The words 'drowned cat' spring to mind. Yes, he knows it should be drowned rat, but this is no rat. He's small, yes, but not a rat. A cat. Definitely a cat.

If he hadn't already heard of this man's reputation he would have doubted his credentials. But in this business bulk isn't everything. He's heard that Illya Kuryakin is a gymnast, a linguist, a physicist, a musician, a sharp shooter, an expert in the Eastern martial arts as well as more blunt Western disciplines. And it's not just word of mouth. He's read the reports, seen the testimonials. Still, he hadn't expected him to be quite this small and slim. A university lecturer down on his luck; that he could believe with his eyes. But the man crumpled on the ground before him is a lethal weapon.

He doesn't bother trying to talk to him because it's obvious he's unconscious. He makes a brief check that there aren't any obvious breaks, but there isn't much more he can do. His arm looks broken, but that's all he can tell for now. He can't x-ray him on the spot to check for spinal injuries, and he has to get him out of here one way or another. So he stoops down in the pouring rain and hefts the man up over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.

By god, he's dense. He might not be tall, but he must make up for that in the density of his muscle. He stands for a moment, getting his balance, then he starts to walk out of this foetid back alley where he found this poor creature, this poor drowned cat. There aren't many safe places around here but he can get him to the one place they will be safe. Or safer, at least.

The little hotel room is the safest place he has, but he can't carry him in through the front door, soaked to the skin, white shirt crimson with blood. It's a hard job getting an unconscious, rain sodden, injured agent in through a second floor window, especially when the damn rain won't stop coming down, but he has to do it. He's never exactly loved shinning up drainpipes, but he has to do it, and then come down again with a rope, and then go up again, and then haul the agent up and up the brick building side, wincing as he bumps and swings, gasping as he pulls him in over the sill.

The man stirs and says something, but it's not English. It must be Russian. Russian has never been his strong point. The grammar is hellish.

'Aren't you supposed to be a linguist?' Napoleon mutters, but that's not really fair. The man is hardly conscious. He probably doesn't even know where he is; and if he did know where he was he wouldn't try English first.

He drops the man on the bed like a sack of potatoes, only remembering seconds later that he will get blood on the sheets, and then the blood will have to be explained to the landlady, and – Hell. He will have some scrubbing to do in the washbasin, he supposes. At least this little room has a washbasin, even if the toilet is down the hall.

'Well,' he says dryly, looking down at the man. 'Good evening, Tovarisch Kuryakin. Nice to meet you.'

The man groans. For a moment Napoleon just stands, watching him, but he doesn't wake up. There's a nasty bruise on the side of his head. Outside, the rain is pouring down, spattering against the window every time the wind blows, hissing onto the streets. It will be a miracle if this little Russian hasn't caught pneumonia.

Napoleon gets a towel and starts to buff at the agent's hair, then wipes his face. He's only in slacks and a tieless shirt and his skin is cold to the touch. Napoleon puts his hands on the buttons of the shirt, meaning to strip off the wet garment. Then there is a hand at his throat, blue eyes glaring at him, and the agent is saying something in Russian that Napoleon doesn't understand.

'Hey,' Napoleon says very gently.

He touches his hand over the agent's wrist, but doesn't press. Where those fingers are they could crush his windpipe in a moment, and he doesn't doubt Kuryakin knows how to do it.

'I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent,' he says very calmly. 'I am your contact for this mission. And I'd rather come out of it alive, thank you very much.'

The fingers hesitate on his throat. The eyes carry on looking at him, unwavering. Then the hand drops suddenly. The agent closes his eyes momentarily, and groans.

'My arm,' he says in English.

'Yeah,' Napoleon says.

He noticed that while the man struck like a snake with his left hand – and he knows that Agent Kuryakin is right handed – his other arm stayed very still at his side.

'Yeah,' Napoleon says again, going back to his work of undoing the buttons. 'Your arm, and your ribs, I think, going by those bruises. Anything else? Kidneys okay?'

The man's eyes cloud for a moment.

