Act I: "Illya, Can You Fill Me In On This?"

Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Officer of U.N.C.L.E. New York, couldn't get to sleep. That wasn't unusual of late; he hadn't slept very well since the disappearance of his partner and friend Illya Kuryakin almost ten months before. The last message from the missing agent made it clear his assignment had turned out to be a disaster; although his voice was professional and matter of fact, the background noises of shouting and gunfire made clear the circumstances he was in when captured.  Since then, it was like the agent had disappeared from the face of the earth. No amount of follow up could find his location, and it nearly drove Solo crazy with anger: Anger at the obvious betrayal of someone on Kuryakin's team, anger with the Russians, anger with the U.S. government's lack of interest.

He knew sleep wouldn't come, and got up even though the sun hadn't showed itself yet. As he went through his morning routine, he went through what he knew one more time in his mind:

The assignment had been an unusual one from the start. A collection of agents from the CIA, NAS and Army Intelligence were trying to obtain information on improvements on Russian satellite hardware. In hindsight Solo should have followed up his hunch that such a collection of agents might find it difficult to trust Kuryakin. They had requested him due to his knowledge of his homeland and language skills, but he was Russian after all, and 'the enemy' in many minds.

The investigation afterwards was labeled 'eyes only' on a 'need to know' basis. And since it dealt with national security even U.N.C.L.E. couldn't get it's hands on it. Waverly protested loud and long; the Government's response was that Kuryakin was essentially under Government control all along, and U.N.C.L.E. really had no right to any non-agency information. Illya Kuryakin had been loaned to them for non-agency duty. He was lost doing that duty. End of story.

With a sigh to quell the anger once again, Solo tugged the knot in his tie as he remembered that message. He took a mental breath, and recalled again the events leading up to this day:

Both Solo and Waverly had pressed the limits on their connections to find out what had happened to Illya. They eventually found out that the other agents had found their way back to the States, each getting home in their own way, but no details of what had happened to Kuryakin. They had been working on the edge of the Ukrainian border, and the operation had been infiltrated somehow, resulting in a clash with Russian authorities presumed to be KGB. That was all the two men could turn up, but the incident had been haunting them ever since. Illya's last communication had been directly to U.N.C.L.E. That alone was evidence enough to the two men that the Russian was betrayed. Kuryakin would have followed his assigned chain of command unless unusual circumstances made him break that chain, which he had. He obviously didn't trust the command he was attached to and had circumvented them. He'd also used the U.N.C.L.E. code for security breech in his last report before the communication had fallen silent.

Solo grabbed his holster and gun, strapped them on and grabbed his jacket and headed for the door as he regrouped his train of thought:

It had been several months before Waverly grudgingly admitted that the agent was lost, listing him as Missing in Action. That opened Solo up for new assignments with a variety of partners. He completed each assignment with his normal above average competence, but with a lot less zeal. It was a very long time before any semblance of his previous humor showed itself, and when it did, the halls of U.N.C.L.E. New York breathed a little easier. Looking back, he had been rather unapproachable during that time. The female contingency had feared the loss of two desirable men instead of mourning just the one, and eventually the rumor mill had started bandying around names of whom the new Number Two would be. It seemed the signs of healing were everywhere but in Solo's heart. He missed his friend and partner and couldn't yet consider taking on another permanent partner.

Just when he had begun a mental list of just whom he could stand to work with for any length of time, a contact of Solo's in Army Intelligence let him know that there was some sort of trade in the works with the Russian government. Apparently, Russia was willing to turn over some people in exchange for some of their captured scientists. The contact didn't have the details, but had seen a list of exchange possibilities the U.S. had put together for their negotiation team to work with and saw that Kuryakin had been on that list.

Solo took a deep breath and wiped the dampness from his hands as he embarked on his drive to the assigned assembly location here at the border of East and West Germany as he thought. He knew he'd be the first there; he was. He shut off the engine and began what he hoped would be the last of his waiting and wondering. Now, nearly ten months after his friend's disappearance, there was a chance he would be returned, but it hadn't been without a fight:

Solo and Waverly, hopes renewed, had begun another campaign with the government and demanded that U.N.C.L.E. be involved in the whole procedure. Grudgingly, the government agreed when the probability of betrayal was pointed out to them. U.N.C.L.E. could be a neutral third party, so to speak, but required that Kuryakin be added to the list in exchange for their help. They also agreed to allow Waverly's agency to debrief Kuryakin; Solo got the impression that they were willing to turn Illya over to them just to get Waverly off their back.

