Little Favors, a man from uncle fanfic

Title: The "Little Favors" Affair

Author: Mary Catherine Marshall Man from UNCLE, mid-1960s

Series: Continuation of the 'Mother Superior Tales'

Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual situations)

Date: January 2007

Disclaimer: Napoleon, Illya, Waverly, & UNCLE belong to other folks with a great deal of money. I borrow them for fun and zero profit. Sue if you like, but I'm a poor country preacher...

The mid-morning post arrived in the lab and Illya's lab assistant, Shelly, sorted it, carrying a stack to Illya's lab and office.

"Hey, Illya! Mail's in," she called, her eyes sweeping the lab. She found him at his lab bench, bent over a microscope.

"Leave it on the desk, please," he said, his voice slurred.

"You okay?" she asked, heading toward him. The smell of alcohol, vodka, she figured, wafted toward her.

He glared at her. "I am fine! Leave the post!"

She stepped back. "You don't have to get all defensive, Illya, ya' know?" Pulling a large, buff colored envelope from the stack, she dropped it on the bench. "Better read this one. It's, like, stamped 'Immediate Action Required.'"

Illya snatched up the envelope and tore it open. Shelly retreated to his office and dropped the post on his desk.

"'Neposredstvennaya priostanovka? Sledstvennaya komissiya?" (Immediate suspension? Court of Inquiry?) Illya shouted, knocking a rack of test tubes to the floor. "Kogo ad Solo Napoleona dolzhno prikazat' etomu?" (Who is Napoleon Solo to order this?)

She didn't move. Though her command of Russian was laughable, Illya's voice told her that he was furious and she was scared. He crumpled the letter, stuffing it into his lab coat pocket, and stormed out of the lab.

Napoleon sat in the commissary facing the door, his half-eaten lunch lying rejected before him, nursing a cup of coffee. He frowned as Emerson entered.

Her face told the story. She was in a fury like none Napoleon had ever seen. Slamming her coffee cup on the table, she confronted him.

"What the hell are you trying to do, Napoleon?" she shouted, her voice carrying over the crowded room. "You're his partner, for chrissakes! He's always trusted you … implicitly … and you repay him like this?"

"Keep your voice down, Emerson," he growled. "I'm doing what's necessary to protect the Command."

"Protect the Command my ass! You're trying to protect your goddamn career!" she shouted, pounding the table, coffee spilling out of her cup. "You've betrayed him!"

"Sit down!" he growled, grabbing her arm and forcing her into a chair. His face was pure anger. "I'm not going into the field with him in this condition and neither is anyone else. I'm not going to let him kill or maim somebody just because he can't handle the pressure."

She pulled away and stood up. "You bastard! How can you do this to him? How many times has he saved your worthless ass? How many times, Napoleon?"

"Sit down and shut up or I'll deal with you, too!" Napoleon growled, making another grab for her. "Sit down!"

Illya exploded into the commissary waving the letter above his head. "Suspend me? Court of inquiry? Do not trouble yourself, Napoleon," he shouted, the smell of vodka filling the air. Nearby diners looked stunned. "I resign! Immediately!" He slammed the letter in front of Napoleon.

"Nikala," Emerson said, reaching for him. "Please! Don't do this! They'll sanction you!"

Illya's bloodshot eyes looked at her in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed her. "Nyet! I am sick of being treated like a slave! Sick of following his orders!" He waved an unsteady arm at Napoleon. "Sick of Solo. Sick of the Old Man. Sick of UNCLE!"

"Illya, you're drunk." Napoleon hissed, making a grab for his partner. "Sit down."

Illya laughed, swaying more than a little. He leaned over Napoleon and grinned. "You are a bastard! Liar! Judas!"

Emerson took his arm and tried to turn him toward the door. "Illya, come with me."

He shoved her away knocking her to the floor. He stood over her, glaring. "You … you betray me! Plotting with him!"

Napoleon grabbed Illya and forced him down cuffing his hands behind his back. "Don't make me hurt you, Illya," he growled.

Illya laughed. "Go ahead! Kill me! Save the Old Man the effort!"

Napoleon pulled him up and slammed him against the wall. "I ought to kill you, you sonofabitch!" Napoleon slugged him and Illya slipped quietly to the floor.

Napoleon frowned at the ache moving up his arm. He turned to Emerson. "Let me take you to medical."

She pulled away from him, pressing her palm to the bruise that was already forming on her cheek. "Don't touch me!" Kneeling next to Illya, she cradled his head in her arms. "Nikala! Nikala, please, look at me!" She glared at Napoleon. "Call medical!"

Napoleon shook his head. He grabbed Illya and slapped him. "Illya! Wake up!"

Illya moaned and opened his eyes. "Go to hell!"

Alexander Waverly glanced up, watching two Section 5 agents manhandle Illya Kuryakin into Interrogation. They dropped the slight, blond agent into a chair and fastened his arms behind his back.

"Dismissed," he ordered. The agents looked surprised. "Mr. Solo and I will handle this." Within a few minutes, Napoleon arrived. Illya gingerly shook his blond head and tried to focus his eyes. He settled on Napoleon.

"Bastard!" he spat, glaring at his partner.

"That will be enough, Mr. Kuryakin! You are fortunate that Mr. Solo didn't kill you." Illya turned his glare on his boss.

"I believe that you bear that responsibility," Illya said, his eyes cold and calculating. Waverly ignored him.

"Mr. Solo, I will be in my office." Waverly looked at Illya and shook his head sadly. "I regret placing my trust in you, Mr. Kuryakin." The door closed silently behind him.

Napoleon released Illya's wrists and watched as the seemingly unconcerned Russian rubbed his wrists. The senior agent paced the room. "You goddamn idiot!" he shouted, his agitation growing. "You have destroyed your career … your life!"

Illya snorted. "No, Napoleon," Illya growled, "you fear that I have destroyed your career!" He laughed derisively. "CEA Solo teamed with a defector! I am certain that the chiefs of Section 1 will be duly impressed." Napoleon backhanded him and Illya rolled to the floor, spitting blood.

"My career is safe, Kuryakin," Napoleon hissed. "It's your life that's hanging by a thread." He rubbed his fist. "Don't make me break it." Napoleon grabbed him and hauled him up slamming him into the wall. Illya gasped for breath and blood trickled from his nose. He waited until Napoleon came closer and spat blood on the hand stitched, Italian loafers. Napoleon backhanded him again and Illya fell on his side, unconscious.

He grabbed Illya and dumped him on the cot. "Wake up, you stupid Cossack!" Napoleon shook him hard. "You will tell me everything about your contact with Thrush and you'll do it now!"

Illya sputtered and cursed in Russian. He focused bleary eyes on Napoleon. "You, beat me? Torture me?" Illya asked contempt in his voice. "I have suffered worse at the hands of better men!" He rose unsteadily and moved away from Napoleon.

"Don't tempt me," Napoleon said, shoving the Russian against the wall and slamming his fist into Illya's gut. Illya fell heavily to his knees.

"Get up!" Napoleon ordered. "Now!" When Illya pitched forward, Napoleon hauled him to his feet and shoved him against the wall. "Who is your contact in Thrush? Who's your handler?"

Illya shook his head. "Nyet! I will never tell you." Illya grinned malevolently. "You … will not … break me!"

Napoleon released him and watched him slide to the floor. Illya groaned, bruises beginning to darken his face. Napoleon shoved his former partner into the chair and fastened the handcuffs. Illya rasped, his breaths coming in short bursts.

Napoleon slapped Illya hard. The blond head snapped back and Illya cried out. Blood dripped from his split lip. Napoleon struck at him again and Illya's head lolled against his chest.

Solo chuckled, grabbing Illya's hair. "I'm not finished with you." He released Illya's head and stepped back, surveying the damage. He waited a few seconds and then grabbed a metal pitcher, tossing ice water in Illya's face. He leaned against the metal desk and waited for Illya to come 'round.

"You're the Judas, Illya, not me! You're the one betraying everything we stand for. Everything I thought you stood for! You're the one betraying Mr. Waverly ... me, Em … and UNCLE." Napoleon straightened his tie.

"Tell me, Illya Nickovetch, what has Thrush offered you? What's so alluring that you'd leave one of the sexiest, smartest women I've ever known? What have they offered to make you abandon your children … Dimitri's children?"

Illya moaned softly and Napoleon walked behind him, wrapping his arm around Illya's neck, and pulling him off the chair. "It would have been better for you to put a bullet in Dimitri's head rather than let Thrush do it, don't you think?" he growled. "That's what you did, Illya. You let Thrush kill Dimitri the first time. Now, you're pulling the trigger all over again. You're murdering Dimitri a second time."

Illya gagged as Napoleon's arm tightened around his throat. "I meant what I said about 'knowing' Em, Illya." The Russian's eyes flew open and he fought. Napoleon chuckled. "You know me, Illya. A sexy, available, willing woman … she's a good lay."

"No!" he groaned, trying to avoid the next blow. "Liar!" Illya struggled for breath and managed to produce bloody bubbles. "Tovarisch …"

Napoleon leaned in enjoying the weakness of his partner. "Oh, so now we're back to 'tovarisch', uh? I tell you that I've fucked your woman and best you can do is beg?" Napoleon laughed. "You are one pathetic bastard, Kuryakin!"

Illya's hands slipped from the cuffs and he pressed a small dart against Napoleon's neck. Napoleon swayed a little and collapsed.

"You stupid bastard," Illya hissed, stepping over Napoleon's body. He took Napoleon's badge, liberated his gun, and ran for the stairway.

At the garage level, he found his own holster and gun, and changed into clothing that he had left that morning. He dropped Napoleon's gun on the discarded pile. Settling his holster he eased open the door to the garage and walked to his car. He was away in less than 3 minutes.

Emerson and Napoleon arrived at Waverly's office, Napoleon still a little off balance from being darted.

"Mr. Solo, I take it that you are in decent condition," Waverly said, watching his CEA rub his temples.

"I'm fine, sir."

"I believe that Mr. Kuryakin used his own concoction, one designed to avoid the typical post-dart headache." The Old Man's eyebrows converged. "Would you say that his formula is effective?" Emerson rolled her eyes.

"Sorry to interrupt this report on Illya's skills as a chemist, but what happens to him now?" Her eyes moved from man to man. "I just think it's time to include me … and Napoleon … in the rest of this little charade." Waverly's pipe waved in the air, dismissing Emerson's concerns. Napoleon cleared his throat.

"Illya and I worked this out … this whole thing." She touched her bruised cheek.

"Would have been nice to know that I had a central part of this little melodrama," she said, glaring at Napoleon. "Especially the part where I got popped in the face."

"If we might continue, Emie?" Waverly said, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

"Mr. Kuryakin is presently en route to a safe-house we have provided. If all goes as planned, he will make contact with Dr. Devon-Jones this evening."

"That's not what I meant, Alexander, and you know it," she said, pouring coffee for them.

"Ah, yes," Waverly said, taking the cup and saucer she offered. "It is now 3 p.m. After a thorough search of the building and surrounding areas, news of Mr. Kuryakin's defection, attack on you and Mr. Solo, and escape will be transmitted to the other UNCLE headquarters and offices."

"And you will officially sanction him," she said flatly.

Waverly nodded.

"How do we protect him from UNCLE?" Her eyes were dark with worry.

Waverly sipped his coffee and then reached for his pipe. "Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer will protect him until he departs with Dr. Devon-Jones. After that …" he spread his hands.

"Well, we do need to protect our investment, don't we?" Emerson asked, sarcastically, pacing the office.

Waverly frowned and harrumphed. "The Command does have a rather extensive investment in Mr. Kuryakin. It would not be prudent to risk his life unless absolutely necessary!"

"Keep a keen eye on our investment, Alexander," she said her voice sharp with sarcasm. Waverly, at a rare loss for words, watched her stalk out of his office.

Illya parked his car in a garage several blocks from the safe-house and fused the garage door. It clicked closed behind him, sealed from prying eyes. He took a circuitous route to the safe house.

Trudging up four flights, he groaned at every step. Head pounding and ribs protesting, he slipped the key into the lock and drew his UNCLE special as he slowly opened the door.

"What took you so long?" April asked, pouring two glasses of hot, strong tea.

"Escaping from UNCLE is not an easy task, even for one such as I." Illya smiled and instantly regretted it. His beaten face protested the movement. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he warmed his fingers against the glass.

"Raspberry jam," she noted, leaning against the counter. She laughed at his admission. "I'll make a note. Illya Kuryakin was challenged in his escape from UNCLE Headquarters-New York."

The bathroom door opened and Mark Slate appeared. "Hey, Illya, good to see you, mate!" He frowned at the bruises and cuts on the Russian's slender face. "Got a little rough, eh?"

"Napoleon felt compelled to protect Em from my drunken rage," Illya said, carefully moving his jaw. "And, we thought it prudent to make my interrogation seem believable. I had forgotten how thorough he can be."

"Sit," April said, "and I'll get you cleaned up. We don't want you looking all disreputable when you meet the good doctor."

"I am fine," he said, glancing around the efficiency apartment, not unlike the one he had before moving in with Emerson. The furniture was worn, but serviceable. Two bookshelves held a selection of his books and professional journals. A small table with two chairs sat near the Pullman kitchen. The Murphy bed was already made up. A chest of drawers stood near the bed.

"I said, 'sit'!" she ordered. Illya ignored her. "For your information, Kuryakin, I now out rank you. Sit!" Illya grimaced, but followed orders.

Half an hour later Illya was patched up and, in April's opinion, presentable. He looked just abused enough to be believable. He wandered around the small apartment stopping at the windows. Several people wandered the street, drinking from brown paper bags. Others sat on stoops, shouting at passing cars. No police officers walked the beat. No patrol cars. April and Mark watched, concern etched on their faces.

"Sorry we didn't find something more comfortable," April said, coming to stand beside him. "Mark suggested a penthouse apartment, and this one is on the top floor, but we figured that a spy out in the cold wouldn't have fancy digs."

"This will be more than sufficient," Illya said, appreciating the suggestion that this apartment might be called a 'penthouse'. "I assume that you are assigned to 'baby sit' me until I officially defect?" April nodded. "Where will you sleep?"

April laughed. "Well, we don't expect to do much sleeping, but I've got first watch." She patted the beat up sofa. "I'll just curl up like a contented cat. You'll never know I'm here."

Illya chuckled. "It is not necessary for you, either of you, to stay. I am capable of looking out for myself."

"Right-o, Gov," Mark said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "If anything happens to you we'll be shipped to the polar ice cap faster than you can say 'Bob's your uncle'!" The British agent grinned at his partner. "You know how April hates the cold."

"Mr. Waverly orders," April said, grinning at her partner. "We don't want you getting 'offed' by the good guys before the bad guys snatch you."

Mark grinned. "But, The Old Man's not who we're worried about, is he, luv?" April shook her head, matching Mark's grin. "It's Mother Superior we don't want to run foul of!"

"I fully understand," Illya said. "Em, for all of her theological training, does lack a certain quality of mercy, especially when she believes that I or the children are threatened." He sat on the couch and frowned. "April, I do not think that you will be comfortable. This is one massive lump."

"I've slept on rocks, in cells, out in the open, and with Mark," she said, bouncing on the sofa. "This is practically the Ritz."

"What about sleeping with me?" Mark asked a wounded expression on his handsome face.

"You kick like a mule!" she accused, sticking out her tongue.

"And you're a bed hog!" he retorted, pulling at her long, auburn pony tail.

"Enough!" Illya said, chuckling at the good natured bantering. "I hear more than enough sibling arguments at home!" His smile was haunted. "Now, please, allow me to unpack," Illya said, pointing to his jump bag.

Mark consulted his watch and glanced at April. "I am about to starve, luv. How about a little nosh?"

