Rated: PG

April Dancer has a nice office. Wide desk, deep carpet, big leather chairs. It would be even better if the windows worked. The are dead black - just like the cars. The driver again holds the door while we enter.

April is still chatting. "You are  both looking wonderful." Heading to the wet bar, she pours us each a coffee. "Have a seat." She hands them over as she herds the black-clad crowd from her office. Only when the last is through the door does she settle.

"Napoleon." She crosses her arms. Such a remembered gesture. "What have I done now to peeve you?" Her tone is sharp and bright.  So very much like the April I remember.

Napoleon remains standing. "Our Specials?"

"Oh." Her face twists like she had bit into a sour peach. "That could be a glitch. We don't use those any more."

I move behind her, sipping my coffee. "Lack of enemies?"

"Hardly." she  snorts. "New technology."

"I'd offer, but..." Dancer shakes her head as she drops into her chair. "You two are a bit off on qualifications. And *seriously* past review date."

Napoleon says nothing. Just stands there.

"OK. Maybe if..." She looks up from under thick lashes.

He still says nothing.

"OK. Let me see." She punches a few buttons on a box on her desk. "Mr. Grimm? Dancer here. Could you come up to my office?" Very polite, but it does not sound like a request.

The man must hear it the way I do because there is a knock in the door before we have finished our coffee. April stands as he enters.

"Mr. Grimm. My Ordinance Chief."

We shake hands. Napoleon first, being nearer, then me. I take the opportunity to check him over. Another man in black. Perhaps fifty. It is hard to tell. Grey hair, solid build. The no nonsense expression that screams 'former field agent'. I am impressed. Wary, but impressed. Not many of us reach mandatory retirement age in a shape to keep working.

"Grimm." Dancer says. "I have a problem. Overdue certification"

"How long?"

"1968" She waves off his shocked expression. "Don't complain - solve!"

He rubs his chin. "Something....shelf?"

"OK.  Fine. That will work." She points to Napoleon. "Take Mr. Solo here to the range. Find him something usable.  If he passes cert, I will sign for a Temporary Federal Permit."

"That work?" she asks the room.

Napoleon smiles. The Dancer woman appears immediately relieved.

"Thanks. " Napasha says as he steps beside Mr. Grimm. "Illya?"

I start to follow, but...

"Illya can stay here  and chat with me, " the lady insists. When Napoleon frowns, she just smiles wider. "Mr. Grimm can only handle one of you at a time. You first.  Then, when you're finished, Illya can come down."

Napoleon looks at me. I signal 'Why not?' We have no proof of treachery. And very few other options.

"Sit, Illya." she says.

Charming, but with the edge of command. I take a chair.

Once we are alone she pours vodka. Very good stuff. I wish I could drink it. After she hands me mine, she sits down as well. "You are very sure you would not like to be Ukrainian?"

I start to rise.

"Just joshing.  Relax."

"What is this fixation with the Ukraine?"

"There is a joke - not too funny.  'What is the Russian word for Ukrainian? Traitor.' She takes a deep sip if her drink and sighs.  "What can I expect? Every senior Ukrainian military official ... well?  Twenty years ago they were all senior Russian military officials.  Now? Lots of hard feelings. If I can get two to work together for fifteen minutes, its a miracle." She shakes her head. "But... there are gobs of missiles still in the Ukraine and we have a contract to make them go away. Which  does not mean sold to Iraq or North Vietnam. With your background and knowledge? Your reputation? You would have a lot to contribute."

I touch the glass to my lips. "I am not certain I am still interested in enforcement."

"Yes well....."

"And I am no longer qualified for Section Two."

"I would not say...."

"I would." I interrupt her. "If thirty years is long in history, it is impossible in science."

"Not if the damn science is also thirty years old."

Odd response. Over-close to matters best undiscussed. Time to change the subject. "My partner?"

