CHAPTER ONE

Kiev, September 1941

She could hear the piano, and Madame Usenka's sharp tones, as Marina quietly closed the door behind her, and stepped wearily into the hall.

'Where is the soul of the music, my boy? When you play, you must express the very soul of the music! It is not enough to merely play the notes, however expertly. Now, again!'

'Yes, Madame, I will try,' a tired voice replied, then, after a slight pause, the music began again.

Für Elise. She had played it for Nikolai on summer evenings, the baby fast asleep in his basket, arms thrown back in an ecstasy of contentment, as if he too shared in his father's enjoyment of the soft notes. They had sat together quietly afterwards, city sounds of trams and voices on the pavement reasserting themselves through the open windows of the apartment. Now, he was gone and the baby, grown into a gentle boy now, played the same, haunting tune on the piano.

They both swivelled their heads as she leaned against the doorframe of the living room, the boy's eyes sparkling as he caught sight of her. Somehow, he managed to continue playing, feeling the pressure of his teacher's hand on his shoulder as he finished the piece. Marina clapped her hands enthusiastically and came forward, kissing his soft blond head before exchanging greetings with Madame Usenka.

'Remember, Illya Nikovetch, daily scales practice, whatever is happening out there' Madame Usenka boomed, as her pupil slid off the piano stool, her gaze taking in Marina before directing itself towards the window.

'Yes Madame' he replied dutifully, before melting away to his room, in search, Marina knew, of a book or some paper to draw the fantastic 'inventions' his six-year old mind came up with, and which he would proudly show her over dinner.

Marina sat down on the small dark red sofa and closed her eyes.

'Thank you Anya Illyevna,' she said wearily. 'He is making progress, don't you think?' Madame Usenka sat down next to her, her every movement neat and controlled, like the fitted black clothes that she always wore.

'I do not tell him of course, but he is an exceptional pupil,' she said, a rare, warm smile playing across her thin lips.

Marina walked over to the samovar, gently steaming in the corner of the room.

'I have put in the zavarka, Marina Alexandrevna,' Madame Usenka murmured, indicating the teapot on top. Marina nodded, and returned with two small delicate china cups. Madame Usenka gave the younger woman a sharp look as she handed her the tea.

'Did they come today? On your ward?' Marina nodded sadly.

'Of course. The SS is nothing if not efficient in their search for children who will fit their warped definition of what constitutes a "master race".' Madame Usenka uttered a contemptuous sound from deep in her throat, before gently sipping her tea.

Marina had witnessed their advance into the city of course, and what this particular group of Nazis were looking for. She had seen distraught parents begging doctors to hide their sick children from the scrutiny of the black-uniformed men. Fortunately, they had not been that interested in any children who were incapable of being transported away from Kiev to new homes in the Fatherland.

He was waiting for her in the office after one such inspection. As she walked through the ward, she could see his head with the familiar black peaked cap above the frosted glass part of the partition separating the little room from the larger ward beyond it. Entering, she heard the familiar click of his boots and his clipped, accented voice.

'Good morning frau doktor. Sturmbannführer Konstantin Blau, at your service.' To her horror, he had picked up a framed photograph of her family on the desk. She stood rigid, her tongue feeling as if it filled her mouth, preventing her from speaking. He looked up and smiled at her, his eyes taking in her appearance in uncomfortable detail, reading the label on her white coat as if she was a strange animal at a zoo he was trying to discover the name of.

'Dr Kuryakina. That is a Russian name, is it not, Doctor?' he said, the word 'Russian' sounding as if he was forcing himself to say it.

'My husband is Russian, as was my mother,' she replied stiffly, her eyes holding his as he continued to glance at the photograph in the frame.

'And this is your son?' He brought the photograph up closer to examine the little boy who stared back at him. His eyes narrowed slightly as he put the photograph down. 'So, a Russian boy of, what, six years, with blond hair and, I imagine, blue eyes like his mother, no?'

Marina swallowed a little and forced herself to keep looking straight at him as he replaced the picture on the desk.

'Illya is with his uncle and aunt in the country at the moment.' The lie came easily, but his face was difficult to read. He came up closer to her, the smell of his black leather boots and his immaculate uniform invading her senses, forcing her to take a step backwards.

'Really. I hope, Doctor, for your sake, that you are not trying to deceive me in this matter.' Nodding his head at her, he turned on his heel and departed, leaving her with a sick, dead feeling in her stomach.

'I don't know whether he believed me or not, it's so hard to read human feelings in a face where the eyes look so dead,' she said, Madame Usenka nodding vigorously.

'Be careful Marina; if they know about him, they will check, and they will come for him.' Madame Usenka had hardly finished speaking before a familiar, and gut-wrenching sound could be heard below in the street. Marina rushed to the window to see a large, open truck parked in full view, soldiers helping a number of young children on board, as others roughly pushed back screaming women from the side of the road.

'Hurry! Hide him now or it will be too late!' Madam Usenka shouted out, picking up her coat and hat and going into the corridor.

As if on cue, Illya appeared, clutching a small brown bear with a red kerchief tied jauntily round its neck.

'Take him, and I will delay them!' Madame Usenka hissed, opening the door and then slamming it behind her with a resounding crash, as the sound of boots could be heard on the stairs below.

Marina could hear the strains of an argument as she returned from the bedroom; Madame Usenka's sharp, high-pitched voice followed by the lower, German accent of someone barking out orders in increasingly impatient tones. A scream was followed by the thunderous hammering of fists on her door. She counted to five and then slowly opened it, before it was forced wider by a familiar boot.

She gasped at the sight of her friend lying in a pool of blood at the top of the stairs.

'Leave her, she is of no concern to you now.' Sturmbannführer Blau grasped her arm and forced her backwards along the passage to the living room, indicating to two other soldiers to search the apartment with a sharp flick of his head. They stood facing each other, only the steaming sound of the samovar providing the background to the noise of the soldiers wrenching out furniture and throwing objects down as they looked. Blau glanced round the room in the same way as he had regarded Marina earlier in the Hospital, with barely concealed disdain for an inferior race to whom he had the authority to meet out any kind of treatment he considered suitable or necessary.

There was a shout from one of the soldiers searching the apartment. Blau unholstered his gun and signalled to Marina to move towards the other room. What had been Nikolai's and her bedroom was now a scene of utter chaos. A chest of drawers containing their clothes was on its side, the drawers and their contents strewn over the room. Ornaments and photos had been flung onto the floor and smashed beneath the feet of the soldiers, who had turned the bed over and yanked the mattress to the floor. As Blau entered the room, they came to attention, an odd sight amidst the disaster of the room.

'The wardrobe cannot be moved, Sturmbannführer. We have searched inside,' one of the soldiers said, before returning to rigidity beside the other. Blau looked round, uttering a deep sigh.

'Put the bed back and get out. Wait outside the apartment,' he barked, as they both came to and scrambled out of the room after heaving the bed upright again. He gave the wardrobe a kick, before turning to Marina, holstering his gun, and removing his cap.

'It appears, Frau Doktor, that you are telling the truth, at least for now,' he said, coming closer to the still woman with the startlingly blue eyes now glaring intently into his face.

He noticed a stray tendril of hair coming down from the rather severe pleat her hair was fastened back into. Coming nearer, he reached behind her head and pulled at the grips holding her hair, aware of her frozen gaze, and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Her hair was thick, a beautiful natural blonde and very straight, falling over her shoulders as he pulled more and more grips from her head. He pushed her down onto the mattress, forcing up her dress and ripping at her underwear as he felt her stiffen with fear beneath him. An overpowering feeling of power took hold of him, giving him the right to exact something from this woman who had managed to withhold her child from him.

She was virtually silent throughout, only forcing back a low cry when he entered her and sucked viciously at her neck with his mouth as he reached his climax. She lay there motionless while he did up his uniform, only rolling over slightly and pulling down her dress before he left the room.

Forcing herself up from the bed onto her knees, and suppressing a sob, Marina managed to pull on her clothes, before very slowly, half walking, and half crawling dragging herself to the wardrobe door. It was already open, the clothes emptied out onto the floor round it in total disarray, her husband's best suit in a tangled mess on top of a number of other, now ruined garments. After gently pressing on the back of the wardrobe, the hidden panel eventually swung forward in her grasp, revealing a small door let into the chimney breast of the room. Fighting back tears, Marina searched for the tiny key hidden in the brick above. Suddenly she began to feel a great wave of panic sweep over her as she fumbled with the key. She had no idea of how long she had lain on the mattress. Perhaps he was now lying unconscious in this tiny space. Perhaps . . .

