Rated: NC-17

When we reenter the club-car a rather handsome blonde woman is waiting. Sitting with Napoleon, naturally. "Steve, darling." She rises to give Austin a light peck on the cheek.

"Mr. Kuryakin. My wife Jamie." He smiles at her. "I see you've already introduced yourself to Mr. Solo."

"Yes, dear. He's told me all kinds of things about his work in computers." She seems impressed. I am more so. Napoleon does not *know* anything about computers. After a moments thought I add 'that I know of'.  Still, that seems a detail Mrs. Austin is willing to overlook. "But I came in here looking for you, dear. Oscar called. Seems a general meeting has been called , so we're getting off in Riga and taking a plane. Your other business will just have to wait."

"You know I hate flying commercial." Austin grumbles. But he also folds up his cards.

"So does Oscar. He says he'll try and have something waiting."

"Sorry, gents." He gives us the 'what can I do' expression. "The wife rules."

Mrs. Austin beams at Napoleon. "Good luck with your business."

"You too." Col. Austin shakes hands with us both. "Good luck in Vilinus."

Hopefully better luck at any rate, I think, but I only say "Thank you." I sit back and sip my vodka until I am quite sure they are gone. Then I give Napoleon the signal for 'we must talk'. Not that he did not know as much before. He, and only he, can read my face. Or perhaps it is my mind he reads. I have never been certain.

He waits until we are back in our cabin  with the door and window locked before he speaks. "Are we going to Vilinus?"

"Not any more." I brief him on my little 'adventure'.

He nods when I mention my trick. "Think it will hold?"

"Perhaps." Which truly *is* my best answer. Without knowing the senior police officer's background, or training, or contacts? If the man asked someone? If he even still knew *who* to ask? Would that person still know me? "I would be more comfortable *away* from Latvia before the man can check up on any details."

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

Thankfully we have little to pack. When the passengers get off in Riga station, we slip out the back door. Simple, and of very little risk. After all, we *have* tickets. First class tickets at that. If the yard bosses finds us, we are merely tourists who somehow got turned around. Napoleon can appear admirably idiotic, and I do not speak the language.

A short hike brings us around the switching house and back to the front of the station. There are several taxis waiting. We take the third in line.

The street boss yells something, but our driver simply peels out of line and returns the one-fingered salute. "Where to?" he grunts.

Napoleon hands him a stack of rubles. "The airport."

******

Even ignoring the speed limits, by the time we arrive we have missed all the suitable flights. There is still one to Moscow, by way of Minsk, but that could be a greater risk then the train.

We purchase three first class tickets to Madrid. Stops in Warsaw and Milan. Not the perfect destination, and Warsaw is questionable, but it is the first morning flight. For once, a purchase is amazingly *inexpensive*. A few smiles get us shifted to the last row of the forward cabin. Excellent. I hate having people sitting behind me.

While Napoleon finishes flirting with the counter clerk I slip the tickets into my pocket and ask. "Where to?"

"Check your guide book." Napoleon shrugs. "Or we could ask a driver." I am still thumbing through the chapter marked Riga when he adds  "Or the tourist desk."

Napoleon points to a  poster cover kiosk marked 'Welcome to Latvia, Jewel of the Baltic'. A pretty blond sits listening to  an older woman. "Have a nice stay in Riga, Mrs. Polifax," she chimes, handing over a stack of bright brochures. Intourist service with a smile? If I were not already convinced we were transported , that surely would do it.

Napoleon waits for his opening. I stand back and watch the master at work. Even from twenty feet I can see her posture change as his charm starts in. If she was congenial before, she is practically affectionate now. And somehow skilled enough to dial a number without looking, as her eyes never leave Napoleon. She listens a bit, then shakes her head sadly. I begin to think the magic has failed, but one pat on her hand has her dialing again. Then again. Three phone calls in as many minutes? That is more then Vladimir could convince Intourist to make all day. And he could shoot them.  But I question if even the Solo luck can produce a luxury hotel in Riga.

He returns waving a small slip with a scribbled address. "Town is full, but the Karavella does have one *biznesmyeni* suite left for a pair of computer executives."

