WARNING: Where do I begin? First: in my universe, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin's name has been emended/changed/corrected/taken in vain and he is now called Ilya Nicolaievich Kuryakin. Second: Be on the lookout for a Mary Sue original character. Relax folks, she doesn't get to marry either one of our heroes. She doesn't even get a kiss. However, she is really competent.

PAIRING: Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin (see Warnings above)
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: None to my knowledge, that would meant I stuck to my guns (canons).
ARCHIVE: Not without my permission.
DISCLAIMERS & SUMMARY: See Author's Notes posted below.

Act VIII - Moscow on the Hudson

By the time Napoleon returned to New York, Athea's report was sitting on his desk. Its author was noticeably absent. Napoleon wanted to talk to her. She'd admitted to being somewhat naive and he was concerned about the aftermath of her seduction of Xenocrates. Sighing, he began writing his own report on the affair. Athea's strict adherence to the methods taught by her instructor was all well and good, but if she was to become a truly effective agent, she needed to develop styles of her own.

The young woman did not yet have an office assignment and was extremely reluctant to occupy Kuryakin's vacant desk. She was camping out with April and Mark. Napoleon ran into his new partner at lunch two days later. "Are you avoiding me?" He asked as he sat down in the seat she indicated. Athea was dressed in a sweatsuit, her hair looked liked a bird's nest.

"Nope. Been busy."

"With what? Your report is finished."

"Secretarial work." Athea mouthed around a generous bite of her sandwich.

"Brushing up on your cover skills?"

"Nuh uh." A gulp of coffee and a grin followed her response. "Helping Mr. Slate and getting a feel for how things work in Section Two. I kinda started out backwards. You know, jumped right in feet first. I thought I'd better figure out who I was working with."

"You're working with me." Napoleon smiled as the last of the sandwich disappeared.

"Not permanently. When Mr. Kuryakin comes back, Mr. Waverly will assign me to someone else, or you will."

"He's not coming back." Napoleon said quietly and explained the briefing he'd received from Waverly.

"Then we go get him."

"And start world war three? No. If diplomacy has failed, we can hardly go against everything we stand for and start shooting."

"Who said anything about shooting? I thought we were supposed to be trained in impersonation? We figure out some way to infiltrate and..."

"Bless you child, it's not that easy. Perhaps our mission went too smoothly." Napoleon shook his head.

"Easy for you to say. *You* didn't have to have sex with Xenocrates."

"I'm sorry your first mission had to include entrapment. I tried to talk Mr. Waverly out of sending you."

Athea snorted. "Men." She swallowed the last of her coffee. "Mr. Waverly also tried to talk me out of going. You guys must think there's no sex west of the Mississippi. Xenocrates was no worse than my prom date. Better, in some aspects. At least *he* didn't throw up in the parking lot. Sooner or later, I'd have been assigned to entrap someone. Might as well get it over with."

"So you're okay?"

"Fine. I've got to get back. I'm working on this report for Mr. Slate and..."

"Go ahead. There's a section meeting at three."

"Wouldn't miss it." Athea nodded and picked up her tray. As she left the dining room, her former training partner stepped in front of her. Napoleon couldn't hear what he was saying but he looked angry. When the young man raised his arm, Napoleon shot to his feet. He needn't have bothered. The diminutive Agent Charles ducked under the upraised arm and booted her would-be-assailant in the butt as she went on her way. The contents of her tray never even wobbled. The young man raised himself from the floor wearing his lunch on his chest. The other occupants of the dining room did their best to ignore what had happened. Napoleon managed to leave the room before doubling over with laughter.

"Thanks Ed." Athea handed Barrows a crisp twenty dollar bill. "Mr. Del Florio assured me he can have your suit cleaned by this evening."

"Hey, I owed you one. Now we're even. What's it like working with Solo?"

