Rated: PG

Another ten minutes waiting. They push me out of the way while Dr. Bastajian comes in to check and fuss. Napoleon fades a bit, but in the end I get back to find him propped up and comfortable. One nurse remains on duty, but he sits near the door and reads, leaving us almost alone.

"Where?" Napoleon's voice is low, but intentionally so. The earlier weakness has all but vanished.

"Gugarian Military Hospital."

"No nurses?" he asks.

"Several. Mostly men." Actually, his nurse is a pretty young woman, but I cannot resist teasing just a bit.

"Oh." He looks at my robe and hospital shirt. Not my usual garb, even if I am not the clothes-horse he is. "You?"

"I woke up myself less then three hours ago. April has been by." I hesitate at that, uncertain. "April Dancer." I have some doubts about that , but we can not discuss them with an observer in the room.

"Mark's partner." If my doubts creep into my voice, Napasha does not catch them. "Where's Mark?"

That was my question also. "I do not know. She did not say."

"T.H.R.U.S.H. base?"

"Destroyed." Or so she had said.  "Quite thoroughly." I consider what I remember of my explosive charges. That, at least, was quite likely the truth. "Rest. The briefing has been adjourned until tomorrow, so you can join it." My briefing will come tonight - in private.

Napoleon lays back again. He is paler than I would wish, his skin more jaundiced then olive. Six months  in a hospital would do that, although? In truth, that part of the story is almost as impossible as the rest. If I had been in bed for six months I surely would not be able to walk. Yes, I decide. That disproves their story in and of itself. I lay my head back against the support and rest my eyes. A moment only. Just to rest.

*******

I wake at the sound on heels on concrete. The large male nurse is gone, replaced by someone far more to Napoleon's taste.

"Dinner, gentleman?" This pretty blond I had seen before. Napsha's real nurse. I watch that awareness pass over his face along with his most beguiling smile. Four hours out of a coma and already flirting. That was my Napasha.

"Something tasty," he answers.

"Food!" Her voice is sharp, but I notice her eyes are not. Some men just have it. "You are still in bed."

"Exactly." His smile grows teeth.

"Behave, Mr. Solo."

How often had I heard that tone from his flirts. Exasperation warring with warmth. "We have been warned about you and your 'appetites'. I am not on the menu. So - perhaps some ham?"

She produces bed tables for both of us. Place mats, napkins, heavy stainless cutlery stamped with an emblem to match my robe. Which reminds me of one I *hadn't* seen. Removing  two covered trays from the cart beside her, she places the warm plates in front of us.

I raise the lid. It is ham. Very thick and edged with spices. Mashed potatoes and cabbage centered with butter. Green peas. Sliced beets. Dark rye bread with more butter beside it. Suddenly I am very hungry.

"Sorry for the bland diet." she says.  "Doctor's orders."

We say nothing, just eat. I am halfway through when Napasha raises his fork.

"Illya, this is excellent. And you were always criticizing the military food."

"It appears there have been some changes."

He gives me *his* look, but.... not  now. Not here.

"Later", I grumble. " Just eat."

We finish our meals in silence.

"That was wonderful." Napasha drops his fork on the tray. "Or perhaps I was just hungry. I could swear I haven't eaten for a week."

"At least." I mutter, thinking of April.

The nurse removes the trays out to the hall, which grants us  a precious moment alone. I gave him the signal.

"What?" he whispers.

"Problem, Napoleon."

"Not safe?"

"Who knows? Napoleon, just before you woke...? I came out of a conference with a woman who identified herself as April Dancer."

"Identified herself?"

"Things are... strange." I think what she had said, then about our luxury rooms and fine dinners.  Make that improbable. I rest back against the neck support. "Napoleon?  Either we are in the most elaborate triple-think operation in the history of T.H.R.U.S.H. or.....we are really in trouble."

I stop . The nurse is back. With ice cream. It is vanilla, and excellent, and just as I remember. Some things, at least, are unchanged. We eat it without comment.

"Finished?" the nurse asks as my spoon hits the tray.

"Yes, thank you." I smile. My smiles do not always work as well as Napasha's. Still..

