Font of Life Part 3

by Rosywonder

At Napoleon's wedding, things do not go to plan, and Illya is plunged into the darkest night of his soul. Can he recover to execute Napoleon's plan and prevent the evil ambitions of Ms Bolt being realised?

CHAPTER 9

A loud, insistent ringing on the front door bell woke them. Illya could feel Therese wedged into his back, a thick lock of her hair hanging over his shoulder and onto his chest, like a soft brown silk skein.

'What time is it?' her muffled voice spoke into his back. He peered at his watch and groaned. He could have sworn that he had informed the desk that he would be in late this morning; perhaps Napoleon hadn't got the message, and would then expect to be given breakfast, of course. He reluctantly shuffled off the bed and grabbed his dressing gown from the armchair in the corner of the room.

'Stay there. For once in my life, I thought we might have a lie-in, but as usual it is not to be' he said gloomily, wrapping the gown round himself and heading downstairs.

The ringing started again, causing Illya to frown with the jarring it made in the quiet house. Fernando? He was staying at UNCLE while the induction was taking place. Frankie? At this time? He pressed the button near the little screen by the door and stared. A woman's blonde head was turned away from him, looking down the street. He thought he recognised it from somewhere, work perhaps. Then she turned to face him. Jordan Lawrence stared into the screen, her sharp features framed as she listened to his voice.

'Jordan.'

'Hello Mr Kuryakin. Mr Waverly sent me. You know. To guard your wife?'.

She followed him down the corridor and down the stairs to the kitchen, her heels making a staccato noise on the tiled floors of the basement rooms. Illya felt slightly self-conscious, but she didn't seem to have even noticed what he was wearing, seeming more interested in gazing round the kitchen at the pictures and photographs covering the walls.

'I'm sorry I disturbed you like this' she said at last, giving him a rather dismissive glance, 'but I thought I should start as soon as possible'. Illya opened his mouth to reply, but before he could summon what to say, Therese entered the room. She had on the same fluffy bunny gown she wore in the winter; she had somehow anchored her hair on top of her head with a clip, making her look extremely desirable, he decided.

'Oh, Tess, this is Jordan Lawrence. You remember her from the party? Apparently she's been appointed to er, . .'

'Guard me. I'm sorry, Jordan, you seem to have drawn the short straw then' Therese replied, smiling.

She certainly did remember her. She was the hard-faced blonde with that smug agent who tried to get off with her. Therese sighed inwardly. Perhaps she'd be nicer when she got to know her better. She wiped the sleep out of her eyes, looking at her husband standing silently facing her. She had bought him the dressing gown he was wearing, intending it for Christmas, until she found that he didn't appear to have another one, apart from the lovely silk one she'd bought him when they got married. She fought back the rather sudden desire she had to go over and untie it, Jordan or no Jordan. Rather depressingly, she realised that she would have to control these sudden impulses while her 'guard' was in the house.

Squeezing Illya's arm as she went past, Therese picked up the kettle and started to fill it.

'Well, do you want to unpack now, or have breakfast first?' she asked.

'I don't do breakfast' came the rather severe reply. 'Or I sometimes have vegetable juice if you have it'. Therese tried not to look in Illya's direction. She swallowed hard. 'Oh, one of Illya's favourites' she replied lightly, avoiding a dig coming in her direction. 'I can easily make you both some, no problem'. Illya could almost see through the door of the larder, where he knew she had the muffins she had made yesterday, stored.

'Can't wait' he said, darkly.

Xxxxxxxx

'I reckon she fancies you' Jo decided, as she dodged a crab wedged into the ridged wet sand which the sea had left as it retreated into the distance.

'Josefina, you have a vivid imagination' her sister replied, shoving her arm into her sister's, and striding along the beach, the wind blowing her hair back in a straight line behind her. 'Well, then she fancies him'. They looked behind them, heads close together, at the two figures walking close together twenty yards behind.

'And to think that they said I had no sense of humour' Illya Kuryakin murmured to his partner, as they struggled to maintain distance with the women ahead of them . 'After all', he continued, 'I've had to live with Miss Fitness 1966 for the past seven weeks'.

Christmas had been somewhat overshadowed by the preparations for the wedding, but also, Napoleon thought, by the rather darker prospect of the danger to Therese. He looked at the Russian as he walked beside him on the beach. For him, he thought, there had been no holiday, no season of goodwill. He could detect the tension that lay like a knife across these last days that they had spent together in England. Kuryakin was very skilled in appearing relaxed, but the rather drawn expression, the constantly darting eyes, were themselves a giveaway to the thoughts and fears beneath.

Therese, on the other hand, appeared perfectly calm, and Napoleon had witnessed her constant attempts to jolly things up, and distract her husband from his worst nightmares.

'Don't forget he's Russian; he has a large capacity for melancholia' she had whispered to Napoleon as they sat opening presents together in her parent's large and comfortable sitting room on Christmas Day.

Therese had entertained them at length with stories of Jordan, mainly when everybody else, including Jordan, had gone to bed, and there were just the four of them left, or they had gone out together to Liverpool for the night.

'It's not very Christian of me to criticise her' Therese had begun, 'but it's hard to live under a constant feeling of disapproval all the time. She looks down her nose at the way I dress, my hair, the house, music, marriage; you name it, she disapproves of it'. Illya nodded in agreement. It had been very difficult at times to tolerate her, but they had put up with it. Therese had not told Illya of some of the discussions about him they had had. Jordan had not openly criticised him, but Therese had the feeling that there was some innate prejudice that she held against him.

'Perhaps it's just that he's a man' she said, kicking the sand with her boot as they continued to walk along the beach opposite their parent's home.

The wedding was set for one of the days between Christmas and New Year. Illya had to be back in New York for the New Year, so these days were precious, to be enjoyed and celebrated. They had avoided the preparations that Napoleon, Jo and her mother were embroiled in, and had spent the time together, escaping from Jordan into Liverpool, to the shops, to football, even to hear 'the Mersey sound' at the Cavern one night. As they crammed into the tiny night club, Therese could hear the familiar voice at her side asking her 'just who are Gerry and the Pacemakers? I thought that was something cardiac surgeons used in heart surgery'. In the intense, dark atmosphere, she was acutely conscious of him; the strength of his arms round her; his hair glowing in the darkness like a soft beacon.

Napoleon and Jo had picked the latest time possible in the day to get married in church, with the guests clearly instructed to wear evening dress. It was dark by the time the guests reached the church and Therese thought there was something magical about the Christmas decorations, candles and tiny lights that lit up the church to welcome them.

'It's a little bit like a set from one of those Christmas films' Therese whispered into Illya's ear from the row behind, as he sat next to Napoleon, waiting for the bride to appear. He turned to look at her. There was no possibility of Therese being a bridesmaid now, he thought. Although from the back she looked perfectly normal, she was now unmistakeably pregnant. She was wearing a stunningly beautiful dark blue velvet dress with a soft silk stole wrapped round her shoulders, and her hair had been styled into a very glamorous chignon, the copper lights running through the interwoven strands like wire.

'Wait for me at the reception if we get separated' he whispered. As he turned back, he caught a glimpse of Jordan, sitting at the back of the church. She seemed to stick out from the rest of the guests, eagerly chatting or looking over to see who else was present. In a moment of cynicism a few days previously, he had contacted someone in Headquarters and asked them to make some more searching enquiries into her background. They hadn't got back to him, and he now felt rather foolish about it; as if there could possibly be a threat from the rather brittle, but efficient agent sitting behind them.

He felt a slight nudge on his arm and turned towards his partner.

'Got the ring, comrade?' Napoleon whispered, giving Illya a cursory glance. Illya glanced down at himself and briefly touched his hair. Strangely, he felt more nervous being this man's best man than he had on his own wedding day. On the contrary, the man sitting next to him looked the essence of calmness; immaculate, with every hair, Illya imagined, standing to attention as if it didn't dare be out of place.

'Of course' he replied, feeling the ring between his fingers, and his own wedding ring securely in place, as if to reassure him that whatever he looked like, he knew he was loved.

Jo's wedding dress was made of a thick slub silk with a lovely stand up neckline, long sleeves and an integral train. She wore a beautiful tiara with a short veil, showing the short slick hairstyle beneath. Therese thought they looked like a couple out of a New York fashion magazine, but her gaze inevitably drifted to the side, to the Russian, standing quietly as the vows were made.

'To have and to hold, from this day forward

For better, for worse

For richer, for poorer

In sickness and in health,

Forsaking all others

Till death us do part.

Suddenly, an almost unbearable sense of panic seized her, making her lean forward, clutching the top of the chair in front. Nobody else in the church seemed to have noticed, and Therese leaned back again, the baby suddenly making a lurching movement within her that made her take a deep breath. She glanced round behind her and noticed that Jordan had disappeared from the seat she had taken at the back of church. Therese turned back again to see that Illya was looking at her now, a worried look on his face, the look that she'd noticed becoming all too common in the last six or so weeks. She signalled with her eyes that the 'guard' had moved, but he appeared perplexed by her expression. She glanced round again. To her surprise, Jordan was again sitting in exactly the place she had been stationed in, since the service began.

The Reception was held in a rather large and elegant hotel which, normally busy in the golf season during the summer, was only too glad to receive a booking during a less busy winter. It was to be a formal occasion; a dinner, followed by an evening dance to an excellent large band and singer which Valentine McCaffery had managed to find. Therese felt that a little of New York had suddenly plonked itself stylishly down in this quiet part of an English northern county. The hand of Josephine ensured that everything ran smoothly, from the exquisite meal, to the witty speeches, and then on to the stylish dancing of the couples on the floor. A number of UNCLE agents, including Waverly himself, with his wife, had winged their way across the Atlantic for the occasion; Napoleon's parents and other, more distant relatives that Therese was less certain about, whirled past her on the dance floor. She took to the floor a couple of times with Fernando; now, so Illya had told her, accepted into the ranks, and waiting to go to survival school in the new year, and with her father, who, without spelling it out, gave her to understand that he knew there was something troubling her.

Finally, he came up behind her on the dance floor, relieving her from the arms of a large Irish cousin, who was struggling with the concept that this was a dinner and dance, and not a Ceilidh.

'Where've you been?' she whispered into his ear, pressing herself up to him.

'Oh, best man duties. Apparently, there was some problem with the train down to London, but I've managed to sort it out now' Illya replied. He jumped backwards imperceptibly as they danced. 'Um. I think our daughter is having her first dance too' he murmured, as the baby began to move again.

'Oh, so it's a girl then?' she whispered back.

As Napoleon and Jo got into the taxi, he drew Illya aside.

'You contact me if there are any problems, you understand' he murmured, his hand on Illya's arm.

'On your honeymoon? I don't think I'm going to be Russian of the Month in Mrs Solo's estimation if I do that, do you?' Illya replied, a sardonic smile on his lips. Napoleon was momentarily surprised by Illya's reference. 'Mrs Solo' sounded good. He put that out of his mind, and returned to the other, less pleasant subject on their minds.

'She'll forgive you. Eventually. Just do it, OK?' he urged, looking at Kuryakin, as he stood by the car. Sometimes, he thought, he just didn't look old enough to be married, let alone the rest of it. Illya stood in the road outside the hotel, and watched the taillights of the car fading away; he prayed that that communication was going to be one he wasn't going to have to make.

He turned back and walked towards the hotel, suddenly realising that Therese had not been there to see them off. He shrugged his shoulders and ran back in, shuddering a little bit at the sea breeze blowing in across the road from the beach. The party was still in full swing, the band now playing a selection of Sinatra songs that he recognised, thanks to Therese. A drink was thrust into his hand by Fernando, who was standing at the bar, chatting up some dark haired girl in a deep red satin dress. He couldn't help but smile at the radical change in his appearance; the dirty sandals, t-shirt and cut-offs and the unruly pony tail had been exchanged for an extremely well-fitting tuxedo and a short, bordering on severe haircut, which had left the top of his head a mass of tiny curls.

'Have you seen Tess?' he asked, interrupting them with a nod to the girl, who gave him a winning smile.

'As a matter of fact, I haven't' Fernando replied, wrinkling his brow. The girl, who Illya now remembered, worked in the London office and was called Daphne, also looked as if she was thinking about it.

'Is that your wife, gorgeous blue dress, piled-up hair, very beautiful, very pregnant?' she said, looking slightly worried.

'Yes, that's her' Illya said, impressed by the description.

'Illya, she went off with that blonde agent, in the black dress. I thought it was a bit odd, because they both had coats on, as if they were going somewhere else for the evening'.

Illya froze. He could almost hear his heart beating faster, thumping through his chest. He was conscious of the party continuing round him, but himself frozen in the middle of it. As if to compound his panic, his communicator began to sound.

'Illya? Bill here. You wanted to know about that Lawrence girl?' Before he could reply, the agent had rushed on. 'I think you should speak to Waverly immediately, Illya, and get your wife where you can see her. I don't know how you knew, but some very worrying background information has come through about this girl. God knows how it was hidden, but there you go. Illya? Are you there? Illya?'.

Xxxxxxxx

On their last day, Napoleon decided to make contact. Although the 'Bolt thing' as they had called it on occasion, rumbled on in the back of his head on most days, Napoleon had to admit that it had got shoved down in the department of his mind where UNCLE matters resided, while he concentrated on every aspect of what he imagined being married was all about. The two weeks they had spent together had rushed past in a glorious sequence of long, delicious meals, visits to innumerable interesting places which, for Napoleon served to provide the backdrop for just being with her, talking to her, sharing time together, and long, intense nights of passionate lovemaking. Past affairs, however exciting, seemed to stand as pale shadows to his present experience; Jo felt like a drug that he willingly swallowed, and that he now found himself totally, wonderfully, addicted to.

Occasionally he would lie awake in the dead hours of the night and think of his partner. The irony of marrying sisters was rather sweet, he decided, binding them together somehow in a new way; work, friendship, now family, all linking to form one inseparable and permanent bond. He imagined that nothing could have happened, and as the days went by, he was reassured by the silence, to a point. He remembered his horror at the thought of Kuryakin reporting about the island on his honeymoon, and felt the insidious drip of doubt begin to fill his mind. Would the Russian disturb him, even if it was that serious? He thought not, and that made it worse.

Napoleon sat on the comfortable bed in their bedroom, twiddling the communicator between his fingers. The apartment had been a good idea; it was situated in a delightful part of Paris on Montmartre, with a view of the church of Sacre Coeur from the balcony of the elegant 'salon', and within walking distance of shops and restaurants in that quartier. Illya always came into his mind when he thought of Paris; they had spent several evenings with a detailed map of the city, his partner pointing out places 'tourists don't venture into'; writing lists of restaurants, even people who they could meet 'if you manage to get out of the bedroom, that is' he had said, his tone making him sound as if he was Napoleon's father, not his partner.

The shrill sound of the instrument jarred his thoughts, and he jumped slightly, getting up off the bed as he turned it to receive the transmission.

'Ah, Mr Solo. Are we free to talk?'. Waverly's voice sounded rather more formal than normal, if that was possible.

'Um, yes sir; Jo has gone out to do some last minute shopping, as if she hadn't done enough, he thought. Afterwards, he was glad that he had been alone.

'Yes. Well, it's not good news I'm afraid. Mr Kuryakin was most insistent that you were not to be disturbed, but I think before any more time elapses, you should know that what we all feared has happened; Mrs Kuryakin has been kidnapped and as far as we know, is being held on the island of Peronella'.

Napoleon felt something akin to a rush of blood to his head. Despite knowing, talking about, and preparing to a point for the likelihood of this event, it still seemed absolutely shocking to hear Waverly telling him it had happened. A multitude of questions thundered into his head, and he took a sharp inward breath to try to unscramble his thoughts. However, Waverly continued, as if he understood what the American needed to know.

'It must have happened shortly before you two left for Paris' he said. 'It appears that she and Miss Lawrence were seen leaving the hotel and getting into a taxi, which headed straight for the airport at Liverpool. From there, she was taken by private jet to Palma, and thence by helicopter to the island. We attempted to intercept the plane at Palma, but they diverted at the last minute to a smaller, private airfield, and, well, the rest is as I told you'. Napoleon processed this information for a few seconds, before replying.

'Did you say that Miss Lawrence went with her? Does that mean that she is directly implicated in this?'. Napoleon knew the answer. He thought of Therese laughing about Jordan and how they had found her such a trial. It seemed incredibly obvious now that she was working for Bolt.

