Napoleon was alone in his friend’s apartment; the police had concluded their examination of the room and had left with the body for the medical examiner’s office. They probably wouldn’t have left him there if they knew he and Illya were partners, but he had convinced them that his interest in the case was objective. He surveyed the room. The police had stripped the bed and had taken the sheets, but the blood soaked mattress gave testimony to what had happened, or rather what had appeared to have happened. Napoleon could not imagine that Illya had committed this act, despite what had happened earlier this week. Illya could be ruthless when it came to killing the bad guy, but Napoleon had seen him time and time again risk his life to save the life of an innocent, even when doing so jeopardized the mission. To tie a young man to his bed, sodomize him, and murder him? No, that was unthinkable, totally out of the realm of possibility.

“Illya, where are you?” he said to the empty room. “What is going on here?”

Illya lay like a corpse in his tiny sanctuary, listening intently to Napoleon walking in his room. Was he alone? Illya was fairly certain he was, but he remained quiet in apprehension of who else might still be there. A moment later, he heard Napoleon speak into the communicator.

“Open Channel D.”

“Yes, Mr. Solo?” came Lisa Rogers’s voice.

“Put me through to Mr. Waverly.”

A terse voice came on. “Your report, please.”

“Yes, sir. The police have just left with the body. They appear to be finished here.” He relayed the scene to the UNCLE chief, sparing none of the gruesome details.

“And your assessment, Mr. Solo?”

“I know what it looks like, sir, especially after the last week, but I don’t believe things are as they appear. One, it is just too sloppy. Illya is a professional, and even if he were capable of something like this, he would never bring someone to his home. And more importantly, I know Illya, and I know this is simply not possible. I know that may not sound like a professional assessment, but…”

“On the contrary, Mr. Solo. One of the best tools an operative has is his instinct.”

“Thank you, sir. I know that something else is going on, that someone else is working very hard to make it look like my partner is out of control.”

“I agree. It is your job to ascertain the identity of that someone. Get busy, Mr. Solo.” The communicator went dead.

“Talk to me, Illya,” he said blankly.

He was startled to see the wall open and his partner tumble out.

“Napoleon, I think I am in very serious trouble here.”

Napoleon peered into the tiny space that his partner had just vacated.

“I put this in a couple of years ago in case I was cornered by an enemy. I didn’t think I would have to use it to hide from the police.”

“Tell me what happened,” said Napoleon.

“I would if I could,” answered Illya. “I am almost as clueless as you are at the moment.”

“What do you remember about last night?”

“Nothing of consequence. I took a cab home, then grabbed something to eat, and came back here. Alone,” he said adamantly.

“No calls, no visitors?” asked Solo.

“No one. I ate my sandwich and downed most of a bottle of vodka and went to sleep. The next thing I remember is waking up to this,” he said, pointing toward the bed.

“The medical examiner found semen in various orifices. Any chance it could be yours?”

“The way this week has been going, I would bet money that it is. But if you’re asking me if I had sex with him, the answer is no.” Illya’s face darkened. “At least, I hope not.”

“But how did Duncan get here?” asked Napoleon.

“Duncan?” exclaimed Illya, shock in his voice. “Duncan Moore? I didn’t turn him over to look. I was covered in blood and went to wash it off. The next thing I heard was the police, and I ducked into my hiding place. Oh, shit, this looks really bad. And the senator is going to want blood.”

“We’ll figure something out,” said Napoleon, trying to sound more optimistic than he really was. “Someone is obviously out to get you. We just have to find out who.”

*********************************************************************

Illya waited till it was dark, concealed in his tiny hiding space, before making it out of the building. While Napoleon was still there to act as look out, he had fashioned a disguise, not a great one, but one that would let him leave the building unnoticed. He walked briskly to Tompkins Square Park and hailed a cab. He didn’t want to catch a cab to close to his apartment, just in case anyone was checking.

“Penn Station,” he said, no emotion in his voice. He’d slipped into the mechanical mode of the agent, a demeanor he needed to avoid notice and to get through the next few hours. He checked the train schedule for the Long Island Rail Road and boarded his train. An hour and a half later, he got off the train in Islip and hailed another cab to Deer Park. There was a small park there, kind of a small overgrown forest where neighborhood kids played at war, furiously battling with plastic guns to take possession of imaginary fortresses. Inside the box he had buried there some two years ago were a few thousand dollars in cash and a key to a safe deposit box. He would have to wait till tomorrow when the bank opened to retrieve its contents.

