Part One
He looked up and down at the row of empty desks. There was a lone employee standing at one of them, applying her lipstick with compact in hand. She stopped in mid-stroke and stared at him.
"Can I help you, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Uh, yes," he said, now realizing that it was after five o'clock. "I inquired about a file several hours ago."
She quickly put her make-up back into her purse. "Oh, Bonnie was looking for that. I don't think she was having much luck, though." She moved to another desk, scanning it, opening the drawers. "No, it's not here."
The Russian looked a little lost, and the young woman recognized an opportunity when she saw him. "Let me see what I can do," she said reassuringly.
"Oh, thank you," he said. "Your name is..."
"Liz Morrison. We worked together once before."
Illya frowned, trying to remember. Then he nodded, "Of course, the Bolivian research."
She flashed him a smile and led him to the bank of cabinets that lined one wall of the room, explaining the basics of the filing system. Her past experience with the Russian was pleasant. He treated her with respect and acknowledged her skills. That was saying a lot for a Section Two agent, let alone the Number Two man. He had no airs about him, but he wasn't much for small talk either, his concentration seldom wavering. When she'd found a helpful cross reference to the information he sought, however, he gave her one of those rare smiles that made her melt.
Such a little triumph. She could only imagine the kind of victories he and Napoleon Solo shared in the field. Finding lost information was nothing compared to cheating death.
By 6:30 they had located the elusive file, and Liz was amazed as the Russian actually helped her put away the folders that had accumulated on several of the desks.
She had toyed with an idea for the past hour, and now she summoned her courage. "Illya," she dared to call him, "there's a Russian art exhibit on tour at the Met. I was wondering if you and I...if we could...would you like to see it with me?" She groaned inwardly at her lack of finesse.
Kuryakin occupied himself with filing a "Q" folder. The spy business didn't allow him to get close to anyone. Nor did his self-imposed sense of fairness. To subject a loved one to his life of uncertainty would not be love, and Illya had decided long ago that he would settle for nothing less. Even if it meant he would go without another warm body in his bed.
"I thank you for the invitation, and you are very good company, but I make it a policy not to mix my professional life with my personal life." It was his stock answer.
She cursed herself for blurting out the invitation before warming him up to the idea first, but was determined not to show her disappointment.
"That's not your partner's philosophy," she smiled, trying to put a twinkle in her eye, an indifference about the rejection.
"No," Kuryakin agreed, "but Napoleon is Napoleon."
Liz detected a slight softening in Illya's voice when he said Solo's name. Was it affection?
"You and he are very close, aren't you?" she asked. As the words left her mouth she realized that she had overstepped a boundary. Asking Section Two agents personal questions was not acceptable, and asking a man about how close he was to another man seemed inappropriate as well.
He looked at her over his glasses. "Well, we've been partners for a long time," he said kindly, but with a note of finality, punctuated with the slam of a file drawer.
His communicator warbled. "Kuryakin."
"Illya..." He looked at Liz as if to say ~Speak of the devil~. "...meet me in Waverly's office in ten minutes."
The Russian pocketed the communicator and donned his jacket. Before he walked out the door, he turned. "Remind me to buy you lunch one day, for all your help."
"Okay!" she said, smiling perkily until the door closed. Then her voice fell with her hopes. "But that's not exactly what I had in mind."
***
Solo came out of his office just as his partner was passing. They dropped into step together for the short walk to Alexander Waverly's office.
"Did you find your missing whatever-it-was?" Napoleon asked distractedly.
"Yes," Illya replied. "It had been accidentally mailed to Thrush Central, so I went over there and picked it up."
"Good," Solo said, preoccupied with a passing female employee. Napoleon smiled. "Hello there." She smiled back. All was right with the world.
They entered the outer office of the Chief of UNCLE North America. The secretary notified him of their arrival and the main door opened. Alexander Waverly gestured and the agents took their usual positions at the circular table.
The Chief was studying a file. There was a long, unhurried silence as he appeared to be reading, but both Solo and Kuryakin saw that his eyes weren't following the print. He was gathering his thoughts.
"Gentlemen, I have an assignment for you. Specifically for you, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo will go along as an observer, recording the proceedings."
Solo frowned. He was being demoted to secretary?
Waverly rotated the table until two folders were in front of the Chief Enforcement Agent, and he, in turn, handed one to his partner. They opened them to see a studio photo of a man, fiftyish, dignified but with a friendly expression. Napoleon thought he was attractive. It was not beneath Solo to evaluate a man's appearance any more than a woman's.
The subject's pertinent information was below the photo. Gregory Michael Kelly. Height: 6'1". Weight 185 lbs. Eyes: brown. Hair: dark brown. Date of birth: January 12, 1920. ~Forty-eight.~ Napoleon calculated. City of residence: Chicago, Illinois. Employer: University of Chicago. Occupation: Professor of Chemistry. Additional activity: Known Thrush informant. The word "suspected" had been x'd out.
"Mr. Kuryakin," the Chief held Illya's eyes across the table, a look of regret in his own. "I'm afraid this assignment is distasteful, most distasteful."
Solo was on alert.
"When you came to us," Waverly continued slowly, "we noted that the KGB had trained you in blackmail operations."
He paused to let that sink in to his two agents' minds. He wouldn't have to explain much more about what was going to be required.
Napoleon felt a chill come over him. The man in the photo still smiled up at him, but now Solo regarded him coldly.
Napoleon remembered that notation on Kuryakin's file. He had read it before he'd even met Illya. The Russian had been trained by professionals on how to seduce, bed, and compromise another man. Solo had never asked him about it, and his partner had never volunteered any information. Apparently he preferred to forget that disquieting detour in his life, and Napoleon could hardly blame him.
Illya was also studying the photo, already reconciling himself with the mission. The sooner he pictured himself with this man, convinced himself of the necessity and inevitability of what he would have to do, the sooner he would be able to sleep at night.
"I had hoped I would never have to ask this of you," Waverly said. "But it is necessary to obtain vital information, and you are both professionals. I know you will do your usual best."
"Where do I come in, Sir?" Napoleon asked, forcing a casual tone.
