Part One of Two.
“At least we have some privacy.” Illya Kuryakin stretched his slim frame across the length of the tiled platform. The heat and humidity were intense, and he could almost feel his pores opening. He undid the towel that was cinched around his middle, lifted his hips and pulled it out from under him, then draped it over his groin.
Napoleon Solo sat on a lower level, perpendicular to his partner, his elbows propped behind him on a higher ledge. “Remember the last time we took a steam? The two sumo wrestlers?”
Illya closed his eyes. “That was seven months and seven thousand miles ago, and I still have nightmares about being squished,” he said. “Why are we in a steam room anyway? Philadelphia in August is one big steam room.”
“I only suggested it because I like the way you look in a towel,” Napoleon said, fingering the hanging edge of the terry cloth. “Or without it. Hugging the wall. Me pressed up against your back...”
Illya tsked. “I have never known you to be so crude,” he said disapprovingly. “Ask me again later.”
Napoleon chuckled, reached up and gave Illya’s leg a pat, then leaned back and closed his eyes, adjusting his position to sit more comfortably. Their week-long assignment was finished, and they deserved some down time. It was just a few minutes, however, before they heard the door open, and through the warm fog saw a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty-five, a knee-length towel around his middle. He seemed a little ill at ease.
“Hello,” he said hesitantly. “Mind if I join you?” He sat on the same bench with Napoleon, a few feet away, and nodded to Illya, who muttered something that might or might not have been a consent.
Napoleon slipped into his usual gregarious self, disguising his caution. “Welcome to the opium den.”
The stranger smiled and waved at the steam in front of his face, acknowledging the joke, then studied Solo. “Do I know you?”
Napoleon searched the stranger’s face, but couldn’t recall ever having laid eyes on him. “A lot of people do.”
The man frowned, thinking hard, and wagged his finger at the agent. “Your name is Napoleon, isn’t it?”
“Guilty.”
“My accounting firm was commissioned to do an audit of your organization last year,” the stranger said. “I was at your headquarters for a week with my boss, and all the department heads came into the office at one time or another.”
Napoleon promptly checked the man’s credibility. “You must have worked with our comptroller then, Tim Flannagan.”
The stranger squinted, “It was Tim...Tim something, but not Flannagan.” He thought about it. “No, the name escapes me. In fact they all do, except yours. You don’t find many people named Napoleon.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mister uh...”
“Well, we weren’t formally introduced. You talked to my boss and I sat in the background---tap, tap, kachuk.” He mimed hitting the keys of an adding machine.
U.N.C.L.E.’s Chief Enforcement Agent was not used to his questions being ignored, but patience prevailed. “A resourceful fellow like you must have a name.”
“Oh, sorry,” the man said sheepishly, “Joe Hopkins.”
Napoleon shook his hand, noting it was clammy but attributing that to the atmosphere.
“Uh, what are you doing in Philadelphia, Mr. Solo?”
“Business,” Napoleon said, “but I have to catch a plane this afternoon.”
“Hey, I’m packed and ready to go, too. Maybe you’d like to share a cab to the airport. I don’t like to push the expense account if I don’t have to.”
Napoleon smiled apologetically. “The local office is providing transportation for me,” he said. “I’d offer you a ride, but they’d want to fingerprint and photograph you first.”
Hopkins nodded and chuckled nervously. “Oh, I understand.” He reached around his waist and lazily scratched his back. “You really don’t need to worry about catching that ride, though,” he said, removing his hand from behind his back to reveal a revolver. “You and Mr. Kuryakin won’t be leaving this room. That is until you’re carried out.”
Illya raised his left hand from behind his hip, his Walther pointed directly at Hopkins’ chest. “Perhaps we shall all be carried out together.” The confrontation was a stand-off.
Hopkins’ stared at Illya’s gun and his body tensed, then he directed his aim at Solo’s stomach. He stood and backed away. “I’m not joking,” he threatened. “I’ll shoot him!”
Illya looked at him coolly. “I would prefer that you shoot him, because then I will have ample time to shoot YOU. Now drop your weapon.”
“No, I---”
The man looked to Napoleon, to Illya, then back to Napoleon again.
Illya fired.
Hopkins turned his head and stared at him, stunned. Napoleon lurched forward and seized the man’s wrist, taking himself out of the line of fire, then watched him slump to the floor in slow motion, the look of surprise frozen on his face.
Illya jumped down to examine the body.
“What do you mean, you’d prefer he shot me?” Napoleon asked indignantly.
Illya smiled up at him, then returned his attention to the corpse. “Where do you suppose Mr. Talkative came from?”
“Maybe a rookie Thrush, trying to make a name for himself,” Napoleon said. “Uh, Illya...” He handed Illya the towel that his partner had let fall when he’d jumped down. “Not that I don’t enjoy the view, but the atmosphere just isn’t right.”
Illya stood and wrapped the towel around his waist, still looking down at the body. “Very unprofessional. He didn’t even expect us to be armed.”
“A fatal assumption.” Napoleon opened his communicator and ordered a clean-up crew dispatched from the local office.
The two agents stepped over the body and exited the room, posting the CLOSED sign. They strolled back to the changing room and found the only other locker that was padlocked, and Illya opened it in seconds. “His name WAS Hopkins,” he said when he found the dead man’s wallet. “But there’s nothing here but a driver’s license from Texas and some cash. No airline ticket, no hotel key.”
“Maybe Research can get a line on him,” Napoleon said. “Let’s shower off.” Illya followed his partner into the shower room and they each stepped into a tiled, waist-high stall. Napoleon began to soap up but stopped when he saw Illya’s gaze roaming over his torso. He leveled a look at his partner and held his arms out from his sides. “Look, ma, no bullet holes.”
Illya reached for him and slid his hand across Napoleon’s smooth stomach. “Not this time,” he said quietly.
***
The October sun had begun to set as Solo and Kuryakin approached Fiorello’s. Illya hastened his stride to open the big oak door ahead of his partner, and they both stepped into the dark bar, Napoleon nodding to the two UNCLE agents who had pulled sentry duty that evening.
The establishment had been a second home to Section Two and Three operatives for almost twenty years, and they had branded it so, their many initials carved into the hard walnut of the big rectangular bar. An out-of-town businessman might wander in occasionally by accident, and be left to his drink unbothered. But any Thrush employee would need balls of titanium to breach this sanctum.
The two top men of Section Two settled themselves into their usual places at the bar, directly opposite their counterparts from Section Three, acknowledging them and others with brief eye contact.
“What’ll ya have, gents,” the bartender asked. “The usual?”
“Why not, Fred?” Napoleon said, and Illya let the reply stand for him as well.
A scotch and a vodka were served up.
“Illya,” Napoleon said pointedly, “do you recall some ne’er do wells in this bar betting me that it would take at least a month for us to accomplish that task in, ah, where was it?”
“I believe it was Istanbul,” Illya said, taking his cue. They hadn’t been in Istanbul, but the actual location of their assignment could not be discussed in public, even here.
“Uh huh,” Napoleon said, with a nod. “And, refresh my memory, when did that wager transpire?”
“Exactly three weeks and two days ago,” Illya deadpanned.
“Three weeks and two days...” said Napoleon thoughtfully, staring into space. “And we’re back now, so, let’s see, that’s almost week sooner than planned, isn’t it?”
Illya concentrated on his vodka, ignoring what he thought was at last a rhetorical question, until he felt Napoleon’s eyes on him and he started, raising an eyebrow and glancing at his partner. “Yes, it is.”
“Then I deduce that Mr. Domenici and Mr. Herrera owe us two beers,” Napoleon said, raising his chin and looking questioningly at the men.
Number One of Section Three, Tony Domenici, grinned and shook his head. He knew the complications involved, and so did a few other agents within earshot. “I didn’t think you could do it, Solo.”
Napoleon beamed, giving Illya a chance to comment. “He didn’t do it solo,” the Russian said.
