He ran across the rooftop, pausing to squint back over his shoulder. The sun blinded him and seared into his aching head.

Pft! A bullet chipped the chimney-stack beside him as he dodged behind the it. At least the sun was no longer in his eyes; he closed them momentarily and his body sagged with weariness.

Crack! Crack!

He felt one bullet zing past. Where did the other go? It seemed to come from a different direction. Could there be two pursuers? He risked a peek from behind the chimney. Where was the gunman? Napoleon should be safely at the car by now. If he could just get one clear shot . . .

“Illya! What the hell are you doing?” It was Napoleon. Why was Napoleon putting himself in danger? He tensed, ready to scuttle out and draw the fire away from his partner who had the microfilm. His legs felt leaden as he set off, keeping low, heading for the next nearby chimney; but there was no fire, only Napoleon’s voice shouting at him irritably. “Will you get yourself down here? Come on!”

Illya glanced behind him in the direction of his assailant and his eyes widened in surprise. His assailant’s body was hanging over the edge of the roof, ready to drop. Illya straightened up and looked down at Napoleon, far below, waving his pistol and gesticulating at him to come down and join him.


0000000000000


“What the matter with you? No – I’ll drive.” Napoleon pushed him toward the passenger seat of the car.

Illya got in and leaned back, shutting his eyes for a few seconds. This couldn’t go on much longer. His performance in the field was being seriously affected. He’d be marched along to the medics and the shrinks before you could say U.N.C.L.E. if he didn’t sort himself out soon. He had fired at the Thrushman three times. Admittedly they were tricky shots and into the sun but he had missed every shot. If Napoleon hadn’t looked back and shot the man, they could both have been corpses. Illya felt more of a liability than a partner today. Even with the sun there was no excuse.

“The sun was in my eyes – sorry.” He knew it sounded lame.

Napoleon made a noise that sounded like one of Waverly’s harrumphs. After a few minutes he turned to Illya once more. “Are you sick? You do look a little under the weather.”

“No, I’m fine – really I’m fine.”

“Hmm. “ Napoleon frowned at him. “We have to go to London on Wednesday. I need you firing on all cylinders for that. I’ve a feeling those guys at London H.Q. aren’t going to like us taking over on their turf.”

lllya grimaced. He was not looking forward to London. “They had better not make trouble. I see no reason why it has to be us anyway. Can’t they deal with Pollard themselves?”

“You know as well as I do that we’re the ones who have to deal with him.” Napoleon upped their speed as they entered the freeway. He turned and winked at Illya. “We know his wily ways.”

“And he knows ours – all the more reason for the London boys to take their turn.” Illya closed his eyes again. He had an overwhelming urge to sleep.

“I’d have thought you’d be glad of the opportunity to see London again. It’s a pretty small operation over there; there must be people you know.”

“Huh?” Illya jerked his head upright as it fell forward. Dragged his eyes open.

“I said you must know some of the London guys – from your Cambridge days. Marsh at any rate – he’s been there for years. And there’s Weiss. He transferred from D.C. last year.”

Weiss. Yes, he knew about Weiss. Illya’s stomach lurched threateningly and he felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. He swallowed and turned away to look out of the window.

Napoleon poked Illya sharply in the ribs. “Pay attention. What’s the matter with you, Illya? You’ve been acting very strange lately.”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just not sleeping too well, that’s all.” Even Illya’s voice felt strangely weak. He must try to relax, forget about the looming mission. “Cambridge and London are not that close and I didn’t know anyone from U.N.C.L.E. when I was at Cambridge.” He settled down in the passenger seat and shut his eyes again. “Now just drive and leave me alone.”

Fortunately, Napoleon held his peace and Illya was able to will his traitorous emotions calm once more. He had his reasons for being unenthusiastic about the coming mission, and they had nothing to do with Pollard.


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Survival Island 1956

“Give him another 5ml.” Art Sanders, in charge of the interrogation, turned to the white-coated medical technician who hovered close by.

“But he’s already had the maximum dose for a man of his size. Another 5ml would take him . . .” The technician looked distinctly uncomfortable. “He’s not reacting well to the drug. I should call . . .”

The sweat poured off Illya’s face as he concentrated on keeping his mind away from the secret code. He knew if he allowed the formula to penetrate his thoughts, he would blurt it out to his tormentors.

Several of his classmates in the U.N.C.L.E. Survival School class of ’56 stood round his chair, their faces coming in and out of focus as he struggled to control his consciousness.

“You will call no one! This one’s holding out on us. Here, give it to me. I’ll take responsibility.”

Through half-shut eyes, Illya saw him take the syringe and measure out more of the truth serum. He screwed up his eyes even more, desperate to keep focus. The unpleasantness of weakness and nausea were not what bothered him - it was the way his mind kept playing tricks.

A slap stung his cheek. A face topped with reddish-pale, buzz-cut hair loomed over him, the freckles which covered it dancing like crazy polka dots. He tried to pull back from the smell of cigarette smoke. His olfactory awareness, unlike his vision, seemed enhanced. Illya averted his gaze and looked at the ground. The shiny black toecaps of the man’s regulation boots reflected the light, winking, gleaming.

“Who did you dream about last night, Ruskie?” Carl Weiss’s voice hissed, “Did you dream about your little Commie boyfriends back home? I heard you yelling out in your sleep.”

Sanders interrupted, “Stick to the line of questioning, Weiss!”

“Just trying a different tack, sir.” Weiss was all innocence. “You told us to be hard.”

“Hard, not insulting. Please remember who we are.”

The detached part of his brain, the one that regarded the scene as if through a camera lens, sneered, Yes Carl, go and bully someone who can answer back, but what came out of his mouth was, “Nyet! Iditye otsyuda!”

“I did it! He’s talking! What was that - Commie talk, Kuryakin?”  Weiss squawked. The stench of the cigarette smoke was nauseatingly intense.

Illya tried to detach his mind again but the nightmare of last night was crowding in on him. “Boba! Masha!”  he gasped, his eyes filling with tears.


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The paperwork following the mission they had just completed was straightforward enough. Illya almost welcomed the grunt work that kept his mind occupied. They had agreed that his miserable performance on the roof would not be referred to in the report and Napoleon didn’t mention it as they prepared the first draft together.

“Hurry up with that, Illya. It’s late and I want to get home and take a shower.” Napoleon sniffed fastidiously and made a face.

“You go ahead. I’ll finish up here.” A shower sounded tempting but he really didn’t have time. He wanted to check on the progress of his latest idea for an exploding shirt button in R and D while the labs were quiet, and then there was his expense account to think about – he always left that to the last minute. This month he would get it done on time. There was so much to be attended to in the office it would easily keep him there until tomorrow morning. If only the burning behind his eyes would clear a little.  It was turning into a headache again. Maybe he should pop into Medical for some painkillers on his way down to R and D.

“Look,” Napoleon frowned at him, “if you’re trying to make up for this afternoon, don’t bother. We all have our off days.”

Illya snorted. “Oh very gracious, Napoleon, but I’m not. I simply have a lot of work to do,”

“I don’t absolve you of course. You should go down to the range and do some practice tomorrow.”

Illya grunted, “I told you, the sun was in my eyes.” He looked back down at his typing. He had typed the last paragraph in French. Merde! He pulled the paper out with a whirr, balled it and lobbed it disgustedly at the wastepaper basket. It missed.

Napoleon bent and picked it up. “Temper, temper. It just isn’t your day, is it?” He threw the balled paper into the air and batted it expertly into the basket with his hand.

“Oh come on – today was an off day - you said it yourself.”  Illya turned back to peer at his notes.  “Go and take your shower, Napoleon, and leave me in peace. I’m just a little tired, that’s all.” He pressed his fingers into his aching temples.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Stop fussing and go. I don’t want to be here all night.” Actually he did. He winced and put another piece of paper into the typewriter.


0000000000


The record came to an end and clicked monotonously on the turntable as the automatic stop mechanism failed to kick in. Illya neither noticed nor cared.

It was 2 a.m. and he was concentrating on drinking himself into a state of unconsciousness.

The vodka bottle was more than half-empty and sat open on the floor beside him. He had slithered from the sofa to the floor some time ago and had also bypassed the glass, which lay on its side on the carpet, a dribble of vodka seeping into the pile. It was easier to drink from the bottle.

Papers lay scattered on the table and the sofa, but he was no longer capable of focusing on them and so they went unheeded. His eyes were heavy with drunken exhaustion and he did not notice himself slip into sleep.

But still the nightmare came:

He was playing with a stick in the dirt, drawing round the shape of his bare foot. Carefully, he drew two of his own footprints then two big, similar shapes beside them. They were for Papa. Papa had big, black boots. He had shown him how to tie the laces. He was good at it. He could tie laces even though he had no boots of his own. Boba would get him some soon, she had promised, and he had practised tying bows with string until he could do it without looking.

 Round his waist, holding up his too-large trousers, was one of Papa’s long bootlaces, and now his restless fingers twisted it, tying it into a bowline. Papa had taught him that as well. You had to use it when you rescued someone from the sea. Papa had been to sea in a ship a long time ago. Now he was away fighting Germans. When he came home, he was going to show him more sailors’ knots. A bowline was also useful to tie up trousers.

He heard his grandmother’s call. She wanted the kindling to light the stove. She was going to cook them some turnips. His stomach was so empty it hurt. It hurt most of the time now. Boba said everyone’s did. But Boba was careful. She looked after him and baby Masha since Mama died.  She made sure they all had something to eat most days. He could almost taste the turnips. He used his bare foot to scuff out his own footprints, but he left Papa’s.

The woodshed was dark and spidery. It was a wooden hut with no window and a broken door. He and Papa would mend the door when Papa came home. There were some potatoes, carefully hoarded from the summer crop, and a few turnips. There was also a pile of wood, graded into sizes. Behind the woodpile was a special, secret place. It was his hiding place. He was to go into it if the German soldiers came to the house. Boba said German soldiers did not like children.

He laid the sticks out and chose nice, straight ones to go in his bundle. Boba was calling again and he could hear little Masha singing tunelessly in her baby voice. He had taught her the song and he whistled along to it through the gap in his teeth, arranging his sticks.

He was lost in the music and counting the sticks. He had already chosen twelve. That was three piles of four, or, he moved them, four piles of three; Boba was joining in the song. Gradually, he became aware of a different sound, out of step with the tune; the rhythmic sound of marching.  It was coming closer. He frowned and gathered up his sticks.

Boots. The heavy step of marching boots. He listened again and he knew they were coming nearer. A cold knot of fear, mixed with excitement, formed in his stomach, vying with the ever-present hunger. The game.

