finishing, he took a glassine paper from a packet in his suitcoat and polished his glasses carefully before settling the glasses back on his nose. He read them a second time, shaking his head slightly as he reached the peremptory demands of the letter. Finishing, he looked up speculatively at Solo. “I take it you are not inclined to come into compliance with the demand?” he inquired.

“You must be joking.”

“Attorneys don’t have much of a sense of humor,” Thigpin regarded him gravely.

“No, of course not.” Solo sat up abruptly. “Do you know what they’d do to Illya if they got ahold of him?”

Thigpin blinked, taken aback. “Not in the slightest. I take it the end result would be unpleasant?”

“To put it mildly.” Solo rose, pacing a little. “I want to know what my options are. Legally that is.” He added as an afterthought.

“Before you decide to take your own?” Thigpin asked, with a shrewd look at Solo, who raised an eyebrow. He came back to his desk and sat back cooly.

“That’s not your concern.” Solo said, a trace of warning in his voice.

“Forgive me, but it is.” Thigpin said, a little painfully, but determined. “I am well aware of the risks field agents take, and the ... ingenuity...” he fumbled for the right word, “it can take to succeed in the field. And in Section One,” he added pointedly. “I served your predecessor as well, sir. Sometimes you don’t have the luxury to seek legal advice, and even then, sometimes you must act in spite of it. But to proceed without even seeking it when there is time,” he added firmly, “is folly, not virtue. If someone in the past had taken better care over this,” he raised the contract in his hand, “your friend might not be in the position he is in now.”

Solo sat back a trifle, cooly reevaluating the man before him. “That took some guts,” he commented. “For a briefcase-wielding paper-pusher, you seem to have some sense.” His voice was mild enough to take the worst of the sting out of his words, and Thigpin smiled painfully.

“And I’ve heard you don’t always settle things with your balls and your bullets.”

Solo laughed softly at that. “All right, Danny. We understand each other so far, I think. Know this, I’m not giving Illya back to the GRU. U.N.C.L.E. owes him more than a long painful interrogation and then a swift execution at the hands of his compatriots.”

Thigpin’s eyes widened slightly and then he shrugged. “I still sometimes am surprised by this business, and then I wonder why I should still be. I don’t understand why Kuryakin should get such a reception, but then, I know enough about foreign governments and agent contracts to realize these a maze of politics and rivalries caught up in each. This,” he held up the contract signed so long ago, “doesn’t give you many options. Basically, as long as Kuryakin stays an active field agent, we’ve kept the terms of the contract. They can still recall him; he’s a military officer under detached service and they can change his orders. But if he’s on a case, we can defer the recall temporarily until the termination of an active case and until we have another Soviet agent in trade. If we transfer him from the field or he leaves the field permanently through disability, the contract expires and they can recall him.” He raised his hands in a gesture of explanation. “Plain and simple, you want to keep him, you have to put him in the field.”

Maybe that was the reason for London, Solo thought. “Did Illya know about this?” he asked.

Thigpin shrugged. “His signature isn’t on it. No reason he should have seen it. He was the exchanged goods, not one of the agreeing parties. I doubt Waverly showed it to him; our old boss was close-handed. He might have told him.” The lawyer’s tone was edged with doubt.

“Hmm.” Solo said agreed skeptically. “Waverly was close-mouthed too, except when there was reason not to be.” He shifted in his seat, taking the contract in his hand. “All right, what happens if I refuse? Just on speculation, you understand. Illya has an U.N.C.L.E. passport. He’s not dependent on them for anything.”

Thigpin was shaking his head. “You can’t do that. For one thing, they’ll raise the issue in the U.N. that U.N.C.L.E. is refusing to honor agent agreements. That would be disastrous for us internationally.”

Solo scowled, his silence conceding that point.

“And second, he has a U.S. passport and green card based on U.N.C.L.E.’s charter with this country. They’ll take their argument to U.S. Immigration and Naturalization, who will revoke Kuryakin’s documents with due speed. You can well believe there are people in this government, highly placed at that, who would loved to see a Soviet national removed from U.N.C.L.E. New York. You may not be aware of this Solo, it’s hardly your purview, just standard operating procedure, but U.S. Immigration and Naturalization does a regular review of all the documents relating to our foreign agents residing in this country. Issues regarding your former partner come up regularly. His documents, up to now, were all in order. But if the Soviet government challenges his position here --” his voice trailed off meaningfully.

“Our friends in the U.S. government will be only too happy to deport Illya.”

“They won’t have a choice,” Thigpin added, in response to Solo’s scowl. “This is a legal issue and the terms of the agreement have to be honored on both sides. Ignoring that puts all our agent contracts in jeopardy. Unless we take other steps.” He looked quizzically at Solo.

“You’re saying the easiest solution is a transfer to Section Two,” Solo conceded. “Fine. I’ll do that. With the notice that he is pulling temporary duty in his current position. Will that do?”

“It will buy negotiating time,” Thigpin conceded. “And muddy the waters. Which always helps. But I imagine if he’s not an active field agent, it will be challenged, so you had better consider a defense. My office will as well, if we are so directed. But over the long run, there is a time limit to even that solution. If you are concerned about Mr. Kuryakin’s long term future --”

“Illya will be 38 in September,” Solo said absently. “He has a good two years and more before he’s permanently barred from fieldwork. But after that, he’ll be ineligible for the field. And according to this, vulnerable.”

“Then I suggest, Mr. Solo, that you consider what actions you plan to take to keep Mr. Kuryakin permanently safe from Soviet hospitality should we managed to keep him until then. Two years can pass quickly. And there will be no grace period then. Once he reaches forty, we will have to discharge him to Soviet custody.”

“Hell of a birthday present.” Solo said.

“Precisely.”

Solo smiled grimly. “In the field, we often just worried minute to minute about staying alive.”

“But not always, Mr. Solo. Or you wouldn’t be where you are now.”

The young Continental Chief nodded grimly. “All right, sort through that verbiage and see if you can come up with any legal loopholes. In the meantime, I’ll arrange with Morton to have Illya transferred to Section Two, on temporary assignment to Section One Security.” He sighed. “I certainly didn’t need this now.”

“Precisely. You must wonder, Mr. Solo, why someone would try and rob you of your Security Chief.” Thigpin asked delicately. “And so precipitously. Of course, you are fortunate that it didn’t happen before Mr. Kuryakin had the bulk of your security arrangements in place. But that delay also leaves some questions.”

“Why now and not before?” Solo echoed aloud.

“And what change in Soviet operations might have brought this about?”

“Good point.” Solo said, and gave the prim attorney a respectful glance. “You’re better at this then I thought you would be.”

“And you are more tractable than I had hoped.”

Solo laughed and stood. “Danny, we might just have a future together. Particularly if you can keep my partner permanently out of his antagonistic Soviet colleagues’ clutches.”

“I will do my best, sir.” Thigpin accepted the hand, and collected his briefcase. “I’ll have your secretary make a copy of this, with your permission.” He took the contract with him from the room. Solo sighed and punched the intercom to call Morton to his office. This was one interview he wasn’t relishing.

Yorkshire, England, 1959

Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent for the North American branch of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, had fallen into a confined and repetitive pattern that belied his lofty title and far-flung travels. His universe had shrunken to a tiny room, and a limited set of options. When he could sit no longer, he paced the narrow confines of the hospital waiting area. When he became dizzy from the restless pacing, he stared sightlessly out the window. The window faced the main road of a mid-size English market town. An ordinary, prosaic little burg that had rarely been guested with the exotic or the foreign. Local traffic flowed continuously past the window, car horns tooting in spite of the QUIET — HOSPITAL ZONE signs posted on the roadside verges. But he saw none of it, nor did he pay more than minimal attention to the traffic inside the hospital, scanning each fellow waiting room occupant briefly, almost automatically, searching for concealed weapons or a certain look that said Thrush Agent. But his transient waiting room companions all had the same abstracted look as himself, caught in the limbo between hope and despair, helplessly waiting for the verdict on what it was to be. There were two others beside himself: a woman whose husband had a foot injured in some farming implement, and the father of a boy who’d been injured in a accident with his scooter. Gradually even they disappeared, and he was left alone, the only person caught waiting for the fates to make their celestial decision. Solo was ambivalent about the outcome. Lady Luck had been kind to him in the past, but she had a reputation for being fickle as well.

He smoked until he ran out of cigarettes. When he emptied the pack, he crumpled it in a pocket and did without, oblivious to the vending machines that lined the walls of the tiny waiting room. He’d sit until the nagging adrenalin surge urging him to do something, do something, do something forced him into motion. Then he paced, stared, sat when exhausted, and paced again, a mindless routine that occupied his body while his mind revolved on a similarly circular track.

The last few minutes of the mission revolved in his mind in counterpoint to his own restless motion. The job had been routine, mundane almost, at least for U.N.C.L.E.’s new up and coming Chief Enforcement Agent. Infiltrate a Thrush installation, steal some information, get clear. Ever cautious, they’d reviewed the layouts, rehearsed the plan. Solo had felt as confident as anyone could get. He damned that confidence now, but even in hindsight, what had happened was pure accident.

They’d timed the mission precisely, for the lull between two shifts. The place was a lock down, ultra-secure lab. No one was supposed to be roaming around without clearance, and there was a monitoring system to make sure of that. Part of the mission had been to disable that monitoring system, to allow them to do their job. With that done, they should have been virtually undetectable.

That part had worked well. Thrush hadn’t even noticed the system was already down when they shut it down themselves to bring through the corridors the co-worker suddenly stricken with some serious illness. There had been guards escorting the gurney with the stretcher, of course.

They’d darted the first group, but not before a general alarm had been sounded. After that it had been a game of tag, with the U.N.C.L.E. agents as the target.

Still, they’d had a good head start, and their gear was ready. They’d almost finished repelling down the steep cliff that protected the seaward side of the lab, when his partner had been shot. Solo knew they’d been under fire, though the high pitched whine hadn’t had much chance to intrude on the necessary concentration he had to give his descent. One slip and a man could fall to a death as certain as that from a bullet.

Even now Solo’s mind replayed the sickening sight of his partner’s body falling before him, to land on the sea-foamed rocks below, their gray-green hues staining a rusty brown.

He’d more slid than rappel led down the last 50 yards, moving faster and more erratically than his pursuers’ aim expected. But his mind had been less on escape than on the thought that he was a lucky man, a lucky CEA, a man who’d never lost an U.N.C.L.E. agent during his tenure. He knew that record couldn’t last, but it was inconceivable that it should be broken by his own partner. The man had to have survived rifle and rocks. Solo needed to be there to save him from drowning.

But by the time he’d slid down, a team from the waiting speedboat, their pickup, had already retrieved his fallen comrade, and Solo had to do little more than hustle himself aboard, shielding himself from the spray as the fast craft kicked up a wake in the pursuing Thrush agents’ faces.

Then here. Waverly hadn’t yet complained about the compulsion that kept Solo tied to this run-down waiting room. That in itself was bad. If it were a minor injury, the old man would already have despatched his CEA to New York, convalescing partner be damned. But even Waverly was sensitive to a agent who’s partner had sustained near fatal injuries, and generally abated his near constant demands until the injured half of the team was pronounced stable. Or dead.

No, that couldn’t happen, Solo reminded himself. He was a lucky man, and he’d never lost an agent yet. Surely his luck would hold.

Anyway it had been too long. Hours. If he’d lived this long, survived the trip to the hospital, made it into surgery, he’d make it through. The odds were in favor of it, and he’d beaten worse odds than these.

But he had beaten them. It was his partner who hadn’t beaten them, who was fighting for his life, while Solo paced outside, free of even a scratch. He sank down, burying his head in his hands in pure weariness, then snapped alert at a soft footstep. This corridor leading to the operating room and the shabby room where Solo waited was now supposed to be off limits to all but hospital personnel, and that footfall had come from the wrong direction, not from the O.R., and a surgeon bearing news of his partner, but from the main body of the hospital.

He drew his gun on the man who put his hand on the door, and then lowered it slightly. He didn’t quite recall the name, but he remembered the face of the U.N.C.L.E. agent who paused in the doorway, a foreign agent who’d been stationed in New York briefly before being sent off to Survival School. Solo had thought him still based in Harry Selden’s Berlin HQ. His was the last face he’d expect to see in Gibralter.

“What are you doing here?” Solo asked, not caring if he sounded rude.

The agent was wary, his face as closed as Solo’s. “I was assigned as backup.”

Solo reached into his vest pocket for his cigarette case/transceiver, and soon verified the story was true.

“Obviously you are hardly at your best, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “I asked our U.K. office to detail someone to cover you and Mr. Wilkins.. Thrush may not know you’ve handed over the plans, and they may not care, if they’re out for revenge.”

What could he say to that? He hadn’t exactly done a smashing job as backup for his partner. Closing the cigarette case without comment, he did his best to ignore the man who seemed to take his silence as tacit acceptance of the assignment. The agent wove silently around Solo, their movements an odd point and counter point.

Kuryakin, for Solo recalled that was his name, took his guard duties seriously, pacing the corridor outside, surveying the view from the window when Solo gave way to it, always somewhere Solo wasn’t and always silent.

Solo took the agent’s presence as a giving him enough of a leave to buy a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine. He smoked one after another as the hours passed. He paced and smoked and looked out the window and paced again, not seeing the other agent in the room, not seeing the room, seeing only the replay in his mind of his partner’s body slipping from the ropes, falling to the sea, rocking on the waves.

He would see it in nightmares for years to come.

New York, 1969

Post-mission, he and Illya sitting in a Chinese restaurant. They’d indulged themselves with half-a-dozen dishes, and were “filling up the corners” as Illya put it, along with the last of what had been several pots of tea.

“You forgot your fortune cookie,” Solo said, tossing him one of the cellophane wrapped cookies.

Kuryakin good-naturedly obliged, breaking the cookie and unfolding the tiny strip. “You will travel far but leave your heart at home,” he said, and smiled faintly.

“They got the traveling right,” Solo observed. “How could they know you have no heart to leave or take?” he asked reasonably.

“Your turn,” Kuryakin said, pushing one toward him.

“Wealth and power you have attained, but you must work for happiness,” Solo read, and frowned slightly.

“Chinese fortune cookies are like horoscopes,” Kuryakin said, ignoring Solo’s discomfort and pouring himself more tea. “They’re generic enough to have some meaning for everyone.”

“Yeah, right,” Solo said absently, then straightened as his communicator began beeping.

Kuryakin made a face. “Can’t we have time to write up the reports from the last mission before going out again? He complained as Solo untwisted his pen.

“Solo here,” the CEA said, listened, and the color blanched from his face.

Kuryakin paused in sipping his tea. “Napoleon?

“On my way,” Solo said, tossing a twenty on the table in the same motion as he put the pen away. He tugged at Illya’s arm. “Waverly’s down.”

They rushed out of the restaurant, the wake of their passage stirring the fortunes, forgotten on the tabletop.

* * * * *

The funeral was large, if not elaborate, and the security arrangements were a nightmare. They put into place the elaborate system of deception to Thrush to make it seem that Waverly was still alive and running U.N.C.L.E., even as Solo stepped into his place trying not to miss a beat in North American operations. Taking over the reins of power permanently was more complex than substituting on a temporary basis. How many things he had passed over lightly when he had subbed, knowing that Waverly would handle them when he returned. But now Waverly would never return. Solo virtually lived in Waverly’s office while he got everything firmly in hand.

On a more prosaic front, half of Section Two, everyone not absolutely working on a case, was pulled into the security arrangements for Waverly’s funeral, with Kuryakin coordinating the efforts. With Solo’s eyes on North American operations, if not the world, and Kuryakin busy trying to make arrangements to get the remaining Continental Chiefs to New York for the funeral without losing another Continental Chief in the process, their paths seldom crossed.

It wasn’t until the actual funeral, his head bowed over the old man’s grave, that Napoleon had time to consider his grief. He thought of all the years sitting around the round conference table, watching Waverly fuss with his pipe, getting his pride abraded from the old man’s irascible temper, calling him in desperate straits, coming back to him flushed with triumph, bowed with failure, or weary from the efforts of just preserving the status quo. But always coming back, seeing him behind that console wreathed in pungent pipe smoke, sometimes avuncular, sometimes irritable, but always irreplaceable.

And he was that replacement.

It was painful and daunting. His eyes suspiciously moist, he looked by habit to his partner at his side, but Illya hadn’t been there for days. He glanced around, noticing the glare of disapproval from several dignitaries as he raised his bowed head. Illya was on the crest of the hill, communicator in hand and a wireless headset on his head, coordinating the security team. He frowned over at Solo when their eyes met, and a wordless question crossed his face. Solo shook his head slightly, and looked back down at the grave, already regretting the act. He’d merely scandalized his colleagues and broken Illya’s concentration. His eyes dry again he said a quiet goodbye to his old boss, and one for Illya too, wondering, knowing Illya’s temperament, if Illya was more relieved than regretful that he was too busy during the funeral to pay the traditional respects. But, hell, if anyone would understand, Waverly would: the man almost never went home, rarely saw his family, seemed to live for his work.

Solo’s work now.

He shook off the foreboding mood and dragged his attention back to the business at hand, saying a brief eulogy in his turn, expressing his condolences to Waverly’s wife and family. Finally, it was over, and he yielded to the urgings of the security guard sent to herd him into the appropriate limousine, which took him to a discreet and heavily guarded chopper pad. The copter soon was wafting him into the air and back to headquarters.

In their due course, the other Continental Chiefs soon arrived too. There was no general wake or reception planned after the service; it was considered too high a security risk. Even the funeral itself had been far too risky. Each Section had a small gathering planned for them, and Solo himself offered drinks and traded condolences with his own Section One colleagues. But most did not drink at all, and even those that did made it a short one, leery of the vulnerability of having so much of U.N.C.L.E.’s leadership consolidated in one building, however well secured, and anxious about their own operations they had abandoned to pay their proper respects.

In too short a time he’d buried Waverly, and the office he’d thought of for so many years as Waverly’s was now his alone. He went without apology to the bar and finally poured himself a drink, noticing that Waverly’s tea service, humidor and other more personal items had been wisked away, to be replaced with a simple coffee service and a selection of the liquors he most favored. And the brand of cigarettes he had once smoked and still occasionally indulged himself with, if only on rare occasions. He hadn’t ordered any of these changes and he noted them with quiet irony. It didn’t take long, apparently.

But then, he could hardly expect Thrush to give him a decent period of mourning.

By habit, he checked with his operatives still in the field, gave them updates or instructions, or just news of the funeral. He’d signed off on the last of them when he was discreetly informed of a visitor, and Carlo Parenti came through the door, closely shepherded by Illya, who was apparently his personal watchdog. Solo made a general offer of refreshments, which Parenti accepted, and while he was fixing his fellow Continental Chief a drink, Illya made his report.

“Every Section One head, except for Senor Parenti here, has either reached their headquarters or back on their private jets with their own security teams. We’ve turned off the ‘blackout chatter’,” Illya was referring to the pre-recorded fake messages sent from every HQ to make Thrush believe business was going on as usual, “to let them make normal communications with their field teams and constituencies.” He drew a breath and shrugged slightly. “U.N.C.L.E. should be back to business as usual.”

Business as usual. It was an ironic thought, with its founder gone. But it was no more than he would expect and demand. Waverly had indulged in sentimentality, but only in moderation, and never to the detriment of his organization. Solo nodded soberly at the end of Kuryakin’s report. “Good job.”

Kuryakin shifted slightly, his eyes moving toward Parenti.

The older man waved a hand. “You can go now, Mr. Kuryakin. I will call you when I am ready to leave.”

Expressionless, Kuryakin glanced once into Solo’s eyes, and at his infinitesimal nod, turned sharply and left. The door swished behind him, leaving Solo alone with Parenti.

The old man tasted his drink and sighed softly. “So Alexander is gone. He will be greatly missed.”

Solo’s fingers clenched slightly as a new wave of grief washed over him, but he nodded agreement.

“But I know Alexander had much faith in you,” Parenti said, his grey eyes suddenly sharp, his expression almost feral. “And because I have faith in Alexander’s judgement, as well as knowledge of your accomplishments, let me say that I, also, have faith in you, Napoleon.” He said the name slowly, giving weight to all its syllables, and meaning to the acts’ significance.