"Which we are?" I ask, handing him his case.

He takes it and heads for the door marked with a cartoon car and bus.

"Well. I am." He answers. "According to your major."

"More likely yours." I mutter. It has been a long day, and I am beginning to tire of enamored blondes.

The door leads to a concourse jammed with disorganized traffic. We dodge between luggage carts and passenger cars, making out way to the outer rows of traffic. "Since when?" Napoleon waves for a cab, which appears magically at his side. " Those collar tabs didn't say 'Semper Fi', my  friend."

"Touche'." Although if Major Yelena was an example of the the brotherhood's finest, then recruiting standards may be the only thing in this new Russia not to have 'inflated'.

My partner hands over the paper and another wad of rubles. If I cannot read the address, the taxi driver surely can. Within minutes we are at the wide glass doors of a shining new skyscraper. Napasha watches as I survey the thirty stories of stark sable glass. "Not quite Moscow, torivich?"

I watch the red-suited bellman rush up to open the door, while another heads for the trunk for luggage. "Not even New York."

The maitre d'hotel greets us, and after a few sympathetic words about our 'lost' luggage summons another pair of uniformed flunkies to show us to our suite.

"Not to your taste?" Napoleon whispers to me as we follow our guides.

"This place has more staff then the Contessa's." I growl back. "And their livery is gaudier."

******

Napoleon continues in a teasing mood all the way to our rooms. He pretends to fumble for the bellman's tip, then produces it just as I pull out my wallet. Most people find it amusing. I know it for a sign of fraying nerves.

I don't watch what he gives them, but it is enough to convince them to relinquish their hold on our luggage. Good enough. I nod at the last man politely, but close the door quite firmly behind me.

The guest rooms are as stylish as the lobby - and as excessive. If the Kadrioru went for fin de ceil charm,  here the designers had preferred modernist discomforts. Glass topped tables and chrome edged chairs with oversized polychrome  'art' hanging unframed on the walls. No matter. The beds look soft enough.

"Restaurant or room service?" Napasha asks, checking the nightstand and telephones. Not that bugs or cameras are likely, but.. caution is an ingrained habit. He finds neither of those, but does come up with a set of menus.

I look over from where I am checking the television and window frames. "You choose." I do not care, although after a long day I am rather hungry. Room service would be comfortable, but if Napoleon wanted to go downstairs? I am not particularly tired.

He says nothing, so I glance over. He is reading the menus with a serious dedication that most probably means we are headed out.

Reaching for my luggage, I pull out my shaving kit. "I have to clean up."

He does not reply.

Living room and bedroom cleared, I open the bathroom door. "Napasha."

"Illya?" Napoleon turns, instantly alert.

"Come here."

He moves up cautiously. "What?"

I point to the wide tiled platform below the mirrored window. "I think that is what they refer to as a jacuzzi."

*********

It is amazing what hot water can do for the human spirit. Napasha had been growing more edgy since we left Tallin. By the time we reached the airport he was at his most charming - which is to say his most tense. A good pounding will relieve some of that tension. Not that it will not be beneficial for me as well.

I survey the tiled platform surrounding the deep basin. It is much larger then the tank back at the hospital. The basket on the counter holds a small bottle marked 'bath-oil'. I crack the seal and sniff. A bit floral, but pleasant. It feels very slick on my fingers. Excellent. Virtue may be its own reward - but I have never felt it should be required to be.

I suspect Napoleon had intended to convince me of the pleasures of fine dining in Riga. An improbable concept. Also a foolish risk under the circumstances. If so, he has abandoned the idea without hesitation.

"Room service?" He gives it the tone of a question, but I know his decision is made. Napasha may occasionally twit me about my 'fetish' for bathing, but in truth he shares it.

Two quick turns on the water taps is answer enough. I check the flow, then the volume, deduct my own mass and Napoleon's, then do some fast math. From the size of the tub this might take a while. No matter. If the kitchen was fast, we could always eat *first*.

Napasha locates the towels and drops several conveniently near the edge. "Think they  have pizza here?" he asks.