He knew what he must do when the German soldiers came near. He had been drilled over and over by his grandmother Boba. They played a special game. Boba counted to twenty and he had to hide in the secret place. Then she would come and look for him, but he mustn’t move or make a sound till she came.  He must hide quickly now, straight away; hide in the little space behind the woodpile.

He clambered to it and crawled in, pulling the sticks over the entrance. He could hear the soldiers’ voices now, closer than ever. Masha and Boba’s singing stopped.  He curled up small and lay still and quiet, heart pounding in fright, but knowing Boba would come for him soon. She and Masha had their own hiding place in the eaves. She would come when it was safe.

The German soldiers were greedy and came looking for food, taking anything they could find. They had been to his aunt Irena’s house one day and taken all the vegetables from the garden. They took everything, even his cousin Mischa’s books and made a huge fire. Aunt Irena and Mischa went away. Boba had cried and said they had gone to see Mama and Papa and Doda.

He could hear the soldiers outside, coming up the path, their leather boots trampling the dirt as they strode towards him. He covered his ears but could not shut out the sound. It grew louder - gruff voices and heavy footsteps. He pressed his hands harder against his ears but the noises would not disappear. The soldiers were coming and they wanted food and little children.

The marching broke step and all was confusion. More shouting, scuffling, followed by the sound of beating on the door. They wanted to get into the house! The voices were cruel, harsh, barking orders - not kind voices like Papa’s. He wanted to screw up his eyes but instead something inside told him he had to look.

He could just peep through a little knot-hole in the dark shed from the corner where he crouched.  Through it he could see a mass of grey and black. Grey legs were all around and the sound of guttural speech filled the air like smoke. Cruel, hungry men who did not like little boys. His eyes were drawn to the boots with their laces all tied up like Papa had shown him. But these boots made him afraid. These boots were black and brutal, kicking the dry dirt.

“Go away soldiers! There is no one here for you – no little boy!”

 Illya’s eyes flew open and he shuddered awake, sweat streaming from every pore. For a moment he couldn’t move, did not know if he was awake or asleep. He gasped, his heart pounding, but gradually, his eyes took in the darkened living room. He realised he had been asleep - but on the floor, wedged uncomfortably under the paper-strewn coffee table, not in his bed.

With a groan, he squirmed out from the cramped space and tried to pick himself up from the rug, but the room spun giddily and he crashed back down, whirling into unconsciousness again. As he fell, knocking over the open vodka bottle, he landed awkwardly, half on the sofa, oblivious of the papers that scattered around him.


000000000

The next time he awoke it was to an insistent knocking at his front door and the two-tone bleep of his communicator. The noises merged with the pain in his head as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Thump, thump, bleep, bleep!  Memories of the nightmare flashed into his mind and he put his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the sound. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

Bad mistake.

The room slewed round and the headache took on migraine proportions.

The knocking stopped but the bleeping persisted, and somewhere in his befuddled brain, reason reasserted itself. He managed to scramble to his feet and lurch towards his coat on the back of a chair, fumble for his communicator and answer it.

“Kuryakin here.”

“Illya, where the hell are you? Are you okay?”

“Napoleon?” Even the small, electronic sound was too loud for his throbbing head.

“I’ve been knocking my knuckles black and blue - I was about to kick the door in!”

“I know but . . . ”

“I said I would pick you up at eight o’ clock. We have a plane to catch!”

“I’m sorry, Napoleon but . . . ”

“Well, are you going to let me in?”

“All right, I am coming. Just give me a minute.”

“Now, Illya! Open the door now.”

Illya managed to grope his way to the door without opening his eyes any wider, and unlocked it.

000000000

Napoleon surged in angrily. He took one look at his dishevelled partner and stared in astonishment. Illya had been drinking – was still drunk by the look of him. In all the years Napoleon had known the Russian, he had never seen him more than a little the worse for drink. As in all other areas of his life, Illya was always circumspect about alcohol, enjoying it but never to excess.

“Illya . . .”

The Russian sighed gustily, then winced and his face became, if it was possible, paler. “Sorry, Napoleon, I . . . I . . .”

“Had a rough night by the look of you. I take it you haven’t even been to bed.”

Napoleon’s eyes swept round the small apartment, taking in the scattered papers, the still turning record on the turntable, the spilled vodka bottle and the single, overturned glass. Illya had apparently not entertained one of his few-and-far-between dates last night. Napoleon wrinkled his nose at the general miasma pervading the room. He looked again at his woebegone partner and his anger dissipated.

“Well you might have invited me to the party.”

Illya closed his eyes momentarily and staggered. Napoleon grabbed his arm to steady him. After a moment, the Russian opened his eyes once more and returned Napoleon’s concerned gaze wanly.

“Sorry, only one bottle of vodka.”

With that, he abruptly detached himself from Napoleon’s grasp and lurched towards the bathroom.

Napoleon glanced at his watch. They still had ample time to get to the airport and catch the plane if Illya could just get himself sufficiently together to make it on board. A seven-hour flight to Heathrow should be enough to sober him up.

Napoleon busied himself making the apartment respectable and boiling water for some tea. As he tidied the papers, he puzzled over his friend’s uncharacteristic behaviour lately. The poor performance on the rooftop had been only one of several odd lapses. Even Illya’s usually insatiable appetite was affected; Napoleon had noticed him picking at his meals in the commissary. Although Illya often forgot to eat when he was busy, when he did remember, he always relished his food.

And what was he doing drinking himself into oblivion all alone?

Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, still bleary-eyed and pale but dressed for work, Illya emerged. By that time Napoleon had the living room tidy, curtains opened and a glass of tea on the counter. Grimacing as he always did at Illya’s taste in beverage, he added some jam and stirred it.

“Here you are. Drink up.”

Illya took the proffered drink and sipped it resignedly. “Thank you. Shall we go?”

“Yes. And you’d better get these down you as well.” He handed Illya two aspirin.


000000000


Illya was still looking wretched as they boarded the plane, but his partner could see he was trying to ignore it. Napoleon managed to charm their stewardess into giving them the two rear seats. The plane was not full and so there were empty seats round about them, affording more privacy than usual.

As Napoleon settled into the aisle seat, Illya leaned back against the porthole and stared out, his face pale but composed. He had spoken hardly a word on the way there, other than to request a diversion to the men’s room and refuse an offer of coffee. Napoleon knew better than to pursue the subject of his odd behaviour until his partner’s inner distress was relieved, but he was concerned.

Napoleon thought back to the previous week in Mr Waverly’s office, when he and Illya had been told of the assignment.

“Ah, come in, Mr Solo. Take a seat.” Mr Waverly puffed at his pipe, which was for once lit. “One of our old friends requires your attention.”

Napoleon helped himself to coffee and sat down beside Illya, smiling at him in greeting as a picture flashed up on the screen. He recognised it at once as Cornelius Pollard – an old enemy more like, and one he and Illya had failed to catch on two previous occasions.

Napoleon made a wry face. “Pollard again.”

“Yes gentlemen, Pollard again indeed. And this time you must stop his little game once and for all.” Mr Waverly waved at the screen with the stem of his pipe. “He has turned up in London.”

Mr Waverly outlined the intelligence gathered by the small London office. Napoleon was already planning his approach and his mind was only half with his boss who was explaining about their liaison with the Section Three agents from London. Napoleon did, however, notice Illya’s reaction. His partner’s knuckles turned white as the grip he had on the file he was perusing tightened. When Napoleon looked at his face, he saw something akin to fear pass momentarily over Illya’s usually composed features. However, in seconds Illya was back to his usual demeanour and Napoleon thought no more about it.

Until now.

Napoleon turned to Illya and patted him on the knee. “Get some sleep, Illya, huh?”

000000000

Illya drifted in and out of reluctant sleep, his dreams always waking him with a start.

The thud of the soldiers’ footsteps shook the dirt floor of the woodshed as he crouched, trembling, in his hiding place.

All at once he realised the sounds were too close. Someone was in his woodshed - he could smell the rank odour of male sweat and cigarettes. A deep voice was calling, “ Dieter! Hier! Kartoffelen!” More footsteps and he could hear two men’s voices as if they were almost on top of him. He held his breath.  The two soldiers were taking the potatoes and turnips. What would Boba cook for them now? In the commotion he felt the woodpile shift and his heart leapt to his mouth.

“Go away! Go away! Leave our potatoes! There is no-one here!” But only his mind gave voice to his terror.

“Illya. Wake up.” Napoleon was nudging his shoulder. “They’re bringing round lunch. Here – I thought you might want this.” He handed Illya a bottle of orange juice.

Illya’s mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. He took the juice and drank it, casting Napoleon a grateful look. It tasted wonderful.

“Feeling better?”

Illya gave it some consideration. Yes – he felt better for the nap and lunch would help. He nodded, drained the orange juice and stretched as far as the seat in front would allow. “Thanks.”

They didn’t speak much during lunch. Napoleon flirted outrageously with the stewardesses as usual and Illya immersed himself in a crossword puzzle on the back of his newspaper. He tried to keep his mind on the cryptic clues, but like a wayward thing, it wandered.


1956 – Survival Island

“Nyet! Iditye otsyuda!” No! Go away!

He sat up suddenly in the dark and rubbed his face and eyes, breathing heavily, choking back the sob that welled in his heaving chest. When he had tentative control of himself, he glanced nervously around the dormitory. The five other occupants appeared to be sound asleep. At least he had not wakened them. Perhaps he had not cried out this time. Humiliatingly, his eyes filled again as the last moments of the nightmare invaded his thoughts.

He slipped silently out of bed, pulled on his regulation boots, leaving them unlaced, and crept along the bare floor of the corridor to the bathroom. He removed his sweat-damp pyjama jacket and splashed cold water copiously over his face and neck. But even the shock of the cool water did not help to alleviate the misery and made him shiver all the more. Drying his face on his jacket, he went into one of the stalls where he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and willed himself to calm down.

He was furious with himself. Why was he having these nightmares now of all times? Wasn’t it bad enough being the only Soviet student? Did he not have enough to contend with, without bringing his own personal form of torture? He could not afford to be anything less than on top form in the competitive, hostile environment of Survival Island.

After a while his breathing slowed back to normal and he felt almost ready to go back to bed. But then he heard the door open and someone clump into the bathroom, someone who had no reason to try and keep silent. There was a splashing as the urinal was used, the sound of a tap running, then silence.

Waiting a few more moments to give the person time to go back to the dorm, Illya replaced his damp jacket and ventured out.

“Been jacking off, Kuryakin?”

Great. Carl Weiss’s taunting voice and overbearing presence were all he needed when his emotions were raw.
 
“Were you dreaming about me?”

