The Prisoner Of the Mind Affair

by Avery1

Napoleon is devastated by the apparent death of Illya, until new evidence sends him on a desperate search for his partner. Co-written by Avery1 and Uncle Charlie.

Crossover with The Prisoner

We'll alternate chapters, with Uncle Charlie recounting most of Illya's experiences, and Avery11 handling most of Napoleon's perspective.

The Prisoner Of the Mind Affair

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, there was a place –"

"Aren't I a little old for fairy tales?"

"Not this kind of fairy tale. I will start again. So, once upon a time there was a place."

"What was it called, this place?"

"It had no real name. It was simply referredto as The Village. From the outside, it looked bucolic and peaceful. Everyone there seemed happy, but it hid a terrible secret."

"What secret?"

"It was a special place."

"What sort of special place?"

"It was a place where you put things… well, not just things, but people as well.

"If it was so terrible, why didn't they just leave?"

"They couldn't. Not until the people who put them there got what they wanted."

"Why?"

"They were considered too dangerous or too knowledgeable to be left to their own devices."

"What did they want, these people in charge?"

"Information."

"What sort of information?"

"World-changing events, or possibly why they turned left one morning instead of right. Anything that might make their handlers fear that their product had been compromised in some way."

"So these people were stuck in this village by their own bosses and… tortured?"

"In some cases. Tricked, drugged, or manipulated in others. Some, however, were there simply because they wanted to leave their old life behind and find peace and security. Outsiders never threatened The Village. Rover saw to that."

"Who is Rover?"

A horrible beast that attacks and retrieves its victims by first consuming them and then regurgitating them at a predesignated point."

"Ugh, sounds messy. However, I'm still confused. Who are you and why are you telling me all of this?"

"I am a freeman. Where is Napoleon? Be seeing you."

Illya woke and sat up, gasping as pain shot through him. Almost immediately, Nellie was by his side, easing him back down into the hospital bed.

"It's okay, Illya. Calm down." She wrung out a cloth and used it to wipe the sweat from Illya's face. "You were just dreaming. You've been doing a lot of that lately. That was how we knew you were finally coming out of your coma."

"C…co…" Illya coughed. His throat was raw and rusty feeling. He coughed again, and Nellie offered him a glass of water and a straw. The water was cool against the inflamed tissue, but Illya knew better than to gulp. "Coma?" he whispered.

"For nearly a month." She set the glass aside.

Illya looked at the empty chair beside the bed. That seemed odd. "Nellie, where is Napoleon?"

"On vacation. He left two days ago. Waverly ordered him out of here. He was getting in the way of the doctors. Don't you remember? You sort of woke up and he told you he was leaving."

No, he didn't. He didn't remember anything, in fact. Of getting hurt or being brought here. The harder he tried to remember, the more vaporous the images became. Fire?

"Nellie, was I in a fire?"

"No, you were captured by THRUSH in Istanbul. It took Napoleon a month to track you down and rescue you. We were all quite worried."

They weren't the only ones. The whole setup seemed wrong. Napoleon leaving his side was out of character, and Illya wondered if something had befallen his partner and they weren't telling him. "Nellie, may I have my communicator?"

"Well, I shouldn't, but okay." She walked to a small closet and pulled the slender, pen-like instrument from a jacket pocket. It reassured him to see his suit hanging there. "I know you won't rest until you've talked to him, but don't tire yourself out. Keep it short."

"Thanks." He let his fingers linger on hers for a moment and he waited. Usually that would bring a delightful blush to Nellie's cheeks, but this time it only earned him a smile. He smiled back, keeping his concern hidden deep inside, and brought the communicator to his lips. "Open Channel D, please. Napoleon, are you there."

The answer was immediately. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"Nothing, I was just checking in and letting you know I was awake."

"Thanks, now get some rest. Doctor Solo's orders. Solo out."

The communicator went dead in his hand. Illya stared at it, then shifted his attention to Nellie. "That was… brief." He frowned. "I supposed he's busy entertaining." He let his hand drop the communicator back to his sheets.

Nellie made a motion to retrieve it, then stopped at Illya's glare. Instead she brushed his hair off his forehead, and pressed a cool hand to it. "You still have a slight fever. Are you hungry?"

Now that the subject came up, he was. "A little."

"I'll go see what I can rustle up for you. We need to put a little meat on your bones."

Illya watched her walk from the room, and immediately brought the communicator back to his lips. "Open Channel D, please."

Almost instantly, Napoleon's voice answered again. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"Where are you? I had an odd dream and I'd like to hear your interpretation."

"Thanks, now get some rest. Doctor Solo's orders. Solo out."

Illya looked at the communicator and frowned. That's when he noticed. It wasn't functioning at all. A shot of fear clamped his stomach into a painful knot as he stashed it between the mattress and the edge of the bed frame. Where was Napoleon? Hell, where was he?

*/*/*/

Chapter 2

Hot. It was hot. A thousand degrees, at least. Ten thousand. Napoleon could feel the fire sizzling around him, singing the hairs on his skin, relentless waves of heat, drawing closer, burning, burning. It was hard to breathe. Illya! Where was Illya? He tried to call out, but it turned into a cough, a wretched hacking that went on and on, leaving him weak and exhausted when it finally passed.

He opened his eyes.

The noonday sun beat down upon his outstretched body, white hot, blindingly bright. The sky was a clear and brilliant blue. A flock of ibises passed above him in graceful V formation, calling to one another.

Where – ? I thought – There was a fire, and –

His skin felt flushed, feverish. It was hard to think. Drugged? He tried to sit up, but his muscles turned to jelly and he collapsed, sending a litter of empty beer bottles clattering across the teakwood deck. Pursang, he thought. I'm aboard the Pursang. He could smell the sea.

He made it to vertical on the second try, and felt his stomach lurch in protest. His mouth was parched, cottony-dry; his head throbbed without mercy. He rubbed a calloused hand along his jaw, feeling the days-old growth of stubble. He reeked of sweat and booze.

Must've been a hell of party.

He made a halfhearted attempt to orient himself. The familiar trappings of the Pursang were reassuring, sails properly stowed, everything shipshape. The sloop was moored inside a quiet bay, the water a stunning shade of turquoise. He could see a pair of small islands off the port bow, and another, larger one a half-mile to starboard. Colorful clapboard houses dotted the perimeter of the larger island.

The Caribbean? No, the Florida Keys. That's the Key West Lighthouse over there.

Napoleon realized that he had no idea how he'd gotten there, or even what day it was. All he had to go by was a series of disjointed images of his time aboard the Pursang. He remembered setting sail in the dead of night, the gallant sloop hugging the barrier islands along the New Jersey coast. Sailing down the Delaware Canal to the Chesapeake, beset by stiff winds, swift currents and six-foot tides. Following the Ditch – the Intercoastal Waterway – along the edge of the Everglades.

How many days ago was that? A week? And before that –?

The mission to London.

His head throbbed.

No, don't think about it don't –

The assignment had been a difficult one – plant a series of monitoring devices on the person and in the lodgings of one Bram Visconti, THRUSH's newest wunderkindt. Bell the cat, so to speak.

Illya had been delighted with the challenge. Visconti was a computer genius with advanced degrees in medicine, particle physics, applied sciences and drama. The thought of matching wits with an intellectual equal for a change, instead of the usual THRUSH morons, had the Russian acting like a schoolboy on holiday.

"This will be fun!" he declared as they sat in their room at the Dorchester, plotting the best way to slip past the security protocols protecting Visconti's London townhouse. Napoleon had been somewhat less convinced of the entertainment value of the mission, but kept silent, reluctant to spoil Illya's obvious pleasure.

They'd gotten in easily. Too easily, as it turned out. They'd planted the spyware with little trouble, but Illya had tripped an alarm while sifting through the blueprints of an ersatz doomsday weapon Visconti had conveniently left for them to find. Suddenly, the entire apartment was ablaze, as though it had been doused in kerosene, fire engulfing the furniture, the curtains, the walls, in a matter of seconds.

"Forget the blueprints! Illya -"

But Illya wasn't there. Napoleon turned and saw him, trapped behind a searing wall of flame a dozen feet away. He started toward him, ready to charge into Hell and back if that was what it took to reach his friend.

Illya shook his head, and pointed upward. The ceiling was on fire, support beams groaning and crackling as they began to give way. A shower of cinders fell upon his golden hair. Their eyes met in an instant of perfect understanding. "Go," he shouted.

"No! I won't –!"

The ceiling fell in with a terrible roar, and Illya was gone.

Seconds. A matter of seconds.

"A trap," Alexander Waverly had acknowledged at the debriefing, "brilliantly designed. It was obviously meant to take the pair of you out." He sighed. "Regrettable, about Mr. Kuryakin, a real loss to UNCLE. Thank heaven you were able to escape, Mr. Solo. It would have been a tragedy to lose you both."

Thank heaven? Curse heaven! Fuck heaven. Napoleon staggered to his feet, head pounding, and went in search of another beer.

It was cooler below deck, and blessedly dark. He opened the refrigerator and seized the remaining bottle of Heineken. He popped the cap on the galley tool and took a long swig, relishing the coolness on his burning throat. Better. He dug the bottle of aspirin out of his dresser, and shook two tablets into his palm. He stared at them for a long time. In the end, he returned them to the bottle. He wanted to feel the pain.

Illya was dead. Burned to death. He choked on a sob. There hadn't even been enough of him to bury.

The funeral had been a quiet one – all UNCLE funerals were quiet – Napoleon couldn't recall much about it. Afterward, a bevy of Soviet generals had sequestered themselves behind closed doors with Waverly, railing against the loss of the agent they had so trustingly placed under his care, and against Solo, for his alleged mismanagement of the Affair. The meeting had gone on for hours. They'd left eventually, mollified by whatever bargain The Old Man had managed to strike.

"Take some time off, Mr. Solo," Waverly had ordered once the Soviet brass had been escorted from the building. "Your lungs need time to heal, and so does your heart. Mourn. Rage. Get your head straight." He paused to light his pipe. "I can give you two weeks. It will take that long to evaluate potential partners to replace Mr. Kuryakin. "

The thought made Napoleon want to throw up. No one can replace Illya.

He'd gone to his apartment, packed a duffel, and boarded the Pursang that night,destination unknown.

Destination, who the hell cares? He peered at the beer bottle in his hand. Empty. When had that happened? He supposed he'd have to go ashore and buy more.

*/*/*/

Chapter 3

"Once upon a time, there was a Village."

"You already told me this story."

"Some stories bear repeating until the lesson is learned. This is one of them."

"Where is this Village?"

"No one knows exactly. That's what makes it both a safe haven and an insidious prison."

"How do you know Napoleon is there?"

"I didn't say he was. Now, let me go on, please."

"Yes, yes, the Village."

"In it, you must not trust anyone, not even people you trusted before."

"I will always trust Napoleon; he is my partner."

"Is he?"

"Yes."

"Believe nothing you are told. Believe nothing you are shown."

"Is there an end to this uplifting little tale of yours?"

"Death."

Illya forced himself awake. He was dripping with sweat, and his breath was coming in painful gasps. His throat felt as if someone had taken steel wool to it. Yet there was no sign that he'd been on a respirator or even an IV solution. However he was still in bed in Medical. Wait… what did his dream say? Trust nothing? Was he in Medical?

Illya reached out and put a hand to the wall behind the bed. Smooth stucco met it. He frowned. The walls in Medical were metal. Everything in UNCLE HQ was metal. There was a standing joke that they were all just robots in human guise.

He felt as if an incredible weight was holding him in bed, but he was so weak, so tired, it took him two attempts to flip the sheets back. Heavy plaster casts enveloped both of his legs from the knees down. He sat up and touched one of the casts with tentative fingers. He couldn't remember getting hurt, although he recalled heat and Napoleon shouting. Why couldn't he remember?

"They broke your legs after you tried to escape." Nellie was standing in the doorway, holding a tray with a glass of water and some medicine on it. She walked briskly to the bedside and it set down. Illya was amazed that she could move that fast. "THRUSH was pretty annoyed with you."

Illya raised the hem of his hospital gown, expecting to see bruising. Aside from a catheter, there was nothing amiss. "It doesn't look like it."

She pushed Illya back against the pillow and pulled up the sheets to his chest. "You've been unconscious for a long time, Illya. That's why all your bruising is gone." There was something odd to Nellie's voice, but he couldn't put a finger on it. "You're soaking wet with sweat. How about a nice sponge bath?"

Illya was about to decline when he spotted the bouquet of flowers on the nightstand beside the bed. Nellie followed his look and smiled prettily at him. "Aren't they lovely?"

"Who sent them?"

"Napoleon. He was very worried after your call. They came in while you were asleep."

"Take them away, please." If Napoleon was worried, he'd be at Illya's side. This wasn't right. His dream had urged him to trust no one.

"I'd… I'd rather not. They brighten the room so." She turned away from him and Illya caught her hand. "I'm just going to get the things for your bath," she murmured and pulled free. "I'll be right back."

Alarm bells were going off in his head. Something was wrong… no, everything was wrong. However, until his casts were removed… Again, his dream floated back to him. Trust nothing.

Watching the door, Illya reached for the casts under the cover of his sheets. To his surprise, one of them shifted under his touch. He grumbled, as though he was trying to scratch an itch, a normal reaction to a plastered limb. Running his hand down his leg, he felt a broad strap. His legs were strapped and then a plaster shell placed over them? What the hell was going on?

A noise at the door made him lay back. Nellie re-entered carrying a basin, towels and a fresh gown. "This will make you feel better."

"Getting out of bed would make me feel better."

"Sadly, you have another week before those casts come off. Then you'll be off to physical therapy for a bit." She squeezed out the sponge and then set it aside to adjust the back of the bed. "How are you feeling overall?"

"Weak as a newborn." It wasn't a lie. Illya felt as if he had barely enough strength to breathe. That's when he happened to glance down. His inner elbow had so many pin pricks in it that it looked as if it had a rash. Trust no one, not even someone you trusted before. His eyes narrowed.

Nellie hadn't seemed to notice. She was busy washing his back. "You're awake more and more now. We'll get you something a bit more substantial than glucose and broth into you, and that will help."

"That feels good. Do you think you could wash my hair as well?" Nellie loved washing Illya's hair and Illya knew she would jump at the chance.

Her hand paused at his question. He felt it rather than saw it. "I'll have to check to see what the doctor says."

"Forget the doctor, Nellie." Illya let his voice become soft, almost a purr. "When did we ever take stock in what doctors said?" He caught her hand and pulled her close.

"Well, perhaps it's time we did. You have to remember, everyone's days are numbered, even yours." Nellie's eyes flashed and Illya got the message. He released her.

"All right. If you insist. Have you heard from Napoleon?"

"No, last message was that he was sunning himself in the Florida Keys with a bevy of lovely ladies. I should probably get some penicillin ready for him, just in case."

Illya nodded, never letting on how odd her sentence struck him. Yes, Napoleon played free and easy with the women, but he always practiced safe sex. UNCLE demanded it, and Nellie knew it. Illya let her finish her task without speaking. His mind, however, was racing.

"There! All done." She dried him and smiled. "Let me get this put away and I'll bring you something from the Canteen. Any requests?"

"Something edible… And no lemon Jell-O."

She laughed, a hollow empty-sounding thing, and was gone. Illya stared at the flowers, calculating his next move. Usually it wouldn't be much of a challenge, but he wasn't lying about his lack of energy. Just the exploration of his pseudo casts left him drained to the point of exhaustion.

He reached out to finger the closest flower and then with a yell, he flailed his hand. The bouquet went flying, crashing to the floor.

Nellie was there in a heartbeat. Canteen, indeed, Illya thought.

"What happened?"

"A bee!" Illya tried to put the right amount of panic in his voice. "I saw a bee." He pulled the sheet up to his neck as if it would protect him.

"In here?" She looked around, confused, then she knelt to pick up the fallen vase. "Where?"

"It was in the flowers. I heard it buzzing. Remember when we had bees here before. They were killers. I nearly died, remember? Take it away, Nellie!"

"I'd nearly forgotten. You certainly had a bad reaction to those stings, didn't you?"

Illya had never been stung, and now he knew that whoever this person was, it was not his Nellie. Something was very wrong here.

"Are you certain it was a bee?"

"Yes! I won't be able to rest until you take them away." Illya looked around the walls as if terrified by the thought that they might be invaded again. She was confused, but nodded.

"All right, all right, just calm down. You agents and your quirks…" She carried the vase out and the door whispered shut behind her. That's when Illya noticed the difference in the sounds. The doors at UNCLE opened and closed on their own, but there was a slight squeak. The squeak was missing.

Illya fell back to his pillows with a sigh. He still didn't remember how he got here, but right now he had a bigger need – getting out of here. Wherever here was… Where the hell is Napoleon? He should be here by now.

*/*/*/

Chapter 4

Napoleon stared at his reflection in the Pursang's tiny vanity mirror, wondering whether to bother shaving. He'd showered and changed clothes, but the thought of scraping off several days' accumulation of stubble seemed unimportant somehow. In the end, he decided that it wasn't worth the effort. Tossing his shaving kit back into the cabinet, he climbed the wooden stairs to the deck, powered up the Pursang's reserve engine, and steered the little sloop toward the largest of the three neighboring islands.

