The Homeland Affair

CHAPTER ONE

The flight had been relaxing, really. As U.N.C.L.E. agent Illya Kuryakin stretched his legs out in front of him he recalled a joke about how his boss. Alexander Waverly, known for his penny-pinching ways and acid comments on questionable expense accounts, probably rose to the level of head of the New York Command by only authorizing coach class for all agent travel. He wondered if Waverly followed these guidelines when he traveled, but doubted the man ever flew a commercial flight with all the aircraft U.N.C.L.E. had at its disposal. Illya sighed, made himself as comfortable as possible, and was grateful for his smaller stature.

He was also grateful that he was alone in his row of seats. Not one for chatting or idle talk, Illya took the opportunity during the trans-Atlantic flight to read some technical manuals. It was always a good idea to keep up on the latest trends in weaponry and other gadgets; you never knew when they might come in handy. It was dark outside, as it was the middle of the night, and most of the other passengers were asleep, making it wonderfully quiet; a rare thing a field agent's day. He adjusted his reading glasses and settled down with an inner sigh.

"Can I get you anything, sir? Coffee? A pillow?" The smiling stewardess labeled 'Darla' had managed to sneak up on him once again, the over-zealous smile making him feel nothing but irritated.

"No, thank you again," he answered civilly, even throwing in a small grin. "I'm fine." Napoleon Solo, fellow agent usual partner, enjoyed watching the Russian deal with the come-ons of the female species. Illya was constantly perplexed by the reactions he received from unknown women; he thought it was perfectly clear that he didn't want any attention. Napoleon kept telling him that is exactly what drew them in. The whole idea was filed under the subject of 'ridiculous' in the stoic agent's mind, and he usually just suffered through the contacts. He turned his head towards his manual. In his peripheral vision he saw the stewardess unconsciously pat her hair as she lingered a few seconds, then move on.

Illya sighed outwardly. He was glad that this assignment in Sapporo was one of research; he still felt some aches from his last field assignment, although he'd never voiced that feeling. He suspected Waverly may have known and sent him on this trek to let him heal up. The chief's powers of observation were much better than his curmudgeon appearance let on. Whatever the reason, Illya was looking forward to the exchange of ideas with the Japanese agents. Their take on miniaturization of components was intriguing.

Illya was near the rear of the commercial jet. He heard the quiet rattling of the stewardess in the small galley as she kept to her duties, then heard the intercom buzz in the area of the galley.

Illya heard the phone picked up. "Yes, Captain?" Darla said with a puzzled tone, making the agent's ears immediately perk up. "What?" she said in a dramatic whisper, followed by a long period of listening. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand." Her voice was quiet, Illya picked up the sense of fear. She hung up and walked briskly forward, meeting two other stewardesses as they came through the curtain dividing the coach section from first class.

One of the three was obviously the lead stewardess. She placed her finger on her lips, and motioned the other two to the back of the jet. Illya waited until they passed, then moved to the aisle seat to eavesdrop.

"You know the procedure," the calmer, lead woman said firmly. "Just make sure it's handled calmly."

"But it's Russia!" Darla said in a scared tone. "Most of these passengers, including us, are American! We can't land there!"

Illya sat up straighter.

"Either we land there or get blown out of the sky," the lead Stewardess hissed quietly. "If we follow procedure to the letter, we'll be fine. Now take a deep breath and calm down! These passengers will be relying on you!"

"Yes, ma'm," the other two women said respectfully.

"Just keep telling yourself that it will be all right. It will be. The Captain will make an announcement in minute or so, so start waking the passengers." The lead woman projected calm and confidence as she strode by Illya for the first class section.

Russia! Illya thought. Quickly he calculated the flight path and time traveled. They should be adjacent to western Russia airspace, not in it! His mind whirled. There were no U.N.C.L.E. contacts in Russia; and this end of the country was extremely paranoid what with Japan, China and the U.S. border of Alaska to keep an eye on. Since Illya had defected to America, and the KGB was well aware of his training and abilities, there was a standing warrant for his arrest as a traitor. A death sentence was attached to that arrest order. He simply couldn't be found here.

Darla and her partner had split up and were quietly waking the coach passengers, Darla from the front and the other one, Celia, from the back.

"Sir?" Celia addressed Illya with controlled fear in her eyes. "We are making an emergency landing. The Captain will explain in a minute. Please check your seatbelt and follow instructions." She moved on, not waiting for a response.

As soon as she passed his row, the blond agent got to his feet and entered the rearmost lavatory. He began removing all documents with his name on it as the Captain addressed the passengers over the intercom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be making an unscheduled landing at the request of the Russian military. Don't be alarmed by the jets you see outside. They are merely escorting us to the closest airstrip near Habarovsk. This misunderstanding will be cleared up upon our arrival, I'm sure, so please follow the Stewardess' instructions and stay calm. Thank you."

Habarovsk. Illya thought. Great. Right on the China border. He held his passport, U.N.C.L.E. identification and orders in his hand, along with his driver's license and any other papers containing his name. He had to get rid of them. Hopefully, it would give him a little time to get away if they didn't know who he was. He would rather they had his suspicions about him than his true identification. Now what to do with the papers?

He didn't even bother to eye the toilet; that had a holding tank that could be easily searched. As he looked around inside the lavatory, his eyes were drawn to the ceiling. Noting the rivets securing the walls to the ceiling, he saw the same rivets around the interior fan, which turned on automatically when the door was locked. He pulled out a pocket knife, climbed on the toilet and fell upon the rivets.

He didn't even react to the urgent rapping on the door. "Hello! We are on final approach! You need to be in your seat! Hello!" The rapping continued.

Illya spoke as he worked. "Yes! Alright! I'm …. sick …"

"Please hurry!" the voice begged, then let him alone.

Illya worked quickly. The rivets were stubborn. He felt the sinking feeling in his stomach as the jet lost altitude, and there was a second of weightlessness. They're descending very rapidly, he noted.

As he worked he ran what he knew about Habarovsk through his mind. It was a very small city, with a military outpost on the outer edges. Illya doubted the runway at either place could handle a jet this size. He stopped running possible scenarios through his mind when they grew increasingly catastrophic.

"Crash positions, please," he heard over the intercom. Good. The Captain isn't taking any chances, he thought as he worked. Over half the rivets were popped. Just a few more….

He never heard from the Stewardess again. Apparently she had her hands full enough with the other passengers. Illya heard the wheels drop with a mechanical grinding, and the change of the air noise due to the flaps. They were slowing airspeed; touchdown wasn't far off. Illya worked with intense concentration, shifting his weight with the turbulence and sway of the jet to keep his feet. He heard and felt the roar of the engines. Too fast. Illya realized the desperation of the act the pilot had just committed; he was desperately trying to slow down. He must have noted the inadequate length of the runway on sight.

There! The final rivet popped the vent loose just as Illya heard the squeal of the tires on the runway. He wrenched the vent loose, trying to get the room to stash his papers.

The jet's engines roared in a desperate act to slow. Illya was hanging by his fingertips as the roughness of the reverse power threw him off the toilet. He scrambled for footing, gained it, and reached for his papers.

The jet swayed on the runway; the engines screamed; Illya braced his arms against the walls to keep from falling, making sure the papers stayed put in the vent opening. When he gained his feet once more, he worked at getting the vent back in place. He felt the aircraft slew left, and he was thrown against the wall. Dazed, he crumpled to the floor as the jet screamed and the sound of screeching metal reached his ears. The room bounced, and then it was dark.

Illya wasn't sure if he had passed out. When he became aware again, it was dark and very still. Acrid smoke touched his nostrils, and he shook his head. Instantly he was on his feet, and went to work on the vent. Smoke…fire…electrical fire! The idea struck him immediately. Feeling for wires in the vent, he didn't even notice the sticky substance running down his face. He did notice that the fingers of his left hand weren't working correctly, and there was a throb of pain in his wrist. Ignoring it, he pulled several wires and worked them loose. His fingers felt for the ends without success. Knife. He dropped to the floor and felt around in the darkness. His hand throbbed incessantly, growing more painful by the second. Finally he found the knife. At the same time he started hearing screams of the scared passengers outside the door. He leaped on the toilet again, his head swimming and causing momentary vertigo.

Desperately, he groped for the wires and cut several. He was greeted with sparks, which drove him faster. He touched several of the cut ends together until he re-created the sparks, then touched them to the stashed papers. Come on, he said, noticing feeling disappearing in his left hand. I wasn't a Boy Scout, but I know it'll work! Finally, he was greeted with a small 'Poof!' as the papers caught fire. He made sure they were fully engulfed before pushing the pile further into the opening, then positioned the vent back into place, coughing from the smoke collecting in the small room.

He opened the lavatory door and noted a layer of smoke on the ceiling, thanks to the emergency lighting. The aisle was crowded, as was the galley area where one of the emergency exits was. The jet was at an odd angle to one side. Coughing, Illya mentally commended the pilot on a successful landing. Any landing where you end up alive is successful, he heard Napoleon's voice say in his mind, and grinned to himself.

Cradling his injured hand and trying to avoid bumping his sore head, Illya Kuryakin melded with the panicked passengers as they left the jet via the emergency slide. He paused for a moment at the top of the slide and took in the dark, barren landscape in one glance as the frigid air of the dawn struck his face.

Welcome home, Illya said to himself as a chill coursed his body.

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

The offices of U.N.C.L.E. take up the building fronted, in part, by Del Floria's Tailor Shop and Cleaners. There were several secret entrances, but the one used at this moment by Napoleon Solo was that of the Del Floria's. Old man Del, as Solo thought of him, gave the agent a nod when he entered. Solo made his way back to the dressing booth, and pulled the trick hook that opened the door to the offices.

Solo had his most becoming smile in place as he greeted the receptionist in training. The trim girl behind the reception desk became instantly flustered and pink in the cheeks as she fumbled for his tag.

"Napoleon Solo. I don't think I've had the pleasure," he began, leaning on the counter and catching her eyes.

"Napoleon, meet Angela Wesson; Angela, watch him carefully. Especially when he talks." The speaker was an equally trim brunette standing behind and slightly back from Angela, grinning knowingly at the agent.

"Nice to meet you, Angela." Solo acknowledged.

"Thank you, Mr. Solo," the girl replied pleasantly, regaining her calm.

"You can call me Napoleon," he said sweetly, leaning towards her. "All my friends do…"

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly wants to see you," the supervising woman said with a grin. "So quit distracting my trainee!"

Napoleon straightened, adjusting his tie with a playful grin. "Certainly, Lizabeth," he said agreeably. "Don't mean to get you off schedule!"

"I don't believe that for a second, Napoleon. Now move along!" Lizabeth shooed him off with a wave of her hand and a smile.

Napoleon Solo whistled to himself as he walked the hallways to Mr. Waverly's office, bidding hellos to those he passed on the way. Being the number one enforcement agent in this Section made his face almost as well known as his exploits in the field.

When he reached the office of Mr. Waverly he was greeted with a smile by Greta, his secretary. "Go on in, Mr. Solo, he's expecting you," she said pleasantly.

"Thank you, Greta, and you look wonderful today." She beamed as he let himself in his boss' office.

Inside, was a circular table with the dowdy appearing Waverly sitting at the far end. Behind him were picture windows that framed the United Nations building in the distance. It always made Napoleon proud of his work when he saw that view.

"Have a seat, Mr. Solo. Look at this, please."

The table turned like a lazy Susan, and brought the file around to the Chief Enforcement Agent's seat. He picked up the papers as he sat down off to Waverly's right. The first paper was a photo of a commercial jet, with three other photos right after it of three smiling men in uniforms.

"TransContinental Airlines pilots Alfred Glenn and Gary Peters, and flight engineer Tony Chatham. Experienced employees on flight number 450 New York to Sapporo flight. There are three other crew members, Darla Walker, Celia Oliver and Marilyn Pothier, that are well trained and qualified stewardesses. Also in your file is a passenger manifest."

Solo picked up and scanned the manifest, stopping at the 'Ks'. "Illya? He's on this flight?" The dark haired agent was now serious and all business. "Something has happened, I take it?"

"Twelve hours ago, Flight 4504 was forced to land near Habarovsk, Russia. There was little communication, as transmissions were jammed from the Russian military's jets. It appears that the airliner strayed into Russian airspace, and was escorted by Russian MiGs to a military airstrip outside Habarovsk. There are no more details, but our intelligence shows that the only possible airstrips are inadequate to land a jet that size."

"Was it pilot error?"

"We don’t know; the cockpit tapes may shed some light on that subject. All we do know is that there were some injuries, and the passengers are being detained on the base. Our government has just begun negotiating their return. There are no more details."

Napoleon's forehead furrowed as he thought. "I don't think U.N.C.L.E. is too welcome in that area of the world. And Habarovsk is rather back country. Does Illya know that area?" His partner never spoke too much of his life in Russia. All Napoleon knew was that Waverly had recruited Illya from behind the Iron Curtain, and suspected that he knew more about the Russian's background than anyone else in the organization.

Waverly paused as he tamped his pipe with tobacco, and proceeded to light it up. "I don't think so. What concerns me is who knows him."

Napoleon closed the folder. "How do you mean?"

"Mr. Kuryakin left his country under .. strenuous .. circumstances. He is considered a traitor. And being on a military base, especially in that part of the country, I fear for his safety."

Solo nodded, his lips tight in thought. "There's supposed to be a large Thrush satrap in that area, too."

"Yes. Our European and Japanese intelligence tell us that, but being isolated deep in the country and so close to China, we haven't been able to locate it. Strangers are quite obvious there. If our government isn't able to negotiate his release, we may need to have Mr. Kuryakin retrieved. We both know how resourceful Mr. Kuyakin is, and I have no doubt we will get him back. You will fly to the Sapporo office, monitor the situation, and be ready if any retrieval plan is needed. I have the U.N.C.L.E. jet standing by."

