Rated: PG

The two young men who arrive to retrieve the damaged car provide not only an address but a map. Apparently the local director has anticipated our request. Either that, or they wish to interview us for reasons of their own.

I am watchful all the way, but we arrive without incident.

This time the headquarters is out in the  semi-suburbs. A pretty brick building with Victorian details. According to the sign out front, an independent geologist's office shares space with a fiduciary management company. The upper windows boast a sign offering document storage.  A step up from a tailor's shop, but I assume the principal is the same. All very innocuous looking, but as we drive down into the parking garage, a steel door rolls down behind us.

A smiling young man in an orange cap and vest over his black shirt and pants directs us to the spaces at the side, where one parking space bears a hand-lettered sign marked S/K. Right by the elevator door. Very polite.

As we step up the elevator opens without being summoned, and once we are inside the doors close without a floor being pushed. Not that it would matter. All the buttons are for floors above us - but the elevator goes down.

The doors slide open on a beige hall with grey carpeting. Very innocuous, if boring.

Mr. Lee is waiting. This time he is wearing a suit. Black, naturally. As is the grey-haired man at his side.

"Mr. Solo. Dr. Kuryakin." Lee makes the introductions. "West Regional Director, Mr. Smith."

"Gentlemen." The older man acknowledges as we shake hands all around.

He leads us down the hall to an unmarked door. A briefing room, to judge by the large central table and peripheral computer stations. These are occupied by several black-suited agents who he does not bother to introduce. Smith waves us to the table, where two seats on the near side have been marked out with thick file folders. Obviously those are for us .

Smith takes his seat at the head, leaving Lee to sit across from us. "Director Dancer has informed me that you are both elected at policy level one. That is a full sanction level. She has also directly ordered me to place the full resources of this office at your disposal."

"Which clearly thrills you." Napoleon is not *always* as charming as he can be.

A young lady in a black dress comes by with coffee. Lee and Napoleon take some, but I decline. From the smell of it, it is the usual American brew.

"Should it?" Smith pushes a button and a photo of the first wrecked car appears on the wall behind him. "Mr. Solo, you and your partner have caused quite a stir around here. This office has not had three fire-fights in the last year. You manage to be involved in that many in less then a day."

The picture changes, this time to a shot of three young men. Caucasian but tan, most likely local, I would put them in their early twenties. They also look rather bruised. I assume they were the unfortunate passengers of that car. I glance at Napoleon, but he shakes his head. They are as unfamiliar to him as they are to me.

"Mr. Solo?" Lee asks, glancing up at the wall. "Are you sure you don't have personal enemies?"

"How could I?" Napoleon shrugs as a second set of unfamiliar faces appear. "I've been dead since 1968. Nobody's boyfriend holds a grudge that long."

Lee pulls out his palmtop and reads the screen before correcting Napoleon. "1969".

So Waverly did wait a year, as April had said. Interesting information, but hardly relevant now. I store that and return to more pressing issues. "How do you know that Napoleon is the target?" I ask Lee. "Yesterday Director Dancer believed it might be me?"

"We found a circled photo in the second car."  The wall decor once again changes, this time to a candid shot of Napoleon entering his apartment. "With his name on the back."

"When was that?" Napoleon studies the photo closely. "I think I remember the suit."

"July 26, 1967." I answer. "Six months before our last mission."

"God." Lee looks up, impressed. "You people are good. How did you know that?

"There is a date on the newspaper."

"Oh." He blinks at the vending machine just visible behind Napoleon's back. "Yeh, well..." He turns again to Napoleon. " Who hated you back then?"

"Other then all of T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

I am considering the suggestion that it might be simpler to ask who in the business did *not* hate us, when Smith finally decides to comment. "There is no more T.H.R.U.S.H.!" His voice dismisses the possibility with the irritated edge of self evident truth.

"Excuse me, sir." A trim looking woman in her late forties rose from one of the consoles. "There is no more T.H.R.U.S.H. like there is no more U.N.C.L.E. The organizations are gone. That doesn't meant the *people* aren't still around." She steps over to Napoleon. "I mean... you're still here.  I'm still here.."

"You are?" Napoleon rises, holding out his hand.

She takes it firmly. "Janet Trent. Communications and Decryption."

