Rated: PG

Napoleon shifts restlessly in his seat. "Where do you want to go for lunch?"

"The mall." I answer, gathering together my papers and filing them neatly in an accordion folder.  At his shocked expression, I add, "I also have some shopping to do."

"What? My non-materialistic Illya?"

"If I am to drive three hundred miles tomorrow," I explain, "I would like better music then the bebop your radio stations grudgingly provide. The more so since that toy car you selected has some  ridiculously elaborate sound system."

"Which you will enjoy."

"Which I will definitely enjoy... provided I have some decent music to play on it. I asked the librarian, and she recommended I try a store at the mall." I reach back into the folder and pull out one sheet. "She also gave me a map."

He takes the sketch from my hand. "OK, the mall it is."

***********

I survey the immense structure, its walls brilliant with polychrome signage. There must be a village of shops under this one roof. The directory lists several shops as selling music, but... I am hungry. "Food first," I decide.

Napoleon shakes his head. "It always is, with you."

The restaurants are all located at the center. Following the directory, we arrive at a wide courtyard surrounding a fountain. The various levels are filled with small tables, clustered around potted palm trees, and off on three sides the walls are composed of stand after stand of food vendor. Panda Inn, Pizza Hut, Fresh-Mex Express, Hawaiian Grill...it would seem that every cuisine on the planet is represented here. Even - I scan the list at something called Soup Plantation - borscht.

"Imagine." I count quickly. "Twenty-five restaurants."

"No restaurants, Illya," Napoleon retorts. "And I already had to tolerate a bag lunch because of you yesterday. I thought I told you someplace with a roof!"

"This has a roof," I point out in my most reasonable voice.

"Yes, well." He casts a disgruntled glare over the open table area. "I would prefer a few walls as well."

"If you wished for walls, you should have specified walls," I tease. " Next time be more exact as to your architectural requirements, and I will naturally strive to comply."

He gives me a *look*, but his eyes sparkle, so I know he is not serious.

There is a long line at the Chinese stand, so I opt for Indian food instead. He chooses Greek. Once we collect our lunches we rejoin at a table near the fountain.

"This is interesting," I comment, studying the infinite array of shoppers seated around us.

"This is terrible."

I look at his kabob plate. Certainly it appears appetizing, but perhaps? "My food is excellent." I spear a bit of lamb curry and hold it out to him.

Napasha makes a show of licking it carefully off the fork, then smiles. "Not the food, Illyusha, the ...culture...or lack thereof."

I follow his eyes. A young man with pink hair and oversized pants is groping a young lady with *no* hair and earrings enough to furnish an entire family of gypsies. At his feet, an oversized radio broadcasts  what most resembles an emergency distress call overlaid with a particularly rhythmic static.  As no one is responding, however, I assume it is some sort of performance.

"Granted the ...music? ...is painful," I concede. "But surely there are... compensations?"

I reach across to him and he takes my hand. "There are at that."

********

Four different shops are listed as selling music. I choose the nearest. Not the most scientific criteria, I grant, but without data? One must start somewhere. Although I do not hold much hope for a wide selection.  The shop is very small, and I mention as much to Napoleon.

"Yes, but the records are smaller now too."

"Everything is," I mutter, picking up one hand-sized plastic case.

My grumbling must amuse Napasha, for he gives me a *most* indecent smile and whispers, "Not everything."

Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately, as this is a public shop - he is distracted by one of the promotional posters. "Lord, are they still around?"

"Who?" I ask as Napoleon snatches a brightly illustrated box off the display marked 'new release'.

I slip on my glasses as he holds it out to show the distinctive 'Beatles' logo. "This is one of my favorite groups. Good to see that they're still together."

"A complement to your taste, I am sure." I turn left, heading back to the section marked 'Classic/Instrumental'.

The selection *is* limited, but not to the degree I had feared. I find most of the major composers, although not always represented by the orchestras I would prefer. Still, they should suffice for a distraction. I am reaching for one marked 'Timeless Classics'  when a particularly flashy title catches my eye? 'Strauss for Stress'? Is this one of the outside programs Dr. Goldak was babbling about? I pull it out, and notice another in the series. 'Mozart for Mornings?' The paragraph on the back insists that listening to these particular compositions will 'reduce stress, induce well-being, increase efficiency and create a positive attitude.' I seriously doubt that, but.... I add both CD's to my selections. What could it hurt?

