U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York, 1956

They say that mighty oaks from little acorns grow.

It had certainly been the case where the U.N.C.L.E. were concerned. Since the Second World War, and its subsequent creation, the organization had grown, both in stature and reputation. Alexander Waverly had been there at its birth, watching as it grew through shaky adolescence to confident adulthood.

Occasionally he thought back to those early days, like today for instance, as he looked out the office window onto his adopted home, New York City. Each week new buildings, like glass fingers pointing skywards, seemed to have grown overnight, relentlessly changing the skyline. Such was the nature of man's existence—constantly evolving, inexorably moving onwards. As would this branch of the U.N.C.L.E. soon.

Currently they were housed in an office block fronted by a busy insurance company as cover, but not for long. Times were rapidly changing, worldwide crime was increasing and, in proportion, an increasing number of recruits were being inducted into the organization every year. This building was old and U.N.C.L.E. New York, like the hermit crab, had simply outgrown its shell and it was time to move on and seek larger premises.

The organization had recently purchased a large brownstone building in the heart of the city and was in the process of converting it for their covert needs. A façade was needed for the new building, something innocuous and unobtrusive, where the agents could enter and leave without provoking undue attention. Waverly had already penciled in a name for the operative who would front the secret entrance; Salvatore Del Floria, a trusted old war horse Waverley had worked with from the early days. Sal had spent the last seven years behind a desk at U.N.C.L.E.. At sixty, he was due for retirement next month, but Waverly knew the static life wouldn't suit this loyal old colleague. This position as front guard, however, most certainly would.

Distracted by a knock at the door, he paused in his study of the blueprints pinned to the wall. "Come in," he called, returning to sit at his desk. The door opened and a tall, fair-haired man entered. He waited for an invite to sit and at Waverly's gesture pulled out a chair.

"Now, Charles," Waverly said, "I have a little something here I would like you to take care of."

Charles Derwent watched in amusement as Alexander Waverly sifted through the clutter on his desk. Derwent was familiar with his superior's deceptive 'absentminded professor' act. He had worked with Waverly for several years in England before his superior took the post as head of Section One in New York, and at Waverly's request, Derwent had made the move with him, accepting the role and responsibility of Head of Section Two.

"Ah," Waverly suddenly said, victoriously holding aloft the dun colored folder. He passed it across to Charles, trying to shuffle the remaining files into some semblance of order. "When we move into our new premises I really must see about getting a much larger and more practical desk," he muttered. When he looked up, Charles had removed some of the papers and a photograph from the file. Waverly wagged a gnarled finger in its direction. "Clive Jameson. You may remember him from a brief confrontation we had with his organization, Thrush, a couple of years ago." Thrush, the antithesis of U.N.C.L.E., had grown rapidly in the last few years, spreading around the world as insidiously and malevolently as a disease, its only goal being the total subjugation of humanity.

"Oh, yes. Swarthy man, face like a sick bulldog. A most unpleasant chap, I recall. What's he up to now?"

"One of our undercover agents in Washington says he's been invited to Paris, tempted by the offer to purchase a book."

"A book? Jameson doesn't strike me as a book worm. What's so special about this one?"

"It's said to be the notebook of a prominent Russian scientist, containing formulas and notations of his experiments. Apparently, one of them was with a gas that induced docility. Imagine how easy life would be for Thrush, should this get into their hands. I want that book, Charles. Locked safely away."

Derwent waited patiently for more information while his superior set a flame to the pipe in his mouth. After a few satisfying puffs, Waverly removed the pipe, letting the aromatic smoke drift towards the ceiling. "The book is to be sold by auction at a place known locally as Zenana. The owner of this, ah, establishment is a Turkish gentleman, a..." Waverly glanced down at his notes, "Mustapha Fariq. He intends to sell the book to the highest bidder. It's already attracting quite a bit of interest from the more nefarious sections of the chemical industry as well as from Thrush itself. I want that book before it falls into their hands."

"Seems simple enough."

"Yes, doesn't it. That's why I want you to allocate this to another agent."

Charles frowned. "Any reason I can't take care of it myself?" He sighed. "Paris is lovely this time of year."

"Besides the fact that Jameson might recognize you, I have something far more important that requires your attention. Send one of the junior agents. The experience should do them good. The address is in the file. It's a bordello, one of the busiest in Paris." He looked up as he cleared his throat. "Or so I'm told."

"A bordello?" Derwent looked over the contents of the buff folder, quickly running through the possibilities in his mind, and slowly smiled. "Actually, sir, I think I have the perfect man for the job."



The Zenana, Paris

Napoleon Solo paused in the busy foyer of the Zenana, taking in the surroundings with a practiced eye. It wasn't the first time he had been in one of these places, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He reckoned he could recognize a whorehouse blindfolded, just by the smell; an unpleasant combination of cheap perfume and sweat.

A former hotel, this particular establishment—one of the most popular in Paris—also boasted a barroom, where its clientele could spend a little time and a lot of money on watered down booze, and wait for someone of his or her choice to became available.

Napoleon Solo and Antoine Verise, on loan from the Paris office, were here for more productive reasons; to locate and obtain a stolen notebook. The sale of the book was scheduled for the weekend, which meant Napoleon had only two days to find its hiding place and relieve Fariq of the trouble of an auction. Several interested parties had already arrived, staying in some of the rooms in the extensive building. Napoleon already recognized one of the men here from an U.N.C.L.E. file: a high-ranking Thrush official, Clive Jameson.

Napoleon, posing as a representative for a fictitious American chemicals organization, arrived with his fellow agent this morning. After checking out their rooms, they decided to make their way down to the bar to look over the place.

The bar was busy, its regular clientele mixing with the influx of invited guests attending for the auction. The smoky atmosphere cast a haze that made it difficult to see properly in the subdued lighting.

At first glance, it appeared to be like any other bar, with couples sitting in booths, lit by subdued lighting. Some couples were simply chatting, some were more actively engaged, necking or openly caressing their partners. Others were dancing on the small dance floor, the women moving sinuously to the music playing from the hidden speakers.

Napoleon turned his attention back to his temporary partner as Verise prodded him in the side. They were perched on stools at the bar with a perfect view of the entrance. A group of four men had entered. Verise leaned closer to Napoleon. "Fariq and his entourage. The big one in front is the man himself," Verise said, quietly.

