The Impossible Mission Affair

by Aconitum-Napellus

When Jim Phelps is handed a mission that only a Russian can complete, he turns to Illya Kuryakin for help. Rated 18 for rape scenes. Slash.

1. Chapter 1

Mr Waverly had a curious expression on his face as he spun the table towards his Number 2, Section 2 agent. Illya picked up the file as it halted in front of him, and opened it. It held a single photograph of a man he did not recognise, conventionally good looking, silver haired, with eyes every bit as blue as his own.

'I – don't recognise this man, sir,' he admitted, turning the picture a little as Napoleon craned in to look.

Finally he recognised at least part of Waverly's odd expression. He looked smug as he said, 'Mr Kuryakin, you've been called on by the IMF.'

'The IMF?' Napoleon echoed, and Illya asked, 'The – International Monetary Fund, sir?'

Waverly huffed. 'The Impossible Missions Force, as I'm sure you know well.'

Illya's eyebrows rose. He had heard of the Impossible Missions Force, of course, but only in passing. Napoleon had a look on his face which suggested he was a little more familiar.

'Well, well, well,' the American said, tapping his fingers on the table. 'They want Illya, sir? Er – what about me?'

'Jealous?' Illya asked slyly.

Napoleon snorted. 'The missions they take on? Not at all. But I am your partner,' he added softly. 'And I like to – er – have your back.'

How was it that even with such a routine phrase Napoleon could sound suggestive, seductive? But he did, and Illya suppressed a shiver.

'Oh, you'll go along with Mr Kuryakin this first time, certainly,' Waverly nodded. 'It's possible you'll be needed and I'd prefer to send you in as a team considering, as you so astutely pointed out, the type of missions they take on. I'm afraid I know very little about the mission myself,' he continued, sounding a little disgruntled. 'The man in the photo is James Phelps, the head of his particular force. He has four or five regular agents under him but he does tend to call on outsiders when needed. In this case it seems that we're needed.' He fixed Illya with his pale gaze. 'You are needed, Mr Kuryakin.'

Illya looked down at the photograph again, trying to glean something from those very regular features. The man was probably from Germanic stock, and as such looked all-American. He was never certain of men who looked so conventionally attractive.

'If you don't know anything about the mission, sir – ' he prompted.

'You and Mr Solo will be told everything when you meet him,' Waverly said, fumbling for a pipe and then clenching his hand, tight and empty. 'Drat, I keep forgetting that I've pledged to my doctor to cut back,' he said distractedly, but when he looked up again his eyes were gimlet sharp. 'Oh, and try to appear at the briefing well dressed in monotones. Mr Phelps doesn't like colours to distract at his briefings, and he likes his agents to be well presented.'

Illya's eyebrows shot up. It didn't bode well that, on that small evidence, Mr Phelps seemed to be either mad or a control freak. Or maybe both.

'Well, most of my wardrobe is basic black,' he commented, fiddling with the lapel of his suit. Napoleon followed suite, feeling the fabric between thumb and finger, and then looked up at Waverly.

'Don't worry, sir. I'll – ah – take him to my tailor's before we go,' he promised.

'Thank you, Mr Solo,' Waverly said with some relief, as Illya asked indignantly, 'And what's wrong with my tailor, thank you very much?'

'Your – er – tailor has never set eyes on you in his life, and has another million clients he's never seen,' Napoleon said acerbically. 'Whereas mine – '

'Caters very nicely to the bourgeois, I'm sure,' Illya interrupted acidly.

Napoleon grinned. 'Well, comrade,' he said, putting great emphasis on the word, 'as soon as you're out of this I'm sure you can go back to wearing the People's Suit. But if this Mr Phelps wants you well dressed it will be my pleasure to dress you. My very great pleasure.'

'All right, all right, that's enough now, gentlemen,' Waverly cut across. 'Oh, er, U.N.C.L.E. will pay for the suit, by the way.'

Illya's eyebrows shot up. Those words gave him a sense of foreboding. It was hard enough to get Mr Waverly to authorise the price of a meal while on duty, let alone the full price of a tailored suit. He exchanged looks with Napoleon, and saw that he was similarly uncertain about the meaning of all this.

Waverly rapped his knuckles on the table. 'Yes, all right. No need to look like a fish fresh out of water, Mr Solo. We're not as penny-pinching as all that, you know. Let's get back to the business at hand. You're to come to Mr Phelps' apartment at seven-thirty tomorrow night. I hope that's enough time for Mr Solo's tailor to do his job. I will give you the address just before you leave. Mr Phelps likes to be circumspect with his personal information.'

'Well then, why – er – why doesn't he have the meeting somewhere else?' Napoleon asked innocently. 'Here, even?'

'Mr Phelps always holds his briefings in his apartment,' Waverly said, and Illya sensed that there was no point even starting to argue that point. Mr Phelps, it seemed, was a law unto himself.

'Sir, do you – er – do you know what this mission will entail?' Illya asked curiously and rather cautiously.

Waverly harrumphed. 'The bare bones, Mr Kuryakin. The bare bones. You will be told everything you need to know tomorrow evening. And do know, of course, that it is entirely up to you whether you accept.'

That worried Illya more than anything else Waverly had said so far. How often was he given the chance to turn down a mission? He could count the instances on one hand.

'I can tell you one thing, Mr Kuryakin,' Waverly said confidently. 'James Phelps is as loyal to and protective of his agents as any top U.N.C.L.E. man. He makes every possible effort to pull his men out alive, and he rarely fails. He has risked everything to retrieve a captured agent in the past and not compromised the mission. If I had to put your life in the hands of anyone outside of U.N.C.L.E. I would put it in his hands.'

'That's reassuring, sir,' Solo nodded.

'But it's my life,' Illya added tartly.

((O))

En route to Napoleon's tailor in Napoleon's boat-like and very American car, Illya was brooding. Napoleon would have said he was brooding in a typically Russian way, but he would have defied Napoleon not to brood himself if he had been specifically called upon by the IMF for a mission that Mr Waverly didn't see fit to disclose.

'Why do you think they want me, Napoleon?' he asked after a while.

Napoleon favoured him with the kind of smile that made his stomach turn to butterflies. 'Who wouldn't want you, tovarisch? Cute, blond, very, very intelligent, and all of five eight – in shoes. What is there not to want?'