Napoleon slowly turned his head toward his partner, his mouth agape as if appalled at the traitorous comment, and Illya shrugged innocently, both signaling the men at the bar to enjoy the joke at their CEA’s expense. Napoleon smiled amid the laughter.
“Two beers for my fellow employees, Fred,” Tony said, chuckling, then turned to his own partner, Miguel Herrera. “Ante up, Mike.”
Several off-color jokes about guys who walked into bars with various animals later, Napoleon and Illya took their beers and adjourned to a booth against the wall. They ordered a casual meal from the small kitchen in the back, and relaxed their guard. Although they were in full view of the other agents, their conversation couldn’t be heard.
“Does life get any better than this?” Napoleon said after downing a swig of the brew.
Illya knew what he meant. “Any better than what, drinking beer in a bar?”
“Drinking beer in THIS bar, bonding with our fellow agents, after a long day of saving the world,” Napoleon said, giving a tired but contented sigh. “And now, you and me, sharing corned beef and sauerkraut and each other’s company.”
“Wouldn’t you rather share the company of someone who DIDN’T remind you of U.N.C.L.E.?” Illya said. “Or can’t you get enough of this job?”
“But that’s the point. I don’t have to explain my day at the office to you,” Napoleon said, glancing toward the door at some new arrivals. “You already know everything.”
Illya licked some beer off his upper lip. “I will remind you of that in the future.”
Napoleon smiled and they leaned back as their food arrived on heavy white plates, warmed and laden with generously stuffed sandwiches. Conversation lagged as they savored the aromas and flavors of the simple fare.
Illya crunched into a pickle spear. “What is our itinerary for this weekend?”
Napoleon gathered his thoughts. “We put our luggage in the car Friday morning, leave headquarters by three in the afternoon--barring any international crisis that can only be resolved by you and me--and head for the Cape,” he said.
“And what is my excuse for being there?”
“I knew you were preoccupied when we talked about this yesterday,” Napoleon said tolerantly. “We have to be in Boston at noon on Sunday, and it’s convenient.”
“Why do we have to be in Boston?” Illya persisted.
“My family learned a long time ago not to ask ‘why’ about my work.”
Illya look pained. “Why should I go at all?”
“Because it’ll do you good to get out of the city, get some sea air, even if I can’t be with you all the time,” Napoleon said. “And because I don’t want to be away from you for that long if it’s not necessary.”
“You are hopelessly sentimental sometimes.”
Napoleon wiped his mouth with his napkin, using it to hide his lips. “I need you,” he said. “Can I help that?”
Illya flushed slightly. “I still have reservations,” he said. “This is not a casual picnic where you need an extra outfielder, or Christmas, when your family feels the need to take in the lost Communist sheep.”
“They don’t think of you that way. A lost Russian mule maybe. Besides, you won’t be at the wedding,” Napoleon reminded him, “just the reception. IF I manage to wheedle you in.”
“I do not need to be wheedled,” Illya said. “I can take care of myself in the wilds of Massachusetts without your supervision, perhaps do some sightseeing.”
“As Aunt Amy would say, ‘you have to eat.’“
Illya smiled at the memory of the grand matron of the Solo family. “Still,” he said, “this is a formal family occasion.”
“Little do they know that you’re family.”
Illya lowered his voice. “You and I are family.”
Napoleon did the same. “Since April, 1961.”
Illya frowned, puzzled. “I thought. . .” he resisted the urge to glance sideways and lowered his voice further. “I thought we became family last New Year’s Eve.”
Napoleon smiled at his confusion. “This has nothing to do with sex, partner mine.” He sat back and waited while Illya thought about it. A memory crossed the Russian’s face.
“You are referring to the two days we spent in that miserable shack in the Andes, waiting for the weather to clear so the helicopter could retrieve us.”
“Exactly.”
“I talked too much,” Illya said, frowning at his sandwich. “And you bled too much.”
“You were taking my mind off it.”
They fell silent while they finished their meal, each reminiscing to himself, careful not to exchange any look that might be misinterpreted, or interpreted correctly.
Minutes later they got up to leave, stopping to speak to a few agents who’d arrived in the interim, then headed home to their respective apartments in the same building. Or so it was assumed by most. Knowledge of the true nature of their partnership was on a need-to-know basis.
***
“More,” Illya whispered, breathless.
Napoleon complied.
“Yes.”
Napoleon braced himself on his hands and pushed his hips forward, his long slow strokes evolving into shorter, quicker ones.
Illya moaned, spread on his stomach sideways across the bed. Napoleon rocked his partner’s body forward and back with his own.
“Ready?”
Illya nodded, gulping to relieve the dryness in his throat.
Napoleon sank deeply into him one more time and held himself there for a minute, his groin tight against Illya’s cheeks, all his weight pressing his partner into the mattress, struggling to enjoy the sensation but hold back its inevitable result. He backed off and his cock left its haven, flailing in the void between them. He kneeled up straight and took hold of Illya’s waist, guiding him up so his partner’s opening was level with his groin, Illya following the signaling touches to his inner thighs to spread his legs further. Napoleon’s right hand, then his left, glided down the length of Illya’s spine to his shoulders, while the underside of his own cock lazily caressed the cleavage of his partner’s buttocks.
Illya was small for a man, but when he was naked under Napoleon’s hands, his lean torso seemed to lengthen with his cock. Napoleon smoothed his partner’s skin repeatedly, noting the dimples at the small of Illya’s back that appealed to him so, then slid his hands along Illya’s ribs and waistline and down to his cheeks, encircling them with arousing touches.
“Okay,” he said, and Illya felt the wet cock slide into him again, sinking even deeper than before, at the perfect angle, repeatedly drawing back and thrusting home, the pleasure increasing with the tempo. Illya groped for his own cock, and Napoleon’s hand covered his, riding on it as Illya pumped himself a few times to climax, his semen streaming onto the sheet, a second later the froth spilling over both their hands. Napoleon let go to get a slippery grip on Illya’s hips, holding on as he straightened up and closed his eyes, arched his back, and drove into his partner, his own orgasm radiating from his groin on the third thrust.
As the last shudders faded away, Napoleon kept his hold on the body beneath him as he carefully withdrew and stroked the fair cheeks again. He thought about how he always came stronger and wetter with Illya than he ever had with anyone else. The connection between them mattered, the love between them mattered. Every coupling was like the renewal of a vow.
Illya dropped onto his stomach again, and Napoleon fell to the side, their bodies separated so they could catch their breaths and cool off. After a minute Illya found Napoleon’s upturned hand, and took it in his.
Napoleon squeezed the sticky hand and smiled at Illya affectionately.
“Another fine mess.”
“It’s always fine,” Illya said, smiling back at him.
***
“This method of driving is self-defeating,” Illya declared as Napoleon braked after a eighty-mile-per-hour sprint. “If everyone slowed down, we could all go at a steady pace.”
“What fun would that be?” Napoleon asked, pretending to be serious. “This way you turn a dull trip into an exhilarating sport.”
“Can’t people just enjoy the autumn colors?” Illya said as Napoleon braked and he braced himself against the dashboard.
His partner gave him a wry smile. “One doesn’t enjoy the scenery while one is hurrying to get somewhere to enjoy the scenery. It just isn’t done.”
Illya kept his hand on the dashboard in case of a collision. “Are you going to make it in time for the rehearsal?”
“Just barely.” Napoleon swore under his breath as another driver cut in front of him.
They pulled up to St. Bartholomew’s in Chatham at a few minutes after 8 pm. Napoleon adjusted the rear view mirror and tried to see if he was presentable, then hurried into the church. A gaggle of cousins in the vestibule turned to see him enter, and he smiled his most winning smile.
“I hope I’m not too late,” he said, taking note of each and every face, familiar and unfamiliar.
“Okay,” his cousin Tony said in a loud voice as he looked at his watch, “who had 8:12?”