Napoleon tried to look without being too obvious as the small party made their way across the room. In his mid thirties, Fariq was an imposing figure, tall and muscular. His olive skin gleamed with sweat and his frame, a little on the heavy side, dwarfed the smaller figure walking beside him. Fariq's companion, a blond male, was young and slim. The two gentlemen walking behind, looked like professional boxers.

"The men at his back," Verise continued, "are his bodyguards, Jean-Piere Jules and Cristof Boudet. The blond by his side is his Russian catamite, Illya. I'm afraid the first name is the only information I have on that one."

Napoleon looked the skinny figure over. He couldn't have been more than five foot nine and a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. Dressed in a short sleeved white tee-shirt and jeans, he looked young and vulnerable as he gazed nervously around at the patrons through large, fearful eyes. Napoleon took a sip from his glass and grimaced at the sour taste. "This wine must be at least three days old." He pushed the glass away from him. "What about Fariq's apartment?"

"He has a suite of rooms here, on the top floor. Access is by way of an elevator. There is a fire escape at the back of the building, but it is always guarded."

Their conversation paused while a fellow patron walked up, attracting the attention of the bartender. They waited until he'd received his drink and left before continuing in low tones.

"We do know that Fariq has a safe and it's pretty certain that is where he'll store the book. We managed to find the manufacturer who supplied the safe but, for legal reasons, they refused to divulge where it was located."

"What about the Russian?" Napoleon asked. "How much does Fariq trust him?"

Verise shrugged. "It's difficult to say. Why, do you think he might know where the safe is? It is possible. He has access to Fariq's suite on the top floor." He looked his colleague over as the American stared at the boy. "What are you thinking?"

"That it'll save time beforehand if I can find out where Fariq's safe is located."

"How will you persuade him to tell you?"

"I hope he might be open to my powers of persuasion. Perhaps he even knows the combination."

"You're going to charm the information from him?" Verise chuckled.

Napoleon turned to look at him. "What's so funny?"

"Something my secretary, Yvette, told me this morning." Napoleon looked down, the trace of a smile on his face as he recalled the time he spent with the pretty brunette. Verise seemed to read his mind. "Oh, the rumor of your prowess has reached our ears, Napoleon. You're gaining quite a reputation for yourself. She warned me to keep moving while in your company, said you would screw anything that stood still too long."

Napoleon didn't take offence, but he did sigh in exasperation at the erroneous assumption. "Actually, I was thinking more along the line of a financial reward as bait." He studied the blond, a thoughtful look on his face. "However, if that doesn't work...."

Verise shook his head as he clapped his comrade on the shoulder. "Bon chance, Napoleon."

They watched as Fariq and his party seated themselves at a corner table. Someone brought a platter of food and placed it on the table in front of Fariq and his companions. Napoleon watched the blond pick at the leafy salad while the Turk quickly demolished a chicken drumstick in just a couple of bites before reaching for another.

"He eats like a pig," Napoleon observed. "It's a wonder he doesn't crush his bed-boy."

"Oh, he doesn't sleep with him," Verise explained. "Fariq is a voyeur, he likes to watch."

Napoleon raised the glass of cheap tasting wine to his lips and thought better of it. He pushed the glass aside and slipped off his stool. "I think it's time we went over and introduced ourselves."

Verise followed him across the room to their host's table. Fariq's bodyguards watched their approach cautiously, relaxing visibly when Napoleon offered them one of his most gracious smiles.

"Mr Fariq, I'm Thomas Jackson, from the Chempro Corporation, and this is my associate Monsiuer Dumont, from our Paris branch."

Fariq rose, wiping his hands on a napkin and briefly shaking their hands before sitting down again. "Mr Jackson, Mr Dumont, here for the auction? Come, sit down with us. Have some wine."

Napoleon sat, but politely waved the bottle away. "Thank you, no. Perhaps later." His eyes were drawn to the blond sitting silently by Fariq's side. His age was difficult to estimate, the boyish straight hair cut giving him the appearance of a teenager, but the watchful eyes held a lifetime's experience in them. The fair head was lowered, but startling blue eyes looked coquettishly up at the American through dark gold lashes, anchoring Napoleon's gaze.

Napoleon reluctantly dragged his attention back to his host. "I just wondered what time the auction started on Saturday? We didn't get any details."

"That's because I didn't issue any. I am waiting for some late arrivals before I set a time, and tomorrow night, I will hold a party, where you can meet your opposition, eh? Until then, why don't you avail yourself of the hospitality offered by my humble establishment?" He leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "All auction customers are being offered a fifty percent reduction. Do you see anyone who takes your fancy?" Unintentionally, Napoleon glanced again towards the blond. "Um, well, I...."

Fariq laughed. "Taken a fancy to my little Russian, have you? And why not? He has the face of an angel, no? I tell you what, you can have him for free." Fariq leered in Napoleon's direction.

Suspicious, Napoleon asked, "That's a generous offer. What's the catch?"

Fariq shrugged, as if the matter was inconsequential. "You let me watch." He reached out, grabbing the blond by the scruff of his neck and pulling him nearer. "He is good, this one, as tight as any virgin I'm told and as pretty as any woman in this place, eh?" With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture that took in both Napoleon and Verise. "He will take you both at the same time, if you wish. Now, that would be a sight I should like to see."

Verise shifted uncomfortably and Napoleon took pity on him. "Actually, no offence, but if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer a game of singles. I'm not sure I can, er... perform, with an audience," he said, good naturedly.

Fariq laughed, a loud raucous cackle. "As you will. I will be sorry to miss it, but I am in business to make money. If you wish to have him, then he will cost you more than the others." He leaned forward, whispering, "He is practically a virgin." That, Napoleon thought, was like saying someone was only a little bit dead.

"Give me your room number, I shall send him up later. But watch him carefully, Mr. Jackson," Fariq warned. "He is a lazy individual, this one. He will try to finish you off as quickly as he can. Oh, you will enjoy it, I'm sure, but if you are paying, I think you will want your money's worth."



It was almost ten and the Russian still hadn't shown up. A little disappointed, Napoleon assumed the young prostitute wasn't coming and decided to take a shower before retiring early to bed. He'd barely had chance to dry off when a tap came at the door to his room. He hastily pulled on a robe and glanced around, tucking his gun was out of sight inside his jacket before opening the door to his visitor. The young Russian hesitated a moment, his eyes flickering over the American before walking in at Napoleon's invitation.