Frantically, she forced the key in the lock and turned, scrabbling at the door and then yanking it open. A pair of wide blue, tear-stained eyes stared out, before he fell out of the tiny space into her arms.

'Oh mama I was quiet like you said, even when I heard the Fritzes shouting. I held onto comrade Sergei, but I was scared a little. I'm sorry mama.' She could feel that he was soaking wet and shivering, his clothes black with the soot of the chimney, the little brown bear clasped tightly to his chest.

'Oh Illyusha, you were such a brave boy, it's alright now, everything is alright now, everything is going to be alright, I promise.'

xxxxxxx

June 1968

Kuryakin felt the sweat gather on his forehead and begin to drip down the side of his face as he stared at the minute instruments in front of him. Taking a tiny screwdriver from his set of tools, he began to slowly adjust the cogs on the machine, his brow creased with concentration. He could feel a cold wet patch on his shirt beginning to spread across his chest in strange contrast to the sweat now pouring down the back of his neck. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, longing to rip off his glasses and wipe his head. The weight on him was becoming unbearable in this heat, making the job impossible, if it hadn't been so from the beginning. Eventually, after a few more twists, he put down the tiny tool.

'I think it may work now, lapin.'

Anastasiya raised her head from where she had been sobbing quietly into her father's shirt.

'Chi-chi better?' she whispered, her face now close to his, violet eyes huge with misery.

'Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?' Shifting her onto his knee, he gently turned the toy round to face them. Chi-Chi, as the panda was named, after his very much bigger real counterpart at London Zoo, sat motionless, a rather mournful look on his face, his arms frozen in anticipation of being able to play a diminutive set of drums, two little cymbals attached to the feet below them.

Anastasiya had developed a fascination for all things Panda since their visit to London Zoo in the spring, her joy being complete when her Uncle Napoleon had bought her the panda shortly afterwards. Illya had begged his wife not to make him repair the toy when Tasiya had fallen over with it in the garden, but, in the end, the sobbing toddler had won out.

He placed his daughter's tiny hand over the key and together they turned it. For a few seconds nothing happened, a tiny sob beginning to form in Tasiya's throat again. Then suddenly, with a crash which made Illya jump slightly, Chi-chi's feet swung into action, rapidly followed by a resounding roll of the drums from his churning arms.

Almost immediately afterwards, the air was punctuated by a loud sobbing cry, followed after a gap of about five seconds, by another, equally loud one. Anastasiya ran joyfully out into the garden holding Chi-Chi, who was still banging and crashing full blast as she bawled 'Passa, Pabba, Passa, Pabba!' in endless succession. Illya groaned slightly and walked towards the twin bawling noise coming from the large pram on the terrace outside the French windows.

'Shh, it's only Chi-Chi starting up again,' he whispered, starting to rock the handle with his hand. Two sets of blue eyes regarded him seriously from either end of the pram. It had been thought almost from their birth that they were identical. Now it was blindingly obvious, in fact Napoleon referred to them as 'the triplets' – Misha, Valya and Illya. It was true; both boys had his blue eyes, and now, lots of thick, straight, blond hair, cut across their forehead in a style almost identical to their father's silky locks. However, they differed in personality; Misha easy going, biddable, sunny in disposition, while Napoleon called Valya 'little Illya'.

'He's got your scowl perfectly,' he commented one day when the Solos had braved Sunday lunch at Grove Street. Valya matched Illya in stubbornness, awkward and unwilling to comply while Misha radiated a calm, laid-back approach to anything and anyone coming into his world.

As if to confirm his thoughts, Valentin, unlike his brother, who had immediately closed his eyes and fallen asleep again, began to wriggle under the cotton blanket, throwing his arms about until Illya pulled him out.

'Be kind to your brother now,' he whispered in the baby's ear, as he patted his back and started to walk in the direction his daughter had just hurtled a few minutes previously.

He found the other three children in the part of the garden Tess called 'the orchard', sitting on the bench underneath the largest of the fruit trees playing with Chi-Chi, and some other, quieter toys that they had laid out on a rug on the grass beneath them. Illya sat down on the rug, the squirming Valentin immediately going down on all fours and moving rapidly towards the bench, and Pablo in particular, holding up his arms until he was comfortably seated on his brother's lap, making the trio a quartet.

'I see you've mended it, dad,' Pablo said, smiling, managing to replace the now wound down toy with another, quieter panda which Pascale had named 'Comrade Patch'.

'Sadly, yes, but I think even Chi-Chi's decibel level would have been beaten by your sister's wailing if I hadn't,' Illya replied, lying on his back and putting his glasses on the rug next to him. He heard Tasiya shouting 'Papa, papa', then the thump of her feet hitting the ground from the bench, but somehow, even his lightning reactions were not quick enough to prevent her from crunching straight over his glasses as she threw herself at him.

'Tasiya! Oh dear, quel disastre! Regarde tes lunettes, cheri!'

Illya sat upright, pulling Anastasiya away from the broken mess that had been his glasses. Thérèse stood over him, working hard not to grin as she gently gathered up the smashed remains into her hand, but he could tell from her writhing lips that Anastasiya had achieved in the last few seconds what her mother had failed to do in the last two years.

He gazed at the thick black frames, now broken into several pieces by his daughter's stomping actions on them.

'Perhaps they're mendable. I've had those since I was at University,' he said sadly, trying to ignore the grin now forming on Thérèse's mouth.

'What, the birth control department?' she retorted, arching her eyebrows and then pouting slightly, enough to make him wish the children weren't quite as close.

'What's the birth control department, papa?' Pascale said suddenly, looking up from a book which was usually firmly fixed to her hand from morning to night.

'It's nothing, just your mama trying to be funny,' Illya said, trying to look cross. 'Well, Pascale, I suppose that means that I will have to join you at the opticians,' he said darkly, noticing a look of barely concealed triumph flash across his wife's face.

'And Pascale will make sure that this time you choose something more flattering,' she said, her eyes reflecting the dappled sun as she pushed her hair out of the way.

'Oh yes, I will tell the optician not to give him the glasses from the Birth Control department, oui papa?' Illya lay back on the rug and closed his eyes.

'Oui, Pascale, si tu veux.'

CHAPTER 2

'I'm sorry about the glasses.' Illya rolled over and looked up into the now darkened brown eyes gazing at him.

'No you're not. You've hated them ever since you first saw them.' Thérèse lay down gently on top of him, her lips now pressing into his slightly open ones. After a few minutes of intensely pleasurable kissing, she rolled over, bringing him with her.

'Illya,' she whispered, now so close it was barely a murmur, 'are you happy with me . . . well . . .'

'Finishing your PhD?' He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly. 'Of course. Despite what is said at the office, I am not a chauvinistic pig who expects his wife just to keep house and bear children.' He frowned a little. 'At least I don't think I am.'

'You aren't at all!' Thérèse snorted slightly, stroking his hair back behind his ears. 'You're the very model of the socialist new man.'

'I am?' She could see his delightfully innocent expression asserting itself whenever she said something which confused or amazed him. Holding him close, she began to stroke his head gently, feeling the powerful muscles in his neck and shoulders as her hands moved across his skin.

'It's only two days a week. I'll be working on my thesis on one day, and then giving a few lectures and tutorials in the department on the other day. And now that there's that new day care centre that your organisation appears to have infiltrated, we don't need to worry about the littlies, do we?' She could hear a sharply indrawn breath.

'What centre?'

'You heard. Jo assured me that come next week, Brenda is running a nursery for those of you strange beings who are attempting to combine a career in UNCLE with raising a family.'

Illya laid back slightly, his hair glinting in the light coming from the street lamp outside their window.

'I find it really hard to believe that you don't know about this, seeing that you head the list for "UNCLE agents with the most offspring under ten",' Thérèse whispered, pulling herself up the bed slightly and beginning to stroke his ears with the tip of her fingers.

'Mm. So do I. I suppose it's not that surprising though, since I've been out of the country quite a lot in the last few weeks. So, fount of all knowledge, where is this crèche?'

'Apparently, it's in the building adjacent to yours. Jo says it's going to be very well equipped, and, of course have the added bonus of having some of you lot to protect the next generation of supermen and women.'

