Prologue : "That's The Last Time I Help A Damsel In Distress!"

Illya Kuryakin paused as he stepped from the downtown building onto the unusually quiet street. Well, quiet for New York. True, it was late in the night, midweek, and the average working person was probably at home sleeping or watching the late news. Illya, however, was the type that usually made the late news. Being an U.N.C.L.E. agent was a far cry from the normal 8 to 5 crowd, and the result of doing his job was most often covered up and made to look like a run of the mill mugging or other nasty deed reported by the local news teams. Illya and his partner Napoleon Solo dealt with international secrets and played spy games that only those with the best survival skills and instincts could deal with successfully; and they were successful. The pair was known throughout U.N.C.L.E. and their nemesis Thrush as being at the top of the game.

And that is what Illya reflected about as he paused on the stoop. It was a glorious autumn night with a bracing bite in the air that reminded him of his Mother Russia. He took precious few moments to simply enjoy the feeling of peace and dropped his guard. This simple legwork assignment did afford less stress for once.

 After a minute or two he began to feel uncomfortable with the brief reflection and put his guard back up. Glancing up and down the empty street, he stepped to the sidewalk and started walking briskly north, thinking about the interview he had just completed. Already, he was drafting his report to Waverly in his head as he walked. The meeting with Dr. Engleberg, a scientist requesting asylum, seemed odd for some reason he could not pinpoint. The man had said all the right things to make him valuable to U.N.C.L.E. and had even given him some formulae he had developed, but Illya had gotten the feeling that there was something else going on; the man was more guarded than nervous. Something didn't ring true, and Illya was sure that he and Napoleon would find out what was the problem was with a bit more research and observation.

As he walked he could hear the sounds of traffic several blocks over. The occasional car that drove slowly by him did not escape his scrutiny. What also caught his attention was a sound ahead that seemed to come from the thick hedge next to the sidewalk, and it put the Russian instantly on alert.

His eyes swept the surrounding area. A van and a sports car were parked on the street alongside the walkway and appeared to be empty. The hedge bordered a large, old brownstone with dark windows; Illya couldn't tell if it was occupied or not. Most of the buildings on this street were commercial storehouses and rather run down. It was rare to see foot traffic this time of night. Other than himself, Illya didn't sense another living soul. The sound, however, made him both curious and suspiciously alert for any trap.

 When he got closer, he realized it was moaning. And it sounded like a woman. Illya slowed at the hedge trying to zero in on the noise when he saw a delicate pump amongst the branches adjacent to the battered van. Next to it was a divot in the greenery the size of a person, and within the thick brush he saw a leg. Then another. And they were both quite shapely, albeit a bit scratched.

"Miss?" Illya questioned. This is definitely Napoleon's arena, the Russian thought, instantly suspicious. But then again, everything made him suspicious, much to his partner's amusement.

Glancing around once more, Illya parted the branches and saw a lovely woman sitting within the hedge. It was hard to ignore the skirt forced up her firm thighs, the rumpled blouse that was clinging to her bosom, and her frazzled auburn hair. Her hand raised daintily as if to shake hands with the agent as her sad eyes caught his.

"Oh, please!" she whimpered. "Help me! They just pushed me in here and took my purse and…and…" her lower lip quivered as she tried not to cry.

"Um, here. Give me your…" before he even finished his sentence she had a grip on his hand and struggled to get out of the shrub.  "Ah … hand!" he finished, pulling her to her feet. She leaned heavily on his arm, nearly pulling him off balance.

"Oh, my shoe!" she lamented, tugging at the pump hanging in the branches as she hopped on one shod foot while using Illya as support.

"Hold on, Miss. Why don't you sit?" Illya was finding it difficult to dislodge his arm from her grip.

"It was horrible!" she cried, tears hanging on her eyelashes. "They grabbed my purse, then pawed at me then simply shoved me in the bushes!" Her lower lip quivered as she rescued her shoe and hobbled to the curb, towing Illya with her. "And my car is right here! Oh! My keys were in my purse! Maybe they took the money and dropped the purse!" She leaned on the trunk, released Illya's arm, and started to struggle to put on her shoe. "Could you help me look? For my purse, I mean?" She turned her watery eyes on the uncomfortable Russian, a picture of complete helplessness. "Please? I really don't feel safe alone!"

"Ah, sure." Glad to have her off his arm, Illya stepped back and gave the surrounding area a cursory search. Amazingly, he found a small clutch purse in the gutter a few feet in front of the parked sports car and picked it up.

"You found it!" the young lady gushed, "Oh, thank you! Are my keys in there?" She sniffed and daubed her eye with a finger.

Illya peeked inside. "Yes. Here they are," and he pulled them out.

"You just don't know how grateful I am that you came along! I would be just too scared to get out of that….. predicament..  by myself! I might have been in there until dawn!"

"Well, here you are, then." He handed her the purse and keys. "Can you drive?"

She dropped her eyes. "I don't know Mr. …"

"Kuryakin," Illya supplied, not really wanting to get involved any more. But the idea of leaving her here didn't set so well with him, either. He knew that if Napoleon were in his place, she would be half way to her place by now with him along for the ride.

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin. Could you unlock my car for me? My hands are shaking so badly, I don't think I could. If you could drive me to a diner close by or something, I could call my boss or my sister in Long Island." Her voice was shaking as she spoke, which made Illya sigh inwardly.

