Illya Kuryakin approached the entrance to Del Floria’s tailor shop at a steady but unhurried pace.  His face was calm and nothing about his outward appearance gave any indication of the turmoil within.

At the top of the steps leading down to the business’ below-street entrance the Russian paused for the merest moment, remembering when he had last ascended these stairs.  He had had no idea at the time that nearly a year would pass before he found himself standing here again.

He continued down but at the bottom he turned back, puzzled.  He climbed the stairs and descended once more, slowly this time, counting as he came down.  He tilted his head in bewilderment and went into the shop.

The tailor’s assistant, waiting politely behind the counter, was unknown to him.  Illya turned to him anyway.  “There’s the wrong number of steps outside.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“The steps.  There are eight.  There should only be seven.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.  There are the same number there’s always been.”

“Hmph!” Illya snorted.  “Buzz me on through, will you?”

“Sir?”

Annoyed, the Russian leaned over the counter himself and pushed down the handle on the steam press twice.  Then he strode over to the changing booth and reached up to grab the coat hook that should turn and allow him into the headquarters of the U.N.C.L.E., the multi-national law enforcement agency of which he was a member.

Nothing happened.  Illya had his gun out before he turned.  The man behind the counter had done the same and for a brief eternity they faced each other in a standoff.  Illya Kuryakin considered his options.  Not being given to false modesty, he would admit to being one of the finest shots in the world when he was at his best.  Just now, however, he was hardly at his best.  After eight months spent tracking a rocket scientist through the South American jungles, five weeks as a badly beaten prisoner, ten days on a life raft with a severe concussion, and another six weeks in an isolated missionary hospital, a gun battle on the doorstep of U.N.C.L.E. HQ was the very last welcome home he needed.

Before the matter could come to a head a familiar British voice interrupted them from nowhere.  “It’s quite all right, Mr. Hughes.  You may let him through now, please.”

The agent behind the desk lowered his gun and so did Illya.  The blond, blue-eyed young operative relaxed marginally but not visibly and waited.  Hughes went to the steam press and pushed the handle himself, not twice but in a complex pattern.  Then he nodded to the coat hook.  “Go ahead and turn it,” he said.

Illya tried, but nothing happened.  He glared at the man, who blanched.  Even when he was in a weakened condition, Illya Kuryakin’s glares were nothing to be taken lightly.

“Um, try the other way, Sir.”

“It’s always turned clockwise,” the Russian protested.  Still, he did as he was instructed and the coat hook turned in his hand to admit him, at last, to the reception area.

He entered and glanced around, disgruntled, noticing that the walls had been painted and the furniture re-arranged.  The girl behind the desk was unknown to him as well.  She looked at him dubiously.

“Please state your name and your business with U.N.C.L.E. this morning.”

Illya growled low in his throat.  “My name is Illya Kuryakin and I am an enforcement agent, this being the reason I just came in through the agents’ entrance.”

The girl looked down.  A paper on her desk listed the names of everyone who was expected to pass by her that morning, complete with pictures and identifying marks.  She found the name Kuryakin and studied the man before her, comparing him with his picture.  Certainly there was a resemblance.  Both were blond with blue eyes and somber features and both men, the one on paper and the one in the flesh, were fixing her with a piercing scowl.  This man could be – probably was – Kuryakin.  But she could not be sure.  He was too thin, for one thing, his plain dark suit hanging loosely on his spare frame.  His face was pinched and sunburned and his hair, a blond mop in the picture, was trimmed in a severe crew cut.

She offered him a visitor’s badge.  “I’ll have someone escort you to Mr. Waverly.”

He glared at her and did not take it.  “I am Illya Kuryakin,” he said icily.  “I am number two in section two and that is my badge number as well.”

The receptionist was made of sterner stuff than Hughes and did not flinch.  “I’m sorry, Sir, but I am unable to confirm your identity.  If you’ll go with Mr. Mitchell, I’m sure we can get this cleared up in no time.”

