So Thankful

by GM

Holiday saga from Thanksgiving to New Years. Napoleon meets up with trouble in Hawaii. How the holidays affect the characters.

"Thankful"

On the Josh Grobin CD Noel

Somedays we forget
To look around us
Somedays we can't see
The joy that surrounds us
So caught up inside ourselves
We take when we should give.

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be.
And on this day we hope for
What we still can't see.
It's up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There's so much to be thankful for.

Look beyond ourselves
There's so much sorrow
It's way too late to say
I'll cry tomorrow
Each of us must find our truth
It's so long overdue

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And every day we hope for
What we still can't see
It's up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There's so much to be thankful for.

Even with our differences
There is a place we're all connected
Each of us can find each other's light

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And on this day we hope for
What we still can't see
It's up to us to be the change
And even though this world needs so much more

There's so much to be thankful for

So Much To Be Thankful For

November 22, 1973

Balmy warmth nipped with a scent-filled breeze enveloped Napoleon Solo as he debarked from the plane and made slow, limping progress down the stairs to the tarmac. With the help of a hand-carved cane modeled as a dragon, he trudged toward the terminal of Honolulu International. When he spotted a familiar figure leaning against a black sedan parked to the side, he smiled and gave a nod.

Arms crossed, face a frowning expression of dismay, Steve McGarrett gave a shake of his head and stepped toward his old Naval Intelligence partner. With a firm handshake, he greeted the UNCLE agent.

With acute discernment, the stern policeman raked over the bandages and cuts visible on the agent. "What did you get into this time, Napoleon?" His foot tapped the walking stick, the handle depicting a fierce, open-mouthed dragon. "Doesn't look good."

Solo shot his cuff over a bandage that was barely visible on his right hand. "Nothing too serious. It will all heal." He returned the hearty shake and added a slap to the shoulder of the taller man. Ignoring the penetrating disapproval from the blue eyes that scanned him with the sharpness of a laser. "A bad guy hit me at my old knee injury." He hefted the cane. "More of a nuisance than anything else."

"Not moving as fast as you used to, huh?"

"I wouldn't be too quick to count up the years if I were you, Steve," he returned.

It felt good to banter with someone again. There had been no levity or lightness on this last mission. With his usual partner thousands of miles away, he had flown "solo" on this case and found he did not prefer the lone status he once valued in his younger, more arrogant days.

"Right. By the way, happy birthday."

He was surprised McGarrett remembered. They weren't the type to send cards or letters. Most guys didn't. But if in the same place while one of them was celebrating, they had been known to have some good times. If it wasn't Thanksgiving he would be setting up a hot date for tonight as well, but his birthday falling on the holiday angled his obligations in another direction.

"Hmm, don't remind me." No joking quip, but a serious demand. Today he turned Forty-one. Mandatory retirement age for a field agent of UNCLE was Forty, but skill against escalating intensity made his talents hot commodities. At least for the time being. But every passing day made him well aware he was living on borrowed time. He always had been, of course, in the spy game. But if he was forced out of the field – that would be a more painful torture than he had experienced at the hands of his enemies. Growing old and grey behind a desk was something he feared on a primal level. Worse, if he were to be dry-docked to the office, Illya would still be out there facing the bullets and bombs. That was not in keeping with Solo's definition of partnership. Neither was this temporary split. For now, he had no other choice than to obey the rules.

The sky was a bright blue even at this hour' the air amazing, filled with the fresh blossoms of the tropics. A rainbow coursed over the mountain peaks. His reality seemed like another world removed from this paradise. To that grim realm of intrigue and mean existence, he had to remain for now. Tonight, after this assignment was over, he could brush off the peril overshadowing his thoughts and relax, celebrate the holiday with his closest friend, and for a brief time leave this entire darkness behind.

"Well, I hate to ruin a brilliant holiday morning like this, Steve, but my connecting flight is in a half-hour. We don't have a lot of time, unfortunately."

"We never do," was McGarrett's rueful sigh. He opened the passenger door. "We'll go where we can have some privacy. And I can keep you out of sight. Did you forget you were coming to the tropics?" he asked as he fingered Napoleon's hounds-tooth sports jacket.

"I was in a little too much of a hurry to worry about changing my wardrobe."

"I can't wait to hear it, Napoleon." He zipped around to the driver's side and revved the car to life, screeching away from the building at jolting speed.

"Inconspicuous," Solo muttered. He checked the mirrors and threw a glance over his shoulder, surprised they had attracted little attention, and no pursuers. "What happened to your finely honed spy craft skills, Steve?"

"Something I should know about?" Steve asked, checking the rearview mirror with suspicion.

"Just being cautious. Hasan is history, but those cutthroats in the Mid-East have long memories and lots of relatives. I couldn't tell you much over the phone," Solo apologized. He pulled a handkerchief covered object from his suit jacket. "Hopefully this will help you out."

McGarrett pulled off Nimitz Highway in the warehouse district where a fish market and food stand edged the dock. Parking in the shadow of a vacant storage building, he killed the engine and picked up the small token, a tourist-knick-knack statue of a Buddha. Examining it, he studied numbers etched at the bottom.

"A safety deposit box?"

"That's my guess."

"You said you had something that would help Five-0's fight against incoming drugs."

Solo nodded at the fist-sized statue. As the head of the state police of Hawaii, McGarrett fought a never-ending battle against contraband entering the gateway of the Pacific. On his latest assignment, the UNCLE agent stumbled onto a plot of importance to both espionage and police agencies.

"This is a little trinket I picked up from Hasan the camel trader. A nasty piece of work out of Istanbul, who traffics in a lot more than camels." At Steve's raised eyebrows, Solo gave a nod. "Yes. Middle Eastern thugs are trying to move in on the Asian drug trade. One of the things they finance with the ill-gotten gains is terror camps. Some of UNCLE's old enemies are helping to organize this rotten effort. I went in to stop them."

"And came away with this," Steve considered as he hefted the statue. "What are Muslims doing with a Buddha statue?"

"Something other than religious sentiment."

"Is Hasan the one who wrecked your knee?"

"No, one of his henchmen. One who won't be collecting any more paychecks."

A nod, a knowing look was mutually understood. In Solo's world of espionage, it was a kill-or-be-killed cycle. An enemy was not left to return and stab you in the back.

"Mahalo," McGarrett replied. "I'll let you know what I find out on my end." He gave a steady stare at his old friend. "It's nice to be working together again."

"It is."

"But things aren't going well, are they?"

Scoffing, about to deny any problems in his life, he looked away, staring out the open window at the crisp, bright blue sea and sky of November in paradise. Jaded, tired, disheartened, he felt drained of everything resembling humanity. He longed to return to the good old days of white and black situations where the bad guys were clear-cut and the good guys had a reason to keep up the fight.

"No," he confessed. Just that simple admission made him feel better. If anyone could understand, it would be an old and trusted friend. "It's complex."

"Like when we left NI?"

Disillusionment at the end of the Korean War;, the deaths of friends, the politics. It had weighed on them both. McGarrett had stuck with the Navy for a few years, leaving when he was offered the plum job of running Hawaii Five-0. Solo had veered into UNCLE, hoping the altruistic international police organization would use his talents for helping the world. For a long time he had been part of saving humanity from those who wanted to subjugate it. Now, he wasn't sure how much he cared. Lines were blurred, evil came from all directions and the allies were thinning. The roughest blow came from his own organization when they decided his actions were no longer as objective as mandated in a Cold War.

"Yeah. Too much gray."

"I take it you and Illya are still working separately."

Steve knew fighting beside a comrade who was completely trusted with your life was no small achievement. When that partner was taken away because of his own actions, Solo could not reconcile the loss. A part of him was missing every time he went out on assignment. He was still a top agent, still performing his job, but inside his heart was empty. Going through the motions for duty seemed acceptable, but he knew it took away his edge. It made him more vulnerable, not less. Those were ethereal and subjective feelings. The spy trade had no room for such emotions. It had no room for being so dependent on a partner, either, but that was how things had worked out. In a life where the motto was trust no one, Napoleon had found one person to depend upon completely.

"Yes."

"My door is always open, Napoleon. I wouldn't mind having you and Illya on staff. With your experience and skills –"

"Policemen?" Solo scoffed. "That's a long way from how you felt a year ago."

Solo and Kuryakin had been on assignment in Honolulu on New Years Eve. They caused a minor sensation working as burglars to finish their mission. And made the mistake of crossing McGarrett. It had been a serious breach of trust and Napoleon was glad Steve had seemed to forgive him.

McGarrett frowned, his blue eyes darkening. "I'm still not happy with how you ran that case, Napoleon. But I am certain you learned your lesson."

"Absolutely." Coming on the bad side of McGarrett was an error you only made once in life if you cared for your future well-being. Besides, he did not want to damage his friendship. He had too few friends to alienate one as good as Steve. "Thanks, but no thanks." He tore his gaze away from the unbelievably beautiful scenery and took the Buddha. "There's something important about this, or the code etched on it. Hasan's thugs want it back. Badly."

McGarrett's brow furrowed in concern. "They're still after you?"

"I'm sure they are, but the ones who came too close are no longer a problem. By the time the others catch up with me I'll be back in New York enjoying the traditional cold and a turkey dinner."

"Why don't you stay here for a few days. We can protect you." He lips twitched. "Danno and my staff are planning a surprise Thanksgiving dinner for me tonight. You'd like it."

Napoleon laughed. "That sounds good."

He looked away again, the blue of the ocean a bit too cheerful for his mood. He couldn't stay. The camaraderie that Steve enjoyed with his staff, with his closest friend, would be too painful to endure. While his closest friend was still based at New York headquarters, the separate missions, and the imposed break-up of the partnership remained an open wound. Steve's newfound niche of comfort would be too much to bear. And all the holiday cheer – well – he had little to be cheerful about, or to be thankful for this holiday season.

