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Second, I really hadn't planned to write another long Napoleon and Ilya story, but an intriguing challenge grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and sat me down before my keyboard. Spasibo, Dream Rider for offering up your historical plot bunny.

Third, I wish to express my deepest gratitude to the Child of the Raven who labors so well in service to our dreams. For your elegant website, for your wonderful stories, for everything... I dedicate this work to you.

Illya... Ilya... or What's in a Name?

I confess. It's good for my soul. I have this thing about characters' names (even characters I didn't create, let alone own the rights to). To wit, if the powers that be saw fit to bestow a name that squicks me, I change it. Evidently, this is a crime tantamount to murder. (Death by "canon" fire?) Although I would never tamper too much with a major character's name, there was one instance where I just had to fix what was obviously a big boo-boo on the part of his creators.

Poor Mr. Kuryakin. He was "born" at a time when the United States was very wary of his native land. Although the term "Evil Empire" had yet to be put into general use, many of us can remember the "domino theory" and all those references to the evils of communist socialism. The creative team who produced The Man from UNCLE were very forward in their thinking. They decided to reinforce this fictitious agency's lack of allegiance to present nation states by making one of the two main characters a Soviet who did not apologize for his country or its politics.

There was only one teeny tiny problem; they got the character's name "wrong." I imagine the meeting at which the characters were assigned names and "histories" was a long one and the poor schlub who was taking notes (thankless task) scribbled "Illya Nicovetch." By the time the error was noted, it was too late. OR... the pilot's author scribbled "Illya Nicovetch" with a note to self to look up the correct spelling and never got around to it. These gifted individuals can now breathe easy. I fixed it (sorta). In my previous "episodes" "Illya" became "Ilya" and "Nicovetch" became "Nicolaievitch."

Then, disaster struck. My inestimable beta reader for this story (as well as other readers) pointed out the presence of the letter "t" in "Nicolaievitch" betokened illegitimacy. Far be it for me to traduce the reputations of Ilya's most upright and honorable parents. (We will leave out the phonetic differences between the letter "k" versus the letter "c" when it comes to voiced explosive sounds...) So I am now completely happy. (It doesn't take much.) Several of my sister/fellow MFU fans will probably start warming up the flame throwers "Nicolaievich" is become "Nikolaievich." Cousins, the sins (and flames) for making free with your beloved canon be upon my all too unworthy head. (Hey, my beta reader tossed me some asbestos outer-wear so I'm all set!)

I don't own these characters (MGM does) and I don't think their legal guardians care one whit about my paltry efforts. Nevertheless, please do not archive, download, or distribute this tale without my permission. I should also point out this story makes references to events described in Robert K. Massie's masterwork, Nicholas and Alexandra, Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, as well as using a plot device from the film Anastasia. If one has to borrow, borrow from geniuses. In addition, our dear Graculus generously gave me permission to pattern events introducing an original character after a mini scenario of her own. If you haven't yet read The Reciprocity Affair, search waay back in our archives. You'll be extremely glad you did.

How do you solve a problem like Mary Sue?

I have also committed another grievous sin. I introduced an original character who seems to be perfect in every way only because she is. Consider this a WARNING! During the past six months, as I re-wrote and polished this story I tried very hard to tone the young woman down. Well, when it got to the point of re-writing the entire story, I gave up. Please treat this character as a plot device. She provides all the right answers and actions when needed. Besides, I kinda liked the idea of a female agent-trainee who does not fall down when the bad guys are a-comin'; doesn't spend an inordinate amount of time on her appearance; and fulfills my life-long fantasy of being an UNCLE agent. Sorry, cousins.

Credit where credit is due...

I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my beta reader/editor: Katya Baturinsky. Without her steady, calm attention to detail, this story could not have been written. Thanks to her skill with names and all things Russian, the portions of my tale that were set in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (CCCP) now have the ring of genuine authenticity. As for my sister (and fellow?) writers, you will see yourselves in my tale. Happy hunting!

So, on with my continuing saga of Napoleon and Ilya... It's one year after the Blackmail - White Russian Affair...

Act I - "Training 'Camp'"

It had been an arduous day. Napoleon sat propped up in bed surrounded by administrative files and other non-sensitive documents. He'd been in meetings since shortly after eight that morning. When he heard the water in the shower shut off, he quickly gathered his papers into some semblance of order. He was barely in time. Ilya Nikolaievich Kuryakin, naked, dripping wet, hurled himself onto his partner and proceeded to make demands.