The door had opened to admit a young man wearing the badge of an enforcement agent.  To Illya Kuryakin’s jaundiced eye he looked to be about twelve.  Illya finally took the visitor’s badge, fixing the receptionist with his most intimidating stare as he fastened it on his lapel.  She merely smiled sympathetically and he turned away and followed his guide along the familiar corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ.

They passed a number of people along the way, both enforcement agents and administrative personnel, but Illya did not know any of them.  He had become an outsider in the one place where once he felt as though he belonged.

* * * *

 Alexander Waverly looked up as the two men entered his inner sanctum.  His eyes were on the Russian, so long strayed and, for a time, feared lost.  He took in the thinness, the haggard appearance, and the angry eyes.  He noticed the haircut, something he had lobbied for for years, and was honest enough to admit to himself wryly that he found it somewhat disturbing.  His eyes fell on the blond’s lapel.

“Mr. Mitchell, please be good enough to return to reception and retrieve Mr. Kuryakin’s badge.  Number two, section two.”

Mitchell nodded and left and Waverly motioned Illya to join him at the circular conference table.  “Please sit down, Mr. . . uh . . . Kuryakin.  I’ve received your preliminary report via Teletype.”

Illya reached into the document case he was carrying and produced a sheaf of papers.  “My complete report on the affair, Sir.”

“Already?”  The U.N.C.L.E. chief scanned the document.  “Very good, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the Russian smiled very slightly for the first time.  “I expect Mr. Solo has a number of overdue reports he will require my assistance with.”

“Actually, no,” Waverly told him.  “Mr. Solo’s paperwork is all current, surprisingly.  I believe he drafted Mr. Slate to assist him.”

“Mr. Slate?” Illya asked.  His voice was flat and curiously bleak.

“Yes, you won’t have met him, yet, will you?  You’ll find there have been a number of personnel changes in your absence.

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“Also, your laboratory has been re-assigned to Dr. Winchell.”

The Russian’s eyes narrowed.  “Sir . . .”

Waverly held up a hand to forestall the younger man’s objections.  “Please remember, Mr. Kuryakin, that we believed you dead for quite seven months.  You have been assigned another, of course, slightly smaller I’m afraid but with excellent facilities.  If you will fill out a requisition for any special equipment you require I will see to it that it is filled immediately.”

Illya swallowed his annoyance.  “What of my personal equipment?  And my notes?”

“Mr. Solo will know what became of those.   It was he who oversaw the clearing of your laboratory.”

“Napoleon emptied my laboratory?”  Kuryakin had a sudden, vivid image of Napoleon Solo sitting at his work bench, shuffling through meaningless reports in Illya’s neat hand and watching the secretaries and maintenance workers packing away yet another segment of his partner’s life.  ‘He was probably ogling the secretaries,’ Illya thought forlornly, though rationally he knew better.  In a tiny corner of his mind where he was purely a scientist he found himself envisioning trembling hands and worrying about broken beakers.
“Your apartment, by the way, was also emptied and used briefly by another agent,” Waverly continued,  “however when we learned you were still, ah, with us, we relocated the other tenant and returned your belongings.  You may find some things out of place.  You’ve not been home yet?”
“No,” Illya said flatly.  He had thought, when he returned to headquarters, that he was coming home.
“Well, Mr. Kuryakin, I believe the first thing we need from you is a physical.  If our physicians clear you for duty, I will have an assignment for you.  Please report to the medical section.  I will speak with you again later this morning.”  He stood and the Russian followed suit.  Waverly shook his prodigal operative’s hand.  “Welcome back, Mr. Kuryakin.  It is good to see you safely returned.”

