Double or Die

by Rosywonder

Renegade agents across the Iron Curtain combine with THRUSH to destroy UNCLE and their top agents by creating a perfect imitation of Illya Kuryakin. But will those that love him realise in time to defeat the forces working against them?

1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The profoundly leaden sky vastly increased the deep sense of misery that entered Captain Aleksandr Sergeyevich Koronin's soul as he kicked the leaves away from his boots and stared into the distance. The four horses on the top of the Brandenburg Gate seemed to be detached from their chariot in the mist, as if they were seeking some way of scaling the dismal wall that closed off the Western Sector behind them, and charging up the Unter den Linden towards the Russian Embassy standing solidly to his left. Koronin turned away and entered the Embassy by the small round-topped gate on the left of the building, flashing his credentials at the bored looking guard just inside.

He'd been in the German Democratic Republic for only six months, and considered his posting as Naval Attaché rather a coup, after what seemed like an eternity spent patrolling the Mediterranean coast on the Moskva, even though he loved the powerful ship and his position of relative seniority within the crew. However, the opportunity to serve in Naval Intelligence as an Embassy official had been too good to overlook, and Berlin too much at the crossroads of East and West to resist. As he had expected, the city and the posting lived up to their respective reputations, and life had proceeded with a swing until yesterday, when the message bearing the familiar sword and shield emblem of the KGB Third Directorate was slapped unceremoniously on his desk by Petrov, one of the clerks in the embassy lower echelons. He had opened it slowly, a certain aura of doom gathering in the quiet room as the stiff envelope revealed its contents. The name of the sender was enough to confirm his worst misgivings. Commissar Viktor Borisovitch Nikitin.

As far as he was aware, that mudak Nikitin, was not on the staff of the KGB residency in the Embassy. His mind easily and vividly recaptured the last time they had met, aboard the beloved Moskva, after she had docked for repairs on the Libyan coast what must have been nearly ten years ago. Fear had rippled through the crew like a cold freezing fog, when it was known that Commissar Nikitin from the Third Directorate, military counter-intelligence, was aboard, ready to interview and assess the men for any signs of ideological weakness. Aleksandr could see him now, sat behind the table in the board room of the ship, his papers neatly arranged, a series of brown files in alphabetical order laid out for perusal by his officious assistant, Vasilov. Throughout the so-called 'interviews', he sat just behind Nikitin, taking copious notes of what was said with a scratchy fountain pen on large pieces of grey

foolscap paper; never looking up or hesitating, except to replace one large piece of paper with another.

Shevchenko was further down the list, but the Arkhangelsk and him were together; both Ks; him first, then Arkhangelsk after him. Arkhangelsk. Archangel. Koronin smiled at the thought of him and of how apt the name had appeared after the debacle with Nikitin.

The three of them had joined the Moskva at the same time; Aleksandr from Leningrad, the other two, the 'twins' as he called them, from Kiev. Superficially, they had a great deal in common. All were educated, some would say 'gifted'; all were physically very fit; Aleksandr sighed at the memory of just how fit he had been, involuntarily pulling in his rather sagging waistline at the thought. And, it appeared, all of them were destined for a rapid path to promotion within the ranks of the Soviet Navy; destined to serve the State for the foreseeable future in whatever role the State designated them to occupy.

Koronin rifled through his drawers, yanking out several files until he found what he was looking for. An old, rather battered photograph depicted three rather serious new recruits standing in front of the ship in which they were to serve together. The two blonds, one fairer than the other, and himself, taller and darker, stood between them; like two shaven-headed bookends, he had thought them then.

The men had named Kuryakin Arkhangelsk very soon into that first year. Some said it was because of the blond hair framing his pale, fine features, or that one never heard him coming until he appeared, somewhat miraculously, in front of you; others were convinced it was because of the aloofness he exhibited towards anyone who tried to get too near. When he wasn't on duty, he led an almost monastic existence, Aleksandr recalled; endless studying of tedious scientific textbooks or reading in a bewildering array of languages. Otherwise he just seemed to be engaged in a relentless physical fitness regime, or, whenever Misha was off-duty at the same time, spending what felt like years to Koronin, playing chess. Whatever the men decided the reason for his name was, in Aleksandr's opinion it was solely his outstanding leadership qualities which separated him from the others, and in particular from his brilliant, but feckless and unreliable 'twin'.

By the time Nikitin had ripped through the ratings and begun on the officers, the morale on board ship was sinking like a depth charge; rapidly and in danger of a large explosion following. The slightest flaw in the men's background – a visit to a church, for example, or a distant relative who had expressed dubious political opinions; all were jumped on; Vasilov, the anonymous scribe, furiously recording every little indiscretion or turn of phrase, until the men were beside themselves with worry and fear. The Captain seemed either unwilling or unable to intervene, preferring to keep to his cabin. Aleksandr had seen Arkhangelsk entering the Captain's quarters, and had asked him afterwards about it. A blank stare had silenced him and he had been left standing there, knowing nothing more than he had before the meeting.

He had never known exactly how he had done it, or even what had been said in his interview with Nikitin. Whatever had happened, Koronin was utterly convinced to this day that Arkhangelsk was, to use the biblical quotation 'highly favoured'. Somehow he had used that connection to someone 'higher up', with spectacular results. When they returned from weekend shore leave, there was no trace of Nikitin, his assistant or any evidence that he had ever conducted any interviews on the Moskva. Aleksandr learnt afterwards that the loathsome KGB Commissar had been 'redeployed' as camp commandant to a Gulag a considerable distance to the East. Neither he nor Misha could prise out of their comrade exactly how it had been done, but the men were more than happy to endow him with supernatural powers for the rest of the time he was aboard, despite the look of horror that drifted across his face when he found out.

Aleksandr hurriedly stuffed the photograph back in the drawer, and picked up the phone.

'Registry. This is Captain Koronin. I'd like to request a file. The name is Mikhail Ivanovitch Shevchenko. Yes, that's a Ukrainian name, but he's a Russian national. Formerly serving as a Naval Officer on the 'Moskva'. Yes, I'll be taking it upstairs.'

xxxxxxxxx

There seemed to be a serious fuss going on at the reception desk, Napoleon thought. He came up silently behind the backs of several girls surrounding a rather portly woman, whose strident voice could be heard above the sound of the others, protesting at something or someone in increasingly loud tones. It was soon obvious who the 'someone' was.

'Well really, what sort of organisation is this, when you can't tell the men from the women!' she bawled. The object of her scorn glared back at her, his lips set like concrete across the rather flushed face as he held out a triangular badge towards her. He was surrounded by three girls from the adjacent office, who seemed to be forming a protective wall between him and the woman.

'Um, excuse me, madam, can I be of service?' he asked, gently parting the other two girls who were standing just in front of him. She turned, hurriedly pinning on the badge to her ample bosom, her rather small eyes rapidly appraising him.

'Oh, thank goodness! A man who looks like a man! You want to take a leaf out of your colleague's book, young man' she continued looking backwards, with a shake of her head, I'm sure his barber would be able to do something for you, even with that hair!' Napoleon put his arm through hers and started to move her towards the doors before the arctic breeze emanating from the reception desk turned them all to ice.

He caught up with Kuryakin in the commissary.

'I sometimes wonder why I even bother to help people when I am subjected to abuse of that kind,' he muttered, finishing off what looked like a double portion of fruit salad and ice cream, in front of him. 'I was just helping Janet with the new computer terminal when that woman demanded a badge from me. Napoleon, do I look like one of the receptionists?' Napoleon smirked as an amusing mental image of the Russian in a tight skirt and blouse flashed through his mind.

'Janet told me you were crouching down behind the desk and she only saw the top of your head,' he replied. 'Perhaps Mrs Goldensturmer has a point.'

Illya sighed, involuntarily pushing the wayward hair from his face.

'Well, unlike you, Napoleon, I haven't had five minutes to call my own since I came back from sick leave in the summer, including attending to unimportant details like that,' Illya said, a slightly superior expression showing on his normally unemotional face.

It was true, the Russian had been seconded to the computer section since the summer, working, at Waverly's insistence, on some new system which had been given ultra high classification, but in any case would have been a mystery to Napoleon had Kuryakin even attempted to explain it to him. His partner, like all the men in that section, had neglected everyone and everything because of it, in fact there had been a kind of special dispensation for 'the geek section' as they were called, to dress informally, and relax the usual fairly formal rules about clothes and hair. Especially his hair. Uncut since Tess had insisted before the Naturalisation ceremony, it was now hanging over his shirt collar and heading for his shoulders.

'Well fine, but if you want to continue with our partnership, fair damsel, perhaps you might think about a little trim, eh?'

xxxxxxxxxx

Illya sat behind the circular table in Waverly's office, his eyes sore and dry from the endless checking of the report in front of him. The assignment had at least meant an opportunity to spend a little more time at home, at least in theory, although during the week he had frequently slept in the IT department, Napoleon refusing to come even near, complaining about the smell of unwashed bodies and the litter. Whilst spending long hours writing and re-writing programmes and wrestling, to date unsuccessfully, with the problem of secure transmission of secret information, he wished, not for the first time, that Misha was on hand to help him.

