Illya fought hard not to dwell when Napoleon left the next evening to join the two Ukrainian agents on their assignment. Their mission was to gain access to a number of government run agencies and to gain water samples; simple enough to an experienced agent like Solo, but still, Illya worried about the consequences if he were caught. It may be that U.N.C.L.E.'s presence in the Soviet Union was officially welcomed, but that was no guarantee that agents wouldn't find themselves expelled from the country or quietly sent off to the labour camps for transgressions.

There was nothing to be done for it, though. He had his communicator neatly tucked in his inside pocket, but even if Napoleon called there was little Illya could do. With a nearby U.N.C.L.E. office there was help available if he needed it, and far better help than could be offered by a man who was totally blind, he told himself darkly.

'Cheer up, Illyusha,' his father said from beside him on the sofa, patting his arm. 'All will be fine.'

'Maybe,' Illya murmured. His parents knew Napoleon had gone out on a mission, but surely they knew little about the actual risks. Only a field agent – or a former field agent – really knew the score.

'Listen, son,' his father said then. 'I do know this work is dangerous. I may be in my dotage, but I know about danger. Do you forget what I did in the war?'

Illya sighed and shook his head. He knew his father had served with great courage in the war. He had seen his medals, looked on them with awe. Sometimes for a treat in the years afterwards he had been allowed to open the little box and take them out and run his fingers over the contoured metal and the rough, colourful ribbons, and he had always been in awe.

He remembered the day his father finally came home, his uniform frayed, his boots cracked, his face gaunt from starvation. Illya had thought that he and his mother had starved in occupied Kyiv, but when his father came home with his grey face and hollow cheeks he had known that his experience had been a world away. There were little moments in Illya's life when he could see himself growing up all of a sudden, with a little jerk, and that was one of them.

'Tato, do you still have your medals?' he asked suddenly.

The sofa creaked. 'Of course, Illyusha. Of course I have my medals.'

And he stood and crossed the room, calling back, 'You would have medals too, if all you've told me is true. If your Network Command gave out such things you would have ten times my medals.'

Illya smiled. U.N.C.L.E. didn't give medals. U.N.C.L.E. gave quiet commendations and sometimes Waverly gave a special smile and a pat on the back. That was enough.

His father left the room and came back after a short few moments.

'Here, Illyusha,' his father said. 'Here. Put out your hands.'

So Illya held out his hands and his father laid the little wooden box on his palms. For a moment he just held it, feeling its weight. He lifted it to his nose and smelt that familiar scent of dusty wood. Then he undid the clasp and opened the lid and touched his fingers to the medals inside. There they were, cold because his father kept the box in the floor of the wardrobe, the medals just lying in the box with no ceremony, no padded velvet to nestle into. He lifted one out and traced his fingers over the bumpy contours of the relief picture on there, and he couldn't tell which one it was. He felt the ribbon and knew that it was colourful, if a little greyed out with age, and he couldn't remember the colours. He felt tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. Everything had changed so much since he had last looked at those medals.

'Tell me,' he said. 'I can't tell which this is.'

So his father put an arm around Illya's shoulders and went through each medal one by one, reminding him of the designs, the ribbon colours, the name of each medal and why he had received it. Illya touched each one and then laid it back in the box, and when they were done he closed the lid and rested his head on his father's shoulder, feeling the soft wool of his jumper and the bony hardness underneath. His father had never been a fat man, even before the war, but he had never lost that extra layer of gauntness afterwards.

His father kissed the top of his head and his hand stroked Illya's arm. Illya felt very warm and safe, and very small despite being an adult now. It was a curious feeling to lose twenty years at a stroke, and be a child again.

'I think you would have a medal for this, Illyushenka,' his father said quietly, squeezing his arm around him. 'I haven't seen such bravery as yours in many years.'

Illya snorted a little. 'I'm hardly brave,' he said. 'What choice do I have?'

His father stirred against him, a little impatient movement. 'What choice do you think I had, Illya, when I was faced with a German soldier right in front of me? It was bayonet him in the stomach, or let him do the same to me. I had to come home to you and mama, didn't I? So I ripped one man open and shot another and cracked another across the jaw with my rifle. What could I do? That wasn't bravery, it was just staying alive. Sometimes I was doing it so I could come home to you, sometimes in such a visceral moment that all I thought about was saving my own life. Often it was a very selfish little thing, Illya, just killing a man so he did not kill me.'

