THE PRINCESS GAMBIT AFFAIR

PROLOGUE: Snow Job

The wind was steely blades slicing across exposed cheek and icy breath instantly crystallizing wind-induced tears, making eyelashes heavy with brittle frost. Crouched in a hollow of muddy snow that sucked away every degree of heat from his fleece wrapped body, Illya Kuryakin awkwardly tugged down the earflaps of his llama-lined hat in an effort to cover the tiny sliver of skin under each ear that was open to the elements.

The collar of the coat would come up high enough, but then he would be unable to use the binoculars effectively if he covered his lower face as common sense dictated. He also wondered if the thick, lined gloves he had in his pocket would be any worse on his hands than the ones he currently wore which had the fingers cut out. The ones in his pocket were warmer, true, but his fingers were so cold right now that they were just as ungainly and unfeeling as they would be inside his lined gloves. But he knew that the trigger guard of his sniper rifle was unforgiving to the sensible cold weather pair.

The thought that the bare skin of his finger just might freeze to the trigger distracted him momentarily and he pulled the rifle in closer to his side. Maybe, just maybe, an inkling of heat would trickle out from his body and warm the metallic surface a bit. The nip of unforgiving wind caused him to hunch his shoulders and nestle down with a shudder. Reluctantly, he put the binoculars back up to his eyes and tried to ignore the chatter of his teeth and the crawling fingers of cold trying to work their way to his belly.

He knew snow and he knew cold. This wasn't the worst he'd been in, but he was more accustomed to New York winters at this point in his life. Western Russian winters seemed much more harsh.

 He also knew he shouldn't be here too much longer and was brightened by the thought of getting to lie in a bed instead of icy snow.

Again he found the building in his binoculars and viewed the front porch with a well rehearsed sweep. The guards were still there and looking just as miserable, but at least they had a porch on which to take refuge. The front windows were illuminated warmly from the inside with friendly yellow light. Evening was approaching. The lower windows flickered, indicating a lively fire in the fireplace. The curl of smoke from the chimney, grey against the falling white of snow, confirmed that fact.

Movement in an upper window caught his attention and he refocused the lenses to get more detail, looking around the snowflakes that gathered on the lower part of the lens rim. A teenaged girl, her hair pulled into a ponytail that curled down her back, disappeared from one window and appeared in the next. She stopped, her mouth working and her body language shouting that she was arguing with someone. Who?

Illya's grip on the binoculars tightened and he pushed his body lower and forward in anticipation. Two hands appeared in the window's frame and rested on the girl's shoulders to calm her. After a moment, the hands firmly pulled the girl from Illya's sight and a moment beyond that, the drapes snapped shut.

With a resigned sigh Illya realized that he might be here longer than he planned. The binoculars dropped into the snow with a plop and he took a luxurious moment to jam his bare fingers into his armpits. When he felt the painful pinpricks that indicated minimal thawing he withdrew his hands and fumbled for the communicator in his pocket.

"Open Channel H." He waited a moment, calculating the time it would take for his partner to open the connection. "Napoleon? Are you thawed enough to respond?"

After a few seconds the smooth voice of his American partner emitted from the silver pen. "I think so. I can't feel my lips to know if I'm talking, though."

A half-dozen comebacks entered Illya's mind but he decided to keep the conversation to business. "I know what you mean. We'll be losing daylight in about fifteen minutes. I'm going to attach the night scope. Cover the house until I'm finished."

"Good idea, but if your fingers are in the same shape as mine right now, that may be a bigger chore than you think. "

"I tend to agree.  Pay attention while try to get my fingers to obey."

"Will do. Out."

Snow was falling a little faster as he disconnected and slipped the pen device in his pocket. He moved back from the edge of the slope and sat up. The wind found the tiny opening along his collar and icy tendrils crawled down his neck while he concentrated on the rifle he pulled into his lap. Illya removed the day scope with a few turns of a screw and pulled the infrared scope from his pocket.

Daylight retreated quickly, chased away by time and the incoming dark clouds rolling above the towering trees that surrounded him. The Russian fit the night scope expertly and began to tighten the screws, glad he'd started when he did. It would be dark sooner than expected; a storm was coming in.

He had to concentrate fully on what his fingers were doing because he couldn't entirely feel them. He redoubled his effort and completed the attachment. By now the snow was falling at a rapid rate, as was the temperature. A puff of icy breath blew back into his face as the wind shifted as he gripped the rifle and flopped down on his stomach. He crawled back to his snow perch and just as he touched the freezing scope to his eye and found the front door, a finger of ice pressed firmly against the soft hollow barely exposed on the back of his neck.