“Me!” said Napoleon’s cousin Donna triumphantly.
“Oh, you all have so little faith in me,” Napoleon said, adopting a wounded expression.
His cousin Angela greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “That employer of yours is always making you late. Or preventing you from joining us at all. Where was it last Thanksgiving? Reykjavik?”
He kissed her and reversed the attention. “And how is the star of the family? I’m glad you’re not on the boards tonight.”
She sighed. “I’m between productions right now. But I have a callback on Wednesday, so keep your fingers crossed.”
Frank Solo interjected. “Angela, how long is it going to take you to become an overnight success?”
She rolled her eyes away from him and Napoleon attempted to soften the sarcasm. “We’re all proud of you, Angie. Frank doesn’t have to audition for his paycheck at City Hall.”
Another cousin nudged the chastised Frank and chuckled.
Napoleon looked over the group. “It seems I’ve beaten the groom to the church,” he said.
“Oh, here they are now,” someone said as the heavy church door opened and a waft of cool air preceded the new arrivals.
The bride and groom were immediately rushed by family and friends. “Are you ready for the big day?” “Gail, you look wonderful.” “Did you remember the rings, Nick?”
Eventually everyone present was acknowledged by the couple, and Napoleon was introduced to the bride, charming her with a kiss to her hand.
“That’s enough, Napoleon,” the groom said, “you’re not allowed to outclass me, not this weekend.”
“He can’t help it,” Tony said, “it’s that French blood on his mother’s side.”
A matron suddenly appeared from inside the church proper, clapping to get their attention. “All right, people, we haven’t got all night. Groomsmen and bridesmaids assemble, please.” There was a flurry of activity as the men and women were paired off, then joined arms to take their positions. The woman’s voice reverberated within the solemn and dimly lit church. “Tomorrow when you hear the organist’s cue, the first couple should step off.” She hummed the processional they should listen for, then walked backwards in front of them, coaxing them down the aisle.
The first groomsman and bridesmaid led the way, followed moments later by Napoleon and a woman who had introduced herself as Holly, the best friend of the bride, until all the attendants were lined up in front of the altar. The father of the bride then escorted his daughter down the aisle, and Gail blushed as she was handed off to her fiance.
Illya quietly entered the vestibule by a side door and climbed the spiral staircase to the tiny choir loft. He sat in the dark to observe the proceedings below, watching Napoleon standing shoulder to shoulder with the other groomsmen. Illya imagined how his partner would look the next day, dressed in his tuxedo, the handsomest man in the room. His chest warmed with pride and affection, and he wondered if a time would ever come when Napoleon would not have that effect on him.
The priest casually instructed the wedding party on what would be expected of them during the ceremony, until at last the couple were mock joined in matrimony and led the wedding party back up the aisle.
The group gathered at the back of the church again. “I wish this was tomorrow and we really WERE married,” the bride said.
Her mother shushed her. “You wouldn’t deprive us of seeing you and the rest of the girls in your beautiful dresses, would you?” The women all agreed while the groom looked quite unsure.
Napoleon put his arm around his cousin’s shoulders and spoke to him softly. “You’ve got a lovely girl there, Nick. You’re a lucky guy.”
“Thanks, I think so, too,” Nick confided, scanning the commotion. “But my palms are sweating already. Maybe Gail and I should fly to Las Vegas.”
“Not unless you’re prepared to rent the whole plane,” Napoleon said. “This family of yours is determined to give you their total support, and a slight detour won’t deter them.”
“Come on, honey!” Nick’s bride called, and he looked over to her and beamed, then excused himself.
The clans adjourned to their cars and one by one took off for the restaurant and the rehearsal supper. Napoleon trailed behind them to see his vehicle unoccupied, and turned to find Illya walking down the steps of the church with an easy gait. As much as he enjoyed his family, Napoleon was more than pleased to relax in his partner’s company again.
Illya came to Napoleon’s side in the vacated lot. “It’s obvious the groom looks up to you,” he said quietly.
Napoleon nodded. “It seems so, since his father died.”
Illya noticed a glint on Napoleon’s lapel and removed a stray hair that most likely belonged to the bridesmaid. “I suppose it’s best that he doesn’t know about us.”
Napoleon looked at him closely, tilting his head. “You know it’s not that easy.”
Illya nodded, still examining his partner’s jacket. “Society isn’t prepared to accept love between two men.”
Napoleon’s heart seemed to skip a beat. Illya didn’t put their true relationship into words very often. “Some day,” he said.
They strolled in the shadows to the car, Napoleon toying with Illya’s hand as their arms hung limp at their sides, until Illya smiled. The Russian headed for the driver’s seat and they pulled out onto the main road.
“I’ll drop you off at the restaurant, then go check into the motel,” Illya said.
“I’m sorry there’s no extra space at the B&B,” Napoleon said, concerned about his partner’s mood.
Illya looked at Napoleon mischievously. “I could climb in your window after everyone’s asleep.”
“Too bad you didn’t bring your second story clothes,” Napoleon said, smiling at the mental picture. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast? Eight a.m., about a quarter mile up the beach. You bring the coffee and rolls, okay?”
“Sharing a meager meal with me is rather poor compensation for desertion,” Illya said, blatantly stoking Napoleon’s guilt.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Napoleon said. “You decide how.”
Illya raised an eyebrow. “I live for projects like that.”
The sound of laughter was spilling from the restaurant as Napoleon got out of the car. He leaned down and spoke through the window. “Goodnight, partner.” He paused for a second, reluctant to leave. “I love you.”
***
They ate and drank and joked until nearly midnight, then noisily piled back into the cars to head for the two establishments that were reserved for the wedding party and family. All the men were being housed in one bed and breakfast, and all the women at another just down the highway. All the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agents were a mile beyond that, at one of the few motels on the Cape still open for the season.
Napoleon turned off the lamp at one a.m., lay back in his bed, and opened his communicator. “Open Channel D,” he said just above a whisper.
There was a moment’s wait and a sleepy voice answered. “Kuryakin here.”
“Where is ‘here’ exactly?” Napoleon asked.
He heard the bedsprings creak as Illya apparently changed positions. “My room is on the east end of the motel, but the car is parked outside a room in the middle of the building. The rest of the rooms are vacant except for an elderly couple on the other end by the office.”
“Is your security system operational?”
“No, in fact I left the door unlocked,” Illya said around a yawn. “Any Thrush would suspect he was walking into a lethal trap.”
Napoleon frowned. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding.”
Napoleon tsked his disapproval. “Well, if you weren’t, I’d have to come over there and personally make sure everything was set up properly.”
“I’m not kidding.”
His partner chuckled softly. “Eight o’clock.”
***
A sleepy Napoleon squinted into the wind, walking with his arms close to his body and his hands jammed into his pockets. The lifeguard chairs he passed were empty, the narrow beach deserted. He smiled as he came upon the remnants of a campfire and a giant football sculpted into the sand, two beer-bottle goal posts at one end.
He spied his partner up ahead, sitting on the wood steps that led down to the shore. The Russian was dressed in a bulky, natural wool turtleneck, reminiscent of his days as a seaman. Napoleon wore an almost identical sweater that Illya had given him a few birthdays ago.
He sat down next to Illya, purposely crowding him so their bodies pressed against each other. “Whatcha got?” he said, peering into the paper bag anchored between his partner’s feet.
Illya reached into the sack and handed Napoleon an almost-hot cup of coffee and an almond croissant. “Not very nutritious, but we’re sort of on vacation, aren’t we?”
Napoleon sipped the coffee. “It’s not much of a vacation for you, is it?”
“I’m out of the city,” Illya said, taking a deep breath.
“I told them you were here last night,” Napoleon said. “Nick says you should come to the reception.”
“Napoleon. . .”
“I promised you would do a spectacular Russian folk dance.”
“What?” Illya said, turning to read his partner’s expression.