"Don't be silly. It's the middle of the night." He unlocked the passenger side and helped the woman inside. "There's a nice hotel a few blocks away. I'll pay for a room for you."

She turned her doleful eyes on him. "Oh, I couldn't. But I don't have much choice, do I?  I insist on paying you back, of course." She smiled, and he closed the door.

Illya trotted around to the driver's side of the sports car. He had just unlocked the door when the screech of tires made him drop the keys and instantly reach for his shoulder holster as he yanked the car door open with his free hand.

A van skidded to a halt next to him and at least a half dozen masked men leaped from it. Illya pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. special as he leaped into the driver's seat and started to aim.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Mr. Kuryakin."  

Illya froze and glanced at the woman sitting next to him in the sports car. He was looking right down the barrel of a very large handgun. The woman's eyes were dry now, and a cocky grin replaced the quivering mouth.

"That's the last time I help a damsel in distress," Illya grumbled as he felt something sharp stab him in his side and he slid into darkness.  

Act I: "Aren't You Supposed To Be In There?"

When he awoke, he did so with a start and an instinctive jerk of his hand towards his holster. His hand, however, didn't move, and that's when he noticed the metal bracelets surrounding both wrists, which were over his head. He also noticed that his shirt was off. He was able to release some weight from his wrists by standing on his toes. Craning his head, he saw that his handcuffed wrists were hanging by a hook, which was suspended from the ceiling by a long chain.

'A warehouse of some sort,' the agent noted, along with the fact that he was hanging against a crumbling interior brick wall. Surprisingly he was otherwise unharmed, save for his throbbing shoulders and wrists.  He could tell he hadn't been hanging that long as he could still feel his fingers.

"I'd really like to hang around a bit longer, but I do have appointments to keep," he said loudly. His voice echoed in the largeness of the building.

There was no human response but there was a response. Almost immediately, water started to spray lightly from the ceiling area. Soon Kuryakin's body was shiny with dampness. He shook his blond mane to clear the water dripping in his eyes then heard a creaking noise. Looking up, he saw a rather intense looking young man rolling a chipped dolly his way. On the dolly, three car batteries were stacked. Lying across the top battery was a padded wand. Illya sighed inwardly; electric shock. Again.

"Excuse me," the Russian said conversationally. "But your version of the welcome wagon leaves a lot to be desired."

The intense man gave him an uncomprehending look, and began to unwind the wand wordlessly.

"As does your conversation abilities," the agent added, looking for the man to get just a bit closer.

"He's not paid to converse," a feminine voice growled. The damsel in distress appeared, walking smartly from the same direction as the goon.

"Obviously," Illya agreed. "And just as obviously, you're paid to act, I assume?"

The woman snorted, and curled her lip in a tight grin. "In more ways than one, Mr. Kuryakin. Paolo," she indicated the agent with a nod. "Show him what you're paid for."

Paolo's eyebrows rose in pleasure and Illya was momentarily disgusted by the poor state of his teeth. Like a striking snake, the wand leaped forward and caught the agent deeply in the abdomen. The shock was long and deep, and Illya couldn't keep from screaming.

Abruptly, the goon stopped. "There was a sample, Mr. Kuryakin. Paolo knows a lot more about pain. This device is just the beginning."

Illya panted. "What do you want?" He wasn't really on anything earth shattering right now, and was trying to tie in this seeming senseless abduction to the routine footwork he had been doing. Nothing warranted this treatment, unless it was simply . . .

"Straight information." The woman purred, inspecting her nails. "Locations of the newest U.N.C.L.E. offices in Europe, and the entrances. Lists of agents and locations. Basic things. It's easy enough for an agent of your..reputation." She tugged her short jacket, and folded her arms. "And I'm angry to be put on this boring detail, so we both suffer."

Again she nodded and again Paolo administered the wand with a grotesque grin. Illya convulsed, but held in his scream. This annoyed the woman even more.

"I grow tired of this. Paolo, do what you must. I'll be back in a half hour." With a toss of her head, the woman clicked off out of sight.

"Well, Paolo, guess it's just us," Illya said. Paolo just chuckled. "Oh! You do have a sense of humor!" the agent noted, watching his tormenter turn up and intensity dial.

Paolo took a tiny step forward and jabbed the wand, Illya convulsed again, but managed to see through the pain and whip his legs out, hooking the weird man around his scrawny neck with his heels. Paolo dropped the wand and grabbed the agent's ankles as Illya pulled him towards the wall. He worked his legs around the struggling man's neck then took away his breath with a scissors squeeze  

As Paolo gasped and wiggled, Illya slammed the man against the wall behind him and pushed off his squirming shoulders just enough to unhook the handcuffs from the ceiling hook. As Illya fell downward he took Paolo with him, but didn't release his leg grip. Paolo was out like a light as soon as the Russian hit the floor, and Illya surmised the man could have broken his neck. He didn't stop to check.

Rolling to his bare feet, Illya wasted no time looking for an out. He prowled along the warehouse floor, surprised at the lack of guards. He noted the door leading to the back of the warehouse, and knew that's the way the woman had left. The windows were too high for escape, but there were several doors to choose from. He picked the one that looked the least rusted and appeared to go directly outside, and tested it gently. It was unlocked, but very noisy.

He took a moment to get his breath, then braced his feet and shoved the sliding door open just enough for his body to rocket through. He completely surprised the guard outside, and took him down easily. Illya jerked around the slinged rifle and blasted off two shots from the hip with the body still hanging in the sling. Both shots hit the second guard high in the chest and he went down, too. Kuryakin released the tangled rifle, dove into a shoulder roll, and heard bullets pinging off the pavement by his head.

