Rated: PG-13

Post operations is the usual chaotic mess. Even well organized chaos, as such things go.  Michael Shoenberg's secretary proves quite helpful about finding towels, and Lee is unexpectedly efficient in getting all 'unofficial' personal out of range of the press vultures. Even so, it is a long, chilly, and rather damp drive back to headquarters.

I get shuffled off to medical, where I waste far too much time explaining that I am *not* in shock, and that the jacket is *not* considered a vital organ. Then Janet Trent wants a situation report.  Then Ordinance wants my gun for ballistic comparison. Then Property wants to know were I bought the jacket. So many reports. And Napasha used to complain about U.N.C.L.E. paperwork. With all the required procedures it is mid afternoon before I have a chance to reconnect with Napoleon.

I finally catch up with him again in the Command Center, where he is chatting with April Dancer. Or rather, with the wall broadcast of April Dancer. Debriefing session. Like I remember with Mr. Waverly. Indeed, April is sounding *just* like Waverly.

"Really, Napoleon. Another suit?" That is the first line I hear as I take my seat between Napoleon and Mark.

"Another suit plus a leather jacket." Napasha smiles over at me. " Illya's jacket was ruined too."

"Plus a car. Two cars! Plus last night's dinner tab?" April gives a most unladylike snort. "I'm beginning to question exactly how much of an asset you are."

Napoleon just grins. We broke the plot. We stopped the assassination. And he also managed to annoy the accountants. Even in borrowed gym clothes he is in his glory.

April sees that all-to-familiar expression and sighs. "Very well, Napoleon," She gives in graciously. "But please...no more four-hundred dollar bottles of wine. I do have a comptroller to justify these things to." With that, she blinks out.

"So." Napoleon turns to Mr. Smith " I gather everything is now under control?"

"Apparently." Smith nods and reaches for his briefing binder. "We'll leave the high security in place just in case, but to all appearances the  crisis is over. The three men inside and the two that Lee's people caught at the gate were the full operation team."

A secretary bring me my own report, which I scan through quickly. No interrogation reports yet. "One question. Have any of the prisoners given up their connection with T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

Smith shrugs. "Turns out there wasn't one. Avian Solutions is legit." Seeing the shocked expressions on Napoleon, Mark, and even myself, he adds. " Well, reasonably legit." He flips quickly to a back page. "When T.H.R.U.S.H. went south, the local remnant decided to turn their resources to making money. Thus Avian Solutions."

Napoleon looks at me, then at Mark, and finally asks, "Then why?"

"Why did Avian hire thugs to try for you? Well, this turns out to be not *quite* a T.H.R.U.S.H. operation. Personal enmity."

Lee mutters, "More like personal stupidity."

Smith ignores the comment, still adressing Napoleon. "Do you remember a man named Frederick Trask? He's currently Avian's Chief Financial Officer."

"Trask." Napoleon rubs his chin, clearly thinking back. " No. Not off hand, but..."

"Turns out he remembers you rather well. In the arrest report he says something about a brunette in Madagascar. So when  Bill Vally told his friend Joe Bierbaum you were in town, naturally Bierbaum told Trask, and well..."

"See, Napoleon." I give him what I hope is a severe look. "I told you your charm would get you into trouble."

I must be losing my edge, because Mark just shakes his head, and Napasha quips back, "You told me I had no charm."

"That too." I try hard not to smile. "No more brunettes for you."

"I promise," Napasha places his hand over his heart. "Only blonds from here on out."

"Blonds?"

His voice drops, and his eyes darken. "One blond."

"That is better," I answer. Then I smile.

Napasha turns back  to Smith. "You're telling me this Trask hired a bunch of thugs to kill both Illya and myself because I seduced his girlfriend...thirty years ago?"

Lee answers from the far end of the table. "It's more like his wife. And you threw her off a roof."

"Oh." Napasha stops for a moment, slightly nonplused. "I suppose I can see where that might be memorable."

"Mr. Lee." I move the conversation back to more useful channels. "What is going to happen to Mr. Trask?"

The young man shrugs. "Realistically? Not much. His lawyer has him out on bail, and unless he does something stupid he'll probably cop probation and community service. I mean, he does have a very good record in with local charities. And when it comes down to it you're *not* dead. Of course, with Avian at risk of losing its high-security contract status, I suppose his shareholders will be none to happy with him.. "

"You think they will take him out?"

"No." Lee shakes his head. "More likely they'll reduce his bonus. Might even fire him if he gets convicted. But he's not our problem."

"And the assassination attempt?" Because T.H.R.U.S.H. or not, *someone* was shooting at me.

