It was not quite five-thirty when Ceala arrived at the Visitors Receiving entrance of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

The woman behind the desk looked up at Ceala and smiled. "May I help you?"

"Yes, you may. I would like to speak with Mr. Kuryakin."

"Did you have an appointment?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Let me see if he is available." The woman gave her a curt professional smile. "Can I tell him the nature of your business, Miss...?"

"Kavanagh. Just tell him Ceala Kavanagh would like to speak to him. The 'nature' of our business is personal."

She saw a fleeting look pass across the woman's face, disapproval or perhaps disappointment. It was hard to say. She was aware more than a few of the women here had entertained the idea of personal business with the quiet reserved Russian. "Wuthering Heights syndrome" Lisa Rodgers had dubbed it. Perfectly normal, intelligent women, abandoning their better judgement after one look from those haunted blue eyes.

"Sir." Ceala couldn't help noticing the note of reverence that had crept into the young woman's voice as she addressed Kuryakin. "A Miss Kavanagh is here to see you. Yes, yes Mr. Kuryakin, I'll tell her."

"Mr. Kuryakin is sorry but he won't be able to see you. He's in the middle of some important case work."

"I see," Ceala responded coolly. "Tell Mr. Kuryakin I'm not in any hurry. I'll just wait down here until he's finished with his important casework."

The receptionist looked nervous; this apparently wasn't a message the young woman wanted to relay to her boss.

"She said she will wait until you're finished, sir."

Dr. Anderson poured a glass of Dubonet over ice, and took a seat at the conference table.

"So how did the second treatment go?" the whitehaired man seated across from him asked smiling.

"Wonderful. If he keeps progressing at this rate, I think we can have him ready within the week."

"I have to admit Harlan, I had my doubts about this operation. Especially after that damn lawyer started questioning the paperwork. But then to have Napoleon Solo literally fall into our hands. This is going to be the end of U.N.C.L.E. New York and my ticket onto the board of Thrush Central. And Harlan, I'm not going to forget the people responsible for that ticket."

"To managed care!" he laughed as he raised his glass.

Kuryakin reread the last two faxes before adding them to the folder. Both specialists in Switzerland concurred with the prognosis from Oasis. There were no conventional treatments for the type of tumor afflicting his partner. He shut down his computer and checked his watch. Seven o'clock. He punched in the numbers for the desk in Visitor Receiving.

"Janice, Kuryakin here. Is the young lady still waiting?" He sighed deeply. It was a rhetorical question of course. Ceala Kavanagh was the most stubborn human being he'd ever encountered. He had no doubt she would remain in the lobby all night if necessary.

"Ask her if she's had dinner." Using the refection of the window behind his desk as an ersatz mirror he straightened his tie and combed his fingers through his hair.

"Good. Tell her I'm on my way down."

He caught sight of her across the lobby as he exited the elevator. The burning knot of pain in his stomach returned. There was no doubt in his mind as to why she had come here.

"I was about to get some dinner-would you care to join me?" She looked up from her newspaper unsmiling.

"I didn't come for a dinner date," she responded sharply as she refolded the newspaper.

"Well, I haven't eaten all day. I'm going out for some dinner, as I said you would be quite welcome to join me." He walked past her toward the atrium entryway. He placed his hand on the door and turned his gaze back toward her. "Are you coming?"

She hesitated a moment then scrambled quickly after him.

The silence between them was excruciating. It reminded him of that fraction of a second between being hit by a bullet and the explosion of pain which inexorably followed. It was the waiting, the wondering. How much pain? How badly am I hurt? He had been before a firing squad in South America once, the feelings had been similar. Napoleon had rescued him that time, though he had certainly waited until the last possible moment. He had welcomed his partner with an unmerciful diatribe on the virtue of timeliness and had forgotten to thank the man for saving his life.

"Do you realize Napoleon is seriously ill?" She had affected a sharp tone, but it didn't disguise the trembling in her voice. He could hear the voice of the commander of the firing squad barking orders to his men: "Ready!"

"Yes, Ceala. I understand Napoleon is ill," he answered gripping the wheel of the car, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

"But you haven't been to see him, or taken the time to call him?" The cool veneer was dissolving quickly: "Aim!"

"I've had work to finish," he responded defensively. At least the commander of the firing squad had the good grace to offer him a blindfold. Ceala Kavanagh was apparently not a signatory to the Geneva Convention.

"He might die, Illya!"

"Fire!" Her marksmanship profoundly exquisite, a direct shot to the heart. She was crying now and he pulled the car over into a vacant parking spot.

"I'm painfully aware of that possibility." He stared straight ahead into the darkness afraid to speak, terrified of what might happen if he christened this dread within him. If he gave it name and form it would rise up and destroy him.

"I'm afraid," he whispered.

"I know."

"He's never afraid. It's a facet of his personality I've always found particularly irritating. I just don't know what to do for him."

"He doesn't need for you to do anything for him. He just needs you to be there."

"I've not been much of a success at being there for people, have I?"

"I know you do the best you can."

"I don't know if I'm up to facing a restaurant filled with people right now." He leaned his head against the steering wheel.

"Would you like to come to my place and order in some Chinese food?

He nodded silently and restarted the car.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. It's no trouble. My work is all caught up."

There was a knock at the door and he fished in his pocket for his wallet which he tossed to Ceala.

"No, I haven't done any of your paperwork. You can do it when you come back. Well, if you would finish the paperwork when you close out the case it wouldn't be all backed up would it?" Ceala took some money from the wallet and paid the delivery boy. "I'd better go, your namesake is stalking my dinner." he snatched an oven mitt from the counter and launched it at the prowling cat, who ducked the airborne attack and continued his scrutiny of the white bags.

"I'm sorry about the last few days..." He lowered his voice. "I know, but I'm still sorry. I'll see you tomorrow."

Kuryakin chased the cat off his chair and sat down at the table. Smelling the food made him realize how hungry he was and he tore through dinner without much conversation. It was almost nine when he had settled himself on the couch. Ceala produced a frosted bottle of lemon vodka and two glasses.

"I'm sorry, about last time. I said things I didn't mean."

"I know," she whispered. "I got a few hits in myself."

"Are we still friends?" he asked.

"Yes." She reached across the couch and took his hand.

"Are we more than friends?"

"I honestly don't know. I don't think it's supposed to be this hard."

She reached into the white bag and handed him one of the fortune cookies.

Kuryakin broke open the cookie and popped the two halves into his mouth before reading the fortune inside.

"What does it say?" she asked as she opened her own cookie.

"Beware of being deceived by how things may appear." He regarded the tiny slip of paper with a puzzled smile. "What does yours say?"

She unfolded the paper and read. "Love is the truth that can never be denied."