Rated: G ( Unless you have a *very* dirty mind.)

After they left it was Dr. Bastajian's turn. Me first, then Napoleon. The doctor thumped, and poked, and jabbed fingers. The usual medical drill. I have always hated doctors, but this familiar annoyance was almost reassuring.

"So, Doctor?, " Napoleon asks, rather pro-forma. "Are we free to leave?"

"If you insist. But with these blood gases?" Bastajian shakes his head. "You should not drive until the dizziness has abated completely.  I would rather you waited another two days, rest, get back on a regular diet." He flips through the chart, frowning. "With the lung damage? At least a week if you intend to fly anywhere."

"What about a pass into town." Napasha pulls again at his cuffs. "I do not intend to dress like this forever."

"Perhaps if someone else drove?" came a voice from the opening door.

"Major Hovsepian?" Dr. Bastajian did not sound particularly pleased to see her.

"Please." She ignores the doctor and walks over to Napasha. "Yelena Sergiova."

"Napoleon." He replies warmly. "My friends call me Leo."

"I had planned on going in to town tomorrow morning. Of course, on Sunday many of the stores will be closed... but not all of them.  I usually leave at 8:30." Her smile grew wider. "Is that too early?"

"Not at all, my dear Yelena Sergiova."

"Wonderful. You can join me for 9:30 mass if you would like, and afterwards we can cruise the arbat. The food is good, and at the least you can pick up some decent jeans."  She grimaces at his outfit. Apparently even here Napoleon's fashion sense remaines infallible. "Do you have rubles?" She asks, and practically beams when he nods. " Good. Not everyone takes dollars."

From her body language she would be quite delighted to settle in and discuss the currency exchange, or fashion, or just about anything that would hold Napasha's interest. One of the flip sides of his charm. The effect can be a bit hard to turn off. And just now the lady is one more obstacle to our privacy. In the end I solve the problem by lowering myself into a chair and looking pale. Dr. Bastajian quickly herds the major out, insisting we both need more rest.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

"Did she just say what I thought she said?" he asks.

"I heard her." I admit.

"This is incredible." He takes the chair beside me.  "What do you think they are up to?"

"I don't know. It will be interesting to see what excuse she makes for not going in to town." I considered that for a while. Their efforts to keep us here might become 'interesting'. All the more reason to wish to leave.

"What should we do next?"

"I don't know about you," Napoleon answers, "but Mr. Quinn called while you were in the tub and asked me to meet him for coffee."

"Dr. Goldak has implied as much to me. Interesting."

"I think so." Napasha pushes his chair back. "I think it's time for both of us to meet with our 'brothers'."

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

I stop by the secretary's desk, but she just waves me on. Obviously, I am better recognized then my introductions should have justified.

"General Safaryan?"

He rises from behind his desk to shake my hand. "Can I help you, Mr. Kuryakin?" He waves to a chair in front of his desk. I sit.

"Perhaps." I consider how to best phrase my questions.  Finally..."Does the KGB really want me to ... leave?"

"Of course not!" The General responds, looking suitably horrified. "Please! Major Hovsepian did not mean to insult you in any way, and if she did..... well, I am honestly sorry. We very much respect and appreciate you service. We truly do. I've read your files - what I have clearance for - and I am frankly impressed. No one would ever *want* to lose an officer of your caliber. It's just that....." He waves again.

"Things have changed?"

"Exactly." He sounds relieved at my supposed understanding. "Not to say that there isn't a place for you. There is. You could teach. Or do research. Or even go back into the field. Men with your talents are too rare to be parted with easily." He steps to the samovar, pours a glass of tea, and offers me one. I accept, nodding my thanks.

I sip deeply, then ask the question that has been constantly on my mind. "But they will part with me?"

General Safaryan sits back behind his desk. "What choice do they have?"

We both drink in silence while I consider his answers.

He speaks first. "Don't sign anything now. Just rest and recenter yourself. Then, once you are clear on things..." He raised his glass in a mock toast. " I will *gladly* be the one to call Moscow and tell them Illya Kuryakin is coming home."