Solo smiled with the irony of it. For the dozen or so years he had been acquainted with Carlo Parenti, the man had always referred to him formally. It felt odd to realize that it had taken Waverly’s death to elevate him to first name status. No, not Waverly’s death, but his assumption of the role of Continental Chief.

“Thank you, Carlo,” he said gravely.

“Talent and experience are two separate things, however,” Parenti said, returning to business. “Until you amass more of the latter, feel free to call upon me. Mostly it is a matter of good judgement, occasional cunning and constant administrative abilities. Alexander excelled in all three, but I am aware you do not like the paperwork, eh?” Parenti bared his teeth in a slight smile, “No, do not apologize, no good field agent does. So make sure your administrative workers are the best and you will do well enough. That leaves only the matter of security.” Carlo took a silver cigarette case from his pocket. Solo obligingly leaned forward to offer him a light, but Carlo refused it and lit his cigarette himself.

“No offense, my friend,” Parenti’s teeth gleamed again. “It is an old habit, to light my own. I am a cautious man, you see, even among my old friends. But it is how we live to be old, yes?”

“So it would seem.” Solo said, folding his lighter back into his suit jacket.

“Alexander’s security, if I may say so, was not the best.” Parenti brushed a hand in the air, “No offense to this headquarters. I am sure your people tried. But he was set in his ways, and he had not upgraded it for some time. And he took too many risks, Napoleon, far too many trips outside of HQ with only the barest protection. He still liked the field, too much, even at his age, and he appeared in the oddest places, at the oddest times. No doubt that oddity is what protected him, but still, at this level we jeopardize too much to go into the field. To many operations and lives depend upon our security. After all, what do we have field operatives for, if not to trust their expertise? As they trust ours, no?”

“Yes,” Solo admitted.

“So you must upgrade. Take every precaution, Napoleon, and then take more. You are young and powerful, and thus you will be a favored target for some time. Every enemy will want to see if you have become foolish with your step up, if you believe yourself impregnable, if you are rash, if you believe youth and strength are a shield against assassins. Do not satisfy them.”

“I’ll try to avoid it,” Solo said dryly.

“You must replace Alexander’s personal security team. His men will be set in his ways, but those ways are not yours and your habits will be surprising them, which means that Thrush could be surprising you. Unpleasantly.” Parenti drew on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke luxuriously. “It is best to choose men who are familiar with your own habits, know your ways. They anticipate better, and it is anticipation which often precludes trouble. If you will excuse the suggestion, you should consider Mr. Kuryakin to coordinate that team. He handled the funeral quite well. And after all these years he knows your ways.”

“Illya?” Solo turned the idea over in his head briefly before rejecting it. “I can’t use him for that. I’ll need him to manage the action in Section Two.”

Parenti smiled thinly. “Forgive me for being very blunt, Napoleon, but the action, as you say, at least for the next few months, is going to be on you. If you believe Mr Kuryakin to be your best, then you will need him at your back, because that is where every Thrush eye is going to be, as sure as if you had a target painted there. Let Mr. Morton manage Section Two. He will not be ‘Solo and Kuryakin’”, Parenti raised an ironic eyebrow as he gave Solo a nod of the head in acknowledgment of that legend, “but he will do it well enough. If you need other reinforcements, the other Continental Chiefs will be ready. We have all been in your position, and know where the pressure from Thrush will be directed. But put a talented team at your back, because the ‘honeymoon’ Thrush gives a new Continental Chief can be a deadly one.”

“I thank you for the advice,” Solo said, “and be assured I will consider it.”

“Good. Well.” Parenti rose, “I have done my duty here. I have helped put my old friend to rest, and tried to advise my young one. And now I must return to my own problems, as you say.”

“Have a safe trip,” Solo said, pressing the button that would notify Heather to call Illya back to the office, and rising in term. “And thank you, Carlo. I do appreciate it.”

Kuryakin came to escort Carlo out, and when they’d gone, Solo pressed the intercom to Heather again. “Have Mr. Kuryakin come to my office when he’s finished seeing Mr. Parenti off,” Solo said. “And order me some lunch. No, two lunches. I don’t care what. Yeah, Chinese is fine. Thanks.” Then he turned to his office window, the only window in the complex, and stared out at the gleaming sunshine and the flags of the United Nations whipping along the flagpoles in the Plaza. He had a lot to think about.

Lunch had arrived long before Illya had come back, and Solo had started without him, a field agent’s practice of eating when one could too ingrained to ignore. Besides, Illya would come when he was ready, and his enjoyment of the meal wouldn’t be dimmed by starting on it late.

It was more than half an hour after the food arrived, and it was starting to get cold, when Kuryakin showed.

“Finally,” said Solo. “Parenti must have taken his time leaving. Any trouble?”

“No.” Kuryakin eyed the food. “I hadn’t quite finished this.” He laid the security report from the funeral primly on the desk.

Solo eyed it askance. “I wasn’t expecting that quite so soon.”

“It’s a preliminary report,” Kuryakin said evenly. “I will of course update it after the five chiefs report in.”

“Thanks,” Solo said, and hesitated. “Is there something in there I need to see immediately?”

“No,” Kuryakin looked faintly confused. “Everything went pretty much as scheduled. Thrush was sniffing around as they always do, but they never got wind of what was going on. Our misdirections worked.”

“Good. Then you’ll forgive me if I don’t look at it right now. I didn’t ask you to come here to give me your report, Illya. I was inviting you to lunch.”

“Lunch.” Kuryakin looked as if he wasn’t quite sure of the word.

“Yes, lunch,” Solo said impatiently. “As in food, as in eating. You look like you could use some. And unless you’ve changed drastically in the last week, one thing you never turn down is food. So sit down and eat.”

Kuryakin sat, and silently addressed himself to the food. Solo ignored him for the moment. If Illya was in one of his sulky Slavic moods, which Waverly’s funeral, or even perhaps missing Waverly’s funeral had put him in, then only time would take him out of it. And perhaps the rise in blood sugar associated with a good meal. He concentrated on his own meal, noticing that Illya was eating with the kind of steady concentration that suggested he hadn’t eaten well in some time.

After his own blood sugar had risen a bit, he wrestled with the problem again. It came to him suddenly, that the last time he and Illya had shared a meal together was just before they’d heard the news of Waverly’s death. And it had also been Chinese food.

“Ah, this wasn’t intentional, you know.”

Kuryakin paused in chewing and looked a query.

Solo gestured to the scattered dishes. “The meal. The food. I just realized the last time we had Chinese --” Now he wondered himself if it was almost sacrilegious for he and Illya to be doing this, food spread out all over the conference table, almost as if they were picnicking on Waverly’s bones.

Kuryakin quirked an eyebrow across the table, and Solo realized he didn’t remember, or make the connection.

“Never mind,” he said.

Illya shrugged and dished himself out more rice.

Solo waited until the rate of his companion’s eating slowed. Finally, Illya pushed his plate away, and went for more coffee from the credenza on the side. Solo gathered up the wastebasket and tossed the various goldfish boxes into it. Wetting a paper towel in the tiny washroom, he wiped the tabletop off. Kuryakin came back with his coffee, and stirred a sugar packet into it, his cool gray eyes studying Solo.

“You didn’t just invite me here to lunch.”

Solo disposed of the trash basket and washed his own hands, coming back to the table slowly. “That was part of it.”

“So what is the other part?” Kuryakin sipped his coffee.

“I have a proposition for you,” Solo said, and explained Parenti’s suggestion.

Kuryakin heard him out without comment until the end, only blinking slightly as Solo described how the security chief should be someone who knew his ways. When he’d finished, Solo poured himself more coffee, waiting while Kuryakin digested the information. But Kuryakin didn’t comment, merely sipping more coffee, seemingly subdued.

“Well?” Solo said, exasperated.

“I have no fault with his reasoning,” Kuryakin said.

Solo sighed and rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t tell me that you’ll take the job.”

The corners of Kuryakin’s mouth curled slightly in his infinitesimal, ironic version of a smile.

“What?” Solo demanded.

Kuryakin shook his head. “I was only thinking that you seemed to have overlooked one point.”

“And that is?”

“I wonder why you ask.” At Solo’s frown he added in explanation, “I work for you. You can order me to do anything you like.”

Solo sighed and sat back. “True,” he pointed out, “but if you hated the job and me, you’d be in a unique position to get rid of me.”

“I suppose that’s one of the perks,” Kuryakin said dubiously.

“So what do you say?” Solo asked, studying his former partner’s stolid face. “I know it’s not what you wanted, but it won’t be a permanent assignment. You can set things up and turn it over to someone else in six months or so.” He frowned again at Kuryakin’s lack of response. “Illya, you didn’t really want London, did you?”

“London?” Kuryakin looked up, then shrugged. “Oh. Maybe a little. It doesn’t matter. You already warned me you wouldn’t sign my transfer papers.”

“So I did,” Solo grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “So you’ll take the job?”

“Six months?”

“That should do it. You can even have London then, if you still want it,” Solo offered generously, resolving to make sure in six months Illya had no reason to go. If he had to boot Morton out himself. But that wouldn’t be necessary. He’d make Morton’s appointment temporary. There was certainly precedent. Waverly had tried out several CEAs before he’d settled on Solo, and even then, Solo had held the job temporarily until Waverly had grudgingly concluded he was the best man for it. He’d give Morton six months and then find him something else.

Kuryakin nodded slowly, his eyes focused on the tabletop in front of him, his vision focused inward. “All right.”

“Good.” Solo let out a breath he was surprised to have been holding.

The Soviet agent slid to his feet. “If you’ll forgive me, I have a lot of things I need to do.”

“Sure,” Solo rose himself, the slight frown back on his face. “So do I as a matter of fact,” he went back over to his desk, frowning slightly as he began to sort all the Section One paperwork that seemed to sprout up new every day. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yes, sir,” Kuryakin said just as he slipped out the door.

Solo raised his head from a file. Sir? He wondered incredulously. Illya had rarely gifted him with that title, even when he’d first joined Section Two and might conceivably had owed his new superior some respect. He shrugged and decided it must have been part of Illya’s ironic humor. How like him to toss it off as he was leaving, so Solo couldn’t call him on it.

But then he did have more important things to do than play upmanship games with his partner. He buried his head in work and didn’t think about it any more.

New York, 1970

“How badly do you need Kuryakin in New York?”

Solo paused in sorting through the daily stack of reports that came from the various sections. “I could spare him for a good reason,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“Two reasons,” Thigpin replied. “The Soviets have rejected our initial response and are insisting on Kuryakin’s return. It might be better to get him out of the country until we get this settled.”

“How do you figure?”

“The U.S. can’t deport him into Soviet custody if he isn’t here to deport. Having him elsewhere will delay any final action.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“The Soviets have rejected our initial explanation. They want to send their own legal representative to discuss the issue.”

Solo sighed slightly. “What is there to discuss?”

“We won’t know until they put it on the table. We may need to exchange a few words with you. I gather it is difficult for anyone to be cleared to your office without some authorization from Section One Security?”

“Obviously.”

“It would be better if they didn’t have any contact with Mr. Kuryakin,” Thigpin said pointedly.

“I suppose I can arrange something,” Solo said, slowly considering this new wrinkle.

“Have you discussed it with him?”

Solo raised an eyebrow and juggled a report in his hand, as if he were weighing it. “I hadn’t discussed it with anyone. Are you implying I shouldn’t?”

“This is a legal issue, a contractual issue,” Thigpin insisted, “ best settled by legal representatives. Having the actual parties present can confuse the issue.”

“Are you worried about the Soviets or Illya?” he asked, curious. He hadn’t mentioned it to Illya, hoping to leave the problem in Legal’s hands. It may, after all, come to nothing, and there was no reason in burdening his partner with it. But also because he suspected Illya’s allegiances and loyalties, both to his country and to U.N.C.L.E. had tricky, twisted roots that were best left undisturbed. In the absence of being able to predict his partner’s response, he’d kept silent.

“I don’t know either well enough to make that judgement, Mr. Solo,” Thigpin said a touch testily. “ I’m just being prudent.”

Solo grimaced, turning the problem over in his mind. He supposed it made sense to shift his partner out of harm’s way until this thing blew over, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He could manufacture some excuse to get Illya away, but his Security Chief would eventually find the truth out, and then there would be hell to pay. For him while Illya was gone, it would mean sleeping in his HQ apartment, because if he managed to get shot while he had Illya decoyed, furious wouldn’t even begin to describe his partner’s wrath.

But though he would end up paying for it in a number of ways, he couldn’t deny Thigpin’s point. He had no idea how Illya would react if he knew this compatriots were seeking to reclaim him. Having long known his probable fate, Illya might just compliantly put himself in the Soviet’s hands out of some mistaken sense of duty to the Soviet Union or U.N.C.L.E. or the contract that had been struck between them. Illya was as rife with contradictions as any spy, and probably more than most. Like all spies he walked a fine ethical line in his daily actions, justifying or excusing the worst of them for the supposed greater good they brought about. But Solo had seen his unforgiving, cynical opinions of those agents who crossed the line and betrayed their oaths. Apart from his testy moods, his personal conduct was exemplary, with few indulgences, much less vices, for which to answer.

Loyalty to the Soviet Union, to U.N.C.L.E., to Solo, to even himself, might sway Illya back and forth across the line and be argued either way. Solo supposed he should have, sometime in their partnership, tried to draw Illya out on this issue, so he would have had a clue now how he would react in this situation.

But Illya never invited such speculation into his personal life. Where his professional responsibilities as an U.N.C.L.E. agent had crossed paths with his status as a GRU officer, Waverly had dealt with it.

He was Waverly now.

“I’ll get Illya out of the country this afternoon,” Solo said.

“Good,” Thigpin said. “Obviously, I can’t know his assignment, but it would be helpful for me to say that he is involved in Section Two fieldwork.”

“Say what you like,” Solo said. “I don’t plan to discuss my agent’s assignments with anyone, but,” he paused fractionally, “you can tell them he’s in Section Two.”

“Very good,” Thigpin said, “I’ll keep you updated on the negotiations with the Soviets.”

“And you’ve got the easy part,” Solo muttered as he cut the connection. “I have to deal with our own resident Soviet.”

Instead he put in a call to London.

“Mark, it’s Napoleon,” Solo said without preamble.

“Now, look, Napoleon, if you’re calling about Illya, I had nothing to do with his looking to transfer here.” Mark apparently believed that the best defense was a good strong offense, and he started in before Solo had even drawn breath to broach the subject of his problem. “He put out feelers on that long before I even came over myself.”

Solo laughed in spite of himself. “No, Mark, I wasn’t calling to ream you out. How’s the leg, by the way?” Slate had recently fractured his leg in several places. In the international shuffle of agents since Solo had taken Waverly’s chair, he’d transferred to London to take administrative charge of Section Two so that their CEA was free to concentrate on field work. And also, Solo suspected that since Slate couldn’t work in the field for the moment and couldn’t stand facing Brian Morton day after day in the New York office, he’d chosen a temporary escape.

“Coming along. I expect to be back in the field in a month,” Slate offered cautiously.

“We’ll be glad to welcome you back,” Solo made clear.

“Thanks.” Slate was sounding more like himself. “What’s up, Napoleon? I’m sure you’ve got something else on your mind other than asking me about a little thing like a broken leg.”

“In fact, I need a favor.”

“Anything I can do, I will, of course.” Slate offered, curiosity creeping into his voice.

“I’m looking for a place to transfer an agent quickly. I’d like to get him out of the country today.”

“Trying to get ahead of the law?” Slate’s tone wasn’t censorious, merely questioning.

“Not exactly. Just avoiding some past associates. I’d like him to work out of Section Two, but avoid certain situations. This won’t be for long, maybe a few days, not more than a few weeks, I hope.”

“I see.” Slate mused. “Soviets after Illya again?”

Solo breathed out heavily through his nose. “Actually, yes. How did you know.”

“Kind of overdue, I guess.”.

“Overdue?” Solo questioned stupidly.

“They don’t let their own go forever,” Slate responded obscurely. “The old man had his own times keeping them at bay.”

Solo growled silently. He was well aware that not only Thrush would be interested in testing his mettle as Continental Chief, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the Soviets would be interested in the game as well.

“Never mind, Napoleon,” Slate said, as if reading his thoughts. “They like to make waves, but I don’t think that he’s worth a real fight to them. More of a bargaining tool. Maybe they want something.”

“How do you know?” Solo demanded.

Slate laughed. “Illya’s not the only one Waverly got out of the way when his compatriots came calling. He preferred to have you out of the picture too. Maybe he was afraid they’d see too much.”

“What are you saying?” Solo asked carefully.

“Just that Waverly was loath to break up a winning team, even if he thought they might work too well together — professionally only, of course.”

“Of course,” Solo said, wondering if Slate actually believe any of the gossip and rumors that had been spread around about him. Then a surge of irritation hit him and he said, “Cut the crap, Mark. If you’re trying to tell me something, say it plain.”

“All right. Waverly could have offed any of us without showing much pain. In fact, I think he put us in difficult positions sometimes just to test himself.”

“Hmm.” Solo said. He’d wondered about that a bit too.

“But,” Slate said. “I don’t think you could do that to Illya. And I think Waverly never wanted the Soviets to know it. You’ve shown more than once that you don’t fool around with anyone where your partner is concerned. But this is one time where it may be better if you didn’t show it.”

“Are you saying he’s my Achilles heel?” Solo asked, beginning to feel offended.

“No, Napoleon. I know you well enough for that. But it would throw you off stride if something happened to him.”

Solo shifted in his chair. He wanted to deny it, but Slate would know he was lying. He’d had scores of women, and a score of colleagues he thought highly of. But he only had one partner. And as mule-stubborn, bad-tempered, pedantic and scrimping as Illya was, he was his partner. His right arm, the eyes in the back of his head, the hand where he needed it, his devil’s advocate and his sounding board. After ten years, Illya had wound himself into Solo’s life in too many ways to count, and removal would leave bleeding wounds at a time when he and U.N.C.L.E. simply couldn’t afford them. He’d survive, his essential core was untouched, still starkly self-reliant. But his soul would be maimed and he knew it, had acknowledged it long ago.

And so had Waverly. Starkly disapproving of the bond between them, yet too opportunistic to avoid using it.

And smart enough to try and keep it from the Soviets?

“I’ll send Illya over this afternoon,” Solo said. “I’m going to tell him you need him for something special, so think up an assignment that will use his talents. But Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“If you get him killed, you can’t transfer back to New York.”

“Hell, Napoleon, knowing Morton’s waiting for me back there, I’d off him myself if he wasn’t so damn hard to kill.”

Solo smiled grimly. “Thanks, Mark.”

“Bye, Napoleon.”

Now he only had to get rid of Illya.

Yorkshire, 1959

“Mr. Solo.”

The soft voice woke Solo out of the light doze he’d finally fallen into. It was night. Solo had been in this room more than twenty four hours. Across the room, Kuryakin stood warily, one hand on his gun, looking from Solo toward the nurse entering the room.

The Chief Enforcement Agent stood up hopefully.

“If you would follow me,” she said in hushed tones.

Solo frowned, suddenly reluctant. But he had no choice but to comply.

Left behind, Illya Kuryakin stared after them, narrowed eyes dissecting the scene. After they left, he sank down, shaking his head slowly.

A green-smocked surgeon met Solo in an alcove just outside a doorway. Even through the closed door, Solo could hear the beep and whine of various machines. “I’m very sorry, Mr. -Mr. -” he looked down at the chart in his hands, “Solo, is it? I’m afraid we did all we could, but the damage was too extensive.”

Solo’s eyes were fixed on the physician, “He’s not --”

“He’s dying, Mr. Solo,” the physician was blunt. “We have tried everything. Two of our best thoracic surgeons working on him, every possible operation, and some impossible. But his heart cannot be saved.”

Solo gritted his teeth. “There must be another way. Another hospital, another specialist --”

The surgeon smiled thinly, as if in recognition of Solo’s mistrust of the shabby place. “I’m afraid not, sir. Your colleague wouldn’t survive the trip. And nothing could be done, even if we could transport him. I am aware of your organization, and the fact that your superior has authorized us to try any and all measures. I’ve been in touch with specialists in London, but to no avail. He needs a new heart. Medical science is years away from a transplant, or the development of an artificial substitute. I’m sorry, Mr. Solo. The only thing you can do for your colleague is to say your farewell.”

