One of the small luxuries of being in Kyiv officially on U.N.C.L.E. business was that with a little wrangling Napoleon was able to commandeer a car for the duration of their stay. While Illya felt a certain nostalgia for using the trolley buses and trams and the marshrutka, it made life much easier to have a car at their disposal.

'I suppose I'll be the wallflower in the corner,' he said rather dourly as Napoleon drove them through the streets.

He was feeling his blindness keenly this morning. It was a few days after their arrival in Kyiv and he had woken feeling unaccountably depressed. He found himself dwelling on how long he might have to wait for another transplant to come up, on whether the transplant would work at all, on how changed everything was now from when he had lived in that apartment as a talented student with so much promise.

He recalled growing up in Kyiv so vividly. He recalled the beautiful buildings and parks and streets. Mistily he remembered the city pre-war, and then the awful burning and destruction of the years of occupation, and then the proud rebuilding. He remembered going down to the shores of the Dnieper on hot summer days and swimming in cool waters under blue skies, the splashes of water glittering like diamonds under the sun. He remembered hearing the shrieks of his friends, shrieking himself. He remembered walking the wide, tree-lined streets, hearing patriotic music swelling from loudspeakers in public places, so insistent it stayed in his brain for days. Windows and painted doors and architecture old and new, the faces of citizens walking in the streets, the flashing colours of cars and trams. The lines between paving slabs, dust in the gutters, shop fronts with clean windows full of bounty that he couldn't touch.

Somehow he felt that all of that was gone. It had taken him months to build up his sensory map of the New York streets around their apartment so that he could go out independently and safely. He had no chance of doing that in these two weeks in Kyiv, so he must always leave the apartment here in company.

Last night he had taken a walk with his father, just around the local neighbourhood, and it had felt so strange to need help to walk around the places that he had thought he knew intimately. He had thought they were walking down one street and his father had told him it was another, and his whole mental image had slipped and skewed. His father had been overly solicitous, far too careful of everything, not even crossing a street until there was no traffic at all because he was afraid that Illya wouldn't be able to cross fast enough. Then just as the awkwardness was beginning to settle they had run into a neighbour from the apartment block, a young woman who had faltered and stammered and made her excuses to leave, and Illya's father had told him, 'She's expecting a baby, Illya, and she's a silly, superstitious girl. You know the superstition. She shouldn't talk with – '

'Yes, with the blind, or cripples,' Illya had said darkly, and he felt very blind, very crippled, walking holding his father's arm.

His father had patted him on the arm sympathetically and spoke platitudes, but it all felt so strange to be here like this. It felt so awful to be blind when everyone else could see, and he envied all those sighted people with a deep, deep bitterness.

Today the darkness hung on him, and he couldn't see what possible help he could be at U.N.C.L.E. Kyiv, where undoubtedly there would be nothing set up for the blind.

'You're very attractive, Illya, but you don't in the least resemble a wallflower,' Napoleon said from behind the wheel. 'Are you forgetting the one thing you have that I don't have?'

'A white stick?' Illya asked morosely. 'Not that I can even see that it's white...'

'No. You're fluent in both Ukrainian and Russian, my brooding little flower. I don't care about the white stick. When we're in a room with four more dour Russians you'll be able to tell me what they're saying. I couldn't do this without you.'

At that, Illya smiled wanly. 'Well, I certainly wouldn't be able to do it without you.'

Napoleon braked the car to a halt, and Illya prepared for a lecture on optimism, but instead Napoleon said, 'Well, this is it, if I got the address correct. Nice building. Old. The front's a glassware store. The windows are huge and they're full of beautiful glass, with all the morning light shining through it.'

Illya pursed his lips. 'Seems rather foolish, if you ask me. The first time Thrush burst in they'll destroy everything.'

Napoleon chuckled. 'Well, maybe that's one of the first things we can talk to them about. They're after our advice, after all.'

'Well, you'd better guide me well on the way in, at any rate,' Illya murmured darkly. 'I wouldn't want to break anything.'

He heard Napoleon sigh. The keys jangled in the ignition and there was the creak of the handbrake as Napoleon pulled it on, and then Illya felt his warm hand on his knee, just pressing there firmly.

'Illya,' he said softly. 'What's wrong this morning?'

