Rated: PG

FYI: Samara is a town in Siberia.

As soon as we walk through our door, Dr. Bastajian is waiting to once again poke and prod. Plus Ms. Chan. Plus Dr. Goldak.  I am beginning to think the entire world is now being paid by the hour.

"Well, gentlemen." Dr. Bastajian scrawls a final note in his file. "I have to give you a clean bill of health. Despite Dr. Goldak's arguments."

Goldak is undeterred. "I just believe they need more follow up, perhaps a vacation..."

"A vacation?"  The Major looks interested. "Do you think you could do that?"

"If it means...?" Napoleon sounds seriously interested. A plan that will both get us out of here and into some resort at U.N.C.L.E. expense? That is his version of a flawless plan.

"Well, I suppose..." Dr. Goldak begins.

"Wonderful!" Major Yelena is practically picking the feathers out of her teeth. "Then Doctor, you can certify them both fit as of tonight."

"I still don't like your blood gasses..." Bastajian begins, then stops. "Very well. Tomorrow morning. But not for return to duty. Only for outside rest."He scribbles across the bottom of our charts. "Please, gentlemen, for the next few weeks - try to stay below 1000 feet."

Major Hovsepian takes her victory and herds them out before Dr. Goldak can put in an argument.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

"Where do you want to go on vacation?" I ask.

He smiles. "You don't think they are actually going to let us walk out of here?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." I shrug. "Either way, we do have to tell them something. So...where?"

"I don't know . It's summer. How about Cannes?"

"Too crowded."

"St. Moritz?"

"Too tall. The Doctor wants us to stay below 1000 feet."

"Italy, then?" Napoleon picks up his book. "Venice might be nice."

"Venice could work." I agree. I leave him to his reading. I have one place I must visit first.

**********

The guard at the door is happy to show me to the correct office.

"Dr. Goldak?" I call from the doorway.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" The doctor hurries around his desk. "Or do your prefer Dr. as well?  Or General?"

"Either." I have no preference as to what these people call me. I would prefer to leave here and never speak with them again. I think. "I have come to ask you for... advice."

"That's what I'm here for." Goldak waves me to a seat, then offers "Tea?"

"No thank you. I will be brief. It involves my resignation papers."

He takes his seat. "Nasty business, that."

"Then you would not think I should sign them?" I question.

"Absolutely NOT!" He looks disgusted at the thought. " That is the worse think you could do right now."

Closer to the answer I would normally expect, but... "Why?"

"Mr. Kuryakin." He steeples his fingers below his chin. " Consider. You have just been through a very traumatic experience. You personal support structure has been reduced to -- well, practically nonexistent. Your blood pressure is elevated, which Dr. Bastajian assigns to shock but which could also be occupational stress. You are underweight, and your blood sugar is low.  And, frankly, I feel that Major Hovsepian is exerting a bit of undue influence. Nothing against her as a person, but her management style is very regressive."

The doctor sits back, a man in his element. "My advice? My advice, Mr. Kuryakin  is to rest, get positive emotional support, and see a lawyer before signing anything. Beyond that......? Ms. Dancer has already refused my suggestions for transitional teaching."

Reeducation? I am suddenly very grateful for U.N.C.L.E.'s overarching authority.

"Well, I will leave that to Ms. Dancer's people in Venice." He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pad. "Your records indicate that you draw?"

"I have had some instruction."

"Perhaps you should consider art therapy? Or a pet? Dogs are wonderful. So warm and soft. Their love and closeness can really help with life issues. And there is so much less social judgment with pets than there is with stuffed animals."

He wants me to consider what? I say nothing.

"OK. You spy types don't *do* stress. Be stoic."

He scribbles a few lines on the top sheet and hands them to me. His handwriting is terrible, but it does appear to be a prescription... for a dog. Well, a 'therapeutic animal companion'. I presume that is the same thing.  I put the paper in my pocket.

"You are a young man, Mr. Kuryakin. You have had an 'adventurous' life. I understand that. You are not mentally or physically in a position to retire, regardless of your resources. You still need work to add to the purpose of your life. I understand that as well. But wait. It is just too soon for you to make those decisions well."

He starts scribbling again. This time the sheet he hands me says 'Two weeks total rest' and 'min. 3000 calories/day'. I wonder  offhand if that will help Mr. Waverly accept Napoleon's restaurant bills.

