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a bargain kept affair

by marjatta


warning: Some readers may find this story a bit disturbing, but I think it is worth getting to the end.



Waverly knew there was no recourse anymore but to demand a soldier's pure devotion to duty. The evidence was no longer refutable, the danger had become too clear, the costs too great. And he didn't like relying on Solo for this mission. Still, he had to use his most skilled operative.

"You have read the report I sent you." It was not a question. The head of UNCLE North America turned and pinned his CEA with his gaze.

Solo had indeed read it, several times, and he was still mired in confusion. His partner had left four days ago, like so many other times, on a legitimate UNCLE mission, and now he was handed this piece of lunacy.

"Yes, sir. Are you certain the facts are correct?" He thought, hopefully, that there would be some other indication that something was not right.

Waverly glowered at number 11. "I appreciate that you are surprised. Frankly, so am I. But we do not at this point in time have the luxury of indulging our dismay. These observations, recorded here, are well documented and their meaning seems clear. Is clear. Have you any other interpretation?"

"No, not...."

"Nor do I," Waverly cut him off. "You know what is required in these cases, distressing as it may be. We cannot tolerate a rogue agent. Kuryakin is carrying extremely valuable Western military information with the intent to sell it, use it for gain, or simply give it to the KGB--that is clear. That's a violation of all UNCLE compacts and conventions. We cannot, we must never, interfere with legitimate political balances among nations. We cannot allow our agents to take sides or maintain national allegiances. We've intercepted the KGB communication to Kuryakin with specific instructions. We've discovered how he arranged to acquire the information requested. We have also seen how he used his current assignment to disguise his real actions as long as possible. We are certain as of this morning that he has no other justifiable agenda. He abandoned contact with UNCLE three days ago, yet he was still travelling unharmed and unhindered. We traced his movements until this morning where we lost the trail in Stockholm. But he seemed to be having difficulty constructing his final route and may hesitate long enough for an top agent to catch up to him. We need to stop him immediately, permanently. We need to show force and no hesitation in order to assure the major governments of our commitment to their respective autonomies. UNCLE's future as an international enforcement organization has been severely endangered by this event."

Solo couldn't drag himself away from the personal blow that this revelation had dealt him. "But why would he do this now after so many years? It makes no sense. He could have passed such secrets many times before, and done so more casually, but he didn't." His mind continued to savagely with the information thrust at it.

"Mr. Solo, we are past the wonderment stage." Waverly's manner became more threatening than Solo could ever remember witnessing. "We do not have the privilege of indulging in the niceties of motivation analysis or even concerning ourselves with any potential for miscarriage of justice. I need Kuryakin terminated before UNCLE is terminated. We exist because international agreement allows us to exist. A double agent of his position in our hierarchy, whether suspected or proven, will not be excused. We cannot conduct an investigation beyond what has already been done. I have taken as much time as I can for that effort already. You have the results before you."

Solo looked up from the papers he had been staring at. His expression was as unreadable as a statue's. "So the organization must make this sacrifice of one of its own in order to regain approval."

Waverly looked compassionate for a brief moment but quickly hardened and continued. "Or tolerance. Kuryakin's actions must not even be recognized as having occurred. They will be eliminated from the record. You know this." Waverly paused, and Solo subconsciously braced himself for what he knew was coming. "If anyone can find him in the mere hours remaining at our disposal before he slips from our grasp, you can. Your orders are to eliminate the source of the problem. Quickly. Efficiently. Dismissed."

It was brutally sudden and hard. Waverly knew it was best to give Solo no further opportunity for appeal. No further opening for words of any kind.

Solo felt a tumult of emotions wash over him.

Confusion. How had this happened? This wasn't the Illya he knew. Who was this person?

Loss. The enormity of the evidence seemed already an insurmountable obstacle. It wasn't his way at all to give up when hope seemed lost, but even as he walked down UNCLE's corridor away from his chief's office, he was increasingly aware of the door to his familiar and well-planned life closing and locking him out somehow. The worst part was that he seemed to be in so wrong a place at a very wrong time. Something had happened to Illya, and he hadn't been there to notice it -- or to help. After so many years of acting as if they were one body with two heads, this ripping apart of their beings was both a physical and emotional sensation. He thought he knew this reaction of his was all wrong, but he could not get a grip on why.

