A.N: My thanks to Lisa who has left me a couple of nice reviews. Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Almost at the end. . .

Chapter 27

Searching And Waiting

Napoleon Solo felt like he had been swimming forever. His blood thundered in his ears, and his injured leg throbbed agonizingly. Despite the warm summer temperature of the air, the water was still freezing cold. It had not long thawed after the bitterly hard Russian winter recently over. He reached the shore line and with a gulp of relief and a heave, he hauled himself on to the bank and rolled over on to his back. The rain still poured down on him, and he wondered if it truly was luck alone that had prevented the lake from being struck by lightning whilst he was still swimming in it? He hated to think of what might have happened. He still needed to get under cover. He was wet and exposed, and although he was by no means the tallest point around, he would still make a better conductor than these trees…an ideal target for a violent electrical storm like this one.

He tried to get up, but pain coursed through his leg and he couldn't help crying out. He wasn't sure if it was broken, but it was agonizingly painful and it would not take his weight. He found he had to drag himself the hundred yards or so to the stand of trees near the shoreline, and by hanging on to a stout young bush, he managed to pull himself up.

Once he was on his feet, he found that although his leg was unable to support his weight enough to walk properly, he was able to shuffle along after a fashion by half-hopping on his good leg, and leaning heavily on a thick stick while he dragged his injured leg behind him. He would get nowhere fast like this, but it was better than laying soaking wet beside a large lake in the middle of a thunderstorm at night. The problem was, where to head for? No direction seemed to show any more promise than any other, and Napoleon had completely lost his bearings. He chose a direction at random and started to shuffle painfully ahead, looking out for somewhere to shelter.

The Russian Doctor, Ruslan Garanin gently picked up the little girl who had once again fallen asleep at the bedside of her uncle. The little thing had hardly moved from Agent Kuryakin's side since her arrival with her grandfather. Illya himself seemed to be holding his own against the sickness that ravaged his skinny body. He was holding his own, but he was not getting any better. His fever was still dangerously high, and seemed resistant to all available treatments. His internal temperature was almost off the scale, his skin pouring with sweat, and yet he shivered as though he were freezing cold. The little girl had been trying valiantly to be brave. She had sat beside him for two days now, holding his large hand in her small ones, talking to him, pleading with him to wake up and stroking his face, brushing the blond bangs away from his forehead. Eventually though, her fear for him got the better of her and she had started crying, quietly, trying not to let it show. Exhaustion finally overcame her and she slept, still occasionally whimpering even in her sleep.

The child was more intelligent than was good for her, Garanin reflected. She was definitely related to Illya Kuryakin. Some at least of his intellectual brilliance had been passed down to her. Very young though she was, she had already lived through troublesome times and she knew very well the likely outcome of her Uncle Illya's sickness. The thought frightened and upset her more than she was letting on. She was trying to be brave. Garanin felt sorry for the child. At the age of six she should be playing in the park, throwing a ball for a puppy-dog or being bounced on someone's knee. She shouldn't be troubled in this way. He knew, too, how she would react if he tried to tell her to go play in the park instead of sitting here in vigil over her uncle.

He lay her on an adjacent bed and covered her with the sheets. Dimming the medical bay lights slightly, he took her seat and settled in to watch over the pair of them for the night.

Garanin was worried about agent Kuryakin. He had expected the young man to continue fighting his inner battle with the same strength that he fought every battle, but ever since he had awakened the first day, asked for his friend and partner and been told of his disappearance and probable death, he had seemed to lose his way a little. It was not that he had stopped fighting. On the contrary, Garanin believed that Illya was still fighting as hard as ever. It was just as though losing Napoleon had robbed Illya of half his strength.

Hope for the missing American agent was rapidly fading now. The choices were becoming limited. Possibility: dead. A very real possibility considering their discovery of the wrecked helicopter in the lake. No body had been found, however, so he clearly had either got out before the crash, or his body had been swept away. It had not washed up anywhere however, so the likelihood of his having drowned was greatly diminished.

