By KatrianaV

Napoleon stood, hiding in plain sight, oblivious to the late afternoon crowds swirling about him in the airport terminal, buffeting and jostling him in a never-ending flow of human traffic, an occasional "Excuse me" or "Pardon me" falling on deaf ears. His attention was fixed solely on one small, blond figure flanked by the larger forms of his two travelling companions, one or the other of them always laying a proprietary hand on him as if they were afraid someone would come to snatch him away.

Napoleon was tempted to do just that. He had waited a respectable amount of time at Illya's apartment building before sprinting to his car and driving  directly to the airport. Why, he wasn't sure. His partner was leaving voluntarily, after all. 'Isn't he?' But yet, here he stood, hoping Illya would shrug off those hands and turn away from the gate that would lead him
back to the Soviet Union. Only then would the sense of betrayal simmering in the pit of his stomach dissipate, the  disappointment ease at the lack of trust inferred by secrets kept, troubles unshared.

If a person had told him a year ago that he would feel this twisting in his gut at the loss of the inscrutable Russian as his partner, he never would have believed it. He had been dragged kicking and screaming into this partnership, not wanting to be shackled to a Communist iceberg whose abilities in the field were unproven, whose sole purpose in being assigned
to NY HQ seemed to be his uses as an intermediary between UNCLE and the KGB rather than his skills as an agent. A year later, Napoleon had no wish to ever go into the field again without his Russian partner. His value as an agent, and not just a political pawn, had been proven over and over again, his intelligence and bravery unmatched.

Napoleon had also come to appreciate the man hidden by the cold, stoic façade presented to the world. As the first year of their partnership progressed, Napoleon had been favored with tiny peeks at the other Illya, the one with the biting, sardonic wit, the keen, sharp insights into human  nature, the one whose loneliness shone from his eyes and lanced straight to
Napoleon's heart. Napoleon had felt a flush of pride that Illya seemed to trust him with the knowledge of that loneliness, a knowledge that made Illya vulnerable. Vulnerable to him. Napoleon had accepted that knowledge and had unconsciously vowed never to let his partner regret entrusting him with it. Just a week ago they had shared a celebration in honor of the first
anniversary of their partnership. He had given Illya a gold lighter, a small gift that had garnered him the pleasure of seeing a slight blush creep across the Russian's high cheekbones, his blue eyes glinting shyly, a small smile curving his lips. The Russian never realized that his embarrassed gratitude and delight was all the gift Napoleon needed in return.

The line of passengers preparing to exit the terminal and board the plane waiting for them on the tarmac started to slowly inch forward. Napoleon's eyes were still locked to the back of his partner's head, willing him to turn around, to change his mind, to stay, to not leave him. Then, in a moment that made Napoleon's heart stand still, Illya turned, his eyes scanning the crowd, meeting his own briefly before moving on. He could almost have believed it was his imagination, but he had seen the spark of
what-hope, happiness-that flared in the other's eyes, followed by an ineffable sadness and a rueful twist of his lips that was a bittersweet echo of the smile he had been given a week ago.

Then he was gone leaving Napoleon truly astonished at the bereftness he felt at the loss of a man he'd known for little more than a year. And angry. Angry with his partner, with the men who took him away. Angry with himself for not asking about the purple bruise coloring the translucent skin and the split lip that had barely registered on him in the confrontation at Illya's
apartment.

'Damn, am I that self-centered that I was more concerned about his leaving me than I was about finding out who had hurt him and why?'

As the knot of anger ignited and burned within him, he strode purposefully through the airport terminal heading for the exit, his cold eyes cut a swath for him through the crowds. There was one other person he was angry with. One other who owed him an explanation. One he still had the ability to question.

There were times when his affection for the old man engendered a sense of  concern for the hours he kept, concern for his health, for the effect it had on his family life. This wasn't one of those times. He was angry as hell and determined to get answers. Napoleon wondered vaguely when Mr.Waverly's secretary didn't try to stop him as he stalked past her desk and entered his office unannounced, the doors swooshing shut briskly, leaving him standing glaring at his boss across the large round table that dominated the room.

Mr. Waverly looked at Napoleon over the top of a file he was reading, neither his tone nor his expression betraying any sign that he was surprised or disturbed by the precipitous entrance of his bristling Chief Enforcement Agent as he said, "Ah, Mr. Solo. Please sit down."

"Just when the hell were you going to tell me my partner isn't coming back to UNCLE?" Napoleon said, his voice dripping with anger and resentment.