Solo smiled at that thought. The Old Man was a tenacious old bulldog. He sighed again, and settled in to wait for the rest of the team.

And now it had come down to this moment. Two minor Russian scientists were being traded for three Americans - two American engineers and Illya. All Solo could do was watch until the trade was complete. The government negotiators were in charge of the trade, and three teams assembled for each of the three freed prisoners.  Illya's team was made up of U.N.C.L.E. employees; the other two teams were government.  Each prisoner was allowed one moderator at the exchange site, which was a bridge between West Berlin and Soviet sympathetic East Berlin.

And finally the time had come. The rest of the teams arrived, one by one, and by the late afternoon, they had been briefed in the procedure one more time, gone over maps and equipment, and finally were posted at their assigned spots.

The instructions had been very clear; if more than three moderators were seen within a certain distance of the bridge, the deal was off. Napoleon had to stand down at Waverly's orders to let the negotiation team overlook the exchange. So here he sat with the rest of the U.N.C.L.E. team in a darkened car, well set back from the bridge where the exchange was to take place. He focused his binoculars on the West German end of the bridge and saw the two captives that were to be exchanged for the engineers and agent. The captives fidgeted with their sleeves, and stamped their feet to keep warm. The three moderators stood silently near by.

The East German end of the bridge was blocked by foliage from Napoleon's point of view and it was tough fighting the urge to find a nearby tree for a better view. It had been so long; he didn't dare ruin the chance of getting Illya back now. Still, to be second string in all this was galling.

The sun finally dropped behind the mountains leaving the lingering shadows of dusk over the scene. The group on the American side started to walk with a nod from the negotiators. Solo focused the lenses on the opposite side and soon had sight of three bodies moving in a line towards the American side. They walked like they were in legs chains; short, choppy steps in a row, heads down. The last one visibly limped but fell behind only slightly from the front two.

The odd parade met in the middle and crossed without hesitation or indication of recognition. That was the deal. Even with the quality lenses, Napoleon couldn't figure out which one was Illya. They were wrapped in long, dark coats, and they were all blond and similar in size and the trees interfered with his line of sight. He impatiently waited until the men headed to the East German side disappeared from view in the obscuring foliage, then dropped the binoculars and started the car. In a matter of seconds the all clear was given; the exchange was complete.

Napoleon felt a weight lift from his shoulders but knew it was far from over. He wouldn't be convinced until he saw his partner in front of him in the flesh. Again, he tried to steel himself for what he would see. God knows where his friend had been sequestered all this time.

There was a car for each body, and an additional sedan filled with medical personnel. They drove to the scene simultaneously, sliding to a dusty halt at the same time. Napoleon threw the sedan in park and leaped out with the others, still not able to pick out his partner in the twilight shadows. The three souls stood huddled together, each with his assigned negotiator. Two of the recovered men were escorted away to the other two waiting cars, so Napoleon made his way quickly to the remaining pair. He could hear the footsteps of the team and medics behind him, but was determined to get there first. They respected his wishes.

Napoleon could see the negotiator speaking, holding an arm of his charge, but not getting any response. The figure in the dark coat simply stood shakily, with his head dropped. Solo was close enough now to recognize the profile of his Illya Kuryakin, and he bit his lip as he moved faster. It was hard to believe the gaunt cheeks and short cropped hair belonged to the man he remembered as his partner and friend.

"Illya," Napoleon breathed as he reached them. "Good God, man, are you all right?" He reached out to the shoulder of his friend. There was no initial response. Solo felt his friend quiver under his hand, then noted the boniness of the shoulder. "Illya?" He asked again in a softer tone.

The medical team swarmed around the man as he collapsed from under Solo's hand, landing on his knees in the dirt. Alarmed, Solo froze, but was then moved back a step by the negotiator.

"Mr. Solo, let the medics work on him. He seems to be the worst off of the group. Just wait a few minutes until he's stabilized."

Solo nodded mutely. He hadn't expected this kind of reaction, and his blood started to boil. How could Illya's own countrymen treat him like this?