'I think so,' he says, and Napoleon can hear the accent there, in the way he pronounces think. The man is Cambridge educated, he knows, and that comes through in his accent too, but there's definitely some Russian still left in there.

'I'd offer you some vodka, but I don't have any,' Napoleon tells him. 'No, don't sit up,' he interjects, as the agent starts to struggle upwards. 'Really, there's no need – '

But the Russian is sitting now, swinging his legs down over the edge of the bed, looking down at his torso to assess the damage himself. Some of the bruise marks are in the shape of a boot.

He moves his right arm with great care, getting it onto his lap, cradling it with his other arm. The break is obvious. No man's arm should bend like that.

'I would take a brandy,' he says.

'I don't have any of that, either,' Napoleon says dryly.

The agent nods stoically.

'I'll leave the shirt on,' he says. 'It will dry faster.'

'Where's the blood coming from?' Napoleon asks.

'Knife wound,' Kuryakin tells him. 'Right side.'

Napoleon sighs.

'The shirt is coming off,' he says. 'I'm sorry, Tovarisch Kuryakin, but it's coming off. I want to get a better look at that arm, and you can't wear a shirt that's soaked in blood. We'd be picked up immediately if anyone saw you.'

For a moment the look in the man's eyes is mutinous, but then he gives a little nod. He sits there while Napoleon gets the medical kit out from his suitcase and carefully cuts the shirt from his body, trying to minimise disturbing the arm as much as he can.

'They really gave you a pasting,' Napoleon murmurs.

The knife wound will need stitches, and the forearm makes him nauseated to look on. The bones aren't through the skin, at least, but it's a nasty break.

'That needs setting,' Napoleon tells him.

'I look forward to having a medical professional do that,' Kuryakin says pointedly.

Napoleon sighs. The man is right, but he wishes he could do something. Instead, he starts to tend to the cuts he can see, closing the worst knife wound as far as he can with adhesive strips. He can't do much about the bruises and the only thing he can do for the break is a sling. First, though, he has to get one of his own shirts onto the man, and his face goes very grey as Napoleon eases the sleeve up over the arm.

'Okay,' he murmurs as he gets the sling under the man's arm. 'Okay. And round like this…'

He looks up just in time to see that the colour of the agent's face has gone from grey to white. Kuryakin is close to fainting.

'All right,' he says, helping him lie down again.

He finishes tying the sling as soon as he is level, making sure the arm is well supported. The man's hand is puffy and discoloured and Napoleon is worried about damage to the nerves, but there's nothing he can do about that.

After a moment a little colour comes back into Kuryakin's face, and his breathing evens out.

'I can't give you any brandy,' Napoleon says. 'How about codeine?'

The man looks at him, and although his expression is completely deadpan, there's a kind of spark in his eyes.

'Do you have an aspirin?' he asks.

'I'll give you codeine,' Napoleon says with a nod.

For a while after he takes the pills the agent is quiet. He just lies there on the bed with his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Napoleon moves around the room, hanging up his coat, drying his hair off with a towel, checking his clothes. In the end he changes everything, because the hotel staff should have no idea he's been out of his room at all this evening. He puts his wallet in his pocket, and touches the agent on his good arm, saying quietly, 'I'm running downstairs for a moment. Don't open the door to anyone.'

Kuryakin opens one eye, then the other, and then nods.

((O))

Downstairs, Napoleon acts the American tourist as he does so often. He stops before he reaches crassness. He doesn't want to draw too much attention to himself. But he goes into the bar and leans on the counter, and blithely asks for a bottle of cheap brandy to take up to the room, and can he have some sandwiches, because he's half starved tonight. It's the young woman on duty tonight, the soft-eyed one who always gives him larger measures, and he flirts and gets exactly what he wants. He wouldn't mind bringing her back to his room too, if it weren't for the drowned cat on his bed.

What a strange man he is. He thinks about him as he walks back up the stairs to his room. Such a slight little thing, but by god, he felt the strength of him in that grip on his throat. He'll probably have bruises in the morning. By all accounts the man is some kind of a savant, a genius. Napoleon is by no means stupid himself, but he feels a little discomforted in the presence of a man with such intelligence. Men like that are always hard to relate to, and they'll need to work as a team to get out of here.