"Thanks, but I need to get back to New York to close the circle on the last of Hasan's minions," he explained, glancing back. "And Illya won't indulge in something as decadent as a Thanksgiving dinner if I don't push him."

"Then come back for a Hawaiian style belated birthday luau. Maybe Christmas."

"I'd like to. Right now, I need to catch that plane. Sorry."

Saying the word of regret, he realized he really was going to miss staying and enjoying Steve's new life here in Hawaii. Enough innate optimism remained that he recognized where his dark emotions were springing from - separation. Not just from Illya, but from like-minded friends who balanced him out, made lofty ideals like saving the world of personal importance.

"Maybe next time."

The piercing blue eyes were sharp and incisive. They could see through him just as Illya's could. Good thing he was only readable to friends. Such a weakness would make a quick end to his career if he were so open to his enemies.

"I'll hold you to that, Napoleon." His expression seemed anxious, filled with something deeper than the initial concern. "Sometimes we have to stop and appreciate, give gratitude for what we have. What better way to celebrate that than with good friends."

The sermon elicited a smile from the weary spy. "I understand that, Steve. At least as well as you do." He gave a tired nod, offering his heart-felt sincerity. It sounded so good right now to be among friends. "I'll come. Really. As soon as I can."

"You better. And bring Illya, too."

"I will. The warmth of Hawaii will do him good."

McGarrett ticked his head in silent acknowledgement. Then he powered the big Mercury to life and spun away from the docks, heading back to the airport.

"I told you I would have this little affair all wrapped up in less than a week."

Illya Kuryakin grinned at the smug tone of his partner. Even thousands of miles, away he could imagine the accompanying expression of wry confidence exuding from badge-number-11-Solo.

"I have yet to see your finished report, Napoleon." Admirably, he kept the amusement from his crisp voice.

"All right, Mister Skeptical. You'll have it in your hand tomorrow. Tonight, though, clear your calendar for a late harvest feast. Mmm, I can taste the turkey already."

Leaning back in his chair, Kuryakin rested his feet on the edge of his desk. It was almost noon in New York. The last week had been spent in Japan on assignment, and he had not seen Solo in a fortnight. With separate missions, they kept in touch on the special frequency communicators Illya had rigged so their private Channel S could be undetected from headquarters. It was a measure of solidarity at a time when the top team of Solo and Kuryakin had been hit with a few reprimands, a suspension for Solo, even temporary reassignment out of New York for Napoleon. The partnership ties had superseded the spirit of unity with UNCLE, and the team had been stretched, pulled, yanked, but not completely dissolved.

While this conversation was a temporary respite from the "solo" working conditions, it also emphasized the fragile nature of their work. Waverly could decide at any time that separation was the best way to keep either of these top agents from sacrificing missions in order to save the life of the other. It was a sobering restriction, but effective. On opposite sides of the globe, they did not have their Achilles ' heel – the other partner – on hand to rescue, keep safe, or otherwise protect instead of completing the assignment.

"Don't allow your smugness go get the better of you. If that cretin Hasan had not been vanquished you would spending Turkey Day in Turkey, instead of eating said bird."

The dead silence was indication enough of the unimpressed attitude at the other end of the communicator. The back-and-forth sniping was commonplace between the long-time partners. Solo disliked when he was upped by the Russian's low-key, droll humor. It made Illya's grin even broader.

"Ha, Ha, Ha. How long have you been waiting to use that line?" Solo asked in an arid sigh. "Istanbul for Thanksgiving. Funny."

"Since you were assigned there. Just trying to help," Illya replied, this time allowing the humor to bleed into his tone.

"Well, Hasan, like a prime turkey, is history. Anyway, I will be home soon. My flight to L.A. is about to board."

The confirmation that Solo was only half a day's travel away was a relief. Through things left unsaid, from every inflection in the well-known voice, Illya knew Napoleon was weary, hurting due to some unspecified injury, and longing for a holiday. Not as anxious as Illya was to have him back. The unexpected danger of Hasan being the mastermind of the drug running operation was concerning. A far more dangerous foe than first anticipated. Although he knew, the enemy did not matter. As long as Napoleon was out there on his own, Illya would worry. It had taken him many years to find himself caring for another person like a brother he never had. Detached assignments played on his worst imaginings.

"Very well, my friend. I shall be very disappointed if you do not come through with the famous feast. Shall I have Mama Petrovich prepare a traditional meal on standby –"

"No, I promised I would make it back in time to take you somewhere really great."

"You insult Mama –"

"Never! I promised - "

"Do not promise, Napoleon" The seriousness of the always-overshadowing danger loomed back into his thoughts. Dread never far away when his partner was alone and in a dicey situation, his bones chilled at the last comment. Finishing with all he could think of to cancel out the bad luck, he admonished, "Just be careful on your trip home. I do not trust Hasan's thugs."

"That makes two of us, tovarich, but at least Hasan is out of the picture. Listen, I have to go. I'll check in when I get to the airport."

"Very well. And Napoleon, happy birthday."

The laugh was warm and resigned. "I had a feeling you wouldn't forget an opportunity to remind me how old I am."

"What are friends for?"

An unexpected situation in Florida forced Kuryakin there and back not long after his conversation. Airport traffic was thick, but not as bad as it had been the day before. Still, by the time he arrived back in New York it was late. Solo was not responding to calls on the communicator. Illya stopped by the United terminal and saw his friend's plane had landed already. Solo must be on his way home, already resting after the long few weeks. Illya drove to his apartment building. Solo lived one floor above him. That would be the most likely place to find his friend.

Pulling up in the cab, he was surprised to see no light on in Solo's rooms. Hurrying inside, he stopped at his own flat and grabbed a small, wrapped box that he slipped into his pocket. It wasn't much, but it was difficult to shop for a spy. Down one floor to Napoleon's where he rang the buzzer, then knocked, then called on the communicator again. After no response, he unlocked the specialty codes he had personally designed for them both. Inside he stood still.

The quiet was strange. No, just a surprise. No sign of Solo's bags or coat, or that he had come home at all.

Briskly touring the bachelor pad, he noted nothing was out of place. Just as Solo always left it. No. He stepped over to the desk where some notes were hastily pushed to the side. Restaurant names were listed down the page, some crossed off, some underlined. Illya smirked. Places Solo was planning on taking him for Thanksgiving dinner. They were not the ultra chic establishments Solo would take one of his endless dates. They were down-home and quiet middle-of-the-road eateries. At the bottom, one name was circled and underlined in Solo's bold printing.

Mama's

Illya chuckled. Napoleon WAS surprising him by going to the Russian's favorite Slavic styled diner. He shook his head at the affectionate quirkiness of the American who did continue to amaze him.

A stack of albums was on the turntable, waiting for the owner to switch on the record player. Christmas albums by favorite singers: Sinatra, Martin, Crosby, Mathis. Sentimental fool, his friend sometimes. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas. We Need a Little Christmas. Illya chuckled. That one Napoleon always said was written for Illya.

Not so many years ago, he scoffed at the gluttonous celebration of Thanksgiving. The parades, the over-eating, the shopping and excess were clichés he denounced loudly. Right along with all the other Western decadent practices of birthdays, Christmas and after work drinks with friends. Slowly, his shallow Soviet values – more boisterously observed than believed – were chipped away under the warm heat of an American who saw his reticence as a challenge. Soon the sparring turned to regard, respect, and friendship. Then a bond of brotherhood unknown to either of them in their solitary pasts.

So on this Thanksgiving and birthday night, when two important dates coincided, they would make their own refuge against the cold of November and the chill of mankind. The world around them frayed, and the hearth fires reflected an ideal family feast neither of them would ever know. Illya was glad for a chance to give thanks. To a partner who would never fail him, who had been, and always would be, there for him.

His communicator beeped, startling him. Then he sighed with relief. Napoleon! Finally!

Switching it on, he was about to rebuke his friend when the voice of a woman came over the speaker. "This is Communications Tech Lawrence. Agent Kuryakin, Section Five asked me to inform you of a security concern with a Section Two agent."

Not now! He had worked to clear everything from his schedule so he could spend valued time with his friend! He had forgotten to give someone else in his section the on-call duty! He took a breath and exhaled to ease his irritation. A fellow agent was in distress; caught, killed, hurt. That was more important than his missed dinner!

"What is it? Has someone been killed?"

"Unknown. Local police have reported finding the belongings of the operative."

"Who is it and what police are we dealing with?"

"The call came in from the Honolulu police. The agent is Napoleon Solo."

The words echoed in his brain, but only on a superficial level. Here he was, standing in Napoleon's apartment where everything reeked of Solo. A quickly scrawled note; the scent of aftershave, the opened book on the arm of the easy chair, the albums waiting to play on the turntable. They were having dinner tonight. Napoleon's birthday. Thanksgiving. Returning from an assignment that could have been fatal against the ruthless Hasan, but he had survived it! He was boarding a plane in Honolulu when they had talked hours ago!

No! Illya's mind refused to believe it, but in his heart, he was already cold - the freeze extending outward.

Hand shaking, he gripped onto the communicator and drew in a sharp breath. "I will be right there. I want every detail when I arrive."

He shut off the possibilities raging from a broiling imagination. At the door, he paused to look at the empty apartment. This could not stay this lonely forever. Napoleon would be back. He had to come back. And Illya found thankfulness that there was a small particle of hope that his friend was not dead. He would cling to that narrow thread of faith grateful to have anything besides a corpse on this cold and dread night.