He really is worried, Solo thought. He doesn't offer the jet that easily! The agent stood. "I'll be ready to go within the hour, sir."

CHAPTER TWO

The passengers had all been rounded up outside the jet. As they were led away, Illya saw that the jet had slid sideways off the end of the runway; one wheel was off in the dirt, and the plane was tilted at a grotesque angle. Smoke rose from various sections.

They were herded into an open hanger, which was very cold inside. The Captain the First Officer kept everyone together. Illya kept an eye on the man and was impressed by his leadership ability. He tasked the crew with counting the passengers and separating those that were injured. He got into the face of the military men right away, demanding water, food and blankets, showing the Russians that he was someone to contend with and was definitely in charge. Illya was happy to have him take the attention of the guards.

The agent managed to keep away from the crew for quite awhile. He wasn't ready to be separated into a smaller group yet. Scanning each of the uniformed personnel carefully, he concluded that he didn't know any of them, and that none of them held any upper rank. The officer in charge hadn't shown his face yet, and was probably supervising the search of the jet itself.

He was busy inventorying the equipment in the hanger when someone lightly took his elbow from behind. He fought down the urge to respond automatically, and instead, turned slowly and found himself looking right into the face of a middleaged woman.

"Here, young man. Let me help you." She directed him to the infirmary area with a determined pull on his arm. "You probably don't even know you're hurt. Here," she pulled a tissue from her cardigan pocket and daubed his forehead. It came away bloody. "Take this and hold it on your head." She stuffed the tissue in Illya's right hand and guided it to the injury. "There you go. I see you hurt your arm, too. Sit over here."

Illya felt like he was getting the bum's rush, but didn't fight back. That might raise more attention than he wanted. The woman made him sit next to a set of Japanese youngsters, obviously twins that had scrapes on their arms.

"My name is Trudy, and I am a retired Navy nurse. Let me see your hand." She reached for his left arm.

"No, no, I think I'm alright, really. There's other people hurt worse than I am. OUCH!" Trudy had pressed a spot just above the wrist that showed a suspicious lump.

Trudy snorted. "I don't think so. It's broken, I'm sure." She positioned his arm against his abdomen. "Hold it there. I'll see about a splint and a sling."

Illya, one hand holding the tissue on his head and the other pressed against his stomach didn't argue. That way, she would leave. After she left, he felt the eyes of the twins staring at him. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said to the children, slightly exasperated. When they didn't respond, he repeated it in Japanese and they smiled and nodded. His talking made him aware of his accent, and he quickly concocted a cover story.

Trudy came back with sections of cloth and a rolled magazine. "Well, this will have to do," she said. "I've been stuck with less to work with." She placed the rolled magazine as the splint and wound one cloth firmly around the forearm and wrist until it was rigid, then made a sling with another cloth. Then she wrapped his head. A bloody spot immediately bloomed into sight. "Head wounds always bleed like crazy. It'll stop."

"You are very good," Illya finally said. "Thank you."

Trudy squinted her eyes at him. "I can't place the accent. German?"

Illya tried to smile pleasantly. "No. Dutch. Armaand Haverstock." He offered his right hand. "Nice to meet you."

Trudy's wrinkled face brightened slightly with a smile. "Trudy Kidd. Nice to meet you." She shook his hand briefly. "And you were correct, Mr. Haverstock, you aren't the worst injured. So if you'll excuse me," she got up to go.

"Certainly," he said amicably, and she walked away. Illya let out a relieved breath, and continued to scan the hanger. He also made a mental list of the armaments tucked away, by habit, on his person. His gun was wrapped in his jacket and stashed in the overhead luggage compartment of the jet; another problem when they found it. He knew approximately where in Russia he was. If he could slip away…

There was some action at one of the hanger entries. The guards snapped to attention as a superior officer entered. It had been a couple of hours since the jet had touched down, so Illya figured they had finished their preliminary search of the aircraft. He edged closer, without appearing to do so, hoping to get close enough to overhear.

He saw the officer gesturing and talking, and Illya made out something about sorting the group. He saw some papers in the man's hand and wondered if there was a printed passenger manifest on board. The papers were handed off to a guard, who then cleared his throat.

"When I call your name," he said with a thick accent, "Please move over there." He pointed to an empty corner of the hanger. He raised the list and started reading. It was alphabetical. Illya watched as each person stood when they were called and moved to the indicated corner. There, the person's identifying papers were then taken from them, and they were again separated by nationality.

When the officer came to the name 'J. Clark', there was no response. Illya saw his chance and stepped forward, past the puzzled face of Trudy, but she didn't say anything.

"Mr. Clark, please give me your identification," the guard asked, almost boredly.

"I don't have any." Illya replied. "It's all in my luggage on the plane."

The guard raised his eyebrows.

"And my name is Haverstock. I took Mr. Clark's place on the flight today."

The guard was now perplexed. "No papers at all?"

"No, none with me. If I could go back on the jet…"

"No, I don't think so. Go over there for now." The guard pointed to another spot, separate from the rest.

When the list was complete, there were fifteen others with Illya who all claimed to have identification on the jet. As the other groups were moved out of the hanger, Illya could just see out the hanger door. He saw the groups escorted across the tarmac to a building.

The jet Captain voiced loud complaints about everyone being separated, insisting that they all be kept together. The guards and ranking officer were kept busy trying to placate him, and finally Illya heard him get threatened with arrest. The pilot backed off, and Illya was relieved. The sooner they were out of this hanger and away from such direct scrutiny, the better for him to escape.

A small electric cart came into the hanger, loaded with purses, papers and jackets. One by one, each remaining passenger was allowed to find his personal belongings and identification, then moved out. Illya was the last to approach the depleted pile. There were just a few guards left, and the ranking officer had departed.

Illya pawed through the items. "My jacket is not here."

The guards looked at each other. One said in Russian, "Now what?"

The other replied in kind. "Don't ask me. He probably needs to be detained alone. Some items did burn in the plane."

"And there was that gun they found in that coat." They glanced at Illya, sizing him up.

"He doesn't look like he would even know how to hold a gun!" They both snorted a short laugh at that one.

"Yeah, maybe he's a hired killer!" Again, quiet laughter between them.

Illya understood everything, but kept his face passive. So far, so good.

"Let's put him in the briefing room. The Captain can figure out what to do with him."

Illya acted surprised when they took his arm and lead him off. Outside, he glanced around. The only security he saw was a wobbly chain link fence around the base. The perimeter guards must be watching the passengers, he thought as he gauged which way he would be the best way to escape. The bite of the wind reminded him of his lack of supplies, especially a coat. Maybe the briefing room would yield something.

The guards lead him through an entry door, which entered a hall lined with doors. Guards were outside several of the doors and Illya presumed that's where the passengers were being held. The guards pushed him into a small room and shut the door.

His hopes dropped. There were some tables and a bookcase, but that was about it. He went to the small window to gauge his distance from the perimeter fence, and noticed two men just meeting outside; they looked furtively around as if they wanted to be alone. Illya noticed they were in front of a smaller building, which was topped with numerous antennas and radio dishes. His hopes perked up again; he felt along the hem at the bottom of his shirt and dislodged a lump, producing an ear piece with a box-like device attached. His left fingers didn't work very well, and he fumbled to press the box to the window. Now he could hear most of what they were saying.

"I don't like this. How did he find out about the device? I can't let him have it, understand? It was my way out of here! Is he taking the navigational tapes from the jet? There should be evidence on there! We have to move, fast. Tell our Thrush contact that I need to meet this afternoon. If they want the device, they have to get it, and me, out of here before the General!"

"Yes, yes, I will. Moving the timetable up should not be a problem. I will notify…"

The rattling of the door knob made Illya jump and palm the device just as the door swung open. The guard's Captain entered, alone, and the door was closed behind him. The two men regarded each other suspiciously.

"So, Mr. Clark, tell me .." the Officer started.

"I am not Clark," Illya corrected. "My name is Haverstock. Armaand Haverstock. I'm a salesman in the same company as Mr. Clark."

"So I am told," the Captain said slowly. "And you are Norwegian?"

"No," Illya said slowly, knowing the man was trying to trap him. "Dutch."

"Pardon my mistake," he said again, studying Illya. "You have no identification?"

"I did on the plane. I don't know where it is now."

The Captain walked slowly around Illya, sizing him up. Illya tried to look innocent, and held up his arm. "This arm hurts. Do you have some aspirin or something?" The Captain replied in Russian. Illya looked perplexed. "What? I don't understand..." The man then replied in Dutch. Illya smiled, and replied in same. "Thank you. You speak Dutch very well."

"I don't speak very much of it though," he replied in accented English again. "There were several names on the list with no one claiming them," the Captain said.

Illya waited, looking polite.

"Three looked Russian. We are checking them now."

Great! Thought Illya, not letting his expression give him away. I've got to get moving. I don't know where this fellow stands in his politics, and I can't take any chances. "I hope you find them," he replied politely. "Meanwhile, I think I need to rest. Between the shock of the landing and my arm, I don't feel very well. May I lie down in here?" He indicated the floor.

The officer cocked his head as if making a decision about this man in front of him. "Of course. I will notify your government that you are otherwise unharmed." And he turned on his heel and left the room.

Illya immediately zeroed in on the window and got to work. He didn't have much time. His communication pen was on the jet with his gun, and combined with the conversation he just overheard, the communication building out there was a tempting target. The latch on the window yielded easily, and he pushed it open. It was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze through and drop to the near-frozen ground. His arm throbbed painfully, but he pushed the pain aside and ran to the communication building.

There were no guards on this side of the building. Illya knew they had plenty to keep them occupied, and carefully examined the target building. A survey through the windows revealed a less than skeleton crew inside. In fact, the only person inside was the man he saw earlier. He was hunched over a console and working feverently. Illya assumed he was trying to disconnect whatever it was that Thrush wanted, and the agent saw an opportunity.

He went around and quietly entered via the door and used one of the numerous consoles as cover. The man was swearing in Russian, mumbling about a lack of proper tools. It was quiet for a moment, then the man rushed by Illya and out the door. Now was the time.

He reached the console that was now open and peeked in. Recognizing radar emitters and tracking devices, he at first missed the small, green box attached to the assembly. Illya cocked his head, thinking, but couldn't figure what it was for. He finally realized it was a small power amplification device, and visually traced it to the radar tracking hardware, but still couldn't figure out what it did. Standing up, he found a log on the table and flipped through the last few pages. They were power readings, mixed with range and distance numbers, but something wasn't quite right. Illya slipped the logbook inside his shirt, holding it firm against his skin with his slinged arm.

Next, he made for a radio and dialed in the frequency for the Sapporo U.N.C.L.E. office. He dashed off a message in code, indicating he was following up a Thrush lead on an unknown radar device. Keeping it very short and not waiting for a response, he reset the frequency and exited the building. The quiet indicated that he wasn't missed from his holding room yet, and took a moment to extract another device from the hem of his shirt, affixing it to the window of the radio room, directly across from his holding room. Then, he made his way back and climbed into the holding room.

He was just settling down again when the door to his room rattled and creaked open, letting in the Russian Captain. Illya tried to look like he was roused from sleep. Trudy was with the man.

"See to him." The Captain growled, then left.

"I have the painkillers you requested," Trudy said easily as the door closed. Then she moved in closer. "Captain Glenn is quite adamant about knowing where everyone is. I think our gatekeepers are getting tired of him, and will want to get us out of here soon!" She said, handing Illya some pills. "Aspirin. It's all we have right now."

Illya took them. "Thank you."

She reached over and started adjusting the sling before Illya could step away. She felt the notebook, and her eyes flicked up to his, but continued the adjustment. "There's more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Haverstock." She stated quietly.

Illya calmly regarded her with a noncommittal expression.

Trudy continued. "I saw you sneaking around outside. You're lucky I wasn't a guard."

"Yes, apparently I am lucky."

"What were you looking for? Better yet, what did you find?" she asked.

"Nothing of interest."

He held her eyes for a few seconds. Hers were skeptical, his, cool.

"Alright. If you say so." She rose to her feet. "I need to report your progress to our Captain." She stopped at the door and turned, with a small grin. "I will be keeping an eye on you, though."

Illya let slip a rare smile. "I bet you will," he responded. "But I think you'll be bored."

She knocked to be let out. "Somehow, Mr. Haverstock, I doubt I will be. It's just a feeling, you know."

Then she was gone.

Illya spent his time going through the notebook page by page. The implications of what he saw worried him. There were a few things missing, and he felt those items had been left out on purpose by the man who wrote this, but he was still able to make out the purpose of the log. It was a record of trials run on a navigational altering device.
That would explain the jet's drift into Russian airspace, but didn't answer the question of who ran the tests - the Russian government or Thrush. Simple deduction of an overheard conversation made the agent believe that the inventor, possibly the man outside earlier, was a government worker trying to buy his way into Thrush. So who was this General he spoke of? How did he fit in? And where was this device, exactly?

Stuffing the notebook back in his shirt he stood up when he heard murmurs outside. Peeking out the window, he saw the man and another person go inside the building. Illya connected his ear piece, and aimed it at the amplifying device he stuck on the window outside. Now he could hear the conversation in the radio building clearly.

"I've disconnected the device, and it's ready to go. The jet outside will have to be ample proof that it works! I need to get out of here now. It's now or never. If Thrush wants it, we need to go now! General Asikov is just now reviewing the flight tapes, and will take them and the device when he leaves. What is your answer?"

