Font of Life Part 5

by Rosywonder

With time running out for Therese, can Napoleon rescue his partner from a living death?

CHAPTER 17

'Illya. Illya! Are you there?'. There was a short pause.

'Of course'. Napoleon had decided to wait until first light before trying to contact his partner, wondering what state he might be in after his surgery. He hesitated, debating whether to ask about Dr Rondeau.

'I hope you've woken me from my beauty sleep for a good reason?'

'Yep. I managed to put the dampening field out of action last night, at least for a while'. There was a sigh from his communicator, which Napoleon ignored, hoping Illya might start talking about his conversation with Waverly.

'I know. Was that strictly necessary? You've probably blown your cover by doing that, you know'. It was obvious he was not going to talk, especially about her.

'Did they do a good job on you?'. Perhaps he'd tell him this way.

'I don't know until the bandages come off. At least I hope I don't look like my 'former girlfriend' as you so inaccurately describe her'.

'What, the Ukrainian? She was with you?'

'Sadly yes. I am afraid that Dr Engel has made rather an example of her, no doubt to make sure the other young ladies don't get any ideas'. Napoleon rubbed his head at the thought. He didn't need Illya to describe what she looked like; he could imagine.

'Mm. OK, I'm not going to ask you about your latest conquest, but it sounds as if she might be a tad kinder to you than old Winnifred, eh comrade?' Another sigh.

'Yes, she might, but Laurie is not performing today's surgery'. Laurie. He was revealing things without realising he was doing it, Solo thought.

'Listen Napoleon, the most important thing is that I can get off the table before 'old Winnifred' sticks her ice-pick into whatever is left of my brain. I think Tess is quite close; we're being held in the row of secure rooms between Engel's theatre and the showers; Sabi will know where. Tell Sabi that she needs to make sure the restraints are either malfunctioning or be able to free me when the fireworks begin. I think Tess is going to feign being in labour, but by the look of her after yesterday's little knockabout, she may need to stay in medical anyway'.

'I'll tell her'.

'And remember, Napoleon. Sabi is to look after Tess, and you are to take her away as quickly as possible, regardless of what happens to me'.

'It won't come to that, comrade. You need to be in on the baby pictures'. There was another sigh, or was it a groan, Napoleon thought.

'I don't think anyone would want pictures of me at the moment, somehow'.

Xxxxxxx

The far-off sounds of metal and footsteps awoke Therese from the fitful sleep she had endured on and off, through the night. The dull pain in her pelvis re-asserted its presence, and demanded attention. She looked at her watch and began to count, then rang the buzzer and waited. She could hear noises from the room next door; the higher-pitched voices of nurses, combined with lower, more familiar tones. She grabbed the buzzer and rung it insistently, desperate to get out of the room, to find out where he was.

At last, the door opened and one of the nurses entered, giving her a withering look in the process.

'I'm sorry, but I need to use the bathroom' Therese began, putting on the robe which was draped over the chair in the corner. The nurse had come forward and began to stop her, holding onto her arm as she went towards the door. With a determined pull, Therese wrenched free and got to the door in time to see her husband being lead towards the shower room, arms shackled behind his back. She was momentarily shocked by his appearance; the blond hair sticking up over the top of the bandages, and when he turned, the bruised and swollen face that stared at her with such longing and concern. He didn't look capable of rescuing himself, never mind her from this place, she thought to herself, standing there rooted to the spot.

'I'm alright, don't worry' she shouted after him, amazed at her own boldness. She saw his head turn again slightly, and the shadow of a smile light his features, before he was shoved through the door into the shower room. At that moment, she would have given anything to be in there with him, helping him. Reality, in the shape of her bladder, pulled her back.

'I'm really sorry, but I can't wait much longer' she said, meaning it this time. The nurse sighed and pointed along the corridor towards the treatment room, with its adjoining bathroom. Therese grabbed her towel and clothes, and headed away from her husband, the nurse struggling to keep up with her. With a sigh, she pushed open the door to the treatment room, and then passed through and into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door in the nurse's face. She heard her shouting something, but a sense of urgency drove her on.

In the shower, Therese was aware again of the pain in her abdomen and now understood it, breathing out gently as it washed through her. She

dried herself after the shower and was ready to return, wearing the black clothes with their secrets firmly attached, when she heard the door of the treatment room open, and a harsh voice shouting at the nurse. Therese hesitated, and then stood silently by the door. There was a brief period of quiet, followed by the sound of the door opening again. Therese gently seized the handle and turned it, opening the bathroom door a tiny fraction. She was expecting the nurse to return at any moment, so it would matter little if the door were found to be ajar, or so she hoped.

Through the crack in the door she was able to catch sight of three women, moving in and out of her sight. She was not surprised to see Dr Engel; hers was the harsh voice that must have ordered the nurse away for whatever reason, without finding out why she was there, it seemed. Li-Hua was also in the room. Therese frowned. It was early for her to be down here, even today. With her was the French doctor who had glued her head back together, and who, it seemed had sutured up Illya's wounds. She flattened herself against the wall as Li-Hua strode towards the door, but in time, she turned, her back to Therese.

'I hope this is worth it, Doctor; I didn't expect to be down here before eleven o'clock' Bolt began, tapping one leather boot against the hard tiled floor.

'Oh I think you'll find it very worthwhile, Granite' Engel replied, in her usual grating tones. As Bolt moved slightly, Therese had a direct view of Dr Engel. She was arranging what looked like a set of long needles onto a tray. Therese shuddered at the thought of what they might be used for.

'You remember I mentioned that one of the guards seemed familiar to me' Engel began. Therese held her belly to prevent herself from losing balance, as a giant hand began to constrict her heart. She needed to listen to the rest of the conversation, but a converse feeling of utter panic drove her to contemplate opening the door and running away as fast as she could. She took deep breaths to calm herself, only to hear the words she had already guessed being uttered.

'I have made some enquiries, and it appears that your guard Mercury is, I am afraid to say, an UNCLE agent'.

Bolt stood there for a moment, seemingly frozen to the spot. Therese noted the look on Engel's face; superior, even mocking. For once, it appeared, she had got the better of her leader. Bolt reached behind her for her radio transmitter.

'I knew that I had seen her somewhere before, but it was only this morning that it came to me' Engel continued, seeming to relish her story. 'She came round the prison in Berlin, claiming that she was a nurse. She was really looking for the Russian of course. When she realised that he wasn't there any more, she vanished'. Bolt began to speak into the transmitter, issuing orders.

'I wondered why there was no-one on duty this morning in the communications room' she said slowly, walking towards the examination couch. 'The question is, dear Doctor, how many other UNCLE agents are there secreted away amongst us?'.

Before anyone could reply, a nurse appeared at the door, her face as pale as the tiles covering the walls of the examination room.

'I told you' Engel screeched, 'we were not to be disturbed!'. The nurse held her ground, looking at the partially open door behind Bolt.

'I'm. . .I'm sorry Doctor, but … but.. she's in there'. They all turned to where the nurse was pointing, as she continued to babble in a rather high-pitched, breathless manner. 'I tried to tell you, Doctor, but . . .'. The sentence ended as Bolt pulled open the door. Therese stood there, wincing as Bolt grabbed her arm and hauled her into the room.

She dragged a chair from the side and forced Therese to sit, leaning over her slightly, reptilian eyes slit like, as she appraised her.

'Don't you know that it's rude to listen in on other people's conversations?' she said, getting hold of Therese's hair and yanking it, her face a strange bilious colour, as she glared at the nurse. 'And why has she still got all this?' she spat out, her hand still firmly attached to the curly hair at the side of Therese's head. The nurse had turned a grey colour, rendered speechless by the woman in front of her.

'I told her not to remove it. It was not necessary'.

Marie-Laure walked over to face Bolt, her diminutive stature not overawed by the height of the woman she faced.

'Be careful, you will open her wound again' she said, putting her hand on Bolt's. A momentary hush replaced the clamour of the previous few minutes. Bolt released her hand and stood back. She sniffed slightly, her eyes directed venomously towards the petite Frenchwoman.

'If you insist, Doctor'. Marie-Laure looked at Therese for a few moments, then turned away and walked towards the door, pausing before leaving the room.

'If you don't mind, I will go and see my other patient now. If you mean to operate this morning, he will have to have the bandages removed, I think'. Therese saw Engel's face change at the mention of Illya, her eyes assuming a malevolent glint.

'Ja. He will need to be prepared. As to her, I suggest that you allow me to go ahead with the section immediately afterwards, meine fuhrerin. You will then be free to leave with your child and I will be able to follow later, once the surgery has been completed and they are fit to travel'.

'No; please, don't do that, I . . I don't want. . . and please don't hurt him!'. Therese rose slightly from the chair and looked round desperately from one woman to the other, but the only woman who had shown her any compassion had left the room. She sunk back down and began, quietly at first, to weep.

Xxxxxxxxx

Illya turned from the wall as the door opened, the crash of the metal trolley signalling some procedure that he was sure he wouldn't enjoy.

'Illya, écoute, vite! Marie-Laure's face was staring into his. He looked round the room, but she had obviously got rid of any assistants of the unpleasant nursing variety. He pulled himself up as much as he could with his hands manacled to each side of the bed. Marie-Laure sat down and started to unwind the bandages round his head.

'I'm listening. What is it?' he said, picking up from her agitated manner. She noticed that he seemed different with her since last night. If he had been in contact with Waverly by some miracle, then he must know about her, but how much more did he know?

'Illy, they know about the girl, Mercury'. Illya stared at her, his lips drawn into a thin line.

'Are you sure?'

'Bien sûr. Dr Engel said that she had met her before, in Berlin'. In frustration, he struggled with the handcuffs, until she put her arms round him to calm him.

'Laurie, I have to warn her. If I don't, not only will her life be in danger, but this whole mission could be unravelled'. Marie-Laure let go of him and sat down on the bed again.

'I think you know about me' she said, looking at him sharply. 'How is that possible, Illy?'.

'I have something in my tooth, on the undamaged side of my mouth. Napoleon managed to disconnect the dampening field last night for long enough to enable Mr Waverly to speak to me'. He looked at her intently, then looked away. 'Laurie, we can't talk about this now' he said quietly.

'I know. Listen, Illy; I will try to help you if your colleague is discovered, but there is little that either of us can do at the moment, and I have to do this before the nurse returns'. She drew up the trolley and pushed him down on the bed, going over to the sink to wash her hands, before preparing the dressing kit. She leaned over him and removed the dressings, feeling his frustration and distress as he lay there.

'I saw your wife' she murmured, watching his face change with the mention of her name. 'She has a lot of fire, non? I can see that she has warmed up your frozen heart, eh, my Siberian virgin'. Illya sighed, then froze.

'Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? Illy?'

'Shh. Napoleon?'. Marie-Laure stepped back in surprise as a voice appeared to issue forth from her patient's mouth.

'Siberian virgin?'.

'Napoleon, now is not the time. Is Sabi with you?'

'No, but she's on her way; she should be here in about a minute or two. Why, are you missing your fellow member of the master race?'

Napoleon, Dr Engel has recognised her. You must tell her to either get off the island or hide somewhere until we can come for her. I suggest she tries the convent if all else fails'.

'OK, I'll . . ., just a second . .'

There was a silence followed by some sounds of disturbance and then, shockingly, the sound of a gun being fired.

Illya closed his mouth, and slammed his head back against the pillow. 'It appears that this former Siberian virgin will have to rely on you rather more than he had hoped' he muttered.

Xxxxxx

Napoleon judged that the room they were taken to must be adjoining Engel's treatment room, at the far end of the block from the rooms where almost certainly Illya and Therese were being held. It was utterly devoid of equipment, except for a narrow metal unit with shelves and doors, which was ranged along the wall behind them. The walls themselves and the floor were covered with large metal sheets, giving them the feeling of being in a large metal can. Along the centre of the ceiling, there was a long, metal pole supported on brackets, which hung down far enough for their arms to be attached leaving them upright but barely able to touch the floor. Rather, Napoleon thought, like carcasses in a butcher's cold store.

They had been made to strip after entering the room, the three guards training sub-machine guns menacingly in their direction. Sabi was already coming in for more abuse than the two men either side of her, but luckily of the verbal kind for the moment.

'I am so sorry, Napoleon, I should not have arranged to meet you this morning. Now, it will be impossible for me to prevent that witch turning him into …. into Frankinstein!' Sabi wailed, her pale eyes gazing at him, framed by the halo of cropped silvery blonde hair.

'Um, what exactly is the good doctor going to do with the Russian genius?' Torres drawled from her other side. 'I thought they wanted to preserve his mighty intellect for use in their laboratories?'.

'Oh ja, they do' Sabi replied. 'It is disgusting! She has been experimenting on the children, and on some adults. It is a kind of, how do you say . . .'

'Lobotomy?' Napoleon offered, cringing at the thought.

'Ja, das ist richtig' Sabi said, 'only it is worse. They have some sort of drug they have developed in their so-called laboratories. So, the doctor makes a big hole in Illyusha's brain, and injects the drug directly into the frontal lobe'. Napoleon screwed up his face at the thought. Anything to do with brains made him feel queasy.

'So' Sabi continued, 'the drug is designed not to damage the clever part of his brain, if you see what I mean, but the emotional part, Napolina'.

'I didn't think he had any emotions' Torres muttered, getting a massive glare from Sabi.

'Darling, he will lose the ability to feel love; you know, he won't want to . .'

'Yes, got the message' Napoleon replied. 'So in other words, he'll just be an emotionless robot ready to do THRUSH's bidding'.

'Somewhat similar to when he was an emotionless robot ready to do UNCLE's bidding' Torres added, now eliciting a frown from Napoleon. He finally picked up the vibes and added, 'that was before he met the lovely Therese of course'.

'Well, the only scrap of comfort we can take from all this is that Vaz and Fernando are still at large, and that the emotionless robot has some help, I think, in the form of an old flame' Napoleon whispered.

'Old flame?, how will a fire help him?' Sabi responded, with her usual wide-eyed expression.

'No, it means an old lover' Torres whispered. 'It seems the Russian's kept a few things even from you, Napoleon'. Napoleon shrugged. He had certainly never mentioned her, although he was notoriously difficult to extract that sort of information from anyway. Napoleon was still determined to get to the bottom of the 'Siberian virgin' comment, but that could be saved up for a more convenient moment. Right now, they faced an embarrassing, even painful few hours.

Their conversation was silenced by the throwing open of the door. The remaining guard inside the room stiffened as Li-Hua Bolt strode past, standing awkwardly by the locked door as if she would rather be outside it. Bolt walked slowly over to the three UNCLE agents, circling them, touching their arms and legs from behind with something hard none of the agents could see.

