Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Through a drugged fog, he felt a hand touch his forehead, then a cool cloth.  He tried to blink, to clear his eyes.

Voices.

"Hmmm..."

"Hey, there.  Are you awake?"  The blurred image refused to come into focus.  White jacket.  Doctor.

"Where...?" The rest of his question faded away.  He slept.

He floated to consciousness and hovered, battered by waves of pain, then again succumbed to the medication. 

It was a pattern that repeated itself over the next few days, always bringing him to the brink of awareness, then fading, like waves on a stormy beach, sweeping him up and taking him away.  Doctors and nurses.  The murmur of voices and the hum of machinery.   Lights shone into his eyes. Blood pressure cuffs. 

Dull pain sweeping to intense pain, then... nothing.

It took some time before he realized that he was truly awake.  The drugs flirted with his thoughts, throwing out odd memories and sounds, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was.  His eyes opened, took in his location in an instant, then closed again.

The moment lengthened.  He still didn’t know where he was.  He had been moved. Several times, he thought.  Not an U.N.C.L.E. clinic, at least not one he knew, and at one point or another, he’d been in them all.

It was a hospital.  The size of the room, the variety of doctors and nurses he hazily remembered seeing.   Quite probably he was having recollections of being in the emergency room, of surgery, and intensive care.  Now he was in a private room, with a door.

He tried to raise his head to get a better look at his surroundings, then thought best not to as nausea threatened.  Quite seriously.  He took a few minutes to get his stomach under control before beginning a self check.  His legs seemed fine. He could move them back and forth, shifting his ankles.  Knees bent okay.  Ah, yes, a catheter.  Swell.

He tried to tighten his abdominal muscles, and there was the distinct feeling that came with being punched repeatedly in the stomach.  So perhaps he had been in a fight.  He moved his hands, weakly clenching his fists, but, through the drugs, could detect no pain.  His left shoulder hurt when he moved it, the pain peaking then ebbing.  He’d dislocated it before, and no doubt it had happened again.  His head, when he moved it, sent a wave of dizziness that went straight to the pit of his stomach.  So, some kind of head injury.

On to the next problem.  Sooner or later a doctor or nurse would come through that door, and there was the annoying glitch of not knowing if he was on assignment or not.  Or undercover or not.  Who am I supposed to be?

The case...  He couldn’t remember what case they were on or how he had come to be injured.  The Halloween Affair was over.  They had dealt with everything.  What were they working on now?  It was so close... but like his vision, the memories refused to come into focus.

So, follow it through.  The Halloween Affair.  He remembered sitting in Waverly’s office and going over the post-assignment paperwork.  The legal department had questioned their use of pumpkins as weapons, then there had been the one small fire started when his partner had thrown a lit jack-o-lantern at a Thrush perp.

A briefing, perhaps.  Faint memories of case files.  Looking for something.  His partner’s eyes meeting his over the desk, wordlessly conveying shock at what had been uncovered.

Which, of course, was now eluding him.  Damn it.  Concentrate.

His door opened, then closed.  A doctor, face unknown, but somewhat familiar through his blurred memories of the past few days.  In the brief moment he had seen into the corridor there was the anticipated sight of medical personnel.  And the unanticipated sight of a police guard outside his door.  So he was in danger still.  But why not an U.N.C.L.E. guard?  Unless he was undercover and the U.N.C.L.E. guard was only masquerading as a police guard.  It could even be his partner-- he had only seen the man from the back, and the height and build were similar. 

"Mr Solo?  How is your head?"  The doctor’s voice sounded calm.  Neither compassionate nor aggressive.  Matter-of-fact.

So my name is still Solo.  Or is he trying to trip me up?

"Hmmm?" Napoleon asked, playing on his injury.

"Your head.  How is it feeling?"

"Sledgehammer," he said, wearily.

"Close," the doctor said, with a touch of amusement in his voice.  Or was it impatience?  "How is your stomach?  Still nauseous?"

"Oh, yes."

"It will be for a while yet, I’m sure.  I am Dr Sangha, and I’ve been handling your post op.  We’re going to have you remain here for several days under observation.  You’re a lucky man.  That was a substantial blow to the head you took."

It took him several tries, then he got out, "How am I?"

"Any injury to the skull is considered a neurosurgical condition, any fracture itself of less importance than the potential injury to the brain. You were unconscious for several days, which is not a good sign for a cerebral injury, indicating bruising of the brain or perhaps a hemorrhage on its surface.  Your pulse, however, has returned to normal, as well as your respiration and temperature.  I’m sure other bodily functions will follow."  Sangha looked up from the chart.  "As I said, you’re a lucky man, Mr Solo."

"When... can I... leave?"

"When you’re ambulatory.  They’ll take you to the infirmary on site for further observation."

Well, that was helpful.  Strange that of all the doctors he remembered seeing, Sam Lawrence wasn’t one of them.  It was odd that U.N.C.L.E’s chief physician wasn’t checking him out, getting him ready for the transfer.  Sure he was incapacitated at the moment, but he’d been moved to the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary before under much more serious conditions.  Perhaps he was only one of many injured, and the facility was taxed to its limit. 

So where was Illya?  Odd, too, that Illya had not yet made an appearance.  Unless, had he been injured, as well?  Or maybe that was him playing guard in the hallway.

What case were they on?  Why couldn’t he remember?

As Dr Sangha left the room, he said one more thing that left Napoleon frowning. 

"By the way, your wife will be here soon."

After an hour spent dozing and trying to figure out what was going on, Napoleon turned his head as the door to his small room opened. 

Dr Sangha poked his head around the corner.  "Your wife is just signing in."  The door closed again.

This should be good. I must be undercover, but using my own name.  But what did the doctor mean by "signing in"?

The door opened again, Sangha stepped in, then held the door open.  Napoleon relaxed as April Dancer walked in, smiling softly at him as she moved to his bedside. "Hey."

"Hi," he responded warmly, hoping it was the correct response.

"I’ll give you a few minutes alone," the doctor said, and left the room.

April sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand.  Her eyes welled with tears, and she brushed them away.  "You okay?"

"Yeah."  Napoleon smiled. She played the concerned wife well, even had a wedding band on.  Her hair was done differently.

"You promised you’d be careful," she admonished.

"Well, you know how it is," he replied, aware the room was probably bugged.

"Eighteen stitches."  April shook her head, apparently at a loss for words.  "Please be careful.  I’m doing everything I can."

She seemed so anxious that he squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I know you are," he responded smoothly.  "Did the doctor say when I can get out?"

"What’s your hurry?  It’s quieter here.  Safer."  Her hand lingered at the side of his face, then she bent and kissed his cheek.

"I’d rather recoup at home."

April closed her eyes, as though stung by his words.  "I’m sorry.  I’m trying."  Her grip on his hand became almost crushing, and he realized he had said the wrong thing.  But she wasn’t giving him many clues as to how to respond to her.  She obviously didn’t know that he was missing something.

"How are you doing?" he asked, finally.

She seemed to pull herself together, and smiled sadly at him.  "I’m fine.  There’s a Summit meeting in Milan later in the week that Mark and I have to attend, but fortunately I was still in the office when the call came through about the attack.  Mark just got back from an inspection of the new Tokyo office."

She brushed her hand over the back of his skull, and Napoleon realized then that his head was bandaged and likely shorn.  Waste of a good haircut.

Odd, though, that April was speaking so casually about the Summit.  "So what’s the other guy look like?" he said jokingly, trying to find his way through the conversation. 

"One’s dead.  The other’s back in his cell."

In his cell. 

So what did that mean?  That the attack was in a jail?  Had he been visiting, or was he undercover as a guard or a prisoner?  He looked carefully into April’s eyes.  "I’m having a little problem... remembering here... must be the blow to the head.... Who started the fight?...  Do you know?"  He put stress on the words 'problem remembering’, hoping she’d clue in.

April again touched the side of his face.  "I watched the camera footage and it looks like you just got caught in the middle of their fight.  I’ve been assured you won’t be held responsible.  Don’t worry about that."

That got him no closer to answers.  "So everything’s... okay?" he asked, tentatively.

"Other than you still being in jail, everything is wonderful."  Again the tears. 

So, I’m undercover in jail for some reason. Napoleon exhaled, trying to find the words he needed to get the answers he needed.  "April," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, forcing her to bend over to hear him.  "I guess my... memory’s... a little addled... from the blow to head.  Mind filling me in... on what’s going on?"  Talking was tiring him, despite his need for information.

She whispered back, but he thought it was more for his benefit than from a concern over security.  "What do you mean?  You don’t remember the fight?  They said that might happen.  Don’t worry, dear, that’s common after a head injury like yours."  She kissed his forehead, her lips lingering.

Easy, girl.  They’ve got me in a catheter.  "Uh... Let’s go back a little further."

"How far?"

"Like... why am I in jail?"

Silence.  April straightened up and stared down at him as though he had asked her why the Pope was Catholic.  "What?"

"It’s my head injury, I guess... right?"  Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to play his hand truthfully, he continued, "For whatever... reasons, I’m having... trouble... remembering why I’m in... jail."

She bit her bottom lip, large eyes blinking rapidly.  Finally she took a deep breath and asked, "Napoleon, what day is it?"

"It’s--"  Damn.  What day was it?  Or at least the attack was on...  No, nothing there.  If he couldn’t remember the attack, how could he remember the exact date?

"What month?" she asked, gently.

"November..."  He shook his head.  Beginning?  Middle?  End?  It was escaping him for some reason.  Probably the same reason he couldn’t remember why he was undercover in jail.   "We finished..."Halloween Affair"... week or so ago.  Must be... November."

April’s mouth dropped open.  "Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing."  She stood, then bent over and kissed his forehead again.  "Get some sleep, darling.  I’ll be back."

As he drifted off, he realized he hadn’t asked about Illya.  But then, she hadn’t offered the information, either.  So, was it confidential?  Top secret?  What the hell case were they on?

Why couldn’t he remember?

She returned a few hours later, this time with Mark Slate and, to Napoleon’s relief, Dr. Samuel Lawrence. 

"Napoleon, good to see you again," Sam said, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Sam, good seeing you, too.  I was wondering where you were."  Napoleon studied the doctor, surprised at the gray at the man’s temples and the deeper crows’ feet lines around his eyes.  The stresses of the job were catching up to the doctor obviously.

"Public hospitals don’t like private doctors," Sam said lightly, as he reached for Napoleon’s chart at the end of the bed. 

While Sam studied the chart, Napoleon looked over to April and Mark standing together at the back of the room, their faces serious.  "Mark."

"Napoleon.  How’ you doing?"

"Stuck in bed again.  Alone too, damn it," Napoleon joked.

Mark glanced to April, who seemed distressed, wiping the tears from her face with a crumpled tissue.

Napoleon closed his eyes.  Right.  April was supposed to be his wife, although the reason for the masquerade was still not clear.

He cleared his throat and tried again.  "Uh, April mentioned you were in Tokyo-- something about a new office there.  When did they decide to move locations?  What was wrong with the old one?"

 Mark had grown visibly paler as Napoleon had spoken. "Sorry, it’s, uh, classified," he said finally, with a shrug and concerned look over to April.  "I’ll tell you later."

That made no sense.  April could talk about an U.N.C.L.E. Summit happening in a week’s time-- one that she knew about but he’d been kept out of the loop on-- yet Mark couldn’t discuss something as routine as a new office being opened?  It wasn’t like he was asking for its location or which personnel had been assigned. And what was with Mark’s longer hair?  A hippy assignment?  That was usually Illya’s area.

"Sam, where’s Illya?" Napoleon asked urgently, as the doctor took his blood pressure which would undoubtedly be high, if his pounding heart was any indication.  His partner still had not made an appearance.  Was Illya  undercover? Or--

April had turned away at his question.  Mark was staring at the ceiling. 

My God.  Illya.  

"Sam?" Napoleon asked softly, his heartbeat echoing in his skull.  "What happened to Illya?"

Sam Lawrence leaned back in his chair and studied Napoleon thoughtfully.  "I want to ask you a few questions, Napoleon.  Please humor me, even if they seem odd to you."

Napoleon glanced from April, to Mark, then back to Sam.  "Go ahead."

"What year is this?"

"1968."

"The month?"

"November."

"What is your rank?"

"Section Two, Number One."

"Who is Section Two, Number Two?"

"Illya Kuryakin."

"Do you remember the Black Tooth Affair?"

"No.  Who handled it?"

"The Pentecost Affair?  The Nurses of Nightingale Affair?  The White Tie Affair?"

At each name, Napoleon shook his head.

Sam looked over to April and Mark.  "Can I speak with you outside?"

"No," Napoleon said firmly.  Sam’s expression had become more and more unreadable as his questions had continued.  "Something’s wrong.  You can tell me.  Whatever it is."

Sam waited until April and Mark reluctantly nodded their agreement before turning back to Napoleon.  "You’re right.  There’s something seriously wrong here.  Your head injury was more severe than the doctors thought.  We’ll do everything we can to make sure you get the best help available, but--" Sam faltered.  "You’ve lost some time, Napoleon."

"What do you mean?  How much time?"

"Four years."

"What?"  The words hung in the air.  Four years.  Four.  Years.  A quick glance to April and Mark assured him that Sam wasn’t joking.  "How the hell could I lose four years?"  A memory suddenly surfaced.  "The election.  I was listening to the election results.  November 1968.  It was close. Who ended up winning?"

"It was a tight race, but Nixon won by half a million votes."

April spoke up suddenly.  "Who gives a damn who won? Guess what, he ran again and won this year.  Why are we talking about this?  We should be talking about helping Napoleon. Fixing his memory loss."

Sam shrugged. "Head injuries do strange things.  Amnesia is often the result of a cerebral contusion.  There may be other physical or psychological reasons this happened."

Napoleon groaned.  "Like what?  I’m overly stressed?  I need a vacation?"

"Events are far more serious than that."  Mark dragged a chair next to Sam’s and sat down.  "Napoleon, the cases Sam mentioned, they all happened in 1969.  By the summer, things were getting uncomfortable at the New York Headquarters.  Cases were falling apart, agents killed because of faulty information.  Someone was leaking information.  Then, in Washington, DC, in August of 1969, the CIA unearthed a major conspiracy involving the sabotage of American and Soviet nuclear facilities."

April spoke up suddenly.  "We didn’t believe them, Napoleon.  We don’t believe it now."

"Believe what?  That I was involved?"  Napoleon tried to sit up, but Mark and Sam firmly pushed him back.

"You and Illya were put on trial and found guilty of treason to the United States of America.  For some reason we were unable to uncover, Illya was deported to the Soviet Union, where he was also tried for stealing documents from the Kremlin.  You were sentenced to life in jail.  You’ve been in jail ever since.  Last week you got caught in a prison fight, had a serious head injury, and you were transferred to the hospital here."  Mark’s eyes were tearing.  He placed a shaking hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, squeezing firmly.  "I’m sorry, Napoleon.  Hell, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to remember that either."

Napoleon stared at them, but their tear-streaked faces convinced him it wasn’t a joke.  But it couldn’t be true, either.  He was in jail?  And Illya... "What happened to Illya?  Where is he?"  Napoleon looked at April, whose face was hidden behind a tissue.

Mark spoke.  "We don’t know.  We tried to follow his trial in the Soviet Union, but it was kept out of the press, out of the public’s eye.  He disappeared."

Napoleon closed his eyes, trying to take it all in.  It was absurd.  But he couldn’t find a reason for them to lie to him.  No matter how undercover he was, there was no reason for them to be saying the things they were saying if it wasn’t true.  Who would they be trying to mislead?  The doctors of the hospital?  His jailers?  Or... him?

"And that was that?" he whispered.  "Nothing since then?  He’s gone?"

Mark shook his head.  "Nothing.  We’ve tried, but..."

"So I’m in jail, convicted of treason and Illya’s missing in the Soviet Union, and is most likely dead.  Anything else I should know?" Napoleon asked, his voice bitter.  "Any other little gems you haven’t told me about?  I’m assuming my car is gone, my boat, my apartment, my life?"

April turned and left the room. 

Napoleon watched her leave.  "What else?" he asked, wearily.

Mark took a deep breath.  "April and I-- Sam, too-- we wanted to resign when this happened, Napoleon.  Waverly had such incredible proof against both of you, but you insisted we stay, that we find some answers using U.N.C.L.E.’s resources.  So we stayed."

Another blow. "Waverly’s behind this?  Why?"

"He tried to save you both, but he couldn’t.  His hands were tied.  If he didn’t turn you both over, he would have lost U.N.C.L.E."  Mark shook his head.  "I really don’t think he had any choice.  The evidence was presented to him-- how was he supposed to cover it up?"

Napoleon stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep his anger under control.  His head was pounding.  "I may have lost my memory, but I know there’s no way either Illya or I would have knowingly stolen our government’s secrets and sold them."

"I know.  We know that," Sam said.  "We haven’t deserted you, Napoleon.  We’re still trying to free you.  To find evidence."

"How long have I been in jail?"

"Since mid-December 1969.  The trial moved quickly.  Too quickly, if you ask me," Mark said.

"Charged, convicted, sentenced and jailed, in what?  Two months?" 

"Yeah."

"Is that it, then?  Who’s in charge now?"

"Waverley’s still there."

Impossible.  He was over eighty years old.  "The mandatory age of retirement is seventy.  Waverly had agreed to retire at the end of this year-- well, the end of 1969."

"Considering the circumstances and the loss of his Section Two chiefs, he decided to stay on.  April’s now Section Two, Number One.  I’m Number Two."

"But Section One’s own rulings mandated he retire."

"They left him in.  Then again, they’re all over seventy and not retired.  If they make him leave, they’d all have to retire, too, right?"  Mark rubbed his neck, uncomfortably.  "Uh, there’s more..."

"Oh, joy," Napoleon muttered.

"I’m not sure if you’ve figured this out or not.  I’ve got the feeling that you haven’t." Mark wavered, clearly not wanting to say more.

"Spit it out."

"Before you went to jail, during the trial... you and April got married."

"What?" Napoleon stared at Mark, then glanced around, gesturing at their surroundings, asking silently if the room was bugged.  "Is this an assignment?" he mouthed to them.

"Napoleon, this is all real," Sam said sadly. "I wish I could tell you otherwise."

"This isn’t real.  It’s crazy.  You’re telling me I’ve lost four years.  I’m in jail for life.  My partner--my best friend in the world is missing and presumed dead, and now I’m suddenly married to a younger Section Two agent?"

"April Dancer is the best thing that happened to you in a long time," Mark said hotly, rising to his feet.

"I’m sure she is.  I just don’t happen to remember falling in love with her," Napoleon responded, equally loud.

"Hey," Sam Lawrence interrupted, grabbing Mark’s arm.  "Back off.  This has all been a shock to him.  Go deal with your partner."  When Mark left the room, Sam turned on Napoleon. "And you’ve got to settle down.  You’ve had a brain injury.  I realize this must sound like a bloody nightmare, but keep in mind we’re all here for you, Napoleon.  We’re here to help you.  We care about you.  And we will get you out of there." 

Napoleon nodded, then closed his eyes.  A few minutes later, Sam left. 

Other hospital personnel came in then, fiddling with his monitors, taking his pulse, but he kept his eyes shut, willing himself into oblivion.        

Mark found April sitting in her car in the hospital parking lot.  Without a word, he slid into the passenger seat and handed her a fresh tissue.

"He doesn’t remember," she said, finally.

"No.  But he might, luv.  Sam told us head injuries are all different.  Amnesia victims might remember at any time.  In an hour, a day, a week.  Who knows?"

"He doesn’t remember us."  April blew her nose.  "I’m wearing his wedding band, and he doesn’t remember marrying me."

"I bet you it’ll come back to him."

"Says the guy who believed Nixon would never be elected last week."  April sniffed, tears running down her face.  "The greatest landslide in American history."

"This is Napoleon we’re talking about.  He married you because he loved you."

"That all happened after November 1968.  He doesn’t remember it.  He doesn’t remember anything that led up to it."

"Hang on.  Aren’t you rushing this?  Just bloody slow down."  Mark tossed the prison’s incident report into the back seat.  "Napoleon was involved in a prison brawl, was shoved backwards and struck his head.  He’s been injured.  That doesn’t mean he’s permanently forgotten everything that happened."

"If it was just me, maybe I’d believe you.  But he forgot Illya, too.  He forgot what happened to Illya."

I had forgotten what happened to Illya.

Of everything they have told me, this seemed the most far-fetched.

I lay in a hospital bed, wide-awake in the middle of the night, hooked up to sensors beeping and chattering like some long-winded politician it had been my misfortune to listen to.

Maybe these things they are telling me are true.  I can’t find one good reason why they would lie to me, unless this is a case, and all their carefully worded explanations are a code for me to get with the picture, to figure out what’s going on.

I keep trying to remember. 

Ever try to figure out what your last memory is?  It’s like lassoing a slippery pig.  You coil the rope, then wait for something to drift by, then your arm flicks out, sends the rope flying and hopefully snaring your prize.  I wish I had my gun. 

Okay, the analogy didn’t work.  I don’t want to kill my memories.  I want to find them.

I want to find Illya.

Wednesday, November 15, 1972

Alexander Waverly studied the incident report carefully, then looked across his desk to U.N.C.L.E.’s chief physician.  "He has no memories of these events?"

Lawrence nodded.  "Ever since he woke yesterday, Napoleon Solo has had no memory of anything after the November 5^th election, in 1968."

"And what is his prognosis?"

"Generally, the degree of post-traumatic amnesia appears to be a guide as to the severity of the concussion. He was in a coma for several days before awakening. Other than the memory loss, he has some weakness in his limbs from the hemorrhagic contusions.  According to current medical research, his recovery may be spontaneous and complete or may require many months or years of treatment."

"Will he recover his memories?"

"Difficult to say, Alexander.  He hasn’t made any progress since awakening, but it is too early to make any prognosis.  This is also a man who has received countless head injuries and concussions through the years.  The scar tissue alone..."

Waverly closed the file and put it aside.  "Keep me updated.  I leave for the Summit Conference in Milan at the end of the week."

The doctor stood.  "I’ve already made arrangements for Dr Tawfik to cover me here."  He turned to leave, but a slight clearing of the throat from Waverly brought his attention back to the Head of U.N.C.L.E.

"Your orders have changed.  Rather than accompanying me, I’d like you to monitor Mr Solo’s situation.  Notify me if there are any changes."

"Once he’s returned to the jail, I’ll have no access to him.  Even in the public hospital, there is little I can do for him."

"There are other matters here that no doubt require your attention.  Routine physicals and the like."

 "I’m sure I can find something to occupy my time," Lawrence responded dryly.  "Are you sure that’s wise, though, keeping me here?  If your heart continues to flutter. . ."

"It has not bothered me for some time.  It is vital that I attend the conference."

"I understand that, Alexander.  My concern is for your health.  You’ll be traveling and sitting though long sessions at the Summit.  Should you develop any problems--"

"Then I shall send for you.  Our Milan office will be providing a physician on site.  That’s all for now, Doctor."

Lawrence nodded briefly, and left the room.

Waverly eyed the closed report on Napoleon Solo, then unlocked his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a large manila file.

continued

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 16, 1972

It was late when April Dancer walked into her apartment and closed the door.  She loved Mark, but the British agent could be smothering at times. 

She unzipped her boots and eased tired feet out of them.  It was difficult doing her job when forced to dress like a brainless go-go dancer, but it was all part of the persona.  She hung up the chartreuse green coat, removed her gun from her oversized handbag, and set it on the coffee table.  She always left it in plain sight when she was alone in the apartment; its ugliness was a grim reminder of the work she was in.

And the apartment, a reminder, perhaps, of what so briefly was.  Or what might have been.  It was the penthouse suite, four bedrooms and den, the furniture luxurious and expensive.  Napoleon’s Aunt Amy had left it to him in December of 1968, and they’d had little chance to fix it up.  There had been no time, in the scramble of 1969. 

They had hidden their relationship from everyone but their partners.  It was personal, they had decided, none of U.N.C.L.E.’s business.  But everything, it seemed, turned out to be U.N.C.L.E.’s business.  Waverly was distinctly not pleased, under the impression that April would soon be pregnant and turning in her resignation.

It was only Napoleon’s smooth talking that had saved them.  He had convinced Waverly of the benefits of an "in-house" relationship: No worry about a spouse being put in danger, no worry about a date turning sour and luring an agent away.  April Dancer would never question his hours, his absences, his undercover roles, even if he had to play the Romeo and woo some innocent or THRUSH operative.  Just as he would never inquire about her assignments, her bruises, her disappearances.  They understood the job, and understood the dangers. The joys of being U.N.C.L.E.’s top field agents.

Taking into consideration the stresses of the up-coming conspiracy trial, Waverly had grudgingly approved. They had married in a civil ceremony, with their partners as witnesses, then had returned to the apartment they had already been cohabiting for the past few months.  After several drinks, they had kicked their partners out of the apartment, made furious love, then Napoleon had returned to his trial preparations and she had prepared for a trip to Paraguay.

She wandered through the apartment, past Napoleon’s beloved leather couches and Aunt Amy’s Persian carpets, past her mother’s china cabinet and Napoleon’s aunt’s ornate carved mahogany dining table and regal stiff-backed chairs, and into the kitchen. 

Her zone.  Bright pastels and chrome.  Florescent gerberas in a vase on the kitchen table.  Napoleon loved to cook, but as long as he’d had access to his expensive cookware, he had let her go wild in decorating the kitchen.  The appliances were all new  (his so-unromantic wedding gift to her), as were the matching washer and dryer in a corner of the walk-in pantry, delivered the day Napoleon had been sentenced to life imprisonment. 

Outside the kitchen was a small intimate private deck with an ironwork patio set now covered to protect it against the winter wind, rain, and snow.  There was another deck, of course, for entertaining, with a view that was worth the extravagance of the apartment, but this small patio had been for them alone.  No partners allowed, however cherished they were. 

It would shock their colleagues to know this, but the Great Napoleon Solo had planted the garden there by himself--for her eyes only.  He had lugged soil up the elevator, arranged the heavy pots, and now on the private deck, there were trees dusted with snow and rose bushes stripped of flowers and leaves, waiting patiently for another season to bloom.

It’s what kept her going.  The belief that another season would come, and she would once again share the apartment with Napoleon.  That Illya would miraculously walk through their front door with that annoying little know-it-all smirk, and toss his rain-soaked coat toward Mark, who’d be lounging half-asleep on the couch.

She put the kettle on and stared out at the night sky, the stars hidden by heavy clouds.  The city was lit and shimmering in the rain running down the glass.  The kettle’s whistle brought her back.  She made some instant coffee and, shedding her nylons on route, moved back through the living room, past Napoleon’s den, to her office.

Somewhere in the stacks of documents on the desk, the chairs, the credenza, lay the answers to bringing Napoleon back from prison, and Illya, if he were still alive, back from the Soviet Union.

Friday, November 17, 1972

Mark Slate hung up his jacket, then shook the rain from his hair as he walked over to his desk.  It had been his for three years now, but Illya Kuryakin still haunted it.

"No," he said aloud.  "You’re alive somewhere, matey."

Or was that asking too much?  If Illya was dead, at least he was out of pain.

Sitting down, Mark stared at his daily agenda, spread open to one side of the desk top.  A note had been added to his morning block of time, a "See me" in Sam Lawrence’s handwriting.  The 10:00 A.M. time slot had been circled.  Mark plucked the note off the agenda and tucked it into his pocket. "Hmmm.  What’s up, Doc?" 

It was only 8:00 A.M., so Mark had time to see to other matters.  Humming the theme to the Streisand movie he’d seen a few months previously, he sorted through his "in" box.

By the time April arrived, half an hour later, Mark had already requested the files they would need to prepare for the Summit.  They had been on assignments during the 1970 and 1971 U.N.C.L.E. Summits, and this was the first one they had been invited to.

April looked like she’d had only a few hours sleep at most.  She tossed her coat toward the coat rack and sank behind her desk.  Gone were the days of pop art dresses and zingy berets.  Now, unless she was on display somewhere, she wore dark pants and a turtleneck sweater, her eyes serious, her focus on him or the job at hand.

This was no longer the fun-loving agent he had first been partnered with, when his assignment was little more than "keep her out of trouble" or "rescue the fair maiden in distress".  She had matured in a way he would not have expected during those first meetings.  She had always been good at her job-- now she was phenomenal, gifted with a keen mind and brilliant deductive abilities, and deserved the title of Chief Enforcement Officer.

Just as Napoleon deserved to have Waverly’s job.  Except Waverly wouldn’t let it go.

Not for the first time, Mark privately wondered if Waverly had purposefully had Napoleon Solo removed from his position, just to put off the inevitable.  Three years of searching, and Mark had no proof whatsoever.  Everything he had encountered showed Waverly had done everything possible to keep Napoleon out of jail, to play down the charges. 

With Illya, however, Waverly had been distinctly indifferent.  There had been a resigned acceptance that the situation was out of his control, and no effort had apparently been made to stop the deportation.

"Did Norm Graham call?"  April asked, settling in behind her desk, flipping through the phone messages left by the receptionist.

"No.  His meeting with Waverly isn’t until 2 P.M., so I suspect his flight hasn’t come in yet."

Ten o’clock found Mark in the infirmary.  He rounded the corner to Sam Lawrence’s office, just as the doctor came out.  "Mark, what are you doing down in these parts?  Everything okay?"

Taking his cue, Mark shrugged.  "Feeling a bit sluggish.  Shoulder’s a bit sore and acting up."

"I’m just heading out for breakfast.  Come join me.  No doubt you’ve skipped breakfast and have had five cups of tea this morning, correct?"

"You spying on me?"

"I wouldn’t think of it.  Bring your low blood sugar, and we can dash out for a hearty meal."

"Let me grab my coat and let April know I’ll be out for a hour or so."

"Meet you at the entrance of Del Floria’s."

They made their way through the harsh rain to a busy restaurant a few blocks away.  Sam directed them to an out-of-the-way table, ordered their meals, then stopped to gather his thoughts while Mark slowly stirred his tea.

"Alexander has requested that I not accompany him to the Summit," the doctor said, finally.

Mark looked up, surprised.  "What reason did he give?"

"He wants me to monitor Napoleon’s condition."

"How?  They’re transferring Napoleon back to the prison tomorrow.  I thought they wouldn’t let you in there."

"Well, I would have to call all my markers in, but I could probably get on site if there was an emergency.  I just don’t want to rock the boat unless it’s necessary."

"So what could you do here that you couldn’t do there?  The daily updates could be sent to you in Milan instead of New York."

"Exactly.  So then I have to ask myself, why doesn’t Alexander want me in Milan?"

Mark stirred his tea, using the moment to decide how to word his question.

"If you’re worried about our conversation being monitored here," Sam said, "Napoleon once assured me this is the safest place in the city.  We’ve used it before."

"It’s probably a dead space."  Mark glanced around the booth, then back to the doctor.  "Okay then, I’ll ask you straight out.  Are you questioning Waverly’s orders?"

"He’s Number One, Section One.  It’s his show."  The doctor poured cream into his coffee.  "I’m just... wondering if there might be some other reason for his decision, perhaps something I’m not privy to.  I’m not asking for details, just some indication that there is a good reason for me being left off the roster."

Mark sighed softly. "I wish I had an answer for you, Sam.  But if it makes any difference, Waverly advised us this morning that April and I won’t be going either."

April snapped off several more shots, then paused, staring hard at the shattered target.  Usually a quick trip to the basement level U.N.C.L.E. range helped to take the edge off her frustration level, but today nothing seemed to be doing the trick.  Maybe she should have gone to the commissary and tried the meatloaf instead of spending her lunch break on U.N.C.L.E.’s lower level.

She left the range, pulled off the protective headgear, and walked straight into her partner.

"Who were you picturing just now?  And please let it not be me," Mark quipped.

"You were watching me?"

"I love to spy on beautiful women."

"Can it."  She dropped off the weapon, headgear and extra rounds, then continued down the corridor for the elevator, Mark easily keeping pace beside her.

"Did you get the memo?" she asked, punching the elevator button.

"About Milan?"

She nodded, glancing at him.  So what do you think?

Like a good partner should, he heard her question. Nothing we can do about it, he responded with a shrug.  "I was thinking, Mr Samoy will be at the Summit.  They brought in Paddy Dunn last time, but he’s busy with the IRA and the Thrush sightings.  Any idea who’s going to be in charge around here?"

April smiled.  The door to the elevator opened.  "I am."

In the hospital, Napoleon leaned back against his pillows and tried to put it all in some kind of order.  His head still throbbed, making coherent thought difficult, but not, he found, impossible.  They had allowed him a brothy soup for lunch, promising more substantial foods if he continued to recuperate.  Apparently, even if his mind was playing tricks on him, his body was still in good form.  Prisons must have good exercise programs, he thought dryly.

So. He remembered the election.  Voting.  Walking to the polling station with Illya, who was apprehensive about his first voting experience.  Napoleon had been disinclined to vote that year, but his partner’s dedicated perusal of the election issues and their constant late night discussions over policies and speeches convinced him to exercise his right.

Strange the things Illya would obsess over.

They had walked home afterwards, stopping at a bar they both approved of for a pre-dinner drink.  Discussing business in a public place was dicey, so they merely enjoyed their martinis (Illya’s current addiction), watched a well-executed floor show, and went home.  Napoleon had a date that evening, and Illya...  He had no idea what Illya had done.

Strange that a memory loss could be so complete.  Why remember only up to that day?  Nothing extraordinary had happened, that he could recall.  He had gone on his date with... Sharon, one of the U.N.C.L.E. steno pool.  Where had they gone?  It took some concentration, but he pulled the memory of reluctantly escorting her to a Korean restaurant she had heard about and Napoleon had usually avoided.  He had taken her home afterward...  Then returned to his apartment.  Illya had made an appearance shortly thereafter-- the memory continued to resurface-- and they had listened to the election results together. 

And... then waking up here.

Alone.

And apparently married.

Not that he didn’t like April Dancer.  They’d had a flirtatious relationship for years, but nothing beyond that.  Okay, once in the middle of a rather emotionally laden mission...  But he had been careful after that to keep their interaction light, professional, and with just the touch of "who knows".

He'd married her.

And Illya was gone.  Probably dead, he told himself phlegmatically.  Illya was dead. Sucked up by paranoia of the Soviet Union for some trumped up charges that wouldn’t stand up to the light of day.

And how is that different from where I am?  Sucked up by the Cold War paranoia of the United States for some trumped up charges that wouldn’t stand up to the light of day.

April and Mark had tried, he knew that from the look on their faces.  That worn out, no-idea-what-to-do-next, look.

Speaking of which.

Mark stood in the doorway to his hospital room.  "Mind if I join you?"

Napoleon glanced down at his bed.  "Kinda narrow even for one.  How about you pull up a chair?"

Mark groaned, but took the offered plastic chair.  "Now that’s the kind of retort I would have expected from you four years ago."

"Which, if you were listening, is where I think I am right now."

"Right-o." Mark studied him for a moment.  "Do you have any questions, Napoleon?  I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know. If I were in your shoes, I’d blimey well want some answers."

"I’ve got so many questions, I hardly to know where to start.  I guess the biggy is: Why am I here?  In jail, I mean.  What did they say I did?"

"Sabotage of several nuclear facilities and submarines."

"That’s ridiculous."

"We know that."

"Any nuclear facilities in particular -- or were these just general trumped up charges?"

Mark settled back in his chair, eyed Napoleon, then apparently decided he was healthy enough to hear the basic facts.  "There was a fire at a nuclear facility in Colorado on May 11, 1969.  It caused $45 million worth of damage and came close to contaminating half of Colorado with large amounts of plutonium."

"And I was supposed to have done that?"

"Actually, the subsequent inquiry said that plutonium kept in an open can within a glove box began to smoulder, and the heat of the combustion caused the plastic storage chest to decompose and catch fire."

"An accident then?  What does that have to do with me?"

"For the record, you and Illya were on a case in Denver during that time."  Mark held up his hand to stop Napoleon’s response.  "I know, I know. But let me continue, mate.  Do you remember anything about the USS Guitarro?"

"Sturgeon class attack sub, right?  That I remember.  We went to the launching in July-- well, July of 1968.  Ever since Baffin Island and Thrush’s stolen Soviet submarine, Illya was monitoring developments in that area. The dive planes on the Guitarro are able to rotate to a vertical position so it can break through ice when surfacing in the Arctic. But the sub hadn’t been commissioned yet, as I recall.  It was still in the testing stages."

"Napoleon, on May 16, 1969, five days after the fire at the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons plant, the Guitarro sank at Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Northern California."

"How?"

"The inquiry found that the accident was caused by a lack of communication between two separate groups conducting system tests.  Each group trimmed the ship by adding water to the ballast tanks, unknown to the other test crew.  It teeter-tottered back and forth, and the ship sank lower and lower until water poured into the forward hatch."

"So it was an accident, just like the Rocky Flats fire."

"Interestingly enough, two days before the Guitarro sank, you and Illya flew from Denver to San Francisco.  The day before the accident, Illya toured the Guitarro, his U.N.C.L.E. credentials allowing him access to several crucial sections-- unaccompanied."

"So they think he sabotaged it?  I thought you said the inquiry ruled it was an accident."

"I agree with you, mate.  However, the CIA files show that there were five major nuclear-related "accidents" that happened within a day of you or Illya visiting the site or the area, all within a two month period, May and June of 1969."

"Who at the CIA?  Whose report?"

"Donald Johnson."

"He’s from the Soviet-Russian Division.  What did this have to do with him?"

Mark shrugged.  "No idea how he got involved, except from what I’ve gathered, he’s been on Illya’s case since he arrived in the States."