"Oh. And be careful around the Major. She is definitely on a recruiting drive. Nice woman, but ambitious. Very. If she can get *both* you and Mr. Solo to sign up... well... her career would be made." He shakes his head slowly. "Don't trust her promises. She would have both of you on the train to Samara before you can blink."

I stand before he can start to write again. "Thank you, Doctor. I will certainly consider what you said."

******

Napoleon is waiting when I came back in. Expectant. "What did he say?"

I start to ask 'who', but stop. Napasha knows me too well. Often it seems he knows my actions before I do. "Dr. Goldak said I should rest." I take the seat beside him and reach for my magazines. " And - he said I should get a dog."

"What?" That gets Napoleon's attention.

"Goldak said I should find something warm and furry to pet."

"Oh." He goes back to his reading. "Well, once we're out of here we can work on that."

I pretend to read, but I can not. My mind circles constantly back to my 'resignation'.

Were they so willing to part with me?

Why are they so willing to part with me?

They parted with me once before. True. I put that aside. That was different. That was an honor. When Vladimir told me of the mission, I was *proud* to go. Eager. I left not as the least but as the best. The flawless professional. The 'Ice Prince'. The one who would uphold their honor an the face of those who considered us no more then thugs and jailers. I would prove them wrong. I would prove incorruptible. I would be their ambassador, their avatar, their eyes and ears at the center of the world.

When I left for U.N.C.L.E. I knew it was ... permanent. My new loyalty would forever supplant the old. But I believed I would be honored in memory, welcomed back in age. Perhaps not to live in Russia, but most certainly to live *of* Russia.

Now?

I left a prince. I will not return a beggar. If that makes me a fool, I will be a fool with pride.

Chapter Fourteen - Go Where you Wanna Go

Rated: PG

Napoleon has gone to get a car. I am staying to pack...or so I said. Perhaps I am staying to stay. I can not believe this is my future, but I do not believe all I have seen is a lie, so..... what is my future?

I look at the simple envelopes I have been given. So small a thing to have such power over me.

The nurse comes to the door. "Mr. Kuryakin, your friend is here."

Napoleon is waiting. I leave the Navy form signed on the nightstand. The other I put in my pocket.

**********

Dr. Goldak is standing at the door, and at his insistence I allow him to carry one of the bags. From his expression he would like to make one more argument for stress reduction or  community therapy or whatever it is he has been  badgering the major about. Given my expression, he thinks better of the idea.

When we reach the sidewalk the car is waiting. No need to ask which one. Somehow in the middle of Russia Napoleon Solo has managed to find a red convertible. However does he do that? It is perhaps not the wisest choice when even the summer days do not often rise out of the seventies, but it is *so* Solo.

The top is down, so I throw the bags into the rear set. "Nice car." I comment as Napoleon detaches himself from the major. " Did you find the bugs."

"None I could see," he says, jingling the keys in his pocket.

Then they must be really well hidden, I think. I say nothing, because Major Yelena has once again caught up with us.

"Gentlemen," by which she means Napoleon, "your papers."

That line, at least, is familiar. I take the stack she holds out and check quickly. Maps, train schedules, an itinerary with a list of reservations. Four days to reach Venice? She has never experienced Napasha's driving.

She produces two more envelopes. Fairly small ones this time. "Mr. Solo. You are a trade advisor to a software firm called Compsys. Good company. Quite real. They have been told who you are, and will back you up if called."

Napoleon gives her one last smile as he tucks the newest papers into his jacket pocket.

That distracts her a bit, but she recovers enough to pass the second envelope to me. "Mr. Kuryakin. We've assigned you to the Department of Weights and Measures. No one should challenge that ...well, except the Brits."

She turns back to Napasha. "You two have open visas for everywhere except the Slovak states. Not that you'd want to go there anyway." She smiles at her own joke. "Don't worry, the route we gave you is perfectly safe. I am the Triple-A of espionage, no?"

I read through the documents, which appear to be as she says. Nodding at Napasha,  I slide mine into my pocket.

Major Yelena is still running down her list of travel questions. "Do you have your phone? And the numbers of your contacts in Venice? And the numbers of our offices along the way?"

Napoleon takes her hand and reassures her that he has it all.

"Here." She reaches towards the soldier who has appeared with one final box. At her nod it, too, is lowered into the back seat. "We've packed you a lunch."

Napoleon gives her a quick kiss before dropping into the driver's seat.