"You've been shut up with Uncle Sasha and his cronies all day. Tonight belongs to me, Polya. Those reports can wait."

"I hope someone has bugged this apartment." Napoleon smiled. "This is the first time I've ever heard you blaspheme against the importance of promptly attending to paperwork." Napoleon shifted the files to the floor and, after a moment's thought, shoved them under the bed. He'd seen that look in his partner's eye before. God only knew where the two of them would wind up before finally getting to sleep.

"Can a correctly collated J-6 file do this?" Ilya licked the space behind Napoleon's right ear. "Will the clerks in records show appreciation like this?" A pair of soft ruddy lips latched onto Napoleon's left nipple. "Can hands cramped from writing incident reports do this?" Napoleon gasped as Ilya's strong hands began massaging his burgeoning erection.

"I must have been out of my mind to wait so long before telling you how I felt. Think of all those late reports I could have filed because my partner had other things on his mind. Bozhe moi! Where in the name of all that's holy did you learn that one?" Napoleon had been stripped of his robe and found himself looking up into a pair of blazing blue eyes.

"Entrapment Class: advanced course for seducing jaded, well-travelled agents."

"And here I thought you'd spent all of your time with your nose buried in Thucydides. Shit!" Ilya had begun to smear a generous amount of cold lubricant on his partner. "Do you want me to get anal pneumonia?"

"Hush, pampered one. We're in the frozen steppes east of Moscow and I intend to make the Emperor Napoleon pay for his repeated invasions of Russia." Two insistent fingers wormed their way upwards as the Emperor lifted his hips. "Are you still feeling chilly, Polya?"

"That's 'Your Imperial Highness' to you, ignorant serf."

"I shall make you regret traducing a prince of the blood royal ..." Ilya set about exacting recompense for the slur on his dignity by adding a third finger.

"Ouch!"

The fingers withdrew immediately. "I'm sorry, Polya. I forgot to remove my rings." Ilya tugged at the offending jewelry. "Let me kiss you and make it better..." He moved in and inserted himself while greedily plundering his partner's mouth. "Maybe a hug, hmmm?" Ilya pulled Napoleon into his arms and began to rock his pelvis. "Is better, no?"

"Is magnificent, yes." Napoleon sighed, hunching closer to the blond whirlwind who'd claimed him body and soul. Moans, groans, and creaking bedsprings provided a percussive obbligato to their lovemaking. Clutching Ilya as if his life depended on it, Napoleon rubbed himself against the soft skin. Ilya's hand provided additional friction and before long, he felt Napoleon's seed coating his fingers. Contractions induced by his lover's explosive orgasm finished the young Russian, who leaned back on his hands, his chest heaving.

Napoleon loved the way Ilya looked after sex. Arousal cast a rose tint to the alabaster skin and dilated pupils transformed china blue eyes into navy pools. "I love you." Napoleon said softly once his speech center had been reconnected to his brain. "I love you with everything I have, for as long as God spares me."

Ilya smiled and once more launched himself onto his partner who drew the covers over them both. "Say it again, dushka."

Napoleon repeated his declaration in halting Russian.

"Your accent is improving, liubov. Such as I am, I am yours. You have my heart, my life, my soul, in your keeping." Ilya settled himself at Napoleon's side, only to sit up again.

"What is it?"

"I was lying on my rings." The younger man fished around and retrieved the shiny objects. "Next time, I'll remember to take them off before we love each other."

"You'd better. I'd hate to have to explain to Medical how I happened to have a ring engraved with our names stuck in my ass." Napoleon chuckled. "Let me see that." He reached for the more ornate of the two. "When did you get this one?"

"I've had it for years. I never wore it before because it was too large. I'm gaining weight, Polya."

"Mmmm, more of you to love." Napoleon peered at the heavy gold band urmounted by the three-headed Imperial eagle, emblem of Russia's Romanov dynasty. "It suits you, Prince Ilya." Napoleon placed the ring on Ilya's middle finger and kissed it.

"Polya, I am not a prince. I bought the ring in a pawn shop in Cambridge when I was at university. Don't ask me why."

"Epater les Communistes, mon vieux.* Now it's time for all good Russians to go to sleep."

"Yes, little father." Ilya snuggled into the crook of his lover's arm.