"And my partner?"

"Mr. Solo? Do you think.."General Safaryan rubs his chin slowly. "I don't know what relationship Mr. Solo may have to other organizations in his own country," he says carefully. "I do not have the authority to...shall we say 'offend' any allies, but if for some reason Mr. Solo *wanted* to stay in Russia, well.... he is also a man of many valuable talents. I would be delighted to pass that question to Moscow as well." He looks at me speculatively. "Do you think I should?"

"Not..yet," I answer carefully.

"Very well." He sits back, content. "Dr. Bastajian mentioned that you are going into town with Major Hovsepian tomorrow." He makes it a question.

"I need something to wear." He may take that as an answer.

Safaryan nods. "I'd offer you a General's uniform, but I'm told when the merchants see that - the price goes up."

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

I am in our room reading the Grimlove report when Napoleon comes in. Trying to read it rather. Most of the verbage is dissolving into an exhausted blurr. Not that I would admit as much. I smile at Napasha as he takes the chair beside me.

"Illya, are we in trouble?"

"I do not know. General Safaryan said I should hold off on the resignation until I was 'centered' - whatever that means - and if you want you stay in Russia that's fine with him."

"Then it's a recruitment."

I consider that. "Possibly, but if so its the most casual one I have ever encountered. What did Quinn say?"

"About the some thing. We should take a long vacation, and afterwards, they will talk to me about a job.  Oh, and I should remind you that your U.S. residence is still quite valid."

So much for Hovsepian and Quinn. The important question is "What do you think happened to U.N.C.L.E.?"

"U.N.C.L.E.?" Napasha sounds shocked. "Nothing. You don't really think this is 2001, do you?"

"No." I reply slowly. "But....if it is?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You are the scientist on this team."

"I know." I answer, putting down the book I have been studying. "I studied his machine, both then and now,  and in theory...... it might be possible to create a state of temporal flux, given enough power... and if....."

"Illya," he growls in his 'command' voice. "This is some elaborate triple-think operation. I'd like to know who's behind it and what they are up to, but right now the first order of business is to get to U.N.C.L.E. and tell them we're coming home."

"That's what the General said." I look down at the envelope full of papers. "He wanted to tell Moscow that Illya Kuryakin is coming home." So did I, but more than that I wanted to know......where that home was.

*******

I have scant time to worry on that point. For people not under surveillance, it is amazing how little time Napoleon and I manage to get alone.

"Dinner , Napoleon." The pretty nurse is back. "Something light, since Ms. Chan says she wants to work you over some more this evening. She hands us something that resembles a cross between potato soup and a day-old milkshake. The food service is definitely going downhill.

"The Asian lady?" Napasha gives the metal glass a suspicious glare. "This was her idea?"

The nurse giggles. "Who else? She told Major Hovsepian not to expect results if she will not give her time to work on you, and that this morning she barely got started."

"Did she?" he asks.

I taste the potion. It tastes like salted chalk. If the intent is torture, this 'dinner' is a good start.

"Yes." The nurse hands Napoleon a straw. "But the Major said you were hers all day tomorrow, so if Chan wanted a shot at you she would just have to stay late tonight."

"And what did Miss Chan have to say to that?" Napoleon asks.

"She said she'd take it." The young woman shrugs as she collects the empty juice cans and drops them into the dinner cart. " What choice did she have? I mean, Moscow's not going to like it if they spend all that money to bring her out here, and then she just sits on her ass all day." Which, from the tone, Chan *had* done. "But she wasn't happy. She even went to the General, but he said it was Major Hovsepian's project, and let her run it.  So then she was *really* mad." The volume drops, confidential. "Chan and her people aren't really part of us, if you know what I mean. They brought her in just for you two. But with you sleeping so long...well.. she didn't get much opportunity to show off."

Napoleon rewards her with his most charming smile. "And now?"