They do, but not at this time of night. We settle for the house supper. The local version of a deli plate. Lots of cold cuts and good cheeses served with sweet butter and dark breads. Hard boiled eggs spiced with paprika. Sharp flavored pickles. Tiny little mushroom pastries. Four bottles of the excellent local beer. The first sip reminds me why I have always hated the American versions. They even found Napoleon some ketchup, although when the waiter mentions it he smirks at the strange tastes of foreigners.

I hand Napoleon a tip sufficient to reconcile all dietary sins. The waiter thanks us profusely.  I just smile and say nothing. In the flurry of checking in the management somehow forgot to ask for *my* passport.  Their records doubtless show two Americans. All the better to frustrate any detectives looking for one Russian.

Ignoring the service plates, I grab a handful of pastries, popping one in my mouth and passing the other to Napasha. They are delicious. Just as I remember.

He glares at my enthusiasm. "Don't you people eat hot food?"

I ignore that. Napoleon is just tired. And worried. Also homesick, I suppose. Americans are not used to European food, and for all his Italian grandfather Napoleon is sometimes *very* American. That is one of his moderately irritating traits.

By the time the door closes again, I can hear the water reaching the brim. What a choice - food or my favorite snack. Fortunately not a decision which needs to be made. Napasha carries over the tray and positions it carefully just with arms reach of the taps. Not too close. Soggy bread is distasteful . Still, close enough for tub snacking if both residents are....cooperative.

I fold my jeans and shirt carefully into the hotel laundry bag. They smell from the sea and train ride, but not intolerably. There will be no time to clean them, but no need to abandon them either. For once, Napoleon has no comment. He merely peels off his clothes and hands then over.  Wise. We are both on edge, and in no need of an argument over my  parsimony or his profligate habits.

Turning off the taps, I check the temperature. Just below scorching. Perfect. Glancing over the control panel, I decide against the  bubbles but start the jets.

Napoleon slips carefully into the hot water, sighing as he shifts so the hard jets reach his left shoulder. He was shot there once, and despite his recovery there is a lingering soreness a cramped train would have aggravated. Also, from the Chan woman's remarks I have the impression he was in worse shape then I was when we left the hospital as well. Not that he will say anything. Napoleon does not discuss his weaknesses - not even with me. Sometimes, I think, even less with me.  No matter. I know. I alone know.

Oh, he complains often enough, but that is for show. Chatter about his suits and his cars and his ruined dates. Never a word about his pain. How many times have I pulled him out of cells and chains, then listened while he insists to the clean-up crew that his captors were 'perfect gentlemen'? How many times has he chatted brightly at Waverly or some medic, assuring them that 'they just used truth serum' and that all he needs was an evening's rest? How many times afterwards has he collapsed in our room, leaving me to patch and bandage and salve? To work out cramped limbs and stressed tendons so that he can stroll back into headquarters and insist he is again ready for duty.

And I do, because I know his gloss is his first defense and part of his strength. Not all of it. Not even the greatest part. Under the slick shell of mystery there is warrior even I would not wish to face in darkness. And that, as much as love or friendship, is why I help his game. Likewise why he helps my fiction of Ice Price and soulless scientist. So that neither of us has to acknowledge all that we might be.

"Coming?" The tone is snappish. He is talking to talk.

I set my beer down and ease in on the other side. The tub is large, although hardly party-sized. A cozy fit, but comfortable.

I press my back against a low jet. The hard pressure of water relives cramps that I had not been aware of. Pain  is often like that. Something ignored until it vanishes, whereupon the comparison testifies to how bad it was. We rest in our opposite ends, touching but alone, until enough of the ache has passed to let me come out of myself.

When I reopen my eyes Napasha is holding out a pickle. "Bad?"

I bite down on the salty sweetness and lick the juice from his fingers. "Better."

He follows the first treat with bites of egg and slivers of spiced ham. When I reach to feed myself he lets me, but then reclaims my fingers, licking between them to share the flavors.

I pick out a crisp gherkin and hold it while he nibbles down its length, snatching the last edge from my fingers with nipping teeth.