"That’s an understatement.  Johnson despises him, despises the fact that Illya’s based here in the States and working for U.N.C.L.E."  Napoleon rubbed at his forehead.  "I don’t get it.  If they were accidents-- government inquiries ruling they were accidents-- how did we get charged with anything?"

"The million dollar question." 

Both men turned as Norm Graham walked into the room.  The head of U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC, looked as ageless as ever, his blond hair hiding any trace of gray creeping into it.

Norm pulled up a chair to Napoleon’s bedside, then reached out and clasped the former Chief Enforcement Agent’s hand.  "How are you doing?  And before I forget--Trish sends her greetings."

"Just trying to figure out what happened.  I seem to have, uh--"

"I read the briefing.  Still no memories of anything past November 1968?"

"Nothing since the night of the election."  Napoleon watched as Mark and Norm glanced toward each other, obviously perplexed at the latest twist.  "How’s Trish doing?  Your kids?"  Trish Graham, Norm’s wife, was one of the most charming, gracious women Napoleon had ever met.  The Grahams and their children had more or less adopted Illya in 1961 when he arrived in the United States.

"Trish is fine and as beautiful as ever, I might add.  Tony’s working with Sam Lawrence at the NY office.  He handles the night shift-- minor stuff right now, but it has eased Sam’s load considerably to have a doctor on call.  Tanya’s twenty-six and works as an interpreter at the U.N."  Norm paused.  "We don’t see much of her these days.  Michael-- and we’re no longer allowed to call him Misha-- he’s sixteen and taller than I am.  No interest in anything but sports and cars.  And Kolya is six, in grade one, and has decided he’s going to become a world-famous scientist.  Too clever for his own good, that one." 

Norm pulled a photo from his wallet, obviously a professional photograph taken of the family.

Napoleon stared at it, trying to make sense of the ages of the children.  If nothing else convinced him that time had indeed passed, this photo was the proof he had needed.  His gaze lingered on the youngest Graham.  Nicholas Norman Graham.  A miracle, stolen from Thrush, the spitting image of his partner.  "Kolya is six?  He wasn’t even talking last I saw him."

"Oh, he’s talking... He's a quiet, cute little guy."  Norm returned the photo to his wallet, turning to business.  "So Mark’s been answering some questions for you?" he asked brusquely.

"Yes, but every question he answers leads to ten more."

"Well, be assured, it doesn’t make sense.  Never has.  The CIA pushed their conspiracy and sabotage theories down everyone’s throats.  Our biggest battle was the reputation you and Illya had for doing the impossible, for getting into places no one else was able to, for being there yet being invisible, or for solving world-threatening crises and making it look too damned simple," Norm said.

Mark nodded in agreement. "Their argument basically said that even if there was no proof you did it, even if government inquiries determined these were bona fide accidents and not sabotage, just because the CIA could prove you and Illya were in the area at the time of the accident or within a day or two before the accident, that was proof enough."

"Circumstantial?" Napoleon asked.  "This whole thing is based on circumstantial evidence?  What about innocent until proven guilty?  Since when did that not apply to us?"

"Since you for some reason pissed off someone at the top level of our government."  Norm stood.  "I’ve got a meeting with Waverly in thirty minutes.  Napoleon, they’ve got you scheduled to be transferred back to the state prison tonight instead of tomorrow.  Something’s up-- something’s in the air. They’ve never let us get this close to you in the last three years.  No visitors except April, and even those visits were monitored."

"So why now?"  Napoleon closed his eyes against the throbbing pain skewering his temples.  "Where is my partner, Norm?  Where's Illya?"

Norm shook his head mutely, tears in his eyes, and turned away.

"Wish the hell we knew, matey," Mark said quietly, following Norm out of the hospital room.  "It’s time we found some answers."

Norm Graham waited in Waverly’s office, staring fixedly out the window at the darkening New York skyline.  Alexander Waverly was twenty minutes late, and as far as Norm could remember, this had never happened before.

Seeing Napoleon again after three years had fanned the flame of Illya’s loss.  There had been no chance to say goodbye on that fateful day.  Illya had been with Napoleon in the nation’s capital, both staying at the U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C., Safe House while the trial and seemingly endless debates droned on.  At least they weren’t in jail at that point.  The two men had spent all their available time together, intently conferring as they wandered the snowy grounds of the U.N.C.L.E. compound.  Norm had often stood at his home office window and watched their interaction, so seamless yet so deliberate.  This partnership had never been easy, but it was priceless, in his eyes.

November had turned into December.  April had commuted back and forth from New York, already assigned to the role of Temporary Chief Enforcement Agent, pending a decision in Napoleon’s trial.  They had married in September and had spent scarcely three weeks together before the official, top secret inquiries began in October of 1969.

What Illya’s opinion was of Napoleon’s wedding, of his relationship with April, Norm had no idea.  When asked, Illya had usually shrugged and said it was Napoleon’s business and didn’t affect him.  Yet everything Napoleon did affected Illya.  Every move, every decision, every word.

Only once had Illya approached Norm about it.  Napoleon had asked Illya to be his best man at the civil ceremony, to witness the marriage.  April had asked Mark.  Illya had wanted to know what exactly this entailed.  What were his responsibilities?  Should he prepare anything, or was anything required of him other than his signature that he had witnessed the vows.

That November, however, Norm had watched them walking the Safe House compounds, and knew that whatever bound these two together was tighter than ever, despite Napoleon’s marriage to April, despite the charges against them.  It was almost as though they had known this was going to happen.

Norm turned and stared at Waverly’s empty desk.

Napoleon and Illya had known something.  Maybe it was just a guess, or putting divergent pieces together, but they had known something. Neither had said a word about it to anyone else.  The hurt from that exclusion still irked the Washington U.N.C.L.E. chief, but yet he trusted them to do what was right.  When they were ready, they would tell him.

Except, conveniently perhaps, Napoleon had lost his memory.

The office doors hissed open, and Waverly breezed in, moving remarkably quickly for a man of his years.

"Hmm. Yes. Mr Graham. Sit down.  Sorry to have kept you..."                           

"It’s your dime, sir."  It was rare for Waverly to speak to him formally, so he had responded in kind. 

 Waverly took his place behind his desk, shifted the telephone to one side, then picked up the receiver and requested that his calls be held.

Norm took his place opposite Waverly, leaning back comfortably into the leather chair.  "Busy day?"

"Typical. Very typical." Waverly reached for his pipe, but it was no longer on the desk.  Sam Lawrence had won that battle over six months before.  "I shall be leaving for the Milan Summit on Sunday.  Miss Dancer will be temporarily in charge of the office."

"I’m sure she’ll handle things smoothly in your absence."

"Hmm.  Yes.  To be sure."  Waverly glanced up with him, a trace of the old smile on his face.  "Keep an eye on her, though, for me, will you?"

"I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but I’ll--"

"Keep an eye on her.  She will be in charge of all North American operations.  I’ve asked her to discuss with you anything code level three and up.  It is unlikely I will be able to be disturbed during the Summit."

The rest of the meeting dealt with current events unfolding in Vietnam, racial demonstrations in Louisiana and a followup to the American Indian week-long occupation of the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington the week before.

It wasn’t until the end of the meeting that Norm found an opportunity to mention the Summit again.  "Will the SALT II talks be on the Milan agenda?"

Waverly glanced across the desk at him, eyebrows slightly furled.

Norm kept the triumphant smile off his face.  So...  he hit a nerve finally.  The SALT II talks were scheduled to take place in Geneva, beginning the day after the start of the Milan U.N.C.L.E. Summit.  It would be the second round of the U.S.-Soviet Union strategic arms limitations talks.

Waverly cleared his throat.  "You are well aware I am unable to discuss the agenda.  A suitable report will be drawn up following our meetings."

"Of course, sir.  I look forward to reading it."  Graham stood. "Will that be all?"

Waverly waved him away, reaching for his phone, and Norm left the office feeling strangely invigorated by it all. 

Saturday, November 18, 1972

Napoleon sank down onto the solitary bunk in his cell.  So it was all true.  His cell.  His books.  His journals.  His handwriting.  All the charges that Mark had talked about, and more.

There had been an incident in June 1969 on board a Soviet November class nuclear submarine which had been docked in the naval yard at Severodvinsk, a port city on the White Sea, for repairs.  Two fires started simultaneously in the third and eighth compartments, leaving the submarine with virtually no power when the reactor emergency systems kicked in.  For some reason, the auxiliary diesel generators could not be started. Despite frantic efforts to keep the sub afloat, it sank days later. Another damned coincidence, for in June 1969, he and Illya were in Helsinki, Finland, Illya going undercover for a week in northern Finland, at one point less than one hundred miles from the western shores of the White Sea.

In July 1969, U.S. missile production was temporarily suspended due to a serious fire, again at the Atomic Energy Commission's Rocky Flats Colorado plutonium bomb factory. The surrounding countryside was irradiated by plutonium, and several buildings at the factory were so badly contaminated that they had to be dismantled.  And according to his notes, it just so happened that Napoleon had been back in Denver that week, following up on their previous case.

The journals were only a collection of facts.  No theories he had been working with, no plan of attack, no lines of inquiries.  Just a detailed list of what they had been charged with, and exactly what Napoleon and his partner were doing at the time.  Then again, Napoleon thought, as he closed the journal and laid back on his bunk, he never wrote his thoughts.  All that stayed in his mind, a mind that was sadly Swiss cheese at the moment.

Selective amnesia.  Why back to that moment?  What had happened in that fight a few days previous to cause him to forget the trial, the steps leading up to the trial, and their activities in 1969?

Illya’s name had been mentioned throughout his notes, but no mention of his absence.  April, Mark, and Waverly’s names were missing throughout the journal.  Only Illya’s name and his own, as he traced their steps in 1968 and 1969.

The lights flicked out, leaving him in semi-darkness, the night filled with clanging doors, rattling keys, and heavy footsteps.  He rolled onto his side.  He remembered other jails he had been in, most notably Omegar State Prison.  Illya had not fared well there.

Illya. 

Despite his depressed thoughts earlier, he suspected his partner was still alive.  And he didn’t know whether he should feel relieved, or terrified.

Illya.  Damn it.  What happened? he whispered to the darkness.

continued

Chapter Text

Sunday, November 19, 1972

April flipped through a stack of messages on her desk.  "Mr Waverly wants to meet with us before his flight today."

"And we’ve got the meeting with Bastion in Security at eleven."  Mark deposited a cup of strong tea on her desk, moving the coffee mug to one side.

April ignored it, and reached again for her coffee.  "Interesting... A call from the CIA.  Peter Baker.  Wants me to call him."

"Baker?  Which one is he?"

"Head of their Soviet Division Counterintelligence."

"Have you met him before?"

"No.  But his name is in Illya’s file."  She looked across at Mark.  "Want to listen in?"

Mark smiled, "Delighted."

"I want it secured." 

Mark called security and had the cameras turned off for fifteen minutes.  He waited until April dialed the number to the Langley-based Central Intelligence Agency, then picked up the phone.

"Peter Baker, please.  It’s April Dancer, Chief Enforcement Officer, U.N.C.L.E. New York."

They both had pads of paper before them, pens waiting to take notes.  Mark caught her attention and smiled, and after a moment, she smiled back.

"Peter Baker here.  Thanks for returning my call, Miss Dancer."

"How can I help you, Mr Baker?"

"By allowing me to take you to dinner.  I’ll be in New York by late afternoon tomorrow, and I hate dining alone.  I hear the Russian Tea Room has an acceptable dinner menu."

"I’ve always liked it.  It’s been several years since I’ve been there, though."

"I understand."  There was a short pause.  "Perhaps you will enjoy our meal together."

"I look forward to it.  Shall I meet you there?"

"At eight o’clock.  The reservations are in my name."

"I’ll be there."

"Until then."  The call ended.

Mark hung up the telephone receiver and returned to April’s desk.  "What do you think?"

"I think Mr Baker has some information for me that he’s unwilling to share over the telephone."  She looked up, a true smile on her face this time.  "So, the emerald gown or the black velvet one?"

"The red one, my dear.  The red one."                    

At the stroke of ten o’clock that morning, April and Mark entered Waverly’s office.

The old man--and he was old, April noted--sat at his desk, frowning in thought, seemingly unaware of their entrance.  They waited, watching his face, the wrinkles and brown spots and white unruly eyebrows.  He stared at a file, the papers within appearing to be notes in his spidery handwriting.

Mark cleared his throat. 

Waverly’s eyes darted upward to capture them, two flies in the master’s web.  "Hmm?  Oh, yes."  He closed the file, shifting it to one side.  "Have a seat."

As they sat, April could feel her heart pounding in her chest.  Waverly reached for a second thicker file and opened it, then took a moment to scan the contents.  Once satisfied, he turned the file to face them.

"While I’m gone, I don’t expect you to be wasting your time loitering around the office, Miss Dancer.  I have outlined several cases in particular that are ongoing and may require your supervision.  There is also a case in London that requires your attention --you, too, Mr Slate.  Your familiarity with the area makes you especially valuable to Mr... Dunn, I believe it is."

"Yes, sir. Will we be there long, Mr Waverly?" April asked.  "Should the office here be left unattended?"

"Without a Section One member on site?" Mark added.

"In your absence, Norman Graham can be reached in an emergency." 

April and Mark glanced at each other as Waverly appeared to stare off into space for another fifteen seconds.  Mark broached the question he knew April was reluctant to voice.  "What about Napoleon, sir?"

"What about him, Mr Slate?"  A thin band of irritation slipped into Waverly’s tone.  "My understanding was that he had recovered from the incident at the prison."

"He still doesn’t remember anything between November 1968 and now."  April’s voice was remarkably calm.

"Unfortunate, but hardly a cause for concern, Miss Dancer.  He is, after all, incarcerated.  His memories are not needed by this office.  Your duties are to U.N.C.L.E., not to your husband.  He made his choice several years ago."  Waverly stood suddenly, waiting until they scrambled to their feet before continuing.  "The Summit is planned for one week.  I expect these cases to be wrapped up by the time I return.  You may go."

April picked up the file, her face cold.  "Have a safe trip, sir."

Mark could hear the so very faint undercurrent of sarcasm in her voice, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that Mr Waverly could, as well.

Once out in the hallway, he attempted to talk to her, but April gave a quick shake of her head.  She was right; this was a conversation that needed to be in private. And they had a meeting with Bastion in Security that was due to begin any minute.

Several steps down the corridor, April ground to a halt, turning to him with angry eyes.  "He’s implying that Napoleon is guilty, and that’s totally unacceptable in my books. I don’t care; I’m challenging him on this."  She spun around and headed back to Waverly’s office, Mark on her heels.

The office was empty.  Waverly had already left, slipping out the back entrance.

Napoleon closed the last journal.  He was missing something. 

He was missing a lot of something.  In the journals, dates and places were all neatly laid out.  A diary of what he had done each day, which books he had read, what he had eaten for dinner, how long he had exercised.  How many damned sit ups.  No substance, though.  No explanation of his situation, no reasons for it, no theories of conspiracies or enemies.  Then again, of what use would it have been? He had surely exhausted his resources before landing in jail.

Something else was missing.  Illya had been gone three years, yet Napoleon’s journals strangely said little or nothing of his absence.  Had something happened between them?  He didn’t sense that from the brief references to his partner.  "Two hundred sit ups this morning.  Illya would be impressed."  Was that a code to himself of some kind?

Napoleon picked up a pen, wrote in the date, and paused.  He would remedy that.  He would say what it was like to wake up and be told four years had passed.  It would be therapeutic, if nothing else.

He put pen to paper... and found that he was thwarted from this simple task.  It was not that he had nothing to say, it was how could he put into words this overwhelming maelstrom of emotion regarding his situation and his partner’s absence?  No mere words would do it justice.

He hunched over, one fist rubbing against the ache in his chest.

How many years had he done this already?  Sat and tried to record his feelings?  Is this why everything in his journals was factual and distant?

He closed his pen and laid back on the narrow bunk.  With a harsh clunk, the lights on the cell block went out.

How was he supposed to sleep tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after, without knowing where his partner was?

Monday, November 20, 1972

April stepped from her cab, shivering in the freezing wind that had settled over the city.  She wrapped the fur stole closer around her shoulders, then moved confidently toward the entrance of the Russian Tea Room, her spiked heels somehow finding a grip on the icy sidewalk.

Peter Baker was waiting for her beneath the brilliant red awning, looking dashing in a black suit that hinted of tuxedo in a style so similar to one Napoleon might have worn that it almost brought tears to her eyes. Damn you, Napoleon. I have to keep my head about me tonight.

They exchanged pleasantries as Peter escorted her through the red rooms among the copper, brass, and silver samovars and golden sconces and mysterious, brooding portraits, all designed to produce a rush of emotion that momentarily threatened to ruin her mascara.  Illya - You better be alive. Please.

Over the years, Illya had regularly met with ex-pat ballet corps members at the multilevel New York landmark, a place to gather after a performance and feast on pre‑Revolutionary Russian cuisine. And vodka.  Only once had she accompanied them to the Tea Room, surprised not at how the staff had greeted Illya, but how they had warmly greeted Napoleon.  Apparently he frequented the place often with his Soviet partner.

Peter ordered the zakuska for an appetizer for both, a spread of eggplant, pickled herring, salad, blini with salmon caviar, trout mousse, and beef and veal pojarsky.  Still thinking of Illya, she chose a stuffed chicken breast -- Cotelette a la Kiev -- for her entree, while Peter chose the most expensive thing on the menu, the Karsky Shashlik Supreme B grilled marinated loin of lamb -- for himself.

With the sound of violins playing across the room, they picked over the zakuska, sipped the champagne, spoke in benign pleasantries and April found herself relaxing.  Peter was an easy companion, speaking lovingly of his wife and children, and was not behaving in the least like a man on the prowl.  Before long, the conversation slipped from English into Russian, and stayed there the rest of the evening.  They spoke of Moscow, of Leningrad, their travels, and Soviet museums.

The waiter arrived with their entrees, leaving them with a subdued, "Pozhaluista."

April smiled at her first taste of the chicken, then tried the slice of lamb Peter offered. A few more minutes of settling in to their meals before the conversation came back across the Atlantic to Washington, DC, his job, and the CIA.

"Donald Johnson isn’t working for us any longer," Peter said, almost as though it were an afterthought.

"Oh?" she replied calmly, sipping her champagne, then nodding as the waiter refilled it.

"Not sure what exactly went down, but James Appleton called him in a few days ago, and he cleared out his desk yesterday."  Appleton was the Chief of the Counter Intelligence staff, while Johnson had been the operative in the Soviet-Russian Division who had produced the supposed incriminating evidence against Napoleon and Illya.

April felt goose bumps on her arms.  "Johnson’s been there quite a while, hasn’t he?"

"Since the late fifties.  A few years before me."  Baker stopped the waiter and requested more of the sauce for his lamb, then turned back to their conversation.  "I’ve taken over some of his files."

April looked up, the fork partway to her mouth, wanting to read something into what he was saying but afraid to read too much.

"I think I can get him out," Peter said suddenly, not looking at her.

"Who?" she asked, hearing herself voice the question independent of her brain.

"Napoleon.  Maybe even Illya, if I can find him."

The food stuck in her throat and she guzzled the rest of her champagne, then she indelicately placed the flute glass on the table with a clunk.

"Would you like another slice of the lamb?" Peter Baker asked.

"That was it?"  Mark asked, watching April pace back and forth in his Greenwich Village flat.  They were an odd couple, she in a red, floor-length gown, and he in an old sweater and pajama bottoms.

"That was it.  I tried a few times to steer the conversation back to it, but he would always change the topic."

"So, Johnson’s out for some reason," Mark mused, feasting on the foil-wrapped leftovers she had brought him.

"Again, no details.  Appleton was involved with it, though."

"Appleton met with Waverly two weeks back.  We had our department heads meeting rearranged because of it."

"Peter said he thought he could get them out.  He wouldn’t have set up that entire dinner if he wasn’t sure."

"Maybe he was just fishing for information, luv.  Just trying to see what your response would be?"

"He was as calm as a cucumber, Mark.  Chatting away about this and that.  I think he wanted to celebrate Johnson’s removal, and in his mind I was the logical one to celebrate it with.  Because, in the long run, I have the most to benefit from it."

"Now what?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, what did he say at the end of the meal?"

"'Did you enjoy the chicken?’ That was it.  Wished me good luck running the New York office, arranged for the remainder of our meal to be packaged, and said he was staying with his brother in town tonight, then heading back to Washington first thing tomorrow.  He called a cab for me, and I came straight here."  April plopped down in Mark’s overstuffed armchair, one leg draped over the arm of the chair.  "Damned strangest evening I’ve ever had."

"The lamb is excellent.  Needs vodka, though." Mark moved past her sprawled leg and rummaged in his icebox for a bottle.  "Want some?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Regular glass or Illya-sized glass?"

"You have to ask?"

Sunday, November 26, 1972

Six days later, Napoleon walked out of prison a free man and breathed in the moist, cool air.  April Dancer was at his side, not quite hovering.

Mark was waiting for them by the car.  "Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes!"

Napoleon was still a bit achy from the prison fight but able to manage the stairs on his own.  He gripped the banister with one hand and waved away April’s help with the other.  April and Mark seemed more emotional about his release than he was, but then, for him it had only been one rather uneventful week of prison, not three years.

He slipped into the front passenger seat of the U.N.C.L.E. sedan.  His head was pounding from the slight exertion.

"Sam wants to see you right away for a check up," Mark said, pulling out into traffic.

"Can it wait?" Napoleon asked, leaning the side of his face against the coolness of the passenger side window.  "I’d rather just go home tonight, get a good night sleep in my own bed, then tackle the good doctor in the morning.  I have my pills from the hospital."

Mark glanced over at him, then over his shoulder to April in the back seat.  "Home?" he asked, quietly.

Napoleon closed his eyes.  Oh, right.  Home.  He was married.  His apartment no longer existed.  He now lived in his Aunt Amy’s overdone, lavender-scented shrine overlooking the park.

"Mark, maybe just drop me at Headquarters," April said, smoothly.  "I’ve got work to do, and I’ll just spend the night there."

"No," Napoleon said, wearily.  "We’ll figure something out for now.  Maybe my memory will come back--"

"And maybe it won’t.  Napoleon, I’m not your wife if you don’t remember marrying me.  I’m not going to go along with some stupid 'let’s pretend everything’s okay’ when it isn’t."

"I may not remember you as my wife, but you’re still my friend, right?" Napoleon twisted in the front seat to look at her.

"Of course I am," she whispered.

"Then why don’t three old friends have a nice quiet dinner together at the apartment.  Mark can stay over, too.  There are plenty of places to sleep; I seem to recall she had at least three or four bedrooms."

"Four bedrooms and a den."                                                                                      

"Perfect."

And it was.  The transformation of the penthouse apartment was amazing, impossible to tell that the furniture was a mix of three homes.  The massive living room and dining room held his comfortable leather couches and coffee tables, Aunt Amy’s Persian carpets and gleaming carved mahogany dining table and brocade-seated chairs, April’s china cabinet and buffet, and in a separate seating area around an ornate fireplace, April’s armchairs and Tiffany lamps.  Balcony doors opened regally to the view he had always appreciated.  Ignoring the cold blast of late November, Napoleon  stood on the deck and stared across the city for several minutes, until Mark firmly took his arm and brought him back inside.

Aunt Amy’s kitchen, though, didn’t look anything like he had remembered it.  It had been completely gutted and redone in bright colors, modern appliances, and shiny chrome.  Yet, those were definitely his pots and pans hanging from an ironwork mesh along one wall.  There was a small, private deck off the kitchen.  He glanced out to the snow-covered surface, but didn’t go outside.

The first room past the living room was his office, formerly Aunt Amy’s library/den. His old roll-top desk occupied center stage.  From floor to ceiling along one wall were bookshelves filled with Aunt Amy’s priceless collection, Napoleon’s personal library, and probably April’s books.  Another set of patio doors opened to the massive deck.

Next to the den was another bedroom which had been turned into an office.  He recognized April’s desk buried under mounds of paper.  The room was far from tidy; he pictured the hours April must have spent in there trying to get him out of prison. 

He turned to her, eyes misting with tears he could not prevent.  "Thank you.  I know you worked hard--"

"We both did," April said, looping her arm through Mark’s.  "He helped, too, Napoleon."

Mark cut him off before he could say anything.  "We’re not done yet, Napoleon.  Illya’s still out there."

"Thank you." 

He had to keep reminding himself of that.  For some reason, Illya felt very far away, and the fear that it was too late, that he was dead, had been wearing at him all week.

Next to April’s office was a mid-sized guest room.  Napoleon went to put his small bag of personal belongings on the bed, but Mark shook his head.  "I’ll be bunking here, mate."

Napoleon nodded tiredly and moved on to the next room, the corner suite master bedroom.  Tastefully decorated.  Private en suite.  April’s room, not his.

"I’ll take the other guest room."  The door to the fourth bedroom was closed.  When April and Mark hung back, Napoleon felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

He opened the door, and switched on the light. 

Illya.

The room was Illya’s.  Stunned, he turned and looked at April. 

She shrugged.  "When he was taken away, you were in jail, and I didn’t know what to do with his things.  Norm Graham was going to take them, but I thought-- I felt--" April shrugged.  "I felt your things should be together.  Mark and I moved everything from Illya’s apartment here."

Mark ran a hand through his too-long hair.  "Well, everything except his mattress.  We kept the bed Aunt Amy had in here.  It was in excellent condition and Illya was still sleeping on a mattress on the floor."

"It was from my old bed," Napoleon murmured, looking around.  Illya’s books lined one wall.  Illya’s clothes hung in the closet.  Illya’s desk.  Illya’s guitar.  Illya’s quilt -- a gift from his old buddy Sasha, Alexander Travkov-- covered the bed.  The room smelled of Illya.  "I’ll stay here," he said.  Feeling dizzy, he turned to April and Mark.  "Thank you, for this."

"Why don’t you lie down for an hour while we put dinner together?"  April closed the door, leaving him alone.

He stumbled over to the bed, then stretched out on it.  The room smelled of Illya.

He slept.

I awake in the middle of the night, thoroughly confused, my pulse hammering against my sensitized skull.

Shadows in a room I don’t know.  I squint at the walls, the furniture, and wonder why my head is throbbing.  It all seems vaguely dreamlike, and I think for a moment that I am still dreaming.  That I haven’t somehow lost four years of my life--  and my partner.

Then through the gloom I see the unmistakable shape of a guitar, and it all comes back to me.  I am in my Aunt Amy’s apartment, which is now my apartment, and I am in Illya’s bedroom, in my apartment, and April Dancer is sleeping in the master bedroom of my apartment, and Mark Slate is sleeping in the guest room of my apartment.

And it occurs to me that Aunt Amy is dead.  For some reason, that detail has slipped my mind the past few days of my reemergence.  It has been tucked in with other phrases, such as "we moved into the apartment you inherited from your Aunt Amy".  Or "we kept the bed Aunt Amy had, and put it in Illya’s room."  Or "your leather couches go perfectly with Aunt Amy’s Persian rugs."

When had she died?  If I had supposedly married April on September 25, 1969, -- I saw the date on a wedding photo in April’s home office during the previous evening’s tour --  and we were already living here, it must have happened earlier.  Had April mentioned when she had died? 

A lot of details are foggy, and I assume it is because of the head injury.  And moving around too much, from the hospital, to the prison, to here.  Maybe I should have gone to U.N.C.L.E. HQ and let Sam Lawrence have a look at me, but the thought of more poking and prodding and lights flashing in my eyes makes me want to hide back under the covers.

I admit it, I am clinging to those covers.  To Illya’s scent on those covers.

Maybe Aunt Amy is dead, but Illya isn’t.  This room isn’t a shrine to a good man but a trust for him.  Waiting.  Waiting for him to occupy it.

Lying in that bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the creaks and groans of a strange building, I decide that I have work to do.

Facts are, I am out of jail.  Charges and sentence have been dropped-- not only dropped but expunged, swept away with a "now that we have a better idea of the full picture" or some crap like that.  No apology for ruining years of my life.  Just a "please leave".

Another fact:  I have been told that I again work for U.N.C.L.E.  April had impressed that upon me several times on the trip from the prison to Aunt Amy’s apartment.  Or more correctly, my apartment.  Our apartment. 

I decide the whole April-as-wife problem is something I will set aside for now.  I can’t deal with it, can’t fathom it, and I desperately-- yes, sad to say, desperately--  need April and Mark to help me, so I will firmly hold to the conviction that April isn’t my wife, she is only my colleague and friend, and yes, maybe I had slept with her in the past, but as far as my mind acknowledges, that was three years ago, and aside from a few comfortable slow dances, nothing more happened.  In fact, if you add my apparently lost four years to the equation, it has actually been seven years since that rather memorable evening on Baffin Island.

Back to my facts.  The charges against me have been dropped, but what about Illya?  The American charges were dropped, but were the Soviet ones?  Maybe if I go there... I could look for him.  Demand answers.  I know people...  Or at least, I used to know them.  Four years is a long time in the political world. 

I can’t sleep.  I have an annoying headache which reminds me that I was injured in a prison fight.  Which reminds me I was shut away in prison.  Which reminds me of the annoying glitch in my brain-- I have lost four years of my memory, for no discernible reason.

There has to be more to it than that.  I’ve been in the business too long to buy that pat answer.  How convenient for me to lose such a selected portion of time.  Not the years in prison--  from what I read in my journals, I was bored silly, frustrated, and despite the lack of words in the diaries, I know I was agonizing over what was happening to my partner, and from what was written in my diaries, weirdly, I was wondering how April was doing without me.  My handwriting.  My phrases.  If the sentences hadn’t run together from my worry over my situation to my worry over my wife, I would have thought someone had added those lines, pretending to be me.

First thing tomorrow, then.  A thorough checkup by Sam.  Blood tests.  Whatever he needs to help me figure out why I lost this portion of time.  I will ask April and Mark to put together a briefing to fill me in on what has happened in the world these past four years, what has happened in U.N.C.L.E., with Thrush, and with their investigations.

Am I actually in a position to order anyone around? April has been Section Two, Number One, for years now.  Has my reappearance suddenly demoted her?

I can see that getting released from jail is only the beginning of reassembling my life.  But it’s a start.

I still can’t sleep.

Monday, November 27, 1972

The meeting was held in the commissary, of all places.  April and Mark dragged Napoleon there for a forced lunch, following a long morning of tests and medical questioning.  There, over the commissary’s daily special-- "beef stroganof", (spelled incorrectly, Napoleon pointed out) -- Norm Graham and the New York U.N.C.L.E. section chiefs pulled up chairs to their table.

"Problem?" Napoleon asked, as he fought not to spill the weak gravy down the front of his suit.

Norm smiled.  "While you’ve been posing as a pincushion for Sam here, we’ve been in meetings all morning.  Here’s the bottom line, Napoleon.  April and Mark are doing a commendable job heading Section Two.  Alexander’s been gone for almost a week now. The Summit was supposed to take approximately a week, but there is no indication how long it will actually take.  Until he returns, we’re assigning you to cover for him."

"How so?" Napoleon asked, densely.

"Temporary Section One, Number One.  When Alexander returns, he can decide where to put you."

"And Illya," Napoleon added.

"And Illya," Norm corrected.  "Of course."

"Have you been covering for Waverly?  Is that why you’re in town?"

"Partially.  Alexander left April in charge, but a case April and Mark have been working on has broken in London, and they really should go there.  You’re the logical person to cover for Alexander Waverly.  You know the job, have been trained for it."

"But I’m missing four years."

"And we’ll catch you up on them after lunch," Mark put in, swiping Napoleon’s crusty roll.

"Just like that.  I’m in prison one day, then manning U.N.C.L.E. North America the next."  Napoleon looked to each of them in turn.  A few Section Two agents he knew well:  Xavier Garcia and John Lagton.  The Section Three Chief, Bill Nguyen, Section Four Chief, George Dennel,  Section Five, Six, and Seven Chiefs, even George Shakely in Section Eight had crawled up from the labs. "You trust me?"

"Welcome back," April said lightly. 

Tuesday November 28, 1972

"What do you mean, he's not there?  He's always there," the disgruntled voice said from the other end of the speaker phone.

"We expect him back sometime this week."

"Ridiculous.  Who's minding the shop until he returns?"

"I am." Napoleon Solo sat at Waverly’s massive desk and scribbled a note on the pad of paper before him.  "Anything I can help you with, Mr Appleton?"

"I’ll speak to Alexander when he returns."  Appleton, the CIA Counter Intelligence Chief, paused, then added.  "I’m surprised you’re back at U.N.C.L.E. already.  Weren’t you in jail a few days ago?"

"The charges were dropped, the case judged to be false, and I was released. Since I was found not-guilty, why shouldn’t U.N.C.L.E. reinstate me?"

"Does Alexander know about this?" Appleton demanded.

"I’ve no idea.  He’s closeted away at an U.N.C.L.E. summit."

"On whose authority, then, are you in charge?"

"Not that it’s any of your business, but our Washington Chief, whose rank is just below Mr Waverly’s in North America, authorized me to take over temporarily in Mr Waverly’s absence.  Now that I have been reinstated, I do have the highest ranking here."

"Graham?  Graham’s behind this?"

"If that is all, Mr Appleton, I have a considerable amount of files to get caught up on."

The phone went dead.

Sam Lawrence and Norm Graham grinned across the desk at Napoleon.  "Well, that was fun," Norm said.

Napoleon leaned back in the boss’s chair.  "Are you sure about this? That Waverly wouldn’t have a problem with it?"

"I have it on record Alexander saying that you were still his first choice to replace him, should there ever be a way to prove the charges against you were false.  Right, Norm?"

"Absolutely.  Napoleon, we need April and Mark in London on the Soho case, and with the SALT II talks in progress, I need to be in Washington, not babysitting the office here."

"SALT II?" 

"The Strategic Arms Limitation Talks.  They started on November 21^st."

Napoleon’s heart skipped a beat.  "Talks? Between who?"

"The United States and the Soviet Union."

"Where?"

"Geneva."  Norm leaned forward, watching Napoleon.  "Something coming back to you?"

"SALT II?  When was SALT I then?"

"It ran for two and a half years, from November 17, 1969 to May of this year."

"November 1969?  When my trial was on, then?"

"That’s right."

Napoleon pushed away from Waverly’s desk, and began to pace.  "Norm, I remember in July of 1968 President Johnson signed a Non-Proliferation Treaty with the Soviet Union, and the President announced that discussions with the Soviet Union on limiting and reducing both strategic nuclear weapons delivery systems and defense against ballistic missiles would be underway soon.  In October, the Soviet Union began to invade Czechoslovakia, and the talks were postponed."

"That’s right. "

"What happened next?"

"President Nixon assumed office mid-January 1969 and made a statement that the Soviet Foreign Ministry had agreed to meet for talks."

"Were either Illya or I involved in this at all?"

"In setting up the talks?  Not that I recall."  Norm shrugged.  "We could check, but I believe Alexander was monitoring the negotiations for U.N.C.L.E."

"What’s U.N.C.L.E.’s take on the whole nuclear disarmament agreements?"

"Depends who you talk to," Norm said.  "I think most are in favor of arms reduction. We were there as observers only." The Washington Chief glanced over to Sam Lawrence.  "You’re being very quiet, Sam.  Nothing to add?"

"Nuclear disarmament rarely falls in my area of expertise," the doctor said wryly.  "I’ll tell you this, Napoleon, in November 1969, I traveled with Alexander to the initial SALT meetings in Geneva, which was why I missed most of your trial.  U.N.C.L.E. was only peripherally involved with the talks, though.  There were other meetings going on."

"Oh?"  Norm Graham frowned.  "With who?"

"An U.N.C.L.E. Summit had been called, including some of the other Section One chiefs."

"Who all was there?" Napoleon asked.

"The usual gang.  Gabhail Samoy, New Delhi, U.N.C.L.E. Asia.  Juan Rodriguez, Caracas, U.N.C.L.E. South America.  John Muliro, Nairobi, U.N.C.L.E. Africa.  Claude Renault from Canada.  Chapman from London.  Louis DeWitt, Amsterdam, U.N.C.L.E. Europe.  Let’s see..."

"Louis DeWitt?  He’s head of U.N.C.L.E. Europe now?"

"Since late 1968," Norm put in.  "He was voted in to replace Harry Beldon.  DeWitt moved from head of U.N.C.L.E. Netherlands to Europe.  Jakob Brekker has taken over Netherlands."

Napoleon had worked with both men on the Dutch Blitz Affair, in 1964.  "What about Paddy Dunn? Where is he now?"

"He’s your counterpart in London.  When DeWitt retires, he has named Paddy to step into the U.N.C.L.E. Europe post.  As for the others at the meeting, there was just a fellow from Sicily. Section Two."

"Let me guess.  Arsene Coria."

"You know him?"

"We met him in 1964 and ran into him again a few years later in Rome."

Sam Lawrence and Norm Graham exchanged a wary glance as Napoleon sat frozen at the Section One Chief’s desk, fingers white where they clutched a pen.  "Napoleon?" Norm asked after a moment.  "Something you want to share?"

Napoleon slowly tracked back to both men.  "Maybe later.  I’d like to run this by my part--" He paused, aware of their eyes on him.  "Let me think it over first.  I’ve got a stack of reading to do, catching up."

"Whenever you’re ready."  Norm got up and stretched.  "I’m heading back to Washington.  Call me if you need anything, Napoleon.  Remember we don’t expect you to 'catch up’ with everything overnight.  It’s been four years for you."

"Maybe it’ll all come back."

