Rated: NC-17 (More Than the Water is Hot.)

*Brriingg* The phone . I reach for the nightstand, fingers stretching for the gun that is not there.

"I'll get it." Napoleon's voice at my shoulder. Far too cheerful unless I have overslept substantially. I feel the mattress bounce as he slips out from beneath my arm. "Suite four."

I blink back the blurred edges of my vision, slipping on my glasses with one hand. "What time is it?" I pick up my watch. 8:00? Not too late. Rolling on to one elbow, I enjoy the sight of a naked Napoleon. One of the world's great art treasures, and my favorite way to greet the morning.

"Illya?" He asks. "Do we want breakfast brought up? It comes with the room."

Not really, but I remember the sharpness of Napoleon's spine under my hands. If he will eat... "Tell them yes."

"Coffee or tea?"

"Too early for coffee. Tea for me."

I roll for the other edge of the mattress, only to be restrained by a warm hand and warmer lips. That is very tempting, but... "No, Napasha. Bathroom." I drop a promissory kiss on his deprived palm. "Later."

The bathroom is as splendid as I remembered. Even better. Whoever restored this pile of stone may not have understood architecture, but he clearly appreciated the value of hot water. In volume. At high pressure. The shower here is even finer than the one in the hospital. Two shower heads, and the flexible one has a button marked 'pulse' as well as the spray and massage.

Napoleon stands by the shower door, an abstract shape against the mottled glass. "Room in there for two?"

Switching over to the main shower head, I ease open the door and  step back. "If there is an energy shortage, then we should not waste hot water."

He joins me, leaning close so the water splashes over both of our shoulders. The steam brings out the red marks on his skin. Remembrances of electrodes. I would once have said torture, but in light of recent experience? Perhaps sexual excitement is now neuron therapy. I have always considered Napasha an effective anodyne to my various aches and pains. Perhaps it was not just affection.  I shall have to add that to my list of research subjects. Later. I drop a kiss on his marked right shoulder. Then another on his left. Much later. For now? I shall rely on empirical experience.

The water covers us both as I follow the trail of dots from shoulder to elbow, to waist, to hip, to... well, that is also red. But I do not think I should blame Ms. Chan for that. In fact, I would prefer to take all the credit myself. I give the bright head of his penis a quick lick, then a kiss. A further swelling and Napasha's groan is  reassurance that - yes indeed, for this discomfort I am responsible. And, being so, it is clearly my duty to alleviate matters.

I cradle his balls as I guide the long shaft between my lips. Delicious as always, and so tender. The rough edge of my teeth brushing the long vein makes him shiver. Every lick, every glide of my tongue below the head brings a gasp, and when I pull him back against my throat he clutches my shoulders for balance. Good. I try that again, and feel his balls tighten in my hand.

"No. Illyusha... please."

The words are slurred, but I understand him. Leaving my sport, I kiss my way back up his body, following the trail of dots back to his lips. Our tongues join, rough and urgent.

"Need you," he murmurs against my lips.

I am loath to break the kiss, but a shower is no place for gymnastics. And the bed is too far away. And I want him *now*. I brace against the walls and open myself to him. Soap slick and ready. Waiting. Welcoming.

I love this. His long fingers loosening me, preparing me, enticing me. His muscled thighs spreading mine. His wide hands on my cheeks. The bright fire of entry and the deep warmth as he comes inside me. Perfect strength and power as he drives deep into me. The near-pain pleasure sparking from my prostate with every touch. Nothing is better. Nothing is more perfect. Not even his voice whispering silly mispronounced Russian love words in my ear, not the wide roughness on his palm rushing over my cock in perfect counterpoint to his every stroke, nothing. The pleasure takes my body, and my release joins the water swirling around us as I feel Napasha tense in completion.  Then I feel the warm splash of his seed inside me and I think, this is heaven.