Using the second guard for cover, a quick patted down the body of the down guard and produced a handgun and several clips. Illya stuffed them in his waistband, and pulled up the rifle to take out the guard across the street. As quick glance around revealed no more guards, so the agent tugged the rifle away and trotted down the industrial park roadway.

There were many warehouses, all of them apparently abandoned, and Illya could see train tracks at the far end of the drive. He mentally placed himself at the outer edges of the city and headed across the tracks, working his way south. Soon he heard distant voices shouting and screeching tires. Curious, he made his way to the decrepit perimeter fence and followed it to the main entrance of the warehouse yard. He saw several dark sedans blocking the roadway, and shook his head at the commotion. He had recognized one of the men right away: Benson, a new agent in the U.N.C.L.E. New York office. He obviously hadn't mastered the art of being discreet.

Illya circled around to the back of the cars and fixed himself against an old building. Here, he could see the U.N.C.L.E. sedans, the entryway through the pathetic fence, and the warehouses in the background.

"Not too quiet, is he?" A low voice said behind him. Illya didn't jump, though. He'd rather expected it.

"Ah, the exuberance of youth," Illya sighed, turning his head slightly to catch Napoleon Solo's eye.

Solo, always the dapper dresser, stepped up next to his partner and friend and looked him over from head to toe. "Go swimming?" he asked casually. Illya merely grunted. "Aren't you supposed to be in there?" Napoleon commented, nodding towards the buildings.

"I was," Illya replied. "But it was a boring party. How'd you get an invitation?"

Napoleon crossed his arms over his chest and rocked a bit on his heels. "Someone got a bit curious about a certain communicator pen and left it open."

"Ah," Illya nodded. "You traced the signal. So you're actually crashing this party."

Napoleon sighed. "I was planning on sneaking my way in. Benson decided to crash it. Then I saw you on the backside coming this way, so I just stood back and waited."

"Ah." Illya nodded again. They both watched the shouting agent directing the roadblock for a few seconds longer. "Shall we tell him I'm over here?"

"Honestly? I'd just assume leave this party, but the old man would like the communicator back, along with some of the other goodies you no doubt had stashed on you," Napoleon said with a grin.

"I can see that." Illya agreed. "Accounting can be such a pain in the head."

"Neck, Illya. Pain in the neck. Or ass. Depends on who the pain is, I guess." With that, the agents fell into step side by side and approached the roadblock.  

Act II : When a Kiss is not a Kiss

Alexander Waverly was best described as a basset hound. A very smart basset hound. He was the head of the New York office of U.N.C.L.E. and lorded over his dominions with cool aplomb.

When he was thinking, he absently fiddled with an array of pipes in various stages of tamping. Most of the time they were never lit, but today was not one of those days. Both Napoleon and Illya, the number 1 and 2 Enforcement Agents in Section Two respectively, watched the matches carefully. Sometimes Mr. Waverly was so distracted in thought that the match would burn down to his fingers and he would yelp in surprise. This day, the flame made it to the bowl, and he puffed thoughtfully.

Napoleon cleared his throat.  "Engleberg is a genetic scientist, isn't he?"

Waverly responded while puffing. "Yes, with a specialty in cattle and butterflies. Quite diverse. Also has had a hand in nerve gas development for Italy."

"So you don't think Illya's kidnapping was connected to Dr. Engleberg's request for asylum?"

"I didn't say that, exactly." Waverly hedged.

"I'm not even sure it was Thrush." Illya commented, his hands steepled on the table in front of him. "It seemed pretty amateurish. The rifles were standard Thrush issue, but they can be picked up anywhere overseas. And they didn't ask anything about Dr. Engleberg."

Waverly puffed. "True. It is rather peculiar all around. And the woman you described doesn't match anything we know domestically relating to Thrush." He puffed some more.

"She could be an upcoming field agent," Napoleon thought out loud. "She managed to slip away easily enough. Let that creepy Paolo guy take the fall."

"Yes. Mr. Paolo. Interesting fellow, that. Almost like an idiot savant, brilliant in torture techniques, but not much else. Hasn't given us anything we can use. And he didn't harm you severely, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya shook his shaggy mane. "No. I found two puncture wounds, but that was it. From the drugs they gave me, I presume."

"Good, good. Well, men, let's see how this incident falls with the deck then."

"You mean just continue on like we were and see if it fits?" Napoleon summoned up.

"Yes, yes." Waverly rolled the pipe between his fingers. "Mr. Kuryakin, continue to check our Dr. Engleberg's statements and formulae, and Mr. Solo, see what you can dig up on upcoming birds of the flock, so to speak, while you check up on Dr. Engleberg's movements in the past few months."

"Yes, sir," the agents chorused as they rose to leave.

They walked down the hallway to their office in thought.

"You still going to the Jazz Club with Jenna?" Napoleon asked lightly, a sparkle in his eye.

Illya gave him a sideways glance. The light, teasing tone wasn't lost on the Russian. He was tight as a clam when it came to his personal life, and Solo was like a determined shore bird . . . pick, pick, pick. "Napoleon, she's just a friend with a common interest. Besides, she's engaged to someone. You are welcome to join us."

Napoleon waved him off with a playful expression, "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, you underestimate your mysterious self again. I think there's more there in her mind. You'd better watch yourself!"

