Illya continued to read, unable to close his eyes while sitting next to the dog. His head told him Hans was safe, a well-trained and friendly fellow, yet still, all of the Russians instincts and previous experiences with dogs continued to make him distrustful and still feeling nervous.

Finally, some time into the long flight, Hans began to whine at Illya and finally barked.

"Was ist los Junge_what is the matter boy?" He snickered at himself for addressing the animal that way.

Again Hans barked, and Illya looked around to see if something was wrong. Hans whined excitedly.

"You must want something. "Wollen Sie essen_do you want to eat?"

No reaction. "Wasser?" Still nothing.

"Do you need to...go to the bathroom?" Illya laughed at that question, as dogs do not use the lavatory.

Hans barked and became quite animated.

"Oh you do have to make…"

Illya stood, and Hans immediately jumped down from his seat, heading to the rear of the plane. The only place the dog could take care of his 'business' was in the crate, and as soon as he opened the cage door, Hans stepped inside and went to it.

Though not the most disgusting thing Illya Kuryakin had to do in his career as an agent, getting a paper bag from the galley and cleaning up Hans' not so little 'package' and disposing of it in the toilet was not high on his list of things to do.

He decided it best the dog remain in his crate, if anything to allow one weary UNCLE agent to get some badly needed sleep. As soon as Illya closed his sand-irritated eyes, he was out cold and didn't reawaken until he was jostled by the plane landing at Kennedy Airport in New York.

Illya moved to rub the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands, but stopped himself, as that would only make them worse. He remained seated, watching and waiting for the passengers to deplane. Some of them whispered their thanks again as they passed him, wishing Hans good luck at the show.

Illya simply nodded, and smiled just a little but for the most part remained quiet. Once the plane was empty, he got up and took the dog from his cage, but not before taking a deep breath before opening the cage door.

"Komm Hans," he commanded and the dog obeyed instantly, heeling to the Russians side. Illya thought, "If only all dogs could be like this one." That he knew could never be true.

He spoke a few words of thanks to Elsie and the other stewardesses before he stepped out into the jetway, and from there it was a short walk into the airline terminal.

Illya was met by Tom Lopaka, the head of Section V Security, and watched briefly as the passengers from the ill-fated SAS flight were shown to a private area to be debriefed, after which they would be reunited with those friends and family awaiting their revival.

"Nice job handling this affair, Illya," Lopaka smiled. "Sorry to hear about Napoleon, but knowing him, brudda...you can't keep a good man down."

"Yes," Kuryakin smiled knowingly," I am sure he is being well-taken care of even as we speak," he chuckled to himself, not metioning April's presence would most likely be a contributing factor to Napoleon's recovery. "He should be back in New York in a day or two, returning with the backup team, do doubt."

"So this is the dog you two were escorting?" Tom looked at Hans, admiring him, though it's fur was somewhat a mess, and still full of sand." I'm impressed Illya...I heard you didn't like dogs."

"I still do not like dogs, but for this one I will make an exception. Now I need to get him to Madison Square Garden, as the show will be starting soon. We do not want Hans to miss his opportunity to win. That would cause me more trouble than I would care to experience."

"Nothing to worry about bro, the Old Man has a car waiting for you at curbside, just head that way," Lopaka pointed, but not until he gave Hans a friendly scratch on the head. "Good luck to you fella." He handed Illya a change of clothes, and the agent stepped quickly behind a security screen to change. It felt good to be in his usual suit and black turtle neck again.

When ready, Illya waved his thanks, heading off with the dog walking obediently at his side.

When they arrived at the car, Hans suddenly began to growl at the driver, making Illya suspicious, as he did not recognize the man.

"May I see your ID?" He asked, ready to reach in a flash for his gun beneath his jacket.

The young ginger-haired man produced his UNCLE identification immediately. "Agent Simmons sir. I was just transferred in from London," he spoke with a Manchester accent. That satisfied the Russian, and he again reassuringly patted Hans on the side.

Simmons opened the rear door for Illya, who had decided to not bother with the kennel cage for the sake of expediency, letting Hans ride in the backseat. He closed the door behind the dog, and slipped into the front passenger seat with the other agent in the drivers seat, nervously looking in the rear view mirror at Hans.

"Legen Sie sich Hans. Bleiben_lie down Hans. Stay," Illya ordered, sensing Simmons discomfort. "He is a very well-trained dog, you have nothing to fear from him, I suppose, as long as you do not pose a threat to me. The dog has somehow attached itself to me, I think."

"Yes, sorry Mr. Kuryakin, dogs and I just don't seem to get along. I have that effect on the, making them growl that its. I guess they do sense that I don't like them."

"I do understand, like you, I am not overly fond of canines. This dog, however, is an exception. Now, we need to get to Madison Square Garden as quickly as possible...this dog has a several competitions to win."

"Yes sir. Van Wyck Expressway to Queens Boulevard and then Woodhaven…"

Simmons stopped talking, when he noticed the Russian had closed his eyes, assuming he was asleep. He hadn't heard the details of the mission Kuryakin and his partner had been on, only that there had been unexpected complications.

Illya popped open one eye. "I was not asleep Simmons, just so you know, I am resting my eyes. They are somewhat irritated from having been pummeled in a sandstorm in Tunisia."

"Tunisia? I thought you and Mr. Solo were in Switzerland."

"We were," Illya cracked a smile, but said nothing more in way of an explanation. There was only so much that could be said about an assignment, even to a fellow agent."

"Yes sir, I understand. Classified."

"Correct." Illya pulled his communicator from his pocket.

