“Will you sanction him, Alex?” John asked.  They’d adjourned to the dining room, and their host had broken
              out a bottle of champagne brandy to calm their nerves, passing a snifter in to the cook for Ilya.

              “The bylaws may force my hand.  You should know that; you helped write
              them,” Waverly replied.

              “The responsibility clause?” John asked.  “I’m not sure it applies in this case.”  The responsibility clause
              stated if an agent willingly gave information leading to another agent’s death, he was to be sanctioned and
              executed at the first opportunity.  “How many have you lost?”

              “Two we might have to attribute to him,” he said.

              “It might be academic,” Napoleon put in, remembering a report from the Moscow office he’d read a week
              ago.  “The KGB have lost 6 agents in the same timeframe we’re looking at, all in areas of heavy THRUSH
              activity.  They may sanction Ilya themselves, and they’re not known for showing mercy to weakness, or any
              other cause.”

              “It’s too much to hope they won’t find out about this, isn’t it?”  'There are several planets within the
              Republic, and more on the Rim, that are relatively low-tech,' Qui-Gon thought.  'He could probably fit in
              fairly well on one of them.'  Providing he wanted to leave.

              “I’m afraid so,” Waverly replied, pulling a communicator pen from his pocket.  He activated it and said,
              “This is Number 1, Section 1.  Overseas relay and scramble to the Moscow office,” and to John, “They
              should know if there’s been any inquiries made or orders issued concerning Mr. Kuryakin.”

              When Moscow answered, he asked if the KGB had made any inquiries or issued any orders concerning Mr.
              Kuryakin, and was told, “Of course not.  Who would issue orders for a dead man?”

              “If there’s any interest in the deceased, I want to know immediately. Contact me via this channel and
              scramble transmission.  Waverly out.”  He closed and replaced the pen.  “Gentlemen, the hour is late, and
              there is very little more we can do tonight.  I suggest we seek our beds and get what sleep we
              can.  Tomorrow may very well turn out to be a trying day.”

              Napoleon turned off his travel alarm and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. '7AM; time to get up,' his mind told
              him.  He threw off the sheet and rose to greet the day.  Pulling a robe over his pajamas, he grabbed his
              shaving kit and sought out the bathroom.  A short while later, freshly shaved and showered, he returned to
              his room to dress.  A few minutes after that, dressed in a summer weight suit, he went looking for breakfast.

              He followed the smell of English Breakfast Tea ('What did you expect on a tea plantation?' he asked
              himself) to the kitchen, and was surprised to find his boss at the stove making hotcakes.

              “He threatened to cook,” Waverly explained, indicating John.  “I’ve eaten his cooking.  Once.  I thought I’d
              been poisoned.”

              “You weren’t all THAT ill,” John defended himself, “and what else was I to do?  My cook’s exhausted
              from staying up all night.  Could you hurry with those?  Someone should relieve her before Ilya wakes.”  He
              smiled impudently from behind his teacup.

              Waverly mock-glared at him as he set the plate in front of him.  “Bon appetite, and don’t choke in your haste
              to eat it.”

              John opened his mouth to reply and thought better of it, digging into his breakfast instead.

              “Good morning, Mr. Solo,” the temporary cook greeted him.  “Care for some hotcakes?”

              “Thank you, sir,” Napoleon replied, “but, ah, I think I can manage my own breakfast.”  He took over from
              his boss and made his own cakes.

              While Napoleon was making breakfast, John was finishing his own.  He placed his plate and silverware in
              the sink (wondering if Alex was going to make Napoleon do the dishes), and went to relieve his cook.

              Ilya was awake when he arrived.  “Does the condemned man get a last meal?”

              John sat on the bed next to him.  “You haven’t been condemned yet.”  He reached up to run a hand through
              his hair, but the younger man flinched away.

              “Don’t.”

              “Why not?”

              “I don’t want you to.  Not anymore.”

              “I’ll be here, if you should change your mind.”  It was all he could say. He moved from the bed to the chair
              his cook had vacated when she left for bed.  “It wasn’t your fault.  Anyone could have broken from that
              much pain.”

              “’Anyone’ wasn’t there,” he said through gritted teeth.  “I was.  I should have found some way to die.”

              “Are you looking for ways to die now?”

              “Unnecessary.  If UNCLE doesn’t sanction me, the KGB will.  They are relentless when it comes to traitors,
              especially if they’ve lost one or more of their own.”  His eyes filled with tears.  “How many died because I
              didn’ t?  And how many more will die – or have died – because the ones who did aren’t there to save
              them?”

              They were interrupted by a knock on the door.  It was Napoleon, bringing a breakfast tray.  “Hotcakes, fresh
              fruit, and tea,” he told his partner. “Mr. Waverly said to tell you eating this is not an option.  It's an order”

              John left the partners at that point, hoping Napoleon would find some way to comfort Ilya.  It broke his heart
              to see him so sad and be unable to help. He walked back to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of
              tea.  After discussing some planting and harvesting schedules with his foreman, he went to find his old
              friend.  He found him on the veranda, smoking his pipe.

              “I thought I told you that was bad for your health.”  The words came out harsher than he’d intended.

              “You did,” Alex assured him, “but that isn’t what’s really bothering you, is it?  How is he this morning?”

              “Waiting for someone to come and kill him,” John answered.  “He feels he should have died before
              breaking.  He won’t let me comfort him.”  He hung his head, morose, and felt a touch on his arm.

              “It’s like that?”

              “Yes,” he replied.  “I came here to get over a broken heart.”  He briefly explained about Obi-Wan and
              Mace.  “I hadn’t meant to get entangled again so soon, but he was so brilliant, so full of Light.  So
              beautiful.  Now his Light is dimmed and his brilliance is bitter ashes, and he waits to die.  He pushes me
              away and won’t let me help.  And my heart is breaking all over again, because of it.”