Outrage overtook him quickly. How could his partner deceive him like this?! He should be angry for the serious endangerment of the organization to which they had both pledged their lives, but really, it was the personal level of the affront that left him shaking. He wanted to believe that things were other than they seemed, but some psychic sense told him that the terrible appearance of the truth was actually real. He couldn't describe what it was, but something in his recent experiences with his partner had not been right. Now that he thought about it in this way, he was quite sure that Illya had been hiding something. Must have been!

Rage. He settled on rage. It was the most comfortable and reassuring of emotions which he could grasp at the moment. As he hurriedly packed a suitcase and hailed a cab for the airport, he knew he was angry enough to kill. But whom? And not for the reasons of duty men like Waverly called "right." He just wanted to destroy whatever had ruined the partnership, the two of them. That was the problem. Since the information about Illya's flight and betrayal had been given to him, he no longer really knew how to proceed. If he were so wrong about Illya, his own partner whom he had held in complete trust for the seven most harrowing years of his or any life he knew, how could he ever be sure of anything, anyone, or even himself again? He was now just as ruined as Kuryakin. And he was angry for it.

Solo was never so single-minded in his pursuit of a quarry in his life. No distractions phased him as he headed for Sweden. From Stockholm he traced his partner to Helsinki and there tracked him to the night ferry heading for Riga, Estonia. There was no legal way for him to gain admittance on this ferry with the papers he carried. Having no time or patience for subterfuge now, Solo simply boarded the ferry in the dark by stealth and moved casually about on deck as passengers settled themselves for the ten-hour crossing. He noted chests holding life vests and inflatable rafts for emergencies. And he had seen Kuryakin. His old partner was no longer blond but was using an east European-like disguise of mouse-brown hair swept back, moustache, and glasses that Solo recognized. Kuryakin headed below deck to the common room and eating salon. Many passengers would rest in chairs and on benches there overnight rather than pay for a bunk in the sleeping areas.

The common room was too public. Solo had to find a way to maneuver Kuryakin into a deserted place before confronting him. In truth, Solo was not able to consider the question of exactly what was going to happen in that confrontation. He knew well the orders, his orders, but he still didn't connect to the idea that he would be the one carrying them out. Nothing about this seemed real, but then, nothing much mattered anymore, either, except that he might understand what had happened. His desperation was mounting. He only felt driven to get to the confrontation part. To extract the confession or the unforeseen explanation from his partner. To obtain the resolution he couldn't live without. But what he would do if he got the confession rather than the explanation, he could not say.

Solo watched the man he knew as Illya Kuryakin for what must have been hours, but his sense of time was distorted. It was still night, that was all he knew. Kuryakin appeared to be resting in a chair but clearly did not sleep. He reclined as one who never slept. Solo knew this well and stayed hidden. He was not fooled by the closed eyes.

Finally, the Russian stood, shook himself and stretched a little. There was a deep-rooted tenseness about him. He peered hard about the room, shrugged absent-mindedly, and headed for an exit.

Did his contact not come?, Solo wondered. Is he meeting the contact now? Or is he just getting up for a walk? Solo saw the direction he took and moved to follow or perhaps intercept him. In the ship's corridor, he saw Kuryakin moving to a stairwell and heading downward.

On this lower level there were a number of bunk rooms for sleeping, some communal bathrooms, and various storerooms for linens and other necessities. Solo saw the door to one storeroom standing open and seized his opportunity. Without warning, he dashed the twenty feet between them. The noise was so sudden that his opponent could not react quite quickly enough. Solo threw Kuryakin to the floor hard, and then flung them both inside the room. Taking advantage of Kuryakin's momentary dazedness, he turned on the overhead light, shoved the heavy door shut and overturned a heavy crate against it with a hard kick.

Solo stood panting, looking down expectantly at the man he still called partner in spite of himself. Recognition and something, perhaps despair, flashed across the other man's face. He stayed on the floor.

Solo threw himself at Kuryakin once more and hauled him on his feet. He found it curious that he received no resistance whatsoever, but other things mattered more right now. Quickly, he removed the hidden handgun from its shoulder holster. "Give me your knife," he ordered hoarsely.

Kuryakin bent slowly to extract a knife from a leg sheath while Solo trained his own gun on him.

Solo snatched the knife as it was carefully held out and flung it hard into the opposite wall. The clip he removed from the gun. Then he produced his own gun and removed that clip as well. Smiling perversely, almost enjoying the shock he was producing, he handed both clips to Kuryakin and pocketed the guns in his jacket. Then he spoke in a near whisper not losing that strange smile, "Illya, we need to talk. What are you doing here? You never told me that you were going away." Then Napoleon Solo ceased speaking and looked expectantly at his quarry.

