Font of Life Part 1

by Rosywonder

Even on one's honeymoon, one is not safe from the evil intentions of THRUSH, especially if you are married to Illya Kuryakin. Please note that this is a direct sequel to the story 'The Coalminer's Wife'.

CHAPTER 1

The first adjustment to living with someone else had to be the noise, Illya thought; not that certain noises weren't important or enjoyable. In a former life, the life before Thérèse, he had spent long hours on his own, both playing and listening to music. Classical; Jazz; Blues, all were important to him. At other times, he valued the silence after returning from some mission where he had been beaten, blown up or just talked at by some tedious person for hours and hours.

Now, he had to somehow mix his musical tastes with hers, just like his record collection was now interspersed with Country music, Simon and Garfunkel, the Walker Brothers and Joni Mitchell. He also had to accept that silence was less easy to obtain in a shared life. Not that Thérèse didn't understand his need for it, or even desire it for herself. The first time he had found her sitting cross-legged in the back room he hadn't realised what she was doing; he had then understood, by watching her, the nature of interior silence. In return, she had learned to leave him when she found him lying on the bed or on the green antique sofa in the front living room, frozen in rigid stillness.

Music though, live music, was something which bound them together and enriched their marriage. He had listened to her playing and singing, but she had only heard him play occasionally, and never on the instruments that Tess had carefully collected and hung all over the wall of the back room. He began with the piano, then saxophone, oboe and finally worked his way round her collection of guitars, lutes and banjos, Therese sometimes playing with him, often just lying on the sofa or the floor, listening, then hugging him and applauding his talent. He had stood behind her while she tried to play his sax, his arms round her waist, kissing her neck until she had put it down, and they had laid on the rug together, the music put aside for a while.

The first month of their married life was spent at home, while Illya adjusted himself to what he hoped might be the pattern of the rest of his life.

First it was food; he had to admit that he couldn't be bothered most of the time, so had eaten at work, or gone out. Now, eating became a long, pleasurable activity. They ate alone together, Therese producing food he had only sampled in Mediterranean restaurants; or in response to frequent begging, cooking traditional English dishes that he remembered from University days. Dishes like Jam Roly Poly; Toad in the Hole, Spotted Dick; please don't repeat that name to Napoleon, Steak and Kidney pudding, and of course Lob Scouse – he loved every one of the dishes she put before him. On some evenings, he would take her out for a meal; Italian, Thai, Japanese – there were so many places to try, the experience of doing it together wonderful in itself. However, Therese's favourite activity, it seemed, was to entertain. His mother and Peter; Napoleon and Jo; Sabi; Gabi, the Waverly's; the list was long.

This was another astonishing thing. She appeared to have innumerable friendships. Illya walked in regularly to a new sea of faces, whether it was the guys she played with in a band, church groups, book clubs, even knitting clubs, or her dance friends, who had mistaken him for the gardener.

'Who's that guy in your garden, Tess?', he had overheard one asking from the open French windows one afternoon when he was obediently carrying out her instructions. He was busy planting a small orchard of fruit trees which he had forbidden her to do 'for obvious reasons'. They had all rushed out of the house and surrounded him, one very forward young woman commenting 'nice butt' before Thérèse, barely suppressing a grin, had informed them who he was. They seemed unabashed, dragging him back into the back room with them, the fruit trees left until they had finally gone home.

Even shopping took on a new dimension. She started taking him with her to buy food, a clever psychological ploy he thought; then moving on to objects for the house, and finally clothes. The seal of ultimate approval was gained when he managed to buy her something personal of the right size, on his own. He remembered her pleasure, thought this might be useful to get round her, and it usually was.

Work was a harder adjustment, as they knew it would be. When he was at home, Illya helped Therese with developing photographs she had taken. It became a quiet shared activity, little being said as the shiny paper took on images of places and of people connected to them. To begin with, the memory of her first pictures of him rose up like a ghost to haunt them, but gradually, it was replaced by other, happier images. One day, she showed him the National Geographic edition connected with the Ukraine, holding his hand tightly as they stared at the pages together. Then she had smiled, rather wickedly.

'You look pretty fit in that one – 'fit' as in 'I fancy you' she said, 'sexy haircut, eh? Shows up your pixie ears.' He had taken the magazine, banged her gently over the head with it, and put it away.

He found it surprisingly difficult to cope with her being away; something he hadn't expected. A week after the wedding, she told him she was going to Maine.

'It's just a short piece on the last remaining Shakers' she said, as she transferred several rolls of film from the fridge to her silver case. 'I've left you this to help you cope'.

'What do you mean, cope?' he said, archly.

'You know what I mean, amado' she said, not looking up.

On the paper were written the three days she would be away; on each day, the place where he should eat.

'What's this, Tuesday night, 'La Lucerna'?' he asked, thinking he'd heard the name before.

'It's the restaurant that Carmela and her husband own; you know, Frankie's sister?' she replied, still packing. 'Carmela said she'd feed you if you don't go too late'.

'You know Carmela?' he said, leaning against the wall, running his hand through his hair.

'I know all the Portellis. Carmela is my age, but I know all the children, and Rita and Frank of course'. Just the name was enough to freeze the expression on his face. She looked up.

'Yes, I know about you and Frank. Really, Illyusha, he is lovely; you just haven't got on the right side of him. Anyway,' she said, getting up and coming over to him, grabbing his head and pulling him close, 'you've got Frankie now, I hear, so you're safe. Now, don't forget to iron your shirts, like I showed you, and don't find someone else to do it'.

It was different when he went away, because she didn't know where he was going and he knew from her face that she was uncertain of how he would return. The second week he went away. He wished he could have told her it was only on a training exercise with the new agents. She hid in the darkroom while he was packing, then, forcing back the tears, slammed the door and came downstairs. He looked at her, standing in the doorway, as he finished putting his clothes in the bag.

'You can't get like this every time I go away; it's not good for you, especially at the moment' he said quietly, coming over to her. She let him put his arms round her and bring her close to him. She breathed deeply, a long sigh.

'I know, I know' Therese replied. 'Just the challenge of living with UNCLE's finest, I guess'.

He returned three days later, a little battered and bruised, wondering how she would be. He could hear the music even before he opened the door.

An incredible noise boomed out of the back room as he walked towards it. Therese, with her hair put up in an amazing pile on top of her head, was dancing head to head across the floor with Frankie, her hair in an equally amazing pile, earrings swinging jauntily from side to side, as she gyrated backwards and forwards. He recognised the song. 'My baby does the hanky panky'. He put down his bag, enjoying the spectacle, until they finally noticed him.

Therese's face broke into a huge grin and she ran towards him, Frankie shouting and waving above the music. When he could make himself heard, he whispered in her ear,

'Is this appropriate behaviour for a married woman in your condition? And just what have you done with your hair?'

Later, after Frankie had gone, she took him upstairs and tried to repair the damage to his bruised body. It was certainly worth getting knocked about a bit for.

Frankie had become a regular part of their life. She appeared after school every Thursday, and Illya and she sat at the kitchen table talking and scribbling things down, that Therese looked at with incomprehension. Then afterwards, she and Therese cooked up vast quantities of food for the three of them. Frankie had worked hard and even took away homework when Illya was away. His hair remained untouched, for the moment.

'After the honeymoon' he promised her, hoping it would buy him time.

xxxxx

On Illya's first day back after the wedding, Napoleon decided to make a detour from Chelsea, where their apartment was, down to the Village, to pick him up. He wondered himself why he was doing this, but, as he had explained to Jo, it might make things easier. For who, he wasn't quite sure.

'You're a soft …'

'lad?' he finished, watching Jo pack her briefcase. She looked up at him sharply.

'You'd rather go right down there to come back up to the office, rather than come in with me' she said, smirking. 'If we hadn't spent the night doing what we were doing, I'd be jealous of him'.

They had kept the engagement unannounced until after 'the wedding of the century' as Jo called it, had taken place, but he supposed people at work would probably be putting two and two together, judging by the amount of time he had 'called in' to the legal department since she had started work there. As he parked the car in front of the house at Grove Street, he wondered if it was going to be different now. They most certainly would be facing a major mission soon, if the notes Waverly had sent him were anything to go by. And he knew that Illya was hiding something from him.

The meeting with Waverly was not scheduled for two days, so there was time for them to finish the report relating to Fetting, and for Illya to keep some appointments that had been made for him in his absence by their new P.A., Connie. Napoleon watched his partner closely. He concluded that, as far as office life went, a married Kuryakin was a lot more laid back than the unmarried one had been. He had even smiled at Marlene in reception, and hadn't raised even an eyebrow when Connie had placed a fitness schedule for the next five days in front of him, and even more surprising, his medical appointment.

The meeting with the new agents was another matter. It was supposed to be a social occasion for rookies straight from Survival School to meet with older, more experienced colleagues. There had even been talk of assigning 'mentors' to each agent, an idea which when suggested to Illya the year before, had been met by a blank stare of incomprehension. Now, he seemed to be positively enjoying the prospect, chatting and smiling with Sabi and April in Waverly's office before they arrived.

There were six of them, four men and two women. Solo worked out as soon as they came in, that they had probably been talking about Kuryakin, and that they were still talking about him now. Illya didn't appear to notice, but it soon became apparent. The main protagonist appeared to be a tall, dark-haired American called Darryl Moore, abetted; it seemed, by a hard looking blonde called Jordan. He was the epitome of the word 'regular' Napoleon thought; regular looks, regular haircut, regular mind. Napoleon could see him moving towards Illya, looking for an opportunity to speak.

'Congratulations, Mr Kuryakin. I guess you'll be letting us take the strain for you now' he said, looking at the others. Illya frowned. Napoleon could see the signs of annoyance beginning to show, in the tight line his mouth was beginning to form.

'And why would that be?' Illya replied gently. Obviously Moore could not read the signs, for he blundered straight on.

'Well, you've got domestic commitments now' he replied, 'I guess the wife will want you back every evening for dinner and TV'. He looked round. The room had suddenly quietened, got a little colder. Napoleon went to reply, but a tug on his arm prevented him. Sabi was standing just behind him.

'Let him deal with that boy himself, darling', she whispered.

Jordan had joined in. 'I guess your residency position in the U.S. is safe now, Mr Kuryakin. You can take a back seat and enjoy the lab'. Illya's eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

'Miss Lawrence, I'm gratified that you are so concerned about my alien status in your country, but for your information, my application for citizenship was accepted some time before my marriage, and has no connection with it, since my wife is not an American citizen. As for taking any sort of inactive role in this organisation, Mr Moore, I can assure you that in future missions where either of you are concerned, I will be in the 'driving seat'; and', he added, 'of course I'll be enjoying my work in the labs, as I am well qualified to do so'.

Napoleon's ribs were dug into, as Sabi stepped forward. She gave Jordan a withering look and linked her arm into Illya's, giving him a big kiss on the cheek.

'You look wonderful, darling! Are you going to show these children how it's done in the gym too? I'd love to join you', she added, looking straight at Jordan.

'I'd be delighted' Illya said. 'But I better ring the wife first, to see if I'm allowed'.

xxxxxx

They met again at Illya's mother's wedding of all places. It had taken place at the Ukrainian church she attended, with just a few guests in the beautiful atmosphere that Illya thought these churches seemed to retain, as if the prayer and worship experienced within, lingered and consolidated in the building. Illya had arranged to bring his mother to the church from the brownstone house they lived in on the Upper West Side. He had worn the same suit he wore to be married in; with Therese in a beautiful silk shift dress that he thought his sister-in-law might have had a hand in buying.

'Very Jackie Kennedy' he had said to her when she appeared, a little pill box hat on top of the rather smoother hairstyle than he had seen her sporting on the 'hanky panky' evening.

He arrived at the house as Peter, and his best man, Brian Pierce, one of the UNCLE surgeons, were leaving for the church. Illya remembered Pierce vividly, from the time when he poured Hydrogen Peroxide into an infected wound of his that wouldn't heal. He tried not to glare at him, remembering the occasion. His mother had looked so happy, a lump had risen in his throat, and he had sworn that he would try very hard to cooperate with Peter, as long as it didn't extend to anything medical. He sat down in their living room, waiting for her.

Illya hadn't been in this room since they had re-decorated, very soon after his mother and Peter had decided to marry. It felt extremely welcoming and comfortable, an interesting mixture of Scottish and Ukrainian, although he supposed his mother must have got hold of some of the things in New York. He thought of how little she had been able to bring with her. However dreadfully the year had started, it was ending well – marriage; a new country; a new life.

He got up and stared at the photographs on the mantelpiece. As expected, the little boy with the neckerchief was there. He cringed at the memory of the huge version of this photo hanging in the UNCLE commissary. Then the picture of his father, with some others of the three of them, taken before the war destroyed their family, and so many like them. Unexpectedly, he felt a deep sense of loss for the father he had no memory of, except in these pictures and the shared memories of his mother. The thought of his child not knowing him suddenly worried him. Should he continue in UNCLE, or look for something safer, more stable, for them?

'He did what he thought was right, and you need to, too'. His mother's voice from just behind him made him jump momentarily. He hadn't even noticed she was in the room. He turned round to face her.

She was wearing a pearly grey dress and jacket, which seemed to accentuate the blueness of her eyes. She had had her hair cut into a more modern style, which made her look younger, and even more like him, he thought. She stroked his head, as she had done when he was a child and was worried about something.

'Illyusha, as I said,' she began again, 'your father died doing what he thought was right. You are like him. You need to do what you think is right, not what is safe or secure. Evil will still come to us, even if we try to hide from it, and even pretend it doesn't exist. If you think what you are doing is right, then you will be doing what is right for your family too. Besides,' she added with a smile, 'you have a wife who is praying for you; that will be your most powerful weapon'.

Illya smiled and hugged her. He had ceased to be amazed at how she could read him long ago, and he realised that he had missed her for it.

'Now' she said, 'I think you should escort the bride to her wedding, don't you?' She looked at him, and then her face changed slightly. 'Just a minute, wait here' she said. He stood there, wondering what on earth the problem was now. He could hear her go up the stairs, then return a few seconds later, holding something in her hand. 'Sit down Illyusha. You always managed to look wild, however hard I tried' she said, pushing him onto the sofa. She was holding a comb, which she proceeded to drag swiftly through his hair, ignoring his pleas. Illya sighed. Sometimes it was not possible to be more than five years old in one's mother's eyes, he thought.

The reception was held at a hotel the office used for these sorts of occasions, and the room had the advantage of wonderful views of the Manhattan skyline. Illya noticed immediately that Moore and Lawrence had been invited, by whom, he couldn't imagine, as they hadn't attended the wedding.

'Your step-dad invited them, in one of his magnanimous moments after a medical' Napoleon murmured in his ear. 'I don't think they've cottoned on who the wife is yet, though'.

Illya had somehow managed to become detached from Therese before the other guests arrived, and she was now standing with her sister, talking to Mrs Waverly. He wondered whether she had told Jo about the baby yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darryl Moore approaching the sisters.

Darryl had spotted her when she had come into the room, with that woman from the legal department who seemed to be hooked up with Solo, he thought. She was a real stunner, much better looking than Jordan; anyway he preferred brunettes, although you couldn't really do justice to her hair by calling it simply 'brunette'. He glanced at himself in the mirror by the entrance. He looked good in this suit, and he felt good; taut and well-toned, even though Kuryakin had made him look less than that in the gym. He just put it down to luck, and letting the Russian get the upper hand. He'd bide his time with him until there was another opportunity.

Darryl wondered where 'Mrs Kuryakin' was. He knew it wasn't the German blonde he seemed to be so chummy with; she batted for the other side, he'd been told. He looked round. Over by the bar, a mousy woman was standing with a drink in her hand. She looked slightly overweight, her dress stretched across her hips rather unflatteringly, and her hair curled in a rather tight set. He concluded that that must be her. He had a mental image of them sitting in front of the TV together.

