“Your boys have grown very close,” Carlo Farenti said.

“My boys!” Alexander Waverly exclaimed. Then he modulated his tone, introducing a trace of a chuckle. “My boys? Really, Carlo, they are hardly boys.” Farenti had a way of getting under his skin with his offhanded remarks as pointed as stilettos.

Farenti lit a filter less Gitane and smiled. He spread his hands wide, shrugging an apology. “Your young men then, Alexander. Don’t you find these agents seem to grow younger and younger as the years go by?  I still think of Illya as the boy he was when we first met him.”

Here we go again. Waverly was already several moves ahead of his friend, no longer a counterpart, more like a thorn in his side. He looked around the conference room for his tobacco and did not see his pipe rack and humidor. The Geneva office looked so much like his own he had momentarily forgotten he was not in New York, though he still felt in charge. Then he noticed the unsightly sofa and the uninspired watercolor still life on the wall above it, not to mention the clunky, old-fashioned lamp. How could he have mistaken this for his office?  

He considered asking Carlo for a cigarette and dismissed the idea not wanting to appear needy or weak. “Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly emphasized his enforcement agent’s surname, “is indeed not the boy he was when we met him. That was a long time ago.”

Farenti blew a stream of smoke across the conference table and frowned. “I guess it was. Don’t you find the time flies so as we get older? The years go by so quickly now, like a blur.” He fluttered the fingers of one hand in a waving motion.

Here was Farenti’s problem in a nutshell. He lived in the past, had not kept up, his mind a snarl of regret and nostalgia. Time moved on as it always had and did not march any quicker to the self-involved whims of old men. Time had passed Carlo by which is why he headed the Geneva office and not Europe. Waverly did not consider himself old and disliked the company of old men. Friends like Carlo, old friends, only reminded Waverly of how different he was. “It was a long time ago,” Waverly repeated and reached for Carlo’s pack of cigarettes without asking.

“But your b…” Farenti tripped on the syllable artlessly before correcting himself, “your agents did a fine job today. My compliments. They are most impressive.”

Farenti watched Waverly’s fumbling gestures for just a moment before producing a gold lighter from his breast pocket. He leaned forward and touched the flame to Waverly’s cigarette with continental aplomb. “Thank you, “ Waverly said and inhaled. “They have proved an excellent team.”

“Indeed.” Farenti lit another cigarette for himself, his first still smoldered in the cut glass ashtray on the table. “They are remarkable. The best in the organization. And do you recall you worried about Il…” again he stumbled in his arch way before correcting himself, “about Mr. Kuryakin’s ability to work with others. I believe you had the same concerns about Mr. Solo. All for naught.”

Their eyes met. “Yes, all for naught, as you say. They have formed an excellent association.”

The two old friends shared a companionable silence, both lost in thought. Farenti interrupted it finally. “Would you like a coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Brandy if you have it.”

“Of course.” Farenti flipped a toggle switch and a comely girl entered the conference room. “Astrid, <A, this was here from the getgo> would you please pour us two brandies.”

She nodded and soon produced two generous snifters. “Would you like me to make coffee?” she asked in lilting, gently accented English.

“No. Perhaps later.”

Waverly watched her leave, appreciating the snugness of her skirt and the sway of her hips. She hadn’t flirted the way the girls did in New York, especially that bold McNabb girl. He had never really considered it but did the girls flirt because they were American? Or because of his Section Two agents? Solo and Kuryakin were, after all, so often in his office. Did they only include him, the old man, out of pity, a sense of obligation?  No, no, no, he had gone one on one often enough, even with Napoleon Solo, to know he still had it. Carlo had decided to grow old and his staff only reflected the decision. You’re as old as you feel. Waverly grimaced at the tired cliché. Truth be told sometimes he felt very old indeed.

Another companionable silence as they sipped their brandies—old friends, older silences. Again Farenti interrupted. He lifted his glass and touched it to Waverly’s. “Alex, once more I applaud you, a fine judge of character. I’ll admit I never even noticed Mr. Kuryakin at that meeting. You were five steps ahead of me.”

“Five?” Waverly chuckled. “At least. You were and are a snob, never one to hobnob with the hired help.” Waverly lessened the sting of his remark by again touching Farenti’s glass with his own. Another toast.

Farenti spread his arms wide and grinned ear-to-ear. “I admit it. I missed the Macbeth-reading Russian wunderkind.”

Waverly took a long swig of brandy. “Who grew up and has made us all proud.”

“Especially you, Alexander. You who won’t let him go.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Waverly did not ask in innocence. He knew. The Europeans, all of them, not just Farenti, wanted Kuryakin returned. As if he had been stolen from them, as if they had ever expressed interest in him until he was a success. Success, after all, has many mothers—failure an orphan. Kuryakin was not a failure but an orphan. Now he had many mothers.

“It’s an anomaly, you know it.” Farenti took a long draw from his snifter. “Mr. Solo is the Chief Enforcement Agent of North America and Mr. Kuryakin is the second in command. And yet, they are so often partnered. I don’t question their success in the field. But you have to admit it is irregular. If, God forbid,” Farenti made a quick sign of the cross, “something should happen to Solo. Would you really promote Kuryakin?”

“Of course.”

Farenti scowled. “You are fooling yourself. In America?”

“But I would.  He is not a token. I know the direction of this conversation and I would hope we could talk about something else.”

“Most irregular,” Farenti repeated, ignoring Waverly’s appeal. “Brian Morton doesn’t even have a partner. Nor does he work out of the Berlin office.”

“You needn’t describe our organization’s structure or arrangement. I am familiar with it.” Waverly inhaled on his cigarette and coughed. At his last checkup his doctor had warned him against smoking; he even distained the tamer pipe. But a man needed his vices.

“Morton is not the right choice for CEA of Europe,” Farenti said. “He lacks languages, for one, and he’s smug, too much of the Eton playing fields in him. Why do you think we’re always calling your boys, forgive me, your agents over here? You wouldn’t even allow Morton to organize this conference, not to mention any of my lowly agents.”

Waverly consulted his watch. He had heard this all before and was finding Carlo tedious. “Morton is Harry’s choice and his concern. Yes, I partnered my number one and two agents and you’ve admitted it yourself: it has proved most effective.”

“But, Alexander, that is because you have the top two agents with you. Kuryakin should be in Europe. Harry has told you the same thing. You remain obstinate.”

Waverly shrugged and looked at his watch again. A cow on the tracks, of all absurdities, delayed their train journey and he had missed his flight. Now he would spend the night in Geneva and hoped to find a way of bowing out of dinner with Carlo. Certainly he had work to do, he always did. He took a sip of his brandy and stubbed out his cigarette. He wished Solo and Kuryakin would return though they hadn’t been in the infirmary for even a half-hour. Keeping the impatience from his voice, Waverly said, “Carlo, I really don’t want to talk about this. You are beating a dead horse. Mr. Kuryakin has no desire to return to Europe.”

“You’ve asked him?”

“Harry has. Kuryakin has made a home in New York City, perhaps the first home he’s had since he was a boy. Why fix something that isn’t broken?”

Farenti reached for his pack of cigarettes on the conference table. “I can well imagine Illya would not want to work with Beldon. That man’s excesses grow more pronounced by the day.” Again, Farenti made a waving motion with his free hand, the other drawing another cigarette to his mouth. He lit it, inhaled and blew a smoke ring to the ceiling. “At times I find him a disgrace and I don’t . . .” His hand again fluttered, dismissing the thought even as he acknowledged it: that he should not have been passed by for the likes of Harry Beldon. “Illya would not have to work in Berlin. He could return to Paris or here.”

“You are free to ask him.”