'Well there's that in its favour, I suppose. As long as they're not ringing me every five minutes to report some catastrophe involving my daughter,' he groaned, pulling Thérèse towards him.

'I can't think what you could possibly mean, amado.'

They lay quietly for a while, the house silent, yet Illya felt the presence of the sleeping children around them, as if there was one, giant heartbeat they were all sharing as a family. He reflected on the year since the boys had been born. The trauma surrounding the birth had taken a while to subside, Thérèse helped by the tiny babies' dependence on her for their sustenance and growth, and he, having to play Misha for what turned out to be another three months, being able to remain close to his family, and especially to Pascale.

She had adjusted well in the first place, forming a close bond with Pablo in particular. Nevertheless, Illya had spent what felt like a considerable time at school outside the Principal's office, wondering what had happened next in the school life of his eldest daughter, as the door opened, and the formidable figure of Sister Stephanie uttered the now familiar words,

'Mr Kuryakin, we have a little problem with Pascale.' After a year of adjustment, the visits were becoming less frequent, and at last, a succession of Pascale's friends tramped through their house, to match the continuing, but more thunderous sounds of Pablo and Marv.

After THRUSH had finally begun to realise that their plan to infiltrate the UNCLE security system had spectacularly backfired, his job seemed to change yet again, Waverly insisting that he take a lead role in the interrogation of the numerous THRUSH agents that UNCLE had brought in across the world, as a result of the information gained through the computer. Napoleon, still not entirely recovered from the drugs he had received in San Francisco, had been seconded to several UNCLE HQs to run the station in their leader's absence, the rest of the time being spent closeted with Waverly discussing and implementing strategic policies. Illya couldn't help but think that the old man was preparing the ground for both their and his inevitable retirements in what Illya hoped was the fairly distant future. He could see that Waverly had picked this time, first and foremost because it suited the Command, but also, Illya believed, because he considered they both needed some kind of breathing space. Now he felt that that time had come to an end. They were both mentally and physically in good shape, the families were stable, and, perhaps as important, both Solo and Kuryakin wanted and needed to return to the field, together.

Napoleon was in his usual position, lounging on the easy chair in their room as he came in.

'What is this vision that I see before me? Come let me clutch thee,' he said, putting down his coffee cup as Connie handed Illya his coffee from the machine behind her desk.

'Thank you Lady Macbeth, for that highly inaccurate quote,' Illya murmured from behind the coffee cup, as Connie gently tugged his chin towards her.

'They are very nice; we can see those baby blues as clear as daylight now. You'll have all the girls parading through here once this gets around,' she said, going back to her desk, and fetching some files which she proceeded to lay out on the table.

'You think so?' Napoleon said in his 'he can't be as attractive as I am' voice, head to one side.

'Don't worry Napoleon; I'm sure you'll soon return to the top of the 'most lusted after male' list in the typing pool,' Illya muttered, sitting down and pulling the edge of one of the files towards him.

'Mr W wanted you both to familiarise yourselves with these before your meeting,' Connie said, putting her hand on Illya's shoulder. 'Don't quote me on it, but they look like something one of your kids could turn out, if you take my drift.'

Napoleon frowned as he opened the folder. Inside was a selection of colour reproductions of paintings, the name of the artist carefully noted on the back of each sheet. He could see Kuryakin doing what he usually did, trying to arrange the sheets in some sort of order or sequence, but even he seemed to be having difficulty in seeing the connection between the works of art in front of him.

'Um, I know some of the artists here, but the only connection I can see seems to be that most of the paintings are modern; there's nothing older than the early twentieth century, and a lot of these are by German artists, by the look of the names.'

'Exactly my point,' Connie burst in, staring at the pictures over Illya's shoulder. 'I don't mind that one; at least you can see what it is,' she added, pointing at one of the sheets.

'It's a painting of the artist Chagall's daughter, Ida,' Illya replied, smiling. The woman in the picture seemed to be staring out of a blue framed window, her brown hair flowing down the back of her deep pink dress. Illya followed the hair down the picture with his finger before looking up at Napoleon.

'And you happen to know this because . . .'

'Because we have a copy of this in our study, and because Chagall is the subject of Tess's PhD thesis.' Napoleon made his usual face when confronted with something he knew little about. He shuffled the papers back into the file and sat back on the chair, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

'OK, so tell me Professor, what is the connection?' he said. Illya sighed, and looked at the picture again.

'This painting was owned by a German Jewish family before the war. It was seized by the Nazis as part of their attack on so-called 'degenerate art'.' Napoleon nodded.

'Ah yes, they preferred all that stuff with people you could recognise in them,' he replied, looking sideways through his eyes at Connie.

'Quite. After the war, according to Tess, this picture disappeared, and to date, despite all efforts to trace it by the family, it has never been seen again. So I guess, Napoleon, these other paintings are also of that provenance.'

Napoleon stood up, picking up the folder as he glanced at his watch.

'Well, we'd better mosey along to Mr Waverly and see if your theory holds up, partner,' he said, giving Illya a whack on the head with the folder as he passed.

xxxxxxxx

The screen above Waverly's head was already flickering into life as they took their seats, another set of the copies of the paintings already arranged in the middle of the table.

'I presume that you gentlemen have had time to peruse these, um, paintings,' Waverly began, waving his hand vaguely towards the centre of the table.

'I presume that he's not impressed with them either,' Napoleon whispered into the back of Illya's head as the Russian put his glasses back on, having, as Napoleon noticed, taken them off in the corridor, presumably to avert any unwanted female attention.

'When we last went to his house, Tess and he got into a long conversation about art,' Illya murmured, 'but Mrs Waverly was asking me all about the twins so I didn't really hear what his views were.'

A man's face appearing on the screen diverted their attention away from the paintings.

'This, gentlemen, is Cyrus Blau.'

'German?' Napoleon ventured, staring at the screen.

'No, Austrian,' Illya replied, rather savagely, looking down, his wide brow suddenly clouded by some memory which Napoleon could only hazard was connected to the name of this man.

'Quite right, Mr Kuryakin.' He paused, both men looking towards Illya.

'Er, I don't know him, but I presume he is related to Konstantin Blau,' Illya continued, looking up. Napoleon sighed.

'And he is . . .'

'Sturmbahnfuhrer Konstantin Blau to be exact; late of the SS. Otherwise known as 'the child-stealer of Kiev,' Illya replied, gazing at his partner.

'Oh,' Napoleon said, deciding to ask for further details later, when his partner looked calmer than the glowering face next to him indicated was his present mood. 'So what is the relationship between these two?'

'Brothers, Mr Solo; in fact there are three brothers, Konstantin, as Mr Kuryakin has mentioned, Cyrus and Darius.'

'Ah, Kings of Persia and Roman Emperors,' Napoleon murmured. 'Their parents must have been looking under 'Rulers of the World' in the baby book.' Illya's face lightened slightly, a smirk beginning to form.

'Mm. Perhaps they passed the book onto your parents, Napoleon.' Napoleon curled his lip slightly in the Russian's direction before returning to look at the screen.

'Konstantin Blau, as Mr Kuryakin rightly said, was indicted for war crimes in 1945, notably for his part in the abduction of children from the Ukraine and Poland to Germany during the occupation of those countries. He managed to slip through the net of the allied forces, but was thought to have been killed by the Russians shortly after the end of the war. 'There were two other brothers, Cyrus and Darius, both somewhat younger than Konstantin, in fact the youngest one, Darius I think, was just a child at the end of the war. At any rate they were therefore not held responsible in any ways for the sins of their elder brother, as it were. In 1949, we know that Cyrus Blau left Austria for Great Britain and set up what has proved to be a remarkably successful art dealership in London, where he still resides for the most part, but as for the youngest brother, he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.'

'So, murky fraternal link notwithstanding, sir, why should we be interested in the brothers Blau?' Napoleon asked. The image on the screen changed to the Chagall painting they had been looking at previously.

'This painting, previously in the Aaronheim family, was . . . 'but you know about this, don't you Mr Kuryakin?' Waverly said, smiling at the Russian agent. I had a most illuminating chat with your wife about it when you visited us. She told me a great deal about its provenance. A sad story indeed.'

Napoleon stared intently at Illya, a 'fill me in' expression flooding his face.

'Um, as I was saying before, Napoleon, the provenance of this painting, and the others in the file seem to point towards the Nazi purge of so-called 'degenerate art' in the 30's,' Illya began. 'The Aaronheims, according to Tess, were virtually wiped out as a family, only one son, Orin Aaronheim, surviving the camps. I think she said he immigrated to Israel after the war.'