Illya rolled his eyes, the stoic expression never leaving his face. "I'm going down to Research and leave you to your imagination," he said.

Napoleon stopped at his office with a smirk. "Give my regards to the fair Jenna!" he teased one last time.

Shaking his head in resignation, Illya continued on to the Research level.

The day passed rather quickly for the two agents. Illya, assisted by Jenna, managed to verify some of the formulae Engleberg had supplied. He and Jenna worked well together professionally. She never gave any indication of any ideas beyond a working friendship and Illya was comfortable around her. Normally, the breathy talk and unconscious preening by many of the women in Research and the rest of the building made the Russian uneasy. It also made for a mountain of teasing fodder for his partner. Nothing Jenna did, though, gave Napoleon ammo to use against Illya and that frustrated him. Solo was a patient man; he would get something eventually, he was sure, and the Jazz Club date was the best thing yet.

By the end of their shift, however, not a whole lot more about Dr. Engleberg was uncovered. One thing that had been discovered was that there was a several months period unaccounted for in his life while in Italy; he seemed to fall off the face of the earth for a for about 16 weeks. Waverly assigned Solo to the Rome office to chase down those details while Illya continued his follow up on some theories and formulae Engleberg had given him. The partners sketched out their duties for the next few days as they left the building. 

"So do you believe this Engleberg is sincere about defection?" Solo inquired. "And on the other hand, what does all this have to do with U.N.C.L.E., anyway?"

Illya ran his hand through his shaggy hair. "If his theories pan out, he's onto a new kind of nerve gas. He also has some ideas about a delivery system that involves a nuclear device; it all doesn't quite fit together, though, and that makes me suspicious."

Napoleon snorted. "Well, there's a surprise; you, suspicious. Do me a favor, will you? If you figure out how the nuclear part of this fits in, notify me. I'd like to know beforehand if I'm going to be poking into areas where radioactive materials may be hiding." He straightened his tie as they left the building. "Glowing green doesn't go with any suits I'm planning on taking."

There was a hint of a grin on Illya's lips. "I would make you easier to track in the dark. Thrush would appreciate that, I'm sure. Do you see any connection between Engleberg and any upcoming new birds from the nest? I still regard the timing of my capture and the initial interview with Engleberg as suspicious."

"There's nothing here I can connect. Maybe Rome will have something along those lines." Napoleon shook out his keys as he reached his car. "Can I drop you at your place? Can't have you all tired out before your tête-à-tête with the lady Jenna!" Napoleon's toothy grin only made Illya frown.

"I would again invite you to join us, but I know you have a flight to catch. And, yes, I'll take the ride, thank you, but not for the reasons you have made up in your head."

The tires of the racy Fiat squealed briefly as Napoleon pulled from the curb only a moment after Illya slammed the passenger side door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Jazz Club was packed. Illya and Jenna sat against the wall commenting on the quality of the group. Jenna proved to be quite the expert on the sax, and admitted that she played the instrument but not very well. She and Illya chatted politely on a friendly level. Sure, she was trim and pretty but Illya felt nothing for her but friendship, and she felt the same. She was in a long distance relation ship, and was planning a wedding for the next year. In six months, she was moving to be closer to her fiancé. She appreciated her platonic relationship with Illya and the chance to pursue her musical interests while in New York.

It was well after midnight when they left. Illya hailed a cab and saw her safely home. He then returned to his apartment and went to bed.

The next day, Illya showed up in Research ready to get to work. He glanced around for Jenna, surprised she wasn't in yet, and started in on his work. About an hour later, well after the shift starting time, she showed up. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and there were dark bags hanging below her lashes..

"Are you alright?" Illya inquired after a glance. "I didn't think you drank that much."

"No, it's not that," Jenna replied, rubbing her eyes. "I didn't sleep very well, then didn't even hear my alarm this morning. I .. " she glanced at Illya and froze for a second. "Uh .. I .. um. What was I saying?" A confused look crossed her face as she held the Russian's eyes.

"I can handle this myself," Illya said softly, disturbed by the look. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep?" Neither one was able to break the gaze between them. Then Illya lost his track of  thought, so he picked up the manuals in front of him and forced his eyes to the stack now in his arms.

"No, I'll be all right," she muttered turning away, her cheeks flushed. "I'll get the next set of books you .. um, asked for yesterday." She turned and walked back into the stacks.

Illya found himself watching her walk away, an uncontrollable feeling growing in his gut. He shook his head and forced himself to turn away. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the books and made for the nearest table with a microfiche viewer. His mind was back on the formulae within a few minutes.

He knew Jenna was back before he even heard or saw her. Illya was deep into comparing a microfiche file with some handwritten notes in one of the manuals when he felt that uncontrollable feeling rise again in his gut. He glanced back and was not surprised to see Jenna standing behind him with a collection of books in her arms. She was staring at him with her mouth partially open as if she was going to say something, but forgot what it was.

Illya found himself noticing her lips, and how full they were, when he realized that the feeling he had was desire. The urge to kiss those lips was almost overwhelming, and he fought off the thought by leaping to his feet and backing away. "Ah," he stuttered. "Wh .. why don't you leave those here while I .. um .. go .. somewhere .."

She had nothing to add as she watched him slink away. Her white knuckled grip on the books finally became painful and forced her to put down the books. She looked at her hands. They were shaking.