“And I will. No doubt he will refuse. Open your eyes. Your agents are too close.”

Waverly set his brandy snifter on the table with more force than he intended. “What are you implying?”

“I am not implying anything, merely stating what is obvious. Did you watch them on the train?”

The train? Waverly had paid little attention to them—he had been talking to Carlo. “Preposterous. Mr. Solo dates half the girls at the New York headquarters and the other half form a queue for his attentions. Of all the underhanded tactics…” Waverly grabbed Farenti’s pack of cigarettes, extracting one and waited impatiently for it to be lit. “It is deplorable you would besmirch their reputations. I well understand why you would want Kuryakin in Europe but you had your chance. As you’ll recall, he worked with Beldon—he had his chance as well. He is my agent now. I developed him, I gave him the opportunity. To use his friendship with Mr. Solo…”

Farenti spread his hands wide and lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if in prayer. “Did you watch them on the train? Sometime when we are so close to a situation, what is the expression? We miss the forest for the trees.”

Waverly drew on the cigarette, inhaling though his nose as deeply as possible, just what the doctor had not ordered. “We bored them, Carlo. We are old men, telling tales of irrelevancy. We talked about the old days and their time is the present.”

“I do not disagree. But I watched them. Did you?”

Did he watch them?  He took little notice of his agents who had come through once again, of whom he felt proud. Kuryakin had stared out the window, his nose almost against the pane, withdrawn and uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. Hell, he had been whipped or some damn thing. The pain was etched in his eyes. He contributed nothing to the conversation, not even a glance of respectful interest. But that was sometimes Kuryakin’s way and the Russian’s introspection suited Waverly just fine. Quiet and even shy, he was sometimes a refreshing change from the usual brash Section Two agents.

Solo, on the other hand, had been his usual charming, urbane self. What was Carlo talking about? Of course, his focus strayed at times to his injured friend. That showed a nice spirit. “Your assertions are preposterous.”

“They are subtle, I’ll give them that. You said yourself Illya has found a home in New York, has put down roots, so to speak. It is not his nature. Alexander, you are a fine judge of character. I can’t believe you are turning a blind eye to your agents’ friendship.” Farenti emphasized the word “friendship” as if it were an ominous condition, like a virulent cancer.  

“Of course they are friends. They were friends before I paired them and their unlikely association delighted me. They became an outstanding team because they balance each other. The friendship is not a liability to our organization—hardly—it is a clear asset.”

“So you are prepared to ignore the rest of it, as long as they produce?” Farenti shook his head slowly. “You have always been a pragmatist but can you imagine the repercussions to our organization? Our tentative and hard-fought ties to the Soviet Union would be damaged, possibly destroyed for one.”

“Good grief, man. There is nothing between them.” Waverly inhaled his cigarette and assumed a casual air he did not feel. “You have my permission to make your proposal to Mr. Kuryakin. Go ahead and offer him Europe. Harry Beldon put you up to this, didn’t he? I can smell his unsavory influence. I’ll stand aside. I’ll let Mr. Kuryakin go if that is his decision. But, good Lord, do not threaten him with your unfounded allegations.”

Farenti smiled, a sly expression in his eyes like a cat ready to pounce. “So munificent of you, so generous. You know very well he won’t leave Solo unless you separate them. And you should separate them.”

“I will not stand in his way but I will not be bullied. I have no intention of separating them.”

“No, you continue to put the New York office above the interests of the organization.”

Oh, this was Beldon talking, not Farenti. Harry had said almost the same thing to him recently on a conference call. “I’ll do no such thing. May I remind you I built this organization from the ground up? How dare you use our best agents’ friendship as leverage for your own purposes, your own failure to develop talent?”  

 “Our purposes,” Farenti corrected, his tone dry. “If there is nothing to my allegations, have them followed. You are playing with fire, my friend.”

Waverly scowled. The idea of tailing Solo and Kuryakin went against every principle he possessed. “I will authorize no such thing.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Our conversation is at an end. Would you please organize a car to take me to my hotel? I have work to do. And you can tell Harry Beldon,” he continued as he stood, turning to retrieve his hat from the ugly couch, “ I find these tactics reprehensible.”

Farenti nodded, looking more sad than defeated. “I had hoped we could go to dinner and I’d like to include Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. I should imagine Illya will be out of the infirmary soon.”

Waverly warred with himself for a moment, not wishing to accept the invitation but also not wishing to appear petty. Carlo was his oldest friend, after all, so much water under the dam. Moreover, if he refused it might appear he wanted to spare his agents Carlo’s scrutiny. Maybe if he watched them together he would see their friendship for what it was, a clear asset to the organization and not a liability.

 “Very well, Carlo. Let me use your communications room and then we will go to dinner.”

##

Illya arched on the examining table and turned to look at his back, a brownish ointment covering his welts but not quite obscuring them. He reached down and arranged the sheet so that it covered his buttocks, feeling exposed, like a slab of meat left out to cure. The faded green hospital gown afforded little modesty so he didn’t bother shrugging it around his shoulders—hospital gowns by their very design seemed to make one feel more vulnerable. At least his back no longer stung and his brain floated on a fog of Demerol. The abraded skin felt tight and throbbed a bit but he was no longer in pain. He cradled his head on his folded arms and dozed, unable to keep his eyes open.  

“How are you feeling?” Napoleon asked, as he entered the small room holding a gray turtleneck he had fetched from Illya’s suitcase.

“Better.” Illya looked up and felt disoriented, as if his head were attached to his body by a long, frayed string. Almost immediately he let it drop back to his arms and sighed.

“It doesn’t look as if you needed stitches.” Napoleon walked to Illya’s side and examined one of the welts on his back, touching the ointment with a tentative finger. “This stuff’s not quite dry. You better wait to put on your sweater. It looks like it could stain.”

“I wouldn’t think of moving,” Illya replied. He shifted and moaned, a low tragic sound. Then he started shivering, suddenly cold as if ice water had been poured on his back. He felt Napoleon’s hand on his shoulder, the grip reassuring.

“Well, you’re going to have to think of moving fairly soon. Mr. Farenti has invited us to dinner.”

Another miserable moan, this one followed by a muttered oath. “Can’t I just stay here? Please, send my regrets. They injected me with a painkiller. I’m zonked.”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. Waverly was adamant we join them. Look, your back doesn’t even look that bad. What’s all this moaning and groaning? Where’d my stoic friend go?” Napoleon sounded discouragingly cheerful.

“You have no stoic friend. It hurts, Napoleon.” Illya looked up, eyes wide, trying to appeal to his partner’s sympathy. He wanted Napoleon’s concern, not this false chirpiness. “Couldn’t you just go and leave me here? I want to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“No rest for the wicked.” Napoleon waggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, Illya, you’re okay. You’re not going to make me go by myself, are you? Waverly was in one of his moods, seemed angry about something.  I’m going to need you along for moral support.”

Illya turned toward Napoleon and growled. “What did we do? Why should he be angry with us?”

“I didn’t say he was angry with us. Everything’s not always about us, you know.”

“It’s not? Since when?”

Napoleon grinned and sat down next to his friend on the narrow examining table. He peered closely at the whip marks. They really didn’t look as lurid as he remembered when he saw them in the cell, not nearly as deep but they extended farther down than he had thought. He pulled the sheet away from Illya’s buttocks and pursed his lips in consternation as his eyes traced a welt almost to the cleft between Illya’s cheeks. “What did she do to you really?” Napoleon asked, disturbed by the evidence of a more intimate torture.

“Hmm?” Illya snatched the sheet back to cover himself. “Nothing. The doctor said I was fine. I won’t even scar. Much.”

“She didn’t rape you, did she?” Napoleon asked. He kept his voice even.