'Precisely, Mr Kuryakin. Orin Aaronheim has never given up hope of finding his lost painting, so much so, that he has worked with every agency in Europe and beyond over the years, in the belief that one day it would re-appear.'

'And it has?' Napoleon said, leaning forward to glance at the images on the circular desk in front of him. As well as a copy of the picture of Cyrus Blau, there were also photographs of two equally remarkable looking women. The first was a harsh platinum blond, her bright red lipstick a startling contrast to the whiteness of her short, spiky hair. The other woman presented an almost complete contrast. It was difficult to ascertain the colour of her eyes behind the rather thick black framed glasses she was wearing, but she was in every other way noticeably chic, from her smooth dark brown chignon hairstyle to the cut of her Chanel suit. He slid the pictures towards Kuryakin, a similar smirk to his partner's forming on his lips.

'Seems she might have been to the same opticians as you previously patronised,' he whispered.

'Hardly likely, since I purchased the glasses you're referring to in Cambridge, and, by the look of this sign, this young lady appears to be a Swiss banker,' Kuryakin replied, staring at the photograph.

She had been caught by the camera at what looked like a kind of conference. She was sitting behind a long table, flanked on either side by serious looking suited men. In front of them all were a series of plastic place names, indicating the different European banks they represented.

'Not yet, Mr Solo,' Waverly continued, frowning slightly. 'But Mr Aaronheim has assured our Jerusalem office that he has some information which he thinks deserves investigation. If his allegations are true, there may be a link between at the very least Cyrus Blau, the young lady you are looking at, Mr Solo, an organisation calling itself 'The Adler Society', and possibly, the stolen paintings themselves.'

'So who is she?' Napoleon asked, noticing that his partner had dragged the other photograph of the blonde woman towards himself.

'Her name is Cecilia Luft. She is a Swiss national, working for a private bank, Franck Merkel AG, in Geneva. Aaronheim has evidence that she has attended meetings and functions at the Adler Society on a number of occasions in the last year, as you'll see from the attached list.'

'So, what is the nature of this Adler Society, sir?' Napoleon continued, putting down the photograph. Waverly pressed a button in the desk, replacing the image of Ida Chagall with that of a large, elegant door of neo-classical design.

'London?' Illya suddenly interposed, looking up from his study of the blonde woman.

'Yes, that is where the society is situated, Robert Adam Street to be precise, Mr Kuryakin,' Waverly replied, swinging round towards the screen. 'It was founded in 1952 ostensibly as a private club for wealthy patrons of the arts, particularly fine art, so it claims. It is highly secretive, and our people in London have had little success even in obtaining a list of members' names, let alone gaining access. In order to be accepted as a member, apparently, one has to be not only extremely rich, but also be nominated by at least three other members of the society. One of our agents did make some headway with a young lady employed there, however, who suggested to him that the political opinions and values of the third Reich were, as he put it, 'alive and kicking' within its walls. One thing we do know, gentlemen, is that Cyrus Blau is a founder member of that society.'

Illya scratched the back of his head and ran his hand through his hair before putting the picture he had been examining down on the table.

'I can't quite see how this relates to the art, sir,' he said quietly, 'and, how this woman fits in.' Napoleon leaned over his shoulder to take another look.

'Another of your favourite type of master race frauleins, comrade,' he murmured. 'I can feel another engagement coming on.' Illya glared sideways before noticing that the image on the wall had changed again. There followed a series of photographs taken by an unseen hand from across the street to the Adler Society headquarters. Illya recognised Cecilia Luft being given access, followed swiftly by a picture of Cyrus Blau, arm in arm with the blonde he had asked about.

'We don't have any firm evidence yet, and that is hopefully your mission, gentlemen, but Aaronheim has claimed to have proof that at least some of the missing works of art are probably stored in the vaults of the Franck Merkel bank in Geneva in numbered accounts. If this is the case, then it seems more than just coincidence that a notable art dealer and an employee of that bank are meeting together in a highly secretive, right-wing, possibly even pro-Nazi society. Worthy of investigation, don't you think?' Waverly picked up his pipe and began to knock it out on the ash tray near to his chair.

'Oh, and in case it isn't obvious, Mr Kuryakin, the woman you enquired about, that is Ottilie Blackthorn, otherwise known as Mrs Cyrus Blau. She has an interesting past, most notably as a somewhat notorious female dominatrix in West Berlin and New York; that is before she married Blau and moved to London.'

Waverly reached behind him and put two files onto the table, before swinging it towards the two agents.

'Mr Solo, I think you should attempt to infiltrate this society, and when you have, make every effort to establish a relationship with Miss Luft. We need to know what exactly her role is in all this.' Napoleon opened his file, skimming the details of his cover.

'Mr Kuryakin, I'd like you to go to Israel and talk to Orin Aaronheim. Apparently, he was unwilling to surrender the written evidence he has linking this Society to the art thefts until apparently a friend of yours persuaded him you could be trusted with it.' Illya frowned momentarily, then began to smile.

'David Kaplan, sir?' Waverly nodded. 'We were at Cambridge together,' Illya said. 'His family are Russian, came over to England in the twenties. In the fifties, they immigrated to Israel, and David followed when he'd finished his medical training. He's a Kibbutznik, Napoleon, you know?' Napoleon groaned slightly.

'Only too well. I'm sure you'll enjoy all that communal living, comrade,' he replied. 'Bring me back an avocado, won't you?'

Waverly coughed, signalling that the meeting was not quite at an end.

'You both have time to study the relevant documents before you leave, but you'll also need these for tomorrow night's, um, occasion.' He spun the table round again, this time, two printed cards heading in their direction.

'Darryl Moore's engagement party?' Illya gasped, frowning deeply.

'At a very grand location,' Solo added. 'Anyway, thought you'd have already got your invitation, seeing that you are his number one hero,' he whispered. Illya sighed, turning towards Waverly, Napoleon recognising the look which usually meant he was trying to find some sort of excuse not to attend.

'Normally I would leave it entirely up to you as to whether you chose to attend this function or not,' Waverly was saying, 'but in the interests of good relations with the military forces of this country, I feel that both of you should be present, together with your wives of course,' he added.

Napoleon nodded his head slightly, feeling a little pleased that for once he appeared to know something the Russian didn't.

'Oh yes, hasn't he got a relative high up at West Point?' he said, receiving an affirmatory nod from Waverly.

'Brigadier General Dawkins is Mr Moore's uncle,' Waverly replied. 'After the fiasco with the Vietnam thing, I would prefer it if we can re-establish at least a more friendly relationship with the army, if possible. So, gentlemen, Friday evening please, and, Mr Kuryakin . . .'

'Yes sir. Regulation length.'

CHAPTER 3

Thérèse stared silently out of the cab window as the increasingly grand residences of this particularly wealthy part of Long Island flashed past in the lengthening shadows of the evening sunlight.

'Where has Goldilocks disappeared off to, anyway?' Jo said, giving Napoleon another cursory glance, hoping that he wouldn't realise just how stunning she thought he was looking.

'Um, he was called in to translate some urgent message from the Ukraine,' Napoleon murmured, 'seeing that half the Translation Section is at this function tonight.' Thérèse turned slightly, and then returned to her fixed stare out of the window.

They had not been out together like this for some time, and she had leapt at the chance, organising Marina and Peter to cover the babysitting and making sure the beautiful tuxedo with the plain shawl collar that suited him so much, was pressed and ready for action. Seemingly, he had even made some effort himself, returning from work with fractionally shorter hair than when he had left home that morning.

'I'll just have a shower and then . . .' He had come into the bedroom and seen her standing at the end of the bed putting on the earrings he had surprised her with only days previously. Thérèse smiled in spite of herself at the thought of his expression, and the embrace that had followed it.

'You look beautiful,' he had said simply, holding her lightly to avoid crushing the black silk dress she was wearing. Therese had run her hand through the neat hair, tracing the edge of his ear with her finger.

'Mm. You don't look half bad yourself,' she had murmured, trying not to get too much lipstick all over him. He had reluctantly pulled away and headed for the bathroom. It was only as he was coming back draped in a towel, that his communicator had suddenly begun to sound.

Thérèse could tell immediately who it was and what was likely to happen next.

'I won't be long,' he had said, scrambling into his clothes and allowing her to tie his bowtie as he adjusted his holster before putting on his jacket. 'I'll meet you at the Club, alright?' She had nodded, trying not to let him see her disappointment and frustration.