The big student made a lewd gesture with his fist and elbow and affected a high, feminine voice. “Would you like to give me one, pretty boy?” He mockingly caressed Illya’s face. Illya stood his ground, although he almost recoiled at the smell of cigarette smoke that surrounded Weiss even now.

I can’t think of anyone I’d like to less – you might be Mr Spit and Polish with your shiny boots, but you stink! “Go away, Carl.”  Fuck off.

Weiss’s voice and expression changed to menacing. “Because I don’t like you.” He pushed Illya against the wall of the bathroom and groped the front of his pyjama trousers. “What’s this? Did you wet yourself, babyface? Dirty little Commie queer – oof!!”

Suddenly Carl was doubled over, clutching at his own groin, as Illya’s strong, bony knee made contact with lightning speed and painful accuracy.

“You were saying?” Illya kicked him for good measure and pushed past the groaning bully, heading for the door.

“I – I’ll get you, you red bastard – argh, argh.” Carl Weiss curled up into a ball on the floor of the bathroom.

Illya turned and looked at Weiss bleakly.  The sight gave him no pleasure.


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“Need any help with that crossword puzzle?”

Illya jerked back to the present. “No, thank you.”

Napoleon leaned over and peered at it anyway, “Hmm, I like the look of that one – 16 across: Mediterranean island’s toplessness observed frostily.”

“You would. Now could you leave me to do it in peace?”

“Icily.”

“What?”

“That’s the answer. Icily – Sicily without the ‘s’”

Illya looked at it, filled it in, then offered his partner the newspaper. “All right, here you are. You do it.”

“No, no. I read the paper while you were asleep. You know I hate the cryptic ones.”

“So why are you trying to do mine then?”

“Just being friendly.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Here’s Shirley again. Do you want another drink?”

 “No; thank you.”

“Still feeling hung over?” Napoleon asked, sympathetically.

Illya glared at him and then sighed. “No. I do not want a drink and no, I am no longer hung over. Does that satisfy you?”

Napoleon held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Tell me if there’s anything you want.”

Illya folded the paper and put his pen away. “I do want to do this crossword but I see I am not going to be allowed to.” He leaned back on the seat and closed his eyes once more, hoping to shut out further communication.

But Napoleon was not going to let him get away with it.

“Illya – you don’t need any more sleep and I want some questions answered.” His voice was low but assertive. “I’ve given you the chance to tell me what’s going on and you’ve refused. Now I’m ordering you. I want to know what’s causing this . . . this . . . distraction.”

Illya had been dreading this moment but he knew if Napoleon was doing his job, he couldn’t let it go any longer. But Illya wanted to deal with his problems in his own way. The nightmares had happened before and usually settled down after a few nights; it was unusual for them to go on so long, that was all. He tried one more bluff.

“I told you, I’m not sleeping well,” he muttered, turning away.

Napoleon was not impressed. “I’ve known you to sleep hanging upside down from a meat hook. You’re going to have to come up with a better explanation than that, my friend.”

It was true. Illya had the fortunate ability to sleep almost anywhere. His present problem was not falling asleep; it was what was happening when he was asleep. He turned to face Napoleon once more, shrugged and said, lamely, “I really can’t explain it.”

“Humour me and try because it’s affecting your work. For two cents I’d have left you behind today, except that I need you.” Napoleon wagged a finger and hissed, “So let’s see if we can get to the bottom of it, whatever it is.”

Illya shut his eyes. “Napoleon – please. Let me deal with this myself.”

“But you’re clearly not dealing with it yourself.” Napoleon persisted. “Come on, Illya, open your eyes and speak to me. I have to know what’s going on – you could jeopardise the mission.”

Illya sighed. He had hoped it would not come to this. “All right. Last night I tried to drink myself into oblivion because I know that lack of sleep is affecting my performance, as you made quiet clear the other day. It didn’t work.” A slight variation on the truth. Last night’s drinking bout had only partly been an effort to get himself so blitzed he wouldn’t dream. It had also been to try and banish the unexplained blues that had dogged him since he learned of the London mission. Neither objective worked.

Napoleon said nothing and looked at him expectantly. Illya shrugged again.

“I have a recurring nightmare that keeps waking me. Then I can’t go back to sleep. I have had it before and it always passes.”

Napoleon frowned. “Can you remember what it’s about?”

“Not really – and I’m not sure I want to remember it.”

Again, not quite the truth. He saw flashes of the dream, often just as he was falling asleep. It would set his heart suddenly pounding, sweat streaming off him and he would jerk awake. The only way to calm down was do something distracting such as read or play his guitar. How many times lately had he wakened on the floor with his guitar by his side, in a terrified panic, calling for his grandmother as if he were six years old?

“Do you have any idea what triggers it? There’s often a good reason for a nightmare, I’ve found.”

Illya shrugged again. “It must be subconscious. I have not identified any one thing that causes it.”

One time the nightmares had been triggered by a late night movie on the TV. He hadn’t even meant to watch it, but had fallen asleep watching the news and had wakened to the sound of marching - the rhythmic sound of boots on concrete. He had watched, with distaste, a few minutes of a war movie about the taking of some bridge or other and switched off, unwilling to raise old ghosts; but the film had set off the nightmares. He remembered a week of bad nights after that – afraid to sleep and yet exhausted by the lack of it. Fortunately for him there had been no strenuous missions at the time and he had been able to cover up the problem by passing his lethargy and preoccupation off as a touch of the flu that was doing the rounds.

The sound of marching had always given him the heebie-jeebies for as long as he could remember. He attributed it to his early experiences in Kiev at the time of its fall to the Nazis. It was a hang-up. So what? That was enough to give anyone hang-ups. But there seemed to be nothing that he could put his finger on this time.

Shirley the friendly stewardess came by and asked if they wanted anything. Illya buried his face in the newspaper and Napoleon refused politely, promising to wave if they needed her. She wiggled off down the aisle towards the other passengers and Napoleon gazed after her appreciatively.

But if Illya thought Napoleon would be distracted for long he was mistaken; Napoleon was relentless.

“What has caused it in the past? You said ‘any one thing’. That implies you know some things that have set it off before.”

Damn Napoleon. He was too clever to be fobbed off. Illya frowned. “It’s personal, Napoleon, and a little painful. I really don’t want to talk about it.” He turned away to stare out of the porthole at the white clouds beneath them.

“It’s just that sometimes it helps to talk it through with someone else.” Napoleon was nothing if not persistent. “Let me know if you change your mind. But meantime, I really need you. If we don’t get Pollard this time, Mr Waverly’s going to have our guts for garters, so let’s hope you’ve seen the last of the nightmare, huh?”

Illya gave a rueful half smile. Just admitting the problem to Napoleon had made him feel better.

They spent the rest of the long flight talking through the plan for Pollard’s capture and finishing the crossword together. When they had exhausted those pastimes, Napoleon called Shirley.

 “Can I get you two gentlemen anything?” She fluttered her eyelashes at them, “I’m not busy.”

“Perhaps a little conversation – my ah – brother here gets bored easily.” Napoleon winked at Illya, who raised his eyebrows minutely in amusement.

“Yes, do tell her our story, Napoleon. I’m sure you’ll be interested in this, Shirley.” Illya was interested too. “My brother is the talkative one. I’m the silent type myself.” He settled back in the seat, a small grin playing around his lips. “Twin brother actually.”

“Twins!” Shirley was fascinated. “But you two gentlemen don’t look alike in the least!”

“Ah – but that’s where you are mistaken, Shirley. We share many things in common.” Napoleon dug Illya in the ribs.

Illya narrowed his eyes at Shirley, who was staring at them, open mouthed. “Yes, we share the same birthday and – um – parents.”

“But you have different names,” Shirley protested. “Surely . . .”

“Well, you see,“ Napoleon assumed a tragic expression, “unfortunately we were separated at birth.”

“ . . .and only reunited after 30 years following a chance meeting in the . . .”

“ . . . theatre. My brother here starred in an off-Broadway show recently and I – ah – helped with the action scenes.”

“Oh my! An actor – I must say you have the look of an actor, Mr Kuryakin.” Shirley was clearly impressed.

Napoleon made a face. “More of a one man band. You should see him in tights.”

Illya glared. Two could play at that game. “Shirley – let me tell you something about my brother here.” He beckoned her closer so that he could whisper in her ear.

The cock and bull story continued until Shirley had to drag herself reluctantly away to attend to her duties. The two agents were amused to see her sharing the tale with the other stewardess, pointing to them and giggling. Apparently the long lost twin brothers were travelling to London so that Napoleon could meet with Illya’s adoptive parents. By the end of the flight, Illya’s mood had lifted.

00000000

They landed at Heathrow at 10 p.m. local time. After checking in at their small hotel, they changed their clothes and went out again, earning themselves a sour look from the proprietor, who reluctantly handed them a front door key to get back in.

“He probably thinks we’re burglars,” Illya remarked, indicating their black attire.

“Next time remind me to bring my mask and swag bag.”

 They took a taxi to the vicinity of Pollard’s factory.

“I’ll go up on the roof and see if there’s a way in through the skylight,” whispered Napoleon. “There might be a fire escape or something. You go around the back.”

Illya nodded at a drainpipe leading up to the flat roof of the two-storey building. “That looks like the way up. Pity about the barbed wire at the top.”

Napoleon made a face. “How about if I go around the back and you do the roof?”

Illya grinned. Napoleon hated getting his clothes torn. Illya shinned up the drainpipe and, using the thick gloves he carried and his acrobatic skill, negotiated the barbed wire with only a small tear to his trousers.


000000000


“Illyusha – you must stay still and quiet until I come to get you.” Boba was scolding him for leaving his hiding place too soon.

“But I heard you coming.” He stood, sullenly, looking down at his dirty bare feet. “And it’s too small now – I’m getting bigger.”

“Nonsense. There’s plenty of room in there. You have to curl up like a little mouse and stay until the cats are away. Now let’s play once more.” Boba smiled at him, but he had cooperated enough. It was a silly game. Masha could play – she was just a baby.

“No! No more!” he shouted, turning away and running towards the trees, scrambling over the fence. He knew Boba would not be able to follow him. She had sore feet and her shoes were too old and had holes in them. As he reached his special tree and climbed it he looked back to the house and saw that his grandmother had gone.

Suddenly he was frightened and he didn’t know why. He climbed down and ran back to the house, shouting for Boba, but she wasn’t there. Nobody was there. He shouted and yelled but there was no answer. He banged on the door but it would not open. The banging seemed to grow and take on a rhythm. He stopped his yelling and thumping and listened, fearfully. The sound of marching feet in the distance made his heart beat like a trapped bird in his chest.