All the time the medics worked on Kuryakin, his head stayed bowed, and his hands hovered together, shaking, in front of his body, held there by non-existent wrist irons.

"Solo! We have a problem!" One of the medics barked. Napoleon leaped forward between two medics, who parted for him. "Is that what I think it is?" The medic said softly, pointing to Illya's chest.

The thin, black coat hung open slightly, only secured by a single, low button. Just visible on Illya's chest was a taped package that looked like a bomb.

"Yes," Napoleon said between gritted teeth, furious, but holding it in. "Illya, can you fill me in on this?"

The Russian did not answer or raise his eyes. The only motion was the ragging rising and falling of his chest, and the tremor to his arms. Napoleon noted the roughness of his breathing, and the flush to his cheeks.

"He's sick. I don't think he hears me," Napoleon noted as he parted the coat with his hands. It was a simple device; clenching his teeth, Napoleon realized the purpose of it. This was a simple slap to the American's face, as well as a bit of insurance to give the Russians time to get away deeper into East Germany. It was a simple distraction, and that was all. No value was placed on the courier. He was simply another traitor to the Motherland.

"Bastards," the negotiator hissed. "Can you defuse it?"

"Yes," said Napoleon with a finality he didn't really feel. It looked simple enough, but was it a trick? He looked the device over carefully in the fading light, then, making his decision, clipped two wires. Nothing happened. "OK, now let's get this off of him."

When they stripped off the coat, Napoleon was shocked at the frail appearance of his friend. His arms were thin and bruised; scars and scabs circled his wrists from the restraints that had obviously been there, and he could see pink, raw looking marks on his skull. There was little mobility to Illya's shoulders. The device had been taped right over the shredded remains of a shirt, and there was no reaction when the tape was peeled away from exposed skin. It was difficult to distinguish between bruises and dirt on his torso, and Solo heard one of the negotiators hiss in anger.

"It's a good thing we got him now," one of the medics muttered as he began to work. "He wouldn't last much longer where he was."

Solo removed the device and dismantled it with hands shaking in anger, and put the parts in the trunk. He returned to the group just as they finished their cursory inspection.

"Let's get him in the car," the medic ordered. In his depleted state Illya was easily lifted and carried to the car. A medic climbed in first, with Illya second, flanked by another medic. Solo jumped in the passenger seat in the front, and the negotiator drove.

"It's not far to the base," the medic commented. "He can make it that far, at least."

All during the drive, Solo kept his mouth clamped shut, not trusting his voice in his anger. He faced the back seat the whole way, watching the medics hover over the Russian. Illya hadn't moved or even looked up. His hands still rested together in front of him, still held by invisible bonds. Solo had always been able to read the mood and emotion of his partner in his eyes, and it disturbed him that he hadn't gotten a clear look at them yet; Illya wouldn't raise his head or acknowledge any of them. He had yet to say a word.

Napoleon brushed aside the thoughts of where his friend had been kept all this time.  They had absolutely no intelligence in this area, no information at all. Only Illya Kuryakin knew what had happened to him.

They were waved through the gates at the Army base and went directly to the base hospital where a gurney and doctor were waiting for them in the emergency room parking bay. Illya was out of the car, on the gurney and swept away inside before Napoleon even got out of the car. He was left standing in the bay with the negotiator that had driven the car.

"Mr. Solo? Will you dispose of the explosives? I need to continue the debrief."

Solo nodded. "I'll be back, though." He added, accepting the keys.

"I expected as much. Ask for me and I'll update you."

Solo nodded, "Thank you, Mr. Thompson," and turned to go, knowing Illya was beyond any help he could give for now. Before leaving, he pulled out the pen communicator from his pocket. "Open channel D," he requested.

"Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly's voice replied. "Is the mission completed?"

"Yes, sir. Only one minor surprise, and I'm taking care of it now. Seems Illya was delivered with an explosive gift, but we handled it."

"Very good. The negotiation team will report to me later with all the details. Do you see a need for additional security?"

"No, sir, I can handle it for now. Solo out."

Act II: "Start Fighting, My Friend."

It was a couple of hours before the explosives were secured safely and Solo made it back to the hospital. A cloud of dread seemed to be building in his mind as the hours went by and he finally walked into the hospital.