'Three green bottles hanging on the wall'. Her voice, smooth and hard, reverberated on the metal surfaces of the room. Napoleon heard a click, then the unmistakeable swish of a baton being extended.

'Three green bottles hanging on the wall' the emotionless voice repeated the childish song, now stroking their legs with the extended baton. Napoleon twisted his head slightly. Before he could react, she had pushed between him and Sabi, and brought the baton down across his genitals, and then against Torres'. The need to double up with the pain was so intense, the two men tried to raise their legs up to their abdomen, their bodies swinging into Sabi with the force of the blows.

'Now, Mr Solo, perhaps you'd like to tell me where the other green bottles are hanging?' her soulless voice murmured behind his ear now, the tip of the baton edging between his legs and stroking his testicles.

'Sorry, we're just a happy trio; well quartet, if you include Mr Kuryakin' Napoleon heaved, struggling to speak with the effort of being strung up. There was a hiatus; he could feel her behind him, withdrawing the baton slowly from between his legs. Sabi began to swing a little, struggling with the manacles that were fastened onto the bar above their heads.

Without warning, the baton was pulled round the front of her neck, Bolt pressing mercilessly on her windpipe as she thrashed about.

'Perhaps Miss Klose can help me' the insidious voice continued, yanking the baton, causing Sabi to crash towards Napoleon.

'We . . are. . alone' she gasped, gulping as the baton was withdrawn. Again, silence ensued, only the gasps and grunts of the agents heard, their bodies reflected grotesquely on the metallic surfaces of the room.

And if one green bottle should accidentally fall. . .' The baton clattered to the ground and rolled away, momentarily distracting Sabi and Napoleon from the sudden movement of their tormentor. Instantly, Solo's ears were assaulted by the sound of gunfire, Sabi's screaming extending the deafening vibrations inside his head. He jerked his head and swung round. He could see Bolt standing at the end of the group, gun in hand. Torres' body hung lifelessly, his blood spattered on Sabi, and dripping slowly onto the shiny surface of the floor.

'They'll be two green bottles hanging on the wall'.

Bolt waited, as the stunned guard hammered on the door for it to be unlocked.

'Leave him there' she ordered. 'It will help them to reflect on what they have said, and its consequences. After Ocean's surgery has been completed, perhaps we'll have another discussion'.

'Ocean?' Napoleon spluttered.

xxxxxxxxx

The guards poured out of the warehouse and fanned out along the harbour side, several of them jumping onto the boats anchored along the wall, signalling to each other as buildings and boats were systematically searched. Vaz looked at his watch, his brow furrowed.

'What is going on?' Fernando's voice muttered in his ear.

'Well, I have a bad feeling in my water that the delectable Miss Bolt has discovered the three amigos in the gardener's cottage' Vaz replied, squeezing out between two packing cases, Fernando following him closely. They had been lucky, hearing the warehouse's doors being thrown open in time to retreat to the empty packing case they had hidden in the night before.

'Well' Vaz continued, looks like Plan B is in operation'.

'And what's that?'

'It's when we become heroes, dear boy' Fernandes answered. 'If Napoleon and the others have been captured, then our job, once we start things off here, is to free the ladies, and get them to safety. I think we can assume that the boat is going to be off limits for the time being, so I've got a little idea where to ship them for the time being, till we can liberate the other three and La famille Kuryakin of course'.

Vaz took his communicator out of his pocket.

'Open Channel P'. 'Sister Catherine?'.

xxxxxx

The noise of the gun was indistinct, but to someone who had heard it hundreds of times before, it was unmistakeable. Illya stiffened on the bed, automatically turning towards where he thought the sound was coming from. It must have come from the other end of the corridor, he assumed, probably beyond Engel's theatre, where he would be almost certainly heading before very long. He tried to keep his imagination in check, but it was difficult not to think that something unpleasant was taking place at the other end of the building, probably involving his partner. There was no way of knowing now whether Vaz and Fernando had also been discovered, or whether the occupants of the room were being persuaded to reveal what they knew. Bolt must know that their conditioning would make it difficult to interrogate them using drugs; however, there were other ways. She might hesitate to hurt Sabi, but the men were another matter. It now looked as if he might have to do more than just rescue his wife; but without Sabi, everything would now depend on whether Marie-Laure would be prepared to help the man who had deserted her long years before.

He turned over in his mind the conversation he had had with Waverly. It was conducted on a professional level, but Illya could tell that the old man was concerned about him, and that he was leaving it up to him to decide whether he should share the information about Marie-Laure with his partner.

'You remember Dr Rondeau's husband, Mr Kuryakin?' Waverly had said. He had. Phillipe Rondeau had been a lecturer in the Surgical Department at the Paris-Sud Medical School, where Marie-Laure had studied Medicine. He was ten years older than her, and the exact opposite of Illya in every possible way. He was tall, well built, with dark eyes, black oily hair and rather coarse features. Apart from his work, his main interests seemed to be women and cars, both of which he treated similarly, Illya always thought, treating the women in his life as possessions that he could enjoy, and then discard in favour of the latest model. It was really no surprise to Illya that Rondeau was a THRUSH employee.

'According to Dr Rondeau, her husband had put pressure on her to begin working for THRUSH' Waverly continued. When she refused, he took their child, telling her that she would only see the child again if she cooperated. On the way to the secret laboratory complex in the South of France, the car crashed into the central barrier on the motorway. Both Rondeau and the child were killed instantly, it seems. Consumed with grief, Dr Rondeau decided to take on THRUSH herself, working for them until she could find a way to damage them fatally from the inside. Apparently, she met Miss Bolt at Central, and learned that you were being held. It appears, Mr Kuryakin', he had added, 'that you are important to her in some way, which you may be able to use to both your, and UNCLE's advantage'.

Illya had groaned inwardly. It was blindingly obvious that Waverly expected him to recruit Marie-Laure to some sort of role within UNCLE, even allowing her to continue working for THRUSH for the time being. There was something about the story of her husband and child that made him uneasy. He cast back in his mind, trying to work out dates and times, calculating how old the child might have been when they died. If Marie-Laure was nursing a hatred of THRUSH in her breast, could she not also harbour resentments against him?

'I will do my best sir' he had replied. 'Dr Rondeau would certainly be an asset to UNCLE'. He almost laughed at what he had said. After what had happened, she might now be the difference between life and death, at least life as he understood it now.

There was a jangling of keys at the door and immediately the room seemed full of women; women unlocking the manacles holding him to the bed and yanking him over onto a trolley; women tying him down again, whilst others stood there, weapons at the ready. But no women that he really wanted to see. No Marie-Laure, and more importantly, sadly, no Therese. His head began to throb slightly, and he shook it slightly to clear his thoughts. If something didn't happen in the next half-hour, then these women would be the last ones he would look at, as a man looks at a woman, he thought. Illya's hands clenched at the idea of it; then he was suddenly aware of the texture of his nails. He had momentarily forgotten; an image of Therese bending over him and carefully painting on the colourless liquid filled his thoughts. He smiled grimly to himself as the trolley was spun into the ante-room of the theatre and the trolley was anchored there, awaiting its final journey into the next room. The problem was, that he had no idea how powerful the explosive in the varnish was; if he used it on the manacles to free himself, then what would be left of his hands afterwards?

Dr Engel's face leered over him, momentarily expunging all other thoughts from his mind. Illya couldn't help himself; the phrase 'old Winnifred' that Napoleon had used came into his mind and he began to smile.

'Oh, I'm so glad you're in such good humour, Mr Kuryakin' she sneered. 'I don't suppose that emotions like that will be bothering you in the near future'. Illya sighed, glancing round the small room to note the other occupants. His eyes connected with a pair of soft dark brown ones, the rest of her face hidden behind a surgical cap and mask.

'You're lucky' Dr Engel droned on, 'Dr Rondeau has volunteered to give you some anaesthetic to control your movements during the operation. After all, we don't want you jumping round the table, do we?

'That's very considerate of you all' Illya replied sarcastically. 'If you don't mind, Doctor, perhaps, for my benefit, you could explain exactly what you're going to do?'. There was no sign of even a distant explosion; at the risk of being bored to death, Illya had to delay her in some way, and usually these people loved to go on at great length about what they were going to do. The Nazi doctor was obviously no exception.

'I would be delighted, especially since you have such a love for medicine' she replied. Illya grimaced. At least she had a sense of humour; of sorts.

He could see Marie-Laure drawing up several injections at the side of him, while Engel started to lecture him on her surgical techniques. A slight feeling of panic began to rise in his chest at the thought of being anaesthetised, and what that would do to his chances of escaping. Engel continued to give him a blow by blow account of the history of psychosurgery and the work of American surgeons in the field.

'However' she almost shouted, 'I have been able to take their work so much farther, because, Mr Kuryakin, I am not held back by their pathetic Judaeo-Christian ethics'.

'I presume you mean by that comment, that it doesn't bother you to experiment on innocent children to achieve your ends' Illya replied caustically. She glared at him , her eyes darting round her head in a similar way, Illya thought, to the circling hands.

'Those low-brained Spanish peasants should be honoured to donate themselves to the cause of medical research' she screeched, now worryingly beginning to position his head, bringing a broad strap across the bed to hold it still.'Their deaths, and the research of the chemists at Bolt Pharmaceuticals, mean that I have now perfected, I believe, the ultimate psychosurgical technique. I am now able, by both inserting a canula into the prefrontal cortex, and injecting this new preparation directly into the brain, to completely remove love, sexual desire, empathy, and all the other pathetic emotions which people like you seem to value, leaving the intellect intact. And don't worry, Mr Kuryakin, there will be no scar. After Dr Rondeau has administered the anaesthesia, you will be completely relaxed and won't worry about the needle that I am about to insert through your eye socket'.

'That's very comforting' Illya replied. I was worried I might have to lose some more hair'.

'Your vanity will be another emotion that will be consigned to the dustbin of history, dear Ocean'.

Illya bristled at the sound of the emotionless voice behind his ear. Bolt came into sight, a supercilious expression covering her face as she stared at him. He noticed that she had a pistol tucked into the back of her trousers, and was holding something in her hand.

'Your former partner is also very reluctant to shed her feminine appearance' Bolt continued. 'Perhaps Dr Engel might like to have another patient to test her new technique on. And of course, we have your colleagues to play with as well'. Illya looked away, or tried to, the band holding his head tightly, rubbing the wound on his forehead. A sharp prick in his arm jerked his head back again; Bolt was still standing there staring at him, a slight sneer now adorning her rather jaundiced looking features. He couldn't imagine that Bolt was trying to gain mental control over him, presuming that it was her who had just injected him with something, though he couldn't think what.

'Excusez-moi. I need to prepare him for the operation'. Illya felt almost relieved that something was happening. The other women stepped back, Engel going into the theatre to scrub up and Bolt disappearing to take her place in the corridor which was fitted with large windows giving a perfect view of any operations being performed. Marie-Laure released the band holding his head, her face a mask behind which any emotions she might be feeling at this moment were hidden.

'He won't need this by the time I have finished' she said to the nurse behind his head. 'He needs a surgical cap to keep the hair off his face'. The nurse brought a cap and tied it tightly onto Illya's head, forcing the incipient fringe backwards under cover. As she stepped back , Marie-Laure bent close over Illya.

'Écoute bien, Illy. This is not as it seems' she whispered, showing him one of the syringes. But to them, it must appear so, huh?'

'What is it?'. Marie-Laure jumped slightly as the nurse spoke, but quickly regained her composure.

'Oh, it's something they've been working on at Central' she replied. 'They used to shock them into unconsciousness for these lobotomies, but this', she added, 'is a combination, you understand, of a tranquilizer and a local anaesthetic. He will not jump about, and he won't care anyway'. She sniffed derisively, the nurse smiling and then looking towards Illya with a rather lascivious expression on her face.

'It's almost a pity' she said, as if Illya wasn't there. 'Don't tell Miss Bolt, but some of us nurses think he is really a dish'.

'You think so?' Marie-Laure replied, staring down, her dark eyes drilling into him. 'Peut-être. Perhaps'.

CHAPTER 18

The room felt hot and oppressive, as Therese stopped pacing for a moment, and beat her hand against the wall in frustration. She checked her watch again. She had pinned herself against the door when she'd heard the door to Illya's room being opened and the clang of the trolley being pushed into the room, and then, a little later, out again. Sinking to her knees, she put her hands on the floor and let the baby dangle underneath her to relieve the pain in her back, as she considered her situation.

Calmly, Therese pictured her husband, and the other agents whom she knew were near. As each person came into her mind, she tried to hold them there, asking for protection. As she leant forward, she could feel the spikes of her necklace poking into her; she sat back and pulled at one of the little cone shapes. Surprisingly easily, it came off and lay in her hand, like a tiny toy; innocent appearing. Therese pursed her lips. As far as she understood, there was to be some sort of explosion which would presage an attempt to rescue her. Her hand closed on the cone as she thought back on the last months of waiting. She had never considered herself to be passive or timid, and despite periods of profound depression and tears, had held herself together pretty well. Now, she had a choice. She could sit here, worrying about Illya, waiting for him or someone else to burst through the door, or she could take matters into her own hands.

She would wait, then, for the explosion. And then she would act.

xxxxxx

'Sabi?' Napoleon could feel Sabi near to him, but she had been silent for some time, occasionally moving just to find some relief from the agony of hanging for so long. If he stretched, he could just rest his feet on the ground, and he imagined Sabi could do the same.

'Ja'. The room was almost entirely dark; thin shards of light from the blinds high up at one end of the room, were the only light penetrating their steel prison. Napoleon shifted his weight slightly and edged closer to her.

'Napoleon, I have something on my hands, but you will have to lift me up a little' she murmured. Napoleon frowned, wondering what on earth she was talking about, but decided he didn't have the energy to argue. In order to prevent their hands being injured by the manacles, they had been forced to hold the pole above their heads, but doing this caused them to swing free. Swing or slip. Napoleon gripped the pole firmly now, and swinging his legs, gripped Sabi between them. She yelped slightly until she understood what he was doing, as, with great difficulty, he lifted her up. He could hear her scrabbling at something on the pole, then shouting at him to move along towards the end where they knew Torres was still hanging. After a few seconds, there was a relatively small explosion, the noise of which reverberated round the metal walls of the room. Instantly, the pole came away from the ceiling and Napoleon and Sabi slid downwards, falling into a heap on the floor.

'How did you manage that?' Napoleon gasped, lying flat on the floor to enjoy the relief of not being hung up.