Only from my perspective could one see the swift slide of thumbs over palms.

Trent drops her voice and adds, "That too."

"Communications?" I rise to offer my hand as well.

"Conversationalist."

"Understood." Our eyes lock as her thumb glides under mine.

Napoleon turns to Smith, claiming command. "Mr. Smith, have your people run a cross check on all known T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives -all dates - all levels - against the listed the population for...?" He looks at Trent. "Five hundred miles? At least to start."

"Yes, sir," Janet Trent acknowledges without looking at Smith. "Also known allied independents."

"Excellent." Napoleon picks up his files and signals me to be prepared to follow.

Trent is already back at her station when the operative beside her objects. "I'll have to load that from files." The young man sounds rather put out by the prospect. "T.H.R.U.S.H. is in the back data."

"Then do it," Trent directs. "And get it to me the minute you find anything."

Napoleon nods at Mr. Smith. "When you have something, Kuryakin and I will be on the range.  As I recall, I'm not qualified on this." He taps his shoulder harness. "And I'd hate to violate policy in my own office."

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

I am cleaning my pistol while Napoleon finishes his second clip. At two hundred rounds each the process takes a while. Still, it is necessary. It also has the virtue of keeping us occupied at a location where conversation is evidently impossible. Just in case Smith wishes to protest. Or rather - since quite obviously he must *wish* to - I should perhaps say if he decides it is worth the risk to try.

I have no idea where our authority ends, but neither does Smith. Neither does Napoleon, for that matter, but he has never been inclined to concern himself with such details. Waverly he would obey. More likely because Waverly was Waverly then because Waverly was Hemispheric Chief. Beyond that? Napoleon did what it took to do the job. Then he dumped the paperwork on me. As he no doubt will do here.  Thirty three years may change many things, but never that.

Cleaning the new weapon is delicate and unfamiliar work. That, combined with the ear protection required even for 'quiet' loads, must explain why Agent Trent is almost to  the counter before I notice her. That and the fact she moves like a sister.

"Excuse me, sir?" She signals me to pull off my headset.

"I ran the search you requested and..." She breaks off in seeming embarrassment. Never a good sign. " And.... there are twenty-seven names in the listed area. Low level suspected operatives."

I  take the printout and read down the list of names. None I remember particularly. "Nothing much here."

Napoleon has noticed the newcomer. He changes his clip and holsters the gun before coming over. I pass the list to Napoleon. He taps one name..  "I'm not certain. Was he..?"

While Napoleon is searching his memory Trent continues. "More then that. It appears they all live in the same town. Fifteen of them in the same neighborhood.  And they all work for the same company. Avian Solutions."

"Avian Solutions?" My startled exclamation meets Napoleon's equally astounded glance. "That is where you had lunch yesterday! With Bill Vally's 'friend'." I check over Napoleon's shoulder. "Joe Bierbaum is not on this list."

"Even so, I'm glad I met him at the restaurant."

"I am glad you did not go back for the 'tour' after lunch." I retort. "I do *not* want to get back into the habit of rescuing you."

"This is it?" Napoleon hands the list back to Trent.

"I'm not sure." A politely phrased answer with a meaning closer to 'not a chance'. "We haven't finished running the list. But there are at least this many."

"Damn." Napoleon holsters his pistol and reaches for his jacket.

Trent nods. "A whole damn satrap, right beneath our noses, and we never knew it."

FYI: The Vice -President of Azerbaijan is NOT Adil Babayev. I took this name from two different musicians. The name has been invented because this is a world wide medium, and I do not want to make anyone nervous by implying or suggesting ill fortune to any significant figure on the world stage. This is strictly a work of fiction, and no relationship of people or events in the real world is either expressed or implied.

Chapter Forty-Seven: One More Time ( For the Good Times)

Rated: PG-13

We are back in the briefing room, along with Smith, Lee, Trent, and several new faces too briefly introduced. Ordinance, Transportation, and a statistics maven named Tawny Dawn borrowed from the Census Bureau. For once I am the one grateful for the inclusion of a pretty young woman. She is the only person there not wearing black.

With her help Janet Trent's list of 'birds' is now up to thirty-six. Which gives us the link to our now-identified assailants.

