Nurse Caulfield jerked her head towards Exam Room 2.

"The only thing worse than an angry Russian…"

"Is an injured Russian." The second nurse shrugged her shoulders as she submitted to her task of tending to that injured Russian. Illya Kuryakin was hurting, his hair was matted with blood and he didn't think a good cleaning job would take care of the condition of his suit. He should have worn the jeans and …

"Mr. Kuryakin, what have we done today?" Illya recoiled at Nurse Greene's use of the that inclusive phrasing.

"I cannot vouch for your activities. Mine, on the other hand, included a seemingly obvious encounter with …' He stopped. It was exhausting at time trying to himself. Nurse Greene, Irma he recalled, was looking at him with that expression he so often saw on the faces of other people; the people he was trying to intimidate.

"I apologize. My head hurts, and …" She looked at him with a recognizable expression: compassion.

"I imagine it does. The blood in your hair; yours?" Illya nodded. He was suddenly aware of how white everything was. White walls, white cabinets, white clothed nurse. The whole of it started moving in a swirl as his eyes rolled upwards to the white ceiling.

Thud!

Irma Green started shouting as she flung the door open.

"Hey, I need some help in here. Agent down!"

When Illya Kuryakin awoke, he was lying down on the exam table. Someone had removed his jacket and shirt so that his bruised torso was exposed for examination. He felt a pair of hands on his head before he saw the nurse pick up a pair of clippers and hand them to whoever was fiddling with his hair.

"Ouch." It was an involuntary yelp.

"Yeah, I bet it hurts." It was Doctor Wells, someone Illya knew better than he would have liked.

"Illya, this cut needs stitches and I don't see any other way of doing it except…' He sighed, dreading the reaction of the long-haired agent.

"We need to shave around it in order to do the stitches." Wells waited, looking sideways at Nurse Greene as she held the clippers in a tight grip.

Illya was tired. The last month had been non-stop for him and his partner. They had been in five different countries over three continents, been blown up, beat up and generally mistreated by the enemy and one particularly irate shopkeeper.

"Shave it off. I don't care, just … do what needs to be done.'' Doctor and nurse alike were stunned, and simultaneously concerned. Kuryakin rarely submitted to anything without first lecturing, or scorning its necessity.

"Are you sure? We could just shave around it." That caused Illya to look up and smile.

"Very funny. Can you imagine what a bald spot in the middle of my hair would look like. No THRUSH goon worth his salt would take me seriously.' The other two had to smile now, the point taken.

''Just cut it all off and do what you need to do."

Napoleon had met with April and Mark again, filling them in on the strategy he was planning to use once they arrived at their destination. Club de Vacances was a French owned enterprise that catered to well to do clients in search of privacy as they spent days in luxurious pampering. The setting was ideal for romance, so that couples as well as those seeking romance were catered to by the social activities included in the unique vacation package.

As the three sat huddled over maps and photos of the facility, Illya pushed through the door and into the room. April looked up first, gasping at the sight of a newly shorn Illya.

"What's wrong?" Napoleon caught April's intake of breath and looked up to see his partner.

"Illya?"

"Did you take me for someone else?" The deadpan expression betrayed nothing. He was dressed now in jeans and a tee shirt, his tattered suit and turtleneck long gone. He was wearing leather flip flops, already looking as though on vacation.

"What happened to your hair?" Now Mark chimed in. Looking at Illya dressed like he was, his hair cropped close, he was reminded of an actor from back in the U.K. He couldn't recall his name…

"I needed stitches, and it seemed unlikely that a shaved spot on my head would carry with it the sort of image we're after on this affair."

Napoleon was incredulous. The hair was a, a thing… a real thing.

"So they shaved your head?" Illya nodded. He looked even younger now, thinner and slightly gaunt. A new angle to this mission suddenly popped into Napoleon's mind.

"Yeah, yeah… I get it. Say, what if we use this to our advantage. Illya, how would you like to be recovering from something and therefore on this vacation, in need of respite? That would sort of take you off of their radar, give you more freedom to snoop around. They wouldn't be watching as closely as they will, well… me."

Everyone silently agreed that it was a good plan. Illya's misfortune could be turned into an asset on this mission.