“I’m sorry, Boba – I’ll go into the hiding place now.” He shouted it, but there was no reply. The marching was getting closer. He could hear the soldiers’ boots all beating time on the ground.

 Boba, make them go away!

He was in the dark. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move and the soldiers were coming. Go away! Go away . . .

“Illya. Illya, for heaven’s sake!”

“Iditye otsyuda!” Why could he not move?

“Illya – you’re waking up the joint! Sshh – get out of there.”

It wasn’t Boba’s voice.  Suddenly he could see. It was light. Where was he? Oh . . . “Napoleon?” He covered his eyes against the bright light.  His heart was still pounding with adrenaline. He felt Napoleon pulling the bedclothes from round him.

“God, you’re in a tangle. That’s quite a dream you’ve been having – I thought Thrush had arrived with reinforcements. Here, have this.”

Illya blinked in the light and looked around him. He was in the hotel room crouching in the middle of the wreck of his bed. Napoleon was sitting beside him, offering him a glass of water. Illya sat up. “Sorry – I didn’t know where I was.” He took the water. His hands were still shaking.

“Careful. Try not to spill it. Can you remember anything about the dream?” Napoleon put his hand back on the glass to steady it. “Give the glass back to me in case you spill it - you’re shaking like hell!”

Illya drank some of the water and gave him the glass back. “Thanks.” He drew the bedclothes around himself. “I’m just cold, that’s all. I’m fine now, really.”

 “You were shouting something like ‘Bobby’ and then yelling at me to get away.” Napoleon put the glass on the bedside cabinet.

Illya frowned as he strove to remember. Bobby? Boba? His grandmother? He did sometimes dream of her.  She was the only member of his family he remembered with any clarity. But he shook his head. “I don’t know. I remember crouching in the dark. I was hiding I think.”

Napoleon considered a moment. “Have you ever been locked in a closet?” he asked, at last.

A recent uncomfortable encounter with brooms and galvanised iron buckets sprang into Illya’s mind and he grinned wryly. “You know I have, plenty of times.”

“Not by Thrush – I meant when you were a child. Childhood experiences like that can account for all manner of irrational feelings and fears.”

Illya felt suddenly stifled by the bedclothes he’d pulled around him. He shook them off again and took another drink of the water. He was hungry; they had not managed to find anywhere nearby open for a late night meal the night before and had instead plundered the little offering of shortbread biscuits in the hotel room and shared a bag of peanuts Napoleon had saved from the flight. “I don’t know. There might be something. I don’t want to think about it any more.”

Napoleon looked at his watch. “It’s nearly time to get up already. We have another hour. Are you okay now? I wouldn’t mind snatching some more sleep. I want to be on form for the meeting with the Section Three guys.”

A name suddenly flitted out of nowhere across Illya’s consciousness – Carl – and his empty stomach lurched as if he were plummeting in a high-speed elevator.

He must have said it aloud, because Napoleon gave him a sharp look. “What?”

Illya frowned. “I’m too wide awake to sleep now. Apparently I’m already thinking about the meeting with Owen and Weiss.”

But it was Weiss. Why did he keep thinking of Weiss? And why did it unsettle him so much? Carl Weiss had been a bastard at Survival School and Illya had hated him – found him almost repellent – true, but Illya had dealt with the would-be bully and soon he had ceased to target him.

“I’ll go and take a bath.”

“Fine – I’ll take a little longer in bed.” Napoleon got back into bed. “ Call me in time to take a bath. I wish there was a shower, but you only get them in the best places here, and Waverly’s too stingy to even give us a room each in this hole.”

Illya snorted. “You’re too fussy, Napoleon. Do you know I’d never even seen a real shower before I came to New York? I agree with you though, the British seem content to bathe once a week, whether they need it or not.”

Napoleon grinned. “What about Russians?”

“Oh we just go for a swim in the Dnieper now and again. Only in summer, mind you. Soviet winters are far too cold to undress.”

“Hmm, remind me not to visit your relatives!”

Another lurch of the elevator. “Not much chance of that,” Illya murmured.

Napoleon was instantly mortified at his faux pas. “Illya, I didn’t think, I’m really sorry . . . ”

Illya turned away. “Don’t bother about it Napoleon, I don’t any more.”

His past had no relevance to the present. He trudged to the bathroom to tackle the antediluvian plumbing system.

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The gentlemen’s outfitters in Savile Row, which served as a front for the London U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, had a look of faded respectability, much as Del Floria’s did. The two agents were waved through to the changing room – a wood-panelled affair, older and classier than the curtained cubicle they were accustomed to, but the coathooks were the same.

Napoleon winked at Illya as he turned the left-hand one. He was trying to keep Illya’s mood from descending into a doom once again, but the Russian was quiet and introspective, perhaps embarrassed after the nightmare episode.

Recently, there had been a disagreement between the U.N.C.L.E. in Europe and Waverly over the appointment of someone to head the new Belgian office. The British particularly seemed to resent Waverly’s intervention on what they considered a European matter. Now, it appeared the chief of London H.Q. was too busy to greet them. It seemed there was a crisis in Scotland. Both Illya and Napoleon knew it was a snub.

Already sitting at the round meeting table were the two British Section Three agents who were to be their backup. The shorter of the two men, dark, thick-set and powerful-looking, stood and held out his hand in greeting.

“Good day, gentlemen. Owen Marsh.”  His accent was sing-song.

Napoleon shook the proffered hand. “Napoleon Solo. This is my colleague, Illya Kuryakin.”

Illya shook hands as well, then turned to the second agent who stood, his expression far from genial. “Weiss.” Illya proffered his hand stiffly and Napoleon could see that the blandness of his face was forced. Illya’s other hand clenched and unclenched but the rest of him was businesslike.

“Well, if it ain’t Kuryakin.”  In contrast to the other man’s slightly rumpled appearance, Carl Weiss looked almost military – sharp suit, very shiny shoes, blond hair cut very short, straight bearing and boy-next-door freckles.

“You two know each other?” Napoleon’s eyebrows raised slightly. The bad vibes in the room were almost tangible. Was it possible that this man had something to do with his partner’s discomfiture?

“Napoleon Solo – Carl Weiss. We went through Survival School together.” Illya seemed almost unable to look at the man. Instead he looked resolutely at the file on the table in front of them, his brow bisected by the vertical frown-line.

“Let’s get down to business right away.” Weiss pushed a map across the table. Napoleon wondered whether the fact that Illya now outranked his classmate rankled.

Napoleon gestured at them all to sit. “We’ll – ah – take a seat then gentlemen. Illya, if you don’t mind doing the honours.”

Illya opened his briefcase, took out their own plan of the premises and opened the file. Napoleon was unable to concentrate fully throughout because he was so acutely aware of the bad feeling between Illya and Weiss. The American’s face was distinctly unfriendly while Illya’s pale, set features told Napoleon that he was just holding together, although the Russian was nothing if not professional and to anyone else, he would appear all business.


0000000000

“Are you going to tell me what it is between you and Weiss?” Napoleon asked as they made their way to the refectory for a late breakfast. “The atmosphere in there would have frozen the balls off a brass monkey.”

Illya made a face. He had hoped his feelings towards Weiss might have mellowed in the intervening years, but obviously the man still had the ability to bring out the worst in him. No, more than that - to make his gorge rise with distaste. “He doesn’t like Russians. He took a particular dislike to me when we were at Survival School together. The dislike is mutual.”

“I can see that.” Napoleon helped himself to a plate of eggs and bacon. “There surely must be more than simple xenophobia though. Why else did he resent you?”

Illya put a plate of eggs on his tray and added two bread rolls. He needed his strength. “I wish I knew. He maybe did not like my aptitude for some things.”

“Ha – underestimated you no doubt.” Napoleon took a bread roll and a portion of butter. “I know the type – military background, considers himself a cut above the rest of us. Am I right?”

Illya shrugged and put a pot of tea and a cup onto his tray. “That would be a fair summary. He tried to best me in everything.” He smiled. “He did not succeed.”

“He’s not a type I feel comfortable with either.” Napoleon agreed. “However, we have to work with him and Marsh seems pleasant enough.”

“Yes. The past is the past.” Who knew what Weiss would tell Marsh about him?  But although Illya’s natural pessimism was getting the better of him, he tried to cover it with reason. “He’s a bastard, Napoleon, but presumably still competent or he wouldn’t be working for U.N.C.L.E.”

Napoleon looked thoughtful as they carried their trays to a vacant table. As they sat down, he said, quietly, “Just how unpleasant was he to you at Survival School?”

Illya shrugged. “Bad enough – at first. He was like – what’s the expression – a thorn in the flesh.”

Napoleon had picked up his cutlery, but put it down again. He frowned. “How bad? I mean did he ever do anything – you know – anything you wouldn’t want to talk about?”

“How do you mean?” What was Napoleon getting at? Illya didn’t want to talk about any of it.

“I mean is Carl Weiss anything to do with your – discomfiture lately? It’s just that this morning you said his name. Kind of out of context. ”

Carl. Why should he be so disturbed by the man? Napoleon had picked up on it too. Illya said nothing, but began eating his eggs, barely able to swallow them. The very thought of Weiss set his emotions swirling dangerously towards revulsion. And yet Illya had met and dealt with several truly evil people in the course of his work, and on that scale Carl Weiss was very small fry indeed.

Napoleon sighed. “I guess what I’m trying to ask is – uh – did he do anything to you that might – uh - be causing you to have these nightmares?”

Illya stopped chewing and scowled. “No, of course not. We merely disliked one another from the outset. The nightmares are a completely different problem. Can we just leave this, Napoleon?”

But Napoleon went on. “You see I noticed you acting out of sorts soon after Mr Waverly told us about this mission and I remember your face when he mentioned Weiss. You looked  - shall we say – uncomfortable. And now it appears you’ve been having the nightmares since about then too.” He fidgeted with his pinky ring. “I’m just trying to put two and two together here, Illya.”

Illya looked round the canteen to make sure they were not being overheard before saying quietly, “I’m not quite sure what you are thinking, Napoleon, but his main weapon was referring to what he assumed was my sexual orientation as often as he could. That’s all. The two are not connected.”

“Nothing else? Are you sure? I really didn’t like his attitude toward you during the meeting. And as for you, I could see you could hardly bring yourself to look at him.” Napoleon frowned. “There were strong emotions in that meeting room, Illya, and they were nothing to do with Waverly and his little argument with Beldon.”

“Well if you must know he groped me once.” Illya could not keep the disgust from his face. “But I assure you, he paid for it.” Could that little incident really account for the way he felt about Weiss? Illya doubted it. But then again, just thinking and talking about the man was making him feel sick.