'Sehr gut, nein?' Sabi replied excitedly, lying next to him. 'I gave some to Tess, so Blondie should be armed with it too'.

'Armed with what?' Napoleon asked, sitting up slowly. He could just make out the outline of her head, the blonde hair, like his partner's, glowing faintly in the dark. She grabbed his hand and put it on hers. Her nails felt slightly textured, like very fine sandpaper.

'It's nail polish, darling. Not the red variety you like your Josefina to wear. No, this is the red-hot variety, no?'. Napoleon still couldn't quite understand how nail polish could cause an explosion, but the thought of the Russian wearing it was something which could be stored for a later, interesting conversation, he thought.

He stood up gingerly and helped Sabi to her feet. Although the explosion seemed loud to them, it obviously hadn't alerted anyone else to the room, and there was no-one above them either, to witness the gaping hole in the ceiling. Napoleon worried slightly that there were no guards near. Perhaps they were elsewhere; he didn't like to think what they might be doing, or seeing done.

'Now, we need something to wear' he muttered, and we need to do something else before we go any further'. Fortuitously, they had been left, minus weapons, in a corner of the room. Napoleon struggled into his clothes in the semi-darkness, then opened the blinds fractionally to allow more light to penetrate the room. He heard Sabi gasp.

The body of the Spanish agent continued to hang from the now dangerously angled pole. They could see now the hole in the ceiling where the explosive had blown away the fixing, leaving the pole hanging down one end, and straining to come away the other end from the remaining bracket. Napoleon lifted Torres' legs slightly and slid the body down the pole and onto the ground. They carried him to the side, where Sabi covered him with his clothes. For a few moments they stood looking at him, before Solo walked to the wall where the blinds were.

'Unfortunately, the window's too high up, and too narrow to escape easily' he said, staring at the narrow slits along the top of the metal wall.

'And we don't know if Vaz and Fernando are still free and . . .'

Sabi's question was answered by an enormous boom coming from somewhere outside the room, followed by a shock wave which shook the walls of the room slightly.

'I think they're still free' Napoleon remarked, smiling grimly.

xxxxxxxx

The injections into his face were both painful and alarming. Illya gripped the side of the bed, straining on the leather restraints which held him to the bed across his head, shoulders and legs. He wanted to believe that Marie-Laure was not in the act of betraying him, but the sensations creeping across his face made him think otherwise. He tried to breathe normally, locking eyes with her as she leaned across him, but it was impossible to read the expression on her face as she concentrated on injecting the golden liquid into his facial muscles, and then into his arm. He could just see Dr Engel standing behind her, the mysterious circling movements of her hands in full flow.

'His face and surrounding tissues will be completely anaesthetised' Marie-Laure said in a loud voice, 'and this will ensure he is completely tranquilised, without needing to paralyse him'.

Illya's tongue felt thick inside his mouth, in fact his whole mouth felt strange and disconnected from his body. He struggled to remain calm, and think about what Marie-Laure had told him. Despite the horrible feeling of his face and mouth, he suddenly realised that his mind was quite clear. The so-called tranquiliser whatever it was, had not done its job. He decided, however, that he needed to demonstrate that it had. He rolled his eyes slightly to the top of his head, and fluttered his eyelids. He could hear Dr Engel talking, then coming closer to the table.

'Mr Kuryakin, try and say something'. At least he didn't have to pretend this bit, he thought. He attempted something very rude in Russian but it just came out as a series of vague, jumbled sounds from his mouth.

He could feel Marie-Laure very close to his head now. The restraint holding him was vibrating oddly, only noticeable to Illya whose head it pressed into. He attempted, and failed a smile. Marie-Laure moved away slightly, now standing near his shoulder. He felt the same odd friction for a few moments, then she moved back and bent down over his head. He heard the words 'bonne chance' whispered into his ear, as she drew back behind Dr Engel.

'Now, Mr Kuryakin, we can proceed' the sharp, malicious voice began. 'What is it that the Americans say? – oh ja. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life'. Illya felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. If something was going to happen, it needed to happen very soon indeed, before Dr Engel could insert the first needle into his eye socket. Otherwise, he thought, he would welcome a genuine tranquilising injection. She had turned away from him now, instructing the nurse to hand her something. When she turned back, his stomach lurched. In her hand she appeared to have a very large canula type needle of a bore the size of which he didn't even like to imagine. He could see that she was going to attach something to it which would mean she could not only make a large opening, but inject through that opening as well.

'Dr Engel, qu'est-ce que c'est? What is it, and how does it work?' Engel turned slightly, surprised by the interruption. Illya prayed hard that she would grant him a few extra minutes, but she just turned back.

'You will see, Dr Rondeau, you will see exactly what it is very shortly'. She came very close now to Illya's head, her hand on the band covering his forehead, her colourless eyes staring into his fluttering ones.

'Goodbye Mr Kuryakin. No doubt this will be the last time I will need to use that name to address you. I look forward to many years of productive work from you, under my direction of course'. She leaned back slightly to position the canula as a gigantic shock wave shattered the glass at the side of the theatre. From the broken window, it was plain to see what had caused the explosion. Where the warehouse had stood, some distance away, a pillar of flame several hundred feet high arced up into the sky like a mighty beacon lighting up the harbour area. Other buildings, closer at hand, also seemed to be on fire, and sirens wailed, protesting the damage. In the corridor, a couple of guards lay on the floor; Bolt was nowhere to be seen.

With a massive grunt, Illya sat up, the restraints on his head and shoulders flying back where they had been cut by Marie-Laure.

'Halt!'. He felt the coldness of a gun barrel pressed against his forehead. Engel had leapt forward, shoving him down again, her eyes two sharp grey points either side of the disfigured nose dominating her face. Behind her, Illya just caught sight of Marie-Laure. She had been thrown to the ground by the blast, but she had got to her knees, and was holding her hands to her ears, shaking her head. She looked up suddenly, her face stricken by what she saw happening at the table. The nurse lay on the floor in front of the shattered window, her body covered in a mass of glass shards.

'Not so fast, Mr Kuryakin' Engel screamed in his face. 'You will not escape me, I have waited too long. Hold him!'. Two hands rammed his head back against the table. With difficulty he swivelled his good eye back to see his captor. Elena Fedorenko's mutilated face greeted him, the single eye grotesquely fixing him with a hard stare. He could hear the explosions continuing in the background, as Engel drew near again, the needle nearing his eye as she forced back his eyelid to receive it.

'Nyet!' A sudden lull in the noise outside the room was reflected inside. Engel froze, her face contorted by rage, as Elena grabbed the canula, and threw herself onto the German. A bloodcurdling scream was followed closely by a single shot. Illya sat up for the second time and scrambled off the table onto the floor on unsteady feet, suddenly aware of Marie-Laure at his side.

The two women were laid entangled in each other, blood seeping onto the floor in a viscous pool. Illya pulled back Elena and supported her in his arms, the dark stain issuing from her abdomen indicating to him that her life was slipping away. He looked down at the Nazi doctor. The crude instrument intended for the destruction of his personality was now embedded straight through her left eye, her face taking on the appearance of a nightmarish archer's target. Illya glanced at Marie-Laure, who was shaking her head at him, and held Elena as gently as he could, bending over her slightly, and brushing her forehead with his numbed lips as her eye gradually darkened and finally she slumped against him.

'Illy, we must go' Marie-Laure whispered, her arm on his shoulders; 'you have a wife and baby to rescue, eh, mon brave?'. Illya nodded and gently lay the Ukrainian girl on the floor. He looked down at himself and sighed. Running around trying to rescue anyone in a theatre gown didn't appeal at all. He looked round but couldn't see anything even remotely suitable to wear; only Engel's gun seemed remotely useful to him. Marie-Laure took his hand firmly and started to virtually drag him out of the room into the corridor, now a half-demolished mass of glass and plaster.

Illya picked his way along the corridor, past the closed door of his former room until he came to a sudden stop outside the place where he knew Therese had been confined.

'Mon dieu, qu'est-ce que se passe?' Marie-Laure exclaimed, staring at the room. Where the door had been, all that remained was a charred lump of wood, the door frame similarly blackened. Inside, there was no-one to be seen. Illya had an idea of what might have happened, but for now, he couldn't share his thoughts with anyone except himself; even facial expressions were proving a challenge. He shrugged at Marie-Laure, and came out of the room. Whatever had happened to Therese, he had to make a systematic search now until he found her. The knowledge that Bolt had disappeared filled him with uneasy thoughts, and he strained for any sound of a helicopter taking off, as they continued along the corridor towards the treatment room.

The orderliness of the room had been ripped apart by the action of the explosives and the consequent fire. Their feet crunched across the broken glass, a faint breeze blowing across, investing a sheet hanging from one of the examination couches with a sail-like quality, adding to the eeriness of the place. Marie-Laure walked over to a cupboard, and pulling a bag down from the shelf, started to fill it with items from the room, running from side to side with swift steps. She stopped and showed him, smiling at his ignorance.

'We'll need these if your daughter is to be born safely' she said, closing the bag. 'And don't worry, the analgesia should begin to wear off soon, so you can ask me all your questions then, d'accord? Illya nodded, then immediately put his hand over her mouth. Distant sounds continued in the background, but a noise nearer at hand had attracted his attention. They looked at each other, then turned as the door blasted open at the end of the room, the downdraft causing the metal blinds to rattle discordantly at the non-existent window. Illya raised his gun and walked forward, keeping Marie-Laure behind him, the dust beginning to settle as they crossed the threshold.

'Um, you wouldn't happen to have the key for these, would you?'. Illya managed a deep groan and lowered his gun. 'Well?' Napoleon continued, holding out his arms. Sabi leapt forward and managed somehow to kiss Illya without the use of her hands.

'You are alive!' she shouted joyfully, jumping up and down a little to Illya's consternation. He looked behind him at the astonished face of Marie-Laure, then back to the other two.

'Cat got your tongue, comrade?' Napoleon said, staring at the silent figure standing there rather expressionless, only the one deep blue eye twinkling somewhat in the damaged face. He jumped back a little as a petite figure emerged from behind his partner.

'Monsieur, he cannot speak a ce moment'; I am afraid that I had to anaesthetise his face in order to convince my colleague that he was, shall we say, 'under her control', so perhaps you can introduce yourselves, and then I will see if we can help you to escape your predicament, non?

'Ah oui, bien sur, madame; Je m'appelle Napoleon Solo, and je vous presente Mademoiselle Sabina Klose, a votre service'.

Illya rolled his one working eye as Napoleon, in fluent French continued to introduce himself and Sabi to Marie-Laure.

'Napoleon! Quel nom!' Marie-Laure replied, laughing, Illya slightly squirming by her side. As they were now fully engaged in conversation about what had happened in the operating theatre, Illya disappeared for a few moments, much to Sabi's consternation.

'Napoleon! Where has he gone?' she whispered, interrupting Marie Laure's quite lurid description of the fight between Dr Engel and Elena Fedorenko. Napoleon looked up and shrugged his shoulders then nodded in the direction of the doorway. Illya was returning, holding something in his hand. He motioned to them to hold out their arms, and then with the key he had liberated from a fallen guard in the corridor, proceeded to free them from their shackles. As he was unlocking Sabi, she noticed his eyes change a little.

'Bolt tied us up here' she whispered, 'then she shot Diego when we wouldn't tell her anything. Illyusha, come here'. Rubbing her wrists, she knelt down, lifting the clothes from on top of Torres' body. 'I know he's not your size, but you can't run about like that' she said quietly. 'And he doesn't need them now'.

They left the room quietly, as if the reminder of their dead colleague had suddenly concentrated their minds on the urgency of the situation. Diego's workman's dungarees and shirt rather drowned Illya, making him look about sixteen, Napoleon thought, but were preferable to the more revealing surgical gown. He turned round to see if the others were following at the end of the corridor, revealing a slowly returning expression of concentration and even excitement on his face. All at once he came to a sudden halt and opened his mouth, pointing inside. With great difficulty, he forced himself to speak.

'Vaz'.

Napoleon leapt forward and came up close to Illya's mouth, putting his arm round his shoulders and frowning slightly at the awkwardness of the position.

'Anybody there old man?' the Indian's voice boomed out.

'Vaz, the old man can't quite string two words together at the moment, so you'll have to make do with me'. Napoleon answered.

'Is he in one piece then?' There was a slightly shocked silence before he continued. 'They didn't cut out his tongue did they?'. Illya sighed.

'Er, no, but he'll give you the complete story later. Now, can you bring me up to speed on the situation, as we need to go and look for Tess'. Napoleon could see Illya's discomfort in the way he jigged around, his eyes somehow contriving to communicate his distress and frustration.

'OK chaps. You'll be pleased to know that we've got the girls rounded up and we're going to load them on a jolly little wagon and nip up to the convent for a little while. The ladies in leather seem to have scooted off to the harbour en masse. There appears to be quite a little sideshow going on down there. You wouldn't know anything about that would you, old chap?'. Napoleon smiled and nodded at Illya.

'Ah yes, that means the cavalry's arrived' he replied. 'However, as they'll be blockading the port for a while to sort out the girls, you're right to take them up to the Convent. Sister Catherine know you're coming?'

'Yes, and we can hang on for a bit if you want a lift' Vaz replied.

'Excusez-moi. We will need to find Therese soon, and she will need to be somewhere safe very soon, Napoleon' Marie-Laure interrupted, holding up the bag.

'Just a minute Vaz'. Napoleon stepped back and looked at Illya. 'Is she with Bolt?' he said. Illya nodded, slightly shrugging his shoulders.

'She was there watching the operation' Marie-Laure said, 'then she disappeared, and Therese was not in her room. Someone had blown off the door – 'bof' she added, throwing her hands out theatrically.

'Right, hang on Vaz, I'm sending you Dr Rondeau here and Sabi, while Illya and I go rescue the damsel in distress'.

'We need the tapes, Napoleon. All the information about the drugs and the girls, is on them'.

They all stared, as Illya could hear Vaz asking him if he was back in the land of the talking. Then Marie-Laure ran forward and began to massage his face, carefully avoiding the side with the broken teeth.

'Ah, I told you Illy, that it would wear off!' she gushed, hugging him.

'Illy?' Napoleon grinned.

xxxxxx

When the door blew, Therese came out from behind her mattress to face the last person she wanted to see, standing in the doorway, seemingly undamaged from the explosions that had rocked the building only minutes beforehand. Bolt didn't speak, just pointed her gun as Therese walked towards her, feeling the dig of the gun's barrel in her back all the way back to the house. The vague pains that had started early in the morning had now become stronger, and regularly spaced, causing her to gasp slightly and breathe through her mouth as she was marched along. Far from liberating her, the incident with the door seemed to have put her squarely back in Bolt's hands; away from Illya, now obviously in labour, and not knowing whether he was alive even, never mind able to help her.

