Generations

by Rosywonder

A potentially devastating attack on world fertility leads Napoleon and Illya to the belief that an old adversary is at work again, this time with the intention of destroying the Kuryakin family permanently in the process.

1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The sky was a startling, intense blue, reminding Napoleon, as he squinted up at it, of the sapphire in his wife's engagement ring, of his partner's eyes when he was happy. Despite the fact that Spring in New York had barely begun, here new life was clearly in evidence, in the lushness of the wild flowers in the meadows, the deep greens of the cypresses on the hills and even in the sparkling sea which stretched out in front of him towards some distant horizon beyond the olive groves and the assortment of boats in the harbour.

'Look, over there'. He felt the hand of the agent by his side touch his shoulder, pointing across the harbour towards a small fishing boat approaching them. The Greek agent raised a small pair of binoculars to his eyes, a smile creasing his lips as the vessel appeared in view.

'Is he there?'

'Yes, Mr Solo. Though he looks a little worse for wear, I'd say. Take a look.'

There were two of them standing at the back of the boat's wheelhouse, the slighter of the two leaning back against the rail that swept round from it to form the support to the awning at the back of the craft. Napoleon took the binoculars and focused them on the smaller man as he moved into the shade of the canvas roof above him. He was wearing clothes that were indistinguishable from any other working man of this part of the world, but his hair and complexion marked him out from those around him. As he stepped over the rail he stumbled, attempting to pull himself up before sinking to the floor of the deck amongst the baskets and ropes.

Napoleon adjusted the lens to focus on his partner. He frowned at what he saw, the gauntness of the body; the evidence of struggle and hardship in his tattered, stained clothes. He handed the binoculars back to the man next to him and continued to watch the boat weave its way into the harbour.

'What happened? I thought it was just a one-off courier assignment.' Napoleon turned away from gazing at the boat to face the Greek agent.

'That's what he thought as well, but things didn't quite work out that way.'

He remembered the last time he had seen him, on an extremely cold January morning in New York, Illya staring at himself in the mirror of the little bathroom attached to their office.

'I look like I did when I left the navy.' Napoleon stared at the passport, then back at his partner's frowning image in the mirror. His hair had been cut in a rather brutal style which perfectly matched the picture pasted into the Russian passport in Napoleon's hand, at the same time making his partner look as young as the innocent looking boy who stared at them from the heavily stamped pages.

'I thought that was the idea, that you looked like this' he replied, trying to appear at least reasonably serious. Illya turned and retrieved the passport, shoving it into the inside pocket of a suit which Napoleon thought looked vaguely recognisable.

'And before you ask, yes, this is the so-called wedding suit I had in Gorky' Illya said. 'I donated it to Rudi on my return. He was very grateful.'

'I bet he was. So, comrade, I'll see you in, what, a week?' Illya nodded.

'No more than that.'

For once, Kuryakin's estimate proved to be entirely wrong. His appearance had worked well for him gaining entry to Albania, but what had seemed a simple delivery and retrieval of information had turned into a near catastrophe, trapping him in the political meltdown which had resulted from Albania's deteriorating relationship with the Soviet Union. Betrayal by the Albanian group he was supposed to be helping had resulted in weeks of detention at a filthy prison run by the infamous Sigurimi, the Albanian secret police,until he had escaped with some difficulty, spending some time on the run in the mountains before he was able to get away across the narrow stretch of water which separated Albania from the island of Corfu.

What had been a brilliant day was changing as rapidly as the little boat was speeding towards the harbour. Dark, forbidding clouds began to assemble in the increasingly pale sky, and then suddenly without warning, the rain began to cascade down in a drenching blanket, bouncing off the sea and ripping up the water in front of them. The Greek agent appeared to magic an umbrella from beneath his coat, as the boat finally docked, a couple of men emerging from the boathouse and leaping onto shore to secure the vessel against the quay.

Napoleon ducked from under the umbrella and lightly jumped aboard the boat, heading for the still recumbent form lying motionless on a makeshift bed of blankets at the boat's stern. He crouched down, and pulled back one of the blankets slightly, forcing himself not to gasp at the sight of his partner.

At first sight he looked paler than his ship-mates, but not much, Napoleon thought grimly. The filth of several weeks, if not months of not washing appeared to have become ingrained into his skin, which looked a dirty greyish-brown colour. His hair, and a longish, unkempt beard were in a similar state, and Napoleon flinched slightly at the obvious sight of a large number of head lice enjoying themselves on the dirty blond strands. As if aware of Napoleon's reaction, Illya's hand unconsciously scratched at his head, before dropping to his side again. His clothes were a jumbled collection of half torn garments barely covering the thin body lying in front of him.

Napoleon stood up and almost collided with one of the boatmen now stood at his side.

'I'm sorry he wouldn't let us touch him. He just told us to bring him here and his uncle would see to his needs' he said, staring at the pile of rags now posing as a human being laid out in front of them. Napoleon's gaze was momentarily diverted by the sound of a vehicle arriving at the quayside. A private ambulance drew to a halt at the end of the quay, two men emerging from the front and hastily opening the back doors before pulling out a low wheeled stretcher onto the pavement beside the vehicle. Napoleon stood back as the two other boatmen appeared from inside the cabin and gently carried Kuryakin towards the waiting ambulance.

They had strapped him in and were about to load the trolley into the back of the vehicle when his eyes suddenly opened.

'Ah, decided to wake up at last, comrade.' A slightly quizzical look passed fleetingly across the Russian's face, the colour of his eyes a quite vivid contrast to the soiled face surrounding them.

'Napoleon? I . . I . . what are you doing here?'

'I'll explain later, when you've been cleaned up and separated from all those little friends you seem to have collected on your head and other parts of your body' Napoleon replied, waving at the prostrate form on the stretcher and nodding to the men waiting patiently either side of him. Illya scratched his head again before calling rather more faintly,

'Napoleon!' Napoleon lent down, trying to keep his head from touching the seething mass on the pillow below him.

'Yes?'

'Don't let them . . . you know, my hair. . .'

xxxxxxxxx

They followed the ambulance as it wound its way round the narrow streets, past the huge walls of the fortress dominating the north part of the city, skirting the fish market, at this time of day deserted except for a few men clearing the slabbed tops which would be covered by early the next morning, until finally the ambulance gently ground to a halt outside an Italianate building in a quiet street on the edge of the town.

Napoleon was out of the car and standing by the back doors of the ambulance almost before they were opened, following the stretcher into the cool marble floored reception area of the clinic. Two nurses approached the desk, giving Napoleon equally cool stares as he showed the receptionist his UNCLE card.

The receptionist handed the taller nurse, whom Napoleon noticed had extremely long, shapely legs, a file with Illya's name clearly marked on it, together with a band which the smaller nurse immediately clamped round the Russian's arm. He looked up to see a doctor pulling back the sheet covering his partner and listening to his chest with a stethoscope, before indicating something to the nurse with his hand. They looked up as he came over, the tall nurse smiling at Napoleon as they all gazed at the figure on the stretcher.

'And you are . . .'

'Solo, Napoleon Solo. Mr Kuryakin's partner.' The doctor nodded and then wrote something in the file.

'From New York? I've heard your name mentioned. Well, your partner is in need of a little care and attention, but medically speaking, he's alright. He needs to regain the weight he's lost, but his heart and lungs are sound. I'd say he needs at least two or three weeks rest and a strict regime for regaining his body weight, then he might be allowed to work again.'

Napoleon smirked a little before glancing at Illya, who he was sure was well aware of the conversation taking place above him.

'I'll make sure he carries out your instructions to the letter, doctor' Napoleon said, smiling, suddenly aware of two hard blue eyes fixing him with a cold stare. He could see the nurses looking at his partner's hair, one of them pulling out a cap to cover the long greasy strands as they gabbled in indecipherable Greek about their patient.

'Oh, before you take him away, I know he'd want you to do anything you needed to do to ensure he's clean and comfortable, if you know what I mean' Napoleon said, avoiding the arctic shaft of blue now attempting to penetrate his skull. He bent down close to Illya's head, now confident he was at least protected by the cap from whatever was crawling about inside it.

'Now be a good boy, and I'll see you when you're three shades lighter and smelling more sweet' Napoleon murmured. Illya turned his head, his eyes now almost slit like, and opened his mouth, but not before the trolley was turned and pushed away at break neck speed, the long legs of the taller nurse demonstrating an admirable turn of speed on the marble corridor.

Outside the clinic, the sky had returned once more to its original stunning azure. Napoleon found the Greek UNCLE agent lounging against the car, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

'How is he?' he said, throwing the end into the gutter and flipping open the door of the car as Napoleon got in.

'Pretty good, considering. They just have to perform a clean-up operation and he needs to put on a bit of bulk.'

He stared out of the window as they sped along at the same breakneck speed which seemed customary throughout Greece, towards the hills overlooking the town.

'We thought you might prefer somewhere more private to stay' Dimitrios, the Greek agent, said, as he wrenched the car off the road and accelerated up through tranquil olive groves filed with asphodels nodding in the slight breeze that had taken hold after the rain had stopped. 'We'll send someone to keep house and look after you' he added, as he jerked the Mercedes to a halt in front of a house which had suddenly loomed into view as they roared up the narrow road, the olives giving way to a dense semi-wooded area of assorted oaks, walnuts and fig trees which successfully hid any signs of habitation from the road below.

Napoleon shoved the door of the car open, relieved to be out of it and reminding himself not to complain about Kuryakin's driving again. The house was imposing, its style matching the Venetian architecture of the town, with its curving, baroque pediment and round topped windows overlooking the bay beneath it.