Illya breathed out a long breath and shook his head, feeling rather ashamed of losing himself to this dark mood. It was hardly professional.

'I don't know. It's just a bad morning, I think. I just feel – I don't know – as if I'm stagnating, maybe. I feel so blind. Being here is making me feel so blind.' He felt Napoleon about to speak and he shook his head. 'Don't misunderstand me, Napoleon. I'm glad we came here. I'm glad we're staying with my parents. It's wonderful in so many ways. But it's strange too. It's very strange for me. I can remember so much of what's around me, just like New York I suppose, but – I don't know how to explain it...'

'You don't have to explain it,' Napoleon said, stroking his leg softly. 'You don't have to explain anything.'

Illya hung his head. He felt as if he did have to explain, perhaps partly because he didn't understand himself.

'I don't know,' he said again.

'Illya,' Napoleon said softly. 'You are more blind here. I can see that too. You're out of your comfort zone. You don't have all your equipment, you don't have Sarah at your beck and call. You haven't been here for years so you don't really know it as intimately as New York, but it's your home so you feel you should know it. You're relying on me and you have your parents, God bless them, fussing over you because they're not used to you being blind. All of that together must be a tremendous strain. It's not wrong that you feel it's difficult for you. I'm sorry coming home has been hard for you, but don't feel as if you're failing somehow for not being at the top of your game.'

'Napoleon, if this transplant never happens...'

'It will happen,' Napoleon said firmly. 'It will. You've had one setback. You were ill.'

'And what if – ' The fear rushed over Illya like a drenching rain as a thought solidified, something that he had hardly let himself think consciously until now but had always been there. 'If they cut into my eye and find the damage is too deep after all. If they transplant the cornea but it doesn't work. If I end up just as blind... But it will be worse, because I have allowed myself the luxury of hope.'

'Then we'll carry on,' Napoleon said gently. 'We'll carry on just as we do now.'

'You've never been blind.' Illya pressed his hands against the dashboard of the car, feeling the lines and the cool of metal strips edging something smooth and polished. 'You've been with me from the start, Napoleon, and I love you, and I couldn't have done it without you. But I'm the one who is blind. You can't feel this as I – as I – '

He didn't know what to say. Napoleon's hand moved on his leg and there was a long silence.

'I know, I'm not blind,' Napoleon said quietly at last. 'I've said before that if I could be blind instead of you, I would, but it's not true, Illya. I think you know it's not true. You have a capacity for honesty that puts me to shame, and I don't want to take your blindness instead of you because I simply cannot imagine facing it with the strength and tenacity and bravery that you've shown. I know you're made uncomfortable by this kind of speech,' he said as Illya squirmed, 'but sometimes it needs saying. I am in awe of you. You have bad days and good days but you've never let this keep you down. No one can promise you that this transplant will make everything all right, but I know whatever happens you'll fight through it. I know that. You can, Illya. You're strong enough.'

'I'm tired,' Illya said, and he did feel immensely tired.

'I know,' Napoleon said. 'But you'll still do it. You can do it. Today you need to come with me into this office and help me, because I can't do it without you. There's no one I'd trust to translate every word perfectly like you, so I need you.'

Illya took in a deep breath and steadied himself. He felt so blind. He felt so lost. He had let himself remember too much about sight. He had thought too much about the streets around him that he couldn't see, his countrymen that he couldn't see, his inability to be independent in the city of his birth. He had learnt long ago that that was a mistake. He might have been so free in this city before he left for the Sorbonne, but that had no bearing on now. Now he was blind, and everything had changed.

'I'm sorry, Napoleon,' he said, trying to push all of that away. 'I'm ready to go in now.'

'We were a little early anyway,' Napoleon said with a smile in his voice. 'Come on, then. Head up. Big smile.'

Illya grimaced and Napoleon laughed. 'I said smile. You look like you're ready to kill someone.'

'I have a reputation to uphold, after all,' Illya shrugged. He felt capable of coming inside and ashamed of his emotion, but he wasn't about to start grinning like an idiot. That was a step too far.

((O))

Napoleon watched Illya cautiously as he led him into the glittering glass store. Illya was walking very carefully, keeping his cane held in close to his body, and Napoleon murmured, 'You're okay, Illya. I'm piloting you through a nice deep channel between the shoals.'

