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the day after christmas affair part two

by aishling rhys





'Somewhere In Transylvania'

The scream echoed through the darkness, long, hollow and desperate, the sound of the lost and damned. The tall dark figure stopped, the sound enveloping him like a shroud, his thin, bloodless lips curved into a grotesque smile. He lingered a moment then continued down a long stone stairway deeper beneath the city. The air grew cool and refreshing with the fragrance of water, the droplets bleeding through the stones like beads of gold in the light of his candle.

He entered a small chamber, a fire burning in a deep fireplace cut into the stone wall. His eyes fell immediately on the source of the scream, a deathly-pale, fair-haired man in his early thirties lay half naked and glistening with droplets of sweat and blood on a long wooden table, his wrists and ankles tied to two large iron wheels lying at each end of the makeshift rack. At each turn of the wheels the muscles of his torso tensed and his face contorted grotesquely, his head falling back, his mouth open, emitting that same anguished howl.

The tall dark one approached, running the index finger of his right hand slowly up his victim's torso, his defenceless body flinched at the touch, momentarily thrown out of his semi-comatose state, shaking the long hair which had stuck to his face out of his eyes. Sweat and pain blurred his vision but he still recognised the THRUSH insignia on the yellow ID badge pinned to his tormentor's lapel. Beneath it in gothic script a name he both recognised and despised - Vulcan. Vulcan continued to trace his finger up his torso, stopping just below his chin. He lingered there for what seemed like an eternity then lovingly curled his fingers around his victim's throat, squeezing tightly, bent low and close to his upturned face he whispered,

" My, my, you are a defiant one aren't you, still, that's what we'd come to expect from an UNCLE agent. Now..." his grip tightened " you are going to tell us what we need to know aren't you !"

Illya's body burned with pain but his clear blue eyes stared back at Vulcan, cold and icy like his Slavic homeland, empty of every emotion.

This was all a game to Vulcan, it always had been, the game of life and death. He neither feared death nor respected life, and he normally took great pleasure in his work, but the emptiness of Kuryakin's stare unnerved him. He hadn't expected to see fear, not from an agent like Kuryakin, but it was as if there was no longer a will to live there, just nothingness. He loosened his grip and turned angrily away - he had been robbed of his trophy - where was the joy in stealing the life from someone who no longer treasured it. His long stride took him to the door in seconds, as he reached it he half turned and addressed his assistant nonchalantly,

" You finish him off "

The slight man in a white lab coat who had been turning the wheels nodded silently, then, as an afterthought Vulcan added, throwing him a large metal key, "Bring professor Eisenstein here to witness the execution. It would serve as an interesting lesson to show him how THRUSH deals with those who choose to cross swords with us."

As soon as the heavy iron door had closed behind him the agent in the lab coat rushed to Illya's side, urgently loosening the thick ropes that cut viciously into his flesh. He sat up dazed and momentarily weak, as his colleague gushed, "I still don't know how you did it, it was one hell of a risk to take, and I don't mind telling you I was getting pretty worried about how I was going to explain your death to Mr Waverly. You did it though, you double-bluffed Vulcan and came out on top." He smiled nervously Wow! I really thought we were going to lose you there, I don't know how much longer I was going to be able to do that to you."

Illya cut through his enthusiasm coldly, "Agent Mulder, we don't have much time, you go and get the professor. I'll meet you both on the roof in ten minutes."

When he'd gone Illya jumped painfully to the ground, and walked slowly to the door, turning and glancing back at the chamber. The light from the fire chased the shadows from his face and lit up the pain in his eyes, his lips moved slowly,

"Perhaps it wasn't Vulcan who lost after all."

ACT ONE

'Somewhere in New York City'

Agent Mulder lifted himself gracefully out of the 1965 Soviet Cadillac convertible, "I just want to go across the road and pick up some cigarettes before we go into headquarters."

Illya Kuryakin nodded and sank deeper into the drivers' seat, allowing his arm to cross the top of the seat next to him and his head to fall back languidly, his eyes closed and his throat exposed to the soothing rays of the freak winter sun. The dark purplish bruising from Vulcan's fingers was beginning to fade, the natural milky pallor returning, giving his skin an almost ethereal, translucent quality.

Women found it hard to walk by without staring at that throat, that face, there was something about Illya that went beyond his boyish beauty, it was something indefinable about his whole presence, women wanted him. He knew it and although he liked women, most women very much, unlike Napoleon he never capitalised on it, in fact, for the most part he thought his effect on women an irritating inconvenience.

He was oblivious to the effect he was having today, however, for although his body was dead to the world, his mind was racing wildly, as it had done for the past fortnight. Old wounds had been painfully reopened, old memories brought back to life. The armour he had spent so long building around himself was showing cracks and he hated himself for it . He'd let someone in, shown some weakness, and before he knew it , slowly, imperceptibly at first, seeping into his bones like the damp in winter, then building in strength until it had consumed his whole being - he had allowed himself to care. Caring hurt. Mulder intercepted his thoughts like a stampeding buffalo.