"There was one, obviously." Mr. Smith takes back the conversation.  "Simply not by T.H.R.U.S.H. The assassination effort turned out to be an internal affair. Standard mujahideen fanaticism. Or perhaps tribal. The two we arrested outside we cousins to the main shooter. And they have implicated several more back in Azerbaijan."

"So out presence was ...random?"

"I would rather say fortuitous. In any case, Vice-President Babeyev is most grateful. If we hadn't been on alert....?" Smith leaves the sentence unfinished. No matter. Everyone here is far too familiar with those possibilities. "So?" Mr. Smith asks as he closes the file. "I gather you two will be staying?"

Napoleon looks at me before answering. "No. I don't think so. You have a very professional operation, but it's not ..quite what we're looking for."

Chapter Fifty-Three: Love Minus Zero

Rated: PG-13

The house is empty when we get back. I would say untouched. That is not David's opinion. He checks through the ground floor, clucking occasionally, while Mark heads for the bar. Mark pours automatically. Scotch for Napasha, vodka for me, and this time gin for himself.

"God. They trashed the place!" The cry echoes from the kitchen.  From David's pained expression, I assume that he is referring to the two frozen pizza boxes left in the trash and a few apparently clean dishes sitting on the kitchen counter.  That is the only evidence I can see. Well, that and a pile of wrapped boxes  sitting in the living room.

"What are those?" Napoleon asks, taking a sip of his drink.

After a quick look at the 'cleared' tag left by the clean-up crew I rip the paper off the top box. Interesting. Fruit and sausage from somewhere called Bristol Farms. "Lunch."

"Illya!" Mark reaches for the card still taped to the paper. "With thanks, Treasury Department - Secret Service - Berkeley Office." He reads, then adds, "I guess they must have a gift delivery account."

Returning from the kitchen, David pulls another package and reads the back. "Processed cheese food." His lips twist. " You don't want to eat this."

"I want to eat something." I hold out my hand for the despised cheese. " I am hungry. We had only pastries for breakfast, along with that weak American coffee. And now it is almost time for dinner." Not that a cold snack is much of a dinner, but it is *food*.  I reach in again and pull out a pack of flavored nuts. "A pity the buffet was ruined. The stuffed salmon looked excellent."

Napoleon shakes his head. "Only you would notice such a thing during a fire fight."

"Well, apparently not everything was ruined." Mark slips the card from the next box. "Mr. Van Ort sent you a case of the champagne. Leftovers, he says. Seems after all the excitement most of the run was on the stronger stuff. " Mark hold up the card and reads in a sarcastic voice. "I hope this unfortunate event has not discouraged your interest in our project. Looking forward to working with you. Jonathan Van Ort. Global-Sat Telecommunications."

"What tha.." Napoleon reaches for the card. "He can't possibly think..."

Mark shrugs. "Well, you did shake on it."

"But...."

"And from Van Ort's point of view, you've already proved out. I mean, Babeyev is alive. The State Department is grateful.  Avian Solutions wont be stealing a Global-Sat contract anytime soon. Win-win all around."

"Somehow," Napasha drops onto the sofa, "Making the world safe for cable television was not what I envisioned as the purpose of my life."

"So?" Mark shrugs. "If you don't want Global-Sat? Blow  them off. After this you can write your own ticket all over this town."

David opens a third package. "This one is Scotch." He hands Napoleon the card. "From Avian."

"What!!" Napoleon reads aloud. "Sorry for any misunderstanding. I hope we can set up another appointment. Joe Bierbaum." Napoleon flips the card on to the coffee table. "He's got to be severely deluded."

"Not really." Mark picks up the card. "If Frederick Trask goes down, they'll need good management to hold their field offices together. You could do it. And if Bierbaum brings you in his chances of keeping his own job goes way up."

"But T.H.R.U.S.H.!"

"Not anymore. You heard Smith. They're straight now. Well, semi-straight." Mark swallows about half his glass. "A lot of people in this town wouldn't hold the company's past against them."

"When they tried to kill Illya?" Napasha comes nearly off the couch. "And myself?"

"OK. Forget Avian." Mark eases into a seat by the fireplace. "What's in the last box?"

David slips out the card. " With thanks from Vice-President Babeyev." He pulls open the box. " The man sent a case of Azerbaijani vodka."

"I thought the pious could not touch grape or grain." Mark smiles at the contradiction.

"Might not count," David retorts as he pulls out a bottle and squints at the rather blurry label. "I wouldn't guarantee this stuff to be from anything organic."

