4

"You are what, Mr. Solo?"

Mr. Waverly stood beside his great circular desk, scowling at his top agent. A grey haired, stern-faced army general sat at the table. Something in Mr. Waverly's posture -- the straight back, the hands empty of everything, even his ever present pipe -- would have alarmed Napoleon were he not already, for some reason, alarmed.

I'm not alarmed, he lied to himself.

"I am -- here, sir." Apparently he'd spoken aloud. "What's up?"

"Your Russian colleague seems to have decided to play truant today."

The formless unease in Napoleon's mind took a more definite shape and spread to other organs in the space of one indrawn breath. Damn. I knew it.

"You don't seem very surprised by this, Mr. Solo." Mr. Waverly's tone was vaguely censuring. The general looked both scornful and suspicous. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

Napoleon felt his brows draw down. "No sir." No sir, I do not wish to tell my very pragmatic superior -- particularly in front of an obviously hostile federal official -- that I'm not surprised because I "had a feeling" something was wrong. No sir.

It could be a host of things. A hangover, a sudden cold, plumbing issues, traffic -- but Napoleon's gut was shouting at him that it was none of those things, damn it, that his partner was in trouble.

Mr. Waverly continued. "He was supposed to meet with Gen. Cooke and myself regarding the mind-control machine he uncovered in Bogota two months ago."

Napoleon remembered the case; a fresh bullet wound had kept him from joining Illya in what had turned out to be a routine destruction of laboratory and mad scientist. A flying tackle by his partner was the reason the bullet had penetrated his shoulder rather than his head.

"Have you any idea why Mr. Kuryakin would fail to arrive here on time, Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly asked severely. Napoleon got the impression he was irked at showing any weakness in front of the American military, which tended toward a suspicious and unflattering view of international counterespionage organizations.

"No sir," he said, trying to keep his tone brisk. "We were up a bit late last night, sir, but there was nothing that should have kept --" some tiny itch told him not to use Illya's first name -- "Mr. Kuryakin from meeting you today." Another, stronger itch was prodding him toward the door, but he knew better than to do aught save wait for the command.

Mr. Waverly fiddled in his pocket, pulled out his pipe, and turned to Gen. Cooke. Napoleon shifted his balance, ready.

"I'm sorry for this inconvenience, general."

"If your Russian agent has disappeared with that information," the general said, his tone making 'agent' synonymous with 'SOB', or maybe 'traitor,' "it's going to be a damn sight more than an inconvenience."

Mr. Waverly stared the general down, then said mildly. "Yes. Mr. Solo--"

"Yes sir."

"Go see what's keeping Mr. Kuryakin, will you?"

"Yes sir." Napoleon spun on his heel and was gone.

"How much about that device he blew up does this Russian agent know?"

Waverly turned slowly back to face the general.

"His report indicated that he had a grasp of the basic principles."

Gen. Cooke snorted. "Which means what? He'd recognize another one if he saw it? He could turn one on and off? What?"

Mr. Waverly gave the man an arctic smile. "If you had read the dossier on Mr. Kuryakin which you so discourteously demanded access to, general, you would know that, given his scientific background and his tendency to understatement, it could well mean that he can construct such a device himself."

It was, Mr. Waverly perceived, a mistake to reveal that to a man of Gen. Cooke's suspicions, but he found the incredulity on the man's face a fair reward. He also had complete faith in his agents, and knew that Kuryakin would not betray that faith, whatever the paranoic American military might fear.

"May I offer you some tea?" Mr. Waverly said then. "Or coffee?"

Gen. Cooke sat back in his chair. "I'd prefer something stronger if you've got it."

Mr. Waverly smiled and reached for the intercom. "Of course."

Napoleon, having tried in vain to raise Illya on his communicator during the short drive, arrived at Illya's apartment at noon, nine hours after he'd last left it. What could have happened in a mere nine hours? In this business ... Napoleon shuddered to think.

He made a careful examination of Illya's front door before touching it. There were no signs of boobytraps or forced entry, but when Napoleon tried the knob he found the door unlocked.

Illya always locked his door -- with a vengeance. Napoleon clearly remembered the sounds of those various devices being employed last night -- this morning -- behind him as he'd departed, despite that both he and his partner had been slightly the worse for drink.

The conversation began, as they usually did, with an exchange of light-hearted digs regarding their different approaches to dealing with the opposite sex.

"You remind me of a man dropped into a cave filled with unimaginable treasures," Napoleon said, "who climbs to the top of the highest pile of gold and gems, looks around, and says 'somewhere under all this stuff there must be a way out.'"

Illya smiled in response.