Misha; a life wasted. Or at least, Illya imagined that was the case, since he hadn't seen or heard from him since his last letter had been returned to the UNCLE offices in London, during his last few weeks there. They had managed, somehow, to maintain a constant, but rather sparse correspondence in the years after the Moskva. Shevchenko had remained in the Soviet Navy for a year after Illya had gone to Paris, and then had returned to Moscow State University to continue his studies in Mathematics and Quantum Mechanics. There had been talk of him being given permission to study at MIT in Boston even, and he had plied Kuryakin with questions about life in the West in his flamboyant, untidy writing. Then an uncharacteristically brief, harsh note had arrived, informing him of Shevchenko's move, but in the opposite direction to the expected one.

Illya had been aware of Misha's sexuality from early on in their friendship; indeed it would have been virtually impossible to ignore it, since they shared a cramped cabin on the Moskva. The term 'Siberian virgin' conned by Marie-Laure was a remarkably apt description of himself then, he thought, although he hadn't admitted it to Napoleon; he had managed to remain in that blessed state all the way through University, mainly through ferocious commitment to work and study, and despite the amorous attentions of his second cousin Anastasiya over several long hot summers at his mother's cousin's farm in the middle of the Ukrainian countryside. Misha had no such inhibitions, at least in private.

Intellectually, he was at least Illya's equal in Mathematics and Physics, if not in other subjects, and his deficiencies were mainly due to his lack of application, as Kuryakin constantly reminded him during long off-duty hours in the cabin or during on-shore leave. In return, Misha declared that it was his mission to 'loosen up' Kuryakin, as he called it. Looking back on it, Illya thought, both 'missions' had ended in failure.

The letter from Shevchenko gave him few details. There had been an 'incident' at the University department Misha had been working in. Reading between the lines, Illya had detected the hint of a betrayal by a lover who thought to gain by it. Whatever had happened, Shevchenko had been stripped of his position, and 're-located' to the closed city of Gorky. He had been given a job in a secret facility, but at an absurdly lower level than was appropriate for a man with his qualifications and ability. Illya never discovered whether he had regained his position. It was as if a door had clanged shut on that part of his life, and on all those whom he had known then.

He frowned deeply and rubbed his eyes, wishing he could take a break from it; perhaps a little light relief with some explosives somewhere, or a long plane journey. Anything to allow his addled brain some rest from what was beginning to feel like a giant, insoluble puzzle set for him by higher beings, to work at eternally, with no end in sight.

He jerked upright as the door slid open behind him. As usual, Napoleon looked as if he hadn't a care in the world, his clothes matching his attitude as he covertly tugged at Illya's hair while sliding into the chair beside him.

'Gentlemen. Perhaps you'd like to begin with your report on the Bolt affair, Mr Solo, and then we can discuss Mr Kuryakin's progress with the Oriel programme.' Illya could see Waverly looking sideways at him through clenched eyebrows, no doubt making a comparison with his more sartorially impressive partner. However, no comment was made, yet. 'And then when we've finished with this confounded computer report, I have something to discuss with you both that our friends at Langley seem to have foisted upon us.'

The two agents gave a collective sigh. Whenever the word 'Langley' was mentioned, it was generally with a cast iron guarantee of trouble, usually directed towards the Russian side of the partnership. Waverly had been highly successful in the last few years in keeping the CIA at bay, but with a change of Director, the impact of the conflict in Vietnam and in particular, the continuing cold war with the Soviet Bloc, it was simply a matter of time before the two organisations would collide again over some issue.

Illya ran though all the possible permutations of people and plots inwhich anybody from Langley might share a mutual interest with UNCLE, as Napoleon began his report. Of course, they had seen him as a potential threat from the moment his size eight feet had stepped onto the tarmac at La Guardia, but in recent years, and especially since Agent Bradley Mitchell had been reassigned to Cuba, there had been a noticeable lack of interest or activity from that quarter. He could hear Napoleon drawing his report to a close, listing the successful outcomes of the mission, and the one, rather major failure, the failure to apprehend Bolt herself.

With a major effort of will, Illya shoved thoughts both of Lee-Hua Bolt, and the ever-present threat to his family, and of the CIA, to the back of his very tired brain, and picked up his copy of the report on the new computer security programme, codenamed 'Oriel' by Wendell Rhodes, the chief of Section 17.

Before he could begin, Waverly interrupted.

'We don't need to go through the whole report, admirable though it is, Mr Kuryakin. Perhaps you can just précis the situation as it is now for those of us with less, er, technical understanding, and then give us a brief idea of any problems or possible outcomes.'

Illya could see Napoleon trying to look interested, but he could guess that he was rather more eager to hear the next item on the agenda. After explaining as simply as he could the outline of the work, he plunged on towards the present situation.

'Um, so, as you see, sir, we are still struggling to develop a key which will ensure complete protection from any attacks on the new system made by, let's say, unwelcome intruders.'

'Yes, well we will just have to keep on until we do find this key, otherwise when we switch over to this new computer system, our security will be at risk of being totally compromised, will it not?' Illya nodded tiredly, closing the fat folder with a rather louder thud than he had intended. He noticed Waverly staring at him again, this time a rather more concerned look drifting across his craggy features.

'Now,' Waverly continued, automatically reaching for his pipe, 'You had both better look at this, although it rather concerns you more directly, Mr Kuryakin, I think.' He drew out two single sheets of UNCLE headed notepaper, on which were typed a single list of names.

'As you know, gentlemen, this organisation only exists in this country because of the good relationships we have developed with both international and governmental institutions here in the United States. If you remember, we did discuss briefly attempts by the Armed Forces department to develop a closer working relationship with agents from Section 2, particularly in times of war. Now, as you know, I have resisted all attempts of this nature, as I still believe that this could compromise the independence of UNCLE as an entirely separate, global security organisation, working for world peace. However, since the change of Director, it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain that integrity.'

Napoleon looked up from scanning the list of names, of which one had leapt out from the page already.

'So, sir, if you don't mind my asking, what is this list of names, and how is the CIA involved?'

Waverly sucked the pipe vigorously, as if it would somehow endue him with the ability to explain the unexplainable. Napoleon glanced across at his partner, now slightly more serious looking than before, if that was possible.

'It appears, Mr Solo, that Military intelligence and the CIA are cooperating in an attempt to second, as it were, Section 2 agents into Military intelligence units for the duration of any war this country might be engaged in South East Asia.'

'And this list, sir, plucked out of the air, or what?'

'No, Mr Solo. If you look closely, you will see that all these men have something in common. They are all…'

'American citizens, some more recent than others.' Illya looked up from the sheet in his hand. Napoleon could, through years of practice, make a fairly accurate deduction of what was going on behind the thick thatch of blond.

'Exactly, Mr Kuryakin. We were asked to provide a list of every American Section Two agent, including, of course, both of you two. This was the list that came back from Langley. As you can see, these agents are requested to attend a medical next Thursday at the US Army recruitment offices, which I believe are situated not far from here.' He leaned forward slightly, as if he was disclosing something of greater secrecy. 'Of course, there is no guarantee that you will be 'drafted' as it were, Mr Kuryakin, and in the meantime, I will continue to protest most strongly both to the military authorities and to Director O'Leary at Langley.'

Waverly put down his pipe gently, and began to knock out the spent tobacco, seemingly unaware of the other two men in the room. ''In the meantime, Mr Solo, perhaps you'd like to do a little digging into exactly what is going on in Army Intelligence with regard to this so called secondment, and Mr Kuryakin, your request for five days vacation has been approved.'

Napoleon stared at his partner, whose demeanour had now miraculously changed into something approaching good humour.

'Going anywhere nice? I thought Tess was away.'

'She is. I thought I might surprise her with a flying visit, as it were,' Illya answered, getting up from the table and beginning to follow Napoleon out of the room.

'Next Friday, then, gentlemen,' Waverly continued, 'Oh, and Mr Kuryakin.' Illya turned slightly as the door began to open. 'By Friday, please, regulation length.'

'Yes sir,' the rather less good humoured reply came back, as Waverly shook his head at the retreating Russian.

Waverly sat for a while at the round table after the two agents had left, staring rather blankly at the list of Section 2 agents on the notepaper in front of him. After twenty long post war years of fending off attacks like these, he was certain in his mind that these two events, the secondment of his men and the goings on at this French mountain resort he was getting reports about, were intimately connected in some way. And knowing the CIA, it would centre round the person of one UNCLE agent in particular. He picked up his personal communicator and flicked the switch to his personal assistant's office.

'Miss Blackstone. Can you put me through to Langley? Yes, Director O'Leary. Now please.'

Xxxxxxxxx

'So, lunch?'

Kuryakin's face had not returned to the cheerful expression reserved for vacations, Napoleon noted as they entered the lift, surprisingly empty at the normally busy lunchtime period.

'Do you think these two events are connected?' Illya began suddenly, emerging from the contemplative stare into thin air that he had continued all the way down the corridor, to look at Napoleon with a frown. Napoleon shrugged, leaning against the back of the lift and surveying his partner.

