Christmas Eve, 1968

"I thought those bastards would never give up," said Napoleon. He stared through the rearview window into the dark street as Illya steered the car around a corner.

"Just because they are out of sight doesn't mean they've given up," said Illya. "Our man Pauling did not have a history of drug use, so when he dies in our arms of an overdose of heroine, I cannot help but suspect the enemy. And those Thrush agents who ambushed us outside his apartment were too convenient for comfort." He patted his jacket pocket. "K chortu! My communicator is missing. I must have lost it in the fight."

"Oh, goody. This is probably not the best time to tell you that mine is missing, too."

Illya loosed a string of Russian invective in the night air.

"Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy." Napoleon took the opportunity to change the magazine in his M-1911.

Illya growled in the dark, slowed at a red light, checked for police cars, then rolled on through.

"That's illegal," said Napoleon.

"We need a place to stay," said Illya, "and something tells me the local motels will be the first place they look."

"I really think they've given up."

"That's because you are overcome by the Christmas spirit," said Illya flatly, his eyes moving from rearview mirror to sidemirror and back again. "You are willing to believe the best of everyone tonight because it's Christmas eve. What did Pauling say to you before he died?"

"Sunset A."

"What does that mean?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

Illya stiffened as a pair of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. "Uh-oh."

Napoleon pointed his weapon at the approaching vehicle, his finger tight on the trigger. At the last second he dropped the gun to the seat as the teenage driver pulled around them and made a left hand turn. A ponytailed girl in the passenger seat was singing along with their radio. "Jingle Bell Rock."

Illya glanced sideways at his partner. "Let's not kill any civilians. Mr. Waverly would not be pleased."

"There's an understatement, if I ever heard one."

"Let me know if you see somewhere we might spend the night. At this hour, on this night, we are rather conspicuous driving around in this small town."

"Oh, I don't know. We're not the only ones out here."

"Those teenagers and the Thrush agents are the only other cars on the street."

Napoleon chewed his bottom lip. "All right, you've got a point." He squinted into the darkness. The occasional streetlamp shed meager light in the cold streets. At least it wasn't snowing. He spotted a carefully painted wooden sign.

"Well, well, well. I may have found Sunset A. Make a left down that street."

Illya turned left. As the headlights swept over the bottom edge of the large sign, he mumbled, "Sunset Acres? What is that? A cemetery?"

"I certainly hope not," said Napoleon, his eyes straining for any suspicious movements in the dark. "Douse the headlights and aim for that parking lot on the right up there."

Illya snorted. "With no headlights, aim is the right word. This street is very dark."

"Good. If anyone is watching, maybe they won't see us lose the car in that lot."

"And go where?"

"Sunset Acres, my friend. Where else?"

"Do you really think this is what Pauling was referring to?"

"It's as good a guess as any."

"But we don't know what he was trying to tell us about the place."

"I asked him where to find his informant, and he gasped Sunset A," said Napoleon. "We have to check it out."

Illya maneuvered the car carefully through the rows of cars in the parking lot. "He might just as well have been trying to warn us. As in, Sunset A…cres, the place where my executioners are laying a trap for you."

Napoleon chuckled grimly. "My little Russian pessimist."

"What do you really think we'll find in this place?"

"A lot of sleepy old folks, and if we're lucky, a sleepy staff as well. I'm hoping they won't be checking every room, especially if we find an empty one. We need a place to sleep."

"Is this a hospital?" Illya parked the black Charger between a Chrysler Imperial and a Corvair.

"No. I think it's a rest home. You know, for retired people."

"If those Thrush agents find our car here, there may be civilians in harm's way."

"Not even Thrush would kill a retirement home full of people just to flush out two UNCLE agents. Let's go."

Illya grabbed his partner's jacket sleeve. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because it's too risky. Too much bad publicity if the perpetrators are caught. Besides, it's Christmas. Don't you believe in miracles anymore?" Napoleon grinned and slid out of the car.

Illya turned off the engine and shook his head left and right. "I have never believed in miracles," he growled. Then he exited the car, closed the door as silently as possible, and trotted to catch up with Napoleon.

When they reached the brick building, they flattened themselves in the shadow beside a dumpster and breathed. No other cars followed them into the lot. The night was growing colder, and the air was heavy with drizzle. It shone like airborne drops of milk around the streetlights. They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, in the dark, feeling safer than they had in three days.But they weren't dressed for camping out. They had to find a way inside the building.

"The front door is always worth a try," murmured Napoleon.

Illya nodded. "Lead the way."

They stayed close to the building all the way to the corner. Napoleon peeked around the edge, then pulled his head back fast. He used one arm to keep Illya from moving, then leaned close and whispered, "Woman having a cigarette. Back the other way."

On the other side of the building, the coast was clear and they moved stealthily along the wall. They rounded another corner and the concrete gave way to wet grass. The front of the building was landscaped, with flower beds and trees and lots of very wet fescue. Juniper bushes hugged the brick wall, and they had to crouch low to avoid standing out against the profile of the landscaping.

The front entrance was all glass, with a double set of doors intended not for security but to keep the weather out when residents came and went. A warm light shone inside, but nothing was visible except a reception counter.

"That looks a bit too convenient," murmured Napoleon.

"Let's wait five minutes, at least," suggested Illya.

"Good idea."

At four and a half minutes, a tall uniformed man lumbered into view, still stuffing his shirt tail into his trousers.