Illya knew those moments. He had faced them often enough. They were quick, hot moments, almost without thought. It was kill or be killed. Those moments made him feel so alive. He hadn't seen a moment like that for a long time.

He remembered the last time, the very last moment like that. That man's hand coming up with the beaker in it, the sudden flash of the liquid jerking from it like a striking snake. He hadn't been able to shoot the man because suddenly he couldn't see, suddenly he was screaming with pain, his eyes on fire, his face on fire, able to feel the gun in his hand but utterly unable to use it. And that had been the end. Perhaps it was wrong to miss moments when he was forced to kill, but he did. Perhaps it was just the adrenaline that he missed.

'It's strange to have to kill to feel alive,' he said, and he felt his father nod.

'It is. It is, Illyusha. But we're both soldiers in our own way. The war's over for me and it is for you, I suppose, but we're both soldiers.'

Illya gave a little huffing laugh of agreement. And then the apartment doorbell rang loudly and he jumped. His father got up, pressing a hand on his arm.

'Stay there, Illya. I will go.'

Illya turned his head to listen as his father left the room and went down the hall. Then he got to his feet at the sound of a voice he was sure he recognised. He went into the dimly lit hall, and then a man's voice rose, saying, 'Illyukha, Illyukha! So what Aneta said was true! You're home!'

'Pakha!' Illya said in astonishment. He knew that voice even though it had been a long time. 'That's Pakha, isn't it?'

And he moved forward, holding his hand out because of the hall table and the coat stand, and he heard Pavel take a sharp breath from where he stood in the doorway.

'Illyukha, it's true, then? Aneta said you were blind but none of us could believe it. After all, she's such a gossip. Illya, what happened? But no,' he interrupted himself, coming forward and putting a hand on Illya's arm. He grasped Illya's hand and held it tightly in both of his. 'First, Illyukha, I've come to ask you to visit. There's a group of us, a kind of party. When I was at the gastronom buying food for this evening Aneta said you were home, so I've come to bring you to the party. Will you come, Illya? Can you come? I will take you safely there and safely home. Tovarisch Kuryakin, may I kidnap your son? I will keep him very safe.'

Illya's father chuckled and said, 'Pavel Igorevich, Illya is well past the age where I need to give him permission. Neither of you are at school any more.'

'Well then, Illyukha? You'll come?' Pavel asked, still holding Illya's hand tightly, and Illya nodded with a grin. He had always liked Pavel best of his high school friends. They had both excelled at physics and at distracting each other during lessons.

'I'll come, of course,' he said. 'Just let me find a few things. Tato, which are my shoes? And can you find me a bag?'

He took the shoes that his father handed to him and told Pavel, 'Let me find my cane and my coat, and I have a couple of bottles that will help us with the evening. Some very fine vodka given to me by a new friend. I will only be a moment.'

((O))

'Now, Illyushka, come in, come in,' Pavel told Illya warmly, opening a door in front of him. 'There, that's it. Are you all right?'

He put a hand on Illya's shoulder from behind, shepherding him through the door. Illya had tried to explain how to guide him but Pavel kept forgetting every time Illya let go of his arm, taking hold of Illya instead of letting Illya touch him. He'd taken him on the chilly, icy walk from Illya's apartment block to his own safely enough, though, taking greatly anxious care over him, and Illya was just glad to get in out of the cold.

'Here, this is my humble home,' Pavel said. 'You can hear the party already, can't you?'

And Illya could. There was muffled music coming from another room, but the space he was in already felt large. It was chilly and smelt of stale food and living bodies. He tapped his cane on the floor and listened to the echoes coming back from hard walls. He had been in places like this before, lived in one when he was very young.

'This is a communal?'

Pavel laughed. 'Yes, of course, Illya. Couldn't get anything else. But I'm single so it does for me. I share a room with Aleksandr. You remember Aleksandr Tereshchenko, don't you? Aleksandr Bohdanovich? Some of the other tenants are at my little party, but some of them are school friends you'll remember.'

'Ah, I see,' Illya nodded, tapping his cane on the floor and listening to the echoes again.

He had a misty memory of living in the communal apartment early in his life, with lots of uncles and aunts and cousins who were not really uncles or aunts or cousins. He was never sure whether he hated these places or envied their inhabitants for their close living in which neighbours became family. It was more shut off in a private apartment; but then the older he got the more Illya preferred to be shut off from the clamour of other people.