He advanced towards the girl, hoping he could prise her off the other one. Perhaps Solo would come across and take her away, and do them both a favour. She was looking round now, as if she was searching for someone; this was his opportunity. He came up to her, a broad smile on his face.

'Hi', he addressed Jo, 'I think we've met in Legal, haven't we, but I haven't had the pleasure …' Jo gave him a brief look of annoyance, as if he had been a fly that had settled on them and needed to be swatted off.

'Josefina McCaffery. My sister,' she said, turning back to continue her conversation. To her surprise, Moore grabbed Therese's arm and propelled her into the room, away from the others. Therese allowed herself to be led. When they were at a sufficient distance from Jo, he began.

'Have you come with your sister?' Before she could answer, he continued to speak, telling her about himself. He had only just joined UNCLE, but of course he couldn't tell her exactly what department he was in, or what job he did.

'Otherwise you'll have to kill me?' she said innocently. This could turn out to be fun … for a while. She looked round surreptitiously for Illya. She realised that this man was the person her husband had described to her in not very flattering terms the other night, when they were standing in the shower together, Therese trying to wash his hair while he tried to make love to her at the same time.

Darryl laughed, rather too heartily, she thought.

'No ma'am, I wouldn't want to do that to someone as pretty as you, would I now?' he asked. He thought he was doing quite well with her. She seemed pretty keen, her topaz eyes looking up at him with interest.

She told him that she was a hairdresser, but she'd love to be a model. 'I didn't really work very hard at school' she lied, enjoying herself more and more; 'I thought that if I came to New York, I might meet someone famous and be discovered'. He looked as if he might come on to her now; he was moving closer. She glanced round him; rescue was at hand.

'What did you say your name was? Perhaps we can swap telephone numbers' he said smoothly, fumbling in his trouser pocket for a pencil.

'Her name is Therese Kuryakin, and if you want her telephone number, I'd be pleased to give it to you', Illya said from behind him. Darryl froze, spinning round to face the inscrutable expression of the Russian agent.

'I was wondering where you were, darling. Having a nice chat with Mr Moore?' he said, trying hard to keep the grin from his face. She came round and grabbed his arm.

'Yes, lovely. Perhaps we'll meet again soon, Mr Moore.' They walked away, Therese smiling, looking over her shoulder at Darryl Moore, rooted to the spot; Illya looking at her quizzically.

'What did you tell him?' he said. 'I do hope you haven't been playing with him. He's just a boy after all'.

'Hmm ... he needs to show my boy a little more respect then' she replied, stroking his face gently.

xxxxxxxx

Alexander Waverly tugged on his pipe, allowing wreaths of smoke to encircle the room. He had read Kuryakin's report on the whole Ukraine business, and wondered at the morality of what had been done to the Russian agent. Still, he had come out of it with the McCaffery girl at his side, so it hadn't been totally disastrous. Now, it appeared that his partner had also managed to engage himself to the sister. He sighed. When he had told his wife, she had nodded as if it had all been arranged like bricks in a wall. He hoped that they would be as lucky as he had been with Dorothy. Now he had these young bucks to deal with.

He remembered Solo and Kuryakin at the same time in their careers; Solo always at ease with himself and others, especially the women. He'd certainly met his match with that girl. And Kuryakin; he'd taken a huge risk with him, but against the odds he had proved to be a remarkable addition to the Command. Equally remarkable was their partnership. They couldn't be more opposite, but they seemed to have achieved an understanding of each other that he had never seen in any other agents. Perhaps Miss Klose and Miss Tereschenko had come a close second. The ending of that particular partnership had been a tragedy.

He sat forward, rifling through the papers. What next? He smiled to himself. Dorothy had hinted at something, but he hadn't quite been listening. There was enough to worry about in what was in front of him. The intercom buzzed, and Kristianna Blackstone's voice was heard, informing him of the agents' arrival.

They came into the room, quickly seating themselves round the familiar revolving table. Sabi seemed to have adjusted to living in New York; she looked relaxed, her usual smiling self. Napoleon wondered though. The loss of Kat had been so great, and to date, Sabi had not attempted to begin another relationship, preferring to restrict herself to friendships with people like themselves and April.

Vaz looked as lively as usual, his eyes darting round the room, twinkling at the occupants. He was leaning across to talk to Illya, who seemed pretty relaxed, his eyes slightly hooded, fingers steepled. Perhaps he was thinking of his honeymoon.

Napoleon thought of his impending marriage. There had been widespread 'weeping and gnashing of teeth', as Illya had put it, when the engagement had come out; Jo rode the storm well. If he had any doubts, he just had to look at her, be with her for a short time to know he had made the right decision. Not that it would stop him engaging in a little harmless flirtation, he supposed. He could enjoy his engagement; there was no rush.

Kristianna was standing behind Waverly, handing out the papers, before leaving the room discreetly. Waverly allowed them a few minutes to look through them before starting the meeting.

'Miss Klose; gentlemen; I hope you have had long enough to peruse the available information before we begin. Oh, and I think it appears we have more congratulations to offer'. Napoleon was glancing over at Illya when Waverly spoke and saw him jump, the colour filling his cheeks momentarily, only to be fought back when they had all looked at the American.

'Thank you sir; I'll convey your sentiments to Miss McCaffery' he replied. 'Um, can you just excuse Mr Kuryakin and me for a second; we need to check something before the meeting can continue'. Illya looked up amazed, as Solo grabbed his arm and propelled him towards the door, the others looking on with varying expressions of surprise and astonishment.

'Kristianna, can we just have a word alone' Napoleon asked, as the door shut.

'I'll powder my nose' she replied, looking at the expressions on their faces. Napoleon still had hold of the Russian, and turned him round, gently, to face him.

'Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or do I have to beat it out of you?' he said, looking into the familiar face, and seeing a strange mixture of annoyance, and, yes, happiness, there. Illya stepped back, turned away and picked up the phone, dialling an outside number.

'Hello, it's me' he murmured. 'No, well nothing too bad. Um, I think I may have let the cat out of the bag, as it were' he continued. There was a pause. Napoleon could hear the familiar soft tones on the other end of the phone. A smile started to break onto his face. He'd figured it. Illya was continuing to speak, his face slightly flushed. 'It's OK then? Merci bien, ma petite fleur. Au Revoir'. He put down the phone and turned round. He realised that he didn't have to say anything from the look on his partner's face.

'Satisfied?' he said, his lips slightly pursed. 'The happy event is in April, as no doubt you will be informing the rest of the office in due course.'

They returned to the table, Napoleon grinning broadly. Before anyone could continue, Illya spoke. 'I'm sorry to hold up the meeting, Sir, for personal reasons, but they may affect my role in the coming mission a little, or … or' he stammered slightly, 'I thought you should know, anyway'.

'Know what, Mr Kuryakin? For goodness sake, get on with it, we have a very full agenda' Waverly exclaimed, with a deep sigh.

'Um, Therese, well, we …' Sabi jumped up out of her seat.

'You're going to have a baby!' she shouted, running to him and planting a kiss squarely on his cheek. 'Oh darling, that is lovely, lovely, lovely! she said excitedly, seemingly unaware of anyone else in the room.

'Congratulations, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly said, trying to suppress the smile that was forming; 'now can we return to the agenda?'

xxxxxxxx

Illya began with an overview of what had been revealed from the affair in the Ukraine and East Germany. Although Fetting's work had ended with his death, and it appeared that U.N.C.L.E. New York was secure after the elimination of Hannssen and Gilby, there was a distinct likelihood that long-term plans had been made by THRUSH, and were still intact.

'From references made both by Fetting and Carole' Illya continued, 'I am afraid that THRUSH may have hijacked the concept of 'Lebensborn' and adapted it for their own evil purposes. I would imagine that they have gone beyond the rather limited, and deeply flawed eugenic theory that the Nazis subscribed to, that is, the creation of a 'master race' of blond haired, blue eyed 'wunderkinder', however attractive some people might think that may appear' he said, smiling and looking at Sabi. Napoleon rolled his eyes heavenward.

'Deeply flawed' Napoleon added. With a big smile at Illya, Sabi continued.

'I've been investigating Fraulein Doktor Engel, Sir' she said, getting some papers out of her briefcase, which she passed round the table to Waverly. Illya sighed. Images of the doctor flooded back into his memory. He didn't suppose she was very favourably disposed towards him, now that he had broken her nose so badly. As if to confirm his memory, Waverly pressed a button, and the screen slid into view, displaying Engel's image. It was immediately obvious that permanent, disfiguring damage had been done to her face. The nose was twisted to the side, with a large, knob-like lump on top. Not that she had been particularly attractive before Illya had decided to re-model her, Napoleon thought. Illya looked across at Napoleon, who was still grinning. Today was going to be unbearable, he thought; well, a little unbearable.

It appeared, according to Sabi, that Winnifred Engel had been involved with dubious organisations from an early age. During the war, she had been an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth, and had been rewarded for denouncing her uncle and aunt to the authorities. She had stayed in Germany; studying medicine in Berlin, staying in East Germany after the Russians had arrived. She had soon gravitated towards the STASI organisation, working at interrogation centres like Hohenschönhausen. But according to David Mueller, she had now left East Germany and the STASI. But where she was, nobody knew.

'How is David Mueller involved?' Illya asked, frowning. Sabi passed him a piece of paper, a report. On the top was his name, followed by his title; Head, UNCLE Germany. It was Illya's turn to raise his eyes.

'I hate to mention it again, darling' she said, looking fondly at him, 'but, as I said to you before, I now have definite proof from David, that your former fiancée, that frightful woman Fedorenko, is now on the payroll, as Dr Engel's assistant'.

'Let me make this clear' Illya replied tersely, 'I, or rather Valentin as I was, was never engaged to that woman, nor did we have any sort of relationship of a sexual nature, apart from in her fertile fantasies'. Whenever he thought of their relationship, which wasn't very often now, it was with the feeling of humiliation at her hands. He really did hope they wouldn't have to meet again, but somehow, he thought that was unlikely.

Now it was Vaz's turn. He had spent a considerable time working out of the Madrid office, checking any intelligence which might relate to the setting up of an alternative 'community' of any sort, listening to, and reading an endless list of messages intercepted from THRUSH stations across Europe. His opposite number in Madrid, Diego Torres, known as the 'Spanish Napoleon Solo', had helped him to collate the information, showing him the nightlife of Madrid as a blessed release from the mountain of paperwork they spent every day trawling through. Eventually, Torres and Vaz had concluded that the only intelligence which seemed to even vaguely have a connection with any lebensborn-type community, pointed to two things; that it was in a hot climate, that is Southern Europe, rather than Northern Europe or Scandinavia, and that it was centred on an island. THRUSH was obviously making very sure that the community was not going to be found. However, although they had gained little headway on its geographical position, they had learnt much about THRUSH's intentions, which he had shared with Napoleon.

'It seems', Napoleon began, 'that both Cal and Carole were products of the initial phase of this programme, namely the taking of babies and children from homes in Eastern Europe, mainly Poland, although other countries were involved.' He glanced across at Illya, but he was looking down, and from the expression on his face, remembering things too painful to share. He continued. 'Some of these children were returned to their parents after the War, but some were never found. We have reason to believe that THRUSH became aware of them, and working with Nazi groups, those children were brought to America and placed with new THRUSH families, who brought them up to serve their own ends. You remember Carole's parents, Illya?' he said, a smile coming to his lips as Illya's account of the treatment he had received at their hands came to mind.

'Yes' he murmured. 'I didn't quite 'fit the bill,' if I remember rightly.'

Napoleon smirked and continued. 'As we know to our cost, some of these 'children' have been used in various THRUSH plots, but it appears that plans are also being made for a whole new generation'. This was something new. Illya and Sabi looked at him curiously, wondering what was coming next. He pulled out a sheet from the set given him by Vaz.

'I don't know if you've been following the news reports over the last few weeks' he said; 'some of us have been otherwise engaged' he added, glancing across at Illya, who returned his look with an acid stare.

'I presume, Napoleon, you mean the disappearance of men who are considered to be in top positions in the world of science, law, politics and business' Illya interrupted, 'and their rather mysterious re-appearance again a day or so later. 'As a matter of fact, Tess and I often listen to the BBC World Service in be . . ., in our spare time' he added, trying to disregard Napoleon's amused look.

'Get on with it, Mr Solo' Waverly interposed. 'Just what has this to do with the kidnapping of children and Dr Engel?' Sabi spoke next, rather quietly.

'Dr Engel's fields of interest are first and foremost what one might call 'psychosurgery', that is surgical intervention to alter the behaviour of the brain, but, of course, she is well known in THRUSH circles for her skill in the use of surgery for torture'. Illya's mind immediately pictured the neat row of surgical instruments laid out at the clinic in East Berlin, and he considered himself lucky to escape their touch.

Vaz added one final, chilling fact.

'I'm afraid, Sir, that Diego has since sent me some very disturbing intelligence from the Western Mediterranean area around Spain and the Balearics. Apparently, children have also been disappearing from their homes. But, unlike the men, they haven't re-appeared'.

Illya felt cold. The excitement he had felt in being able to share his news with the others, despite the risk of being unmercifully teased by Napoleon, had evaporated in the light of this latest revelation. There was a long silence while they all drew the inevitable conclusions from the evidence they had heard.

Waverly stood up, his pipe in his hand, long since extinguished. He gazed out onto the East Riveré, sparkling now in the early autumn sun.

'It appears' he said, 'that a new, long-term programme is being put into place by our friends at THRUSH Central. Someone has decided that a new generation of world leaders needs to be created'.

'They might very well be adapting the Nazi eugenics programme to somehow breed a new generation, presumably using some sort of genetic material from the missing men without them knowing it' Illya said.

Well, I can guess what that genetic material might be, thought Napoleon.

'Apparently, they have no memory of where they went, and there are no obvious surgical scars on them' Illya added.

'And I suppose' Sabi continued, 'that that horrid, so called Doctor is contemplating doing something frightfully cruel to the little ones that are born'.

'So that's why she needs the other children' Vaz contributed, 'presumably she's doing a few little experiments just to get her techniques up to spec, before she sticks her knife in the 'wunderkinder'. I read something about that 'psychosurgery' claptrap' he said. 'Apparently some quack claimed they could alter people's personalities with it'.

Illya interrupted him. 'Vaz, it's not all 'claptrap', but sadly, you are near the truth. I imagine that some experiments have been conducted on the children to see whether certain 'undesirable' emotions can be eliminated'. Waverly returned to the table, gathered up the papers, and sat down.

'Mr Solo and Mr Fernandez, you need to go back to Madrid and link up with Mr Torres. See if you can find out if there are any islands where someone has a private estate or such thing. I would imagine that they would need both space and privacy to set up something on this scale'. He turned to Sabi. 'Miss Klose, perhaps you wouldn't mind going back to Germany to work with David again, since you seem to get on quite well. We need to know more about THRUSH Northern Europe's involvement in all this'. Sabi nodded happily. Illya waited, his brow furrowed.

'Mr Kuryakin, you of course are due to go on your honeymoon tomorrow, so we do not expect you to be 'on duty' as it were. However, since you are going to a Mediterranean island in the target area, I wondered whether, if you became aware of anything suspicious, you might be able to contact us regarding it'.

I don't believe it, Napoleon thought. He'll be asking him to write a report of what they got up to next.

'Yes sir, I'll do my best to keep an eye out for any abnormal behaviour' the Russian replied, glancing at Solo.

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As they waited for the lift, Napoleon stared at his colleague.

'You don't seriously listen to the World Service in bed, do you, comrade?' He whispered, as the air took a temperature dive around them.

'And would I tell you anything we did in bed, Napoleon?' he replied.

'You might' Solo answered, in a hurt voice. Illya shook his head and got in the lift.

As Illya guessed, it only took till lunch time for the news to circulate. And the more enterprising ones among them had worked out the approximate date of conception too, by the time he reached the Commissary for a cup of tea. Still, Betty behind the counter had somehow produced a very large cake for him to have with his tea, so it couldn't be all bad, he thought. Frighteningly, they had already started a book on the name and the weight. He went home to tell Therese that the favourite names were Boris or Olga. She loved them, much to his utter consternation.