If he had escaped the crash though, where was he now? Laying somewhere, hurt? Had he been discovered by THRUSH? Was he even now in some THRUSH satrap undergoing torture, knowing that with his death being a probability, no one would ever come searching for him? The whole idea was unthinkable. If Illya had been clear-headed long enough to think about it, that alone might explain his downward turn. Garanin wondered how long Tarasov would continue the search before giving up?

Tarasov sat in his office, reading through routine reports from his agents, with only half his mind on his task. The other half was focused more on the sick young man down in medical, and the missing American.

They had dragged the river with no results.

They had searched the shorelines and every cave and hollow, but found nothing.

Now they had people out walking through the fields and villages, looking into every bush and hollowed out tree, knocking on every door. How far can it go before…? If Napoleon was dead, where was his body? If he was alive, it was beginning to look more and more like he had been captured by THRUSH. In which case he could be almost anywhere in the world by now.

The THRUSH frequencies had been silent on the subject of Solo, but that did not of itself ensure that he was not already in their power.

Tarasov put down the report he was reading, He had read it three times now without taking in any of it. He was convinced that there was something important he was missing. Something he should have seen, or remembered…or done? The thought plagued him like an itch he could not scratch. Something he had forgotten perhaps? He rubbed his eyes and picked up the UNCLE communicator. He needed a fresh perspective, and quickly.

Mark and April arrived at Mister Waverly's office together, wondering about the sudden summons from the old man. In the day or two since the conclusion of The Traitorous Affair, as someone had called it, they had been busy catching up on reports, paperwork and debriefings that had had to be temporarily sidelined. What could this be about?

Waverly waved them to a seat as they entered. The view-screen was activated and they recognized the face of Wilhelm Tarasov right away. He gave them a warm nod of greeting as he saw them.

"Hello sir."

"Agents Slate and Dancer, good to see you again. I understand you discovered the identity of our traitor. I've been looking through some of the reports. A very creditable job."

"Thank you sir. Is everything else all right, sir?" April asked, sensing that there was indeed something amiss. Tarasov shook his head and glanced at Waverly. Waverly turned to them.

"Mister Tarasov had to use code to communicate some important information to me before this call. You need to know before we begin that at this present moment, Mister Kuryakin is in medical in Moscow, sick with pneumonia, Mister Solo is missing, presumed dead. To cut a long story short, he took a chopper out in a thunderstorm in an attempt to lure THRUSH after him. He apparently crashed into a lake…"

Waverly glanced back at Tarasov and nodded. He nodded back and continued.

"So you see, I want your help. Our friend has gone missing, and we have done everything we can to find him, but nothing. We have dragged the lake and found and searched the helicopter, but there is no body. We cannot even fully ascertain whether he is alive or dead. If he has been captured by our feathered foes, we may never find him."

Mark and April glanced at each other. Napoleon missing, possibly dead? And Illya sick? Did this mean they might still lose the two senior agents, after all that had happened?

"How can we help? Would you like us to fly out to help with the search?"

Tarasov shook his head.

"You'd be very welcome, but that is not why I called. I'm not short of helping hands, but information. During the course of our meetings whilst you two were here I have a vague recollection of something specific being said about the possibility of capture, but I simply cannot bring it to mind. I've asked my Numbers One and Two, but they have no idea what I'm even getting at. I'm not even sure myself really. But I know there is something important that I have forgotten. Something that…look you two, think back over all the conversations we had…does anything come to mind?"

Mark and April looked baffled. What on earth was the man getting at? They started to think back a few days ago when they were sitting with Napoleon and Illya in Tarasov's office in Moscow. Illya had been set on walking into the THRUSH building pretending to be his dead brother, and they had both been concerned about him being discovered. Napoleon had insisted that Illya was not going in there alone. He would go along as a captive if necessary, but he couldn't allow Illya to put himself in danger without being nearby. He had been convinced that if Illya took a captive with him, it would strengthen his credibility. Between them Mark and April started to recall bits of pieces of the conversations they had had. Suddenly April smote herself.