"Napoleon? I sure *hope* he'll be with us." April takes another sip. "The details would have to depend on your separate decisions. We have the usual anti-discrimination and domestic policies." She shrugs and adds, " For what they are worth."

That is a strange statement. I am wondering how to respond when she continues. "I absolutely would not hesitate to assign you separately if that was my need. Domestically? You know we discourage any sort of family ties in our field agent, preferring to have them more flexable- but in your case? I will not make any promises, but I believe I can place you in the same sector. At least between assignments."

"Which in my case would be counting missiles in the Ukraine?"

"Not quite like the old days, is it?" Another sip finishes her drink. "No car chases, or shootouts, or blowing up islands." She puts her empty glass down on her desk. "We still do good work. Treaty monitoring, tracking sanctions, weapons violations."

"And If you find one?" I touch my glass again.

"We report it to the United Nations, or to the contracting country."

I show nothing but she knows me well enough to imagine my surprise. She stands up and walks over to pat my shoulder. "Illya, the world in no longer a place for cowboys."

"I do not know.."

"Think it over." She his another button and her door opens. A handsome young man enters wearing a lab coat. White. Apparently there are some exceptions to the dress code.

April introduces the new man. "Dr. Saint-Pierre, Dr. Kuryakin." We shake hands as she continues. "Dr. Saint-Pierre will show you around. Not everywhere, natch, but I'm sure we have enough open work to tweak your interest. We work in an expanding field. Here, we have the resources to expand with it. You could find being back with us very comfortable."

I nod attentively, but answer "I would prefer to join Napoleon."

"Very well." She throws up her hands. "Let's all go."

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

Grimm is cleaning his hands when we enter the range. "He passed."

"Good." Dancer answers. "Send the paperwork up to Mari and I'll get it started." She pauses, then adds.  "Now that's done, why don't you find something for Dr. Kuryakin? He can check out  while Napoleon and I catch up in old times."

At my hesitation, April just drawls "Relax. You guys have been safe  with me for years. I'll keep an eye on Napoleon and guard him from the typing pool. You just do the drill. Then Grimm can bring you up to my office when you're done."

Napoleon signals 'go along' , so I do.

Grimm leaves with them and comes back with a pistol. Smith and Wesson. Standard automatic. Long in the barrel, but workable.

I check the load. "What is passing?"

"Minimum? 85% of 100 rounds."

I don the ear protection and take my place on the line. Five clips. This piece throws to the right.  After three  shots I have learned to compensate. Even so, the sights will have to be reset.

I finish, pull the clips, and check the barrel. That is also a bit off, I think. I mention the flaw to Grimm. He starts to argue, then thinks better of it.  He leaves again, and this time returns with a Makarov.

"This suit you better?" he asks.

I strip the clip. Eight rounds. Not my model, but close enough. I take a few test shots. Much better. This model is light, but accuracy is more important then range. I empty another five clips, reload, then fire again. That should be more then sufficient.

I wipe down the weapon, then hand it to Grimm. He checks it over while his assistant resets the target.

"92%. You pass."

"Thank you." I answer, holding out my hand for the gun. "I would like another box."

"Why?" Grimm asks. "You passed."

"With a new weapon, It will take at least a thousand rounds to become accurate."

He shrugs, but hands over the box. I pick the shoulder holster off the counter and strap it on.

The assistant leans over. "You might get closer without the knife."

"I need to know how to fire accurately with the knife."

"Why? Do you sleep with that thing?"

"Generally."

I finish two more boxes. One for target, one for draw. Not enough, but it will have to do. I have places to be. Such as upstairs. With Napoleon. I clean the gun, holster it, and turn to Mr. Grimm. "Perhaps now we should rejoin Miss Dancer?"

****

Napoleon is drinking Scotch and being charming. From all appearances he is having a marvelous time. But he stands as I enter the room.

I turn to the Dancer woman. "Thank you, April. You have been very kind."

"Absolutely wonderful." Napoleon adds.

"But we should go. It has been a long trip."