“What?” Illya turned around to stare at his partner as if he had grown a horn between his eyes. “How could she rape me?”

“Don’t be naïve. She could use something or order those Frick and Frack boys to do her bidding. It’s all right to tell me. Something happened to upset you more than the whipping. You’ve been so quiet. Except for all the pissing and moaning, that is. You hardly said a word on the train.”

“I felt unwell and I didn’t wish to hear any more stories about the Crimean War.”

Napoleon snorted with laughter. “I believe they were talking about the Spanish Civil War.”

“Really? Were they on the right side?”

“Was there a right side? Stalin or the Generalissimo, some choice.”

The two friends let their comments pass. They didn’t discuss political beliefs ever and would not do so now. They both knew they would not be debating the merits of the Spanish Civil War anytime soon. Napoleon pulled the sheet over Illya and patted the outside of his friend’s thigh, squeezing it, then glanced around the room searching for cameras. “What did she do to you?” he repeated. “You can tell me. Get it out. You’ll feel better.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Your injuries are obvious but you are more distressed than they would warrant.” He again cased the room with his eyes and considered searching it.

Illya read his mind, as he so often did. “No cameras, no bugs, nothing,” he said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Napoleon,” Illya replied, turning to face him, a slurred lilt to his voice that still managed to sound annoyed. “I checked it.”

“Good enough for me. So, tell me what’s wrong. You seem so troubled.”

“Is that why you sent the psychiatrist?” Illya’s eyes were wide and accusing. “He spoke German. I pretended I couldn’t understand. By the time he reads my dossier I will be far away.”

“It is protocol.”

“Since when do you do everything by the book?”

“Since…I don’t know. Since my friend is so disturbed, so withdrawn. What’s wrong? Tell me or I’ll send the psychiatrists in New York to hound you. They know you speak English there.” Napoleon pushed the issue with an aggression he did not enjoy. Something was wrong and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Illya struggled to his side and leaned on his elbow, propping his head in his palm, his eyes clouded with Demerol and an unsettling bleakness. He looked at Napoleon and stared for a beat, deliberating. Then he smiled. “I didn’t reveal anything.”

“I know that.”

“She hit me with her strap, first my back, then lower. She was getting off on it.” Illya ducked his head as if embarrassed. “Is that the way to put it? She was unhinged.”

“They were a perverse couple, to put it mildly. What’s the problem?” Napoleon decided to hazard a guess. “Did you get off on it too?”

Illya’s mouth dropped open. “What? Did I what? What are you suggesting?”

“Just that I know we sometimes cannot control our responses. Something is wrong with you, something happened and I want you to tell me.” Napoleon squeezed Illya’s thigh again. He had meant to provoke, a sure way to get Illya to respond.

“She whipped me. Then she hit my testicles.”

Napoleon winced and shuddered in sympathy.

“I passed out.”  Illya looked thoughtful. “An interrogator should keep the subject conscious.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Napoleon said and wondered if Illya was remembering some torturer’s handbook from the Komosol, the Soviet’s sinister boy scouts. “Are you damaged? Is that the problem?” Napoleon considered pulling the sheet down and taking a look but sat still.

“I’m bruised but the doctor said I would recover.” Illya propped up his head once again on the palm of his hand, lowered his eyes and smiled. “Not that I ever hoped to have children. I don’t know why anyone wants them. Do you?”

Napoleon shook his head, irritated by the hedging but encouraged by the attempt at a joke. At least he was talking. “So if that’s not it then  tell me what’s wrong?”

Illya rubbed his eyes with his free hand and deliberated, stifling a yawn. They didn’t often bare their souls to each other. They talked now and again about more than their shared missions but their conversations were often light, sidestepping not only issues that might divide them but also personal matters. They knew each other well in many respects but remained detached.

The words poured forth as if he could not contain them any longer. “She asked about my mother. Did I send her flowers? Did I appreciate all she had done for me? Did I tell her I loved her? I never did any of those things.” Illya let his head fall and buried it in the shelter of his arms. “I don’t think about my mother much. I don’t remember her well. But I was a dreadful child. I don’t think I gave her much pleasure before she died.”  

Napoleon’s throat constricted and he swallowed the lump that formed there. It wouldn’t help to show emotion and he felt more angry than sad. Illya’s mother hadn’t died, though that is was what he had said. On the one occasion Illya had talked about her he sounded as if she had an illness and had faded away in a Victorian swoon, vague about the details.  “You were just a little boy. How bad could you have been?”

“Oh, I was horrible in every way a child can be. I ran away, I disobeyed, I bickered with her, I…”

“Illya,” Napoleon interrupted, feeling like a priest in the confessional listening to the most venial of sins. There was no way Illya could have been the demon child he described. He could not imagine this of his shy and deferential friend. Yes, there was another side to Illya: the sarcastic side, the one that enjoyed mayhem, the one that ridiculed and lied and fought and…Napoleon appreciated both sides of Illya. He depended on the dichotomy of his friend in equal measures. “You were a little boy. Little boys aren’t perfect. I’m sure your mother loved you and you loved her. You may not always be likeable but still.”

“She was pregnant when she died.” The words came out flat and dispassionate.

Napoleon shifted closer. This was something he had not known but then again he knew so little.  He reached forward and tousled Illya’s hair. “You never told me this. I thought your father...”

“I had a stepfather,” Illya said quickly, as if it were a shameful secret. “My father I don’t remember, he disappeared with everybody else in 1937, not that I understood. I had a stepfather.”

Napoleon’s paused as he stroked Illya’s hair. “I had three, as you know. Two I grew up with, the third Mr. Wonderful you met. They are not always a welcome addition. You never told me. Did you hate him? Is that why you ran away?”

Illya shook his head. “No. He only hit me when I made my mother cry.”

“What?” Napoleon said, outraged, filling in the blanks. “What did he do to you?”

The sudden laugh, almost a giggle, disarmed Napoleon—not exactly the response he expected. “I didn’t have a permissive childhood, “ Illya said. “I did not grow up in Dr. Spock’s world and I doubt the translation of his books has reached the USSR now. Napoleon, fathers beat their children. My stepfather loved my mother and I was part of her. He never beat me, nothing like that. He taught me to swim or rather he threw me into the Dnieper, maybe he wasn’t really sincere about the lesson. I learned nonetheless.” Illya grinned. “I just didn’t want him to give me a brother, not that I think I even understood the connection between him and his gift.”

“You do know that is completely normal,” Napoleon said, well aware Illya had had his share of counseling and didn’t need patronizing tenets from him. “We all want to be loved but not just loved, we want to be special. Kids don’t always welcome siblings.” Still, he remembered how much he wanted a brother. He had asked his mother so often for one but she never seemed to stay married long enough.

“Is it? Normal?” Illya looked around and met Napoleon’s eyes with a searching expression, lost in memory. “I used to sit in my mother’s lap sometimes. There wasn’t much room for me anymore. We’d sing to the baby, my brother. She always said it was a boy.” Illya’s voice sounded far away.  “I’d sing to him, this lump that had displaced me. And then I’d go to bed and hope he would just disappear. I think I hoped he would die.”

“Again what you describe is normal. We can’t help how we feel.” Napoleon winced, wondering if he sounded false, like one of the shrinks they had to see from time to time. He looked around the room suspiciously, not entirely convinced it was not monitored in some way. The infirmary in New York had surveillance cameras, though no listening devices. The doctors would not allow them. “It’s okay,” he said, but could not make it okay.