"Now she's really annoyed! You better watch out, or she'll take it out on you. And on the rest of us."

I gulp down the swill as Ragsac and his companions appear at the door. "Are you ready?" The orderly hands over two limp green rags. "You are to put these on."

Napoleon's nurse seems pleased. "Good idea. I'll take your outfits down to laundry. If I rush, they can have them back for you by morning."

So that is that. Another trip down the hall.

The woman named Chan is waiting for us. This time she starts with the boiling oil. After the first shock it is really quite pleasant. With a towel rolled behind my neck, I lean back to observe. Napoleon is on the table in front of me. He is getting a massage. From the occasional grunts it may be a bit enthusiastic, but it *is* a massage. I am beginning to accept that this agent - at least - wishes us well.

When Chan calls 'time' Ragsac presses a white strip against my forehead, then hands me a towel. It is time for the changing of the guard. I am not enthusiastic, but I allow them to lay me on the other table. After the heat, the cool air is rather pleasant.

My masseur learned his art in the same school as his comrade. Lucky for him Russia is a socialist country. This man could never make a living in Sweden. I am again reconsidering their intent when Miss Chan comes by. "Mr. Kuryakin" She pokes me as a housewife would a plucked chicken. " Nice and relaxed.  Good."

"Your earlier therapy was most effective," I answer, keeping all tone from my voice. Let her wonder what I mean.

She nods at my masseur. "Twenty more minutes." That decided, she walks over to where the other hulk is apparently attempting to dislocate one of my partner's shoulders. It least, that is what it looks like from here. She gives Napoleon a look, then a tug. "We need to work on your range a bit, Mr. Solo." She thumps his back like a melon." Would you like to go with more massage or some EMS.?"

He looks up, uncertain.

"Napoleon." I volunteer. "Try the electricity."

Chapter Eleven - Going to the Chapel

Rated: G

Note: Illya might not be *quite* this ignorant of church services, but I don't think he would have ever seen one in Russian. I have. The music really is wonderful.  If you ever get the chance to  attend an Orthodox service - take it. Oh. Disclaimer: Patriarch Alexy II is a real person, and I don't own him either. I think he's famous enough that I don't have to say that - but better safe then sorry.

I would wish to talk to Napoleon, but by the time Chan is finished it is all we can manage to drag ourselves from therapy to the bathroom to our beds. If I were back on station, I think I would ask for the wheelchair again. But here? I will not give her the satisfaction. Neither will Napoleon. But the result is that both of us are out almost before our heads hit our pillows.

Yesterday's clothes are waiting for us when we wake, along with uniform shoes and very ugly grey socks. I do not complain. They will at least make it possible to walk outside.

I shower and dress quickly. It is later then I had anticipated, and I do not know how much time we will have. As it is, I am barely decent when  Major Hovsepian taps on the door.

"Good morning Gentleman. Ready to go?" She stands there in Levis and a loose knit shirt very similar to ours. Perhaps that magazine was not as deceptive as I had assumed. I glance down at the 'fashion' I have on. I am not Pasha, but lifetime of such outfits is not a pleasant thought.

She smiles at Napoleon and they off down the hall, lightly saluting the sentinel outside the door as she passes. I follow, curious to see how far we will go.

A small brown car is parked outside. She opens the passenger door, then motions for us to get in. I take the back. She smiles. Naturally. Napoleon is the one she wishes to have sit beside her.

"Sorry for the car," she says as she  settles into the driver's seat. "I could have checked one from motor pool, but I prefer to drive my own. Small, I know. But at least it's not a Yugo."

The roads are bad. Major Yellena's driving is worse. Even compared to Napoleon, she is reckless. No wonder she wanted a fast car. Not everyone shares her objection to a Yugo. There are enough of them on the road. Likewise Fords, BMW's, Mercedes, and Volvos.  Along with other unknown models. And trucks. About the only make I do not see is the Zill limo. Perhaps all the officials are taking the day off?

