Author: Melissa Cowen
E-mail address:abnoba@webtv.net
Rating: Mostly R with some NC-17 (sorry, very little sex)
Pairing: Man From U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon/Illya or Illya/Napoleon (which ever you prefer)
Status: NEW
Archive: Anywhere, as long as it has my name and won't have Kenneth Starr calling me for any reason:-)

Disclaimer: While the characters have some possession over me (they have my heart), I do not own even a hair from their magnificent bodies. I must make myself content with dreams and drool. I promise that not one cent in any form of currency is being made.

Warning: This story comes from my imagination, which should be warning enough, but just in case... There will be violence, some off color words, perhaps in several different languages, and a same gender sexual relationship. If you find any of these thing offensive, or if you are too young, please feel free to find a different story to read.

Author's Notes: This is the first story I started some two years ago when I saw the show and fell in love with "the guys". It's been sitting in my closet with another 40 or so stories. I decided to get them out, finish them and let at least one or two of them see the light of day. This is kind of a pre-UNCLE story. Just one idea of how the guys first met that was running around in my head. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to write any and all comments you wish to me. I can only learn from my mistakes if someone is willing to show me what they are (and I like praise too).

Divining The Past

by Melissa Cowen

Oslo Papist took no notice of the blatant stares he elicited as he unceremoniously mobbed the sweat off his brow yet again. His stained handkerchief, so wet from his earlier attempts at the same gesture, did little to remove the moisture that ran down his neck and made his shirt a clammy nuisance. The Hungarian had gone past nervousness a long time ago, and his emotional state was now approaching something akin to terror.

For an overweight, chain-smoking middleman, who was lucky to fence enough goods to pay the rent of his shabby little room in west Paris, he had certainly gotten himself into the thick of things this time. An offer no poor fool could refuse, but any sane man would not touch with a ten foot pole, had sent him here to London...searching. Though he worried about his own rationalization skills at this moment, he was too deep to pull out now.

He needed the best for this job, a man that could be the deciding factor between him and a million dollars, or him and an early grave. He needed a thief of unequalled abilities to get in, take what was needed, and get out with the merchandise. Every inquiry into who was the best in the business came back with the same answer...The Russian.

"The Russian could do the job with his eyes closed, hands tied behind his back, and a staff up his ruddy bum with another waitin' in the wings," was the way the tavern owner in Lugo explained it to him. "Cost ya some, mind ya, but he's worth it. Why he's stolen things they ain't found's been stolen yet."

So with a couple bills peeled off the Hungarian's dwindling stash, he was informed to go to London, to some taproom called Paddy's Pub.

"They'll fix ya up with The Russian," the informant claimed as he folded two greasy one hundred dollar bills, American of course, and tucked them god knows where. "But mind ya, he may look pretty to you, but don't you go believin' it. That man'll break your neck as soon look at ya. You'd be dead afore ya even knew it."

So here Oslo sat, in probably the most run down, seediest dive he had ever had the misfortune of being in in his life. Not that he was trying to look, but he could not help himself but to glance at the bar's patrons.

Two men sat in the corner, locked in the same arm wrestling stance they had been in when he walking in the door some forty minutes ago. They each wore two old-fashion wheel guns, both displayed quite prominently for all to see. As was the elegant Luger of the man at the bar who had been nursing the same scotch and water since Oslo first set eyes on him. And the man draped over the bar next to Mr. Scotch and Water? Well, it was hard to tell if he was even breathing. Maybe the clientele kept a body around, just as a warning to anyone stupid enough to wander into Paddy's pub. Hell, even the prostitute exhibiting herself by the doorway looked as if she ate nails for breakfast.

All in all, this was not the place for a cowardly fence to while away his hours.

With one more bill taken from what could no longer be called a stack, Oslo had asked the barkeep as discretely as possible for information regarding The Russian. The large man had merely grunted and pointed to an empty table at the rear of the bar. Not really sure of the man's meaning, the Hungarian had taken a seat there, waiting, whether for The Russian or an untimely demise, he did not know.

Fifty-eight minutes after Oslo had crossed the threshold into this cesspool, the door opened again, emitting what almost looked more like a child than a man. The new arrival appeared to be no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. A five foot ten inches frame, topped off with the brightest gold shock of unruly hair the Hungarian had ever seen. The kid...man...whatever the hell he was...was on the thin side, looking at if a strong wind would put him out into the Atlantic or further.

Still, there was something about the youngster, the way he moved, cautious yet graceful, that let Oslo know here was the man he was looking for. Serious blue eyes, cold as Siberia, captured the Hungarian's gaze and held it as the man approached. Oslo had to force himself to breath around a sudden, unreasonable dread that gripped him at the sight of the blond. He knew here was a man he should fear more than all the other patrons combined.

The smaller man passed the hooker, who, at that moment, seemed intent on taking him right here on the floor. Likewise Mr. Scotch and Water, whose eyes spoke of sexual acts the likes of which hadn't even been named yet. The blond came to a stop before Oslo's table, but did not take a seat. He stood above the terrified Hungarian and studied him for a moment before breaking the silence.

"You are here for something," the blond stated, a hint of an accent to his words. "Tell me what it is."

Oslo opened his mouth to begin, but all that came out was a rather rude gasping sound. The younger man stood patiently, if somewhat menacingly, so the Hungarian cleared his throat to start again.

"I'm looking for The Russian." Oslo's voice cracked like a prepubescent boy's. "I have a deal for him."

"I am The Russian," the blond acknowledged. "What do you want?"

"I have a job. Fifty thousand dollars in it for you if you can do it."

"I can do it. American dollars?"

"Of course. But you haven't heard what the job is yet."

The Russian merely shrugged. "Not a problem. If you have the money, I can do the job."

"Cocky bastard, aren't you?" Oslo couldn't help but use the insult.

The blond locked eyes with the Hungarian, then ever so slowly pulled the remaining chair out from the table and sat in it. The simple act made Oslo feel like a bird caught in the gaze of a snake, unable to look away, but knowing that death could claim him at any moment.

"I have the right to be." The Russian's words were soft, causing icy shivers to run down Oslo's spine. "But perhaps you are correct. Perhaps I should hear what this job entails, Mr...."

"Papist, Oslo Papist," the Hungarian stuttered. "I was recently hired as a go-between for a very rich man and someone who can get a heavily guarded necklace from a well guarded woman."

"Sounds intriguing," the blond prompted.

"Anyway, there's this party in Paris in four days..."

"Short notice," The Russian interrupted.

"Yeah, well, it took me a while to find you," Oslo muttered before continuing. "The lady's going to be wearing the necklace that night. My client wants it taken that night. After that he will no longer be willing to pay for it."

"Just who is this client of yours?" the younger man questioned.

"Hey now, look, I know you can probably break me in two before the bartender can pour a shot, but I don't give out that kind of information. It's not good for business, and it's not good for my health. If you catch my meaning."

The blond stared at the fidgeting man for a moment then nodded. "I appreciate that in a middleman. I hope it works both ways."

"Oh yeah, I mean, you do one of my jobs and nobody hears about it from me." The Hungarian allowed himself the luxury of hope. Maybe this would all work out after all.

The blond shattered the Hungarian's optimism with his next sentence.

"Fifty thousand dollars is an unusual price for the theft of a necklace. It makes me wonder if perhaps your employer might be willing to negotiate the price." The Russian tested the waters.

"Like how much of a negotiation?" Oslo asked warily.

"Another hundred thousand," The Russian said without blinking an eye.

"Another...? Are you crazy!?! No one makes that kind of money for a thieving job!" Oslo shouted.

"Please lower your voice, Mr. Papist, this is a public place. I just thought you were looking for the best, but if that is your final offer..." The younger man shrugged, then began to stand up.

"Okay listen," Oslo came back more quietly but just as frantic, "I'll go up to seventy-five thousand."

"One twenty-five," the blond countered.

"Jesus, you're killing me here," the Hungarian complained. "One hundred thousand. That's it. That's all I can get for you."

"One hundred thousand, American, with airfare there, and my choice of transportation back."