"Maybe," Sam Lawrence said, also getting to his feet.  "Maybe not.  If you need me, I’ll be down in my lab taking a look at some of those x-rays and blood test results."

Wednesday, November 29, 1972

The next day, in U.N.C.L.E.’s London Headquarters, April Dancer jumped, startled, when her pen twittered during the case briefing.

Paddy Dunn, acting head of U.N.C.L.E. Great Britain, smiled.  "Go ahead, April.  Take it.  We could use the break."

"Aye, we could."  Mark Slate leaped to his feet.  "I’m off to the loo."

While Mark headed for the restrooms across the corridor from the conference room, April stepped into an empty office to take the call.  It was Heather McNabb, forwarding an urgent telephone message from Washington, D.C.

April stared at the number.  No name, just a number.  Apparently the caller had told Heather that April would know who was calling.

The number was familiar.  She envisioned it written on a pink telephone message pad.  The area code. The phone number.  Grateful the office she was in had an out-going, long-distance phone line, she dialed the number.

"Peter Baker, Soviet Division."  His voice was crisp.  Distracted.

"It’s April."

"No, it’s November," Peter Baker replied, the tone of his voice changing when he recognized her.  "I’m so glad you called."

continued

Chapter Text

I remember...  little... of where I was.  Pain.  Yes, there was pain, but I was no longer connected to it.  It was my pain, of that I was aware, yet it had no consequence to me.  I was beyond it, unable to understand what was happening, unable to fully participate in my own pain. 

Later, the pain remained, always, but what surrounded me was no longer voices, no longer touch, but a soothing nothingness that drew me in.  No light.  No sound my ears could interpret.  Just the pain to somehow indicate I still lived... and one thing more... the cold.

Pain and cold and... nothing.  No thoughts.  I cannot remember thinking.  I must have eaten whatever it was they gave me.  I must have had water, or I would not be alive now.  I took care of my bodily functions, slept.  But no thoughts, no wondering, no planning.  No wishes, no dreams.  I didn't dream.  No nightmares.  Nothing.  I simply existed on some other level, some other reality perhaps.

I was not lonely, for I no longer understood what the opposite of loneliness meant. 

It wasn't until I opened my eyes, that I saw I did not know where I was. 

And I had no way of retracing my steps.

After an eternity, the vehicle's motion abruptly stopped with such force he was thrown from the bench to the floor.  His head cracked against the hard surface, the blindfold's knot pressing against the latest lump at the back of his skull. He lay sprawled on the icy floor, hardly feeling the cold that robbed his body of what little warmth remained.  His hands, bound by handcuffs and chains, rested heavily on his stomach.

The door opened with a loud clanging that echoed through his bones.  He was aware of movement, then a booted kick slammed into his side, sending him sliding along the metal floor.  Blindly, he half rolled, half dropped from the back of the rusted-out old truck, landing on his knees in the snow, his bound arms awkwardly trying to break the fall.  A controlled gasp hissed between his teeth.  He pushed up from the ground and clambered to his feet, swaying in the wind that threatened to topple his numb body.

Cold.

He was outside and he was cold, that much registered.  Air scratched at his face, burned his lungs with each reluctant breath.  He opened his eyes cautiously as the blindfold was removed, then squeezed them tight against the piercing white light that stabbed through his skull.

Pain.

The blindfold had been on for days, perhaps weeks.  He could not remember the last time he saw anything.  Or the last time he wanted to see anything.

He tried again, but there was a huge spotlight directly in his face, effectively blinding him.  Voices rose around him, a meaningless jumble of noise.  He stumbled as he was knocked backwards, his eyes opening again.  This time, he was surprised to see that he had been wrong about the spotlight.  It was only the reflection of the sun off snow.

Snow.  Sun.  Bright.

The forgotten words came to his mind and he nodded to himself, remembering snow.  He had known snow all his life.  He had played in snow as a child, making snowballs and throwing them at Grisha. 

Grisha.  Who is Grisha?

The word haunted him as he stumbled forward.  An illusive memory, a thought that had spontaneous slipped past the numbness of his mind.  And then he remembered Grisha.  His older step-brother.  Was Grisha alive now or dead?  He couldn't remember and knew he should. 

The snow hurt his eyes.  Snow.  Snow.  He had hidden in snow as a child.  Buried himself in a precariously made burrow as he hid from... someone.  Yet another thing he could not remember.  Like where he was.  Why he was there.  And, perhaps, most important, who he was.

Who am I?

He had known once, of that he was certain.  The memory would come back, but he had buried it, hidden it somewhere in the snow.

He peered tentatively through slitted eyes, trying to see out across the snow.  The painfully bright snow dominated the landscape, covering everything as far as he could see in a mantle of blurry, achingly beautiful white.

White.  A color.  Another word he knew.

Cold.  Snow.  Sun.  White.  Pain.  Grisha.

Cold.

He had known before that he was cold, then he had suddenly been "too cold".  The blurriness of his vision had been the result of shivering.  He coughed, gasping at the pain of it, which made him draw more air into his spasming lungs, which, in turn, made him cough.

Someone yanked on the chain between his handcuffs and he stumbled after them, trying not to inhale the frozen air.

Handcuffs.  Air.  Cold.

He waded through the snow, exhaustion grabbing hold of him within a few steps.  He was tired, he realized.  Just as the light was achingly painful, so was the utter weariness that gripped him, making it almost impossible to take another step.  But he did so anyway, because movement meant he might not freeze to death.

Yet what would it matter?  To be so cold, then colder yet, then colder yet, until he was so cold he could not move, could not think, so befuddled that he would not know the danger he was in from the cold.

Cold.

Then he would sleep the sleep of the dead. 

He nodded to himself, but before he could lose himself in the thought, he could suddenly move no further forward.  Someone blocked his way.  Pushed him back against someone behind him.  Who pushed him forward.  A game.  Another game.  Back and forth until the amusement passed and he stood wavering.

His hands were tugged forward, his body held back.  A key scraped the lock, the sound loud and grating to his ear; the cuffs fell from his wrists.  Someone told him to pick them up and he bent over, eyes squinting in the painful brightness.  They knocked him over.

He had understood them, for a moment.  Not just the words telling him to pick the cuffs up, but the game.  Had he played the game?  Or had he just been one of the pieces?

He thought maybe that was what had happened before.  In a game.  Except he hadn't known it then.  A game.  A pawn in a game. 

Sacrificed.

The slivers of light faded and he pitched forward into the dirty snow, almost disappearing in the freshly plowed bank at the road's edge.  He blinked, gasping again at the tightening in his chest, and pushed himself upright with bare hands already becoming desensitized in the brutal temperature.

"Poezzhayte pryamo!"  A rifle butt between his shoulders emphasized the guard's order to move ahead.

He staggered, his feet slipping on the uneven icy ground, still not speculating or caring where they were taking him.  The game had little interest for him.  He was nothing.  Just a pawn to be moved or abandoned.  The past had faded, lost in a blur of rooms, cells, and interrogation chambers and the back of windowless trucks, vans, and cars.  He knew it had been months and occasionally wondered how many years the months added up to.

He was told to stop.  More words.  Dark images loomed out of the whiteness, crystallizing into living beings that pushed him through a gate.  More words.  Harsh tones that could find no way through his brittle cold exterior.  The light had become not so bright.

A gate.  A dizzying pattern on each side as he walked, perhaps a fence, perhaps not.  He opened his eyes again and walked twenty paces until another voice told him to stop.  A second gate opened and he was told to pass through.  He did so, no longer wanting to question the meaningless orders.  He felt hands on his body, going through his pockets, turning him around. 

"Pepper tree," someone said.

His eyes shut again. 

He closed them out again. 

Tucked himself away.  Gone.

Thursday, November 30, 1972
Finland/Soviet Border - unofficial
4:30 PM Helsinki time (9:30 AM New York time)

Mark Slate walked into the room and took it over.  He pulled the fur-lined parka off, handed it to an attendant, and in English demanded a hot cup of tea from his counterpart's assistant.  It had been a bold move, one that infuriated the Soviet officer, but they each had something the other wanted and the KGB officer let him win that particular round.

There was information for them.  They'd been instructed by the CIA agent Peter Baker to go to this location, and it had taken them two and a half hours to fly from London to Helsinki, then another hour to get a flight to Lappeenranta Airport, and they'd driven the rest of the way with an U.N.C.L.E. agent from Helsinki who knew where the second border crossing was near Nuijamaa. The unofficial one. 

They were here, they'd come all this way, for something, for information, and they weren't going to be bullied.  There was an uncomfortable silence as the tea was sent for.  The KGB officer motioned them to the table, a scarred, once-majestic oak antique destined for fireplace kindling on a cold day.  This day would qualify.  It was bitterly cold outside.  Darkness had fallen quickly; this far north, the brief respite of warm sun was soon a dim memory.

Mark sat down, relieved to be off his feet.  When he had joined U.N.C.L.E. many years previously, he had been offered some advice from a senior operative who was apparently quoting a member of the royal family.  Whenever you are offered a chair, sit down.  Whenever you are offered a toilet, make use of it.  Whenever you are offered food, eat it. You never know whether it will be hours or days until your next opportunity.  Overall, it had been good advice, with some very important exceptions.  A blanket statement often had moth-sized holes in it, but for the most part, he took that advice.

April Dancer, his partner, usually the one who slid nonchalantly into a room and with a guileless smile took over, was visibly trembling.  Well, to his eyes, anyway, eyes accustomed to sizing up his partner and immediately knowing mood and temperament and what the next move would be.  The KGB agent would only see the cool facade, the implied challenge to attack at your own risk.  She wasn't sure what they'd hear and she--like the rest of them--wanted there to be some good news. Oh, please let there be good news.

The KGB agent was waiting for something.  He'd gone to the door three times and yelled out at someone outside to hurry it up. 

Mark hated the Russian language.  It was worse than Polish or Ukrainian in his books and he actually knew very little of any of the Cyrillic languages.  They always sounded as though the speaker had phlegm in his throat and needed to spit.  Mark usually took care of the Middle Eastern languages let his partner handle Soviet Bloc languages, but this time he would make an exception.  They were dealing in English.  This time, the Number 2 agent would act and speak and listen, for the Number 1 agent was... letting him handle it all.  There were times when interacting with the KGB and other groups that it more prudent to let the conversation be between two males, so then Mark would inevitably do the talking, and April would listen and evaluate and add her input only as needed, or would whisper advice to him.  She was the senior agent, regardless, whichever one of them was doing the negotiating.  So, Mark had announced they'd be speaking English, and the Helsinki U.N.C.L.E agent spoke Russian fluently in case he was needed to help translate.

Mark was fine in his role until the eastern door swung open and a man was brought into the room.  Then it all changed.

April was shaken, off guard, wearing uncertainty wrapped as tightly as any scarf in these sub-zero temperatures.  Mark could do little but stare at the slight man who had just been led into the room, a man for whom they had been diligently searching for over three years.  They both stared in shock.

There was no mistaking his identity.  They knew him too well.  But he had changed, horribly so.  He stood slightly hunched, as though waiting for a club to fall across his shoulders.  His eyes were closed, his face far whiter than the fields of snow outside.  His familiar features had somehow been spared, but the dark circles were darker than he'd ever seen them and the short blond white hair seemed patchy and he had sores on his scalp.

His hands...  His hands were twisted, as though they had been broken and left to heal unattended.

Mark and April stared distantly at Illya, knowing the KGB agents watched them, and knowing they had to remain unaffected if they were to walk out the door with him.  

But... then things went sideways... because there was no negotiation. No dealing.  No trades. No exorbitant sums of money requested.

The KGB officer just shrugged.  The Soviet Union didn't want Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin anymore.  The officer stood and walked out of the room.

Thursday, November 30, 1972
air flight
10:00 AM Montreal/New York time (5:00 PM Helsinki time)

"Coffee, sir?"  The stewardess leaned forward, the coffeepot already tilted his way.

Napoleon looked up from his files. "Yes, thank you.  Cream, no sugar."

Norm had taken the U.N.C.L.E. jet to Europe on what was listed as an urgent fact-finding mission.  This event in Montreal wasn't urgent, more of a formality, so Napoleon was fine flying commercial for the short two-hour flight to Montreal.

"We’ll be landing in forty-five minutes," the stewardess said, smiling again at him.

"Thank you."  He waited until she was gone, then rubbed his eyes, and glanced at his watch.  He was due to speak at the Montreal U.N.C.L.E. office, the Canadian Headquarters, in ninety minutes, and rather than spend the night, he had elected to take an early flight there and a late one back that evening.  He was briefing the Section Two and Three Canadian U.N.C.L.E. agents on the Watergate scandal that was unfolding in the United States, and he was only halfway through going over the notes which had been prepared for him the week before by New York’s Section Three.

 He had some additional background on it from sitting in his cell in jail and reading his own journals.  At least, he now had a better idea of what his comments were about, and, quite frankly, he agreed with himself.  It was strange to discover he had lived through these years, interacted with people, had opinions, and now knew nothing about the events, studying them like an ancient historical event.

He wasn’t sure how much he could add to what they already knew in Canada, but when the request had come in, he had called Norm Graham, who agreed that this might be a good outing for him.  He’d been locked away in the New York U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters for the past four days, basically catching up on life and dealing with -- fortunately -- relatively few problems.

He looked back at his notes.  In the early morning hours of May 28, 1972, five men, including the security director for the Committee for the Re-election of the President, broke into the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate Hotel.  They photographed material and placed bugs.  When the bugs failed to work, a second attempt was made on June 17.  According to Napoleon’s notes, a young security guard working the graveyard shift at the Watergate Hotel found a piece of masking tape stuck to the lock of a door.  He took the tape off, but when he made his rounds again a short time later, he found the tape had been put back, as it had on several other doors further into the building.  He called the police and the men were arrested.

On September 15, 1972, the men were indicted by a federal grand jury who investigated the crime, as well as G. Gordon Liddy and E. Howard Hunt, two men also connected with the current president.  It was amazing, actually, that Nixon had won with a landslide vote, when members of his own Republican reelection committee were charged with conspiracy, burglary, and violation of federal wiretapping laws.

As the plane landed, Napoleon tucked his notes away, took a deep breath, and prepared himself to speak in both English and French for the next fifteen hours.  He'd been practising with a French-speaking Section Three agent the day before, afraid he'd forgotten his Quebecois French along with other things these past years, but fortunately, he had retained it.  Attending this extended briefing in Montreal was a good idea; at least he would be away from all the constant interruptions at the New York Headquarters.

He took advantage of the event and turned his transceiver off.  He needed this break. Norm was keeping an eye on New York and whatever else was going on.

Thursday, November 30, 1972,
U.N.C.L.E. Helsinki Offices
8:30 PM Helsinki time (1:30 PM Montreal time)

April watched him sleeping, if the twitching and near silent moaning could be construed as sleeping.  Illya’s eyes were tightly closed, his hands twisted and curled over his chest.  He lay on his side facing her, his shorn blond-white hair revealing a scalp dotted with boil-like sores.

"Napoleon’s in New York, Illya.  He’s alive," she whispered softly, and he stilled for a moment, then continued the restless twitching. "He's waiting for you."

It had been a nightmarish journey to Helsinki, the winter roads almost impassible.  Illya had been put in between her and Mark in the back seat of a government car, and had stared down at the floor, unmoving, unresponsive to their questions, his fisted hands clenched tight against his body.

Two hours later they had arrived at the U.N.C.L.E. offices, gently coaxing him from the car once it was inside the building.  If anything, he became more distant, refusing food, drink, and ignoring their questions.

Now, from his place on the other side of Illya’s bed, Mark continued to dab away at the bruises, the cuts, and the sores in an effort to clean him, all the while murmuring soft reassurances.

Perhaps Illya knew who they were, perhaps not.  When they had taken him to the infirmary, he would not allow anyone from the Helsinki office to treat his wounds, blindly fighting them, never making a sound, but they could still hear those silent screams echoing through their minds.

It wasn’t until they saw his reaction to strangers that they realized, in some minor way, he had acknowledged them.  He knew who they were.  At least Mark could touch him and April could touch him, when no one else could.  It was a start.

The door to the infirmary room opened, and with a breath of bitterly cold air still clinging to his outer coat, Sam Lawrence walked in.  April sighed in relief.  They had been told by Norm Graham that both he and Sam Lawrence were en route, then a few minutes ago the Finland U.N.C.L.E. Chief had come to their room himself and advised them that Lawrence had arrived at the airport and would be at their headquarters shortly and Graham's flight would arrive fifty-three minutes later.

"Oh, God."  Lawrence stood at the end of the bed and stared down at Illya.  "It’s him."

The doctor pulled off his coat and tossed it toward the coat rack.  He moved methodically to a small sink and washed his hands, keeping them there a moment longer than necessary in an attempt to warm them up.

"When we got here, Sam, we were told you were already on your way.  How did you know?  You must have left at midnight in New York to get here. We thought we were meeting someone here, possibly getting some information about Illya; we had no idea they were going to hand him over to us."  Mark gave up his place as Lawrence approached the bed.

"Norm Graham left a message for me at 9:00 PM last night; he asked me to report to the Helsinki office.  A matter of urgency.  He said he'd be following me.  I thought the medical staff here needed help -- multiple agents down or something.  It even crossed my mind that it had something to do with your Soho case, and you or April were injured.  I had no idea..."

"We had no idea.  We thought it was just information we were getting, not actually him," Mark said as Lawrence took his place.

Illya reacted to the new set of hands touching him, rolling over on his back and staring up at the doctor.

"Easy," April said, gently rubbing Illya’s shoulder.  "It’s Sam.  Remember Sam?"

Illya stared for a moment, no real recognition on his face, then he closed his eyes, and gave a little nod.

The doctor lightly placed one hand on the side of Illya’s face, keeping it there until Illya’s eyes reopened.  "Ilyusha, are you in pain at all?" he asked slowly, quietly.

Illya shook his head no, then struggled to keep his trembling limbs under control.

"Just relax.  You’re safe now.  This isn’t a trick."  Lawrence took his patient’s pulse, then pulled a blood pressure cuff from his bag.  "You know the drill here, right?  I’m just doing all the normal things I would normally do."

Illya looked up at him, eyes narrowing, watching carefully as the cuff was expanded, then released.

"Can you talk to me, Illya?  Give me some idea how you’re feeling?" the doctor asked.

Again, the slight shake of his head, followed by trembling.

"He hasn’t spoken at all," April said, as Lawrence stopped what he was doing and gently massaged Illya’s limbs.  "He wouldn’t let the doctors touch him."

"We couldn’t get anything out of him, not even a nod or shake of his head," Mark added.  "You’re doing better than we were."

"Give him time."  The doctor smiled down at his patient.  "So, Illya, I’m going with the assumption that you can hear perfectly well.  You just can’t respond yet.  No worry.  We’ll work with you, okay?  Don’t feel you have to push it.  I suspect this has been going on for a long time, right?"

"What has?" April asked.

"Well, Illya here has almost perfected a way of withdrawing into himself to avoid questioning.  Works almost too well, and it’s not an easy road back."  Lawrence gently unclenched Illya’s left hand, checking the long fingers.  "Everything looks okay here."  He then checked the other hand, with the same results.

"Then why are they curled like that?" Mark asked, as they watched Illya’s hands clench again as he rolled away from the doctor.

"More psychological than physical, I suspect.  Listen, can you step out of the room for a few minutes.  I’d like to check him over before Norm gets here."

April stopped at the door.  "When is he due to arrive?"

"In the next half hour."

"Does Napoleon know?" Mark asked.

"Norm might know that.  Napoleon is in Montreal giving a briefing to the Canadian HQ but should be back in New York late tonight."  Lawrence shrugged.  "Maybe Norm told him, I don’t know.  I’m not sure how much Norm knew or how much he was just guessing.  Or hoping."

They all three stared down at Illya.  How had this happened?  How did they have him?

It was just supposed to be information.

Thursday, November 30, 1972
Montreal U.N.C.L.E. HQ
2:00 PM Montreal time (9:00 PM Helsinki time)

It was already mid afternoon, but the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. office was only partway through the briefing they had prepared for Napoleon on the FLQ, the Front de liberation du Québec.  Apparently, he had been at other briefings in Montreal in 1969, and had read extensive documents sent to him while in prison, but they were aware that circumstances had changed, and the man sitting in Waverly’s chair at the moment, was "missing a few years."

While Napoleon concentrated on listening to the speaker from Quebec and the speaker from Ontario comparing notes, he picked at the late lunch that had been served and wondered where exactly Waverly was.  And where Claude Renault, the Head of the Canadian U.N.C.L.E., was.  And where Thomas Chapman was.  And Louis DeWitt, Gabhail Samoy and the other two top U.N.C.L.E. chiefs, Rodriguez and Muliro.  He remembered John Muiro from the Itsy Bitsy Spider Affair in Kenya in late 1965. 

The Summit was now going on two weeks, with no word from the gathering. What are they doing?

He toyed with the thought of turning his transceiver on to see if there was news, but Renault's second chief here would surely let him know if he heard from his boss. During the break an hour earlier, he had checked to see if there was any word from Norm Graham, but was told Norm was still on route to wherever the U.N.C.L.E. jet was heading. 

Napoleon tried to listen to the briefing, but his mind kept wandering.  He felt disjointed being here without Illya.  He felt disjointed being anywhere without him.  Like part of him had broken off and... It had only been five days since he was released from jail and two weeks since he awoke in the hospital missing years of his life.  Missing Illya.  He knew he needed to grieve, Sam Lawrence had talked about grief and preparing himself that Illya might be... gone... but Napoleon wasn't ready yet.  It had only been two weeks.  And Illya had disappeared before for longer than two weeks, and he'd come back.  He'd come back.

The acting Section One head of U.N.C.L.E. North America shook himself and concentrated on the briefing, jotting down notes, and doing his job.  It was all he could do.

Thursday, November 30, 1972,
U.N.C.L.E. Helsinki Offices
9:30 PM Helsinki time (2:30 PM Montreal time)

Norm Graham arrived with a flurry of Helsinki U.N.C.L.E. agents.  He pushed past security, moving quickly down the corridor while a young woman tried to pin a badge on his coat before he set off all the security alarms in the building. 

"Here!" April Dancer called, as he rounded a corner to the infirmary.  "He’s in here."

Graham burst through the door.  And stopped.  It was him.  My God, it was him.  He was alive. 

He looked over at Sam Lawrence for the briefest of seconds.  "Can he travel?"

"He can.  It won’t make much difference."

"I brought the U.N.C.L.E. jet. They’re refueling it now, and we can be back in the air in forty minutes. Home in nine hours."

This brought a smile to Sam’s face. "Now you’re talking.  Give me five more minutes, then he’s all yours."

Graham stood restlessly at the foot of the bed until Lawrence finished taking blood and had removed the IV.

"Go easy," Lawrence murmured, as Graham slid in to take his place.  "He’s gone into hiding."

"Oh, Illya.  Ilyusha."  With gentle arms, Norm reached for Illya, slowly gathering him into a hug that the rather battered Russian sank into.  No twitching, no spasmodic shaking, Illya simply turned his face into the hollow of Norm Graham’s neck and relaxed for the first time since Sam Lawrence arrived, probably for the first time since he'd been freed.

The doctor slipped from the room to give them some privacy, the thirty-three year old, fiercely independent, deadly, ex-KGB, ex-GRU agent, and the closest thing he had to a father.

Norm stroked the curled back, seemingly unaware of the tears streaming down his face.  "Let’s get you home, okay, Ilyusha?  Then you can come back from wherever you’re hiding.  You can come back the rest of the way.  Deal?  Hmm?"

Friday, December 1, 1972
New York
1:30 A.M.

Napoleon keyed off the security system to his apartment and slipped through the front door, carefully resetting it.  It had been a long, taxing day, and he knew he was still below par physically, despite his claims to Sam Lawrence.  His flight had been delayed several times due to snow, and it wasn’t until 12:30 A.M. that they touched down in New York’s International Airport.  He had decided against calling for U.N.C.L.E. transportation and instead took an old-fashioned Black Top cab to Aunt Amy’s apartment.

I have to stop calling it that.  It’s my apartment now.

He hadn't called in to HQ when he arrived.  He'd do that in the morning.  He was beat.  He took his gun, keys, and transceiver and put them on the shelf by the door, easy to retrieve if needed. He'd check his phone messages on the answering service before he went to bed.  If HQ needed him for something, they would leave him a message there.

He rounded the corner from the hallway into the living room and froze. April lay curled on the couch, sound asleep.  That was strange.  In the week they had been there, she'd never slept on the couch but in the master bedroom.  And wasn't she supposed to be in London?  He wondered if she had been waiting for him, but he really didn’t want to wake her and have to discuss Montreal and the on-going FLQ crisis and trials, any more than he wanted to discuss Watergate or whatever her case in London was.  Instead, he slipped off his shoes at the door and tiptoed down the hallway and into the bathroom, splashing some water on his face and taking the opportunity to brush his teeth finally.  A piece of broccoli from dinner had caught on his back molar, driving him crazy.

The suit needed cleaning.  It reeked of cigar smoke, a particular brand that Napoleon had never liked.  He slipped off the jacket and hung it in the bathroom.  Why smell up the bedroom?

Napoleon entered Illya’s bedroom where he'd taken up residence and moved over to the bedside table, switching on the bed lamp.

And Illya rolled over in bed and looked up at him sleepily.

Napoleon jumped back five feet and stared in shock, his mouth open.  What?  He stepped back several more paces.  "Illya?" he choked out.

It was Illya.  In the bed.  He looked rough, his blond hair cut short, the feeble light enhancing the dark rims beneath his eyes.

He looked very alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.

"Illya?"

"Surprise," April said softly from behind him in the doorway.  "I wanted to warn you, to tell you we found him.  We were waiting for you to report in so we could.  Your transceiver was off."

"Illya?" he repeated dumbly.

Illya sat up in the bed, fumbling with the bed covers, and the movement sent Napoleon staggering across the room toward him.  "Illya!!" he yelled, relieved when arms wrapped around him as he hugged his missing partner.  "Oh, God.  Oh, God."

He was distantly aware of Mark joining April in the doorway.

"It's Illya."  It was all he could say, his voice cracking on the last syllable.  "He's alive.  He's back."  His arms tightened possessively around the familiar form, feeling Illya’s face tightly pressed against the curve of his neck.

"What happened?  Where did you come from?"  Napoleon leaned back, easing his partner back to the bed.  He wanted to look at him.  Take in the silence.  Illya was being unusually docile, never a good sign.  He stroked one pale cheek with the edge of his finger and Illya leaned into it.  "What's wrong with him?"

April and Mark came to the end of the bed.  Napoleon cleared his throat as they drew alongside him.  "Talk to me. What’s going on?"

April wiped her eyes.  "Okay, uh, we got a call from Peter Baker late Wednesday.  He said to go to a particular border crossing in Finland and pick something up.  We thought it was information.  Or maybe we'd be meeting someone who knew about Illya.  Norm joined us there, and Sam Lawrence, too. We didn't tell you, because we didn't know what we'd find out."

"And they just handed him to you?"

"We were inside, but the Finnish guards said an unmarked truck drove up on the Soviet side, he was dumped from the back, unchained, and pushed toward them.  The KGB officers on site didn’t seem to have any information other than that they were completing a delivery."

"I get let out of prison, and the USSR handed over Illya.  How are you?"  Napoleon asked his partner, leaning back to look at him.  "Are you in pain?  Are you okay?"

April answered.  "Sam Lawrence checked him over, and said he would recover in time.  Norm Graham held him all the way home in the plane, for eight hours, and Illya slept.  He hasn’t spoken yet, but neither Norm Graham or Sam seemed to be worried by that."

Napoleon stretched out on the bed next to his partner, watching as the exhausted man on the bed beside him drifted back to sleep, those twisted hands still clenching Napoleon’s shirt.  "He’s alive."

"Aye, he is," Mark said.

"Goodnight, Napoleon," April added softly, but he didn’t hear her.

"You're alive," he whispered, and he felt whole again.  Invigorated.  And yet very, very tired.

continued

Chapter Text

New York Apartment
December 1, 1965

Illya woke listening to the excited voices in the next room.  He opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the dim lighting.  He turned his head slightly to the left and looked into a familiar face, a face from warm memories and days of sanity.  Napoleon was asleep, his face pressed into the other pillow, as though he had fallen asleep watching him.  He rolled to his back and looked the other way, and there was a clock that said it was 8:14.

As for the other voices, his eyes tracked over to them.  April Dancer and Mark Slate were standing in the doorway.  He remembered seeing them before.  In the plane perhaps.  Norm had been a touch proprietary, but then he could hardly blame the man.  Norm said he had been gone for three years. The time seemed wrong, but he knew he was not a good judge of anything right now.

So he was back.  He vaguely remembered the room from the night before, being led into it after the confusion of being brought to Napoleon’s Aunt Amy’s apartment.  He’d been for dinner at Aunt Amy’s several times with his partner.  He’d always liked her.

But now Napoleon’s furniture was here.  So at one point, Aunt Amy had died, or moved on, and Napoleon had taken up residence.  Which partially explained why his own belongings were there.  In three years, Napoleon had never given up on him, and the thought warmed his very cold soul.

April and Mark hadn’t thought he was very aware last night, but he had taken in more than they realized.  The wedding picture on the piano.  Napoleon and April.  Odd they had married, but they had always had a close bind.

The two agents were talking to him again, because he was awake and looking at them, but he couldn’t make out the words yet.  He wanted to shake Napoleon awake and ask him to tell them to shut up.  They were talking too fast to pierce the fog he was in.

He tried to open his mouth, to force the words out, but nothing came.  Just a sigh of air.

But they stopped talking and smiled at him, warm real smiles that were gentle enough to make him feel calm.  Then they closed the door and let him sleep.

John F Kennedy International Airport, New York
8:30 A.M.

"Hey, man.  Slow down!"  Alexander Scott picked up his two suitcases and dropped them on a cart.  No way was he dragging them across the crowded New York airport.

"I’ll be at the pay phones!" Kelly Robinson yelled out.  "Grab my bags, will you?" he added as he disappeared around the corner.

"Grab my bags, grab my bags," Scott mumbled, looking for the familiar suitcases as they popped out of the revolving luggage dispenser.

All four bags fit comfortably on the cart, as always, so he headed past the checker and through the crowds, looking for the pay phones and his CIA partner.  The airport was humming with pre-Christmas hype, even though the holiday was over three weeks away.  Every ten feet there was another Santa Claus ringing sleigh bells by a red donations pot, and it cost Scott almost twenty dollars to work his way over to where Kelly was, in earnest conversation on a pay phone.

"Where we staying?" Scott interrupted. 

Kelly put his hand over the mouthpiece.  "The Ritz-Carlton across from Central Park."

"Oh, not one of the other ten Ritz-Carltons in the city?  The one by Central Park.  Okay, if you insist. Not my favorite of the Ritz-Carltons in New York, but if we’re slumming..."

"Shut up," Kelly said, and went back to his phone call.  "Tell you what, darling, you leave Napoleon Solo a message saying we’re at the Ritz-Carlton, and I can assure you that he’ll be grateful to you.  Extra points in it for you if you can find him in the next hour or so and pass the message on.  Surely you have his home phone number somewhere in your files.  He seems to have moved since last I spoke with him."

Scott frowned at that, but waited until Kelly was off the phone and they were walking towards the cabs, before asking, "So what’s up?  Where’s Napoleon?"

"His old number was no longer in service.  The message we got yesterday just said he would be at home today.  How was I to know he had moved?"

Scott followed him out the door into the wintry New York day.  "And you call yourself a spy."

New York Apartment
8:45 A.M.

Napoleon woke to the jangle of the telephone by his bed.  It stopped after one ring, but he picked it up anyway, surprised to hear April’s voice on the extension.

"I’ll give him the message, Heather. Thanks."

"April, I heard... Is it true?"

Napoleon glanced quickly to his right.  Yes, Illya’s here, he thought, gently returning the receiver to its cradle, leaving April to deal with the call.  If it had been urgent, she would have called him to speak to Heather directly.  At least he didn’t have to deal with the public yet.  One of the advantages of having a live-in agent.

Much easier to think of April as a live-in agent, than a wife, he decided.

He switched on the light and studied his partner carefully, now that the initial shock was over.  Despite the outward marks and bruises, the essence of the man was still there.  A few things disturbed him, though: The twist of the hands, curling even in sleep.  The ashen complexion, as though he had not seen daylight in all this time.  Sores on his head.  Bruises on his arms.

Yet when Illya’s eyes opened and met his...  for a moment, he was there looking at Napoleon, then the shutters came down and cut them off.

"It’s okay," Napoleon whispered.  "Take your time.  I’m just returning myself." 

Illya reached across with one of those twisted hands and grasped Napoleon’s pajama top. He gave it a tug, then let go, as though that brief act had thoroughly exhausted him.

Napoleon placed his hands over Illya’s, feeling his partner’s fingers slowly straighten, then curl again.  "We have a lot of talking to do," he said firmly.  "I've lost my memory, everything from the last four years.  There's nothing.  I need you to tell me what happened, what you remember before being taken away.  When you’re ready, Illya, but we need to talk, okay?"  Napoleon eased his tired body from the bed and stretched, gathering his robe.  "I’ll be back; I’m going to take a shower."

Illya watched him as he walked around the bed and paused at the door.

"Illya?  I’m in the next room.  Just showering.  I’m coming right back."

The silent eyes somehow accused him.  Desertion.  Illusion.

Napoleon stood in the doorway, uncertain of what to do.  Take Illya with him?  Maybe not shower right now, but still he needed to answer the call of his bladder.

"Go, Napoleon," Sam Lawrence said, stepping past him into the room.  "He won’t be alone."

"Thanks."  Napoleon watched as Sam approached the bed.  Illya didn’t look in the doctor’s direction, the piercing blue eyes still fixed on Napoleon.  Then something changed, and for a moment again, Illya was there, rolling his eyes, then turning away to look at Sam, and Napoleon escaped.

As he stood in the shower, relishing the warm spray cascading over aching muscles, he wondered about escape and abandonment.  As thoughts would have it, by the time his shower ended, he had debated U.N.C.L.E.’s decision to distance themselves from the on-going FLQ trials in Canada, the on-going Watergate crisis and Waverly’s apparent obsession, not with Watergate but with the leaking of classified government documents collectively known as the "Pentagon Papers" dealing with America’s involvement with the Vietnam war. There had been an entire file tucked away in Waverly’s bottom drawer, filled with articles and transcripts taken from New York and Washington newspapers, handwritten notes from telephone conversations, a copy of the actual papers, and a transcript of Daniel Ellsberg’s charges.  And several tapes.

Napoleon dried himself off, then shuddered when he was again hit with the paralyzing scope of missing four years of his life.  He had felt it yesterday at the meeting, straining to catch the nuances of the conversations, not quite following the arguments, despite his hours of preparation, and damn it, not getting the fucking jokes.

Well, as soon as Illya was talking, he’d figure out what happened.  He just needed to be patient for a while longer yet.

He shaved quickly, running the new electric shaver over his face.  Nice.  Better than his old one.  The benefits of an evolving technology, but still, if he was going on a date, he’d definitely use an old-fashioned razor blade first.

Oh, right, old man.  You’re married.

For some reason dealing with a silent, tortured partner, Watergate, Pentagon Papers, FLQ, and Thrush was all easier than dealing with the simple fact that he was married.

Hair combed, Napoleon slipped into his bathrobe and opened the door, almost jumping out of his skin to see Illya standing, arms folded, on the other side of the door.

With a disgruntled huff, Illya pushed past him and slammed the door shut.

"You could have knocked," Napoleon replied to the closed door.  A moment later, the shower came on, and whatever else he was going to say disappeared in his smile.  He turned to see Doc Lawrence standing in the hallway, also smiling.

"At least some things haven’t changed," Sam said drolly, as he headed toward the kitchen.

Ritz-Carlton Hotel, New York (the one across from Central Park...)
9:35 A.M.

They had barely set their suitcases down in the hotel suite when the phone rang.

Scott answered it.  "Hello?"

"Scotty?"

"Napoleon.  We heard they let you out of jail."  Scott tilted the phone so Kelly could hear as well.

"Hey, Lee.  What’s up?" Kelly put in. "We're in town for a few days."

"Yeah.  Long story.  Come over for dinner tonight, will you?  It’s secure here. We can talk then."  Napoleon left them his address, and hung up.

"That’s right near here.  We can walk."  Scott fell back on the bed.  "I’m going to catch a nap before we run errands or whatever else we have to do today."

"I don’t want to be late.  You’re always making me late, man."

"I’m making you late?  Pardon me, Jack, but that’s the pot calling the kettle black."  Scott punched his pillow, getting it into the right shape.  "Besides, it’s only ten in the morning, and he said to come at seven."

"You’re getting old, man.  Needing a nap."

"Is it just me, or is the jet-lag getting worse?"

Kelly thought about it for a moment.  "You may be right.  This hopping around the country just isn’t what it used to be."  Kelly dropped to the next bed.  "Maybe just for a few minutes.  I’ve got to do some shopping.  We don’t get to New York often, and technically, this is just a layover."

"Nap.  Lunch.  Shopping.  Dinner.  Sleep."

"I noticed how you snuck eating in there twice."

"And sleeping."

Two minutes later, both men were snoring.

New York Apartment
9:45 A.M.

Napoleon gently eased his partner to a chair at the dining table, Illya glaringly aware of the close scrutiny of the others at the breakfast table.

"Coffee, gentlemen?" April asked.

"What about some English Breakfast tea?" Mark was already half to his feet, his hand reaching for the tea pot.

