The Spies Who Loved Me

by Wickwire

Illya is wounded and has lost his memory, but he is rescued by a young woman.

I was always known as the one who would bring home strays. We now own 2 dogs, 3 cats and a goat. Yes, a goat. It had injured its leg and the farmer could not afford to pay a vet to see to it. I couldn't bear to see it put down, so I brought it home to nurse it back to health. My father was angry at first, but eventually Rocky won his heart too. Besides, we've saved a bit of money on lawn care. Rocky is quite the little grazer.

This wasn't the same, though. This was a man. I found him sitting in the meadow, dazed and confused. There was dried blood from a wound on his head and some kind of seeping wound in his back. He could barely sit up and was speaking a language I did not understand.

I don't know why I chose to bring him back to our motel instead of taking him to a doctor. Perhaps it was the fact that I realized the hole in his back must have been from a bullet. I didn't want to turn him over to the authorities until I could determine what had happened. Perhaps I was curious as to who he was. Perhaps I was drawn to his shaggy blond hair and clear blue eyes. Perhaps I was just crazy.

So, in the face of all that is irrational, I hitched Rocky up to our dog cart, went back to the meadow and wrestled the semi-conscious man into the cart and brought him home.

It was just me now, and Uncle Mike. My father had died the year before and I had inherited his half of the Breezy Motel, a 15 room one story drive up building along Route 66 in southern Missouri. I had no siblings and my mother had died when I was only 10. I'd worked every job in that motel since I was six. I'd even waitressed in the restaurant next door. Uncle Mike, my only living relative, and I, also owned that establishment; Alice's Restaurant, named long before Arlo Guthrie made the name famous.

I ensconced the young man in one of the empty rooms. He was dressed in a pair of black slacks and blood stained white shirt. I managed to slip off his shoes and peel the soaked shirt off and lay him back on the bed. After caring for his various wounds-the head wound and a multitude of cuts and scrapes-I turned him over and looked at the bullet hole. I knew it was beyond me to find the bullet and remove it, but I also knew it had to be done. However, I knew I had an ace up my sleeve in Uncle Mike. He had been a medical corpsman in Korea. I glanced at my watch: 3:15 in the afternoon. After a short debate with myself, I hurried over to the restaurant.

Entering the kitchen through the back door, I saw Uncle Mike up to his elbows in dishwater. He worked quickly, his brows furrowed, glancing over his shoulder frequently. He finally noticed I was present and smiled grimly.

"Joey is late! That's the fourth time in two weeks. I'm gonna fire his ass!"

I ignored his ire and gave him a quick hug. He threatened to fire the hapless Joey two or three times a day.

"Uncle Mike, I need a favor," I began.

He spun and glared at me. "Now is not a good time, Carla!"

"Joan's here, isn't she?"

Joan was one of the two employees that we could afford, Joey, of course, being the other. Neither of our establishments was exactly booming with business. The restaurant was only busy for breakfast and lunch. In the afternoon, we'd be lucky if we had half a dozen customers. Yet, Uncle Mike hated to dump the restaurant all on Joan.

"It's important, Uncle Mike."

Uncle Mike was in his late 30s, ruggedly handsome, with longish dark hair. He looked so much like my father that sometimes it took my breath away. But I needed his help and bit back my grief. He started to speak but the back door banged opened and Joey came in.

Long and lanky and skinny as a rail, Joey looked contrite. "Sorry I'm late," he muttered as he threw on an apron and immediately took over dish duty.

Uncle Mike looked as though he was going light into Joey, but I grabbed his arm and looked at him with desperate eyes. "It's really important."

Uncle Mike hesitated but acquiesced. He took his own apron off and tossed it onto the gun rack next to the door which held his old shotgun. "Don't think we're done here, Joey!"

Joey didn't look worried. Uncle Mike turned to face me. "What's so important?"

I grabbed his arm and lead him to the door. "I need you to get your medical kit."

He stopped and frowned worriedly at me. "Are you all right?"

I brushed off his concern. "I'm fine. I have someone in room one who needs help."

He didn't hesitate. "Go back to the room. I'll be right there." He charged out of the back door and I was right behind him.

XXXXX

I went immediately to room one and let myself in. The wounded man was still on the bed but was sitting up, hunched over in pain. Shirtless as I had left him, he lifted his head slightly and grimaced at the movement. "Kto ty?"