'Napoleon,' Illya batted that away. 'I'm serious. There are hundreds of agents at this man's disposal, and not just in U.N.C.L.E.. Why me?'

'You're doing yourself a disservice,' Napoleon said tolerantly. 'You're one of the best agents U.N.C.L.E. has ever had. Your skills are top level. You've been proven on a hundred missions.'

'But so are you,' Illya shrugged. 'What have I got that you haven't got?'

Napoleon glanced over him, fondness melting his chocolate eyes. 'You underestimate yourself,' he said with a gentle smile.

'I am Russian,' Illya said.

'Well, there you are,' Napoleon nodded, his smile turning into a grin. 'I told you you were top level. You even know where you're from.'

'Napoleon,' Illya growled. 'The IMF take a lot of missions on the eastern side of the curtain, don't they? In fact, they specialise in that. East Germany, Poland, Russia...'

At that Napoleon's expression became serious again. 'Yes, they do,' he said soberly. 'And yes, you are Russian.'

'I love my mother country, Napoleon,' Illya said with open honesty. 'But Russia is a harsh mother, subject to whims and hard to please.'

Napoleon turned the car into a convenient parking spot outside his tailor's, pulled on the parking brake, and rested his hand lightly on his partner's knee.

'I'll be there, tovarisch,' he said softly. 'I'll always be there.'

Illya met his gaze, but still, he was troubled. Intentions were beautiful things, but Napoleon was one man, and Russia was very large, and very strong.

((O))

Napoleon fussed one more time with Illya's tie before releasing him with a smile. His tailor had done a very good job, and in very short time. Illya did wear his cheap black suits well, it was true, but this suit was grey with just enough of a hint of purple in the silky weave to make Illya's eyes look like brooding storm clouds, and set off the gold in his hair to startling effect. It made Napoleon think of a lightning storm above a wheat field. Illya was unaccustomed to wearing a waistcoat, but the waistcoat made him look amazing. Illya's small stature just condensed the effect and made it all the more striking.

'You'll do,' he said carelessly, but the look in his eyes said much more. If there'd been time he would have happily peeled Illya like an exquisite fruit, shown him exactly how attractive the suit had made him, and then enjoyed dressing him all over again.

'There isn't time, Napoleon,' Illya growled, accurately reading that look. 'We've got to get to HQ for the address before we even know how much time to allow to get to Phelps.'

Napoleon kissed his forehead lightly. He knew Illya was concerned about what this mission might mean and he was going to be taciturn and grumpy until the mission was revealed. Depending on the mission, he might continue just as taciturn afterwards. As the Russian had told Waverly, when it came down to the wire it was his life.

'Come on,' he said. 'Let's get to the car.'

Illya reached out and smoothed his partner's lapel with a small smile, a wordless apology for his mood.

'You're right,' he said. 'We need to go.'

((O))

As it turned out, Phelps' apartment wasn't too far away at all. It was set in Manhattan looking over the East River much like Illya's and Napoleon's, but the IMF, by the looks of things, remunerated their agents rather more handsomely than U.N.C.L.E.. Not surprising, really, since their money came directly from the Secretary.

When they arrived Phelps' other agents were already there, and Illya cast his eye over them appraisingly from the doorway. Phelps himself, suave in a grey suit and striped tie. A large, dark haired man in black who, although pleasant looking, had the distinct look of being more muscle than brain. A black man with a rather self effacing look, dressed in dark grey. A tall, gangling man with an over-mobile face. And a woman. Illya stiffened at that. She was, he had to admit, exquisite, but exquisite as was a china doll. She was dressed immaculately in black, her hair coiffed immaculately, her make-up immaculate on her pale face. She smiled charmingly at their entrance, but remained sitting while the men rose as one. Illya drew in breath. Not one of them could have been below six foot two, and the muscle man must have been at least six four.

Beside him, Napoleon smiled in a way that only Illya could have read as nervous, and extended a hand to Phelps.

'I do hope we're not late.'

Illya repressed a snort. Napoleon knew full well they weren't late. He had been checking his watch a moment before the door opened.

'Not at all. It's good to see you, gentlemen,' Phelps said. His voice held a Midwest twang which suited his looks. 'Jim Phelps,' he said warmly, offering his hand first to Napoleon, then to Illya. 'Call me Jim.' He turned into the room with a welcoming smile, indicating the man with the mobile face. 'Rollin Hand,' he said. He introduced the black man as Barney Collier, the muscle man as Willy Armitage, then gestured with a rather softer smile at the lady, 'And Cinnamon Carter.'

'Enchanted,' Napoleon said immediately, slipping into his tomcat role as he stepped across the room to kiss the lady's hand. 'Haven't I seen you in – er – '

'I've modelled for various publications, Mr – ' And she turned her wide eyes on Mr Phelps questioningly.

'Ah, yes, this is Mr Napoleon Solo, and Dr Illya Kuryakin,' Phelps said immediately, indicating them each in turn. 'Two of U.N.C.L.E.'s finest agents. I hope Dr Kuryakin will be able to help us.'

'I – er – don't use the title,' Illya said rather diffidently, but he appeared to have caught the interest of Mr Collier, who came forward and extended a hand.

'What's the doctorate in?'

Illya was immediately struck with the feeling that he liked this man. There was a deep, capable intelligence in his eyes and his handshake was warm and sincere. He could feel the callouses on the man's hand that spoke of physical work.

'Quantum mechanics,' he replied, returning the pressure on Collier's hand.

'MIT?'

Illya smiled gently. 'Cambridge – England, not Massachusetts.'

Mr Collier looked impressed. 'I studied engineering at MIT,' he explained. 'I thought perhaps – '

Phelps clapped Collier on the back in a way that spoke of great familiarity, and Collier smiled at him. The apparent closeness between Mr Phelps and his team was reassuring.

'According to his dossier, Kuryakin shares plenty with you, Barney, at least in terms of skills. Particularly in the field of explosives,' he said with a smile just barely on the good side of wicked.

At that, Illya grinned too. 'I do find a certain – job satisfaction – in a really good explosion,' he admitted.