Napoleon noted that he'd changed from his earlier attire, now dressed in black pants and a loose fitting, white shirt that hung on his slender frame, making him seem somehow smaller and more fragile.

"Hello. I am Illya," he said casually, as he passed Napoleon. Napoleon acknowledged with a nod and closed the door. "Hi. Thanks for coming."

The blond shrugged. "You are paying for the privilege."

Napoleon walked across to a table where he'd laid out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "I was expecting you a little earlier."

"I had some other... business to see to. It has been a busy night." He nodded when Napoleon raised the bottle in silent offer of a drink. He upended the whiskey and filled the two glasses, turning in time to see the blond pulling his shirt off over his head. "Whoa, wait!" Napoleon stopped him with the wave of his hand. "Slow down, we have all night. I don't like to rush things."

The young man stood, shirt in hand, his hair mussed from the disrobing and his head lowered self-consciously. There was something endearingly sweet about the scene, as he shuffled uncomfortably under the American's scrutiny. This hadn't originally been part of Napoleon's plan, to have sex with the man. But he was beautiful. And willing, even if he was being paid, and sex could often loosen an otherwise reluctant tongue. The blond looked at the door, as if deciding on an escape. To settle him, Napoleon said, "You can leave the shirt off, if you like. I'd like to look at you." He meant it, too. The Russian was certainly easy on the eye. Without the shirt, though sinewy, he looked a little on the thin side.

"What's did you say your name was?" Napoleon asked.

"Illya."

"Just Illya?" Napoleon asked, hoping for more information.

The blond gulped down the liquid in one mouthful. "Just Illya will be fine."

"Just Illya, it is then. Like another?" he asked, taking the empty glass from his guest when he nodded, and walked back to the table. As he poured, he made idle conversation. "Fariq said you're Russian, but your accent is very Parisian. How long have you been here?"

"Five years."

"Why did you leave Russia?"

"Things there were... difficult for me." Napoleon nodded. Homosexuality was frowned upon in most societies but in some countries it was a criminal offence.

Napoleon passed him the refilled glass, reaching up with his free hand to caress the handsome face. "Well, I for one am glad you left, otherwise I'd be here alone tonight. How long can you stay?"

"How much can you pay?"

Napoleon smiled. Straight to the point, the somber faced Russian wasted no time on pleasantries. "Money's not a problem. Will Fariq let you stay the night?"

A blond eyebrow rose, emphasizing his question, "All night?"

"I hate to sleep alone," Napoleon told him.

"Ah. A married man," he stated flatly. Napoleon didn't disabuse him of the notion, watching as the blond wandered around the room, fingering Napoleon's jacket hanging over the back of the chair, as he said, "If that is what you wish. Mustapha will not object, if there is money to be made." There was bitterness in the man's tone, bitterness Napoleon hoped to utilize to his own ends.

Illya turned back to face the American. Fine muscles twitched and flexed as he nervously moved from foot to foot, waiting the next command. Napoleon drained his glass and moved to sit on the bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here, sit down."

He wondered at the Russian's capacity for alcohol as he again gulped the drink down in one mouthful before placing the glass on the bedside table and slowly approaching him. He didn't sit, as Napoleon requested.

Instead, he knelt between the American's legs, sliding his hands under the hem of his robe and resting his arms along the muscular thighs. Gentle fingers kneaded lightly at the junction between leg and torso, making Napoleon shiver.

Illya looked up and Napoleon, mesmerized by those stunning eyes, stared back, lost to the sensation of expert hands performing a sensual massage around his groin. He almost surrendered to the sweet stimulation as the wandering fingers moved to wrap around his rigid cock. Fariq's warning came to mind, that the Russian would try to finish him off quickly. That wasn't what he wanted. Napoleon had to be in control of the situation if he was going to get the information he needed.

He took hold of one of the hands, pulling it gently away from its goal.

"Come up here, next to me."

"Don't you like this?"

"Yes, but it's not what I want. Come here." He pulled the blond up beside him on the bed, settling him into a comfortable position. He leaned forward, intending to connect with those wine colored lips, but the Russian frowned, pulling his head away. Disappointed, the American pulled back. Napoleon loved to kiss and this mouth was such a temptation, he ached to connect with it. "What's wrong," Napoleon asked, genuinely concerned.

"I don't like to kiss."

"Why not?"

"It's too intimate."

"Too intimate?" Napoleon sat back, regarding the young man before him curiously. "What about a hand job?"

"If that's what you want."

"A blow job?"

"That too."

"What about full sex."

"Yes, of course."

Napoleon smiled, amused. "Illya, you're willing to perform all these acts, yet you think kissing is too intimate?"

"It's a personal thing," the Russian said defensively.

Napoleon shook his head, amused. "Tell you what. I'll pay you twice what you charge for full sex, if you let me kiss you. What do you think?"

The blond frowned. "I think you have more money than sense, Mr. Jackson." The American seemed to be waiting for his consent. He nodded briefly. "Very well."

Napoleon smiled, gently applying pressure to the bony shoulder, encouraging him to rest back against the pillows. His gaze raked over the prostrate form, along the freshly shaven chin, down the porcelain white neck and onto the smooth, hairless torso. There, an ugly red scar marred an otherwise flawless shoulder. Napoleon stroked it, wanting to smooth away the eyesore on this beautiful landscape. "How did you get this?"

"A customer. Wanting a little more than I was willing to give." Napoleon frowned. "Does this kind of thing happen a lot?"

"Beatings, rapes?" The blemished shoulder shrugged. "Hazards of the job," he said, as if it were inconsequential. It seemed working for U.N.C.L.E. wasn't the only dangerous profession around.

Napoleon's conscience tapped him on the shoulder. Here he was, another customer paying to take advantage of this young man, trapped in a soul destroying, not to mention physically dangerous, occupation, just to earn a simple crust. He hoped he could persuade him to take the bribe and maybe start a new life elsewhere.

He leaned down and kissed the scar, then moved on, planting tender kisses along the collarbone, up the taut tendons of the neck and back to the succulent mouth. Illya returned the kiss without passion. It hadn't been something the young man had wanted to do and he bore it with the patience of a true martyr.

Napoleon put all his experience behind the kiss, trying to draw a response from him, but the blond was just going through the motions, as if it were a necessary chore to be endured. How many men, Napoleon wondered, had Illya slept with in the past? Does the body's physical responses shut down after a while?