'Let me take your shoes. Shall I hold the cane? Yes?'

Illya let Pavel hold the cane as he bent to take off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat and then took the cane back in exchange for the coat and shoes, and then suddenly Pavel was hugging him hard and saying, 'I'm sorry, Illyushka. I'm so sorry for this thing that's happened to you.'

'Don't be. You don't need to be,' Illya said uneasily, although he returned the hug. 'Really, Pasha, there's nothing to be done about it, at least, nothing you can do.'

'Then someone else?' Pavel asked, releasing Illya from the hug and stepping back.

Illya shrugged. 'There's the possibility of an operation that may give me my sight, but – '

And Pavel was hugging him again and saying, 'Oh, if that could happen...'

'Don't say anything to anyone, Pasha,' Illya said quickly. 'It's not a certainty. Who knows what will happen?'

'Well, then, come in to the party,' Pavel said then, putting a hand on his arm again, and Illya let him guide him that way, using the cane to be certain his way was clear as Pavel propelled him forward and then opened another door. Immediately the music became louder. Illya stepped in through the door, feeling with his cane and his left hand. The cane slipped across what was in all likelihood a polished wood floor and the edge of a rug on top.

Pavel's room was tiny, as far as Illya could tell. At least, the walls sounded close and it seemed very full and warm with bodies. Voices were everywhere, and the crackling music spilled through the room from a record player over on the other side. And then voices rose in greeting, male and female, voices Illya might have recognised but couldn't be sure of, and he was drawn into that sea of voices and pulled down to sit on what he thought was a bed by unseen hands. He slipped his hand quickly through the loop on his cane so he wouldn't lose it, and tried to distinguish the voices that were all talking to him at once.

'Now wait, wait,' he pleaded with a grin, holding up his hands. 'I don't know who's here. First, who is this loud person on my right?' he asked, reaching out and catching the fingers that touched his. It was a woman's hand.

'This is Yuliya, Illya,' the woman replied, and suddenly he recognised that voice. She had always been small, short and curly haired, and focussed on becoming a doctor. 'Do you remember me?'

'Yes! Yes, of course,' he assured her, pressing both hands over hers and feeling how small it was. 'Yuliya with all the books and the hair like a nest.'

'Always so complimentary, Illya,' she laughed, batting at his arm. 'You haven't changed a bit. I remember how you used to stand with me because I was shorter than you, yes? You didn't like the girls who were taller.'

Illya grimaced. 'I stood with you and talked with you because you were the brightest girl in the school,' he corrected her, although he did distinctly remember choosing not to stand too close to those girls who were blessed with height. He had been far more self conscious then, feeling himself small and puny and rather ridiculous.

'So then,' he asked, turning to his left. 'Who is here?'

And the person hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks and said, 'Oh, Illya, you're more beautiful even than you were at school. Don't you remember Ekaterina Mikhailovna?'

And Illya felt himself blush. Yes, he remembered Ekaterina. She was one of those tall girls, those very pretty girls that he had never been able to talk to without stammering. And she had thought him beautiful at school? He wondered what she looked like now and felt a small clenching of regret.

'I see you do remember me, then. Ah, Illya, we could have made beautiful children. But I suppose you have a lovely American wife.'

'Well, I – ' He didn't know what to say. 'I'm happy in America,' he said finally, flustered.

'You have a wife? Children?' she persisted.

'No wife, no children,' he shook his head, and was actually relieved when Ekaterina asked him, 'So what happened to you, Illya? How did you become blind? How hard it must be for you.'

'Oh,' he said. It was always hard to go through explaining his blindness, especially to people outside of the business, so he murmured his stock excuse of, 'An accident in a lab, two years ago. Yes, it's hard sometimes but I manage as I can.'

'Oh, you're so brave, Illya,' Ekaterina said in a trembling voice, touching his leg, but at the same time Yuliya said, 'In a lab, Illya? So you're still a scientist, yes? Or – '

'Well, I went to the Sorbonne after university and then I took my doctorate at Cambridge,' he explained. 'And then I – well, I moved to America and I have been working there. I still work, but in a more administrative role.'

'Oh,' Yuliya said softly, touching his hand, and he knew she was thinking the same as Ekaterina, but had the grace not to effuse over him.