"You, Mr. Solo, will record the liaisons on tape, by way of a listening device carried and planted by Mr. Kuryakin."
"Will photos be required?" asked Illya, his voice sounding casual.
"No. We feel the audio will be enough to make Dr. Kelly give us the scientific data we require."
Illya asked thoughtfully, "What do we know about his... tastes? Are we sure that I am his type, for example?"
Napoleon was increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation and his adrenaline wanted an outlet. He always felt a little protective of his Russian partner, although Illya could certainly take care of himself. Solo's legs were crossed under the table and one foot bobbed up and down in response to his tension. He ordered his brain to shift into its usual laid-back state.
"We discovered Dr. Kelly's preferences through routine random surveillance of known THRUSH informants. One of our operatives followed him into a men's clothing store on a Saturday afternoon, where he sought help from a male employee. He spent plenty of time warming up to the fellow before he propositioned him. The young man was not blond, like you, Mr. Kuryakin, but he was built like you... same height and weight. After dinner at an out-of-the-way restaurant, they went to a quiet hotel in the area. We shadowed Dr. Kelly several days after that, and he met this young man twice more, then their assignations stopped."
Illya spoke again, "So he does not take his partners to his home?"
Napoleon glanced at him. ~Partners? Bad choice of word.~
"Definitely not, Mr. Kuryakin. He was most discreet with his choice of lover, and their rendezvous venues."
"Hotels of his own choosing?" Illya asked.
"Yes. On further investigation into his past, we've discovered that he's been known to find willing young men on weekend trips as well. Ski lodges and such."
"How young, Sir?"
"As far as we know, he has never approached the uneducated street youths that ply the trade. He seems to enjoy the company of a man in his twenties or thirties, well-mannered and cultured."
Solo cleared his throat and entered into the conversation. "What kind of information do we want to obtain?"
"In his position as a professor of chemistry at the University of Chicago, Kelly is one of three men involved with a research project in chemical engineering. We knew he was giving his research to Thrush, but we didn't know why until we realized he was being blackmailed because of his homosexuality. He fell into Thrush's web when he was seduced by one of their agents working undercover as a student."
Illya nodded. "So Thrush is already blackmailing him, and we must bring UNCLE up to speed by doing the same."
"That's right, Mr. Kuryakin. What works for them should work for us. Kelly is desperate to keep his position at such a premier institution. It's the only way he can continue this advanced research," Waverly confirmed.
"But who's funding the research?" Solo asked. "If it's the U.S. government, why don't we just ask them about it? Or is it corporate sponsored?"
"It is not the government nor a corporation that's financing it. It is private research, being done parttime by the three top men at the university, with the blessings of the institution. And these scientists have shown no inclination to share their knowledge with the U.S. or any other government. They are pacifists who refuse allegiance to anyone or anything but the quest for scientific knowledge."
Solo persisted. "But have we approached Kelly directly? If Thrush knows, wouldn't he want to restore the balance by giving us the information as well?"
"We have approached him, Mr. Solo, and in this case it's his life that he's concerned about. Thrush would terminate him if they suspected him of double crossing them. So these liaisons between the subject and Mr. Kuryakin must be handled with extreme caution."
"A tangled web, indeed," remarked Solo. His determination to find a solution other than the one they faced faded. But in the back of his mind he knew he would lay awake that night trying to formulate another option.
Napoleon looked down at the photo again. This man's sexual frustrations had put his career, his very life in danger. It was similar to being a spy, really. Looking over your shoulder, covering your tracks, wondering if you were under surveillance. The twinge of sympathy Solo felt for Kelly only softened his loathing of him to an intense dislike. What his partner would have to do to get the required information did not set well.
Waverly was still briefing them. "We will require documentation of the research. Mr. Kelly will have to deliver that to you, Mr. Kuryakin, and you will inspect it."
Illya objected. "My specialty is not chemistry, Sir."
"No, but you possess a scientific vocabulary and are familiar with academic papers. Your inspection will be cursory, but at least we'll know we're not getting the formula for floor wax. The information will be forwarded to a specialist in the Chicago area that we have on stand-by. Once he confirms its authenticity, your assignment will be concluded."
"What about any future developments in the professor's research?" Solo asked.
"We will make it clear to him that all further research results must be provided to UNCLE. There can be no compromise on that point," Waverly said.
He turned back to Illya. "Oh, and Mr. Kelly minored in physics at university, so that should give the two of you something in common. It will increase your credibility with him if you 'talk shop'. Your cover is that you are employed by an independent research facility in New York. Your business card will show the company name and a false phone number which will be routed into UNCLE headquarters, where your cover will be confirmed... in case the subject wants to investigate you, which is unlikely."
"I will be a tourist?"
"No, you will be attending an international convention of physicists at the Hilton Hotel starting next Saturday. You and Mr. Solo will leave for Chicago on Wednesday before the convention begins. The local office will arrange for you to stay in a small apartment, maintaining a low profile, until it is time for you, Mr. Kuryakin, to move to the hotel late Friday afternoon. They will also provide the driver, vehicle, and equipment for a mobile listening station. Mr. Solo alone will handle the duties of eavesdropping and recording.
"The details of the initial contact with Mr. Kelly I will leave to the two of you. Our agents in Chicago have done some preliminary surveillance, and they will be able to give you the locations Dr. Kelly frequents.
"Oh, and Mr. Solo, you might take Mr. Kuryakin here to a good gentlemen's clothing establishment before you leave. Get him a well-cut blue blazer and two or three pairs of trousers, some shirts, ties. UNCLE will pay for them, but make sure they're off the rack."
Napoleon nodded. ~No silk pajamas?~ he thought.
Waverly continued. "What happens during the encounters, Mr. Kuryakin, is left to your best judgment and experience. I'm sure you realize the man has to utter a certain number of unambiguous phrases to incriminate himself, otherwise he can claim that the tape is spliced with innocent statements taken out of context."
Illya nodded. "Understood."
"Any questions, Gentlemen?"
Kuryakin shook his head. "No, Sir." Solo just stared at the table.
"Very well. The names of your contacts at the Chicago office and other details are in the folders."