'Probably. Only I can't quite work out yet, how. Anyway, cast it out of your mind until next Friday, comrade, and concentrate on three things.'

'And what three things might those be, Napoleon?'

'In order of importance, I would say, a haircut, a vacation and a physical, at least two of which you look as if you are in desperate need of.'

Illya, surprisingly, remained silent, his face cast down, the harsh lights of the lift emphasising the sharp contours of his features, draining them of colour. Only the slight gushing sound of the lift hung in the air between them until the metal box clunked to a stop and indicated the end of their journey by the smooth drawing back of the doors. The sudden onrush of noise from the commissary seemed to jerk the Russian into awareness.

'I'm sorry Napoleon, the last few weeks, and now this nonsense with Langley seems to have rather drained me. You're right about the three things, but I would suggest the order of importance is holiday, then a very large gap before the other two, more unpleasant procedures,' he replied, smiling rather wanly as they were drawn into the jostle of the queue.

The smell of food wafting towards them seemed to revive him somewhat, breaking the melancholic mood at least for the moment. They were able to manoeuvre themselves towards a small table in the corner, away from anyone else who might think to join them. After a few minutes solely dedicated to eating, Napoleon resumed his gentle interrogation.

'So, vacation; from your comment in Waverly's room, I'm guessing Bermuda?'

'Naturally, since you already know that Therese is there. Anything else you might like to know before I go?'

'Well, let me guess. Place of residence . . . yes, I'm guessing you wouldn't have let her go unless she's being looked after, so, I would say, the Robinsons, yes?'

'How intuitive of you. I will give your regards to John and Allegra. By the way, Napoleon, when is the happy event? My calculations suggested this week.'

'Well, unlike the world of physics, dear boy, the world of babies doesn't always go according to the rules of logic, as you should know.'

Napoleon looked up, beyond his partner's head, and began to smile. 'Perhaps you can obtain the information you're looking for from the horse's mouth, so to speak,' he murmured. Illya frowned, jumping lightly to his feet as he became aware of someone behind him.

'At least someone is a gentleman round here.'

Josefina Solo plonked her tray down on the table, and gently eased herself into the vacant space. Somehow, despite her size, she still managed to appear rather elegant, Illya thought. He crouched down by the side of the table nearest to her, his head almost resting by the side of her plate.

'What are you still doing here?' he said gently, 'He hasn't got you working still, has he?'

'He doesn't have a say in it, hippy boy, as well you know. Now, disappear for a few days, and don't forget to come back with my sister, in time for the great event, and not looking like something the cat's dragged in.' He stood up, kissed her and nodded to Napoleon, before sauntering out of the room and into the lift.

'They've allowed him out of prison for good behaviour I see,' Jo continued, picking at the sandwich in front of her as if it was threatening to poison her.

'Yeah; lucky break eh?' Napoleon answered. He might need it, he thought.

CHAPTER 2

The astonishing turquoise sea that Therese had described to him was sadly eclipsed by the darkness of the evening as the plane made its descent towards the horseshoe shaped island beneath. Just getting to the airport had been a complicated feat; taking Pablo to his mother and Peter's house, giving instructions to Rita about the house, the work he'd had to explain to Rhodes, all seemed to take hours, and felt like light years away from the time when a few things were thrown into a bag and he was away. And now there was Allegra to deal with.

The photographic assignment in Bermuda was a significant one, a large part of a major feature on the island.

'It's going to be a comparison of white and black Bermuda if you know what I mean,' she had told him. He had instantly thought of John, and of course, with John came Allegra.

He had met her in London, he a raw UNCLE recruit, she a postgraduate student, but unlike Illya, Allegra's background and passion, was English literature. She was from Trinidad, a striking girl, slightly taller than him, her black wiry hair separated and braided into tiny plaits across her head in traditional style. They made an unlikely couple, having very little, if anything in common on the surface, but somehow, her vibrant, Caribbean style drew him towards her, and in turn, she became addicted to his soft blond hair and sensual blue eyes, or so she told him. The affair had been long, almost a year, and was at times intense bordering on violent in character. It had ended suddenly, or rather he had ended it, telling her he was going to New York and would not be returning. But not before he had introduced her to John Robinson.

John, then another postgraduate student on a British Council scholarship, unlike Allegra, shared many interests with Illya, in particular their love of music, and especially jazz. The night Kuryakin told her he was leaving they were in a club near Covent Garden, a regular haunt of both men, where they invariably played together in a small band, Illya on sax or sometimes on the piano, and John with his beloved trumpet. He hadn't intended to pass her off to the Bermudian, but afterwards it seemed that way, and that was the way she always chose to relate it to others. After finishing University, John, with Allegra in tow, had returned to Bermuda to work in the British High Commission, and in due course they were married, three children following in quick succession. Allegra's career seemed to be in suspended animation, but recently, in a letter congratulating the Russian on his good fortune in finally, as John put it, finding someone to 'grow up with', he had revealed that his wife had begun to write her first novel, a story mirroring her own experiences as a student in London.

'I hope I'm not in it,' Illya had said, when he had rung John to ask if Therese could stay, and if he could help her with her assignment.

'Man, you could be the star attraction, for all I know,' he had replied, 'You know Allegra, keeps it to herself until there is not a damn thing you can do about it.' Illya had sighed. He knew, only too well.

She was standing in the arrivals lounge as he approached, unmistakeable in her usual combination of hot, rich colours which seemed to glow against her chocolate skin. She had not seen him to begin with, but then suddenly had turned and spotted the Russian advancing slowly towards her, bracing himself for impact.

'Well, look at you, Nicky baby, you look like shit!' she boomed across the lounge, fortunately against the background of a calypso band which were serenading the arriving guests with a raucous rendition of 'Island, Island in the Sun'.

'As against you, Allegra, who look a million dollars,' he replied, before he was enveloped in a mass of red and orange.

'Hey, I'm sorry Nicky, you just look a little, well, washed out, yeah?' She grabbed his suitcase and began to drag him towards a small red car parked outside the airport. Illya had forgotten the old name she had always called him, Allegra refusing to use his first name as she told him it sounded like a girl's. Obviously nothing had changed in that department, though he noticed she had put on weight since their last meeting. She noticed his glance, and began to chuckle, patting her backside.

'Not so skinny as before, hon, that's three children and good living for you.'

'Doesn't say much for me, then.' She laughed; a rich, deeply tenored laugh that filled up the little car with its melody.

'You were always a skinny thing, and you ain't changed one bit; your woman is the same,' she continued, driving at a stately speed along the road, Illya aware of the giant forms of trees he was used to seeing as small bushes in people's conservatories lining the road; avocado, rubber, banana all highlighted in the sweep of the car's headlights as they sped past.

'Talking of my 'woman', does she know I'm coming?' Allegra shook her head from side to side and gave him a disparaging look, until he began to wonder when she might glance at the road again.

'You still playing your appearing and disappearing tricks then,' she said. 'No, she don't know you're headed in her direction; anyways, she's out on the town with John tonight.'Illya resisted the impulse to feel annoyed, reasoning with himself that since she didn't know he was 'headed in her direction' as Allegra had said, there was no reason why she shouldn't be out.

'I see. And just where might 'out on the town' with your husband be?' he asked, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt. Allegra began to grin.

'She not fitting into your little plan, eh honey?' she said, swerving past a couple of scooters bowling along the gently rising road leading to the capital.

'Not at all. I was just wondering…'

'Don't get all stiff-arsed Nicky hon, it just don't wash, lover. She's out singing, at Al's club down on the front. Wanna go now? Course you do. Man, you got it bad,' she whistled, smiling at the pursed lips she remembered all too well. 'John's got your sax all warmed up, he says to tell ya.'

The car pulled in off the street and jerked them to a halt. Considering her size, Allegra moved with athletic agility, and they were soon out on the main street of the town, with the soft sound of the waves on the opposite side of the road a background to the noise of those who were intent on enjoying the evening in town. Illya read the scratchy notice above the open door as Allegra exchanged words with a large man standing just within the entrance to Al's club, as it was signed. A pulsating rhythm sweeping up the stairs announced that the music was in full swing. The staircase leading down to the club was so dark, Illya was glad of the music to provide some sense of where they were going. As they reached the bottom stair he could hear the music begin to change; the rather hectic piece of music morphed seamlessly into a more laid back Miles Davis number he knew well.

The room was quite large, with a raised platform at one end, while the remaining space heaved with shrouded figures alternately hunched and laid back over small circular tables in a manner that suggested expectation of something worth listening to. On the stage, the usual combination of drums, piano, sax and trumpet, John being one of the four instrumentalists, now launching into 'Bye Bye Blackbird'. Allegra saw the two men lock eyes and then her husband nod towards the saxophonist, who appeared to have intuited that a slight blond man would now be playing his instrument. She sighed and pulled up a chair, motioning to the waiter.

It was only during the piano improvisation that Illya began to wonder where Tess was. Robinson seemed oblivious to Illya's attempts to get his attention; he shrugged and gave himself to the instrument, at least until the number finished. As the clapping subsided he noticed that a microphone had been placed at the front of the stage, as someone murmured 'you put a spell on me' into his ear. He noticed John now, a slow smile playing about his lips as he watched the Russian.

