"So," Napoleon said lightly. "What do you say?"

Illya shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as they walked. His body language was resentful but his tone was mild as the fall day. Napoleon couldn't decide if it was because he was trying to hide his willingness or because he genuinely was unwilling, but didn't want to hurt his partner's feelings.

"I can't imagine why you would want me rather than one of your bevy of lovely ladies." His voice was barely audible over the traffic noise.

"Does it matter?" Napoleon said. "The only real question is, do you want to?" He stopped there, on sudden instinct, and had the satisfaction of seeing surprise flicker on his partner's face. It flickered off quickly, but Napoleon was one of the few people in the world Illya would admit could surprise him.

Illya said, stubbornly, "I like things explained."

He glanced at his partner, who sighed.

"You can't stand mysteries because you have no romance in your soul."

"I think you have enough ... romance in your soul for both of us," Illya said irritably. "And possibly several other people. But you're right. I can't stand mysteries. Especially when they come from you."

Napoleon gave in. "It's simple: I plan to spend two weeks in Canada fishing and hiking and breathing clean air, and in those particular endeavors I would rather have the company of my partner and good friend -- despite the fact that he is crabby and sullen and impatient -- than the company of any lady, however lovely and well-mannered and easy to get along with--"

"All right, all right," Illya cut him off. "No one can mix insults with compliments the way you can."

"It's a gift," Napoleon said airily.

"I'm relieved to learn you didn't pay for it."

More seriously, Napoleon said, "You need the break as much as I do."

The Russian hesitated, sighed. "I know."

Napoleon turned his head to hide his smile. He'd been delicately working at Illya's oyster-like defenses for some time; every little success felt like one in a string of tiny, flawless pearls.

"If we finish up the paperwork on the Oregon case tonight," he went on, businesslike, nodding down the street toward the UNCLE offices a few blocks distant, "we can fly out to Vancouver tomorrow." He gave Illya a moment to consider. "What do you say?"

He saw the corners of his partner's eyes crinkle a little and knew he'd won.

"It does sound nice," Illya said, as if grudgingly.

"I guarantee a good time," Napoleon said. Illya eyed him sidelong.

"So I get my money back if I don't have one?"

Napoleon grinned. "You'll have one."

Glass broke above them, followed by the sound of a woman's scream. They stopped; scanning the front of the small, elegant hotel. A woman's face appeared at the shattered window, mouth and eyes wide as she shouted "Feuer!"

Smoke wisped out above her head. The agents looked at the lobby doors and saw flames through the glass.

They burst in side by side; a quick survey revealed several hot spots and smoke slowly filling the lobby. A cry for help came from behind the lobby desk.

Illya pulled out his handkerchief and held out one hand. Napoleon handed over his own handkerchief and ran for the lobby desk, vaulting over it then ducking low to avoid most of the smoke.

The office door was open; an elderly man and woman were trying to slap the flames out with towels.

"Come on!" Napoleon shouted. "You need to get out." He grabbed them and pulled them bodily out of the office, around the desk and through the lobby. The smoke was worse; he thought he heard something like a distant explosion as he shoved the couple out the open lobby doors.

The woman's scream came from above once more, a piercing reminder. Napoleon turned back into the lobby as Illya passed him, shoving a wet kerchief at him with his left hand and pushing a coughing busboy out the door with his right.

Wrapping the kerchiefs around their faces, the agents ran for the stairs.

Napoleon heard another explosion and the wall beside the stairs disintegrated, raining noise and debris on them. Illya grabbed his arm and the two agents dove to the side as the wall collapsed in a roar.

Napoleon lay stunned for a moment, on his face, ears ringing and eyes full of plaster dust. He moved his arms carefully, pulled the dust-coated handkerchief from his face and lifted himself up. Bruised but not badly hurt; a few chunks of wood and plaster fell off him as he got up, scanning the dust-and-smoke filled room for his partner.

"Illya!"

He heard a cough, then a voice, taut with strain. "I'm here."

He spotted his partner at the foot of the stairs, prone, buried from mid-thigh down in rubble from the wall. The Russian raised himself on his elbows, blinking plaster  dustfrom his eyes, and pulled off his own soiled and useless kerchief to cough.

"You all right?" he asked, kneeling by Illya's side to start digging.

"I think so," Illya said, straining. "But my legs are caught." He put his hands to the floor, lifting his body up with the effort of trying to pull free. "No good. I'm stuck."

"Don't pull; if you're hurt you'll make it worse. Can you feel your legs?"

"Yes, and it's not pleasant." Illya sat halfway up, on his side, grimacing, his face streaked with white dust and blood.

Another scream wafted down the stairs as Napoleon dug, flinging wood, stone and plaster aside.

"You'd better go help her," Illya said, twisting his body to sit upright, face screwed up in pain. "I can dig." Coughing, he started scrabbling at the debris piled on his legs.

Napoleon hesitated and the scream came again. Somewhere -- not near enough -- a siren wailed.

"Go--" Illya shoved him with one hand. "Get her out. I'm not going anywhere for a while."

Napoleon looked hard at his partner.

"Go," Illya said.

"I'll be back." Napoleon's voice made the words not a promise but a fact.

"I know. Now go." He shoved Napoleon again, watched his partner race up the debris-strewn stairs and disappear into the smoke. He resumed digging.

The upper floors were ablaze. Sparing a thought that this was no normal fire -- it seemed to have sprung up in several locations at once -- Napoleon darted door to door, finding the woman in the third room he checked, crouched by the broken window, two small children huddled at her side.

He picked up the children and shouted at the woman. "Follow me!"

She grabbed the back of his coat and they ran out into the smoky corridor. The way to the main stair was blocked by a line of flame eating its way across the carpet. Napoleon cursed violently, spun about and headed for the end of the corridor and the fire escape there.

He set the children down briefly to open the window and they clung to his pantslegs. He pushed the sobbing woman out first, then handed her children to her. She clutched them, unable to move, and he climbed out, collected the children again and herded her down the fire escape to the alley. There he handed the children back to her. Silent to this point, they started crying, making her wail even more loudly as she held them close.

Napoleon ran for the front of the hotel. Two fire trucks were parked askew on the street and a crowd had gathered. Smoke poured out numerous broken windows; shouting firefighters hauled hoses into the courtyard of the hotel. Napoleon dodged onlookers and officials alike -- until a police officer blocked his way, seizing his arms.

"Hey! Keep back, mister. Keep --"

Napoleon wrenched free and felled him with a karate chop. Two firemen at the now-shattered lobby doors made a grab for him.

"Hey!"

He dodged one, shoved the other aside and darted into the inferno. Blasting heat struck him. He ducked down, not breathing, and ran through the dimness in the direction of the stairs. Blinded by smoke he shouted:

"Illya!"

A roaring filled his ears in answer and he was hammered to the floor, his body exploding into pain as his brain swirled into blackness.

***

Ravyn sat in his study watching news coverage of a fatal hotel fire.

"Well done," he said to the two men in black who stood beside his leather chair. "I wasn't sure it was possible. You are worth every penny I paid you."

The men said nothing, nor did they gawk at the sumptuous surroundings. Ravyn was rich, obscenely rich, but all their clients were rich. They were the best at what they did and money didn't impress them.

"You are disappearing?" Ravyn asked. One hand rested on the chair arm, holding a glass of wine older than all three men combined. On the screen, a burned woman ran screaming into the arms of firefighters. The surface of the wine remained immobile.

"For six months," one of them said.

Ravyn nodded. "As per our agreement. Have a lovely holiday, gentlemen. You've earned it. My man will take you to the airport of your choice."

It was dismissal. The two men in black left the study.

Ravyn continued watching the news.

 ***

Napoleon awoke surrounded by white, hurting all over. Can't be heaven if I feel like hell.

He blinked a few times and UNCLE Medical came into focus. A deep breath explained eloquently that he had some broken ribs and smoke inhalation. He bit his lip to avoid coughing, and gagged, eyes tearing.

The bed cranked up and an arm came around his shoulders, supporting him while his body jerked in painful half-coughs.

"Easy," Dr. Baker said. "Breathe through your nose. Breathe."

The spasms calmed and Dr. Baker eased him back on the bed. He blinked away tears to see Mr. Waverly standing with Baker beside the bed. The doctor handed him a cup of water.

"Sip it carefully."

Napoleon did so, his head exploding with pain. Then, warily clearing his throat, he rasped out: "Is Illya all right?"

"You've been unconscious for 24 hours. Do you remember what happened?" his superior asked, drawing his pipe from a pocket.

Napoleon nodded. "Where is Illya? How is he?"

Mr. Waverly met his eyes. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Solo." He'd had to say this a thousand times, and it showed. "Mr. Kuryakin didn't make it out."

Napoleon stared at his superior. The words struck, like blows, but didn't stick, bouncing off some barrier of sanity or self-preservation in his mind.

"The woman you saved was the wife of the German ambassador. The fire department went in. They pulled you out, and a few others. And ... Mr. Kuryakin."

Napoleon felt nothing. "Where is he?" he heard himself repeat, and felt the first flicker of alarm; he realized he sounded insane.

"He has been buried at the ... the usual cemetery, but we haven't held a service yet."

"No." It was all he could say. His insides were constricting, tighter with every breath. He had to clench his teeth against the roar building in his gut. "No."

"I'm sorry." Mr. Waverly fussed with his pipe for a moment. "Once you're feeling up to it, we'll hold a service here at headquarters." He rose. "If you have any questions or ..." he shook his head. "Don't hesitate to contact me, night or day."

Napoleon continued to stare blankly.

"Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon said nothing. Dr. Baker waved Mr. Waverly out, and, with a sigh, Number One of Section One left the room.

"Mr. S," Dr. Baker said. "Lie back and take it easy. You've got three broken ribs, a mild concussion and various trivial little issues I won't bore you with now." He searched Napoleon's expression, reading the shock written there. "Mr. Solo, can you hear me? You need to take it easy right now."

Dr. Baker gently pushed the agent's rigid form down onto the bed and pulled up the blankets again. Napoleon shook his head, slowly.

"Mr. Solo? What is it?"

Napoleon looked at him but clearly did not see him. Dr. Baker held his shoulder a moment.

"Rest. We'll talk later." He backed away, watching to see if his patient would react or speak. Napoleon did neither. With a sigh identical to Mr. Waverly's, Baker left.

"No," Napoleon said again. It was all he could say, all he could think. It wasn't possible that Illya could be gone. The physical pain wrapped itself around that other pain, making a giant throbbing ache of loss that Napoleon could not accept.

He threw the blankets back and clambered out of the hospital bed, staggering to the closet to get his clothes. He dressed mechanically; the knot in his gut seemed to be attached to something, an invisible rope pulling him out of the bed, out of headquarters. The other end was tied, in his mind, to Illya. Or sanity. Or simply a need to move, to avoid thought.

