Christian Longford, tall, very blond and the best terrorist THRUSH and several unnamed agencies had ever trained, scanned the bar. From his vantage point in the farthest corner of the room he watched with growing interest as small groups of young men arrived. University students, confident with a palpable air of smugness in their own importance took up residence at the side booths. He edged closer, listening intently to the conversation, shaking his head as they attempted to apply schoolbook philosophies to the ideologies of the East and West.

So much misinformation passed through the hallowed halls of learning. So much so that these young pups of the system could not begin to understand the refinements of civilizations older and much more complex than their own myopic views. Subcultures were an anomaly to them, the perversion the human race was capable of, and the hunger that often grew just below the surface. He eyed these boys suspiciously, watching as they left, some together others alone until only one remained, who watched the strip show through jaded eyes. Christian prided himself on his ability to read body language and despite the scantily clad woman on the stage, the young man kept his eyes averted, genuinely disinterested in what she was offering.

Longford took a closer look. Pale ivory skin with red gold hair, large green eyes and a full mouth that turned into a smile of welcome as he glided closer to the table.

“Looks like you’ve been deserted.” Christian’s voice was rich and smooth, weaving around the boy in a whisper of seductive intent.

“Oh yeah, late class,” the boy muttered in his thick London accent.

Christian smiled and motioned to the seat next to him and slid in as the boy smiled. “Class?”

“Yeah, they’re doing Lit over at the Tech College.”

“And you’re studying?” Christian moved closer, he felt the heat radiate from the warm body next to him and it intoxicated him more than the half-touched scotch he had been nursing for a couple of hours.

“Drama.” The boy lowered his eyes, and blushed as Longford's hand insinuated itself across the thin cotton pants and stroked the tender flesh of the boy’s inner thigh.

“Ah yes, I can see why.”

The boy looked up, a flush of arousal on his features as his full lips parted and he stared at the man before him. Aged somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, fine blond hair cropped short with a strong athletic body and pale golden skin. The thick corded arms barely concealed by the short sleeved polo shirt tucked into expensive blue jeans above imported leather boots. The boy leaned in closer to the touch and smiled. Longford was pleased, almost virginal in his shyness he stroked the inner thighs again, urging his legs apart as he felt the young mans arousal pulse against his hand.

“You ah, can?” The boy said breathlessly.

“Of course, you're very beautiful.” The compliment stemmed from lips born on the milk of deception as he continued the intimate caress.

“Can I ask your name?”

“Christian.” He whispered seductively. “And you are?”

“Peter, Peter Campbell.”

Longford leaned on the table top, fastidiously ignoring the pooling rings of amber ale. “So Peter, do you want to have sex with me?”

Peter dropped his eyes to the questing hand that had settled over his groin. He bit back a soft moan as the fingers drew lazy circles against the restraining cloth.

“Yes.” He said softly, “I have a room nearby.”

Christian stood up, and offered the young boy his hand, Peter stood all but hypnotized by the elegant movements of the older man as he pulled him close to his side and walked out the door. “Yes,” Christian smiled as he pulled Peter closer to his side. “So do I.” He breathed into the turned ear.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

The two-tone song of the UNCLE communicator shook Solo out of his reverie as he sat with a morning cup of coffee. Excusing himself from his hosts in the kitchen, he walked to the small-enclosed sunroom and pulled the pen from his coat pocket.

“Solo here.”

“Ah Mr. Solo, Ed Harris.”

“Yes Ed.”

“We have a possible connection to THRUSH in London.” Solo sensed the presence of his partner before he heard the soft-footed steps.

“Yes.” Solo was vaguely aware of the blond body standing beside him, the heat radiating from the black-clad form, disconcerting as he turned to look into azure eyes.

“Young boy, Peter Campbell was murdered last night in a rented room. He was last seen leaving a bar with a man who may be White Wolf, the M.O. is the same as Libya.” Ed’s voice sounded tinny over the tiny speaker.

“Got an address?”

“Domestic services are alerting the local police of your involvement.”