((O))

The man doesn't even open his eyes when Napoleon comes back into the room, but it's obvious he knows who it is coming in. There's something in the lines of his body. He knows.

Napoleon sets the bottle down on the dresser and says casually, 'I guess you're hungry?'

His eyes open instantly. Napoleon brings the plate over and puts it down by the bed.

'Need help to sit up?'

'No, thank you,' the agent says, but his face goes white again as he starts to push himself up, and Napoleon puts a hand under his arm to help him.

'Thank you,' the Russian says as soon as he's up, with that little hint of an accent again, and Napoleon puts the plate on his lap.

'Here,' Napoleon says, pouring him a drink. 'Here's your brandy.'

'Ahh,' Kuryakin says, and Napoleon sees that light in his eyes again. He must be in a lot of pain. His hand, poking out of the sling, looks grotesque.

Napoleon gives him enough time to eat a couple of the sandwiches, then asks him, 'What happened?'

The agent gives a short laugh.

'I was discovered,' he says briefly, before picking up another sandwich.

Napoleon tries not to sound exasperated.

'I guessed that. Care to share more of the details? We still need to get out of here alive.'

The man grunts around his food, then takes another sip of the brandy.

'I got into the building, I found the safe. I was just about to help myself to the contents when a cat wandered in – '

'A cat?' Napoleon echoes.

'A common or garden pussy cat came into the room. And then a guard. I tried to make myself one with the wall, but I failed,' he says grimly. 'So, I ran.'

Without that broken arm he probably would have shrugged at those words. As it is, he keeps his shoulders quite still.

'You ran,' Napoleon nods. 'But you didn't get those bruises from running.'

'No, I did not get those bruises from running,' Kuryakin nods. 'They caught up with me near the door and set on me. They didn't want to shoot me. A man beaten up in the street for his wallet leaves less suspicion. So they gave me quite a beating. I thought it best to play dead.'

'You're lucky you didn't get a step further than playing dead,' Napoleon tells him.

'It was a risk I had to take. When they had left, I ran again.'

'With that arm?' Napoleon asks him, raising his eyebrows.

'It was that or die. I dodged into traffic and caught onto the back of a truck for a couple of streets, but – I couldn't hold on.' It seems to pain him to admit that. 'I rolled off into the traffic and got myself into that side street, where I activated my emergency beacon. I suppose I must have passed out then.'

'I suppose you must have,' Napoleon says, but he is impressed. That's a lot to do with a broken arm and broken ribs.

'And you carried me back here,' Kuryakin says, enquiringly.

'Yes, I carried you back here and hauled you up the side of the building. No one knows you're here.'

There's a look in the agent's eyes at that, as if he, in turn, is impressed at Napoleon. Perhaps in acknowledgement of this he thinks to lift the plate and ask, 'Would you like a sandwich?'

Napoleon smiles. 'No, thank you,' he says. 'I ate earlier.'

'Ah,' Kuryakin nods, and falls to again.

'When did you last eat?' Napoleon asks, feeling a little amused.

'About six,' he says. 'But being pounded like mincemeat always gives me an appetite.'

((O))

He watches the man while he sleeps. Waverly has been making noises about partnering him with the new Russian star, so he's intrigued. This man would intrigue him regardless of the threat of being assigned a permanent partner, because he is just fascinating. How did this little scientist become an agent? And a damn good agent, it seems, even if it didn't turn out so well this time. Every agent has bad days.

He wishes he could do something about that arm. Even in sleep, he can see that it's bothering the man. Whenever he moves he winces and grimaces, and comes very close to waking. Like many agents, though, he seems to have trained himself to be able to sleep through almost anything. Napoleon is sure he would come awake at the first sign of trouble, but there's no trouble here right now, so he's letting the painkillers and the brandy do their job, and getting his rest while he can.

He wonders idly about leaving him and going back to see if he can finish the job that Kuryakin failed at. That would be madness, though. The place will be swarming with Thrushies. Their only job now is to get out. His job is to get this man out alive.

