2005

It was a call he hadn't been expecting, even though it was from a man with whom he was in regular contact. Many years had passed since Illya Kuryakin had thought he'd left the espionage game and, since he was heading for his mid-seventies, was certain he wouldn't be called back.

He was wrong.

There had been a time in the 1980s when he had been active once again, but that had been short-lived. For the last five years Illya had been enjoying a happy retirement, surrounded by the children and grandchildren he had once thought would never have a chance of existing.

Then the call had come from Napoleon. Illya would never, and could never, deny a request from his oldest and closest friend. Theirs was a friendship forged with fire and blood, and both would always be there for the other; no matter what.

Opening his closet, Illya pulled out a black turtleneck. He had never worn this particular garment, other than to try it on, having bought it on a whim some months previously. It was a much larger size than the ones he had worn in his younger days. Thanks to age, being less active, and his still healthy love of food, his waistline had expanded somewhat.

When Illya had initially tried the garment for size, he had been disappointed not to see the baby-faced, slender blond of his thirties. He'd also been assaulted by a thousand memories, some good, others harrowing, so had decided not to wear it again. That resolve had vanished with Napoleon's call. Somehow, the black turtleneck felt right for today.

After putting on the sweater, along with a pair of black trousers, Illya shrugged on his shoulder holster and retrieved his old special from the locked cabinet beneath his bed. He hadn't needed the weapon for many years but, having once been an extremely prevalent secret agent, he never knew when the ghosts of his past would come looking for retribution. Illya doubted he would be using the weapon but, as was his habit back in the day, he had loaded it with sleep darts. It felt almost like a security blanket and gave him a great sense of security to know it was there; tucked under his arm. He covered the holster with a black jacket, over which he added a trench coat; also black.

Illya could feel his old life begin to stir in his soul. Despite the situation he smiled at the recognition of the adrenaline which was already starting to build up in him. For all the danger and pain he'd experienced during his active service, he couldn't deny that he had thoroughly enjoyed it.

Heading downstairs, he was stopped by his son, a near identical copy of Illya, who had no idea of what his father used to be. Even though Nicholas Kuryakin was himself in law enforcement, and knew of U.N.C.L.E.'s existence, he was ignorant to his father's part in it.

"Where are you going, Dad?" the younger Kuryakin asked.

"I'm going to spend the day with Napoleon, Nick."

Nick knew his father's old friend well. He'd even grown up calling him Uncle Napoleon. He knew him to be a harmless old man, albeit with an eye for the ladies. Nick's father and his friend often met up and, although he would normally accept his explanation, there was something about the older man's demeanour which made him wary. He had very much inherited the Kuryakin suspicion gene.

"Will you be back for dinner?"

"I am not sure," the older Kuryakin said. "I'll call if I'm going to be late. Do Svidanye."

The drive to his destination took Illya a little more than 50 minutes, and it was raining when he arrived. Getting out of the car, which involved more creaks and groans than it would have done forty years previously, he pulled his collar up around his ears and went to meet Napoleon. The other man was standing by the grave of Alexander Waverly.

"Why did my hair go white, while yours merely darkened?" the American asked, as he and his friend embraced in greeting.

"You ask me that at least once a week, Napoleon," Illya chuckled. "Now, why are we visiting the Old Man?"

Napoleon smiled at Illya's use of the epithet they used to use for their boss. They were both old men themselves now, yet the term didn't seem to sit with them as well as it had Mr Waverly.

"The microfilm," he stated simply.

Illya nodded in understanding and acknowledgement. Microfilm was an archaic form of data storage in these modern times, but this particular one held information which wasn't stored on anything else.

"It has been taken?" he asked, scanning the gravestone in front of him.

Shortly before his death, Waverly had transferred compromising details of several high-ranking, worldwide officials onto the microfilm, and destroyed all the source documents. Most of the people mentioned in the files had long since passed away, but they had left traces of themselves, and their deeds, throughout many governments. Schemes they had been involved in still held the power to disrupt the lives of millions.