“Nothing more?” Napoleon looked both relieved and puzzled. “I’m sorry, Illya, it does seem a coincidence though, that you should be having these nightmares when you run across him again.”

Illya had to agree that Napoleon was right. His feelings towards Weiss were quite irrationally strong. The man was a boor, but nothing Illya couldn’t handle. Even his attitude towards Russians was almost commonplace. Illya had encountered plenty of prejudice before he’d made a name for himself at U.N.C.L.E. and none of it had this effect on him.

“I’m beginning to wish,” Napoleon went on, “that I’d known about your feelings towards Weiss earlier. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Illya’s voice rose with frustration. “Because they are irrational, Napoleon. I can’t account for them and I think it would be best if we ignored them from now on.”

“It’s a pity you and he are going to be working together. But it’s too late to change the plan now and you are the two explosives experts.” Napoleon kept his voice level. He patted Illya on the arm and smiled encouragingly. “And just remember – you outrank him.”

Illya put down his knife and fork. He had quite lost his appetite for breakfast.

000000000

The Pollard assignment seemed doomed from the start.

First the way in through the fire escape round the back proved problematical, thanks to two employees standing outside having a smoke. Napoleon and Illya had seen ‘no-smoking’ notices throughout the building because of the chemical hazard. The agents waited impatiently in the shrubbery for them to finish their cigarettes and go back to work, but as these two finished they were replaced by another two who came out and lit up. It was just their luck to have hit on the smokers’ corner. In the end they opted for the rooftop entry, which was infinitely less convenient and left them more vulnerable to discovery.

“We should have done this under cover of darkness,” grumbled Marsh.

Weiss smirked. “What did I tell you?” he hissed, loud enough for Napoleon and Illya to hear.

The two U.S. agents exchanged glances.

Once they were finally in, disguised as members of the workforce in case they should meet anyone, things began to go seriously awry.

Illya and Weiss were dressed as chemical workers in the regulation white lab coat with the stylised bird logo on the pocket. It had been touch and go, but they had managed to plant the explosives and Illya was setting up the detonators while Weiss checked the timer. So far they had remained undiscovered. Weiss was neither overtly offensive nor obstructive, but he was unhelpful and it was all taking longer than Illya had anticipated.

And Napoleon was not answering his communicator.

Napoleon, with Marsh as backup lurking a few metres behind, should have walked in on Pollard as he took his customary constitutional nap at four o’ clock. The man was an eccentric and a creature of habit. They had discovered in L.A. that mid afternoon was sacrosanct as his time for recharging his batteries. Such was his arrogance that it was even written in his diary schedule for each day. Illya had not been surprised when Napoleon announced his intention of cashing in on the habit, and agreed that if he indeed still indulged in this daily snooze, it was the best time to surprise him.

Illya capped his communicator pen for the second time. He did not dare try again. “They should have got Pollard by now. Where can Marsh be?”

Weiss sneered. “You’re taking too long, Kuryakin. I thought you were supposed to be the expert.  – the big-shot Section Two guy.”

Illya ignored the dig. “Pass me the wire.”

“The blue or the red?”

“It doesn’t matter. Either will do. Hurry up.” Illya glanced at his watch. They were running out of time.

“No need to  . . .” Weiss’s communicator went off.

“K’chortu! Carl, give me the wire! Oh never mind – I’ll get it.”

Marsh’s voice informed them that he and Solo had met opposition. Solo had disappeared and that Marsh had managed to kill and hide the body of one of the guards and was now back at the car as per instructions.

Illya finished fitting the explosive device and grabbed the communicator from Weiss. “Where have they taken Napoleon?”

“Last I saw he was in Pollard’s office. He told me to get back to the car.”

Illya took a deep breath. “All right. Have the engine running and be ready as soon as I give the word.” He replaced the cap on the pen and handed it back to Weiss.  Illya pressed a small switch into place on the detonating device, then stood up and headed for the door. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find Napoleon and Pollard. We have ten minutes.”

Cornelius Pollard had no idea what hit him as the office door burst open and the two U.N.C.L.E agents hurtled through, guns blazing. He crumpled to the ground, a bullet in his head and one in his shoulder. Illya frowned with frustration and rising anger. This was what Napoleon and Marsh should have done. What had happened? Now Napoleon was nowhere to be seen and Pollard was dead.

“You should have shot to maim!” Illya was furious.

“He had a gun.” Weiss was unrepentant. “You didn’t say. How was I to know?”

Illya turned away from the man. He doubted his ability to keep his hands off his throat. Weiss should have known without telling. Pollard would not disclose Napoleon’s whereabouts now.

“That’s not a – watch out. Ssh!” Illya grabbed Weiss’s arm and they both ducked down behind the table. He had to control his gag reflex at Weiss’s proximity and the smell of stale smoke.

The door opened and a large man in a white coat walked in. “I’ve dealt with him. He’s strung up in the basement awaiting your – what the . . .” He said no more.

Illya holstered his gun. “Keep me covered. Wait here and make sure nobody sees them. Give me time to find the way to the basement - maybe a couple of minutes - then get out of here.” He turned to Weiss and added, with a snarl, “Try to do it without being seen. I’m going to get Napoleon out.”

Weiss said nothing, but scowled assent and took up position.

Illya was relieved to get away from him and found himself fervently hoping Weiss and he could meet one dark night somewhere there were no witnesses.

 Glancing again at his watch, he scurried along the corridor to where he remembered the basement stairs. Only four and a half minutes till the bomb would detonate, taking the factory and everyone in it sky-high.

The sound of voices alerted him and he ducked into a doorway, his head down, as two white-coated Thrush employees strolled down the corridor, deep in conversation. He prayed they would not go into the office he had just left as they walked past, agonisingly slowly. But it could only be a matter of time before U.N.C.L.E.’s presence was discovered. He hoped Weiss wouldn’t foul up. The voice of the man he had just shot came into his mind. “He’s strung up in the basement.” Illya winced as he imagined the stretch on the arms and torso and tried not to think about the beating such a position almost always implied. He must find Napoleon now.

A door with a chemical hazard warning and the ubiquitous ‘no-smoking’ sign - could that be the one leading to the basement stairs? Illya’s eidetic memory scanned the plan of the building in his mind’s eye. Yes, this had to be it. He turned the handle. He pushed. He pulled. It was locked.

Glancing at his watch, he saw he had three minutes left. He must reach Napoleon and get him out of there. He fished in his pocket and took out a small tube of what looked like toothpaste and spread a generous blob on the lock, stood well back and glanced around. Nobody in the vicinity. If his luck would only hold now. He twisted the winder of his watch and the blob fizzled, taking the lock with it. The door opened when he pulled it carefully, so as to make as little noise as possible. He slipped through, shut it behind him and ran down the stairs.

It took him several moments to locate his partner hanging from a beam, head lolling and eyes closed. He once more cursed Weiss for holding things up. He was cutting it very fine.

“Napoleon!” he gasped, running towards him, “There you are!”

Napoleon opened his eyes and grimaced. ”Left it to the last minute again. Hurry . . . ”

Illya had to waste more valuable time pushing over a heavy box to stand on in order to reach Napoleon’s bonds. Swiftly and deftly, he cut Napoleon free, waves of relief sweeping over him. As usual, however, the relief manifested itself as sarcasm.

“Hanging about again? Once more you leave me all the hard work!”

Napoleon lowered his stretched arms and slithered gracefully to the floor, his legs seemingly too weak to hold him. Illya expertly ran his hands over his friend’s body, feeling for broken bones. He reached for his communicator to alert the British pair, but suddenly there was a series of explosions above them, followed by a huge percussion, and the ceiling started to fall all around them.

00000000000

Something was moving underneath him.

He lifted his head – it hurt. He tried to move and a choking cloud of dust rose up and enveloped him. Coughing, he covered his face and lay down again. He could see nothing.

“Umph – urgh . . . Illya . . . geroff!”

Still coughing, Illya realised his partner was face down under him. He squirmed off, swiping and kicking at the debris that covered them both. As the heavy dust settled once more and the paroxysm passed, he peered around them, trying to see in the darkness and remember what had happened. He fumbled for a flashlight.

“Are you okay?” It was Napoleon. Illya shone the flashlight on him and his partner struggled onto his knees and twisted around. He tried to cover his face against the glare but his hands were still tied together.

Illya moved the flashlight beam up and down Napoleon’s body. “Sorry. I should be asking you that. Did I hurt you?”  He delved into his pocket again for a knife.

Napoleon held out his hands while Illya cut through the rope at his wrists. “Not as much as Pollard’s knuckle-dragger did.” He shook his hands free from the rope. “Thanks. You probably took the worst of the fallout.”

“I’m okay.” Illya staggered to his feet to emphasise the point. “Can you stand?” He grasped Napoleon’s arm and helped him up. They stood unsteadily, holding one another up and surveying the damage. The basement was a mess of fallen masonry and wood.

“The explosives worked then.” Napoleon remarked.

“That man Carl is kozyol!” Illya spat the word. He wondered briefly if Weiss could have tampered with the clock to make the thing go up early? Or had Illya simply lost track of the last moments because he was worried about Napoleon? Illya decided to keep his suspicions to himself for the time being. Best to get out of here first. “What happened with Pollard?” he asked, half dragging Napoleon towards the steps which led to the door. He shone the flashlight at it. The steps appeared intact.

Napoleon yelped as Illya caught him around the waist to try and help him up the steps. “Ouch! That guy hit me with a piece of pipe or something. Must have – ow – cracked a rib or two. Try the door.”

Illya pushed at the door. It was wedged. Napoleon staggered up to help put his weight against it. “Bad luck. Just bad luck. Ooff! Push harder.”

“I am pushing harder. You need to get more weight behind it. Ooomph!” The door budged a little, and for a few moments they expended all their energy forcing it open sufficiently to slither through.

In the remains of the corridor, Napoleon brushed dust off his ruined suit. “There was a guard outside the door as we had anticipated. Marsh lured him away so I could get in. Once I got inside though, instead of Pollard having his nap, he was facing me ready with a gun. I think the fellow outside the door must have alerted him somehow.”

“Marsh got away. He contacted Weiss and told us he’d killed the guard. That reminds me, we should see if they are still waiting. They should have alerted the fire department and the clean up team by now.” Illya got out his communicator. “Channel A.”

Smoke and flames were billowing from the corridor ahead of them. Napoleon caught his arm. “We can’t get past here. What about out through this room?” The door had fallen off and there was daylight coming through the broken window. They staggered in and Napoleon set about removing the remains of the window frame.

“Marsh?” Illya spoke into the communicator. “Where are you?”

“Mr Kuryakin – are you all right? Are Solo and Weiss with you?”

