'Mr Kuryakin, it seems you're to be liberated from the office once again,' Waverly said brightly, and the table suddenly shifted under Illya's elbows as the chief rotated it. When the motion stopped Illya tentatively touched his fingers to the table to find a thick stack of Braille printouts in front of him.

'How you read that gobbledegook is a mystery to me,' Waverly muttered, 'but the man in documents assured me it's all in order. You're wanted for surveillance in Miami. It's a secure location and you'll be with two other men, so no need for you to go on rescue missions,' Waverly said very firmly. 'You understand that, Mr Kuryakin? You'll stay in the hotel, out of the line of fire.'

'Of course,' Illya said, running his fingers over the top piece of paper. And then his heart sank. 'Mr Solo – '

'Mr Solo will be in Yugoslavia, I'm afraid. I'm quite aware that you're used to his attention, Mr Kuryakin, but I'm sure Doyle and Phillips will be able to look after you quite nicely.'

'Yes, of course,' Illya murmured, caught between wanting to give the impression that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself, and apprehension at the thought of being lumbered with two men who had no experience with the difficulties he faced and the techniques for helping him overcome them.

He shoved that aside. This mission was a good thing. It proved that Waverly trusted him, it allowed him out of the office and into the field again. He knew all about this mission; after all, he had prepared the preliminary intelligence reports himself. Thrush were developing some kind of chemical and U.N.C.L.E. needed to go in and find out everything they could about it. But he did wish now that he hadn't suggested Paul Doyle for the job. He hadn't expected to be assigned to go with him.

'Well, Mr Kuryakin, you can read through that lot at your own leisure,' Waverly said. 'I expect you'll want to take the usual equipment. It will be much like your experience in Cairo. You will monitor the bugs and take notes and report developments while Doyle and Phillips are involved in active tracking and infiltration.'

'Yes, of course,' Illya murmured, running his fingers lightly over one of the pages lower down in the pile. He caught a sentence about how Doyle expected to get into the facility, and shook his head. 'If you don't mind me saying, sir, I think they'd be much better approaching from the west side of the complex. The light will be – '

Waverly tutted. 'I'm aware that Doyle and Phillips are not a match for you at your best, Mr Kuryakin,' he said in a tone of sympathy, 'but please try to remember that they are the active agents now.'

Illya sighed. 'Yes, I suppose they are. Will that be all, sir? I'll take all this down to the office and go through it, if so.'

'Yes, yes, that will be all,' Waverly told him, so Illya tucked the thick sheaf of paper under his arm and felt for his cane on the floor, and made his way pensively back down to the office.

'You look like the cat that didn't get the cream,' Napoleon commented as Illya came through the door. Illya grunted, tapping his way towards his desk.

'Waverly is sending me on a surveillance mission,' he said, 'but it is with Doyle and Phillips.'

'Ah,' Napoleon said, and his chair rattled as he stood up and came over to Illya. 'The Laurel and Hardy of the U.N.C.L.E. organisation.'

Illya grimaced. 'They're not quite that bad,' he said, 'but – '

'But,' Napoleon echoed. 'I know.'

Illya straightened his shoulders and felt for a clear space on his desk and put the load of paper down beside the typewriter.

'It is absurd to think I will not be all right,' he said. 'I have worked with Doyle before, and Phillips is acceptable. I'll just need to run through a few things with them before we go.'

He took his seat at his desk, thinking of those things. Should he try to instruct them in how to guide him properly? Perhaps Sarah could find them some leaflets which would help. Would they resent being expected to play nursemaid to a blind man while trying to do their duty? But really, he didn't need that much help. He just needed a little extra guidance and patience while he was getting used to a new place. He would need them to understand not to move his things. He would need them to –

He sighed. He was building this up in his mind. The best way to deal with this would be to familiarise himself with all of the documentation and perhaps to have Sarah see if she could find him a floor plan for the hotel. He wouldn't need that much help. He just needed them to be tolerant.

'I'm sorry I can't be there,' Napoleon said, standing behind him, laying his hands on Illya's shoulders and gently rubbing the tension out of them.