He didn't see her until she was right in front of the mike, and as he looked up she was also suddenly aware of him too. He had drawn her gradually into the jazz sessions in the house at Grove St; listening giving way to playing then to singing. But never in public, and never looking like this. He glanced down at Allegra, who seemed to have adopted a self-satisfied look on her face. The everyday Tess, of the jeans and t-shirt, pushed back hair, had become this sensual woman in front of him. Her beautiful breasts were shown off in a tight fitting dress of a shiny, gold colour, complemented by high heels the like of which he had never seen her wear before this evening. The wild waves were twisted upon themselves on top of each other, the copper strands coiling round her head like metal thread. He was glad he had the sax in front of him to prevent any embarrassment his body might cause him in looking at her.

If she was shocked by seeing him there, she was able to deal with it better than he was, he thought. The piano introduction jerked his gaze from her, and the song began. Illya hadn't realised until she began to sing, just how deep and rich her voice was; she seemed to be able to bring out an erotic quality in the song that he somehow hadn't noticed was there before. Suddenly everyone else in the room seemed to fall away; it was just her and him, singing and playing; making love as surely as if they had laid down on the stage together.

The end of the song drew him back into the reality of the room as he felt her lips brush his forehead.

'Get you later,' she murmured rather hoarsely before whispering the name of another song, and turning back to the mike. Somehow the strain of the work on the computer, whatever nightmare was building to do with Mitchell, the medical, all seemed far away and unimportant.

'Hope so,' he whispered back.

Xxxxxxx

The snow was blasted across the barren landscape, leaving bare, brown patches of ground between the sparse whiteness. For some reason, and echoing Koronin's mood, winter seemed to have come early to this normally continental climate, and late October felt more like December to the Russian. He looked down at the winding course of the Volga, cutting its way through the land in an expanse of dark blue water, moving sluggishly in the dim light of the afternoon. Koronin shuddered and turned away, tightening his seat belt as the lumbering aircraft made its final descent to the air base below.

They had flown over the city, Koronin noticing the contrasting architectural styles of the buildings laid open to his gaze; traditional and modern; the soaring tent-like feel of the medieval Archangel Cathedral; box like structures marking the footprint of the modern apartments. Onion domes and tower blocks, opera houses and great, smoking factories on the river; all were here in this fascinating, secret city. Gorky. Shut off to foreigners, forbidden, but available to those Soviet citizens who might want to sample its beauty via the river steamers that plied the waters from April to October. Here Shevchenko lived now; and here they would bring Kuryakin to serve out the life he had so successfully shrugged off like an old skin, too restricted for comfort anymore.

The immense factory on the banks of the Oka River rose up like a wall in front of him as the car pulled up in front of the office block which stood facing the main bulk of the foundry. Here, in this palpably warm atmosphere emanating from the heat of the furnaces, massive anchor chains were produced in foundries resembling a scene from hell. Koronin had seen them being transported from the loading bays, reducing everything round them to Lilliputian dimensions by their massive presence. He had read the file, and knew that Misha now worked here, but as he stared up at the foundry, he just couldn't imagine how.

A small office had been set aside for the interview, the office workers surprised and slightly alarmed by the presence of a naval officer in their midst. Koronin dragged the hard wooden chair towards the table at one end of the room, and opened his briefcase, carefully extracting the two files, and laying them side by side on the table. He flipped open the first one, and Misha's face stared at him from the rather ancient-looking photo clipped to the first page of the report. His mind was immediately drawn back to another meeting where these files had been laid out on a different desk in a different city. His lip curled slightly when the image of Viktor Borisovitch Nikitin rose like a bad dream in front of his eyes.

Nikitin had not improved with age; in fact he looked older than his forty odd years. Aleksandr imagined that the deep lines round his face must have been permanently etched there by years of unrelenting resentment at the lowly positions he had been forced to occupy in the KGB ranks; until now, that is. With the appointment of a new Chairman, tvars like Nikitin had been promoted and now enjoyed power and the opportunity to exact revenge upon those unfortunates who had robbed them of what they imagined would be a glorious career. Koronin could tell from the beginning that Nikitin had some plan afoot, but even after it had been revealed, he couldn't decide whether the zhopa was working on some independent madness of his own, or with the full support of his masters. Whatever the truth might be, Nikitin had made the consequences of Aleksandr's non-compliance blindingly clear.

'Does your wife like her new apartment in Stalinallee?' Nikitin enquired, sotto voce, as Aleksandr's eyes became fixed intently on the few greasy strands of hair lying across Nikitin's head while the KGB officer gazed at the folder in front of him on the desk. He snapped the file shut and gave Koronin a malevolent stare, before pulling the other file open and spinning it round to face the younger man. It was a black and white photograph, but Koronin could remember the magnetic blue eyes as if the picture had suddenly, magically coloured itself in. He looked a little older, but better for it, less gaunt looking than before. Koronin smiled at the hair. A quick glance at the details on the first page raised Aleksandr's eyebrows and showed him just why Nikitin was intent on pursuing his plan to its bitter and bloody end.

'He's done quite well for himself, it seems,' Aleksandr offered, trying to ignore the implied threat of Nikitin's about his career. Nikitin slammed the file shut and fixed him with a long, hard look that made Koronin feel slightly queasy.

'Comrade Kuryakin is an enemy of the state, as is that svoloch Gutskov,' he hissed. 'He has betrayed his fatherland, turned his back on his duty, for his own selfish desires. But now, he will return, to repay the debt he owes; and this time, there will be no choice, and no going back.'

Aleksandr felt the implication of Nikitin's words slowly sink in. The man was spinning a net which, in imprisoning Kuryakin, would also implicate his closest former friends and colleagues in his entrapment. He could hear his wife's voice in his head, urging him to think of himself, of her, of his career. He knew very well, that with a new General Secretary of the Party, and more importantly, a new Chairman of the KGB, what had been given, could so easily be taken away and replaced with a posting far more unpleasant, and far more to the East of where he was now.

Koronin was aware of the existence of the organisation calling itself THRUSH; it was part of his job to monitor clandestine activity in Berlin, and the city hadn't been called 'nest of spies' by Winston Churchill for nothing. However, until he read his file, he hadn't realised that Illya Nikovetch was working for UNCLE. Now, it appeared, Nikitin had made a pact with the devil in order to achieve his paranoid desires, Koronin's role in it being to rope in Mikhail Ivanovitch.

'Your mission is really quite simple, Captain,' Nikitin continued, taking back the file and closing the cover in an ominously final way. 'You are to present Comrade Shevchenko with a simple choice; if he cooperates, then, in essence, he will be given a final chance to "redeem himself" as it were. Otherwise, then he will find himself with a one-way ticket on the Trans-Siberian express, and I think we both know where the final destination will be, don't we comrade?'

'And if I don't care to cooperate with this "mission" Koronin had said, rather quietly.

'I understand there is a posting in Vladivostock on the Arctic fleet coming up, Captain. I'm sure your wife will understand the relocation… in time.'

The grating of the office door opening startled him out of his reverie. Koronin automatically got to his feet to find Shevchenko already in front of him on the other side of the desk. Aleksandr prayed that he didn't look as shocked as he felt on seeing his former friend and officer colleague. Unlike Kuryakin, life had not improved Shevchenko's looks, in particular the wide, angry looking scar running across from his temple to his nose, bisecting his cheek in a bizarre, disturbing way. He had obviously come straight from the foundry by the look of his clothes and the lines of sweat and smut covering his face and hands. Koronin noted the evidence of hard manual labour in the developed musculature of his body, but it was hard to stop himself from staring at the ravaging scar, which dominated the formerly rather delicate features.

After what seemed like an eternity, Shevchenko spoke.

'Sasha. What an unexpected pleasure. Welcome to Krasny Yakor. Or as we workers call it – the gates of hell.' He turned away from Aleksandr's still stricken face and grabbed a chair, turning it so that he could lean with his arms resting across the back. 'Now, judging by those two files and your very smart uniform, Captain Koronin, I imagine you haven't just dropped in to reminisce on happy times past.' The scar on his face did strange things as he smiled grimly, twisting the skin on his cheek. Koronin suddenly felt the pain of the man in front of him, as if the scar was a visible sign of it, ugly and disfiguring.

'Misha, I… How did you…'

'Get my new look? Oh come now, don't tell me you're not dying to know, Sasha; you were always the nosey one, interrupting Illya and me during one of our tête à tête's, just in case you might learn something juicy.' Shevchenko's scar appeared to twist further as he smiled, a rather sad, sardonic expression covering the once handsome face. 'I'm afraid,' he continued, 'when I was sent here, someone sent a little case history with me. My comrades wanted to make it clear that they weren't interested in my kind of friendship, if you see what I mean. Molten pig iron can leave quite a scar when you haven't got any protection.'

Aleksandr winced at the thought. Perhaps Nikitin's offer was, in a sense, a once in a lifetime chance for this man, an opportunity to escape the hell of his life here. Perhaps he'd see it like that too.