'The German Army used it during the war as their headquarters', Dimitrios offered, and then it came into our possession in the fifties. It's proved useful from time to time, when agents need somewhere to rest up. We've had quite a few through here in need of, what do you say, 'R and R?'

While Dimitrios struggled with the rather ancient looking door, Napoleon strolled round the side of the house, noting with a little anxiety the outside steps leading to a very large verandah on the first floor which overlooked the bay beneath them. At the top of the steps it was relatively easy to climb over the low gate and onto its cool tiled floor where he waited for Dimitrios.

'Isn't this a little bit of a security risk?' he said, as, from the inside, the Greek threw open one of the French doors. Dimitrios shrugged, as Napoleon followed him into what was a very large airy room stretching the whole length of the house, dominated by a very large open fireplace at one end, round which were arranged some rather elegant French furniture, the sofa reminding him of the green one he had spent many happy hours on in Kuryakin's house in New York.

'It's no more a security risk than your buildings in New York with their fire escapes, don't you think?' Dimitrios said, throwing himself down on the sofa and then leaning forward to rummage in his briefcase for a rather fat folder which he threw onto the low table in front of him.

'Take a read of that while I find us something to drink' he said, before disappearing through the door and clattering down the stairs.

Napoleon picked up the folder, the UNCLE insignia on top, with the word 'γενεα' underneath in Greek, followed by 'ιθακη' in brackets following it.

'Kuryakin, where art thou?' Napoleon muttered, as he leafed through the report, holding up a couple of glass microscope slides which had been carefully affixed to the back of the folder.

He had been in his office trying to sort out his expenses claims with Connie when Waverly had summoned him, the word 'γενεα' with the anglicised version 'Genea' written below it,on the front of a similar set of files to the one he was looking at now. Illya had been gone for three weeks already, and as he walked down the corridor, dark thoughts of bad news slipped into his mind as Waverly's office drew nearer. There had been a small feeling of relief when Waverly swung the table round towards him, tinged with certain regret that there was obviously no news of his absent partner.

'We seem to have a serious problem brewing' Waverly began, motioning towards the files with his pipe. Our people in Greece reported on it first, hence the rather unusual name, but since then, as you can see, there have been similar occurrences in other parts.' Napoleon fanned out the files, noting the places; Scotland, Japan, Greece, Russia. All were remote places; small islands, isolated communities. And in all of these places, a sudden, and permanent loss in the fertility of the male population.

'It appears, Mr Solo, that this lamentable state of affairs has followed an attack of . . .', Waverly thumbed through a file in front of him and drew out a sheet from amongst a thick pile of papers, 'Rubulavirus Paramyxoviridae.'

Napoleon frowned. He could vividly imagine his partner sitting in the now vacant chair near him, wearing the usual superior expression on his face that he kept for these occasions, providing Napoleon with an instant translation from the world of science to the real world where Napoleon lived. But this time he wasn't there. Waverly looked up over his eyebrows at Napoleon, both of them knowing what the other was thinking, and feeling.

'I'm afraid we haven't the benefit of Mr Kuryakin's expertise today,' Waverly said as if Kuryakin had just stepped out for a short break. 'However, Dr Monkton has added this note for clarification.'

Napoleon got up and walked over to where Waverly was sitting, picking up the piece of paper and scanning it.

'Mumps?'

'Precisely, Mr Solo, but as far as I understand it, this is a type which our virologists have never seen before. Normally, as I'm sure you know, there is a slight risk of er, complications arising after contracting the virus, but I'm afraid in the case of these poor men, it appears the virus has been manipulated into causing severe complications of a permanent nature.'

Napoleon wandered over to the window, glancing down at the swarming figures on the street below.

'I presume these outbreaks are for some purpose then, sir' he said, feeling strangely uncomfortable at the thought of something so intangible as the microscopic pattern on the slides stacked on Waverly's desk affecting the lives and futures of people in communities remote from each other and from his own life in this city so full of life. Fabian, his precious little boy, leapt into his mind as he looked out again. At two, he was developing his own personality; gentle, enthusiastic, a little boy he never thought he would see or hold or wonder at. One more child than he had ever hoped he would have or deserved to give life to. The living proof that he loved, and was loved. He thought of Illya then, of the Russian surrounded with his polyglot family; the man who had once seemed so self-contained and essentially single as an agent and as a man.

'Well of course, Mr Solo, I would have thought that was obvious.' Waverly's voice shook him into awareness again, and he returned to his seat, putting the sheet of paper on top of one of the files in front of him. Waverly stared at him for a few moments, before leaning over and switching on the screen, which flickered into life behind his head. A large world map was displayed, with the affected communities marked. 'If this is a trial, there are implications of global proportions' Waverly continued. There would be widespread panic if world fertility were to be threatened.'

Napoleon frowned, staring at the map with its little red dots indicating the places where human tragedy had taken place.

'So do we wait until they make it clear what their demands are? And do we have any thoughts as to who 'they' are, even?' Waverly sniffed slightly and blinked at him from behind his glasses.

'I don't think so, Mr Solo. I have the feeling that there is more to this than just holding the world to ransom for monetary gain. This has all the marks of a desire to control as well as to destroy lives. I think we need to look for where this virus is being manufactured, but also to investigate how these people might be attempting to control future world fertility as well.'

'Do you think it's THRUSH, sir?' Napoleon said, steepling his fingers and leaning back into his chair. Waverly shrugged.

'It's possible, but I have a niggling thought in the back of my mind that that confounded Bolt woman is behind this. After all, she has, rather unfortunately, both the scientific background and the desire for world domination, making her a likely candidate, if only we had a shred of evidence linking her to it all.'

It was true, that since the winding up of the affair with the Blaus, Lee-Hua Bolt had decidedly dropped out of orbit, together with a very large amount of money that she had amassed from the siphoning off of the profits from the illegal sales of art treasures that her lover's husband had been involved in. There had been a widespread search for her in both Geneva, where she had lived for a while, and in Bermuda, where the money had been held in offshore accounts, but when the UNCLE agents arrived, of the woman and her money, there was no trace.

'When Mr Kuryakin returns,' Waverly continued, 'we should make further investigations in Bermuda, especially since he has some contacts there in the British High Commission. I still think that island holds some secrets about Miss Bolt that could shed light on just what her intentions are.'

'Have you heard from Mr Kuryakin, then?' Napoleon said, rather relieved that Waverly had brought up what had been in his mind almost continually through the meeting.

'No, but we both know he's a resourceful chap and he'll find a way of getting out of that place soon. It's a damned strange country you know; they were hand in glove with the Russians until the last few months. Now it seems they're throwing their lot in with the Chinese. Still, we have to get on; no doubt Mr Kuryakin will appear before too long, I'm sure.' Napoleon had nodded, not entirely comforted by Waverly's apparent confidence in his partner's abilities.

He gathered up the files and got out of his seat, but not before Waverly had continued, 'Oh, Mr Solo, perhaps in the meantime you could make some more efforts to find who is working for Miss Bolt in this organisation, if what that Blau woman said was true. From her past form, one would assume it's a woman, but we can't take that for granted.'

'Er, no sir. I'm working on the premise that it would be someone recruited recently, and not in Sections Two or Three, from the fact that she didn't know about me during the Blau affair. Um, Josefina had an idea about meeting socially with the newer female recruits and wives; she thought they might reveal something in a more informal setting rather than someone interrogating them.' Waverly looked up, a smile lighting up his craggy features.

'Sounds like a capital idea Mr Solo. I'm sure Mrs Solo is more than capable of organising that event, and of reporting her suspicions to you of course.'

Napoleon smiled weakly before exiting the room and heading for the legal department. He had no doubts at all that Josefina's plan, once approved would be executed with the efficiency she undertook most things, work or home-related. He could almost hear his partner's groans as he strolled down the corridor and pressed the button for the lift.

His thoughts were returned to the present by the clank of glass on metal as Dimitrios thumped down a silver tray with two glasses on it and a large bottle of Greek brandy. Metaxa didn't really compare with French brandy in Napoleon's estimation, but after the events of the day, he was happy to sink back on the sofa with the file and a large glass of the stuff.

'Have you any ideas about who might be responsible?' Dimitrios said, pointing at the file with his glass.

'Possibly, but we don't have any concrete evidence yet' Napoleon answered. 'There's additional information to what's in that file' the Greek agent added. 'I went back to Ithaka last week and had a look at the records they keep of shipping into the harbour there. You see what puzzles me, Napoleon, is how the outbreak began.'

Napoleon put down his glass on the small table by the sofa.

'Well, judging from the reports from the other affected areas, I'd say someone brought it in. Illya is the science expert in our partnership, but from what I understand, it can be passed to someone in contact with any contaminated object. Then it's just a matter of direct contact between infected persons, which in these cases, seems to have been remarkably quick.' He picked up the glass again and stood up, wandering through the open French windows onto the verandah, as Dimitrios helped himself to a second shot of brandy.

'I think you should take a look at the shipping records' he said, dragging his briefcase onto his lap and beginning to leaf through its contents. 'You see I think there's pretty clear evidence that someone from . . .'

The sound of the gun discharging in the room was huge in the stillness of the evening. Before Napoleon could move, a second man was upon him, raining down a series of kicks and blows to Napoleon's body before he was able to ram his assailant in the chest with his head, driving him backwards towards the open staircase at the end of the covered balcony. Suddenly there was a shout from the interior of the room, the second man bawling some command to his partner, who, without taking his eyes off Napoleon, lunged forward, punching the American hard in the face, before running headlong into the darkness of the room.