I turn to kiss him, relaxed and at peace. He shakes the water from his eyes and flips the shower back to include the lower head. We lean together as he guides the wide jet slowly over both our bodies. The architects here must have used a booster shell for a water tank, because the flow is still perfectly hot. I  roll my sore shoulder against the top jet. It is definite. I will install one of these the minute we reach New York.

Squeezing the water from my too-short hair, I force myself out of the pleasant warmth. Time to go to work.

There are only four towels, but each of them is big enough for two bodies. A fact which Napasha proves by experiment. Very successfully. I must see about finding some of these towels as well. Perhaps I should not condemn the Major so harshly. This new world might turn me into a sensualist as well.

********

A knock from the door. Napoleon tightens the belt on his robe. "I'll get it."

The Konstantin lad again, this time with our breakfast cart. And, wonder of wonders, this time Napoleon comes up with the tip.

I pour a cup of tea and look at the tray. Bread and cold cuts. Nothing that Napoleon would choose. I put together a sandwich and hand it to him.

He chews distractedly while leafing through our travel books."We need a plan."

"We need breakfast. Here." I hand him a photo brochure I found in the 'information' folder on the desk. 'Tallin Yacht Club' is printed in bold blue over a picture of food-laden tables.

He whistles appreciatively at the clear view of the water framed by the picture windows. A view which extends clear to the Finnish coast. "Nice view."

"I thought so." I turn the page over to the pictures of boats. "If there are pleasure craft, that will give us another route out."

"You hate the water."

"So no one who knew me would expect me to take that path. And Napoleon - if there is anyone still following now - they are those who know us very well indeed."

FYI: Baykonur is the Russian space base from which they launch the Energiya boosters. Or is the Ukrainian space base? That's one of those 'interesting' questions.

PS: I assume you do remember 'Get Smart'

Chapter Seventeen -  Everybody Talks About A New World in the Morning

Rated: PG (language)

Dedicated: To T.J. - For making the world better one steppe at a time. And to TvH. - Who knows all the Ships that pass in the night.

Tallin does have a yacht club. The club does have a restaurant. An expensive one with the requisite water view.

The maitre-de is female. Napoleon is charming. We get a good table by the window. There is a beautiful view of the Baltic Sea, and not enough serious traffic to tell me anything.  No submarines. No coast guard patrols. No Finnish sonar sweepers pretending to be fishing boats. Plenty of pleasure craft. Nothing large enough to be commercial.  Motor yachts and dozens of those pretty sailboats Napasha lusts after. His enjoyment makes up for the lack of information.

The buffet is excellent if unexciting. The usual mix of American breakfast and French lunch that these things universally tend to. Even if food is not our primary purpose in coming here, I still  have the good sense to fill my plate. Who ever knows what is for dinner? Napoleon nibbles a bit of mine until I go and get a plate for him. He is too thin. I smile a bit. That is his line, I know, but the difference is in this case I am right.

We chat through breakfast about nothing. The well-dresses diners. The occasional 'pony-boat' zooming like an aquatic motorcycle between the more conventional craft. The net-decked fishing boats in the distance, apparently back from actually catching fish. That is rather a change. Unlike the masked radar-boats I had expected, these wooden craft are riding low, weighed down by their catch. It must be a good season for fish. It makes for a pleasant morning, if none too productive.

The waitress is handing me our change when I catch the eyes of an older man coming through the door. I give Napoleon the signal to vanish.

"Demitri Ivanovich Kronsteen?" I ask, incredulous.

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?" He stops dead, then waves his party on. "There have been rumors, but...." His look is openly assessing. "My god, you look so good - it must have been bad." He clasps my back, welcoming. "How many surgeries.. no - do not tell me. It is none of my business."

Returning to our table, he takes Napoleon's chair. "You are back. And that Solo fellow. Him as well?"

"He was with me." I admit, cautious.

The waitress brings over coffee and another cup. Demitri takes a deep drink before continuing. "I always knew you two were alive - probably. The men from the company, they would come in, and tap their ice cubes, and say Tsarivich - and I knew they were toasting you."