"You won't fly back?"

"I may have a need to keep a low profile. There are other ways to London that are less...conspicuous. Do we have a deal?"

Oslo took a moment to wipe his forehead again. One hundred thousand dollars in this day and age was a ridiculous amount of money. Would it tip the young man before him to the fact that this was more than a simple thieving job? Could he afford to just let The Russian walk away? No, his own life depended on this job. If he succeeded, he'd be rich, if he failed...

"We have a deal," the Hungarian nodded. "I'll have a plane ticket, further instructions and half the money waiting for you in locker #164 at Heathrow."

"And the rest of it?"

"Comes after you finish the job."

The blond nodded and stood to leave, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Do I get your name for one hundred thousand?" The Hungarian asked.

"You can't afford that." Blues eyes flashed a warning. "The Russian will do. And Mr. Papist, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what will happen if I don't get the rest of my money."

Oslo shook his head, his mouth hanging open dumbly as he once again stared into that threatening visage. The Hungarian couldn't seem to get out of his seat fast enough before he headed out the door in the swiftest nonchalant manner he could muster.

The blond kept his icy gaze locked on the fleeing man's back until the bar door closed behind him. The exiting of the Hungarian triggered a smile on the younger man's face and humor invaded his eyes. He all but danced to the bar to accept the glass of vodka the bartender was offering.

"Yei bogu, Paddy." The coldness was completely gone from the blond as he downed the drink in one draught. "This is it. This is the one I've been waiting for."

"All right, Illya." The big man behind the bar laughed as he quickly refilled the glass. "Tell me, what is it this time?"

Illya refused the glass only for a moment, then with a shrug, downed it as fast as the first, "No sense wasting good vodka," he explained to himself.

"Are you going to tell me about the job, or am I going to have to wring it out of your scrawny neck?" Paddy asked in an affectionate tone.

"You and what army?" Illya teased back. "This is the one, Paddy, the one where I can do it and be done. Guess how much I'm making off this, go on guess."

Paddy laughed at his friend's enthusiasm. The cold killer act was gone, replaced with an almost childlike glee. It wasn't as if the young man couldn't easily take care of himself against almost anything. Illya could be hard, cold, and extremely crafty when he needed to be. Still it was good to see the Russian open and smiling. The blond had been through some very hard times in his young life.

Paddy had never met anyone as intelligent as Illya. The blond could figure out a solution to almost any problem Paddy had put in front of him. There were times Illya would spout some obscure facts that had the Englishman scratching his head in puzzlement. And the many languages the young man knew was astounding. Paddy doubted there were too many translators out there that could speak in as many different dialects as his friend here.

To know that Illya had picked up most of his knowledge on his own was both awe inspiring and heartbreaking. What could the Russian become with an education? Where would Illya go if he only had the means to do so? Paddy was one of the few people on the planet that knew the young man secretly longed to go to a college, somewhere, anywhere. Yet Illya, if anything, was a realist. College was for those who could afford it, not street rats who stole to stay alive. Illya was as trapped by his life as any prisoner had ever been by bars. The Englishman could only silently mourn the losses that Illya had to face.

"Are you going to guess?" Illya's joyful blue eyes dancing in the low light brought Paddy back to the matter at hand.

"No, I don't think I'd even come close." Paddy shook his head.

"You probably wouldn't," the blond laughed. "One hundred thousand, zelyoniye, greenbacks, American."

The bartender almost choked on his beer. "What?" he sputtered. "You've got to be kidding. No one pays that kind of money."

"Oslo Papist does," Illya replied.

"For what? You said you'd never do a...Illya, no," Paddy gasped, hoping his young friend had not compromised his well defined principles.

"I'm not doing anything more than I usually do," the Russian promised. "It's a simple stibrit'. I am just getting the necklace from some tyolka at some party. Easy, narisovat nogi."

"I've warned you about using too much Russian around me." The Englishman gave a mock growl. "I want to hear a language that was born on these shores."

"Do not make me lecture you on the origins of the English language," Illya shot back, then gave a wistful sigh. "Oh Paddy, with this money, maybe I can finally go to college somewhere."

"With that kind of money you could get into Cambridge," Paddy pointed out. "Illya, my father once gave me a piece of advice..."

"Oh god no, not another piece of your father's famous advice." The Russian rolled his eyes. "I thought the most your father ever said was 'duck' just before he swung his fist."

"Well, that too, but shut up now," Paddy warned. "It doesn't hurt you to listen to counsel every now and then."

"Then counsel me to the wisdom of your ways, oh wise one," Illya teased.

"Smart ass," the bartender snarled before continuing. "My father always said if something seems too good to be true, it probably is."

"Huyo-moyo. Are you trying to rain on my parade, Paddy?"

"Hoyo-what? There you go with that Russian shit again. I'd put money on the fact that you're calling me names behind my back."

"No, that would be rasputnik or razzuratnik. Something like that." Illya had a hard time hiding his grin.

Paddy shook his head, then sighed. "Listen kid, I like you and I don't want to see you get hurt. There's more to this deal than meets the eye, take my word for it. Just keep your guard up...for me, okay? I want an invitation to your graduation, you know."

"Paddy, I'm holding the graduation party right here." Illya smiled, then glanced at his watch. "I have to go catch a plane. See you in a week, koresh, with enough money for a proper celebration."

"Take care of yourself, Illya Kuryakin," Paddy sighed when the young man made his way to the door.

As it closed behind him, the bartender could not help but wonder if he would ever see those laughing blue eyes again.

++++++++++

It was billed as 'The Party of the Century', and it was the third such gala event Napoleon Solo had been to this week. He sighed hugely as he looked at his black tux hanging on the door of the wardrobe.

The innocuous evening wear was only one of the many items that had come to represent the very way of life that was putting a strangle-hold on his newly formed perceptions of reality. It was part of the old, opulent way of living that Napoleon knew so well, yet felt so distant from. What a difference a year could make, a year and a war.

Korea had led the wealthy young man away from the glitter and glamour of the American aristocracy that had been all Napoleon had ever known, into a hell of fear, hatred, and death. He had watched as boyhood friends crumpled at his feet and died in the mud, screaming for help he could not give. He had walked through battlefields where the blood of both sides mixed in the dirt. Death, it seemed, did not care what a man's politics was. He had felt the brotherhood of soldiers, where each man cared for the next out of the base need for survival. He had wondered why he lived while others died. Above it all, he wondered what they died for. A just cause, stop the spread of Communism. They had fought and died for no other reason than someone decided that was the way it was going to be.

His homecoming had been a celebration for his family. For him though, it only added to his confusion. His parents expected him to pick where he'd left off. As if that year had been merely a momentary distraction. The daughters of the affluent each wanted the newest, most eligible bachelor for their own. College, job offers, marriage proposals, and now parties all seemed so...false.

His mother found that logic quite annoying and decided what her impetuous son needed was a change in venue.

"Paris is beautiful this time of year," she had said brightly, having just sent back her veal as it was not done to her liking. "Why don't you go to the Villa for a couple of weeks? Their party season is in full swing and a dashing young American could have his pick of the ladies."

Napoleon wondered if his mother had heard a word he had said. Yet perhaps she was right, a little time away to sort things out might be just what he needed.

His father had seen him off at the airport, concern showing in his brown eye.

"Napoleon, all soldiers feel the way you do now when they get home," the older Solo had begun his advice. "You just have to buck up and get back to the real world now. I've called one of my friends, Doctor Richard Conrad. He's in Paris now and is an avid golfer. He'll set you up on the courses there. That's what you need, my boy, to meet some new people, some new friends."

Napoleon had only nodded mutely at his father. It wasn't until he was over the Atlantic that he actually gave thought to his father's words. He needed to make new friend...yes, to replace the ones that had never come home from the war. How was someone turning a blind eye to his extra stroke on the golf course ever going to compare with a comrade walking through a mine field with him? Even his father, a decorated World War II veteran, didn't understand. This was no longer the 'real world' to Napoleon. He doubted that it ever would be again.