'Misha, I've been sent here on behalf of… well, who sent me is not important really.' He decided that to reveal Nikitin's name in the affair might not be such a good idea. For the meantime, he kept the files shut. Shevchenko's eyes were fixed on him now; piercing, somewhat like Kuryakin's, but there was something missing in the colour of them, though he couldn't quite define it. 'I… I've been authorised to make you an offer; an offer you would be very foolish to refuse.'

He could hear the slight desperation in his voice as he began to explain, the thought of having to tell his wife about his new posting filling him with despair and driving him on to sell the deal to his former friend. 'If you agree, then you'll never have to return here, Misha, and, and… you can begin your life again – you'll be a new man.'

He was acutely aware of Shevchenko's expression as he blundered on. The scar on his former friend's face seemed to widen as he began to laugh.

'Cut the second-hand car salesman routine, Sasha. I didn't lose my brains, only my looks in the fire. No doubt someone in a department somewhere is squeezing your testicles tight enough for you to be here trying to sell this to me, but don't try and make out it's purely for my benefit. Now, in words of one syllable, what exactly do our masters require of us?'

Koronin began, trying to avoid any names until he had got Shevchenko interested.

'So, I get a new face, and in return for that, I go to the USA as this as yet unidentified Russian American, and put a great big spanner in the works of some new computer system that our capitalist friends are creating, as well as, what, informing the KGB about personnel and missions in this organisation? Then, after I've created mayhem for a while, I'm allowed to disappear, having totally discredited US-Soviet relations in general, and this man's career and personal life in particular. Care to name the man and his organisation?' Shevchenko smiled again, and sat upright. 'I'm sure Illyusha would be thrilled if he knew I was heading in his direction to undo all the work he's done to make the Americans love us.'

There was a hiatus in the room, only interrupted by the scraping of Koronin's chair on the wooden floor. The two men stared at each other, Shevchenko's smile draining from his face as he noticed the ashen look of the man opposite. Suddenly, he reached across the desk and grabbed one of the files, flipping open the cover.

'No. Nyet. I cannot do this, Sasha; you surely cannot imagine I would ever do this to him!' He pulled the file towards him and stared at the photograph for a few seconds. A list of his qualifications filled the first page, most of them familiar to the Russian reading them. He flipped over the page and pulled out another set of photographs from a plastic wallet beneath.

The pictures were in colour this time. Another official looking portrait, which Shevchenko thought must have been taken a few years ago. He still looked tight, the emotionless features not giving anything away. The pictures underneath were, he guessed, quite recent, and his mouth opened slightly at the difference. The first one was obviously a wedding photograph. They looked as if they had just emerged from a church, the bride looking towards the camera with a wide smile, and the bridegroom looking at her with what Misha could only describe as rapturous love. He had his arm round her slender waist in an attempt to draw her towards him. He could see from her face that although she was looking forward, she was aware of him.

The other picture had a date on the back. It had been taken only in the summer just passed, and looked like a street in what Misha guessed was New York. The family group now seemed to have enlarged, although Misha wondered who the little boy belonged to. But the baby was unmistakeable. Despite her age, she had the instantly recognisable piercing look of her father as she gazed at the camera over his shoulder. The woman, now with short wavy hair of an astonishing colour, was coming down the stairs as he fiddled with the lock of the door, the same happy expression on her rather delicate, exotic features. Misha put down the pictures, running his finger along the chin of the man he had known.

'Not now,' he said quietly, almost savagely.

Koronin pulled back the file, looking at the other photographs taken in the series.

'Listen, Misha. We don't have a choice here. If you don't do this, then we will both be heading East, and your destination will be worse than mine. If you do it, he won't die, he'll just… well, he'll just be doing what he probably would have done if he'd stayed here anyway. He'll be working in a laboratory, doing what he likes doing, you know that.' Shevchenko slammed down the photograph on the table and looked at Aleksandr so intently that he was forced to lower his gaze under his riveting stare.

'I don't know that, Sasha, because it's obvious from these,' he waved his hand at the photograph on the table, 'he's no longer the tight-arsed little virgin that we both knew, and I loved, all those years ago. Besides which, as we both well know, Illya Kuryakin is not going to stay put, beavering away for our glorious State, for longer than it takes him to put together an escape plan back to his very beautiful wife and children, and then where does that leave me, Sasha, eh?'

Koronin gathered up the photographs and returned them to the file, looking again at Shevchenko's agonised face as he sat opposite him, his chin now resting on the top of the chair, waiting for an answer.

'Misha, he won't be coming back because he will have his daughter with him.'

Shevchenko sat up slightly, his brow in furrows, the scar crinkled on his cheek.

'What, the baby?'

'No. If you read the file, you'll find that your unemotional friend has rather put it about since you last saw him. He has another daughter with the French woman he met in Paris when he was at the Sorbonne, and there is yet another with a German UNCLE agent due at Christmas.' Shevchenko's jaw dropped slightly, and he scratched his hair and sighed.

'That can't be correct. He is very loyal, I know him. He wouldn't have betrayed her like that.'

'He didn't. It was part of some plot to create a master race of women. They obviously thought he had what they were looking for, if you see what I mean,' Koronin answered, a slight smile appearing on his lips. Shevchenko got up and turned the chair round, sitting down and pressing his back against the now correctly positioned chair.

'So, correct me if I'm wrong; Illya Nikovetch finally is bedded by, ah, I remember now, he wrote to me about her. Let me see, yes, Marie-Laure Colbert, if I'm not mistaken.' He looked up to see his thoughts affirmed in the other Russian's eyes, then continued. 'He sails off into the sunset, and she is left, pregnant, and . . . she doesn't tell him! So is she part of this evil organisation too, and what, she's allowing them to take the child and use her as a, what, bargaining tool?'

'Marie-Laure is dead. He knew nothing about the child until they met last Spring; you can read all the details in the file. She did work for THRUSH, but only in a vain attempt to wreak revenge on her husband for removing the child from her, by pretending she was dead to begin with, and then putting her in some THRUSH school. Apparently, the child's mother had considerable access to her, and so, like the Kuryakin she is, the girl is now proving to be somewhat awkward. The solution to both problems is to send them both here, it seems. Besides which, they need him to do some work on, what was it, yes, quantum cryptography, which is exactly what you'll be working on at UNCLE. If he behaves, they are planning on sending him back to the Navy eventually, so I understand. With his daughter in tow, he's going to find it much more difficult to escape than on his own.'

Shevchenko allowed a wry smile to break from his lips.

'I presume that our friends in the KGB - oh, it's Nikitin isn't it?' he said, looking sharply at Koronin and receiving a reluctant nod. 'Oh I see now,he continued, 'that piz'duk Nikitin has joined forces with someone in the bird organisation to hang us all out to dry.' He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. 'Sasha. Just two things to remember before you go. Please don't think that I'm doing this with anything other than a feeling of utter disgust at that zhopa Nikitin, at you and most of all, at myself; and secondly, daughter or no daughter, Archangelsk will break free. Then when he returns, if he thinks that I have hurt his family, he will kill us all. Nikitin, you Sasha, and most certainly, me.'

CHAPTER 3

The telephone echoed round the room until Illya grabbed it, extricating himself from Therese's entangling arms, or at least enough to turn, reluctantly, from her.

'Illya?' Solo's voice sounded a strange mixture of fear and elation.

'The same. As they say in the movies, Napoleon, this better be good,' came the rather hoarse reply. Illya could feel his wife's arms snaking round his hips and her hands heading for lower regions.

'Tess. Tess. Sorry, Napoleon, you were saying?' She released him and edged up behind him, taking the receiver out of his hand and almost shouting down it.

'Has she started? When? OK. How many minutes? Gear! I'll feed Taz and then we'll be along.'

Illya rolled over onto his back and looked at her.

'Gear?' Therese pushed back the sheets slightly and sat astride him, pushing back the heavy fringe from his forehead. She stroked his chin, and then ran her hands through the rest of his hair, forming a sunray effect with it on the pillow.

'Scouse term. Your hair; let me guess. You have been holding out all this time with your smelly friends, hoping that nobody would notice. Now they've let you out, we've had five glorious days of holiday, and soon there is, let me think, a meeting? So today is the end of the road for hippy boy, eh?' She leaned over and kissed him, her hair falling over his face.

'Something like,' Illya muttered, deciding not to mention the medical and its possible implications; well, not yet. 'Excuse me, but what exactly did Napoleon say, or am I not allowed to know?'

'That's your prerogative, sweetest. As you know, unlike you, I tell all. Your best mate and my sister are just about to produce.'

'Produce what? Oh. What, now?' Illya jerked up, pushing his hair out of the way, an excited look breaking out on his face. Therese sat back, facing him.

'Now, go and get Tasiya, then get yourself a shower, shaggy, and wake up your son.' She climbed off him and plumped up the pillows behind her, crossing her legs and pulling up the sheets round her waist. Illya slid off the bed and headed slowly towards the next room. Therese lay back on the pillows, listening to him talking to Tasiya, the babbling of the baby interspersed with deeper tones, baby talk first in French, then in Russian.

