This used to have a long intro justifying the possibility of the RASA sending people up for reasons *other* then pure science - and mentioning several civilian names on the projected cosmonaut list. But now - all I'm going to say is - *This was written in January 2001, long BEFORE the Russians got approval for 'space tourist' Dennis Tito.* And there are plenty more on the list.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Promises, Promises

Rated: PG-13

Four a.m. by the clock. I am officially napping on the fold-out couch in the ready room. It is not that uncomfortable, and someone has found both a quilt and a pair of 'sweats' to use as  pajamas. I am an experienced field agent. I have long been familiar with worse. So why can't I sleep?

There have been the usual quiet visits as updates come in. Target tracking and and radar updates from Azerbaijan Two. Back in New York Waverly would have handled such, but Napoleon is Chief here. And I am lead. So... we get the reports.

Napoleon is restless, but he always is before an operation. I am the one who sleeps.

I try to lay still. Nervous energy is wasted energy, and tomorrow may be rough. But as I roll over into the pillow Napasha looks up from his latest list, and our eyes meet.

"You're not sleeping."

"Da?" I slap the pillow and lay back. "You never sleep well before a mission."

"I don't have to, you  do it for me."

"Napas...Napoleon." I pull the quilt up and close my eyes.

"What bothers you?" I feel the slow give as Napasha sits on the cushion beside me.  "Something about the operation?"

"No." I drop the quilt and scoot back to lean against the upholstery. "Smith's plan looks solid." Which is true. And we have often gone in with less.

"Then....." He drops one hand on my shoulder. "Give, Illyusha."

I hesitate. It is foolish, and nothing to do with our mission. I have no *obligation* to report such matters to my Chief. Not even to my partner. But if he is also my *partner*? I had not before considered that the liberties of this new world would carry their own constraints.

"You know I spoke to Demitri Kronsteen?" It is not a question, but I make it one.

"To back up our resume," Napasha nods. "Very smart."

I carefully inspect the ceiling. "That is... not all we spoke of."

"Kronsteen's one of your...old friends?"

"That, too, although we were never in the same operational units." I also check out the wall moldings. "Still, technicals do tend to know each other."

"He wants you back." Napoleons's voice is completely neutral. Which means, of course, that he is not.

"Yes." I change my focus to his face; his eyes. There is something there...but I do not know quite what.

After a pause he says, "Makes sense. Gossip was Hemispheric Europe had to damn near use nitro to get you from them in the first place."

"Do not be ridiculous," I answer automatically. "I was a volunteer. It says so in my files."

"Who wasn't," Napoleon snorts. "My little tour of Korea taught me the definition of 'volunteer.'" Then his eyes darken. "What did the man say to upset you?"

"Very likely what Marie Dumont said to you. Demitri Ivanovich went from the MDI to the RASA, and is now in charge of the heavy lifter program. That is not only the commercial satellite program, but also a major part of the support for manned space flight. And lately...he had had a few... unexpected aborts. He lost a Proton. Also an SS-18.  And he does not always trust the post-analysis. Especially he has troubles with the Ukrainians."

"More Ukrainians? I thought they were April's problem."

I ignore that last remark."He thinks we could..handle matters."

"It's possible." Napoleon rests back against the cushions beside me. "He'd have to make one hell of an offer to trump France, but....I said I would listen."

"You would not have a problem with...different loyalties?"

Napoleon waves in dismissal. "I can't imagine he's blaming NASA for his misfires?" He eases a bit closer. "What's the real  problem?"

"I never told  anyone this but... I tried for....that program. I just... was not accepted."

"Illya." He reaches out to wrap one arm about my shoulder. "Illyusha.  Every kid on the planet wanted to be an astronaut at one time or another."

"Yes, but.... Demitri Ivanovich has a ...very ambitious launch schedule. And the crews are much larger now. He...implied..."

"You want to go up." Napasha eyes are lighter now, and there is the first hint of a laugh in his voice.

"To be a cosmonaut..." I look away, unable to finish. " Do you think...?"

He pulls me closer. "You could ask."

I rest my head on his shoulder. "The last time they offered flight time to an engineer, it was a pure bribe."

"Did it work?" The question is casual, but truly curious.

"Well, yes." I nod against his neck. "The Voskhod launched two years ahead of schedule, but...."