Illya didn't hear the response. "Asikov!" he whispered out loud. "Pietor Asikov is here?" He straightened up, stunned, and began tucking away his devices. With only one working hand, it was difficult to do that with any speed, but he didn't really notice at the moment. He had to get away. Now.

Illya Kuryakin started to work the window again with new vigor. Asikov knew him from another life, his Navy life. As a KGB officer, Asikov especially knew him as an enemy of the people. Illya had slipped away from him before, and he knew that the grudge was still strong. That's the way Pietor Asikov was; unfinished business annoyed him, and that's exactly what the blond agent was to the man. Unfinished business.

Illya slipped out the window, knowing dusk wasn't far off and he didn't have much time. He stayed low, and ran to the fence on the other side of the communication building. Luckily, the fencing material was old, and the bottom wires were loose enough for him to wiggle under. He shivered from the cold, and made a mental calculation as to the direction of the city of Habarovsk. He needed better clothing and supplies, but first needed some distance from this place before Asikov found the passenger manifest. Deciding on a direction, he took off at a run, hoping the guards were fighting fatigue from their unplanned guard duties involving the passengers and a very long day.

He was just to the edge of the open area around the base when he heard the sound of dogs barking; many dogs, and they were coming his way. He also heard the sound of shouting men and patrol trucks leaving the base.

Illya threw himself into the dismal brush that was dotted with snow. The dimming daylight was the only thing working for him now. As he fought his way through the failing light, he saw a spot of sun on the horizon and pushed himself even harder. The dogs were much closer, and he could hear trucks on two sides of him. He found a spot close to a large boulder and ditched the notebook, and took a moment to catch his breath. His arm was throbbing, and he knew that his head was bleeding again as it was running down his cheek.

He saw he was next to a dirt road, and heard trucks coming his way. Illya looked around, and came up with a plan. A weak one, but it was all he had. He took off the bloody bandage from his head and tossed it onto the middle of the road, and crouched down behind a boulder next to it. He was counting on the truck being a two-man patrol.

He was able to catch his breath before the truck came to a sliding stop at the sight of the bandage. Illya went to the back of the rock, and peeked around it. His guess was right; two of them. The driver was just stepping out, and swung his rifle around. The passenger was in front of the truck, holding the bandage and talking on a radio. Illya heard him calling for back up.

The agent tossed a rock behind the truck, and the driver swung around and walked back to the noise. When he was next to the boulder, Illya jumped out and kicked the rifle out of the man's hands. Then he chopped him with his good hand, grabbing for the rifle now hanging by a sling around the guard's neck with his broken one. His arm screamed in pain, and his fingers fumbled momentarily, but he got a grip on the muzzle and yanked it free, swinging it around to the surprised radioman in one movement. One shot took the man out. Illya turned on the driver, who was just coming around, and knocked him out with the rifle butt. He took the man's handgun as well.

He jumped in the jeep and fired it up, discarding the idea of taking the men's jackets; he didn't have time. Throwing the small truck into gear, he shot down the road, his arm and head throbbing.

The dirt road intersected with a poorly maintained, two-laned one, and Illya geared up. He heard the whizz of bullets go by his head and stole a glance behind him to see two trucks in pursuit. Great! he thought, jamming the pedal down. He returned fire with the handgun, taking out a windshield. The damaged truck swerved dangerously, but kept on.

The road was curvy and shooting haphazard. If anyone hit anything it would be from sheer luck. Illya shot off a couple of rounds, hoping to slow them down a little more, when he entered a long, sweeping turn around a hill. When he came around the other side, he saw that the road merged with a larger one, and that his entry lane was blocked by at least five military trucks. He wrenched the wheel to the left, trying to cut across to the road before the roadblock. The sound of bullets hitting the side of his vehicle made him duck, and then there was a gut wrenching drop, and everything went black just as he noticed the last of the golden daylight striking the meager trees tops above him.

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

Napoleon Solo studied the unsealed files of Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin to try and get an idea of what his partner might do. Solo knew what he was capable of, as he had seen him in action for years now, but this was unknown territory for Solo. Illya was going to have to tap every resource he could find out of this one, and something in his history may give Solo a clue as to what would be available to his friend. The files, however, were pretty meager in the pre-U.N.C.L.E. part of the Russian's life, and Solo didn't know if this was because the organization didn't have the information, or chose to keep it sealed. He suspected the former.

He also studied the terrain surrounding Habarovsk, and tried to figure out which way Illya would go. There wasn't much choice, really; south to China, north or west deeper into Russia, or east to the sea with Japan the closest ally.

So Illya'll make for the coast, he thought. That's a long way, 200 miles at the least. He was going over the geography of the coast in that region when his communicator beeped.

"Solo here," he said, eyeing the maps.

"Mr. Solo, we just got word from Sapporo," Mr. Waverly's voice said without preamble. "Mr. Kuryakin has managed to get a brief message to their office. He has discovered the possibility of a Thrush operative being responsible for the course change of the jetliner. Some kind of new device, right at the base, possibly without the Russian government's knowledge."

"Did he say anything else?" Solo asked. "Any escape plans?"

"No, I'm afraid not. It was very brief, we assume to avoid detection."

"Well, I guess we know that Thrush is active in that area now."

"It would seem so, Mr. Solo. Keep me updated on your plans."

"Yes, sir. Solo out."

Replacing the slim communicator in his pocket, the dark haired agent rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, the maps momentarily forgotten. He let out a sigh. "Ah, Illya, this is a game of hide and seek I wish I knew the rules to."

CHAPTER THREE

Voices drifted in and out, but the banging in his head was constant. Illya rolled his head aside, and was rewarded with renewed pain and some fireworks behind his eyelids. He moved his hand over his face, and was rewarded with a whole new set of aches in his upper body. On top of that, it hurt to touch his face, and the handcuffs were very snug on his swollen, broken arm.

The buzzing of voices was somewhat steady now, and he was aware of lying on his back on a cold, hard floor. He groaned, and rolled to his side to push himself up to a sit. His ribs had other ideas, and he decided to stay on his side.

Then the voices stopped, and he heard a low chuckle. Illya cracked his eyes, one being slightly stuck closed by what he figured was dried blood.

"My old friend Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Welcome home, comrade! We have missed you dearly!" The words were followed by another chuckle. "You have aged poorly, my friend. Your bones break easily!"

Another chuckle.

"Is this your idea of a homecoming party, Pietor?" Illya rasped, his throat dry. His vision settled enough for him to see the outline of General Asikov standing on the other side of the room, his foot up on a chair. There were two armed soldiers standing behind him.

"Homecoming party? You have picked up some bourgeois Western habits, Illya. There are no homecoming parties here; no one ever leaves!"

"I did," the dour agent corrected.

"Yes, you are correct. You did." The General pulled his foot down and walked over to the prone agent. "And now you are back! What a day this has been. Maybe it's a homecoming party for me! I've received all the gifts!" and he gave Illya a quick kick in the abdomen. "And you shall be my gift to the Kremlin. Everyone will be happy."

Illya blinked away the new fireworks and rolled onto his back again. "Not me, I'm afraid."

"That's alright. When you're dead, you won't be the wet blanket anymore. Meanwhile, that annoying American pilot insists that you get medical treatment. In the interest of international relations, I'm willing to allow medical treatment. I do want to make sure you make it to the Kremlin alive, after all."

Illya heard the shuffling of boots, and he was yanked into a sitting position. He didn't give his hosts the satisfaction of any groans of pain, and they pushed him back against the wall so he wouldn't fall.

The boots retreated, and the door opened, and through a fog Illya saw a familiar figure enter the room. The General told the guards to observe, and he left.

Trudy knelt by his side. "I knew there was something about you," she said quietly as she put down a bowl of warm water and began to wash Illya's face. "Why did you try and escape? Is it true what Captain Glenn was told? That you are Russian?"

"No," Illya said. "I was Russian. I'm an American now. I defected."

"That would explain their love for you," she commented, making Illya issue a painful smile.

"Don't make me laugh," he mumbled. "It hurts."

Trudy snorted. "I see. Let me check you over." She gave him as a thorough exam as she could, keeping a professional demeanor.

Illya watched her, giving himself time to think. This wasn't the end. It couldn't be because he wouldn't let it be.

"Well, your arm is still broken," she announced.

"Very funny. Anything else?"

"Concussion, some cracked ribs. This head would re opened, but looks under control now. Got a headache?"

"No. I have a head explosion."

"Not surprised. You'll live." Her tone was light, but her eyes told a different story, and Illya gave her a thin smile.

"Thanks."

"I get the feeling that you've been through this before. You have some…interesting…old scars, Mr. Haverstock." Her eyes shined as she grinned a bit.

Illya smiled, and tried not to laugh. "Illya Kuryakin. And don't make me laugh!"

"Whatever you say, Mr. Kuryakin." She gathered up her bowl, and glanced at the guards. "Captain Glenn is requesting regular visits to check on your health. Anything you need?"

"Yes. But I don't think you can get me what I need, so I'll decline the question." His eyes settled on her face as a thought crossed his mind.

Trudy's eyes sparkled again. "You may be surprised, Mr. Kuryakin. You may be surprised."

Just then he made his decision. "Not much surprises me." He glanced at the guards, sure she had followed his motion. "Your hair. May I ask a question?"

Illya could see her mind working behind her eyes, but she covered it with a relaxed smile. She saw Illya's eyes flick down to the cuffs on his hands, and back to her face. "Sure, ask away," she said slowly.

"How long does it take to pin it up? " Illya was fairly certain the guards didn't understand English, but he wasn't taking chances.

Trudy hesitated a second, then realized what he was asking. She reached up with a smile and patted the pinned up braid curled on the back of her head, slipping a hairpin out as she replied. "Not long. My husband always liked long hair." She made the motion of patting his hand as she stood, and slipped the pin in his fingers. "I suppose hair this long looks silly on a woman my age, but I like to think my husband is looking down from heaven in approval." She gathered the supplies. "Until later, then." She turned and marched sternly between the guards and out the door.

Illya gripped the hairpin and tried to make himself comfortable. Now he had to succeed; if they discovered the pin, Trudy would be in big trouble. He rolled so his back was to the guards and worked the pin. It was difficult work, and painful to his swollen wrist, but he pushed the pain aside and continued until he felt the lock slip. He loosened the cuffs just enough that he could slip them off, secured the pin in his waistline, and sat up, facing the guards. His head swam from the effort and throbbing pain, but he had to get his bearings. He had to move before backup guards arrived, or before Asikov removed him from the base under heavier guard.

The agent was trying to concentrate on a plan when the door opened and a guard spoke to the other two.

"The General will be removing this one within the hour. The nurse will be sedating him. After he is asleep, move him to the truck outside. The General will be riding along with him to the train station in a separate truck. He is loading up some things from the communications room now."

The two men nodded.

Asikov must be taking that device I saw; the one that brought the jet here. Illya filed that information away in his mind as he formed his escape plan.

It wasn't quite an hour before the door opened again. Trudy entered with a frown on her face. She obviously was not happy. She had a small tray covered with a towel.

"Captain Glenn is raising a real stink about this, Mr. Kuryakin." She said as she came closer and stopped. "That General is insisting on drugging you with morphine and taking you away. I'm here to administer the dose; my doing it was the only concession the General would agree to." One side of the woman's lip curled into a tight grin. "Captain Glenn has really been a thorn in that man's side!"

"Asikov needs thorns in more than his side," Illya said matter-of-factly. Then he met her eyes again, hoping she'd pick up on his signals. Trudy raised an eyebrow slightly; she's sharp, this one, Illya thought. "I need help sitting up and holding my arm still." He flicked his eyes to one of the guards, and raised his hands slightly so Trudy could see the loose cuffs. Her eyes widened, and she tried to keep from smiling.

She put the tray down and picked up the syringe, checking the dose. "This will knock you out fairly quickly," she said conversationally as she turned to the guards. "Hey, you! Some help here, please?"

The guards looked at each other, not having any idea what she was saying, but got the idea. One of them shrugged, slipped the slinged rifle around to his back and came over.

"Cushion," Illya said softly, nodding to the cushion on the chair next to Trudy. She plucked it up and sat it on his lap, covering his hands as he slipped the cuffs. He flicked his eyes from the syringe to the approaching guard, and Trudy's eyes gleamed in understanding. She tapped the bubbles from the syringe.

The next seconds went like they were choreographed. Trudy indicated that the guard should kneel to help her so his body would block the action from the standing guard, who was looking bored anyway. Illya mentally crossed his fingers and moved. His good had shot up and latched on the guard's throat with a deadly grip, quieting him as Trudy injected the morphine in his unsuspecting bicep. She was amazed at the power in the agent's hand. Illya grabbed the handgun from the guard's side holster as he sagged in his grip, then released him as he raised the muzzle to the other guard. He would have shot the other guard, but Trudy had sprung to her feet, a second syringe in hand.

"Tell him to hold still," she said quickly, not wanting any bloodshed.

Even though Illya's order was in Russian, Trudy had no doubt of the intent of the order. His tone alone was scary; the cold, gleaming look in his eye left no room for doubt. The guard froze, knowing his life was in real danger. She quickly injected him, too, and Illya was unmoving in his threat until the guard slumped to the floor.

Illya had shoved the sleeping guard off his legs, and painfully struggled to his feet. Stars floated in his vision as he tucked the handgun away and squatted to undressing the downed man. He swayed on his feet, fighting back the stinging pain his every breath brought.

Trudy was quiet for only a moment. "Here, let me help you."

Between the two of them they switched clothes with the sleeping man and Illya. Trudy bandaged the guard's head to cover the darker hair, then studied Illya carefully. "You'll never be able to get him out there by yourself."

"And I can't endanger you anymore. I'll need to inject you, too, so it looks like I overpowered you."