Bile rose in Solo’s throat, but he forced it down. He nodded, unwilling to discuss it further, and pushed past the physician into the room.

Inside, alone, he stared at the bed that held his colleague. It seemed impossible, incredible, after the places they’d been, the heights they’d scaled, the depths of danger and risk they’d taken, that his friend was to die here, on a cheap steel gurney in a non-descript hospital in a forgettable British town.

He closed his hand over his partners’, felt the thready, ragged pulse, faltering and failing. His other hand clenched in a fist of denial. He drove the fist into a convenient wall, the exclamation torn from his throat in a roar that was beyond pain.

“NO!”

Illya Kuryakin jumped in his seat in the outside waiting room. The connecting wall shuddered in protest as something heavy impacted against it, and a tray of instruments in the hallway rattled in concert to Solo’s cry.

But when the C.E.A. entered the room again, he was cool, dry-eyed, distant and silent. Only his fist still showed the reddened traces of his internal rage and despair.

New York, 1969

Solo looked up from his work as his Security Head came through the doors. “Ready?”

Kuryakin nodded. “Whenever you give the word.”

Solo flipped the folder shut. “I think now. It’s relatively quiet, for the moment. I could use a decent night’s sleep.”

Illya raised his wrist and spoke softly into the communicator he had strapped there.

“Isn’t that a bit Dick Tracy?” Solo commented with a smile.

Kuryakin looked askance, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond, then growled softly. “I haven’t got time to fiddle with pens.” He waited by the door as Solo passed through.

Napoleon kept quiet, appreciating the coordination as Kuryakin’s heavily but discretely armed team swept him out of the building, into the waiting vehicle, and then up the steps of his apartment and into the private elevator, their bodies a phalanx against almost any sniper’s shot except for one from directly above. And if he bothered to look, he’d see the roof teams, sweeping scrutiny over every window on the street. He almost understood why Waverly had practically lived at HQ, when it was such a production just to get home.

Inside his penthouse, he stayed by the door while the arriving crew vetted the same rooms the departing crew had been guarding. Then Illya went through them himself, before returning and dismissing the crew to their external stations with a terse nod.

“There’s no place like home,” Solo commented, removing his overcoat. “I’m beginning to think that, as much as I fought the idea at the beginning, perhaps I really should set up an apartment at HQ.”

“You’ve been living in HQ.” Kuryakin said in confusion.

“In cramped temp quarters,” Solo said. He’d been unwilling to take over Waverly’s old suite, and that had been broken down into multiple quarters. There was a limit to how much of the old man’s past he could assume. “I meant something decently sized. If I have to spend any time there, I want to be at least marginally comfortable.”

Kuryakin moaned softly as he took Solo’s coat from him and hung it up. “Please. I just got this setup working to my satisfaction.”

“I thought it might help,” Solo commented softly.

“It will in the long run,” Kuryakin admitted, shedding his own coat. “Anything avoiding a daily routine is best, and Thrush wouldn’t be sure where you slept. But in the present, it would be another set of crews to train. Smaller, but still, it would need some security.”

“Perhaps in a month or so,” Solo suggested.

Kuryakin sighed, and tossed his coat with much less care than he had Solo’s over a hanger. “No. It needs to be done and I’ll do it as soon as possible. Do you want to pick the suite at HQ, or would you settle on letting me choose which I think is safest?”

“Your taste is execrable, Illya,” Solo teased, then shrugged. “But as it’s no more than temporary housing, I suppose I can bear it. You give me your recommendations and I’ll chose among them.” He led the way to the kitchen, noting that Kuryakin dropped into a chair immediately, and began to toy aimlessly with the napkin holder on the table.

“What do you want for dinner?” Solo asked from the refrigerator. “We have some lovely salmon, something that looks like chicken— is there some conspiracy against giving me steak and a potential heart attack? — some --”

Kuryakin rose from his chair instantly, a look of exasperation on his face. “Let me do that.”.

“Not at all.” Solo replied. “I like cooking. Though in this case, it’s more like re-warming.”

“I’ll get it,” Kuryakin said determinedly, trying to edge Solo aside.

“We’ve been through this before,” Solo said, refusing to budge. “You’re not here to wait on me. This is your home too.”

“Never-the-less--”

“I’m getting dinner tonight,” Solo snapped, in his best CEA voice, one he rarely used but that could stop Kuryakin in his tracks, and did so now. “Your job is to sit down, shut up and eat.”

Illya closed his mouth, slid back in his seat, and waited as Solo put two pre-arranged plates into the oven on warm, and pulled out two plates of salad. “Not that there’s much to do in the preparation,” Solo grumbled, as he took off the plastic film and slid one across the table before his partner. “I remember when I actually had to cook food. And I enjoyed doing it,” he added, forestalling Kuryakin’s comment.

“You’re supposed to expend your energy on more important things,” Kuryakin muttered, not looking up from the tabletop, where he was staring through his salad. “Remember, you’re --”

‘Continental Chief,” Solo sighed. “I know. Believe me, I know. No one ever lets me forget it.”

Kuryakin shook his head. “How could we?”

“What about iced tea to drink?” Solo said musingly. “There’s a huge pitcher here.” He poured into two glasses of crushed ice. “Did it ever occur to you that I can’t work all the time?” He asked, as he put them on the table. “That it’s therapeutic to do something for myself once in awhile? That as a field agent I spent years working with my hands and now all I do is push papers? That I’ve begun to hate having four pairs of hands leap to anticipate what I want before I can reach for it myself?”

“Sounds terrible,” Kuryakin muttered dryly, plaiting a paper napkin into shreds.

“It’s convenient at times to be waited on hand and foot,” Solo admitted, setting a glass in front of Illya. “But there are other times when I’d trade it all for a tough assignment, even one at the North Pole, where I’d freeze my tail off and not have even an Eskimo girl in sight.”

“You knew what it would be like,” Kuryakin countered, with a typical lack of sympathy, crushing the napkin into a ball. “You subbed for Waverly often enough.”

“Short periods.” Solo sat down at the table and picked up his fork. “I never imagined about what it would be like day after day.”

Kuryakin shrugged and picked up his own fork. “You’ll get used to it. And, speaking from experience, as your long-term partner,” he added wryly, “I’ve never known you to be bothered by people doing things for you.”

“You might consider letting someone do for you once in awhile,” Solo said with a sideways look. “You look like hell. When was the last time you did more than snatch a few bites of a meal? Or sleep through the night?”

“You’re not supposed to notice me.” Kuryakin said tersely. “I’m part of the furniture, remember?”

“You’re part of U.N.C.L.E,” Solo said, between bites. “I’ll notice you when I choose. What good are you burned out?”

“Burned out?” Kuryakin sputtered on a mouthful, nearly choking in conflict between his usual ravenous eating and his outrage. “Burned out?”

“Right now you’ve got shadows under your eyes so dark you look like someone blacked them in, and you’re as skinny as you were in 61,” Solo noted dispassionately. “Not a good look. And you’re as snappy as I’ve ever known you to be. What the hell is wrong?”

“Nothing.” Kuryakin stabbed a section of lettuce.

Solo took a bite of his own salad, not tasting it. “I could understand your working overtime when you first set up the security, but that’s done now. If you’re needed round-the-clock, then get a better backup, or hire another relief,” he tried to sound reasonable, though his patience was wearing thin. “Working yourself to death won’t help anyone.”

“Do you have a complaint with how I’m handling my duties?” Kuryakin said stiffly.

“Cut the crap, Illya,” Solo said wearily, shoving his salad aside. “It’s late. I’m tired. I’m need a break from being Continental Chief for the night. And it would be nice if my partner didn’t look like he’d been through a day worse than my own.”

“I’m not here to be your companion.” Kuryakin snapped out the word as if it were an oath. “I’m here for security purposes. What, when and where I eat and sleep is my own concern.”

Solo gritted his teeth, shoving his salad around his plate. There were times when his partner definitely deserved a good right cross. “Maybe you should just do us all a favor, take the afternoon off tomorrow and get yourself laid.”

“Unlike you, I don’t find that an answer for everything,” Kuryakin retorted.

The oven timer buzzed, startling them both. The former CEA gave Kuryakin a rueful look and shrugged as the blond Russian put his Walther back in his holster. “We’ve got to fix the sound on that thing. It’s too close to one of the old HQ alarms.”

“I’ll speak to Internal Services about it.”

“Tomorrow. Let’s enjoy the dinner that I’ve so painstakingly prepared with my own hands.” Solo put both plates down. “Careful, that’s hot.”

They ate in silence for awhile, satisfying the initial pangs of hunger. The food served it purpose, and smoothed ruffled feathers besides. Eventually, Kuryakin stabbed a bit of pasta, and said grudgingly. “This is very good.”

Solo considered making some arch remark about anything resembling food looking good, but one look at Kuryakin’s face stayed him. After a moment he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“No.”

Solo sighed. It would take torture to wring the truth out of his elusive partner, and right now, he was too tired. Nor was he sure he wanted the truth. Something else to wrestle with, on the nights that he couldn’t sleep. Instead he rose and gathered the plates. “Then do your Continental Chief a favor, and get some sleep and food occasionally. When I have the supposedly killer job, you aren’t supposed to look like hell.”

“Perhaps I should transfer,” Kuryakin muttered into his plate.

Solo looked at him sharply. “Do you really hate it? I know it’s not the same as fieldwork, but you didn’t have long for that.”

“Wouldn’t you find it easier if I were somewhere else?” Kuryakin asked, rising to put his empty plate in the dishwasher.

Solo stared at his unrevealing back. “No.”

Kuryakin sighed, his shoulders sinking. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Solo said, eyes burning holes in Kuryakin’s back.

“Good night, Napoleon.”

Which meant, of course, that he had. Solo pondered that for a bit, and then went to sleep himself.

New York, 1970

“He said what?” Solo echoed, outraged.

“He said no. Apparently the last time you invited him to lunch, you stood him up. As he tells it, he does have some standards.”

“Tell him to get his scrawny ass up here, or I’ll have his own security team drag him up.”

A pause while Heather relayed the message, and then she was back on line, chuckling. “He’s on his way.”

“Just so that you know, I’ve arranged to have your security teams stand back on your next assassination attempt.” Kuryakin stopped to make a notation on a whiteboard just inside the door, adding two marks to one column, and one to another.

Solo scowled. “Do you have to do that?”

“It keeps you humble.”

“I don’t mind your tracking the assassination attempts. I suppose you have to. Though I don’t see why you have to do it here,” Solo complained. “But I don’t appreciate your writing up the ones you consider successful.”

“We like to give Thrush the impression that they’ve been lucky once in awhile. Besides it lets us see what their actions would be if they ever were successful.”

“How very kind of you,” Solo grumbled.

“No trouble at all, don’t mention it,” Kuryakin sad, turning. His eyes widened at the sight of the dishes spread out on the conference table, and he gave a low whistle. “That’s quite a spread. Did you have a working lunch cancel?”

“No, you idiot. I ordered it for us. Compensation for having stood you up before.”

“Remind me to tell the teams to cancel their cooperation on the assassination attempt.” Without preamble, Kuryakin said down and enthusiastically applied himself to the lunch Solo had ordered from the Mask Club. Solo served himself more desultorily. He had eaten breakfast that morning, where he expected that Illya had not, busy running Solo decoys through the streets of New York. And his own appetite was affected by the knowledge of what he had to do.

Mark’s words played on his mind. He had associates, colleagues in plenty. He had scores of casual friends. But he only had one partner, someone he could completely relax with, someone he trusted implicitly. He had few colleague for whom he wasn’t either a superior or a rival. His supposed peers were continents away. Sending Illya to London was a sacrifice. He reminded himself grimly that it was all in a good cause. He remembered how often the old man had privately castigated him for letting his professional relationship with his partner deepen into something more. Waverly had known, sooner or later that almost every partnership ended in separation. Of some sort.

He watched Illya eat, envying again his complete absorption in the task and his clear conscience. Was part of being a Continental Chief that he would never have that clear conscience?

Suddenly aware of his scrutiny, Illya raised his head from his lasagna. “Why are you watching me?”

“Just wondering when you were going to get some table manners,” Solo lied smoothly.

Stung, Kuryakin flushed scarlet. Solo shook his head, reminded that his Russian-born partner still had some touchy spots. He’d come a long way from that time during the Love Affair when he’d looked at the guests of a ‘high-society’ party and denied they were any different than himself. But the fact that he had even made the statement had revealed volumes. And Illya worked hard on revealing little.

“Sorry. I didn’t really mean that.” Solo brushed the remark away with a conciliatory hand.

Kuryakin looked suspicious, but he went back to his food, one eye on his partner, one eye on his partner’s little touched plate. Had Solo been the least bit hungry, he would have felt compelled to wrap an arm around it to shield it from that acquisitive glance.

“Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” Kuryakin asked.

“No.” Solo took a bite of the lasagna, resolutely swallowed it, and shuddered internally. He pushed the plate away.

“If you aren’t going to eat, why’d you order lunch?” Kuryakin asked.

“I ordered it for you, actually.”

“For me?” The Soviet agent’s brow furrowed. “What is this, be kind to your Security Chief day?”

“I have a favor to ask.” Solo began.

“Must be some favor.” Kuryakin pushed his own empty plate away, sitting back in his seat, giving Solo’s nearly full plate the barest regretful glance. “All right. Ask away.”

Suddenly unsure of his ability to lie face to face with those discerning eyes, Solo went to the credenza to get them both coffee. “Mark gave me a call today.”

“Mark Slate? From London?”

“Yes.” Solo poured smoothly. He picked up the cups and brought them to the table. “One sugar, right?”

“Yes.” Kuryakin took a sip, squinting at Solo as he seated himself and fiddled with his own coffee. “He’s all right, isn’t he? That leg can’t be bothering him too much?”

“He’s fine, but they’re a bit short-handed over there. He asked for some help. I volunteered you.” Solo sipped the brew, grateful for the distraction. And the caffeine high. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“You volunteered me?” Kuryakin echoed, puzzled. “Forgive me for being dense, Napoleon. But haven’t you been fighting my transfer to London for months now?”

“I’m not transferring you,” Solo said firmly. “This is only a temporary loan. A short-term loan. Just a few weeks.

“Surely there must be other agents.”

“He asked for you,” Solo cut that thought off. “And as you said, you have things well in hand here. It isn’t as if I couldn’t spare you for a week or two. He knows that.”

“Huh.” Illya said skeptically, turning the situation over in his mind. “Sounds suspicious to me.”

“Since you’ve become Security Chief, everything sounds suspicious to you,” Solo downplayed. “Not everything is a grand conspiracy, Illya. Just a week or two to help out a friend.”

“You’re not getting rid of me for some reason?” Kuryakin questioned. “You’re not going to play some foolish stunt while I’m away? Something I wouldn’t approve, that’s going to get you killed?”

“Scout’s honor. I’ll sleep in HQ every night.” Solo raised a hand, and grinned slightly, glad his conscience was clear on that score. “Alone,” he added for good measure.

“Huh.” Illya said again, truly puzzled now. “I don’t know what to say. I still feel like you’re getting rid of me for some reason. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Angelique had given you a call.”

“How could she without your knowing, you tap all my phones.” Solo answered, miffed about that himself.

“I wouldn’t put it past you to find some way around my security.”

“Truly, that’s not it. Call Mark if you don’t believe me.” Solo pushed a nearby phone to him.

Kuryakin regarded him sourly. “I know that look, and I know when I’ve been out-maneuvered.”

“Look upon it as a vacation,” Solo said glibly. “You get to check out London a bit, see if it is everything you’ve been dreaming about.”

“But I don’t need a vacation, Napoleon. And I never dream.”

“And it will give your teams a chance to see how they work without you. Sort of a dress rehearsal.”

“Um.” Kuryakin turned that thought over. “ I suppose.”

“Though I still don’t intend to sleep at the penthouse. I’ll stay in HQ unless it’s necessary for me to go out. So you can be sure I’m not going to put up with Mark keeping you indefinitely. It’s just a loan, Illya.”

“I guess if you already promised,” Kuryakin said, still looking unconvinced.

“I did.” Solo tossed an envelope on the table. “Here are your tickets. Your flight leaves at 4:00.”

“Today?” Kuryakin picked up the envelope, checking the departure date as if his doubt could only be shifted by confirmation in black and white.

“Today. So you’d better get a move on. You have to pack.”

“I don’t have to pack much.” But Kuryakin put the tickets in his breast pocket. He rose, his eyes on Solo. “I wish I knew what this was all about.”

Solo walked him to the door. “Have a nice trip. Say ‘hi’ to the queen for me.”

“You know we Soviet revolutionists don’t approve of these bourgeois monarchical systems of government,” Kuryakin grumbled, as the door swept shut behind him.

Solo sighed. The tick marks of the assassination attempts caught his eye as he turned, and he scowled at them. He turned back to his desk to be faced with Illya’s ravaged dishes and his own barely touched ones. He was going to miss him.

New York, 1959

“Go on in,” Heather nodded. “There’s a Section Two team in there, but it’s nothing you won’t be hearing eventually anyway.”

Solo paused. “Everyone all right?”

“So far as I could tell.” Heather took pity on the frozen look that had briefly crossed Solo’s face. “And I would have heard otherwise. Go on, Napoleon, he’s been waiting for you.”

Solo nodded, making a mental note to catch a moment with Heather later. Her treatment of him was as careful and kind as that of a nurse’s toward the newly crippled. He had lost a partner, and by rights that was, and ought to be, a violent amputation. But he was only maimed, not crippled. Disloyal as it might feel to heal, to move on, his only other option didn’t bear consideration. Squaring his shoulders, he approached the door, but before his body heat could trigger the mechanism, it opened from inside, disgorging several members of his department. In spite of looking a little mission-worn, they all wore satisfied looks or triumphant grins, depending on their temperaments. Solo exchanged a few quiet words with each as they slipped past him. He entered the office just as the last one was collecting his reports. It took Solo a moment to recognize the agent whose identity was effectively masked by an outrageous appearance. While the other team members had the torn clothing and singed faces indicative of being on the front lines of an explosion, this agent’s clothing face, and hair were gray/black with ash and soot. His blood-shot, smoke-irritated eyes looked out from a comical mask reminiscent of a chimney sweep’s, and in addition, his clothing was damp, and rumpled, and his shoes squelched as he walked. The agent gave him only a curt nod before packing up his reports and, with a brief bow to Waverly, made his way out the door.

Solo craned his neck after the departing agent. “What happened to him?”

“Hmm?” Waverly looked up distracted from the reports he was perusing. “Mr. Waters and his team took out that Thrush installation that was being built next to the subway repairs and construction a few blocks from here. Fortunate. It would have been a nuisance, at best.”

“Ah, yes.” Solo replied, shaking his head ever so slightly at Waverly’s typical understatement, and moved to the coffee service. “No casualties, I trust?” he asked, a bit too easily, and watched as he poured himself a cup. His hand didn’t shake even over that question.

“A few civilians are preparing to sue the city over some nonsense over so-called punctured eardrums from the explosion,” Waverly huffed in annoyance. “And the mayor wants us to settle with them, privately of course, rather than let the city’s transportation department insurance handle it. No doubt he would prefer to have a Thrush terrorist organization take over his precious subway system instead. This society is becoming far too litiginous. As if the noise of the subway itself weren’t far more deafening. I’ve a good mind to move the North American HQ out of the city entirely — perhaps even to some more congenial country, and let him explain that to his superiors.”

“I’m not sure how the U.N.C.L.E. governing board would take that,” Solo said, hiding a smile, moving to the round conference table. “But if the U.N. gives NA/HQ a longer leash, my vote’s for Mexico. Acapulco is nice in December.”

“Canada, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said disapprovingly. “Toronto has a fine winter festival. And you are much safer to the female civilian population when you have, more encumbrances, shall we say, to your attire.”

Solo took a sip of the scalding coffee and smiled around the cup. “Left off wearing thermal undies in grammar school. In defense of the citizenry,” he added, around Waverly’s harrumph, “it looks like it was quite an explosion.”

