PRELUDE : The Target

"Comrade General! It's a pleasure to see you again." The Russian's smile was obviously forced. I'm sure you are here to check up on me once again, he thought with a flash of fear.

The slender General strode into the small office like he owned it, his bearing one of a man who was familiar with command presence. His second and third in command trailed respectively behind.

"I’m sure it is," the General replied snidely, knowing exactly how the other man felt. He stopped to light a cigarette; the flare of the match illuminated his scarred face briefly in the dim room. He calmly shook out the match as he inhaled, then blew out the acrid smoke in the other man's direction.

The two men studied each other momentarily, each covering their true feelings with edgy politeness.

"You are here to observe?" the first man asked with failed lightness. Of course that's why you're here, he thought. Always looking for a way to rise in the ranks on other people's work.

"Yes," General Asikov replied shortly, his eyes taking in the room and the group of technicians sitting at their stations. Being the middle of the night, it was a skeleton crew; the best time to observe 'things'. "I hear you have a device that affects navigational equipment. Show me, Comrade Bratsk."

Wilhelm Bratsk fought hard to control his expression. He managed a sick smile. "Certainly," he said. Thrush security leaves much to be desired, he thought. They were supposed to keep this under wraps. It was my only way out of this freezing pit! "Over here, Comrade General."

Bratsk showed his visitor a panel of equipment not much different than those in the rest of the room. "Here. Shall I explain the workings to you?" He bridled inwardly at the suggestion.

General Asikov eyed the panel, keeping his suspicions to himself. He didn't trust this scientist for one second. "No, Comrade Bratsk, there is no need. I know full well how it is supposed to work." He walked up next to the nervous technician seated at the console. "I am here to see it work."

Bratsk sputtered, "Impossible! I have no such authorization!"

"You do now," the General said calmly, locking his steely grey eyes on the scientist. Without an outward order, his two minions stepped up behind Bratsk, leaving no doubt in the scientist's mind that the General expected action. "Show me."

Bratsk's mouth opened for further argument, but read the challenge in the General's eyes and felt a chill overtake him. If there was a face of evil, that was it. The chilling grey eyes and long scars running down sallow cheeks was the picture of the Devil himself. Wordlessly, Bratsk dropped his head and turned to an adjacent radar screen. "I need a target," he mumbled, trying to cover the fear and anger in his voice.

"I have one in mind already, Comrade Bratsk," the General said calmly, puffing again on the cigarette. Just then a glowing green dot showed up on the extreme outer edge of the radar screen. "There."

ACT I: Welcome Home!

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 trying everything to slow down. He must have noted the inadequate length of the runway on sight, Illya realized.

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 reduce speed. Illya was hanging by his fingertips as the suddenness 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 to clear it. 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 forearm. 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 and arm 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, thanks to the emergency lighting, noted a layer of smoke on the ceiling. The aisle was crowded, as was the galley area where one of the emergency exits was located. 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 arm 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.

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters
New York City, New York

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 hidden 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 4504, New York to Sapporo. 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 by the Russian military. 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 with a retrieval plan. 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."

ACT II: "There's More To You Than Meets The Eye, Mr. Haverstock."

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 middle-aged 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 so 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 only slip away…

Some action at one of the hanger entries caught the agent's attention. 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, who remained silent.

"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 another 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 already 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 a smaller building behind them, 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 the 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."

Wonderful! 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, who 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.

The agent reached the console that was left 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 he 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 between the buildings 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 had 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 because it's now or never. If Thrush wants it, we need to go immediately! 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 found himself next to a dirt road, and heard trucks coming his way. Illya looked around coming 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 then 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. Out of time! 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  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."

ACT III: "Just Don't Get A Ticket."

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 Nickovich 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, and wielded a small, towel covered tray with distain.

"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 didn't move a muscle until the guard slumped to the floor.

Illya 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 undress 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 spades. 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 what this would come down. He had to be ready.

ACT IV: "You Remind Me Of Someone I Work With..."

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! She 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, especially since 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 nearly as grim as it was only 15 minutes ago.