"Mark, the pills! Those micro-transmitters of Illya's! I gave them one each and told them to swallow them. They keep transmitting for two weeks, even if they were to die."

Tarasov leapt to his feet.

"That was it!" he shouted in triumph, "I knew I could count on one of you two remembering. What is the frequency?"

April gave him the details. Tarasov thanked her, and even as he was saying goodbye, he was already running out of the room. After a moment, the screen went blank and April turned her back on it.

"Sir…?"

Waverly shook his head.

"Sorry, I can't spare you both to be away…" he saw the look in both their eyes and smiled. He had been in their shoes himself in his youth.

"I still need an acting CEA and our number three is not quite up to it yet. One of you will have to remain here to cover Mister Solo's duties. The other may go to Moscow with my blessing. Decide between you."

"April should go to Russia." Mark replied instantly without the need to look at his partner. "Whatever happens with either of them, they are more likely to respond to April's comfort than mine."

April hugged her partner, glanced quickly at Waverly, and receiving his nod of approval, she dashed from the room.

Agent Molovitski sat in the commissary with the elderly former THRUSH officer. The old man had explained that he was here as part of a deal he had made with Napoleon Solo, but that he was not about to enter into any kind of discussion until either Solo or Kuryakin were able to be present. Since Kuryakin was sick and Solo still missing, it looked as though they might end up babysitting this fellow and his granddaughter indefinitely. However, he had brought their sick agent here to safety, so the old man had at least that in his favour. It was largely on Illya's account that Molovitski was willing, for the time being, to take Kossov at face value. He had however, decided that the wise course was to remain cautious, so Kossov was to be accompanied at all times until Tarasov decided that he could be trusted, or conversely, until Solo or Kuryakin were able to tell them what the hell was going on?

Kossov was no fool, and he had been THRUSH long enough to know the danger he potentially posed, being here in the U.N.C.L.E headquarters like this. He did not resent the limitations that had been placed upon him, knowing full well that he would have done exactly the same if the positions had been reversed. The only thing that really only concerned him right now was his granddaughter, and that young man lying in bed downstairs in medical. Having discovered that his granddaughter had only the one other relation other than himself, it was important to him that Illya should get well, if only for Katiya's sake. He knew he would not live forever in any case, and should the inevitable happen sooner rather than later, it was important that there would be someone who loved her willing to take care of her. Illya had to get well. He just had to!

Molovitski's partner, Polokofiev was down in medical, sitting by the bedside of the sick man. Illya had had one or two clear-headed moments, and each time he had asked for his partner. The first time the child had been here, and she had been forced to admit that she did not know where Napoleon was. The second time the doctor had tried to evade the question by saying simply that Napoleon was not here right now, but he would be here soon; in the hope that Illya would be mollified. He was not.

Illya felt terrible. Breathing was too much trouble, coughing hurt, and inevitably led to his throwing up violently. Everything hurt, and half the time he was unsure whether he was asleep or awake. The only thing that remained clear in his mind was that someone had been beside his bed permanently. And that someone, so far had not been Napoleon. Where was Napoleon? Where was his partner?

Most of the time someone had been holding his hand, someone with tiny hands and a sweet, high little voice that whispered lovingly to him and stroked his face. His niece, Katiya. Now she was gone, but Illya was half aware of someone still beside him. Someone taller. Napoleon?

"It's me. We're still looking for Napoleon. We have his tracker signal frequency now, so we should find him soon. Come on Illya, you can fight this thing man."

Illya struggled to open his eyes and focus them.

"Eduard…is it you?"

Polokofiev impulsively gripped his old friend's hand. Illya had saved his life more than once before he had been transferred to New York. He grabbed a damp flannel, soaked it in cold water, wrung it out and gently wiped Illya's face with it, cooling him down.

"Are you still with me, Illya?"

"Yes. Eduard, where is my partner? I mean, what happened to him? How long have I been here?"