“Nonsense.” Waverly demurred. “If Mr. Kuryakin’s hearing wasn’t damaged, no one else’s could be. He set the explosion.”

Solo thought back to the Soviet agent’s bedraggled appearance. “It appears he set it a little too close for comfort.”

Waverly gave him a shrewd look under his bushy brows, and Solo shrugged as if to bely the trace of censure in his voice, affecting a casual air. He knew everyone, perhaps Waverly especially, would be on guard to see if losing a partner meant he’d lost his edge, that he would hesitate to take the risks necessary to win, even if only for those few critical seconds that victory sometimes hedged on. He took another sip of his coffee.

Waverly flicked an eyebrow, evaluating the pose as well as the man behind it He either found Solo satisfactory or he reserved judgement, for he went on.. “Mr. Kuryakin appears to be thorough. No harm done, at least in this case.” He paused for a beat as if to let that sink in, then added, “I’m having him evaluated for transfer.”

“Here?”

“Where else?”

Solo shrugged indifferently, covering some uneasiness. “You think the political problems that dogged his first assignment here have been resolved?”

Waverly poured himself some tea. “While the Soviets may not have completely resolved their ambiguity regarding their presence in the Network, they seem to have ceased using Mr. Kuryakin as an scapegoat. He would be joining your section,” he added, passing a personnel folder to his CEA. “I want your feedback.”

Solo paged through it absently. He’d expected Waverly to bring the Soviet agent back to New York as soon as it was feasible. Waverly been the driving force to get a Soviet presence in the Network, and a Soviet agent working out of New York was a visible reminder to their detractors in the United Nations of U.N.C.L.E.’s multinational charter. Solo paused at a notation in the agent’s survival school record. “Cutter kept him a month over?”

“To instruct the demolitions class.”

Solo thought skeptically back to Kuryakin’s bedraggled appearance and then shelved the thought. Cutter was an obsessive perfectionist. If Kuryakin was good enough for Cutter, he was probably good enough even for New York. He studied the papers with half his attention, his mind drawn back to his dimmed memory of Kuryakin’s arrival, so many missions ago it seemed part of another past. He shrugged and closed the folder, well aware that after one mission he’d soon know Kuryakin better than he’d ever know him on paper.

“Then there is the matter of your own assignment,” Waverly continued.

Solo flipped the folder shut and turned a bland countenance toward his superior, keeping his eyes averted from the empty chair at his side.

“There is an assignment in North Carolina,” Waverly sorted through the papers on his desk as if he’d lost the relevant notes. “Nothing dramatic, but it may require a delicate touch.”

“How so?” Solo inquired, wondering if Waverly was picking an easy milk run to ease his CEA back into action.

“I’ve been hearing some disquieting reports regarding our local office there.”

Local jurisdictions weren’t his bailiwick, but Solo cast through his memory for who was in charge down there. “That’s Purnell, right?”

“Parvell. Joshua Parvell. Former Section Two, moved to administration two years ago.”

“Do you suspect a problem?” Solo queried, taking the folder Waverly handed him.

“I suspect nothing,” Waverly returned tersely. “I am considering sending you to investigate the situation.”

Solo nodded, knowing he had overstepped his bounds. Waverly never cared to be second-guessed , nor to have words put into his mouth. But he needed to do it, at least once more. “All right, I can be down there tomorrow.” He sketched a glance at his boss. “Or today, if you’re in a hurry. I’ll see when I can arrange a flight.”

“You seem to be forgetting something, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, catching his CEA as the agent was nearly out the door.

Solo stopped, shoulders tightening, not turning. “Yes?”

“The small matter of a partner.”

“I’ll give it some consideration after this assignment,” Solo said and made it a step nearer the doorway before Waverly’s voice came, as inevitable as sunset.

“You’ll give it some consideration now, Mr. Solo.”

“I’d prefer to work alone for a time,” Solo said quietly.

“Out of the question.”

Solo abandoned the hope of a strategic retreat and faced forward into the confrontation. “It should be a minor assignment. I won’t need any assistance.”

“None of my agents go into the field without backup.”

Solo stood his ground, a frown on his face. “That’s not U.N.C.L.E. policy. Plenty of agents work -” he choked on the word ‘solo’ and added, “on their own.”

“Perhaps they do — out of other headquarters. In this HQ, in the enforcement section, all agents are partnered. You are well aware of my experimental work in this area.”

Solo said nothing, mutely stubborn.

Waverly paused and then went on, more reasonably. “Of course, as Chief Enforcement Agent, you have certain prerogatives. You may choose anyone you like. If you have your eye on someone outside of this HQ, I can see to having them transferred.”

“You expect me to break up an existing team?” Solo asked dangerously.

“I don’t expect anything, Mr. Solo, other than you make a reasoned choice. You know the strengths and weaknesses of your personnel. And of yourself, for that matter. Think it over a few days and come up with a decision.” Waverly pulled a case folder toward him, tacitly ending the conversation. “When you’ve made a decision, you, and your partner, may return to the field.”

“And if I decide I prefer to work alone?” Solo questioned.

Waverly raised his head from his work, to stare at his Chief Enforcement Agent. “Then there are other headquarters where that would not pose a problem. I’ll see you are transferred to one of them.”

It was a warning and not an idle one. He was Waverly’s choice for CEA, but it hadn’t been an easy choice for the old man. It could be argued that Waverly never stopped evaluating anything or anyone. In spite of a glowing career up to this point, Waverly had been singularly chary of praise or approval for Solo, and the CEA had no doubt Waverly would have no problems transferring him if he refused to comply. Solo nodded tersely in acceptance of that and turned on his heel. As the door swished shut behind him he paused a moment to clear his head.

“That bad?”

Solo looked toward the sympathetic feminine voice. Heather sat behind her desk, arms crossed, looking him up and down.

He forced a smile. “You know the old man. As cantankerous as ever.”

Heather didn’t return it. “Actually, he hasn’t been that bad lately.”

“Must be saving it up for me then,” Solo responded lightly.

“Napoleon, you know we all --”

“Yes, thanks, Heather,” Solo cut her off quickly. “Sorry, gotta run.”

He went to his office in a high dudgeon, wondering if everyone in HQ knew of Waverly’s ultimatum. He expected to get partnered again, eventually, but after a period of working alone, checking out one agent or another now, waiting till the fit was right. He didn’t want to think of it as mourning, but in a sense, it was. Being partnered was more than a simple business relationship; it was closer to a marriage in its more prosaic details, a marriage your life depended on.

Till death do us part.

Solo shook himself and turned to the soothing, if stultifying, sopophoric of paperwork..

New York, 1969

He remembered his first night in this penthouse. He’d settled his personal kit into the penthouse bathroom, just the few things he’d kept at headquarters until security had been set up here. Everything else had been packed and moved for him. He’d checked the clothes in his wardrobe, pausing to choose a suit, shirt and tie for the next day. He’d smiled to notice the pajamas and dressing gown laid out for him, next to the turned down bed. He wasn’t used to such blatant service, but he didn’t think it would take him too long to get used to it.

Wandering out into the entrance foyer, he heard Illya, his voice rough and hoarse from unaccustomed overuse, giving final instructions to the security team on watch. His accent was stronger than usual, which meant he was overtired. They both were. Eventually, this would all be as organized as a train, but he’d never done anything as hard as taking over permanently for his old boss. So many details...

“Good.” Illya looked over a clipboard and then handed it back to the waiting security agent. “Make sure you run a full check no more than twenty minutes apart, and don’t forget to include a grid sweep to ensure that no section has been bypassed or switched. But not every twenty minutes on the dot. Vary it as we discussed. We don’t want Thrush to think we’re too predictable and take advantage of a routine.”

Solo shook his head. Illya hadn’t forgotten anything from the times they’d participated in guarding Waverly. And it appeared he planned to use all of it. He switched directions, wandering the penthouse at will. The apartment was large enough for a family, which was probably also giving Illya kittens, being that much more to secure. But Solo found he needed the spaciousness. There was a claustrophobic feeling to being guarded night and day that he needed elbow room to dissipate. After a decade of roaming the world, he’d been suddenly and abruptly confined and it hadn’t been an easy transition for him.

He passed around an L-shaped area and came upon what was obviously a less ostentatious area. Judging by the carpets and curtains, it looked like the service area: broom closets, linen closets, cleaning supplies and such. There was also a small bedroom, probably once intended as a maid’s room. Sitting on top of the comfortless-looking single bed were a couple of well-worn, familiar suitcases. They were unopened. Being a spy, Solo didn’t scruple to snoop. The drawers and closets were bare, and even the bath was empty of toiletries. Solo raised an eyebrow at that. Illya had been here since the day before yesterday, dealing with the logistics of getting the place ready. Clearly he hadn’t unpacked or been to bed. Though judging from the look of the narrow bed with its utilitarian twill spread, he hadn’t missed much.

Solo turned back to the main rooms. He found the kitchen, and Illya, quite by accident. The Soviet agent was pouring coffee into a single mug. No steam rose from the cup, and judging by the inky color, Solo suspected it had been made some time ago.

“You’re not going to drink that?”

Kuryakin jumped in startlement, promptly spilling the coffee he was pouring, and hastily grabbed a paper towel to swab up the mess. Solo scooped up the trash can and brought it over.

“That stuff’s ice cold. It must have been made hours ago.” Solo put the trash can back and, dipping a finger into what was left in the pot, shuddered and poured it down the drain. You weren’t really going to drink that, were you?”

“I just wanted the caffeine.” Kuryakin muttered, his voice nearly gone. There were gray shadows under his eyes and his chin was rough with stubble. But he took the pot from Solo with a firm grip. “Let me get that.” He rinsed it out and filled it with fresh water.

“Caffeine you’d get,” Solo said, taking back the trash can with the towel-drenched remains of the murky brew. “Even you might not sleep tonight after a cup of that rotgut.”

“I still have some work to do tonight.”

“It can wait till tomorrow.”

“No, it can’t.”

“What’s the work?” Solo queried. “Tell me, and I’ll decide how important it is.”

Kuryakin brushed past him. “That’s not your business.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Solo frowned as Kuryakin kept going. “Illya!”

Kuryakin stopped and turned. “Just a few loose ends. It won’t take any time at all.”

“You must have half of your section out there. It ought to be safe for you to grab a few hours sleep.”

“I will later.”

“It is later. Considering all the nights you nodded off on guard duty and yet we survived, I imagine we’re safe enough with all that security out there.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t make comments like that before my staff,” Kuryakin said tersely. “They’re lax enough without you encouraging any more careless attitudes.”

“Lax? You’ve got them timed down to the micro-second. You acting as if you’ve never pulled security detail before! We guarded Waverly without half this hoopla.”

“You know this is different. You’re a special target now.”

“I’ve been a target for years.” Solo shrugged. “You don’t go into this job without knowing there are risks. That doesn’t mean we never relax ever again.”

“This isn’t your concern, Napoleon,” Illya said coldly. “It’s my job and my business. You have other things to worry about. And you have enough professional pride of your own to understand that I am not going to lose the new head of Section One on my own watch.”

“I’m not worried about me losing my life,” Solo snapped in return. “The way you’re going you’ll be the more likely casualty. Keep this up and you won’t make a year!”

“At least you won’t have me around to worry about,” Kuryakin snarled back, and stalked out of the kitchen.

Solo clenched his fists and counted to ten. No doubt Illya was having his own adjustment problems on leaving fieldwork, and probably, sometime, they needed to talk about them. But Solo resisted the thought of doing it now. Right now, U.N.C.L.E. was demanding almost all of his concentration, and he needed Illya in security for two reasons. The first was the reason Parenti had stated. Thrush had been gunning for him ruthlessly, and Illya had been dealing with almost daily attempts. The second was that in spite of those attempts, and the obvious necessity of protection, he had come to hate the constant security he’d been surrounded with. Had it been anyone else handling it, he might have felt some unjustifiable resentment for the person in charge of it. Having Illya there kept his perspective.

And it was, after all, only temporary. Eventually, Solo would have settled into his job, honeymoon over. The security arrangements would be all in place and vetted. Illya would be free to move on to Section Two, or whatever other position U.N.C.L.E. he fancied.

Just a few more months, Solo rationalized. They could stand anything that long.

New York, 1970

He was not going to call, he told himself. He had a dozen teams in the field, no time to chit-chat with his uncommunicative partner, the ungrateful wretch who was having a virtual holiday in London, leaving Solo to deal with contentious Soviets and Section One headaches with not even the comfort of staying in his own penthouse, or having his old associate around with whom he could complain about it to.

Illya was not one of his agents. There was no need for him to report in. There was no reason why he should report in to Solo, even though, Solo was disgruntled to discover, Kuryakin checked daily with his Security team in New York. No, he was not going to call.

But, in point of fact, Illya had been one of his agents for more than a decade. He was used to hearing from him, generally twice a day if they were separated, unless they were on vacation. And as to that they often took vacations together.

In spite of his being Continental Chief, he still had a partnerly concern for Illya’s welfare, especially since he was back in the field. Hearing his voice would have done wonders for Solo’s blood pressure and stress levels. And in spite of his partner’s check-ins with the Security team, the reverse ought to be true as well.

Of course, Illya did always have ice water instead of blood running through his veins. He seldom got the lectures from Waverly about professional detachment. No, it was Solo who generally did the rescuing, broke the rules, or raised Waverly’s ire. He wondered why he even bothered to worry about Illya, the detached Russian never seemed to be affected by anything anyway.

After worked himself into a fair approximation of one of Illya’s Russian snits, he called Mark instead.

“I told him he should call you,” Slate said, completely blowing Solo’s pretense of discussing business matters. “April and I still check in daily, even though we’ve been told its a ruddy waste of U.N.C.L.E. funds,” he chuckled slightly. “Still,” he added more seriously, “partners can’t help it, can they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Solo said glumly. “I don’t happen to have one.”

Slate laughed. “You know Illya,” he added. “He enjoys being troublesome and unpredictable.”

“Is he giving you trouble?” Solo asked hopefully.

“Well, actually, I’ve been keeping him so busy he doesn’t have time to,” Slate chuckled. “So he wouldn’t have time to ponder why you’d sent him over here,” he justified demurely.

“Hmm.” Solo noted, not for the first time, that Slate was good at administering. Some day he was going to make a damn fine Continental Chief. If he could handle Illya, he might be ready sooner than Solo had thought. “What have you got him doing?”

“Guarding the Queen.”

“What?” Despite himself, Solo broke into a wide grin at the picture that created.

“Well, not her Royal H. directly, but doing some investigative work into Thrush activity into the Royal entourage. It helps having an agent who is completely detached, actually. Too many Britishers aren’t impartial when it comes to the monarchy. And god knows the Irish try to be impartial, but probably harbor secret desires to blow them up. Throw a Russian in their midst and it gives everyone a better sense of perspective. And it’s not high risk,” Slate added pointedly.

“Thanks, Mark,” Solo said. “I know this was a bit of a hassle for you.”

“Not a bit. Good to have someone from my old stomping grounds here. We complain about Morton together. Being shed of Morton and able to get a decent cup of tea are the only advantages to this assignment.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Solo warned. “I expect you both back in a month.” He signed off, forgetting he hadn’t discussed any of the business that had been his overt reason for the call.

New York, 1959

At seven o’clock Solo had cleared most of the routine paperwork from his desk, and figured he’d at least earned himself a beer, if not a night free from contemplation over his fate. He wasn’t ready to give up New York, or his position, over an ultimatum from a cantankerous old man, but nor was he willing to break up some other team, or settle for any of the raw recruits who weren’t quite settled into their partnerships yet. But not every HQ had followed Waverly’s example of putting each pair of agents into working teams, and he’d worked far afield these last few years. He decided to search his memory for a likely transfer. With that decision made, he settled into the bar stool next to the group of Section Two agents. “Mark,” he noted, in pleased recognition.

“Napoleon,” Slate nodded over the edge of his beer glass.

“What brings you from London?” Solo signaled the bartender, and motioned for a beer.

“Courier run,” Slate said.

“You on a courier run?” Solo raised a considering eyebrow. Slate was rising perceptibly through the London ranks. Had he been the ambitious type he might have risen faster. Solo had always found him competent, but he had an easy-going, almost casual, nature that made his superiors question if he could be ruthless enough in a clinch. Solo knew Waverly had looked Slate over more than once, and was presently reserving judgement. If Slate was doing courier work, it either had to be an important drop or Slate had some other reason for coming to New York.

“Well, there’s this little Broadway dancer,” Slate admitted.

The group laughed and ribbed the British agent, who took it with his typical good-natured humor. Soon the jokes wore down and the talk turned serious again, touching gingerly on the latest mission.

“Aye, those that were na caught in the snare have taken flight,” said Parvis, continuing a conversation that Solo had interrupted. Alcohol and camaraderie had loosened the strictures on his natural Yorkshire accent, which he generally moderated into proper public school British. “Where they light next is nae secret. They’ll already been flocking to the closest roosts. We’ll keep a sharp eye on them. He glanced at Solo shrewdly. “Though it seems we’ll need another Yorkshire shepherd, now that Waverly’s annexed our Russkie.

Solo flicked an eyebrow, unwilling to comment. But his companions in Section Two were more curious, or perhaps suspicious about the stranger suddenly in their ranks. They peppered the British agent with ostensibly casual queries. Parvis clammed up, suddenly wary, but the group was inexorable and turned on Slate, who had the more forth-going temperament.

“I don’t know him,” Slate relented. “Seen him about a bit; he worked out of London for a while. He’s a quiet sort, sort of a lone wolf.”

“A Russian lone wolf,” someone commented skeptically.

“Aye, he’s a fly one, is that,” Parvis agreed, suddenly finding his tongue

“Fly?” Solo asked, spurred into curiosity himself.

“Cute,” Slate translated absently, looking thoughtfully into his beer, then nodded slowly, his sunshine smile transforming his features. “I suppose he is, at that.”

Solo made a face, and Slate laughed.

“Cute in the English, err, the British sense. Not in the American. Though I suppose the girls might think him that, too,” Slate noted.

Solo was shaking his head. “Come again?” He inquired politely.

“Fly, with a bit of a cut,” Parvis said helpfully.

“Canny,” Slate said, then shook his head. “It doesn’t translate well. Sly, but on the quiet side, not arch. Smooth, but not the sophisticated smooth. Mild, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but knowing.” He tilted his head at Solo questioningly, to see if he understood. “You know?”

“I think so,” Solo commented, though his companions in Section Two looked even more baffled and put off at this description.

“You can never trust Russians,” one was saying darkly. “Can’t understand what Waverly is thinking, bringing them in the network. Not to mention here.”

Slate shrugged. “I’ve heard he pulls his weight in the field. Thorough chap. Not the sort for beer and skittles afterwards, but solid where it counts.”

“He’s a right solid shot,” Parvis noted slyly.

Slate took a sip of beer and nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Heard about that, did you? I won a packet on him taking the wings off a moth in a bet against London’s top sharpshooter,” he said to the others in explanation. “Kuryakin plucked those wings pretty as you please. Chatsworth was livid.” Slate twirled a coaster between his hands. “He was fly at that, no doubt. Hardly anyone had a clue what a marksman he was.”

“Serves Chatsworth right for being behind on his paperwork,” Parvis said in his bitter. “Scores are all in the lad’s record.”

“Ian does favor the field more than his desk,” Slate agreed. But it didn’t serve Kuryakin too well, either. He didn’t make book on himself, and he was transferred to Glasgow not long after. Guess Chatsworth couldn’t handle two top marksmen in the office,” he added, finishing off his beer. “And seeing as how I’m heading back to London’s HQ, that’s all I’d better say.” He smiled his easy grin, and waved his goodbyes.

A loner, Solo thought, after Slate had left. A lone wolf. A lone wolf could be difficult to integrate into a close-knit group, and for all their bickering, New York’s Section Two were a team. On the other hand, Waverly liked Slate, and Slate seemed to have no problem with Kuryakin. The British agent would probably welcome an opportunity to transfer closer to his dancer friend, and that would pair Kuryakin off.. He thought about the scheme briefly, then shelved it. Kuryakin could wait. Right now, he had his own problems.