"Would you believe it, they're all out of filter tips. You spend half your life saving the world and then you come home and you can't even find the cigarettes you need in the local store - its kinda spooky out there, you know what I mean!"

Illya didn't, and whats more he didn't really care either. He lifted both his arms above his head, grasped his wrists and stretched silently, like a cat coming out of a snooze, slow and graceful, "Lets go."

Inside UNCLE Headquarters, deep beneath New York City Illya Kuryakin secreted himself in an anonymous white box, windowless and sterile, the room bare but for a metal desk, chair and computer bank. He sighed deeply, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and sat at the desk. Casually he opened a folder and pulled out several report sheets, occasionally adding his own personal notes or updating what Mulder had already written. He read the report through, finally satisfied with its accuracy and closed the file, putting it to one side.

For the moment at least he had more pressing matters to deal with. Agent Columbo from UNCLE's Sicilian division had sent in some urgent information for de-coding, he was involved in a case concerning WASP and the melting of the polar ice caps and, needless to say, the security of the free world was at stake. After several hours of punching in data and exercising his brain he needed a break. He leaned back in his chair and unfastened the top button of his shirt, his hair was all tousled from where he had absent-mindedly been running his hand through it, several strands above his right eye sticking up defiantly. If it hadn't been for the weary look in his eyes he would have looked about twelve years old.

Glancing at his watch he realised he hadn't eaten for over 24 hours; suddenly he felt very tired. He stood up and walked around the tiny room several times to stretch his legs and clear his head before he went back to work. Writing reports and de-coding data always seemed rather an anti-climax after being on active duty but recently he'd been spending more and more time burying himself in mindless paperwork, glad of the solitude.

Mulder was a good agent, young, enthusiastic and reliable but he was no Napoleon Solo. He'd never been able to work with any other agent the way he had with Napoleon. They were so different, the cool intellectual Slav, introverted and fiercely private and the extrovert Solo, suave, sophisticated and debonair, almost obscenely confident. Illya had disliked Solo at first, he hung back, quietly observing his easy way with a witty quip or a beautiful woman, not sure then whether there was anything beneath the polished veneer. In the four years they had worked together he had lost count of the number of times Napoleon Solo had saved his life, it had become something he'd almost taken for granted, he knew there was nothing Napoleon wouldn't go through to back him up on an assignment or pull him out of danger. Their partnership was based on a deep mutual respect, affection and trust and although he hated to admit it, now he was gone it just wasn't the same.

The shiny silver doors glided silently open and a tall dark handsome man in a sharp suit walked in, leaning casually against the wall, hands in pockets he waited to be noticed.

Illya noticed, " What are you doing here ?"

"I've just been pulled off the sidewalk and bundled into the back of a truck, I think its Mr Waverly's subtle way of telling me he wants a word. For a refined man of mature years his methods lack a certain finesse I think."

Napoleon Solo's tone was light but his eyes gave him away, they were both guarded and searching at the same time. Illya didn't move a muscle, "I expect he is hoping to persuade you to reconsider your resignation." he said coldly.

"I couldn't put my family at risk, being an operative was no longer an option for me."

"That wasn't the only reason though, was it ?"

Illya's voice had an aggressive, confrontational edge which shocked Napoleon into silence. He stared at his feet and shifted uncomfortably; like a naughty schoolboy who has been made to stand outside the Headmaster's office. A shocked denial of the fact refused to come from his lips so he merely said slowly, "I heard about your run-in with Vulcan," his head still bowed but his eyes now resting on Illya " your throat looks sore."

"Occupational hazard." he spat back, turning his head away.

Napoleon had never seen him like this, angry, reproachful. As if reading his mind he flung the chair back, stood up and walked over to the wall, facing Napoleon, barely a foot away from him.

"What did you expect?" He managed to sound angry without actually raising his voice.

Their proximity made Napoleon uncomfortable, he felt the solidness of the wall behind his back, there was no escape.

"I've never seen you like this." he said, trying to hide from Illya's relentless gaze.

His strong, American face was dark, like clouds passing over Mount Rushmore, as if it had been sculpted from rock, but you could still see the compassion, the gentleness there. In many ways it was Illya who was the stronger of the two - push past Napoleon's hard exterior and inside everything just fell apart. Inside Illya something said he didn't have the heart to break him, he turned and fell back into the chair, suddenly feeling defeated. He sighed, his hand dropped to his leg and he shook his head, for a moment he just sat staring. Then he whispered, softly and slowly, his accent becoming more pronounced, his voice more distant as he went on.