A cursory check of the emergency room did not yield any results, but he wasn't surprised. He inquired of the nurse about the location of his friend, and was directed to another wing of the building that required him to show his ID to pass security there. He spotted Thompson almost immediately, talking on the phone in the hall. Thompson waved Solo over, and with a nod of his head indicated a door. Solo entered and found himself in a small conference room with a one-way glass that looked in on a room with a single bed. He swallowed hard the lump he felt rising in his throat at the sight of Kuryakin on the bed.

The bed had been cranked up to a semi sitting position. Illya's head was turned to one side, his eyes were closed, and his chest bare. There was a petite nurse rubbing him down with a washcloth that came away dark with dirt with each wipe. Solo could see every rib and his friend's collar bones were prominent. He realized that some of the dark spots were bruises, not dirt, by the greenish yellow color of them. The scarred wrists still rested side by side in his lap. His arms trailed various I.V.s, and there was an oxygen mask on his face. His hair was unevenly cut into a sloppy butch style, which, perhaps, was the most shocking to the agent; he'd never seen Illya's hair that short. Along with the gaunt cheeks it made the Russian look at least twice his real age.

"Is he sleeping?" Napoleon choked, keeping his voice low. Thompson had just entered the room.

"Honestly, I don't know. He hasn't said a word or acknowledged our presence in any way."

Solo nodded. "What are his physical injuries?"

"Well," Thompson said with a sigh. "I don't know where to start. Obviously, there's dehydration and malnourishment, and a collection of bruises. It looks like he wore arm and leg shackles most of the time. He walks and holds his hands like they are still there. There are some healed rib, arm and leg breaks, which is why he was limping."

Solo nodded silently, remembering the limping form bringing up the rear of the line.

"The leg break healed poorly, and they want to re break it and set it again eventually. He's not up to that right now, obviously."

Solo didn't reply.

Thompson continued, wary of Solo's quiet. "Um, he has a couple of broken fingers, a concussion, pneumonia and lots of cuts on his feet. His hands look like he has been used for hard labor. He has healed scars on his skull and back …do I need to continue, or do you get the picture?"

It took a moment for Solo to find his voice. "I get it. How long before we can take him home?"

"The doc said as soon as he's nutritionally and physically stabilized. The outer wounds are older, and easily treated for now. He wants to make sure the rigors of moving him won't invoke a heart attack first. About a week, he guessed, until the blood work would be normal again and the pneumonia is under control."

"A week." Napoleon repeated hollowly. "What about his mental state? Is he not talking because of physical or mental reasons?"

Thompson shrugged. "I don't know. The doc can't see any physical reason for the silent treatment, except maybe for general fatigue and fever. The two engineers are responding well and talking. They hadn't seen Mr. Kuryakin at all until today, and don't know where he'd been kept. Only he can tell us what happened."

The nurse finished cleaning Illya and maneuvered him into a hospital gown. He still hadn't acknowledged the nurse. Solo couldn't tell if he was asleep or not.

"I'm going in," Solo stated, opening the door next to the mirror and stepping in before he got any objection.

He stepped up to the bed on the side that made him able to see his friend's face. He saw a sliver of blue between the blond lashes and didn't think he was asleep, but didn't think that he was truly awake, either.

"Illya!" He called gently, patting his unshaven cheek. "Hey! It's me, Napoleon! It's time to wake up, tovarish!"

The use of the Russian word for friend made Illya blink ever so slowly, but that was all the response he got. Illya's blue eyes were now open, but still fixed on his own hands, resting side by side in his lap.

"Illya?" Napoleon asked again, trying to catch his eyes. "Come on, wake up, all right? I need to talk to you."

Illya's eyes drifted shut.

"I think he's asleep now," a voice said. Solo glanced up to see a young doctor studying the heart monitor. "The readings look like it anyway." He scribbled something on a chart, then returned Solo's look. "I think he'll be out for awhile. Are you the security he's supposed to have?"

"Yes," Solo said, returning his eyes to his friend.

"I'll get you a chair in here, then, and get you set up. When's your relief coming in?"

"I'm it," Solo replied. "There won't be ay relief."

"Oh," the doctor replied. "Well, I don't know when he'll wake up, so you'd best make yourself comfortable now."