"I guess this Kronsteen likes to go  with a plan that works."

"Do you really think?" I look up, searching his eyes.

"Who knows?" Napasha brushes my hair and pulls me back down. "But you've got about twenty years left to find out."

"Napoleon.."

"Illya Nickovetch." He drops a light kiss on my hair. "I love you. And I'd go with you anywhere. Even Siberia. At least ... in the summer."

"Kazakstan."

"Gezuntite."

"They launch from Kazakstan. The weather is not so bad there."

"Where ever." Rising, he tucks the quilt back around me before he returns to his own chair. "Now. Get some sleep."

Chapter Fifty: Two for the Price of One

Rated: PG

Morning comes. Too early, but that is the way of things. Smith is pacing in the Command Center when we come up. Lee is reading reports and muttering. Janet Trent at Communications Central looks neat but wired. No longer quite used to pulling the all-nighter, I gather. At least I am well rested. Napoleon  gives every appearance of calm, except when I check his eyes. There the fire burns. But that is Napoleon Solo, and it means he, too, is ready.

The new crew has shown the expected efficiency with dry-cleaning, so Napoleon's suit is again perfect. As are my roll-top and trousers. Other then being black, of course, and I do not imagine that complaint would find an understanding in these ranks. At least Napasha's tie is blue. That is something.

We eat breakfast without conversation. Smith is there as well. This is the time for receiving final briefings. No visible movement from Avian. Right. That just means they were already in position before we started.

Our car is checked and waiting in the garage upstairs. We are again driving Mark's, just in case surveillance has been sloppy. Wasted effort, I would imagine. Any operation that could find us three times on the road will notice we have vanished for a day. Even so...

I hand my briefing folder back to Janet Trent, who alone has come with us up the elevator. Lee has his men in position. Smith has the other agencies coordinated. One final phone call with Dancer and we are go.

***********

Quite a large complex. Not much can be seen over the  iron-topped brick walls, but the size alone is impressive. And the steel gates are manned by not two but three watchmen. Global-Sat, it would seem, is taking no chances...even without the the reasons we have for apprehension.

Napoleon slows our green sedan just outside the gates, and I open my now modified cell-phone to make a few last calls.

"Mr. Smith." I speak carefully into the shielded phone. "We are at the gate. Any signs of hostile movement?"

"Nothing definitive." He sounds calm, if a bit tired. "You are still go as primary."

"Thank you." I switch channels. "Mark. You have us?"

"Absolutely." The familiar voice comes in clearly. "Best turn your set off while you go through reception. I'm sure they have scanners. Not that this is supposed to pick up, but...why risk it? Turn back on once you're past reception." There is a brief buzz as he locks on to our tight frequency. "The offices? They are shielded, but not with anything that will give us grief."

"And the motorcade?"

"So far on schedule." Mark whispers a bit to whoever is with him, then adds. "I'll switch off at the gate and go in as a walk-along."

"Good." I switch channels again. " Mr. Lee? Are your forces in position?"

"Yes sir. We are good to go."

Excellent." I nod at Napoleon. "We are now going in."

*********

Global-Sat Telecommunications. The words are set out in bright steel letters arcing over the massive main entrance. One of six gates into this complex, but this one is the most recognized, the closest to our target, and the one we will use. After all, today we are here by invitation.

We roll up to the gate behind a large catering truck. Part of the reception arrangements, I assume. One would hope that Smith has checked out everyone involved, but at his short notice? Unlikely.

Napoleon rolls down his window. "We have an appointment with Michael Schoenberg?"

"Yes." A second guard consults his list as the one on my side makes a show of writing down the license number. The third ignores us completely in favor of adjusting the music on the guardhouse radio.  Despite their numbers, the significance of the guards decline sharply. "I have you listed." He points down the road. " Main building on the right. Here's you car tag." He passes a cardboard hanger to Napoleon, who in turn passes it to me. "Visible in the Front left please. Visitor parking is right up front."

I check it for a moment, but the pass *is* only cardboard. So I drop it on the dash and turn my attention to the compound itself.

Even more impressive from within. Three low modern buildings, all black glass and steel, surrounding a fountain centered reflecting pond. Obviously the site of the reception, as the open-space patio is now filled with a bandstand and catering tents.