Napoleon, reeling from the blow, managed to drag himself up against the wall of the verandah, aware of one of his eyes beginning to close and a thick, salty stream of blood beginning to soak his shirt collar. He lurched forward slowly into the room, waiting momentarily for the world to right itself in his vision. The contents of Dimitrios' briefcase were scattered spectacularly through the room, amidst the debris of some of the smaller pieces of furniture, now reduced to fire tinder across the floor. The Greek UNCLE agent lay amongst it, spread-eagled by the side of the sofa, his head punctured by a neat red hole just above his eyebrows. Napoleon sank down, wiping his head with the back of his hand while he searched for his communicator with the remaining one.

'Open Channel G. This is Solo speaking. There's been an attack here; Dimitrios is dead. I think I could do with . . ' He felt the communicator slip from his hand and bounce harmlessly on the floor, but he was totally unaware of the time it took for his body to join it there.

xxxxxxxx

The room was pleasant for somewhere, anywhere connected with the world of medicine. Not that Napoleon could make the details out too concisely, seeing that his left eye was covered with a thick gauze bandage which seemed to be covering the upper part of his head as well. The sound of Kuryakin's voice coming from his blind side startled him. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight of his partner sitting on a comfortable looking armchair by his bedside.

'And I thought you were going to see to my every need for the next, what was it, 'two to three weeks'?' Napoleon winced slightly at the expression on Illya's face, a combination of annoyance and devilment he knew very well.

'Er well, I was, but I hadn't quite reckoned on a little house call two not so friendly Greeks decided to make,' Napoleon answered, turning his head back. 'You heard then, what happened?'

Illya nodded. Napoleon began to wonder just how long he'd been in the clinic. The Russian looked quite good, his face more filled out, and considerably cleaner looking than when Napoleon had last looked at it. Illya pulled some glasses he had appeared to come by out of his dressing gown pocket and waved a familiar looking file in front of Napoleon's face.

'I see you've got hold of that then' Napoleon said. 'Surprised you can see it through all that hair.' Illya's lips twitched momentarily.

'Despite the fact that you appear to have given permission to the nursing staff to do with me as they will, I managed to persuade Persephone to try other methods of controlling my unwelcome visitors' he replied, shaking his head slightly. Unfortunately, I had to agree to a more drastic approach in other areas.'

'I hope Persephone approved of your tattoo, comrade. It must be perfectly displayed now.'

Napoleon closed his remaining eye and sank back into the pillows. A warm feeling suffused him, despite the injuries. He had missed their constant bantering over the last few months; its return signalled a sure continuation of the partnership, despite injury, head lice or any other affliction that could be thrown at them.

'OK, so you've read the report presumably. Spiros had some information that would have been very valuable; so valuable that it was worth an attack like that for.' Illya walked round the bed and sat companionably on Napoleon's right side, laying the folder on top of him.

'Yes, I'm sorry about him, he was a good man. They, whoever 'they' are, were anxious to prevent us finding out where they came from, it seems. While you were resting, Napoleon, I talked to Mr Waverly. He thought, until yesterday, that whatever the evidence was from Ithaka, it was the only link to whoever did this thing.

'So there's evidence from somewhere else?'. Illya smiled and nodded.

'Luckily there is. Apparently the people assigned to the remote town in Siberia weren't quite so good at covering their tracks. Or, of course, it was down to Soviet efficiency' he said, tilting his chin and smiling. Napoleon groaned, before opening his eye and staring at his partner.

'Apparently, they're sending someone with the information' Illya continued. 'No doubt it will be some apparachnik from the KGB, but at least we'll know then whether it's our friend or not behind all this.'

Illya had listened patiently as Waverly brought him up to date with the mission, but despite the lack of evidence, in his heart he was convinced of Lee-Hua Bolt's involvement. Waverly had not referred to his absence, nor even enquired about his health, Illya knowing full well that this information had already been conveyed. But after the briefing, Waverly had paused before saying,

'I think there are several people here who'd like to speak to you.' Illya's whole attention had been so given over to the matter in hand that for a few moments he couldn't think who Waverly was referring to, until, after a brief pause, he heard a piping voice start up,

'Papa, ici Tasiya!'

It was hard to stop tears from starting in his eyes as the little girl babbled into the phone. He could feel the nurse who had patiently washed his filthy body and meticulously combed the lice from his hair, put her hand on his shoulder as he talked to his little girl, followed by Pascale and Pablo. Even the twins joined in, shouting a strange garbled message down the phone involving the words 'papa' and what sounded like 'getty', until at last another, longed for voice took over.

'Ça va cherie, tu vas bien?'

Something caught in Illya's throat, and rather hoarsely he poured out everything he had held in through the long weeks, not caring if anyone was there or understood what he was saying. After a while they began to talk of more ordinary things, of the children, of what they would do on his return.

'What did the twins say?' he asked eventually.

'They're following in the Kuryakin tradition' Therese said. 'They're trying to tell you what they had to eat for dinner today.'

'Spaghetti?'.

'Bien sûr.'

xxxxxxx

The car was outside the clinic, Napoleon's case inside, together with a smaller bag which held all the possessions Illya had managed to amass in the three weeks he had spent there. Napoleon walked out into the sunshine, wondering what was keeping his partner. He looked at his watch, and then glanced back at the open doors of the clinic behind him.

Illya had been a little mysterious about their journey back to New York for some reason then unknown to him, feigning tiredness and returning to his room early, but later, Napoleon had managed to arm-wrestle the clerk on duty into giving him a record of Kuryakin's phone calls. A fairly short call to UNCLE HQ in New York was followed by a much longer one to Lübeck in Germany. Solo had frowned at the second one, before putting in a call of his own to the UNCLE office in West Berlin.

He squinted as his partner came out, the Greek nurse with the long legs on his arm. From somewhere or someone Napoleon could only guess at, he had managed to procure a reasonably smart suit and shoes, which now contrasted rather oddly with his very clean, but shaggy hair. Before he turned towards the car, she hugged him, whispering something in his ear, and then thrusting a little card into his hand before she ran up the stairs to the clinic and disappeared into its dark interior.

'What was all that about?' Napoleon said as the car screeched away from the pavement, 'giving you the address of the best Greek restaurant in New York?' Illya stared flatly at him, before leaning forward and giving the card to the driver, addressing him in what seemed to Napoleon rather fluent Greek.

'We spent a lot of time together, so I occupied my time improving my language skills' he said.

'Ah, that's what they call it nowadays' Napoleon murmured. 'And the card?' The car came to a sudden halt outside a row of shops.

'It appears that everyone I know has a barber for a relative' Illya replied, opening the car door. 'I won't be long.'

Napoleon watched him walk along the road, hesitating outside an open door to a shop where several men seemed to be loitering, smoking and talking. They stared at him for a few seconds, before returning to their previous conversation. Napoleon could only imagine what they might have been saying.

'There's a bar opposite; you could wait there' the agent driving the car said. 'Looking at him, it may be a while.' Napoleon raised his eyebrows, and got out of the car.

He was finishing his coffee when Kuryakin appeared, ordering another expresso and then sliding into the seat next to Napoleon.

'Am I now acceptable in decent company?' he said, doing his usual thing of feeling inside his shirt collar for imaginary hairs.

'Very acceptable' Napoleon replied, staring at his partner's hair, the long mane now shorn to a length he knew his wife would approve of and Kuryakin's wife would be horrified by. 'In fact I'm mildly amazed you submitted this easily.' Illya looked a little rueful as the coffee arrived and he began to stir several spoons of sugar into the cup.

'You know where I'm going, don't you?' he said, his expression gradually becoming darker as he sipped the coffee.

'And you were going to tell me, what, when we reached the airport?'

Illya flinched slightly, the neat haircut making him look suddenly serious and purposeful.

'It's difficult' he said, 'it's one of the most difficult decisions I've ever had to make, Napoleon, and I still don't know if I'm doing the right thing.'

Sabi's father had contacted him by letter initially, when he was still recovering from the near fatal gunshot wound inflicted by the Nazi war criminal Konstantin Blau, the end of a mission which had resulted in Sabi Klose's death. Illya knew, as soon as he had recovered from the shock of Sabi's loss, that a meeting to decide the future of her daughter Katya would become inevitable. His daughter, the little girl that he had promised he would care for in the event of her mother's death. He remembered signing the will, pushing the very idea that it would ever be needed to the back of his mind. Now it was necessary to confront reality and to take responsibility for the child he had so unwillingly created.

When Sabi returned to Germany, Katya had gone too, and Illya had wondered then just how he would maintain the link that both Sabi and his wife wanted him to. He had read the letter to Therese, his facility with German making it easier for them to understand the implications contained in its pages. Herr Klose had not been specific, but Illya and Therese sensed that something was being planned, something they were not to be involved in.

'You'll have to go when you get back from wherever you're going next' she had said, when he was preparing to go to Albania. 'Perhaps you can go on the way back even, if it's in Europe.'

She hadn't known where he was going, but though she proved uncannily right about the part of the world, neither of them had anticipated how long it would be before he could resolve the problem which had remained with him through some very dark days as a prisoner in Albania.

'Tess will accept what I decide, I know that' Illya said, glancing at Napoleon over the rim of his coffee cup, 'but I can't help the feeling that I may be betraying Sabi's trust in me if I get this wrong.'

'You think they want to keep her?' Napoleon said quietly, images of Sabi, in life and death, flooding into his mind. 'Have you taken legal advice? You know you could always ask . . '

'I've asked her. Your wife was very helpful, though a little blunt in her approach, as ever.' Illya smiled, but Napoleon could tell from long experience that he was troubled by what lay ahead.

'Well I'm sure she told you not to rush into anything' Napoleon added. Illya sighed a little, then picked up both cups and returned them to the bar.