"Whereas you see gold everywhere," he began, waiting until his partner lifted his glass in salute to the presumed compliment.

"Even when it's only iron pyrite," he concluded, raising his own glass.

Napoleon grinned, unfazed. "I've never regretted any of my ... mining expeditions, though."

Illya raised a brow. "Never?"

"Well," Napoleon emended. "Almost never."

"You so rarely end up with gems, though."

"They're all gems, my friend." Napoleon said. "That's what you need to realize. They're all gems. Some are just..."

"Semiprecious?" Illya suggested.

Napoleon shrugged. "And what is wrong with that? Now, you take Christine..."

Illya scowled. "The brunette in Records?"

"The very same. What do you think of her? Don't tell me, let me guess -- you haven't."

Illya closed his mouth.

"She's bright, she's pretty, she loves jazz--"

"Blues, actually," Illya put in. Napoleon cocked his head, brows climbing.

"So you have noticed her. Thank God. There is yet some hope of your joining the human race."

"Why is it that you feel compelled to try to make me into a pale copy of yourself as regards women?" The question was idle, not irate; the debate was too old to be anything but amusing.

Napoleon, gazing at the scotch in his glass -- he would no more succumb to Illya's penchant for vodka than Illya would depart from it -- said mildly: "For your own good, tovarish. Life is immensely rich, and regrettably short."

"Particularly our lives," Illya agreed.

Napoleon tsked. "It's that negative attitude of yours I'm working to rectify. You should try to loosen up, just a little, and enjoy life's simple pleasures."

"Like Dora, in Filing?" Illya said.

"Well, she is a pleasure--"

"And definitely simple."

"Now now..."

"I prefer life's more complex pleasures," the Russian said. "For instance, girls with at least two brain cells to rub together."

"Christine is a Smith graduate in literature," Napoleon said.

"Medieval literature, as a matter of fact," Illya muttered. Napoleon leaned forward.

"Okay. Give."

"Well, after all, one cannot go into Records without having some conversation with the staff."

"I hope you didn't address her as staff when you asked her out," Napoleon said. "Which I hope you did."

Illya smiled his tiny smile.

Standing back from Illya's front door, Napoleon slid his UNCLE special from its holster and pushed the door all the way open. Nothing -- except Illya's gun lying like a dead mouse on the floor of the entry.

Napoleon picked it up carefully. The odds of there being any prints on it besides Illya's were slim, but it was worth checking. It was clean and had not been fired since that cleaning.

The apartment was tidy as always. The kitchen was neat, dishes done, towels dry. In the living room on the coffee table sat the two empty glasses they'd abandoned that morning after a lengthy and increasingly absurd discussion of why women claimed they wanted a steady reliable man, dated spies for the excitement, then got hysterical at the sight of a gun or a little blood.

The Mahler record -- a compromise between Napoleon's traditional tastes and Illya's outre preferences -- was still on the turntable, which was off.

Napoleon went into the bedroom. The bed was rumpled, no signs of struggle. Illya's communicator lay on the bedside table. The shower, sink and towels in the bathroom were all dry.

Napoleon pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D."

"Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly had clearly been awaiting his call. That revealed anxiety, which did not bode well.

"Illya's not here, sir," Napoleon said, pleased at how calm his voice was. "No sign of a struggle, but his front door was unlocked."

"I see." A pause, during which Napoleon could almost hear Mr. Waverly thinking. "I'll send a forensics team over there immediately."

"Yes sir. I'd like to stick around for a while. There might be something..."

"Of course." Mr. Waverly's interruption meant either that he knew what Napoleon had been about to say -- that he might spot a clue the forensics team would miss -- or, possibly, that Gen. Cooke was still there in the office and he didn't want to reveal any more than necessary.

By the time the forensics team had arrived Napoleon had gone over his friend's apartment with as keen an eye as he could bring focus to. He found no sign of foul play, nothing to indicate Illya had done anything other than go to bed, get up some time later, and stroll out the door into oblivion, wearing his pyjamas.

He stood in the entryway and watched the forensics team roll out their various arcane toys.

"Let me know if you find anything," he said to Ed Grines, head of the team. Grines, who knew both Illya and Napoleon, simply nodded.

Napoleon returned to HQ in a knot of anxiety, determined to let the fingerprints team do their job and to use his own energies from another angle.

Who would kidnap Illya, right now, from his bed, without a struggle or a clue? Could Illya himself have let his kidnappers in? That would suggest it was someone he knew, and explain his gun on the floor by the door.