Of course they did. It was an act performed for payment not pleasure. Napoleon was determined that this encounter would be different, one the Russian would take pleasure in. He needed him to take pleasure in it, if Napoleon was to persuade him to part with the information he wanted. Besides, it was a matter of pride that his bed-mates enjoyed the encounter as much as he did.

Napoleon continued to nibble and kiss, his hands exploring the exposed flesh available to him. In turn, the blond slid his hands inside Napoleon's robe, pushing if off his shoulders. Slender fingers reached down taking Napoleon's erection in a gentle grip, slowly stroking. The pressure was just right, the grip just firm enough. His arousal was difficult to rein in. He wanted to surrender to the sensations, but if he allowed Illya control, the encounter would be over too soon.

Reluctantly, he pulled the teasing hand away, captured the other, and held both above the blond head. The body beneath him tensed and Napoleon, sensing his fear of the situation, kissed him tenderly. "I won't hurt you. Be still."

The body beneath him obeyed the gentle command. With one hand holding lightly onto the Russian's wrists, Napoleon slid his other down the pale body. His tongue pushed its way between the soft lips as his fingers found a nipple, rolling the nub between his finger and thumb. By slow degrees he applied a firmer pressure until Illya gasped and he felt the cock crushed beneath his own, twitch. Napoleon was a master of the art of seduction and knew that each person had a different level of arousal. It was just a matter of finding the right combination, which buttons to press, to get the responses he needed.

The Russian, in his turn, seemed alarmed by his own rising loss of control. He pulled urgently away from the kiss. "Wait. I'm supposed to be pleasing you."

Napoleon sighed. "It would please me if you just laid back and relaxed."

"But...."

"Shh." He covered the sensuous mouth, stopping any further protests as he continued his ministrations. When he seemed to settle, Napoleon moved his kisses lower, down the neck and on to the chest, replacing fingers with lips.

"Do you make much money in this business?" Napoleon asked conversationally, around a mouthful of nipple.

"Why? Are you thinking of changing careers?" Illya hissed as the American's tongue rasped deliciously over sensitive nerves. "Take my advice. Don't."

"If it's that bad, why do you do it?" Expertly slipping open the Russian's pants, his hand pushed the material aside and slipped under the elastic band of the white shorts. His fingers connected with solid flesh and wrapped around Illya's cock, tugging in a gentle rhythm.

"I'm a simple man, Mr. Jackson, an uneducated peasant. I discovered at an early age that my only asset was my body." His asset began to undulate restlessly under Napoleon's hands. "Whatever I do, I will be pestered. I may as well give them what they want and make them pay for it. It's called survival."

"You could do more than survive if you had enough money. Lift," he ordered softly. Illya arched off the bed and Napoleon pulled the loose-fitting pants off over the bony hips, pushing them onto the floor.

"Well, I don't have enough money, so the point is moot." Illya's body pushed up against his bed-mate. Napoleon leaned back in to kiss him and, finally aroused, Illya took his mouth willingly, eagerly sucking in the playful tongue, allowing it free access.

Reluctantly, Napoleon pulled away from the kiss. "But if you had the money, what would you do?" His hands moved up the lightly haired inner thigh, explored the crevice behind the scrotum. His fingers found what he was searching for, already slick with oil. The Russian had come prepared.

Illya's eyes turned away in thought, considering Napoleon's question. Napoleon surreptitiously studied his face, flushed with desire. Most people had dreams, no matter how unattainable. That this young man had to give the matter some thought, told him he had obviously given up on such fantasies at an early age.

The blue eyes turned back to him bashfully. "Perhaps I will go to America. I have always dreamed of travelling the world." He hissed as Napoleon's fingers entered him, carefully stretching as he pushed deeper. His fingers searched for and found the sensitive prostate and the Illya jerked in response as they connected with the gland.

"What about your dreams, Mr Jackson?" He writhed impatiently as the American withdrew his fingers. Napoleon's head bobbed lower, his tongue swiping roughly over the crown of nerves at the head of the penis, momentarily sucking the hard organ into his mouth.

In this position, Napoleon almost lost his hold on his captive's hands as Illya's body reacted to the oral stimulation, twitching and bucking. He let the cock slip from his mouth and his body, lubricated by a film of perspiration, easily slid back up along the Russian's to take possession of that rosy mouth once more. "My dream is right here, right now," he whispered seductively as he reached down pulling Illya's thighs apart. Without much urging, the blond obligingly lifted his legs effortlessly over the American's shoulders.

Napoleon positioned himself, his cock finding its own way home, as if more eager than its master to be inside this desirable cavity. "Aah, s'good." The sound of pleasure escaped his lips, putting into meagre words the thrill that went through his entire being. So hot, so perfectly tight. Fariq had been right, he was as sweet and snug as any virgin Napoleon had ever had the honor of breaking. The tight ring of muscle gripped him more intimately than any whore's hand and, for a second, he worried that he might lose control too soon.

The Russian, striving for some semblance of normalcy in the situation, continued to talk. "Even with all your money, there must be something you want, something you desire?"

"Besides you? Actually, there is something I would like. Very much." The body beneath him shuddered with delight as Napoleon slid against that most pleasurable of places. Napoleon paused for breath, then added, "The book."

Illya was starting to pant hard, fighting for control as the cock inside him made another pass over the sensitive organ. "What book," he whispered, unable to give strength to his voice.

"The book he has for auction. I should like it very much." Hips slid forward again, his cock stroking over the prostate. The blond gasped and squeezed his eyes closed against the sweet torture. He reached down to touch himself, but Napoleon intercepted the hand and brought it back over the blond head.

The blond's breath puffed out in frustration. "Bid for it, then," he snapped.

Napoleon smiled, but kept up a gentle thrusting. "I'm a man who dislikes competition. Besides, I can think of a solution that would benefit us both, financially." He watched the glazed blue eyes narrow carefully. "I could pay you to tell me where he keeps it."

"I don't know where he keeps it. I've never seen it."

"But you know where his safe is. I'm willing to pay you five thousand American dollars for that information alone. This way, I make a saving and you end up with a little something."

The blond was shaking his head. "I end up with my throat cut, if he finds out. No."

Napoleon rocked his hips, guiding the hard shaft over the swollen gland.

"You could be out of here before he finds out, start a new life somewhere else."

"What's in this book? Why are you so interested?"