'On days like these, I just want to go home and curl up with my favourite . . '

'Book?, Music?, Scientific Journal?' Napoleon smirked slightly and walked slowly along the street behind the slim figure of his partner. Illya climbed into the car and lay back against the seat, his eyes closed.

'My girl, Napoleon. My favourite girl.'

CHAPTER TWO

They all stood in line outside the shoe shop, the children's noses pressed to the glass in a way that made Therese smile at their enthusiasm.

'I can't believe you all need shoes at the same time', she complained, glancing down at the row of faces now looking at her, the twins trying to break free of their brother and sister's grasp.

'I could manage for a little while longer, mama' Pascale said, Valentin managing to get free and whack his brother over the head with a toy giraffe he had insisted on bringing.

'Valya, arrête-toi! No, you need them. I don't want people thinking we can't afford shoes for our children, do I? Just don't show the bill to Papa, alright?'

The shop was nearby, the French patisserie next door the useful bribe for good behaviour. Therese pushed the hair back from her face and grabbed Valentin, instantly colliding with someone standing just behind them.

She was of medium height, her blond hair hidden behind a red silk head scarf tied under her chin, a pair of exclusive looking sunglasses hiding her eyes. Her raincoat looked expensive, her handbag carefully chosen to complement the casual elegance of the outfit. Therese glanced at herself in the reflection of the shop window and felt drab and undesirable compared to this woman. Her companion, taller than his partner, was as dark as she was fair. Therese thought she noted a faint hint of something Asian about his skin, but it was difficult to guess his ethnic origin beneath the obviously expensive western clothes and the dark glasses seemingly cemented to his face.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you' she stammered, trying to keep both Tasiya and Valentin under control as they stood, the children beginning to swarm around her like a small flock of sheep.

'It's my fault' the woman replied rather kindly, her accent sounding American, but rather neutral, as if she had lived away for some time. She gazed downwards, suddenly removing her sunglasses and smiling at Anastasiya, who returned her smile with a penetrating glare.

'Are these all yours?' The man, apparently detached from the conversation, suddenly spoke, removing his glasses briefly as he regarded each of the people standing in front of him. Therese looked at him, a strange feeling making her slightly dizzy, as if she had seen those eyes before, somewhere bad. She shook her head before replying,

'Yes. I don't usually take them here all together, but needs must.'

'And you don't have an . . . au pair to assist you?' the woman said, her eyes widening.

'No, no au pair, just me.'

The other woman smiled, before reaffixing her sunglasses, grasping her partner's arm and walking off down the street.

Pascale stared at the retreating figure, her expression a perfect replica of her father's.

'The lady was nice, but I don't think her husband likes children, mama; he has that look' she said. Therese noticed how Pablo had turned away and was staring fixedly at the window again.

'Are you alright?' she said quietly, letting go of Tasiya and touching his arm. He stared at her, fear written across his features.

'I . . . I, when he took off his glasses, it was as if , well he reminded me of someone, someone from a long time ago, but I can't remember who.' Therese frowned. She had felt the same, transient feeling of some bad memory as she looked into the man's eyes.

'Don't worry, they've gone now' she said, smiling encouragingly at him, the boy's face responding to her as Valentin, with an almighty shove of the door, stormed in ahead of them. As she shepherded them in, Therese glanced down the street. The couple had vanished, only the disquieting feeling they had created left behind.

xxxxxxxxx

The train came to a smooth halt in the station, the steam exhaling from amongst the undercarriages as Illya jumped down and walked up the platform, his face set. He began to feel a weariness seeping into him, the decision he had to make endlessly revolving in his mind since they had left Greece.

Napoleon had disappeared into a shop at Bonn airport, returning with a large carrier bag filled with an assortment of clothes Illya frowned at, but eventually conceded to needing, his mind not on the practicalities of his trip.

'Just see them as an early birthday present' Napoleon said, pulling out a dark raincoat.

'Very early. My birthday's in November.' Napoleon shrugged and smiled, the sudden announcement of the plane to New York changing his expression.

'OK, ring me when you're done. I don't want any more mysterious disappearances for several months.' Napoleon regarded his partner. He looked tired, his appearance more wasted than had appeared when they left Corfu. For a moment he wondered whether he should offer to go with him, but on reflection, he knew this was one journey Kuryakin had to make alone.

'I'm sure you've got plenty to be going on with' Illya said, grabbing the carrier bag. 'Let's see, a tea-party for the ladies . . .'

Napoleon had explained Jo's plan to him on the flight from Athens, the Russian sighing audibly as he talked. He had not spoken for a while, before he said, staring out of the window, 'I suppose if Waverly's agreed to it, he thinks Miss Bolt is as involved as I do.'

'Ring me and I'll let you know if we have any obvious suspects' Napoleon said. Illya turned round and gave his partner a long, penetrating look.

'And one more thing, Napoleon. Don't involve Therese. Please.'

He had taken an internal flight to Hamburg, the short train journey to Lübeck bringing him into the heart of the old Baltic city. Sabi had talked a little of her home town, its architecture, the old town surrounded by the great river, the port and beach at Travemunde where her sister lived. But apart from her sister Angela, she spoke rarely of her family and had visited them seldom.

A sharp wind coming in from the sea whipped at his coat as he strode away from the station, his attention on the address written on a small card in his hand. The Alstadt with its assortment of brick buildings, church steeples and the two remaining town gates proclaimed its history as a proud city and centre of a great mediaeval trading empire. Illya couldn't help but think that Tess would enjoy photographing this place as he walked quickly up the narrow streets towards the house he was looking for.

They were waiting for his knock, Sabi's father opening the door almost immediately, his wife lurking in the dark room one side of the corridor. He could see more serious, sombre versions of her in their faces as they motioned him to sit down in the rather plain sitting room, with its dark, traditional furniture and tiled fireplace in the corner. Illya glanced round the room, conscious of photographs, some older looking, of a younger, happier group, Sabi amongst them, her long blonde plaits reminding him of a fairer version of his own daughter Pascale. There were other, more recent photos of whom Illya guessed was her sister Angela with a man at her side, but pictures of Sabi and Katya were noticeably absent from the room.

'Thank you for coming, Herr Kuryakin, although we had hoped for an earlier settlement of this situation', Sabi's father began, his wife remaining silent at his side.

'I'm sorry, I was unable to come before now' Illya replied, hoping that it wouldn't sound as if he was making an excuse. Herr Klose sniffed slightly and glanced at his wife, who got up and left the room, the jangling of china indicating her role in the discussions.

'I think we should get to the point' Klose began again, opening a wallet containing what looked like official looking papers. There was another knock as he spoke; he stood up immediately and shut the door, his wife dealing with whoever might be calling.

'We wish you to sign these papers' he said, pushing them towards Illya. You will give us legal guardianship of the child Katerina and surrender all rights over her.' Illya frowned at his tone and its finality.

'I can understand why you would like to keep Katya with you' he began, but I am her father, and as such, I'm sure you appreciate that I have responsibilities towards her, and also towards Sabi.'

Klose stood up and glared at the man opposite. 'It is a pity, Herr Kuryakin, that you were not more responsible when you fathered this child with my daughter. I understand that you are married, but that didn't appear to prevent you from conducting this little arrangement with Sabina, no doubt to compensate her for the loss of her so called female lover.'

Illya remained sitting, refusing to be drawn by the man's comments.

'That is not true' he said quietly. I'm afraid I can't discuss with you the circumstances of Katya's birth, except to say that it wasn't as you have suggested. But whatever you think of your daughter or me, my main concern is that Katya should have a proper family life, where she is loved and the memory of her mother is respected.' He looked up impassively as Herr Klose opened the door and called someone.

A woman entered the room with a tray on which were arranged a cake, two cups and a large coffee pot, murmuring something to Klose as she came in.

'Perhaps after speaking to Angela you may be able to come to a decision' he said, as he disappeared out of the room. As Illya watched, she poured out the coffee and cut him a slice of cake. He began to drink, looking at her as she sipped her coffee.

'She has your eyes, and your expression' she said suddenly, putting down her cup. Illya stopped drinking and looked at her.

'Herr Kuryakin' she continued, 'please forgive my father his mediaeval attitudes and demeanour. He loved Sabi as much as we all did, but he couldn't come to terms with her life as an UNCLE agent and also, well . .'

'Her partner?' Illya said.

'Exactly. In the end, it drove them apart and when she told us about Katya, you can imagine . . .'

Illya smiled. 'I can't explain about Katya's beginnings, but I can say that she is just as important to me as my other children, and that Sabi was one of my closest friends. Angela's face fell slightly, and she stood up and stared out of the window.

'How many children do you have Herr Kuryakin?

'Er, with Katya, six. Why?' She turned round and he could see that she had started to cry.

'Karl and I, we can't have children. When Katya came to stay, I tried not to become attached, but I couldn't help it. Karl told me we shouldn't hope for too much, but Father said we had the right to keep her. I know you love her, Herr Kuryakin, but for us, this is our only chance to have a little of what you have so much of.'

He came over and held her gently for a while.

'Call me Illya' he said quietly. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, before taking his hand and sitting on the sofa with him.

'Illya, whatever it says in that document, I promise that if, if she stays with us, I will bring her up to know who her parents were, and to know that they loved her.' Illya pulled out his wallet and retrieved a very battered photograph from inside.

'I lost most of my things on a mission before I came here' he said, but I managed to hold onto this.' It was taken in the autumn before last in New York; he and Therese under the shade of large tree, the children gathered round them, including Katya. 'Sabi took this photo' he said simply. They're all bigger now of course.' Angela put her finger onto each child, then looked at Illya.

'They're all beautiful' she said. He smoothed it out and handed it to her.