'Oh, yes, if I want anything reduced to rubble Illya's my first port of call,' Napoleon put in smoothly, but Illya recognised the slightest hint of jealousy beneath his words. Napoleon did so like to be the centre of attention and it must be disconcerting for everything to be centred on Illya.

'Gentlemen, take a seat,' Phelps said, indicating a low, stylish sofa. 'And let's get down to business.'

At that, Illya relaxed a little more. It was a relief to be excused from all the social stuff and get down to the reason they were here. He took a seat and was glad when Napoleon slipped down beside him. He was nervous, and he hated that. On the available evidence he had good reason to be nervous, but he still hated it. His comfort zone was broad but infinitely complex, and this situation did not fit in it.

Phelps took a seat himself, lit a cigarette with great efficiency, then offered the packet to his guests. Both shook their heads in polite refusal.

'All right, let's get down to brass tacks,' he said, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees. He fixed Illya with a penetrating blue gaze, and began, 'Dr Kuryakin.'

'Mr Kuryakin,' Illya reminded him quietly.

He nodded in acknowledgement. 'Mr Kuryakin, we need a man to infiltrate the gulag.'

So that was it. Illya felt a twisting sickness in the pit of his stomach. He had always been something other than an average citizen, never quite willing to toe the line, and so the thought of the camps had haunted him all his life. But he corrected almost automatically, 'The glavnoye upravleniye lagerey was disbanded in early 1960, Mr Phelps. It no longer exists.'

'My apologies – of course you're right,' he nodded, looking pleased rather than annoyed at Illya's correction. 'But forced labour camps still exist. A man by the name of Vasily Permyakov has been in one of those camps for over a year. Conventional methods of extraction have failed. We need a man to get in there, to contact Permyakov and get him out. A man who won't be caught out by the authorities, who are already on guard because of previous attempts. None of us could pass flawlessly as Russian, while you – '

Illya suddenly became aware of Napoleon beside him. His partner looked incredulous. 'You actually want to send Illya into one of those – those hell holes?'

Illya levelled a slightly wan gaze on him. 'He is right, Napoleon. They couldn't pass as Russian. But I am Russian.'

'And a man loosely fitting your description is currently awaiting dispatch to one of those camps, Mr Kuryakin,' Phelps continued.

'Convicted of?'

Phelps' smile was grim, and he sounded reticent when he said, 'He was a practising homosexual, Mr Kuryakin.'

That fact sank through him like ice. Why could he not have been a foolish poet, a political dissident, a simple thief; anything less likely to bring down fires of disgusted retribution on his head? He was not pleased that his voice, when he managed to speak, was little more than a squeak.

'He was a – practising homosexual?' His eyes shot to Napoleon's, met his worried gaze, but he saw he didn't understand the full import of that fact. 'Have you considered just killing me now? It would be quicker and altogether cheaper.'

'Hey!' Napoleon said, sitting forward suddenly in his seat. 'Illya, what do you mean by that?'

Illya smiled grimly. 'Napoleon, the camps are vicious places for men,' he said. 'They are many degrees more hellish for women. But for opushchennye...'

He trailed off, unable to complete his thought in a steady voice. He had never thought of himself as homosexual. His relationship with Napoleon was quite unique in his experience. But of course back home, if anyone suggested that there was anything more than platonic friendship between him and his lover, he would be there too, in the zona, labelled as opushchennye. The thought made him dizzy.

'It will be a difficult task,' Phelps confirmed, for all the world as if he were talking about an awkward bit of electrical work.

'Jim?' Armitage interrupted tentatively. The burly strongman had a voice much softer than his appearance would suggest. 'Do you think he can take it? I mean, he's – '

Illya straightened his spine as Napoleon said rather defensively, 'Illya is much stronger than he looks, I promise you.'

Illya was grateful for that defence, but still, he was uneasy. Even as an average prisoner, as one not tainted by the word opushchennye, he wasn't sure how he would manage on camp rations and twelve or more hours of forced labour a day.

'How long would I be in the zona? I mean, the camp?' he corrected himself hastily.

'Obviously for as little time as possible – but as long as it takes,' Phelps said rather uncomfortably. 'The sooner Permyakov is secured the sooner we can get you out. But it's imperative we get him out intact. And he may take some time to identify and contact and persuade.'

'You think he'd want to stay in that place?' Napoleon asked incredulously.

'He will not be quick to trust – anyone,' Illya told him. 'In the camps you can trust no one.'

'We'll have men on the outside,' Phelps assured him quickly. 'Barney and Willy and possibly myself, if I can't secure a position at the work area, will camp as close as possible to the gulag – er, to the camp, or more probably to the work area – to be ready to extract you.'

'And me,' Napoleon put in quickly. Illya felt a surge of warmth.

'Ah, now, Mr Solo – '

'If you think I'm leaving my partner without trusted backup – ' Napoleon flared.

Phelps held up his hands. 'We're all professionals, and we have a lot of details to work out, Mr Solo.'

'Well, what I don't understand is why Illya and I can't just go in together and break him out,' Napoleon said rather defensively. 'We're used to undertaking this kind of mission.'

'Well, for a start because the mission was given to my IMF team by the Secretary,' Mr Phelps said tolerantly. 'Unlike the U.N.C.L.E., we do work politically, and very often. And I think you'll be glad that we're there. Barney is unparalleled in the field of technology. I am an expert strategist. And you'll need Rollin's make-up skills to be able to make the switch with the prisoner en route to the camp.'

'But how will I keep up the make-up in a camp environment?' Illya asked doubtfully.

Mr Hand shook his head. 'You won't need to, Dr Kuryakin. I'll show you how to strip it gradually through the journey. The guards change often enough, and people see what they expect to see. Do it slowly enough and no one will notice the change. By the time you're in the camp Barney will have altered the original prisoner's documents to show your picture and fingerprints, and no one will be the wiser.'

Illya considered that. He had looked into this team since Waverly's announcement and he knew that their skills were of the highest level. It was true that he and Napoleon knew little of using make-up for disguises.

'How long do I get to decide if I'll do this?' he asked.

'Lagoshin is due to be shipped out in five days' time,' Phelps said quietly. 'We'll need to be in situ in three days, at the latest. I'd prefer sooner. If you won't do it, we'll need time to find someone else. So – '

'So I must answer now,' Illya nodded. Somehow he had felt that would be the case.