April agreed. "We'll bring something for you, Illya. Our treat!"

"Anything will be fine," Illya said, rising and taking his jump bag to the bed.

"Anything?" April asked, grinning at the admission.

"Napoleon says Illya will eat anything that doesn't eat him first," Mark said, opening the door. "We'll be back in an hour."

Napoleon paced the office.

"You are not pleased with the arrangements, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked, selecting a pipe.

Napoleon stopped short. "No, sir, I'm not. I wish there were some way of keeping track of Illya …"

Waverly shook his head, opening his humidor and packing the bowl of his pipe. "If Thrush detected any sort of homing device, Mr. Kuryakin would be in even greater jeopardy." He watched Napoleon resume his pacing. "Research and Development made every attempt to find some method of implanting a device small enough to go undetected, but they were unsuccessful. Thrush, as you know, will force Mr. Kuryakin to undergo a rigorous physical examination. We could not risk its discovery."

Napoleon nodded. "I understand, sir. Still …"

Waverly frowned. "Mr. Kuryakin is quite resourceful, would you not agree, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, sir, quite resourceful."

"You have implicit trust in his abilities as your Number 2, do you not?"

"Of course I do, sir," Napoleon said, trying to keep his mounting anger under control.

"Then do not concern yourself. Mr. Kuryakin is, as are all Section 2 agents, expendable." The Old Man set fire to the bowl of his pipe and puffed. "It would, however, be to the benefit of the Command for him to return unharmed."

Napoleon stared out at the East River and the lights of the city blinking on in the deepening twilight. "Consider our investment."

"Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, the blue-gray smoke from his pipe reminding Napoleon of a volcanic eruption.

"My apologies, sir," he said, watching rush hour traffic clog the streets below. "I am merely expressing concern for my partner."

"I would expect nothing less," Waverly said, careful to keep the tender feeling in his heart from showing. He glanced at his watch. "Would you care to join Emerson and me in dinner? Miss Blackstone will order from La Trattoria." He stood up and walked to the windows. "It would not do for me, or you, to leave headquarters at the moment, nor any time this evening under the circumstances."

Napoleon looked at his boss, recognizing the worry and concern that veiled the craggy face. "Thank you, sir. It would be my pleasure."

"Very good," Waverly said, turning toward his desk. "Perhaps you would care to invite Mrs. Solo to join us?"

"I will, sir, thank you."

Waverly picked up the phone. "6 p.m. sharp, Mr. Solo. Here."

Illya recognized the coded knock, disabled the UNCLE alarm system, and opened the door. April and Mark hustled in, each carrying bags of food.

"A little something to keep the hunger pangs at bay," she said, handing Illya a large chocolate milk shake. "With extra chocolate!"

Mark unpacked bags of burgers, cheeseburgers, fries, sodas, and fried pies. He grinned at Illya. "This stack belongs to us," he said, pointing to a small heap of food. "This belongs to you." Illya eyed a much larger mound and grinned.

"Good to know that my welfare is of prime consideration," Illya said, unwrapping a cheeseburger and taking a huge bite. He nodded his appreciation.

They ate in silence, each keeping their own thoughts. Illya popped the last French fry into his mouth and began clearing the wrappers. Mark grinned.

"You're quite good at tidying up, Illya," he said, watching Illya make quick work of the mess.

Illya grinned. "Good deal of practice," he said, stuffing the remains into the rubbish bin. "One need step on a stray toy or bit of food in the middle of the night only once. After that one is rather obsessive about such things."

April stood and stretched, her gaze circling the room. She noticed a silver picture frame on the night stand. It held a picture of the Kuryakin family, the only apparent reminder of what Illya was leaving behind.

"You'll take the photograph with you into Thrush?" she asked, her slender finger brushing the frame.

"Yes. Emerson suggests that it will do 'double-duty.'" He joined her and picked up the picture. "It will remind Thrush of what I have left behind in order to join them." He smiled at the picture. "And, it will remind me as well."

Mark cleared his throat, as much to rid himself of the lump that had quickly formed as to speak. "How about a cuppa?"

"I would enjoy that very much, Mark," Illya said, carefully returning the picture to its place and smiling at the young British agent.

"No prob," Mark said, grabbing the tea kettle and filling it with water. "This is about all that I can cook."

April rolled her eyes and laughed. "He speaks the god's honest truth!"

Illya glanced at his watch. "If you will pardon me, it is time that I make my initial contact." He took the phone on his lap and dialed a number.

"Innovative Propulsion Labs; how may I help you?" The voice was young and female.

"I wish to speak to Dr. Timothy Devon-Jones," Illya said, his accent thick.

"I'm sorry, sir. Dr. Devon-Jones is not available," the she said, sounding distinctly disinterested. "May I take a message?" Illya was certain that she wore too much eye makeup.

Illya paused. "I am Dr. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, a colleague of Dr. Devon-Jones," Illya explained, a distinct Cambridge accent coloring his voice. "He will wish to speak to me."

Illya heard a door open and close at the other end of the connection. "One moment please," she said, and he listened to a secondary, muffled, conversation. The connection snapped and Illya thought it had been severed.

"Illya Nickovetch!" Devon-Jones boomed. "How good to hear you!"

"Yes, doctor," Illya said, allowing his voice to soften. "It is very good to hear you."

"I must say this is rather odd, wouldn't you agree? UNCLE's number 2 agent making contact with one such as I."

Illya sighed. "I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with you, sir."

"I should, of course, inquire as to 'why' you wish to see me, but I shant. When?"

Illya smiled. "As soon as possible."

"What has brought this about, Illya Nickovetch?"

"I would prefer not to speak of this on an unsecured line, sir," Illya said, allowing a hint of nervousness to creep into his voice. "I am certain that you understand."

"Absolutely," Devon-Jones said, taking in the time. "It's about 7 p.m. I'll meet you at Reidel's. You know of Reidel's?"

"Yes, sir," Illya said, nodding to April and Mark. "Will 8 p.m. be convenient for you, sir?"

"8 p.m. it is, Illya," Devon-Jones said, nodding his head. "This is most, shall I say, curious. Very curious, my boy. We have a great deal to catch up on, yes?"

"Da, Dr. Devon-Jones," Illya agreed. "A great deal indeed."

Emerson toyed with what remained of her dinner. Normally she would have devoured the excellent Italian cuisine and welcomed dessert, but tonight everything tasted like ashes.

"You okay, Em?" Charlie asked, frowning at her friend.

"I'm fine," Emerson replied, pushing away her plate. She refilled her wine glass and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes.

Waverly, who seemed distracted, caught up with the conversation. "Emie, I'll have your car sent 'round," he said. "It has been a very long and trying day. I am sure that you would prefer to be with the children."

She opened her eyes and took in the look of concern on each face. "I'm fine," she said, pushing out of the chair and walking to the window. "It's time, Alexander. Make the call."

"I really do think that you should be at home, Emerson," he said, frowning at the glare she directed toward him. "Shall I make that an order?"

"Not necessary," she said, turning to face him. "Order it."

"Em, please," Napoleon said, quickly moving to her side, "it's not necessary for you to be here. You've got enough to deal with."

Her laugh was hollow. "I get it, Napasha. If I don't hear the sanction, then there is no sanction." She wheeled on him. "I don't dabble in denial, Napoleon. Can't afford it in this business."

Napoleon blanched and Waverly played with his dessert fork. "Em …"

"Save it, Napoleon. Alexander, make the goddamn call." She waited.

Waverly stood and shook his head. "I fail to see how hearing the order will be of assistance to you, Emie, but if that is what you wish …" His voice trailed off.

"That is what I wish, Alexander," she snapped, tugging her cigarettes out of her pocket. She accepted the offered light from Napoleon. "Thank you, Napasha." She looked into his dark brown eyes and offered a weak smile. "Please, don't worry. I am fine."

Alexander Waverly frowned and reached for the red phone.

Few cab's came to Illya's new neighborhood voluntarily, and he understood why. As dusk settled, new, aggressive sounds filled the street below his windows. Arguments raged, punches were exchanged, and gunshots rang out. The police didn't appear.

A cab, driven by Mark, and arrived at Reidel's at 7:45 p.m. "Stop at the corner, please," he said, paying the fare. He watched the cab drive away, trying to shake the feeling of being a barely moving target. He stepped into the shadowed doorway of a shuttered shop, his eyes taking in every window, every square inch of sidewalk, every passerby.

It was some consolation to know that April was somewhere in the vicinity, knowing that she watched his every move and was ready to back him up if need be. Yet, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, something he did not dare ignore.

His hooded blue eyes watched a taxi pull to the curb opposite Reidel's and a tall, thin man with a mane of wild white hair emerge. He has not changed at all, Illya thought, watching Devon-Jones weave his way through the light traffic.

"Illya Nickovetch! How good to see you again, my boy," Devon-Jones said, sweeping Illya into a bear hug and kissing both cheeks. He held the slight Russian at arms length. "You have not changed one bit. Still blond and skinny!" He frowned. "And much too serious!"

Illya smiled shyly. "Many things have changed, Dr. Devon-Jones," he said softly.

The doctor threw his arm around Illya's shoulder. "If memory serves, you never turn down the opportunity for food. Let's get you something to eat … some vodka … and we shall speak of many things." Devon-Scott maneuvered Illya to the door.

Illya chose a booth at the back of the café and Devon-Jones smiled. "They have trained you well, Illya."

"Yes, sir," Illya said, slipping into the leather seat. They ordered drinks and spent time with the menu. The waiter delivered their drinks, took the order, and faded into the crowd.

Devon-Jones frowned at the cuts and bruises on Illya's face. "What happen, Illya?" Illya shook his head.

"Departing UNCLE was … difficult."

Devon-Jones chuckled. "Ever the master of the understatement, my boy." He sipped his drink and gave Illya a serious look. "I take it that you are as aware of my affiliation as I am of yours," Devon-Jones said. "What has happened that brings you to me?" Devon-Jones asked, his voice friendly but cautious.

Illya shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the crowded room. He toyed with his glass, making a wet spiral on the table top. "I was KGB owned while at Cambridge." Devon-Jones' looked surprised. "Later, UNCLE made contact with my handlers and I was 'recruited'. My initial posting was the London office, primarily in the labs, and I transferred to New York," Illya paused, again looking over the room. "My assignment to UNCLE New York is not what I expected."

"What did you expect, Illya; that the KGB would send you to UNCLE, no strings attached?"

"No, sir. My assignment was not as a double agent," Illya said, his eyes nervously darting around the room. "I was promised work in the labs, primarily in Research and Development, with time to pursue my own research interests." The young blond looked up, his eyes reflecting his disappointment. "Not long after I arrived in New York I was assigned to Section 2 as an enforcement agent with a secondary appointment to R&D."

"You completed UNCLE Survival School and that on top of training by the KGB. Really, what else could you expect?" Devon-Jones expression was one of resignation. He smiled. "Being assigned to Section 2 chafes, does it?"

Illya nodded not surprised by the depth of information Devon-Jones possessed. "I am first and foremost a scientist. I was told that Survival School would increase my usefulness to the Command, and it has." He paused, pain and disappointment in his voice. "But not for me."

Devon-Jones thought for a moment. "You have been with UNCLE for some time. If you are so displeased with the organization, why did you stay? I'm quite certain that the Soviet would have welcomed you home."

Illya gulped his vodka and laughed ruefully. "I can not go back and, even if it were possible, the KGB, the GRU, the Politburo would sanction me." He drew a ragged breath and wiped at his face. "I am good at what I do, both in the labs and in the field, but I am not respected. UNCLE has betrayed me."

"You have a family, Illya Nickovetch," Devon-Jones said, watching Illya's face for a reaction. "Surely they have not betrayed you."

Illya signaled for a refill of his drink. "I have children. I had a wife. The last two years have been … difficult." He told of finding Dimitri and his nieces, bringing them to the States, and of Dimitri's death. "I am betrayed by everyone. Everyone."

"Your wife betrayed you?" Devon-Jones asked, shaking his head in dismay.

"She slept with my partner," Illya said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I have left UNCLE."

Devon-Jones' bushy, white eyebrows shot up at the confession. "So we have heard."

"I am sick to death of taking orders from Waverly, of doing scut work for Solo, of not having enough time for my real work in the labs," Illya said, venom oozing from his words. "I am sick to death of answering to a wife who is unfaithful to me. I am sick to death of being responsible for children."

The elderly doctor quirked an eyebrow. "What do you want of me, Illya Nickovetch?"

Illya's eyes shown with bitter cold ruthlessness. Devon-Jones shuddered.

"Bring me into Thrush."

"You expect me to believe that you are defecting because your wife has been unfaithful to you, because you are unappreciated?" Devon-Jones shook his head. "I have never known you to be impetuous, Illya, and this is the height of impetuousness."

"You do not believe me?" Illya growled, his hand opening his jacket, displaying his UNCLE Special. He downed the shot of vodka in one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It is of no concern to you why I left UNCLE." He laughed, his eyes glowing with what Devon-Jones thought must be madness.

"I find it an implausible tale," Devon-Jones said, physically withdrawing from his former student.

Illya leaned toward the old man. "I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Section 2, Number 2. UNCLE North American Headquarters. My knowledge of UNCLE is intact. I escaped before information could be 'erased'. What I know about UNCLE is priceless, especially to Thrush." Illya grasped the professor's wrist, causing the man to flinch. "I offer you UNCLE and you find me implausible?" He grinned malevolently and Devon-Jones cringed.

"Thrush, as they say, promotes from inside the organization, Dr. Devon-Jones," Illya said, increasing the pressure on the professor's wrist. "Bring me into Thrush and I will make you a member of the Council before the new year."

Devon-Jones wrenched his arm away, rubbing his wrist. "You are mad, Kuryakin!" he said, trying to quell his rising fear.

"As a hatter," Illya laughed. He leaned closer. "You know that I speak the truth. You know that Thrush will reward you … richly … for bringing me in from the cold."

"I have no desire to join the Council," Devon-Jones said, surprised at his own words.

Illya's eyes grew even harder. "Perhaps that is true, professor. Perhaps it is not. I doubt, however, that you would refuse an offer of even greater funding for your project."

Devon-Jones blanched. "What do you know of my project?"

Illya signaled the waiter and a bottle of frozen vodka was delivered. He poured two shots. "I will be invaluable to you on that front as well." He pushed the brimming shot glass toward the professor and lifted his own. "Shall we celebrate our new association, professor?"

Devon-Jones swallowed hard, excitement building in his chest. He is mad! he thought, but brilliant. Thrush will provide all that I ask and more. His eyes gleamed at the thought of possessing such a powerful device, something that would thrust him into the highest echelons of the scientific community. I will command nations and armies!

Devon-Jones lifted his glass. "How will I contact you, tovarisch?"

Avarice, Illya thought, downing his drink. Never fails.

Devon-Jones phoned two days later at 6 p.m. "I will collect you at 8 p.m.," the professor said. "Meet me at the tennis courts in Central Park."

"8 p.m. at the tennis courts," Illya repeated and rang off. April frowned.

"It's November, Illya! Are you supposed to pose as an ardent tennis bum?" she asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "You'll be exposed and there's no way Mark and I can protect you."

"I will be fine, April," Illya said, slipping the photograph into his jump bag.

"Illya," she said, and then shrugged. "Don't go all Russian on me."

He smiled one of those rare smiles and April understood, again, why women adored him and wondered how Emerson had won him. "I trust that you and Mark will do your best to protect me. I am not concerned." He pulled out his UNCLE ID and communicator and removed his holster and UNCLE Special. "You will return these for me, please?"

She took the items and sighed heavily. "Illya …"

"You will want to contact Mark and inform him of the location," he said, tugging on his leather jacket. "Good bye, April."