'I'm afraid to say that that is exactly correct, Mr Solo. Apparently Mr Kuryakin began to suspect Miss Lawrence and had Bill Garland run some more thorough background checks on her. Garland finally got to the bottom of it, but too late to prevent Mrs Kuryakin's abduction'. There was a pause before he added, 'I have to say, Mr Solo, that I feel directly responsible for this fiasco. I chose Miss Lawrence to provide close cover for Mrs Kuryakin. I thought she seemed to have the right attributes to do the job, and she seemed thoroughly trustworthy. I must be losing my judgement, it appears'.

Napoleon frowned.

'None of us really suspected her, sir, except Illya of course' he replied, knowing what he needed to ask next.

'Well, perhaps you're right' Waverly muttered. 'Now, we need to think very carefully about what is to be done to sort out this confounded mess. We have to put a stop to this woman and her infernal plans, and it's vital, Mr Solo, that we destroy both the formulae and the means of production of this mind-altering drug before anyone else is manipulated in this way. Mr Kuryakin tells me that the child is due to be born around the beginning of April, so it gives us a little time to formulate a plan to rescue Mrs Kuryakin and her baby from that woman's clutches, and any other poor soul they may have there, for that matter. I want you to go to Palma and work with our people there to monitor what is going on before we decide what to do. Unfortunately, it appears that they have some dampener set up over the island which means that satellite communication is impossible at the moment.'

'So no link up with Sabi?' Napoleon asked.

'Precisely. However, we are sending some support for Miss Klose, and she is able to communicate on a local band as far as Palma, so you will have to be the means of conveying that information onwards to New York. As soon as you feel you have the situation in hand, return here and we'll make our final plans'. Napoleon felt that Waverly was about to end communication before one of his most vital questions was answered.

'Sir? What about Illya, sir?' he ventured. There was a short silence before Waverly came back.

'I am dealing with Mr Kuryakin, Mr Solo. You will help him most if you can do your job in Palma as I have asked you to. Mr Kuryakin will be kept fully occupied here until your return. Then, and only then, I will decide what role he plays in trying to rescue this mess from the mire it has sunk into. Waverly out'.

Napoleon flung himself back onto the bed, letting the communicator fall softly onto the plush carpet below his hand. As usual, Waverly was displaying no outward show of emotion, although he knew that he was fond of the Russian in particular, and had made a number of very positive, even affectionate comments about the effect of Therese on Illya's life, usually when Kuryakin wasn't within hearing range. Now he wondered how the old man was keeping Illya from the despair that he knew would be entering the Russian's soul at the moment.

He scrabbled round on the carpet for his communicator. He could easily find out and put an end to the worries that were coursing through his head like ricocheting bullets at the moment. He pulled off the top.

'Open Channel D'. He waited for a few moments and requested Connie. If anyone knew what was going on to 'her Russian lamb', she would. The familiar Brooklyn tones were heard. 'Connie, this is Napoleon' he said, not needing to say more.

'Don't ask' she replied. 'I can't tell you anything, that's orders, except that he's holding it together, sort of. When he's not in that lab or on some damn courier trip, Waverly's taking up every minute of his life on this goddam programme, I swear'.

'What programme?' Napoleon asked. He didn't like the sound of it one bit.

'Look, I've already told you more than I should have. All I can say, Napoleon, and hey, I'm just the little old secretary round here, is that our Russian is being wound up tight like a piece of elastic, and when he is released, God help anyone who is standing in the way'.

xxxxxxxx

It was only later that Therese could remember the journey, and so it was profoundly disorienting, and deeply distressing bordering on terrifying, to wake up, as it were, in another room, in another house, in another country.

As she glanced wildly around the room, and at the faces of the two women, she noticed that it was very early morning. Although it was not warm, the air was not the damp, cold air of a Lancashire morning, or the freezing temperature of New York at Christmas. This was bright, clear Mediterranean air, in a bright blue Mediterranean sky. Of the two women, one was very familiar, and one, the one that had snapped her fingers to wake her, and now stood very close, was one that she realised she should know very well.

Li Hua Bolt sat next to her on the long sofa upholstered with the tightly woven bright coloured material she knew well. Mallorcan material. Behind her, Therese could see a large shallow copper bowl standing on a wooden base, that she knew contained charcoal to warm the house in the evening. Mallorcan things in a Mallorcan house. She should have felt comforted by them, but in this house, she felt acutely uncomfortable.

'Therese, at last' she said, as if a deal had finally been transacted, and could be filed away till needed again. She looked away towards the figure of Jordan Lawrence, who was standing, almost to attention Therese thought, at the door. 'You may go, Birch. You have done well. Report to Slate for uniform and further duties' she added, turning back to Therese. Jordan, or Birch as she was obviously called here, turned on her heel, and with a slight sneer at Therese, left the room. Li Hua got up and walked to the window.

'We don't have names that denote gender here' she began, reading Therese's expression. 'In fact, we try not to have anything that denotes gender here' she continued. 'Names, appearance, anything that denotes masculine or feminine is for the old order, as they say. This island is a glimpse of what is to come. So, no Therese, no Mrs Kuryakin any more. That is in the past. From now on, your name will be simply Storm'.

Therese took a deep breath into herself and exhaled.

'And if I do not cooperate?'. Li Hua moved back towards her.

'You have a choice. You must know by now that I can control you simply by uttering few words, my dear Storm. You are completely mine. Until the baby is born, I will allow you to move freely about this estate, except certain buildings which you will not be allowed access to. If you abuse your freedom, then you will spend the rest of the time in your room, if I tell you to, of course. There is no way you can leave this island, as you well know, and until the baby is born, there will be added security as well. After the birth, you will have to make a decision. You can stay with me, and together we can become a dynamic partnership. Our child will then be raised to inherit the new world that I am creating'. As she spoke, she drew nearer to Therese, her cat's eyes narrowing.

Therese jumped up as quickly as she could, bearing in mind she still had on her evening dress and was weighed down somewhat by the pregnancy. She backed away slowly, stopping only when she reached the wall by the window.

'Miss Bolt, or whatever you call yourself. I don't want to spend the time until my husband comes to collect me sitting motionless in a room; it's bad for the baby'. She could feel how stupid she sounded, and could imagine Illya's eyebrows raised at what she was saying, but she suddenly found this woman so utterly, deeply ridiculous. She plunged on, regardless. 'As soon as our child, and by that I mean my husband's child, is born, I will be fully in control of myself, and I have no intention of letting you or anyone else anywhere near me with one of your horrible drugs. The thought of a 'dynamic partnership' with you fills me with disgust, and I would never, never allow our baby to come within an ocean of your evil hands. Illya and I and the baby, we're a family, do you understand? We like our names, we're fine about being masculine and feminine, and we like living in the old world order, if you don't mind. So you can call yourself any name you like, but Illya and I have one thing you seem to have left out of the equation'. She stopped for a moment, getting her breath, and staring at Li Hua. 'And do you know what that is? We love each other'.

Therese braced herself for what she imagined would be the inevitable response. She supposed she would wake up next when the baby was being born, and she prayed very hard in that instant, that Illya would have somehow found a way to rescue her by then. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Li Hua began to smile, a cruel little smile that Therese had to turn away from.

'Quite a speech, dear Storm. Yes, you're right in one thing only. For your health's sake, you need to move around until the baby is born'. She sat back on the sofa, watching Therese. 'I wouldn't count on being rescued though' she murmured. 'Oh, I'm sure your charming Russian will be soon on his way, after we've sent him a little gift just to reassure him that you're safe and sound of course. But Dr Engel and Federova have been waiting a long time to be reunited with him, and we wouldn't want to disappoint them, would be?'.

At the sound of the two names, Therese experienced an enveloping dizziness, which threatened to unbalance her, and made standing difficult, especially in the rather high heels she was still wearing from the wedding. She flailed around for something to support her before her arm was tightly gripped and she was pushed back down onto the sofa. Li Hua walked across to the wall by the fire and pushed a button.

'Now, I think we've talked enough for the moment. Perhaps after you've spent a little time here, you may start to think differently about your future. However, we can't have you walking round in that absurd costume with all that stuff all over your face, can we? Besides, I need something from you to send to your former partner, shall we say. Don't forget, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, my Storm. Now what is it to be?'.

xxxxxxxxx

On the plane back to New York, Napoleon tossed and turned in an agony of expectation and fear. On the positive side, he was anxious to be reunited with Jo. She had come to Palma with him for a week, to try to discover the legal framework behind Bolt in Spain, and to see if they could pursue an approach via the Spanish government, but it didn't look hopeful. She had then been sent some papers regarding an agent in Albania who had got himself into difficulties, so had spent the remaining two weeks working in Greece. He half wondered whether it wasn't all a put-up job to keep anyone even close to Kuryakin from seeing him, never mind giving him any kind of support.

By persistent bloody-mindedness, he had got a little more out of Connie. As soon as he had reached New York, Illya had handed over his keys to the house to the forensics boys, who had spent days in there, although both Connie and Napoleon couldn't imagine what they hoped to discover, even in the room Jordan had used. But they did find something.

'They removed a letter from the bedroom, from her to him, not opened. I've got it and a copy, Napoleon; Waverly thought it might be better if things like that go through you' she had said. Connie was a rock, he thought, although he wondered what could be in the letter.

The 'programme' as Connie had called it, turned out to be some sort of experimental health and fitness regime being devised 'by some guys out of the survival school' as Connie put it, for serving agents, but only men it seemed, 'to ensure optimum fitness' Connie read, from the leaflet she had stolen from the gym. It sounded gruesome, Solo thought, and normally, Illya and he would have found some way of killing it at birth. Normally. 'I can sure see what is happening to his body' she said, 'but what I want to know, Napoleon, is just what is happening to his mind? He's like he was when he first came here; the Berlin Wall has got nothing on him, I can tell you' she whispered, obviously looking out for the 'Berlin Wall' as she talked.

The apartment looked a little cheerless in the early morning sun, as Napoleon threw his bags down in the corridor, and went through into the lounge, but he decided that it was just the time of the year; dark, dank months. He had a sudden memory of these days a year ago. It must have been just over a year since his partner and Therese had met. He had a sudden image of the Russian then, in that fur hat, the long hair peering out of the edges like a fringe on a sofa. . He wondered what sight might greet him now when he got to the office.

In his briefcase, he had a full dossier on the Bolt case. Sabi was absolutely sure that Therese was at the house, but had not seen her, because she was now spending all her time on guard duty at the port and along the coves of the island on one of the patrol boats. Two other UNCLE agents had been able to get ashore separately, in the last few weeks with her help, and were now in place. Napoleon hadn't been told who these were, and exactly what they were doing, supposedly for security reasons, but he had a shrewd idea. The most worrying development, however, was that Jordan Lawrence was almost certainly on the island as well.

'If she sees me, darling, then I'm having it' Sabi said to Napoleon during one transmission.

'No, you've had it, Sabi, that's the expression I believe' Napoleon replied, smiling. She was always doing this when she spoke English.

'Oh sorry darling; Blondie is much better at these colloquialisms than I am. How is he, by the way?'. Napoleon had little to offer her. At times, he thought that if Sabi could ever love a man, then it would be the Russian.

Napoleon looked at his watch. The meeting with Waverly, and he presumed, Illya, was set for three o'clock. He wandered into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Although he felt rather jet-lagged, he decided to risk a foray into work to look for the Russian first. He didn't want to have to sit across the table in Waverly's room trying to signal to him for two hours, until he could get him on his own. He could grab a quick shower now and get a shave at Frank's before going to the office; besides, Frank was a rich source of office gossip, even though it was practically next to improbable that the Russian had been anywhere near the barber shop himself, of course.

His communicator started up before he could get into the shower. It was Connie.

' Message from your wife. Don't wait up, she won't be back for another week. Sorry Romeo. See ya later'.

He was standing in front of the wardrobe, pulling out a shirt, when Connie came back on the line. Her voice, the tones of which normally sounded calm, and urbane, seemed to have gone up a pitch, and increased in speed, so that he had to ask her to slow down, and repeat some of it again.

'You have to get here now, Napoleon, and do something before we have terminal melt-down' she began. 'Waverly'll see you a.s.a.p and then you can go rescue your partner, before either he explodes or those nut-jobs do the job for him'.

CHAPTER 10

Putting the shave on hold for the time being, Napoleon ran outside the apartment, simultaneously putting on his coat with one arm, whilst attempting to flag down a cab with the other. He threw his briefcase into the first cab which screeched to a halt at the kerb, and, mercifully avoiding most of the downtown traffic, found himself despatched outside Del Floria's in less than half an hour.

Waverly was uncharacteristically agitated, bordering on terminally bad-tempered. Napoleon had had no opportunity to interrogate Connie before the meeting, and it was obvious that the subject of Kuryakin was not going to be raised before they had dealt with the business in hand. Forcing down a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach, Napoleon somehow managed to present the report and his itemised suggestions for the solution to the 'Bolt fiasco' as Waverly called it.

As he closed the folder, Waverly bent down and retrieved a package from the set of locked office drawers in the corner of the room. It looked rather bulky, more than if there were just papers inside the thick brown envelope. He walked back slowly to the desk, sat down, and almost threw the package onto the circular table in front of him.

'This came this morning' he said simply. 'It rather changes things, in terms of when we act, I think. And I'm rather afraid that this training thing is getting out of hand too. You may have to intervene there, if you are to help Mr Kuryakin prepare before the due date'.

Napoleon stared across the table, furrowing his brow at Waverly's ramblings. He wondered what on earth he was trying to say, as he spun the table round for Solo to take the package. He grasped it as it appeared in front of him, surprised by the softness of whatever was inside.

'Yes, it's been checked, if you're worried about that' Waverly said. 'It's not dangerous, but it contains a very clear message, and it's very precious indeed to Mr Kuryakin, so make sure it is returned to him, won't you?' he murmured, in a rather sad voice, Napoleon thought.

He looked at the address first, almost not daring to look inside. Of course, there were no obvious signs of where it had come from, almost certainly having been delivered by a series of couriers, although the envelope looked European from Napoleon's experience of these things. It had been stuck down, and there was also a little cardboard button with string wrapped round it from the flap of the letter. He undid the string and put his hand inside, his gut clenched.

Slowly, Napoleon withdrew a very long, thick, carefully braided piece of human hair. To anyone who knew her, it was unmistakeably from the head of only one possible person. Napoleon had an almost instant image of its owner, with the hair similarly arranged, swinging round her head; the hair as alive and vital as she had been. Now it lay there on the table, lifeless somehow. As he gently laid it down, there was a glint and a metallic clunk as the braid made contact with the wooden surface. At the top of the braid, carefully pushed onto one of the three thick strands making it up, was a Russian wedding ring, the three overlapping bands clearly obvious against the dark hair. In the middle of the braid, a delicate necklace was wound round the whole thickness. Another image came to mind; a smiling bridegroom carefully fixing the jewellery round his wife's neck, while she held the copious hair up on top of her head. Finally, at the other end of the braid, a long thin, piece of paper was wrapped. Napoleon pulled it away from the hair and smoothed it out, reading the typed message, so chillingly delivered:

Porto Petro Harbour, Mallorca. Wednesday March 25th. 6pm. Please do not be late, Mr Kuryakin, or your family reunion may be delayed. Permanently.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was silence in the room; the only noises seemed to be far off ones, of doors swishing open and shut, and, in Waverly's secretary's office, the far distant murmuring of voices. Napoleon carefully placed the piece of paper down. He suddenly realised that he was standing up, his other hand clenched against the edge of the table. He sat down silently and looked across at Waverly.

'As you can imagine, Mr Kuryakin was very deeply affected by what you have just seen' Waverly almost whispered. 'Perhaps I should explain what has been going on here since he returned, and then you will be able to take the appropriate action, Mr Solo'.

The fitness programme had been the result of a meeting which had included both Jules Cutter from the UNCLE Survival School and a US Marine Corps Drill Instructor, Randall McElroy, arising out of the concerns expressed after the murder of Kat and the recent subsequent betrayal by Jordan Lawrence. Napoleon grimaced at the mention of McElroy's name. He had been part of the team when both he and Illya had passed through Survival School, and had also devised and led a number of training exercises they had subsequently been involved in. He was without doubt, the most rabid anti-Communist Napoleon had ever had the misfortune to meet, and his reaction to Kuryakin was one of bullying, bordering on outright abuse.

'I'm afraid that I don't really involve myself in the physical training side of things' Waverly continued, 'but when this programme came up, Cutter suggested it might be a way of helping Kuryakin to channel his energies elsewhere, as it were'. Napoleon frowned at the thought, but Waverly seemed to want to explain, and was carrying on, tapping his pipe forcibly on the table at the same time.