CHAPTER 2

Therese gazed out of the window as the pressure in her ears alerted her to the descent of the plane towards the land she considered to be at least partly home.

They had spent the first three nights in Madrid, where they had booked a room at a hotel near the Prado Museum. She was longing to look at the pictures she loved again, but now with the man she loved, to share it with. His knowledge of art, or even his interest in it, was, like so many things, unknown to her. She had gazed at him intently on the long journey from New York, still marvelling that she had married a man about whom so much was still a mystery to her, and now, astonishingly, whose baby she carried inside her. But it was the same for him too, she guessed. Every day he seemed to spend at least some minutes looking completely amazed, baffled or just delighted by the whirlwind he had allowed to enter his life.

The days in Madrid had been so wonderful, she had to constantly remind herself they were really happening, and not some wild dream she would wake from at any minute. Illya had seemed so happy and relaxed; he had helped her unpack the things they needed for this short stay, accepting the clothes he found in the case without comment, except to apologise to Therese for not being able to help her prepare for the holiday.

They had gratefully slept in the first morning, but after that, the great city was waiting for them, like a vast Pandora's chest that they, like two little children, were about to open. Every day, it felt as if she was discovering something new about him that was endearing and startling in equal measure. He loved pasta, motorbikes and Fellini's films. He needed to run at least once a day, and would wear all sorts of hats, depending on his mood. He was addicted to ice-cream, jazz and Therese's breasts, but not in that order.

'You won't be able to do this soon, otherwise you'll get a mouthful of something you hadn't bargained for' she whispered in his ear, as he lay there in his usual position one morning.

'Mm. I'm beginning to feel jealous of my own son already'. She turned over, pushing him off.

'Your son. You know something I don't, amado, or are you just an old-fashioned chauvinist at your Russian heart?' she replied, rubbing his bristly chin with her hand.

'Well I ... er … well there is a fifty per cent chance of me being right, and there are a lot of boys in my family' he said, eyes widening.

'And that is supposed to be a mathematical approach to the likelihood of us having a son' she laughed. 'You've been spending too much time with Frankie'.

As she soon found out he knew a little about art, and was happy to know more, if she was doing the telling. After plastering him with suntan lotion, they headed for the museum, arm in arm, laughing and talking together as they sauntered along the broad sunlit streets. She knew the museum well, and led him to her favourite painting.

The room was cool and quiet as it was still early, and the new school year had begun, reducing the number of tourists in the gallery. Illya gazed at some of the paintings; great Spanish masterpieces of exquisite skill and vision. Therese stood in front of one, and he suddenly recognised her Spanish beauty in the figures represented behind her.

'This is my favourite. 'Las Meninas – The Maids of Honour'. She stared intently at the large painting in front of her, and then turned to him, her eyes sparkling. She pointed at the little girl in the foreground. 'This is the Infanta Margarita, the one with hair like yours, and look, you can see the King, Philip IV, and his queen reflected in the mirror, as if they are standing where we are now, looking at their daughter. And this', she added, 'is the painter, Velazquez, making the picture. Isn't it wonderful? It has the quality of a photograph, don't you think, look at the way they are all looking in different directions; just as if they were caught in that moment'.

'Margarita is a pretty name. She looks quite knowing to me, as if she could be quite a handful' he said, squeezing her hand.

'You're getting into it' she said. 'Whoever said art history is boring?'

That evening, as they were sitting outside the hotel having a glass of dry sherry and some tapas, 'this is Spain, and you will have to learn what proper sherry is, not that sweet stuff people in England drink', Illya was aware of not being alone any more. He had bought Therese a new necklace, and he was putting it round her neck, Therese holding up her hair on top of her head while he fiddled with the tiny catch on the delicate jewellery, taking the opportunity to kiss her neck, while she laughed softly at his caress. He froze as he became conscious of three pairs of legs standing near.

'Buenas tardes, Senores. Que tal?'

Illya's head jerked back and he spun round, jumping to his feet, to find himself eyeball to eyeball with his partner. Therese lay back in the chair laughing.

Illya sighed.

'What do I have to do to evade your constant interruptions into my life' he murmured from between tight lips.

'And hi to you too, comrade. Thought we'd take you out on the town, since you wouldn't allow us to, before the event of the century' Napoleon replied, throwing himself down in one of the chairs next to Therese. She leaned across and kissed him, then jumped up and hugged Vaz. Illya moved across and put his arm round his wife's shoulders, glaring somewhat good naturedly at Napoleon, lounging in the chair.

'Therese, may I introduce you to the third member of this little unholy trinity. My colleague, Diego Torres. Diego; my wife, Therese'.

Therese could see why he was called 'the Spanish Solo'. He was tall and slim, but strong looking, with short dark hair; immaculately dressed in what she guessed was the latest 'Italian' style in suits.

Illya could see immediately that Diego was taken with her. Illya looked at her again. Since he had first seen her, walking along the street only seven months before, a lifetime had passed, and the girl that he saw that morning now was a woman; intrinsically the same, but now different in subtle, mysterious ways. More elegant, older, he thought, still with a lot of the old ways in her.

She unwound herself from Illya's arms, and linked arms with each of her very willing consorts standing either side of her.

'You dancin'?' she said to Vaz and Diego, eliciting astonished stares from both. Illya shook his head.

'Don't worry. All you have to say now, to have your wicked way with her, is 'You askin?' he said, with mock despair.

'You askin'?' was the very loud reply from both men.

They set off down the street, the unlikely trio in front, laughing and chatting, and the two 'old men' as Torres described them, bringing up the rear. Napoleon tried to keep off the subject of work, but inevitably it crept into the conversation, 'it' being the reason he was disturbing their honeymoon in the first place, as Illya complained throughout the walk to the restaurant.

'And please don't mention or even hint that Waverly has asked me to be 'on the lookout' for mysterious goings-on, on lonely islands', otherwise I'll be sleeping on the couch in her Uncle's living room when we get to Mallorca' he said.

'Would I?' Napoleon answered, smirking. He did feel rather guilty at doing this to him, but Diego would not shut up about meeting them, claiming that he couldn't believe the Russian was married, never mind about to be a father.

The restaurant was small and intimate, serving wonderful Spanish dishes together with heady red Spanish wines to compliment their spicy earthiness. Despite his initial complaining, Illya found his appetite growing, and with Therese and Diego's guidance, he managed to consume a vast quantity of regional specialities, to the delight of the chef, a friend of Diego's.

Towards the end of the evening, as they sat outside on the terrace at the back of the restaurant drinking coffee and Sambuca, Napoleon noticed a small group of women sitting at a table on the far side; one in particular stood out. Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon guessed her to be of mixed race, possibly Chinese or Japanese and European or Caucasian American. She was very tall, reminding him of Sabi; there the resemblance ended. She was dressed in a very tight fitting black jacket and trousers, which accentuated her figure, with rather unusual, heavy spiky jewellery, which looked almost vicious compared to the delicate necklace round Therese's neck. Her hair, jet black, was very short, plastered down by a shiny gel, giving her head a look of wet fur.

She was staring, but not at him. He decided it must be Illya who was the object of her attention. She continued to stare at him, appearing to be making an appraisal, before turning to her companions, and saying something which Napoleon didn't like to imagine.

'I think you've got an admirer' he whispered as he dug Illya in the ribs and motioned in her direction with his eyes. Illya glanced towards the table.

'Not my type' he replied, raising his eyebrows a little. 'I don't like the thought of what that thing round her neck might do if one got too close'. He leaned across to play with Therese's hair, as if to mitigate the effects of this unwelcome attention. When Napoleon looked round again, she had gone, leaving her companions drinking at their table.

Therese got up and spoke to the waiter, who disappeared into the restaurant. She walked back to the table.

'I've ordered a taxi to take me back to the hotel. You boys go and enjoy yourselves' she said, smiling at them all. 'Olga and I need a good night's sleep'. Illya got up and put his arm round her waist.

'Go on' she murmured in his ear, 'have fun, but don't drink too much – your liver has only just recovered after your little sojourn in your native land'. He kissed her, then turned to see the other three standing watching.

'We'll have to think up some new names for you now, O former King of Siberia' said Diego.

'How about, 'Red hot papa?' Napoleon replied.

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Illya woke up as the plane made its final descent. She had known he had returned to the hotel room from the thump which woke her, as he fell over the chair at the end of the bed. Eventually she had managed to divest him of his clothes and get him into bed, where he instantly fell into a heavy sleep replete with gentle snoring. She turned over and looked at him, splayed out on the bed beside her, his hair now in an unruly mop across his face. She pushed it back and stroked the sleeping head, thinking that she would sort out Napoleon when she saw him again.

Remarkably, he had woken early the next morning, apparently none the worse for his delayed Stag's night, and, dragging on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, had gone out for his usual run before breakfast. However, as soon as the plane had taken off from Barajas airport, he had leaned over towards her and, with his head on her shoulder, had fallen instantly asleep again.

The little airport at Palma was in a state of transition to something bigger and better. The advent of mass tourism was affecting the island and Therese hoped that the new prosperity so desperately needed, would not result in a corresponding environmental disaster. She had spent practically every summer of her life in this place. Her Mallorcan relatives had not been able to come to New York for their wedding, and were now eagerly expecting them. Therese wondered exactly what the nature of the welcome might be.

'My brother is coming to meet us; he's staying with my uncle Tomas and Aunty Francisca at the moment while he decides what to do with himself' she said, smiling. Illya had heard about Fernando, the youngest of the McCaffery children, at the wedding, mainly in despairing terms from Jo.

'Fernando – what can I say? He's just finished University at Oxford with a first in modern foreign languages. He's a rugby blue, star of the Air Training Corps, and he's fit, as in sex-bomb fit, if you get my drift' she said, sighing. 'However, he now tells us that he's taking a year off to evaluate his life, so he's gone to Mallorca to find himself' she sighed, raising her eyebrows. Therese had been more charitable about her wayward brother, but Illya could see that he was a puzzle for this high-achieving family. He felt sorry for him.

He spotted Fernando immediately they cleared immigration. He was yet another variation of the McCaffery family Irish-Spanish mix. Illya thought he looked more like Jo than the twins, but he could see why Jo had described him in the way she did.

He stood there by the exit, looking slightly bored. He was tall, with a strong muscular frame, his naturally sallow skin deeply tanned from spending a summer in the hot Mallorcan sun. He had Therese's rich red-brown hair, but curlier and very long, cascading down across his shoulders. He was wearing loose shorts and a faded t-shirt, and his slightly dirty looking feet poked through a very tatty pair of leather sandals. Illya felt faintly jealous that he could choose how he looked, and was not restrained by the expectations of his superiors, or any formal dress code of their making.

Therese had now seen him, and astonishingly, had put two fingers in her mouth and uttered a long, loud whistle. Fernando looked up immediately and a lovely smile lit up his face. He ran across the arrivals lounge and swept up his sister in his arms, then, seeing Illya, put her down again, very gently, on the ground. They embraced, their combined hair making for a slightly amusing sight; it was difficult to see where she ended and he began, Illya thought.

Eventually, they parted, and he turned towards Illya.

'Nando, this is Illya; this is my husband' she said, rather breathlessly, looking excitedly from the curly-haired brother to the blond, faintly bemused husband. Fernando gave Illya a decidedly critical look, Illya thought. He could tell that 'Nando' thought Illya's linen suit was indicative of something he didn't want anything to do with.

'Illya' he said, shaking his hand less than enthusiastically. 'Did she pick you up on one of her foreign trips?' Illya started to make some caustic remark, but thought better of it. Instead he said, without a trace of irony,

'No, we were neighbours; it just took me rather a long time to realise who I had under me, as it were'.

There was a brief silence between them, and then Fernando burst out laughing, Therese standing between them, blushing and giving Illya a shove in the back.

They walked to the car; telling Fernando about their house and their meeting, leaving the story of the months following, out for the time being. The 'car' turned out to be a rather elderly station wagon, which they managed to squeeze into, Fernando throwing the cases onto the flat bed at the back, much to Therese's consternation. Fernando drove fast bordering on recklessly, out of the airport and northwards towards the top part of the island, and the town of Pollensa.

Illya gazed out of the window, content to allow the brother and sister to chat at top speed Catalan most of the way. Although it was late September, the sun still beat down on the landscape, only the wound down windows of the vehicle making the heat bearable. He was glad they had left it until now to come here. The countryside was decidedly flat and agricultural, with rich, red earth fields on either side of the road, eventually giving way to a more interesting, greener and more mountainous environment as they drove northwards.

Waverly's request came into his mind as they sped along the road. Illya almost prayed that he might find nothing to report, but, judging from the interest of the woman in the restaurant the night before, he considered that unlikely. He hoped that he could at least hide it from Therese. He thought that unlikely too. Still, there was no reason why they shouldn't enjoy themselves, if the relatives would leave them alone, that is.

He looked across at Fernando. He couldn't ever remember feeling that he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. The Soviet system had been too rigid to allow that, and he had dutifully conformed to the school, University, National Service, and then further study route, leading to service of the State, set out for children like him, considered to be 'gifted'. He supposed that his decision to join U.N.C.L.E. was the most unconventional decision he had made, but that too was part of the relentless drive which seemed to fill his life. And now he was suddenly married. Perhaps this was the most unconventional event of his life, he concluded. He wondered what sort of a father he would make. Would his children rebel against him? Probably.

Therese had turned towards him, and he felt her touch his neck, pushing the long hair away from the collar of his shirt.

'Hot?' she asked, looking at him.

'No, I'm fine' he replied, 'I can adjust to warmer temperatures, even with my frozen blood'.

'Funny boy'. She looked round again, and then excitedly gripped his arm.

'Look, darling, we're nearly here. This is the Roman Bridge'.

They drove across the rather small bridge and up through the dusty, narrow streets, swinging up and up until they reached a row of houses right at the top of the town, with a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside. Fernando screeched to a halt outside a large three storied house with blue shutters, simultaneously hooting the horn of the station wagon. Illya didn't need to guess what would happen next.

He opened the door of the vehicle to be almost dragged out by four or five middle-aged women, whom he supposed to be aunts of Therese. They had got him between them, kissing him and touching his hair, whilst talking in Catalan at high speed. He looked vainly for Therese, who had disappeared. He shrugged his shoulders and gave into whatever was going to happen to him. He couldn't really remember later how he had got into the house, or who everyone was. He endeared himself to them immediately by introducing himself to them in the Catalan he had learnt from Therese over the last weeks, to be rewarded by a further round of kissing. Thankfully, the male members of the family had then arrived, order was resumed, and refreshments were served.

Eventually, Therese had fought her way through to Illya's side. She led him away from the crowd gathered in the garden, and he slumped down in a chair in one of the cool dark rooms at the back of the house.

'All right, amado?' She had said, stroking his hair. 'They love you' she added. 'They think we will have beautiful, intelligent children'. He looked up at her.

'Don't they know?'

'Don't they know what?' Fernando was standing there in the doorway leading to the garden. Illya and Therese looked at each other.

'Do you want to tell him, or shall I?' Illya said.

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They had given them a little house at the end of the terrace on the Calle Creus to stay in. Their bags, and a lovely acoustic guitar, had already been taken there by another cousin, and, after a few more kisses, they were left alone. There was a flight of stone steps at the back of the downstairs room, which led to the roof, and this became their favourite place at the end of each day.

For nearly two weeks, it was as if the world of espionage, evil geniuses, torture, and even laboratories didn't exist. Illya could just be Mr Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, of 5 Calle Creus, Pollensa, Mallorca; married to Mrs Marie-Therese Carmel Kuryakin. No security systems, no reports, no medicals, no Waverly, no UNCLE.