"Sorry, doll." Napasha strolls over and drops a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be thinking about you."

I doubt she is fooled by our routine, but she accepts it. "Where are you staying?"

Napoleon raises one eyebrow and her smile edges into embarrassment. "I'm afraid your apartments have been turned."

"One can't rely on rent control forever - even in New York."

"Mark and I packed up  your stuff. Furniture and clothes and all that. It may take a bit but we'll find it." April laughs a bit. "When did a bureaucracy ever toss anything?" Then she pauses. "I  think Mark may have kept some of your personal papers.  He never would completely trust Sir John."

"There's always the Ritz."

"On my tab?" April shakes her head. "I'm not Waverly, but I'm not a fool. I know you far too well, Napoleon.  Besides, New York hotels are all famously terrible. You deserve better then that." She makes a show of shuffling through papers.  "I think...yes..we do have one apartment open in your old building." Reaching over her desk, she presses another button. "Mari? Could you find the keys to building 4, 2-C."

A young woman -  Mari, I would assume -  comes in and hands us each a set of keys on a black fob. From her speed, it is obvious this offer is far less spontaneous then implied. So? It is smoothly done.

"Not quite home, but at least you'll know the neighborhood." April nods at Mari, saying "Call a car." Then turns to Napoleon. "The driver will drop you back at the shop. From there you know the way."

April hands us each laminated cards."Keep these on you."

I check out the plasticized rectangles. They say ' Interstate Federal Firearms Permit' and are signed April Dancer. The photos are from our old files. Obviously some things are more easily found than others.

"Boys?" she adds. "Please don't shoot anyone. You have no idea what a hassle that could be."

*******

Napoleon says nothing until we are back at our car. "So?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "All are not cooks who walk with long knives."

Chapter Twenty-Six : Once I Had A Secret Love

Rated: PG-13

The second floor apartment is almost familiar. Same layout as Napoleon's, only flipped to the right. Bland Danish furniture. Oversized television with what the magazines identified as a movie player. I assume any movies would be in the drawers below.

"So." I comment. "Your place." I take my case and head to what should match his guest room.

He heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle. "I can see why this is not your apartment. There is food in the kitchen."

I glance over. Vodka and Scotch? This offer is seeming less casual by the second.  But I answer "Not yours either if the vodka is cold." Stepping down the short hall, I open the left hand door. That should be the guest bedroom. No. It is an office or library. Desk, chairs, books - but no bed. No couch to conceal a bed.  Strange. I open the other door. One bed. King size, but still only one. As my eyes search the walls I call out "I think perhaps we should go out to eat tonight."

Napoleon catches my tone and comes over. He looks at the bedroom, then at the other room which is *not*. Then at the myriad pictures and  moldings which might conceal a camera. Then at me. "I'll take the couch," he says, straightening his tie.

*****

We say nothing more on the subject until we are seated at Mama Mia's behind large plates of spaghetti.  Good food, and the restaurant is only three doors down. No one on the staff appears to remember us, but the food is still excellent. As is the wine.

The restaurant is busy. Young couples, families with children, larger groups starting off on an evening's entertainment. I check for 'company'. This close to April's building it is more than possible that some of our cheerful fellow diners are brotherhood, but stripped of their black suits there is no way to be certain.

Napoleon raises his glass, but does not offer the toast. He only drinks. After a long moment, he mutters "I just cannot believe that our April would try to trap us like that."

"What I do not understand is why?" I add. "What could she gain? Our removal? We could have been killed in the hospital, and who would have known?"

Napoleon puts down his fork. "What did she say to you?"

"She wanted to talk about missiles in the Ukraine. You?"

"Public relations."

That is such an incredible idea, I think this time my face must move.

"Exactly." Napoleon says. "Not Section One, is it?"

I take a deep drink. "No."

We eat in silence. Not until we are finishing our cannoli does Napoleon speak again. "That's it then. We are what.. ex-spies?"