"I'll just clear this away. Now if there's anything you might want" which brings a smile and a *look* - "other then that, Mr. Solo - just buzz. The red button on the bed table?"

She turns to me. "If you want to return to your room, Mr. Kuryakin...."

"I would rather stay here." With my tone I make it - I am *going* to stay here.

"Well, visiting hours are officially over, but I suppose I can make an exception in your case.  Would you care to watch TV?" A strange question. Before I could formulate an answer she hands me still another black box with buttons. "Just keep the sound low. People may be sleeping." She opens a wall cabinet to reveal the tube.

I wait until she was out of the room.

Napoleon gives the box an interested once-over.

"I believe that is a radio controller," I say, holding the box where he can see it.

"Interesting idea."

"Perhaps. They seem - very popular around here." I examine the face. More numbered buttons. Channels, I assume. The number is correct. Various arrows for volume and tone. Nothing marked on. "The red button , do you think?"

"The one marked power? Try it."

I do. The screen roars to life. In color. Reasonable. Given the other luxuries here, they could be expected to provide a color set.  It was some music program. The screen showed a man playing a violin. I push the volume button a few times. Not too much, I have no  wish to attract the nurse.

"There, enough noise to cover our conversation." I lean closer to Napoleon. "According to the April woman we are  in Russia. In summer of the year 2001. She said the we had been - suspended in animation was the term she used - by Professor Grimlove."

"What!" He drops his voice again. "Illya."

"I did not believe it either. It is impossible. But the woman named April was most convincing." I hesitate, then..."She... looked like April would in her late fifties. I think. She sounded like her. She recognized and responded to all our body codes. I handed her my tea glass, while it was hot, and .... I believe she had April's fingerprints."

"Still. How gullible do they think we can be?"

No answer for that. My hand tightens on the box, which brings a instant change to the sound. "The arrow buttons would appear to change the channel." This time it was some woman in a hat, kneeling beside some flowers. A gardener? She is too well dressed for a real farmer, but perhaps she is an actress in some show on agricultural production.

"Try it again." Napoleon says. "See what we can get."

"They will be doctored signals."

"Even so..." He holds out his hand for the box. I give it to him. *click*click*click* He stops at the image of a woman behind a desk. A news show. Good choice. Even disinformation can inform. She is pretty, and the presentation is very fast and colorful, with many films inserted. I watch with.....well....

'Chechen rebels attack home in Grosney'?

'Headless body found outside Kiev'?

I look at Napasha.

'Court delays espionage trail at *lawyers* request?'

'State gas company to repurchase stock in effort to raise value of shares.'?

He looks at me.

'President Vladimir Putin meets with German Chancellor Gherhard Schroeder.'

We look at each other.

"President Vladimir Putin?" My voice rises, incredulous. "Of Russia?"

"Brother, wasn't he?" Napoleon asks. It is not really a question.

"From enforcement." I consider the chances. Not likely, but... "It does look like him."

The television continues in the background, almost ignored except...

"Napoleon." I look over. "Did she just say 'Polish Command of NATO'?"

"Illya, I think we are in a lot of trouble."

This must be psy-ops, but..."Check the other channels."

He clicks again. Annoying music, strange angles, and young people dancing. I am confused until the camera pans in on one young woman's buttock. It is an ad for Levi jeans.

"Napoleon, now I *know* we are in a lot of trouble."

Chapter Five - Splish Splash

Rated: PG

I return to awareness when the television stops. "Mr. Kuryakin?" The nurse is calling from just out of arms reach. "You really should return to your room now. It's late, and you both need your rest."

I check the window. Light still comes through, but the color is wrong. Field lights, I decide. What sky I can see is quite dark, although the cloud cover that blocks the stars does show a certain reflected glow. Likely there is a city nearby.

"I do not wish to leave." My tone makes it I have no intention of leaving - under any circumstances.

She seems a bit nonplused by my answer. Reasonable. Military nurses, even more then their civilian counterparts, are accustomed to compliance. She pauses, about to argue. I give her my frostiest glare.