The days fell into a deliciously familiar pattern; as the bells of the numerous churches rang in the morning they would get up and spend some time standing under the shower together, eventually washing and dressing. After breakfast, it would be the turn of exploring; the mountains, walking and scrambling along paths by towering views of the exquisite blueness of the sea; the town, idly shopping or discovering hidden places up cool, narrow roads; and then, after a three hour lunch, spending hours lying on the beach in the cooler part of the day, or swimming, pulling each other down under the clear cool water, or taking a little boat out to a hidden cove, then lying in it together, out of sight of anyone.

Fernando had been a regular visitor, bringing them a relatively smart Vespa bike after a few days, that he had borrowed from yet another relative. This became part of the routine; whizzing along mountain roads, Therese's hair flying out behind like a flag at sea; finding secluded monasteries at the top of mountains, where they could sit quietly, his arms round her shoulders, her head on his chest.

In the evening, the Vespa parked at the side of the house and after another, long shower, they would venture forth to the town, spending hours on tapas and long, cool drinks, always ending with the obligatory Margarita served perfectly at the Club de Pollensa, the outside terrace offering them time to sit and watch people in the town square it opened onto.

Then, after slowly walking home, they would undress quickly, enjoying the coolness of the sheets on the bed, and the closeness of their bodies. Therese's skin soon assumed a luminous brownness, whilst, with her vigilance and much covering by lotion, Illya had even obtained a rather healthy looking tan, his hair, growing longer, bleached to a near Sabi-type Nordic blond.

Very early on Sunday mornings, she led him round the extensive markets of the town, culminating in the noisy fruit and flower market of the town square; Therese used her husband, and also Fernando if available, as he usually was, as pack horses, complete with straw baskets, which she filled with an assortment of lemons, olives, very large water melons, wonderful cured ham, and other vegetables, following along behind carrying a large bunch of flowers, which she claimed was all she could manage in her condition.

'Very convenient' Illya muttered to Fernando, as they climbed the steep road to the house.

'She doesn't ever actually give you orders, or even shout' Fernando replied, 'but you still find yourself doing exactly what she wants'. After the food had been put away, they returned to the square to a welcome cup of coffee, then Mass, Therese even persuading Fernando to attend.

'See what I mean?' he said, as he allowed his sister to pull his hair back into a more or less neat pony tail, while he attempted to drink his coffee. She kissed his head lovingly.

'And don't you even think about it' she said, as she finished, looking at Illya, flicking his hair into his face. 'One pony tail's enough in our family, and I've got it'. Fernando leaned forward to Illya.

'Leave her and the kid behind next summer and we can hang out. It'll be long enough if you give it a year's growing time'.

'Chance would be a very fine thing' Illya replied, wearily.

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Josefina kicked off her shoes. Her feet were swollen, and the air conditioning wasn't making any difference. She made yet another list on the yellow legal pad on the desk. These agents were a liability; trampling across the laws of any country they found themselves in, and expecting her to get them out of the legal mess they usually ended up in. She had already had to visit jails in Trinidad and Venezuela, arguing with pain in the arse officials, and even worse, bigger pain in the arse Consulate officials. She slammed the pad down and poured herself a large glass of water from the jug at the side of the desk.

What was worse, she didn't feel that well, either. Luckily Napoleon had been away for the last two weeks, so she could feel ill in her own home without him making a fuss over nothing. Then there was the wedding. He had brought himself to propose to her; she had the ring on her finger; but further than that, he was taking his time.

She wondered how Goldilocks and Tessy were getting on; Napoleon had gone on and on about the forthcoming birth as if it were the end of the world, listing all the things the Russian wouldn't be able to do once the 'ankle-biter' arrived, as he put it. To his credit, Jo thought, Illya had ignored most of the comments. He seemed absolutely contented with his lot in life; he was obviously very much in love with Tess, and couldn't wait to be a father. They were an altogether different cup of tea to her and Napoleon.

The door opened and Connie put her head through. Her friendship with Connie had surprised many, including Jo herself. She had at first assumed Connie was just another secretary, but she was a lot smarter than Jo had at first taken her to be. Connie had a degree in Business Studies and was working on a Postgraduate qualification. She was an incisive thinker, and had got the better of Napoleon on many occasions in any discussion on world financial affairs. She was looking at Jo now in a rather worried way, her open, American face, frowning.

'Have you been up to Medical yet, or do I have to tell Napoleon to escort you there?' she said, pursing her lips.

'He's not back yet … is he?' Jo replied, sitting up.

'Just walked in, so you'd better get your ass upstairs, pronto' Connie laughed. She walked into the room, which was as well, as she was able to catch her as Jo stood up and promptly collapsed.

She came round much, much later. Her eyes gradually focused on Peter McDonald's craggy face, as he leaned across her vision.

'Well, lassie, you like to give us all a wee shock, don't you now? He said rather quietly, smiling at her. She was gradually aware of the fact that some time had elapsed, and that some procedure had been carried out. The increasingly strong pain that she had felt in her abdomen had been replaced by the rawness of a recent operation wound. Jo's face contracted, her eyes opening and closing.

'What … is going on, Doctor?' 'Why am I here?' she murmured. She was aware then of another doctor, a woman in surgical scrubs, by her side.

'Miss McCaffery, Josefina' she began, I'm afraid we had to carry out emergency surgery. You had a very large ovarian tumour on a pedicle that had twisted and that must have been causing you acute pain. We have had to remove that ovary, and half of the other one. When you are more recovered, we can discuss the implications of this'.

Later, she surfaced again from what had begun to take on a nightmarish scenario. She was in a small room. Napoleon sat at her side, cradling her hand in his. He leaned across and kissed her gently, brushing the hair back from her face.

'And how long has all this been going on? I thought I was the one with the secrets'.

She turned her face towards him, her eyes brimming with tears.

'Go away' she said. 'It's over'.

xxxxxxxxx

'Please go and enjoy yourselves, boys; I'd love to join you, but I don't think Boris would appreciate the dive'.

Therese stood outside the house, leaning against the wall. Her back had begun to ache, and in many ways, she was looking forward to having a little time on her own. Fernando stuffed in the rest of the clothes they were taking with them into the seat of the Vespa, while Illya lifted the helmet from the front handlebar. He came over to her and fiddled with the chin strap.

'Only if you're sure' he said softly. 'I don't mind if there's something you'd rather do'. Therese sighed.

'For goodness sake' she laughed, 'stop being so considerate; they won't recognise you when you get back to New York.' She smiled. 'You love scuba diving; it's a wonderful place, and we have to leave in a few days. So please go and leave me alone to my knitting'. She didn't tell him that she had an assignment to photograph the impact of tourism around Palma. What he didn't know, he didn't fuss about. She rammed the helmet on his head and pushed him in the direction of the bike, where Fernando sat waiting. He revved the engine of the bike, and with a backward wave, they were gone.

The Illa de Peronella lay due southwest of the larger island, about two hours by boat from the nearest Mallorcan harbour. Fernando had spent an evening showing Illya on a large map of the area, pointing out the geographical features and explaining some of its history. Therese, lying on the sofa in the little garden at the back of the house, noticed that Illya seemed very interested, asking Fernando detailed questions about the island, particularly about its natural features and its inhabitants. She felt slightly uneasy.

It appeared that the island was an area of outstanding natural beauty. The gently sloping land, leading to the Puig, a fairly mild 'peak' several hundred metres above sea level, was covered in native pine trees, wild olives and juniper, which was the habitat of numerous species of Mediterranean creature. The coastline was a complex series of coves and inlets, with a natural harbour and port, and a dazzling variety of sea life, including dolphins and turtles, which was the reason for its popularity among divers.

'But you have to have a permit to dive, and that's becoming increasingly difficult to get hold of' Fernando explained to Illya . 'However, my man, I have a friend …' and he smiled broadly at the Russian.

'I won't ask if it's entirely legal' Illya replied, frowning. He could feel the communicator in his pocket. Surprisingly it hadn't gone off during the time he was here, and so his little mission hadn't been discovered. Yet. Still, the island certainly looked worth investigating, but he'd have to be careful, with Fernando at his side.

Illya had managed to hint to him that his work was mainly laboratory based, and let Fernando's imagination do the rest. Not for the first time did it occur to him that Fernando might be a suitable candidate for admission into U.N.C.L.E. For the time being, however, he forced the idea to the back of his mind until he could discuss the matter with Waverly. He wasn't even sure whether someone as free-spirited as Fernando could cope with the discipline of the Command.

They arrived at the Port late in the morning. Fernando drove the Vespa at breakneck speed round the streets until they screeched to a halt outside a shuttered house in a broad road just near the waterfront. He banged on the door and was greeted by a dark, middle-aged man with very white teeth, who, after shaking hands vigorously with Illya, opened up the garage to store the bike until their return.

His name turned out to be Junipero, 'after the Saint' he explained, 'Junipero Serra, the Saint of Mallorca, although he hasn't been canonised yet. He's also called 'the apostle of California; that's where he went with the Franciscan Missions'. Illya decided to ask Therese about that later. They followed Junipero to the harbour, where a boat was waiting, with the scuba diving gear already stowed. They threw the things they had brought with them into the boat, and climbed in.

The boat was a fairly traditional fishing craft of the area, about twenty feet long, with a wide deck and wheelhouse, and some shelter from the sun. Illya saw Fernando looking at him with faint surprise, as he arranged his clothing, and checked out the scuba diving equipment. He could see that this didn't really go with his persona of a 'lab rat' that he had been projecting to him so far.

The equipment turned out to be very good, although Illya had brought along his own dive knife, which was superior to the ones laid out with the dive skins and hoods. He knew that Fernando was watching him, and that the questions would soon start coming, particularly when they reached the island.

On the way out, they sat on the benches either side, facing each other; Junipero with his back to them, in control of the boat. Although Fernando knew a lot about the natural features of the island, he appeared to know little about its human inhabitants. However, Junipero proved to be a valuable source of information.

'In the past, Peronella was owned by only twelve families' he shouted above the roar of the engine and the sea; 'but eventually, in the Nineteenth Century, just one family and their retainers lived there, at 'la casa del Rei'. You'll see the house on the hill when you arrive. It's typical of its age. They were deeply religious, and built not only an oratory at the Casa, but also a Convent at the far end of the Island'.

'Convent?' Illya asked, thinking he ought to know this sort of information by now.

'Yes, a Franciscan Convent – for sisters; the Poor Clares as they are known. They're still there, Senor, but of course, it's an enclosed community' Junipero added. 'The family eventually grew tired of the isolation of the island and moved away, and the old house fell into ruin, although they did keep on 'La Masia' for a time, as a summer retreat'. Illya frowned at the information so far. It didn't sound like a particularly world-threatening place. An abandoned house, a Villa farmhouse and a convent; not much to go on. Junipero was continuing.

'About ten years ago, the family sold out to an American millionaire'. He made a sound with his teeth which Illya imagined was disparaging. 'They say he made his money with drugs'. Illya stared at him.

'Drugs?'

'I think he means the wicked pharmaceutical industry, don't you Juni?' Fernando interjected, looking at Illya. Junipero nodded. Illya's misgivings about the island began to surface quickly as he digested the last item of information.

'Do you know the name of this American?' he asked, trying hard not to sound too interested. Junipero nodded again, his eyes tightening.

'Si, Senor Kuryakin. His name was Wendell Bolt' he said, pronouncing the words with difficulty. 'But Senor Bolt is dead. It is his daughter, Li Hua Bolt who is the owner now. Fernando noticed that his brother in law looked imperceptibly alarmed at the mention of this oriental-sounding name, and it did sound strange, particularly when Juni was trying to say it, he thought. Junipero obviously had not finished the story yet.

'Senor Bolt was an officer serving with the American Navy in Japan during the Second World War. Before the outbreak of war he had spent some time in Japan, and while he was there, he met a Japanese girl. You can imagine what happened next, Senores. She, like many Japanese girls then, hoped that he would take her back to the United States, but it did not happen. She was thrown out by her family and had to try to survive on her own. Eventually, Bolt got to hear about what had happened. He returned to Japan, but he refused to marry Li Hua's mother, taking the baby only and returning to the United States with her. They say that she had a very strange upbringing, although I do not know about that. However, Bolt never married or had any other children, and when he died, she inherited his entire fortune'.

The image of the woman in the restaurant imprinted itself on Illya's memory. It was almost certainly Li Hua Bolt, but what she was doing there, or why she was so interested in him, he had no idea. Wendell Bolt was, however, familiar to him. He would have to check, but he was pretty sure that Bolt Pharmaceuticals had at least in part funded Gerhard's Fetting's work in Cambridge, which suggested there may very well be a direct link to THRUSH.

The ownership of the island was not absolute. As part of the deeds, Bolt, and his successors, had had to agree not only to allowing a certain number of diving licenses per year, but also, the existence of the convent, and the right of people to make visits to it. Illya decided that it was about time he made such a visit.

'When we arrive at the harbour, they will want to see our diving licences, and we will have to stay on the boat tonight. There are no hotels on the island, and the only other place to stay is the Convent, which is, of course, not open to male residents' Junipero warned, 'although there is a guest house for families of the sisters and those making retreats. The security force at the harbour is, you might say, quite unusual' he added, a smile showing the flashing teeth again. Fernando nodded in agreement. 'You can dive tomorrow morning, but if you want to visit the Poor Clares, you had better go this evening. They will want to know when we are leaving tomorrow'.

Using his powerful binoculars which he had packed, Illya was able to see the island clearly as they neared. The Puig was a definite landmark, rising gently from behind the natural harbour. He could see a road climbing away across the island towards the north, to the convent of the Poor Clares, and to the west, the outline of the ruined Casa del Rei, with the belltower of the oratory clearly visible. A small barracks type building by the side of the road leading from the harbour was also evident, with figures of what looked like security personnel walking up and down outside it.

The harbour was coming up fast now, with the barracks building and its occupants easy to see. There was something about the guards that wasn't quite as normal, he thought. They were all very slim, with black jumpsuits, short boots and military looking haircuts over which they were wearing black baseball style caps. Short barrelled sub-machine guns were casually slung over some of their shoulders, with others just wearing a leather belt with pistol attached. Illya stared, his eyes widening. Without exception, they were all women.

As the boat berthed, and Junipero dropped the anchor, one of the guards jumped across from the harbour onto the deck. She was tall, with dark brown hair and eyes, and a hard, ruthless expression on her face. She gave the three men a cutting look, then glanced down at the scuba gear.

'Licences' she barked, not bothering to exchange any preliminary civilities. Junipero passed her the paperwork, raising his eyebrows at Fernando, who was trying hard to suppress a smile. She checked the paper cursorily and thrust it back at the Mallorcan. 'You are free to dive until tomorrow afternoon. You can stay until five o'clock tomorrow evening. Please make sure you do not overstay your welcome Senores. This island is privately owned and is off limits to any other exploration' she added, a hard look confirming her words.

Illya stood up to face her, holding on to the side of the wheelhouse. 'I have a devotion to Junipero Serra, the apostle of California' he said innocently, 'and I would like to visit the Convent to pray before his image'. Fernando looked at him in amazement, and then looked away when he saw the guard's expression. Her face was filled with a mixture of pity and contempt, a sneer extending across her wide mouth as she looked down at the blond man in front of her.

'So, you're a religious maniac like those mediaeval has-beens up there' she hissed at him, jerking her thumb northwards. Illya looked suitably shocked, but decided not to take her on. He thought the term 'religious maniac' would be a good cover for the time being. 'Keep to the road and do not veer from it. By the look of you two, they might ask you to join them' she added, tugging slightly at Illya's unruly hair. For a moment, he really felt as if the gender roles had been reversed. He shook his head.

'Thank you' he replied. 'I'll try to follow your instructions'. She turned her back on him and jumped back onto the harbour, striding back towards the guardhouse by the quay.

The other two men were laughing, making disparaging remarks about the guard and Illya, Juniper even saying that the nuns were probably more attractive than 'that lot' as he referred to them.

'I presume that the guards are from 'La Masia' Illya said, packing the small backpack he had brought with him on the bike. He could see Fernando watching him intently as he checked the contents.

