Napoleon put the phone down. The die was cast. Florence hadn't even feigned surprise. Self-confident as always.

"OK, Nap. See you tomorrow in Monmouth at "The Fisher's Table", at noon, dead on. I'll book the table and the room for you."

As usual, her use of the childish pet name had irked him. Once again he wondered how, and still more why, he continued to bear Flo's offhandedness, her quiet certainty of her hold over him without any payback on her part. Once again he had lost the fight for dominance. Once again she had forced the issue.

He sighed. He had believed the spell long ago broken, but…childhood memories are subtle and solid chains. And still, there was Paul. The sad, slowly fading little face of the boy had haunted him every night lately since their sojourn in Saint Cristobal jail; in the plane, in U.N.C.L.E. hospital and, again, yesterday at home. Florence's letter was just the last warning of a long suite. With a shudder he remembered Liz' plaintive question in his dream; "What did you do with my babe?" The stern and strangely solemn voice of Waverly was still sounding in his ears: "I'll choose the children of today over the ghosts from the past". He had thought, bitterly, that for him the child of today and the ghost from the past were one and the same.

Well, the past had caught him up eventually. Maybe he should be grateful to Flo if her manipulative mind and love of provocation gave him an opportunity to reverse the deal and make up for lost time. Was there any chance? No, it was too late. He had left Paul behind and never looked back until now; it felt like it was in another world, another life. Paul was long gone. He didn't want to think about the circumstances.

He shook himself. No soul searching. That was a luxury he couldn't indulge in. He was going to see Paul again, the issue was settled.

Taking three days off was no problem. He'd had no Christmas vacation due to the recent Uruguay events. Things were very quiet in Head Quarters. Illya was still on medical leave…Napoleon quickly discarded the foolish idea that had just crossed his mind: to invite Illya, if only to enjoy the look on Flo's face when she'd see her ex-lover with an unknown man at the door of the restaurant. Could be the best way to resist her without rousing a scene. But, besides the fact Napoleon wasn't sure he wanted to resist, he strongly doubted that the man, who shunned any sign of familiarity in his best moments, would feel flattered to be invited in company with his partner's ex-girlfriend. Moreover, the seaside in New Jersey at the beginning of January was not a pleasant prospect, even for a supposed cold-hardened Russian. And overall, Napoleon had not the slightest intent to tell his life story, at least this part of his life story to anybody, not even his best friend. He didn't need moral support to confront a twelve-year-old boy, no he didn't; it was ridiculous.

Twenty minutes later: "Napoleon, really! What do you want me to do with you and your cousin in a New Jersey hotel on the fourth of January? And for three days at that! No, I don't need to breathe the good healthy air of the seaside; no, I don't especially appreciate the freshly caught seafood; yes, I am very busy with this old bastard Hartmann. There are still remaining issues to solve before signing the agreement. He is leaving on the 5th, the day after tomorrow if you remember. The disease is spreading, you know…unless you have already forgotten? And I promised to prepare the young Dos Santos for his new school's entrance exams. Oh, speaking of Miguel, May I remind you I'm taking him out tonight to see a show? We have to be at "The House of Brazil" within the hour. I have just come home to shower and change clothes. Have a good evening."

The day after, at "The Fisher's Table": "That lobster was excellent." Florence swallowed her last mouthful and swiftly flung back over her shoulder a long lock of hair, escaped from the barrette clipping up the median part of her thick red mane, which was threatening to dip in the spiced sauce, "This is definitely the best place for seafood on the coast, they always manage to have fresh stuff, even in winter. I wonder how; do the fishermen still take their boats out to sea in such weather?"

Like the trained sailor he was, Napoleon was inclined to think not but politely refrained from suggesting the delicious fresh lobster in brandy sauce had probably been freshly unfrozen by the cook. Besides, Flo was not expecting an answer. She went on:

"Terrible weather, indeed, though not uncommon at this time of the year; I should be accustomed, it cannot be worse than in northern Ontario, but I spent so many winters in Africa these last years, oh, speaking of Africa…" Napoleon held his breath, fearing the conversation would get back to her diggings in East Africa, the amazing results of her researches and all those long, dull stories about old bones and pre-human remains of which Florence Aramburu never tired.