'I agreed to him joining the programme, because he was so insistent upon doing so himself. They team people up with partners, apparently, and they gave him that new chap, Moore is it? I think the poor chap felt he had to somehow make it up to Mr Kuryakin for what had happened over Miss Lawrence, so I understand'.

The first phase took place in the UNCLE gyms, and did not involve the infamous Drill Instructor. There was to be a second, final part, consisting of three week's rigorous outdoor training at an UNCLE training camp in upstate New York, naturally under the supervision of McElroy.

'Excuse me for asking, sir, but how is it that the military seem to have got involved here?' Napoleon asked, wondering if Waverly knew Illya's history with McElroy.

'Cutter argued, convincingly it seems, that they have the expertise for this sort of thing' Waverly replied. 'However, I am concerned, Mr Solo, that, whilst I have the greatest respect for the United States Armed Forces, the involvement of the Marine Corps in this training programme might be a ploy to borrow, as it were, some of our agents for active service elsewhere, if you understand my meaning'.

Napoleon sighed. He understood his meaning all too well. McElroy had pushed hard for a link to be formed with UNCLE, enabling UNCLE to second agents to the US Marine Corps to work in Army Intelligence Units 'in time of war'. Still, Illya was not an American citizen so would not qualify, he concluded, with relief.

'Of course, Mr Kuryakin is at the moment, technically a citizen of the USSR' Waverly was saying, as if reading Napoleon's mind. 'However, I understand that he will be granted citizenship in . . ' he rifled through some papers on his desk, 'June this year, I believe'.

Napoleon stiffened in his seat. This was fast becoming not just a fiasco, but a disaster.

'Sir, I don't think this is the right thing for Ill- I mean Mr Kuryakin to be undertaking at this time. He may need to be fit to undertake what is required to end this mission successfully, but, as far as I understand it, he has received no counselling or opportunity to come to terms emotionally or mentally with what has happened'. Waverly put down his pipe, brushing the ash from his thick tweed trousers onto the floor.

'I am well aware of that, Mr Solo. In fact, Mr Kuryakin has been offered counselling, but has refused it. I don't know if you are aware of this, but he has also refused to return to his home, and is at present living in the Section 18 accommodation area on the sixteenth floor'. Waverly got to his feet slowly and walked to the window.

'Look, we have just under a month to get this thing', he motioned to the table, and Napoleon's gaze once more fell upon the braid and its message, 'off the ground' Waverly continued. 'This organisation stands in imminent danger of failing Mr Kuryakin and his family badly, if we allow him to go to that island without an adequate plan and at least a good chance of achieving our goals without the loss of innocent lives. For what it's worth, Mr Solo, I did everything I could to persuade him not to go on this wretched programme, but pressure has been bought to bear. I am afraid we all have to realise that an organisation like this is only able to operate as it does, while we have the cooperation of this country taken as read. Sometimes, this does mean that favours are called in' he ended, rather depressingly, Napoleon thought.

Napoleon got up and walked towards the door.

'Of course if he were to be, as it were, 'sprung' from this so called programme, sir, you would, of course, almost certainly deny all knowledge of how it had happened or who had been responsible' he murmured.

'Categorically, Mr Solo. So whoever is going to do this illegal act had better hurry up before Mr Kuryakin gets the idea that he might prefer to work for the armed forces of this country' Waverly replied. 'Oh Mr Solo, one thing about that date, before you go. Apparently Mr Kuryakin informed me that the twenty fifth of March is the birthday of Dr Winnifred Engel. It seems that Miss Bolt would like to give the doctor a rather generous birthday present this year'.

Xxxxxxxx

'God, I hate these Section 18 rooms. They are so faceless!' Connie exclaimed, as they stared into the room together. Napoleon had wasted little time in calling in a few favours, including the use of the master key to the Section 18 rooms from Andy Thomas, to whom he had given some great tickets to a 'lively' club, as it was described, when he had got engaged to Jo, and had emptied his wallet of all incriminating evidence.

The room was indicative of Kuryakin's state of mind, and was deeply worrying. Before Therese, the Russian had been legendary for his combination of untidiness and a simple lifestyle, leading to a tiny collection of clothes and worldly goods, which were nonetheless strewn about wherever he happened to be living at the time. She had achieved what Napoleon considered to be the near miraculous feat of allowing him to retain this somewhat charming unwordly trait, while introducing a gradual increase in his possessions, significantly in the area of his wardrobe. She had also taught him to fold things up and put them away. However, this room was different.

The charming house in Grove St, with its brightly painted walls adorned with pictures and hangings, and filled with interesting and beautiful objects, had been expunged. Instead, the atmosphere here felt like a combination of a prison cell and a military barracks; absolutely nothing broke up the grey featureless walls, and the bleak, utilitarian furniture. What was even more alarming, was the uncharacteristically rigid tidiness of the place. They looked at each other, thinking the same about the orderly stacks of papers and books, the stiffly folded clothes, and the absence of any photograph or remembrance of his wife.

'He made me go and get some clothes for him, but only these' Connie said, indicating the black suit and the white shirts hanging to attention in the wardrobe, with the underwear and sports clothes folded carefully in the shelves at the side.

Napoleon rubbed his hand across the faint stubble on his chin.

'Right. What exactly did he say when he left?' he asked her, sitting down on the bed, and taking a pencil and notepad off the immaculate desk by his side.

'He came back from Waverly's as white as a sheet. He disappeared up here for a while, and came back with a bag. I think it had some personal stuff in it, soapbag, you know, so I figured he was going somewhere, obviously. Then he told me he was going away on this programme for three weeks, so we went through his diary cancelling everything. He was sort of manic, you know, and I can tell ya, the Berlin Wall was up and there were guards on top of it with machine guns, know what I mean?'

'I know' Napoleon replied, drawing little spirals on the sheet while she talked.

'Then he says the last thing you'd expect him to say'. Napoleon started to write a list on the pad, then flipped over the page, and wrote some names, then wrote another note on the page underneath. Connie continued as he wrote.

'He says, 'please tell Darryl to meet me outside Frank's ', 'Frank's, note', she said for extra emphasis, 'at 11 o'clock. He said he would give me a lift to the camp. And tell Napoleon I will speak to him when I return', and then he just goes off without another word, just like that. Now what is that all about?' she said, starting to try to read what he was writing.

'That', Napoleon said, sighing, 'is our Russian feeling very bad indeed about someone he loves, and deciding to punish himself just a little bit more for good measure'. He finished writing on the pad, then passed the three bits of paper to her. 'Right' he said. 'This is where Operation 'Rescue the Russian' begins. If you could obtain those things for me and have them delivered to Grove St, I'd be very grateful'. Connie looked at the list and raised her eyebrows. 'Next, ring this number and talk to Rita' he said, pointing to the number. Tell her that she needs to start what she and Mrs Kuryakin had arranged before she went away, and tell her I'll leave the keys with Frank. Frankie knows how to operate the door, and I'll put an override on it to avoid having to use the fingerprint recognition, OK?. Then, finally, most important, Connie. Give this to April. Tell her that if Friday night's too soon, then she can contact me using Channel P. Now, I've got a few things to arrange, and a few people to ring'. Napoleon got up from the bed, and with a last glance round, slammed the door behind him.

Xxxxxxxx

Frank's was mercifully quiet when Napoleon stepped inside, the early morning rush petering out to a few older, retired men and a guy who Napoleon vaguely remembered worked in Section 3. Frank's chair was vacant, but he was occupied sweeping the floor of what looked like an awful lot of straight, blond hair. He looked up, as Napoleon gazed at the cut hair making a little mountain on the floor before it was swept away.

'Hey, welcome back Mr Solo' Frank beamed, as much as he ever beamed, Napoleon thought. 'Enjoying being tied down to one gal? – but what a gal!' he added, giving the floor a final brush clean.

'Yep. Still enjoying it' Napoleon replied. Frank grabbed the stripy sheet off the chair as Solo sat down.

'Just a shave, Frank, I'm feeling a bit rough round the edges this morning' he said, leaning back into the chair. He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of Frank gathering the usual implements associated with shaving.

'How about this?' Frank continued. Napoleon could guess what was coming next. 'Had your pal in here, in fact you just missed him' Frank said, making it sound as incredible to him as it should have been to Napoleon if he hadn't seen what had been in the envelope.

'Oh really' Napoleon replied. 'That must have been a surprise'.

'Sure was' he continued, getting going with the lather, 'mind you, not that he didn't need a haircut, but hey, what's new?' he said cynically. 'Anyways, I thought I'd try the gentle approach, seeing that he's like one of those Sierra Nevada cactuses on the subject, so I says 'Shave or haircut, Mr Kuryakin, and he says 'what do you think?'. Mr Solo, he gave me a look that could freeze hell over I can tell ya. Anyways' he continued, obviously getting into the story, running the razor up and down a strap with loud thwacking noises. 'So I said to him, 'did Frankie let you down?, seeing that she usually sees to him, being good at those girly hairstyles guys like him go for'.

Napoleon managed to keep his face expressionless, which was as well, considering that Frank was now in full swing with the razor. He thought of his partner; the 'girly' hairstyle seemed so much part of Illya now; Napoleon didn't like to think what sort of anguish of heart had led to what was being described by the man with the razor.

Frank finished off the shave, and slapped the rather enjoyable hot towels on Napoleon's face. He was obviously determined to get to the end of the story.

'So, he just says 'I haven't got time' in that way he speaks when he don't expect you to say anything back, right?. So, I thinks, I'll just play it safe this time, because he makes such a fuss, like a kid, and I don't want Mrs K steaming in here because when she's mad, she's got this way of letting you know, right?'

'Right, Frank' Napoleon answered, sitting forward in the chair, as if they were sharing some secret conversation.

'Well, as I said, I start away, just giving him a little trim, like, tidying it up, so's he don't accuse me of making him look like a GI or all the other things he throws at you. OK. So when I finish, I says 'OK?' and, wait for it, he says, with a look that could send you to the city morgue, 'Too long'. Would you believe that?'. Unhappily, Napoleon would.

They had got to the desk now, and he was still talking, in a confidential sort of way, leaning towards Napoleon.

'So, I gave him what he wanted, Mr S. Not that he looked happy about that either. I mean, he has a beautiful old lady, kid on the way, what more can the guy want? Now, when he comes home and she tells him that number six is on the way, then he can start looking like that.'. He gave a large sigh and a look that seemed to signal that he had now seen it all.

As he was going out of the shop, Napoleon remembered.

'Frank, Rita agreed to do some work for Mrs Kuryakin in their house. Um, she wondered if she could start now. I'm afraid since she's been away, the house has got a bit dusty and . .'

'No problem Mr Solo. I guess we owe Mr K big time, seeing how much he's helped Frankie. And she thinks the sun shines out of his rear end, that's a fact. She is going to be pissed with me when I tell her what I just did'.

Xxxxxxx

The rain that had lashed the island for the last few days had subsided, resulting in a calmer sea, although a grey sky persisted, giving a depressing aspect to both land and water. Sabi leaned against the guard rail of the power boat, watching the water being churned up by the powerful outboard motor as they made their usual tour of the coves and inlets defining the coastline. The familiar outline of the farmhouse 'La Masia' came into view on the headland, with the outbuildings barely visible around it. She squinted to give herself a better view of the small bay that she knew was accessible from the house, which was when she noticed the figure on the beach.

It was a woman, though it was difficult to tell who, from the ubiquitous extreme hairstyle and black clothing that was standard amongst women on the island. She raised her binoculars to her eyes then adjusted them.

'River, stop the boat and let me off at this cove. One of Granite's guests needs help'. The other guard, a young girl from Austria, looked surprised, but cut the engine and allowed the boat to drift into the cliffs which stuck out at the edge of the cove. Sabi clambered off, and waving to the other girl, started to run across the flat black rocks towards the beach where the woman stood. Sabi could hear the roar of the boat's engine behind her, and glanced back in time to see it disappear round the edge of the cove. As she clambered down to the beach, arms were stretching out to her.

They stood for a few moments clasped together, before Sabi pulled Therese into the shelter of a large overhanging rock, out of sight of the farmhouse.

It was difficult not to weep at what she saw. Her hair was the most obvious and shocking difference. It had been cut close to her head, leaving about an inch all over. Sabi was struck, even so, with how beautiful she looked. The absence of the hair revealed her long, elegant neck, and only served to emphasise the unusual, golden brown eyes which stared back anxiously at her. She was wearing a pair of narrow legged black Capri pants, made of some stretchy fibre, and over them a very plain black blouse, buttoned at the back, with long sleeves, made of the same material. She was completely bare of any jewellery, so unlike Therese, Sabi thought, except for a wide, rather ugly, close fitting choker round her neck with tiny metal studs in it. There was nothing feminine or even mildly attractive in any of it, yet she managed to look good somehow.

She was obviously nearing the end of her pregnancy. The clothes only served to emphasise her condition, and incredibly, despite her size, she looked thin and drawn, as if the pregnancy had overwhelmed her body somehow. Yet, Sabi noticed a look of determination in her face, as if she was resolved to endure for as long as she had to. With difficulty Therese slid down onto the sand by the wall of rocks, pulling Sabi down next to her.

'Tess darling, are you alright?' Sabi began. It sounded a rather pathetic thing to say.

'I had no idea you were here' Therese replied, 'Oh it's so wonderful to see you Sabi; I thought . . .I thought nobody was coming before. . .' she faded off, tears starting up in her eyes.

'It's OK darling, he will come, they both will, and before this one arrives, I'm sure' she said, trying to sound reassuring. Therese jerked her head round, staring at Sabi.

'No, he musn't come, Illyusha musn't come! Those women, you know that doctor, and that Elena, the Ukrainian; they're here, Sabi, and she, she's going to hand him over to them if he comes, I know'. She suddenly turned her head away, looking at the sea.

'Tess, darling, look at me' Sabi said quietly. 'Illya will not let her take you or the baby away, do you understand? You have to just trust him to make the right decision about what to do for you all. Plans are being made, but we will not let him come here without proper backup. The most important thing that you need to do, is to keep well, and look after this one' Sabi added, stroking the top of Therese's abdomen.

Therese put her head back against the rock, as if to derive some comfort from it.

'I'm trying to be strong' she said calmly. 'If I try to fight her in any way, I know what she can do. I've reasoned that it's better if I go along with her as much as I can, so at least I'm not sat in my room like some kind of zombie until the baby is born. She hasn't tried to touch me, apart from when she did this' she said, touching her head. 'I think she's too concerned about the baby to do anything; but once I give birth, then, Sabi, well . . .'. She tailed off, silence finishing the sentence.

After a moment, Therese recovered herself a little. 'How is he?' she sighed. 'I'm worried that he will blame himself for what happened; you know what he's like'. Images of him flooded her head; Illya sitting at the table eating, with a 'please can I have some more' expression on his face; Illya playing the piano, whilst she stood behind him, drawing her fingers through his long, soft hair; Illya asleep on the green sofa, his arms thrown back like a child's; Illya in her arms, loving her. She swallowed, trying to fight back the feeling of nausea sweeping her, as the baby kicked her hard, sharing somehow in her pain and distress.

'I talked to Napoleon and he hasn't spoken to him, but he is back in New York now, so I'm sure everything is under control. Yes, I'm sure it is' Sabi said, looking away, before Therese saw the uncertainty lurking in her eyes.

xxxxxxx

The accommodation was as expected, strictly Army issue, Darryl Moore thought, as he slammed the door of their hut shut behind him. They had been there four days now. Four days of hell more like, he thought, and over another two, miserable, weeks to go. Before they had arrived, he had thought the programme seemed like a good idea; the extra work in the gym made him feel fitter, and more important, stopped him from thinking about Jordan from morning till night. When he had been told about her, he had felt sick to his stomach, and he had spent the first few days avoiding Kuryakin at every possible opportunity, but he could hardly carry on doing that when the Russian was paired up with him on the programme, could he?

In the end, Kuryakin made it easy for him. They were in the changing rooms on the first day when he appeared round the corner, giving Darryl a fright, because he hadn't even heard him come in.

'Mr Moore' he had said, 'I understand we have been assigned together for the duration of this programme. I want you to understand that I do not in any way hold you responsible for the actions of Miss Lawrence, and I would prefer that we do not mention anything about that particular episode during the time we are working together'. Darryl had opened his mouth to say something about Kuryakin's wife, but he had walked away. He had never mentioned her since.