"Who are you calling 'little'?"

"It's an affectionate diminutive, Emperor of my heart."

"Well, it loses something in the translation." Napoleon laughed as he turned out the light.

*MFU*NS*IK*NS*MFU*

"You are certain these recidivist freaks want him?"

"Yes. I've had three teams following them and him for the past month."

"Why so many?"

"He is a trained agent, one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best operatives. He would have noticed our surveillance otherwise."

"Up against the KGB, he wouldn't stand a chance."

"I'm not so sure. Remember, he was fostered by a KGB major. Kuryakin may be privy to many of our techniques."

"Have those imperialist bastards contacted him?"

"Not yet. Our agent in their organization believes they will approach him next week."

"Those idiots should leave well enough alone. If they involve journalists we'll have no choice. Kuryakin must be recalled. The last thing our government wants is a bunch of sentimental fools making trouble. Our silence will seem an admission that Kuryakin is who they believe him to be. But we cannot state unequivocally they are all dead without arousing the same sentimental idiots. Very well. Maintain your surveillance and report to me the moment they contact 'His Imperial Highness'."

"Yes, comrade."

MFU*NS*IK*NS*MFU*

"You're certain, Dmitri?"

"Yes, Your Excellency. The resemblance to the late Tsarevich** is uncanny. Our contact in the medical section of his agency provided the final piece we needed to make this work. It seems young Kuryakin bruises very easily.*** I think he would be willing to enter into our enterprise for a reasonable percentage of the profits."

"It's a shame his parents were such peasants. Who would believe a factory secretary and a third-rate violinist could have produced a prince?"

"Several people, once we inform them of his parent's 'ancestry'. If they were still living, we'd be lost. But since they're dead, we can tell whatever stories we like. Think of it-the long-lost descendant of our beloved and extremely wealthy Tsar Nicholas, raised by a KGB officer, officially laying claim to an inheritance worth hundreds of millions of pounds sterling. Add in the embarrassment factor for the
Soviet regime..."

"Make the contact, Dmitri. Don't mention the inheritance though. The little fool may decide he's a communist after all. If he refuses to enter into our plan, no harm done."

"Considering what the Soviets did to his parents, he'll jump at the chance for revenge. I'll have Natalia get in touch with him early next week. The Romanov exhibit will be open to the public by then and we can begin with a little photographic 'proof'."

"If he actually believes her, he's a bigger fool than we thought."

"So much the better for us, Your Highness."

MFU*NS*IK*NS*MFU*

"You're dead, Agent Barrows." Ilya's voice was as lethal in its censure of the would-be field agent as bullets would have been. "What did he do to earn his survivors a nice fat insurance payment?"

"He didn't wait for his partner." A young woman replied immediately.

"And...?"

"They didn't plan for the worst-case scenario." The answer came from a young man who was built like Stonehenge.

"Which is?"

"The enemy being smarter, better equipped, and better prepared than you are," the young woman answered promptly, looking at the sheepish trainee. She was barely five feet tall in her stockinged feet and her small size had led her "partner" to under-estimate her abilities, thereby getting himself "killed."

"Correct again, Agent Charles. Since Barrows seems reluctant to trust your skills, you will be paired with me for the next exercise. Lights!" Ilya called out. The light in the large windowless room dimmed until the students could only just make out the crates and bundles that simulated a warehouse. "Find hiding places for yourselves. This is an S&D exercise," Ilya ordered as he and the young trainee closed their eyes. After waiting five full minutes, they opened them and stood still.

Agent Charles tapped Ilya on his arm and pointed behind her. She could clearly hear one of her fellow students breathing. Ilya nodded and they waited some more. Another tap and this time the young woman held up two fingers, then pointed to a large pile of boxes off to their left. She silently slid the safety nozzle off of her training pistol, handed it to her teacher and froze as Ilya tossed it to their right. The loud clattering resulted in someone shifting his feet. Agent Charles smiled grimly and held up one finger. That made a total of four "enemy" agents who'd betrayed their locations. Four out of a total of six students, including herself. Only one more.

The silence stretched as the oddly matched pair pivoted silently, their senses fully alert. Agent Charles tapped for the last time and held up her middle finger. Her erstwhile "partner" had taken to smoking a pipe in a juvenile attempt to emulate Mr. Waverly. She"d picked up his scent and traced his probable location. Dead ahead. Silently they made their plans. Holding up her left hand, Agent Charles assigned numbers to the "enemy" operatives. Ilya nodded and raised his left thumb, pointing to her, and his index finger, pointing to himself. The heavy breather and the shuffling one would be the first to "die."