"Give me a call when you reach Warsaw?"she calls. Perhaps surveillance. More likely the Great Seducer has made another conquest.

Dr. Goldak turns to me, serious. "You are sure you want to do this? I'm sure Ms. Dancer could authorize a longer stay."

"Thank you, Doctor," I say as I take the passenger seat. " But I think this hospital is not good for my stress."

********

We are past the last view of the building when we talk again. "What did you do with the phone?" are  Napoleon's first words.

"Buried it inside a humidifier," I answer. "Lots of metal to block the signal."

"Good." He smiles. "And our clothes?"

"No tampering I could discover."

He makes a sharp turn onto a side road. Not the route we were given, but... "Do you have the map?" he asks.

Opening the packet in the glove compartment, I pull out a bright accordion of paper printed 'St. Petersburg- City & Surrounding Areas' and fold it open to the location marked 'Gugarin Military Hospital'. From the looks of things, we are  about 45 miles outside the city. That would match with yesterday's time-line. I glance at Napoleon. "How far do you think we will get?"

"I don't know. We'll just have to see."

Spotting a road sign, I search for the name on the map. And find it. So that is where we are. "Turn right at the next crossroad." He does so. Nearly taking out a truck in the other lane, but I will not quibble. "Right again when you come to a major road."

"What for?" he asks.

"That should take us back to the city. I want to go back to the Arbat and pick up a travel book."

"We have reservations in Venice..." he starts to say, then he catches my meaning. "Right. Then let's not go there."

**********

I spot the bookstore before we get into town. It is in a small cluster of shops, tucked in between a laundromat and a shop selling clothes. Not a large establishment, but sufficient. We park in front, and I leave Napoleon to watch the car while I go in. As he says, he does not read as well as he speaks.

The young clerk smiles when I ask for travel books, but they have them. Shelves of them. Asia to New Zealand.

"Business or vacation?" she asks.

"Two weeks vacation. Doctor's orders."

"I wish I could find such a doctor. I've never been out of the country, except to Turkey once with my mother. Travel is so expensive."

I hand her the books I have chosen, one Fromer's guide to Europe, and another labeled Eastern Europe. Plus a local road-atlas. Just in case.

"Where I really want to go is Australia," she continues. "Have you been there?"

"On occasion."

She rings up the sale, still chattering. "That's so cool. When I get out of school my friend and I are going to take the whole summer just to see the world. We'll pick up jobs where we can, and just get the chance to learn about people and cultures. Find out about things. Make our own discoveries. My mother is so down on that, but I think I should. Did you ever do that?"

I hand over some ruble bills. "I went to school in England."

"Kewl. I'd like to do that. One of my friends went to school in Los Angeles, and she loved it. It gets expensive, though. Did you have a scholarship, or did you get a job?"

"I had a job," I answer, reaching out for the parcel and my change.

"Smart. Maybe I'll try to get one. They say that's how you really get away from yourself and get in touch with the native culture. Well, you have a good time - and do get better."

One more truth of the new world. Travel would appear to be much more common. Good news for Napoleon and myself. Perhaps better news for me. Even beyond the fancy clothes and food and cars, if the nation is now rich enough to send every giggling schoolgirl to study overseas... well, the struggle was worth it.

Napoleon has a newspaper out when I get back to the car. Folded to the back. Perhaps he is checking his stocks? That is a thought. In this new Russia, anything is possible. He tucks it away as I walk up. "Anything else you need?"

"The keys," I answer. "I will drive. We are already avoiding four services - we do not need to add the traffic police."

He gives me the *look* but I stand firm. Finally, he sides over to the passenger seat. "Want to try for Finland?"

"Napoleon." I pull carefully back out onto to the road. "You are telling me you wish to try and run the world most heavily guarded border in a red convertible?"

"OK. Scratch that." He picks up the travel book and flips to the first map. "What do you remember about the crossing to  Estonia?"

"Estonia? There is no...! Give me that!"

I pull over as he passes the book. There is....the map..... I flip to the numbered page.  "Estonians....since independence in 1991 have transformed the former Soviet outpost....."

Since their independence?  Former Soviet? 1991? I look at the map. Sick. Then I look at Napoleon. Then I hand him the keys. "You drive."

********

It takes one hour to read and reread it all. Not much, but too long.

Oh my Russia, what has happened to you? It had seemed so pretty, with the restaurants and the fancy stores, but now?

How could they have?  All the struggle, all the sacrifice...

What could?...how could? ...who could?