"Security guard?" asked Illya.

"More or less," said Napoleon. "I wouldn't trust him with my life. But then he's probably here to discourage the casual riff-raff from strolling in and walking off with the residents' hearing aids."

"In that case, he's doing a fine job," said Illya, "since we obviously cannot enter without him seeing us. Now what?"

"Well, ordinarily I'd try to enlist his aid. But since we don't know if Pauling was sending us to a safe house or identifying a nest of Thrush, I think I'll skip that tactic."

Illya's lip curled in disgust. "A retirement home full of ex-Thrush agents. What a cheerful thought."

"Let's go back to the dumpster," said Napoleon. "I've got an idea."

The dumpster waited patiently for their return. One of its metal lids was propped open, the other lay flat.

Illya waved his right index finger rapidly from side to side. "Nyet, nyet, nyet. I am not sleeping in a dust bin."

Napoleon looked horrified at the thought. There was just enough light from the haloed street lamps for Illya to make out his partner's face, and the sight of it made his chest shake with silent laughter. "Sorry, Napoleon. What was I thinking? You would never suggest such a thing."

Napoleon's features relaxed. "I'm going to give you a leg up--"

"It's my turn to be your footstool."

Napoleon nodded. "Okay. Once we're on the dumpster, we'll go for the roof."

"Why can't we just climb up the fire escape?"

"Because I didn't see one. Did you? This part of the building is only one-story high. We can climb up here."

Illya eyed the dumpster and roof distastefully. He tried again. "Window?"

"There may be alarms."

"And what do we hope to find on the roof?"

"The roof over this section is flat. If nothing else we can lie low, out of sight. But I expect to find a door to the second floor over on the smoker's side, where the single story joins the two-story wing."

Illya brightened a bit. "Oh. Good plan. All right, give me your foot."

Napoleon's luck was holding. There was indeed a door where he'd hoped one would be. The roof in the vicinity was littered with cigarette butts.

"Smoker's paradise," whispered Napoleon. He tried the door. It opened easily. Someone had taped over the latch to make sure he didn't lock himself out during a smoke break.

"Unwise," commented Illya drily. "But I am grateful." His breath formed small clouds as he spoke.

Napoleon put a finger to his lips and went inside. Illya followed. They found themselves in a small anteroom, the end of a corridor that had been separated by a set of interior double doors from the rest of the hallway. A tall ashtray stood in one corner, its sand littered with cigarette butts. Napoleon moved to the double doors and listened. Silence. He pushed one open an inch and viewed the hallway. Empty. They went through the doors and closed them silently again.

Underfoot, a cheap industrial-grade carpet. On the walls, bulletin boards covered with the detritus of community living. Christmas wreaths decorated some doors and paper menorah adorned others. There was red and green everywhere. The doors were all closed.

"Sleeping," whispered Napoleon.

"Now what?" asked Illya.

Napoleon waved him along the corridor. "We look for a room where the inhabitants have vacated for the holidays."

Illya frowned. "Where would they go?"

"Well, I'm hoping that some of them have grown children who take them home to visit."

"Ah. I see. A very good plan…"

Napoleon was about to open a door marked "Stairwell" and his attention was absorbed by the possibility that someone might be sleepwalking up the stairs on the other side, so he was distracted when Illya continued.

"…except for one detail."

"Hmm? What detail?"

Silence.

"Illya?" Napoleon turned around and froze.

A tall man in a plaid bathrobe was pressing the muzzle of a police revolver to Illya's head.

"This detail," deadpanned Illya, his hands in the air.

When the bathrobe vigilante spoke, his whispy white hair trembled with the vibration of his voice. "Reach for the sky, sonny."

Napoleon reached.

"Now, would you two like to tell me what you're doing here? Or do you want to save it for the security guard?"

Napoleon's fingers curled and uncurled above his head. "I'd be glad to talk to you, sir, if you would just point that gun away from my partner's head. If you sneeze, you might accidentally blow his brains out."

Illya muttered, "Thanks for the graphic image."

"I know what I'm doing," said the vigilante. "I was a cop for twenty-three years. Now, out with it. No, wait." He blinked a couple of times. His eyes were a different shade of blue than Illya's, and one was clouded with a cataract. "Turn around and face the wall, then use the fingers of your left hand to take your gun out of that shoulder holster and lay it on the floor."

Napoleon glanced from Illya to the gun at his head and did as the vigilante said. With his gun on the floor, he straightened up and asked, "May I turn around again?"

"Yeah, sure."

By the time Napoleon was facing the vigilante again, the man had removed Illya's weapon as well. He was slipping it into the pocket of his bathrobe.

"Now, who the hell are you?"

"Well, this is a little embarrassing," said Napoleon, "but we're agents with the U.N.C.L.E., and we're trying to evade some serious pursuit. We think we shook the tail, but we were hoping we could find an empty room for the night and get some sleep. Or maybe a phone so we can call for assistance. We saw the security guard in the front lobby of this place, but it's late, and for all we knew, he could have been planted by the guys who are chasing us."

The old man snorted. "A little paranoid, ain't ya?"

"Me?" Napoleon made an innocent face. "I'm not the one who carries a police revolver in my bathrobe pocket."

A door opened behind the vigilante and a stooped little woman with a long upper lip and no chin emerged to squawk, "Emmet! Emmet, get in here! She's doing it again!"