Evidently, but...I shrug. "At least we are living ex-spies."

"True." He raises his glass towards me. "So. What do you want to do?"

I raise mine. "Go back to school, I suppose. Get a job. I do not have family money." When he says nothing I add. " Well, what else is there? I do not want to count boxes for April, and  I don't understand a word of the new physics." Still no answer, so I ask. "You?"

He gives me a very strange look "Sail, I guess. Golf. Sell insurance.  I just never thought it would end like this."

"End..." My breathing stops. "Napasha! This is not the end!" I look at his frozen face. "Is it?"

"Isn't it? What do we have left?" He finishes the glass and refills it. "You'll manage.  Hell, you'll be brilliant. You always are. Go back to Cambridge and the KGB will rush to recruit you all over again. But me? April'd find me a desk somewhere just to avoid the embarrassment, and I'd be a fat old has-been rotting away in a basement who nobody needs and nobody cares about, and..."

"No!" I interrupt. "Napasha! Is it not enough that I care?"

"How long will you care, now that I have nothing to offer you?"

This time it is vision that stops. The world turns red. Just for a second, but..."Napoleon Anthony Solo?"  The name comes in my winter voice. "You will apologize. Immediately.  And if you ever again insult me in that manner, I assure you that I will break at least three of your bones."

"Illyusha."

"Do you doubt me?"

"No."

"Good." I sit back. "I am waiting."

He takes a deep swallow of his wine, then starts. "I'm sorry, Illya. I did not mean ... I just feel so lost. So... inadequate. But I did not mean to insult you."

"But you did."

"Yes. And I am sorry. Truly."

"Very well. I will believe you." I reach for the bill. "Lets go back to the apartment. We will consider our future careers in the morning."

When we get to the living room I look at the couch. It looks rather hard. Also short. Too short. "Give me the quilt." I tell Napoleon. "You take the bed. And Napoleon? Sleep on the left. You will want them to get your good side."

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

It was a hard night, after a long trip, and I am still trying to sleep when Napoleon bounds into the room and throws open the drapes.

"Good morning Illya!"

I roll over and pull the quilt over my head.

"Time to rise and shine."

"Napoleon," I growl, "Is it not too early for such... cheer?"

"Not at all. Dress up and pack up. We are on the road."

I pull down the quilt and blink at the light. "I don't suppose you would reveal the cause of your...enthusiasm."

"Not yet," he answers, plucking my glasses of the nightstand and holding them out to me. "It's a surprise."

Very well, I do not know what has affected him so, but when Napasha is in one of his moods? I have long since learned it is wisest to cooperate.  I shower and dress quickly while he packs up our bags. By the time I am ready, he has the car waiting out front.

"I don't suppose you could tell me where we are going?" I ask.

"Many places. But first of all...breakfast."

He drives to Central Park, pulling up by the Tavern on the Green. "Come on, Illya" He flips the keys to the valet. "Time is wasting."

Apparently we have reservations. Beyond the reservations I constantly have when Napoleon gets ... creative. At least, the lady at the podium smiles at his name. "Would you gentlemen like a menu."

"No need," he replies. "Stuffed French Toast and Pink Grapefruit Mimosas."

I look at him.

He smiles back. "That's what they're famous for. Why else would we come here?"

The lady shows us to a prime outside table and bustles off.

"Very well, Napoleon," I say, looking around at the assembly of vacationers. "Exactly what is all this in honor of?"

"It's a birthday party, tovarishch. A celebration of our new lives." A pause, then, "I have been thinking."

"Obviously."

He ignores that. "Perhaps you should go back to school. Perhaps in Berkeley."

"Berkeley?" Where is that from? "Why Berkeley?"

"I confess," he laughs. "I called Mark Slate this morning. Got his home number from directory service. Once he forgave me for pulling him out of bed, it was... interesting. No, unbelievable."

"So April Dancer told the truth.  Mark is teaching in California."