Illya retreated to the far side of the Research Department to gather his wits. "What was that all about?" he thought to himself as he perused some files. Soon he was able to brush off the thoughts of her and replace them with work. He collected a few reports, and took them back to the table. Jenna was no where to be seen. Illya picked out several related items, already preparing a report for Waverly in his head. He determined which things to use for visual aids, and piled them together. It was quite a stack. He looked up and was both disappointed and relieved to see Lisel, another Research clerk, close by.

"Could you help me with these?" Illya asked politely. He hardly noticed Lisel flutter her eyelashes and quickly pat her hair before coming over.

"Certainly, Mr. Kuryakin," she replied breezily as she swayed over and accepted a pile from him. "I have an empty cart over here," she said with a smile. He nodded and followed her with the rest of the books and files.

The empty cart was next to the elevator, so Illya punched the call button as he plopped the items on the cart.

"Would you like me to come with you and bring the cart back?" Lisel asked brightly and hopefully.

"No, no. I'm fine. Thanks." Illya flashed her a rare smile and she reluctantly stepped away, then he turned his back on her as he waited for the doors to open. He heard a small sigh, then the sound of retreating heels on the floor. The blond agent let out a sigh of his own and allowed himself to relax a bit. The chime rang, the doors slid open, and he dragged the cart in with him. He poked the button for his office level and stood back.

The doors had begun to shut when a woman's hand flashed in and stopped the motion. Illya felt the now familiar rush again, and knew who it was before Jenna even appeared. She slipped in, allowing the doors to close behind her. Illya felt trapped, and wildly tried to restrain the surge of desired he felt for her. Outwardly, there was no hint of the turmoil he felt.

"Illya," Jenna started, wringing her hands nervously as she caught his eyes. "I .. I just wanted to thank you for last night. I had a very nice time."

The Russian was thankful for the cart that was between them, and alarmed that he thought he required a physical barrier to keep him away from her. It took him a second to realize that a reply was expected. "So .. so did I," he said politely and with all hope that what he was feeling wasn't outwardly obvious. He was trying to keep his eyes off her face, and especially her lips, when he felt her presence close to his.

He glanced up just as she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek; he turned his head instinctively and caught her lips with his before he could stop himself. He cradled her cheek with his cupped hand, and kissed her deeply; she returned the kiss willingly, eager to continue, but the ding of the elevator made her jump and break the contact.

"What?" Illya said quietly as he blinked in surprise. He hadn't even heard the door! He straightened up quickly, but it took several moments for his head to clear.

Jenna had already grabbed the cart and was pushing it out the open door, her face red, when he saw two people, a man and a woman, standing outside waiting for the elevator. Their faces were shocked; Illya's cool demeanor was legendary in the organization and the two witnesses were taken aback by what they'd seen. The Russian agent quickly gathered himself and slipped out right after Jenna. He couldn't help but place his hand on her lower back as they quickly walked down the hallway, and he felt the eyes of the amazed agents on his back. There was the sound of scrambling feet as the witnesses finally bolted to clear the closing elevator doors.

Illya felt Jenna's warmth under his hand and turned his attention to her. He could see the outline of her body under the soft material of her dress, and felt his desire rise to overwhelm him again. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted her lipstick, totally baffled by the outrageous thoughts that sprung in his head. He forced himself to stop in the hall just as Jenna and the book cart reached his office door a few feet ahead of him.

When she straightened up, she looked as wide-eyed and flushed as Illya felt. She stared at him, and touched her lips briefly with the fingers of her right hand. Then she dropped her arm, and began wringing both hands together.

"I'd better go," she whispered fearfully, and backed away a few steps before turning and retreating rapidly down the hall.

It was all Illya could do to keep himself from going after her. After many seconds, he forced his eyes to focus on the office door and ordered his feet to go inside, dragging the cart after him. He pulled the door shut, and sank in his chair with a sigh. Shaking his head in an effort to clear the pictures of her from his mind, he made a conscious effort to put together the briefing for Waverly.

Putting together the briefing was a near-impossible task. Illya was having difficulty making connections in the data, and the theories that seemed so clear to him yesterday were, at best, confusing. He simply couldn't concentrate; his thoughts kept drifting back to Jenna and the kiss. Whenever he got his mind going on the theories he was there to corroborate, he found his mind drifting into areas that made him squirm in his chair.

With only two hours until the briefing, and nothing decent to show his boss, Kuryakin threw his pen down in frustration and stormed out of his office. Passers by in the hall stepped aside immediately due to the intense expression on his face. Without a word to anyone, he left the building in an effort to clear his mind with a vigorous walk.

After several blocks, he felt much better and in control of himself. That thought gave him a shiver; he never felt out of control. He didn't like it one bit. His thoughts again strayed to Jenna, and he tried to think of her in unemotional terms. She was beautiful, smart, nice, and shared his interests in music and science. Why was he so shocked he liked her? She was a great girl.

When he finally convinced himself that he was fine and there was a logical reason for his attraction to her, he was able to put her aside and concentrated on the briefing.

He made it to Waverly's office, fully prepared, with minutes to spare. Illya confirmed that Dr. Engleberg's information had validity, but the missing 16 weeks of his life were suspicious. If the scientist was pitching his theories to various organizations around the world, hoping for a high bidder, that missing timeframe would have been an excellent time to do just that. Was he playing games, or really serious about defecting? Only Napoleon would be able to answer that, if he was successful in tracing Engleberg's movements during that time. Both Illya and Waverly concluded that they would have to hear Solo's full report before passing judgment on Engleberg.