'Would you please speak English?' Illya asked irritably, but he relaxed a little.

Napoleon saw a counter near the back of the store and a very Russian looking man behind it watching him suspiciously, and he nudged Illya and said, 'You're on, tovarisch. I'm taking you up to the counter and there's a very grim little man behind it, so I'd like you to get us in before he decides to shoot us.'

Illya reached out his cane cautiously to feel for the counter, and then he put his hands down on the glass surface and spoke quickly in Russian to the man. After a moment, smiles were exchanged and Illya turned to Napoleon and said, 'All fine, Napoleon. He says there's a door on the right at the back of the shop. Yes?'

'Yes,' Napoleon confirmed, seeing it, and he led Illya over to it, noticing the man behind the counter turning the neck on a glass swan as they moved. The door opened easily under his touch and he said to Illya, 'Hinged left, opens inward.'

Inside, they could have been walking into any U.N.C.L.E. office anywhere in the world. The gunmetal grey walls were the same and the pretty woman behind the desk would have easily fitted in in New York, although she had a distinctly Slavic look.

'They make the girls just as well here as they do at home,' he commented out of the side of his mouth to Illya, and the woman looked up at him with a smile and said in perfect English, 'Thank you, Mr Solo, but I have been warned about you, and I should tell you I am not in need of a date.'

'So much for needing a translator,' Illya murmured, then he turned towards the desk and spoke rapidly in Russian, and the woman laughed at whatever he had said and handed him his number two badge.

Napoleon took his own badge and slipped it onto his breast pocket, pleased at the apparent change in Illya's demeanour. Perhaps being at work helped.

Then a suited man came through into the lobby, smiling and holding out a hand.

'Mr Solo, Tovarisch Kuryakin,' he said warmly. 'I am Andriy Yevgenyevich Kobevko, head of this office. Welcome.' He shook Napoleon's hand, then he turned to Illya and embraced him in a more Russian greeting and spoke swiftly to him in what Napoleon thought was Ukrainian. It was getting easier to tell the difference.

'Ah,' Illya said, then turned to Napoleon and said, 'Tovarisch Kobevko would like to take us on a tour of the headquarters. He speaks little English, although apparently he's learning.'

'You see. Translator, not wallflower,' Napoleon told him smugly, straightening out his jacket lapel with one hand.

'All right, all right,' Illya grumbled, then spoke to the chief again, then grinned and said, 'First he thought we might like to see the stolovaya – the cafeteria. Apparently it's considerably better than those in most workplaces and they import the coffee – somehow, don't ask me – from America.'

'Ah,' Napoleon said, brightening considerably. He wouldn't have said anything to Illya's mother, but the coffee he had drunk this morning hadn't been good, and seemed barely caffeinated at all.

He followed their guide to the little cafeteria, which only had four tables and was almost empty apart from a couple of employees over in the corner. Kobevko fetched three cups of coffee and put them down on the table and as Illya reached out and Napoleon moved the cup to his hand the inevitable question was asked. It was notable for an U.N.C.L.E. employee to be blind. Illya was one of very few in the world, and the only one, it seemed, who left the security of U.N.C.L.E. premises for anything like agent's work. Illya had spoken in an amused tone of Harry Beldon's legally blind secretary in the past, but she, at least, managed with glasses, and that small amount of sight made such a difference.

Illya got the explanations over quickly, with a few brief words and a sympathetic pat of his arm from Kobevko, and then things turned to business. Napoleon sipped at his coffee and sighed in gratification. It was much better than the coffee he had drunk that morning, and it made it much easier to sit there and listen to Kobevko speaking rapidly in Ukrainian and then Illya translating all he said, and then relaying Napoleon's replies back again. It seemed that this office was very small as yet, with only six active agents and twenty other staff, but they did have a gun range and labs. Sometimes he needed to remind Illya to translate, as he became caught up in discussing various facilities, especially the labs, but it was such a small place that there wasn't a lot more to talk about.

'Four of the agents have transferred from the Moscow office,' Illya told Napoleon, 'but the other two are new recruits just back from the Eastern European training centre. The Moscow agents are pretty new too, by all accounts. We haven't been set up in Russia for long. I suppose I was the prototype Russian agent,' he said with a flashing grin that made Napoleon's abdomen tighten. He loved that look on Illya's face.

