Later that night, Kuryakin sat in the waiting area for an 8:15 flight to St. Louis, booked under the name of Dr. Vitali Bergmann. His disguise was good, good enough he hoped that anyone looking for the blond, thirty-five year old UNCLE agent would not notice the gray, slightly balding, fifty year old physician sporting a neat beard and glasses. He passed the time with a medical journal, apparently absorbed in his reading till the gate attendant announced boarding at 7:45. An attractive stewardess looked at his boarding pass as he got on the plane.

“Doctor Bergmann?” she said, with a slight emphasis on the doctor.

“Yes, dermatologist,” he answered. “Flying to a conference in St. Louis.” In case a passenger had a heart attack or something, he didn’t want to be called on for assistance. He didn’t think anyone would have an emergency acne attack. She directed him to his seat. He put his carry-on in the overhead bin and settled into his window seat. He turned out the tiny overhead light, deciding to catch a few hours sleep before having to drive to Sikeston.

His plane arrived at Lambert Airport around 9:45 Central Time. He deplaned and looked for the shuttle to the Avis rental center. He rented a blue Oldsmobile Cutlass and asked for directions to Sikeston.

“That’s easy,” said the girl at the counter. “Just get on Highway 70 east and take that till you get downtown, then catch 55 south. That’ll take you all the way to Sikeston.”

He thanked her and took the keys. In ten minutes he was headed toward downtown. The city was mostly dark this time of night; its mostly suburban population vacated the city each day as the work day ended. He drove past the arch and saw the ramp for Highway 55; the traffic picked up a little as a night game at Busch Stadium was ending. Within ten minutes, he was on the outskirts of the city, and in another ten, the highway narrowed to two lanes each way. It continued like that for the hundred and twenty miles. Illya had plenty to think about. Trying to think of who might be after him was pointless. Six years as an UNCLE agent in New York and three before that in London and Paris had made him many enemies. And he couldn’t be sure that this didn’t go all the way back to his days in the Soviet Union. Probably not, but one could never be sure where an old enemy would pop up again.

He thought about poor Duncan Moore, an unfortunate pawn in this deadly game. Almost as much as he wanted to save himself, he wanted justice for Moore. He remembered him as a nice kid, idealistic and ready to sacrifice himself for others. He had known of the danger when he accompanied the human rights group to South America. Sure, he had been afraid, but isn’t that true bravery to do something even when you are afraid of it. To think that all of his and Napoleon’s efforts to save the boy ended just ten days later with a grisly murder. Yes, he owed justice to Duncan Moore and to his family.

He thought about Rebecca Keeven also. He could picture the night he had lost his temper at her apartment. He could still feel himself tensing and his anger growing at the base of his brain. She had just tried to give him a back rub, and he had exploded. He remembered hitting her, and he remembered hearing her cry, but he didn’t remember seeing her after he hit her. Napoleon had told him she had a swollen lip and a black eye. Hopefully finding this Sikeston woman would also lead to the cause of his angry outbursts. Still, he knew, he had to make it up to Rebecca somehow. It was almost one when he read the sign that said Sikeston 2 miles. He pulled out the map of the town that Napoleon had given him and located the high school.

He drove the short distance to the school. It was 1:30, and the parking lot was empty. The school was black; no lights illuminated the parking lot and the halls were dark as well. He picked the lock, flipped on his flashlight, and slipped inside. How to find the yearbook room, he wondered. Luckily he didn’t have to wonder long. A poster in the main hall announced, “Last Two Days to Order. See Miss Clarkson in Room 216.” He found the room easily. He saw a sliver of light under the door and assumed that a careless janitor had forgotten to turn off the light. The door was easy to pick.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, more of a surprised voice than a scream. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” The woman, a petite brunette in her early thirties, grabbed a bat that lay on the work table. “Don’t come close,” she warned.

Illya had three choices. Subduing her and searching through the books would get him his information, but it would also make public the fact that he was looking for Schepers. Leaving quickly would get him nothing and would probably prevent him from going back later. He decided to take a chance on a third choice: the truth.

“Please, I am not here to hurt you. In fact, I am surprised to see anyone here this late. Why are you here?”

“Yearbook deadline,” she answered. “What do you want?”

“Please sit down. I am going to sit down over here.”

He sat in a desk about twelve feet from the woman and placed both hands on the desktop. “I am not here to hurt you,” he repeated. “My name is Vitali Bergmann, and I need to find the identity of a woman in this picture.” He took the photo from his left inside jacket pocket and held it up.