"Speaking of Africa, I forgot to mention the Morrisons are my literary agents."

"Does a scientific writer need a literary agent?" asked Napoleon, trying to show more interest than he felt.

"Not for academic works, and there won't be the same publisher anyway; actually, I am writing a book of memories."

"Already?" Napoleon smiled; younger than him by less than two years, Flo looked hardly more than twenty-five.

"Well, why not? I've run into a lot of adventures doing my job; more precisely it will be a scientific book, but intended for a broad audience, interspersed with amusing stories, quizzes, drawings. It's also meant to be adapted for children in comic strips. That's why I took the kids with me this year."

Oh, I understand now! thought Napoleon, who had been surprised by her unusual display of motherly caring.

"The Morrisons are helping me with the book. Albert is advising me on the writing. Suzann is doing the illustrations; she is so gifted. Both are delightful people. Extremely welcoming. In other circumstances, I'd have no scruples asking them to invite you to stay with us at their house, the place is very spacious, but we have to work and, moreover, they have got their grandchildren for the week eventually. It would be too much bother for them; they are not young, you know".

Napoleon was tired of beating around the bush; Paul's name had hardly been uttered twice until then and by him. Flo was evading the matter, visibly. Well, he could dance too, but to his own music.

"I never meant to bother your friends, Flo; I am grateful to you for the kind offer but now the matter is between Paul and me. I intended to meet him at the hotel, of course."

Florence raised her glass of wine by the window and seemed to admire its pale amber color and its glittering in the light.

"I wish you good luck, Lee," she said pensively, "the boy is not easy to approach; I didn't know how he would take it, so I deemed it better not to tell him anything about your possible presence."

Napoleon swallowed dry and didn't comment.

She took a sip of her drink. "But, luckily he likes the twins, they get along quite well, that's why the grandparents didn't object to my taking him with me for two weeks."

Not very logically she added: "I know you don't approve of my way of life, Napoleon, but I can tell you my kids are happy," For a short while a veil of sadness softened her neatly carved features. "I never was a full-time mother, not even a part-time one and couldn't; I am a professional, Napoleon, as you are." She cast him her best crooked smile. "But, fortunately, as I told you once, my mother, at least, is a very professional mother."

Napoleon didn't think she remembered; he fought a pang of absurd tenderness. "Who am I to give you lessons, Flo? You did more than I ever tried."

Eventually, the idea of taking the boy to the hotel was discarded and Flo phoned her friends. They were delighted, absolutely delighted, to make the acquaintance of Flo's cousin who was just in town on business.

The Morrisons' house was far from the town as from the coast, in a pleasant residential resort. It was an old, late nineteenth century stone building, surrounded by a large and well-kept garden, now covered with snow. Everything there spoke of old money and European snobbery. It strongly reminded Napoleon of his own grandparents, on his mother's side. The Maynards would have liked the place.

Napoleon was admiring the pseudo-classical facade when a mocking laugh alerted him. Too late. He jerked and briskly brushed his neck where something wet, soft and very cold had hit him: a snowball! He turned around just in time to see a small brown head with short pigtails lunging for cover behind a thick bush of carved boxwood. A boy's voice, coming from nowhere, scolded: "Oh, Lucy, you didn't warn; that's not fair".

"Hi, Charlie," hailed Flo, "where are you?"

"Here!"

"Where's here?"

"Here, in the kennel!"

Flo and Napoleon turned at the same time towards the majestic steps under which a shelter had been built, large enough for two dogs of good size. And a dog was just coming out from it, wagging its tail in the friendliest manner: a kind of terrier of uncertain breed, mostly white and positively smiling.

"First time I saw a dog smiling," thought Napoleon idly. Florence bent down to pat its head, as a small boy of about eight crawled out and stood up.

"Hi," said the boy, rather ceremoniously, "I am Charles Morrison and he is Dandy".

"Hi, Charlie," replied Napoleon with good humor, "are you sure it's Dandy?"