Solo was careful not to make any loud noises that might wake his friend but noticed Illya twitch with each sudden sound. He seemed to be asleep, but occasionally Solo would see his friend's eyelids slightly parted. If he was sleeping, it was a non-restful kind. It was as if he was expecting to be yanked into wakefulness at any moment. Still, he did not utter a sound, and that's what disturbed Solo the most.

The night was long. At one point, Napoleon finished a cup of coffee and settled into his chair in the wee hours of the morning, planning to catch some sleep when he noticed blue eyes looking at him. Or at least he thought they were looking at him; they were open widely, at least, in his direction.

"Illya?" he said cautiously, easing out of the chair slowly. The eyes followed him for a brief few seconds, and then became glassy and unfocused again as the lids closed slowly. Napoleon sighed and dropped back into his chair again, resigning himself to find some sleep.

Then next days brought more of the same. The Russian either appeared to be sleeping or sat with half open eyes cast downward. He still appeared to be sensitive to sudden noise, no matter how slight, by twitching at the sounds. His hands remained in his lap, and would drift back there even when placed along his sides.

It's like he has muscle memory, Napoleon thought. The muscles have been in one position for so long they are almost fixed there. He finally contributed the twitches as expectation of pain. They really did a number on you, my friend. He pushed aside the wave of anger once again. There was no point to it, really.

Finally on the fifth day, there was a change. The I.V. tubes had been removed one by one, the remaining one supplying him nutrition and antibiotics. They removed the needle with the intention on switching arms, and were preparing to install the needle in the back of his hand since he kept his arms bent in his lap. They rubbed his hand with alcohol, within the range of his downcast eyes, and applied a tourniquet to raise a vein.

Just as the nurse touched the needle to the vein, the hand swept the nurse back not from strength, but from surprise.

"Hey!" the nurse yelped, grabbing at the arm.

Solo jumped from the corner where he had been half paying attention, also taken by surprise by the action. It didn't take much to subdue his friend. There was no strength in his movements, and he ceased to resist as soon as he was touched, but Napoleon thought he heard the word "nyet" whispered from the direction of the constantly downcast eyes.

"That's it, Illya," Solo said quietly. "Start fighting, my friend."

The blond agent blinked, and his breathing became deeper, and his eyes clamped shut. Napoleon put his hands on his partner's bony shoulders and whispered words of encouragement to him. An alarm went off as his heart rate shot up, and at the same time Illya's jaw clamped shut so tightly Solo could hear his teeth grinding. His chin pointed to the ceiling as his entire body tensed and spasmed as if it were being electrocuted.

Solo backed off, shaken and appalled when more medical staff flew in. The doctor administered something, and his friend's body finally relaxed and fell deeper into the mattress as the drug took effect. The I.V. was set quickly and without further incident.

"What was that all about?" Napoleon asked shakily.

"I don't know," the doc said as he wrote an entry on the records. "Some kind of seizure. I think the Psychology Department may have to help us out on this one."

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

The agent was ready to be air lifted to New York two days later, and had not repeated the outburst.

Solo could tell that Kuryakin knew a change was coming. As they readied him for the trip the Russian's body became more tense and his eyes stayed closed. The base psychologist noticed it, too, and pulled Solo aside when they transported the agent to the base airfield and the waiting U.N.C.L.E. jet.

"Mr. Solo, I know you've noticed the slight change in Mr. Kuryakin's demeanor. We still don't know what was done to him, or the exact reason for his fugue state, but I believe that he is more aware of his surroundings than we originally thought. I'm calling New York now with my evaluation, and I want you to be prepared for anything on this flight. If Mr. Kuryakin is not aware of who you are, and has been waiting for and opportunity to escape, the one nurse riding with you may not be able to handle him. I don't want to tranquilize him for lots of reasons, but I can for lots of other reasons. Therefore, I have standing orders for the nurse to put him out if she feels he's getting out of control. I want your promise that you won't interfere with the nurse's decision; 30,000 feet in the air is not a place for confrontation."

Solo peered at the doctor. The only other person that disliked shrinks more than he did was currently being loaded onto the jet behind him, but Solo had to admit he saw the point. If Illya was further injured on the jet, it would be awhile until he could be treated. Finally, he nodded shortly. "Fine."