“You aren’t police. They don’t break into school late at night. They come during the day and ask to see my yearbook file.”

“No,” he said softly. “I am not the police. In fact, I am running from them.” She tensed noticeably, and her grip on the bat tightened. “My name is Vitali Bergmann. I am in trouble and need your help. Please.” He gave her a sincere look and bit his lower lip. He could turn it on as well as Napoleon. Although he didn’t like to take advantage of a woman in this way, he thought now would be a good time to make an exception. The relaxing of the hand on the bat told him it was working.

“Who are you? Why are the police after you?”

Illya breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. Truth and consequence he said. “They think I killed a man. I did not. In fact, just two weeks ago, I risked my life to save his. But someone has framed me, framed me pretty well. I have a chance of clearing myself if I can find out who this woman is.” Illya took care to speak softly and slowly to keep her calm. He looked intently in her eyes. The fear in her eyes turned to confusion and then softened.

“Tell me what happened.”

He repeated the events of the past few days, leaving out a few of the more gruesome details. He seemed to have her on his side and didn’t want to scare her. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth with her left hand, trying to decide and still holding the bat in her right hand. “Tell me why I should believe you,” she asked.

“Because I am a member of an international organization, and I am trained to kill. In the line of duty, not murder. I can kill someone without leaving a clue. If I were in fact a murderer, I would not be talking to you now; you would be dead.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a strange way to reassure a lady. But it does make sense. What kind of organization? Like Interpol?”

“Something like that,” responded Illya with a slight grin. “I would rather not give details if you don’t mind.” He hoped she would trust him. He thought of the young woman who caught him hiding in her closet during the Hula Doll Affair. She had seemed frightened at first, finding him in her apartment, but her fear soon turned to trust. He seemed to have that effect on women.

Angie knew she was probably crazy, taking a chance on him. He could be what he said he was – or he could just be a very good liar. But she didn’t think so. She had a good track record of judging people by looking in their eyes. Okay, a good track record with kids. But she strongly sensed that he was someone she could trust.

“Hello, Vitali Bergmann,” she said, extending her right hand. “My name is Angie Clarkson. What can I do to help?”

Illya took her hand and kissed it lightly. He had noticed that the sign said Miss Clarkson. She was offering to help, and he wanted to keep it that way. “Tell me,” he said, “what an attractive woman such as yourself is doing here at this hour.”

“As I said, yearbook deadline. Big deadline tomorrow. I have to mail off 50 pages. There is no way I can get them done tomorrow and teach class. If I try to work on them during the day, there will be too many interruptions. So I decided to stay all night and take tomorrow off. I do better work at night anyway.”

He laughed. “So do I. Sometimes I get busy in the lab at work, and before I know it, it’s three in the morning. I have learned to keep a change of clothes at work in case I want to crash on the sofa for a few hours.”

Angie held out her hand. “Let me see that photo.” She took the Polaroid of Peggy Schepers and studied it carefully, reading the name printed below the photo. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I’ve had a lot of kids in ten years of teaching. I’ve been doing the yearbook the whole time, and the name just doesn’t strike a chord. And why come here?”

“We doubt that Peggy Schepers is her real name. But other clues have led us here. It’s too complicated to explain right now.”

“Well, judging her age from this photo, she could be anywhere from 22 to 30. Let me pull out the yearbooks for those years. We can start looking through the senior photos. If we can’t find her photo there, then I suggest going back and looking at the underclassmen. Sometimes a student moves or just doesn’t graduate.” She handed Illya four books. “Here, you start with these. I’ll take the other half.”

A half hour later, she found it. “There she is. Class of 61. That was my first year teaching. Ola Cwiklowski. I remember her. Really strange girl. Kind of sad all the time. Kept to herself, except for her brother, who was a year younger.” She flipped to the junior section. “There he is. Robert Cwiklowski.” She turned back to the seniors and handed the book to Illya. “Is this the woman you’re looking for?”

“Yes, that’s her. She was working – or masquerading, it seems – as a waitress in New York. Do you know anything about her?”

Angie leaned back in her chair. “To be honest, I don’t. She was in my English class that year, and I remember that she never volunteered much in class. Good student on paper, but she never said anything.” She tried to stifle a yawn, unsuccessfully. “You know you’ve blown my plan to finish these pages and call in sick this morning.”