Oh, my Russia, my mother, what has happened to our world?

*******

Napoleon has seen my face, for all my efforts at control, and after I close the cover he pulls over to the side of the road. We are far outside the city by now, alone with the grey skies and quiet pines. All alone. Totally alone.

"Illya?" Napoleon questions. "Are you OK?"

"I am..fine."

"You are wonderful, but that's not what I asked."

I hand him the book. It takes him a few moments of staring and blinking at the map, but then he sees as I see. Where once there was a nation there is now...what? Ten? None?

"I am...What am I to do?"

He takes my hand. "Survive. Somehow. I have faith in that."

"Easy for you. You did not lose your country."

He snaps. "Just my family? Nothing much?" His face falls.  "Illya - I'm sorry...I..."

"No, I am sorry. You are right. I had forgotten... Oh, Napasha..."

He reaches down. "Illyusha. Here." He hands me the English paper he had been reading. Something called U.S.A. Today.

What? Why? I unfold it, and the headline jumps at me. 'California Governor Warns of Power Shortage - Blackouts Expected." Then slightly lower 'Separatists  Bomb Omaha Post Office'. In America? No. It is not possible. Is it? "Where did you get this?"

"From that idiot Quinn."  He tosses the paper to the rear, then takes both my hands in his. "Illya, I don't know if this *is* the future - or what that future is. I haven't wanted to believe - haven't wanted to let myself believe... but... Christ... who knows. Maybe we will get to New York and it will all be the same and this will be a bad dream. Some T.H.R.U.S.H. mind game against us. Waverly in his office and Aunt 'Becca complaining because I didn't marry the Kennedy girl. Maybe. Or maybe I'll walk in and find they just refought the Civil War. I don't *know*." He takes my hand, and his voice is dead serious. "What I *do* know is... 'escape, evasion, return'.....we have our duty."  He hand me the keys. "Here. You drive."

********

The roads are terribly familiar and familiarly terrible. We reach Narva just after lunchtime. The border crossing is as I remember it, with concrete stations and heavy gates. The gate, however, is open.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

He whispers, "showtime."

I coast gently to the painted line and wait for the guard. From the corner of my eye I spot two others in cover position.

"Papers, Gentlemen?" The main guard holds out his hand.

We hand over the passports we have been given. This is the moment of truth.

"Just passing through? Anything to declare?" He stamps the pages, hands them back, and adds, "Thank you, gentlemen. Have a nice vacation in Estonia."

Chapter Fifteen - Stairway to Heaven

Rated: NC-17 ( Very Much So )

It is less then five hundred kilometers from Len.... St. Petersburg to Tallin. We have been on the road for eight hours. Granted, some of that was evasion. Switch backs and turns to watch for followers. Now, I think, we are just lost.

"Check the map," Napoleon tells me again. "We should be there by now."

I am already looking at the map. "We should have been there an hour ago. Perhaps we should call?"

"Do you trust the phones?"

"This far out?" I consider the chances. "Maybe... no."

So we drive on. The book says there should be a historic windmill. I would settle for a road sign. All we see is trees. Then more trees. I look at the map, then the road, then at Napoleon. "How come you can find a drop site in the middle of the Sahara, but you can't find a hotel in Tallin?"

Napoleon pulls out around a truck. "It's not the hotel I can't find - it's Tallin. Look for a windmill near a church."

How hard can it be to find a nation's capital? Even a nonexistent nation like Estonia? I spot a something like a stone silo near what looks like large barn. "Is this it?"

"According to the book." Napasha turns right, then right again at a barely visible sign marked 'hotel'. Another ten minutes brings us to a partially open gate in a stone wall. Something is behind the trees. Napoleon steers through the ironwork and takes the graveled road through the trees. It dead ends in a parking lot next to a large building, also stone.

This is Napasha's great hotel? "It looks like a castle. Ivan the Terrible's castle."

"But they restored it for Catherine the Great. Which is after the discovery of plumbing. I think this is the place." He cuts the motor and  jumps from the car. "At least we can ask."

A middle-aged woman meets us at the door. She looks more like a housewife them a concierge.

"We are looking for the Kadrioru Hotel?"

"Wonderful." She steps back. "Come right on in. Do you have reservations?"

"I'm afraid not." Napoleon begins.