There were still guards in the house, and Bolt barked orders at them; Therese closed her eyes at the mention of the helicopter. She was hustled up the stairs to the large living room on the first floor, pushed against the wall, and her hands tied behind her. Bolt spun her round and stuck tape across her mouth, then dragged her onto the sofa, forcing her to lie down, her head rammed into the cushions, while she was pinned onto the sofa using more of the tape. In the unnatural quiet, she could hear Bolt at the end of the room where her desk was, opening and shutting drawers rapidly, and turning on the large machine with the whirring tapes which stood in a small ante-room.

She was suddenly close by, Therese realised.

'Your former partner is dead' she said baldly. The others have been incinerated in the blast, allowing us to leave by air whilst they concern themselves with their little sea battle at the harbour. Fortunately, I have all the research completed here on the tapes, ready to be used at our new home, dear Storm'. As Therese struggled to move, she came closer, whispering in her ear, her long fingers touching her neck. 'By the way, did your partner tell you about our new drug? I thought not. When Diamond is born, I'll demonstrate it to you. Oh, by the way, unlike Dormiben, it doesn't have an antidote'.

Therese felt another contraction begin to sweep across her; she had imagined this moment many times when she had first known she was pregnant; lying in bed in some non-threatening hospital, or even better, at home, with Illya's anxious face nearby, perhaps some other family members or friends giving reassurance. And then, the joy of the baby. Joy, of any sort, seemed a dim reality now. There were too many things to take in; Illya, the baby, her own life even seemed threatened with destruction. She struggled to breathe through her nose, sensing the other woman moving away from her towards the office end of the room. She could feel the rope biting into her wrists, her hands crossed awkwardly behind her. Her fingers were still fairly mobile though, and she was able to feel the tiny blade sewn into the cuff of her blouse. After a few minutes of manipulating, Therese freed the little blade and began to saw away at the rope, twisting back so that her hands were not so obvious to Bolt.

She felt the rope slacken. Cautiously, she moved her hands to the front, managing to manoeuvre them despite the tape holding her onto the sofa. She gently pulled the tape away from her face, then slid her hands into the waistband of her trousers, drawing out a miniature mask. This isn't meant to be like this. He's supposed to use these things, not me she thought, as she opened the hem of her blouse and pulled out a small soft bag of colourless liquid.

Grasping the tiny blade, she cut the tape holding her head down, nearly crying out loud as it pulled at her hair. Craning her neck round, she caught sight of Bolt through the door into the ante-room, putting a large spool of magnetic tape into a large attaché case, then returning to the machine to remove the other. She slid along the sofa, cutting the other tapes, then sliding onto the floor backwards before standing up. She could see Bolt just putting the second tape into the case, then turning, her gun sitting between them on the desk. There was a moment's hesitation, before Bolt moved forwards for the gun. Stuffing the mask onto her face, Therese threw the bag onto the floor. At once the liquid burst out, forming a gas which had Bolt grabbing her throat and falling forwards, reaching for the gun, her eyes turned blood red with hatred of the girl standing frozen before her. Therese tried to make herself run but she was rooted to the spot, her back screaming at her now to lie down somewhere. Bolt's hand reached across the table, her fingers curling round the gun, as Therese put her hand up to her neck, involuntarily pulling off one of the cones. Bolt's hand was now on the gun, raising it in her direction. There was a sudden flash followed by a tremendous bang as the desk seemed to rise up in the air and catapult Bolt backwards. It was only then that Therese realised that she had thrown the cone.

The noise seemed to startle her into action, as she ripped out another bag and threw it on the floor before she threw open the door, standing behind it as the guards ran in straight into a wall of gas and fire. Therese ran along the corridor headlong into somebody else running in her direction. She screamed, struggling and fighting her assailant until he shouted in her ear,

'Teresita, control yourself please'. She pushed herself back from him slightly, then fell into his arms again, sobbing.

'You are alive, you are alive!' She could now smell the scent of his body, his hair, everything that told her who he was. Illya pushed back the hair from her face and wiped the tears gently away.

'Of course I'm alive; now come on, I think you have a date with the maternity ward'. She clung onto him again, noticing Napoleon rushing up the stairs now, carrying two large sub-machine guns.

'You freed her already' he shouted, holding a machine gun in both hands in a way that reminded Therese of someone in one of those macho films Frankie seemed to enjoy.

'Um, it appears she did that herself' Illya replied, smiling at Therese, as they took a more gentle step down the staircase than when she had arrived. Above them there was a huge bang, followed by a rolling wave of fire across the landing. Therese looked up, then across at Illya.

'Well, I rammed one of those cone things in the door and it did a good job, so I threw one at her table, then I just sort of threw the rest of them on the floor. They must have caught fire, I suppose'. Illya rolled his eyes heavenwards.

'There were about fifteen of those you threw down' he shouted above the din. 'I only usually use one'.

'Oh' Therese replied. 'Whoops'.

xxxxxxxx

The construction of the house made it highly combustible. As they reached the front door, there was a horrific grinding noise, followed swiftly by a tremendous crash, as the floor gave way, causing a giant wave of dust to sweep towards them. The guards left alive had responded with alacrity to the explosion on the first floor, running down the paths at full tilt towards the harbour in the distance. Illya guided Therese down the path past the ruined medical buildings, wondering why she appeared to have wide duct tape stuck over her hair and across her chest. Every so often, she gripped his arm and halted momentarily, breathing out gently through her mouth as he looked at her worriedly.

'What is the matter?' Illya said, rather more fiercely than he had intended to. There was a sound from behind; Napoleon stood there, staring at him in amazement.

'Excuse me, but isn't it obvious?' Solo said, eyebrows raised slightly at his partner's attitude.

'Isn't what obvious?'

'Oh for goodness sake' Therese gasped, 'call yourself a scientist! I'm in labour, you divvy; you'll be a father in a couple of hours!'. Illya rubbed his hair with his hands in consternation.

'Are you sure?' he replied, gazing at her with the look of a fifteen year old on a first date, Napoleon thought. Therese shook her head slowly and kissed him.

'Yes, I'm sure' she said quietly, but I'm not sure you should be in the photos, amado. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?'. They both looked at him, standing there, the dungarees trailing on the floor a little, and his red checked shirt hanging out of the back of them. His face remained puffy, one eye still a vivid puce colour and closed, the suturing like little train tracks running at the side of his eye, and along the top of his forehead, with the clipped hair like a little grass verge by the side of the track. His expression was so pitiful that Therese burst out laughing, then groaned as now both Napoleon and Illya supported her along the path towards the lorry waiting at the end.

'Here we are, your favourite mode of transport, comrade' Napoleon murmured, as if by magic, the tailgate was dropped and Vaz and Fernando appeared.

'Your carriage awaits, milady' Vaz shouted, executing a mock bow rather precariously on the edge of the tailgate. He motioned to Fernando to give him a hand, as the two others on the ground attempted to push Therese up into the lorry.

'Cor, two-ton Tessy has got nothing on you, sis' Fernando gasped, as he attempted to heave Therese onto the lorry.

Therese put her tongue out at him as she was hoisted into the back, to the astonishment of the other women sitting along either side of the truck, like a surreal, pregnant choir, all looking her way.

Napoleon jumped aboard and yanked at Illya's arm, nearly pulling him on top of Therese, who was laid on blankets between the feet of the other women. The noise in the truck was deafening. All the girls seemed to be talking at the men at once in a host of languages, none of which could be heard above the other. Vaz looked totally bewildered, his head spinning from side to side like a virtual punch bag, as their words were thrown at him and reverberated from side to side. The noise reached a crescendo before suddenly there was a deafening shout,

'Silence s'il vous PLAIT!'

Illya stood there among them, looking like a teenager at a particularly raucous party.

Without seeming to draw breath, he began to explain what would be happening in at least ten languages that Napoleon recognised before he gave up counting. Eventually, sighing audibly, he paused.

'Anyone I missed?' he asked, looking round at the girls, who now seemed to be hanging on his every word. A tiny Japanese girl raised her hand slowly. Illya bowed his head slightly, and then began again in Japanese.

He felt a hand grab his ankle and pull his dungarees.

'Can we go now, my waters have just burst'. The truck lurched into life. Illya sat down and cradled Therese's head and shoulders on his lap.

'This isn't quite what we planned, is it?' he said fondly, trying to pull the duct tape out of her hair without success. She looked up at him, and he could see the topaz glint of her exquisite eyes taking him in, then closing momentarily as the pain washed over her.

'Cut it off' she gasped. 'I don't want any memory of her; nothing of what she did to us must remain when the baby is born, do you understand?'. Out of the darkness, Marie-Laure appeared at his side. She knelt down and very carefully separated the tape from the hair with a few swift snips.

'Voila! Only a tiny amount lost, cherie' she murmured, smiling gently and replacing the scissors in the bag.

Therese could see Sabi at the far end of the truck, sitting next to Fernando. She was suddenly reminded that Sabi also shared, most probably, the condition of all the women there. But for now, only one baby commanded her attention, needed her, and she needed the battered, bedraggled man who held her now in his arms. She could see Napoleon behind him, wide smile firmly in place, trying to keep the girls happy, not held back by language barriers. She tried to look through the smile, to see what he must be feeling underneath the so well hidden charm. Loss? Bitterness? Jealousy? She looked back at Illya.

'Make sure he's alright' she whispered, nodding towards Napoleon. He turned, looking at his partner, then back to her, a faintly quizzical look embroidering his dirty face.

'Stop being so good' he whispered in her ear. 'Think about yourself for a while; about us'.

'I think about 'us' all the time, Illya. All the time' she replied.

As the truck ploughed on towards the Convent, the sounds of conflict could be heard in the distance. Napoleon flipped back the canvas flap at the back of the lorry and looked across the Mediterranean landscape towards the harbour, and, immediately behind them on the road dominating the area around it, the burning wreck of the farmhouse and its subsidiary buildings. Behind the house, the black Bolt helicopter stood, surprisingly undamaged, it appeared. He felt by his side and picked up the binoculars he'd taken from Fernando after they'd boarded the truck. The devastation became startlingly apparent through the lenses. The roof of the house was a mass of blackened timbers, perching precariously on the shell of the upper story, the windows scorched and sightless holes through which the remains of the interior rooms could be seen. He swept the binoculars across the first floor, and then down, past the front of the house.

Very little movement was apparent. Any guards who had been in the house had either left, or had been unfortunate enough to be trapped in the fire. He had persuaded Illya to use darts rather than bullets in the house, some deeply held instinct making him feel uncomfortable about shooting women, even those who looked like they did. He jerked the binoculars slightly as, swinging them along the side of the house towards the helicopter, he was suddenly aware of two figures moving towards it. It was hard to be absolutely sure; the mid-afternoon shadows on the house were making it difficult to see clearly. Napoleon's hands clenched the binoculars in an effort to see better, and to stop the uneasy feeling building inside him.

The taller figure was slightly stooped, as if she was having difficulty breathing. Every few steps, she hesitated, at times slightly stumbling, but seemingly determined to carry on. The other figure he was sure, was a Bolt guard, the ubiquitous black leather costume slightly glinting in the sun's rays. He could see now that the helicopter was the object of their painful journey. He wrenched the glasses from his eyes, and jerked round. His partner was sat up, propped between the legs of some of the girls, with his wife laid out over his lap, his arms supporting and comforting her, murmuring into her hair, as she groaned and panted, her face pale now with the onset of labour.

'Illya!'. He signalled to him, his face revealing the urgency of the message. Illya stared back in amazement, then, as he could read his partner's expression clearly, he shouted down the truck at Fernando, and then, Fernando taking his place, somehow managed to extricate himself from all the bodies and stagger slowly towards the American.

'I hope this is important' Illya said, rather fiercely, his lips pursed in their usual line reserved for moments of severe annoyance. Napoleon pulled him towards the open flap of the truck and thrust the binoculars into his hand.

'Just look towards the helicopter quickly, or we'll be too far away, and tell me what you see' he said.

Illya raised the binoculars to his one good eye and began to scan the area. Napoleon waited, beginning to think he might have imagined what he felt was the unimaginable. He was able to feel the Russian stiffen, he was so close to him, then put the binoculars down.

'She's still alive' he murmured, looking at Napoleon, his damaged face suffused with a different sort of pain.

'This may sound insensitive, but did you notice if she was carrying anything?' he said, wincing inwardly at how heartless he sounded. But he could see that despite all the personal trauma, Kuryakin was still functioning as an agent.

'No. I think she was having difficulty carrying herself, let alone anything else. Tell Vaz to get someone to intercept the helicopter, and inform Waverly of what we think has happened' he said coldly. 'And Napoleon', he hesitated, a look of weariness now drifting across him like a dark shadow, 'I don't want Tess to know'.

'Yeah. Of course'.

Napoleon lurched across the truck towards the distant figure of the Indian, rammed against the cab end, and talking incessantly to three young women, all with varying degrees of confusion showing on their faces. He noticed Solo heading in his direction and stopped, his face alert, receptive to the trouble he thought might be heading his way.

'Problem, old man?' Vaz murmured, glancing down at the scene on the floor. Fernando was still lying behind his sister, with her husband talking quietly to the French doctor by his side.

'You could say that' Napoleon replied. 'We think we've just caught sight of your not so friendly Amazonian psychopath heading for her helicopter'. Vaz whistled under his breath.

'You don't say' he murmured. 'Fernando told me that little sister had put paid to the old bag for good'.

'Well it appears that the 'old bag' somehow survived, although she doesn't seem to have her papers, or the tapes with her'. He scratched his head, thinking what Waverly would say when he knew. 'Listen Vaz, since you've got the only communicator that works round here, can you alert Palma about the chopper, then inform Mr Waverly. Tell him we have the women, Therese and Illya, but no tapes or papers, and now, it seems, no Ms Bolt. Hopefully, the fire destroyed her attaché case, but we'll only know when the clean-up boys arrive and start sifting through'.

'And we don't let wind of this get to . . .'

'No, definitely not, at least for now. Illya doesn't want her to know, so fill in Fernando when you can drag him away, OK?' They looked down the truck. Fernando was obviously becoming quite a hit with the girls, some of whom were edging closer to him, even stroking his hair as he lay against the bench, Therese lying against him.