They stood at the cue that the meeting was over, and left the office. There was silence between them as they strode purposefully down the hall, eyes straight ahead. When they reached Solo's office, Illya continued toward his own, but Napoleon grabbed his arm and steered him into his.
***
Solo stepped behind his desk and Kuryakin paced.
"What do you want to talk about, Napoleon?"
"Ah, the weather?"
Illya didn't look at him. "It's an assignment. It's cut and dried and packaged. There's no discussion."
Solo leaned back and looked his partner up and down. "I won't pretend to understand how you can do this kind of thing."
"Look, it's not as bad as getting shot at, or tied up and tortured. Just put it in perspective."
The CEA considered that, but he had more than just the usual qualms he felt in his gut on the eve of on an assignment. Those little butterflies were good--they kept him sharp and ready. But what he was feeling now was something different. Waverly's word was appropriate--distaste. He got a glimpse of how agitated his partner was about the mission as he had paced, but now Illya was seated on the couch, collecting himself.
Solo acknowledged the Russian's appraisal of the situation. "You're right. It is a relatively safe mission. It's just... emotionally charged."
"Only if you choose it to be," Illya said calmly, although he thought Napoleon would have used the word "sexually" instead of "emotionally."
Solo was mollified by Illya's acceptance of the mission that was before him. But he was still concerned for his reserved partner. This job would demand that he accept, even initiate, the most intimate of acts. Apparently he had been accustomed to it once, but that had been a long time ago.
"You dread it, don't you?"
Illya's stare was unfocused as he remembered. "What do you think?"
***
They arrived in Chicago the Wednesday before the physicists' conference was to begin. A car from the local UNCLE office collected them at O'Hare airport, then dropped them at a small residential hotel near Lincoln Park on the near north side of town. Greg Kelly's residence was far away on the south side, near Hyde Park and the University.
"Everything is secure in the apartment," the driver told them. "You don't have to worry about bugs. And even though the walls aren't soundproofed, it's an old, solid building and you shouldn't be overheard if you keep your voices at a normal level."
The apartment was on the third floor. It consisted of one large furnished room, plus a bath and a dressing room with closets and a bureau. The kitchenette with a table for two was divided from the rest of the living space by a good sized convertible sofa. A day bed was against the left wall. A comfortable chair in the right corner, a credenza, and a television completed the furnishings. There were tasteful accessories scattered throughout the room, and attractive framed prints on the walls.
In spite of the driver's assurances, the partners ran their usual security check throughout the apartment.
"This looks quite livable," Napoleon said, matter of factly, looking through the curtain sheers at the quiet street. His communicator wailed its familiar two tones.
"Solo here."
"This is Mike DeVolder. My partner and I just arrived and are heading up to meet with you. Would you buzz us in? The code word is Lancer."
Napoleon nodded in Illya's direction and the Russian took three steps into the entryway, then pressed the button on the intercom panel. He stayed there, listening for footsteps. The two Chicago agents arrived outside the door, not bothering to knock, allowing themselves to be observed through the peephole. Illya opened the door to them, and they strolled into the living area. Although they had never met, they'd studied photos of the New York agents.
"Mr. Solo? Mike DeVolder." He extended his hand and Napoleon shook it. "My partner, Al Mendoza." Solo shook his hand in turn.
"This is Illya Kuryakin." They both turned around to Illya and took turns shaking his hand. Solo registered a split-second of hesitancy in them before they did, and a glance between them afterward. Something inside him winced at it. They knew what Illya's assignment was, and Napoleon had the feeling they regarded his partner as some kind of deviant.
Solo indicated they should take seats on the sofa. The four of them made some friendly small talk about Chicago weather, then Napoleon spoke authoritatively. "Shall we get down to business, gentlemen?" It was not a question. Solo was Chief Enforcement Agent of all of North America, not just New York, and the Chicago team were slightly intimidated by him.
"I understand," he continued, "that you have recorded Kelly's activities around the city for the past two weeks."
"Yes, Sir." DeVolder presented Solo with a thickness of papers folded in thirds from inside his breast pocket. "One of the secretaries transcribed this so you wouldn't have to read my writing," he joked.
Solo eyed him and took the log. He opened it and began to scan the entries, leaving a long silence hanging in the room.
Illya smiled inwardly at Napoleon's deliberate action to make the two agents uncomfortable. He was simply conveying his dominance to the pack, and it was very effective. The Chicago duo fidgeted with rings and watches.
"I see there's a gourmet food shop in the Loop that he's visited at least three times," Napoleon finally said.
"Yes, Sir. Most of the time he stays in his neighborhood in Hyde Park, but when he comes downtown shopping or for a show, he always buys something from this store as well. He spends a lot of time looking at their wine collection. We thought that would be an ideal contact point." DeVolder was the senior partner of the two, and did most of the talking.
"What do you think, Illya?" Napoleon stretched out to hand the log to his partner, and Illya perused it. He didn't really need to, since the decision on where the meeting would take place was obvious to everyone, but Napoleon indicated that he wanted him to read it. He'd been through this before. Solo wanted the two agents to acknowledge his partner's authority as well.
"The wine shop seems the logical place," he answered.
"We have a tail on him and we'll keep you alerted to his whereabouts," DeVolder said. "You're due to check into the hotel late Friday afternoon, right?" Illya nodded. "So we'll be ready to move anytime after then, although I doubt if we'll pick him up until Saturday or Sunday."
Solo spoke, "You have the mobile unit ready to go?"
"Yes," answered DeVolder, "and here are the transmitters--three of them in case of breakage or technical problems, or more than one location. If you get a chance to test them before showtime, all the better."
Napoleon glared at the word "showtime", and DeVolder looked embarrassed. "I mean, well, no offense."
"This is a serious operation with serious consequences if it fails," Solo told the two Chicago agents in no uncertain terms.
They said almost in unison, "Yes, Sir."
***
The two New York agents laid low for the next forty-eight hours, using the time to plan for every contingency. How and where to plant the bug in a typical bedroom setting so murmuring voices could be heard. Key words to use in conversation to tip off Napoleon about this or that problem. A credible story that would explain the scars on Illya's body to the subject. A life history for the his alias. Every scenario they could think of that might interrupt or endanger the operation.