'Look,' he said, reaching down to the bag he had wedged between his feet and pulling out the bottles of vodka. 'I've brought these to help with the party. Maybe one of you ladies could get me a drink? I have no idea what's around me but I can tell the drinking has started.'

Ekaterina jumped up immediately while Yuliya leaned closer to him and said, 'I'm so glad you got your doctorate, Illya. I got my medical qualifications, you know. I'm a doctor like I always wanted to be.'

'I'm glad, I'm glad,' Illya said, and he really was.

'So, what was your doctorate in, Illya? Do you make use of it?'

'Quantum mechanics,' Illya told her, and interrupted himself to say, 'Ah, thank you,' as a drink was pressed into his hand. He moved his hands around the cool, straight-sided tumbler and sniffed at the liquid. 'No, I don't make so much use of it now but I keep up with the journals. Napoleon reads them to me with great patience, hardly understanding a word.'

'Napoleon?'

'My part- er – colleague. I've lived with him since becoming blind.'

'Part-colleague?' Yuliya asked with a laugh. 'And – this is a man called Napoleon? Really?'

Illya grinned. 'I don't know what his parents were thinking, but yes, he is an American man and he is called Napoleon. I work with him and when the accident happened I moved in with him. I dare say I'm capable of living alone now but – ' But... How lonely that would be. How terrible to be all alone. He didn't know how he had put up with it all those years. To deflect that thought he took a deep swallow of his drink and asked Yuliya, 'Is there anyone else I know here? Where has Pavel gone? How many people are there here?'

She leant closer to him in the hot, stuffy space and said musingly, 'Ohh, about fifteen all crowded into this room, Illya. Pavel is on the other side of the room drinking with a charming woman whose name I don't know. Yes, there are a few more school chums. There is me and Ekaterina, you know. Dmitry and Mikhail and Grigoriy. Maksim and oh – I'm not so familiar with her over there. Polina, I think.'

'Polina,' Illya mused. 'I think I remember Polina. Blond, yes?'

'Yes, blond. Yes, that must be Polina. And Aleksandr, who Pavel lives with. And the rest – I think others from this apartment. Pavel told you it's a communal one? They come and go.'

It was hard to socialise with large groups without seeing who was there. Illya stayed on the bed talking to Yuliya for much of the evening while the other guests milled around him, occasionally stopping to talk. He felt as if he were a quick curiosity to some of the guests and a source of pity for others, but he had never been a great mixer at parties. Yuliya's conversation was intense and interesting, and Pavel came and went through the hours, spending some time talking, introducing Illya with a drunken gregarious flair to various people who swam in and out of the soup of noise. The more Illya drunk the less the amorphous unknown of the rest of the room mattered to him. The records played constantly, jazz records that Illya greatly enjoyed, although he wondered how Pavel managed to get his hands on them and hoped no one would report him for the illicit music.

'Pasha, do you still have a piano?' he asked on one of Pavel's random appearances. Pavel's piano had been his pride and joy.

'In this tiny room?' Pavel asked him with a laugh. 'Of course I do, Illya, of course, but it's – Hey, Dmitry, that's not a seat, it's a musical instrument. Get off there. Illya's going to play for us, aren't you, Illyukha? Now, come on – '

And he put his hand under Illya's elbow and hauled him up and Illya protested, 'No, really, Pasha. No. I've drunk too much and – Really – '

'Now, little Illyushka, you were better at the piano than I ever was,' Pavel insisted drunkenly. 'Now, come on. You play. I remember you always playing along with my records. The improvisation king, I called you. You remember? You remember that?'

And Illya did, and he held out a hand, feeling around for his cane.

'Pasha, where is my cane?' he asked, slurring a little. 'I can't see my cane.' He moved his foot in little exploratory slides on the floor. 'Please, where is my cane? I need it. Wretched thing.'

'Here, Illya, darling, here,' Yuliya said, the bed springs creaking as she moved, and she put the cane to his hand and closed his fingers around it. 'Now, there you are. Come with me. Hey, out of the way!' she called out in a suddenly loud voice. 'Illya's blind. Get out of his way now.'

Illya felt his face growing crimson, but he clumsily held the cane in front of him and let Yuliya and Pavel both steer him across the crowded room until his cane and then his knee knocked into the piano stool. He sat down and reached out to the smooth, curved lid that was closed over the keys. When he opened the lid a glass crashed, and Pavel said, 'Never mind, Illyushka. Never mind.'