Eventually Napoleon drops off too, in a mean little armchair near the bed. He would have preferred to use the bed himself but he has no problem with letting this injured man get the rest he so needs. He sleeps lightly, his hand resting against his holster, ready for trouble. There's no real reason why Thrush should track them down to here, but you never know.

((O))

'Okay,' he says in the morning. 'We need to get you out of this place today, and we need to make sure no one sees you. Can you climb out of the window with those injuries?'

Kuryakin looks over at the window. For a moment he looks very tired, but then he nods.

'Yes, of course,' he says.

Napoleon isn't sure. He doesn't want to show he doubts the man, but he's afraid he won't make it.

'I can rope you up,' he offers. 'To give you a little help.'

'I prefer to fall than to dangle like a spider from a web,' Kuryakin says darkly.

Napoleon sighs. Maybe it was a good thing the man was unconscious when he hauled him up last night. He busies himself with making sure his suitcase is neatly packed, the tell tale bloody shirt stuffed in amongst the dirty clothes, and he gives Kuryakin one of his jackets. God knows where the man's own jacket went. He was just in shirt and slacks when he found him in the alley. The jacket is a little big but maybe that's good. It buttons well enough over that arm.

'You're sure you can climb?' he asks.

Kuryakin is sitting up now, his face drawn, but determined.

'I can climb,' he nods. 'Close the window after me, and meet me in the street below.'

So, Napoleon leaves him to it. The rain is still coming down steadily, and the entire city looks grey. He fears for this agent's grip on the cast iron drainpipe, in such wet. But somehow he manages it, using one arm and both legs to move himself downwards. A gymnast, Napoleon thinks to himself. He waits just a moment, until Kuryakin is at a safe height, and then shuts the window after him.

Checking out only takes a few minutes, then he's round at the side of the building. Kuryakin is leaning against the wall, somehow managing to blend in. He looks nonchalant, but when Napoleon gets closer he sees his lips are bitten in and his face is grey.

'You're sure you can manage?' Napoleon asks.

'I can manage,' Kuryakin retorts, his voice clipped and irritated. 'Please stop asking me. I will let you know if I can't.'

By fainting, probably, Napoleon thinks. He's not sure the man would admit defeat until unconsciousness made it impossible to do anything else.

'We need to get to the train line,' Napoleon says. 'It's the only way out of the country.'

'Yes, of course,' Kuryakin mutters. He looks down at himself, coatless, wearing Napoleon's jacket which is getting soaked in the steadily falling rain, his broken arm a lump underneath. 'We might be rather conspicuous, don't you think?'

'Not much we can do about that,' Napoleon shrugs. 'You think you can hop a freight car with me?'

'I got out of the window, didn't I?' Kuryakin asks.

((O))

In the freight car, the Russian looks very small and inconsequential again. It was ridiculously easy to get onto the train, slipping into the engine yard, finding a likely wagon, and getting up through the high door. In the rain everyone becomes less observant. Napoleon has honed his own observation skills for times like this. When everyone else is walking head down, he sees twice as much.

'We'll be all right until we get to the border,' Napoleon comments. He feels happy speaking at normal volume because the noise of the rain is covering everything.

Kuryakin is sitting down, leaning against the wall of the car. When Napoleon speaks he opens his eyes.

'We'll have to get out at the points. Walk across ourselves,' he says. 'It will be dark then, and the border guards will be focussed on the train.'

'If we're caught – ' Napoleon begins.

'If we're caught, we will both forfeit our lives,' Kuryakin cuts across him. 'A good incentive to not get caught, yes?'

In the dim light of the car Napoleon sees a flashing smile. He likes this little man, for all his curtness.

'Alexander Waverly is talking about partnering us together,' he comments in a casual tone.

'Really? I have never yet worked with a permanent partner,' Kuryakin replies.

'No, neither have I,' Napoleon responds.

A train whistle suddenly shrills, and the soft hissing of the engine grows to a more robust sound. The car lurches, and Napoleon just catches the pained noise from the Russian as his body is jerked against the wooden boards.

'Can I do something about that arm?' he asks.

'Do you have any more of that brandy?' Kuryakin replies.