The girl at the desk stood up. "Mr. Solo! Where are you going?"

He strode past her and into the corridor, oblivious to the stares he drew as he headed for the Del Floria exit.

April and Mark were waiting for him when he got there.

"Where do you think you're going, mate?" Mark said, taking his arm. "You shouldn't be up yet."

Napoleon wrested his arm free; tearing agony shot around his torso. "I'm going to find Illya."

April and Mark exchanged a pained look; April planted herself in front of Napoleon.

"Napoleon, please. You're not well enough to be up yet. Please listen to me. Illya is gone."

He glared at her and she drew back.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon," she said softly.

"I told him I'd come back," he said, feeling his legs beginning to shake. "I said I'd come back for him."

Tears flooded April's eyes. She took hold of his arm. "Napoleon, please. Come with us."

Mark gently caught his other arm. "Come on, mate. It's gonna be all right."

"I promised," Napoleon said as his vision blurred. The other two agents caught him as he passed out.

***

Illya awoke in a white room. He was seated -- no, in a bed, a hospital bed that had been cranked up so that he was upright. He felt muzzy, as if he'd been drugged. He considered his legs, last seen pinned under a fallen beam. They didn't hurt. Then he took in the tiny room; the lack of decor, the cleanliness, and the sharp antiseptic smell said hospital. Two doors, no windows, but he was definitely not in UNCLE HQ. And he was strapped down. Panic sparked in him; he quelled it, shifting his body to try to work himself free.

The door opened to admit a tall man, black-haired, in an expensive grey suit.

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. You're awake. Good. I have something to show you."

"You might let me up first."

The man smiled. "I might. It's unlikely I shall, however."

He pulled a square device from a pocket and pressed a button on it. A wall panel past the foot of the bed slid back to reveal a large television screen, which flickered into life.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Illya fought the restraints at chest and waist and thigh; they remained snug, smooth, painless and unyielding.

"I am Ravyn, and you are ... here. And there, in a manner of speaking." The man looked at the screen; Illya did the same. It showed a cemetery, grassy, dotted with trees shedding brown leaves to the wind. He knew the place. It was where UNCLE buried its miscalculations.

A man in a black coat walked slowly, haltingly as if injured, across the grass. Napoleon.

"Is this live?" he asked, his priority to know that Napoleon was alive.

"Yes," the man said. "Well, yes and no."

"What?"

"It's live, you are not. Apparently. That's the point."

"What is going on?" Illya asked, but no further answers were forthcoming.

Napoleon slowed as he neared a headstone.

Sickness flared in Illya's stomach. The last thing he remembered was passing out in the burning hotel; clearly someone had pulled him out, and not for humanitarian purposes. Just as clearly, his partner didn't know he'd been pulled out.

The camera zoomed in on the headstone. Illya read his name, his birthdate and the date he and Napoleon had come upon the burning hotel on their way back to UNCLE after lunch.

The camera pulled back to show Napoleon, his face cut, scraped, and ghastly white with pain, pain that screamed from his eyes.

Illya tried to wrest himself free. "Don't." His gaze never left Napoleon, staring down at the headstone.

"Don't what?" Ravyn asked.

"Don't do this to him. What do you want?"

"From you? Nothing."

"Then stop this."

"Why?" Ravyn looked at him. "We aren't harming you or him. Not physically, anyway."

Illya said nothing, unable to admit to the hurt that was being inflicted on Napoleon -- and the hurt that caused him. Ravyn returned his attention to the screen and said:

"It's necessary."

"Necessary?" Illya growled, clenching his jaw against further exclamations as Napoleon sank to his knees at the graveside. Nails dug into his palms as he fought to free himself.

"I need him. I need him ... pliable. Before he can be broken, he must be weakened." Ravyn looked at his captive, reading the cold anger in his eyes. "This is not about cruelty, Mr. Kuryakin. Or revenge. It is about success."

Napoleon bent his head, one hand reaching out to touch the engraved words, fingers trailing across the indentations. A cloud of brown leaves blew past him, scattering against the headstone. His shoulders shook. His hands curled into fists and he doubled over.

Illya felt his own control dissolve. He knew Napoleon valued him, cared about him. Loved him. He'd never allowed himself to realize how much, never admitted to himself, until now, that he would rather cut his own heart out than put his partner through this. Tears burned down his face. His stomach knotted; he couldn't watch and he couldn't look away. He wanted to shout, to somehow tell Napoleon he wasn't dead, to spare him the pain.

"Step one is complete," Ravyn said. Illya cursed him, hoarse Russian curses, and kept battling the restraints.

Ravyn eyed him like a scientist watching a dangerous animal, fascinated and wary. "I understand your concern. Don't worry. Solo will know you're alive soon -- too late, but soon."

Two men with with semiautomatics came in.

"You can let him up when I'm gone." He went to the door. One guard unstrapped Illya while the other, out of reach, stood braced, gun in both hands, leveled at him.

Illya flung off the straps and both gunmen backed to the door, guns unerringly tracking him.

"Make yourself comfortable," Ravyn said. "You won't be here long, one way or the other." He left, and the gunmen backed out after him.

***

Ravyn paused in the room outside, where a man sat before a monitor showing Illya's cell. The Russian agent was methodically examining the room.

"Watch him."

One of the gunmen volunteered, "He's secured, sir."

Ravyn shook his head. "He is one of the two best UNCLE agents in the world. I don't care if he's been nailed to the floor. Watch him. Watch him like your life depended on it, because it does. If he gets away everything is ruined."

***

A long time later -- a long silent still time -- April Dancer appeared at Napoleon's side. She laid hands on his shoulders and he started.

"Come on," she said gently. "You need to go home and rest."

He shook his head, cold, miserable to his core, unable to think.

"Please," she said, tears in her voice. "He wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. You did the right thing. You did what he would have wanted."

Napoleon choked out, "He told me." He told me to leave him, and I left. And I will never forgive myself.

April pulled him to his feet. "Come on, Napoleon. Please. Let me take you home."

He drew his arm free. "No. I'm not going home yet."

***

"Mr. Solo--" Mr. Waverly flipped a switch. "I'm glad to see you up and about. Although you must know you aren't expected back to work for some time yet. The president wishes to meet with you. He and the German ambassador wish to thank you personally for ... for what you did."

Napoleon stared at Mr. Waverly, bitter thoughts dying halfway to his lips. He shook his head and began to divest himself of those trappings that made him an UNCLE agent. His gun, his pen, his card. He set each item carefully on the table, making himself move slowly when what he wanted to do was run, and keep running until he came to a place where he could think without pain. Or, failing that, scream without interference.

Mr. Waverly looked at the gun, the pen, the card. He almost asked -- then realized that what his CEA had just done spoke plainly.

"I do not accept your resignation, Mr. --"

But Napoleon was already walking out the door.

***

He wasn't surprised to find April at his door less than an hour later. He let her in, and she followed him to the living room, watching him limp along, canted slightly to one side.

"Napoleon ... " she began, but had nowhere to go.

"He doesn't understand," Napoleon said. He raised his eyes, bleakly staring out the window at New York. At the world. At the universe. All empty. "He thinks I'm feeling guilty because it's my fault Illya's dead."

"In the first place it isn't your fault," April said firmly. "In the second place ... you are feeling guilty, aren't you? You shouldn't be, but you are."

He shook his head. "No. That...that's just part of it. If it were only guilt driving me I wouldn't have resigned."

"What, then?"

Napoleon looked at April. How could she understand? He could explain, but what was the point?

But she cared, he knew that. She cared about him and she'd cared about Illya. That forced him to try to put at least a little of what he was feeling, what he'd realized, into words.

"I ... somewhere along the way ... it's stopped being about the mission, about the difference we could make. It became about me and Illya. Or ... I don't know. I thought about it every minute of every day I was in Medical, and I still don't know." He leaned his forehead against his hand. "All I know is I don't give a god damn, right now, if the entire world goes to hell or up in flames. I don't care." He looked at April. "If I had another chance, I'd let them all die to have him back. And how could I live with that? How could he?"

"Napoleon," April said gently. "You need to take some time. You need to grieve. This isn't the time to make any decisions."

"The most important decision of my life has been made," Napoleon said coldly.  "As long as he's not coming back to UNCLE, neither am I."

"Do you think that's what he'd want?"

Napoleon shook his head. "No. He'd want me to go on. But I can't. Have you heard the phrase 'hell is a truth seen too late'? I'm in that hell."

"Don't let this take away the difference you can make in the world," she said. "The good you can do, that you and Illya both believed in."

Exasperated, he blurted, "I can't. I loved him."

"I know that," April said. "That's exactly why ..."

Silence. Napoleon didn't bother turning around. He could feel the change in the air, in her manner, her thinking.

"Napoleon," she began, hesitant, astounded. "Are you ... are you saying ..?"

"I've said all I'm going to say," he snapped. "To you, to Waverly. I'm done with this. Please go, April. Just go, will you?"

The tears were running down his face even before he heard the front door close. God, Illya, how can you be gone when I haven't told you, when I never got the chance --no, the courage -- to say how much you meant to me?

***

The guards always came in twos. They brought food and water twice a day, and fresh clothes and linens once a day. One man, gun in hand, would remain by the door; the other would chain Illya's wrists to the wall manacles, handle the housekeeping duties, then release him. It was actually flattering how dangerous they considered him.

The clothes fit, and were clean, though he was given no shoes; the food was decent and undrugged. He'd been all over the tiny room and the equally tiny bathroom, finding nothing accessible as a weapon. Even the television screen and camera in the main room were set into the wall so seamlessly he couldn't get at their workings. Clearly his only opportunity for escape would be during the guards' visits.

The guards were big, and alert. They didn't speak to him, no matter what taunts or provocations he attempted. Whatever Ravyn had paid for them, he was getting his money's worth.

The gunmen came in to change the linens on the third day to find their captive sound asleep. They paused, glanced at one another, and moved into the tiny room. One guard leaned against the door, gun in hand, while the guard with the linens walked past the foot of the bed.

Illya cracked one eyelid to see the guard by the door, then rolled off the bed and grabbed the other guard.

Hey!"

Towels flew into the air as he spun the man around, arm twisted up behind his back, so that he was between Illya and the other guard as he took aim.

Illya shoved his captive into the other man, knocking both to the floor, then hopped over them and slipped out the door.

The man monitoring the camera in the next room had already risen and drawn his gun. Illya dropped to the floor, rolled and kicked, sweeping the man's feet out from under him. The man hit hard on his back; Illya reached for his gun; a shot ricocheted off the concrete floor and he jerked back.

"Freeze."

A knee in his back slammed him to the floor. His arms were yanked behind him and handcuffed and he was lifted to his feet by one guard; the other held his weapon a foot from Illya's face.

The camera room guard grabbed his gun and holstered it as he got up. "Son of a bitch. Get him back in there."