I was suddenly frightened. Those pretty blue eyes were now cold and icy. He stared at me intensely. "Who are you?" the man asked in English.

I squeaked. I actually squeaked in my fear. I cleared my throat and tried again. "My name is Carla. I found you."

He regarded me with narrowed eyes. How could I have ever thought they were attractive? "Where am I?" He demanded.

"You're in the Breezy Motel." He narrowed his eyes even further. "I own it."

That seemed to satisfy him. He rocked a little in pain but said nothing further. I pulled out the chair at the desk in the corner and sat down stiffly, staring at my patient. He did not take his eyes off me but the cold intensity had been replaced with pain and confusion. My fear ebbed a little.

Uncle Mike arrived several minutes later, his duffle in hand. He looked at the man on the bed in alarm and in turn the man jerked upright, reaching for something across his chest. He seemed momentarily confused and dropped his hand, keeping his eyes firmly on Uncle Mike, the wariness making his eyes go cold again.

To his credit, Uncle Mike paused only fractionally before he stepped over to the bed, looking at the clumsy bandaging. I got up and stood next to him, pointing timidly at the man's back.

Uncle Mike set down his duffle bag and sat on the edge of the bed, behind the wounded man. He placed his fingers around the wound, prodding gently. The man tensed even further but allowed the touch.

"This is a gunshot wound," Uncle Mike stated. I had been hoping that I had been wrong somehow, but didn't feel any better at having my diagnosis confirmed.

"Can you help him?" I asked.

Uncle Mike didn't reply to my question. "How'd you get this?" he asked his patient.

The man thought for a moment. "I don't know."

Uncle Mike snorted disbelievingly. "How about the rest of it? Your head wound?"

"I…I don't know."

In that moment, I saw the confusion return and something else: fear.

"This needs to be reported to the police. You need a hospital."

"No."

Uncle Mike stood up in disgust. "I can't help you. You need a hospital."

There was a moment of decision and the man turned on the bed and threw his legs over the edge. He attempted to rise, the movement causing him intense pain. He gasped as he made it only halfway and sat back down heavily.

"I'll go," he said. "Just let me sit here for a minute."

Uncle Mike looked like he wasn't going to allow even that much of a concession to him but he relented as he saw my pleading look.

"Who are you," Uncle Mike asked brusquely. "Why don't you want us to call the police?"

It looked like an effort to think, but the man closed his eyes briefly as he concentrated. He opened them and looked back up at Uncle Mike. "I don't know."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"That is a reasonable assumption. But the truth is I can't remember." He looked distressed but still wary.

Uncle Mike stood, towering over him, considering. "The head wound could have caused that. I've seen guys in Korea that couldn't even remember their own names after an explosion."

"I don't remember my name either," the man stated in wonder and not a little fear.

My heart went out to him. He was still a little scary but he was hurt. He needed my help.

"Please, Uncle Mike," I whispered.

After a moment, Uncle Mike relented. "I know I'm going to regret this." He sat down on the bed again and continued to explore the wound. He looked up in surprise. "I think we might be in luck here. I think the bullet is wedged between two ribs. I think I can do this."

I smiled in happy relief and suddenly the man on the bed gave a quick grin in response. It changed him entirely. He was't so forbidding, so frightening. But in the same instant it was gone. But I didn't mind. He was a stray. A hurt creature who needed my help. If I could save Rocky, surely I could save this man.

XXXXX

The makeshift surgery went well. There was no anesthesia but our patient didn't seem to mind. He withstood the pain stoically, only grunting as the pain got too great. When it was done, and Uncle Mike had wrapped him in gauze, the man lay down on his side. He fell into a deep sleep almost instantly, exhausted from the effort of controlling his pain.

It turned out that Uncle Mike was right. The bullet, a smashed bit of metal, had not penetrated into the thoracic cavity. It had lodged itself as Uncle Mike had surmised, in between two ribs, having struck one rib a glancing blow and sliding to the side. He was extremely lucky. It was the left side of his back and therefore would have gone straight through to the heart. Uncle Mike surmised that it had been a low caliber weapon fired from a distance.

Uncle Mike and I argued once more about calling the police, but in the long run, I won. He was not happy but went along with it.

