Sterile white walls, the stench of antiseptic and the ordered chaos of the sick and infirmed. From a small curtained cubicle the stench of death, barely perceptible in the environment, assailed the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Illya held his head high and looked down his long aristocratic nose as he waited for the desk nurse to send him in the right direction, never once betraying his inner turmoil that these impersonal halls of healing invoked in him.

So he portrayed the cold, sinister agent many assumed was his nature, and knew that none would ever breach those walls, except for the American. Illya thought a little bitterly that Napoleon had always known what to do to get under his skin. Of course, the American always bluffed his way out by telling the stoic Russian that it was his interpersonal people skill. Illya pondered on the response he always assumed was base arrogance and with dawning clarity recognized it now for what it was. Need. Stunned, Illya knew that Napoleon needed him and somehow in those deep brown eyes he even imagined he saw love.

A fleeting eternity later he became aware of the man by his side and looked up into sea green eyes which regarded him intently. Suddenly feeling as though he was under a microscope Illya brought the ice wall of his soul into full force and dazed by the sudden chill, Doyle stepped back. He narrowed his eyes as the air of danger assailed him and rolled past. The CI5 agent smiled and shoved his hands into the pockets of his skin tight jeans.

Doyle fell into step beside the small blond as he leafed through the medical report on the latest victim.

"Male aged approximately twenty two, no positive ID yet. The next door neighbors heard shouting and screams and went to investigate. He was brought directly to the hospital, room six eleven, floor seven."

Illya was thoughtful for a few moments as he continued to read the sketchy report. "He's baiting us," Illya said quietly, suddenly ill at ease in the crowded hallway.

"Yes, so you said before. I doubt Cowley would appreciate us acting on a hunch though." The lift door opened and finding the car empty Doyle held out a hand to make sure it didn't close too soon and followed Illya in.

Doyle punched the illuminated button with a little more force than strictly necessary and waited till the metal doors closed before he turned a sly eye on his associate.

"So, who pounced?" For the last hour, Doyle had been trying to figure out how best to phrase this particular question. With curiosity reaching critical mass, tact went out the door.

Illya frowned. "What?"

"Who pounced first, you or Solo?" Doyle only barely managed to keep a straight face as he quizzed his friend.

"Does it matter?" Illya asked softly, ducking his head to hide the blush that erupted on the high Slavic cheekbones.

Doyle stared at the young man, such a contradiction. Alabaster skin glowed golden, even under the harsh fluorescent lights it was tinged with a subtle rose hue. Yet, Doyle knew if he reached out, that same flesh would be hard and unyielding. As unforgiving as the arctic tundra that had carved this serious young man from its own ice womb. Knew, without doubt, that to breach that wall so fully would earn him scorn and wrath. And just for a moment he flexed his fingers reaching forward on some unconscious whim. Consciously aware of his action he stayed his hand as his eyes locked with large pools of azure. Finally, he wrinkled his nose and smiled broadly.

"Yeah," Doyle answered in that exaggerated drawl he knew set Bodie's blood racing.

A fond sigh of exasperation as Illya looked up over his glasses. "Napoleon did."

Doyle's smile grew broader as he turned towards the door. "Well, at least now we know he's not blind."

Muttering some anatomically impossible Slavic curse under his breath Illya turned towards the officer on duty by the victim’s door. A large meaty hand lodged against Illya's chest and with a quick narrowing of the Russian's eyes the man stepped back as if physically slapped. Doyle chuckled as he caught up with the Russian just outside the door.

"Ah, mate, I'd let him go if I were you, just a suggestion of course." Doyle jutted one hip as he leaned against the wall.

"Bloody hell, Doyle, why didn't you say he was with you?" the officer snarled.

"Maybe," Illya added deathly quiet, "because he's with me." The door swung open and the stench of blood and illness almost overwhelmed the Russian, as he pushed into the small room. The small room buzzed with activity as first a nurse found a new vein and pushed the long syringe into the pale wrist. The body moaned and thrashed briefly as the medical team held their collective breath. The slow pulse registering on the machines that kept the boy alive, and the doctor wiped a large hand across his face, snapping out orders with a precision Doyle knew too well. One look at his U.N.C.L.E. companion and Doyle realized that Illya was more than accustomed to the hospital procedures.

The lights dimmed to allow the patient to rest. Bandages covered the majority of his body and the blood seeped slowly through. Tubes and wires poked and violated most of the small body on the bed and despite the painkillers he moaned. And the monitors flashed erratically.

Doyle walked in behind the Russian and stopped dead in his tracks. Looking first to the bed and then to the U.N.C.L.E. agent and then back again. Blond hair shone dully from the top of a bandaged skull, tinged pink with the boys own blood, the body small and compact curled into the soft bed and the hand that clutched the bed sheets convulsively, bore a silver wedding band.

"Bloody hell." Doyle turned to stare at Illya who was standing silent and pale.

"Doyle." The doctor nodded towards the CI5 agent and then looked pointedly to the blond man standing still in the middle of the room.

"Ah, sorry Dr. Cameron, Illya Kuryakin - U.N.C.L.E.."

Cameron smiled slowly and then looked back to Doyle. "How's the shoulder?"

Doyle winced at the remembered pain. "Better thanks. How is he?'

"Well, if he survives and stabilizes in the next hour he'll go to surgery. He's got about a ten per cent chance of making it that far."

The duty guard came in and handed Doyle a message and left in silence. The senior British agent read the note. "We've got an ID, his name is Callum McGregor."

Illya looked up immediately. "The Scottish athlete?"