Eduard Polokofiev sighed softly.

"Kir Yuriyev Kossov brought you in two days ago my friend. You've been delirious most of the time since then. Kossov tells us that THRUSH were coming after him to take you and the little girl away, so your partner Solo went up in the storm in Kossov's helicopter to draw THRUSH after him so that Kossov could take you and the child and escape."

"He brought us here?"

Polokofiev nodded.

"That old man may be THRUSH, but he's no monster. He sees you as family. When we picked you up, he referred to you as his son-in-law. A slip of the tongue I think, but that is how he seems to view you."

"So what happened to Napoleon? Did THRUSH shoot him down?"

"All we know is…" here the man paused, and Ilya could see he did not want to say any more. Illya wanted to know the truth. He needed to know.

"Tell me Eduard."

"We found the helicopter at the bottom of a lake, but no Napoleon. It looks like he got out all right, but we've not been able to find him."

"Why didn't you use his tracker signal straight away?"

Polokofiev looked downcast. Illya shook his head and closed his eyes.

"You forgot we swallowed them, yes?"

"Yes."

"Let us hope that when you find Napoleon, he is not worse for having to wait two days to be found…" here Illya broke off as he was convulsed with a fit of violent coughing. The nurse dashed forward to support him, and held a bowl for him as he started to retch, and Polokofiev made his escape.

When Polokofiev arrived in the commissary, his partner looked up expectantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kossov beat him to it.

"How is Illya doing?"

"Not so good. Holding on, but getting weaker. He woke up for a few minutes while I was there though, and he was asking me about his partner. Sorry Albert, but I had to tell him the truth. I had no choice. Now he seems to be struggling more than ever."

"What about my granddaughter?"

"She's sleeping sir, on one of the other beds in medical. The poor kid is worn out from sitting with her uncle, and worrying about him."

Kossov nodded.

"She thinks the world of him, you know. He reminds her of her father to look at, naturally, except he is everything a father should be and her father was not. Kind, gentle, loving, caring..."

"The very epitome of a Section Two UNCLE agent!" Polokofiev put in drily. Kossov ignored the remark.

"I want to go down there and sit with both of them myself for a bit. Is that all right?"

"Sure. Let's go. Eduard, when you've finished eating, I want you to take over from me for two hours whilst I finish up some paperwork."

Polokofiev nodded and watched as his partner led Kossov out of the room, to head down toward medical. As they stood together in the lift, the Russian CEA turned to his companion.

"You're going to leave with the child aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?"

Molovitski smiled.

"I'm not stupid, Kir Yuriyev. Since you were being chased by THRUSH, that suggests you have left them permanently, which I know THRUSH do not take kindly to. If you were planning on leaving the child with Illya, you would have made whatever deal it is you are after and you would be gone already. Since you are still here, it is clear you are waiting only for Illya to get well so that you can talk to him and get his agreement or approbation or something, before you take off. Perhaps just to say your own goodbyes to him. Either way, after searching the country for his niece, and even being prepared to abandon his career with UNCLE for her, you are going to take her away from him forever."

"Do you think I am wrong for wanting to take care of my own granddaughter?" Kossov looked slightly wary. Molovitski shook his head. He was smiling, but his eyes looked sorrowful.

"Not at all. I was just thinking about Illya, that's all. He's already lost everything, and here he thinks he's found his missing happiness, and he's about to lose it all over again, and he doesn't know it yet."

"And for all he knows his partner might be dead."

Molovitski nodded. Kossov sighed deeply and shook his head.

"That's the thing about caring for people. It gives you a conscience, makes you care what happens to them. Life was much more comfortable for me when my daughter was still alive. I had no one to have a conscience about. I loved my family of course, but Mikhail was the sort of person I could love and loathe at the same time. THRUSH gives you a purpose without the need for unnecessary personal entanglements. As soon as I lost my daughter, Katiya came to live with me, and suddenly I found that conscience within me that I thought THRUSH had driven away long ago. I managed to ignore it for a while…until Illya and his friend arrived; pretending to be THRUSH of course. I was taken in all right, but katiya was not fooled for a second."