Trudy raised her eyebrow again as Illya grabbed his ribs and took a moment to rest. "You couldn't overpower a flea right now Mr. Kuryakin."

He managed a grin. "Illya. Please, call me Illya. And don't make me laugh. It hurts!"

Without another word, Trudy stripped the second guard and donned his clothing and weapons. Illya protested, but she shushed him with look. "Do you think it's going to be easy on any of us when this is discovered? I'm sure the passengers will eventually get home, but I'm not so sure about you. This way, at least I'm doing something other than sitting here on my duff. Subject closed. Let's go."

Still not happy but accepting the reply Illya stood and started to gather up the smaller of the sleeping guards. Trudy was at his side in an instant, and between the two of them, got the body gathered up. "Wait," Trudy bent down, retrieved the handcuffs, and snapped them on the guard. "Everything's in the details," she said softly as Illya shook his head. They moved to the door.

Illya kept his head down as they dragged the guard along. He concentrated on putting one painful step ahead of the other, and glanced around when they got outside. He saw two small trucks parked by the communications building, and saw a technician loading a device in the back of the lead vehicle. He hoped the keys were in the ignition.

He could hear a man arguing with Asikov inside the building. Trudy and Illya threw the guard in the lead vehicle, and as Trudy got into the driver's seat, Illya slipped out a hunting knife he recovered from one of the guard's boots and stuck it in two of the second truck's tires. Quickly, he moved to the lead truck. He opened his mouth as he got in the passenger's seat.

"No argument. I'm driving. I drove through battlefields in Korea," Trudy said as she fired up the engine. "I can do this."

Illya snapped his jaw shut, and instead, pulled the rifle around. "Fine. Just don't get a ticket."

Trudy let out a short snort as she gunned the engine and headed for the gate. Her sideways glance at Illya showed the fear she felt as they raced to the exit. Illya gave her a quick smile and a nod as he raised the rifle at the two surprised gate guards, picking them off easily. Trudy slammed the truck into the aged gate, and it collapsed without even slowing them down. They heard gunshots, shouts and the whistle of bullets over their heads as they left a trail of dust behind them.

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

Solo's first hours in Sapporo were busy locating the radio operator that had picked up Illya's brief call, and familiarizing himself with the office set up. He got a car assigned to him, and made sure it was ready to go, and arranged to have the radio man meet him at a coastal office with comparable equipment. Solo knew that aircraft were difficult to come by in Russia, and that his partner would most likely need a pick up by sea eventually.

There was a short break as he drove to the coastal office, alone. Illya was very tight lipped about his time in his home country, but Solo was sure he had ways of getting around. After all, he had worked under the government's nose in an underground railroad-type group, or so he'd heard from others, and Solo knew the abilities and extent of his partner's wiliness. Still, there was a lot working against him, and he was alone in a large, under developed area. It all came down to stamina and determination, both qualities Kuryakin had in spade. Solo grinned to himself, adding stubbornness to the list.

On his arrival at the coast, he was glad to have the chore of locating a sea-worthy vessel that could be ready to launch in an instant. Napoleon Solo wasn't one for sitting and waiting, and he knew that's where this would come down. He had to be ready.

CHAPTER FOUR

Trudy careened on in the truck until she was sure there was a good distance between them and the base, and figured she'd taken enough twists and turns to throw off pursuers. She stopped long enough for them to shove the sleeping guard out, then continued on, off the main road. She noticed how her companion favored his left side, and was concerned at his obvious battle to ignore his pain.

Anyone following would have a tough time finding them in the stand of brush she eventually found. It had been a long, rough ride, and the quietness of her passenger was starting to worry her. As she came to a jolting halt, he slumped down, the rifle muzzle jammed in the floor and the butt against his chest, holding him upright.

"Mr. Kuryakin," she said firmly, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. "Hey! Sorry about the rough ride, but.." she stopped talking when she realized that her hand was wet from touching him. Turning her palm, she saw that it was shiny with blood. "Hey! Soldier!" She said a little louder, taking both his shoulders in her hands. "Wake up!"

The only response she got was a slight groan, and a roll of the blond man's head. Trudy tore open the uniform jacket and discovered that he'd been shot. The projectile had entered from the back, just between the spine and the shoulder blade. There was no exit wound, and two possibilities crossed her mind as she tried to control the bleeding and bit her lip: Either the bullet was stopped by the collar bone or it had angled near or in the thoracic vertebrae. I have to stabilize this. He's lost a lot of blood, she thought, instantly going into emergency nurse mode. And there's never a surgeon around when you need one!

Trudy was thankful for the darkness as she stabilized Illya's left side. She kept glancing in the direction of the road, but there was no sign of pursuit yet. When daylight came, they would have to take better cover. She also knew it would be better to have him lying down, but didn't dare move him too much until he was more aware and she could determine were the bullet was lodged exactly. When he was as secure as she could make him, she checked the rest of the truck for anything useful.

The box in the back had lots of exposed wiring and dials, and didn't appear to be anything useful to their predicament. She shoved it aside as she looked under the seat, where she found a green ammo box. Opening it, she found some flares, a small length of rope, and of all things, a hand grenade! The immediately shut the lid and shoved the box back under the seat with a shiver. The only other thing in the truck was a folded camouflage tarp just big enough to cover the small truck.

She was contemplating the possibility of making a shelter of some sort when her patient groaned. Moving to his side from outside the truck she gently lay her hands on his uninjured right arm to steady him. Immediately at her touch, his hand moved like lightening and grabbed her throat. She was unable to utter a sound, and breathing was instantly difficult.

As she fought to take in air, she saw the blond man slowly turn his head towards her. His blue eyes were icy and hard, sending a frightening chill through her body; My God, he's going to kill me! she thought in a panic, astounded at the strength in his grip. Both of Trudy's hands were now trying to pry his fingers off her throat, and she was able to let out a small squeak of panic. Illya blinked at the sound, and his eyes seemed to clear. When she saw them soften and widen slightly, the grip was just as quickly gone.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry! Forgive me!"

Trudy rubbed her throat as she took a step back, and gasped for breath. A few more seconds would have resulted in a crushed larynx, she was sure. There was more to this man, and for a second she was afraid. What had she gotten into? In her past battlefield nursing experience, she had defended herself against delirious soldiers before, but this man's attack had been calculated, rehearsed and well executed, and it frightened her. She was able to push the pain and fear aside when she saw him struggling to get out of the truck.

"No, you have to stay still," she whispered hoarsely, one hand on her throat and the other reaching out to keep him seated.

"I need to keep moving," he replied, brushing off the hand. When he swung his legs out and tried to stand, his knees threatened to give away.

"No, you need to keep still. There's a bullet in you somewhere, near your spine." She reached into her uniform jacket and pulled out several loaded syringes. "I have more morphine here. Don't make me use it, you really need it anyway." Illya glared at her, but she had seen how frightening his look could be, and this one wasn't nearly as scary. She just snorted a laugh. "Doctor's orders."

He narrowed his eyes. "You aren't a doctor."

"I'm closer to it than you, mister! I mean it! You move too much or too suddenly, and you could really be in trouble."

He studied her for a moment, then turned his attention to the back of the truck. "I have no doubt you'd use that on me, so I'll behave. For now. Let's see what we have here." Leaning heavily on the truck for support, Illya tried to reach for the electronic box, but couldn't quite reach it.

"Here," she said, her voice almost back to normal. "I'll get it." She reached in and pulled the box closer. "What is it?"

Illya turned the box over and fingered the wires. "I'm not sure if it's complete, but I believe this is the reason we're in Russia and not Japan."

"Come again?" Trudy replied, confused.

"If my reasoning is correct, I think this is all or part of a navigational warping device. It's not a jamming device, which stops readings. This alters the readings."

She brightened up. "You mean the readings in the cockpit were tampered with? This thing changed the readings of the navigational gauges?"

The blond agent nodded, wincing in pain at the motion. "Yes. I think our flight was a test run. If this had happened to a military aircraft, it could result in a war."

"But why? Who would want that?"

Illya let out a dry laugh. "It's one way to get Russia's hands on the latest technology of other countries. And the military wouldn't mind a war. Keeps them busy. Whoever has their hands on this could control air traffic anywhere." He pushed the device back on the seat. "I've got to get this to New York," he said softly.

It was Trudy's turn to laugh. "New York? From here? With this old truck and with you in that shape? I think that's going to take a bit longer than you realize."

He hesitated. "We'll see," he stated. "I have some…resources."

Trudy narrowed her eyes. "Who exactly are you, anyway? I think we've already established the fact you aren't a salesman." Her eyes sparkled.

"No, I'm not. I work for an international agency called U.N.C.L.E."

"Really?" Trudy said. "I've heard of them! My husband was in Army intelligence, and told me all about them." Her tone softened. "He was going to approach U.N.C.L.E. for work after his time was up in the Army. He died in Korea, though."

Illya tried to make out her face, but his vision was wavering. "I'm sorry," he managed to say as he wobbled his way back to the truck seat. "If he was anything like you, he would have been an asset."

Trudy caught him as his knees gave out. "You're weak from blood loss. We need to build you back up. Where to? Any ideas?"

Illya nodded, his eyes glassy. "Yes. There should be a couple of small towns around that supply the base. We need to get there and ditch this truck. It's too obvious. Follow the smaller roads east and south. We should stumble across one, but I'm sure they'll be heavily patrolled, so be careful. We'll park outside of town and walk in."

"Yeah, right." Trudy mumbled as she climbed in and fired up the truck, rubbing her throat. "We'll see how far you get on foot."

Illya spared a tight grin. "You remind me of someone I work with," he commented. "Always nagging."

Trudy pulled carefully out of the brush. "He must be a terrific person," she countered lightly.

"In his own mind, he is," Illya replied between gritted teeth as the truck hit a rough patch. It would be a long ride.

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

Early that morning Napoleon Solo departed for the docks with a couple of names of boat owners supplied by the Sapporo staff. He learned that three of the four were out on fishing runs, and weren't expected back for a day or so. He was down to the final name, and when he inquired as to the location of the boat from an old man at the dock, the old man scanned the horizon and pointed to a black dot in the distance.

Napoleon settled down to wait. The dot grew larger, and then became recognizable as a small fishing trawler. Not too fast, but sturdy, he mused. If we can triangulate on that device as we think we can, that boat could get us in the area we want to be. He was so deep in thought about how to pull this off in such a large amount of coast and water, he didn't immediately notice the person driving the boat. Finally he stood up, waiting to greet the vessel, and was shocked to realize that the captain was a woman, and she was the only one aboard.

The Asian woman's hair was tucked up under a wide-brimmed hat, and she had on a large coat and boots, but when Solo saw her eyes studying him, he could tell she was a stunning woman. Her skin was clear, her eyes alive, and her expression one of aloof suspicion.

By the time she docked and threw the mooring rope to him, she knew he wanted to speak with her, and waited for the right moment to acknowledge him.

Solo tried to study her without looking like he was doing so. She was in her early twenties, he decided, and was lithe and sure in her movements. Working a trawler this size was second nature to her.

"My name is Napoleon Solo. Your name, well, actually I think it's your father's name, was given to me about a boat rental."

She eyed him up and down, but her eyes softened. "Yes," she said slowly in heavily accented English. "He does rent the Empress out, but he is out fishing, and won't be back for several days."

Solo straightened his tie in an unconscious act as he smiled at her. "Well, does your father allow you to rent out the Empress, Miss…?"

"Inturi. Stevie Inturi." She finished tying off the boat and brushed her hands together just before sweeping off the hat. Her long, black hair was shiny and thick as it fell over her shoulders. "Maybe. He leaves those decisions to me in his absence."

"Well, Miss Inturi," Napoleon said with a grin, "I belong to an international group call U.N.C.L.E., and we could use your boat. Can we discuss it over some tea?"

Stevie ducked her head slightly, and looked at him through her lashes. When she smiled, her brilliant white teeth made Solo fight to keep his composure. "I am familiar with your group. My father approves of it. Yes, we can have some tea. Excuse me, I need to change first."

She stepped back in the boat and shed the waterproof, hooded parka. Out of a bag she produced a dark purple, silk jacket that went perfectly with the simple black pants she wore. She also slipped off the rubber boots, and replaced them with simple black slipper shoes.

When she stepped off the boat the second time, Solo realized that this rescue mission wasn't a grim as it was only 15 minutes ago.

CHAPTER FIVE

Trudy tried to keep some talk going in an effort to keep Illya conscious, but she was unsuccessful. Finally running across a small road, she followed it out of the small valley. She stopped when the road crested a long, sweeping hill. Far below, she could see a collection of buildings she assumed was a town. Knowing her patient needed rest, she ventured off road again to a small stand of trees and parked.

"Hey," she prompted, feeling his forehead. "You have to wake up soon."

"I am awake," Illya grumbled. "Just quite pounding on my head."

"Headache, huh? I'll just add that to the list." She got out of the truck and went around to his side. "We're near a town, I think. Are we going disguised as soldiers?" She held her arms out, indicating the uniforms.

Illya squinted at her, then looked around. "They are a dark color, and it will be night soon." He struggled out of the truck.

Trudy's every instinct was to jump to his side, but she held back, first, to judge his condition and second, because she knew he didn't really want any help. He'll collapse soon anyway. Then he won't have the choice, she thought. The determined Russian fixed his eyes in the direction she pointed. "That a-way," she said.

He made his way slowly to the edge of the trees and studied the gathering of buildings in the distance.

Trudy could see his eyes take in the town and surroundings, and could tell that is mind was hard at work. Instinctively she knew that this was his ball game, and she would trust what ever he came up with. She didn't know much about Mr. Kuryakin, but the collection of scars she had seen on his body attested to his survival skills.