"Do not move or your blood will ruin this nice, fresh snow."

The Russian voice was low and menacing. The UNCLE agent didn't think he could feel anymore of a chill, but the voice managed to do just that and he froze in place, flat on his stomach in the freezing hollow of snow.

"Drop the rifle."

The sniper rifle nearly disappeared in the fresh powder when Illya's fingers released it. It was quickly covered by snowfall.

"Put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers."

Illya did so, his face millimeters away from the snow as he leaned on his elbows. A slight grin touched one cheek; his unseen adversary had committed the cardinal sin of touching his victim with his gun's muzzle -  Now Illya knew the exact location of both his adversary's gun and body.

The agent's mind ticked off seconds as he waited for his moment to spring.

"Now get to your . . ." The voice didn't get the chance to complete the order.

Illya rolled and whipped one arm back and down, which knocked the rifle muzzle aside and allowed him to clamp  his hand down on the top of the weapon. He yanked the barrel forward until the muzzle stuck in the snow at his side. The man was abruptly pulled off balance.

The agent pushed upward from the ground and managed to scramble to his feet. Following through with his forward motion he bowled the man over and landed on top of him. They rolled over and over in the snow, leaving wide rifts behind that filled quietly with new fallen flakes as they fought.

Both rifles were now lost in the snow as both men grappled for the upper hand, the miserable cold forgotten. Illya could feel his foe’s hand wriggle downward to get to something stashed in his waistband. The agent quickly calculated that it would be faster to take his opponent's weapon from the waistband than to try and go for his own shoulder holster that was buried under layers of clothing. Illya worked his hand down and located the bulge at the man's hip; the man's efforts redoubled to keep the agent’s hands away.

They continued to roll as they fought for the hidden weapon. With the fingers cut out of his gloves, Illya’s bare fingers had the slightest of advantages in maneuverability and he managed to get his hands on the object first.

A knife, he realized. A large one.

Illya yanked the blade out and the other man got a two handed, vice-like grip on the agent's wrist. The goon was larger than the agent, but they were nearly equal in strength and continued to struggle. The man opened his mouth to yell and Illya jammed his forearm between his jaws and put his full weight behind it to keep him quiet and hopefully prevent him from biting.

Sporadic, violent gusts whistled through the trees blew the snow into near white out conditions. Neither one noticed that they were at the edge of a rift in the forest floor that fell down into a rocky creek bed ten feet below; the blowing whiteness hid the danger.

With a triumphant yank, Illya got full possession of the knife and rolled to his knees. He raised the blade to strike as the guard swore and rolled away from him. Illya saw him jackknife and fumble for something near his ankle.

An ankle holster, Illya thought immediately. Napoleon will never let me forget bringing a knife to a gunfight!

The agent lunged as the guard pulled an object up from his ankle. Illya slammed the big blade into his opponent's chest with all his weight behind it, and felt a thud against his own body at the same time. They rolled together, connected by momentum and Illya's unyielding grip on the knife.

Blinding fireworks invaded Illya’s consciousness as agonizing pain ripped along his left side.

Then he felt like he was floating.

The reality of their fall came home when they hit the rocky creek bed below. His opponent broke his back and died instantly on impact with the ravine floor; he also happened to break Illya's fall. The back of the dead man's head had smashed through the thin ice on the creek and his chin stuck up like a small island in the icy swirl while the rest of his body lay on the rocky terrain. Illya pushed off from the body and flopped aside. Falling snow immediately blanketed the dead man and he soon blended in with the snow-covered boulders of the creek bed that surrounded them.

Illya fought to keep awareness and rolled to his knees. He tried to crawl to drier ground but the heavy snowfall  made it difficult to determine exactly where that was. His dazed mind didn't realize that he'd lost compete use of his left arm, and he distractedly wondered why it was taking so long to get anywhere. Everything around him looked the same no matter how hard he struggled.

Eventually he bumped into several large drifts that wouldn’t yield, and he looked carefully at them through his fading vision. The whiteness was blinding and hid the fact that he was up against the ravine wall. Shivering in shock and cold, the agent snuggled between the protruding rocks seeking shelter. He pushed deeply between them, and to his muddled surprise, fell backwards into a large cave.

Things were dark and brown and still in here; it was a welcome respite from the unforgiving white outside. Illya struggled, crablike, to the smooth, rock wall furthest from the entry. He propped himself up and pulled his knees in tightly to his chest in a desperate effort to conserve body heat. It wasn’t long before he didn’t feel anything at all.

