Napoleon was ready to leave at ten to track Sharif. Illya had taken over the surveillance so that Napoleon could get ready, and he listened to him moving about the bedroom, changing his clothes, putting the greasepaint tin into his pocket with a clink, checking his gun. Illya wished he could have his own gun with him. There was something so reassuring about the feeling of it at his side, not just to protect himself but anyone else who needed it.

Napoleon came softly over to him on rubber soled shoes and Illya grinned and murmured, 'Heard you. You'll have to do better than that.'

'I'm reckoning that Sharif and his cronies won't have your bat like ears, tovarisch,' Napoleon told him.

'Never count on that,' Illya said seriously, and Napoleon said, 'I won't.'

'Napoleon,' Illya said urgently, and he stood up with the earphones still on his head and took hold of Napoleon's shoulders, slipped his hands up to his neck, raked his fingers through his hair, and kissed him thoroughly. He smelt of Brylcreem and of soap instead of aftershave, and of warm skin recently wet, and Illya wanted to devour him.

'Wear t-shirts more often,' he said. He loved the feeling of the thin cotton over Napoleon's hard muscles. He loved the feeling of how the material of his jeans clung to his ass and hips. He nipped at Napoleon's shoulder through the t-shirt and pressed his hands hard against his shoulder blades.

'Mmm,' Napoleon said warmly, his hands on Illya's back, slipping down to clench on his ass, moving back up again to caress his face. 'Hold that thought, my dear. We will resume later.'

'I hope so,' Illya said fervently. Napoleon smelt so good and felt so good, he didn't want to ever let him go.

'We will,' Napoleon said, cupping his cheek. 'I know you won't be out there with me watching my back, but you'll be here listening. We need to break this link in the chain. I won't do anything until the Americans have gone, then I'll bring Sharif in. That way Michea and his cronies won't have any warning when they're taken at the airfield in Ireland by our men. And that's your doing, Illya. We wouldn't have known about that without your bug.'

'I know,' Illya said. He leant his forehead against Napoleon's, then touched a hand to his earphone and said, 'You'd better go. He's in the bathroom washing or something, no doubt getting ready to go out. You don't want to miss him.'

'I'm gone,' Napoleon said, and with a kiss to Illya's forehead and a ruffle of his hair, he left the room.

Illya sat down in his chair with a thump. He smoothed the hair that Napoleon had left all over the place, then he sighed and tuned the monitor to the sixth bug. Napoleon would have objected if he had known, so Illya had slipped it into his waistband not long before he had dressed. If Napoleon found it he would know who had put it there.

He could hear Napoleon's footsteps as he walked down the corridor, and then the sound of the elevator in motion. He visualised him standing there in his black clothes, leaning against the wall, looking suave, casual, looking perfect. Napoleon had always looked perfect. He wished he could see him now.

And then he stopped that sentimentality and turned to Sharif's bug, and then to Michea's. Michea's was almost dead silent. He rubbed his lip for a moment, concentrating. There was a slight hiss. It hadn't been destroyed; but perhaps Michea had simply changed his clothes. It was very likely that he would have changed out of his suit and into something else for this transaction. He switched back to Sharif's bug, and there was very little activity, just the sounds of him moving around his house. When he switched to the other bugs in his house he heard the sound from different angles.

And then there was the noise of a telephone dial being turned, and Illya stiffened. He put his fingers on the brailler and noted down the numbers that he thought were being dialled by the time it took the dial to return to rest each time. He couldn't always do that perfectly, but sometimes it worked.

Then Sharif spoke. 'Michea. Yes, I will be there on time. I want to confirm that you will be there also. You will have the money?'

He couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the phone. Sharif moved restlessly, his shoes shuffling on the floor.

'Yes, yes, of course I will have the merchandise. There will be just the two of you? Do you bring a truck? … Uh-huh. Yes, of course. Yes, we will manage to load it between us. There is a forklift. ... No, no security guard. … Yes, then I will see you there. … No, by foot. If the taxi driver takes me to that place at night he grows suspicious, yes? Yes, then I will see you there.'

And the phone receiver clattered back into its cradle.

Illya got out his communicator and said, 'Open channel D. Napoleon?'

'Illya,' Napoleon murmured almost instantly. 'What is it?'

'Just a phone call,' Illya said. 'From Sharif to Michea, confirming the rendezvous. I think I got Michea's number. Can't be sure it was correct. Sharif said he'll be going to the warehouse on foot.'