Key West in April was a bustling tourist spot, the little village crammed with snowbirds enjoying the final moments of their winter getaway before heading back North. The streets were crowded – expats and hippies, more of them every year, tuning in, dropping out. Refugees from Castro's revolution. College students on Spring Break, ambling by with their surfboards and scuba gear. Pale-skinned tourists in Bermuda shorts lining up to purchase tickets for a glass bottom boat excursion, or buying souvenirs from the vendors hawking their wares on the street corners of Old Town.

A hot pink moped whizzed by, barely missing Napoleon as it swerved in and out of traffic on the way to God knew where. Once, he would have followed its progress with eagle eyes, alert for the possibility of a THRUSH ambush. Now, it scarcely seemed to matter.

He paused briefly to watch a pair of men playing chess on the veranda of the Marquesa Hotel. He was struck by the easy familiarity of their friendship, the way their eyes sparkled with mirth. One of the men made a move – Queen's Knight takes Rook, check – and the other laughed and shook his head. Illya used to do that, Napoleon remembered, make me think I was winning the match, and then broadside me with some unexpected move. The realization that he was beginning to think of Illya in the past tense saddened him. He turned away, crossing onto Duval Street in search of a market where he could buy beer.

As the afternoon waned, the buskers began to make their appearance – colorfully dressed jugglers and white-faced mimes, bongo drummers and deadbeat poets. He passed a drunken guitar player massacring a Buffy St. Marie song, his guitar case laid open on the ground in hopes of a donation. "Memories don't make it easy," he sang. "Goodnight, wherever you are sleeping..." Napoleon tossed a handful of coins in his direction and moved on.

"Psychic readings, five dollars," someone called. Napoleon turned in surprise. The accent was achingly familiar. Ukrainian?

The woman sat upon the bare ground, a Rider-Waite Tarot deck spread before her on a purple cloth. She was in her sixties, with grizzled white hair and sharp blue eyes. She wore a long, full skirt and peasant blouse; a batik scarf capped the crown of her hair. Cheap baubles graced her wrists and bare ankles, jingling whenever she moved.

She noticed his attention, and her smile broadened. "I am Esmeralda. Ask any question. The stars will answer."

Napoleon shook his head. "No thanks, I'm not -"

"I can help you find him," she replied in a curious sing-song.

He felt chilled, despite the heat of the day. "Find – who?"

"The one you lost. I can help you find him."

All at once, a fierce anger surged in his heart. He wanted to rail at the old woman, tell her to mind her goddamned business, that the stars couldn't raise the dead.

She smiled as though she'd heard every word. "Sit. We shall see what the stars can do."

He told himself it was the accent, so reminiscent of Illya's, the lovely, precise consonants and the broad, melodic vowels. Napoleon sat down, folding his legs under him. He took out a five dollar bill and handed it over. "What the hell," he said.

She gathered up the Tarot cards and passed them to Napoleon. "Mix them," she said. "Think of a question. You do not need to tell me."

He did as she instructed, already feeling foolish at having been sucked into this old woman's con.

She laid out six cards in a pyramid formation, and lifted the first card. "The Five of Cups. You have lost someone very close to you. It feels hopeless. You doubt your ability to ever find this person again."

Oh, for Christ's sake! Napoleon rose to leave. "Keep the five dollars, lady. If it's all the same to you, I'll –"

She turned over the second card. "Ah, the Page of Swords. This card signifies your missing friend. A young man, a keen observer, with a talent for keeping secrets. A spy."

Napoleon stopped in his tracks."What did you say?"

"From somewhere far away, I think. A friend, a very good friend. Almost a brother, yes? Young, idealistic, intelligent, courageous in the face of danger, with a strong sense of –" She searched for the word. " – nobility." She peered curiously at Napoleon. "Does this describe the man you seek?"

He nodded, his mind racing. Who was this woman? Could she be THRUSH? But to what purpose? He sat down again, and forced his mind to focus.

She turned over the third card, and her face clouded. "The Eight of Swords. There is much darkness around him. Dark energy, and danger. Powerful forces oppose him."

The fourth card. "The Moon. Beware of falsehood, lies, double dealings, illusions. I would interpret this to mean that your friend is alive, but that someone means for you to think otherwise."

His hands balled into fists. "That's enough! Illya is dead. A fire. I – I saw it happen."

Esmeralda shrugged. "Who is to say whether what you saw was real?"

"I felt the flames, for godssake!" He was trembling now.

"And yet, a gifted magician can create an incredibly believable illusion."

Was it possible? Napoleon inhaled sharply. No. He had seen – Had felt – And yet the old woman's remarks were eerily accurate. Could he afford to ignore them? "Fine. Let's say for the moment that I believe you. Where is he? Who has him?"

The old woman nodded, and turned over the fifth card. "The Emperor, reversed. His captors seek to control him, dominate him, force him to conform. They wield a great deal of power."

She turned over the final card, and her face grew grim. "The Nine of Swords, reversed. Hopelessness, despair, torment. He is at their mercy. The outcome is uncertain." She shuddered. "I am sorry. I cannot tell you more. You may have your money back if you wish." She moved to gather up the cards.

Could what the woman was saying be true? Could Illya be alive? A small flame ignited in his heart."Wait. Can I ask another question?"

After a moment she nodded, and handed the cards over. "Choose three cards."

Napoleon shuffled the deck. Is Illya alive? he asked silently. He handed three cards to Esmeralda.

She placed them face down on the cloth, and turned over the first card. "The Magician." She smiled. "This signifies you. The Magician has many talents at his disposal. The road ahead will require all of them – all your powers of skill and concentration. Free yourself of doubt. Know that you have the inner resources necessary to complete your task."

She reached for the second card. "The Hanged Man. Interesting. In order to prevail, you will need to let go of the world your eyes tell you to see, and believe in the world your intuition tells you is true. Like the man on the card, who hangs upside down, you must be ready to shift your perspective in order to see what must be seen."

Esmeralda lifted the final card. "The Fool. Ah, yes, I should have guessed that one. The Fool is a rule breaker. He ignores convention, chooses the unexpected, what others might call the foolish path. See how, in the picture, he steps confidently into the unknown - literally steps off a cliff into the sea? The Fool can do this because he has perfect faith in his ability to walk on water. If you wish an answer to your question, you must have sufficient faith in miracles to take the Fool's path."

Napoleon's head was swimming. He didn't know what to think, or what the answers meant. He only knew that there was something, a hope within him, that had not been there ten minutes ago. He seized onto it as though it were a lifeline.

Esmeralda closed her eyes, muttering a series of words in an unfamiliar language. She appeared to be listening to something, or to someone. She nodded once, twice. "You have friends in high places," she said. "Call upon them in your need."

High places? Waverly? "But where –?"

She opened her eyes. "There is an island, forgotten in its obscurity, not found on any but the oldest maps. A warm place, almost tropical, in a part of the world that should not be. Mountainous terrain, lush vegetation, seemingly remote. There is a village on the coast, very beautiful, with flowers, and perhaps even a palm tree or two. Your friend is there."

He pressed a wad of bills into the old woman's hand. "Thank you," he said.

"I will pray for your success," she replied solemnly.

Napoleon hurried back along Duval Street to the marina, his original errand all but forgotten. In his haste, he failed to notice the tall, slim gentleman in undertaker's weeds shadowing him as he made his way down the busy thoroughfare.

*/*/*/

Chapter 5

"Once upon a…"

"NO!" Illya forced his eyes open and looked wildly around the room. He was alone and still in Medical. He had no idea how much time had passed. This alone told Illya he was being drugged. From the window… wait… had there been a window before? He couldn't remember.

Illya looked around the room. It was the same, but slightly different. Not enough for someone untrained to notice, but for someone like…

Nellie came running in, her face flushed. "Illya, what's wrong?"

"Where am I?" He struggled to stay conscious. Images swirled before him and his stomach abruptly protested. Without a thought, he leaned over the side of the bed and began to vomit. Nellie grabbed a basin and held it for him, while stroking his back.

Wave after wave of nausea ripped through him until there was nothing but bile and then not even that. Illya fell back, exhausted, but feeling more alert than he'd felt in days. It was as if his body had gotten rid of whatever had been plaguing him.

Nellie carried the basin to the bathroom room and returned with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, a clean basin, and towel. She offered the water to him and he rinsed out his mouth, spitting into the basin. He didn't even trust the water at the moment.

He passed the glass back to her and she tried to wipe his face, but he pushed her away.

"Leave me alone. I don't know who or what you are, but leave me alone."

"Illya, you're raving. You know me. I'm Nellie."

"Prove it! What's the color of the rug in your bathroom?" He always gave her a bad time about that rug. It was a vibrant pink.

Nellie's face paled and she looked away. "You're just having a bad reaction to the pain medication. It happens sometimes. It can make you sick and confused."

"I'm not taking pain medication."

"What?"

Illya reached under his pillow and pulled out a handful of pills. "Want to try again?"

"Illya, you're being foolish. That medicine is for your own good. It can't help you if you don't take it."

"Where's Waverly?"

"In a meeting."

"What about Mark? Or April. Or Don or Lewis or Steven or a half dozen other agents I haven't seen in here. Where's Jessie? She's usually here before the IV bag is changed. Where's anyone else?"

"You know how busy people get some times. Mark and April are on assignment and Jessie's on her honeymoon. Don was here, but you were asleep. You're still sleeping a lot."

"No, there's a difference between sleeping and being drugged." He threw back the sheets and tore the plaster shells from his legs. "Where am I? Where is Napoleon? Where's the real Nellie?"

Two men entered and the nurse went white. One of them, the taller man, was carrying a crow bar. "No, please, I tried… don't, please, don't… It's not my fault!"

"Of course it's not your fault, Nurse." She was suddenly trying to escape, but her path was blocked.

Illya didn't bother with them. He was struggling to get the straps off his legs. If he could just get free, perhaps he could...

The fist caught Illya under his chin, and his head slammed backwards into the pillows.

His vision swam as he watched Nellie being dragged from the room. He flinched as the crowbar came down hard on the nightstand, practically shattering it. He guessed his legs were next… if he was lucky. It would be his skull if he wasn't.

The shorter man moved quickly around the room, fiddling with things here and there. A picture hanger, a light bulb, a piece of furniture. "You're clear, Number Six. Talk fast." He stepped out the door. Illya heard a click and knew instinctively it was locked.

"Okay, Kuryakin, listen and listen good because we don't have much time. You are in no direct danger, but your partner is." The man looked around and slammed the crow bar into a wall. "Scream like you mean it." Illya complied. "To save him, you need to play along for the time being. Again." Illya screamed a second time. "The nurse is a victim, but she's their victim and will do as they say. Don't eat the meat and don't take the pink pills. They are what's making you weak."

"I…" Illya choked and struggled upright to vomit again.

"Good, get it out of your system." From a jacket pocket, he took a pint of blood. He cut it and let the blood cascade over the bed and the floor. He drenched the towel in the blood, and wrapped the empty container in it. "You have now been dealt with. You will need to act like it."

"But she will know…"

"She's been brainwashed. She will believe whatever they tell her to believe. Whatever I tell her to believe."

"And Napoleon…?"

"He's safe because he has information that they want. They are using you as bait and they are going to reel him in and never let him go until they have sucked every bit of information from his head."

"You work for them?"

"They think I do. There are times when it's easiest to effect change from within. I'll keep you safe as long as I can."

"But where am I?"

The man hesitated. "Once upon a time, there was a Village."

"You… you're the one from my dreams."

"I am, and for now you are as safe as you can be." The man nodded and tightened his grip on his bundle. "Be seeing you."

*/*/*/

Chapter 6

Napoleon contacted the Harbormaster – who was none too pleased at having his dinner disturbed – and arranged to rent a boat slip for the Pursang. Once that was done, he hailed a taxi to the Key West Airport, where his UNCLE credentials short-listed him onto a Pan Am flight leaving for La Guardia within the hour. He bought a cup of coffee to help him stay awake, and sought out a secluded corner of the terminal. Confident that he was not being observed, he activated his communicator.

"Open Channel D, Communications. Solo here."

The technician's gasp was audible. "Mr. Solo? Oh, my goodness, how are you? I mean – Well, we all feel so – and we thought –" She cleared her throat. "Sorry, sir. How may we assist you?"

"It's all right, Mildred. Patch me through to April Dancer, will you?" He sipped his coffee while he waited for the relay to go through.

"Napoleon?" April's warm contralto crackled across the airwaves. "Is everything all right? Where are you?"

"About to board Pan Am Flight 106 out of Key West, headed back to New York."

"Key West? Mmm, sounds nice. How was the weather down there?"

"Hot." Napoleon took a deep breath. "Listen – I hate to ask, but can you and Mark pick me up at the airport? I should be getting into La Guardia around midnight. "

"Midnight? And you want both of us to pick you up?" A pause. He could hear the wheels turning in April's clever brain. "What's going on, Napoleon?"

"I'll explain when I see you. Can you do it?"

"Yes, of course. You know I will. But –"

"Thanks, April. I knew I could count on you."

A soft sigh. "Always."

A series of chimes announced the start of the boarding process.

"They're calling my flight," Napoleon said quickly, to avoid having to answer more questions. "I promise I'll explain everything when I see you. Solo, out."

He stepped into line behind an odd little gentleman in a bowler hat and morning coat. The fellow nodded a silent greeting, and returned to reading his newspaper, a pitifully thin rag called The Tally Ho.

Not enough news in there to fill a thimble, Napoleon thought, and handed his ticket to the stewardess.

True to their word, April and Mark were waiting by the gate when Napoleon's flight arrived. April flew into his arms, her fingers tracing the lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes, and the growth of stubble along his jawline. If she was alarmed by his rather disreputable appearance, she was careful not to show it.

"Oh, Napoleon" she declared, "It's good to see you." "Mark and I were worried when we got your message. It was all très mysterious."

He held up a hand. "Not here. Let's go back to my apartment."

April and Mark exchanged a look. "No problem, mate," Mark replied for the two of them. "We'll just collect your luggage and –"

"I don't have any luggage."

April did a double take. "No luggage? The Napoleon Solo I know travels with a full wardrobe of hand-tailored suits."

"There wasn't time to pack."

April's brow furrowed.

"Curioser and curioser," Mark declared, striving to keep the conversation light. "Okay, mate, let's go find a place to talk. I'm dying to find out what all the mystery's about."

April looked as though she wanted to say something more, but Napoleon turned toward the exit, neatly forestalling the attempt.

"Enough," April declared in her no-nonsense voice the moment they reached Napoleon's apartment. "You've been stonewalling us ever since your phone call. What the hell is going on?"

"I think you might need to sit down for this," Napoleon replied. He waited while they took seats on the sectional sofa. "What I'm going to tell you might sound crazy –" He shook his head. "Hell, I'm not even sure I believe it myself –"

"Napoleon –"

He took a deep breath. "I think Illya may be alive."

They stared at him in shock. April's hand flew to her mouth; her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Napoleon, you poor dear!" She reached over to console him, but he shook her off.

"I don't need sympathy," he growled. "I need your help." His features softened. "And for the record, I am not crazy."

"Oh, sweetie, of course you're not. It's the grief talking, that's all." She reached for her communicator. "Why don't you let me put in a call to Medical and –"

"Please, April, hear me out."

She glanced at Mark, who shrugged his agreement.

Napoleon knew he had one chance to convince them. He had to make every word count. "If you think about it," he began carefully, "the coroner never actually identified the body in the townhouse as Illya's."

April sighed. "Because there wasn't much left after the fire. Forgive me, Napoleon."

"Exactly. The body was so damaged, they weren't able to use fingerprints or dental records to confirm the identity."

"They didn't need dental records. You were there, a dozen feet away. You saw him die."

"Did I? I'm not so sure anymore."

April's voice was kind. "It's natural to want to believe the impossible, love, but you have to face facts. The body in the townhouse was Illya's. The recovery team found his ring in the ashes, and that funny medallion he always wore."

"Those could have been planted on the body afterward."

"I suppose, but why go to all that trouble? What purpose would it serve?"

Napoleon shrugged. "To make us believe Illya was dead, so we wouldn't bother looking for him."

"That's a rather convoluted scenario, don't you think?"

He was losing them; he could feel them pulling away. Think! "Okay, how about this: Illya's ring was fourteen karat gold. Why didn't it melt in the fire?"

April appeared startled by the question. "I don't –"

"Gold melts at eighteen-hundred-fifty degrees Fahrenheit. The fire was estimated to be well over two-thousand degrees. Why didn't Illya's jewelry melt?"

She had no answer for that.

Napoleon took a deep breath. "I think someone kidnapped Illya, and planted a false body in the townhouse for us to find. I think whoever did it wants us to believe Illya died in that fire."

He watched April process the new information. Her eyes narrowed; she frowned in concentration as she tried to make the puzzle pieces fit. "I'll admit you've got a point about the jewelry," she replied at last. "I don't know how we missed that. Still –"

Napoleon waited, hardly daring to hope.