He hitched a ride and checked into the Deer Park Motor Inn, just around the corner from the Long Island Commercial Bank. He registered under the name of Mikhail Porvaznik and paid in cash for two night’s stay. After grabbing some food at the deli next door, he headed to his room to try to rest and to sort out the facts of a very perplexing two weeks. Napoleon would contact him there when he had more information. For now all Illya could do was wait.

*********************************************************************

Ola went to work on Sunday. Of course she intended to quit this horribly plebeian little job, but she didn’t want to attract attention by quitting so soon. She figured she could stick it out a few days or so, and then tell her boss that someone back home was ill, and she was so sorry to leave him on such short notice, but her mother – yes, that would have a nice ring to it – needed her. Plus she had to do her civic duty and tell all about the handsome young blond fellow with the funny accent that was there last night. She figured that the cops would want to talk to someone as soon as possible. She had made sure she was scheduled for the 8 to 4 shift. She knew they would find the sandwich bag and the ticket and be by to ask questions.

She was waiting on a table when the police arrived. They spoke briefly to her boss who called her over.

“Peggy, these gentlemen are detectives. They need some information about a customer who may have been a customer last night. I told them you were working the counter.”

“Sure, how can I help?”

Detective John Abernathy set a photo on the counter. “This man, was he in here last night?”

“Oh, him,’ she smiled. “He is in here a lot.”

“But specifically last night?”

“Yeah, he came in around seven, I think, maybe a little later. He ordered a couple of sandwiches for him and his friend.”

“Did you see his friend?”

“Yeah. In fact, I was kinda disappointed. I’d had my eye on this one,” she said, pointing to Illya’s photo, “ever since the first time he came in here with some woman late at night. But then he and the fellow last night seemed so,” she drawled, pausing as if looking for the right word, “well, chummy, that I guess it’s a waste of my time.”

“What do you mean by chummy?”

“Well, the younger one couldn’t keep his hands off of this one. And he didn’t seem to mind much. I guess I am still a little shocked. I mean you don’t see that sort of thing back home, not out in public.”

“Would you recognize the other man?” asked Bill Shannon’s, Abernathy’s partner.

“Why, what has he done? Has he hurt that nice blond man?” she asked, a worried look on her face.

“Why would you say that?” asked Abernathy.

“Well, to be honest, they seemed a little agitated. The blond one, he was really in a hurry. I mean, he usually smiles and is nice, even though he is really quiet, but he is usually really nice. Last night, he seemed kinda irritated about something. He just grabbed the sandwiches and left. He didn’t even tip me last night.”

Shannon set four photos, each of a different man about the same, on the counter. “Is the second man in one of these photos?” he asked.

Peggy studied them carefully. “Yeah, that one,” she said, pointing to photo of Duncan Moore. “That’s him. But his hair was a little longer than in that photo and he was dressed a lot more casual than that.”

“Did he leave with the other man?”

“Oh, yeah. The blond one, I think he lives around here. And the younger one seemed real anxious to get there. I can’t remember his exact words, but I do remember the gist of it.”

“Thank you, Miss Schepers. You’ve been a big help.”

When the detectives left the café, she turned to her boss.

“What’s goin’ on, Mr. Farthing?”

“Not sure of the details, but it seems that the first guy killed the younger one last night. I didn’t get any details from them. They just came in and said they had found a bag with a ticket from here in the apartment so they came to check it out.”

*********************************************************************

Monday, May 12, 1969

The knock on the door woke Illya with a start. A quick glance at the bedside clock told him it was 3 a.m. The tapping continued, a special coded knock that let him know it was Napoleon. Quickly he let him in.

“You manage to get some sleep?”

“Just a little.” He walked over to turn the television off. “I guess I finally fell asleep about one. The background noise seemed to help,” he said, pointing to the set. “Pretty brainless stuff, but not all bad when you don’t want to think about anything.” He looked more serious. “So what have you found out?”