The call woke him from a deep sleep, but as was his custom, McGarrett came to awareness by the time he spoke into the phone. Danno was duty officer tonight. If he was getting the call, it must be important. The pause at the other end sent chills along his skin as he waited for what had to be bad news at this early hour of the morning.

"Steve." Danno's familiar, hesitant voice. "HPD patrol at the airport found evidence of – uh – maybe a mugging, but – I'm not sure. Anyway, the name was familiar to them and they called me."

It was a little confusing, but enough of an urgent tone and information to cause McGarrett to sit up in bed, his fist tightly gripping the receiver. "Who was attacked?"

"Napoleon apparently. His UNCLE ID and communicator were left behind. I'm here now. It's a storage room that's been locked up all day. There's – uh – Steve, there was a pretty good fight. But no body."

"I'll be right there."

On the racing drive to the airport, McGarrett tried to puzzle through what might have happened to his friend. Solo was scheduled to get on the plane and head for L.A., then New York. Obviously, he had never made it. Why hadn't Illya called? What happened? Had Hasan's men attacked and captured Solo? That seemed the most likely possibility. Then why hadn't they surfaced and asked for the Buddha, which was probably what they were after? Unless they didn't know, McGarrett had the item. And what had they done with Solo?

The early morning air was fresh and cool. Rain covered the area with puddles and reflective sheens of blue from revolving police lights atop the squad cars. Dressed in a blue and green aloha shirt, Danno leaned against his black Five-0 sedan and moved toward the Mercury as it slammed to a stop. McGarrett was out of the car before his second-in-command reached him.

"What have you found so far?"

Williams led him to the crime scene that was surrounded by four officers. No stranger to espionage and spies, Danno seemed tense and irritated. "There's blood, Steve. You want to tell me what's going on?"

Glancing at the red smears on the concrete floor within the storage room, McGarrett gave a level gaze to his friend. Just hours before they had parted, pleased and full from a Thanksgiving dinner with the staff, warmed by the camaraderie of their unit and the holiday. He did not want them at odds now when he needed solidarity with his closest friend.

"Napoleon flew in this morning and gave me a tip about drub smugglers trying to move their goods here. Then he was supposed to have left to fly home."

Williams was obviously relieved. "Well, he brought this trouble with him then. Here's his effects."

The silver-pen like-communicator. A scrap of black and white hounds tooth material, an ID wallet with Napoleon's gold and black UNCLE card. And the carved wood, dragon-handled cane Solo had been using. The cane was shattered, as if smashed against the cement floor. No weapon. No body. Too much blood.

"He was injured," Steve explained quietly. "Knee, at least. If they took him by surprise it would have been tough for him to fight back."

"Steve, I'm sorry –"

"Mahalo, Danno, but we're going to find him. He's still alive," he assured as he stalked back to his car. Over the mic, he demanded Dispatch patch him through with Illya Kuryakin in New York. It took a few minutes, and while they waited, Steve explained his reasoning. He did not finish before a strained, accented voice came on the line.

"Steve. Have you found Napoleon?"

"No, sorry, Illya. But he's alive. If his abductors wanted what he had, they have not come for it yet. He gave it to me."

"And since they have not come to you, he hasn't talked." The tone was not relief, but tight anger. "And he will not betray you. But we must find him before they kill him trying. I am on my way. I will see you later today."

Surveying the physical evidence, Kuryakin surrendered no outward reaction. His demeanor since the news of his friend's abduction had been his instinctive, protective shielding. Some considered it cold, aloof or hard. Most, simply dismissed him as inscrutable and unreachable. These were all impressions he wished to project. Since childhood, no one was allowed to see what he was really feeling on the inside. Sometimes he removed even his own mind from emotions, training to be that image that he needed to establish.

Ironic. The only person who had ever pierced his armor did it with subtly and stealth. Over months of persistent and seemingly effortless camaraderie, inclusion and warmth, Illya had come to appreciate, then depend upon, then need, a friend. His friend. Ironic, because now he stared at the brown smears on the gray concrete and knew a small amount of his friend's blood remained behind as a signpost of what had happened to Solo.

"The tracks lead just a few feet away," a voice said behind him.

Glancing briefly at the Asian detective, Illya gave a nod to Chin Ho Kelly. The officer continued. "It was a big vehicle. Tire tracks could be old, but there are truck tracks in the mud. We'll check them out."

The Hawaiian Five-0 officer, Ben Kokua, offered a report to McGarrett, who was prowling inside the storage room. But Kokua included the UNCLE agent when he relayed, "A lotta trucks drive around here every day. No rain last night, so these faint mud tracks could be old. The lab boys are taking pictures of them anyway."

Illya tore his gaze away from the blood on the floor and gazed at Kokua. "And I suppose there are no witnesses?"

The tall officer shook his head. "Nothing. This area isn't used much. Especially not in the early morning."

Nodding, Kuryakin stared at McGarrett. "Then what was Napoleon doing here?"

Frustrated, McGarrett slammed a fist against the wall. "I don't know! I dropped him off much closer to the terminal so he could catch his flight!

The crime scene had been left intact. Illya stepped into the room and studied the fragments of the shattered teak walking stick. He wanted to think it had cracked and splintered over the heads of bad guys. Blood indicated someone – or more than one – was injured. That his friend was missing led them all to suspect it was Napoleon who did not walk away from the fight.

"This is heavy dripping," Williams pointed out from the doorway. He gestured to a trail of thick drops. "Maybe a nose bleed."

The assessment was one Illya had not thought of. He wasn't thinking very clearly at all. Lost sleep, tension, anxiety. He was not working like an investigator, but a worried friend. With cops he trusted on the case he could be forgiven for the oversight, he supposed, but Napoleon was counting on him to come to the rescue!

"Nosebleed. A fight," Chin repeated. "So maybe they wanted Solo alive."

Feeling the eyes of the others on him, Kuryakin glanced at McGarrett. They were thinking the same thing. Steve had suggested it before. Hasan's men were after the trinket Napoleon had passed on to Steve. They didn't know Napoleon no longer had the object.

Kokua commented what they already knew. "Then whatever it was is important."

Trying not to concentrate on the blood, the possibilities, Illya focused on the evidence. What was Napoleon doing with the cane?

He looked to McGarrett. "Did Napoleon have the cane when you met him?"

The grim expression revealed as much as the words. "Yes. His knee was injured from a fight with Hasan."

Already injured. A handicap when cornered by an enemy. He fought back the sense of dread crowding in. Crouching down to study the broken cane, Illya wished his friend had been using a swordstick concealed in the cane. He might have had a better chance.

The lab teams had taken photos of the scene, so Illya was not shy to take a better look at the dragon handle. Hr reexamined it , surprised at what he thought he saw. One of the eyes was hollowed out.

"It's a camera!" he concluded, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the crime scene.

McGarrett joined him. "What?"

"A camera in the handle. He was taking pictures of something – he thought it was suspicious. That was what must have led him over here!"

Using a handkerchief, McGarrett picked up the broken wood. "We'll get this over to the lab right away." To his detectives, he ordered, "Chin, Ben, find out who was around here early this morning."

"Couldn't be many," Ben replied. "Not many were working on Thanksgiving morning."

Flinching, Illya stared down at the bloodstains. Thanksgiving was supposed to be so different from this. Napoleon's birthday. A time for celebration. Of gratitude. Of giving a small token and quiet drinks into the late hours. The perspective was so different now. Now he would be grateful if his friend was just alive.

December 8, 1973

HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
From now on,
our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on,
our troubles will be miles away.

Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.
And have yourself A merry little Christmas now.

The birthday dinner was late. Office work had not ended until nearly nine. While the view of the night waves of Waikiki was spectacular, the mood was subdued. The background sounds of gentle surf and distant bands from the night clubs along the beach was soothing after a long week. A singing trio of strolling Hawaiian musicians made the rounds to the tables offering Island versions of Christmas carols. At their table, they played Happy Birthday and each gave Dan a kiss on the cheek. It would have been a little more fun if any of the women were under fifty, but it was cute. The surrounding tourists applauded. McGarrett gave a smug wink and smile, finding pleasure in getting back at Williams for all the birthday parties that were a little too overt for Steve's style.

Raising his water glass to Williams, the boss told him after the musicians had departed, "Hauoli la hanau, Danno."

"Mahalo, Steve. I appreciate the nice dinner. You didn't have to –"

"My pleasure," he interrupted. After a brief grin, he took another drink and stared out at the ocean for a moment.

Humming the holiday tune echoing across the restaurant, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, Williams' cheery mood drained away as he studied his friend across the table. It had been a rough few weeks. Tension was always high in the state police unit, but this month it had been extraordinary. He knew Steve was thinking of another birthday when an older friend had disappeared out of his life.

'Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow'

The Fates had not been kind recently. Immediately after Napoleon Solo's disappearance, McGarrett had focused on the abduction. Illya Kuryakin had arrived to join the investigation. Frustrated, after no leads and mounting despair, the Russian UNCLE agent left Hawaii, following a lead back to Asia. Not certain that was the right direction, McGarrett pursued the case from Honolulu as well as juggling investigations more pertinent to the islands.

From a cop's POV, the longer a victim is gone, the thinner the chances of recovery. To Dan, this looked like a revenge killing. There were vast miles of ocean surrounding Hawaii to dump a body. He didn't hold out hope of finding Solo alive.

Until tonight, he didn't want to approach that harsh conclusion. Neither did he want to mar a great birthday. But someone had to face McGarrett with a truth he was not willing to address on his own. The time was now. Kuryakin was returning in the morning and he had no wish to battle both stubborn men. Steve's opposition to reason would be just about more than he could handle.

Drawing his gaze back, McGarrett gave a final raise of the glass. "Many more happy birthday's Danno." He signaled for the waitress to bring the check. She was hovering nearby, waiting for the late eaters to vacate. It was time to clean up and start the closing procedures. "We've got an early start in the morning."