Emmet turned to snap, "Not now, Midge!"

As soon as he looked away, Napoleon and Illya moved. Illya moved down and away from the revolver, and Napoleon moved up and toward it, seizing Emmet's wrist with his left hand and twisting the revolver free with his right.

"Hey! Gimme that back!" Emmet was incensed.

"I'll gladly return your weapon," said Napoleon, "if you'll return my partner's as well."

Illya retrieved Napoleon's semi-automatic and stood waiting.

"Well, shit," said Emmet. "Come on, get out of the hallway before someone else finds you wandering around and decides to call the security guard." He reached into his bathrobe pocket for Illya's weapon. "Here you go, sonny." He looked apologetic. "I wasn't really going to shoot you. Them days are behind me."

"Emmet!"

"We're coming, Midge. Hold your horses." He turned and headed for the open door.

Napoleon looked a question at Illya.

Illya sighed. "Well, we are warm and we have our guns back. He seems harmless enough." He shrugged.

"Okay." Napoleon winked at him, and they followed Emmet through Midge's door.

She closed it solidly behind them. "She's in there again, flushing that damn terlit over and over again."

Illya looked puzzled. "Terlit?"

"Toilet," translated Napoleon.

Emmet walked across the tiny living room and rapped on the bathroom door. "Izzy? Isabel, that's enough, now. You're going to flood them folks downstairs again, and they was pretty pissed off the last time."

The sound of flushing began to fade. At last the door opened. Izzy was a carbon copy of Midge, same long upper lip, same receding chin. But where Midge was dressed in a floral housedress and stockings and sturdy black shoes, Izzy was wearing rumpled gray pyjamas that bagged on her frail frame and her gnarled blue-veined feet were having trouble keeping a grimy pair of mules around her arches.

Emmet looked surprised. "Ain't you dressed yet?" He turned on Midge. "She ain't even dressed, for God's sake."

Midge lit a cigarette and puffed vigorously on it. "You try getting her dressed, you old coot."

Emmet sighed and looked at Napoleon. "I should have died in the line of duty," he grumbled. "Instead, I'm stuck in this zoo with the Turtle sisters."

"Excuse me," ventured Illya, "but it must be midnight, if not later. Why is it important for Izzy to get dressed?"

"The funeral," croaked Midge. "We're going down to the funeral."

Napoleon's features darkened with concern. "A funeral? At this hour?"

"Oh, don't worry," said Emmet. "The guest of honor ain't dead yet. We just go down to his room and rehearse every now and then. Rupert especially likes to practice on holidays. It cheers him up."

"Besides," added Midge, picking a stray fleck of tobacco off her tongue, "he's got the biggest fridge on the floor, so we put all the Christmas goodies in it. We're going to a party."

Izzy had discovered Illya and was enthralled. "You come, too," she said sweetly. "You look just like my second husband, Lars."

Emmet leaned down to look Izzy in the eye. "Will you get dressed if Lars comes along?"

"Oh, yes." She looked down at her pyjamas as if seeing them for the first time. "Midge! They stole my clothes again!" She shook her head sadly. "I went in there all frou-froued up for the party, Emmet. I swear."

"Well, you go change now, or we'll be late. I'll keep Lars and his friend company." He caught Midge's eye and tossed his head in Izzy's direction. "Go help her, Midge, or we'll be here all night."

The ladies retreated to another room. Midge left a trail of tobacco smoke thick in the air behind her.

Emmet sat down heavily on one end of a worn yellow sofa. "Christ, I'm tired." He sighed heavily. "Say, who the hell are you guys, anyway?"

Napoleon perched on the edge of a yellow armchair, and Illya lounged on the arm next to him. "I told you, we're UNCLE agents."

"Yeah, yeah, but we were interrupted before you could tell me your names."

"Oh. Right. Uh, I'm Napoleon Solo and this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

Emmet squinted at Illya. "How's that?"

Illya took pity on the old man. "Just call me Lars," he said.

Napoleon grinned up at him and was rewarded with a hint of a smile.

Illya waved a finger at Emmet's robe. "If Izzy is changing, shouldn't you be doing the same?"

"Who, me?" Emmet looked down at his robe and laughed. "Oh, this. No problem." He levered himself to his feet and untied the bathrobe. It opened to reveal a slightly frayed but still respectable tuxedo. "We go down the hall in our robes so the screws won't suspect we're having a good time."

"Screws?" asked Illya.

"Prison guards," said Napoleon.

"Oh." Illya chuckled.

"But you're not really prisoners here, are you?" asked Napoleon. "I mean, this is a voluntary retirement home, right?"

Emmet sat back down. "Oh, sure. Voluntary. For as long as we're ambulatory. And then when we're not, it's off to the nursing home across the street, to suck up drugs until we're ready for the box." He eyed Illya and said, "That's a coffin."

"Thank you. I understood that one."

"So, what are you boys really doing here?"

"I, uh… I told you. We're UNCLE agents, looking for a place to--"

Emmet waved that away. "Don't give me none of that spy game crap. You're obviously some kind of law enforcement. Or maybe you're private?"

Illya's eyes twinkled. "Very private. But you mustn't say a word. And whatever you do, you must not alert security. If he becomes aware of our presence, we will have to abort our mission."

Emmet nodded. "I knew it. Don't worry. You can count on me."