The young woman inched her way into position, then fired. A blob of day-glo paint hit her target dead center in the back of his head. Had the ammunition been real, his skull would have shattered. The shuffling feet stopped when their owner felt a glob of paint slap him between the eyes. Ilya and his partner rendezvoused at the junction of a pile of boxes. She held up two fingers and pointed to herself. Ilya nodded, curious to observe her plans for taking out the next two opponents.

Agent Athea Charles leaned against the towering boxes, which toppled over onto her quarry. As her targets scrambled out of the way, she shot one in the chest, and took the other in the temple. Ilya grinned. She was definitely going to be worth watching. Pointing to Ilya, she mimed shooting him and his noisy reaction, then moved behind him and fired a shot into the air. Ilya followed her orders and let out a deep gasp. Agent Barrows emerged from his hiding place, eager to finish off his teacher. His last thought was of the commendation he'd get for taking down the great Kuryakin only sixteen weeks into the program. Moving closer to the hunched-over Russian, he never saw Agent Charles, who nailed him at point blank range between the eyes.

The lights came up again.

"Planning, gentlemen and trusting your partner," Ilya said flatly to the crestfallen faces. "Alright, that's it for today. Turn in your equipment. There will be a full briefing at 13:30 hours. Agent Charles, you're with me."

Napoleon was surprised to see Ilya chatting with a young woman in the cafeteria. Curious, he grabbed some coffee and a sandwich and went over to their table.

"... my size doesn't bother me, sir. After reading what my clearance allowed of your old case files, I realized you often seemed at a disadvantage when confronted by larger opponents. I'm the youngest of my family with five brothers. I'm used to being stepped on, stepped over, or regarded as a lightweight. I decided early on to make other people's refusal to take me seriously into something I could use."

"An advocate worth cultivating, Ilya." Napoleon smiled at the under-sized pair.

"Mr. Solo, sir. Will you join us?" Athea extended her hand.

"Briefly. I've got another meeting in thirty minutes." Napoleon shook hands with the young woman and sat down. "I take it Agent Charles managed to acquit herself well this morning?"

"Very well, Napoleon. Although Barrows should also read the historical files. It seems he has a tendency to underestimate her talents."

"You don't say." Napoleon grinned around his sandwich. He could remember doing something similar in the early days of his partnership with Ilya and being thrown halfway to perdition as a result. "Well, if he's smart, he'll only make that mistake once."

"If you'll excuse me, sirs. I want to get started on my report. It will be on your desk for review in time for our briefing. It was nice meeting you, sir." She nodded towards Napoleon and left the table.

"Ilya, if I didn't know better, I'd be worried. The first student you've had lunch with in three years and she's eager to do paperwork... Tell me, are thinking of replacing your partner with a slightly newer model?"

"Much newer; and no."

"That's a relief. So how are they shaping up?"

"About average, except for that one. She's almost ready for limited field action."

"I'll be home after nine. Mr. Waverly wants to go over the annual budget for Section Two before presenting it in Geneva. Any goodies you'd like to have added to the tab?"

"A few. My recommendations have been on your desk for over a week."

"I meant in addition to those." Napoleon pretended to be hurt. "Now who's underestimating his partner?"

"You're impossible." Ilya gulped the last of his tea.

"And you're perfect," Napoleon said softly. "I'll see you tonight."

** Perhaps it's time to clear up this little matter of patronymics and royal titles. evich or ovich
added to the end of a name or title translates as son of. evna or ovna = daughter of. So,
Tsarevich = male heir of the Tsar = crown prince.

Okay, now for the complicated part. Russia with all of its ethnic groups and vastness was considered an empire. The highest-ranking person was the ruling Tsar, followed by his kids who were titled Grand Duke or Grand Duchess, except for the heir, who was either the Tsarevich or, in a female heir's case-Tsarevna. All members of this family and their progeny were addressed as Your Imperial Highness. This way, they were set over the scores of Princes, Princesses, Dukes, Duchesses, Counts, etc., who were addressed as either Your Highness or Your Excellency. There will be a test. (smile)

*** Thank you for this very convenient and apropos factoid, Agent Athea. KPP