Doyle came out and listened, “Soho.” He said quietly to Illya. “Boy murdered?”

“Yes.”

Doyle nodded, “Cowley just told us. You want to tell me what this THRUSH is?”

“THRUSH is the Technological Hierachy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.”

“Sounds like fun.” Bodie quipped pulling the dark suit jacket on over the elegant business shirt and tie.

“THRUSH makes the KGB look tame.” Illya said quietly.

“Same fanaticism?” Doyle asked checking his gun.

“Same paranoia.” Solo interrupted aware of Bodie's lingering gaze on his partner.

“You know the way?” Bodie asked the American.

“We’ll follow.”

“Right, lead on sunshine.” Bodie said as he caressed the tight butt of his partner.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

“White Wolf?” Illya asked as the lead car pulled to a stop outside the almost derelict building.

“Yes.” Solo answered distractedly.

“I thought you said you killed him.”

“I thought I did.”

Illya’s smile was cold and feral as he looked at the elegant urbane man next to him, “Your aim needs improving.”

“Oh cute, tovarisch. Next time I assure you I won't miss.”

“If he is in London, then we were right. THRUSH is active again, but somehow I think this attempt on the Prince is a ruse.”

“Meaning?” Solo eyed his partner.

“Meaning, the information was too easy come by. I believe Tovarisch that there is another agenda here that we are not supposed to know about.”

“You realize you are becoming paranoid?” Solo asked getting out of the car.

“Da, but paranoia, is a perfectly acceptable form of defence.” Illya intoned.

“Oh great.” Napoleon hated to admit his partner had a point.

The rooms were old and located in an area that one day would become prime real estate. Someday the whole area would be redeveloped and refurbished to house the more elitist of the community, now it was run down and battered. Not dirty, but old in a despairing sort of way, occupied by students on low budgets, struggling to rise above the predisposing apathy of ignorance.

It was a feeling and atmosphere Illya was all too aware of. All too familiar were the rickety stairs that led to the third floor rooms. The old woman sobbing and being led away by the consoling ambulance men and a pretty student girl who wrapped her arms comfortably about the old woman, could have come from a dark day in his own past.

Doyle came out of the cordoned-off room, his face ashen as he leaned against the wooden balustrade on the landing.

“Bad?” Illya asked as he came up.

Doyle turned horror-filled eyes to the slender young blond, his body visibly shaking. “Yeah.”

Solo balked on the steps as Illya turned Ray towards him and looked down the stairs, silently telling his partner to take the ex-copper downstairs and give him some air. Solo nodded and took hold of Ray’s shoulder, steering him downstairs. Illya turned and walked in to Bodie who filled the small doorway.

“You don’t want to see, Illya.” Bodie's jaw clenched as he barred the younger man's way.

“Bodie, it's my job. Please.” Something about the set of the hard blue eyes and the firm stance that forced Bodie to acquiesce as he stepped back and followed the Russian inside

The young man’s body, what was left of it, lay spread-eagle on the small bed, chained hand and foot. Garish hieroglyphs decorated the walls painted in blood, presumably the young boy's. A hood covered the eyes and a ball gag filled the slack mouth.

The stench of blood and sex filled the room, accompanied by the dark scent of bowel. Illya approached and lifted the coroner’s sheet of the boy’s body and saw the mutilation to the genitals and the hips pushed forward at an obscene angle. It was obvious from the blood loss that he had taken hours to die and Illya already pale, grew ghostly white yet remained calm.

Illya’s cold reserve served him well as he looked upon the charnel scene, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Bodie watched in horrified fascination as Illya began to inspect the corpse with scientific reserve.

His eyes widened momentarily as he looked up into Bodie's. He lifted the right hip of the boy on the bed. Bodie came over reluctantly and stared down at the tiny brand seared into the young man’s hip. A delicate drawing of a bird.

“THRUSH?” Bodie asked.

“THRUSH” Illya said solemnly as he pulled the gloves off and disgustedly threw them into the bag at the door.

“I take it this is a normal days work for you.”