'Well, that makes following him easier, at least,' Napoleon murmured.

'Yes, but he may set out sooner,' Illya pointed out.

'All right, tovarisch. I'll hurry,' Napoleon promised. 'Anything else?'

Illya shook his head. 'Only that he essentially confirmed there will only be the three of them at the warehouse – provided that both sides are telling the truth.'

'Okay, thanks,' Napoleon said. 'I'd better go. Thanks, Illya.'

'No problem,' Illya murmured. He cut the connection then twisted the communicator again and requested a channel to New York.

'Good afternoon, Mr Kuryakin,' Waverly's voice replied, 'Or should I say good evening?'

'Oh, er, I meant to speak to someone in Information,' Illya said, slightly taken aback.

'I happened to be in Information at the time, Mr Kuryakin. What did you want?'

'I have a phone number to pass on, sir,' Illya said, reaching out to finger the paper he had typed it on. 'Mr Sharif used it to call his Thrush contacts.' He passed on the number then said, 'If it can be traced it might lead us to at least one of their bases.'

'How did you get this phone number, Mr Kuryakin?' Waverly asked curiously.

'I heard the man dial. With each number it takes a different amount of time for the dial to return to rest. I can't be certain it's correct but it's worth checking. If the numbers are wrong it might work to try them one to the left or the right.'

'Very well, Mr Kuryakin, I'll have it checked,' Waverly said. Illya idly switched between bugs with his left hand just to check he wasn't missing anything, then said, 'Thank you, sir.'

'I trust Mr Solo is looking after you?'

Illya smiled. Waverly could get away with saying things that he would accept from few others of his acquaintance. For all of his affected indifference to his agents' emotional lives, Waverly had been enormously supportive over the last two years, almost fatherly.

'Yes, Napoleon's looking after me very well,' he said.

'Good. Well, you seem to be getting on admirably. Most admirably,' Waverly said.

Illya smiled again. 'I'm doing what I can, sir. But I had better go. I'm monitoring the bugs.'

'Ah, of course,' Waverly said, and then he was gone.

Illya turned back to the bugs. He gave Michea's bug another check, but there was still just silence. Sharif's bug gave him sounds of footsteps, a few cars, but it was muffled by being in his wallet, and everything was overlain by a rustling sound that was probably his clothes moving as he walked. He flicked to Napoleon's bug and heard similar sounds. Footsteps. Cars. He flicked between the two and smiled. The sounds were similar enough to assure him that Napoleon was close behind Sharif. The bugs in Sharif's house would be useless now, so really he only needed to switch between Napoleon and Sharif. That made things more simple.

There was the sound of a large door being dragged open, the warehouse door, he assumed. He flicked to Napoleon's bug and heard the same thing. He wondered what Napoleon would do now, how he would slip in. If he had been there he would have scouted around the building quickly, on light feet. He would have looked for a side door or a window and slipped in there, climbed up the wall if he couldn't and got in through a skylight. He wished he were there. This was his type of job, not Napoleon's...

He quelled the small tightening of anxiety in his chest. Napoleon knew what he was doing. He was good at his job. He just didn't like not being there to pull him out of the fire if he needed it. For a reckless moment he wondered if he could go there, blind or not. But he wasn't a superhero. He was just a man. He knew his limitations.

He sighed and turned back to listening. There were muffled noises from Sharif's bug and clearer noises from Napoleon's, but as Napoleon was apparently climbing up the outside of the warehouse, going by his suppressed grunts, he turned back to Sharif's. He started the tape recorder going and laid his fingers on the keys of the brailler. The recording could be gone through with a fine tooth comb later, but he could relay his first impressions immediately to headquarters.

Sharif was talking with the Americans about the quantity and quality of the drugs he had. It was mostly cocaine, it seemed. The Americans were dubious over his assurances and wanted to test a random package. There was some shuffling and a quiet moment, and then the Americans seemed to agree that the stuff was good.

There was a noise from further away, and Illya held his breath.

'Rats,' Sharif said. 'This place ships grain.'

It was Napoleon, Illya was sure, but the Americans seemed satisfied, at least in their audible responses.

He switched to Napoleon's bug, and listened. There was almost no close noise at all, but he could hear the men talking not far away. Napoleon was in, and he had managed to get close to them. Now he just had to wait.

Illya continued to write up pertinent bits of information on the brailler until the conversation ended. Then there were the sounds of manual work, a fork lift truck moving, the grunts of lifting. They were loading the drugs into the Americans' truck. A few words were exchanged, then there was the sound of a rough diesel engine, which swiftly faded away. Sharif's footsteps moved across the floor. A door opened and closed.

