So the dark night may watch over you. Lovland: Nocturne, by Secret Garden and written by John Tate. (Performed by Gunnhild Tvinneriem.)

Is there not some chosen curse, Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who gains his fortune from the blood of souls? Cato, by Joseph Addison, this version revised by William Wells Brown.

12th of August, 1967. Rome, Italy.

Napoleon sighed as he entered the hotel room. His eyes were smarting from hours of paperwork.

And he was tired. He sat on the bed, and removed his jacket and holster. Illya was still where he'd been 2 hours previously. Sitting on the dark balcony, eyes fixed over the city. The only discernible difference lay in amount of Vodka left.

Napoleon watched his partner and tugged his tie loose. It was too hot. He got up, grabbed a glass from the bedside table, and headed for the balcony.

"Mind if I join you?" He asked, holding out the glass.

Without really turning, Illya poured some Vodka. As he leaned over, his shirt sleeve rose up. Painful, jagged rips covered his wrist. Witness to Illya's aversion to needles. And of his aggression towards his captors.

The night really was too hot. Returning from the regional headquarters, Napoleon had noted more than one set of tourists retire early for the night, complaining of the heat. He rubbed his eyes. His body was yelling from fifteen hours in a tiny van. Trapped in the heat outside the Scholl estate.

Sitting. Getting hot.

Tense.

Imagining.

Nothing could have prepared them for what they finally saw in there.

"Have they identified all the bodies?" asked Illya flatly.

Napoleon swirled the drink round his glass. "Most of them. The early ones were, well.."

"Too decomposed."

"Yeah." He took a gulp of vodka. He could live without the stuff. In the early days he'd always been puzzled by how quickly he ran out of it. Until he realised how often he invited Illya over.

"What happened to Zirkail?"

"Rome police have him in custody, we're petitioning the U.N. for an international court."

"Who wants him?"

"It's, a, more a question of who doesn't. Israel..."

"That will not happen."

"No," agreed Napoleon. "Er, France, Poland, Russia, Britain. There's quite a list, next to his name."

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"You should be in hospital." _For the next week at least_

"I'm fine," he pointed out sharply. "Thank you."

Napoleon looked at him. "You're, uh, gonna have to talk to the regional agents."

"Yes."

"Particularly about Scholl."

Illya turned, his face no longer shrouded in the shadows. Napoleon tried not to wince.

"Are they suggesting there was anything wrong with his death?"

"No. But it, ah, might have been better if you hadn't broken his neck."

Illya turned back to the view. "You weren't there."

"No." Napoleon watched as Illya took another mouthful from the bottle. "They, uh, destroyed Scholl's....lab."

There was a slight pause, "Good."

"Did he tell you much? About why was, er..." he turned his glass around as he spoke.

"Enough."

"They've put an all-ports out on the other three," offered Napoleon, "the, ah, Italian police think..."

"We won't find them."

"No."

"The delay meant they had more than enough time to escape." Black humour laced his words.

"Yeah." Napoleon leaned his elbow against the side of the balcony and took a deep breath. The flowers that grew around the balcony left a heavy scent in the air. He followed Illya's gaze to the lights that covered the city. He turned back as his partner spoke.

"Have Anna's parents come yet?" asked Illya.

"Yeah. They identified her a couple of hours go."

Illya's fingers flexed unconsciously around the bottle neck.

"It wasn't your fault Illya."

"I am aware of that." Clipped tone. Short. Sharp.

Against his better judgement, he carried on, "Illya. After what he'd done, it was a miracle you could stand, never mind...."

"That's enough, Napoleon!" There was the slight tremor in Illya's hand, but another mouthful of Vodka quelled it.

They sat in silence. Staring out at the night. Throughout the city, sirens and car horns battled for attention. In the courtyard below them a young couple started arguing.

Napoleon turned to look at the other man. He bent down, taking his hand, "I'm going to turn in, you coming?"

Illya looked down. Met his eyes. "In a while."

Napoleon brought up his partner's hand and kissed the palm. He straightened up, moving toward the door.

"Napoleon?"

He turned, "Yes?"

There was a pause. "Nothing."

Napoleon went to go in, but then turned back slightly. "That music he was playing when we came in, what was it?"

"Bach's double violin concerto in D minor. "Illya's voice dripped with contempt."

"I thought you liked that."

"I did."

Napoleon sighed softly and stepped through the open door. He didn't shut it.

Illya stayed on the balcony until dawn.

And from the room, Napoleon watched him.

The End.