'The original and best,' he said softly, pressing his foot against Illya's under the table very briefly. He looked down into his coffee cup. He had drained it to the dregs, although Illya's was half full, since he had been more busy translating both sides of the conversation. 'Look, Illya, do you want to wait here while I take a look around?' he asked. He was half afraid that touring labs and a gun range that he couldn't see would plunge Illya into gloom again, but then he was afraid that leaving him behind might do that too.

'Well, won't you need me to translate?' Illya asked rather doubtfully, wobbling his cup a little as if to discover how much coffee was left. He spoke to Kobevko again, and then shrugged. 'Well, apparently the range master is pretty good at English and one of the scientists studied at Oxford,' he said then, 'but really, Napoleon, I'd rather come. I'd like to compare notes with the lab man.'

'Oxford versus Cambridge, huh?' Napoleon asked with a smile.

'We won the boat race last,' Illya murmured, then he lifted his cup and downed the rest of his coffee. 'Have you finished your drink?' he asked.

'Yeah, a while back,' Napoleon told him, wondering if he might be able to source a packet of that coffee and substitute it for the insipid stuff that Illya's mother had bought at the local store. 'All right, then. Let's go look around.'

((O))

Illya avoided the gun range, choosing to stay in the lab with the chemist who had completed his DPhil in Oxford. It felt like a compact little room, full of the scents of various chemicals and gas, and it reminded Illya so strongly of the chemistry lab back in New York. Perhaps it didn't look the same at all, and it was definitely smaller, but it felt the same.

He spoke for a while with the lab man about the set up. Dmitry spoke of how he hoped it would be improved with greater funding, about what was easy to source under the Soviet government and what was hard, about the varied support and opposition they encountered from the local authorities. He asked about bugging, and Dmitry told him laughingly about the many ways in which the KGB tried to bug the place and failed, about the men who trailed them on their missions, about the obstructions that were put in place all the time.

'Take this,' the man said, warming to his subject. 'This is a prime example. 'I am trying to get samples from all public facilities, trying to determine the level of contamination, trying to discover how private supplies are affected, but – '

Illya held up his hand with a smile, and reminded the man, 'Dmitry Aleksandrovich, I don't know what you're talking about. Is that some liquid you're trying to show me?'

He could hear a vague kind of splashing, as if the man were gesticulating with a flask of liquid in his hand. It unnerved him a little, not knowing if the liquid were safe or not. For a moment the scents in the room reminded him not of the U.N.C.L.E. lab but of that lab in Stockholm, and he clenched his hand hard on the edge of the bench, telling himself not to be so stupid. This man was not about to throw acid in his face.

'Oh, Illya!' And there was the clink of glass being set down and Dmitry patted his arm. 'I am sorry, I am so sorry. I get so enthusiastic, you know? You know how it is?'

'Yes,' Illya said rather tightly, then forced himself to relax. He didn't want to go through his story with Dmitry Belousov, who had no idea of the associations Illya had. He needed to control a rather stupid fear over something that had happened over two years ago. 'What do you have, Dmitry? Is it – ' An acid? Is it an acid? 'Is it some kind of sample?'

'Drinking water, Illya,' the man replied. 'Simple drinking water. This sample is from – hmm – sometimes I can't read my own writing. Yes, this sample is from Stolovaya 73. I have been trying to get a sample from the cafeteria at the waterworks, but of course they won't let me in, even with my U.N.C.L.E. identification. At this rate we'll have to be sending agents in to get samples from our own government's agencies, and I don't need to tell you how crazy that is. Wretched Soviet bureaucracy...'

Illya grimaced, but then he shrugged and said, 'I remember us having to do something similar to obtain a sample from the American White House, to be sure that Kennedy's government wasn't being unduly influenced during the missile crisis. It's not only Soviet bureaucracy, believe me.'

Dmitry touched his arm again. 'You, Illya? Did you infiltrate the White House?'

Illya shook his head rather ruefully. 'Not me, no. Things wouldn't have gone well for me, I think, if they had found U.N.C.L.E.'s first Soviet recruit in the depths of the White House at night, plastered in camo paint and tampering with their water supply.'

Dmitry's laugh was belly deep and it filled the room. His stool clattered as he stood and his footsteps thudded across the floor. He was a big man, by the way he sounded. There was a clinking and a pouring and then he returned.