'The girls?' Junipero answered; 'only since Senorita Bolt took over the island, Senor. The only people who come here generally are divers, who don't really bother them because they don't usually venture inland, and a few friends and relatives of the sisters. As you can see, they are very hostile to the convent, and I think they'd like to see it closed if they could; but the Church, unlike the government, cannot be bought by the dollars of Senorita Bolt'. Illya nodded. He swung the backpack onto his shoulder and made to leave the boat.

Fernando put a hand onto his arm. 'You're not going without me, are you, brother?' he asked, grabbing his shoulder bag. Illya turned towards him.

'It might be better if I went alone. For reasons I can't really explain to you at the moment, I need to gain access to this island, and I don't want to involve you in what might be a slightly dangerous little pilgrimage' he replied. Fernando glanced at Junipero, then jumped onto the harbour side. He leaned over and pulled Illya onto the path.

'You've never been here before; I know my way round. And besides, if I don't look after you, man, your 'little flower' will have my guts for garters' he added, giving Illya a real Josefina look. Illya shrugged, and set off, Fernando following.

In the guardhouse, the guard who had boarded the boat picked up the phone on the wall of the reception area. In her hand was a black and white photograph of a man with short blond hair.

'Leaf speaking. Yes, he is here. He has set off for the convent with the other boy. Yes, he's pretty, but not as pretty as the blond. I'm looking forward to it. OK, tell Granite. Leaf out'.

She put the receiver down and went out onto the harbour road, watching the two men walk away into the distance.

CHAPTER 3

Li Hua Bolt stood in the workroom part of the extensive sandstone hall on the first floor of the Manor House known as La Masia. She had known the house practically all her life, although her father had preferred the more cosmopolitan atmosphere of Madrid or Palma to this remote Balearic island, with its somewhat windy landscape and monotonous, clanging convent bell sounding out the hours and days. She had been left here for long summer weeks with just the staff of the house, as well as her nurse, Ernesta, to care for her needs. And it was Ernesta who had changed her young ward from the snivelling little child she had been, to the person she had now become.

There was no question that her father would have preferred a son. However, he had returned to the United States with his new daughter in tow. As her father became more and more a remote figure in her life, Ernesta took on the parental role, arranging Li Hua's life down to the finest detail. With Bolt's tacit acceptance, Li Hua was encouraged to think, act and dress more like a boy than a girl; together with that came the subtle, mental influence of the guardian, as she now was, over the child. Ernesta had persuaded Wendell Bolt to provide a tutor for Li Hua, rather than send her to school, and Ernesta had chosen the teacher, a woman called Eden Mitchell. Mitchell was a dedicated single woman with a military background, who immediately fitted in to the household Ernesta was creating.

Wendell Bolt's death, when Li Hua was twenty, and still at University, proved to be the turning point. She was now ready to put the plans she and Ernesta had talked about endlessly over the last few years, into practice. She wandered over to the window to gaze across the estate which circled the house. The hill upon which it sat provided a perfect view of the surrounding countryside, including the roads leading to the house and beyond to the north of the island. She could see the old farm buildings scattered through the estate, now converted for other purposes.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of her medical director.

'Granite, did you know he was on the island?'

It had been Ernesta's idea to adopt the natural names for use on the island. Because of her position in the organisation, the name 'Granite' seemed entirely appropriate; hard, unyielding. The idea had spread to the other members of her staff. However, the names did not extend to Dr Engel, considered to be outside the 'group' that Granite and her mentor had formed at La Masia.

She turned towards the woman striding purposefully towards her.

'Granite. Did you know that he is here – on this island? How did he know about it so soon? Mein Gott! That Russian swein gets to know things before we do!

'Yes, I know, but we're not touching him – yet. There is a greater prize than just Illya Kuryakin, Doctor'.

She could see the frustration building on the doctor's face, the fingers of her hands moving in strange, circling movements. She shook her head. This was why she was on THRUSH central committee, and Engel was just a minion, a cog in the wheel. Still, Schleicher had been right when he had said that Engel was highly qualified but also 'without fear or mercy' as he put it. Her experiments on the Mallorcan children had produced some interesting results, and would enable Granite to succeed with her plan within twenty years. By then, she would not just be on central committee; she would be controlling it.

Of course she was grateful for Engel's information about Kuryakin, but even Engel had been surprised by her plan. If she succeeded, she would be rewarded by THRUSH, and Engel and Fedorenko would be able to work out their petty frustrations and revenge on Kuryakin. She thought back to the night she had seen him in Madrid. He was attractive to women she could see, with all that soft hair and fine features. More importantly to her, he was also highly intelligent. But even more delicious and important; he had a wife and unborn child. The woman, Therese, was the object of her interest. Li Hua considered her to be first-rate material; besides, she would now take what had been refused in the past.

Her memory of the day was as vivid as if it had happened the week before. She was sixteen years old, and it was the beginning of another long, hot summer. Apart from occasional excursions to Palma, she had spent the holidays, as she had since childhood, on the island, either studying, or gaining expertise in other areas, like shooting and survival skills, which her tutor was qualified to instruct her in. However, until that moment, she had never been allowed, or even desired to share these activities with another.

On 'the day', as she had called it ever since, Mitchell had decided that she needed further practice in her swimming and snorkelling skills, before learning to dive. Li Hua was already quite skilled, but she accepted the discipline of her tutor and the high targets that she set for her. They hiked to the lighthouse at the south end of the island, as there were particularly fine coves there, where the light in the large cave structures opening to the sea was an intense blue. As they approached the path down to the shore, they could hear laughing.

A boy and girl were swimming about in the sea. They had obviously been snorkelling, as their equipment was on the small beach that lay adjacent to the caves. It was immediately obvious that the girl at least, was naked, which was confirmed, when they swam right into the beach and scrambled up towards their clothes and towels that lay next to the snorkelling gear. Li Hua was transfixed by them. She realised that they must be related. They had the same brown hair shot through with what looked like copper, and as they looked up at the girl and woman, standing on the cliff above them, Li Hua saw the same astonishing orangey brown eyes. There was a moment's hush; then the girl, without any sign of embarrassment, picked up her towel and shouted a greeting to them in Spanish, while her brother rushed to pull his towel around himself.

'What are they doing here?' Mitchell was muttering, and seemed to be about to reprimand the two for being on the beach. But to her surprise, Li Hua had run down the path and was standing talking to the boy and girl. Up close, Li thought they were even more beautiful than she had believed they looked from the cliffs. The girl had undone her plait, and her hair was flowing down her back like a wavy brown river. She continued to stand there with the towel barely held around her, without worrying what the stranger would think.

'Are you on holiday too?' the girl asked suddenly.

'No. I live here. This is my island'. Li Hua was pleased with her reply, and the reaction of both the other children, who simultaneously gaped at her, then looked at each other as if checking they had heard right. The girl, who seemed to do all the talking, continued.

'My name is Therese. This is my brother Gabriel. We just came here for the day. We come here every year, just for the day'. She had continued, telling her quite naturally about their Mallorcan mother, their British father, their other sisters and brother. Mitchell, Li's tutor, had joined them by this time, and had started to talk to Gabriel. It gave her a chance to talk to Therese alone. They sat down on the sand together.

From the beginning, she had wanted this girl for herself. As Therese talked, Li Hua became fascinated by her; her looks, the way she spoke and moved. As Mitchell and the boy drew close again, she begged her to include the two McCaffery children in their swimming party. There was a shout from the rocks which interrupted her thoughts. A man was signalling to them.

'Oh, that's Uncle Tomas. I'll go and ask him if we may swim with you, Li' Therese shouted, running off like a deer up the path, her hair flying behind her. She returned with the uncle, who spoke to Mitchell for a few tense minutes, the children standing together in a huddle. Eventually, it had been decided that they could go, and what time they should meet back at the harbour, for the return trip back to the bigger island.

Li Hua remembered the swim. The twins, as she had now found them to be, had changed back into the swimming costumes they had not bothered to wear before, and Therese had tied back her hair, before putting on her snorkelling mask and flippers. They all walked awkwardly towards the sea, until they were transformed by the water into more graceful creatures, diving and flipping in and out of the mysterious blue light of the lagoon. Mitchell had started to show them some diving techniques, but Gabriel seemed most interested, and the girls soon moved away, swimming until they found a ledge to grab in the cave. Therese had pushed up her mask and taken the snorkel out of her mouth, when Li Hua had grabbed her, pulling her towards her with stronger muscles, and forcing her mouth onto hers. The English girl had jumped back with shock, but didn't cry out or make a fuss.

'No' she had said, 'I don't want you to do that'. She had gathered her things and swam away towards her brother. Ten years had not dimmed the memory of that encounter for Li Hua, nor the rage she had felt at the rejection. She had instantly recognised her in Madrid. And now, she was within her grasp, again.

It was lucky that her mole in UNCLE had just begun work in time to collect the information about Therese Kuryakin. If the baby was a girl, then it would be a double reward – Therese, but more importantly, a daughter. She wondered about the other man with Kuryakin; he was definitely Therese's brother, but her twin? He looked too young. She shrugged. It was enough to have those two, without complicating matters.

'Now doctor, to take your mind off our little Russian friend, perhaps you'd like to show me round the obstetric suite, and in particular, the 'special wing'?' she enquired, her almond eyes narrowing as she smiled. 'Then I have to leave for Palma, to meet up with an old friend'. The German clicked her heels together.

'Ja bitte, fraulein director.'

xxxxxxxxx

The convent was at the farthest tip of the island, about five kilometres from the harbour. Illya set off at a pace, not wanting to be walking the return route in the dark. Fernando had no difficulty keeping up with him, but as they trekked up the road towards the Bolt farmhouse, he began to wonder how the slight figure who he had been told was a physicist who worked in a laboratory, now appeared to be an extremely fit, resourceful and somewhat secretive man.

After about half an hour, the farmhouse came into view. The main house loomed up above the tree line, being set on a hill with views on all sides. On the lower reaches of the estate, there were clustered a number of long, low farm buildings with white painted walls and pan-tiled roofs. Illya rummaged in his backpack and drew out his binoculars, coming off the road and looking for shelter to make his observation of the estate less obvious. He climbed a small hill and lay in the long grass, scanning the house and the lower buildings. After a while, he pulled out a small camera and took some pictures.

Fernando lay down beside him and, when the photographs had been taken, he pulled Illya over onto his back.

'Right, just what is going on? This is not your usual sightseeing tour is it, and you are not the dull and boring academic that you tried to persuade me you were when I first met you, are you? His intelligent eyes stared candidly at the Russian, challenging him. Illya thought for a few moments.

'I do work in a laboratory, and I have a scientific background' he replied. 'However, that is only part of my work'. He sighed deeply. 'You know that I work for U.N.C.L.E. like Jo, and Napoleon?' Fernando nodded. He had heard about this Napoleon guy from Jo. He sounded the antithesis of everything he held dear.

'Yeah' he said slowly, 'you mean ... you're like working for an international espionage organisation that fights bad people?' Illya grimaced at the facile description, but agreed,

'In a manner of speaking. I'm sorry to have involved you in this, Fernando. Napoleon will no doubt be very cross with me, and of course, we will have to keep our mouths firmly shut when we return to Mallorca'. Fernando smiled sadly.

'It must be a bit of a strain for you keeping it all from her' he said. Illya started to put the equipment back into his backpack.

'Tess understood when we married, that this would be the basis of our relationship' Illya began. 'I think she finds it quite difficult sometimes' he added; 'she is scared about the condition I will return in, each time I go away. I have had one or two minor injuries recently, you see'. He could imagine Napoleon shaking his head at the many understatements he'd just made in the last sentence.

'And talking of Napoleon, I need to speak to him' Illya continued, retrieving the communicator from the pocket of his shorts. Fernando stared at the pen as Illya twisted the control and spoke into it.

'Smart' he said, grinning.

Illya lay back in the grass and waited for the familiar tones. He wasn't expecting the sharpness of the voice that greeted him.

'Solo'.

'Napoleon, is everything alright?' Illya replied. He knew it wasn't, just like his partner had known he was hiding something from him before the holiday.

'Where are you?' Napoleon replied, smoothly ignoring the question. Illya frowned. It was going to be difficult getting the truth out of him from this far away.

'I'm on the island of Peronella. Fernando, Tess's brother, is with me' he replied, looking across at Fernando, who remained fascinated by the communicator. Strangely, Napoleon ignored the reference to Fernando, and also made no cutting comment about Illya fulfilling Waverly's request on his honeymoon. Something was terribly wrong. There was a few moments' silence, before Illya was forced to continue, a gnawing feeling of anxiety building within him.

'Um, I'm reliably informed that the lady you noticed in Madrid, you know, the one with the penchant for spiky jewellery, is none other than Miss Li Hua Bolt of Bolt Pharmaceuticals. She is apparently the current owner of the island, complete with an all-female set of guards, and, by the look of the house, and the estate, something big is going on that she does not want anyone getting to know about'. He almost felt that he was talking to himself. Napoleon had not even reacted to the 'all-female guard' information.

'Napoleon, please tell me what is wrong, or I will ring Jo and ask her to force it out of you'. There was a further silence. In fact, he could have sworn that he had said entirely the wrong thing at that moment. After what felt like an eternity, Solo replied.

'I wouldn't bother. We're no longer, as they say, 'together'. Look, I'll let Waverly know about the island and Miss Bolt. Speak to you later. Solo out'. Illya sat up; staring at the communicator as if it would help him understand what had just been said. He noticed Fernando was staring at it, then at him, too.

'Trouble at mill?' he asked, with a strong northern accent.

'You heard then' Illya replied. 'I'm just wondering what on earth has been going on, and, more importantly, what I'm going to say to Therese'.

He jumped up, dusting down the dirt from his clothes, only to drop down again suddenly, as the unmistakeable noise of a helicopter filled the air. Illya picked up his binoculars and scanned the sky. A small black machine had risen from the other side of the hill, behind the Villa. On the side, the logo of Bolt Pharmaceuticals stood out boldly from the black exterior of the helicopter.

'It appears Miss Bolt has business elsewhere' he commented to Fernando, who was staring at it as if he had never seen one in his life before.

'That is one evil-looking machine' Fernando commented; 'fits in nicely with the girls round here, eh?'. Illya sighed. 'Well, let's hope the girls at the convent are a bit friendlier'.

xxxxxxxxx

Therese loaded the familiar silver case into the little car, throwing in a small overnight bag after it onto the front seat. She had persuaded her aunt to lend her the vehicle, and she had then booked herself into a small hotel in the city for the night. She was looking forward to the assignment; a photographic study of the impact of tourism on the little resorts bordering Palma to the south-west of the island. She remembered them well from her childhood as little more than seaside villages. Now, in some of the resorts, a string of faceless hotels were spreading up the coast like a disease. She hoped it wasn't going to be terminal, and that something of the Mallorca she loved would be preserved.

As the little car sped along the road towards Palma, Therese thought about her Russian. Something about the preparations he had made before he left, reminded her of his fastidiousness before going away on a mission from home. He was very good at hiding it behind a façade of relaxed nonchalance, but she was learning to see through the act already. She also knew that he had his wretched pen thing with him. She had been making the bed one morning after a particularly crazy night of lovemaking, the sheets having got themselves into a tangled mess round her, as he had crept out of the room to do his favourite early morning circuit of the streets before breakfast. The communicator had been wedged under the mattress and had fallen to the floor as she tugged the sheets out to re-make them. She had pursed her lips and silently sworn at him, then replaced it. She didn't mention it to him when he returned, and he said nothing to her either.

Loving him was never going to be easy, she thought. She had known that from the first moment they had met, and her opinion hadn't changed since. However, in order to have him, his love and his life, she knew that she had to have UNCLE too, however pain in the arse it so often was. He had talked to her about how much he was enjoying being in the house, just the two of them, but she could see that it was still there at the back of his mind, and she saw his expression as he left that morning. He was excited, she was sure, and it wasn't just at the thought of scuba diving with Fernando.

