Chapter 3

Present

"That was the first time I met Marie. She was 12, I was 18. The war left her orphaned. Her mother was English, her father French. She gathered the other lost kids together for survival." He chuckled.

"After awhile of being antagonistic, she realized it was getting her nowhere. We slowly became friends and spent a lot of time together; that's when she realized that the lives her group had was never going to bring any of them happiness. She allowed me to get them into the local shelter being run by surviving teachers, doctors, and volunteers. When my unit was finally going home, I made Marie promise to keep in touch. Periodically I would send her money, and she blossomed from that hoodlum into a very bright and ambitious young lady. The last I heard from her she was leaving the shelter to pursue her academics further. About that time was when I was arrested. She couldn't find me, and we lost touch. Until now. "

Alexander Waverly sat up straight and folded his hands on his desk. He thought for a moment.

"Why you?"

"Trust. Marie said she kept up with me by reading the news. When this came about, she made some calls and found me. Said she needed my help; she trusts me and was sure I would know if the gold is real and from the war. Asked me to come to Paris and check it out."

"First off, if you do go to Paris...Kuryakin goes with you."

With a sigh, Napoleon stood to leave, but Waverly's next words stopped him.

"I guarantee if the gold is genuine, U.N.C.L.E. will assist you in any way possible. But you're not going alone. It's Kuryakin or nothing, Napoleon. That's the deal. Nobody will be the wiser he's with you."

Napoleon took a deep breath, and with hands in his pants pocket, paced the small office. Finally, he stopped and facing Waverly, nodded his head.

"Good. I'll make sure Kuryakin contacts you. When you're ready, I'll have airline tickets waiting. I'm taking a chance on you. I won't alert headquarters until you tell me there's no question the gold is genuine. Then we'll be sure it's returned to the rightful owners."

"Thank you." Napoleon held out his hand and Waverly shook it.

"Good Luck, Solo."

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Napoleon sat on the balcony of his upper west side New York apartment drinking scotch and wondering what this trip would turn up. There was a knock on the door. He knew it had to be Illya. He yelled

"Come in" and waited until Illya joined him on the balcony.

"Good evening, Peril..." He said, looking up at the tall Russian.

"Cowboy..."

"Drink?"

"No drink, thank you...just information..."

"Want me to start from the beginning?" Napoleon finished his drink, and poured another.

"You tell me what you think I need to know to keep you safe."

Without looking at him, Napoleon just knew he was smirking.

"Waverly tell you anything?" He took a sip of his drink.

"No."

"Well then...Back just when the war was winding down, my unit was deployed..."

As he told his story, Illya occasionally nodded, frowned, and smiled at certain parts. But mostly he just listened.

"Are you in love with this woman?" Illya asked when Napoleon finished.

"I love her like a sister."

Illya nodded.

"Why do you think, after you check out this story, it is so important for her to do the 'right thing'?"

"Well, I assume because she's grown to be a responsible human being, and seeing firsthand how her country suffered during the occupation, maybe she just needs a little justice."

Illya stood and poured a small glass of whiskey, drank it, and sat again.

"I'm not buying it, Cowboy. Something does not calculate. But we won't know until we go."

Napoleon took a deep breath. Looking Illya straight in the eyes he said,

"We usually don't see things the same way Peril, but this time I must confess, I agree. Something does not calculate."

They both stood, and Napoleon escorted Illya to the door.

"From here on until we get to our hotel in Paris, we are strangers. I will make contact with you. Try to stay out of trouble until then, Cowboy." Illya said, and then shut the door behind him.

On the flight, Illya read the file given to him by Waverly. It was mostly about Napoleons military stay in Paris; most of which Illya all ready knew. Little information was given about Marie Ansile, except in a report filed by Solo detailing his intent to get the orphans in Paris into a safe haven. Maybe she was just reaching out to a friend for help. Illya put the file away and tried to get some sleep. Napoleon (sitting a few rows back) thoughtfully stared out the window. He wondered what Marie would look like all grown up. He smiled remembering the defiant, stubborn adolescent compared to the voice of a woman over the phone. He closed his eyes and tried to put his thoughts away and get some sleep.