After Illya was loaded up and the nurse was checking him over, Solo stood back and studied his friend closely. The Russian was still tense, and his eyes still closed, but had his hands finally drifted apart? Solo frowned. Yes, the hands were definitely more along his sides. He couldn't help but wonder about that.

Napoleon found himself watching Illya's hands as they took off. They were drifting apart and staying apart! By the time they'd reached altitude, both hands were flat on the surface of the mattress. As Solo radioed New York of their departure, he found himself wary of his friend's entire demeanor, knowing in his gut that something was going to happen.

He absently started to give his report to New York as he watched the nurse raise the back of the gurney to a sitting position and loosen the straps across the Russian's body.

The motion was so fast it was a blur to Solo. The next thing he knew Kuryakin's fingers were around the nurse's neck, and he was rolling to the side in an attempt to get up.

"Illya, no!" Solo yelled, dropping his communicator as he leaped to the bed. The frightened nurse issued a hideous squeak as her windpipe was squeezed. Solo fell on his hand, surprised that he couldn't peel off his friend's fingers. "ILLYA! STOP IT!" Solo yelled, throwing a quick glance toward his partner. The eyes he saw in return chilled him; they were steely, intent, and filled with more anger than he had ever seen. He fully intended to kill the nurse.

The nurse was frantically pawing at her neck with one hand and her pocket with the other. Solo used his weight to keep Illya down on the bed, and groped in the nurse's pocket, finding a syringe. He pulled it out, flipped off the cover from the needle and jabbed it into the Russian's IV tube. The only response he got initially was a growl low in Illya's throat, and a change in his eyes from anger to sorrow within a heartbeat. Solo felt his fingers tremble, and then loosen as the drug took affect.

The nurse sucked in a wheezing breath and stumbled backwards as Illya released her and sank deeper into the mattress. His eyes were again half closed, downcast and foggy, his fingers twitching, and his hands, again, side by side in his lap.

Napoleon pushed aside waves of guilt as he tightened the straps on the gurney and helped the nurse to her feet. Her neck was already bruising from the grip. "Thank you," she croaked, regaining her professional demeanor as she rubbed her neck and checked Illya's vital signs. "Wasn't … expecting …"        

"You're welcome," Solo said, feeling slightly like a traitor. "He surprised us both." He retrieved the communicator from the floor, and finished his report, then collapsed on the small couch and slept for the rest of the flight.

********

It had been a week since the chief enforcement agent had brought his second home. Illya had been firmly ensconced in the medical wing of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, New York, under complete diagnostic and psychological scrutiny. Other than the tranquilizer injected by Solo, no drug of any kind was found in his system. Other than the anesthesia administered when surgery was performed on his lame leg, he had been given nothing. Still, he kept the same head down, arms-in-lap posture he had when he was picked up.

By the thirteenth day home, Waverly was ready to send Solo out on another mission, and the agent was unable to come up with a compelling reason to refuse. He'd been with his friend twenty days, and there was no sign of recognition.

When Kuryakin was physically mended, save for a thick cast on his leg, he was transferred to the psychological wing much to Solo's dismay. His partner was settled in a comfortable room with a wire reinforced view window and a splash of color to look less sterile. Weeks passed, and the cast came off, followed by intense physical therapy to bring his muscles back from atrophy.

Solo made it a habit to spend as much time as possible with his friend, both for loyalty and friendship's sake, but also to quell the gut feeling he had deep inside; that this wasn't over.

There was something to the downcast eyes; something about the posture that suggested to him that Illya was waiting. For what, he didn't know, but he couldn't quash the feeling and he wanted to be around when whatever his friend was waiting for happened.

Over two months after Illya's return, Solo dropped by the room to chat about the day's activities. He had a date set up with Gina, a glorious red head he met at a dinner club, and was surprised when he realized this was his first real date since before the exchange, and was looking forward to it.

He entered Illya's room and found the Russian in his normal position, sitting in the chair next to bed, eyes and hands on his lap. His hair had grown quite a bit, but wasn't the shaggy mop he remembered. Solo closed the window to the late afternoon breeze and commented about his impending date and Gina's attributes. When he turned around again he was shocked to see Illya's eyes on him.