'You're not really on duty, no,' he said, pressing a glass beaker into Illya's hand. 'No, not really on duty. Here. Share a drink with me.'

Illya remembered so many times sharing martinis and other drinks with Napoleon in Waverly's office, when they were technically on duty. Waverly was astonishingly free with his private office supply, considering how tight he was usually on costs. Besides, Illya had a high tolerance for alcohol; so he nodded and accepted the glass, and raised it to toast Dmitry Belousov's health.

The vodka was so strong it made him splutter, and he wiped a sleeve over his watering eyes.

'Dear god, Dmitry Aleksandrovich!'

'Good, yes?'

'I don't know the brand,' Illya said, taking another sip and trying to control his wince.

There was that deep belly laugh again, and Dmitry said, 'There's no name printed on the still in the back room, Illya. The others call it Dima's Finest.'

'You make this yourself?'

Illya took another mouthful and felt it blast through him. The lingering remains of his cold were blasted further away with every swallow.

'Well, it's so much better than buying it. After all, what did I spend all that time studying chemistry for? You're drinking my best pepper vodka, Illya. In Oxford they were crazy for the idea of real Russian vodka, so what choice did I have but to make them real Russian vodka? Listen, when you leave I will give you a bottle. One for your family too, yes? I think Tovarisch Kobevko said you were staying with your family?'

'Ah – yes, yes, I am,' Illya nodded. He felt pleasantly warm, but he dragged his mind back to the previous subject. 'Dmitry, what was the sample you were trying to show me? That wasn't pepper vodka?'

'Ah, no, no. Not at all. That was the most mundane drinking water. Tell me, Illya, do your parents boil their water?'

Illya frowned. 'Now, I think only sometimes. My mother holds a glass up in the morning and looks at it in the light, and then she decides whether to strain it, whether to boil it.'

'Well, boiling won't help with this, my friend. Nor straining. I've been extracting samples and analysing the contents.'

He reeled off a chemical formula in a long string, and Illya blinked. He set his glass down on the lab bench and frowned.

'Now, that is familiar,' he said musingly.

He ran his fingers lightly over the wooden bench, recalling running them in the same way over the notes that Sarah had transcribed for him, the notes recovered from Miami. He wasn't completely fluent in Nemeth Braille, the Braille used for mathematical and scientific notation, so Sarah had needed to go through that part very carefully with him.

'Yes, I'm sure,' he said. He picked up his beaker of vodka again, feeling the subtle ridges of the measure markings on the side, then checked, 'This is my drink, yes? I'm not about to swallow hydrochloric acid?'

'I am a very careful chemist,' Dmitri assured him. 'No, there are no beakers of acid littering my bench. Just your drink. Here, hold it still.' He steadied Illya's wrist with his warm hand and the bottle clinked against the glass as he poured in another measure of vodka. 'There, that will warm you. Now, my formula is familiar, yes?'

'Yes,' Illya said. 'Yes, just before we came out to Kyiv I was in Miami on a mission.'

'You – forgive me – you go on missions, Illya?'

Illya smiled at the man's incredulous tone. 'I have just resumed limited field work, yes,' he said. 'I've grown very good at monitoring bugs. So I was in Miami, listening to the bugs set by the team I was with. It was a plot by Thrush to develop a nerve drug which they planned to put in water supplies. We couldn't discover where they planned to develop and test it, except that it would be in Eastern Europe.'

'Well! Well, Illya, you've found your test city, perhaps,' Dmitry replied. 'Yes? It's the same formula, yes?'

'Yes, just the same. I'm not a chemist but I remember it from the notes we stole. Dmitry, is the water supply here safe? I know that precautions should have been put in in all U.N.C.L.E. outlets, but this is a very new branch...'

'Yes, yes, the water supply here is very carefully monitored,' Dmitry assured him. 'Every morning I run a few basic tests. But in the main we gather our water from rainwater tanks on the roof. Water that falls straight from the sky is hard for anyone to interfere with, whether it be Thrush or any agencies closer to home.'

'Ah, good,' Illya said, musing. 'Good. Keep monitoring it. And water supplies to family homes? Are they safe?'

