Illya slept fitfully that night. He couldn't get Alexandra's face out of his mind, and when he did doze off, it haunted his dreams. Who was she? What did she want from him? Was she real or merely a figment of his imagination?

He thought of confiding in his partner, Napoleon Solo, but decided not to out of fear that the American man would think him crazy.

That evening he opened the Faberge egg again, and this time, nothing happened. "Well, that settles it, then," he said to himself. "It was my imagination, after all."

The next day he and Napoleon were eating lunch in a diner when she brushed past him. Even though he could only see the back of her head, he knew who she was, and when she turned and he saw her face, any lingering doubt was removed.

"It's her," he whispered, amazed at seeing her in a modern-day setting.

"Who?" asked Napoleon.

Illya, startled, didn't even realize that he'd spoken aloud. "Her name is Alexandra," he told his partner.

Napoleon grinned. "What a looker!" he said approvingly.

Illya frowned. "You keep you hands off her, Polya," he said. "She's not that kind of woman."

Napoleon stared, surprised. "How would you know?"

"I just do, that's all. You Americans can be so crass sometimes."

That evening he sat on the sofa staring at the Faberge egg for a long time, and wondering whether or not he'd ever see her again.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened for several more weeks, and then one night Illya had a very vivid and frightening dream. He was in a tiny, cramped cellar, with maybe a dozen or so other people. He heard a gunshot and saw a man fall dead. He heard a woman screaming and, with a start, realized that she was Alexandra.

"They've just murdered my husband!" she cried, her soft blue eyes wide with terror. "They're going to kill my children and me too!"

Illya jerked awake and realized that he was hyperventilating and sweating.

The very next day, Illya and Napoleon were called to the scene of a hostage situation. A group of men were holding a family of seven and their servants at gunpoint in the basement of a former government building. With their revolvers drawn, Illya and Napoleon made their way down the stairs as quietly as possible.

Instantly the scene changed to the one from Illya's dream. He saw Alexandra's husband lying motionless on the floor, blood pouring from his wounds. Illya and Napoleon raised their revolvers and fired back at the assailants. Within moments they were all either lying dead or wounded, or had escaped.

One of the hostages, a distinguished looking man, walked to the man on the floor, briefly examined him, and looked up, shaking his head sorrowfully. Alexandra and several younger women clung to the dead man, crying. A young boy looked on with eyes wide with fright, and several other adults just stared, too shocked to say anything. Alexandra looked up at Illya, tears streaming from her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Illya told her.

"He was my whole life," she sobbed. "I don't know how I'll ever go on without him." She clung to Illya and sobbed. Illya awkwardly patted her back, not knowing the words to say to comfort her.