Never the ideal security set-up. And the presence of the press will only complicate matters. I glance over the smattering of logo-painted cars and radar vans clustered at the near end of the parking lot. They will be a problem for communication. No matter. What we cannot alter we must endure.

Napoleon and I have had tougher assignments...just not in this decade.

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

The main reception area is as modern as the rest of the compound. All chrome and smoked glass. Expensive, but it echoes like a prison. I understand why they prefer to entertain outside.

Before we can give our names to the receptionist, a trim-looking middle-aged man hurries up. Plainly dressed, no tie, but I notice his shirt has French cuffs.

"Mr. Solo, Dr. Kuryakin." Schoenberg shakes our hands as he speaks, making it subtly clear that he knows which is which. "I'm so delighted you both could come. Forgive the confusion." He waves generally at the immaculate reception area. " We are all at sixes and sevens today since we are going to host a *major* trade delegation."

"Vice-President Babayev," I answer carefully.

Schoenberg guides us down a short hall to an unused office. "Practically a countryman of yours."

Hardly, but I let the comment pass.We takes our seats as Michael Schoenberg pours coffee. Napoleon accepts. I decline.

Napoleon pick up the  thread. "That's the country bordering Armenia and Iran, if I'm correct. And I assume they will have representatives here as well?"

"Yes." Schoenberg's smile grows even wider. "And also the representatives of the Goskomsyyaz." That last is accompanied by another glance at me.

"Quite a distinguished gathering," I answer, careful to sound just a bit impressed. "Do you have such visitors often?"

"Absolutely." Schoenberg seems all but ready to dance. "Global-Sat Telecommunications is at the  forefront of international technology. Absolutely cutting edge. Which is why we can offer so many wonderful opportunities. We expect our work to go fast and far in the very near future."

"So I've heard." Napoleon starts the charm. "You've established a considerable presence on the eastern coast."

"Which we intend to build on in the coming years. This latest trade visit is expected to solidify our absolute leadership in that area." Schoenberg's comfortable tone turns almost gloating. "Babayev is not only Vice-President, but the leading force in the reindustrialization movement. And the representatives from the World Bank will be with him today. Within the month we expect to get the satellite broadcast contract for the entire country. Plus cable. Television, telephone, data - the entire infrastructure. At least twenty seven major installations."

"Quite an ambitious project," Napoleon answers approvingly.

"Global-Sat  is an ambitious company." Schoenberg nods again to include me in the conversation.

"An admirable characteristic," I reply carefully. "I myself have been called ambitious at times. Sometimes unreasonably so."

That was the right answer. Schoenberg sits back in his chair. "All human progress was made by unreasonable men. And here at Global-Sat we are committed to guiding that progress."

"So," Schoenberg leans forward,and his smiles takes on a sharp edge. "Dr. Kuryakin. My resources tell me you have experience with a rocketry management system?"

"Yes." I answer carefully. "Primarily with the SS-18 launch platform, which I understand from your launch contract you will be using in the near future."

"How?" The man's eyes widen just a bit. "Oh, yes, I'm told you know  General Kronsteen."

"Demitri Ivanovich?" I use the personal name deliberately. " Yes. We have been acquainted for several years. I worked with him just after graduation on a project related to satellite launches."

"Which is?" Schoenberg edges forward a bit.

"Something I'd rather not discuss." I start with my tone cold, then relent to add, "But you are welcome to ask him, if you wish."

"Oh. Of course." He sits back. Apparently that is *always* the right answer. Then, with a sideways look..." But you do have familiarity with the 'Satan' class ballistic missiles."

Amateur. I answer "I have experience with the SS-18 orbital launch platform. The Russian Federation *has* no ballistic missiles that I know of, and certainly none by the name you mention."

"Understood completely." Another right answer. His smile grows *very* sharp. "And we here at Global-Sat have absolutely *no* interest whatsoever in weapons of mass destruction. Not that you would know anything about such things."

Which I believe - not.

Schoenberg scribbles something on his file. "As for any more recent .... interactions?" He leaves the implications in the air.

"Both Mr. Solo and myself had breakfast with General Kronsteen in Tallin ...Tuesday before last."

"That would be the same day you meet our Col. Austin?" Schoenberg glances down at his notes. "He ...speaks quite highly of you both."