Illya was spun about, marched into the room and shoved against the wall.

The guard who had hold of him said to his partner, "Get that stuff."

Then he hammered an arm across Illya's back, pushing him hard into the rough concrete of the wall. He pressed the hot muzzle of the gun against the thin bone of Illya's temple. The sharp stink of gunpowder prickled in the Russian's nose.

"Try that again," the guard snarled, close to his ear, "And I'll blow your fucking brains out."

Illya turned his head to face the guard, though he had to scrape his cheek along the wall. He held the man's gaze for a moment, said:

"Not if I blow yours out first."

The guard bared his teeth, lifted the gun and slashed it down across Illya's face; the warm metal bounced off his cheekbone, sending blinding pain ringing throughout his head.

"Done," the other guard said. "Let's go."

The guard shoved Illya face down onto the bed, undid the handcuffs and yanked them off. By the time Illya could see past the red haze of pain and get his hands under him, the men were gone. He blinked at the bed, saw a streak of blood on the rumpled blanket, and touched his burning face. The gun had cut his cheek open.

He went into the bathroom, wet a cloth, and cleaned the slice in his face, regarding himself thoughtfully in the mirror as his blood rinsed pink down the sink drain.

Then he realized something he should have known all along. They wouldn't have killed him. He was Ravyn's leverage. Until Ravyn had shown Napoleon that his partner was alive, they couldn't kill him.

Illya threw the cloth into the sink and spat a series of polyglot curses, each directed equally at his captor and himself.

***

Napoleon sat at a back table in The Blue Lion, bleary, watching the patrons. Now and again a coherent thought would venture experimentally into his brain, only to be instantly, impatiently shown the door.  He was all feeling, pain and anger and self-reproach, and content to stay that way.

Two days after he'd quit, April had called to tell him the memorial service had been scheduled. He'd hung up the phone without a word, gone straight into the bathroom and thrown up. After that, he stopped answering calls and knocks, and started taking his frustrations out at the local gym during the day, and his counsel from a bottle at night.

A tall dark man in a grey suit approached his table. Napoleon ignored him, stared into his half-empty glass. It was cheaper to drink at home, but sometimes the silence became too much, squeezing like a fist around his soul, and he would seek out noise and life to distract himself.

"Mr. Napoleon Solo."

Napoleon continued to ignore the intruder. It was easier than ignoring the calls from April, Mark, Waverly, others -- although that too had come easier after a few days.

"I happen to know you have resigned your previous position."

The faintest tinge of curiosity made Napoleon look up. "Word travels."

The man was handsome, very well dressed, perhaps in his mid-forties. Dark, calculating eyes focused on him.

"I see, however, that you have yet to resign your wariness regarding strangers."

"I just have more explaining to do when I shoot them," Napoleon said. "On that same topic, who are you, and what do you want?" He was vaguely surprised at how coherent he was, considering his state of mind and blood-alcohol level.

"I have something to offer you."

"I'm not interested in your offers."

"Mr. Solo." The words were amused, confident. "What I have to offer you is precisely that which you most want. More, even, than I had expected."

Napoleon raised his eyes to glare at the man. "Go away."

"Your partner," the man said, and watched the blood drain from Solo's face.

"No--" the man forestalled him. "Don't get up. Between the shock and the whisky, I doubt your legs will hold you."

Napoleon had his hand inside his jacket before he remembered he was unarmed. Unarmed, unemployed. Undone completely.

"You son of a bitch," he hissed, trembling. "Who are you

--?"

The man reached into a pocket, pulled out a business card, and spun it onto the table next to Napoleon's half empty glass.

"When you've sobered up," he said, turning on his heel and walking out of the bar.

Napoleon eased himself back into the seat, calming his breathing before he picked up the card. It was expensive, heavy cream stock, embossed with the word -- the name -- Ravyn. On the reverse was written, in blue ink, noon Thursday, 103 Toledo Court.

Hope clenched an iron fist around his heart. He shouted for the barman, told him to call him a taxi, went home and closed his eyes for 10 hours, feeling those pitiless fingers clutched in his chest the whole time. It had been nine days since the fire.

***

Toledo Court was a small side street of elegant shops. Number 103 was subtitled "Bowled Over: Hats for the Discriminating Gentleman."

Inside Napoleon stood near the door, scanning the narrow, tidy little shop lined with plastic heads adorned with costly felt chapeaux. He was alone in the shop for less than a minute before a young man came out from the back.

"Mr. Solo," he said. Napoleon took in the shallow eyes and the cheap suit, the muscles underneath the latter, the bulge of a gun holster.

The man gestured toward the door. Napoleon glanced out to see a limousine with blackened windows waiting at the curb.

He went out and the back door opened. Two men, cut from the same cloth as the first, got out. One held handcuffs, the other a hood. They looked as if they expected some argument or resistance. Napoleon held out his hands and closed his eyes.

"Let's go," he said when they still hesitated. They frisked him; he'd considered, and decided against, carrying his SIG P220, a sleek .45 he'd picked up in Austria a few years back.

The car drove for what he estimated to be an hour. The men said nothing, and he asked for no more. He felt the limo pull onto a drive, slow, and stop.

Two guards led him up some steps, into a building, along a hall that echoed, then along a smaller, carpeted hall. A door was opened and he was ushered in and planted in a chair. The hood was removed; the manacles were not.

Ravyn sat behind a large mahogany desk in a dark study. A bank of television monitors -- Napoleon counted six -- was set into the wall to his right. To his left tall windows were curtained against the afternoon sun. Books lined the other walls. Napoleon scanned the room; tasteful, expensive, gleaming ... somehow sterile, lacking in those personal items that made a house a home. The room smelled of leather and books and polish, not of use. Even the paintings were bland.

"Welcome," Ravyn said.

Napoleon rested his manacled hands in his lap and met his host's gaze. Ravyn sat back in his chair.

One eyebrow rose. "You have nothing to say to me?"

"I thought you had something to say to me," Napoleon said. "You've gone to a lot of trouble, bringing me here in all this fuss and secrecy."

"I've gone to more trouble than you know. I'm a wealthy man, Mr. Solo. One of the wealthiest men in the world."

"You can't impress me." Napoleon's words were stones. "Whatever you want, just ask and get it over with."

"I do indeed want something from you, Mr Solo. But I'm willing to offer you something in return. Something no one else can offer you. Your partner."

Napoleon said nothing, showed nothing of the anger that washed burning across that fist of hope in his chest.

Ravyn regarded him curiously. "You appear dubious. If you aren't prepared to at least consider that I might be telling the truth, why did you come?"

"To find out who you are and what you want that you're willing to play this game with me. Then to decide whether or not I should kill you."

Ravyn smiled, glanced up at the men standing behind Napoleon. "It appears the handcuffs were a wise precaution after all. What would you do," he asked the agent, "to get your partner back? If you don't imagine I can accomplish this, then simply be theoretical for a moment. Indulge me."

"Why?"

"Why not?" A pause ensued. Napoleon thought Ravyn was pressing a button on the small console before him, but nothing seemed to happen.

***

The screen before Illya came to life, showing Napoleon, handcuffed, seated in a chair, two men behind him, Ravyn in front of him, seated at a desk. Illya shouted his partner's name but saw no response, unsurprisingly. Napoleon looked ill, hungover and angry. It made Illya sick to think he was the reason for it; he could imagine no uglier way to learn how much he was missed, how much loved.

Ravyn spoke: "What would you give to get your partner back?"

"Anything," Napoleon said. Illya, listening, grit his teeth. No, Napoleon, my friend, my dear friend. Don't do this.

"Anything?" Ravyn echoed. "You use the term blithely, but do you truly have any idea what it means?"

"You're a fool," Napoleon said. "I know what it means. You hire people to stop at nothing for you."

Ravyn's brows rose. "Yes. I see." He smiled. "I concede the point, Mr. Solo. So ... anything. Your life?"

Napoleon chuckled. "If that's your price, you aren't asking much."

"You hold your own life so cheaply?" Ravyn said. "Or your friend's life so dear?"

"Who are you and what the hell do you want?" Napoleon snapped.

"Not just yet. You've shown your hand," Ravyn looked at his desk console, pressed another button. "Permit me to show mine."

A monitor flickered to life, revealing Illya Kuryakin. A speaker crackled. Napoleon jolted out of the chair.

"Napoleon," Illya shouted. "Don't do anything he asks. Don't--"

Illya cursed as his own monitor and speaker shut off, cutting off the sight and sound of his partner. On the chance he could be seen and heard, he kept talking.

***

Ravyn flipped another switch and Illya's voice was cut off.

Napoleon, staring at his partner, felt the blood drain from his brain. He sat down, lightheaded. For a moment he must have blacked out. He came to himself with Ravyn watching him. Napoleon spared him the merest glance, then returned his eyes to his partner, standing in a bare room, apparently unharmed. It looked as if he was still shouting.

He bit his tongue against speaking his partner's name, but tears spilled hot down his face. God. Thank God.

"What do you want?" he ground out, hands curling into knots.

"I want you."

Napoleon exhaled a short, rueful laugh. "You've got me. Let him go." He didn't trust his legs to hold him just now.

"You don't know what I want you for."

Napoleon shook his head. "I don't care."

Ravyn stared hard at him. "You mean that." He paused, shook his head. "Excellent. He's not harmed, and he won't be as long as you cooperate. He'll be set free the moment you perform the task I need you to perform."

Ravyn pressed a button and a photo appeared on a second screen, a shot of an industrial complex in an arid region. Another screen lit up showing a diagram of a complex device Napoleon couldn't identify.

"This is ... a laboratory where a certain doctor, under government auspices, is working on a beam weapon." Another screen lit up to show an image of a round-faced, grey-haired man.

"A laser?" Napoleon asked, examining the photo.

"Yes. The complex is guarded; the area around it is gas-mined."

"What exactly do you want?" Napoleon said.

"I want that weapon," Ravyn said. "This man worked for me until six months ago. I paid for his reseach. Nine years of research. Millions of dollars. Then he left me for the Pentagon." Ravyn lifted one shoulder as if casual, but his face was lined with an old anger. "He betrayed my trust and took away the future of my empire. That weapon is mine. I want it back. I've tried offering the doctor more money. He's refused. I've tried blackmailing him. He has no family, nothing he cares about but his work. I could have him killed, but that wouldn't get me the weapon. I've also tried ... securing the services of the lab staff and some of the federal security people. I've had no luck. I needed someone who could get in and out again. I needed the best. My research told me that that is you, Mr. Solo."

"You expect me to carry a laser out of a federally protected installation? On my back?"

"All I need is the data. Once I have that, I'll make sure the good doctor pursues his researches no further."

"And if I fail?"

Ravyn shrugged. "Then you'll be in no position to worry about the aftermath. The government considers this research top secret. If you're caught, they'll probably kill you."

"And my partner?"

