Michael Murphy tugged experimentally at the corded rope that bound his hands painfully behind his back. He was held fast and felt an answering tug at his feet. He breathed deeply, the pain in his side almost overwhelmed him as he choked back a gasp. The ball gag in his mouth pulled his lips back into a rictus grimace as he gasped again, this time tasting the sharp tang of blood in his throat. He opened his eyes slowly and peered into the gloom. Dust motes swirled around his peripheral vision and he followed them up to a pale lamp flickering in a wall sconce high up and too far away from his numb limbs.

"Confused, Murphy?" A cold mirthless voice echoed around the room.

Murphy tried to sit up. Despite the pain, he made it onto his knees just as his vision clouded and the room tilted dangerously.

"Ah yes." continued the voice, a hint of a European accent underscoring the malevolence as it continued to taunt the bound and injured CI5 agent. "I can see you are. Such a pity really. I suspect you are wondering what you are doing here and who I am?"

Murphy narrowed his eyes, his breathing coming out in short pants as he let the blood flow from his throat and out over his chin.

This time the voice chuckled. "I'll take that as a yes, shall I? My name... well, you know me by so many. White Wolf, since they say that when I wet my muzzle with blood hmm how you say? The blood lust is strong. Christian Langford." The cold maniacal laugh echoed painfully in the room. "Well, Christian is a term the KGB give to their own on 'no win assignments.' It's a joke really, Christian as in 'lions 3, Christians nil.' Langford? Well, pick up a phone book and there are hundreds in the greater London area. But I suspect you want to know who I am really? Claude Jenkins?" The laugh this time was humorous and underscored with a manic tremor. "Hardly, but since soon you will die, there is no harm in reciting your sins to you now, is there? Your wife, Mr. Murphy."

Murphy closed his eyes and winced at the words. Impotent raged welled in him as he twisted at the ropes, the cord cruelly cut into already proud and swollen flesh.

"Ah yes I see you remember her. Helena is a lovely lady and such a beautiful child, don't you think? Amy Ann." The taunting voice sounded almost wistful.

Murphy's eyes began to focus in the pale light. The rough hewn walls and chill suggested he was somewhere underground, perhaps a basement or cellar of sorts, but there appeared no way out, no doors or windows. The floor was a seamless block of granite and as he peered up the only opening was a small indentation in the roof of the room.

"It's an oubliette, Michael." The voice paused, seeming to consider the moment, "Since we are to become intimates I can call you Michael, can't I? Mr. Murphy seems so damned formal. You must be very flattered by my attentions to you. You see, I have another agenda." The chuckle. "Sometimes it is quiet exhilarating to mix business with pleasure, don't you agree? But forgive me, I digress. An oubliette, in case you have never heard of the term, is a small room with no way in and no way out, a conundrum dreamed up by your Saxon ancestors. It is in effect a dungeon and as you have realized, the only way in is a small hatch in the roof and there are no implements to get you there, so relax, you'll have company soon."

The torch in the wall guttered as it blew out and the voice receded.

Murphy shouted behind the gag and felt the first wave of unconsciousness overwhelm him. His mind swirled into a light-encrusted black void as his vision blurred. And with a sickening thud against the cold damp granite floor, he pitched forward.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

"All right, Illya." Solo canted his hip forward as he perched on the side of the desk.

"Napoleon, there are things you don't know, things you're not aware of in my past and what I had to do in order to stay with UNCLE." Illya paced around the small room, his anger and discomfort palpable.

"I dare say there are things you don't know about my rather sordid introduction to UNCLE but why should this have relevance now? And why should you need to tell Mr. Cowley?" Intrigued, Napoleon watched his partner. The fact that he was agitated told more about the situation than he was prepared to admit at this point in time.

"No." Illya stopped his pacing and turned. "No, you, my friend, have no idea. If we speak of sordid tales, they don't get much more complex than this." Illya shrugged as he attempted a small smile. "What I am telling you now, I had hoped never to reveal to anyone let alone you, but since this is potentially important to the case and our safety, I have little choice. Then or now, Napoleon. Once this case is over, do with the information what you may."

"Illya, please settle down." Napoleon stood, unnerved by the portent of the conversation, but he knew better than to press his partner. "Whatever it is," his tone soothed gently, "it can't be harder than telling me that you're gay."

Illya did smile, a small self-deprecating smile that chilled the American to the core.

"Yes, Napoleon, it can be harder. The KGB pressed me into service very young as you know. Even as a student here in England, it was my job to get close to certain people, not emotionally, of course. But I knew who was gay, who was sleeping with the PM's sister - all the usual gossip that runs rife in a University was eagerly devoured by my compatriots. When I returned to Moscow, it was apparently common knowledge, in certain circles, that I had had an affair with Bodie. This is why they originally sent me to the submarine corps as a punishment posting."

