Foreword (Hussy)

I'm coming out of the closet folks. I've been a slash sister since my earliest memories. In third grade (1963) I fell in love with Ilya Kuryakin (played deftly by David McCallum) and all things Russian. I was a great fan of the "Man from U.N.C.L.E." but could never figure out why they kept cluttering up the show with all those femme fatales when it was obvious to me that Ilya loved Napoleon and vice versa. (The more vice the better.) At that time, I had no concept of what these two stalwart agents would do with each other sexually, but I did imagine scenes with lots of tender kisses, cuddles, and hugs being exchanged after one or the other was wounded and rescued. Now that I know the delicious salacious facts, I'm off and running. This tale was conceived seven years ago and was never put on paper until now. I hope it was worth the wait.

Dedication

Actually, it has been longer than seven years since I first blocked out the story you are about to read. To quote Anthony Shaffer's Mozart from "Amadeus": "It [was] all finished; right here in my noodle. The rest [was] just scribbling."

Speaking of gifted, genius composers brings me to acknowledging the person who inspired me to finally do the scribbling of my tale: Secret Agent Athea. Alphabetically, she has pride of first place on the "File 40" web page, and since I'm a somewhat anal author, I read her marvellous triptych before I read the work of other authors on that most enjoyable site. Beginning with "The Ghosts in the Castle Affair", progressing through "The Moving In Affair" and culminating in "The Picnic Affair"; I found my still-born story beginning to breathe again.

Athea's lovely, lyrical stories struck all the right chords with me. There was angst in just the right doses, beautifully written romantic passages, sensual salacious bits, and the kind of quirky humor that made "The Man From UNCLE" one of my favorite television shows. For her talent and her willingness to examine my shy offering, and for alerting me to the delightful possibilities resulting from the Napoleon-Ilya partnership; I offer my humble thanks and hope this dedication repays in some small amount, the tremendous debt I owe to her magnificent abilities.

The Usual Disclaimers

Most of these characters do not belong to me. I believe Desilu Productions originally held that honor. Now, I have no idea which megalythic corporation inherited the rights. I have borrowed these guys and given them something to do that is entirely of my own creation. Since I also believe that a "canon" is only something to be used during a siege, I make no apologies for giving my dear Ilya a correct patronymic and deep background of his very own. Obviously, when the series first aired, someone was asleep at the switch and left vital syllables out of "Nicolaievitch". They also couldn't spell "Ilya" for that matter. So please don't flame me. The sins of omission and commision be on my head.

Finally, any similarities between this work and the creations of other authors must be attributed to a) great minds think alike; b) my dangerous propensity for remembering beautiful writing and having it lurk in my subconcious. If you think I've been a thief, write and tell me and I will a) grovel profusely b) provide full credit where it is due. KPP

Act One: Tortured Memories

His cell resembled all of the other cells he'd been confined in during his career as an agent in Section Two of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement: UNCLE. Dank stone walls, one small barred window, and the ubiquitous chains and manacles completed the dismal decor. Once in a while, it would be nice to be imprisoned in modern setting with adequate heat and light.

Ilya Kuryakin shifted his stance, easing the pull on his wrists. They should be coming back soon. He remembered being given a truth serum but no one asked him questions about his work as an agent. Instead, they'd interrogated him regarding his past. God only knew what foul use they would make of his revelations about himself. Booted footsteps echoed down the corridor accompanied by the clinking of keys. The guards were changing shifts. Closing his eyes, Ilya's mind drifted; carried by these evocative sounds...

                  *      *  Twenty-three years ago  *          *

... A crowded classroom. Forty or so boys and girls wearing dark blue uniforms with red scarves were seated shivering in the intense cold. It was snowing outside. The teacher was wearing her coat and boots. The children sat huddled under their own coats and tried to concentrate on their lessons. A framed portrait of Josef Stalin glowered at them from over the black board. Ilya heard footsteps coming up the hall and the sound of keys jingling. The director of the school came into the room. "We have been informed that the boiler cannot be repaired before Saturday. Please make home assignments and dismiss your students."

The children had stood to attention when the director entered. Their teacher gave them reading and essay assignments while her teeth chattered like maracas. Quietly, everyone filed out into the swirling snow. It was almost dark. Ilya hurried to the large apartment block near the waterfront. Perhaps his mother had made soup. Anyway, at least he'd be warm. Their lovely apartment featured a Dutch-style ceramic stove. Ilya had enjoyed trips to the forest with his father to cut wood.

Riga was an old Hanseatic city. It had been a major trading center since the time of the Vikings. The Latvian people tended to be fair haired, a genetic bequest of Nordic ancestors. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania were independent states prior to the Great Patriotic War*. Now, they were Soviet satellites but had been spared much of the disastrous destruction brought about by one misguided five-year plan after another.

