Bodie snapped the folder shut as he leaned back against the cool tiles in the coroner's office. A scowl deepened on his face as he peered at the older man.

"You want to run that by me again, doctor, in English please."

Revkin smiled and turned back to the younger man, critically appraising George Cowley's finest, and steepled his fingers.

"You mean in layman's terms?"

"If you would be so kind," Bodie drawled, almost but not quite sarcastically.

"All right then, the boy died of asphyxiation."

"Yes, I got that bit, but what about the other wounds, the mutilation?"

"Admittedly there was a great deal of trauma to the body, both from the mutilations and the repeated sodomy which would have normally resulted in death, however the death certificate will state asphyxiation."

Bodie leaned his head back against the tiled wall and closed his eyes for a second. "All right then, so what did he use? Pillow?"

"The perpetrator of this crime drugged the victim with a near lethal concoction of drugs from several families. All of them are relatively harmless in the short term, however we found a patch on his back which released a chemical substance into his body, and several wounds on his arms and inner thighs which would correlate with sustained substance abuse."

"Prior to or during the assault?" Bodie frowned slightly.

"All the wounds were current, suggesting the victim wasn't a substance user prior to the assault."

"And the mixture of drugs caused respiratory arrest?"

"Yes, it's all in my report."

"Doctor Revkin, I have no medical background and these chemical names mean very little to me. Care to explain?" he asked with feigned patience.

"Mr. Bodie, toxicology will take a couple of hours yet. We suspect a cocktail of the Benzodiazepine family and several other drugs that cause a near-euphoric state. If it's any consolation the victim would not have been aware of what was happening to him, and may have even enjoyed it."

Bodie grimaced and paled visibly. "What else does this cocktail do and how easily is it obtained?"

"We are not certain yet, but I will fax the information to you as soon as we have it, now." The doctor stood up. "If you will excuse me, I have other work to be about."

The CI5 agent took the folder with him as he left, with a curt nod of his head. He stopped outside the doctor's door for a moment, remembering the crime scene and with a sigh of frustration realized he would have to go back to the little rented room that reeked of death.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

As the day wore on, Solo found himself taking to the old Scotsman with ease. His gruff manner and careful control of the many ministers he saw made the American smile. It was nearly three in the afternoon before they finally stopped outside the Home Secretary's door and Cowley finally acknowledged his young companion.

"It would seem Alexander trains his operatives well in the finer arts of diplomacy, Mr. Solo."

"Thank you, sir, but I suspect I have a slight edge. My grandfather was an Ambassador, and in our house diplomacy was often called for," Solo said with a slight nod as the door opened and a pretty secretary showed them to a waiting lounge.

"Ah well, I suspect that's true of most homes," Cowley answered and looked back down to his papers.

"Sir, if I may? So far the relevant ministers have shown a blatant disinterest in THRUSH and the affair at hand."

"Aye, the Royal family is not always so supported in private, Mr. Solo, but the whispers will put the ministers on their toes."

"I suspect, sir, that it will more likely be your appearance at Whitehall that puts them on their toes."

Cowley peered over his glasses at the young American and smiled. "Some more of your blatant diplomacy, Mr. Solo?"

"No sir, just the truth. The, ah, Home Secretary will make the security arrangements for the Royal Family including all the changes we suggest?"

"Let us say that he will pave the way."

The oak panelled door to the inner office opened to reveal a tall stately man, shirtsleeves rolled up and well-groomed dark hair graying at the sides. Sir Peter Bowden looked considerably younger than his purported fifty-two years and met Cowley with an outstretched hand and a wide, genuine smile. The first genuine smile, Solo noted, of the entire day.

"George, it's been a long time. What calamity have you brought us this time?" he asked with his usual sparkle, pouring a measure of single malt scotch into the crystal glasses and offered one to the CI5 controller.

"Aye, Peter, too long. This is Napoleon Solo from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement." Peter looked the young man up and down, poured another scotch and handed it to the American.