“I brought a kitten home.” Illya continued as if Napoleon hadn’t spoken. “I told my mother I found it but like many of the things I told her it wasn’t true.” Illya rubbed his hand, his breathing ragged. “I took it from its mother, this mewling gray ball of fur nursing with its brothers and sisters. I stole it. Its eyes weren’t even open. The mother cat hissed at me and clawed my hand, gave me a vicious scratch. But I ran away with her kitten. I was bigger.”

Illya stared at his hand as he spoke, the hand with the unexplained wedding ring. “My mother found me kneeling in the kitchen, trying to get it to drink milk out of a bowl. I think I was about drowning the poor little thing in my attempts to nurture it. I doubt we had milk to waste on drowning stolen kittens. My hand was bleeding and my mother picked me up and washed it. Then she sat me in her lap and explained the kitten was too young to be without its mother.  How would I feel if someone snatched me away from her?”

“This does not sound like a mother who did not love her son,” Napoleon said, again sounding like one of damn shrinks with their leading questions. Illya hadn’t even implied his mother didn’t love him. He had said he didn’t remember her.

Illya paid little attention to his friend’s attempt at reassurance and just continued with his story. “Though I insisted I had found the kitten, my clawed hand must have given me away. My mother told me I had to give it back, that kittens, and I guess by extension, children cannot survive without their mothers. I remember her rocking me in her arms but she was adamant, even a little exasperated with me.

“I did take the kitten back finally. But the cat and the other kittens weren’t there any longer, weren’t in the coal shed in which I found them. So I just left it there, all by itself. I didn’t know what else to do; my mother would be angry if I brought it back home again. I decided I would check on it in the morning. I think I would have remembered.”

“But you didn’t remember?” Of all damn things, Illya felt guilty about a little kitten he left behind in a childhood he must have left behind soon after.

“I think I would have,” Illya said, his tone hesitant. “But everything was gone the next day, not the least of it the coal shed. Our house, the other houses, my mother, my brother…she was right, it was a boy.” Napoleon nodded and did not ask how Illya would have known. “Not me, though. I didn’t sustain a scratch, except for the one on my hand. See, I still have a little scar.”

Napoleon glanced quickly around the room, still mistrustful of surveillance cameras. He then took Illya’s hand in his, smoothing the veins on the back of it with his thumb. His friend’s hand looked unmarked, such a perfect hand—his friend’s competent hands had saved him so many times. “Oh, Illya. It’s okay. I wish you had told me all this before. It’s hard to keep these memories inside.”

“But I didn’t remember until,” Illya inclined his chin toward his back. “And Napoleon, my mother was quite mistaken. Children can and do survive without their mothers. I did. All these years and I barely thought about her. Did I send her flowers? Did I appreciate all the things she had done for me? Did I tell her I loved her? No to all of it. I didn’t even remember.”

Though Illya’s eyes were bright, they remained dry and challenging as they met Napoleon’s, as if daring his disapproval.

“I’m glad you survived.” The words came quickly. “You honor your mother with whatever memories you have. I’m only sorry that bitch was the one to disturb them.” He tapped Illya’s nose.  “You have no reason to feel the least bit guilty. None. You were a child. Look at those boys at the Figliano School. Maybe they have a chance to become the man you are now. It’s not their fault either. I’m sure you did whatever you had to do to survive and if this included not remembering your mother, so be it.”

“What’s going to happen to those boys?” Illya asked.

“I’m not sure,” Napoleon replied. “Anna is taking them to her social agency. They will eventually be placed in juvenile homes, I guess. Maybe they’ll be adopted sometime down the road.”

Illya nodded, his expression unfocused, drifting on a sea of painkillers. “Who would want them? Who would take a vicious little boy…into their home “

“I don’t know. But people do.” Napoleon grimaced as he read more into Illya’s comments. He knew his friend grew up in an orphanage. “Did no one want you?”

“Me?” Illya seemed bewildered. “I wasn’t ever formally adopted, if that’s what you mean. But I wouldn’t say nobody wanted me. A KGB officer and his wife took an interest in me; they were childless and I used to go to their apartment in Moscow on weekends. He made sure…” Illya waved his hand as if to shoo away the memory. “It was a long time ago.”

“But see, if somebody wanted a vicious little child like you, perhaps there is hope for the Figliano boys after all.” Napoleon grinned at his friend. “Do you keep in touch?”

“With Mitya and Irina?” Illya asked. “No, I don’t. When I joined U.N.C.L.E. I severed my ties with the KGB. They were both KGB.”

“We should look them up sometime.”

“No, better to forget.”

“Or maybe easier?”

“Perhaps.”

Illya turned away letting Napoleon know the conversation had come to a close. Despite a lingering curiosity, Napoleon knew better than to push for more.

“You need to get dressed,” Napoleon said. Illya seemed to have fallen asleep.

“Can’t we just go back to the hotel? Can’t you get us out of dinner?”

“I told you. Waverly is in one of his moods. Aren’t you hungry? Farenti always finds good restaurants. You don’t want to stay here.”

“Can’t we just forget dinner and go to the hotel and….”

 Both agents startled as the door opened and Illya’s mouth shut simultaneously.  “Who are you?” the man who entered said in French, glaring down his long nose at Napoleon.

“Dr. Lessart, this is Napoleon Solo.”  Illya performed the introduction in English.

Napoleon hopped off the examining table and extended his hand.

The doctor seemed to brighten at the name. “Ah, the American Napoleon. The partner, no?”

Napoleon resisted replying, “The doctor, no?” The distinguished-looking man almost had “doctor” tattooed on his forehead, right next to “Parisian.” The attitude and the accent were unmistakable.  Unused to being dismissed merely as “the partner,” Napoleon struggled to rein in his ego. He reminded himself he was in Europe where Illya, having worked in both the Paris and London offices, was the better known.

The doctor’s grasp was strong and, like a politician, he gripped Napoleon’s forearm as they shook hands, his eyes no longer suspicious. “Please, call me Jules.”

“Jules,” Napoleon said, withdrawing his hand, bewildered at the sudden warmth.

“And I hope I may call you ‘Napoleon.’”

“Of course.”

“I’ve always wanted to call someone in their right mind ‘Napoleon.’”  

“You assume I am in my right mind then?” Napoleon’s smile turned frosty. He disliked having his name ridiculed but he was used to it.

The doctor, still grinning, turned his attention toward Illya. “I thought you’d be up by now, chomping at the bit. Since when can’t you speak German?”

“Hmm?” Illya sounded as if he had just woken up. “I sometimes can’t remember my German.”

“Then I want you to see a psychiatrist in New York. I’ve already called in the order so there’s no escape.”

“Why?” Napoleon and Illya asked at the same time.

Lessart addressed only Napoleon. “Because I said so. . . Napoleon.” He rolled the name on his tongue as if it were a treat. “You make sure it is done or he won’t be field-certified.”

“Illya is fine,” Napoleon said. “As soon as his injuries heal, he’ll be good as new.”

“J’adore partners,” The doctor said. “Like mothers on steroids. Speaking of which,” he reached into the breast pocket of his gray silk suit, “I have a few prescriptions. Percodan, an antibiotic lotion and an oral antibiotic. Mr. Farenti, I believe, is taking you two out for dinner. I’d rather he rested.” He inclined his head toward Illya as if he were inanimate. “But would you stop at the chemist first?” He handed Napoleon a few pieces of paper, scrawled with the scripts. “He’ll need the Percodan in a few hours’ time.”

“I’m over here, Jules.” Illya struggled to a sitting position on the examining table, holding one hand out as the other pulled the sheet over his lap.

“I somehow trust Napoleon more than you,” the doctor said in French.

Illya grimaced and looked away in disgust.

“I will make sure my friend is taken care of,” Napoleon replied. “Promise,” he said in French, risking his uncertain accent.