Napoleon had thought that the film should have been destroyed, but Waverly had insisted that it be kept safe. For all it would be highly dangerous in the wrong hands, it was useful for reining in those who sought a more nefarious path.

"No, it's still here," Napoleon said, in reply to Illya's question. "But it looks as though someone has been searching."

The gravestone was simple and unassuming, and made from grey marble. The words engraved onto it said nothing more than a name, the dates of Alexander Waverly's birth and death, and references to his wife, children, and grandchildren. There was nothing to indicate the importance of the man who rested below.

To an untrained eye, the small marks and scratches on the stone looked like any that would happen over time. Illya, however, could tell they were the marks left by someone seeking a secret compartment.

"What do you propose, my friend?"

"Well, I think we need to destroy the film," Napoleon told him. "I wanted to consult you about it first though."

"I agree," Illya replied. "I understand why Waverly wanted it kept, but I believe it now holds more cons than pros."

Leaning down, Illya traced a finger along the gold-painted engraved letters of the word 'beloved'. With a smooth motion, which belied the decades of inactivity, a whole top of the gravestone slid aside, by about three inches. Napoleon reached into the now visible recess and pulled out a small plastic container from within. After removing the coiled microfilm, he took his lighter out of his pocket. Before he could spark it into life, a man stepped from behind a sizeable angel statue.

He was a tall, dark haired man, with slight oriental features. The exquisitely cut navy suit he wore made the ones Napoleon used to wear look 'off-the-peg'. It seemed that spies were paid a lot more these days; especially the bad guys.

"I shall be taking that, gentlemen," he said calmly, indicating the film with his gun. "It took me a long time to discover its location and, after failing to find it, I knew someone would notice my attempts sooner or later. All I had to do was wait."

Napoleon and Illya gave each other a resigned look. Forty years ago, Illya would have risked injury or death by lunging for the man, while Napoleon burned the film. Being in his seventies meant that would never be an option. For all he was fitter than many men of his age, a broken hip was a very real possibility.

"Everything on this film is extremely out-dated," Napoleon told the gunman. "It's useless to anyone."

"If that was indeed the case, you wouldn't have come for it."

Movement behind the man caught the ex-agents' attentions, but long-standing, and ingrained training meant that neither man reacted to who they saw. This was an even more difficult task for Illya, given that it was his son who was sneaking up on their captor, with his own weapon raised.

Unfortunately, Nick was one of the good guys. Of course, Illya was too, but he wouldn't have alerted the gunman to his presence. Nick was trained to give suspects the chance to give up before shooting them. He called out to the man, who began to swing around in an arc. Illya could see that the man would shoot before Nick would have the chance, so drew his special and brought him down with a sleep dart.

"Wow, Tovarisch!" Napoleon exclaimed. "I hadn't realised your reaction times were still so quick."

"He was about to kill my son," Illya replied, with a shrug.

"Care to explain all this, Dad?" Nick asked, gesturing to the scene before him.

"We have some U.N.C.L.E. business to finish," the older Kuryakin explained.

"U.N.C.L.E.? You were never with them."

"They are the reason your Soviet father came to America in the early 60s." Illya told him. "Now, please give us a moment."

Nick waited as Napoleon lit a flame under microfilm and they all watched as it melted away to almost nothing. When it was done, Illya closed up the top of the gravestone once again.

"Now that this is over, we'll have this man reported for being drunk and disorderly, and then we'll all go for lunch," Illya told his son. "Where Napoleon and I will explain a few things to you, and you can tell me why you followed me."

"Be fair, Illya," Solo interjected. "We were in trouble until Nick showed up. Late, last minute rescues must be a Kuryakin family trait."

"If I remember correctly, moy droog (my friend), it was you who was always late. Why do you think I ended up in medical so often?"

"Because your big mouth didn't know when to stop goading torturers."

The two elderly agents made their way out of the cemetery, bickering about times past the whole way. Nick Kuryakin followed behind them, wondering just what his father was about to reveal himself to have been.