"Oh...well.." She tries to meet my eyes. "Let me check with  your doctor." Another assessing look, and then she is out the door.

"Why did you...?" Napoleon starts.

"To see what will happen." I answer. "I do not believe either T.H.R.U.S.H. - or the K.G.B. - would welcome defiance."

"So you gave them some."

A habit which some argue explains my familiarity with hospitals. No matter. I have always felt information was worth the price. We have no further time for conversation, as the nurse returns with her answer. From her sour expression, that answer does not well suit her - but at least the responsibility is now off her back.

"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. Dr. Goldak insists you shouldn't be stressed. I'll have the orderlies bring in another bed." She pauses, then adds sternly. "But  in return, I want your word that you will get some sleep. Not stay up all night watching old movies."

Napoleon smiles. She does not.

"Agreed?"

I nod. I had not realized a movie had been on.

"Here." She reaches for the handles on my chair, rolling me out of the way of the two orderlies and a nurse who now come in with another hospital bed. "Let me help you, Mr. Kuryakin."

With the sudden movement, my intestines reminded me of my very substantial dinner.

"Bathroom?"

"I'm sorry. Of course.. How about you Mr. Solo?"

His smile takes on a pained edge. "Please."

She gestures at the larger of the green-clad men. "Nurse Fazilat will help you while I get some fresh pajamas."

He looks us over, then rolls another chair up to Napoleon's bed. "You first, Mr. Solo." The man says in decent if heavily accented English. "Give room for others to work."

Reasonable. Solo makes no protest as they go through the transfer ritual. Like me, he has done this before. More often then I would prefer to remember.

As soon as Napoleon is out of the bed, the female nurse strips and replaces the sheets. When that was done she made up the other bed for me. White sheets and extra pillows. Very impressive. We are fortunate that we are in such a fine hospital. There is plenty of room for an extra bed. Of course, in a less fine hospital, we might have had to *share* a bed. I clear my mind. This is neither the time or place for such thoughts.

By the time they are finished Nurse Fazilat returns with Napoleon. The whole transfer ritual is repeated in reverse as he efficiently helps Napoleon back into bed. Then he turns to me.

"Ready, Mr. Kuryakin?"

We go through the same seating process. And the same unseating process in Napoleon's bathroom. This time Nurse Fazilat has the professionalism to turn away unasked, which I appreciate. I am growing stronger by the minute, which explains why I am also feeling... dry. No, dirty. I do not like to feel dirty. Perhaps? I look at the tiled cabinet.

"Shower?" I ask.

His gaze follows mine, then sweeps down my exposed limbs. "No dressings? Very well. If it will help you to sleep better."

He pulls a plastic armchair from a towel closet and places it in the shower, angling the seat so the back was supported by two walls. Then he brings up my wheelchair.

"I can walk." I tell him.

"That would make this easier, but hold on to my arm. If you slip, I am the one who will take the fall."

Three steps and I am seated in comfort.

"Here", he says, handing me a thick terry washcloth and some soap. He starts the water, adjusting the temperature to be warm enough to relax muscles, but not scalding. Then he closes the curtain and sits down to wait.

The shower head is large, and attached to a long cable. The temperature handles are low, and designed to turn easily. A bit of adjustment to get the water hotter, and then the  perfect rush of heat over my skin. A bit of investigation with a lever on the side, and I find that the water jet was adjustable. Even - I twist a knob - pulsating. I lean back into the throbbing pressure and sigh. If this is the future, Soviet technology has made some wonderful strides. I wonder briefly if such things are exported to America. Perhaps I could bring one back with me? My bathroom is small, but Napasha's shower is almost as large as this one.

I reach up. My hair is very short now. I consider that. For some reason they must have cut it when I was drugged. No matter. It will grow. For now, it is easy to wash. I spare a thought for my favorite lemon shampoo. Soap will have to do. No chance that Soviet production has advanced that far.

I am grateful for the chair. Somehow today's walk of perhaps fifty yards is enough to start my calves aching as if I had run ten miles. I rub the soapy cloth over then, massaging out the knots. I twist my arms, feeling the burning sensation of shoulder muscles stiff from the absence of exercise. If it has not been an impossible six months, we have still been here longer then I would wish. I stretch my spine, estimating from the ache. A week at least. The rushing sensation is wonderful as the hot water pounds into my shoulders and chest. I aim the pulsing stream lower, then stop. No. Not now. Not here.