* * * * *

“During the Revolutionary War the British tried to burn that mansion because they thought the occupants were passing information on shipping movements to the Continental Army.”
Mark Slate, busy assembling a small gun on the deck of his superior’s sailboat, the Pursang, glanced across the water at the huge old house they were watching.  “Well, you Yanks are all a lot of bloody spies.”
Napoleon Solo grinned at the young Brit.  Slate was a small blond man who reminded Napoleon vividly of another.  Of course, Illya never had ink-stained fingers and Solo had never, ever had to untie him from his own typewriter ribbon.
Solo donned a pair of extremely high-tech sunglasses and looked across the water to Burgess House, an historic mansion that had become, at least for tonight, a drop point for Thrush.  Madeline Farnsworth, a soulless beauty, was meeting an as-yet-unidentified courier to receive the stolen blueprints for a top-secret missile.  Solo and Slate were here to intercept the plans.
The Chief Enforcement Officer squatted down on the deck and studied their objective.  He was dressed in dungarees and a lightweight blue-gray sweatshirt, chosen to not stand out against the waters of the Atlantic.  While they were making no secret of their presence – it was in keeping with their cover as a jet-set playboy and his secretary – there was no reason to make good targets of themselves.
Burgess House rose up from the coast like a ship on land.  It had been built by a sea captain, using shipbuilding techniques and incorporating timbers taken from a de-commissioned naval vessel, the schooner Flight of Fancy.  It stood on a bluff overlooking the ocean, a fairy-tale concoction of bay windows and covered verandahs topped with a turret surrounded by a widow’s walk.  The drop, they had learned, was to take place tonight under cover of what was ostensibly a charity gaming night.
Slate came over to sit by Solo and Napoleon smiled slightly to himself, remembering the first time he had seen the young Briton.  He had been crossing the street on his way to headquarters when he spotted the top of a blond head entering Del Floria’s.  His heart suddenly racing, he had darted between the cars, ignoring a close call with a taxi, and rushed into the tailor shop only to find a stranger entering the changing booth.  In the space of less than a minute he had gone from the depths of depression to the heights of euphoria and fallen back again.  It had been three days since he emptied Illya Kuryakin’s apartment.
Solo stood and beckoned Mark to accompany him into the small cabin.  They hunched over the table, studying a floor plan of Burgess House and finalizing their plans for that night.  If the missile fell into Thrush hands it would give them the ability to hold nations at bay and would upset the delicate balance of power that kept the world from all-out war.  Napoleon Solo was anxious to be finished with this assignment.  He had more important matters to attend to.
Today his partner was coming home.

* * * * *

The tiny medical section was gone when Illya Kuryakin arrived.  Instead he found himself in a set of offices, surrounded by junior agents.  Here at last he saw one or two men that he knew slightly, although none that he was well acquainted with.  For a moment he was tempted to pretend that he had come down merely to see who was here – Medical had never been his favorite section anyway.  Still, he found he wanted that assignment and the only way to get it was to convince a doctor to clear him for duty.
Reluctantly he asked for directions and learned that Medical had been moved to larger quarters on the top floor, with access to a heli-pad on the roof.
“That really came in handy a couple of months ago,” one of the agents commented.  “A spitting cobra got Solo in the eyes and if they hadn’t gotten him to Medical so quickly it might have permanently damaged his vision.  As it was, he just had to wear something over his eyes for a few days.”  The agent chuckled.  “He and Slate made a game of it.  Slate would describe one of the secretaries – you know, brunette, blue eyes, five-foot-three, 32-22-34 – and Solo would try to guess which one it was.  And then, as often as not, he’d correct Mark on the girl’s measurements.”
Everyone laughed except Illya.  “He’s all right now, though?”
“What?  Oh, yeah.  He and Slate are out on assignment.  Didn’t you know that?”
“I do now.  Good day.”
Excusing himself somewhat abruptly Illya left to find Medical and get released for duty.  He was anxious to be away from this place, once so familiar and now so strange.  Illya Kuryakin had learned long ago that it was possible to be much more alone in a crowd than you could ever be by yourself.

* * * * *

“Mr. Waverly, you cannot possibly mean to send that young man back into the field so quickly!  He’s been on duty non-stop for nearly a year.  Surely this mission doesn’t need him that badly!”
Alexander Waverly regarded his Medical Chief with an air of benevolent tolerance.  He understood the doctor was concerned with the well being of his agents, but the Chief of U.N.C.L.E. knew his people better than anyone.
“The mission need Mr. Kuryakin?” he mused.  “Actually, John, I rather imagine the reverse is true.  Humor me,” the old man said.  “One mission and then I’ll give him all the down time you deem necessary.”