"– we'd need proof of your allegations before we could take this to Waverly. Something more substantive than guesswork."

Now or never. There was a psychic on Duval Street in Key West, a Tarot card reader –"

Mark Slate had been quiet up until now, allowing April to take the lead, but Napoleon's response was the final straw. "Blimey, mate! A psychic? Tell me you're not serious!"

"Shh, Mark. Let him talk."

"This woman, Esmeralda, believes that Illya is alive, but she says that somebody wants me to think he's dead. April, two cards and she knew he was an agent! She described him to a tee, for godssake. What if she's right, and he's being held prisoner."

"By whom? THRUSH?"

"She didn't say."

"Well of course she didn't," Mark scowled. "Everybody knows that psychic stuff is a lot of hooey. She was only telling you what you wanted to hear."

"Hush, Mark." April sat forward, clasping her hands before her. "Do you recall what question you asked?"

"It's the same one I've been asking since that day at Visconti's townhouse. 'Why Illya?'"

"And the answer?"

Napoleon thought back. "She dealt out six cards, like an upside down pyramid: the Five of Cups, the Page of Swords, the Eight of Swords, The Moon, the Emperor reversed, and the Nine of Swords."

April nodded to herself. "Grief, the secret-keeper –that'll be Illya – the prisoner, deception, domination, despair."

Napoleon gaped in surprise. "How did you –?"

"My mother read Tarot. She was very passionate about it. I learned how to read the cards at an early age. It's been awhile since I did a formal reading for anybody, but the skill is not something you forget." April paused, thinking. "Was there a follow-up question?"

"Yes, and three more cards. The Magician, the Hanged Man and the Fool."

"What was the question?"

"I asked if Illya was alive."

April's mind was thoroughly engaged now. "The Magician is you, right? Having the skill to get the job done?"

Napoleon nodded.

She considered the second card. "The Hanged Man is tricky; it can have several meanings. Martyrdom, acceptance of one's fate, altered perspective."

"She said it was about breaking through an illusion, trusting my gut to know what's true and what isn't."

"And the Fool? Faith in miracles?"

He nodded again. "And the willingness to do what's unexpected."

"Bloody hell, listen to the two of you," Mark exclaimed, "nattering on as though this stuff is actually legitimate information! Waverly will eat you alive if you bring him a psychic prediction as evidence!"

Napoleon's chin lifted in quiet defiance. "Which is why we're not going to tell him. At least, not until we have more to go on." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I know I'm asking a lot of you both, to accept what I'm saying without firm evidence to back it up. But my gut tells me Esmeralda was onto something. Illya is alive. I can feel it. And he's in danger."

April clasped his hand in her own. "I believe you," she said softly. "Of course, you'd be a lot more convincing if you didn't look like the Wild Man of Borneo."

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "Sorry, I must look like hell," he acknowledged ruefully. He searched their faces for a sign. "So, are you with me?"

April took his hand. "Do you even have to ask?"

Napoleon exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Mark?"

Slate hesitated, and nodded. "Can't leave my friends without backup now, can I? Where do we start?"

*/*/*/

Chapter 7

Illya walked to the window and risked a glance out. He was atop a hill looking down on a picture postcard town...albeit a town that looked as if it had been designed by a madman, a drunkard, or both. The architecture was all over the map. It was Medieval in one spot, Mediterranean in another. One part looked English, another French and another German. Whoever created the place knew nothing about architecture.

Illya moved back to his bed and sighed. For the last three days, he'd seen no one. The food was pushed under the door through a slot, which was locked afterward. The window was barred inside and out. He was feeling stronger, but still far from a hundred percent.

He returned to the window and stared out. In any other situation, it would be idyllic here. The meadows on the outskirts of the town were green and lush. Cows waded through the belly deep grass and ate their fill throughout the day. To the west, the ocean stretched to the horizon. The tide ebbed and flowed, but without a watch, Illya could only guess at the time, based upon the angle of the sun.

There was a noise at his door. He moved quickly across the room, plastering himself against the wall as it whispered open.

Someone stepped through, and he attacked. There was a very feminine scream and he realized belatedly that he'd attacked Nellie.

He sat back on his heels, and watched her scramble away to the far side of the room. Her eyes were wide with terror and her hair fell from its habitual bun.

"Nellie, I'm…"

She whimpered and retreated even further into the corner, hiding her face in a childlike manner to make his disappear.

Illya stood and walked closer. He stopped and squatted. "Nellie?"

She risked a look and shuddered.

"I'm sorry I attacked you. I thought you were one of them."

"She is." The voice made Illya spin and he cursed himself out for being caught unawares. The man stood there, dressed in a black jacket with white piping, tan slacks and sneakers. His voice was sad.

"I know it's not Nellie, but she's frightened. How can I help her?"

"You can't right now." He studied her for a long moment. "I've been on the opposite end of the needle myself enough times to know it's something she is going to have to come out of on her own. She's a pawn, and once they have decided her usefulness is gone, they will release her."

"Why Nellie?"

"What better way to get to you than to go through her? Your shared past made her an easy choice. They knew they could never break you. With her, they stood a chance of appealing to your gentler sensibilities."

"But I didn't even know they were doing this to try and stop them."

"You know now." The man smiled. "Will you talk?"

A resolute shake of the head. "Of course not."

"Exactly."

Illya returned to the window. "Is that why they are keeping me here? To try and use me as a way to get to Napoleon? It won't work."

"Perhaps. Now that he and his friends are on their way, thanks to a helpful gypsy, they're all in jeopardy."

"Friends?"

"A man and a woman."

"Mark and April. Four Section Two agents in one spot is not a wise idea."

"That is my hope."

"How will I know?"

"I will come to you. In the meantime, I'll try and help the girl." The man handed him a thin envelope. "Commit that to memory and destroy it."

And he was gone. Illya turned the envelope over in his hand and glanced over to where Nellie was huddled. As much as he wanted to go to the woman, he didn't. Instead, he carefully tore open the envelope and removed the single sheet of tissue paper. He studied the diagram without worrying about the fact that he had no idea what it was. He memorized the words, not recognizing the language. When he was finished, he dropped the paper into the toilet. Instantly, the ink blurred the lines into nothing, and he flushed it away.

When he walked out, he was alone again. With a sigh, Illya returned to the window to resume his vigil.

*/*/*/

Chapter 8

April made a pot of coffee and a plate of tuna salad sandwiches from the meager fare in Napoleon's cupboard. Napoleon, meanwhile, spread a nautical map of the world's oceans across the dining room table.

"The currents on the ocean's surface move in predictable patterns," he explained, indicating the arrows swirling across the page. "Some currents are warm, Like the Gulf Stream, and some are cold, like the Labrador. This map charts their interactive flow. Warm currents are marked in red, cold currents in blue."

"Careful," April called out from the kitchen. "You're starting to sound like Illya."

Mark peered at the unusual markings and symbols. "This seems pretty complicated. What are we looking for?"

"'An island, warm in a place that shouldn't be.' That's how Esmeralda described the location where Illya is being held."

April joined them at the table. "So – we're looking for a warm current in a cold part of the world?" She glanced down at the map. "Then I suppose we can eliminate the Brazil, Mozambique, Agulhas and East Australia Currents, since they all occur in tropical climates."

"Right." Napoleon covered the lower half of the map with a sheet of paper. "That leaves the Alaska Current, the North Atlantic Drift, The Gulf Stream and the Kuroshio." He considered the options. "I think we can eliminate the Alaska, since those islands are well-charted. Esmeralda said that the island we're looking for isn't on contemporary navigational charts." He covered another portion of the map.

"The same would be true of the Gulf Stream," April said. "The islands along the East coast of the U.S. and Canada are under constant surveillance by the U.S. military. UNCLE would have heard if something were amiss there."

"Agreed." He blocked off another section.

"What about the Kuroshio Current?" Mark asked as he snagged another sandwich from the platter. "There are dozens of islands off the East coast of Japan, some of them still unexplored, even after all this time. Remember that Japanese soldier they found a couple of years back? He'd been alone on one of those islands since 1945, and didn't know World War II had ended."

"A possibility we have to consider." Napoleon examined the remaining portion of the map, the segment containing the North Atlantic Drift. His eyes traced the current's path along the western shore of the British Isles, and across into Western Europe. "There are islands all over the North Atlantic," he said. "The Faroes, Rozkal', Torshavn', Jan Maren, just to name a few. I think we need to consider that area a strong contender as well."

April massaged her aching neck. "Oh, Napoleon, this is hopeless. How are we ever going to narrow it down?"

Napoleon stared at the map, willing it to give up its secrets. In his mind, he heard Esmeralda's voice again.

There is an island, forgotten in its obscurity, not found on any but the oldest maps. A warm place, almost tropical, in a part of the world that should not be. Mountainous terrain, lush vegetation, seemingly remote –

"That's it!" He exclaimed. "She said the island was seemingly remote. That means it's actually not. It could be in a fairly populated part of the world – "

"– hiding in plain sight," April finished for him. "If that's true, the islands in the Kuroshio Current are too isolated to fit the parameters."

Napoleon nodded, and covered that portion of the map. "That leaves – the North Atlantic Drift." It felt right; in his gut, he knew they were getting close.

"I hate to throw a wrench into things, mate," Mark broke in, "but even if we know what ocean to look in, how do we find an island that isn't on any of the charts? It'd take weeks to survey the area by plane or chopper."

April's face fell. "Oh, Napoleon, Mark's right. We're right back where we started."

"Maybe not." Napoleon smiled, the first smile in days, weeks. "Esmeralda said that the island is 'not found on any but the oldest maps.'"

"So?"

"Where is the most extensive collection of ancient maps in the world?"

"The Bodleian Library at Oxford University; everybody knows that, but I don't see – "

"And who went to Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar to study ancient history, and therefore is granted full and complete access to the collection?"

"Oh." A smile spread across April's lovely face. "I did."

The pieces of the puzzle were coming together at last. "Mark, get us on the earliest possible flight to London/Oxford."

"I'm on it." Slate moved away, already chattering into his communicator.

Napoleon pulled his suitcase from the bedroom closet. He tossed in the map, a handful of underwear and socks, several clips of ammo, and a selection of casual wear suitable for a subtropical climate.

"Didn't your Mother teach you how to fold your clothes?" April observed with a trace of amusement.

"Why bother? The Customs agents will only mess them up." He slipped on his shoulder holster, and retrieved his Walther and passport from the nightstand. "We can stop at your place on the way to the airport." He stuffed one of his suits unceremoniously into a garment bag. "Okay, let's go."

"Napoleon,dear – "

"Hmm?"

"Don't you think you ought to shave, first?

They gazed up at the imposing façade of the Bodleian Library from their vantage point on Radcliffe Square. Students in long black robes lounged on the perfectly manicured lawn, or hurried down the cobbled path, chatting with one another as they made their way to class.

"Gosh," April said, "was I ever that young?"

"Don't worry, luv," Mark replied fondly." Those birds have nothing on you."

Napoleon tried to ignore a growing sense of unease. He sensed they were getting close to the answers he sought, but he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. His mind filled with images of Illya, of what his captors were doing to him, of what he might be suffering. His gut clenched with fear. What if they were too late to save him? What if Illya was already –? He shut his eyes, resolutely banishing the thought from his mind.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder.

"We'll find him, Napoleon," April vowed softly. "Never doubt it." She linked her arm in his, and they strode together toward the Library's main entrance.

April's status gave them instant admission to the Bodleian's Map Room, access that might otherwise have taken hours, or even days to achieve. Upon entry, they endured an archaic oath-swearing ritual, promising never to smoke or start a fire inside the Bodleian's hallowed halls, nor to deface any item stored within its vaults. When it was finally concluded, they took seats at a study table to wait for the librarian to deliver the maps April had requested.

"We can't copy anything, or remove materials from the Library," April reminded them while they waited, "but we can request to see any map or document we choose. I've asked for early maps of the British Isles as a starting point. If that doesn't pan out, we'll look at Scandinavia."

"And after that?" Napoleon asked. The daunting nature of the task they'd undertaken was just now starting to sink in.

April's smile was warm and reassuring. "Let's take it one step at a time, okay?"

The tray of maps arrived in short order. April donned white cotton gloves, and removed the first map from its protective folder. She laid it carefully upon the long table. "The Anglo-Saxon Mappa Mundi," she announced with a touch of reverence. "Hand drawn on calfskin, using pigments made from oak galls, malachite and lapis lazuli. Created around 1050 AD, although the information was gathered centuries earlier, probably during the last days of the Roman Empire. It's the earliest map we have of the British Isles."

"It looks a lot like the maps in that Tolkien book," Mark said, "more like an illustration than a map. Hey, is that a sea serpent frolicking in the middle of the North Atlantic?" He leaned in for a closer look.

"You're not far off. Tolkien attended Oxford, and was influenced by much of what he found in the Bodleian. His Red Book of Westermarch is patterned after a book of Welsh fables he saw here, the Red Book of Hergest. And yes, that is a sea serpent waiting to gobble that ship. The world's oceans were mostly unexplored back then, and hence, a source of great fear."

"Beautiful and brainy," Mark declared with amusement. "It's what I love about you."

April smiled. "Just part of my irresistible charm." She withdrew a jeweler's loupe from her handbag, and began her study of the document.

Napoleon pulled out the Traveller's World Atlas he'd purchased in the airport gift shop upon their arrival. He opened it to the page on Great Britain, and set it beside the ancient map. "So we can compare the two," he said.

They pored over the Mappa Mundi, April translating the Latin captions with easy skill. After an hour, she placed the map back in its folder, and laid it aside. "Nothing," she sighed. She reached for the next map.

Napoleon rubbed bleary eyes. "What's the date on this one?" he asked.

"Thirteenth century AD. It's the Matthew Paris map of Great Britain, one of the most famous maps ever made."

He had to admit that the map, with its irregular shape and vibrant shades of green and blue, was oddly beautiful. "What makes it so special?"

"The attention to detail – see how accurately the rivers and streams are drawn, and the boundary between England and Scotland? Matthew Paris tried to to illustrate the actual geography of the region, rather than merely suggest it."

"So the information is more reliable?"

"Absolutely." She glanced up. "The map is noteworthy for another reason as well." She pointed to a corner of the map. "See here? Mount Snowdon and the Orkney Islands are depicted with near perfect accuracy – an intriguing development, since Matthew Paris never visited either of those places in his travels."

"How is that possible?"

April smiled. "It's a mystery, isn't it? Historians speculate that Paris must have had access to one of Ptolemy's lost maps at some point."

"So it could conceivably contain information even older than the Mappa Mundi?"

She nodded. "Possibly as early as 50 AD." She raised the loupe to her eye, and resumed her search. Almost immediately, her eye was drawn to the west coast of Wales. She gasped. "Napoleon, I think I may have something. Check the atlas for an island off the coast of Wales. Cardigan Bay, south of Porthmadog and Abersoch, and to the east of Bardsey Island."

Napoleon scanned the page. "There's nothing. No island."

"Well there's one here."

He leaned in to look, his fatigue vanished. "Do you suppose –?"

April's face was alight with excitement. "It could be an inaccurate representation of some other topographical formation – the mouth of a river, for example. Or, it could be the island we've been looking for."

"How can we know for sure?"

"We look for a secondary source of confirmation." She reached for the next folder. "The John Speed map," she said, withdrawing the stunning red and blue document from its protective cover. "John Speed was the foremost mapmaker of the Elizabethan Age. Advances in cartography made the maps of this period far more complex and accurate than those in preceding centuries, and this particular example, dated around 1610, was among the finest. If our mystery island shows up here, it will corroborate what we saw on the Matthew Paris – Yes!" She clapped her hands, causing heads to be raised at several tables. "Shh," someone hissed.

"Yes," she repeated more quietly. "It's here, Napoleon. See?"

There it was, an island, missing from Napoleon's twentieth century atlas, yet unmistakably present on not one but two ancient maps. Independent confirmation.

There's an inscription!" April squinted to read it. "'Caveat serpentem in Paradiso.'"

"'Beware the serpent in Paradise.' Sounds like the sort of place Illya would visit." Napoleon's heart pounded with excitement. They'd found the island! "We're going to need a helicopter," he said.

*/*/*/

Chapter 9

They had stopped drugging Illya or, at least, he supposed that was the case. For the first few weeks, they'd kept him in a stupor, but no longer. Now he slept and woke when he wished. There were no more needle marks on his arms, and his nausea was gone.

They also abandoned the pretense of the broken legs. An ashen-faced Nellie had come in and removed the fake casts, and unbuckled the straps that held his legs to the bed. She'd removed the catheter as well, to Illya's great delight, and laid out a clean set of clothes. Then she quietly withdrew, never speaking a word to him. Nor did he attempt a conversation with her.

It had taken him nearly a week to get back to what he considered normal. He'd been in bed for such a long time that, at first, his legs were unwilling to support him. The nurse hadn't been joking when she said he'd lost weight. He estimated that he had dropped at least fifteen pounds from his frame.

Thankfully, the food kept come even when Nellie didn't. Three times a day, a small slot at the bottom of the door would open and a tray would be slipped in. At least the food was plentiful and tasty. Illya ate slowly, gauging how he felt. The minute he started feeling sleepy, he pushed the tray away. After a while, they stopped bothering.