Napoleon opens his case and feels about it in the semi-darkness.

'Here,' he says, handing it over. 'I've loosened the lid.'

He smells the scent of the drink, sees a little flash of light on the bottle as Kuryakin lifts it to his mouth.

'Thank you,' the man says, handing the bottle back. 'I won't have too much, but a little helps.'

'More codeine?' Napoleon asks, and Kuryakin graciously accepts.

((O))

An hour later, and the movement of the car has almost lulled Napoleon to sleep. The squealing of the wheels brings him back to reality, and he blinks, aware that the train has slowed. Then Kuryakin is saying in an urgent voice, 'Give me that brandy. Get under the sacks.'

Napoleon doesn't argue. He has known this man for less than a day, but he knows that tone. He does as he is ordered, diving under the scattered sacks that are enough to hide one man, but not to hide two. A moment later a solid weight descends on him. If he could breathe, he would be tempted to laugh. Kuryakin is sitting on top of him.

He lies there motionless, listening. There is banging outside. Then the door to the car is being hauled open. A man barks something. Napoleon feels Kuryakin's hand briefly against his shoulder, through the sacking, warning him to be still. It's a warm, solid touch.

There is a thick scent of the brandy in the air, and Kuryakin is speaking, apparently flawless in this country's language, while managing to sound like a consummate drunk. There is laughter. There are heavy footsteps on the boards. Kuryakin lolls on top of him, talking still. Then the footsteps move away, and the door closes again.

Napoleon lies still, until Kuryakin says, 'Comfortable as you are to sit on, you can come out now.'

He moves, and Napoleon squirms out. It's almost too dark to see. The rain is still drumming down on the roof of the car, and the train is starting to move again.

'I'm afraid I had to pay them in brandy,' Kuryakin tells him. 'But they took me for a drunk riding the rails, nothing more.'

'You did that well,' Napoleon says, not trying to hide the admiration in his tone. 'I thought we were done for.'

'I did what I had to do,' Kuryakin replies. 'I'm glad you trusted me.'

Perhaps this will work, Napoleon thinks. He has always been resistant to having a partner, to trusting his life to another man. But he trusted Kuryakin without a moment's thought. That is the kind of partner he needs.

'You can call me Napoleon, by the way,' Napoleon tells him.

'Napoleon,' Kuryakin says, as if tasting the word in his mouth. He sounds almost amused. A moment passes, and then he says, 'Illya.'

Napoleon grins. 'I'm very glad to meet you, Illya.'

'It is Eel-ya,' Kuryakin corrects him.

'Ill-i-a,' Napoleon says again, and Kuryakin sighs.

'I fail to understand why most Americans are incapable of reproducing two simple syllables,' he says.

Napoleon smiles in the darkness. He knows he will pronounce the name that way from here on in, and that Kuryakin will tolerate it despite himself.

'How's that arm?' he asks.

'Imagine you have spent a day and a night with a broken arm which has not been set, and you have climbed out of a window with that arm, walked with that arm, and sat in a train with that arm for hours,' Kuryakin tells him dryly.

'Ah, I get your point,' Napoleon nods. 'I'm sorry we don't have the brandy any more, but I do still have codeine.'

'It is too soon,' Kuryakin tells him. 'Much as I desire the pain relief I don't want an overdose. I need to be clear for the border.'

((O))

The train slows down well before the border, and halts with a hissing of steam and a squealing of the wheels on the wet rails. Napoleon pushes the wagon door open a little and looks into the overcast pre-dawn. The rain is still slipping down incessantly. It is as if the entire world is made of water. The entire world is grey.

'Okay, now,' he says to Kuryakin behind him, and jumps down.

He turns around in time to see Kuryakin jump, land, and give a muffled gasp of pain. His face goes the same grey as the sky. He resists asking him if he's all right. Of course he's not all right. Wordlessly he puts his hand under Kuryakin's good arm, just holding him for a moment until he moves away from the support.

'Can you walk?' he asks, because they need to move.

'Yes,' Kuryakin says shortly.