* * * * *

His task that evening, Illya learned, was to examine a set of missile blueprints, once they had been recovered, and determine whether they were the real thing or simply a red herring.  U.N.C.L.E. headquarters had only received the plans that morning, too late for the agents already assigned to the case to study them.  The Russian’s eidetic memory would allow him to authenticate the recovered blueprints on the spot without having to risk another hard copy of the sensitive documents in the field.
Before leaving for the New Jersey coast to join Napoleon and Mark Slate on their mission, Illya stopped by the office he had always shared with his partner.  The two desks still sat facing one another, but Kuryakin stopped short at the sight.  The desk he had always called his own was covered with another person’s fingerprints.  It looked as though someone had fought a printing press and lost rather spectacularly.  His familiar old manual typewriter was gone and a new electric monstrosity sat in its place.
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Illya Kuryakin turned away before he felt compelled to look and see if the drawers were filled with someone else’s belongings.
He went down to stores to draw a new weapon and a complete set of tools to replace what he had lost in South America.  A quarter of an hour on the target range was sufficient for him to fine-tune the sights on his gun and then one of Waverly’s secretaries gave him a final briefing.
“You’ll need a tuxedo – the cover for Thrush’s courier drop is a black tie charity event.  Slate will meet you with Mr. Solo’s sailboat here,” she indicated a point on a map.  “He’ll fill you in on what’s going on and let you know what’s needed.  They’re expecting you at 2100 hours.”
“Thank you,” Illya said.  “So, Napoleon is trusting this Slate with his sailboat?” he ventured.   “He must think highly of him.”
“Yes,” the secretary agreed, “he has rather taken him under his wing.”

* * * * *

Mark Slate tacked the sailboat and headed for the small dock that reached out into the North Atlantic towards him.  As he approached he dropped his sails, letting momentum carry him forward, and rushed to put the bumpers over the side.  He was well aware that he had only been entrusted with the Pursang because it was the quickest way to retrieve Illya Kuryakin and he could only imagine what revenge his superior might take on him if he scratched the paint.
At first he thought the dock was empty and it worried him.  He could only afford to be away from the mansion for a limited time, but he knew that scratching the paint would be a minor offense compared to returning without his passenger.  As he bobbed to a halt, though, a figure melted into view, like a ghost out of darkness.
For a long minute they stood and regarded one another.  Though Illya Kuryakin said nothing and made no move, Mark Slate could feel the hostility radiating off him.  Nervously the young Brit cleared his throat and wondered if Kuryakin had seen his desk.  Solo had insisted that they catch up on his massive backlog of reports before his partner returned.  Slate, who liked to think he was a better spy than he was a secretary, had gotten tangled in the ribbon while trying to change it, broken the Russian’s favorite typewriter by throwing it across the room (his face burned in the darkness remembering Solo’s reaction to that!) smeared ink everywhere and only finished seconds before they had to leave for this mission.
“I say, old chap,” the young agent ventured nervously, “need a lift?”
Illya Kuryakin blinked once, conveying enormous disapproval.  “Don’t you want to verify my identity first?”
Mark gulped.  “Uh, I know who you are.”
“How?  You’ve never seen me before.”
“No, but, um, you fit Napoleon’s description.”
“How?”
“You scare me.”
Kuryakin snorted.  Waving the younger agent back he stepped easily aboard the familiar vessel.  He raised the sails himself, without further discussion.  The sails bellied open with a brisk snap and Illya expertly turned the small craft and headed her for sea.  For just a moment he felt as if he were in control again, but the feeling evaporated almost as soon as he recognized it.  He had to turn the boat back over to Slate, for he did not know where they were going.
“It’s down the coast, about eight miles,” the junior agent told him.  “Napoleon wants you to come in and mingle.  There’ll be a lot of guests there.  It’s by invitation only.  Your invitation is in the cabin.”  Slate eyed the worn-looking Russian thoughtfully.  “Napoleon wasn’t too happy with Waverly for sending you down here, you know.”
The words stabbed into Illya Kuryakin, but he gave no outward sign of his emotions.  “That would be between Mr. Solo and Mr. Waverly,” he said flatly.
Mark Slate blanched.  He just couldn’t seem to get on this guy’s good side.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Illya turned to the cabin, “I’d better go change for the party.”

