Second note: This story was written in Jan/March 2001. The above, however, is still true.

Chapter Thirty-One: A Day in the Life of a Lucky Man

Rated: NC-17

I finally wake to a perfected world.

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Napoleon Anthony Solo is sleeping in my arms. He is so handsome in the sunlight, with his strong legs tangled in the printed sheets. The dark hairs reflect bronze highlights in the shaft of light that comes through the window and warms the tanned gold that is his skin. The rich mahogany that is his hair.  Such soft, thick hair.

The alarm starts, but I end it before the harsh tone can disturb his rest.

Napasha shifts, and I see his cock rise, half full from the dreams of the night. I cannot resist. I ease down until I can place a soft kiss on the blushing peach shaft. Then another. As always, I am amazed by the miracle of that velvet flesh filling and lengthening. A damp stroke of my tongue over the rosy head  brings a groan, and his eyelashes flutter. The first drop of fluid is salty and slick on my tongue.

"Lay back, Napasha," I murmur before taking his shaft deep into my throat. It feels so good there. I pull back, running my tongue  over the sensitive head, then dive again to claim his full length.

He leans over until he is parallel to me, his cheek leaning against my thigh. I am hard already, and the first touch of his lips brings out a groan. Da. He is so good at that.

I stifle my cries with the nearest thing at hand. His cock.

His lips close on me even as mine seal on him. Taking his cock deep into my throat, I let the sensitive flesh absorb the vibrations wrought by its owners mouth. A mouth which responds with more and stronger licks. Which brings out more moans and whimpers to tease his eager rod. Precious feedback, and all too relished. Within seconds we are both spurting, too frantic with pleasure and haste to be subtle.

"What a nice wakeup call." Napasha smiles up at me. "I'll have to sleep late more often.

"That is the nice thing about a warm climate. Very few blankets."

He places a tender kiss on the back of my knee before getting up from our bed. "One more nice thing about California. Very large showers."

I grin at the invitation in his voice - then I accept it.

**********

"Good morning," David calls from the kitchen. "Breakfast should be here soon."

As I walk across the hall, the doorbell rings.

"That'll be the tamale man now." David looks up from where he is slicing papaya. "Illya? Could you get that? I've left a twenty on the hall table."

I give the man the note, accept in exchange a heavy plastic bag from which the rising steam carries a most appetizing scent. Too hot to touch, I have to hold the foil wrapped package carefully by the hand holds. The delivery man fumbles in his pocket, and after a moment hands me back a bill, which I accept without looking. My error, for when I do... "I'm sorry David, I seem to have received some counterfeit."

"What?" Mark takes the bag and looks over at the oddly misprinted five dollar note I am holding out.  "Oh, that's one of the new bills."

"New?"

"Treasury added holographic threads to discourage counterfeiting."

"And to show on the airport detector." David adds. "I tell you, it's a fascist plot."

"David!" Mark's voice takes on a firm tone. "These two guys might take you seriously. Then where would we be?" He turns to me and adds reassuringly, "Relax, Illya. There is no indication whatsoever of fascist infiltration of the treasury department."

Mark takes the bag as David pulls down some plates. "So, which do you want?" he asks. "The chicken or the pork?"

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

The tamales are excellent. Somewhat unusual for breakfast, but excellent. I mention as much to Mark, who then  regales us with stories of David's cooking and their early California days. Apparently Tamale Sunday was a Latino custom Mark did not learn about until *after* they had moved west. Apparently also it is a local sacrament. David's mother could accept an English 'son', but to accept English *cooking*? Some things are just to much to ask!

I consider my recent meals, then drift back a bit to my Cambridge memories. Yes, I conclude. Mrs. Martinez was a very wise woman indeed.

I over-indulge with one of each, while Napoleon makes inroads into the fresh papaya and lime.

We are stacking the plates into the dishwasher when David calls out . "Mark! You had better hurry, or we'll be late for church."

"Be right along,"he shouts back, then turns to us. "Not Episcopalian, right?"

Napoleon shakes his head. I say nothing.

"I'm afraid you chaps are on your own for a bit." Mark says. "Won't be back until well after lunch."