'You'll be in Yugoslavia,' Illya muttered. He leant back into Napoleon's massaging grip. 'Really, there is no difference to your usual jaunts out of town – it's just that I will be out of town too.'

'Do you want me to have a talk with them? Run them through how they might need to help you?'

Illya felt an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. 'I don't want them to have to help me,' he said, and Napoleon stroked his shoulders more lightly.

'No, I know, but you will need some help, Illya. They'll have to accept that and so will you. Now, I can have a word with Doyle – '

'No, I will have a word with them,' Illya said firmly. There was no reason he couldn't tackle this. It was so easy to slip into letting Napoleon act for him, and that would not give Doyle and Phillips any confidence in him. 'We will have to come together for a briefing. I will run them through any help I may need at that time. And it will be all right.'

((O))

It was all right. That was as much as Illya could say. They took a commuter flight down to Miami, and Jason Phillips was quite a competent guide for Illya, remembering to warn him about doors and steps, at least. He wasn't entirely comfortable with Doyle's driving in the hire car from the airport, but there wasn't anything to be done about that. He was never really comfortable with anyone but Napoleon driving him, because he had always been happiest driving himself. He hated sitting inside a car with closed windows or without the top down, because the whole journey was just a series of vibrations, of lurches left and right and back and forward, and no real sense of making progress. With Doyle there were more lurches than usual, and he had to concentrate hard to keep his tendency towards travel sickness at bay.

'I asked if you have everything you need,' Phillips said, tapping his arm. He was sitting in the back with Illya, and that was another little bit of awkwardness; that feeling that he was being sat with because the blind man shouldn't be left to sit on his own.

Illya started and turned his head towards the man. 'Oh. Yes, I have everything I need. I will be able to set up as soon as the bugs are in place.'

Phillips shifted, and the vinyl seat creaked. 'You enjoying getting back in the field?'

Illya gave a little shrug. 'It is not exactly the field, but it is more stimulating than the office, at least.'

'It must be very hard. I mean, to go from being an active agent to – ' Phillips said, and his voice trailed off in a kind of wistful sympathy that made Illya a little uncomfortable. But then, sitting here in the back of this car being driven jerkily by Doyle, he thought that perhaps if he opened up a little it might help. He had hardly spoken to the pair on the plane, opting to sit in the third seat alone rather than breaking up their pairing, and he thought he was probably coming over as more taciturn than usual.

'It was very hard. But one must do what one can,' he replied. He had told very few people about the possibility of corneal transplant and he preferred to keep it that way. 'I have adapted, and this is the latest development in my adaptation.'

There was silence from the front of the car. He suspected that Doyle was none too pleased about having to play nanny to a blind man. But Phillips patted his arm and said, 'Well, I must say, you're doing incredible work, Illya. No one expected you back after that acid attack.'

Illya smiled thinly. He hadn't expected to come back himself. He had imagined a lifetime of living on a disability pension – a generous one thanks to the terms of his employment contract, but a pension nonetheless.

'I should not cause you too much trouble once I'm set up,' he said. 'If you can show me a few basic routes in the hotel when we arrive and find me a place to put my recorders and brailler, then – '

'Your brailler?' Phillips asked.

'My Braille typewriter. I use it for taking notes. It's in the suitcase with the other equipment. As I say, if you can find me a place to set all those things up I will be able to look after myself from there. We have a double and a single room booked, don't we? I'll take the single.'

'Come on, Kuryakin. You'll need someone with you,' Doyle said from the front seat, and Illya heard that edge in his voice that had been there since he had started consulting with the man on this mission.

Illya shook his head firmly. 'Not once I'm familiar with the room and a few basic routes,' he said. 'I can look after myself, Paul. It would be better for you two to room together. You're partners.'

He thought rather wistfully about all the times he shared with Napoleon. It was a shame that Napoleon wouldn't be here. He couldn't imagine that Doyle and Phillips would be sharing the same kind of things that he shared with Napoleon.