He pressed Illya's hands onto the keys as if Illya wouldn't be able to find them otherwise, and said, 'There, you can play, yes? Play for us.'

So Illya let his fingers rest on the keys and tried to forget the woolly feeling in his head and listened to the music from the record player. From the near sound of it it was right on top of the piano. He tilted his head a little to one side and listened to the melodies, and then he began to play along, improvising a tune that sometimes caught the brass and wind on the record and sometimes veered away. It was such a wonderful feeling to sit here in Pavel's room and play. The other occupants of the room seemed to be enjoying his playing, because whenever he stopped someone patted his shoulder or called his name and told him to carry on.

Someone approached the piano then and leant against it hard enough to make it shudder, and he said in a loud voice over the music, 'Hey, Illya, it's Mikhail. You remember me, yes? You remember me in Russian classes always looking at your answers?'

'Mikhail!' Illya said, keeping his fingers moving smoothly over the keys. He barely remembered Mikhail at all, but there didn't seem any sense in saying that. 'Hello, Mikhail.'

'So you're with the Americans now, huh? I'm working in the textile factory, you know. I suppose I should have studied harder, yes?'

Illya grunted in a non-committal way, but Mikhail didn't even seem to notice, because he banged his hand down on the top of the piano and said, 'Those wretched Americans. You live with the Americans, yes? Do you see beggars in the streets, Illya? Do you see the fat capitalist bosses with their gold cuff links and big cars, and how they drive past the homeless and the poor and laugh at them? You must feel like you're rotting inside, Illya, living in a pig pen like that.'

'It's a nice enough place,' Illya said with a shrug, continuing his playing, hardly reacting to the diatribe because he knew Mikhail was drunk. Besides, sometimes he struggled with similar feelings himself, living right in the capitalist heart of the world and seeing so much inequality and suffering.

'You mark my words. One day they'll try to destroy us,' Mikhail continued to rant, and Illya was rather relieved when someone else came up and Mikhail turned his attention to that person and wandered away.

He became aware of a discordant noise coming up beneath the music, a kind of two-tone warbling. His fingers faltered on the keys, and then suddenly he remembered. It was his communicator pen. He had completely forgotten about Napoleon. He slapped his hand to his pocket and then remembered he was in a room full of people, and he said, 'Yuliya? Or Pasha? Are you there?'

A hand touched his arm. 'What, Illya? What did you need? You've already been rescued from that crazy Mikhail Mikoyan. He must be so drunk or perhaps his girl's gone on an American movie star, because he usually loves America.'

'Oh, er – ' It was Yuliya, and he was overcome with hot embarrassment. It would be easiest to say he needed the toilet, but that wasn't the kind of thing one mentioned in front of other people, especially women. But he needed privacy to talk to Napoleon and he didn't want to reveal his occupation in front of all these people. He stood up from the piano stool and said confusedly, 'Is there somewhere – I mean – Can I be alone somewhere?'

'Oh, well – '

She seemed to have caught his embarrassment. She took his arm and said, 'Come with me, Illya. Let me help you.'

So she took him across the room and out into the cooler communal areas outside. Suddenly everything seemed very quiet. The air was chill. The beeping of the communicator was much louder out here. Yuliya started to say, 'The bathroom is over – ' but Illya pressed his hand to his pocket and she asked curiously, 'What is that, Illya?'

'Ah, well – ' he said. He had no choice but to explain, but first he had to answer. He pulled out and assembled the communicator and tried to steady his voice from its drunken slur. 'Kuryakin here.'

'Illya!' It was Napoleon. He breathed out in relief at that familiar voice. 'Illya, where are you? I got back an hour ago and your mother said you'd gone to some kind of party. Your father tried to give me directions, but I'm standing in the snow looking up at a vast concrete edifice, and I have no idea where you are.'

'Oh,' Illya said, his forehead creasing. 'Well, I'm – I'm – Well, I'll tell you the truth. I don't exactly know where I am. Pasha brought me here.'

'And who in this beautiful Soviet republic is Pasha, Illya?' Napoleon asked rather tartly.

'Oh, um – Pavel. His name is Pavel. Look, Napoleon, are you – Yuliya, is there a window here? Does it look out of the front? Can you see an American out there?'

Yuliya laughed almost uncontrollably at that, asking, 'What does an American look like?' but she let go of his arm and her footsteps padded across the room and a window squeaked.