Napoleon didn't ask Illya about anything explicit, however. He knew his partner had the experience, and he didn't want to know the details anyway. His initial tension about the assignment had subsided. The Russian seemed to have accepted it philosophically, so he followed suit.
It was Thursday afternoon, midway between the time of their arrival and the commencement of their being on-call to meet the subject. There was time on their hands. Illya was lounging on the daybed reading the Tribune and Napoleon was stretched out on the sofa watching television. A Cubs game was being broadcast.
Napoleon turned to Illya with an idea. "What would you say to jumping in a cab and going up to Wrigley Field? It's not far and the game's just starting. The Great American Pastime--" he was already heading for the closet to get his jacket. "--good for getting lost in the crowd and taking your mind off things."
Illya didn't look up. "You go, Napoleon. It would be helpful if you would allow me some time alone anyway."
Napoleon stopped short. "Why?" he asked.
Illya's eyes met his reluctantly. "Don't ask."
Napoleon didn't really want to know, but he felt as if Illya had told him to vacate the premises so he could experiment with a new plastic explosive, or test a new drug.
"I'm your superior. Tell me," he said, but not in the voice of authority he typically used when pulling rank.
Illya gave in to a vague explanation, more in response to his partner's concern than to the half-hearted order. "I haven't done this in ten years. My body needs to become accustomed to it, so it's not...traumatized. And if you need it spelled out any clearer, then you're not as sexually sophisticated as your reputation suggests."
Napoleon ignored the snipe. He realized now what Illya had to do, if not exactly the method he would use. A mental picture flashed into his mind of his partner employing his own hand or an object to expand himself so he could be ready to accommodate Kelly easily. Ready to take him in without being injured in the process. And to make it appear that he frequently copulated in that manner.
The indignity of the preparation seemed to Napoleon almost as bad as the mission itself. The shared responsibilities of this assignment were grossly out of balance, and Solo was acutely aware of it. He made a quick decision, followed by a quick proposal, before he had a chance to think twice.
"I'm putting an offer on the table." He sat down to be on the same level with Illya and looked into his partner's eyes. "Don't do this yourself. Let me help you."
Illya looked at him blankly, then realized what his friend was volunteering to do. He never expected this of Solo. "No, Napoleon."
"It's time I pulled my weight on this assignment, do something other than be a glorified phone operator," he argued.
"But," Illya said incredulously, shaking his head, "you have such a strong self-image-- "
"And what is your self-image, Illya? You're not a prostitute, or even a one night stand."
"No, but--"
"Are you saying I can't handle a little role-playing, a little rehearsal? And not even undercover, but with you? I think I'm insulted." Solo wasn't giving up.
It was clear to Illya from the unwavering tone of Napoleon's voice that his partner would follow through with his offer. Now it was Illya's turn to commit to the idea. He had spent years at Napoleon's side, ready for anything. He'd always trusted the man himself, and his motives. But occasionally Illya questioned his judgment. This was one of those instances where a leap of faith would be required.
"Well?" Solo asked impatiently.
Kuryakin shrugged. "All right."
***
It was September and the days were getting shorter. Solo had pulled down the shades in the room, allowing the light to enter around their edges. They would be able to see without artificial light for probably another hour. The sofa bed had been pulled out, still made up from Napoleon sleeping in it the night before. He was sitting with his back against the cushions, naked under the sheet, listening to Illya rummaging around in the bathroom. He had detected a little nervousness in his Russian partner, but truth be told, he himself couldn't remember the last time he was this uncertain about a sexual encounter. Who would take the lead in this coupling? he wondered. Illya was the veteran when it came to same sex intercourse, but Napoleon was a sexual animal, and a bed was his lair.
How would this change things between them? Hopefully it wouldn't. He had no urges toward his partner, and was prepared to treat this like any other assignment, just as Illya was approaching his liaison with Kelly. They would try to let their instincts guide them for the next hour or so, take the experience in their stride, maybe even joke about it later.
Illya emerged from the bathroom in the lightweight robe they had purchased just for this assignment. He came around the bed and sat down casually, reaching into one pocket and pulling out an unopened tube of lubricant and a few condoms. "Do you want to use one of these?" he asked Napoleon. "It's up to you."
"I don't suppose you're going to get pregnant, are you?" Solo answered, trying to put them both at ease with some needling.
Illya shook his head tolerantly at Napoleon's lame joke, tossed the condom packages aside, and pulled the sheet down to get into the bed. He paused when he saw that his partner had shed all his clothes.
Napoleon smirked, "I'm ready."
The Russian sat down shoulder to shoulder with Solo, his knees up. "And have you devised a fool-proof plan?"
Napoleon looked at him sideways. "Are you implying that we're fools to do this?"
Illya sighed. "I'll reserve my opinion for later."
"Uh-huh. Well, my only plan is that you should be in control of the... ah..."
"On top?" Illya clarified. Napoleon nodded. "Right."
The position decided upon, Illya opened the lubricant, placed some in his hand, then gave the tube to his partner. Napoleon discreetly spread a generous amount on himself, trying to get his erection underway. He glanced at the Russian as he serviced himself, using the robe to hide the activity.
"Do you want me to help?" Solo asked, making the offer but not sure he wanted an acceptance.
Kuryakin shook his head. "I have already done some preparation in the bathroom." He withdrew his hand and cleaned it on one of the towels he had brought to the bedside, then efficiently handed the other to Napoleon.
There was a long silence.
"Say when," said Solo. At Illya's nod, he rested his left hand on the Russian's knee, then let it glide down the inside of his thigh, all the time watching his face to read his reactions. He touched his partner's genitals.
He, Napoleon Solo, was curling his fingers around another man. He steadied himself. This was no time for second thoughts. And the penis he held belonged to Illya. If he couldn't do this for him...
In other circumstances, Napoleon would have kissed his bedmate, spent a long time with foreplay. He was sure Illya wouldn't sit still for that, and he was correct. After just a few seconds of being fondled, the Russian got on his knees and straddled his partner. He knelt above him, resting his hands on Solo's shoulders..
"Uh, do you want to keep the robe on?" Napoleon asked him, toying with the hem.