The one thing Illya had to say about these guys was that they were predictable… after a fashion. Every time he slept, they would creep in and replace the cameras and microphones he had damaged. Illya watched them through barely opened eyes.

The next morning Illya would wake, shower, shave, and then systemically dismantle the equipment again. It gave him something to do before breakfast. Whenever he did, he pulled a bit of wire here, a fuse there, tucking them away in a safe spot. They never found his stash, or else they saw no harm in him having one. Idiots…

After three weeks of this, the people in charge gave up and stopped bothering. That was when the real fun started. One of the men, either accidentally or on purpose, left behind some tools. Illya thought the man's figure seemed familiar and wondered if it was his mysterious partner-in-crime.

One morning the cameras and microphones were gone. If they'd been hidden elsewhere in the room, Illya couldn't find them. He'd even searched behind the acoustical ceiling tiles.

The only person Illya saw with any regularity now was the mysterious man. He would come and go at no regular schedule, keeping it random to confuse his captors. Heaven knew it was confusing Illya.

Whoever was running the show didn't seem to be worried. It was as if they'd lost interest. That in itself was a red flag for him. It told him this probably wasn't THRUSH. They weren't this… casual, if that was the right word, about their captives. There was something very odd about the whole arrangement.

Illya went through every inch of the room. He checked for loose tiles, hidden panels, ceiling or vent access, but the room was escape proof. He'd not run into one of those for a very long time. He tried to fashion a weapon from his silverware, but they were made of pot metal and bent too easily. There were no metal slats or springs in his bed.

He couldn't pry the door open. There was no knob on his side, and the edges of the door fit so flush that Illya couldn't even get a fingernail between it and the jam. The small opening on the floor wouldn't permit him to shove more than his forearm through it. When he peered through the slat, all he saw were gray walls, floor and ceiling.

Now that he was largely unobserved, Illya found his communicator and began to work on it. He didn't really have the tools or parts he wanted, but if he could engineer it to send out a signal, it would be enough.

Every morning, he took the communicator to a small table and spread it out. The sun came through and warmed him, a reminder that there was a world outside, and he was still a part of it. It took a lot of effort, but he worked slowly and methodically. He had nothing else to do, no books to read or music to listen to. It was him, the bed, its nightstand, a table, and chair. There was an overhead light and a closet, empty except for his other suit. The bathroom had towels, toiletries and a safety razor. He felt as if he was being held captive in a low-budget motel.

He was working on the communicator one morning when it emitted a sudden flash of green. Illya started to laugh, only to have it strangle in his throat as it went out a few seconds later. Sighing, he returned to his work.

Illya was working so intently on his project that he only heard the whisper of his door at the last second. He threw a towel over the communicator, and schooled his face into a mask of boredom.

His friend, for Illya still didn't know the man's name, moved in and shut the door. As was his fashion, he moved around the room, checking for the now-absent cameras and microphones.

"Doesn't it bother you that they are no longer interested in what you're doing?" The question came casually as if the man was afraid of the answer.

"I assumed they had moved on to the exciting pastime of watching paint dry." Illya didn't move from the desk.

"Don't you believe it for a moment. Don't let your guard down… What are you doing?" The question was more sharply asked than usual, and Illya was immediately on the alert.

He walked nonchalantly to the window. "Nothing, just like yesterday and the day before that." It was hard, as his honed sense of caution was screaming the wail of a warning to him.

"Don't lie to a fellow spy, Kuryakin. I know you're doing something. I can see it in your eyes." The man suddenly drew back the towel and shook his head. "What possessed you?"

Before Illya could travel the five steps between him, the man had snapped the communicator in two.

"What the hell are you doing?" Illya started, then froze at the look of anger on the man's face.

"I'm asking you the same thing. We're trying to keep Solo away from here, not reel him in like a fish! Did you even think what would happen if he got a message, any message, from you?" The man pulled a newspaper from his jacket pocket and slammed it on the bed. "Did you even stop to think that this was exactly what they wanted you to do? That it's why they left the damn fool thing here to begin with?" He threw the pieces of the communicator aside. "Do me a favor, Kuryakin, don't help me!"

For a long moment after the man stormed from the room, Illya remained frozen. He'd not thought about the consequence. He'd just been hoping to reach Napoleon, and let him know that his partner was okay.

Illya shook himself from his daze. He glanced at the newspaper lying on the bed. It was a recent issue of Pravda.

Родной сын Мертвого (Native Son Dead), the caption read and Illya stared at a grainy black and white photo of himself.

*/*/*/

Chapter 10

The helicopter flew across the dark waters of Cardigan Bay. It was a stark, moonless night, clouds from the approaching storm front concealing the canopy of stars that should have dotted the sky. The lights from the cities and towns they had left behind had long since faded into darkness. Napoleon thought that he'd never seen a night so totally devoid of ambient light.

"Can you take us any lower?" he asked. "Visibility's terrible."

Mark Slate shook his head. "This new terrain-hugging radar is still pretty experimental. If I go any lower, we'll be eating plankton for breakfast."

"There!" April pointed to a vague shape, barely visible against the unrelenting darkness of sky and ocean.

The island! Napoleon's heart began to race. Illya was down there, somewhere.

The chopper drew nearer, and now they could make out the jagged slash of mountains, and a necklace of wide, sandy beaches circling the perimeter of the island. An exotic-looking village of pastel cottages and tall, Italianate towers hugged the coastline, surrounded by acres of lush formal gardens.

"Looks pretty idyllic to me," Mark said. "Are we sure this is the place?"

"I'm not sure of anything," Napoleon answered honestly, "but it's all we've got."

"No lights," April observed a bit breathlessly. "That's odd, don't you think?"

"Maybe no one's home," Mark replied. "Shall I swing by and take a closer look, or should we just ring the doorbell?"

"We don't want to risk alerting them," Napoleon said as he shrugged into his parachute harness. "Better take us around to the other side of the island. I'd rather make the jump unobserved."

"Roger that." The helicopter banked sharply to the left.

"Any questions before I head out?" Napoleon asked them as he secured the harness straps.

April shook her head. "Don't worry, love. Mark and I know what to do."

He hesitated. "In case I haven't thanked the two of you –"

"No need. Mark and I had some vacation time coming." She smiled. "Besides, Illya's my friend, too."

"Okay, mates," Slate called back. "Dark side of the moon, coming up in ten."

"Right." Napoleon opened the hatch bay door, and had to hold on as the wind gusted around him, whipping at his hair.

"Stay safe, Napoleon," April shouted over the noise of the rotors. "Bring Illya home."

He gave her a thumbs up, and jumped out into the black nothingness of the night.

He counted to five, and pulled the ripcord to deploy the main chute. Alert for any indication that his presence had been detected, he drifted down into the inky darkness. There was only silence.

The ground came up to meet him, but too fast. Napoleon landed with a grunt, smashing his hip against a rock. He released the clamps on his harness as swiftly as his bruised body would allow, and gathered up the billowing parachute. Folding the fabric into a neat bundle, he hid it in a dense clump of vegetation. He dug the flashlight out of his rucksack, and started off in the direction of the village.

The terrain grew steeper almost immediately, and he was forced to scale the clifflike face of the mountain hand over hand in places. He wished he'd thought to bring climbing equipment. Napoleon found it curious that the place was so utterly devoid of sound – no creatures scurried about in the darkness, no bats click-clicking by, not so much as an insect to disturb the queer silence. It seemed unnatural somehow.

He reached the crest of the mountain, and began the long climb down the other side. Dawn was still several hours away, and he was thankful for the concealing darkness as he descended. His only real hope of finding Illya depended on reaching the village while it was still dark and he could move about unseen. The night wore on.

He reached the base of the mountain with an hour to spare, and stepped cautiously onto the dirt road leading to the village.

Without warning, a deep, rumbling roar filled the night, shaking the branches of the trees and causing the ground beneath Napoleon's feet to tremble.

Earthquake?Avalanche?

The sound came again, louder, closer. It was terrifying, prehistoric, like nothing he had heard before. Napoleon looked around in confusion.

Out of the darkness, an enormous white orb came rolling toward him. He had an instant to wonder at the shimmering, gelatinous quality of its surface, and then it roared again, a horrid, deafening blast. The sound sent shivers of terror down Napoleon's spine. He backed away instinctively, but it was too late. The thing was upon him before he could run. It covered his face, carnivorous, smelling of rotted meat. Its touch burned his skin like acid. It enveloped him, leeching the breath from his body, sucking out his soul. Napoleon tried to scream but there was no air...no air...

Oh, Illya, he sighed, and then the darkness took him.

*/*/*/

Chapter 11

Whoever was running the show didn't seem to be worried about Illya attempting to escape. It was as if they'd lost interest. That in itself was a red flag for him. It told him this wasn't THRUSH. They weren't this… casual, if that was the right word, about their captives. There was something very odd about this whole arrangement.

When he'd first gotten mobile enough, Illya had gone through every inch of the room. He'd checked for loose tiles, hidden panels, ceiling or vent access, but the room was escape proof. He'd not run into one of those for a very long time. In short, Illya was rapidly running out of ideas.

After the man's last visit, books had started showing up in his room. At first Illya was delighted, but then he began to wonder if there was some meaning in them. He started studying the titles, the authors, any part of the book for a clue. But there was nothing. They were just books, some fiction and some non-fiction. They topics ranged from cerebral to the banal. It was as if they were trying to distract him, but from what? And why now?

Illya got up off the bed and walked to the window. It was eerily dark outside. He'd never seen a place without at least some ambient light escaping from a window whose curtain didn't quite close. When evening fell here, it was as if a blanket was draped over the place, rendering it invisible from view.

Whoever was in charge of this place didn't want it to be seen at night, and Illya had to guess there were similar features in place during the day. In short, he was locked in an escape-proof cell in an invisible village. Illya sensed his goose might finally be cooked.

He turned and was shocked to see that the door to his cell was wide open.

That was too inviting. He sat down resolutely and crossed his arms. He half expected the door to shut, but it didn't.

There was something going on outside. It was dark and he couldn't really tell. Then he saw it - a large white object oscillating across the shore and out into the water. There was a noise.

"It's too late."

Illya turned. The man was there. "What's too late?"

"They have him. We've failed. You've failed."

"Then we'll rescue him." Illya took a step towards the open door, stopping at the splayed hand across his chest.

"What are your feelings towards your partner?"

"I don't understand. He's my partner."

"Would you die for him?"

"If need be."

"And he you?"

"Of course."

"What would you do to save him?"

"I just told you, anything."

"Would you betray your employer?"

Illya edged away from the man, eying him warily. "Never and neither would Napoleon."

"Then you both have a problem."

*/*/*/

Chapter 12

Napoleon woke to the sound of birds singing.

Robin, he thought idly. That's a robin. Robin redbreast. He recalled a snatch of nursery rhyme...'The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing...'

He rubbed his eyes to clear the cobwebs from them. His body ached from the climb.

The climb?

He bolted upright.

He was home, in his own bed! The room in which he had slept was his own! The bed, his own! The fine silk sheets, his own! No, that wasn't right. He was supposed to be -

"How did I get here?" he wondered aloud. He felt dizzy, disoriented.

Think!

He remembered the island, the search for Illya. Jumping from the helicopter, bruising his hip on landing. Scaling the cliff, the long hike down the mountain in the dark. He remembered the oddly silent forest, and the –

Suffocating!

In his mind's eye he saw the white orb barreling toward him, enveloping him, consuming him. The sensation of airlessness and desperation. The burning in his lungs as he tried to suck in oxygen, and failed.

No, that can't be real! I was dreaming, that's all. It was a dream, and Illya's safe and –

But Illya wasn't safe. Illya was dead.

Or was he? Wasn't that what he'd been doing in Wales with April and Mark? Trying to find him? Christ, why was everything so muddled this morning?

He threw back the covers, and rose a bit unsteadily, wincing at the pain in his hip.

Pain?

He rolled down the waistband of his pajamas, and gasped at the ugly purple bruise blossoming across his thigh and buttocks.

It did happen! I didn't dream it! "What the hell is going on?"

On an impulse, he stepped to the window, and opened the curtains. His eyes widened in shock.

The village, the one they'd spotted from the chopper! He wasn't in New York at all!

The phone began to ring. Napoleon stared at it. Finally, he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Ah, you're awake, Number Eleven. I hope you slept well."

"Who is this?"

"We've a great deal to talk about. Come 'round to my place, why don't you? We'll have a chat over breakfast."

"Talk to me now."

"Just follow the signs. Number Two, the green dome." The line went dead.

What now? He searched the apartment, but his Walther and communicator were gone. Gone too were his exploding cufflinks, and the rucksack, along with all the equipment he'd brought. Whoever his captors were, they'd been thorough.

Napoleon decided to play along for the moment. He needed to find Illya, and it seemed that the only way to go about it was to play their game – whoever "they" were. He showered and dressed, donning one of the hand-tailored suits waiting for him in the closet. It fit perfectly, down to the smallest detail. Remarkable, Napoleon thought. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to perpetrate this bizarre sham. Time to go see who was behind it.

The front door opened of its own accord, startling him. He recovered quickly, and stepped out into the bright sunshine. As if on cue, music began blaring from the loudspeakers, a trumpet voluntary that reminded him of something out of Camelot. Within a matter of seconds, a crowd of people filled the square. They were dressed uniformly, in brightly colored attire; many wore capes and carried umbrellas, which they twirled in time to the music. They chatted with one another as they passed, ignoring Napoleon as though he were invisible.

A golf cart pulled up, its striped awning flapping gently in the breeze. "Destination?" the driver inquired with a smile.

"Number Two's residence."

"Certainly, Number Eleven. Hop in."

Napoleon climbed aboard, and the little cart sped off down the road, past the General Store, an old fashioned bandstand, and a checkered lawn where a group of people played a gigantic game of chess.

He remembered the last time he'd seen a match like that. Could Alexander the Greater be behind all this? he wondered.

Moments later, the cart stopped at the foot of an ornate, green-domed building. "Number Two's residence," the driver announced cheerfully. "That'll be two credits."

"Bill me," Napoleon snapped, and headed up the stairs. He pulled the bell pull, and the door opened. He gasped. "You!"

It was the odd little man from the airport in Key West, the one who'd been standing in line just ahead of him – only now he was dressed as a butler. They've been watching me the whole time, Napoleon realized. An even more troubling thought followed upon the heels of the first. What about the psychic? Was Esmeralda part of their plan, too? And if so, was she lying about Illya being alive? He had to know, even if it meant walking into their trap.

"Napoleon Solo to see Number Two," he said.

The man nodded, silent as ever, and gestured for him to follow. They passed through a small but elegant foyer, complete with marble fireplace and the requisite urn of fresh-cut flowers, their scent cloying in the enclosed space. At the far end of the foyer was an imposing set of iron doors. They slid open at his approach, revealing a circular, ultramodern control room. The room was empty, but for a single black, spherical chair and its occupant.

"Ah, Number Eleven," the man said, rising. "So good of you to come."

"Visconti," Napoleon breathed. "So you're the one behind this farce. I might have known." He stepped into the room, and the door slid closed behind him.

"Let''s not stand on ceremony," Visconti smiled. "Call me Number Two."

"Who's Number One?"

"That would be telling." He gestured toward a tray. "Breakfast?"

Napoleon ignored the question. "Why have I been brought here? And where's Illya?"

Visconti laughed. "So many questions! Do sit down, Number Eleven, and I'll give you all the answers you wish."

A second chair emerged from a panel in the floor. Napoleon hesitated.

"It won't eat you, Number Eleven. Only Emory Partridge's chairs do that."

After a moment, Napoleon sat down, keeping well away from the arm rests, just in case.

"Coffee?" Visconti lifted a silver urn.

"No. Where's Illya?"

"Tsk, tsk. We're going to have to do something about your manners while you're here, Number Eleven."

"Don't worry. I won't be staying long." Napoleon leaned forward,. "Once again – Where. Is. Illya?"

"Number Twenty-Two, you mean? Oh, he's around here somewhere, dear fellow. Quite unharmed – for the moment."

Napoleon's world righted itself. Illya, alive. "I want to see him."

A laugh. "We all want something."

The price. "What do you want?"

Visconti sipped his coffee. "Information, of course. The knowledge you two possess is priceless to a number of interested parties. You're really a salable commodity, you know."

"How reassuring."

"Is it?" He seemed to find the thought funny. "Let me be blunt, Number Eleven. You have a choice: tell us what we want to know voluntarily, or we'll be forced to take it from you, using somewhat more –invasive methods. You might survive the experience, but your friend is terribly weak –"

"I thought you said he was fine."

"Well, perhaps I did exaggerate, just a bit." Visconti steepled his fingers before him. "He's been – through a lot recently, what with dying and all. He may not have the necessary stamina to survive our coarser methods. You wouldn't want to lose him again now, would you?"

And there it was, thought Napoleon. Visconti's plan. Make me suffer through Illya's "death" so I would know the pain, and the cost. "I want to see him."