He makes the gesture as he speaks. If true... I smile inside. At least somewhere I was remembered. And if remembered.....? This was my chance. I sip my coffee, slow and casual. "You are  still in the Air?"

"Hell, yes." He smiles. "Base commander at Baykonur. They even made me a General."

Excellent news. "They made me one too. Or so I'm told."

He lifts his cup. "Congratulations."

"It was a retirement promotion."

"Ouch." His face falls. "If it's medical..."

Which it might be. I had not considered that, but... "Not important. Demitri Ivanovich, I need some hard information. What has really happened?"

He leans back and raises his hands. "I am long out of that, Illya Nickovetch. I have  no real contact.."

I lean forward. " Not that." And for that, a man who would tell I would not trust. "Just background. I have been - out of touch. Until just recently I ... received no news."

"Since?" He relaxes again.

"The time I left. Last of January, 1968."

That stiffens his spine. "Such deep cover? Where ever... no. I do not *want* to know."

"What happened?" I press.

"What?" He looks momentarily confused, then.. "Oh, you mean the..." His wave encompasses the Union, perhaps the world.

I nod.

He takes a deep breath. "Tough, no? It took a lot of our people that way."

"Tough?" That would not be my word. "Our entire country..."

"Not entirely." He makes the gesture for 'keep down your voice'. I am shocked. I did not realize mine had risen.

"Illya Nickovetch..." He considers, then. "Try to think of it as... an ugly victory."

I say nothing.

He shrugs. " Well, when have we had any other? When everything was spinning out of control, what with inflation, and the country bankrupt, and every petty province declaring independence and then declaring war - on us and each other, and all the crime and hatred and madness and genocide  - maybe you're lucky you missed it." His shakes his head. "There were times I missed Stalin. Hell, there were times I missed the Tsar. It was crazy."

The Tsar? Someone considered bringing back the Tsar? Crazy is not strong enough!

He pauses, then adds. "But.. in the end... well... What did we want?"

What did we want?! "The Revolution was..."

He stops me. "Illya Nickovetch, the first step in battle is to define victory." He reaches over to pat my hand. "We have democracy, almost peace, and a standard of living Lenin would not have dared wish for."

"So because you all get rich, that  is all you..."

"No." His voice is serious now. "That is *not* all. While you were out playing spy those of us in the working army managed to hold out through insurrections, undeclared wars, and a damn long year without supplies or pay. We sure as hell were not getting rich then." His look is more Siberian then mine. " We did it for *our* Russia. The one we have now. The one with obnoxious television and tacky headlines and borders where I don't have to station troops to watch the civilians."

He stands, dropping a bill beside his cup. "Maybe we don't yet have everything we hoped for, but what we have I can live with. Gratefully."

He takes a step away, then turns back. "Kuryakin? If you truly want to work for the future?" He hands me a business card. "We are doing thirteen launches a a year. I'm planning to double that." He gives me a questioning look, then adds. "Give me a call once you are... more settled."

******

I catch up with Napoleon down at the pier, where he is talking to an American tourist. American tourist? That is a strange enough thought, but after my talk with Demitri? Enough! Napoleon is right. Escape, evade, return. And then...? I will think about that when I have to.

"My partner, Mr. Kuryakin." Napoleon smiles at the tourist.

The thin, rather balding man offers me his hand. "Maxwell Smart." He looks me up and down, and whatever he sees seems to satisfy him. "Yes. My wife and I were sailing to Riga, but... sudden call to Berlin. Business conference." He sighs dramatically. "It's not easy being Chief."

"You have a boat?" I ask to be polite.

"There." He points proudly to a fragile-looking structure of teak and canvas at the end of the dock. Shinny, with an impressive display of brass and bright striped sails.  Perhaps  forty feet from stem to stern. I suppose it is considered large for its type. "The 99."

"99?" That is odd. I though such craft were supposed to have 'clever' names.

"Yes." He waves at a dark haired woman farther down the dock. "I named it after my wife."