The bedroom door opened. "Here we are," lilted Izzy. "All dressed for the ball." She floated into the room wearing a full-length red-sequined spaghetti-strap gown over a white turtleneck. On her feet, a pair of white sneakers.

Emmet stood up. "Izzy, you look grand."

Midge stubbed her cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. "The turtleneck was my idea."

"And I can't thank you enough," chuckled Emmet. "All right, ladies. We're off to the ball."

"But who are these gentlemen?" asked Izzy, coyly twirling the ends of her gray hair in front of Illya.

"Don't you remember?" Emmet clapped Illya on the back. "This here is your second husband, Lars."

Izzy looked suspicious.

Illya took her hand and kissed it. "You look splendid this evening, Isabel."

She gasped in amazement. "Oh, it is you, Lars!" She turned to Emmet. "Lars always called me Isabel, never Izzy." She looked triumphant. "I told you it worked."

Midge lit another cigarette. "Who's the other one?"

Emmet took Midge's free hand and wrapped it around his arm. "That there's Napoleon."

Izzy's eyes widened. "Napoleon Bonaparte! Oh, lordy, you are so much better looking than your portraits."

Napoleon stood up and bowed militaristically in Izzy's direction. "Why, thank you, madame."

"But how come you speak such good English? Napoleon was French."

Napoleon shot his cuffs and straightened his tie. "With the treasury of France at my disposal," he said imperiously, "I could certainly afford the very best English tutors."

"Oh, yes, of course," said Izzy. "It all makes sense now." She hunched over and giggled like a schoolgirl with a bad cold. "They didn't really believe me before, but now they have to, don't they? Just wait till the rest of'em get a load of you two! And now I know the trick. Six flushes in a row! That's what it takes! Come on, Lars. I feel like dancing tonight."

Izzy was so shrunken that Illya could look over the top of her head at Napoleon. He suppressed a kind smile and offered Izzy his arm. "Allow me, Isabel."

"Oh, lord, you were always the gentleman." They headed for the front door. "Too bad you fell in love with that swimsuit model."

"We all make mistakes," said Illya. "I was hoping you would give me a second chance."

Midge coughed around her cigarette and put it out. "Okay, I'm ready, Emmet. Let's go."

Napoleon followed them into the hall, feeling like the odd man out. "Uh, forgive me for asking, Emmet, but just what is it that Izzy thinks she's doing by flushing six times in a row?"

"Working the time machine," said Emmet.

"The what?"

Izzy overheard them and turned around to explain. "There's a time machine in the terlit," she said. "That's how I brought you here. Six flushes, that's the ticket."

Rupert's apartment was twice the size of Midge and Izzy's, and there were half a dozen people grouped around the television set, watching the Late Movie, "Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street." In the far corner, a real tree was covered in a lifetime's holiday decorations. The furniture was comfortable but elegant, and matching crystal bowls held mounds of snacks and cookies.

"Come in, come in!" The man who opened the door was well groomed and nattily dressed. He wore a dark blue silk smoking jacket over a a matching set of silk pyjamas, and his feet were in wooly slippers. He saw Napoleon's eye stop at the slippers. "At my age, dear, who cares? Old feet get very cold." He looked Napoleon and Illya up and down. "Oh, Emmet, I do hope this means you've brought me a Christmas present. Or two."

Izzy brushed her host away with a gesture. "The blond one is my second husband Lars, and I'm not losing him again, Rupert. But I think I read somewhere that Napoleon had a thing for the boys."

Illya laughed out loud.

"Come on, Lars, I want to show you off to my friends." Izzy pulled him away toward the group huddled in front of the television set.

"Napoleon?" Rupert's eyebrows rose uncertainly.

Emmet released Midge's arm and she toddled after her sister. "Don't worry, Rupert." He lowered his voice. "Izzy thinks her time machine brought Napoleon Bonaparte for a visit. But Napoleon here is working undercover."

Rupert's eyes shone with interest. "Really? Doing what, pray tell?"

Napoleon smiled with enough wattage to guarantee that Rupert would keep any secret he was asked to keep. "Well, if I give it all away, I wouldn't be undercover anymore and my report might be biased."

"Oh, yes, I see," nodded Rupert. He smiled, but it came a milisecond too late.

"You don't believe me," said Napoleon.

"I believe Emmet," said Rupert. He smiled at Emmet. "Better go grab a seat. The court room scenes are about to start. That's your favorite part."

"Yeah, and so's the fudge. I see Wilmer's got his teeth in. I better grab my share." He headed for the snack table.

Rupert cocked his head to one side. "Help me in the kitchen, Napoleon."

The kitchen was three times the size of the walk-in kitchen in Napoleon's apartment. "Very nice," he said. "Are you a chef?"

"No. Just fond of good food. And other good things." He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a tray of petit fours. "I think the champagne is chilled," he said. "Pull it out for me, would you?"

Napoleon took a champagne bottle in each hand and closed the refrigerator door with one foot. "Emmet says you plan to stage a dress rehearsal for your own funeral."

Rupert laughed. "You know, I keep threatening to do that, and they keep coming, but we never seem to actually get around to it."

Napoleon grinned. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Rupert shot him a puzzled glance. "You ask that as if maybe I didn't belong here."

Napoleon shrugged and sent his eyes around the kitchen, looking for something to fix on.

"Well, maybe I don't belong here. But it's as good a place as any to live."

"But this is a retirement home."