"That," Napoleon replied, leaning down to nibble at the irresistible lips, "is none of your concern. So, don't worry your pretty little head over it." The blond's eyes narrowed at his condescending tone. To mollify, Napoleon kissed the pouting lips. "I'm sorry. It's just that, it's probably best if you don't know."

The blond was pushing up, trying to move against the body bent over him, trying to relieve the ache in his own cock. His head shook in frustration as Napoleon moved out of reach. "I've only been here a month," he told Napoleon. "Do you really believe he would trust me with the combination to his safe?"

"But you do know where the safe is?" Another slow stroke and the Russian shuddered with pleasure. Sweat beaded the high forehead and Napoleon leaned forward, licking the salty dew from his face. His hips moved again, his cock sure as a die, rubbing over the gland with unerring accuracy. "Tell me," Napoleon ordered. The blond head shook. Napoleon moved again, quicker, grinding the small body beneath him. "Tell me." His hand slid down gripping the pale cock tightly at the base, stopping its premature release.

"Please," the Russian begged, shaking his head and trying to pull his hands loose.

"Tell me. Five thousand dollars and an earth shattering orgasm thrown in. Isn't that a good deal?"

Napoleon knew all the tricks of torture and all the signs of impending surrender. The Russian groaned as he blurted out, "All right! I'll tell you! Please...." Napoleon's grip didn't falter as he waited for the information. The blond gasped out, "It's behind the ormolu mirror in the library."

With a smile, Napoleon released his tight grip on the Russian's organ, instead, wrapping his hand around the slender cock and applying just the right amount of pressure to allow him to ejaculate. Two strokes and, with a soft cry, Illya came hard, covering Napoleon's fingers with his warm, sticky ejaculate. Napoleon felt the contraction of muscles around his painfully stiff erection follow immediately after and gave in to his own desperate need, feeling his climax wash over him in waves of pleasure He regained his composure, chuckling to himself with relief. Another few moments and he would have had to give in first, slave to his own body's carnal desires. But he'd got what he wanted—more than he wanted—the book and a beautiful playmate for the night. He carefully withdrew and rolled off his companion, stretching out next to the perspiring body.

After a moment to catch his breath and cool down, Napoleon leaned over and reached into the bedside table, withdrawing an envelope, its contents padding it out as thick as a club sandwich. He placed it on Illya's belly and watched as the blond picked it up. "What's this?"

"One thousand American dollars, down payment. You'll get the rest after I get the book."

The blue eyes glanced sideways at him before returning to inspect the buff envelope. He pulled up the flap and took out the bundle, fingering through the notes. He started to rise but Napoleon stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. "Hey! Where are you going?"

"I believe our business is concluded."

The American smiled as he shook his head. "I'm paying for the night, remember? A deal's a deal."

The blond's eyes widened. "You can't be serious!"

"I think I'm entitled to get my money's worth, don't you?"

With a loud groan, Illya flopped back down on the pillow. "I'm not sure I can survive the night."

Napoleon grinned. "Sure you can. I'll give you a few minutes to get your breath back," Napoleon teased. He couldn't help smiling to himself. Thank the good Lord for expense accounts.

Napoleon needed to wash up and use the toilet. Briefly kissing his bed-mate on the cheek, he excused himself and slid out from beneath the covers.

When he came back out of the bathroom, he stopped in his tracks. Illya was standing next to his jacket, Napoleon's gun in his hand, staring wide-eyed at the weapon. He jumped nervously when he saw the American watching him, dropping the gun hastily onto the tabletop. "I... I'm sorry." He shied away when Napoleon approached. "I was looking for a cigarette."

"Left hand pocket," he informed him, casually picking up the weapon and putting it under the pillow. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blond remove the packet of Galois and shakily light up.

Illya drew deeply on the cigarette before resting his arms loosely across his chest. The smoke seemed to calm him a little. "Isn't it unusual for a business man to carry a gun?"

Napoleon shrugged as he pulled back the bed sheets and slid underneath. "Not where I come from. Every American has the inalienable right to bear arms—it's part of our constitution." Dismissing the issue, he pulled back the sheets next to him. "Come back to bed," he said, holding up the covers.

Illya ground out the half smoked cigarette and hesitantly got back into bed. Napoleon turned to him, soothing the ruffled youth with gentle caresses. When he felt him relax, he gathered him back into his arms.

"Now," Napoleon said, kissing along the cheekbone towards the tiny ear. "Here are a couple of French words I learned on my last visit to Paris." He nibbled gently on the soft tissue of the lobe and whispered, "Soixante neuf..."



When Napoleon woke the next morning, he wasn't surprised to find his companion gone. The sheets had cooled long ago, experience telling Napoleon he must have slipped away during the night. He sighed, disappointed at the loss. There was nothing he liked better than a little early morning loving.

He shook his head, chastising himself for his lapse. Illya hadn't been an assignation; he'd been an assignment, a means to an end.

Still, he thought, as he roused himself from the seductive warmth of the bed, this affair should be completed in less than twenty hours time. That still left him a few hours free before he attempted to break into Fariq's suite. At the party tonight, he'd find Illya, ask him back to his room and spend a little time with him. Just one last union before he returned to New York and left him behind for good.

That idea left him oddly disconsolate. How had this Russian managed to get so deep under his skin? Illya was a prostitute, a common whore, but somehow, that description didn't fit. He seemed out of place amongst the hard-faced hookers that worked here, his apparent eagerness to please probably more to do with his eagerness to have the whole encounter over with. It was wrong, having to endure such a life, just to make a living.

Guilt made Napoleon's stomach churn—he was no better than the rest, taking advantage of the situation.

Napoleon tried to shake the feeling off as he headed for the bathroom.

Once showered and dressed, Napoleon met up with Verise for breakfast in the small dining room. They helped themselves to croissants and coffee from the buffet table and chose a table in the corner.

"How was your night?" Verise asked around a mouthful of pastry.

"Productive. How was yours?"

"Well, while you were busy entertaining, I did a little careful reconnoitring. Fariq has two men guarding his suite, one on the stairs and one at the top of the elevator."

"That shouldn't be too difficult to take care of." He glanced around at the smattering of people in the room. "Fariq is holding a party tonight. About one a.m., I want you to slip out and have the car ready for our speedy departure."

"What are you going to do? Did you find out the location of the safe?"