The roadside is forested, primarily scrub and pine. That would fit with the near polar climate in summer. I try, but I cannot remember the foliage expected in South America.  But...... I notice a sign at a crossroad... in Cyrillic..... this certainly *looks* like northern Russia.

I have ignored their chatting, but now I ask. "Excuse me, but.. what is the name of this town we are going to?"

The Major looks back, surprised. "Don't you know? Oh. I guess this hospital was not built when you....left. We are in the suburbs just outside St. Petersburg."

"St. Petersburg?" I repeat.

"Petrograd, isn't that what you called it? She pauses. "But no one call it that any more."

"Leningrad," I mutter under my voice.

"So." Napoleon easily recaptures her attention. "Where are we going first."

"I generally go to church at Saint Sophia's,"she answers. "Nearer the base, and far better parking. Today I thought we could go in to Saint Isaac's. That way I only have to park once. As long as you don't object to a bit if a walk?"

That gets my attention. "You... are a Christian?"

"No. Straight Russian Orthodox." She shrugs. "A lot of us are. The service tends to make people conservative - or maybe that is just who is attracted to the service. Good question for the recruiters, no?" She smiles at Napoleon. "But I'm not at all assuming you are. If you would care to go somewhere else? Or even nowhere?"

Except to her room, I think, but I only ask "This isn't a problem?"

She shakes her head. "I think I could find almost anything in downtown St. Petersburg. Or I could check the phone book."

What can I say? She has the car. And the map. "St. Isaac's will be...fine."

"Great." She turns back to Napoleon. "I just love the music there. That alone makes it worthwhile to pay for parking."

*********

I must admit, this looks like St. Isaac's. Same pillars, same carving, same gold dome. Not that I am ignorant of the Potempkin village. Still. This seems like a great deal of bother. Even for T.H.R.U.S.H.

We arrive early. I think. At least the parking lot is reasonably empty. Napoleon pays the attendant while Major Hovsepian makes vague threats about what will happen should her car not be properly watched. I rethink South America. Except for the architecture, perhaps we are back in New York.

We follow the Major as she avoids the main door and heads for a smaller portal on the nearest side. A short passage leads to the inner door, then we are inside. The huge room is covered with frescoes and mosaics. Impressive. Of course, I do not know what the inside of the original is supposed to look like, but if this is not it? I decide not to worry yet. Whatever will happen, for now it is best just to watch.

"We are here early." She summons Napoleon to a bench near the platform. "So we get the good seats - near the front."

I suppose they are good seats. At least they appear to be in demand, as the area around us fills quickly. I wonder what type of performance we should expect to draw such an audience. The lights dim and organ music begins. I sit back. It would appear I am about to find out.

********

Several dark garbed men march up the center row, flanked by candles. The outfits look historical. Something like Rasputin. The music is followed by some sort of group recitation. Difficult to make out over the clicks of a misadjusted sound system.  I do not know the words, but the major does. At any rate, she recites with enthusiasm. Personally, I feel it could be better coordinated. I consider that. The entrance had also seemed poorly organized. Perhaps this is not one of the more professional performances.

Several of the men make speeches, which the squeal on the sound system renders impossible to understand. The old man talks longest. Then he reads. Then he talks some more. The major appears enthralled.  I do not see the attraction.

Then they sing. Then everyone else sings. Napoleon has an excellent voice, even if he does not know the songs. I ignore the words and just enjoy the sound.

Finally they start serving some sort of beverage. From a single cup. The Major suggest we join the line going up to drink. I decline. It  strikes me as very unsanitary. When Napoleon does likewise, she decides to remain seated with us. I am sorry if she is disappointed, but Napasha can buy her a drink later.

After about an hour the group on the stage takes their bows and leaves, marching out the way they came in. No one applauds. Very rude. Not that the performance deserves much reward, but I would think? Whatever. Perhaps it is not the custom.

We sit a while, waiting for the crowd to clear. The major looks at us, expectant.

"That was.....interesting," I say finally.