"Take care, Illya," she said her voice breaking as she watched the door close behind him.

He arrived and slipped into the shadows of the portico of the tennis courts, cursing himself for failing to wear a hat. He pulled the collar of his jacket around his ears and pushed his gloved hands deep into his pockets. It was bitterly cold.

Not as cold as Moscow in January, he reminded himself, stomping his feet that were already going numb. He checked his watch. 7:45 p.m.

He glanced around trying to find some sign of April or Mark, but saw nothing except the wide, empty expanses of snow covered tennis courts.

Why would you expect to see them, Illya Nickovetch, he mused, shaking his head. He pushed his toes under his bag hoping for some shelter or warmth.

A black sedan pulled to the curb and the rear passenger door swung open. "Come, Illya Nickovetch," Devon-Jones said, his long, thin fingers beckoning.

Illya estimated the distance from the portico at about 20 yards, every inch of it exposed. He grabbed his bag and stepped into the weak light of the street lamps.

As he reached the car gun fire erupted.

Sound. The click of high heels on tile.

Touch. Soft fingertips massaging his temples.

Taste. Metallic. Tinny. Blood.

Smell. Medicinal. Alcohol. Hospital. Channel No. 5.

Sight. Angelique!

"Illya Nickovetch," she said, smiling a rather feral smile.

"Angelique." He closed his eyes.

"Yes, my dour, little Russian."

"Why are you here?" He moved experimentally, pleased to find that only his head pounded.

"I was about to ask you the same question," she said, perching one perfectly rounded hip on his bed. The soft whisper of silk stockings came to his ear.

"I have defected," he answered, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

"So I've heard," she said, brushing a stray lock of blond hair from his forehead. "You know, darling, women would kill for your color, don't you?"

He frowned. "It has never crossed my mind." His fingers investigated his skull, seeking the root cause of his pain. She playfully slapped at his hand away.

"Nyet, nyet, darling," she said, a pouty frown crossing her perfectly made-up face. "You ran afoul of a bullet, fired by one of your own."

"Sanction," he mumbled, finding a neat row of sutures on the side of his head.

Angelique chuckled. "Someone was rather determined to assassinate you. Fortunately, for you and for Thrush, they failed in the attempt."

"Dr. Devon-Jones?"

"He's fine, fussing around the building worried sick about his wunderkind," she stood and smoothed her black wool skirt. "He's very eager to have you join his little research project."

"As am I," Illya said, rolling on his side and immediately regretting the move. A moan escaped his lips.

"Poor darling," Angelique said, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. "You have a moderate concussion, or so the doctor reports. You must lie still."

"I would like to speak to Dr. Devon-Jones," Illya said, closing his eyes and forcing his gut to stay put.

Angelique shook her blonde bombshell head and smiled. "Not until you and I have spent some time together."

"You and I?"

"Now, Illya Nickovetch," she said, her voice a purr, "we have much to discuss."

"Interrogation."

"Oh, nothing so common as that," she said, her heels clicking annoyingly on the tile. "You and I and Thrush shall converse like civilized human beings."

"I believe that the use of the words 'Thrush' and 'civilized' in the same sentence equates to an oxymoron." He grimaced at the very small man equipped with a very large hammer trying to escape from his skull.

"You're in pain, Illyusha," she said, frowning at the Russian. "I'll have something for you shortly."

"I bet you will," he said, hoping the little man with the hammer would begin making better progress.

A needle pricked his shoulder, he winced, and his eyes flew open. "What was that?"

"Morphine, darling," she said, "can't have our favorite former UNCLE agent in pain now, can we?"

Sleep overtook him and the little man in his skull went elsewhere.

Two days later Angelique arrived with a wheelchair.

"Illyusha, it's time for our conversation," she said, her smile as blinding as her blonde hair. She helped him on with his robe and wheeled him away.

"It is not advisable to give drugs to patients with a head injury," he said as they waited for the elevator.

"Of course you would know that, Illyusha," she said, pushing a button and leaning over him, displaying her rather impressive cleavage. She kissed his forehead and toyed with his hair. "You really are quite attractive, even if you are petulant and pouty."

"I am not petulant," he grumbled. "And I do not pout."

"It's just that delightful Russian personality," she said, pushing him down a narrow hallway. "You are too serious, Illyusha. Perhaps I will help you lighten up."

"You mistake me for Napoleon," he said, the smallest of grins on his face.

"I would never mistake you for Napoleon," she said, helping him get settled in a brown leather recliner. "Now then, Illyusha, shall we begin?"

"I would rather not," he said, watching her turn to a low, stainless steel procedure table and select a syringe. She expertly filled it with an orange fluid and tied off his arm. Practiced fingers probed the inside of his elbow and then flicked the vein until it stood at attention.

"You have very good veins, Illyusha," she said, inserting the needle catheter and released the tourniquet. The drug flowed into his body. "We'll wait a few minutes while you get comfortable."

Almost immediately, his mouth went dry and his vision blurred. "I defected, Angelique," he slurred. "I see no reason for interrogation."

She pulled a chair near to him and took his hand. "This is not an interrogation, Illyusha. Just a simple conversation between … friends."

"Friends," he repeated lazily. "Tovarisch."

"Da, Illyusha. Tovarisch." She smiled and loaded another syringe. "Can you hear me, Illyusha?"

"Da."

"Good. I want you to answer my questions truthfully. Do you understand?"

"Da."

"What is your name?"

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

"Good. Where were you born?"

"The Ukraine. The Soviet Union."

"Do you love your wife, Illyusha?"

"Nyet."

"You do not love your wife, Illyusha? Why is that?"

"Betrayed me. Unfaithful."

Angelique's well shaped eyebrow shot up and a feral grin graced her blood red lips. "With whom, Illyusha?"

"Napoleon." Illya grimaced. "With my partner."

"Do you hate Napoleon?"

"Da."

"He does not respect you, does he? Treats you like a subordinate? Orders you to risk your life while he romances the ladies … even your wife?"

"Bastard."

She chuckled

"Perhaps I will give you the chance to exact some recompense, Illyusha. Would you enjoy that?"

"Recompense?" He frowned and licked his dry lips.

"Later, Illyusha," she said, injecting a second drug. "Now, I want you to tell me the names and addresses of all of the Section 2 agents in the New York office, please."

"Alphabetical order?"

She chuckled. "That will do nicely." She clipped the microphone to his robe. "You may begin, Illyusha."

"Michael Aaron, 4375 Lexington, Apartment 112. Christine Abernathy, 98201 Cleaver. Vincent Andretti, 99879 Westmoreland. Charles Bates …"

She listened as he recited nearly 30 names and addresses. "Very good, Illyusha. That is enough for this morning. This afternoon we will speak of other things. Do you understand?"

"Da. Other things."

Angelique repeated the procedure and injected the second syringe. "You will wake shortly, Illyusha. We will have lunch and go for a walk. Would you like that?"

"Da. Very much."

Angelique returned from her walk with Illya and reported to her boss.

"You have completed the interrogation, Angelique?" Doiron Madchak asked, admiring the well-built blonde who sat opposite his desk, one long, shapely leg crossed over the other.

Angelique retrieved a cigarette from her purse and leaned toward Madchak, inviting him to offer a light. She drew deeply on the cigarette and smiled.

"Illya is very compliant, Doiron," she said, tilting her pretty face. "The tape recording of our conversation is being transcribed. I think you will be very pleased with the results."

Madchak glared at her. "It had better be brilliant, Angelique," he huffed. "I don't like having him this close to something so important. If you're wrong about him … if he's a plant … then I promise you, mine won't be the only head on a pike pole."

Angelique pouted. "My darling Madchak," she said, her voice a purr, "you worry too awfully much. I used our best drugs on Illya. No matter what his original plan might have been, it's changed. Illya Kuryakin is ours, lock, stock, and barrel."

"What have you done?" Madchak's voice was tinged with fear and awe. Angelique was well known for her interrogation techniques, for her work in developing new and potent drugs, and for her willingness to use them no matter the cost.

"Nothing, darling," she said, glancing at him through her thick black lashes. "I've merely convinced our dour, little Russian that Thrush is all he has. His wife doesn't want him. His children don't want him. Nor his partner, nor UNCLE. He's ours."

"You drugged him, of course."

"Of course, Doiron. Illya Kuryakin is one of the best UNCLE has. His base conditioning is beyond anything Thrush has managed to break … until now." She stood and walked to the windows overlooking the small park. "While I don't know what UNCLE used to prepare him, I do know that I've managed to change the scope and direction of his assignment." She turned to face her boss.

"I will, of course, need to keep careful watch over him. I suppose you could call it 'maintenance' to keep him on track." She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Doiron, I want you to assign me to Dr. Devon-Jones' facility. Put me in charge of security … or something. I want unlimited access to Illya. You can, and will, order it."

"I do not take orders from you, Angelique," he said, resting his hands on hers. Her arms shifted, tightened around his neck.

"I asked nicely, Doiron," she whispered. "Assign me to the facility … or I shall be forced to take other measures."

He choked and sputtered, tears coming to his eyes. "Of course, Angelique," he wheezed. "I was but toying with you."

She loosened her grip but did not move away. "I was not toying with you, Doiron. You would do well to remember that."

Emerson jolted awake. She glanced at the alarm clock and rubbed her eyes. Jesus H. Christ! 6 a.m.!

The sounds of an argument invaded from the hallway. She crawled out of bed, grabbed her robe, and found her slippers. I don't know what the hell is going on, but I'd better see arterial blood when I open that door!

"No! It's mine and you can't wear it!" Anushka grabbed the robin's egg blue hair ribbon and slapped Tasha's hand. Hard.

Cav arrived on the scene grabbing Anushka's hand before she struck again.

"Anushka! What's gotten into you?" Cav asked, holding the little girl at arms length. She shot Emerson a glance.

"Nothing," Anushka answered, glaring at her sister.

Emerson frowned kneeling next to Tasha and examining her quickly reddening hand. "What's the problem?"

Anushka turned her glare on Emerson and pointed an accusing finger at Tasha. "She stole my hair ribbon."

"I did not!" the younger sister retorted.

"YES, YOU DID!"

"Stop it!" Emerson snapped, running her fingers through her hair.

"Tasha, perhaps if you asked to borrow the hair ribbon Anushka might agree," Emerson suggested, kissing the red mark spreading across the top of her hand.

"I did ask, Mama," Tasha said, returning her sister's glare.

"But you didn't wait for me to answer, did you?" Anushka said her eyes hard. "No! You just took it … like you take everything else!"

Tears spilled from Tasha's eyes. "I'm sorry, Anushka." She turned to Emerson. "It never mattered before!" Emerson held the almost four-year-old close.

Cav rolled her eyes. "Anushka, I'm very disappointed …"

"I don't care!" Anushka ran down the hall to the room she shared with her sister. The door slammed.

"I was sort of hoping that we'd have about six years of grace before we started with the adolescent tantrums," Emerson said, sighing at the turn of events. "Okay, you take Tasha and I'll take Anushka." Cav nodded and headed off to make breakfast.

Emerson knocked at the door. "Anushka, may I come in?"

"Go away."

"I'm not going away so you might as well let me in." Sounds of snuffling filtered through the door. "Come on, Anushka. We need to talk."

"Come in," Anushka said, opening the door just a crack. She threw herself on her bed and sobbed. "I hate Tasha!"

Emerson stood at the foot of the double bed that the sisters' shared and rubbed her face. She was feeling very, very old at the moment. Anushka's shoulders shook with every sob.

"Anushka, moya konfeta," (… my sweet) Emerson sat on the edge of the bed and rested her hand on the child's back. "I'm sorry that Tasha took your ribbon without permission, but you are not allowed to hit her."

"She's always taking my things," Anushka said, her voice muffled by the pillow.

"Come on, turn over, and let me look at you," Emerson said, tugging the child onto her back and grabbing a tissue. She carefully mopped away the tears and offered a fresh tissue. "Blow your nose and we'll talk." Anushka blew her nose and pushed herself up.

"She's a brat," she said, frowning at Emerson. "She always gets whatever she wants."

Emerson grinned. "I know that you're angry with Tasha, but she's not a brat."

"Yes she is!" Anushka said, tossing the used tissues into the trash basket and folding her arms in disgust.

"Okay, give me an example."

Anushka's face brightened at the thought of making her case. She slipped off the bed and began to pace, her hands folded behind her back. Emerson grinned in spite of herself. Must be a Kuryakin gene, she thought, seeing Illya in Anushka's every move.

"When she falls asleep on the couch, Papa carries her to bed. Every time! When she cries, Papa hurries to see what's wrong. Papa always tucks her in first. Always reads the story she wants to hear." She stopped and glared at Emerson, tears shining in her eyes. "And you always kiss her ouchies! Do you see?"

Emerson nodded and opened her arms. Anushka snuggled against her, tears falling freely. "I do, baby. You miss Papa very much and so do I, but he loves you both … adores you both … so very much." She brushed the damp blonde hair from Anushka's forehead and kissed her. "I happen to know that very often; Papa carries you to bed, too. And helps you with homework. And reads your favorite stories, too." Emerson tipped up the small face and smiled. "And, I kiss your ouchies, too. Yes?"

"Da," Anushka answered, tucking her head under Emerson's chin.

"You know, I don't have brothers or sisters. I'm guessing that it isn't easy being the oldest, is it?"

"Nyet," Anushka mumbled. "Two sisters and a brother, Mama!"

"You are an excellent big sister, Anushka. This is a hard time … for all of us, me included. We all miss Papa and sometimes we get frustrated," Emerson relaxed her embrace and Anushka wriggled around to face her. "But, and it's a big but, we can't hit each other, no matter how angry we are. We have to stick together and look out for each other the way Papa always does. Understand?"

Anushka wiped away a stray tear and nodded. Emerson was struck once again by how much she looked like Illya, huge blue eyes, blonde hair, and somber expression. She quelled the grin that threatened to break on her face.

"I am sorry, Mama. Please do not be angry with me," the little girl said, her blue eyes never wavering. "I will be more like Papa."

Emerson kissed her head and brushed her cheek. "Oh, baby, I don't want you to be 'more like Papa.' It's my job to be Mama around here. It's your job to be Anushka and that's a very big job." She smiled at the child. "I'm not angry, Anushka. I understand what happened and why, too. Papa has taught us to look after each other and that's what we have to do. I know that I can depend on you to do your part."

Anushka threw herself into Emerson's arms and hugged her fiercely. "I will, Mama. I promise!"

Emerson rocked her gently, grateful that Anushka was still small enough and willing, to be held. She knew that soon, too soon, that would change. "Wash your face and then talk to your sister. I think an apology is in order, don't you?"

Anushka's face darkened. "She hates me."

Emerson laughed, gently wiping Anushka's tear stained face. "Tasha doesn't hate you, baby. She's confused and hurt, but she doesn't hate you. Trust me on this." She opened the door and they walked toward the kitchen. "Apology, breakfast, and school. Sound like a plan?"

Anushka grinned. "Da, Mama."

After a tearful apology, an equally tearful acceptance, and hugs all around, they ate breakfast together. Cav herded the children off to school and Emerson poured another cup of coffee. She walked to the French doors and leaned her head against the cool glass.

Several inches of fresh snow blanketed the roof garden. The geraniums and pansies of summer lay crushed, brown, and forsaken. Memories of picnics with the children, dinner parties with friends, and private evenings over drinks drifted in her mind. December, Emerson thought. Nikala! God, how I miss you! How we all miss you! She sipped her coffee watching the steam cloud the window pane. She thought about Anushka and the increasing frequency of squabbles. You owe me big time, Kuryakin! When you get home, you can mediate all the sibling battles for a year!