'If she asks, show her' he said.

He signed the forms, shaking hands formerly with Herr Klose as he left the house. As the door closed, he heard the sound of a child's voice coming from somewhere at the back. Illya turned and walked along the side of the house towards the garden behind, where a large oak tree gave him the necessary leverage to scramble up the side of the wall until he was sitting half perched on the tree, with a perfect view of the garden.

Katya was sitting on a bench, a row of dolls laid out companionably next to her, while she carefully dressed the largest one. He heard a voice calling, before a tallish man emerged from the house and came towards her. She held out her arms to him until he swung her up into the air, the little girl laughing and begging for more.

'I love you papa' she said breathlessly, before he hugged her close, their faces joined in a mutual embrace. Illya soundlessly returned to the ground, and walked slowly away.

xxxxxxxx

CHAPTER THREE

The party was largely assembled when Napoleon arrived, his taxi, after taking a supposedly quick detour to avoid traffic becoming stuck firmly behind a large road works vehicle along Park Avenue. Finally he had leapt out of the vehicle and walked the last part, ending up in front of an imposing modern hotel on 58th and 5th. He recognised one of the girls from Section Three in the hotel foyer, obviously placed to shepherd the guests to the correct room, but this time without the usual yellow triangles.

'Oh hi, Mr Solo' she murmured, 'we were wondering where you'd got to.' He smiled, motioning his hand to allow her to lead him on.

'Everything going well?' Napoleon asked as they rode up in the lift.

'Uh-huh. Your wife is running the show, remember?' He smiled knowingly.

Normally, this kind of occasion was the sort of thing where he felt totally at ease. Jo, unlike a lot of other women found his harmless flirting mildly amusing, particularly when there was an ulterior purpose to it all. But today he sensed a more sinister atmosphere in the room as soon as he stepped into it. If they were right, at least one woman in this room was directly connected to Lee Hua Bolt and intent on evil towards her fellow employees.

'See you later, Dana' he said as she opened a pair of large shiny doors near the lift foyer. She smiled at him and disappeared down the stairs as he wandered into the first of two rooms arranged for the occasion. The first, and smaller of the two was set out with a copious display of afternoon refreshments, inducing a memory of Kuryakin stuffing a considerable number of similarly delicious looking petits fours into his mouth at the last UNCLE social occasion they'd been to, with that annoyingly smug 'and I never put on weight either' expression of his which he frequently adopted whilst looking directly at Napoleon's midriff. A number of women were standing staring at the food; Napoleon could only guess what they were thinking and whether their calculation of the calories for each item was correct.

Josefina was standing towards the middle of the second, larger room, a cup of the milkless tea she liked in her hand. She darted a rather arch look in his direction, before smiling and heading towards him. A rather plump woman in amazing winged spectacles thrust a cup of tea into his hand as Jo reached him, her eyes glinting through the glasses in a rather beady manner.

'Ah there you are, darling' Jo said without a hint of annoyance. 'Napoleon, this is Pearl, our new head of the typing pool.'

'One of my favourite departments' Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows and smiling over the top of Pearl at his wife.

'Yes, Pearl has been telling me how often you manage to visit' Jo said, 'no doubt for reasons only you or your partner understands.' Pearl looked at them then nodded her head.

'Oh yes, we get the other one down there too' she squeaked. 'The girls get very silly after he's gone; I think it's all that blond hair he wears so long. I thought there were regulations about that sort of thing.'

'There are' Napoleon said, trying not to smirk. 'It's just that he prefers to see how long it takes for anyone to remind him about them.' Pearl glared at him before continuing, rather huffily, 'well, it's very un-American I think.' She walked off, allowing Napoleon to put his arm round his wife's waist and draw her nearer for a few moments.

'She may be a little scary, but I don't think she's what you're looking for' Jo said into his ear. 'You'll have to warn Goldilocks though, just in case she comes at him with the office scissors.'

Napoleon grinned, and then glanced back into the other room.

'Well, from the look of him when I last saw him, he won't need her assistance for a few weeks yet. I'll just have a little wander round and see if there are any more likely contenders.'

'Well don't forget that we need to be out of here before five as we have the small matter of the St Clare's School Concert to get through. You promised, remember?' Napoleon cringed slightly but when his sister in law was doing the asking, he always found it so hard to say no.

There seemed to be a great deal of networking going on between the women as he advanced towards them. He could see that names and numbers were being taken down into little notebooks, the younger girls obviously planning different things than the more matronly women in the group. He recognised a few faces, wives and fiancées of newly-recruited men in other sections that he met on occasions, and a couple of girls who'd not been long back from Survival school for good measure, although he was privately convinced that the mole, whoever she was, didn't come from Section Two.

'Oh hello, it's Mr Solo, isn't it?' He spun round to come face to face with a blond, her eyes a quite arresting honey brown colour. She was standing with another woman, equally tall, equally good looking, but in a different way that Solo couldn't quite put his finger on.

'I don't suppose you remember me; I'm Yvonne, Yvonne Shumway.' Napoleon frowned, and then remembered.

'Medical. You're in Medical. Not one of my favourite departments, I'm sorry to say, but perhaps you can change my attitude next time I'm round.' She smiled rather prettily, but Napoleon was aware all the time of the other woman.

'And your friend?' Yvonne seemed confused for a moment until Napoleon tilted his head in the other woman's direction. She gave a slight start, a momentary expression of what Napoleon could only describe as fear drifting across her face.

'Miranda Jones. You seem to have quite a legendary status in UNCLE, Mr Solo.'

Napoleon smiled, still wondering what it was about this woman that he had found so difficult to describe. Although she was very American looking in the way she dressed and behaved, there was something vaguely foreign about her which he couldn't define. As if she had read his mind, she continued, 'My great-grandfather was from the Far East, but from then on, we've been pure American, from Richmond, Virginia.'

'Well that's a State with a lot of history, Miss Jones' Napoleon replied, taking her hand, and feeling her grip it with the kind of grasp which usually meant business if it belonged to a man.

'And you work in . . .?'

'Pharmacy' Yvonne chipped in, 'you see we're kind of linked, Mr Solo.' It was extremely fleeting, but Napoleon was quick enough to notice that Miranda had not liked the last sentence.

'Pharmacy, eh. So, you dole out all those nice pills my partner hides in his pillowcase' Napoleon said smoothly, appearing not to notice. Miranda Jones stared rather wearingly at him before saying,

'Pharmacology is a little more complex than doling out pills as you so charmingly put it, Mr Solo. And your partner should take his meds, and then perhaps he would get better more quickly.'

She looked away immediately, her gaze sweeping the room as if she were looking for someone in particular. Napoleon nodded to them and drew away, wandering from each little group to another, but despite an occasional suspicion, the other women seemed suddenly less than interesting to him than the two he had just been speaking to.

He sat down on a convenient club chair after his rounds had been done, waiting for Josefina to finish going through possible future social events with the other women present. Yvonne Shumway was standing next to her, smiling and nodding at something Josefina had obviously suggested, before walking away to join another woman he recognised as a dental assistant. Finally, as they began to drift out of the room, he got up and went over to his wife.

'What did she want?' he murmured; a rather forced smile lingering on his lips for as long as it took several women to pass them by.

'She overheard me talking about Tessy and the concert to Julie Moore. Apparently she's a Catholic and looking for a friendly parish. I invited her along. Why? You don't think she's the one do you? She seems so, well, pure.'

'No, probably not' he replied, 'although her friend in the cream dress is worth a little further investigation.'

Jo shrugged and then picked up her jacket and bag.

'Perhaps. I suppose they both fit your criteria of recently recruited women outside Section Two or Three, but I can't see how either of them would have access to anything which would interest someone like Lee-Hua Bolt, not really.'

'Yeah, well I'll run their names through the system and see if it turns anything

up. Otherwise it's back to square one' Napoleon replied grimly. Jo smiled and grasped his chin between her fingers, drawing him towards her.

'Why don't you just let it stew inside that fertile brain of yours for a while, and then I predict you'll come up with something. If you stop trying to think about it, some word, some look will suddenly become significant. And if it does, then you can talk it over with the blond genius when he finally gets back.'

Napoleon smiled broadly and then kissed her.

'Well the 'blond genius' should be within talking range very soon, I hope' he said.

As Jo gathered her papers together, he walked over to the window and glanced down. The blonde nurse, Yvonne Shumway, emerged from the hotel into the arms of a tall man, who appeared to be in a hurry. Gripping her arm, he led her rapidly towards the edge of the pavement, where within seconds a yellow cab appeared and swallowed them up into the New York evening. Napoleon frowned, before turning away from the window and heading towards more conducive company.

xxxxxxxx

Therese slammed the door shut and leaned against its cool solidity before climbing the stairs to their bedroom, the bright sunshine, casting shards of jagged light all over the newly painted soft grey walls. She kicked her shoes off under the bed before slipping off her coat and staring at herself in the long mirror covering part of the wardrobe door.

The encounter with the woman outside the shoe shop had upset her more than she had at first realised, and she was sure it was for a more important and deeper reason than just what she looked like. For the umpteenth time Jo had lectured her on her appearance after lunch at the Solo's house the previous Sunday, but, like all the times before, Tess had smiled and let it go over her head. After they had returned from the shoe shop and she had finally said goodnight to the oldest of her children, the house sinking into its usual evening calm, she had gone into the bedroom and stood before the same mirror she now gazed at herself in, and she had seen the same tired looking woman who had been reflected in the shop window that afternoon, looking worriedly back at herself.