"Wasn't it?" She looks enthusiastically at Napoleon. "Patriarch Alexy II is such a wonderful speaker. We were lucky we came early enough to find a seat."

"Clever of you." Napoleon flatters. I just nod.

She points to the other door. "If you are up to a walk? It's about a mile to the Arbat. But I know a nice little restaurant there. Blini with caviar and sour cream. Sometimes you have to wait - but it's worth it."

Chapter Twelve - A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

Rated: PG

Note: The word 'gypsy' does not mean Romany (an ethnic group). It is used through most of Eastern Europe ( and some of the West) as a general term of low esteem.  Arbat is used in the generic, as we would use the term 'flea market'.

It is late, and I have not had breakfast. Major Yelena buys three perogies from a man on the sidewalk near the gate."Here." She says as she hands them to us. " Just a little something on the way. You don't want to ruin your appetite."

I take a sniff. Cabbage and cheese. Excellent. These ruin my appetite? Not when we are going to hike half way to the Volga. Still, the exercise loosens up my legs, and by the time we pass the Admiralty Park I am feeling very good indeed. Most of the buildings are offices, and closed, but where she stops it looks like the space has been over-run by a gypsy caravan. There are booths, and tables, and people everywhere.

"This is the Arbat?" I ask.

"Quite a mob scene." She pulls me away from a table loaded with radios. The sound is appalling. "Watch out for the electronics. All garbage. And I wouldn't guarantee all the food." Which is not comforting, as we are supposedly here for lunch. "But if you know where to look you can find some wonderful fashion. I know mostly the women's shops, but the people I know will know who you should see... for a commission, of course." She weaves past an untalented group of musicians, clearly intent on some destination. We can only follow.

"A commission?" I ask when I catch up with her.

"If you would eat fish, you must get in to the water." She laughs. "They will expect one - and I will expect one too. That is business."

Which makes me question what business she is in.

I stop again by a kiosk of magazines. Perhaps I can find a copy of Astrophysica, or something else worthwhile to read while Napoleon tries on suits. I have been shopping with my partner before. It is never an expeditious process. I am flipping through an import called 'Science Digest' when I feel a  pressure on my pocket. Without thought, my flattened hand whips down.

*THWAAAK*

"Aaah"

Both Napoleon and the Major turn at the sound.

"Oh", Major Yelena says. "And there are pickpockets everywhere." She looks at the man who is now holding his wrist rather then my wallet. "Try not to break any arms. I could handle the local police - but it is better to avoid the trouble."

The would be thief vanished into the crowd, even less interested in 'trouble' then the Major. She watches him go, debating  the prospect of his arrest and quite clearly deciding againt it. "Excuse me, gentlemen," she says suddenly. Then she takes off again. Napoleon puts down his copy of Moda Itallia and follows. So I get no magazines. Perhaps, I think, after lunch.

We catch up to her not in a restaurant, but in an alley off the main street, where she has backed a black-clad young man against the wall. He is drunk, and clearly unhappy, but as neither he nor his flashily dressed companion is bleeding, I do not quite understand her rage.

"Private Slovak!"

The young man tries to come to attention, but he wobbles. "Wha? Ma'am? That you?"

"Private Slovak , you are drunk!"

"No ma'am, I just....." He shifts the bottle behind his back.

"Do not lie to me!"

"No ma'am." He tries again to come to attention,and this time to bottle drops to the pavement.

"You are drunk!" she repeats.

He nods, careful of his head. "Yes ma'am."

"You are disgusting!"

"Yes ma'am."

"Your pass is revoked. Consider yourself on report as of now!"

"Yes ma'am." He attempts a salute, but manages to hit only his nose, then the gypsy earing he has stuck through one ear.

Her lips tighten, "How did you get here?"

"Bus, Ma'am."

"Well, that's something." She pauses. "Not enough. Return to the base. Report to your sergeant, and tell him *exactly* what I told you. I will deal with you when I get back."

"Ma'am?" He considers arguing, then...... "Yes ma'am."