"I couldn't say. He looks like he's friendly and he could charm the birds out of the trees, but it's all a front. God only knows what he's really thinking. Anyway, the mission went smoothly and that's all that matters."

"I could hear him laughing all the way down the hall." Edward Barrows chuckled. "What's the next phase of our operation?" The latest crop of young agents had banded together to cheer up their boss. Office gossip confirmed what they'd managed to work out for themselves, Napoleon was deeply depressed. The only reason Waverly hadn't put him on leave was his fear of making a bad situation worse.

"Simple, we come up with a way to get Mr. Kuryakin back." Athea was serious.

"Okay, meet you in the gym tonight?"

"Yeah. Tell the others."

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

The next phase of Ilya's "treatment" consisted of a steady diet of truth serum and endless questions. He resigned himself to the likelihood of remaining a Soviet prisoner for some time to come. His interrogators were livid. Nikolai Grigoriev left Dzherzinsky Square and went home. His most recent meeting with Kostoglotov had him worried. Thus far, Ilya had revealed nothing that would compromise his family but this state of affairs could not go on forever. Nikolai let himself into the apartment and went to his study.

Irina was already there working. She was translating a fifth century Finnish chronicle. Nikolai greeted her as usual and began grading his students' work. A walk in the park would have looked odd with the rain pouring down so they wrote to each other.

"Did you get to see him?" Irina wrote on a sheet of paper and passed it over to her husband.

"No. K. is furious. I. has told them nothing other than what they already know." Nikolai replied.

"You're worried."

"Yes. I. can't hold out forever. It's only a matter of time before we're arrested."

"We knew it could come to this when we took him in. Do you regret it?"

"NO!"

"Neither do I, my love. Don't shout." Irina scribbled and smiled.

"Sorry. When is Tasha due back?"

"Next week."

"Maybe she should extend her stay."

The Grigoriev's daughter, Tatiana, was currently touring North America with the Kirov Ballet.

"You don't think she's in any danger?" Irina's hand shook as she passed the paper over.

"No. But she could be used against I. Against all of us."

"Write to her then."

Irina sighed as Nikolai nodded. He tore up their "conversation" and threw the pieces into the fireplace. Pulling out a clean piece of paper, he began to write to their daughter. The short letter was innocuous in the extreme. Within the innocent-seeming sentences was a coded message worked out long before. It instructed their daughter to defect at the earliest opportunity. He sealed and stamped the letter and placed it in his briefcase. If God spared them, he would post it first thing in the morning. It would be a long evening.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

"Dear Tasha,

Your mother and I miss you very much. Are you well? I hope you are saving the reviews for us. We cannot wait until you are safe at home once more. Your mother is making excellent progress in her work and my students look as if they will justify the State's investment in their education.

Write to us as soon as you can. You know we love you,

Papa "*

Tatiana Nikolaieva Grigorieva looked up from the short letter, chewing on her lower lip. The ballet mistress had given it to her on the flight from Montreal to New York. She ignored the envelope already being open. As a soloist, her mail was only examined once prior to her receiving it. The stars were under closer scrutiny. As the Manhattan skyline appeared through the clouds, Tatiana made her plans. The troupe was scheduled for a trip to Macy's so photographers and reporters could record their disdain for western merchandise. She would wait.

The escorts checked their charges into the hotel and selected members of the company for the shopping trip. Tatiana yawned as she stitched coarse pink thread in a criss-cross pattern on the toe of her ballet shoe. Needless to say, the envoy from the Soviet consulate chose the rather bored-looking young lady in the attractive red suit. Sighing, Tatiana stuffed her shoes into her bag and prepared to board the bus.

For most of the Soviet visitors Macy's was like nothing they'd ever seen before. Nevertheless, they affected blasé attitudes as they fingered the goods. Tatiana spoke excellent English, so she had her own "chaperone." She idly picked up a emerald green silk scarf and held it against her throat.

"That suits you very well, Madame. Would you like to buy it?"