Napoleon had spent most of Sunday afternoon with Detectives Shannon and Abernathy, who had been instructed to give him their full cooperation. He followed with a visit to the medical examiner’s office. The evidence looked bad; Illya could tell that from the look on his face.

“First I spoke to the detectives assigned to the case. They pretty much gave me everything they have, which was a bit of a surprise. I think they are pretty much up-front guys.”

“So what do they say?”

“Let’s start with what was in the room.” Napoleon repeated what he had seen for himself and what the detectives had told him. Moore’s body was in Illya’s bed, and his clothes were on a chair in the bedroom. Identification of the clothing was verified by his roommate, Joel Kinworthy, as well as by the wallet and identification found in his pants pocket. Also in his pocket was Illya’s address on a paper in Kinworthy’s handwriting. Kinworthy had taken the address down and passed it on to Moore.

“He told police that Duncan had spoken to him about coming here to thank you for the rescue mission. Someone in the senator’s office got your address and called. Evidently Kinworthy took the message and gave it to Duncan. That was around nine Friday night. According to the boyfriend, Duncan planned to come by on Saturday.”

“Boyfriend?” asked Illya.

“Yeah,” said Napoleon, “boyfriend. Duncan and the roomie were more than just casual friends.”

“Which makes the scene in my bedroom a tad more plausible.”

“Not to me,” said Napoleon.

“Of course not, but I don’t think your opinion matters,” said Illya, dejection evident in his voice.

“My opinion matters to Waverly, as does your good reputation. I want you to know that he is backing you on this, although that may not be enough to help. We are going to have to get busy to find out who is behind this.”

Illya sat plaintively evaluating his situation. “Okay,” he said, “so they found my address. Is there anything else? Give me all the bad news.”

“You remember going to the Left Bank down the street? Well, the waitress there remembers you coming in with Duncan about 7:30. Has a ticket that has your order on it. Two sandwiches. A roast beef and a turkey on rye. Remnants of the turkey sandwich were found in your kitchen.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense. I was there, maybe around 7 and got a roast beef sandwich. That was it. She’s mistaken.”

“Or lying,” said Napoleon.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, and this looks bad, too. The murder weapon was found under the bed. An ice pick covered in Duncan’s blood and your fingerprints. It is apparently from your kitchen.”

“Which would explain my fingerprints.”

“And there is another print on the bathroom wall. It’s a print made of blood; guess whose print and whose blood?”

“I probably did that. When I woke up, I was covered in blood and went to shower. I was still a little groggy and I guess I held on for support. I really don’t remember.”

Napoleon frowned. “I also visited the medical examiner’s office. They had subpoenaed samples of your blood work and body fluids from the UNCLE lab.”

“From the other day?”

“Yeah. And here’s more bad news. Semen was found in Duncan’s mouth and anus. Both your blood type.”

“Napoleon, there is no way.” Illya began.

“I know,” Napoleon assured him. “You don’t have to convince me. We’ve been partners a long time, and I know what you are and are not capable of.”

“Fuck,” Illya spat out. “So you believe me. I can just see the jury now. Oh yeah, his partner believes him so it must be all right.”

“No, your partner has to get busy to find out who’s behind this. And I know where to start.”

“The waitress?”

“Yeah. Either she’s lying or you’re delusional. I know where I’d place my money. I’m going to check her story in the morning.”

“It is morning, Napoleon.”

“You wisecracking again? Things must be looking up.”

“Well, at least we have a starting point. So what do you want me to do?”

“For right now,” said Napoleon, “I just want you to stay put. But not too long. I’m afraid that too long of a stay might attract attention. Why don’t you pay for two more nights, but lay low. Just go out for what you need. I’ll be in touch.” He started to leave and then turned around. “Wait, I know what I want you to do. I’m sure that the incidents of the past week are somehow tied to this set up. I need you to think hard and write down everything that happened to you, everything you did, everyone you spoke to, anything that you can think of for the twenty-four hours preceding each of the events. No matter how insignificant it may seem. Somewhere there is a common thread; we just have to find it.”

After Napoleon left, Illya grabbed some stationery from the desk. He frowned as he tried to recall the events of the last week.