At last, the truck screeched to a sudden halt, some girls screaming a little with the jolting. Illya was the first to jump down, narrowly missing the dark form of Sister Catherine. She had procured a rather ancient looking wheelchair for the occasion, and an attempt had been made to make it more comfortable by the addition of a couple of immaculate white cotton blankets. She blinked slightly at the Russian's appearance, then put her hand on his arm.

'We have everything ready, Mr Kuryakin; we hope it will be adequate' she said kindly. 'We have a guest house, you know, that should provide you with what you need. We will take the girls into the convent, so that you can have a little peace'. Illya nodded gratefully, as from nowhere, two rather hefty men appeared from the direction of the convent garden. By now some of the girls had been helped off the truck and were dutifully following another sister into the main house, while Fernando edged Therese towards the arms of the two labourers.

Illya watched, feeling rather helpless. His head was aching rather dully, the dressings now besmirched and starting to lose their grip on his face. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and he turned rather wearily, wandering who wanted him now.

'You look like you need me to give you another bath, soft lad'.

He screwed up his functioning eye and stared. Josefina Solo grinned at him, her whole appearance so markedly different from the rest of the bedraggled group heaving themselves off the truck, that it made him want to hug her with joy. She had on an immaculate pair of Capri pants in a sort of fine black and white check, with a white off the shoulder jumper which showed off her elegant neck and smart hairstyle.

'Jo?' he stammered instead, rubbing his already matted hair and thereby worsening his appearance even more. She shook her head then glanced round coolly towards the truck, waiting for the rest of its cargo to be discharged.

Napoleon was virtually the last person off. As he stood on the tailgate, he gazed across at the scene in front of him. Therese was being carefully placed in the wheelchair by two guys he'd vaguely recognised from his sojourn at the priest's house. The other girls had virtually disappeared into the convent, and he could see Vaz standing by the wall, hunched over his communicator. He could guess the sort of conversation he was having, and felt a little guilty about making the more junior agent take the flak from Waverly. He started to look for Illya, easily recognisable as the teenage lookalike talking to that glamorous woman . .

He leapt off the back of the truck and ran across the gravel towards her. He could feel a ludicrous grin set like jelly across his face, despite the fact that he couldn't quite understand what she was doing there. Illya stepped back slightly to give him room, and then she was in his arms, her bright red hair, her amethyst eyes, the very smell of her making his heart seem to grow huge within his chest.

'Careful, lover, just be careful' she said, as he kissed her, then held her back slightly to take her in.

'Why? Am I messing up your lipstick? He asked, slightly perturbed at covering her jumper with smutty dust, which surprisingly, she didn't create about.

'Not exactly. But it'll keep at least for a while until I sort out two ton Tessy here, and you take soft lad and give him a wash and brush up. And you can include yourself in that too. Guest house, first floor, room three'. Illya was scowling behind her back already, but Napoleon luxuriated in her. The mission could be turning into a nightmare, a psychopath could still be on the loose, but, for now, Josefina was in charge, and all was well with the world.

'I want to stay with Therese' Illya said from behind her, sounding to himself as juvenile as he looked in these ridiculous clothes.

'Illy, we will need to examine Therese and make her comfortable, then you can come and be there at the birth, non, but not looking like that, eh? Marie-Laure stood by Therese, her medical bag in her hand. Illya shrugged, and then bent down to kiss his wife. He noticed a faint grin on her lips.

'Illy? Therese murmured. 'Cute'.

'Just remind them not to throw those clothes in the corner when they take them off you' he replied, 'otherwise they might be rather more fireworks to celebrate the baby's birth than we'd planned'.

He felt someone get hold of the back of his overalls and start dragging him away.

'Come on, we've got a lot of cleaning up to do, and you don't want to be late for this party do you?' Napoleon said into his ear.

'I am never late for parties'.

'That's your trouble'.

CHAPTER 19

In the end, Illya enjoyed the blissful luxuriance of the bath. The rooms were basic, with narrow beds pushed well away from each other he guessed, under normal circumstances. But this time, the beds were together, and a bunch of flowers stood on the chest of drawers to signal spring, and new life. The bathroom was between the two rooms, equally sparse, but serving his purposes wonderfully with its deep bath full of hot, soapy water.

He returned to the bedroom cleaner, but with the wounds now exposed after he had washed his face and hair and attempted a shave. The clothes he had brought with him were laid out by an unseen hand, but he could guess which one. Nevertheless, he gratefully clambered into them, enjoying the sensation of underwear for the first time in days.

'Mm. A bit better, though your hair needs attention. Your French girlfriend is a good surgeon but geez, Illya, what is this?'. Napoleon had waited until he returned. He touched Illya's hairline where the hair was cut in a stubbly line along the scar.

'It will be fine in a couple of weeks. Besides, I promised Frankie I wouldn't touch it without her supervision, remember?'

'Well she's going to love that. Perhaps she could continue the line round your head'. He ran his finger along the side of Illya's head, ignoring the baleful glare coming from the open eye near it.

'Thank you for that interesting style suggestion; I'll bear it in mind when I return to New York. Now, I have to see a sister about my dressings, and then I might be allowed to see my wife and baby before she starts kindergarten' Illya replied frostily, finishing buttoning his shirt, and forcing his feet into his shoes at the same time. As he looked up, Jo stood in the doorway, her dirty jumper already exchanged for a clean, black one.

'Sister Annunciata is waiting to sort out your head, if that's possible, then I suppose you're just about decent enough to be seen in public' she said, narrowing her eyes as she saw his forehead. Napoleon put his arm round her waist and his finger to her lips.

'Don't say anything' he whispered.

xxxxxxx

The touch of the nun's cool fingers was so soothing, that Illya's eyes began to wilt under her care. An image of his past silently crept into his unconsciousness. His own voice, pleading to be let out, saying he was scared. Not his voice, but yet it was. A child's voice. Then other voices, also pleading, also scared, joining in. He recognised the memory of his own experience, but the other voices, the other children were confusing, and the place seemed larger, a different darkness from where they cried. He was aware then, of a voice in his head urging him to wake up in the soft tones of the Catalan language, then her gentle face looking alarmed when he leapt up so quickly, clutching the wall of the room for support as his head caught up with his body.

'Whatever is wrong Illy? Sit down, you have got up too quickly, Je pense'.

'Non, Laurie, non'. Illya leaned against the bed he'd been lying on and looked up at Marie-Laure standing in the doorway.

'Je m'excuse, Laurie, J'ai eu une rêve; non - un cauchemar, je pense'.

'Excusez-moi? A nightmare?!!'

Illya looked round at the nun, standing patiently behind him.

'Sister, are there any cellars or underground storage places on the Bolt Estate?' She looked down in thought, her hands subconsciously smoothing her habit.

'I do not know La Masia well, or any of the other buildings, but Sister Catherine will be able to tell you' she said, not showing any surprise at his question.

'Illya, I am beginning to think that the girl who attacked you did some permanent brain damage' Marie-Laure said, taking his hand. Whatever you are planning will have to wait. In case you had forgotten, you are now needed down the corridor, mon brave'.

'I haven't forgotten. I just thought you were all trying to keep me out'.

'Well, if you look as pale as you did just then, then you will have to sit outside' Marie-Laure replied. She made him sit back down on the bed again, and rolled up his sleeve. 'This is an antibiotic, just to make sure the wounds will not become infected' Marie-Laure added. 'Now, when you are ready . . .'

'Laurie, I think Miss Bolt injected me when we were in theatre, you know'. Marie Laure looked at him closely.

'Are you sure?' she said, her eyes narrowing.

'Positive. I just can't imagine what it might be, that's all'. Marie-Laure put a hand on his forehead, and gently lifted his hand to take his pulse.

'You are a little warm, and your heart is racing a little, but it's not unusual, considering' she said, smiling a little. 'We'll have to keep an eye on you, Illy; if you start to feel any worse, then please tell me, d'accord?'.

'OK. But I'm alright now. I'm ready' he said. She glanced at him sharply, her own memories getting in the way and being pushed back to await a more appropriate time.

The room was quite large, a former small sitting room for guests. Any resemblance to a sitting room was now purely passing, for a bed now stood against one of the whitewashed walls, and in the corner, waiting to be occupied, a lovely wooden crib, the interior filled with similar immaculate looking sheets and blankets, but scaled down to fit the tiny space. Illya had walked half way down the corridor before realising he had left the package he had brought with him from his room. Now he carefully undid the bag and took out the little pink rabbit, clutching it in his hand as he came over and sat down by his wife's side.

Therese was sat up, a thin sheet loosely over her breasts, but revealing the astonishing shape of her abdomen below. Illya glanced round the room. He was conspicuously the only male there in a sea of female activity. A sister was laying out the medical impedimentia Marie-Laure had brought, while the Frenchwoman listened to Therese's abdomen with a strange black instrument resembling an ear trumpet. She smiled encouragingly at Illya and then beckoned to him. Therese herself hardly appeared to notice his presence. Her hands gripped the sides of the bed, her flushed face fixed in a concentrated stare.

'N'inquiete-pas, Illy' Marie-Laure whispered in his ear. 'Don't worry. She is so strong; she is using the pain so well. She reminds me of the women I delivered in South Africa – strong and silent'. He looked at her quizzically, wondering what other parts of her life he didn't know about. 'After they had . . ., I . . I volunteered to work in South Africa, for a French medical missionary organisation. That's why I know how to deliver with the minimum technology, non?'. Illya pursed his lips. She could see the confusion building on his face, and put her hand gently onto his. Their hands locked together for an instant, then breaking apart as they both turned towards Therese. Marie-Laure leaned back towards him and whispered fiercely,

'What you think you know about our child; it's not true. They are . . both alive. If anything happens to me, Illy, then find our child'. She turned away from Illya's astonished stare towards Therese.

'Regarde, Illy, your baby, elle viens; she is coming!'

xxxxxx

'Here, smile for Uncle Napoleon and Auntie Jo'. Somehow, from where nobody afterwards knew, Napoleon had contrived to produce a camera. Therese watched him organising people, and taking what seemed like hundreds of pictures of various different groups, rushing away to re-load the film, then bursting in again to take yet more pictures. On the other hand, the baby's father remained totally transfixed by the small being who lay in his arms, eyes closed, the tiny lashes delicately fringing her face, one tiny hand poking out of the soft blanket in which she was wrapped. Therese had taken her then, affixing her to her breast, the little mouth amazingly knowing what was required, to Illya's astonishment.

'She's a red-head!' Napoleon smirked. 'Not one of the master race then, comrade'. He received the customary, but somewhat tempered stare back from the proud father. Illya stroked the quite plentiful auburn hair on his daughter's head.

'Actually, my father was red-headed' he said, smiling faintly, 'It's the Viking heritage of Russians, Napoleon'.

Illya stroked the wild curls of his wife's hair and kissed her forehead.

'Happy with your Anastasiya?' she said, moving slightly as he sat behind her on the bed with his arms round her shoulders. He breathed out slowly, gently hooking the baby's fingers around his own.

'Beyond belief' he murmured.

After a while, the others evaporated out of the room, and only Napoleon and Jo were left, Jo holding the baby, and Therese eating two large pieces of toast which seemed to have appeared at some point.

'We're going to have fun together' Jo whispered to the baby; 'you can help me keep your father in order, for a start'. Illya sighed audibly.

'Please don't give her ideas 'he replied; there are too many women in my life already nagging me about unimportant matters'.

'Unimportant to you, soft lad, but we'll see, when she brings home the new boyfriend and her middle-aged dad still looks like Jim Morrison'. Therese started to giggle.

'Oh give him a break, sis' she said, 'I'm sure you can induct Tasiya into the Josefina Solo School of high style as soon as she's old enough to give her father a lecture if his hair's too long'.

Napoleon came over and took Anastasiya from Jo's arms. Illya and Therese looked at each other, their expressions not lost on his partner.

'Before you two start fretting about the state of my emotional health, perhaps we'd better let you in on the news' Napoleon said, finding it difficult to stop a broad grin breaking out on his face. It was worth it to watch the expression of bewilderment on his partner's face as the Russian tried to make his brain compute the probable answer to his partner's statement. Therese, on the other hand, seemed to have divined the answer.

'How far on are you?' she said to Jo, as Illya gazed from one to the other in bafflement. She put her toast down, and took Illya's hand. 'Uncle Napoleon plus Aunty Josefina equals . . .'

'A baby? A baby!' he cried, jumping up in a rare un-Illya moment of excitement, all of them looking at each other with barely concealed laughter as he ran round the room hugging the others. 'What?' Illya said. 'I'm allowed to be happy, am I not?'.

'Of course, darling, of course' Therese laughed, kissing the small part of his face that wasn't swollen, bruised, or covered with bandages.

'I do have one other important function to perform' Napoleon said, when Illya had resumed his place, and Jo had taken charge of the baby. He delved in the pocket of his trousers, bringing out a small box.

'I now pronounce you still to be man and wife' he said, pushing the rings onto the two fingers outstretched for the purpose. 'This, you'll have to do, comrade' he added, picking up the delicate necklace. For a few moments it lay coiled in Illya's hand, then he rose slowly to his feet and fastened it round Therese's neck.

'So, where's the hair then?' she asked wickedly, noting the consternation on his face. 'I thought I could coil it round my head until this grew' she added, looking at his downcast face. She lifted his chin gently. 'Don't tell me you kept it, amado' she whispered, shaking her head. He blushed slightly under her gaze.

'We'll leave you two alone for a while; I mean, you three' Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows at his wife. 'I'll be outside when you're ready'.

When they had gone, Illya put the baby into the crib and lay down next to Therese on the bed. She fondled his hair, running her finger along the stubby hairline.

'Now, tell me exactly what you got up to when I was away' she murmured. 'And don't leave out the nasty bits either'.

Xxxxxxxxx

Napoleon lit a cigarette on the wall of the guest house and leaned back, his eyes half-closed, blocking out the brightness of the sun, already making its way towards early evening in the distance. In the courtyard in front of the Abbey, the two labourers were building a large bonfire, loading sticks and larger pieces of wood to make a satisfying conical shape.

'It's for the Easter fire, you remember'.

Illya had come up on him without him being aware of it. All the excitement of becoming a father had not diminished his native cunning, obviously, Napoleon thought. He looked at the Russian in the shadow of the house. He looked very tired, his face rather grey looking under the bandages.

'Have you told her, then?' he ventured, taking a long draw from the glowing cigarette. Illya looked at him somewhat critically, then smiled.

'Yes. It felt as if she was the last person I had to apologise to' he replied, smiling. Napoleon dropped the cigarette at the disapproving look on his partner's face.