"Of course. I'll arrange to spend the night with Illya. That will give me the excuse to slip away from the festivities. He can wait in my room while I locate Fariq'a safe and the book. Hopefully I should be out in forty, fifty minutes, tops. I'll have to bring Illya with me. It won't be safe for him once Fariq discovers the book is missing."

"Fariq doesn't have to know he was involved."

Napoleon sighed. "I know, Antoine, but I don't like the idea of leaving him in this place. Besides, he makes the perfect alibi."

Verise glanced over the American's shoulder. "Your little alibi has just walked through the door," he told the American quietly.

Napoleon turned a little to the side to watch as the blond approached the buffet table and exchanged a few polite words with one of the girls as he poured himself a coffee.

Someone else watched too. Napoleon caught the movement out of the corner of his eye as the Thrush representative, Clive Jameson, pushed away from his table and walked over to the pair. As Illya turned away from the girl, Jameson blocked his way. Napoleon was too far away to hear what was said as Jameson leaned close to whisper something in the Russian's ear, but he saw the blond head shake a negative. He moved to one side, trying to step around Jameson, but the Thrush man quickly moved to block his escape, clutching the smaller man by the upper arm.

The tight grip was obviously painful and the blond winced as he tried to pull away, spilling coffee down the Thrush man's shirt. Angrily, Jameson pulled the blond closer.

"I'll be back in a moment," Napoleon told his partner as he rose from his seat and headed for the confrontation.

The Russian looked gratefully over at him as the U.N.C.L.E. agent approached. "Illya," he acknowledged the blond with a nod of his head.

"Is there a problem?"

"Back off, buddy," Jameson said tightly, in his direction. "Me and blondie, here, were having a private conversation."

"I think the conversation's over. Why don't you let him have his breakfast in peace?"

Jameson's head turned to glare at Napoleon and, coolly, Napoleon returned his stare. Though equal in height, the U.N.C.L.E. agent was younger, fitter and obviously in his prime. Napoleon took a threatening step nearer and Jameson, the coward that he was, lost his nerve. He released his hold on the Russian and backed away, hands raised in a brief gesture of submission before skulking back to his table.

Illya glared at the back of the retreating Thrush. "I don't like that man," he muttered sullenly.

"You have taste," Napoleon told him. "He's a bad bird, all right. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"He didn't look too happy. Do you mind me asking what that was about?"

The Russian sighed. "He, too, wanted to know where the book was kept."

"Did you tell him?"

"Of course not."

"Why not," Napoleon asked, genuinely curious. "You could have made more money."

"I do not like him. Besides, his... technique was not as eloquent as yours." Illya was wiping the sticky coffee off his hand with a napkin and tutting at the stain on his shirt cuff. "I must go and clean up. Would you excuse me?"

Napoleon stood and watched the young man as he left, admiring the graceful moves he made as he wove in and out of the tables. When he disappeared through the door, Napoleon returned to his table in the corner.

As he retook his seat, Verise was looking at him with a broad grin on his face. "What?" Napoleon asked.

"This Russian? I think you have a soft spot for him, no?"

It was a truth, of sorts. "I just don't like bullies, Antoine," Napoleon lied.



Fariq's party was in full swing by the time Napoleon and his partner entered the room. Napoleon glanced at his watch: ten thirty. They had a couple of hours to kill before they made their move and Napoleon already had plans for a way pass the time. Now, if he could just locate Illya....

"Mr Jackson, Mr Dumont. How are you enjoying our little soire, eh?" Fariq's loud voice interrupted Napoleon's musing.

Napoleon smiled pleasantly in his direction. "Marvelous, thanks. Even if we don't win the bid for the book tomorrow, we shall still have some pleasant memories to take home with us."

"You certainly have, eh?" Fariq moved uncomfortably close to Napoleon, prodding him playfully in the ribs. "You have good night, last night, yes?"

"Oohh, yes. That's a very talented employee you have there, Mr. Fariq."

"Call me Mustapha, as we will be doing business together, I hope. Yes, he was a good find, my little Russian boy. Very pretty, very athletic. Lots of stamina."

As his host spoke, Napoleon glanced about, searching for the gold cap of hair amongst the sea of heads. "Actually, I had hoped to spend my last night with him. Is he available?"

"Alas, he is staying in his room tonight. He says he does not feel well." He laughed loudly. The raucous sound was starting to grate on Napoleon. "In some ways he has the constitution of an ox and in others, he is as fragile as a butterfly's wing."

Napoleon couldn't hide his disappointment as he saw his alibi, not to mention his last chance for a rendezvous with the blond, slip away.

"That's a real shame," he commented truthfully.

Fariq nodded in sympathy. "Perhaps, instead...." He clicked his fingers, attracting the attention of a curly haired youth standing at the bar. "This is Emile," Fariq explained as the boy approached. "Just turned seventeen. Eyes like the bluest ocean and skin as soft as a peach. And very inventive."

Napoleon was already shaking his head. He had no interest in the pretty, young male. Besides, despite his earlier excuse to Verise, he was looking forward to meeting with the Russian again. Just one last time before he completed this assignment and headed for home.

Napoleon shook his head at the offer. "Thank you, no. Actually, I think I have a migraine coming on. I think I'll just go and lay down for a while."

Fariq sighed at the prospect of lost earnings, but offered Napoleon his condolences as he wished him a good night. Napoleon was forgotten instantly as he turned back to the party and apprehended another of his guests.



At twelve forty five, Napoleon left his room for the last time and, in the guise of a drunken partygoer, wove his way towards the large man guarding the stairs at the back of the building. He disposed of him easily, utilizing one of the many skills he'd acquired at Survival School. He left the man, gagged and hog-tied, in a broom closet and quickly gained entrance to the apartment.

As promised, he found the ormolu mirror in a small library, over a small writing desk. The Russian hadn't lied. The hinged mirror easily swung away to reveal the hidden safe.

It was relatively easy to open—Napoleon had trained on similar models—and after a few minutes effort, he confidently pulled the door open. It wasn't a large strongbox, about forteen inches square, but obviously adequate for Fariq's purposes. Bundles of notes in various currencies took up most of the space while, tucked to one side, sat documents and a book. He pulled the book out and flicked through the pages. Even without a scientific grounding, Napoleon could recognize the numbers and figures of complicated formulas. The writing, almost indecipherable, appeared to be in Cyrillic script.