The one-sided conversation sputtered to a stop. Solo squinted in suspicion when he realized that his friend's eyes weren't focused on him, exactly, but on some far away place. The blue eyes were clear and fixed, and it was the first time in a long time Solo had seen them so open. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

"Illya?" He said softly, not moving. "Do you hear me?"

There was no response, but Solo's gut instinct was in full roar. He was just about to step forward and shake his silent friend by the shoulders when the blue eyes dropped once again, and the lids half closed.

Solo was silent for a bit, studying his friend carefully. He checked the security of the room and made a note on the chart for orderlies and nurses to tend to him in pairs. As docile as the Russian seemed now, Napoleon couldn't put aside his instinct. He finally bid his friend farewell and left the room, promising himself to check back later.

He didn't see Illya's hands slip to his sides, palms down and flat next to him on the seat of his chair.

*******

Napoleon would have been enjoying himself a lot more if he didn't have the feeling that something was going to happen. Gina was fun and lively, a great dinner partner and dancer, and probably wonderful in other areas that Solo was building up to, but was almost a relieved when his communicator went off during their aperitif; deep down, he'd expected it.

Excusing himself to a quiet corner, he opened the pen and spoke into it.  "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo, we have a problem." Doesn't Waverly ever go home? Crossed his mind quickly, and then settled in to receive the information he already knew inside. "It seems that Mr. Kuryakin isn't as incapacitated as assumed. He has managed to slip through our security and leave the premises."

"Are you sure he's actually off the grounds?" Solo inquired, making his way to his date's side.

"He seems to have left a trail of destruction that leads to the front door. There are no physical witnesses conscious at the moment to attest to his actual departure, we do have tapes of his, shall I say, escape."

I knew it! Solo thought, I knew something was up. "On my way, sir," he closed. He quickly made his apologies to Gina, and arranged a taxi to take her home while he drove to the office.

The medical section was physically connected but totally separate from the rest of the headquarters. That was necessary in case some sort of contagen was brought back, unknowing, by an agent.

Illya had managed to make it to the main entrance to medical before encountering his first obstacle, a night orderly. He was still unconscious in medical receiving, along with a bruised nurse and two security guards who probably had broken arms. Solo took in the reports of carnage stoically, trying to piece things together. He requested the work schedule for the night, and wasn't surprised at what he saw.

"You were understaffed tonight," he commented to he head nurse as he flipped through the pages.

"Yes," she said. "I was at bare minimum when I let several of the staff have the night off to celebrate a birthday." She blushed, not only at Solo's dreamy eyes, but at the fact that her understaffing was noticed. "We were fine until two nurses called in sick. But it has been so quiet lately, I couldn't justify the over time."

"I see." Solo closed the schedule and smiled at the nurse. "Thank you."

He made his way back to his office and quickly pulled the files on the engineers that had been returned with Illya. He was going through them when his intercom buzzed. "Yes?" he said absently.

"I just thought you'd like to know that Mr. Connelly has reported in and Illya's apartment appears intact. Should he stay?" The female voice asked.

"Yes. Have him stay."         

"And by the way, Mr. Waverly is waiting for an update."

"Thank you."

Solo closed the files and took them with him to Waverly's office. The Old Man waved for him to sit as he poked at the barrel of yet another pipe.

"Mr. Solo, sit. And may I say that I'm surprised you are still here."

"Surprised, sir?"

"Yes. You appear to be handling this better than I expected."

"Ah, yes sir." He shifted under the man's comment. "I, um, was really rather expecting this."

Waverly's eyebrow rose to near his hairline. "Really?" He mulled it over for a bit, then replied, "Our medical staff wasn't. What did you notice that they didn't?"

Solo went on to explain what his instinct had been telling him all along; that Illya was waiting for something. "I think he was waiting for the right time to leave, sir. Since he's been physically healed, this is the first night that the ward was understaffed. I've had the feeling all along that Illya has been well aware of what's going on around him. He picked up the information he needed from the staff gossip; that everyone would be at a party, and it would be a skeleton staff at the most. I checked the schedules; this is the first time in months that the staff was that low. It rarely gets that way. He knew it was a good time to get away."

"And what is he getting away for?" Waverly asked, his curiosity piqued. "Are you saying he's programmed? By who? The Russians,  Thrush? Who?

Solo shook his head. "I don’t know for sure yet, sir. I was hoping these files would help. I'm sure I can figure out where he's going. I'll need to speak with the negotiation team that arranged his trade."