'Yes,' Phelps said simply.

'This man, Permyakov. Why do you want him?'

'He is a world class physicist, Mr Kuryakin, and unknown to the Soviet authorities he had been planning to defect, to join the US in their nuclear development programme. Now, they never discovered that plan. He was convicted only of political dissidence. We need him in this country. He's particularly focussed on making nuclear power safe and clean. There are advances we could make that would benefit millions of lives, and no doubt save millions too, on both sides of the Iron Curtain.'

Illya felt his loyalties warring within him. He was still a Russian citizen, still supposedly loyal to his country.

'You understand what it will mean for me if I'm caught?' he asked. 'Even if my involvement is discovered after the fact?'

Phelps nodded. 'Yes, Mr Kuryakin. You will be hunted down and killed, or you will find yourself back in the camps. But there will never be a scrap of documentary evidence linking you to this mission. After you have been extracted the records will be changed back to erase your fingerprints and photograph. There will be nothing with your name either on the books of the IMF, or U.N.C.L.E..'

Illya dropped his head. He wanted time to think. He wanted silence and solitude, not five strangers all waiting for his answer. This question was too big to answer lightly. Napoleon must have read that need, because he said, 'Ah, Mr Phelps, is there somewhere Illya and I could go for a private talk?'

Phelps glanced at the balcony doors, then seemed to change his mind and said, 'The kitchen's just over there, gentlemen. Take as much time as you need.'

Illya sighed quietly and got to his feet, not looking back to see if Napoleon was following. He knew he would be. Sure enough, Napoleon caught the door as he went through it, and as soon as it was closed he stepped very close to his partner and put his hand on his arm.

'Illya? You can say no. You do know that.'

'I know that,' he said. 'But – '

He didn't know how to verbalise it. He looked up, hoping that Napoleon could read his eyes,

'I know,' Napoleon said softly. 'I know. That's why we're in this business. Because there are things more important than our own lives...'

Illya stalked away and leant his palms on a granite counter top, letting the cool of the stone seep up his arms. The zona would be a hundred times colder. It would be hard, unbearably hard. It could break him. If he told Napoleon honestly everything that he feared might happen there Napoleon would forbid him to go, despite the fact that he had no real right to do so.

He huffed out his breath hard.

'I'll do it,' he said shortly.

Napoleon crossed the small space with astonishing swiftness, taking hold of his arms from behind.

'Illya, are you sure?'

'No,' he said. 'No, not at all. But I'll do it.' He jerked his head towards the door. 'Come on.'

'Illya.' Napoleon turned the Russian around, leant forward to touch their heads together. Illya let the warmth of Napoleon's broad forehead flow into his, wondering if he looked as pale as he felt. 'I will be there,' Napoleon promised. 'That's your condition. I will be on the team.'

Illya reluctantly drew away, and nodded sharply. It was better to do this quickly, before he changed his mind. He strode back to the kitchen door and pushed it open to see Mr Phelps quietly talking with his team. They all looked around when the door opened.

'I will do it,' he said. 'I will do it, as long as Mr Solo is involved in every process and is there on the outside to get me out.'

Then he walked stiffly back to his place on the sofa, and sat down, clasping his hands in his lap, wishing he could sit on them to stop them shaking.

Mr Phelps' face broke out in a smile that would be suited to any American farm boy.

'I'm glad,' was all he said. He looked over towards his drinks cabinet, then said, 'Can I offer you a drink? Vodka, Mr Kuryakin?'

Illya smiled very slightly. He needed to drink.

'Scotch,' he said. 'Thank you.'

'The same,' Napoleon nodded. He had joined him on the sofa.

'Well then,' Phelps said, taking off his jacket and striding over to the drinks cabinet. Illya noticed he didn't ask anyone else what they wanted, just mixed them drinks as if he were well used to their preferences. 'We might as well get talking,' he said, bringing back drinks for both U.N.C.L.E. agents. 'The sooner we outline the plan the sooner we can work out any bumps.'

Illya nodded, and took a deep swallow of the fiery scotch. It helped. He watched as Phelps started to lay out plans on the coffee table, idly noting that he was left-handed. It always did to notice these details. He was glad of having something to focus on. If Phelps had dismissed them now with the instruction to come back tomorrow he didn't think he could have taken it.

'Lagoshin is being held here,' Phelps said, laying his finger down on a building on a hand-drawn plan of a Russian town. It was nowhere Illya had heard of, but he was sure he would be educated further on those details. 'You'll be glad of one thing, Mr Kuryakin – he shares your first name, although his is spelled with only one 'l'. Now, we plan to make the switch just before he leaves his cell, and I'll tell you just how. It's a plan we've used before with great success, and luckily you're quite small...'

The details hummed in the air around them. Everyone was involved, everyone had an opinion, everyone was listened to. Illya was glad that his and Napoleon's opinions were given just as much credence as Mr Phelps' usual team members. They spoke for hours, long into the night, sipping scotch while Phelps and Collier in particular filled the room with tobacco smoke. The central thrust of the plan was to substitute Illya for Lagoshin just before he was shipped out for the camp. In the long train journey there Illya would be able to gradually strip away the small vestiges of his disguise, and by the time he arrived at the camp his appearance would be his own. Once in the camp he would have to look out for Permyakov and gradually gain his confidence, to the point where they would be able to arrange his extraction. The most likely labour for the inmates was logging, and although the work would be hard, the rural setting would be a slightly easier area to extract from.

'But what we're not sure on is how you'll be able to let us know he's ready for extraction,' Phelps said in a preoccupied tone. 'Or how we'll be able to let you know the procedure, because that's going to change depending on the exact terrain.'

'A communicator,' Illya said simply.

'Yes, but our radios are too large to conceal. You'll be subject to a full body search when you arrive and pat down searches every day.'

Illya slipped his hand into his inside pocket and brought out his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. 'This is a communicator. It has the appearance and functionality of a working pen,' he said.

'You won't be allowed to bring a working pen in with you.'

'I know that,' Illya said, then mentally chided himself for letting his nerves break through as impatience. 'Mr Phelps – '

'Jim, please.'

He nodded rather stiffly. 'All right. Jim, do you know if they do cavity searches?'