I left a note on the motel office door to see me in room one in case a customer happened along. I hurriedly cleaned the 3 rooms that were recently emptied and threw a load of towels in the washer. I then camped out in the room with our patient and kept watch over him. I dragged a cot in and made up a bed for myself and tried to get comfortable as evening fell. I didn't turn on any lights and used a flashlight to regularly check on him throughout the night. Uncle Mike came back to check on him once after the restaurant had closed. After Uncle Mike left, the man slept fitfully but did not fully wake. I didn't sleep well myself, lying in the dark listening to his steady breathing and occasional moans.

Alone with myself—I couldn't count the sleeping man—I had time to regret what I had done. This was not a lost dog or cat. He was a man. A man who was obviously in trouble and perhaps dangerous. It was absolute lunacy to take him in. And yet, the fact that he couldn't remember who he was or what had happened to him, made him so vulnerable and helpless.

I eventually decided not to decide. I would wait until morning and see how he was. There would always be time to call the police. With that falsely reassuring thought, I fell asleep.

XXXXX

I was awakened by a knock on the door. I could tell it was early morning by the dim light that permeated the room. I was a little groggy but got up and stumbled to the door and started to open it. Therefore I was startled when the young man appeared beside me and placed his hand over mine on the doorknob.

"Don't let them know I am here," he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. He removed his hand from mine and threw himself behind the door.

I opened the door, my eyes as big as saucers. I must have looked like a crazed person because the man standing there took an involuntary step back as he saw me.

"Uh, I was in room nine. I'm ready to check out?" He waved a hand toward the office. "I saw your note?"

I recovered quickly and gave him a quick smile. "Of course!" I felt for the key in my pocket and slipped out the door. I glanced at the wounded man quickly as I left. He flashed me a reassuring smile. It gave me a feeling of warmth and I smiled in return.

It didn't take long to check the customer out. He had only stayed one night and paid with cash. Credit card purchases took forever—running the carbon paper receipt through the imprinter and calling the bank for approval-and I hated them. Yet they were a sign of the future I was told and I had to accept them.

After the customer left, I went over to the restaurant and fixed a plate for the wounded man. Uncle Mike gave me dark looks but didn't interfere. I carried the tray back and let myself into the room without knocking.

He was waiting for me, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had put the bloody shirt back on that I had removed the day before. He looked apologetic at it but all he said was, "I saw you coming from the window,"

I put the tray on the bed and removed the napkin that covered the tray.

"Good morning," I greeted. "I brought you breakfast." I grabbed the desk chair and dragged it over to the bed. You know, in case he needed help.

He twisted around on the bedside and looked down at the meal. I didn't know what to make for someone who was recovering from a gunshot wound so I think I made everything. Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, oatmeal, orange juice, and coffee. He looked up at me. "I see you must think I'm hungry."

"Oh, is it too much?" I was embarrassed.

"No, no," he responded. "I think I can manage."

He picked up the fork and began eating. Tentatively at first and then more enthusiastically. "This is delicious. Did you cook it?"

"Yes."

"You're a good cook."

"Thank you."

I watched him eat. "Do you remember anything yet?"

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "No." He finished the bite.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

He looked at me and smiled. His smiles were quick, fleeting, almost like you had to watch closely to see them. "Nothing to be sorry about. I don't know my name but I would like to know yours. You know, to know who to thank."

"My name is Carla Olsen."

"Nice to meet you Carla Olsen. Thank you for helping me."

I was going to say my pleasure but it seemed lame. "You're welcome." Not much better. "Since you don't remember your name, we should give you one. I can't keep calling you nothing."

He smiled around a mouthful of food. "Okay. What name?"

I pondered. "I've been thinking about your accent. What is it?"

"Russian," he responded easily and then froze. "I'm from Russia!" He sounded surprised.

Oh, great. He just went from possible criminal to possible Soviet spy.

"Bring back any memories?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, not really. I just know that's where I grew up. I have the feeling I've been living elsewhere for awhile. But I can't remember where."

"Oh." I thought for a moment. "How about Ivan? That's Russian, isn't it?"

Now he laughed openly. "Ivan? As in Ivan the Terrible? Thanks."

I laughed too. "Well, maybe not so terrible. It was the only Russian name I could think of. Would you prefer something else?"

"No, Ivan it is."

I reached over and felt the dried blood on his shirt. "In addition to a new name, you're going to need a new shirt. I'll see what I can find."

