Illya stood at the top of a stairwell, narrow and utilitarian. Hoping to jam the door, he pulled on the aluminum handrail, but it remained firmly anchored to the wall.

"Come on," Faustina urged from several steps below him.

With a frown of regret, he abandoned the door and hurried after her. Their racing feet beat a steady tattoo down the stairs. "Where does this lead?"

"The Underground."

"So you have used that door before."

"Of course. How else would I know it was there?"

"Another handy little tidbit you picked up somewhere?"

She grinned up at him as she rounded a landing. "No, that's you."

He saw no other doors as they descended, swiftly putting two, three, four stories between themselves and their captors. His heart began to pound at the exertion. He estimated they had reached the ground floor when the stairwell opened onto a small passage. Faustina flipped a switch, and post-war fixtures shed a cold, anachronistic light on their surroundings. The ghost of an archway, sealed up with bricks, lay to the right. The facing wall held a disused ticket window trimmed with dark moulding. On the left another staircase led further down, its polished wood and brass fittings harkening back to a more graceful era.

Illya's heart was a tympani in his head. He bent over, his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily.

"Winded already?" Faustina asked, fondling the ear of the carved lion that topped the newel post. "If you're too tired to run, you could slide down the bannister."

He glared at her in response, then closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. Footsteps approached him. He lifted his face to look at her. Twin streaks of kohl, painted by her tears, stretched toward her hair. Large grey eyes, like the Nile by moonlight, searched his with disquieting intensity. He had never felt such sympathy for Caesar and Mark Antony.

"Should I go on without you?" she demanded.

He should tell her to do so, that he would catch up, but the words did not come. "Abandoning me already? It is your fault I am in this state."

She blanched, and her eyes became as blank and unreadable as inlays of obsidian. He did not like them that way. "I will be fine shortly," he assured her.

Faustina gave a small nod, then wrapped an arm around his back, pulling his own across her shoulders. She took his weight so that the support felt more like an embrace. It seemed a well-practiced maneuver. He wondered on whom she had perfected it.

"Do you hear anyone following us?" he asked.

As she twisted her head to listen, he saw a beauty mark nestled in the hollow below her ear. Its enticement was undermined by the chain of lurid bruises encircling her neck, one for each of his fingers. His stomach roiled.

"I don't hear anything," she answered, turning back. Her brows lifted at his formidable expression.

"Your neck looks terrible."

"Worse than after a hot date?"

His frown deepened. These were no love-bites. "Must you be flippant? I am attempting to apologize."

A spark of amusement restored life to her eyes. "Is that what you're doing? Well, I was attempting to make you feel better."

"I do not wish to feel better. I could have killed you."

"And I could have killed you. I'd love to feel better about that." She exhaled. "I shouldn't have given you that second capsule. It was too dangerous."

"You assessed the situation and took a calculated risk. That is what agents do. They do not usually throttle their colleagues," he said, tipping his head closer to her ear, "however tempted they may be." He felt the thrum of her quiet laughter down to his toes.

"I guess that makes us even…for now. We should keep going."

Her arm fell away from his back. He staggered. "I may need that bannister after all," he lied.

As she clasped him more firmly, he settled his arm around her waist. They fell into step and made their way down the second staircase, which swept them through the sub-basements in bygone elegance. At its base lay a long corridor. The steady cadence of their footfalls echoed sharply off the colorful mosaic along the floor and the larger tiles of deep blue that clad the lower half of the walls.

"This is Hillary Brown's work," Illya announced.

"Who?"

"Hillary Brown, the architect hired by Phillip Llewelyn Yancy after he acquired the Eastern Line. His tile work is very distinctive. I've never seen it this well preserved."

Faustina's response was a velvety chuckle.

"Why is that funny?"

"Do you recall Deirdre Harris? You took her to dinner back when you were posted here."

"I do." He vaguely remembered the platinum blonde from Translation, a more brilliant linguist than conversationalist.

"I heard her tell once that she had a lovely evening with you. Your blue eyes set her heart pounding, and your voice gave her electric thrills. But most of the night she had no idea what the hell you were talking about."

His lips thinned, and he said stiffly, "I'll keep my observations to myself then."

"Share all you like. I enjoy an electric thrill too," she purred, then yelped as his fingers dug into her side.

At the end of the corridor, an ornately tiled frame surrounded a metal security door. Illya reluctantly dropped his arm from Faustina's waist and leaned against the wall as she tried the handle.

"Locked," she declared. She reached behind her collar and yanked on one of the dangling beads. It broke away, a long filament trailing behind it.