'I – ' He looked around at the other team members. 'I believe just the standard squat and lift. Nothing requiring a doctor's presence.'

Illya nodded. 'If I can wrap this in something I can conceal it in my rectum,' he said. 'You say you'll make the switch when I'm taken to the train. That will be after any last searches I hope. The cargo wagon will be dark and disorderly. I can take something just beforehand to prevent bowel movements, which will be quite welcome on the train, insert the pen when I'm near the destination, and extract it after I arrive at the camp. I'll find somewhere to hide it there.'

'Illya, that's risky,' Napoleon said seriously. 'If it goes wrong you'll need surgery, and I wouldn't want to leave you in their hands for that – whether or not they decided to operate.'

Illya met his eyes, reading his very real concern. 'I've done it before, Napoleon. We both have. I can put fishing line on it – no doubt we can come up with something even finer – and stick the end to my skin with an invisible patch.'

'Yeah, we can get the wire and the patch all right,' Rollin Hand confirmed. 'Something they'll never pick up unless they run their hands over it.'

'Illya, if it's discovered the whole game will be up,' Napoleon said, still looking worried.

'If it's discovered they'll think it's just a pen. We can even engrave it with Lagoshin's name, make it look like a lover's gift. I'll tell them how important it is to me to be able to write. I will make eyes at them and speak like a love-sick poet. They'll believe it of me. They would believe it of him. Of his type.'

He hated himself as he said that. Lagoshin's type and his own were no different. He would go home tonight and he would work out his anxiety and his fear carnally with Napoleon, and no, he and Lagoshin were no different at all.

Jim Phelps just regarded him for a few moments, and it was impossible to tell what was passing in his mind. Then he nodded.

'All right. I think it's worth the risk.' He flicked his wrist over and looked at his watch. 'Well, it's almost two in the morning, and we'll need to meet again to go over more details tomorrow. Say – eleven hundred? I'll let you both go get some sleep.'

Illya set his glass down and smoothed his hands over his thighs. He was tired, but he wasn't sure he would be able to sleep.

'Tomorrow, then,' he said, pushing himself up and waiting for Napoleon to join him.

'Oh – one thing,' Rollin Hand said, unfolding himself from his chair and striding loosely across the room. He stood for a moment regarding Illya. He was the make-up specialist, and Illya could see his thoughts moving in that direction. 'Mr Kuryakin, our sources tell us that Lagoshin's head was shaved this morning by the prison staff. Lice control, you know. I'm afraid you'll have to do the same.'

Illya's eyes widened momentarily, before he could stop the reaction. Then he nodded.

'It will be done,' he said shortly. He glanced at Napoleon and saw his stricken expression. 'Come on, Napoleon,' he said, his voice shorter still. 'We need to get some sleep, after all.'

((O))

In the room after the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were gone, Jim plumped down into a chair again and picked up his drink. He looked around at his team.

'Well. What do you think?'

Rollin spoke first. 'He's a good fit, Jim. He's got the bone structure, the stature, he's about the right body weight. I'm sorry about his hair...'

'We all make sacrifices,' Jim murmured. 'Barney?'

'Yes, Jim, I think he'll do,' the man nodded, stubbing out a cigarette in the closest ashtray and fetching another from his pocket. 'He's intelligent – very intelligent – and by all accounts very good at his job. Anyone could see how dedicated he was once he'd made his decision.'

'He's stronger than he looks, too,' Willy put in. 'Jim, when he first walked in here I wondered why you'd picked that – doll – to help us. But I was watching him while he was here. He's no doll. He's strong, he's agile.'

'He's attractive,' Cinnamon put in in a voice so soft it almost went unheard.

Rollin glanced at her quickly, then stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. 'How attractive?' he asked with a broad smile.

She returned the smile. 'Enough,' she said. 'But really, it's a moot point, isn't it? That's not going to get him anywhere in the gulag. But what about Mr Solo?'

Rollin laughed. 'I'm sure he's attractive enough too.'

'No, I mean, is he as good as his partner?'

Jim looked around the gathered team members, and nodded. 'He's the best. Don't doubt that. I'll be glad to have him on the team.'

'He's not used to bowing to someone else's commands,' Rollin suggested. 'They work in small teams in the U.N.C.L.E. and he's used to only answering to Waverly.'

'Well.' Jim grinned. 'He'll get used to it. He wants us to get Mr Kuryakin out alive. He'll listen to us, and we need to listen to him. According to Waverly there's not a man alive that knows Kuryakin better than Mr Solo. Not a man alive who cares for him so deeply, either.'

'That deeply, Jim?' Cinnamon asked, sounding worried now.

Jim glanced over towards the door through which the U.N.C.L.E. agents had so recently left, remembering how Solo had ushered Kuryakin out with a hand in the small of his back, and how Kuryakin had seemed completely at ease with that intimate touch.

'I don't know, Cinnamon. I can't tell. They're very close, but – '

'Will it be a problem, Jim? I mean, if they're queer?' Rollin asked directly. 'If they're together?'

He shook his head. 'I don't think so.' He looked meaningfully between Rollin and Cinnamon. 'After all, they wouldn't be the first team members to be romantically involved, would they? But either way, we're going to have to shepherd Mr Solo very carefully. He's good, but he's a wild card. I think he'd do anything to get Kuryakin out of there alive, and we need to make sure he doesn't get any of us killed in trying.'

((O))

Illya sat on a chair in the bathroom just staring into the mirror. It had been almost half past two in the morning when they'd got in, and they'd gone straight up to Napoleon's apartment without a word, silently agreeing that neither wanted to sleep alone tonight. But he couldn't go to bed yet.

He lifted a hand and ran it through his hair, watching his mirror fingers move through the straw coloured strands. His eyes looked worried and pale. He swallowed.

'Are you sure you want to do this tonight?' Napoleon asked. 'We could do it tomorrow morning.'

Illya pressed his lips together hard, and shook his head. 'No. Now, Napoleon. It needs to be now.'

Napoleon bent and laid a kiss on that golden crown of hair. Illya closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to see his lover's expression.

'Now, Napoleon,' he said again. He was still softened a little by the scotch, still a little numbed by all that had happened that evening. 'Just do it.'

