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Disclaimer:
This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.

Classification: T for Teen (or used to be PG-13 or so)

Author's Notes: Just because she's too good to be true, does that
make her a problem?

Pairing: Unknown

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Napoleon looked around the room. His bag had been neatly unpacked, his suits and shirts placed in the capacious closet, his underthings placed in drawers and his portable shaving kit and accessories were in the attached bathroom. The opposing door indicated he shared the bath with someone on the other side. He wondered if it was Cheri or Illya.

The door opened to admit Illya. He wasn't quite certain whether he was let down or relieved, nodding at his partner as the latter placed his own meager supplies on the vanity opposite Napoleon's things. The Russian scowled at Napoleon's luxuries.

"I haven't lost them to the opposition so they're not showing up on my expense account," Napoleon pointed out with a chuckle. Napoleon's expensive tastes were a running joke at HQ given that so much of what he lost showed up on his expense account for replacement.

"You should learn to be more frugal."

"You should loosen up." It was an old discussion for which neither really had the energy just now. "What happened?"

The pale eyes met his as Illya shrugged his shoulders. "As I said. I heard movement in the room. The door was already damaged." A puzzled frown crossed his face. "I was aware of suffocating. Something covered my head and shoulders, something cold and … " He seemed at loss for words. Another shrug. "I don't know. I saw nothing. Not a shadow, not a person. Then she was at my side and I was on the floor trying to breathe."

"There should have been some evidence."

"As in New York. There was not. Nothing except destruction and interference. I do not like this, Napoleon. There is something uncanny
going on and I do not believe it is our duty to handle the supernatural, even if I believed in it."

That elicited a chuckle from Napoleon. "I admit, I'm not thrilled with this assignment. Did you find anything more on Ayala?" They went to
Napoleon's room do discuss Illya's research. "Don't you like the room?" He asked as he watched Illya's critical gaze wander over the
luxuriously appointed bedchamber. Between the antiques littering the place and the brocade and velvet draperies, hangings and covers, it was much as the place must have been in the early 1800's when it was the home of nobility.

"Ostentatious show of prosperity. Over done."

"But beautiful. Now, what did you find out?"

Illya pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket and shook three photos out onto the bed. "Prof. Ayala, much as we saw him at our New York briefing. His secretary/assistant Miss Jonel Hodvard Whately. Graduate student working on her doctorate in Anthropology, specialty Ancient Religions. An expert in several ancient, dead languages. She's currently working on a private translation of," he referred to his notes. "Die Vermis Mysteries, or something like that. Latin book of forbidden knowledge from what I can figure out, although I think the title is incorrect for Latin."

"Mysteries of the Worm?"

"She's also tried, without success, to request that the Miskatonic send her their oldest copy of the Necro … Nec .."He frowned at his
notes. "Necronomicon. I do not understand what a tome about dead names is for, but she seems to want to get her hands on it very badly."

"Isn't that last one mentioned in Lovecraft's writings?" Napoleon pulled on his memory for more information. "Written by an Arab in the
800's. Al Fariq … no .. Al .. Alladin?" He laughed at his partner's response. "Al Hazred, that was it. Not so much dead names, but
alluding to … dead gods?" That was a strange thing to write a book about in the 800's, with Islam on the rise. Or perhaps not. In many
ways, the rise of Mohammedanism, Muslim or Islamic worship did kill the old desert gods. But that wasn't, as he recalled, what Lovecraft had indicated as the topic of the book. "Cthulhu. I remember that much. Who's this?"

Jonel Whateley was a pale skinned, skinny yet faintly goiterous looking woman with heavy dark rimmed spectacles and unflattering
clothing. The third photo was of a luminously pale haired girl dressed in the height of Soho/Carnaby Street fashion, the height of her skirt hem demonstrating why tights were so popular in England and the US.

"That is Tamara Taakin. She's Dr. Ayala's ward/adopted daughter. And she's hardly a girl. She was a refugee from the pogroms just after World War II. Ayala was in the Carpathians seeking the remains of some pre-historic site possibly connected with the Chatal Huyuk site in Turkey. He found her hiding in the mountains, her entire tribe wiped out by soldiers."

"Tribe?" Napoleon looked at the picture, now seeing the lines of maturity the exuberant hair and style of dress had disguised. "There
are blonde tribes?"

"Romany," was the curt response.

Knowing his partner's connection with Romany or Gypsy tribes, Napoleon nodded soberly. "Ah. Why didn't he just turn her over to another tribe?" he asked, although he suspected he could see the answer. There were very few pale blondes in that area of the world. Slavery was still a reality and this young woman, especially as a child, would have been a major temptation. The purchase of the freedom of a family or a tribe to move on, cross borders, at the price of one child's freedom? Yes, he could see that happening, as much as it galled him to acknowledge it.

"How does she fit in?"

"She's visiting. She spends most of her time in Los Angeles and London. Dr. Ayala requested that she return for the duration of this
month. This lunar month," he corrected his first comment.

"Lunar? Sounds like a confirmed case of lunacy," Napoleon quipped, but he didn't feel like laughing. The peculiar situation they'd survived in Maine came back with unnerving clarity. Although they'd avoided mentioning the sacrificial feel of the vat set up in Innsmouth, he was fairly certain that all three of them were aware of the subliminal implications. "Is this really our area of expertise?" he mused out loud.

"If Faversham and THRUSH are involved, yes," his partner answered, looking as though he would have preferred to answer in the negative.

"Then we see what Caleb and his companion can supply in the way of information. I may not believe, but they do," he gestured to the
photos. "Belief can act powerfully, especially when you start picking away at it."

Illya looked doubtful, staring at the photos. "Maybe the twins are a good sign," he muttered, bringing his gaze up to Napoleon's with
another characteristic shrug of his black clad shoulders. "I'm hungry. Any idea when they serve dinner around here?"

Before Napoleon could answer, what sounded like a dinner gong rang.