ACT I : Discovery

Katherine Tarasov angrily stuffed her diary into her rucksack and circled the room like a caged lion looking for prey. She snatched a small, silver framed photo from her desk as well as the small transistor radio that worked sporadically in this area and added them to the pack. Her eyes fell on the ragged stuffed tiger on the bed, and she hesitated for a moment. In a quick decision with a resigned sigh, she tucked the tiger in with the rest and topped off the pack with a bright red heart-shaped pillow. She pulled the buckles down snugly, checked that the sleeping bag was securely attached and shrugged on her winter coat.

A meek tap at the door made her smile. She stepped over and cracked the door open.

"Please, miss, take this with you. The cold takes your energy as quickly as your warmth." The tiny maid pushed a paper bag toward her. Kat knew it was enough calorie-laden food for the day, and probably a night. Standing aside, she allowed the small woman in and traded the bag for an affectionate smile.

"Oh, Lucya, I know that my babushka must talk to you from heaven. Only she took care of me like you do."

"Be careful, child." Kat could feel the soft, velvety warmth of Lucya's wrinkled hand patting hers as she accepted the bag. "You are like one of the creatures of the woods, I know, but I still worry."

Since her beloved grandmother had died so many years ago, Kat knew this was the only person in the entire of Russia who really knew her; the only person she really and truly knew wanted the best for her and understood her thoughts. She considered Lucya to be her mother, and if her actual mother ever knew these feelings, Lucya would be gone in a heartbeat.

A direct descendant of royalty could never consort with the house staff. It simply wasn't proper.

Kat gave Lucya a quick hug. "You know I'll be careful. I respect the out doors." She smiled again. "I'll be back in the morning. I just have to burn off some steam. You know how I am."

"Yes, dear, I do." Lucya backed away and hesitated in the doorway, her work worn hand on the crystal doorknob. "You are just like your father. He watches you from above, like a guardian angel. I know you're safe." She backed from the room and closed the door quietly.

Katrina slipped the bag into her pack and shouldered it, then turned off the lights in her room. She didn't bother sneaking out anymore. She also knew that Josef, the security chief and old family employee, kept a close eye on her but allowed her some freedom at the same time. Katrina was followed everywhere she went, she knew, but the men were skilled and rarely noticed by her. She knew her freedom was artificial but she would take what she could get for now. Next year, when she turned 18, she had plans to really live that involved an intricate scheme to escape Russia . She didn't know if she'd ever have the guts to actually do it, but it was fun to think about.

Escaping down the servant's stairs that went through the kitchen Kat thought briefly of her stepfather and felt her temper flared again. What did her mother see in that man? For perhaps the millionth time in the past eight years that question plagued her. If there was one thing she could thank the man for, it was the fact that in the past eight years she had figured out the kind of man she DIDN'T want to marry!

The kitchen was unusually quiet for being so soon after dinner but she didn't wonder why as she opened the back door. Outside the snow was falling heavily and the darkness nearly complete. Kat pulled down the snowshoes that hung on the delivery porch and skillfully put them on along with the fur hat with earflaps. With an excited grab she took the sturdy wood walking stick from its hook and was ready to go. It was dark and near white out conditions, but that didn't faze her. Katrina knew where she was going; it was the one place she could call her own.

**********

Helplessly, Napoleon Solo had watched the focus of their assignment leave the cabin just after darkness fell and the heavy snowfall had begun. All he could do was watch him go; snowfall essentially blinded him in his location -  Illya had the only chance at a clear shot, and he didn’t answer his communicator. The target drove away, undisturbed.

What had happened to Illya? His failure to check in was unusual.

By the time Solo dodged the forest guards and made it around the perimeter to the last known position of his partner, visibility was nonexistent. The cold wind tossed his unruly forelock in all directions around his concerned eyes as he studied the area. His face was flocked in fresh white, his cheeks red from cold.

It's like he simply disappeared from the Earth, he thought. Solo hadn't heard any ruckus and the guards were still in place and unconcerned. His communicator went unanswered, and Solo didn't dare try it again because the beeping might not help Illya's situation, whatever it may be.

He chewed his wind-chapped lip. The snow didn't reveal any clues, but that was to be expected in this storm. He carefully moved in and located the spot where his partner had been and began to poke around with his toe as he kept one eye on the lighted house.

Solo was about to give up when he felt it - something hard and unforgiving and on the edge of an unnatural hollow. He squatted down and fumbled through the drift until he pulled up a rifle.

Illya's rifle. And there was another one next to it Napoleon didn’t recognize.

With a desperate glance around he held the rifles close and retreated. It still didn't make any sense. Where what his partner? And why wasn't Adrian Kozlov's security crawling in these woods right now?