He kept his eyes closed, but he felt Napoleon run a hand through his hair, oh so tenderly. And then he lifted a clump of hair, and there was a crisp snick. Another, and another, Napoleon's hands moving with infinite tenderness, and he knew that his hair was raining about him onto the bathroom floor. After a while Napoleon laid the scissors down with a metallic clink on the basin, and he opened his eyes. He wished he hadn't. In the mirror he looked smaller, paler. His remaining hair was a scarecrow mess of light straw, short little bits all of different lengths. Napoleon was gathering up the long locks from the floor and putting them into a large envelope.

'Oh, Napoleon,' he said, his voice an odd mixture of exasperation and sorrow. 'Just put it in the bin.'

'No,' Napoleon said softly. He sealed the envelope and leant it up against the wall. 'No, I won't.'

Illya closed his eyes again. He wished he hadn't looked.

'Well, hurry up then,' he said, the unforgivable tone of anger roughening his voice again. He didn't mean to be angry with Napoleon. He wasn't angry with him. He was angry at himself for agreeing to do this, angry with himself for being so afraid.

'All right, IK,' Napoleon said.

His hand stroked gently over Illya's forehead, a soft, tender gesture that brought a lump to Illya's throat. And then the tap began to run and the scent of steam filled the air, and a moment later Napoleon was lathering what was left of Illya's hair, and the razor began to run across his scalp. Illya kept his eyes closed the whole time, and he didn't look in the mirror when he left the room.

In bed later he clasped himself around Napoleon, pressing his head into his lover's chest. Their love making had been rough at first, and then slow and tender the second time around, and now he was exhausted, hovering on the edge of sleep. The scent and warmth of Napoleon was all around him. He could still smell the faint scent of come, and the stronger scents of their bodies' sweats mingling together, and Napoleon's day-old aftershave mixing with his own. Napoleon's arms were around him, holding him tight, his hand stroking slowly at his back. Napoleon's lips touched his head, and neither could hide his momentary flinch from the other as they were both reminded of Illya's baldness. But then they softened again, Illya's breath started coming soft and slow again against Napoleon's chest, and ever so slowly Napoleon stroked him into sleep.

((O))

At breakfast they tried to ignore it. Napoleon made coffee and Illya made toast under the grill and stirred scrambled eggs on the stove. Every time he moved he felt the oddness, the cool of his scalp, the strange hyper-sensation of skin that was usually insulated from touch. But perhaps it was harder for Napoleon. After all, Illya couldn't see it unless he looked in a mirror.

'Well then, what do you think of Mr Phelps and his team?' Napoleon asked, his voice a study in insouciance, not turning from the percolator.

'They're all – very tall,' Illya said rather regretfully as he pulled out the grill tray to flip the toast.

Napoleon laughed. 'Yes, they're tall, my petite Russian comrade. What about Miss – er – Carter?'

Illya grunted. 'She's tall too, or tall enough.'

'I meant as a woman,' Napoleon chided him softly.

He smiled coldly at that, and let his voice go deep and dark. 'She reminds me of a kitten on a greeting card. One would have trouble refusing those eyes, but she would eat up one's dish of cream and then have no compunction in clawing one to the heart, and lapping up the blood.'

'What interesting kittens you have in your neck of the woods.'

'Take care with her, Napoleon,' Illya said very seriously, glancing sideways. Napoleon was still looking studiously at the percolator, despite the fact that there was nothing he needed to do to it until the coffee was ready to pour.

'Not – my – type,' Napoleon said very clearly. 'No, Miss Carter's not my type at all. Besides, I think Mr Hand might have something to say about that.'

'Really?' Illya quirked an eyebrow.

Napoleon chuckled. 'Illya, you are a first class agent, but you're very unobservant in some things. Miss Carter and Mr Hand are sleeping together.'

'Hmm,' Illya said contemplatively, then he looked up with a flashing smile. 'Well, Napoleon, at least you've finally met someone with a name as ridiculous as your own.'

Napoleon snorted. 'Maybe our mothers could get together and talk about it.' He looked round at Illya's laugh, and caught his breath, and the mood died instantly. 'Oh, Illya,' he said.

Illya smoothed his hand over his scalp and shrugged. 'I will get used to it,' he said. 'Besides, it will be the least of my hardships.'

Napoleon's eyes filled with concern. 'Illya, are you really sure – '

'I am sure,' he cut across quickly. 'I have agreed, Napoleon. There's no going back. You know that.'

Napoleon finally abandoned the percolator and crossed the kitchen to slip his arms around Illya's waist from behind. He kissed him lightly behind his ear, and Illya shivered, but he carried on stirring the eggs.

'Napoleon, the toast will burn,' he warned him.

Napoleon sighed and went to pour the coffee.

((O))

They had a brief half hour after breakfast before they needed to leave for Mr Phelps' apartment. They had both gone through breakfast trying to ignore the elephant in the room that was Illya's shaven head and all that it implied. Illya forced himself to heartily eat two helpings of eggs despite looking like he could barely managed to swallow one, and Napoleon picked in a desultory way at his own helping and finally scraped it into the trash.

Afterwards, Napoleon took Illya through to the lounge and pulled him down onto the sofa. He didn't think he would ever be able to get used to looking at him with his head shorn like that. He looked so small and vulnerable, and he wondered how he would survive for a moment in the Russian gulag. He wasn't big enough, he wasn't strong enough, he wasn't –

He kicked himself. Illya was the strongest person he knew. He wasn't physically large, but he was incredibly powerful. But then – he looked like someone who would be easy to dominate. Illya wouldn't be able to risk fighting back in the camp for fear of punishment. If he were thrown into solitary he would have no chance of contacting Permyakov. So he would have to be docile, obedient, easy. And people would take advantage of that. He knew they would. Illya was too small, too beautiful...

He had to stop this self-indulgence. He would not be the one on the inside. He had to be strong for Illya's sake. He pulled on a smile and asked, 'How are you doing, tovarisch?'

Illya gave him a wan smile. 'You'll have to get used to saying grazhdanin, Napoleon. Citizen. You're not allowed to call people comrade in the camps.'

He looked so pale and downcast that Napoleon enveloped him in his arms.

'Oh, I will miss this,' Illya whispered, burrowing his face into his partner's neck. 'It's ironic, really, that without realising they're punishing me for exactly this crime.'