Napoleon grins as David hurries down the stairs with Mark's jacket. "Never knew you were so devout."

"I'd give this Sunday a pass, but I'm on the building committee. High finance, dontcha know."

"That's just because you gave then that window," David snips, looking over at Napoleon. "After the big earthquake took out all the glass, Mark donated a beautiful stained glass window. St. Crispin. Told them that was his grandfather's patron saint."

Napoleon rubs his chin. "St. Crispin, eh?"

"Had quite a nice dedication Mass. Wednesday before Easter. Grandda's birthday, and all that." Mark heads for the door, calling back. "One should always do something to say thanks."

I glance at Napoleon as I reach for my own jacket. "Do you have plans for today?"

"I thought I might go to the library with you," he answers. "There are a few private matters I'd like to look up."

"As long as you promise not to flirt with the college girls."

"Why would I do that? It's so much more fun to flirt with you."

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

I am rereading a paragraph on implied particles when Napoleon drops into the chair beside mine. "Illya."

"What?" I mutter, not taking my eyes from the text in front of me.

"Look at this," he insists. "This is incredible." He holds out a black slab covered with buttons.

"A keyboard?" What is so strange about a keyboard? Although it does look small. So? Many things are miniaturized now.

I start to return to my reading, but Napoleon keeps on. "This is a computer."

"Do not be ridiculous." I look up at the flat plastic, which is now a bright moving display. The box in the center is a list of various capacities. 128K? I shake my head. "That much memory would take up the entire room. No doubt it is linked to a machine in the basement."

He flips it around. "Then why are there no cords?"

What? My eyes scan the glossy black surface.

"Look at it," he insists.

I pick it up...and almost drop it. The whole thing does not weigh ten kilos. I check for a radio transmitter, but there is none. "This is incredible. Where did you get it?"

"From the librarian." Napasha smiles at a young lady sitting behind a long counter. " All the stations were busy, and when I told her that ... she let me borrow hers."

"So.. the charm is back."

"It never left."

"Good."

"And Illya?" Napasha raises one eyebrow. "I thought I  had no charm."

I ignore his teasing and focus on the machine in front of me. "Napasha? Where did she get this?"

"From under her desk."

"No." I scroll down the programs and check out the cache size. "Before that."

"I have no idea." Napasha stands up. "Want me to ask?"

I am still inspecting the machine when he returns, waving a scrap of paper.

"What is that? Her phone number?"

"Of course," Napasha preens. " Along with the address of her favorite shop that sells such things. Right on campus."

"Do you think they are open?"

"Why?" Napoleon snatches back the paper. "Did you want to go there?"

"Do not tease!"

"We can head over now," he concedes, "and afterwards you can buy me lunch. Preferably at someplace with a roof."

******

Napoleon stops dead two feet past the doorway. "Look at these phones." He plucks a red one off of the display. "This is smaller then the one April gave you."

"Which you made me leave behind."

"It was probably bugged," he reminds me.

"True."

"Perhaps we should get a pair?"

"Perhaps." I inspect the smallest unit. "How much range do you think they have?"

He snatches it up and punches a quick set of numbers. "Let me try something."

Two short rings and a woman's voice answers.

"Which girlfriend is that?" I ask.

He holds out the unit so I can hear the words. "Date and time. In Fiji."

I nod. "We get two."

A long haired young man in dungarees and a printed undershirt strolls up. "Can I help you dudes?"

"You sell computers?"

"Sure, man. All sorts of electronics. What did you have in mind?"

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

Four hours later, Napoleon strolls back in , finishing the last bites of his hamburger. I collect my boxes  while Napoleon trashes the McDonald's bag. "Happy now?" he asks.

"Very."

"You should be." He picks up half the purchases. "I've had cars that cost less."

I give the glossy black side a little pat."I will take better care of this then you do of your cars."

"True," he chuckles. "But you could say that about everything."

Stroking the black nylon case, I whisper . "This... is beautiful." Then I gather up another stack of brochures and add them to our bags.

"Napasha?"

"Yes, Illyusha?"

"When we get a house... I want a base station, too."