The prison 'mug-shot' of the first shooter is glowing on the wall. "A run of W-2 forms shows Jose *Bent Penny* Dias employed by Avian solutions as a janitor back in the first two quarters of 2000," Tawny Dawn says. "A check with Avian's personnel office lists him as fired for non-performance, but.."

"Obviously an effort at plausible deniability."

"As you say, Mr. Smith." Miss Dawn flips to a similar picture of the driver. "Mr. Jose Dais's cousin, a Mr. Juan *Do-Wop* Dias, has a less direct link. He did, however, work for a gardening contractor who was hired by Mr. Bierbaum earlier this year. And by several other of the T.H.R.U.S.H. names on our list."

"Another link?" Napoleon asks Lee.

"I think it's more likely Juan came in through his cousin." Lee consults his notes. "*Bent Penny* is the older, and has the worse criminal record."

Miss Dawn does not comment, putting up the faces of the remaining four from the first two cars. "The others have various co-employment connections with each other, but no direct ties to Avian Solutions. They do, however, all come from the Montecito area."

"So.." Lee summarizes. "Vally tells Bierbaum you're in the area. Bierbaum, or more likely his boss, tells this *Bent Penny* to take you out. Private contract, since we found the cash on them at arrest." Lee nods at Miss Dawn, and a evidence photo including a thick stack of bills replaces the faces. "Penny screws up the first try, but they have his cousin and crew waiting at the factory."

"Where I decide at the last minute not to go," Napoleon adds.

"Precisely," Lee agrees. "Do-Wop* and his crew have a tracker on the car, and they know your departure time, so they decide to catch you on the way up. Probably on the narrow road just past Pismo." A marked map now shines from the wall. "You must have been driving plus 80. "

I give Napoleon the look which says 'He's right'.

Agent Lee continues, "Because they didn't catch up with you until past San Jose."

I check the map. "We stopped at a farm stand in Gilmore. I believe the family name was Miller."

"Thank you, Dr. Kuryakin." Janet Trent makes a note of the name. "We'll check them out."

"After you managed to take out the second crew."  As Lee mentions them, another photograph of a smashed auto appear overhead. "Avian gave up on local talent. The third crew was pro." Miss Dawn sends up a pair of photos, one an old mug shot, the more recent a Polaroid from the morgue. " Not the best, but the Bird was hiring on short notice. And Avian wanted  the hit enough to pay *them* as well."

I turn to Napoleon. "That would explain the last group's greater competence."

The man from Transportation flips though his report. "I don't believe that was mentioned..."

I give him the look designed to silence officious desk officers. "You did not observe the damage to our car?"

Smith cuts that off. "What do you think this 'satrap' is working on?" He looks at Napoleon. "It must be major, if they are going to take the risk of assassination."

"Especially by a method which so publicly tips their hand," I agree.

That brings several solemn nods. If this incident had not forced T.H.R.U.S.H. into the light, the Avian Affair could probably have continued unnoticed for years.

"Ms. Trent?" Smith signals to the Communications Officer. "See if your section can pull a PR file. What are they doing in the next few weeks that would be operational?" He stands. "Until then? You are released for lunch."

There is a brief flurry as the various agents gather their reports and excuse themselves, but the room is soon quiet again.

"I have to apologize, Mr. Solo." Smith drops his voice as he steps to our side of the table. "Dr. Kuryakin." His glance politely includes us both. "When Director Dancer told us to work with you, I thought she was just being political, but... damn. You guys are as good as your reputation makes you out to be."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith." Napoleon rises. "We just do what we can. As do you."

*****

We eat lunch with Mr. Smith in his office. Hot pasta, cold salad, and polite conversation about houses and traffic. Those two topics seem the local equivalent of the British weather. All quite light. Mr. Smith is a pro. He knows it will get heavy enough once the second report is ready.

We are sipping espressos when his secretary comes in. "Ms. Trent believes she has something, sir."

We stand. Time to go back to work.

*********

This time, rather then photos, April Dancer is on the wall. A live video link to her conference room, where she is flanked by a duplicate assembly of black-suited agents.

"Sir. Ma'am." Janet Trent addresses the camera as an assistant passes out new black binders. "I think we have a probable. The Vice -President of Azerbaijan will be coming here to tour several high tech companies as part of an economic visit."