"Right. The break-in at the Capitol."

"Che promised the results of his lab work. Stop by there before you get into the office tomorrow," McGarrett told him as they left the restaurant.

Dan had shouldered the bulk of cases not relating to Solo in the last week or more. McGarrett stayed personally attached to the search for his old spy friend. While the work of Five-0 continued smoothly, the strain was telling on the entire staff. Mostly, Dan was concerned for the fall Steve would take when they found Solo dead. Or worse, if they never found any body or evidence of what happened. A giant question mark instead of a tombstone. That would be worse than anything would, he imagined.

The drive down Kalakaua to Williams' condo was short, spent in contemplative silence. When they stopped at the last red light at the end of the Waikiki tourist shops, Dan watched the corner Santa in Hawaiian-print shorts ringing a bell. The nearest hotel was playing Have yourself A Merry Little Christmas from the loudspeakers. He shifted, uncomfortable with his plan, but knowing someone had to do it. And he was the only one who could.

"Steve, I'm not suggesting that you give up, but it's been almost two weeks. He can't be alive."

The fists tightened on the steering wheel. McGarrett's lip twitched. "And I won't give up. A person just doesn't vanish, Danno. We know that. Evidence, witnesses, traces – "

"Steve, you can't keep up this pace –"

McGarrett turned and stared at him with a familiar glare of tenacity. This was the boss at his most stubborn. He was not backing down or admitting to anything that would deny his belief.

"Danno, Napoleon is still alive. Hasan's men want what he had. That hasn't changed. I know it."

If that was true, and he wouldn't deny Steve's amazing gift of hunches being right, then he felt even worse. Solo alive after nearly two weeks of captivity and torture? His stomach rippled at the thought. If positions were reversed, would he want Steve to be alive, enduring such torment and pain for so long? Swallowing the lump in his throat, he answered himself, yes. No matter what, alive, even damaged, was better than dead, never having your friend at your side again.

Horns honked behind them. Noting the now green light, McGarrett slammed the Mercury's accelerator and they tore through the intersection. At the curb in front of the condo, McGarrett stopped and held onto Dan's shoulder before the younger officer could exit the car.

"We're going to find him, Danno. I promised that to Illya. To myself. We'll get him back."

"I know," Williams responded.

He closed the door and watched as McGarrett made a u-turn around the fountain down the street, then headed back toward Waikiki. Williams ambled toward the elevators, then stopped in the lobby. He knew his friend well and decided in this tangled web of loyalty and loss, he could do a little more to help resolve the case. Striding into the underground garage he revved up his Five-0 sedan and swung it out to the street.

At Iolani Palace, Williams was not surprised to see McGarrett's vehicle in it's usual parking spot. He gave a wave to the patrolling security guard and trotted up the front steps to the Five-0 offices. He knocked and entered McGarrett's office, met by a frown from his boss who was seated behind his desk.

"You shouldn't spend what's left of your birthday at the office."

"I might be useful," Dan easily replied.

McGarrett nodded and shoved the Buddha statue across the blotter. "I can't figure them out. Not a safety deposit box, not a code that I can decipher, not a phone number or an address or a latitude or longitude. What's left, Danno? It's the key to everything and breaking it might lead us to Napoleon, but I can't get it."

The trinket had been x-rayed, studied, chipped for chemical analysis and passed along to Chinese and expert consultants. It had cost lives to get here to Honolulu and maybe more to come. Hopefully not. What was the magical quality it held that was so important?

The phone rang, startling them both. McGarrett picked it up and his expression hardened when he heard the voice on the other end.

"What did you find out?" He looked at the Buddha, then responded to some comment from the caller. "We'll be expecting you." After hanging up he stared at his second-in-command. "That was Illya. His UNCLE lab was able to finally make some sense out of those blurred photos from Napoleon's cane camera."

At last! A much-needed clue! "What is it?"

"The abductors were driving a van. Tiki Cleaners." He grabbed a phone book out of his drawer and flipped through the pages. "Nothing."

"Could be a fake," Williams suggested.

"Get with HPD and motor vehicles for anything you can find."

As Williams retreated to his own cubicle, he heard McGarrett dialing the phone to get someone out of bed. It was going to be a very long birthday. But at least he was spending his alive and functioning and with his friend. There was a peaceful warmth in that knowledge, and a snaking cold chill knowing Solo had spent his birthday, and since, in much grimmer conditions.

Christmas Eve

December 25, 1973

I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

I'll be home for Christmas;

You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree.

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love-light gleams.
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.

Waiting at the terminal for the jet passengers to debark, Steve McGarrett tapped his fingers on his crossed arms in irritation. It was too much like exactly one month ago when he had waited for Napoleon. So much had happened since then. And, not enough had happened.

The van for Tiki Cleaners had been discovered in the warehouse district of the old downtown Honolulu. Evidence and blood in a storage room confirmed that Napoleon had been held there for an undetermined amount of time. Five-0 and Kuryakin surmised the building was a holding area prepared for the drug shipments that were scheduled to arrive.

Chin Ho Kelly's dockworker relatives had spotted some unusual activity around there. HPD and Five-0 were going to close in on the cargo ship that arrived this afternoon. Hopefully, the drugs would be stopped and the Hasan gang nabbed. Then, they all hoped, the captured criminals would tell them what had happened to Napoleon Solo.

The somber, thin Russian was one of the first passengers trotting down the gangway. Steve's jaw tightened as he thought back to Napoleon's limping arrival; as he took in Kuryakin's pale, tense face. Today was going to be the toughest day they might ever live through. Were they going to find Solo alive? Or find him at all? It ate at them all like acid in their souls; the questions, the dread, the uncertainty and the fading hope. It would all be resolved today, he hoped. By the looks of the stressed Kuryakin, just to have an end to the drama would be a blessing.

They shook hands and greeted with a nod, and McGarrett shook off the déjà vu from Solo's arrival on Thanksgiving day.

"I was able to discover little more after we talked yesterday," Illya revealed as he climbed into the Mercury. "The cargo ship left Singapore with three members of Hasan's former colleagues. They are listed as merchants."

McGarrett scoffed as he slammed the car into gear and sped off. "Aren't they all?"

"You will be interested that they are masquerading under a new religion." He pulled out a photo of a black and white image. It was a small Buddha statue. Just like the one Solo had given him. "They are accompanying three crates of these articles."

The absurd idea popped into his head fully formed, as did most of his brilliant hunches. McGarrett drew in a sharp breath and Illya stared at him.

"That suggests something to you?"

"Yes. Crates of plaster statues . . . . " Steve's voice died away.

For the first time since the abduction of their mutual friend, a spark of excitement brightened Illya's blue eyes. Almost instantly they shadowed with a darkness accompanied by tightening around the eyes. "Do you have the original Buddha with you?"

"No, it's at the office."

"Then let us proceed there."

Ben Kokua, Danny Williams and Chin Ho Kelly ringed McGarrett's desk as the spy and the lead detective stared at the small gold statue. Examining it carefully, Illya picked it up and studied it, then handed it to McGarrett. The cop weighed it in his hands for a moment, then hefted it as he moved to a side table, the dark koa wood shiny in the reflection of the bright Hawaiian sun streaming through the open lanai doors. He carefully placed a handkerchief on the table and then handed the statue back to the spy with a nod.

Taking a deep breath, Illya suddenly smashed the Buddha against the desk. Amid protests from the officers, Kuryakin ignored the comments as he sifted his fingers through the broken plaster. When he straightened he held out his hand, displaying a tiny black spot at the tip of his finger.

"A microdot," McGarrett explained.

Dan shook his head. "It never showed up in the x-rays! How did you two know?"

"Think back to your Sherlock," Kuryakin advised.

"The Six Na –" Williams stopped with an intake of air.

Kuryakin's wan face tightened. "The Six Napoleons," he finished in a rough voice.

McGarrett concluded. "A valuable jewel is hidden in a bust of Napoleon," he quietly informed. "A burglar is smashing busts around London and Sherlock figures out why and where."

His hand was shaking when Illya placed the dot on the bottom piece of plaster that was still in his hand. "And so we come full circle in this ironic tale."

To his men Steve ordered, "Chin, coordinate with HPD and have them ready ahead of time at the dock. Ben, make sure our men are not spotted. Have some plainclothes officers covering the perimeter in case our Turkish friends feel like a stealth approach." Staring at Illya, he said, "Let's take this down to the lab and read it. You left the bottom intact," he pointed out.

Taking a breath, drawing out of his intent reverie, Kuryakin admitted, "I believe the numbers are still important."

With two detectives and a spy looking over his shoulder, the unflappable Che Fong set up the projector to pick up the microdot enlargement. There were a series of numbers and letters in rows. A subtle twitch lifted Kuryakin's lips as he scanned the information.

"Is that Russian?" Williams asked.

"It is," Illya confirmed with a trace of reluctant admiration. "Our Turkish friends are obviously multi-national. Russian, Buddha. They are typical of the new breed of terrorist, trained by my countrymen and infiltrated to troubled areas. They would turn as quickly on their Soviet benefactors as they would anyone else. But, it gives us valuable information."

"What?" Williams asked.

"Schedules?" McGarrett guessed. "For the drugs?"

Russians. His former countrymen had trained these thugs. Probably setting up the Turkish criminals just to wreck havoc among the Western powers. Vietnam, Middle East, and Asia – anywhere they could place counter-agents to stir up chaos. Anything to foment insurrection against their Cold War enemies. Russians. They had nothing to do with him, but guilt darkened his heart when he thought his closest friend was captured – and he wouldn't imagine what else – because of Russian training. Still, gazing at the screen but frozen, Kuryakin didn't respond until Steve touched his arm.