'There's a man down there in the snow,' she confirmed. 'Very snowy. Oh, he's waving! Hello little American man!'

'Oh…' Illya groaned a little. 'Napoleon...' He felt at his watch. It was almost one a.m.. He had had no idea it had grown so late. 'Poor Napoleon. Listen, I'll come down. Just let me – Yuliya, will you help me say goodbye and find my shoes and my coat and – oh, all the things. Will you?'

She slung an arm around his shoulders and said, 'Of course I will, dear Illya. Of course. Now, let's look for your shoes. There are some shoes here that look like black beetles. Are they your shoes?'

Illya touched the shoes that she handed him, and he couldn't tell.

'Go and get Pavel,' he told her. 'Pasha will know. Pasha took them from me. And my coat.'

So he leant against the wall as she disappeared and Napoleon's voice surprised him suddenly, saying through the communicator, 'What's going on, my little drunk Russian? Are you coming down, Rapunzelusha, or shall I come up?'

'I'm coming down,' he promised. 'I am. Give me a minute. Just a minute.'

He closed the communicator and shoved it back in his pocket, and then Pavel was there helping him with his shoes and his coat and hugging him and apologising because he had to go back into the party, but Yuliya could take him down.

'Will you take me down, Yuliya?' Illya asked. 'Can you do that? I used to be able to take myself to places, you know, but I can't see.'

She put an arm around his back, generous in her drunkenness. 'I know, dear Illya. Come on, I'll help you. And now,' she said as they went out into the cold corridor outside, 'How is it that you talk to little Americans in pens, Illya? Is that your science? Is that what you do?'

Illya sighed and tried to make his voice low. He didn't really know how quietly he was talking. He was warm and soft with alcohol and it felt as though it were a cocoon around him.

'No, no, Yuliya, but you mustn't tell. Do you promise not to tell?'

'A doctor's confidence is the next thing to a priest's,' she said solemnly, and Illya accepted that.

'Well, all right. I work for U.N.C.L.E., Yuliya,' he said in an impressive tone.

'I didn't know you had any uncles in America, Illya.'

He huffed, and then he almost slipped as the floor dropped away, and she grabbed at him with the arm around his waist and said, 'Oh, stairs. Stairs, Illya. I'm so sorry. You should – You weren't using your cane.'

He reached out for the rail and concentrated very hard, her hand on his arm, her other arm around his back, and his cane held out in front.

'U.N.C.L.E.,' he said, tapping the cane very carefully down each tread before he stepped down, because he didn't feel steady at all and everything seemed muffled and far away. 'The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I am an international agent. Well, I was an international agent… I still am, in a way. Oh, it's complicated.'

'Illya!' she said in astonishment. 'Oh, how romantic! You're a spy? Really? But if the government finds out...'

He shook his head. 'No, no, it's an international organisation. I was sent by the government. I was approved by Khrushchev, Yuliya. It's all fine. All fine. But I don't want to tell everyone. I mean, secret agents are not good when they're not secret.'

'Oh, well – No, I suppose not. But how exciting, Illya. You, a spy? And your friend, your Napoleon Bonaparte?'

'Napoleon. Just Napoleon.' They whirled around a landing onto another flight of stairs, and he felt dizzy. 'Napoleon's my partner, my dear partner. My partner in crime. Don't tell a soul, Yuliya. Not a soul.'

'Not a soul,' she promised.

'Not a soul,' he repeated, and he could feel it there just behind his tongue in his drunken brain, the urge to say, Napoleon is my partner, my life, my love. Napoleon who saved me over and over. Beautiful Napoleon, you can't understand how beautiful Napoleon is to me. He held it in tightly, thinking of what his generous government did to dissenters and free thinkers and deviants. He wanted to confess how much he loved Napoleon so hard that tears stung his eyes and his throat swelled, and as they walked outside into the searing cold he heard Napoleon's voice, and he wanted to run to him. Snow was crunching under his feet and the cold pushed straight through his overcoat, and he stopped still because he knew he couldn't run.

'Napoleon,' he said as Napoleon's footsteps crunched over to him, and he was ridiculously pleased with himself for how controlled he was being. He reached out an arm so he could touch Napoleon as soon as possible, because he seemed so far away in the blind darkness. 'Napoleon, come to me. You're a boat.'

Napoleon was a boat on a dark ocean. Illya was drifting and Napoleon was like a tug boat coming to guide him home.

