ACT V: "Others? What Others?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's your partner's name?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trudy’s eye perked up. "Others? What others?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You need to rest," she started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have to rest," she insisted quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. It is being done now at the hotel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So this screen must be constantly monitored."

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

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

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

ACT VI: "I Think You Have Designed An Armless Straight Jacket."

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

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

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

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

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

"You need to learn the word for ‘gypsies’."

"’Gypsies’?" she repeated hesitantly. "There really are gypsies?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I’ll be…"

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

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

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

"Fine." Trudy responded.

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

"A secret room!" Trudy gasped, in awe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You mean steal supplies, right?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You still have a headache, don’t you?"

"It’s getting better. Now hand me that screwdriver."

She knew he was lying.

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" he said lowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That’s a useless sentence," the tech noted.

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

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

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

ACT VII: "We Didn't Rehearse That Last Part."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACT VIII: "Don't Tell Me You Are Related!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trudy sighed. "Now what?"

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

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

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

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

"I know. Just keep walking."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********

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

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

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

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

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

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