Napoleon returned to their office, sat at his desk, gingerly working his aching shoulder, and made a list:

1. THRUSH enemies

2. NonTHRUSH enemies

3. Personal enemies

4. Proximate persons

He made a request of Records to dig out and collate the relevant material for the first two categories, asked that a list of the residents at Illya's building be sent to him, and set his own mind to the most difficult category, number three. Difficult both because Illya was so reticent about his past and because there could well be some overlap with the other categories.

More than once as the day wore on Napoleon was grateful to the task -- his urgent focus kept at bay the black fear lurking under his determination. Each time it poked through he hammered it back with the promise that whatever it took he'd find his partner.

His weird ... premonition ... that, he didn't know what to think of.

It didn't take a psychic to know danger lurked constantly in their lives. What Napoleon had been feeling had been different, not habitual wariness but a low-grade nagging feeling such as one has when the subconscious is trying to remind one of an important task. Even now if he relaxed he could feel it buzzing in the pit of his stomach and at the back of his brain: a constant anxiety attached to images of mountains, lakes and pine forests, and underscored with a sensation of Illya's presence and imminent danger.

He could no more believe in it than he could erase it.

Mr. Waverly came to his office in the evening, not alone.

"Mr. Solo, this is Lieutenant White. We've been asked to permit Gen. Cooke's aide as an observer, due to the sensitive nature of the data in Mr. Kuryakin's head."

Napoleon and Lt. White examined one another.

"The request of cooperation," Mr. Waverly went on with heavy emphasis, "has come from the highest levels, Mr. Solo."

"Yes sir," Napoleon said, as if it was nothing to him to have a green army lieutenant under his feet while he tried to find his partner.

Mr. Waverly glanced at the taut expression on White's smooth face and couldn't resist.

"The lieutenant shares his CO's opinion about the advisibility of using Russians as agents." He paused. "Do try to refrain from killing him, will you?"

Surprise drew a brief smile from Napoleon as Lt. White stiffened.

"Yes sir."

Later, White said, "What's your theory as to what happened?"

Napoleon looked at him over the piles of paper on his desk. About 23, immaculate uniform and hair, the look of a man who had a good brain, a healthy body, a decent education and the erroneous belief that those things made him invincible. Experience would disabuse him of that, Napoleon thought, if he survived.

Napoleon pasted a tiny smile on his face. "Well, I don't have one yet, lieutenant. Maybe you can help me out."

"Gen. Cooke's briefed me on the mind-control device your people discovered in Bogota. That's a very valuable weapon."

"Not when it's in a million pieces, which I understand is the way Illya left it."

"Gen. Cooke thinks Kuryakin might have the knowledge necessary to construct another one," White said, expectant.

"I had no idea the general knew Mr. Kuryakin so well." Napoleon picked up the top folder on his desk -- the file on Dr. Xavier -- underneathh which was the file on Illya's neighbors. Xavier had been a former Nazi who'd pursued brainwashing techniques under several brilliant German scientists; he'd fled just before the fall of Berlin and had lived quietly in South America until it was discovered he had used his machine on a high-level Colombian official. That had led to UNCLE's timely intereference.

Dr. Xavier was dead; that made him a somewhat less likely suspect. His chief cohort, a young woman, allegedly Greek, calling herself Athene, had disappeared; his men were either dead or captured.

Napoleon set that file aside and opened the second.

"All Soviets are loyal to the Motherland," White said, cold venom in his tone.

Napoleon glanced up. White wasn't alone in that perspective. It was held by many Americans, particularly those in military intelligence, where a little paranoia was considered wisdom.

He knew that there were a few people even in UNCLE who agreed with White, although it was a view he rarely heard voiced. No wonder, considering how hard he'd come down on the last UNCLE staffer he'd overheard speculating about Illya's loyalties.

Hell, Napoleon had to admit, if only to himself, there was a time when he'd questioned Illya's loyalties -- or at least been unsure of them. What American wouldn't when confronted with a former Soviet citizen, recently defected under highly mysterious circumstances? It felt strange, shameful, to remember that now. Perhaps he didn't know every single thing about Illya's past. He'd long ago learned all he needed to. How much more did you have to know about a man than that he would willingly die for you?

"You have a very impressive service record," White went on, "both in the military and with this organization. Yet you work with a Russian partner."

"It was easier than working against him," Napoleon muttered.

"What are your feelings about the Russians, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon opened the file and began skimming each precis. "They make terrific vodka."

Nightfall saw a mountain of paperwork, a jackhammer of a headache and not a crumb of what could even optimistically be called a lead.

"Mr. Solo."

Napoleon looked up from the paper he'd been blankly staring at, seeing the outline of a pine tree, and blinked at his superior, standing in the doorway.