"And wash your face! You are a disgrace to the uniform you are not wearing!"

"Sorry ma'am."

"Dismissed."

The young man glances at his companion, then staggers off in the direction of the bus stop.

The major turns back to us. "My apologies, gentlemen. I regret that you had to see that."

She shakes her head and heads back to the main courtyard. "Drunk in public. You may consider me harsh. So be it. I am not one of those soft modern officers in fashion now days. For which I do NOT apologize. The FSB has a tradition of discipline and duty and I am PROUD of it. No excuse that the hospital staff acts badly. He was one of mine."

What? My ears catch. "FSB?" I question. " Not KGB?"

"OOps." She mock-winces and grins. "You caught me. Federal Security Service. It's the same thing, really. Close enough. They just changed the name because.... no reason, really. Just silly politics. But Dr. Goldak thought something recognizable would reassure you. Aid in recognition. My CO gave me his old tags when I took this assignment."

"Which was?"

"A year and  a half ago. Too damn long. Sorry, but.. to be totally honest I wasn't thrilled to get it. I am ambitious. Sitting in an empty mine shaft is not my idea of a career making command." She smiles at Napoleon, intent at taking the sting out of her words. "That was before you showed up." By implication, his arrival would make a much longer wait worthwhile. "Then you even survived. Now? If you will just stay healthy, I will probably make Lt.-Colonel by next year."

"So." I decide to change the subject. " What will happen to your unfortunate private?"

"If he were an alcoholic, that would be Dr. Goldak's problem. But I believe this is a first offense.  I will speak to his sergeant. Perhaps a few week's kitchen duty will teach him some self-restraint."

"And the ..other young man."

"Another drunk. Not my problem. Likely from the college, which means he has a deferment. Although a few months in the service would do these spoiled brats some good. But the politicians.. I am sorry. I did not mean to let my personal complaints spoil your lunch."

I marvel. For a spy, the major is painfully obtuse.

Another few steps take us to a red door on the far side of the crowd. Several people are standing in line outside, but our guide sails past.

A heavy middle-aged man wearing a white apron looks up as we come in.

"Yelena, who are your friends?" he calls.

"Rich tourists - but don't think you can double the bill, Vanya, you old gypsy!"

He makes a face of exaggerated innocence. "Would I do that?"

"Only if you didn't triple it!"

"You know me too well, child." The man pulls back a chair. " Well, I have a table for you. Do you need a menu?"

"I don't." She motions us to sit. "They might."

Napoleon smiles at her. "I'll have the blini - since you recommended it."

"As will I." I answer the man. "But I would also like to see a menu. Just in case."

"And coffee first." Major Yelena adds at his retreating back.

The man turns. "Coffee, and then ten minutes."

**********

The coffee is wonderful. Here it is brewed dark and rich, not like the American dishwater I have come to endure. The blini are even better. I follow them up with a big bowl of karcho soup. No matter if this is Russia or not, the cooking most certainly is. I make a note. When we get back to New York, I will make more of a effort to eat at Yakov's, rather then always going to the Italian place.

Even Napoleon has paid attention to his food, rather then just flirting like he usually does. From him, that is a very high complement.

Finally, I sit back, savoring the last bite of jam-covered cake.

"Wonderful." Napoleon sets down  his fork. " Do you eat here all the time?"

"Of course not." Major Yelena shakes her head. " Neither my wallet or my waist could withstand that much of Vanya's cooking. But it is a nice treat. And I am under orders to fatten you both up." She reaches for her purse. I reach for the bill. It is *very* high. Then again, the food was very good. And U.N.C.L.E. has been very generous.... I think. It was worth it.

"Then perhaps you should submit the bill on your expense account." I suggest, facetious.

She pauses, considering. "That - is an excellent idea."

"I'll get it," Napoleon says.

"No." She holds out her hand. "Mr. Kuryakin is brilliant. I will submit this - headquarters will pay it - and I will be commended for working on a day off.  If I learn to be that clever I will make General."