I pick up another bottle, crack the label, and sniff. It smells like paint thinner. Poor quality paint thinner. Watered down poor quality paint thinner. Retightening the cap, I drop the bottle back among its companions. " You are right," I tell David. Looking at the other box, I add, "But the champagne looks good."

He picks up a curved bottle. "Think this will go with Chinese?"

"Take out!" Mark clutches theatrically at his chest. "David!"

"Your spy friends made a mess of my kitchen," David answers, reaching for the phone. "Unless you want to wait until I clean it...we're ordering Chinese."

While Mark and David go off to look through the menu, I take my place on the couch beside Napoleon.

"Illya." He leans forward so I can wrap one arm around his shoulders. "Do you...?"

I rest my head against him. "Why are you unhappy, my Napasha?"

"Today..." Again he stops with the thought unfinished.

"You were perfect." I tighten my arm and pull him just a bit closer. "Even if it was not T.H.R.U.S.H., we still..." At the name he tenses, but I rub his arm until he relaxes again. "Napasha, the mission was a success."

"Yes, but..."

"What, my Napasha." I lean back a bit, letting him rest against my chest.

"Like I said. I don't *want* to fight for...I don't know...someone's telephone contract." His eyes meet mine, and the bright fire there just hours ago is somehow dimmed. He pauses, then adds, "That's not... what I thought I was here for."

Oh, my heart. My Emperor. This is so far from his nature. "Perhaps Marie?" I offer.

"She's the same thing."He shakes his head, rubbing his cheek against my shoulder. "Only with high explosives."

"So? What do we do?" And I mean it. Any path to get back my Napasha.

"I don't know. But..." His hand reaches for mine. "If we can't find peace?" Our palms touch. "Can we at least find something worth fighting for?"

What can I answer to that? Only.. "A cause?"I  take a breath, and my fingers tighten on his. "My cause is gone but...if you can find one...I will fight for yours."

Chapter Fifty-Four: Both Sides Now

Rated: PG

The room is small, and rather shabby for all its gilt and brocade. Slightly warm and just a bit stuffy. A textbook example of bureaucratic splendor. Also, just now, edging over into barely controlled chaos as the various 'suits' shout over each other into their various head sets. One would hope that this many professionals would be somehow better coordinated. Well, one can always hope. For what good it does. But they *are* all professionals, and I must trust that the operation will come off smoothly.

I check my watch. 10:20 am. Ten minutes until show time.

Napoleon is looking dapper as always. No, more so. He frankly shines. Standing under a second-rate Rembrandt and chatting up an over-dressed blonde from the Academy of Sciences. She is blushing and stammering and generally looking more like a star-struck school girl then a senior government official. Several others flutter around. Male and female, they are like moths caught in his light.  Looking at him, I wonder. Is this what people mean by .. ' the happiest day of one's life?'

Stepping up to the baroque mirror, I straighten my tie and adjust the elaborate eagle cufflinks that were the gift of the Smiths. My new grey suit is a gift from Napoleon, arranged my Mr. Bond and his much-put-upon tailor in Saville row. The tie is from Sir Ian. Cambridge colors.  Not that I am becoming personally susceptible to such things. It is simply a matter of respect. For Napoleon, for myself, for...my county.

"Five minutes, gentlemen," One of the radio-decked aides calls.

I step back from the mirror. "I am ready."

Napoleon comes over, dismissing his court. "You are always ready. For everything." He strokes my forehead as he brushes one straying hair back into place. "So tell me." He lowers his voice, speaking to me alone. "If this Babayev guy is so grateful, how come it's the Russians who want to give us the medal?"

"Because," I whisper back. "Russia has a lot more invested in Babayev then his own country does. Azerbaijan is small, but strategic. And border wars never stay on the border. If the internal situation in Azerbaijan was destabilized, the chances of larger involvement are... very high."

"So they like Babayev healthy. Makes sense." Napasha shrugs. "And I am going along with this because?"

"Because April said to." I run one finger over his still rough knuckles. "And because it will mean a great deal to me."

"Well." He smiles. "There is that."

He is so 'Napoleon' when he is teasing. I drop a quick kiss on those mocking lips before heading for the hall.

"Are you sure that was legal?"

"We are indoors." I glance back over my shoulder. "According to my web site, yes."

"Wonderful." Napasha give his cuffs a final pull, then follows. "I think I could like this new Russia. I really could."

*******

It is two hours of photographers and handshakes before the aide appears and quietly guides us to the upstairs office.

"President Putin?" I nod formally. I am not in uniform, so it would not be quite proper to salute. And besides...