'There's an interconnecting door anyway,' Phillips put in. 'So yeah, it makes sense. You take the single, Illya. We'll take the double. We won't be there so much anyway, so it won't make much difference.'

Illya nodded and relaxed back into the seat. He was glad that Phillips was here too. He was afraid that if he were alone for too long with Doyle one of them wouldn't be leaving alive, and Illya had always trumped Doyle in self defence and offence.

((O))

The rain started hissing down as the car reached the busier streets of downtown Miami, and Illya cracked the window open a little as they sat motionless in traffic, listening to the three dimensional picture made by the raindrops as they hit solid objects. He could hear the metallic shells of the cars and the solid flatness of the road, and it was lovely to get that shadowy impression of the shape of his surroundings. Then he realised that Phillips was sounding disgruntled and he wound the window up again, explaining, 'I can hear the shapes in the way the rain falls.'

'Oh, open it again if you like,' Phillips said rather awkwardly, but Doyle chimed in, 'It's foul out there. Keep it closed. Besides, we'll be at the hotel in a few minutes. I'm sure there'll be a window in your room, Kuryakin. You can listen to the rain all you like.'

'And I will,' Illya murmured. It felt as though this mission was going to be interminable. He sat and listened to the sounds outside until the car began to move again, and after another ten minutes they were drawing up outside the hotel and Illya got out of the car and let Phillips guide him into the building. He got his equipment taken up to his room and excused himself as soon as possible. It would be easier to set everything up alone.

He sat in the hotel room listening to the faint sounds of the others through the connecting door and tinkering with his recording set up. Phillips had shown him where the socket nearest the side table was but that was all. He would rather explore the room on his own. Then there was a light knock at the door and before he could say anything it opened, and Doyle said, 'Kuryakin, Phillips and I are going out to set the bugs. You'll be all right on your own, yeah?'

Illya suppressed a sigh. Doyle's tone had been reasonably friendly, but he hated to think the man believed he couldn't look after himself.

'I will be all right on my own,' he nodded. He tapped his fingers on his case, where he had a couple of volumes of a new novel. 'I'll read my book. Call me when the bugs are set.'

He turned to his brailler and put a thick sheet of paper into it, ready, and was aware of Doyle still there, presumably watching him.

'What's that?'

'My brailler,' Illya said patiently. 'It is just like a typewriter.'

Doyle came closer. 'But there are only – what – seven keys? How does that work?'

Illya touched his fingers to the keys, smoothing his fingertips over them, depressing them slightly but not hitting hard enough to make dents in the paper. He was so used to typing Braille that he didn't even think about which keys to hit.

'Paul, Braille is made up of six dots in different combinations for every letter of the alphabet, the numbers, and punctuation marks,' he explained. 'There are six keys and a space bar. I press the right combinations to make each letter.' He didn't want to waste paper on demonstrating it because he had a limited amount, but he felt out to the right for his suitcase, opened it, and brought out a volume of his book. 'The brailler makes impressions just as in this book,' he said, opening it to a random page and running his fingers over the type.

He felt Paul come closer still, leaning over him a little.

'Can I touch?'

Illya shrugged. 'Feel free,' he said.

Doyle stood right next to him and Illya heard the light sound of his hands on the paper.

'It's utter gobbledygook. It all feels the same.'

Illya smiled, then reached out to touch the book and find Paul's hand with his. Doyle's hand was cool, and rough around the fingertips as if he bit his nails.

'Here,' he said, laying his hand over Paul's and moving his finger to the top of the page. He placed his fingertips either side of Paul's and drew them over the bumps. 'Each cell – each letter or symbol – is made up of a combination of up to six dots. They're numbered, top to bottom, left to right, one, two, three, four, five six. That's simple enough. Some things are shown by more than one cell, and – Oh, well, that doesn't matter right now. We're just talking about letters. Look, this letter here,' he said, brushing his fingertip over a letter and then moving Paul's finger to it. 'A single dot in the top left. That is an A. This here is an R. Dots in one, two, three, and five. Over here is a W. Mirror image of R. But it's complicated because this is Grade 2 Braille, which employs a lot of contractions.'

