Hunting is a game of inches. And patience. Although I am a spy and make my living catching the bad guys, it really is a different ball game when you hunt for something you want more than anything else on earth.

You'll do anything, pay anything, and try anything just on the outside chance that your prey will fall into your hands. And it really helps if your quarry doesn't know you're after him. Staying downwind and all that...

Unfortunately, my prey knew full well that I was after him. I had tipped my hand a bit early and now was paying the price. He slipped away from me easier than the greased pig did that I'd tried to catch every year at the Kansas State Fair. Not that I had wanted the pig then. It was the thrill of the chase and the fleeting sense of victory you got if you were lucky enough to grasp that slippery little devil and hang on to him. Nor did I especially need this particular pig now. Wanted; yes.

After more than a few failed attempts to get hold of this elusive Russian porcine, I remembered the old adage about indifference seemingly being the best way to get someone's attention. I decided to play it understated; pretend to give up and accept the inevitable. I would still put my implements into play; I would just disguise them with disinterest.

Amused by my prior antics, my mark now was puzzled by my lack of persistence. He would sniff the air searching for my scent and seemed almost disappointed when he did not find it lingering. I believe the game was to his liking, though he would never let that truth be dragged from him by any degree of torture.

So in the end, I merely quieted and stood my ground as my prey entered the field by his own volition. We gazed at each other, hound and hunted, and knew the part we each played in this dance. I reached out to him, my hand betraying my need by trembling a bit as I stretched it out, hoping to graze his warmth fleetingly at best.

His eyes were wild, casting about, looking for an obvious pit or snare that he would fall into unguarded. This was a creature born free, and one that would not be tamed by any degree of force.

But the snare I employed had done its job all too well. He took the last fatal step forward of his own free will and came into my arms without hesitation.

For, you see, I had used my heart as the bait and my love as the trap. He never had a chance.

As for telling the tale of how to catch a Kuryakin, it now seems less than useless. For there is only one in all the world and I will never let him go.