Napoleon waved them both off, concentrating on Illya’s downcast face and slit eyes.

Illya had emerged from the shower, hair askew, and retired to the bedroom.  The shower seemed to have taken the edge off his grumpiness, but he was still no poster boy for cheerful.  He reached for the stained shirt he had worn the previous day, only to be stopped by Napoleon.

"I think we’ll just send this to the labs," Napoleon had said, gingerly picking up the offending garments and slipping them in a plastic bag.  While Illya had glared at him silently, Napoleon opened a dresser drawer and withdrew a black turtleneck sweater, underwear, and soft black corduroy slacks with a snap at the waist rather than buttons that would be too tricky for those fingers.  "Try these."

Illya had picked up the turtleneck sweater, his still-twisted hands holding it to his face for a moment, then he had nodded and slipped it over his head, angling his arms through the sleeves.  He had pulled it down, then looked up at Napoleon, and there was another brief glimpse of his partner before Illya looked away.

Napoleon had turned and dressed, choosing his standard suit pants and a white shirt.  It was a Friday, and he planned to go into the office today.  The tie and jacket could wait until after he ate.

Illya was dressed by the time he had finished, sitting restlessly on the edge of the bed.

"Shall we go?  Breakfast awaits."  Napoleon had offered his hand, not sure how Illya would grasp it, but feeling the need to reach out somehow. 

Instead, Illya had stood on his own and followed him out the door, faltering only when the hallway left them standing in the living room, with the dining room ahead.

Now, seated next to him, the problem of his silence and his twisted hands suddenly became paramount.  Napoleon could feel Illya shutting down, slipping away, his eyes mere slits fixed on the edge of the tablecloth.

"So," he said, catching Sam’s eye, "we’ve got a problem, Doc.  My partner here isn’t talking yet and might have difficult eating.  Any suggestions?"  He turned to his right.  "Illya?  Any suggestions?"

"I made some hot cereal," Mark said.  "Illya liked it before."

"That okay?" Napoleon asked.  "If not, we’ll try something else.  And that would be easy to eat, holding a spoon, right?"

The porridge was dished out, brown sugar generously sprinkled over it, and the bowl and a spoon placed before Illya.  Who sat there staring at it hungrily.

They tried to leave him alone for a few minutes while they dished out their own food, but the lack of movement from the center of their attention made their idle talk just empty chatter.

"Aren’t you hungry?" Napoleon asked.

Illya didn’t respond.  Just stared at the porridge.

Napoleon had seen him dress himself, even manage the snaps.  Physically, there should be no reason why he couldn’t feed himself.

Then again, Illya had been missing for three years.  There were a lot of potential reasons why he couldn’t feed himself; they just hadn’t found them yet.

Mark poured some tea, then placed it in front of Illya.

Illya slowly exhaled, reaching for the mug and shakily raising it to his lips.  They all watched, mesmerized by the sight.

Illya drank half the contents, then placed the mug on the table and glared at Napoleon.

They all turned to their own plates, and a makeshift conversation settled over the table like a threadbare tablecloth.

Illya stared at his bowl of porridge.

As April cleared the plates, Sam leaned across the table.  "Illya, if you don’t eat, I’ll have to take you in to headquarters and hook you up to an IV.  It’s your choice."

Illya looked up at him, then flipped the bowl of porridge over and stalked out of the room.  They all jumped when the far bedroom door slammed.

"Okay..." Mark drummed his fingers on the table, then picked up his dishes and headed into the kitchen.  He reappeared a moment later, followed by April.  "We’re heading in.  We have to call London and see what’s happening with the Soho case."

"That’s the possible Thrush cell that’s appeared, right?"

"Right, Napoleon."  April slid on her heavy winter coat.  "We probably won’t be back until--" She shrugged.  "Might have to go to London."

"What about Illya?  What about the last four years?" Napoleon asked.

"Do you want us to stay?"

Napoleon stared at them standing at the doorway.

"You’re in charge, mate.  You want us here, we’re here."  Mark draped the scarf around his neck.

Napoleon glanced over at the doctor, then waved the two off.  "I’ll be in later.  Get the intel you’ll need for Soho, then we’ll have a briefing.  Two o’clock."  He waited until the two partners were out the door, then turned to Lawrence.

"Anything?"

"On Illya?"  The doctor shrugged.  "As far as I’m concerned, we give him time to start talking.  A few days.  We’ve both seen him shut down before, and he’s always bounced back."

"That was from a week, maybe a few months.  This was three years."

"So we give him a week.  He’s a stubborn cuss.  He’ll come out when he’s good and ready.  Meanwhile," Sam scooped up an apple and a banana from the bowl on the table.  "Let me talk to him."

"Wait."  Napoleon took the fruit.  "Let me."

It is the strangest thing, walking into that room.  Seeing Illya sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, his stockinged feet crossed at the ankle and his arms crossed over his chest.

I toss him the banana.  It lands on the bed beside him.  He glares at me for a moment, then his face smooths over and he looks down at the banana.  Studies it, his eyebrows furled.  Then he picks it up, awkwardly peels it, and eats it in few ravenous bites.

I toss him the apple.  He picks it up and eats it, pausing with a mouth full, and smiles.

I’m not sure what that is all about, but somehow that crooked, snarky smile invigorates me.

"Let’s go," I say, and he clambers off the bed, still eating the apple, and eases his feet into a pair of loafers I had put out for him earlier.  I figured they would be the easiest. No laces.  He tugs on a heavy coat, allows me to do up the buttons without a reaction, then follows me down the hall.

Sam Lawrence is still putting on his coat.  I open the apartment door and walk past him.  Illya follows, pausing only to hand Sam his banana peel and apple core, then joins me in the elevator.

We work out a truce as we step into Waverly’s office.  I will quit pestering him to talk, and he will quit knocking me back against the nearest wall.  He is angry, filled with frustration, and has nothing else--and no one else--to take it out on.

Sam Lawrence shows up shortly after we arrive and wants Illya to go to the infirmary to get checked out.  It is clear there is no way Illya is going to willingly go with him.  So Sam Lawrence plays his "fit for duty" card on both of us, and we follow him to the infirmary, in no way like meek, peaceable lambs. 

U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York
11:00 A.M.

Sam Lawrence studied the x-rays thoughtfully, then flicked off the light behind them. Illya was in the examination room, dressing, but Napoleon was already next to the doctor, and had read enough x-rays in his life to know there was nothing wrong with Illya’s hands.

Yet, there was.

"What do you think?" Napoleon asked quietly.

"I think something happened to him there.  Napoleon, I know you really don’t want to hear this, but we have to consider all the possibilities.  Illya was held for three years by a government which had reason to be displeased with some of his activities with U.N.C.L.E.  The few times they called on our help and Illya was sent with a team were crisis times, and they had no choice but to accept U.N.C.L.E.’s representative if they were going to receive the assistance they needed.  It doesn’t mean they liked it.  During the past three years, we don’t know what happened.  We don’t know what they submitted him to.  Did they brainwash him?  Program him?  Is he going to blow up Headquarters?  Is he going to break down into sobs if we hand him a gun, then blow his brains out?"

Illya was standing in the doorway, frozen in place. 

Napoleon’s nostrils flared in anger, then he turned back to Lawrence.  "What about me, then, Doc?  I was away from here for three years, also in jail.  For some unknown reason, I have no memory of my last four years.  How do I know I was actually in jail during all of that time?  What if someone did the same thing to me?  Programmed me to take down U.N.C.L.E.?  Decided that if I got out one day, on some hidden cue I might take a nose dive from the top of the Empire State Building, like Partridge brainwashed his captives to do?"

"Napoleon, we knew where you were--"

"You knew where they said I was."

Lawrence crossed his arms.  "What do you want me to do, Napoleon?  Throw you both in the stockade?"

"Test us.  Do whatever you can to see if we’ve been compromised."  Solo turned on his partner.  "Are you understanding this?"  He flicked on the light, revealing the damning x-ray.  "There’s nothing wrong with your hands."  He grabbed Illya’s right hand, still appearing painfully twisted, and held it next to the x-ray.  "Look at it.  There’s nothing wrong with it.  They did something to you."

Illya drew his arm back, but said nothing.  His face still blank, he looked from Napoleon to the doctor, as though waiting for instructions.

Napoleon turned back to Lawrence.  "Where’s Mr Waverly, Sam?" he asked, his voice tight with tension.  "Not a word from the Summit?  How do we know they’re not all dead? It’s been ten days."

"The flag has been hoisted each day--"

"Maybe someone else has raised it."

"Maybe."

"Doctor, please check out my partner.  Illya, let him look you over again.  Do what you can to assist him-- don’t fight it.  The sooner we get this over with, the better."  Napoleon headed for the door.  "I’ll be in Waverly’s office.  And if you need to test me, too, do it."

Two cups of coffee later, he was calmer.  It had been chilling hearing the words coming from his own mouth, the possibility he was a traitor even more horrifying than the possibility that somehow Illya had been compromised.  Just because he felt nothing had happened, didn’t mean anything.  Four years were missing.

One look at Waverly’s desk, and it was all too clear that time had not stood still for those four years.

Lawrence’s earlier tests on him had revealed the outside chance that his loss of memory was more than just the result of an accident.  That something had possibly happened to cause it.  Beside the major bump on his head, there was a tiny scar on his scalp that may or may not have been caused by a lead pipe glancing off his skull.  All the new tests came back clear.  Blood tests.  X-rays.  Ultrasounds. 

Still.  Napoleon would always remember the look on Illya’s face on Thrush’s casino island when his partner was trying to kill him, courtesy of a wacky brainwashing machine that he knew from personal experience was oh-too-real.  There had been no marks on Illya then, either.

He got up and poured himself another cup of coffee, then settled behind the desk.  He had work to do.  If he wasn’t a time bomb-- and he had to work with the assumption that he wasn’t-- and if Illya was cleared, then who or what was behind their jail sentences and lack of memory?  Thrush?  Or something else?

And what the hell was going on in the world?  To the north, Canada had just held a national election and like Nixon, their Prime Minister, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, was reelected.  Although Nixon looked down on Trudeau, Illya liked the Québécois politician.  Napoleon remembered the two men sharing a conversation about some philosopher Napoleon had never heard of.  Illya had been in a good mood for days afterwards, and had even joined Trudeau on a hike in 1967, when they had last been in Ottawa.  The FLQ was a problem that appeared to be easing.  Thrush was nowhere to be seen.

Closer to home, Thrush still appeared to have regained no firm foothold in the States, most of the reports he had read for the past three years only reporting occasional sightings of Thrush personnel, most apparently engaged in other legitimate-- and some non-legitimate-- businesses.  Thrush bankrupted itself with the Seven Wonders of the World Affair, and Napoleon was relieved to see they had never managed to pull themselves out of that fatal head-dive.

Vietnam seemed to be winding down, but battles still raged on and soldiers were still dying.  Watergate seemed the big news, the one the world was following.  Nixon was firmly in power, but once the Watergate court cases began, that might change. 

Napoleon wasn’t sure what was behind Waverly’s interest in the Pentagon Papers, a collection of classified documents about the Vietnam War.  From what he could gather from reading through Waverly's large file, they were the Pentagon’s assessment of the Vietnam war, concluding that the war could not be won, and that continuing it would only lead to countless more casualties.  As he flipped through the documents, scanning page after page, there was also a deep cynicism toward the public, and an almost casual disregard for the loss of life incurred. 

Still, no matter how distasteful he found that, it was a local governmental problem and not one that should involve U.N.C.L.E.  Most of these issues -- the FLQ, Watergate, the Pentagon Papers-- were admittedly difficult problems, but U.N.C.L.E. wouldn’t have been involved in any of them.  The Strategic Arms Limitation Talks: possibly there was an U.N.C.L.E. connection.  But those talks were limited to two superpowers, both capable of meeting together and discussing the issues without U.N.C.L.E.’s involvement.

Which brought him back to the question he had asked Norm Graham the week before.  What was U.N.C.L.E.’s position on nuclear disarmament?  It seemed logical to assume it was for arms reduction.  No one wanted to start a war that would only end in the annihilation of the entire planet.

The tapes in the bottom of the drawer were interesting, especially as they were sealed.  They had no label on them, no indication of what was on them.  Napoleon pulled the cases out and laid them on the desk.

Illya walked in, awkwardly munching on a sandwich.  He plopped down opposite Napoleon, met his eyes briefly, then continued devouring the tuna salad sandwich.

"Hungry?" Napoleon asked, as crumbs soon started littering the far edge of Waverly’s desk.

Illya finished off the last bite, then pulled out what appeared to be a ham and cheese sandwich, and started eating it.  More crumbs.

"I’ll take that as a 'yes’. I wish you’d talk," Napoleon mused.  "I need to run some things by you."

Illya stopped chewing and glanced up.

"You listening?" Napoleon asked hopefully.

Illya went back to his sandwich.

"Okay, I’ll also take that as a 'yes’."  Napoleon edged the Pentagon Papers file across the desk, into Illya’s line of vision, then opened it to the first page. When his partner turned the page a minute later, Napoleon returned to his perusal of the other files on Waverly’s desk, and then dealt with a small crisis in Cleveland.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the agents in Ohio were on the road, and the disaster had been averted.

Napoleon hung up the phone and located his partner, standing across the room staring out the window at the street below. This time, Illya turned, looked right at him, and crossed the room.  Illya looked at the open file, then pushed it back to Napoleon, pointing to a note in Waverly’s shaky hand-writing.  "Ask HK," it read.

"HK?  Hong Kong?  Someone in our Hong Kong office?"

Illya flipped a page and pointed to a name.  Henry Kissenger.

Alexander Waverly knew Henry Kissenger.  Okay, but he already knew that.  "Ask Kissenger what?" he said aloud.

Illya stared at the file, then flipped it shut.

Napoleon slid a pen to him.  "Write it down if you can’t say it.  You’ve done that before."

Illya looked at the pen, eyes unblinking, for a full minute.  He seemed to come to some decision, and slowly reached for the pen, his fingers just grazing it.

A moment later he was crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

1:30 P.M.

It took some time, but Sam Lawrence and Napoleon figured out the parameters.  Illya, it seemed, could not touch a pen, pencil, or any other writing tool.  The same with a spoon, fork or knife, be it metal or plastic.  Since he wasn’t talking and couldn’t write, it certainly cut down on their methods of communication with him.  They had tried alternate methods. Stamping feet once for yes, twice for no.  Blinking. Tapping.  Nothing worked.  Illya would just start shaking or black out.  Once or twice a quick nod or shake of his head would occur, but he seemed unable to repeat it. 

By the time the two o’clock meeting with April and Mark rolled around, Illya was exhausted, stretched out on Waverly’s couch, sound asleep.

"Let me know if there’s any change, Napoleon," Lawrence said, leaving the office as the current top two Enforcement agents arrived.

Both April and Mark had to stop and smile indulgently at the sleeping Russian.  Napoleon had to tap on the table to get their attention. "What?" Mark bristled, as the two agents joined him at the circular briefing table.

"It may have been only two or three weeks in your memory, Napoleon," April added, "but we spent three years looking for him, fearing he was dead. Now he’s back.  Let us enjoy it for a minute.  It’s barely been twenty-four hours."

"Speaking of which, matey, how’s the old noggin doing, Napoleon?  Remember anything yet today?" Mark put in.  "Any of this stuff jogging your memory?"

"Anything beyond November 1968?" April said, with a frown on her face.  "You’ve got to remember the Black Tooth Affair."

"Nothing."  Fearing he wouldn’t like the answer, he asked, "So why was it called the Black Tooth Affair."

"Thrush dentist named Leonard Tondell," quipped Mark.

"Hid microphones in hollow teeth," added April.

"But the normal acids in the couriers’ mouths--"

"Turned their hollow tooth black."

"More gray actually."

"But the Gray Tooth Affair just didn’t sound as deadly."

"And it was."

"Deadly," April agreed.

"Thanks," Napoleon said.

Illya grunted and turned over.

Once they had settled around the briefing table, though, they went straight to business.  Mark and April gave their assignment assessment, their update, and their briefing. Napoleon agreed that they needed to return to London and deal with their case.  Now was not the time for a Thrush uprising. 

Napoleon had worked with the Irishman, Paddy Dunn for several months when Illya was missing in 1964, and he was aware of the additional pressures on Dunn, especially as earlier that day two people had been killed and 127 injured when two car bombs exploded in the center of Dublin. The IRA were blamed for it and were most likely guilty, but it certainly would put pressure on any Irishman living in London-- and active in the espionage trade.

"Have you read the 1972 Munich Olympic report yet?" April asked.

Napoleon wearily shook his head.  "When was it? What happened?"

Mark restlessly tapped his fingers on the table as he gave his report. "The frustrating thing is that I was there.  A few months ago, at the beginning of September, I managed to wrangle a few days off, and headed to Munich for the Olympics.  Eight Palestinian "Black September" terrorists seized eleven Israeli athletes in the Olympic Village. There was a rescue attempt by the West Germans, but nine of the hostages and five terrorists were killed.  U.N.C.L.E. was brought in, but too late."

The Palestine Liberation Army, like the IRA and FLQ, were usually considered the problems of the local governments.  Rarely did U.N.C.L.E. become involved unless, in cases like this, it occurred in another country.  U.N.C.L.E. usually handled the independent terrorists, or groups like Thrush.

April cleared her throat, glanced at Mark, then spoke.  "Napoleon, we’re entirely open to what you want us to do.  Yes, Paddy Dunn could really use our help right now, but this is our home turf, where we’re assigned.  You’ve been--" She stopped, wiped her eyes with a tissue, then continued, calmly.  "You’ve been away for a while, and there’s so much you don’t know.  You’ve only been out of jail for a week.  You don’t remember--" Again, she paused, frustrated at the tears in her eyes.

Mark continued for her.  "What with Waverly away for longer than we thought, we’re just saying that we’ll stay, if you think it best.  It’s your call."

Napoleon considered their offer, quietly grateful for their support.  But Illya was awake now, staring at him from across the room, and there was more than a sliver of recognition in those eyes.

"Call Paddy and see if they can use your help. Mark, they know you there, and you might be able to take a few press conferences for him.  Give me a few days with Illya, let us get straightened away, and then I want you back here by..." he glanced at the calendar.  "Tuesday noon.  That should give you the weekend and Monday there."

"Should we leave right away?"

"No.  Have Heather book you on a late flight tonight.  I have some friends coming for dinner who I’d like you to meet."

"We’ll let Paddy know what’s happening, then."

He watched them leave, surprised at his comfort level behind this desk.  He had always hated his time "trapped" there before, stuck in the office while Waverly was off at some meeting or other for a few days, short enough a time that Section One didn’t see the need to bring in someone to cover for Waverly.  Over the last few years, even before Napoleon's inconvenient lack of memory, Norm Graham’s rank had gone up as well, making him one of the top Chiefs in the country, next to Waverly.  If it wasn’t for the fact that Norm had made it abundantly clear that he had absolutely no intention of taking over the New York office, it would seem that he would be the obvious choice to succeed Waverly.  But he had a life in Washington, the office there, the U.N.C.L.E. Safe House, plus a still-young family that wasn’t ready to pull up stakes and leave.

But now, Solo realized that barely four days after taking over this position, however temporarily, it felt natural.  He had no desire to be going with April or Mark.  He wasn’t old, he told himself.  He was thirty-six years old, still--

No. Wait.  Add four years. He was forty.

Forty.

Forty.  He was forty.  Well, he’d be retiring from field duty anyway, if he was forty.

"I’m forty," he said to Illya.  "You’ll be--" Let’s see, Illya was born at the end of 1938, so that would make him, "You’ll be thirty-four at the end of the month."

Illya smiled.  

"Are you smiling at me being forty?"

Then Illya laughed.

continued

Chapter Text

New York Apartment
December 1, 1965, 7:05 P.M.

"Nice.  Very nice," Kelly decided, entering the building.  "And he's on the top floor."

"Mind you, his place was nice before."

"Not like this, Scotty.  Penthouse, man."

Scott pressed the button in the elevator.  He and Kelly locked eyes as the elevator slowly rose.  "He’s not going to like this."

"Can’t say that I blame him.  Can you?"

"No."

"So what do we do?"

"Tell him the truth.  Pray he doesn’t hit us."

"It’s not our fault though."  Kelly paused.  "You’ll do the talking, right?"

Scott laughed.  "He’s your wartime buddy."

"All the more reason for you to do the talking.  And you do it so well."

"Talking?"

"Explaining things.  Me, I’m the action man.  You’re the explainer."

"Since when does it say--"

The door opened and they stepped out.  The apartment door swung open and an extremely attractive young woman smiled at them.  "Kelly and Scotty, I presume?  Come in.  Napoleon’s not back yet, but we’re expecting him any time," she said, standing back for them to pass. "I’m sorry, he only called you by your first names..."

Scott took in the room quickly, recognizing the money involved in the furnishings, the Persian rugs and costly antiques. U.N.C.L.E. must be paying well these days. "Thank you, Miss--?"  He offered his hand, appreciating her firm grip.  This was a woman who knew what she wanted in life.

"April Dancer.  April’s fine," she said, shaking Scott’s hand, then Kelly’s.

"Well, hello, April," Kelly said smoothly.  "To what do we owe this pleasure?  And may I add, that it is a pleasure."

"Down, boy," Scott whispered.  "Left hand."

Kelly’s eyes darted to the wedding band on her left hand.  "And by that I mean that it is always a pleasure to be met at the door by such a beautiful young woman."

Scott smiled.  "I’m Alexander Scott.  I’ve known Napoleon and Illya for a few years now."

"Napoleon called you 'Scotty’.  Is that correct, or should I call you Alexander?"

"Scotty is fine," Kelly answered.  "And I am Kelly Robinson, at your service."

As April took their coats, another man joined them.  At Scotty’s quick once over, the man looked like a hippie, the clothes and longer hair popular with the younger set.  "This is Mark Slate, Section Two, Number Two," April said affectionately.

"Mark," Kelly said easily, shaking his hand.  "So you have Illya’s old position?  Who’s the poor sap that got the Section Two, Number One job?  Probably still at the office doing paperwork, right?"

"Uh, that would be me," April said, with a smile as she headed into the kitchen.

"Oops," Scotty smirked at Kelly’s startled look.  "Stepped in that one, my friend."

"Well, then, I must compliment U.N.C.L.E. on their taste in agents," Kelly called out.

Mark laughed.  "Make yourself comfortable.  Can I get you a drink?"

Kelly shrugged.  "Beer is fine, if you have it."  Mark left to get their drinks, and the two CIA agents took a seat on the leather couch.  "Lee’s obviously enjoying sitting in Waverly’s spot.  Has the top team serving him," Kelly said quietly to Scott.

"Napoleon Solo always lands on his feet."  Scotty continued to glance around the room, noting the telltale relaxed signs of agents: a box of ammunition on the side counter, an empty holster over one chair by the dining area, an U.N.C.L.E. dossier on a low table by a fireplace.  Obviously the security in the place was top notch.  He had seen cameras in the elevator and hallway, although none that he could detect in the apartment itself.  More than likely there were emergency cameras that could be activated on some hidden command or voice cue.

April returned with their opened beers and two frosted glasses, which she placed on the coffee table in front of them.  She curled up in one of the lounge chairs, watching them pour their drinks, sizing them up.  Scott wondered how much she knew about them and what it was she saw.

They had been partners so long now, it was difficult to imagine going through life without the man by his side.  Alexander Scott, product of the Philadelphia ghetto and Temple University, a Rhodes Scholar, basketball all star, and for the last ten years, an unlikely tennis coach who spent more time lately patching up the tennis star than coaching him.  Kelly Robinson, born in Ohio, raised in California, served in Korea, graduate with a degree in law from Princeton, and a tennis bum who played two Davis cups and now made enough money to live decently by playing tournaments around the world.  Oh, and they were both CIA agents in their spare time.

Kelly smiled charmingly at April. "So.  April.  Do you know Lee well?  Or I guess I should call him Napoleon.  Old habit.  I realize he’s been... away for a few years."

"Uh, Kelly?" Scott mumbled, tugging at his arm.

April smiled.  "I know him fairly well."

"I imagine most of the women at U.N.C.L.E. know him," Kelly said, laughing.

"Kell?" Scott repeated, a little more urgently.

"What?" he replied, perturbed.

Scott handed him a photo from the end table beside him.  "Call it a hunch, but I think she knows him quite well."

Kelly glanced at the wedding picture, then over at April incredulously.  "You married Lee?"

April nodded, looking beyond them to Mark.  "Long story."

Scott returned the photo to its spot.  The date etched on the bottom of the photo was September 25, 1969.  They had been on a deep cover assignment for most of '69, abandoning their usual coach and tennis player covers.  It was in South Africa, and it had been an unstable time for them.  It had been difficult for Kelly, less so for him.  For Kelly to play the role he had been assigned meant he had to change how he spoke, how he talked to Scott.  It went against everything Kelly believed in.  It had scared him-- and scarred him-- more than any other previous injury he’d had.

They took four months off in 1970, and traveled.  Went to places their jobs never took them.  They went to California and stood in front of the house Kelly grew up in.  They travelled to Philadelphia and sat in Scotty’s mother’s living room and listened to gospel music on her ancient phonograph.

The year had also been one of changes for Napoleon, it appeared.  When Scott and Kelly had first returned in February 1970, they had tried to look him up, and ended using their own means of finding him-- in jail.  Convicted of treason.  And it had been made abundantly clear by those higher up that they should stay away from him.

When they returned to work in June, they had made a few inquiries and had discovered he had been moved from Washington DC to a jail outside of New York City.  No reason given.  Still no visitors allowed.  He was in isolation, not even allowed to mingle with the other prisoners.

Scott had found the transcripts of the trial, and it reeked of a setup.  Kelly had quietly fumed, then quite loudly fumed, then they had been sent to Madagascar on assignment.  So, they'd understood, they were to stay away from Napoleon Solo, not that they could have visited him even if they'd tried.

And yet, he'd contacted them, not even a week out of prison, needing their help, and CIA orders or no CIA orders, they were going to find a way of helping.  Besides, they had information, too.

7:15 P.M.

They stood for a moment in the corridor outside his apartment.  Alone. 

Napoleon turned and looked into Illya’s eyes.  "Are you ready for this?"

A quick nod.

Napoleon’s eyebrows rose.  "Yes?"  There were a few more nods and shakes of the head that Illya had managed.  Each one was a victory.  He couldn’t help it-- he gathered his partner in his arms and held him, relieved when Illya took it all in stride, even leaning into the hug.  "Sorry," Napoleon mumbled, when he reluctantly drew back.

For a moment, it seemed as though tears threatened Illya, the Russian quickly looking down, steeling his emotions.

Napoleon let his hands rest on Illya’s shoulders.  "We’ll get through this."

Illya straightened and looked back at him, quizzically.

"I’m not talking about Kelly and Scotty.  I mean what happened four years ago, how we ended up on trial.  We’ll figure it out-- and then we’ll get--" Napoleon paused looking for the word he wanted.  "Even."  Yes.  That would be the word he wanted.

Illya gave another sharp nod and met his eyes.

Scott looked up when the apartment door opened and Napoleon entered, shaking the melting snow from his heavy winter coat.  Illya followed him through, his eyes immediately resting on the two CIA agents.

Scott felt the hair on his arms stand up.  This Illya reminded him of the one he had met in the late fifties while on a test assignment with Kelly.  Possibly even the Illya who slugged him in an Atlanta Georgia hotel back in 1965. The eyes were dead, staring straight through him.

"Kelly, Scott," Napoleon said cordially. "Great seeing you!"  He pulled off his winter coat.  April took it from him to hang up, then she returned for Illya’s. "Did you get a drink?" Napoleon asked as he helped Illya out of his coat.  "Sorry we’re late."  He handed the coat to April with scarcely more than a thanks.

There was no spark between Napoleon and April, just a tension that could well just be from his recent release, but Scott sensed more.  There was no trace of the look they shared in the photo on the end table.

"We just got here," Kelly said, standing.  "Met April and Mark."  Kelly’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the Russian’s bent hands.  "Illya, good to see you."

Scott crossed the room, shook Napoleon’s hand, then carefully reached for one of Illya’s hands, taking it gently between his own.  "It’s good to see you, man."

Illya froze, glancing to Napoleon, but made no move to withdraw his hand.

Scott released it, steering the Soviet-born U.N.C.L.E. agent toward the leather armchair.  He could feel Napoleon’s eyes on him, gauging his partner’s reaction.  Whatever it was these men had been through, it wasn’t pretty.

Mark cleared his throat, and Napoleon looked his way.  "So, we’ll be off now.  Our flight’s at ten."

"We’ll call tomorrow morning, Napoleon.  Dinner’s in the oven, probably another half hour," April said, businesslike, pulling on her coat.

"Have Paddy call me on a secure line later.  We’ll need to talk."

"Do you want us to fill him in?  On, uh, you both?"

"Let me."  Napoleon closed the door after them, then turned to his guests.  "So..."

Kelly stepped forward and embraced him, and Scott could see Napoleon relax for a moment.  "Good to see you, man."  Kelly stepped back, not hiding his scrutiny of his friend.  "Life’s thrown some curves at you since we last saw each other."

"Yeah."  Napoleon glanced at their beers on the table.  "I’ll be right back."  He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two opened bottles, one of which he set down in front of Illya.

Napoleon settled in the armchair that April had vacated.  "What brings you boys to town?"

"You," Scott supplied, studying Illya.  He leaned forward and reclaimed one of Illya’s bent hands, checked it over again, then looked up at him.  "What happened to you?" 

"He’s not speaking much these days," Napoleon said, quietly.

"I gathered that."  Scott looked back at Illya.  "We had heard you were in the triple C-P; I’m surprised you’re here."

"Just arrived yesterday. Last night," Napoleon supplied, when Illya’s gaze remained downcast.

"What’s wrong with your hands, my friend?" Scotty persisted.  He gently spread open the fingers, watching as they curled.  "Doesn’t seem to be any structural damage.  Have they been x-rayed?"

"They’re fine," Napoleon said, wearily. "The U.N.C.L.E. doctor isn’t sure what’s wrong.  Probably nothing physical.  Illya can’t pick up a pen, write, use utensils.  He’s not talking.  Not communicating yes or no.  Nothing.  Well, not nothing.  There’s been isolated movement.  He's nodded once or twice."

Scott continued his examination of Illya’s hands, noting that the pale agent had surprisingly not withdrawn them from his grasp.  "So you’re not speaking, and your hands are curled.  Can you communicate at all?" Scott asked, tilting Illya’s face up, forcing him to make eye contact.

"Don’t," Napoleon said.  "Leave him be."

Scott turned at the edginess in the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s voice.  Napoleon looked drained.  "Why?"

"He’ll come out of it when he’s ready."

"How do you know that?"

"I’m his partner, damn it."

"Scott--" Kelly warned.

Alexander Scott looked back at his partner. "I think Illya could maybe use some help here.  We’ve got to treat the illness, not the symptoms.  Napoleon’s so glad to have Illya back that he’s not pushing when he should be."

"Illya’s done this before." 

"For this long?  It’s been what, twenty-four hours?  How long has it taken before?  A few hours?"

"That was for shutting down for a day," Kelly argued. "This is three years’ worth."

"And how, may I ask, do you know this is three years’ worth?"

Kelly sighed, as though explaining this to an idiot.  "He’s been gone for three years.  I assume he--"

"Ouch, that word.  Assume.  Not a good word, is it?"

"Can we drop this?" Napoleon stood angrily.  "You’re here for dinner, not to interrogate my partner."

"Dinner’s in twenty minutes, right?" Scott waited for Napoleon to nod, mindful of his own partner’s uneasiness at the tension in the conversation.  "Give me that time."

"Scotty..." Kelly warned again, firmer this time.

Scott watched as Napoleon wrestled with his emotions, but the startling fact that Illya’s hand still lay in Scott’s was testament to something happening.  The CIA undercover agent could feel the growing force of Illya’s fist pressing down against his palm, but Illya had made no move to withdraw it.

"Illya?" Napoleon leaned forward, his eyes moving from Illya’s face to his fist.  "Your call."

Kuryakin’s left hand had been lying limply on the arm of his chair.  He lifted it and placed it next to his right hand on Scott’s palm.

Kelly sat forward at that, watching.  "Hello, Helen Keller.  What’s this?"

"This," Scotty said slowly, "is someone wanting to be heard."  He glanced to Napoleon.  "Tell me everything you know about what happened to him.  About this."

"Not much.  April and Mark got a call from Peter Baker, a CIA officer in your Soviet-Russia Division.  He suggested they head over to Finland to check out a lead he had regarding Illya. Some information on his whereabouts they thought, so they went.  Soviet authorities abandoned Illya at a Finnish border crossing yesterday morning.  He was already like this, non-communicative, and his hands twisted.  April and Mark brought him back here.  Sam Lawrence, the New York U.N.C.L.E. Chief Physician, did tests, took x-rays today.  His hands appear to be fine.  And there is no physical reason that Sam could see for the inability to speak."

"Give me more."

Napoleon exhaled.  "Okay. . . Illya wouldn’t eat, but we figured out it was because he wouldn’t or couldn’t pick up any cutlery whether they were made of metal or plastic, due to his apparent physical restrictions.  Yet, for some reason, he has the dexterity to shower, take care of himself, and can even do up the snaps on his pants."

"And you said he doesn’t touch pens, pencils?"

"Same thing.  We tried all the usual ways and a stack of different ways of communicating with him, and he doesn’t respond."

"Why not?"

Napoleon’s temper flared.  "He was in Soviet hands for three years.  By the looks of the marks on him, they wanted information. They did everything they could to get it."  Napoleon rubbed the back of his neck, restlessly.  "Our biggest fear is that they’ve conditioned him somehow, and made a point of releasing him back to us.  But to do what?  Sabotage U.N.C.L.E.?  Sabotage something else?  Assassinate someone? -- What did they do to him that left him like this?"

"May I?" Scott asked Illya, who looked up at him.  Taking that as a 'yes', Scott peeled off the turtleneck sweater Illya was wearing, checked him over, fingered the scars, the marks.  "Which ones are new, Napoleon?  Since you last saw him?"

At Napoleon’s sudden silence, Scott looked over to him. "Now what?"

"I have a minor lapse of memory," Solo admitted.

"Really?  How minor?"

"I remember the election.  Nixon being elected.  Then nothing until November 14, when I woke up in the hospital."

Kelly frowned.  "So only a week?"

"No," Solo admitted, "the 1968 election."

"Over four years, then."  Kelly nodded, to himself.

Napoleon was quick to notice it. "You don’t sound surprised at that."

"So you remember nothing from the November '68 election until now.  As near as you can figure, when would you have last seen Illya?" Kelly asked.

"From what I gather, mid-December 1969.  The end of the trial. I was taken away to jail, and Illya was immediately sent to the USSR."  Napoleon shrugged, then got up and approached his partner.  "Scott, if it’ll help, I can point out the scars I’m aware of, but I’m not sure what happened in 1969.  Some injuries might have been during our cases that year."

"That’s fine.  It’ll just give me something to compare against.  You read over your cases from '69, right?  Any injuries mentioned?"

"Not really.  Minor scrapes.  Not even a concussion."

After a quick check, Illya had his turtleneck back on less than a minute later.  Scott thoughtfully studied the Russian chugging back his beer, the bottle clenched in twisted hands.

"Your prognosis, Doctor?" Kelly asked.

"Hmm?"  Scott frowned, scratching at his chin.  "Dinner ready yet?"

It was almost time.  Napoleon got up and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later.  "The oven turned itself off.  Let me put the stew on the table.  Are you done, Scotty?"

"Almost.  Kelly, go help the man with the food."

Kelly saluted and they left Scott alone with Illya.  He turned back to the Russian, pleased that the intense blue eyes were watching him carefully. 

Napoleon put some dinner plates on the table, then the cutlery.  He faltered while placing Illya’s.  "Shit."  The fork and knife clamored to the table.  He rubbed at his forehead.  "I didn’t think this through very well.  Illya’s been limited to fruit and sandwiches. Things he can eat with his hands."

Kelly came up behind him, placing the large pot on the table.  "It’s stew, so why not a mug?"

"How about an experiment?" Scott suggested.

"Just drop it for now. " Napoleon’s headache had obviously blossomed.  "After dinner."

Illya made a moaning growl sound that had three heads whipping his way.  There was no expression on his face.

"So was that a yes or a no?" Kelly asked.

"I don’t think he does yes or no.  Just 'pay attention you stupid fools’."  Scott helped Illya to his feet and over to the table.  Before he sat down, though, Scott switched chairs, putting a padded stool where the dining chair had been.  Illya sat on the stool.  "Scoot forward," Scott instructed.  Illya did so.

"Follows instructions, I see."  Kelly sat down across the table from them.

"He’s been doing that all along," Napoleon said, unimpressed.

"So, Napoleon, sit behind him for now.  Kelly, dish up some stew."  Scott grabbed Napoleon’s arm when it appeared the U.N.C.L.E. agent was rooted to the spot.  "That’s it, right in behind him.  Now put your hands flat on the table on either side of him."

"You want me to feed him from behind?"  Napoleon started to back away.  "It would be easier if I was looking at him."

"No, I want you to stay where you are."  The stew was on the plate now.  "Okay, Illya, I want you to pick up the spoon."

Illya remained motionless, staring at the plate.  His arm started vibrating.  Sweat appeared on his forehead.

"This isn’t working--" Napoleon began, then his right ear was ringing where Scott had cuffed him. "What the hell was that?"

"Wicked, isn’t it," Kelly commiserated.  "Just be glad he didn’t smack both ears at the same time."