Solo listened intently, sitting now behind his desk, his elbows on the timber surface.

"One of the group of people who knew of my aberration was Colonel Pavel Petrov. You may not have heard of him, of course."

"I know of Petrov, and I know what he specializes in," Solo said quietly.

"Ah. Well, you know that whilst teaching his wards the finer art of badgering and buggering a target he also is a talented interrogator."

"Talented?" Solo snorted in disgust. "The man is a cruel butcher. One who enjoys his sadistic pursuits, Illya."

"Nevertheless, I was trained by Petrov," Illya admitted his arms folded across his chest as he braced his feet apart and stared the other man down, challenging him with cold hard blue eyes. Shame was definitely not part of his feelings for his past.

"Ah," Solo said quietly as he looked into those eyes.

"Yes. And it is all very messy. But to cut it short, when I was with Bodie, it initially was not by accident. I was coerced and herded into being his friend, his lover, for the greater good of the KGB. Even then he was a valuable commodity, just back from Angola with a great deal of knowledge and skills - skills that the KGB would cheerfully sacrifice anyone, or anything, for."

"But you fell in love with him." Solo quirked an eyebrow at his young friend.

"I committed the ultimate sin, and again Petrov wanted to be assured of my loyalty. When Bodie's force attacked the gulag, I was flown in only hours beforehand. My brief was to kill him, to show that I could do the job."

"And in the end you made him shoot you and wavered because you couldn't execute an innocent man."

"I can assure you that my intentions were not so noble, Napoleon. I have been called upon to assassinate innocent people before."

Solo blanched and sat back. This was a side of his partner he was unaware existed, although when he thought logically on it, he was really not that surprised. He knew Illya had done a lot of things, distasteful things, in order to survive.

"So why did you falter?"

Another elegant shrug. "I don't know. If I had not known him so well, perhaps I would have killed him, as it was, it was the only way I could get out of Russia alive. Needless to say, Petrov wasn't very happy with me and I was assigned to UNCLE. It was a 'Christian' assignment."

Solo frowned. "I take it you don't mean biblically."

"Thrown to the lions, for want of a better term. Petrov did, despite all assurances to the contrary, have a sense of humour."

"Let me get this straight, you joined UNCLE as a KGB agent on assignment? And that at the time you joined, you were Number Two in the most notorious and despised section of the KGB?" There was darkness about the American's gaze, a look that Illya knew all too well to be well-concealed anger.

"Yes, except I was Number One, Napoleon. Petrov was the utilizer, I was the head of the department. A situation Mr. Waverly was prepared for and counted on," Illya added to diffuse his partner's volatile mood.

Visibly Napoleon relaxed and leaned back. "Go on."

"There were two of us at the head of the division under Petrov. I was the younger yet senior officer. My compatriot was older, more vicious than I had ever witnessed. He rivaled even Petrov's sadistic pleasure."

"Illya, I can't pretend to be shocked. I know too well how the KGB works, but how did you get mixed up with him?"

"With Petrov, you mean?"

Solo nodded.

"He had watched me in London, watched my relationship with Bodie and knew perhaps before I did what I was. He used that against me."

"Be very precise here, Tovarishch, I would hate to misunderstand." Solo's voice dipped back into the lethal range and Illya straightened, his senses heightened and aware as he watched his partner.

"Petrov trained me to be bait, Napoleon, pure and simple. Sex was never an issue. It was expected with whomever the assignment called it to be."

"Even your superior officer?"

Illya shuddered at the memory. "Petrov liked his bed partners to struggle. The more you fought him, the more he liked it."

"In the west we call that rape, Illya."

"Yes, it is called the same in Russia."

Silence stretched for a long moment before Illya found his voice and continued.

"I hated it, Napoleon, I mean really hated it, and came close on a number of occasions to killing him, but," he shrugged again, "what was I to do? In Russia, despite my education and my skills, I was still a poor orphan, one whose place was only assured by his obedience to his country. Still, on assignments I always managed to sidestep the ultimate agenda."

"You never slept with them?" Solo quirked up a brow, a small smile on his handsome face.

"No, never. To me somehow it was worse than the orphanage. And yet I was still the heir apparent to Petrov."

"You said there was another one."

Illya nodded. "His name was Pakoslav. We were as much as possible friends - not personal close friends or I think Petrov would have killed him, but we talked."

"And?"

"We were both given code names in the division, Napoleon. Mine was Ice Prince. Pakoslav's was White Wolf."

"Oh, this gets better," Solo moaned softly.

"I believe that Pakoslav Kransenskii is the White Wolf, on current assignment from the KGB to THRUSH."

"Do you still work for the KGB?" Solo asked.