We finish half the platter like that, alternating snacks and kisses. Until that appetite is satisfied.

Napasha reaches for me, and at the first brush of fingers on my shaft I float against him.

I slide my hands down his back, steadying myself against the stream as I circle a finger around each sensitive vertebrae. He arches into my touch. Long fingers grip  the curves of my ass, pulling me closer and open at the same time. His lips settle on my neck, biting and kissing their way toward my lips in a familiar rhythm. I send my hands lower. Reaching the end of his spine, I curl one finger around the sac of swollen balls, stroking lightly over the flesh until he moans against my cheek. I turn my lips to his, and as our tongues join I swing my knees up to clutch the sides of his chest.

My balls rub over the head of his cock, telling me he is in position.  I ease down, as with one hand he guides himself within me. The oil has made us both slick. His enters me easily. The water takes my weight, and leaves me free to move against him. Each thrust of his cock moves his belly against the sensitive head of my own. Each withdrawal sends sparks of bliss throughout my body.

I press my fingers against his entrance, echoing the rhythm he has established.

Heat is supposed to deaden sensation as it increases endurance. You could not prove that by me. Far too soon I am moaning against his mouth as the spasms of pleasure claim my body. Lips locked, I allow myself to whisper "Pasha." A dangerous indulgence, but I must have some follies. As I fall against his chest, I feel the hot splash of his own release. We slide together, too relaxed to grip but too comfortable to let go. The water supports us, and the warm jets coax us chest to chest in an easy embrace.

We float in the swirling water until we are flushed from the temperature as well as exertion. We should get out, but it is hard to leave such comfort.

Napasha presses the button for the whirlpool, knowing the bubbles will cool us down.

I reach up and brush a few beads of sweat from his forehead. "See." I murmur against his lips. "We Europeans do have a hot supper - sometimes."

President George Bush Sr. was with the CIA ( executive, not operative) and he does enjoy fast boats. (Then ex) Vice-President Richard Nixon did negotiate the deal for distribution of Pepsi in Russia. President Vladimir Putin of Russia does have a reputation for clever negotiation, and also for a very quick temper. Prime Minister Sharon was an early and active Israeli nationalist. The movement was centered at the King David Hotel. I don't know any of the gentlemen personally. Any opinions expressed by the boys are their own. This is a work of fiction.

Chapter Twenty : Hearing the News ( Ain't like Bein' There)

Rated: R

We lay back on the nearest bed. I am finishing off the last of my second beer and listening to Napasha click past channel after channel of what the hotel calls satellite television. Nothing holds his attention for more then a few seconds, but the scan is still a lengthy procedure. According to the bedside brochure there are almost a hundred channels - many showing exactly the same movies. I can recall Loomis in communications watching three movies at once. That was strange enough. But why would anyone want to watch the same movie thrice at the same time?

I would rather read. Which I should be doing now, but somehow my eyes do not wish to remain open. I slide a card between the pages to mark my place and lean back. Napoleon's arm curves around my shoulder. Rolling to my side, I let my cheek rest a moment against the soft curls of his chest. Unshaved, my chin must scratch a bit, because he shifts slightly at the touch. I drop a kiss in apology and he pulls me closer.

I should not indulge myself, but we have so little time to be together. Only a few days unobserved engineered between our assignments and the demands of a agent's life. If April Dancer was telling the truth - or if she was not - perhaps soon we will have even less. If I must leave the service, what reason can we give to remain together? I must capture what joy there is while I can. Napoleon must feel the same, because he snuggles and drops light kisses on my hair. It is a sweet time, these minutes on the border of dreams.

I am fading when Napoleon jerks up, clicking rapidly to regain the channel. "Illya?"

I sit up, suddenly awake.

He points to the screen, where a vaguely recalled face is making some sort of speech. The man looks familiar. Was there not a..?

"George Bush." Napoleon waves the signal box at the television. "C.I.A. out of D.C."

"Bush." I search for the memory. "He was... the one with the thing for planes...."

"Boats." Napoleon corrects. "He was into fast boats."

"No wonder you remember him."