"Certainly." He pushed a button on the console, and Illya's image appeared on a wide, elevated screen. He was lying atop a bed, apparently asleep. He looked pale and thin, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His legs were encased in plaster casts. "There, see?"

It was all Napoleon could do to retain his composure. "Tapes can be doctored," he replied coolly. "I want to see Illya in person."

"No."

"No?"

"Regrettably, Number Twenty-Two is unable to receive visitors at this time. Perhaps later, after you and I have had the chance to get to know one another better."

"It seems we're at an impasse." Napoleon stood. "I'll find Illya myself – with or without your cooperation."

Visconti cocked his head, clearly amused. "Hmm, yes. I heard you were stubborn."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Well –" He toyed with the fringe on the striped scarf he wore. "I can't promise anything definite, Number Eleven, but I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy the hospitality of our little Village. There's something for everyone here. Given time, I think you'll feel very much at home."

Napoleon turned and made his way back up the ramp. "I doubt it," he said as the iron doors closed behind him.

*/*/*/

Chapter 13

For a long time, Illya sat on his bed, his arms crossed, staring at the open door. It seemed funny that only this morning, he'd attacked the door with his razor blade. All he'd gotten for his efforts was a nicked finger and more frustration.

However, he'd not become an UNCLE agent by being impulsive. And charging out a previously secured door seemed very impulsive to him. Even when his friend tried to lure him out, Illya refused until the man finally walked away in disgust. He still didn't entirely trust that man either.

Illya's stomach growled, and he smirked. Perhaps they thought they could starve him out. That would be a good trick as well. He looked over at the window. Morning was starting to brighten the sky.

There was a noise in the hall, and Illya immediately returned his attention to the door. There was a man standing there. Granted he was only three feet tall but a man none the less. He was wearing a traditional English butler's outfit, and he was holding a tray. He set the tray on the floor and pushed it towards Illya.

Illya leaned back, and that's when he saw a hint of gold. Without wanting to, he got up and approached the door warily, as if a gang of guerrilla fighters lurked just behind the butler. He knelt down, and tried to keep his hand from trembling as he reached for Napoleon's I.D. card.

A gust of gas hit him and he choked. He tried to fight it, but it was impossible and then he was falling into a deep well.

He hit bottom and moaned from the impact. Illya rolled over and managed to get one eye open. He was in his apartment. Outside he could hear the sounds of a restless New York as its inhabitants rushed from here to there.

What the hell? Illya looked around. Everything was as it should be, down to the magazine he'd dropped when he'd gotten the call from headquarters that sent him and Napoleon to London to bug Bram Visconti's townhouse. It felt like a year had passed since that assignment.

Illya blinked. The name bubbled out of nowhere. He'd remembered the mission, but only in bits and pieces. Oh well, a quick glance at the report at HQ would fix that.

Illya sat up and jumped as he knocked an empty bottle of vodka to the floor. He wondered what had happened to make him tie one on. A quick check of his watch told him he had just enough of time left to shower, shave, and change.

He was amazed that there was hot water; the super usually turned off the hot water after nine. Illya really did need to move into a better building, but he liked the ambiance here. It was filled with ex-pats like himself, and that made it seem more comfortable.

Illya pulled on a gray polo shirt and his favorite black slacks. Strapping on his gun, a familiar and reassuring presence once again, he walked quickly to his front door. He'd have to grab something in the Canteen once he checked in. He opened the door and gasped.

A small town of brightly colored buildings stretched out to either side, and Illya realized that he wasn't in New York. He was still in the Village.

*/*/*/

Chapter 14

Another one of the little golf carts met Napoleon at the bottom of the stairs. "Destination?" the driver inquired pleasantly.

Napoleon thought. "Can you take me to Number Twenty-Two's residence?"

The driver grinned. "I can take you anywhere in The Village, Number Eleven. Hop in." The little cart sped away down the lane. "A friend of Number Twenty-Two's, are you?" he asked as they passed by the Town Pool.

Napoleon didn't bother to answer, his attention focused on on memorizing the layout of the village, and assessing possible escape routes.

"Haven't seen much of Twenty-Two. I hear he's not well. Been in and out of Hospital ever since he arrived."

Was Illya ill? Injured? Napoleon fought to quell his growing concern.

They passed a pub called The Cat & Mouse, an arts and crafts guild hall, and something called The Labour Exchange. The trip was over in a matter of minutes. "Two credits," the driver declared, holding out his hand.

"I'm, uh, new here."

"No problem, Number Eleven. Things are always a bit confusing at first. Don't worry – they'll get you sorted out in due course. Pay me when you can. Be seeing you." The driver gave an odd little salute and drove off.

Cottage Number Twenty-Two was in a pretty, wooded area next to The Village Hospital. Napoleon was reasonably sure its proximity to a medical center wasn't a good sign for Illya. Assuming that this creepy, Twilight Zone of a place was, in reality, some sort of bizarre mind-bending facility, he would have bet dollars to donuts that most of the mind bending occurred in that hospital, away from prying eyes.

The door to Number Twenty-Two was wide open. "Illya?"

No answer.

He stepped across the threshold.

The place was a perfect replica of Illya's New York apartment. A second-hand sofa was littered with books and magazines on a wide variety of subjects from the Hoare quicksort algorithm to women's rights in Equatorial Africa. A half-eaten pizza sat open on the dinette table. Jazz records were strewn across the top of the kitchen counter. A copy of the latest issue of the American Journal of Physics lay open on the carpet, the pages crumpled. An empty bottle of Stolichnaya lay beside it, and a broken table lamp. In the bathroom, the shower ran unattended, the water ice cold.

But where was Illya?

The sausage pizza on the dinette table was hours old. Had Illya ordered it? Where did you order pizza in a place like this, anyway?

His eye was drawn to the jazz records again. Illya would never have treated his precious recordings like that. He looked more closely. The arrangement of the albums appeared random, but –

Herbie Hancock. Ornette Coleman. Sam Rivers. Pharoah Sanders. Ira Sullivan. Tina Brooks. Albert Ayler. Lee Konitz.

Something there, but what? And then he had it.

Herbert-Ornette-Sam-Pharoah-Ira-Tina-Albert-Lee. HOSPITAL.

But what did it mean? Had Illya been taken to the hospital? Or had he gone there on his own to investigate?

Napoleon knew he had only one option, and that was to follow in Illya's footsteps. Before he left, however, he added one more record to the pile on the counter – Kai Winding's Solo. If Illya came back, he'd know his partner had been there, had seen and understood.

With a final glance at the apartment that reminded him so much of his friend, Napoleon shut the front door, and crossed the street to the hospital.

*/*/*/

Chapter 15

Illya took a deep breath. He could smell the sea and feel the breeze against his face. The sun was warm, almost hot. He reached out and touched a plant. It was real. He knelt and picked up a handful of dirt. It trickled dry and loamy between his fingers. Standing, he ran his hand down first one surface and then another, each time letting his consciousness report back to him.

He took a step back into his apartment and the door closed behind him, a soft hum, just like the doors at the hospital. He went to the phone and his hand paused in mid- reach. In the center of the dial was the number Twenty-Two.

Lifting the receiver, a chipper voice asked, "Number, please?"

"Uh… KLondyke 5-6443."

"I'm sorry, only local numbers."

"I don't… have one."

"Call back when you do." The line went dead and Illya gently slipped the receiver into its cradle. He snapped his fingers and took out his communicator. "Open Channel D."

"Number, please." It was the same chipper voice.

Illya dropped the communicator and looked wildly around the room. It was his apartment, right down to the half-finished pizza on the tiny dinette table.

Illya drew his weapon and checked the clip. It seemed real, felt real, but the bullets were fake. He slapped the clip back in and pointed it at his sofa. Pulling the trigger, the gun ejected the bullet without firing. Illya returned it to the holster and took out his frustration on the closest thing to him, his record collection. He yanked the albums from their spot and strewed them over the floor. He stopped short of breaking any. After all, some of them were very valuable, at least to him.

He walked into the bedroom and stopped. The hospital room had been bugged… and there were cameras. It stood to reason they were here as well.

It took him fifteen minutes to find them, but he did. He quickly dismantled them. Then he went to his dresser. If they'd taken his actual furniture, they might not have found this. He rummaged through his underwear drawer until his fingers felt the slightest of ridges. It took him precious seconds to work loose the fake bottom, but eventually it opened and Illya reached inside.

He almost cried when he felt the cool metal against his fingers. He withdrew the weapon and smiled. Experimental, it was made of a metal-infused plastic alloy. He'd been assured that, while it wouldn't hold up in an extended gun battle, it could fire a clip. Illya checked the mechanism and smiled. If nothing else, at least he was armed now.

He'd just managed to get the false bottom back in place when there was a knock to his front door.
Patting his hair in place, Illya went to answer it. The woman standing there was wearing a black and white striped shirt and tight pants. Pinning to the shirt was a button with a pennyfarthing and the number Forty-Eight on it.

"I received a report that you had a malfunction." Her voice was oddly chipper and she seemed vaguely familiar.

She started to move past Illya and his eyes widened. He grabbed her arm, and spun her towards him.

"Nellie?"

"Who's Nellie? I'm Number Forty-Eight." She struggled to break his grip, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Where am I?"

"You're here! We're all here. Let me go."

"Not until you tell me where I am."

"Let her go, Number Twenty-Two."

Illya turned and the man was standing there. "You!" Illya pushed the woman aside and stormed up to the man. "What is this?"

"Your best defense right now is to play along with them. You already have all the answers you need. You are in the Village. So is your partner. Your brains will be picked clean one way or the other. To confront them is to lose. Believe me, I've learned this the hard way."

"So I am supposed to take this lying down?"

"That's the last thing they would expect from you, Number Twenty-two." The man's eyes spoke volumes. "They have asked me to escort you to the hospital." He nodded to Illya's records. "Perhaps you'd like to tidy up your records first?"

Illya frowned and then sighed, trying to sound put upon. "All right, if I must."

"Yes, they like things neat and tidy here."

Illya shuffled through the albums. He found Herbie Hancock's Inventions and Dimensions and placed it carefully on the counter. "Where is this place?"

"No idea. It doesn't appear on any maps. It simply is. There is a general store where you can buy anything you need."

"A ticket out of this place?" Ornette Coleman's Ornette on Tenor was next. What this man did on a tenor sax was almost orgasmic in Illya's opinon.

"That would be The Funeral Home at the other end of town."

"You weren't joking, then." Fuchsia Swing song by Sam Rivers was next.

"I never joke, Number Twenty-Two."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Illya slid Pharoah Sanders' Tauhid onto the shelf beside the Rivers album.

"It's your number." The man's face darkened. "That's your first lesson here. Everyone in the Village is a number. Accept that and you are halfway to freedom."

"My name is Illya Kuryakin." Illya examined the cover of Ira Sullivan's Blue Stroll before adding it to the collection.

"I'm Number Six. It would do you well to remember your place here."

"And what exactly is my place here?" Albert Ayler Goin' Home seemed a safe choice.

"You will be expected to find a job and settle in. Make this your new home. Tell them what they want and, with any luck, they will leave you to die in peace. Press your luck and it can go very badly for you."

You and Lee by Lee Konitz was the last one he selected and he nodded slightly. "I doubt they can hit me with anything I haven't already experienced."

"You have no idea what they are capable of. Will you get on with it?" No. 6 knelt and started handing him albums. Number Forty-Eight came out of the bedroom and walked quickly to the door. "Is everything fixed?"

"Yes, Number Six. Everything is ship shape."

Illya finished staging the record albums. If Napoleon was indeed here and able to find him, then this would be a message to him. Possibly too little, too late, but it was the best Illya could do.

Straightening up, he followed Number Six to the door and outside. Music was playing, something soft and slightly jazzy. He tried to place it as he trailed behind. Trust the Village to come with its own soundtrack.

A small golf cart pulled up and a young woman, dressed similarly to the repairwoman, leaned over. "Where to?"

"Hospital."

"Oh, are you feeling poorly again, Number Twenty-Two?" She smiled sympathetically. "Seems like you just got out."

"Just a check up, Number Fourteen," Number Six answered. "Drive on, please."

Illya used the time to study his new prison, for he was certain he'd simply exchanged one cell for another. There was a news stand, a café, a labor exchange… labor spelt with a 'u' and that caught Illya's eye. There was a post office, several clothing stores, a book store, in short everything that a small town would have.

"What is your major supplier?"

"I don't know what you mean?"

"Who brings your food and goods in? They can't just magically appear."

The girl in the front seat, Number Fourteen, laughed merrily. "Yes, they can. That's the glory of the Village. Here you want for nothing."

"Except freedom," Illya whispered.

"Except freedom," Number Six concurred.

They pulled up in front of the hospital and the taxi paused just long enough for them to get out before speeding away. There was a large sun drenched patio and there were patients in wheelchairs enjoying the morning. Two men were playing chess and a nurse paused here and there, checking with her charges.

"All very civilized," Illya murmured as they mounted the stairs and walked into the hospital lobby.

"Apparently, but as you will soon find out. Appearances can be deceiving."

*/*/*/

Chapter 16

The Hospital's somber facade contrasted sharply with architecture in the rest of The Village. Where the surrounding buildings were elegantly beautiful, the Hospital was unusually dreary and colorless. The place reminded Napoleon of an ancient Scottish castle, all aged stone and crumbling, ivy-covered walls. Tall turrets stood at each of the four corners of the ominous-looking structure.

All it needs is a drawbridge, he thought. Steeling himself for whatever lay ahead, he climbed the single flight of stairs, edged past a row of pasty-looking patients in wheelchairs, and entered the main lobby.

"Number Eleven!" the nurse at the front desk chirruped. "What a lovely surprise!"

Napoleon's jaw dropped. "Nellie? Don't tell me they got you, too?"

She blushed prettily. "I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. I'm Number Forty-Eight, don't you remember?"

Napoleon was momentarily taken aback. "Yes, of course. My mistake," he covered quickly. "I'm here to – visit a friend. Number Twenty-Two. I understand he was brought in recently."

"Let me check." Nellie sifted through the stack of Admissions slips. "Yes, here it is." She scanned the page, and her expression fell. "Oh, dear. Your friend is not at all well."

Napoleon schooled his expression to reveal nothing. "Why? What's wrong with him?"

"I'm not really supposed to – "

"Please."

"Well – " She glanced around. "According to my records, Number Twenty-Two suffers from an acute case of Dissocial Schizotypal Avoidance Personality Disorder. I'm afraid the prognosis is rather grim."

"Can I see him?"

"Yes, but you'll have to hurry. He's scheduled for surgery shortly."

"Surgery?"

Nellie nodded solemnly. "In cases like these, a pre-frontal lobotomy is the only cure. They're prepping him now."

Napoleon paled. "Which way?"

"Third floor, end of the corridor. You can take the elevator."

Napoleon was already moving, fear for Illya displacing his innate sense of caution. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, and then, oddly, his next sensation was of the elevator descending.

Of course. The building wasn't tall enough to have a third floor. More misdirection. Trust nothing, he reminded himself. Trust no one.

The doors opened.

Another circular room, this one housing a state-of-the-art operating theatre. A pair of empty gurneys waited beside a complex bank of computers. The machines hummed with sinister purpose, belching out reams of data onto punch cards. White-coated technicians bustled about, fiddling with the various dials and noting the punch card responses on their clipboards. Illya was nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, Number Eleven," Visconti exclaimed. "Right on time. You UNCLE agents are so tragically predictable."

"Where's Illya?"

Visconti shrugged. "I've no idea. It doesn't really matter, since he's already served his purpose."

To get me here, Too late, Napoleon realized what his impulsiveness had cost him. Illya will never let me hear the end of it. "What is this place?"

"I call it 'The Village.' I designed the place for THRUSH some years back, as a no-holds-barred interrogation facility for high-end captures. Using a variety of psychological triggers, we alter our captives' paradigms, pick their minds clean, and sell the information to the highest bidder. I must say, it's been a real moneymaker over the years."

"How gratifying."

"Oh, it is, it is! Of course, yours is a special case. We have no intention of auctioning you off – the information you carry in that clever head of yours is far too valuable to to sell. Rest assured, THRUSH will put it to good use."

Napoleon shrugged. "You'll have to get it first."

"By hook or by crook, we will."

He took a step toward Visconti, but the click of a THRUSH rifle stopped him. He held out his hands, a gesture of acquiescence. "Your little plan seems awfully complicated," he remarked casually. "Why not simply capture us both at the townhouse?"

"And have UNCLE breathing down our necks looking for you?" Visconti shook his head. "That would have been foolhardy. No, a more elegant solution was called for. Having you personally witness Kuryakin's murder convinced UNCLE that he was indeed dead, and your overwhelming grief guaranteed that you would be placed on medical leave. The hints regarding his resurrection were enough to make you follow the trail of bread crumbs we laid. Now we have you both, and no one at UNCLE is the wiser."

Napoleon had to admit that THRUSH's plan had been spectacularly effective. "Sooner or later I'll be missed."

Visconti laughed. "Later, I should think. The beauty of it is, with Kuryakin 'dead' and you on medical leave, no one's even looking for you."

