"I do not like it."

"I'm sure you don't."

"It is hardly fair."

A slight, warm smile turned the corners of Napoleon Solo's lips at  the curiously petulant tone that had crept into Illya Kuryakin's  voice, fondly amused. Normally, the staid Russian agent kept his  feelings to himself, but *this* time... The senior UNCLE agent turned  onto his side, the bed creaking slightly, and pressed a kiss onto the  soft, scowling lips of his partner. "My, my... Can it be that you are  *pouting*, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?"

"*I* do not pout," came the muttered retort -Napoleon had to note  that there was a suspicious twinkle in the crystalline eyes despite  the stubborn set to Illya's mouth. "I am simply pointing out that  after the effort you went through, it does not seem right that we  have to give up our plans just like that."

"So, milok, since when is life supposed to be fair, hmn?"

"Or UNCLE, for that matter?"

"*Especially* UNCLE sometimes."

U.N.C.L.E. -the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,  international spy agency anti-terrorist organization and habitual  disrupter of the well thought-out private plans of one Napoleon Solo.  He and his reticent Russian partner had been a couple for less than a  month, and though as partners in UNCLE they had spent the holidays  together on assignment, he had wanted this year to be different.

Special.

He had had at all planned -reserved first-class seats on the new  class of Concorde on a flight to Paris, some romantic quiet time  (Illya would want to play tourist, no doubt), opening presents in  their hotel room on Christmas morning, and then...
 
...and *then* Waverly had "asked" (to put it politely) if Solo would  head an UNCLE security team providing protection for a visiting  dignitary in Botswana. And where was *their* usual team leader? *He*  was on Christmas vacation.

Napoleon found himself suspecting the Old Man of a real mean streak.

"It'll only be a week," Solo promised. "A milk-run to make a  political friend of UNCLE happy. Back before you know it." the elder  agent saw a dangerous glint begin to form in his silent lover's ice- blue eyes. "I'll make it up to you on New Year's. Promise."

"Nyet."

"'No'?"

The glint had become a blaze as a barely suppressed smile turned  Kuryakin's lips. He suddenly pulled Solo closer. "I am thinking you  will make it up to me *now*."

"Hoo boy..."

DECEMBER 21, 9:05 A.M.:

"I must apologize to have called you in from your vacation on such  short notice, Mr. Kuryakin."

A thin wheaten eyebrow arched upwards beneath a stray lock of bright  blonde hair as Illya Kuryakin took a seat before the expansive  executive desk of UNCLE's Number One of Section One -Alexander  Waverly. An apology -From Alexander Waverly? For anything?? A surge  of decidedly uncharacteristic panic began to well up in Kuryakin's  chest. Apologetic? Napoleon...  Maybe the "milk-run" had gone sour  and -but no. If it had been *that*, Waverly would have had the
courtesy to have come to his apartment and told him such bad news  face to face as he had for other partners. *What* then?

As if in answer to the Russian's unvoiced question, Waverly sighed  aloud and spoke. "We have a...*unique* situation, Mr. Kuryakin.  Please listen to this." A button was pushed and a voice, crackling  and distorted by static, came from Waverly's desk speaker.

"This is...Antarctic Sta...calling...This...THRUSH Antarctica calling  UN... ...we need...need your  elp...danger...something...it is  killing...only... ...three...us left...please...help...This is  THRUSH...base...Antarti..." The recorded message ended there.

"You intercepted a transmission from THRUSH."

"No, Mr. Kuryakin -that message was *not* merely intercepted. It was  sent *directly* to UNCLE. There is no mistake."

Illya's brow creased in puzzlement and disbelief. "Then I...do not  understand, sir. *Why* would THRUSH send an S.O.S. to `UNCLE' rather  than to THRUSH Central -and this warning? Could it not be a trap?"

"That is what I'm hoping that you will be able to learn, Mr.  Kuryakin." A thin file was slid across the desk's smooth surface to  the Russian agent who accepted it silently. "We learned of this  particular THRUSH base only recently and since the transmission, have  been unable to re-establish contact. Because of your experience and  training in cold weather tactics, you will be leading the  reconnaissance team that will check out this curious situation,  keeping in mind that even if the message *was* meant only for UNCLE's  ears, it is a certainty that THRUSH Central *will* eventually notice  that one of their bases is no longer maintaining contact."

Kuryakin nodded in immediate comprehension. "A very unstable window  of opportunity. Do we have any information on the nature of their  operations?"

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, we do. They were experimenting in the area of bio- weapons."

Illya could not suppress his sigh of dismay.

DECEMBER 24, 11:57 P.M.

"Sir! We have a transmission from Mr. Kuryakin!"

Alexander Waverly moved with a speed that belied his years and  slammed a fist on the "receive" button of the communicator on his  desk. "Mr. Kuryakin!" Static, a heavy electronic rushing and  squealing sound, answered him. "Mr. Kuryakin -report!"

More static...and then... "Kuryakin...report...Agents Porter,  Clarke... Davidson dead...only self and...remain...It came...no...description  is... possible...Do not...repeat...DO NOT...send...help...It will  kill..." The signal went dead. There was no static. Just silence.

Waverly's knuckles bunched until they bled white -he swallowed deeply  and met the equally worried eyes of his chief assistant. "Ms.  Rogers... contact Napoleon Solo. Tell him that he is to return to headquarters - at once."