"Open Channel D- Waverly."

"Yes Mr. Kuryakin," the Old Man responded sounding as gruff as usual.

"We have arrived and are on our way to Madison Square Garden sir."

"Excellent. Let's hope there will be no further complications with this dog. Hand him off as quickly as possible to Mr. Amsler. At that point local security will take control and you may return to headquarters for debrief."

"Yes sir, and with pleasure."

"Have you had any...problems dealing with the dog on your own?"

"No sir."

"Very well, I will see you in my conference room as soon as possible. Waverly out."

Simmons had heard the number two agent in Section II was on the quiet side, and rumored to be somewhat cold and detached, as he recalled the Russian's nickname, 'the Ice Prince' as he heard the short answers he gave to Waverly.

Though he seemed pleasant enough, he definitely was not talkative during the forty minute drive to the Garden. When the car pulled into the designated area, Simmons stood guard while Illya attached Hans' lead and exited the car.

"I'll be waiting here for you Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya nodded, making his way through a myriad of handlers, owners and every conceivable size and type dog; some of them the most ridiculously primped and pampered creatures he'd ever seen, as he entered the back entrance to the building.

There were myriads of kennel cages lined up, row after row, with handlers tending to their dogs,on small tables... combing them, blow drying their fur, fluffing them up, so much so that Illya rolled his eyes.

He located the section for the working dogs, and there he found the handler, Johan Amsler, looking quite distraught. Illya had seen him in photographs posing with Hans back in Switzerland and recognized him instantly.

The man rushed down to the dog, kneeling in front of him. "Oh mine God, what have they done to you Shotsie?" He snatched the lead from Illya's hand without so much as a thank you.

"It was a very precarious situation we were involved in with hijackers on our flight,' Illya spoke calmly, introducing himself to the limp-wristed handler." Hans behaved admirably, saving my life and those of the other passengers."

"You exposed him to hijackers….people with guns? You brute! Hans is a very special dog, and that could have ruined his temperament and unsettle him before a show. He needed to remain calm! And, and...you could have gotten him killed!" Amsler practically growled at the Russian.

"Herr Amsler, I will have you know that Hans was calm and obedient throughout the entire episode, and I think helping to save two hundred innocent human beings is worth more than any award from some bourgeois dog show. Good day, and good luck with the show." He gave Hans one last pat on the side. "Good luck, and thank you for being such a good dog."

Illya turned his back and walked away, not wishing to engage the handler in any further conversation. He decided to remain, to watch the competition in which Hans would be entered. That would be his first win needed in order to qualify for best in show.

A short while later when the working breeds were announced, Illya waited for Hans to emerge, but there was no sign of him. That was an instant red-flag, sending the Russian rushing back to the staging area.

There was no sign of Amsler, nor the dog but he heard a commotion coming from the exit. He ran, trusting his gut instinct the dog-napping was in progress.

There Simmons laying on the ground, out cold. A white van was parked next to the UNCLE car, and Amsler was cursing out the dog as it was refusing to get into the van. The man spotted the Russian, and drawing a gun from beneath his jacket, he fired a shot, hitting the agent in the right shoulder.

Illya staggered to his knees, losing hold of his Special, "Hans, help me!" Knowing he was at risk of being shot again, he called out in German.

The dog dove at Amsler, grabbing hold of his wrist, and clamping down with his powerful jaw, making the man drop his pistol.

Illya recovered his own gun, picking it up with his left and firing, hitting Johan with a sleep dart, before collapsing to the ground himself.

When the Russian awoke, he found himself in UNCLE Medical, staring at the face of his partner. Napoleon was leaning on a pair of crutches.

"Hi there partner mine," he smiled.

"Hi...where is the dog?"

"That's all you have to say. No nice to see you Napoleon, how's your leg?"

"All right," he huffed," Yes it is good to see you and how is your leg."

"Not bad, I'll be on crutches for a few weeks, maybe a little less."

"Now, might you answer my question?"

"The dog is fine. I hear he saved your life."

"Yes he did. Did he miss his competition?"

"I am afraid so,"Alexander Waverly responded as he walked into the room. "He is, however, safe and sound with his owner. Pity though he didn't get to compete….perhaps there will be an opportunity next year."

"And Agent Simmons?"

"He's fine, just a mild concussion. Gentlemen, I have to commend you both for your handling of that nonsense on board your Swissair flight. I understand that Hans was quite the 'asset'...perhaps I can convince his owner to let him someday join the ranks of the UNCLE canine division."

"We have a canine division sir?" Napoleon looked perplexed.

"In theory, Mr. Solo. It would be nice to have a dog of Hans' caliber to be it's first member. Perhaps you'd care to be involved in the program Mr. Kuryakin, given you seem to have gotten over your fear of dogs."

Illya's eyes went wide. "No thank you sir. I am not exactly over my phobia. Hans is an exceptional animal, and I was able to work with him. I would like to limit that to my experience with dogs, if you do not mind?"

Waverly harumphed his answer, with a barely perceptible smile. "Well get well quickly gentlemen as I have several assignments awaiting your attention." He turned, leaving without saying another word.

"Still chicken when it comes to dogs huh?" Napoleon jabbed.

"You already know the answer to that, so give it a rest. It is what we should both be doing...resting and recovering, that is."

Napoleon crinkled his nose at the rebuff. "Woof!" He said to his partner, just to rub it in.

"My friend, keep that up and next time we are on a boat, I will push you overboard," he threatened, knowing of Solo's fear of water.

"You wouldn't...would you tovarisch?"

"Try me…" Illya smiled wickedly.

.

Finis