Awareness dawned on Rupert's face and he grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, my God, there is a Santa Claus." He leaned conspiratorially toward Napoleon. "I'm seventy-nine."

"Impossible."

Rupert laughed. "Thank you. But it's true. Now, thanks to you, I know that I am a well preserved seventy-nine. And I bought a space here ten years ago, never thinking I'd still be around a decade later." He sliced cheeses as he spoke. "I did some hard living in my youth. And the friends I did most of it with have all passed on. That's hard, you know?"

"How old is Emmet?"

Rupert chuckled. "He's eighty-two and spry as an old fox. When he's had too much to drink, he claims he remembers arresting me on this raid or that raid. You know. The bars."

Napoleon dropped his eyes and rubbed his nose. "What makes you think I should know about that?"

Rupert's features softened, and he looked like a kindly grandfather. "You met me and did not run the other way. Izzy made some comment about liking boys and you did not rush to assert your heterosexuality. And that blond you came with can't go two seconds without looking in your direction."

"Oh."

Rupert smiled. "So, who are you, really?"

Napoleon took a breath, hesitated for two seconds, and then said, "We're UNCLE agents. We were being chased by a carload of dangerous men, and we were hoping to find a safe place to spend the night." No point in dragging Pauling's death into the conversation.

"Well, you may not get much sleep until the party's over, but you're welcome to stay here as my guests."

"Thank you."

The t.v. watchers applauded as the movie ended. Napoleon sidled up to Illya and said, "We have a place to stay the night."

Illya nodded. "Yes, I saw you charming Rupert in the kitchen."

Napoleon grinned. "Well, I had to do something. Watching you with Izzy was making me crazy. You know how jealous I get."

Illya snorted.

Rupert clapped his hands louder than the others. "Attention! Attention! It's time for presents! Let's see what Santa brought this year."

Isabel chirped, "My stocking is full." She patted Illya on the head.

"Well, then, I don't suppose you need this?" Rupert hefted a beribboned package.

Isabel held out her hands. "You can never have enough Christmas cheer," she croaked. "I'll share it with Lars."

Napoleon murmured in Illya's ear, "Lucky Lars."

One by one, Rupert distributed gifts. Boxes of candy, cartons of cigarettes, and bottles of liquor.

Emmet opened his compact gift and chuckled with appreciation. It was a box of ammunition for his police special. He sat down heavily on the couch next to Napoleon. His plaid robe was draped over the arm. "That Rupert. Every year, he does this. Buys us all something. Nice guy."

Illya commented drily, "He's a socialist."

"Huh?" Emmet looked puzzled.

Napoleon translated, "He shares the wealth."

"Oh, yeah. I guess so," said Emmet.

Napoleon asked Emmet for directions to the bathroom and was pointed to a door in the short hallway on the right. When he emerged, habit and training insisted he check the other two doors. The one on the right led to Rupert's bedroom, a tidy if sparse tribute to a man with nothing to do but keep his own house. Napoleon smiled sadly, then sobered when he realized the room reminded him of his own apartment. Rupert was evidently obsessively tidy, just like Napoleon. Feeling uneasy but not sure why, he flicked off the light, closed the bedroom door, and opened the one opposite the bathroom. He felt along the wall, found the light switch and turned it on.

"Sweet Jesus!" He glanced toward the living room, but they were opening gifts and paying no attention to him. Only Illya glanced in his direction.

Napoleon stepped into the guest room to get a better look. The double bed took up almost all the floor space, but what was left was filled with plastic floral arrangements. Basket bouquets threw anonymous blossoms in his path in a rainbow of colors. White, lavender, blue and violet clashed with standing sprays of red, pink, yellow, and green. There were giant white lilies with obscene yellow stamens, three different vases of roses and ferns, and a large horseshoe wreath on a stand with a message in the center in large flowing script: "We will miss him." Across the foot of the bed was a long arrangement of white and purple flowers, all fastened to a satin backing.

Illya's voice behind him made him jump. "It was probably made for the top of the coffin."

"Oh! You scared me."

Illya's mouth twitched in a faint smile. "And that, I would say, is the box itself." He nodded toward the corner between the closet and the window where an unfinished wooden coffin leaned upright against the wall.

Napoleon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "And that," he pointed at the bed where a three-piece suit, shirt, and tie were carefully laid out, "is what he plans to wear, I assume."

"Emmet did say he likes to practice for his funeral."

"Yeah, but Rupert told me in the kitchen that they never really got around to that. He just used it as a hook to get them to come visit."

Illya made a noncommittal sound and moved around the room, looking at photographs. "I wonder if these flowers are from his partner's funeral?"

Napoleon shook his head. "I doubt it. These are all plastic. No, I think Rupert just believes in preparation. I think all this is for his own funeral, whenever that may be."

Illya reached the upright coffin and tried the lid. It opened soundlessly. There was nothing inside, no lining, no pillow. "I wonder if he made this himself? It's nicely done, but it doesn't look like anything we've ever seen at a funeral."

"God knows we've been to our share," said Napoleon softly. He shivered. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Illya paused at the door. "Do you think this is where he was inviting us to spend the night?"

Napoleon looked grim. "We'll sleep on the couch."

Illya turned out the light.

Back in the living room, Rupert clapped his hands again. "All right, all right. Let's keep things rolling. Don and Emily are up way past their bedtime."