Illya unbelted the robe and opened it to allow Napoleon access, but some strange new modesty made him want to leave it on, at least technically. "Yes, for now. Do you mind?"
"Whatever makes you comfortable," his partner assured him.
"I will have to lose these inhibitions with Kelly," Illya said, seeming to merely think out loud.
Hearing Illya say the name of the man he would soon be intimate with made Napoleon's stomach clench. He swallowed, surprised at the reaction, and took a breath. Illya hadn't noticed anything. He was too involved with his own mental exercises. The Russian now had a look of concentration.
"Napoleon, start something, will you?" he said impatiently.
His partner looked up at him and then down at his nude torso, framed by the open robe. He parted it further and carefully placed his hand on the smooth skin of Illya's hip, feeling him flinch at the personal touch, then looked up at him again. Force of habit made Napoleon reach around Illya's neck and pull his mouth down to him for a tentative kiss. Then a surer one.
"I didn't know you were going to kiss me," Illya said, rather nonplused.
"That's part of the process, don't you think?" Napoleon asked him, although almost apologetically.
"Let's just get on with it." Napoleon's kiss had caught Illya off guard. One corner of his mind told him he'd enjoyed it, but enjoyment was not the object of the exercise. The physical contact of skin on skin would soon arouse them both without collateral activity. A scientific approach would work best here.
Illya set about at some mechanical groping and touching, willing his genitals to shift into automatic as soon as possible, and communicating to Napoleon that this was the tone their joining would take.
Solo acquiesced, but was beginning to wish the atmosphere wasn't so impersonal. They were doing this for U.N.C.L.E., but, he and Illya were good friends, the closest of friends.
After a few moments both their bodies responded to stimulation and Illya steeled himself for entry. Every move they made to accomplish that was awkward, however. The attempts at penetration started and stopped when the robe got between them, when a muscle in Illya's leg got a cramp, while they readjusted and rearranged themselves. The atmosphere was growing tense and hardly conducive to the objective. Napoleon had had an easier time when he lost his virginity at sixteen. He was determined to change the whole tone of the sex without discouraging his partner from participating.
"Illya. Let's regroup."
Kuryakin sighed with frustration and dismounted. Napoleon put his arm around his shoulders, keeping them in physical contact. "Okay, just sit still and we'll talk about this."
"I know you mean to be helpful," the Russian objected," but I should not have agreed to this." He did not bolt from the bed, however, as Napoleon was afraid he might.
Solo entwined his left leg with Illya's right and jostled it playfully, receiving a weak smile in return. He pulled his partner closer to him as he would under conspiratorial conditions, lowering his voice. "Listen, we're just going to have to change our tactics." Adapting field terms to the problem would be helpful. "We'll do this one of two ways," he proposed. "One, you have to completely immerse yourself in the persona that you'll use with Kelly, and pretend that I'm the professor."
Kuryakin shook his head stubbornly and avoided his partner's eyes. "We know each other too well, Napoleon. I can't be someone else with you, like I can with a stranger. Not unless one of our lives depends on it anyway."
"The second option then," Solo continued. He took a deep breath, his mouth inches from the Russian's ear. "We draw on the affection we have for each other as longtime partners, take it to the next level, and make genuine love to each other." Illya turned his head and looked at him with a hint of alarm, then looked away and inwardly began to rationalize the idea.
He didn't desire Napoleon, but he supposed he did love him. He'd never really considered it. Or maybe he had, when shock or hypothermia or other perils of their profession caused them to be physically close. Maybe it wouldn't be so strange...
Solo waited. Illya continued his deliberation and Napoleon couldn't read his thoughts. After a minute he made the choice for both of them.
He touched his partner's jaw and turned his face toward him. He dropped his gaze to Illya's lips, indicating what his next move was going to be, giving his partner a few seconds to get used to the idea. Solo had taken note of Illya's most attractive attributes when they'd first met, as he did with everyone he met. Now he looked at the pair of lips he was about to taste and remembered when he'd first seen them. They were full, sensuous.
Solo cocked his head to the side and lightly kissed his partner once. Then again. Illya's head tilted back, his throat arching slightly. A third kiss was longer. Then deeper. Again Solo waited..
Illya's breathing was shallow. He looked at Napoleon's mouth like it was a separate entity, seducing him, then his own mouth slowly reached for it, and repeated the kisses, adding more.
They both relaxed. "You and I are always good together, Illya, whatever we do," Napoleon assured him.
The Russian looked at him cautiously. "We weren't a few minutes ago."
"That was the exception that proved the rule."
"I'll never understand that adage, Napol--." The end of the sentence was muffled as their lips met again. The duration, the depth, of the kisses increased. The tenderness they felt for each other surfaced and surprised them both.
Solo whispered. "Let's really enjoy this, huh?"
"All right." the Russian whispered back, his breath flowing into Napoleon's mouth.
The lovemaking proceeded smoothly, with a few minor missteps to remind them that this was a fresh experience. They picked up on most of the new physical cues quickly. Each minute that passed was accompanied by another lesson learned about the other.
"I didn't know you were ticklish there," Solo said, grinning.
Illya gasped, wishing he still didn't. "I will find your weak spot yet, Napoleon." And he continued to try.
Their sexplay became bolder, making the transitions from gentle to teasing to rough-house and back again. Inhibitions gradually became ancient history.
The open robe finally came off.
Illya moved to straddle Solo once more. Napoleon stifled his need during the actual penetration, not rushing him, keeping in mind the objective, but even more his concern for his partner. He did what he could to support Illya's body as he sank down, as the intimate passage was carefully opened and stretched. There would be no injury, and as little discomfort as possible. Solo saw the look of appreciation for his efforts in the Russian's eyes. Napoleon winked at him, trying to keep the emotions light, the atmosphere unstrained.
Illya wondered how he could have ever doubted the wisdom of this.
They were, at last, totally joined, the mission accomplished. They looked at each other for a long minute, and the objective seemed to change in mid-assignment. Their mouths met fiercely, each of them greedily seeking more pleasure, need becoming more intense. They rocked together, their labored breathing the only sound in the ever darkening room.