Napoleon poured over Illya's decoded dispatches from Communications. While he was impressed with the reports he couldn't quite squelch the uneasiness that grew in his gut. Something wasn't quite right.

The CEA ticked off a mental list of possibilities. Illya was 'in from the cold' and Thrush was convinced of his defection. The implanted code worked perfectly. Napoleon remembered Julianna Hern's comment about Illya's giftedness with languages. He chuckled to himself, realizing that Illya 'spoke' the code with the same effortlessness that he displayed when he switched from Russian to English to Cantonese all in the same sentence.

Illya's cohorts in Research and Development were fascinated with the information he provided. Fascinated and convinced that Devon-Jones' would never develop an EHD that was usable. On the other hand, they admitted that the research project was progressing at a rapid pace under Illya's guidance.

So, what was the problem? Napoleon shook his head.

Solo stretched and tackled the latest dispatch again. He read the design synopsis several times, coming to the conclusion that whatever Illya was working on was way above his head. He gathered the reports and headed to the labs.

His progress was interrupted by his communicator.

Angelique arrived at Dr. Devon-Jones' small farm in the Adirondacks, her silver sports car spitting up cinders and ice chunks. A guard appeared immediately and helped her from the car. "See to my bags and tell me where I might find Dr. Devon-Jones."

Following the guards directions she jogged up the steps to the broad front porch of the Victorian farm house, smiling at the incongruity of it all. A farm … a top-of-the-line lab … and the most devastating propulsion device ever created.

She let herself in, hanging her full-length mink in the hall closet, and took a look around. The wide entry way was dominated by a broad staircase and narrow hallway that led to the back of the house. The sitting room, on her left, decorated in the Mission style, opening to a large dining room. A small study to her right gave silent testimony to the research being done at the installation. She helped herself to a drink and wandered down the hall to the large kitchen. A plate of fresh cookies sat on the table and the makings of lunch tickled her taste buds.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she inspected the second floor. Opening the first door on her left, she found the first of four suites, each with a sitting room, bedroom, bath, and tiny kitchen. She wondered which would be assigned to Illya, deciding that she would become his next-door neighbor.

She returned to the first floor just in time to see the guard struggle in with her bags. "Leave them in the study. I will be with Dr. Devon-Jones." Borrowing a heavy jacket from the closet, she went out the back door and walked to the tractor shed. The huge building was dark and it took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the low light. She walked to the back of the building, keyed in a security code, and waited for the elevator. Four levels down she entered a brightly lit hallway and stopped the first person she saw.

"Where might I find Dr. Devon-Jones?"

The homely lab tech gave her a disapproving look. "He's in the design lab. He doesn't want to be disturbed."

Angelique glared. "I'm the new chief of security, Angelique DuChein." The lab tech blanched and stepped aside.

Devon-Jones was busy. So busy, in fact, that he did not welcome his guest.

"I'm Angelique DuChein," she said, wandering the lab, taking stock of the materials on the lab benches.

Devon-Jones glanced up. "I did not request further personnel from Central," he said, returning to his tools. "Do not touch anything."

She leaned across the bench top, feral grin in place. "You didn't request me, Professor. I requested you."

"What do you want?"

"I'm your new chief of security, here to keep an eye on the Russian." She held up her carefully manicured hand to stay his complaint. "You didn't think, did you, that Central would allow Kuryakin free-rein of this project?"

"I know Illya Kuryakin and I believe … '

Angelique laughed in his face. "I care not one whit about what you believe, Professor. The spy business isn't about trusting people. The spy business is about testing them. That's my job here, to test Kuryakin, to make absolutely certain that he has turned." She toyed with a lit Bunsen burner, lighting her cigarette. "I will insure that he is completely within our camp."

"Miss DuChein," Devon-Jones said, waving cigarette smoke from his face, "Dr. Kuryakin contacted me, not the other way 'round. I have spoken with him several times and I find no reason to suspect that he is less than fully committed to this project, or to Thrush."

"How quaint, Professor," Angelique said, sarcasm thick in her voice. "Spoken like a true academic. By the time I finish with him your opinion will be supported by fact."

"What do you mean?" Devon-Jones asked a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Ah, my dear professor," she sneered, patting his hand. "I have already interrogated Mr. Kuryakin and I know exactly how to handle him." She turned on the megawatt smile. "You do your work and I will do mine. Your wunderkind will not be harmed. I promise."

Devon-Jones watched her voluptuous curves walk to the door.

"One more thing," she said, turning toward him, the warmth of her smile did nothing to melt the ice in her blue eyes. "I wish to be assigned the suite next to Mr. Kuryakin. You will make certain of that, won't you?"

The door closed behind her and Devon-Jones wondered, for the first time, about his involvement with Thrush.

Illya stood on the front porch of the farm house, jump bag in hand. He absentmindedly rubbed his head trying to fend off another headache. He was about to ring the bell when the door swung open.

"Welcome, Illya Nickovetch," Devon-Jones said, tugging his prize pupil into the entry way and taking his coat. "Leave your bag here; we'll deal with it later." Devon-Jones showed him into the dimly lit sitting room.

"Illyusha," Angelique said, rising from her chair, "how good to see you again." She walked toward him, her black leather pants and white silk blouse hugging every curve.

"Angelique," he said, frowning at her, "why are you here?"

"Is that any way to greet your new associate, Illyusha?" she purred, kissing his cheek. He withdrew.

"You are not my associate," he growled, walking around her and sitting on the sofa.

Angelique shrugged. "Cocktail?" she asked, standing at the bar. "Let me see … vodka, ice cold, and neat … right?"

Illya considered the pounding in his head and decided that a little vodka couldn't hurt. "Yes, thank you."

She perched on the sofa, offering his drink, her fingertips brushing his. "It is good to see you again, Illyusha. How is your head, darling?" She reached for his hair and he pulled away.

"My head is fine, thank you," he said, refusing to look at her, turning his attention to the fireplace.

"Must you always be so difficult, Illyusha?" she asked, petulance in her voice. "I thought that you and I might become friends, especially after I took such care with our conversation."

Illya quirked a rueful smile. "You make a point, Angelique," he said, sipping his drink. "The 'conversation' might have been much worse."

She smiled and leaned toward him, showing her cleavage to its best advantage. "I knew there was something else beneath that 'dour, little Russian' façade." She tinkled the ice in her Scotch and grinned. "I'm here to provide extra security … to protect you."

Illya chuckled. "Some how I do not feel more secure with that knowledge." He finished his drink leaving his glass on the coffee table. "How is the Americans say … 'leaving the wolf to watch the hen house'?"

"Fox, darling," she said, her hand reaching for his. "Allowing the fox to guard the hen house." She squeezed his hand. "Napasha is right; you have never learned to grasp American idioms. Rather charming."

Cook appeared at the door and called them to dinner. Illya stood, surprised to find the room spinning ever so slightly. Angelique took his arm, steadied him, and then walked to the dining room with him.

"Are you feeling ill?" she asked, her face filled with concern.

"No … I am fine," he answered, frowning at the increased pain in his head. He took his seat.

She brushed his temple with her lips. "Poor darling. You are over tired. I think I'll tuck you in right after dinner."

Illya groaned. "I doubt that, Angelique."

Emerson smiled as she read the latest decoded dispatches from Communications. After nearly a month with Devon-Jones, Illya managed to slip personal tidbits into his reports and it provided her some small solace.

'Dearest Em,' she read, 'I miss you and the children terribly. Please give them my love. At present, I divide my time between the labs and sifting through intercepted UNCLE Communiqués. Thrush finds my information addictive. The Professor is pleased with the progress we are making on the project. I must admit that I find it fascinating. YA l'ubl'u Vas, Em. Navsegda. (I love you, Em. Forever.) IK'

She read the dispatch again, rubbing her temple, feeling the tiny scar from her accident so many years previous. What's wrong, Em? she thought, her fingers tracing Illya's words. Something's not quite right. Something … She shook her head and reached for her coffee. "Get a grip, Emerson," she said aloud. "This is pure scientist Kuryakin. If you were expecting a Shakespeare sonnet, too bad."

Illya stood on the back porch of the farm house gazing at the snow covered hills. Cows mooed in the field nearest the large, typically red barn. Chickens huddled in their coop and the research project took shape beneath a tractor shed. He ran his hand through his hair, now lying over his collar.

"Quite bucolic, isn't it?" Devon-Jones said, his eyes sweeping the vista of low hills and fallow fields. "I bought this farm decades ago, thinking it would be my retirement home. Now, however, it has become the birthplace of the most important advance in the history of rocket science."

Illya nodded, sipping hot tea. "You have chosen well, professor," he said, listening as the cows hooves crunched through the frozen grasses, making their way to the barn. "No one would suspect this place."

"Not even UNCLE?"

Illya chuckled. "Least of all UNCLE."

"Glad to hear it," Devon-Jones said, patting the young man's shoulder. "Dr. Wellston tells me that you are making excellent progress."

Illya shrugged. "This is the most challenging research project I have ever undertaken. Fascinating."

"Thrush is very pleased, Illya, not only with what you're doing here, but with the copious information you continue to provide." Devon-Jones smiled. "You are invaluable."

"Thank you," Illya said, the small hairs on the back of neck demanding his attention.

"I must admit that, at first, I was suspicious of your motives. While I could understand your frustration with UNCLE and your partner, I found it difficult to believe that you would abandon your family."

Illya stiffened and turned to face his mentor and professor, his eyes cold. "You still harbor doubts?"

Devon-Jones glanced at his young protégé and shuddered. "No, Illya," he stammered. "You have completely proven yourself to me and, more importantly, to Thrush. I've noticed the photograph of your family. It underscores your devotion to this organization and this research."

Illya quirked a smile, his eyes hooded. "My children will one day understand my actions. If I am indeed fortunate, they will not only understand, but share my pride in the work I have undertaken." He turned away.

"Your wife, Illya," Devon-Jones prodded. "Perhaps, one day, she …"

Illya brushed past the professor, walking toward the kitchen door. "I have no wife."

Devon-Jones shivered, but not from the cold temperature. He hated to admit it, but Illya frightened him.

"Illya Nickovetch," he said, following him into the kitchen, "things change over time. I am merely concerned for your welfare, my boy." He offered a gentle smile. "You have a fine family. I can only imagine …"

Illya glared. "Do not concern yourself, professor. I will not speak of this again."

Devon-Jones shuddered again, and not from the temperature. The cold of Illya's glare reaching all the way to his arthritic bones.

Emerson listened to the chatter of her children filter down the hallway as they decorated their own small Christmas trees.

Later tonight, December 23, the apartment would fill with friends enjoying the finest food and drink, conversation and music. Communications had just reported that Mark and April were back from an assignment in New Delhi arriving just in time for the massive snow storm that made New York City look like it was sealed in a snow globe. Napoleon was already at home with Jack Ahern and Peter Wilson in tow.

She smiled up at the huge Douglas fir now glowing with hundreds of lights and ornaments. Remembering the first time Illya risked life and limb, teetering atop the ladder, to plant the traditional angel at the very top, tears stung her eyes. Not enough vodka, my dear, she thought, returning to her martini.

Mrs. Stein hummed The Dreidel Song as she checked the sideboard one last time. Emerson grinned at the quantity and quality of food. "You've out done yourself … again … Miriam," she said, reaching for canapé.

"Just enough, I think," Mrs. Stein said, touching a match to the candles. The older woman smiled at her employer and friend. "We will have a very special time tonight, Emie. It is good to be in the embrace of friends."

"Very good, Miriam. Thank you for all of this." Emerson glanced around the dining room. Silver candle sticks gleamed in the soft light, the damask table cloth flowed over the Duncan-Fife table like a snowy cloud. Place settings of fine china, flatware, and crystal and holiday flower arrangements completed the picture. "Just like Good Housekeeping only better!"

Miriam hugged the slender young woman and kissed her cheek. She pulled back and smiled, her gray eyes twinkling. "We will have a very special time tonight, yes?"

Emerson returned the smile. "Yes, Miriam. A very special time."

The doorbell rang and both women rolled their eyes at the thunder of the Kuryakin children racing to answer it. "Shall we rescue our guests?" Emerson asked.

Nicky pulled open the door while Emerson quickly keyed in the security code. Napoleon and Charlie with Tony tumbled into the entry hall. Jack carried toddler Liz. Pete brought up the rear.

"Ho, ho, ho," Jack said, clapping his partner on the back. "Santa's mates are here!" He handed Liz to Miriam, grabbed Emerson, and waltzed her under the mistletoe, planting a kiss on her cheek. "I've missed you, Mother."

She hugged the tall, Aboriginal Australian, and grinned. "Missed you, too." She turned to Peter and hugged him. "Good to see my alternate husband, too."

Peter blushed and kissed her cheek. "Good to be here, Em. Even if I have to travel with Jack-O."

The kids bestowed hugs and kisses, giving extra attention to Jack and Peter. "We haven't seen you in … ever so long!" Anushka said, allowing Peter to scoop her up and hug her.

Pete raised an eyebrow at Emerson. "'Ever so long'? Where'd she get that?"

Emerson laughed. "Little Women, darling. Anushka's quite the drama queen." She shook her head. "I live in terror of Anna Kareninia!"

Napoleon manned the bar, while Charlie played hostess and served canapés. Christmas music of every stripe played softly in the background and late arrivals were welcomed.

Emerson stood at the etched glass doors of the entry hall and smiled at her guests. Napoleon and Charlie, Pete and Jack, April and Mark, Alexander and Lina, Cav, Ellen, and Miriam, Allende Fraser, Joanna Fleming, Susie Zeitmann, and Hiro Kasaki from her office, Wanda Chou, Julianna Hern, Thom Sherrill, and their dates for the evening plus the six Kuryakin and Solo kids filled the large room with conversation and laughter. Nikala, she thought, you are here … in our friends … in their love for you and for us.

Dinner was beyond incredible. Roast turkey and chestnut dressing with fresh cranberry relish. Mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans with almond slivers in lemon butter sauce, baby carrots in a honey glace, candied sweet potatoes with marshmallows, and Lina Waverly's spinach and broccoli casserole.

Miriam hustled everyone to their chairs and beamed. "Don't fill up on all of this, now," she cautioned. "We've got dessert, too! Seven layer dark chocolate cake, pumpkin, cherry, and chocolate pies, apple dumplings and vanilla ice cream, and coffee." They all groaned in delight.

Emerson reached for Jack and Pete's hands and the circle was formed. "It is tradition in this household to give thanks," she smiled, cataloging the diversity gathered around her table. Every head bowed.

"Gracious God," she said, her voice soft across the large table, "your people gather this night celebrating your blessing of friendship. We give thanks for the good earth that has yielded its bounty. We give thanks for those that tend your creation, planting and harvesting and sharing. We give thanks for the hands that have so lovingly prepared this feast. We ask your blessing on this table, the family and friends gathered 'round it, and the love and friendship we share. Hold those whom we love safely in the hollow of your hand, watching over them and protecting them. In the name of the Prince of Peace we gather, Amen."

The nannies, Ellen Vincent and Cav, took the combined Kuryakin-Solo crew to the Solo apartment and left the adults in peace. They relaxed near a crackling fire, the tree glowing against the New York skyline. Stretched out on the couches and folded onto the floor the friends nibbled on desserts, sipped coffee, and drinks.

"How are you doing, Em?" Peter asked, joining her on the couch.

"It's been better, Pete," she said, closing her eyes. "And, not a hell of a lot worse."

"How long do you expect this assignment to last?"

"Too long."

Alexander Waverly cleared his voice. "I am sworn not to discuss business at social gatherings. I call it the Lina Encyclical." He smiled at Emerson, remembering her phrase for the blackout that covered all agent assignments; The Alexandrite Encyclical.