Illya Kuryakin knew where he stood in this tableau. He saw the agonized and enraged emotions struggling for dominance behind the familiar dark eyes and realized that he faced the only adversary who could destroy his will to fight even before he began to try. For the moment, he could say nothing, marveling at the irony and even the tragedy of it all.

Solo grew tired of waiting. "Could you tell me, please, what you think you are doing?" inquired the dark-haired man once more with studied politeness.

"N-napoleon," he began, haltingly, not sure where his words would take him, and then drew a deep breath as if resolving on a course of action. "The explanation hardly matters anymore, does it?"

Solo's eyes flashed instantly, and he shoved Kuryakin against the nearest wall with as much force as he could muster. "I decide what matters!" he yelled hoarsely, with no regard for nearby ears.

Kuryakin swallowed and lowered his eyes. He wasn't at all afraid. Nothing Napoleon could do to him was truly frightening or unexpected from this time. On the one hand, it was a comfort to be facing his best friend and no one else over this thing. On the other.... The feeling that overwhelmed him now was sadness, and he wished he could make it easier for both of them to get through this hideous ordeal. He wasn't surprised to have been caught and knew that UNCLE would pursue him, but he had hoped that events would spare Napoleon this painful memory. No such luck. He could never count on luck. Not like Napoleon, but it looked like Napoleon's luck had deserted him as well. Neither one of them was going to be spared anything. They had to take care of UNCLE's little problem together, but Illya would do what he could to make it easier.

Time stood still in that cramped little room with the bare ceiling bulb. He didn't know where to begin. Suddenly, he perceived quick movement on the edge of his vision and flinched hard.

Solo hit the wall resoundingly with the heel of his fist. "Talk!" he demanded.

Kuryakin pulled in air, felt a sudden release, and spoke quickly, "I took U.S. military secrets in possession at UNCLE-New York. I have them on me. I made contact with the KGB. And I tried to strike a bargain. I think I succeeded. It may be compromised already because of your appearance. But maybe not. I was to be contacted on this ferry. I haven't seen my contact, yet, but there are still four hours left to this voyage."

Suppressing an intense urge to some kind of violence if it could only alleviate the pain, Solo breathed, "Why?"

Now Kuryakin lifted his face and looked the partner he had known for years in the eyes. "Do you think the USSR gave me freely to UNCLE? Do you think there was no hidden plan, just an open spirit of cooperation?"

Solo was momentarily puzzled. As his mind registered that forces had always been at work of which he had stupidly remained ignorant, he felt an inner coldness born of fear growing. "Tell me about this hidden plan."

"Well, of course, I was supposed to pass secrets. Not often. That would too easily compromise my situation. But just once in a while. Also, I was to expose principal agents to assassination. Like you."

"Like me," repeated Solo without inflection.

"Trouble was, I didn't. ...do enough." In a world where trust was virtually against the rules, violating the last fragment that existed became excruciating. Kuryakin had accepted the assignment of double-agent duty with foreboding, but when he reached the point of actually performing the duty, he had found it well beyond his capability. Allegiances blurred completely. What had come to matter was the agent who watched his back so faithfully and unquestioningly. He had realized quickly that Solo did not suspect him, and it was the guileless faith in one who was otherwise so clear-sighted that changed his own views of right and wrong. But there was no time to talk of any of that.

"Do enough? How much did you do? ... No, never mind, we'll come back to that later, perhaps. So they turned up the pressure?" Solo was becoming increasingly agitated.

"Exactly." Illya paused looking for more clues to his once-friend's frame of mind, but there was no further response. Their mutual distress began to overwhelm him. "Look," he said agitatedly, "I never passed anything damaging. Obviously, they've discovered that fact for themselves."

"So what was your price?"

That did hurt, but Kuryakin knew he deserved it. Given the circumstances. He had known all along that nothing good could ever come of any of this. Knew it had all been hopeless weeks ago when he got the first message. Maybe he should have confided in his partner. Of course, that's what he was supposed to do, but he hadn't wanted to endanger Napoleon. He had tried to keep him safe. Well, they were both endangered now, in far too many ways. Bad decision. No help for it now. He was, he noted, rapidly becoming strangely detached from the situation around and controlling him.

"Napoleon, I don't pretend to be justified in any of this. From the moment I was sent to UNCLE, my whole life was compromised. I found I couldn't follow orders, but I had to make my own rules in order to stay alive and keep those around me, including you, alive. It's too complicated to explain all at one time." Napoleon cocked his head with an angry, quizzical look, and Illya tried to answer the question he saw in those eyes. "This time ... a week ago ... things just started going out of control. I had to try to salvage what I could even though it would be hopeless. I know you can't approve of the method, but I still thought I could do the least amount of harm."