The doctor grinned at Napoleon and approached Illya, clucking as he examined his back. “These are not deep wounds by any means but they can become infected if not kept clean. I’m sure they are painful.”

“Not anymore,” Illya said. He slid off the examining table and started to put on his clothes. Napoleon steadied him as he swayed and helped him into his trousers, surprised at how much assistance Illya accepted. After pulling the turtleneck over his friend’s head he handed him his shoulder holster. Illya shook his head. “I’ll just put my gun in my pocket. Please.” His voice sounded distant, as if he spoke from another room.  

Lessart stood apart from them, his arms folded. “Perhaps it would be better if you stayed here,” he said.

“I’m all right,” Illya said, kneading the shoulder holster in his hands. “I just can’t wear this tonight.”

Napoleon took it from his hands. “I doubt there’s any reason you’ll need it.” Still he helped Illya into his suit jacket and placed the Walther in his pocket.

“Just make sure he doesn’t operate any heavy machinery. I’m not so sure about the gun either but I know how you Section Two men are about your guns, you’d just as soon walk around without your dicks.” The doctor bid them goodbye, taking yet another opportunity to say Napoleon’s name.

##

Napoleon matched his stride to Illya’s as they walked down the corridors, so similar to the ones in New York Headquarters. It felt almost like home. The girls even paused to watch as they passed by them and Napoleon grinned back in acknowledgement of their beauty and his own—not that they focused exclusively on him. Illya, as usual, paid not the slightest attention, his eyes straight ahead and his gait shambling. Periodically, he would pause and shift his shoulders as if his back itched. Napoleon took his friend’s elbow at one point, urging him forward. This action was met by a growl and a glare. Illya’s pupils were so dilated his eyes looked black, the way they sometimes did at night, when the lights were low.    

The door to the conference room made the familiar whoosh as it opened and the electronic eye malfunctioned for a moment in mid-slide, closing a fraction. It delivered a glancing blow to both agents before it jerked open again, like the door to an elevator. Illya lost his balance and fell sideways against Napoleon who steadied him, his hands reaching for his arm and his back.

“Oww! Dammit, Napoleon.” Illya wrenched away from his partner, his voice echoing on the hard planes of the room. “Be careful,” he hissed as he slumped to the arm of the cream-colored patent leather couch.

Napoleon held up both offending hands in a gesture of mock surrender.  “I’m sorry, my dear. I forgot.”

“Gentlemen, please!” Waverly turned from the microphone of the communications center. He disapproved of off-colored language, did not even allow a “hell” in New York, not to mention indecorous entrances. That his best team would enter the conference room in another city acting like bumbling schoolboys outraged him.

He replaced the microphone where he had just been informed a pair of Section Two recruits had disappeared after wading through the reflecting pond near the Washington Monument. Rotating the wheeled chair in which he sat, he confronted his agents, bushy eyebrows raised to the ceiling in censure.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kuryakin muttered, sounding just a little sarcastic and not the least bit sorry.  

Waverly nodded, accepting the shrugged apology, chagrined to see Solo plop down right next to Kuryakin so that they almost touched. The senior agent, his CEA, looked amused and played with the signet ring on his little finger as if it controlled his laughter. And what had he just called Kuryakin? My dear? Waverly had been distracted by the dire news from the home office but he doubted he imagined the inappropriate endearment. My dear?

“Oh, you’re making too much of things,” he admonished himself. “Mountains out of molehills. Carlo’s doing.” He refused to be drawn in by Carlo Farenti’s innuendos but was glad the Geneva section head was not here to observe his agents. Waverly ignored the voice that asked if they weren’t sitting just a mite too close together.

“How are you feeling?” He looked at Kuryakin. He had eyes and surmised his Russian agent was feeling no pain. A foreboding inside of him regretted the dinner plans and he seldom discounted his instincts. Seldom? Never! But Carlo had planted this seed in his mind and he refused to entertain its implications.

Lost in thought, he didn’t even hear whatever it was Kuryakin said. He caught the word “better” and that was all he needed to know. But then there was more.

“Dr. Lessart suggested I return to the hotel room and rest. I’m not supposed to drive so I thought perhaps Napoleon . . .” Illya’s body jerked as if he had been kicked and he abruptly stopped talking.

Waverly was almost sure Solo had kicked him but chose once again to ignore the childish escapades.

“I am most proud of the job you did,” he said, unaccustomed to bestowing praise. He considered it a failing, his inability to give credit when it was due. His agents looked startled at the commendation, almost embarrassed and Waverly realized with regret how seldom he recognized success. “I sometimes wonder if these meetings are even worth the risk.”

“Sir, if I may,” Solo held his hand in the air as if waiting to be called on but he continued without acknowledgement. “If our section heads cannot meet face-to-face, they have won.”

“They?” Waverly asked.

“Thrush. We should be able to arrange meetings now and again. Yes, it’s difficult but still, I think it’s important.”

Waverly decided to play the devil’s advocate and assumed a professorial tone. “But the technology exists for different types of meetings, tele-conference calls and the like. Perhaps we are being old-fashioned.”

“I don’t agree. Technology will never replace hands-on meetings. Never.”

“I like to think so. I’m glad to hear you agree.” He looked at Kuryakin who still perched on the arm of the couch, his eyes half-closed. “And what is your opinion, Mr. Kuryakin?”

At first, Kuryakin looked confused, like a student caught napping in class.  Then he shrugged. “If you think it is important to have such meetings…” He shrugged again.

“I asked you for an assessment.” Waverly narrowed his eyes, not meaning to browbeat. Still, he was curious. His Russian agent was free to have an opinion; this was not Russia after all.

“If you think such meetings are important, we will arrange them.”

“But do you think they are important?”

“No.” Kuryakin’s voice almost did not carry across the room. “I think they are indulgent.”

Waverly smiled “Indulgent, hmm? How so?” He tried not to notice Kuryakin’s eyes as they slid toward Solo’s.

“There are other ways, as you have suggested.”

“But sometimes one discovers the unexpected at meetings, don’t you agree?” Waverly delivered a pointed look at his Russian agent  “Serendipity, one might call it.”

“Yes,” Illya said without a glimmer of agreement and seemingly unaware of any other meaning to Waverly’s statement.

“Shouldn’t we get going?” Solo asked, responding to an unspoken cue. He consulted his watch. “We need to arrange our luggage and we have a couple of prescriptions to fill on the way. I’m sure Mr. Farenti would not want us to be late.”

The three stood and Waverly tried not to put any importance to it. After all, it was something he had seen so many times: Solo and Kuryakin’s eyes locked for a moment as they exchanged speaking glances. Though they did not touch, in fact put distance between each other, they seemed to draw closer. Solo shook his head and Kuryakin bowed his. Waverly wondered if Carlo had indeed picked up on something he had missed. If so, what was he going to do about it?

##

They arrived late. Carlo Farenti stood as they entered the small, crowded restaurant and waved them to his corner table, smiling in relief. Maybe he thought they weren’t coming.  “Forgive me,” he said as they took their seats, “I have started without you.” He brandished a champagne flute in their direction. A waiter rushed forward and pulled out a chair for Waverly, who nodded his vague appreciation.  How he hated being the Old Man. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to seat himself, as his agents did, when he was perfectly capable of such a feat? The waiter poured champagne for the three of them and again Farenti lifted his glass, this time in a toast.

“To our continued success,” he said.

“Success, Carlo?” Waverly lifted an ironic eyebrow. “We hardly had a meeting. Do you think the conference was a success?”

“Thanks to the skill of your agents,” Farenti swiveled his head to encompass the two younger men, “it was not a fiasco.”

Waverly clinked his glass against Solo’s, acknowledging that success could sometimes mean averting failure. Then he turned toward Kuryakin, who pulled his glass away from his mouth and froze. He brought his empty glass forward, ducking his head, his face flushed with embarrassment.