"Its the capacity of knowing that's the real agony of existence; maybe we would all of us be more honest without knowledge. Sometimes I wish my mind would go away and leave me in peace. I would give all that I understand and feel and know, my very existence, to get out of my situation. I don't know what I would pay not to see what I see, feel through what I feel, sense through what I sense, know through what I know."

Napoleon suddenly felt very irresponsible, he wanted to reach out, to hold Illya close but his body was frozen. He'd spent his whole life being there for everyone, being the strong one, the solid dependable Napoleon. He'd been there for his family, his fellow officers, fellow agents, for the whole goddamn world, time and time again, but he \ouldn't help the one he cared for most. He knew it was all his fault, he'd started something and failed to follow through, you can't go back, not if you're really honest with yourself.

He'd lost himself in Maggie and the kids, in their tears, their nervous laughter, their frenzied, passionate exchanges with Nelson, the raised voices, desperate and sad, recriminations, apologies and finally, reconciliation. They had all learnt so much, Nelson, how much his family really meant to him, more than anything in his life, how scared he was of his little brother, his self confidence, intelligence, good looks, charm. Napoleon knew all that now, how Maggie and the kids were Nelson's life, how they had only ever belonged to him.

It was easy for Napoleon to step in as the dashing, exciting brother-in-law, living on borrowed time, but at the end of the day it was all just a facade. He'd talked himself into believing that Maggie needed him around all this time, when really all he'd done is run from the only real responsibility in his life, the man sitting before him now.

Illya's voice broke through the oppressive silence, "I ran once, I ran from myself. Now I've stopped running." he lifted his head and allowed his gaze to meet Napoleon's. " When I was a Soviet Army officer back home, there was someone...." his voice had a sense of urgency to it, a desperation Napoleon had never heard before " it was the most intimate, the most tender and the most trusting of all states of being, to surface in the middle of the night and to find him asleep in my arms, just quietly breathing. I would curl around him, wrap myself around him, I, the protector, one arm between his neck and the pillow, the other on his chest or holding his hand, one leg pressed gently between his legs, and drift with him into sleep, and wake with him still there, trusting me, my arms, my skin, my breath."

Napoleon's head was swimming, his hands gripped the wall behind him for support, wishing he could just disappear but not really wanting to go. He heard himself say, his voice hardly recognisable, low and husky, "The time we were together" he faltered, tearing his eyes away from Illya " was the only time I've ever felt real."

He felt Illya's body approaching, felt his fingers stroke the nape of his neck, he closed his eyes, momentarily losing himself in the sense, the scent, the touch of him.

“Waverly will be wondering where I've got to." he turned away, dragging his body through the automatic doors and down the corridor.

Maggie had just finished reading `Snow White' despite the fact that Jessica had gone long before Prince Charming had saved his loved one from the evil clutches of fate. Maggie had watched her lids become heavy, her long golden lashes finally resting on her rosy cheeks, sleeping the sleep of angels; Maggie envied her sometimes. She'd kept on reading anyway, hell it was a great story, she couldn't help but find parallels with her own life. She'd felt dead inside for so long, her glass coffin a marriage devoid of love or respect. She smiled secretly to herself as she remembered the day that coffin had been shattered, remembered the day her prince had released her. No one was more surprised than she was to find Nelson wearing the royal garb of chivalry but it had happened.

She still shivered every time she thought of that day, the fateful day he'd chosen to leave with his wife and children, chosen finally to defy his mother. The shrillness of the doorbell brought her cruelly back to earth. She bent to kiss her daughter gently on the forehead and moved slowly into the living room. She wasn't expecting anyone and Nelson was out of town on business, he wouldn't be back for at least another couple of days. She put the chain on the door and opened it cautiously; Napoleon stood there smiling, one hand casually reaching up to the door frame, the other clutching a brown paper bag, "Hi," he lifted the bag and shook it from side to side " I brought double choc chip."

She smiled warmly and opened the door, throwing her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek as he came in. He staggered back momentarily, feigning astonishment, "Hey, I guess you must be pleased to see me."

"You know it's always good to see you Napoleon. Sit down, make yourself at home, I'll just go put this in the ice-box." She took the bag from him and disappeared. He walked over to Nelson's desk and poured himself a large scotch from the decanter sitting there, feeling like he should just turn around and walk right out again. The sound of Maggie's voice made him stay. He allowed his body to fall heavily onto the couch, standing up almost immediately and pulling one of Jamie's Spiderman comics from underneath him.

"I've just finished reading Jessie ` Snow White' she came back through the swing doors from the kitchen and sat close to him, lost in her enthusiasm " I just got to the part where Prince Charming meets her in the forest and you know what she said," Napoleon shook his head, gazing at her in wonderment, wishing he had half her grace and vitality "Oh, it must be uncle Poleon." she laughed like a child " Isn't that great! I think you've won another heart there."