By the time I reach the counter Napasha has, once again, managed to find a dozen new things to purchase. I make a mental note: When looking for a place of our own - we will need a *large* house.

******

We are walking back to the car, having finished off our shopping with a final stop at the ice-cream kiosk. Thirty-two flavors, including chocolate chip mocha. A double cone. With sprinkles. I would have refrained, but Napoleon insisted. For a self-indulgent capitalist, he does have his good points. We are so busy chatting that I almost miss the sudden acceleration of a car engine very near by..

"Napoleon?" I hold up my hand.

It is fast. Too fast. For this crowded warren, much too fast. I freeze, searching the echoing concrete for signs. Nothing on the marked lane. A shadow. To the right. Coming the wrong way, and...

"Back!" I shout, flipping backwards as the dark sedan scrapes the fender of the parked car beside me with a scream of rubber and chrome. The tires pass within inches, leaving the sour tang of scorched rubber to mix with the duller scent of metal sparks. Then the car is gone.

Napoleon reaches automatically inside his empty jacket as I gasp,  "No. Hold fire.  I am...fine."

He pulls me close until my breathing steadies, then sits back. "You are sure?" he questions anxiously, sweeping the short bangs back from my forehead. His finger tips trace the scrapes from my ear to my chin.

I reach for my fallen packages. "The car did not even touch me." The Strauss case is cracked, but the stress-reducing record inside appears intact. Good. I think perhaps I will be needing it.

"Do you think?" He stares at the now innocent ramp with warrior's eyes.

"No." I hold out my hand and permit him to help me to my feet. "We must no longer be paranoid, Napasha. Some accidents are merely....accidents."

Napoleon does not argue, but I notice that he puts his holster on *before* he starts the car.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Oh, Very Young

Rated: PG-13

We come down dressed for the evening. Napoleon is looking natty in his new suit. I am wearing my black pants and sweater, which David has somehow arranged to have dry cleaned overnight. Mark is already downstairs, having agreed to be our guide.

"Have something to eat before you go," David insists, bringing over a platter of roast vegetables and tortillas.

"David just doesn't want me to eat the food at the club," Mark says.

"Bad enough that you drink there." David folds up a vegetable taco and and passes it across to  Mark. "If you eat the cheese sticks you will start another ulcer."

"Do not worry. We will not likely be staying long enough to eat or drink very much," I reassure David. "If I am to be in Santa Barbara tomorrow, it will have to be an early night tonight."

"Heading down the coast, eh?" David passes me the guacamole.  "You should go with him, Napoleon.  Lots of work going on in the Lompoc area. If Illya likes the school, you could find a lot of opportunities around the base."

"Santa Barbara." Mark smiles. "That's a nice area. Some really good restaurants. David and I spent a week near there last year. Something of a second honeymoon."

"Which," David mutters, "was majorly better then the first!"

"Quite?" Mark looks up.

"You weren't bleeding, I wasn't terrified, and nobody got killed. I think that qualifies as a step up."

"Yes," Mark nods, "but the first time I was with this really hot bloke."

"And the second?" David gives him an unconvincing glare.

"Um." Mark makes a show of scratching his head, "I was with this really hot bloke?"

"Right answer!"

"Good save," Napoleon chuckles,loading up his tortilla with tomatoes and sour cream. "But that does sound like quite a story."

Mark waves it off. "Nothing special."

"Oh?" David's glare is back, and this time a bit more legitimate.

"Not you, luv." Mark holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "Just well.. usual bloody random events. All rather a bit of a balls-up."

David rolls his eyes. "Mark just doesn't want to admit to losing a fight."

"I did *not* lose..." Mark begins, only to be cut off.

"Then how come you were the man with the bruises?"

Mark gives David a *look*, but only mutters, "Should have seen the other chap."

"No, thanks." David sits back. "You were mess enough."

"OK." Napoleon grins. "You've hooked me. What happened?"