Napoleon takes that. "It was...a pleasure to meet the gentleman. And he said some excellent things about Global-Sat."

Schoenberg nods. "We like to think of Global-Sat as not just a company...but as a family."

"A... new home?" Now Napoleon's smile takes on the sharp edge.

"Exactly. You do understand where I'm coming from, Mr.Solo." Schoenberg takes another glance at his notes before starting a new question. "You both also know Dr. Dumont?"

"I have worked with the lady on...certain electronics projects," I acknowledge. " Primarily tight frequency and light weight communications systems. But there Mr. Solo would have the better acquaintance."

"Which, of course..."

"I always let the lady answer such questions." The edge to Napasha's smile gets a bit sharper.

"You would not object if we contacted Dr. Dumont?"

Napoleon glances at his watch. "Do you have her home number?"

"No, but... well." Another note as Schoenberg changes the subject again. "As you know, all launch personnel at the final stage are subject to approval from the Baykonur authorities. Do you think there would be any...difficulties with your receiving such approval?"

"The Russians seemed friendly enough two weeks ago." Napoleon sips his coffee. " We were both in St. Petersburg at that time, and General Safaryan was quite hospitable. That would be a week ago Monday."

"The day before you had breakfast with General Kronsteen." Another note. "Yes indeed. And you, Dr. Kuryakin?"

"I would not expect any objections from the site management. I can't speak at this time for the Ukrainians."

At that he looks up. "I thought you are born in..."

"Kiev? Yes."

"But you're still Russian. And....uh..." Another glance down. "British?"

"I have a British residency passport." And hell will freeze before I become subject to any 'Queen', I add mentally. But that is an inappropriate thought for this interview, so I discard it.

"Cambridge, yes?" I nod and Schoenberg becomes thoughtful. "That could be useful later, although at the moment we aren't launching from China. Well." He makes another note. "If the Azerbaijani like you, the Ukrainians shouldn't be an impossible problem. And you, Mr. Solo. American and Italian? You've never formally renounced the Italian connection?"

Napoleon dismisses the question. "It never seemed like a problem." His tones adds an unspoken, 'Is it?'.

"Not at all." Schoenberg is all but rubbing his hands. "That should sound *very* good to the ESA. A few too many Germans, you understand."

No. I do not understand. But as I also could not care, I let that pass.

Michael Schoenberg closes his file and his posture turns very serious. "Gentlemen." He looks at us both. "I assume, given your connections, you are aware that we lost a satellite in a Proton launch last year. the Intercosmos report attributed the failure to mission software, so RASA is giving us another launch window...but..."

Napoleon finishes, "Such losses are expensive in more than an economic sense."

"With the Chinese and French trying for every launch contract?" Schoenberg agrees carefully. "A second 'error' would be injurious to our reputation. Although at 70 million a launch, the bottom line impact is nothing to sneeze at."

"So you want a special management overview to assure that there are no further...mistakes. No...errors in judgment."

"Exactly." The teeth are fully out and fully sharp. "I am so glad we are on the same wavelength."

He almost holds out his hand, then stops. "One last thing. I understand from my friends that you are looking for an assignment together.."

That is bad. I would lie, but given out recent indiscretion such evasions would prove not only blatantly ridiculous but detrimental. No repair now for past errors. So... I nod.

Michael Schoenberg shrugs and...blushes a bit? I know the subject can be uncomfortable, but..

"I do hate to ask personal questions, but..." He shakes his head slightly, then starts, "Global-Sat has quite a bit riding on this project, and - on a remote site - personal tensions can cause mission problems, so.. I am sorry, but... stability is important to us. I must ask. Am I right to assume your is a ...long term...partnership?"

I look at Napoleon before answering. "Almost five years."

"Excellent." Schoenberg lets out an actual sigh of relief. "I *am* sorry I had to ask, but..."

"Not at all." Napoleon is all charm and forgiveness.  "We do understand. It's important to know and trust the people you work with."

Michael Schoenberg stands, smiling. " Mr. Solo. Dr. Kuryakin.  We've gotten along so well.. would you life to meet OUR president?"

Victory. I see Napoleon practically glow with charisma. "Absolutely."