"Not that well. I mostly sailed. And after I started spending time with you..." He needs not finish. I do not like water. Our time spent together is *not* spent on a boat.

The camera pulls back, showing the podium with its brightly painted a seal. The eagle and stars. The American flag at the man's side confirms Napasha's I.D. The other flag I recognize as that of Israel. "The Americans made G.H. President?"

"No, that's his kid."

"Little Georgie?" I pull up a vague picture of a little boy and a dog. I do not have much experience of children, but he seemed a well behaved child. I say as much, and add "The son is probably decent enough."

Napasha just smiles. "According to the commentator, Old George Herbert was President eight years back." Napoleon shakes his head in disbelief.

"Is he less likely then Vladimir?"

"Vladimir Putin was a... never mind." Napoleon snorts. "Just say I'd believe old Vlad the Impatient could wiggle his way into being President of the U.S. - never mind Russia. He's that type of schemer. But George...?"

I relax back on my pillow. "Is that stranger then the Ambassador from Pepsi?"

He nods acknowledgement at my answer. I do not understand the whims of American politics, but so far their country has seemed to survive it. Although to think of those men both reaching so high? Fate is strange.

I glance back at the screen. An older man, also marginally familiar, steps up to shake Bush's hand. I can not place him until the commentator give me his name. Ariel Sharon. Prime Minister Ariel Sharon. "Sharon?" I echo, shocked. "The Man from the King David?" Has the whole world been taken over by spies? "Napoleon? We are maybe not the only ones in a lot of trouble."

He clicks off the screen, and I feel the mattress bounce as his head hits the pillow. I lean down and kiss his cheek, then start to rise. "I should go now."

"Rest." He pulls me tighter against him. "I'll go mess up the other bed."

"But.."

A few kisses close my eyes and lure me down to the sheets.

"Tomorrow is likely to be tough. Stay here tonight." Another bounce of the mattress tells me he has risen. In a few seconds he returns, and this time he pulls the blankets over us and turns off the light.

In the darkness I feel the rough hair of his leg slide against me.

"I thought you were tired?" I murmur.

"I am," he whispers against my ear. Napasha nibbles down to share one last kiss before we each claim our separate pillows. "But there's always morning."

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

Why did I wake?

He was careful. I did not feel the shift of the mattress or the withdrawal of his arm. There was no sudden light, no betraying sound. Nothing significant. No special loss of warmth or absence of breath. These losses are the common coin of years of caution. Such deprivations do not wake me. Nothing then. Nothing but the special linkage I have with my partner. That alone opens my eyes, pulls me to my feet, draws my sight to the faint insignificant edge of light marking the closed bathroom door.

I ease to the door. No movement. no sound, no threat ... so why am I worried? I test the knob. It is unlocked. I edge  the door open.

At the first movement Napoleon straightens. He gives me his bland look of indifferent curiosity... but his eyes are pink. Not red, no... but still pink. And there is a damp washcloth on the counter.

"Pasha?" I make it a question, for all I do not know what the question is.

"Illyusha." His voice is even. Bland. But he reaches for my hand.

"Where are they?" His words are steady, for all their quietude.

"T.H.R.U.S.H.?" I answer. " U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Two days," he continues. " No assassins, no bombs, no drugs.... nothing." He shakes his head. "Do you think they know where we are?" A pause, then "Do you think they care?"

"Do you..?" I begin, without any  idea how I would finish the sentence.

"Illya. We have traveled over a thousand miles. We have been through at least seven major cities. Seen the papers, the magazines, the television. However mad, I have to accept that this is, in fact, 2001."

"Which?"

"Which means that woman was most like April Dancer, and possibly even telling the truth."

"This is bad?" From his tone it is very bad, although I do not see why.

"Consider. If that woman is April Dancer, then she *is* our support."

"Which she provided... until we evaded her." At least, I can name no provable error in her conduct. But... perhaps.. Napoleon has caught something I missed.

Obviously he did. He gives me the 'rookie' look, which stings. And his voice is *far* too kind. "Where are our Specials?"