"Illya?"

With a tight nod Illya's raw voice explained. "This is the information worth . . . . " He shook his head. "Napoleon had everything here. We haven't deciphered the book code yet, of course, but I am confident it will give us trade routes, or distribution in Honolulu. Maybe manufacturers or even growers in Turkey."

Dan gave a low whistle. "No wonder they wanted it back so badly."

McGarrett was examining the bottom piece of plaster. The scrawls were still indecipherable to him. About to ask what Illya thought they meant, he started at the unexpected sound of gunshots outside.

"What's going on?" Dan wondered, already reaching for the .38 at his side.

Drawing his Walther from his shoulder holster, Illya was out the door just in front of the detectives. They trotted up the basement steps to the outside entrance of the lab level. Two bearded men were behind a pillar of Iolani Palace's front entrance. They were engaged in a gun battle with at least two defenders at the main doors above them.

McGarrett tapped Williams on the arm and motioned in the opposite direction. With a nod, Illya knew they were going to go around and flank the intruders.

Not knowing the layout of the old building as well as the officers, Illya decided on a frontal assault. He slowly and carefully opened the basement door and peered out. A shadow just above showed the position of one gunman. The body of a security guard at street level indicated the attackers were deadly in their intent. He fingered the piece of plaster in his jacket pocket. They were after the microdot and the book code.

He stopped in mid-stride. Book code! Of course! His subconscious must have been working on that for some time. What book?

A scrape on the pavement alerted him a beat before a bearded man swung down the basement steps. It was instinctive to aim and fire without thought or reason. The assailant jerked, his automatic pistol dropping from his hand as he tumbled down the steps to Illya's feet. Checking for a pulse and finding none, Illya retrieved the weapon and cautiously climbed up to see a second gunman running around the other side of the Palace.

A barrage of shots echoed around the corner. Chin and Ben ran down the front steps and fell into pace behind him. They arrived on the side of the palace to see an unmoving man on the ground. McGarrett and Williams still had their revolvers trained on him. Chin moved over and removed the weapon from the shooter's grasp. Steve checked the man for a pulse. He shook his head in grim finality.

"Any others?"

"We only spotted those two coming up the drive," Ben told them. "If we hadn't been just going down to the car we would have been sitting ducks inside."

"Looks like," Williams answered. "They were after your microdot weren't they?" he asked the spy.

"Yes. The other one is back at the basement steps." Feeling eyes on him, Illya looked up into McGarrett's grim expression. "And we have killed the only men who could – " his voice faltered. He cleared it and continued, hoarsely. "Give us answers."

No Napoleon! They killed the only leads to his missing friend! His own bullet had taken out someone who could give him the answers he had yearned for this entire, long, miserable month! Unsteadily, he turned and trudged back toward the body he left on the basement steps. Mostly, he did not want to face the others, did not want them to talk to him. He shunned engagement of any kind with anyone. Solitude and quiet. He sought to detach himself. What he really needed was removal from his own heart. It was aching and devastated. Emotions kept him from thinking clearly. He needed to focus.

A touch of his arm startled him and he turned to face the much taller McGarrett. Why was the cop looking so pleased? Didn't he understand the tragedy here? They had severed the only links to finding Napoleon!

"The attacker had a car key with a Ford keychain. Want to come with us to see what we find?"

Clues. Thankfully, the police were still thinking professionally. Drawing himself to a straight posture, Illya refocused. The only way to find Napoleon was to think clearly and follow through. There was still hope. He could not give that up. He nodded.

"Chin and Ben are going to get what they can here. Let's go."

The rented Impala was parked at the curb in front of the palace. Inside was the address of the renter. Within fifteen minutes Five-0 and HPD arrived on silent approach at the beach address in Hawaii Kai. As the Five-0 sedan slowed, Illya removed a hand-sized box and scanned the area for a signal. He had used the same device before they left the palace.

"What is that?" Williams asked from the front seat.

"A receiver. Napoleon has a transmitter in his ring. When I am within a few kilometers I am able to pick up the signal."

"Nothing?" McGarrett guessed darkly.

With difficulty, Illya admitted, "No. Nothing."

The lot they pulled into was wide, old, unkempt trees and a ragged lawn fronted two buildings. It was a run-down house and garage but the view was spectacular. A traditional surf/beach bum hangout, it seemed empty.

Kuryakin followed after the officers. There were no people, but considerable clutter. Amid the clothes and armaments, ammo and assault gear, Illya followed Ben Kokua through the house. No sign of Napoleon. What did he expect? That his friend would be locked in a room at a beach house? Apparently, because the empty quarters left him with his own hollow defeat.

An open book on the floor near the sofa caught his eye. Skin chilled when he saw it was an omnibus of Sherlock Holmes stories. Illya's hand shook as he reached for the volume. Throat dry, he turned to the opening of The Six Napoleons. Removing the plaster shard from his pocket he counted out words, letters and sentences until he found the correct sequence where the numbers on piece of statue correlated into words. Every time his eye scanned over the name of Napoleon he inwardly flinched. Of all the ironies, why did they choose this story? Why did Napoleon not reveal how important the microdot was? Why did he give his life to stop terrorists? A little gasp escaped his lips. He couldn't think that way. Napoleon had to be alive. He had to.

"What did you find?" McGarrett asked beside him.

Illya held it out, handing it over to the nearby Ben. "This opens the door to the whole operation from Honolulu to Vietnam to the Mid-East. This names names, where the microdot gives you the ships and routes."

Kokua gave a report that Illya only partially heard. Two toothbrushes, sets of tableware, etc indicated there were only two thugs staying here. No others would be popping in to grab and interrogate. Illya ground his teeth in anger at how events had played out to frustrate his mission. For a month his only goal was to find his friend. Now what could he do?

From the doorway, Chin called them. "You will want to see what we found in the garage."

Glancing at McGarrett, Illya knew they shared the same dread.

Confirming the apprehension, Dan Williams gave them grim looks. He shook his head. "What we found isn't good."

Braced, Illya knew it would not be a body. The tone and words would have been different from the policemen. Still, knowing he was going to find something dreadful, he grit his teeth as he entered the dark garage.

On the floor, wrapped around a wooden beam, were chains. Smears of dark, dried blood stained the metal and concrete. Too much blood. In a corner was a rumpled jacket. McGarrett crouched beside it, confirming it was sports-jacket Solo was wearing when he saw him last. Illya had recognized it instantly.

The Five-0 officers reconstructed what they read from the evidence. Solo was held a prisoner here for an unknown amount of time. Rough treatment, injuries, blood loss. Now he was gone. The captors were dead.

Wandering outside, he walked to the sand and watched the scenic waves lapping the white sand. A rainbow colored the blue sky that blended into the far horizon, making the surroundings blue and bright. This paradise was nothing but a gray void to him. He had solved the case. But he had failed his friend. The ocean was very big. It could swallow up an injured spy's body and never leave a trace. His throat clogged with a sob that he swallowed quickly.

Anger edged the hurt that had been repressed for these last weeks. Ire was not enough to defeat the pain pushing to the surface. "Napoleon." He whispered the word, feeling control slip away. He drew in a deep breath. He tried to accuse, but it sounded like a pathetic plea. "You promised you would come back. I promised I would find you. I was holding you to your promise, moi brat," he whispered in his native tongue, claiming a bond of brotherhood with a partner he would never see again. "Such are our vain and foolish wishes of spies who lose their way."

McGarrett stubbornly stayed behind while the lab crew collected evidence. Like Kuryakin, there was nothing for them to do, but they couldn't leave. Without a word between them, in silent, mutual agreement, they recognized what had happened. Solo had been tortured, perhaps dying, or close to it at the end. The captors considered him no longer capable of giving over the valuable information on the microdot. His body had gone into the sea. Divers were coming from HPD, but there was little hope of finding the remains. They had no idea how long the body would have been deep sixed, or even where. Down along this bay? Somewhere away from the house?

How had they figured out Steve had the Buddha? Napoleon must have broken. He held out for a long time. Steve's emotions were mixed; proud of the final defiance, or sickened at the amount of pain Solo suffered. For what? Stopping a drug cartel. Saving lives of nameless, faceless people. Was that worth the trade of an old ally? He couldn't ask such questions because he could never find the answers to those mysteries.

No new evidence was found. Certainly nothing leading them to think Solo was alive. Reluctantly, he decided they should head back to the palace. Illya agreed without comment, without looking back at the place where his partner had probably died.

"We need to get to that ship," McGarrett reminded. They had lost a friend, but Napoleon's valiant service would not go unrewarded. His mission was a success. "He saved a lot of lives. Let's take down the rest of the gang."

Illya nodded and walked to the car. There was nothing left to say.

Arriving at the dock, the Five-0 team took the lead in boarding the cargo freighter that had just arrived. HPD herded suspects into police vans, and with the cooperation of the captain, the contraband drugs inside the Buddha statues was soon confiscated without resistance.

Entering the Five-0 offices, McGarrett was taken aback at the decorations and food, the crowd of Chin's family and Ben's. Christmas Eve! He had forgotten. Danno picked up on the somber attitude and offered to bring snacks into Steve's office. They made a desultory attempt to go over the sheets of printouts from the microdot, but there was no new revelation, no triumph in cracking the case.

McGarrett was relieved when Danno opened the door. "I'm heading out to the mission now."

"Oh, right." Momentarily McGarrett was torn. It wasn't right to leave Illya alone, but the taciturn Russian probably wanted some solitude. Still, Napoleon would not want his closest friend abandoned on Christmas Eve. "Illya, come with us. We're heading over to the food kitchen to serve a hot meal to the less fortunate."

Slumped in a chair by the open lanai doors, Kuryakin shook his head. "No thank you."