"Oh, certainly," he laughed harshly. "Seven years of partnership is not any reason to confide in someone or seek their help. Better to play the double-agent game to the dirty end!"

"Look! I - I didn't trust my own judgment in this. But I didn't know how to deal with it, and I still don't. In the beginning I didn't know you. They had me--"

Solo pounced suddenly and grabbed the other man's jacket. "Damnit, Illya. I've trusted you! Believed in you. All along. Do you understand at all?"

Kuryakin bent his head down and covered his face with his hands. "Perhaps not. So it may seem." There was awful silence for a moment. "Will you listen anyway?" he said, his voice somewhat muffled in his hands.

"Go ... on." Solo barely contained his frustration, but exhaustion and something even more weakening, was quickly overtaking him.

"OK." He spoke quickly, not wanting to stop again before he finished. "I didn't think I had any family left. Not since before I left the Soviet Union. That was what made being compelled into this horrid work easier for me. No one to be held hostage against me. Now I'm not sure. Several weeks ago I got a message, an actual letter. It had been postmarked out of West Germany. It wasn't signed, but the writer said she or he and his or her child desperately wanted to join me in America. She or he knew about my time in the war camps, knew where and when. He or she claims to be my youngest sister whom I thought had died at the last camp, but to tell the truth, I never saw her die; I was only told. But there was no plan explained or instructions for me in that letter, only an expression of intense desire to come. I saw no way to track down the writer and could do nothing but wait. I was afraid to tell UNCLE. An investigation could have killed any chance of a good outcome if this message were real. A week later, the KGB contacted me with the information that they had my sister, and if I wanted her to escape prison, I needed to comply with orders. I saw how this could be a ruse, but I couldn't abandoned her, if she were real. My vain hope was to bring adequate information for trade that would enable me to connect with her -- if she really still existed -- and maybe get back out."

"You thought you could do all that, on your own?" Solo asked incredulously. He was vaguely aware that he believed the story without hesitation, and although he realized that logically this was an unjustifiable placement of trust after everything else he had heard tonight, he didn't give it further thought.

"Not really. How could I get myself out of the country, let alone someone else with me, when we were both under such serious guard? I did consider bargaining to surrender myself in her place, but I'm afraid they would most likely have had me at a distinct disadvantage." He smiled guiltily. "Why should they give up one of us when they already had both?"

Solo began to pace in the small room, and Kuryakin watched the familiar movement. "Do you honestly believe you could have a living sister?"

"It's possible, but I just don't know." Kuryakin could no longer guess what his partner, former partner more accurately, was thinking.

Solo felt torn in pieces, but the horror of the security breach in UNCLE coming from his own partner still possessed him. It was too much to adjust to so quickly. A lifetime of personal values and devotion to duty and something else besides were now in conflict amongst themselves and collectively catching up with him in a head-on collision course. He stopped and pierced Kuryakin with a glare. "What is this information they want you to deliver?" His voice had gone very cold once more.

"Latest U.S. weapons development. Specifically, submarine sonar. I got it, but I doctored it a little. Yes, it is still slightly damaging, I confess. They would know right away, of course, if I gave them something utterly useless." Kuryakin looked into the face of his only real friend in all his years in America and realized this was the beginning of the end. Just as he had expected. But then he should be grateful for what he had had in America. It was all a borrowed life, to begin with.

What he saw in fact in his partner's face was both anguish and some odd kind of resignation. Solo may understand what he had done, even though there could be no pardon save for a little personal forgiveness. That's all he needed, really; what he was seeking now. Napoleon should still carry out his orders. There was no need for both of them to be destroyed over this. But if Napoleon just understood why it had had to happen, then the ending would be acceptable. In fact, it would be a relief not to have to struggle with all the complications of his life anymore.

"Listen. I know what your orders have to be in this, and there is really no call for reconsideration. I did it, you caught me trying to do it, I've confessed, and I have no legitimate excuse. Napoleon, I just wanted to tell you why and now I have, so let's finish the job because you have to. Do it, and you go home. I have no interest in resisting. My hopes for saving anyone were undoubtedly pure fantasy, but I know of no other way I could have coped with the situation and gone on living with myself. I'm tired of living on the edge like an outlaw and can't remember why I'd want to continue trying anymore. If so many people are bent on having me dead, then they may as well get their wish." He paused for a moment to consider. "You need to get yourself out of here before you end up like me."