He doesn't know about April and Mark! The realization gave him hope. "Why the charade with the fake apartments?" he asked. "It served no purpose as far as I can see."

"A personal indulgence – I enjoy toying with my prey on occasion. Frankly, I thought you'd be more of a challenge." He rubbed his hands together. "And now I'm afraid it's time to get down to business."

Napoleon sighed. "Business?"

"Don't sound so surprised. We are in the 'business' of gathering information here. I want yours. Everything the CEA of UNCLE New York knows."

"You know I'll never give it to you."

"Fortunately for me, I don't need your permission to take it."

Napoleon felt a needle prick his arm, and the world faded to black.

He woke to find himself strapped to a metal gurney. A steel band encircled his skull, with wires and leads that connected to various portions of the giant computer. An IV dripped a clear liquid into his veins.

"Ah, awake at last, I see!" Visconti leaned over Napoleon's body to tighten the restraints. "I imagine you're wondering what that contraption on your head will do?"

"It had crossed my mind."

"'Crossed my mind?!'" Visconti began to laugh. "'Crossed my mind?!' Oh, that's a good one!" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "Tell me, do you recall a scientist named Wilhelm Seltzman?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Should I?"

"He was a German scientist. Brilliant, eccentric. Unconventional. Shortly before his death, he perfected a rather remarkable device he called a "mind-swapping machine."

"A what?"

"A mechanism by which the minds of two human beings could be exchanged, Subject A inhabiting Subject B's body, and vice versa."

Napoleon forced a laugh. "Pure science fiction. It can't be done."

"I assure you, it can." Visconti's eyes glittered with excitement. "Imagine if you will, the body of a trusted agent – your body, for example – walking into UNCLE Headquarters, carrying within it the mind of a top THRUSH agent. What a coup it would be – a THRUSH at the head of UNCLE New York, and no one able to tell the difference."

"They're not so easily fooled. They'd know it wasn't me."

"Not with your voice print, fingerprints and retinal scan all a perfect match."

"It'll take more than a set of fingerprints to fool UNCLE," Napoleon countered easily. "Even if you accomplish the transfer, it won't matter. THRUSH has tried using doubles before. They failed. The doubles were detected and neutralized."

"Not this time. You see, I'm the one who will be taking over your body. Not some lookalike actor with no motivation, zero talent and two weeks to rehearse."

"You?"

"And why not?" Visconti drew himself up, looking every inch the leading man. "I've spent the last ten years studying every detail of your life. Every mission. Every conquest. Every habit you've ever formed and every one you've broken. I've even made it a point to bed some of your women. Ah, the stories they tell about you – " He chuckled at some private joke. "It's safe to say that I know everything there is to know about you. Maybe even more than you know about yourself."

A chill began to work its way up Napoleon's spine.

"Once I secure my place inside the organization, it will be a simple matter to arrange Waverly's demise, and assume the position of Number One, Section One. I can dismantle UNCLE from the inside out. They won't suspect a thing until it's too late. "

Jesus.

Visconti climbed onto the second gurney, and a technician attached a steel band to his skull. "Places, everyone." He slipped on a pair of goggles.

Visconti's minions scurried about, taking last minute readings and making preparations to initiate the transfer procedure. A nurse fitted a pair of goggles over Napoleon's eyes. "The flash at the moment of transference is bright enough to burn your optic nerve," she explained helpfully. "We don't want that now, do we?"

Napoleon ignored her. He struggled against the leather straps, but there was no give. Think! he ordered his suddenly sluggish mind. The IV – they're drugging me!

"Machine at full power," the head technician announced.

"Excellent. Begin transfer." Visconti saluted. "Be seeing you, Number Eleven."

The machine hummed and spat, and began emitting a deafening feedback screech. The steel band around Napoleon's skull grew warm, and then hot. A sizzling, snarling arc of energy formed in the space above his head. The air crackled with electricity. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. The hair on his arms stood straight up.

Illya, I'm s

The beam coalesced. Fired.

No!

*/*/*/

Chapter 17

"Once upon a time –"

Illya sat up with a shout. He looked around. He was back in Medical, and he wanted to scream in frustration. They'd been close, so close to escape.

The door slid open and Nellie… No, what was she? … Number Forty-Eight ran in. "Illya, what's wrong?"

"Leave me alone," he growled and pulled back as far as he could in the bed. That's when he realized he wasn't strapped down.

Number Forty-Eight retreated a step, and then another. "Agent, get Dr. Stokes and let Mr. Waverly know that Mr. Kuryakin is awake." She turned back. "Illya, it's okay… you've been through a lot."

The door opened and April ran in. She didn't pause, but came to his side. She hugged Illya so tightly, he thought his ribs would break. Mark was right behind her.

"Ah, Mate, it's good to see you awake. You had us worried."

Illya pulled away and did his best to keep from hyperventilating. He wanted to believe, he truly did, but it had been so long.

Waverly appeared at the door, his face tired and drawn. "Ah , Mr. Kuryakin, you look to be in remarkable shape for a corpse."

"Thank you, sir." Illya looked around. "Where's Napoleon?"

"Never fear, young man, he is just next door."

"And Visconti?"

"Section Three has him in a holding cell."

"I am looking forward to talking to him."

"Both he and Mr. Solo are still unconscious."

Dr. Stokes, another familiar face, appeared and Illya felt the iron band in his gut release just a bit more.

"Illya, what happened?" April sat beside him, still holding his hand. "After Napoleon parachuted in, it felt as if we waited for days for a signal. We'd just about given up when we spotted you in that truck."

"What were those things, Illya?" Mark had gotten a chair for Waverly and he stood beside it, his expression troubled. "They looked like some wild beach balls come to life."

Illya shut his eyes for a moment and frowned, remembering.

"We found Napoleon and Visconti strapped to gurneys, and somehow managed to get them into a delivery truck." It had seemed too easy, and that was when someone had taken a shot at him. He returned fire while Number Six drove the truck away from the hospital.

Just when it looked like they might just make it, the truck engine died, and Illya spotted the first of the three orbs.

"The ball is called a Rover and it's a weapon." He could still hear the things roaring as they encircled the truck.

"Guess no one ever warned them about the danger of chopper blades."

Illya remembered one of the Rovers screaming and exploding. "I wondered what happened." The other two Rovers had backed off, and that was when Illya saw the helicopter with April at the controls. Suddenly Mark was beside him, helping him carrying Napoleon and Visconti to the helicopter.

"Come with us," Illya shouted as he ran back to Number Six.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Long ago, I learned it's not just four walls and a jailer than makes a jail, my young friend. " He glanced over his shoulder as the Rovers regrouped and began to approach again. "Go! I'll lead them off. The man popped the clutch, let the truck roll back a few feet and it started.

Illya raced back to the helicopter, climbed on board and watched as the nightmare called the Village dropped from view.

"Why wouldn't he come with you, Illya?" April seemed tuned into him. "That man driving the truck, why didn't he leave with you?"

"I don't know."

"Who was he?"

"A friend." Trust no one, not matter how sweetly they sing. Number Six's warning came back to Illya, and he managed a small smile. "Dr. Stokes, when can I get out of here?"

"How about as soon as all these people leave so I can check you out? The headshrinkers are going to want to talk to you as soon as you feel up to it." Nellie started escorting people to the door.

"Can I see Napoleon?" Illya unbuttoned his pajama top.

"In five minutes if you cooperate." Illya did just that, and in less time than that he was wrapped in a robe and standing by Napoleon's bedside. Illya touched the gauze wrapped about Napoleon's forehead.

"Why is he still unconscious?"

"We don't know. Visconti is unconscious as well." The doctor scanned Napoleon's chart. "Vitals are good; everything's stable. Aside from the burns on his temples, we can't find anything wrong with him."

The doctor placed a hand on Illya's shoulder. "You should go home and get some rest, some real rest."

"I can't, not until I know he's okay. He risked everything to save me, Doctor. I won't abandon him now."

"Tell you what. How about I get an orderly to bring in a bed for you?"

Illya smiled and nodded. "That would be perfect."

"Go and get something to eat. They tell me the Shepherd's Pie isn't too bad today."

The trip to the Canteen was an experience of normality. Everything was right, everyone was right. So, why did everything feel so wrong?

*/*/*/

Chapter 18

Bram Visconti opened his eyes. He lay quietly under the covers, gathering his wits about him, allowing memory to return in bits and pieces. He was relieved to see that he was alone for the moment. Good. That meant he had a little time.

He looked around, careful not to make too much noise. It wouldn't do to alert the nurses just yet. His head ached and his vision was still blurry, but he recognized the room, with its sleek steel walls and state-of-the-art life support equipment, immediately. UNCLE's Medical Wing.

Yes of course! It was coming back to him now – Kuryakin's staged death at the townhouse, Solo's capture, the mind swapping touched his face with trembling hands, felt the unfamiliar furrow between the brows, and the straight, patrician nose, so unlike his own. Full lips. Strong jaw. Cleft in the chin. Was it possible? Had the machine really worked?

He checked the hospital ID band on his wrist. Solo, N. (Dr. Martin Stokes.)

He'd done it! He'd switched bodies with Napoleon Solo!

The door slid open, and a nurse entered. She gasped when she saw him, and nearly dropped the IV bag she was carrying. A slow smile spread across her face. "Why Mr. Solo, honey, you're awake!"

Visconti glanced at the name tag on the woman's uniform. Connie Jacobs, RN. He adopted one of the agent's patented, sexy smolders. "Well now, I couldn't pass up the chance to say hello to my favorite nurse now, could I?"

"Oh, Napoleon!" Connie blushed seven shades of pink. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

He reached out, took her hand. "Not all the girls – only the prettiest ones."

If it was possible, the nurse's blush deepened. "We were so worried when you didn't wake up. Dr. Stokes tried everything!" She brushed a lock of hair away from is face. "What happened to you anyway? And however did you manage to find Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Now Connie, you know I can't talk about it. Regulations. You understand."

"Oh, of course." She re-tucked his covers and plumped his pillow. "I'll just let Dr. Stokes know you're awake." She hurried from the room.

Silly creature.

Dr. Stokes appeared moments later, accompanied by Alexander Waverly. Several nurses stood at the threshold, peering in and whispering to one another. Someone giggled. Waverly resolutely shut the door.

"Nice to have you back among the living," Dr. Stokes remarked as he checked the readout on the heart monitor.

Visconti grinned the way he felt Solo would have. "It's nice to be back." He allowed a tinge of concern to creep into his voice. "But where's Illya? Is he okay? He's not hurt, is he?"

"No, no, he's fine. He's been sitting at your bedside these last two days. I finally convinced him to get something to eat at the Canteen. I've sent one of the nurses to let him know you're awake, so he should come barreling in here any time now." He pressed his stethoscope to Visconti's chest and listened for several seconds. "Strong and regular. A bit rapid, but that's to be expected. Tell me, how are you feeling?"

Visconti shrugged. "A headache the size of the Grand Canyon, but otherwise, right as rain and very glad to be home."

"No other problems? Blurred vision? Nausea? Ringing in the ears?"

"Nope. Nothing."

"Excellent. We'll run a full battery of tests tomorrow, after you've had a chance to catch up on your rest. Meanwhile, I'll have Nurse Jacobs bring you something for the pain."

Waverly stepped forward, and Visconti reminded himself to be very careful. The head of UNCLE New York might look like somebody's kindly old grandfather, but he was no fool. He'd been standing in the background for the past few minutes, observing so quietly that Visconti had almost forgotten he was there. Dangerous!

"I understand Bram Visconti was behind the plot to capture the two of you."

"Yes sir. We were taken to some sort of interrogation facility called The Village."

"The Village. Yes, Mr. Kuryakin mentioned that. I don't suppose you've any idea where it's located?"

Visconti did his best to look contrite. "No sir. I was unconscious when they brought me in. Maybe Illya – "

"Yes, quite." Waverly peered down at his CEA. "He tells me that he found you, unconscious, strapped to a gurney beside some sort of machine. What do you recall about that?"

The THRUSH wunderkindt pursed his lips thoughtfully. "The details are still a bit fuzzy, sir. According to Visconti, the machine was designed to break down an agent's subconscious firewalls, and retrieve any secrets in their possession." He frowned uncertainly. "I think the machine might have – malfunctioned. Blown up. I remember smoke and an electrical smell. People running around. Visconti was knocked out by the blast. I guess the smoke got to me, and I blacked out. I don't remember anything more."

"I see." Waverly reached for his pipe, but stopped at a warning glance from Dr. Stokes. "Just a few more questions – "

"That's enough for now, Alexander," the doctor declared firmly. "Your agent needs his rest."

"If you insist, Doctor," Waverly acceded with a sigh. He didn't look happy about it. "Get some sleep, Mr. Solo. We'll talk again tomorrow."

"Sleep?" Visconti feigned a laugh. "I feel like I've had enough sleep to last a lifetime, sir! Frankly, I'm anxious to get back to work."

"In due course, Mr. Solo. In due course." Waverly paused, his hand on the button that would release the door. He frowned. "It's good to have you back."

"Good to be back, sir."

Napoleon Solo woke. His head throbbed, and his teeth felt as though they were being ripped out at the roots. Every muscle in his body ached. Christ. What the hell happened?

He sat up too fast, and the room began to spin alarmingly. His entire body felt heavy, weighed down. His arms and legs refused to obey him. Did somebody get the name of the bus that ran over me?

There was an odd, chemical taste in his mouth.A flash of memory – the lab. Visconti's lab. The mind-swapping machine. The horrible screeching sound, and the smell of ozone as the energy arced above him. And then –

Napoleon looked down at his hands. His large hands! Nearly as large as Illya's, with long, tapering fingers. Smooth, not calloused as his hands should have his body seemed taller somehow, and rounder. He patted his belly – soft and fleshy, with a slight paunch around the middle. Napoleon began to shiver as realization set in.

He glanced at his surroundings for the first time. A Section Three medical cell. He was back at UNCLE, locked in one of their holding pens. They thought he was Visconti! And if he was here, that meant that Visconti was –

– walking the corridors of UNCLE HQ Scot free! The bastard had done it, had switched their bodies.

He touched his face, his alien, unfamiliar face, surprised to find it wet with tears.

*/*/*/

Chapter 19

Illya placed a hand on the wall of the elevator, comforted by the vibration. He'd been at HQ for the past two days, returning home only long enough to grab a fast change of clothes. He flicked his eyes in the direction of the nurse, who suddenly looked very awkward and uncomfortable being so close to him. Illya supposed it would be the same with most of the Section Two's. They had a reputation for unpredictability.

He'd been in the Canteen, methodically working his way though something brown, when Karen spotted him, her face flushed with excitement. The fact that she was smiling when she caught his eye made Illya's heart soar.

"He's awake?"

"And asking for you. Dr. Stokes sent me."

Illya dropped his napkin on the tray and stood, all in one motion. "Let's go!"

He didn't wait for her answer, but headed for the elevator. Karen barely caught up with him before they were away again, taking the elevator down to Medical. Now he regretted the action, and wished he had opted for the stairs. This was taking way too long.

The doors opened, and Illya saw Dr. Stokes exiting Napoleon's room. They met halfway and Stokes was grinning.

"How is he?"

"Good. Complaining about a headache and asked for pain medication, so we gave him something to take care of it. It is going to make him sleepy, so it's best if he stays here overnight."

Illya nodded. He saw another doctor step out of a nearby door. It was a special Section Three medical holding cell, and too good for the likes of Visconti. "And our prisoner?"

"He's awake, but disoriented. He asked for you."

"Me?"

"Several times. Maybe he wants to apologize for trying to kill you. Close calls have a way of softening the toughest hearts."

"With that one, he is probably planning to strangle me with his bed sheets." Illya shook his head. "Let him cool his heels. He is not going anywhere until we are through with him." Illya headed for Napoleon's room.

He stepped in, and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the lower lighting. Napoleon was propped up on some pillows, stroking his cheek. That seemed odd, but after what he'd been through, Illya wasn't about to pass judgment.

"You up for visitors?" he asked softly, putting on his best smile.

Napoleon quickly dropped his hand. He looked at Illya, a crooked smile forming on his lips. The smile was odd enough, but it was Napoleon's eyes that drew Illya's attention. There was something different about them. Nothing Illya could put his finger on. They just seemed… vaguely wrong, as if Napoleon was seeing him again for the first time, or trying to place him in a room of look-alikes. Illya chalked it up to the medication.

"It's good to see you alive." It was Napoleon's voice and yet it wasn't. The cadence seemed different somehow. Illya chastised himself for his doubt. The Village must have taken a greater toll on him than he realized, because Napoleon was the one person in the world he could trust.

"And you, my friend." Illya squeezed his partner's shoulder, and Napoleon tensed. There was no way of knowing what sort of torture he'd gone through. Illya reminded himself. He remembered how, after one particular brutal affair, the color blue had made him physically ill for days after his rescue. It had taken a hypnotist and two headshrinkers to unravel that little mystery. He moved back to give Napoleon some breathing room. Agents didn't like to be crowded. "How did you find me?" he asked. "I was told everyone thought me dead."