"Please, Illya." He smiles. That has not changed. Wide and deep, as if he knew a secret the rest of the world did not. Which, given the source? That is quite possible. "Vladimir. Still Vladimir."

Hand clasps all around somehow end in front of a glass-decked bar. "Vodka?" Vladimir pours a glass and hands it to me. " And I believe you, Mr. Solo, drink scotch?"

Napoleon accepts the glass carefully. "Thank you, Mr. President."

"Vladimir to you too." He chuckles lightly as he fills his own glass. "I have long looked  forward to meeting the man who stole my best agent from me. Of course, I did not think it would be here, but...." A slightly darker chuckle implies a Berlin alley at midnight might have been his venue of choice.

This is...unreal. "Pres.." I start, then... "Vladimir. How...?"

"How did the Chief of Department H end up as President of Russia?" He guides us over to a conversation area. "By a respectable majority, no matter what the opposition papers may say!" He waves at the chairs. "Sit, sit."

We do so, but carefully, waiting for him to reach his point.

Vladimir settles into his own chair, takes a breath, and then begins. "Thirty-three years. Things have changed, Illya Nickovetch. Things have changed."

"So it would appear."

"Suspicious as always. That was always your best trait." He turns to Napoleon. "Our friend, Mr. Solo, would not believe the sun was shining unless he checkd the spectrograph. Twice."

Napoleon raises his drink. "You say that like it's a bad thing?"

"Never." Vladimir takes a shallow sip, then sets his glass down on the table. "I also am a suspicious bastard. Which is the other reason I am President today." His voice drops and becomes serious. "As I said. Things have changed. Many for the better, I admit. But it is not all so simple. These are not easy times. Not for Russia. Not for the world."

There is nothing to say to that , so..I say nothing.

"You read the papers?" He asks Napoleon, who nods.

"It's worse than they say. Outside the cities there is literally no law. Sometimes, I think, not outside this room." He looks at me. "The world has become corrupt. Even the army suffers from corruption and disorder. Even our own service. Most I think, are good Russians. I think." Then he turns to Napoleon. "And Russia is not alone in her problems. You read the Los Alamos report, Mr. Solo? The other nations - they have the same problems. Many far worse." He shakes his head. "This is a hard time for honest men. Which is why we need them."

Another pause, then.. "You two, I believe, are honest men."

"Thank you," I answer. "I think."

"See?" Vladimir leans over toward Napoleon, the wide smile back in full force.  "Suspicious. And wise."

Then he is back to business. "I have spoken with President Bush. Both of them, actually. And with Prime Minister Blair. And their equivalents in France, Spain, Germany - even Poland of all places. And..well, the usual suspects."

Vladimir reclaims his vodka and takes a deep sip. "I won't say George was ..happy..... to give you up, Solo, but...he understands. And I will say this for the man. He pays his bills."

Napoleon sits quietly and somehow manages to look like a man who has heard nothing. Or at least nothing of interest. But.. "Give?"I stammer.  If Bush can *give*  that can only mean..  if.. "Napoleon...you were..."

Vladimir dismisses the question.  "Oh, George assured me Solo never actually flipped on anyone. But.. given the way Kronsteen was begging to bring him in at the top?"

A ...what..triple agent at the top of the Goskomsyyaz? I am torn between horror and a certain chill professional admiration.

"And the Americans call us paranoid." Vladimir chuckles again. "Although it's not like I didn't *try*...so..." He raises his glass to Napoleon in mock commendation. "Let that be all in the past."

"The relevent people had a little conference in Berlin last week, and after a bit of debate..." Or more then a bit, but Vladimir's expression still dismisses it. "What matters is that everyone important is in agreement. Our foes are multi-national. We need something more than our various national agencies. So, gentlemen, you are here so I can offer you a job." He looks first at Napoleon, then at me, then somehow at the two of us together. "Do you think that you could reestablish U.N.C.L.E.?"

FINIS

With great thanks to nickovetch, Goddess of Grammar and Princess of Punctuation. The things that are right are the instances where I listened to her - and the things that are wrong are where I did not.

With thanks also to the many other writers ( cannon and otherwise) who have contributed to richly to the MFU universe. A living art grows from many hands. My few threads would be lost without your tapestry to give them pattern.

With final thanks to Raven - who managed to get it onto her computer. (Not the easiest of tasks. This is not a small file.)

Now, if anyone is still reading this (and after fifty-four chapters I am frankly impressed by your endurance) I do want to hear from you. Because otherwise I will never believe that anyone read the whole thing. - Darklady

Also: FB will greatly increase the writing speed on the next story - The Crown Royale Affair.

Oh - and for the legal types? copyright©KKR-2001

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