"No problem." She does not even wait for the smile. "We still have some excellent rooms." With a flourish, she pulls the bound register from behind the counter. "You are together? We don't have any paired rooms just now. Perhaps 133 and 139? At least those are on the same floor." She runs a finger down the page, frowning slightly. " We do have a lovely suite with a view of the lake. Very restful. And really, it costs no more then two singles."

Napoleon looks at me, then answers. "The suite will do quite well."

"Then if you'll just sign in?" She spins the register. " Will that be Visa or Mastercard? We charge a two percent surcharge for foreign traveler's checks. One percent for rubles."

"Do you take American dollars?" Napoleon asks, holding out a pair of bills.

Now she has the charming smile. "Love them."

"Konstantin!" She calls at a young man slumped behind the counter. "Show these gentlemen to suite four." She hands Napoleon a pen and adds. " Welcome to Tallin."

Napoleon hands his bag to the man. I keep mine. Just in case. As always. When we get to the room, I am still the one who finds a small bill for the tip. Even thirty-three years do not change some things.

********

The suite appears clear of listening devices. And the plumbing is excellent. At the price they are charging, it should be gold, but still...

Napoleon is at the window, pausing a moment before shutting the drapes. "It really is a beautiful view."

I ignore that, checking the main bedroom. Why, I wonder, did they put chocolates in the middle of the bed? Some quaint Estonian custom I was never briefed on? I toss them on the nightstand.

"Chances that we are under observation here?" he asks.

"Zero." I answer. "How can they know where we are? We barely know where we are."

"Which is the idea." He hangs his jacket in the closet, then his tie.

"Exactly." I hand him my jacket as well.

"So?" He smiles.

So I kiss him.

And he kisses me. It is a very good kiss. Not up to his best, perhaps, but still wonderful. And a wonderful Napoleon kiss is a force strong enough to curl the tips of my toes. Among other bodily  parts.

"We need.." I breathe.

"My shaving bag." He kisses me again. "Hold that thought."

While he is gone I hang my pants and fold my new rolltop. Even in this new world there is no need for indolence. Besides....I *like* my new clothes. I am folding down the bedspread when I feel the puff of breath on the back of my neck. I turn into warm arms. Strong arms. For the first time I *feel* like it has been thirty-three years. At least.

Running my hands down his now-bare back, I shudder at the hard edges of bone there were not evident when we left New York. Ignore that. He is here now, and well now, and for now.....I will not think of that. My tongue moves from lips to cheek, rasping on a days growth of beard. So often he shaves first. Wise, as whisker burns could be lethal to our discretion, but... I have always loved his texture. And his taste.

His hands track to my waist, pulling me tight against him. His lips brush back my too-short hair, seeking the tender spot behind my ear only he knows of.

A mutual flip,and we are centered on the mattress, which leaves legs free to wrap and rub, bringing us chest to chest and cock to cock.

"My Napasha," I whisper to his throat. "I need you tonight."

He twists sideways, and my lips wander from cheek to nape as I fumble for the shape of the lube on the nightstand.

Napasha pulls back my hand. "Already done." He knows me so well.

Kissing his shoulder, I send my other hand down the trail of soft hair to the treasure I desire most. Napasha is huge and hard, and every heartbeat that sounds in my ear is echoed by the twitch of his cock. I would love to spend the night suckling there. And I will soon, I promise myself. But for now, my need drives.

My finger enters him first, learning the truth that he *is* ready. Very ready. At the first brush of my penis against his entrance Napasha thrusts back, taking me, compelling the breath from my lungs in a gasp of pure pleasure. I clutch at his thighs, pulling myself even harder against him. Hot bliss. My free hand cherishes his balls, while the other pumps his cock in counterpoint to my thrusts. He curls back, pressing me harder against his sensitive gland.

It has been too long. The need is too great. Far to few strokes and I am splashing within him, burying my cry of 'lyubovnick' in his mink-dark hair. Too soon. But for him it has been just as long, and his shouts join mine as his pleasure fills my hand to overflowing.

I raise that hand to my lips, licking the taste of my beloved from my fingers.

He rolls to his back, and I settle in his arms. With my head cradled against his shoulder, I close my eyes and hear a secret voice in my heart whisper 'Tell Moscow that Illya Kuryakin *is* home.'

**********

I am on the verge of sleep when his voice draws me back. "Illyusha, whatever comes? Together?"

"Yes, My Napasha." I rub my cheek against his chest. "Together." Dr. Goldak was correct. It is very relaxing to have something warm and furry to stroke.

END CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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