***********

Schoenberg takes us upstairs to a very well furnished suite with a spectacular  view. One clear sign of its owner's power. Another was that this office was *not* a tribute to modernist discomfort. Chinese rugs and Victorian florals persuaded this expanse to  actually come close to cozy.

We were clearly expected, because the president himself opened the office door for us.

"Mr. Napoleon Solo. Dr. Illya Kuryakin." Michael Schoenberg makes the introduction as we shake hands all around. "Jonathan Van Ort."

"Gentlemen." Van Ort waves us to comfortable seats set in a 'living room' arrangement. At his level there is no need for desks. "Such a pleasure." He waits while one young lady pours coffee (quite decent, to go by the scent) and another produces Mr. Schoenberg's jacket and vest. "So." Van Ort starts once we are all settled. " Michael's bringing you up here must mean you are interested in our Azerbaijani project?"

"It sounds like quite a major undertaking."

"That it is!" Van Ort leans forward. "But at Global-Sat we are up to it. Satellite telecommunications is the future."

"Yes, I believe you are. And Mr. Schoenberg has made it very tempting for us to be a part of that future."

"Let me go over a few of our..other advantages, and see if I can make that temptation...irresistible."

I listen quietly as Napoleon and the other two men go deep into a discussion of stock options and completion bonuses. Mostly because I would have nothing to contribute. I do not even know half the terms. As my teacher used to say, 'this is Greek to me'. Except that I know Greek. I do not speak 'money'. No matter, since Napoleon clearly does. With impressive thoroughness. I will still tease him, naturally, but for once I am grateful for Napoleon's constant obsession with such things.

They are in the midst of something called currency equivalency when the small box on the table buzzes.

"Mr. Van Ort?" A young female voice interrupts apologetically. "Vice-President Babeyev's motorcade is almost here?"

"Oh, Damn." Van Ort and Schoenberg rise. " We have to go....."

Van Ort give us both an an accessing look, then reaches a decision. "Tell you what. Why don't you join me? I'm sure the Vice - President would appreciate your enthusiasm for the project. After all, I expect you may very well be working together soon..?"

Napoleon grins. "Great idea. If he is the visionary that you are... I can clearly see this project going somewhere - very fast."

"Indeed," I add carefully. "There is...explosive potential...here."

OK. One change in format. Because in this chapter different people will be speaking two different languages < > will be used to indicate Russian. I know that this will make it look like a quote on some machines, but....that's life.

PS: In answer to 'why does it take 51 chapters before you see any action? That's espionage. Long periods of watchful boredom, ended by moments of stark terror. Then, if you are lucky enough to survive, the boredom starts again.

Chapter Fifty-One: Every Time is Going to Be the Last Time

Rated: PG-13

The cars are driving up as we reach the lawn. A long row of Lincoln limos flanked by radio vans, with the motorcycle escort peeling off as the slowing procession drops them below stable speed.

Everyone waits in the sun through the usual rituals of power. Mr. Van Ort greets the Vice-President, then the delegates, then introduces his own staff. All very formal, and strictly managed by the protocol officers.

That done, they all pose for still photos and smile for the news  cameras. In some sense that is the true purpose of this trip. Fifteen seconds on the evening news will do more to shore up Sat-Com's stock price and Azerbaijan's foreign exchange then all the hard infrastructure this ten years of proposed engineering will provide. Something about that rubs against my proletarian background, but.... one does not remain an effective agent by denying the truth.

Napoleon and I watch quietly from the edge of the Sat-Con delegation. It is actually a very effective vantage point. We have an excellent view of both lines of defense. I make a mental note. Perhaps we should try infiltration as prospective employees more often.

Van Ort waits until the entire ritual is finished and we are under the reception tent before he draws Napoleon and I over.

"Mr. Vice-President, let me..."

A bland-faced young lady at his side holds up her hand. "The Vice-President does not speak English."

"Does he speak Russian?" Van Ort asks her.

"Of course."

"Then.." Van Ort's tone slows, and takes on the careful accent of someone whose words come from language tapes rather then conversation. "<Mr. Vice-President. This is Doctor Kuryakin.">  Van Ort stops again, clearly searching, then turns back to the young lady. "Can you tell the Vice-President that Dr. Kuryakin will be coming on board to join us in this important project?" Apparently a review of social introductions was the sum of the executive's Russian lessons. Although, given the usual American distaste for such studies, I suppose I must give him credit for the effort.