"Trust me, it feels good to get away from your own troubles and help someone else on this night of nights." McGarrett felt the emotion build in him. He had kept grief and let down at bay through work. Now the grief was crowding in. He needed to go do something before he broke down and wept for the friend who had suffered and been lost and their failure to save him. He needed to do this for Illya, and himself, and Napoleon. "Come on," he roughly invited, the grating sob in his tone almost disguised.

Illya flinched. With a silent nod he agreed. The atmosphere was fragile, like a sheet of ice over their hearts. One pinprick of weakness and it would all break open. They had to get out and do something to keep the mourning away for just a little longer. They each wanted to grieve in private, but didn't want to surrender to that inevitable moment. Surrender to the sorrow would be the ultimate and final admission that Napoleon was gone forever.

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

It's the most wonderful time of the year
With the kids jingle belling
And everyone telling you "Be of good cheer"
It's the most wonderful time of the year
It's the hap-happiest season of all
With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings
When friends come to call
It's the hap- happiest season of all

There'll be parties for hosting
Marshmallows for toasting
And caroling out in the snow
There'll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories of
Christmases long, long ago

It's the most wonderful time of the year
There'll be much mistltoeing
And hearts will be glowing
When love ones are near
It's the most wonderful time of the year

There'll be parties for hosting
Marshmallows for toasting
And caroling out in the snow
There'll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories of
Christmases long, long ago

It's the most wonderful time of the year
There'll be much mistltoeing
And hearts will be glowing
When love ones are near
It's the most wonderful time
It's the most wonderful time
It's the most wonderful time
It's the most wonderful time of the year

Such a stupid song, was Illya's first thought as they entered the rear of the kitchen to the big Catholic church, escaping the blithe carolers outside. An older man in a priest's frock greeted them and looked too long and knowingly into his eyes. The man could read the anguish. Shying away so his misery would not be seen, Illya moved right through the kitchen and into a stone corridor that was surprisingly cool amid the humid tropic heat of Hawaii in December.

Illya hated that song. It was not a wonderful time. It was the worst time of his life. Where was the cold and the snow biting his skin? Where was the bleakness that matched his heart? It was all wrong here with palm trees and Santas in Hawaiian shorts!

Everything was wrong. Without his friend.

Be of good cheer. Friends come to call. Tales of the glories. Loved ones are near. What did these people know? Instead of melding into the volunteers and assisting the officers, Illya slipped farther down the corridor. He came to a dead stop as the strains of the next song rang from the cops serving in the kitchen.

WE NEED A LITTLE CHRISTMAS

Haul out the holly
Put up the tree before my spirit falls again
Fill up the stocking
I may be rushing things but deck the halls again now

For we need a little Christmas right this very minute
Candles in the window, carols at the spinet
Yes we need a little Christmas right this very minute
Hasn't snowed a single flurry, but Santa dear we're in a hurry

Climb down the chimney
Turn on the brightest string of lights I've ever seen
Slice up the fruit cake
It's time we've hung some tinsel on the evergreen bough

For I've grown a little leaner, grown a little colder
Grown a little sadder, grown a little older
And I need a little angel sitting on my shoulder
Need a little Christmas now

For we need a little music, need a little laughter,
need a little singing ringing through the rafter
and we need a little snappy, happy ever after
We need a little Christmas now!

Grinding his teeth, Illya rushed outside, stalking around to the front of the church so he could no longer hear the words of the carol Napoleon loved to tease was written just for taciturn Russians. Too many memories! Even here, in the tropics, away from the usual trappings of what he considered his home, there was no way to escape all the memories.

The sentimental song drifted across the lawn of the grounds, drowning out traffic and rustling palms. Burying Illya in a pain he could not surface escape.

I'm dreamin' tonight of a place I love
Even more then I usually do
And although I know it's a long road back
I promise you

I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

"You promised to be home for Thanksgiving. Now you will never be home for a Christmas, either," he blamed in despair as he leaned against the stone wall.

At every turn he was slammed with emotion from the years of Solo pushing him into holiday traditions and friendship. There was an intellectual knowledge that this day of reckoning would come. As spies, their lives were worth nothing. The worst had happened and he was left with emptiness, lined with anguish that he dreaded but could never comprehend. Feeling himself crumble from the inside, he blindly walked.

Illya came up cold when he realized he had wandered into the chapel. Candles glowed in hundreds of pinprick lights that flickered from the altars. Quiet murmurs of worshipers in the pews floated on the night air. Feeling the last of his fortitude slip away, he sank into the nearest bench and dropped his head in his hands.

He believed there was a God. Despite the Soviet dogma and the Communist manifesto, he remembered the cold days on the run from the Nazis. When his grandmother and her gypsy relations taught him the crafts of evasion and deception as a child. The old folks had believed in a God, had taught him there was a greater power somewhere in Heaven and there would be justice there, even if they never found it in the cold, bitter snow of Russia.

He wanted to believe that now. It would give him the merest measure of comfort to know there would be justice and peace after this life. The evil men who murdered his friend would receive their place in Purgatory. And he would, at the end of his days, leave his own brand of Hell on earth and see his partner again in a place where there would be no more pain or loss.

The scrape of a shoe alerted him, instincts tensing his muscles. Then reason relaxing them. He was in a church! Glancing up, he saw McGarrett standing in the aisle. A bit embarrassed, Illya came to his feet.

"I didn't mean to interrupt –"

"No, I was – just – thinking."

The priest he had seen earlier appeared from behind the Five-0 leader. "Is there any way I can help you, young man?" The Irish lilt in his voice made him seem more kindly and cemented his stereotypical image. Tall and lean, graying in the thinning hair, the man had a mellow smile as he gave them a nod. "This is a good time to unburden your sorrows. The night when our Savior was sent to earth. Glad tidings of great joy."

"I am fine," Illya assured. What had he been thinking? There was no sanctuary for his burdens. He still burned with all the agony he had when he came in here. "I was just – thinking."

The priest became perplexed. "I don't mean to be rude, but why is your coat flashing?"

They all looked to the inappropriate black jacket. The side pocket was indeed flashing with a blue glow. Illya pulled out the receiver and stared at the flickering lights for a moment.

"Is it supposed to do that?" Steve wondered.

"No," Kuryakin whispered. "No. It would not do this . . . ." His voice ground out in choked grief.

This was a signal that Napoleon's tracker was close. The quick, staccato flickering indicated it was very close. Not within kilometers, but within meters!

"He's here," he roughly grated out in amazement. "He's here!"

Gazing around the chapel, he searched. Mostly women were hunched over in prayer. A few men – none of them had the build or hair or stance of Solo. It wasn't making sense. Did it matter? Right here in the church he was experiencing a miracle!

The lights on the box slowed and faded. Desperate, Illya scanned the thin congregation. There, a man was just leaving! He ran to the doors, Steve right behind him. Just outside, Illya grabbed onto the man. Spinning him around, Illya froze in confusion. Not Napoleon. A thin, scraggly-hippy-type with an unkempt hair and beard that looked unwashed, with clothes to match.

"Hey, whatcha doin, man?" the young man pulled away.

Illya grabbed onto the man's hands. Nothing. He started patting his shirt pocket, then the pockets of his tattered jeans when the man pushed him away with surprising force.

"Hey, what is this, a roust?"

McGarrett flashed his badge and the kid looked like he was about to run. Illya quickly seized his wrist, twisting his arm back and throwing the youth into the side of the building.

"I think you have something that belongs to a friend of mine."

He finished searching the front pockets, then the back. When he felt a small disc he quickly drew it out. In the lights of the street lamps he recognized the silver iolite ring he had given his partner several Christmas Eve's ago. Under the glittery blue gem was the transmitter that had saved Solo on more than one occasion.

But too late to save him this time. This thief had taken the ring. He knew where the – the body – was. Fist tight around his prize, Illya shoved the man around. Before he could strangle the information out of him, McGarrett stepped in.

"Where did you get this ring?"

"Hey, the cat was spaced out, man. Havin' a bad trip."

Illya grabbed him by the neck of the dirty t-shirt. "When was this? Where?" It didn't mean the kid had stolen the ring from Napoleon. A dozen thieves could have come between the body and this man, but it was a start. Maybe he would have a corpse to bury, a place that would be forever hallowed where he could have a portion of closure to his grief. "Where?"

"Hey, I just took this as payment, man! I was gonna bring him back some food from the kitchen, ya know. I figured he owed me for that!"

Releasing the man, Illya stared at him as if he had come from another planet. His words made no sense. What did he mean?

"The man you got this from is here?" Steve clarified incredulously.

"Yeah! Hangin with the others trippin out behind the church, waiting for scraps."

Illya looked at Steve and saw the same confusion, wonder and splinter of hope. Was it possible? No, Napoleon could not be alive. But could he? A moment passed, then Illya sprang into a run. He raced around the back of the kitchen where vagabonds, hippies and drunks lounged under the trees.

The bells in the steeple started to ring. Christmas Eve was draining away. Christmas morning was heralded in. Williams was there already, trying to get the people inside to have their holiday meal. The young officer was perplexed at the arrival of his boss and the UNCLE agent. Illya assessed that Dan had checked a few of the people on the grass, so he moved farther back toward the trunks of the palm trees. A man huddled, shivering, on the dirt caught his eye. The tattered shirt, the hunched shoulders and filthy dark hair were recognized on a subliminal level. Dropping to his knees he pulled the man around, stunned to see the familiar face of his closest friend.

McGarrett was beside him. "Napoleon!"

As the echo of the bells faded, Illya wrapped his partner in his arms. Shaking with relief and anguish and unshed tears, he held on and vowed to hold fast.