The boy frowned. "Of course, I'm sure; it's my grandmother's dog."

"Oh," said Napoleon lightly, I thought it was Snoopy."

Charlie was clearly not amused. "I've already heard that more than once. Please, don't ask where Linus is."

Florence intervened. "Be nice, Lee, they are teased enough at school."

"By the way," cut in the boy, in the same formal style, "Who are you? You haven't introduced yourself."

"My apologies, young man, I am Napoleon, Florence's friend."

Charlie cast him a suspicious look and seemed on the point of replying but at the same instant a clear and joyful voice rang out from behind the grown-ups. "Hello, Napoleon, come and kiss your Josephine!"

Napoleon turned around, grinning, and faced a small but faithful look-alike of Flo, who was briskly stamping on the snowy ground with her bright red ponytail swaying like a flag or a flame in the frosty breeze.

"Hello, Lyn, I notice you have improved your knowledge of European history."

The girl ran to him and kissed him impetuously. «I am very good at history. Actually, I am very good at everything."

Napoleon laughed. "Flo, you've produced a monster!"

Florence looked pleased; "Two monsters, wait till you meet Jack!"

"How is he doing since last summer?"

"Fine; he's discovered the Encyclopedia Britannica I had sent to Mum for his birthday and, since then, he's worming his way throughout it, from Antiquity to Zoology with a long stop at Cosmology."

"I read it too," protested Lyn."

"OK, OK, I've begotten two geniuses! But Lyn is the literary type; she is writing a novel."

"Oh, really? Clever girl, what's it about?"

"From the little I was allowed to read, it looks like a shameless and rather successful plagiary of Enid Blyton."

"Well, that's not so bad for a ten-years-old writer."

But Carolyn was not there anymore to enjoy the compliment. She was half-bickering, half-frolicking with "Two-Pig-Tails" who had sneaked from her bush shelter and the two girls, one chasing the other, dashed up the stairs to the front door. The adults followed.

To Napoleon's slightly confused mind, the next hour was spent in a hubbub of welcome greetings, small talk, children's racket, dog yelpings and pressing invitations to visit the place. The house was 'magnificent', the snowy landscape all around 'magical', the company 'absolutely charming' and the current literary project 'very promising'. When the turmoil had abated, it was tea time and Paul was still nowhere to be seen.

And suddenly, he was there, under the bare branches of the maple trees, at the bottom of the garden, where Napoleon had sought refuge. He was standing very upright, very alert, as a sentinel posted at the vanguard, watching the movement of the enemy.

Napoleon felt uncharacteristically deprived of words. "Good evening, Paul."

"Good evening, sir," replied Paul politely.

"Those were the very words I heard from you, last time we met, three years ago."

"I am afraid I have no memory of it," stated the boy.

"What don't you remember: our last meeting or my existence?"

"Both."

Of course, you've provided him with the perfect weapon and he used it. Brown amber eyes clinging with light hazel eyes. Clash of blades. Flying sparks. Napoleon's tactical yielding ...

"I have to admit three years, or rather two years and a half, since it was in summer, is quite a long wait but I remind you I have no access to your grandparents' house, Paul, and Vicky herself was banned after that excursion."

Paul leaned on a low branch of a nearby tree with affected nonchalance.

"Why do you feel obliged to give me explanations? I don't ask you to justify yourself; you don't owe me anything."

"You think I don't owe you anything! That means, I suppose, you don't expect me to give you anything. And in return, you don't acknowledge me! Is that how you see our relationship?

"Do we have a relationship?"

Sometimes, it's difficult to distinguish between anger, humiliation and sheer misery. Napoleon opted for anger.

"Don't play the fool with me, Paul. Kids with haughty attitudes don't impress me. I have no time or patience for charades. You and I never had much time to talk freely but at least we both know one thing - I am your father and you are my son."

"I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't know," repeated the boy thoughtfully, "I am not sure of it; are you?"

This was too much. Unable to articulate a word and painfully conscious he had lost a critical match, Napoleon turned his back to the offender and was thinking of a retreat with what was left of his dignity when a boy's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Hi, Napoleon! Don't run away!

Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Napoleon was somehow relieved to recognize the shaggy head and the freckled face of Lynn's brother. Jack was exiting a garden hut nearby, from which he had apparently observed the scene and listened to the exchange.

"Hi, Jack, you spying?"

"I was trying to make a fresh Christmas wreath for the front door; the old one's losing its needles." He smiled broadly and brandished his artwork with a theatrical gesture of pride. "And I didn't want to disturb your little filial confrontation."

"Filial confrontation! Jack, please, don't start speaking like Charlie."

"Oh, you noticed Charlie speaks like a book? Everybody is awfully well read in this house, except Lucy who's a goose and a prat." He cast a side glance to his friend. "And, speaking of prats…"

Paul growled. "Let it drop, Jack."

"No way, little brother. Napoleon is family for me, and even more so for you. Don't give us this "I am not sure you are my father…; even your mean old grandmother doesn't believe it."

"Let my grandmother alone, and don't take your superior airs with me. And I am not your brother."

Jack laughed. "Fortunately you aren't! A sister like Lyn and a brother like you would be enough to drive me crazy."

In the meantime, Napoleon had recovered his composure.

"You all look like a bunch of loonies to me, dog included."

"What about the dog?" Jack's voice sounded perplexed.

"He smiles."

"Dandy?"

"Yes, Dandy the aptly named, he smiles, smugly."

"I didn't notice."

"You never notice anything outside your books," groaned Paul.

"Me? That's rich, coming from somebody who is always abstracted and daydreaming!" He screwed up his nose. "And you noticed Dandy smiling? Well, that will be at least one thing you agree with your father!"

Paul chuckled, rather nervously, but the ice wall seemed to have thawed somehow. He turned towards Napoleon.

"Finally, what did you come here for?"

"Simply, to spend the holidays with an old friend of mine and, possibly, my son; something I've had very little opportunity to do until now."

Paul ignored the last comment. "Which holidays? Christmas is past."

"Yes, I was abroad for Christmas, but there is still the sixth of January, Kings' day, Epiphany; seemed an appropriate occasion for a mutual discovery."

Paul laughed softly and looked uncertain but his stance appeared more relaxed than any time before.

"I am not the infant Jesus."

Jack cut in: "Whatever the pretext, I am quite in favor of a celebration, especially if the Magi don't forget to bring presents."

"I'll see about it," said Napoleon, amused by the boy's rather unsubtle manipulation that strongly reminded him of his mother. "Today is the fourth, I need one day for the preparation, we could arrange a little party for tomorrow night."

"Excellent! I volunteer for helping with the preparation!" Jack proposed with unhidden enthusiasm, "Christmas was very quiet; the Morrisons firmly believe in 'the true meaning of Christmas'; you know the kind: nothing commercial, no costly gifts, plain food, blessings before the meals and carols the rest of the time, 'Peace to all good-willed people on earth'..." He grimaced.

"And you don't agree?"

"Well..." Jack looked a little embarrassed, "I don't object exactly; I'd just like to have a little more fun and to get my presents!"

"I rather liked the Christmas-eve celebration," interjected Paul: "carols, blessings and all, I don't need costly gifts."

"Of course! with your rich grandparents, you have everything you want."

"I wouldn't say that" uttered Paul flatly. A moment of silence followed. The ice wall was back. Napoleon didn't try to break through it. There would be other opportunities, he hoped.

Later in the day, having reentered the house and the company of adults, he had no difficulty in selling his plan (or rather Jack's plan) for a special belated Christmas/Kings' day party with music and costumes; more exactly Jack had no difficulty in convincing his mother and "Auntie Suzie" to fulfil his wishes and to host the party in the house instead of the hotel. He was resolute to be the manager of the show and to make a success of it. Napoleon was less enthusiastic. He was getting mixed feelings about the whole thing; Jack's intervention had the invaluable advantage of saving him from having to give awkward explanations about his relationship with Paul to complete strangers; on the other hand, he sensed the undertaking was escaping his control and had strong doubts about the effect that could be expected from such a masquerade on his son's reserved temper and wary disposition. The quiet, intimate "getting to know you" meeting he had in mind at the beginning had been turned into a public exhibition and he was not in the mood for it.