********

Kat made it to the rocky cave in no time. She could do this hike with her eyes shut. What she didn't expect was to find a crumpled body against the far wall.

Kat entered the cave loaded with wood she'd gathered as she walked, planning to get a fire going as soon as possible or the cave would be a cold respite. She kicked off the snowshoes, dropped her pack and blew a feeble fire into a respectful flame that illuminated the entire cave in a matter of minutes. When she saw the still form in the flickering light her heart leaped into her throat.

Who ever it was had yet to make a noise. After several long seconds of heart settling study she decided to approach it. She felt the pounding in her chest begin again but she commanded control and knelt down by the form. All she could see was a slash of eyelashes and skin between collar and hat.

Gently she reached out and felt the exposed spot of cheek. It was cold and only slightly pink. Katrina worked her fingers down the cheek to the groove in the neck where she thought she would find a pulse.

There it was - barely - a thrumming in the neck against her warm fingers. Next, she lifted an eyelid and saw the pupil contract from the firelight. He was alive.

Katrina rocked back on to her heels. Now what? She leaned in and sniffed his faint breath - he wasn't drunk, and he certainly wasn't asleep unless he slept like a rock. Who was he? She knew all the surrounding estates and didn't recognize him.

She pulled out her sleeping bag, opened it and threw it over the man. Then she sat by the fire and warmed her hands while she thought. I wonder if he needs a doctor. I'll need more wood to keep this fire going all night. She stood to do just that, but before she left she took time to get her hands really warm over the fire and approached the stranger again. This time she pulled off his hat, which released a cascade of blond hair, and began to unbutton the outer layers of clothes to look for injuries.

As soon as the light colored outer coat was pulled aside she saw a large shiny area on the black turtleneck beneath. She touched it with her bare fingers and they came away sticky. When angled in the light, she realized it was blood. Kat gasped, and tugged the sweater to check under it when the form jerked slightly, then groaned. Amazingly, his hand moved with surprising speed and grabbed hers, taking her wrist in a painful grip. Kat yelped.

His eyes fluttered open. "Who are you?" He slurred in an accent typical of Western Russia .

"Be still," she snapped to cover her fear. "You're hurt."

The grip lessened enough to allow her to expose the skin surrounding his wound. When the chill of the cave hit the open wound he sharply sucked air between his teeth and the grip tightened again.

"Stop," he growled. "Who are you?"

"Kat," she replied. "And you need a doctor." The raw wound began to bleed freely again when exposed.

"Nyet." The man pushed her hands away and pulled the clothing back over the wound. "Where's Napoleon?" He mumbled drunkenly.

Kat leaned back and raised her eyebrows. "In France ?" She replied brightly. Then she shook her head. "We can't be talking about the same Napoleon." When the man's hands struggled to close the coat, she leaned over and closed it for him. "And I hope your Napoleon is a doctor because there's a lot of blood here."

The man tried to sit up a bit taller, his hair falling forward and covering his forehead in a wild way, but he fell back with a groan.

"That'll teach you, mister. I told you that you were hurt."

He focused his startling clear blue eyes on her through the unruly bangs. "Who are you?" A pain filled grimace passed over his features and he ground his teeth.

"Kat. You seemed to have found my private escape." She indicated the cave with a wave of her hand. "And you? Who are you?"

He blinked as her words sank in. He looked around. "Illya," he said. "Sorry for the intrusion. I didn't have much choice." He spoke through gritted teeth and held himself tightly. “What time is it?”

Kat consulted the small watch on her wrist. “ 7:30 .”

Illya’s fuzzy brain backtracked what he remembered. It had been at least two hours since sunset, and Napoleon had to realize something was amiss. "My partner, Napoleon, is out there looking for me. He can help."

"In this storm? I don't think he could find his own feet if he doesn't know this area. Plus he'll be discovered before he gets far. My stepfather has this whole area, and me, watched very closely. I'm sure there's an armed guard camping nearby right now." She smiled a bit. "And with this storm, I'm sure they aren't very happy about that right now."

Logic seemed to be coming back to his muddled brain; she was right. And if his partner had followed procedure, he’d scrubbed the mission and would fall back, regroup, and apply a new plan. He should be long gone from this area by now.

But something in what she said made the injured man study her again. She shifted uncomfortably with the scrutiny. Those icy eyes were unnerving. After a few moments, his eyes widened a bit and he said, much to Kat's surprise, "Inessa Katherine Tarasov."

"It's Kat," she squeaked instantly. "And how do you know my name? I don't know you." Frightened, the girl scrambled to her feet and eyed the cave exit.