And so here he sat, staring at his tuxedo, thirty minutes before 'The Party of the Century' began. He had decided not to go, but a phone call from his mother, telling him this was just what he needed, had him once again preparing to venture out into the artificial world of the illustrious rich. For the first time in his life, Napoleon felt an aloneness he could not shake. He was surrounded by everything he needed except reality. And right now, that was what he needed the most.

++++++++++

The Freeland mansion sat prominently on a hill a few short miles from Paris. Stately and elegant, its owners had never made the effort to hide it away as most of the other wealthy landowners did. It was on full display as a testament to the privileges that money and power could buy.

It represented almost everything Illya Kuryakin had learned to hate. What was spent on this party alone could pay his tuition for college. These people had never once worried where their next meal was coming from, or where they were going to sleep for the night. They had never silenced their tears for fear the German soldiers would hear them. They never watched in horror as their family was led away, never to be seen again. They did not know what it felt like to want something they were never going to have. He doubted that any of them had ever been truly lonely.

He was their worst nightmare, an intelligent man from the street with lofty ambitions. A predatory smile came to his lips as he slid easily through the service entrance. The one good thing about being a nobody was that he could move around unnoticed. It would be their mistake.

Security was tight here, some of the tightest he had ever seen. Yet it was child's play for him to circumvent it. He had been sneaking in and out of places for years. There wasn't a situation on this planet that could keep him away from his goal tonight.

There wasn't a light not lit on the entire grounds as the privileged guest began to filter in. Illya slipped unobtrusively up to the third floor where earlier he had discovered a perfect spot to conceal himself.

The ballroom's vaulted ceiling stretched upward past the third floor, with each consecutive level having a balcony that overlooked the party goers below. From his vantage point, Illya could observe all that was going on and yet remain unnoticed by all the revelers and their guards. From there all he had to do was wait.

Baroness Wolfson and her diamond studded necklace would be arriving shortly. The Russian just had to wait until she exited to the garden to make his move. He didn't worry that the woman wouldn't follow his plans. He had been an observer at enough of these events to know sooner or later every woman stepped outside to cool off and remark on the beauty of the host's garden. As if these rich fools ever dirtied their hands with cultivation.

This was the boring part, but Illya could afford to be patient now. Everything was under control. By tomorrow he would be on his way back to England with one hundred thousand dollars, and a chance to make his dreams come true.

Napoleon reluctantly handed the keys to his Porsche to the valet waiting in the entrance of Freeland Manor. In an insane moment, he almost snatched them back, wanting nothing more than to drive out the front gate and keep on going. He took a moment to collect himself and he straightened his jacket. With a deep, cleansing breath he forged ahead toward the door...

...Right into a distinguished looking older man who was in the process of escorting a sophisticated woman up the stairs.

"I beg your pardon." The older man's richly accented words made Napoleon cringe at his own clumsiness.

"I am sorry, sir," Napoleon apologized sincerely. "I am afraid in my enthusiasm to enter the festivities, I must not have seen you there."

"Enter the festivities or escape from them?" The elegant woman asked perceptively, a knowing smile playing across her lips. She turned to her companion and laid her hand lightly on the offered arm. "Come, Alexander, we mustn't keep our host waiting."

"Yes, of course, Baroness," the older man replied before giving one final reprimand to the chastened American. "Please be more careful, young Mr. Solo. There are other concerns in this world beside your own."

"You know my name?" Napoleon questioned, astonished.

"Of course. I make it my business to know who people are. A habit that wouldn't hurt you to pick up." And saying nothing more, the mysterious gentleman conducted the Baroness into the party.

Stifling a groan of resignation, Napoleon followed them into the brightly lit drawing room. It was going to be a long evening.

++++++++++++

Illya yawned hugely before turning his attentions back to the people below. The Baroness and her escort were lingering near the punch table. They seemed to be stay apart from the crowd, almost as if to keep a low profile. Still, they were not doing anything that might disrupt his plans, so he allowed himself to gaze around the room.

He wondered at the fact that despite class barriers, almost all social gatherings held many similarities. In this case it was the separation of the genders. On one side of the dance floor stood the young single women, giggling behind gloved hands, sending shy glances across the room towards the available men. The said single males stood talking among themselves, sparing only the occasional appreciative glances at their female counterparts. It was, after all, the woman's job to catch a husband. The men themselves seemed more interested in their all-absorbing conversation.

All but one man that is. Illya had given the dark haired heartbreaker more of his attention than he should have. Yet the man was just so fascinating to observe. He had the ladies swooning almost from the moment he had walked through the door, and his outrageous flirting was not to be missed. The Russian felt almost compelled to go down and ask the seducer what he whispered into those women's ears that sent them blushing back to their friends.

A quick glance back at the Baroness confirmed she was still in a deep conversation with her companion. Illya looked back to the dark rake to find him leading yet another damsel out onto the dance floor. The blond shook his head and gave a rueful smile. Would this man never get enough?

++++++++++++

Napoleon had decided on the strategy to hit the party hard and leave fast. Well, actually the tactic had been decided for him when Tom Lealand began his rendition of 'how to keep the inferiors in their place'. Napoleon knew that he had one of two choices, create a scene by slamming his fist into Lealand's arrogant face, or spend the remainder of his time here dancing up a storm with the ladies. He desperately wanted to do the former, but he fought for control to choose the latter.

He put on his most sporting smile and led the first pretty face he came to out on the dance floor. A swirl of chiffon, silk, and high heels later and he could no longer put a name to every woman he had waltzed across the floor with. Falling back on his upbringing, he flirted shamelessly, saying all the right things, hardly recalled what the words were after they left his mouth.

Finally he tore himself away from the suffocating attentions of Kimberly Brant. He almost gasped when he felt her hand cup the cheek of his buttocks before she winked and went back to her companions. The move had been a blatant invitation that most men could never pass up. So as Napoleon sipped on his punch, listening to the conversations swell around him, he debated on the wisdom of accepting that invitation.

A movement to his left caught the American's eye and for some unknown reason, he felt the reflexes he had acquired as a soldier flare to life. He tried to calm his suddenly alert senses, telling himself there was nothing more dangerous here than the occasional jealous lover. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He turned to scan the corner where the disturbing movement had occurred. There was nothing there besides the window that looked out over the garden. No one was near it and it was too high for anyone to be looking through from the other side. Still, there had been something that had caught his eye...

He casually laid his glass down and stepped past a couple who were between him and the corner, unaware that it was the same distinguished gentleman and his date he had literally run into earlier.

The older man was about to chastise Solo for his lack of awareness when he noticed the intensity of the brunet's stare. He followed Napoleon's gaze to the window, stepping slightly between it and the Baroness in his charge.

What happened next was almost too fast for description. One minute Napoleon was staring out a darkened window, the next he was hurtling backwards, his arms over his head in protection from the blinding explosion. The window and some of the surrounding wall disappeared in a shower of glass and debris.

Napoleon's training kicked in almost simultaneously with the deafening blast. Even with his body airborne, he managed to twist around to land on his hands and knees. Instinctively he reached out to pull the closest body down to the floor and shield it from the flying glass.

Over the screams filling the room, Napoleon heard someone shouting his name. He cautiously raised his head to meet the eyes of the distinguished gentleman--Alexander, wasn't it?

"Keep her safe," Alexander ordered, motioning to whoever Napoleon was shielding.

The American looked down to see the very person he had carried to the floor to protect was the Baroness herself.

"You must keep my necklace safe." For a woman in her position, her voice was very calm.

Napoleon was just about to assure her that everything would be all right when strong hands grabbed him from behind, wrenching him off the suddenly alarmed woman. He jackknifed his body over to break free, immediately dropping into a fighting stance.

Without consciously thinking about his actions, the American easily dropped the first black clad figure with one strike to the jaw. He neatly put the second over his shoulder before delivering a blow to his solar plexus. A third went the way of the first two when Napoleon slammed him head first into the wall.

The brunet looked up into a room full of chaos as people, unsure of what to do, scattered in all directions. The din of screams, shrieks, and cries was interrupted by an even louder noise. The sound of gunfire.