"We have a couple of hours. Let's inventory the truck." Illya started to make his way back to the vehicle, but Trudy stopped him.

"I already have. I'll show you what I found." She made his sit under a tree and rest while she retrieved the ammo box and camouflage tarp. "There's this and the spare tire and jack. That's about it."

Illya raised his eyebrows and nodded at the contents of the box. "A grenade and flares! Actually, that's more than I was hoping for. This tarp can work for us, too. That box, though, is a bit obvious. We need to leave that. We can use the crank bar to the jack, too. And there's still a couple of rounds in the rifle, and I still have the handgun."

Trudy patted her pocket. "And I still have two doses of morphine."

Illya threw her pocket a suspicious look. "And there they will remain, Mrs. Kidd. Unless, of course, you're aiming for the opposition's blood."

She gave him a crooked smile. "We'll see, my friend. We'll see." She sat down next to him. "OK, we have a little time before dark. Why don't you teach me some of the language so I don't feel so left out?"

They spent the next few hours as student and teacher as Illya attempted to supply Trudy with some basic Russian. Illya knew he had a knack for learning new languages, and had a difficult time trying to break down Russian for a beginner. "Now I know why I never taught my partner Russian," he sighed. "It's simply a lesson in frustration for me!"

Trudy was undaunted. "Oh, come on! I'm not that bad. Here, listen!" and she said a sentence for her teacher. "See?"

Illya shook his head. "That's great, but you just asked me if a cow bit your fireplace. Not exactly a useful utterance."

"I did not! Did I?" she tried unsuccessfully not to giggle. "I wasn't very good in Spanish class, either! But I did say 'friend' correctly, right? 'Tovarich'?"

Illya winced at the pronunciation, but nodded. "Yes. And that in itself is odd because that's the only word my partner really knows, too."

"What's your partner's name?"

"Solo. Napoleon Solo. And if I know him, he's waiting for us somewhere off the coast." Illya pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and sighed. "And I must be worse off than I thought. I shouldn't have told you that. Not at this point, anyway."

Trudy threw both of her hands up in a surrendering motion. "Consider it forgotten." Then she leaned in to him and dropped her tone. "You think he'll really find us? That seems impossible."

"I was able to get off a short message to U.N.C.L.E. and told them about that device in the truck. Hopefully, they'll figure out how to use that information to find us. If I can get that device to work, and if they can figure out what to look for, we can use it to lead them right to us."

"That's a lot of 'ifs'," Trudy pointed out. "Can you even get that thing to work?"

Illya grinned. "Add another 'if' to the list. I've worked with less." He turned his attention to the horizon. "It's getting dark. Let's pack up."

The rest seemed to have revived him a bit, and he moved a little easier, much to Trudy's relief. She knew it was short lived, though. They both needed water and food, and she knew it was deceptively quiet right now. The patrols were out there, and they had to stumble into them sometime.

They worked their way slowly towards the town. There were more times than Trudy could count when the noise of a vehicle made them drop into the brush. Soon it was an automatic reflex. As darkness fell, to grew colder, and she wondered out loud why they took the effort to hide from the vehicles in the dark.

“There is such a thing as ultraviolet binoculars. They can pick up figures in the dark. I don’t think Asikov has access to any out here, but there are others to worry about.

Trudy’s eye perked up. “Others? What others?”

The agent gave her a brief rundown on Thrush, and the possible tie in with the device. She gave the device a more respectful lookover. Illya had hauled the box with him, not without difficulty, and now she new what was at stake: Worldwide dominance of air travel.

It seemed like forever before they made it to the edge of the town. Illya had Trudy stay while he circled the perimeter, looking for a haven in the collection of buildings. She was beginning to doze when she finally felt his hand on her forearm and jumped.

“How long have I been asleep?” She whispered groggily, wiping her eyes and longing for a drink of water.

“A few hours. It took me a bit longer than I expected,” he replied, his tone a bit ragged to her ears.

Trudy tried to make out his face in the darkness, but wasn’t able to see much detail. She could tell that he was at the edge of his endurance just by the sound of his voice and the fogginess of his eyes.

“You need to rest,” she started.

“Later,” he snapped. “Take off the uniform and roll it into a bundle.” She did as she was told and tucked the bundle under her arm. She watched him roll the metal box in his uniform, using only his good arm. The broken one was cradled tightly against his body, and she knew it must be hurting. “There’s troops all over the streets, but it doesn’t look like they are searching. I don’t think they believe we could make it this far. We’re taking advantage of that.” His breathing was uneven and ragged, but his grip was firm on her arm. “Let’s go.”

He guided her none too gently off in one direction so they would enter the town from a different direction. They finally came across a small, well used footpath.

“This path leads to some produce fields just outside the perimeter,” he explained. “Every town in Russia has community fields. They can’t rely on outside supplies a lot of the time. This way.” He took her just off the path, then paralleled it towards town. He stopped her, and raised his finger to his lips, the universal sign for quiet. She nodded.

He slowed the pace to almost a crawl. When they reached the end of the brush, she saw that the first of the town buildings was just a few yards across an open space. Illya pulled her down to her knees, and he knelt beside her and put his face close to hers. It was then that she saw how ragged he really was, and knew he couldn’t keep on his feet much longer. She wondered how he kept going now.

“Keep close and move quickly, but watch your step. There are patrols by the footpath, but none here. They could hear us. Understand?”

She nodded, her eyes locked on his. It was difficult to quell the fear, and she knew it was clear in her eyes. His, however, looked shiny with pain, but confident and … deadly. Trudy wasn’t going to let him down.

He led off, with her right behind, following his every move. The blond man moved like oil on water; fluid and completely silent. Her own footsteps sounded like thunderclaps in comparison, but it must have been an illusion to her because they made it safely to the alley between two buildings. He kept her moving until the hard packed dirt changed to ill-kept asphalt, then he slowed. She could see his breathing as little puffs of clouds due to the cold, and noticed that he was panting compared to herself.

Instinctively, she took his good arm and moved in to support him. He didn’t complain. That’s when she knew he was in a bad way.

“You have to rest,” she insisted quietly.

“I will. Just a little longer,” he growled, directing her.

Soon Trudy had no idea where in the town they were. Illya weaved and ducked between buildings as if every turn held imminent danger. She supposed it did, but was focusing on keeping him on his feet and let him take on that worry.

There was only one time that she actually saw a patrol. Illya had dropped suddenly, pressing both of them against a cold, brick wall, wet with night moisture. They huddled against a crumpled cardboard box and tried not to breath as a pair of military men strolled by on a cross street not six feet away. The men were chatting, and one laughed briefly. They both had rifles across their chests.

Trudy waited almost a full minute after the soldiers were out of site before she dared to look at Illya. His eyes were closed, and his head was leaning back against the wall. His breathing was in short gasps.

“Hey,” she whispered, shaking his arm. His eyes immediately snapped open, and she felt him tense. She raised her hand to her throat without thinking, remembering the last time she woke him up. This time, however, his eyes focused more quickly and he began to struggle to his feet. She helped him, and they staggered off down one last, dark alley behind a larger building.

When they managed to make it to the door of the building, Trudy looked up, Illya now hanging on her arm. "This is a church!" She said between gasps.

"I know," Illya mumbled, concentrating on trying to keep his feet as his head swam.

"Aren't churches looked down upon by the government?"

"Yes, they are. And Asikov wouldn't think I would be brazen enough to hide here. What better place to hide out than one as conspicuous as this?" He sagged heavily against her as they stepped in the dark doorway.

It was a church, but barely. The Kremlin took the stand that the country should be agnostic, and the only church it barely tolerated was the Russian Orthodox Church. If a church ever proved to be a problem, it was immediately shut down, so they generally kept to themselves and didn't make waves. Illya was counting on that; the General would presume that the church would turn the agent away immediately to avoid problems. Illya knew Pietor Asikov thought only along Party lines. He was counting on that, anyway, and hoped the man hadn’t changed much since their time in the Navy.

As they stumbled into the vestibule area an older man in a long coat appeared at their side out of nowhere.

"Let me help you, brother," he said, taking the load from Trudy and dragging the stumbling blond agent to a very small, dark room with a wobbly cot. Trudy was amazed the cot didn't collapse when he lay Illya down, but quickly brushed aside the thought as she began to minister to her patient.

"I need warm, soapy water and clean cloths," she said in a calm, but direct manner as she began to strip the shirt off the fading Russian. Illya mumbled a translation, and the man that helped them slipped away to comply without a word. Even in his depleted state she had to pry the wrapped box out of his injured arm, and placed it gently under the cot. She examined the purple, swollen hand, and loosened the splint to keep circulation to his fingers. She checked his shallow breathing, and noticed the ugly bruises on his chest from the truck crash. It’s unimaginable how painful breathing must be for him, she thought. Checking his eyes in the poor lighting was difficult, and she wasn’t sure about the uneven pupil response she saw. I’m sure that’s from the concussion, she thought. There wasn’t much she could do about that, but she could clean the open wounds and bind his chest.

The man Trudy assumed was a priest due to the robes returned with a bowl of warm water, a sliver of soap, and some clean towels. “Thank you,” she said with a smile. The priest understood her tone and nodded.

The priest knelt on the other side of the cot and examined Illya with his eyes. Then he looked at her with a small smile. “I assume you are the reason for the soldiers on the street.” He said quietly. She had no idea what he was saying, but Illya mumbled a translation.

Trudy’s heart raced as she cleaned the blood from Illya’s shaggy bangs, but kept an outer calm. Will he turn us in? She thought nervously. Can we trust him?

Out loud, Illya responded slowly, “I don’t know about that. I hurt my self in the fields.” As his eyes drifted shut, he told Trudy what he’d said.

After a silent apology to God for his lying, she risked a quick glance at the man and saw his eyes sparkle as a smile passed quickly over his lips. Obviously, he didn’t believe that one, she thought.

He reached to help roll the agent on his side so she could reach his back. “God is the one that judges here,” he said quietly. “And God is the one that brought you here. You are safe.” Illya’s voice trailed off as he lapsed into unconsciousness at the end of the translation.

She spared a grateful look and a smile at the priest. “Thank you,” she whispered, knowing she was understood, then turned her attention back to her patient.

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

Stevie Inturi was a captivating woman. She carried herself with confidence and grace, and was a pleasure to talk with. Solo had enjoyed tea in her small house at her insistence, and found himself telling her more than he probably should have about the assignment.

“So, you need to set up some equipment to look for this radar anomaly?” She questioned after he explained everything.

“Yes. It is being done now at the hotel.”

“Would it not be better to be closer to the boat?” She asked softly, indicating her small house with her hand. “That way, when you finally get the tri-ang-u-lation,” she said the word slowly and carefully, “you can leave immediately?”

She is sharp, Napoleon thought, smiling and unable to stop staring at her dark, exotic eyes. “Well, that would be ideal, yes.”

“Then I invite you and your team to set up here,” she said in soft but final tone. “There is a life at stake, and my father always says ‘If you do a job, always do it well.’” Her smile dazzled Solo with its openness.

“Thank you, Miss Inturi. I accept your offer, with the understanding that U.N.C.L.E. will reimburse you for your kindness.” He stood, bowed his head slightly in thanks, and offered his had to help her up. “And I would love to meet your father some day. He sounds extraordinary.”

“Yes, Solo-san. I think he is,” she said as she got to her feet. “Now I have some marketing to do. Please feel free to come and go as you wish. I must inform my neighbors that you will be setting up so they will not be alarmed.”

“What are you going to tell them?” he asked curiously. He had told her of the need for secrecy.

Her eyes glimmered as she smiled and spoke with a grin. “I will tell them that you are testing a system for finding fish at sea. They know my father keeps up on the latest technology, and think he’s wasting his time. They will not bother you.”

The day flew by as Solo returned to the small hotel and retrieved the technician and his equipment. They were both glad to get to the quieter setting, and were soon finishing up the needed connections as Stevie assembled a simple yet filling dinner. After cleaning up from the meal, she studied the equipment piled in one side of her small living room area with a cocked head. Solo skipped the technical side of the explanation and went directly to the radar screen and gave her a verbal description of what they thought they were looking for.

“You see,” Solo explained, “If we have a set radar reading in a set spot, and the reading changes three or more time, we can triangulate and possibly estimate where the device, and my partner, are.” He pointed to the spot that designated Habarovsk. “We know the device was there. When we get an altered reading now, we will note the difference between this set reading and the new reading. After three readings, we should have an idea where Illya is.” He smiled at her frown. “It’s rather complicated, really. I don’t get it entirely. That’s why he’s here!” Solo nodded his head at the technician who let out a short snort of laughter.

“So this screen must be constantly monitored.”

“Yes. We have it programmed to alert us when there’s a change, however, so we don’t have to stare at it all day and night.”

“If this device is so new, how can your partner…Illya?…figure it out?”

Napoleon couldn’t help but smile. “Because my partner has the brain of a computer and the tenacity of a bulldog. I know he’ll figure it out.”

CHAPTER SIX

It was the better part of a day before Illya came around again. By then, Trudy had cleaned and probed the bullet wound as much as she dared. There were already signs of infection that mere cleaning wouldn’t stop, and she told him as much. Still, he fought to sit up.

“It’s hard to breathe with my ribs wrapped so tightly,” he grumbled.

Trudy about slapped him. “You’re lucky to be alive, mister. I’d stop complaining.”

“I’m not complaining. I’m just making note. Where’s the priest?”

“Gregory? He’s out with his congregation.” Trudy stretched out on the floor. “He has been very kind. I even learned the Russian word for ‘water’!”

“You need to learn the word for ‘gypsies’.”

“’Gypsies’?” she repeated hesitantly. “There really are gypsies?”