"Including Avian?" April asks.

"No ma'am," Trent replies. "But he will visit Global-Sat Telecommunications, which is one of Avian's biggest rivals."

"Where the  loss of even a minor world leader...." Smith leaves the question unfinished, but evident.

April nods. "I think you could safely say that would ruin their chances of further government contracts."

"Global-Sat?" I check with Napoleon. "Was that not Col. Austin's company?"

"Janet, dear," Napoleon charms. " Do you think you could get a line on a thief arrested in Estonia Tuesday before last? I'm afraid I don't have a name, but they would have taken him in on the Warsaw Express between Tallin and Riga."

"You think that is where they first noticed us?" I ask.

"It would fit with April's theory." Napoleon acknowledges the Director though the camera. "And it's the earliest starting point I can imagine." Then he turns his attention back to the agents at our table. "This Adil Babayev?" He slows to pronounce the name correctly. "When is the man due?"

"That's the bad news, sir." Lee scans down his report. "He flys in tomorrow."

Smith nods. "That could explain the rush."

"No chance for anything elaborate." April Dancer informs both rooms. "Put a perimeter around Avian Solutions. Discreetly. Get a tail on every name we can find. Ditto kids and spouses. Global-Sat Telecommunications should be getting Foreign Affairs coverage, but have it matched with our people."

Smith frowns at his papers. "I'll have to borrow to do that."

"Then borrow," April commands. "Call up Hays at the Secret Service. The Treasury Department owes us big time for the Democratic National Convention in LA.  And the BATF. If we hadn't stopped them last time they got their maps wrong, they would have raided a nursery school. And you have my permission to remind Tomlin of that if he gives you any lip."

"As for you?" Even over several thousand miles of wire I can feel her eyes focus on me.

"Illya?" Napoleon smiles in triumph.  "Was Global-Sat Telecommunications on our list of callers?

"Yes." I pull out my memo book." For both of us. Three times." I find the call note and offer it to him. "Here it is."

"Good." He pulls out his phone. "Give them a call.  I think tomorrow would be a good day for the two of us to tour *their* facility."

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

I borrow a quiet office for my call, and catch up with Napoleon afterwards in the map room. He and Smith are setting up road coverage. Black suits on point,  loaner personnel between. Not a perfect arrangement, but the best that can be done with limited resources and short notice. Still, my first glance at the map leaves me with a sinking feeling in my gut. This was never enough. Not even with U.N.C.L.E. troops. If T.H.R.U.S.H. wants to get in, they likely will. Which means...it's our show.

"Good news, Napoleon." I sit beside him on the edge of the table. "We have a ten o'clock appointment with Michael Schoenberg, the head of projects at Global-Sat, tomorrow."

Smith looks up, clearly surprised."With Babeyev coming, they still want to interview you?"

"Desperately." I keep the triumph out of my face, but possibly not completely from my words."  "Apparently Col. Austin was quite vocal about out little session on the train." At Smith's nod, I continue. "Schoenberg tried to put it off, but I told him we had an offer from Dumont at CNES, and we would be flying out on Friday."

I glance at Napoleon, who smiles approvingly.

"Then going on to Moscow to speak with the ESA liaison." When Smith frowns, I add. "I called Kronsteen, and his office will definitely support such a story."

Smith makes a note on his binder, but says nothing as I continue.

"Besides, Demitri Ivanovich suggested that the Azerbaijan project may be one of the projects they want us for. It would fit the profile. His operation has the satellite launch contract, and he will send over his files for background."

"Baykonur launch?" Napoleon leans back. "That means Russian personnel approval required at the the launch stage. We are definitely in."

Yes. We are definitely in. I look again at the map. Now if there were only some promise that we would get back out again. "Any sign of action?" I ask Smith.

"None yet." He waves at the map. " Enforcement has all the main roads covered, but... this close to the date?"

I understand what he does not say. All too well.

Smith looks at me, then at Napoleon. "I would suggest you two stay here tonight. If Avian is set on your removal... they are running out of time."

"True," Napoleon agrees. "In fact, we had better bring Slate and Martinez in as well. If T.H.R.U.S.H. has been watching the house, they may now be targets."

"Covered." Smith flips though his notes. "No report of adverse surveillance at that location."