Scott ignored them.  "Illya.  Eat your stew.  Use the spoon.  Do what you have to, to get the spoon to your mouth without touching it."

Illya remained motionless.

Scott picked up Illya’s hand and placed it on top of Napoleon’s.  Illya’s hand tightened.  Scott could hear the man’s heavy breathing as he concentrated and was aware Napoleon was holding his breath.  Scott whispered to Napoleon, "Let him guide you.  Do what he wants."

As Illya locked his fingers around Napoleon’s, their joined hands moved to the spoon and picked it up.  Then moved to the plate, scooping up a small amount of the stew.  Then, finally, making the trip to Illya’s mouth.  The entire procedure repeated. 

By then, Scott had a pen and paper ready.  Kelly lifted the plate away, and the spoon fell from Napoleon’s hand, which was then moved to grab the pen.  The frantic writing was large and almost illegible at first until the two men figured a way of managing everything.  Scott read out loud.

"I also remember nothing from the 1968 election to seeing Mark and April in Finland."

The evening moved slowly.  Illya was hungry and with Napoleon’s help finished a plate of stew.  He waited restlessly for them to eat, then used Napoleon’s hand to write more.  Napoleon could feel his frustration, their hearts pounding in unison as he leaned against his partner and watched over Illya’s shoulder as the Russian agent laboriously wrote a few pages of the little he remembered. 

"So what it comes down to," Kelly said later, warming his glass of brandy between his palms, "it that the last thing both of you remember is the November 1968 election.  And the question is, why?"

"Because whatever happened to us happened after that date," Napoleon supplied. "Fairly straightforward."

"And because it was a significant event they could be sure both you and Illya would remember."  Scott stared at his brandy as it slowly whirled in the glass.  "If I were to say to you, forget everything from March 13, 1969, onward, who could be sure you would be able to pinpoint that date in your mind a few years later."

"While the election, unlike a holiday, would be significant enough that there would likely be some memory attached to it."

"So, again, who would have access to you?"

"Obviously, we don’t remember that."  Napoleon pushed off the armchair and began to pace, aware of Illya’s sharp eyes watching him.  "It could have happened anytime after that--or before that, for that matter."

"Assume it’s after.  Napoleon, your memory was fine up until a few weeks ago.  Let’s assume for now, that Illya’s was fine, too.  So what do you know about what happened after the November '68 election?"

"We were set up and thrown in jail."

"And Illya was deported and tossed in jail," Kelly added.

"And tortured for three years," Napoleon growled.

"Was he?" Scott asked. 

Napoleon stopped pacing to glare at the calm CIA agent, sprawled back comfortably on the couch, his feet crossed on Aunt Amy’s probably priceless antique coffee table. 

"Napoleon-- and you listen too, Illya-- the scars and marks you didn’t recognize are at least three years old.  I think whatever they tried to do in the Soviet Union didn’t work, probably because Illya threw himself into his zombie routine and refused to acknowledge them, speak, or when forced to do so, write.  There is no sign of torture that isn’t long since healed.  The sores on his head are caused by malnutrition, and a bad case of head lice that fortunately has recently been treated."

"But he said he’s forgotten everything.  He doesn’t remember anything since November 1968."

"Same as you."  Scott finished his brandy and looked expectantly at his partner, who got up and refilled his glass.

"Just because you’re being so smart tonight, Mr Rhodes Scholar," Kelly grumbled, topping off his own glass, and then Napoleon’s.  Illya thumped his glass to the coffee table, ignoring Napoleon’s wince, and Kelly dutifully refilled it.

Scott turned to Illya, who regarded him intently over the top of his brandy glass. "Illya, listen carefully.  I might be wrong, but I really don’t think you’re a time bomb.  I don’t think you gave them time to do anything to you there.  You zombied-out before they did anything.  I think they just ended up throwing you in a cell somewhere.  They basically ignored you until someone came asking and they were only too happy to get rid of you.  I think it’s safe to say that you didn’t tell them anything, either vocally or written.  So let that percolate through that brain of yours, then you need to come out and play again."

Scott turned to Napoleon.  "And now for why we’re here."

Napoleon sat down.  "Not just a friendly visit, I take it."  He waved for them to continue.

"Kelly, go ahead," Scott gestured.

"Me?  Why me?  You’ve been doing fine so far."

"I dealt with Illya.  You deal with Napoleon.  He’s your friend."

"My friend?  Well, maybe, yeah. But he’s your friend, too."

"You’ve known him longer."

"Now, we’ve had this argument before.  What’s mine is yours, right?  Now, you’re on a roll here, and I’m waiting to find out who did the murder.  Was it Mr Green or Colonel Mustard?  Pray tell."

"We agreed on the way up here that--"

"Agreed?  I think not.  You just said that--"

"Shut up."

All three men turned in astonishment and looked at Illya, who was sipping his brandy.

"Okay, that’s a start," Kelly said, a smile taking over his face.  He tilted his glass in a silent "cheers" to Illya, then reluctantly leaned forward.  "Okay, I’ll be a sport.  So, where were we?"

"DC," Scotty prompted.

"Ah, yes.  Okay, it’s like this, Napoleon.  My illustrious partner and I have been keeping tabs on things, looking into a few matters relating to your incarceration, and we noticed one of the primary antagonists, one of our own CIA agents, suddenly is no longer with the company."

"Donald Johnson."

"Right, Napoleon.  Mr Soviet Counter-Intelligence himself.  He disappears from Washington, DC., not a mark on his record other than "early retirement" which is not a crime and indeed something that has crossed our own minds on numerous occasions--"

"Especially when recuperating in the hospital," Scott added.

"You want to tell this, or should I?" Kelly asked, pointedly.

"Go ahead, bro."

"So, Johnson disappears from Washington CIA and Washington itself.  Since he’s the one who came up with the supposed incriminating evidence against both of you, he’s been-- how should I put it-- in the doghouse in our books ever since.  Less than a week after he leaves, suddenly all the charges against you are found to be false, Napoleon, and in record time, you’re released and are miraculously returned to your old life-- with the added pesky nuisance of not remembering the last four years.  Within a few more days, across the globe, Illya is booted out of the USSR with not even a set of clean clothes, and, although he’s minus a few years and a little quieter than normal, he’s back under U.N.C.L.E.’s awning."

"I’ve heard nothing new in this so far," Napoleon said, impatiently.

"Tell him," Scott mumbled.

"Johnson took a flight to Rome," Kelly deadpanned.  "Then to Milan."

The silence in the room was thunderous.

"Milan?" Napoleon repeated.

"Milan.  Now, you don’t have to confirm this, Napoleon-- I know it’s top secret and all-- but the CIA is well aware that there is an U.N.C.L.E. Summit happening at this time in Milan.  And Johnson has joined them.  Any idea why?"

Napoleon slowly turned to look at his partner.  "Good question, isn’t it?"

"Very good," Illya replied.

continued

Chapter Text

New York Apartment
Saturday, December 2, 1965, 7:10 A.M.

The day after Kelly and Scott’s visit, Napoleon woke with plans to head straight into headquarters and start to work on the Summit situation.  There was a disorienting moment opening his eyes to see Illya sleeping beside him. There was no way he was even going to remotely stop and consider why he was still sharing a bed with Illya when there were three other bedrooms in the apartment.

Life had been so unsettled these past few days and weeks-- and years-- that it was somehow... right.  Safe, his mind echoed.  Comforting, not that he would admit it.

Napoleon slipped out of bed, relieved to see Illya was still soundly asleep.  Even looked peaceful.  He gathered his robe and tiptoed out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

A quick trip to the bathroom, and he continued through the apartment.  It was nice not having April underfoot, yet he missed her at the same time.  Ever since his return from his remembered one week in prison, she had been there, usually with Mark shadowing her, but she had been there, more comfortable in his own apartment than he was, showing him where he now kept this or that, assuring him he could put it wherever he wanted.  Trouble was, everything was in a place that made sense to him, rubbing in the fact that despite his lack of memory of doing so, he had indeed moved into this apartment in 1969. With April.

Take his office, for instance.  He paused at the entrance of the den.  His desk was at an odd angle in the room, but it caught the light just so, and he had to appreciate his obvious decorative skills.  The books he needed were on the lower shelves, while upper shelves appeared to be a mix of Aunt Amy’s books, old novels he had read, and his university texts, destined to be read no more.  A few books he didn’t recognize lined the shelves, several with April’s name on the inside cover, and one expensive volume of Voltaire had an inscription: 'To my darling husband on Thanksgiving.  You’re the number one thing I’m thankful for.’  The book was lodged between his old copy of Descartes and a well-thumbed high school paperback of Plato’s The Trial and Death of Socrates.  All of which was too weird to deal with before his first coffee of the day.

The dining room table still held the chinaware from their coffee and dessert with Kelly and Scott, and a conversation that had extended well into the early morning hours.  As though pardoned and released by Scotty’s assessment of his condition, Illya’s hands were able to hold eating utensils more or less securely and slowly he was managing the task of writing-- difficult after what was likely years of non-use and the lack of dexterity that brought.  Speaking was still difficult and tended to be in bursts rather than normal dialogue, but the two partners had worked together long enough that they were making themselves understood with little difficulty.

Napoleon stacked the dishes and brought them into the kitchen.  Entering the kitchen of this place was like entering a magazine layout for an appliance manufacturer.  Everything gleamed with utilitarian efficiency.  It wasn’t that it was a particularly feminine kitchen, it just wasn’t one that he would have chosen.  He appreciated the in-suite washer and dryer, but when he had commented on how much he liked them, April had reluctantly told him they were a wedding gift from him to her, after which he had apologized for his blunder in timing of gifts.  She had laughed and said he had now apologized a significant amount of times, and it was all good.

At least those were still his cooking pans hanging from hooks near the stove.  His eyes glanced to them each time he entered the kitchen, as though checking to make sure he really was allowed to enter this foreign room.  The state-of-the-art percolator, he had been told, was also his, but it was purchased in that murky bachelor time between the November 1968 election and September of 1969 when he apparently married his junior associate.

He rinsed it out, filled it to the water line, then added the metal basket.  He savored the smell of the freshly ground coffee beans he took from an electric grinder he had, he was told, received as a free gift for purchasing the percolator.

At the first gurgle from the percolator, Illya appeared in the doorway of the kitchen in a sleep-wrinkled white T-shirt and pajama bottoms, his short hair standing on end and flatted on the right side where he had been sleeping.

"Coffee beckoned?" Napoleon asked.

Illya gestured to the grinder, then plopped down at the kitchen table, resting his head on his crossed arms.  From that angle Napoleon could see the sores on his scalp were already healing.  Maybe they’d both make it out of this alive and in one piece. 

That was always the bottom line.  Alive and in one piece.  Or alive and together. 

He was suddenly grateful for forgetting the years they were apart.  It would have been too painful.  He had thought about what it must have been like sitting in prison those long, endless years.  He imagined the pain of being separated from Illya, wondering how he was doing, if he was alive, if he was--  And he had wondered how he could have possibly coped with the rest of his twenty plus year prison sentence, never knowing what had befallen Illya.  Maybe that was why he hadn’t written it down.  It hurt too much. 

The intrusive jangling ring of a telephone jarred him from his thoughts.  He followed the sound to a phone the exact silver-gray color of the countertop it was on, and he wondered how long it had taken April to find it to purchase, or if it was just a lucky coincidence.  He couldn’t imagine shopping for it himself.  Phones were black.

"Hello," he answered, on the third ring. It was Norm Graham’s wife.

"Trish, how wonderful to hear your voice."  Illya’s head had come up sharply when Napoleon said her name and he automatically reached for the phone.

"Just a minute, Trish."  Napoleon was reluctant to hand the receiver over, despite Illya’s light tug on it.  "Illya?  How?"

"Trish?" Illya mumbled into the receiver, talking just fine, switching mid-sentence to Russian, somehow managing the long strings of consonants in a voice that sounded like he had a bad cold.  He still had his head resting on his arms on the table while he talked, looking more like a school boy than a thirty-three year old agent just released from a Soviet prison.

Finally the phone was handed back to Napoleon.  Illya looked longingly at the still percolating coffee pot, then disappeared out of the kitchen with a murmured, "Shower."

"Trish?" Napoleon said into the phone again. 

They were coming to visit.  Norm was driving them up and she was calling from the diner where they had stopped for breakfast.  They couldn’t stay long, she said sadly, but she had to see Illya.  To know he was okay.

He talked to you, Napoleon thought.  More than he’s talked to me.  But he invited them to stay for lunch and hung up the phone, wondering what he would possibly make.  A quick look in the fridge revealed few ingredients, so from memory he called the deli he used to order from, relieved they still had the same phone number and still delivered.  He ordered a variety of sandwiches, pickles, and soft drinks for twelve o’clock noon, gave his account number with them, also off the top of his head, made sure they had the correct address-- which they did-- and hung up the phone.

So much for dealing with the fate of the world.  Napoleon had company and would be getting to the office late.

He crossed to Illya’s bedroom, collected the few things he had left there, and moved himself into the other guest room.  It was light and fresh, and the bed had his familiar old bedspread on it.  When he checked, on a whim, he discovered it was also his bed frame and mattress from his other apartment.  The dresser drawers were empty, though, so he made a quick trip into the master bedroom, secured some clothes and a few suits, and brought them to his new room, hanging the suits in the narrow closet, and placing socks, underwear, and undershirts in the creaky drawers.  Another trip for shirts, still in their dry cleaning packages from his old neighborhood, and shoes.  He reluctantly admitted, looking down at the large collection on the floor of the master bedroom’s walk-in closet, that he had a weakness for good-quality shoes.

The shower stopped with a clang of the pipes that Napoleon made a note to call a plumber to fix, and Illya stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and disappeared into his bedroom.  Napoleon briefly considered showering in the large en suite in the master bedroom, but he’d already trespassed into the room twice that day, and he felt that was sufficient.

The bathroom smelled of Illya and some unknown shampoo.  The mirror had been swiped at, Illya probably wiping a portion of it with a towel so he could shave.  The bath mat, which Illya never could get the hang of, was bunched to one corner of the damp floor, as dry as Gideon’s fleece.

It would be interesting sharing an apartment with Illya, Napoleon thought as he stepped into the shower.  It would be weird also sharing it with April.  At least there was a chaperone, but he wasn’t entirely sure who was chaperoning whom.

Illya stared at himself in the full-length bedroom mirror on the back of his bedroom door, then dropped the towel. He studied every inch of his body, the scars, the sores, the bruises already fading.  The scars he knew, each bullet hole, knife wound, and injury.  Nothing new.

He could hear the shower running in the next room.  Napoleon’s things were missing from the bedroom.  Illya's bedroom.  Illya studied the room with the same scrutiny he had given himself. 

What was happening?

Four years gone?  How could that be?

Yet, they had encountered strangeness like this and more in his years with U.N.C.L.E.  How many insane devices?  How many mad scientists?  How many Thrush, CIA, or KGB interrogators and their inhumane methods of extracting information?

Were the memories gone, erased, deleted from his mind?  Irretrievable?  The years forever lost to him?  Despite what he well knew might have occurred while in the hands of the KGB for three years, they were his memories.  What had he thought about, alone in a cell for that time?  Or had he been alone?  Had he even been imprisoned?  He had only the word of others that this had happened. 

What if during that time he was not in prison?  What if he had somehow... switched sides?

No.

Not of his own free will.  Not in his own mind.

Rather than erasing his memories, had someone scooped his memories, then?  Taken them from him?  Were they being accessed, read, watched like some stolen top-secret film?  Who would have taken them?  And how? 

Or were his memories merely hidden?  Beneath some coded block, perhaps the memories were still there.  Waiting.

For what?

A trigger?  Was he a sleeper?  Waiting.  For what?  To kill whom?  To destroy what?  In a day?  A week?  A month?  Ten years?

Illya sank to the edge of the bed.  His heart was pounding too fast, and dizziness threatened.  Merely the heat of the shower, he gamely told himself.

Or was the block merely of his own design?  Granted, he had done this before-- willed himself away, kept himself safe from them by blocking everything.

Alexander Scott believed he had done this from the instant he had been taken, that he had not given up any information.  It would be easy to cling to that belief, but life was rarely that simple.  Never that simple.

Illya looked up to see Napoleon standing in the doorway, already dressed from his shower.

"You can’t trust me."

Napoleon shook his head.  "I trust no one else, my friend.  I’m making us breakfast."

Napoleon left, and Illya sat a moment longer, then moved to his dresser and withdrew a mock turtleneck sweater he had not worn in... a long time.  A pair of dark corduroy slacks.  He looked at himself in the mirror again.  The hair was wrong, but the other outer reminders of his former life were a comfortable fit. 

If only his inner turmoil could so easily be fixed.

Sitting at the breakfast table, sharing a meal... it was so normal, it ached.

Napoleon watched his partner pick up a fork, hold onto it tightly despite the trembling of his hand, then take a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"It’s good," Illya mumbled, his voice still raspy.  "Quit watching me."

"Maybe I enjoy watching you."  Napoleon smiled.  "Have you thought of that?"

"I could easily kill you as you sleep.  Have you thought of that?" Illya did not meet his eyes.

"Of course. " Napoleon watched Illya pause, then place the fork down and reach for a piece of buttered toast.  "As I could kill you as you sleep."

Illya glanced up at him, a frown already forming.

Napoleon tapped his forehead.  "Don’t forget, I also have time unaccounted for.  Whatever goes for you, goes for me.  Maybe we have secret plans to blow up U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, the United Nations Building, the White House, and then shoot each other."

"Then maybe we should do the latter and save the rest for others."  Illya ate his slice of toast in a few bites of renewed appetite.

Napoleon poured them each another cup of coffee.  "Or what if we just go on living, and I’ll promise to shoot you if you do anything weird, and you promise to shoot me if I suddenly take an interest in blowing up government buildings or assassinating officials."

Illya paused, the coffee cup partway to his mouth.  "Define 'weird’."

"Good point.  How about we just be careful?  Sam knows all the tricks out there and if he thinks we’re safe--"

"That’s ridiculous.  How could he possibly know all the devious plots involving mind control?"

"Illya, consider this all another way.  Instead of us looking at ourselves and what might happen one day, let’s concentrate our efforts on what put us in this situation.  Who put us in this situation.  And why?"

Illya nodded after a moment.  "Agreed.  Although if I act sufficiently weird, please feel free to shoot me.  I would prefer you use a sleep dart, but a bullet might be quicker."  He slowly stretched his fingers.  "My hands ache," he admitted.

"When the Grahams leave, we’ll go into HQ, get checked out by Sam again--he's left word he'll be in for a few hours--then start to work."

"Just like that? I am concerned that Norm Graham’s reinstatement of our ranks may be more nostalgic and wishful thinking than following protocol."

Napoleon couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at Illya’s raspy speech.  Not bad, considering his first words were scarcely twelve hours earlier.  "Charges were dropped against us.  In fact, not only dropped, they were ruled to be falsified charges in the first place.  We’re back to being U.N.C.L.E.’s golden boys."

"Looking at your hair, I think we’re soon to become U.N.C.L.E.’s silver boys."  Illya sipped at his coffee, most of his breakfast now abandoned.  "Surely Alexander Waverly knows we have returned.  Why has there been no communication from him?  No instructions?" 

"I ask you this, Ilyusha: What do you want to do?  Stare at each other and wait for possibly something to happen?"

"Or should we go out in a blaze of glory like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?"

"Who?"

"That movie we saw."

"What movie?"

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

"I’ve never heard of it."

"We saw it the night before your..."  Illya’s eyes shut tightly, one hand grasping his forehead.  "It was a movie," he whispered around the pain.

"Illya?"

"It was a movie.  We saw it.  We argued... which was Butch Cassidy..."  Illya sat hunched over for a moment, then stumbled to his feet and lurched through the living room, down the hall to the bathroom.

Napoleon grabbed a pen and wrote down the name, frowning at it.  The hair on the back of his arms was on end.

Illya flung open the door of the apartment and scooped Trish Graham into his arms.  She screamed in joy, hugging him, capturing his face in hers.  Norm rolled his eyes at Napoleon in affectionate dismay, then put the squirming young boy in his arms on the living room carpet.

"Kolya, this is Mr Solo."

"You can call me Napoleon," Solo said, offering his hand.

"Napoleon?" the child asked, frowning, shaking his hand solemnly.  He edged closer to his father as he turned to Illya, probably wondering who that man was who was so enthusiastically hugging his mother.

Nicholas Graham was six.  Small and serious.  A little scared at this particular moment.

"Would you like to come in, Kolya?"

The invitation was met with the little boy turning and lifting his hands in the air for his father to pick him up, then he buried his face in Norm’s neck, hiding as effectively as a little ostrich.

Norm shrugged.  "He’s shy at first.  Don’t worry about it."  Norm listened to something Kolya whispered to him. "Yes, he’s Polly Lion."

Napoleon smiled at the child’s previous name for him.  'Napoleon’ was too difficult for a toddler to say and the nickname 'Polly Lion’ had stuck.  Ilyusha, the name Norm and Trish called Illya, had turned into "Shoo-Shoo".

Norman tilted his chin towards Illya. "He’s doing better."

"We had a bit of breakthrough last night."

"Good.  I had nightmares about how Trish and the kids would deal with him not speaking.  Even his hands look better."

"Getting there.  He can write and pick up a fork now, at least.  And he’s talking."

"I can’t tell you what good news that is. --Anything from Alexander?" Norm asked softly.

Napoleon shook his head.  Illya pulled away from Trish to greet Tanya.  The young woman would be in her mid-twenties now.  She was an interpreter at the United Nations, with no interest in being a part of U.N.C.L.E. like her older brother and father.  And Illya.  She was beautiful, tall and slim, her long blonde hair cascading down her back.  She couldn’t stay, she told Illya.  She had to go to work.  A luncheon.  She just wanted to say hello.  She was glad he was back.  She handed him a bracelet that had his name on it, his birthdate, and the day he was deported.

She explained softly that she had made it to resemble the bracelets currently being worn around the country in honor of missing Vietnam POWs. He was her POW, and now she was able to hand him back the bracelet.

He asked her if they could have lunch sometime, and she nodded, then held out her left hand, almost apologetically, saying she was engaged.  His name was Paoul.  He was from Portugal and worked at the United Nations.

Illya stared at her ring, then smiled, and kissed her cheek.  Her eyes teared over, and she kissed both his cheeks, then fled out the door.  Illya watched her go, then took a deep breath and looked over to Kolya, securely squashed against Norm’s legs. 

For a brief moment, Napoleon wondered if Illya should be allowed to touch the child, his clone.  What would happen?  Would they both explode?  Or was that only in Science Fiction B movies?  But Illya had held Kolya before.  Had talked with him.  Read to him.  When Kolya was a few weeks old, Illya had rescued him from a Thrush base about to explode and had given him to Norm and Trish Graham to raise as their son.  

Napoleon knew intellectually that there were two boys living in Canada who were his clones, but somehow he felt disconnected from them.  Good luck, he had thought flippantly, as he had read about the couple who had adopted first one, then the other.  The four-year-old sister who adored her baby brothers.  He knew they were better off without his meddling.

But Kolya.  He had watched Kolya grow from newborn to a two year old, and rarely considered after the first few visits how the boy’s life had begun. He was Kolya Graham.  Kind of a cute little kid who really didn’t seem like the picture of Illya and his birth parents when he was two that was now in Illya’s safety deposit box. That little boy was so serious.  So solemn.  A different world away from the little tyke in faded Oshkosh overalls toddling across the Washington, D.C., U.N.C.L.E. Safe House back grass.

"He’s so big," Illya said, in Russian, his hand resting on the boy’s back.

Kolya was actually small for his age, Napoleon judged, remembering the rambunctious Misha Graham at age six.  Misha who now went by Mike and lounged in the doorway with the affected bored look that went with being sixteen.  Napoleon’s anger with him disappeared when Mike broke free of the doorway to hug Illya, clearly relishing the fact that he was now the same height as his adopted Russian brother.

The elevator arrived and Tanya escaped into it as the delivery man from the deli showed up with their sandwiches.  Napoleon herded Illya and his guests into the dining room.  He offered a tour of the apartment, but apparently Norm and Trish had been there before. Another memory lost.

They sat around the table and ate and talked and laughed, and Napoleon felt something loosen in his chest.  Life was possible again.  Illya was free and he was free, and maybe they were missing a few years, and maybe they were both a few years older than they had any right to be, but they had family and friends, and life was possible again.

He wondered if his father was still alive.  If Antonio still taught at the University of Toronto and still lived on Ward’s Island in a cottage that faced the water.

All too soon, Norm scooped up Kolya who was slumped in front of the color television watching a kids program, collected Trish and Mike and left, promising to be at the Tuesday afternoon meeting Napoleon had planned.  They had a long five-hour drive ahead of them, and they wanted to get home while the roads were still good.  They left with boxed sandwiches for their trip, Napoleon not sure why he’d ordered so many.

"Norm?  Before you go?"  Napoleon stepped out into the corridor while Illya was saying goodbye to Trish, as though to give them a moment of privacy.  "I’ve got a question for you."

"Shoot."

"Have you heard of a movie called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?"

Norman laughed.  "Yeah.  It was a popular one a few years ago.  Why?"

"Do you remember exactly when it came out?"

Norm shifted Kolya to his other hip.  "No. That’s not exactly my field of expertise.  I can find out for you though.  Some reason?"

"Maybe.  Just let me know when it came out."

The apartment was quiet after the Grahams left. Ticking clocks and the distant echo of the buildings pipes.

"Shall we go to the office?"  It was already two-thirty in the afternoon, but really, what else were they going to do?  Watch the kids’ television program? 

Illya clicked off the set and disappeared into his bedroom, returning with jacket and shoes.  Napoleon tossed him a scarf, put on his own coat and gloves, and they ventured out into the New York streets, walking together, in synch, down the crowded sidewalk.

U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York 
3:00 P.M.

Sam Lawrence snagged Illya soon after they entered the building, and Napoleon suspected the security woman at the entrance had ratted on him.

"I’m fine," Illya said to the doctor, his voice still raspy.  "Let it go."

"Humor me." Sam tugged on his arm, and Illya turned to Napoleon in annoyance, then capitulated when he saw there would be no help from his partner.

"Fine. Before I leave tonight, I will come down."

"Now," the doctor insisted, pulling Illya down the corridor with him.  "You’re talking, and I have questions."

Napoleon headed for Waverly’s office, surprised at the number of phone messages which had piled up since the previous evening.  Yet when he looked at who they were from, it made sense.  Others were concerned, as well.  He spent the next hour placing calls, personally inviting all the Acting Chiefs to New York for an emergency meeting.  They needed to pool their resources, find out what everyone knew, then figure their next step, if indeed, they needed to take action at all.

Illya returned as he finished his last call. 

"Everything okay?"

"I’m healthy, much to the doctor’s regret, I fear.  He has no excuse to puncture me further."  Now that sounded like the Illya he knew.  "So where are we at?"

"On the credenza are four piles of documents," Napoleon began, leaning back in Waverly’s oversized chair.  "On the left are our cases in 1968 before the election, then the ones we did between the election and our arrest in 1969.  The next stack of documents are our trial transcripts, and the last a summary of several events on which we need to be up to date: the Watergate trials, which are ongoing, the coverage of the release of the Pentagon Papers to the media and copies of the documents involved, and a briefing on the SALT talks."

Illya picked up the first stack of file cases and headed to the conference table.

Napoleon smiled as he watched Illya flip the top file open, put on his new glasses, and start scanning the papers within.  Sam Lawrence had given him a rubber ball to work with, increasing his hand strength, and he read and squeezed throughout the afternoon until Lawrence called him down for the first of his daily physiotherapy sessions.

Solo watched him reluctantly leave the conference table, snagging a file as he wandered out the door to the infirmary, and the acting Head of U.N.C.L.E. worldwide was filled with hope.

At five p.m., a call came in from Xavier Garcia, who Napoleon had sent to Milan.

"Flag was just put down for the night."

"By whom?  Could you see?"

"The caretaker, I’m told."

"What does the local office have to say?"

"They’re just as perplexed as we are.  Their orders, though, were to stand by.  Only if the flag was not raised or lowered on schedule were they to approach the resort."

"Okay, Xavier.  Stay there for now.  Tomorrow is Sunday, and we’re at the two-week mark.  Let me know if anything changes before the meeting here on Tuesday.  We’ll make a decision then."

Napoleon hung up.  I’ll make a decision then.

continued

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 3, 1972

I awake Sunday morning from a nightmare where I have succeeded in planting huge amounts of dynamite throughout the New York Headquarters.

I am methodical, careful, studying the floor plans and determining where to place the explosives to do the most damage.  I leave, slipping out the exit Waverly usually uses, a dark staircase that absorbs the sound of my footsteps as I calmly follow the route to the outside.

I look at my watch.  There is time for a drink.  I walk down the street and into a bar, a seedy place below ground level, where the floors are sticky, the bar stools patched and grimy, and the beer is cold and biting. I take my time, enjoying the beer, drinking from the bottle.  I watch the clock,  the second hand slowly making its way around and around. 

Finally, I throw some coins on the counter and leave, moving from the false darkness and flickering neon signs to the bright street and the beautiful winter day.  The stores are open, people rushing by, mothers with babies in strollers, men with briefcases, teenagers skipping school to stroll shamelessly down the street, arm in arm, looking furtively over their shoulders for the truant officer who was sitting next to me at the bar watching the inept floorshow.

I walk down the block, away from the bar and the brick buildings of U.N.C.L.E.  A newspaper stand displays today’s paper, December 7, a Thursday.  I pick up a copy, and fold it, then put it under my arm.  I move across the street, where I can see the building, and glance at my watch.  Finally, there is a low grumble and the ground begins to shake.  I laugh as the building erupts, chunks of concrete and plaster, filing cabinets and top secret papers shoot into the air, then settle in a pile of rubble. 

As a fire begins to blaze, countless treated documents also spontaneously burst into flame as they react to the air around them; and I walk away, my communicator pen tuned to some unknown frequency as I report that I have done my job, as ordered.  The building is destroyed.

I hear a voice behind me telling me to halt.  I turn.  It’s Illya.  He’s bleeding, his clothing rumpled and torn, his glasses askew on his face.  He has a gun trained on me.

"Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"

"What?"

"Why, Napoleon?" he asks.  "Why did you do it?"

"I don’t know," I answer.  Suddenly my heart is hammering in my chest as I realize the scope of what I’ve done. 

I was the time bomb, after all.  I blew up U.N.C.L.E. New York.  I killed hundreds of innocent people.  "I don’t know," I say again, as if that will provide enough answer. 

But it doesn’t.  My communicator drops from my hand.  I take my gun, raise it to my temple, then pull the trigger.

My alarm is ringing.

Illya stands in my doorway.  "Napoleon?" he asks, then slowly moves forward and turns off the alarm.  "Everything okay?" he asks, looking at my sweat-drenched face.

"I don’t know," I tell him.  "I don’t know."

U.N.C.L.E. HQ New York
Sunday, December 3, 1972, 1:15 P.M.

For a Sunday afternoon, the New York U.N.C.L.E. office was humming with activity.  A threat had been made against the United Nations building from some unknown group claiming to be the "Sisters of Satan’s Revenge" and a call had gone out to all agencies for information.  As of yet, U.N.C.L.E. had come up with nothing, and Napoleon largely suspected it was a prank.

He had spent part of the morning in Sam Lawrence’s office, at first reluctant to tell his dream, then once he started, only too glad to share his concerns.  If voicing his concerns would help, he would do it.  There was no way he wanted to be known as the former U.N.C.L.E. sleeper agent who had single-handedly brought down the New York headquarters.

Sam reviewed all Napoleon’s test results with him, including the numerous psychological tests, and declared several times that in his opinion, Napoleon’s basic U.N.C.L.E. conditioning had not been tampered with.

Napoleon suspected that if he asked one more time, Sam was going to snap at him.

The issue of the four lost years, though, continued to haunt him.  Who did this?  Who had access to me?  It had to have been in the hospital when he first arrived from the jail, but there had been guards around him all the time, or bona fide doctors, or U.N.C.L.E. agents.  If there was indeed a trip word or phrase given, no one knew exactly when this had occurred.

Maybe it was in prison, an unrecorded visit.  Kelly and Scott suspected the CIA and had gone to ground in Washington, DC, searching for information.  Kelly especially seemed to have it in for the missing Donald Johnson, deciding he was Satan’s spawn.

Napoleon glanced at the name of the group that had allegedly threatened the United Nations Building and contemplated calling Kelly to ask if Donald Johnson had any sisters.

There was the usual warning beep at the door, then Illya walked into Waverley’s office, clenching and unclenching his hands.  If the habit continued, he was going to make all of U.N.C.L.E’s enforcement agents increasingly nervous.  With Illya’s former reputation still the talk of the lower levels, the angry-looking motion with his hands was spreading a theory that everybody had best be out of his path.  He was only exercising his weakened muscles, as prescribed by the U.N.C.L.E. physiotherapist, but Napoleon decided to let the rumors stay for now.

Illya had worked his way through the first three piles of files Napoleon had put aside for him and was currently engrossed in the fourth pile, the information on Watergate, the Pentagon Papers, and SALT I and II.  With a huff of impatience, Illya settled at the conference table and reopened the files.

Napoleon moved aside the Sisters of Satan’s Revenge and headed for the door.  "I’m going to go grab something for lunch.  What can I bring you?"

"I am fine."

"I know.  What can I bring you?"

Illya looked up, then shrugged.  "Whatever your heart desires," he said with a small smile. 

There were moments like that.  Moments where the sheer joy of resorting to triviality after so long an absence broke through the tension and urgency of their situation. 

All too quickly, Illya returned to his careful study of the documents, and Napoleon left the office. 

He walked purposefully to the elevator, nodding to those who passed him in the corridors.  So many he did not recognize.  So many had died in the past four years.  He had read the obituaries, quietly mourning some, shaking his head in bewilderment at others.  Most of the deaths had occurred subsequently to his arrest, trial, and sentencing.  Not that April or Mark were to blame.  Just small accidents.  Isolated incidents.  The thought rubbed at him-- If I had been there, maybe I would have made a difference.  Even saved one life.

The elevator was empty.  He rubbed his neck, stretching it slowly from side to side.  He stared at the floor indicators as they passed, his eyes resting on the number two button.

Was Illya the time bomb? 

Despite Alexander Scott’s firm belief-- and Sam Lawrence’s numerous tests-- had something been done to his partner?  Well, obviously something had been done.  Illya had no memories from November 1968 until he was rescued at the Finnish border a few days earlier.  No head injury to blame for the loss of time, unlike Solo’s.

One idea was that whatever had been done to them had been done years before, then triggered, like an avalanche coming down and hiding whatever it was they had seen or done.  It was a sad state of affairs when that seemed like the least damning theory.

In the commissary, Solo picked up two lunch specials, but the woman running the kitchen was appalled that he would eat food that had been sitting out for an hour and reheated twice.  She sent him away, yelling at her staff and promising him fresh meals would be sent to his office within fifteen minutes.  She seemed so upset he let it go, snagging an apple to eat on his way back.

Behind Waverly’s desk again, Solo went through yet another stack of phone messages Heather had left.  There were confirmations from all four of the Temporary Section One Chiefs, as well as several others he had invited to the Tuesday meeting.  Many were already en route, in order to make the 2:00 P.M. meeting.  Only the Hong Kong U.N.C.L.E. leader was unable to make the visit, due to pressing commitments.  He sent his regrets and-- Napoleon was heartened to read-- his support.

Napoleon activated the intercom.  "Heather?"

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"I’ve made a list of guests who will need top-security hotel accommodations and U.N.C.L.E. security limos at the airport.  Some are coming in tomorrow night."

"I’ll be right there."

Heather entered the room, wheeling in two hot lunches the chef had brought up.  She set the places at the far end of the conference table, took the guest list from Napoleon, checked a few names with him, and left.

"For what purpose is this meeting?" Illya asked, in between bites.  For someone who hadn't seemed hungry before, he was eating quickly.  The fork threatened to slip from his grasp, and he glared at it.

"Call it a hunch."

"Okay.  For what purpose is this hunch?"

Napoleon looked up from his lunch.  The security cameras were on.

Before he could find a way to voice his concern, Illya nodded, glancing to the ever-present cameras. "Ah."

"Later."

"Perhaps."  Again, the familiar old shrug. 

Once back at his desk, Napoleon contacted the U.N.C.L.E. London office and left a message for April and Mark to return to New York in time for the Tuesday afternoon meeting.  Paddy Dunn cut into the call and assured Napoleon that he would personally see to it the New York Enforcement Agents arrived with him on time.

Another call, this time from John McGlouster, the second-highest ranked U.N.C.L.E. agent in Canada.  Napoleon and Illya had worked with him on multiple assignments over the years.  McGlouster was one of the few men in the world aware of the three cloned children taken from Thrush-- "twin" boys who shared Napoleon’s DNA and were now living with a family in Hull, Quebec, and Kolya Graham, the cloned child from Illya’s DNA, adopted by Trish and Norm Graham.  Keeping that secret alone made the man invaluable to Napoleon.

He switched the phone to speaker for Illya’s benefit.  "John, will you be able to make the Tuesday meeting?"

There was a strained silence on the phone for several seconds.  "I just spoke with Sam Lawrence, and he assures me you will be well enough to lead the meeting, Napoleon.  I was sorry to hear of your ill health.  You usually have the stamina of two men."

Napoleon met his partner’s frown.  Odd phrasing.  "Yes, I’m feeling much better, John.  Illya is progressing quickly, as well."

Another slight beat.  "He may be less than you, but Norm Graham’s son always seems to land on his feet, eh?  A charmed existence," the Canadian agent laughed.