Chapter Thirty-Two: Prelude Pour Une Nouvelle Amour

Rated: PG

Mark looks up as Napoleon helps me unload my purchases. "First notebook?" he asks.

Napoleon gives me an indulgent look and answers. "First personal computer, period."

"Lord luv it, I remember  that now.  Reel to reel. The whole bloody room." He chuckles a bit, then adds.  "Oh, ducks, are you going to enter a whole new universe. Wait until I explain the World Wide Web."

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

I am reading the Report of the National Commission for the Review of the National Reconnaissance Office when Napoleon walks in, carrying a cup of coffee.

I point to the screen, with its satellite and rocket symbol transposed over the title. "They have a comment box. I wonder if I should...no, let them find out for themselves."

"It's midnight, Illya. What are you reading now?"

"A report on American Spy Satellites." I reply without looking up.

"What?" Napoleon pulls up a chair and sits beside me.

"I asked for rocketry and radio electronics. This was on the list. They have the site and the general frequencies." I click to the display page. "But so far I have not found the trigger codes."

Finished, I close that window and type in Rocketry + Radio electronics + Russia. The bar spins, and after a few seconds another list appears on the screen. I pick the most promising. It opens, then gives me a choice: Public access, or restricted. I click restricted, and watch as another screen appears. This one asks for my ID number. I start to type, then hesitate.

"Illya?" Napoleon stares at the screen, setting the hot cup beside me on the desk. "What are you doing now?"

"Just wondering."

"About what?"

"I wonder if my old codes still work."

"Why?"

I type in a remembered babble of numbers and letters. Another spinning bar, and then a page of text appears. "If they do... yes..... let's see just what they have to say about us."

"No, Illya." Napoleon declares, taking on his command voice. "You are NOT going to hack the Kremlin. No!"

"I am not hacking. That is my authorization code."

"No, Illya."

"Very well." I cancel that address and type instead one I remember for the CIA.

"Illya!" Napoleon snaps as the familiar seal appears. "Not them either! This has got to be illegal."

"Why?" I ask reasonably. "No one has revoked my security clearance."

"That's because you're supposed to be dead."

"Not this week."

"NO!" he repeats. It is his command voice.

I close the window and cancel the search. "Very well. I suppose I should show some respect." I give that a moment's thought, then add. " How do you feel about the Canadians?"

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

"You still up?"

I look over to see David standing in the doorway with a pot of coffee in one hand and a thick sheaf of papers in the other. "What time is it?" I ask.

"Six thirty -  in the morning." He smiles at my shocked expression, then shakes his head. " Don't worry about it. The Web does that to people. Especially their first time out. You'll get used to it." Picking up my empty cup, he pours a fresh brew. "By the way," he adds, holding out the papers, "I collected your messages."

I flip through them. "Who are these people?"

"No idea about some of them," David replies. "Avian is a big electronics place down the coast. Global-Sat? I think they are in Santa Monica. Way south. Hughes and Rocketdyne are pretty much everywhere. Trans-Tech has a place just off campus - and they called twice."

"What?" Mark quips, joining his partner in the doorway. "Nothing from Larry's? They are usually a bit quicker than that."

At my perplexed expression, David adds, "Standing joke. Every physicist that lands on campus, they call the next day. One lunch - then you never hear from them again."

"Who is this Larry?" I ask.

"Rad lab?" David answers. "Laurence Liverpool Laboratories?"

I give him a *look*. "I do not believe they would wish to hire a Soviet spy. Even if my degree was not thirty years our of date."

"Wouldn't be the first," David chuckles.

"Sadly true," Mark acknowledges, " although those folks we aren't supposed to know about." He shrugs. "Sorry, Illya. Security problem a few years back. Turned a bit nasty. All over now, thank God, but it caused quite a row on campus. Nothing to do with you." He gives that a thought, then adds. "You are retired, aren't you?"

"Not officially," I answer. "I have yet to sign the papers."

"Oh. Then I suppose that might bollox your security clearance just a tad." He rubs his chin, glances at the papers, then adds, "Your business, but if you plan to stay...associated.... you probably ought to tell the recruiters up front. Save them a lot of time and hassle with the CI chaps." Another pause, then he adds "Still, it shouldn't  be a problem for everyone."