He couldn't help smiling as he lost himself in the depths of his glass. Secondsfaded into minutes and he sensed a change in Maggie's composure, knew she'd noticed something was wrong. He saw the concern in her eyes without having to look, "Don't say it."

" Is it....." she was scared, scared she'd say something to drive him away but she had to be honest with him " is it something to do with....Illya?"

He stood up, angrily slamming his glass into the table, "Don't say it"

Then he bent to face her, his hands gripping her arms tightly. He saw the pain in her face and loosened his grip, "Don't ask me if I'm alright if you can't help me."

She took his right hand in both of hers, "I wish I could but........."

He fell to his knees and buried his head in her lap. Instinctively she ran her fingers through his hair, remembering the time she'd comforted her son after he'd fallen and grazed his knee, coming to her, his face tear-stained and tragic. "What's wrong with you?" Maggie's voice was a whisper.

"Nothing." he replied wearily.

The last thing he needed right now was an inquisition and he was in no mood to co- operate. He just needed to be held. Napoleon had never felt so safe in a woman's arms before, he'd never allowed himself to surrender so completely. The moment passed; he stood abruptly, making for the door. "I'm sorry, it wasn't fair of me to come here."

Maggie had to run to catch up with him, she reached out and caught his arm just as he was walking through the door. He stopped, half turning to face her, then seemed to think better of it.

" Don't worry about me, I'll be just fine." and he was gone.

ACT TWO

`Somewhere in Las Vegas'

The baroque golden facade and gaudy splendour of the Silver Dollar Casino beckoned invitingly to all the poor suckers who thought they had an appointment with fate. Napoleon didn't believe in fate, he didn't believe in Lady Luck either. He looked around him as he passed through aisles full of hopeful grandmothers and low life chancers in Technicolour sports coats. Retired couples with greed in their eyes fought with one-armed bandits, the only excitement left in their empty, futile lives. They barely looked at each other, consumed by the bright lights and ringing bells of the enemy. Napoleon moved like a ghost among them as he walked towards the small private room at the back of the casino. Its delights were available only to a select international clientele, of which he was a member. One of the ridiculously large men in ill-fitting tuxedos guarding its portals nodded respectfully as he pulled back a red velvet curtain, displaying the entrance for him. Inside royalty rubbed shoulders with the nouveau riche, all class barriers left politely at the door. In this `Garden of Eden' Adam was a dollar bill and Eve a gambling chip, and money talked louder than titles. Napoleon's shoes sank into the deep pile carpet as he walked past crowded Blackjack tables, huge pendulous chandeliers hanging overhead. Crystal tears reflected broken and distorted figures back at the oblivious hordes below.

As he made his way towards the Roulette table the eyes of every woman in the room passed over him. They scrutinised him expertly, savouring every long, lingering moment their eyes held him, from his strong handsome face down to his handmade Italian shoes via a snug-fitting black silk tuxedo. It showed off his athletic physique beautifully. Everything about him said sartorial elegance and, more importantly, everything about him said big bucks.

Sinatra sang `My Way' as Napoleon hit the wheel. He casually placed a hundred dollar chip on the table, turning the gold signet ring on his left hand as he surveyed his companions. A loud Texan in a Stetson and an obscene amount of Navajo jewellery caught his eye. The small, nervous-looking woman beside him flinched every time he slammed his chips onto the green baize. She looked out of place in her conspicuous wealth, a heavy emerald necklace sitting awkwardly round her neck. Every now and then she raised a trembling hand to it and moved its glittering light amongst the aging folds of skin. Her pale beady eyes darted from side to side, trying to work the room and watch the wheel simultaneously. When Napoleon met her gaze it was vacant.

" Twenty-nine Black. The gentleman wins."

A neat pile of red chips was pushed in his direction, drawing him back to the matter at hand. He welcomed the distraction, watching these people was beginning to depress him and that wasn't why he had gone there. Elvis may have been right but `Bright light city' sure wasn't setting his soul on fire. He left the pile as it was and pushed it over to his left, he felt like being reckless tonight, felt like taking unnecessary risks.

"No more bets."

Texas pulled a long, fat Havana from the inside pocket of his bright blue suedefringed jacket. It wasn't very patriotic but, hell, they were the best goddamn cigars in the world, right. It hung precariously out of the side of his mouth as he lit the end with a gold lighter, a bull's head winked at Napoleon through diamond eyes and then it was gone. Texas watched the wheel eagerly as he puffed heavily on the Havana, his mouth working overtime as the spin wore down to a slow rotation. "Twenty-four Red, the gentleman wins again."