"Sam has cleared Illya for desk duty," Napoleon began, but Illya suddenly stood and leaned over the desk. 

"Will you have time to go skiing, John?" he asked.

"Skiing?  Ah, not this time but a wonderful suggestion.  You’re very intuitive.  I doubt if I’ll have time until I retire, though.  Too much to do here.  Well, I’ll see you on Monday evening, Napoleon.  Illya.  I’m looking forward to a nice relaxed conversation with you both.  I’ll bring the wine. "

"Dinner’s at eight o’clock.  We’ll send you directions.  See you on Monday, John," Illya said, and Napoleon switched the phone off.  "Nice guy," the Russian said casually, and returned to his paperwork, ignoring his partner.

Okay... The conversation played through Napoleon’s mind, only strengthening what he was already entertaining.  John wanted to speak with them privately tomorrow. And Illya knew why.  Skiing? 

Napoleon met Illya’s blank stare.  Illya held it for a moment, then looked back to his file folders. 

Skiing?  Norm Graham’s son?  John’s words were carefully chosen.  On the surface, straightforward, perhaps, but not quite right in context.

Too many things were proving to be 'not quite right' in context.

Napoleon shivered, and suddenly remembered a thought he’d had when he had awoken in the hospital, just three weeks before.  The faint memories of going through case files, looking for something.  Illya’s eyes meeting his over the desk, wordlessly conveying shock at what they had uncovered.

What had they uncovered?

When was that memory from?  In 1969 sometime? Earlier maybe?  If he could just pin that memory, verify it, then...  What he needed were some hard facts.

But facts alone were not always proof.  That was the problem.  Facts, on their own, often meant nothing.  Yes, that was true.  And that was true.  And that.  But when the facts started adding up...

Numbers were straightforward.  Waverly was 80, for example.  It said so on the personnel files he had pulled.  Samoy, however ageless he appeared, was 76.  Harry Beldon had been in his late 60s when he died, and Louis DeWitt, who had succeeded him, was 70.  U.N.C.L.E. Africa’s John Muliro was now in his early 70s, and U.N.C.L.E. South America’s Juan Rodriguez was 74.

That meant the top five leaders of U.N.C.L.E. were between seventy and eighty years of age.

Two other Sub-Section One leaders were also at the Summit: Claude Renault was in his 70s, and Thomas Chapman was either 73 or 75, depending on which file Napoleon read.

That made seven of the seven Section One leaders attending the Summit aged seventy plus.

Sam Lawrence had mentioned that another U.N.C.L.E. agent had been at the Summit three years previously.  On a hunch, Napoleon placed a call to the small Sicilian office in Palermo.  The Section Three agent he spoke to seemed puzzled by the prolonged absence of their Station Chief, Arsene Coria.  When asked, the agent told Napoleon that Coria was at the Summit meeting in Milan.

So, Coria was there again, joining the big boys.  The old boys.  Why?

Although Coria had spent most of the August Affair dealing with Napoleon’s double,  Napoleon had met Coria briefly during the wrap up of the case.  Two years later, while on assignment in Rome in the summer of 1966, their paths had crossed again while on another assignment. 

Coria was, at most, only a few years older than him.  So why was he at the Summit, when everyone else there was at least twice his age?  To carry their luggage?

And why, in 1969, had Coria been at the U.N.C.L.E. mini-Summit, in Geneva, during the SALT I talks?  And interesting that now again in 1972, Coria was in Milan, for some reason invited to another Summit, while the SALT II talks were happening again in Geneva, only 164 miles away.

The phone rang again, this time with a call from Norm Graham in Washington.  After a quick check with how Napoleon and Illya were faring, Norm said, "I looked up that information you asked me about.  September 24, 1969."

"I thought my wedding was on the twenty-fifth?"

"No, that movie premiere.  Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  September 24, 1969.  You and April were married the next day."

"Oh."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. What’s it about?"

"According to my secretary’s notes here-- she saw it ten times--'Butch and Sundance are the two leaders of the Hole‑in‑the‑Wall Gang. Butch is all ideas, Sundance is all action and skill.  They escape to Bolivia and live there for some time before the law catches up to them, and they choose to die together in a hail of bullets.’  Any particular reason why you’re asking about it, Napoleon?"

"Illya mentioned it in passing," Napoleon said vaguely, aware of the cameras and microphones in the room.

"Ah.  He saw it with her a few times."

Napoleon laughed, startled.  "Illya saw a movie more than once?  With your secretary?"

"At least twice with her and twice with you."

"Your secretary is fifty years old."

"He liked the movie."

Napoleon shook his head, smiling.  "Thanks, Norm.  I’ll see you tomorrow."

"I’ll be there."  The call disconnected.

Illya was staring at him from across the room. 

"That movie you mentioned last night.  You said we saw it the night before...?"

"I don’t remember."  Illya slowly rested his head on his arms on the table.

"That movie premiered the day before I married April.  In 1969.  Illya, you remembered something."

"Our lives are on the line, and I remembered a movie?"  Illya whispered, seemingly aghast.

"Maybe.  Maybe it snuck beneath the radar."

Several minutes went by without Illya saying anything, then he raised his head, looked over at Napoleon with a shake of his head, then continued his reading.

New York apartment
8:15 P.M.

When they opened the door to the penthouse that evening, Illya motioned for silence, then seemed to belie his own words by talking away about some computer malfunction that had occurred that day in the stock room.  He had ordered something, and it hadn’t arrived yet.

While he spoke, with Napoleon adding suitable comments, the two men made a systematic check of the apartment looking for any kind of monitoring devices.  Illya had an anti-bugging portable unit he used throughout the penthouse, and twenty minutes later, just as his voice was about to give out from the strain of non-stop talking, he finally relaxed and turned off the unit.

"We’re clear." 

"You’re sure?"

"As I can be."  Illya dismantled the unit and replaced it in his oversized briefcase.  "Food, then we talk."

Napoleon went along with the demand, following Illya into the kitchen and helping dish out the Chinese food they had also brought home with them.  They ate at the kitchen table, Napoleon watching his partner wrestle with chopsticks until finally giving up and using a fork.

"Give it some time.  You’re making a lot of strides."

"We may not have time," Illya muttered.  "If I can’t use chopsticks yet, what else am I hampered by?"

"You were at the range today.  How did that go?"

"Slow.  The aim is fine, but my hand has difficulty pulling the trigger.  Dangerous.  What kind of backup am I to you?"

"Perfect."  Napoleon helped himself to the noodles, aware of Illya’s embarrassment over his statement.  It was true, though.  Despite the dreams, despite the discussions over one of them being a time bomb, in his heart of hearts he really had no concerns about Illya.  He trusted him.

And if it should somehow prove that Illya was the time bomb, then Napoleon would rather die in the blast than live with the realization.

"Did you know that all the Section One Heads B Waverly, Samoy, DeWitt, Muliro, and Rodriguez B are all over 70 years of age?  As are Renault and Chapman?"

Illya nodded.  "They are no longer young men." 

"Yet Coria was at the Summit with them."

"Perhaps they had need of him."

"Why him, though?  Why that particular man, now and in 1969?  I find it odd, that’s all."  Napoleon shrugged.  "So what is it you’ve been wanting to talk to me about all day?"

Illya steepled his hands thoughtfully.  "Perhaps nothing.  Yet through the years, we have encountered numerous attempts by scientists and doctors to prolong life, augment senses, rejuvenate cells, and boost strength and vitality."

"The search for the fountain of youth never ends."

"Perhaps.  But sometimes it disappears from under one’s nose."  Illya picked up his fork and continued to eat.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you recall the Stamp Affair?"

Napoleon shrugged.  "One of our missing cases in 1969?"

"October 1964.  Wolfgang Volp.  A German Doctor of Medicine and Physics, whose speciality was blood chemistry and what he called 'suspended animation.’"

Napoleon put down his chopsticks, his appetite killed.  "Professor Amadeus. The man tried to use my blood to revive Hitler.  How could I forget that one?"

"I removed the boxes of paperwork from the premises during the fire."

"And?"

"They’re gone." Illya spooned more curried chicken onto his plate.

"From where?"

"The vault." 

"Who would have taken them?"

Illya shrugged.  "What about the Skin Deep Affair?"

"What about it?"

"April, 1965.  Nazarone, the female racing driver?"

"Ah, yes. The beautiful and deadly Nazarone."

"And more importantly, a formula created by Dr Kelwin, a serum that would accelerate the normal healing processes of the human body, yet Kelwin died from an injection of his formula, as did Nazarone."

"As I recall, Dr Egret stole the formula and disappeared.  Never to be seen again."

"True, but Dr Baurel worked with us initially trying to reinvent the formula, until he disappeared in 1970--during our 'blank' time--from his clinic near Cannes on the French Riviera."

Napoleon frowned.  "No clues as to where he went?"

"Just vanished, along with all his research."

"I assume if we were working with him, we had copies of his research." 

"Also missing.  February 1966, the Wounded Time Affair."

Napoleon gave up on the food and poured himself some tea.  "You’re using the official names of the affairs.  What were our codes for them? I can’t keep track of both."

"Bridge of Lions."

"Sir Norman Swickert’s group.  Their creed was to 'Build a bridge between the great men and great minds of the world, so that the borders of the nations would not come between these men when they decided to communicate with each other.’  Much like U.N.C.L.E."

"Do you remember Madame de Sala’s rejuvenation process?  It, too, is missing from our vaults. From what I’ve checked today, our scientists never followed up on it."

"Why not?  It seemed to work, even though it needed refining."

"I spoke with the head of research, and he didn’t know what I was talking about.  What about April 1966? Plus X, Professor Lillian Stemmler."

"The drug that heightened human senses?"

"Yes."

"Missing?"

"Missing. January 1967, Dr Toulouse’s Vitamin Q, a super-strength pill."

"I don’t remember that one."

"Mark and April’s case. Also Mark and April’s case, February 1967. Baroness Blangsted’s rejuvenation serum -- also missing from the files.  Our case: Mexico. September 1967. Dr. Steller’s superhuman students.  Only isolated pieces of information remain in our files, none relating to his 'supermen'."

When Illya paused to refill his plate with the remainder of the chow mein, Napoleon jumped in.  "So where did the files go?"

"From what I could gather," Illya said, twirling his fork in the noodles, "our reports and any confiscated documents or samples never left Alexander Waverly’s office."

"Confirm that.  It may not mean anything.  Maybe it was all put away for safekeeping."

"Perhaps.  I’ll look into it tomorrow."

Napoleon studied his partner.  Or now that they weren't Section Two, were they still partners?  Section One had leaders and sub-leaders.  Neither designation seemed to fit.  What were they?

"You look tired, my friend," Illya said still twirling his fork in the noodles, trying to get them to stay on long enough for him to get them in his mouth.

My friend.  That's what they were, when everything else was stripped away. 

I can’t sleep.  I find myself pacing.  Wondering. 

Seventy- and eighty-year-old men.  The lure would be there.  The chance at eternal youth, stamina, strength. 

Has Waverly taken the documents?  Is that was what’s going on? Experiments to push back time and keep them all in power?

It doesn’t seem possible. 

Illya had offered no explanations, just stated facts.  All those documents, the serums, the reports, the samples --gone.  Maybe they had been moved elsewhere for safety.  Certainly a possibility. But where would they have been moved to?  And why?

I walk through the silent apartment, stepping out onto the balcony.  It is December, and the cold cuts through my thick bathrobe, chilling me instantly.  Snow blows restlessly, tossed about by the wind.

It is too much, and I retreat inside, taking refuge before the fireplace.  Maybe a brandy will calm my nerves and let me sleep.  I clutch the goblet, swirling the amber liquid, still shivering from the air outside.  And to be honest, still shivering from the weight of Illya’s words.

The fire gradually burns down, and at last I drink the brandy, far quicker than I should.  Brandy is meant to be savored, sipped, not guzzled like some cheap wine.

I am still cold and as restless as the snow the wind tosses around on my balcony.  My mind and thoughts are whirling.

Illya appears at the edge of the living room.  Then he turns and walks away.

I follow him.

Why?  I don’t know. 

Well, not true.  I do know.  Because I know what he offers.  Even though it embarrasses me.

Sometimes there are no answers.  But I stretch out on his bed and fall asleep.

continued

Chapter Text

New York Apartment
Monday, December 4, 1972, 5:15 A.M.

I jump from a cliff.  The air catches in my chest as I fall, arms and legs churning helplessly.  I feel the harsh impact with icy water, then find myself submerged, struggling to find my way to the surface.  I can’t.  I’m held down.

I must keep myself beneath the water.  I must not rise to the surface.

I’m not who I think I am.

Napoleon appears before me.  I feel him snag my arm and start to pull me upward.

He doesn’t realize.  He doesn’t know that...

And I awake.

The clock says it is five thirty. I make the coffee and begin my day.  Perhaps it will be my last.

U.N.C.L.E. HQ New York
10:00 A.M.

Illya sat on the edge of the examining table, once again undergoing a physical from Dr Samuel Lawrence.  "My hands have improved."

"I can see that.  You’ve got a ways to go, though."

"My days of playing the piano are numbered, I fear."

The doctor glanced over to him.  "You play the piano?"

"No."

Lawrence groaned.  "I can’t believe I fell for that."

Illya watched the doctor writing in his personal file.  "Sam, what happens to your test results?  Are they filed?"

"Most are," Lawrence answered, still writing.  "Some stay here."

"You examined Kolya Graham when he came here, right?"

That got the doctor’s attention.  "Norm and Trish still bring him to me for checkups twice a year.  They see their family doctor for other routine matters.  Don’t worry about him, Illya.  He’s in good health."

"Where are his files kept?"

"In my safe."

"Who has access to them?"

"No one but me."

"And Alexander Waverly?"

"Yes, of course.  Alexander has the combination to my safe."

"Does anyone else?"

"No.  If something should happen to me, Alexander would go through the safe and make the decision as to what should be kept and what should be discarded."

"Remember Plus X?"

"Louis Doyd?  I wasn’t in town when that happened, but I read the report."

"So a report existed?"

"Of course.  We discussed possible solutions for Professor Stemmier’s drug at the 1967 U.N.C.L.E. medical conference."

"Where is that report now?"

"I assume it’s in the medical data storage room.  I can have it sent to you, if you want."

"Thank you."  Illya hopped down from the table.  "I’ll be in the vaults, then in Alexander Waverly’s office."

"Not so fast, Lusha.  It’s about time we had a talk.  You keep ducking out of this."

Illya rolled his eyes.  "We don’t need to talk."

"Oh, I’d say being put on trial, found guilty, then held in a Soviet prison for three years constitutes time for a talk."

"But I don’t remember it.  So... no reason to talk about it."

"If you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to Dr Evans."

"Why the DC psychologist?  Why not you?"

"So you’ll talk to me?" Sam turned and smiled.

Illya scooted for the door.  "I’ve got meetings to prepare for.  Fate of the world stuff," he said as he disappeared into the hallway.

"So what else is new?"  The doctor shook his head, and made a note to call the U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC psychologist.  They could at least commiserate together on how difficult it was to get agents to open up and tell you their nasty secrets.

Waverly's Office
11:30 A.M.

I sit at Waverly’s desk, and feel the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. My hands start to shake and I watch them for a moment, then deliberately still them.

I marvel at how much the human mind can handle.  I marvel at how much my mind can handle, then I wonder if I’m handling this at all.  Maybe I’m just pushing it down out of the way, so I can have a nervous breakdown later.

Prison, missing years, marriage, conspiracies, Summits. 

Yes, I think I’m entitled to a breakdown.  I’ll schedule it in.

I open Waverly’s daily agenda and flip the pages.  Nothing is filled in for the month of December, except his great-grandson’s birthday and a reminder to buy a red toy truck.  Nothing. No meetings, no reminders. I had seen a new 1973 daily agenda in his desk drawer and I dig it out, paging through the equally blank pages.

Waverly schedules everything himself.  He’ll have Wanda or Heather, whoever’s on duty, do the actual bookings, but he keeps track of everything in these books.  A thousand times I’ve seen him flip through the pages, planning meetings sometimes months or years in advance.

This room, when you are alone in it, is vast.  I’ve often wondered at the wasted space, but I think I understand it now.  If this was a small office, the need to scream would be too strong.

I walk away from the desk and look at what Illya’s been working on, spreading out his papers over the large briefing table.  Illya and a desk is like most women and a purse. Whatever the size, he will fill it. 

The writing pad is filled with almost illegible script.  At first, I think it’s another language, then I realize it is because he has difficulty holding a pen.  Thursday he was freed.  Friday morning at 1:30 A.M. I saw him for the first time in... four years, I’m told, but to my memories, it was only a few weeks.  Friday night, with Alexander Scott's help, Illya began to talk and write. Saturday and Sunday we worked until midnight, trying to make sense of this new world. 

I’ve had three weeks now to get my mind around this.  Three weeks to try to sort out that this is indeed 1972, that I am married, and that beyond all that, something is very wrong here. For Illya, this has all been a few days. I worry suddenly that I’m pushing him too fast. 

Then again, this is Illya. 

Waverly's Office
2:30 P.M.

That afternoon, Kelly and Scotty glanced around the U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters Section One office with unabashed curiosity as Heather led them in.

"So this is the famous HQ," Alexander Scott said.  "I thought it would be bigger," he added in a loud aside.  

"Snazzier, somehow," Kelly Robinson, agreed, grimacing at the framed pop art in Waverly’s office.

"Less tacky," Scott said peering down his nose at the fake leather couch.

"Quite dismal."  Kelly turned and smiled at Napoleon, as though he hadn’t heard their conversation.  "So, Napoleon, what’s happening?  Anything new?"

Heather McNabb finished pouring their coffee, looking as though she’d be quite happy to accidentally spill it on either man’s crotch.  "Will that be all, sir?" she asked, primly, one hand resting on one curving hip.

"Yes, thank you, Heather."  Napoleon watched her exit the room, glancing to see both Kelly and Scotty equally mesmerized by the sway of Heather’s hips.  She did it on purpose, he wasn't sure why, but not if Waverly was around. She thought it was funny, though.

"Eyes this way, gentlemen," Napoleon said, hiding a smile at their reaction to being caught out.  "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, it’s what we can do for you that’s important," Kelly responded, looking down at his coffee. "Hey, this is good stuff."

"We had it brought in especially for you," Illya replied drolly, as he entered the office.  "It’s Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, I see.  What joy."  He approached Napoleon, ignoring the two CIA officers, and handed him a file. "As you suspected, Napoleon, the files are gone or altered. Even the database has been altered."

"And the storage vault?"

"Bastion insists the records have not been tampered with.  There’s not even an entry showing the items were ever there. Dr. Lawrence called me, as well.  He went to retrieve a file for me from his personal safe and found it gone."  Illya sat at the conference table, his back to Kelly and Scott.

"Problem?" Kelly asked.  "Not everything happy in U.N.C.L.E.-Land?"

"Internal politics, what are you going to do?" Scott commiserated.  "Maybe it’s something the CIA can bail you out of?  The US government to the rescue, yet again?"

Illya casually flipped open a file.  "You might be interested in this, Mr Scott.  I’ve been reading some of the transcripts of the recordings in President Nixon’s Oval Office.  This one in particular, from July 5, 1971, between President Richard Nixon and his Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman.  Nixon: 'Very interesting thing. So few of those who engage in espionage are Negroes. Have you ever noticed?  Any Negro spies?' Haldeman responded: 'Not intellectual enough, not smart enough... not smart enough to be spies.'"

Kelly was on his feet, fists clenched, halfway to Illya before Scott grabbed his arm and stopped him.  "Let me go."

Scott dragged him back to their chairs.  "He was just razzing us, Kel."

"That’s not funny."

"While I’m sure what we said wasn’t funny to him, either."  Scott looked over to Illya.

Illya shrugged.  "Consider who was speaking, gentlemen.  From what I’ve read these last few days, neither man can be trusted, both men have committed grievous wrongs; both are, quite frankly, idiots."

"Your point?" Kelly asked, his voice still tight with tension.

"His point, I believe, was merely to... " Napoleon paused, frowned, then looked over to Illya.  "What was your point?"

Illya rolled his eyes.  "Napoleon, the total tonnage of what you don’t know is enough to shatter..."

Kelly snorted.  "You tell him, Sundance."  The CIA agent was met with two blank stares. "It was a line from the movie."

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?" Napoleon asked, looking from Kelly and Scott over to Illya.

"I don’t remember seeing it," Illya insisted.

Scott frowned.  "Actually, if you’ve forgotten 1969, you shouldn’t remember it."

"But he quoted a line from it," Kelly put in.

"Could have been a fluke," Scott said.

Napoleon waved them off before they got started on another argument.  "Illya, why bring up the White House transcript?"

Illya closed the file in question.  "I am always shocked at the level of prejudice prevalent among educated men throughout the world."  He looked across at Scott.  "Despite our shortcomings, we at U.N.C.L.E. do not have such narrow-minded views, unlike..."

"Unlike the CIA?" Scott asked, softly.

Illya shrugged again.  "You tell me."

Kelly sat down finally, with a ragged exhale.  "Okay, so that’s what we’re here about."

"Donald Johnson?"

"Give the man a cigar," Scotty said with a smile.

"What about Johnson?" Napoleon asked.  "Do you have something more on him?"

Heather McNabb appeared at the entrance to Waverly’s office.  "Mr Solo, there’s someone at the agents’ entrance who is insisting on speaking with you.  We’ve tried putting him off but--"

"Who is it?"

"He says his name is Peter Baker.  Seems to check out.  He’s been here before."

Napoleon glanced over to the two deep cover CIA agents sitting in his office.  Both looked as though they had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.  "Gentlemen?"

Kelly and Scott held a silent conversation, then Scott nodded.  "Sure.  Fine by us.  Why not?"

"Escort him in, Miss McNabb," Napoleon said smoothly, then turned back to the CIA agents.  "Anything you want to say before he gets here?"

Kelly leaned forward, suddenly all business.  "From what we’ve been able to dig up, Johnson came into a large sum of money several years back, held in an offshore account and a Swiss bank account.  Through the years Johnson has grown more and more outspoken in his distrust of Soviets and in particular Soviet defectors.  Johnson’s been after Illya for years.  And not only Illya, but his father as well.  Beginning in 1961, we’ve found at least eight letters he’s written to his superiors outlining why Illya Zadkine-- as he consistently refers to Illya here-- why Illya Zadkine should be killed or at the very least deported."

"So someone finally listened to him?" Napoleon asked.  "Is that what happened?"

"Johnson was the one who presented the case against you both to the White House.  We don’t think he came up with it, but he was certainly the pawn who put it in place."

"Any idea where the funds paid to Johnson came from?"

"We had a trace put on it.  It seems it was a direct transfer from one account to another.  Does the name Harry Beldon ring a bell?"

"Harry Beldon was a top level U.N.C.L.E. Chief who died in 1967.  When did Johnson get the money?"

"The spring of 1969."

"Couldn’t be Beldon then."

Kelly flipped open a small notepad.  "Beldon set up a company account in 1964, name of Nodleb Associates.  He then withdrew his name from the account signing authorities, leaving it running with several associates whose names we were unable to get hold of, Swiss bank accounts being what they are."

"Johnson was connected somehow with Beldon," Scott continued, "or someone Beldon had working for him. So he’s paid off, given some information, and then goes over Appleton’s head with his evidence, straight to the President himself.  In June 1969, the President begins an investigation against not only the two of you, but against U.N.C.L.E.  It seems the United States government doesn’t like an autonomous organization operating in North America, especially one with the international clout that the United Network Command has."

"Certainly not," Kelly agreed.  "U.N.C.L.E. is self-governed, answers to no one-- not even the White House-- works independently of the CIA, FBI, and government agencies, supersedes them in diplomatic matters, and is basically untouchable."

The doors swooshed open and Peter Baker entered.  The four men stood, Napoleon and Illya shaking the CIA officer’s hand.  Napoleon turned to the other two men in the office.  "Peter, this is Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott.  They’re old friends and have been assisting us on this case.  Kelly, Scott, meet Peter Baker, Central Intelligence Agency, in charge of Counterintelligence for the Soviet Division." 

Napoleon didn’t bother to mention that Kelly and Scotty were CIA agents.  If the agency didn’t know what its left and right hands were doing, that wasn’t Napoleon’s concern. "Peter, first may I offer my highest thanks for what you did to get my partner here out of the Soviet Union.  Both April Dancer and Norman Graham have sung your praises."

"I only wish I could have done more-- and sooner.  I’m personally thrilled that you are both freed after all these years.  It never sat right with me, what was done to you both, and I promised myself that if I could ever be of assistance to you, I would." 

"I'm not sure what you did or said, Peter, but I will forever be in your debt," Illya said.  "For getting me out and for getting the charges dropped for us both."

"You're a good man, Illya.  And I'm still looking for information on your parents--I haven't forgotten."  Baker got right to business.  "I want you to know that I’m here with James Appleton’s permission.  Appleton is the Chief of the Counter Intelligence staff," he added for Kelly and Scott’s benefit.

Scott nodded.  "We’ve... heard of him, yes."

Peter Baker took several photos from his briefcase.  "I was in New York, and wanted to detour here to drop these off.  Did you know that  Alexander Waverly made several trips to the White House in the summer of 1969 to speak directly to the President?"  The photos showed Waverly shaking hands with the President, then moving into the Oval Office.

Illya leaned forward and studied the pictures.  "Do you know the exact dates of these photographs?" 

"They’re on the back." Baker flipped the photos.  "June 22, 1969.  June 28, 1969."  Peter Baker closed his briefcase and stood.  "Not much to offer, but sometimes all the little pieces add up.  I wish there was more I could do.  If I find out anything else, I’ll certainly forward it to you."

They shook hands and watched him leave, turning to each other thoughtfully.

"Notice he didn’t say why Appleton pressured Donald Johnson to take early retirement?" Scott asked.  "If he felt Johnson was blackmailing someone or presenting false evidence, he would have fired the man."

"Would he?" Kelly mused.  "Johnson could have caused Appleton problems-- prevented him from retiring on schedule as that dealing with blackmail charges takes up a lot of time.  Lots of reasons why he would have just preferred to get rid of him.  And if Johnson takes early retirement from the CIA rather than being fired, it’s a better deal for him.  No one would question it on a job application."

"So what goes on our job applications after we quit?  Deep cover agent for the CIA?  Or I worked as a coach for a tennis bum?"

"We get to quit?  Since when?"  The two CIA agents grinned at each other, then turned to Napoleon and Illya and held out their hands.  "Wish we could stick around and see how this all turns out, but we’ve got a case."

"Have to leave in the morning," Scott said.

"Take care of yourselves.  We’ll contact you as soon as when we get back," Kelly added.

"Sometime between next week and next February.  You know how it is," Scott shrugged.  "Ask not what your country can do for you... etc., etc.," he said as they disappeared out the office door.

"Something with those dates?" Napoleon asked as his partner, as Illya took the photos to the conference table.

He began flipping through some of the binders he had been studying earlier.  "I’ve been able to get access to transcripts of tapes from the Oval Office. Let me check. " He stopped on one.  "Nothing for the June 29 date, but this on the June 22.  Nixon: Come in, Mr Waverly.  Can I get you anything?  Waverly: This is not a social call, Mr President.  Regarding the matter we spoke of earlier this year--  Nixon: Have you come to a decision then?  If so, we must move quickly.  Time is of the essence.  Waverly:  I have discussed the matter with the other four Section One-- Nixon:  Wait.  Stop. Just a minute. <end of tape>"

"So what were they discussing?  Why does it end?" Napoleon asked, frowning. 

"The conversation ends because the President shut off the recording device."

Terry's Cafe, Soho, London
8:45 P.M. (3:45 P.M. NY Time)

It was nine in the evening in Soho, London.  April and Mark sat at a late night coffee shop and watched the police take away the last of the counterfeiting group across the street while sharing an order of Fish and Chips. The business they had staked out turned out not to be a Thrush cell after all; their business’ logo was just uncomfortably close to that of Thrush’s bird logo.  A waste of time, other than that an international counterfeiter and his partners had been caught.  Still.

Mark popped the last fry in his mouth and sipped at his tea, enjoying the chance to relax.  One look across the table, though, and it was clear his partner was still tense.  "Your hand okay?"

She had decked the counterfeiter with a sharp right on the jaw and now was soaking her reddened knuckles in ice water.  She shrugged, staring out the window.

"We can head back home tonight if you want.  I'm sure there's a red eye."

"We're booked on an 8:00 A.M. flight with Paddy.  That'll get me there soon enough."  April shrugged. "What do I have to go back home to anyway?  Nothing.  My marriage is over."

"Hey, it won’t last forever.  He’ll get his memories back."

"How do you know that?  What if he doesn’t?"

"He bloody well fell in love with you once, he can do it again."

"It was just the circumstances we were in.  We worked on that assignment in February, playing a married couple and we got carried away--played our parts too well.  Something clicked. He said it was how his parents got together, too.  Well, this Napoleon Solo doesn’t remember that assignment, and now he’s too old to go on assignments.  He's forty."

"Don’t let him hear you calling him old."

"Those same circumstances aren’t going to happen again.  I’m going to ask for a divorce."

"Wait for a while, luv.  See if his memory comes back before you’re too hasty."

"I can’t do it, Mark.  I can’t stay in that apartment and pretend to be just his friend.  He’s more married to Illya at this point than me.  At least he sleeps with Illya."

"Keep that down, luv.  I’m sure he doesn’t want something like that broadcast around.  You know how rumors fly.  Napoleon doesn't swing my way."

"You know what I mean."  She smiled at him. 

Mark reached across the table and squeezed her hand.  April had kept his secret for years.  "What do you want to do then?"

"Move out.  Maybe switch cities.  What about here?  You ready to come back to London and work?"

"I could.  Been rather nice being back."  Mark looked out at the rain-soaked street.  "Not so keen on working though.  Why not take a break?  Bloody hell, April, we could use a holiday.  Somewhere warm and uncomplicated.  Then maybe we can come back here and find something else to do."

"Not U.N.C.L.E.?"

"There’s more to life than U.N.C.L.E., luv."

"Move here, yes.  Vacation in Tahiti, yes.  Leave U.N.C.L.E.?  I don’t know.  As long as I’m far away from Napoleon Solo, I’m not picky.  I’ve cried more in the last three weeks than I did the whole time he was gone."

"Before he came back, you had something to do, something to focus on.  He was in jail, and you wanted him out.  Now that he’s out, you’re left with... nothing, really."

"I almost wish Illya hadn’t come back," she said softly, then looked up, expecting to see Mark’s shocked look of disgust.

Instead he was smiling sadly at her.  "Because then you’d not only have him all to yourself, but there would be something for you to do together.  To look for Illya.  Instead--?"

"I loved him."

"Yes, you did. But you loved a man who now doesn’t exist, except in our memories."

April slid out of the booth and adjusted her dress.  "Let’s go.  I want to get to bed, then we’ve got that early flight."  She grabbed Mark’s arm as they headed out the door.  "Thanks.  For being here."

He hugged her affectionately.  "Always, luv.  Always.  We'll find something.  Maybe start our own private investigators biz.  We've got talents..."

New York Apartment
Monday, December 4, 1972, 7:55 P.M.

John McGlouster glanced around the apartment as he entered, handing off a bottle of wine to Napoleon.  "That does it.  I’m putting in for a transfer to New York."

"It was his maiden aunt’s," Illya replied, dryly. "She played the stocks.  Well."

"I can see that." 

Illya gestured to the living room.  "Please, have a seat."  They sat down in the living room.  A fire blazed in the hearth, taking the edge off the growing tension.

"Can I get you a drink?" Napoleon asked.

"Scotch, if you have it."

"Illya?"

His partner shrugged.  "Not at this time.  We’ll see how the evening unrolls."

McGlouster waited until the scotch was in his hand and Napoleon was seated across from him before leaning forward on the leather sofa and studying him.  "Shall we dispense with the formalities?"

"By all means," Napoleon said smoothly.  "So what does skiing have to do with anything?  I meant to ask you, Illya."

"Vermont.  The Ski Lodge. Cloned children." Illya looked at him as though he were somewhat dense, then turned back to the Canadian agent.

McGlouster took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  "Claude Renault is a good man," he started, then stopped, took a sip from his glass, and started again.  "Renault has led U.N.C.L.E. Canada remarkably over the past twenty years, as has Alexander Waverly in his position."

"However..." Napoleon prompted, when McGlouster faltered.

"However--" McGlouster paused, scratched at the back of his head, then glanced up at the two agents.  "This is more difficult than I thought it would be.  But it’s too important to keep to myself."  He sat back, deliberately took another drink of scotch, then continued.  "Files are missing from Headquarters-- Canadian Headquarters.  Top secret, highest level documents that would be for Renault’s eyes or my eyes only.  Coded, and treated paper.  They shouldn’t have been able to be taken out of our main offices."

"On the clones?" 

"Yes," McGlouster answered.  "The case was code named Gemini. The agents responsible for watching the family believed there was a concern that the father--a former U.N.C.L.E. agent-- was being spied on by Thrush."

"Thrush?  I thought Thrush was gone in Canada."

McGlouster laughed.  "One way to keep the troops in line is to mention Thrush.  Makes them jump to attention."  He became somber again.  "The watchers were told to report on the family itself, as the threat had been made that the children would be taken, and he would be blackmailed.  We got the information we wanted on the two boys, while keeping them safe.  The family never knew."

"And the reports are missing?"

"Gone, including the medical reports on the children, their fingerprints, the blood tests, the forensic reports."

"What about your clone, Illya?" McGlouster asked.  "Have you checked the files on him?"

"They, too, are missing."

McGlouster shook his head in dismay.  "Other files are missing, as well, from our record room and our database.  I looked into anything to do with regeneration or cloning or life enhancement.  Senses enhancement.  Healing enhancement.  Even things that Thrush or other groups have thrown at us in the past, serums and projects that proved to be hoaxes or failures.  All missing or the papers have flecked showing they've been copied.  Since most of those files were generated in the New York office, I thought I’d come to you first."  He set his empty glass on the coffee table.  "Frankly, I’m worried.  Only one man in all of Canada had authorization to remove those documents and samples."

The oven took that particular moment to ding.  "Feel like eating?" Napoleon asked.

"Not when I walked in the door," McGlouster admitted, "but there’s something about getting something off your chest that stirs the appetite."

"Let’s eat, and then go to HQ and see what we can find."  Napoleon gestured to the table, squared his shoulders, and walked into the kitchen, wondering what on earth was going on in U.N.C.L.E.

I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom.  It is late.  Early.  2:32 A.M.  But I have not yet fallen asleep.

At a young age I had learned not to trust anyone.  Then when I was twenty-one, I learned how to trust again.  Norman and Trish gave me such a gift... I don’t think they realized the pain it has caused me.

Outside of the Grahams, there are few I have given my trust to.  Napoleon Solo, Sam Lawrence, and Alexander Waverly. 

I don’t know what to think about Alexander Waverly.  My stomach is clenched.  I ate little dinner.  Would he have taken the files?  Maybe he has moved them to his office for safe keeping?  Or maybe there is another vault? 

Four years is a long time.

Four years.  I turn over in bed and close my eyes.  As my mind begins to shut down, the thoughts come: What happened during those four years?  Where was I?  Did I exist? I have been told that I was in Russia during three of those years, but what of the first year?

I don’t think about it during the day.  I put it away from me, at arms’ length.  I can’t function if I think about it.

But now, when I try to sleep, the questions natter at my brain.

I roll over again, desperate for rest.  I have to get through this.  There will be time for such ponderings later.

Am I the time bomb?  The sleeper?  What will I do?  Who will I kill this time?

Maybe the time has come.  I’ve always known it would come one day.

I picture Napoleon finding my body. He would be devastated, of course, but he would know my reasons.  The Grahams would cry at my simple funeral.  Trish would turn to Norman, cry into his shoulder.  Tanya would leave a flower.

Maybe the time has come.  I open my eyes.  My heart beats loudly.

I didn’t hear him enter the room, somehow, but he sits on the edge of the bed again tonight.  He, too, cannot sleep.  We do not have time for this.  We need to be rested.  I shift away from him, allowing him room behind me.  He slips beneath the sheets, pats my shoulder, then turns over.

I wait, watching the clock. Three minutes and he is asleep.  Another minute, and I join him.

continued

Chapter Text

U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York, Waverly's Office
Tuesday, December 5, 1972, 2:00 P.M.       

"We have a problem."

Sitting at the head of Waverly’s conference table, Napoleon Solo looked at each member assembled.  To his right, Illya Kuryakin, then Norman Graham, John McGlouster, April Dancer, and Mark Slate.

To his left, Abbas Bhaskar, Samoy’s second-in-command for U.N.C.L.E. Asia.  Bhaskar was a British-educated, former New Delhi police officer recruited into U.N.C.L.E. ten years previously.  He had risen quickly through the ranks and had spent the last five years as Section Two, Number One of U.N.C.L.E. Asia.  Bhaskar had arrived the evening before and pored over all the documents they had available, taking copious notes. 

Tomas Kusini was Muliro’s second-in-command for U.N.C.L.E. Africa.  Both Napoleon and Illya had worked with Kusini during the Itsy Bitsy Spider Affair in late 1965.  He was outspoken, disliked being kept in the dark, yet was usually polite to a fault.  He was often referred to as "Muliro Junior" as there was a father/son relationship between the two.  Today, Kusini sat stiffly, uncomfortable, as though betraying Muliro by his very presence at this meeting.