Darryl recalled the party where he had tried to make a pass at Therese Kuryakin. He remembered Kuryakin's face when he looked at his wife; the expression of consuming love etched across the fine features. When Darryl looked at him now, it was as if he was looking at a completely different man. He wondered whether Solo was aware of what was happening to his partner while he was away, and not for the first time, wished that the guy would hurry back and do something.

He had a bad feeling in his water from the beginning, when Kuryakin arranged to meet him outside Frank's. The Russian's appearance was so radically different to his usual, sort of sloppy Beatle look, that Darryl felt his mouth drop open with the shock of it when he got in the car. They drove to the camp in virtual silence, Kuryakin just gazing out of the window most of the time, his eyes downcast, Darryl noticed.

He hadn't realised what a slimy bastard McElroy was, until he had appeared in the hut within minutes of them arriving. Kuryakin had managed to unpack all his stuff and arrange it as pristinely as if it was in a shop window, Darryl thought, which was weird considering what the other guys had told him about the Russian's habits, especially before he got hitched. McElroy came in and made a beeline straight for Kuryakin. Despite the fact that the other guys' stuff was arranged anyhow, he yanked all Kuryakin's stuff out of the locker and made him put it all away again, and everybody else's as well. And that was just for starters.

Darryl had spent the last half hour trying to persuade Kuryakin to come to the mess hall for what the guys were calling 'happy hour'; some sort of entertainment he had been told, to give the guys a break from that bastard, if nothing else. He had found him lying on his bed. He looked bad. That sonofabitch had made sure he did double what anybody else did, and he got the worst jobs; clearing out the latrines was the favourite one.

'Listen Darryl' he had said tiredly, 'McElroy cannot help himself, as far as I am concerned. He considers me to be, as he so crudely puts it, a 'filthy commie faggot' and that is why he is giving me his special attention. However, while he does that, he leaves the rest of you alone. I have had worse treatment, so I'm sure I can endure another few days, or weeks even. Now, if you don't mind' and he had turned over towards the wall. Darryl wished he had his communicator with him, but contact with UNCLE was strictly forbidden. He gazed at the figure on the bed; he could see some new bruises forming on Kuryakin's face. He didn't think his wife would be very happy at all if she could see him now, wherever she was. He turned sadly on his heel and left.

Xxxxxxx

Todd Harrington took his feet off the desk as the phone rang.

'Call for you, Mr Harrington. Says his name is Napoleon Solo'. Harrington sat up rather quickly, a smile forming on his face. Napoleon Solo. Long time, no speak, he thought, even though he owed Solo one for saving his skin a lifetime ago in Survival School.

'Napoleon. This is an honour to be speaking to UNCLE's finest' he began, looking across his desk through the window as a number of UNCLE agents and a couple of DIs walked past on their way somewhere, he guessed.

'Same to you Todd.'. It was good to hear the familiar voice again, Todd thought. It had been too long since the last time.

'I imagine this is not a social call, delighted as I am to hear from you' Harrington continued. He had a feeling he knew just where this was going.

'How perceptive of you. I find myself needing a little favour from your little organisation out there in the woods, and your name just kind of came into my mind' Napoleon said. He could imagine the wry smile at the other end of the line. He pressed on, taking the silence as being favourable. 'I need to extricate someone from a situation he has got himself into. All I need is for your guys on the gates to let in a truck on Friday night and let it out again later. They didn't see it come in, they didn't see it go out. Period'.

There was a pause before Harrington answered. He could guess who the 'someone' was, without being asked. He had seen the Russian, and had been shocked by the change in his appearance, and also by the treatment he seemed to be receiving at the hands of McElroy. He felt rather relieved at the thought that Solo seemed to be up to something; it saved him the job of having to confront that bastard and doing something about it himself.

'And this means I don't owe you any more?' he asked.

'Yeah, I reckon we're quits then' Napoleon replied.

Xxxxxxx

The entertainment hour was just getting going, if it could be called that with just guys propping up the bar, or watching the B-film UNCLE had so generously provided, Darryl thought. As he looked over towards the door, he saw a guard approaching. He hoped something hadn't happened to Kuryakin already. He had finally managed to persuade him to come to the goddam entertainment evening, when that SOB McElroy intervened.

'Mr Kuryakin and I have planned our own 'entertainment evening', Mr Moore. It's called 'Red Faggot's evening exercises' he added, whispering it into Kuryakin's ear, but quite loud enough for Darryl to hear too. 'So get your sweet arse out of here, Mr Moore, otherwise you can join your boyfriend here for a little night duty'. Kuryakin had looked at him resignedly he had thought, and had indicated the door with his eyes.

The guard was definitely heading in his direction.

'Darryl Moore?' he had asked. Darryl nodded. 'Mr Solo is outside and wants to see you, now'. Absurdly, Darryl's heart leapt, and he was outside the door before anyone had even noticed he had gone. He recognised him immediately, even in the dim light shining from the light outside the hall.

'Mr Solo? Thank the Lord!' he exclaimed, looking round to see if anyone was near enough to hear.

'Where is he?' Solo said, quietly. Darryl instantly calmed down, picking up the expression on the other man's face.

'That psycho McElroy has him down on the field, down there' he said, pointing down towards a patch of ground at the bottom of the hill. From where they were standing, they could see that some light from a neighbouring building made it just possible to see two figures standing by the corral fence that surrounded the so-called 'field'. It looked more like a paddock to Napoleon; somewhere they night keep horses or cattle in. Solo said nothing, then turned to Darryl.

' I want you to help Mr Kuryakin by doing something which I'll tell you about, to distract the Drill Instructor from his present occupation, OK?' Darryl nodded. 'When you've taken care of that, get down to the field as quick as you can, right?'. He looked at his watch, then took out his communicator and opened it.

'April? Give me five minutes to get McElroy's attention, and then start the entertainment. I'll let you know when the party's over. Solo out'. Darryl stared.

'Just what entertainment is that?' he said, noticing Solo's face starting to smile.

'The female type of entertainment of course' he replied.

Xxxxxxxx

The full moon illuminated the sea of mud and animal manure that only those with limited sight would ever describe as a 'field'. The recent enlargement of the Camp had included the land, which, allocated for a car park, still sat there as it had been when cattle occupied its boundaries.

Randall McElroy climbed up to sit on the top of the corral fence, watching Illya Kuryakin strip off his outer clothes, as he pulled his heavy winter coat around him to keep out the rain, which had been steadily falling for most of the day. With only his underwear on, it was easy to see, even in the comparative darkness, that the UNCLE agent was a mass of cuts and bruises, many of which had been hidden during the day from anyone who might be observing the activities of the agents on the programme.

With a wave of his stick, McElroy motioned to the Russian to walk away from him a few paces into the field. Within seconds, Kuryakin was becoming covered in the slimy mud which squelched beneath his bare feet as he attempted to move. He tried to rub his hands up his arms for warmth, but the combination of the wind and rain cancelled out any warmth he might have derived from it.

'That's far enough. I guess you're used to the cold where you come from, eh, Kuryakin?' McElroy shouted. 'But we don't want those nancy boys back at your headquarters saying that their little pet commie boy died of cold in his underpants do we?, so we'd better get your little red heart warmed up'. He jumped down from the fence, and took a step forward, gingerly avoiding the dark morass of mud in front of him. 'So, you commie faggot, we'll start with your favourite activity; forty of the best on this lovely American soil, boy, and I am counting'.

It was relatively easy for Solo to approach unheard. The noise of the steadily worsening rain, together with the goading of the man standing by the fence enabled him to come within touching distance. He peered into the field and although he could hear the grunts his partner was making, it took him a few seconds of anxious looking to work out where he was. Then he saw him. The Russian had finally succumbed to a combination of hypothermia and exhaustion, and was laying still in the field, completely covered in mud and filth. McElroy threaded his way towards the prone figure, shouting insults as he approached. He knelt down, continuing to scream insults into the ear, or what was vaguely the area where Illya's ear would be, were it possible to make out his features through the caked-on excrement.

Napoleon drew his gun, ducked under the fence, but was instantly aware of another figure just behind him. Darryl's face appeared out of the darkness, the horrified expression frozen onto it like dried wax. Napoleon put his hand out and indicated that he should remain in his position. He crept forward as McElroy stood up, still screaming abuse in the direction of the still figure on the ground.

'Get up, you stinking red faggot' he continued. 'Nobody is coming to rescue your tight little arse, Kuryakin; not now, not ever. Not even your Yankee faggot boyfriend from UNCLE'. As the words hit the darkness, he lifted up his foot, put it on the Russian's head and began to press down.

'Sorry to call a halt to the fun, McElroy, but this Yankee faggot boyfriend would like to take the stinking red faggot home for a bath, if you don't mind'.

McElroy spun round, slipping in the mud and falling back, just as the sky was lit up by a tremendous fireball and the rain was temporarily silenced by an ear-splitting explosion coming from up the hill.

'What the hell . . . .?' McElroy bawled, scrabbling to his feet in the mud, and beginning to run in the direction of the explosion. Even from the field they could see that chaos had also erupted in the camp. Half-dressed men were running from the hut which had housed the 'entertainment evening', as McElroy stormed towards them, barking orders. Obviously, April's alternative entertainment had been much appreciated.

Napoleon wrenched his partner's head out of the ground, rolling him over and clearing the mud out of his nose and mouth. He was ominously still; breathing, Napoleon was relieved to see, but worryingly cold to touch. Darryl suddenly appeared from behind him and, pushing Solo slightly away, lifted the still form onto his shoulders. The body of the Russian looked like a limp black sack on the broad back of the tall agent, but he was already moving over the fence and up the field as if he was carrying a satchel rather than a man.

The truck which had brought the girls from UNCLE, was revving up in the yard by the barracks. Napoleon could see the girls were packed into the back, with the flap down ready to receive them. They had laid a mattress on the floor between them, and some girls were holding blankets ready. Napoleon leapt up onto the back of the truck, as Darryl passed the filthy body into the arms of half a dozen waiting girls. It was almost ironic that Kuryakin should be practically unconscious when he had some of the best looking girls from HQ manhandling him, Solo thought.

'Get in; I somehow think we've outstayed our welcome' Napoleon insisted, pulling Moore into the back of the truck and banging the side to let the driver know they were ready. A couple of shots from a rifle whipped perilously close to the petrol tank, as the truck lurched towards the main gate. As they hurtled through, Napoleon could just see the figure of McElroy standing, rifle raised, with a scene of destruction behind him, like a flaming picture frame round his burly figure.

Someone, he imagined it was probably April, had loaded an emergency medical kit onto the truck.

'April, you've got to rouse him. He's very cold, and he needs warming up, but slowly' Napoleon shouted up the truck. 'Use what you've got; I guess body heat if someone can take the mud' he added, looking down at the mud-caked figure lying, shivering on the floor. At least twelve sets of eyes looked up at him, then down at the floor, then at each other. Seemingly without needing to speak, they all sprang into action.

A girl called Evangeline, who Napoleon knew worked in French translation, suddenly dived onto the Russian, and began to press herself onto him, moving to the side slightly as another, Napoleon thought she looked like that really good looking Mexican girl from maps department, fitted in the other side, performing a similar, body warming technique. Yet another had crouched down behind Illya, gently levering his head onto her lap, and, with her face inches from his, whispering to him in what Napoleon imagined were encouraging terms. April began passing blankets to the other girls, who began wrapping them round his body, until he resembled a baby swaddled by his mother in the traditional way. Napoleon could hear the familiar tones of the Russian, but he sounded incoherent, as if he was just coming round after one too many vodkas.

'If you're thinking you might like to be in his position, don't', Moore said grimly. 'You haven't seen what he looks like under the mud, and that's just his physical injuries'.

They arrived in Grove Street at nearly midnight. April had been surprised by Napoleon's orders to the driver, as they drove through the blocks of Manhattan streets towards Greenwich Village.

'Don't you think he should be in Medical? Look at him – he's barely warm after hours of all this' she indicated the girls' efforts, 'and Darryl says he's been really roughed up by that bastard McElroy'. Napoleon delved into the large pocket of his overcoat, bringing out Illya's set of keys to the house. Attached to them was a little metal plaque. April looked at it. It was the image of a nun, with little lettering in French round the top.

'St Therese' Napoleon read. 'Of course. He needs to go home, April. UNCLE is the last place he should be at the moment. Peter is coming in a short while, after we've restored his good looks, that is' he added, with a smile.

A faint glow from the front sitting room gave the lie to the idea that someone was living there. Napoleon switched on the hall light. He could see that Rita had restored the house to the clean, shiny place it usually was, but both the light and the shine couldn't replace the lack of human presence in the silent rooms. April and Darryl came through the door at the same time, suddenly filling up the corridor with their noise, startling Napoleon out of his silent thoughts. He heard a car outside screech to a sudden halt, as he turned to them.

'The girls want to know what you want doing with him' April began. 'There's been a call from HQ wondering where they all are, and I'm afraid I have to go too, but you've got Darryl here for any strong arm stuff' she continued, punching Darryl's arm playfully. 'Napoleon? What's happened?'.

Napoleon was staring at something going on behind them. 'What's happened' he said slowly, moving forward, 'is that the proverbial shit has just hit the fan'. They all turned in time to see the girls lifting down the canvas stretcher with the wrapped up form of the Russian writhing slightly in his blanket cocoon, his partially clean face a startling contrast to the rest of his head, which was caked with dark brown straw and mud. Napoleon saw the yellow cab turning away at the end of the street, and its former occupants advancing towards the three agents.

'You two soft lads come and help the girls, while I have a little chat with April' came an unmistakeable voice through the door. 'You can send this lot home then, lover; his family's here now'.

CHAPTER 11

The back room of the house exploded with light and noise as Darryl laid Illya onto the sea of blankets which now covered the rug in front of the battered leather sofa.

'This seems to be becoming a rather bad habit of yours, Napoleon, does it not, to deliver my child to me in such a state' Marina hissed, as she knelt down by the now quiet form of her son, slowly unwinding the blankets from around the top part of his body.

'We've been monitoring his temperature' April interrupted, hoping to break the rather awkward atmosphere in the room. She handed Marina a little piece of paper with figures written on it. Napoleon bent down by the side of her husband, who was listening to Illya's heart with a stethoscope, his face quiet and still with concentration.

'He's got a good, steady rhythm' he said, looking at his wife. She stopped what she was doing and looked steadily back at him, then at Napoleon.

'I'm sorry' she said. 'I'm sure you have done everything you can for him. You are a good and loyal comrade' she added, her accent and language sounding so formal and foreign; and so uncannily like the man lying on the floor in front of them.

Napoleon's heart had missed a beat when he saw Jo appear in front of him, Marina and Peter in her shadow, but those feelings were washed away in a tide of relief at her presence. It was as if she understood what he was trying to do without him having to explain. She knelt down by Illya's side, and gently stroked his face.

'Is he well enough to move?' she said gently, 'I don't think Tessy'd want him put to bed looking like this, do you?' Napoleon was slightly taken aback by her manner. Jo and Illya enjoyed a friendship that involved the pitting of their considerable intellects in a fairly light-hearted series of verbal battles. The subjects ranged widely from the role of women in the workplace, what constituted entertainment, the arms race, the space race, and of course, anything concerning the Russian's appearance, from the top of his head to his toes. Arguments between them were usually punctuated with frequent rolling of eyes on both sides, quite often a series of glacial expressions on his side, and very often exclamations of 'I rest my case' or 'well, that's your opinion, soft lad' on her side. Now she was crouched by his side, stroking the stiff, encrusted hair, a tear dropping from her face onto his, as she gazed down at him.

'I think you'll agree, Marina' Peter said, his deep voice resounding round the room, 'that there are no obvious serious injuries that either of us can see at the moment, and that his temperature is almost normal, thanks to the work of the lassies' he continued, raising his eyebrows at Napoleon. 'However, I'd say that your laddie needs a bath, a good long rest in bed, and then, when he's ready, a very long chat with someone he trusts, d'ye ken?'. Marina nodded, sitting up and smiling faintly at her husband. Jo got up, and Napoleon could tell instantly that she was about to assume command of the situation.

'Right' she said, looking round in Darryl's direction. 'Muscle man over there can carry him upstairs, and Marina and I will restore him to the man we know and love. You, lover, find some pyjamas and perhaps you can manage a nice cup of hot chocolate for everybody'. Napoleon looked at her. Hot chocolate was the last thing on his mind.