The aproned man comes over to collect the money. "Vanya?" the Major asks. " Where is a good place to go for men's clothing? Not too expensive, but nice. And none of your rocker crap. Nice suits and casual."

"Italian or British?"

She looks at Napoleon.

"Italian" he answers.

"Either" I shrug. Any place I could get some better pants.

The man rocks back on his heels. "Try Moshi. He has some nice leather in. Or Sergi around the corner. He just got some new Italian in.  And he has American shirts."

The first stop is a small shop two doors away. Outside, it is nothing. Inside, it is much like Del Florio's. Without, I hope, the revolving fitting rooms.

"Yelena Sergiova" A skinny little man comes from the back to greet us. "Vanya called and told me you were coming. What do your friends need?"

"None of your lousy Polish crap," she answers. "But if you have something decent?" She lets the sentence trail off.

"Pants," I say, looking at his racks. The workmanship is very good. "Perhaps some roll-necks. In black."

He vanishes, then returns with an armload of boxes. "Fresh from Scotland." he insists as he hands them to me.

The knit is thick but the fiber is excellent. True cashmere. And they *do* look like the pictures inside Napasha's magazine. I select four. Two black, one grey, one cream. I find two pair of black wool pants to go with them. It seems strange to wear pants cut so wide, but Major Yelena insists that such is the fashion. And they do match the posters scattered about the shop.

Napoleon is inspecting shirts with the attention others would give to T.H.R.U.S.H. battle plans. Possibly more.

I settle down with a fashion magazine. It will be a long wait.

In the end, he settles on a grey suit with a narrow collar. I do not know fashion, but it does look good on him. Most things do. But this looks good *and* like the pictures. The shopkeeper makes various marks and - after some pressure from the Major - agrees to have our purchases ready by the time we come back from out next stop.

The price is astronomical. Normally I would protest. Today? It is either U.N.C.L.E.'s money, or T.H.R.U.S.H.'s. Whichever way, I have decided not to quibble.

Next, apparently, is the Moshi place. We both need shoes.

His shop is even smaller, and on the second floor, but again the stock is excellent. And again the proprietor knows we are coming. Whoever runs this network, I commend their efficiency. This time even Napoleon does not complain. I find a nice pair of loafers and a better pair of low boots. Napoleon picks some wingtips. When I smile at that, he just says "For now."

The shop also has some heavy leather pilot's jackets. I do not truly need one but..... even in summer the nights can get chill. We have already spent so much that Waverly would yell, so...why not? There is one in black that fits me perfectly. I pick another in brown for Napoleon. Then two leather valises. We will need something to carry our purchases in.

The major looks at the bill and smiles.

With our main work done, the Major suggests we stop at another place she knows for cakes and tea. This time a open storefront with iron tables set spilling into the sidewalk.  We serve ourself from the samovar while the Major picks out pastries from the glass fronted  counter. It is delicious, and I am hungry. I do not even ask if this is another of her 'commissions'.

We make one last stop for necessities. Toothbrushes and combs. Socks and briefs. More of the  loose fitting colored undershirts these people wear constantly. At the Major's insistence we each get a pair of what she calls 'jeans'. I can not foresee a need for dungarees, but she insists they are indispensable. I am relieved to find they now come in black. Perhaps I can wear them in the lab.

We return to the tailor's where Napoleon's suit is, of course, waiting. My trousers are still to be hemmed, so I wait with him while he dresses.

"Decent?" he asks.

"You look like Napoleon Solo."

He gives the mirror a last look. "I suspect I will have to burn the tie."

The tailor gives him an approving once-over. "Very nice. Now for your hair, I know a good place..."

"Not today, thanks." Napoleon  shakes his head.

When the man leaves to get my pants Napasha turns to me. "I may be forced to trust a Russian tailor. I will never be desperate enough to trust a Russian barber."

I am too tired to calculate the money we spent today. That is probably a blessing. Napoleon may have tried Mr. Waverly's patience with his expense reports on occasion, but today? I look at the well packed leather bags. Today we have set a record.

