Even in a dark alley outside a seedy-looking restaurant, Napoleon took his sweet time chatting on the communicator every time they made contact. Sometimes it was because of caution, but most often he was charming every girl UNCLE employed before finally proceeding with his mission. Illya did not mind this entirely, as it kept them away from him and out of his way when he was trying to proceed on his own missions, but it certainly bothered him that Napoleon initiated things without any promise to them, without a relationship beyond a day or two at a time. Illya wasn't quite sure why the other agent felt so free to do so, and he didn't want to upset his friend, but he needed to ask him one day. Then, as he turned off the engine of his car, he caught the tail end of the conversation, and gritted his teeth. Not again.

"Then I'll take Vanessa back to Illya's then. Yes sir. Yes sir. No, but—yes sir. Good night." Solo hung up the phone, and moseyed back to where his partner stood fuming.

"Napoleon, I have told you time and again that I do not like these empty-headed American girls in my apartment. They cause more irritation than pleasure to me," the Russian hissed, his foot tapping an angry staccato pattern on the pavement.

"Oh, lighten up, Illya," Solo replied, smiling. "This one will even appeal to you, I think. And at any rate, we must be off. We, or rather, I, have a meeting with the charming Vanessa Allende in at seven o'clock sharp."

Illya eyed his friend's formal wear. "Were you planning something impressive?"

"Oh no, just expensive. Speaking of which, where's your tuxedo?"

"Oh, I must have missed that memo," Illya lied easily. "It's at the cleaner's at the moment."

"Solo sighed. "Well, there's nothing to be done. You'll have to rely on your smashing good looks to blend in." Illya looked at Napoleon sharply, but nothing came from the American agent's face but amiable blankness, a sure sign wheels were turning behind that ridiculous grin.

"If you think so," the Russian muttered, checking his watch. As they climbed into his car, he added, "Where is this meeting then?"

"The Bellas Hotel."

"The Bellas—Napoleon, that's downtown! We'll be late!" Illya growled. "I suppose you planned it this way. We might have to break a land-speed record or two."

Solo smiled his trademark lazy smile. "Oh, but I'm sure it will be fun."

"You're not the one driving the streets of New York in a European-manufactured car," Illya grumbled, but gunned the engine anyway.

As the agents entered the hotel, the first thing both noticed were the large number of waiters in attendance, all wearing improbably high and wide shoulder pads, surrounding the large, airy hall at which an upper-class party appeared to be taking place. "Somehow I have a feeling they didn't bother to get their concealed-carry permits," Napoleon murmured.

"We'd best tread carefully. What does this Vanessa look like?" Illya muttered back.

"Tall, blonde, blue eyes, in a red dress," Napoleon replied.

Illya closed his eyes in frustration. That description fit nearly half the women at this little soiree. He eyed the door longingly. How to trip and injure himself just badly enough that—

"Oh, Vanessa?" Napoleon interrupted. "Sorry. That's the contact who will take me to Vanessa. I have no idea what the woman herself looks like."

Illya threw up his hands in frustration. "So there is nothing for me to do, then?"

"Well—"

"Napoleon, if you need me, I will be sitting at the bar." The Russian stalked off moodily, leaving a bemused American and several interested women in his wake.

Exactly twenty minutes later, a woman fitting the contact's description approached his partner. Illya sized her up. On what he always referred to internally as the Napoleon Scale of Beauty, she was a perfect ten. Her face had an elegant cast, her body of a perfect shape, and her hair was coiffed in such a perfect style it seemed as if she had a team of hairdressers waiting just out of sight. Her dress, in addition, was of a classic older design that flattered a lovely hourglass-shaped figure. The Russian went back to his drink; leave it to Napoleon to find the beautiful contact. His generally turned out to be middle-aged thieves and cat burglars.

"Mr. Solo, I've been told to take you to Vanessa," the blonde smiled. "My name is Amy Turner."

"Well, you obviously know me, Amy," Solo said, turning the charm up a notch. "Can I get you a drink so we can blend in a little better?"

"You're welcome to get one for yourself, but I don't drink myself. It damages the figure."

Napoleon laughed appreciatively. "You are indeed too beautiful to ruin in that way. Let me go get a quick drink, and I'll meet you by the palm trees in three minutes."

"Excellent," Amy replied, smiling, and melted into the dancers. Napoleon shuddered slightly. Women as forward as that always frightened him slightly. There was no edge he had over them, no leverage to persuade. He wandered towards the bar, and slid into the seat next to Illya.