"Alexander!" The Baroness shouted, reaching for her companion.

The English gentleman turned, protecting the Baroness with his body. With one smooth movement, he tore the necklace from her throat and thrust it into Napoleon's hands.

"If you have ever wanted to do something worthwhile with your life, this is the time," the man Napoleon only knew as Alexander stated. "Take this necklace and run as if the devil was chasing you. Protect it with your life."

Most men would have questioned the situation, demanded answers, or questioned their own sanity. At least a normal man would a paused for a moment of thought.

Yet Napoleon Solo was not most men. He turned and vaulted over the punch table, the jewels tucked tightly against his chest. Flinging himself past several huddled people, he exited out the garden doors, disappearing into the darkness.

All the answers he had ever needed were held in the seriousness of Alexander's eyes.

+++++++++++++

Illya had just shifted positions, easing a cramp out of his left leg, when the explosion struck. It threatened to topple him over the edge of the balcony into the frantic crowd below. By sheer willpower and strength, he steadied himself, balancing on the balls of his feet.

Every survival instinct in his body told him to flee. One hundred thousand dollars was not worth his life. These rich fools would just have to fend for themselves. If he stayed, he could be implicated in this brash, destructive crime, or worse, he could be killed by these brash, destructive criminals. Leaving was the only wise choice in this situation.

Later he might reflect back on why he did not follow his instincts. Instead he took the quickest route down into the crowd. With one smooth push, he launched himself into the air. A quick flip brought his hands within reach of the second floor balcony rail, and with a tenuous grip at best, he latched onto it, swinging himself over. With a second leap, he landed amidst a ruined buffet table on the ground floor.

The room was pandemonium. People were pushing, shoving, almost trampling each other to try and get out any way they could. Through a destroyed window, men wearing black combat suits flowed into the building. Gunfire could be heard coming from the front entryway. And there in the midst of all the confusion was the Baroness, her companion, and the dark haired heartbreaker, fighting for their lives.

The Russian swung himself down from the table and waded out into the brawl. His fighting skills had been learned in labor camps and on the streets. They were not refined as a soldier's might be, but, as the intruders found out, they were quite effective.

An elbow to the ribs laid one man low, while a knee to the groin sent another crashing to the floor. His arms wrapped around the neck of yet another, and with a quick yank, flipped him over on his back. The man did not rise, and for all Illya knew, he had snapped his neck, but he gave it no second thought. Each man down brought him closer to the Baroness and his one hundred thousand dollar prize.

The, without warning, the Baroness's date ripped the necklace off of her neck. Illya watched in amazement and as he thrust it into the brunet's hands. The Russian was even more shocked when the flirt leapt over the table and dived out the side door.

The battle seemed to come to an abrupt end as the necklace and its bearer slipped out of sight. Without so much as a backward glance, Illya followed his new prey out into the night. If a chase was what was needed to earn his money, then he was damn sure going to give chase. Besides, there was obviously more going on here that what met the eye. If this was more than just a necklace, perhaps a higher price could be asked for its safe return.

First of all he had to find it. The dark haired rich boy was turning out to be more elusive than Illya would have thought. This might turn out to be a challenge yet.

Napoleon hit the ground running, his eyes automatically taking in his surroundings for possible escape routes. He briefly noted that there was a hell of a lot more cover in Korea that there was here in northern France. Still, he had been trained to make the most of his situation.

To his left was a low but thick covering of flower beds, to his right, sparse, well trimmed hedges. He turned right, opting for the higher bushes to run through.

He could sense rather than see his pursuers and was not truly surprised that his forward flight was ended when the dirt before him was kicked up with the tiny impact craters of bullets missing their mark. The next volley of shots made him abandon his direction all together, and with a flying leap, he landed in a crouched position in a thick flower bed.

He knew he couldn't stay there. With no weapons of his own, he would be an easy mark. Yet leaving this cover would put him back into the open, a moving target perhaps, but a target nonetheless. If he could only make it to the brick wall that ran along the outside of the garden, he might stand a chance. The wall was only about twenty feet away. Still, it was twenty feet with nothing to shield him. He would be running over an open expanse of lawn. Twenty feet or twenty mile miles, it didn't matter. Napoleon knew he couldn't outrun a bullet.

The American was just about to try heading back to the house when a movement caught his eye. In the darkness he couldn't see who, but there was a definite figure coming towards him. He tensed, preparing for a fight, his eyes straining into the night to see who it was. The only feature he could distinguish was a shock of pale gold hair, almost silver in the low light.

"When I draw their attention, you run," a somewhat accented male voice hissed out of the darkness.

"Who are you?" Napoleon called back.

A disgusted snort could be heard echoing across the garden, followed by a curse in...what was that? Russian?

"Run, you idiot." This time the words were louder as the man leapt up and moved away from the wall.

The gunfire followed the moving figure, giving Napoleon a chance to make his own retreat. His feet pounded in time with his heart as he raced out into the open, heading for the wall and his only salvation. Mere inches from his goal, Napoleon heard a louder shot, followed by a piece of the wall exploding in front of him, but it was too late to stop now. Jump over it or die, those were his only two options left. Never one to give up, Napoleon chose the former and hurled himself over the only barrier between himself and the shooters.

A bullet struck near his hand as he was lowering himself on the other side, causing him to lose his grasp. He felt himself beginning to fall and he frantically scrambled for a grip, a toe hold, anything. His left foot caught in a crevice in the wall as the rest of his body continued downward. Time seemed to slow as Napoleon tried desperately to right himself, his body twisting, his left foot staying immobile.

His ankle snapped with a sickening sound of bones grinding together. Napoleon stifled a scream in his throat as bright flashes of light shown behind his tightly closed eyelids. Pain radiated up--or was it down?--his leg, saturating his entire body with a burning misery that seemed to go on forever.

When Napoleon finally could collect enough oxygen in his lungs, he found himself lying on his back on the cold ground, the necklace still held tightly in his fist. He pulled himself up on his elbows, gritting his teeth against the pain even this tiny movement brought to his ankle. His flight was over. There was no way he could run away from his pursuers now.

In desperation, Napoleon thrust the necklace into the same crevice in the wall that had snapped his ankle. Then, with as much strength as he could muster, he dragged himself away. His only hope now was to get as far away from the jewels as possible before his capture. Perhaps he could keep them form being discovered...perhaps.

A whimper escaped his lips as he forced himself to his feet. With a limping, halting gait, he began to hobble away from the estate, away from the wall, away from the necklace.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he was caught.

++++++++++++++

Illya finally caught sight of the dark haired ladies man when he dived into the flower bed in the garden. The Russian knew that the rich boy was pinned down, nowhere to go. He also knew if this man was captured, there went any chance of his retrieval of the necklace and his one hundred thousand dollars.

He needed to get the fool to safety, and there seemed only one way to do that. He would have to draw the gunman's fire, give the heartbreaker a chance to get to safety. After they were rid of these annoying but dangerous interlopers, he could get back to the business at hand; stealing the necklace.

Illya made his way closer to the pinned down man, close enough to be heard, but far enough away that the rake would have enough time to make it to the wall when he drew the shooter's attention.

"When I draw their fire, you run." A simple plan, one that even the densest man could follow.

But the rich boy was obviously more dense than most.

"Who are you?" The dark haired man wanted to know.

"Durok," Illya mumbled, briefly wondering what it would take to make this fool run instead of ask question.

Suddenly the garden was filled with silence and Illya caught the sound of a clip being dropped from a gun. With the gunman changing clips, it was now or never.

"Run, you idiot," the Russian called, then vaulted from his hiding place.

Seconds later he heard the gunfire resume and bullets began flying past his head. It was up to the rich boy now. If he didn't run, he would be pinned down in that flower bed until it was too late.

A short span of time later sound of the shots became softer and Illya knew he was no longer the target. Hopefully the brunet had made it to safety.

The Russian leapt the brick wall the surrounded the estate, and backtracked along the perimeter to find the place where the rich boy had gone over. What he found was the rich boy himself, lying on his back. From the angle his left foot was lying, it was quite apparent that he had broken it crossing the wall.