The city's buildings were well-constructed, if overcrowded, and the proximity of the North Sea meant there was always something to eat. Ilya climbed the six flights of stairs to the top floor of his building. There were only three flats on this level. He and his parents occupied a spacious four-room apartment with windows that had miraculously survived bombs and artillery. The door to his flat was open and light spilled into the hallway. Maybe his Aunt Valerya had come to visit. When Ilya reached the doorway, he saw three uniformed men standing over the body of his father. The youngest man had his mother's hair clutched in his hand as she knelt before him. "Run!", she screamed seconds before the bullet from his automatic pistol
shattered her skull. Before Ilya could obey her last request, strong hands grabbed him. His satchel of books seemed to take forever to fall to the floor. A sharp pain at the back of his head, then darkness.

He regained conciousness slowly. It was icy cold. For a moment, he thought he was still in the frigid school room. Gradually, he realized he was on a train. Men dressed in bedraggled gray uniforms surrounded him. He'd seen men attired like this before. When he'd asked his mother about them she had shushed him. Later, he figured out that they were "zeks": citizens of the vast archipelago of prison camps called "gulags".** His school uniform was gone. In its place he wore a smaller version of the gray prison uniform. His leather boots were gone as were his fur hat and mittens. They had been confiscated by the same State Security men who'd murdered his parents only to get their hands on a large apartment befitting the rank of their superior
officer.

Ilya's head ached and he was thirsty. Wedged in between musty smelling men, he wondered where he was being sent. "So, you're awake malenkaya." *** A man smiled revealing six rotten teeth. Despite this obvious need for a dentist's care, he was quite handsome. "What's your name?" Ilya said nothing. He'd been told never to talk to anyone unless his parents were present. Informers were like fleas.

"Oh ho, you're wise beyond your years, malenkaya. My name is Sergei. Do you need to use the bucket?" Ilya's blank look prompted an explanation. "You've been out for almost three days. Surely you have to piss."

Ilya nodded warily. The man got to his feet, swaying with the motion of the train and held out his hand. "Keep our places, Vaska. I'm taking our young guest to the latrine."

"You make a good babushka, Seriozha.", the younger man laughed.

Their journey lasted another six days. Frequent stops to off-load prisoners and take on others permitted fresh arctic air to cut
through some of the thick aroma of bodily wastes and stale clothing. Sergei and Vaska chattered away while Ilya sat silently. He didn't cry despite a hunger-induced headache that vied with the remnants of pain from the blow he took.

It was nearly midnight when they reached their destination. Holding Sergei's hand, Ilya looked around. Stockade walls made of barbed wire interspersed with guard towers loomed out of the flood-lit darkness. All was still. A path trampled into the snow led off to the east towards a pine forest. This was a logging camp, one of the worst. Although the maximum Soviet prison term was only twenty-five years, most inmates succumbed to the cold, malnutrition, and intense hard work long before their sentences were even half over.

Exhaustion, grief, and lack of food took it's toll on the seven-year old child. Sergei clucked his tongue as his little charge slumped to the ground. "Vaska, my dear. Could you pick him up? You know what these long journeys do to my back."

"Okay boychiks, we're home." Vaska called out as he and his friend were led into a large wooden barracks. The walls sparkled with frost created by the breath of fifty-odd prisoners occupying thirty two-tiered bunks. "Why don't you see to our accomodations, Seriozha while I get us checked in at the desk?", Vaska's comic request brought weary smiles to the faces of the new arrivals. "Make sure I have a room with a good view and a bath."

Over-crowding forced most of the new arrivals to double up. Vaska's powerful build had not been weakened by his stretch in the gulags and he shoved his way to the front of the line claiming an empty bunk. "Looks as if you'll have to share, my little friend." He placed Ilya on the lower bunk and vaulted to the upper level. "Ahh, silk sheets, eiderdown quilt, a chocolate on my pillow... all the comforts of home, boys." Vaska hastily got under the thin blanket. It would be time to get up in a matter of hours. This far north, there would be no dawn for another four months.

Sergei slid into bed beside the unconcious child covering them both with his blanket. As he drifted off, he wondered what this boy's family had done to merit a sentence of death for their kid.

Nicolai Isayevitch Gregoriev surveyed the camp through narrowed eyes. He too, was a new arrival. Born to orthodox Communist parents, he was noted for his formidable intelligence. His academic career had been brilliant. A member of the youth militia, his bravery during the war had earned him a choice of careers. His academician wife was therefore surprised when he chose the organs of State Security. Long walks in the woods outside Moscow permitted private conversations
between the couple.

"Irena, you and I both know it's only a matter of time before our Supreme Leader decides to execute or lock up the entire country. If I join the NKVD, we will be safer than otherwise." Nicolai explained quietly as they strolled beneath the lovely birch trees.

"I know, Nico. But could you bring yourself to inform on innocent people, imprisoning them for no reason?"

"No. And I won't have to. There are plenty of monsters out there whose politically correct status protects but does not prevent them from raping, killing, and stealing whatever isn't nailed down. If *I* say I overheard them criticizing our Wise and August Leader, who will dare say otherwise? After a while, I can request a transfer to oversee one of the camps. We'll be even safer still and I will have the dubious honor of tending to a flock created by someone else. If God spares us, one day, these beasts will have to answer for what they've done. Hopefully, we will be alive to help put the nails into their coffins." Irena accepted his reasons with no further objections.