Our...! My hand reaches automatically to the shoulder harness that is not there. The packets we were given had held money and I.D. But not our weapons.... or our communicators. "Bait?" I ask.  The likeliest answer, for all the lure appears untaken.

"Perhaps."

His tone says it all. Mine was the most benign possibility. At best we were left as well guarded bait to lure an enemy. At worst? A stalking horse sent out for the slaughter. A bad asset disposed of at a profit. "So..." I look at my senior. "What do we do?"

"Go home." He drops the washcloth over the rod.

"It makes no difference?"

"Of course not!" The shock in his voice is unconsidered and unfeigned.

"Not even if...?"

"Not ever." Napasha runs his thumb over my scared palm. "The day I let reality affect my actions is the day I will be useless as an agent."

I can give no answer to that except... "Come back to bed. We have an early flight."

Yes. I know K.A.O.S. was from Get Smart. James Bond had S.M.E.R.S.H. - but somehow mentioning them didn't seem polite with Illya there.

Chapter Twenty-One : Leaving (On a Jet Plane)

Rated: NC-17

I know I set the alarm. It was somewhat challenging, given the new technology, but not so much so that I would doubt my results. Why then was I waking to the feel of warmth on my groin rather then the sharp buzz I had anticipated. Not that I am complaining.

Through slitted eyes I look down at the thick curls tickling my waist. Napasha has always had the softest hair. Even shaggy as it is now, it is beautiful. Make that *especially* as it is now. If that dark hair is always a pleasure to see, how much more so do I enjoy seeing it against my navel when that means his cheek is against my thigh and his lips are...oh yes ...on my cock.

My eyes spring open. I twist to the side, not thinking until my glance falls on the bedside clock. Six o'clock? Our plane leaves at 7:15! "We do not have time for this."

"Time enough." He murmurs, increasing his pressure.

"We will miss breakfast." A stupid comment, but my brain has little space left for conversation. All my attention has ventured south to catalog the pleasures of each separate nerve under Napasha's agile tongue.

Napasha pauses for a moment and licks his lips.

I reach for him, but he bats away my hand. Apparently he is in one of his moods. So we will do it his way - for now.

I give myself up to the sensation of wet heat and pressure. Of his hands on my balls and his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. Within seconds I am past control, gripping the sheets and spilling blindly within those talented lips. I am still gasping when Napasha rises to his feet, heading for his valise with the bland air of a man for whom nothing has happened.

I will repay him, I vow.  As I am quite sure he knows. But he also knows that just now we are out of time.

We shower and dress quickly. There is no time for games. Fortunately, we have nearly nothing to pack, and Napoleon can dress quickly when he must. In less then ten minutes we are downstairs and standing at the front door.

The uniformed man at the door materializes a taxi and bows us into it. Napoleon appears to take such servility as his due.

I scowl.

He gives me a cat in the cream pot smile. "Still missing breakfast?"

Decadent American. Not that I do not love him for it, but still.... "You may have dined... I have not."

"Complaining?"

No. I am delighted. Still, it would not do to say that. Not here, where there might be ears. Not now.  Perhaps not ever. So I keep silent.

Napasha grins. "Besides, it's a meal flight."

I smile back, conquered. He knows me too well.

Napoleon gives the driver our destination, then turns to me. "Illya. Got a hundred?"

"You bribe the driver." I answer. "It is your fault that we are running late."

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

The cab driver must race in his spare time.

We make the airport desk with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, we have no check-in luggage. The desk clerk looks put upon, but not to the point of disaccommodating first class passengers.  Riga has clearly reverted to feudalism. He checks our tickets and our passports and waves us on to the stairs.

The plane is full. I am glad Napoleon insisted on following procedure and purchased three seats. We take ours - window and aisle at the back of the forward cabin. Right across from the rest rooms. Very secure.

We have just stowed our cases in the overhead bin when a well tailored young man strolls up with the stewardess. "Pardon, Miss." He has Napoleon's smile and a British accent. "I rather  believe I'll sit with these gentlemen."

"Well.." I give her a winter look. She wavers. "I don't think..."