New York, 1969

Solo cut the connection and, in a totally uncharacteristic gesture, rubbed his forehead with one hand, resting it briefly on his elbow in one moment of weakness. Then he buzzed the outer office.

“Yes, Mr. Solo?” Heather’s voice was normally as professionally deferential as if they had never slept together, but now it was laced with sympathy.

“Send Illya to my office,” Solo said curtly. “I’m leaving early today.”

“You mean you’re leaving on time for once,” Heather said.

“Just do it,” Solo snapped, then shook his head and spoke more softly into the intercom. “Sorry, Heather.”

“I understand.” Heather swallowed the automatic words of sympathy. Napoleon wouldn’t want to hear any comments that Waverly had been twice as irritable when he lost a team, or that things would be better in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Chances were, Solo wouldn’t be sleeping too well tonight. She just cut the connection and called Kuryakin to the office pronto. Time was when Napoleon would turn to charming ladies when he was troubled. But she doubted he’d be interested in charming anything tonight. Not even Waverly, after all his years of seeing one brash team after another head out into the field, and more than one fail to come back, had taken the inevitable failures well. And the first time? Well, it was bound to be brutal.

Kuryakin was late by minutes, obviously not having expected a summons for hours yet, and pulled away from whatever duty had been occupying him. He hastened through the corridors up from the bowels of headquarters where he’d been checking the security of the little used subterranean exit, shrugging into his jacket as he went. He glanced at colleagues as he went, noticing they were looking at him and then glancing quickly away when he met their eyes. That wasn’t good. Something was up.

He turned to Heather as he reached Napoleon’s inner sanctum, but she avoided his gaze as well, her expression professionally neutral. “Go on in,” she said, addressing her words to a file she was typing. “He’s waiting for you.”

Kuryakin shrugged and, running a hand through his hair, stepped through the doors. Solo looked up from packing his briefcase for the evening.

“Finally. Where were you, getting a hot dog in Central Park?”

Kuryakin opened his mouth to answer, but Solo cut him off with a gesture. “Never mind, just get me out of here.”

Kuryakin closed his mouth, then opened it again. “Out?”

Solo scowled. “I know the language is still difficult for you at times, but what part of ‘out’ didn’t you understand?”

“You’re leaving for the day?” Kuryakin asked.

“Obviously,” Solo enunciated with exaggerated patience.

Kuryakin considered this unexpected action. Fortunately the roof teams were already in place. “Where did you want to go?”

Solo counted to ten and closed his briefcase with exaggerated care. “Home.”

Kuryakin swallowed any comments about the incongruity of his anticipating Solo going home at five o’clock on a weeknight for the first time since he’d taken over Waverly’s chair. Still, he’d known Napoleon to put in a few early nights in their joint career. Perhaps this was one of them. He could have a toothache, or a headache, or...

“Have you gone to sleep over there?” Solo snapped.

He shook himself slightly, suddenly aware of what could have happened. Had he been out of Section Two that long? The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed the words, long practice at hiding his thoughts unexpectedly coming to his aid. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Solo brushed past him. “I’ve been ready for ten minutes.”

New York, 1970

“How’s it going?” Solo asked into the phone.

“Not good,” Thigpin said. “They want him back here, and they want to talk to him.”

“No way,” Solo said. He paused, refreshing his memory. “There was nothing in that agreement about what country Illya would work in?”

“No, not at all,” Thigpin agreed. “He doesn’t have to come back here. And he is working Section Two, so they have no grounds for pulling him.”

“So get them out of here,” Solo countered uncharitably.

“Napoleon, remember our long term goal,” Thigpin said. “What we can enforce now, and two years from now are two different things.”

“Get them out of here,” Solo insisted. “These people are peons. They don’t have the authority to make any long term agreements for Illya. You’ll never get anything out of them.”

“Mr. Solo, we did discuss this,” Thigpin said, exasperation coloring his voice. “You were going to let me pursue this through legal means.”

“You’ve had two hours with these people,” Solo said. “If you were going to be able to get any kind of agreement from them, you’d have done it by now. They’re just pumping you, Danny. It’s time for me to step in. Kiss them goodbye.”

“What are you going to do?” Thigpin asked anxiously.

Solo smiled. “Can’t tell you that, Danny boy. Trade secret.”

“Mr. Solo, I’m your legal counsel in these arrangements. I’m entitled to know--”

“Sorry, Danny. I’ll let you handle my will if I don’t come back. That’s about all you can know.” Solo cut the connection on his sputtering protests and patched into his security chief. “Gas up the jet, Mr. Contre. I’m going to be taking a trip.”

“Sir?!!”

“Top secret. I’ll give the pilot the flight plan at the airport. Now, you can show me how fast you can get the chopper in action.”

“But, sir, Mr. Kuryakin said --”

“Do you work for Mr. Kuryakin or for me?” Solo snapped.

Contre moaned softly, “Probably neither by the time this is over, sir.”

Solo laughed. “Don’t worry. Illya won’t kill you unless I don’t make it back alive.”

“Yes, sir,” Contre said miserably. “Your helicopter will be ready by the time you arrive at the chopper pad.”

“The roof teams?” Solo asked.

“Already in place, sir.”

“I like your style, Contre.” Solo cut the connection.

“Yes, sir,” Contre said, mindful of the silent connection. “But Mr. Kuryakin will kill me regardless.”

New York, 1959

A fly one.

Solo thought of that when he saw Kuryakin reclaiming his weapon in the indoor shooting range early the next day. New York was using a slightly different modification of the standard issue release and Kuryakin’s weapon had been confiscated for modification.

The fly one inspected the altered weapon dubiously, as befitted a Section Two agent whose lifeline had been fiddled with, as any parachuter would regard a chute packed by someone else.

“Don’t worry,” Solo commented as he signed for the ammunition and targets necessary for a practice round, “We have the best gunsmiths in U.N.C.L.E. in this HQ.”

Kuryakin glanced at him askance, but claimed his own ammunition and targets without comment, heading for the farthest carrel, next to the far wall.

Remembering the conversation from the night before, Solo chose a spot a few carrels down. Just as he got the protective ear cups settled over his head, he head the cacophony of a clip emptied at full auto from Kuryakin’s carrel. He peered down the range to see the Soviet reeling the paper target in, a look of dubious skepticism on the Soviet agent’s face. The target was clean except for a hole through the bull’s eye. From his distance, Solo couldn’t tell if it was larger than usual, as would befit a hole that had seen ten shots go through it. It was clear Kuryakin had his doubts too, inspecting it carefully, then peering down the line to check the wall for bullet marks.. He hung up a new target and reeled it down to the end of the range. There was a pause while he loaded a fresh clip. Through the doors into the range came a group of agents, apparently fresh from the commissary, for the odor of coffee came swirling in with them, briefly overpowering the scent of gun oil and burned powder.

Solo acknowledged greetings as he loaded his own clips. From the far carrel, Kuryakin fired again, slowly, one shot at a time. Solo could see the shots were all widely dispersed on the target. He wondered at that, then he realized there was a pattern to the shots. Kuryakin had fired neatly through the zeros of the point markings, apparently having decided that firing at the bulls-eye didn’t give him a clear enough picture of the weapon’s accuracy. He reeled the target back in an examined it, apparently satisfied.

But the group that had come in was obviously just as curious, peering over the slight Russian’s shoulder at the target. Solo could hardly blame them; a healthy rivalry about such things flourished at every U.N.C.L.E. installation. But he grimaced at the sight of Roger Lowry, a burly Section Three agent in the group. Lowry had twice failed to make Section Two, one ostensible reason being his scores on the firing range. But in fact, Solo had long ago decided that Lowry just didn’t have the character to be in Section Two.

But Lowry was delighted to discover a Section Two agent with firing range scores apparently poorer than his own. He snatched the target and held it up for his fellow agents. “Look at this, fellows. I guess Russkies aren’t such great shots after all.”

Solo threw a glance at Kuryakin. The Soviet agent’s eyes were narrowed and cold, but he stolidly went on shoving a reloaded clip into his weapon, and then began refilling his other clips. Solo wondered if Lowry was actually stupid enough to continue antagonizing a relatively unknown man who had a loaded weapon in his hand. Not that any agent should be able to make it through Survival School with that poor a control over his trigger finger, but he was well aware that Kuryakin had always been a special case.

But the Soviet agent merely ignored Lowry, the only evidence of his irritation a hardening of his jaw.

“He couldn’t hit the center with a full clip,” Lowry mocked. Kuryakin just went on slowly loading another clip, apparently in no hurry.

“Didn’t they even teach you how to load a weapon?” Lowry asked, delighted. “God, put you in the field and your buddies would be dead while you’re still loading your gun,” The Section Three agent guffawed, enjoying himself immensely at Kuryakin’s expense. “Hey, I don’t think he understands me. You speak English, Russkie?”

Kuryakin stolidly ignored him.

Hearing the commotion, Adam Winter stuck his head out of a carrel. He gave Solo an look of question. With the death of Solo’s partner who’d previously held the slot, Winter had been promoted to Number Two, Section Two, and therefore had some responsibility to shut Lowry down. He’d also undoubtably seen Kuryakin’s file as Solo had, and knew the Russian’s ability with a weapon, which Lowry did not.

But Solo said nothing, concentrating on his own marksmanship. It wasn’t his nature to interfere in other’s petty quarrels, and he felt even less inclined now. Lowry deserved whatever he was going to get. As for Kuryakin, Solo strongly suspected he’d long ago learned how to handle jerks. He started his own practice round, the sound of his gunfire obliterating the discussion behind him.

When he paused to reload and the noise of the gunfire cleared around him, he heard Winter arguing with Lowry.

“You don’t want to do that, Roger,” Winter sounded frustrated, and as if he wished he hadn’t gotten involved at all.

“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Lowry replied. “Nothing wrong with a friendly little wager. I’ll bet the Russkie here can’t hit the bulls-eye once.”

Winter looked at Kuryakin, but the Russian stayed silent. It was clear he wasn’t going to egg Lowry on, but he also recognized his taunter had reached a point where he had said too much to just walk away.

“Who’s willing to bet for the Russkie?” Lowry looked around. “No commie lovers here?”

The rest of the group had taken a mental step back when Solo had come over. They looked disinclined to bet in either case. Solo sized them up as being interested in seeing the outcome between Kuryakin and Lowry, but not in taking sides themselves.

A subtle ranking existed on a myriad of levels among U.N.C.L.E. agents — prowess on the armory range, in the gym, in the field. And in other ways — personal presence, style, popularity. Lowry wasn’t well liked. Kuryakin was virtually unknown entity in New York’s Section Two. How he would fare in this encounter would settle his informal ranking, at least initially.

Solo at first had merely thought to send them on their way with a few well chosen words, but then he realized that Lowry was almost eager for that, hoping to see Section Two back down from a challenge. From the detached, almost bored looked in Kuryakin’s eyes he didn’t seem inclined to give him one.

Solo suddenly felt inclined.

“I’ll wager on it,” Solo answered, deceptively mild.

“You?” Lowry seemed taken aback.

“Why not? My section. My agent,” Solo said with an easy smile. “Why not my bet? You don’t mind obliging, do you, Mr. Kuryakin?”

His eyes on Solo, Kuryakin shrugged wordlessly.

“Twenty?” Solo asked Lowry.

Lowry gulped.

“Or, excuse me. I forget what a gambler you are,” Solo went on. “Let’s say fifty.”

“Fifty?”

“You seemed sure enough of winning just a moment ago.” Solo gestured to the target still clutched in Lowry’s hand. Beside him, Kuryakin drew breath, as if finally moved to explanation. Solo cut him off with a surreptitious hand signal. The breath sighed out of Kuryakin like a deflated balloon. His shoulders dropped in resignation.

Lowry saw the sagging shoulders but not the hand signal that had preceded it. He puffed up immediately. “You’re on, Solo.”

“You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Kuryakin?” Solo asked blandly.

The eyes were suspicious, but the expression was bland. He simply shrugged again, and turned back to the carrel.

“Anyone else want to get in on the action?” Solo inquired.

The other agents demurred, none of them wanting to interfere in Solo’s action.

“Choose a fresh target, Roger, and reel it down yourself, if you like,” Solo offered.

“I believe I will,” Lowry huffed, all bravado. “Just to keep things fair.”

“And we’ll want to set a time limit,” Solo suggested. “After all, we don’t want to be here all day while Mr. Kuryakin struggles to aim. What do you suggest, Roger?”

Lowry was looking stubborn now, apparently suspecting Solo’s accommodating attitude. He took another glance at the used target in his hand, as if to reassure himself. “One clip. Thirty seconds.”

“That gives you just three seconds per bullet to aim, Illya,” Solo commented. “That okay with you?”

Kuryakin picked up his weapon, weighing it in his hand, as if it were unfamiliar. “Say ‘when’,” was his only comment.

“You’ve got the target reeled down, I see,” Solo commented. “Jackson, you watch the clock. Polermo, pick up a pair of binoculars; I want you to count any shots that go astray from the target.” Solo was beginning to enjoy himself. Kuryakin rolled an eye at him; Solo smiled back. “Just aim for the bulls-eye, Mr. Kuryakin and do your best.”

“Yes, sir,” Kuryakin said colorlessly.

“Say ‘when’,” Jackson,” Solo said to Jackson, who had his eye on his watch, tracking the second hand. He checked to see that Polermo had the binoculars fixed on the target. Kuryakin sighed, braced his feet and aimed on outstretched arms.

“When,” Jackson said.

Kuryakin fired desultorily, one shot at a time, a second apart, almost as if he was counting the seconds with the shots.

“Ten seconds,” Jackson said, raising his eyes from his watch after the clip was emptied.

“Holy shit,” Polermo said. “Every one’s a bulls-eye.”

“Roger, would you reel the target in?” Solo asked.

Lowry glared down at the target, and then snatched the binoculars from Polermo’s hand. “They must have gone wild.”

“None went wild,” Polermo said, his voice suddenly dark. “Anyway, you said he only had to get one shot. How do you explain that big hole in the center of the target?” He was a big man, dark and heavy set for an agent. Generally his face was as genial as if he spent his days giving candy to kids. But when angry his whole body could radiate violence. Lowry looked at him askance, then suddenly reeled the target in, in haste. He pulled the paper target off the clips, and shook it at Solo and Kuryakin together with the original target. “This is impossible!”

“Would you like him to do it again?” Solo asked.

“You tricked me!”

“It was your big mouth that got you in trouble, Lowry. Next time, keep it off my agents.”

Lowry drew back from Solo , but then turned on the slighter Russian, clenching his fists. But he was suddenly facing the other Section Two agents, barring his path. Instead he balled the paper targets and threw them on the floor and turned to leave.

“There is the matter of the bet,” Solo mentioned blithely.

Lowry turned, glared at Solo, then swallowed his words, and opened his wallet. He threw the bills on the floor at Solo’s feet with the targets and huffed out of the range. At a glance from Solo, the other agents followed.

Kuryakin’s stiffened shoulders slowly relaxed. Solo realized he’d been prepared for a fight.

“Uh, sorry,” Solo leaned down to pick up the bills and balls of paper. “I suppose it wasn’t fair to spring that on you. But Lowry deserved it.”

Kuryakin said nothing, methodically reloading the spent clip.

Solo set the money down on the tabletop.

Kuryakin looked at it, eyes narrowed, then looked away. “I don’t want that.”

“You won it,” Solo pointed out.

“It was your bet,” Kuryakin said. “I don’t bet.”

Solo looked skeptical. “In this business, we all have to gamble sometimes.”

“Very well then,” Kuryakin said. “I don’t wager.”

“All right,” Solo said. “Suit yourself.” He folded the money into his wallet. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

Solo shrugged and stood aside as Kuryakin holstered his weapon, swept the spent cartridges into a nearby receptacle and left the booth. He noticed Kuryakin had left the balled targets behind, and he picked them up and smoothed them out thoughtfully. As he went back to his own carrel, he was joined by the armory master.

“That true about the Russian?”

“What’s true?” Solo sighted down his own target and fired a few rounds.

“I guess it is,” Gunther said, noticing the creased target and picking it up.

Solo glanced at it, then at the armory master. “You get the scores of all the agents.” His tone was faintly questioning.

“I get them. That doesn’t mean I believe all the nonsense that gets passed to me from every local field office. But this,” Gunther raised the target. “This, I believe.”

Solo smiled. “So, you’re a skeptic.”

“Have to be,” Gunther grumbled. “But at least I won’t have to teach this one how to shoot.”

Solo wondered though, who was going to teach him how to gamble.

New York, 1969

Solo took a long hot shower and then, dressed in pajamas, poured himself a drink and polished it off in one swallow. The liquor burned all the way down to his stomach and he savored the mild pain. It kept him from thinking. Then he resolutely went to his neatly turned down bed and folded himself into it. An early night, a good sleep. Things would look better in the morning, he promised himself. He’d have some perspective. He turned out the light and closed his eyes.

An hour later, he turned the light back on. The formerly neat bed looked like a hurricane had hit it, but then, he’d been tossing at least as much as a sloop in a gale. He left the comfortless haven, shrugged into his robe and crossing the room, picked up the bottle of scotch and swirled it in the dim light. But he’d already used up his self-imposed one drink limit. Never knew when he might be urgently needed and he couldn’t risk having his judgement impaired.

Not that it had mattered this time, whether his judgement had been there or not.

He put the liquor bottle down and headed out of the room, not sure where he was going till he felt the chill of the uncarpeted corridor on his bare feet.

“It’s just me, Illya,” he said outside the open doorway, and added the code word from the days of the partnership that meant he was alone and all was well, saving Kuryakin the trouble of greeting him with the barrel of a gun.

Kuryakin almost greeted him that way anyway, habit and reflex making him grab for his weapon. Like Solo, in an uncertain situation he felt more comfortable with his gun in his hand then not. He made an incongruous picture, one hand still clutching his book, a finger caught between the pages to save his place, the other clutching the automatic. At the slight of Solo, he shoved the gun back under the pillow and sat partially up.

Solo hadn’t realized until now that the pale blue pajamas Kuryakin had always worn on assignment were apparently part of his professional wardrobe. ‘At home’, he wore a t-shirt so frayed at the sleeves and hem, and so pockmarked with tiny holes that Solo wondered how the fragile material stayed together. A pair of equally ancient sweatpants completed his nighttime attire. Ever practical, he had socks on his feet. A pair of sneakers, complete with holes in the canvas toes, waited by the bed for any late night incident. The clothes didn’t look out of place in the comfortless room. The twin bed was just as narrow; the twill spread Kuryakin had pushed aside looked just as ugly, and it was clear, from the boxes stacked in one corner of the room and the lack of personal effects in it, that his partner had never really unpacked.

Yet Kuryakin’s unruly hair stuck up in tufts and the pillow beside his book was punched into some semblance of comfort. Clearly even in this chintzy, unaccommodating room, his partner had found more comfort than Solo had between his satin sheets.

For the first time, Solo envied his ability to take what small comforts he could of untenable situations. Where the beds were bad, Illya enjoyed the food, when the food was bad he consoled himself with a book; when he had no book he curled himself up in some corner and slept. Solo had noted his partner’s Spartan preferences at the same time as he had pursued a more consumable lifestyle without thinking much about it. They were different people.

Illya wasn’t above expressing a certain censure for his own lifestyle, but he had never felt the need to express much of pity or envy for Illya’s. But now he felt a touch of jealousy over his partner’s still unburdened conscience. And he knew, just as suddenly, that he’d come to burden it. That was no more a part of his nature than jealousy. The realization almost made him turn to leave, when Illya, uncomfortable under Solo’s unyielding scrutiny, said awkwardly, “Did you want something?”

“Uh, oh” Solo cast his mind about for another reason to have come calling, and hooked on something with relief. “Have an aspirin?”

Kuryakin frowned, but jerked his chin to the tiny bath. “Medicine cabinet.”

Solo slunk into the bath and shamelessly snooped. Force of habit, he was a spy. Not that Illya had much to snoop into — not even a pack of condoms to raise an eyebrow over. Not even Illya was that much of a monk; Solo supposed he kept them in his wallet. Or perhaps, Solo thought ironically, he hadn’t unpacked them. Solo himself hadn’t much chance to need many since Waverly’s death.