"Then they're even more at risk." Napoleon corrects him. "T.H.R.U.S.H. may still think we are there."

Smith reaches for the call button. "I'll send..

"Only if Mark Slate agrees." Napoleon rises. "Slate's a pro. He'll know how he wants this handled."

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

I am rechecking our updated list of potential T.H.R.U.S.H. contacts with Janet Trent when David and Mark come in.

"David. Mark." Napoleon goes over to greet them. " Sorry for the inconvenience, but..."

"So," David asks, openly curious. "This is one of your safe houses?"

"No," Napoleon grins. "We're crashing at the office tonight. Lousy beds, I'm sure, but this close to operations? Who sleeps anyway? Except Illya, of course."

"I would not think this would be your first time in protection?" I ask David, rather surprised. If they were in New York for five years?

"Oh, Mark took a desk once Waverly died." David looks around calmly, taking in the controlled chaos of the command center. "And back then.... I was never on the spouse list."

Napoleon takes Mark's arm and draws him over to the map display. "Sorry to pull you in, Mark. But I need someone I can trust to cover my back."

"I thought that was Illya."

"Illya's taking the lead."

"I also am sorry that we had to pull Mark in," I tell David, walking with him over to the coffee. "Such poor repayment for your hospitality.

David takes a cup. "What  is that line? A man has to do what a man has to do?" His expression is, not grim, but serious. "I've stood at Mark's side and at his back for a quarter of a century. For better or for worse. I'm not changing now."

After a brief consultation our partners rejoin us.

"I think it's set," Mark confirms. "Smith has a reaction team at our house. Another driving the car, although I can't imagine T.H.R.U.S.H. falling for that old trick. Avian is all but locked. And Babeyev is covered every inch of the way."

Napoleon nods, gratified. "Then the only other thing I need to know is... what is this town's best restaurant?"

"Humm," Mark ponders for a moment. "I have a suggestion."

Chapter Forty-Eight: I Only Want to Dance With You.

Rated: R

The restaurant Mark suggested is not large, and from the outside not particularly well marked, but it clearly is doing business. The parking lot is full, and Napoleon slips the valet a hundred to keep our car near the door. Partially a provision against a rapid departure, but partially just Napasha being..... himself.

As we step through the door, a grey-haired man in a tuxedo greets us and checks our reservations. Made under another name, of course. Wednesday night, and David insists we were lucky to get them. Looking at the crowded lounge, I begin to believe him.

The dining room is......conventional, I suppose. White linen, dark wood, dim lighting supplemented by shielded candles. All the usual apurtances of wealth and style. Napoleon will be in his glory here.

A small band fills a low platform in one corner. In their midst a remarkably convincing 'lady' stands crooning unknown but familiar sounding love songs. Long red hair flames above a deep blue dress beaded thickly enough to shine under the spotlights. Wide green eyes and high cheekbones. Only the poster in the lobby convinces me that 'she' is in fact a 'he'.

David waits until we are seated to ask, "Do you always go out to dinner before...?"

"U.N.C.L.E. custom," Napoleon smiles.

"Solo custom," I correct.

"No." Napasha closes the menu. "I didn't introduce it. I only introduced it to you."

"Because none of the rest of us had the balls to blow off our expense account with the Ice Prince watching." Mark likewise drops his menu on the table. "And sod it, half the crew suspected you were eyes for the Old Lion."

"Waverly?" David blinked a bit at the reference. "Why would Waverly want to spy on his own people?"

"Because he was a spymaster," Mark answers. "That's what they *do*."

"I never know if you are paranoid, or if the world is really that weird."

Mark chuckles. "Go with paranoid, luv. The sense of control will make you feel better."

"You..." David mock-glares at his partner, "*are* that weird."

Mark just smiles smugly. "Then I'm lucky you have exotic tastes."

"True enough..." David looks around the splendid room, then rises." Well, if we're going to trash the plastic on this event, at least we should dance."

"Right you are." Mark stands, nods to us, then takes David's hand. "If you'll excuse us?" They move off onto the small dance floor tucked in front of the band at one end of the dining room.

"When *did* we first do this?" Napasha strokes my hand. "Together."

"Paris." I close my eyes at the memory. "Just before the Reign in Spain Affair . You insisted we *live*, before..."