"Well.." David looks at Mark, who shrugs. Permission granted. "Mark and I had been...together a bit... but....I wasn't counting on it leading anywhere." A vague wave dismisses the quirks of romantic fate. "Then out of the blue he calls me - from Paris, of all places. Says he's flying in, and do I want to have dinner tomorrow night - his place. I'm flattered, so I say yes..then rush out to buy a new suit because  I was... never mind."

Mark gives David a smug look, which he ignores as he continues. "I'm at home, all ready to leave when  I get this call. Mark again.. but he sounded terrible. I mean, I couldn't even really recognize his voice. Once I can make out the words, he says he's 'a bit under the weather' and could we get together later." At which lame excuse David again rolls his eyes - and I concur. "My first thought is to be PO'd, because I figure he's drunk and at a bar somewhere and he's now got a better offer. So I slam down the phone."

"Latin temper." Mark  shakes his head.

David again ignores the comment. "Later... well, I think ...he *really* sounded bad. And I had never seen him drunk. And... the doorman calls up and my cab is there." David shrugs. "Seems in all my sulking I forgot to cancel it. So...I give the man the address and I go over. I don't know what I was planning to do when I got there. Yell at Mark, or kick out whoever he was with, or punch him or what. I never got that far. I knocked on the door. And he answered it. And he was a *mess*."

Mark looks over at Napoleon and myself. "Not that bad."

"Bad enough," David insists.

"Cuts and bruises." Mark dismisses the matter. "No broken bones."

"Would you like some?" David's voice takes on an edge.

Mark smiles. "No thanks luv."

"Good. So." David returns to his story. "Mark was a mess. Back then I didn't know about his *business*. He'd told me he was a lecturer in foreign events at the Madison Institute." David shakes his head at his past credulity. " I...innocent type that I was..... figured 'he's just gotten careless walking out of the wrong bar.' Embarrassing, but it happened to the best of us. At least, it did back then. Not so much now, thank God.  So, while he's standing there, I just *dump* the wine bottle I had brought over with me. Just in case he really did have a cold or something innocent, and not some other date."

Mark picks up the story. "David doesn't even say hello. He just heads straight back to the bathroom, pulls out the witch hazel and towels, and says 'Take off your shirt.' Struck me as a bit forward for a fourth date, but..."

"Nothing I hadn't seen before..." David snorts. " Well, except for the claw marks. Those were different."

"So," Mark continues. "Here he's got me flat on my back, wrapped in hot towels and steaming like a lobster, and he says 'You should watch where you party'. And me... fool that I was, I grunt out 'Work'."

"Which really cooked his goose, because," David adds, "Mark had told *me* he was teaching. So I tap the longest cut and ask 'What is this from? Harsh faculty review?' And he gives this strangled laugh and says 'Lab accident'."

David gives Mark a soft look, then continues. "So we get into a bit of a talk about what he *really* did - not that he told me much, but hang out with the Georgetown set and it doesn't take much to get the idea - and I'm frankly thinking 'He's cute, but this I *so* do not need,' when the door buzzes again." Davis shrugs. "Well, I think it's the won ton soup I ordered."

"Not chicken noodle?" Napasha questions.

Mark grunts, "Chinese delivers, Jewish doesn't."

"Like I said." David reclaims the floor. "I think it's the delivery boy, so without asking I just go over and open the door."

I look at Napoleon. "Bad idea."

"Totally," David agrees. "There's this lineman standing there with a gun in his hand. I'm wondering if I should scream or faint or maybe just have a heart attack and get it over with.... when *pop*... the guy is down with a large hole where his face used to  be."

A second's pause, and even now I know that this is not an easy memory. For all his bravado, David Martinez is an innocent. He shakes it off. "I feel this hard shove, then I'm on the floor, and Mark is standing there wearing bandages and a really harsh look on his face."

"And nothing else?" I see Napoleon smile at the mental image.

"My Special," Mark answers. "But I don't think that counts."

Napoleon mutters. "Sometimes it's all that counts."

"Pravda," I whisper

"Well." Mark lightens the mood. "There were two other thugs out in the hallway, but they got away. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem all that appropriate to give chase."

