The sky was clear and beautiful, the sun was shining, the assignment had been fulfilled and Napoleon Solo was in a very good mood, until he entered the office he shared with his partner. The blond Russian didn't raise his head. He was apparently engrossed in reading, bent over an old book.

"Illya?"

His friend smiled and pointed his finger at him.

"It's fascinating. Listen:"...a sett of two base colors produces three different colors, including one mixture...""

Napoleon Solo tilted his head on the right, staring at his friend inquiringly. Illya Kuryakin was obviously enjoying himself.

"You see, the total number of colors, including mixture, increases with the number of base colors. It's exponential!"

"Exponential? Yes, of course. That's great, but..."

The Russian frowned, rolling his eyes and eventually sighing.

"That's simple, Napoleon: a sett of six base colors produces fifteen mixtures and a total of twenty-one diffent colors! Oh... Mr Waverly is waiting for us. Let's go."

The old book disappeared in a drawer. The two men headed to the Section 1, Number 1's office, keeping silent. Napoleon Solo couldn't help peeping at his friend. Lost in thought, Illya Kuryakin was probably concentrating himself on his colors and mixtures. Explosive? Drug? Or worse... a new design for their office?

The Old Man's office, usually tidy, was amazingly cluttered with strange bags, and cardboard boxes. Alexander Waverly motioned his agents to sit down, and turned to the Russian.

"Mr Kuryakin, what about the colors?"

Napoleon Solo felt he was wide of the mark, and promised himself he would thank his partner about that. The two others were ignoring him.

"I've found some interesting pieces of information, sir. Each thread in the warp crosses each thread in the weft, at right angles. Two threads of the same color crossing produce a solid color. Two threads of different colors produce an equal mixture of the two colors."

Thread? Napoleon Solo was losing it, as far as he even got it. Where they talking about curtains? Alexander Waverly nodded.

"So, it's about patterns..."

"Yes, sir. The sequence of threads..." The Russian turned to his partner, with a mischievously gentle smile. "This sequence is known as the sett, Napoleon."

The dark haired man pinched a smile in return, looking daggers at the "innocent" blue eyes.

" The sett starts at an edge, and either repeats or reverses on pivot points, creating pattern, horizontally or vertically." Illya Kuryakin paused, getting a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "And there are stories about the meaning of the colors, as well. Red didn't show the blood, blue for the lakes, rivers, sea, green for the forest... It's a code, sir. Colors, patterns... That's the way they communicate."

Napoleon Solo rubbed his chin, and bent forward.

"Please, would you tell me what you're talking about?"

Alexander Waverly raised an eyebrow, peeping at the Russian agent with a strange look. The dark haired man didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. Those knowing gazes, the obvious conniving attitude...

"Important and highly confidential files have been brought to our Thrush friends' attention, Mr Solo. We managed to handle the situation, but we must put an end to the leaks. As you were on an assignment in Japan, I asked Mr Kuryakin to investigate. Mr Kuryakin?"

Illya Kuryakin displayed his "modest-innocent" look, his blue eyes bearing unflinchingly Napoleon Solo's piercing glare.

"There is an important meeting, this evening, Napoleon. We'll have to attend it. Here are..." He pointed at the bags and the carboard boxes. "Here are our suits. This..." He picked up a big bag and handed it. "This is yours..."

Alexander Waverly stood up.

"Gentlemen, I have lunch with the governor. I'll see you tomorrow." And he left, waving his hand. Napoleon could have sworn he had heard him giggling.

The dark haired man looked at the bag warily.

"What's this?"

"All you've to do is to open the bag. I hope you'll like the colors... I hesitated, and finally I chose Stewart. Mine... mine is MacCallum."

Stewart? MacCallum? That sounded...

"What the hell... Illya, that's... that's..."

"A kilt, my friend, a beautiful Stewart clan kilt. Look at the sett..."

"Illya!"

"Mine... mine is MacCallum, blue and green... The others bags are for our white shirts, our jackets... In the boxes, we've our woollen socks, our sporrans, Ghillie brogues, kilt spin... And, of course, the sgian dubh, the black knife. This evening, Napoleon, we'll attend a Scottish Meeting."

Napoleon Solo rubbed brushed thoughtfully the soft cloth.

"Illya?"

The Russian, whose kilt matched perfectly his eyes, turned to his friend.

"Yes?"

"I am just saying, but... what about the underwear?"

Illya Kuryakin stared wide-eyed at him.

"Underwear?"

"Yes, partner mine. You know, about Scotsmen, kilts, and underwear..."

The Russian rolled his eyes.

"Napoleon, underwear may or may not be worn, as the man prefers."

They chuckled, but Illya Kuryakin grabbed his partner's shoulder.

"Though... Though a "true Scotsman" should wear nothing under his kilt..."

"But we're not Scotsmen, Illya."

"But we never do things by halves, Napoleon."