The Russian raised himself, and began to slowly ride the American's cock, letting it draw out until only the head was inside, then sinking completely onto it again. He gradually increased the tempo, holding on to Solo's shoulders, losing himself in the sensations.
A ragged voice came to his ears. "Faster, Illya."
Kuryakin's fuzzy consciousness detected an order, and his leg and back muscles responded, lifting him up and down on the wonderfully thick cock, faster, harder, driving himself and his partner closer and closer. His own cock was being handled now, the shaft encased in a warm hand, fingertips circling the moist head. Illya closed his throat, aborting a cry as he exploded. It rocked through him like a seizure, his head falling back and then forward.
His partner watched the lean body, felt the inner muscles gripping his buried cock, and followed the Russian into completion. His hands moved from Illya's shuddering penis to hold on to the Russian's hips, both of them panting with the ebbing of their orgasms. They were both weak, and held on to each other until they could breathe easier.
Illya's head sank to Solo's shoulder, his body relaxing warmly against him. Napoleon was gradually transformed from lover and sex partner, to friend and brother again. His hands on Illya's back were no longer sensuous, but firm and supporting. His familiar voice was back, too. "You all right, partner?"
Illya nodded into his shoulder, then fell to the side, gingerly putting most of his weight on one buttock.
"I'm fine," Illya answered.
"You're not in pain?" Solo asked as he massaged Illya's leg, fairly certain he would be sore from the penetration after the sexual euphoria had worn off.
Illya appreciated the final caresses that brought a close to their lovemaking. But he wanted a quick return to their familiar relationship.
"I didn't feel a thing," he said, deadpanning the ego-deflating insinuation.
Napoleon nodded, his hand slowing on the leg. "Hmm." He glanced around the room. "Where's my gun?"
Illya chuckled and Napoleon grabbed a pillow. "This will do," he said as he began to smother his partner. Illya fought him off and he ended his mock assassination attempt, stalking off to the bathroom. The Russian pulled the sheet over his middle and lay on the bed listening to the sounds of faucets being turned on and off, a washcloth being rung out.
He took an emotional inventory. The love and trust he shared with Napoleon was still solid. He was delighted with their sexual encounter and toyed with the idea that it might occur again, but there was no ache in his heart for him, no romantic notions. Only the sense that their friendship was even stronger than before. Their post-sex horseplay assured him that nothing had damaged the status quo.
Napoleon's proposal had been more than a success. Illya felt confident about the next few days, his anxiety lessened. He did not relish sharing his body with a stranger, but the physical worry had abated. And the knowledge that Napoleon would be the one on the other end of the transmitter, backing him up, would provide all the moral support he needed.
His thoughts were interrupted by a wet washcloth tossed on his chest. Napoleon was putting his t-shirt back on, munching on a cracker he'd grabbed out of a box on the kitchen counter. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his socks, then stood looking for his pants.
"You know, all I want is a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou..." he announced, zipping up his trousers. "but I've already had thou, so let's go get some dinner."
Illya chuckled again and went to clean himself further in the bathroom. A few minutes later they were headed down the street to a little deli they'd found earlier. They ordered some soup and hot sandwiches to go, and picked out some rolls and fruit for breakfast the next day. As they walked back to the tiny apartment, Napoleon inhaled long, deep breaths of the evening air.
"Feeling a bit smug, are we?" Illya asked, eyebrows raised.
Solo glanced his way. "What WOULD you do without me, partner?"
"I'd think of something." Illya assured him.
***
Friday morning was dark and rainy. Solo and Kuryakin had platonically slept together on the sofa bed after a late evening of playing cards. Illya woke before his partner and sat slumped against the cushions, his hands laced together behind his head, studying the raindrops rolling down the windows. He let his mind go blank for the time being, knowing that when Napoleon woke they would go over their plans again. He felt contented, even peaceful. Solo stirred next to him, opened his eyes briefly, and rolled away at the sight of the rain, falling into sleep again. Illya wished he could stop time.
The amazing events of the evening before were still fresh in his mind. His bottom remembered them, too, but the soreness wasn't so bad. Maybe he should ask Napoleon to perform the service a second time. Somehow he doubted that his friend would mind. He'd been stunned when Solo had first made the offer, but he should have known that his libidinous partner would take this in his stride. And how could he himself have had any hesitancy about allowing his ultimate ally do this favor for him?
Half an hour later Napoleon woke, somewhat uncommunicative. Illya got their continental breakfast together on a tray, and was eating in bed when his partner returned from the bathroom.
"Ahh, room service," he said sleepily, his usual humor returning. They sat on the bed together, eating orange slices, downing the rolls, not talking much. The patter of the rain was soothing, and they both relaxed against the back of the sofa.
"So... " Napoleon said at last, "are you more comfortable with this assignment now?"
"Yes. Thanks to you, Napoleon," Illya answered with sincerity.
"Is there anything I can do to make you even MORE comfortable with this assignment?" Solo asked him in a suggestive tone.
Illya smiled.
***
Kuryakin arrived at the Chicago Hilton at 4 p.m. in an airport shuttle bus. He carried his own luggage up to his room on the 16th floor. The UNCLE regional office had arranged a front room with a beautiful view of the lake, the park, and the museums in the distance. The tourist guidebook on the desk told him he was close to the Art Institute, theaters, and a wealth of department stores and book stores. The room was tastefully appointed with good wood furniture and subdued colors. Not a modern laminate or wild patterned bedspread in sight. Illya relished the thought of having this ivory tower to himself for a few days. When he wasn't working, of course.
He thought of Napoleon back in the studio apartment and smiled. For once Illya was going first class, and his partner had the hole-in-the-wall. Not that the little place was so bad. In fact, the Russian would always have fond memories of it.
Their sex that morning had begun lazily. Napoleon again insisted that they enjoy the experience, and Illya did not question success. There was extended foreplay, accompanied by conversation. It started with silly conjecture about people at HQ and how they would make love. Accountants, security personnel, translators--each profession was drawn and quartered with jokes and demonstrations. They laughed while they became aroused. It was playful sex. Fun. Groping, wrestling, then passionate. Explosive.