'There are grades?' Paul asked rather nervously.

'Yes, of course. There are so many types of Braille, not just for prose but for mathematics, scientific notation, music...' He sighed. It was a matter of annoyance to him that with everything else he was trying to learn he still hadn't managed to learn musical Braille yet. 'But we're talking of Braille for reading, yes? English Braille, American Edition. And for that there are grades. The first is very literal. Every letter is transcribed. That's the first that I learnt. Grade 2 uses contractions, and Grade 3 uses hundreds of them. It's complicated but it makes it faster to read and more compact to print.' Learning Grade 3 was an ongoing challenge, but it was assisted by his extremely good memory and his desperation to read and write in a less cumbersome way. Almost no books were printed in Grade 3 because it was so variable, but at least it could make his personal documents more concise. 'This novel here, it's in Grade 2. Some contractions but not as many as 3.' And he began to read. ' – and of course the poor baby was baptised. At the font, Grigory prayed zealously, yet he did not change his opinion about the newborn. However, he did not interfere in any way, but for the two weeks that the sickly boy lived, he – '

'You must be a genius, Kuryakin,' Doyle said in a tone of awe. 'It all feels the same to me. I mean, I can see the difference, but feel – '

Illya smiled thinly. 'I don't care to think how long it took me to be able to read, Paul,' he said. 'Believe me, it all felt the same to me at first, too, but necessity is a good teacher. But I thought you were going out to set the bugs?'

'Oh, er – yeah,' Doyle said quickly. Then he said, 'Thanks for showing me that, Kuryakin.'

'No problem,' Illya murmured.

He wondered, as Doyle left the room, if a lot of the man's problem with him was nervousness. He had always seemed jealous and suspicious of Illya's intelligence and his position in U.N.C.L.E., and then so awkward and odd about his blindness. Perhaps he was just nervous.

He waited for the door to shut before starting on his survey of the room, preferring not to be watched in what felt like a more extreme blindness. At the moment he was sitting at a kind of island and all around him were unexplored waters. But he took his cane and moved slowly and carefully around the room, finding a low set of drawers with a mirror on top, another chair, a narrow single bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe with hanging rail, and a door that admitted him into a small bathroom equipped with toilet, basin, and shower.

He went back out into the bedroom and followed the brightest point of light to find the window. Jerking it open and fixing it on the catch he stood and listened to the steady sound of rain falling, making a three dimensional veil over everything out there. He could hear raindrops on leaves, rain falling on soft ground and a little further away on hard, and on the metal roofs of cars. He could hear the hissing of car tyres on the wet road. He turned his ear and just stood there, listening. Then he exhaled and closed the window again, made sure it was securely fastened, and went back to the table that held the recorder and brailler, ready to tune in as soon as he got the call that the bugs were set.

((O))

The mission took place over a few days and went with amazing smoothness. Illya couldn't say he didn't envy Doyle and Phillips their time in the field just as he had envied Napoleon in Cairo, but that lingering envy was offset by the amount of intel he managed to gather through the bugs. They had come here knowing only that Thrush were engaged in developing some kind of chemical. Now they knew that Thrush were developing a nerve drug to increase susceptibility to suggestion which they intended to put in water supplies around the globe, and it was imperative that they were stopped before they reached the point where they could produce it in high quantities. They would be focussing on producing it in Eastern Europe at first, although a specific country was never mentioned.

It was largely Illya's information that led to Doyle and Phillips being able to successfully infiltrate the complex and get out with what was needed; a sample of the drug and photographic copies of some of the production notes. He couldn't pretend he didn't wish he had been sneaking in to the facility with them, and he really wished that he could have pored over the production notes himself, but it was gratifying to prove again that he possessed vital skills. Few others in U.N.C.L.E. would have been able to gather the same amount of data from what came through the bugs.