The last weeks had been unexpected, but sweeter for them being so. That was it with being married to someone from UNCLE – you never knew what was coming next, whether it be good or bad. Or worse. The past year had taught her to factor in the worst case scenario to each disappearance, and to live with it. Trouble was, it was getting harder now there were children. Anastasiya loved him when he was there. She was definitely a girl who lived for the moment. But Pablo, Therese worried about how he would cope without the man he completely idolised, and who wouldn't be able to tell him where he was going, and when or even if, he would return. Still, other families coped; military families, and others like them. She would be the enduring person in their lives; she would be there for them, day in, day out, until his return. And he would return, she was certain, one day he would return for good and there would then be no more partings.

xxxxxxxx

The plush reception area of the clinic reminded Illya of a hotel more than a hospital, apart from the ubiquitous nurse dressed in her ubiquitous white uniform staring at him from behind the desk. They had dropped Pablo off at school before heading for the clinic, Therese jumping out of the car as he pulled up at the entrance, and he following with Anastasiya a few minutes later, her little hands firmly gripping onto his hair in the usual way as he carried her into the building.

'Um, my wife just…' he began, beginning to feel like a naughty boy sent to the headmistress to explain, such was the expression on the nurse's face.

'You don't look old enough,' came the abrupt reply, the nurse looking askance at Illya, then at the baby, who was now making quite loud recitations of 'dadadad' to anyone who cared to listen. Before he could fix her with any sort of stare in return, she was signalling him towards the door. 'Fifth floor, Labor Suite,' she said, in a voice he was sure she reserved for men, and babies, of whom she disapproved.

Illya took the stairs two by two, jogging Tasiya up and down as he ran up, the baby screaming excitedly in his ear as each step was taken. Napoleon was lounging about in a small reception area as they approached, a very good-looking nurse handing him what looked like a cup of coffee in a delicate china cup. Illya thumped down onto the sofa next to him, taking off Tasiya's hat and coat and tossing them, with his own, onto the seat beside them. The baby instantly held out her arms to Napoleon and began to pull away.

'Here. Come to Uncle Poly, chicken.'

'Uncle Poly? Chicken?'

'Well at least she knows I'm an uncle and not an aunt eh, comrade?'

Illya grimaced, smiling then, as the same nurse brought over another cup of coffee in an equally delicate cup. She gathered up the coats, her attention seemingly permanently re-directed towards the Russian.

'Can I help you with anything else?' she cooed, leaning in towards him.

'No, you've already seen to all my needs,' Illya replied, with a sideways glance at the disgruntled American besides him.

'How come you're getting all the attention, when I'm the one who needs his fevered brow wiped?' Napoleon moaned, at the same time tossing Tasiya up and down on his lap, the little girl smiling and punching the air with her hands as she gently rose and fell.

'Napoleon, why are you out here when Jo is in there?' Illya asked, taking back the baby, who immediately resumed her iron grip on his hair. 'Tasiya, nyet'. Well?'

'Unlike your choice of maternity venues, this one doesn't admit fathers until after the event. Apparently, men get in the way, so Nurse Frankenstein in reception tells me.'

'Ah yes. We met. I think she thought I was Tasiya's elder brother.'

'Or possibly sister,' Napoleon replied, not giving up on his favourite theme of the moment. 'Oh, forgot to give you this,' he added, drawing what looked like a postcard out of his jacket pocket. 'The guys had a collection and Section 5 generously contributed the printing costs.' Illya frowned as he took the card from Napoleon.

'Very funny. Obviously, this is the sort of activity you described to me as 'office work' you have been occupying yourself with while I was on holiday.' The card was printed with the usual UNCLE logo at the top, with the rest printed in smaller type underneath.

Special 'Once in a lifetime' Offer

Only available to Blond Russians with a serious hairstyle problem

FREE Haircut, courtesy of Frank's Italian Barber Shop

And generous donations from Sections 2 and 3

Available immediately

In aid of the 'Keep up the image of UNCLE' Society

Anastasiya suddenly grabbed the card and started to wave it round, continuing her 'dadadad' mantra as she scraped the side of Illya's face. He gently unclasped the tiny hand and put the card into his pocket, casting a sidelong glare at his partner.

'Yes, well I suppose I can make use of this "once in a lifetime offer" after I return from the medical this afternoon.'

Napoleon lent back on the sofa and put his hands behind his head.

'Just when are you heading off downtown to the Army boys?' Illya shifted Tasiya onto his lap, and stroked her hair, the little girl nestling into his arm, and starting to slide into sleep, her eyes fluttering closed as her head fell towards his chest.

'The appointment is at two, so let's hope that your wife produces with her usual frighteningly efficient timing.' He lay the now sleeping Tasiya into the carrycot that he'd brought in, and covered her gently with a delicate knitted blanket. Napoleon watched him, reflecting on the Russian's journey from the rather self-contained intellectual hard man that he had been only a few years ago, to the calm, loving husband and father he now was. But still a good spy. Personal development had not harmed the quality and ruthlessness of the man in the professional execution of his job. The object of his gaze looked up and smiled.

'Are you ready for all this?' he murmured, slumping down besides Napoleon.

'Well, we're leaving all the earth mother and father of the nations stuff to you two,' Napoleon replied, flicking the Russian's blond hair with his fingers. 'Jo has engaged the services of a nanny who'll be a big help around the home.' Illya smirked slightly. He had had this conversation with Jo a few days ago.

'He thinks he's getting some long-legged bimbo to gush all over him,' she had said, showing him a curriculum vitae complete with photograph of a middle-aged woman looking out imperiously from the top of the page. 'I'm looking forward to being there when they meet.'

Before he could reply, the door flew open, revealing Therese, wearing a hospital gown, and tearing off a mask from her mouth. She stood there for a moment, looking at the two men, with the baby sleeping peacefully in her little bed between them. Two men; ruthless, cold-blooded killers when required, but today, an excited American jumping to his feet with his shy friend smiling gently at her behind him.

'Come on then, soft lad; come and see your son.'

Xxxxxxxxx

The examination room was relatively spacious, which was as well, Mitchell thought, for what they were about to do. He flicked open the pad in front of him on the desk, the neat list extending down on the page eliciting a sardonic smile. As he glanced across at the monitor, the door to the tiny room he was now occupying was flung open and his partner slid into the chair by his side.

'Anything happening yet?' the older agent said out of the side of his mouth, without bothering to look up.

'Nope. Still, it's only a quarter before two, so guess these UNCLE boys like to leave it to the last minute, huh?' Kenneth Ellestadt, the younger agent, glanced round the room and then across at the examination room through the two way mirror in front of them.

'Pardon me for asking, Brad, but are you sure we need to be, kinda, watching all this? You gave those medic guys the list, right, so what's the problem?'

'It's not what's the problem, Ken, it is who's the problem,' Mitchell replied, patting his jacket pocket for his cigarette pack. 'And we are dealing here with a first class, red, son of a veritable bitch, so we don't take any chances, OK?' Ellestadt glanced across at Mitchell before looking at the monitor again.

He had only been in the agency for three years. His previous partner had been killed in a bungled exchange of spies in Czechoslovakia, and he had spent a few painful months recovering from his injuries in a military hospital in Berlin, before being shipped back home. The new partnership was barely three months old, the young American with an older, experienced agent who boasted a history of missions as long as your arm. Ellestadt felt safe with Mitchell, even though the guy had something approaching a mania about communists. Senator McCarthy had nothing on him that was a fact.

'Hey, Brad, they're coming in.'

The door at the end of the waiting area was now open, and about a dozen men could be seen filing in and sitting on the benches lining the back and side walls of the room. Ellestadt peered at the screen, looking for the red son of a bitch whom his partner had described, but so far, nobody stood out as looking particularly dangerous. Mitchell was now looking at the screen.

'Now, Kenneth my boy, let's see if you can pick out Mr Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, late of the glorious red navy, KGB or any other fucking red commie conspiracy you might care to mention.' Ellestadt cringed slightly and redoubled his gaze.

'Is that him? The tall guy, with the crew cut and the black rimmed glasses? He looks pretty mean, Brad.' Mitchell sighed and shook his head.

'Let me give you a clue. On the whole, in the glorious Soviet Union you don't get squat to eat most of the time, so they're not likely to be well-built guys like him. So look again junior, look for someone weasely this time, yeah?' Ellestadt scanned the line again. The Russians he had seen in Czechoslovakia seemed a varied bunch, not that he had gotten that close, but he guessed Mitchell knew what he was talking about. His eyes passed over a tall, handsome boy with red hair. Red hair, that was a Russian trait, but he was too tall and strong looking for a Russian. At the end of the line a slight blond was sitting. Ellestadt's mouth gaped slightly at the ponytail.

'Hey Brad' he murmured, 'you wouldn't think they'd allow that, would you?' jabbing his finger at the offending hairstyle on the screen.

'You would if it was Waverly's commie toy boy that was wearing it,' came the harsh reply.

'You don't say,' Ellestadt whistled under his breath.

xxxxxxxx

'Name?'