'Napoleon, if I asked you to come back to the farmhouse with me now, purely because I had a dream about something and it.. it seemed to be telling me something; I mean, . .'

'Marie-Laure told me' Napoleon said, putting his hand on the Russian's shoulder. 'Well, it wouldn't be the first time we followed one of your hare-brained hunches'.

'You mean you'll come?'

'Excuse me, but you won't get anywhere without someone to show you where they are, now will you?'.

To Napoleon's amusement, Illya jumped at the voice behind him. Sister Catherine stood there, but not in her usual attire. She was wearing a pair of trousers and a plain shirt, her head covered in a dark coloured head scarf, little wisps of bright red hair poking out round her forehead. Napoleon dug his partner in the ribs.

'Another redhead, I see' he murmured, 'must be your speciality'. Illya pulled a face, then turned to the American nun.

'Excuse me, sister, but you don't need to come with us. If you just tell us . . .'

'Oh but I think I do, Mr Kuryakin. I'd say that judging by your appearance, you would rank as unfit for duty on medical grounds, and apart from Mr Solo here, your other colleagues are engaged elsewhere. If you are right, then you're going to need some back-up. Right, Mr Solo?

'Yes indeedy' Napoleon answered, not flinching as he felt his foot stamped on hard. 'Illya usually needs both eyes to see where to go at the best of times'.

'I am perfectly capable of seeing where I am going' Illya hissed, suddenly aware of a slowly increasing pain in his head. 'I can do this'. Napoleon noticed that Illya already had his holster on, his gun sitting comfortably against the white of his shirt.

'I'll get Pedro to bring round the truck' Sister Catherine replied.

Every bump and bang on the road reverberated into Illya's head as they drove at full speed towards the blackening mass that had been the farmhouse. It was apparent that back-up forces had arrived at the harbour, from the myriad lights illuminating the port. Vaz and Fernando had been dispatched to oversee the supervision of those guards who had been rounded up, but for now, La Masia and its adjoining buildings were left, silent and dark in the diminishing light of the day.

Illya was beginning to think that he had indeed suffered brain damage, or at least, was going soft in the head to go rushing back here just because he had dreamed about some children crying somewhere. He hadn't told Therese where he was going, in fact she had been asleep when he had looked in before they went, the baby also cocooned in her tiny crib next to the bed. He had to force himself to come out of the room away from them, and jump into the truck. He began to feel a little light-headed, and shook his head to try and regain his concentration. Sister Catherine was looking at him intently, a slight line of worry crossing her face as she drove.

Illya groaned slightly as the truck slid to a sudden halt, banging him against the side of the cab. He decided that a few days in bed, preferably with his family round him, was beginning to sound like a nice idea. Napoleon was staring at him now, and he managed to stare back without letting him know how much his head was hurting and how hot he felt.

Sister Catherine parked the truck in front of the house, now fast disappearing into the shadows of the evening. She pulled out a large torch from the cab door, and signalled to the two men with her head. In the torch's light, she held a small piece of paper.

'I've drawn a rough plan of where I think the cellars are. Of course, we'll have to be extremely careful where we tread, and there may be too much debris lying around anyway, if some of the ceilings have come down'. Illya nodded, trying not to open his mouth too much. They set off round the side of the building, and walked gingerly through a blackened door leading to a corridor. The sun's setting rays gave a rosy glow to the charred remnants of the house, but the atmosphere felt more chilling. From time to time, unstable timbers creaked in the wind, occasionally falling to earth from higher up in the house; but of human occupants, there seemed no trace.

'The first cellar is located here' Sister Catherine whispered, constrained by the feel of the place into speaking quietly. Napoleon found a piece of wood and managed to clear piles of rubbish covering the floor. With a black metal rod from one of the windows, Illya forced up the edge of the first trap door, shouting down and sweeping the black hole with the torch. Apart from a few sounds of scuffling, nothing moved or cried out. They repeated the process with two other cellars, each time Napoleon observing the increasingly desperate look on his partner's rather flushed face.

'It's no good, I'm just wasting your time' Illya said despairingly, kicking a piece of wood and stamping the floor in frustration. Napoleon was examining the map with the torch in the gloom.

'I am sorry, but I'll have to return soon for the vigil ' Sister Catherine said, putting her hand on Illya's shoulder. 'Perhaps they took the children out, or there were fewer of them than your intelligence indicated, or . . .'

'They killed them all' Illya concluded. 'Perhaps. I'm sorry, I just had to try. Having a baby has obviously made me a little over-emotional, it seems' he said sadly. Sister Catherine smiled.

'No, not at all. Having a baby will make you a stronger person – and a better agent even. You will have someone to fight your battles for now, Illya'. He smiled, and heaved himself up, then dropped down again onto the floor. Napoleon stuffed the paper in his pocket and shone the torch at him.

'Illya, you OK? What is it?'

'Shh'. Illya lay outstretched on the dirty floor, the relatively undamaged side of his head pressed to the ground. After a few moments he jumped up and started scrabbling at the floor. 'There must be a door here' he shouted at the others, 'let me look at the map'. They all scrambled round clearing the floor, but it was patently obvious after a few minutes frantic work that there was no observable opening in this part of the corridor. Illya rubbed his hand through his hair manically, walking round the corridor and then retracing his steps back to the previous trap door.

'Illya, give it up. It'll be dark soon, so leave it for the boys tomorrow'. Napoleon started to walk towards the back of his partner, who was standing peering into the darkness of the cellar beneath the door at the far end of the corridor. He gazed at Napoleon, and then disappeared.

'Illya!' Sister Catherine ran up to the edge of the hole, while Napoleon shined the torch downwards. The beam picked up Illya's rather sweaty looking face gazing back up at them.

'What the hell are you playing at, you could have broken your damn neck, you Cossack!' Napoleon shouted down.

'Well, I didn't. Now throw down that metal rod, Napoleon, if you don't mind. Just give me two minutes and then I promise you I will give up'.

'Don't want to spoil your fun, buddy mine, but just how are you going to get back up again, unless all that church going has produced wings in your Russian back, by any chance?'. Illya's scowl made Sister Catherine smile.

'He's awkward isn't he?' she whispered to Napoleon.

'No. Mule stubborn. Mule stubborn' he replied, shaking his head.

They could hear banging and scraping, before the top of a ladder appeared in the hole.

'Satisfied?' a voice called up. 'No wings required'. They could hear further banging, then he was back again. 'Napoleon, can you help me? I think there's a door, but someone's tried to hide it. It appears that they didn't intend to open it again'. Napoleon instantly clambered down the steps towards the upturned face of his partner on the cellar floor. Illya had a small torch of his own which he was shining on what looked like a rough cast wall. The beam of the larger torch revealed evidence of recently applied concrete. In the light of the torch Napoleon noticed the expression on his partner's face.

'You've brought something along, haven't you?' he said, eliciting a faint smile from the Russian. Illya crouched down instantly and yanked off his shoe, carefully peeling back the heel.

'I managed to extricate a few items from Therese's clothes before I put them in the rubbish bin' he said with totally unconcealed satisfaction in his voice. He unwound what looked like a long piece of string which obligingly stuck itself to the edge of the newly applied concrete. Breaking off the end, he stuck the rest of it on the other side.

' Now I would suggest you go over to that wall, Napoleon and stick your fingers firmly in your ears'. Napoleon had barely reached the wall when his partner arrived by his side, fingers firmly in his ears.

The noise was deafening in the confined space, dust swirling into the air and covering them once again with a combination of concrete and the dirt of ages from the cellar. There was then a few moments eerie quiet as they peered across the cloud filled room.

The concrete at the sides of the opening had shattered into piles of debris, now piled up higgledy-piggledy either side of a yawning gap where the door had been. The original door had been blown inwards, taking its concrete covering with it. It now lay like a giant slab on the brick floor of the cellar, beckoning them forward to the gloomy realms beyond.

'It's lucky for you that no-one was standing behind' Napoleon murmured, suddenly aware of someone behind him.

'Impressive, Mr Kuryakin', Sister Catherine commented, glancing at the ghostly form of the Russian, now covered in concrete dust from head to toe. 'Nothing like a boy with his toys is there?' she whispered to Napoleon, as Illya inspected the doorway and then charged on into the gloom.

'He's probably already ordered the chemistry set for Anastasiya's Christmas present' Napoleon replied, training the torch onto the rapidly disappearing form in front of him.

Illya swivelled round as they were nearly on top of him, and put his fingers to his lips. Napoleon calculated that they must have returned almost to the point where the Russian heard the faint sounds in the corridor. In front of them was another very large, solid door, made of wood this time, and bearing an enormous, elaborate looking padlock. As they fell into silence they could all hear the weak, but unmistakeable child's voice.

'Socorro, por favor! Socorro!'

The voice, begging them for help, became more urgent, higher in pitch. Illya knelt down and put his face to the crack in the door. In Spanish, then in Catalan, he whispered back words of comfort, telling the unknown child to stand back from the door. When he stood up, his face was set, his undamaged eye cast down, hands rapidly working to pick the lock of the padlock with a tiny set of tools he had wrenched out of his back pocket.

'I don't want to use explosive' Illya explained tersely, his whole frame bent on the task of unlocking the door. Napoleon watched helplessly, not daring to even touch his partner. Sister Catherine leant against the wall in front of the Russian, her eyes almost closed, her lips moving silently almost to the rhythm of the clicks Illya was making in the lock. His head came up abruptly then, as the padlock spun open and dropped to the floor with a mighty clang.

'Bravo, Illya!' The nun hugged him spontaneously, Napoleon noticing his head slightly drooping onto her shoulder as she held him momentarily before he stepped back and began to pull the bolts back from the top and bottom of the door. Napoleon stepped forward and pushed him gently aside.

'Give the brain a second's rest while the brawn takes over' he said, motioning to Sister Catherine. Illya frowned, but stood back as the other two yanked at the handle. There was a slight creak, then the door swung strangely, silently open.

A boy, no more than seven years old if that, stepped out of the darkness, eyes screwed up at the torchlight illuminating his face. Illya would always remember the expression of absolute resignation and fear that was displayed on his face, and the cowering body language that spoke forcibly to them all of what had happened in this place. There was silence for a few moments, then the boy spoke, looking straight at Illya.

'Are you a ghost, senor?'

Illya bent down immediately to the boy's height.

'Nyet' hereplied, inexplicably in Russian, before switching to the Spanish the boy was talking. 'I'm real, touch me'. He held out his hand and waited for the boy to come nearer. He took a few steps forward, very slowly. Illya could see that he was shaking, his eyes riveted to the man kneeling down. At last he was almost touching. Illya could smell him; a dirty, rank smell of someone unwashed for some time. He stayed completely still, waiting for the boy to come forward at his own speed. Napoleon and Sister Catherine stayed well back, frozen into the darkness of the cellar behind Illya.

Suddenly, with a little run forward, the boy almost leapt into Illya's arms, folding his head down, cocoon like, into the body of the Russian. Napoleon could hear his partner breathing heavily, his head now down over the boy's in a protective gesture startlingly unlike any he had seen him adopt towards any child he had come across in the past. He began to stroke the boy's back gently as the sound of sobbing resonated from the two figures. Napoleon wondered for a minute just who was actually crying.

Eventually, when the sobbing subsided, the boy sat up, still clinging, animal-like, to Illya.

'Please don't take any more' the boy whispered. Napoleon bent down on the ground beside them.

'I'm Illya, and these are my friends, Napoleon and Catherine' Illya said quietly. 'And what is your name?'.

'Pablo, Senor Illya. My name is Pablo after the famous cellist'. It was said so proudly, that they all found it difficult to speak for a few seconds.

'You mean Casals, Pablo Casals?' Illya replied. 'Yes, he's a wonderful man. You are well named, Pablo'. He began to stroke Pablo's rather long, incredibly matted hair back from his face. 'Pablo' he continued, 'Are there any other children here?'. Pablo suddenly beamed, his teeth showing up strangely in the gloom.

Si, Senor Illya. Yes, there are five boys, five girls and two babies'

'Babies!' Sister Catherine exclaimed, crouching down by Illya. Pablo held out his hand and held it a little way from the ground.

Yes, but they are walking; they are this high' he said, as if he was describing a vegetable he had been growing.

'Can you show us where they are?' Illya murmured gently to him, smiling encouragingly.

'Si, Illya; but, Illya' he asked, fingering the bandages on his new friend's head, 'did you have a fight in the school playground? '. Napoleon smirked at the question.

'Shall I tell you something about this big boy, Pablo?' he said, pointing at the Russian. 'He fights with girls, that's how he got those'. Pablo's eyes became round as saucers, as Illya sighed deeply and shook his head.

Pablo pulled Illya to his feet, and hands firmly cemented together, set off with him, the other two following behind across the rough cobbles of the room. Illya began to worry a little at what they might find in the next room, but the others had obviously stayed there, while Pablo was sent to the main door. He pulled open a much lighter door to reveal the other occupants of the cellar.

The other children were huddled together on what looked like a mass of sacking and rags in the corner of the filthy room. The stench which hit them was almost overwhelming. Pablo urged Illya into the room, to the alarm of the other children, who, after a few moments petrified silence, began to babble, not all in Spanish, Illya noticed. Pablo shouted out something above the noise, and they were instantly quiet, except the 'babies', two rather dirty, but beautiful little girls, who began to toddle uncertainly, like very large clockwork toys, heading straight for Napoleon. He scooped them up as they arrived, to their delight, and hoisted them onto his shoulders. Instantly, the children began to clap and run round the three rather bemused adults.

'They're not all Mallorcan' Illya said to Napoleon, a little girl now firmly attached to his trousers, being prised off by his minder, Pablo.

'No, Illya' Pablo shouted strangely now speaking English;, 'some of them are Germs'. Illya grinned and nodded at Pablo.

'I think he means Germans', Illya said. He knelt down again, the little girl, who had shouted in his ear in Spanish 'I am Dolores', holding on for dear life.

'Pablo, who taught you English?'. Pablo stuck out his chest and tried to look taller than he was.

'The big lady. The one who did the nasty things to the others, giving them injections'. Suddenly, Illya felt a little colder than he had a few moments before.

'What big lady, Pablo?' he continued, trying not to frighten the boy. 'The one with the funny nose and spectacles?'. Pablo shook his head.

'She did do things, but it wasn't her. It was the other one. L'Americana. She came here and said she was going to get her little girl now'.

Napoleon put his hand firmly on his partner's shoulder.