She had sat on the bed and cried silently and for some time about something she still wasn't sure about. After a while she stopped, wiping her face and then sitting staring at herself through the metal rods which framed the end of their bed. It seemed that in three long months she had allowed the responsibility of caring for her family and pursuing her career, together with the constant worrying about Illya, to reduce her to the haggard looking woman she now seemed to be. She couldn't remember the last time she had worn makeup or had allowed anyone near her hair. She had taken to wearing the same, limited combinations of jeans and t-shirts, a jumper thrown over in the colder months and her hair scraped back into a ponytail to complete the uniform she had unconsciously adopted. Despite feeding her children regularly and well, she had lost weight, her clothes beginning to feel loose on her delicate frame.

As well as missing Illya, she was without the support of his mother. Marina Kuryakin had been summoned to Israel to testify against the Nazi Konstantin Blau in the trial which had begun almost immediately after Illya had left New York. The vast quantity of evidence meant that three months later, she and Peter were still in Jerusalem, and as the days passed, Therese longed for her return with increasing desperation.

The morning after the shoe shop meeting the telephone had rung just as she had let herself into the house after delivering the children to school. Fortunately this was one of the two days Jo shepherded 'the terrible trio' as she called them to the crèche at UNCLE, the four children sharing a taxi with her and sometimes even Napoleon while Tess headed towards Steinhardt and her job. She had just put down the phone after informing the College she was working from home that day when it instantly rang again. She had snatched it up, assuming it was the College, not wanting there to be a reason why she'd have to go after all. Napoleon's voice was almost a relief until some deeply coiled fear surged up into her throat, making her choke on her reply.

'Tess, are you alright?' She had swallowed hard and managed to stammer a 'fine' to his enquiry. Long experience suddenly alerted him to her distress. 'It's OK. I mean, he's OK. He should be with you today, er, sometime round lunchtime, I reckon. Um, is the school concert thing still on?'

Therese had leaned back against the wall of the hallway, catching sight of herself again in the mirror over the front room fireplace. Suddenly, she had stood upright.

'Lunchtime. Are you sure?'

'Er, yes, that's what he told me. You OK with that?'

'Perfectly. Right, um, the school thing is still on, six o'clock, don't be late. Thanks for letting me know. Bye.'

Napoleon put the phone down, staring at it for a few moments, before scratching his head with the pencil he happened to be holding.

'What's wrong?' Connie enquired, handing him a fat folder with the words 'Genea – Medical background' on it.

'Er nothing, at least I don't think so. I just told her that the love of her life was on his way back to the ancestral home and she gave me the impression she was desperate to get out of the house for some reason.' Connie smiled knowingly.

'And you can't imagine what that reason might be? Ask your wife. It's what she always does when you're heading home after one of your little trips away.'

Napoleon smiled. 'But Tess is not Josefina. In fact we're a little concerned about her. Have you seen her lately?' Connie looked down, her face more serious. It was true; until Napoleon had said, she hadn't realised just how long it had been since she'd seen Tess. The Kuryakin children usually came and left with Josefina Solo, and since Illya had been gone, Tess had not been near UNCLE. She suddenly felt ashamed that three months had elapsed without them even speaking on the phone, let alone meeting.

'Jo thinks she's neglecting herself, but she ranks second in line for mule stubbornness after you know who, so I guess whatever she was desperate to do, it can't be what you imagine it is' he said, opening the folder. Connie picked up the phone again and dialled, replacing the receiver again after it was obvious that there was no-one home to answer.

'Well, whatever the reason, I guess you'll have to wait until tonight' she murmured.

Tess glanced at her watch. It had taken virtually the whole morning, but it had been worth it. She turned away from the mirror and took hold of the shopping bags, carefully pulling out the dress and laying it on the bed, and then opening the shoe box and pulling the new shoes free of their tissue wrappings. She delved inside a smaller bag, tipping the contents onto the bed. Several items of makeup fell out, Tess screwing up the bill and aiming it successfully at the waste paper basket lurking behind the chaise longue. She picked up the dress and draped it over the pink chaise, before gathering up the makeup and arranging the items carefully on her bedside table. Sliding off her clothes, she walked jauntily to the bathroom and turned on the bath taps until the bath was filled with a mass of soapy swirling water. It was only when she was fully immersed that she remembered she'd forgotten the most important ingredient.

xxxxxxx

Tess slammed the chocolate down on the kitchen table and glanced up at the kitchen clock. She'd run down the basement steps two at a time, a sense of elation eclipsing the momentary disappointment she'd felt at not being able to transform herself into the goddess she thought he might want to see when he returned. She stood for a while, listening, but the sound of the clock seemed to drown out any other clue that someone else might be in the house. As if I would hear you even if you were here she thought.

She checked the fridge, noting that nothing had been removed. Two white panna cottas wobbled delicately, nodding their approval that their chocolate accompaniment had been remembered at the cost of their creator's appearance. She shut the door carefully, and then flipped the dial of the oven, staring through the glass at the casserole dish inside before smiling and leaving the room.

There was no indication that anything had changed in the hall. A box left by the back room door contained the children's old shoes, now ready for disposal when she had the time. There were no other shoes in the hall, no other coat hung on the hooks above. Therese sighed and stared at herself yet again in the mirror. She had managed to wash her hair before rushing out; now it hung, semi-dry, like heavy brown coils down her back. She walked up the stairs, more slowly now, and went into the bathroom.

She picked up the wet towel from the floor where she had dropped it, and opened the lid of the dirty linen basket, her heart giving a slight lurch at its contents. Nestling in the bottom was a white shirt, partially covered by two black socks and some soft white underwear. Dropping the towel over the clothes, she stood for a moment, before taking off her own garments and dropping them into the basket over the others.

He was lying across the bed, the clean sheets she'd put on after Napoleon's call now a little crumpled over and around him. She forced herself not to either shout his name or run up to him, knowing from experience that whatever he looked like, his reactions would be sudden and might be deadly. He looked pale even in the warm sunlight, the familiar scars on his back made more livid by the whiteness of the skin around them. Tess frowned at his thin frame, and the loss of fat round the familiar face now pressed against the pillow. I hate this, she thought suddenly, I hate him coming back to me like this.

She dropped to her knees and came up beside his head.

'Illyusha, leve-toi, cheri'.

'Non, couche-toi avec moi, chatton'. His lips hardly seemed to move, the eyes above them remaining closed. Only his body imperceptibly at first began to move back to make space for her. Therese slid into the hollow his body had created for her, his arm enfolding her for a few moments until finally his eyes opened. Slowly, purposefully, he drew her close and began to kiss her very, very slowly.

CHAPTER FOUR

'Papa, are you goin' bed time?' Illya frowned at his youngest daughter, before he heard Therese say from behind him,

'No darling, Papa just needed to lie down after his journey, that's all.' She pulled the back of his bathrobe back a little and blew onto his neck, then kissed the short hair tapering down, before surreptitiously pinching the backside she could feel so firmly as she pressed herself up to him. Illya groaned slightly, and decided he needed to sit down quickly before something even more embarrassing and difficult to explain happened.

He hauled Anastasiya up onto his chest and collapsed onto the green sofa, the boys immediately appearing from behind one of the large upholstered chairs pushing identical trucks filled with an assortment of bricks.

'Boys! Watch out for papa's toses' Tasiya yelled in an imperious voice as the boys hurtled past. 'Those boys is rough' Tasiya confided into his ear, before thrusting a little book towards him, narrowly missing his nose.

'Be careful of Papa's nose' Therese warned her, before skilfully guiding the twins towards their parking place behind the chair and then lifting them up as she headed for the door. 'I'll take these two up' she said, so you can have some quality time with madam there.' Illya glanced up at Tess as she turned, the twins now riding in the crook of her arms, holding on fiercely to her neck like human jug handles. He was suddenly struck by how slight she appeared, her shoulders not looking as if they could bear the weight of the two chubby toddlers.

'Are you alright?' he asked, putting down the book momentarily. She smiled, her eyes ringed by dark circles he hadn't noticed as they had laid together all afternoon in the warmth of the sunshine filtering through their bedroom window. Tess hesitated fractionally, and then nodded. 'Fine, of course' she replied, before slipping out of the room, the sounds of the twins echoing up the stairs until finally the door shut behind them.

Illya was drawn back into the world of Squirrel Nutkin by his daughter furiously poking him with the edge of the book. He opened it and started to read, Tasiya peering alternatively at the book and then wonderingly into his eyes.

'Papa,' she said at last, 'Owl is very scary, but Squirrel Nut is very, very naughty, like Valya.'

'Yes, he is naughty sometimes' Illya replied, looking again at the picture, but not as naughty as Squirrel I don't think.' He looked at Tasiya, who now had a sort of triumphant look on her face.

'He is, papa' she insisted. 'He bited Uncle Frank 'cause he don't like his hair cutted.' Illya frowned.

'Oh' he said. 'I hope he apologised. Biting is naughty, even if you don't like your hair being cutted, I mean cut.'

'Mama says you don't like your hair being cutted, but you don't bite Uncle Frank.' Illya's lips writhed at the image, but Tasiya remained serious.

'Papa, I was scared of the man at the shoe shop and so was Pabby.'

'What man, lapin?' It was Anastasiya's turn to frown now.

'The man with the pretty lady. Passy said he don't like children, but Pabby cried, I saw him. The man had scary eyes, like Owl.' Illya put the book down carefully and held Anastasiya closer. She snuggled close to him, putting her head on his chest, her bright red hair vibrant against the darkness of his robe.

'Papa,' she said at last, in a voice heavy with sleep, 'don't go 'way in case that scary man comes.'