Carlos Salazar was Rodriguez’s second-in-command for U.N.C.L.E. South America. Salazar was a large man, jovial, quite the contrast to the quiet, reserved Rodriguez.  He sipped loudly on his coffee, adding more sugar.  He worked out of one of the busiest, and probably the poorest, of the U.N.C.L.E. offices, and up until early 1968, their biggest headache was Thrush’s love of South America for hiding many of their operations.  There was something about cocaine and Thrush that went together. 

Paddy Dunn was the second-highest ranked U.N.C.L.E. agent in Great Britain, and the man designated as DeWitt’s successor as U.N.C.L.E. Europe Chief.  In 1964, when Illya was kidnaped by a Thrush offshoot group, Paddy was partnered with Napoleon for several months, until Illya was back on his feet.  Dunn had worked with Thomas Chapman for the past year, as the older man’s health was deteriorating.  Dunn towered over the rest of the men present, his green eyes flashing in anger, impatient for the meeting to begin.

At the end of the table was Kitt Kitterage, current head of U.N.C.L.E., Australia.  Kitt had worked with Napoleon on several cases, including one some years ago with a Himalayan prince which ended with Kitt taking a bullet that fortunately wasn’t life threatening.

Ten men and one woman.  The five future leaders of U.N.C.L.E. worldwide: Solo, Dunn, Bhaskar, Salazar, and Kusini -- plus six other of the top agents of the United Network Command: Kuryakin, Graham, McGlouster, Kittridge, Dancer, and Slate.

Once Heather McNabb finished serving coffee, tea, and hot water to the group, she nodded to Solo and left the room. 

Napoleon stood at the head of the table, activating a switch that revealed a screen showing the lodge outside of Milan.  "As we all know, the U.N.C.L.E. Summit, which began on Sunday, November 19, should have ended at the latest on November 26, one week later.  It is now more than a week after that deadline.  There is no sign of it ending, and no word from the retreat center indicating a reason for the extension."

The next image showed an Italian flag flying at the lodge.  "There has been no sign of activity at the Summit location, other than the caretaker who comes out each morning and hoists the flag, then brings it down at sunset each evening."

"What are you suggesting, Mr Solo?" Tomas Kusini demanded.  "That they are in trouble?  That there is a problem at the site?  Look, right there.  The flag is flying, as was the arrangement."

Paddy Dunn shook his head.  "The arrangement was the flag would be a symbol that there were no problems during the five days of the Summit.  That’s now past, mate. Time is up. I’d say there’s something seriously wrong."

"What about food?" Carlos Salazar asked.  "Supplies?  Did they have enough for more than one week?  Have trucks been seen arriving or leaving?"

Paddy again shook his head.  "According to our European office, and verified by our Rome office, the entire site is under quarantine until the Summit is over.  No one to go in or out."

"I’m sure provisions were made for food in case the agenda necessitated a prolonged conference," Kusini insisted.

Napoleon cleared his throat.  "In light of this unprecedented breach of plans, I would like to propose to this committee that we send a representative to the Summit conference, to ensure that all is well."

"One moment," Kusini said.  "Why should you, Solo, who has been in jail for three years, suddenly tell us what to do?  This is ridiculous.  Preposterous."

"What is your story, Solo?" Salazar asked.  "I think it is fair for us to know why you are suddenly out of jail and filling in for Waverly."

Kitt Kitterage nodded.  "I agree with them, Napoleon, only because I’m curious, and rightly so.  One minute you are in jail for treason, the next you’re here."

Kusini pounded his fist on the table.  "There is more on your agenda, Solo, than a Summit meeting held by men you should be bowing to!"

Norm Graham stood quickly.  "If I may, Napoleon?"  He waited until all had calmed down. "Tomas Kusini, I’m surprised at your outburst.  I have a been a guest of U.N.C.L.E. Kenya and U.N.C.L.E. Africa on several occasions, and always you have played the part of a gentleman.  Napoleon Solo has been cleared of all charges against him.  Of course he has been reinstated to U.N.C.L.E. at his former position."

Salazar frowned.  "Norman, no disrespect intended to Solo or Kuryakin, but I was under the impression Dancer and Slate now occupy their Section Two positions."

Graham nodded.  "That’s true.  But it is no secret to every one of you that Alexander Waverly was grooming Napoleon Solo to take his place when the time was right."

"But does Alexander Waverly know Solo is here-- now-- in this office?" Abbas Bhaskar asked.  "According to the records I studied, Waverly left April Dancer in charge."

Graham nodded again. "That is true, Abbas.  And may I say that it is good to see you again.  My thanks again for your help during your Prime Minister Indira Gandhi's visit to Washington last November."

"Had your President Richard Nixon's pro‑Pakistan stance been altered, I’m convinced the war that broke the following month could have been averted when Pakistani forces struck Indian airfields."  Bhaskar shrugged.  "Washington's subsequent deployment of a naval task force to the Bay of Bengal left many in India convinced that the United States is a major security threat."

"That is for our countries to decide, is it not?  We are the U.N.C.L.E.  Our duties lie elsewhere," Graham said softly.  "Perhaps we need to remind ourselves of this."  He paused, then looked across to Napoleon and around the table.  "As you are aware, I am a member of Section One, North America.  In my capacity, I have sanctioned Mr Solo’s reinstatement, and requested that he assist this office in filling in for Alexander Waverly during his absence.  Upon Alexander’s return, the situation will again be addressed.  The same goes for Illya Kuryakin, who is officially here as Mr Solo’s partner in that temporary position."

Kusini did not seem satisfied.  "We all know Kuryakin is like a bastard son to you, Graham--"

"That is quite enough," Norman said firmly, cutting him off.

Salazar agreed.  "That was uncalled for, Tomas.  We have all benefitted from Kuryakin’s expertise.  He has willingly come to our aid on multiple occasions and saved us all a great deal of grief.  The same for Napoleon Solo.  I, for one, welcome them at this table."

"Hear, hear," Paddy Dunn echoed, banging his mug on the table.  "Glad to see the American courts have come to their senses, old chap.  And Illya, your recovery has been miraculous.  I read the report from Finland and you--"

Illya cut him off.  "Thank you, Paddy.  This meeting is not about me."

Kitterage turned back to Solo.  "And what is this meeting about?  Why have you called it, Napoleon?"

Napoleon reached back and hit his intercom switch.  "Heather, please have Dr Lawrence join us."

A moment later, Sam Lawrence entered the room, nodding to those he recognized around the table.  "Gentlemen."                                                

"I’m sure you all know of Dr Samuel Lawrence, by reputation if not in person," Napoleon said, gesturing for the doctor to take a seat.  "Sam, I have a few questions for you.  In November 1969, U.N.C.L.E. held a special meeting, in conjunction with the first SALT talks in Geneva.  In addition to the mostly older Section One group in attendance was Arsene Coria, a field agent."

"That’s right."

"And, Norm, Alexander Waverly is currently at an U.N.C.L.E. summit meeting held in Milan, Italy, a few hours’ drive from Geneva Switzerland, where the SALT II talks are being held."

"That’s correct."

Napoleon picked up the phone.  "Heather-- hold the calls here.  Call Bastion in security and arrange for the cameras to be turned off in this office for fifteen minutes."

A minute later, the phone rang, and Napoleon confirmed that the visual and audio security cameras were disabled.  Only then did he move to the center of the office and turn toward them.

"Gentlemen, I’m about to discuss one of U.N.C.L.E.’s most top secret projects, known only to a select few. I believe this will be new information for most of you."  He paused.  "Have any of you ever assisted with the August Affair?"

No one had.

"In the late 1940s, a multi-national group of scientists discovered a force of such immense power that the most deadly nuclear weapons in the world would be negated by its use.  They then constructed a weapon to utilize this power."

"For what purpose?" Graham asked, his voice tight with tension and Napoleon realized that even Norm hadn't heard of the weapon.

"They told me it was to save the planet from an attack from outer space," Napoleon said.

After a stunned moment of silence, those at the table burst out laughing. "Seriously?" Sam Lawrence shook his head.  "They said that?"

"It was called Project EarthSave."

Graham sobered immediately.  "Wait-- I’ve heard of that.  That’s an U.N.C.L.E. code for an ultra top secret project.  I’ve never been privy to the details."

"U.N.C.L.E. controls this weapon, Norm.  Guards it."

"Handy," Mark Slate muttered.

"In the fall of 1964, Arsene Coria, Jesse Namana of the Liberian section, Illya and myself were recruited to go to a secret location in Switzerland and participate in something known as the "August Affair".  Apparently the codes to the Project EarthSave vault are changed every year and U.N.C.L.E. agents were chosen to make this trip and guard the codes."

Napoleon paused and looked over at Illya.  He didn’t really want to go into details about his double and how he never actually went on the assignment.  Sensing his indecision, Illya stood and took over the briefing.

"I was an observer on this assignment, sent along to learn the routine.  It occurs to me now, in hindsight as they say, that Arsene Coria had been on this assignment before.  He was well aware of what was to occur, instructing Napoleon and Jesse Namana about the acid in the walls of the briefcase that carried the code."

"I remember Jesse Namana," Kusini said.  "U.N.C.L.E. Liberia in the mid '50s.  His brother Ashanti was stationed briefly in Kenya.  Whatever happened to Jesse?  Last I saw him would have been in the late '50s."

"He went insane from profound exposure to what they called electromagnetic gamma rays," Illya said bluntly. 

Sam Lawrence shook his head.  "That’s crazy.  How could electromagnetic gamma rays cause someone to go insane?"

"I don’t know, Sam.  But I saw Namana commit suicide right in front of me when he became exposed to what I was told were gamma rays.  The scientist who gave the demonstration said that any exposure was ultimately deadly."

"Long term exposure to gamma rays might cause mental instability," the doctor admitted grudgingly.  "But I wouldn’t know for sure unless I had the opportunity to check those affected."

Napoleon took over again.  "Due to infiltration of an enemy spy during that 1964 assignment, I suspect that the five heads of Section One have, since then, undertaken the August Affair on their own.  Looking back at paperwork over the last eight years, it seems that Mr Waverly was absent from the New York offices around the same time every year, in the middle of November."

"Which, of course, is why they call it the 'August’ Affair," Mark whispered to April, receiving a punch on the arm for his effort.

Illya activated an overhead projector which showed a map of northwestern Italy.  "Here is Milan.  As you can see, it is only 164 miles from Geneva, a drive of four or five hours."

Kittridge frowned.  "What is the significance of its distance to Geneva?"

"At this present time," Illya continued, "in Geneva, are the SALT II discussions between the United States and the Soviet Union, regarding strategic arms limitations.  U.N.C.L.E., we believe, is monitoring these discussions."

Another map came up on the screen, showing a line drawn between Milan and Geneva and the number 164 written on it.

"Now the location of the vault is outside Saint-Luc, Valais, Switzerland.  It takes under three hours to drive from Geneva to Saint-Luc, approximately 122 miles."

Illya clicked to the next map on the projector, a duplicate of the previous map, except a line had also been drawn between Geneva and Saint-Luc, with 122 written on it.

"Milan," Illya continued, "is 151 miles from Saint-Luc, at just over a three-hour drive."

A third map appeared, with another line drawn between Milan and Saint-Luc, and 151 written on it.

Napoleon looked at the map, then back to those gathered around the table.  "As you can see, Milan is a handy location for the U.N.C.L.E. Summit, easily accessible to Project EarthSave in Saint-Luc, and the SALT II discussions in Geneva."

"So what are you implying, Napoleon?" Kitterage was intent on the map and the distances involved.  "That U.N.C.L.E. Section One Heads are not in Milan as they have said?"

"Prior to 1968, the Summits were held at different times of the year, in different locations around the world.  Since 1968, the Summits have all been held in November.  In 1968, it was held in Freiburg, West Germany, 219 miles from Saint-Luc.  In 1969, the Summit was at Geneva, 122 miles from Saint-Luc.  In 1970, it was at Lyon France, 213 miles from Saint-Luc.  In 1971, the Summit was at Turin Italy, 155 miles from Saint-Luc. This year, the Summit is in Milan, 151 miles from Saint-Luc."  Napoleon looked around the table.  "Do you see a common theme here?"  The projected map looked like a wagon wheel, all roads leading to Saint-Luc.

Sam Lawrence spoke up.  "Napoleon, I hate to burst your theory here, I was there in 1969, at the Geneva Summit.  I didn’t go to Saint-Luc."

"Were you there the entire time?" Napoleon asked calmly.

"Yes."  The doctor sat up straighter suddenly.  "No, I wasn’t.  Alexander sent me to Milan one day to check on the condition of the U.N.C.L.E. station chief there.  I was gone for about a day and a half."

"And how was the U.N.C.L.E. chief in Milan?" Norm Graham asked.

"He was fine, as I recall," Sam Lawrence said, his eyes narrowing. 

Napoleon looked around the table.  "Has any one of you been to a Summit in the last five years, aside from Dr. Lawrence?"

Paddy Dunn nodded.  "I accompanied Louis DeWitt to the Freiburg, West Germany Summit in 1968.  I was not invited to attend the Summit after the first day, however.  My wife and I spent most of our time sightseeing.  To be honest, I have no idea if he was there the entire five days or not."

Kusini reluctantly agreed.  "I went with John Muliro to the Lyon Summit and the Turin Summit.  However, I did not attend either Summit, but assisted at the local office."  Kusini looked over to Bhaskar.  "You were there both times with Gabhail Samoy, yet you were working with me at the office."

Bhaskar’s frown was growing.  "That is true.  It would never have occurred to me that they would leave the Summit location and go elsewhere."

"Over the past few months or even years, have any of you noticed any... unusual... behavior with the Section One Chiefs you work with?  Bhaskar?"

"Other than age limitations.  He is only 76, but Gabhail’s health is not good.  Traveling has become more difficult for him."

"Kusini?  What about John Muliro?"

"I will not answer that," Kusini responded stubbornly.

"Fine.  Salazar, have you noticed anything with Juan Rodriguez?"

"Again, just things I have equated with age and stress.  He’s been forgetful as of late, as though his mind is on other matters.  Misses meetings.  In the last two months, he has undergone treatment for a skin condition.  Since he is past retirement age, I spoke to him, but he says he is not yet ready."

"Which brings me to this: if the mandatary age for retirement is 70, why are all five Section One chiefs not yet retired?"

"Actually, Napoleon," Paddy Dunn spoke up, "I recently had a conversation with Louis about that. He has just turned 70 last summer. We discussed the option of moving U.N.C.L.E. European HQ to London or keeping it in Amsterdam, where he moved it when Beldon died, or even moving it to a new city.  He said he would leave it in my hands when the time came.  I had assumed he wanted to discuss it with the other section heads at the Summit."

Napoleon nodded.  "I’ve heard from several of you now that many top secret files are missing from your locations, especially anything to do with life prolongation, rejuvenation, cloning, or other strength, health, and heightened senses research.  The only people with access and the ability to remove these files are the Heads of U.N.C.L.E. "

Carlos Salazar nodded.  "I checked after you called me, Napoleon.  Many of our files are missing, as well." 

"So we have to ask ourselves, why have these been removed?  For safe keeping elsewhere?  If so, why not advise us?  Or is there some research facility that none of us know about?  And it’s not just files-- people are missing, as well.  Dr Ian Weller, a world-renowned embryologist and geneticist, and employed by Thrush in the mid 1960s, escaped in a limousine from a Thrush mountain stronghold in January 1966.  I was told by Dwight Hill, the Section Three Chief of Vermont’s Montpelier station, that U.N.C.L.E. was in pursuit and there was no way the man could escape.  At the time, I had other considerations and didn’t investigate what finally happened to him.  There is no notation of his capture on U.N.C.L.E. record; however, when I spoke with Agent Hill yesterday, he assures me that U.N.C.L.E. did capture him.  Dr Weller sat in Hill’s own detention center for two days until Waverly arranged for security to pick him up."

Illya flicked off the projector.  "So where is Dr Weller?  Where are some of these other Thrush scientists we’ve captured over the years?  We can’t find any trace of them."

No one had any comment.

"I, for one, need some answers," Napoleon continued. "There are too many things not adding up.  Files missing.  People missing.  Summits changed to November each year.  Summits changed to within a short distance of Saint-Luc.  All without a word of explanation to those of us who are expected to carry this on.  Or are we?  Are we going to suddenly find a rejuvenated group of Section One Heads waiting for us, ready to take over U.N.C.L.E. for another fifty years?"

Abbas Bhaskar looked indignant.  "What you are suggesting is preposterous, Napoleon."  He stopped, then raised his arms with a shrug.  "Yet, I have no answers for your questions.  I, too, would like to hear an explanation."

"Sounds like they’ve gone mad," Paddy Dunn said softly, doodling on his pad of paper.  "I’ve been so busy these last few years, I haven’t noticed this happening.  I should have.  Why haven’t any of us noticed this?"

"They are skillful," Carlos Salazar said.  "They know how to redirect your focus."

"I have, perhaps, another suggestion for their actions," Napoleon said.  "If, as we suspect, the last five Summits have included checking Project EarthSave and changing the codes, I’d like to ask the doctor here what sort of long-term effects would one expect to see from yearly minute exposure to electromagnetic gamma rays.  Could it account for this erratic behavior?"

Lawrence frowned.  "I’m not sure what you--"

"Sam, I’ll be blunt.  Why do you suppose Harry Beldon went crazy when he had been one of the most respected men in Europe, and when he had access to the best medical care?  Any idea what pushed him over the top?"

Kusini stood up.  "Solo, are you insinuating that the Heads of U.N.C.L.E. are all insane?"

"I don’t know, Tomas.  But I think it’s a remote possibility that needs checking, don’t you? Especially when they have access to a weapon capable of destroying the entire planet."

Paddy Dunn looked around the room, then back to Solo. "So what do you suggest, Napoleon?  You’ve obviously had more time to consider this than we have."

"I would like Mark and April to go to Milan and check the Summit site there.  Meanwhile Illya Kuryakin, myself, Dunn, Kusini, Salazar, and Bhaskar-- the next generation of Section One Chiefs-- we’ll go directly to Geneva, then drive to Saint-Luc. Dr. Lawrence, if you could accompany us, we might need your services. That leaves Norm Graham temporarily in charge of New York North American HQ, with you, Kitt, assisting him, since you’ve worked here and are familiar with the setup.  John," he said, turning to McGlouster," I’d like you to take care of Project Gemini in Canada, and report any problems to Norm who will be monitoring the American side of the Project.  Of all the like-minded projects U.N.C.L.E. has maintained over the years, this is the only one apparently still in effect."

"I understand."

"When do we leave?" Paddy asked, speaking for the others.

"The U.N.C.L.E. jet is standing by.  We’ll leave tomorrow.  That gives us time to check with our individual offices and make any necessary arrangements.  The flight will drop us off in Geneva, then continue to Milan with April and Mark.  Agreed?"

"And what will we find, Mr Solo?" Tomas Kusini said wearily, at last caving by the massive evidence before him.

"I hope we will find some answers, Tomas."

Milan, Italy, International Airport,
Wednesday, December 6, 1972, 7:00 P.M.

The skies over Milan’s Linate Airport were overcast that evening.  The mountains shielded the city from the worst of the Northern European winter weather, yet the overnight temperature had fallen below freezing. 

Despite the cold, April Dancer relished the walk from the plane to the airport terminal building.  It had been a long flight from New York, plus the layover in Geneva.  She was well used to flying around the world, but she always arrived feeling achy and somewhat irritated.

Beside her, Mark Slate walked quickly, his eyes darting around the airport, alert. Normally she was equally alert, but today she felt she was going through the motions.  She was tired of this.  Here she was, barely 30, and she felt drained.

"Yes," she said suddenly.

"What?" Mark asked, eyes following the empty baggage cart as it wound its way toward their U.N.C.L.E. jet.  "Yes, what, luv?"

She slipped on the icy pavement and grabbed at his arm.  "Yes, I’ll go to Tahiti with you on vacation.  Yes, I want to move to London."

"Given it some thought then, have you?"  Mark’s eyes twinkled as he glanced her way, then he frowned as he looked past her.  "The guy on the left of the trolley there, he’s carrying, if I’m not mistaken.  Focus, luv, or we won’t get our tans before Christmas."

U.N.C.L.E. Milan had provided them a car, so April got in behind the wheel and sped away from the airport, quickly losing the inevitable tails that always seemed to plague them.  She pulled up at the private resort U.N.C.L.E. had leased for the month.  The flag still flew, snapping in the stiff winter breeze. As yet there was no snow, but the air hinted strongly of it.

They parked and got out, checked their weapons, then walked along the walkway to the lodge, armed and ready.  The door was locked, but Mark had it open quickly.  They fanned out, walking through the empty hallways of the small lodge. 

"Who goes there?"  The caretaker gasped when he saw two guns aimed at him.

"Where is everyone?" April Dancer demanded.  "Where did they go?"

"Please don’t hurt me! I don’t know anything!" the caretaker pleaded. "I was just hired to stay here and take care of the flag until Friday.  That is all I know.  Please, I have a wife."

"It’s okay," Mark said quietly, lowering his gun.  "They’re not here, are they?"

"The old men?  No, they left a week ago."

"Are they coming back?" April asked.

"I do not know.  I was only hired to take care of the flag."

"Swell," Mark said, reholstering his weapon.  "Now what?"

"Now we call Napoleon."  April set her transceiver and relayed the call through the U.N.C.L.E  Rome office. 

"Solo here.  Report."

"Napoleon, it’s April.  There’s no one here; they left a week ago."

"Stand by.  We may need you to join us, but for now, can you find a hotel for tonight?"

"We’re in a deserted lodge.  I’m sure we’ll think of something," she said, dryly.

"We have checked out the SALT talks but there is no sign of the Section One Chiefs.  We will spend the night here in Geneva, then drive to Saint-Luc in the morning."

"Good luck," April said. 

Grand Hôtel Kempiski, Geneva, Switzerland
9:15 P.M.

It was a heavy-hearted group who sat in a private dining room at the Geneva Hotel. They had eaten little, most choosing a meal of various soups and bread and cheese, and by mutual decision decided against any alcohol other than a single glass each of red wine, fruit juice for the men who didn't drink. None of them could have handled anything more.

They sat around the table quietly, talked out.  Napoleon Solo for North America.  Salazar for South America.  Kusini for Africa. Bhaskar for Southeast Asia.  Paddy Dunn for Europe.  Sam Lawrence-For U.N.C.L.E. Medical. 

And Illya--for Napoleon.  

This is grief, Napoleon thought.  This is what Sam Lawrence had been talking about a few days before in New York, but this now was grief for whatever had brought them to this place.  Sitting at the table was the next generation of Section One, Number One.  Section One, Number Two were "manning the forts" in their areas.  They were all grieving that they had been put in a position to do this, and wrestling with whether they betraying their Section One heads?

"Tomorrow at 7:00 A.M. we will meet here for breakfast," Napoleon said.  "Be ready to leave at 7:45 A.M.  We are travelling 122 miles in the winter on mountainous roads.  It will likely take two and half hours, I have been told.  We will take two cars.  Dress warm.  Bring your luggage with you."  He stood up.  "If you can sleep tonight, sleep well.  We will need our wits about us."

As they took the elevator up to their room, Illya took a crusty bun from his back pocket.  "I was saving this for tomorrow, but since you mentioned we'll be having breakfast, I think I'll eat it now."  He tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth.

Napoleon stared at him as the elevator rose several more floors.  "I think... you are rather odd at times."

"You just keep thinkin', Butch. That's what you're good at.  Want a piece?" Illya asked, tearing off a small piece and handing it to Napoleon who looked down at it almost dazed, but finally reached for it.  "One never knows when food will be presented again.  Napoleon, do you really think they'll be at Saint-Luc?" Illya asked, munching on his crusty bread. "I just don't want to get there and realize that it stinks, that's all."

"You didn't complain about it during our meeting.  Are you having second thoughts now?" Napoleon asked, concerned.

"What I'm saying is, if you want to go, I won't stop you. I'll go with you. But the minute you start to whine or make a nuisance, I don't care where we are, I'm dumping you flat."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  Napoleon stared at him, puzzled.  "Why are you so talkative suddenly?  You hardly said two words at dinner."

"Naturally blabby, I guess.  Hey, Napoleon, I think those are lines from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  They've been going through my head tonight."  Illya had a half smile on his face that was confusing to Napoleon.

"How many times did you see that movie?" he demanded.  "Norm said you saw it twice with me and twice with his secretary."

"And I saw it with Tania; I remember seeing it with Tania.  We saw a double feature.  And once with Tony in Boston."

"Why did you see it so many times?  Do you remember what it was you liked about it?  I don't remember it at all."

"The total tonnage of what you don't know is enough to shatter..." Illya paused as the elevator door to their floor opened.  "I don't know the rest of the line."

"Let's concentrate on what's happening now with Section One.  We've got to have a game plan going in."

Illya unlocked the door to their room and pulled another piece of bread from his jacket pocket.  "You're the brains, Butch. Don't worry, you'll think of something."

"Seriously, we need to get some sleep."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."  Illya held his hands up quickly as Napoleon raised a fist in his direction.  "I'm done!  I'm done!  They just started rattling through my brain."

"Your brain?  I thought I was the brain..." Napoleon stared at him, his mouth falling open.  "Illya... I have vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals."

Illya perched on the side of one of the beds.  "Yeah... I think that's one of the lines you used to say.  You're remembering stuff."

"This isn't what I need to remember, though," Napoleon said sharply.  "We are going to the August site tomorrow.  I'd love to remember that, not some stupid lines from a movie."

"You can't remember the August site, though, Napoleon.  You were never actually there.  It was your double.  But I was there, and I remember it."  Illya shrugged.  "As frightening as it may seem to you, we'll have to rely on my memories tomorrow.  And I don't know how much I'll remember until we get there and I see it.  Or maybe... maybe I'll remember nothing." 

Whatever had made Illya laughing and joking a few minutes ago had left him; he was sitting dejected on his bed as Napoleon went into the bathroom and washed up.  He came out five minutes later, ready for bed, and Illya was still sitting there.   "Why can I remember those lines?" Illya asked, troubled.

"I don't know.  We'll find out, though." Napoleon patted Illya's shoulder and then got into his bed.  "Goodnight.  Get some rest.  Turn out the lights."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Illya whispered.

"I heard that."

continued

Chapter Text

Grand Hôtel Kempiski, Geneva, Switzerland
Thursday, December 7, 1972 -3:05 A.M.

I am awake in the middle of the night in the Geneva Hotel.  Sleep is out of reach.  I look over at Napoleon on the next bed, the thin pillow bunched beneath his cheek.

My memories of the "August Affair" are... unsettling.  Napoleon had been with me, yet not.  It appeared he was there, handling the case, smoothly accepting the burden of the locked briefcase, but it was an imposter.

I wondered later why I didn’t realize this immediately.  He had shut me out, but that happened during those early years.  He didn’t know what to do with me, so I was skillfully put to one side.  I was excess baggage on that trip.  A liability. 

Afterwards I understood what had happened.  The pieces all fell into place. It had not been him.  A duplicate had taken his place, a man who physically resembled Napoleon, a man who had the mannerisms down pat, but not the soul.

And it was the soul of Napoleon that I had come to count on.

I tried to explain to him why it took so long for me to realize it was not him.  I saw the hurt in his eyes, though he tried to brush it aside as if it were of no consequence.

I was rather insecure in those days, although I would not have admitted it then.

The experience of going into the vault and witnessing Project EarthSave was something that I couldn’t explain to him either.  I read my report, and it was all very factual and accurate, except it lacked the 'experience’.  I had learned at an early age to keep one’s emotional coloring of a situation from assignment debriefings.  I saw a UFO once. I reported what I had seen and was almost killed because of it.  The experience in Switzerland, looking at this almost alien power source, was very much like that event --  beyond words, as though lifted from a cheap dime-store science fiction novel.  Ridiculous in the extreme.

Except it had happened, like some unfortunate experience in childhood that everyone strives to ignore, that everyone tries to pretend never happened.

U.N.C.L.E.-- for all its polished image of international law enforcement and superior espionage personnel--  was, beneath it all, the guardian of the world’s most secret gadget and the bomb to beat all bombs.  No wonder it was classified.

Still it didn’t wake me up at nights.  Dreams of Raskachevsky wake me up at nights.  Vladimir Konstantinovich Petrov wakes me up at nights.  Even Mother Fear still wakes me up at nights.

So now as I watch my partner sleep, I wonder what we will find tomorrow.  If it is still there.  I realize I am anxious-- actually afraid-- that Thrush has it, and they will destroy the world in their mad lust for power. 

And part of me wonders if Alexander Waverly is sane.

Or if he has stolen it.  And that somehow terrifies me more.

* * * * *

9:30 A.M.

It had snowed the evening before.  Illya drove through the mountain pass, his eyes picking out landmarks memorized from eight years before, now half camouflaged beneath the snow. This time, however, there was no motorcycle escort accompanying the two cars, and the icy roads were almost impassable.

They reached the chainlink gate before the tunnel, but it stood empty, the gate unlocked and slightly ajar.  Illya brought the car he was driving to a halt.  The chains on the tires caught and held.  "There were guards here before," he said.  "Our guide’s credentials were checked at this point."  Illya listened in as Napoleon relayed the news to the car following them.  He remembered the guards, each wearing the uniform of the country who sponsored them-- although later he had discovered all the men were U.N.C.L.E. agents. The reason for the pretense was more of a formality, a tradition designed to reflect the multi-national origins of Project EarthSave.

He watched as Napoleon and Paddy Dunn made their way through the snow to the gates, pushing them open enough for the cars to make it through.  It was cold outside, and they hurried back to the warmth of the car.  Illya drove through the long tunnel, the chains clanking as they grated against the mostly dry surface. 

Once they were clear of the tunnel, Napoleon’s pen transceiver warbled.  It was Kusini.  "This property is vast.  Who owns it? U.N.C.L.E.?"

Napoleon looked to Illya for an answer, but all the Russian agent could do was shrug.  He had no idea.  It had not occurred to him to ask when he had been there before.  It had not been his show-- Napoleon Solo had been there.  Illya's assignment had been to watch.

Napoleon glanced to Paddy Dunn and Sam Lawrence in the backseat, but the other men just shrugged.  "We’ve no idea."  Napoleon answered Kusini.  "I assume it’s U.N.C.L.E.’s."

"How much farther?"  This time the voice was Bhaskar’s, driving the second vehicle.

"Not far," Illya replied cryptically. In all honesty, he didn’t remember the exact distance, but knew they had not left the road and it had been a dead end.

They drove down the snow-packed roadway for another fifteen minutes before pulling up at the unremarkable entrance to the mountain fortress.  Again the guards were missing.  They parked next to a lone Audi with an Italian license plate.

"Someone’s home," Napoleon said softly, in that singsong half-under-his-breath tone that brought back to Illya years of memories of similar situations.  With Paddy Dunn covering them, they checked the Audi.  It had been sitting there, as near as they could tell by the accumulation of snow, for several days.

Sam Lawrence, Kusini, Salazar, and Bhaskar followed on foot as they approached the doorway.  All four men were taking in the area, searching out the mountains around them for signs of human occupation.

As it had last time Illya had visited, the door to the secured entrance opened as they approached.  "Come into my web," Napoleon murmured, his voice keyed to Illya’s ears alone.

"Any suggestions?" Salazar asked.  "Do we go in?  Kuryakin-- is it a trap?"

"It opened as we approached when I was here before.  We are, no doubt, being monitored.  As for whether it is a trap, that remains to be seen."

Bhaskar held his gun before him.  "We haven’t come all this way to stand here in the cold."

Napoleon looked around but could see no sign of surveillance cameras. "We go in.  Did we ever have a choice?"

"One of us should wait here, in the event it is a trap," Kusini said.

"Kuryakin is the logical choice to stay behind," Bhaskar said.  "He is not one of the top five--"

The door abruptly closed.  They stared at it.  Napoleon cleared his throat.  "Or maybe he could come with us."

The door reopened.

"I’m not liking this." Paddy Dunn readied his weapon.  "Let’s get it over with."

"Illya, lead the way." Napoleon followed him through the door.  "Paddy, take the rear."

They slowly entered the facility, walking down a steep ramp lit by several glowing bulbs.  The door closed behind them, but despite their best efforts, it wouldn’t reopen.  Resigned to play this through, they continued down the ramp and a second door opened as they approached.  It admitted them into the small reception room Illya remembered, still twittering, unattended, with rows of computer banks.

Arsene Coria’s body sat propped up at the desk, as though a warning to all who entered.  He had been shot several times.  Five bullet holes through his head and chest. It was not a pretty sight, made worse that the body was several days old. While the room was cold, it was not cold enough.  Sam Lawrence approached the body, then shrugged but didn't touch it.

Illya moved past Coria and stared at the elaborate security system.  He had committed it to memory during his previous visit, fascinated at the time by the unusual setup and somewhat puzzled by the inconsistencies it posed.  The scientific jargon was so far-fetched as to be believable, yet it troubled him.

He handed each man a pair of goggles.  "We were told to wear these special protective goggles at all times, and to be exceedingly careful not to remove them.  One’s sanity depends on it."

"And if they are here and have taken theirs off?" Salazar asked quietly.

"We’ll deal with that if the need arises," Napoleon responded grimly.

"We also need to put on protective coveralls," Illya said, pointing to the stack of folded garments near the door.

"What about him?" Kusini asked, gesturing to Coria.

"He’s not going anywhere," Sam Lawrence replied, as he put on the coveralls.

"But who killed him?  Should we not establish the motive?" Kusini pressed.

Bhaskar’s temper flared.  "And how should we do that? Interrogate him?  Go ahead."

Salazar raised his hands, silencing both men.  "Five bullet holes.  Five Section Chiefs.  Perhaps we have already been told."

"Do you agree, Napoleon?" Paddy asked.  "Do you still believe they are responsible for all this?" 

"I don’t know."  Napoleon’s voice was tight.  Illya could hear the worry threaded through it, although it was unlikely anyone else, other than Sam Lawrence or Paddy Dunn perhaps, could hear it.  "That’s what we’re here to find out.  Someone let us into this facility just now, and that someone has answers.  Let’s keep going."

They dressed in silence, adjusted the goggles, then followed Illya silently down the long, steel-walled corridors as they wound their way through the mountain.  Where before there were guards stationed throughout, their individual uniforms baffling to ponder, Illya noted grimly that the corridors were now empty.  Each set of security doors opened as they approached, then closed once they were through. 

It was... unsettling.

At last they came to the cavern, deep in the mountain.  Illya cautiously stepped out onto the catwalk, motioning for Napoleon and the others to wait.  He peered at the monstrous natural cave, frustrated by the goggles which hampered his vision.  The cavern appeared to be empty.  Appearances were often wrong in his line of work.

He moved carefully along the narrow catwalk, listening to the steady drip of water and the acoustics of the cavern.  Last time, there were people talking, the Director explaining everything to them, and he had not heard the natural sounds of the cavern.  Long stalactites hung from the ceiling, stalagmites ten feet or taller rising up to meet them.  Last time, he had been eager to see the vault and had not taken notice of the monstrous cavern it was housed in.  The sounds, the smells, the feeble attempt to illuminate the massive cave, the shadows, the gleam of the polished floor.

After walking several feet onto the catwalk, Illya looked over the edge, then froze.  A ghastly light was streaming from the vault to the cavern floor.  Illya backtracked quickly, pushing the men behind him back into the corridor.

"What is it?"  Paddy Dun asked.

"The door to the vault has been opened."

"We’re safe, aren’t we?" Kusini asked.  "With these goggles and coveralls?"

"Yes, but is imperative that we do not remove them."

"So noted." Kusini pulled out his Webley .38 Mark 4.  At Napoleon’s look of surprise, he said curtly, "It’s an old friend.  I dislike the U.N.C.L.E. Special, and I will continue to lobby for it to be discontinued."

Illya’s grip tightened on his modified Walther P-38 handgun.  It had taken him many sessions in the U.N.C.L.E. shooting range to become comfortable with the Special, but now anything else felt foreign to his hand.

Napoleon turned to him now.  "What else should we know?  Describe the cavern. What’s the layout?"

"The catwalk extends perhaps twenty-five feet, then you take a ladder to the surface of the cavern.  We will need both hands to go down the ladder, so we must cover each other during that time.  The cavern now appears to be empty other than a small table, a security device for the vault code, and the vault itself."

Napoleon took the lead this time, walking along the catwalk, then climbing down the ladder as Illya and Paddy covered him from above. Once all five future U.N.C.L.E. Section One Chiefs and the doctor were safely on the polished floor of the cavern, Illya joined them.

All agents had their guns ready, watching each other, watching their surroundings.  Despite their calm exteriors, sweat dripped from their foreheads due to the almost balmy temperature in the cavern.  They spread out, checking their surroundings.

"Napoleon. Illya.  Over here."  Paddy Dunn stood on the far side of the vault, his weapon trained on something out of sight.

Illya followed his partner around the corner of the vault, frowning when the body came into sight.

"Do you know him?" Paddy asked.

"Donald Johnson."  Illya stared down at him for a moment, then dismissed him.  There were other things more important to consider.

"The CIA agent?" Sam Lawrence squatted down for a closer look at the body.  "Also with five bullet holes in his chest."  He stood up and stepped back.  "I’d say he’s also been dead for several days."

Napoleon crouched by the body then, using his gun to examine the dead man’s weapon, still clutched in the corpse’s hand.

"Did he fire it?" Paddy asked.

"I can’t tell from here."  Napoleon took out a pair of gloves, slipped them on, then reached into Johnson’s inside suit jacket pocket and withdrew his billfold.  Besides the American dollars and Italian lira was a piece of paper, a withdrawal slip copy from a Swiss Bank.