The tanks must be huge. There is still hot water when Fazilat calls in "Finished?"

"Yes." I answer. I suppose it would not be possible to say here all night. Besides, I have to return to Napoleon.

Once the water was off, Fazilat hands me a very large, very thick towel. Then another for my hair. The industrialization plan must have succeeded beyond expectations. I push the thought aside. This is *not* the Soviet future. This is a T.H.R.U.S.H. trap. Although - if it was the future - it would be a very nice one.

Nurse Fazilat offers me a soft pair of flannel pajamas to replace the hospital gown. Much better. Warm from the shower, I do not require the robe.

Ignoring both the chair and Fazilat's offered arm, I walk carefully back to my new bed. I will rest arm's length from Napasha. Very good.

Fazilat leaves, and Napoleon's nurse helps me into bed. "Comfortable?" she inquires.

"Yes."

She points to a button on the nightstand. "If you need to get up at night, buzz me. I do not wish you to fall and break any bones on my shift." Then she smiles. " You spies can do that on your own time." At the door, she pauses. "Anything else you would like?"

"Other then vodka and cigarettes?"

She laughs, reaching for the light switch. "This is a hospital. Put the remote away until morning - and get some sleep!"

Chapter Six - I Read it in a Magazine.

Rated:PG

I listen carefully, waiting for the pause in the nurses step that would indicate surveillance, but the heel taps vanish steadily down the hall. Once they are gone, Napoleon sits up.

"Well. That was interesting. Who is Dr. Goldak?"

I shrug. "My psychiatrist. So he says."

"Ouch."  Napoleon has the usual professional opinion of psy-ops agents. Which is not high.

"Agreed." It is an opinion I share, although not in public. "I don't know what Goldak's game is. He keeps going on about 'stress' - but so far, no one has tried anything." Personally, If I wanted to 'stress' partners I would separate them. But...that is no longer my field. Phy-ops is always trying out new ideas. Could this be a preparation stage? If so, I find it ineffective. Perhaps instead they are hoping for incautious disclosures? In that case, there should be some surveillance. Cameras or tapes. I signal Napoleon that we will need to check the room.

He taps back his agreement. From the slight sounds of movement he is starting his isometric routine. I wish I could offer a massage, but this is neither the time or the place. No matter. He will manage. We have both learned how to move past pain.

Pulling the blanket over my head, I drape it over the pillow and my rolled-up robe. Not overly artistic, but perhaps enough to deceive a careless observer in this near-dark. Then I slip out the far side. My bed being a recent addition, there is a decent chance that side is in limited view to any unseen observers. At the very least, it is dark.

I follow the floorboards, feeling for lumps that might indicate covered wires. Nothing. I tap the wall, listening for the uneven echoes that mark cables and cameras. We dare take no chances. Even with the room 'dark' enough light comes in through the windows to supply a sensitive lens. Nothing. By the time I reach Napoleon's side of the room I am convinced there are no recent installations. That means either no wires, or equipment so permanent as to have been built with the room. Either, of course, is possible. But which is likely?

I signal Napoleon, and he, too, stuffs his bed and rolls out to join me. Together we go through the many cupboards and drawers built in on his side. He is almost through the last one when he raises his hand. I freeze. What is it?

He slides over to show me his discovery. Someone has left a small pen-light in one drawer. From the black plastic cover, I assume it is for examining ears or throats. No matter. Now it will provide a source of shielded light.

Given light, I am able to check the mirror between the shelves. Not that I thought it a likely hiding place. From the position, it would appear attached directly to the outside wall. Still...I check. Nothing. Any cameras must be near invisible. Perhaps another excellent sign for the progress of Soviet engineering. I would be happier at that prospect if I was not the target of those advances. A final check of the ceiling molding. Nothing. I signal all clear. As best I can determine without electronics, the room is clean.