He was so engrossed in his find, Napoleon didn't hear the door quietly opening, until someone ordered, "Put your hands in the air and turn around, very slowly."

Napoleon froze in shock, not so much at the unexpected interruption, but more at the familiar voice. He did as instructed, raising his hands to the ceiling, as he turned towards his captor.

The Russian, Illya, stood in the doorway. "Please don't try anything heroic. Remove the gun under your jacket with your thumb and forefinger only, and drop it on the floor."

Napoleon did as commanded, letting his weapon slip from his fingers onto the carpet. He looked the Russian over as he stepped nearer, impressed, despite the situation. Ilya's accent and intonation was subtly different now, less French and much more Slavic. Most obvious, however, was the disappearance of the plaintive timidity, now replaced by a confident, commanding tone that was backed up by the Russian Makarov pointing in his direction. The weapon was held with the self-assurance and respect of an expert—unlike last night, when this same individual had handled Napoleon's gun as if it were about to explode.

Napoleon suddenly realized how foolish he must look, standing there with his jaw agape. His mouth snapped shut as he looked him up and down. Dressed entirely in black, his shoulders back and his chin raised proudly and defiantly, Illya seemed to have grown in stature, as though this were someone else, another being entirely. Napoleon realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was perhaps the real Illya and that the other had merely been a clever sham. Illya? Was his name a forgery too?

The blond smiled slightly as if reading his mind. "Surprised to see me?"

"Oh, sure," Napoleon said with bravado, trying to recover his composure. "Fariq said you were too sick to leave your room."

"You look a little sick yourself. Perhaps you should sit down." He gestured with his gun towards a chair across the room. "Please," he said as Napoleon started to move, "leave the book on the desk."

Napoleon let the book slide from his grasp and drop onto the escritoire. He walked slowly over to the chair, bending to sit on the edge, his legs under him with his weight resting on the soles of his feet, ready for flight.

With a little distance between them, the Russian relaxed, resting casually back against the wall. Napoleon could hardly believe this was the same abashed, doe-eyed youth he'd had sex with the night before. Silent in his scrutiny, his captor studied him with a mild look of amusement. At last, he asked, "Who are you working for, Mr... Jackson?"

"Actually, the name's Solo. Napoleon Solo," he supplied. "I'm an agent with the U.N.C.L.E."

The fair head nodded in acknowledgment. "I've heard of them. But of what concern is this book to your organization?"

"We just want to stop it getting into the wrong hands. Whose hands are you working for, Mr...?"

He seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? I doubt we shall have the privilege of meeting again. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," he inclined his head politely, "Soviet Committee for State Security."

This was turning out to be just one surprise after another. With disbelief, he looked the slender frame up and down. "You? KGB? Aren't you a little... young?"

He didn't seem insulted. He glanced at his watch before answering. "I have been in service for almost nine years. I think, perhaps, I have been in the game much longer than you." Nine years? Napoleon had still been in school nine years ago. Kuryakin must have been a child when he was inducted into the organization.

"Then, you don't work for Fariq?" In answer, the Russian shook his head.

"And you haven't lived in Paris for five years?"

"Five weeks," the Russian replied. "It took very little time to gain Fariq's attention."

"I don't doubt it," Napoleon murmured truthfully. "But playing the role of a whore is taking dedication to the job a little too far, don't you think?"

"We all prostitute ourselves in the service of our country. You yourself were willing to have sex to gain information, Napoleon. You don't mind if I call you Napoleon, do you? After last night, I think we should be on first name terms, don't you?"

"Not at all. Illya," Napoleon returned. He shifted, the movement apparently nothing more than restlessness, but it brought him nearer the edge of the chair. "I hope you don't mind me asking but I'm curious. If you've been here a month, why did you leave it until the last minute to retrieve the book?"

Kuryakin reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a book identical in appearance to the one on the desk. "Up until now, there has been little opportunity. Besides, if I'd removed it too early, Fariq might have discovered it had been exchanged." He placed the duplicate book inside the safe, in the same position the other had been in.

Napoleon gathered his feet under the chair, ready to propel himself forward. "That book looks exactly the same," he noted.

"It is, basically."

"You told me you'd never seen the book?" Napoleon asked.

"I haven't, not recently, and not here. I was responsible for the scientist to whom this belongs, Professor Valentin Korolev, and so it was my responsibility to make sure it was retrieved," the blond replied, as he closed the safe door and spun the lock. He pushed the mirror back into place, turning back to the U.N.C.L.E. agent as Napoleon asked, "Why bother to leave one in its place?"

"If someone is going to pay Fariq, I think they should get something for their trouble, don't you?" And, Napoleon thought, when they find out it's a forgery, they're going to make Fariq pay, too. A subtle form of revenge for the abuse Kuryakin had taken.

"Something more useful than the docility gas?" Napoleon asked, letting him know he was aware of the book's contents.

The blond smiled, amused. "Actually, the docility gas was a failed experiment. Oh, it works, but only on creatures with a fast metabolism, such as the lab rats, otherwise its effect is nothing more than a very mild sedative. Really quite useless. This one," he said, tapping the safe door, "contains something far more useful to them. The formula for floor wax."

Napoleon had to smile. Here was another side of the man's true self; a sense of irony.

He saw the Russian glance at his watch again. Napoleon asked, "Late for an appointment?"

"I have transport to catch. It will not wait if I am late. "

Kuryakin was about to leave. Napoleon realised this was his last chance to retrieve the book. He watched as the Russian, using his gun hand, zipped up his jacket. The small distraction was all he needed. Like a missile, Napoleon launched himself quickly from the chair, but he'd underestimated the Russian's reflexes. Instantly, Kuryakin slipped into a crouch as the American made a grab at him, jabbing rigid fingers up into Napoleon's exposed abdomen. The simple, unexpected move was all it took to bring Napoleon down. Doubled over with pain and shock, Napoleon fell to the ground in a heap, gasping for breath.

He felt himself dragged back onto the chair, surprised at the little Russian's strength. "Please do not attempt that again, Mr Solo. I am proficient in Martial Arts, as you have discovered to your cost."

Yet another surprise. Deceptively, he looked as though he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. This man had more hidden facets to his nature than he'd allowed the U.N.C.L.E. agent to glimpse. Napoleon was beginning to have a greater respect for the Russian.