Napoleon chuckled and leaned toward Illya to kiss him on a cheek made pink from the brisk sea breeze. Illya smiled and angled his head for a more meaningful kiss, which Napoleon granted wholeheartedly. “Good morning,” Illya said when they parted.
Napoleon smiled into his eyes. “Good morning.”
They ate their breakfast without further conversation, watching sanderlings bustle along the gentle surf while gulls soared and screeched.
Illya brushed his hands together to clear them of pastry crumbs. “What is on the agenda today?”
Napoleon swallowed. “Well, the males of the species have no wedding obligations until four-thirty when we have to report for inspection, so the best man has organized a few activities, including lunch at a little place in Orleans. You’re welcome to come if you’d like.”
Illya thought about it. “I’d rather explore, perhaps take a ferry ride to Nantucket.”
“Why don’t you pick me up at the church at about, ah, six-thirty. Then we can ride together to the reception.”
Illya nodded thoughtfully.
Napoleon lovingly scrutinized his partner. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Can we spend some time together right now?” Illya said. He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “I have a room, you know.”
Napoleon smiled and kneaded Illya’s leg with one hand. “The family will want to keep tabs on me, at least until after the ceremony. I make them so nervous, they’re probably looking for me right now.”
“The car’s right up there.” Illya nodded his head to the right and insinuated his hand between Napoleon’s legs. “If you want to climb in the back seat, I promise I will leave no telltale evidence.”
Napoleon sat up straight and inhaled through his teeth. “Oh, you tempt me.”
“That was my intention,” Illya said. His sultry tone turned to a no-nonsense one as his gaze was diverted over Napoleon’s shoulder to a movement down the beach. “Company.”
Napoleon casually put some space between them and took another sip of coffee. A couple was coming up the beach hand-in-hand. Their dog spotted the two agents and charged toward them.
“Copper! COPPER!” the man yelled, but the dog ignored him, driven on by the scent of croissants. He crashed into Napoleon, almost knocking him over, and snapped up the last bite of pastry in his hand. The couple were close on his heels. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman said.
Napoleon laughed and captured the dog’s head in his hands, rubbing him behind the ears. “Well, Copper, you’ve got a good nose there.”
Illya stroked the sleek fur. “He’s an Irish Setter, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” the man said, “but he doesn’t ‘set’ very often.”
They all laughed and wished each other a good day, then the couple resumed their walk, their arms around each other, the dog trotting happily ahead of them.
Napoleon watched Illya looking after them until they were out of sight. He leaned into his partner and whispered lustily in his ear, “Tonight, the earth will move.”
Illya was jolted from his thoughts and looked back at him. “And I suppose that will be just another excuse not to have sex with me.”
Napoleon turned his head away in a half-hearted attempt to hide the big grin on his face.
Illya pretended to be annoyed. “You give me those straight lines to distract me from my legitimate complaints.”
“No, I don’t,” Napoleon said, turning back to him and trying to sober, but the humor in his eyes couldn’t be hidden. He slipped his hand behind Illya’s head and grabbed a fistful of hair, then kissed him hard, awkward as it was with his mouth upturned in a smile.
Illya began to chuckle while still in the kiss, but kept his lips pressed to Napoleon’s, unbelievably happy in the moment.
Napoleon broke the kiss and looked into the ocean-blue eyes. “That should hold you for a while, shouldn’t it?”
“I guess it will have to hold me for approximately,” Illya paused while he mentally calculated, “16 hours.”
“All things come to those who wait,” Napoleon said, his lips very close to Illya’s. “And come... and come... “
***
A splash of orange up ahead caught Illya’s eye, and as he drove closer he saw a roadside stand offering pumpkins of every size, stacked on bales of straw and occupying much of the available space on the ground. He pulled into the gravel driveway next to the stand and got out to browse, unable to resist sliding his palm over the cool, smooth surfaces.
“Want to take a big one home to the kids?” a voice asked him from behind. Illya turned to see an elderly man in neatly pressed overalls and a plaid flannel shirt.
“No,” Illya said, looking back to the display. “I don’t live in the area.”
“Well, that’s shouldn’t stop you,” the man said. “They’ll last a long time if you don’t carve ‘em up right away.”
“I don’t have any little ones,” Illya said, lifting his gaze to a bushel basket of fragrant apples. A houseful of fantasy children had suddenly appeared in his mind, placing him in a different reality, a world where there was no Thrush and no U.N.C.L.E. But no Napoleon, either, he thought, and didn’t entertain the idea any longer.
He spied some glass jugs of amber liquid. “Is that cider?”
“Yep,” said the man, reaching for a paper cup. “Want a taste?” At Illya’s nod he poured a sample. The Russian took a drink of the cold, spicy liquid. “Tastes like autumn, doesn’t it?” the man said.
“Yes, it does,” Illya said, smiling. “I’d like two bottles, please.” He paid the man and secured the jugs in the trunk of the car. “How far up the highway is the ferry to Nantucket?”
“Oh, maybe three miles,” the man answered, nodding in that direction. “You’ll see the sign.”
Not much later Illya pulled into the parking lot where the steamer was docked between large round pilings, and purchased a round-trip ticket. Cars and delivery vehicles lined up to drive into the gaping stern, while about twenty people were waiting to board with their bicycles and backpacks for a day’s ride around the island. Tourists and weekend residents milled about, but Illya supposed their numbers were sparse compared to the summer crowds. Some of the children passed the time by feeding the ducks that clustered near the dock for a handout, in spite of the ever-present and ruthless gulls.
A man signaled the okay to board and everyone walked across the ramp. Illya climbed the stairs to the enclosed deck and bought a cup of hot chocolate, then proceeded up another flight of stairs to the open air. A group of teen-aged boys were sitting at the bow, ignoring the seascape and talking boisterously, their legs and arms draped over the chairs that were fixed to the deck. Most of them wore identical jackets with a large letter “Y” on one side. Illya couldn’t help but overhear that they were going to Nantucket to play a football game with the high school team there. Or rather, to pulverize said team.
The big ferry was soon pulling away, steaming past the lighthouse at Hyannisport and the scattered cedar-shingled houses, all bleached to a soft gray by the salt air.
Illya moved to the stern and leaned on the rail, the wind tousling his hair wildly, and watched the mainland shrink as the ferry drew farther out to sea. He mentally catalogued the passengers, his survival habits never disengaged. A man in a blue pullover sweater and windbreaker caught his eye. The man looked familiar and Illya casually maneuvered closer to get a better look at him. The stranger turned away just as Illya approached, pulling up the hood of his jacket and facing out of the wind. An alarm sounded in the Russian’s brain. He retreated to the other side of the boat to bide his time while he tried to place the face.
Over two hours later the ferry steamed into the island harbor. Sailboats and small pleasure craft were anchored here and there, all dominated by the big red lightship, Nantucket, its masts the tallest structures in the port.
Illya disembarked with the other passengers and walked up the road to the cobblestone streets of the town. He wandered about to observe the architecture, browsed a bookstore, then retraced his route to visit a small whaling museum. In the glass of a display case, he glimpsed the reflection of the man he’d been curious about on the boat. He pretended to study the artifacts in the case, covertly watching, trying to determine if the subject was doing the same to him. Eventually the stranger wandered to the door and out, and Illya followed to keep him under surveillance.
He saw the man heading back toward the harbor in the midst of a few other pedestrians. The ferry was loading for a return trip, and the stranger boarded again. Illya did the same and saw the subject wave at someone on the dock. Illya followed the line of sight and saw no one waving back, but told himself he could have missed it, then watched the man disembark. Illya concluded that he was imagining things, that the stranger was harmless and looked just like a dozen other men he’d seen that week.
The Russian put the stranger out of his mind, bought a sandwich and a vodka on the middle deck, then contented himself with sitting on the top deck for the return trip, enjoying the air while he ate his late lunch. The breeze was cool but the afternoon sun was warm, and he peeled off his heavy turtleneck in favor of the black T-shirt beneath it.