"Think this is Russia?" Napoleon whispers.

"No", I answer. "The accents are right but the details are wrong." I think back carefully. "The ham was likely German, not Polish. The butter was unsalted. Perhaps Danish. The Major's collar does not quite fit her tabs. The tires on this wheel chair say Goodyear. More then that - the entire story is quite ridiculous."

"So where do you think we are?"

"If this is July, Finland. I do not believe they could have built this large an installation in Northern Alaska without attracting...notice."

"Chances of that?"

"Well" I consider. "Going by muscle tone we could not have been drugged for more then a week - maximum two weeks. I checked carefully, and while there are some pressure marks I have no noticeable bedsores. You?"

"None. Given my weight loss , a week sounds about right. Ten days at most."

"Then this is still February. I saw the light  both before and after noon. The shadow pattern was summer, and likely well towards the pole. So... if this is not July in Russia, it must be February in the southern hemisphere. To be that for from the equator, I would guess South America. Certain Australian islands are also possible, but the air does not smell of the sea."

"T.H.R.U.S.H.," Napoleon states.

"Stewart again." I agree. Stewart and his plans have been the source of many of our troubles.

Napoleon nods agreement. "If so, he may only have a limited number of 'good actors." He considers. "Did you see what the nurse was reading?"

"Not clearly - but you are right. A periodical will have a date - perhaps even an address."

He slides to the door and rises up against the knob side. "Think there is anyone in these other rooms?"

"Not that I saw." I point to the latch side. "Nurse's desk."

He risks a glance. "Someone there. A woman. Reading."

I slip back to my bed, then return."Napoleon?" I whisper."I have an idea." I hold up the 'cell-phone'. "The April woman gave me this."

"What?"

"She said it was a telephone. I think I remember the number of the phone in the briefing room. Let me see."

He holds the light while I punch the buttons. Nothing. Perhaps like the television? I press a red button and the band at top starts to glow. Well, that is something. I try the number again, and this time it appears in black letters against the green. Progress. But not quite... I try the other button. A buzz, followed by a series of rapid notes. It is transmitting. Now to see if my memory had served. I signal Napoleon to be ready.

I muffle the device with a pillow as the ringing in my hand is echoed by another down the hall.  The sound of heels on concrete. Contact.

Napoleon vanishes.

I hear three more rings before a voice answers,"Gugarin Military Hospital, Wing 1S. May I help you?" I wait through two repetitions before I cut the power off. Hopefully, that is time enough.

Napoleon slides back through the door just as heels begin to sound in the hall.

"Here, look this over," he says, holding up a battered magazine. "This was in the trash"

"No cover." Which means no address or date, but perhaps the articles will give us some clues. It is in cyrillic, so he hands it to me. Napasha's spoken Russian is excellent, but the alphabet sometimes gives him problems.

"Any chance this is actually Russian?" he asks.

I scowl at the flashily undressed young woman hawking cigarettes on the first page.

Napoleon smiles. "Not your standard Soviet constructivism?"

"It must belong to the Poles; or to that Quinn idiot." I answer, breaking the spine and handing Napoleon half the pages. If he is determined to look at pictures , he will just have to cope with the grammar. Not that the literary level looked any more elevated then the art.

"Illya. Am I reading this right?" He points to a headline that proclaims 'Exercise your Love Muscle' in blazing pink ink.

"I think so", I answer, "but...." I shake my head at the thoroughness and improbability of the charade.

We go back to reading.

"Napoleon?" I ask, looking at a bright blue headline.

"What?"

"Do you believe that redheads are the most passionate lovers?"

"What?"

"It is a study in this magazine." I point to the page.

He grabs it from my hand. "Who the hell did they find to study that?"

"Well" I ask. "Are they?"

"No", he answers, rolling the papers tightly and sliding them into the cabinet. "Blonds. Definitely blonds."

"Napoleon?"

What?" he asks.

"I think our captors are trying to drive us crazy."

"I think they're succeeding." He clicks off the light. Squeezing my hand gently, he adds. "We will deal with that tomorrow. For now - we should get some sleep."

We get some sleep.

END CHAPTER SIX

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