* * * * *

Illya approached the mansion from the front.  It was a scene from a fairy tale.  Multi-colored paper lanterns lighted the broad green lawn and ornate gardens.  The windows sparkled like diamonds and music and laughter drifted along on a gentle breeze.
A beefy guard, stuffed like a sausage into an ill-fitting tuxedo, came up to examine Illya’s invitation.  The Russian deliberately ignored him, scanning the surroundings as the guard scanned his forged document.  The guard passed him with as polite a nod as someone with such a thick neck could reasonably manage and Illya slipped by him and into the house.
A bar was set up in the entrance hall, a discreet little sign above it reminding everyone that all proceeds from this evening’s gambling would go to support the “Thrush-haven Wild Bird Sanctuary”.  Illya collected a glass of champagne and wandered through the house in search of his partner.  His erstwhile partner.
He failed to find him in any of the downstairs rooms.  Tension built in him as he climbed the broad staircase.  What would he do if he could not locate Napoleon?  Solo was right, he didn’t belong here.  He wasn’t privy to the plan that was at work, had no knowledge of contingency plans and hadn’t even had time to study the layout of the mansion.  He could be no help, only, perhaps, a liability.  If he were the CEA, he would not want him on this mission either.
He was halfway down the upstairs hall when he heard a familiar voice.
“I will take red, which is the color of milady’s lips, and sixteen, which is her age.”  There was the sound of laughter, as of a small group, and the hum of a roulette wheel.  With his heart in his throat, Illya Kuryakin entered the room the sounds had come from.  It was a small sitting room, converted for the evening into a tiny casino.  The man he was looking for stood in the center of the room.
Napoleon Solo was still the same.  He was clearly in command of the situation and all eyes were on him as he joked lightheartedly, showered the ladies with extravagant compliments and gambled.  He wore his tuxedo with casual elegance, leaning one hip against the gaming table.  His legs were crossed and one hand thrust casually into a pocket spoiled the smooth lines of his suit.
He did not look up as the Russian entered and Illya did not approach him, but faded discreetly into a corner where he could keep the entire room under his watchful eye.  Illya could feel his hackles rise as he surveyed the glittering guests and counted the Thrush officials among them.  He saw, and knew instinctively that Napoleon had also seen, when one of the men at the table produced a blue chip from within his sleeve and placed it on the table.

* * * * *

Napoleon Solo saw the blond figure enter the room.  Though he barely glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye and gave no outward sign, his heart was pounding and every detail burned itself into his brain.
Eleven months earlier Illya Kuryakin had left their office to go down to the corner deli for sandwiches.  Ten minutes later he radioed in that he had spotted a scientist who was supposed to be dead and that he intended to follow him.  That was the last that Napoleon had heard from his partner.  His best friend, the man he loved like a brother, was gone from his life without a trace.
He was the only one in the organization who had never accepted that the Russian was dead.  Indeed, when he had emptied Illya's laboratory he had cautioned his assistants against breaking anything and warned them of Kuryakin’s wrath when he returned.  That had gotten him a session with the staff psychiatrist.
In time, those he worked with accepted his faith in his partner’s return as simply a harmless foible.  So Napoleon Solo clung to his belief that Illya was alive somewhere and put on a brave face for the organization.  It was only in the privacy of his own mind, in the dark places where fears have substance, that the agent fought the demons of grief and loneliness.
He would never forget the day, three long weeks ago, when Alexander Waverly called him into his office and handed him a grubby sheet of paper.
“Walker Tennyson, you may have heard of him – he’s an anthropologist studying belief in the supernatural among the natives in South America – contacted me this morning to give me this.”
The note, in a hand that was so familiar to Napoleon, said simply, “mission accomplished.  Returning ASAP.  Kuryakin.”
Eleven months.  A lifetime to wonder and worry.  And now his partner had returned.  But this was no place for a reunion and there was no time.  The Thrush courier had arrived and the missile blueprint was on the table.