Illya sighed and bowed his head, “Not a normal day's work Bodie, but not so far removed from the ordinary.”

Bodie shuddered involuntarily, “Where has Solo gone with my partner?”

Illya chuckled at the proprietary tone. “ Ray needed some air and Napoleon is of no assistance in cases like this. I suspect they are both downstairs.”

“Seems we both have partners who don’t like to see the perversion some people are capable of.” Bodie offered softly as he took the report from the coroner.

“Seems we have seen too much and become inured to it.” Illya said heading down the stairs.

“Unfortunate.” Bodie muttered. “You know this nutter then.”

“White Wolf?” Solo asked Illya as they blinked into the bright sun. Doyle looked pale and sat with a polystyrene cup in his hand.

“Yes.” Illya managed to answer before Cowley joined the throng.

“White Wolf is the code name used for a THRUSH terrorist, we suspect him of the recent terrorist activity in South America and Libya. He tends to cruise the bars and find a pigeon every time he has a job on.”

“This is a regular occurrence?” Bodie asked as he read the distaste in Cowley’s face when he closed the coroner’s report.

“Unfortunately.” Solo said softly.

“Do you have a name?” Cowley asked.

“We have several, I cannot vouch for the validity of any of them sir,” Illya maintained the respectful stance as he looked coolly at the head of CI5. "White Wolf’s identity is spurious to say the least. We have a dozen names that he has been known under and all of them have proved false. Coupled with the lack of relevant fact, we are unsure of the date he came into England. Even our computers at UNCLE could not find the thread.”

Solo scowled, “I get a feeling I am not going to like where this is going.”

“M.O.?” Doyle asked.

Illya frowned, “White Wolf takes on some of the higher profile terrorist jobs and not always at the behest of THRUSH.”

“When he does, he always takes a young man a few days before the event and kills him in the manner we have observed.” Solo continued.

“Only the one man?” Bodie asked.

“No usually the attacks increase in violence over the period of time, as it comes closer to the event he gets much more psychopathic.”

Doyle blanched, “Worse than that?”

Cowley cocked an eyebrow and looked at the young men. So hard, he observed. He felt a pang of regret and guilt.

“Yes. What he did to the young man upstairs was relatively tame.”

“Tame?” Bodie all but exploded at the cold tone Illya used.

Steeling himself Illya turned his own glare on the big ex-merc, “The boy went missing last night, and died according to the coroners report sometime around four am. When this man gets close to the target date he takes a great deal more time and care in dispatching his latest toy. Believe it or not, Bodie, that child was lucky.”

“More time?” Cowley asked.

Solo placed a hand on Rays arm as he walked passed to stand by his own partner, “Sir, we have had experience with this man where some of his victims took almost a week to die. He progressively gets longer and longer, toying over his victims till they die of their wounds.”

Cowley looked pale as he snapped shut the folder, “And after the event he goes to ground.”

Illya shook his head, “No sir, he will take one more victim after the event.”

“And?” Doyle finally asked finding his voice.

“He reverts back to form, taking his pleasure on them and then killing them quickly and almost humanely.”

“As if the madness dissipates,” Cowley ventured.

“Has anyone ever got an eyewitness of this man?” Doyle again his eyes slitted to a feral glare.

Solo shifted uncomfortably, “I knew I wasn’t going to like this. Yes, Illya and I have both seen him. He does tend to be a master of disguise and often never appears the same way twice.”

“Would he recognize either of you?” Cowley asked.

Solo nodded, “Yes, I am certain he would recognize me.”

Bodie frowned.

“I shot him,” Solo continued.

“Bait.” Doyle said, as all eyes riveted on him. “Makes sense sir, if UNCLE knows his M.O. and we have a general area in which he will operate then we know he will make a move again and in the right time frame yes?” he asked Illya.

The blond nodded, “Yes, his pattern is not erratic and it is fairly certain he will strike again in the same socio-economic group within the next week. The next event should take two days, then a break of three days then the next incident will take four days, a break of a week and then the last one taking a week. And as Ray has said he will also make his move in the same area, usually within a couple of blocks away from the original site.”