The steamer arrived again on the mainland, and Illya made for his car. He looked at his watch and lingered for a few minutes to watch the rest of the passengers disembarking. The image of the stranger’s face nagged at him. He didn’t want any complications to spoil this weekend for Napoleon.
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for his motel to shower and change.
***
There was food and wine and cake, and toast after toast to the newlyweds, to the families, to the future, to friends, to the old country. The groom insisted Napoleon take a turn.
Napoleon rose from his seat at the head table, glass in hand, and in spite of all the imbibing and celebrating, a hush fell over the room. He thought for a minute, then addressed the gathering.
“If we’re lucky,” he began, “we have a lot of special people in our lives. Family, friends, lovers...” some of the women tittered and a couple of young men hooted, and Napoleon grinned, then continued. “And if we’re VERY lucky, we have one person who is special among all the others.” He gazed over the room of upturned faces. “That person might be... old or young, male or female, proclaimed to the world, or known only to us. But without that person, we don’t live, we only exist.”
He paused thoughtfully, then turned to the bride and groom and raised his glass. “To all the people in this room who love and live for each other, and especially to Nick and Gail.”
Everyone raised their glasses and sipped from them, and Napoleon avoided the temptation to look at Illya over the rim of his goblet.
The guests applauded and voiced their appreciation of the toast, and the bride stood and flung her arms around Napoleon’s neck, the groom duplicating her affectionate hug a minute later.
“And NOW,” Napoleon said, “isn’t it time we all danced?”
The band took the cue, and the bride and groom stepped out to the floor for their first dance together. The best man cut in after a while, then the entire wedding party joined in. Napoleon swept his designated bridesmaid into a turn around the floor, then danced with the maid of honor and each of the other bridesmaids. He grabbed the best man then, and spun him around comically. The music became more upbeat, and the groomsmen joined in until each had swung the other around in linked arms, and then started over again, everyone laughing and clapping in time. The room erupted with energy as couples and groups and children began danced, no one worrying whether they had an appropriate partner, or a partner at all.
Illya had warned Napoleon not to coax him onto the dance floor because he’d be wearing his Walther, and didn’t want to alarm anyone. “Okay,” Napoleon had said, “I concede that you have a good excuse.” Then added, “Coward.”
Instead, Illya sat at one of the big round tables and watched the entertainment, admiring Napoleon and the other Solos on the floor. Donna and Angela and one of the bridesmaids, Rita, kept him company when they weren’t dancing themselves.
“Your cousin Napoleon is DIVINE,” Rita said to the other women with a swoon. Illya couldn’t decide whether to inwardly beam with pride or wince in pain.
“He’s my first cousin, but I confess,” Angela confided, dropping her voice, “I’ve had a crush on him since I was eight.”
“Be careful, girls,” Donna interrupted, “there’s a SPY at the table.”
Illya turned his head toward them, startled, and they all stared at him, each raising one eyebrow in a truly intimidating fashion. His mouth dropped open and they collapsed in laughter.
“Illya, you won’t tell Napoleon any of this, will you?” Donna said. “We don’t want his head to swell.”
Illya recovered and raised his own eyebrow. “You’re much too late for that,” he said, and they all laughed again.
“So you and Napoleon are good friends,” Rita said.
“Well. . .”
Angela interjected. “Oh, Rita, Illya and Napoleon are like this.” She held up her crossed fingers.
“The result of working together for so long,” Illya explained quickly.
“What kind of work do you do?” Rita asked, leaning into Illya and exhibiting a serious interest.
“It’s rather complicated . . .” he began.
“They go all over the world,” Donna interrupted. “They investigate people and big companies for other big companies, right, Illya?”
“Precisely,” Illya said.
“And neither of you have ever been married?” Rita asked incredulously.
“Well, our work ---”
“Napoleon says that no woman would ever put up with him,” Angela said. “So he rattles around all by himself in this penthouse in Manhattan that our Aunt Amy left to him, and he’s not even there half the time.”
“Oh, my,” Rita said, looking toward the dance floor, “he really should have someone to come home to.” Illya could see the wheels turning in her head, but was relieved that her attentions were no longer with him.
“So, Illya, do you dance?” Rita asked suddenly, contradicting his assumption.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I have an old knee injury.” Illya could lie his way out of hell, sometimes even under the influence of drugs, but for some reason this little fib sounded quite false to his ears. And apparently to the women’s as well.
“Oh,” Rita said flatly.
He smiled sheepishly, then signaled one of the waiters. “Would you ladies like more wine?” he asked.
“Thanks, but I’ve had too much now. Come on, girls,” Donna said cheerfully, getting up from the table, “let’s go find some partners.” Illya rose from his chair for a second as they stood, then sat down again as they headed for the dance floor. Donna lagged behind, and leaned down to Illya to offer a caution. “Better watch out, Illya. Rita can be pretty persistent.”
Illya rolled his eyes up to meet hers. “So I gather. But thank you for the warning.”
She looked at him for a moment, holding his gaze, then leaned down to kiss his cheek. “You’re welcome, love.” Then she turned and moved away, her satin skirts sweeping around her.
***
After another hour of visiting at tables, swinging children around, and fulfilling other obligations of the occasion, Napoleon caught Illya’s eye and beckoned him toward the exit. They slipped out the door and through the dark parking area to their car, which was hemmed in by another car.
Napoleon surveyed the vehicle, pursing his lips. “Guess who this belongs to.”
Illya thought of past experiences with Frank Solo. “Annoying you seems to be one of his pet projects.”
Napoleon nodded as Illya slid into the front seat of the offending vehicle and shifted it into neutral, then got out again and leaned into the door frame. Napoleon put his weight into the back fender, and they rolled the car forward and out of the way. Illya shifted it back into park, then they jumped in their own car and made their getaway.
“Where are we going?” Napoleon asked as they escaped down Route 6.
“How about the National Seashore?” Illya suggested, although it was clear he had definite plans.
“You’re the driver,” Napoleon said. “I’m just the bartender.” He reached for a bottle of champagne and two glasses from the back seat.
“Put that away until we get there, or we could get arrested,” Illya said, “and you can explain to Mr. Waverly.”
Napoleon chuckled at the thought, but Illya concentrated on the road and his destination, passing dozens of tiny, boarded up summer cottages, the landscape becoming more and more sparse until there was little but rolling moors and salt marshes, long stretches of spindly wood fencing and fragile sand dunes. Above it all hung an almost full moon.
Illya turned off the road into a small parking area and stopped the car. A walkway led to the beach through a depression in the sand dune, bordered with tall beach grass and fencing.
Napoleon grabbed the champagne, put a glass in each pocket of his trousers and followed his partner. They stuck to the path, avoiding an area with a sign that read “Sliding cliffs. Keep back.” and emerged on the other side of the dune. They made their way down the beach, seeking the greatest privacy.
“Time out,” Napoleon said. “I have more sand in my shoes than feet.” He held on to Illya’s shoulder for balance and removed his shoes and socks. Illya followed suit, and they rolled up their pant legs and sauntered down to the shoreline, leaving the shoes behind. They continued down the beach on the solid wet sand, trying to avoid the cold surf that attempted to slurry over their feet.
They admired each other as they walked.
“Aren’t you going to comment on how my hair catches the moonlight?” Illya said.
Napoleon smiled at him. “It certainly does,” he said. “Aren’t you going to say how dashing I look in my tuxedo?”
Illya smiled, looking him up and down. “You certainly do.” They both chuckled.
“You know,” Napoleon said as they walked, “I believe you’re the only person I didn’t dance with tonight.”
Illya shook his head and looked away. “You know I don’t dance.”
“There’s nobody here,” Napoleon said glancing up and down the beach.
“Napoleon, I won’t even dance with you in your living room,” Illya said, walking backwards in front of him.