Illya stroked her hair until he felt her breathing change and her body relax into his. He picked her up and carried her upstairs, momentarily confused by finding that her bed had been moved into the room at the top of the house where Pascale slept. The room had been re-arranged, Anastasiya's small bed and array of toys randomly displayed on one side, while her sister's bed and desk, with a kind of military neatness, lay against the other wall. Illya pulled back the covers and gently lay the little girl down, covering her with the sheets before kneeling down by the side of the bed and kissing her brow. He lent back onto his haunches for a few moments, watching her.

'Papa will be there for you, lapin. For all of you.'

xxxxxxxxx

The school hall was a mass of seething humanity as they arrived; men and women of several generations come to witness the talents of the people they loved most in the world, the children there to perform for those that loved them. Illya was surprised to see the Waverlys sitting rather expectantly towards the front of the hall, Napoleon and Jo beside them, and, not surprisingly, two Section Three agents, a man and a woman masquerading as parents just behind. Dorothy Waverly turned round as he looked, standing up and signalling to them rather enthusiastically. Therese moved forward, holding his hand tightly as they threaded their way through the crush of parents and grandparents trying to find their seats.

Dorothy leaned over her husband towards Napoleon as she smoothed the silky pleats of her dress.

'Napoleon dear, it's none of my business, and I imagine dear Illya's gamine appearance is down to some ghastly mission he's been undertaking, but I really do think someone could have made sure dear Therese was suitably cared for in his absence. My dear, she looks as if a slight wind might blow her away.' Napoleon twisted in his seat as the Kuryakins reached their row, Therese kissing Alexander Waverly before leaning forward to kiss Dorothy. Compared to what he looked like before, Napoleon thought that Illya seemed pretty good, in fact he could detect a definite improvement in his partner's sense of well-being. Tess, on the other hand, looked happy, it was obvious she was delighted to get her husband back, but it was true, there was a difference in her which he wondered whether his partner had detected.

'Swap places for a mo, I want to talk to Tessy'. Jo had apparently read his mind and was already signalling her to come over. He managed to scramble past the Waverly's, kissing Tess as she gently pushed past the other way. Close up, the slightly gaunt look was more obvious, and he sat down with a worried look clouding his face.

'I see you got home safely and enjoyed your afternoon off' he began, watching Illya begin to purse his lips. Before he had the chance to reply, Napoleon continued, 'quite a lot of people are worried about Tess, Illya.' Surprisingly, the Russian looked down, a serious expression on his face.

'She hardly touched a mouthful when we all ate together' he said quietly. 'I have a medical to endure on Monday, and I told her she should consider seeing someone too.'

'And she agreed?' Napoleon saw a faint smile pass fleetingly across his partner's face.

'Not yet. But I'm working on it' he replied, glancing sideways at the two women beyond the Waverlys. 'It seems that your wife is employing a less subtle approach.' Napoleon yanked himself round. He could see Josefina gesticulating with her hands and talking animatedly, Tess silent, her head lowered. He got up and squeezed past Mr and Mrs Waverly, noticing that his rescue was appreciated by his sister in law. With a great deal more ease she slipped past the other way, and back into the seat next to her husband.

Illya squeezed her hand and gazed worriedly at her.

'Alright, alright, I surrender. I promise to eat until I burst and do something about my hair' Therese said, kissing him, ignoring the slight clucking noise coming from the seats behind them.

'Your hair is lovely, it's your body I'm worried about' Illya replied, aware now of listening ears behind them. 'You can come with me on Monday, and I don't want any arguments, alright?' Before she could reply he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind.

'We're glad to see you're back with us at last, Mr Kuryakin; Eileen was only saying to Sister Ingrid that Therese here looks as if she has the world on her shoulders.' Illya sighed, catching Napoleon's expression as he shifted in his seat and turned towards the two women behind them. Eileen O'Halloran and her sister Deirdre leaned towards them, their red hair styled almost identically in short rigid curls proclaiming their ethnic origin before their accents, broadly Irish despite living in New York for twenty years, confirmed the country of their birth.

'Well I'm glad to be back Mrs Flaherty' Illya managed, before Eileen burst in,

'Will we be seeing you at Mass on Sunday then? Your girl has a tirrible job of controlling those little holy terrors of yours, so she does. You know, last week, during the sermon no less, the little divil ran along the back of church and pulled all the Mass books down from the shelves. It's a shame he doesn't take after his big sister. Sister Ingrid said that girl is a born nun.'

Illya was aware of Tess grinning at the pained expression on his face, as she turned round.

'Valentin is a bit of a handful at the moment' she said, smiling at the two women behind. 'He takes after his father.' She stroked Illya's hair as the two sisters began on a long discourse about the need for strict discipline in the home.

'I imagine this is because of the visit you made on your way home' she whispered as her fingers ran through the cropped hair at the back of his head.

'Mm. I'm afraid I looked a bit untidy and I didn't think it was appropriate' he whispered back, thinking back to the conversation they had had about Katya in bed that afternoon. 'The trouble with barbers is that they never know when to stop' Illya continued, as Tess smoothed it down and turned back to face the stage.

'You should try Valentin's approach' she murmured into his ear.

The considerable noise in the hall suddenly quietened, as Sister Stephanie climbed onto the stage. Her tall slim figure and rather long, serious face commanded almost instant obedience from children and adults, but Illya knew from the many conversations they had enjoyed together that she was possessed of a formidable intellect and a very dry wit which she used effectively in her frequent dealings with both parents and the church authorities.

She gazed across the hall, taking in at a glance who was present, and who was not. Her eyes held Illya for a few moments, a slight smile drifting across her features before she glanced back towards the curtains.

'On behalf of the children and staff of St Clare's I'd like to thank you for coming tonight to support your children' she began. 'The performances are as listed on your programme, except for the fact that items five to ten cannot now be accompanied as Sister Ingrid has been taken ill this morning, I'm afraid.' She hesitated, to allow the murmuring among the audience to subside, before continuing, 'that is, unless there's anyone here kind enough to take Sister's place.' There was a recurrence of murmuring amongst those in front of her. Illya looked down until his head was jerked upwards by a sharp dig in his side.

'Illya dear, you're marvellous on the pianoforte; why don't you volunteer?' Dorothy Waverly beamed at him, while Illya noticed her husband turning round as she spoke.

'Yes, I'm sure Mr Kuryakin would be only too pleased to help out. I was looking forward to hearing the children play; now you can make it a Kuryakin ensemble.' Illya could have smacked Napoleon, who was leaning forward to enjoy the conversation at a safe distance, but instead he only sighed inwardly and slowly raised his hand. He could see Sister Stephanie nodding at him, as if this had all been arranged. He squeezed his way along the row to a ripple of applause and a few sighs from two or three teenage older sisters lurking near the front of the hall.

'Thank you, Mr Kuryakin; I was hoping you would take the hint' Sister Stephanie murmured as he approached her. 'They're in Miss Middleton's room, so you've time to practise the pieces if you need to.' Illya nodded and headed out of the hall and down the quiet corridor past darkened classrooms until excited noises, human and musical, alerted him to the right room.

A cacophony of sound assaulted his ears as he entered the room, suddenly halted by his appearance, as twenty faces peered enquiringly at him. A little cry came from behind the piano as Pascale, closely followed by Pablo rushed towards him. Illya crouched slightly to take the impact of his son and daughter, Pascale's normal quiet control forgotten by her delight in seeing her father again.

'Papa, what are you doing here?' Pascale asked eventually, after the room had returned to its former level of noise.

'Well it seems I'm Sister Ingrid's replacement' Illya replied, as Miss Middleton approached. She was holding a music folder with the various sheets of music marked in order, making Illya wonder how much of a set -up this was proving to be.

'I've marked the pieces' she said enthusiastically, 'you can practise if you can hear yourself above this rabble.' He smiled and took the folder, Pablo and Pascale gently making a way for him through the other children, who'd now quietened a little and were staring at him as he sat down at the piano.

'Who is Cecilia Lubbock?' Illya asked, taking his glasses out of his jacket pocket. A diminutive dark haired girl clutching a recorder stepped forward. 'Cecilia, you're first' he said. 'Oh, my favourite; sing little birdy.'

xxxxxx

'How many more?' Napoleon whispered in Josefina's ear, before settling back into his seat. Giving him a slight glare, she consulted the programme. His partner had appeared mid-way through the performances, patiently playing along to a number of children's musical renditions, all greeted with rapturous applause by the audience.

'There's just Pablo left – they've saved the best until last' Jo said, as Illya helped his son with his 'cello and then assisted him to tune up. Even Napoleon, who enjoyed music but never claimed to know anything about it, knew that this child had a special talent which he'd shown right from his first days with Illya and Therese. The audience appeared to be in on this knowledge, becoming still as the boy finally took up his bow and nodded slightly to his father. Napoleon glanced down at the programme. The piece was one he had heard Pablo practising, and had heard him talk about when he returned from the extra tuition he was receiving.

Sister Stephanie jumped lightly onto the stage, and after giving Illya a warm smile, turned towards the audience.

'We're very proud to announce that Pablo has won a scholarship to study at the Juilliard this summer' she began, to loud clapping from below. And before we hear Pablo, may I just ask you to give a round of applause to Mr Kuryakin here for bravely and so competently accompanying our musicians this evening. Napoleon could see his partner wince slightly, before rising a little from his seat. 'So, ladies and gentleman,' Sister Stephanie continued, 'we're ready to hear Pablo play 'The Dying Swan' now.'

Illya gazed at the music and waited for Pablo to begin, the first few, poignant chords of the music drawing him into its evocation of a slow sinking into death. He had played for Pablo before, but this time it felt different, the audience drifting away as the music bound them together in its tender bittersweet story. Illya was drawn back to their first meeting, the children he had dreamed of, entombed in a Mallorcan farmhouse by the woman he still searched for. He glanced across at Therese, now sitting next to Dorothy Waverly. Her Mallorcan ancestry gave her the same skin tones as their adopted son, and in the fading light, she looked remarkably sultry, her hair framing her face as she gazed lovingly at her boys on the stage.