When he was done-he had cleaned his plate-I stood up and moved the chair back to its place. "You need to get some sleep. Maybe I can find you a pair of pajamas, too." I picked up the empty tray and left, with a promise to be back with lunch.

XXXXX

Surprisingly, life returned to normal fairly quickly. Ivan turned out to be less trouble than either Uncle Mike or I thought. He spent a few days recovering, spending most of his time in the room, watching TV or reading books he borrowed from me. But one morning he showed up in the office and asked if he could help. I started to tell him no, that I couldn't afford to hire anyone right now, but he waved my protest away.

"Did I say I needed pay? You have paid me already by helping me. I will work for nothing except a bed to sleep in and food."

"I've seen how much you eat," I teased. "You could put us under in no time. Very well, there's lots that needs to be done. Can you do some janitor duties? Are you sure you're well enough?"

He assured me he was and set out to prove it. He started by cleaning the rooms and before I knew it, he had taken over the dishwashing duties at the restaurant, clearing Joey for other jobs. He turned out to be extraordinarily clever and could make repairs on a variety of things for which Uncle Mike used to have to call in a repairman. Whatever odd job needed doing, Ivan did it. In his spare time, he kept up the yardwork. Within two weeks, he was already a fixture at the place: Ivan, the janitor.

I raided dad's closet for clothes for him. I had to hem the pants and the shirts were a size too big but they serviced well. I had felt odd about giving the clothes away. I hadn't had the nerve to even look in my father's closet since he died. But somehow this turned into a cathartic experience, cleaning out his room and giving some of his things to someone who needed them.

We gave Ivan room one to live in. Our motel was rarely filled up. And if it was, it seemed a small disadvantage to have to turn a customer away for lack of vacancy.

Even Uncle Mike seemed to forget Ivan's inauspicious arrival and soon found him good company. I think Uncle Mike missed the camaraderie with my father and Ivan filled a portion of that hole in his life. Ivan was allowed to eat whatever he wanted at the restaurant and sometimes late in the evening, he and Uncle Mike played chess and shot the breeze, while I puttered around and listened to their debates. Ivan was very well read and obviously educated. And like Uncle Mike, had no shortage of opinions. Uncle Mike loved to call him Ivan the Terrible when they disagreed.

For me, he was Ivan the beautiful. He cleaned up nice. I mean his personal appearance. He shaved off the scruff that had grown while he was recuperating. His hair was a little shaggy but it looked sexy. And healthy, Ivan was a marvel to behold. He wasn't very tall but was built compactly and was quite muscular under the loose t shirts that he usually wore. His eyes held the most fascination for me. They were the most expressive things about his face. I could tell when he was amused or angry without a change in his expression just by the look in his eyes.

His free time was not completely taken up by Uncle Mike. We managed a few evening strolls and conversations while he worked. He was quiet, sometimes intense and old-country polite. I could tell he liked me and I sure liked him.

But standing in the way was the mystery of who and what he was.

XXXXX

I heard the hanging door chime before I saw the customer. I looked up and was greeted by a very handsome man who entered the office, looking rather tired. He was impeccably dressed, in a suit that looked tailored just for him.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?"

He gazed around the office lobby, at its shabby but serviceable furniture and the old paintings on the wall. I had the strange feeling I'd seen Ivan do exactly the same thing: enter a room and scan it completely in one glance as if looking for danger.

"Yes, please. I'd like a room. Just one night."

"Certainly." I pulled the ledger from under the counter and searched for a room. It wasn't that hard. There weren't that many guests. "I have a room near the restaurant or a quieter one further away."

He looked at me gratefully. "The quiet room would be wonderful," he said with feeling.

"Your name?"

"Napoleon Solo," he responded around a yawn.

After a quick double-take at the unusual name, I wrote his name in the ledger and turned the book around for his signature. I reached into the drawer and pulled out the key to room two. I handed it to him and he flashed me a smile, easy and flirtatious.

"I tell you what," I said impulsively. "Let me bring you a tray from the restaurant. The special is meat loaf and mashed potatoes."

"Thank you," he said. "I'd really appreciate it. It's been a long rough day."

"Oh?" He did look distressed despite the smile.

"Yes, I lost a good friend. I just found out he died. It was kind of tough."

"Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. You have my deepest sympathies."

"Thank you,..." he paused for my name.