"Your mother is Viktoriya Lukin Tarasov Kozlov, and your step father is Adrian Desnya Kozlov. Your father was Alexei Vitaliy Tarasov. He died about nine years ago." The injured blond slumped against the wall. "Now if I could just figure out if your being here is a curse or a blessing."

"Hey! What do you mean by that?" Kat stuttered, suddenly indignant. Then she crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. "Who are you? If you don't tell me, I'll get the guard that I know is out there. And I get the feeling you don't want that."

A tired chuckle came from the man. "No, not really. But I don't think you'll do that."

"That's it. I'm letting you bleed to death." She turned her back to go, but his next words stopped her in her tracks.

"How well do you know your stepfather?"

Slowly, she turned back and squinted suspiciously at the mysterious man. "How do you mean? I know I don't like him much, but he gives my mother what she needs."

Illya nodded. His voice was quiet but steady. "Your mother. She's a direct link to the royal family, isn't she? I know that's not a popular thing to be these days, but in some powerful circles that stay out of the Government's radar that connection means a lot."

Intrigued, Kat slowly moved next to him. "So? What's that got to do with Adrian ?"

"Have you ever heard of a group called THRUSH?" Illya's voice was strong, but Kat could tell he was very uncomfortable. He shifted and grimaced, and she could tell he held back a groan when he bit his lip.

"Well, nothing really, except I've seen folders in Adrian 's office with a black and white drawing of a bird on it. Is that the THRUSH you mean?"

"Yes. Now Kat, think back. The security that surrounds you and your mother; are they the same men your father had?"

She frowned and sank back down to her knees. "Well, I only really remember Josef. He is the security chief. The others have come on since mother married Adrian ."

"And all those others are members of a group called THRUSH, as is Adrian Kozlov."

"So? What does this group do?"

"Nothing good that we have found. Their goal is to rule the world, basically."

Kat laughed, but a stab of fear burned her stomach. "That's not possible. The way things are with this Cold War. . ."

". . . make it  a perfect opportunity for some. The people I work for think your stepfather is setting himself up to be the major power in this part of the world. THRUSH’s goal is to dominate humankind."

Kat's mouth dropped open. Eventually her brain kicked in again and she said warily, "And who exactly do you work for?"

"I work for a group called U.N.C.L.E. It's an international organization for peace."

"I've heard of UNCLE. It's on the list of groups that I'm supposed to know. If any of them contact me, I'm to tell my stepfather immediately." She grinned an impish grin. "But then again, I've always made it my rule to do the opposite of what he wishes."

"I've heard there's not much love between you two."

She laughed shortly. "I believe he wishes I were of the picture. My mother's family is still newsworthy, especially if it's news that makes the old royals look bad. My mother likes to be kept in a certain fashion and Adrian can supply that. I guess that's good for her. So tell me, what is my stepfather up to?"

Illya slowly explained while Kat tended the fire and made a strong broth from bouillon cubes. Adrian Kozlov was one of the secondary leaders of THRUSH in Russia , and climbing the ladder with impressive speed. His marriage to Kat's mother was, UNCLE felt, to make him popular to those circles that still respected and supported the royal family. Rich circles - the bourgeoisie that hoped to rule some day.

Kozlov was reported to be the main force behind several small incidents aimed at increasing the Cold War tensions nearly to the point of actual war. If he was successful and was backed by the people of Russia , his chances of being the main THRUSH leader in Russia would be excellent. He could pull together his own personal army of Russians if THRUSH ever became a problem for him. The double back up system he’d set up over the years made it a sure thing that he was on top either way. UNCLE preferred that THRUSH was out of the picture.

Exhausted and trying not to show it, Illya looked to Kat for a reaction. He cradled his left arm tightly against his side using it to stop the blood flow from the wound when he realized it was otherwise useless. He felt his head steadily growing lighter, probably from blood loss. He took the broth she offered with his right hand, which shook slightly.

She appeared thoughtful. "And Adrian has these THRUSH guys working for him now."

"If you don't believe me, take a look in the wallet of the guy that did this to me." He pressed his side and winced. "He should have an ID card."

She choked on her broth. "Are . . . are you saying there's a dead man outside? And I walked right by him?"

"He wasn't moving much last I saw him."

"But Josef would notice him missing! It's only a matter of time before they begin a search!"

 "You are probably right." Illya put the broth cup down.

Kat jumped up and began a nervous pacing of the cave. "You have to get out of here. Josef knows where this cave is. He makes the other men keep their distance, but when they discover that man missing he's going to come here first to get me."

Illya struggled to sit taller, which set off a brand new show of fireworks in his vision. "I know that. Leave me here. I can take care of myself. There's no reason for you to be involved."