A sad indication of the effect of thirty years of 'flower children' on American culture. And American's had little enough culture to begin with. Still, the name is not as bad as some I have heard.

"Like I said to your friend", he continues, "we were sailing to Riga when we got called in."

Napoleon nods. "Mr. Smart and I just agreed to our renting his boat and finishing that part of the voyage for him."

I consider the craft in question. When I suggested leaving by sea,  I had in mind something larger. Like a freighter. Perhaps an aircraft carrier.

Your choice, Napoleon signals.

I make the effort to smile at Mr. Smart. "How kind of him." To Napoleon I signal my assent. Unpleasant or not it is still a wise idea. It will not kill me, and this way we will be completely removed from any 'alphabet' sorts.

I am trying to keep the enthusiasm in my face when a phone rings.

"Sorry," Mr. Smart says, "I need to get that." He steps away and slips off his shoe. In this future people keep phones in the strangest places.

I turn to Napoleon. "We will need deck shoes." And I will need Dramamine, I think but do not say.

"Good idea," he says. "Why don't you pick up some while Mr. Smart and I go over to the harbormasters and sign the contract?"

I say nothing. The suggestion to leave by sea was my own. Of course, Napoleon being Napoleon I had rather expected him to finagle a cruise ship - not a  wooden box. Still, the voyage will not kill me. I will only wish it had.

******

I ask the woman at the restaurant, who is delighted to direct me to the local overpriced source of such supplies. I pick out shoes, hats, and sea-sickness pills. Several packs of sea-sickness pills.

By the time I get back Napoleon is waving goodbye to Mr. Smart and his wife, and reassuring them that their precious boat will be well treated by himself and the 'professional yachtsman' he has apparently hired.

I take one look at the young crewman, then *give* a look to Napoleon.

"What?" Napasha tries to appear innocent. "The harbor master recommended him as a navigator - and I do want the boat to reach Riga."

"Napoleon." I mutter, sotto voice . "I *was* in the Navy. I *am* a perfectly competent sailor, even if I do not share your enthusiasm for the process."

"You are a perfectly brilliant *everything*." He gives me his most 'Solo' grin, then drops his voice. "Which does not matter as I have no  plans for sailing much beyond the next pier." He whispers in my ear, and I smile. There is a reason he is CEO.

Chapter Eighteen - Midnight Train to Georgia

Rated: PG

It was my favorite sort of cruise - short. Very short.

We wave goodbye to our new 'friends' as the yachtsman tilts the sails into the wind and the boat slowly pulls into deep water. Napoleon is still laughing at the over-trimmed Captains hat I chose for him - but I note that he also is wearing it. So much gold braid would hardly seem to match with our deck shoes and jeans, but on him somehow it looks right. Everything does. That is one of his less irritating talents.

I chose a comfortable spot and watch while Napoleon entertains himself with the rudder and ropes. He learned to sail as a child, and tells me he enjoys it. Before we were...together... he would go down weekends and sail on the Potomac, crewing for various friends. He has not done that lately. Perhaps I should encourage him to do so? We have so little time, but one weekend alone would be nothing if it would make Napasha happy.

The water is very calm - or perhaps the drugs are very effective. Either way, I almost enjoy our departure from Tallin. The sky is blue. The wind is warm. There is a very nice view of the harbor...and an even better view of Napoleon. Now if we were only here alone  - and on dry land.

He steers the boat out into the mouth of the Baltic Sea -just past where the submarines are *not* -  then back again. Turning tight into the wind, Napoleon slips us into the shadow of a large motor yacht. The yacht's Captain grumbles a bit, but Napoleon just waves. After all, as a wind powered vessel we have the right-of-way.

Twenty minutes later we are back at Tallin. Pulling up along a larger pier in what I gather must be the section reserved for the fishing fleet. Not quite as  freshly painted as the Harbor Club, but better for us because of its constant traffic.

As we pull up beside the pier our 'professional yachtsman' takes over the sails. He seems a decent young man, and I trust the boat will arrive in Riga on time and in fine condition. With any luck, the harbormaster there will never learn it should have had two more passengers. Napoleon slips the sailor a few large bills and a map  before grabbing his luggage and jumping for the dock. I follow.

