Act Two: It's a Small World, Isn't It?

The sting of a whip jolted Ilya from his exhausted sleep. "Wake up, the Boss wants to see you." If he was taken from the cell, maybe he could use this opportunity to escape. No such luck. More booted footsteps then a large man darkened the doorway.

"You should have died in that camp.", a harsh Russian voice then a soft click and fluorescent light flooded the chamber. It was the face from his worst nightmares. The cold features of the senior OGPU* man; the one who'd watched as his parents were murdered, were revealed in the flickering light. "It seems like old times doesn't it? You don't know how often I wished we'd shot you too. So, are you ready to follow orders?" Ilya remained silent. He'd had years of practice. The whip lashed out once more. Ilya could taste blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek. He made no response.

"Stubborn bastard. Let's see if this will loosen his tongue."

Ilya prepared as best he could for another blow. It didn't come. Instead he heard his own voice from a recording. His answers to their questions were slurred but understandable. His heart froze as he heard himself reveal the deepest secret of all those he'd kept since childhood.

"You think your partner will come and get you?", the chief inquisitor's voice hissed malevolently on the tape.

"Polya will come."

"Why should he?"

"S' m' friend."

Ahhh, yes. Your very dear friend... in fact, your only friend. There's nothing like the bond between comrades in arms, is there?", the sinister voice chuckled. "I don't think he'll remain very friendly when he finds out you're nothing more than a pathetic queer. It's true isn't it? You desire that man, don't you?"

"Yes." The tape was switched off.

"Don't you think your Mr. Waverly will be delighted to know all about his star protege? Solo will probably wish he'd lived up to his name rather than be stuck with a perverted creature like you. So, why don't you work for us? THRUSH understands these little defects of character. You'll be better off with our organization. We're not nearly as particular as that cheap agency you work for." The former State Security officer sneered.

Ilya felt himself nod. What choice did he have? His career was finished. As soon as he was released, he'd disappear for good. He should have done so years ago.

"He missed our rendezvous and the fall-back meeting. Something has happened." Napoleon Solo said quietly. With your permission sir, I'm going to start shooting some birds until one of them starts singing. It's amazing what busted knee-caps will do for your communication skills." Napoleon almost purred. Had Alexander Waverly been able to see the face of his senior agent, it's fierce expression would have shocked him.

"I'll have four teams from the Berlin office re-assigned to you."

"There's no time. God only knows what they're doing to him. Solo out." Napoleon silenced the small communicator and proceeded to make good on his promise. Ten hours, and six wounded THRUSH birds later, he had a probable location: a mountain fortress formerly used to house missiles. Hastily putting on the khaki jumpsuit uniform of his moaning informant, Napoleon shivered. This was his fault.

Two days before, an unusually taciturn Ilya had refused Napoleon's offer to help him track down a promising lead to the whereabouts of one Cyril Markevitch, a known THRUSH big-wig and fellow Russian. Napoleon didn't know it at the time, but his partner had reached a breaking point.

Ilya's feelings for his friend were beginning to cloud his judgement. Being in East Germany, not noted for its gorgeous female operatives, didn't help matters. The two men were on their own, no silken dalliances to distract Napoleon. For security, they shared a hotel room and the sight of Napoleon walking around in his briefs was driving Ilya mad. His partner was one of the least self-concious people he'd ever met. Their usual playful bickering would only get Ilya into trouble. Instead, he retreated into the cold silence perfected years before.

As he drove down a poorly maintained section of the Autobahn, Napoleon prayed he'd get there in time. The sophisticated destructive devices UNCLE usually supplied to its agents were notably absent. A wooden crate filled with wine bottles was carefully wedged into the passenger seat. This vintage was high octane, its chief ingredient being petrol: one dozen Malotov cocktails coming up. Napoleon smiled grimly, remembering Ilya's exhaustive lecture on the man for whom the crude incendiary devices were named. His partner was a walking talking encyclopaedia. It didn't hurt that his phenomenal intelligence was housed in a body that was beginning to haunt Napoleon's dreams.