Don and Emily jerked awake on their end of the sofa. "Great party, Rupert," said Don. They were living proof that married couples grew to resemble each other through the years. They were white-haired gnomes in matching plaid shirts and dungarees. They smiled around at their friends, but within seconds were drowsing again.

"Time for party games," Rupert continued. He went to the wall opposite the kitchen, took down a painting of three labrador retrievers hunting in a marsh, and put up a dart board. He turned with a flourish and began passing out paper cups loaded with darts. "Emmet is our defending champion, but Midge has been practicing. And Phil and Roger are a real threat this year."

Phil was a wiry little man with thick steel-wool hair and skin the color of teakwood. "Emmet won on a technicality," he protested.

Roger carried all his weight around the middle. His trousers were secured at his widest point with an alligator-skin belt, and his wide trouser legs flapped as he walked. He wore matching alligator boots. Above the waist, he sported a cream-colored shirt with brown piping in the style of a singing cowboy. His skin was mottled purple and pink, and his sloppy drawl attested to how many times he'd been to the trough that evening. "The technicality was that, technically, Emmet hit the bull's eye more often than you technically did."

"Well, he's about to lose his title tonight," said Phil. "Let me have those darts."

Midge jostled for position. "Ladies first, you old fart."

"You're too close!" complained Roger. "Stand over yonder, by the kitchen door."

"Izzy is better than me, but I can hold my own," snapped Midge. "Everybody take a good look."

"And everybody duck," added Emmet.

Napoleon and Illya moved to the corner next to the bathroom wall. Illya grabbed Napoleon's elbow, but not before he bumped into the curio cabinet and jostled the carved jade figurines inside.

"Oops," muttered Napoleon.

Illya opened the door and set the toppled figures on their bases. His hand lingered over the jade handle of a ceremonial dagger. "Nice collection."

Midge let fly with a dart and everyone in the room bent double. Her aim was off, and the dart lodged itself in the hallway next to the bathroom.

Illya's eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. "Perhaps we should go stand behind her."

Napoleon laughed.

And the lights went out.

Disappointment and confusion. Emmet's voice. "Goddam fuses."

Rupert's voice. "Stand still, everyone. I know exactly where the flashlight is."

A moment later the beam of the flashlight proved him right. "Grab a match and light the nearest candle," he said cheerily. "The good thing about Christmas is all the candles sitting about."

After a few seconds, the room was dancing with light.

Napoleon asked, "Do you know where the fuse box is?"

Emmet answered, "We do, but the fuses are down at the front desk. The screws don't want us old fogies messing with stuff. I'll go down and get some."

Midge protested. "Don't bring that guard up here or the party's over."

Rupert added, "What if he spots Napoleon and Lars?"

"Illya," corrected Illya.

Emmet said, "Don't worry. We'll just tell him that Napoleon here is my youngest son David. He's never met my kids. And Illya can be Isabel's grandson, Lars the third. But he won't come up here. That would constitute work. I'll just fetch the fuses."

"I'll go with you," said Napoleon. Then he added, "Dad."

Emmet chuckled. "You were always my favorite."

Napoleon grinned. He caught Illya's eye.

"I know, I know," said Illya. "Interesting timing for a fuse to blow. I'll keep an eye on our friends here." He folded his arms across his chest, letting his gun hand rest closer to his holster.

Out in the corridor, Emmet used the flashlight to see where they were going and spoke in a stage whisper. "Try not to wake anyone up. Most folks on this floor are at the party, but we've got to go downstairs and along the nursing wing. Those poor bastards need their sleep. Then we'll cut through the rec room to the front desk."

"Lead on," said Napoleon softly. He pulled his gun, flicked the safety off, and carried it along his thigh.

The nursing wing smelled like a hospital. A middle-aged woman in a white uniform was going from room to room with a flashlight, reassuring the residents who couldn't sleep.

"Hello, Trudy. It's me, Emmet. I'm going to shake down Andrew for some fuses."

"Oh, good. The midnight shift nurse is late, so I'm all alone at the moment. Couldn't go check. The emergency generator didn't come on, so I don't know what's wrong. Is a fuse all we need?"

Napoleon didn't like the sound of that. "Do you have any patients on machines that need power?"

"Oh, no," said Trudy. "We're a rest home. If they need that kind of help, they go to the hospital across the street. But we do have an emergency generator." She squinted at him in the gloom. "Who are you?"

Emmet jumped in. "This is my youngest son, David, here to spend Christmas with me."

Trudy smiled. "That's nice. Excuse me, I got to keep checking the rooms. You know how old people are," she said to Napoleon, as if Emmet weren't there. "Sometimes they get confused." And she was gone.

Emmet snorted and moved on.

Napoleon frowned. "She doesn't sound very professional for a nurse."

"They're not really nurses. Not registered nurses. They're sort of nurses' aides. Like she said, no one in this building is really bad off. The folks in this wing just need help with stuff. They don't move so good, you know? Some of them are losing their memories. That kind of stuff. Here's the rec room. Christ all Friday, it's dark in here at night."

Napoleon felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He'd had that feeling often enough to wish that Emmet would quit talking. He reached out and took Emmet's arm before he entered the lobby.

"What?" asked Emmet.

"Shhh. Just go slow and be careful. Where's your revolver?" Napoleon's voice was so soft he thought at first Emmet hadn't heard the question. But he had.

"It's in my robe on the sofa in Rupert's living room."

"Okay. If I yell 'down', you hit the floor. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Fuses?"