His smile stiffens and he pulls a leather ID case from his breast pocket.

She glances from it, to me, to him. "If you insist."

"Gentlemen." She smiles at Napoleon, but keeps one eye on me. "I'm sorry. The plane is going to be full. I know you purchased that seat, but if it's not used I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to give it up for this gentleman."

She give me a hopeful smile. I do not return it.

She turns to Napoleon. "You'll be compensated, of course, and it won't be for the full flight - just as far as  Warsaw."

"I don't think..." I begin.

"Don't worry, chaps." He raises one finger in mock salute. "I'll take the window seat." A gesture of trust - perhaps. Or perhaps the knowledge I would offer no other. He speaks to Napoleon but hands me the black case. "Bond, James Bond."

I look over the card. James Bond. British Foreign Service. That is what it says, but.... I remember Mr. Bond, and this is not him. Something of my thoughts must reach my face, because he shrugs.  "Shall we say Bond 007.4?"

Well, yes, they do replace. As do we. I wonder at the fate of his predecessor, but such questions are never polite. I will wait to get the report from Intel.

Napoleon stands. Apparently we are going along with this. I do likewise, handing the newcomer his papers and moving over to the center seat. Proper handshakes all around before we resettle ourselves.

We strap in, and conversation is halted for the takeoff and cabin announcements. Nothing new there, although the forced joviality is a touch annoying. We wait until the signs go off before loosening our belts.

Napoleon sits back, apparently relaxed. "Strange coincidence."

Bond catches the question and is clearly not deceived by its tone. "Catching this flight was an coincidence. Rush call to Berlin. Sitting with you? No choice. Rather plonk with blokes who I know aren't K.A.O.S.?"

"K.A.O.S.?"

"Nasty chaps. Rather like your T.H.R.U.S.H. fellows." He makes a vague gesture of dismissal. "How did I tag you? Called in at the start. Think half the world was, to speak plain. Half *our* world, any rate. Day you chaps showed up at that mine, Auntie whistled up the troops.  Me? I drove a lorry. Mother can be a bit protective, you know. And the Belaruse? Slimy buggers. Sell their sister for a used Yugo."

"So you recognized us?"

"After a sort." This time the smile was a honest grin. "I must say you chaps are looking worlds better. Rather a bad show down there - but you'd know better then me. Good to have you back in trim, as it were."

I am not fully reassured of his intentions, but perhaps the chance of information will outweigh the dangers of discovery. Especially since the later is a given. I am still considering a suitable question when the stewardess is back.

"Mr. Bond? You have a call?"

"Sorry. I'd best take that."

He unlatches the telephone receiver set in the back of the seat in front of me. "Bond here." He listens, and after a few seconds produces a beige disk from his jacket. Some sort of scrambler, I assume. He snaps one end over the earphone and stick the ear piece in this ear. "Go on."

Napoleon is once again in the back of a newspaper provided by the plane. This time the London Times. Checking his stocks, I assume. Why, even for a capitalist, a man with as little actual ability to hold on to money as Napasha should be fascinated by that....shell game... I can not understand. Still, it does fascinate him. I suppose it is another form of gambling. One that the Americans have somehow declared respectable enough to discuss at work. Myself? If I were to gamble I would prefer some honest waste like poker. But I have always known that American morals are strange. Still, his one visible hand gives the signal for 'listen in'. As if I would have to be told. He knows me, as I know that from behind his paper he is actually watching the plane.

Wishing to appear polite, I pick up my much traveled copy of Astrophysica and pretend to read. Not that there is now anything in it I have not been through twice - and even the first time it was less interesting than the partial conversation beside me.

"Yes?" The British agent's tone is polite but bland.

I listen carefully, but there is nothing to hear. Or rather, there is speech, but Mr. Bond is quite professionally vague. Even so...

"Oh, Please! I rather think first class." The offended tone is quite sincere.

That is the Bond I remember. The Brits spoil their 'elite'. A foolish waste and a danger to cohesion. More so, since I knew the previous Bond was a Scots peasant until he got the call. Then suddenly he was a 'gentleman'. Such nonsense. Still, what better can be expected from a country that prides itself on remaining a monarchy? At least the Americans claim some democratic ideals. Although Napoleon would be no better if Wavery did not exert some discipline.