"That is what these calls are?"

"What did you think?" Mark answers. "Reputations get around. You two are the hot new prospect in town." He glanced down at the various names and numbers. "Some of those are tech. Most are probably management. With the new configurations.. well, there are a lot of joint projects.  Site managers that can pass two or more sets of security are getting scarce." He purses his lips, clearly recognizing some of the names. "Don't rush it. You'll meet a lot of people at the Cold Crew. They can give you better contacts then these. And you don't want to look too eager."

"You mean there is really a job market for ex-spies?"

David laughs at my shock. "Ex or otherwise."

"Damn straight," Mark concurs. "We keep it quiet but - other people's business is big business around these parts."

Chapter Thirty-Three  - Just another Manic Monday

Rated: PG

"What do you want to do today?" Napoleon asks brightly as I finish my third double-expresso.

"I *want* to sleep." I grumble. "What I will do is go back to the library, if you will drop me off there.  I still have quite a bit of research to complete. And you?"

"Call back on some of these." He ruffles though his own stack of notes. "Go into town. Check into some real estate. If you plan to stay here we will need to get a place."

"True," I answer. Not that Mark and David are not wonderful hosts, but we cannot impose on them forever. We will need a place of our own. Which means we will have to make some decisions as to  where we want to live. Which in my case means finding either a school or a job. Better both. Although, I realize suddenly, the interesting financial news I had been given on Saturday makes employment less of a pressing issue. Still, I can not see myself as a social parasite. I will have to do *something*.

Napoleon reaches for his jacket...but not his shoulder holster.

"You are not wearing your gun?" I ask, shocked.

"I'll keep it in the glove box," he reassures me.

"Very well," I nod. "But remember to turn on your new telephone. I will leave mine on as well." I hesitate, then... "I get nervous, now that Channel D is no longer available."

"Yes, Illya." Napoleon sighs, making a show of tucking the telephone into his pocket, "but neither are our enemies." Dropping a kiss on my forehead, he adds "I'll try to pick you up for lunch. If not I'll call."

"Do that." I answer. "And remember to be early back. We have a party invitation tonight."

"Christ, yes." Napoleon smiles as he tucks his notes into his jacket. "Half these calls are from people who want to meet me there. You know, Illya? Of all the things I never expected to see, I never expected to see a university with an Old Spies Club."

********

It is just after one when Napoleon walks into the library. A bit later than I would have wished to eat, given my disinterest in breakfast, but since he had called I had no real grounds for complaint.

He is carrying a shopping bag. A large, heavy shopping bag.

"I see you found something."

"They  had a few rather decent men's shops in town." He answers, taking the chair beside me. "I picked up a few shirts and a suit. Need it for the party tonight."

I give that a moment's consideration. Perhaps I should have asked him to purchase a suit for me as well? No. Mark would have warned me if one was necessary; and left to myself? I am inclined to view the abolition of cufflinks as a major triumph of social justice.

Napoleon makes a space for his packages beside the large stack of notes and xerox sheets in front of me. "How did your research go?"

"Very interesting." I answer. "David was right about the physics department. Santa Barbara is much more advanced them Berkeley."

"You're interested, then?"

"Perhaps." I allow, then add. "I have an appointment with the lab director for lunch tomorrow."

"That's good. If you're going to spend all those years in classes, it should at least be somewhere you enjoy."

I separate part of the papers and hand them over. "David  was also right about the phone calls."

"Really?" Napoleon reads rapidly through the xerox sheets.

"I have made up files on all of yesterday's companies. Plus six more that called Mark asking for you today.  You should go over them before the party. And Laurence Livermore did call me. The director's secretary said he wanted to have lunch."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I was still active KGB. And that I was living with another man."

Napoleon chuckles. "What did she say to that?"

"That she would get back to me."

"I bet."

"She did." I take off my glasses and tuck them carefully into my jacket pocket. "We are both having dinner with the director and his wife at their home tomorrow night. Some project involving a space-station reactor. But I do not believe we will be interested."

"Why not?" he asks, curious.

"As I recall, Russian space launches are from Siberia," I explain.

"Lousy climate."

"Exactly."

END CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

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