"No, thank you. I have several at home. I was merely comparing the quality of the workmanship and materials." Tatiana yawned again convincingly and replaced the scarf. Turning to her escort she said, "Very shoddy. Our craftsmen and women could teach these people something about taking pride in their work. How much longer must we stay?"

"Not too long, Tatiana Nikolaievna."

"Good. Excuse me." Tatiana spoke to one of the floorwalkers. "Where is your ladies toilet?"

"Through there, Madame. Take the stairs to the second floor."

"Spasibo. Thank you. Would you hold my bag, Andrei Petrovich? Western food disagrees with me." Tatiana did look a little paler than usual.

"Of course comrade." The middle-aged man beamed. Tatiana glided towards the rear of the store. She calmly walked up the stairs and her companion watched as another employee pointed to the right of the balcony. Tatiana nodded and moved out of sight. She snagged a man's raincoat from one of the racks and hurried to the sales desk shrugging into the oversized garment.

"Could you help me?" Her French accent was flawless; thanks to Irina's patient teaching. "I'm afraid my period has started and I need to buy this coat..."

"Of course my dear." The elderly woman smiled sympathetically.

"All I have is Canadian money. Will this be enough?" Tatiana had neglected to leave her wallet in her large dancer's bag.

"Plenty." The sale was wrung up and the older woman cut the tags from the coat.

"Do you have a less conspicuous exit?" Tatiana blushed.

"Certainly. Come with me, I'll take you to one used by the staff."

"Merci, Madame. You have been extremely helpful."

Ten minutes later, Tatiana was in a taxicab heading to a dry cleaners. She smiled. Ilya would be very surprised. Now, if only he could help their parents. They would not have written if something hadn't been very seriously wrong.

Signore del Florio triggered the buzzer below his counter as the young woman nervously looked around. Tatiana had shown him her Soviet driver's license. She had been allowed to keep it so that Westerners could see she owned a car.

"May I be of assistance?" Tatiana looked up to see a very handsome dark-haired man. "I hope so. I was told my brother worked here..." She looked around again. "Ilya Nikolaievich..."

"Kuryakin." The man finished and smiled briefly. "Come with me. It's okay, Salvatore. I'll be responsible. He pointed to the rear of the shop.

Tatiana did not say anything as the dressing room seemed to move downward. When the rear wall slid open, she nodded at the sight of people wearing triangular badges moving through a shiny corridor. She figured her brother had not been working as a pants presser. Her suave escort handed her a white badge and replaced his own. She followed him into another elevator whose doors opened onto a deserted dead-end hallway. The end wall slid up just as they approached it and a young woman led them into an inner office.

"Miss Grigorieva, please sit down. Would you like anything?" Tatiana shook her head at the elderly gentleman and removed her coat.

"Where is my brother?"

"In the Soviet Union. He was recalled because some royalists contacted him." The younger man replied quietly. "You wish to defect?"

"Yes. Our parents wrote and told me it was necessary. Is my brother still alive?"

"As far as we know, yes." The old man frowned. "However, your actions could have a deleterious effect on his welfare and that of your mother and father."

"I am aware of that, sir." Tatiana said softly. "But our parents would not have sent the message if they did not believe they were already in grave danger. Can you help them?"

"We shall do everything in our power, Mademoiselle. I am in charge of this office. My name is Alexander Waverly. This is your brother's partner, Napoleon Solo."

Tatiana turned to Napoleon, her face lighting up. "Now, Ilyusha's letters make sense. He said his best friend in all the world was named for an emperor." At the sound of Ilya's pet name, Napoleon looked away for a moment, then nodded.

"Yes. We'll arrange for you to stay here. I have an apartment on the floor below. In the meantime, we'll get news of your family and contact the State Department on your behalf." Mr. Waverly responded.

One hour later. Alexander Waverly sighed heavily and sent for his CEA. The Grigorievs had been arrested. Time was running out.