"How is Alexander Waverly these days then?" the Minister asked.

"Oh, exceptionally well, thank you, sir," Solo answered softly. The Home Secretary turned his sharp brown eyes on the young man and frowned a little. Solo smiled to himself as he sipped the scotch.

"So tell me, George, what apocolypse have you brought to me now?" He settled down in the well-padded leather chair opposite Cowley and left Solo to stand by the door.

"Aye, calamity, Peter. You are aware of a terrorist group called THRUSH?"

"Yes, though I had thought they were not active in Britian, except of course for their involvement in that bombing last May."

"Or their continued funding for the IRA, the PLO and any other pseudo-Marxist group with an axe to grind," Solo said caustically.

"Yes, well, what are they up to now?" Peter pulled his eyes away from the dapper gentleman by the door.

Cowley suppressed the urge to smile at the American and handed across several folders. "THRUSH intends to assassinate the Prince of Wales at Balmoral."

Peter frowned. "But to what end?"

Cowley shook his head. "I suspect to cause chaos in internal security, especially when we have the International Summit on the downgrading of nuclear armaments scheduled to take place in London later in the year."

Solo closed his eyes, damned if Illya wasn't right again. THRUSH knew that, with CI5 and U.N.C.L.E. overseeing the conference with the aid of the British military, infiltration would be next to impossible. If the future King of England was assassinated in his own back yard then the conference would have to be moved to Geneva, where the THRUSH satrap was one of the strongest.

"All right then, George, what do you suggest we do?" Peter finally asked as he shut the folders and sat back.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

Illya bundled another pile of papers onto the already overcrowded desk in front of Ray Doyle and picked up his white board marker again.

Drawing another line from the known events, he began to intersect with surprising speed and acuracy considering the vast amount of misleading reports they had both spent the day wading through.

"I see U.N.C.L.E. likes to keep records as well then?" Doyle asked rubbing at the cramp in the small of his back with one hand.

"I doubt there is any law enforcement agency that doesn't," Illya responded.

"Not very talkative are you, Mr. Kuryakin," Doyle chided and sat back.

Illya drew one final line and turned around, taking the heavy dark-rimmed glasses off. "Not especially. I leave that to Napoleon."

"Hmmm oh yeah, so what have we come up with?" Ray looked at the puzzle board.

"We've narrowed down the information to known facts and recorded information. Much of what we have read is spurious and speculative, which can color the judgement."

"Ah yeah, okay Professor, so what are the known facts?"

Illya took in the pale face and the tired eyes before him and smiled softly. "That we need a break and something to eat."

Doyle's green eyes all but sparkled. For the entire day both he and Illya had avoided engaging each other in anything more than basic pleasantries. Doyle had found it wearing and tedious. This was the first overt sign of friendship the Russian had made and it came out of the blue.

"I'm all for that," Doyle said, standing.

"Well, since we are at U.N.C.L.E.'s London office and it has been several months since I ate here, I cannot recommend the commissary, however if you're willing to brave it..." There was definitely a mischievous grin lurking under the fine exterior.

"We at CI5 pride ourselves on taking chances."

"Indeed." Illya raised his eyebrow and opened the door.

The food was standard fare, no better or worse than any cafeteria food, the only exception was that it was free and Doyle settled for a plate of chips and bread rolls, Illya however piled his tray with roast meats and vegetables,desert and tea. Doyle shook his head.

"You going to eat all of that?" He eyed the tray and the thin blond suspiciously.

"I haven't had breakfast yet." Illya answered and led them to a corner table.

"Oh. Awkward." Doyle said around a hot chip.

Illya frowned. "I don't understand."

"Cowley pairing us for the day."

Illya placed his cutlery down and stared directly into the jade green eyes. "Is this the part where we compare notes?"

"You kept notes?" Doyle asked with a low chuckle.