Mr. Waverly laid down the file he was reading and steepled his fingers as he gazed at the other man. Calmly, he repeated, "Please sit down, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon dropped into the nearest chair, abruptly aware of the tension in his muscles, the adrenaline coursing through his veins during the last few hours. Willing himself to relax, he took a deep breath raising his eyes to his superior as Waverly swiveled the table so that the single file lying there was before Napoleon.

"Read that," he said as he leaned back in his chair and chewed on the stem of his pipe, watching his CEA's eyes scan the documents before him.

Napoleon snapped his head up after reading the first page, surprise coloring his voice as he said, "Illya's wife is dead? She died two months ago?"

"Indeed."

"Does Illya know?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. It would seem Mr. Kuryakin still has friends in the KGB. One of them informed him of her death right after it occurred."

"It's definite? There's no doubt?" At the other man's nod, he lowered his head letting his breath out in a long sigh. Two months his partner had known his wife was dead. Two months he had come to work everyday, performing up to his usual exemplary standards. For two months he'd never once let a chink show in the armor he surrounded himself with, never revealing any of the sadness, frustration or guilt he must have been feeling. 'So much for mymaking a dent in that Russian iceberg. Damnit Illya, why couldn't you have talked to me?'

Raising his eyes, he saw a shadow of compassion and understanding flicker in the other man's eyes before he indicated the file in Napoleon's hands with his pipe.

Napoleon scanned the pages, some of the pieces of the puzzle of his enigmatic partner's actions starting to fall into place. "Katya was KGB? And her death is linked to the deaths of these other KGB operatives?"

"Just so. She was indeed terminally ill, but her death was hastened by unnatural causes. The KGB believes that THRUSH is responsible for the deaths of their agents, both active and inactive, and that Mr. Kuryakin's family is somehow involved. They've asked for our help, specifically Mr. Kuryakin's help, unofficially of course."

"How can you be sure it's his help they want, and not the chance to interrogate or even kill him?" Napoleon asked, the anger that had been building all day finally extinguished by the fear and concern washing through him at the thought of his partner in the hands of the KGB.

Mr. Waverly smiled slightly. "The KGB would hardly need Mr. Kuryakin's suspect brother-in-law to retrieve him if that was on their mind. No, they would only have to recall him officially if that were their intention. As I said, Mr. Kuryakin has friends still in the KGB and the Soviet government. It would seem UNCLE is not the only organization that believes in the
integrity of our Mr. Kuryakin."

Feeling a measure of relief, Napoleon continued, "So his leave was a ruse? He'll be coming back to UNCLE?"

"His leave was indeed a ruse, as you say, Mr. Solo. It was necessary to make it look like an acrimonious parting of the ways, but I believe he truly doubts whether he will be returning to us. He is unaware that he will be receiving backup very shortly. I hope you are more cooperative about removing yourself from these premises after you tender your resignation than your partner was. It took three security guards to remove him. Unfortunately he received a few bruises in the process, but as they say, you should see the other guys," he said a glint of humor sparkling in his eyes.

Napoleon grinned, "Just three, eh?" He could well imagine the damage his little Russian dynamo could inflict given the provocation having seen him in action many times. He sobered though as he recalled the livid bruise streaking across his partner's pale cheek. When this was all over, three UNCLE security guards were going to receive a lesson in how to subdue one lone captive without harming so much as a hair on his head.

Returning his attention to his superior, he asked, "He doesn't know I'm coming?"

"In the interests of verisimilitude, I thought it best not to inform him of that part of my plan just as I refrained from giving you advance knowledge of what was afoot. Now as to your cover story..As his indefinite leave has supposedly been accepted by UNCLE, it doesn't stand to reason that we'd send in an agent to recover the errant Mr. Kuryakin. Too many complications would arise, I believe, by your appearing to be a rogue agent bent on talking sense into his partner. The best course is for you to appear to submit your resignation, and pursue your partner for personal reasons."

Napoleon gazed at his superior in bemusement as the older man's lips quirked with barely concealed amusement. "Tell me, Mr. Solo, do you think you could convincingly promote the fiction that you are pursuing Mr. Kuryakin for more
personal reasons than that he is just your partner or even friend?"

Napoleon appearing at his apartment hadn't helped. He had tried, but had surely failed to hide his reluctance to leave his partner without an explanation. Still he couldn't deny the gladness he felt at seeing Napoleon one last time, nor deny the flush of pleasure that spread through him at his partner's concerted efforts to persuade him to stay.

Shifting restlessly, he nestled his head as comfortably as possible in the corner where the seat back met the side of the plane. As the drone of the plane's engines pulled him towards sleep, the sight of Napoleon standing in the airport, the look of betrayal clear in his eyes, imprinted itself in his memory as his eyelids drifted shut.
Next??...Next?? To part 7