“Yes, there are. And we need to find some to get to the train. It’s the only way to cover the ground we need.” He started to bend over the edge of the cot to retrieve the box under it, but wound up hissing in pain and slowly straightening. “I think you have designed an armless straight jacket.”

Trudy reached over and plucked up the wrapped box with both hands and set it in his lap. “You need a straight jacket. I’ll remember that the next time you’re unconscious.”

The curling of Illya’s mouth on one side was the only indication that he had heard her as he unwrapped the box and examined it closely. “I need a power source,” he mumbled.

She let out a short laugh. “The only power I’ve seen here is candle power. Don’t they have electricity?”

“Sure they do. The power stations aren’t too trustworthy, though, especially outside the major cities. They still rely of candles. Still, there must be an outlet somewhere.”

He started to stand, waving Trudy back, when the curtain parted and Gregory the priest stepped in. “Brother Kuryakin! You shouldn’t be up.”

“We can’t stay, Father,” Illya replied softly in his native language. “We have put you in too much risk already.”

Gregory’s eyes shone with humor. “Yes. Injured field workers are certainly a threat to the authorities.”

Illya couldn’t help but grin. “Ah, yes. Exactly. I have an idea to get out of here, but first, do you have a place I can connect this?” He indicated the box.

The priest seemed to be weighing something in his mind as he regarded Illya with a tilted head. Then, he obviously made a decision. “Yes. Let me help you.” He offered his arm, and Illya took it to stand. Once on his feet, he stepped next to Trudy.

“Oh, now you need me,” she said jokingly. When Illya leaned on her arm, she could feel him shaking slightly. “You need food,” she said seriously. “Ask Gregory for some broth. You need it.”

“I’ll be…”

“Ask him!” She ordered, cutting him off. “You won’t get further than the front door if you don’t eat soon.”

With a sigh of resignation, he spoke to the priest, who replied immediately as he led them down a dark, narrow hall.

“It’s all ready taken care of. You happy now?” Illya said through partially clenched teeth. It hurt more to walk than he cared to admit, even to himself.

“Fine.” Trudy responded.

Gregory led them to a small room filled with books in bookcases. Trudy was impressed by the ancientness of the appearance of most of the leather bound volumes, many gold embossed, all well cared for. The priest motioned for them to stop, and stepped up to one bookcase. He felt along the wooden edge of one side, and one entire side of the case popped away from the wall. Gregory pulled the hidden door open, and motioned them inside.

“A secret room!” Trudy gasped, in awe.

“Not unusual, really,” Illya stated, unimpressed. “My people have lots of secrets they keep from the Government.” He followed Gregory into a tiny, dark cubicle that was filled with radio equipment.

“I’m sort of a ham radio fan,” the priest admitted. “The antenna is hidden in the steeple. Will this do?”

Illya couldn’t keep the grin off his normally stoic face. “Better than you know, Father! I would love to use this radio, too. I’ll be very brief.”

“Be my guest,” the priest replied with a bow. “Now I will make sure the broth finds its way here.”

“Before you go, Father. Do you know if any of the gypsy tribes are camped nearby?”

The priest’s expression turned thoughtful. “One of my congregation told me there were some camped near his farm. If that is true, they will come closer to town soon. They always obtain supplies before moving on.”

“You mean steal supplies, right?”

The priest sighed. “They are a lost people. I always visit them with the word of God when they are close by. It is my duty as a servant of God.”

When Gregory left, Illya gave her the summation of their discussion.’

“Again, why gypsies? Isn’t there a train station here in town?”

Illya fiddled with the radio for a moment. “Yes. A heavily guarded one. The General may be predictable, but he’s not stupid.”

Illya turned on the radio, and tuned it to the desired frequency. Before he broadcast, however, he set the green box on the table and fiddled with it. Gregory had a nice supply of tools for fine work, and Illya made use of them. The broth was delivered, and Trudy had to force him to drink it. Fine lines around the agent’s eyes hinted to the pain he still felt.

“You still have a headache, don’t you?”

“It’s getting better. Now hand me that screwdriver.”

She knew he was lying.

Illya worked quickly, using what he could remember from the book he had read. He wished he had it now. After nearly an hour he lay the tools down. “Okay, now. I hope this works.”

He checked the connections once more, plugged the box into the power source and turned it on. Other than a low humming noise, there was no indication anything was happening.

“Well, I was expecting more bells and whistles,” Trudy said softly.

“I’m hoping that’s at the other end,” Illya replied.

“Excuse me?”

“If my partner is on the ball, as he usually is, he should be noting something at his end. Unfortunately,” Illya reached over and disconnected the device as he spoke, “they’ll note the same things at the place we recent left. They’ll need at least two more readings to get a fix on us, however. We still have time.” The shaggy blond looked particularly tired to Trudy. “One more thing, and we should close up here.”

He checked the radio dials and frequencies once more and sent a brief message in yet another language. He repeated it twice over several minutes, and then turned the radio off.

“What was that? I don’t speak Russian, but I know that wasn’t Russian.”

“Italian.” Illya said tiredly. “I’m not very good at it. I thought it would throw off anyone monitoring this frequency.” He had shut down the radio as he spoke, and gathered up the green box. He started to stand, but his knees wobbled enough to bring Trudy to his side instantly. He didn’t say anything, but allowed her to help him close up the hidden room and back to the cot. He sank down on to it while she re wrapped and stored the box. He was asleep instantly.

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

Napoleon was having a guiltily delightful time going over maps of the Russian coastline with Stevie. She knew the seas in that area well, and some of the ports.

“We do not sell our catch to them very often. They usually contact us when they have a need, several times a year.” She referred to the map again. “When we deliver, there is a train car nearby. You can see it from the dock. I don’t know where the train comes from,” she ran her finger along the indicated train line as she spoke. “But it looks like this line is the closest to our country.”

Solo followed the line back and was able to make a wiggly, but fairly direct course from Habarovsk. “I’m guessing Illya will make it to somewhere in this area, then.” He bracketed two sea ports with this fingers. “That cuts down the coastal area to about 75 miles. Better than 200 than I originally thought.”

The flash of worry that crossed his expression wasn’t lost on the astute Stevie. She laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “You worry that you are not the only one to figure this out.”

Solo glanced up at her in surprise, and covered it with a bright smile. “You are very observant, Miss Inturi. I think you may have done this before!”

A soft beeping from the radar board caught their attention. Napoleon strode quickly to the technician’s side. “Did you get that?”

“Yes, sir, I did.” He was writing coordinates down as he spoke, the soft beeping continuing. “We have the degree of shift. Now all we need are two more readings and we’ll have a line that will take us right to Mr. Kuryakin.”

“It looks like your partner figured it out as you believed he would.”

Solo patted her shoulder. “He hasn’t let me down yet. You’ll be meeting him soon, it looks like.”

The beeping stopped, and the technician turned is attention away from the radar to log some figures. Napoleon waited a few seconds to make sure the beeping wouldn’t start up again, and turned to go back to the maps. Just then out of the corner of his eye, Solo saw the technician sit up suddenly, and shoot his hand out to adjust a dial. Solo was at his side instantly.

“What is it?” he said lowly.

“I’m not….sure…” the man turned up the volume a bit. All Solo heard was static. “Wait..” the technician said, then the message came again.

Solo broke into a grin. “That’s Illya. We’re on the right track, folks!”

Stevie cocked her head and her eyebrows furrowed. “What is he saying?”

“It’s Italian. He’s saying something that only I would understand.” Solo was grinning broadly now. Both Stevie and the tech were looking at him expectantly. “He’s saying ‘the pen of my uncle is at the beach.’”

Stevie blinked, confused. The tech said, “That makes no sense.”

“It does to me,” Solo said lightly. “He started to learn Italian on his own using an old high school textbook when we were on a stake out. The only sentence he learned before the book was, ah, damaged, was ‘this is my uncle’s pen.’ “

“That’s a useless sentence,” the tech noted.

“Pretty much.” Solo agreed. “But he just told us that he is, in fact, going to the coast. We guessed right. That sentence has finally become useful. Now if we only knew who was pursuing him.”

Stevie’s expression brightened. “You mean, the fact that he used a language and code aimed at you indicates pursuit.”

“Yes, and the fact that he didn’t wait for us to reply, which may make his location known. It would be nice to know if it’s Thrush or the military after him. Knowing Illya, I would suspect both!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

A full day passed without word on the gypsies. Trudy was relieved, as it forced Illya to rest. He was unusually quiet and seemed to accept the down time. His condition didn't improve, though. When he allowed her to probe the swollen arm, she suspected that it was a compound break, and probably needed to be set. It wasn't healing as quickly as she expected. The head wound and ribs were better, but she could tell the bullet wound was probably infected. It refused to close, and drained constantly. That was the wound that worried her.

Finally, almost two days after their arrival, Gregory roused Illya with the information that the gypsies were packing to move.

"They will come to the area south of town," he said. "They always camp there."

Now somewhat alert, Illya spoke rapidly to the priest, obviously giving him a list of what he needed. Gregory smiled. Their visit was probably the most excitement the priest had seen in years, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. When Trudy mentioned this to Illya, he replied drily, "Entertainment is a self-produced thing out here. The establishment frowns on fun."

She didn't know if he was serious or not.

Illya sat up, obviously with difficulty, and outlined his plan. "The gypsies will be set up by this afternoon. I plan to ride with them to a train station further down the line, away from the cities. They are heading that direction anyway, I'm sure. Asikov will be looking for the two of us together, so we will split up. Father Gregory is getting some parishioners he trusts to help. I was against that part, but he insisted." Illya looked rather pained when he said that. "You, along with the Father and a couple of other women, will go to the camp together, and I shall go alone."

"Wait a minute. You can't walk all that way the shape you're in."

Illya glared at her with his sparkling blue eyes. "I'll be fine. I'll be disguised, as will you." He indicated a bundle of clothes in the corner that he had been studying. "We'll start with that."

By the time the priest came back, Trudy was wearing a traditional black dress and boots, which were falling apart, but useable. Gregory had with him more items, and soon she was properly attired, her hair up and hidden in a traditional head covering.

Illya's get up was more interesting. He was dressing as an old man, which would fit his gait. There was even a walking stick to top off the outfit. Illya removed the splint from his arm. "It's too obvious," he mumbled. With some ashes from the fire, and some wood splinters, he was able to make his hair look gray rather than blond, and added aged wrinkles to his face.

Trudy laughed. "I hope they don't look too closely! It's believable from a distance, though."

Illya put on a ratty old hat. "That should help," he added. "And it will be dusk." He and Gregory had a few words, and Illya nodded. "I think Gregory's plan will work. You need to learn a few words in Russian to make sure you stay safe."

Gregory left for a moment, and then came back with two other women about Trudy's age and similarly dressed. They each had a basket filled with bread rolls, and an extra for Trudy.

"Here," Illya said quietly. "Take this, too." He showed her the grenade from the truck, then buried it in Trudy's basket of rolls, and buried the green box in another. The women looked blasé, as if this happened every day. With a little coaching, Trudy was able to make out and repeat the words 'bread for the heathens,' and understand the word 'what'. It would have to do for now.

As they were getting ready to go, a young man strode into the room with a grin, chatting happily. Trudy saw Illya's eyes get a little larger, and saw him begin to argue with Gregory. Even without understanding the language, Trudy could tell that Illya was losing the argument. Gregory was a rock, and it amused her to see Illya having to give in. The young man stepped up to Illya with a smile, undaunted by the agent's glare and terse response.

"What's going on?" Trudy asked finally.

Illya snorted, leaning heavily on the cane. "Apparently I now have a son to guide me."

"Good." She replied, ignoring the withering look. "Let's go."

Trudy, the women and Gregory went first. Trudy was well aware of the teams of men patrolling the street but managed to keep her pace with the other women, her head down. As Father Gregory lead them down the winding streets, she noticed the poor condition of the roads and the quietness on the street. There were numerous people out and about, but they seemed to quietly hurry along to avoid the attention of the patrols.

When the reached the edge of the town she could see some bright canopies in the distance.

"There they are," Gregory said. Although she didn't understand the words, she understood the body language.

As soon as their feet stepped on to the dirt road leading from town they were approached by two military men. The women huddled together, heads down, and appeared calm as Gregory spoke pleasantly to the men. One of them used his rifle muzzle to flip back the napkins covering the rolls in the baskets. Trudy tried not to think about the grenade buried in her basket.

After a moment, she realized that the man was speaking to her. She looked up at him, recognizing the word 'what'. Automatically, she rattled off the sentence taught to her, hoping it would work. The soldier flipped back the napkin on her basket, then turned to the other soldier. He said something that made the other soldier laugh, and plucked a roll from the pile. As he took a bite, he waved the group on. Gregory blessed them and continued on. Trudy let out a huge sigh and realized her heart was pounding like a drum.

Just as Trudy's group was allowed to pass, Illya and his guide started out, winding around to approach the same guards from a different direction. Luckily, they weren't the only people heading to the camp. Some merchants, knowing the gypsies' habits, were hauling some items out to sell. Illya and his 'son' Joseph walked casually to the edge of town.

It wasn't much of a stretch for Illya to hobble like an old man. His ribs still hurt, as did his arm, which he held snugly against his body, and the edge of the hat rubbed the wound on his forehead. They were all minor annoyances, and all handy for him to use to add believability to his demeanor. When they reached the hard-packed dirt road, the soldiers stopped them.

"Where are you going?" The soldier asked, studying Joseph. Illya had warranted a fast glance only.

"My father here wants to see the gypsy healer." Their story had been thought out before they left the church.

The soldier raised his eyebrow. "Why?" he asked, not so much with suspicion, but now curious and looking for a way to relieve his boredom.