Napoleon stared at the man he thought had been his best and best-known friend. His mind kept coming back to the same impossible question. He wanted to scream but instead gritted out slowly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because there was no good to come out of any of this. I didn't want to get you hurt or in trouble."

"And that's not where I am right now?" Solo answered quietly. Kuryakin looked resignedly at the floor. "You know that Waverly sent me after you because you are too good for anyone else to handle." Solo seized him and shook him, angry once again. "You're that good!"

Kuryakin looked him in the face. "I'm sorry. I mean that. Please, you can't stay here talking to me like this much longer. I think they are on this ferry and may be looking for me now." Illya took one of the clips that Napoleon had handed him earlier and held it out. "Use my special for this so that you won't have bad memories attached to your own gun. Kill me here and leave me. Throw the gun overboard. No one should find the body for quite some time. You'll have a chance to get off the ferry and away."

Solo stood frozen, eyes wide contemplating the idea openly for the first time.

"Go on," said Illya. "You have no choice, and I am truly very sorry I've brought this on you. I never intended it. I'll help anyway I can. If you give me the gun, I'll do the job myself. Really. As a token repayment for all the things you've done for me." He smiled a little at the perverseness of the offer, despite its sincerity.

Solo replied in a soft voice. "Fine. You'll kill yourself in front of me as a repayment for a multitude of good times enjoyed, bad times survived, and harrowing rescues." He started to laugh strangely again. "Did I ever tell you how much I love my job?"

Illya's face became serious and sad. "I can't think how to say what my job at UNCLE has really meant to me. They'll label me a traitor, and so will the KGB, no doubt. Suddenly, it seems I've failed everyone, including you, especially you. And yet, I've always wanted to do what was my duty and meet all obligations, even to a sister I can't believe is alive. Yet here I am. It is hard to understand how things happen sometimes. I don't know why we're here like this, either, except that so few of my choices have been any choice at all. I've always felt like I was heading toward some kind of end like this, so please don't feel responsible for your part in it, Napoleon. It was just your bad luck for knowing me." He grinned encouragingly this time. "Let's do it, now."

Napoleon said nothing as he shakily loaded the clip into the gun with the K initial plate. Suddenly he became aware of the rocking movement of the ferry in the rough seas of the Baltic. They were trapped on this boat. He was trapped. In a senseless chain of events. Like the old heroes in ancient legends who were endlessly compelled to seek vengeance for a violation of honor, as one act of necessary vengeance led inevitably to the violation of someone else's sense of honor, and more vengeance, and so on. Until finally almost everyone was dead except the one pawn left on stage to deliver the epilogue. Shakespeare had known how that system worked. Solo had thought the modern age had finally grown more rational, but it was all the same. Never would be any different. He stood there holding the loaded gun but not offering it.

Illya looked at him quizzically, not sure if he dare reach for the loaded weapon, under the circumstances. Suddenly Napoleon came out of his stupor. At the same moment Illya became aware of a noise outside the door and knew that Napoleon had heard it, too. As the door began to open, Napoleon pulled out his own empty gun with one hand while at the same time extending Kuryakin's special to him with the other. Quickly, Illya realized what he wanted and pulled the second clip from his pocket. As Napoleon hunched aside to load his weapon, Illya raised his own, now loaded, and took aim at the figures in the opening doorframe. Two quick shots and he threw himself to the wall while Napoleon turned and fired three shots as he straightened. Two had fallen, and they heard running feet moving away in the hall. Napoleon snatched and pocketed a wallet from one of the would-be assailants' jackets.

"One of the ones who ran must be wounded," observed Kuryakin pointing to a clear trail of blood spatters down the hall.

"And since there was adequate light in the room, they got a good look at both of us. We are going to run now."

"Napoleon, you still have your orders. You could obey them now and be free to save yourself," Kuryakin observed quietly. "Escape is not an option for me anymore."

"No, now is not a good time." Solo snapped, his eyes looking positively black. "Besides, I may need you for my backup." He gave a humorless smile, and with that thought, he grabbed Kuryakin's arm and set off at a run down another corridor.