Back to the hotel, without Flo who was staying with her friends (so, he had been spared the bother of evading a seduction scene, he thought ironically), he tried to fight his worry by spending a while at the bar, vaguely hoping to be distracted from his thoughts by some pleasant and undemanding female companionship but had to admit it was not his lucky day; there were three customers, two businessmen from the seafood industry celebrating the happy conclusion of a profitable contract and a middle-aged woman of dubious attractiveness and poor conversation who had just driven her car into a ditch on her way back home after a visit to an elderly cousin. After a few polite words of comfort to the distressed lady and a light snack, Napoleon decided there was nothing else to do but go to bed and avoid thinking.

Two hours later he was still awake and brooding.

Paul had been taken from him, sure…A twenty-year-old father cannot stand in for a mother, maybe…The in-laws were powerful and intractable; yes indeed…He had done his patriotic duty by volunteering for Korea…At this, Napoleon couldn't help laughing aloud. How easy to cover his fear with the mask of courage! The risks of war opposed to the burden of fatherhood? If so, he had paid for this choice at the highest price. Later there had been U.N.C.L.E. and its requirements. It was worth the loss; he always thought it was, but had he done everything possible to see the boy, at least from time to time, to keep in touch?

No, he hadn't, and this was his punishment. The stream of his thoughts was interrupted by the beeping of his communicator.

"Napoleon?"

"Mmmwww? Illya, It's past midnight and I am supposed to be off duty."

"We are never off duty."

"Sadly true. What do you want from me?"

"You don't ask me what major threat to the world peace demands your personal involvement?"

"The tone of your voice tells me there is none."

"Optimistic, as ever; I am coming with Hartmann."

At that, Napoleon jumped to his feet.

"That's a really sick joke, Kuryakin!"

"There is nothing to joke about. I am coming with Hartmann, with the sole purpose of taking a pint of good red blood from you."

"I should have known Hartmann was a vampire. A pint, you say?"

"Well, maybe a little less, but more than was taken from you in the hospital."

"What for?"

"Seemingly, a vaccine."

"Uh?"

"You appeared to be immune to the contagion, in Uruguay."

"So were Dos Santos and Alvarez."

"Exactly, so they are also required to give blood. Miguel has already been done."

"But why the emergency? I can go to any medical facility and you will get the samples within two or three days."

"Too long a wait; Hartmann was expected in San Cristobal tomorrow and has already postponed his trip for two days, but he cannot delay his leaving longer; moreover he must do his testing on fresh blood".

"That confirms my suspicion: Hartmann is a vampire."

"This is not a matter for fun, Napoleon; must I remind you we are partly responsible for the epidemic?"

Napoleon didn't need to be reminded of it; his feelings of guilt were still raw and only too vivid in his mind. Illya was right, of course; there was no point in discussing the necessity of Hartmann's presence: Waverly's orders. But the unexpected arrival of the ex-Nazi scientist was the last blow of a long series. Even Illya's presence was not welcome in the situation he was in at the moment, and he wondered how he could have ever contemplated inviting him.

A meeting at the hotel was scheduled for the next morning but an uncertainty was hanging over the planes timetable because of the weather. Reluctantly, and fervently hoping it wouldn't be needed, Napoleon gave the address of the Morrisons where he had to be in the afternoon. To cancel the party now was unthinkable. As for himself, there was a limit to the amount of ridicule he was able to bear, and Napoleon had the clear impression that Paul's tolerance for foolishness was pretty low. It was disturbing and hurtful to measure how much he feared losing the respect of a child he hardly knew and had tried so hard to forget.

Napoleon opened the window to let in an icy draught. He stayed there for a long time. It wasn't snowing anymore but it was very cold. He couldn't see anything outside. The night was very dark; no light anywhere; no stars were shining in the sky. Nothing to do. He shut the window and went to bed.