"Warts," Illya said gruffly. "I heard they have a cure."

"Warts?" The soldier was grinning now, and motioned his partner over. "Hey, this old man says the Gypsies can cure warts."

The second soldier released the woman he was speaking with and came over, grinning. "Really? What else do they cure?"

Joseph laughed, too, while Illya remained passive. "I'll find out for you."

"So you aren't getting warts removed, too?" The soldier asked, amused.

"Oh, no!" Joseph replied, and then he leaned towards the soldiers in a conspiratial manner. "Actually, my momma insisted I go to keep him away from the wily ways of the gypsy women. You know."

That made the guards laugh out loud and they motioned for them to pass. "I hear you may have your work cut out for you, boy!" One soldier said as he clapped Joseph on the back.

Joseph nodded with a smile, and Illya scowled at him in a fatherly way as they moved along. The handgun and flares in Illya's waistband felt particularly heavy as they walked down the path to the bright canopies. "We didn't rehearse that last part," Illya said sourly.

The young man's sunny smile never wavered. "I know. The lady gave me the idea. I speak English!"

Illya set his jaw and logged the information away for future revenge. She has to be related to Napoleon somehow, he thought as he hobbled along.

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

The truck bumped along the decrepit street and Ivan Bratsk cursed his luck silently once again at the loss of his device. Once Thrush had clued him in to the identity of the blond agent, he was sure his luck couldn't get much worse as he miserably set out to find him. At the same time, he had to avoid General Asikov. Bratsk knew he wasn't cut out for this kind of work, but the device was his only opportunity to get somewhere in this world and he was determined to find it before the General.

Bratsk was an army engineer, but was able to carry himself with enough command presence to slide through the street patrols. He just couldn't run into Asikov. This little town was one of two possibilities the escapees would head towards, he figured. Although his gut told him he was on the right track, his systematic search of the town had yielded nothing. He stopped at the edge of town and pulled out the tattered, outdated map from his pocket to figure his next move when a motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

The gypsy tents were once brightly colored, but now were faded due to the elements. The wagons in the background were in the same shape. Bratsk at first dismissed the bunch as lowlife undesirables and went back to his map when a thought struck him. He turned back to the camp, and smiled. Why not? he thought. I've had no luck in town. Stuffing the map back in his pocket, he coaxed the sputtering engine back to life.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Illya, Joseph and Trudy met up in the middle of the camp, which had the atmosphere of a farmer's market. Sellers and buyers of various goods were bickering in groups, and the smell of cooking permeated the air. Joseph's eyes were wide.

"My father never lets me get this close," he admitted to Trudy in accented English.

"I can see why," Trudy said dryly as she observed a pair of children no older than five, pick the pocket of an unknowing vendor. She held her loaded basket close.

"Well, you get back to your father," Illya said flatly, leaving no room for dissent. He took Trudy's arm. "Thank you for your help."

"Good luck," Joseph whispered with a cocky grin. Trudy saw he'd spied a curvaceous young woman on the other side of the camp, and he moved that way.

"Watch you pockets," Trudy advised as Joseph slapped away the hand of the thieving youngster on his way.

Trudy sighed. "Now what?"

"Come. We need to find the leader." He nodded towards the wagons parked off to one side. "He's probably over there."

Again, Trudy's curiosity was piqued as to how he would know that, but kept quiet. Illya's grip on her forearm was heavier than she would expect. She knew he was hurting, but knew now wasn't the time to get into that. She simply followed the direction he indicated and kept her mouth shut.

When they got to the wagons, she noticed the eyes upon them immediately. They weren't that obvious, but they were there in the shadows of the wagons and around the cooking fires. She also noticed as they moved deeper into the group of wagons that silent ranks of sturdy young men were closing off their retreat. They were quietly being surrounded.

"Illya," she whispered worriedly as she ducked her head.

"I know. Just keep walking."

Soon they were at a wagon that was in slightly better repair, and had the signs of fresh paint. By the time she and Illya stopped at the bottom of the steps, their exit route was entirely blocked. The young man casually leaning in the doorway of the wagon, although obviously waiting for them, had a relaxed air about him but steely eyes.

"Are you lost?" The young man asked in the dialect of his tribe. The surprise in his eyes was quickly masked as Kuryakin responded in kind.

"It is urgent I speak with the father," he asked.

"You are of our tribe?" the young man inquired, straightening.

"I have a .. relationship with your people," Illya replied vaguely. "Please. It is important."

The young man didn't have to make the decision. A much older man appeared behind him and dismissed him with a nod. The young man stepped down and aside, allowing the grey haired patriarch to study the newcomers from the doorway.

Trudy studied the interplay with interest. She didn't understand the words, but knew that Illya had raised their curiosity. He certainly has that knack with people, she thought.

The conversation was brief. The leader asked a question, and as Illya responded, the old man's eyes got bigger and soon he smiled broadly and stepped down, taking both of Illya's shoulders in his hands. What he did next surprised Trudy. The man kissed each of Illya's cheeks!

The ice was obviously broken and the others surrounding them became joyous and laughing, taking turns to greet Illya and her in the same fashion. Trudy was amazed at the amount of people that simply appeared from nowhere, as they were soon in the middle of a thick crowd. She found Illya and could see that he was fighting to control the pain of all the attention. Trudy pushed her way to his side, took his arm and pulled him to the wagon. The old man then saw the problem, waved off the crowd and indicated they should get inside as he barked some orders to the women.

Trudy could hear Illya sucking in his breath as she helped him up the stairs. "You have to tell me what that was all about," she said lowly. "Don't tell me you are related! Although at this point, I guess I wouldn't be surprised."

Illya didn't reply. He was too busy trying not to pass out as she lowered him onto the first bunk she found. "I helped the tribe once a long time ago," he replied cryptically. "They made me an honorary member in gratitude."

"Lucky us we got the right long, lost relatives," she mumbled as she checked his arm. Since the splint and wrapping had been removed, the swelling had spread from fingertips to elbow, and the arm was turning an ugly purple color. His forehead was hot and bleeding, and she was sure the bullet wound was just as ugly as the arm. She had just finished uncovering the arm when she felt the close presence of a body.

A young and serious looking woman in bright clothing had kneeled next to her and began prodding the arm. Illya clinched his teeth and barked something at her, and she just gave him a patronizing look and continued her exam. Trudy smiled to herself and fell into an assisting nurse mode; this woman knew what she was doing.

The woman rattled off a list of things that sent a younger girl flying off. The examining woman completely ignored Illya's litany, of which Trudy was glad she didn't understand. The woman clicked her tongue at his temperature and the bruises, and nodded approvingly at the bindings on his ribcage. When her fingers found and prodded the bullet wound, and she turned Illya onto his side to see it more clearly, he simply bit his lip and dropped into semi-consciousness. She frowned at the obvious infection and swelling, and rolled him back onto his back.

By then, the little girl had returned with an armload of things. Trudy recognized the makings of another splint, many herbs, and some kind of ointment. The woman took the things and sent the girl off again with some more orders, then took a hold of Illya's wrist.

The woman looked at Trudy, and indicated with her eyes and free hand for her to hold the injured agent's elbow.

Oh, Lord, she's going to set the bone! Trudy realized as she nodded and did as instructed. The woman prodded the thick and discolored arm, finding the exact spot of the fracture. This caused Kuryakin to groan and completely pass out. That's actually a good thing at the moment, Trudy thought as she braced herself and the elbow.

The gypsy healer's brow furrowed in concentration as she felt the break with one hand, and gently pulled on the wrist with the other, twisting it a bit back and forth as she prodded. Then she started what Trudy recognized as a countdown, ending in a quick and expert jerk. The snapping sound of the bone clicking in place made Trudy's stomach turn. The healer felt the arm again, found a second break, and repeated the action once more. Then, smiling a satisfied smile, she quickly applied the splint and began to wrap. When the little girl returned again, the woman turned the wrapping over to Trudy and inspected the basket.

Trudy marveled at the handiwork. She could tell by the fingernails that Illya's circulation was already returning. It should heal quickly now. The smell of herbs as they were crushed added to the eerie atmosphere of the wagon, as did the joyful music that started playing outside. Trudy found herself leaning back and observing the woman and her young helper work on their patient. A dressing was applied to the head wound, and a poultice of some sort was pressed to the bullet wound. That was the wound that made the woman click her tongue in worry. She knew there was more to that wound than she could fix here; the knowing glances she gave Trudy needed no interpretation, and soon she left to let nature take its course.

**********

Bratsk nosed his vehicle into some bushes near the camp and climbed out. He felt very out of place amongst the bartering crowds, and pushed his way along as he looked for the blond agent. He didn't notice the looks he got or the intense scrutiny of several of the older natives. Quietly, using their own silent communications, they surrounded and followed him without him even knowing it as he first searched the crowd and began to inspect the wagons more closely.

One of the young men led Trudy to a discreet vantage point, and she remembered the military man from the base. There was no need to speak the same verbal language; her eyes, wide with alarm, were all that he needed. He escorted Trudy back to Illya, and motioned for her to keep low and quiet.

Bratsk was allowed to inspect several wagons, but as he got closer to the one containing the fugitives he was suddenly swarmed by a collection of youngsters whose hands picked at his clothing as they chattered incessantly in their language. Bratsk tried to wave them off, but they relented until he physically threw two boys aside. Then he was surrounded by yapping mothers noisily rounding up and collecting their brood. Next were young women batting their eyes and touching his uniform in admiration, showing plenty of cleavage. This caused him some alarm as he tried to brush away their hands. He was right in front of the refuge wagon when two young men pulled away the women and then began to argue with each other, keeping Bratsk between them. They threw questions at Bratsk, trying to engage him in their heated argument, but Bratsk didn't understand the language. Soon the young men were pushing each other and Bratsk figured that he didn't need to be in the middle of this debacle. The crowds were starting to look his way, and he didn't need the patrols interviewing him.

As Bratsk backed off from the confrontation and turned, he saw one of the young boys waving his wallet at him. Bratsk slapped his pocket, realizing it was now empty, and chased the boy. By the time the boy dropped the wallet and disappeared, Bratsk was well away from the unconscious agent and his concerned partner. Giving up, Bratsk retreated to his vehicle and left as the gypsies watched him go with confident smiles.

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

Night fell as Napoleon stood on the dock where the Empress was moored. Although he looked like he was inspecting the ship, his thoughts were much farther away.

After the initial setting up of all the equipment both in Stevie's home and on the Empress, all that was left was the waiting. That was the part Solo hated the most. He knew that somewhere out there his partner was doing his best to survive and get within rescuing distance; there was nothing Solo could do until then. The reports on the news of the release of the other hostages made it even more difficult. The missing Russian was never mentioned publicly, and to the rest of the world, never existed. It had been several days since Illya's message, and Solo couldn't help but wonder how he was faring. Would he, Solo, even know if he was caught? Or killed? At what point would Waverly pull him from this duty?

Part of his mind heard the soft steps of Stevie on the dock behind him, and he welcomed her hands on his elbow. She sensed his need for thought, and didn't interrupt them with words. They both gazed off to the west as darkness fell, deep in their own thoughts. After awhile, Napoleon put his hand on hers and smiled.

"I hate waiting," he said softly. "But it's much easier with company."

"I stand here often, waiting for my father," Stevie replied. "He has always returned safely. It will be the same for your friend."

"Keep those thoughts. It's all I have right now, and I appreciate it." He turned towards the shore and they walked arm and arm along the path to her home. And good thoughts are all I have to offer Illya right now, too.

CHAPTER NINE

General Asikov sat in his truck on the outskirts of town deep in thought. The search for his old shipmate was proving to be an exercise in frustration. Kuryakin had embarrassed him once before, a long time ago, and he was not about to let it happen again. Besides that, the device he had stolen was the General's key to a promotion out of this region.

Asikov realized his hands were clenched in anger as he thought about his quarry and forced his fingers to relax and open. His driver, sitting nervously beside him, tried not to fidget and kept his hands on the steering wheel.

"This is futile," Asikov stated. "They could be anywhere, but I know that they have to use the train sometime. It's the only way out of here. Driver!"

The young man jerked in surprise. "Yes, sir?"

"Take me to communications. I'm calling in the patrols and re assigning them."

"Yes, sir." He fired up the engine and left the area in a cloud of dust, heading to the communications tent.

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

Trudy stayed in the wagon, out of sight and by Illya's side, for the rest of the afternoon and night. The gypsies were wonderful; they treated her like one of the tribe, making sure she was fed and comfortable. It was the first true restful night she'd had in days.

The gentle noises of people tending to the animals in the early hours of the morning woke her. She heard goats, roosters, horses and pigs happily receiving their rations, and the sing-song voices talking to the beasts and amongst themselves. She pulled a brightly colored window covering aside and saw that most of the canopies were gone, and everyone was in the middle of packing up the camp.

"Well, they certainly don't wear out their welcome," she said softly out loud as she watched the action.

"Their welcome is worn out the moment they arrive," Illya's equally soft voice commented in return. "There is no doubt that they are leaving with more than they arrived, with items obtained both legally and otherwise."

Trudy dropped the curtain, sat up and stretched. "How are you feeling? Oh, wait, you're fine, right? You're always 'fine'."

She felt rather than saw the amused smirk on his face. "Well, actually, I am fine. There's a lot less pain in the arm, right now, anyway." He held up the arm and wiggled his fingers. "The marching drum brigade in my head seems to be taking a break, and your wrap work on my ribs is more uncomfortable than the ribs. "

"That's three out of four, anyway." She put her feet on the floor and leaned across the narrow aisle to check his eyes and forehead. "Your pupils are fine, but you're still a little hot. You need re hydration. And how are your extremities? Feel any tingling?" All she really had to worry about now was the bullet lodged somewhere near his spine and the infection. If he would only stay still!!