"Leave? You can't even stand! Who are you fooling?" She knelt at his side again. "Look. You said your partner, Napoleon, is out there. I can contact him and he can get you out. What about that?"

"Kat, I can't allow you to . . ." He swayed.

The girl jumped to her feet. "Well, there's not much you can do about it. I need to get a little more wood for the night. Try not to bleed too much before I get back."

"Kat!"

She darted out the cave, cinching her jacket tight as she moved into the darkness.

Once outside she stood a few moments to let her eyes adjust to the dark. It was still snowing, but not as heavily as before. A dot of moonlight broke from the clouds and she eyed the bumps glowing with the weak light in the riverbed with suspicion; one of them was a dead body. Carefully, she moved upstream where she knew of a small grove of trees. Wood would be plentiful. Curiosity made her a bit braver and she nudged the man-sized boulders she passed on the way.

She didn't expect to find the body on the third nudge - its softness gave it away. She let out a little squeak of surprise. It was no more than twenty feet from the cave, practically right on top of them! Momentarily rooted in fear, Kat swallowed hard and tried to stop the pounding of her heart. Unsuccessful, she decided to face her fear and carefully squatted next to the form. Nausea made her unable to find the face; she felt for an arm and was rewarded by the glint of silver in the pale light - an identity bracelet. There was only one guard - Tima - that wore one of those. She shakily stood and backed off, the vapor from her nostrils clear in the night air.

They had time, she realized. This guard, Tima, was supposed to be on vacation and not due back for two more days. No one would miss him. The guards usually parked on the public street away from the house and walked in because Adrian didn't like his house crowded with cars. That's where he was coming from when he'd run into Illya.

Slowly, the nausea left her and she smiled and turned to get the wood, a stomach tingling giddiness encouraging her feet to move. She never did like Tima. She often saw him kick the stray dogs in the street and laugh about it when they went to town. She also heard the rumors about how he beat his wife.

Kat's self-confidence raised a notch. If she could handle a dead body without being sick or passing out, then she could handle anything. Someday, maybe she could be a secret agent, too. She smiled a bit more broadly. Wouldn't that get her mother into a tizzy!

ACT II :  “You Are My Best Author!”

Napoleon left the Kozlov estate when the snowstorm and darkness covered his retreat. He wasn't able to find his partner anywhere, and didn’t want to risk discovery by the guards. Kozlov was gone from the house and now Solo had to come up with Plan B. The first step was to get information on Kozlov's future movements from the back up team. He glanced at his watch; Mark , April Dr. Timmons, would be at the meeting place in town at 9 a.m.

The doc sure wasn't needed for Plan A anymore. Solo sighed and pulled out his communicator.

"Open Channel D, overseas relay." The American was safe in his warm car and driving into town, his thoughts on his missing partner. Illya had to show up sometime; Solo just hoped it wasn't during the spring thaw.

*********

The night was long and Kat’s fire was very welcome, but the injured agent was uneasy about her presence even knowing that Kozlov’s security wouldn’t be looking for them.

He tried to stay awake - Kat had dozed off around midnight - but Illya felt his body growing weaker and was almost afraid to sleep. He might not wake up again.

Every move was agonizing. He was sure there were broken ribs and possibly some internal damage as a result. At least the arteries and major veins were intact; he would have bled out long ago if that were not the case. His left leg continually tingled, and he couldn’t feel his left arm at all. His gun was still tucked in his holster at his side but he left it there, not wanting to scare the girl. Besides, he wasn't sure he had the strength to hold on to it if he got it out.

Slowly and painfully he felt for his communicator with his good hand. It was gone, probably freezing in the snowdrifts above. The search exhausted him, which made him realize the low probabilities of getting out of this cave. Shock was beginning to take its toll.

A plan - he had to think of a plan. Hopefully, Napoleon would follow the procedures they had put together before coming here instead of hunting for him. That means he would meet the rest of the team in town in the morning.  Illya doubted very much that he would be able to get there. A message would have to be sent.

His eyes were heavy with weariness, and he blinked slowly at the girl next to him, snuggled under the shared sleeping bag. He hated to think it, but she was the only way.

“Kat,” he mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Kat!” Weakly, he reached over and shook her.

She jerked awake; her eyes wild for a moment while her sleepy brain registered her surroundings. “What?” She said, sitting up quickly and rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You need to listen to me. I don’t have a lot of time.”

His voice was low, scratchy and much weaker than she remembered. Whatever color had been in the agent’s face was now gone. Kat couldn’t help but compare his complexion to the skin of the dead man’s hand outside and a feeling of fear tickled her gut.