We do not argue the point, and David resumes the tale. "So then I'm having the vapors, and Mark just strolls over to the desk,and picks up his pen, and calmly calls someone to 'pick up the body before the Chinese guy gets here'."

"Disastrous date." Mark adds.

"Absolutely." David agrees. "Some strange men come, and they pick up the corpse and have a word with Mark, and by the time the soup arrives it's like...it never happened. Except for my nerves. Which are *gone*. Then... I'm sitting at the table, chopping the wontons and cabbage into little pieces so Mark can eat them, when I realize that anyone with any brains at all would be leaving at light speed. And I also realized I wasn't. Ever. As long as I had a choice. So... I looked over the table, and I took his hand, and I said 'You're a loco. And you're going to get yourself killed one of these days. So it's really shitty that I'm in love with you'."

David gives Mark a very deep smile. I think there may be tears too, but if so they are deeper then the smile.

"And he said 'As long as I don't get *you* killed, that works for me'."

Napoleon looks at Mark. "That was it?"

"That and the best blow-job I ever had in my life." Mark laughs. "Make's a real difference when you care for someone. Just took a poke in the eye to get my attention. David with a gun at his head? That got my attention. Cured my roving on the spot."

"That and the Martinez secret bruise cure."

"That, too. Wonderful stuff," Mark agrees. "So we...stayed together. Not that we could move in or any of that . Random surveillance, after all. But... I spent a lot of time at his place."

"Safe enough." Napoleon says. "Lots of field agents didn't like sleeping at home on a regular basis. Too predictable."

Predictability was the thing that got agents killed. Not that I would say so with an innocent in the room. Before I can feel required to say anything, Mark continues. "David was a real trouper. He never complained, even though I was crazy back then."

David passes Mark another taco. "I've told you. I never minded the shooting lessons. Or the driving lessons. Those are useful skills to have. I'm just glad I never actually had to use them."

Mark takes a bite. "Like I said."

"But I will admit, I was the happiest man on earth when Mark resigned."

"Which you did *not* tell me at the time."

David gives Mark a *look*. "You're an idiot if you thought for one minute that I *liked* the thought of you getting tortured by terrorists and kidnapped by madmen.  What should I have said? You had enough stress at work. My job was to support you when you got home."

"Still, it was wonderful." David folds another taco and puts it on Mark's plate. "Mark got a job at Berkeley. I found a place at a junior college over in Oakland.."

"Which was *far* beneath you," Mark comments, reaching for the guacamole.

David passes him the salsa instead. "It was only for six years, until something here opened up. We bought a duplex down in the city and fixed it up. Lived there until we moved here in '92. So you see, it all worked out."

"Except the time we had your parents over for dinner."

"How was I to know you couldn't cook? You could do everything else in the world so perfectly."

"I can cook! Just not by Martinez standards."

"You lie like a spy." David laughs and turns to me. "If I had not insisted on cooking classes, the man would still be eating beans for breakfast."

"Yes." I agree with him, spearing a perfectly roasted yellow pepper. "The British are that way."

Chapter Thirty-Six : Dangling Conversation

Rated: PG

Dedicated: To V & V - friends for lifes.

As we step through the unmarked door, Mark pulls two pins out of the announcement board and sticks them in our collars.

"Map pins?" I ask?

"White means a member. Green means a visitor. Gold means an outside member - usually a spouse." I check the board more closely, and observe that all the pins are now blue. An ingenious transfer system, really. "Red means - well, nothing good. Some time we have unvouched-for visitors thrust upon us. Usually university administration. You can talk to red . Just don't say anything."

Demitri Grustov spots us from the bar and comes over. "Gentlemen. Welcome in from the Cold."

"Demitri." Mark holds out his hand. "You've met Illya. This is his partner, Napoleon Solo. I was just going over the code."

"Welcome." Demitri says, shaking hands with Napoleon.  "The only forbidden topics are insurance and real estate - you'll soon figure out why. Other then that - use your own discretion. Our members all have very bad memories."

Mark smiles. "More so after a few drinks."

"Cash bar." Demitri slaps his forehead. "That I must warn you about. After three drinks they take your keys, and when you want to go home they call a cab. Or you can try the breathalizer. Berkeley has very strict drunk driving laws. And they hold the bar responsible."