"She's a smart kid."

"She has a pure heart. THRUSH would corrupt her if they could, and I couldn't bear for Katiya to change. I need to take her away, hide her so that THRUSH can't get their hands on her. If I know that Illya is safe, then I know that if something happens to me, she will still have someone to care for her."

Molovitski saw the sadness in the old man's eyes, and knew that he really did care, not just about himself and the child, but about Illya too. The thought that he was going to inevitably shatter the young man's already broken heart hurt him more than he was willing to admit. He rested his hand lightly on the other's shoulder.

"Kir, Illya cares about others more than he does himself. He's proven that many times over. Whatever his personal feelings, he will agree with you. Even if it does hurt him, he won't argue with you when it comes to it. He will always do what is best for Katiya."

"Even if he ends up a broken man?"

"Even then. Illya's entire world shattered a couple of years ago when his wife and son died in a tragic accident. They fell into the Danube during a storm and drowned. But Illya was reassigned to New York, and partnered with Napoleon Solo. Solo has apparently been a good friend to Illya, and helped him to carry on with his life. He'll help him this time too."

"And what if Solo is dead? Who will help Illya then?"

Molovitski had no reply.

Napoleon Solo watched the little old lady as she bustled about her kitchen…such as it was. A trestle table propped against the wall beside a large open fireplace with a cooking pot hanging over the top of it. A large bucket filled with water from her well sat on the floor beside the door. Needless the say, this was about the most ancient cottage Napoleon had ever seen. The old woman herself was almost as ancient it seemed, but she was alert and active, and firmly ordered Napoleon about in a voice that would brook no arguments.

He had happened upon her, or rather, she had happened upon him after he had spent hours dragging himself through the woods, jumping at every unfamiliar noise, uncertain whether the Wolves that were so prolific in this part of the world roamed this area. He had finally slumped to the ground half hidden beneath some shrubbery, wet, exhausted and in pain. There she had found him a few hours later.

She was so old and frail, that at first he could not think how she had had the strength to convey him to her cottage; but when he asked her she had cackled at him. Her solution, she informed him, was simply. She had returned to her cottage for her donkey, and tied a large plank of wood to him to act as a litter. She had merely rolled the unconscious man over and over until he was on the litter, then she tied him down and the patient little donkey had dragged Solo back home for her.

A mattress on the floor for his use was good enough, and she had examined him thoroughly, cleaned his cuts and abrasions, and applied a splint to his right ankle. She had not been certain whether it was broken or badly sprained, but she had done a great job of patching him up. Now, he was to sit still, not move and eat and drink everything she pressed upon him without arguing.

"How do I address you?" he asked her.

"Babushka." She told him firmly. Napoleon nodded respectfully

"Thank you for your kindness babushka. You don't even know where I came from."

She grinned at that.

"You're American."

"How did you know that?"

"Your Russian is passable. Your accent is terrible."

"It's good of you to care for me. I have friends who will search for me and find me. They will take me off your hands soon. They will want to offer repayment for your kindness."

She made no reply to that. She handed him a bowl of soup and a bread roll and left him alone to eat. Babushka was not a great conversationalist, but she did well with the little she had around her, and made Napoleon feel welcome.

Once he managed to get himself to his feet after two days lying on his back inside the cottage, he found a pair of roughly made crutches waiting for him. To his surprise, they were his exact size. With their help he was able to make his way reasonably quickly outside. Babushka's face softened when she saw him on his feet.

"Babushka, did you make these?"

She nodded the affirmative. Napoleon's eyebrows raised in surprise and she smiled suddenly.

"No one else to do for me young man. I do all right."

Napoleon sat beside her on the bench and looked into her eyes.

"Babushka, you do better than all right. You are an amazing person. Thank you. They are perfect."

"I made them the morning I brought you here." She told him, returning to her stiff persona once again. "But I thought you should have them now. You will be leaving here today."