She whispers to an aid, who in turn whispers to Babeyev. This is painful. I decide to end it.

<Vice-President Babeyev."> I step forward, nod formally, but do not offer my hand. In a diplomatic situation, that is the senior's prerogative. < "Mr. Van Ort has suggested that my partner and I join in the coordination efforts for this project.">

<"You are Dr. Kuryakin?" Babeyev gives me a careful look, as if trying to place me by accent and features. " You are Russian?">

I nod again.

<"I was hoping for a competent Engineer.">

Clearly the man was not elected based on his personal charm. Then again, he is the *Vice*-President. And this is not the occasion for debate.

<"I received my doctorate from Cambridge,"> I reply. It is not an answer, but he will likely take it as one.

<"That is good."> He holds out his hand, now clearly quite willing to welcome me into the project. Apparently Grustov was right about the school connection. Oh, well. As Demitri said, 'any path to victory'.

I am reaching out when a sudden shift at the right catches my eye. Just over the Vice-Presidents shoulder. One of his security men looking suddenly serious. And the man's hand is moving up along his lapel as if.. A threat behind us?  I try to follow the eye pattern, but...*Blin*... he is looking at me. No...at...

I grab Babeyev's forearm with both hands and roll him below me, simultaneously yelling, "Down! Hostile! I have one!"

*ping*

The traitor's first shot misses Babeyev. I think it may graze my jacket, but if so it does no harm.

Now everybody is shouting. Still on top of my principal, I pull and fire. Two shots centered on the guard's chest. He is down.

*ping*  *ping*

Chyort. That does not sound like defense. Wrong direction.

*prang*  *prang*

Return fire. A shout and a curse. Not English. Napoleon must be covering me.

I shove Babeyev behind a potted palm. He should be semi-safe there. Two of his men dive on him. Good. As long as they are straight, he has a chance. And now so do I.

I roll off the ledge and risk a look. Most of the other innocents have had the good sense to drop. Van Ort is wisely crawling under a table. Not that plywood will do that much good in a fire fight, but at least it clears the visual for more active targets.

Two men in blue suits are running across the lawn. Babeyev crew from the colors, but whether assault or defense? No way to tell. The are both ahead of Napoleon, so..

*ping*

One turns and fires. Napoleon rolls. Decided. Assault.  One round only, then the man is running again.

A foolish error. Perhaps fatal. Napoleon returns fire, and he does not miss. One down. One active. As Napoleon jumps to his feet I follow.

The last hostile will try for the parking lot. That much is obvious. He will need a car, both for transport and for cover. And the sacrifice of his colleague has given the fleeing man an edge. Napoleon dodges left. I go right. As we reach the near edge of the reflecting pond I spot Mark and a crew of black-suits coming up from the gate.

That is good in the sense that it limits escape, but it also removes any safe field of fire. For us at least. The hostile has a range of targets, and still several possible exits. Best if he goes down soon.  I holster my pistol and pick up speed.

Napoleon is closest. He catches up with our target just before the man passes the central fountain. Open tackle. Good effort. It catches the would-be assassin off balance and almost takes him down. Almost. The assassin's gun goes flying. Very good. But not good enough. The man grabs at Napoleon and flips him, using the momentum to toss him over-body. Napoleon kicks back, taking the fall and turning it to a roll. Grabbing the target's arm, Napoleon pulls the hostile under him just before they both hit the water.

The target comes up coughing, but by then both Mark and myself are close enough to put an end to any delusions of escape. And two sets of conventional security are coming up fast at my back.

Looking down the barrels of over twenty assorted firearms, the now sodden hostile makes the decision to surrender. Under the circumstances, it would seem his best option. As the various security forces debate possession of the now-prisoner, I hold out my hand to help Napoleon.

"Damn, Illya." He runs a finger over the bullet shredded shoulder of my jacket. "Why is it always you that they shoot at?"

I hand him my handkerchief. "Why do you always fall in water?"

"There is that." He squeezes out his hair, then wrings the sleeve of his dripping jacket. "And I once again ruined my best suit."

"At least this time you will not have to explain to Waverly why he should replace it."

Napasha grins ruefully.  "Think April is going to be more reasonable?"

END CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

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