"He won't matter to you if you're dead, Mr. Solo," Ravyn said. "I give you my word that when you deliver the data on that laser into my hands, I'll deliver your partner into yours. I make no other promises."

"You set the hotel fire," Napoleon said, still taking Ravyn's measure.

"Indeed yes. Several strategically placed incendiaries, and a few bombs to weaken the structure. I've been watching you for weeks, Mr. Solo."

"People might have died in that fire," Napoleon said calmly.

"People did. Eighteen people died. Nineteen if one counts your partner. But of course the German ambassador's wife and children did not die, thanks to you."

"Thanks to Illya," Napoleon said.

Ravyn waved those concerns away. "Is it a deal?"

Napoleon looked at the screens, in turns: His partner, the laboratory, the photo of the doctor, the mockup of the laser. He couldn't see, or think about, any but the first. He got up, deliberately turning his back on the screens.

"I'll need to know everything you have on the lab," he said. "Every technical detail."

Ravyn nodded, a kind of bow. "You'll have it."

"I'll also need equipment," Napoleon went on. He felt Illya's eyes on the back of his neck. "I no longer have access to UNCLE's arsenal."

Ravyn smiled. "I think you'll find my ... arsenal sufficient. Perhaps superior in some ways."

"When do I start?" His stomach roiled with the acid of his sense of right turned sour. Consequences ... he shook his head. That was shrapnel, to be dealt with after the explosions.

"I have a plane waiting whenever you're ready. You'll be flown to California, where you'll be given all the equipment and specifications you need. You'll understand that I don't wish to hand over anything ... incriminating to you right now."

Ravyn smiled at Napoleon, genteel, smooth. If Napoleon had had his gun he would have emptied it into the man. He briefly imagined the SIG in his hands, every fat round hammering into Ravyn's body.

Fists and jaw clenched, he headed for the door. The two men stumbled after him.

"Mr. Solo?"

Pausing, he said, "I'll be at the Blue Lion tomorrow at seven." He waited for the men to put the bag back over his head and take him out.

***

Illya sat cross-legged on the bed, not pleased with any of the myriad thoughts spinning in his aching head. When the door opened he scarcely looked up.

Ravyn, flanked as ever by his gunslinging duo, entered the room.

"Why, Mr. Kuryakin, you don't look very relieved at the knowledge that your heroic partner is going to get you free."

Illya glared at his captor. There was no glory in knowing Napoleon would do anything for him. He felt only nausea. And rage.

Ravyn seemed pleased with himself. "There was a chance, I admit, that he might have refused. But I had only to see his face, and yours, when he visited your grave, to know better than that. I cannot fathom how you two managed to advance to the top of your profession. If he had refused, of course, or if he dies before accomplishing his goal, I can always use you."

"And what would you use for incentive?" Illya said.

"A gun?" Ravyn suggested. Illya snorted derisively, saw anger tighten Ravyn's face.

"Fortunately I don't have to worry about that."

"What is my partner doing for you?"

"Gathering data on a laser."

"A laser?"

"Yes. A chemical laser."

Illya's eyes narrowed. "Not the deuterium-fluoride laser in California?"

Ravyn stared -- then chuckled. "You two are remarkable, aren't you? If there is anything one of you doesn't know, the other knows it."

"I know that if Napoleon doesn't kill you," Illya said, "I will."

Ravyn didn't smile. "I believe that you'll try. But I doubt you'll succeed."

***

Alexander Waverly entered The Masque Club via his own personal, secret entrance. He often lunched at the club, and it was nothing to see him suddenly appear in the lobby.

The maitre d' seated the head of UNCLE New York at his usual table and -- unusually -- set another place.

Five minutes before the appointed time Napoleon Solo walked into The Masque Club. Without waiting to be seated he strode across the carpeted, quiet restaurant and stood beside the table, at attention but very aware that he no longer had to be.

Waverly's keen eyes raked over him. "Mr. Solo."

"Sir. It's good of you to meet me like this."

"Sit down. You look as if you could use a good meal."

Napoleon blinked, wondering if Waverly could be unaware of the echo there, of how many times they both had said that to Illya. Probably not; Waverly was aware of everything.

They ordered the house special, neither prepared to expend time or thought on food. When the waiter left, Mr. Waverly began.

"First things first, Mr. Solo. Do not imagine I consider the issue of your resignation to be closed. Quite to the contrary."

"Sir, there are ... things ... " Despite all that had happened Napoleon couldn't say it. He'd wondered himself: Had he simply been mad with grief, did he really know what he felt? Seeing his partner alive had erased those doubts -- replacing them with others equally troubling. Even if he got Illya back alive -- could they continue as they had? He shook his head. Priority one was getting his partner freed.

"There are things you don't know," he pressed on. "About Illya. About me."

Mr. Waverly harrumphed gently. "I don't know whether to be honored or insulted by your impression of my naivete, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon stared. "Sir?"

"If you imagine that every partnership enjoys the level of success and commitment you and Mr. Kuryakin had, you are much mistaken."

"Sir?" Napoleon repeated, feeling stupid.

"You and Mr. Kuryakin weren't simply the best in UNCLE. You were the best in the world. That doesn't happen without a unique combination of circumstances, which we and others very naturally examined closely, with an eye to improving our other operatives. One of those circumstances is ... well, that which your belief in my delicacy obviously prevents your mentioning. Rest assured, Mr. Solo, sexual tension has been evaluated as a characteristic in partnerships. It's generally detrimental, even when coupled with that ineffable quality the old-fashioned, like myself, prefer to call love. But sometimes -- rarely -- it creates a kind of quintessence. You and Mr. Kuryakin were that quintessence."

Napoleon, despite having much to say, found himself unable to answer.

"I must assume this to be beside the point of your call to invite me to lunch, however," Mr. Waverly said, giving Napoleon time to pull himself back together. Strangely, his former boss' understanding made his request even more difficult.

"Illya is alive, sir," he said, wishing he didn't look like a distraught man recovering from a five-day drunk, steeling himself for the alarm he knew he would see flash in Waverly's grey eyes.

So it did.

"Sir--"

"Mr. Solo." The maitre d' approached, hands pressed together, and bowed slightly. "There is a call for you." Napoleon, puzzled, followed him to the lobby.

He recognized the voice instantly. "Mr. Solo, this was very stupid of you. Leave the restaurant immediately or Mr. Kuryakin will be killed." Ravyn's tone hardened. "Leave immediately."

Jolted, Napoleon put the phone down and walked out of the restaurant. On the curb, nerves tingling, he surveyed the busy street, scanning for his tail.

Useless; too many people walking, running, talking, shopping; too many cars and buses. It wasn't likely to be a monitor on his person -- he wasn't wearing what he'd worn yesterday, not even shoes. Angry, Napoleon strode up the street. That son of a bitch Ravyn had said he was the best; let him find out how the best lost a tail, however good that tail was.

***

Don Deacon and Tony Alberti got out of their car at the diner slowly, scanning the vicinity unobtrusively but completely. Their gazes touched in mutual approval and they entered the diner.

Napoleon Solo sat in a back booth, coffee in front of him. Neither Don nor Tony reacted outwardly at his lined eyes, unshaven face and unsteady hands moving the stained coffee mug back and forth on the red formica tabletop.

The agents sat across from their former chief.

"Thank you for coming," Napoleon said.

"Shut up," Tony said, waving a hand. "What do you need?"

"You need to know first--" Napoleon began. They deserved to understand the trouble they could get into for helping him.

"We know already," Don said. "We're here. Just tell us."

A warm feeling touched his insides for the first time in days. "First off, Illya is alive."

He waited for the doubt, the questions about his sanity. Both men waited in expectant silence, unquestioning, weapons ready to be used. Napoleon sighed, pulling a clean napkin toward himself.

"A man named Ravyn is holding him. Do you have a pen?"

Don gave him one. He started sketching the complex he'd seen.

"That is, Ravyn is the name he gave me. He arranged the fire at the hotel. He's wealthy, and he's smart, and he apparently doesn't care how many people die in order for him to get what he wants."

"What does he want?" Don said.

Napoleon told them.

An hour later Don and Tony left, taking a different route back to UNCLE HQ New York. Twenty minutes later a cab pulled up and took Napoleon home. It was 5:30 p.m.

They were waiting for him. He was grabbed, cuffed, hooded and hustled again into a car; by the sound of it, the same limousine as before. It drove about the same length of time, but stopped inside a building, from the echo. He was bustled out with somewhat more brusqueness than before and hurried along a corridor; their footsteps rang out as they marched.

Abruptly he was shoved to the right. He was released and a door slammed as he yanked the hood off.

He stood in a tiny room with a window in front of him. Illya stood in a similarly tiny room on the other side, in his shirtsleeves, barefoot, chained wrist and ankle against a wall and looking up at an immense bald man in a t-shirt and jeans, bulging with fat and muscle. A speaker sizzled to life. Ravyn's voice issued tinnily from it.

"I wanted you to know I mean business. This is because of what you did today."

Napoleon flung himself against the glass. "No."

The bald man drew back, arm muscles bunched; Illya tensed, but the stomach blow slammed him against the wall. Napoleon heard the blow connect, heard Illya grunt.

Napoleon hammered against the glass. "You son of a bitch."

The bald giant drove two more blows against Illya's midsection; the agent curled in on himself, face twisted in pain, shackled hands clenching spasmodically.

Napoleon shouted, "Stop!" He scanned the room; there had to be a camera. He spotted the small lens in the corner and faced into it. "Stop it. I'll do whatever you say." He turned back to the window as the giant slowly pounded his huge fists into Illya's stomach, left, right, left, in a grievous piston rhythm. Illya's body jerked with each impact; after four blows he writhed, began to retch.

"Please." The word was more curse than entreaty. Napoleon clutched at the window; his hands, scraped by the manacles and the pounding, left bloodstains across the glass. "Stop it."

Ravyn's voice came across the speaker. "Very well."

The bald man evidently heard; he stopped, straightened up and backed away from his semiconscious victim. Napoleon took a thin breath, blinking blurry eyes.

The door opened and the two men came in. Napoleon twisted around to keep his eyes on his limp partner as long as possible, until the hood was yanked over his head again.

***

Some time later, the hood was pulled off to reveal the inside of a sumptuously appointed Lear Jet. The window shades were closed; he was pushed along into a small room near the cockpit, where Ravyn sat in a leather chair, a pile of papers in front of him.

Napoleon stopped, breathing through clenched teeth, knowing to his core that he was going to kill this man. The bastard could have simply shown Napoleon the assault on Illya via a television monitor, but he knew how much worse it would be for Napoleon to be only the width of a window away as his partner was beaten.

Ravyn looked up, saw his face, and glanced at the two men.

"You'd better stay here for now," he said. "I think Mr. Solo's a trifle annoyed with me."

The guards shoved Napoleon into a chair, sitting on either side of him. The plane vibrated as the jet's engines roared to life.