The Russian's first thought was that this man would never make a decent thief. His second was wonderment at how, despite all the pain this man was in, he still had the insight to hide the necklace before dragging himself to a standing position and limping away. Illya felt a strange moment of respect for the man.

A small whimper of agony came from the dark haired man, and Illya watched as the other's head fell back. There was no way the rich boy was going to get far in this condition, much less escape from his pursuers. He was just buying time.

Illya looked from the man, to the hidden jewels, and back again. His choice was clear. Here was the perfect opportunity for him to take the necklace and run. One hundred thousand dollars, college, his future, his dreams, all lay with those precious stones. Yet he had an overwhelming need to help this man who was willing to risk his life for someone else. Illya had never seen anything like this before. Here was the honor that he had only read about in fairy tales. Here was the man every boy wanted to grow up to be. Could he leave him alone to accept his fate?

Cursing himself for being a sentimental, chivalrous fool, Illya turned away from the wall and towards the limping man.

And was stopped short by the feeling of cold metal being pressed against the back of his head.

"Hands up," came an ominous voice from behind him.

As Illya reluctantly complied, he heard a strangled cry, and knew that the dark haired man had been taken as well.

"I've got his partner," the man holding Illya called out. "He said to blindfold that one."

"Not the one you've got?" came the reply.

"No, this one ain't that important. It's Solo he wants kept alive." Illya felt a shiver run down his spine at those words.

Seconds later the dark haired man limped back into view, blindfolded and led by one of the figures in black that had crashed the party.

"So why don't you ice him right here?" the menacing figure asked.

"After we get the dot," Illya's captor replied. "Now let's get 'em to the van. He's gonna want to talk to them."

Illya watched as the dark haired man, hampered by both his inability to see, and his injury, stumbled, falling to his hands and knees. Illya could see the white line around the man's lips when he bit back his cry of pain.

"Get up , Solo," his abductor snarled. "We don't have time to play these games."

"He's hurt." Illya almost looked around to see where those words had come from, before he realized it was he who had spoken them. Before he could stop himself, even more came tumbling out. "There's no way he can walk with a blindfold, a damaged ankle and no help."

The Russian ended his plea in the other's defense by wondering where his common sense had fled to. These men holding them would think nothing of ending his life right here and now. Why would he push his luck arguing for this man he didn't even know?

Still, as he watched the man he only knew as Solo struggle back to his feet, something in the thief's heart melted a little. For the first time, Illya did not see this man as being a pathetic, spoiled, rich boy. Here he saw a man who despite being in great pain and up against tremendous odds, was not going to show one hint of weakness. Here was a man who at some time in his life had known what the end could feel like, and yet still managed to stay whole. Here was a man who needed--no deserved--his help, and Illya was not going to let him suffer alone.

"Here," Illya said, ignoring the guns that came to bear on him as came to Solo's side. "Let me help. Put your arm here."

He carefully draped the taller man's arm around his shoulder, taking as much weight as he could off the injured ankle.

"Thank you," Solo whispered hoarsely, his face turning towards Illya as if trying to see him through the blindfold.

"Shh, just lean on me." Illya braced himself. "We'll make it out of this."

"Mmm," was all that Solo responded with.

Illya knew the dark haired stranger was concentrating on walking, and was grateful for that. Because, despite his assurances to the contrary, Illya had no idea how they were going to escape from this.

++++++++++++++

Napoleon was fighting against the panic that had threatened to take hold of him since the blindfold had plunged him into a world of darkness. The pain in his ankle bit sharply when he stood on the foot, and it seemed that he was not going to be allowed off of it anytime soon.

Lost in the blackness, stumbling over uneven ground, the misery of his foot finally sent the American to his knees. The agony of the fall brought flashes of light that began to eat away at the edge of darkness that was his vision.

He wanted to curl up, cry out against the pain. He wanted these men, these voices, to go away and leave him to his misery. He wanted time to rest, time to think, time to figure a way out of this. He wanted...

What he received was a hand wrapping his arm around slight but sturdy shoulders, a body supporting his weight, and a voice saying, "Let me help." There were other words too, but that simple phrase uttered with a slight accent, felt like water to a drowning man.

"Thank you." The gratitude was heartfelt, not only for the aid offered, but for the alliance of another captive under the gun. "Isn't this sweet," came a sneering voice out of the darkness. "Move you two. We only need one of you, so don't either of you try anything stupid."

Napoleon heard his benefactor mutter something under his breath in what sounded like Arabic, but the American could not be sure. His total awareness now centered on the misery of his foot, and the warmth of the strong body supporting him. Their pace was slow as Napoleon could hardly stand, let alone walk. His artificial blindness forced him to rely totally on the man next to him to lead him to wherever their captors were taking them.

Despite the pain that radiated from his ankle, the brunet knew he had to steel his emotions. It was plain to see these men wanted that necklace for some reason more than the value of the diamond. There had been many other jewels at the party that would have been much easier to acquire than these. There was something else going on here, and he doubted that the men who had taken them prisoner were going to be subtle in their ways of persuasion to give up the necklace. The pain in his foot might be minor compared to what was going to happen next.

++++++++++++

A well-hidden van, concealed along the wandering drive to the mansion, became their destination. Illya carefully guided his charge to a stop at the rear cargo doors. The Russian fought down a tremor that threatened to take over his body. He had learned from experience that ruthless men like these had an agenda, and that no one was going to get in the way. Perhaps this Solo character might have some immunity to what was about to happen because of his wealth and status, but no one who think twice about torturing or killing a nobody thief like himself.

The van doors open and strong hands pushed them in. Solo stumbled, groaning as he sprawled out on his stomach, his hands barely coming forward to catch himself before his face hit the floor.

More for distraction from what lay ahead than to give actual aid, Illya slid down next to brunet's foot and gingerly removed the shoe. He heard Solo's gasp of pain, but besides that small intake of air, the American kept silent. Illya wondered how long that silence would last.

"Well, well." A voice broke through the Russian's thoughts. "Napoleon Solo's turned hero. It just goes to show that even pompous, rich bastards can be reformed. So, what was it, Napoleon, a little time at war turn you human?"

Illya watched the man he now knew as Napoleon Solo turn his face toward the sound of the voice taunting him.

"I don't know what you mean," the American ground out between clenched teeth. "I'm no hero."

"Oh please, don't tell me you're not working for U.N.C.L.E. now. Napoleon, I don't like to be lied to."

"Who is your uncle?" Napoleon questioned.

"Amusing to the last." The snarl on the other man's face proved that he thought it was anything but. "Let us drop the pretences here. You work for U.N.C.L.E., you were sent to retrieve the micro-dot, then things went wrong. You were forced to hide the dot. I want you to tell me where you hid it."

"I can't help you," the wounded man stated flatly.

"Can't or won't?"

Illya was bodily lifted away from his ministration to Napoleon's ankle, and their interrogator moved next to the American's damaged leg. "One last time Napoleon. Where is the dot?"

"I'm sorry, I can't help you."

With one swift movement the man brought his foot down on Napoleon's ankle, putting his weight on the injury. Illya fought against the hands that held him as Napoleon groaned, then screamed as the pressure was applied.

"Stop it!" Illya cried out. "Can't you see he doesn't know what you are talking about."

He was rewarded with a hand slapping him across his face. The Russian shook his head, trying to clear the stars that danced in his mind.

"Unless you can tell me where the micro-dot is, I suggest you shut up, boy," Napoleon's torturer snarled.

"What is this micro-dot you are talking about?" Illya was trying to distract the man from afflicting any more pain on the writhing American. "Has it something to do with the Baroness's necklace?"

Illya barely had time to rejoice the fact the interrogator removed his foot from Napoleon's ankle, when he was gasping for air to fill his lungs. The man turned his attentions to the Russian, wrapping his fingers around the blond's throat and squeezing with an ever-increasing pressure.

"Maybe I was talking to the wrong man here." There was an almost insane look to their captor's eyes. "What is your part in all of this."