'Illya!' Napoleon sat away from him, holding his shoulders, cold with shock. 'Illya, that's a complete coincidence. No one is punishing you for this. No onecould punish you for something so pure.'

Illya regarded him sadly. Without hair to balance them out, his eyes looked so much bigger and bluer. 'Oh, Napoleon, in some ways you are so insulated from the realities of this world. There are hundreds of men in the camps who are there for exactly this. Loving. Being loved.'

Napoleon shook him. 'But you won't be. You'll be there to save a man's life. To save thousands of lives. Volunteering for this is one of the single most noble things you have ever done. But please tell me it won't affect what we have.'

Illya's smile was so sad that it broke his heart. 'I can't promise anything, Napoleon. It will affect it. I don't know how. But a man does not enter the camps and come out the same. Especially not opushchennye.'

'Don't call yourself that,' Napoleon said, more harshly than he meant. His voice softened. 'Illya, don't. Don't let this taint what we have. Come on. You're an expert in separating business and pleasure. You have to keep doing that.'

Illya leant forward, kissed him lightly on the lips, then rested his forehead against Napoleon's and sighed.

'I will do my best,' he promised, 'as long as you promise that, when I get out, you'll help me untangle the strands.'

Napoleon lifted his hand, hesitated, then stroked his palm deliberately down over Illya's scalp, where the first velvet of stubble was beginning to show. Illya shivered at the touch, and Napoleon laid kisses in the wake of his hand.

'I will untangle you,' he promised. 'Always.'

((O))

They were back in Phelps' apartment by eleven, Napoleon still slickly dressed, but Illya opting for his quasi-uniform of black trousers and a black poloneck, his head covered with a fitting black woollen cap of the type he often used to disguise his bright hair during night missions. It was easier to look at him like that, Napoleon admitted, and he was glad Illya had something to protect his shorn head from the autumn chill in the air. But he kept it on even in Mr Phelps' apartment, which was well warmed by an open fire, and Napoleon knew that he felt self-conscious not just because of losing his hair but because of the reason it had had to go.

'It's best you keep a low profile from now until we leave tomorrow evening,' Phelps told Illya as he took a chair near the coffee table. 'We don't want any questions about the hair cut. Nothing that would lead people back to you. I've spoken to your Mr Waverly and he's agreed that you shouldn't visit U.N.C.L.E. headquarters until after you get back.' He levelled his gaze at Illya then. 'And you will get back, Illya,' he promised. 'Now, that's not sentiment. We can't risk you being left in their hands and it being found out that the U.N.C.L.E. has loaned us an agent for a political mission. We have to extract you.'

'Dead or alive,' Illya said in a dark voice.

Phelps gave a half smile. 'Yes, dead or alive, but we'll try for alive.' He looked at his watch. 'We'll start talking over the plans now, but I have lunch being delivered at one. Will that suit everyone?'

There was a murmur of agreement from the room at large, and Napoleon noticed the eager look in Illya's eyes. Illya was the most food centred man he knew, and be would be able to eat more happily now they were back at Phelps' place planning the mission rather than waiting back at his own place.

'I – ah – assume everyone present will have a role in the mission?' Napoleon asked, his eyes turning towards Cinnamon.

'Oh yes, everyone has a role,' the woman replied in her polite, soft voice. 'I'll be at the initial transfer at the jail, Napoleon, and if possible I will be part of Jim's cover when Illya is in the camp.'

Napoleon glanced at Phelps. 'And your cover is?'

Phelps grimaced. 'I'm going to try to get a place at the work site so that I can keep an eye on Illya. My Russian isn't so good but my German is fluent, and I can go in as a German of a Russian father. Cinnamon will be my wife, and anything else she needs to be.'

'And Mr Hand?' Napoleon asked.

Jim laughed. 'Well, his Russian is less rusty. We're still working on where we can get him in. I want as tight a network as possible around Illya.'

To catch him when he falls, Napoleon thought rather fatalistically, then shook himself. That was more Illya's line. He needed to be optimistic for his partner.

'And I'll camp out in the woods with Barney and Willy, huh?'

'With your admittedly poor Russian and your physical looks I think that's best. None of you will be able to pass as Russian. You'll be the first on hand to receive Illya when he comes out.'

'Hmm.' He liked that thought, but couldn't help but feel like something of a third wheel. Phelps was right, of course. He didn't look particularly Russian, and he was more used to playing the suave gambler, the monied American rake, than the more down to earth characters that Illya so enjoyed. He wouldn't know where to begin as a gulag guard – and besides, he knew he was too closely involved. If Illya started to suffer too badly he wouldn't be able to just let him be. It was enough that they were letting him come on the mission. It would have to be enough.

'Must it be now?' he heard Illya say, and he looked round sharply. Rollin Hand was speaking to him in a low voice, and Illya looked dubious.

'What is it?' Napoleon asked, instantly concerned.

Illya looked at him with a dark expression in his blue eyes, but Rollin said with a smile, 'I was just suggesting to Illya that we should go make his cast. I need a cast of his face for the appliances,' he explained.

Napoleon wondered idly how anyone with a face like that, with a mouth so wide and mobile, could look so unutterably charming all the same. But somehow Rollin did. But he understood Illya's reticence. For the cast he would have to remove the cap.

'Can you do it somewhere more private?' he asked in a low voice, knowing that Illya really wouldn't want him to make a scene out of his personal issues.

'We can do it in the bathroom, if you prefer, Illya,' Rollin shrugged easily.

Illya glanced between the two and touched his hand to the knit cap. 'Yes, I'd prefer that.'

It would be too much like babysitting to follow the pair to the bathroom, but Napoleon wished he could do just that. He wanted to spend every moment he could with Illya. He seemed so vulnerable. But he stayed where he was as Illya and Rollin left the room, and forced his mind back to the plans that were spread out on the table. He buried himself in them, deliberately losing awareness of everything else. He wanted to be fully up to spec with what was going to go on in the Russian town where Lagoshin was being held, and where the transfer would be made.