But here was just the generic bottle of aspirin, shaving gear and toothbrush stuff, and a comb and brush that had each seen better days. On the shelf over the toilet was the tiny kit Illya bundled it all into to take on assignments. Solo popped open the aspirin bottle and dry swallowed a tablet, purely for form, setting the bottle back on the shelf. The only other occupant of the shelf was a roll of adhesive tape and a pair of rounded safety scissors, the kind kids used to cut paper with. Trust Illya to be so guarded he didn’t even leave a dangerous pair of scissors around to be used against him.

Kuryakin quirked an eyebrow at him as he entered the room. Solo noticed through a convenient hole in his partner’s sock that Illya was taping his ankle again, as he had off an on throughout their partnership. It filled him with a flood of nostalgia.

“Find everything you wanted?” Kuryakin inquired over the page of his book.

“That tendon still bothering you?” Solo gestured to Kuryakin’s right foot.

“No more than usual,” Kuryakin muttered, eyes still studiously on the page.

“I’d heard there’s a new procedure for that,” Solo commented. He didn’t mention he’d heard it as a result of one agent’s near debilitating injury, and that the operation had an estimated recovery time of six weeks minimum. Nor did he see fit to add that he knew Illya would as soon put himself in the hands of a surgeon as he would the hands of a Thrush sadist.

“My ankle is just fine.” Kuryakin rolled over and sat up, putting away any pretense at reading. “You want to tell me why you really came here?”

“I told you,” Solo said stubbornly. “Needed an aspirin.”

“You have a full bottle in your own medicine cabinet. Also one of antihistamines, and a bottle of sleeping tablets and some cold medication, three packs of condoms, six of which you’ve--”

“You’ve been snooping in my medicine chest?” Solo accused, mildly outraged.

“Napoleon, I stocked that cabinet with drugs I took myself from UNCLE’s own pharmacy; I know which clothes are delivered from Del’s cleaning operation. I clear the groceries that are put in the kitchen. I am your security chief, remember? Everything and everyone that comes into this apartment, I check, or I know where they came from and who cleared them. That’s my job.”

Solo muttered an oath under his breath.

“So do you want to tell me why you really came in here?”

Solo looked around the room. “You don’t even have an extra chair in here.”

“Why ever would I need one?”

“Oh, shut up and shove over.”

Kuryakin moved over a grudging fraction of an inch, settling back against the headboard as Solo sank down on the edge of the bed. “You don’t even have your hi-fi set up in here,” Solo noted with surprise.

“I haven’t had time. And there’s not much point to it now. In a month or so I’ll be done.”

“Done?” Solo echoed.

“This assignment. I’ve got Contre and his team virtually trained. You haven’t given us much chance to test the extracurricular security, but I’m confident enough in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kuryakin flushed. “You know — the security for when you go out. I call it the extracurricular security. I should work well — we’ve been testing with your decoys mostly, since you’ve been too busy to provide us with a live subject on any regular basis.”

Solo brushed that aside. “I meant about being done.”

“You said this was a six month assignment. It’s over in six weeks.” Kuryakin shrugged. “The teams are all trained and in place, with backups, reliefs. All vetted and security cleared. I’ve screened every one myself, and I’m confident they are all clean. And capable. I could finish up in a couple of weeks actually. In fact, London has been hinting they could use me sooner.”

“You’re not thinking of still transferring?” Solo looked astounded. “You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t need me here. Morton has Section Two well in hand--” he trailed off as Solo visibly winced.

Solo shook his head tiredly. “I can’t have this discussion today.”

Kuryakin studied him narrowly. “What happened today, Napoleon? We’ve bandied about the bush long enough.”

“Beaten around the bush.”

“Whatever. Spill it.”

“You mean you haven’t heard already?” Solo’s mouth twisted sardonically, but then he sighed. “We lost a team today. No. I lost a team today.”

Kuryakin’s breath caught in his throat, all the while wondering which friendship to cap with a gravestone. “I’m sorry.” He drew a breath and asked evenly. “Who was it?”

“Markow and Connor.”

Kuryakin blinked. From Napoleon’s reaction, he had thought it was someone closer to him. He didn’t even know the two: green-stick agents not long out of Section Three, they’d transferred from a local office in the Midwest only a month or so before. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Solo eyed him narrowly. “You don’t remember them, do you?”

Kuryakin shook his head, puzzled. “Should I? I may have seen them about, but I don’t think we were ever introduced. Formally, that is.”

“They were in Section Two.” Solo said evenly.

“Napoleon, I haven’t been in Section Two for months,” Kuryakin said with some asperity. “Morton and I have never been exactly chummy and it isn’t as if I haven’t had plenty to do myself. I had no reason to know these agents.”

“All right.,” Solo said tersely. “I’d momentarily forgotten you’re so damned self sufficient, you don’t need anyone.”

“Did you come here to pick a fight with me?” Kuryakin asked softly. “If you are, I’d appreciate it if you did it from somewhere else.”

“What?” Solo’s eyes narrowed.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, this is my room. The rest of the apartment is yours. But this is my space. My only space,” Kuryakin said, not angry, but firm. “If you want to fight, go stand in the hallway and bellow.”

The image that conjured up was so ludicrous, Solo just stared at Kuryakin for a moment.

Kuryakin frowned at Solo’s lack of response. “Maybe I should just call a relief and go sleep in HQ tonight.” He started to rise.

Solo stuck out a hand, and let out a pent up breath, his shoulders loosening. “Sorry.” He stood up, shaking the tension from his shoulders. “Look, could we start again?”

“Just don’t loom over me. If you want to talk, sit down.”

“Let’s get something from the kitchen,” Solo countered, suddenly uncomfortable about barging into Illya’s room. He was right in that respect. At least in the kitchen, if they got into a rolling fight, they’d have neutral corners to retreat to.

And given a choice between neutral corners or London, he choose the former any time.

New York 1970

From the copter, he had watched while one of his doubles entered the jet and took off. Then he disappeared in to the flurry of the airport, appearing in the exit terminal where hordes of passengers had just arrived and were claiming baggage and grabbing taxis. No one noticed a man of medium height and build approach the curb or a non-descript rental car pull up and claim the Continental Chief of U.N.C.L.E. North America. Solo sat back in the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh. “Thanks, Contre.”

“Where to now, sir?”

“The Soviet Mission.”

Contre looked at him askance, then, noting the grim set to Solo’s jaw, put the car in gear and pulled away. It was going to be a long career.

Solo had done his homework. He had two Section Three agents keeping tabs on his quarry for days, reporting on his movements. He knew the man was in, and he had no doubt he would see him. Being a Continental Chief did have some advantages.

“This is quite a surprise, Mr. Solo.” General Dmitry Grigorevich Aivasovsky had aged little in the last ten years. His hair had more grey than blond, but his lean, lanky figure and features still looked more British than Russian, and his eyes, like Illya’s were the cool gray/blue of Russian seas. He was still the head of the Soviet Mission in New York and a GRU officer, but his power had extended somewhat beyond his local jurisdiction. Solo had no idea how far it carried in Moscow. But he was about to find out.

“Don’t discredit us both, sir,” Solo said pleasantly. “You must know why I am here.”

The Soviet spymaster smiled briefly. “Very well. I am not unaware of the situation your organization has encountered with respect to Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin’s Soviet obligations. But I fail to see why you have come to me.”

“Because you oversee every Soviet agent in the North and South Americas.”

“Even if that were true,” Aivasovsky said. “He is not my agent. Has never been that. The terms of his assignment were decided long ago, in Moscow, and by other men than ourselves.”

“Perhaps. But they are gone, and we are here now. I now speak for U.N.C.L.E. North America. And as for you, Illya is a GRU officer in New York and you are a GRU general responsible for North America. I think we’ll do. ”

Aivasovsky smiled slightly. “You simplify matters, Mr. Solo. I have little say on those that were sent to me. Or on what circumstances determine their recall. What ever influence I have on Kuryakin here,” he tilted his head at Solo. “And you agree it has been little if any, others now summon him. You must know that.”

“But you have influence there, General Aivasovsky, where I do not.” He gestured to a chair. “May I sit?”

Aivasovsky shrugged and waved a hand in permission. “I think you must be quite mad. You are here with very little security, in a very dangerous period of your career. I have little regard for your security chief, if he allows you to take such risks.”

Solo laughed softly. “No doubt Illya will deal with me on his return. But some risks are necessary.”

Aivasovsky’s grey eyes met his cooly. “Necessary?”

“Necessary. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

The Soviet agent sat back a bit, detaching himself from Solo’s intense gaze. “I confess I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps this will help,” Solo removed a photograph from his suit-jacket and laid it on the table. Aivasovsky’s eyes moved toward it, and recoiled briefly, as if in pain.

“Colonel Erik Karlovich Gerasimov,” Solo said. “I did my homework. I know you had a partner once too. Who was recalled to the Soviet Union in 1966 during a brief power struggle that followed a former promotions of yours.. He was executed by a rival political faction that had just enough power to discredit him. As a weapon against you.”

Aivasovsky rose from his chair, staring at Solo. “How dare you show me this?” His voice was strained, barely over a whisper.

“I am very sorry to resurrect painful memories,” Solo said. “And I won’t pretend that we don’t have schemes to discredit political rivals in this country. But you, of all people, should understand why I can’t let that happen to Illya.”

Aivasovsky turned away. “Surely men of your resources have many options.”

“I could try to hide him,” Solo agreed, his eyes following the Soviet General. “But then I’d still be losing him. And Illya’s just Soviet enough that he might refuse to hide and go back to Moscow, even knowing what would probably await him. Just like Gerasimov did.”

Aivasovsky said nothing, staring out the window at the patch of East River he could see glinting in the sunshine.

“So, you see, General, why I won’t allow Illya to be used as a weapon against U.N.C.L.E., and against me,” Solo said relentlessly. “I have a prior example to tell me what his probable fate would be. And I am counting on you to help me see that it doesn’t happen again.” Solo paused and added. “One partner to another.”

“Even if you found me... sympathetic to your circumstance,” Aivasovsky said, turning from the window. “My government would require some reason to permanently surrender a valuable agent. Our people are our most precious resources. They are like coal and iron to us. We don’t trade them for sentiment.”

“U.N.C.L.E. has influence,” Solo countered. He smiled at the General’s expression of surprise. “No, I am not offering any excessive favoritism in return for Illya’s life. But right now you have a compatriot highly placed in U.N.C.L.E. You know Illya is Soviet; he hasn’t lost his respect for those philosophies. And I respect him. Enough to trust him with my life, which is almost the same as trusting him with my headquarters. Illya is a constant, daily reminder to me of the multinational, multi-philosophical nature of U.N.C.L.E.” Solo paused. “But if he should be recalled, and to an uncertain, dangerous fate, my faith in that co-existence would be wounded. Perhaps fatally. If I have to lose Illya,” Solo paused and his voice roughened. “I will be resentful. I’ll try to keep that resentment from unduly influencing my position as North American Continental Chief. But I am only human.” Solo’s look changed from pleasant to feral. “And in that position, I have a great deal of influence on others, both in North America and in the world.”

“Are you threatening?” Aivasovsky asked, sounding more curious than angry.

“I am being honest with you,” Solo said. “A luxury men in our position can rarely afford. But you understand me, General.”

“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I do not,” The Soviet spymaster returned. “Tell me plainly what you want.”

“I want Illya’s freedom. Permanent, unconditional, uncontestable.”

Aivasovsky stared at Solo, his eyes narrowed. “You ask a great deal, Mr. Solo. It is one thing to deliver your friend from temporary peril. That might be in my purview. This is quite another.”

“I’ll accept nothing less. Political climates can change with the season. Influences wax and wane. I could be killed tomorrow. Or you could. I don’t want to rehash this issue with every coup. I’m making one offer — my partner for my good will. Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, know that my ire is going to be far more expensive than one obsolete agent.”

The General smiled thinly. “And you said you respected him.”

“Obsolete to you. Invaluable to me. Both as a colleague and as a friend. But you know that General.” He nodded toward the photograph still clutched in Aivasovsky’s hand.

Dimitri Grigorevich Aivasovsky nodded slowly, his expression remote. I will pass this conversation on to my superiors, Mr. Solo.”

“And your influence.”

Aivasovsky nodded distantly. “And that. I will do for your friend what I did not do for my own.”

“May I ask why you didn’t, General?”

The Soviet spymaster smiled bitterly. “He was stubborn, my Eric. And loyal. To me. To our country. He paid for that loyalty with his life. And my own loyalties blinded me to some painful realities.”

“My condolences.” Solo said.

Aivasovsky shook himself, distancing the conversation from the past. “Tell your Mark Slate to keep Illya Nickovetch where he is. Not even my most radical countrymen would risk the execution of an U.N.C.L.E. agent in such close proximity to a purely decorative head of state. The British people would no doubt take it as a failed attack against their monarchy. Such things have precipitated enough past wars. He is very safe where he is.”

“So much for secrecy,” Solo said dryly.

“Provided I am successful in my persuasion, Mr. Solo, your organization will be contacted. The necessary arrangements will take about a week. When you receive the final documents, you can recall your partner home.” He raised an ironic eyebrow. “Just be aware that it may need to remain his home. His safety in the Soviet Union could never be fully guaranteed. Not now, and in spite of all anyone might promise you, not ever.”

“Perhaps not forever, General. My organization exists in the hope that someday the citizens of all countries can co-exist in peace and safety.”

“An interesting goal, Mr. Solo. But, I confess, I respect you more for your practical knowledge of the present than for your noble aspirations for the future.”

Solo smiled and held out his hand. “Thank you, General. I hope, for the memory of your partner, and the future of mine, that it does become a reality.”

New York, 1959

“Tremarty,” Solo greeted the agent dropping a report on his desk. “How did it go?”

“The mission went fine,” Tremarty said.

Solo looked up from his paperwork. “Something else a problem?”

“More like someone,” the young agent countered.

Solo sighed. “What did Kuryakin do?” Tremarty was the third agent he’d tried pairing Kuryakin with. The first two had been adamant about not wanting to be paired with the Russian again, but wouldn’t say why. Solo had more hopes for Tremarty, who was younger and less discreet.

“It’s more like what he wouldn’t do.”

Solo frowned at this. Dereliction of duty was a serious offense. If Kuryakin wasn’t pulling his weight in the field, Solo wouldn’t send him out again. “He didn’t do his assignment?”

“Oh, no! Nothing like that,” Tremarty looked embarrassed.

“What is it then,” Solo said, getting irritated.

“He wouldn’t talk.”

“What?”

“Barely said a word through the whole mission.”

“English isn’t his first language,” Solo offered lamely.

“He knows the language. It wasn’t that he never spoke, just that he said nothing that wasn’t absolutely essential to the job,” Tremarty complained, getting bolder as he recalled his frustration. “Sorry for saying this, Mr. Solo. This job isn’t supposed to be a picnic, or a tea party, but partnering with someone who won’t so much as say ‘pass the salt’, makes it that much harder.”

“I understand,” Solo said.

“I hope you won’t hold this against me,” Tremarty ventured, slightly abashed now that he’d vented his spleen.

“Not at all. Don’t worry about it. There are plenty of agents on the free list. Why don’t you catch up with,” Solo shuffled through a few folders on his desk, “Martinson. He has an assignment you might find interesting.”

“Yes, sir.” Tremarty left and Solo sat back down to reconsider.

The reports had been coming in, one after every mission. Kuryakin was a loner, reserved in his socialization with the rest of Section Two.

There had been loners before in Enforcement; that was no crime. Kuryakin was not even the first.

There had been difficult agents before, some in far more eccentric ways.

Solo pulled out the free agent list, and Kuryakin’s file, determined to find a partner for him, once and for all.

His chart was unusual. Studying it, Solo understood why Kuryakin rubbed people the wrong way. Just like a house built slightly out of proportion could distress the senses, Kuryakin’s scores all spiked in odd ways, sometimes very high, sometimes equally low.

Any agent could have an unusual strength or weakness. Solo had a few of his own; agents were only people after all. But Kuryakin seemed to have only strengths or weaknesses. Like the kids’ rhyme: Where he was good, he was very, very good, and where he was bad, he was horrid. Anything quantifiable or technical: marksmanship, sciences, languages, ordinance, the list rolled on, he seemed to do well at. Anything ‘soft’ — personal interaction, intuition, creativity, he dropped down the other side of the scale on. No wonder he drove his fellow agents nuts. For example, extraordinary skills in marksmanship were valued in Section Two. But as Solo knew himself, you had to balance talent with people skills or even the best men could be resentful.

Part of his reticence was no doubt due to the language difference and his foreign status. In time, he’d probably relax a little. Never-the-less, it was obvious Kuryakin was not, and probably would never be a social butterfly. Normally, Solo would consider pairing such an agent with either an agent of equal tendencies, or with one of opposite but complementary skills. The problem was that Kuryakin’s profile was so off-the-mark he didn’t really have an equivalent complimentary partner.

Unless he considered himself. He had the people skills Kuryakin lacked, nor was he threatened by Kuryakin’s expertise in technical matters. In a way, they did dovetail nicely. But Solo had always preferred to team with like-minded colleagues, easy-going, sophisticated, talented men, who didn’t rely on a battery of technical baggage to pull out a win.

On the other hand, it would do him good to work with a different set of man. And though he wasn’t in the mood to take on a permanent partner, he’d have no danger of doing so with Kuryakin, who was the antitheses of what he preferred. But what he preferred now was what Kuryakin was.

Reserved. Detached.

And quiet.

Solo remember now, during the hours they had waited at the hospital for results, and the hours journeying back to New York, how silent he’d been. Kuryakin had hardly spoken a word, had been as disinclined for conversation as he had been.

It suddenly occurred to him how suitable this trait would be in his own situation.

If he had to have a temporary partner to get back in the field, then why not one so disengaged that he practically belied the meaning of the word? Illya Kuryakin was as far from suitable partner material as one could get and be an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Solitary, silent, standoffish. He would fit Solo’s bill perfectly. At least for the moment.

And in the interim, he could keep an eye open for Kuryakin’s true match. Or put out the word to have someone with similar qualities transferred.

He made his way to Waverly’s office.

“Then you’ve chosen a partner.” The old man unfolded a napkin for the luncheon he was, as usual, having at his desk. Solo marveled at him: breakfast, lunch, dinner, Waverly was all too often in his office.

“Temporarily, at least.”

Waverly looked up from pouring tea. “What’s that you say?”

“You did say I could take my time, look around the various Headquarters. I plan to do just that.”

“And what do you plan to do in the interim?” Waverly replaced the teapot and reached for a plate of lemon slices.

“Illya Kuryakin has just been transferred here, and thus has no partner. I’ll work with him until I’ve made a final decision.”

Waverly made a face. Solo waited him out, not sure if the sour expression was from his stated choice or too much lemon in the tea. It seemed the former.

“Why him?” Waverly demanded.

Solo blinked, surprised at the question. “Sir?”

“Come, Mr. Solo. Grant that I concede Mr. Kuryakin is skilled in certain areas and has potential, he is not yet quite in your league. I have no desire to have to scale back your assignments because of your choice of a relatively inexperienced partner. Surely you can find someone more suitable, even on a temporary basis.”

“He’s a Section Two agent. Surely that’s suitable enough.”

“Judging from the field reports,” Waverly said, slightly disgruntled, “His colleagues seem to disagree.”

“He’s been matched with our newest agents,” Solo said, finding it odd that he was defending Waverly’s Soviet acquisition, “That probably hasn’t been a good choice. But for the moment, I’m free, and can use the time while I’m searching for my own partner to evaluate Kuryakin more effectively. And you agreed he has potential. I’ll take responsibility for my assignments. If I think something is beyond our abilities,” Solo paused, then shrugged, “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Waverly still seemed disgruntled but resigned. “Very well, do as you please then. But don’t be all year making up your mind.”

“No, sir.”

“Have you notified Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I was waiting for you approval first, sir,” Solo said primly.

Waverly harrumphed at that, and waved him away. “Don’t bother me with trivialities, Mr. Solo. You’re in charge of your section. Manage it.”

“Yes, sir,” Solo said, and made good his escape.

“Could you hold the lift?”