Texas disappeared behind a cloud of smoke; Napoleon retrieved his chips. A small crowd was beginning to gather behind him, he felt his left elbow press against flesh as he pushed all of the chips onto nine Black. A small, lily-white hand came from his left and placed a solitary red chip next to his, the heady scent of Chanel number five hung in the air around him. Murmuring expectant voices drowned out `Ol' Man River', Frank was `tired of livin' but scared of dyin'', and Napoleon was beginning to know what he meant. He thought being here would make him feel alive again, but it had only succeeded in making him feel more empty; Sin city wasn't cutting it tonight. He barely glanced at the wheel as it spun again. "Nine Black, the gentleman wins."

He felt a heavy hand between his shoulder blades. Texas propelled him forward then grabbed his right hand and shook it violently, pushing his eager, sweaty face into Napoleon's. "Ah do declare, if that ain't the goddamn best run o' luck ah ever did see. Well done boy, well done! You got yourself close to 23,000 dollars there, goddamn!" The smoke from the Havana irritated his nostrils, making him cough.

"Thank you." he spluttered between coughs.

His eyes watered as he gathered up the mound of chips now sitting in front of him and turned to walk away, the crowd that had gathered around him parting like the Red Sea. The lily-white hand appeared out of nowhere and offered a cream silk handkerchief trimmed with lace. He took it gratefully, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Its the least I could do after our win."

The soft voice reached out to him, round, sensual vowels telling him she was from another town, a town far away from here. The voice belonged to beautiful lips; set in a fragile face, small and bird-like, huge, dark eyes flecked with gold captivated him. All the innocence in the world seemed to reside in those eyes. He felt like he'd found an oasis of trust in this dry desert dust bowl. Without thinking he reached out and took her tiny hand in his, raising it slowly to his lips. The blood flushed her cheeks as she averted her gaze coyly. She smiled, her whole face becoming even more radiant then the jewels she wore about her neck. Napoleon allowed himself to fall, maybe it was too easy, maybe he was just looking for an excuse, an excuse to lose himself, it didn't matter. He held the hand to his lips far too long, and then he held her gaze. He didn't want her to be in any doubt about what was on his mind, she wasn't, and neither was the tall heavy-set man who had appeared from nowhere and was now standing beside her. He held a cigarette in one hand and her left elbow possessively in the other. Napoleon watched him carefully, on his guard and ready for action. He placed the smoking cigarette between his thin cruel lips and inhaled sharply, as he asked the question he allowed a slim white halo of smoke to erupt with the words from his mouth.

"Who are you?" his voice low but threatening.

Napoleon smiled broadly and held out his hand, "Solo........Napoleon Solo."

"I see you've met my wife." the stranger ignored his outstretched hand, surveying him through steely eyes. He smiled like a Barracuda then tightened his grip on the man's arm. She tried hard not to cry out but failed, and it made Napoleon mad. He didn't show it. "You have me at a disadvantage....." Napoleon allowed his arm to drop "...you are?...."

"Emile...Count Emile Zola......." the Count paused, waiting for a reaction.

Napoleon didn't even blink ".....and this, as you know, is my wife...." he nodded towards the woman"...Isabel."

Napoleon took her hand once more and bowed, brushing it against his lips. "Isabel.." he murmured, "..its my pleasure."

The Count bristled with anger, his eyes flashing hatred at Napoleon. He pretended not to notice, smiling congeniality from the roots of his handsomely dark hair to the heels of his smart shoes. Inside he was longing for an excuse to cause the Count as much pain as possible without ruffling his cool exterior.

He wasn't being very professional about this and it was wholly unethical to use his special training on a civilian. But he was technically retired now and off-hand he couldn't think of a civilian more deserving of his special training. Isabel cried out in pain again, it was more than enough to trigger his killer instinct. All the frustration, anger and loss he had felt for so long propelling his first punch. It found its target, and so did his knee as Emile doubled up in pain; a loud crunch echoed around the room as it connected with his chin.

Napoleon derived a sadistic pleasure from seeing the proud Count fumbling around at his feet. He resisted the urge to kick him in the face, adjusted his shirt cuffs, took Isabel's hand and lead her to the exit. Before walking out through it he turned and watched the Count rise slowly and painfully to his feet, an embarrassed crowd beginning to gather around him.

"You don't treat a lady like that..." he said, his tone serious as cancer "...not when Napoleon Solo is around."

The icy air hit them as they walked outside, clearing their heads, Isabel only now fully realising what had just happened. She grabbed hold of Napoleon's arm and looked up at him, her eyes moist and glistening with unshed tears.

"Napoleon..." she breathed, making him shiver "...Napoleon...he doesn't care about me but you have dishonoured him in public - he will come after us, not content until he has found us..." she stopped, reaching up with her right hand and touching his cheek "...and until he has killed you." He kissed her, releasing her only when he felt her body melt in his arms." I'm scared..." she whispered into his chest " ..take me home Napoleon."

They took the first flight out of Las Vegas and touched tarmac in New Orleans as the sun was rising. The road to the Chateau Point du Lac was a hazy dream, clouded by fatigue and fear. Isabel remembered little of it but for the presence of a strong man, a dashing, charming and caring man.