"Full Professor, U. C. Berkeley. He's invited us out to stay with him."

Mark was a good comrade, but.. "Should we go?"

"Absolutely. You said I could flirt with you in California."

A young man hurries over with our drinks. Tall and bubbling, and garnished with sliced strawberries. Napoleon raises his toward me. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.  I give you Saturday - and Sunday."

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

This time we get to the airport early. Which is all to the good, as checking in with firearms has become seriously complicated. Still, after a review of our papers we are eventually  permitted to carry them on board. After a call to April, we are even allowed to keep them loaded. I look at our tickets. "Only two seats?"

"No more expense account." Napoleon smiles at the joke. "Besides, we have the entire row."

True. It is not a large plane, but the seats are very comfortable. I check the layout in the seat pocket as the stewardess goes into her usual lecture. "How long does it take to fly to California?"

"Eager?" Napoleon asks.

"I cannot quite believe that.." I do not finish the sentence. Some words are impossible.

"I told you what Mark told me." Napoleon answers as he makes a show of checking his seat belt, then mine. "Soon enough, we can see for ourselves."

"True, but it seems...inconceivable."

His hand covers mine. "We were inconceivable once."

"I remember, but... are you absolutely certain that he said..?"

Napoleon draws back his hand. "Your choice."

"Well."  I unfold the flight blanket and carefully spread it over both our laps. "I suppose we .... might." I stretch my left hand out carefully until it brushes against his right. The dividing center arm conceals our movements. " But only until someone comes."

His strong fingers curl around mine. Our palms match. The sensation is very warm, very... intimate. It is very strange to risk such a thing in public. Strange, even frightening, but...I am glad.

He pulls me closer, brushing the back of my hand against his thigh. The wool of his pants is very fine, but still... it tickles. Just a bit. Just at the top, where my cuff catches against the twill.  I had never imagined that skin would be so sensitive.

After a moment his thumb brushes my wrist. Very slowly. Very gently. My eyes close. For now there is only him. Only my Napasha. Only that sense of... connection. I grip him harder, not believing what we have.  What I dream we *can* have. Perhaps, I pray to gods I cannot name, what we *will* have.

"Gentlemen?" I start up and snatch my hand back to my lap. Did she see? Is she...? Will she...? "I'm sorry to trouble you but I have to ask..." I freeze.  "Would you care for the chicken or the beef?"

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Two Fine People

Rated: PG-13

When we get off the plane this time, our reception is waiting.

Mark Slate is recognizably Mark. Older, of course. He must be nearly sixty. He does not look it.  A bit heavier perhaps. A touch of grey at the temples. But still very much the man I remember from the field. "Illya." He calls out. "Napoleon."

We push through the crowd to where he is standing.

"Mark, you look fit." Napoleon says.

Mark sweeps Napoleon into a broad hug. "You guys look great. How was the flight?"

"Too long," I answer, holding out my hand.

"It always is nowadays." He replies, accepting the handshake. "Terrible service, and the food keeps getting worse. But, hey,  you're here now. Luggage?"

"Only this." I point to our bags.

"Great," he replies, setting off down the hallway. "I left David to park in short term. They give thirty minutes free. If you want to rent a car, it's smarter to do it in town. Better rates." Which might explain the rush. I do not recall Mark having Napasha's trouble with his expense accounts.

The airport is cool, but outside the night air is warm. I begin to regret the holster that makes me keep my jacket. Mark guides us through a maze of concrete and cars, past the elevators and up a flight of open stairs. Within minutes we arrive at a new looking green sedan, besides which a middle aged man is standing. Graying black hair, sun browned skin, a bit thick at the waist , can this be...? The man looks up. "Mark. These are your friends?"

"Yes." Mark opens the trunk and holds a hand out for our luggage. "Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, spook of spooks and  scourge of evildoers everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. This is Dr. David Martinez, my partner, and the terror of the Berkeley economics department."