No chance of finding a cab this far from the restaurant section, but a quick word with a man in the parking lot and a handful of rubles is all that is required to secure a ride to the train station. Good. Taxis may smell better, but they also keep records - and Napoleon and I prefer to be on a boat headed for Riga. Not a train headed for Vilnius.

The station is dirtier than I remember it. The ticket line is shorter, and the tickets cost more. Other than that? Tallin is Tallin.  Securing a double cabin in first class, we catch the express for Lithuania with fifteen minutes to spare. Just enough time to buy vodka and cigarettes at the kiosk. Napoleon looks amused, but I am a veteran of the Northern train system. Cigarettes are for tips. Vodka is a necessity. But I am a loyal partner. They have scotch, and I pick up a bottle for him.

The train is very familiar. Same bad track. Same surly conductors. Same graying sheets that likely have not been replaced since my last travels through Latvia. When was that? I think a moment. 1955. Just before I left for U.N.C.L.E. What is that they say? How time flies? But then - how is indeed the question for us.

Napoleon looks around the cabin and shakes his head. A four by ten tin box with one window too dirty to let in light and two folded bunks too narrow to let a man sleep. One twisted shelf I would not trust to support a glass - much less any luggage. No chairs, and no room to sit if there were any. I shrug. Napoleon is right. This is no place to stay . At least, with luck, we will not actually have to *sleep* here for more then one night.

There is a club car - of sorts. The sort that reminds me not to join any club that would have me. The menu makes me grateful for a large breakfast. One look at the fly-specked sandwiches and I am convinced. This *is* Estonia - whatever the date.

I grab a pair of reasonably clean glasses and look for a table. Left to myself, I might prefer the bottle. At least I know that is sterile. But that is one of my habits that irritates Napoleon, and as - for the moment - he is in my good graces... the glasses are acceptable.

No empty tables. Naturally.

Seeing my survey, the one occupant of one window table waves us over. "First time on the Warsaw Express?" A sturdy-framed graying man in  his well-managed fifties stands and offers his hand to Napoleon. "I recognized the horrified look."

Napoleon accepts the handshake. "Not your first, I take it?"

"Every other month. Worse luck." He waves at the extra chairs. "Col. Steve Austin USAF, retired."

"Napoleon Solo, Compsys. My partner, Mr. Illya Kuryakin."

"Good company. I compete mostly with Avian Solutions, but I've heard of you guys." He looks at me, then back to Solo. "Joint venture?"

"Of a sort. You?"

"Launch advisor for Global-Sat Telecommunications. Checking the lift prospects south of Finland."

"Polar launch?" I ask.

"If we can't get Florida." He retakes his chair. " The Finn's aren't about to budge. And the Russians are damn slow - no offense."

I set down my bottle. "None taken."

"Even so, better Russian then French. Now if I can only convince the Estonians."

Of what? "Where are you headed?" I inquire casually, easing into the chair by the window.

Col. Austin answers. "Vohma."

"My sympathy."

"You've been there? Miserable flyspeck, but well supplied with nothing ...which for launch sites is all to the good. Not a decent road there - thus the train."

"You don't  fly?" Napoleon sounds surprised.

"I'd love to fly. I just don't like to ride." He taps his leg, which rings hollow."Bad landing."

"Understood." And I do understand.

He looks over at me."You a pilot?"

"Navy. Retired, but I still fly."

"Turtle?"

"Wager your donkey." I gesture at his glass. "Vodka or scotch?"

"Was gin." He drains the last half inch. "What have you got?"

Napoleon grins. "A new deck of cards."

"Good enough. Drink up and shuffle."

I pour a shallow drink and check my cards. Napoleon does likewise. Poker is a counting game, and today it would be wise neither to win or to lose. We are quarter-way through the bottles and about even as to cash when two men in uniform come through the club door.