Afterwards, when he thought back to it, Illya couldn't remember the journey back from the camp at all. His last memories were of the weight of McElroy's boot on his head, and the feeling of the soft, cold mud squelching up into his mouth and nose. Frighteningly, he could feel himself acquiescing to the cold, suffocating darkness pulling him down, urging him to accept its offer of eternal nothingness. The shock of the warm water gushing over his head pushed him upwards, back into the brightness of warm life. He felt himself enclosed by rigid slippery walls, and then hands, pushing him down again, keeping him there, while someone massaged and sponged his head and body with swift, light strokes, the continuous water running down him and away somewhere at his feet. He attempted to open his eyes, and to form something with his mouth, but his body seemed unable to summon up the energy to respond to the confused commands of his tired brain.

Then he felt himself lifted from that hard place onto something soft, cocooning his sore body. He could hear familiar voices then; the first one throwing him back into childhood, then another woman's voice, lively and warm; the tone forcing a massive kaleidoscope of images of her to rush into his fevered mind. He began to form a word on his lips, making his brain respond to the pictures in his head.

'Therese; corazon'.

xxxxxxxxx

The black helicopter momentarily eclipsed the afternoon sun, the whirring rotor blades blocking out all other sounds as it lifted into the sky and then suddenly swooped away into the receding distance. Therese shielded her eyes with her hands, then turned and walked towards the low outbuildings that housed the clinic.

She had always imagined that ante-natal appointments would be a necessary, but pleasant part of having a baby; but from the beginning, with this baby it had been different. She had considered Bernard Shearer to be, as she described him to Illya, 'a sexist pig', and had found alternative care by a more sympathetic obstetrician. Now she was faced with being examined by a woman who meant to torture and even kill her husband. She forced down feelings of panic and desperation as she thought of her meeting with Sabi. Despite what she had said, Therese knew that Sabi was worried. The presence of Jordan on the island was a constant threat to the German agent; it was incredible that she had not been discovered yet. Therese only imagined that Sabi stayed as a conduit of information to UNCLE. She hadn't seen her since that one meeting on the beach; only other women with more cruel intentions, surrounded her now.

She walked slowly along the gravel path and approached the door of the one storey building. From the outside, to someone visiting the house, it appeared to be just another farm building, with its picturesque pan-tiled roof and whitewashed walls, the intense purple bougainvillaea covering the end wall in summer, although now, just a mass of green tendrils, waiting for spring to produce its colour. It was a lovely time to have a baby, or would be, Therese thought sadly, but for the nightmare that was unfolding itself here on this tiny island.

She didn't immediately recognise the figure standing with her back to her in the room, but, as she swung round on the heel of her boot, her face was instantly memorable. Therese froze, her heart feeling as if it had been forced up her throat into her mouth, and then back again.

'Oh, it's the Russian's little English slut' Fedorenko sneered, and in a few short strides, had forced her against the wall, her hand squeezing Therese's arm until she winced with the pain of it. She could feel the malevolence of the heavier woman as she leaned in towards her, pushing against her belly.

'Get off me' she replied as calmly as she could, trying to look the Ukrainian full in the face.

As Elena turned her head, Therese could see a long, reddish scar still apparent on her scalp, under the rather thin, cropped hair. She was wondering about the scar when Elena noticed the direction of her gaze. She gripped Therese's jaw with her hand, her face now inches away.

'Your beloved husband gave me that' she hissed in Therese's face. 'I can see he was more generous with his favours to you' she sniggered, putting her hand on Therese's belly, and then beginning to slide it downwards between her legs. Therese closed her eyes, then, using as much strength as she could muster, brought her knee up and kicked hard. Elena released her momentarily, letting out a low grunt and gripping her abdomen. Therese forced herself to move, putting the examination table between her and the Ukrainian, but her condition made it almost impossible to prevent the other woman reaching her. She staggered under the blow, as Elena punched her, narrowly missing her nose, her fist glancing off the side of Therese's face.

'Halt! Was sind Sie tuend?'

They both turned, Therese gripping onto the side of the table to prevent her from falling, the pain from her eye making it difficult to focus. Winnifred Engel strode rapidly across the room, pushing Elena out of the way, and helping Therese to the nearest chair.

'What do you think you are doing?' she repeated in German, talking in short, staccato words and glaring at Elena, who was now backing away across the room towards the door. She pulled Therese's head up, and looked at her face. 'Well', she said, turning slightly, in a quieter voice, 'I hope you have a good story ready for when Granite returns and sees that you have damaged the little mother'. Elena's face drained of the unhealthy florid shade it usually was, and now reminded Therese of the colour of cold porridge. She backed out of the room rapidly, and disappeared, the door slamming shut behind her.

Engel walked over to the wall and pressed a button, which almost instantly produced a nurse from the next room.

'Give her something for her face, and then get her ready for examination' she ordered, without looking at Therese again. The nurse, another Bolt clone, as Therese liked to think of them all, fetched a cold compress and applied it to the side of her face, then, rather coldly helped her onto the examination couch, removing her trousers and underwear, and forcing her legs into stirrups at each side. Therese closed her eyes momentarily, inwardly fuming at being placed in this position of helplessness, as Dr Engel advanced towards her.

'You know, I could deliver your baby now, by section' Engels said, as she began the examination, running her finger across Therese's belly, as if it was a scalpel. Therese could tell immediately that she was in some way baiting her, trying to provoke a reaction. She thought of the nights she had spent, rubbing oil into Illya's body, wondering about the bruises and scars and how they had been made. Now, she tried to use this to give her strength. He had endured suffering and torture, she knew, and had survived. She would survive now – she had to.

'You could' she replied calmly, 'but you won't, because it's better for the baby to be born naturally, and Granite knows that. And you know that the baby is her main concern' she added, cringing at the touch of the German.

'How absolutely right you are, my dear Storm'. Therese's heart thumped at the sound of the harsh voice coming from behind her head. She yanked herself sideways a little to see the black figure of Li-Hua Bolt standing behind her. Engel jumped back fractionally, as Li-Hua swung round the bed to face Therese.

'I..I thought you had left' Therese said, cross with herself for sounding so off her guard.

'You shouldn't think that I'm in every helicopter you see leaving this island' Bolt replied. 'Why, are you missing me?' she ran her finger up the side of Therese's jaw, and through her hair. 'It's getting a little too long now; out of control' she said, pulling the little curls that now covered Therese's head. Therese lay her head on one side, closed her eyes, and choked back desperate tears. She thought of Illya. Immediately an image of him punching Li-Hua in the face, came into her mind, and guiltily, she began to smile at the thought of it.

'What is this?' Therese heard Bolt say, as she felt her eye and cheek touched. She hesitated. If she told Li-Hua the truth, then there would be serious consequences for the Ukrainian; if she kept quiet, then she added to the probable dangers that Illya might face when he arrived. Before she could say anything, Dr Engel had lunged forward, her face set in a strange kind of grin, cruel and calculating.

'It was Fedorenko. She is a liability'. Therese felt Li-Hua's gaze on her, her hand still grasping the curls, as if she was disgusted by them existing, like fast growing weeds.

There was a strange silent interval, then Li-Hua let go of Therese's hair and, dragging a stool up to the bed, sat down.

'Perhaps now is the time, Storm, for you to make your decision' she began. Therese turned her head and looked at her. 'You are right of course, the baby is my prime consideration; she is my future, and I will do anything, of course, to protect that future, and our life together'. Therese cringed at the thought. 'However, I've been thinking. I really do owe a great deal to you and your husband, don't I? After all, both of you, in a sense, have provided me with a daughter who will be both clever and beautiful, I am sure. So, dear Storm, I've come to a decision'. She got up, and walked to the wall, turning to face Therese.

'I will allow you to go free, dear Storm. Not only that, I will allow your husband to join you'. There was a loud cry from the other side of the room, almost a shriek, Therese thought.

'Nein! You promised me, Granite. You promised him to me!' Dr Engel screamed, slamming down something on the worktop that sounded metallic to Therese.

'Be quiet!' Bolt ordered. Absolutely calmly, she turned back to Therese. 'After all, you can have other children, can you not? Of course, you will have to promise never to come near me or my organisation again as a guarantee of your daughter's safety. So, there is your choice; you can stay with me and the child, as my partner, helping to bring her up and having a role in her life; or, you can choose your husband. If you choose to come with me, then I will promise that he will live, although not with you, I am afraid, although I'm sure, after a decent interval, he will find another to take your place. I think you'll agree, that it's a very generous offer' she finished, a faint smile failing to illuminate the hard features of her face.

Therese was pitched back to the evening Illya told her about his conversation with Bernard Shearer. There, he had chosen the life of the child, and irrevocably put her life into danger. Similar things were being said; there could be other children, this one could be sacrificed. At once, the baby, with what seemed like boundless energy, leapt in her abdomen, and did what felt like a somersault inside her.

'Take off these things' she said, pointing at the stirrups. Bolt came forward, and carefully lifted her legs out of the restraints, helping her to sit up. 'My clothes' she whispered fiercely. With Li-Hua's help she dressed and stood up, forcing her feet into her shoes.

'If I agree to go with you' she said very quietly, 'can I see him again one last time?'

Li-Hua looked at her, a sneer playing on her lips.

'Oh, I'm sure that can be arranged. Then, after allowing our little family to leave, he will be free to go on his way'.

'Then I will go with you Li' Therese replied, 'and with the baby'.

'Our baby' Bolt replied, walking towards Therese. She braced herself as Bolt came nearer. 'We'll have to have a little celebration later, won't we, my darling Storm' she said, putting her arm round her. Therese stiffened imperceptibly, then relaxed.

'I'd like to go back to my room now and lie down' she said quietly.

'Of course, whatever you say' Bolt replied, drawing out a small receiver from her pocket and clicking a button on it. 'Send someone over to take my partner back to her room' she said, looking at Therese. Therese gave a faint smile, not daring to look in Dr Engel's direction. The door opened and she looked round. A familiar face stared at her, then came forward to attention.

'Escort my dearest Storm back to her room' Bolt ordered. Sabi gently took Therese's arm and led her out.

As the door closed, Dr Engel turned sharply towards Li-Hua.

'Don't start, Doctor, just listen' Bolt said sharply, before the German could speak. 'It is essential that we do not have any trouble from her until the baby is born; do you agree?'. Engel nodded, frowning. 'Now, I could put her into a state of hypnosis, but I don't think that would be good for the baby. This way, not only will she behave herself, because as you said to her, we could deliver the baby now and I could leave with it, but she is now going through the agony of having betrayed her lover'. She sniffed derisively. 'You see, this is what happens when you allow a man to take control of your life, is it not?'.

'But you promised' Engel said in a rather pleading voice, 'that I would be able to play with him, as it were'.

'And so you can, my dear Doctor. Actually, all I promised was that he should live. In what state he is left alive of course, is entirely your decision' Li-Hua said, looking at Dr Engel, whose eyes were now shining, her hands running across the set of scalpels behind her lying ready to be autoclaved.

'Ja wohl, meine fuhrerin!

Sat on the bed, Sabi thought Therese looked absolutely exhausted, drained of the last vestige of the strength and vitality of the young girl she remembered from the year before. She hung her head down for a few minutes, then, with a few deep breaths, looked up. Sabi sat down on the bed by her side, and held the shuddering form in her arms.

'Oh Sabi, you shouldn't be here! This is too dangerous, and I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you' Therese cried.

'Tess, darling, what happened in there before I came in, what did she do?' Sabi replied, holding Therese gently. Therese breathed in slowly, gathering strength, Sabi thought.

'She gave me a choice and I choose my baby before my husband' she murmured. There was a silence between them for a few moments. 'But I have no intention of losing either of them' she said, her face setting into what Sabi afterwards described to Illya as a 'passionate' look. 'It was torture even pretending that I could possibly leave him; after all,' she said wistfully, managing a smile, 'who else is he going to find to clear up after him all the time?'.

'So, what have you actually agreed to do?' Sabi asked, slightly worried. Therese got up from the bed, and wandered over to the window.

'I've agreed, Sabi dear, to go away with her and the baby. It's the only way to prevent them from just taking the baby now and disappearing. She has promised me that Illya can go home free and find another wife – as if!' Therese said, starting to smile.

'Darling, he couldn't possibly find anyone like you' Sabi replied, jumping up. 'But, Tess, I have to warn you that it's unlikely she is telling the truth, you know'.

'Of course she's not telling the truth' Therese replied slowly, looking out of the window. 'She has no intention of letting either of us off this island alive. She wants Illya's genes, and she's just using me as rent-a-womb, and then, well, she'll just move our baby, and the other women, off the island. She knows that it's going to be hard to close down her legitimate business, and she's got the money to disappear, along with her friendly mad doctor. Then, twenty years later, hey presto, we have a whole set of female geniuses to lead the world'.

Sabi walked up to the window and stood behind Therese. She turned towards her.

'I presume' Therese said, 'that you are going to let Illya come here, rescue me and then blow up the labs, without hurting any of the pregnant ladies that is, and then, 'she said, sighing, 'we are going to sail off into the sunset, right?'

Sabi was amazed at her toughness. The Russian must have rubbed off on her, she thought.

'Yes, he is coming, because we're hoping that only he will be able to get right inside here, but it's a high risk strategy. But no, he won't be alone, and he won't have to do all that blowing up stuff, just rescue you, liebling. However, as we both know, Dr Engel has designs on him, yes? So, that's why I have to stay here as long as I can. I have to find a way of helping him, particularly if he gets into her hands'. Therese walked round the room, holding her back. She stopped, leaning against the wall.

'Sabi, I made Li promise that Illya and I could have time together, you know, 'our last meeting'? If I had something I could give him, couldn't I . . .?'

'Hmm' Sabi replied. 'Do you have a needle and thread, Tess?'. Therese smiled, and opened the large armoire wardrobe near her bed. The armoire, in continental style, was composed of shelves, on which the selection of clothes Therese had been given, were folded. On one of the shelves, however, there were a number of little garments in white, standing out in stark contrast to the darkness of the others. Sabi pulled one of them out, a beautiful little smocked dress.

'Ooh, sehr schön, beautiful, darling!' Sabi murmured, holding the delicate little garment out. 'Where did you get it?'.

'I made it, silly' Therese replied. 'I've had nearly three months here, remember, with no cameras and no music. So I begged her for some materials and made these. Luckily, she hasn't asked to see them; I don't think she'd approve', she said, smiling, and returning the little garment to the shelves.

'You are a clever girl' Sabi said, rather seriously, 'clever, and brave. Now, I have a few little things that you can sew into some of your clothes, OK? Then, I have something for you'.

Therese began to pull out a few clothes.

'Sabi' she began, 'can you do something for me? Can you somehow get a message to him? I wrote him a letter; it's in our bedroom. Make sure he's read it, and he knows that we are both fine. And Sabi, the most important thing; tell him, he is not to blame'.

'I will darling; I will get the message to him. Now, look, I've got these for you, but you'll have to hide them'. She opened the bag she had slung across her shoulder. In a smaller, cloth bag, there were two items: a book, and what felt like a figure. Therese pulled them out. The book was a Missal, the order of Mass and biblical readings for each Sunday. Therese clutched the book to herself, shutting her eyes. She put her hand into the bag again and drew out the figure. It was a baby, the figure of baby Jesus from a crib set.

'They're from Sister Catherine. She thought you might need them' Sabi said. Therese smiled, looking intently at the tiny figure.

'Please, if you see her, tell her that I am profoundly grateful for them' she said, 'and I will use them to help me, and him'.

Xxxxxxxxx

'Illya. . . . Illya. . . .Illya!' He was dreaming. He was back at the hotel. He was running from one room to another, looking for her. By the time he reached the place where she was, she had gone. Jordan's face appeared in front of him saying 'I don't do breakfast' over and over again. Then the braid of hair appeared, moving. He tried to grab it, but he couldn't quite reach. McElroy was now in front of him, screaming abuse. Then the dark, cold mud filled his face, choking him. Suddenly, he began to cry.

'Illya, if you don't want your dinner, just say so, only please tell me and I will go away'. For a minute, he thought it was her, then he realised. Dragging himself off the bed, he came to the door, turned the key and opened it fractionally. Without saying a word, he took the tray from Jo and turned away; the door had shut before she had time to speak. She turned disconsolately from the door, her lips set, and walked slowly back down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

The little group of hopeful faces turned towards hers were disappointed by her expression, as she threw down the tea-towel onto the counter top.