All proceeded as Nicolai envisioned. He and his family eventually moved to Siberia arriving at the camp six months before Ilya did. Nicolai's regime was benign. His spotless political record allowed his transfer requests to go through without question. The most brutal members of the guard force were praised, promoted, and recommended to serve in other camps closer to cities with more attractive diversions. The remote location of the logging camp protected his quiet subversion of the hellish gulag system. Inspections were rare. Surprise inspections were impossible.

Vaska and Sergei soon discovered they were closer to freedom than ever before in their lives. They'd been here for nearly two years. Most of the dedicated informers had been "rewarded" with transfers to camps in more saluable climates. Those that remained, primarily motivated by hunger, found increased rations and other priviledges meant they could happily retire. Only one menace remained, the camp hooligans. These were men who really were guilty of crimes, albeit not against the state. Unfortunately, most of them were located in the same barracks as Ilya and his protectors.

Ilya was not the only child in the barracks. An older boy, Fyodor was also housed there. When Vaska and Sergei went to work, he looked out for the solemn child who hadn't spoken a single word since he arrived. It was an easy job. Ilya usually spent his days staring vacantly at the floor while Fyodor napped. Unknown to them, the Commandant was going to have the boys moved into the infirmary which now housed the senior citizens who welcomed its balmy temperatures.
At night the thermometer in these luxurious quarters rarely went below 50 degrees. Unfortunately, he did not act in time.

"Malenkaya, get under the bunk, now!" Sergei hissed. Ilya immediately did what he was told. The hooligans were having a party. Home-made vodka meant that things would soon get out of hand. Vaska jumped down from his bunk and sat next to Sergei, their legs and casually draped blanket hid the boy. "When it looks natural, go out to the latrines and find the Commander. This is going to get ugly. I'm a middle-aged toothless queer, they'll leave me alone." Sergei murmured as Vaska
nodded.

Fyodor's androgynous adolescent build and longish red hair doomed him to be dragged into the center of the barracks. He didn't resist. He should have. From his hiding place, Ilya heard the obscene comments and brutish laughter. He covered his ears but Fyodor's screams were still clearly audible. The older boy shouted for help. He shouted for Ilya, using a nickname known only to himself since his younger friend had yet to open his mouth.

When Vaska returned, he was accompanied by armed guards. These men had been carefully vetted by the Commandant and shared his benevolent philosophy. Two of them wrapped the naked boy in blankets and tucked him into a bunk while the others rounded up the drunken rapists. Ilya remained hidden for the rest of the night, refusing to come out despite Sergei's gentle coaxing. He was deeply ashamed he hadn't tried to help his friend. In the morning, after the men had filed out to work, he emerged from his sanctuary. Fyodor's body hung from the center beam. It was tantamount to an accusation. Ilya fainted.

This time, Ilya regained conciousness in a warm bed with clean sheets. A middle-aged woman was sitting near by. "My sleepy prince has decided to wake up." She said softly. Observing the boy's confusion she smiled sadly. "I'm very sorry about your friend. The men who hurt him have all been shot for 'trying to escape'. You are in the Commandant's house where you'll be safe from now on. Vaska Pavlovitch and Sergei Maximovitch will be visiting you soon. Do you want some soup?" Ilya shook his head. "Ahh, Madame Gregorieva, our little chatterbox has rejoined the living, but he won't eat."

A thin, elegant woman with dark brown hair appeared beside Ilya's bed. "Thank you Maria. Why don't you get some rest while I talk with our guest." Irena's voice was musical. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Ilya's hair back from his forehead. No one had done that since his mother was alive. Inspite of his best efforts, tears glimmered in his eyes.

"Now, what shall we call you?" Irena pretended to think. "Your friends call you 'malenkaya', don't they?" No response. "Well, that's alright for little boys, but you're brave and strong. Brave enough to know how to keep out of danger when there's no hope of helping. Some people would call that cowardly, but *we* know better. From time to time, you have to hide so you can live to fight and win in the future..." She and her husband were doing what amounted to the same thing.

"I wasn't brave. He was calling for me to help him and I was too scared.", came a tiny whispered response. He'd found his voice at last.

Irena gathered the beautiful child into her arms as he finally released his grief. His small frame shuddered with the force of
anguished weeping. Irena's eyes also filled as she hummed a little tune rocking the distraught child. At last, a safe haven: Ilya had a family again. He never forgot Vaska and Sergei. He never forgot Fyodor. At night, when he closed his eyes, he could clearly remember the faces of his parents. Nightmares usually followed with clearer images of their bloody corpses. Cursed at birth with an eidetic memory, Ilya also remembered the faces and rank of the three men who'd consigned him to hell on earth. One day, he would make them pay.
_________________________________________________________________
*   The Great Patriotic War = World War II

**  Many details of Ilya's past were "borrowed" from Aleksandr I.
    Solzhenitsyn's masterwork, "The Gulag Archipelago".

*** Malenkaya = Little One; a term of affection. KPP