"Done," Waverly mumbled over the pipe. "Research will have the information for you in the morning. Meanwhile, what do you think Kuryakin's next move will be? "

"Well, he needs some clothes, that's for sure, and possibly supplies. I'll start by monitoring the police scanner for burglary reports. I can do that while I read these files again."

Waverly nodded and dismissed the chief agent with a nod. Solo settled himself down in the conference room adjacent to his boss's office and tuned in the scanner from electronics panel. The chatter of the New York area police and surrounding agencies whispered in the background as he perused the files.

 The engineers that had been returned with Illya were experts in rocketry and aerodynamics, and had been loosely connected with government contracts relating to design. There really wasn't much there; they had both been spirited into Russia from China while they were attending a worldwide conference on space travel, and had been held as spies for almost a year. Their knowledge was general.

Solo had been at it for several hours and it was close to dawn when his ears perked up from a police call. "…in progress. Unit to cover 42-Lincoln?"

"25 Charlie 1, to cover. 10-9 location."

"25 Charlie 1 to cover 42-Lincoln on a 459 in progress, 1561 Eden Grove, the Surplus Supply store. 25 Charlie copy?"

Solo slammed the files shut and sprinted from the room. Surplus Supply was an army surplus store, and had just what a mole needed!

******

Solo parked a block away, and counted no less than four squad cars on his way to the surplus store. He knew the warehouse was surrounded, but also knew this was a minor detail to the crafty Russian. Solo had to get to him before the officers got hurt and scared him off.

He encountered an officer on the perimeter and identified himself. The cop gave him a puzzled look. "Sure, I know your agency. Since when are you interested in local burglaries?"

Solo said it sounded like a suspect he was after, and asked if there was a description.

"Blond male. That's all we have other than the fact that he bypassed the alarm and has managed to eluded six officers for almost an hour. We only know he's in there because a witness saw him enter."

Solo nodded grimly, loading sleeping darts in his gun as he listened to the progress of the capture on the radio. Illya was running them in circles. Solo requested permission to enter, and the officer warned the others of plain-clothes backup. Solo cringed, and hoped his partner didn't hear that. At least they didn't describe him specifically.

Napoleon slipped into the dark warehouse, all senses on alert. He knew from the radio chatter approximately where the officers were, and where he would be if he were in Illya's shoes. He had joined the inside perimeter of police and motioned his intent to circle around. He crept along the stacked boxes, very aware of the open rafters well above his head. Feeling around a particularly dirty stack of boxes, Solo stumbled over something and looked down to see policeman.

"Damn!" Solo thought, feeling for a pulse. "Good, he's alive." If Illya had killed a cop there was no guarantee this could be ended quietly. Solo also noticed that the officer's gun was gone. "Great!" he thought. "And Illya's a better shot than I am! Well, at least I have surprise on my side…I think."

With his gun in the ready position, Solo continued into the depths of the warehouse, towards a far corner. Solo knew this trick; lure them in, thinking their quarry was cornered, and attack from the rear. But in this case, Solo was betting the quarry was sneaking out! Napoleon immediately reversed his direction and headed to the opposite corner. He saw a quick flash of motion up ahead and dropped lower, keeping quiet.

Low crawling around a forklift he saw a dark form fade into the shadows, and made a dash towards it, dropping to a roll when he saw the form stop and turn. There was a muzzle flash and gunshot, and Solo aimed his darts toward the flash as he rolled. Two more shots rang out and thumped the cement next to his head. He felt cement chips ping on his face, and snapped off two more shots of his own. Bumping to a stop against a shipping crate, he heard a short Russian swear word and didn’t hesitate to bolt towards the noise. He had to reach his partner before the police!

There was the clattering sound of a dropped weapon moments before Solo landed bodily on his friend. They rolled over several times, each trying to get a grip on the other, when Solo felt Illya's grip fade.

"It's about time those darts worked!" he thought as he pinned the weakening agent to the floor. Illya was issuing what Solo was sure were unfriendly comments in Russian as the drug took hold. He heard shouts and running footsteps in his direction as he gathered the drugged man in a fireman's carry over his shoulder. Breathing heavily, he flashed his identification to the lead uniform and left the scene.