They were still clapping as Pablo suddenly dropped the cello with a huge clang and ran off the stage. Illya wasn't quick enough to prevent him from running out of the hall, the shock of it rendering the audience speechless for a few moments, before a general hubbub ensued. Therese scrambled out of the row as Illya ran back towards her.

'I'll go after him' she said quickly, 'you get Pascale. 'He saw something at the back and it scared him' she added, pushing her way through a number of people who'd started to move towards the exit at the back of the hall. Sister Stephanie appeared at the door to the classroom corridor, a worried look creasing her normally calm face.

'Mrs Kuryakin, Pablo is in the corridor. Why don't you take him into church and see if you can find out what upset him? He won't tell me, understandably. It's open, and it's quiet there, away from all this,' she added, giving a slight wave of her hand.

'We'll come and find you in a few minutes' Illya said, aware of Napoleon coming up to him, Pascale in tow.

'What was all that about?' Napoleon said, glancing round the room as, with children and adults now united, people began to drift slowly away.

'I have no idea' Illya replied, looking towards the back of the hall. 'Tess seems to think he saw something.' Pascale slid across to her father and put her arm round his waist.

'He'll tell mama' she said softly, resting her head on his chest.

Napoleon could see that the Waverlys were lingering at the front, talking to Sister Stephanie and Jo. He walked back to them, the two Section Three agents now waiting by the exit.

'Is the boy alright?' Waverly enquired, patting his coat for the pipe they all knew he was looking forward to lighting at the first opportunity.

'Tess has taken him into church to talk to him' Napoleon said, 'I'm sure it'll be fine, sir.'

'I hope so' Waverly continued, 'his playing was remarkable. Perhaps he got a little overtired, with the performance and seeing his father again after so long.'

'Perhaps' Napoleon said. He frowned, casting his mind back over the last three years and not coming up with any other instance when Pablo had ever behaved in that way.

He watched the Waverlys' car edge out into the traffic, before feeling in his jacket for his cigarette case. He turned away from the road, a large group of people leaving the school blocking his view of the entrance to the church as he stood in the driveway. For a reason he hardly understood himself, the sight of the open Church door and the lack of light within caused him to frown with a sudden feeling of anxiety. He took a long drag from the cigarette and then threw it down, drawing his gun and breaking into a slight trot as he approached the door.

The clock reverberated in the tower as he slowed almost to a halt at the back of the church. Oddly, the lights which he had seen reflected in the stained glass windows earlier were now extinguished, only a faint glow emanating from a few candles in front of a shadowy statue in one of the aisles. Napoleon crept silently down the side of the church, hugging the wall beneath the gallery above him. He resisted the urge to shout out, an uncomfortable sensation settling over him as he approached the stairs leading up to the gallery at the east end. Two distinct sounds simultaneously divided his attention; steps on the staircase at the west end were matched by a low groan from the matching stairs at the east end. Napoleon hesitated, catching sight of the blur of a figure leaving the church before he started up the stairs.

She was lying half way up, one arm sprawled awkwardly behind her head, now a frightening mess of hair and blood. Napoleon sprinted up the stairs, ripping his communicator out as he reached her, and flicking it open.

'Open Channel D, this is an emergency medical call, St Clare's church West Village. Patch me through to Mr Kuryakin now, please.' Napoleon reached for Therese's neck, a weak, but steady pulse assuring him that she was alive. He looked up into the shadows beyond where Therese was lying, and then forced himself to go up the stairs. He could see the body lying further along; just a small, dark, silent shape wedged at the base of the raked seats stretching beyond.

Illya's voice, echoing in the silence, shook him momentarily.

'Get over here fast and don't bring Pascale' Napoleon said tersely, 'I'm on the east stairs.'

He ran back to Therese, feeling her neck again as he gently pulled back the hair from her face. A faint, thready pulse communicated her continuing survival to him. Hauling himself to his feet he ran up the stairs and along the gallery as he heard his partner arrive below him and glanced over the balcony at the solitary figure below.

'Illya, she's on the stairs' was all he could manage, his partner's already pale face looking ashen now as he froze momentarily in the central aisle of the church, before Napoleon heard him sprinting up the stairs. He knelt down then; stifling a groan as he gently raised Pablo's shoulders and pulled his body towards him.

He had regarded death many times in the face of people, innocent and guilty, but the injustice of this death for a moment overwhelmed him, freezing him into a rigid embrace of the boy which he was unable to break. He could hear below the sounds of what he presumed were the medical team; low voices, the clanking of a stretcher, orders being given, in some other world that he and this child did not inhabit. After an incalculable amount of time he felt a hand grip his shoulder, ragged breathing which he realised matched his own, someone close to him.

'Give him to me now.' For a few seconds his body seemed not to understand the request. He continued to kneel, rooted to the spot, until very gently two hands took the place of his own and Illya lifted the boy towards him.

The two men remained facing each other, the child between them for a time which afterwards neither of them could say was how long, until suddenly, Illya, with a hoarse, deep voice, stammered, 'Napoleon, he's . . I can feel a pulse'. Napoleon leapt up and clattered along the gallery, nearly losing his balance as he ran down the stairs towards the medical crew who were working on Therese .

'Get up here, stat!' he almost screamed, flattening himself against the wall as a pair of paramedics sped past him and disappeared round the corner.

The two ambulances were parked up in the driveway. Gabriel McCaffery, his hand on Illya's shoulder, stood between the open doors of each vehicle, his face calm as he whispered something into the Russian's ear, before running down the side of the church towards the Friary. Napoleon managed to catch Josefina as she emerged at a run from the school, her features anguished and distorted by the scene meeting her at the top of the path.

'Oh Jesus, Napoleon, what the hell has happened?' she said hoarsely, her head moving from one vehicle to the next then back to face him. Napoleon held her to him for a few moments, and then put his hand on her shoulders as he pushed her back slightly, looking into her eyes as he spoke.

'Someone attacked them in the church. We don't who it was or what happened. Tess is unconscious, but she's showing signs of coming round. Pablo is . . . well, he appears to be in some sort of coma. He hasn't been assaulted; he hit his head on the bench when he collapsed, that's why there was so much blood. I . . . I thought he was . . . but Illya found a pulse.' He squeezed his eyes shut and then rubbed them open again, feeling his wife in turn put her hands round his head and draw him towards her. They walked quickly to the ambulances, the paramedics beginning to shut the doors on the two vehicles. Jo grabbed Illya's arm, then kissed his head before adding,

'We'll go with Pablo, you get in with Tessy. Gabriel will bring Pascale.' Illya seemed calm, but Napoleon could see the agony in his eyes as they stared back at him in the gloom of the streetlamps above them. He nodded, then got into the back of the ambulance where Napoleon could just see Tess, one arm splinted now, lying still under the blankets on the trolley.

'We're taking them both to UNCLE Medical' Napoleon said after a few moments in which they both stared at the child on the bed in front of them, the lights of the city blanked out, just its sounds accompanying them along the roads and intersections towards mid-town. 'This can't be some random act of violence' he continued, turning towards Jo's still profile, as the ambulance lurched round, and then began to dip down towards the UNCLE underground entrance.

'And you're taking them into an organisation which you believe has a mole from Bolt working for it?' she replied, turning round. Napoleon sighed.

'I take the point, but if we took them anyplace else, it would be an even greater risk than it's going to be now, and besides, there's something about Pablo that is not quite right.'

Jo had no chance to question him about the last statement, as the ambulance ground to a sudden halt and the doors were thrown open, what looked like a whole army of medical staff awaiting it and its companion. Illya was already out of the other vehicle, his body almost folded over Tess's trolley, blocking her view of their son. Napoleon could see that the doctors attending her needed space, but were reluctant to challenge Kuryakin. Without hesitating, he grasped his shoulder.

'Illya, let them do their work. Come on, we'll meet them upstairs. We need to talk now.' Kuryakin swung round, his expression frightening to others, but not to his partner. He ran over to Pablo and kissed the bandages swathing his head, before stepping back mute while the two trolleys were rapidly wheeled into the large lifts awaiting them.

Josefina had come up behind them, her arm going instinctively round the Russian's shoulders.

'I'm going up to meet Gabriel' she said quietly; 'we'll see you in a minute'. She squeezed Illya's shoulder imperceptibly then walked swiftly to one of the two passenger lifts. Illya looked up, a brief expression of total bewilderment flooding his face. He seemed unable to speak, his world of order and logic transformed by this seemingly random and totally unexpected tragic event.

'We'll go to the office and you can get cleaned up. Give them a few minutes to work on them both. If Pascale sees you like that, she'll be worried.' Kuryakin looked down at his blood-stained jacket and shirt and then shook his head, but allowed himself to be led to the other lift. After a few more moments of gruelling silence, he finally spoke.

'It wasn't a random act. She did this.' Napoleon nodded, virtually dragging his partner along the corridor and into their office. By good luck rather than design, Illya's locker in their room contained some clothes that he usually wore over his shorts and t-shirt in the gym. Tearing off his suit and shirt, he pulled on the t-shirt and the other clothes, tying up his trainers before wrenching open the tap and washing his hands in the tiny bathroom beyond their office.

'Go. I'll contact Mr Waverly and join you in five' Napoleon said. As he searched for his communicator, he felt Illya put his hand on his arm, and then he was gone. Not for the first time Napoleon sighed deeply, then opened the channel.