Clear blond hair, deep blue eyes, and skin like alabaster... Napoleon had stolen his share of furtive glances on this trip. If I find him, and if he's alright, I'm going to tell him. Napoleon thought. Twenty kilometers to go. Napoleon drove faster. The Autobahn had no speed limit.

If only Ilya knew. Napoleon's lovely bevy of female admirers were very gifted. Gifted actresses whose desire for their sister agents needed plausible cover. Napoleon's skills at dissimulation paid off. He was rarely seen without a beautiful woman on his arm. No one realized that their "dates" usually consisted of two agents sleeping together; one on the couch, another in the bedroom. He'd done his job too well. Napoleon's reputation as a smooth seducer of secret agents was world famous.

The only child of very wealthy parents, Napoleon Solo was not Italian. Actually his surname was mis-spelled French; the long-ago result of an ignorant clerk at Ellis Island. "Soleaux" became "Solo" and the mistaken assumptions began.** An eccentric great grandfather sealed his fate. An enthusiastic Buonopartist, he saddled the sole heir to the family's fortune with a name that hadn't been popular, or even used, since Waterloo. Olive-toned skin, dark hair and eyes---everyone assumed Napoleon to be a distant descendent of Lorenzo Medici.

The fortress was well guarded, but not well enough. Taking a dirt access road, Napoleon found himself half-way up the mountain searching for an entrance. There was none to be found. However, his good luck hadn't deserted him. Supplies for the inhabitants were being delivered. Napoleon quickly re-traced his steps and found himself near the end of a line of uniformed flunkies. He'd taken the precaution of mixing his cocktails into bottles that once contained a very expensive champagne. Shouldering his crate of extremely potent potables he entered the enemy's lair.

Ducking into a dimly lit corner, Napoleon checked his location. He'd stashed the explosives in strategic places near generators and other vital features. Long fuses would give him at best twenty minutes to locate and rescue his partner. Adjusting the black beret at a jaunty angle, Napoleon sauntered confidently down the corridor. Two guards, their automatic rifles gave them away, left a room just ahead of him carrying a turtleneck sweater and jacket. Bingo! Napoleon followed them quietly and as they entered a cell, kept walking past. He didn't have time to see Ilya, but he heard his voice. He was still alive. Now, all he had to do was wait.

The first cocktail packed quite a kick. Napoleon had placed it near the main generator. Alarm bells rang out then fell silent. The lights went out. Guards began running in every direction, reporting to their emergency posts. In the controlled chaos, Napoleon jogged back to the cell, his gun in hand. An older man and the two guards on valet duty were still inside. Three shots later, and they would make their graves there.

"Napoleon, get out of here. Save yourself." Ilya's voice was harsh.

"It's nice to see you, too." Napoleon grinned, fishing through his victims' pockets for the keys to Ilya's manacles. Locating them, he swiftly began to unlock his friend. They were standing almost nose-to-nose. Ilya held his breath, this proximity was uncomfortable. "That's done it, Tovaritsch. It's time to blow this popsicle stand." Five more explosions provided the punchline to his witticism. "Are you okay?", he asked as Ilya hastily put on his sweater.

"I'll live.", came the terse reply. "For now.", Ilya added to himself.

"Here. Put these on." Napoleon tossed over a guard's jumpsuit. Ilya quickly donned the garment over his own clothing. Pausing only to pick up the rifles, they ran from the cell, Napoleon in the lead. He'd done his work well. The remaining explosives managed to ignite a supply of rocket fuel stored there from the time when the missiles were present. Mere seconds after they ran outside, a huge explosion brought down half the mountain. Ducking behind some boulders as debris flew all around them, Napoleon whistled. The entire installation was burning merrily.

"Chalk one up for the good guys. The only way anyone will get out of there is with angel's wings. And judging from their past records, those will be few and far between.", he grinned. "I'm parked just over there. Let's get out of here before they send the clean-up teams." Napoleon reached for Ilya's hand to pull him to his feet. Ilya was out cold. A piece of concrete had left a large gash on the left side of his head. "*Now*, you decide to take a nap." Napoleon muttered as he hoisted his friend to his shoulders in a modified fireman's lift.