* * * * *

Madeline Farnsworth leaned over the table, exposing enough of her ample bosom to make a weak man hyperventilate.  She was wearing a simple white gown, her long dark hair spilling down the back.  Her heart-shaped face was perfectly made-up and she was exquisitely beautiful.  She looked like nothing so much as an angel, but Napoleon Solo was wise enough to know that looks can be deceiving.
She placed her marker on the number 23 and Napoleon set a stack of chips on 4, covering his bet on black, even, columns and dozens.  The wheel came to life and the ball hummed and buzzed as it spun.  Gradually the wheel began to slow; the ball skipping from slot to slot until at last it came to rest on 23.  There was a general murmur around the table and Madeline, smiling, leaned forward to collect her due.  Before she could claim the chips, however, the ball gave another, impossible skip and landed in the next slot over – number 4.
“Well,” Napoleon said lightly, leaning across the table and raking the chips over to him, “I do believe I win.”
Madeline smiled with an acid sweetness, reached out and very deliberately returned the ball to number 23.
“I’m sorry, darling, but it seems you lose after all.”  Suddenly Napoleon was surrounded by gunmen.  The woman reached over, sorted through the chips until she found the one with the blueprint inside, and tucked it down inside the front of her dress.   Then she advanced on the U.N.C.L.E. agent.  “Now, Napoleon,” she purred, running her hands across his chest and gazing up at him seductively, “are you going to be my willing prisoner or must I mar that perfect physique with bullets?”
“If one must be a prisoner,” Solo returned gallantly, “what better than to be the prisoner of a beautiful woman?  We’ll come quietly.”  He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, directing his words over his shoulder.  “Won’t we IK?”
Illya, who had had no intention of going quietly, froze in surprise as he was quickly surrounded by Thrush guards.  He hadn’t even realized that Napoleon knew he was in the room.  Slowly he released his hold on his gun, still in its shoulder holster, and raised his hands.  The guards disarmed him and he and Napoleon were hustled out of the room, up a winding flight of stairs to the turret and out onto the widow’s walk.  An ornamental railing ran around the outside of the turret, waist-high, and the U.N.C.L.E. agents were handcuffed to it with their backs to one another and the bulk of the turret between them.
When they were securely fastened the guards stepped back and Madeline Farnsworth paced slowly around the turret twice, examining her prisoners with the air of a cat that has cornered a mouse.  Finally she stopped and snuggled up against Napoleon.
“I’m going to have to leave you for a little while, my dear.  I really do have guests I must see to.  Don't worry, though, I won't be too long.  And when I come back we’ll see if we can’t think of some way for you to amuse me.”  She toyed for a moment with the buttons on his vest, then pushed away and circled around to regard Illya.
“And as for your little friend, here,” she leaned out and looked over the railing of the widow's walk.  The house came right up to the bluff here and it was a very long way down.  She turned back and patted the Russian gently on the cheek.  “Maybe I’ll let him go,” she said.
She circled the turret one last time, stopped to blow Napoleon a kiss, and left, her silken skirts rustling on the narrow turret stair.  The guards followed and Napoleon and Illya were left alone.
They did not speak.  Illya didn’t understand Napoleon’s actions and was worried that his presence had somehow forced Solo into playing a bad hand.  Napoleon Solo, for his part, was very busy.
Squinting one eye closed in concentration, he balanced on his left foot, struggling to raise his right high enough so that he could reach his shoe with his bound hands.  Finally he felt the tips of his fingers brush leather.  Hooking one finger inside the shoe, he was able to pull his foot up.  He found the lockpick in the lining and lowered his foot again cautiously.  He was certain there were guards below, at the foot of the staircase, and he didn’t want to attract their attention.
He maneuvered carefully, anxious to be free but not wanting to drop the pick in his haste.  He turned the instrument in his hand and located the opening in his handcuffs.  It was the work of but a moment to pick the lock.  Once free, he pulled a button from his jacket, pointed it at the sea and pinched the back.  A small light flashed in a pre-arranged pattern, signaling to Mark Slate to move in.
Napoleon Solo took a deep breath and swallowed hard.  Then he walked slowly around the turret to finally face his partner.