"Would you like a drink, Mr. Solo?" Ravyn said.

"I'd like to get my hands around your throat," Napoleon said.

Ravyn smiled faintly. "I can see that. I don't know where you went, Mr. Solo, nor who you saw, but I do know it did you no good. You have nothing that can be traced to me. As for Mr. Kuryakin..."

Napoleon tensed again; the men flanking him grabbed his arms.

"No permanent damage was done to your precious partner. If you step out of line again, even a little, that will change. I have a great deal of bargaining power; Mr. Kuryakin can live, for instance, without a limb, or his sight, or any number of other things." The smile vanished. "Don't push me, Mr. Solo."

Remembering the 18 people killed in the fire, Napoleon believed him.

"I won't," he said, teeth still clenched.

Ravyn nodded to the men, and they let Napoleon go.

"Now," Ravyn said. "Sit down, and let me tell you about the lab, and the  laser."

The jet rumbled down the runway and leapt into the air.

"Hecht Laboratories is in the Mojave Desert. The site comprises four buildings. The largest is the lab housing the laser. The other buildings are offices, guardrooms, monitoring rooms and the like." Ravyn indicated each labeled chamber on the large schematic on the table.

"There's a chain-link fence around the entire site. Just inside is the mine field. Gas mines. Around the complex is an electronic fence with guard towers. There's a short landing strip and a helicopter pad; equipment is occasionally flown in. Staff consists of Dr. Menzies, my former employee, and eight other scientists; the guards work in the following configuration." He touched the appropriate sites as he continued. "One each in the five guard towers and two at the gate. One man with dogs walks the perimeter of the fence and there is one security man in each of the four buildings. Two men monitor the electronic fence. The last man monitors the radar. They work 12-hour shifts and change at 6 o'clock."

"To get in you'll first need to get past the fence." He smiled. "That shouldn't be a problem. They tried electrifying it, but wild animals were constantly getting tangled in it, short-circuiting it and causing false alarms. After that the mine field. They're gas mines, not lethal. A mask will take care of that."

"I'll want a detector," Napoleon said, examining the layout, committing it to memory.

"You won't--"

"I don't want to set them off," he snapped. "The guards will see the smoke."

After a moment Ravyn said, "I see. Yes. My people have cobbled a detector together, and you'll have it, but I can't guarantee it. The mines are mostly plastic, very little metal."

Napoleon glanced at Ravyn. Calmly Ravyn said, "I want you to succeed as much as you do, Mr. Solo. I've been working at this a long time, but technology can only do so much. The detector is about 80 percent successful with this kind of mine."

Napoleon returned his eyes to the map.

"Is the scale correct?" he asked.

"Yes. The minefield varies from 200 to 250 yards across. There's very little vegetation to hide behind, but what there is, and night, should help. The inner fence is electric -- beams, that is -- and the guards in the towers have rifles, and night goggles."

"Can I parachute in?"

"They've got radar. A plane couldn't get close enough to drop you accurately without being detected. I've arranged for a power outage, but they have a backup generator, so it's not likely to last long enough to permit an undetected flyover."

Napoleon snorted a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You should have kidnapped Lois Lane."

Ravyn smiled, tightlipped. "If it were easy I wouldn't have needed to go to all this trouble for you, Mr. Solo. I was lucky to be able to arrange the temporary outage. You'll need to be at the inner fence when the power goes off. The moon is near full, so you'll have light. Unless it's cloudy." He indicated one of the buildings. "This is Menzies's office, where the data will be."

"What are these?" Napoleon tapped the capsule-shaped drawings surrounding the lab, marked LOX, NF3, H2, and the like.

"Storage tanks for the chemicals used in the laser. Hydrogen, helium, nitrogen, flourine, things like that. I'm not precisely sure."

"You're not precisely sure," Napoleon echoed, shaking his head.  Ravyn stared blankly at him.

"Fluorine, for instance, is extremely flammable. What other things at this lab are you not precisely sure about?"

Ravyn sneered. "You will have all the information I have, Mr. Solo. As regards the lab, anyway."

Napoleon rubbed his chin. "Do you have any of the files from when Menzies was working for you? Diagrams, formulae, anything?"

Ravyn said, "I have his preliminary work. Why?"

"I'm not a scientist. I won't know what to take and what to leave unless I have some idea what to look for." He noted that the office building had three exits, mentally marked corridors, windows, storage closets.

Ravyn snapped his fingers at one of the men. "Go into the back and bring the brown briefcase up to me."

"I'll need some knockout capsules and mercy bullets." He looked at Ravyn. "Do you have them?"

Ravyn smirked. "I have some idea of UNCLE's philosophy, Mr. Solo. I knew you wouldn't want to kill anyone unnecessarily. I can supply you with mercy bullets and real ones."

"Small adhesive explosives, both incendiary and fragmentation; fuses are fine. I won't need timers, but I will need a couple that can be set off by remote. Do you have that?"

"I have it," Ravyn snapped.

"Wire cutters. Good ones. The detector and mine markers, with a remote to activate those." Napoleon ran the route in his head as he spoke. "The gas mask. Electrical tape. Lockpicks. Electronic bypass beams if you have them. A good knife."

"Write it down, fool!" Ravyn shouted. Napoleon glanced up, saw the remaining guard fumbling with notepad and pencil.

"When is your power outage planned?" he asked.

"Four a.m. Near the end of the guard shift but still with plenty of darkness. I can get you within a hundred yards of the perimeter fence at a spot in the hills where we can get close without being seen. You should be there by three a.m., leaving you an hour to get across the mine field. There's a concrete lined drainage culvert that runs alongside the landing strip; you can use that for cover." He traced his finger along the culvert. "With the power off, the inner fence and the lights will be off."

"And once I've got the files and the power is back on?" Napoleon said. "How do I get out?"

"That is your concern." Ravyn sat back in his chair, watching the agent closely. "If you wish to see your partner again."

Napoleon was unfazed. "All this will be for nothing if you don't get me out of there with those documents."

"We'll be waiting for you where we drop you off," Ravyn said.

"If I don't see my partner, you won't see those files," Napoleon said.

Ravyn cocked his head slightly, eyes resting on the agent, measuring him in some unreadable manner.

"He is being brought to the rendezvous point even as we speak, Mr. Solo. It'll be a fair trade."

"When you knock out the power, can you have your pilot fly this thing over the site?"

Ravyn scowled. "The power will be out, in my estimation, for less than five minutes. It might be as little as one minute, depending on whether the maintenance man loses his head in the dark."

Napoleon said, "That isn't what I asked you."

"The plane will be detected if we fly over," Ravyn said.

"Yes, I know."

The scowl cleared. "A distraction?"

"I'm assuming they don't have the ability to shoot you down," Napoleon said, still scanning the diagrams. He could stay in the culvert all the way up to the lab building, but he'd be in the open crossing from there to the offices. "Not that I'd give a damn if they did."

"They don't," Ravyn said, smirking. "They'll track us, but we'll be gone before they can do anything else."

"See that the jet's within radar range before the power goes out. You do know the range of the radar at the installation?"

Ravyn's eyes glittered with something that, in a man with a heart, might have been hatred.

"I have all the information you'll need, Mr. Solo."

"You've already proven that you don't, but I'll need all you have." He mentally mapped a path that avoided the storage tanks; he didn't want any bullets flying near those. He would have preferred to think the guards would know better than to fire at them, but he had no confidence in the scientific knowledge of men simply given guns and told to shoot at anything that moved.

The guard returned from the back of the jet with a large leather case, dropping it with a thud onto the floor. Napoleon looked into the open top to see it was packed with papers.

"You don't expect me to carry nine years' worth of research in my pocket," he said.

Ravyn reached into the bag with both hands and pulled out a thick wad of diagrams and notes.

"His most recent work is coded blue, like this." He indicated a blue bar at the top of a page. "I have copies of the files from the research he did while he was with me."

"What research is that?"

"Dr. Menzies is a pioneer in the field of chemical laser technology."

"Chemical lasers." Napoleon repeated the words although he had never heard the phrase before. That was Illya's beat.

"It's highly experimental and top secret. That's where the hydrogen and fluorine come in. Years ahead of gas laser research, but it's the wave of the future, particularly for military applications. And that future is mine." His eyes gleamed as he envisioned that future.

Napoleon let what he was feeling seep, like poison, into his tone. "Excuse me for not kneeling."

Ravyn blinked, brought back to reality. "In any case, all you'll need is his most recent files. You'll be able to carry them out."

"How long until we land?" Napoleon asked.

Ravyn looked at his gold watch. "About four hours. Would you like to see my ... arsenal?"

Napoleon got up -- too abruptly, apparently, because both guards lunged forward to grab him. He twisted, elbowed the left-hand guard in the gut, tripped him and shoved him onto his face, then grabbed the right-hand man by the ears and flipped him over his shoulder.

Both men hit hard, coming to their feet with teeth bared and fists clenched.

Ravyn held up one hand to the guards, smiling. "Stop."

Napoleon straightened up, deliberately rattling his manacles, and Ravyn laughed out loud.

"Mr. Solo..." He drew in a slow, satisfied breath, as if Napoleon were a new toy he'd bought. Napoleon thought that wasn't far from the truth. "You continue to surprise me."

Napoleon adjusted his jacket. "I intend to." He let that sink in. "Let's go."

Ravyn indicated that Napoleon should precede him to the back of the plane, and the agent did so.

***

After a long ride over a bumpy dirt road, Napoleon was unloaded from the vehicle into bitingly cold air.

The hood was whipped from his head and he saw Ravyn climbing out of a Land Rover. They were in a desert ravine, on a clear night.

The two guards held their pistols on Napoleon as Ravyn went to the back of the Land Rover, opened it, and pulled a heavy black bag out.

"Your tools," he said to Napoleon, setting it on the ground. "The fence is over the ridge, that way." He nodded. "We'll be here."

Napoleon took in the entire 360 degrees. "I don't see my partner."

Ravyn's lip curled slightly. "He'll be here too. I'll keep my end of the deal, Mr. Solo. I always do." He looked at his watch. "It's 3:08. The power goes off--"

"I remember," Napoleon said, holding out his still-manacled hands. Ravyn nodded. One of the men clapped his pistol to Napoleon's head while the other fished out a key and unlocked the handcuffs. Then both men pointed their guns at him and backed away to join Ravyn.

Napoleon knelt in front of the bag, unzipped it, and extracted various items of mayhem; the bombs stayed in their pouch, slung over his left shoulder; the gun, loaded with mercy bullets, went into his belt, under his coat, for now; nonexplosive tools in another pouch were strapped over his right shoulder; the gas mask he draped around his neck. Then, without a backward glance, he started up the ridge.

The icy air tingled on his face, on his eyeballs. He heard the rustle of his clothing and the soft crunch of each footfall in the sand as he climbed the low ridge.