His eyes immediately turned darker. Trudy could feel the personal wall come down between them. "I said I'm fine." Illya replied sternly, trying to sit up. "I need to speak to Favia." She looked at him blankly.

"The leader. Favia. Can you find him?"

"Sure." She knew that any further conversation concerning his health would be pointless, so she helped him to sit and gave him some bread that was left for them as well as a flask of water. "I'll be right back."

When she stepped from the wagon she was amazed at how quickly the camp was being broken down. Everyone had well rehearsed tasks that were completed with flair. The chatter was light and carried a teasing tone that she could pick up even though she didn't speak their language.

Letting her instinct guide her, she headed towards a group of men gathered in the outskirts of the camp. Their chatter stopped immediately as she approached them. The man she remembered as the patriarch, Favia, regarded her with a glow in his eyes and a kind smile as he acknowledged her arrival. The other men fell aside, giving her a clear audience. Using her hands to indicate that he was wanted back at the wagon, he nodded, clapped another man on his shoulder as he spoke some last words, and then followed her.

Illya had managed to swing his legs over the edge of the bed to look somewhat recovered and a bit more respectable. Favia greeted him quietly and sat across from him, then looked expectantly at Trudy.

Illya looked her way. "Ah, he expects you to leave us alone," he said evenly.

"Oh, sure," she said, taken aback. She left the wagon quickly. "There's plenty to look at out here anyway. I'm starting to feel like an Army private," she mumbled.

She watched the packing up process a little longer, and accepted a warm cup of what she figured was tea from an old woman who was missing many teeth. The concoction was both warming and relaxing and by the time she saw Favia leave the wagon with a wave almost an hour later, Trudy was in a much better mood. Even the cool Russian couldn't annoy her now! Confidently, she stepped back inside the wagon.

Illya was standing in the narrow aisle, his back to the wagon door, gazing out the small window in the back end. Trudy immediately noticed that he was flexing the fingers of his good hand as it hung by his side as if it was bothering him. When he turned to face her, he stumbled slightly. She noted all this, but kept it to herself. Illya straightened up when he saw her and began to explain what was going to happen.

"Favia has agreed to take us to a place where we can board an eastbound train. It will take a few days, but the spot he has in mind is our best bet. It's away from the prying eyes of the cities and towns." Illya sank down on the narrow bed. "We will be moving to another wagon, though, one that has special compartments for concealing special items."

"Like us," Trudy finished.

"Yes, like us, if need be. I told him that we were being pursued, which pleased him to no end." Illya leaned over to reach under the bed for the navigation device and nearly fell onto his head.

Trudy was next to him instantly, pushing him back into a sitting position. "I'll get it," she said in a no argument tone.

"I guess I need some more food," Illya said softly. "Favia said for us to stay put. His daughter, Maska, is bringing us some breakfast. We will change wagons just before they move out."

It wasn't long before Maska returned with some more hearty fare. Maska was the young woman who set Illya's arm, and the fact that she was giving Illya a critical once-over with her eyes wasn't lost on Trudy; she could see the concern in the medicine woman's eyes.

Maska noticed Trudy looking at her, and also read the concern in Trudy's eyes. The two nodded silently, acknowledging their worries.

Soon after the meal Trudy heard the clopping sound of horses' feet and the wagon shook. Voices shouted outside, and the excitement grew as the wagons were readied to move. Soon a small crowd gathered outside their wagon, and Illya and Trudy were invited to step into their midst. In the center of the crowd, any spying eyes could be blocked, and this was the way they were escorted to their new wagon.

Maska met them in the new lodgings with lots of quilts and pillows, and a small stash of food. She conversed quietly with Illya, obviously giving instructions. Trudy could tell not so much from her tone, but from the pained expression on Illya's face - it was the same one she got whenever she told him to rest. When Maska was finished, Illya replied in a short sentence that made Maska frown. Trudy was sure it was 'I'm fine!' in what ever dialect they spoke.

The new wagon was packed with boxes and other goods, obviously a storage wagon of some sort. Maska pointed out the loose slats on the floor and how, when removed, they opened a space just big enough for one person. She replaced the boards and left. The wagon was in motion within minutes, and the drivers, and old woman and an old man, pushed the curtain aside for a moment and uttered what Trudy thought was a greeting. Illya returned it politely. Before dropping the curtain again, the woman pointed at Illya and one of the baskets of food, and rattled off what sounded like an order. Then she released the drape and they were alone.

"If anyone else tells me to eat up, I'll …" Illya growled, poking at the indicated basket.

"You'll what? Starve to death? Now's the time to start building up some energy. Looks like we have a little break."

Illya glowered at her. "You're in this plot with them."

"What plot?"

"The one to fatten me up. That's what the old lady up there said, that I needed fattening up."

Trudy giggled. "Well, you do! And what else do we have to do right now?"

Illya shifted as if he was in pain. "First, we'd better make a plan. Obviously, I'm the one going in the hiding space there if the time comes, so you need blend in with the others." He grinned a bit. "Adding some pounds and some years to you will be entertaining, don't you think?"

Trudy saw that his hand was shaking a bit as he reached for a bread roll. "I'm aging faster each day I'm with you!" She quipped as she pulled some pillows over, and they started in on her disguise.

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

Bratsk left the town on the train. He'd heard enough from the patrols to realize that the train was the only viable way to get anywhere, and that there were several eastbound trains due to pull through this area within the next several days. He figured he could search this train before the next stop, get off at the stop, and then board the next train and search that one. By the time they would be near the coast, he figured he could search all of the four trains going to the area Kuryakin was suspected to be aiming for. He also had a contact at a radar station near the coast that he could telegraph to look for the anomaly his device would create. If Kuryakin used it at all, he could get a good idea where he was.

Bratsk started at the head of the train and began to work his way to back, and no one escaped his scrutiny.

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

General Asikov also realized he need to widen his search perimeter, and also focused on the trains. His plan was to dispatch patrols to the various stations between here and the coast, and slowly extend additional men in a larger and larger circle from the town. He knew how sneaky Kuryakin was; anyplace along the train tracks was suspect. Asikov himself boarded the first eastbound train he could find, and decided to take it to the coast, where he would make other preparations in case the crafty blond made it that far.

There was nothing like a hunt to get Asikov's spirits up. He knew the prize would eventually be his.

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

And as far as trains went, Napoleon Solo would be very happy to never see another train schedule again. He had poured over the schedules, routes and any other information he could find. He even knew where the unused tracks were, and the names of all the Russian seaports for nearly 200 miles of coastline, and had everything plotted on a big map taking up most of Stevie Inturi's living room wall. He had to do something. The waiting was killing him. If it hadn't been for Stevie's gracious style and wonderful conversational skills, Solo would be out of his mind.

Stevie could talk on any subject, and they managed to cover quite a few in the time he was there. She knew how difficult it was to wait, and made it her goal to try and make the time pass a little easier. And, she found Napoleon Solo to be quite interesting, so it wasn't really a chore.

CHAPTER TEN

During the next couple of days Trudy and Illya made sure they were in disguise anytime they left the wagon. Trudy could tell the rough ride in the wagon was wearing the agent down as the shadows under his eyes were darker each morning. She saw him rubbing his fingers and rotating his ankles as if to bring circulation back into them. He didn't say much; most of his time was spent studying the navigational device and transferring his knowledge to paper. Trudy spent most of her time making sure they were fed and pitching in when she could with the driving. The old man was quite cheery and taught her how to handle the team of bays.

If my husband could see me now! She thought, feeling the pull in the reins and the blisters starting on her hands. If the situation weren't so dangerous, she would have been thoroughly enjoying herself.

Long into the third day, Illya stuck his head out into the driver area. Trudy glanced at him, and knew that the face of the old woman sitting with her mirrored her concern.

"There are overhead wires up ahead." The agent noted. "Where do they run from?"

"They are telegraph lines that run alongside the tracks starting at Amursk and stopping at Sovetskaja. It's a sign that we are almost half way to the coast and that we are almost to the spot where you are to be dropped."

"Are there power lines anywhere with the telegraph lines?" Illya inquired.

The old man grinned showing stained and missing teeth. "Only along a short section between the next two towns. Shall I show you?"

Trudy was amazed to see her blond traveling companion actually smile, and was dazzled by it. He needs to do THAT more often! she thought.

The caravan message to stop was sung along the line of drivers, and Trudy thought it was a wonderful thing to hear. The way they communicated in their sing-song voices was musical to the ears, and didn't require knowledge of the language. Illya was collecting his gadget together as he told Trudy what was going on. The break from the wagon would be welcome to both of them.

The old man rolled back and forth as he walked as if he was still riding in the wagon. Illya and Trudy followed him stiffly. The stopped at Favia's wagon to tell him what was going on, and the patriarch, always careful, dispatched some young men as lookouts. Illya insisted they stay behind, and started out towards the lines with Trudy following doggedly. It was a bit of a hike up to the tracks, and when Trudy saw where the wires were, she protested loudly.

"You can't get up there!" she argued, pointing up at the wires.

Illya simply raised an eyebrow and looked inscrutable as he unrolled his pack. Wrapping a large belt around his waist and the pole and stuffing the box into his shirt, he let her rant without comment. When he was ready, he simply started working his way up the pole. The only time Trudy had ever seen this technique was in a National Geographic Magazine article on coconut trees. This was how they scaled the trees! For a moment her mouth hung open in surprise.

"Well, aren't you a man of many talents," she said in exasperation. "Remind me to make sure you're with the next time I'm on a deserted island that has only coconuts trees. And you'd better not have a bullet in you then."

"Gladly," he replied dryly as he began to hack into the lines and connect the device. He didn't stay up there long. In a matter of minutes he was back on the ground, walking a bit more stiffly than before. "We need to get moving. If we're being monitored by Asikov, this won't help Favia and his people." He stuffed everything back in his shirt and turned to go.

As Trudy fell in behind, one of Illya's knees seemed to buckle. If Trudy hadn't been so close, he would have fallen. He immediately straightened up and pulled his arm away. "I'm fine," he growled. "Let's go."

Trudy put her hands up in a surrendering motion. "What ever you say," she replied, but she knew better. Before the personal wall slammed down again, she was sure she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes. She also saw that he was dragging one foot slightly; it would have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but she knew he usually walked like a cat. She stayed close behind all the way to the wagons.

Favia was waiting for them on their return. "The place to hop the train is just ahead. We will camp over there, in the foothills, and Joseph will take you up to the site tomorrow. The next train is due mid morning."

Illya moved a bit more carefully when he entered the wagon, Trudy noticed. Again, she simply stayed close and silent.

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

"Comrade General! You have a call on the field phone," the soldier said briskly.

Asikov nodded and jumped from the truck. At the communication post he snatched the field transmitter from the soldier. "This is General Asikov," he snapped. He listened, and the scar on his cheek crinkled when his lip curled into a smile. "Excellent. Asikov out." He tossed the phone aside and stepped up to the map pinned on the tent wall. "Send a patrol to this area here," he ordered, stabbing at the map with a gloved finger, "and another over here. Have them search east and west, respectively, along the train tracks until they meet. The suspect should be in that area. I'm on my way."

"Yes, sir!" The Communications Officer barked as he readied to transmit.

Asikov strode back to the truck. "Let's go," he ordered as he pulled out a smaller map. "Here. This is the area we are going to." The driver nodded, and they took off.

***********

Bratsk was really tired of searching trains. He was now on his third one, just finishing up the last car when a young porter slipped him a note. "This just came for you, sir," the boy said, retreating quickly. The uniformed man made the boy nervous, and he didn't wait for a response.

Reading the note quickly, Bratsk did some fast mental calculations. His contact had picked up an odd blip on his screen, and the military engineer was right in the center of the projected area of origination. It was a huge area, but the train tracks were right in the middle; Bratsk knew he was close. It had to be the next train. His smile looked somewhat wolf-like, and he worked his way back to his seat to collect his things. He had to get off at the next station and wait for the next train, which would be about 18 hours behind him. He should be boarding it by mid morning, tomorrow, and have the device before noon!

*********

When Napoleon Solo was called by the radar technician, his heart rate rocketed. Illya was still out there! He and Stevie studied the maps as the tech used his slide rule to calculate some figures. The tech's finger drew a pie wedge on the map, using Habarovsk at the base of the lines. "That's how far I can narrow down the area so far," he commented.

Stevie looked closer and frowned. "It looks like he's taking the northern track. The more southern track would be here," her delicate finger pointed to an area outside the wedge.

"We need to move further north," Solo said quietly. "This information halves the coastal area we had plotted out, but it's further north than we anticipated." He looked at the map again. "This river mouth here, between Nelma and Perefyciha. We need to be closer to that area." Trying to think like the wily Russian was risky, but Solo had a feeling and he acted on it quickly.

Stevie frowned. "It would be more advantageous for us to move north to the area of Wakkanai near the north coast of Japan. That would put us much closer to the river mouth. There is a large fishing port near there. My cousins are in that area. We can go there."

Solo smiled and put his hand on her forearm. He had grown very fond of this woman, and admired her way. His normal Lothario urges stayed easily under wraps as his respect for her grew. "Stevie, I don't want to inconvenience your family any more than we already have."

She smiled that dazzling smile of hers. "Helping save a life is not an inconvenience Solo-san. It would be a disgrace to turn you away, and honorable to help. I will make the arrangements while you load up the Empress." She gave him a dainty bow as she left.

Solo watched her move away, admiring the way she seemed to float as she walked, then sprang into action. First, he radioed Waverly of the update. The days of waiting had allowed him to store up a lot of energy, and the work of packing up was welcome. Solo sprang into the job happily.

PRELUDE