Illya frowned, then raised an eyebrow at Napoleon. “Mr Solo is here. We were in the basement so we missed the worst of it.  Did Weiss not make it out?”

“You need to get out now, Mr Kuryakin. I’m going in to find Carl.”

 The room was filling with smoke and there was an ominous cracking sound. “Come on.” Napoleon grabbed Illya by the arm, “I think the whole lot’s going to collapse any minute.”

The two bruised and battered U.N.C.L.E agents managed to scramble out of the small window and get far enough away before a further huge explosion ripped through the building.  They limped across to the waiting car. Marsh joined them moments later, black with smoke and a grim expression on his face.

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“It seems you were both very lucky.” The white-coated U.N.C.L.E. doctor told them later as he cleaned up their cuts and abrasions and tut-tutted at Napoleon’s X-ray, which showed two cracked ribs.

“I’m not sure why he rates being smacked on the head by flying masonry lucky.” Illya hissed, just as Owen Marsh walked through the door of the infirmary.

“Oh you two were lucky all right.” The Welshman spoke bitterly. “I just heard they found Carl’s body along with those of four Thrush personnel inside what was left of Pollard’s office.” He looked at Illya and Napoleon accusingly.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”  Illya did not look very sorry, although Napoleon saw him blanch slightly. “He must have met opposition.”

Napoleon frowned. “It’s been a jinxed affair from the start. There will be an enquiry of course.”

Marsh turned on his heel and left with no further comment. Napoleon grimaced as he replaced his jacket. “Let’s get out of here.”

000000000

They ate a late dinner of fish and chips, sitting on a park bench overlooking the Serpentine.

For once Napoleon finished first and balled his greasy paper. “Much as I hate to say it, I’m glad you talked me into that. You were right – they do taste better out of newspaper.”

Illya grinned and offered Napoleon one of his last chips. “ They are as good as I remember them.”

Napoleon waved him away. “No, you have them. I wonder what happened to Weiss.”

“Hmm. There were a couple of men walking up the corridor towards Pollard’s office. I’d told Weiss to wait a few minutes and cover me, then get out.” Illya grimaced. “They maybe caught him.”

“Yes.” Napoleon looked thoughtful. “That would account for four bodies plus Weiss’s in Pollard’s office.”

Illya finished his final chip and screwed the newspaper into a greasy ball. “Whatever happened, we’ll take the blame no doubt.” He stood and offered an arm to help his partner up. “I suppose we should get back to the hotel. I need another bath.”

“We may be charged extra for using too much hot water by old Scrooge at the front desk.” Napoleon stood carefully, his bruises causing him to wince nonetheless.

Back at the hotel, Illya lay face down on his bed while Napoleon had the first bath. Illya could not find any reason in his heart to be sorry for Carl Weiss’s demise. But neither did he derive any satisfaction from it. There would be an enquiry to be sure, and he was equally sure that if they found anything left of it, the timer would have been set for the wrong time. Carl deserved what he got and fortunately for himself and Napoleon, his little trick had misfired.

He shivered as if somebody had walked on his grave. Weiss was dead; Pollard was dead; the factory was destroyed; there would be trouble over the loss of an agent, but despite that Illya couldn’t wait to get home.

His eyes were screwed shut as he crouched, tiny and still as a mouse, the way Boba had told him. He knew there were two soldiers.  He could hear two different voices and smell them – sweat and cigarette smoke.

He knew a little German, picked up during the forays into the marketplace to queue and haggle for whatever food was available, and from his war games with other children, and could understand some of what the men were saying. They were arguing about the potatoes.

“Karl – give me your helmet. I can’t carry them all.”

“You greedy pig, Dieter. Don’t you think of anything but your stomach?”

“Ach! You’ll thank me tonight when your belly’s full. Go and join the others then, but leave me your helmet.”

Go away, Dieter and Karl! Go away! Those are our potatoes! We don’t want you here! Go away! He wanted to shout it and clenched his teeth and fists to keep the words in,

He heard one of them leave. There was a rattle as potatoes fell to the ground. The one called Dieter swore and he could make out the sound of him scrabbling about on the floor to retrieve them. The man was so close that the smell of sweat and tobacco smoke made his eyes water.

 It was too much. A sob escaped him.

The woodpile shifted and all at once he found himself staring at a pair of big, black boots. Then somebody grabbed a hold of his collar.

“Ow! Let me go! Let me go! Get away!” He lashed out with fists and feet.

“Watch it Illya – Ow! That hurt! What’s the matter?”

“Get off – leave me alone!”

“All right, take it easy. I only came to tell you the bath is free.”

“Oh . . .” Illya sat up. Napoleon was standing by the bed wearing pyjamas and smelling of soap. He was looking startled and rubbing at his arm. “Sorry.”

“Hmm. Sometimes I think you’re more dangerous asleep than awake.” His partner flexed his elbow. “I’ve got enough bruises courtesy of Thrush without you adding to them.”

Illya scrambled off the bed. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” He stalked, with as much dignity as he could muster, into the bathroom and shut the door.

Once in the steamy little room he sat down on the side of the bath and willed his heart to slow down again. The fear was so real that for a moment he thought he might be sick, but a supreme effort of will kept his supper in place and eventually allowed his breathing to return to normal. In a daze, his heart still pounding, he ran hot water into the bath and slowly undressed.

He had a technique that had eased him through many a Thrush torture and he made himself use it now. Refusing to allow his mind to go back to the dream, he mentally transported himself somewhere else – this time to a little jazz nightclub in Paris. The dim lighting, the comfortable ambience gradually soothed him, although the music remained stubbornly soulful.

He was still listening to the band as he sat in the bath scrubbing shampoo into his hair when there was a knock at the door and Napoleon poked his head round.

“Mind if I come in and get some aspirin out my wash-bag? The painkillers Fraser gave me are wearing off.” He came in without waiting for a reply. He had a half bottle of Scotch whisky in his hand. He poured a measure into one of the tooth-glasses and handed it to Illya, who took it wordlessly.

Napoleon shrugged. “All the better to make the aspirin go down. Here.” He handed Illya two aspirin as well but Illya shook his head.  Napoleon poured another measure of whisky into the second tooth-glass, swallowed his aspirin and sat down on the closed seat of the toilet. “Pity it’s only a half bottle. I feel like getting plastered.”

Illya knocked back the whisky Russian style, handed his partner the glass and submerged under the water to rinse his hair. When he came up for air, Napoleon passed him another whisky. It went the same way. He could feel it burning in his stomach and he welcomed it after the sourness of earlier. He stood up, sloshing water onto the floor, and Napoleon handed him one of the towels.

“Better?”

“There may be a small improvement,” Illya conceded.

It was fortunate Napoleon had only brought a half bottle. Illya’s mood verged towards the way it had been two nights previously. They sat on Napoleon’s bed, drank the whisky and Napoleon talked of deliberately inconsequential matters and eventually Illya felt able to join in. At last, Napoleon said, “Now tell me about the Carl in your dream.”

Illya blinked and stared at him.

Napoleon continued, “You were muttering his name over and over when I came out of the bathroom. I conclude he has something to do with this recurring nightmare of yours.”

“I told you, Weiss was a bastard and now he’s dead because he was a bastard. The dreams are something else entirely. They are to do with something that happened a very long time ago.”

“Ah.” Napoleon raised his eyebrows. “You do remember then.” He put an encouraging arm across Illya’s back.

Illya shuddered at the sudden sensation of someone grabbing his collar. “I do remember some images.” But he allowed Napoleon’s arm to remain. He wanted to regain the amicable rapport they had been enjoying earlier. Most of all he wanted to be free of what was eating at him and return to normal.

“Why don’t you give it a chance?” Napoleon asked, quietly, “See if you can recall the circumstances of the dream. We might be able to tie up where Carl comes into it. I’m positive there is some connection. Why would you be muttering his name?”

“Napoleon. You know yourself how dreams muddle everything up.”

“Come on, Illya – Carl Weiss. He’s somehow more than just a bastard isn’t he?”

Illya shut his eyes momentarily. He tried to control the sudden increase in heartbeat and sinking sensation in his gut Napoleon’s words had precipitated. What was wrong with him? Maybe it would help to try and find some answers. “All right,” he muttered.

“All right you’ll tell me?”

“All right I’ll try.”

“Good.” Napoleon rubbed his friend’s back again. “I know it isn’t easy for you, but I believe finding the cause of a recurring dream and resolving it can help stop it in its tracks. You know those nightmares I was having a couple of years ago – the ones that dogged me after I got in that mess with Sepheran?”

Illya remembered. Napoleon had been in a bad way for a while.

“Well the shrink hypnotised me in the end. Took me back to the scene.”

Illya recoiled. “I remember. But I am not going near any psychiatrists.”

“I’m not suggesting you do, but my point is that the nightmares stopped.”

“Could have been coincidence.” Shrinks thought they had all the answers. How often had Illya had to fight to avoid being probed by them?

“Could have been.” Napoleon conceded, “And maybe it’s coincidence that you are having nightmares right at the time you meet up again with Weiss and it’s coincidence that he features in them.”

Illya wasn’t buying that. “So how do you account for the fact that I had the same nightmares last year when I hadn’t thought of Weiss since Survival School?”

“Are they the same?” asked Napoleon.

“Yes, I told you. As a matter of fact I also had a recurrence of it during the time I was at Survival School.”

“Where Weiss was giving you a hard time,” Napoleon persisted.

“Yes, but . . . I don’t know, Napoleon. Weiss was not as bad as most of the people we’ve dealt with over the years. I really can’t explain my reaction to him.”

“And if you want to beat these nightmares once and for all, I suspect you have to try.” Napoleon took another sip of his whisky. “Is it always the same scenario in the nightmare?”

“Yes of course.” Every time he thought about the dream his heart beat faster and his breathing became ragged. “It’s a recurring nightmare. Of course it’s the same!”  he spat.

 Napoleon raised his eyebrows and Illya reined in his anger. “Well, I think it is – to tell the truth I don’t fully remember it, but when it starts I get the same feeling – you know – here we go again . . .”

Napoleon said nothing, just sat quietly, watching him.

Illya sighed, trying to calm himself. “It starts off with the sound of  . . .” No, he really did not want to recall those days. He trailed off and took another sip of whisky. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this, Napoleon.”

Napoleon was not to be put off. “I think you can, Illya,” he persisted. “Come on – You can’t go on like this or you really will end up with the shrinks.” He patted the pillow. “Lie down.”

He pushed Illya gently to make him lie down on the bed and Illya complied, reluctantly. “Now just try to relax, shut your eyes and let your mind drift. I’ll not let you fall asleep. I think you can remember once you allow yourself. Your conscious mind is blocking it – or maybe it’s your subconscious. You simply have to get past that.”