“I don’t know why you won’t let me teach you.”
“I’ll dance, if you’ll sing the accompaniment.”
Napoleon made a face. “That could attract whales.”
Illya chuckled again. He stood still and opened his arms wide. “Very well. . .”
A cloud drifted over the moon and they both looked up at the sudden darkness.
“That was uncalled for,” Napoleon said.
Illya jumped in front of him and threw his arm across Napoleon’s chest. “Stand back,” he said dramatically, “I will banish this rogue cloud.” He inhaled and blew hard in its direction, his cheeks filling out. The cloud stayed where it was, and they looked at each other.
“It will take a few minutes for my breath to reach it,” Illya explained.
Napoleon gave him a wary eye. “I don’t think you need any more champagne.”
“But I only dance when I’ve had champagne,” Illya said, and bowed deeply to his partner.
Napoleon dropped the bottle on the sand and accepted the invitation, taking Illya in his arms, tugging him tightly against him, making him gasp. They heard something crunch. Napoleon slowly looked down, let Illya go, and patted his pocket. “I think that was YOUR glass,” he said.
“I think that’s your champagne,” Illya said, looking toward the water.
Napoleon turned to see his bottle being carried away in the surf. “I’ll stand back if you want to wade out and get it.”
“It wouldn’t do me any good,” Illya said helplessly. “I don’t have a glass.”
Napoleon sighed as the bottle floated beyond reach. “This does not bode well for the rest of the evening.”
Illya put his arms around Napoleon’s neck and pulled his partner’s head down so their foreheads met. “You are very wrong.”
Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya, and the cloud moved away from the moon. “I don’t mind being wrong sometimes.”
Their kiss felt very right.
“Perhaps a less conspicuous spot would be prudent,” Illya said when they parted, and led Napoleon up the sand to the foot of the dune. They tucked themselves into the shadows of the eroded bottom of it, a grassy ledge creating a small awning several feet above them. Illya settled his head in Napoleon’s lap and looked up at the stars.
“Can we sit here until dawn?” he said.
“I thought you had something more stimulating in mind than sitting,” Napoleon said, stroking his hair.
“I’m trying to be romantic, you cretin,” Illya said, knowing Napoleon would be amused at the role reversal. He saw Napoleon grin, felt his body shake, and smiled at his success.
And at other things. The moon, the ocean, the bliss of having Napoleon all to himself. Although the day hadn’t been as trying as he’d expected. In spite of Illya’s unease at parties where he felt pressured to be interested and interesting, the Solos always made him feel like he belonged. He often envied Napoleon for having such a wonderful family, and he envied the family for knowing Napoleon all his life, for having that advantage over him.
“A ruble for your thoughts,” Napoleon said.
“I’ll want you forever. Is that worth a ruble?”
Napoleon grasped Illya’s shoulders and coaxed him to sit up. “That’s priceless.” He pressed his lips to Illya’s, his kisses tender, his tongue persuasive, his face withdrawing every few moments just enough to look into the half-closed blue eyes. “I can’t live without you,” he said. “And that’s been true for years.”
“You don’t have to,” Illya said softly.
Napoleon began his leisurely kisses again, covering his partner’s chin and cheek and every part of his face, watching Illya’s body go limp and loll back to cradle in his arms, basking in his adoration.
“Don’t stop,” Illya said, a quiet plea over the soothing sound of the surf.
Napoleon spoke between kisses, “Why... would I stop?” He nuzzled his partner’s hair and ear and kissed slowly down his throat to burrow into his open collar.
Soon Illya couldn’t be still any longer, and his arms went around Napoleon’s neck, returning the kisses with a sudden energy. He turned to sit up and tug at Napoleon’s starched shirt, wanting it off, wanting it gone. He pulled at the studs impatiently, the fire in him building.
Napoleon relaxed, his hands dropping to his sides on the sand, and watched Illya’s passion for him build. He never tired of seeing his reserved partner in a frenzy of desire. It inflamed his own need, not that the sight of Illya Kuryakin just raising an eyebrow in his direction couldn’t. But he memorized these moments to savor during the rare times when his partner was away, when he was alone and lonely in his bed and needed some arousing images to draw upon.
At last the shirt was open and the undershirt pushed up, Napoleon’s stomach bared. Illya concentrated on the trousers next, easing down the zipper and carefully withdrawing his partner’s full penis. He leaned down and kissed it lovingly, then looked at Napoleon, pulled himself up and kissed him with everything he had, while feeling the cock expand in his hand.
Napoleon buried his hands in his lover’s hair, and stared at Illya’s lips. “I want to feel your mouth.”
Illya dropped down into Napoleon’s lap and took his cock with hunger, circling it with his tongue, sucking it once, leaving behind a glistening coat of saliva. He released the head to cover the shaft with suctioning kisses, from root to slit, from every angle, his passion unleashed and lavished on his lover’s sex.
Napoleon pulled at him, urging Illya to turn so he could reach him. He used one hand to unfasten Illya’s trousers, reach into his briefs and grasp him, feeling Illya’s moan hum around his own cock.
Illya was shoving Napoleon’s trousers down to his thighs, baring his groin completely, and Napoleon did the same for Illya, reclining on his side and getting into a position where he could suckle his partner in turn. Napoleon’s mouth reached for his lover’s cock and closed around it, but after barely a taste he suddenly released it again, lifting his head and forcing himself to listen.
“Illya,” Napoleon gasped. “Illya, stop.”
The Russian was lustily preoccupied, all other senses obliterated. His hips surged, searching for Napoleon’s mouth again, but his cock lolled to the side, the wet, sensitive head meeting only with sand.
Napoleon braced himself on his hands behind him and sat up as well as he could with Illya holding his hips down. “Illya!” he said in a raspy whisper. When the Russian looked up, Napoleon took him by his shoulders, holding him at arm’s length in an iron grip. “Listen.”
Illya looked at him in a daze, gazing at his mouth, puzzled about what his partner wanted but anxious to satisfy.
“Listen,” Napoleon said, looking into Illya’s eyes, then staring down the beach. “I heard an engine stop, a car.” The cool of the night breeze on his exposed thighs and groin was startling now, and Napoleon let go of Illya and hurriedly fastened his clothing, his erection nearly gone. “Come on,” he said, “get yourself together. Let me have your gun.” Napoleon reached into Illya’s jacket and withdrew his Walther from its holster, taking the safety off and watching down the beach.
Illya looked down at himself and mechanically pulled his shorts and trousers up, vaguely aware of sand clinging to intimate parts of him. “Are you sure. . .?”
“Come on,” Napoleon said in a hushed tone, standing up and pulling Illya up by his arm. “It’s probably just some kids. Maybe they’ll go away, but for now we need to be two guys walking off a drunk.” He patted Illya’s face a couple of times to bring him to alertness, then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as he steadied him. “Okay?”
Illya nodded. He found it quite easy to slip into the role of drunken party-goer, and he and Napoleon weaved their way back toward their car, their jackets in hand.
“Where’re my shoes?” Illya slurred loudly as they stumbled along.
There was suddenly a gunshot and an explosion of sand at Napoleon’s feet, and they dashed back to the dune, flattening themselves against it, shocked and puzzled and fully alert.
“Uh-oh,” Illya said, panting.
“What uh-oh?” Napoleon said, his head spinning to the left to question his partner.
Illya swallowed. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Today on the ferry, and in Nantucket, there was a man. . . I thought I was imagining that he was following me, but. . .”
Napoleon looked at him, frowning. “Following you?”
“Yes, and I know who he looked like now---the man in the steamroom in Philadelphia.”
“That guy’s dead,” Napoleon reminded him.
Illya looked at his partner and shrugged. “Maybe he’s related.”
Napoleon looked back down the beach. “Damn, I should have brought my gun.”
“You couldn’t wear it to the wedding,” Illya said. “It was bad enough I had to.”