'This is bloody ridiculous' Jo said fiercely. 'This is three days now, and nobody can get anywhere with him. We've tried being nice, we've tried being hard, we've tried temptation, threats, you name it. I'm just running out of ideas, and meanwhile he's up there, like a caged lion, going slowly, or not so slowly, stark-raving mad' she ended, almost glaring at her husband, who stood leaning against the oven, his arms crossed.

The Russian had slept for what seemed like days after the night of the rescue, although it was only about fourteen hours, Napoleon estimated. Although Peter had declared him medically unfit and had signed him off for a week, he was one of the increasingly large group of people that Illya had refused entry to. Only Napoleon and Jo had managed to even catch sight of him, but this was only as food was passed into the room, and then passed out again, largely uneaten. His mother had spoken to him in Russian for long periods, and, after she had stopped, he had just told her, quietly, to leave him alone. She had returned stony faced.

'His father was like this sometimes; I'm afraid it is a Russian trait' she had said, rather stoically. 'Maybe, for the first time in his adult life, he finds himself in a situation which he can't control, and it is tearing him apart, bit by bit'.

Napoleon had also taken his post at the door. He had talked about the mission; how they would support Illya, what might happen, the likelihood of success. He had tried to adopt their usual jocular way of talking with each other, but it had sounded rather hollow when there was no sharp tongued reply from his partner. Eventually, he had revealed the message UNCLE had received from Therese via Sabi.

'Listen, Illya, she is fine, and the baby's fine, but she's worried that you're not'. There was an immediate response from inside the room, the door opening a slit, revealing the Russian standing there. Napoleon was shocked at his appearance. The punishment he had received during his days at the camp was all too apparent on his face, which had a large bruise covering his eye spreading towards a large grazed area on the cheek near it. Napoleon thought the usually clear blue eyes now seemed to have an unnatural hard glitter, and his hair looked dirty and dishevelled. He was wearing a very creased, old looking white t-shirt and shorts, his legs and arms revealing bruises and cuts to match his face. Strangely, although Solo could see the muscle development on his body, his face looked thinner, even gaunt looking, he thought.

They stood there for what seemed like a long while, before anyone spoke.

'Tell them all to go away' Illya said, almost brutally. 'I am capable of resolving this situation myself. I do not need to be waited on, nursed or guarded. I will contact you when I am ready to discuss future missions'. Before Napoleon could reply, the door had shut.

'Jeez, Mr Solo, you gotta do something, before he loses it, big time'. Frankie had also joined the group, taking up food, but returning crying after he had shouted at her through the door.

'He's never spoken to me like that' she sobbed on Jo's shoulder. After a while, she became quieter, and whispered, 'I miss Tess so much, Mrs Solo; she's like, my big sis. I mean, I've got sisters, but in our family, nobody has time for you, and I'm the youngest, so nobody takes any notice of me, period. But Tess, she listens to me anytime. You know, she's teaching me how to take pictures, and besides that, we have some cool times together, you know, just hanging out'. She stopped for a minute, looking up into Jo's face. 'Hey, you know what, he really needs her now. He might be a real tough guy at work, but she is the really tough one, for sure'.

Jo nodded. She had tried not to think just how much she was missing Tessy, but at times, even having Napoleon didn't fill the hole that had opened up in her life since her little sister had gone. She looked round the kitchen and the dining area beyond. It was full of funny, funky pictures, things, strange artefacts and hangings she had brought back from her travels, and, on the dining area wall, a set of photographs of her and Illya, in black and white. In one, which must have been taken on their honeymoon, he looked particularly beguiling; sat on an old chair under a lemon tree, his back against the trunk, and his hair, soft and bleached, falling over his forehead. Jo thought with alarm of the person above them now, so tragically altered from the happy, relaxed man who smiled at them from the photograph.

'Right. I've had enough' she said, walking towards the phone hanging on the wall of the kitchen. 'Time to call in Emergency Services'. Napoleon stared at the back of his wife, dialling a number she obviously knew. He could see that she was missing Tess, but his grief was mainly directed upwards, to the man upstairs. He had thought Illya might respond to him, but there was obviously something at the root of things that he couldn't help with. Solo reflected on the seemingly million times that they had come to each other's rescue on missions. Then, it had been simple; obvious. One of them was captured, the other rescued him, period. There had been times when they had had to deal with difficult, even traumatic incidents, and there had been romantic entanglements, even between women and the Russian. He thought of that English girl, some sort of noble family, he remembered. Illya had been pretty cut up after it, but he had recovered and they had moved on. But this, this was different.

Jo put the phone down. In thinking about Illya, Napoleon had not listened to the conversation going on between her and the person on the other end of the telephone. She came across and hugged him, her amethyst eyes looking into his for comfort and reassurance. He looked at her quizzically, wondering what she had been arranging.

'Called the men in white coats, then?' he said, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little. She smiled.

'No, not yet, although they might be coming for me before the end of the week. No, it's the man in the brown habit, darling. I'm just hoping that he might make the difference'.

xxxxxxxxx

The remains of the day flowed in through the bottom of the sash windows, below where Illya had pulled the blinds, giving the room an even rosier look than it normally had. He lay on the edge of the bed, the other side unused and empty, staring at the wall, over the top of the photograph which lay collapsed on the bedside table. He had laid it down when he had woken up, unable to look at the happy couple who looked joyously out at the world through the ornate silver frame.

After a while, he became aware that someone was knocking, quite gently, on the door. Illya sighed deeply, and rolled over, stood up and slowly walked to the door.

'Go away' he said darkly, beginning to walk away.

'No'. Illya stopped, and even smiled, grimly, a little. He wondered whose idea it was to send for him.

'I have no need for spiritual or any other counsel, Father' Illya said rather curtly, but remaining still by the door. There was a short silence, in which Illya became aware that he wanted something to happen.

'I'm not your dad, just your brother in law, so damn well let me in, otherwise I'll have to wait until your bladder is full now, won't I, you divvy' came the wholly unexpected reply.

The door opened, and before the Russian could change his mind, Gabriel McCaffrey pushed past him and leapt onto the bed, on Tess's side. He was wearing a blue hooded sweat shirt with 'Notre Dame University' emblazoned on it, and rather worn jeans, frayed at the bottom. He kicked off his shoes and lay comfortably on the bed, with his eyes closed.

'Love this bed' he said enthusiastically, not even glancing at the silent figure glaring at him, 'great to have so much room after you're used to a single' he added companionably. Illya found it difficult to look at the figure on the bed at first. In the fading light, it was very easy to see the physical resemblance between brother and sister; the colour and texture of his hair, his small, slight figure, very similar to Illya's own, and, when he opened them to look at him, the same astonishing golden brown eyes. Illya found himself breathing hard and wanting to turn away.

He walked towards the windows and pulled up the blinds, letting more rosy evening glow into the room, then sat down on the chaise longue that Tess had bought in some antique shop, and had had recovered in a wonderful deep pink brocade. Gabi was still lying on the bed, now looking at him. Unlike the others, he showed no reaction to Illya's appearance, and made no comment about it. They sat there for a while, Illya eventually lying fully stretched on the chaise.

'Why are you here?' Illya began, rather aggressively. He could feel the anger and fear in his voice, but couldn't stop it.

'I might ask you the same thing. I will. Why are you here, Illya?' Illya blinked, casting around for an answer that would send him away.

'I. . .I'm here because I was bought here. Yes, they bought me here' he said, trying to sound more controlled than his voice indicated.

'Uh-huh. And why did they bring you here then?' Gabi asked, putting his hands behind his head and stretching out on the bed. Illya ran his hand through his hair. It felt wrong; dirty, spiky, rough.

'I went on a programme after … after.. Christmas, and, well, well, it didn't go according to plan'. He looked across at Gabi, but his brother-in-law looked as if he was almost asleep. He began to think about the programme. 'I thought I needed it, needed to do it. Napoleon was away, and so I volunteered. What happened was entirely my fault, because I volunteered' he said, mechanically. Although he had his eyes closed, Gabi had obviously been listening.

'OK. So why did you really do it?' Gabi said, so quietly, Illya could only just hear him. He realised then that his heart had started beating a little faster. He could hear the distant sounds of traffic, and those closer at hand; voices, calling to each other. He could suddenly see himself at the window which was now just behind his head, looking out to see a girl with long brown hair walking along the street. A huge wave of emotion surged up and with a stifled gasp, he began.

'I should never have let her marry me. I pushed her into it, into the relationship. It was so fast, she didn't have time to think. And then, before we had known each other five minutes, she was pressurised by UNCLE into going back home to get me out of the stupid mess I'd got myself in at that coalmine. She must have felt sorry for me or something, I . . I don't know. Then I agreed to that stupid thing in Medical; Kat was murdered in front of her, and she was nearly blown up here in this house. Then, then' he rushed on, his heart thumping in his chest, 'I was so impatient. I couldn't wait; I had to force her into, into bed with me. Then I suppose she was trapped by the pregnancy; she had to marry me. And then, the worse thing' he said, beginning to slow down, almost panting with the effort, his voice beginning to shake. 'I was given a choice. I could have allowed her to take the drug, then she would have been free. But I was selfish. I chose the baby before her. I chose the baby before my wife'. Illya looked round, then gazed at the sun setting in the far distance. 'What has happened to Tess is my fault. I am to blame, but she is the one who is suffering for my selfishness and stupidity ' he finished, closing his eyes against the light.

Illya felt tears sting his cheeks, and started to brush them off. He was aware then, of Gabi near to him, just behind his head, his hand touching Illya's head quite gently.

'You are responsible; but not 'to blame' Illya. Your guilt is twisting the truth of exactly what you are responsible for, is it not, and if you do not deal with it, you will not be able to do what you must for Therese, for your child, and for yourself'. There was a stillness in the room. Illya felt his heart begin to slow, his breath becoming less laboured.

'I suppose if you were a Catholic coming to me for spiritual counsel, I would say that you were in a state of sin, my boy' Gabi said, putting his hand gently on Illya's shoulder. 'If I were Frankie, however, I would probably say that you were full of shit'. Illya couldn't help smiling at the words; he suddenly felt ashamed that he had shouted at her earlier.

'When somebody is in the position you're in, Illya, this is how it usually goes' Gabi continued. 'First, like the sinner you are, you need to acknowledge that you've sinned. Then comes the bit when you work out exactly what the sin was. And finally, there's the saying sorry bit and the sorting it all out. Now, as far as I can see it, dear brother, you know you're in the shit, but you're letting the shit run your life, if you see what I mean'. Gabi walked round the side of Illya and sat down on the chaise next to him. Illya glanced at him, sitting nonchalantly by his side. Like his twin, he was a good four years younger, but at this moment, he seemed a lot older than the Russian sitting uncomfortably by him.

'What do you mean' Illya started, 'that I'm letting it run my life. I've admitted that it's all my fault, haven't I?' Gabi smiled.

'Yes, but 'it's' not true, don't you see?' Gabi replied. 'You are suffering, incredibly, under the misapprehension that even you can get my sister to do something she doesn't want to. Somehow, feeling bad about what happened to her, the fact that you couldn't control it, stop it happening, has made you think, you mad Russian, that you have somehow ruined her life'. He shook his head, the soft curls moving gently in the darkening room.

'Well, haven't I?' Illya replied, staring at him.

'No, you silly sod, but if you don't believe me, perhaps you'll believe her'. He pulled an envelope out of his jeans pocket. 'They found this in your bedroom when they searched it after you'd decided to go and live at UNCLE' he said, handing the envelope to Illya. Gabi went over to the bed and switched on one of the lamps nearest to Illya. The sudden light brought the Russian into painful view; Gabi fought hard to prevent himself showing any shock at Illya's appearance.

With trembling hands, Illya opened the envelope. The thought that Napoleon or someone else at UNCLE had read it first, flitted through his mind, and out again. It was hand written, the familiar elegant italic writing bringing a hard lump to his throat even before he had read a word. He grasped blindly for his glasses, which he had left on the bedside table, to find them being handed wordlessly to him by Gabi. He began to read the letter slowly.

My darling Illyusha, she began, if you are reading this, then what we feared has happened, and I am somewhere I don't want to be! It was typical of her, he thought, to try to make a joke of it, however grim the reality was. I'm writing this to try to help you while we are apart. He shook his head, wondering at her care for him. No doubt by now you will have blamed yourself for not being able to prevent this evil thing. Oh Illya, none of this is your fault. We are all free to choose, and because Li-Hua has chosen to do this, how can you be to blame? Illya sighed. It was if she had been in the room, listening to their conversation, helping her brother help him. I want you to know, my darling, that I have loved every single second of the wonderful time we have spent together! From the first moment, when we met at our front door, do you remember? How could he not, he thought. He could see her now, writing her telephone number on his hand, her delicate hand on his.

And when I told you I loved you on the phone, I said it first, darling, and I meant it! So, amado, mi primer amor, stop punishing yourself! We, I mean our baby and I, need you to be strong, to make the right decisions for all of us, so that there is a future for our family. Illyusha, remember, I am proud of what you do, I am proud of you. Don't waste your strength and your time with destructive feelings of guilt that will damage you. Instead, use your Ruskie cunning to bring us home! Keep safe, my darling boy, until we are together again.

Your loving wife

Teresita

Illya gripped the flimsy paper, looking at the words, re-reading sentences, and running his finger gently across her signature. The Spanish version of her name was his favourite; he used it at special moments; she had chosen it deliberately. He put down the letter gently, then turned and knelt down by the chaise, laying his head on the seat. Gabi put his hand on Illya's shoulder.

'Well?' he said quietly. Illya sat back on his heels., his exhausted face somehow more relaxed, Gabi decided, hopefully. Illya looked up at him.

'At the risk of you accusing me of wallowing in more excrement, can I admit that my behaviour has been, well, inappropriate, shall we say' Illya said, with a wan smile on his face at last. 'So, my dear brother, perhaps you'd better tell me what I should do now? Gabi stood up.

'Well, you'll be pleased to know that you've done the hard part, now only the hardest part remains' he said, looking down at the Russian, and helping him to his feet. Now, you need to make sure that you accept the forgiveness of those you have hurt by your crazy behaviour, and then I will give you a penance'. He wanted to laugh at Illya's puzzled face. 'In other words, you have to do something to make amends, right?'

Illya's look cleared. 'Oh, I see. And what might that be?' he enquired, pursing his lips. Scrubbing the floors for a month?'.

'Nothing so easy' Gabi replied. 'No, I think you need to go and apologise to all the people you have upset and hurt in the last three months, and you can start with the people waiting downstairs. That is, as soon as you have thrown those clothes in the bin and had a shower, if you don't mind' he added; 'I think your wife would give you a good slap if she could see you now, don't you?'. Illya nodded, smiling a little more. 'She is going to hit the roof when she sees my hair' he replied; 'I don't suppose I could blame Frank . . .?

'Hardly' Gabi answered, nearly bursting out laughing at the Russian's expression. 'Besides, he's on your list'.

xxxxxxxx

They were sat round the dining room table in the basement. Napoleon thought the banging about that he heard from upstairs sounded like a good omen, but perhaps he was hoping for too much, too soon.

Gabi had come down to find them all anxiously sitting there, cups of tea in front of them. Even Frankie was trying to look as if she wanted to drink the tea, her eyes almost permanently filled with tears, which ran down her face with steady regularity. Marina and Peter sat close together, the big Scot attempting to comfort the diminutive Ukrainian by gently squeezing her hand with his own huge one.

'One in the pot for me?' Gabi said simply, helping himself to a mug from a cupboard. They had all stared, their gazes riveted on him as he poured the tea. He didn't turn round.

'Relax. The prodigal son will make his entrance shortly, after he's made himself fit to be seen in good company' he had said cheerfully, swigging down the tea, and helping himself to a large piece of cake that Marina had brought with her. After he had finished eating, he put the mug down and came over to them.

'Please don't sit here looking as miserable as you do now. He has been through a great deal, and he needs to move on, but before he does, he needs to say something to each of you, so I'd go upstairs and make yourselves comfortable if I were you. Oh, and I'd put something in the oven too. I think there may be one very hungry Russian amongst you before the night is through'.

They had all trouped upstairs then, turning the lights on in the front and back sitting rooms, bringing the dark house to life. Frankie searched through the record collection and found some favourite, and deeply calming jazz to put on the record player. Marina stayed downstairs, and slowly began to make a favourite dish of Illya's, a sort of broth with little dumplings in it, made with ingredients that she was astonished to find in the fridge.