The day turned out to be quite rewarding. She drove along the coast to the first resort, visiting a number of people connected to the hotel developments, and also people who had lived in the area from before; fishermen and farmers mainly. It helped to be able to speak Catalan, although she had to be careful not to speak the forbidden language where the Guardia Civil might be lurking. Towards the end of the afternoon, she turned the little car towards Palma and the hotel.

The room was perfectly adequate, the marble floor cold and refreshing after the unrelenting heat of the day. Therese sorted out her films, putting them in a cool place, then unpacked her bag and, leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor, stood underneath the shower for a few minutes of refreshing bliss.

She decided to forsake the hotel restaurant for something a bit more interesting, eventually deciding on a pleasant restaurant with tables spilling out on one of the many large squares that were characteristic of the city. When she was on her own, it was always interesting to observe the goings on of people, always an endless source of fascination to the photographer in her. The waiter brought her a menu, and she began to look through it.

'Hello Therese. Long time no see'.

The voice jerked her head up from the menu. She recognised it at once, and her memory was immediately confirmed by the sight of the woman in front of her. She stood up, dragging the chair backwards with the shock.

'Hello Li', Therese replied, stuttering slightly, but recovering herself. She could feel her heart racing a little, and she took a few deeper breaths to calm herself. Without being asked, Li Hua sat down opposite her, forcing Therese to regain her chair and sit. Li looked round and summoned the waiter, who, guessing that a friend of the gorgeous girl with the coppery hair had arrived, rushed over with another menu. For a few moments they stared at each other across the table before Li Hua spoke.

'Are you here to visit your family?' she asked casually, as if they met on a regular basis.

'In a way, yes' she answered. 'I'm staying near them, but I'm also here to do some work. I'm a photographer'. Therese pursed her lips, slightly annoyed with herself for revealing something already to this woman. She knew inwardly that she needed to be cautious, wishing desperately that Illya was with her. She decided to try and turn the conversation a little towards the other woman. Of course Li was instantly recognisable by her mixed heritage, but Therese noted that she had also continued to adopt the very masculine look she remembered all too well, from ten years previously. She was wearing black trousers and jacket over a white t-shirt, but there was nothing particularly feminine about the cut of them, except that they were quite tightly fitted. Her hair was as before, incredibly short, but now slicked down with some sort of grease. Therese tried not to shudder at the way this woman made her feel.

It wasn't as if she was revolted by other women whom she imagined were like Li. Sabi was one of her closest friends. She had frequently embraced and even kissed Sabi, and had been held by her in the worst and best of times. Yet she had never felt the terror she had felt when Li had grabbed her all those years ago, and now, when she gazed so unblinkingly at her. She could only describe the look she gave her as predatory, malevolent even. Her eyes seemed to be boring into her, searching her mind and trying to control it. Therese looked down, forcing back the black feelings engulfing her.

A conversation she had had with Illya came into her mind. She asked him what he did when faced with someone he felt to be really evil. After trying to avoid the question a little, he did admit that he frequently used force against enemies; Therese knew that, from the state of him when he returned, even after a few days away. He didn't really want to elaborate, but she had guessed that shooting, strangling and blowing up were high on the list. She got the impression that blowing things up particularly appealed to him – he really had a 'boy's own' attitude to it, she thought, worriedly. None of these things were appropriate or even attractive to Therese, and she only tolerated Illya being involved with them because he felt they were necessary, and because she had to.

Using force was out of the question, even threatening people with her knife, as she had been forced to do with that ghastly Ukrainian woman, was something Therese felt ashamed about. She momentarily closed her eyes and thought. The image of her brother Gabriel came to her, the only one who would also know about Li. She had taken to visiting him in the evening if she was alone, both before Illya, and now, when he was away. Sometimes she would join the brothers for night prayer, and this simple act had taken on a new meaning when her husband was away from her; an opportunity to pray for protection. Words from one of the psalms they said came in and out of her mind;

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

And abides in the shade of the Almighty

Says to the Lord: 'My refuge,

my stronghold, my God in whom I trust!'

It is he who will free you from the snare

of the fowler who seeks to destroy you;

He will conceal you with his pinions

and under his wings you will find refuge.

Feeling calmer, Therese looked up. Li was looking at her, with an expression of slight disappointment, she thought, as if she couldn't have what she wanted. She was staring at Therese's hands, which were gripping the edge of the table. Her wedding ring, the three rings intertwined, was clearly visible.

'You're married' she said, as if it was a command. 'What's he like?' Therese breathed in sharply. Telling Li about Illya was the last thing she wanted to do.

'He's a musician; plays the sax' she said simply. She noticed the other woman's lips curl in a sneer of superiority.

Without warning, she stood up.

'I need to use the rest room' she said baldly, using the American expression which Therese always found mildly amusing. Without waiting for a reply, she walked off into the restaurant. Therese sat up, wondering what she should do. She could make her escape now; she could even drive back to Pollensa that evening, although Illya wouldn't be back until tomorrow. At the thought of him, her intestines gave a lurch, and she was momentarily overcome with a powerful sense of wanting him near her, longing for his touch, the sight and smell of him even. She hesitated, only to find the waiter at her side, an alarmed expression on his face.

'Senora Kuryakin?' he enquired. Therese nodded, frowning slightly at his apparent knowledge of her name. 'Your friend has been taken ill; she is asking for you, Senora'. Therese sighed, then got up quickly and followed the man towards the toilets. He signalled towards the door, and she pushed it open to find Li Hua leaning over the sinks, her rather large bag on the floor by her side. The room was empty apart from the two women, and Therese felt rather discomforted by the fact. Nevertheless, she moved forward towards the other woman.

'Li?' she asked, 'Are you OK?'. She was now standing next to the American, who continued to lean over the sink.

'Yes, just help me up, will you' she replied rather tersely, holding out her free hand, without looking up. Reluctantly, Therese took her arm. With a swift movement, Li brought her other hand up to Therese's neck, injecting her with a syringe hidden there, then yanking it out, and throwing it into her bag. She caught Therese as she began to slide slowly down the wall.

'Therese, look at me' the sharp command was given. The golden brown eyes looked up, as if sightlessly turning towards the sound. 'I'm sorry I had to resort to this, my dear Therese. Your stubborn defiance would have prevented a more simple approach. Now listen to me. When you hear my voice again, you will immediately obey my command. Until then, you will forget that you ever met me here or ever before now, or that we have ever spoken to each other. Do you understand, my Storm?' There was a slow nod. 'Good. Do not worry, our baby will be safe, and in a few minutes you will feel absolutely fine'. Li Hua bent slightly to look at the silent woman opposite her. Therese's hair had fallen forward over her face, and she pushed it back roughly, pulling her towards her. She kissed her, forcing her head back with the roughness of her touch, then, leaving her there, walked slowly out of the room.

xxxxxxxxx

The convent bell summoned them before they could actually see the building. It was hidden just behind a steep rise in the road. The two men looked at each other, and ran up the road, reaching the top to see the bell clanging to call them to evening prayer. Illya pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face with it, continuing round the back of his neck, where his hair was long, matted and sweaty. They continued to jog down the hill, stopping outside the entrance to the church.

The complex was quite large, with the block of nun's cells attached at right angles to the church, a cloister forming the square. Beyond the buildings, an extensive area of land was obviously farmed, with neat rows of vegetables, which could be seen from the top of the hill. The nuns also appeared to have a garden, with the cemetery lying beyond. Not for the first time, Illya wondered whether it had been worth all this effort to visit this place. It was unlikely that they would be able to talk to any of the sisters, and he was quite sure they were not either involved with the other girls on the other side of the hill, or likely to want to involve themselves with any covert operation that he, or any other UNCLE agent, might fancy conducting on this island.

He glanced across at Fernando. Unlike Illya, the heat did not seem to have got to him at all, and he had his usual laid back look on. Something about his expression reminded him of Therese. Strangely, he felt suddenly anxious about her. He shook his head. He was becoming ridiculously over-protective, he thought. Goodness knows what he was going to be like when the baby was born.

Fernando entered the church, putting his bag down just inside the door, in a small entrance vestibule. His Catholic upbringing apparent, he dipped his hand into the holy water stoup and made the sign of the cross, motioning Illya to follow. Inside the church it was wonderfully cool, the whiteness of the walls contributing to the atmosphere of calm and order. The interior was very simple. There were a few rows of rush-seated chairs, with some simple benches placed in front of them before the altar. On both sides, the statues of Franciscan saints stood, calmly waiting for someone to light a candle and say a prayer. Illya, even after a very brief experience of Catholicism in general, and the Franciscans in particular, could tell the difference between St Francis and St Anthony of Padua. At the front of the church, in a side chapel laid the somewhat larger image of who he imagined to be Junipero Serra, and at the other side, St Clare. She was holding what looked like a golden sunray made out of metal, the centre of which held a white disc.

'It's a monstrance holding the Blessed Sacrament' Fernando whispered in his ear. 'She held it up as a marauding army threatened to attack her convent. The soldiers ran away. Quite a girl, eh?' Illya liked the sound of her. His attention was distracted by the sound of a door opening. Like choreography, the sisters entered their side of the church, dividing to take their places in their choir stalls facing each other. He noticed how they glanced sideways at the two men, without seeming to move their heads.

The ancient combination of sacred song and words was performed, the nuns' high, soft voices echoing in the lofty church. Illya welcomed the order and tranquillity of it, following Fernando, who seemed to know exactly what to do. He could see the attraction of the religious life; ordered, silent, peaceful. But life without Tess? He thought of the last few months, of what she had given to him, and of what would come in the future. He smiled. He had made his choice, and was very happy with it.

The office over, the sisters retired, as they had come, leaving one nun in the church, clearing away. Illya remained sitting, while Fernando went outside into the evening sunshine. He looked up to see her standing in front of him. She was quite a well built woman, tall, with a strong looking, open face. He frowned, puzzling about her nationality. She certainly didn't look Spanish. She gazed steadily at him, summing him up, he felt.

'Good evening, Senor' she said in Spanish. Her voice was rich and deep, with an accent he felt he should know. 'Are you here to dive, or for some other reason?' Illya was slightly taken aback by her question.

'Um, yes, we're here to dive, but ...' he hesitated, before shrugging his shoulders and continuing. He felt he could trust her. He felt he had to. 'My organisation', he continued, 'are concerned about what may be going on at the other community on this island'.

'And your organisation is?' she replied, her eyes narrowing as she gave him a long, hard look.

'The U.N…..'

'C.L.E?' she finished, smiling at his expression. 'Yes, I'm familiar with them. I should be, I used to work for them. And you are?'

'Illya Kuryakin. And my companion out there is my brother in law, Fernando McCaffery'. There was a moment's silence between them while she appeared to meditate on what he had just revealed to her. Then she sat down next to him.

'Illya Kuryakin. Russian I guess?' She immediately slipped into Russian as if it were the most normal thing in the world to do. 'And what office are you working out of, Mr Kuryakin?'

'New York' he replied, without hesitating. This was becoming one of the strangest conversations he had had for a long time. He had to pinch himself to realise it was happening. She looked at him again, before smiling, and, now speaking with a mid-west accent, speaking English.

'I guess Alexander Waverly's still running the show, then?' she continued. He nodded. 'And you're a married, Russian agent working out of New York?' She smiled; wryly, he thought. 'Well, my, don't things move on' she said, then as an afterthought, 'but for the better, I might add'. She looked at him again, this time more seriously. 'I guess' she said, 'you want to know all about Miss Bolt and what she's hatching with her feathered friends up at La Masia'.

Her name was Sister Catherine, and they talked for some time. Illya was surprised at how much she knew, considering that she rarely, if ever left the convent grounds, but apparently she was what they called an 'extern' sister; one who was allowed contact with the outside world on behalf of her sisters. She explained that they did have a Chaplain, however, who also ministered to the few remaining locals that were not in the pay of Bolt Pharmaceuticals. A more important source of information, she told him, came from Miguel, the general handyman who lived with the chaplain in a house on the land owned by the Poor Clares. He had also been employed on an ad hoc basic by the La Masia staff to do odd jobs. She outlined to Illya all that Miguel had told her concerning the community at the Villa.

'What I cannot understand is how these girls are getting pregnant' she said quite simply. 'Excuse me if I am being naïve, but where are the men? And what is going to happen to all the little boy babies? It appears that Miss Bolt is building a community of Amazons. But for what purpose? I understand that the premises have been inspected by the local health authorities. They were described as a private 'Mother and baby' clinic with obstetric facilities including a doctor. So you won't get far if you try to involve the government with it'. Illya could well imagine who the doctor was.

She stood up, and walked towards the door with him. At the entrance, she turned. 'Mr Kuryakin' she said, looking at him very seriously, 'I will help you in any way I can, but you need to be aware of something you might not read about in your UNCLE reports. It is the existence of evil. Because we are a religious community, Miss Bolt and her friends have done everything in their power to remove us from this island'. She looked at him, taking his hand and holding it. 'Please don't underestimate the power of evil, Mr Kuryakin. I believe in it, you see, and I have seen it standing in front of me. I have seen it in the person of Miss Li Hua Bolt'.

xxxxxxxxx

By some error of judgement, Therese managed to arrive back in Pollensa at the self same time as her husband and brother skidded to a halt in front of their house. She stood there at the door with her silver suitcase and overnight bag, cursing herself for not setting off from Palma in time to avoid having to explain her trip to him. Illya slowly got off the Vespa and handed the helmet to Fernando, who wisely drove off, sensing trouble. Therese had got the door open by the time he got there, but he took the bags off her and followed her into the house, his face set.

'I don't want a lecture' she started, her eyes flashing at him as he stood there in the living room cum kitchen. She started to go up the stairs to the bedroom, Illya following. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Sooner or later, he was going to start lecturing her, she knew it. Of course it was one rule for him, and one for her. Secret assignments were a one-sided affair.

He put down the cases, and levered off his backpack. The silence was beginning to get to Therese. She turned away from him, throwing her jacket on the bed, and kicking her sandals off in confusion. She sighed deeply. She felt him behind her, and then he was holding her hand, leading her into the shower room. He had taken off his very dusty sandals and jacket, and now stood in front of her with just his t-shirt and shorts on. He looked filthy. She imagined that they had slept in the boat, that being the only option on that island. A combination of sweat, sand, dust and sea had not done much for his appearance. His hair looked like rough straw, there were stains all over his t-shirt, and his shorts were a write-off. She began to laugh.

'Hmm. Shower?' she murmured, pulling the t-shirt off his head. He stood there, patiently waiting for her to undress him.

'Perhaps you should continue your wifely duties in the shower with me. And then,' he added, as he finished taking off her clothes, 'you can explain to me what you've been doing while I've been away'.

She scrubbed at him to clean him up, hoping it might take his mind away from the inevitable interrogation. After she had insisted on covering his hair with conditioner, he had started on her, washing her body gently with the sponge while he followed the sponge with his lips. He had been playing with her ears, holding her wet hair back, when he suddenly stopped.

'What is this?'

'What is what? He touched the side of her neck with his finger. She frowned, looking at his worried face.

He continued. 'You have a small puncture, with a big bruise round it. Before you say, it can't be a bite, there's no swelling or redness. It looks … like a …' He looked closely at her neck, pushing his hair out of the way to see better. 'Like a … .puncture from an injection'.

She pulled away from him and got out of the shower, looking at her neck in the mirror. It was true. On the side of her neck was a small puncture with a large bruise surrounding it, like a bullseye on a darts board. Worryingly, she had no idea at all how it had happened. Illya finished rinsing his hair and got out, putting a towel round Therese. They both stared at her neck in the mirror.

'You know, I have no idea how I got that. Don't make a fuss; I am perfectly fine, I am nearly four months pregnant, not ill for goodness sake. If you must know' she continued, 'I went to Palma on an assignment. I stayed in a hotel last night. I feel fine, although I appear to have had a funny turn that I cannot now remember' she said.