Lina Waverly chuckled and patted his hand. "I've had too many holiday gatherings ruined by what Alex calls 'business.' So, UNCLE is 'persona non grata' during holiday gatherings."

"Sorry, Auntie," Emerson said, leaning her head against Pete's shoulder. "Just slipped out."

Lina glanced at her husband. "Perhaps, Alexander, it's time for us to depart and leave these young people to their fun." Alexander Waverly nodded.

Emerson helped with hats, scarves, and coats. "Thank you for being here."

The older woman embraced her goddaughter. "We would never be anywhere else, Emie." She winked Alexander. "And, we'll be here bright and early Christmas morning. I happen to know that Santa will be visiting our home with some things for the children."

Emerson kissed Alexander's cheek, receiving a harrumph in reply. "You spoil them, both of you!"

"Balderdash," Alexander said, making a half-hearted attempt at gruffness. "Just a few small things from Father Christmas."

"For a Master Spy you're a lousy liar, Alexander," Emerson said, walking them to the elevator. "Take care going home."

Over the following hours, the group dwindled. Jack made a lunch date with Susie and Pete made one with Allende Fraser. Emerson refreshed drinks and found more snacks.

Finally, only Section 2 was represented. "So, the Old Man isn't allowed to talk shop, uh?" Jack asked, stretching his long legs on the couch.

"Lina tries to protect the holidays," Emerson said, folding onto the couch and taking a sip of her martini. "I remember spending Christmas with them when I was little and Uncle Alex would get called away. Auntie was furious!"

"How's the project going?" Pete asked, daring to bring up Illya's absence.

"I'm told, by reliable sources," she glanced at Napoleon, "that Illya is safe. Thrush trusts him, Devon-Jones adores him, and the project is progressing." She frowned into her glass. "But not fast enough for me."

"Nothing moves fast enough for you, Em," Pete said, settling in next to her. The small group grew quiet.

Pete stood up and stretched his long, lanky frame. "That piano get much use, Em?" he asked, nodding toward the Steinway baby grand.

"Illya plays and the kids take lessons," she answered. "Don't tell me, Peter. You're a secret concert pianist!"

"Nah," Jack said, grinning at his friend. "Too tall. The Royal Conservatory chucked him out on his ear."

Peter seated himself, adjusted the bench, and played a few scales for warm up. "Do you take requests? Shall I fetch a brandy snifter for tips?" Emerson asked, following Pete to the piano and leaning into the curve.

"What would you like to hear, Em?" Pete asked, his dark blue eyes reflecting the firelight.

""What Child Is This?" Emerson said, without thinking.

"Ah, Greensleeves," Pete said, his fingers moving effortlessly across the ivory keys. The traditional Christmas hymn took on new life, resonating and soaring in the huge room. Emerson smiled through her tears.

Pulling on a heavy sweater, Emerson opened the French doors and walked across the snowy roof garden. The sky was clear after the earlier storm, the stars as bright as diamonds against black velvet in a display at Tiffany's.

Lighting a cigarette she stood at the balustrade, looking across the brightly lit skyline of New York City, wonder where he was tonight.

"Merry Christmas, Nikala," she said, softly, her face turned toward the stars. "I miss you! Need you. Hunger for you. Want you. Never again will I let you leave me. Never."

Illya slipped the key into the lock and let himself into his rooms. Another 18-hour day in the labs had taken its toll. He showered, changed into his pajamas, and padded to the kitchenette. The freezer gave up its prize; a frozen bottle of Stoli.

He collapsed onto the couch and closed his eyes. Christmas Eve, Illya, he thought. I wonder who helped decorate the tree. I wonder who topped it with the angel. I wonder what Santa will bring. He opened his eyes and shook his head. "You were right, Illya Nickovetch," he said aloud. "You told Devon-Jones that you have no family, no wife. All you have is this research." He was silenced by a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he asked, his right hand automatically reaching for the gun that wasn't there.

"Happy Christmas, Illya," Angelique said. "I have a gift for you."

Illya grimaced, in no mood to entertain anyone, much less Angelique. "I do not wish to entertain."

"Illya, darling," she purred, "you won't have to entertain me. I'll stay only a few minutes. Please, open up!"

The door eased open and Angelique squeezed her well-rounded form into the small room. The Christmas red satin dress helped decrease the friction. She smiled, kissed his cheek, and pressed a box into his hands.

"A little something from Father Christmas," she said, making herself comfortable on the couch.

Illya dropped the package on the coffee table and returned to his drink. Angelique's pretty face adopted a deeply wounded expression.

"Illyusha, it is extremely bad form not to open a gift when it is given."

Illya glared at her. "I prefer to open my gifts on Christmas morning."

Angelique laughed. "You godless Communist! Christmas doesn't matter one wit to you, no matter what your wife does for a living." Illya's eyebrow shot up. "Oh, yes, my darling. I know all about the Reverend Cates. Go on, open it!"

Illya lifted the box onto his lap, considering for a moment that it might be a bomb. He mentally shook his head, deciding that Angelique would never sit this close if it were. He opened the carefully wrapped box and lifted out a bottle of Stoli.

"Thank you, Angelique," he said, sitting the bottle on the table.

"Sorry it isn't frozen, but that would have spoiled the surprise," she said, reaching for his hand. He quickly withdrew. "Please, Illya, don't be so difficult."

"I am not being difficult, Angelique," he said, his fingers finding the scar buried in his hair. "I am tired. While you are busy 'protecting' me, I am working 18 hour days in the lab."

She shook her blonde head. "Poor darling. All work and no play …"

"… makes Illya a research scientist," he finished, allowing a small grin. "May I offer you a drink?" he asked, thinking that a small concession would be permissible and might even suggest her immediate departure.

"You relax," she said, rising from the couch and heading to the kitchen, "I'll take care of it." She opened cabinets, found the tea, and put on the kettle. "All of these suites are identical," she said, noting Illya's questioning look. "That's how I know where things are."

Illya relaxed into the couch, the long hours, and cold vodka taking its toll. A short time later, Angelique set a tray laden with cups and the tea pot on the coffee table. She poured and offered Illya a cup.

"Merry Christmas, Illya," she said, smiling over the rim of her cup. "This is chamomile tea. It will relax you even more and make sleep delightful."

He sipped the sweetened brew and smiled. "My wife …" he stopped and frowned.

"Emerson?" Angelique asked, the concern in her voice not reflected in her eyes. "She prefers this blend, too?"

Illya frowned. "She uses it in debriefing sessions. Says it helps calm the nerves and open the mind."

Angelique smiled. "Too bad I shall never meet your wife, Illyusha. She sounds like my kind of woman."

Illya rubbed his temple. "I have no wife, Angelique." He stood up, swaying slightly. She reached to steady him.

"Are you all right, Illya?" she asked, frowning at him.

"I am tired, Angelique. See yourself out." He stumbled toward the bedroom, missing the feral grin on her face.

Dr. Elizabeth Charles frowned, flipping pages in the medical chart. She turned her frown on her patient.

"So, is this visit just to verify what you already know?"

Emerson rolled her eyes and flinched at the pain in her head. "I just want a second opinion. Not a lecture."

Charlie tapped the file. "You're due in July, providing you've counted correctly." She shook her head. "This was insanely poor planning on your part, Em. Of all the times to get yourself knocked up …" Emerson's glare silenced her.

"Not to mention the fact that your white blood cell count is way up. You're running a temp … 101.5. You're red blood cells are down … you're anemic." She glanced up, brushing a stray lock of dark, curly hair from her eyes. "You've been complaining of headaches to the point that Susie is worried about you. Joanna tells me that you're short-tempered and moody …"

"I get the point," Emerson said, pushing herself up on the exam table. The room tilted unnaturally.

"No, Em, you don't get the point," Charlie said, raising the head of the table and giving her friend a light push. "Jesus, Emerson! You're pregnant and you're exhausted."

"I'm not exhausted, Charlie," Emerson said, closing her eyes. "I'm tired."

Charlie laughed. "Semantics, Em? There's precious little difference between exhaustion and chronic tiredness." She scribbled notes in the file and sighed. "I want you on a daily iron supplement, eat three squares, limit your gym time, and get at least 8 hours of good rest a night."

"You talkin' to me?" Emerson asked a grin on her face. "I'm pregnant, Charlie, not sick. And, I eat plenty … ask Joanna. I'm not at the gym all that often and I sleep enough."

Charlie reopened the file. "Mrs. Stein tells me that you've missed dinner three times in the last week." The doctor frowned at her patient. "A sandwich does not constitute dinner, Em. Jason Winters, the gym manager, tells me that you've logged 20 hours in the last week … hand-to-hand, lap time in the pool, and strength training."

Emerson groaned.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, Em! Cav tells me that you're not sleeping well. She's caught you up past 2 a.m. more times than she can count. You're pregnant, Em. You've got to stop this."

"I've been pregnant before, Charlie. I delivered healthy twins, or have you forgotten?" Emerson dangled her legs over the side of the exam table. "Do you also know how many times I've taken a shit or a piss, Charlie? You've infiltrated my own household … spied on me!" Emerson shook her head and grinned. "You're in the wrong Section. You'd make one hell of a spy."

"Don't try and make nice with me, Em. We're all worried about you and with good reason. You keep this up and you will get yourself admitted."

"Am I free to go?" Emerson asked, slipping off the table and pausing to gain her balance.

Charlie sighed and offered a steadying hand. "Outstanding, Em. So tired you can't stand up without help! I can't keep you … I value my career too much." She ran her hand through her hair and closed the file. "I want you back here in a week and I'd better see improvement in your blood work, a few more pounds on the scale, and I want the dark circles under your eyes gone."

Emerson stood up carefully, reaching for her clothing. "I'll be a compliant patient, Dr. Charles," she said, offering a sweet smile. "Trust me."

"Trust you … do I look like a raving idiot?" Charlie said, returning the smile. She stopped at the door. "Want me to go with you when you tell the Old Man?"

Emerson pulled her black turtleneck sweater over her head. "I thought I'd wait a bit before I drop this bomb shell."

"Now I know which one of us is nuts," Charlie said, leaning against the door frame. "It's not like you can keep this a secret much longer."

Emerson made a nasty face. "I'll make an appointment, okay? I'll tell him before the week's out." She pulled on her trousers and pushed her feet into her shoes.

Charlie frowned. "Remember what I said, Em. Vitamins, regular meals, limit your gym time, and plenty of sleep." Charlie paused at the open door. "And, make an appointment with Dr. Schumann."

"I'll be a good girl, promise." Emerson crossed her heart.

Charlie shook her head. I am a raving idiot, she thought. In more ways than one.

Dr. Devon-Jones smiled, watching Illya working at the blackboard that ran the length of the research lab. His long blond hair caught in an impromptu pony tail. The lab team, notebooks open, pens at the ready, sat in a semi-circle.

"We know that below a certain operating voltage, EHD forces diminish abruptly to zero. The most important voltage parameter we are concerned with is known as the Corona Inception Voltage … the CIV." Illya glanced at his lab staff. "This is the voltage at which the corona is incepted and becomes visible to the naked eye … in the dark of course … as a thin glowing layer around the wire."

Illya turned to the blackboard again. "Once CIV is reached, the electric field at the surface of the wire is equal to Ei and the corona can be seen and remains visible up to a radial distance at which the voltage gradient goes down to the air breakdown field gradient E0, a constant equal to 3MV/m." His hand moved across the board, scribbling furiously.

"Now, when the inception voltage CIV is reached, the air surrounding the conductor will begin ionizing … ions journey towards the collector … and the EHD mechanism is triggered." The Russian brushed his blond hair out of his eyes and pushed up his black rimmed glasses.

"Therefore, the CIV can be calculated from Peek's equation: CIV m0 E0 d (1 + 0.0301 /Ö(drw) ) rw ln (d/rw) m0 Eirwln (d/rw) Volts." The chalk in his hand flew across the board. "Where E0 3E6 V/m Air breakdown field gradient at STP. Ei E0 d (1 + 0.0301 / Ö(drw) ) Corona Inception Voltage Gradient V/m. m0 The wire roughness factor: 1 for polished wires; 0.98 to 0.93 for roughened, dirty or weathered wires; 0.87 to 0.83 for cables; d air density factor 3.92 (barometric pressure in cm) / (273 + temperature in C) 1 at STP (76 cm pressure, 25 degrees C temperature); d distance between surfaces in m. and rw radius of wire in m."

Illya turned, noticing Devon-Jones presence. The Russian nodded to him and continued. "So, at E0 3E6V/m, STP (d1) and smooth wires (m01), Peek's equations can be simplified to: CIV 3E6 (1 + 0.0301 / Örw ) rw ln (d/rw) Eirwln (d/rw) in Volts. Ei 3E6 (1 + 0.0301 / Örw) ... hence, Ei depends only on physical wire radius. ro Ei/E0 rw rw (1 + 0.0301 / Örw). Questions?"

The lab team glanced at one another with a look that was either abject awe or abject confusion. "Uh, no sir, Dr. Kuryakin," a tech ventured.

"Good," Illya said, resting the chalk in the tray and wiping his hands on his lab coat leaving behind streaks of yellow chalk dust. "You have your assignments." The lab crew dispersed, shaking their heads.

"Well done, Dr. Kuryakin," Devon-Jones said, congratulating Illya. "Well done, in deed! The Biefeld–Brown Effect explained with the efficiency I recall from our Cambridge days."

Illya returned to the chalk board. "This is all well and good, professor," Illya said, his finger tracing the equation, "but it has not been proven in any but the smallest designs. What you propose may well be beyond our current capabilities."

"Ah, there's my pessimistic Russian," the professor laughed. "You have already started the second phase of our experiment and, knowing you, I expect results in a similarly efficient manner."

Illya shook his head, watching the professor disappear into his office. I shall endeavor, professor, to meet your expectations. His eyes, coupled with a smile, returned to the board. Yes. Meet and exceed your expectations.

He hadn't been this excited about his work in a very long time.

"Denis," Napoleon called, entering the office of Illya's chief research technician. He dropped the communiqués on the bench top and frowned. "What the hell does this mean? In English, please."

"What does 'what' mean?" Denis McMurphey, asked, not glancing up from his microscope.

Napoleon picked up the reports and waived them noisily. "These, Denis. What the hell is IK talking about?"

"Ah, now I understand," Denis said, a hearty laugh underscoring his Irish brogue. Horned rim glasses settled on his broad nose and he peered through the thick lenses at the latest dispatch. Instantly, the researcher was lost in the report, oblivious to his visitor.

"Denis?" Napoleon prompted, grinning at the over-grown Irishman. "Denis!"

The ginger haired head snapped up. "Sorry, Mr. Solo. Let's see … in English, uh?"

"Please," Napoleon said, remembering his high school physics lab partner, the lovely Lola, but not the course content.

Denis walked to the blackboard and cleared his throat. "The Electrohydrodynamic (EHD) thruster is a propulsion device based on ionic air propulsion. It works without moving parts, using only electrical energy with the goal of producing weapons which will actively seek out and destroy hostile missiles. It works on the premise of using electrical fields on neutral gasses to create energy. Hence, no moving parts." He sketched an odd looking device.

"And some mad Russian invented this?"

"Major Alexander de Seversky," Denis said, peering over his glasses. "Not mad at all. Brilliant."

"So, are there any idiot Russians?"

Denis chuckled. "None in our immediate circle, sir. De Seversky built what he called an Ionocraft in 1960. The basic components of an EHD thruster are two: an air ionizer and an ion accelerator." He scribbled two columns on the board. "See, the problem is that it takes a lot of electrical energy to make this thing work which results in less than 1 efficiency. Not exactly a good use of materials or energy."