After a while, the sound of water running and doors opening and shutting ended. There was a short silence, followed by the clatter of feet down the stairs, a very clear indication that Illya wanted people to know Illya was coming, Napoleon concluded. Then suddenly he was in the doorway of the back room where they were all lounged about, trying to look relaxed and failing miserably, Gabi thought.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Illya looked round, then disappeared.

'He's gone downstairs' Gabi said. 'Relax, people, please. He's gone to make peace with a very important person in his life. Not as important as you, Napoleon, but you'll just have to forgive him this once'.

'Funny man' Napoleon replied, Jo laughing for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

'They're not ready yet, so keep your fingers out'. She had known it was him before she felt his arms round her waist and his chin on her shoulder. Marina turned round. She frowned at the battered face in front of her, and the dark circles underneath the cornflower eyes, but despite that, he looked better somehow. She turned back and he came up beside her, leaning on the counter top by the oven. His soft white shirt and black corduroy trousers hid what she guessed were his other cuts and bruises, but at least he looked clean now, his hair restored to its golden colour, and for once, she thought, properly cut.

He walked over to the cupboard and fetched a large dish, which she filled with the dumpling broth mixture, handing him a large chunk of bread to go with it. Illya carried them both to the table and sat down.

'Mama, before I eat, I have something to say'. Marina sat down at the table next to him. He turned towards her, holding her hand. 'I am so sorry, I was unbearably rude to you upstairs. For what it is worth, the things you told me about my father, I'll . . I'll remember them for a long time, mama'. She hugged him close, feeling him wince slightly as she touched his face.

'Oh Illyusha, please don't do this to yourself again. You have a wonderful life here, with a wonderful family you have married into. Just be glad, my child, as I am' she finished, kissing him gently on the head. 'Now, eat, Illyusha, because I think you have a lot of work this evening, eh? Illya picked up his spoon and began.

After a while, when the second helping had been consumed, he put down the spoon.

'Mama? What about Anastasiya?'. Marina looked at him, smiling. 'What about her?' she replied ingenuously.

'No, not my second cousin. I mean the name Anastasiya, as you well know' Illya said, continuing to consume another chunk of bread.

'It's a lovely name, and very appropriate for the season the baby will be born in' Marina replied. 'If I'm right, Illya, your baby will be born at Easter'.

'Yes, that's what I thought' he said happily. Anastasiya. Tasiya. My daughter.

CHAPTER 12

Jo found them the next morning when she came down. She was thankful that everybody else had returned home, leaving her and Napoleon to look after Illya, supposedly, she thought, looking at the scene in front of her.

They were laid each end of the long green antique sofa, like two very large bookends, but top to toe now, where they had gently slid down at some point in the festivities, Jo thought. Although it was well into the morning, the curtains were still closed, suffusing the room with a dull, but warm glow from the deep creamy yellow colour of the walls behind them. The rug in front of the sofa was littered with a number of plates, on which she vaguely remembered the Russian had piled the various delicacies he had found in the fridge, and which now contained a few crumbs and dried up bits of food. Lying next to the plates, an odd assortment of glasses and bottles lay, as if someone had decided to play ten-pin down the room, and had not quite scored. The tonic water, Jo remembered, had been produced mainly for her benefit, but the serious drinking had continued after she had managed to drag herself unsteadily up the stairs, Napoleon mumbling something at her which she couldn't now remember, and the Russian managing to stand and kiss her tenderly on both cheeks, before collapsing back on the sofa.

He lay there now, looking like an overgrown choirboy she thought. His face, though bruised and damaged, was blissfully peaceful, his hair still managing to look untidy, even without the long fringe to cover his eyes. Her husband's position on the sofa, on his back, with his mouth open, and a gentle snore issuing forth, tempted her to fetch one of her sister's cameras, if she could work out how to use it. She fetched a large tray from the kitchen, and began to clear away the detritus from the floor. It was tempting to crash something in order to wake them up, but witnessing the Russian waking up suddenly once, she decided against it. It might be dangerous to her health. She gently placed the last of the glasses on the tray and quietly left the room.

She was coming back for more, when Jo heard the clicking of the number pad outside, and the door begin to open. Before she could stop her, Frankie had pranced into the corridor, yelling,

'Did you have a swell party? I bet those two got really blitzed!' as she swung along behind Jo, totally ignoring her shushing noises, tapping the wooden floors with her black shiny boots. The door to the front living room swung open.

'Gee, Frankie, just cut the noise, will you? Napoleon stood there, holding his back, his tie hanging off, and his hair in unusual disarray. Frankie stared at the sight, then continued to dance away, as if there was a hidden transistor radio somewhere giving her a tune.

'Hey, don't flip your wig, Mr Solo; it's not my problem you and Mr Kuryakin got loaded. Anyway, where is he?' She suddenly looked worried, her dark brown eyes wide. 'He hasn't freaked out again, has he?'

'No, Frankie, I haven't 'freaked out' again as you so elegantly put it, but I will, if you continue to bellow at that decibel level' a very faint voice replied hoarsely from inside the room. Frankie pushed past Napoleon and almost ran to the sofa, where she knelt down and hugged the prostrate form of the Russian lying there, his hand over his eyes.

'Hi, Mr Kuryakin, Frankie shouted, then continued with a stage whisper, seeing the expression on his face; 'Hey, d'ye want your shades?'. Illya turned slightly and opened his eyes a fraction. 'Yes, that is very kind; they're on the table in our bedroom. Oh, and Frankie,' Illya said, his eyes closing again, 'call me Illya please; you make me sound like one of your teachers otherwise'. Frankie jumped up and ran to the door.

'Right on, Mr K-Illya' she shouted, nearly knocking Napoleon out of the way as she clattered up the stairs on her mission to find the glasses.

'Geez, what is she on?' Napoleon said, pushing Illya's legs out of the way and throwing himself on the sofa next to him. 'I don't know how you two stand it'.

'She's 'on' being young, lover; presumably you were eighteen once, or did you just go from childhood to middle age in one fell swoop?' a husky voice whispered into his ear.

'I am not middle-aged, thank you'. He put his head back to view his wife in an upside down position and reached out, trying to pull her near enough to kiss her. She seemed beautiful from whatever position he took, he thought.

'Why don't you two blitzed ones go and stick your smelly bodies underneath the shower while Frankie and I make breakfast' Jo suggested, running her finger down Napoleon's nose, and then gazing at the still prostrate figure of the Russian. She walked round the back of the sofa and stroked Illya's hair as she passed. 'I bet Frankie wasn't too impressed with this' Jo said to the back of his head.

'I've had to give her a written undertaking that I will not enter her father's shop again unless accompanied by a responsible adult' Illya replied.

Xxxxxxxxx

The circular table was covered with a large map of the island, with other plans of the house at 'La Masia' and the outbuildings, carefully placed at the side. Illya leaned over the table, tracing his finger along the road towards the Bolt estate, and the house where Therese was. Napoleon had told him that if he wrote, he would get the message to her, and he had spent one long evening agonising over the words, a basketful of screwed up pieces of paper surrounding his feet. Now, there were just days to go before he would see her again.

He looked across at the easel with its large pad of paper pinned to the board underneath. The details of the mission were carefully written underneath in Kristianna Blackstone's neat writing, from Napoleon's directions. He could see that his partner was doing everything he could to support him, but whatever the support, only he would be placed at the very centre of the storm.

Storm. One of the intelligence papers he had read from Sabi, gave a detailed account of day to day life on the island, including the Amazonian organisation Bolt had established. He remembered the guard he had encountered on the boat, and her aggressive, superior attitude towards him. Now, apparently, Bolt had extended her androgynous ideas to names as well, including his wife's. He fumed inwardly at the thought of Therese being called anything else, running through all the diminutives he called her; Tess, Tessy, Theresa, Teresita. Teresita. He forced himself to concentrate on the task ahead, her letter running into his mind; 'use your Ruskie cunning to bring us home! '. His eyes narrowed as he took a blank piece of paper and, sitting down, began to make a list of essentials for the journey.

The door behind swished effortlessly aside to reveal Alexander Waverly, Napoleon, and to Illya's surprise, the figure of his brother in law. Illya stood up rather suddenly in surprise, prompting a wry smile from his partner .

'Ah, glad to see you are here so promptly, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly muttered, coming round to his usual place and sitting down. 'I thought Mr McCaffery should join us, since he will be directly involved in this mission, after all'.

Fernando McCaffery, to Illya's relief and pleasure he realised, had managed to hold onto his relaxed and laid-back personality, while looking every inch the UNCLE agent in the making, he now was. The Survival School course had been survived, Illya presumed, and he could only guess that Fernando's intimate knowledge of the island was the reason he was now part of the team for this mission. While he could see the wisdom of this, in the back of his mind he worried about taking him on his first mission to such a dangerous place.

'Stop looking so worried. He's a big boy now, and you're not his papa' Napoleon whispered, reading the Russian's thoughts perfectly.

'Since when, Napoleon, did you add mind reading to your considerable skills?' Illya whispered back, his lips pursed.

'Oh, I guess since you let that wife of yours unwind you enough for you to come out from that impenetrable arctic barrier you used to hide behind, comrade' Solo replied, giving his partner what the Russian called a 'smart American' look.

Fernando was laid back, literally, on the chair facing Illya and Napoleon round the table, giving the Russian an appraising look.

'What's with the poster boy for the US military look?' he whispered to Napoleon, showing signs of being with Americans too much, Napoleon thought.

'I wouldn't mention it if I were you' he replied, 'let's just put it down to a bad reaction to your sister's absence, if you get my drift. Anyway, you should have seen him three weeks ago'. Fernando nodded, suppressing a grin before the Russian, who was now reaching the end of the piece of paper, could look up from his list.

Waverly had the map of Peronella displayed on the screen above them when they looked up.

'Perhaps if you're ready, Mr Solo, you could begin your presentation. I'm sure Mr Kuryakin would be very glad to know exactly how you are going to both ensure his safety and enable the mission to be completed, would you not, Mr Kuryakin?'

xxxxxxx

The shock of the water made the baby quiver within her as Therese plunged in. The brilliant spring sky intensified the blueness of the sea lapping round her as she swam out towards the rocky cove at the edge of the beach. The water proved liberating from the weight of the baby, as she lay on her back and allowed herself to float gently on the top of the water. The beach lay in the distance, the sun casting shadows from the pines bordering the sand and the cliffs behind and glinting on the black pile of Therese's clothes. After a few minutes drifting, she turned over, feeling whale-like but surprisingly graceful, and swam a few strokes towards the flat, black rocks, grabbing the smooth edge and laying her arms on the rough, flat surface.

She was suddenly aware of the approach of a boat from the other side of the cove, causing eddies to spill over the rocks just above her. The boat docked against the side of the flat rocks and a guard jumped off, another woman the other side of the boat making sure it was anchored. Therese froze, her body shaking with cold and shock.

The guard strode towards her, her leather boots squelching on the wet rocks. Before Therese could slip back into the water, she got hold of her hands, kneeling down, her face close to Therese's.

'Jordan' Therese said, staring up at her. A look of loathing filled the former UNCLE agent's face.

'Birch. My name is Birch now' she barked at Therese, her lips curved in an unpleasant sneer. She turned away from the girl in the water and shouted to the other guard, who instantly appeared next to her. She was short and rather squat, with bright red hair which glinted in the harsh light. The second guard knelt down the other side of Therese, looking at her and then at Jordan.

'We'll take her back; I'm sure Granite will be delighted that you have been so stupid, swimming out here alone'. Jordan began to stand up in order to pull Therese out of the water, signalling to the other guard to help her. A surge of rage coursed through Therese; she threw herself backwards, unbalancing the blonde American, who toppled forwards, and with a large splash, hit the water below the rock. As Therese swam away through the seething blue water, she could hear Jordan screaming to the other guard, and the frantic response of the other guard as she attempted to pull her back onto the rock.

The sand thudded onto Therese's knees, telling her that dry land had almost been reached, as, in her desperation to get away from Jordan, she had closed her eyes and pushed her head into the water to swim faster. She clambered, heaving with the effort, onto the beach, and grabbed the towel she had brought with her, rubbing her naked body furiously. Turning towards the sea, she could see the two figures of Jordan and the other guard standing on the rocks staring at her. She could see Jordan turn to the other woman and say something, before they both walked rapidly back to the boat. A feeling of utter exhaustion hit Therese like the waves she had swum through, her legs beginning to buckle under her as she felt the sun begin to warm her back. She sat down on the towel and began to force on the black trousers and top over her swollen belly.

Jordan flung down the towel into the boat, shaking the water out of her hair with sharp motions of her head. Fox, the other guard, had a contemptuous look on her face as she looked at her fellow guard.

'What were you doing messing with her, you idiot! Now, she's going to go running back to Granite and we'll be heading the same way as that Ukrainian bitch', the redhead screamed above the noise of the boat's motor, as they pulled away from the rocks. Jordan jerked the wheel of the boat out along the coast, then slowed it down as they neared the harbour.

'I don't think so' she replied, as the engine quietened, 'we'll all be too busy for her to worry about that; besides, we've been given the job of bringing over the prize specimen on Wednesday, don't forget'. The women known as Fox stared back at the blonde.

'I thought we had shipped all those frozen samples across by now. I'd heard the girls are being got ready to move, anyway'. Jordan slowed the boat right down and approached the harbour, cutting the engine and throwing the line to a waiting guard. She leaned back against the wheel, looking at her partner, a slow, cruel smile creeping across her face.

'The specimen is not an 'it', Fox; it's a 'him'. We have the pleasure of bringing one of UNCLE's finest right into the hands of our delightful doctor, and you know what, for once, he's going to do exactly as he's told'.

xxxxxxxx

Illya looked at the two bags on his bed, waiting to be closed. The larger one, a soft dark green holdall, contained his hopes for the future of his family. Next to his own clothes, lay those for two others. He had chosen the most brightly coloured of Therese's garments he could find; geometric prints, and deep pink t-shirts now jostled with his darker clothing; anything black had been avoided. And laid carefully on top, wrapped in the Ukrainian headscarf Therese had been given at their wedding, a selection of tiny, white knitted baby clothes.

He had discovered them on the day he'd returned home to find Rita in full cleaning mode, polishing the wooden floors of the ground floor rooms so that Illya skidded from one room to the other, wishing he hadn't taken off his shoes at the door. He had wandered down to the now pristine kitchen, to find Frankie sitting waiting for him, books carefully laid open for his inspection. He made his usual journey past the oven, noting something wonderful bubbling away inside, before sitting down to look at the work.

'Hey, Illya, Papa said you should have this; guess you need to stash it somewhere' Frankie said, shoving a piece of paper into his hand. Illya wondered what the connection between the list in his hands and Frank could be as he read down the typed list. It was a delivery note for furniture. Frankie started to pull him up, tugging at his jacket in her eagerness.

'They are soooo cute!' she cooed, dancing around at the same time as pulling him towards the door. 'Papa and that guy next door, you know the weirdo poet guy, they helped the delivery guys put it all upstairs, and mama has laid it out like Tess said' she gasped, as they headed for the stairs to the first floor.

'Well, I'm very grateful to you all' Illya replied, 'although your description of Mr Ginnsburg is rather harsh, don't you think, Francesca?'.

'You think so?' Frankie gasped back, from the top of the stairs, 'yeah, well, have you seen his hair? He's got like a chrome dome on top and then he does that weird thing with the rest, like a jelly roll to cover, you know . .'

'Yes, I know' Illya sighed. 'You really musn't judge people by their hairstyles; it's really not that important' he added. She looked back at him with a critical look.

'Mmm. You say that now – you wait till Tess sees you, then you'll know how important it is' Frankie replied, tossing her head and grinning back at him.

They had reached the landing outside the small green room next to their bedroom. The door was shut and Frankie stood at the threshold, with her hand on the door knob. As he came near, she put her hand over his eyes.

'Now, keep them shut till we get inside' she whispered in his ear, whilst she slowly opened the door, and drew him inside.

From a vast experience of being blindfolded, Illya could sense that there were now things in the room, and that he was standing on a rug, like a small soft island in the middle of the hard brown sea of wooden flooring. He could also sense the young girl's excitement and he was touched by it, by her enjoyment of sharing his life with Therese. She took her hand away from his face and he opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the soft light of the room.