Near the top he crouched down, breath puffing white before him, and peered over a rocky protrusion. At the foot of the slope ran an eight-foot cyclone fence, topped with razor wire. Two signs were fastened to the fence -- one, easily read from this distance, said it was electrified.

Napoleon walked down the hill, scanning the flatness in either direction as far as he could see, which in the light of the nearly full moon was far enough. Past the fence was more flatness, then the lights of the guard towers and the installation itself. He examined the fence; it was wired. The smaller sign explained that it was a secure federal installation and any trespassers would be treated without regard to The Bill of Rights, the Geneva Convention, or the Ten Commandments.

Napoleon knelt near the fence, pulled out the wire cutters, stood them on the handle end about three inches from the fence, and let them tip over. The cutters fell against the metal. Nothing.

He picked them up and started cutting.

***

"Tower two?"

The guard in tower two picked up his walkie talkie.

"Tower two."

"Tower three. Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Puff of smoke, halfway across the field. Past the landing strip."

The tower two guard scanned the mine field. "No." He picked up the infrared goggles. "Oh, yeah. One of the mines. I don't see anything else, though." He scanned for a moment. "Probably a goddamned prairie dog. Little bastards. Wish we had real mines out there."

The guard in tower three grunted a laugh. "Well, keep your eyes peeled just in case."

"Gotcha. Two out."

***

At the lip of the concrete drainage culvert, Napoleon crouched and shoved gas mask and mine detector into the bag. Behind him a ragged trail of markers led into the distance, their tiny red indicator lights dark for now. No detectors marked his brief ... detour.

About 10 feet in front of him he saw the evenly spaced posts of the electrical fence, power lights aglow at their tops. The perimeter guard, the one with the dog, was walking past one of the open wooden guard towers.

Beyond was the concrete landing strip; past that was the lab building, surrounded by what looked like fuel storage tanks and complicated piping. The culvert was conveniently equidistant from two corner guard towers, a handy place to wait until the power was off. He descended into the culvert, glanced at his watch. It was 3:42.

Napoleon sat against the side of the culvert and carefully pulled a few things out of his bag: two electronic bypass beams and an untriggered gas mine. With a folding knife he delicately prised the cover off the bottom of the mine.

***

At 4:01 the lights went out at Hecht Laboratories. Phones rang all over the complex; tower guards put their infrared goggles to their eyes. A plane flew over and all eyes turned to the sky.

At 4:07 the lights came back on, the electronic fence crackled into life, and the plane was long gone. More phone calls, demanding explanations, ensued. No answers were immediately forthcoming, and the lab settled into its normal watchful state.

***

Napoleon crouched in the shadow cast by a huge tank labeled NF3 and "Flammable." His skin itched with the need to get away from all the explosive and flammable substances surrounding the main lab. When he saw no movement, he slipped around to the back of the lab building, pausing there to get a clear idea of the layout of the place.

The laser was clearly a work in progress; empty tanks, pipes and sheets of metal lay all around the lab building, along with wooden sawhorses and scaffolding. A small motorized crane, partially covered by a tarp, sat near the corner of the lab, about 15 feet from a guard tower, clearly labeled #3.

He inched around the building, seeing the two smaller office buildings to his left. The farther building was Menzies' office, with one guard inside it, if Ravyn's information was correct. Napoleon edged farther around the lab, made a dash for the office building, drawing out an incendiary as he went. At the door he dropped into a crouch, fastened the incendiary to the latch and lit the short fuse. He scooted back and covered his eyes.

The blast was, mercifully, quieter than he'd expected, quieter even than UNCLE's incendiaries. A little jostling worked the broken door latch open, and he slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

Gun in hand he moved like a shadow down a hall lit only by dim security lights.

Around the corner he collided with the security guard. Napoleon grabbed him, turned him, and delivered a karate chop to his neck; the guard collapsed. Napoleon took the man's gun and dragged him into Menzies' office. There he locked the door, taped the guard's hands, feet and mouth, tied a bandana around his eyes, turned on the office light and took a deep breath, looking around.

The small tidy room held a desk, a chair, four filing cabinets and a large drafting table with a diagram of the laser and its ancillary components. Various words and phrases, like "gas venting," "acoustics" and "excitation" were marked on the diagram in grease pencil or felt pen. Someone had doodled a cloud with the word "BOOM!" over the tanks of fluorine.

The file cabinets were neatly labeled. He opened the drawer marked "6/67 to" followed by a space. He pulled out the foremost file folders and carried them to the desk, opening them up and riffling the pages. Dr. Menzies was an organized man; the blue coded papers filled a stack of folders about four inches thick, all of them in the forefront of the drawer.

Napoleon checked the unconscious guard to be sure he was still breathing, spread his gear on the desk next to the stack of files, and looked at his watch. It was 4:18. He set to work.

***

They say you never hear the one that gets you. The guard in tower three was able to testify to that when he woke up.

Napoleon slipped out from behind the crane when he saw the man in the tower slump, darting across the open space to the steep narrow stairs. He climbed quickly, verified that the guard was out, and considered using his walkie-talkie to simply call the guard in tower two over to him. That theory was doused by a burst of static from the device, followed by the voice of tower guard one telling the others a joke about a rabbit, a woman with large breasts, and a martini.

Napoleon set the guard's binoculars on the edge of the railing and scanned until he located the perimeter guard, waiting on the other side of the complex while his German Shepherd relieved itself.

Napoleon turned the binoculars toward guard tower #2.

The man stood leaning against a support post, rifle slung, walkie-talkie resting on the railing beside him as he listened to the joke. Too far to trust to mercy bullets. Napoleon waited for the end of the joke, not actually hearing it himself but watching the guard laugh and shift away from the post.

Napoleon waited 'til the guard was looking in the right direction -- away -- then trotted down the steps, pulled out the remote, and set off the bomb he'd placed in a cluster of gas mines.

Then he ran, fully aware there was nothing between him and a bullet except the guard's attention span for the puffs of gas out in the field, for however long it took him to race across the runway, through the bypass "gate" he'd set up in the electronic fence during the power outage, and into the darkness.

Past the electronic fence he hit the button to activate the mine locaters, and kept running into the night, guided by the tiny blinking red lights. No alarms sounded behind him.

He hit the fence and bounced, seizing hold of it, hanging from it to catch his breath. It was a long way to run with as much extra weight as he was carrying.

He found the hole he'd cut and departed federal property, deactivating the locaters and trudging up the hill. He was near the apex when he heard faintly, behind him, the sound of alarm bells.

***

Ravyn and his men waited by the Land Rover. Napoleon descended the hill, stopped. Two guns were leveled at him.

"Drop everything you're carrying, Mr. Solo," Ravyn said.

Napoleon didn't move. "Where is my partner?"

"First things first. Put everything down and move away from it. You have a great deal of firepower on you. I'm not taking any chances."

Napoleon carefully divested himself of every bag, pouch and gun -- except the leather satchel holding the files.

"The papers," he said. "Where is my partner?"

"Come forward," Ravyn said. "Slowly."

He took deliberate steps forward, Ravyn's henchmen moving a little closer, guns tracking him.

"Open the pouch," Ravyn said.

Napoleon did so, spreading the sides so Ravyn could see the papers crammed within. Ravyn reached out carefully, pulled a few sheets out and peered at them under the moonlight. His face relaxed.

"Yes. Well done, Mr. Solo."

"Where is my partner?" he said again.

"Well, Mr. Solo, there's been a bit of a snag," Ravyn said, jerking back as Napoleon started. "Careful."

Napoleon held himself in place, seething.

"Your partner escaped," Ravyn said, and Napoleon could easily have killed Ravyn at that moment, because he couldn't tell whether he was lying.

"It's the truth," Ravyn went on. "He was being brought to one of my planes, to be handed over to you, as I agreed. But as he wasn't privy to our bargain, he chose to ... rescue himself. By now, no doubt, he's back in UNCLE's welcoming arms. The pouch."

Napoleon, well aware of the two gunmen still taking aim at him, extended the pouch to Ravyn, who tucked it under his arm and backed away. He had to play the scenario out -- and the hell of it was, knowing Illya, Ravyn might very well be telling the truth.

God, if you've ever answered any prayer, make it that one.

Ravyn stopped by his Land Rover.

"I would have handed him over, Mr. Solo," he said. "I keep my word. And as it is, you can take comfort in knowing he'll live." He waited for a reaction. When he got none he went on anyway. "You must have realized I wasn't going to let either of you walk away from here. Kill him."

Gunfire burst at him; hammered, Napoleon flew backward, hitting the ground hard, sprawling, body exploding with pain, his brain stunned, vision red with it. Beyond the pain, blackness reached inward, flowing, overwhelming. Silencing.

***

On the seventh day, two men with guns took Illya, handcuffed and blindfold, to another nearby room with a one-way mirror, where he was chained to the wall by a huge man who proceeded to beat him into unconsciousness. When he came to, throbbing, back in his "cell," he didn't have to think about it for very long to know the reason for the display; he ached all the more to know Napoleon had seen it. That he'd been only a few feet away. Then he crawled to the bathroom and threw up. Then he slept.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, shaking him awake. He turned over, groaned, and was yanked to his feet and manacled by the giant man who'd beaten him. His legs wouldn't hold him; he sank to the floor, squinting into the light, and was hauled back up again. He leaned on the bed, trembling, and one of the brace of familiar gunmen said:

"Come on. If he can't walk, carry him."

Illya was hefted like a child and draped over the giant's shoulder. They left his cell and marched along white featureless corridors for a while. Illya shook his head, trying to clear his muddied thoughts and get some idea of what was going on. Fresh pain grabbed his bruised stomach muscles with each step as the big man's shoulder dug into his midsection.

They exited into a dark parking garage; the open door revealed that it was night, and Illya realized two things; it was hostage exchange time, and here was a chance to escape.

The two guards opened the front doors of an expensive late-model sedan and got in. The big man opened the back door with his free hand and Illya twisted, sliding off his shoulder. The man turned, clutched at him, and caught one arm, turning him in the air. Illya landed on his side on the concrete floor, briefly stunned, then got his feet under him to dive for freedom.

A heavy foot punched the middle of his back, ramming him to the floor. He sprawled for a moment, lungs empty, manacles digging into his diaphragm, and the man lifted him and flung him into the back seat of the car.

He sat up, reached for the door handle -- there wasn't one. The driver started the car; the other guard in the front turned, shook his head.

"Let's make a deal. Okay, Mr. Secret Agent? Just behave yourself and you won't get that pretty face messed up any more than it already is. What do you think?" He smirked at Illya, who eyed him for a moment, head tilted, then said:

"I think I'll kill you first."

The smirk evaporated; the man said to the driver. "Let's go, before I lose my temper and teach this little asshole a lesson he won't live to forget."