Illya glared down at it.  "That’s the account number for Nodleb Associates.  Harry Beldon’s company."

A distant clanging sound from within the vault had all seven men spin around to stare at the open door and the massive pulsing light emanating from it.  Tap, shuffle, shuffle.  Tap, shuffle, shuffle.  Illya approached, intent on slamming the door closed, but as he neared, the door creaked opened wider.  A dark nebulous shape became the outline of a man, vaguely seen in the glaring light behind him.  Tap, shuffle, shuffle.  The shape became more pronounced: the silhouette of a man with a cane moving towards them.

"Stop right there," Napoleon ordered.  "Who are you?"

Unable to look directly into the brightly pulsing light, even with the protective goggles, they trained their weapons towards the door and the dark figure.  "Stay back!" Kusini yelled, but the man continued toward them, hands spread out on either side so they could see that the only thing he was carrying was the cane.

 "Careful," Napoleon called out to the others, stepping back as the man neared the doorway.  "Hold your fire.  He’s not armed."

"Napoleon," Illya said softly, as he kept his weapon trained on the man. "Be very careful. If he has been without his goggles, he is already insane.  He may try to grab you and remove your goggles."

"Rubbish."  Waverly’s voice.  "I have no such intent, Mr Kuryakin."  The elderly man stepped out of the light.  He had dark goggles on, but not the white coveralls they wore.  He glanced around casually, as though checking to make sure they were all there, then nodded, muttering to himself.  "Quite." Louder, he continued, almost as though he was perturbed, "This way, please, all of you.  We had expected you an hour ago, and our dinner has been kept waiting."  He turned and retreated into the vault.  "Come along."

Illya glanced quickly to Napoleon.  It was difficult with the goggles on, impossible to see his partner’s reaction.  Napoleon stood silently as Waverly walked back into the light. 

"Should we follow?" Paddy whispered.  Salazar, Kusini, and Bhaskar had their guns trained on the doorway, but were also glancing to Solo, looking for his directions.

Illya suppressed a smile.  Strange how four of the most powerful men in U.N.C.L.E., the future leaders, all looked to his partner for instructions.  There was a confident intelligence about Napoleon Solo that was grudgingly acknowledged when there was no emergency, and was immediately acknowledged when there was an emergency.

Napoleon slowly lowered his weapon.  There was a slight reduction in his tension, the set of his shoulders had changed, and Illya knew by the slight cant of his head that Napoleon was beginning to understand something that, as yet, the rest of them did not.  He unsnapped the top of his white coveralls and holstered his weapon.

"Napoleon?" Illya asked, moving closer.

"It’s okay."  Napoleon lightly touched Illya’s gun, pressing it downward.  "Put it away."  He turned to the others.  "Put your weapons away."  He stepped into the light, and Illya grabbed his arm.

"May I point out, that there’s a weapon of indescribable power in the vault--"

"Come with me," Napoleon said calmly, and moved his arm to catch Illya under the elbow, gently drawing him along as they entered the vault.

They stepped in twelve feet, then past the blinding light-- generated, Illya could see now, by a brilliant, ten-inch wide, spinning searchlight.  At the back of the vault was a stairwell, the steps winding downward.  Waverly was already disappearing down the metal steps, moving rather quickly for a man with a cane, his goggles loosely held in one hand.

Once past the light, Napoleon pulled his goggles off.  It took Illya several more steps to do the same, but then Napoleon hadn’t been there when Namana had gone insane.

Or had he gone insane?  How could Namana have gone insane from a bright light?

Feeling much like Alice falling down the rabbit’s hole, Illya followed his partner down a set of stairs that should not exist.  The small group reached the bottom, walked down a long corridor, then entered what appeared to be a large dining room, or merely a revamped board room.  It was spacious, thirty feet by fifty or sixty feet, and the ceiling was at least twenty feet in height.  Maps and other military diagrams filled the walls.  Ten or more doors led off it.

In the center of the hall, the five current Heads of U.N.C.L.E. sat facing them at a long dining table:  Waverly, Samoy, DeWitt, Muliro, and Rodriguez.  Claude Renault sat at one end of the table and Chapman sat at the other.  Seven men in a row.

"Sir?" Napoleon asked, and Illya begrudged the man his calmness.

"Have a seat, gentlemen, across from your Section One Chief."  Waverly indicated the seven place settings across the table from them.  "We’ve been expecting you. Dr Lawrence, please take a seat at the end, across from Claude. Mr Kuryakin, there has been room made for you next to Mr Solo."

Illya sat next to Napoleon at the center of the table, Alexander Waverly across from them.

Jesse Namana came out of a side door, wearing the apron and clothing of a waiter.  He set several bottles of wine on the table, nodded to Illya, and left the room.  He returned a moment later with the man Illya recognized as the assistant who had helped them with their goggles and coveralls so many years before.

Illya leaned towards Napoleon and whispered, "That is Namana.  He is dead--should be dead."

"That makes sense, then," Napoleon nodded sagely.

How?  Illya wanted to ask.  How does that make sense?

A woman entered, and the older men all turned and smiled at her.  "Our chef," Waverly said, "I’d like to introduce Ramona Pauls-- I believe you met her as the director of this facility when you were here previously, Mr Kuryakin."

"Yes, sir."  Illya recognized her very well.  The supposed scientist who had explained it all to them.  "So, this is all a fake?" he said, his voice not hiding his anger.  "There was no weapon?"

"Oh, there was a weapon," Waverly said.

"Where is it then?" Bhaskar demanded of his Section One Chief Samoy. "It is clearly not here."

Samoy nodded.  "That is correct.  It is not here."

"Have you destroyed it?" Paddy asked.

"First things first, gentlemen."  Waverly took a sip of wine, then nodded for Namana to pour the rich-hued Italian merlot for everyone.  "We have invited you here for a reason--"

"Invited, sir?" Salazar interrupted.  "I believe we have some questions regarding that."

"After we eat, then we will have plenty of time to talk," his Section One Chief Rodriguez responded.

"Perhaps we could talk first, sir."  Napoleon glanced from Waverly to the others with him.  "I believe I can speak for us all.  We would appreciate some answers."

"Yes, yes.  Quite.  Yes."  Waverly huffed and sighed, then motioned to Ramona Pauls, Namana, and the other man to leave them.  When they left, he turned back to Napoleon.  "What is it, then, you would like to know, Mr Solo?"

The question seemed so ludicrous, it was difficult to know how to begin.

"Why are we here, sir?" Illya asked, when it appeared no one would speak.

"Why, it is our retirement dinner," Waverly said, as though it were obvious.

Napoleon blinked, aware of the incredulous stares of the men seated on either side of him.  "Retirement?"

"From U.N.C.L.E."  Louis DeWitt, Head of U.N.C.L.E. Europe, placed his wine glass to one side and sat with his hands loosely folded before him.  "Several years ago, it became clear to those of us in Section One leadership, that soon we would be forced to leave our positions.  Each one of us had one or two men we were mentoring to take our place. " He gestured to the row of men sitting across from him.

Samoy sipped at his water glass.  "Indulge us with a moment of history.  We formed U.N.C.L.E. for one particular purpose: To safeguard a weapon, created by accident by an international scientific team, a weapon of such devastating power it could conceivably destroy the world.  Each country involved provided one of their top espionage agents, although it was agreed the weapon was to be owned by no one country, but put in trust for the future of the Earth. We, the custodians, chose to call ourselves 'Uncle’, more of a joke than the acronym, which came later.  We five-- Alexander, John, Harry, Juan, and myself-- soon discovered our organization had another purpose, perhaps even a greater one, to stand united against international criminal organizations who also sought to take over the world."

Rodriguez reached for a wine bottle and refilled his goblet.  "Our expertise as espionage agents became invaluable, as did our ability to work above, around, and under the governments of the world.  We worked, not for the good of one particular group or country, but for the good of the world."  He let the rich ruby liquid swirl in his glass as he spoke.  "After a time, we came to be called upon for other less daunting tasks: a city in jeopardy from terrorism, a scientist’s life work threatened, a politician blackmailed, an ecosystem in peril.  Our numbers grew as we trained agents to handle these crises.  Our reputation became known worldwide.  If there was a problem you couldn’t handle, or didn’t want to handle, you called the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement to come to your rescue."

Muliro turned to them, his wide, gap-toothed smile warm and sincere.  "You men have been our heroes. We were already in our forties and fifties after World War II when we were tasked with this project, no longer young men to chase after the enemy, and you and your predecessors accomplished what we were unable to.  In so doing, you freed us to safeguard not only the weapon, but also the future of mankind."  Muliro looked to Waverly, who continued.

"Yes."  Waverly lit his pipe, relishing the forbidden delight.  "Eight years ago, we realized we had decisions to make-- most importantly,  what to do with a weapon of this magnitude in such a quickly moving nuclear age."

Illya spoke up.  "I was told the weapon had something to do with possible attack from outer space."

"It was a concern for many years, yes.  What is the use, though, of having a weapon to protect yourself from what lies beyond the stars, when the planet has already been destroyed?  Which of us could be counted upon to use this weapon in a safe, responsible manner?  Always the possibility existed that some outside person or group could attempt to take over U.N.C.L.E. and make use of the weapon for their own purposes.  And that is exactly what happened in 1964 and again in 1969."

Illya could feel Napoleon tense up beside him.  "Sir?"

"In 1963, the August Affair was handled by Harry Beldon.  Following that, he put forward the name of Arsene Coria to assist with the 1964 codes, and he began to brief Coria on what would be required from him the next year.  It was soon clear there was a leak of information regarding the vault.  Harry insisted it wasn’t Coria, and we couldn’t trace it to him, but he was one of several suspects."

"Including you, Mr Solo." Muliro, the Head of U.N.C.L.E. Africa looked to Napoleon.  "However, as it turned out you were not the culprit.  We suspected a duplicate had been put in by Thrush to infiltrate the vault and discover the secret here.  Moving quickly, we arranged with Jesse Namana, originally of our Liberian office and who has worked at this location for the past twenty years, to assist us in the case.  Namana flew to Washington, D.C., and joined Coria, your double, and Mr Kuryakin."

Rodriguez laughed.  "We came up with an idea that we would inform each of you that direct visual contact with the light would drive a man insane.  That suggestion worked, and Mr Namana’s goggles were dislodged when he was seen to be a threat by the duplicate Solo.  Namana pretended to descend into madness and be drawn into the vault. "

"It was quite a performance," Muliro added, proudly, "and did the trick."

Samoy turned to Illya.  "Why did you not say something then?  That was our one concern, that you, with your scientific background, would speak up."

"I did not hold that view," Waverly put in immediately.  "I told you all that if Kuryakin went along as an observer only, he would know his place."

"It made no sense to me," Illya admitted. "That electromagnetic gamma rays would create an hypnotic effect which would make someone throw himself into the vault...  How could that be?"

"Yet you chose to say nothing," Samoy said softly.

"Yes."

"Which is why Napoleon Solo, not you, was chosen to succeed Alexander."

Waverly chuckled. "Yet, I have no doubt that should this have happened in 1969, Mr Kuryakin would have most strenuously objected to the scientific mumbo-jumbo.  Mr Solo’s influence, you know," he added, as an amused aside to his colleagues. 

Illya shifted under Alexander Waverly’s intense gaze, but knew he was right.

Samoy continued.  "Thrush’s information on Project EarthSave came from whoever our leak was, yet as a result of the 1964 August Affair and their eye-witness report, they were led to believe that the entirely unstable nature of the weapon made it undesirable.  They never attempted to steal it again, although it has come to our attention that Thrush scientists worked on a method of harnessing the device’s power for years."

"Was Coria the leak, then?" Salazar asked.

"After the 1964 August Affair, we still had no proof that Coria was involved in this," Rodriguez said, taking up the report.  "He appeared to be an excellent agent, and we entrusted Harry Beldon to watch him.  Harry’s subsequent betrayal and death in 1967 meant we still did not know if Harry himself was the leak, or if Coria had been somehow connected to him.  We elected Louis DeWitt to take Harry’s place as one of the five and brought him into our circle, as well as Claude Renault and Thomas Chapman.  As we got older, we needed to make sure we had enough of the original group in place to make up the five council members of 'Uncle’."

"You said the weapon is to protect us from outer space attack?" Salazar asked Rodriguez.

"Project EarthSave was designed for that purpose, and the weapon had been aimed toward the air of space where radio waves had been detected.  The weapon constructed to utilize the power was housed at the observatory at Saint-Luc."

Napoleon’s mouth dropped open.  "That’s just fifteen miles from where I was held at the Thrush observatory and stronghold." Napoleon looked back to Waverly. "Then the outer space menace was real?"

"In the years since 1947, we have come to believe that any threat from beyond our atmosphere is less of a concern to planet Earth than the danger of keeping such a potentially disastrous weapon intact."  Waverly took a long draw on his pipe.  "In light of the continuing Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, we asked ourselves, should this power exist at all?  What if it fell into enemy hands?  Whoever controlled this device, could control the world.  Or destroy the world."

Rodriguez shook his head.  "We made the decision that the weapon was too dangerous to keep.  Our greatest concern was that its power would be too strong a draw for anyone with unscrupulous motives."

"Indeed," Waverly shook his head.  "In recent years several world leaders have approached us and requested our assistance in using the weapon, or by threatening other countries with its use.  We could not condone the use of the weapon in this manner."

"How could they know of it," Abbas Bhaskar asked, "when we had not heard of it?"

"It was our policy from the beginning to inform only the heads of the nations who are U.N.C.L.E. signatories.  The knowledge of this weapon has been rigorously guarded by them until recent years, when the desire to obtain it has overridden the signed promise to keep its existence secret."

"So we dealt with it in the only manner we could," Muliro finished.

"We turned it off."  Samoy looked pleased.  "Two weeks ago."

At their stunned silence, Waverly continued.  "This was only done after much consideration, for once turned off, we knew it could not be turned on again."

"But why turn it off?  Why not just disable it?"

"Because it would never be enough.  If it existed at all, the world was still in danger.  In the United States, for example, word of its existence was beginning to be whispered in the Department of Defense and CIA."

"In the late 1940s, around the same time 'Uncle’ came into existence, the CIA began to monitor the US Air Force files on possible UFO sightings.  Under the President’s order, the CIA was to copy all reports to 'Uncle’, although the CIA was given no reason for this.  Through the years, each subsequent US President was advised of Project EarthSave, signing paperwork to ensure such information stayed within the post.  In the early 1950s, there began within the CIA a growing belief that there was a conspiracy; some group, most likely U.N.C.L.E., was keeping information of national security from them."               

"Which was true," Illya pointed out.

"Yes, I suppose it was."  Waverly drained the last of his wine.  "Donald Johnson, in searching for something to use to sully your reputation, Mr Kuryakin, and to bring about the expulsion of U.N.C.L.E. from the United States, let it be known he was looking for incriminating evidence against you.  In early 1969, Johnson was contacted by Daniel Schoppel, a Thrush agent, and connected with Arsene Coria, who provided Johnson with U.N.C.L.E. case files, potentially incriminating Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin.  Coria paid Johnson well for his efforts."

"Why would Coria do that?" Paddy Dunn asked.  "Why give up U.N.C.L.E. secrets?  What did he have to gain?"

"With the death of his mentor, Harry Beldon, Coria was in a unique position.  He already knew about Project EarthSave and believed he would be named Harry Beldon’s successor, giving him the power he was looking for.  Instead, we elected one of our own, Louis DeWitt, to take over from Harry Beldon in 1968.  Louis named Paddy Dunn his successor, not Coria.  In 1969, Coria requested that he accompany us to that year’s Summit and represent U.N.C.L.E. at the SALT talks.  It was during the November 1969 talks that Coria was observed speaking with Donald Johnson of the CIA.  Connecting the two men began to answer many of our questions, including where these charges were coming from.  During this time, I was also being pressured by the US President, who wanted more control over Project EarthSave.  He felt the United States should take over the care of the weapon and it should be moved it to America under the strict supervision of the Department of Defense.  He threatened to reveal the information to those who could better control such a weapon.  We called an emergency Summit in early October 1969, prior to the trial."  Waverly looked over at Napoleon and Illya.  "You gentlemen were a part of that meeting."  He gestured to the large screen monitor on one wall.  "John, if you could?"

John Muliro switched a toggle on the panel in front of him, and the monitor came to life with the face of Napoleon Solo looking into the camera, Illya Kuryakin standing behind him.

"It is October 10, 1969.  My name is Napoleon Solo.  Section Two, Number One of U.N.C.L.E. North America."

"And I am Illya Kuryakin, Section Two, Number Two of U.N.C.L.E. North America."

"Illya and I are making this statement so the record is clear that we understand the necessity of allowing this court case to go to trial, and we will accept whatever judgement the United States Courts decide.  U.N.C.L.E. has been threatened that if we do not proceed with the court case, the nature of Project EarthSave will be revealed.  We believe the panic this will cause, and the subsequent danger of Project EarthSave falling into the wrong hands, vastly outweighs any inconvenience we may suffer."

"Neither Napoleon nor myself have in any way been coerced to do this.  After much agonizing over our options, this appears to be the only one we have."

Alexander Waverly appeared on screen.  "It is with deep regret that I am permitting this.  At this time, I can see no other way to safeguard Project Earthsave. The world owes its safety to these two men, along with my highest commendations."

The screen went blank, and the seven senior U.N.C.L.E. leaders all stood and clapped, their attention on Solo and Kuryakin.

"Thank you.  But I don’t remember that."  Napoleon’s gaze was on Waverly.  "Which brings me to, why is my memory gone?  And Illya’s?"

"You both had too much information of vital importance to the safety of the world.  You, Mr Solo, were conditioned by Dr Evans, the U.N.C.L.E. psychologist in our Washington, D.C., office, programmed to respond to a particular phrase: Project EarthSave.  Should you ever be asked about the project by name, you would lose several years of your memory.  We chose a date prior to our first discussions on the future of the project."

"Then someone asked me about it?  When?"

"According to the hospital surveillance footage, Donald Johnson visited the hospital while you were still in emergency care following the prison fight.  He was seen entering your room.  This would have been his first opportunity to get you alone, as you were carefully segregated while in jail."

"So he tried to somehow get information from me?"

"He would have confronted you directly on Project Earthsave."

"Is that why Johnson is now dead?" Paddy Dunn asked.

"Johnson’s agenda proved his downfall," Samoy said.  "He was a thousand times a fool."

"How can I get my memory back?"

"It should have happened already," Waverly mused.  "There was a code I left for you."

"Where?"

"I determined that should you be released in my absence, and returned to work for U.N.C.L.E., you might one day look at my agenda.  I left the code there."

"Your agenda was blank."

"Not totally."

"Just the notation about your great-grandson’s birthday."

"And the gift?"

"A red toy truck."

Waverly frowned.  "That should have worked."

"That was the code?  Red toy truck?" Napoleon asked.

"We’ll talk with Dr Evans.  He may be able to assist you in accessing your memories."

"So you destroyed the weapon," Illya said, breaking into the conversation, his anger growing.  "I concede that was perhaps your only option.  But what of the missing files?  What of the samples and documents regarding rejuvenation, strength enhancement, cloning, suspended animation, and countless other files missing from our vaults?  What of Dr Weller and the other missing scientists?  Where are they?"

"Very good questions, Mr Kuryakin."  Waverly sat back, picked up his pipe and took the pose of a professor, lecturing to his students.  "The four scientists to which you are no doubt referring have been transferred to others to watch.  They are no longer our concern.  As for the rest-- do you recall the Bridge of Lions organization?"

"Yes," Illya responded impatiently.  "Napoleon and I have discussed it recently."

"It was began by Sir Norman Swickert in the years following World War I.  A group was formed, much like U.N.C.L.E., with a noble purpose to unite great thinkers of the world and allow them a method of communicating clear of government restrictions. Sir Norman, however, eventually attempted to keep the group going past its time of usefulness.  He fell prey to greed and in so doing, became a target.  Now when we say the name 'Bridge of Lions’ we do not think of Sir Norman’s noble group, we think of how he allowed his name and society to be taken over by unsavory men and women just so he could attempt to retain his youth. In the vernacular, you would now say that he sold out. There are many examples of this in history, many more in recent history."

Waverly leaned forward suddenly, his intensity filling the room.  "U.N.C.L.E. has reached that point, gentlemen.  We here-- we seven-- have completed the task to which we were assigned.  There is no longer a purpose for us to be here.  We have taken every top secret device, formula, and document that poses a potential threat to the world, and we have destroyed it."

"What?" Salazar and Bhaskar exclaimed together, the outrage clear on their faces. 

Beyond them Paddy Dunn and Tomas Kusini were equally incensed. Paddy shook his head in anger. "What gave you the right?"

Illya would have risen to his feet, but Napoleon’s hand on his arm stopped him effectively.  "Do you hear what they’ve said?" Illya hissed.

"Yes, I heard.  I heard very well."  Napoleon looked into Illya’s eyes.  "Think about it for a moment."  He turned to Waverly.  "And now you are retiring?"

"Yes."  Waverly glanced to Paddy.  "And our commitment to our cause gave us the right.  We are retiring, and in so doing we have dissolved the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.  It no longer exists."

"Of course it exists," Kusini spat.  "What nonsense is this?"

"You were not and are not in a position to decide something of this magnitude for the entire organization," Abbas Bhaskar reasoned, speaking slowly as though to senile old men.  "There should be committees set up.  Discussions held."

"Ah, but you mistake something," Gabhail Samoy said, equally reasonable.  "The five of us are U.N.C.L.E.  The rest of you simply work for us."

"That’s not true--" Kusini began, but Napoleon cut him off.

"Unfortunately, it may very well be true."  Napoleon drummed his fingers on the table for a moment.  "Then why go through the sham of mentoring us, deciding who would take your place, if you had no intention of U.N.C.L.E. continuing?"

Samoy smiled.  "When we began, we felt there was a very real threat from outer space, and this weapon would be put in use within a short period of time.  We felt we would need to train others to take over our jobs as caretaker for such a monstrous weapon.  Times have changed.  There is no longer a need, and in fact, the 'cure’ in this case, might well be worse than the disease.  The temptation to use the weapon against each other, too much of a draw."

John Muliro nodded his agreement.  "Our mandate has ended.  Our reason for this organization has been put to rest.  Yet we can see that U.N.C.L.E.’s success, the success you gentlemen brought to our organization, went far beyond what we had envisioned our mandate to be.  Should you wish U.N.C.L.E. to continue in some form, and under another name, you may do so.  The need still exists.  But you must decide what you wish to do."

"Mr Solo," Waverly said.  "You have been worried these past few weeks that you are a time bomb of some type, due to your lack of memory over the past several years. And you both have wondered if I might be the time bomb."  He waited until they gave a brief nod.  "It is neither of us.  U.N.C.L.E. itself is the time bomb.  Thrush, for all the evil manifestations it came to have, for all the silly acronyms you have made for it, began with the best intentions, but that quickly changed as others came into the organization and turned their direction.  U.N.C.L.E., once it has outlived its mandate, faces the same crisis.  What now? What is left?  Who will you answer to?  At one time we looked into aligning ourselves with the United Nations, but they would not work with us when we had such a powerful weapon capable of the most extensive destruction known to mankind."

"But you have destroyed the weapon."

"And now you must decide if you wish to form another group.  It is a different world today than what we faced in 1947.  Thrush has been wiped out, but no doubt other similar groups will appear."  Waverly shook his head.  "That is for your generation to deal with.  We have retired.  And we had hoped you would celebrate with us."  A flashing light caught his attention.  "I see Ms Dancer and Mr Slate have arrived.  We sent word for them to join us."

Muliro flicked another toggle on his panel, and a moment later Namana entered the room.  "Please tell the chef that we are ready.  And have Clayton escort our guests in.  We will need two more place settings."

Namana nodded, and withdrew.

"And that’s it?" Bhaskar asked.  "We have no say in the matter?"

"You decide only what to do from this time forward.  You cannot decide what was not in your power to decide."  Samoy shook out his napkin, eagerly looking up as the first platter of food was brought in.

It was an odd celebration.  Seven men jubilantly celebrating, toasting each other, making speeches, telling old stories.  Under normal circumstances, everyone else at the dinner would have been enthralled.

Tonight, the other guests were stunned, picking at the food, sipping the wine, trying to comprehend it all.

U.N.C.L.E. was dead?

Napoleon glanced up as Waverly burst into loud laughter at something Claude Renault said.

And his memory loss was U.N.C.L.E.’s doing.  He had known about it.  Known it would happen.  Apparently approved it.  Would Dr Evans truly be able to fix it?  Or was it lost irretrievably?  Clearly Sam Lawrence hadn't known; the doctor looked like someone had punched him in his solar plexus-- hard.

Seated next to Napoleon, Illya stirred, then suddenly asked aloud.  "Where is the restroom?"

"Through the third door." Samoy pointed.

Illya fled the room, and after a moment, Napoleon followed him into the restroom.  He noted briefly that it looked like any executive washroom to be found in a corporate business.  He washed his hands, then splashed water on his face, aware of Illya standing beside him.

"What do you think?" Napoleon asked, quietly.

"I don’t know what to think," Illya answered.  He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, trying to breathe.

"It makes sense, though."

"It does?  All that information wasted.  Think of the lives it might have saved."

"Think of the lives it most definitely would have taken."

"You agree with him, then?" Illya asked.

"There is more that has been left unsaid, than said."

Illya paused, uncomfortable.  "Napoleon, Alexander Waverly said that you were not the time bomb, and he said that he was not the time bomb, but he said nothing of me."

"Which means in your mind that you are the time bomb?"  Napoleon shook his head. "We're being set up.  Somehow."  The words came to him suddenly, he could hear his voice and Illya's saying the lines. "Well, the way I figure it, Sundance, we can either fight or give. If we give, we go to jail."

The movie had entertained them, and intrigued them, and scared them at the same time.  They were, for all intents and purposes, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 

Napoleon could see now how they had made going to trial and taking the fall their way of jumping from a cliff together.  Except they hadn't been together.  They'd been promised to be sent to prison together, but Illya had been immediately sent to the USSR, and Napoleon had gone to jail alone, and then 'conveniently' had lost those years when it was over.

The door to the restroom opened, and Waverly entered, standing before them.  "Gentlemen," he paused, then looked over to Illya.  "I said earlier that neither Mr Solo nor myself are a time bomb.  Mr Kuryakin, you were present when Mr Solo was conditioned, but Dr Evans was not able to perform the same service on you.  After much discussion, it was decided that your... natural ability to deal with the problem would provide the same protection for U.N.C.L.E.  We did not condition you.  Your personal enforced silence and withdrawal kept U.N.C.L.E’s secrets."

"But..." Napoleon said.

Waverly continued, still focussed on Illya, "But at one point in your captivity, you were programmed.  We believe that the U.N.C.L.E.  Washington, D.C., chief physician, Dr Mercer, passed information on your location in the USSR to the CIA.  Word was then passed to Donald Johnson, who had moles within the KGB who owed him favors.  I’m sorry, Mr Kuryakin.  Pepper tree."

Napoleon watched as a jolt ran through Illya’s body.  "What does that mean?"  His partner gasped for breath and doubled over, clenching his stomach.  Only his tight grasp of Illya kept him upright.  "What did you just do to him?" Napoleon demanded.

Waverly’s voice seemed inhumanly calm.  "Under considerable duress, Mr Johnson kindly admitted to the programming and provided us with the code word to reactivate Mr Kuryakin’s memories.  As you suspected, Mr Kuryakin is a sleeper."

"To do what?" Napoleon asked, as Illya sagged bonelessly against him.

"To kill the leader of U.N.C.L.E. Section One, Number One, North America," Waverly said.  "And now there is no leader of U.N.C.L.E. North America, for U.N.C.L.E. does not exist.  Mr Kuryakin, you will listen to me very carefully. Mr Solo was only temporarily in command.  U.N.C.L.E. no longer exists. There is no one currently occupying the title of Section One, Number One."  Waverly looked over to Solo.  "As long as there is no one for him to kill, he is not a threat.  We were able to ascertain this prior to Johnson’s death.  The programming was very specific." 

"Sam Lawrence can--"

"Can perhaps work on the conditioning, but you would never know for sure that it had been broken."

Illya tried to move away from him, but Napoleon held his partner firmly, wrapping his arms around him.  "Then we will find something else to do."

"You would give up U.N.C.L.E. or whatever U.N.C.L.E. becomes for him?"  Waverly asked, softly.  "Why not just lock him up?  Wouldn’t the good of the many be worth more than that?"

Napoleon turned Illya to face him, then enfolded the anguished man into his arms.  "I think you are right, sir.  I think U.N.C.L.E. and that type of thinking has outlived its usefulness.  It is time for something new."

"I had hoped--"  Waverly smiled sadly. "Many years ago, I had hoped you two would take over for me and perhaps share the terrible burden of guarding Project EarthSave.  It has been too much for us.  It has cost us all greatly.  Even cost us Harry Beldon. " Waverly placed one brown-spotted hand on Kuryakin's shoulder, and looked at Solo.  "Napoleon.  Illya."  He rarely called them by their first times.  "Perhaps you are right, it is time for something new.  It is your decision, not mine.  I have moved you around the chessboard for the last time."   Waverly paused at the door.  "Now, it is my retirement dinner, and my last request, my personal request, is that you join me there," he said as he left.

Napoleon held his partner for a moment longer, relieved that no one else had come into the restroom.  Finally he drew back, looking down into Illya’s face.  "Do you remember those years?"

"Maybe.  It’s all jumbled.  I remember prison.  Darkness.  Cold."  Illya looked up, his pale face beseeching Napoleon.  "So cold.  Napoleon, you can’t be near me.  If what he says is true--"

"Then I have nothing to worry about.  I’m not the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America."

He swore.  "You can’t take that chance."

"Illya, sometimes when we were on assignment, and looking for something to do while we were doing surveillance, we used to talk about how we would change U.N.C.L.E. if we could.  Now you and I have that opportunity, to do something from the ground level up.  Or to leave that world behind and find something else."

"Just us?  What about Norm and Sam Lawrence?  What happens to April and Mark?  Xavier Garcia, Heather McNabb, John Lagto?  Every U.N.C.L.E. agent-- suddenly without work?  All the networks? Survival School? All gone?"

"I’m going to suggest that a committee be formed to disband U.N.C.L.E. worldwide, all us Section One, Number Two chiefs.  If a section, such as U.N.C.L.E. Africa, wishes to continue, they may do so, but under a new name.  Norm Graham already heads a different sort of U.N.C.L.E. in Washington, almost a local offshoot of the United Nations.  He can rename it, rebrand it.  U.N.C.L.E. no longer exists; it's all over but the paperwork."  Napoleon smiled at his partner of so many years.  "As for us, I’m prepared to live without U.N.C.L.E.  I’m not prepared to live without you, my friend."  He turned Illya towards the exit.  "We’ve got a retirement dinner to attend.  Then we step back and blow that New York building up, right, Sundance?"

"You can stop calling me that now, Napoleon."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

continued

Chapter Text

New York Apartment
Sunday, December 31, 1972 

I stand on my balcony and look out over the city.  We decided against parties, against celebrations.  It’s all too much.  We have so much to sort out, so many decisions to make.  Yet the largest of all decisions has already been made.

It’s over.

Hard to say whether in the end the Donald Johnsons of the world won, and killed U.N.C.L.E.  Shut it down.  Or did we win by gracefully bowing out into the night?

Midnight approaches, and with it, a host of feelings well up within me. 

I feel peace.  For tonight, at least, I feel I am where I should be.  I can hear Illya moving about in the living room, lighting the fire, and I know he is where he should be.  Here.  Oh, one day, he will more than likely move out, find his own place.  He is young enough to have a family, a home.  To bring some grandkids into the world for Norm and Trish.  But tonight, for this point in our lives, I have no regrets.  He is here.

I feel anger. For what we’ve been put through.  For the injustices in the world. For losing a piece of my soul.  Memories, however horrible, have been taken from me. Maybe Dr Evans will find a way to retrieve them.  I’m not sure I even want them back.  I feel that perhaps circumstances forced us to say goodnight to U.N.C.L.E. before its time. Mr Waverly insists that while I was conditioned to forget, I was not programmed further.  I hope he is right.  I have no way of knowing.  I wish I had said more in the tape we made.

I feel loss.  The wife of my youth --Soon Hee, taken before her time in Korea, before I hardly knew her.  My grandparents, who raised me, sheltered me all those years. Gone.  My mother, who I never knew at all.  My father, who I finally called on Christmas Day.  I almost broke down myself when he cried at the sound of my voice.  Those years are gone to me, too, my childhood years when he should have been more to me, the years I needed him.  Instead, I am slowly learning to know a man I have great respect for, but is he my father?  I see Illya with Norm and I see the love between them, and there is none of that between my father and me.  The desire is there, but there is nothing to hook it on to, except a name.  Antonio Solo.  My father.  Maybe this coming year will bring us closer together, now that U.N.C.L.E. no longer controls my life.

I feel apprehension.  I am a married man still.  April is a beautiful woman who I don’t love.  She's asked for a divorce, and I agreed. I don’t know how this will play out.  For now, she has moved to an apartment several blocks from here.  Mark has decided to relocate to London, and I suspect she will follow him.  It is too difficult for her to be near me.  They are on vacation somewhere, talking about their futures, they said.

I feel hope.  Tanya came by today to wish us both a Happy New Year.  At Christmas, while staying with the Graham Family, I realized Tanya was no longer engaged.  I’ve no idea what she and Illya spoke about while standing on the Grahams’ balcony, but I saw she was not wearing the engagement ring.  Poor Paoul.  I’d always thought that Illya and Tanya would find their way together one day, and maybe that will happen yet.  Time is not pressing on them.  They are young.  We celebrated his 34^th birthday a few days ago.  She recently turned 26.  Or perhaps they will stay friends, or brother and sister.  Their relationship is complicated.

I feel anticipation. For the next year and what it will bring.  However irrational this hope is, I cannot contain it.  It exudes from my pores.  We will live.  We will survive.  And we will succeed.

I feel fear, as well.  For the next year and what it will bring.  With hope always seems to come fear.  For how many years have I balanced the two?  Tonight... hope has won.

"Napoleon?"

Illya comes out onto the balcony and stands next to me.  He is tired.  His memories of his time in prison are beginning to catch up to him, and he has had nightmares of things he does not yet remember.

He yawns, then laughs unexpectedly.

"I don’t know if I can make it to midnight.  I’m ready to turn in."

I sling my arm over his shoulder and draw him closer to me.  He rests his head on my shoulder, and I feel his weariness.  He is not tense, though, and for that I rejoice.  Like Illya and Tanya, my relationship with Illya is complicated.  It has existed on so many levels, and now, we simply exist together.  We are both tired, and we need to be together to heal our wounds of body, mind, and soul.

"Twenty more minutes, tovarish."

"If it wasn’t New Year’s Eve, I would ignore you.  I’ll go get the champagne.  I see you’ve already taken it out of the fridge."

"Stay for a minute. We’ve got time."

We do.  We’ve got time to work it out.  To figure out our lives and what we will do with our futures.  Today we talked with Norm Graham about working freelance as advisors for governments, especially on international terrorism issues.  God knows we have plenty of experience.  We could choose our jobs, decide which countries to deal with.  Norm suggested working with the United Nations Security Council as advisors, much like Alexander Scott and Kelly Robinson are working on.  Perhaps.  We’d like to do something to benefit the world. To put our years in U.N.C.L.E. to use.

"I like the new frame on the wall of your study," Illya says, looking up at the stars.  "The Robert Kennedy quote."

"My father sent it to me."

I was surprised by his gift.  I’m not sure if he knew of my friendship with Robert Kennedy, or if it was simply a coincidence.

Illya quoted it from memory, and I wonder if he knew it before or just memorized it this week.  "It is not enough to understand, or to see clearly. The future will be shaped in the arena of human activity, by those willing to commit their minds and their bodies to the task.’"  Illya paused, his eyes fixed on some distant light in the city skyline.  "We did that, with U.N.C.L.E. "

"Yes."

A quiet reflective smile crossed Illya’s face.  "Yes."  He sighed, and looked at his watch.  "It is almost midnight."

Illya leaves to get the champagne, and I remember another quote of Robert’s, one I discovered I had written in my journal while in jail:

It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.

I had always wanted to be a wave, not a ripple.  Ripples took too long.  I wanted to swoop in and clean house like a tsunami.  To strike out in power.

Illya had always wanted to be below the surface, to not even make a ripple on the pond.  To go in and out unseen.  He did not want people to look at him, or acknowledge who he was. Of what use is a ripple, he told me once.  It was better to be nothing.

Well, we made big ripples, he and I.  Each time we stood up for what was right.  Each time we stopped Thrush and organizations like that in their tracks.  Each time we saved the world.  Not the waves I had hoped for, but ripples.  Ripples that put Thrush out of business.  Ripples that saved a few lives here and there.

I guess it was ' not with a bang but a whimper.’

There is a sudden pop behind me.  I turn to see Illya laughing at the spray of the champagne.  Around us, the city erupts in cheering, fireworks splashing across the sky.  He pours champagne in our glasses.

"To another year," Illya said solemnly.  "A new year."

Napoleon clinked his glass.  "To friends."

"To family," Illya responded. 

Maybe ripples were okay after all, I realized as I savored the ridiculously expensive champagne.

Ripples had brought us together.  And what more could one man want?

Tonight, more than all the other feelings sweeping over me, I feel love.  Regardless of what happens to us in the future, what directions our lives might go, whether we marry someone and have families, or stay together as old bachelors, I know I will always deeply love this mop-haired man standing by my side, blinking at the champagne bubbles.

I touch my glass to his.

"To us."

End