The midday sun beat down onto the arid landscape of the Mojave Desert, and gave Illya Kuryakin great cause to be grateful for the air conditioning in his car. The four canteens of water on the backseat were also included in that gratitude. He'd recently destroyed a Thrush silver mining operation while, for once, leaving the satrapy intact. His job done, he was heading back to Los Angeles; U.N.C.L.E.'s legal department would work out how to make the mine the legal property of the nearby town.

The road Illya was one was completely empty, and he hadn't seen another vehicle for almost two hours. Therefore, it came as a slight surprise to find an empty car parked at the side of the road, with no sign of a driver. He pulled up in front of it in order to give it a quick inspection. The keys were in the ignition, there was a map on the passenger seat, and there was a faint smell of perfume. Illya could only assume the owner was a woman but, as there was no indication of her, he also assumed she had been offered a ride from another passing motorist. Shrugging to himself, he decided to waste no more time on the issue and resumed his journey.

Illya had travelled on for a further thirty minutes when he became aware of a stumbling figure in the distance. As he got closer, her realised it was a blonde woman, and concluded it must me the driver of the abandoned car. Just as he got to her she fell, face down, onto the ground. Illya quickly stopped his car and raced over to her. She was seemingly unconscious and, under the searing sun, her platinum blonde hair was almost as white as the sheath dress she was wearing. Turning the woman over, he found himself with a quandary.

"Angelique," he breathed.

As a Thrush operative, she was his sworn enemy. However, she was quite important to Napoleon, despite his constant assertions that he was only in it for the sex. Whilst Illya would be happy for her to no longer be in the world, she did a fairly good job of giving Solo a much needed release valve. Admittedly, the man had many women with whom he could release a little tension, but the danger of seducing the enemy always seemed to be much more potent.

Without knowing exactly how he was going to proceed, Illya picked Angelique up and carried her to his car. He placed her in the passenger seat and, before getting back in himself, he retrieved her purse, taking time to remove her gun and anything else which could cause him harm. Once he was back in the vehicle he gently patted her cheek to rouse her. It took a herculean effort for Illya not to slap her hard. Within a few seconds, Angelique came to. For the briefest of moments Illya saw, not a confidant, sexual femme fatale, but a vulnerable young woman. That soon passed when she realised who her rescuer was.

"I'm surprised you didn't leave me to die," she croaked; her throat dry from the desert heat. "Or even just put a bullet in my head."

Illya reached into the back seat for one of the canteens of water, which she immediately grabbed and began to gulp.

"Sip it!" he ordered.

"Why did you rescue me?" Angelique asked, once she'd drank all she needed.

"There is a downside to being the good guy," Illya answered, as he started the engine. "I swore an oath to save those who needed saving."

"But I'm the enemy," the woman pressed. "I would not have thought twice about letting you die."

"That is what makes me better than you," the Russian countered. "Believe me, I would not hesitate to kill you in self-defence, or in the defence of others, but I draw the line at being a common murderer."

"From what I know of your pre-U.N.C.L.E. career, you didn't used to have such qualms."

Illya said nothing for several long seconds, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. With a little imagination he could almost pretend it was Angelique's neck.

"My past is not open for discussion," he growled.

They travelled in an uncomfortable silence for a while until Angelique asked what Illya was planning to do.

"I will drop you off at the first sign of civilisation," he replied, not taking his eyes from the road.

"Aren't you going to 'take me in'?" she purred.

Illya winced at the tone in her voice. For some reason, it made Napoleon melt, but it merely irritated Illya.

"No," he answered simply.

He didn't explain why he wasn't going to hand her over to U.N.C.L.E., mainly because he wasn't sure himself.

"I hope you don't expect thanks,"

"All I ask is that Napoleon never hears of this."

"Fear not, darling," Angelique said, with a slight snarl. "I don't want anyone to know that I accepted help from a runt like you."

I could kick her out right here, Illya thought to himself. I would have nothing to lose. Apart from my self-respect.

There had been a time, long ago, when Illya had been a government appointed murder. It had been a soul-sucking time, which he was glad was in the past. These days, although he occasionally had to kill in the name of duty, he usually tried to find other ways of getting the job done; such as sleep darts.

Sleep darts!

Surreptitiously, while Angelique was watching the landscape go by, Illya fished a dart out of his pocket and plunged it into her thigh.

"You bast..."

Illya smile as she lost consciousness. He would find a hospital or, at the very least, a doctor, and explain he had found her like this.

The following day, having flown from Los Angeles to New York, Illya arrived back at headquarters. He debriefed with Waverly, gave a verbal report, then headed for his office. Napoleon was there when he entered.

"Successful mission, Tovarisch?"

"Practically a milk run," the Russian replied. "Entirely uneventful."

There was the merest inflection in Illya's voice, which told Napoleon a different story. However, the man's expression gave absolutely nothing away. Whatever had happened, it was doubtful Illya would ever tell him.