The afternoon was lost to sleep, Isabel rising only when she heard the nearby church bells ring out loud and true, the summons to evensong. She found Napoleon in an adjoining bedroom, dressed and staring out through an open window at the cobbled street below. He turned and smiled as he heard her enter, he hadn't been so pleased to see someone for a long time. They dined simply that night, on crusty cobs of bread and camembert, accompanied by a very good vintage Burgundy she retrieved from the cellar.

As they reclined in the sumptuous surroundings of the living room, encased in the deep womb-like softness of emerald velvet armchairs they toasted each other with crystal goblets. The rich red wine warmed them, slowly easing them both into a state of deep relaxation. Napoleon watched her, every movement of her hands graceful and swift, as she spoke they moved through the air like tiny birds. She shivered once, not from the cold but the fear she still felt every time she thought of Emile. Napoleon wrapped her shoulders in an ivory cashmere shawl he found lying over the back of his chair.

" Where have you been all of my life?." she said, only half-mockingly.

"Oh, I've spent most of my life trying to avoid the giddy heights of mediocrity."

"I'd say Mr Napoleon Solo, that you've succeeded..." she took a sip of wine then peered at him thoughtfully over the rim of her glass, "...you've succeeded very well indeed."

She lowered the glass and slowly began to circle its rim with the index finger of her right hand, her head bowed, attention focused on the simple repetitive act. A long time passed until, with what seemed like a monumental effort, she raised her head. She allowed her gaze to wander around the room, her eyes blank, body inert; she was lost in thought. Napoleon leaned forward and touched her arm gently, bringing her back from a deep reverie. She smiled a sad smile, her voice flat and emotionless. "Memories cling to this room like spider webs."

She paused and held the glass gingerly by its slender stem, raising it to eye level. Turning it slowly in her hand she watched the light bounce off its many faces and dance about the room.

"We were happy once you know."

She looked into his eyes, eager to convince him as well as herself. "We really were happy."

"People hurt each other when they're married. It's a well-known fact."

"Spoken like a true confirmed bachelor."

"I suppose I am." It was Napoleon's turn to do the convincing.

"Haven't you ever wondered what it would feel like to meet a soul-mate, someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, raise a family with, be vulnerable with?."

"That's a very romantic way of looking at it, especially coming from you. Surely being married to the Count has made you realise what life is really like."

He didn't mean to be so brutal but his own experience of family life had left him bitter and cynical. It was hard to forget the past.

"No." she watched him sadly " No, I always dreamed that one day I would meet someone I could happily abandon myself to, share a life, children, countless joys and sorrows with. Things haven't worked out with Emile...." she pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, "but I still have my dreams."

She was becoming more beautiful to him with every passing moment.

"You just can't keep on living on dreams forever, you're only postponing life."

"You can't live without dreams." she answered defensively.

"Why not?"

"Do you ? "

"Yes." he lied

"I don't believe you Napoleon" she leaned forward and stared into his eyes. Her pupils fully dilated, black and fathomless. She challenged him. "Everyone has at least one dream. Isn't there anything you really want, you really need to do. Is your life really so perfect!."

"I have everything I need."

His calmness angered her and she made no effort to disguise it in her voice, "What you have is your work, your family......" she watched for a reaction but he gave none "money of course, you're obviously a very wealthy man. Women.....women must play a major part in your life."

She lowered her voice and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly. He watched as her skirt rode up, revealing smooth, creamy-white thighs. He knew she wanted him to notice.

She sat with her back to the open French windows, her body entombed in the golden light from the nearby street lamp. The seductive scent of magnolia hung in the air around them, the heat of the night magnifying its heady sensual sweetness. His mind flashed back to a thousand femme fatales. There was something deeply mesmerising about her voice, Napoleon felt himself being drawn into her world; an important part of him wanted to be drawn in. He leaned towards her, left elbow on his knee, his open palm supporting his chin. He watched her, allowing himself to surrender; she really was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, and he'd met a lot of beautiful women.

"Are you in love?." she murmured

He drew back as if she'd slapped him hard and rose to his feet, walking to the other side of the room. He let his jacket slip off his shoulders and draped it over a chair, unfastening the top button of his shirt as he walked over to a painting which had caught his eye. It was the portrait of an old man, his face half hidden in shadow, eyes obscured by heavy lids as they scrutinised the ground. The light picked out every furrow of his brow and fold of skin; it rested on dry lips, a mouth that might once have said great things. Stooped shoulders bent by a lifetime's living supported his bowed head. A thousand sorrows seemed to live there, but his countenance was suffused by a quiet dignity, a strength and wisdom that moved Napoleon. It was the portrait of a man who had taken life on.