Solo responded automatically to the request, one arm blocking the closing doors and stood back as Illya Kuryakin practically tumbled through them, hampered by an unwieldy duffle.

The Soviet agent looked up from settling the heavy bag, his pale face flushing pink as he recognized the other occupant of the elevator. “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” Solo replied. “I didn’t know you lived in this building.”

“I moved from temporary quarters today.” Kuryakin said, raking his hair out of his eyes. The elevator jolted and began to rise. Kuryakin belatedly pushed the button for the second floor, but the elevator couldn’t stop so abruptly, Both agents watched while it moved past two, then three, and continued on to the top floor and Solo’s penthouse apartment. It reached it finally, and Solo turned to exit, while Kuryakin stabbed a finger at the second floor button again. But Solo stopped in the doorway, one hand blocking their closing. “I never meant to let so much time go by before thanking you for your help.”

Kuryakin forehead creased in puzzlement. “Excuse me?”

“In England.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Kuryakin shifted his feet uncomfortably.

Solo shrugged. “Even so. Look, why don’t you come in for a moment? Have a drink?” The doors tried to close. Solo wedged his arm against them and blocked it.

“I ---” Kuryakin looked as if he was searching his mind for a suitable excuse. “I should unpack.”

“Doesn’t look like that will take long,” Solo glanced at the duffle. “We have something to discuss anyway.”

“We do?”

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Solo asked as the doors tried to shut a second time. “Sooner or later someone is going need this elevator.”

Kuryakin picked up his duffle and followed Solo as the senior agent led them to his apartment and let them in.

“This will just take me a minute,” Solo apologized as he began to check his security system. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home while I do this, but I’m afraid you’d end up blown to kingdom come. But then, you know all that,” he added.

Kuryakin put down his duffle just inside the doorway and looked around while he waited.

“It looks the same,” he commented.

“That’s right, you’ve been here before,” Solo said absently, as he went through the quick, practiced sweep under furniture, inside lamps and behind closet and cupboard doors.

“A few years ago.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to walk into my home like a normal person.” He glanced at his guest, still staying prudently just inside the doorway. “I suppose I haven’t changed it much.” He caught the odd look crossing Kuryakin’s face.

“It’s very nice.”

Solo straightened up from his last check. “How many places have you lived in the past few years?”

Kuryakin shrugged, closing that subject and confirming Solo guess.

He didn’t push it. If he had really wanted to know, rather than just making conversation, he would have just checked Kuryakin’s file. “I think it’s safe enough. Come in and have a seat. What would you like to drink?”

Kuryakin picked his way through the furniture, settling in an armchair. “Anything is fine.”

Solo poured him a vodka and handed it to him. He took a scotch for himself and dropped down on the couch with it, taking a healthy mouthful in with a deep sigh. Across from him, Kuryakin sipped his drink, a faint smile on his face as he tasted the vodka. Solo leaned his back against the couch, relaxing in the comfort of his own home, half closing his eyes as he took another sip of scotch. Kuryakin settled infinitesimally back in his chair, concentrating on his own drink.

They said nothing for long moments.

Kuryakin finished his drink first and set it down on the coffee table. Solo opened his eyes at the faint clink.

“I should be going,” Kuryakin offered. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Um. No, not yet.” Solo stretched a bit. “We haven’t talked.”

“I really did nothing, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon grimaced at the formality. “Save the titles and the ‘sirs’ for Mr. Waverly. Napoleon, please.” He sighed and stared at the glass in his hand. “This isn’t easy for me to say, so I’ll just say it. I’m afraid that I wasn’t very professional after that last mission. I have a feeling I was rather rude.”

“You don’t have to say this.”

“No, let me finish,” Solo said, staring at the glass in his hands, his mind turned back to that day. “I was rude, and you were very tactful. You could have made a difficult situation worse and you didn’t. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Solo was silent for a long moment, lost in thought, still staring at his hands.

Kuryakin finally shifted slightly. “Well, if you’ll excuse me--”

Solo shook his head slightly. “Sorry. My mind was elsewhere. I’d practically forgotten you.” He caught himself and grinned slightly. “No offense.”

“Why should I take offense?” Kuryakin asked, and then added lightly. “I’ve been trained to be ‘part of the furniture’.”

“I don’t remember survival school teaching that,” Solo said with interest.

“I didn’t learn it in the U.N.C.L.E. school.”

“Really,” Solo eyed him speculatively. “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime. Would you like another drink?”

‘I shouldn’t,” Kuryakin stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr.-- Napoleon.”

“Stay for dinner,” Solo offered. “I still have a proposition I want to discuss.”

Kuryakin’s face shadowed into suspicion. “A proposition?”

“Nothing like that.” Solo gestured the dark thoughts away. “You don’t have dinner plans, do you?”

“Well--” Kuryakin looked torn between honesty and escape.

“Come on,” Solo took his glass and Kuryakin’s and headed for the kitchen. “We can eat and talk. Much more congenial for what I want to discuss.”

Kuryakin sighed and followed. “Do you always offer dinner to new agents?” he asked, settling himself at a barstool on the counter.

“No, not always,” Solo was casual. “Let’s see. I’ve got a frozen sole I can put in the oven. Should be done in half an hour. That all right with you?”

“Anything,” Kuryakin said. “I asked because you seem to have made it a habit with me.”

“I wouldn’t call twice in several years a habit,” Solo said, looking over at him over a bowl of salad. “Would you?”

“I suppose it depends on one’s habits,” Kuryakin conceded.

“And yours, I’m given to understand, are taciturn and solitary,” Solo remarked.

Kuryakin raised his head sharply, a hint of suspicion in his blue-gray eyes.

Solo looked up at the lack of response. “That wasn’t intended as a criticism.”

Kuryakin digested that a moment. “What was it intended as?”

“Conversation?” Solo offered. “Commentary?”

“Do you discuss the personal habits of all your new agents with them?” Kuryakin asked.

Solo smiled as he set two salad plates on the table. “Not all. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Kuryakin lips tightened, but came to the table, sat down, unfolded his napkin and picked up his fork. The subdued force he used to fork up a lettuce leaf was the only outward expression of his displeasure.

They ate silently, and as they ate Kuryakin seemed to mollify a bit. His shoulders dropped a fraction, and some of the fight went out of his body language. Judging by the skinny wrists that extended from the wrists of his turtleneck sweater, Solo thought he could use a few square meals.

Solo finished first and lit a cigarette while Kuryakin doggedly worked on a second helping. Solo fixed them both another drink

“We were discussing personal habits before dinner,” he began slowly. “Specifically yours.”

Kuryakin looked at him, sipping his drink slowly.

Solo shrugged. “You know I lost a partner recently.” He ignored Kuryakin’s nod. “And you know all Section Two is partnered?”

“Mr. Waverly and Mr. Winter explained that to me.”

“A pet hobby-horse of our boss,” Solo clarified. “He thinks our success rate will increase if we have permanent partners. New York has become a testing ground for the concept. And he wants 100% participation.” Solo looked pained. “Including his C.E.A.”

Kuryakin looked at him.

Solo went on doggedly. “As you can imagine, right now I’m not in the mood to choose a permanent partner. But I have to go into the field with someone.”

“You’re choosing me?”

“If you’re agreeable.”

“May I ask why?”

“Personal habits.” Solo smiled slightly at Kuryakin’s confusion. “You’re quiet. And ‘good at being part of the furniture’. Right now, that’s right up my alley.” He sat back, sipping his own drink. “My missions are usually a bit more difficult, but Mr. Waverly will probably tone them back some for now. And anything I don’t think you can handle — or you don’t think you can handle — I can work with someone else. You should feel free to work with other agents when I’m tied up at headquarters. I’ll leave you on the free agent list. With luck, you’ll find a partner you feel comfortable with, and so will I. Until then, we’ll just work together when we can.” Solo cocked an eyebrow at him. “So what do you say?”

Kuryakin turned the thought over in his mind. “Very well.”

“That’s all?” Solo asked, surprised. “No questions?”

Kuryakin shook his head, finishing the last of his drink. “Thank you very much for the dinner, Mr. Solo.”

“Napoleon.” Solo corrected automatically.

“Napoleon. Good night.”

“Night,” Solo rose in time to catch Kuryakin at the door, and set the security system after him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kuryakin nodded and disappeared into the elevator.

“There might be such a thing as too much silence,” Solo muttered, as he secured the locks.

New York, 1969

“I don’t suppose you’d consider canceling this session?” Kuryakin said, running a hand through his unkempt hair nervously.

“Why?” Solo said, packing up his briefcase, choosing one folder after another. He was meeting with the UN governing board that played a big role in funding issues for the organization. It was a regular quarterly meeting, though his first since assuming Waverly’s position.

“We’re seeing a lot of unusual activity,” Illya replied. “And it’s harder to protect you on UN territory. Their security regulations hinder ours.”

“Can’t be helped,” Solo said. “I’ve got to go.”

Kuryakin exhaled deeply and Solo looked up, “You’re that worried?”

“I’m always worried,” Illya snapped and then shrugged. “I can only say I think there’s going to be some attempt. Because it is their territory there a limit to how far we can go to protect you. We can’t shoot every suspicious person, even if we only use sleep darts. We have to wait for a hostile act, and then we have to hope we shoot faster. I wish you could postpone this. I think Thrush would love to make an example of you in front of the entire UN.”

“You know I can’t. Anyway, wouldn’t that defeat their purpose?” Solo asked absently, back sorting folders. “Showing how much of a threat they are?”

“I think they are going to try and show that U.N.C.L.E. could be ineffectual with Waverly gone,” Kuryakin said. “If we can’t protect our own...”

Solo paused, considering that and then shook his head. “I can’t stay cooped up in headquarters, Illya. I know there is a risk, but that’s part of the business.”

Kuryakin slumped slightly. “I know. But please be prepared, Napoleon. If the team tells you to move, be ready to move instantly. I’ve got my best men on this, and we’ll do our best to thwart any attempt that’s made. But I’m pretty sure there’s going to be one.”

“Just like old times,” Solo sighed, and picked up his briefcase.

He gave his speech before the economic board, and it was a good one. The security going in was almost as tight as the tension he felt coursing through him, like he hadn’t felt since he’d moved up from the field. The phalanx of ‘advisors’ with him, bodyguards all, were rife with adrenalin. It probably would have been easier for them had they been able to carry their weapons at ready, but though UN policy allowed his bodyguards to carry weapons, they had to be kept in shoulder holsters. Still he felt almost comfortable with Illya at his back, grim as death while he gave the speech, and discussed finances and funds and budget increases for the next half hour. He felt Illya’s urgency as he shook hands and went through a polite leave-taking, and then he was being ushered out again.

Crowds everywhere in the Great Hall, dozens of school children, shepherded by harried teachers. He let himself be hustled past them, his mind still half on the meeting. But he was an UNCLE agent still at heart, and his reflexes were still just as good. He saw the dull gleam of the automatic weapon as it was raised, but he only saw one. But there were two, one on either side of the hall. He was cursing the lack of a weapon of his own, and heard the dull thwap as a point man guarding one section was taken out. One assassin fell, host to flying bullets from half the team. Next to him Illya had drawn and fired; he could smell the smoke of the power and feel the gun’s kick in his partner’s body. Then he heard Illya snap at him, an instant before he saw the second assassin, felt Illya push him down even as the Russian covered him bodily and fired. The Great Hall rang with screams but Illya didn’t make a sound as the automatic weapon fire ripped through him. The gun fell from Kuryakin’s hand and Solo snatched it up, but the second assassin had fallen to Kuryakin’s bullet, and the rest of the team finished the job. Solo didn’t even have time to protest as the team hustled him bodily out the doorway and into a waiting car, leaving Illya bleeding on the floor of the Great Hall.

He nearly decked his own escort before he saw the recovery team that would have handled him in an assassination attempt swarm over Illya and carry him out. They were at UNCLE HQ before he even acknowledged the frantic questioning of his security team.

“Where are you injured, sir? Sir?”

Solo looked down at himself and saw that his shirt and gray pinstriped pants were smeared with blood. He peeled back his jacket over the worst of it, not sure what he’d find. An area hit by a bullet was often numb for a few moments. But the shirt was clean underneath, white, crisply starched, pristine. It was Illya’s blood.

“Get me to medical,” he said shortly, and then stormed past the team, not bothering to wait for them.

A doctor came flying over to him but he waved him away irritatedly. Illya lay on a blood-soaked gurney, his sodden chest in ribald contrast to the parts of his shirt that were still white and crisply starched and the bright gold of his hair. As Solo watched, a medical technician cut off the shirt and suitcoat, and another carefully removed the special UNCLE cufflinks and placed them in a receptacle. The shirt was set aside. Solo watched as a unit of blood was started, but it didn’t seem possible that that small bottle could even begin to replace what was flowing and had spilled from the bullet holes in Illya’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but you’ll have to leave now,” a nurse said urgently. “We need to take him to surgery.”

Solo nodded and stepped aside, watching as they pushed the gurney through the doors, into a room where a green gowned and masked surgeon waited, gloved hands raised high in readiness.

“This was supposed to be me,” he muttered. “This was all waiting for me.”

“Sir? Sir, you’re needed upstairs. Ms. Rodgers just called. There’s a field team calling.”

Solo looked at his side, where Jenday, his own personal security guard and a crack shot, better even than Illya, stood waiting to escort him upstairs.. Young, talented and dedicated. Just like Markow and Connor. Just like Illya, minus a few years. Solo wondered where he’d be in ten years. Alive? Or dead, sacrificed to U.N.C.L.E.’s noble causes.

How many teams had Waverly lost? Solo wondered, turning to follow the guard. How many agents, colleague and friends both, had he sacrificed to this cause? He had hated the old man at times for his sometimes callous remarks when an agent or an innocent was in trouble. But he supposed it was inevitable. You either let this tear you up inside, or you dealt with it.

Right now he would have traded almost anything to be back in the field, conscience clear, just himself, his partner and his assignment to worry about. But his partner was tied up in surgery.

And he had a headquarters to run and a field team in trouble.

It was amazing how that training kicked in. He pushed his worry about Illya aside. Far, far to the back of his mind.

But it was still there. Ticking. Like a bomb.

You’re the demolitions expert, he thought. Defuse this one, Illya. Live.

New York, 1970

He let the lawyers handle most of it after that, soothing Thigpin’s wounded pride. In return, Thigpin soothed that of the Soviets. The conditions Solo insisted on were granted almost without a struggle. He suspected this had gone very high, and his suspicions were confirmed when the final documents arrived for his signature. With them, came a note.

“In a profession where loyalty can be exchanged as easily as small coins, how refreshing to see one that sustains the test of time. My compliments to you, Mr. Solo. And to your partner. Someday I should like to meet you both.” Kir

Solo snorted at that, and set the note aside to read the contracts, word for word. He trusted his lawyers only so far.

But the documents were in order. No loopholes that he could find. Illya had been honorably discharged from the Soviet military, and his discharge papers were included. Further he had been permanently discharged; Solo had made sure there was no reactivation clause. On top of that was the authorization, so rarely granted, for dual citizenship. Illya’s Soviet passport, held for more than a decade at the Soviet Mission, lay at the bottom of the pile of documents. Solo had nearly forgotten about it, or that it was standard procedure for the Mission to hold such documents for Soviet nationals traveling in the United States. He flipped it open to look at the serious, impossibly young face that stared out at him, a career and a decade-long friendship ago. The look in the grey eyes was searching, as if Illya had been asking what lay ahead for him. Certainly, Solo thought, nothing that he could ever have expected. He looked so very Russian. Solo suddenly felt guilty about that.

He flipped the passport shut. He closed the folder abruptly, blocking his view of the documents, and went to stand at his window, the only one in the installation. What was he supposed to have done, leave Illya to the wolves? No doubt that would be a fit ending for his Russian soul, but it was one that stuck in Solo’s craw. Had they made it through a decade in Section Two, one of the riskiest professions alive, only to have Illya executed for political upmanship in the Soviet Union?

But would Illya see it that way? Now that the deed was done, and in his grasp, he realized he had no idea what Illya would have wanted. They had never talked about it. Illya wouldn’t, of course. And he himself had been reluctant to discuss it. No percentage in it then when Waverly had held all those cards.

But he knew Illya still loved his homeland. How he knew, since they never talked about it, was a point that puzzled him momentarily. He turned the thought over in his head.

He remembered Illya meeting up by chance with a Russian journalist that had been invited to tour their facilities in New York. A spy like himself, of course, KGB or GRU, but also a writer for TASS who’d been directed to turn in a story on Soviet participation in U.N.C.L.E., part of some state ordered propaganda piece on Soviet peace efforts with the United Nations.

Illya normally gave his colleagues at the Soviet Mission, or those he encountered working in other places a wide, wide berth. It simply wasn’t healthy for him to get too close, nor healthy for any Soviet agent he might come in contact with. But this was a legitimate contact. As Waverly had authorized, no, ordered it, Illya had agreed to show the reporter around as the good will gesture it was meant to be, and give him as much of a grand tour as Waverly had wanted. He hadn’t been enthusiastic about the assignment, but somehow, the two had hit it off.

Solo had met the guy, and he didn’t seem like such a bad sort: a nice enough guy caught in a not-so-nice system, who had given Illya an excuse to speak his own language. Solo had almost forgotten what his partner sounded like speaking Russian, it had been so long since he’d heard him in fluent conversation. In the beginning of their partnership, Illya had spoken it a very, very little. Gradually, the brief slips had faded along with most of the accent.

But for the three days or so that the Tass reporter/spy had been hanging around U.N.C.L.E., Illya had been his constant companion. The Russian words had flowed like vodka, be they in the lab, the cafeteria, the armory or even the sketchy tour of the Section One offices. Afterwards, the agent/reporter had come back to show them the piece he’d written, printed in the Tass paper. It had a picture of himself with Illya, the Soviet Union’s representative in U.N.C.L.E. The man had seemed quite proud of his piece. Illya hadn’t been too pleased, particularly about the picture. Photographs of agents were not supposed to be circulated. Not that Thrush hadn’t already had his picture, along with a dossier a mile long. But Waverly had been pleased, the article apparently satisfying some political point, and that was all that counted. Solo only remembered the embarrassed, self-conscious look on Illya’s face in the Tass photograph, compared to the look he wore when he conversed in his own language, the words spoken so much more freely than his standard style. In English, he seemed to measure every word. And find most of them wanting.

And he read Russian. There was a bookstore Illya frequented, or maybe more than one, that sold such books. Some imported from the Soviet Union, some translated in other countries and reprinted here. Illya enjoyed reading stories of his own country in his own language. Solo remembered him dragging a heavy hardbound copy of Dr. Zhivago through a hot, humid, Chilean jungle. When Solo had commented on the absurdity of it, Illya had translated a passage for him, a description of hoarfrost that had sent a chill down his spine and momentarily banished the steamy air. Read it Russian, it sounded even colder. He’d tried reading the book himself, but his Russian, good enough for newspapers and the like, didn’t extend very far to long descriptive passages. And Illya complained he was getting sweat marks on his pages. So he’d been reduced to having Illya read it to him, sometimes translating to English, sometimes in the original Russian, the cold words made colder by their native inflection. One night when Illya had been on guard duty, he’d woken to see Illya reading, a suspicious dampness on his face. Sweat, Illya had said in answer to Solo’s half-teasing query. Indeed, it had been unbelievably hot and Solo had rivulets running down his own face. But Illya’s blue eyes had been suspiciously red too.

Solo reminded himself that he had burned no bridges for his partner. It was even possible that he’d made it safer for Illya to go back than it would have been had he done nothing. But he’d also made it possible for him to go back. Right now. If he wanted. He wasn’t a Soviet officer under orders. He was truly a free agent. A free man. He could go anywhere. When Solo had taken the traces the Soviet Union had on Illya, he’d lost them for himself as well.

Solo returned to his desk and pulled the folder of research he had collected for the negotiations. Most of it was dry political analysis, but there was one section he’d read curiously. Life in Moscow, sans embellishment.

And a dreary life it was too. Moscow was better supplied than most Russian cities and a vast improvement over the outlying areas, where black bread and cabbages were often all that could be had in the kulak ‘stores’. But the old, inefficient system still held sway. He tried to imagine Illya going willingly back there, living in a tenth floor walk up, sharing a communal bathroom, standing in endless lines for stale and often moldy bread, sour watered-down milk, dented, rusty cans of food, shabby, cheap clothing that fell apart before it was worn. No, it was inconceivable.