"Understood," Napoleon said. "At least that last sentence. Dr. Devon-Jones is trying to make it more efficient?"

"Right. Hey, you understand this better than you think, Mr. Solo," Denis said, grinning at the CEA. "Okay, down to the nitty-gritty. The first stage consists of a powerful air ionizer which, when supplied by high voltage … in the kilovolt range … ionizes the intake air into ion clouds which flow into the second stage of the device." New sketches, no more familiar than the first, appeared on the board.

"Illya's working on finding a way to keep kilovolt or megavolt energy flowing to power this thing?"

"Sure. Without the megavolt energy, the second stage just sits there. Once you get the voltage up and keep it there, the ionized air moves on a straight path along the length of the accelerating unit. You can control ion cloud movement electronically, which increases the effective efficiency. The ions travel at a constant drift velocity and impact or collide with the neutral gases present in the accelerating unit. It's open to the atmosphere. Get it?" Denis grinned.

Napoleon rubbed his forehead. "If I say 'yes' will you believe me?"

Denis laughed. "No. You're familiar with Isaac Newton?"

Napoleon nodded. "Sure. The physics guy. Apples falling from trees and all that."

Denis rolled his eyes. "It's a start, Mr. Solo. Newton's Third Law of motion posits that every action is acted upon by an equal and opposite action." Napoleon nodded. "So, the thruster will be acted upon by an equal and opposite action to the total force exerted by the ions over the neutral air within the second stage."

"It just gets better and better," Napoleon said.

"Now then, the temperature, pressure, and gas constituents can be synthesized in the accelerating stage and thereby increase the efficiency of momentum transfer between the charged ions and the neutral air molecules"

"Synthesized. Accelerating. Efficiency. Momentum transfer," Napoleon said, the tone of his voice sounding like a mantra.

"Here's the kicker, Mr. Solo. The piece that makes this thing so important, providing that it works on a large scale," Denis said, his face flushed with excitement. "The charged ions are neutralized upon exiting the second stage. The electrical to mechanical conversion efficiency is equal to the ratio of the velocity of the neutral gas to that of the moving ions. In a single stage Ionocraft type EHD thruster this ratio is typically equal to 1 m/s:100 m/s or 1, which isn't very efficient."

Napoleon nodded. "I thought this was the kicker, Denis. 1 efficiency doesn't make this sound like a kicker to me."

"It isn't, Mr. Solo," Denis said, excited to his core. "This is the kicker. A well engineered EHD thruster can achieve a much higher degree of electrical to mechanical conversion efficiency with the correct design parameters. Indeed, very close to 100. The remaining losses would be mainly due to the air drag of the thruster physical structure. Size is critical. Now do you get it?"

Napoleon's eyes widened. "So, if our smart Russian gets the right design then Devon-Jones will have a thruster that works with no moving parts at 100 efficiency. A vast improvement over anything presently used by NASA and the military."

Denis glanced at Napoleon and frowned, rubbing his jaw. "This thing, if it works, could be bad news … in an odd sort of way."

"Odd?" Napoleon asked, toying with small black box on the bench top.

"Don't play with that, Mr. Solo," Denis said, not glancing up. "It's an exquisitely sensitive explosive device."

"Sorry," Napoleon said, carefully detaching his fingers from the small black box and pushing away. He folded his arms. "What's this 'bad news', Denis?"

He shrugged. "This thruster is like anything else, Mr. Solo, neutral until a decision is made for its use. In the right hands, it could be a deterrent to the use of nuclear weapons."

"And in the wrong hands?"

"It's plausible that it could be used to destroy what we euphemistically refer to as the 'balance of power'." The Irish researcher paused. "Balance, such as it is, is replaced by power alone. Their power."

"Doesn't sound so much different than what we have now," Napoleon said. "So, they develop these super thrusters and knock out our nuclear deterrent, right?

"In a sense it isn't," Denis said, erasing the blackboard. "EHD technology isn't designed to work using ground based rockets."

"Sorry to be so dense, Denis. Give me the CliffNotes version."

"It's designed to be used from space platforms … in this case, I'm thinking multiple platforms. EHD is vastly superior to anything we earthlings have … distance, power, efficiency … can't be beat. Currently, we've got rocket technology that sends guys into space, but we don't have what it takes to nail a solid object … an armed solid object like an EHD."

"They hold us hostage," Napoleon said, shaking his head.

"Oh, not just us, Mr. Solo," Denis said, dropping his pen. "The whole world."

Alexander Waverly relaxed, sipping a Scotch on the rocks, awaiting the arrival of the Chief of Section Seven. His mind wandered to the communiqués that Illya Kuryakin continued to send.

He smiled, thinking of Emerson's description of a nagging suspicion … 'having a rash'. Each successive report showed what Waverly interpreted as an increasing lack of distance between Kuryakin and the research project. His smile disappeared as he recalled his conversation with Dr. Ezra Simmons prior to the assignment. "He is too close, Alexander. I fear that he will loose perspective."

The door to his study opened silently and Emerson leaned against the door frame. "Good evening, Emie," he said, rising and walking to the credenza. "Please, make yourself comfortable. May I offer you a drink?"

She quietly kicked off her shoes and folded herself onto the large, leather couch. "Coffee, please. Black."

Waverly busied himself at the bar. "I received a report from Dr. Charles," he said, delivering her coffee. He adopted a fatherly attitude. "She is rather concerned for you."

Emerson grinned in spite of herself. "Apparently, my section staff and my household staff have conspired against me, Alexander," she said, sipping the strong, black brew. "Out of curiosity, what did Charlie tell you?"

He returned to his chair and folded his hands. "If I recall correctly," he said, his eyes seeking the ceiling, "you are not taking proper care of yourself. I believe she mentioned anemia, insufficient sleep, missed meals, and too much time in the gym."

"'If I recall correctly'," Emerson repeated, rolling her eyes. "Don't sandbag me, Alexander. I'm convinced that you memorize every memo that comes across you desk!"

"This is a prime example of my concerns regarding Section 2 agents," he said, frowning at her. "How are you tolerating this assignment?"

"The assignment? You mean, 'how am I tolerating having my husband deep under cover'?" She chuckled ruefully. "It's just peachy, Uncle Alex, and I've got one more thing to add to your concerns." Her dark blue eyes met his. "I'm pregnant."

Waverly shook his head. "I am not surprised. You have something of gift for complicating everything you touch."

"I can't bring myself to apologize for this, Alexander," she said, rising and stretching. "Give me your word that you won't tell him."

He took her hands and squeezed them lightly. "You have my word, Emie." He smiled at her remembering the little girl who had spent so much time with his family and wondering at how she had grown into this woman. "Would you consider taking some time away? Perhaps a visit to your friend in Florida?"

"Let me think about it," she said. "Keep a very close eye on him, Alexander. His dispatches have changed … at least I think they have. He's sending fewer and fewer personal messages and that concerns me." She shrugged, wrapping her arms around her body. "I'm getting a rash about this one and it's not driven by my raging hormones."

He nodded sagely. "A very close eye, Emie."

Battles between the children came more frequently in the months that followed. After several visits to school and a consultation with David Greene, a recommended child psychologist, Emerson remembered Waverly's suggested 'vacation' and decided this was as good a time as any. April in Florida could be quite nice.

"Auntie Charlie! We're going to Florida to visit Auntie Peg," Nicky said breathlessly, hugging her as she entered the apartment. "You come, too!"

Emerson laughed and disentangled the little blond boy from Charlie's legs. "You're pregnant, your husband is deep undercover, and you're considering an extended trip to Florida with six kids," Charlie said. "You are an insane genius!"

"And," Tia said, reaching up for a hug, "when we get home Nicky will have his own room. I don't have to share with him any more!" Nicky rolled his eyes.

Charlie looked at Emerson. "You're going away and allowing a bunch of workmen to tear this place apart?" She rolled her eyes imitating Nicky. "Forget what I said. You're just plain insane."

"He's almost three, Charlie. It's time the little darling had his own space," Emerson explained. "I'm adding a second floor. We'll have our guest rooms back, Mrs. Stein will have her own rooms, Cav will gain a sitting room, the kids will move upstairs, and Illya and I will have a little privacy down here."

"You cannot have 'privacy' with five kids, Em," Charlie laughed pointing at Emerson's belly. "I'm changing my diagnosis. You're not only crazy, you're delusional."

"Will you come to Florida with us, Auntie? It'll be fun!" Tasha enthused.

Emerson grinned. "Great idea, Charlie. You can't need a vacation any less than I do. Sun and surf, food and drink. What more could you ask?"

Charlie mirrored Emerson's grin. "Your friend is insane, too. You sure she's up to having six little kids come visit?"

"Plus four adults," Emerson said. "Okay, two responsible adults and the two of us. Really, Charlie, Peg won't care. We'll have the guest house. It's big enough for all of us … if we don't mind sharing rooms."

"Let me check in with my staff," Charlie said as Nicky jumped up and down with excitement. "From the looks of things the answer is a qualified 'yes'."

The doorbell rang. "Must be Marvin," Emerson said, checking the screen.

"Just delivered, Mrs. Kuryakin by special courier," Marvin said, handing over a large envelope marked "Eyes Only."

"Thanks," she said, closing the door and resetting the alarms. "Off to bed my little minions."

Moaning and groaning filled the large living room, but the four Kuryakin children followed Cav down the hall after promises of a bedtime story from Emerson.

The two friends settled on the couches listening to the sounds of protests from the bedrooms. "You gonna read that?" Charlie asked, pointing to the envelope.

Emerson grinned. "Are you cleared for 'Eyes Only' documents, Dr. Charles?"

Charlie laughed. "After some of the stuff I've heard in Medical I'm cleared for anything!"

Cav appeared, smiling at the two young women. "No need for a story, Em. Off to dreamland, all of 'em."

"Thanks, Cav. See you in the morning."

Emerson finished her martini and poured another. "A little liquid strength, Em?" Charlie asked, watching her friend slowly open the envelope.

"Self-medicating." She pulled a stack of reports from Communications from the envelope. "This is the next phase of our little charade."

"Emerson," Illya wrote. "I regret that I have missed so many important events with the children. Perhaps one day they will understand and accept what I have done. My work with Dr. Devon-Jones is very exciting and fulfilling. I am very pleased with the progress we are making.

She paused and sipped her drink, sneaking a glance at Charlie. "I don't like the sound of that," Charlie said.

"Neither do I." Emerson returned to the letter. "I have received a letter from your attorney regarding the dissolution of our marriage. I agree; it is at an end. I once loved you, Emerson, but I cannot forget how you betrayed me."

Charlie frowned. "'Betrayed?'" she asked. "What's that about?"

"Part of the drama that unfolded the day he 'escaped'," Emerson explained. "Napoleon 'interrogated' Illya and suggested to him that …" she paused. "Napoleon said that we had slept together."

Charlie's eyebrow shot up.

"We didn't … ever," Emerson said quickly. "The interrogation was filmed and it had to be believable. Napoleon tossed it in as one more tactic to 'break' Illya." She smiled at her friend. "Charlie, nothing has ever happened between Napoleon and me. Nothing. Ever. Period."

"This is too much, Em," Charlie said, shaking her head. "I can't believe that any of us ever thought this was workable."

Emerson's hand shook as set down her glass and read from the letter. "Draw up the necessary papers, and forward them to the post office box on the face of this envelope. I will sign them without question. Illya Nickovetch."

"Em!" Charlie gasped. "This 'little charade' as you call it doesn't sound like a charade at all. I think he's serious!"

Emerson frowned. "Alexander and I decided that we would have to do something to keep his cover intact." She ran her fingers through her hair and closed her eyes. "Thrush must be convinced that he has defected, that he's willing to leave everything and everyone behind." She shrugged. "This is the next logical step."

"He's in too deep, Em. He's loosing perspective."

"I don't want to believe that, Charlie." Emerson shook her head and her fingers worried the papers. "I have to believe that he's following the plan. This is just another part of the assignment."

"Denial," Charlie said, sipping her drink. "You're in too deep, too."

"Charlie …" Emerson paused, not trusting her voice to overcome the lump in her throat.

"Give me your communicator," Charlie ordered, switching effortlessly into her Chief of Medicine role. Emerson handed it over.

"Open Channel D. Alexander Waverly."

"Thank you for coming, Dr. McMurphey," Alexander Waverly said, nodding at the researcher. "Mr. Solo reports that Mr. Kuryakin appears to be making progress on developing a serviceable EHD. Your expert opinion is required."

"Compared to conventional propulsion systems the EHD described by Biefeld-Brown is extraordinary," Denis said, referring to Illya's most recent dispatches.

"Extraordinary," Waverly repeated, flipping through the briefing book.

"The thrust, expressed as (N) and power, expressed as (N/kW) for a conventional jet engine is N 2 105 and N/kW 4.0."

Waverly nodded. "Continue, Dr. McMurphey."

"A nuclear powered propulsion system is N 882103 and N/kW 0.22." Denis wondered if his Chief understood what this meant, but plowed on, not daring to ask. It was common knowledge that the Old Man possessed incredible knowledge in a variety of areas. "In the Biefeld-Brown propulsion system N 100 and N/kW 2.5."

"Quite extraordinary, Dr. McMurphey," Waverly said, tapping his pipe stem on the briefing book. "One cannot explain this phenomenon using conventional physics, correct?"

Denis swallowed hard. "No, sir. Mr. Kuryakin is experimenting with the introduction of a new gravitational field sign, a high potential electric field within the atom."

Waverly's eyes narrowed. "Is that possible, Dr. McMurphey?"

"We're talking physics here, sir."

"Understood, Dr. McMurphey." Waverly nodded. "This propulsion system could be employed in small vehicles delivered into outer space by some more conventional method, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Denis said, glancing at Napoleon who seemed to have glazed. "Once orbit is established and maintained they effectively create a platform of EHD powered rockets."

"What is the pace of Mr. Kuryakin's experiment?"

"I would suggest that Mr. Kuryakin is making admirable experimental progress." Denis looked at his hands and took a deep breath. "He's been working on this the past five months. At the present rate, I would expect an experimental device ready for testing within the next few months. Two at the least, four at most."

Waverly closed the briefing book. "My thanks to you, Dr. McMurphey, and to your staff in Research and Development. You will, of course, keep Mr. Solo apprised of the situation as well as this office."

Denis stood, recognizing dismissal when he heard it. "Yes, sir, on a daily basis. More often should the need arise."

Napoleon rose and walked to the windows. "My apologies, sir. Physics is not, never has been, my strong suit."

"Nor mine, Mr. Solo," Waverly replied, resting his pipe in an ashtray. "It seems that Mr. Kuryakin has taken to this research like the proverbial 'duck to water'." The Chief joined Napoleon at the windows. "Please summon Dr. Sherrill and Dr. Hern immediately."

Dr. Devon-Jones surveyed the latest prototype of his new propulsion device. He smiled and touched the machine with all the tenderness a mother bestows on her infant.

"She is beautiful, isn't she, Illya?" he asked, his eyes shining.

"Da, professor," Illya said, sharing his smile. "Very beautiful indeed."

The professor turned his attention to Illya and frowned. "You appear to be fatigued, Illyusha," he said. "I am working you too hard, my boy. Between the lab and your work with communications you aren't eating or sleeping properly." The professor nodded, agreeing with his argument. "I want you to rest, have dinner with me, and then we will work further on the documentation for the device."

"I am fine, professor," Illya said, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear and standing a little straighter, although he was nearing exhaustion.

"No, no, my boy," the professor said, taking Illya's arm and propelling him toward the door. "Rest. I will ring you later and then we shall drive into the village and break bread together."

Illya nodded and headed toward his rooms. How long, has it been Illya Nickovetch, since you actually saw the sun? How long since you gazed at the night sky?