" I've always wanted to paint." he said, suddenly feeling insignificant.

" It's not enough just to want to paint, you must have to paint." Isabel's voice was angry again, she wanted to push him, intimidate him into showing some emotion, she wanted to seduce him. "That's a bit harsh isn't it."

"What's the point of compromise? You have to open yourself up to create something like that painting, something thats real. When you open yourself up you feel more acutely, the joy, the pain..." she paused, then whispered almost to herself, " right now all I feel is the pain."

" You have to go where life takes you."

"Is that what you do Napoleon, do you go where life takes you?." she reached up and ran a hand through her hair before letting it fall languidly to her lap. A fire seemed to be burning in her eyes.

"I came here with you didn't I?"

" Yes...." she turned her head and stared over her shoulder onto the balcony and beyond, past moss-hung Cypresses floating against the sky.

"I'm still trying to figure out why you did come."

He moved towards her and bent to kiss the back of her neck, his hands burning into her shoulders. "I need you tonight..." she reached up and placed her left hand on his, her eyes still staring out into the night, "I need you Napoleon."

He allowed himself to be kissed; her lips soft, sweet and sacrificial. He enjoyed the feeling of her small, frail body surrendering to his embrace, it made him feel strong and in control of his destiny. More than ever he needed to feel in control. All the beautiful women he had ever kissed came to him, he remembered the softness of their skin, fragrance of their hair, gentleness of their touch. He remembered how powerful it had made him feel, and how lonely, he didn't know when or how or why but somewhere along the line love had turned into meaningless sex and he just couldn't do it anymore. He pulled away from Isabel and reached for his jacket, leaving her standing in the lamplight, dazed and confused. Before she had a chance to speak he was at the door. "I can't do this."

He walked back towards her, tilted her face up towards his and brushed her forehead gently with his lips. Her eyes begged him to stay. "I'm sorry." he whispered, before leaving.

Napoleon stood alone, a shadow in the night, his minds eye watching the silent, ghostly drift of ships along the raised waters of the Mississippi Delta. He loved New York, it was his home, his heart belonged there with its cosmopolitan joi de vivre, but he was glad to be here tonight. New Orleans didn't have the energy, the vitality, the crazy loudness of Manhattan or Brooklyn, but there was a sense of timelessness here, of history. He loved the tension between the elegant French and Spanish colonial architecture and the raw brutality of the wet stifling weather, the untamed landscape. Civilised man and all the trappings he brought with him struggled vainly with his baser instincts, logic fought bloody battles with superstition here, and lost. No amount of theatre, a million proud cathedrals couldn't hide the fact, even the trees looked like they'd crawled out of a primeval swamp.

He wandered through lonely streets, past the empty vampiric French Quarter, corpses of market stalls left lying in the gutter. Basking in the light from the St Louis Cathedral, he ran a hand over the cool stone, wanting to become a part of the past. He walked until he found the dawn, standing under a blood red sky as the sun burned itself into a brand new day. The realisation came with it; he had never been here with Illya, someday he wished he could be. It was time to go back.


Napoleon opened the bedroom door and walked into the darkness, instinctively he reached out and felt for the light switch. When his eyes had adjusted to the brightness he saw a small figure kneeling at the foot of the bed. Isabel had her back turned towards him, her head resting on her arms, spread out before her on the bed. He got down on his knees beside her body and at once felt close to her, but also separated from her by a distance that he had no means to describe. She wore the remains of a new dress. It was pink and white, with dark flowers on it, its skirt just covered her knees. Instinctively he bent to kiss her short black hair; it smelt of apples. She raised her head to look at him, her eyes black and murderous staring out of her puffy tear-stained face. Blood was still flowing from a painful gash in her lip and an ugly bruise was beginning to appear on the right side of her jaw. A battered nose had already left a trail of dried blood on her skin. He looked into her eyes and understood then what it really meant, the feeling of people's rightful fury and despair. The feeling came with a strong desire to kiss her again, to whisper, ` It's alright darling, don't worry, everything will be alright, I'm here now, it'll be all right now.'

Napoleon gathered her up in his arms and laid her on the bed, pulling the duvet over her and tucking it tenderly under her chin. She stared back at him silently as he traced the tracks of her tears with a finger.

"Emile?" She didn't answer "This isn't the first time this has happened.....is it?" he said softly.

She continued to stare up at him, her eyes becoming cold and empty. When she finally spoke her voice had a hardness, a ferocity he would never have imagined her capable of. "Do you really care?"

The question startled him; he drew back from her, searching for an answer, but he found none. His silence seemed to confirm something in her mind. She continued, "You wouldn't even be here now if I weren't beautiful would you Mr Solo, "she laughed an empty, bitter laugh "well, I'm not quite so beautiful now."