“No, but I could have kept it in the car.”
Illya sighed in exasperation. “It doesn’t matter now.”
They heard a movement above them but yards away. “Solo and Kuryakin, I presume?” a voice said. “Come out from under there and we’ll talk about the terms of your surrender.”
As Illya turned in the direction of the voice, his shoulder loosened some sand in the wall of the dune, and he clawed at it to see it crumble further. He called Napoleon’s attention to it, then motioned above them, and they both began to dig.
Solo raised his voice. “Terms? What kind of terms?”
The man answered, a little louder this time, and angry. “You come out. I kill you. Those are the terms.”
“Seems a little one-sided,” Solo replied. “I don’t suppose you’d want to negotiate some of the details.”
The man’s voice was closer to them now. “The only details concern how much you’ll suffer before I finish you off.”
Illya whispered as he dug, “He’s just like the other one. He’s going to talk us to death.”
Napoleon pointed Illya’s gun toward the ledge above, and leaned out a bit to see if he could see their adversary. A bullet whizzed by him and Illya jerked him back by his shirt.
“Quit that.”
Solo raised his voice. “Ah, as long as you’re going to kill us, what do we have to do to get a clean shot to the head?”
“You have to beg my forgiveness.” The angry voice was right above them now, and Napoleon feverishly helped Illya dig.
“What did we do to offend you?” Napoleon asked loudly. As sand began to shower them, the agents quickly ducked away and covered their faces as the part of the ledge they’d just been under collapsed, bringing the gunman sliding down with it. He cried out in surprise as he was tossed onto the beach, then rolled and came to rest facing them. He’d managed to hang onto his gun and raised it toward them. Napoleon fired, then fired again when the man still held the gun poised to shoot. They watched his body relax into death, then approached the corpse.
Napoleon looked at the clumps of tall grass scattered all around, then back at the collapsed ledge. “The Park Service isn’t going to like this.”
Illya bent down and went through the man’s pockets. His wallet contained a driver’s license, and the Russian handed it up to his partner. “Can you read this?”
Napoleon removed the card and tilted it toward the moonlight. “Robert J. Hopkins. Dallas.” He looked at Illya and they said in unison, “Hopkins?”
“They WERE related, probably brothers,” Illya said, standing. “No wonder he was angry.”
“I hope there aren’t any more of them back home on the range,” Napoleon said. “Or around here.” He glanced up and down the beach, then scanned the top of the dune.
Illya followed his gaze. “Why do you suppose they want to kill us?”
Napoleon looked down at the body again. “Tonight must have been personal. But what the first one’s motive was, I don’t know.” He paused to think. “Did we ever have an altercation with anyone else named Hopkins?”
Illya thought about it. “We’ll have to wait until we can get back to headquarters and go through the database again. Something may have turned up since Philadelphia.” He took out his communicator. “Open Channel D to Boston.” A local U.N.C.L.E. agent answered. “This is Illya Kuryakin. We have a package for you on lower Cape Cod, on the beach on the east side. Home in on our signal and get here as soon as possible.”
The agent confirmed and Illya returned the communicator to his pocket, leaving it in beacon mode, then he looked around. “Where ARE my shoes?”
“Right next to mine,” Napoleon said.
Illya tsked at him, “You’re so helpful,” and headed back down the beach. Napoleon followed and they found their shoes and socks, then returned to the parking lot. They searched Hopkins’ car but found no more clues about the man or his affiliations.
Illya scanned the sky for the expected helicopter. “This was a perfect day,” he said, then looked at Napoleon. “It’s unfortunate it had to end so badly.”
“It hasn’t ended yet, or badly,” Napoleon said. “We’re both alive.” He put his arm around Illya’s shoulders and steered him toward their own car. “And I’m going to stay at the motel with you tonight.”
“What about the family?” Illya said, surprised.
“They’ll be tipsy and falling into bed without a care in the world. The whereabouts of cousin Napoleon will be the last thing on their minds.” He tousled Illya’s hair. “Besides, I want to be around if any more brunets come gunning for my blond.”
“Is that what I am to you,” Illya said with mock annoyance as they leaned on the car, “just another blond?”
Napoleon crowded close to him. “You’re my one and only blond. My one and only everything.”
“Your ‘special’ person, known only to you?” Illya asked, smiling.
“And, ah, a few people at U.N.C.L.E.”
Illya nodded philosophically. “U.N.C.L.E. is always and everywhere.”
They looked up at the sound of a helicopter in the distance.
***
“You are being extremely thorough,” Illya said in a voice just loud enough for Napoleon to hear over the sound of the shower.
Napoleon was on his knees, soaping his partner. He shook his head. “Can I help it if there’s sand in every nook and cranny?” He continued the task for which he’d cheerfully volunteered, reaching through Illya’s legs and up into his crevice, drawing his soapy fingers down to massage his opening. He had focused on each bit of Illya in turn except one, and now he could no longer ignore the very excited cock before him.
He covered it with lather, drawing the foreskin forward to pinch it together, then releasing it to see the gleaming head emerge again. Playing with Illya’s foreskin was his favorite hobby, and he never got enough of it.
Illya sighed and looked down at him. “Are you quite finished?”
“Are you complaining?”
“No, but if you continue to indulge yourself, our evening’s entertainment will end prematurely.”
Napoleon put his hands on Illya’s hips, reluctantly directing him to turn around. “Okay.”
Illya faced into the gentle spray for a long rinse, holding his erection in his hand. Napoleon’s arms came around him from behind and his chin rested on Illya’s shoulder, watching the water splash his partner’s chest, then sheet down his stomach. Napoleon’s hands joined Illya’s, the flow following down his arms to bathe the thick penis. Napoleon rocked him forward and back, observing the streams cling to the contours of his partner’s beautiful cock, and whispered his appreciation of the sight in Illya’s ear.
Illya felt the resulting hardness against his buttocks. As much as he wanted to lean back on Napoleon and play the scene through to its inevitable conclusion, he determinedly shook himself free, nudging Napoleon to change positions. “My turn.”
Illya moved around him and knelt down in the tub, grasping Napoleon’s hips for balance. He sat back on his heels for a minute, working up a lather between his hands. Napoleon’s cock was anticipating his touch, and Illya glanced up to give his lover a look that made him even harder.
Napoleon felt almost dizzy. “I might come before you’re done,” he said breathlessly.
“If I can make it to the bed, you can, too,” Illya said sternly. He knelt up straight and began to soap Napoleon’s thighs. “Think of that Alexander character about to slice you up with his pendulum.”
Napoleon made a face. “You really know how to dampen a man’s urges.” But his cock contradicted his comment.
“Think of the wedding.”
“Oh, fine.”
Illya smiled as he ran his soap-slick hands all over Napoleon’s groin, giving the eager erection a quick stroke only occasionally. He loved the sight of Napoleon when aroused, loved the upward curve in his erection, as if his cock was too heavy for itself. In spite of his own warnings to Napoleon, he found himself stimulating his partner, washing him longer than necessary, palpating his testicles, massaging his anus, until he forced himself to stop. “Rinse,” he ordered.
Napoleon groaned, his eyes closed. The only move he made was to thrust his hips forward in a request for more.
“Rinse and then face me again,” Illya said, “and I’ll put you out of your misery.”
Napoleon quickly complied, turning to let the water fall over him, closing his eyes and dunking his face into it, whisking his hands across his torso until all the lather went down the drain. He turned around again to find Illya gone. “Hey!”
He stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel, drying himself as he marched into the bedroom. Illya was standing on the other side of the bed, smiling innocently as he dried his hair, beaded drops of water on his body glistening in the soft lamplight.
Napoleon stopped and appreciated him for a second, then remembered his outrage. “Such deception cannot go unpunished,” he said. Even though he had shaken off his sexual stupor, his cock was full and ready. His shaft bounced as he boldly stepped up on the bed and crossed to the other side in one stride to come down again and lunge for the naked Russian.