'Well, you're making a habit of getting stupidly drunk without me, aren't you, tovarisch?' Napoleon said rather dryly, catching hold of Illya's hand with his gloved one.

Yuliya whispered very loudly in Illya's ear, 'Why does your friend call you comrade?'

Illya laughed. 'He calls me lots of things, Yuliya. He thinks it's a joke. Napoleon is a joker. Napoleon, this is my dear old school friend Yuliya Petrenkova. She's a very clever girl. Very clever. She's a doctor. Napoleon, can you see her? Does she still have hair like a bird's nest?'

'Er,' Napoleon said awkwardly. 'Yuliya, it's very nice to meet you, but I think I should get Illya in out of the cold. And you should go back inside, really. It's freezing out here. Will you be able to get back to the party alone?'

'Napoleon, dear Napoleon. What a ridiculous name. I'm not drunk, you know, just warm. Of course I'll be able to get back.'

'Yuliya,' Illya said, opening his arms, feeling very warm towards his old friend. 'Yuliya, let me say goodbye to you. You've been a wonderful friend. It's been so wonderful to talk to you. If you're ever in New York...'

She laughed and stepped into his embrace, and he hugged her hard, feeling the smallness of her in his arms and her hair against his face, inhaling the scent of her. How long had it been since he had really touched a woman, a woman who wasn't his mother? He had almost forgotten how small women could be. He remembered her teenager's face and wished so hard that he could see. He was muffled in darkness and everything was about touch and scent and the sounds around him as he pressed his head against hers and then kissed her cheeks and felt the chill of her skin on his lips. He was possessed with an overwhelming urge to cry, and tears spilled from his eyes.

'Come on, now, silly Russian,' Napoleon murmured, putting a hand on his arm. 'Come on. I shouldn't let you get drunk, should I? Come on, I'll take you home.'

((O))

It was hard not to feel deep affection for Illya when he was as drunk as this. It was hard not to feel affection for him anyway, but there was something delightful about him when everything was loosened by alcohol. Illya wouldn't be guided properly. He slung his arm around Napoleon's waist instead and Napoleon put an arm around his shoulders, and Illya leant in to him, weeping incoherently.

'Now, come on, Illya. Come on,' he said. 'It's all right. What are you crying about? Crazy Russian.'

'Ukrainian,' Illya said with sudden, insistent feeling, pushing himself against Napoleon's side. 'I'm Ukrainian, Napoleon. This is Kyiv. This is my home. All of it. It's so beautiful, Napoleon.' He waved his hand rather vaguely at the surroundings, waving unwittingly at the great grey apartment blocks and the dark sky. 'I know how beautiful it is. I love my beautiful city, but I can't see it. All my friends. Pasha and Yuliya… Napoleon, have you seen the churches, have you seen the beautiful river? Is the river frozen this year, Napoleon? Those beautiful golden domes...'

Napoleon squeezed his arm around Illya's shoulders. 'Silly Ukrainian,' he said. 'Yes, Illya, I've seen the river and the churches and all the beautiful things. And the factories and the apartment blocks and all the new buildings. Yes, the river's frozen this year. And your friends are still here. They're not going anywhere. The city's not going anywhere. You'll see them again.'

'Oh, but everything changes,' Illya lamented. 'Everything. Do you know the Nazis burnt the university library? They burnt a million books. A million books, Napoleon. Oh, god… Have you ever thought of those books turning to ash? Why do people rape my city, Napoleon? Why do they destroy my country?'

'Shush, Illya,' Napoleon said gently. There were such depths in Illya, so many things he never spoke about except when he was delirious or raving drunk. 'Your city's still here, Illya. It's all right. You'll feel better in the morning.'

'I can't see, Napoleon,' Illya mourned.

'I know,' Napoleon said. 'I know, darling.'

'S'there a moon, Napoleon?' Illya asked, turning his face to the sky and opening his eyes very wide.

'There's a beautiful moon,' Napoleon said, looking up too. The moon was a silver crescent in a sky that sparkled with stars. 'It's a quarter moon, and it's so bright it looks like polished platinum.'

'It's been so long since I saw the moon,' Illya sighed. 'You can't touch the moon...'

'If I could I'd throw out a rope and bring it down to earth for you to hold, Illya. But it looks so cold and it's so bright I'd be afraid you'd burn your fingers.'