"Are you finished?" Illya asked caustically, "or do you need to take her to bed as well?"

Napoleon drew back, hurt. "That was a bit much," he retorted, though without any real heat. "I needed to establish contact."

"And I suppose ogling is a form of code now, then," Illya muttered, watching the level of vodka (Tovaritsch, neat. None of this fancy American nonsense.) drop yet again.

"What's bothering you tonight?" Now Napoleon was beginning to feel annoyed. Illya being irritated on missions involving helpless (or relatively helpless) females was commonplace. Illya being openly rude was another matter altogether.

Illya refused to look at him. "Nothing. I…I'm tired, that's all."

Napoleon headed towards the palm tree as nonchalantly as he could appear, holding his half-empty martini and smiling at all who made eye contact. Just as he reached the trees, Amy emerged from a room down the hallway leading away from the party and into the hotel. His breath caught in his throat; she had retouched her makeup, and was truly dazzling in the dim light from the dance floor. Her skin seemed to glow softly, and Napoleon wondered if he had accidentally worn a pair of rose-tinted glasses to the meeting. She smiled. "Come, Mr. Solo. Let me take you to Vanessa."

They made their way down a corridor, stopping once to listen for a guard, then climbed two flights of stairs. Amy said little, and Solo didn't want to disturb her. She was concentrating hard on something, and he had a feeling it wasn't him.

"Here we are," she said softly, and opened the door of a hotel room.

"But I thought I was—" His words withered and died as he saw what was in the room. A woman was suspended in ice, her eyes rolled back in her head, her fingers pressed flat against the glass walls. Her face had the most intense look of agony Solo had ever seen, and he had seen many in his time. She was either unconscious or dead, but which he was unable to determine. She certainly was not breathing.

"What…what happened?" he finally asked. "Why is…she like this?"

"She was our most important operative in the South American country of Monela. It's been a brutal dictatorship for almost thirty years now, but we thought she was safe." Amy shuddered. "We found her dying in the back of the extraction plane. Someone poisoned her with a derivative of strychnine."

"My God," muttered Napoleon. "She looks so—"

"Alive? She is, for the moment, suspended using the most cutting-edge of cryogenics technology. That's the reason for all this secrecy. We've put it out that she's dead to the media so that she'll be relatively safe. However, we have some important information on a data disk that she was unable to retrieve when we airlifted her out." Amy crossed her arms, and looked at Solo steadily. "I need you to do two things. One is to get that sulky Russian from the bar and ask him if he can reverse the damage done from the poison. He's the leading expert in strychnine poisoning in UNCLE, did you know that? And then the other thing is to find that data disk. It has information vital to the security of our organization and may be the key we need to destroy the dictatorship in place once and for all."

Napoleon nodded slowly. "I can understand everything about this mission but two factors. Would you mind explaining them?"

"I'm here to help."

"Good. First of all, why did this not come directly from Mr. Waverly? Why are you acting as the liaison? And secondly, Monela is on the no-go list for agents of UNCLE…ah, I think I see," Napoleon trailed off. "So this is more involved that I thought. Who else knows?"

Amy smiled crookedly. "The pilot and copilot died soon afterwards. I was her only contact in Monela, due to the situation there. And I'm sure Waverly knows what I ate for breakfast and when the milk in my refrigerator goes sour. But politics being what they are, I decided to keep it as far removed as I could from him. He's the best mission chief we've ever had, and I don't want him to disappear any time soon."

Napoleon nodded in sympathy. He'd done one too many re-extractions to pick up a stray Russian to have Waverly not notice, and somehow the great man was always looking the other way. "I'll go collect Illya then. He'll be able to give you an answer one way or another after a few minutes, and then we'll go disk-hunting."

"Be careful," Amy replied softly. "The reason I tracked you two down is because, besides Kuryakin's expertise with poison, the top pair of agents working together are you two. Individually, you both have your own personal strengths and weaknesses, but together you are unstoppable." She took a deep breath, and sighed a little, shakily. "I suppose that's why Kuryakin was upset, then?"

Napoleon looked at her, puzzled. "Upset about meeting you was what I thought. I have a…er, habit, of picking up girls at bars. He thought this was one of those times that I dragged him along for, I guess."

Amy laughed a little, and shook her head. "You really don't get it, Solo. That's fine; you'll figure it out soon enough, I'm sure." She motioned him towards the door. "Now go get him before he drinks the bartender out of Tovaritsch."