He stood and watched her, not sure what he was even doing here, feeling awkward. This wasn't the way the game was supposed to be played. She saw the lost look in his eyes and turned her face away from him, her eyes falling on the art-deco lamp on the cabinet to her right. She reached across and turned it on then fell back onto the pillow, shielding her eyes from the glaring brightness with her arm. "Turn out the light."

Napoleon did as he was told. When he returned she seemed to have relaxed, her body less tense, less rigid. The soft, amber light from the lamp was much kinder to her, painful wounds now hidden in shadow. Napoleon felt more comfortable too in the semi-darkness. Her voice was less harsh when she spoke again, her initial outburst seemed to have drawn all the hate out of her at once. Her accent too was gone, in its place a broad Brooklyn twang.

"Its not your fault really, its always been the same. It was my looks we were counting on to get you here in the first place, that and your unswerving sense of chivalry." She turned to look at him and smiled feebly. "You really haven't got a clue have you."

She raised herself up to a sitting position and patted the covers by her knees. "Come here." she commanded "I want to explain it all to you. There's nothing to lose now...." she looked down at her hands, her voice fading to a whisper "it's finished as far as I'm concerned."

"Have you got a cigarette?."

Napoleon retrieved a silver case from an inside pocket of his jacket and passedit silently to her.

"Its nice," she turned it over in her hands, "you've got good taste Mr Solo."

The way she kept calling him that was driving him mad, her coldness, remoteness, it was like talking to a stranger. Who was he kidding, she was a complete stranger, in his line of business that was the only kind you ever met. She opened the case and pulled out a filtered Marlboro, this guy was Mr America all the way. She smiled to herself and placed it between her lips, watching him expectantly.

"Got a light?"

Napoleon threw a silver monogrammed lighter into her lap, watching her carefully as she retrieved it. The cigarette glowed with an intense fury as she drew a breath, sucking the nicotine deep into her lungs, her eyes closed, hand shaking.

"Boy, did I need that!."

He watched her, too incredulous to even speak, besides, he wanted to hear her story first. Finally she spoke, "Emile was here last night, fully intending to find us in bed...together."

Napoleon remembered the fear he'd seen in her eyes and chosen to ignore, the way she'd pleaded with him not to go.

"Why ?"

" You're a smart man Mr Solo, do you really need me to tell you why."

"Blackmail "

She nodded silently, "That's such a vulgar word but I guess extortion's no better. He was going to `liberate' you of your generous winnings in order to save my honour and my....." she laughed derisively but Napoleon wasn't her target; exaggerating every syllable of her next word as if to highlight the irony "...reputation."

"The Chateau ? "

"Rented."

"Jewels ? "

"Paste."

"You ? "

She averted her gaze, choosing to watch her own fingers as she systematically dismembered her cigarette.

"You know my name - Isabel - that's the only thing about me that is real."

"What about the Count?"

She took another cigarette out of the case and lit it, leaning back against the headboard with her eyes closed. She exhaled deeply, a stream of smoke moving purposefully towards him. He knew she was trying to antagonise him but he didn't know why.

"He's no more a Count than I'm a Lady."

She threw the case and lighter roughly back at him. "I can't believe...."

" Believe it ! " she interrupted, stubbing the cigarette out viciously, " Welcome to the real world babe, the world of power, corruption and lies, where nothing is what it seems, and there's no such thing as a free ride. Every day we sell out in one way or another and the dollar bill is what we sell out to. Prostitution is an ugly word but thats what we are, thats what we all are. The only difference is I'm more honest about it."

She fell into a deep silence, all her energy spent, wasted on her own self-loathing. Napoleon couldn't bring himself to hate her, she was right, he wouldn't have been sucked in so deep if he hadn't wanted, if he hadn't needed to believe her. Both of them were living a lie and she was the only one honest enough to admit it.

He reached out to put his arms around her and she flinched, turning her head away in frustration, hot salty tears flowing because she couldn't help it. Slowly, tentatively Napoleon reached out to her once more, holding her close as loud wracking sobs took hold of her body. They fell asleep in each others' arms, sinners, deceivers or babes in the wood, who was there really to pass judgment.

Napoleon woke to the sound of a persistent high-pitched bleep. It was a sound from his past. he threw the covers back and jumped out of bed, careful not to wake Isabel as he reached for his jacket. He took the slim pen communicator, a souvenir he was unable to part with, and pulled out its omnidirectional aerial.

He spoke hurriedly, "Open channel D ."

He knew there must be something seriously wrong for UNCLE to contact him in this way. Mr Waverly's voice broke through the static interference, confirming his fears.

"Mr Solo, I thought you ought to know, Agent Kuryakin has been missing on assignment for over 48 hours. He insisted on leaving with no back up and we haven't heard from him since he established visual contact with THRUSH Central. I'm afraid we have to presume he's....." there was a moments' silence before he continued, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant "...not coming back."

To Act three and four

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