Nostalgia did not often color Waverly’s vision but he could not help but be reminded of the young Russian translator who read a battered paperback copy of Macbeth during the intervals between meetings, jotting notes in the margins. At first, Waverly, work to be done, had been annoyed to find the translator left behind in the conference room after they had adjourned for a late lunch. The meeting had not been going well and he needed time to himself, time to regroup, time to think. Always mannerly, he tried to engage the youngster in conversation and felt a little out at sea, groping for topics the way he did when he tried to talk to his own sons.

“I wish I were reading Macbeth for the first time,” Waverly had said. “It’s one of my favorites.”
 
How shy Kuryakin had seemed and so painfully polite, as if he had learned etiquette from a truncheon-wielding Emily Post. “Is a little hard for me to understand,” he replied, the Russian accent more pronounced than when he had been translating.

Soon, however, they started to talk about Macbeth and then the weather, which Kuryakin must have observed through the windows of the hotel.

Always five steps ahead of his colleagues, ahead of Carlo, for instance, who had also been there, Waverly had quickly seen beyond the diffidence, the steely politeness. He surmised from the lieutenant’s tabs on Kuryakin’s collar the youngster was older than he appeared, though he almost looked to be wearing a Halloween costume, his father’s naval uniform perhaps. Despite his rank, Kuryakin did not have clearance to leave the hotel in which they were meeting, merely waited for his senior officers during breaks and never joined them at meals. Waverly could not quite figure out Kuryakin’s position in the always-convoluted Soviet hierarchy. So he called upon his own background for explanation: they treated him like a governess, not quite a member of the family but not a servant either.

Curiosity piqued, Waverly pursued his conversations with the young Russian left behind like a forgotten glove. Illya, and he corrected his sentimentality, Kuryakin, had been hesitant to offer his opinions on Macbeth or even the weather. Still, Waverly learned a great deal about him and his sixth sense told him he would be a perfect fit for U.N.C.L.E., despite his youth. There was more than enough clay in him to mold.

Yes, the idea germinated in Waverly’s mind as he discussed Macbeth with Kuryakin and discovered a lively intelligence buried not far beneath the shyness. He joked with him about the naval uniform: was it his father’s? The youngster ignored the teasing or perhaps did not understand and said he had no family, yet did not explain further. Waverly filled in the blanks, a little surprised. Kuryakin exhibited none of the vicious, disturbing propensities of so many of Europe’s young war rats, those damaged children who would claw your eyes out for a crust of bread and sit on your corpse to eat it.

Instead, he seemed almost carefully raised, certainly well educated—he already had a degree in mathematics and music from the University of Moscow—he had not been hesitant to reveal this to Waverly. Flawless English, flawless French, his translations at the meetings were virtually simultaneous and idiomatic. He had stumbled a few times on the American’s frequent baseball allusions but Waverly, too, found them incomprehensible. “Tow-headed” had stumped him as well, much to the general amusement of the four native English-speakers at the meeting. Kuryakin spoke a few other languages, dropped this fact into their conversation like the other tidbits he revealed. Moreover, he did not seem steeped in Communist ideology or at least kept his opinions held close, the way an agent should. Intrigued, Waverly returned early from breaks, eager to chat with the isolated Russian translator who seemed flattered, though not surprised by the attention. Waverly felt almost a paternal interest in the youngster and tried to learn as much as possible about him.
 
Not as much as he would learn through eavesdropping though.

As had become his routine, he returned early from dinner to talk to the usually solitary Russian but Kuryakin was not alone this time. The door to the conference room hung ajar and Waverly backed up to listen in the shadows, somewhat taken aback to find Kuryakin nose to nose with the KGB representative. He had thought Kuryakin GRU but delineations in the Soviet intelligence services often blurred. They spoke so rapidly, Waverly struggled to follow, his Russian fluent but conversational, not given to the casual coarseness that colored real Russian conversation.

“You something, something, we shouldn’t have left you alone, you little something.” The KGB officer, Dmitri Sarayev, stood only an inch or so taller than Kuryakin but outweighed him by at least three stone. He held Kuryakin’s copy of Macbeth in his beefy hands and waved it in the air out of reach.

Kuryakin did not react and gnawed daintily on a duck leg, a leftover from Sarayev’s meal, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. His blue eyes stared at the book with a studied composure, bored, as if he had seen this pose a hundred times before.

Enraged, Sarayev tore the book in two and threw it on the conference table.

“Since when is Shakespeare forbidden?” Kuryakin asked, his voice louder than Waverly could have imagined it. “‘What can the devil speak true?’” Kuryakin said in English.

“I suppose you’ve memorized the whole thing, you something, something, something.”

“No. But you are being dramatic, Mitya . . .” Kuryakin licked his greasy fingers, setting the drumstick behind him on a plate. It had been polished clean.

“Do not call me ‘Mitya.’ You forget yourself. You are not at home.”

“Okay, Comrade Major.” Again in English, spiteful English. Kuryakin executed a hasty salute.

“Don’t, Illyusha?” Sarayev sounded mournful. “We never should have left you alone. We trusted you.”

Kuryakin grinned. “This was a measure of your trust, an honor? My exclusion? Obviously someone was watching or is the room monitored?”

“A little bit of both.” Sarayev rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You are making a fool of us all but I am warning you as a friend. You are putting yourself at risk.”

“And as my friend I also put you at risk? Is that the problem?” Illya sounded spiteful but diffident, employing the formal “you.”

“Do you really imagine that Englishman would consider you for U.N.C.L.E. You?” He employed the informal “you” but said U.N.C.L.E. in English.

“Da.” Kuryakin said nothing more.

“You fool. You something, son of a something fool.”

“Why not me?” Kuryakin lifted his eyebrows.

“You planned this. You and your Macbeth. You set us all up, you set us all up, even Mr. Waverly.”

“I’m reading it for class,” Kuryakin said dismissively.

“What class? You’re not even in school at the moment.”

“My future studies then. It’s going to happen. I will make it happen. Mr. Waverly is the decision-maker, is he not? No one else.”

Sarayev tried to bring down his fist but Kuryakin easily deflected it and gripped the lapels of the KGB officer’s Savile Row suit so they stood face to face. They locked eyes for a long moment.

 “So you brought Macbeth to attract his attention, you little traitorous something.”

“Don’t be fucking idiot.”  Waverly had been trying to translate and his mind briefly startled at the crude English.  “Who are they going to choose?” Kuryakin asked, returning to Russian.. “Some double agent? He’s not a fool. No, it’s going to be me or someone like me. And who is like me?  I want to work for U.N.C.L.E. You think I am just translating but I am thinking.” Kuryakin touched his head.

“You are ungrateful. Everything I’ve done for you, including the honor of this trip after you…”  Waverly could not follow Sarayev’s angry discourse and surmised only it had something to do with Kuryakin’s stint in the navy. He caught the word “igloo” but little else. The KGB officer once again tried to hit Kuryakin and once again the youngster proved too nimble, landing with a thud out of reach on the polished conference table.  The two stared at each other for a long time, both breathing hard. Waverly could not make sense of their relationship though doubted they were friends. They seemed oddly like father and son though that, too, seemed unlikely. “I will make you proud,” Kuryakin said. In English: “A feather in your cap.” He touched his head, his blond hair.

“What?”

Waverly made an inordinate amount of noise as he entered the conference room. If he harbored one reservation about his Russian prospect it was that he seemed too bookish, too scrawny and timid. Now, he was more than ready to negotiate. He was sure. Yes, he had wanted a Soviet agent immediately that had been the point of the meeting. But he could wait. Inspired by the Soviet Union, he formulated his own five-year plan.