She could hear voices in the hallway as Illya left, her sister's familiar sharp tones and Napoleon's deeper, richer ones, and then, someone else.

'It seems the old man has let you down again, my dear. Will I do?' Thérèse smiled as Vaz Fernandez stepped forward out of the gloom of the summer evening.

She took his arm and walked out of the door, Napoleon seeing to the alarms before joining them in the cab. Vaz's infective enthusiasm at last forced her to forget the disappointment of her husband's absence, and the rest of the time was passed quite happily, mainly with UNCLE gossip and talk about her work at the Steinhardt School.

The Club was set at the end of a long drive, in magnificent grounds with access to the beach from its wide terraced gardens. The party had already started, a large open canopy erected on the top terrace, under which a band were playing smooth swing music to which a large number of people swayed in front of them. Inside the wide open French doors of the club, a series of large tables had been spread with a variety of rather sophisticated looking canapés and other food; a team of waiters and waitresses flooded out, endeavouring to tempt those who sat in small tables round the edge of the dance floor.

Dusk was taking hold of the day as Napoleon and the other three reached the terrace. Solo couldn't help scanning the crowd, even though he felt pretty relaxed and ready to enjoy himself. He could see the Waverlys across the other side of the dance floor chatting to a tall man in military uniform who was unmistakeably Darryl's uncle. It was easy to spot both the Section Three guys and the Army MPs on duty, the rest of the party being made up of quite a few young Section Two and Three guys and a good number of girls invited from various Sections in UNCLE. Darryl himself, locked arm in arm with his fiancée, a rather attractive, but shy American girl from translation, looked as if he was heading in their direction.

'Welcome y'all,' Darryl shouted in booming tones over the latest number, a rather good rendition of 'Strangers in the Night' by the male vocalist with the band. 'Julie and I are sure glad you could come, aren't we Julie?' Thérèse was mildly amused by the difference in height between the couple; like herself, Julie was petite in height and size, while Darryl's bulk even towered over Napoleon, never mind the more diminutive Indian by her side.

Thérèse could see that Darryl was looking for Illya and decided to put him out of his misery.

'He'll be along soon,' she murmured, smiling up at him and seeing him nod as if understanding their mutual disappointment at the Russian's absence.

Thérèse looked at her watch, wondering just how long that absence might be. Napoleon had already sorted out a table far enough from the band to be able to have a conversation without shouting, and had signalled to the waiter for some drinks. Thérèse loved going anywhere with him, particularly these sorts of occasions; he seemed to be able to orchestrate things so brilliantly; the table, the drinks, whatever was necessary for a lovely evening. But without Illya, she felt the vital piece in the jigsaw of their evening was not in place.

Vaz seemed to have been able to read her mind, for, before she could sink morosely down at the table, he had lured her onto the dance floor and begun to swing her round to strains of 'Night and Day' from the band. She looked down at the bronze coloured sandals she had chosen because they were great for dancing, and, smiling widely, plunged amongst the other dancers with her partner.

'Christ!' Surprisingly Josefina didn't swear that often, preferring to use a variety of scouse expressions which Napoleon was now deeply familiar with. It was only when something particularly important or serious happened that the appropriate words were used.

'Excuse me?' Napoleon said, looking in the direction his wife was now staring in.

'See that man there. No, divvy, not him; there, in the uniform, him there, see?' Napoleon stared at another tall, but younger man in army dress uniform, chatting to Waverly and his wife, his hand loosely holding that of a rather solid looking girl with fairish hair set in a rather upswept style, a small bow affixed at the back of the solid, lacquered strands.

'You know him?' Napoleon asked, wondering if he should contact the office to see where the Russian was. Jo set her lips in an expression Napoleon knew well, and which spoke volumes.

'That no-mark chased after our Tess for over a year when she was at Oxford, until ma and pa came over and persuaded him that his career prospects might be affected if he married a, let me think what his dad said . . .. Oh yes, 'one of those feminist types whose mother was a commie fighter in the Spanish Civil War'.' Napoleon tried not to smile at the description, which seemed to fit his own wife so much more than her sister.

'I know what you're thinking, lover, but Tess was very, well let's say, outspoken then. He thought because he was a Rhodes Scholar, Heisman Trophy winner and West Point army cadet of the century, that she would just swoon all over him and become Mrs Michael Dawkins of Des Moines, Iowa, or wherever they live, but she hates all that crap, and besides, after the row with mom and dad, that was it,' she said, staring at the figures across the dance floor. 'She always felt Michael had given in to the pressure of all those generations of military folk.'

'Has she noticed him, do you think?' Napoleon asked, his gaze moving from Thérèse to Michael Dawkins, and then back again.

'I don't think so, and more important, I don't think he's seen her yet. And then of course, there's his dad and mom,' Jo added in a fake American accent, making a wry face at Napoleon.

'And, of course, if he ever gets here, there's her husband,' Napoleon replied.

'And when will you be deployed to South East Asia, Michael?' Waverly enquired, sitting down gratefully and helping himself to one of the canapés from the dish on the table in front of him.

'Probably in September or October, sir, if I pass the medical. I'm instructing at West Point presently, awaiting orders,' Dawkins replied, smiling at the elderly looking man next to him.

'You must be very proud of your son, Brigadier,' Waverly continued, rather hoping that someone might come along and relieve him and Dorothy of the rather tedious company of Brigadier Dawkins and his family.

'I am, sir,' Eugene Dawkins replied, giving a rather self-satisfied smile in his wife's direction. 'And of course we're very excited by the prospect of Michael and Marilyn's engagement.' Marilyn giggled slightly, gazing up into her fiancé's eyes as he gazed across the dance floor.

'What's wrong, Mikey,' she whispered, noticing his hand had clenched hers tightly and that his face had become set and rather flushed.

'Nothing. It's nothing, I … I just need to speak to Darryl for a moment, OK?' Without waiting for a reply, he set off round the edge of the dance floor, heading in Darryl's direction.

Darryl's attempt to lure Julie onto the dance floor was thwarted by the sudden appearance of his cousin in front of him.

'Hey, Mike, having a good time?' he said cheerfully, at the same time noting the rather intense expression on his cousin's face.

'Yeah, great. Say, Darryl, that girl over there in the black dress and the gold shoes, um, is the guy her … boyfriend?' Darryl squinted in the direction Michael was indicating.

'Jesus, no! She's married to another guy at UNCLE, but he's not here yet,' Darryl said, noticing the shocked reaction to his last statement. 'Why, do you know her?'

'Hell no. I just wondered, that's all. She's a very attractive girl. Married, you say? Are you sure?'

Darryl frowned. For someone who claimed he didn't know Tess, and who was about to be married himself, he was sure making a big fuss about her being married. He sighed. No doubt there would be endless talk in the family about communist infiltration again if the Dawkins, father or son, actually got to meet Kuryakin.

'Sure I'm sure. Not only married, they've got a zillion children. Well, five children, that's if you don't count . . . well, five anyway,' Darryl blundered on.

'Five!' Michael said hoarsely. 'Are you sure? Mind you she always said . . .' His voice trailed away, as if he suddenly remembered that he didn't really know her. He walked away, conscious of his cousin's stare, noticing that she had now left the dance floor and was walking towards the beach, where small groups of party goers were splashing in and out of the calm waves lapping the shore in the darkness.

'God, Illya, don't do that!' Jo said, as she looked up and stared into the familiar face of the Russian, now lounging in the seat facing her.

'Sorry. I was just trying to slip in unnoticed,' he said, already looking round for Thérèse amongst the still unflagging dancers on the dance floor. Napoleon smirked slightly, having noticed the Russian coming up the side of the building as he continued to chat to his wife about the Dawkins family. Vaz appeared off the dance floor, sliding into the seat the other side of Jo and helping himself to a drink from the jug of Margarita cocktail and a canapé from the dish on the table.

'Ah, Kuryakin old man, so glad you could make it,' he said. 'The little woman has just gone for a stroll on the beach. It looked as if that army chappie cousin of Darryl's was following her.'

Napoleon and Jo exchanged glances, but not before Illya had spotted them.

'Something wrong, Napoleon?' he ventured, sipping the Margarita Napoleon had gently pushed towards him.

'Er, not entirely, although you may be interested to know what Jo's just been telling me about Darryl's cousin and Tess.'