Something clenched in his stomach for a moment.

"I will?"

"A helicopter with whirling blades has been circling overhead for the last forty minutes or so. You said someone would be coming for you. It looks like they have found you."

"Yes…well…"

She turned to him with a frown.

"You did say your friends would be…?"

"Um…yes, they will. But I have enemies who might also be searching for me…"

She rolled her eyes.

"Get inside. What is the name of the person you are waiting for?"

What Napoleon wanted to say more than anything else was `Illya', but who knew whether Illya was even still alive?

"U.N.C.L.E."

"The what?"

"UNCLE. I work for an organization called UNCLE. They will come for me, and they will identify themselves."

She nodded and gestured with her head for him to return inside the cottage. Napoleon eased himself on to the only chair and settled down to wait.

The skies were clear, as the unmarked helicopter flew low across open countryside. Beside the pilot, Agent Oshiro studied the readings on his receiver box, occasionally pointing to the pilot to change direction. Every so often he spoke into the ship's onboard communications array, giving directional commands to the team leading the search on the ground. His partner, Aminov was leading the men on the ground by following directions relayed from the chopper. For the past hour they had travelled in circles searching for a signal, but now there it was. Faint, but undeniable. Following the signal, Oshiro relayed instructions to his partner on the ground and turned to the pilot.

"Is there anywhere near we can put down?"

The pilot shook his head.

"Sorry, can't afford a landing and another take off as well as flying all the way back sir. We don't have enough fuel left. We'll have to leave extraction to the team on the ground."

Oshiro nodded. He contacted his partner.

"Chopper to ground crew. Aminov?"

"Itaru!"

"Sergei. Do you have the signal on your scanner now?"

"Yes my friend, going strong. When will you be able to join us?"

"Sorry Sergei, we're almost out of fuel. We need to make our way back to HQ right away. Contact me if you need anything. Want me to follow you out here?"

"That's all right Itaru, you've done the important bit. You can have a coffee waiting for me in the commissary for when we get back though; Or better yet, something stronger?"

"Already done. Let us know how you get on. Out."

Sergei Aminov looked around at his group of men.

"Come on, let's go!" He led the way into the trees.

Wilhelm Tarasov had gone past the point of hiding his worry and concern by now. He had taken short catnaps in his private room, but had been unable to sleep very much. Between Solo missing out in the wilds somewhere, possibly at the risk of wolves or worse, young Kuryakin down in medical, still shivering, sweating and shuddering in the grip of pneumonia, and Kir Yuriyev Kossov, a well-known THRUSH general still wandering around headquarters as free as a bird, when was this chapter of problems going to end? He found his feet taking him downstairs to medical, hoping against hope for some kind of miracle. He was met at the door by doctor Garanin who was in the act of charging through it. They almost collided. Garanin gasped and pulled up short.

"Sorry mister Tarasov, I was just coming up to see you, sir."

"You were? I do hope you have good news for me doctor. I have had my fill of the bad at the moment."

Doctor Garanin smiled and inclined his head.

"Come and take a look at this, sir."

Inside the medical room, the patient, Illya Kuryakin still lay on the bed. Kossov sat in a chair on one side, little Katiya on the other, and they were each holding a hand and talking softly.

As Tarasov came close, he noticed that Illya was calm and still, his eyes still, sleeping peacefully. His face was dry and cool to the touch, and his breathing was smooth and silent. The terrifying struggle to draw each breath was behind him. Tarasov became aware that he had been holding his breath, and he let it go, letting feelings of relief wash over him. The little girl looked around as he came up to stand beside her.

"Uncle Illya is going to get well!" she informed him, a big smile on her face. "He's nearly better!"

Tarasov smiled at her and looked across at the child's grandfather.

"All we need now is for Mister Solo to be found alive and well."

Kossov nodded.

"I think I should conduct my initial conversations with Illya. However…"

Kossov followed the Chief to the door and spoke in a low voice.