Placing Ilya in the car he'd stolen, he jumped behind the wheel and sped off. When he judged the distance to be suitable, he pulled over into the cover of the forest to check his partner. Ilya was still unconcious, his breathing shallow. "Open Channel D."

"Ahh, Mr. Solo. I'd about given you up."

"I have Ilya and managed to destroy his prison and jailers in the process. Ilya's injured, he took a blow to the head and he's
unconcious. We need to be airlifted out of here, pronto." Napoleon provided their coordinates and shut down communications. There was no point in risking a trace.

"Come on, Ilya. Don't do this to me." Napoleon had managed to lay his friend on the ground. Rummaging through the trunk, he almost whooped aloud when he found a blanket and first-aid kit. The THRUSH operative who owned this vehicle must have been a Boy Scout. He covered Ilya and gingerly daubed disinfectant solution on the wound. The stinging pain succeeded in arousing his partner who groaned and tried to sit up.

"Steady on, mon vieux.*** You may have a concussion. The cavalry is on its way. You rest and leave everything to me." Napoleon eased a seat cushion under Ilya's head.

"Napoleon..."

"Shhhh. Don't waste energy talking to me." Napoleon smiled.

"Have to. 'S important."

"Well, it'll have to wait, my friend." Napoleon put his hand on Ilya's shoulder and was surprised when his partner flinched out from under his touch. "Did I hurt you?" Napoleon asked softly.

"No.", a curt reply.

"Ohhkay." Napoleon was concerned. It seemed Ilya's chilly attitude had not thawed, if anything, the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. "When we get back, I'm going to find out whatever I did to make you angry at me and apologize."

"'S not you. 'S me." Ilya's voice was thick.

"Alright, when we get back, you're going to cheer your gloomy Russian soul by confessing whatever it was *you* did, and apologize to *me*.", Napoleon smiled again. Ilya closed his eyes, remembering the last time he'd confessed.

Ilya sat nervously outside the door to the Provost's office. He'd been summoned from the lecture hall, a most unusual event. The secretary spoke into the intercom then gestured for him to go in.

"Mr. Kuryakin.", the man's pronounciation was terrible. "It has been brought to my attention that you were seen going into the Cafe Chat Noir**** two nights ago. Did you know what kind of place it was?"

Inwardly, Ilya cringed. He had known. The bar's reputation as a hang-out for homosexuals was widespread. Silently, he shook his head. He'd been a fool to think no one would see him. Thank God, he'd left after only twenty minutes when an elderly man, reeking of ale, tried to pick him up. Going in that place was almost as foolish as believing he could somehow ignore that part of himself forever.

"I didn't think so. Your academic record is nothing short of perfect. I assumed you..."

"I went in to ask directions, sir."

"Well, be more careful in future. Our newest member of Parliament takes a dim view of those people and the police are more vigilant than ever before."

"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No. You are excused."

Once outside the office, Ilya shook his head. His guardians were wrong about the West. Very wrong indeed. Ilya didn't return to class. Instead he went to his room. He'd known about himself since he was fifteen. His foster parents had found out three years later when he'd told them.

The Gregorievs had a daughter two years older than he, Tatiana. She was tall and slender like her beautiful mother and was a gifted dancer. Stalin's death resulted in several camps being shut down as the new regime flirted with a more liberal attitude. Faced with being re-assigned to another camp, Nicolai resigned his commission and moved them to Leningrad where he took up a teaching position at the University. His wife's health was frail, so Maria who was married to one of the inmates, travelled with them. Nicolai obtained the old man's release and found him employment as a janitor in their new apartment block.

Tatiana rejoiced at the move because it meant she could undertake proper training. Nearly every profession had representatives imprisoned in the gulags and the logging camp had boasted a fine ballet teacher. He was eager to retire from his "job" in the sawmill and take up a position as tutor to the daughter of the Commandant. Recognizing the benefits of regular indoor exercise, Irena Gregorieva suggested that Ilya join her daughter after he'd suffered a bout of pneumonia.