"Would you believe a gypsy Tarot reader?" The smile faded until only its ghost remained. "She told me you were alive and that I needed to find you, so I grabbed a chopper and flew to your rescue."

"But how? I was told the island was impossible to find."

"I found you, didn't I? Just as you found me."

"Yes, strapped to a gurney and barely alive. What happened, Napoleon? You know you can tell me."

"I told everything to Waverly. He can fill you in. I hate to ask this, but I'm a little tired right now. Could we talk about this later?"

"How insensitive of me. Of course. Get some rest." Illya nodded and watched Napoleon turn toward the wall. That was disquieting. Agents never turned their backs to a door, not even a supposedly safe one. Shaking his head, Illya slipped quietly from the room. There must have been an odd expression on his face because Dr. Stokes caught his arm.

"Illya, what's wrong? I couldn't get you out of there and now that he's awake, you're leaving?"

"He asked me to go. He wanted to sleep."

"That's odd. I suppose talking to Mr. Waverly was too tiring for him." Shoulders shrugged. "Maybe the meds are kicking in. He'll sleep for about eight hours now." Stokes nodded to the other room. "Visconti's still awake, though, if you want to question him. He looks like hell, but he's refused anything for the pain." Illya opened his mouth and then closed it. "What?" Stokes asked.

"I almost said that sounds just like Napoleon." He offered a smile. "Perhaps this has taken a greater toll on me than I thought."

"Why don't I get someone to fix up some sleeping quarters for you? I can send Nellie to wake you when Napoleon resurfaces." He slipped Illya small envelope. "Take this. It's a little something to help you sleep. I won't say a word to anyone. You need to get back on your feet as well." He patted Illya on the shoulder. "Be seeing you."

Illya caught the doctor's hand in an iron grip. "Stop! What… why did you say that?"

The doctor paled slightly, fear on his face. "I don't know. It just popped into my head. My dad says it all the time." Illya relaxed his grip. "Are you really okay, Illya? You've gone as white as a sheet."

"I… yes, I am fine." Illya nodded as April and Mark joined them. "I will take you up on your offer, Doctor, thank you."

Stokes walked away, shaking his hand to get the circulation flowing again.

"You? Thanking a doctor?" Mark clutched his chest and laughed. "We heard Napoleon was awake."

"Mark, leave him alone. How are you holding up, Illya?" April ran her hand up and down Illya's arm, her expression one of honest concern.

"Do you know that old saying to be careful about what you ask for because you might get it?"

"Sure, mate, why?"

"Napoleon is awake and yet… I'm not certain that he is… well."

"How odd. The doctor said that he was fine."

"Yes, I know. That is what bothers me. Have you ever known Napoleon to actively request pain medication?"

The partners exchanged knowing looks. Agents preferred to avoid drugs under any circumstance. Drugs took control away, and agents were all about control. "First time for everything. I suppose the pain was very bad."

"A headache."

They walked to the waiting room and Illya sank into the unrelenting plastic of an uncomfortable chair. April went to the coffee urn and drew out a cupful of murky brown liquid. She passed it to Illya and drew another.

"Mark, coffee?"

"Ta." He took the cup and blew on it. "Bloody sludge," he muttered, and took a healthy gulp.

Illya merely stared at the cup, as if the heat rising from it held answers. "I keep meaning to ask you this, but somehow I keep forgetting. How did the two of you manage to find us out of the blue like that?"

Mark made a rude noise. "Find? Hell, Illya, we'd been circling the island for days. Napoleon parachuted in. We set up camp on the other side. He had a transponder implanted in his neck, and we kept track of him that way. When he started moving fast toward the perimeter of the town, we decided to get airborne and that's when we spotted you."

"He also said something about a gypsy?"

"A Tarot card reader. We think she may have been in cahoots with the locals there on the island, but she gave us the clues that helped us find you." April set her coffee aside. "Have you spoken with Visconti yet?"

"No. The doctor said he was asking for me."

"That a little strange, don't you think?"

"There is a lot strange," Illya muttered. "As soon as I figure out what is my strange as opposed to everyone else's strange, I will let you know."

Mark's communicator chirped. "Slate here."

"Mr. Slate, could you and Miss Dancer join me in my office?" Waverly's voice left no room for argument.

"We're on our way, sir."

April stood, but didn't move. "Illya, are you going to be okay?"

He nodded wearily. "I'm going to get some sleep, but first I had better check on our visitor."

"Let us know if there's anything we can do."

"You saved us, that's enough." Illya watched them walk away.

The Section Three agents stiffened as Illya approached, and he resisted the urge to salute. This whole affair was at an end. They had achieved their purpose and come back behind their shields, alive and whole. So why didn't he feel relieved? Why did he have this nagging doubt that something was wrong? It buzzed in his ear, and dug at his subconscious.

Illya walked into the room and fixed a glare at the man in the bed. The eyes were gray and narrow with pain, but there was something so…

"Hey." One hand raised in greeting. "Good to see you still alive."

"No thanks to you."

"It's not what you think."

"Oh, that's where you are wrong. It's very much what I think, and when we are through, I am personally going back and wiping the Village off the map. What did you bastards do to Napoleon?"

A heavy sigh. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"A brain exchange, his for mine." The voice was weak. Apparently Visconti didn't tolerate what had happened as well as Napoleon had. Illya took comfort in that fact.

Illya laughed. "You must think me a fool."

"No, I was the Fool. You were the Page of Swords… ask April. She can tell you."

"There will be plenty of time to chat, Visconti. You and I are about to become very good friends."

"Not Visconti."

"I beg to differ. Unless THRUSH has its records wrong, you are Bram Visconti."

"Not...Visconti..."

"Then who the hell are you?" There was only silence. Illya made a face. The bastard must have passed out. He started toward the door, only to pause at the soft sound of a voice.

"Once in Prague, we got stinking drunk and you told that the inscription inside your wedding ring used to say, My Life, My Love, but it was worn away. You asked what you should replace it with and I came up with something very dirty and involving Mr. Waverly…"

Illya spun, his mouth dropping open. "Napoleon?"

*/*/*/

Chapter 20

As April and Mark watched with growing concern, Waverly completed his pipe-lighting ritual and sat back, puffing furiously. Something was wrong – that much was apparent from The Old Man's dyspeptic expression – but they knew better than to ask what it was. He would tell them when he was ready, and not before.

Waverly's bushy brows came together in a frown. "I've read your reports," he began at last. "Frankly, I'm hard pressed to believe that a place like The Village could exist without UNCLE knowing about it. A fairy tale village, hidden from prying eyes, where agents are broken beyond repair? Crack agents reduced to placid, fearful sheep, their information extracted and sold to the highest bidder?" He shook his head. "It boggles the mind. And then there are the bizarre events you describe seeing first-hand: the pack of giant, floating orbs attacking your helicopter, for example."

April answered for the both of them. "It's what happened, sir."

"Hmm, yes." Waverly sat back, puffing thoughtfully. "Putting that aside for the moment, I'm interested in the details of how you finally managed to locate Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. According to your reports, they were hidden out of sight, in the back of a floral delivery truck driven by a mysterious man named –" He consulted his notes. "– Number Six."

April and Mark hesitated. A nervous glance passed between them. Which of us is going to tell him?

"Miss Dancer? I trust you have not lost your voice?"

April snapped to attention. "No sir." She collected her thoughts. "Prior to our arrival on the island, Dr. Stokes implanted a tiny transponder under the skin behind Napoleon's left ear. We knew that once he parachuted in, we were likely to be separated from one another for a significant amount of time. A transponder was the best way to keep track of his movements, and to trace his location in the event that he was captured."

Waverly nodded. "And when you managed to locate Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin using the transponder, was Visconti also present?"

"Yes sir. Both he and Napoleon were unconscious in the back of the truck."

"I see. And what explanation was given for their unconscious state?"

"Illya mentioned an explosion in the laboratory where Napoleon was being held. Presumably, they got caught in the blast."

Waverly leaned forward. "Mr. Kuryakin was alone when he found the two of them, then?"

"Yes sir."

"How did he behave afterward, in the helicopter? Did he seem – himself?"

April and Mark exchanged puzzled glances. "Illya was – Illya."

"Nothing out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing." April paused. "Sir, if I may ask, what's this about?"

"Patience, Miss Dancer." Waverly reached into a drawer, and retrieved a tiny object. "Is this the transponder?"

April paled slightly, and nodded.

"You're sure?"

She took it from him, turned it over in her hands. "Yes sir, that's the model we used. It's a prototype, one of a kind. I – uh, borrowed it from the Lab – "

"So Dr. Wu informs me. Medical also confirms your story – Dr. Stokes removed the device from behind Mr. Solo's left ear two days ago." Waverly paused to relight his pipe, which had gone out.

"I'm sorry for the deception, sir," April said.

Waverly harrumphed. "We'll discuss the list of your transgressions at a later date, Miss Dancer, including, but not limited to, borrowing the transponder, and your unauthorized absence from UNCLE for the past week."

"Yes sir," she replied meekly.

"Don't think you're off the hook either, Mr. Slate."

"No sir."

"At the moment however, we have a larger mystery on our hands."

"Oh?" Thank heaven for small favors!

"You see, the transponder was no longer functioning when Dr. Stokes removed it."

April's jaw dropped. "Sir, that's impossible. That transponder was specifically keyed to respond to Napoleon's brainwaves. Nothing short of his death should have stopped it from working."

"Nevertheless, the device no longer functions. What do you make of that, Miss Dancer?"

"I can't – I mean, I don't understand –"

"The transponder has a limited range, doesn't it?" Mark broke in. "It would stop working if it were too far away from the person for whom it was calibrated."

April shook her head. "But it was still in Napoleon when it stopped working."

"Was it? Remember what Illya told us downstairs?"

Waverly eyed the junior agent with canny interest. "Go on, Mr. Slate. What, precisely, did Mr. Kuryakin tell you?"

Mark sat up a bit straighter. "We were down in Medical a while ago, and Illya was there. He'd been in to see Napoleon, and he seemed rather – unsettled by the visit."

"Why unsettled?"

"I know it sounds silly, but –"

Waverly snapped. "Out with it."

"Napoleon requested pain medication. For a headache."

"A headache...?" Waverly turned away, gathering his thoughts. He stared out the window, watching as the New York skyline faded into darkness. His pipe lay forgotten in his hand.

"Sir?" April inquired softly.

Waverly slid a dossier across the conference table. "Have you ever heard of a scientist named Wilhelm Seltzman?" he asked.

Visconti lay in bed, waiting for the combination of sleep and pain medication to dull the miserable throbbing in his head. Soon, he thought and felt a surge of pleasure at the thought. Soon.

*/*/*/

Chapter 21

llya watched Visconti...no, Napoleon...sleep, and tried to understand. He had no doubt now, that the mind in Napoleon's body was Bram Visconti's, but he was at a loss as to how to right the wrong. He had no idea how such a thing was even possible. He was just glad he had acted on his initial instinct to bring Visconti with him – otherwise Napoleon would still be trapped in that little bit of hell called The Village.

Napoleon thrashed, moaning in his sleep. Illya rubbed the fleshy forearm, cringing at the strangeness. It felt nothing like his partner's arm.

He made soothing sounds. "Hush, Napoleon, we will make this right," he whispered. "I will make this right." Not that he had a clue how he was going to do that, but it didn't matter. Napoleon settled at Illya's touch. His hand lingered until Napoleon's breathing was deep and regular again.

Illya rose wearily and stretched. His back ached from sitting in the chair, and he massaged the base of his spine as he walked slowly to the door. He cracked his neck and adjusted his tie before tapping once, then twice, then once again. After a brief delay it opened, and he stepped into the brightly lit corridor. He blinked furiously until his eyes adjusted.

Illya recognized one of the two Section Three men flanking the door, and gave him a half smile.

"Mr. Lewis, how are you?" Hirum Lewis had taken Illya's Ordinance and Explosives class and done well. Illya held out a hand, and Hirum shook it firmly, as if trying to impress Illya with its surety and strength.

"I'm well, sir. How goes the interrogation? Is he talking?"

"Off and on, I'm afraid. Whatever happened to him on the island has seriously weakened the man. He is unconscious more than he's awake. When he is awake, he babbles nonsense. He actually thinks he is an UNCLE agent."

The other man laughed. "Really? How crazy is that?"

"Mr…?"

"Walker, Teo Walker. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Hirum has been telling me all about you."

"I assure you that it is all lies, except for the good parts." Illya shook his hand as well. "Are you new here?"

"I just returned from a London assignment. I was replacing Mr. Drake until they could appoint someone to take his position full time."

Illya frowned, mentally going through the list of London personnel. "Drake? I don't…"

"John Drake, he was London's Section Three head until he disappeared a few years ago."

"It must have been after I left." Illya looked toward the other occupied room. "Is the doctor with Mr. Solo?" He tried to keep any sign of contempt from his voice.

"He just left."

"Keep up the good work, and do not let anyone other than Dr. Stokes or myself into that room. Visconti is slippery, and I am certain he is already formulating an escape plan."

"Should we move him down to a maximum security cell?" The Section Three agents exchanged knowing looks. No one every escaped from an UNCLE maximum security cell, except Napoleon.

"His medical condition is still too shaky. Perhaps tomorrow we will move him, but in the meantime, guard him with your life. A dead THRUSH is of no help to us."

"No one gets past us, sir." Lewis nodded, his voice firm and committed.

"I am sure." Illya shook their hands again and squared his shoulders. It was time to face the demon.

Pausing in front of Napoleon's room, Illya took a deep breath and put his best poker face on. He knocked once and entered.

The real Visconti turned in the bed to face him. Illya's heart ached with the sense of familiarity of the expression and the smile. It was his partner and yet it wasn't. The eyes were cold and calculating.

"How are you feeling, old friend?" Illya felt he deserved an Oscar for his acting.

"Still a little tired, but the medication is helping with the headache."

"Excessive bed rest will do that. You need to get out of here. I shall talk to the doctor about releasing you to my care. We can stay at your apartment or mine. I suspect you will be more comfortable at yours and your guest bed is easier on the back."

"I wouldn't want to put you out. Dr. Stokes said I should be cleared for duty in another couple of days. It's just as easy to stay here."

"Nonsense. After you nursed me through the measles and that case of flu last year, it's the least I can do." Illya had had neither. The real Napoleon would know that; Visconti would not.

The eyes narrowed slightly, as if unsure if this was a bluff or not. "I told you then it was okay. You don't need to take care of me."

Illya nodded and waved his hand. The room was filled with flower arrangements, all of them bugged by him personally. "You've obviously had plenty of offers from more comely nursemaids. All these flowers are from your many admirers, I suppose?"

The man nodded happily. "What can I say? I'm universally loved."

"Don't say that too loudly down in the gym. Halibekey might take offense and tied you into a love knot."

"Halibekey needs to remember his place."

It was obvious this Napoleon faker didn't have a clue who this Halibekey was. "I will let you rest then. Perhaps I can convince the doctor to release you to light duty. I have three stacks of reports waiting for me, and I could use your help."

"Thanks." There was a viciousness to Napoleon's smile and Illya knew the man was thinking of all the trouble he was going to create once he got his hands on UNCLE"s secrets.

Illya nodded again. "I will see what I can do." There was no answer, not that Illya expected one.

Stepping back out into the hallway, he nearly collided with Dr. Stokes. "Ah, Illya, I was just coming to see you. I've been hearing some very interesting rumors. You want to put them to bed?"

"Yes, but not out here." The nurses' station was but a few steps away and the two Section Three agents hung on every word being spoken.

"My office is right around the corner. We can talk there." Stokes seemed eager to lead the way. The room was a mirror image of just about every other office in the building. It was the accessories that made each one a reflection of its owner. Stokes had travel posters all over his walls. Illya studied one of the Matterhorn.

"I'd love to go there," Stokes said.

"It's very cold, and you have to like goat." Illya settled into a straight back chair. "A lot."

"Do you ever get tired of traveling, Illya?"

"No, not really. My mother told me I was born with a restless spirit."

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you. I've had several cups already today. Anymore and I will be scrubbing the ceiling with a toothbrush." Illya watched the doctor go through the familiar routine of pouring coffee and risking that first sip. "You said you'd been hearing rumors."

Stokes settled behind his desk and pushed a stack of medical reports out of his way. He picked up a pen, fiddling with it for a moment and then set it back down. "Well, not rumors, per se. Connie, the day nurse, said that Napoleon has been flirting with her."

"That is hardly cause for alarm. Napoleon flirts with everyone."

"I happen to know that Napoleon usually avoids flirting with any of my nurses… unlike other agents." He tried to repress a smile as Illya shifted uncomfortably. "He told me once that he didn't want to get comfortable with anyone who could insert a catheter line."

"That sounds like vintage Napoleon. It's a well known fact that very few women can resist Napoleon when he sets his mind to something. Perhaps he sees it as his way of escaping."

"That's just it, Illya. I've treated Napoleon for everything from a sprained ankle to a gunshot wound to a concussion. I usually have to tie him to the bed to keep him there, and he's always rushing off the first chance he gets. Not this time."

"Perhaps my rescue took more out of him than he is willing to admit. He undertook a near Sysiphusian task to find me. If he had convinced April and Mark to help, I would still be there."