"Mister Solo did say that…um…when Katiya and I disappear to hide permanently from THRUSH, Illya is not to know where we are, or who we are…that is, assuming he agrees to the plan…"

Tarasov nodded.

"Since you have made yourself a particular target for THRUSH, and they of course have good reason to know what Illya looks like, he would be a danger to you both should he ever show up…it would be best if he remained completely in the dark. He won't like it, but…"

"Mister Tarasov, you know him better than most…except perhaps his partner I suppose, but you know his past. Would he…I mean will I be…" Kossov failed to come up with the words he wanted. Tarasov sympathized with the man.

"I believe I know what you are trying to ask, and yes, he will be hurting badly at having to say goodbye to his niece; he might even be shattered, but he will survive."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Kossov looked uncertain, but said no more. He turned back to the sickbed and regained his seat. Tarasov looked at the doctor.

"Was I right doctor Garanin? Will Mister Kuryakin survive another broken heart?"

Garanin clasped the chief's shoulders.

"Has Mister Kuryakin's heart ever been whole? His heart first broke when he was a boy didn't it? According to his files…sir, he will learn to live with his losses, just as he has always had to. As we all have had to."

Tarasov nodded.

"I wonder…" he began, then broke off, shaking his head and turned away, walking out of the room.

Japanese agent Itaru Oshiro strode through the corridors of UNCLE, heading for the chief's office, a wide smile plastered across his face. As he was knocking at the door, Tarasov came up from behind and startled him.

"Sir!"

"You have a report for me Mister Oshiro?"

Oshiro nodded.

"Sir, we picked up the signal and followed it to its source. Sergei and the guys went on foot and they found Napoleon Solo being cared for by an amazing old lady who refused to give her name. He has an injured ankle, and a few cuts and grazes, but Sergei says that aside from that everything seems to be fine. They are bringing him back now, sir. The old lady was asked what she would like as a reward for her kindness."

"She was given carte blanche?"

Oshiro grinned.

"Yes sir."

"And what did she ask for?"

"A new wheelbarrow, sir."

Tarasov blinked.

"A new wheelbarrow eh? I think we can probably afford to get her a new wheelbarrow. And Solo is all right? How far away from the Lake?"

"Three or four miles is all, sir. They should be here in about ninety minutes or so from now."

Tarasov sat down at his desk. Suddenly he was feeling incredibly sleepy.

Illa Kuryakin was dreaming. Dreaming of a time long ago, when mama and papa were still alive, and his siblings…his sisters playing with him, Mikhail beside him giggling and whispering secrets, Uncle Dimitry always there with a kindly word and a lap always available for a hurt or scared little boy to sit upon and gain comfort. Then intruding upon the pleasant memories came the picture of Mikhail, lying dead on the slab, and laid out beside him, Illya saw Elinor and baby Dimitri. He shuddered in his sleep, trying to wake up, but the dream changed. This time it was Katiya laid out cold and dead on the slab, and Napoleon beside her, his eyes wide open, staring almost accusingly, whispering over and over; "You killed me! It's your fault. You were not there. It's your fault Illya! Illya! Illya!"

"…Illya! Illya!"

Illya struggled and awoke, his mind still full of the images from his dream. He tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat left by the vivid images and slowly brought his vision into focus. A face was leaning over him, clutching his hand. Black hair, brown eyes, a warm smile…

"Napoleon? Are you real?"

The face nodded, but Illya was still not quite awake, uncertain what was real and what was imaginary. He reached out his hand, expecting his fingers to pass through the face like a mirage. He touched skin, warm, dry, rough with almost three days' growth of beard, but unmistakably real.

"You are real…I thought you were dead Napoleon, I thought I had lost you."

Napoleon shook his head slowly.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't be here while you were sick my friend. I was scared I would lose you too. Are you all right?"

Illya was staring at his friend, feasting his eyes. He had convinced himself two days ago that Napoleon must be dead. For him to be here now…but the hand holding his was solid and strong. He managed a weak smile.

"I don't suppose you could get me out of here could you?"