"Oh, yes, I remember." Napasha's eyes darken with memory. "You sulked all the way through the chateaubriand; then ate both our desserts."

"You were not going to finish yours." I turn my palm to meet his. "It would have been wasteful to just leave it."

Napasha's fingers close around mine. "That's my good bolshevik. I think I fell in love with you a little that night."

"Only a little?" I try to sound offended.

"A little? A lot?" Napasha dismisses the question. "How do you measure ? But... that's when I knew you *were* my partner."

Interesting. "Not.....Hong Kong?"

"No." Napasha's fingers tighten just a bit. Not painful, just firm. "You know me too well to think I've ever confused love and sex. That was just... the natural result of something that already was."

"Perhaps for you." I stroke his wrist, just below the sharp white cuff. "For me? It was a revelation."

"Ah, but, Illya." He has a wolf's smile. "That is where I had the advantage. To me, you were always a revelation. I'd become accustomed to the shock."

Mark and David return, so we say nothing more. At least nothing to that point. Light chat about the band, which Mark finds admirable, and the food, which David assures us will be impressive. I take another look at the menu. Given the menu prices it should impress. And it will. Napoleon would have nothing less then the best.

"Wine list?" A young man in a well-pressed tuxedo holds out a red-covered folder.

"Certainly." Napasha glances at the bottom. "I think the Chateau Del Lago merlot. The 1984.

The waiter hurries away, clearly impressed.

David shakes his head. "Gunmen after you and you're going to drink?"

Mark pats his hand. "Half a glass at most."

"Then why...?" David's eye catches the hand-written list as the waiter returns swiftly with our bottle. "Mark! That is a four hundred dollar bottle of wine!"

"Don't worry, David." Mark watches as the young man carefully pours the blood-red fluid into the fragile stems. "If we catch the birds tomorrow April will cover it."

"And if you don't?"

Mark holds out his glass. "Then it's a very good wine. Should we toast Thursday?" he asks.

"Yes." I nod, raising my glass to the light. "I suppose we should."

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

We are finished with our dinners, sitting back sipping our wine and listening to the singer, when a nice-looking blond man in casually expensive clothes eases up to our table.

"Excuse me?" he asks politely, looking at Napasha.

"Yes?"

He steps back a bit, allowing Napoleon room to rise if he wishes. "I don't know if you are all together, but....if you're not?" He looks at Napoleon hopefully. "Would you care to dance?"

"No thank you." Napasha's voice is polite, but firm. "I have a partner."

At which the man smiles, shrugs, and excuses himself. Which spares me the necessity of a warning glare. I consider a moment, then send one after his departing back anyway. Just in case.

Napasha notices the look and lifts his hand towards me.  "Do you want to?"

"I'm sorry, Napasha, but..."

"No, I'm sorry." The hand drops back to the table. "I never want to push you."

"No." I touch his arm, hoping he will understand. "It's not that..it's that... I am not a very good dancer. And this music is not familiar."

'No problem." Napoleon pulls out his wallet and flags a waiter. Within seconds he is asking the man, "You think the band could manage a waltz?"

That brings no answer, but as soon as the waiter reaches the bandstand the chanteuse finishes the current medley and begins crooning something about a 'Lady in Red'. Unfamiliar words, but a very familiar three-four time.

Napasha stands and holds out his hand. "Just follow my lead."

I smile a bit as we move to the dance floor, and as he draws me into his arms I whisper, "That...is familiar."

We have never danced together before, and it takes a moment to adjust to moving backwards, but....I feel strangely natural in his arms. We have practiced together, clasped in ten thousand different judo holds, loved together, grappled in endless foreign beds,  but this is ....different. The perfect place to spend a night on earth.

His lips brush near my ear. Almost touching. Not a kiss, but the memory of one. Or perhaps the promise of kisses to come. Not of tomorrows themselves. Such things are uncertain. But at least of tomorrow's intent.

I lean in, bringing my cheek almost to his. That is my answer. The future is...unknown, unclaimable. So be it. Whatever future I have, I will offer to him.

When we return to the table, Mark is standing. "Sorry chaps." He drops a short stack of large bills on the table. "Bird spotted on the wing. Time to go in."

END CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

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