Christmas Day

December 25, 1973

CHRISTMAS DREAMING (A Little Early This Year)
Frank Sinatra

I'm doing my Christmas dreaming a little early this year,
No sign of snow around;
And yet I go around hearing jingle bells ringing in my ear,
Your promise must be the reason,
The happy season is here;
So I'm doing my Christmas dreaming a little early this year

Labored breathing was shortened and shallow to keep his exhausted panting from being louder than a whisper. Leaning his head against a crumbling, stucco wall, Napoleon Solo closed his eyes for a split second, then opened them again and shook his head to fight off the fatigue. The pursuers were close. He could feel them so near he could probably reach out and touch one.

Sweat trickled along his skin. Slipping a hand over to massage his throbbing chest where ribs were bruised if not cracked, he felt the excessive, sticky moisture of blood. He pulled his hand away and grimaced, now feeling the sting of pain from the knife blade he thought had only sliced his ragged shirt.

Biting his lip, he furiously sifted through possible options. The situation was bleak. IDed by double-crossing Hasan's confederates, Solo had been on the run since his escape from his captors. Confused, he was worn out and down. Dusk in – wherever he was - brought him exhausted and running out of places to hide.

He closed his eyes again, willing his desperation to be transmitted through thought and connection waves to his partner on the other side of the universe. Everything on the inside of his brain was jumbled, scrambled and confused. He refused to talk and it had cost him. Injection after injection of the needle's drugs had ripped up his thoughts, truths blocked by UNCLE hypnosis blocks. The enemy would never get what they wanted. And they would rip open his mind to try.

Blurry vision made him nauseous. Or was it the drugs? His memory was so jumbled. He was somewhere hot. He was stifled and hot. The ocean did nothing to cool him. Fever. Pain. He shuffled and searched, but he had no idea what he was searching for. And was expected somewhere cold. Music. Someone was expecting him. If only he could remember . . . .

McGarrett offered Kuryakin another cup of coffee. The tense, silent agent refused with a shake of his head, then paced a few feet down the corridor. Sighing, sipping his Nth cup of liquid caffeine, the cop leaned against the wall of the hospital and rubbed his face. Glancing at Danno, slumped and asleep on a nearby chair, he started over to tell his friend, yet again, to go home. This was no way to spend Christmas. He saved his energy. Danno was not going home as long as he was here. And he was not leaving until they got word about Napoleon.

They had to piece together events because Solo was in some kind of stupor and unable to communicate. Illya speculated whatever truth serum was used on the spy put him into shock. Conditioned by UNCLE scientists, his programming negated and diverted the sodium pentothal to make him delusional, but never spilling an utterance of a secret or a code.

Illya believed the effects would wear off soon, but he relayed that with little conviction. How long had Napoleon been free? Where had he stayed? Did he escape yesterday when his captors attacked the palace? How did Solo get to the church? Short of a miraculous event, it seemed absurd, unbelievable. But Steve had seen enough in his career in NI and in Five-0 to know miracles happened.

When Doctor Chow emerged from the room, Illya sprang to meet him. McGarrett and Williams were only steps behind. Before any of the anxious friends could ask, the physician stared with a report.

"Mister Solo is suffering from various, non-threatening injuries which have been treated. He is on antibiotics and fluids. Dehydration and infection are concerns." The short, dark-haired doctor gave a level gaze at the concerned, hovering Russian. "I have ordered some scans. There is no obvious exterior evidence, but I am afraid, because of his non-responsive condition, there - well – we must do some tests."

"What are you trying to say?" Illya demanded.

"He is conscious. He is aware of pain. We need to eliminate the possibility of brain damage. We are certainly dealing with a degree of deep shock." His sympathetic expression quirked with puzzlement. "There is evidence of healed injuries and needle scars, so we can't discount a negative reaction to some unknown substance. He can't or won't respond to questions right now."

Kuryakin pushed past him, ignoring the protests of the doctor. McGarrett held onto the man's arm and maneuvered around him, following the spy into the room.

Solo slowly turned his head to observe them as they entered. He tracked with Illya briefly, then studied McGarrett, Williams and Chow as they ringed the bed. His expression never changed, his brown eyes dull and blank.

Illya fought down the fear crawling along his nerves. There was no recognition, no spark or relief or friendship. There was nothing in those eyes that were always expressive. After a moment to compose his own extreme reaction, he forced his hand to be steady as he touched Solo's shoulder.

"Napoleon. Do you remember what happened?"

Solo turned to him. Empty. There was nothing inside. Amnesia? Concussion? Shock from torture and ill treatment? He had seen his friend come through all of those maladies associated with their profession. Never had Napoleon acted like this.

"Napoleon. You must say something," he finished with a dry mouth, his stomach tightening. He licked his lips. "If you don't talk to me the doctor is going to run uncounted tests and you will be stuck her indefinitely. The nurses are not even pretty."

Absolutely no response! Blank. He gripped onto the rail of the bed to steady his own reaction of weakness, of trembling hands. Whatever they had done to his friend was worse than he had imagined. They had been through torture, depravation and pain in their careers. In terrible circumstances, Illya had been forced to make his partner suffer under forced interrogation. Never had there been anything so – so – absent! As if Napoleon was gone. His body had been rescued, but the friend known so well was no more.

RESOLUTION

December 30, 1973

Staring at his friend staring out at the horizon seemed to go on forever. It had already gone on forever, although the space of time was actually only five days. When he had found Napoleon alive he had thought it was the finest Christmas present he could ever ask for – more than he expected. During his lifetime he had seen miracles, seen the fantastic and unexpected happen for bad and good. His life since Thanksgiving – Napoleon's birthday - had been utterly bleak and he was careful not to think about the worst. Nor did he believe in the best possible scenario. He had to keep fighting to hope to recover Solo.

Finding his friend was not everything he expected. There was no change in Solo for these five days. He walked, slept, stared, ate, but did not respond to questions, did not speak, did not show signs of being inside the shell.

Illya knew there were heavens and hells on earth, no need to wait for some unknown afterlife. This was Purgatory. Suspended in a timeless void where there was no progress, not even defeat. Only the nothingness of his friend's blank existence.

Expert scientists from UNCLE HQ in Hong Kong had examined the patient. They had tested him for the notorious Amnesia drug experimented with several years ago. Solo had been a subject in that experimental drug and it had worked – wiping his mind so no interrogators could unlock the secrets inside. Did he take the drug again? Unlikely. As a rule, Solo and Kuryakin refused to carry amnesia or poison tablets. They preferred to rely on luck and UNCLE hypnotic blocks to keep them from spilling vital secrets.

The psychiatrist and chemical specialists had left yesterday. They had done no good. Solo was still unreachable. Locked up in whatever torture chamber lived behind his eyes. It must be at least as bad as Illya's he speculated. Perhaps his friend's torment was worse. At least he had Napoleon here with him. That was a comfort.

Steve's friend, Doctor Bergman, was away for the holidays and had lent them this fabulous beach house outside of Honolulu. The view was amazing – pristine bay, enveloped by white sand beaches, tall flowing palms, blue-blue skies, balmy azure ocean. It was a winter dream. Yet it was still a place of torture for Illya.

Walking out to the dock, he felt incomplete without his shoulder holster. The tropical weather did not lend itself to a jacket, and compensating for the heat and the casual status of their isolation, Kuryakin's Walther .38 Special was tucked in a belt holster secured behind his back. Dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, he ambled along the quay, pausing to study his friend.

Battered, but healing from whatever hells he had endured during captivity, Solo still looked like a shell of his former self. One foot dangling off the dock and into the sea, the other leg, cumbersome with a knee brace, was stretched on the planks. The doctors had surmised Napoleon had escaped Hasan's men soon after his capture weeks ago. Wandering, at some point hooking up with the vagabond hippies, he had been locked inside his mind – healing on the outside, living in his own limbo on the inside.

Illya forced himself to put on a smile as he sat down on the planks. His role was backwards. He was not used to being the chatty, optimistic half of the team. The role was thrust upon him out of necessity. As much as it was uncomfortable, he would do it and more – anything – if it would help unlock whatever horrors awaited behind his friend's bland expression.

"Today is Steve's birthday. He promised to bring over cake." Pause. "Unless you want to go to the party." Wait. No response. "Danny throws him a surprise party every year. I asked how it could be a surprise after so many years, and Steve assured me that his detective was quite clever in his approaches." No reaction. "Perhaps I will give you a surprise party next year." He looked away, unable to stand the blankness. "I had a birthday present for you. It's back in New York. You must recover so we can return home."

He stared out at the line of blue-on-blue horizon. If only this year's surprise on solo's birthday would have been different.

"If only. Two words that stick in the throat edgewise." He drew in a breath, seeing if the reference to Napoleon's kidnapping had an affect. Was that a flinch at the eye? "If only . . . ."

He held his breath. Could reference to the capture and torture be what would break open his friend? Illya had been loath to mention anything about the painful disappearance. He had asked a few questions, as had the specialists, but Solo never reacted. Had personalizing it struck at Solo's heart?

Taking a breath, not flinching at his cruelty, he told himself this was for the good of both of them. Mostly Napoleon, but almost as much for himself. Neither of them could live like this. In fact, at the new year he would be leaving. He had not said so to his friend. Perhaps it was time for a kind of shock therapy no psychiatrist could imagine.

"You disappearance this birthday was not much of a present, Napoleon. Don't do that again. It was quite inconsiderate."

The words were sharper and harsher than he intended. Gritting his teeth, he continued in that vein. "I searched for you. Did you reveal secrets? Is that why you are ashamed to come back?

Whether a reaction to the criticism or because he tired of the beach scene, Solo made the laborious effort to stand. He was stiff, obviously in some pain due to injuries, and awkward from the knee brace. Kuryakin hovered close but did not assist, standing by in case Solo fell, but otherwise allowing the wounded agent to fend for himself.