“What happened to your book?” Waverly asked, nodding at the torn copy of Macbeth on the conference table.

“We discuss, Mr. Waverly,” Kuryakin said in English, sounding more Russian than he ever would again. “First one part and then the other.” He picked up one half of the book and smiled. Waverly smiled back; he liked a sense of humor in his agents. This would be his agent, this shy, calculating, fierce, too-blond young Russian—yes, he’d have to make him alter his hair. His agents should not stand out.  

“Broke,” Sarayev repeated in English. “All broke. Book broke.” He looked at Kuryakin in despair as if he was also torn on the face of the conference table.

 But the three of them talked for hours afterwards and the meeting proved a success after all.
.

##

 “I took the liberty of asking the chef to prepare a few of his specialties,” Farenti said.

“Splendid, Carlo,” Waverly approved, annoyed at the presumption. The waiter opened a second bottle of champagne and refilled their glasses.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Kuryakin?” Farenti asked, the consummate host. “I trust you found our facilities in Geneva up to the New York standards.”

Illya nodded. “I’m fine. Better.”

“I’m afraid one of the reasons we are late is we had a few prescriptions to fill along the way,” Waverly said.

“Nasty business,” Farenti commiserated. “I was whipped once. Do you remember that incident in Ankara, what year was it? I believe . . .”

“Carlo, Carlo,” Waverly’s tone was light but chiding. “We’ve regaled these young men with enough tales of our exploits. I am sure we can find another topic more firmly rooted in the present.”

Farenti frowned. “Yes, of course.”

So they talked about the unseasonably warm weather for an uninspiring few minutes and then the salmon mousse the waiter brought to the table, molded in the shape of a fish. Farenti served Waverly its tail. Then they ate for a while without talking.

Finally: “This is the first European city you ever visited, is it not, Mr. Kuryakin?” Farenti presented the question more as a statement of fact. “I remember it well.”

Kuryakin looked up startled. “Sir, I lived in Kiev, Leningrad and Moscow. But yes, this is the first Western European city I visited.” Illya’s voice sounded as chilly as the mousse, chillier.

“I meant Western Europe, of course.”  

“A lovely city, Geneva.” Solo enthused, running interference. “Who was it that said Switzerland is the natural homeland of spies?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that,” Farenti said. “I suppose it is appropriate.”

A gypsy violinist approached their table and asked, in French, for a request. Kuryakin said something to him in a language Waverly guessed was Romanian and then they chatted for a bit before the violinist played a tune so melancholy it brought tears to the musician’s dark eyes.

“You speak so many languages, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps your mother was gypsy?” Farenti smiled, warming to the topic Waverly had given him clearance to introduce.

“No,” Kuryakin said, shaking his head. “She was not.”

“Ah, so I am mistaken. Russian then?”

Kuryakin shrugged. “I was Russian on my identity card.” He brought a forkful of the salmon mousse to his mouth, his eyes seeking Solo’s.

“It seems a shame,” Farenti continued. “You remain in North America, I mean, with all your languages. A waste.”

“A waste?” Solo said. “Why a waste? All agents are multi-lingual. As you know it is a requirement of our employment.”

Farenti focused on Kuryakin, paying no attention to Solo’s comment. “Illya,” he shook his head, “forgive me, Mr. Kuryakin, you did not want to leave Paris.”

“I left it,” Kuryakin said, his tone flat.

“But I mean to say, what is the wonderful quote from that American movie: ‘We’ll always have Paris.’”

Kuryakin tilted his chair to watch the gypsy violinist and said nothing.

“Do we somehow imagine Paris has disappeared?” Solo asked. “Mr. Farenti, what is your point?”

The violinist finished his somber melody and started to play an equally elegiac version of “Michelle.”

“Of course not, Mr. Solo. Paris is, well, Paris. I just mean to suggest it is open to your friend. That’s all.”

Waverly ignored the furious eyes of his chief enforcement agent. He had told Carlo he could present his plea and remained true to his words. Your boys have grown very close. They didn’t seem particularly close now. Kuryakin seemed far away indeed as he watched the violinist and mouthed the words to the song he played. Waverly did not regret the unexpected friendship between the American and the Russian and remained pleased by it, though sometimes he found its intensity unprofessional. By no means did he wish them to be separated by the Atlantic Ocean.

Another bout of nostalgia—good grief, he was growing sappy with old age—Carlo’s influence no doubt. Such bad timing! His instincts had failed him on that occasion.

They had known Kuryakin was a pet project—Carlo, Harry—they had known and buried him in the labs even so. Section Two material, a Survival School graduate, their first Soviet agent and they paid not the slightest attention to his value as a symbol of the spirit of cooperation between East and West. After he finished his studies at Cambridge, once in a great while he was sent on assignment, but nothing important, the type of courier work he had done as a child, the type of work a child could do. Like a hot potato, Kuryakin got passed back and forth between the Paris and London offices.  Only Waverly heard from the Soviets and they wanted him back if U.N.C.L.E. could find no meaningful role for him. So he called Kuryakin to New York and no one cared—not Carlo, not Harry—no one said a word in protest. You want Kuryakin—here’s his flight number.

October 1962, what timing! Waverly remembered reviewing the reconnaissance photos of the Soviet missile sites in Cuba and remembered his horror as he briefed his agents on the burgeoning crisis. His agents, who now included among them his newly arrived pet project, his young Russian national who stood apart from the rest as if striving for invisibility.  Kuryakin stood separate, staring out the window of the conference room. He spent a lot of time in Waverly’s office, as if he was afraid to leave it.

Waverly knew Solo well, one of the agents on the fast track, but, he thought him a bit frivolous at the time. Sure, the current CEA, Armstrong, was so far over forty it had become the source of increasingly imaginative jokes in the New York office. He had to be replaced but Waverly had not made a move. He considered Solo for the top slot but he was not only young, he lacked a certain seriousness. Not that his missions weren’t successful but he didn’t work well with other agents, not at all, only the ladies, and they were hardly other agents. While he reminded Waverly a bit of himself in some ways, well, familiarity breeds contempt. Waverly had more or less dismissed him as a possibility.  

Until…the missiles of October when he had introduced an enemy in the midst. How surprised he had been to find Solo and Kuryakin in the commissary, head to head, not quite laughing but engrossed in conversation. What could they possibly have in common? Waverly had only seen Solo express such attentive interest in the girls at headquarters. How surprised he had been when Solo singled out the Russian for missions. How he had welcomed their friendship. Such associations were vital to the success of U.N.C.L.E.: it was what the organization was all about.  To Waverly their friendship almost epitomized U.N.C.L.E.

Had it become something more? Was it always something more?

His best team, U.N.C.L.E.’s best team—everyone acknowledged it and Waverly took credit for it. Everything fell into place so effortlessly, soldiers all in a row. Despite the competition in the ranks no one even questioned Solo and Kuryakin’s eventual promotions, a fait accompli.

Both Solo and Kuryakin glared at Farenti and Waverly realized he had not been following the conversation, lost in his musings. Was he losing his edge? Why should Carlo have derailed him so?

“It’s not your decision, is it? Sir?” Kuryakin added the “sir” as if introducing a gusty breath of polite fresh air into a stale room.

“I believe I speak for Mr. Beldon as well,” Farenti said.

“I’m not interested. Thank you.”

The violinist finished “Michelle” with a flourish of his bow as the waiter produced the second course, risotto with chicken livers. Waverly scowled at the selection and wished Carlo had let them order for themselves.  No, he wished he had not agreed to dinner at all. Tired of the violinist and wondering why he chose to serenade a table of four men, he reached in his pocket and interrupted the next melody. Handing him a ten-dollar bill he apologized for not having local currency and privately wished he had something smaller in American—still, anything was worth getting rid of the pest. The violinist, undaunted, played a sorrowful version of the ”Blue Danube Waltz,” much to Waverly’s annoyance.