"I..." Illya swallowed hard, trying to pull air in past the vise-like grip that threatened to choke him completely. "I was hired to steal the necklace."

"By whom?"

"I don't know."

"Hmmm, interesting. So, Thrush didn't trust me to do the job right." The pressure at Illya's throat eased, but the hand remained, a warning that the force could be reasserted at any moment. "So, tell me, where is the necklace now?"

"I want a deal," Illya insisted and felt the grip at his throat tighten a fraction.

"What kind of deal is that, thief?"

"We split the payment for the jewels fifty-fifty."

"An intriguing proposition. The problem is, my profit in this deal isn't monetary." The man tilted his head as if examining Illya before he continued. "What I get is a membership in one of the most illusive criminal organizations on the planet. All I have to do is give them the dot, and I am set for life."

"Micro-dots...those are what spies use to carry information, aren't they?" Napoleon's pain-filled voice flowed up from the floor.

"Oh yes, Napoleon. It seems you are not as stupid as you look." The man holding Illya's throat laughed.

"What kind of information does this one contain?" Napoleon needed to know.

"Only the blueprints for U.N.C.L.E.'s new North American headquarters in New York City. Thrush managed to acquire it right after U.N.C.L.E. moved in. Thrush was poised for a takeover when U.N.C.L.E. managed to get it back. We knew the plans were in France, so we've been watching all of the U.N.C.L.E. operatives we were aware of. Obviously they called in someone we didn't know about. That would be you, Napoleon. I need that micro-dot, and you're going to give it to me. Once I have it I can join the organization that will one day rule the world."

Illya flinched at this lunatic's words. Hitler, with all his mad schemes to take over this planet, would be part of the worst nightmare of people for generations to come. The knowledge that the arrogance of a few could do so much damage to the hopes and dreams of others was terrifying. He had witnessed first hand the frightening effects of what the Nazi Party had done to his homeland. The mighty country of Russia had almost been brought to her knees by the German's ruthless war machines. Only through the perseverance of a people bent on survival did Russia still stand.

Now another group of people were attempting to start the horror all over again. There would be more destruction, more death, more children to grow up in the hopelessness that was war. Illya knew he needed to end this here. Stop the madness before it started.

"I know where the necklace is." The Russian met the eyes of the deranged man.

"Shut up," Napoleon growled from the floor.

"I would give the same advice to you, Napoleon," their captor said, then turned his attention back to Illya. "Go on."

"I saw where he hid it, and I moved it myself." Illya was quite proud of the fact that his voice did not quaver.

"Where?" The single word was full of menace.

"Don't do it," Napoleon said, the tone of his voice a cross between a warning and a plea.

Illya ignore him. "Inside the fence, there's an oak tree. I put it up in one of its branches," he lied smoothly.

The maniac eyed him over, as if deciding on whether he was telling the truth or not. Illya fought down the tremors that threatened to give him away. Finally, with a nod, their interrogator released the blond's throat and shoved him toward one of the other captors.

"Tie them," the leader ordered. "We'll go see if he's telling the truth."

"I'll get some kind of payment for my troubles, won't I?" Illya stayed in character, as his hands were bound behind his back. "I can't go back empty-handed."

"Don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you," their torturer sneered, then turned to his henchmen. "Tie them together, but not so they can reach each other's hands. If either of them has any U.N.C.L.E. training they would be able to untie each other."

Illya felt his body being pushed up against Napoleon's. The American grunted as his foot was jostled, but other than that, refused to speak.

"I hope you are telling me the truth, little thief," the insane man said, the smile on his face, sickeningly sweet, the look in his eyes, pure madness. "I would hate to see what happens if I don't come back with that necklace."

The cargo doors of the van slammed shut, plunging the prisoners into darkness. Illya knew there were only two ways out now. Either they freed themselves or they could wait for the bullet that would come when the necklace wasn't found.

For a brief second the Russian wondered at how such a simple job had gone so wrong. Then he shook off the unnecessary question, and set about trying to untie the ropes before their soon-to-be executioners returned.

Almost as soon as he heard the van doors slam shut, Napoleon felt the thief begin to thrash around in his bonds.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The American snarled.

"Trying to save our hides, durok," Illya shot back.

"You just turned the necklace over to them, and now you want to be free? What about your reward?" Napoleon asked sarcastically.

"You really are a razyedakiy, do you know that? Why didn't you stick to your womanizing, instead of getting caught up in something you obviously can't handle?"

"Oh, like you're not tied up right next to me," Napoleon pointed out dryly. "I can see your expertise from here."

"You can not see anything, you are blindfolded."

"And you're not?"

"No, I am not."

"So, there is honor among thieves," Napoleon snapped angrily.

"Sukin Syn. They didn't blindfold me because it doesn't matter if I see them. They are going to kill me anyway."

Napoleon paused as he realized the truth of the thief's words. "Not any more though. You turned the necklace over to them."

"I lied. It's still in the wall where you put it."

"But...if these people come back empty handed..." Napoleon's words trailed away as he finally understood what this man had done.

"They will put a bullet in my brain, or something equally as nasty. You see, I am not a rich boy like yourself. There is no reason to keep me alive."

"We have to get you out of here," Napoleon said frantically.

"What do you think I am trying to do?" The words were hissed into Napoleon's ear as the Russian arched up against him. "If I...could...get a little...more slack..."

Napoleon felt a strong thigh come down between his legs. He quickly twisted to make sure nothing came in contact with his injured foot. This drove his groin up into the thigh, forcing a gasp from between his lips.

"Did I hit your foot?" There was concern in Illya's words.

"No, just be careful of some of my other body parts, would you?" Napoleon muttered.

There was a slight pause and Napoleon felt the thigh flex slightly against his confined cock. A low chuckle came out of the darkness.

"Of course, I would not want to do any damage there. The rich women of the world would never forgive me." The smile was evident in the Russian's words.

"All women," Napoleon replied haughtily. "I do not discriminate when it comes to the ladies."

"I happened to witness just how...indiscriminating...you are. In Russia we would call a man like you 'nastoyaschiy muznik'."

"I'm sure that means 'lucky'." Napoleon finally managed to wrap his fingers around the cord binding his hands.

"Not exactly," Illya replied, and pushed against the ropes, driving his thigh harder against Napoleon's crotch.

"You did that on purpose," the American ground out.

"Of course not, I am trying to free us," Illya snapped back, twisting again.

Napoleon growled, then pressed his own thigh into the thief's groin in retribution.

Illya's eyes flew open wide at the sensation of the American's thigh pushing against his cock.

"Kakovo rozhna!" Illya exclaimed, trying to pull away. "What are you, a lech?"

"That's pay back. Now keep your knee out of my crotch."

Illya's lips curled back in a snarl. Of all the stupid, arrogant fools in the world, why did he have to be bound to this one? There was no way he could get out of these ropes without slack, and no way he could get slack without pressing himself as close as he could to this idiot. The American would just have to get over it.

Illya moved again, aware of the gathering heat he felt against his thigh.

"That's it!" Napoleon yelped, then thrust back against his tormentor.

Illya gasped as he felt Napoleon shove back, igniting little fires everywhere their bodies made contact. Illya arched as if a bolt of electricity had shot through him. When the American stopped moving, both men were breathing hard.

"What was that?" Illya whispered, fighting against his body's need to continue the motion where the brunet had left off.

"I...don't know." Napoleon's voice was equally as soft and made the American sound awestruck.

"It must just be a reaction to the stress of the situation." Illya tried for logic.

"Mmm," Napoleon responded, then flexed his hips, as if to test whether the sensation would return.

The heat rose quickly again, and Illya found himself moving back against the American. It was like he had lost control of his own body. As his cock hardened, his pants felt more confining than the ropes that held them. Illya felt a responding hardness through the layers of cloth that separated him from Napoleon, and he tentatively pushed against it. He was rewarded with a low groan, showing the American was not in total control either.

That deep sound reverberated over Illya's entire body, leaving a rise of gooseflesh in its wake. As foolish as he knew this was, the Russian could not stop the grinding of his hips. The friction of his and Napoleon's motions was making him light-headed, leaving him wanting more.

