Solo shifted from foot to foot, glad to be away from the disturbing scene and back out in fresh air. He listened almost intently to the conversation between Mr. Cowley and Bodie but his attention strayed. His eyes, ever alert and ever keen, surveyed the crowd around the small block as he willed himself to find the set of eyes he knew watched him.

"Mr. Solo?" Cowley's brogue broke through his reverie in a tone that could only mean this was not the first time his attention had been sought.

"Yes, sir?"

"The message on the wall relates directly to U.N.C.L.E., despite this being on our soil. It would appear that a personal vendetta is being waged here." Cowley fixed the young American with an icy stare.

"Yes, sir, it seems he now knows of our involvement and has decided to turn this into a personal campaign. But it was not his first intent. He has altered his plans to accommodate his self righteous indignation and that, sir, will be to our advantage."

Cowley slipped the glasses from his face and turned back to Bodie, studying the young men's faces before he spoke. "Aye, well so it may be, Mr. Solo, but innocent British citizens are now involved, which makes it my responsibility, to my people and my country."

"It's an unfortunate situation, sir, but his mental re-direction towards vendetta makes him vulnerable. His focus is lost on the original target and THRUSH is unforgiving in failure."

"Do you think if we let him play revenge with you and Illya that THRUSH will kill him because he didn't do the job he was paid for?" Bodie's gaze now scanned the assembled group, aware of their own vulnerability in the small courtyard.

Cowley chewed absently on the ends of his glasses as a slow smile spread across his face. "Och laddie, I won't ask if you know what you're getting into but, aye, I think you may have something there."

Solo's pen communicator bleeped. Retrieving it, he spoke softly. "Channel D open, Solo here."

"Napoleon, where are you?" Illya's voice sounded faint and distant.

"Still at the crime scene. How's the boy?"

"Callum died a few minutes ago. He gave us a brief description, tall, blond, used only the name of Chris and possibly Soviet."

"Possibly?"

"Yes, he said that he had an accent like mine when he spoke, but more pronounced."

"Could be a cover," Solo offered.

Silence. "Napoleon, he left a message carved into the boy's abdomen."

Cowley's head snapped up and Bodie swiveled to listen to the conversation.

"What did it say."

"It said 'Say UNCLE.' And Napoleon..." A slight soft murmur not caught by the others, but Solo knew his partner too well. Something was wrong - very, very wrong.

"Yes, tovarishch?"

"Callum said that he was left alive as a warning, that he took him because he reminded Chris of me. Apparently I am to be the next target."

Solo winced as Illya's tone stayed dead level. "Where are you now?"

"Still at the hospital waiting for the boy's parents."

"Is Ray still with him?" Bodie asked.

"Yes, he's here," Illya answered before Solo could ask. "We expect to be here for at least another hour and then we are going to the office."

"Which one?" Solo asked, a little disoriented by the dual agencies.

"CI5. Ah, the McGregors have arrived."

"Report back in an hour, Illya."

"Da, Kuryakin out." The line went dead and Solo recapped his pen and put it back in his pocket, turning to face both Cowley and Bodie.

"Say UNCLE?" Cowley quizzed.

"Code phrase, sir, it means give up." Solo answered, his eyes roaming once again over the crowd, looking for the man who now hunted them.

"I doubt that is what he wants though." Cowley put the glasses back into his pocket and closed the folder. Bodie was pulled away by a phone call through to the controller's car and came back with an open notebook.

"Seems the victim, was Callum McGregor, aged 21, son of the Scottish industrialist and MP. Top athlete, honor student at Cambridge, studying psychology, destined to be in the next Olympic team," Bodie said as he read the hastily scrawled information on his notebook.

"What were his last movements, Bodie? Find them; track the last twenty-four hours of his life. I want to know everything. Every person that saw him leave, build a composite, and don't let Kuryakin out alone," Cowley ordered and a genuine smile lit his face as he regarded Solo. "Alex would never forgive me if I lost one of his agents." He stared at both men for a moment and then grumbled, "Well, on your bikes, gentlemen. We don't have time to waste." He turned, limping towards his car and headed towards Whitehall.

"Yes, sir, peddling faster, sir," Bodie answered as he grabbed Solo's elbow and steered him towards their car.

"Got any ideas?" Bodie finally asked Solo. The quiet pensive look on the American shook him to the core.

"Yes, one involves getting to my partner as soon as possible." Napoleon still stared out the car window, concern etched into every feature.