Three stairwells and two more corridors later, they were on the main deck, having seen and heard no one. Solo pulled Kuryakin to one of the emergency supplies chests, extracted a raft and two life jackets. It was a cold night but fortunately not the northern winter quite yet. Illya knew he should try to complete his objective with the KGB this night, if he ever intended to, but now he felt honor-bound to be the prisoner. Perhaps, he thought, he was relieved to be caught, to no longer have the need to commit the treacherous act, no matter how he had worked to doctor the data or for what desperate purpose. Besides, the more he thought about it, the less he believed there was anyone to save. This kind of personal deception was so typical of the KGB. And he was so stupid to have thought otherwise. Yes, he could be very stupid sometimes. Only a stupid person would get into this kind of predicament.

Meanwhile Solo was pulling him to the railing. Did he want them to go overboard into the frigid Baltic in the middle of the night? This was too desperate! Certain death. "What are you doing? What are we doing?"

"We are going to leave this pleasure cruise while we still have the chance to do it by our own volition. It will be foggy at dawn. We'll use a life raft, and we can land unseen, with any luck."

"Luck is certainly a consideration here! Do you really think we can just float away under the nose of our pursuit."

"Yes, if you quit discussing it and hurry. Now move it!" Using a rope ladder also provided in the chest which Solo remembered to close thus temporarily covering their traces, they climbed down the side of the ferry, Solo leading with the raft while Kuryakin carried the life preservers which they hadn't taken time yet to put on. Solo was well aware that somehow no words about the propriety of joint escape or the chain of operational command had been needed. Kuryakin had just fallen back into the familiar pattern of partnership.

In the end, it did indeed work, as did some of the most outrageous of Napoleons' plans. By now Solo had consciously realized that his partner had given up on his personal rescue mission which would have depended on staying aboard the ferry. So what did Kuryakin think he was doing now? Indeed, what was he himself doing?

Having struggled into the raft without getting entirely wet and escaping successfully from the tow of the ferry, they were now adrift quite some distance from the Estonian shore, which Solo estimated, given the current time, to be the closest land to their position. He took note of the direction of the ferry as an indication of the best line of approach to the nearest harbor. But there were weightier subjects on his mind.

"Illya..." he couldn't look his friend in the eye for some reason. "I can't believe you did this without talking to me." It was the one idea he couldn't let go.

"Napoleon! How could I! I would either be making you an accomplice in a treasonable act as far as UNCLE was concerned or forcing you to turn me in on the spot." He paused considering what he'd just said. "I don't mean to suggest you'd ever agree to be a part of it."

"But I might. If you really believed what you told me a little bit ago."

"I do! Did believe. I don't know right now. I've been betrayed too many times." Noticing his partner's alarmed reaction, "Certainly, never by you. Only not by you." He looked at the raft floor for a moment in reflection. "In retrospect, I don't know why I even believed the story for a moment. Hope can play terrible tricks on one." A pause. "And talking about it has made everything look a little different," he admitted quietly.

Napoleon's subdued reply came back to him, "I do know why you believed the story. It would be a miracle and a great joy for you." Illya looked up stunned. Napoleon continued, "We all want to believe in miracles sometimes. We can't help it because we're human."

Kuryakin didn't know how to answer.

"Why do you not believe it anymore?"

"Because I never have had any good news regarding my family. My siblings were recorded as dead during or shortly after the war. But even if any one of them lived, why would the KGB tell me? It is too convenient to their purposes, right now."

"You think that none of your family could possibly survive to this day?"

"I don't know, but if they did, it wouldn't be the KGB who told me the truth." Illya looked up, and the loneliness in his eyes was unmasked for the first time in Solo's memory. It was a strange kind of electric shock to see such a lost look in that familiar face.

"Illya..." began Napoleon, but he couldn't think how to continue. He felt too closely bound up with this man before him.

"Napoleon," Illya made a decision and began speaking quickly and firmly. "I'm so glad -- I can't tell you how much -- that you have listened to me and understood. You at least have to understand. I have never told anyone this much of what I’ve been going through before, and it really makes all the difference in the world to me that I could tell you just this once. Now, listen. You are in great danger in these waters and in the territory where we will undoubtedly land. You will suffer with UNCLE if you don't show proof of carrying out your orders, and I assure you I have no such great need of my compromised life to justify the abandonment of your career. No one of UNCLE will trust you again if you fail in dealing with me…."

"Stop right there!" exclaimed Solo. "I've heard enough of that. No one will trust me, you say, unless I defy all the inherent trust of partnership and friendship. Oh, yes! I understand what you mean. You are entirely right. They won't trust me otherwise. Isn't that the biggest joke!" He began to laugh without any humor.