We shake hands all around. David Martinez looks a bit younger then Mark, but not as much as I had expected. And he was also a professor? Dr. Martinez opens the back door and  waves us in. "They were just shocked to find they had hired a free-market conservative."

Mark slams the trunk shut. "Standards are dropping everywhere."

"It's not a bad department, really." Martinez says, starting the car. "Lots of bright students.  But after spending the day fighting the Bolshevik hordes - I could use a drink."

"So say we all," Mark snaps back. "Several, if you're going to go all Keynesian on us."

"Please." Martinez makes a theatrical clutch at his heart. "Careful with the insults." He pulls on to the freeway, steering sharply to avoid an on-coming truck. Finally, I think, I have found someone who drives even more recklessly then Napasha.

I sit quietly, listing to Mark and his friend swap soft insults with the confidence of long familiarity. There is something different to their chat, and it takes me a while to realize what it is. They banter like any old married couple.

I hesitate, looking at Napoleon.

"Mark? " he asks. "You are really....?"

"Twenty-six years come September."

Napasha glances at me , then asks Mark, "The University does not object?"

Mark chuckles. "The University gives us benefits and threw a nice party for our Silver Anniversary."

"Not that nice," Martinez snaps back. " Cheap Paso Robles wine."

"You're joking."

"David Never Jokes." Mark answers in mock solemnity. "He's into Hayak. He's also a wine snob."

Martinez snorts at that, but he does not deny either claim.

Our driver honks at a pickup and slips over three lanes to make an off ramp, while Mark turns around in his seat to  look at us. "Rather, I'm the one who's dead serious. That's one of the reasons I invited you two out here. There's a whole new world waiting, chaps, but to get there.... you're going to need your friends."

The car pulls to a stop beside a two-storied Tudor house on a well manicured lawn. Hidden lights illuminate the twin strips of rose bushes that separate it from its neighbors. "Home sweet home." Mark quips, hopping out and opening the trunk "Now, before I bring in the luggage, are we going to play one room or two?"

Napoleon hesitates, then says, "Ask Illya."

Mark looks at me. "I suppose....one," I answer.

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

Mark takes up our luggage while his friend guides us to the living room. It is very... comfortable. Even inviting. Nice leather sofas, good walnut furniture, exceedingly good rugs. Here and there sits an exotic piece that is clearly a souvenir, although whether of Slate's adventures or of more plebeian travels I could not guess. Such a lovely house, much like the ones I remember from my Cambridge days...except Californians have either discovered heating or learned to manage without it. Given the outside warmth, it could be either.

David Martinez opens the top of a large globe and pulls out two glasses. "Chivas and vodka. Have I got that right?"

Napoleon picks a  well positioned leather chair and settles in. "If you have it."

"Chivas Regal Premium Label. Purchased for the occasion." He hands Napoleon a  glass, then brings another to me. "I made Mark spring for the good Polish stuff."

"Thank you Dr. Martinez."

"David, please. Unless you really want me to call you Dr. Kuryakin. Although, with my lead ear for accents, I'm not even sure I could."

"Very well." I raise the glass. "David." He is right. The vodka is excellent. Perhaps even better for being served warm.

David pours two stemmed glasses of dark red wine and closes the globe. "I'm delighted to meet you two - at last," he says, taking a place on the sofa. "Mark doesn't talk much about his secret agent days, so I can hardly claim to know you second hand,  but when he heard you were coming?  He was like a kid at Christmas."

"You will destroy my aura of mystery." Mark is standing in the arched entrance.

"What aura of mystery?" David pats the cushion beside him. "Nowadays I can barely imagine Mark as a spy. His face shows everything."

Mark takes the seat indicated and reaches for his wine. "It does now, David. You didn't know me at my worst."

"Worse than...?" He shakes his head at some old memory. "I wish I had."

"I'm glad you did not. It was bad enough..."