'We need to get out of here quickly if what I think he just said is even remotely true' he said, feeling the rigidity of the Russian under his hand. Illya looked up at him. Napoleon had never seen before even a hint of the anguish now etched across the damaged face, Illya's mouth working into a tightly drawn line, as he stared back at his partner.

'Start to get the children out of here' he said in a frigid, shaking voice. He lifted up the little girl Dolores, and began to move towards the ladder, Pablo still firmly attached to his other hand. Napoleon, the two toddlers still riding on his shoulders, signalled to Sister Catherine, who brought up the rear with the rest of the children.

It was fairly slow going getting the children up the ladder, and Illya had to work hard to stop himself from shouting at them. His head was beginning to throb unmercifully, and his eyes felt as if somebody was stabbing him every time he moved them. He took several deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm himself and focus on the welfare of the children, while inside his head was screaming at him to consider his own child, left at the mercy of someone he had thought was too badly injured to be any threat. The truck was thankfully in the same place they had left it, and the children by now were beginning to revel in their new-found freedom, surging forward and swarming up into the arms of Napoleon and Sister Catherine as Illya lifted them up.

It was only when he was at last in the truck himself, that he began to truly appreciate how ill he felt. His arms and legs had now joined his eyes and head in aching painfully and continually. His face felt flushed, despite the cooling wind of the evening, and he had a vague, nauseous feeling building in his stomach as the lorry crashed along the uneven road towards the Abbey. Napoleon had elected to drive, leaving Sister Catherine to supervise the children in the back. Napoleon glanced across at his partner, his eyes narrowing.

'When we get there, let me deal with this. I hate to say this, but you look like shit'. Illya leaned back against the seat, his eyes closed.

'Napoleon, I'm grateful for your help, but this mess is my responsibility. I have left Marie-Laure to face the possible danger of Miss Bolt's retribution, and worse, I have left my wife and daughter alone and unprotected'. He turned towards Napoleon, his breath now coming shallow and laboured, as he fought to keep conscious. 'I have a horrible feeling' he added, 'that Miss Bolt has also given me a little present to remember her with'.

As they drove up the hill towards the Convent, the bells could be heard ringing out across the headland, a great cacophony of sound announcing the most sacred night of the Church's year. They could see the flaming pile of wood now, illuminating the walls of the church with a warm, flickering glow. People were beginning to assemble, and Napoleon could see the Priest and altar servers milling round, their white garments billowing up in the gusty wind like sheets on an imaginary washing line. As they drew closer, the glare of the fire lit up the windscreen. Napoleon looked across at his partner, hunched over against the side of the lorry. His hands and face were covered with an angry looking raised rash, contrasting with the paleness of the bandages and the remains of the concrete dust that covered his hair and clothes. Napoleon leapt out of the cab at top speed and ran round the front of the lorry to prevent his partner falling out onto the hard gravel. As the passenger door began to open, he could hear the children pouring out of the back into the arms of the two gardeners. Then suddenly, all the other noises, of adults, children and even the fire, were drowned by a far greater sound, bearing down upon them from above.

The deafening roar of rotor blades whipped up the fire below into a frenzied blaze, but from the spectators below, only a stunned silence was evident, even from the children. Every face seemed turned upwards, frozen in position by the sheer noise and unexpectedness of the machine above them. Illya had somehow half fallen, half climbed from the cab into Napoleon's arms. His legs and arms were so painful, he felt as if he were on fire, but he forced himself upright in time to see the events above his head unfolding. It felt as if time was slowing down, and he was there, an unwilling spectator, unable to prevent the occupants of the helicopter from carrying out whatever they had come to do.

A figure emerged, throwing out a thick metal cable from the open door of the helicopter into the night sky. Very slowly the cable began to unwind, gently lowering itself down. The attention of those on the ground was so drawn by the cable, that most people were not aware immediately of two other people moving towards it. A sudden, sharp beam from the bottom of the helicopter illuminated the scene below, like a bizarre circus attraction. The two agents froze as the dramatis personae became familiar. The red hair of the woman holding a small bundle in her arms was immediately recognisable as the guard Willow, and the diminutive figure running after her, as Marie-Laure Rondeau.

Napoleon felt his colleague suddenly stiffen and then, by some unimaginable reserve of energy, run forward towards the two figures. The helicopter was hovering now above the garden, the cable swinging slowly above the Sisters' graveyard, a small walled part of the garden secluded from the rest by a low stone wall topped by pantiles. Illya forced himself to run through the garden towards the little wooden gate leading to the cemetery. He could see Willow standing in the middle, waiting for the cable to descend. And in her arms, he could see the tiny form of his little girl. From above he saw Li-Hua Bolt mouthing something at him, her serpentine face full of hatred, her mouth a red gash through which the unheard words fell. She was waving a large pistol in his direction, firing indiscriminately. A bullet thudded into the gate behind him, another glancing off the stone wall, then shattering the tile above. He could hear Napoleon shouting something from behind the wall, and the sound of gunfire heading in the opposite direction.

'Don't shoot!' he began to scream, lurching towards Willow, his feet feeling as if someone had filled them with concrete. She drew out a small revolver and, hideously, put it to the baby's head.

'No nearer,' she bawled, her face an unrecognisable mask of bitterness. Illya stopped, shaking with the effort of keeping still. 'How do you like that little touch of fever that we've given you?' she shouted mockingly. 'Now, lie down and be very ill for a while, Ocean, and then when you recover, if you recover, we'll be long gone, and THRUSH will have your daughter to use against you as they have used your other child to gain her compliance ' she bawled, pointing at Marie-Laure with the gun.

Illya put out his hand slowly towards the baby, his body screaming at him, begging him to lay down, to sleep. Instantly, Marie-Laure seized the opportunity of Willow's distraction to grab the baby. As she ran up, Willow turned, and shot her, the bullet causing a thick spume of blood to spurt from her neck.

Willow threw the gun down and started to move towards the helicopter as the cable, hovered fractionally above the ground. A shot rang out from behind Illya, narrowly missing the guard as she grabbed for the cable with her free hand. Illya glanced round, his eyes on fire with pain as he sought out his friend.

'Napoleon, don't shoot!'. There was a movement behind the wall, but from another direction. Willow ran towards the swinging rope harness. As she grabbed it, another shot exploded in the night air. She seemed to freeze, then very slowly sink to her feet. Illya lunged forward, rolling over onto his back as the baby, now bawling, was released from the guard's arms onto his chest. He willed his arms to close onto the tiny form, and then sank back into the grass, the baby's face pressed into his neck. He could feel her warm breath, while her loud cries slowly turned to whimpers as they lay there together in the glare of the helicopter's light.

Illya forced his good eye open in time to look straight up. The cable began to be retracted rapidly, swinging across the sky as it disappeared into the machine above. Then, as the helicopter swung upwards and away into the night, he felt the baby being gently prised away from his arms, as darkness finally closed in.

Xxxxxx

Napoleon holstered his gun and looked round. He could see Illya, the Frenchwoman and the guard spreadeagled on the grass, the neatly tended graves, each a simple cross in the earth, silently witnessing the events of the evening. He knew that he had missed the guard, but after that he had hesitated when Illya had shouted, and he saw Willow holding the baby, caught like rabbits in the glare of the searchlight. Then, from further along the wall, another gun had fired. A surreal, slow-motion scene unfolded; a great spurt of blood covered the two figures, both sliding gracefully to the ground, the diminutive form of the baby slipping gently from one to the other. Then the spell was broken, as another figure ran forward.

Napoleon gasped. His wife knelt over Illya's body, and as he approached, she was gently relieving Illya of his daughter, cooing gently to the baby as she held her tightly to her breast. To Napoleon's great relief, Illya was still breathing, although he looked a frightening combination of dust, blood, bandage and inflamed skin. Marie-Laure lay at the side of him, her neck haemorrhaging blood at an alarming rate.

Napoleon grabbed the little blanket which had fallen to the ground and pushed it into the wound, lifting the dying woman onto his lap. Her eyes were almost closed, and he lent over her faintly moving lips as she struggled to speak.

'Tell him to find our child' she gasped, heaving to give her message before it was too late; 'and tell him 'Je t'adorais toujours, toujours'. Before he could reply, she had fallen back, her eyes finally closed.

'Help him, quickly' Jo said calmly, 'I'm taking Tasiya back to her mummy'. Napoleon laid Marie-Laure down gently, for once rendered speechless by the contrast between his wife's ruthless efficiency with the gun, and the gentleness of her manner with the baby. He screwed up his face as she came closer and held him close, the baby held warmly between them as they stood together. She began to shake a little.

'Go on, Napoleon, he needs you; I'll send the cavalry as soon as I get to the others'.

He watched her pick her way carefully back towards the guest house, whose lights were flooding the area round with bright, square reflections from the little windows dotted along the high, stone walls.

'Open Channel PX. Sabi?'. The familiar tones of the German agent burst through the communicator, plying him with questions. They talked for a few moments, then Napoleon knelt down by the side of his partner, putting his arm under the Russian's head, and holding the communicator to his ear.

'Illyusha, this is Sabi, darling. Listen, the baby is fine, and Tess is fine too. That guard gave her something, but she is awake now; they are both fine, darling'. Napoleon closed the pen and started to wipe away the blood from Illya's face, rolling him over slightly as he was violently sick on the ground. After what felt like an age, he saw two white figures with a stretcher advancing upon them, revealing themselves as UNCLE medical staff as they got nearer.

'You're alright now, comrade' Napoleon whispered in Illya's ear, 'the Medics are coming for you'. He was sure he heard Kuryakin groan audibly.

CHAPTER 20

Anastasya Illyevna Carmel Kuryakin opened her eyes wide, her tiny lips pursed in a perfect little o shape. Her mother fastened the buttons of her lacy cardigan, her little arms flapping slightly as she fixed Therese with a long, sweet stare, her deep, purple-blue eyes holding her in their gaze. She scooped her up from the bed and smiled at the tiny feet poking out from the delicate little dress.

'Now, let's go and see Daddy' she whispered, kissing the soft red hair framing the little girl's face.

Illya Kuryakin lay on the narrow bed staring through the open window at the exquisite Mediterranean sky. His nose twitched, and he longed to wrench out the tube which was temporarily stuck to the side of his face, together with the IV drip inserted in his right arm. His hazy memory of the last three weeks included many needles drawing fluids out, pumping others in. He had no idea what he looked like, except that the sutures had been removed, and his face felt more comfortable, both eyes working now.

He had begun to doze a little, when he was aware they were there, from the trace of perfume in the air, to the sweet baby sounds near his head. He opened his eyes, a smile illuminating his face, as he gazed into the tiny face now so near to his own. He could see Therese behind the baby, a wildly different Therese to the girl he remembered from a few weeks ago. She was wearing a bright blue tight fitting t-shirt, which revealed her impressively enlarged breasts, a flippy mini skirt, and a matching broad bright blue hair band which held the wild wavy hair back from her face. Suddenly, he felt like sitting up.

Before he could summon what little energy he seemed to have, she had laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Don't try, you won't be able to yet, not for a while'. He gazed at her helplessly, feeling as dependent and malleable as the little baby laid by his side.

'She looks lovely' he whispered, his throat constricted and dry. The effort of saying so few words seemed to send him into a spin, and he lay back, his eyes closed. Therese shook her head, and put the baby into the Moses basket perched at the end of the bed. She fetched a little plastic cup of water, and began to wipe the slightly cracked lips with the liquid.

'Listen' she murmured to him, stroking his hair back, the little patch at the front now grown into a tufty line along his forehead, 'You have been very, very ill, darling, and you are going to have to be very, very good if you are to get better, understand?'. He nodded, fixing her with a gaze reminiscent of the one their daughter had just used a few minutes before.

'Am I still here, I mean, how long?' Illya said, confused by his own questions.

Therese gave him a few tiny sips of the water, and then put it down at the side of the bed.

'My American friend gave you a mighty cocktail' she said, watching his eyes close, knowing he was still listening. 'She obviously intended you to be on your back for a long while, if not permanently. You know,' she added, Napoleon thinks that she was trying to rob that Nazi doctor of her prize specimen! Anyway, we thought that you might prefer not to be in some God-awful medical facility for the next two months, so they shipped everything here instead. It's not as if you need an operation, apart from the teeth that is, and they'll just have to wait; just a very long recuperation, amado'.

'How long?' Illya whispered, forcing his eyes open.

'Well, you can discuss that with your doctors, but they've devised a plan for you over the next six or seven weeks that should see you fit enough to resume killing people and blowing up buildings by the summer'. Illya groaned.

'But I can't . . .'.

'But you can, and you will, if you don't want to damage your heart permanently' Therese said, quite forcefully, evoking a wide-eyed response from her husband. 'When you've had a rest, I'll come back and talk about the other little matter'.

'What other little matter?'

'Pablo'.

'Tell me now'. Therese drew up a chair, then took the baby out of the Moses basket, and lifted up her t-shirt. Illya gazed at the baby joyously sucking away at the breast, her little fingers gently unfurling and then closing in her pleasure.

'Are you still awake?'

'Yes. Just thinking how lucky she is'.

'Well, you'll be pleased to know your tube is coming out if you're good, and you can eat proper food soon'.

'That's not what I meant'. Therese cuffed him slightly on the head and then shifted slightly to support the baby. 'Pablo' she said quietly, 'is still here'. Illya put his free hand behind his head, twisting his hair in his fingers.

'What happened to the others?' he said.

'Well, while you were doing your best to fight the lurgy, your sister-in-law has been sorting out the legal nightmare left behind by Miss Bolt, namely the pregnant women and the children'. Illya sighed at the memory of the frightened faces in the cellar.

'The children were relatively more simple to deal with; they had been brought from Mallorca and also from the families of the employees of Bolt in Germany, although God knows how they were persuaded to give them up' Therese continued.

'Oh she has ways, as you know' Illya murmured.

'You mean, she had ways' Therese said, looking at him oddly. Illya blinked momentarily.

'Um, yes. So what has Josefina managed to do?' Illya said, looking away.

She made contact with every family and arranged transport for the children' Therese answered. 'The women have also been repatriated for the time being, but she's got to sort out the whole question of the paternity of the babies. Luckily,' she added, her face lighting up, 'they found the attaché case after I blew up the whole room; you know, when Li-Hua was killed, so they can use the tapes to match the women with the donors'. She glanced round at Illya, shocked by his pallor. His face was turned from her, his free hand gripping the sheet and cotton blanket covering his spare form.

Therese switched the baby onto her other breast, keeping her eyes on the still figure in the bed.

'She's not dead, is she?'. The baby's rhythmic sucking noises filled the vacuum in the room as they sat in silence. After a while, Illya turned onto his back and opened his eyes.