'As yet they seem to be. We're finding traces of the chemical in supplies to cafeterias, in some of the larger factories, high employment industries, you know? But, Illya, keep an eye on your drinking water, won't you? An eye – Well, you understand the expression.'

Illya smiled and took another mouthful of the powerful vodka. It really was good once one got over the strength.

'I understand the expression. My parents are both chemists, Dmitry. I'll speak to them. And do you have agents out looking for the manufacturing base?'

'Of course, of course, but you know, Illya, I have a still in the back room here. Everyone knows, of course. Well, Kobevko turns a blind eye because he must, and he accepts a bottle or two that I leave on his desk. So imagine, anyone could have a manufacturing plant set up in a little room. It need not be huge. The amount in water is very dilute. But you know more than I, yes? I haven't seen these Miami reports. Communication needs to be greatly improved, I think. It's still hard getting things through the curtain, you know, even necessary U.N.C.L.E. reports. We can't do everything verbally through hand-held communicators, and the authorities are so suspicious. So, tell me, what is it that this chemical does? I haven't managed to secure animals for testing yet – red tape, you know – so I've only been able to theorise. It's a nerve drug, you say?'

'A nerve drug,' Illya nodded. 'It increases susceptibility to suggestion. I think – I haven't studied it – but I would imagine they'd let it build up in people's systems, if the dilution is as great as you say, and then they mean to use subliminal messaging to affect the populace.'

Dmitry whistled. 'Well. Imagine that. The whole of Kyiv doing as Thrush bids, yes? What would happen then? They'd turn over the factories to producing their weapons, perhaps?'

'Perhaps. Or perhaps they'd go further. Kyiv may only be a test site. They may see how much they can influence local government, local opinion, then take it on to Moscow, and then – well, we were talking of the missile crisis, weren't we? How would it be if Thrush manufactured another such conflict, one that couldn't be resolved? Once the US and the USSR have obliterated one another Thrush could step easily into the vacuum.'

The chill that ran through him felt very real, and he took another mouthful of the vodka to counter it. It blasted down his throat and settled warmly in his stomach.

'Contact the New York headquarters, Dmitry,' he said earnestly. 'They've been researching this drug since we brought back the sample and notes. It's imperative that you let them know what you've found, and they might be able to pass on something useful to you. This scheme needs to be stopped.'

'What needs to be stopped, comrade?' Napoleon asked as the door creaked open. 'See, my Ukrainian comprehension is improving!'

'Napoleon!' Illya slipped off the lab stool and found the floor wasn't quite as steady under his feet as he would have liked.

'Hey, you been having a little party in here?' Napoleon asked, coming over to him and taking his arm. There was a clink of glass and a laugh. 'That's some pretty strong smelling vodka, my friend. Good thing they didn't offer me that in the firing range.'

'Napoleon, you remember the Miami mission?' Illya asked. 'Well, I think we've found the place where they're trialling the drug. Tovarisch Belousov has found samples of it in various water supplies around the city.'

'Ah, well that's very interesting,' Napoleon said in an intrigued tone. 'Nice coincidence, huh?'

'Life is full of coincidence,' Illya shrugged. 'I've told Dmitry to contact the New York office and consult with our labs.'

'Well, suddenly this mission's come alive,' Napoleon said, and Illya could hear the pleasure in his tone. Napoleon loved a problem to solve far more than routine diplomacy and office work.

'Mr Solo, can I tempt you to a glass of vodka to toast this discovery?' Dmitry asked in flawless English. Illya had almost forgotten about the man's Oxford education by now.

'Ah, no, thank you,' Napoleon said diplomatically. 'No, I can smell the proof, I think, and I want to be able to pilot this little inebriated Russian safely home to his parents. They wouldn't forgive me if I damaged him.'

'Napoleon,' Illya grumbled, but Napoleon said, 'Now, Illya, you almost fell over when you got off that stool. What would your mother say to me bringing you home drunk?'

'I am not drunk, not in the slightest,' Illya protested. 'You know I'm sometimes unsteady because I can't orient myself by sight. I'm just warmed up, that's all.'

'Well, let me warm you some more, dear Illya,' Dmitry said, and Illya wondered how much of the vodka his colleague had been drinking. 'Here, this is yours. Mr Solo, will you carry this for my new friend, yes? I like Illya very much. Illya, I am giving you a box to take home with you. Share it with your family, yes? Perhaps invite me round one evening. I'd like to talk to your chemist parents.'