He remembered how hungry Illya had been their first few years of partnership, how eagerly he had devoured the uninspiring commissary food. The first time Solo had taken him to a modern American supermarket — they’d been on a mission in some suburb and Solo had stopped in to get a bottle of aspirin — he’d thought Illya was going to faint. He’d actually grabbed his elbow and steadied him, not knowing what had caused that momentary pause. Apparently, up till then, Illya had eaten mostly in the commissary and shopped, when forced to, at tiny corner stores. The miles of shelving and bright flourescent lights illuminating aisle after aisle of food had actually shaken his hard-boiled partner to the core. The American dream, dressed up in cellophane and waxed paper.

Illya still hadn’t learned to cook, seemingly unable to do anything with food but eat it. Umpteen scientific degrees and the man could hardly boil water. The look of puzzlement and skepticism on his face when faced with the simple directions on a box of pancake mix or can of spaghetti sauce still floored Solo. In the field, Illya ate on U.N.C.L.E.’s expense account in restaurants or take out shops or hot dog joints. At home, he survived on commissary food and coffee shops and the occasional deli meal. For weekends, Solo suspected he lived on cold cereal and milk, takeout Chinese or pizza. The thought of Illya cooking was laughable. The only home-cooked meals he ate were Solo’s, when his CEA invited him home for a steak. He would starve in the Soviet Union.

No. Illya was a survivor. He would never starve. But he would be hungry on the poor Soviet food. Probably cold, though Illya never seemed to mind cold weather. Definitely unable to satisfy his craving for books and reading material. And far, too far, from Solo’s reach and influence.

But was he afraid Illya might throw away relative safety and security, a full belly and a free library, for the questionable charms of his Russian homeland?

Afraid enough to not want to tell him.

He didn’t have to.

That thought tempted him.

Nothing required him to tell. Illya knew nothing of Solo’s maneuvering. In the normal course of events the issue shouldn’t even come up for another two years, when Illya was bumped out of the field. He could wait to tell him until then.

And he could also just imagine Illya’s fury when he did, after concealing something this important for two years. If he had any hope of keeping Illya in U.N.C.L.E. after that or even as a friend, he didn’t have a choice.

All or nothing, as the saying went.

So he had to tell him. Which meant, essentially giving him his freedom. He might have saved Illya from the Soviets, in the short as well as the long run, only to lose him just as quickly. That hadn’t been his intention. But he’d just cleared the way for Illya to quit U.N.C.L.E., to go anywhere he chose, even back to the Soviet Union if he chose to take that risk. And who knew what risks Illya might take, given a free hand for the first time in his life?

No he hadn’t intended that. He’d done his job too damn well. But Illya had to be told, and Solo had to prepare himself for that. To decide how to break it to him. To figure out how to say the words in such a way that Illya wouldn’t go as drunk on freedom as if on vodka, and disappear forever.

Suddenly, bringing Illya back from London didn’t seem like such a priority.

New York, 1959

Six months had passed since Solo had lost his partner. When Waverly prodded him about making a definite decision he put him off. Not that he had any friction with Kuryakin. There were times when he felt they hardly had enough connection to have friction.

In the beginning of their association, he’d kept his distance from the Soviet agent, a distance Kuryakin seemed to respect, and even welcome. They went out on missions, completed them largely successfully, filed their reports and went back to their respective lives all as if working in the field required little more interaction than working in an office. He appreciated having the pressure off, still grieving, secretly and alone, for the loss of his former partner. Kuryakin seemed completely comfortable with an open-ended partnership, such as it was. When Waverly nagged him, Solo briefly and desultorily searched in other HQs for a perfect partner, finding them all wanting.

But as an interim partner, Kuryakin was perfect, demanding nothing, wanting nothing. Solo felt he was giving the Soviet agent something in return, in a breadth of missions and experiences he would never had achieved so early in his career.

Waverly occasionally threatened to set a time limit, but the situation might have dragged on indefinitely had not another death occurred in Section Two.

Adam Winter lost his partner. Not cleanly as Solo had, but in an even more painful way, a long-drawn out torture session in a Thrush prison.

Winter came out of the experience with little seemingly little effect. He was a fairly reserved agent in any case, and his partner had been the same, two of a pair, as they had been known throughout the office. Remembering his own pain, Solo made it a point to catch him when he was back in the office, and express his sincere condolences.

Winter nodded stolidly.

“If there is anything I can do?” Solo offered.

“I’ll be fine, Napoleon,” Winter said, then added, “You’ve proved well enough there’s life after you lose a partner. First at everything, even that.”

Solo blinked, startled at that callousness, but he dismissed it as shock. “It wasn’t intentional, I assure you.”

Winter nodded. “Waverly pressed you to take a new partner right away?” he asked.

“I suppose he thinks that it’s best to move on,” Solo said obscurely.

“I noticed Kuryakin is still on the free agent list,” Winter commented.

Solo shrugged, unwilling to discuss his own situation. “I’m sure he’ll give you the same time to look around.”

“So you’re still looking?”

Solo deftly avoided Winter’s searching glance, regretting he had even made this gesture. Offering condolences to a colleague was one thing. Discussing his personal life was quite another. “I suppose you could say that. Look, Adam, I have to go.”

He put the encounter out of his mind, so it was a total shock when Waverly handed him the latest agent roster, pairing Winter with Kuryakin.

“I didn’t authorize this,” Solo said in astonishment.

“What is there for you to authorize?” Waverly asked from under his bushy eyebrows. “Mr. Kuryakin is a free agent. Sooner or later, in spite of his Soviet background, he would find a permanent partner.”

Solo drew breath to protest the transfer, then was caught by the memory of Jake, his body falling through the air, lying broken on the rocks. He closed his eyes against the image, the breath sighing out of his lungs. Who was he betraying? His old partner, now truly fighting on the side of angels, or the man he’d been hesitant to burden with that title?

“Mr. Solo, are you quite all right?”

Solo raised his head to meet Waverly’s sharp eyes under their bushy eyebrows. “I don’t know.”

“What?” Waverly snapped in astonishment.

“Excuse me,” Solo muttered, heading out the door.

“Mr. Solo!” Waverly snapped.

For once, Solo ignored his boss.

For the past six months he’d been pushing aside certain thoughts. Now he was ready to entertain them.

He had to have a partner; he knew that. And there was one person who’d earned that title, if he wanted to take it.

And he had no idea if Illya did want it.

Hell of a way to deal with a partner.

He found Illya in the office that he shared with most of Section Two, one desk, one carrel, among many. The room quieted as Solo entered, not so much from noise, but with notice, a sharpened awareness that something would happen. Of course, Solo noted, the listings for partners and free agents were public. Someone would have seen Illya’s transfer from one to the other and the news would have spread. Nothing traveled faster than internal gossip.

Kuryakin rose as Solo approached him, his normally unrevealing expression shading into wariness. Solo wondered if he himself looked dangerous. He certainly felt dangerous, his body language taut as a tiger’s. He stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing he couldn’t have this discussion before half the prying and too discerning eyes of Section Two.

“I want to talk to you,” Solo said, in a low voice. “In my office.”

Kuryakin rose, one hand snagging that jacket the hung on the back on his chair. Solo didn’t wait for him to shrug into it, he turned and left.

Kuryakin caught up with him at the door. Solo could feel his hurry and anticipation in the Soviet agent’s quickened breath, almost feel the heartbeat in his throat. Partners were one force in two bodies.

Till death do us part.

Solo’s throat closed over that bitter taste, and he stalked into his office. He turned to face Kuryakin and looked at him. For six months, he had avoided it, not wanting to see that the face beside his wasn’t Jake’s, not caring who it was if it wasn’t.

He had cauterized a bleeding wound, denying Waverly’s insistence that the amputated limb be replaced and reattached.

Kuryakin looked back, curiosity hidden deep in the wary regard. Solo wondered what he saw. Did he see before him a maimed and crippled man, someone to be pitied, despite power and position? Solo wouldn’t blame him. He supposed he deserved that.

“Sit down,” he gestured.

“Perhaps I should stand,” Kuryakin said, shifting back a pace.

“No.” Solo shook his head. “I have some explaining to do.”

The wary look reasserted itself, and Kuryakin took another step back. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Would you stop dancing toward that door and sit down?” Solo snapped.

Kuryakin sat, this time his face shading into a sulky glumness. Solo wondered at his colleagues who complained that Kuryakin had the facial expressions of a sphinx. Then he realized that sometime over the last six months he’d learned to read him.

Well, naturally he had. He was a survivor and his subconscious knew it, regardless of what private grief he had to work through. Jake had died, and he deserved to be mourned. But he was alive. And Illya was alive. And it was past time to acknowledge that.

Kuryakin sat, regarding him sourly. Solo blinked and shook his head. Not what he might have deliberately chosen in a partner: slight, rumpled, silent and sulky. But chosen or not, consciously accepted or not, somehow Illya had become that. An unlikely alliance, but one that had become as real to Solo as if he had chosen it. He may had needed a man like Winter to rub his nose in it to acknowledge it, but he wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t accept a simple truth.

“I think I owe you an explanation,” Solo began slowly.

Kuryakin shook his head. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Will you let me talk?” Solo said in exasperation.

“If you insist.” Kuryakin shrugged and glanced longingly again at the door. “But I do understand. And Winter and I have worked together a bit. It will be fine.” He met Solo’s eyes expectantly, as if this were enough to terminate the discussion.

“You don’t understand,” Solo insisted. “I didn’t know about Winter.”

Kuryakin raised his head sharply at that, his face unconvinced and puzzled. “He told me he spoke to you, Napoleon.” His voice wasn’t censorious. He sounded as if he were humoring a child. Or an idiot.

Well, Solo thought, I deserve that. I was so busy assuming that Winter was feeling what I had felt. I didn’t realize he was inquiring about the status of my partner, not the average time limit on grief.

“I didn’t know what he was after,” Solo said. “Look, it was a stupid misunderstanding. He asked me --” Solo stopped abruptly, his throat closing. He swallowed hard, shaking his head and went on, “He asked me about --”

Kuryakin stood. “Napoleon, this isn’t necessary. I do understand.”

“No, you damn well don’t,” Solo said, furiously. “For one thing, I had no idea he was asking me if I considered you a free agent.”

“I was a free agent,” Kuryakin said, again with that patient tone. “My name was on the list. Now it’s not. It’s very simple. There’s nothing to explain.”

Solo sighed, suddenly defeated. It had begun to seem profoundly unfair to him to suddenly claim Kuryakin as his partner, just because someone else now wanted him.

But someone who’d nursed his grief barely a week before making this choice, while Solo himself had been paralyzed against taking this action for months. He straightened suddenly, galvanized by that. What kind of a man, what kind of a partner, could be so callous toward a partner’s death? He looked at Illya, wondering if Winter should lose him too, would the man even grieve a day? Kuryakin deserved better than that.

“I want you for my partner, Illya.”

Kuryakin blinked, staring at him.

“And it isn’t because of Winter. I should have asked you before--”

Kuryakin shook his head in denial, and Solo’s voice died, wondering if he was being refused. “Illya?”

“I was in Yorkshire, Napoleon,” Kuryakin said gently, looking down at his restless hands. He stilled them, lacing them in a tight grip. “I do understand.”

Solo’s throat closed again at the memory of those terrible hours, but he cleared it resolutely. “Uh, excuse me. But really, how could you? I have never discussed it with you. You’ve never asked.”

“That’s one of the things about people who don’t talk much,” Kuryakin said awkwardly, looking up through the blond fringe shading his eyes. “We hear silence.”

Solo caught and held that gaze that wrapped them in a wordless exchange, one that covered unspoken volumes.

“Silence, huh?” Solo said finally.

Kuryakin shrugged infinitesimally, looking down at his hands again. “There was a lot of it then.”

“And now,” Solo acknowledged. He paused a beat. “I always thought you just hadn’t gotten the language down yet.”

Kuryakin swelled visibly, then caught Solo’s teasing eye and deflated, giving Solo his best jaundiced eye. “I do have another offer,” he warned. But he had a rueful curl to the corner of his mouth; the briefest hint of a smile. And he slouched back against the metal bench he’d been perched on, finally relaxed enough to do so.

“When would you ever get a laugh our of Winter?” Solo came around his desk, dismissing as inconsequential the fact that for the last six months, he’d hardly been the life of the party. “It is a deal?” He held out a hand.

Kuryakin blinked at the gesture, but took it. Solo gave the hand a squeeze before he pulled Kuryakin to his feet. Forgetting the discrepancy in their weight and using the same force he would have on his former partner, heavier by a good fifty pounds, he nearly pulled Kuryakin off his feet , stopping him with a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Huh?” Kuryakin said, as he stumbled.

“Sorry,” Solo said, straightening his jacket and trying to twitch Kuryakin’s tie into place before realizing it was a hopeless cause. Kuryakin didn’t just need to fix his tie, he needed a tailor, a haircut, a whole new wardrobe. Solo shook his head, rejecting the notion. He hadn’t exactly gotten used to Kuryakin’s lack of style, but it was part of his partner. “Clumsy of me,” Solo added.

Kuryakin frowned at him, one hand absently raking his hair, the additional tousling only adding to his rumpled look. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Solo promised. And he realized he was promising more than just avoiding the repetition of a clumsy physical action. And that Illya heard that too. He caught Kuryakin’s arm, noting the blond’s head was shorter than he’d somehow expected, the blue eyes a few inches below his own. He’d get used to that, too. “Let’s tell Waverly to correct the agent roster?”

Kuryakin hung back. “Napoleon.”

Solo turned impatiently.

You’re quite sure?” Kuryakin eyed him. “You aren’t doing this just because of Winter?”

“Maybe I am,” Solo said airily as he walked out the door.

“Napoleon!”

Solo turned, with a conspiratorial look. “I know you can’t stand him, Illya.”

“I never said that,” Kuryakin denied hotly, his vehemence belying the truth. “Never.”

Solo grinned. “I heard your silence.”

New York, 1969

“Mr. Kuryakin’s out of surgery, sir,” Heather reported breathlessly. “The doctor wishes to speak to you about his condition.”

“I’ll be right down.” Solo said.

On the way down to the medical wing, he reflected on the course of their career, his and Illya’s. It was an unlikely partnership, he knew. One man who held the fate of the world all too often in his hands, felt far too much, and was compelled by a curmudgeonly British superior to express only what was acceptable. It was hard training to learn to sacrifice an innocent, a country, a continent. Waverly had no qualms about letting him practice those painful decisions, often by sacrificing his partner. It was luck as well as fate that had kept them both alive.

And another man who’d been trained by fate not to feel anything at all, and to show even less. Solo didn’t kid himself that it had been any easier for Illya. He’d never bought the act that his Russian-born partner found life a picnic as long as he had enough to eat. Illya had always been good at subterfuge.

But Solo had long ago learn to read him, even in silence. At least as far as Illya allowed himself to be read. Which wasn’t always very far.

And now? He didn’t have to have his nose rubbed in it to know that Illya had been largely ambivalent about his recent assignment. He always knew. He didn’t always reflect on it — Illya’s moods swung up and down too much for him to dwell on them. But when they stayed down there was generally a reason and usually a good one. Solo didn’t know if he hated the job in Security, or was just missing fieldwork, or was just fretting over the responsibilities — Illya could be a great worrier, given the right circumstances — or what.

Just live, Solo thought. Live, Illya, and we’ll figure it out, somehow. He turned into the corridor with the medical wing, glowing flourescent bright.

As a general rule, Solo hated all physicians, but he had worked out a grudging truce with Theodore Abernathy, who now ruled over New York’s medical section. The man fussed too much over his diet and insisted on far too many physicals for Solo’s taste. But he had proven himself good at getting injured agents back in field condition. Now Solo looked at him hopefully.

“Well?”

“It was a clean shot, Napoleon. He lost a lot of blood, and we had to deal with shock and near cardiac arrest. But the wound itself was through and through the lung. We had to resect some lung tissue, but he won’t miss it. No other major organs were involved.”

“So he’s all right,” Solo said.

“Give him a couple of weeks and he probably can go back on limited duty,” Abernathy said. “If there are no complications, I’d field certify him in about a month.”

Solo let out a relieved sigh. “Can I see him?” He asked.

The physician shrugged. “He’s weak as a kitten from the blood loss, but he’s conscious, more or less. A little groggy from the anesthesia. Try not to upset him. We transfused him, but he’d almost bled out by then, and blood bank blood doesn’t clot well. In spite of the vitamin K we’ve given him, if he’s too stressed he could start bleeding again. Or throw a stroke.”

“I’ll be careful,” Solo promised, and walked past him into the infirmary room.

Illya was as pale as his sheets, but that wasn’t particularly unusual. Solo pulled up a chair beside the bed and just looked at him. Other than the chest tube, leaking fluid drop by drop, or the IV in his arm he didn’t look particularly bad. The sharp features were chiseled a little finer; he lost some weight in the last few months. But he didn’t look all that different than he had the day Solo had first met him, pursued by the KGB, and lost before he’d even gotten to U.N.C.L.E. HQ. He’d been just as skinny and pale then. Only the hair was longer this time, a mass of gold silk that was the bane of every nighttime operation, but that Illya refused to keep cut short enough to satisfy Waverly’s standards. And now the old man was dead, no more nagging about haircuts. And Illya had one more close brush, one more tempting of fate. Though not because of his hair, and not at night. This time it was his own fault Illya had been shot.

Security was a dangerous operation; he was probably selfish to keep Illya there. But was it any safer in the field? Well, at least in the field Illya wouldn’t be as constant a target as he’d been lately.

I don’t want you in the field without me, Solo thought. Not when I won’t be able to rush off and rescue you if you get in trouble. Can you forgive me for that, Illya? I’ll give you anything you want. But not the field.

Isn’t this job dangerous enough for you?

Solo’s communicator twittered, and he swore softly and slipped outside the room so as not to disturb Illya with it. The problem was minor; two agents who in meeting up with some Thrush ended up in minor trouble with the local law enforcement. Solo reassured them and put the appropriate legal people on it, detailing another enforcement team to meet them on the scene to provide backup, just in case they encountered anyone else unfriendly while the police had them in custody.

When he went back in, Illya was awake, probably from the sound of the communicator. Solo knew it could pull him out of the deepest sleep.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Solo slid onto the seat close to Illya’s bed. “How do you feel?”

“Napoleon.” Illya’s eyes focused briefly, then he clearly lost control over them. The Russian blinked, trying again to focus and struggling to sit up as if that could help.

“Uh-uh.” Solo caught him and settled him back down. “Abernathy said you were to stay quiet.”

“You’re all right? Everyone else?” Kuryakin managed.

“You’re the only one hurt. As usual,” Solo said with mock asperity. “Someday you’re going to have to learn how to duck.”

“Sorry,” Kuryakin mumbled.

“Are you feeling all right? Do you want anything?”

Kuryakin shook his head. “I have...everything.” His eyes closed and he seemed asleep again.

Solo sat back down, taking a glance at the monitors to ensure it was only sleep. “I wish I knew what that was,” he muttered.

“What what was?” Abernathy asked, coming into the room and looked at the monitor. “His heart rate picked up a little.”

“He tried to sit up.”

“If you’re going to agitate him, you’ll have to go,” the doctor replied. “Question him later, can’t you? Or you’ll undo all my work.”

Solo laughed shortly. “Doctor, I’ve never known what questions to ask.”

“Well wait a week, and maybe they’ll come to you,” Abernathy said to him. “By then he’ll be ready for them. Go on, go now.”

“But will I?” Solo said. He paused to give Illya’s hand a squeeze and left.

New York, 1970

It was typical of Illya that he read the Section One security logs before reporting to Solo’s office.

“Welcome back,” Napoleon said as Illya came through his office doors.

“Thanks.” Kuryakin slouched into a chair. “Why did you send the jet out on a wild goose chase?”

He sounded merely curious, not censorious, but Solo inwardly choked. For days he’d been pondering what to say to Illya, how to break the news of what he done. He’d practically forgotten about that little ja