((O))

Meanwhile, Illya sat in a chair in Phelps' well accommodated bathroom with his head tilted back, while Rollin lightly rubbed his skin and eyebrows with vaseline and then applied plaster of Paris to his face. There were straws up his nose to help him breathe, and Rollin was speaking to him soothingly the whole time, with the manner of a man used to having to calm unwilling subjects as he went through this unpleasant process. Illya just breathed slowly and rhythmically through the straws and let the voice wash over him. He was not claustrophobic, thank god, but the process pulled back awful memories of that affair when he had been dumped into a huge vat of plaster.

That time he had only survived by dint of extremely fast thinking and luck. He had held his breath and pulled out a cheap ballpoint pen from his pocket, teasing out both ends with teeth and nails. Then he had stuck the empty tube up through the plaster until he had been able to suck in air rather than a mouthful of the foul liquid. That had been a horrible time, and if he had been claustrophobic he would have had a heart attack as he stood in the slowly setting plaster, sucking in painfully small breaths through the tiny tube, trying to keep his chest inflated as the stuff hardened so that he would still be able to move his lungs once it was set. There had been the thought that perhaps Napoleon wouldn't survive either, that perhaps he would be trapped in this vat, breathing through the straw, until he died of dehydration. He had suffered nightmares for weeks.

'Hey, are you all right in there?'

Rollin's hand was on his shoulder, shaking him a little, and he raised his own hand in a thumbs up. He turned away from those memories and concentrated on the here and now, feeling the sensation of the plaster drying slowly on his face, feeling the unaccustomed cool of the air against his scalp.

What the hell was he doing? Why on earth was he doing this at all? His gut clenched and he felt ice run through his veins. Adrenaline surged, and he wanted to scrape the stuff off his face and throw open the door and run and run and run. He wasn't duty bound to do this. He wasn't bound to do this at all. This was crazy!

There are advances we could make that would benefit millions of lives, and no doubt save millions too, on both sides of the Iron Curtain. Phelps' voice echoed in his memory. Millions of lives, against his own very small existence. Millions… He clenched his hands hard, and Rollin asked again, 'Are you sure you're all right? It won't be much longer. It's a very quick-setting formula.'

He raised his hand again, but he couldn't quite stop the slight tremor as he did so. Rollin caught Illya's hand in his, and he fought not to flinch away. He had to trust this man, had to trust all the team.

'You know, Cinnamon is so claustrophobic I had to sedate her to take her cast the first time,' Rollin said in a conversational tone, keeping hold of his hand, moving his fingers just enough so that he was almost stroking it. 'I have that one mask of her, and if I ever have to do it again I'll have to sedate her again. It's a funny business this. A lot of the people I do aren't conscious. On the other side, you know. And there are ones I can't do at all. I have to make a mould from photos, and that's so much harder. I studied art for a while, thought about being a cartoonist, then about being a sculptor. It serves me well in this job. Ah, I think we're ready...'

Hands joggled the set plaster over his face, and as it was lifted away Illya drew in a heaving breath, blinking in the sudden light and feeling rather ashamed at the level of relief that flooded over him.

'I was – once dropped into a vat of plaster,' he admitted, 'and it set while I was in there.'

Rollin whistled. 'Don't even mention that to Cinnamon,' he said in a low voice, with a conspiratorial smile. Illya felt warmed. He didn't know how the man had done it, but with his constant soothing chatter he had helped to keep the anxiety from peaking into panic. 'You should have told me before I started.'

Illya shrugged. 'It would have made no difference.'

He moved over to the basin, scrubbed his face and eyebrows hard with soap and warm water, and then towelled himself off. He pulled the black cap back on before coming over to look at the cast that Rollin had made.'

'You'll make a positive from that negative, then?'

'Mmm-hmm,' Rollin said, turning the cast in his hands and looking into it intently. 'Then use it to mould the appliances so they'll fit directly on your face. It's not much. Mostly a little around the nose and brow. If you peel off the brow piece four or five days in, then the nose one a few days after that, they'll never realise what's happened. They might think you look a bit altered but they'll put it down to weight loss or the changes that – well, that a man undergoes on a journey like that.'

Illya felt the ice in his veins again, but he nodded and spoke in a level voice. 'What will I do with the pieces I remove?'

'Tread them into the floor. They'll get dirty and blend in and they'll disintegrate before anyone sees them. It won't be a problem.'

Illya nodded sharply. 'Well, I will leave you to it,' he said, bending in a slight bow of thanks. 'I have to speak with Mr Collier about the communicator.'

'Of course. Of course,' Rollin nodded, looking back at the cast now with the abstracted expression of a true artist.

Illya looked into the strange death mask of his own face one last time, and left.

((O))

That night he lay close with Napoleon again in Napoleon's queen size bed, pressing against him as if it were his last chance to share that warmth and love. Their love-making had been soft, unhurried, tender, and it would probably their last chance to share that kind of love for a long time. Afterwards Napoleon had held him and Illya had clung back as if he were drowning, wanting to spill all of his fears, but holding back for Napoleon's sake. Napoleon was scared too. He spoke instead about the semi-claustrophobia that had assailed him as Rollin made the cast of his face, and Napoleon held him more tightly, no doubt remembering his own fear that day when he had thought Illya killed in such a horrific way.

Illya and Barney had managed to pack an extra battery with a slightly longer life into the communicator while they were in Phelps' apartment, and Barney had promised to fit a tiny earpiece in place of the speaker on an extendible wire. Then he would engrave it with the sentiment in Russian characters that Illya had written out for him. Rollin had promised to devise a cover for it that would enable it to slip in easily and protect both it and Illya's body, and to sort out the fishing wire and patch. He would also cut and style a wig for Illya to wear on the outward journey so his appearance wouldn't be suspicious to the authorities, but also would be significantly different to his usual appearance and would fit with his fake papers.

They had gone over all the plans seemingly a hundred times. Phelps had promised that the necessary documentation would be ready for the next day, because both he and Napoleon would have to travel under false identities. No authority must know that they were out of the country. They would spend the day at Phelps' again tomorrow, before leaving to fly out to Europe in the evening. Phelps' people would travel semi-legitimately across the border from West Berlin and journey on into Russia. He and Napoleon would fly to Germany and then board a private plane and be dropped under the cover of darkness by parachute some distance over the Russian border. They would rendezvous with Phelps and his team and travel to the Russian town where the switch would be made. And then the fun would begin…