He noted the loose threads along the front that marked the depleted stores of Capsule R. "I am glad you kept them straight."

"One side makes you taller, the other side makes you shorter." She jammed the bead into the keyhole. "The trick is remembering which is which."

She joined him against the wall. Illya took the filament she held and attached it to his watch. Turning his back to the blast, he depressed the stem. A shower of sparks erupted from the lock.

Illya rolled the sleeve of his borrowed shirt down over his hand, then inched the door open and peered through the crack. He had passed through the station yesterday on his way to meet Marsden, one of a bustling crowd. Now it was dim and silent.

"All clear," he said, entering the deserted concourse. Faustina pushed the door shut behind them. The portal, a small sign marking it Private, became another easily disregarded feature in the wall.

They set out for the escalators. A cache of equipment piled on the floor reminded him that the station was not completely vacant. At any moment they might encounter one of the small army of workers who maintained the system each night.

He brushed his hands through his hair and began to fix his sleeve. "If we see anyone, I will do the talking."

"Really? And just what story will you tell?" Her flashing eyes traveled past his open collar down to his untucked shirttails and back over the chest that rose and fell markedly.

He sighed. His dishevelment along with her tousled hair and colorful neck told their own story. "That we were on a 'hot date' and could no longer contain our ardor."

Faustina grinned and quickened her pace. "If they demand to know where, I know the perfect spot."

"Ah, another tidbit. You should give tours."

Illya followed the mesmerizing sway of her iridescent dress as she jogged ahead of him. He had observed many such couples during his tenure in England. Clothes a little worse for dance, heads a little worse for drink, they rushed to catch the last train, lest a trip on the night bus unduly delay the satisfactions of a shared bed. Amid his studies at Cambridge and his duties for UNCLE, he had yet to join their ranks. Perhaps before leaving these shores again he would.

They paused at the base of the escalators, and he frowned up at the steep flight of motionless treads. "Mt. Whitney was less daunting," he said.

"Come on, golùbchik, we'll make it." She took his hand and pulled him up the steps. By the time they reached the top and her fingers slipped from his, he had ceased to resist the wish that they climbed toward her flat rather than a telephone and a long night's work.

In defiance of the No Exit signs, they passed through the barriers into the ticket hall. An alcove held a bank of recently updated telephones. Illya walked the line of them, pressing button B on each, but no unclaimed coins were refunded.

"Forgot your wallet?" Faustina asked.

Illya patted the brown velvet pants which clung to his hips. "Well, it would hardly have fit in these. What about you? No spare change in that sartorial arsenal?"

"Not a brass farthing." She reached for the telephone. "I'll reverse the charges."

He took the handset, his fingers brushing across hers. "I know a faster way," he said, eyes gleaming. At the sound of the dial tone, he tapped out the number on the receiver rest.

He was showing off. He might kick himself for it later, but for now he would bask in the delight that radiated from her as she watched him mimic the clicks.

As the number rang, he tilted the handset so they both could hear. "Where did you learn that handy tidbit?" she asked.

"Cambridge. I hadn't a brass farthing then either."

A drowsy receptionist picked up the line. "Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange."

"Priority 1 call, Class D," he said. "Please scramble."

The line crackled as she transferred the call. Amorous murmuring came over the channel. "Harry," a woman's voice moaned.

Illya frowned and searched Faustina's face. Did she care that they had interrupted Beldon's love-making? Had she ever been its recipient?

As Faustina's mouth flexed into its wry curve, Illya again knew the sensation that came when a lock turned and a door eased in. "No," she whispered in answer to the unspoken questions.

"Un moment, ma chérie," Beldon growled, followed by breathless giggling.

With a self-mocking glint, the mysteries of which he pledged to explore, Faustina's eyes moved to the fingers clasping the handset and the tiger's eye that took the place of his father's gold band. She was peering around the door, and his answer would determine whether it shut again.

"No," he whispered.

Desire stirred in the depths of her eyes, fierce and hungry. His breathing quickened, and his heart resumed its pounding.

"UNCLE Northeast here," Beldon said.

Illya did not answer. He wet his lips, and a tremor coursed through her. He turned the handset against his shoulder as she leaned forward.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approach the barrier. He groaned in primal frustration and raised his free hand, holding her off.

"Don't you touch her," Donald Marsden shouted angrily.

Faustina spun around. Marsden stalked toward them, something metallic in his grip.

"Hello? Who's on this channel?" Beldon barked against Illya's shoulder.

Illya turned the handset to his face. "I will have to call you back," he said and hung up.