Bodie paced and Solo frowned.

“Undercover?” Cowley stared at Doyle who with a reluctant shrug looked back at his superior.

“It would seem to be the logical procedure,” Doyle said.

Silence befell the small group of men talking by the side of the car in the warm morning sun.

“I don’t like it,” Cowley finally said and Bodie breathed a sigh of relief.

“If we don’t act sir, then we know that he will take at least four more victims and then skip the country, we may never have another chance at him,” Illya said softly.

“Doyle, don’t even think it,” Bodie ground out, bristling slightly. Doyle looked up into troubled blue eyes.

“Makes sense, sunshine. We both have the same physical type, the boy upstairs and me.”

“With one possible exception,” Solo intoned softly, breaking the mood.

“And that would be?” Cowley asked.

“He never stays with the same physical type. Almost assuredly the next victim will be blond with blue eyes and slightly built. He will prefer a university student and foreign.” Solo said reluctantly. Cowley looked intently at Illya as did Bodie and Doyle.

“And I can identify him when he makes the move.” Illya said softly.

“And he will have the best back-up team available.” Bodie added, watching Illya intently.

“Yes, he will,” Solo said with a little more force than necessary.

Shaking his head, Illya looked at Doyle and walked away muttering filthy Russian curses under his breath. Cowley catching one laughed.

Kuraykin turned to look at the old man and frowned before getting back into the car.

“Bodie talk to the coroner. He must have purchased the chains and items he used on the boy in England. Find out where he purchased them. Also check the forensic report. He would have been in a great deal of pain. I strongly suspect some type of drug was used.”

Bodie hesitated for a moment looking between Doyle and Illya. Solo noticed the reticent look and the confusion. He looked down.

“Bodie!” Cowley thundered.

“Yes sir,” Bodie gave a small sheepish grin. “Running all the way sir.”

Cowley pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose and looked back at the reports, slapping the page with the back of his hand in disgust. “Doyle, since Mr. Kuraykin will be the bait I want you to go over every file, every document that we have and that is available from UNCLE. If he is to go undercover I want to make sure we know everything about this man.”

“Sir,” Doyle said softly as he watched Bodie leave in the small silver Capri.

“Mr. Solo, you and I have a meeting at Whitehall.”

“Whitehall, sir?” Solo asked as he watched Doyle adjust the driver's seat of their car.

“Yes, Alexander assures me that you are familiar with diplomacy.” Cowley added.

“Vaguely sir.” Solo smiled, noticing the old man’s pronounced limp as he followed the CI5 controller to his black chauffered car.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

“Open Channel D overseas relay.” Illya said softly into his pen communicator as Doyle started the engine.

“Channel D open. New York.”

“Kuraykin.”

“Illya?” the soft female voice asked from the other end.

“Hello Janice, I need to speak to Lawrence in archives.”

“Connecting now. Where are you?”

“London.”

“I guess then dinner is off,” she asked disappointedly.

Illya smiled, “Till I get back.”

There was a click on the line as a man's voice took over the conversation. “Lawrence here sir, how can I help?”

“Lawrence I want all the files on White Wolf cross referenced with the Libya and Argentina offices. Try Rome and Montreal, as well we need all files sent directly to the London office.”

“Priority courier, sir?”

“Yes, have it cleared with Mr. Waverly if you need to.”

“Yes sir, Lawrence out.”

Illya closed the channel and returned his pen to his jacket pocket and looked at Doyle. The other man's green eyes smiled as he turned in the seat.

“Janice?” Doyle asked.

Illya nodded, “Janice.”

“Sir?” Doyle asked again.

“Napoleon is the CEA for UNCLE New York.”

“Making you what? Number Two?”

Illya nodded, “Number Two Section Two.”

“It’s a long way from quantum mechanics, isn’t it?”

“Not really. I still get to spend a good deal of time in the labs.”

Doyle smiled aware of the evasion.