"Remind Q that makes four suits this month. My tailor is getting a bit chuffed."

That is *very* Bond - and Napoleon is worse.

"Bother M." He taps his fingers on the tray. A bad habit. "Very well. I'm listening." After thirty minutes of tapping and listening. I am bored enough to start reading.

"Gentlemen?" The stewardess is back, this time with a drink cart. Bond waves her off. I consider the offer, but it is to early for vodka - even if I truly deserve some. I settle for coffee, and Napoleon orders the same.

At the first sip I realize my mistake. This is the nasty American stuff. No matter. At least it is hot. I drop down my tray. Napoleon can use it, and still have free access to the aisle. And it will block our British friend.

He notes the movement and signals the stewardess for a third coffee, never turning from the phone. Apparently the conversation is of some interest. At least, he is listening closely. It is another ten minutes before he speaks again. "Charming chap."

Whatever that means. For the tone, it is not a compliment. A few sips of coffee and he goes back to listening.

Another long pause. Our British friend produces a black plastic pad from his pocket and starts jotting down notes. Nothing I can see. He shields it well, and it would be unadvisable to look obviously. Quite an improvement on the old  equipment.  I doubt this electronic pad leaves impression sheets.

It is another half hour at least before the stewardess returns - this time with breakfast trays. Again our new companion ignores her. We do not. This is very much an American breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Not my favorite.  No matter. I am hungry and it is food.

Napoleon greets his tray with approval. This is his favorite. If not up to his ideals, at least it is familiar. He has more bad coffee. I switch to orange juice. It has a tinned taste. No matter. It is good enough, and I very much appreciate the vitamin C.

At a word, she leaves an extra glass for Napoleon. He needs it for his bruises. Not that he considers such things. I do, so I will see that he drinks it.

We finish breakfast in relative silence. I would like to talk with Napoleon, but our new company rather limits the topics. No matter. We will have time later. When we are finished the stewardess picks the trays and offers magazines and more drinks. I accept the first and pass on the later. Not that the magazines are much better then the coffee. Financial journals and some pink thing called People full of the trite misdeeds of the Hollywood set. I pass them to Napoleon and return to the reading I brought.

After a bit longer I feel the plane start down. Almost there. Our British colleague is still frowning at his phone. "Very well, but have it waiting."

He pulls the mouthpiece off and places the phone back into its cradle in the seat in front of me. "Bloody Krauts," he mutters, slipping his equipment back into his jacket. " They think the only car on earth is the BMW."

I nod at that. "Convertible, I hope."

"Rather." He sound almost outraged at even the question. "One does have some standards."

Yes. I believe this man is now Bond.

The stewardess returns and reminds us to prepare for landing. There is the usual business of strapping and the usual announcement of connections missed and delayed. Whatever the time, that part of air travel endures unchanged. We all sit quietly until we are on the ground.

Bond stands. "Lovely meeting you," he says as we shake hands again. "Give me a call up when you're in London. Mother has my number."

We also stand so he can leave.

I wait until he is out the door before turning to my partner. "Did you believe that?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I wonder how they found us?"

I leave the "they" unquestioned. It does not matter. Made is made. Time to evade.

We wait until the others have left the plane. Thirty minute layover. Not long, but if challenged we can claim to be looking for decent coffee. One sip if the on board stuff should prove back-up enough.

It is a large terminal, and busy. An easy place to vanish if you understand the technique. The usual lobby- and -wings format of any decent sized airport.

Napoleon signals 'follow at a distance'. Any tail will have a hard time watching both of us, and if he makes the effort we may see him first.

The path to the main terminal is clearly marked. Within ten minutes we are seated at a 'coffee bar' sipping overprices espressos. I do not complain. It is hot. It is caffeine. And the view of the concourse is excellent. "Where to now?" I ask.

"This place looks large enough." Napoleon pitches his green paper cup into the nearby bin. "Pick a plane."

END CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

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