“I’m listening,” she said quietly, taking his hand in hers.

*****************

Kat’s palms were slick with sweat beneath her mittens and she had to consciously keep herself from rubbing her hands on her thighs in nervousness. As she moved among the sparse crowd of the small town, Illya’s description of Napoleon Solo ran constantly through her mind like a mantra to calm her nerves.

He would be meeting with his backup team at a tavern, he said. There should be at least four in the group, one woman and three men. Solo would be in charge and talking. One of the other men would have an British accent. The woman would be beautiful but bundled up for weather in practical cold weather gear – not the fashion plate women normally seen on these streets – but stylish in her own way. The remaining man, a doctor, would be thin and tall with dark red hair.

Painfully aware of the security men tailing her, and now aware that they probably had an allegiance to THRUSH rather than her family, appearing to be simply curious and not scared to death was not as easy as she thought it would be. Kat forced herself to walk calmly and carefully and check out each and every window on the main drive as she worked toward the tavern. It was almost nine o'clock . Kat wondered if she'd be able to pick out Illya’s partner, but Illya’s words reassured her as she ran them through her mind.

“Trust me, you will notice him. Most females do. He will find your English charming and continue to talk to you in that language because his Russian is dismal, but the woman with him is very well versed in our language. So is the doctor. Between the two of them, they will absorb everything, but may not say much to you. Just keep talking. Tell them everything I’ve told you. Fall back into Russian when you have to. You’ll do very well, Kat.”

She had noticed that the agent’s voice was getting softer. He was losing his energy and needed help fast. Kat straightened her shoulders. She would not disappoint him. She’d left the cave at first light, when his voice was only a mere whisper and wasn’t sure he even knew she’d gone.

The next place was the tavern she sought. Dark and smoky like the rest of the  half-dozen taverns on this block, this one was more crowded than the others. She'd never been inside a place like this before and she had to admit it looked cozy. The smells emanating from the open door were warm, smoky and inviting. The small purchase she had made to justify her trip to town dangled from her wrist in a bag, forgotten. She didn't think the security men were suspicious at all about her real motive.

Napoleon will try to blend in with a crowd, Illya had told her. He'll be, away from the door, but facing it.

She paused, and then leaned part way in the door for a better look.

One of the bodyguards suddenly appeared at her side. “Miss Katherine,” he said lowly. “That is no place for a young girl.”

“Wait.” She raised her hand to quiet him. “I think I know someone in there.” It was a small place and easily examined from the doorway. She looked carefully, drawn to the small cluster of people in the far corner.

Four people, and the one facing the door leaned in to the group and was doing all the talking. His motions seemed urgent. She focused on the speaker through the cigarette smoke and saw exactly what Kuryakin meant – the dark, smoldering eyes and rakish hair of the American in the meager light was, indeed, eye catching. Kat tore her eyes away and studied his small group. They were just as Illya had described - one woman and two other men barely visible in the poor lighting and smoky haze. Her heart rate shot up; it was show time.

She put on a bright expression for the guard and spoke excitedly. “I thought so! I heard he would be in town!” She took a step through the door. The guard pulled her up short.

“Your father would fire me if I let you . . .”

“Stepfather,” Kat corrected firmly as she angrily met his eyes. “And if you have a problem, take it up with my mother, not him. She will approve. That man in there is an author, my favorite author, and I'm going to talk to him." The lie came out so smoothly she even surprised herself. "Now let go of me.”

The guard reluctantly released her but followed closely behind as she approached Solo. Kat’s nervousness lessened as she fell into her role. Her eyes locked on her target.

Solo, aware someone was coming his way, did a double take when he realized whom she was. He stopped speaking and quietly watched her approach with dark, brooding eyes.

“Excuse me,” Kat started in careful English. “I introduce myself because you are my  . . . best . . . author!” She pulled off her mitten and stuck out her hand. He took it carefully, but firmly. She could see his mind working behind his charming hazel eyes.

“I think you mean ‘favorite’, not ‘best’, but you speak English very well." His voice was low and sultry, and his eyes sparkled with curiosity. He rose gracefully to his feet and took her hand. "You have me at a disadvantage, Miss . . ?”

“Kat. Katherine Tarasov.” Her grip was tight and slick with sweat. She was sure he could read the fear in her eyes and feel the tremble in her hand. “I do not mean to . . . to . . . " She wrinkled her brow. "Interr . . .” She stumbled over the word.

“Interrupt? By no means, Miss Tarasov, there is no reason to apologize." A wavy haired blond with an English accent stood quickly and reached for her hand. "I’m Mark.” She released Solo’s hand and took Mark’s.