I step back to the major. "For that price, I hope your 'commission' is substantial."

"Inflation is terrible everywhere," she agrees. " But truly, I think you managed some bargains. Cashmere isn't always so easy to find."

I shrug. At least now I will be comfortable.

"Well," she smiles "You both have enough clothing to see you through the next few days. By which time you should be home." She thinks a moment. "Is there anything else you need while we are here?"

"Perhaps." I reply. " Would it be possible to find a bookstore? Or at least stop for some magazines at that stand I saw?"

"Television is a vast wasteland." she replies, agreeing. "As long as you don't need this week's best sellers, there's a really good used book store right around the corner."

Everything here is just round the corner. I am beginning to figure that much out. It is actually more like two corners. No matter, the walk is worth it. The dusty store is a big room is packed floor to ceiling with books. Wonderful place. A young woman  sits at the counter reading and sipping coffee. Finally, I think, a Russian clerk. She looks up when we pass by. "Anything I can help you find? Mystery to the left, science fiction to the right."

"Classics?" I ask. That  at least should be familiar.

"To the back just beyond poetry."

Napoleon turns over a few volumes on the counter. "Anything in English?"

"Your Russian is perfect!" The girl answers.

He smiles, charming. "Not for easy reading."

She looks sad. "No too much. Left hand to the rear. Mostly leftovers from the university kids."

Near my destination. He fingers a few worn volumes without much interest. My section is almost as  bare. Obviously the popular taste has declined in more then clothing. I have decided against rereading Dostoevsky when I see it.

"Napoleon." I whisper.

"Yes?" He comes over instantly.

"Look at this." I hand him the book with 'Gulag Archipelago' flaming in gold letters on the cover.

Major Yelena comes up. "What? Is there a problem?"

I hand her the volume. "Why is this being offered for sale?"

She gives it a look of utter disgust. "You're right. That is in dreadful condition." She flips open the cover, horrified. " For how much?" She waves over a man who is sorting books on the side counter. "Mikail Petrovich, you should not be robbing your customers. This should be on the bargain table."

He takes the volume in question and shrugs. "I can't help it if a book is popular......"

The Major gives him a look harsher then the one she had aimed at the unfortunate private. He crumbles. "OK - for you, half price. Or I have a nice fresh copy in hard cover. Very Nice."

"Don't bother," she snorts. Then she turns to me. "I'll lend you my copy. This Cossack charges too much."

I put down the book. "I think I'll just stick to some science journals. If you have them."

The man starts to answer, but another look from the Major changes his mind. "Not much." He points to the rack on the far wall. " Most of these are a week old - or more. But...." He looks confident again. "If you want them I could give you a bargain...."

The Major looks at  her watch, then at us. " We should be getting back." She glances at the two bags, then at my growing pile of magazines. "It is silly to walk so far with packages. Why don't you two stay here while I go get the car?"

Napoleon offers to walk with her but she declines. Regretfully, I think.

I pick up four issues of Astrophysica, and a few more of magazines I do not recognize that look interesting. The dates do not matter. If this is 2001, to me they will all be current.. Napoleon pays for them along with some paperback. That done, we sit on a bench to wait for our ride.

"Illya?" he asks. "What was the problem with the book. I know you are a neat freak , but..."

"Napoleon. Last time I was here, reading a book called Gulag Archipelago could get you sent there." I look at his bag. "What did you get?"

"Murder mystery. Something called Gorkey Park. Cover looked interesting. You should like it. Hero is a KGB officer hunting for a serial killer."

"What?" I look at the cover, which is laden with awards and praises. " The killer is a foreign spy, or a counterrevolutionary?"

"No." Napasha flips to the blurb on the inside. "I think he's some bureaucrat - it isn't really clear yet."

I reach for the book. "Let me see that." He is right. That is what the back says.

"Napoleon -  I am beginning  to think we *are * in 2001. And we are still in a lot of trouble."

END CHAPTER TWELVE

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