The furniture was painted a soft cream colour; small versions of larger, adult pieces. A diminutive wardrobe stood in the corner with a small chest of drawers along the wall, the top adorned with various items needed for babies he presumed, but didn't know, had never even thought about, before this moment. On the other side of the room lay the cot, in a matching shade, its mattress already covered with delicate sheets and a soft cream blanket. And on top of the blanket, waiting to be lifted out, a smaller moses basket type crib, similarly prepared. A tiny pink rabbit looked out at Illya from the crib.

Illya gazed around, transfixed by the feeling of timeless preparedness in the room, as if it were holding its breath, relying on him to make sure that what needed to, came to pass. He noticed his hand shake slightly as he laid it on the cot side. He felt Frankie tugging his arm again, this time very gently.

'Isn't it neat?' she whispered, as if the baby were already there. 'Hey, and look in here, this is really fine' Frankie said, as she opened the wardrobe doors. The wardrobe had a narrow section with scaled down hangers holding a set of scaled down clothes; little dresses and delicate little dungarees. Then, on shelves down the side, knitted garments; jumpers and cardigans, and their matching bonnets and bootees, neatly folded. Frankie carefully pulled out a bonnet, its little ribbons unfurling on her hand as she pushed the tiny garment towards Illya.

As he took it, the image of his wife making these things appeared before him. Somehow he had not really noticed or even shown an interest in what she had been doing, and he now felt ashamed that she had created this place and all the things in it, without his help.

'She wanted it to be a surprise' Frankie continued in her stage whisper voice, ''cause she reckoned you wouldn't have the time'. Illya pursed his lips, and shook his head slightly at the thought.

'Perhaps I should have made time' he replied, gazing at the bonnet. He placed it gently on the top of the chest of drawers and began to take out a few more garments, much to Frankie's amazement. Illya shut the wardrobe door and picked up the baby clothes. He returned to the cot, and bending down, took the little pink rabbit from its hiding place.

'Don't worry' he said, walking towards the door, 'I just thought they might be needed before we get home'.

The smaller bag didn't need many things. Illya knew that whatever he carried with him would eventually be subject to search and probably destruction. He would spend one night in Palma and then proceed to the agreed meeting place with whoever Bolt sent to collect him. The other bag would be collected, as Napoleon assured him, to be sent on to Mallorca for safe keeping. It was pointless him carrying any obvious weapons. He heard the stairs being scaled two at a time as he put the baby clothes into the bag.

'Aw, can't get to sleep without bunny?'. Napoleon stood in the doorway, his head on one side and a sloppy smile illuminating his face. Illya sighed and put the bunny in the bag, zipping them both. He went over to the bedside table and drew out a letter.

'The guys in the office have a new machine that can send a facsimile, so we can get it to Sabi by tomorrow' Napoleon ventured, hoping to reassure his partner.

'So I suppose the guys in the office will be reading it as well' Illya replied glumly, thrusting the envelope into Napoleon's hand. Napoleon took it and they stood quietly in the room together for a few moments.

'Look' Napoleon began, 'just focus on Tess; that is your mission. With you as the centre of attention, it should be enough to divert the girls from minding the shop for a while. Just for a change, you don't need to worry about blowing up anything; your apprentice in the dark arts has got everything in hand. All you need to do as far as that is concerned, is to make the drop as I told you. Fernando and I will mop up, and then you and Tess can play mom and dad with the pink rabbit'. Illya turned slightly and looked out of the window.

'You're forgetting something' he murmured. 'A slight matter of where the baby is going to be born. With all that has gone on, there is a risk that it may be sooner than we think'. Illya went back to the bedside table and took out a little box; it looked like a little ring box to Napoleon. Turning round, he thrust the box into Napoleon's hand. Solo opened it, guessing already what it might contain.

'Can you look after these for me? I can't risk them being taken by Bolt's females' Illya said. In the box lay the delicate chain and Therese's wedding ring. Illya pulled the ring off his own finger and added it to the little collection. 'Just in case' he said wistfully, looking at the jewellery nestling in the box. Napoleon snapped the box shut and put in into his jacket pocket.

'Well, just think of it as an extension of my best man duties' he said, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt. 'Then you can play weddings as well as mom and dad, huh?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

The preparation rooms at La Masia were an extension of the house itself, dating from the time when it was a working farm. It was easy to imagine the scene in here at harvest time, Sabi thought; the noise of the fruit of the fields being sorted and processed. Now the rooms lay dusty and silent, agricultural implements and containers left waiting for long dead workers to return.

Sabi glanced round before walking quietly towards a large cupboard in the

corner of the room. She opened the door gingerly and could immediately see a wooden container on the highest shelf poking out. She reached up, and taking the container down, she withdrew the envelope from it and stuffed it into the pocket of her jacket.

'What are you doing here?' a voice shouted, faintly echoing among the rafters of the barn-like room; 'Granite wants to see you like yesterday'. It was the short Canadian girl with the flaming hair that Sabi nervously realised was Jordan Lawrence's partner.

'Sorry. It's an amazing room, don't you think?'. The Canadian shrugged and stood back as Sabi walked past. She could feel the envelope in her pocket and wondered if she could find Therese that morning. She pursed her lips at the thought; she could hardly ask Bolt where she was, and she wondered exactly what Bolt wanted from her.

Li-Hua Bolt was waiting for her in the large living room, standing by the immense fireplace, one black booted foot kicking at some ash in the grate of the fire. She turned as Sabi entered.

'Ah come in and sit down. I have a proposition for you'. She went over to a desk pushed against a large window and retrieved some papers.

'According to this' she said in a rather impersonal voice, 'you have performed your assigned tasks with efficiency and imagination. You also passed the test I gave you with very high scores. If you remember, you made an undertaking when you joined this organisation, that you would serve it in any way that I deemed suitable, do you remember?'. Sabi nodded, intuiting that something was about to be suggested that wasn't quite in the plan.

'On Wednesday', Bolt continued, 'we will be receiving a rather special package. This package is really, let's put it like this, shall we, a sort of special birthday present for Dr Engel'. Sabi shuddered inwardly at the mental pictures which swarmed into her mind, let alone the cold impersonal way of describing her beloved colleague as a 'package'. Bolt had obviously not finished.

'Before I give Dr Engel her present, as it were, I'd like to take a little something from our special package. As you know, the modified 'lebensborn' programme has entered its next stage, and at present, we have fifteen confirmed pregnancies of female children, due to our advanced screening programme. It's really quite a breakthrough to be able to isolate the 'female' semen as it were' she added, looking slightly more animated than usual; 'a facility our Amazonian forebears didn't have access to, no?'. She put down the papers on the desk and came to sit next to Sabi. The German agent noticed, close up, the deadness of the other woman's eyes. It was like looking into a fish's eyes on a slab in the fishmonger's shop, she thought.

'Unfortunately, due to the miscarriage of one of the producers, we find that there is a need for a replacement. As you realise, we do not have time to procure semen as we have done in the past, and luckily, our package will provide us with a high quality product with the minimum of difficulty. In fact' she added, getting up, 'the combination of your genetic materials will produce a child of the highest calibre, and we hope, the last head of UNCLE' .

Sabi swallowed, and concentrated on looking less shocked than she felt. After the affair in the Ukraine, everybody in UNCLE New York it seemed, thought that she and Illya had something going on between them, until Napoleon scotched that rumour after Kat's death. Strangely, Kat and her had discussed, in a fairly light-hearted way one evening, what it would be like to have a child, and who the father might be. Naturally, the Russian's name came up, but that was before Therese had come on the scene. Therese. Sabi blinked at the thought of how she was going to explain this to her. However, there was one certainty; in order to give Illya a fighting chance of rescuing his wife, Sabi had to remain here.

She had known that this procedure might be a possibility, of course, and had been given an injection by Bernard Shearer that should have ensured her protection. But the length of time spent on the island had resulted in the protection running out at exactly the wrong moment.

'I would be honoured to become a producer for our organisation' Sabi heard herself saying. She reasoned within herself that perhaps it wouldn't come to it in the end. Perhaps.

xxxxxx

My darling Teresita, if you are reading this, then give Sabi a hug from me, and know that we will be together very soon. I didn't realise when I saw you for the first time (do you remember?) that I would ever feel as much pain being apart from another person as I have felt without you. I hope you will forgive me for failing to protect you and our baby on the night of Napoleon's wedding. I know now that these feelings of guilt are pointless and destructive, so I will concentrate on telling you that, first of all, my love for you is unending; you are the centre of my world, ma petite fleur, and I will give everything I have for you, everything. Secondly, that I will try to be a good father to our little girl (there, you have me even believing it is to be a girl!). I will save all the other things I want to tell you until we meet, as I am afraid I must end this letter by telling you to destroy it! Don't be frightened when you see me, Tess; no doubt there will be a small degree of suffering involved in your rescue, but with your help, I'm sure we can prevail. Please keep safe, my dearest, until we are reunited. Your loving husband Illya.

The letter, in his familiar neat handwriting, somehow copied onto the thinnest of paper, lay in her hands like a delicate flower. Therese crushed it and lay on the bed with it near her face, until her tears had reduced the translucent paper to a wet lump of tissue. After a while, she got up and washed her face in the sink near to her bed. She was startled momentarily by Sabi's continued presence in the darkening room.

'I'm sorry, darling, I need to tell you something before I go, something you must know before Wednesday' Sabi said simply.

'Is it about Illya?' Therese replied anxiously. Sabi could see that she was very tired. The strain of the last months had taken most of her resolve and courage, and she now looked on the point of nervous collapse. Sabi pondered whether now was the right time to disclose the latest diabolical plan of Ms Bolt to her. Sabi sat on the bed next to Therese, putting her arm round her shoulder and drawing her towards her.

'Darling, I must go very soon, and I doubt if I will see you again before Illyusha arrives' she began. 'However, I am afraid that there is something I think you should know about. If after I have told you, you want me to, I will do everything I can to stop it happening'. Therese looked confused.

'What on earth do you mean?' she replied, looking into Sabi's face. Sabi sighed and related the events of the morning to her, without additional comment. When she had finished, Therese got up and went to the window, staring up into the sky for a while, and then looking down at the two men working in the vegetable garden and orchards surrounding the house. Something about them seemed familiar, but they were too far away for her to see them in any detail. She turned away from the window to face Sabi, her face set with the determination Sabi had seen before, when other difficulties had to be faced.

'Li is doing a wicked thing to you Sabi and to Illya' she began. 'I am sure that Illya will try to prevent it happening, but if it does, well, we'll just to have to sort it out between us, won't we?' she said, smiling gently at the anxious face of the German in front of her. Therese came over and sat facing Sabi again. 'We cannot punish the child, can we, for something evil that an adult has done to its parents?' she murmured. Sabi pulled her towards her.

'He really is the luckiest of Russians to have you, darling; make sure you tell him that, ja?'.

xxxxxxxx

Palma. It was a lovely city, reaching down to the sea, its long harbour, the port for regular ocean-going cruise liners, and its Cathedral dominating the skyline from the sea. Illya threw his small bag down in the hotel room and gazed out of the window at the sparkling water; one night, possibly two, and then he would see her again.

The accompanying carrier bag bore the logo of a fashionable Mallorcan shop, and to all extents and purposes, held a selection of gift wrapped purchases. Only these gifts were not what they seemed. The brightly coloured wrapping paper concealed a selection of presents for the would-be bomber, Illya thought. He hoped that he had included everything Vaz would need to complete his part of the mission, plus a few other little extras that the Indian, he was sure, could make use of. He wondered what Sabi had been able to hide on Therese, and frowned at the thought of the inherent danger of involving her in this way. Still, without a few little gadgets, it would be a uphill task for them to even have a hope of escaping.

He sat down on the bed, and drew out his communicator. He was to leave his bag in reception, and that meant this too. According to Sabi, Bolt had highly sophisticated equipment to detect anything he might have secreted on his person, and he wanted to avoid being cut open to discover anything for as long as possible. The image of Dr Engel and her scalpels flashed across his mind as he twisted the barrel. If they got the timing of this mission wrong, then there could be carnage, with him as the principal course on Dr Engel's bloodthirsty menu. He subconsciously rubbed his neck at the thought, and could just feel the raised wheals where McElroy had stubbed out his cigarette in a line. McElroy's torture sessions would be a walk in the park compared to what was ahead if she was allowed to get to work on him.

Napoleon's voice immediately interrupted his rather gloomy train of thought.

'Arrived safely, with all your gifts?' he enquired.

'Yes', Kuryakin replied tersely, 'I'm just going out now to deliver them. I don't know who thought of this drop off, but it seems hardly appropriate considering what's inside my 'gifts' as you call them'.

'Well, I thought you might welcome the cover of darkness for your Father Christmas act, comrade, and while you're there, you can even make use of the facilities'.

'Very funny. I think my confession would take far too long, bearing in mind I have a boat to catch tomorrow' Illya replied, smiling into the communicator.

'O.K. Fernando and I are en route, as it were, so hopefully, there should be a touching family reunion round about this weekend'. Illya frowned at the timescale, even though they had gone through it meticulously in New York.

'Yes, well don't hang about too long, I want to be in one piece, more or less, when you see me again' he replied.

'Don't worry. Everything will go just as we planned, right?'

'If you say so, Napoleon' Illya replied, sighing.

'Good. Take care, Solo out'.

Illya closed the communicator, returned it to his pocket and grabbed the bag. He glanced round the room and left, walking quickly down the stairs and out of the hotel into the evening sunshine. Despite it being only the end of March, it was already warm and pleasant even at this early evening hour. He headed away from the hotel towards the older part of the city, through the dark, narrow streets that gave onto the beautiful open squares for which Palma was famous. At last, he turned a corner and headed for the Cathedral.

From the port, in particular, it was an unusually shaped building, looking like a ship that had been beached far from its moorings. Illya found the west end, and entered the Cathedral at the Main Door, passing through a smaller door cut into the larger one. He glanced up at the figure above him, smiling at his improving knowledge of Catholic iconography. Our Lady Immaculate, her hands together in prayer, surrounded by various Marian symbols: Illya recognised the lily, but puzzled about the others. He plunged on, his eyes lagging behind his body as the darkness of the interior contrasted painfully with the mellow light beyond the great doors.

He turned slightly to the right and walked very slowly up the side aisle, counting the chapels as he passed them. Just before the building narrowed to form the East End, he found what he was looking for. The little side chapel was a monument to the Baroque style, with its excess of swirling, ornate forms. St Anthony of Padua, the child Jesus nestling in his arms, looked down in a lofty way towards the Russian standing there. Illya glanced round in the deep gloom, his eyes resting on the dark wood of the confessional box hidden away behind the screen on the east wall of the chapel. He had often seen these, but never thought he would enter one, for whatever reason. Now he opened the gate to the screen and walked towards the box.

The priest's side of the confessional had a half-door, rather like a stable door entrance, with the upper part covered by a dark purple curtain. Illya stepped into the other side and knelt down by the grille, placing the carrier bag carefully in the corner by his side. He was aware of a slight movement in the other side before a familiar voice was heard.

'Any sins you'd like to get off your chest before your little trip, old boy?'

'If there were, I have no intention of revealing them to you Vaz' Illya murmured. He could now just make out the familiar features through the metal grille between them. 'Your gifts from the wise men of Section 8 are awaiting you this side' he continued. 'I've added a few things which you may care to utilise, but please make sure that we're all a discreet distance away before you start playing with them, understand?'. He could almost see the glint of the Indian's white teeth the other side of the box.

'You concentrate on your knight in shining armour act, and let Uncle Vaz handle the whizzbangs' Vaz replied cheerfully. 'Then you can introduce me to Kuryakin junior when the show's over' he added. Illya smiled at the Indian's utter assimilation of the British stiff upper lip, make light of it attitude.

'Yes, well let's see how Kuryakin senior manages first before we get to that, shall we?' he replied. As he was getting up, Fernandes spoke again.

'Oh by the way, Illya, urgent message from your biggest German fan across the water, as it were, old boy. She needs to speak to you pronto about some utterly urgent issue that's come up. Wouldn't come clean about it to me at all, so do try to have a word a.s.a.p, there's a good chap' he said. Illya's brows creased with confusion at the message.

'Hmm. That might prove a little difficult to speak openly to Sabi with our former colleague lurking nearby, but I'll try'. Illya wondered what on earth was so urgent that Sabi felt she had to speak to him and risk discovery.

He got to his feet. The Cathedral was filling with people waiting for Mass to begin; Illya suddenly realised why. It was Holy Week, and on Sunday it would be Easter Day. Yet again, the events of the Passion seemed intertwined with major events in his life. He sat down at the edge of one of the long rows of pews in the huge space of the Cathedral, and put his head into his hands.