Tatiana auditioned for the prestigious Kirov School and was accepted immediately. Ilya continued to take classes as well so she'd have an escort. The classes were strictly segregated by gender, and for the first time since he was a child, Ilya found himself in the company of young men his own age. His instructor was a striking young Tartar from Soviet Georgia and Ilya was shocked to awaken one morning after dreaming of kissing his teacher.

Before long, Pavel Andreivitch began to single Ilya out in class; citing his correct physical proportions and his natural athletic
grace. The man was honorable. At fifteen, Ilya was too young to be interfered with, so he bided his time. They shared a bond as ethnic minorities. Despite his erudition and sophistication, Pavel Andreivitch was considered a bumpkin. Ilya's status as a Latvian meant that he too was viewed as the Soviet equivalent of a "hick" by the urbane Leningraders.

Three years later, in a scandal that rocked the school, several of the male instructors and one female were dismissed. Pavel Andreivitch was one of them. Their lovers, or victims in some cases, were expelled or transferred to other schools. As the foster-son of a former NKVD man, nothing was done to Ilya. He was sent home with a note for his guardians.

"Don't worry, little brother. Papa and Mama will not be angry with you." Tatiana whispered as Ilya prepared to go into the study. He wasn't so sure. After all their kindnesses, he was positive they must be furious at how he'd returned their care and loving attention.

"I take it that you and this man *were* having physical relations?" Nicolai asked quietly after he and Irena read the letter. They knew better than most, not to trust the word of any informant, no matter how well-meaning.

"Yes, sir.", Ilya replied looking at the floor.

"Ilyusha, were you forced or coerced in anyway?" Irena asked gently.

They'd given him a way out of this mess. All he had to do was say Pavel forced him and nothing more would be said or done about the matter. Ilya didn't hesitate in his reply.

"No, ma'am. I love him." He waited for the sky to fall.

"I see. When did it begin?" Nicolai asked, still in that quiet reasonable tone of voice.

"Just after my eighteenth birthday. We were in love before that, but he said I was too young."

"So he was an honorable man. Thank God." Irena sighed then smiled at Ilya's shocked expression. "Ilyusha, we are not angry with you. Nor are we disappointed. You are old enough to make your own decisions in these matters. We were only concerned that this man may have forced his attentions on you."

"Irena is right. I know the Party line would have us believe that what you and your lover did was a decadent aberration, but that is a lie. Who we are able to love is not of our choosing; no more than we can choose the color of our eyes or whether or not we are right- or left-handed. I am only going to caution you to be extremely careful in the future. Our system punishes those who love as you do very harshly and you have suffered enough." He too smiled at the beautiful youth standing before him.

"You're truly not angry about this?" Ilya couldn't believe his ears.

"No, Ilya. Considering what you have endured, we were more afraid that you would be unable to love at all. After you have completed your undergraduate studies, perhaps we can find a way for you to travel to the West. They are more tolerant in these matters. Please don't think we are exiling or punishing you. The decision is yours to make. It's just that here, unless a miracle happens, you will be forced to love in secret, risking your career and maybe your life. That's no way to live." Nicolai smiled. Ilya had passed the test. When given the chance to lie his way out this, he'd told the truth without a second's thought.

Nicolai was wrong. Ilya sat in his room at Cambridge. The West for all its luxuries and freedoms was just as intolerant of his sexuality as the Rodina.***** Once again, Ilya walled himself off vowing to never again risk his heart. It was vow he would break.

** I know, I know. He's supposed to be Italian. No offense to the   descendents of the Caesars, but his temperament, as presented by   Robert Vaughn, was brimful of Gallic irony. This is fiction folks,   I can do what I like.

*** Mon vieux = Old friend (French)

**** Cafe Chat Noir = The Black Cat Cafe (French, and a highly     pretentious name for that dump;-)

***** Rodina = The mother land; or Mother Russia