'Oh...' Illya leaned even closer as Napoleon guided him carefully over an icy patch of snow. 'I love you, Napoleon. Have I ever told you I love you?'

'Many times, my dear,' Napoleon assured him.

'No, but I do love you. You're – you're my air, Napoleon. My air. I love you. Because if I didn't have air I'd – I'd – well, anoxia. Napoleon, I need you to breathe. I do. I don't think you understand.'

'Of course I do, because I feel the same,' Napoleon promised. 'It's just I'm not three sheets to the wind on home made vodka. Now, come on. Come on home. I'll get you to bed. You'll feel better in the morning. Well, if you don't have a raging hangover... You Ukrainians, you party well, don't you?'

'S'not like Americans don't get drunk,' Illya protested. 'Americans are – ' He seemed to be thinking hard, then he said, 'Napoleon, I remember – Something someone said at the party. Someone – '

'What is it, honey?' Napoleon asked. Illya's tone had changed and he recognised the attempt to say something serious. No matter how drunk he was Illya was very good at grabbing hold of an agent's sense when he needed it.

'Mikhail. Mikhail at the party,' Illya said. He stopped stock still on the freezing pavement and Napoleon stopped too, facing him and putting a hand on his.

'Mikhail at the party?'

'Yes, he works in – in the textile factory, he said. He was raging about the evils of America. He said one day America will destroy us. But Yuliya said usually he loves America.'

Napoleon put his arm back around Illya's shoulders and nudged him onward.

'That is interesting, Illya. At the textile factory, yes? That's one of the places we infiltrated tonight. I'm sure your friend Dmitry will be analysing the sample in the morning. If this Mikhail's showing such strong anti-American sentiment perhaps Thrush have already started their subliminal suggestions.'

'I love you, Napoleon,' Illya said again.

'Yes, I know, Illya. I love you too,' Napoleon said patiently. 'Now, come on, we're at your apartment block. Up the steps. Okay? And in through the door.'

'Ah, warm,' Illya sighed. It was cold in the stairwell, but not the blistering cold of outside at past one in the morning.

Napoleon squeezed his arm around his shoulders then said, 'Come on, Mr Magoo. You take my arm now. Let me guide you properly up the stairs, yes? You're not too steady on your feet.'

'Oh,' Illya said muzzily. 'Oh, all right then. Yes, I've got your arm.'

He rearranged himself so he was holding Napoleon's arm and Napoleon concentrated on getting him up the poorly lit stairwell and along the cluttered corridor and then he fumbled his gloves off and found the key that Illya's father had lent him and let them both in.

'Now, shush,' he told Illya as he led him down the hallway. 'Shush now. It's late. Your parents are sleeping. Come and get into bed. No, we won't worry about pyjamas tonight. Let's just get these clothes off you and get you into bed.'

'Napoleon, I want to be with you,' Illya said in too loud a voice, and Napoleon pressed a hand over his mouth, whispering, 'Hush, Illya. Your parents are asleep. Don't wake them up now.'

He found the bedroom door in the darkness and opened it and manoeuvred Illya through, flicking on the light only once the door was closed behind them.

'Napoleon, I want to be with you, Illya said again. 'You know, I want to fuck you so badly.'

'Shush,' Napoleon whispered.

He got Illya over to the bed and sat him down and started to strip off his clothes and put them on the chair near the bed. Illya reached out blindly and moved his hands over Napoleon's body, trying to slip his fingers between the buttons of his shirt to his skin, and Napoleon caught them and stilled them.

'Illya, this is your parents' bed, remember? You do remember. We can't do it in here.'

'Oh, Napoleon,' Illya sighed.

'No,' Napoleon said firmly. 'All right. Trousers now. Come on, give me a little help, you great drunken oaf. Let's get you out of your trousers. Why don't you lie down, huh? Make it easier for me?'

Illya reached out behind himself and felt for the pillow and lay back with a beatific smile, his hair tousled and golden around his head.

'There you go,' Napoleon said, gently stripping off his trousers and shoes and socks. He knelt there by the bed, looking at Illya's soft, slack body and the contours of his underpants, and he had such a powerful urge to forget all the inhibitions about whose bed this was and how drunk Illya was.

He bent his head to deposit a kiss gently on his partner's flat belly, and looked sideways to see his face, but Illya was asleep. He left another kiss on that firm mound covered by his underpants, then stripped off his own clothes and snuggled in next to Illya's warm body.