Illya held his breath. He switched to Napoleon's bug, and listened. He heard a door opening again, then Napoleon said suddenly, 'All right, Sharif. That's enough.'

And then there were gunshots. Two, so blastingly loud in Illya's ears that he pulled the earphones away for a moment, swearing. Then he pressed them back on to his head, his heart clenching, and listened again. There was someone grunting in pain. It wasn't Napoleon, he was sure. It was Sharif. It didn't sound like Napoleon. But Napoleon was silent, and Illya's heartbeat quickened. He half rose to his feet, but what could he do? He sat down again, fiddling with the communicator pen in his pocket. He didn't want to call Napoleon and distract him. But after a few minutes where he could only hear the sound of Sharif's groans and no sound from Napoleon, he pulled out the communicator and opened a channel.

'Napoleon,' he called. 'Napoleon, answer me.' He waited. He could hear Napoleon's communicator trilling through the bug. 'Napoleon!' he tried again.

There was no reply from Napoleon. But then there was a shuffling noise, a grunting, and Illya listened intently. And then suddenly a rustling of clothing, and then the channel was open. The near silence continued, and Illya said, 'Napoleon! Napoleon, answer me. Now. Come on!'

And then a voice, but it wasn't Napoleon's.

'Who is this? What is this?'

It was Sharif. Illya took in a deep breath.

'I am an agent for the U.N.C.L.E.,' he said with a calm he did not feel.

'I'm bleeding,' the man said. He sounded dazed. 'I'm bleeding to death. I'm – '

'What about Napoleon?' Illya asked, his voice almost cracking. He steadied himself. 'The man with you. Is he dead?'

'The man – No. No, not dead. No. I think – How do you say? He is asleep. I'm bleeding...'

'Where are you?' Illya asked urgently. 'Mr Sharif, where are you?'

'Oh – I – I – '

'If you tell me where you are, I can get medical help to you,' Illya said very clearly. And to Napoleon, he thought. Please, Napoleon, be all right…

'Warehouse,' the man said. 'I'm in the warehouse.'

'But where is the – ' Illya began furiously, almost swearing. He caught himself and said more calmly, 'Give me the address of the warehouse.'

'Address...' The man seemed to be fading fast, but then he started murmuring out a street name, then he said, 'Grain warehouse. The grain warehouse. Biggest...'

His voice trailed away. Illya cursed and shoved his communicator open in his pocket and groped out for his cane. His fingers touched it where it was leaning against the table and it clattered onto the floor. Cursing, he knelt and swept his hands over the carpet until he found it, then he made his way as fast as he could to the beds, and plucked his wallet and room key from the drawer in the night stand. He felt feverishly in Napoleon's suitcase until he found the emergency medical kit, grabbed it, and made for the door.

One, two, three, four, five, six doors, and then the elevator. He jabbed at the button furiously, then pressed his ear against the doors, listening for the sound of the cables moving. He could hear it. He could hear it coming. It was so slow, so damn slow. But then the doors slid open and he stumbled into the space, lashing the cane out before him. It hit something and someone cried out in alarm, and he took a sudden step back.

'Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry,' he panted. 'But this is an emergency. Please, hit one for me. Floor one.'

'Mr Kuryakin? Mr Kuryakin, whatever is wrong?'

Illya snapped his face towards the man. 'Is that Dr Bruner?'

'Yes. Yes, it is. Mr Kuryakin – ?'

He realised the elevator was still standing motionless. 'Please, hit one,' he begged, fumbling for his wallet. The elevator began to move, and he sighed his relief. He opened his wallet and felt through it. The notes were in there in little Braille-marked clips, separating the different denominations. Then in the pockets there were a number of cards. He slipped his fingers over the top one and felt his name and UNCLE in Braille dots. Sarah had applied that for him so he could identify it easily. He pulled it out of his wallet and held it out.

'Dr Bruner, I am an agent for the U.N.C.L.E.. I need your help.'

'The U.N.C.L.E.?' the man asked confusedly. 'But what is this?'

Illya hissed in annoyance. 'Dr Bruner, it is a law enforcement agency. My partner, Mr Solo, is lying injured somewhere out there, and I must get to him. Please.'