"None that are printable," Illya answered softly as a smile reached his lips.

"Touché."

"Look, I didn't want this assignment any more than you do. I have no wish to upset you or Bodie and resent having to be forced upon both of you under less than agreeable circumstances." Illya pushed his plate away and sat back cradling the mug of hot tea.

Doyle continued to eat, watching the young blond figure across the table, keenly aware of the well-concealed hurt and anger. "Bodie is confused, Illya. Give it time."

"Time is precisely the one thing I shall not give it. Bodie thinks he owes me something, and I suspect you have been with him long enough to realize he takes his debts seriously."

"What does he owe you?"

Illya scrubbed tiredly at his eyes and looked across the ice wall apparent to the ex-cop. "I don't think he owes me anything, Ray. Nothing at all."

"But he thinks he does, yes?" Ray pushed with relentless precision.

"Yes."

"So what does he think he owes you?"

"Bodie was just back from Africa, wounded emotionally and in need of a relationship. He had come to stay with his Aunt in Cambridge and was very popular with the senior girls. I was a few weeks off graduation and had just got my orders to return to Russia and take up a position in the navy."

"Yes, I know all of that." Doyle said, watching the young man opposite him.

"What you don't know is that I was not in love with Bodie. We were friends."

"He says you were lovers."

Illya laughed, as much pain as humor threading through the sound. "He would. Yes, it is true we were intimate, but lovers? That would constitute some kind of long term commitment and that clearly was not the case, not then, not now."

Doyle frowned and clearly did not believe the words.

"It's true. I was living in a student house run by the KGB. Even my bedroom was bugged, I was watched all the time and for the few moments we could manage to elude my chaperones we did not have the time, the place or the freedom to indulge in a love affair."

"But you were intimate?" "Yes. Homosexuality is a capital crime in Russia even to this day."

Doyle shuddered involuntarily, remembering all the stories he had heard over the years.

"Interesting, but what does he think he owes you?"

"He said the night before I left, the last time I saw him in England, that no matter what, if I found a way to the West he would help me and that I had at least one friend, one man who cared and loved me. Those words haunted me for years. I knew if I left Russia that too many people would be hurt, including Bodie."

"So you stayed."

Illya nodded. "I am no martyr, Ray. I stayed as long as I could. Fortunately U.N.C.L.E. needed a Soviet agent and considering I was by that time above reproach, I was selected. Until three months ago I was still being watched by the KGB."

"What happened three months ago?"

"I defected - well Mr. Waverly orchestrated my new passport and solved any lasting problems I would have had with my Soviet masters."

"And?"

"My last relative living in Russia died."

"And that was?"

Illya frowned, uncomfortable with the entire conversation, but strangely allowing it for the sake of clarity. "My mother."

"Did you go home for the funeral?"

Illya shook his head, sadness in the large blue eyes. This was a new pain, one he had not yet quite learned to control. "No, I was away on a mission. By the time I got back and Mr. Waverly told me about it, there was no point."

"Oh."

"So is there anything else you want to know?" Illya asked picking at his food.

"How long have you and Napoleon been together?"

"We have been partnered for five years."

"That's not what I meant." Doyle said succinctly. Illya looked up from under hooded blue eyes and scowled.

"I know what you meant."

"What is he - blind or just not interested?"

This time Illya blushed, a faint tinge of pink across the high Slavic cheekbones. "I don't know, we have never had the conversation. Mind you though, he goes through a different woman a night."

"Hopelessly heterosexual?"

"Yes." Illya frowned for a moment, his conversation with Solo the previously evening seeping through his jet-lagged mind and then those sweet caresses in bed, holding him firmly and safely. He shook his head, dispelling the thought and the jolt of arousal that went through him.

Doyle missed none of the internal debate and finished off his chips. "Well, so was I until Bodie."

"Hmm? Oh yes." Illya, far too preoccupied, ate his meal tasting none of it.