After the briefing, Illya made his way to his office. He didn't miss the smiles passing agents gave him; word of the kiss in the elevator had obviously gotten around and it irritated him. He could only be relieved that Napoleon wasn't here to join in, and hoped it would be forgotten news by the time he returned. The Russian shook his head, mystified that one little kiss could be so newsworthy. 

He gathered his things and left the building at the end of the day satisfied that he'd gotten something done. He hailed a cab and was dropped at his address within minutes, and changed into a loose turtleneck sweater and comfortable pants. Padding around the apartment in his stocking feet, he was surprised when he heard a knock on his door.

Quickly he checked the table next to the door and made sure his U.N.C.L.E. special was in the drawer, then he unbolted the door and opened it up. To his surprise, Jenna stood there with a confused look on her face. She had casual clothes on, and looked great to Illya, but he fought to keep his face neutral as the same feelings seemed to rush throughout his body.

"Hi," she said shyly, her cheeks pink. "I feel so silly, but, may I come in?"

"Sure," Illya heard himself reply as he stepped aside to let her pass. It was all he could do to keep his hands to himself as she walked past; he had this undeniable urge to touch her hair .. he reached out, but mentally ordered his hand back to his side as he shut the door and locked it again. He felt like a doomed man about to walk the plank, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Jenna stopped just a few steps away, and quickly turned to face him. "I just had to ... explain ... I didn't think you'd . . ." In frustration her shoulders slumped and she looked at the ceiling, trying to compose herself. One tear slipped down her cheek.

Illya was on automatic. The drive inside him overwhelmed him and he immediately stepped up and reached to wipe the tear away without thinking. Instantly, Jenna fell into his arms and found his lips with hers.

Any chance of Illya Kuryakin sending her away fled his mind as the feelings he had all day long finally drowned them both.  

Act III : "Reminds Me Of My Aunt Nola."

The flight to Italy was long, as usual. Napoleon had taken the opportunity to catch some sleep, and was somewhat refreshed by the time he touched down in Rome. He flirted innocently with the stewardess as he debarked, and was met at the gate by a conservatively dressed man in his late 20's.

"Mr. Solo?" The man asked in heavily accented English. "I am from our Uncle's office, and at your disposal. My name is Benitto Suparini, and it's an honor to meet you."

Napoleon took Benitto's hand and shook it with amusement. "Thank you. Did you read the briefs Mr. Waverly sent ahead of me?"

"Yes, I did, and I've found one place you may want to visit." Benitto motioned for Solo to follow him, and started down the terminal. "We started with the last place Dr. Engleberg said he lived and worked just after that 16 week period he was missing."

"Good, good. That will save me some time." Napoleon replied. "Now, can you tell me who would have the most information about new birds around the office? I need to cross check some information with them later."

Benitto's head bobbed up and down in understanding. "I know who you need to see. I will arrange it for later this afternoon. Is that all right?"

Napoleon clapped his hand on the young agent's back. "Yes, my friend, it is. Let's grab my bag and hit that address, shall we? I don't want to waste any time."

They loaded up the small beige car and headed out of the airport terminal. Benitto's driving was fast but sure as he confidently wove his way between traffic.

"The address is very close by. This is the address Engleberg left Italy from. We haven't questioned the landlady yet. We thought you'd prefer to do that. He was that he was only there four days before he left for the United States. "

"OK, then, let's go speak to Madame…?"

"Cassarian. Eva Cassarian. Here we go." Benitto pulled over to a dirty curb in a narrow alley and killed the engine.

When Napoleon and his guide walked to the front of the car, two men stepped from around the corner and started their way. The older agent stopped Benitto with his arm, and the younger agent followed his gaze.

"Friends of yours?" Napoleon asked softly.

"Not that I can remember," Benitto replied, taking a sturdy stance.

"Excuse me!" Napoleon spoke a bit loudly, directing his voice towards the men. "Perhaps you could direct us to the nearest petrol station? Our car seems to have stopped."

The men continued on, intent on the pair, not even bothering to answer. When they were close enough, the lead man pulled a baton from under his coat.

"Great. We would get stuck on the touchy side of town.." Napoleon started to pull out his gun, but he didn't have time to bring it up. The lead man swung without preamble, and Solo was quick enough to slip aside, grab his wrist and pull him off balance.

In the corner of his eye he saw Benitto's hand in a shoot from the hip position, and heard a double report from the gun. The only effect it had on the second man was to cause his step to hesitate a second.

Body armor, ran through Solo's mind as he brought his elbow down across the back of the first man's neck. It managed to fell the man to one knee, but that was about it. He came up quickly with a fist in Solo's abdomen, which threw the agent against the wall with a solid bang. He didn't hesitate at all, and managed to aim a direct kick to his assailant's groin. That stopped him, but to Solo's amazement, didn't drop him. It gave the agent the needed seconds to follow up with another kick to the knee, and a chop to the sensitive part behind the ear. That combination finally put the man to his hands and knees, but not out completely. Napoleon aimed one more two handed slam to the base of the man's neck, and laid him flat.

Solo quickly looked up and saw that Benitto was still grappling with his man, and was just flipping him over with an arm twist. The man hit with a "OOOOOFF!" as the air was slammed from his chest, and the young Italian agent finished him with a side kick to the windpipe. They were both breathing hard when Solo slapped him on the back.

"Good going there, Benitto. Let's see who they are."