David shrugs. "Liberal guilt. What can you do?" He takes a sip if wine, then turns to me "So.  How are you two enjoying the new millennium?"

I think for a moment. "It is... interesting."

"As in the Chinese curse? Don't listen to the radio crazies. We have our problems, but ... I think you'll like it here."

We sit for a bit, listening to Mark and Napoleon revisit our good times.

David rises. "I have to go check the kitchen."

"Would you care for some help?" I ask.

"You cook?"

"Not well, but after the Russian Navy? I know how to follow orders."

He laughs. "Five minutes, guys."

Martinez is serious about his cooking, but after a minute of close observation he declares me qualified to toss the salad. An honor, since in this case it is a exceedingly complicated affair of spring greens and crudities. While I mix, he adds the last garnishes to a platter of new potatoes and pastry wrapped salmon.

I carry it all to the dinning room while David brings up another bottle of wine. Officially white, this time, although the actual shade is darker then the fish. After pouring, he passes the label to Napoleon. Soon they are off on another discussion of exotic vintages. Which again leaves me to talk to Mark.

"Mark. I cannot believe you left the agency early?"

"I can't believe they let me. I resigned in protest over.. well...certain policies. Waverly died in 1978. Did April tell you that?"

"No, but when she said she was CPO.... well." I hesitate. "We would have expected you to hold the post."

Mark shrugged. "Might have, eventually. I took Enforcement, but I never quite had the Solo style. Sir John took over after Waverly, but.... it wasn't the same. He was more of a player, and he let things get.... political. You are lucky you missed it."

I ran through the history book I had finally finished on the plane to California. "If you resigned in 1980, it must have been the matter of Afghanistan."

"I'd rather not discuss such things. Not necessary."

"Right answer," Napoleon agrees.

David looks at the three of us and shakes his head. "And here I thought the FBI was paranoid."

Mark was right about his companion's gourmandise. He brings out third bottle with desert. Sweet liqueur with fruit and cheese. Very European, although David Martinez proudly assures us that it is all local produce. Napoleon is impressed, and they fall into a chat about crus and curvees. That leaves me to talk with Mark.

I mention my 'resignation', and the strange advice of the general and Dr. Goldak. "What I cannot believe is that my people want me to leave."

"Things are different now."

"So I have been told."

Davis looks up from his lecture on the wine label. "You know, Mark, Illya really should get together with Grustov in Languages." He turns to me. "Demitri  runs a quiet little support group. Very low key."

"What is a support group?" I ask.

"Peer support." Davis answers. " People to talk to? Like A.A.? Except his is for ....well....you know. Very non-partisian. There's always been a big C.I.A. presence in the area."

"You want me to meet with the C.I.A.? I do not think...."

"No! Illya! David did not mean that!" Mark sends a sharp glance across the table to his friend.  "David. Be a bit sensitive!" He turns to me, calmly reassuring. "Demitri Grustov retired as a Colonel in the G.R.U. All very kosher. I checked." At that, Mark grins. "I mean, I would never knowingly hire an *active* agent. This is a state school."

David rolls his eyes at that, but Mark continues. "Grustov applied with the language department. They wanted someone to teach Turkish and Slovenian. He wanted to come to California.  Very good deal all around. PoliSci picked him up later. Goldstein was bitching about faculty balance for the R.O.T.C. instructors."

That is no explanation. "If he is not active, why does he run a group?"

"A support group... oh, never mind, that's just one of the things that has changed. You'll catch on."

David  changes the subject. "Can we convince you two to stay in Berkeley?"

"I was thinking of going back to school."

"I though you already had your Doctorate?"

"Yes, Quantum Physics from Cambridge. 1954."

"Ouch!" David makes a pained face. "That field has changed beyond belief. I think we have a pretty decent department here, but the real work is being done out at Santa Barbara by the Chaos Math guys. Very radical." He rises and begins collecting the plates. "I can show you around, but I don't know too many people in that department.  Economics is not considered a hard science."

END CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

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