Col. Austin turns, following my eyes. "Oh, shit! Latvian Feds."

"Problem?"I ask.

Napoleon slides his chair back, giving me room to move.

"No." Austin turns back to his cards. " Just a nuisance. I have a connection I'd rather not have ...delayed."

I watch the two men pass through the room, moving passenger to passenger and checking each ones papers. Ours were apparently quite good enough, but still...

By the time they reach our table, both Napoleon and the colonel are studiously concentrating on their poker hands. "Papers?" one officer asks.

I hand mine over. The younger of the two checks the photo and hands it back.Then he does the same with Napoleon. Then Austin.

I turn to the older officer. "Trouble?" It is a safe enough question, and total disinterest might be more suspicious.

"Sorry gentlemen. I must warn you to be alert, especially to keep  an eye on your luggage and any high-value items. Interpol has notified us that known criminal may have a ticket for this train. If so..." He tries to make the pause ominous.

Austin tucks his papers back in his jacket. "Tell ya what. If I see any international jewel thieves, I'll call you." He reviews his hand and flips down a card. "Now, Solo.  I believe I was about to raise?"

We play another few hands. My cards are average, which allows me to consider this development - but I reach no conclusions. After perhaps half an hour the colonel  empties his glass and closes the deck.

He stands carefully. "'Scuse me, gents. Got to recycle." As he makes his careful way through the door, a red-headed man looks up, then follows. Napoleon catches the movement even as I do.

"Strike you as a bit....coincidental?" he asks, nodding at the retreating backs.

I lay down my cards. "I believe I have.... a similar need. You keep an eye on the  table. Just in case."

If it was the bathroom Austin was headed for? I check the outer door. Locked. A most excessive modesty. I listen against the thin door, and nearly loose an eardrum to a *thump* that rattles the frame. So. Someone is in there.

One well placed kick takes out the lock.

Col. Austin has bruises. The other man has a knife. Not that it appears to have given him much advantage, but it least it indicates which side I should be on. One round kick to the kidneys sends the red-head into the far wall - and into oblivion.

"Thanks." The American looks down at his recent assailant. "I've heard that the Russian Navy is tough. Must be true."

"What did he want?" I try to sound merely curious.

"Just a thief. Sorry."Austin picks up his dropped briefcase, muttering "Hate when these creeps involve innocents." He reaches over and straightens the twisted inner latch.  "Cheap Bulgarian construction."

I am still looking at the fallen man when the conductor walks in... and runs out. Thirty seconds later he returns with the two policemen we had met earlier.

Colonel Austin steps forward. "This man tried to rob us."

"Is this...." The younger police man searches the fallen man, and produces some very interesting electronics. Not your usual burglar's kit. He looks at us, then at his superior. "These two were together in the club car. "

The older policeman nods. "You both will have to come with us."

I finger my I.D., uncertain. Would either my gold card or my more recent papers be any help? Or more of a stumbling block? I do not want to attract attention. I know I do *not* want to spend any time in the local jail.

As the older officer reaches down to take the electronics from his associate, I notice the edge of a tattoo on his wrist. The hilt of a dagger. Interesting. Perhaps providential.

I motion Austin back. "I'll take this"

"Can you?" he whispers.

"I hate having to involve innocents."

"What are you saying? What do you have to do with this man?"The senior officer questions, stepping between the Col. and myself. "That one on the floor is the criminal we were looking for. "

I direct a hard look at the older mans wrist. "What a coincidence, comrade." I say slowly. "I believed he was a traveler on the road to Samarkand."

"A wha.."The younger policeman starts. That exclamation earns him an elbow in the ribs from his superior..

"He...? yes..... exactly sir..." The senior officers's eyes move carefully from the American traveler, to the man on the floor, and back to me. A short pause, then. "Take this thief up front," he snaps at his confused subordinate. "Tell the engineer that we will get off at the next station."

I slide my I.D. deeper into my pocket. "You never saw me."

He looks past my shoulder. "You were never here."

END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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