"You agree to that?"

"Comrade Kuryakin." He gives me a patient look. "I arrived in a cab."

I nod. "How's the vodka?"

"Polish and excellent."

Mark steps up to the front of the room and taps his glass for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen. I would like to introduce our two new visitors. Mr. Illya Kuryakin, Russian Navy, KGB,and UN Jurisdiction. Mr. Napoleon Solo - UN Jurisdiction and regular army. Friends of mine. They are considering a move to Berkeley, so I know you will want to make them feel right at home."

*********

No sooner have Mark and Demitri stepped away than a tall man steps up. His bright Hawaiian shirt is florid enough to almost hide the white pin on the collar.

"Bill Valley," he introduces himself. "You interested in this area?"

"Perhaps," Napoleon answers. "Although Mr. Kuryakin here is also looking at Santa Barbara."

Mr. Valley shakes my  hand. "Great area , Santa Barbara. Nice climate, good houses. Cheaper than the Bay area." He turns back to Napoleon. "If you're down there, you might want to give a call to a friend of mine at Avian Solutions. He's always looking for people with talent in international, and when he heard you were in the area? He told me his boss said they could envision big operations for you.  Here." He pulls a business card from his pocket. "His number."

"You're serious."

"Please, give him a call. I  guarantee he'll take you to lunch, and the fish down there is excellent."

"Perhaps I will." Napoleon glances at me. "Illya was thinking of being in the area tomorrow anyway...."

Our new acquaintance takes Napoleon's arm and starts to lead him away. "Let me buy you an drink, and then... there's someone here you really ought to meet."

I smile and let him go.

******

Demitri Grustov walks up  and hands me a fresh glass. "You look like a man with questions."

"Why do so many people seem to be so aware of our arrival?"

"Contacts.  We *are* spies, you must remember. Even retired,  people have friends, who have friends." He scans the room. "I know Thomson checked you out with Kronsteen at Baykonur; who, by the way, has nothing but good to say about you. What did you do? Save the man from a burning whorehouse? And Hans? He's a Berliner. They know everyone."

"Stazi?"

Demitri's voice flattens. "There are no Stazi."

"Of course."

"Fleming tapped into your alma matter." Demitri resumes. "Old school tie and all that."

"Cambridge man?"

"Oxford *and* Cambridge. Ancient languages, but still...."

I nod. I remember the 'class solidarity' of Cambridge...all too well.

"I personally am not always...comfortable with 'Sir' Ian. Still," he shrugs, "the Cambridge Club is very big in some circles. If you were to renew your association....?" He tosses back his glass. "Any path to victory, eh?"

A sudden flurry at the door attracts both our attention.

"They came! Wonderful." Demitri gives me a big smile and tugs on my sleeve. " Come.  Here are two people you *must* meet."

He points to a grey haired couple being welcomed enthusiastically at the door. After waiting a bit for the crowd to subside, we make our way over to them by the pool table.

They are...not.... distinctive, but there is an air of  authority about them which is... impressive. I scan their collars, but they are wearing no pins at all.

Grustov's posture becomes suddenly formal. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin? Permit me to introduce you to Valen and Vasallissa Smith. Two of our founding members."

The man's hand I shake, the lady's I kiss. I do not know why. Instinct, perhaps. She accepts it graciously, as her due. "Russian?" I ask.

"Not really." The lady answers in a flawless Moscow accent.

"Then you are..?"

Grustov snorts. "There are rumors, but with these two? We still don't ask."

"So, Mr. Kuryakin?" the man asks in equally flawless Russian. "Are you interested in work, or just a job?"

"I believe I have decided to go back to school. A teaching post is starting to appear....very attractive."

****

"Illya." Napasha catches up with me at the edge of the crowd. He has two ladies with him, but they vanish like the professionals they are.

"Napoleon?" I raise my glass. "Busy night?"

"I haven't received this many mash notes since freshman rush week."

"I know." Finishing my vodka and setting the glass back on the counter. " Everyone has a friend who wants to buy us lunch."

"And dinner," Napasha agrees. " And drinks."

I shrug. "That is one way to cut down on the grocery bill."

END CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Authors love feedback! Email Direct