"He hasn't asked about any of you, not even once. Whoever is in that bed isn't Napoleon."

"Yes, it is. You've proven it yourself with the blood work."

"It might be an exact copy of Napoleon, but it's not him. I think you know it, too." Stokes paused and took a deep breath. "What the hell is going on, Illya?"

Illya took a deep breath. He hadn't said anything about the switch to anyone, but perhaps now was the time to break that silence. "How do I put this?" he began.

"I've found with this one that a direct route is the best."

Illya's eyes widened at the voice. In a heartbeat, he was out of his chair, his weapon drawn.

Number Six stepped from the shadows of the room. "Put that down, Twenty-Two."

"What are you doing here?" The pistol didn't waver, but Dr. Stokes had dropped behind his desk. Apparently he didn't want to be part of any gun battle.

"It's all right, son." Waverly's hand covered Illya's and lowered both it and the weapon. "Mr. Drake is here at my request."

"How… wait, Drake? The Section Three man who vanished?"

"Not exactly vanished." The man's smile was tight. "I prefer 'reassigned.'"

"He knows what happened to Mr. Solo and Visconti." Waverly continued. "He wants to help."

Illya stared at his employer, a man he trusted with his life, and then back at Number Six, a man he didn't trust for a moment. "All right. Talk."

*/*/*/

Chapter 22

Visconti scowled as Dr. Stokes delivered the bad news.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon," the doctor ad libbed. "I know you were hoping to be discharged this morning, but I'm not satisfied with the results of your latest brain scan. I'm afraid you're going to be with us for another day, at least."

"It's a damned waste of time," Visconti grumbled. He caught himself and smiled belatedly. "Sorry, Doc. you know how I hate being cooped up."

"I believe you've mentioned it a few times." Dr. Stokes made a notation on the chart, and returned it to its peg at the foot of the bed. "You agents may think of yourselves as invulnerable, but the fact is that you suffered a traumatic brain injury. You were unconscious for nearly two days. You had a concussion, and there was significant swelling in the temporal lobe of your brain. Unfortunately, the swelling hasn't gone down as much as I'd like."

"But I feel fine," Visconti insisted.

"I'm glad to hear it. However, 'feeling fine' isn't the only criterion I'm required to use in assessing your condition." Dr. Stokes paused to change the IV bag and adjust the drip rate. "I know you're disappointed, Napoleon, but you have to understand – I'm responsible for your health. I don't want to see you back in here with a brain bleed. If you really want a clean bill of health, the best thing you can do at the moment is rest. "

"I'll make sure he follows your orders," Illya declared firmly.

Visconti grimaced. "Just what I need, a Russian nursemaid."

"What you need is time to recover, Napoleon, and I am going to see that you get it."

Visconti gave an exaggerated sigh. "And what am I supposed to do for the next twenty-four hours? Twiddle my thumbs?"

"Grumpy, are we? Perhaps I can bring you a few of the reports on your desk. I have done my best to keep up, but there are a number of delicate matters requiring your attention, and I haven't the necessary clearance to sign off on them."

Reports! Visconti practically salivated at the thought of all the information he could glean from those mission reports. And that fool Kuryakin had just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter! He schooled his face into a semblance of gratitude. "Thanks, Illya. You're a lifesaver."

Illya forced a smile. "I will be back in a few minutes with those reports."

While he waited, Visconti thought about the bullet he would put into Illya's brain. He pictured the look of surprise on the Russian's face, the blue eyes glazing over with the finality of death. Very soon now, he promised himself.

Illya motioned Dr. Stokes to the end of the hall. "Is it done?" he asked quietly.

Stokes nodded. The new IV is pumping a powerful sedative into Visconti's system. He should be out for the count in roughly –" He checked his watch. " – ten minutes."

"Excellent. We need to keep him sedated until the mind-swapping machine gets here. Wait fifteen minutes, and then check to be sure he's out." Illya turned toward the bank of elevators. "No one is to enter Visconti's room without my personal clearance. If you need me – for any reason whatsoever – do not hesitate to call. I will be in Waverly's office." The elevator dinged to announce its arrival.

"Illya?"

He turned. "Yes?"

Stokes hesitated. "Do you think UNCLE will be able to retrieve the mind-swapping machine in time to save Napoleon?"

Illya stared at the steel door behind which his friend lay, desperately ill. "If anyone can succeed, it will be April and Mark." Forcing down his fear, he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed behind him.

Visconti hated the thought of waiting another day to put his assassination plans into operation, but there didn't seem to be much he could do about it. The damned doctor was a bloody tyrant! Maybe he'd put a bullet in his brain, too. And that simpering nurse... what was her...?

He yawned. His head sank back onto the pillow, and he found himself appreciating its cool softness. His eyelids drooped. Drifted shut. No! He forced them open, wondering why it was suddenly so hard to stay awake. What...was I...? ...sedating him? Dr. Stokes hadn't... mentioned...

Like a bolt of lightning, the truth revealed itself. They know who I am!

Visconti ripped the IV needle from his arm. He stumbled to the bathroom, cursing, and splashed cold water on his face. It didn't help. Damn them! They were going to ruin everything! Fighting to stay awake, he searched the cabinets, and came up with a vial of methadrine and a syringe. He injected himself with the stimulant, and at last, felt himself begin to revive.

Feeling somewhat clearer, he tackled the problem of how to keep them from realizing that he'd caught on. The IV. Of course! He took the bag to the sink and dumped the contents, replacing the clear liquid with tap water. He rehung the bag, broke the needle in half and climbed back into bed, taping the shortened needle to the inside of his elbow. He closed his eyes – just in time it turned out – for seconds later the door opened, and Dr. Stokes entered the room.

He moved to Visconti's bedside, noting the rolled-back eyes and the deep, even breathing. He checked the drip rate on the IV once more for good measure and, satisfied that his patient would sleep through the night, slipped out as silently as he had come. He hung a 'QUARANTINE' sign on the door to assure that no one entered without permission.

In the darkness, Visconti smiled. They believed he was asleep. No one would bother him for several hours now. Time to get to work. He rifled through the cabinets and drawers for the materials he would need to make a homemade version of knockout gas. When it was ready, he would use UNCLE's own air conditioning system to vent the gas into the corridor. The thought pleased him. It wouldn't be long now.

Sleep eluded Napoleon Solo. His body felt foreign to him, like living in a house belonging to somebody else. If it wasn't for Illya recognizing him, he might have lost hope.

A sudden jolt of adrenaline surged through his veins, causing the muscles of his arms and legs to contract painfully, the pain mingling with the leaden feeling in his chest. Pain had become a constant companion now, as the body he inhabited – Visconti's body – deteriorated. No one said as much, but he knew the signs – elevated heart rate, trouble breathing, blurred vision. Visconti's body was shutting down.

He wondered how much time he had left before the seizures stopped his heart. An UNCLE strike force had been sent to the island to retrieve the mind-swapping machine, but there was no guarantee they would be successful in the attempt, or that the machine could be brought back to New York in time to save him. At least Waverly was safely under guard – Visconti wouldn't be able to get to him.

Outside the door of his Medical cell, one of the guards coughed. And coughed again. The other said something, and then began to gasp for breath. A sound like something rubbing against metal – the guard, sliding down the exterior of the door.

Gas! A moment later, Napoleon was coughing, too. Don't breathe! Realizing that he had only seconds in which to act, he stuffed his blanket into the air conditioning vent, and tied the ends to to the metal bars. It wouldn't keep the gas out for long, but it might just give him enough time to pick the lock on the cell door. He covered his face with his pillow, and set to work, trying to inhale as little of the gas as possible.

Visconti gave the knockout gas five minutes to do its work. Once he was sure it had dissipated, he dropped the oxygen tank he'd stolen from the crash cart, and picked up a gun from one of the unconscious guards sprawled in the corridor.

Kuryakin had ruined everything – he and that meddling doctor – but Visconti was nothing if not original plan to kill Waverly and take his place at the head of UNCLE had been thwarted, but there was always room for a backup plan. If I can't take over UNCLE Headquarters, I'll blow it up. He giggled at the thought. Waverly would be just as dead, and he'd have taken out Solo and Kuryakin, and about two-hundred clueless UNCLE agents in the bargain.

"Hold it right there, Visconti."

That voice! Visconti turned, and stared at – himself.

Napoleon Solo stood in the center of the corridor, one hand braced against the wall for support. In his hand he held the second guard's pistol, pointed straight at Visconti's heart. "Put the gun down," he said.

"You don't look so well, Number Eleven," Visconti replied boldly. "Let me guess – blinding headache, chest pain, numbness in the extremities – am I getting warm? Tsk tsk. The signs of neuronic incompatibility are all there. I'd estimate you have – maybe – a day or two at most before total collapse. It looks like I got the better half of our bargain." He began to inch toward the stairwell.

"I said, drop the gun."

"And If I don't? What are you going to do? Shoot me?" Visconti laughed. He took another step toward the door.

"Stop. I won't warn you again."

"Be realistic, Number Eleven. I'm betting you're not cold-blooded enough to shoot your own body."

"You'd lose that bet." A sudden stabbing pain left Napoleon gasping for breath. His chest felt like a vise was squeezing his ribcage; his legs grew numb. He fought to stay upright.

Visconti saw his chance. He fired, and Napoleon went down, clutching his side.

"Well that was anticlimactic," Visconti remarked. He pressed the elevator call button. "Be seeing you, Number Eleven."

"In. Hell."

A soft explosion. Visconti's face contorted in surprise. He looked down at his chest, where a bright red stain was beginning to bloom. He stared at it, even as he slid to the ground, his warm brown eyes glazing over in the finality of death.

The gun fell from Napoleon's hands, smelling of cordite. His eyes closed.

*/*/*/

Chapter 23

Illya watched the body that had been his partner crumple to the floor. He fell to his knees beside him. "Oh, Napoleon, what have you done?"

Visconti's eyes opened. "What had to be done, partner."

Dr. Stokes knelt over the body of Napoleon, and shook his head.

"But, with your body dead, you're trapped."

"Not for long." The voice was weak. "What the doctor didn't tell you is that Visconti's body is dying, rejecting the transference. That's why he was in no great hurry to leave Medical. Another day and this body would have been dead, along with me. Guess I pushed that envelope a bit far. "

"No." Illya's voice was firm, even though inside he was slowly coming apart. "I won't lose you."

"It's not your call, Illya. Not this time. It's been great having you as a partner." Napoleon took a deep breath. "And at least you're sa…" The head lolled and Illya grabbed him.

"Don't you dare give up, Napoleon Solo! " Illya shook him feverishly. "That's not who you are! You don't quit – ever. You fight. Don't you dare leave me here alone." He rocked the now lifeless body in his arms. "Napoleon," he murmured over and over.

"Shh, it's okay." The voice was soft and comforting. It seemed to surround Illya, filling him with a sense of peace. It was achingly familiar. "Everything's okay now, Illya. I have you."

There was a sudden pressure and Illya's head felt as if it exploded. He gasped, and staggered down the thin line between consciousness and oblivion. A gentle breeze blew over his face and he sighed. It became easier to breathe. To sleep would be easy, but, "…so much to do."

"You're done, Illya, it's over. You can rest now."

A veil seemed to lift from his eyes and he was staring at a visage he knew better than his own. Illya whispered, "Impossible…Na… Napoleon?" He blinked and tried to move, but his limbs had a mind of their own. "You're dead. How can this be?"

Napoleon wiped Illya's face with his handkerchief. "Not quite yet, so don't be counting on that promotion anytime soon. Now, be still and we'll have you out of here." A movement drew Illya's attention, and he turned his head as Mark came racing up.

"We've secured the satrapy, and are currently rounding everyone up, Napoleon." He paused and grinned at Illya. "Welcome back, mate."

"Visconti?" Napoleon eased electrode cuffs from Illya's burnt wrists. "Tell me he didn't slip away, Mark."

"Section Three has him, although he made a good try of it. April had to shoot him in the leg before he slowed down."

"Remind me to put April in for a commendation," Napoleon murmured, adjusting the blanket over Illya. "Is the helicopter ready?"

"Standing by."

April came up, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. "We've made a report back to Mr. Waverly and the second wave is coming in. It's good to see you, Illya." she brushed the sweat-damp hair from his forehead and kissed it. "You had us scared for awhile." She and Mark hurried away.

"Wha'… what happened?" Illya's jaw and ears ached and his head throbbed as Napoleon removed electrodes from Illya's head. "No Gypsy fortune teller?"

"Nope, just some nasty dreams on your part." Napoleon held the mask close to Illya's nose and mouth again. He breathed deeply, letting his mind clear of cobwebs and almost forgotten memories. Illya reached up and winced. His right wrist was a mass of pinpricks. Still, he settled his hand over Napoleon's.

"I thought I had lost you," Illya murmured, squeezing with all his might, which wasn't much at present.

"I have to admit, the same thought had crossed my mind about you." Napoleon smiled. "I'm sorry it took so long to find you. You were the proverbial UNCLE needle in a THRUSH haystack."

Illya turned his attention to the mass of electronic gadgetry that surrounded him. "What is all this, Napoleon?"

"Best we can figure, it's a thought manipulator. According to the scientist we captured, the machine that they have you hooked up to is able to control your dreams. They were trying to get inside your head and find out all of UNCLE's little secrets."

"I imagine they were not very successful."

"Why do you say that?"

"I am still alive. They would have killed me if they had gotten what they wanted."

"Maybe we should use it on Visconti and see what's running around in that noggin." Napoleon helped Illya sit up and adjusted the blanket around him again. "Sit tight, partner and I'll see what I can do about rounding you up some clothes. We wouldn't want to cause a stampede by accidentally flashing our female agents. I don't know if their hearts could take it. "

Illya managed a smile and closed his eyes again.

"You have been through a terrible ordeal," someone whispered and Illya nodded slowly. He felt that he should know that voice, but he couldn't quite pin it down. His head was still a confusing jumble of thoughts and images. "Are you all right?"

"I'm still a little dizzy."

A hand reached out and supported his shoulder. "Just relax. I'll tell you a little story. Once upon a time there was The Village."

Illya's eyes snapped open. He sat up, pulling himself free of the man's grasp. "Number Six?"

"You'll be fine now, but don't forget what you've seen." Number Six smiled and touched his hand to his temple. "Be seeing you."

Illya turned and shouted, "Napoleon!" His partner was there in a heartbeat, carrying a jumpsuit, his face a mass of confusion and fear. "What's wrong?"

"Number Six. He's here!"

"Who? There's no one in the room except us. All the THRUSH personnel have been rounded up and are being processed."

Illya's head throbbed, but he pushed the pain and nausea aside and slid off the metal table. He hurriedly yanked the jumpsuit on, talking as he walked. "Let's get the hell out of here." The door slid open at their approach, and for a moment Illya caught his breath, half expecting a Rover to be hovering outside the door, waiting to drag him back to The Village. But it merely opened onto a long gray corridor, and Napoleon was there at his side, draping Illya's arm over his shoulder, his strong right arm around Illya's waist.

The sunlight caught Illya and he blinked, his eyes watering furiously. He turned his face away for a moment. His knees weakened at the sight of the crazy jumble of buildings, each one painted an artificially bright color against the backdrop of a sparkling sea.

"Hold on, Partner. Just another few minutes and we'll have you out of here. This is some little empire Visconti built," Napoleon murmured as he helped Illya into the UNCLE helicopter.

"A torture chamber hidden by pretty flowers and slipcovers," Illya whispered. He looked back towards the green domed building. There was a man standing there. He raised one hand and then vanished into the shadows. Illya wondered if the man even existed.

"Well, you know what they say...a gilded cage is still a cage."

"And a prisoner is never a free man, no matter how easily he comes and goes. Not when the prison is in his own mind." Illya accepted a hand up from a Section Three agent and settled into one of the passenger seats, Napoleon at his side.

With a roar, the helicopter lifted up and raced away the green rolling hills and across a blue glittering ocean.

*/*/*/

Epilogue

Number Six watched as the two men were loaded onto the helicopter, both securely strapped to gurneys for the long flight back to the States. Rovers stood by, growling menacingly, but they wouldn't attack without his instructions. As the aircraft lifted away, he turned back toward The Village.

Walking over to a console, he picked up a red phone. "New York, please. Code: Open Channel D." He watched the operatives ride around, up, and down on the scanner. The voice which answered sounded tired and weary with age.

"Yes?"

"Your men are back on their way to you, Alexander. No harm done, although they will both benefit from some attention by your psychiatric staff."

"And Visconti?"

"He has been dealt with. He will not be a problem for anyone else again." He could still hear the man's screams as he was dragged away to meet his fate. "Be seeing you."

As he set down the phone, his diminutive butler arrived with his elevenses. He took it on the balcony where he could watch the sea and the sky.

*/*/*/

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

The Ballad Of Reading Gaol
a poem by Oscar Wilde

*/*/*/

(Authors' Note: The mind-swapping machine was featured on an episode of The Prisoner titled "Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling." The mind manipulator was created for an episode of The Prisoner titled "A, B and C.")