Illya sighed. He had realised something that had not been immediately obvious to him before, as he sat with the others in the waiting room. Not that he was old, but he estimated that he was at least five years older than any of the other so-called recruits, and definitely the only married agent. Despite digging in as many places as Napoleon had contacts, his partner had hit a very large and solid brick wall during the last, frustrating five days, before Illya's return from holiday the day before. Even Waverly had been greeted with what could only be described as a frosty reception by the new Director at Langley.

'Why don't you wait until after the physical, Alex?' O'Leary had said rather condescendingly, 'then we can have another chat if you feel it necessary.'

He had been the last to be called in. He looked at his watch, and estimated that the whole thing shouldn't take more than fifteen to thirty minutes, judging from the speed with which they had processed the others. Sadly, that would still leave enough time for him to visit Frank's on the way home.

The examination room was the usual soulless mix of an uncomfortable looking bed and some even more unpleasant looking equipment which Illya knew he should have come to terms with by now, but hadn't.

'There you are, that is Kuryakin. See what I mean, Ken. Scrawny son of a bitch.' Ellestadt watched as the Russian began to undress. He had watched people through covert devices like this before, but somehow this felt different, as if he was watching someone who was just like, off the street, not the enemy in disguise Mitchell seemed to think he was. As Kuryakin turned his back to them, Ellestadt gasped.

'Christ, Brad, look at his back!' Faint, but recognisable wheals from what Ellestadt figured must be some sort of a whip, were evident across the Russian's powerful shoulders and back, extending down to his buttocks.

'Yeah, these UNCLE boys like a bit of S and M,' Mitchell sneered.

Whatever they had done with his colleagues in Section 2, they appeared to be taking twice as long with him, Illya thought as he sighed and looked at the clock above the large mirror facing him. He had mentally switched off to a lot of it, but they were now asking for blood samples, his favourite part.

'Can I get dressed first?' he enquired, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt. The younger of the two doctors present looked slightly alarmed and glanced worriedly towards the older man, though Illya couldn't think why they should make a fuss about it.

'Do you have to?'

'I don't have to, but I would prefer to, unless of course, you're going to take blood from some part of my anatomy other than my arm,' Illya replied tersely, giving them a glare for good measure. The older doctor shrugged, enabling him to start dressing without waiting for them to even think about changing their minds.

Illya sat down on the chair drawn up by the desk, facing the large mirror, and bent down to tie his shoe laces. The younger doctor stood the other side of the desk, his agitation apparent, although the reason for it wasn't clear to Illya at all. Leaving his jacket hanging on the back of the chair, he started to roll up his sleeve. As the younger doctor, whose badge revealed him to be Doctor Adrian Parks MD, leaned forward to apply the tourniquet, Illya's eyes narrowed. Behind Dr Parks' left ear the tiny, but to Illya, obvious, lead from a radio receiver poked out as it ran from the ear into the collar of his shirt. He rather nervously applied the band and yanked it tight, causing the vein in Kuryakin's arm to prepare itself for the worst. Illya looked down at the vein. For some reason, perhaps from years of being in similar situations, he felt something was wrong. Glancing up he was instantly aware that Dr Parks' gaze was directed at the mirror, as if…

'Shit. He's knows we're here. That asshole has given it away. Give him the shot, now!' Mitchell bawled. Ellestadt watched in frozen horror as the scene unfolded in front of him. The other doctor, with the moustache, had already got the syringe in the Russian, before Mitchell had shouted. It was obvious now that there was something in the syringe which the medic now injected into the waiting arm. The effect was almost instantaneous. The blond's head jerked forward and his body collapsed, causing his head to catch the edge of the desk before he could be caught. The two doctors, freed, it appeared, from the charade they had previously been playing, leapt into action, hauling the limp body onto the bed, and proceeding to remove his clothing.

'What the hell…' Ellestadt muttered under his breath as he watched Mitchell pick up the pad and begin to bark orders at the medics through the microphone on the desk.

'Do the measurements first, then x-ray his jaw, and don't for God's sake forget the eyes and hair.'

The younger doctor, Parks, had opened a small cupboard in the wall, and removed a set of labelled plastic bags. The now naked figure of the Russian agent lay exposed for them to begin their measuring.

'Christ, Brad, are they going to measure everything, I mean, everything?'

'Everything, Ken. Why, your dick not as long as his?' Ellestadt cringed at the crudeness of his partner and also, somehow, at the vulnerability of the man in front of them. Whatever shit was going on, he hadn't been let into the story yet. Mitchell was continuing to dictate the list down the microphone, the Parks guy scribbling down on a similar pad as he heard, his hand on the ear where the wire was coming out of.

'Brad,' Ellestadt persisted, 'Sorry if I sound kind of dense here, but what exactly is going on?'

Mitchell let go of the microphone and sat down, looking as if he was satisfied that the procedure was being carried out efficiently.

'Ken, it goes like this,' Ellestadt nodded glumly, a clammy feeling at the back of his neck alerting him to the possibility that he wouldn't particularly like what he was about to hear.

'As you know, we are fighting a war on two fronts, boy. In 'Nam, our boys are out there giving the Commies hell. And then there's the covert side of operations, understand?' Ellestadt nodded, his brow wrinkled with incomprehension.

'In order to win the war, Ken, we need intel, OK? Now, sometimes an opportunity just comes your way, an opportunity too damn good to pass up. As I told you before, I have a contact in the Russian Embassy in Berlin. Through him I've been developing a really cosy relationship with a comrade from the higher echelons of none other than the KGB itself.' Ellestadt whistled under his breath, his eyes locked on his partner's smiling face. 'Our KGB friend is now sure he has a nice little plant in the CIA, namely yours truly, Ken. Now, in order to show my new best friend how much of a good Commie I am, I need to supply him with something. Something he needs in order to make a deal with his new best Thrushie friends, if you get my drift.'

Ellestadt concentrated, trying to make his face look as if he had understood, let alone approved of what his partner had just told him. He knew about the THRUSH organisation of course, but not much. Still, he felt a little queasy when he thought about the UNCLE guy, even if he was a Soviet.

Mitchell didn't look too bothered either way. 'You see, Ken, I intend to turn this KGB son of a bitch, and if Mr Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin is the unfortunate stool pigeon in the exercise of my patriotic duty, well, so be it, Ken, so be it.'

Xxxxxxxxx

'Finished, Mr Mitchell. We're just going to patch him up, and then we'll call Mrs Kuryakin.'

Mitchell spun round towards the mirrored wall. Ellestadt's head had begun to throb, and he felt a desperate need to leave the confines of the room and his partner, in order to breathe fresh air again.

'Don't forget, Ken,' Mitchell had said, 'what you've seen this afternoon didn't happen, OK?'

'OK.'

'Now, let's have a little light relief at Mr Kuryakin's expense, shall we? Parks there is just about to ring home and tell the little lady to collect blondie because he's had a little fainting fit when he saw blood. Now, that call will go straight through to UNCLE, so guess what, everyone back at the office will know about it. Oh, and then lover boy here will have to explain to wifey what he's doing down at the Army recruitment center. It just gets better and better.'

'I didn't know he was married,' Ellestadt replied. 'Wonder what she's like.' Mitchell shrugged his shoulders.

'Probably a fellow Soviet immigrant built like a tank with a moustache. Hey, I'm not really up to specs with the Kuryakin family, in fact I don't give a shit about them. Anyways, we'll soon see, won't we?'

Illya managed to sit upright for at least one minute before an overpowering feeling of nausea swept through him, and deprived him of the excellent lunch he'd enjoyed with Therese and Anastasiya.

'I'm sorry, I'm not usually like this,' he said, cringing at the rather pathetic tone of the comment.

'It's OK, we rang your wife. She should be here any minute.' It was a nurse looking into his eyes, which momentarily confused him even further. When his stomach would allow it, he looked round the room. The dizziness enveloping his mind was making it difficult to remember exactly what had been in there before he passed out, but he knew for a fact that there had been two doctors present, neither of whom was there now. And the second easily memorable fact was that someone was watching him from behind that mirror.

As Tess walked in, the baby wriggling in her arms, he also remembered that she had not been told about the medical. The smell of her perfume made his stomach lurch slightly, and he glanced up at her, hoping she might not ask too many questions too soon. For some reason, Tasiya, who Therese had now shifted onto her hip, let out a piercing scream and began to cry.

'Alright,' she whispered, 'Napoleon told me at least the bare details in the cab'. He looked up to see his partner lounging on the wall opposite, a look of barely concealed amusement spreading slowly across his face.

'Now, this is what I would call a fairly extreme way to avoid a haircut, comrade.' Illya glanced at his watch.

'Napoleon, instead of making unhelpful comments, I would be grateful if you could just help me stand.' He saw Solo grimace and come closer, until he was crouching down by his side.

'Mirror, someone behind,' Illya murmured into his partner's ear as he was hauled to his feet. Napoleon appeared not to have heard, but started to thank the nurse for her help and firmly move his partner to the door.

In the corridor, Napoleon loosened his grip.