'No, really,' Illya began to protest, imagining the size of the box. Dmitry seemed an extremely generous man.

'You'll insult me by refusing, Illyukha,' Dmitry said firmly. 'Now, the tour is finished, yes? Mr Solo, have you finished?'

'Ah – yes,' Napoleon said rather distractedly. 'Yes, Illya, I've arranged to meet with the two new agents tomorrow evening and go along with them on a little mission. We share enough Russian and English to get along, and you can't – '

'No, of course I can't,' Illya said quickly. He couldn't go on field missions, no matter how small, if they didn't involve sitting in a hotel room monitoring bugs. Perhaps he would keep company with one of Dmitry's bottles instead. 'No, of course. We had better go, then, Napoleon. Yes, Dmitry, I will invite you round one evening. I will call through to the office and arrange it.'

He slipped his cane up onto its end from where it had been hanging from his wrist, and held out his left hand.

'Napoleon? You'll want to get me through the glass shop safely if I'm as drunk as you think I am. So, we had better go.'

((O))

'Well, don't you have lovely red cheeks, my little Ukrainian rose?' Napoleon said as he settled into the driving seat of their little borrowed car after a quick sweep for bugs. 'A couple more of those beakers of rocket fuel and you'd have a nose to match.'

Illya grunted and Napoleon glanced at him. He peeked in through the flaps of the box and said, 'You must have made a good impression on your friend Tovarisch Belousov. There's a dozen bottles in here.' He slipped the couple of packets of coffee he'd managed to acquire into the box and said, 'Mind if I put this down in the footwell, Illya? There's not much room in the back.'

'Oh, yes, put them down,' Illya said distractedly, and Napoleon looked at him again and asked, 'Are you brooding again, Illya? You know, I was joking about the drink.'

'Yes, I know, Napoleon,' Illya said, and he favoured his partner with a fleeting smile. 'I was just ruminating on how I would get to the office and back without you. I mean, without my mother taking me,' he added blackly.

'When there are no private cabs? One of those marshrutkas, maybe?'

Illya shrugged. 'Maybe. But it would take me time and help to learn the routes to and from the stops, and no doubt I would have to change... No, we're not here long enough for that.'

'Frustrating, huh?' Napoleon asked sympathetically. 'I'm sure I can take you if you need to come here, Illya. I mean, there aren't going to be so many times – '

Illya huffed out breath between his lips. 'The point, Napoleon, is that I would like to be able to come and go at will, without arranging for escorts.'

'You can in New York,' Napoleon said softly. 'And you would be able to here if we were here longer. You're not unable, Illya. It's just a little harder for you to – '

'I know,' Illya said snappishly, then repeated more quietly, 'I know, Napoleon. I know all of this. It is hard being in my home city and not being independent. That is all. But it doesn't matter. What is more important is that we have discovered the location of testing for Thrush's new drug.' He smiled then, a brief, thin smile. 'I wonder what Doyle and Phillips will think of that?'

'They'll probably want to hop on a plane,' Napoleon grinned.

Illya grimaced. 'I don't believe either of them has the requisite skills in Russian. Of course, that is why we have an office set up here – to negate the problems of flying in agents who don't have the right skills and need a truck load of paperwork just to get into the country.'

'As opposed to those agents who are already in the country to do non-undercover work,' Napoleon added with a wolfish smile.

'Napoleon,' Illya warned him. 'Tread carefully. As I have said, that is why we have an office set up here. You don't have the language skills and the authorities would have a fit if they discovered you going under cover.'

Napoleon continued to smile. He put the car into gear and moved off, then said, 'That, my little Ukrainian rose, is why I am a spy. I'm not supposed to be discovered. No, I know I shouldn't,' he said as Illya opened his mouth to protest, 'but if I did I'd go in with the local team. I am here to show them the ropes, after all. It comes under the umbrella of our reasons for entering the country.'

'I suppose so,' Illya said rather dubiously, and Napoleon wondered if he would be so dubious if he were capable of coming along on such a mission. He took his hand from the wheel for a moment to pat Illya on the arm, and said, 'Never mind, tovarisch. When that transplant happens everything will change, I promise.'

And Illya pursed his lips at the promise that Napoleon had no right to make.