'Perhaps it's better coming from her,' Jo said, looking fiercely towards Napoleon. 'Look, I'll tell you what I know, as long as you promise not to go blundering down there making a fuss,' she said, putting down her glass.

'I never blunder anywhere,' Illya said evenly, finishing his drink and turning towards her, the look in his eyes instantly readable, at least by his partner.

After Jo had spoken, a sort of hiatus between them was eventually broken by the scraping back of chairs as Fernando and Frankie swung themselves down at the table.

'Good evening, folks,' Fernando beamed in his usual laid-back fashion, raising his eyebrows at Vaz and smiling at the others. Frankie, wearing a pink dress that made Illya wish he had his dark glasses with him, leaned over and gave him a warm kiss before almost yelling 'Hiya Mr Solo, Jo!' in her usual manner.

'Where've you two been?' Illya said, more sharply than he intended to, inviting a rather worried look from Napoleon's direction.

'Um, we stopped off on the way… well, we got here as quick as we could,' Fernando replied, looking round. 'Why, did we miss anything?'

'Only a little reunion of the class of '60,' Napoleon said, watching Michael Dawkins heading towards the beach, as the male vocalist with the band started up again with a very passable cover of 'Fly me to the moon'.' Illya suddenly stood up and walked off, melting into the crowd before Napoleon could intervene.

'Why did you insist he knew?' Jo said brusquely, leaning towards him. 'Are you going to go after him?' Napoleon shook his head, still looking towards the beach.

'I think he can deal with it without me holding his hand,' he said.

Thérèse slipped off her sandals and felt the soft sand squeeze between her wriggling toes as she wandered towards the water's edge. She felt a hand on her shoulder and swung round joyfully, her smile frozen as she stared into a wholly unexpected face.

'Hello Tess,' Michael said rather stiffly. Close to her, he was momentarily stunned by her beauty, as if he could have forgotten the astonishing tones of her hair and her exquisite almond shaped, golden brown eyes. Her shock at seeing him was palpable, he could see it in the set of her mouth and in the slight tremor of her body as she stared up at him.

'Michael, I… I thought you were . . .' her voice trailed off, Dawkins acutely aware of her breasts rising and falling as she fought for the words to express how she felt.

'I'm sorry if I startled you. Darryl told me that you were . . .'

'Married?' Thérèse could feel her heart beginning to slow slightly as she fought to regain control of her feelings. 'Yes, I don't know why you should be so surprised, Michael.'

'You wouldn't marry me,' he replied savagely, even though I would have walked through fire for you, Tess.' Thérèse sighed and shook her head.

'That was a minor lifetime ago, Michael. Besides, I can't believe you've forgotten that, fire or no fire, you choose the path your parents expected you to follow, remember?' His face hardened slightly as he stepped closer, Thérèse aware of his hand now gripping the top of her arm tightly as he stared at her.

'You were so damned independent Tess; all that stuff about having your own life and a career, and then, goddamit, I find that you're married to some suit from UNCLE! And where's your damn independent career woman life now, since you took up being a full-time mom and homemaker? Why couldn't you come back home and marry me, for God's sake?' She could feel the pressure on her arm becoming unbearable, his face torn between grief and rage at seeing her.

'Stop it, Michael, you're hurting me,' she hissed, wrenching her arm away from him. 'For your information, I do have a career, and my husband is not a 'suit' as you so rudely suggested, in fact he's . . .'

'Wondering where you got to,' a familiar voice said, startling them both, and causing Dawkins to release her into Illya's arms. She laid there for a few moments, Illya aware of her heart beating against him as he stared silently at the man facing them.

'We haven't been introduced,' he said coldly, continuing his unblinking glare in Dawkins' direction.

Michael narrowed his eyes and surveyed the man who Tess had seemingly preferred to him. He was on the small side, but muscular, the slight bulge under his jacket suggesting he was armed, and therefore, like Darryl, from the enforcement section of UNCLE, Michael presumed. Something about him, the deep blue eyes and the soft beatnik style blond hair, awakened memories of a conversation he had had with his cousin about some agent he hero-worshipped and was trying to model himself on, despite the fact that the said man was a . . .

'Jesus, Tess, please don't tell me you've married a fucking red!' he exclaimed fiercely, looking straight through Illya towards her.

'Don't swear at me Michael, and don't call him that,' Thérèse replied icily, keeping as hard a grip on Illya as she could. 'Michael, this is my husband, Illya Kuryakin; Illya, Major Michael Dawkins.'

xxxxxx

'Don't turn away from me. Illya. Turn round; we don't do this, especially just before you go away.' He remained motionless, his back unmoving, a living barrier between them.

They had spent the rest of the evening hardly speaking to each other, Thérèse trying too hard to enjoy the party, and Illya not trying at all. He seemed unaware of the effect of his mood on the others in their group, and it came as a relief when they all piled into the cab for the return journey. Thérèse had felt so tired, it was almost tempting to allow him to continue his mood of dark, brooding silence, but when it continued even into the bedroom, she had pursed her lips and decided enough was enough.

'Why is he being like this?' she had whispered earlier to Napoleon as they walked up the drive to pick up the cabs. 'He's such a . . .'

'Hypocrite? Blockhead?' Napoleon murmured, smiling at her. He put his arm round her shoulders companionably, glancing ahead at the retreating form of his partner, already getting into one of the waiting cabs. He had shaken his head a little, then looked at her. 'Well, far be it from me to tell you what to do with him, but I usually find it's a choice between allowing him space to work it out for himself, or, if time is short, getting my boot on his neck and forcing him to see sense.'

'Um, the second choice might be a little difficult,' she had said, kicking the gravel under her feet. 'I just… well I find it maddening when he's expected me to…'

'Quite,' Napoleon replied. 'But, even if you didn't know it before, I'm sure you know now that he's not the most straightforward guy in the world. Seeing you with Michael Dawkins, well let's say it probably released a few of those little doubts he has about himself from time to time, if you get my drift.'

'What doubts?' she had said rather louder than she intended.

'Oh the doubt that perhaps by marrying him you've had to shoulder more than your fair share of, let's say, suffering; suffering he hasn't been able to protect you from, however much he tried.' She had stopped and looked into his calm face, suddenly glimpsing the qualities which her husband valued so much.

'But the idiot knows that I love him to distraction, doesn't he?' she had said.

'Definitely. That's the problem,' he had murmured.

The room at the back of the house was filled with moonlight from the wide French windows. Thérèse stared at the garden stretching away into the darkness, the terrace littered with odd toys and play equipment discarded by the children. She picked up her favourite acoustic guitar, sat on the simple Shaker chair by the window and began to play quietly.

I had a king. It was a song from the album he'd bought her only the day before. She loved its poetic, lyrical sound, its sad, regretful story.

You know my thoughts don't fit the man. They never can. They never can.

She wasn't aware of him coming into the room until she had finished and had started to cry, her tears dropping gently onto the instrument, making a tiny rivulet across the wood. He took it from her, and, lifting her up, enfolded her in his arms, laying his head gently on her shoulders.

'I'm so sorry. I behaved like a… jealous teenager. I can't think what came over me,' he said in hoarse gasps, holding her tightly as he breathed in the thick, soft perfumed smell of her hair. He guided her towards the sofa, the old leather allowing them to sink into each other's arms and remain there silently for a while.

'Is the song about me?' he said quietly. 'I wouldn't blame you if it was.' Thérèse sniffed slightly and smiled, looking into the earnest eyes searching her face.

'No; it's not about you. It's about him. I didn't think about it when I first played it, but now… it seems so terribly apt.' There was another, longer silence, before Thérèse continued, 'Do you want me to tell you about him? I will, if you promise me one thing.'

'And what's that?'

'That, in the words of the song, you remember that, from now on in this marriage, there's no-one to blame, least of all you, for whatever we both bring into it. You understand, amado?' He nodded silently, then sat back into the corner, Thérèse lying across his chest with her hand lightly touching his neck and hair.

'I had actually graduated by the time he arrived; my tutor had persuaded me to accept a part-time lecturing post in the Art History department while I started my PhD, with the expectation that I would stay on full-time eventually. I loved it at Oxford, but I'd started to study photography as an undergraduate, and over the summer vac I'd sort of decided that I would give the PhD a break after a year and use my photography career to see the world. I already had the offer of some work for Reuters and some other news agencies, and I was building up my portfolio. Meeting someone, having a steady relationship, let alone marriage, was the last thing on my mind.