'Tess, take him home and I'll be back directly. I just have a little medical inspection of my own to do, if you catch my drift.' Therese looked a little surprised, but Illya was already moving towards the exit as fast as his rather unsteady feet would take him.

The movement of the cab was nearly enough to cause another bout of vomiting, though it did save him from any attempt at having to explain himself. He felt grateful for the sight of the familiar door and then of the familiar bed to sink into. For what felt like the twentieth time that afternoon, his clothes were removed from him, but this time by a friendly face.

'Now, go to sleep, and I'll wake you when Napoleon arrives, OK?' He nodded gratefully, pulling at the band holding his hair back as he started to drift off to sleep. It was only then that he felt the missing hair.

CHAPTER 4

The low rumbling of thunder could be heard gathering force as it headed over the Pyrenees, an angry giant complaining about being disturbed at his dinner, growing nearer, and louder as the dark clouds deepened.

Phillipe Rondeau stood on the station platform at Pau, staring into the distance at the mountain range, now revving itself up for a full blown thunderstorm. As if to confirm its intentions, there was a tremendous crack of lightning across the tops of the peaks, which danced between them in sinister flashing arcs. He shuddered and turned up his collar, clutching the umbrella tighter as he noticed the train approaching. After the usual screech of brakes and the rapid opening of doors, he saw through the crowd the person for whom he was waiting.

He was short in stature; Rondeau thought 'squat' described him perfectly, with a flat, Slavic face poking out from under the rather incongruous trilby hat perched on his head. He was carrying a small suitcase and, in his other hand, an official looking briefcase banged against the rather drab overcoat keeping off the now rather heavy rain. Rondeau pushed through the remaining passengers in front of the man and stopped in front of him, as the visitor wearily plonked his suitcase on the platform.

'Bonsoir, Monsieur Nikitin. Bienvenue à France.'

Nikitin stared coldly at him, ignoring the outstretched hand.

'Bonsoir, Monsieur. On y va?'

Rondeau sighed. His ignorance of French customs, and the curt demand to go, were what he expected of an ignorant Russian peasant like Nikitin. Perhaps all Russians were like him, although Marie-Laure's student lover seemed on a different plane to the unpleasant little man walking by his side towards the big Citröen parked in the car park in front of the station. Not that he had ever met Kuryakin; just knowing that Pascale was his, was enough. It was enough to make him quite comfortable in working with this Russian cretin, in order to get the girl off his hands, and also to further his own considerable ambitions within the organisation. Destroying one of UNCLE's top operatives would just be the finishing touch to what he hoped was going to be a very illustrious career.

The hydraulic suspension of the car caused the car to rise up like an inflating balloon as Rondeau turned the ignition key, and they swung out of the car park and onto the road out of the town towards the mountains. Nikitin looked rather like a shrunken dwarf in the large front seat, and Rondeau noticed that he had fallen asleep before they began to climb up towards the lower slopes. The roads were relatively clear of snow, and were busy, even in the early evening, with cars bringing tired skiers back from the slopes to the warmth of their hotels and lodges. The car sped away from the melée below, smoothly gripping the winding road as it coiled round the side of the darkening mass above them. Nikitin seemed totally oblivious to the loud thunderclaps and lightning cracks that lit up the sky, only waking up with a great snort as the car came to a halt at the bottom of a gaunt mountain range only accessible by means of a private cable car. On top of the roof of the station where one of the cable cars stood waiting, a large sign was posted.

La Retraite d'hiver. Privée. Entrée interdit.

'Winter Retreat. A fitting name for somewhere so remote, Monsieur Rondeau,' Nikitin said rather sarcastically, Rondeau thought.

'Ah oui, bien sûr,' Rondeau replied, 'It's an ideal place for 'Visage,' don't you think?Butyou will see, monsieur, you will see.'

They left the Citröen parked in the small private car park and trudged towards the waiting cable car, Rondeau picking up a small telephone just inside the cable station, speaking to an unknown person above. Nikitin stared up at the building which nestled into the top of the mountain.

La Retraite d'hiver was built in an alpine chalet style, but its large modern picture windows looking across the mountain range gave it a rather modern, streamlined appearance, at odds with the natural backdrop of the Pyrenees behind. Nikitin couldn't see how such a programme as Visage could be carried out in a building even this size, but no doubt all would be revealed in due course. He for one would be glad of a meal and some vodka after such a long journey.

He gripped the attaché case tightly, mentally sifting its contents. Ten years of waiting were nearly over; ten years endlessly churning over his hatred of those who had contributed to his downfall, waiting for the opportunity that he knew one day would be presented to him. Even with his new position in the 1st Directorate, though, he had thought that his plan would be too difficult to carry out. However, a chance lead, when conducting extensive intelligence about Kuryakin, had brought information about the girl, and brought him to Rondeau, and THRUSH. His superiors might be prepared to sanction his plan, particularly if Kuryakin could be persuaded to continue the work that dirty guluboi Shevchenko had so regrettably had to abandon when he had been removed from his post at the Institute, and particularly if UNCLE New York could be penetrated. Besides, he had help now from right at the heart of American Intelligence. But after that, eventually, Nikitin had plans for Illya Nikovetch. And his daughter.

Rondeau motioned him towards the waiting cable car, and once inside, pressed a button on the side nearest the door. The car immediately jerked into action, gaining speed as it clanked up towards the first pylon on its journey upwards.

'I'm sure that you're very tired after your long journey from Moscow, so let's get our little arrangement perfectly sorted out before anyone else gets involved, eh, Comrade Nikitin?'

Rondeau suddenly smashed his hand against a large red button on the side of the car, instantly bringing it to a juddering halt, the gondola gently swinging on the hook holding it to the cable. Nikitin pressed himself back against the window of the car, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the tall man with the slicked back dark hair facing him. He put down the attaché case with a thud.

'Monsieur Nikitin, permit me to lay out the situation, as it were,' Rondeau began. 'In the complex above your head, is the most ambitious programme THRUSH have mounted in the last ten years. If successful, it will guarantee us enduring and total penetration of the UNCLE security system, and ultimately, the destruction of UNCLE as an organisation of any serious standing in the world. Against this, your pathetic little attempt at revenge pales into insignificance.' Rondeau flicked some imaginary dust off his immaculate coat, and continued.

'However, on examining your proposals, it seems that there are several very attractive possibilities that THRUSH would be interested in exploring, namely the use of the man you have mentioned in your report, and of course, the destruction of Illya Kuryakin.'

The very name made Nikitin's lips twitch, and he began to shift his weight from one leg to another.

'If what you have told me is correct, Dr Rondeau, then my 'pathetic little attempt at revenge' as you so charmingly put it, may very well be of great benefit to both of us. As you have noted, I have the perfect specimen for you, in fact the only person who could possibly carry out the task you expect him to. In return, you can give me the means of bringing an enemy of the state to a just end.'

Rondeau laughed, his face a picture of utter contempt.

'Please don't insult my intelligence,' he murmured out of the window. 'He is your enemy, Nikitin, and it is your paranoid wish to punish him that is driving your little arrangement with THRUSH. So, please don't suggest that your government is somehow sponsoring his homecoming or is that desperately keen to see him return. I know perfectly well that he has been given honourable discharge from the Navy and that he is now an American citizen.'

Nikitin flushed a rather unhealthy looking shade of red, his eyes slightly bulging from his flat face.

'This has nothing to do with the Soviet Navy,' he hissed. 'Besides which, if you had read the report carefully, you would have seen that I have established a very productive relationship with an agent of the CIA through my contact in Berlin.'

Rondeau hit the button again, bringing the cable car to life once more.

'Let me make myself absolutely clear,' he said coldly. 'You will provide a man who, after undergoing our programme, will be able to infiltrate UNCLE New York, as a perfect replica of our Mr Kuryakin. You will also provide, through your contact in Berlin, precise information about Mr Kuryakin's, let us say, 'physical attributes', down to the last scar and pimple. The replacement Kuryakin will infiltrate the UNCLE computer system, giving us permanent access to their security systems. While they are then suffering terminal meltdown as an organisation, he will continue to provide very useful intelligence to us both. Meanwhile, the real Illya Kuryakin will be repatriated, together with his daughter, and in a very special way, my dear Nikitin, the continuance of her life will be the condition for his compliance, and her presence with him in the Soviet Union will cause him to think very carefully before attempting to escape his 'new life'. Meanwhile his wife will no doubt be devastated by feelings of betrayal when she discovers that her husband is in fact the homosexual everyone thought he was, but knowing women as I do, she will soon find another, more reliable partner.'

The cable car juddered across the final pylon and came to rest within the upper cable car station immediately below the house. Rondeau swung the door open, and picked up Nikitin's bag. As he bent down, he felt his arm grasped in an iron grip.

'Kuryakin's compliance will never be gained by a threat, even one as personal as the one you so generously are providing,' he murmured. 'Please don't concern yourself with him. I can assure you that once he has been repatriated, we have more permanent plans for comrade Kuryakin; ones that do not depend upon his compliance.' Nikitin released his grip, picked up the attaché case, and exited the cable car, leaving Rondeau, for once, silent.