There was a silence that seemed to last forever, then Dr Bruner said, 'I – have heard of the organisation, of course. It merely takes me by surprise that – '

'That a blind man is an U.N.C.L.E. agent?' Illya's chuckle was icy. 'Doctor, I had acid thrown into my face on a mission two years ago. I was an active agent up until that point. I am here only to help with surveillance and with the grace of my superior. Now, please.'

The elevator doors slipped open and Illya made for them.

'Now, wait a moment, take my arm,' the doctor said quickly, coming to his side. Illya took it impatiently, but he didn't want to be guided. He wanted to just go. 'Mr Kuryakin, if your partner is injured surely we must call an ambulance?'

Illya almost groaned. How hard it was to explain to people outside of the profession.

'This is a covert assignment, doctor. I just need you to help me get a cab.'

'And then you will find him, alone?' But the doctor was moving across the lobby now, and for that Illya was grateful. 'Mr Kuryakin, forgive me, but you are blind. I understand how little sight you must have. Light perception. No more. What will you do when you get there?'

'I – ' He didn't know. What could he do? He could have screamed with frustration. More than anything else in the world right now, he needed to see.

'I will come with you,' Dr Bruner said firmly. 'Now, here is the counter of the reception,' he said as Illya's cane clattered into something solid. A bell dinged, and then Dr Bruner said, 'We need a cab, immediately. This is a medical emergency.'

The time it took for the cab to get there felt like years, but it must in actuality have been very quick. Then Illya found himself in the back of the vehicle with Dr Bruner beside him, giving his vague address to a bemused driver. It must have worked somehow, though, because soon the cab was speeding through the streets and Illya realised he was pressing his foot onto the floor as if he were stamping on the gas.

'I think we're nearing the area, Mr Kuryakin,' Dr Bruner said, putting a hand on his arm. 'Don't worry. We'll find your friend.'

'I hope so,' Illya said quietly. Visions of Napoleon dead on the floor spun through his mind. He thought of reaching out and touching his face and finding it still and cooling, no breath coming from between his lips. That couldn't happen. He couldn't allow that to happen.

The cab stopped, and he jerked forward, almost hitting the seat in front.

'What is it?' he asked.

'I think we're here,' the doctor said, then he asked, 'There's a grain warehouse. Which one is it?'

The cab driver replied, but Illya was already getting out of the cab. He stood there with his palm hard on the cool metal of the door, then suddenly remembered he needed to pay the driver. He leant back in and said, 'Please, will you wait? I'll pay you very well.'

There was a slight hesitation, so Illya pulled out his wallet and fumbled for a note. He didn't really care which kind it was. He held it out to the driver and said, 'Take this. And then you wait. All right?' Then he said, 'Dr Bruner, please – '

The doctor came to him quickly and Illya took his arm. This was so frustrating. He wanted to be running, searching, getting to Napoleon as fast as he could. He was trying to hold his cane and the medical kit in the same hand, and he shook his head and said, 'Look, can you carry this?'

'Of course,' the doctor said, taking the kit. 'The grain warehouse is right here.' He sounded ridiculously calm.

Illya fought for his own calm. 'A door?' he asked. Then he said, 'Take care, Dr Bruner. I don't believe there are still hostiles inside, but take great care. If I tell you to run or hide, do it, without question.'

'And you?' the doctor asked, sounding almost amused.

'I am going to find my partner,' Illya said.

'Mr Kuryakin – '

'I know I am blind,' Illya hissed, preempting his objection. 'I have never been more aware of that. Now, the door.'

'It is this way,' the doctor said, starting to walk at a swift pace. Illya followed him, listening intently to the sounds around him, trying not to make too much noise with the cane on this uncertain ground. It was quiet here. The scant evening traffic in the city was almost inaudible. There was just the faint hiss of a slight wind, and the occasional creak or crack of something warm cooling down in the night air.

'The door,' the doctor said. 'The hinge is on the left.'

Illya reached forward with the cane to feel the gap and the frame, and followed the doctor through.

'Do you see anything?' Illya asked softly.

'It's rather dark...'

Illya snorted in frustration. 'Is there a light on anywhere?' he asked, moving his head back and forth, trying to see if there were a change in the light levels anywhere.'

'I think – Yes, I think towards the back of the building.'

The place smelt of dust and wheat and warmth, and their footsteps echoed on the floor. It was a wide, high space and it felt very empty, but every now and then Illya could feel that they had walked past something that was close to them. Perhaps stacks of boxes or sacks. The dusty scent of the place made Illya's nose itch.

'I think it's an office, Mr Kuryakin,' the doctor said, slowing his pace. He was starting to sound nervous now.