Illya, too, was carrying a lockpick, but his was in his cummerbund, entirely out of his reach the way he was bound.  He was struggling anyway, but stopped as Napoleon approached.  He wondered if the American was disappointed in him and glad, perhaps, that he need rely on him no longer.
Napoleon stood and stared at the Russian, just stared.  He drank in every detail of his appearance, noticed everything about him, from the change in his hairstyle to the look in his eyes.  Read him like a book.
“Are you going to release me?” Illya asked finally, his voice slightly petulant.
The faintest smile touched the corner of Napoleon’s mouth, even while his eyes remained serious.  “Oh, I don’t know.  I think I like having you where I can keep an eye on you.”  Like a gentle swell on the surface of the ocean, his light voice hinted at vast hidden depths.
Illya scowled and Napoleon drank that in too.  He reached out and ran a hand over the Russian's head.  "Nice haircut."
His partner grimaced.  “I was unconscious at the time.”
“Ah.”  For the first time the smile reached Napoleon Solo’s eyes.  “I’ve always suspected that that’s what it would take.  Here, let me.”  Illya had started struggling again and Napoleon reached behind him and unfastened the handcuffs.  The Russian had rubbed his wrists raw and the fight to free himself left him breathless and slightly shaky.  Solo steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Did you fall going down the stairs?” he asked.
Illya looked up quickly.  “There are the wrong number of steps,” he said.  “There should only be seven, but there are eight.”
“Yes.  Shortly after you left a water main ruptured.  They had to tear up the street to fix it and when they rebuilt the steps they put in an extra.”
“And the coat hook?”
Solo nodded.  “It turns widdershins now.  The lock broke and the man from maintenance put the new one in backwards.  Did you know any of the receptionists?  There are a lot of new faces at headquarters.”
“I noticed, and no, I didn’t.  The girl wouldn’t give me my badge.  I had to take a visitor’s badge and follow a twelve-year-old up to see Waverly.”
Napoleon’s eyes sparkled.  “Ah, yes, Mr. Mitchell.  I’m sure he’s at least thirteen, you know.”  Still he was staring at his long-lost partner.  “Your hair will grow back, Illya,” he said gently.  “You’ll get used to the steps and the coat hook.  The receptionists and the junior agents will learn to fear you properly."
Illya was returning the stare now, feeling the welcome in the other man’s eyes.  He had spent so many lonely hours wondering who was taking his place as his partner’s partner and his best friend’s best friend.  Now, all of that evaporated in the warmth of a friendship that was and always would be still the same.
“Hmph,” he snorted.  “Well, they’d better.”
Napoleon pulled his partner suddenly into a fierce hug.  Illya returned it, feeling at last as though he had come home.  Neither man's eyes were dry in the moonlight.
“God,” Napoleon’s voice was hoarse, “I’ve missed you.”
Illya nodded, unable to reply.
Finally they pulled apart, wiping their eyes and laughing at themselves.  Illya leaned back against the turret.  “Shouldn’t we go save the world or something?”
“Nah,” Napoleon turned to stand beside him.  Shoulder to shoulder the two friends looked out across the dark harbor.  “Let somebody else save the world tonight.”
As if on cue the door burst open and Mark Slate staggered out.  “I say!  Do you blokes know how many stairs there are in this house?”
“One too many?”  Illya ventured.  The junior agent goggled at him.
“Mark,” Napoleon said, “did you get it?”
“I got the location of the munitions plant,” Slate said, “but I couldn’t find the blueprint.  I don’t suppose you know where it is, do you?”
“I think I have a fair idea,” Napoleon acknowledged.  Together the three agents returned to the house.  Everyone in the building but them was unconscious.  “There are more things than microfilm,” Solo said smugly, “that you can put in a poker chip.”
“Ah,” Illya understood immediately.  “Miniature gas grenades.  That’s why you surrendered so easily.  But how could you be sure they’d take us out on the roof?”
“Elementary, my dear Kuryakin!  Everywhere else in the house is open to visitors, and not all the guests are Thrush.”
They located Madeline Farnsworth draped over the bar.  Napoleon pushed her back in her chair and took the poker chip from her bosom.  Illya caught Mark Slate’s eye.
“I’ll never understand why a woman would imagine anything in her brassiere is safe from Napoleon.”
Slate grinned warily at Illya and made it a point to keep Napoleon between them.  He still wasn’t certain the legendary Russian wasn’t about to sprout fangs and attack him. Solo, noticing Mark’s reaction, put an arm around his partner’s shoulders.
“You see, I’ve tried to keep the new guys in awe of you.”