Illya was suddenly stricken with compassion. "It's all right, Napoleon. I told you I don't mind. I've broken the rules and should pay the consequences. They will catch up with me, no matter what you do. My trying to run is pointless. You know that. Also, you have always played by the rules and should get your due reward from UNCLE. I don’t want you hurt by my mistakes.”

Suddenly it was all happening too fast again. Since the moment Napoleon had understood the order Mr. Waverly was giving him, time had moved around him very slowly. He acted normally, but it was all so surreally slow. Now, that Illya was before him, behaving once more like the familiar Illya, and even so, absurdly planning the method and timing of his own execution, the clock finally caught up with Napoleon and threatened to pass him by. The vague sense of slow motion was gone to be replaced by utter urgency.

“Stop that. We just need to get to land,” was all he could say. The expanse of cold rough Baltic around him left him with no interest in the arcane matters of mere orders.

Illya wouldn’t be put off. It was as if his new purpose in life was to meet death, and he continued to rationalize their position. “This whole situation really isn't personal. You mustn’t think of it as something between you and me. They've already decided my fate. I'd be willing to do it for you, if you'll just let me get you past the obvious dangers here. I don't want to die knowing I've led you into a deadly trap. I have to know you have a reasonable route back to the West. Estonia is not exactly a safe harbor for you. I can help by speaking native Russian and passable German. We need to get you as close to the Western countries as possible. Then you will surely be all right."

Solo was finding it increasingly harder to cope with this lunacy. Something was very wrong here. He had known that all along, but now he had to face it. If Illya deserved this fate decreed for him, why didn’t he, Napoleon, feel any sense of rightness about it? He should be offended by such a willful act of disobedience, let alone treason to the organization, but he just couldn’t comprehend the simple facts of the situation in that way. He even had difficulty at the moment remembering exactly what it was that brought them to this place and circumstance. The facts of the case seemed to exist in a completely different world from his own. It was like he was standing outside of himself somewhere and watching what was happening. Time. He just knew he had to have some time to think it through. “Don’t talk about it, now, Illya.”

“But we have so little time left, Napoleon. We need to work this out,” Illya spoke urgently.

He had begun by demanding that Illya talk to him, but now the roles were reversed. “I’m not sure what we are working out. Let’s wait until we know.” He turned and looked away over the water.

“Napoleon?” Only a moment ago, Kuryakin had been resigned to his fate and content to make things that must happen to happen with precision and to the best advantage for his partner. It had seemed as satisfying a finality to everything as he could hope for in this world. Now the future once again began to tip precariously. But any other idea was preposterous. Napoleon really had no choice. Real choices were phantom creatures. There was nothing to decide except one plan for his own termination and another to provide for his partner’s safety. “What do you mean, Napoleon?”
***
Napoleon continued looking over the dark water with a strangely lost expression. "Let's not talk now. I need to think," he repeated in almost a whisper.

Suddenly Illya could feel only intense sympathy for his best friend of years -- how many years? Insanely, he wanted only to hold him tight and tell him it was all right. Napoleon just wasn't used to living with hopelessness and failed dreams. This whole dilemma was very hard for him. He himself had had many experiences of the kind, and so he knew this, too, would soon simply be over.

Napoleon, for his part, wasn't used to having his moral sensibilities compromised. He had been taught some very old-fashioned values by his father and grandfather. He had learned something often forgotten in this modern world about the moral value of commitment to ideals and something quaintly called honor which in his mind meant the maintenance of one's self-respect and, yes, to bonds of brotherhood that transcended blood. The matriarchs of his family had taught him about ethical behavior and humaneness. He knew much more was at stake here than obedience, but he had committed his life and made vows to the ideals of the organization because he valued humanity and justice. And the organization had formed him and expected obedience. Just as it had expected obedience from his partner. His partner had failed in his expectations. The consequences were always clear. This should be simple. Illya said it was simple, and Illya would know.

Solo remembered the wallet he had pocketed after the struggle and pulled it out. Kuryakin watched curiously as his partner silently went through its various compartments without any visible reaction. Finally, Solo spoke, "There appears to be some Finnish and a little Estonian money in here. We can rely on the Estonian and exchange the Finnish if necessary without too much question. That should buy us some time and distance." He put the wallet in a pocket.

***********

They had been five tense days in Estonia, never quite sure if they were being shadowed. Kuryakin had been relentless in guiding his partner toward the West, but there were far too many miles to go and they had to cover the distance mostly by walking or borrowing transport. Everything they had to do -- walking, riding, eating, sleeping -- became physical and elemental. UNCLE and its complicated concerns all seemed a whole world and lifetime away to Solo. They were in a strangely remote rural territory punctuated by grim industrial settlements. They had stolen suitable workmen's clothes and passed adequately for generic factory or farm workers going about their business. It was outside yet another grey, apathetic village that reality caught up with them.