Napoleon couldn't believe what was happening to him. Here they were, perhaps moments away from death, and he couldn't get enough of the thief's body. He moaned in frustration at the barrier of clothing between them. When the Russian began to undulate against him, he lost all train of thought.

In his blindness, Napoleon reached out with his remaining four senses. With his tactile response already hypersensitive, he turned to olfactory to take in the scent of arousal in the air. The musk of two excited males was a bit different than what he was use to, but now it only added to his pleasure. The harsh sounds of the Russian's breathing blended with his own, and the whimper that escaped the other man spurred him to try something more.

Napoleon hooked his chin over the thief's shoulder, pulling him closer still. He then turned his head and buried his face into the crook of the Russian's neck. His tongue snaked out to taste the tangy flavor of sweat. It was not enough, he needed more. Napoleon began thrusting his hips with great vigor against the thief's, and took the flesh he had been lapping at into his mouth with a strong suction, pulling it up between his teeth.

Illya gave a strangled moan and began to buck against Napoleon. Gone was any rationalization. Now there was only the race for completion.

The Russian couldn't take it anymore. He had to find release. The pleasure in his body spiraled out from his cock, going all the way to his fingers and toes. His hands gripped spasmodically at the cords that held them. He wanted so much to touch this man with his fingers, feel that dark hair, trace across those magic lips at his throat, learn every inch of the body pressed up against his.

Abruptly Napoleon stiffened against the Russian. The air leaving his lungs traveled across Illya's sensitive skin, as the American groaned out his completion. Illya watched Napoleon's head fall back, those beckoning lips opening in a silent scream. The spreading warmth he felt against his own cock sent him over the edge.

Illya came down hard over those inviting lips, and Napoleon eagerly breathed in the blond's moan. The two mouths ground together as each man gave into to his own orgasm.

It was a few moments later that Illya finally came back to himself. He felt the sticky mess of his own seed surrounding his spent cock. Napoleon still lay limply below him, the American's swollen lips curved in a half smile. Illya imagined the brown eyes concealed by the blindfold were slitted in satisfaction.

"Kraseevi," Illya murmured.

"What does that mean?" Napoleon asked, his voice soft.

Illya was grateful the brunet couldn't see him blush. "I called you a beautiful man."

Napoleon snorted, but his smile grew. "And to think, I don't even know your name."

"I do not know much more than that about you." Illya shrugged his shoulders, then started as the rope slid down his waist.

"Tell me I'm not feeling what I think I'm feeling," Napoleon sighed as Illya began to drag the rope up his chest.

"Yes, Napoleon, it looks as if we have just mutually masturbated ourselves out of these ropes." Illya's voice was full of suppressed laughter.

"We will never live it down if anyone hears about this."

"I won't tell if you won't," Illya promised, an embarrassed smile crossing his face.

The Russian finally managed to pull the ropes over their head, then quickly brought his own bound hands under his feet and up to his mouth. His teeth made quick work of the knots, and at last he was free.

Napoleon found himself being helped to his feet. Hands adjusted his tuxedo jacket, and the American realized it was to hide the tell-tale wet spot on the front of his trousers.

"There, no one will be able to tell," the thief said, nervous laughter following his words.

"Aren't you going to take this blindfold off and untie me?" Napoleon asked impatiently.

"No, I would like to stay anonymous. That will be easier if you do not see what I look like."

"Wonderful," Napoleon complained. "How am I suppose to watch your back if I'm not allowed to see it?"

"This time, I will watch your back."

Illya was surprised at the strong emotion that statement caused in him. The words were something partners would say to each other, and he and Napoleon were definitely not partners. Why would two men, who barely knew each other, wish to watch over one another. Did this feeling stem from their brief sexual encounter? Or perhaps their physical encounter was nothing more than a deep seated sentiment they felt about each other coming to the surface.

The Russian was confused at how he felt about this man, so different from himself, but he knew he didn't have the time to sort out his emotional state now. Now, he needed to get them both to safety.

"Can you walk?" Illya asked as he helped Napoleon out of the van.

"I think so." Napoleon put his weight on his ankle and almost crashed to the ground.

"Not very far." The thief sounded slightly annoyed. "I'll have to find a place to hide you."

Napoleon was too tired to argue. The pain of his injury, the residue of the adrenaline still running through his system, and to top it all off, his orgasm, had drained the last bit of energy out of his body. He allowed the Russian to take control of the situation.

It seemed like they had been walking forever, when finally gentle fingers splayed across the small of Napoleon's back, guiding him to the ground.

"Rest here. I will send help back." Soft words were whispered in his ear.

The warmth and the strength of the other body left him, pulling away, leaving. Napoleon panicked, thrashing in his bonds, wanting nothing more than to reach out to the retreating figure.

"Don't..." he called out, not really sure of his next words.

The Russian was back at his side instantly, and Napoleon relaxed a fingers stroked softly across his forehead.

"Don't what, keeya?" The thief asked.

"Don't leave."

The plea encompassed more than just being left alone here. Napoleon was begging for this man to stay with him, now and forever. The American had lost too many of his friends to casually allow another to simply slip away.

They had only spent a short time together, but Napoleon did consider this man his friend. In that period of time there had been an awakening of sorts for the rich man. Napoleon had been given a glimpse into the possibilities his future could hold. The reality he had so desperately wished for was his for the taking. And this one person, this thief, this Russian, the epitome of everything his country had sent him to fight against in Korea, was someone he could share it with.

And now he was leaving.

"Don't leave," the American repeated, and leaned into that all-consuming heat of his salvation.

"Shhh, Napoleon," the Russian soothed. "It will be all right. Things will work out. Now I must get you some help."

"You're not coming back." Napoleon's words were flat, not asking a question, just stating a fact.

Without thinking, Illya leaned forward and gently brushed his lips across the American's. Napoleon responded by kissing him back, knowing this was the thief's way of saying good-bye.

With one final caress, the Russian walked away.

"Good-bye," Napoleon whispered out into the darkness, knowing the man was already gone.

The world closed in around the American, and he drifted in his blackness, mourning the loss of a man he now considered his friend.

++++++++++++

Illya gave a long look over his shoulder at the injured man, wishing for a minute that things could be different. Still, in reality he knew they were from two different worlds, and only a miracle could overcome that. They had had their moment in time, and now it was over.

With regret, Illya turned away, leaving the American hidden in the sparse vegetation along the drive. Napoleon would be safe there. Now he had to retrieve the necklace before it was discovered.

The Russian slid noiselessly through the foliage, senses alert for even the slightest movement that might betray the whereabouts of his former captor. Strangely enough, he did not see sign of anyone around as he made his to the wall.

His fingers traced along the brick and mortar of the barrier, until they came to a fracture in the old cement. He deftly felt around until he came in contact with the cool hardness of his prize. Illya carefully extracted the gemstones from their hiding place.

The Russian looked down at the jewels in his hands. They sparkled brilliantly even in this low light. In these stones had laid his dreams of the future. Giving them back would end those dreams. No one would hire a thief that couldn't do the job. If he were to stay in this business, he would have to take the necklace and run, back to London, back to his money, back to his last chance to make something of his life.

His gaze rose to look over the landscape of France. It wasn't very long ago the Nazi Army had trod on this very soil, bent on destroying the last vestiges of the collective human soul. He could not let that happen again. The necklace and the secrets it contained had to go back to its rightful owners. It would be his one chance to make certain the horror that was his childhood never repeated itself.

+++++++++++

Alexander Waverly stood calmly in the midst of chaos. While he had sent all the available men he had out to find young Napoleon Solo and his precious cargo, he himself waited at the mansion. Alexander had looked into the eyes of many a man in his lifetime. There he had seen a wide range of personalities and emotions, from madness to genius, from defeat to tenacity. Yet, when he looked into Napoleon Solo's eyes, he had seen a man who would persevere.

The decision to trust Solo was made in the heat of battle, still Alexander had no doubt that it had been the correct decision. Solo would keep the necklace secure and return as soon as it was safe to do so. Alexander had all the faith in the world in that young man.