Blushing, I provided him with it. "My name is Carla Olsen."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Olsen. You have been very kind." He bowed slightly, turned and left the office.

I stared after him in fascination. With his style and panache he was as alien as Ivan in this part of Missouri. My heart went out to him in his loss, my own grief a not so distant memory.

The back door opened and Ivan came in, carrying an armload of towels. "Hello, Carla." He handed me the stack. "You left these in the dryer. I folded them."

I grinned at him. "You spoil me."

He smiled laconically. "It's only towels."

"No, it's five minutes back into my life." I put the towels in the storage closet behind the counter. Coming back out, I saw Ivan leaning his elbows on the counter, chin propped in his hands.

"So, what are you going to do with that 5 minutes?"

"Well, right now I'm going to bring dinner to the man who just checked into room two."

His interest piqued. "You don't usually do room service here. He must be quite the looker," he teased.

"None of your business," I said playfully. "Can you mind the office for me while I get his dinner?"

"I can get it."

"No," I said hurriedly. "I'd rather do it myself."

Ivan grinned in triumph. "Ah, definitely good looking." He moved around the counter, easing aside to let me pass. "When you're done, come back and we'll discuss that five minutes," he called after me.

XXXXX

I knocked on the door but there was no answer. I knocked again and was just about ready to put the tray on the ground in front of the door, when it swung open to reveal Mr. Solo. His hair was wet and tossled and he wore only a pair of slacks. He was barefoot.

"Oh! I brought you your dinner," I stammered.

He took the tray from me. "Thank you, Miss Olsen. I was in the shower. I didn't hear your knock at first."

"That's okay."

"I can't thank you enough. Uh, wait and I'll get a tip." He turned back into the room.

"No tip necessary. Just doing a favor for someone who needed it."

He turned back around and gazed at me thoughtfully, gauging my words. "Then I especially thank you. You are a very kind person." He smiled that flirty smile, his brown eyes crinkling.

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Solo."

"Napoleon, please."

"In that case, call me Carla."

"That's a deal, Carla."

"Have a good evening," I said and turned away. I heard the door close behind me.

Nice man, I thought. A very nice man. I thought about him all the way back to the office and the sight of Ivan wiped all those thoughts away.

XXXXX

My five extra minutes were spent down by the creek, a rocky trickle that meandered several hundred yards in back of the motel. There was a well-worn path through the woods to a small pool that was used as a swimming hole by local inhabitants. There was no one there right now and Ivan and I quickly doffed shoes and socks and sat down on the log that balanced precariously over the pool and dangled our feet in the icy water.

"So tell me about the looker in room two," Ivan asked teasingly.

"Nothing to tell," I said. "He had a friend-who died. He seemed sad."

"Oh."

"I felt sorry for him."

"You tend to do that a lot." He splashed a little water on my ankle.

"Ivan! Stop!" I laughed. "What do I do a lot?"

"You have a big heart. You take in strays." He indicated himself.

"Oh, you're different," I assured him.

"Why? Because I have no memory? Or I was shot by someone?"

I considered his words. The answer was yes, but it was also no. He was different because he was Ivan the Beautiful. I knew I was rapidly developing a crush on him. But he didn't need to know that. "You're different because you're a good man."

He gazed at me thoughtfully. His eyes took on that heavy-lidded serious look he frequently got. "How do you know that?"

"What?"

"How do you know I'm a good man. You don't know me. I don't even know me. How do you know I'm not a bad man. I was involved in a shooting, after all."

"I just know," I blurted. I thought about it a moment looking at his frustrated eyes. "I know because of what you've done for us. You didn't need to help us as much as you have. You could have taken off after you got better. Instead, you volunteered to take on so much of the help around here. Bad men don't volunteer."

He laughed aloud at that. "I'll have to remember that for future reference."

"You know what I mean. You've been so good to us. You work so hard. You've been good for Uncle Mike. He hasn't had a friend since Dad died."

"What about you?"

"What about me?

"Have I been good for you?"

Startled, I turned my head to look at him and was met by a pair of soft lips.

The kiss was gentle, brief and sure. He pulled back. "Carla, I owe you everything."

My eyes widened. "No, you don't"

He placed a finger under my chin guiding my face upwards. "Yes. I do."

We gazed at each other for several moments before Ivan turned his head aside.