They had stopped to buy some simple food at a small, kitchen-like establishment. Funds were running low, and they hadn't been eating much. Usually they had settled for what they could get fresh, dried or ready-prepared from the stands in markets and eat uncooked. This stop was a bit of an indulgence, a chance to eat a bowl of thick soup while seated indoors at a table.

Napoleon had been extremely quiet since entering Estonia. Illya determined to draw him out -- there was so little time left for them, and he wanted to enjoy their conversation just a bit more before the end. He thought about a reminiscence. "Remember the time we chased Vartok into Budapest by train and had the run-in with the Hungarian police?"

"Yeah, that was a great restaurant, terrific chicken paprikash," Napoleon smiled as he saw that he had correctly anticipated Illya's line of thought. “I liked that little country Greek place on the car ride on Rhodes.”

“Oh, yeah. Impressive waitress.”

“The owner’s daughter," Napoleon recalled. They grinned at each other over their soup bowls and rye bread. Napoleon fell thoughtful again. “Sometimes it has seemed like our lives revolve around places where we have eaten.”

“That’s far preferable than referencing our lives to the places where we’ve been shot at. Eating is a far more reassuring and enjoyable activity.”

“Than being shot,” Napoleon spoke harshly. Illya quickly caught his meaning and looked down, feeling vaguely embarrassed for having been the cause of this permanent impediment to their usual conversational games. In truth, it was to their conversations that Illya had mainly referenced his recent years. He could remember clearly where and when specific things of no great consequence had been said and certain jokes made.

Napoleon began to work at finishing his meal. Illya dejectedly did the same, and he wondered once more how he could have done things differently.

At that moment, they both heard a car with a large and powerful motor drive up to the front of the building. Suddenly Solo was on the alert. Illya understood, “That doesn’t sound like anything one of the local residents would be driving." Solo jumped up and went looking for a back exit. Kuryakin stood as well, grabbing hold of his gun within his pocket while with his other hand extracted a handful of change and left it on the table. It would have to be enough. He looked back at his partner and was given a “follow me” signal.

They moved quietly out the back hall and door, but quickly another car pulled up spilling two gunmen who saw them poised for flight. The gunmen yelled to Kuryakin in Russian. Solo realized that they were KGB come to see if their offer was still good. Kuryakin hesitated a moment as the two came close, then with blinding speed he shot them both down. A moment later he said only, “There must be at least two more out front or inside the restaurant.”

Solo motioned for them both to move around the outside of the building. They caught one KGB at the front, but while Kuryakin took aim, Solo spotted the other agent doing likewise from within the doorway in that same fraction of a second. Napoleon fired simultaneously with Illya creating a startling noise that would surely keep the local inhabitants indoors for quite a while. On a hunch, Illya checked the one in the doorway and found car keys.

Sometime later on the road, Illya spoke quietly, “You realize that you shot that one in the doorway a little too quickly. He was about to solve all our problems for us.”

Napoleon didn’t respond for long moments, then he said, “You realize that you could have reinstated your original bargain with them at the restaurant. Who knows? Maybe they did have something about your family for you.”

Illya pulled off the road and looked at his familiar partner who was also such an enigma to him. “You realize that the KGB wouldn’t approve of me escorting you to the border, and they would probably consider you a bonus part of the deal.”

Napoleon leaned backwards toward his car door and gazed directly at the Russian. “You realize that those men we killed on the ferry were UNCLE agents.”

“What?!” Illya was aghast. Napoleon gave him the wallet which he had been keeping for the first time. The ID was there for all the world to see.

“I guess I don’t like being overruled while on assignment.” Solo smiled grimly to himself. Then he leaned over to Illya and whispered, “I’ll tell you a secret. I thought they were UNCLE when I first saw them. It was hardly a surprise.”

Illya stared in pure amazement at his partner.

“And I’m tired of making excuses to myself for the things I do and the things I’m supposed to do.” He looked down the road for a minute or more. “Any ideas where you want to go?”

Illya’s vision blurred so that he had to blink hard. His life had just got complicated again. “You don’t want to do this,” he was almost pleading.

“Oh, yes, I do. We’d better get driving now.”

Swallowing, Illya shifted the car back into gear and began driving forward again, but he hadn't a clue where he was going.

End

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