She grinned at the handsome blond. God, what beautiful blue eyes, she thought. Is that why I’m helping him, she thought. Because he is so cute? No, that wasn’t it, though she had to admit to herself that she was immensely attracted to him. But lots of handsome men turned out to be jerks. That she knew from experience. This one had an aura or something about him, something that made Angie feel as if she could trust him. She sensed danger, and maybe a year ago that would have scared her off. But she had turned thirty last fall and was facing thirty-one, still single, still stuck in the same small town she had grown up in. Nothing exciting or dangerous had ever happened to her. Okay, she was having an affair with a married college professor. Three years ago when the affair started it seemed exciting and maybe just a bit dangerous, but that was three years ago. There was very little of either excitement or danger left; it was almost as dull as being married to him. Yes, Angie was ripe for something that made her feel daring; helping this man with the beautiful eyes and the mysterious accent might just be what she needed.

“Is this really important?” she asked.

“Life or death.”

“Yours?”

“Yes,” said Illya

“Screw the deadline. I can send it in a day late. But you’re going to have to take me somewhere to get something to eat. If I am going to make it through the day tomorrow, I need some food and some caffeine. And I better just stay up. I can’t sleep for just a few hours.”

“Sure, but what is open in a town like this at 2:30 in the morning?”

“Are you kidding? A truck stop. Let me get my car – it’s around back. I’ll pull around and you can follow me. I don’t think it would look too good for my car to be here all night. Some of the coaches get here early to run the track before school.”

Illya followed her back on to Highway 55. About two miles down the road, she pulled off the highway and into a truck stop. Actually the neon sign read T UCK ST P, with two of the lights burned out. She pushed in the door and walked in; Illya followed her to a booth in the back of the restaurant.

“The nice thing is that nobody I know would be here this late at night. Just truckers on their way somewhere else.”

“What about the waitresses?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t care who was in here. That’s one way they keep people coming in. You know, teenagers and college kids late at night, after some beer party. Or lovers sneaking in for some food after cheating on their spouses.”

She laughed. He liked the easy way she laughed. She was a beautiful woman who seemed out of place in a dump like this.

The waitress came by and took their order. “A cheeseburger and fries,” she said, “and a Coke.” Illya nodded in agreement. “That sounds good. And a chocolate malt.”

“So what is your story?” he asked as the waitress walked away. “You live here all your life? What do you do besides stay at school till two in the morning?”

“Yeah, I’ve lived here forever. Except for four years in college. Went to St. Louis University on scholarship. I got a job teaching in St. Louis, and then my dad died. I moved back to take care of my mom. It’s not that bad of a town, really. Your choices are limited, but people are the same anywhere. What do I do?” She softly snickered. “Teaching pretty much fills my time. I read a lot. I’m an English teacher, right? And there’s a guy I see sometimes. He teaches history at the college in Cape Girardeau. Once in a while we get to St. Louis for the weekend for dinner and some dancing.” She shrugged and smiled a sad smile. “Pretty monotonous to be honest. Sometimes I have an ache for so much more. Sometimes I think if something doesn’t happen soon…”

Her thought was cut short as the waitress came with their order. Illya took the lid off the catsup bottle and shook it gently over his fries. “So what is the plan for tomorrow?” he asked, changing the subject. The look in her eyes communicated that she had said more than she was willing to tell.

She bit into a french fry. “We have this teacher in the English department. Great lady. The joke at school is that she knows everything about everybody who has ever lived in Sikeston. She’s been teaching twenty-eight years. I know she will know something about Ola.”

Illya frowned, and she read his mind.

“Don’t worry, Vitali,” she said. “I can bring it up in a way that no one will suspect that I’m checking on her. All I have to do is mention her name, and Patti will have a story to tell. It never fails.”

She got out the 1961 yearbook that she had brought along and flipped to the index. “Page 73. Let’s see what that is. School play.” She looked over the page before handing the book to Illya. “Seems she had a part in the play that year.”

Illya looked at the picture of Ola Cwiklowski. The caption said she was the mother in Our Town. “Boyzhe moi,” he said, looking at the young girl made up to look like a middle aged matron. “That’s the woman from the subway.”

“What woman?” Angie asked. Illya didn’t answer. He leaned over and kissed her.

“It’s starting to come together,” he said, beaming. “I may just get out of this yet.”

He paid the waitress and left a generous tip. He and Angie walked to the parking lot.