Emmet waved a hand toward the lobby. "In the front desk. Andrew's station."

"Okay. Let's go."

Emmet led on, his flashlight beam making them an easy target. Napoleon said a silent prayer and hoped for the best.

"Andy? Andrew, where are you?" Emmet played the flashlight around the lobby. No one was there. He shook his head. "Worthless joke of a watchman." He pointed the flashlight behind the security station and stopped short. "Christ."

Napoleon was right behind him.

On the floor, leaning against a bank of drawers, was the security guard. His head lolled to one side, his eyes open and glassy. The sleeve of one shirt was rolled up above the elbow, and a rubber tube was knotted around his arm. An empty syringe lay on the floor.

Napoleon checked for a pulse. "Nothing. He's dead."

"Christ."

"Did Andy use drugs?" whispered Napoleon.

"No. Never. Aw, hell, I don't know. Maybe he did and we…" The words trailed off as Emmet tried to swallow.

"You all right?"

"Christ. I was a cop for twenty-three years."

"Well, you've been away from it for a while. What's the shortest route back to Rupert's place?"

"Pretty much the way we came."

"Then let's get back there fast."

"What about the fuses?"

"With your security guard dead, I doubt it's a fuse. Where's the emergency generator?"

"Hell if I know. You think those fellas who were chasing you did this?"

"It's the kind of thing they're known for."

"Bastards."

"I agree. Let's go."

Napoleon took the flashlight and turned it off. Emmet didn't complain. They made their way back through the rec room by memory and feel, then moved carefully down the nursing wing hallway. This time there were no sounds from the rooms and no sounds of Trudy clucking reassurances. Napoleon hoped desperately that the residents were just asleep. Since he and Emmet were moving without a flashlight, maybe Trudy didn't know they were there, so she was silent. Or maybe Trudy was the Thrush plant who had killed Andy, and was busy giving overdoses to everyone on the floor. He pushed that thought out of his mind and led Emmet into the stairwell.

Back upstairs, Napoleon listened at Emmet's door before he knocked. From the other side, Illya said, "Chekov."

And Napoleon answered, "Spock's Brain."

The door opened. Candlelight flickered in the background. Illya looked disgusted. "Spock's Brain?"

"Sorry. It was the only episode title I could think of." He ushered Emmet inside, closed the door, and checked the deadbolt. "Andrew the security guard has met the same fate as our friend Pauling."

Illya looked especially grim in the candlelight. "They are in the building."

"Where's the phone? Time to call the police."

Rupert was wringing his hands. "The phone? Over there, under the dart board."

Napoleon crossed the room in three strides and picked up the receiver. "Dead. They've cut the wire."

Emmet ground his false teeth together. "Tell me what to do."

Napoleon's brow crinkled in thought. "I think you should stay here and watch over your friends. These people are dangerous, but they want me and Illya. We'll go look for them. Maybe if we confront them, we can get this over with and keep the residents here from getting hurt."

Illya nodded. "Good plan."

Someone knocked at the door. "Don't open it," whispered Napoleon to the others.

From the other side came Trudy's voice. "Emmet? Are you in there? I need some help downstairs."

Napoleon took Emmet's arm to keep him from going to the door, but Izzy was coming out of the kitchen with a candle in her hand. She heard Trudy at the door and detoured to open it. "Just a minute, Trudy. Someone locked the door."

Napoleon, Emmet, Illya, and Rupert all hissed, "Izzy! No!"

But it was too late. Isabel opened the the door wide. Trudy stood there, wide-eyed and pale. A stocky frizzy-haired woman clutched a fistful of Trudy's hair and held a loaded syringe pointed at her throat.

Napoleon's face fell. "Dr. Dabree!"

"You are as slippery as a diseased appendix, and a much bigger pain, Mr. Solo. You can probably guess what's in this syringe. You and Mr. Kuryakin will lay your weapons on the floor and kick them against that wall, or I will introduce Trudy to the joys of heroin."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other.

Dabree caught the look and poked Trudy with the tip of the needle. Trudy screeched.

Napoleon and Illya sagged in defeat and carefully removed their weapons. Once they were on the floor and kicked away, Dabree called out, "All right, boys! Turn the lights back on!"

A moment later, the power flickered to life.

"Hands in the air, gentlemen," ordered Dabree.

Napoleon and Illya did as she commanded. "I must say," ventured Napoleon, "you look pretty good for a woman who fell down an elevator shaft."

Dabree barked orders at the two men who flanked her. "Drakulich! Merrill! Pick up those guns, and don't let your guard down for a minute. These pretty boys are extremely dangerous and deceitful."

Illya muttered, "You flatter us, madame."

Napoleon appealed to her. "Look, Dr. Dabree, you caught us fair and square. Let's say we leave these people in peace and take our business elsewhere?"

Dabree snorted. "I've spent the last year of my life masquerading as a nurse's aide at Sunset Acres. I'm not in a very charitable mood, Mr. Solo. You and Mr. Kuryakin ruined my reputation with Thrush. And just as I was beginning to earn their trust again, that annoying Mr. Pauling began tripping me up, left and right. Well, no more. I only have so many years left to secure my future. And I assure you, I don't plan to spend my retirement in a place like this!"

"But these people are innocent," said Napoleon.

Dabree sneered, "Too bad. They shouldn't hang out with UNCLE agents."