'I met Michael at a party at Somerville, you know, my college? I suppose he was fascinating in a way; after all, I'd not met many Americans, let alone handsome Rhodes Scholars, so I was flattered when he seemed interested. He had a host of girls after him, I remember; you know, the types who were desperate to make a good marriage before they came down from University.' She sighed, thinking of that night, the way Michael's size physically dominated the space they were in and had felt to her then, and still felt, as if it was stifling her.

'He was, I suppose, a symbol of everything I despised at the time; the product of a military family and a military school, with opinions to match; physically he felt just overpowering, all that muscle; that chiselled face and that horrible crew cut. But of course, he was a lot more than just a military pin-up with no brains; he'd won the scholarship for his academic attainments as much as for his leadership and sports achievements.'

'What was his field?' Illya asked softly.

'Oh, Engineering, I think. Yes, he was always going on about its military value,' Thérèse replied, raising her eyes. 'I think he saw me as a challenge, a girl unlike anyone he'd met before, and to begin with it was fun for both of us, I suppose. We were playing a game of who could shock the other one more.'

'And who did?'

'Well, probably me, I think, because pretty soon I realised that he was so much more serious about the relationship than I was.'

'Oh.' Illya closed his eyes for a moment. An image of Marie-Laure filled his mind. He could hear her sweet tones, talking about their life together as she saw it, as they lay in her bed together, his eyes closed then too, thinking of other things.

'It was stimulating in a way; I had to justify my political views, he had to justify his; and we argued about other things too. He had a very traditional view of marriage and the role of women within it. Not that it didn't stop him from…

'Wanting to have sex with you?'

'Um, crudely put, Romeo, but yes, he wanted it to go further.'

'And you didn't?' Thérèse sat up slightly until she was looking directly at Illya, their faces both shadowed in the moonlight.

'You have to understand what it was like then, even though it's only, what, less than ten years ago. I came from a traditional Catholic background, the product of Irish and Mallorcan Catholic parents. You know my mother, a scary version of Josefina. Would you want to come home from University and tell her you were pregnant?' Illya smiled, his nose crinkling slightly, making it hard for Thérèse to concentrate.

'Yes, it was hard enough telling her you were pregnant when I had just married you.'

'Exactly. And what is more, my parents found Michael's attitudes very hard to stomach, and that was before his parents entered the fray.' Thérèse stopped smiling, the remembrance of the meeting even after all those years filling her with rage.

She had forced herself to approach them at Darryl's party, and the civilities had been entered into.

'We hear that you're married now, to an UNCLE agent, and living here in New York,' Michael's father had begun, as if those facts were somehow unbelievable when applied to the woman standing in front of him.

'Mr Kuryakin is one of our finest operatives,' Waverly interrupted from the table, his wife nodding in agreement and smiling encouragingly at Thérèse. She knew immediately what turn the conversation would take, and was determined to embrace Alexander Waverly at the earliest opportunity for arguing the merits of employing a Russian in his organisation.

'So I presume the meeting didn't go well?' Illya said, breaking her thoughts. 'I mean the meeting at Oxford?'

'You could say that. I was a lot more headstrong in those days, I said what I thought. I didn't really have such extreme views, but I found Michael's parents so crushingly traditional, that it brought out the worst in me. Of course, his dad did most of the talking; Mrs Dawkins sat there like a scared rabbit, or when she did speak, it was just to mirror her husband's cave-man attitudes. I found him an appalling right-wing misogynist bigot, and he found me an appalling left-wing, pacifist women's libber. I don't think either attitude was right, but neither of us was prepared to give way, and that was that.'

Illya gave her a long look from under his eyelashes. 'Hmm. It must have been a truly interesting meeting, for the onlooker, that is.' She put her head closer, brushing his lips with hers.

'It was truly awful, more like. I didn't see Michael for a little while after that, and then he rang and asked to see me. Unbelievably, he asked me to marry him and come back to the States. After all that, he still didn't get it. He was sure that once we 'settled', as he said, everything would fall into place. It was obvious then that he had decided to follow the family line, and he seriously thought that I could be happy as an army wife on some base somewhere waiting for him to come home. God, the sheer ego of the man was astounding.'

'And then you go and marry a former military officer, give up your career and stay home to look after him and his many children,' Illya murmured. She took hold of his chin and looked at him sharply.

'You are nothing like him, and I haven't given up my career. I always wanted children but not then, and like you, lover, I am trying to combine two careers in one, and I thought you were supporting me.' Illya pulled himself up slightly, gazing at Thérèse in the darkness of the room.

'So was that it?' he asked eventually.

'More or less. I left Oxford at the end of that year and started to work overseas. I didn't come back to England much for a few months, and then, as you know, I got the National Geographic job and went to live with sis.' She frowned slightly. 'Just before we met, a friend of mine from Oxford got in touch with me. She told me that he had gone out to Vietnam on his second tour of duty and got shot up defending some strategically important place. I wasn't surprised; Michael always had to be trying to achieve something heroic. I suppose he'll be aching to get out there again as soon as he can.'

'He may want to,' Illya said, 'but that may not be possible.' Thérèse sat up, swinging her leg over Illya and sitting astride him.

'What do you mean?' Illya sighed and yawned a little.

'I mean that, according to Napoleon, his injuries appear to be sufficiently serious to preclude him from the sort of active service he desires. Apparently, they want him to spearhead some sort of recruitment drive centred on my favourite Army office downtown, as well as continuing up at West Point. So, my little communist sympathiser, we may not have seen the last of your former admirer.'

'Great,' sighed Thérèse. 'I can tell you one thing. If he does fail his medical, I can't see the alternative job working. I'd say that there's every danger of him becoming a bit bitter and twisted if he can't find some other challenge in his life.'

'You think he may leave the Army?'

'Possibly, but the question is, what is he going to do then?'

Illya pulled her down onto him and kissed her, before rolling her off and standing up.

'Can we go back to bed now?' he said, taking her hand. 'Otherwise my mother will be knocking on the door tomorrow with the tribe and we'll still be fast asleep.'

'Well, we may be,' Thérèse said, raising her eyebrows a little.

The bed felt cold and slightly clammy when they climbed in.

'What I find so difficult is how an intelligent man like Dawkins can have such irrational political opinions,' Illya murmured into Tess's ear. 'I get rather tired of hearing variations on a theme of 'you can't trust a Russian' sometimes.' He felt Tess stroking the hair on his chest and then following it with her lips and gave a deep sigh. 'Perhaps I should admit defeat and just change my name to something more palatable to the American psyche,' he muttered. 'How about, let's see . . Bill Cury.'

He felt her snort into his chest and then begin to shake with suppressed laughter.

'Bill what?'

'Bill Cury. You know, the first part of my old name, with a different spelling. Of course we'd have to westernise the children's names as well, and then I'd have to persuade my mother . . .'

'Don't be so absolutely ridiculous. I have no intention of changing my name and certainly not of calling you Bi…' but the thought was obviously too much and she collapsed into a paroxysm of laughter. After a few minutes, she stopped, raising herself up and looking at him properly.

'You're not serious?' She could see his face in the dawning light, his eyes wide and fixed, no sign of a smile on his face.

Suddenly, his eyes crinkled slightly and he grinned.

'Well I wouldn't have to endure Napoleon calling me Ill-ya all the time, I suppose,' he laughed. Thérèse kissed him and then rolled over.

'Go to sleep . . . . Bill,' she murmured

CHAPTER 4

Napoleon waited patiently by the black cab as the cabbie pulled his luggage from the boot and deposited it on the pavement outside Claridge's. It was hard not to allow a smirk to develop at the thought of his partner and where he might be sleeping the same night. Almost as effortlessly as the Russian, a top-hatted Head Porter appeared and carried his bags into the glorious art-deco entrance hall of the old hotel.

He had enjoyed meals in this place before, but normally, the UNCLE finance department baulked at anything bordering on the luxury now awaiting him at the top of the wide, curving staircase.

'Did you have a pleasant flight, sir?' the slightly unctuous receptionist enquired, flicking his fingers imperceptibly to summon another hotel employee.

'Absolutely fine,' Napoleon replied, warming to the Californian billionaire role he had been cast in. He had played these types of men before, but this time, this particular man was to be less of the flashy, obviously wealthy variety, and more of the serious, astute, art-collector strain.