"Months … too many months," he answered, frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was thin, gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes.

He dropped a jazz record on the turn table, poured a drink, and sifted through the mail. His eyes fell on a large buff envelope bearing the Thrush symbol and marked 'Eyes Only'. His fingers trembled as he tore open the envelope.

"Mr. Kuryakin," the letter read, "Pursuant to the laws of the State of New York regarding the dissolution of marriage you are here by notified that your wife, Emerson Myer Cates Kuryakin, has petitioned the courts requesting the legal dissolution of your marriage. Should you wish to contest this action, you are advised to seek legal counsel. Should you acquiesce to this petition, you are advised to review the proposed settlement agreement (property, real and personal, monetary holdings, and the custody of minor children), initial and sign in the appropriate places, and return it to this office from hence it will be filed with the court. Sincerely, Elias Mumphrey."

Illya collapsed onto the couch and read the bogus settlement agreement. Emerson would retain the penthouse apartment and its furnishings, return his personal property (clothing, car, furnishings, books, personal papers, etc.) to the address of his choosing, provide a financial settlement of $25,000 per year of their marriage (pro rated for the current year based on the actual date of the finalized divorce), and be granted full and permanent legal custody of their children, Anya, Natasha, Nicholas, and Tatianna. He would be required to pay one-half of the cost their education and provide a monthly stipend ($100 per child). Visitation privileges to be determined.

Elias must have loved this, he thought, imagining the red-faced attorney frowning when Emerson presented her settlement plans. He peered into the envelope and pulled out another smaller, envelope. The scent, Caleche, was pure Em.

"Illya," he read her distinctive handwriting, "I trust that you will find these documents in order and acceptable. As noted in the settlement agreement, all of your personal property will be returned to you. Please forward an address to Mr. Mumphrey as soon as possible. At the moment, I am not amenable to allowing the children to see you even if we could agree on a location. I am sure that you understand my concerns. Cates."

Illya left the documents scattered on the coffee table and stretched. His head pounded with a sudden headache and his vision dimmed.

What is happening to you? he wondered, rubbing his temples.

He stumbled into the bathroom, stripping as he went. His fingers shook as he tried to open the aspirin bottle shaking out three small, white tablets. The water from the tap was cold as he swallowed them down. Wetting a wash cloth, he mopped his face and neck, hoping to stem the tide rushing toward his throat.

Too much time in the lab. 18-hour days. Rest.

He collapsed on his bed, tugging the blankets over his chilled body. He fell asleep instantly, unaware of the blood seeping from his nose.

Peg met the rag-tag entourage at the airport, excited to see her friend and colleague again. "Em, you look … pregnant!"

"It's been an interesting year, Peg," Emerson said, turning to make introductions. "You remember Charlie. This is her son, Tony, and her daughter, Liz." The baby girl blinked in the bright sunshine. "This is Ellen Vincent, their nanny."

Peg's smile grew even larger. "Charlie! Good to see you again! Tony, you'll have a wonderful time at Aunt Peg's." The little boy tried to hide behind Charlie, while the baby reached for Peg. "Friendly. I like that!"

"The rest of them you know from the tons of pictures I've sent." Emerson laughed. "Anushka, Tasha, Nicky, and Tia, popularly known as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And this is Pat Cavanaugh, nanny extraordinaire."

They rounded up the kids, counting heads, and followed Peg to the van. "Are you hungry?" she asked, squeezing Nicky and Tony's hands. They nodded emphatically.

"McDonald's work for you guys?"

Nicky turned to Emerson. "McDonald's, Mama!" his voice filled with awe.

Emerson laughed at Peg's look of surprise. "Hey, don't give me that look! My kids go to McDonald's, just not very often."

"They try to order in Cantonese," Charlie commented, getting the kids settled.

Devon-Jones listened the infernal brring-brrring of the ringing telephone and slammed down the receiver. He pushed away from his desk and took the stairs two at a time owing to his long legs. He knocked at the door once, then twice, then three times.

"Illya Nickovetch!" he called sharply. "Illya! Open the door!"

Angelique opened her door. "What's wrong, professor?"

"I have no idea what you have done to him under the guise of 'protection', but I will have your head if you have compromised this research!" he shouted, glaring at the beautiful blonde.

She returned his glare. "You may thank me, Dr. Devon-Jones, for keeping your wunderkind in line." She tried the handle and it opened smoothly.

He pushed into the small sitting room, stopping at the coffee table. He gave the documents a cursory examination and frowned.

"She's filed for divorce," he said, handing the document to Angelique. She glanced at them and tossed them on the table.

He walked to the bedroom door and knocked again. Pushing open the door, he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Illya lay on his side, his left arm dangling over the edge of the bed. Devon-Jones touched the blanketed foot gently. "Illya Nickovetch, wake up!"

Illya moaned, but did not open his eyes. The professor moved to the side of the bed. Dried blood caked his face and tangled in his hair. The pillow case was soaked.

"I'll have your head for this, Angelique!" the professor shouted, rolling Illya onto his back. He counted respirations while his fingers searched for a pulse. He shook Illya hard. "Illya! Wake up!"

Blue eyes slowly opened and then closed again. "Call for help," he ordered. Angelique lifted the receiver and dialed.

"No, Illya! You must stay awake." Illya moaned again, pushing the probing hands away.

"Nyet!"

Devon-Jones hurried to the bathroom and soaked a hand towel in cold water and returning to Illya. He cleaned the dried blood from Illya's face and hair, speaking softly all the while.

"Illya, my boy," the professor said. "You are ill."

Illya frowned as the doctor turned on the bedside lamp, squinting into the bright light. "Go away. I am fine."

"I want you checked out immediately."

"No. I am fine," Illya said, weakly pushing onto an elbow and looking at the bloodied pillow. "I am not ill."

"A medical team is en route," Angelique said, brushing Illya's hair from his eyes. "Darling, what has happened?"

"I am fine!" Illya said, the weak sound of his voice failing to convince even himself.

"You are not prone to such events, are you?" the professor asked, concerned at how pale Illya looked, even in the dim lamp light.

"Only when I am attacked," Illya said, managing to sit up. He rubbed his face with his hands. "It is merely a nose bleed, sir."

"I think not, Illya," Devon-Jones said, watching the slender young man stumble from the bed, barely catching himself.

Illya wheeled on the professor and Angelique. "I am fine! How many times must I tell you?"

Devon-Jones stood up and rounded the bed. "Illya, we are concerned for you. Let us help, please."

Illya frowned, his fingers touching his temples lightly as if they were made of spun glass. "I have a truly horrible headache. Aspirin will help, I am sure." He made his way slowly to the bathroom.

The sound of breaking glass followed by a thud ended the one-way conversation.

"Dr. Sherrill and Dr. Hern, thank you for coming," Waverly said, packing the bowl of his pipe and then returning it to its stand. "Mr. Solo and I are becoming increasingly concerned about Mr. Kuryakin."

"In what way, sir?" Thomas Sherrill asked, glancing at his colleague.

"The reports we are receiving from Communications and via Research and Development …" The Old Man searched for the correct words. "Give us pause, so to speak."

"Y'all been holdin' out on us, Napoleon?" Julianna Hern asked no humor in her voice. She turned her attention to Waverly. "Sorry, sir. We aren't privy to such information. All we do is the conditioning and programming."

"No apology necessary, Dr. Hern," Waverly said, returning to his pipe, and searching for his matches. "Mr. Solo will brief you."

"We're concerned that Illya might be disassociating. We have reason to believe that something is interfering with the conditioning making him loose sight of the assignment," Napoleon said, pouring a scotch. "May I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you," Sherrill said, frowning at Napoleon's statement. "You are suggesting that something has interfered with our preparation?"

"Yes, Dr. Sherrill, that is exactly what we are suggesting," Waverly said, taking the silver cigarette lighter Napoleon offered. "While this would not be the first such situation where an agent was 'lost' in an assignment, it would be most grave."

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks," Julianna said, rising and walking to the windows. "I handled Illya's … Mr. Kuryakin's … conditioning myself, sir. We followed protocol down to the last letter. I simply don't understand what might have happened."

Waverly nodded. "Is it possible that Thrush has introduced a drug, added new conditioning? Perhaps the drugs used in his interrogation have adversely affected our conditioning and programming?"

Thomas shook his head adamantly. "In another agent, one less accustomed to such techniques, I would agree, sir. However, Mr. Kuryakin has undergone similar procedures in the past without ill effects."

"I have personally cleared both of you to have access to the information contained in these reports," Waverly said, sending two folders around the table. "Please review them and then we will discuss it."

Julianna returned to the table and both scientists read the reports. She looked at Thomas after reading the first page. "If we might have a few minutes, sir?"

Waverly frowned. "Of course, Dr. Hern. Mr. Solo and I have other matters to discuss in my study."

Thomas glanced at Napoleon. "I'll have a Scotch on the rocks."

"What have you done to him?" Devon-Jones demanded, pacing the small, generic waiting room at Thrush medical.

Angelique glanced at her manicured fingertips. "I have done nothing to him," she said, buffing her nails on her skirt. "I was assigned to protect him and to keep him in line." She glanced up, her sapphire eyes narrowing. "I have done my job, professor."

"If you have done anything, Miss DuChein, anything that will jeopardize this research project I will personally …"

Angelique glared at the professor. "You'll what? Have my head? End my career?" She laughed shrilly. "Better men than you have tried and failed, professor." She stood and walked to the coffee table, pouring a cup of well aged brew. "I have been providing Illya with an incentive to do his work and do it well."

"You've drugged him?"

"Don't be so melodramatic, professor," she said, leaning against the counter. "I merely introduced a drug that 'adjusted' his UNCLE conditioning and programming." She smiled at the surprised look on his face. "Come now, professor. You didn't actually believe that Illya defected to Thrush, did you?"

The professor was speechless. "True, he did contact you and he was shot by his own people. I can see how that might have convinced you, but underlying his devotion to you was an assignment to sabotage your experiment."

"He told you this?"

"No, professor, not in so many words," she said, pouring the coffee down the drain. "I handled his interrogation, you see. I realized, or at least suspected, that it was much too easy. An agent with his experience would never give in so easily."

"But, he chose to defect, Miss DuChein," the professor argued. "He willingly gave you the information, don't you see?"

She shook her head and then patted her blonde, bee-hive hairdo. "No, professor, I don't see. I've known Illya Kuryakin for years. I've seen him interrogated by the best, using the most sophisticated drugs and he has never provided useful information. I doubt that even if he had defected that he could convince himself to reveal such critical information."

"You are wrong, young lady!" Devon-Jones shouted. "He defected. The information he gave to you and the information he has gleaned from other sources is legitimate." He reigned in his temper. "And now you have tried to kill him!"

A doctor appeared at the door just as Angelique was about to make her case.

"Mr. Kuryakin is resting comfortably," the older man said, stuffing a face mask into his pocket. "An overdose of some medication resulted in a lowering of his platelet level, making him susceptible to hemorrhage. I understand that he's been complaining of headaches and I would surmise that he has treated them with aspirin. I also understand the dizziness and blurred vision accompanied the headaches. I suspect it is the result of the overdose, but we'll need to do more tests and I want a neuro consult. At present, we've administered a counter medication and we're giving him whole blood."

"He'll recover, doctor?" Devon-Jones asked, eying Angelique.

The physician shrugged. "Providing there isn't any evidence of a cerebral bleed I would expect a full recovery. But, if he's been bleeding into the brain, then all bets are off."

Devon-Jones turned to Angelique. "If you believe in any sort of god, Miss DuChein now would be an excellent time to pray."

The church bell sounded from the steeple of the church, washing across the beach, melding with the low voice of the waters. The organist began the prelude and Emerson smiled, enjoying the feel of deep, resonate thrum of the lowest notes in her chest.

"Friends," Peg said, smiling over her shoulder at Emerson, "allow me to introduce my dear friend and colleague, the Reverend Emerson Myer Cates. Em's visiting with her children, her friend, Charlie, and Charlie's two children. Plus two nannies!" The congregation chuckled and Nicky stood up in the pew and waved.

"That's Nicky," Peg said, pointing to him. "You'll meet the rest of the crew at coffee hour." She turned to Emerson and nodded.

Emerson, wearing her linen preaching robe and green stole, stepped to the lectern. "I invite you to turn to Psalm 121." She steeled herself, preparing to read her favorite Psalm, the one she had led at her parent's funeral.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills-- from where will my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep." She paused and swallowed hard. "The LORD is your keeper; the LORD is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore."

She glanced at Charlie, not surprised to see tears shining in her eyes, and smiled in reassurance. Charlie nodded.

Emerson moved from the lectern to the center of the chancel and raised her arms. "May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight O God, my rock, and my redeemer. Amen." She smiled at the congregation. "When I accepted Peg's invitation to bring my family and friends for a visit I had no idea that this was actually a working vacation." She grinned at Peg who laughed along with the congregation.

"You didn't think that I'd let you stay for free, did you?" Peg asked. Emerson shook her head and joined the laughter. She turned to the congregation.

"This is my favorite Psalm," Emerson said. "It's called a Song of Ascent … a hymn the faithful sung as they mounted the steps of the Temple in Jerusalem. It is an ancient prayer of thanksgiving and praise, acknowledging the presence and power of God in the lives of the people." Tia waived and Emerson waived back, smiling at the little blonde.

"I love this Psalm because it reminds me, as it reminded our ancient forbearers, that God is ever present in our lives … whether we are mindful or not. In times of stress or worry or fear … and, if I'm fortunate to be paying attention … these words come to me like the embrace of a mother. 'The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.'" The congregation nodded in agreement.

"The call I have in New York is a blessing … and it is a challenge. I minister with men and women who are involved in very dangerous work, not unlike the military, law enforcement, fire service, or emergency medical service. Sometimes the stress, the demands, of the work takes its toll … and it is a very exacting toll. The injury or death of a partner can be devastating … it is devastating. Together we try to find a way back to wholeness. It is never simple, never easy. At those times, it seems that God is very far away and that the words of the Psalmist are hollow, an affront, an empty, meaningless promise.

"As my clients and I move through what I call 'the valley of the shadow', where it is very lonely and very dark, I remind them and myself, that God is present. I must admit that at first it is very cold comfort to imagine that God is suffering with us, weeping with us, struggling with us … yet, I believe it is true. I must believe that, otherwise there is no hope."

She felt tears prick behind her eyes and she paused, gathering her thoughts. "The people Dr. Charles and I work with are extraordinarily brave and courageous, risking their very lives to keep us safe from harm. I often think of them as shepherds … well armed and resourceful shepherds." She chuckled and the congregation joined her. "Some of these shepherds are Christian, many are not, and I don't believe that it matters to God. What does matter is that many have found solace and strength in these ancient words. May they bring solace and strength to each of you, no matter where your journey takes you, how deep the valley, or how dark the night. Amen."

As the congregation rose to sing the parting hymn Emerson's communicator beeped. Peg glanced at her, a worried look on her face. Emerson shrugged and slipped into the sacristy.

"Cates."

"A plane is en route to collect you, Emie," Alexander Waverly said, his voice ragged and serious. "Arriving at 2 p.m."

Emerson and Charlie slowed long enough to retrieve their badges and then went directly to Waverly's office.

"What's happened?" Emerson asked, breathless.

"We are concerned that Illya is disassociating … getting lost in the assignment," Napoleon said, unwilling to make eye contact.

"I'm concerned that he's dying for this assignment!" Emerson wheeled on Napoleon, surprising lithe even though pregnant. "What's the goddamn plan?"

"We've met with Dr. Sherrill and Dr. Hern, they are reviewing the tapes of Illya's conditioning, checking for anything that might be behind this problem, and reviewing the reports he's sent," Napoleon said, casting a look at Charlie. She did not respond favorably.