“It’s four, a little early to head to school. And I don’t think it would be a good idea to go in the same clothes I wore yesterday. I’m goin’ home for a shower and a change. Want to follow me? My mom’s at her sister’s in New Madrid.”

“You aren’t worried about the neighbors?” Illya asked. She shrugged. “The college professor I’ve been seeing is married, and everyone around here knows it. They tolerate it because I’m a great teacher, and my dad was on the first school board in town. I don’t think a strange car one night will do much one way or another for my reputation.”

Angie smiled all the way from the truck stop to her house. She thought about the time that the kids all knew that she had a big crush on the new science teacher. They teased her that every time he walked in the room, she got this stupid grin on her face and just kind of glowed. She was quite sure that despite the darkness in the car, she was glowing now. What made her feel this way about a complete stranger? The vibes she was getting from him were so contradictory. She could sense that he was somehow a very dangerous man, but she felt completely safe with him. He had an air about him of coolness and professionalism, but the heat she was feeling was unmistakable.

Following her in his rented car, Illya was smiling to himself as well. Maybe it was the tension of the last few nights and the feeling of being safe for a few hours. Maybe it was a feeling of jubilation at getting some info that would be useful. Maybe it was just something about this woman that touched something in him. He liked her smile, the twinkle in her eyes, the confident air she had about her. Normally, it was Napoleon, not he, who would be taking a woman to bed the first night they met. He was normally more cautious, looking at Napoleon’s one night stands with disapprobation. Now here he was having very Napoleon-like thoughts.

When they entered her house, he could barely contain himself. He didn’t have to. She pulled his jacket off and tossed it on the couch, not looking very surprised at the shoulder holster and gun that it had covered. “Oh, this has to go,” she said. He had it off in a whisk and his tie in the next moment. She went for the buttons of his blue oxford shirt, quickly but not clumsily. She pulled the shirt off of him.

“Oh,” she said, seeing the scars on his chest. “Where did you get these?”

“In the line of duty,” he said, releasing a soft moan as she began to lick them. She planted kisses all over his chest, soft and gentle at first, and then hard and hungry. Illya took her face between his hands and kissed her deeply on the lips, continuing down her neck and to the cleavage that peeked from her pink cotton blouse. His fingers felt for the buttons, but she stopped him.

“Let me,” she said, taking two steps back. Slowly she undid each pale pink button, looking deceptively demure as she slid the blouse from her shoulders. “Just relax and watch.”

Slowly, provocatively, she undid the clasp of her belt. She pulled it slowly from the loops of her jeans and unfastened the top snap. The zipper came down slowly, agonizingly slowly, and she slipped the jeans past slim hips to reveal pink panties. Illya’s groin tightened in his gray pants, and he felt just a little light-headed. “Can we do something about those pants?” she asked with false shyness.

They were off in an instant. She took Illya’s hand and led him to the bedroom. He smiled as he entered the room; it reminded him of a place he knew well. The room was cluttered, with clothes lying on the floor and the chair. Her nightstand was crowded with books and a half full cup of cold coffee. On the bed was a notebook covered in wild script.

“Sorry this is a mess. I’m great at a lot of things, but cleaning isn’t one of them.” She picked up the notebook. “I’m working on a story. It’s about a woman who goes to Italy on holiday and finds love. Well, maybe not love, but at least one hell of a good time,” she said, laughing. “Kind of transparent, I guess.”

“The clutter is fine. Reminds me of my apartment. I’ve always got two or three books going at one time.” He pulled her close and kissed her gently on the lips. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s moving very quickly, and I don’t want to take advantage.”

She could tell he meant that, and it only made her want him more. “Yeah, I’m sure.” She was more sure when he kissed her. It was a warm passionate kiss, and he didn’t just shove his tongue in her mouth the way some men did. He let his tongue play with hers, taking time to relish the kiss. If he made love like that, she knew she was in for an experience she would not forget. And she lit two rose-scented candles on the dresser and a third on the nightstand, and then she pulled back the yellow chenille bedspread. “I’ll be right back,” she said, turning out the light as she walked out the door and into the hall bathroom. She returned a few minutes later, her hair down and her bra and panties gone.

“You look stunning in the candle light,” said Illya as she climbed in next to him in the white iron bed. He caressed her tenderly, kissing her gently on the lips. Suddenly he shuddered. The image of Duncan Moore, naked and bloody in his bed, invaded his brain, tensing his body. His erection gone, he drew away, but she held on.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bad memory.”

“Want to talk about it?