Illya flattened himself against the wall as he saw his partner heading his way, then spun away a split second before Napoleon reached him. He tried to avoid his stalker, but space was limited, and Napoleon cornered him on the other side of the room and dove between his legs, hoisting him in the air and tipping him upside down over his shoulder, hanging onto him with one arm looped around his thigh, while the other hand boldly clutched a soft cheek. Illya stifled a shout of delight, holding on for the ride as Napoleon spun him around twice, both of them laughing and breathless. Napoleon backed up to the edge of the bed and Illya reached for it, bracing himself with his hands as Napoleon eased him down.
Napoleon moved around to the other side of the bed and looked at his lover stretched across it, both of them totally aroused and trying to catch their breaths. Illya opened his arms and legs, offering himself, and Napoleon promptly fell onto him, wrapping him tightly and capturing his mouth with his own.
They kissed and rubbed against each other, until Illya took Napoleon’s head in his two hands and forced it off his mouth. “Roll over on your back,” he commanded.
Napoleon quickly followed instructions, making himself comfortable on the bed. Illya sat up next to him. “Shall we take up where we left off, before bullets and sand got in the way?” he said, breathless.
“Excellent suggestion,” Napoleon said, smiling, his chest heaving.
Illya stretched out alongside his partner, so groins and mouths were level with each other. He took Napoleon’s waiting cock in his hand, his other hand giving a round buttock a squeeze. “Ready?”
“More than ready,” Napoleon said, grasping Illya’s erection.
They took each other’s cocks in their mouths simultaneously, and became totally absorbed in the taste and smell and the feel of the other, until they came in turn, swallowing each other down.
They rolled onto their backs, heads to toes, and just breathed for a while, their eyes closed. Napoleon reached for Illya once more. “Lusha. . .”
“Hmmm?” the Russian moaned lazily.
“We’re going to catch cold,” he said, tugging on his hand.
Illya turned and crawled up to lie side by side with his partner as Napoleon felt for the sheet and blanket that had fallen on the floor and retrieved them. He spread the covers haphazardly over them to take off the chill.
“We must still make love on a beach one day,” Illya said, laying his head on Napoleon’s shoulder and capturing one of the hands that was roaming under the blanket, “in spite of the many hazards.”
“Maybe in South Africa, or Australia, or somewhere the job leads us.”
Illya smiled. “I would enjoy that.”
“Did you enjoy yourself at the reception?” Napoleon asked.
“It wasn’t nearly as good,” Illya said with a sigh. “I don’t remember having a single orgasm.”
Napoleon slapped his thigh playfully. “Shame on you.” He put his arms around Illya, maneuvering him closer, and hugged him tight from behind. “Did the ladies talk you to death?”
“No, they were fine.”
“What was all the conversation about?”
“You think I’ve been privy to some family gossip, and I’m not even family.” Illya knew what Napoleon would reply, and wanted to hear it.
“Yes, you are, whether anyone knows it or not,” Napoleon said, resting his hand on Illya’s belly under the covers.
Illya thought for a few seconds. “I think Donna might know.”
Napoleon registered some surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“After Angela and Rita had left the table, she gave me a look that spoke volumes, then a very affectionate kiss.”
“If I decided to tell any of the Solos about us, it would probably be Donna. She’s got the biggest heart.”
Illya smiled at that, then wondered. “I didn’t see Ben today.”
“No, one of the kids was sick and he stayed home with her.”
Illya shivered. Napoleon felt goosebumps on the tender flesh under his hand, and he pulled the blanket up higher over Illya’s shoulders. “So, what else did the four of you talk about?”
“Since when is after-sex conversation about relatives?”
Napoleon grinned. “Since today.”
“You miss not being around them more, don’t you?”
“You’re all I need or want,” Napoleon said, his hand reaching to caress Illya intimately.
Illya flinched and smiled. “But it would be nice for you to see them more often. I wouldn’t mind if you took a weekend now and then,” he said.
“I’ll think about it,” Napoleon said. “You wouldn’t run off with some attractive woman while I was gone, just for spite?”
“I believe Rita would be open to an idea like that.”
“You don’t say.” Napoleon turned his head to look at Illya’s profile. “Did Angela flirt with you, too?”
“No, she seems too involved with her career.” Illya settled a little more comfortably against Napoleon. “She was explaining to Rita about Aunt Amy leaving you the apartment.”
“I was very surprised at that, if you remember,” Napoleon said. “My old apartment was certainly adequate. She knew all about U.N.C.L.E., though---”
“---and she wanted you to have a home that would be as safe as possible.”
Napoleon was quiet for a minute. “I miss her,” he said.
“I miss her gourmet dinners, too.”
“I wonder what she’d say about us.” Napoleon nuzzled Illya behind his ear. “We weren’t together until after she died.”
They both imagined for a minute.
“To paraphrase your dear aunt,” Illya said, “I think she’d be pleased as punch.”
Napoleon smiled and nodded, then fell silent. He continued to nuzzle Illya’s neck and inhale his clean scent. “I was thinking of you when I was listening to the wedding vows,” he said, his hands still petting Illya under the covers.
“For richer, for poorer?” Illya reached to run his hand along Napoleon’s smooth flank. “I can be persuaded to endure your wealth.”
“My ‘wealth’ won’t take us very far.”
“We don’t need it,” Illya said. “And as far as ‘in sickness and in health’ goes, we’ve sat by each other’s hospital beds too many times to doubt that.”
And the last part?” Napoleon said, sobering.
“I refuse to consider the last part,” Illya said stubbornly, turning his face to Napoleon.
Napoleon kissed him passionately then, reminding them that they were very much alive.
“We’ve taken our vows anyway, and continue to take them,” Napoleon said. “Every time we spill our blood together in some god-forsaken place. Every time we swallow each other’s cum in a strange bed so we leave no evidence.”
Illya appreciated the words and kissed his partner back, then raised an eyebrow and changed the mood. “Is that the only reason we do that?”
Napoleon grinned.
***
“So,” Alexander Waverly began, “according to Research, these Hopkins fellows were criminals for hire. Small time and clumsy, but still lethal. The question is, gentlemen, who hired them, and how would they have known of your whereabouts?” He looked across the round table at his two top agents. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Kuryakin, thank you for the jug of apple cider. Quite refreshing.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Napoleon sat thoughtfully, his fingers steepled in front of him, “The usual staff here at U.N.C.L.E. knew we were going to Philadelphia, but I didn’t tell anyone about the trip to the Cape. Family and friends knew about the wedding, but not about the job in Philadelphia.”
“What about people outside of U.N.C.L.E.,” Waverly pressed. “Your doormen, for example.”
Napoleon shook his head. “Marty and the others know when Illya and I are out of town, but they never know where we’ve gone, for our safety and their own.”
“You’re going to have to find a connection,” Waverly said impatiently. “Go and work on it. Off with you.”
The two agents stood abruptly and made themselves scarce. They met again that afternoon in Napoleon’s office.
“Have you had any inspirations?” Illya asked him, taking his usual place on the couch.
“I’ve had a jog in my memory,” Napoleon said seriously. “One that disturbs me.”
Illya frowned. “What?”
“A few days before we went to Philadelphia, Frank called me at home. He had extra tickets for the Yankees on Saturday---some of the departments at City Hall always get some, you know---and he asked me if you and I would like to go.” Napoleon didn’t continue.
“You didn’t say. . .”
“Yes, I did. I was comparing the Yanks to the Phillies,” he said, looking troubled.
“Maybe the phone was tapped.”
Napoleon shook his head and held his head in his hands. Illya had grasped at a straw and they both knew it.
“Frank can be. . .” Illya searched for the term he wanted.
“A jerk?”
“Well, yes. But he’d never do you any real harm. He’d never accept money for information, and certainly never hire anyone to kill you.”
“I hope not,” Napoleon said.
***