'Dinner and a bar to celebrate?' Phillips suggested, and Illya said, 'Perfect,' just as Doyle said, 'Well, if you're all right with – '

Illya snapped his case of equipment closed. 'Paul, I assure you, my capacity to eat and drink are no different to yours. I still enjoy going out. But this had better go in the hotel safe first.'

'I'll take it down,' Phillips offered. 'Everything's in there?'

'Everything. I got a good, comprehensive set of details about their future plans; everything but a definite location for production. It's all typed and in the case – in Braille, I mean. I will transcribe it to regular text when we get back, or have Miss Williams do it.'

Phillips clapped him on the back. 'Good work. Well, shall I meet you in the restaurant? That Mexican place down the street, yes?'

'See you there,' Doyle replied, then asked Illya, 'You ready, Kuryakin?'

Illya felt for his cane, slipped his wallet into his pocket, and nodded. 'I'm ready. Can I take your arm, Paul?'

'Uh, yeah, sure,' Doyle said rather awkwardly.

So Illya took his arm and felt the stiffness in him. He wished he were going out with Napoleon, but it couldn't be helped. He followed Doyle's very nervous and inept guidance down to the lobby and to a restaurant along the street, and it was only a large amount of alcohol that made the experience tolerable, because Doyle and Phillips really weren't the type he would usually socialise with. When he arrived back in his hotel room later that night he could barely stand, and he needed Phillips' inebriated help to make it into bed. He lay there, feeling the mattress rocking beneath him, wishing he had thought to ask Phillips to get him a glass of water before he had left him, but not feeling anywhere near able to go and get one himself. He felt numbly on the nightstand for his communicator and managed to assemble it.

'Napoleon?' he asked a couple of times, before remembering to request channel D. When Napoleon did answer, Illya slurringly said, 'Ah, Napoleon. I love you, Napoleon. Did y'know that?'

'Illya, are you all right?' Napoleon asked, obviously concerned. 'Are you drunk?'

And Illya grinned. 'Th'mission went well. Very good. Went for – few drinks. Tequila. Very good. Very nice drink. M'drunk as a skunk, Napoleon.'

From a long way away he heard Napoleon sigh. 'Where are you?' he asked. 'Are you safe, Illya? Are you somewhere safe?'

Illya considered that. He couldn't see, but he could feel the bed underneath him and the covers over him.

'Hotel room,' he said eventually. 'Hotel room. Safe. In bed. I'm in bed, Napoleon. I'm okay.'

He heard Napoleon laugh. 'Well, it sounds like you're having more fun than me. I'm in a cold empty office room in Yugoslavia watching a notorious criminal through binoculars.'

'Oh,' Illya said, then didn't know what to say. 'Oh,' he said again.

'Illya, have you drunk plenty of water? Is your door closed and locked? Are Phillips and Doyle there?' Napoleon asked very seriously.

'Yes, yesh, door locked. They're next door. No water. I should drink water, shouldn't I?'

'Do you have water nearby? Illya, listen. Will you be careful? Go now and drink some water, but take the communicator because if you trip and crack your head open in the bathroom I want to know. Okay?'

Illya grumbled and shuffled out of bed. He felt very warm and for a moment he wasn't sure which way he should go to find the bathroom. He felt around for his cane but it wasn't anywhere to hand, so he staggered around until he found the door and then he felt out for the basin and groped for the glass that should be there, but he swiped it off the basin and onto the tile floor, where it smashed. He knelt down and started to feel for the glass as he heard Napoleon say through the communicator, 'Illya, did you break something? Illya, don't try to clear it up. Do you hear me? Illya, don't – '

But Illya was sweeping his hand over the floor and then he hissed as broken glass sliced into his flesh.

'Oh, dammit, Napoleon, I think I've cut myself,' he said. He suddenly felt more sober. 'Oh hell.'

'How bad is it?' Napoleon asked, and Illya almost laughed. He squeezed his hand closed and open again. It hurt and he could smell blood and he could feel the wetness of blood, but how could he tell how bad it was?

'It stings,' he said.

'How bad is it?' Napoleon sounded immensely frustrated.