He did, but not here, not now. He shook his head.

“Okay, then just relax. Let me help you.”

Her hand went to his groin, caressing his penis with slow, gentle strokes. His erection came quickly back. She pushed him lightly onto his back and climbed on top. Her dark hair fell in cascades on his chest as she licked his the hollow of his throat. She smelled like lavender. He closed his eyes and let himself ease into the feel and smell of her. It seemed forever since he had felt this good, this serene. Angie sucked gently on his left nipple, running her velvet-like hands across his torso. Fingernails menacingly stroked his chest, alternating between pleasure and pain. She slid further down, planting kisses on his abdomen. And then the feel of her hot mouth on his cock was sheer bliss.

She took him deeply into her mouth, lubricating his cock with her saliva. She sucked slow and gently and then fast and harder. She pulled off and blew gently on the tip, then licked it. Her teeth nibbled softly on the shaft and then she picked up the pace again. Soft and slow, then hard and fast, driving him crazy. She gently massaged his balls as she continued her heavenly assault on his body. Illya moaned softly,

“Yes,” and then some words she did not understand. After he came, she rolled on her side and stroked his chest. She could feel the quick beating of his heart.

“Good?”

“More than I can tell you right now,” said Illya. “And I certainly know one of the things you’re good at.” He smiled and ran his fingers through her hair. “But you haven’t had any pleasure yet.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong. It has definitely been a pleasure, but if you want,” she began.

Her sentence was cut off with a kiss. “I want to kiss you here,” he said, kissing her softly and then more passionately, his tongue darting past the lips and into her mouth. “And here,” he murmured and kissed her chin. “And here,” he repeated, sucking gently on her neck. His mouth traveled to her breasts, kissing and sucking till each brown nipple was hard with anticipation. His tongue bathed her abdomen and tickled her navel, as he slipped his hand between her legs. She was warm and wet, and he slid a finger in and out, gently massaging her sex with his thumb. Her breathing deepened and her heart rate quickened. He rolled on top of her and pushed her legs open with his knee. His hands reached beneath her and kneaded her firm behind. He slid into her, slowly and gently, pulling her hips close to him. More words she did not understand. “Yes, yes, more, yes,” she moaned. Suddenly his thrusts became more powerful, more urgent, more controlling. He held her hands above her head and pushed harder and harder, losing himself in the act. His body slick with sweat, he felt complete release; Angie’s moans grew to cries of pleasure, signaling her own release. Exhausted, he exhaled and rolled on his back. His body was trembling as Angie laid her hand on his chest.

“Whoa, are you all right?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, afraid of how intense and forceful his lovemaking had become. What had begun with tender kisses ended with raw emotion.

“Sorry? Don’t be. That was the best I’ve had in a long time. It’s just that you changed all of a sudden, and I wasn’t expecting that. But anytime you want to repeat that is fine with me.” She smiled and touched his face lightly. “But for now, just hold me.” She rested her head on his shoulder and draped her arm across his chest. “My alarm is set for 6 a.m. Let’s take a short nap before I have to go to work.”

She fell asleep in his arms. Gradually, Illya’s heartbeat slowed and his trembling stopped. He had been caught off guard by the intensity that had gripped him, especially after the events of the past few days, secretly worried about dark impulses that might lie hidden deep inside. But now he felt fine; it had just been passionate sex; no demons had rushed in to violate the night. Calm came over him and then sleep.

He woke with a start to the sound of the alarm. Angie turned it off and slid out of bed. “You go back to sleep. I’m gonna take a shower; I’ll just be a jiffy.” Illya pulled on his boxers and ambled into the kitchen. Perhaps it was presumptuous to poke around in her pantry, but then he had just come from her bed. He found the coffee and put the pot on the stove to brew. She came in a few minutes later in a faded blue robe and with her hair wrapped in a towel.

“Oh, you’re a dear. Caffeine is just what I need. You hungry?”

“No, just coffee.”

“Me either. Listen I need to leave here by 7 to get to school on time. We start at 7:30 and get out at 3. Why don’t you just stay here? You can put your car in my garage if you want. I’ll come back right after school. In fact, I have a planning period sixth hour and maybe I can talk a friend into watching my last period. If I find out the information I need at lunch, I can come home and let you know.”

“It’s all right to leave early? I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“Are you kidding? The amount of time I spend there, nobody will think twice if I get sick after lunch.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and headed to the bedroom. “I have to get dressed. Just make yourself at home.”