***

Ravyn waved his men into the car, sparing the still body of the UNCLE agent one last glance. His gaze lingered on the pouch of papers -- the future of his empire -- as he climbed into the Land Rover.

"Go." He set the pouch down on the floor between his feet.

***

The explosion yanked Napoleon out of unconsciousness. He lay still for a moment, assessing his own state before he reveled in his enemy's. He took a slow, deep breath. His chest hurt; the bullets' impact had probably rebroken some of those healing ribs. He sat up slowly and looked himself over. Blood oozed from his right thigh, soaking into his pants. His right shoulder hurt as well, but he couldn't see any blood outside his coat. Carefully he unzipped it, noting the bullet holes, and pulled out the steel plate he'd taken from the lab. He set the plate aside and pulled his coat off to check his shoulder, which was torn up and bleeding more than a little, but not copiously.

Ravyn's Land Rover sat askew, half in a ditch, blazing, pouring black smoke into the sky. The alarms from the complex were still ringing.

Napoleon got up, dizzy, and took his bearings. The sensible route -- toward, presumably, a paved road -- took him past the Land Rover. He might have overdone it a little, attaching both incendiary and fragmentation bombs to the mine detonator at the bottom of the satchel, but he'd wanted to make sure.

The passenger side door was open; what was left of Ravyn lay in the ditch,  blackened, bloodied, moving feebly. Napoleon stopped, looking down at him in the red light of the flames.

Ravyn's eyes were open. At first Napoleon thought Ravyn unaware of his presence, unaware of anything but imminent death.

Recognition flickered in those gaping eyes. Ravyn's mouth worked for a moment, then he gasped out:

"You ... son of a bitch." His body arched, then collapsed.

Napoleon paused, for once letting himself feel the satisfaction that was closer to evil than he usually wished to be.

He started walking again. Pain bit into his leg with every step, his chest with every breath of the cold pre-dawn air. Worse was the rough edge of fear sawing at him; the fear that Ravyn had lied. He couldn't imagine a reason for it, though he groped for one with a kind of desperation to know the worst. If Ravyn could have hurt him, at that point, he'd have done it, and he'd have known exactly how. If Illya were dead, Ravyn would have said so; but if Illya did escape ... why did Ravyn admit it? That was the part Napoleon couldn't believe -- that Ravyn would say anything he wanted to hear.

***

They drove through a guarded gate onto a small airfield where a Lear Jet awaited them, engines whining; the field was well-lit, but Illya could make out no logo on the jet. Whoever Ravyn was, he was being very careful. Illya took some deep breaths; he wasn't going to get another chance for a while, not until the jet landed wherever it was going to land. California, he supposed, if Ravyn had been telling the truth. He needed to get away, cut the leash Ravyn had on his partner as soon as possible, before Napoleon did something that ended his career or his life.

The car sped along the side road leading to the jet; there would be no better chance. Illya lunged forward and flung his manacled arms around the driver's neck, hauling him backward with all his strength. The car swayed and swerved as the man's hands left the wheel. The guard in the passenger seat shouted. Gun still in his right hand, he grabbed the wheel with his left, giving Illya time enough to yank out the driver's gun, shove his struggling body into the big man and brace his foot against his back. Then Illya shoot the man in the front.

His back against the car door, Illya took aim at the other two but had no time for a warning as they disentangled themselves and reached for him. Four precisely spaced shots left the two men slumped in a pile on the seat, and the car filled with the smell of gunpowder.

Illya scrambled over the front seat and stopped the car, then got out, went around to the other side, and hauled the bodies out. The car was about a hundred feet from the plane; a man came down the steps and paused.

Illya closed the doors, got back in the car, dropped the gun on the seat, put the car in gear and swung around in a circle of flying dirt, pulling back onto the road and flooring it. Then he allowed himself to breathe.

The problem with freedom, he realized as he drove, was that as urgency faded, other thoughts and feelings resurfaced. He didn't worry about his shaking hands; that was natural. Perhaps he ought to have called what he was feeling natural, too, and not worried about it. That wasn't possible. Unnatural was the kindest thing it might be called, and it spelled trouble. But all he could remember was the feeling in his stomach when he'd seen Napoleon kneel at his grave. Something inside him, something that had long been taut as a violin string, had broken palpably at that moment.

Illya laughed harshly to himself, clenching his manacled hands on the steering wheel. Something? Call it denial. Or call it a box labeled friendship, concealing a truth that had finally forced itself free.

Illya cursed. Whatever box in his heart Napoleon keeps you in, he loves you. For that you owe him the truth. Whether he wants to hear it or not.

***

Don glanced at the lightening sky and pressed the accelerator harder. If he had been a cursing man, he'd have cursed.

His partner had no such inhibitions. "Son of a bitch," Tony muttered, glancing at his watch. "We're goddamn lucky if he's not dead and buried by now."

"We didn't have much to go on," Don said, trying to comfort them both. "We did pretty well considering."

"Six hours," Tony groused. "Six goddamn hours worth of paperwork. God only know what's happened to him. And Illya."

Don sighed, urged the pedal down a little more. "How far are we from the labs?"

Tony looked at the map on his knees. "Twenty minutes. Jesus." He folded the map and stuck it in the glove box, then, glancing up, shouted: "Stop!"

Don jumped on the brake. "What?"

Tony was twisted around in his seat. "Back there. In the dirt. I think ... back up!"

Don backed the car up. Tony opened the door and Don jumped on the brake as his partner piled out of the car.

"It's Napoleon!" Tony shouted.

Don parked the car there in the road and got out, running around the back to where Tony was helping Napoleon to his feet. The agent's white face was spotted with cuts and flecks of blood; a hole in his leg was bleeding and his right arm hung limp. He looked at Don, blankly at first, as Tony put an arm around his shoulders.

"Have you heard anything about Illya?" Napoleon choked out.

Don and Tony exchanged a look. "No," Don said. "Come on. In the car."

"I'll drive," Tony said. "You're better at the first aid stuff."

Tony loaded Napoleon into the back seat while Don got the first aid kit out of the trunk. He climbed in back with his former CEA and said, "Take off the coat."

Tony got in front. "Might as well head for home?"

"I think so," Don said. Napoleon grabbed his wrist.

"Don--" his voice was hoarse. "Ravyn is dead. The files are destroyed. I need to know about Illya."

"I thought ..." Tony began, at a loss, but Don was already pulling out his communicator. Napoleon leaned close, as if to grab it, then stopped himself. He took hold of Don's arm instead as the agent activated his communicator.

"Open Channel D."

"Channel D is open, Mr. Deacon."

"Put me through to Mr. Waverly, please, Tina."

Tony made a U-turn and sped back along the highway toward Los Angeles.

"Mr. Deacon. Where are you? Where is Mr. Solo?"

"We're in the Mojave Desert, sir, on our way home. Napoleon's right here. Asking about his partner. Have you heard anything?"

A pause. Illya's voice, unmistakable: "Napoleon?"

Don felt those fingers dig painfully into his arm, but Napoleon said nothing.

The Russian spoke again. "Napoleon?"

Finally Napoleon managed to swallow everything he wanted to say; he choked out, "Are you all right?"

Illya said, "I don't know yet ... are you?"

Napoleon's insides twisted. Drawing an unsteady breath, he said, "I think so." He snapped his mouth shut, blinking back tears, overwhelmed by the need to be there, right now, to see Illya, to know he was all right.

Mr. Waverly's voice came back on, crisp as ever. "If you gentlemen wouldn't mind, we have business to discuss. Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon shook his head, unable to think.

"Ah, I forgot," Mr. Waverly continued. "Mr. Solo no longer works for us."

"Sir--" Don began in protest, watching his former CEA.

Napoleon wrenched his fingers out of Don's arm, sat back in the seat, light-headed, hunched over, forcing himself to breath, to remain calm. Don't worry, don't think. He's alive, and you'll be there in a few hours. He scarcely heard Don telling Waverly the details of the last few hours.

***

They took advantage of an infuriating two-hour wait for the next flight from LAX to New York to get a hotel room, where Napoleon showered and let Don tend to the shrapnel wounds on his arm and leg, and the numerous small cuts on his face. Tony went out to buy Napoleon a change of clothes; afterward they went to a restaurant at the airport to wait for their flight.

Napoleon sat between Tony and Don, vaguely grateful for their protective instinct, aware of a low-grade trembling, partly reaction, partly exhaustion, mostly a shrieking need to see that his partner was all right.

"Eat something," Don said gently. Napoleon blinked, looked at him.

"You're all right," Don said, his tone level, soothing. "Illya is all right."

"Yeah," Tony put in. "Take a breath, for Christ's sake."

A faint smile touched Napoleon's mouth. "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

Don shrugged. "We didn't do anything a taxi company couldn't have done."

"Do you have any idea who he was?" Don asked. Napoleon shook his head, picked up a spoon.

"It's over with," Tony said. "What's it matter who he was if he's dead?"

Don didn't argue. He knew that Tony knew better; his partner was just trying to be comforting.

"You're right," he agreed. "It is over."

Napoleon, a spoonful of minestrone soup halfway to his mouth, lowered it slowly. It wasn't over. Not until he'd seen Illya again and said the things he needed to say. Then a lot of things would be over, one way or another.

***

Tony and Don dropped Napoleon at his apartment. He couldn't bring himself to ask what he wanted to ask: to be taken into UNCLE headquarters, under escort -- an outsider -- was more than he could stand right now.

Later he realized that he'd known, from the moment the plane touched down at LaGuardia, that all he had to do was go home.

He locked his door behind him and limped into the living room, unsurprised to see the light on.

Illya stood in the middle of the room, a slim shape all in black, turning to face him. "Napoleon." The utter relief in that rich voice, the aching familiarity, loosed the knots that had been holding Napoleon together. He crossed the room in four strides, flinging his arms around his partner, holding him fiercely, his eyes prickling.

Napoleon found space in his mind for an instant of surprise that Illya's arms went around him, as tightly as his, that Illya pressed his face into Napoleon's shoulder. "I'm sorry," the Russian whispered.

Heart swelling, Napoleon found himself kissing his partner's cheek, drawing back to kiss both cheeks in Russian fashion.

"I thought you were dead," he breathed, staring into brilliant blue eyes. His hands framed Illya's face as the hot tears burned down his cheeks. "For five days. I thought I'd lost you."

"I know," Illya whispered. "I'm sorry you had to go through it." He touched Napoleon's wet face with his fingertips.

"Are you all right? You've been hit..."

Napoleon said, "Nothing that won't heal." He felt nothing but joy. "What about you?"

Illya shook his head. "Napoleon--"

And his stoic Russian partner brushed Napoleon's lips with his own.

The contact was electric. With an inarticulate sound, Napoleon pressed his mouth against Illya's, tasting him with lips and tongue, jolted to his toes as Illya's mouth opened under his. Their tongues joined, caressing, for a timeless moment, before Napoleon drew away, dizzy, amazed.