'Oh, I – not bad, I think,' he murmured. 'Somewhere – somewhere on my palm and fingers.'

'Oh, Illya, you know to feel with the back of your hand!' Napoleon said impatiently.

'Oh.' His forehead creased. He did know that. Always feel with the back of your hand at times like that. Always. But he'd stupidly just pressed his palm straight onto the broken glass.

'Illya, get someone to help you,' Napoleon said. 'Do you hear me?'

'Oh, no, it'll be all right,' Illya assured him. 'Promise.'

He got up and ran water into the basin and splashed it over his face and into his mouth with his left hand. Then he pulled off a huge amount of toilet paper and wrapped it round the hand and said, 'It's all good now, Napoleon. I've dressed it. All fine. You know, I think I need some sleep. I'll call you in the morning, Napoleon. I love you.'

He didn't wait for Napoleon's response. He just closed his hand around the mass of tissue and stumbled back into the bedroom and fell into bed. Bed felt so good. It was such a good place to be. He hugged himself against the pillow, and he fell asleep.

((O))

He woke with a crushing headache and thick nausea and a sore, stinging pain in his right hand, and he lay there for a moment wondering what Thrush trap he had fallen into this time. And then he blinked and pushed the blankets back from his face and stared into the dim blur. He felt at the clotted mass of tissue around his hand and frowned, and sat up, rubbing at his head. The tissue was stiff with dried blood.

Oh god. He hadn't been that drunk in a long time. He never let himself get that drunk without Napoleon to hand, and when Napoleon was with him he didn't end up doing stupid stuff like – ah, yes. He had broken a glass, hadn't he? Where was that? It was in the bathroom. So he couldn't go into the bathroom, which was a shame because he really needed the toilet.

He felt at his clothes. He was wearing an undershirt and underpants and nothing else. He couldn't remember undressing, much less where he had put his clothes. His head throbbed and his mouth felt foul. He swung his feet out of bed and started to look for his cane, but he couldn't find it, so he gave up on that and made his way blearily to the interconnecting door to the next room, and knocked gently.

'Shut up that blasted racket,' someone grumbled from the other room, and he opened the door and asked rather shamefacedly, 'I could do with a little help. I think I broke a glass last night.' And he held up his hand and heard one of the men hiss.

'For god's sake, Kuryakin,' Doyle said, but a mattress creaked and it was he who came over to Illya and grabbed his arm and led him into the bathroom. 'That tissue's all dried into the cut. I can't even see how bad it is.'

The hand felt hot and sore and when Doyle held it under a warm running tap it was a relief, even when he started to prise bits of tissue out of the cuts.

'God, what a mess,' Doyle muttered, and then Phillips pushed into the room and clattered a glass against the basin and Illya heard the plop and fizz of seltzer tablets and then long, deep gulps.

'Come on,' Doyle said, leading Illya by the wrist back into the other room. 'Sit down. I'll dress it. It doesn't need stitches.'

Doyle started to pat Illya's hand dry with a towel and apply antiseptic cream, and then Phillips came out of the bathroom too.

'I'll go clean up the glass,' he said. 'Here, Illya, drink this.'

Illya felt a cold glass against his fingers and drank the seltzer gratefully. It would only dull the edges of the hangover, but right now they were very sharp edges.

'You know, you're fun when you've got some drinks in you,' Doyle commented as he put cream on the cut and wrapped Illya's hand in a bandage.

'I am?' Illya remembered very little about last night. He was cursing himself for drinking so much and for damaging his cane hand. 'I shouldn't have drunk so much.'

'None of us should have drunk so much,' Doyle said grimly. 'Hardly professional agent behaviour. Are you going to report us all to Waverly?'

Illya smiled. 'I'm not even sure how I rank against you in my current position,' he said. 'Perhaps we should agree that what happens in Miami stays in Miami.'

'Perhaps we should,' Doyle agreed. There was the sound of tape being unwound from the roll and Illya felt him firm it around the bandages, then he patted Illya's shoulder and said, 'All done. We'd better get washed up and out of here. Waverly will want us back in New York asap.'