"This White Wolf thing has you worried?" Bodie asked softly as he stopped at a traffic light.

Solo frowned as he turned his attention back towards Bodie. "Yes, all maniacs worry me."

"More so because Illya is the target?"

Solo pinched the bridge of his nose and peered out into the oncoming traffic. "Illya has been the target too many times for it to truly worry me, but call it a hunch, something about this is NOT right."

Bodie smiled. "You know, I do understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah, a couple of times the Cow has sent us undercover in some of the seedier gay places to flush out a terrorist or thief and every time we have had to use Ray as the bait. Usually with a great deal of backup and a full composite of who we are looking for."

Solo nodded. "Precisely, ah, where are we going by the way?"

"Hospital. You wanted to see your partner, didn't you?"

Solo smiled and moved further down in the seat. "Drive on, James," he ordered in a superior tone as Bodie ducked his head and played on a non-existent Midlands accent.

"Aye, sir, as ye wish." Solo relaxed enough to chuckle and Bodie put his foot down, making the hospital in record time.

ooooOOOoooo

Christian Langford watched with satirical delight as the dark U.N.C.L.E. agent scanned the crowd. Even from the distance he could see the sweat on the upper lip, the fine trembling of the steady hands. The pinched and pale features as he looked out from the tight group, looking, Chris knew, for the hunter. Once only their gazes met and when the American returned his stare, he found he was looking into empty space. Chris smiled in satisfaction; it was always better when the quarry was disturbed, besides it was a matter of professional pride.

The message on that last boy should stir them up, and the one on the wall. The one with Illya Kuryakin's name and date of birth. Chris chuckled and belted the long leather coat about his body before he curled behind the wheel of his car.

He eagerly rubbed his hands together and smiled. Now it's time to create another diversion, he thought to himself as he sped away from the curb.

ooooOOOOoooo

Illya took a look at the stricken face of Mrs. McGregor as she disentangled herself from the blond agent. Shaking hands wiped at her eyes as she saw the truth in his before he spoke.

"I'm sorry," she stammered in her thick accent. "It's just that you look so much like Callum."

He reached forward and helped the elderly lady to the private suite he had ordered and steered her inside. Doyle followed escorting a man who looked to be somewhere in his middle fifties and yet much older. Disaster striking at the heart of their family made even young men old and Mr. McGregor was no different. He had the aristocratic bearing of a man who had fought his way to the top. Illya could tell that his wife was a childhood sweetheart. Who, with him, had supported him through long cold lonely winters to become the matriarch of a wealthy and successful family. One which, despite the odds, had never lost sight of their own humility. Illya cringed, and desperately wanted to give them good news that simply did not exist.

Steeling himself he moved them to the soft leather chairs as Doyle poured them both a drink from the bottle hastily retrieved from someone's office.

"Mrs. McGregor, Mr. McGregor." He nodded and produced his UNCLE ID. "My name is lllya Kuryakin of UNCLE. Have you heard of our organization before?"

Mr. McGregor nodded.

"Good, my associate here is Ray Doyle from CI5."

"Oh, you work for George?" Mrs. McGregor smiled wanly as she peered up through tear-stained eyes.

"Yes, ma'am," Doyle answered softly.

"Please, we don't want to seem rude but please, Callum?" There was a fine note of desperation in the lady's voice as she held firmly onto Illya's hand and implored him.

To Doyle's astonishment, a tear leaked from under Illya's long wheat-colored lashes as he took her other hand in his.

"Mrs. McGregor, I am so sorry," he began softly. Her grip intensified as the words finally sank in. "Callum died a few minutes ago."

"How?" The word, strident and angry from the father, was directed to no one in particular yet even Doyle reeled under the blow of his grief.

Illya's eyes never once left the mother's face as he reached an arm around her quaking shoulders. "Callum died as a result of injuries and drugs."

"He wouldn't, Callum wouldn't take drugs, oh Ewan, tell them, my baby never..." Mrs. McGregor sobbed hopelessly.

Ewan stood watching with shadowed eyes. The young blond man with his arm around his wife was so much like their only son that even now, his visage was a knife in his breast. Doyle ushered the elderly gent out the door and introduced him to Dr. Cameron who answered all his questions.

Illya rocked slowly the small fragile woman in his arms. She was so much like his own mother he bit back on his emotions, forcing them down to the secret corner, unable and unwilling at this time to deal with the ferocity of his feelings.