Benitto searched for his dropped gun while Solo patted the pockets of the downed men. Each had a small handgun secured away in a back pocket, and each gun had a stylized bird engraved on the handle.

"Thrush," mumbled Solo. "This is getting more interesting."

Benitto recovered his and Solo's weapons, and glanced at the rival agents' small guns. "I got the impression that it wasn't confirmed that Thrush was involved here. I guess that changes that, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I guess so." Napoleon switched the ammo in his handgun and fired a small sleeping dart into each man. "That should hold them long enough for us to interview madam Cassarian. "

They pulled the bodies into the shadows and found the dark steps ascending to the loft of Eva Cassarian. Benitto called on his small radio for a team to pick up the unconscious pair as Solo knocked on the door and smoothed his hair.

It took several knocks to finally get a response. "What? Who is it?" a woman's voice barked in Italian.

Napoleon responded in kind. "My name is Napoleon Solo, and my assistant and I have some questions about a former tenant," he said through the door.

The door cracked open, and a stooped woman with a thin scarf over her head peered at them through the opening. Her eye rolled up and down, taking them both in. "Who?" she finally barked.

"Daniel Engleberg. He left early last week."

The old woman frowned. "That ingrate?" she growled. "He left me in lurch! He owes me two days' rent!" She ranted.

"If you let us in and answer some questions, we can take care of his account for you," Solo said smoothly with an easy grin that always won the ladies over. The old crone looked him over once again with a deep frown, then slammed the door in his face. Napoleon jerked back to avoid his nose getting clipped, and was relieved to hear the sound of a chain lock being undone. The door jerked open again.

"Come in. Give me 1200 lira to close his account first."

Napoleon gave Benitto a sideways grin. "Well?" he said. "Pay the woman."

Benitto hesitated only slightly, and pulled out his wallet. He took out 1200 lira exactly, and handed it to her. She snatched it from his hand, counted it, and pulled out a squeaky drawer from an old desk. She lay the money in there then pulled out a small sheet of paper. She wrote something across the paper, then handed it to Benitto.

"Receipt." She grumbled. "Now what else do you want?"

Napoleon turned on the charm. "Mrs. Cassarian," he started.

"Miss," the woman barked.

"Excuse me?" Solo said, not expecting to be interrupted.

"Miss Cassarian. I have never been married." The frown was still plastered on her face.

"Ah, right. Miss Cassarian." Solo smiled again. "Miss Cassarian, I was wondering if you could tell me about Mr. Engleberg? Anything would do. First, I guess, is how did he find you to rent the apartment?"

"I am known around here." She stated. "Lived here my entire life. If he asked anywhere for a room, he would get my name." She waited expectantly for the next question, not offering a chair for the agents.

"I see. Did he pay cash?"

"Yes. Two day's cash."

"Did you talk to him?"

"No."

"Did he have anyone over?"

"I do not snoop. I don't know."

"He was here four days, right? Did you ask him for the last two day's rent?"

"I went up there on the third day, but no one was there. I saw him leave with his suitcase the fourth day, but I was not yet dressed, and did not chase him."

"So, did you know he was leaving for good?"

"No."

Getting information from this woman is like pulling teeth, Solo thought. "So, has anyone been in the room since he left?"

"Just me. I cleaned it on the fifth day when I did not see him return."

"You cleaned it? Did you find anything in there that didn't belong? I mean, anything left behind?"

"Just papers and trash. Nothing much."

"Where are the papers and trash now?"

"Who knows where paper and trash go? I take to the big trash can, and it goes away. I do not know. Are we finished?" The woman's expression was just as glum, not changing a bit during the conversation.

"Can we look at the room now? Is someone else in it now?"

"No, it is empty. I will take you." She reached into the ancient desk for a key ring.

"If you don't mind, we can look by ourselves. No need to bother you anymore than we already have." Napoleon slowly reached out and took the keys. Eva Cassarian squinted at him slightly, but didn't resist. "Up stairs, first door on left. Room 310."

"Thank you."

Both agents left the room and went up the stairs and found 310 without any trouble.

"I guess she's not the chatty type," Napoleon mused as he glanced about the small apartment.

"Reminds me of my aunt Nola," Benitto said as he followed.

The apartment was dark and smelled of stale air. The thin curtains let in enough light to allow them to check the room carefully. There was nothing there. They both stopped in the kitchenette area, and checked the cabinets. There was a small pad of blank paper in one cabinet drawer next to an ancient black telephone. Solo followed a hunch, and took the pad to the window. He angled it in the light, and saw some impressions from a heavy writing hand on the now missing overlapping sheet.

"Good thing I learned something in Boy Scouts," Napoleon said softly as he withdrew his pen. "This won't do. Do you have a pencil?"

Benitto patted his pockets and shook his head, then triumphantly held up a stubby pencil that was rolling around in one of the kitchenette drawers. "Here!" he said, handing it over.

Solo carefully rubbed the side of the pencil's tip across the page. Handwriting appeared on the sheet; a set of numbers. Flight information, it looked like.

"Dr. Engleberg's flight information to the States," Benitto mumbled.

"No, I don't think so. We know the airline he arrived on, and they use four digits for international flights. This is only three. And the time here," Solo pointed out the second set of numbers below, "appears to be in the afternoon. That wouldn't coincide with his arrival time in New York. This could be an arrival time."

"Here? An arrival time in Rome?" Benitto thought out loud. "Was he meeting someone?"