'I seem to have lost my ability to hide my thoughts, at least from you' he said. 'Yes. She is alive, although I don't know in what state. I saw her leave the building after the explosion, and then I . .I think I glimpsed her in the helicopter when . .'

'When your doctor friend was trying to save our baby; yes I know'. She lapsed into silence for a while, until Anastasiya, a look of glorious contentment on her face, was placed back in the basket. Therese put the basket on the floor and got into the bed next to Illya, pulling him slightly to rest his head on her shoulder. He felt easier to move, lighter, frail.

'Illya, I told you before; don't try and protect me from things I should know about' she said, stroking his hair, now wildly grown out and untidy. Outwardly, she sat there calmly, with him in her arms, her face now buried into his hair. Inwardly, her stomach churned. Therese had thought about her responsibility for Bolt's death every day since the explosion in the house. Now, she could expunge her guilt at the expense of knowing that Li-Hua was still out there, and that she still wanted her child. Illya stirred in her arms.

'Tess, I have something else to tell you, something which, if it is true, I will need Napoleon to help me with, if I . . I'. He stopped in mid-sentence, as if it were beyond him to contemplate the idea that he wanted to share with her. 'Then, you must tell me about Pablo'. Therese continued to stroke his head, the baby gurgling in the background.

'Just after she was shot, Laurie said something to Napoleon' Illya began. 'She told him to tell me to find our child'. He noticed that his wife didn't flinch at his words, just continuing to run her fingers softly through his hair. He decided to leave out the other bit, about loving him always, for later.

She got up, and laid him down flat, tidying the bed round him. Picking the Moses basket off the floor, she began to change the baby's nappy, laying her on top of Illya. She could see him watching, unhappily following her with his eyes as she gathered the impedimentia of nappy changing and laid it next to the squirming baby. She glanced up, looking at him steadily as she pulled up the little dress and let Tasya kick her legs a little, free.

'Illya, when you are better, you will need to find your child if they are alive. You don't need me to tell you that. If he or she is your child, then you have a duty to them, as you do to Anastasiya, and . .' she hesitated, then continued, 'and to Sabi's baby'. She leaned over and brought up his chin, bringing her face near to Illya's. 'Any other children you've got hiding you haven't told me about, lover?'.

'If you want to punch me now, please feel free' he said, 'I deserve it, for making such a mess of my miserable life'. Anastasiya screamed, throwing her arms back as Therese pinned on the nappy. 'See', Illya continued, 'my daughter agrees with me'. Therese finished with the baby, and, lifting the sheet and blanket, wedged her by Illya's side in the bed.

'You're a good pair together' she said, 'both cute but also extremely demanding'. Illya and the baby managed to contrive to pull the same appealing face at the same time, a mixture of innocence and wonder at what she could possibly mean. Therese sat down on the bed, stroking the baby's hair. 'Now we have to talk about yet another possible addition to the family'.

Illya's face screwed up with confusion.

'As I said before you started listing your progeny, Pablo is now here alone. He comes from Petra in Mallorca. It's the town where Junipero Serra was born too, you remember . .'

'The Apostle of California' Illya muttered, brows still contracted.

'Smart Russian. Pablo's name is Fortesa'. Therese sat down on the bed, taking the baby and rocking her gently. 'Eventually, she found the grandparents. It's not a big town, and the name is quite unusual. Pablo is an only child. Three months after he was taken, his parents were killed in a road accident outside Palma. His grandparents are very old, and unable to care for him. They have requested that he be adopted if possible, or else he will have to go to the Catholic orphanage at Palma'.

Illya stared at his wife and child. The baby was now fast asleep, her little hands tucked together as if she was praying. Therese looked down at her, smiled, and then placed her carefully in the basket, before sitting down on the bed next to the prostrate form of her husband.

'Does he know?' Illya murmured, thinking of the wild haired child gripping onto him like a little animal in the dark, his head bent into Illya's chest, as if he could protect him from the nightmare that he had endured.

'Yes he does, because I told him' Therese said. 'While you've been taking your ease here' she added, smiling, 'Pablo and I have spent a lot of time together. In fact, he's spent a lot of time with all of us, as you'll see shortly. I asked Joey about the legal side of things, and she said that . . .'

'Are you saying you want us to adopt him?'. She could see that he was thinking, even though his eyes were now closed, and he looked, for the first time in some days, relaxed. She plunged on.

'Um. Well, yes I am, I suppose. What do you think? I haven't discussed it with him of course, there's a lot to be got through. We have to get permission for him to enter the USA and then . '

'Therese. You are twenty six years old. You already have a baby. No doubt there will be others, probably sooner rather than later, knowing our skill with family planning. Then there will be the mess over Sabi's baby, and then of course, if the other child is alive, we have to decide about him or her. Do you really want to take on another, quite unrelated child, who will probably need a lot of care, as well as , I presume, in the odd seconds you have spare, continuing your career?'.

There was a profound silence in the room. Illya kept his eyes closed, images of children drifting in and out. Just over a year ago he hadn't even got a steady girlfriend; in another year, he could be the father of at least four children. His mind buzzed slightly at the thought of it. He opened his eyes to find that he was alone, and suddenly realised that he didn't like it very much. The last months of enforced bachelordom had left him miserable and lonely, and he had no intention of returning to that state.

'I am ready, Teresa'. Therese looked down at the little boy stood to attention in the corridor. She had effected a transformation in the child; he was now looking a little more filled out, his skin glowing, and his hair clean, the soft fringe falling across his forehead, Illya-style. . Good pair together she thought, as she pushed it back from his face.

'Remember' she whispered into his ear, 'don't tell him what we talked about; what he doesn't know he doesn't worry about. I'm sure it will be fine'. She kissed him on the forehead, and he clung to her for a few seconds, before timidly knocking at the door and going in. Therese gently sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands. What he doesn't know he won't worry about. Other people just met, got married, and had a baby. With this man, it was so much more complicated. She uncovered her hands and could just see Anastasiya in her basket. Without Illya, there would be no Tasiya. No Tasiya, no house in Grove St, no strong arms round her waist, no blue eyes, no wild hair to tease him about. No so many other things that she just couldn't imagine not having now. She sighed, leaned back against the wall and thanked God for all his blessings.

She could hear voices, one low and quiet, then Pablo's higher one, talking very quickly, almost gabbling in a breathy Spanish she hoped Illya would understand. After what seemed like a long time, the door opened and Pablo stood there, beckoning her in. She could see at once from his body language what had happened. His little frame was fizzing with excitement, and he ran from one to the other, then back again to hug Therese, before diving onto the bed.

'I sense a plot' came the voice from the bed. She came round, lifted the basket onto the bed and then hotched Illya up again so that he lay on her lap, with Pablo on his other side, Illya looking up at her while she combed his hair back with her fingers.

'Nonsense' she breathed, smiling at the little boy, 'I can't imagine why you would think that, mi amor'. Illya opened his eyes slightly and looked across at Pablo.

'He looks a bit like you' he murmured; 'your eyes'.

'Mm. Whilst his hair, apart from the colour, is pure Kuryakin' Therese replied, tugging at the tousled mass of blond.

'Ouch. Yes, well I suppose I'll have to endure what you're hinting at soon, but not yet. I have the excuse that I can't raise my head off the pillow, and I'm holding onto that. The little boy smiled broadly and shook his head.

'Wait until you're tip top, then you can smarten up, eh, old boy?'. It was all said with a perfect, though surreal public schoolboy accent. Illya sighed, deeply.

'And who has let Vaz near him?' he asked wearily.

Xxxxxxxxx

The house was festooned with two very large flags, which hung artistically across the wall of the front sitting room. The stars and stripes were mingled with the bright red of the Soviet flag, the hammer and sickle faintly shining against the red, white and blue.

At the back of the house, the French windows opened invitingly onto the garden, the gravel absorbing the heat of the summer day, bright flowers in pots soaking up the sunshine. The back room had been transformed, a long table now hidden beneath a tempting array of food, reminding Illya of their wedding, as he surreptitiously selected a canapé from the loaded plate at one end.

'Feeling hungry, comrade, or is that name redundant now?'

'I'm still a Russian, Napoleon, as well you know, whatever it says on my passport'. Napoleon leaned across and helped himself to a large piece of cold pizza from the table, giving Illya a quick glance in the process as he walked across the room and flopped down on the green sofa, now pushed against the wall while the party was in full sway.

'Well, you could almost pass for an American now' Napoleon said, squinting at the recumbent form of his partner on the sofa, complete with very smart suit and a beautiful pair of soft black shoes, which he was in the process of kicking off as he lay there, 'if it weren't for those Cossack locks of yours'. Illya touched his hair, pleased by its length. He felt as if he had returned to who he was before the nightmare of the last few months had unfolded.

'No regrets?' Napoleon searched the placid features for some sadness at the surrendering of his citizenship.

'Napoleon, to some people, I suppose I'll never even pass for an American, never mind be one' Illya replied. 'However, as to regrets, the only regret I have is that, at least for now, I can't take my children and show them my home. But perhaps, one day it may be possible. At least for now, my family is secure'.

Napoleon nodded. A vivid picture of Li-Hua Bolt flooded his mind. Whilst Illya had lain somewhere between life and death, Napoleon had begun the hunt for Bolt, but to date, it was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Now he had added to that task, the hunt for this child, if they were alive.

'Well, so much for the single life' Napoleon replied, lying back at the other end of the sofa. 'Footloose, fancy free, gorgeous girls, plenty of them. . now look at us. Married, children; in your case comrade, many children. What happened?'. Illya sighed and put his feet up.

'Well, I can't speak for you, Napoleon, but having experienced the so-called joys of single life again for the last few months, I know which state I prefer'.

As if on cue, there was a thunderous noise in the corridor and Pablo rushed in, glanced round, and then threw himself onto Illya.

'Daddy, daddy, come on, mama wants you to take Tazzy while she brings up the champagne, and I am helping' he cried, his English almost perfect, but still retaining a hint of Spanish in the soft tones of his accent. Napoleon looked at the little boy spreadeagled over the Russian. In three months, he had filled out and grown into a beautiful child, with gentle brown eyes and thick soft brown hair, cut into a much tidier style than the blond underneath him.

'Daddy?' Napoleon said, as Pablo ran off, shouting 'Uncle Alex' as he spotted a familiar figure in the garden.

'You should know by now that being married to an English woman means a confusion of terms for most things' Illya replied, jumping up as Alexander Waverly entered the room, carrying Anastasiya, Pablo gripping on hard to his hand. The baby was wearing a white cotton bonnet, her bright red hair poking round the brim giving her face a rather fiery frame .

'Sir' Illya said, taking the gurgling baby, who instantly grabbed his hair and yanked it, her little hands wrapped round the golden strands with grim determination.

'Ouch. Tasiya!' he exclaimed, 'let go please'. He carefully prised her fingers open, her expression not lost on Napoleon.

'I think she might be telling you something' he said. He looked closely at Anastasiya. Her eyes had darkened to a very familiar shade of violet blue, and the red hair completed a startling similarity to her aunt.

'Yes, she looks alarmingly like your wife' Illya murmured, smiling. 'Let's hope the genetic transfer hasn't included other personality traits'.

They sat down, Waverly knocking out his pipe on a conveniently stationed ash-tray specially placed for the purpose, next to the armchair he had lowered himself into.

'I understand you've been cleared to return to work on Monday' Waverly said, giving Illya a long, meditative look from under his bushy eyebrows.

'Yes sir. Though I still have to finish some work in the gym, according to my trainer'. He emphasised the word, Napoleon smirking as he looked out of the window and saw his wife approaching rapidly from the garden.

'Ah yes. It was fortunate that Mr Schoeneich was willing to transfer to New York, wasn't it?' Waverly replied, the pipe now billowing forth in its usual way. 'I understand that he's made a considerable difference to the efficiency of our training programmes since he's arrived, eh, Mr Solo?'.

'What?' Napoleon stuttered, completely absorbed in looking at Josefina, who had been prevented from reaching him by someone he suddenly recognised. 'Oh yes, he's been an absolute phenomenon. I'm looking forward to the opening of the new gym, really looking forward to it'.

Waverly made some indistinguishable sound from behind his pipe, and then laid it on the ashtray.

'It was rather unfortunate about Dr Rondeau' he said simply, gazing at Illya. 'She would have made a fine addition to the medical staff at UNCLE. However, you may wish to know, Mr Kuryakin, that we have recently been given intelligence from our people in France about her late husband'. Illya swivelled slightly, fixing his eyes on Waverly.

'It appears that the story about the accident was a fiction as you thought' Waverly continued. Dr Rondeau was terrified that if she revealed the truth, even to you Mr Kuryakin, then she would never see her child again. Phillipe Rondeau is almost certainly still alive, and of course, holds a high position in THRUSH, somewhere in Europe I would guess'.

'So that's why the guard Willow referred to her 'compliance' Illya said, his eyes downcast. 'And so I presume by all this . .'

'Yes, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly added, 'it seems that your child is also alive, but where, rather like Miss Bolt's whereabouts, we have absolutely no idea at the moment'.

Napoleon turned away from the other two men, suppressing a grin at who was advancing towards them across the garden. The Russian had now seen Josefina's companion too.

'What is he doing here? he sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes, as he peered out at the party in the garden.

'Darling, he's taken over Section 12 here, and he's sharing with Ingo and me, in fact we're only just round the block. We're going to have a truly 'Deutches Haus'!.

Sabi had come in from another room, and proceeded to push Illya over a little to make room for her, as Napoleon jumped up to put his arm round Jo. Before he could say anything, Rudi had run in and hugged Illya, squashing him between himself and Sabi.

'Well, isn't that mighty fine?' Napoleon said, finding it difficult to stop himself from laughing at his partner's expression. 'One big happy UNCLE family, eh comrade?'.

Xxxxxx

The developing liquid slopped gently in the trays, mysteriously revealing images of people and places as if they were emerging from a dense fog into the strange red world of the darkroom. Therese smiled at the picture she carefully pegged to the line suspended above her head. A man lying on a deserted beach; the slight body at rest, as if he'd been thrown up onto the sand by the sea, and left there. Flotsam, to be found later by lonely walkers, and tossed back in again. His hair was spread round his head and seemed to be flowing into the sand; shaggy, sand-coloured. The shade of a pine tree threw shadows over him and drew the eye to a figure prancing in the sea; a little boy, the spume of the waves thrown up round him as he frolicked in the water. By the side of the man a basket with a tiny baby's form just visible. My family, she thought. My wonderful family.