Illya grumbled, “Oh – simple. How come I get the feeling I’m on the psychiatrist’s couch?” But he closed his eyes anyway. He was calmer again. The whisky and Napoleon’s gentle manner combined to make him feel sleepy.

“ Good – you know how to play the mind games. You need to find something to take you back – an image, a name . . .”

“I’m not sure I can . . .”

Illya – you can. Imagine you’ve been given a truth drug.”

Illya frowned as unpleasant memories of truth drugs flooded his mind. “I’d rather not.” He sighed, relaxing himself consciously. “All right.”

“Let your mind relax and drift; something will come to you.” Napoleon’s voice was very calm and soft but also assertive. Illya found himself relaxing more than he had for days.

He began to conjure up a mental picture of his grandmother. She remained quite clear in his memory even after all this time. Always in black: a kerchief around her silver grey hair which hung in a long pigtail that she pinned up in the morning; she liked him to read to her because her eyesight was poor; she was proud of his reading. He would sit beside her and as he read, he held her hand, stroking it, feeling the long fingers one by one; clever hands that could cook and mend and play the piano.

Into his mind there came a little song from his childhood.

Napoleon seemed to sense it. “There. Try and hold the image. Now let yourself drift off . . . that’s it . . . forget about today, just relax . . .” Napoleon talked him down gently. His voice seemed to drone more and more quietly, soporifically, getting further away and Illya’s mind started to wander.

He was counting the sticks, moving them around, making shapes – whistling through the gap where his teeth were yet to grow, joining in Masha’s song. Masha sang the same bit again and again. She couldn’t make the words properly but she knew the rhythm. He waved a stick to the rhythm. He was a famous conductor. Now Boba sang too. He smiled . . .

Footsteps – the sound of marching. Thud, thud, thud, thud. . . .

He opened his eyes, heart hammering, and tried to sit up.

Napoleon gently pushed him down onto the pillow. “Shh. Relax. What was it? What did you see?”

Illya swallowed down the rising panic. “Marching. It was the German soldiers coming . . .” He composed himself again, but he didn’t want to close his eyes.

“From World War Two – when you were a kid?”

“The Great Patriotic War we called it.” Illya looked away, staring at the wall beside the bed. “Great. For us it meant nothing but hunger and everything we had destroyed.” He almost spat the words.

“You lost your family when you were very young, didn’t you?” Napoleon asked, quietly.

Illya sighed. “Eventually. One by one.” Actually he felt little sadness any more. He actually found it difficult to conjure up any emotion when he thought of his childhood. After the loss of his family, he had been institutionalised but cared for adequately. He became a child of the State until . . .

“Tell me about the German soldiers.” Napoleon prompted,  “What happened?”

Illya winced at a sudden memory. A flash of shiny black boots and grey legs. A smell of wood and earth.

Something fell into place.

“I . . . I had a hiding place in the woodshed. I remember it. I must have been only six or seven years old. When I heard the soldiers coming up the road, I . . .we had . . . rehearsed what we should do. I was outside so I hid in the woodshed as I had been told.” He frowned at the memory of his seven year old self – curled up, trying to be invisible. How often did he repeat that experience in the line of duty?

“You parents instructed you? To hide, I mean.”  Napoleon’s voice was still quiet but sounded business-like, almost interrogatory now - easier to respond to that than kindness.

“I . . . we . . . lived with my grandmother – my sister and I did - after my parents . . . My mother died in childbirth early in the war. You don’t want to know all this Napoleon. It has nothing to do with the dream.”

“I think it might. But tell me about the soldiers.”

“They did what they did everywhere at that time - destroyed the house, took our food – that’s what they came for – they were also hungry.”

“What happened to you? Did they hurt you?”

“No . . . yes . . . I don’t know.” Illya sat up again and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to do this any more.”

“Here.” Napoleon poured some more whisky. The half bottle was almost empty. “You’ve done well already. You’ve established the time frame and it ties in with something traumatic that happened when you were a child. Something you go back to again and again in your dream. Am I right?”

“Yes and that’s why I can’t do it.” Illya rubbed the back of his neck distractedly. “It is painful for me, Napoleon.”

“I know, but it may help to put it straight in your mind – maybe see it from an adult’s point of view. I’m sure it will help in fact. My guess is something is unresolved here and that might be why you keep reliving it.” Napoleon handed him the glass.

Illya snorted, “Oh spare me the pop psychology! And I don’t want another hangover.” But he took the whisky and sipped it.

“So drink some water before you go to sleep and you won’t. Come on Illya – I know we’re close. Why Carl?”

Illya knocked back the whisky and put the glass down. He ran a hand through his still damp hair again. It was no doubt sticking up on end. He didn’t want to think of Carl. The name set his heart thumping in something like terror.

“Napoleon, feel!” He grabbed Napoleon’s hand and placed it on his chest over his racing heart. “That’s what happens when I even think about Carl . . . why?”

Napoleon grinned. “Now if Carl were Carla, I could understand that reaction.”

“Oh very funny. But the fact is – and I hate to admit it – the very thought of the dream terrifies me more than anything Thrush has thrown at us.”

“I know.” Napoleon’s face became serious again. “Perhaps the answer is to go along with the fear. Don’t fight it. It’s not real – it’s only in your mind. I’ll help you through it. You’re nearly there, I can feel it.”

Napoleon was right; he was close; he could feel it too. Illya curled around his knees, hugging himself tightly and shut his eyes again, but this time, instead of fighting it, he forced himself to go along with the fear. He wrenched his mind back to the woodshed, to Karl and Dieter. Karl. Dieter.

“Dieter! Here – potatoes!”

 The man’s voice was deep and guttural, but not old like Yevgeny Petrov who cut the wood for Boba; more like Papa’s voice. These German soldiers had found their little hoard of vegetables. If they took them, what would Boba cook for tonight’s supper? He was so hungry. The potatoes and turnips belonged to them! These men had no right to them. He wanted to kick them, to punch them . . . but Boba said the German soldiers were cruel to little boys – that he mustn’t let them see him. Stay out of sight, Illyusha. Don’t move.

“Yes! We’ll eat well tonight, eh Karl? Put them in your pockets.”

“They took our potatoes,” he said, at last.

“They?”

“Karl and Dieter. They were two of the soldiers. They came into the shed where I was hiding and found our store of potatoes and turnips. I heard them talking. That’s how I knew their names.” He shuddered as the memory surfaced.

“Did they find you?” Napoleon’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Yes . . . no . . . not straight away . . . I saw . . . I heard . . .” Illya shook his head. The adrenaline in his system was making it impossible to stay still. He got up and pushed past Napoleon to go and stand at the window looking down onto the street below. “I saw Karl.”

“I’m going back – they’ve found someone.”

“Leave them! Let’s get more of these turnips.”

“You greedy pig, Dieter – don’t you think of anything but your stomach?”

“Give me your helmet then, Karl. I can’t carry them all. Don’t bother with her – she’s just an old hausfrau – harmless.”

“Oh here – take it. I’m going to see what’s happening.” He heard the sound of the helmet falling to the ground.

Opening his eyes, he peeped out of the little knot-hole. He could see Karl running towards the group of soldiers. He knew it was Karl because he had no helmet on. His hair was light coloured, like Papa’s.

The other soldiers were all standing round something on the ground, kicking at it with their boots. Karl ran up and joined them. His boots were the shiniest – big, black and shining. He was shouting and laughing. He started kicking the thing on the ground . . .

“You saw Karl? – So they did find you.”

“No, no – they did not know I was there. I kept so still; I held my breath almost; they came and helped themselves to the potatoes then Karl went and joined the other men outside. I could see them all . . .”

Napoleon interrupted him. “But how could you see them? They were outside.”

 Illya turned away from the window again and paced the room. Anger was boiling up inside him and he turned it on Napoleon. “I could see them! I don’t know how I could see them – Dammit Napoleon, it’s a fucking dream!”

Napoleon got up and guided him back toward the bed. “Come and sit down again. It’s all right, I understand. I’m just trying to help piece it all together.”

Illya shook the hand off with an impatient gesture. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to think about Karl any more. “I need some water.” He stomped into the adjoining bathroom and locked the door.

Sitting down on the side of the bath, breathing heavily, he fought to control the anger inside him. He hated this – hated feeling like this. He wanted to go to sleep and forget about it all – except he couldn’t. He couldn’t because his stubborn mind wouldn’t let him; kept revisiting the scene over and over again. Napoleon was right, damn him. It had something to do with Carl. Carl, who shared his name with the Karl in his nightmare.

It was the same name but they were not the same person. The Karl in his dream . . . had shiny boots. Why was he remembering the damn boots?

He needed to know.

This was not going to be resolved until he understood about Karl and Carl. Napoleon was trying to help – doing his job. No, he was doing more than his job. He was helping his friend. His best friend. Illya should not have lost his temper. He got up and splashed water on his face, drank a handful of cold water from the tap and unlocked the door of the bathroom, returning to the bedroom. But as he approached Napoleon his heart started to pound once more.

He sat down heavily on his own bed, and dropped his head into his hands. “I’m sorry. Give me another minute. It’s not your fault.”

After a moment or two he rubbed his face and looked up. Napoleon was sitting opposite him on the other twin bed. He sat quietly, patiently, waiting. Illya felt the calm coming from his friend and it soothed him. He allowed his thoughts to drift to Karl again.

Karl went outside and Dieter tried to stop him.

 Where was Boba? She was never this long when they played the game. He curled up tighter.

They hadn’t found him. Boba would be so pleased with him.

Suddenly he heard, “Get away from here! Leave me alone – no!” It was Boba’s voice. Where was she? When was she coming to find him?

Boba was yelling at the soldiers like she had yelled the day Masha nearly put her little hand in the stove. He remembered looking up from his book and stopping the baby just in time, but Boba had yelled at her from the doorway, then yelled at him for letting her go too near it. She was yelling at the German soldiers even louder.

Then the yelling stopped.

From his little hole he could see the men; hear them laughing and jeering.

He couldn’t hear Boba or see her. Karl pushed into the group. They were standing round the thing on the ground. It was someone. A person.

“You want her, Karl?” Some of the men were laughing. Karl’s boot kicked at the black mound. Other boots joined in.

There was a rattle of potatoes falling to the ground. Swearing. He heard Dieter scrabbling around for them. Dieter was so close. Too close . . .

The thing on the ground – the person. They were kicking at it. Karl’s big black boots kicked it again and again . . . No – stop! Don’t hurt her!