Solo found his partner in the same position some minutes later. Mrs. McGregor had grown quiet and rested her head against the shimmering gold hair of his partner. Seeing the pain in the large blue eyes, the American entered the room quietly as she finally sat up. Illya reached out wordlessly and wiped the tears from her cheeks and smiled.

"He did not die alone, Mrs. McGregor, for what it's worth, I was with him and he said to tell you that he loved you. I promise, I will destroy the man who did this to your son."

"Thank you, Illya." She reached forward and kissed both his cheeks before standing up and heading towards the door. Once it shut, the room was strangely empty and cold. Illya had neither moved nor spoke, then very slowly he closed his eyes and turned to the darkened corner where instinctively he knew Solo sat.

"Are you all right, milok?" Solo asked.

Illya nodded. "I hate this part of the job."

"Me too. And it gets better." Solo voice dripped with sarcasm and genuine pain. A curious mix that made Illya dread the next words.

"Really?"

"Yeah. He left another message."

"And?"

"It said 'Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin,' September 19th 1956, and then underneath, R.I.P."

"Wonderful." Illya sat back and rubbed his forehead. A headache brewed as he closed his eyes, trying desperately to still the anger inside of him. "What have you done with Bodie?"

Solo chuckled. "Well, I ah, haven't killed him if that's what you mean. He's outside talking to the McGregors with Ray."

"What next?" Illya propped his feet on the low coffee table and leaned back.

"Cowley wants us to do a composite of the last twenty four hours of Callum's life, which means visiting a couple of gay bars tonight." Solo watched as Illya winced. "This is still hard for you, isn't it?"

"I have had a lifetime of running from what I am, Napoleon, and now I am asked not only to confront it, but to do so publicly."

"Well, at least we aren't in New York."

"And when we are?"

"I will still love you." Solo's voice dropped by degrees as he watched the complex play of emotions on the almost serene face. He knew from long experience that Illya was never the cold man he was accused of being. Instead, he had a fierce passion burning within him.

"We shall see, Napoleon."

Distress tugged at Solo's heart as he looked on the bowed blond head. "What?" Solo asked.

Illya looked up a little guiltily. "I don't understand the question."

"You have given bad news to a grieving mother before. Why is this one so different?"

"When the state gave me a new mother, I saw the same look in her eyes as I did just then. Funny thing is that I never believed she really loved me, Napasha, until now."

"Is that why you don't believe I love you? Because of your past?"

Illya stood and paced. "This is hardly the time or place to discuss my feelings, Napoleon," he reprimanded.

"It's as good a place as any and it is private."

Illya stopped, his back to the room and his partner. "One day soon we shall talk, Napasha, but not now."

"As you wish." Solo tone was clipped and hurt at the dismissal. "It's your choice to believe as you wish."

The Russian cocked his head to one side, acutely aware of the hurt he had just caused.

"I don't disbelieve you, Napasha, I'm just afraid of losing you." The voice was as soft and gentle as any caress could have been to a tortured soul. Napoleon smiled and laid his hand for a brief moment on his partner's shoulder.

"Never," was the whispered promise.

"Never is a long time," Illya retorted with something close to his normal humor.

"Never will never be long enough." Solo straightened his jacket and brushed the back of his hand against Illya's cheek. "Dance with me tonight?" Solo whispered as the door opened.

Illya blushed and looked down as Bodie smiled. "Mental note to self: I have got to learn to knock, I have got to learn to knock," Bodie laughed as he entered the room and watched Illya leave to say his good-byes to the McGregors.

"Got a lead?" Solo asked casually as he watched his partner through the open door.

"Sure have, picked up in the same bar," Bodie answered with a smug smile.

"Well, well. Seems Chris is getting sloppy."

"Either that or he baits his traps well," Ray added as he joined the other three men.

"Did you tell Illya about the other message yet?" Bodie asked the American.

"Yes."

"Your partner is an impressive man, Napoleon," Ray said with a slight smile of mischief.

"Really?"

Doyle sobered at the less than hospitable look Solo sent to him. "Really. I've had to give the sorry about the victim speech to far too many parents; I have never seen it done with more compassion or grace than I did today. Another enviable part of U.N.C.L.E. training, no doubt?" Ray asked.

"No, actually. Illya just does what is natural for him. He was with the boy when he died, too, wasn't he?" Solo asked, certain already of the response.

Ray nodded. "How'd you know?"

Solo looked to Doyle and then to Bodie and back again. "I know my partner."