As Mark spoke to her,  Solo glanced at April who shrugged her shoulders in uncertainty. Always alert, April turned her eyes to give the security man with Kat a thorough look over. Then she, too, rose.

“April. Pleased to meet you.” She’d said every word in perfect Russian for this area. “And this is Dr. Timmons.” Kat took his hand briefly and smiled. The doctor greeted her if perfect Russian also, and she inwardly sighed in a bit of relief. She then turned back to Solo.

“Um, I wanted to tell you . . .” She struggled with the English.

April smiled sympathetically. “I can translate, Miss Tarasov, if you’d like.”

Kat gave her a grateful smile, and nodded. She continued in Russian but kept her eyes on the handsome American. “I just wanted to tell you that my favorite story is the one you wrote about the lost knight.” She looked right in his eyes when she said it and she saw them widen slightly with the translation. “You know, the white knight on his quest.”

“Yes," he said slowly. "I know the story you mean.” Solo straightened his tie and offered her a seat.

Kat glanced at the security man. “Nyet, but thank you, I cannot stay. I just wanted to say how I like your writing and it has helped me with my English.” She inhaled nervously. “I especially like the part where the knight gets hurt but still has the determination to finish his quest.” When she held Solo’s eyes, she saw one corner of his mouth lift into a smile when April finished speaking.

“Yes, he is a very determined character,” Solo replied slowly. “And stubborn. Did you notice that?”

Her eyes sparkled when April translated with a chuckle. They understood! “Yes. Very . . . stubborn.” She said in English. She turned to look directly at Dr. Timmons and continued in Russian. “Our knight could have used a doctor in the story, but time and place would make that difficult, I would say.”

The doctor’s eyes stayed with hers and remained calm. “Yes. But that would change the story, wouldn’t it?”

Kat smiled. “Yes. It would have saved our hero a lot of pain, and possibly saved his life in the end, I would say.” Dr. Timmons nodded in full understanding and continued to smile, but Kat noted how his fingers began to nervously tangle with his napkin.

Kat returned her attention to the senior agent and put her hand on top of Solo’s. “My only regret is that the book is at my home. I would love to have you sign it. Will you be in town very long? I can go get it.”

Solo digested that information for a moment and said slowly, “It depends on my business here. How far away is your home?” His eyebrows arched pleasantly. Kat realized he was asking where his partner was.

She changed to English so the guard would not understand. She hoped he didn’t understand, anyway, so she still spoke carefully.  “Up the main road. A river goes under a bridge before our house. This weather makes it sometimes not . . .um. . .” She rolled her wrist, indicating her search for a word. Solo turned to April.

“Not passable?” April said in Russian.

“Yes, thank you. Not passable.” Kat leaned in closer to April in the pretense of warmly shaking her hand, and quickly whispered in Russian. “There’s a cave in the wall of the ravine about one kilometer north from the road. Look for this," she tossed her bright scarf over her shoulder and straightened up, smiling nervously. “I could go get the book, or if you have time, perhaps you could come by for lunch or supper. My mother would love to meet you.”

“That is impossible, I’m sorry.” Solo glanced at his watch. “We will be leaving soon.” He extended his hand. “It was so very nice to meet you, Miss Tarasov. Your English is remarkable. I’m glad my books help you with my language.” Solo pulled a pen from his pocket, leaned over a cocktail napkin and scribbled a short note along with his signature. “Here you go. Press that in your book, and maybe we will meet again.” He shook her hand warmly and pressed the napkin in her palm. She stuffed it in her coat pocket without looking at it.

“Yes. Thank you. Nice to meet you all.” She smiled and made her way out the bar with the feeling that a huge weight had just been lifted from her shoulders- Illya was going to get some help.

The security man was still right on her heels. "I think I'll be going home now," she said to him with a smug smile.

ACT III : “Isn’t That What Secret Agents Do?”

After the young lady departed the tavern,  the small group waited until they were sure the street would be clear of guards. They returned to their rooms at a leisurely pace that belied their sense of urgency so Dr. Timmons could get his small medical bag.

“We’re lucky to have you along on this one,” Solo said lowly as they reassembled on the edge of town. “We have just enough time to find Illya and move on with Plan B.”

“We haven’t finalized Plan B yet,” April said, taking his elbow like he was her date.

“Consider Plan B a sort of open ended plan,” he answered. “You said Kozlov should be back later tonight. Let’s see what we get from Illya first. We have the time.”

“Let’s go then,” Mark said with a nod of his head.

Moisture condensed on the inside of the car windows within moments of the agents packing inside. It was a small Lada, barely fitting the four  adult