The doctor nodded sadly. "Yes, and before this destined for the Olympic team. Now..." He held his hands wide, indicating that his survival was in the lap of the Gods. "He was rushed in at six thirty this morning by neighbors. Other than that I can't tell you. You have the records of his injuries in your hands." He nodded down to the folder.

"Is he conscious?" Illya asked.

"Barely. You can try, Mr. Kuryakin. At this stage I doubt it will make much difference to his survival. We did notice one strange thing though."

"Really?" Doyle couldn't quiet manage to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Yes, his attacker left you a message."

"What?" Illya asked as he slowly approached the bed.

Dr. Cameron had maneuvered to the other side of the bed and began to lift the thick cotton gauze from Callum's stomach.

There, etched into the living flesh were the words, "Say UNCLE." Doyle shivered and Illya smiled slowly as he stepped back from the bed. As he did the young man's hand grabbed at the U.N.C.L.E. agent, one blue eye cracked open as he began to cough around the tube down his throat.

"He's trying to speak, Doctor, please remove the tube."

"I can't do that, Mr. Kuryakin." The doctor stood appalled at the seemingly callous order.

"I don't have time to argue with you, but know this, Doctor. This boy is not the first, he is the latest in a five year string around the world. If you don't let him speak, he may not be the last. Now pull the tube out." Illya was resolute and hard. Doyle however looked down at the entwined hands and noticed that Illya's long thumb gently caressed the back of the tortured hand, offering small comfort and support.

Far from convinced, the doctor attempted to stare Illya down and finally gave in, removing the tube from the boy's throat.

"Callum?" Illya asked softly.

"You, you're Illya," the boy said in a pained breathless whisper.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"He said... said he took me because I looked like someone else, said I was to warn you."

"Warn me?" Illya frowned as he sat by the boy's bedside.

"Yes." The room was silent as Callum spoke. "Said that next time it would be you. You must kill him, don't let him do this to you."

Unaccountably Illya raised his free hand and laid it gently against the child's jaw speaking softly, "Tell me what he looked like."

"Tall, over six foot, short blond hair, well built."

"Accent?"

"Yes, like yours only different. You...you're Russian, yes?"

"Yes." Illya smiled softly, "What name did he use?"

"Chris, only called himself Chris. Please..." Callum lost the strength that had held him through so far and his eyes rolled back in his head as he began to gasp. The heart monitor leaped and the crash cart arrived within seconds. Callum tightened his grip on Illya's hand and turned pained eyes towards the Russian. "Please..." he said softly.

"Please?" Illya asked, gently calming the boy back down onto the bed, the heart monitor fell back into a gentle rhythm and the doctor looked on amazed.

"Don't go," Callum whispered.

"You are safe here."

"Scared."

Illya sat back down and cradled the trembling hand in his own, the other reaching back up to the pale cheek. "Yes, I know. But you are safe now, Callum."

Callum managed a weak smile as he turned his head once more to the blond agent. "Thank you. You tell my parents what happened, please. Tell them I'm sorry I failed them." Large obscene tears stained the bruised face and Illya murmured softly as he wiped the boy's face.

"Do you love them?" Illya asked gently.

"Yes." Callum's voice was very weak, very small.

"Then you didn't fail them."

Callum smiled and closed his eyes, took a long deep breath and settled against the pillows. Like an angel sleeping, he died.

The doctor reached forward and switched the siren alarms and life supporting devices off. Illya placed the hand back on the side of the bed, smoothed his hand across the pale face and sat back.

Doyle noticed with a start that a single tear stained the Russian's cheek. He made no move to wipe it away and simply stared at the bed for long moments. When he spoke his voice was calm and level and Doyle read the despair that kept this young man so controlled.

"Have his parents been notified?"

"Yes. They are coming down from Edinburgh now."

Illya nodded as he opened his pen communicator. "Open Channel D."

"Channel D open, sir."

"Overseas relay."

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin." Mr. Waverly's voice sounded tinny.

"Yes sir, we have a domestic situation that will require special sanction to an innocent's parents."

"Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Yes sir, a boy died a few moments ago, courtesy of our THRUSH friend."

"Understood. Tell them to contact me directly if you run into interference from the London office."

"Thank you, sir."

"We look after our cousins, Mr. Kuryakin. Have Mr. Solo report in later today."

"Yes sir." Illya snapped the pen shut and put it back into his coat pocket. "When his parents arrive, please have them placed in a private suite and let me know immediately." The soft Russian voice held such authority the doctor felt compelled by both need and compassion to follow this man's orders. "Suitable accommodation will be made for the family, all bills for the funeral shall be sent directly to U.N.C.L.E. London. Please let your administrator know." Illya stood and once more brushed his hand across the dead boy's forehead.

"You have been very considerate, Mr. Kuryakin." The Doctor shook his hand.

"We are supposed to be the good guys, doctor. It is not necessary to make this any harder on the family than it already is."

Illya walked past Doyle, who fell into step with the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "I have had the dubious pleasure of watching all that life serves to innocents, Illya, and back there, what I saw you do for Callum, restored my faith in us."

Illya frowned, and moved uncomfortably. "I don't understand."

"U.N.C.L.E. is renowned for hard hearted ruthless agents. You on the other hand..." Doyle shrugged.

Illya looked up from the sheaf of papers he was scrutinizing. "And U.N.C.L.E. has every reason to live up to that expectation."

This time Ray did not stop his hand as it moved to the trim suited shoulder. Long sensitive fingers squeezed gently as a slow smile spread across his face. "How is it you survived so completely, Illya?" Doyle wondered aloud.

"I had no choice. Now shall we catch a murderer?"