"I think we've used up your five minutes and then some." He grabbed my hand and stood up on the shaky log, pulling me up beside him. "We need to go back. Joey will need help with the dishes."

Joey could kiss my ass, I thought dizzily as Ivan helped me off the log. We picked up our shoes and socks and he lead me onto the path toward the motel & restaurant and I followed obediently, confused and flushed with excitement.

XXXXX

Since it was a Friday night, the restaurant was busier than usual and Ivan was put to work in the kitchen. The motel kept me busy, cleaning rooms, checking in travelers, seeing to problems. I went through it all in a daze. I felt like a school girl instead of the 25 year old woman I was. I couldn't wait to see Ivan again and yet I was a little frightened.

Ivan was right about one thing. I did know nothing about him. The feelings of fear I had felt when I first encountered him kept bubbling to the surface. Who was he? Where had he come from? What had he done to incur a bullet in the back? Was he really a good man? These were all questions that couldn't be answered.

I had just received a call from room three for more towels and I grabbed several and headed down the parking lot to the far end of the motel. Dusk was falling rapidly and the hot muggy summer air seemed to vibrate around me with the sounds of night: cicadas, crickets, the occasional dog barking. I was lost in thought and was therefore startled to see Mr. Solo standing in front of his door, smoking a cigarette. He noticed me and walked over.

"Hi, Carla," he greeted, taking a last drag of the cigarette, then tossing it to the ground and grinding it with the toe of his shoe.

"Oh, Napoleon! You startled me."

"Sorry, didn't mean to. Couldn't sleep." He looked at the towels in my arms and raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, room three needs these. Hang on." I knocked on the door and handed the towels to the guests when they answered. Turning back to Napoleon, I could clearly see the misery in his eyes, even in the fading light.

"Why don't you go over to the restaurant and get some dessert. Uncle Mike made cherry pie today. It's really pretty good."

He shook his head. "No, I'd rather not inflict myself on other people in the mood I'm in."

We had automatically started walking down the pavement of the parking lot, away from his room. He was wearing dark slacks and a white shirt with no jacket. He still looked sharp.

"I understand. It's hard to think of someone being alive one moment and gone the next. Like it's not real."

He nodded. "Exactly."

"When Dad died I found that it helped to talk about him. What was your friend like?"

He half laughed. "Stubborn, argumentative and sarcastic. He was my best friend."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Well, of course. He sounds charming."

He also laughed. "Well, actually he could be. He was a complicated individual." A pause. "He was my partner."

"Partner?"

"Uh, we worked for a novelty company. We traveled a lot. You get to know someone after miles spent on the road."

"I would assume."

"All said and done, he was a good man."

I thought of Ivan.

Napoleon continued, not waiting for me to respond. "Illya was smart. He was brave. We worked well together."

We continued our aimless stroll, neither speaking. I could feel his sorrow and felt I needed to stay with him to share his pain. It was hard enough for me, but men sometimes bottled things up. He needed my help. That thought brought me back to Ivan. He was right. I needed to help people. I needed to rescue.

"When's the funeral?"

He seemed startled. "I don't know. Soon, I guess." He shook his head as if to clear it. "I don't know if I can stand to go."

"You need to go. He was your best friend. I know it's hard but being a friend is hard. Think of it as the last thing you'll do for him."

"You're right. What was I thinking?"

"You're not. It's too much."

He looked at me with renewed interest. "You're pretty smart."

We had made it to the restaurant. I could hear the rattle of dishes from the kitchen.

"Thank you, Carla." He bent his head forward and kissed me, soft, lingering and searching.

When he pulled away I was a little breathless, still tasting the faint residue of tobacco.

"You are a rare person." He placed his hand on my cheek and smiled. "All of a sudden that pie sounds pretty good." He held out his hand in clear invitation.

I was about to decline his invitation, my mind a swirl of chaos. His kiss had been delightful, but he was not Ivan. I couldn't betray Ivan. "Napoleon, I…."

Suddenly a car slewed off the highway in a screech of tires. Napoleon grabbed me and pulled me aside, barely avoiding being hit by the vehicle. "What the—" he yelled. He held me close to him, putting his body between me and the car. He made an automatic move with his other arm across his chest, like Ivan had done that first day. What the-indeed.

Two men emerged from the car, both armed and holding their weapons in front of them, pointing them straight at us. They were nondescript men, wearing khaki colored overalls resembling uniforms, including a patch on their shoulders. They advanced toward us, one of them sneering maliciously.