The chicken livers on Solo’s plate had already disappeared, surreptitiously transferred to Kuryakin’s in a smooth gesture. His agents grinned at one another, sharing the private joke. They were always sharing jokes, fleeting glances and whispered asides. In the past, Waverly had ignored these exchanges or interrupted them. Oh, they occasionally riled him, not only with their collusive familiarity but also their ridiculous bouts of one-upmanship. Your boys have grown very close. Why should he be so bothered by the innuendo? Why even dwell on it?

Kuryakin, as if reading at least one of Waverly’s thoughts, said something to the violinist and the music stopped, almost screeching to a halt. They nodded, almost bowing to one another before the violinist hurried to a distant table.

“I was beginning to wonder if he had been sent to eavesdrop,” Waverly said.

“An old trick,” Farenti said. “Do you remember…”

Waverly pretended to listen as Carlo spun another old yarn from the distant past but watched his agents. They only glanced at each other once, amused, Kuryakin too intent on his meal to spare Solo much notice. He ate quickly, efficient as a machine, his appetite as blunt and direct as his feigned politeness. Waverly wondered what he had told the violinist. “Beat it, please, or I shoot.”

“So you have no interest in Europe?” Farenti asked, suddenly back on topic.

Waverly straightened, his expression neutral as he listened.

“Thank you. No.”

“But why?”

Kuryakin arched his back and seemed uncomfortable, his eyes closing as he grimaced. “You don’t need me. It is not that Napoleon and I do not ever work here. We’re here now. If you ever want us…”

“Just whistle,” Solo supplied.

“Yes, it’s not so far away,” Kuryakin said, his voice hushed, his face as white as a sheet.

“Say we offer you the position?”

“Of?”

“Don’t be coy,” Farenti said.

“Offer it then.” Solo brought a forkful of risotto sans chicken livers to his mouth.

“I’m not speaking to you, Mr. Solo. It is none of your concern.”

“But it is.” Solo patted his mouth with his napkin and narrowed his eyes.

“Why is it?”

“Because Illya is not only one of my agents, he’s my partner. He’s the second…”

“Your agents? Not yours, he’s…”

“Gentlemen, please.” Waverly raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Can’t we just enjoy our meal?” He looked at his risotto and chicken livers and wondered about if that were possible. “It has been a long day. Carlo, enough is enough.”

“But when, Alex, if not now? When will we be all together again? I have the authority to make a formal offer to Mr. Kuryakin.”

“I think he has been clear in his refusal, has he not?”

Carlo ignored Waverly. “You have your choice, Mr. Kuryakin. Paris, London, even here, the natural homeland of spies.”

Kuryakin shook his head. “Thank you, no. I prefer to stay in New York. You have a chief enforcement agent in Europe.”

“Morton? He will report to you.”

“Why would I want him?” Illya muttered.

Waverly snorted and hid his smile with his napkin.. Farenti had said it himself earlier. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin ever got along well with other agents.

“If Morton is the problem, we will move him. Australia, Antarctica, outer-Mongolia…” Farenti waved his fork in the air as if Morton might be transferred to the moon.

“No. Thank you.” Illya said. “I am flattered but no.”

Farenti sighed. “Very well. I can only imagine what has changed your mind.” He smiled at Solo, his expression unpleasant.

The waiter returned to collect their plates. Waverly leaned back and scowled at Farenti. The presentation of the entrees did little to defuse the tension at the table: succulent stuffed trout, fluffy mashed potatoes and zucchini in tomato sauce, served artistically on plain white plates. Farenti ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse; Waverly would have preferred a white Bordeaux but said nothing.  

They ate in silence. Waverly watched Kuryakin trace the red-silk flocked walls with his fingers, absorbed in the swirl of the wallpaper for an unnerving few moments. He then focused on his meal, his hands shaking slightly as he tucked into it, hungry as ever. As he ate his eyes rolled toward Solo’s, who rolled his eyes back in acknowledgement. They looked as if they had just dodged a bullet.

Your boys have grown very close. Waverly wondered how he had missed what seemed so obvious. Maybe he had not wanted to see. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“This is delicious, Carlo,” he said.

And it was, though Waverly’s appetite had deserted him. As he grew older he found his appetite often meager. The late European, multi-course dinners no longer afforded him much pleasure, too much bother, too much of an interruption. He took pleasure now in his work and disliked being removed from it for inconsequential activities. Nothing made him happier than directing his agents from behind the console of the communications center. U.N.C.L.E. was the culmination of his life’s dream, an achievement of which he was both proud and passionate. He had sacrificed a great deal to see to his organization’s success. How dare Carlo Farenti interfere! How dare he and Harry Beldon conspire to take back the agent they had ignored.

Waverly realized once again the conversation spun around him without his attention. Solo led it, telling a long-winded story, something light and amusing about a chase through the subway system in New York. He could be so engaging and Waverly realized charm could be a force. Long past were the days he found his CEA frivolous. It did not escape his notice when Solo, mid-sentence, passed a white tablet to Kuryakin, who swallowed it with a gulp of the Pouilly-fuisse. The fine points of Solo’s story might have escaped him but nothing truly vital ever did.

His agents never realized it but Waverly did worry about them. He noticed Kuryakin’s discomfort, how he arched his back as he ate, how his eyes shone so darkly. This would have to be an early night. No more discussions of transfers to Europe. These were his agents and he would protect them. These were the best agents U.N.C.L.E. possessed, whatever their private association.

“I think we should call it a night,” Waverly said. He touched Kuryakin’s wrist and felt the Russian startle, almost pulling away in surprise.

“Alex, we can’t leave now. I ordered the Grand Marnier soufflé. It’s a specialty of the house and something you should not miss.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Kuryakin is up to it.”

“S’okay,” Kuryakin replied, slurring his words. He sat up straighter. “I’m fine,” he said with forced vigor.

Kuryakin was the only one who seemed to enjoy the dessert, his eyes slitting in bliss as he brought a spoonful to his mouth. Even Farenti watched him anxiously as he ate.

The Mercedes limousine waited outside of the restaurant and the three New York agents piled into it, Kuryakin almost asleep on his feet. He sat between his two superiors, ramrod straight for a time. Then he slumped against Solo, his head falling against the American’s shoulder.

“Illya, sit up,” Solo said, pushing him away, embarrassed.

“Sorry.” Illya struggled to an upright position. “I’m just tired. Sorry.” His eyes met Waverly’s and he tried to smile. A yawn overtook him and he clasped a hand belatedly to cover his mouth.

The limousine took a curve quickly and Kuryakin fell against Solo. He settled against him, almost snuggling.

“Illya!” Solo again pushed him away. He glanced at Waverly, shrugging, as Kuryakin turned toward him. “I think the painkillers and the drink have gotten to him,” Solo explained, looking uneasy.

“Indeed.”  Waverly stared out the window at the tidy streets, ignoring his agents. Natural homeland of spies or not, he had never cared for Geneva. Your boys have grown very close. So Farenti had a point. What did it matter?  It started to rain and Waverly watched the streets blur by, the folkloric facades of the buildings indistinct and gray.

“Illya! Sit up.” Solo’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge.

Waverly turned away from the window and watched the byplay between his agents for just a moment. Kuryakin insinuated himself against his partner, pushing his head under the other man’s arm like an overfriendly cat.

“Let him be,” Waverly said as he resumed staring out the window. “Let him be.”

The End