"Illya," he said, breathless. "I don't ... I mean, do you..." He hardly knew what he was asking except that he wanted everything, right now -- but he didn't want to force his beloved friend into anything he didn't want to do.

"Sh..." Illya stroked his back, his shoulders, his neck, moved closer. "Don't question." His lips rested on Napoleon's cheek before beginning a feather-light, deliciously arousing dance across his face. Napoleon tightened his arms, pressing his partner's body against him, heat pulsing through him, his blood pumping into his swelling penis, everywhere, every inch of his skin aroused.

"Illya ..." he gasped against his partner's sweet mouth, his fingers twining through soft blond hair. "God ... I ... I need ..."

"I know," Illya whispered, his tongue tickling across Napoleon's lips, down his chin, his throat.

Napoleon heard his own groan as if it came from elsewhere as he pulled Illya up to ravage that mouth with his own. His blood throbbed throughout his body.

Illya pulled at his shirt, unbuttoning, pushing the cloth away, his panting breaths hot against Napoleon's chest. Napoleon clutched the sweater Illya wore, drawing it off his body, running his hands down the smoothly muscled skin, molding that warm body to his.

He fumbled at Illya's waist until he could unbutton and unzip his partner's pants, pushing them down, sliding his hands around Illya's ass, clutching each cheek, pressing him against his erection, working his hips against his partner, feeling the hot delicious slide of Illya's own hard cock against his groin.

"You feel so good..." he breathed against his partner's mouth, sinking down, trailing his lips and tongue down Illya's warm golden body.

Illya blurted something in Russian, his hands twining behind Napoleon's head as the American took that red-gold cock in his mouth, licking and sucking hungrily as his hands wrapped around Illya's taut buttocks, pulling him even closer. Illya began pumping and Napoleon took all of him, deep into his mouth and throat, until the Russian cried out and came. Napoleon drank every drop down, licking the silken head clean as Illya clung to him.

Illya grabbed his shoulders, using brute strength to pull him up into a long, intoxicating kiss, hands straying to draw Napoleon's trousers down and stroke the American's rock-hard erection.

"God ..." Shaking, Napoleon leaned on his partner and Illya drew him down, onto the couch, bending over him, mouth and teeth blazing across Napoleon's body until he wrapped his lips around the tip of Napoleon's cock.

Napoleon's body jumped in response; Illya held him down and made love to his cock, licking and sucking until Napoleon was gasping, weeping with need; then Illya took him deeply into his mouth, sucking hard and fast. Napoleon came with a shout, pumping into that hot mouth until he was empty and gasping. Then Illya slid up his sweat-slicked chest, and Napoleon again wrapped his arms around that slender, muscular body, pulling him close and kissing him, needing total contact. Breathing hard, Napoleon looked into blue eyes that burned into his soul.

"Illya..." he whispered, wholly open, hiding nothing. Illyusha...

"I know," came the response, equally soft, equally intense. "I know."

Napoleon took in and released a deep breath.

"Are you all right?" Illya asked, shifting as if to rise. "Your ribs..."

"Don't move," Napoleon said, holding his partner closer. "Stay right where you are."

He felt that body relax against him, felt Illya chuckle silently. "If you say so."

"I say so." Napoleon traced a few kisses across his partner's chin and neck. "Just stay here."

"Always," Illya said.

His deep tones stroked comfort across Napoleon's seared psyche. He said, unthinking, "I love you." It was surprisingly liberating to say the words that had been burnt into his mind and heart for years, words he'd never had the courage to even admit to himself, let alone voice.

He felt another chuckle. "Really? I never would have guessed."

Napoleon squeezed him. "Arrogant..."

Illya breathed out a grunt, half protest, half laughter. When Napoleon eased his hold a little the Russian propped himself up to look at his partner.

"My interrogation technique is a success, then?"

Napoleon looked into those eyes that could freeze the soul from the fiercest enemy, saw a warmth there that he couldn't remember ever seeing before. The fleeting thought that he had believed this man lost to him forever made him tighten his arms again. Defenseless, he said, "I'll tell you anything you want to hear." His hands traced circles on his partner's smooth, taut back, feeling the scattered scars that were the stripes of their profession.

Illya touched his face, turned it toward him, seeing the still-stunned honesty and emotion in his partner's face.

"I think you just did."

Napoleon sat up, so abruptly Illya started, bouncing to his feet, rumpled and naked, eyes soft, warm, irresistible.

"What is it?" the Russian asked.

Napoleon got up, ignoring various jolts of pain, and slid an arm around Illya, moving him bodily toward the bedroom. "Come on. I need more elbow room for what I've got planned."

"What have you got planned?" Illya said, low, laughter tickling his voice.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Napoleon said, cupping his hand around that taut rear end to encourage Illya into the other room.

***

Napoleon awoke, alone, and panic jerked him onto his feet. There he stood, swaying, gasping at the pain shooting through his chest, leg and shoulder. His brain woke up a few seconds later, doing little to ease the panic. Illya was alive, he was well, he was here. Or he had been.

Napoleon wrenched himself free of the tangled blankets, caught his breath, steadied himself, and went into the living room.

Illya sat cross-legged on the bookshelf under the window, staring out at the night skyline, wearing Napoleon's robe. He glanced at his partner, said nothing.

Napoleon stopped, relieved Illya hadn't gone, but still pinched with concern. He touched the bandages, shoulder and thigh, to be sure they were still in place, and went to the window, standing beside his partner.

"Are you all right?" Illya asked.

"That question is starting to become a habit," Napoleon replied, gingerly touching his ribcage. "My chest aches." He found himself smiling, saw an answering smile touch Illya's lips.

"That is your own fault."

"Why are you awake?"

Though he'd thought his tone reasonable, Illya read him cold.

"Not for the reason you're obviously thinking."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" Napoleon challenged. Illya shrugged.

"How do I ever know what you're thinking? I just do."

Napoleon leaned on the windowsill. "Then what am I thinking?"

"You're worried that I'm thinking this was a mistake," Illya said, tossing a casual glance back toward the bedroom.

It took more courage than Napoleon thought he'd possessed to keep his voice level. "Are you?"

Illya met his gaze, eyes twinkling with amusement. "It's strange to hear a man of your ... talent ... asking a question like that."

"I wouldn't ask it of anyone else," Napoleon said. "If it were anyone else I wouldn't particularly care."

"I know," Illya said, sober. "That's why. I was thinking about .... about what you went through."

Napoleon looked sharply at his partner. Could he possibly be saying this was a sympathy fuck? "What are you --"

"No. No."  Illya caught his arm and his attention. Only rarely did lllya instigate physical contact; Napoleon always took it seriously.

"I'm sorry. I'm not explaining this well. Ravyn had a television camera on the cemetery. He turned it on for my benefit, when you visited my grave. I noticed you didn't bring flowers." He dropped the attempt at mordant humor, seeing in Napoleon's eyes that he wasn't yet up for it. "I realized then what I hadn't really understood before."

Napoleon said, "That I love you?"

Illya scowled. "Not exactly; more ... how much. We ..." He shook his head. "We mean entirely too much to each other. You know that, don't you?" He gave Napoleon a sardonic look. Napoleon chuckled.

"I know it now."

Scowling, Illya said, "I can't imagine why ..."

"Why you are everything to me?" Napoleon said, his tone harsh. There could be nothing romantic in the realization; it would only make their lives harder.

Illya said softly, "We have broken everything today."

"And we're going to have to pick up the pieces," Napoleon agreed.

"Exactly. And I want to know why."

Seeing the serious intent in his friend's eyes, Napoleon considered the question, a matter that had been as close as his own skin for so long he found analysis difficult.

"If I say because you're you..." he began.

"I will kill you," Illya replied.

Napoleon smiled. "But that's what it is, ultimately." He took a breath, remembering the day he'd met Illya, in Mr. Waverly's office.

He was UNCLE's top agent, brash, full of himself, preferring to work alone not for the glory -- he wasn't that full of himself -- but because he knew the extent to which he could rely on himself, and that was not true of others. And if he didn't know precisely how far he could trust another, he trusted that other not at all. A sergeant in Korea had said something, once, something he'd never forgotten:

"When you've got no one to watch your back, you know you're fucked. When there is someone there, you're never sure."

And in had walked Illya Kuryakin, small, rumpled, impossibly young looking, quiet and confident, polite and surly at the same time. Napoleon remembered a melee of initial reactions, some of which he soon was ashamed of, some of which had been cause for slightly alarmed late-night soul-searching over the scotch, and one ... one in particular. He'd had the strangest, most disorienting impression he was meeting an old friend for the first time.

They'd shaken hands, giving each other a wary once-over. Napoleon had met those forbidding blue eyes for one moment and, jolted, had thought, maybe this will work out.

"Napoleon," his partner said, mildly impatient. "You're daydreaming."

"No." He shook his head. "I was remembering." He realized he'd never asked Illya about his impressions on that meeting.

"You were remembering the day we met," Illya said. Napoleon grinned.

"Have you always been able to read my mind, or did you learn it over the years?"

Illya shook his head in dismissal. "You were saying ..?"

"Why." Napoleon restated the question. "Because ... because you're a prickly, sour-tempered grouch--"

Illya's brow rose.

"--who's kind to children and dogs. Because you're arrogant and modest at the same time, and I never knew anyone could do that before." He stared out at the city, well aware of Illya's attention and embarrassment. "Because you speak a hundred different languages and are at home in a score of countries, but you can't dress yourself to save your life."

Illya started to protest. Napoleon held up a hand.

"You asked." He went on. "Because you eat like a wolf and sleep like a baby, no matter the danger." The joking mood faded. "Because you put up with me and all my vices, big and small, and sometimes I almost think you kind of like me anyway. And because I can put my life in your hands at any time, in the face of anything, and just ... forget about it. I know you'll take better care of it than I do. You've never failed me. Never." He met his partner's eyes, now warm as a lake in summer, and let him see there how much that particular gift meant to him.

"And you have never failed me," Illya said softly, his voice molten gold.

Napoleon shook his head, mock-stern. "I'm not done yet."

"Sorry."

"The most important reason ..." He laid his hand over Illya's where it rested on the window ledge. "You close off the deepest part of yourself to the world. You've got your heart and soul behind walls and chains and locks and dogs and machine guns, and you don't let anyone in."

Napoleon turned Illya's hand over, looked at his open palm, and returned his eyes to his partner's.

"But you let me in."

The End

Information on lasers from Jeff Hecht's wonderfully readable "Beam Weapons: The Next Arms Race." Somewhat out of date, but terrific basic information on lasers that a layman can understand. I named the lab after him in appreciation. The deuterium-fluoride laser I sketch in the story was really a creature of the late 1970s (the gasdynamic laser was cutting-edge in the 1960s) but I decided to make Dr. Menzies ahead of his time.