Illya shook his head. "Just after I joined UNCLE N.Y., Mr. Waverly sent me back to Russia on assignment. Petrov had become too powerful for the Politburo to handle effectively. They approached Mr. Waverly with a deal. I would go back to Russia and take care of their little problem, in return for which UNCLE would have complete control over my future and I would be allowed to defect and still maintain my loyal citizen status in the Soviet Union."

"So you went back to Russia and killed your lover cum mentor." Solo's tone was cold and unforgiving.

"I thought we had established that Petrov's actions were rape, Napoleon." Illya stared at the seated man.

"Yes, so we did. But you enjoyed killing him, didn't you?"

"Yes, Napoleon. I made it slow and I used every trick he ever taught me. The satisfaction was rewarding when I heard him scream and to this day I carry no shame or guilt over the act. Perhaps Ice Prince fitted too well."

"So the question still remains, doesn't it, Tovarisch?" Napoleon asked.

Illya shrugged and maintained his neutral position.

"What does your friend want with you and what's he doing working for THRUSH?"

"You misinterpret things so well, Napoleon. Pakoslav was never my friend, we were simply friendly. He felt I was an obstacle to what he wanted."

"Which was Petrov and the position you held?" Solo began to reason the situation out, and the answers he came up with did not fit well with his image of Illya.

"Yes. You see Petrov had an unhealthy interest in me back then, an interest which led to a very painful situation."

"Petrov raped you?" Napoleon's voice lost all emotion, and it was then that Illya knew he was battling his own feelings on the matter.

"Petrov raped me once." Illya intoned quietly, "You see, I was not to his liking. I had learned the hard way in the orphanage that to fight only gave them greater control. I refused to fight him. I let him have his way and in that a hollow victory. It was Pakoslav who suited him better. They were together and even then he was jealous of my successes and of Petrov's interest in me."

"It's good you killed him, Illya. It saves me from a distasteful duty." Solo was quiet, the rage building as the painful admission became evident.

"If I am reading him correctly the assignment is to discredit THRUSH in the West and to bring into sharp focus the depravity of their agenda with a moral comment thrown in for good measure."

"Which is why all his victims are young gay boys?" Solo answered, his tone was still cold and flat. Yet warmth lit his dark brown eyes as he surveyed the elegant planes of his partner's face and body.

"Yes. This is why I am convinced that he is after us."

"Me because I hurt his reputation, and you because you killed his mentor."

"All neatly wrapped up and justified to his own dementia because of his position within the current KGB." Illya nodded.

"How much of this does Cowley know?"

"He knows that I trained with the man who trained the White Wolf, that I suspect he is a KGB operative on assignment and that his real targets are us."

"Yet you left out the motivation, Illya, why?"

"I needed to tell you first."

"Why?" Solo pursued his partner.

"Because there have been too many secrets between us, too many things in my past to haunt me, Napoleon. This one I was determined you should hear from me."

Solo nodded once. "And are there any more, Illyusha?"

The Russian relaxed for the first time during the conversation. The use of the diminutive nickname, brought a small smile to his lips. Once again he was rewarded with an understanding and loving partner.

"Probably, but none as serious as this."

Solo smiled and stood up, stretched his legs, and came close to the Russian.

"And if it is, we promise to tell each other first?" Napoleon asked as he wound the Russian into a firm embrace.

"Yes," Illya breathed into the dark hair, all stress and strain ebbing from his body as he leaned into the comforting warmth.

"If I have ever forgotten to tell you I am proud of you, how much I cherish you both as a friend and as a partner you may have me horsewhipped. But never ever forget, Illyusha, that you're mine, and the only person who can take you away from me is you. Even then, I'd fight you all the way, my love."

"I'm counting on it," Illya answered softly as he moved out of the embrace.

"Does Bodie know he was the target of a badger job by the KGB and you were window dressing for it?" All elegance in Napoleon's speech was gone. He chose his words to hit the mark, to see beyond to the truth. Illya flinched as if physically hit and stepped further away.

"No. He has no idea."

"Yet you let him love you."

"Yes, fool that I was, I did."

"And you loved him back?" Solo stepped forward and rested a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I guess I did, I don't know. When there is another agenda and you're trying to do a job you disagree with and abhor to the best of your abilities," Illya paused and turned his face away, "I guess you just take what comfort you can. At least I did."

"Does Pakoslav know the details of that assignment?"

Illya nodded.

"Ah well." Solo turned his partner around to face him. "I think," he pushed the long fringe away from the troubled blue eyes, "you should tell him."

"For what purpose, Napoleon? It would only hurt him more."

"You think so? I think that it will put the ghost of the past to rest and if we do come face to face with Pakoslav then he won't have any emotional leverage against our team."

Illya turned back to the window and looked out at the heavy storm riddled sky, the dark clouds threatening to break any second, and the chill wind that blew through the tops of the trees. It was, he reflected the same as the last grey day he had seen in England from the tiny window in the old plane en route back to the tortured landscape of his youth.