Napoleon pushes the wagon door closed. They slip down the banked up rubble that the track is built upon, and walk down near a mess of dirty, coal-blackened brambles and trees. It's good cover, at least. The rain keeps coming down, running over his face, dripping into his eyes. He listens to Kuryakin's footsteps behind him but doesn't look back.

'Getting close,' he murmurs after a little while.

The train has started moving again, coming in to the border checkpoint. It will be stopped there a while for the border guards to check everything. He can see guards there, flashing lights that make the dawn look darker, going up to the wagons and opening the doors.

'Ready?' he asks Kuryakin.

'Yes,' Kuryakin says, but his voice is tight with pain. If they have to run, he isn't sure the Russian will be able to.

Only a few hundred yards to go, and then a few hundred feet. There are so many people milling about, and the rain is acting as a distraction again, making them keep their heads down as they hurry to do their job fast. They have to get up close to the train again, to slip through right by the huge wheels of the engine, where steam is hissing out and mixing with the rain. They will have to be quick.

'You ready?' he asks Kuryakin again. Then he says, 'Go.'

They must not run now. They would be seen immediately. But they pick up their pace, walking with an official swiftness towards the engine. No one is looking their way. Twenty yards to go. Ten. They are going to make it.

Someone shouts out an order. Napoleon feels his spine stiffen. They are so close. Then, in looking over his shoulder, Kuryakin bumps his injured arm against a post on the track side. He drops like a sack of flour, slamming to the ground. Someone barks a sound of alarm.

Napoleon doesn't even think. He picks Kuryakin up and slings him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. He walks faster, without breaking into a run. The steam is billowing all around him and the rain is in his eyes, but he's so close. So close.

A shout again. Then a shot. It whistles so near that he can almost feel it pass his ear. Can he jog with this man over his shoulder? He supposes he will have to, so he jogs. There are guards on the other side, starting to challenge him, so he does the only thing he can, snapping out, 'U.N.C.L.E.. I'm with U.N.C.L.E., I've got an injured man.'

He keeps on running, trusting to something, to fate maybe, that this isn't his time to be killed. He gets around the corner of the closest building, out of the line of fire from the other side of the border. This country is a signatory to U.N.C.L.E.. If only he can get through to the right man, they will be all right.

'I am with the U.N.C.L.E.,' he says very clearly in German as the men catch up with him.

The rain is coming down just as hard on this side of the border, and the men's faces are hard to read in this half-light. He feels enormously tired.

He can feel Kuryakin stirring, still slung over his shoulder. Carefully, he lowers him to the ground, kneeling down, touching a hand to his pale face. He hates to think how much he must have hurt that arm, carrying him like that.

'Hey,' he says, patting the cheek a little. 'Kuryakin. Illya. We're across the border. Are you with me?'

The eyes open a little. Kuryakin's eyes wander, then fix on his face.

'We're all right,' Napoleon tells him. 'We're over the border. Go back to sleep now, if you want.'

There's a hand on his arm and he has to restrain himself from shaking it off.

'Let me show you my card,' he says.

He stands up, holding his arms away from his body.

'I have a revolver in a shoulder holster,' he says clearly. 'My U.N.C.L.E. identification is in my breast pocket.'

A different man pushes through the others. There's a look of authority to him. Someone retrieves the identification card and passes it to him.

'Ah, U.N.C.L.E.,' the man says with a nod, and Napoleon knows everything is going to be all right.

((O))

They don't see each other again for six months. After that dash across the border the police got involved, and then the local U.N.C.L.E. representatives, and then Kuryakin was taken off to hospital and Napoleon was recalled to New York. But six months later Napoleon is sitting in Waverly's office waiting to meet his new partner, and when the doors slide open, there is Illya Kuryakin. The arm is healed, the cuts and bruises are gone. He is clean and dry, slim and smart in a grey suit, white shirt, and neatly knotted tie. He comes in through the door as if he has been coming here every day, and puts a sheaf of documents down on the table.

'Ah, Napoleon,' he says with a nod of his head, and Napoleon's face breaks into a smile. It feels as if they have been doing this for years.

'Illya, it's good to see you again,' he says, and he really means it.