He opened his eyes wide to shut out the picture and was relieved to see the drab little hotel room. Napoleon was still there, waiting.

“I saw Karl join the other soldiers outside. They were kicking at someone. Someone was on the ground.” He stopped abruptly as the picture faded. His mind refused to go further. He let his head fall forward onto his knees again. Immediately it was as if he was still trapped behind that woodpile.

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch with shock. “Argh – go away – leave me!” He lashed out, then realised where he was again. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, take it easy.” Napoleon’s voice was calm, soothing.

“I must have moved or made a noise because Dieter found me. He grabbed me by the coat but I managed to slip out of it – the coat was too big.” He smiled wanly. “Wearing ill-fitting clothes has saved me on several occasions.”

Napoleon looked surprised. “Dieter? Not Karl?”

Illya shook his head. “Not Karl.”

“So you got away?”

“Yes. I got away.” Relief swept over him. Suddenly he remembered quite clearly. “Not very far. I don’t think Dieter even bothered to run after me and the others were all too busy. I ran around the back of the house and into a small wood – just a few trees but they were my territory. Familiar. I climbed a tree. It was autumn and the leaves were yellow but still on the tree.” He stopped. It was amazing that suddenly he remembered this in such detail. It was almost like watching a movie unfolding. He could smell the sweet, woodsy, decaying scent; feel the scrape of the bark on his knees. “There were not many trees left. People had cut them down for firewood. But my tree hid me well enough and I could see the soldiers although they couldn’t see me.”

“You always were quick at climbing trees.” Napoleon smiled. “So go on.”

Illya shrugged. “That’s it. They didn’t get me. I escaped.”

He had done it. He looked up, relieved.

But Napoleon had stopped smiling. He was looking at him intently. His brown eyes bored into Illya. “No, Illya. I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s it at all.”

000000000

“What do you mean?”

He had escaped hadn’t he? It was obvious or he wouldn’t be here now. He’d recalled events that he’d had no inkling of for years. He was feeling better already.

Napoleon continued to look at him intently. Illya tried to return the stare but dropped his eyes almost instantly. Studied his hands. He felt suddenly weak, tired, light-headed from all the whisky.

“If you’ve had enough we can stop. You don’t have to go through with this, Illya.” Napoleon’s voice was gentle. “But I believe there’s more to it.”

The temptation to stop was overwhelming, but Illya knew if they stopped now he would never bring himself to face this again.

“It’s all been pretty hard on you. Do you want to call it a night?” Napoleon’s eyes were compassionate.

He was tired, but he had been tired for days, thanks to the nightmare. He was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, wasn’t he - able to withstand torture and interrogation? This hardly compared to those. He sat up and squared his shoulders.

“Is there any whisky left?”

Napoleon held up the bottle, almost empty. “You’re the one who said he didn’t want another hangover.”

“I don’t, and I won’t have one. Look.” Illya went into the bathroom and filled his glass with tap-water, drained it, then drank another. “Now, let’s share the last drop. Dutch courage.”

“If you’re sure you want to carry on. We can continue this once we get back to New York.”

Illya shuddered. The last thing he wanted was for this to go on any longer but the thought of being interrogated by the shrink back in New York HQ was even less enticing. He took the dribble of whisky Napoleon poured for him, swallowed it and lay back on the pillow once more.

“All right.” Napoleon sat beside him on the bed. “Let’s go back to when Dieter caught you. You say you got away by slipping out of your coat? But he let you go, didn’t he?”

Immediately, Illya felt the anger and fright as he found himself hauled ignominiously from his hiding place by the grinning Dieter.

“Ah so who have we here – a little man? Whoa there, stop  – I won’t hurt you.” The German was smiling at his struggles. “Here little fellow – don’t let the others see you.”

He squirmed and struggled, pulling his arms out of the coat, kicking. Dieter caught his bare arm and clamped a large hand over his mouth. “Shh! Don’t make a noise. Run away little man – quick!” and, laughing, he let him go.

“Yes. He let me go, even though I bit his hand. I fled to the woods at the back of the house.”

“So you climbed the tree out of sight. But you said you could see the others. What were they doing?” Napoleon had reverted to his business-like tone and Illya was grateful. He took a deep breath and looked through his seven-year-old eyes at the scene below as he cowered in the tree.

“Some one was on the ground. They were kicking at her.”

“Her?” Napoleon prompted. “Who was it, Illya, your grandmother?”

Illya swallowed. Boba. “Yes, my grandmother. It was my grandmother.” He was shaking and he couldn’t stop. He hugged his arms around his chest.

Trembling on his precarious perch, shivering from the cold without his coat as well as from fear, he could not take his eyes from the scene below. Boba was not yelling any more but was writhing on the ground as the men’s boots kicked and kicked at her. He couldn’t see her face but he knew the men were hurting her, even though she was quiet. The men were laughing. A bang, not loud, but sudden.  Boba jerked once and went still. He almost fell out of the tree with terror and clung to the branch. His eyes shut tight. When he opened them he saw Karl held a gun, which still pointed at the black bundle on the ground. Red blood where her head was . . .

“They killed her,” Illya said, tonelessly. “Karl shot her.” His head was hurting. He did not want these memories to come back, but now they wouldn’t let him go. Still shaking, he rested his aching forehead on his hands. Napoleon said nothing but Illya felt a hand on his back, gently stroking.

In the silence, Illya heard a child’s cry.

He watched in horror as Karl, the gun still in his hand, walked purposefully towards the house from where the crying – more a miserable wailing – came.

Masha! Masha – stop crying. Keep quiet. Keep quiet! Please keep quiet!

 Dieter ran out of the woodshed, his pockets bulging with potatoes. He shouted something at Karl. He was waving his hands about. Yelling. The other men were laughing.

Please, please don’t tell them you found me, Dieter!

But Dieter followed Karl into the house. The sound of Masha’s terrified crying continued. Lying along the branch, he put his hands over his ears and clung on with his elbows and knees, but he couldn’t shut out the sound of the shot. One muffled bang. Then silence. He took his hands away from his ears and strained to listen. The crying had stopped.

“Illya.” Napoleon’s voice was very quiet, whispering. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Illya lifted his head, still shaking. “It was Karl. He killed my grandmother and my sister.” He took a deep, shuddery breath. “I watched. I watched them and I couldn’t do anything about it.” He got off the bed and walked over to the window again. It had started to rain outside and the droplets ran down the windowpane, but his eyes were dry. He had not cried then either – too terrified to do anything but cling to the branch until the soldiers left.

Napoleon joined him at the window. “You know you had no way of stopping it.”

Illya continued to stare out at the rain. “I know. I was six or seven years old. A child.”

“But you feel guilty because you lived and they didn’t?”

“Of course I feel guilty!” he snapped back. “Wouldn’t you? It’s a perfectly common thing for survivors to feel. I know all about it – I’ve read the books.”

“And it doesn’t help you that other people have the same feelings, does it? Doesn’t make it easier to bear.”

Illya couldn’t look at Napoleon. He stared resolutely out of the window, watching the raindrops.

 Napoleon said, reasonably, “You were a little boy. You had a chance to get away and you had no choice.”

“I know.” He couldn’t stop trembling.

 “You have to forgive yourself for that, Illya.”

“People told me I was lucky to escape. It never seemed that way to me.” Illya leaned his aching forehead against the cool of the windowpane.

Napoleon put an arm around his shoulders again and drew him into a loose embrace. “I think you’ve been making up for it ever since.”

Illya allowed himself to be hugged. The pain in his head and chest was suddenly overwhelming. He leaned against his friend and the seven year old boy and the grown man became one for a moment.

They stayed like that for a few minutes and Illya felt himself relax a little. The pain receded enough for him to lift his head from Napoleon’s shoulder. Shuddering, he disengaged himself and went over to the bed and sat down. Napoleon came and sat beside him.

“Did you go back to the house?” Napoleon asked, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of his pyjamas and handing it to Illya.

Illya fingered the soft cotton, running it through his hands and twisting it around before he wiped his face with it. “No, I never did. I guess I was too scared of what I would find.”

Napoleon asked, “But you knew what had happened. You understood?”

Illya nodded. “Yes. I knew I was alone then.”

 He blew his nose, then balled the handkerchief and looked at his friend, half smiling. “I don’t suppose you want this back now.”

Napoleon grinned back. “You can keep it. I have plenty.”

“Thank you.” Illya lay back on the bed, suddenly very sleepy. “I remember something else – when I climbed down from the tree, a long time later, very cold and frightened, I scraped my elbow on the rough bark. It hurt so much but I didn’t cry. I sat down under the tree; I was cold without my coat and my elbow was bleeding. Then I remembered my grandmother had given me a handkerchief because I had a cold.”

He looked at Napoleon’s handkerchief that he still held in his hand. “It wasn’t a white one, it was black; one of my grandmother’s old headscarves. I wrapped it round my arm to stop the blood. As soon as I couldn’t see the wound any more it felt better.”  He had refused to part with it long after the elbow healed. A black mourning band.

“And Carl. The name was enough to bring back the memories?” Napoleon went over to the window and drew the curtains, shutting out the rain.

Illya frowned. “I suppose so. Coupled with the fact that he was a bastard. But there was something else  . . . It was more than just the name and his personality . . .”

“Did he look anything like the Karl who . . . you know, the one in the nightmare?”

“A little.” Illya considered. He yawned. “Superficially I suppose, but the main thing was the boots – they both had shiny black boots.” He yawned again and it turned into a shudder. “I think that was the connection really . . . silly don’t you think?”

“I don’t think so, Illya. The mind latches onto the strangest things. Funny – I noticed how shiny his shoes were too, when I saw him today.”

Illya pulled the covers around himself. He felt as if he could sleep for a week. “Yes. He was all spit and polish at Survival School too. I’m not sorry he’s dead, although it does deny us the satisfaction of throwing the book at him.”

“Yes. U.N.C.L.E. is well rid of him, although I expect we’ll find ourselves on the carpet once Mr Waverly gets the full report.” Napoleon climbed into the other bed. “Will you be all right now? We should get some sleep.”

Illya closed his eyes. He still held Napoleon’s handkerchief. “I’m fine.” He heard the click of the light switch and sensed the room go dark. “Thanks.”

“Think no more about it. And Illya . . . “

“What?” Illya’s voice was filled with sleep as he stifled a yawn.

“Now that you’ve remembered Karl for what he was, don’t forget the other one . . . what was his name?”

“Dieter.”

“Yes, Dieter. Remember he let you go. Hang on to that.” Napoleon yawned too and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Soon be morning. Get some sleep.

Illya murmured, “Mmm. I suppose I have him to thank for my life.”

“You do,” replied Napoleon, “and so do I.”