'Approach with caution,' Illya warned him. He wanted to run, but he knew better. 'How close are we?'

'Only about twenty metres. Come. Come on. The door is open.'

And he moved a little faster, and then he was at the door, and Illya could smell so much blood. God, how he needed to see.

'Napoleon?' he asked, but there was silence.

'There's another man,' Bruner said. 'Egyptian. He – ' There was a pause as the doctor moved away from his arm, then he said, 'I'm afraid he's dead.'

Illya's heart lurched at that imprecise statement. He wanted to reach up and rip this opacity from his eyes. 'Napoleon?' he asked.

'The Egyptian is dead. Your Mr Solo – ' Silence again, and the doctor moved, and his voice came from low down. 'He's alive,' Bruner said. 'Not badly injured.'

Illya almost dropped to his knees in his relief. He stepped carefully towards Bruner's voice and got down on the floor and felt out, and Bruner caught his hand and guided it to Napoleon's chest. Illya didn't prevaricate. He just pushed his hand up under the cotton t-shirt and pressed his hand against Napoleon's chest. He could feel his heartbeat slow and steady against his palm. The feeling of that warm skin, the thin layer of muscled flesh over ribs, the beating heart beneath, was beautiful to him.

'It looks like the bullet grazed the side of his head,' the doctor said. 'He's unconscious but there's not too much blood.'

Illya heard him opening the medical kit.

'Now, the Egyptian fellow – that was a gut shot. Nasty way to die, poor man.'

Illya breathed out a long, slow breath. Thank god Sharif had managed to tell him where he was before he died. He actually felt sorry for the man. He would always be grateful to him for that final act. He kept his hand on Napoleon's chest and kept feeling his heartbeat, and smelt the sharp scent of iodine in the air. He reached out with his other hand to touch Napoleon's face, holding his fingers in front of his mouth briefly to feel the slow, light puff of his breath and then just laying his palm on his cheek.

'Napoleon,' he said sharply. 'Napoleon!'

And then he felt Napoleon stir, and joy jumped in him. Illya patted lightly at his cheek.

'Napoleon,' he said again. 'We need to get out of here.'

'Pupils are equal and reactive,' Dr Bruner muttered.

Then Napoleon drew in a sharp breath and said, 'Illya? What the devil are you doing here? Doctor – Dr Bruner? Illya, what – ?'

Illya breathed out a long breath, and smiled. 'You need to stop sleeping on the job,' he growled. 'You can't always expect me to come and wake you up.'

'Well, if I'm sleeping beauty, does that make you the handsome prince?' Napoleon asked. His voice was a little shaky but he was trying to sound light-hearted, and Illya appreciated that. 'Wasn't it Rapunzel where the prince wandered blind in the desert? You have your fairy tales mixed up again, uncultured Russian.' He started trying to sit up, and winced.

'I don't know what it makes me, but it makes you a very bad U.N.C.L.E. agent,' Illya told him fiercely. 'Can you get up?'

'Now, really – ' Bruner began, but Napoleon started to try to sit then said, 'It would be easier, Illya, if you weren't pinning me down.'

'Oh,' Illya said, and he removed his hand from Napoleon's chest. 'Napoleon, Sharif is dead, from your shot, I assume. It would be prudent to get out of here before the police arrive, because I don't think either of us want to spend time in a Cairo police cell waiting for Mr Waverly to pull strings and cut red tape. Are there any papers you need to take?'

'Papers?' Napoleon still sounded half dazed. 'Er – no, I don't think – I don't think there are papers. Help me up, Illya.'

Illya held out a strong hand and helped Napoleon to sit.

'Let me – let me have a look,' Napoleon murmured. 'Sharif might have something. Ah, yes.'

And Illya heard Napoleon patting at the body, and the rustle of paper, then he stood with a grunt, saying, 'Be careful where you step, all right, tovarisch? There's a nice pool of blood around poor old Sharif. Dr Bruner, thank you for coming to my rescue. No, I can walk. You help Illya, please. I really don't want him walking in that blood. That's the kind of trail a local detective would love.'

'But – the dead man,' the doctor began. 'Surely we can't – '

'We can, and we are,' Illya told him firmly. 'Let's hope that taxi's still there. Don't worry, Dr Bruner. We will call our superior and he will make sure that everything is straightened out with the local police force. But it would be much better for all of us if we weren't caught at the scene. People leap to terrible conclusions, and sometimes it takes time for bureaucracy to work. Please, let me have your arm.'