"It's possible," Charlie started, noting the softening of Emerson's stance, "that something they've given him, some interrogation serum, is reacting to the drugs used in the process of conditioning. I know it's been months, but some of the stuff they use has a long shelf life."

"One more time, gentlemen," Emerson hissed. "What is the goddamned plan?"

Devon-Jones pushed open the door to Illya's hospital room and moved silently to the bedside.

Illya lay still, his fair complexion waxy, dark circles pooling beneath his closed eyes. The professor berated himself for allowing Illya to work himself to exhaustion and for allowing Angelique free-rein in her style of 'protection'.

"Illya Nickovetch," the professor whispered, taking Illya's hand, "I am terribly sorry for this. You must rest and recuperate. Do not concern yourself with the research project." He looked at Illya's face, hoping for some sign that the Russian had heard and understood him. There was no discernable response. He sighed heavily and left the room.

I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Section 2, Number 2, UNCLE Headquarters, New York. The pale, thin face contorted, as if the thought somehow caused pain. He shifted anxiously.

I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. I am working with Dr. Devon-Jones. EHD research project. Thrush. I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. His hands clutched at the sheet, his head thrashing side to side.

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.

Nikala. Her voice interrupted the mantra of his name. Nikala, she repeated, her voice as clear as if she were standing at his bedside.

"Em?" he mumbled, confused and afraid. "Em, where … where are you?"

I'm here Vozl'ublennyj, she whispered. It's time for you to come home, Nikala. Time to come home, Vozl'ublennyj. He for an instant he smelled her perfume.

Illya opened his eyes slowly, taking in the bare hospital room. His head throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He massaged his temples and heard her voice echoing in his head. Time to come home, Vozl'ublennyj.

Vozl'ublennyj, he thought. Time to come home, Vozl'ublennyj. He sat up suddenly, wiping at the blood trickling from his nose. "'My beloved is mine and I am his.' Song of Solomon," he whispered. Time to come home, Vozl'ublennyj.

Illya returned to the project within the week, against the orders of the Thrush physician, still pale, but less tired. Dr. Devon-Jones was concerned, but not enough to insist that Illya take more time to heal and recover.

He watched Illya at the blackboard, erasing old computations and scribbling new ones. "It seems you have been 'working' on the project even while in hospital.

Illya glanced up, dark circles shadowed his blue eyes, and his skin was unnaturally pale. He tapped his forehead. "Unable to turn it off," he said, leaning against the wall. "I believe that this," he pointed to the equation, "will solve the riddle, so to speak."

Devon-Jones read the equation and nodded. "This will assist in reducing weight even though you are using a larger energy source, allowing for increased thrust. Brilliant, my boy, brilliant."

Illya ignored him and walked to the lab bench where he dismantled the latest prototype. "We reject the influence of ambient ion momentum transfer." He reached for a replacement capacitor. "This capacitor, a circular plate of glass 1mm thick and 170 mm diameter, weighing 62g and 10, should make all the difference." Illya grinned giving his gaunt face a less that pleasing look.

"You see, professor, I want to try two things; a DC 18kv and an AC 8kv pulse with a frequency of 50Hz. I hypothesize that one of these two experiments will result in a significant reduction of weight … perhaps as much as 3." He felt hot and wiped his forehead, his hand came away dry. Eyes boring into the professor's face he said, "A vast improvement, actually."

"Excellent, my boy!" Devon-Scott said, grinning at the new turn of events. "Well done!"

The professor left, closing the door to the lab quietly. Illya set up the rest of the experiment, anxious to see the results. Hours later, he was tired, hungry, and ready to begin. The headache was back.

He shrugged off his lab coat and replaced it with his suit jacket. Reaching for the phone, he called the professor to say that he was driving into the village for dinner and would return later.

The drive was refreshing. It seemed that he had been cooped up either in the lab or in hospital too long, missing the beauty of winter in upper New York State. The thick forests on either side of the narrow, two-lane highway looked as if they had been dusted with confectioner's sugar and he noticed rabbit tracks in the snow. He sighed contentedly.

The small diner was crowded with the evening rush and he waited a few minutes before being seated at a small booth near the back of the dining room. He ordered beef stew with brown bread and a draft beer. Pulling out a recent journal article on the Biefeld-Brown Effect, he was soon lost in his reading.

"Illyusha," she said, slipping into the bench seat opposite him. "How good to see you vertical."

Illya's eyes darted up. "Angelique."

She chuckled. "Once a spy, always a spy, darling. Your powers of observation are admirable."

"What do you want?"

"Moi? Nothing, of course," she said, leaning across the table and snatching the article from his fingers. She smiled. "Actually, I would like to, how is it the American's say … 'pick your brain' … a little more."

"Go away, Angelique," he said his voice as cold as his blue eyes. "I am hungry and tired. I have no use for you."

The waitress delivered his meal and he ate ravenously, interspersing spoons full of stew with bites of bread and swallows of beer. Angelique watched, impressed with the amount of food the slight Russian consumed.

"Devon-Jones must not feed you, Illyusha," she said, nodding at the empty bowl. "Dessert with coffee?" She waived at the waitress. "Two slices of apple pie … ala mode, please. And two coffee's."

He frowned. "You are still here."

"Indulge me, Illya Nickovetch," she said her voice low and hard. "It is difficult enough to keep my figure and you know how careful I am."

He snorted. The waitress delivered the desserts and coffee. Illya dug in. Angelique watched.

Illya stumbled up the front steps of the house at 9:30, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. He fumbled his keys. The door opened, spilling warm light onto the porch.

"Illya! I was becoming concerned," Devon-Scott said, pulling the Russian into the entry hall. "Let me take your coat. Will you have a drink with me?"

Illya surrendered his coat. "I am sorry, professor," he said, his voice a little slurred. "I am rather tired and would prefer to retire early."

Devon-Jones looked carefully at the slight blond. "My apologies, Illya. Of course, retire early and sleep in tomorrow." The circles beneath the blue eyes seemed even more pronounced in the soft light of the hallway. "I am a fool, my boy, pushing you too hard."

Illya smiled weakly and nodded. His head was pounding again. "I will see you in the morning, professor. Good night."

The professor watched Illya carefully negotiate the stairs, his concern for his chief researcher warring with his concern for his former prized pupil. The former won out.

"You are making excellent progress, Illya," Devon-Jones called to the retreating figure. "I would hate to fall behind schedule."

"Do not worry, professor," Illya said his voice almost too soft to be heard. "I will keep the project on schedule." The door to his rooms closed behind him.

Emerson tucked Nicky into his new bed in his new bedroom and kissed him good night. He smiled at her. "Soon I'll have a brother to share my room!"

She touched her belly and smiled at Nicky. "I can't promise you a brother, Nicky, but I'll do my best."

Nicky stretched and yawned. "YA l'ubl'u Vas, Mamu." (I love you, Mama).

"YA l'ubl'u Vas, Nicky." She repeated the process with the three girls, now sharing a large room across the hall.

"We missed our bed, Mama," Tasha said, snuggling under the covers, yawning broadly.

"I missed mine, too, baby," Emerson said, brushing the blonde hair from the child's' forehead. "We're home for awhile."

"I'm glad to be home," Anushka said, her eyes nearly closed. Emerson glanced over her shoulder to find Tia already asleep.

"Horoshaya noch', moi mladency. Spite horosho!" (Good night, my babies. Sleep well!), she said, turning off the lamp and closing the door.

Emerson waddled down the hall and slowly descended the stairs. In less than three weeks, a new Kuryakin would join the fray. She was tired to the bone.

She showered, patting her belly and the baby within. Keep kicking me like that and I'll drop you right here! she thought, smiling at the ripples that crossed her skin. Maybe I did spend too much time in karate class.

Crawling into bed, she checked the night stand for her communicator, turned off the lamp, and settled in. She curled on her side, her head resting on Illya's pillow.

"Time to come home, Vozl'ublennyj," she whispered as sleep claimed her.

Illya glanced at the final computations scribbled on the blackboard and at the collected computer programs and reams of findings. He smiled at the data.

He loaded the self-destruct program into the computer, gave the 'run' command, retrieved the dozen small but powerful explosives, each with its own timer, and loaded them into his shoulder pack. These combined with the case of dynamite he found in the barn, would make for total destruction of the rocket, the EHD, and payload.

Shortly after 1 a.m., he returned to his rooms and packed his bag, tucking the photograph of his family in a side pocket and the computer tapes into another. He reached for the phone, attaching a scrambling device and called Communications.

She jumped at the sound of her communicator. "Cates."

"This is Wanda in Communications. I have a patch call for you. Please stand by."

Emerson flipped on the bedside light and waited impatiently, listening to the pops and clicks. Come on, damn it!

"Go ahead, Agent Cates," Wanda said.

"This is Cates. Report."

"Shibboleth," came the scratchy reply. "Repeat. Shibboleth."

A shaky sigh escaped her lips. "Confirmed. Shibboleth. Cates, out."

Thank you, Jesus! she thought, twisting the thin antenna on the communicator. "Open Channel D. Alexander Waverly. Urgent."

Illya hung up the phone, grabbed the keys to Dr. Devon-Jones' car, and headed to the barn. The heavy door creaked open and he took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He opened the trunk and dropped his bag.

A cow mooed at him. Cows. Damn! He stood for a moment staring into the big, liquid brown, bovine eyes and his conscience spoke loud and clear. He opened the side gate and shooed the small herd into the meadow. They looked at him as if were mad, turning them out in the middle of the night.

"I am doing you a favor," he whispered, slapping the rump of the last cow. "Please, be quiet." As the last cow cleared the barn, he jumped into the car and pulled into the driveway.

"Do me a favor, Illya." He felt the muzzle press against the base of his skull. "Give me the keys." He handed them over. "Out of the car. Now."

"There is no time for this Angelique," he said. She handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

"All I want is the research, Illyusha," she said, pressing her gun against the base of his skull. "Where is it?"

"In the lab."

"Lead on, Illyusha," she said.

"Angelique …" His words were obliterated by the first explosion.

"If he's going to blow the place and, knowing Illya, that's exactly what he'll do, I want an air evac crew en route," Charlie said, scribbling on a note pad. She glanced at Emerson. "You okay?"

Emerson patted her belly, trying to calm the baby. "I'm fine. This one's got enough adrenaline for both of us tonight."

"Caffeine," Charlie said, grinning at Napoleon who paced the narrow room like an expectant father.

The two women stood in Communications watching the tech's narrow the scope of their search. "Got it!"

Napoleon grabbed the microphone. "UNCLE Chopper 1 and UNCLE Air Evac 1, prepare for take off."

Charlie hugged Emerson. "We'll keep you posted, Em. I want you to sit down and relax." She frowned. "Shit, just sit and don't drink any more coffee."

His headache was worse, if possible.

Illya lifted his head and tried to focus his eyes. What was left of the shed was obscured by dust and chunks of concrete were still falling.

A moan came from somewhere to his left. He tried to roll toward the sound, but he was trapped beneath debris. "Angelique!"

"Kuryakin?" Her voice was no more than a whisper.

"Can you move?"

"Don't know," she said. He heard movement followed by a groan. "Was it necessary to plant enough explosives to destroy Buffalo?"

He coughed and regretted it. "I'm trapped," he said, his voice raw and filled with pain.

"You've managed this nicely, darling," she said, crawling toward him. "I expected better planning from you."

The pain in his left leg was eclipsed by the pain in his left side. "If I do not survive … neither will you."

She laughed. "Do you expect the cavalry to come over yon hill?" she asked, brushing concrete dust from her clothes. "You've ruined my outfit!"

"Yes, I do," Illya wheezed. "My legs …"

"I'll never forgive myself for this," she muttered, finding a length of rebar and levering it under the heavy steel shed door. "This is going to hurt, Illyusha," she said, "Move!"

Illya wriggled free, just as she dropped the door. Pain was immediately matched with the warm stickiness of blood. He grimaced.

"Can you stand?" she asked, ripping his pants leg from ankle to thigh. She frowned. "Broken."

He nodded, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. "Obvious. Do you happen to have the key for the cuffs?" he asked.

She pulled the key from her pants pocket and freed his wrists. "On three, Illyusha," she said, counting. "Up!" He sagged against her. "Come on, Kuryakin." She handed him the metal bar. "Your cane, professor."

The two spies limped and staggered their way toward the car. "Please tell me that there are no more surprises," she said, leaning him against the dented car.

He shrugged. "There is more dynamite wired in the silo. I set a dozen explosives."

"You are insane," she said, brushing her hair from her face.

"I am merely following orders," he said, offering a lopsided grin. They both looked skyward at the sound of approaching helicopters.

"The cavalry," she said. "You will put in a good word for me, won't you?"

"I never forget a favor, Angelique."

"I came to say thank you."

"I believe the appropriate response is 'you're welcome'," Angelique said, her eyes wary.

"I owe you," Napoleon said, standing at Angelique's bedside.

"So you do, Napasha," the blonde said, a smile breaking on her face. "How is he?"

"He says that he's 'fine,' which is what he always says," the CEA said, pulling up a chair. "In truth, closed fractures of the left tib-fib, several ribs, lacerated lung, a chest tube, and a mild concussion."

Angelique chuckled. "He told me that he was fine. It must be the standard response of UNCLE agents."

"You saved his life, Angelique."

Angelique shrugged. "It goes against my grain, saving the 'dour, little Russian," she smiled at Napoleon. "But he is your best friend and partner. And, we do little favors for each other from time-to-time, do we not?"

"This was more than a little favor, Angelique."

"As I said, we do favors for each other." The blonde Thrush agent grinned. "Of course, you will never be able to bring the accounts to balance after this."

"Well, I could always spread the rumor that you saved … intentionally saved … the 'dour, little Russian's' life. That would settle your accounts permanently.'

Angelique pouted and Napoleon relented. "Don't worry. You're secret is safe with me."

Emerson fell asleep in the chair next to Illya's bed, her hand tucked beneath his. Charlie insisted that she get some sleep and dragged her down the hall to a vacant room.

"Keep this up, Em, and I'll deliver that kid right here, right now."

Emerson crawled into bed. "I want to be here when he wakes up."

"I know you do," Charlie said, pulling a light blanket over her friend. "Napoleon is going to sit with him. I'll come get you as soon as he's awake. Promise! Now, rest!"

Angelique stood quietly, watching the young woman sleep. The eyelids fluttered open.

"Thank you, Angelique," Emerson said, reaching for her hand.

"When is the baby due?"

Emerson rubbed her belly. "Very soon."

"He doesn't know, does he?"

"No. There was never an appropriate time."

Angelique smiled. Emerson thought it was a very sweet smile completely out of character. Angelique touched Emerson's belly. "You have other children, too."

"Four."

"Give them what neither the dour, little Russian nor I had as children."

Emerson smiled and rested her hand over Angelique's. "That's something I can do … for both of you."

A comfortable silence filled the small room.

"Back to business as usual?" Emerson asked.

"Of course, darling," she said, a wicked glint in her sapphire blue eyes. "We are, after all, spies."

More to come …

Notes: Biefeld-Brown Effect deals with the question of electricity and gravitation which cannot be explained by conventional physics. See the Wikipedia entry for more info.

EHD (electro hydrodynamics) is also a field of research. Some of the information contained in this tale is taken from the work of Takaai Musha, "Theoretical Explanation of the Biefeld-Brown Effect' Namiki Kanazawa-ku, Yokohama, Japan. This research dates from the early 21st Century and would not have been available at the time of this tale. However, since IK is so brilliant, I've taken the liberty of providing Musha's research for his use. See the Wikipedia entry for more info.