They lay together in the afterglow, feeling nothing but affection for each other. The conversation evolved into more serious, more personal subjects. They spoke about their pasts before they met, and their past together. Little feelings were revealed. Regrets voiced. Nothing earth shattering, but candid and open. Until it was time to go back to the real world.
Illya was no longer sure his feelings for Napoleon were merely those of a devoted friend and partner, although he chastised himself at the thought of "merely". Their partnership was sacred. And enough. More than enough.
Illya unpacked his bags and hung his clothing in the generous closet, then arranged his toiletries in the bathroom. The evening would probably be his alone, and he intended to explore Michigan Avenue, a unique plan shared with a thousand other physicists who had descended on the city. The weather had cleared and it was Friday night, a good time for strolling and people-watching. As the Russian passed through the lobby, an easel that held a calendar of events for the conference caught his attention. There were quite a few seminars that looked interesting. He wondered if the name badge that had been issued to him gave him admission to every program.
The revolving door deposited him onto the broad boulevard. He enjoyed the bustle of a city. His own home of New York--it was his home now--held discoveries and surprises around every corner. Chicago proved to offer the same in the times he'd been here, once on his own, more often with Napoleon. There was a German restaurant they liked in the Loop. Maybe they could dine there before they left for home.
The Russian spent the next couple of hours wandering up the avenue, stopping at gallery windows, browsing book stores. He got a bite to eat at a coffee shop, watching the passersby through the painted letters on the plate glass window. A delicious-looking piece of chocolate layer cake had just been delivered to him when his communicator demanded his attention. He removed it from his pocket and held it cradled in his fingers like a fork, speaking matter-of-factly. "Kuryakin."
"Illya, where are you?"
"I am in a little restaurant just off Michigan Avenue on..." he squinted to read the sign down the street ..."Randolph."
"Stay there. I'm on my way."
There was an urgency in his partner's voice. Illya knew from past experience that he had better eat his dessert quickly or he would go without. The last bite was on his fork as Napoleon appeared at the door, spotted him, and slid into the booth beside him.
"An unexpected development. Mendoza followed Kelly to the Shubert theater, just a few blocks away. Our professor bought one of the last available tickets for the show, and Mendoza bought the seat right next to his. It's a prime opportunity, better than the wine shop, but it's almost curtain time so we've got to get you over there fast."
Illya nodded, swallowing, and Napoleon stood up and headed back out the door. Kuryakin hadn't planned on a meeting tonight, but maybe the sooner he got this over with, the better. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, pulled out his money clip and tossed some bills on the table to take care of his tab and tip, then followed his partner out the door and into the waiting car.
They sat together in the back seat as the driver broke a few traffic laws en route to the theater. Their brains shifted into professional mode.
"You'll have to take my gun," Kuryakin said as he stripped off his jacket and the leather shoulder holster. He frowned as he put the jacket on again. "I left the transmitters in my room at the hotel."
"Don't worry, I'm always prepared for your blunders," Solo cracked as he attached a transmitter to his own handkerchief, then arranged the square cloth in the pocket of Illya's blazer. "Try not to disturb this, okay?"
"I think I know how to handle these things," Illya said with annoyance, but under his breath so the driver would not hear his insubordination. "Oh, here's the spare key to my hotel room." He dug in his pants pocket, then dropped the key into his partner's breast pocket. "Where are you going to be?"
"The mobile unit is on its way to the theater, might already be there. I'll transfer to it right away." They both swayed sideways as the driver took a corner, and Solo grasped his partner's shoulders for a second. "We have to be within about two blocks of you, and that includes vertical distance, so don't take any moonlight helicopter tours," he warned him facetiously.
The driver stopped a block past the theater and Illya doubled back hurriedly. He noted a bakery delivery truck parked in an alley, presumably to service the scattered restaurants in the area. Mendoza was standing outside the theater casually smoking a cigarette, and the agent handed the ticket off to Illya without even a look. Kuryakin stepped into the foyer and presented it to a uniformed woman.
"Hurry, Sir, or you'll miss the start," she advised, and waved him in the direction of the balcony staircase. He was the only straggler left in the lobby so he took the red carpeted stairs two at a time, then found the correct aisle entrance. The usher escorted him in and indicated his row with a narrow flashlight beam.
The production was a musical. The overture had just ended and the curtain was about to rise. Illya made his way past a few seated patrons, apologizing as he went. He recognized Kelly sitting in the semi-darkness, his eyes straight ahead at the stage. Illya brushed past his knees and settled into the seat to his left.
"Terribly sorry." he whispered, out of breath. Kelly did a double take as it registered that there was an attractive male sitting next to him. The stranger's blond hair caught the existing light even this far up in the darkened balcony. Illya pretended to be oblivious to the subtle inspection being done of him, and turned his complete attention to the performance. His concentration didn't waver for the next hour, looking neither left or right.
At intermission, Kuryakin abruptly left his seat and exited the row in the opposite direction, vanishing into the crowd. He played hard to get in the lobby below, ducking into a convenient alcove where he wasn't likely to be discovered. He could see Kelly milling around with the other theatergoers, casually looking for someone. ~I wonder who.~ Illya thought, not at all embarrassed of his self-assurance.
A lifetime of second glances confirmed to him that his looks were appealing. They were more a curse than a blessing, however. The KGB had exploited him. UNCLE's enemies sometimes lusted after him, making him even more vulnerable than other agents when he was captured. Young ladies flirted with him at the most inopportune times, and old ladies wanted to help him cross the street.
He spoke in a voice only loud enough to reach his handkerchief. "I'm sure I'll be engaged in conversation before the next act begins." The explanation wasn't necessary, but Illya felt the need to communicate with his partner, if only to test the transmitter.
The mental picture of Solo hunched over assorted equipment in the back of a bakery truck amused Kuryakin. As he climbed the balcony stairs again minutes later, he couldn't resist a little dig. "Do you smell of donuts yet, Napoleon?" he murmured, tickled that he could harass his friend at every opportunity, and Solo would not be able to respond. His communicator vibrated, and he tsked. Reaching the mezzanine, he ducked into an employee stairwell and uncapped the device, "If you insist on bothering me, I won't have a chance to..."