"I told them it was you I saw, Solo," the man taunted. "I was right."

Napoleon suddenly seemed to go calm. "Ah, Thrush. I should have known by your lousy driving."

Neither man reacted to Napoleon's taunt. Somewhere in my mind I was screaming 'don't make them mad,' which was stupid considering the situation we were already in.

"You were nosing into our business in Joplin. I saw you drive off in one of our cars. Should have gotten rid of it. We traced it here."

"I won't make that mistake next time," he said calmly. "Thanks for the tip."

"In the car," the man ordered. "The girl, too."

"She has nothing to do with this. I was only looking for my partner."

"That scum is dead!"

That made Napoleon tense. His eyes hardened and I could feel his anger.

From behind us, a voice rang out. "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated!"

We all turned to see Ivan standing at the kitchen door, Uncle Mike's shotgun aimed straight at the two villains. He stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the pool of light from the streetlamp, his eyes as cold as steel. "Hello, Napoleon," he greeted.

Napoleon was no longer calm. He gaped at Ivan, his face frozen in shock. "Illya?" I knew my own face could have looked no less astonished.

The villain who had spoken was also frozen, anger warring with surprise as his gun wavered between us and Ivan. "You were dead!" he yelled. "I saw it!"

Ivan snorted condescendingly. "You people never check. I was pretending, you idiot. I waited until you were gone and escaped." Another step closer. "Although that bullet someone put it my back while I was running away should have alerted you that I wasn't dead."

"That was you?" the man said in frustration. "They said it was someone else." He was almost whining now.

"Drop your weapons," Ivan demanded. "Or I will be sure to make sure you are dead if you don't."

The two men dropped their guns.

Napoleon stepped forward and kicked the guns away. He frisked the driver and came up with the keys to the car. He held them up and grinned at Ivan. He walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. "In you go," he invited.

The two men looked hesitant until they heard Ivan re-cock the shotgun. They obediently moved around to the back of the car and crawled in. Napoleon closed the trunk.

He turned immediately to Ivan. He was grinning. "I thought you were dead, too."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, I'm not disappointed. It would have meant an awful lot of paperwork." He stood there grinning foolishly.

"Ivan?" I said hestitantly.

Both men turned toward me as if suddenly becoming aware of me. Ivan had lowered the shotgun and now he handed it to Napoleon. He looked at his friend with a slight frown, who stared at him with questioning eyes. "I suffered from amnesia after I escaped. I don't know how it happened. I must have hit my head when I fell. Carla found me wandering around. She rescued me. I didn't remember anything until I saw you almost killed by the car. It all came rushing back,"

He now turned to me. His face softened and he took my hand. "My name is Illya Kuryakin."

"Oh."

"You were not too far off with Ivan." And he smiled.

Without a word, Napoleon turned and headed to the restaurant, leaving us standing in the glaring streetlight in the parking lot. I was in several layers of shock. Starting with the violence of the car nearly killing me to the revelation of Ivan's real name. I could only stare at him.

"Why do I feel I should apologize?"

"No, Ivan! I mean, Illya. I'm just in shock, that's all."

"I was getting occasional flashbacks of memory. Nothing that made any sense. Much of it violent. I didn't say anything because I was afraid of who I really was. When I heard the car hit the gravel, I looked out the window and saw Napoleon. It all came back. Everything. I was right not to say anything about the flashes of memory. I am a violent person."

"No."

"Yes, I am. I am a spy. I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Napoleon Solo, the man who rescued you from the car, is my partner."

"I know."

"Oh."

I pulled my hand nervously out of his grasp. "He was very upset when he thought you were dead."

"We're good friends."

I felt bereft. I knew this was the end of my little fantasy. My stray had been found. I finally looked up into his face. "I'm glad you got your memory back."

"Carla," he began, but I shook my head, forcing a smile to my face.

"I knew you were a good man." I leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. With a final wan smile, I turned and walked away before he could see my tears.

Behind me I heard a dull banging and then a sharp rap on metal, followed by Illya's voice, "Shut up in there!"

XXXXX

They were both gone by morning. Illya had placed cash on the counter for Napoleon's room. He left the motel master key with it. There was a note beside the key: 'Keep picking up strays. Love, Ivan.'