Illya turned her round and took her into the bedroom; pulling back the sheet and making her lie down. He got in beside her, pulling up the pillows to support him.

'Let me get this right. You went to Palma without bothering to tell me what you were doing, carrying that heavy suitcase and another bag. You spent a very tiring day photographing for this assignment, and then you went to your hotel, where, unsurprisingly, you had a 'funny turn' as you call it, which you cannot now remember, together with a puncture which looks like an injection, which you also cannot now remember. And I am then not allowed to worry about you'.

He lay back on the pillows with his eyes closed. Therese sat up, leaning over him, stroking his hair.

'You've made it sound far worse than it was. The only slightly strange aspect to it is this funny hole in my neck. Listen'. She made him sit up and look at her. She was beginning to worry about it now, but she didn't want him to see. 'I can remember looking at the menu. I was sitting outside, I think. Then it all seems really fuzzy until I found myself in the toilets – restroom to you, my American Russian boy, being picked up off the floor by a cleaning lady'. Illya looked at her neck again.

'Whatever happened, I am concerned that you appear to have lost consciousness for at least half an hour, Tess, and have picked this up at the same time. I think we should visit the clinic at Alcudia tomorrow, just to be safe'. Therese groaned. If he was like this now, what was he going to be like nearer the birth. And at the birth? She dreaded to think. Illya pulled her towards him.

'I'm afraid that there's something else we need to talk about, concerning your sister and Napoleon, which may involve us slightly shortening the honeymoon' he said, kissing the top of her head. Therese looked up.

'Oh, what now? Don't tell me she's pregnant too!' She pulled herself up out of the bed to look at him better. He looked down at her belly.

'I'm sure you look a little fatter' he said. She cuffed him gently on the head.

'Thank you for that helpful comment. Now, Napoleon and Jo?'

'It appears' Illya said simply, 'that they have broken off their engagement and separated'.

They discussed the news for some time, debating the reasons for what had happened. Illya had contacted Connie to see if he could persuade her to tell him more, but she was not prepared to divulge what had happened, in some sense, as Illya put it, of loyalty to Jo, however misguided in his opinion. She had told him though, that Jo was in England, and had revealed, accidentally he had thought, and that it was recuperation after some sort of surgery.

'Surgery?' Therese said in amazement, 'what kind of surgery?' but Illya had shrugged his shoulders. Apparently Napoleon was in Germany, working with Sabi, on the German end of the Bolt investigation. Illya had contacted Sabi in Germany on the way back from the island. She had revealed to him that Napoleon was, in her words, 'driving himself to being taken off active service. 'He's becoming dangerous, darling. Can you come?' she had whispered to him. She sounded frightened.

Therese lay down in his arms.

'Well, we have about five days of our holiday left, before you have to be back at work, right?'

'Uh-huh. My days of being a beach bum are nearly over, sadly'.

'Be serious'. She pulled his face towards hers. 'Go and rescue Napoleon, and I'll go and sort out Josefina. Bring him back to Liverpool with you pronto, and perhaps we can affect the great reunion. Ring me when you've found him anyway, and I can tell you the part of this story which I think she knows, and which neither you, me or Napoleon does. OK? Fernando will probably come back with me, so you can rest assured I won't be alone in case I have another 'funny turn' OK?'

'You are wonderful' he said, sliding down to his usual place.

'Glad you think so' Therese replied, kissing the abundant blond hair. 'I'm sure Mr Mueller in Berlin will enjoy your beach bum look'. There was a heavy groan from below.

'I am allowed five days. Five days' she heard the muffled reply.

CHAPTER 4

'Open Channel D; overseas relay. Oh, hello there, Margarita. Can you put me through to Mr Waverly, please?'

Margarita was not expecting to hear from Illya Kuryakin, and she was certainly not expecting to hear him being so polite or friendly. She hadn't been on the switch for long, but Connie had already warned her of what he could be like. Margarita was surprised that Connie had wanted to be their secretary, after what she had told her, but she supposed that working with Mr Solo made up for it. However, the man on the other end of the satellite didn't sound like the frigid, unemotional robot that he had been described as, by some of his colleagues in Section 2. Confused, she put him through. She needed to speak to Connie, stat.

'Waverly, here. Good to hear from you Mr Kuryakin. I trust you have had an enjoyable, er …. rest?'

'Um, yes sir. Did Nap … Mr Solo give you my report on the island near Mallorca, sir?' Illya replied, looking over his shoulder. He had eventually persuaded Therese to go to the hospital at Alcudia, before leaving for the airport, and they had driven there with Fernando, this time in a more luxurious hire car. The mark on her neck continued to worry him; he had looked at it again in the better light of the morning, and it was the size of the puncture combined with her amnesia that concerned him most. Before he had spoken to Waverly, Illya had talked to Peter and asked him to contact the hospital for the results of the blood test he had requested. Typically, Therese had refused to let him go into the examination room with her, so, telling Fernando to wait, he had found a convenient part of the hospital grounds where he would not be interrupted.

'Yes, Mr Kuryakin, he did convey your findings to me. From what we know of Bolt Pharmaceuticals, and our intelligence from Spain and Germany, this may seem to be the most fruitful line of enquiry to pursue. When you return to duty, we had better gather to plan our next step in this affair' Waverly replied gravely.

Illya hesitated. It was difficult to ask for additional leave when he had already had several weeks holiday, in addition to the time he had been cooped up in the medical wing. Still, it would surely be in the best interests of all concerned that he get Napoleon back to normal, whatever that might be.

'I understand that Mr Solo is in Germany at the moment, sir' he began, trying to think on his feet. He could almost hear Waverly's brain clicking into gear, working out what he was going to say next. 'I wondered … ' he continued, 'if I might make a slight detour and …'

'Mr Kuryakin', Waverly interrupted, 'I cannot see that your presence in Berlin would in any way add to the mission that Mr Solo is carrying out there at the moment'. Illya's heart sank. He pursed his lips, waiting for the inevitable order to return back to the office; back to regulation appearance. He ran his hand through his hair unconsciously at the thought of it. 'However' Waverly was continuing, 'bearing in mind the present rather unfortunate personal difficulties Mr Solo appears to be suffering, it may be to the benefit of the Command if you were able to, as it were, seek a positive outcome to these problems. Only don't take too long about it, will you, Mr Kuryakin. I will expect to see you both in my office a week today. Waverly out'.

Illya shook his head. As long as it was to the benefit of the Command. Well, he had two extra days to somehow sort out Napoleon, persuade him to come to England and then bring about some sort of reconciliation between him and Jo. Simple. Compared to this, blowing up a building, or avoiding being tortured by some lunatic from THRUSH, seemed like a piece of cake.

His wife and brother in law were waiting for him when he wandered back to the aptly named 'waiting room'. Although she had only been married to him for less than two months, Therese had already learned, fast he thought, not to ask where he had been or what he had been up to. That didn't stop him asking her what she had been up to.

'Well?' he said, looking hard at her. 'What did they say?' She started talking to him whilst delving in her large shoulder bag for something.

'They thought the same as you that it looks like an injection, which is ridiculous. And thank you for getting them to take some blood,' she said, lips in a tight line and eyes flashing. 'Miraculously' she continued, 'Peter rang up in the middle of all this requesting they send UNCLE the results. I don't suppose you know anything about that, do you, lover? Illya glared just a little bit at her. She was so determined to be independent, it frightened him sometimes.

'Did you tell them you were pregnant?' he enquired gently, risking another outburst. She was still looking in her bag. She pulled out what looked like a black and white photo. She looked up at him smiling, and pulled him down to sit next to her.

'You're lucky, amado, something good came from all this. They have a new sort of scanning machine for babies. Illya Kuryakin, may I present your baby'. She handed him the photo. It looked as if there was a broad arc of light with a shape held in its ray. When he looked closer, he began to discern the details; tiny arms and legs curled up towards the head, which seemed to be bowed down towards the chest in a sleeping position. A dark spot delineated the beating heart. He gazed at the photo for a long time, then at Therese, then at the photo again. 'Thank you, O thank you' he said simply, in Russian. Therese shook her head at him. That baby's got him wrapped round her little finger even before she's born she thought.

xxxxxxxxx

Napoleon Solo sat at the table in the apartment, poring over a series of photos and some documents Sabi had given him earlier in the day. He preferred to look at them here, with no-one to disturb him. He was not in the mood for friendly chats, or attempts to cheer him up or to 'take his mind off it' as Peter Mueller had said to him when he arrived in Berlin. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. It seemed that everybody in UNCLE knew what had happened, and everybody had an opinion about it. Everybody knew, but nobody understood why, least of all him. Jo had disappeared as soon as she was able, to England. She did not appear to want to explain anything to him, and he couldn't get Connie or the Medical staff to explain either. Illya was away. He almost laughed out loud at the irony of it all. The 'King of Siberia', the one the whole of UNCLE thought would be the last agent in the world to fall in love, never mind marry, had managed somehow, when nobody was really looking, to find himself a really beautiful woman who understood him and loved him. Add to that, the Russian married her and made her pregnant, while he, the great lover, sat alone in a miserable Berlin flat having just blown the relationship he had been searching for, for what felt like a very long time.

He leaned forward again and continued studying the documents. He really needed Illya now. He persuaded himself it was because some of these papers had very technical language. There were pages listing the various products of Bolt Pharmaceuticals, and there were many products it seemed. He didn't even know what he was looking for, and how that related to what was going on, on that mysterious island his partner had just happened upon on his honeymoon. He wondered what the Russian was doing there, and where his wife was when he was trekking round with, did he say his brother in law? He hadn't been very responsive to the call, and he knew Illya would know something was wrong, if he didn't know already. Knowing him, he thought, he would probably turn up in Germany trying to persuade him to sort it out with Jo. Deep inside, he half hoped that was true.

He looked at the pictures of various grey looking men and women, all executives of the multi-national company. His gaze returned to the owner and managing director. Li-Hua Bolt. He might have known the woman they had seen in Madrid would return into their lives at some point. He glanced down at her CV, listed below the photograph. For such a young woman, it was impressive. She had started young, a prodigy it appeared, gaining her first degree before she was twenty. She was a qualified pharmacologist, but her main expertise seemed to lie in psychology. Her interests lay in the control of emotional states by surgery, pharmacology and psychotherapy, particularly hypnotherapy, in which she was an expert, it said. Napoleon's insides began to churn slightly.

The conditioning sessions when he joined UNCLE were bad enough; he believed, and it had been proved true, that these programmes protected him against this sort of attack. But the thought of surgical intervention sickened him. He knew that in some cases, the use of drugs had allowed THRUSH to control even UNCLE agents, albeit temporarily. The pictures of Illya in the Ukraine flashed through his mind, confirming his thoughts. No doubt Dr Engel was sharpening her scalpels somewhere in readiness for some evil scheme of Miss Bolt's invention. If they got hold of more innocent subjects, then he hardly dared think what they could do.

The conference at Bolt Pharmaceuticals Germany was to begin in five days' time. According to these details, there was to be a presentation, where Ms Bolt herself would speak on the future of psychiatry and Bolt Pharmaceutical's role in it. He wondered whether she would give them a demonstration of her expertise. For despite Sabi's wide-eyed concern at the idea, Solo had persuaded Mueller that he should attend. They needed to understand exactly what THRUSH's role in all this was, and how the surgical and pharmacological work linked with what was going on, on that island. Sabi had agreed to go with him. She had even suggested to him, that it might need to be a woman agent who infiltrated the island rather than him and/or Illya, 'for obvious reasons, darling'. For the second time in the space of a few minutes he found himself wishing that his partner was by his side. This would be just up his street, and besides that, he loved doing all that disguise thing; and Rudi loved Illya.

Rudi was in charge of Section 12 in the Berlin office. It was a very strange world down there; a cross between a beauty parlour and a fancy-dress shop, he decided. They had both had occasion to use Section 12 in Berlin in the past, and it was here that Rudi had met Illya. He was of similar build to the Russian, but with brown cropped hair and greeny-brown eyes. His sexuality was known by all, and celebrated by himself, in truly camp fashion; indeed, Rudi often declared himself to be 'the Queen of Section 12'.

With a wry smile, Solo remembered their first meeting. They had a mission to infiltrate some Romany groups in Southern Germany that UNCLE feared were being used as a cover for THRUSH movement of stolen documents; a perfect cover, as they moved extensively all over Southern Europe. Illya followed him into the alternative world of Section 12, his blue eyes wide. Napoleon didn't need to guess how Rudi would respond to the Russian, with his then, quite long blond locks and sea-blue eyes. How the Russian would respond back would be interesting he thought.

'Oh guten tag Napoleon', gushed Rudi when they arrived, 'and who is this?' he virtually screamed when he saw Illya; the Russian glancing from side to side, as Rudi danced round him .

'Illya Kuryakin, my partner, Rudi' Napoleon had said. 'He needs you to turn him into a Romany gypsy'.

'It will be my absolute pleasure' cooed Rudi, pulling Illya towards a chair in front of one of the large mirrors in the room. To Illya's consternation, Napoleon had left them to it, saying he would call back later. When he returned, a taciturn Russian agent was standing there, remarkably changed. He was wearing a pair of rather old looking trousers with a loose fitting, soft cream shirt and a worn-looking leather waistcoat. Rudi had apparently given him some injection which darkened his skin, giving him a more sallow tone. His hair was altogether different. The blond had been replaced by an earthy peat brown colour. Under protest, Illya had allowed him to chop at it, making it look rough and unkempt. Rudi came over to stand by Napoleon, as if they were looking at a dummy in a shop window.

'I hated getting rid of the blond, it's so beautiful, but it just wouldn't do, would it? He's not easy is he? He whispered with a theatrical wide eyed look, Illya glaring at them both equally. 'But we're getting to know each other know, aren't we Illyusha?' he added. Napoleon was surprised at the diminutive form being used, but knowing Rudi, he shouldn't have been. In fact, Illya got to like Rudi very much, once they'd established the ground rules. They had even gone out together, Rudi showing Illya 'the more interesting side' of Berlin night life.

Rudi had asked Napoleon if Illya would be joining him, when he went down there to consult him about his 'look' for the conference at Bolt.

'I've carried a torch for that boy for years' he exclaimed, running round the room tidying up. 'And now look what he's done – I hope she's fabulous, that's all I can say' he had added, giving a stage sigh in Napoleon's direction.

Solo gathered up all the photos and stuffed them back into the wallet they had come from. Grabbing his coat and wallet, he headed for the street, and the oblivion of a bar.

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They had parted at Madrid airport, Illya taking the direct flight to Berlin, and the two McCafferys heading for home. He had explained what he hoped to do with Napoleon to Therese on the plane to Madrid, and they had agreed he would ring before he turned up with him, hopefully, in Liverpool.

'Don't just turn up without telling me, will you?' she whispered in his ear, pushing the hair back over it, 'I want to soften her up before lover boy arrives, otherwise it'll be World War Three, and we'll be in the line of fire'.

'I may have to help Napoleon with a bit of work anyway' he casually threw in, hoping she wasn't listening too hard. She was. Therese pulled his head towards her, glaring at him, or trying to. He never thought she was really good at looking cross with him; she couldn't keep it up for long enough.

'Listen, soft lad' she said, her accent coming out more strongly, 'you're still on your honeymoon technically, so no larking about on little adventures which end up in the hospital, right?' He put on his best wide-eyed innocent look, and shook his head.

'Your wish is my command, cherie. Do you want me to loosen your seat belt? It looks rather tight'. Her magazine replied to the question by whacking him on the side of the head.

The flight from Madrid arrived early, and Illya was through customs by the time Sabi found him. He shivered a little with the difference in temperature between the two countries, and hoped that Sabi had remembered to buy the clothes he had asked for; otherwise he was going to have a few rather cold days in Germany. Being arm in arm with Sabi in the airport terminus reminded him acutely of being in the exact same place with her just months before. He hoped he looked a bit better now than he did then. This time though, he was the one with the lover, and she was alone.