They made the slow, unsteady transition to the sand. The Russian tensed. A flash of reflected light glinting off metal in the thick banana trees by the road caught his eye. Instinct born of a lifetime of hunting and being hunted alerted him. Within the same split second Solo went rigid.

"Illya!"

A volley of gunshots pelted the beach.

Already moving, Kuryakin did not hesitate or react with anything but what his instincts had already set in motion. The familiar warning, from a tone he had heard hundreds of times, warmed his heart even in the instant of crisis. Falling to the sand, he protectively shielded Solo as he scanned the tree line. Then more shots.

Tangled on the beach, protected by a slight rise in the sand. Solo grabbed the pistol from Illya's holster and tapped it to his shoulder.

"Fire at will."

The voice was hoarse, but so comforting to hear again Illya's throat tightened with emotion. There was no time to question or revel in gratitude. That would come when they were not under a barrage of enemy fire. Drawing in a breath, Illya accepted the weapon and focused on survival. Listening, attuning every intuition of sight, sound and sixth sense, he waited.

The slightest hint of movement in the bushes to the left flickered at the corner of his eye and he shifted to fire. Pumping four shots into the foliage he stopped when he heard the satisfying cry of agony from whoever had been hit. Holding his breath, he listened, waiting.

Solo quickly poked his head up, then dropped down. No one shot at them. Illya scowled at his partner. He had been through too much pain to lose his friend now!

Patting his shoulder, Solo told him, "Go get 'em, tiger."

Sprinting toward the line of shrubbery, Illya sensed the threat had been eliminated, but he was still cautious. A limp hand amid some branches clued him to the assailant, and he retrieved a fallen rifle, then examined the body. It was Hasan. Back from the dead apparently, just as his target Solo. This time the outcome was positive, with Hasan the one being sent to a final resting place instead of an UNCLE agent.

Close sirens echoed from the highway. McGarrett had provided extra patrols in the area as long as Solo was here. For good reason. Assuring again that Hasan was dead, Illya trotted back to the beach. Solo was sitting up, smiling. Grateful for that longed-for, simple status, Illya dropped on his knees next to his friend.

"I don't know whether to punch you or hug you."

Chuckling, an endearing sound so welcome, Illya uncharacteristically embraced his friend. The gratitude and depth of relief was too much to allow expression, so he pulled away quickly, studying the brown eyes that were alive again.

"Where have you been?" he quietly asked, his voice thick and unsteady with incredulity.

"I'm wondering that myself," Napoleon hoarsely replied. "I'm a little afraid of what the answer might be," he admitted with anxiety.

Never liking it when Solo displayed fear or weakness – because that rocked his anchor, his stability – Illya understood the trepidation of his friend. Gripping onto Napoleon's arm, he steadied himself and his partner. This was the wish he had been waiting to see fulfilled since Thanksgiving. His holiday wish that his friend would come back. Completely. There were empty spaces to fill in, but for now what mattered was that Napoleon was with him again.

"Whatever they are, we will find them, moi brat. As we always do."

Biting his lip, then offering a grin, Napoleon gave him a nod. "Together."

"Yes, together."

December 31, 1973

New Year's Eve

The guest suite at the Hilton Hawaiian Village was reserved for exclusive gatherings at the express invite of the management. Steve McGarrett had a standing place for the New Year's Eve ho'olaulea – party – for top viewing of the annual fireworks display over Waikiki. It was a loud function with lots of people drinking, and something the head of five-0 avoided every year.

Just above the party was a conference room with a sweeping lanai that favored a view of the entire beach all the way to Diamond Head. It was here that the Five-0 officers and families had managed their own gathering. After non-alcoholic toasts, McGarrett had rung in the new year with his staff, and Kuryakin and Solo.

After the fireworks and the Kelly and Kokua families departed, Dan and his date left, McGarrett cornered his old spy friend. Napoleon had said little after his odd, zombie-state. He remembered little, yet felt as well as he could with a sprained knee that had received rough treatment during captivity.

"So you don't remember anything from your capture?" he asked for the tenth time. "You don't know how you escaped? What Hasan's men wanted? How Hasan came to be alive when you thought you killed him?" The scrutiny was sharp. "Too many questions."

"I know." Solo shook his head. "I suppose I'm fortunately most of it is fuzzy." He shrugged. "Time and pain blur the unpleasantness. Probably the drugs they gave me."

The cop admitted that was not the kind of debriefing he was used to receiving, but as a friend, he had hoped for more. With the agents, he shared a relief that Solo was back, less damaged than expected and probably lucky not remembering everything he went through. "It's good to have you back anyway. Are you sure you have to leave so soon?"

Kuryakin stepped in. "As you can imagine, the debrief over this affair is awaiting in New York."

It was a defensive movement that McGarrett understood and appreciated. The Russian was looking out for Solo and Steve was glad of that. Everyone needed someone they could trust, particularly in the enforcement profession. He was glad his old friend had someone as staunch and loyal as Illya.

"Sure. And you know you're always welcome back anytime. Maybe even for a vacation," he joked. None of them ever had time for a holiday, unfortunately. He paused and gave Solo a discerning stare. "And if you're ever ready, you can tell me what really happened. I'm just glad there's been a happy ending to this mess."

Nodding, Napoleon accepted that his old NI friend was aware of a cover-up and would wait for the day when Solo was ready to share. "Thanks, Steve," he returned sincerely. He raised his champagne glass. "To happy endings."

HAUOLI MAKAHIKI HOU

January 1, 1974

Waiting for the announcement for their plane to board, Illya returned to their seats by the window, his hands holding two cups of coffee. He placed one on the table but Solo did not notice it. He continued to stare out at the bright blue Honolulu sky. When he turned, his eyes were somber and disconcerting as he studied his partner.

Thankful it was time for the talk they had avoided for days – since Solo completely returned from his mental aberration – Illya breathed a s sigh of relief.

"Are you going to tell me why you lied to Steve?"

A dry, mirthless laugh coughed from Napoleon. His eyes searched Illya's, then he gave a slight tip of a nod. "I don't know if it's good or bad that I can't hide anything from you."

"Good. It will save me from having to force anything out of you."

"That's nice, since torture among friends is so awkward. And it wouldn't do any good anyway."

Somber, Illya replied with measured sadness, "I wish you were joking, but I know you are not." Taking in a deep breath for courage, he requested, "Tell me what happened."

Napoleon did not look away, but held his partner's eyes in a steady gaze. "We have hypnotic blocks and conditioned drug tolerances to keep us from talking. We have the wonderful amnesia pill to blank out everything." He took an uneven gulp of air. "No one else is going to know this, Illya. If the doctors back at HQ found out I'm not sure what they would do."

Unhappy his impressions that the revelation was serious and nasty, Illya flinched at his pessimistic predictions being right. "What happened?"

Quietly, he told the story of his last memories – being wrestled and beaten by Hasan's men at the airport. Knowing his life was about to end, or torture was about to begin, Napoleon consciously determined he would not compromise his agency or his partner.

"I believe some kind of trigger clicked in my head. My mind went on some kind of weird stasis. I was gone. I was nowhere and nothing." He pressed his lips together for a moment, drew in a shallow and unsteady breath, and then finished. "I shut down. Their drugs probably twisted that paranoia even deeper. I was swimming in a nether-world. Then somehow I knew you were about to step into danger and I came out of it from instinct, I guess."

Illya frowned, dread nearly strangling him. As a scientist he knew this was ominous for the mental health of an agent. As a friend it was disastrous. He had been so near to losing Napoleon's life. Then having him absent mentally – which would be nothing more than the walking dead. "If we do not tell the doctors, Napoleon –"

"If we do, they will put me in a lab and I'll never come out again." He gripped onto Illya's arm. "Or I will be bounced out of UNCLE for good." Closing his eyes, he took a moment to gather composure. "But I leave the decision to you." Opening his eyes, he stared at his friend. "If you believe I am more of a danger than an asset, then you have to do what you deem necessary, Illya. Whatever that is."

"The doctors might diagnose the problem so it will never happen again."

But what methods would be employed? Would the testing be worse than the mystery? In this state was Napoleon a danger to himself or anyone else? This type of conditioning would be an asset to a spy. Although UNCLE was an altruistic enforcement agency, they could use this as a tool, but to what affect on Napoleon? As a lab rat? As a commando who could be captured and conditioned to never talk, or even to give disinformation to the enemy?

The fate of his closest friend was in his hands. As it had been for years. One wrong choice would alter their lives forever. And all Illya could see were the negatives of revealing this powerful secret to anyone else. Napoleon kept it from Steve for a reason – even in the hands of a friend this was dangerous knowledge.

If the secret remained between them? The only harm would be if Solo slipped into that altered state again. Would it be permanent? No. He would come back for Illya. Knowing there was danger to his partner brought him out this time, and it would again. That was the trust he held in their link. Nothing could break their bond.

Unable to look at his friend, his throat dry, the back of his eyes burning, Illya whispered, "So much for happy endings."

Napoleon gripped onto Illya's neck in affectionate assurance. "Hasan is really dead. Thanks for that, Dead-Eye. I'm back. I'll never be a threat to UNCLE security. Or you."

"Please do not try to take a Pollyanna attitude, it does not fit you."

Boarding instructions were announced for their flight. Stiffly, Solo came to his feet and balanced on his cane. Illya held onto his elbow.

Napoleon leaned close to whisper in his friend's ear. "Don't be grumpy. We have so much to be thankful for, tovarich."

Illya nodded in agreement. Considering what had happened, what could have happened, and how differently he had expected this affair to end, Napoleon was right. It had been a rough holiday, but they still had so much to be thankful for.

THE END