As Kuryakin began to bind Napoleon's wrists together, Napoleon tried to hold his hands a little apart, to enable himself a little leeway to escape from the bonds, but the Russian unexpectedly yanked hard, drawing the wrists tightly together. Napoleon yelped. "Hey, steady. You're cutting off my circulation."

"It won't be for long, I assure you," the blond replied. Napoleon wondered what that statement meant. He worried even more when Kuryakin reappeared before him, withdrawing a wicked looking knife from his belt. Boldly, he sat astride the American, resting his hands on his shoulders. Napoleon glanced sideways at the shiny blade, just inches from his cheek.

"Do not be too hard on yourself, Napoleon. You're not the first to make the mistake of underestimating me and, hopefully, you won't be the last." The Russian's head cocked to one side. "But before I leave you, I would like you to know this. For this assignment I have had to endure many sweaty, grasping hands and disgusting bloated bodies in order to keep my cover. You, however, were different." A slow, brilliant smile lit up his face. "You were good. You were very good. Perhaps my only nice memory from this nightmare."

Napoleon smiled smugly. "I aim to please."

The Russian's free hand brushed back a lock of Napoleon's hair. "Hm. Your aim was perfect."

The simple gesture made Napoleon's heart rate pick up. He took a deep breath to slow his pulse. "So, what happens now?"

"Now? Well, let me see..." Illya said thoughtfully. He shifted, and Napoleon became uncomfortably aware of the light frame of his body sliding against his half formed erection. He knew a hard-on could be induced by fear and at this very moment, he wasn't sure of the cause; the Russian's close proximity or the blade that was now pressing against his carotid artery. He trembled with anticipation and closed his eyes as a hand grabbed at his hair and held his head in place.

Then, unexpectedly, the Russian's mouth was pressing against his own and Napoleon instinctively reacted, kissing him back fiercely as he felt his cock swell to fullness beneath the lightweight Russian. The kiss was deep, as was the tongue in his mouth. His body responded as it had before, eager to take what it could from his willing lover. At least if he was going to die, he might die happy. He wriggled against his bonds, desperate to touch him, but frustrated by the expertly tied ropes.

When Illya pulled away, Napoleon opened his eyes. The Russian looked as flushed as he himself felt.

"I'm sorry," Illya told his captive. "I couldn't resist, you see. I doubt we shall ever meet again."

He was disappointed when the blond stood, but relieved to no longer have the blade at his exposed neck. Kuryakin picked up the book Napoleon had taken from the safe and tucked it into his jacket. "Now, I really must go. I should like to thank you on behalf of my government for your assistance in retrieving my countryman's property." He paused, suddenly remembering something. "Oh. I believe this is yours." From his pocket, he removed the envelope of money Napoleon had given him the previous night and dropped it into Napoleon's lap.

When he reached the door, he paused. He tossed the knife in the air, catching it expertly by the handle before turning it over and slamming the point of the blade into the top of an escritoire near the door. As he pulled open the door to leave, he turned, giving the American a wink and a satisfied smile.

"Goodbye, Napoleon."

Then he was gone.

Stunned, Napoleon stared at the open door, still dazed from the kiss. It took the American a moment to realize that Kuryakin had left him the blade to enable himself to get free. The chair he was tied to was heavy and it would take a little time and some effort to shuffle across the room, but he would make it. By then, the Russian would be well on his way, presumably back to his masters in the USSR. He wondered if their paths would ever cross again and found himself hoping that they might.



Having reported his failure to Charles Derwent, Napoleon wasn't looking forward to his debriefing on his return to New York. The CEA had assured Napoleon that this would be a simple assignment—and Napoleon had failed dismally, fooled by the deceptive persona of his bedmate.

Napoleon felt like a complete fool. He'd felt guilty for using the Russian, unaware that he, himself, was in fact the dupe.

Back in New York headquarters, he'd been called to his superior's office to give a verbal account of the affair. Uncomfortably, he supplied Charles with every intimate detail, and once his report was completed, waited patiently for the expected reprimand.

Instead, Charles looked thoughtful as he took a sip of his tea. He put the cup down and rifled through a sheaf of papers on his desk, pulling out a carbon copy of a letter. "You say this Russian chap claimed to be an agent for the KGB?"

Inquisitively, Napoleon tried to make out what was on the note that Charles had in his hand. "So he said, though to be frank, he was so convincing if he'd told me he was the tooth fairy, I'd probably have believed him."

Charles wasn't listening. His attention was on the paper before him: a letter from Alexander Waverly to the Soviet Minister for State. Recently, the Soviet Union had formally recognized U.N.C.L.E.'s involvement in solving a difficult situation, narrowly averting an incident designed to fuel animosity between the Soviet Union and the United States. Waverly had taken the opportunity raised by the plaudit to request a contribution of an agent as representative for the Soviet Union. Perhaps, he'd suggested in the letter, someone from their own security forces, someone versatile and dedicated, preferably a seasoned agent who wouldn't need much training.

The Englishman tapped the pen against his teeth as he considered the missive. After a few moments, a polite cough reminded Charles he had company. He looked up and smiled as he returned his attention to the young man seated before him. "Mm. This KGB chap. What did you say his name was again?"

Napoleon repeated the Russian appellation that was firmly implanted in his mind, watching curiously as his superior jotted a note on the top of the carbon copy, dotting the last 'i' with a sharp stab of the pen.

Charles seemed pleased. Napoleon seemed disappointed. The CEA sighed in sympathy. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Napoleon. We all suffer failures from time to time. You performed well on your last two outings. You did the best you could, you can't expect to win them all, you know. So, you come away with nothing this time. At least the book's back with its rightful owner." Indicating that the briefing was over, Derwent rose. "That's all."

As abrupt as Mr. Waverly. Napoleon gratefully took his cue and left for his shared office to start writing his account of the affair. This was a part of the job he really loathed, writing reports. When he became CEA, he would inveigle someone to take on the task for him.

He pressed on, determined to get the chore finished before lunchtime. He had a date with the new receptionist, Donna, and didn't want to be late. But his writing slowed and he paused, deep in thought, when he came to the part about his meeting with the Russian. He lounged back in his chair, reminiscing, and smiled as he recalled Derwent's words: Came away with nothing....

Not exactly nothing, he told himself, remembering his one night with his blond lover. He still had some wonderful memories of his little Russian spy: that supple body, those talented hands and, most memorable, that tantalizing mouth.

Still, it was unlikely they would ever meet again. But if they did....well, who knows...