In the car on the way to the apartment, Sabi voiced her concerns about Napoleon.

'He won't come to the office unless he's called, just spends time in the apartment working. When he's not working, he goes out, and I think, tries to forget her by, what do you say, 'smashing the bottle?' she said sadly.

'I think it's 'hitting the bottle', Sabi, but I get the idea' Illya replied, tersely. 'Has he talked to anyone about it?' he continued.

'No, I don't think so. If he hasn't talked to you, darling, he won't talk to any of us, will he?' she replied, with a tender smile.

They arrived to find that Napoleon, as Sabi had predicted, had already left for the evening. Illya looked round the familiar room, the one where the four agents had planned Illya's mission into East Berlin in the spring; the one in which they had previously enjoyed many happy evenings together. Now it looked rather forlorn; a faceless shell waiting for someone to come and cheer it up. Obviously, Napoleon was not in the mood for doing the cheering up. In the bedroom, his clothes, rather than being neatly stored away as Illya had watched him do countless times, in countless other apartments and hotels, had been left in the suitcase, a pair of trousers slung over the back of a chair. Illya frowned at the sight.

On what he presumed was to be his bed, there lay a neat pile of clothes. He put down his bag and sorted through them.

'I hope they're what you wanted, darling. No suits, just casual, ja?'. He nodded. He needed to reinforce the fact that he wasn't actually working, even though he thought he might get roped in to what sounded like a rather risky few days at Bolt Pharmaceuticals, Germany. Of course, Sabi had good taste, and the cord trousers, soft white shirts, a beautiful grey cashmere jumper and black polo neck were perfect, he thought. He fingered the black leather jacket that lay by the side of the pile. It was something he had looked at, but not bothered to buy in the past, considering it far too expensive.

'I hope all this didn't cost you too much' he said, turning to her with his wallet open, counting the Deutch Marks he had managed to obtain at the airport. She closed the wallet, smiling at his seriousness.

'Rudi knew someone in the trade' she whispered, watching for the inevitable raised eyebrows. He smiled at the name. It would be good to go down to Rudi's little kingdom and see him again, as long as he didn't make a fuss. But that was probably asking too much.

Sabi sauntered back to the kitchen, where Illya could hear her starting to make a meal for them. He suddenly felt very hungry, and he missed Therese badly. He wandered into the living room and picked up the phone. No doubt they had fixed it since he had performed his little re-routing job on it last spring, and someone would be listening in to his call. He dialled the numbers for the operator and asked to be put through to the number in England. After a few rings, Therese's voice came on the line. She must have known he would ring her.

'Hello, everything alright?' he began, wanting to say more than this rather bland beginning.

'Hmm. Not without you, amado'. He loved her directness, the rather husky voice he remembered from the first time he had called her on this line. 'Before you ask' Therese continued, 'she's out with friends at the moment, so I haven't been able to use my UNCLE interrogation techniques on her yet. How's the other half of the nightmare scenario doing?'

'Well, he's not here either, so I will have to wait until later as well, to bring him to his senses'. Illya groaned inwardly. Hearing her like this was making him wonder if this detour was a good idea. As if she had read his mind, Therese spoke.

'Don't wait until later, he needs you. Go and see if you can find him, and bring him home. He will want you to do that for him, Illyusha'. Illya frowned.

'Yes, but it's a big city out there. I'll ring you later if I get anywhere. Or even if I don't. Je t'adore, ma petite fleur', he added spontaneously, surprised at himself.

'Ma aussi, mon cher. Ma aussi.'

Sabi caught the end of the conversation as she came to set the table. She smiled at the back of the Russian agent, as he headed for the shower. She could see him stripping off in the bedroom, a very different sight than the emaciated figure he had cut a few months previously. His tan seemed to be all over the strong body; his hair nearly as light as hers now, and falling heavily across his face, as he pulled down his clothes. He sensed her presence, looking back across his shoulders at her, as he grabbed a towel to wrap himself in.

'Lovely tan, darling; very even' she said with an amused look on her face. Illya blushed slightly, and then smiled.

'Um, we had a sort of roof top terrace where we spent some time on our own; undisturbed, if you get my meaning' he replied. Sabi laughed. He looked so different now it was astonishing. It wasn't just the improvement in his physique, either. He just seemed so incredibly happy. She thought quickly about Kat. She would have been delighted to see him like this.

At dinner they discussed Napoleon.

'I suppose I will just have to go out and wander the streets until by some luck I run into him' he sighed. 'I found his communicator in the bedroom. I can't believe he's gone out without it'.

'Ja, it's unbelievable, but that's the state he's in' Sabi replied. 'However, you will not have to 'wander the streets', Illyusha. Napoleon has a little keepsake I have left with him, as it were, to make him easier to find'. Illya's eyes widened a little, making Sabi laugh. 'He's so distracted, darling, he wouldn't know if I had slapped a great big sign on him, saying 'follow me, I'm an UNCLE agent' she said. 'No, it's something a little bit more subtle'.

She showed Illya a skin-coloured patch the size of a small coin. He could just see some tiny filaments sandwiched in between the layers.

'Clever, eh? I thought you would like it. It's waterproof, can't be seen or really felt by the wearer, and, it emits a signal so that we can find him' she said triumphantly.

Illya examined the patch carefully, and then put it on the table.

'Permit me to ask just where you stuck this little transmitter' he asked, smiling at her. 'I presume by your expression, that you've used it already to hunt the fox into his lair' he added.

'Oh ja, I've followed him several times' she said, rather sadly. 'He's not really aware of anything at the moment, so he didn't see me at first, and then later, he was too far gone to know who I was, and who brought him back to the apartment' she said. 'As to where it is, well, I am afraid, darling, that I had to, as it were, 'take advantage' of him the first time he got himself into this state. He hasn't found it yet' she said, smiling knowingly.

They left after the meal. Illya drove Sabi's Beetle, being well used to 'Ringo', Therese's car, and its little quirks. As soon as they got going, Sabi drew a little receiver out of her bag with a tiny homing signal emitting from it. It looked rather flimsy to Illya, but Sabi had been successful with it before, so he presumed it would work again with equal success. They wove their way through brightly lit main streets, the faces of couples out for the evening lit up like rabbits in the glare of the headlights. Illya always thought West Berlin was such a stark contrast to the East – as though the two sectors had to demonstrate the extremes of a divided world; communism versus capitalism all in one city. It was hard to believe that just a few miles from this mad stream of fun lovers lay the dark heart of the Stasi offices at Normannenstrasse.

They parked the car up a side street and continued on foot, the signal becoming clearer and more regular as they neared their target. The streets were becoming narrower, with rather less salubrious bars beckoning them in with lurid notices and half-clad girls draped round the entrances like grotesque mannequins. Illya vaguely remembered some of the clubs Rudi had taken him in not far from here, but he didn't think that Napoleon would be heading in that direction, at least he hoped not. It had been hard work fending off some of the fellow patrons much to Rudi's amusement.

Sabi had stopped outside a dimly lit bar down an equally dimly lit street. She shut the little receiver and put it back into her bag.

'I think he's here, darling, but in what state we will have to discover for ourselves'. The bar was down some exterior stairs from the road, which lead to a largish room with a small stage one end, and a bar the other. Some tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly throughout the room, with stools at the bar to take the serious drinkers, it appeared. On the stage, a rather second-rate combo was strumming their way through a number of 'classic songs' in a rather listless manner. The atmosphere of hopelessness struck Illya like a blow to the stomach.

He peered around, looking for his partner, and hoping he saw Solo before the American noticed him. As he was about to shake his head to Sabi above the noise, the door of the toilet banged open and shut and Solo emerged, rather unsteadily, weaving his way through the people seated at the table, occasionally banging into one and being shoved back, or shouted at by others. Eventually, he regained his seat at a table next to the wall, slouching over his drink as if he was guarding it from attack. Sabi had also seen Napoleon's little journey, and they began to move towards him. By the time they reached the table his head was down, the glass pushed to the side by the force of it hitting the table.

They managed to lever him upright between them and begin to escort him out of the bar, Illya somehow paying the waitress on the way out. Getting up the stairs was a greater challenge, and Illya wondered how on earth Sabi had managed on her own. Once on the street, they half carried, half dragged him to the car, shoving him unceremoniously onto the back seat before heading for the apartment.

They drove back in virtual silence, Illya glancing at Napoleon in the back at regular intervals, Sabi driving intently as fast as possible. His partner seemed completely out of it and did not stir throughout the journey, lying lifeless in the back of the car. Illya noticed the not so subtle signs of his unhappiness; the carelessness of his appearance, so unlike his partner; the lack of protection or communication with those who could protect him. The Russian leaned across and put his hand on Solo's neck. At least he was still alive.

They decided not to try to wake him, but just to let him sleep it off. It wasn't too late, so there should be enough time to bring him round properly in the morning before they met Mueller in the office at ten. Illya looked at his watch. One o'clock. Just about enough time, he hoped.

After they had got him into bed, they retreated into the living room, talking in whispers.

'Tomorrow' Illya began, 'If he doesn't wake up before me and get the shock of his life, I'll wake him up and try to sort this out a little before we have to go to see Mueller. And Sabi', he added, giving her a kiss, 'thank you. I know he would thank you too, and he will, once we get this thing sorted out'.

Sabi shrugged. 'Ach, it's nothing, darling. We are a team, nicht wahr? We don't owe each other anything'. She gave him a hug and went into her room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Illya crept into the room, but he probably could have put the light full on and danced a jig, he thought, for all the reaction Napoleon was capable of making. He was sleeping very heavily, making the snoring noises Illya had heard before when he was in this state, which was extremely rare. Illya hung his clothes up in the closet and got into bed, smiling wryly at the irony of it. He fell asleep hoping that he could at least contain Napoleon until he could explain to him why it was that his fiancée wanted nothing to do with him.

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Therese drove her mother's mini fairly slowly from her parent's house towards Birkenhead where the Mersey ferry carrying her sister back from town would dock. Her parents had moved over to the Wirral side of the River Mersey, with its lovely coastline looking towards Wales, and its huge, open skies and flat lands, from their previous house near the University. Therese felt rather cut off from the city to begin with, and missed the large rambling Victorian house they had lived in as children; but all the children had gone now, and the pretty house on the coast at West Kirby seemed appropriate. Her mother enjoyed the proximity to the sea, and her father loved what her mother enjoyed.

She could see the ferry mid-stream now, chugging its way across the swirling currents of the river. She loved the river, and the great city across it – the Liver building with its legendary liver birds sitting, as it were, watching life going on below; the docklands area, then up the hill towards the town, and then out again towards her beloved Anfield football ground. Therese's father had agreed to meet Jo from the ferry, but it was Therese who sat there now, waiting. She needed to know the truth from Jo, and as soon as possible. She was missing her Russian badly, and she wanted to help him help Napoleon, if she could. Helping him, would bring him back to her, she hoped, and bring the two wayward lovers together too.

Therese got out of the car and wandered down towards the dock where people were alighting from the ferry, walking up the long gangway towards their cars, or towards the buses which would take them home. She could see Jo finally, her long legs striding up towards her sister, whom she had seen and waved to as she walked up the ramp. Therese thought Jo looked rather drawn, with a forced smile plastered on her face; false, sad.

'Tessy; fed up with the boy wonder already?' she said as she came up, apparently unsurprised by Therese's presence at the dock.

'Hardly' Therese replied, adopting a nearly full-on Kuryakin stare, 'we came back to sort you two out before any further damage was done' she added rather tersely, falling into step with her sister.

'You needn't have bothered' Jo answered, looking down suddenly, 'we're adults, remember; we're quite good at messing up our lives without any help from you or the Russian'. They walked back in silence to the car; the rehearsal of what might be said repeating through Therese's mind like a toy train running endlessly round a track. As they drove back towards their parents' house, Therese began, carefully at first.

'Illya's not at home, he's in Berlin. You know it's difficult to help you both when neither of us knows what on earth is going on, Jo'.

'Who says we need your help, Therese' Jo replied, rather savagely. Therese could tell she was upset by her use of the full name. After what seemed like an eternity, Jo spoke again.

'I can't have any children. Well, the chances of conception are pretty low. Well, they would be with only half an ovary, wouldn't they?' she said quietly. Therese swallowed hard. She was suddenly painfully aware of her own body. Her clothes no longer fitted over her waist, and her breasts were becoming uncomfortable. She hoped that her sister hadn't noticed as much as her husband had. She stopped the car in a lay-by and turned towards her sister.

'So. You think that Napoleon won't want you, because of this? Don't you think you should at least give him the chance to talk it over with you?' Therese murmured, putting her hand on her sister's arm. Jo looked out of the window, making an effort to control herself.

'Tess, since he knew you were pregnant, he's mentioned it at every opportunity. I don't even think he realises he's doing it sometimes. Of course, he hides what he's really thinking behind the 'ankle-biters' act he puts on, but I know that deep down it's what he wants. And it's what I can't give him'. She laid her head on the side window of the car, as if it were too heavy to hold on her shoulders. Therese felt as if the old roles were being reversed; the little sister now become the older, more experienced one. The big sister become the child.

'Jo' Therese continued slowly, 'I think you're underestimating him. Do you doubt that he loves you? Jo nodded numbly, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. 'Then you must talk to him. At the very least, he deserves to know why he's been rejected. You know' she continued, 'I had no real idea when I fell in love with Illya how it would work out, and it's still very much a daily challenge living with him, much as I love him. But life's a bit of a gamble, isn't it?' she added, smiling encouragingly at her sister. Jo pulled Therese towards her and they sat there for a while in a still embrace, their faces close. After a while, it seemed natural to continue the journey home.

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The daylight was far too bright for its own good, Napoleon thought. He rolled over, wondering who had drawn the curtains back so early. A piercing pain right between his eyes reminded him of his visit to Der Schwarz Zimmer last night. His head certainly felt like a 'black room' as he had no idea, once again, how he had got home or who had helped him. He rolled back from the pain of the window, to nearly collide with a pair of very familiar legs standing by the side of the bed. The legs began to bend, bringing a familiar face close to Napoleon's own bleary-eyed one.

'Good morning. Drink this, and take these, and then you can tell me what this is all about' Illya said, quietly, at the same time pulling the pillows upright behind his partner and helping him sit up, before handing him a cup of tea and two white pills.

'Very English; learned this from your wife, comrade?' Napoleon answered, somewhat uncertainly. 'What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were due back next week. In New York' he blundered on. His eyes began to focus better on his partner's now very concerned looking face. Illya had obviously been up for a while. He was fully dressed, and the bed had been made. Napoleon smiled inwardly; she had been working on him then. It was hard not to show on his face the relief that Napoleon felt; relief, but also a sense of guilt and hopelessness at what had happened to him. He pulled himself higher up the bed, drank the tea and swallowed the pills obediently.

Sabi was apparently keeping well out of sight, but Napoleon could hear her in the kitchen, making breakfast he presumed. It seemed that an interrogation was going to take place before he was allowed to eat. Illya took his empty cup and placed it on the tray, then sat on the bed. The phone rang, startling them both. Sabi answered and immediately called Illya, coming in to guard the prisoner while he spoke to, Solo presumed, his wife.

After some time, he returned, his face showing little, as per normal, Napoleon thought. Sabi retreated, leaving them together again.

'Therese?' Napoleon said lightly, trying to comb his hair back into some order with his fingers.

'Yes. Napoleon, when is the conference at Bolt Germany taking place?' Illya said.

'Er, four days time. How did you ... and why would you be interested? You're supposed to be rolling in the hay with Mrs Kuryakin, not muscling in where you're not needed, comrade' Napoleon replied rather sulkily. Illya decided to ignore him and ploughed on. He went out of the room, and Napoleon could hear him talking to Sabi in rather a sotto voce tone. After a few minutes he returned.

'You'd better hurry up and get dressed, you've got a plane to catch' Illya said. 'I'll fill you in on the way'.