“If all the guests aren’t Thrush,” Slate asked, “what’s going to happen when they all wake up?”
“That is a problem,” Napoleon conceded.  “I’m glad it’s Thrush’s and not ours.”
While Illya opened the poker chip and examined the microdot through a jeweler’s loupe, Napoleon circled around behind the bar and liberated three flutes and two bottles of the best champagne he could find.
Having verified its authenticity, Illya destroyed the microdot in a small vial of acid he had brought for the purpose.  Then the three of them left the house, waving a polite good night to the guards outside, who had yet to realize that anything was amiss.  When they were out of sight of the house Solo gave one of the bottles and one of the glasses to Slate.
“Here you are, Mark.  Something to keep you from getting thirsty while you’re typing up our report.  Do clean up Illya’s desk when you’ve finished, won’t you?”
Mark looked nervously at the Russian, waiting for the explosion.  “I’m really very sorry about the typewriter, old thing,” he ventured.  “I didn’t mean to throw it so hard.  It jumped me.  I swear it did.”  His voice trailed away.  Kuryakin was looking at him.  His complete lack of expression was one of the scariest things the young Englishman had ever seen.
Mark Slate gulped audibly and suddenly, without appearing to change in any way, Illya’s face cleared and he gave the young agent a rueful smile.  “It’s all right, it is only a typewriter,” he said.
The Brit relaxed.  “So, I take it this means I’m dismissed?”  he asked.
Napoleon slapped him on the shoulder.  “Nothing personal,” he said, “but my partner and I have a lot of catching up to do.  You take the car on back.  We’ll see you in the morning.”
The younger agent left.  Napoleon and Illya went down to the harbor and boarded the Pursang.
Napoleon Solo raised the sails and set a course for New York harbor while Illya Kuryakin poured the champagne.  For a time they simply sat on the deck in silence, enjoying one another’s presence.  It was the American who finally broke the spell.
“Rough trip?”
Illya shrugged, “I’ve had worse.”
“Ah.  Rough homecoming?”
This earned him a rueful smile.  “I’ve had better.”
Napoleon grinned.  His eyes were warm.  “It’s not that bad.  We can exchange wild animal stories.  You tell me about the jungles of Brazil and I’ll tell you about the new secretaries.”
Illya smiled back.  “I expect you’re quite familiar with them all by now.”
“I have been saving you a brunette.”
“Just one?”
The two men laughed.  It felt good to laugh.  Napoleon looked around at the night and sighed.
“It’s a beautiful night.  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one so beautiful.  Too long.”
“Nights in South America,” his partner ventured, “are too hot and too muggy for my taste.  This Mark Slate, he’s a good agent, then?”
“Yes, very good.  He’ll make somebody a good partner someday.  Not me, of course,” Napoleon added, reading the Russian’s mind.  “I already have a partner, even when he wanders off.  Are you all right, Illya?  You seem a little lost and off balance.”
Illya shrugged, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “I don’t know.  I’ve been waiting for so long to come back and when I arrived, I didn’t belong any more.”
“In my eyes, you’ll always belong.”
“There’s just so much that’s different, I guess.”
“Everything changes eventually.”
Illya Kuryakin leaned over and clinked his glass against his partner’s.  “Not everything, Napoleon.  You’re still the same.”

 THE END