'Would you mind signing your name in the book, sir?' He drew out a rather beautiful fountain pen, the receptionist recognising its quality with a slight flutter of his eyelashes, and signed his name. Marshall Zweigart. Valencia, California.

'Take Mr Zweigart's luggage to Suite 216, please. I've reserved a table for two for dinner tonight, sir, as you requested.' Solo nodded slightly.

'Thanks.'

Suite 216 was as lovely as he had imagined it, the art deco design of the dining room echoed again in the splendid curves of the room and the lovely black and chrome fittings of the bathroom. Napoleon tipped the porter and unpacked, waiting until he had returned with afternoon tea on a tray, before pulling out his communicator.

'Open Channel D. Illya?' There was a slight pause, only to be expected, he supposed. He calculated that the Russian must have reached Jerusalem by now, seeing that his plane left so early in the morning.

'Napoleon. I presume you are now ensconced somewhere in the lap of luxury?' Solo grinned.

'Got it in a nutshell, comrade. I've always wanted to stay here; the quiet luxury, the fine dining . . .'

'Yes, I've been to Claridge's, Napoleon, as you well remember, so you can spare me the blow by blow description. Have you made contact yet?' Napoleon smiled at the communicator. As usual, Kuryakin was fully focused on the task in hand.

'Er, yes, the smoke signals which were put out regarding my desperate desire to augment my art collection at any price, together with my extreme right-wing views, seem to have got through to the right quarters. I have a dinner date this evening with none other than Ms Luft herself. It seems that in the art world, bankers attract, if you get my point.' He heard a slight sniff the other end.

'Good. I have every confidence in your ability to bamboozle Miss Luft with your banker act, but what about your 'famous art collector' role? Was Tess helpful?'

Napoleon had dropped in on the Kuryakins the day after the party. The usual uproar of a Saturday morning assaulted his ears as Pascale opened the door to him, holding back a bellowing Tasiya, Chi-Chi in her hands.

'I think she's trying to show you that it's mended, Uncle Napoleon,' Pascale said seriously, gazing at him in an uncannily familiar way through her new glasses. Napoleon knelt down and picked up the animated little girl, who managed to bonk him on the head with the toy as they headed towards more noise on the floor below.

He felt the firm grasp of two sets of arms on his legs before Pascale patiently unwound Valya and Micha from him and put them in their high chairs by the side of the table.

'Tasiya, be gentle with Uncle Napoleon, please,' Thérèse said, taking Chi-Chi and then Tasiya, and seating her at the table with her brothers.

'The boys are all upstairs modelling,' Thérèse said, a slight smirk coming to her face as she said the words.

'Dresses?' Napoleon asked, rubbing his head and marvelling at the calmness with which she was undertaking what seemed like a dozen different tasks at the same time.

'Non, Oncle!' scolded Pascale, her face replicating the Russian's when Napoleon had said or done something which he considered particularly absurd. 'They are making all those aeroplanes which they use for their silly war games,' she continued, folding her arms.

'Oh, of course. So where's your papa hiding in all this?'

'He's one of the modellers,' Thérèse replied.

He found them in Pablo's room, round a small table, two brown heads and one blond bent over in total concentration on the task in front of them.

'Careful, make sure the propeller is able to turn independently… good.'

'Oh yes, Pablo my man, that is one swell plane!' Napoleon fought the temptation to put his fingers in his ears as a round of machine gun fire burst out of Marv's mouth.

'Do come in Napoleon.' He hadn't moved his head from the position it had been as Napoleon stood in the doorway, but the Russian seemed to have a sixth sense about his partner's presence.

'Having fun, boys?' Napoleon asked. Illya sat back and put a tiny paint brush down, before carefully laying what looked like a model spitfire back on the table.

'Don't mock. You'll be doing this yourself before long,' Illya muttered, gazing at the tiny aeroplane in what Napoleon detected was a rather loving way. 'I never got the chance to do this sort of thing before,' he added. 'Perhaps I saw too many of the real versions.'

'Well, I have to say, that while I admire the workmanship of your Supermarine Spitfire, comrade, I think that Pablo's Messerschmitt Bf 109F there has got the edge.'

'Ah, but you have to admit, mein freund, that the P51H Mustang of Marv's over there had by far the most endurance; what was it, Marv?'

'8.7 hours, Mr Kuryakin, as against about an hour for the other two. Swell plane; swell American plane, Mr Solo,' Marv said, with a knowing look at Napoleon.

'Absolutely, Marv, we Americans need to stick together against these Europeans.'

'Don't you start. And why exactly are you here, Napoleon?' Illya got up from the table and rubbed his fingers together. He was wearing a thin white t-shirt with 'I am an honorary scouser' written on it, and a pair of jeans which turned out to have been cut off above the knee when he stood up. Napoleon grimaced, and followed him out of the room and into the study they had made from Tess's former darkroom, the sounds of World War II beginning all over again behind them.

The skylight in the room had been uncovered, and it was now filled with translucent light, the window pushed up to let in the hot New York sun through the soft blind. There were bookshelves lining both of the long walls, it being immediately obvious whose books were whose. On the right, in perfect order, racks of scientific magazines stood to attention, accompanied by a large selection of books in a number of languages, largely connected with physics, although Napoleon noticed Illya had quite a collection of music related literature as well. The other side was less ordered, and contained Tess' collection of mainly Art History books, but also a wide selection of photography and other creative works. Across the top of some of the books were postcards and other pictures and prints, as well as pictures of Illya and the children. And as he stood in the doorway he noticed, above the desk at the end of the room, the Chagall picture.

'So this is where you two hide out at the end of the day, is it?' he said, noting the tiny sofa next to the desk at the end of one of the bookcases.

'Each to his own, Napoleon. And no, we don't spend every evening here, but it's good to have somewhere to go and think occasionally,' Illya replied, 'and Tess needs somewhere to work if she's to finish her Thesis.' He gazed at the picture and then turned round.

'I presume you've come to ask her about that,' he said. Napoleon sat down on the sofa and picked up a book next to him.

'I need at least a working knowledge of art if I'm to pull this art collector role off,' he began. 'But if you don't want her involved I'll… I'll find somebody else.' Illya sighed.

'It's not up to me. If she wants to help you, that's fine. I just don't want her drawn into another mission, you understand. I'll go and take over downstairs and you two can chat.'

In the end, Thérèse had been very helpful indeed. She didn't ask many questions about the mission, just suggested a plausible cover he might claim, and some basic information about certain artists and movements that would make him sound as if he knew something about what he wanted to buy.

'You don't have to be an expert, and you don't have to say you've got a world famous collection, but you will have to be clear about what you are looking to buy and how much you're prepared to spend,' she said, looking at the picture.

As they were going out, she grasped his arm.

'Everything's OK now, by the way. Um, Napoleon, he hasn't said anything to you about changing his name, has he?' Napoleon stared at her.

'No, never. Why?'

He ran down the stairs to the kitchen to say goodbye.

'I wouldn't come in unless you have a strong stomach,' he heard Kuryakin say before he had even reached the door. A heady aroma hit his nostrils as he heard Tasiya shouting 'poop, poop' very loudly from her potty by the window. The Russian was kneeling on the floor wrestling with Valya's legs as he attempted to put on a clean nappy, the other twin Misha, standing just behind him, his own nappy looking suspiciously heavy and unmistakeably smelly.

'Mm. Have you thought of refining this as a secret weapon against our Thrushie friends?' Napoleon enquired, keeping well up-wind of Tasiya, who had just stood up holding her dress up and continuing to shout 'poop, poop' at the top of her voice.

'I'll see you later,' Napoleon offered from the door.

'Yes, thank you so much for your help, Napoleon.'

'That's OK, Bill,' Napoleon replied, and shut the door before the thud of a nappy could be heard hitting the other side.

'So, have you met your contact?'

'Tomorrow morning. I'm staying at a considerably simpler hotel than Claridge's, and hopefully, if the shower works, I'm going to get cleaned up and then go out for something to eat. I'll be travelling to Haifa with David, and then to the Kibbutz, so I'll be in touch then.'

'OK. I'll let you know if anything urgent transpires from my meeting with Miss Luft. Enjoy your gefilte fish. Solo out.'

Napoleon replaced the receiver and lay on the bed, glancing at his watch. He had three hours before Fraulein Luft would hopefully try to persuade him to part with a great deal of his money for what he hoped was a work of art with an extremely dubious provenance and, with any luck, invite him into the illustrious company of the organisation known as the Adler Society. He closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.