"I don't know," Solo replied, sticking the paper in his pocket. "But I will soon."

They returned to the Rome office of U.N.C.L.E. where Solo made his report to Waverly. The fact that the Thrush goons were around Engleberg's old apartment wasn't enough to confirm the scientist's involvement, but it certainly raised the bar on suspicion. Solo told him that he'd report back once they'd interrogated the two Thrush operatives, and Solo cross-checked airline records with the numbers found in the apartment.

The head of the Rome office gave the interrogation duties to his top agents. Meanwhile, Benitto and Napoleon perused the airline information after obtaining permission from the airport officials. They quickly determined that the three digits did indicate a flight within Italy, and were able to nail down the actual airline and route. Assuming the note was written the day Engleberg left the apartment, which happened to be the same day he boarded a jet for the United States, they obtained the passenger manifest for that day for the flight arriving from Turin. Engleberg had been on the first flight leaving Rome after that. Was there something passed to him, or did he pass something off?

The interrogation had not results. Solo wasn't surprised; they were just hired guns. Really grouchy ones, too, the interrogators reported. They were very belligerent, but had no information.

They ran the names on the manifest through the U.N.C.L.E. computer; of the 110 passengers, there were 12 hits. Solo scanned the short list; 6 had misdemeanor convictions, 2 had outstanding warrants, 4 were government employees. Offhand, none of them panned out to have connections to Thrush.

"Before we chase these 12 down, let me look at that list again." Napoleon frowned as he went over each name one by one. About half way down, his eyebrows raised and he started to laugh.

"What?" Benitto asked. "I can use a laugh, please."

Napoleon handed over the list. "Under the 'P's. Any names catch you there?"

"Panarra, Pentz, Poza, Philo…"

"That one. Philo, T. Melos." Napoleon grinned. "Get it?"

Benitto frowned. "Well, Melos sounds rather Greek…"

"The whole name is Latin, Benitto. T.Philomelos. That's the Latin name for the Song Thrush, found in the woods of Italy."

Benitto rolled his eyes and tossed the paper on the table. "They didn't teach ornithology in my training class," he moaned.

"It takes an experienced bird watcher," Napoleon chided as he picked up the papers. "Let's trace Mr. Philo, shall we?"

They took the next flight to Turin, and landed late in the evening. The Turin airport checked their data and found that T. Melos Philo had purchased his ticket from an agency about 40 kilometers out of town. They rented a car and headed in that direction. They found themselves in the country, surrounded by farms. The main street consisted of a small grocery, post office, and a legal office that doubled as a travel agency. Since it was almost the middle of the night, nothing was open. At the end of the street was a large house with a 'rooms for rent' sign out front. The agents looked at each other, shrugged, and parked the car.

A porch light came on at the sound of the car door slamming. They could see the outline of a person peering out a front window as they walked up to the stairs. The door opened as they reached the top step.

"May I help you?" a middle aged woman asked.

"May we get rooms for the night?" Benitto asked. "We are simply too tired to keep driving like we planned."

Napoleon nodded at the story. "Just one night," he added.

The woman looked them up and down, made a decision, and opened the door. "I have two rooms upstairs. Please come in and register."

When they entered the house, they saw the figure of a man in the living room, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper. The woman, Mrs. DiBiello, offered brandy in the living room before they retired for the evening. They both accepted. Mrs. DiBiello poured the drinks and introduced her husband, the man in the chair.

"Wait a minute." Napoleon said, pieces falling together. "Are you the attorney? I saw your sign 'DiBiello Law Office' in town."

The man nodded, and offered his hand. "Yes. Anthony DiBiello."

Napoleon shook his hand and introduced himself and Benitto. He accepted the brandy from Mrs. DiBiello, and inquired further. "I have to admit, the reason I remember your name is because I saw that your law office was also a travel agency. Isn't that an unusual combination?"

Mrs. DiBiello giggled slightly. "No, not really. I'm the travel agent, as well as Anthony's secretary. We also rent rooms here in our house."

"Quite the monopoly on companies, here," Napoleon commented lightly. "Do you run the grocery and post office, too?"

Anthony chuckled. "This is farming country, and we are not farmers, obviously! Have to make a living, even in this beautiful country. We only fill in at the post office and store when Leo and Arabella go on vacation!"

Napoleon nodded. "Well, this is quite fortuitous, actually. I'm out here looking for an old acquaintance. You may help my search; he bought an airline ticket from your travel agency last week. Philo? T. Melos Philo?"

Mrs. DiBiello smiled immediately. "Oh, yes! I recall him. Not only is his name odd, but I don't sell a lot of airline tickets this time of year."

"Did he give you an address?"

She hesitated answering.

Napoleon turned on the charm and continued. "You see, I have some things of his. He asked me to keep them a while ago, and now I'm relocating for work, and can't keep them anymore. I've tried to call him, but apparently his phone doesn't work. I know this is the general area he lives in, but I don't have his address. I'm moving the day after tomorrow; I'd love to get his things to him." He gave her his winningest smile. "It would really appreciate it. Or maybe I can leave the stuff here? Although I'd hate to miss seeing him…" 

She smiled back. "Well, he doesn't really have an address. No one does out here."

"Then maybe I can leave the things…"

"No, I don't think we want the responsibility of that," Anthony replied. "Tell him how to get to the castle, dear. They can take the items."

Mrs. DiBiello drew a simple map, and the two agents retired for a few hours.