Illya asked, "What do you plan to do with us?"

"First of all, these two slowpokes will handcuff you. Move it, Merrill! Drakulich, keep that gun pointed at them. If one of them moves, shoot them both." She pushed Trudy roughly in Emmet's direction. "Here. Give me the other gun."

Napoleon smiled as Merrill pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed them. "Well, I think it's very unprofessional of you to interrupt these lovely folks on Christmas. And they were just about to play a game." He pushed a special meaning into his voice. "Weren't you, Emmet? Phil was going to take the title, I believe." He glanced at the dart board and then from Emmet to Rupert.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," said Emmet. "We were about to play a game when the lights went out, weren't we, folks?" He looked around the room. The others muttered and nodded and shifted their positions.

"Nobody move!" shrieked Dabree.

Napoleon shrugged, his voice easy-going. "It's just a game, Dr. Dabree. Rupert bought prizes. The game is called 'Let's save Lars.' And everyone plays at the same time. Right, Emmet?"

"Lars is in trouble?" Izzy looked alarmed and clutched her dart cup until she crushed its paper sides.

"That's right. We all play at the same time." He nodded and glanced around the room.

Izzy grabbed three darts by the feathers and screamed, "Leave my Lars alone!!!"

Almost as an after throught, Emmet cried, "Now!!!" He pulled darts out of his cup and began hurling them at Dabree and her henchmen. The others did the same thing.

Illya bolted for the curio cabinet and grabbed the jade-handled knife. Merrill and Dabree were shouting and dodging darts. One had lodged firmly in Merrill's shoulder and another had penetrated Dabree's cheek. Drakulich was ignoring the darts and drawing a bead on Napoleon, who launched himself over the back of the couch, hands fastened behind. Illya hurled the knife at Drakulich. It struck him in the middle of the chest. The big man looked down at himself, then crumpled to his knees in surprise. He was dead before he toppled to the floor.

Emmet grabbed hold of his plaid robe and pointed it at Dabree. "Drop your weapons or I'll drop you!"

Everyone was out of darts and Dabree was pissed off. She shrieked with rage, pulled the dart out of her face with one hand, and pointed Illya's gun with the other.

Emmet fired. Bang. Bang.

One bullet knocked the gun out of Dabree's hand, and the other smashed Merrill's knee. He screamed and crashed to the floor.

Illya scooted for the dropped guns. The assembled partyers applauded and cheered.

Izzy beamed with her victory. Emmet stood tall and nodded in appreciation. Then he staggered and balanced his backside against the back of the sofa. Perspiration shone on his forehead. "Damn," he said. "I must be getting old."

Midge grabbed Dabree by the hair and Izzy kicked her behind the knee. Dabree went down on all fours, and Midge planted a foot in her back and shoved her the rest of the way, croaking, "On your face, bitch."

Rupert dug through Merrill's pockets until he found a key for Napoleon's cuffs.

"Thank you, Rupert." Napoleon rubbed his freed wrists and levered himself off the sofa. He took the gun that Illya handed him. "One of us should go phone for the police," said Napoleon.

Emmet piped up, "I'll go. There's a couple of fellows on the night shift who remember me from the old days. You boys stay here in case they have some accomplices we haven't seen yet. Phil? You come with me, okay? I'll take my revolver, just in case."

Emmet's friends on the force came quickly and in large numbers. Napoleon and Illya made sure Emmet's role in their rescue received ample attention. By the time statements were taken and the coroner was called to take charge of Andrew and Drakulich's bodies and ambulances took Dabree and Merrill away, it was three a.m. Rupert reiterated his offer for Napoleon and Illya to spend the night, but with Dabree and her henchmen in custody, they felt safe looking for a motel. They promised Rupert they would return later in the afternoon to share Christmas dinner with the revelers. Then they got directions from one of the policemen to the nearest motel and headed for the parking lot.

Napoleon sagged against the passenger-side door. "Can you even see to drive?"

"No. But there isn't much traffic this time of night."

Napoleon made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Good." He shivered. "Let's go. It's freezing out here."

Illya started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "I hope the motel has an electric blanket."

"So sad," said Napoleon. "The card-carrying communist is being polluted by the decadence of electric blankets."

Illya chuckled. "And what do you want for Christmas, capitalist pig-dog?"

Napoleon laughed, two syllables of amusement. "I suppose it would be too much to hope for an all-night liquor store?"

"In this one-horse town? We are not in Las Vegas, my friend." He drove silently for a while.

Napoleon shivered again and moved closer to Illya until he could lay his head on Illya's shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I'm driving."

Napoleon grunted, but he didn't move. He snuggled. His hand bumped something solid in Illya's coat pocket. He opened his eyes. "What's this?" He reached in and pulled out a fifth of scotch.

Illya smiled. "Rupert had a bunch of it under the tree. He won't miss that bottle." He stopped for a red light and planted a kiss on Napoleon's forehead. "Merry Christmas."

Napoleon grinned.

The light changed and Illya drove on.

Napoleon began humming, a buzzing sound like a fly caught in a jar.

"What are you doing?" asked Illya.

"You said you wanted an electric blanket."

"Yes?"

Napoleon grinned. "I'm generating current."

Illya wagged his eyebrows up and down. "And to all a good night."

End

Authors love feedback. To send L.White a note in care of Chajka, click below: L. White Please mention the story's author in the title of the e-mail. Thanks.