I do apologize for bothering you, Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya straightened at attention at Waverly's voice."Sir! It's no bother."
"Mr. Solo tells me you've made contact."
"Yes, Sir. I'm sure the subject and I will be acquainted before the evening ends."
"Carry on, then." said Waverly, signing off. Illya took a deep breath. The communicator went off again as he started to leave the stairwell. He backed up and answered it more cautiously this time, only to hear chuckling on the other end. Illya cut his partner off without a word, shoved the communicator into his inside pocket and headed toward his seat.
Kelly was already there when Illya returned. The professor immediately struck up a conversation. "Did you enjoy the first act?" he asked.
"Very talented cast," Kuryakin answered vaguely, leafing through the Playbill.
"A musical can really lift your spirits after a long week," Kelly stated, giving Illya what he considered his most charming smile.
Illya didn't want to be too agreeable. "I prefer a play. Unfortunately, the one I intended to see was sold out this evening."
His eyes met Kelly's, and the professor saw for the first time how blue they were. And how could one raised eyebrow be so mesmerizing?
"Do you mind if I ask you what nationality you are?" Kelly questioned him. "I can't quite place your accent." There were faculty and students from all over the globe at the university, so foreigners were no novelty to the professor. But this one...
Kuryakin had purposely made his accent more pronounced. "I am Russian by birth, but spent a few years in Germany."
Kelly drank in the Russian's eyes, the skin, the trim body... "How long have you been in this country, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I escaped the Eastern bloc five years ago," Illya answered, becoming more fascinating by the second.
"Escaped!"
Illya nodded, but looked away, seeming reluctant to offer any more information. Kelly took the hint. The second act was about to begin, however, and his time to engage the exotic foreigner in conversation was limited.
"So do you live in Chicago now? Or are you here on business?" Rather prying, he thought, but nothing ventured...
"I live in New York and am here to attend a convention." Illya smiled softly at the professor, holding his eyes, giving him the opening he sought. "Perhaps you could recommend some nightspots."
Kelly's breath caught in his throat. "I'd be happy to. Would you care for some company? The city can be confusing sometimes."
"That is very hospitable. Thank you," Illya answered as the curtain went up.
For the next hour Kelly sat back in his seat, sneaking glances at the beautiful stranger next to him. His acceptance of the invitation was a good signal. Fantasies of what might occur tonight were much more entertaining than what was on stage. The professor focused on the Russian's hands holding the rolled-up playbill, his fingertips tapping it with the beat of the music. Kelly flushed at what it suggested.
The show ended at last and they stood to applaud through two curtain calls, murmuring approval of the production. The lights came up and Kelly let the attractive stranger lead the way as they merged with the crowd and slowly moved en masse down the staircase and through the lobby. The professor took advantage of the close conditions to lean into the Russian a couple of times, laughing in apology. The instant absolution he received was encouraging. He touched the small of the blond's back to steer him out the door.
Once they were on the street he turned to his new-found friend. "Do you have any preferences? To type of place, I mean."
"I enjoy jazz," the stranger said, hopefully. There was a light in his eyes when he said it, and Kelly decided he'd do anything to keep that spark from fading.
"There's a famous jazz club on Rush Street," the professor said enthusiastically, and motioned north. "Named after me, as a matter of fact, 'Mr. Kelly's!'" he laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't even introduced myself. Greg Kelly." He held out his hand.
"How do you do, Grigorii," Illya said, accepting the hand, giving it a tender squeeze. "Andrei Petrovich Stepanov."
Kelly smiled, thrilled at the translation of his name, then hailed one of the waiting cabs. ~Andrei.~ The professor repeated the name in his head several times. Imagined himself whispering it, his lips touching the silky blond hair. Then he shook off the fantasy . It wasn't good to be so smitten, he thought. That feeling had led him to disaster before. Whatever happened tonight, part of him must remain on guard.
***
Illya reveled in the music at the renowned jazz club. He would have been delighted to stay there until closing, but his companion was subtly rubbing his temple, and unfortunately, duty called. The Russian asked Kelly if he would like to depart, and the professor deferred. "Not unless you do."
Andrei did. The smoke was bothering him, he said. They walked along Rush Street, catching bits of music spilling from the bars along the way. They were approached by a barker outside a strip club. "Hey, guys, great show! Come on in! Beautiful girls!" Illya's first thought was that it was lucky Napoleon wasn't with him. Then he chuckled to himself at the absurdity of that. He'd better start concentrating.
The two avoided each other's eyes, walked past the strip club and turned east to slowly stroll the quiet blocks to north Michigan Avenue.
"You know," Kelly said softly, "that establishment wasn't exactly to my taste."
Illya nodded. "I appreciate your sensibilities, Grigorii."
Kelly melted. He wanted this man. "Where are you staying, Andrei?"
"At the Hilton."
"Are you with the physicists' conference?!" There were always half a dozen conventions in town and it hadn't occurred to him that his new Russian friend might be a fellow scientist.
Andrei nodded and Kelly grinned. "I minored in physics. My Ph.D. is in chemistry, though. I teach at one of the universities here."
"It is a small world," Andrei responded with a pleased expression.
They spent the next ten minutes exchanging academic histories, questioning each other about their specialties, talking like colleagues. Illya believed his credibility was firmly established.
Kelly dropped his voice to a confidential level. "Do you mind if I... accompany you to your hotel? Maybe we can get to know each other better."
The Russian stopped walking and Kelly held his breath. Andrei didn't speak for a minute. He looked up and down the darkened street, hesitant, considering the proposal. Kelly was anxious. Andrei had had all evening to think about this. Surely their signals hadn't crossed, surely they were simpatico.
Neither Illya nor Napoleon had expected Kelly would want to come to Illya's hotel room. The professor had always arranged the accommodations with the former lovers of which UNCLE was aware. Illya mentally searched his room for anything that might give him away. His gun and shoulder holster were with Solo. The security equipment was locked in his luggage. The transmitters were in a small shaving kit on the closet shelf. Too bad he didn't have one already planted. How could they have not considered this?
Andrei looked up at Kelly with eyes full of possibilities. He smiled. "I would like that very much."
---Napoleon gave a heavy sigh.---
***
End of part one.