Thus, it was surprising when a rather battered looking blond man, who in no way resembled Solo, walked up to him and put the jewels in his hands. Blue eyes raised to meet his, a haunted, yet determined light shining from their depths.

"Napoleon Solo is resting half a mile down the drive." The man's voice was weary, but strong. "He needs medical attention. I am certain you will supply this."

"Of course." Waverly snapped his fingers at his personal guard. "Get an ambulance and go find Mr. Solo immediately." The Englishman gave the order.

The blond stood silently until the man left, then turned back to Waverly. "The men responsible for this..."

"Have been captured," Alexander finished for him. "We found Mr. Lealand and his co-conspirators up in a tree. You wouldn't happen to know why they were there, would you?"

A secret smile played across the young man's lips for a moment, then he shook his head in denial. He gave a last look out toward the lane, as if trying to see something that wasn't there, then faced back to Waverly.

"Take care of Napoleon, the man is a hero. But don't tell him that. I think his ego is big enough." With that the blond walked away.

Alexander stepped forward to stop him, but he knew truly he could not. His duty lay here with this information once again in his possession.

"Who are you so I can thank you properly?" Alexander called out to the retreating figure.

The young man turned back towards him, a look of sorrow crossing his face. "I am nobody." His words were barely loud enough to be heard. Then he was gone into the darkness.

Alexander was wise enough to know a broken heart when he saw one. In that young man he witnessed the knowledge of dreams shattered. There were many prices that had to be paid for the safety of the world he lived in, but the loss of hope was too high a one. The Englishman silently sent his best wishes after the blond.

++++++++++++

Illya Kuryakin turned up his wool collar against the damp London air. His feet picked up speed as he made his way down the maze of side streets that would lead him to Paddy's Pub. He needed to smile again, one last time, and Paddy had always been able to make him smile.

He shifted his duffel to his other shoulder. In it were all his worldly possessions, not much for almost twenty years of living, but then he never needed much. Possessions could slow him down, and he could not afford to be slow now. He was starting a new life today, as he had done so many times in the past. It was time to put away childish dreams and take his place in the real world.

Paddy had a vodka poured before he reached the bar. Some things never change. Illya dropped his burden by a bar stool before downing the fiery liquid in one draught.

"Mmm, Paddy, you always know just what I need," Illya sighed as the barkeep refilled his glass.

"So, what's with the bag there?" Paddy eyed the duffel next to Illya's chair. "Laundry, or are you running away from home?"

"This, Paddy, is everything I own in this world," Illya stated dramatically as he patted the bag. "I am about to join the world of Papa Carlos. I am about to become a working man."

"Yeah, right." The Englishman shook his head. "Quit pulling my leg. What's in the bag?"

"I would never pull your leg. There are too many other better looking legs to pull," Illya tried to joke. "I am off to be a fisherman."

"Are you daft!?!" Paddy shouted, drawing looks from some of the other bar patrons. "With all you've got to offer and you're going off to fish?"

"Your kippers have to come from somewhere," Illya shrugged.

"Yeah, from people like me maybe, but you can be so much more, Illya." The bartender looked imploringly at his young friend. "You can't just give up and walk away. What about college?"

This conversation was not the one the Russian wanted to hear. He had debated this very topic with himself all the way back to this cold, gray city. All the answers came up the same. It was time to start over, and this was the only way he knew how to.

"Paddy, I have no money. No money means no college. There is no way around that fact of life. I am done trying for something I am never going to have." Illya's hand unconsciously went to the mark on his neck, as Napoleon's face flashed briefly before his eyes.

"You're a fool, Illya." Paddy's eyes narrowed. "A really smart fool, but a fool nonetheless. People with less smarts than you are out there going to college, learning new things, making their dreams come true. And here you are, letting yours go. How do you say 'giving up' in Russian?"

"I can't." Illya's words were almost a whisper. "I can't do it anymore. It hurts to much to fail."

Paddy snorted and turned away. Illya felt alone, lost in confusion. What did Paddy expect from him? How many times was he suppose to get back up after being knocked down? How long was he suppose to feel this pain in his heart before it would finally be enough? Dreams were for other people. Fairy tales were for children, and he no longer had the strength to believe in them.

Through his misery, he realized Paddy had moved his glass and set a piece of paper in front of him.

"What is this?" the Russian asked softly.

"Something you don't deserve right now. But I guess it's up to me to keep you from running off and doing something stupid. So here you go," Paddy snapped impatiently.

Illya picked up the paper--a letter--and began to read it. He only made out a few sentences before his eyes clouded over with tears.

"It's not real," Illya murmured.

"So, now you're calling me a liar?" Paddy bellowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched up in a grin.

"No, Paddy...I would never...I just...how?" The disjointed words faded away as he stared in wonder at the piece of paper he held in his hands.

"You need a reason?" The Englishman shook his head. "It's your dream, man. Don't ask questions, just go and grab it."

Illya tried to calm his trembling hands to read the letter again, but all me could make out was:

Cambridge Intercollegiate Applications Office

Kellett Lodge

Tennis Court Road

Cambridge CB2 1QJ

Dear Mister Kuyakin:

You have been accepted to Cambridge University under a full scholarship...

It was enough. It was more than enough.

"I can't believe it." Illya's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"It's yours, my friend." Paddy was smiling. "The dream is yours. Go get it."

The shocked look on the Russian's face was replaced by the look of someone trying desperately to believe in miracles. Laughter bubbled up from Illya's chest, spilling from his lips in almost hysterical glee.

"I'm going to college," he said softly, then turned to the rest of the bar. "I'm going to college!" This time it was a shout.

"I think they know that," Paddy responded dryly.

"There are so many things to do." Illya was suddenly hyper. "I have to get a room, and maybe find a part time job. First I have to find a way there. I need a bus schedule. Paddy, I..."

"Go, Illya, shout it to the world. Then get a bus schedule." Paddy was laughing now. "Remember, you promised to hold the graduation party right here."

Illya was off his stool in a flash, knocking against his duffel bag in the process. He gave it a blank look as if trying to understand its purpose for being there.

"I'll watch it. Now go on," Paddy offered, and before the words were out of his mouth, Illya was headed for the door.

The Russian paused at the threshold and turned back toward his friend. "Paddy...I..." He had no idea what to say.

"I know, I know. Now what does it take to get you going?" Paddy answered the silent expression of gratitude.

Illya was off and running before the door even closed.

The bartender made his way around the bar to gather up Illya's duffel. He paused, then turned to the table in the back, the same table where, less than a week ago, Oslo Papist had brought Illya 'the deal of a lifetime'. An older man lowered the newspaper he had been reading, and looked up at Paddy as he lit his pipe.

"So, he's on his way, is he?" the man said casually.

"Yes, Mr. Waverly, he is. I don't know why you did this, but I can never thank you enough for it." The bartender extended his right hand.

Alexander took it in a firm grip. "Let's just say I know potential when I see it. The organization that I work for will pick up all his expenses, but you must never tell him where the money is coming from."

"If that's what it takes to get him through college, I'm glad to do it. Now, can I get you anything? Anything I have is yours." Paddy motioned across the dingy bar.

"No, I'm afraid I must be off. I have a young man to visit at the infirmary. Terrible accident, broke his ankle." Waverly smiled a secret smile.

"Well, I hope he gets better soon," Paddy offered.

"I'm sure he will." Waverly rose and nodded. "Mr. Kuryakin found a good friend in you, sir. I hope he appreciates that."

"Not as much as he should," the bartender laughed. "But I'll keep reminding him."

"See that you do." And with those words, Alexander exited out into the streets of London.

He would visit young Mr. Solo before heading back to New York to take over as the new Chief of Operations, U.N.C.L.E. Northwest. He might have to wait a few years, but he had faith that these two young men would prove to valuable additions to the U.N.C.L.E. organization. He didn't have a doubt in the world about that. All he had to do was wait.

Alexander Waverly could be a very patient man.

----------------------------

Authors love feedback.
To send Melissa a note, click below:
abnoba@webtv.net