"Anything?" Mr. Waverly asked.

"No sir." Napoleon sat back with a sigh. "Forensics didn't find any sign of struggle, and Illya's gun hadn't been fired. Only his prints and mine were found on the gun and on the inside handle of his front door. No prints at all on the outside, which simply tells us someone was careful enough to wipe it, otherwise mine would be there. The usual suspects are all busy in other parts of the world. Some of the less usual suspects' whereabouts are unknown, and are being checked on." He rubbed his eyes, looked up at his superior. "We have a lot of enemies, sir."

Mr. Waverly thought that, at that moment, his CEA looked simultaneously very young and very old.

Napoleon indicated the file before him. "Illya's neighbors. We've already begun interviews. So far no one saw or heard anything. Everyone in the building has lived there at least six months, which, although not unheard of, is a very long time to set up a trap."

"Yes," Mr. Waverly said, his tone faraway as he pondered. "It does make defection a plausible argument, doesn't it?"

Napoleon raised his aching head to meet his superior's gaze. Mr. Waverly waved his hand.

"Spare me your outrage, Mr. Solo. I said plausible, not possible."

Napoleon lowered his eyes. "Sorry sir. I'm tired. And worried. And angry."  

"Where is the lieutenant?" Mr. Waverly looked around the room. "There aren't many places in here to hide a body."

"He went to get something to eat."

"There is a chance this is connected to the lab Mr. Kuryakin destroyed in Bogota," Mr. Waverly went on. Napoleon pulled that file out from under the list of Illya's fellow tenants.

"Dr. Xavier is reported to have been killed in the blast. The woman called Athene managed to get away before Illya's team moved in. The others were killed or captured."

"Yes. But it's possible he had other associates, others who knew of the process, the only remaining details of which reside in Mr. Kuryakin's rather exceptionally hard head."

Napoleon thought that that, at least, meant a fair likelihood that head was still connected to its shoulders.

Mr. Waverly sighed. "I'm afraid the army is of the opinion Mr. Kuryakin has absconded with the data. We may have some difficulty keeping them from hunting him themselves."

"Well, they don't have any more clues than we do," Napoleon said. "And if they're proceeding from the assumption that Illya's ... gone over the wall, they're never going to find him."

"Let us be grateful for that," Mr. Waverly said. "They don't have to cooperate with us, but it behooves us to cooperate with them." Watching his top agent rub his temples, Mr. Waverly said:

"Go home, Mr. Solo. Get some sleep. Tired brains make mistakes."

Napoleon started to protest that there was no time, but he knew what his superior would say: And if you miss something crucial, how much time will that waste? He rose, working his aching shoulder, and followed Mr. Waverly out. It was 2:13 a.m.

Napoleon left UNCLE HQ meaning to go home and snatch a few hours' sleep, maybe take a painkiller for his shoulder. Instead he found himself returning to Illya's place.

He let himself into the darkened apartment, fully intending to have another look around. Ed Grines, true to both his professionalism and his friendship with Napoleon and Illya, had left the place as tidy as he'd found it, in contrast to most forensics teams in Napoleon's experience. They tended to forget they were investigating someone's home.

Instead of looking around, however, he went to the window, not turning on the lights, and opened the drapes to allow in the faint glow from the city.

It was the first real pause he'd taken all day. He felt shaky, almost drunk with weariness and concern. Aches and exhaustion faded into the background; anger came forward. Anger and fear -- anger at Gen. Cooke and his prejudices, anger at whoever had taken his partner, anger at himself for not having been there to prevent it ...

And fear. He'd long past learned to handle fear for himself; had in fact found it easy. This fear, all too reasonable, too rational to dismiss, was for Illya. Many things could be happening to his partner, all of them ugly, all painful, many fatal. Every minute that passed might be his last, and there wasn't one damn thing more Napoleon could do than he was doing. Nothing. His will clamped down on the bubbling fury that that helplessness stirred up. It would do Illya no good for him to rage and rant. He needed to think.

His partner's presence suffused the room, as if, turning around, Napoleon would find him standing there. To that presence Napoleon vowed, "I will find you."

Napoleon woke to the shrill beep of his communicator. He sat up, cramped and bleary-eyed, and dug the pen out of his pocket, blinking against the morning sun blaring through the windows.

"Solo."

"Mr. Solo." It was Mr. Waverly. "Where are you? We phoned your apartment. I was concerned something had happened to you too."

Napoleon rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, sir. I'm at Illya's. I thought I'd have another look around. I must've fallen asleep." What the hell had he dreamed? His mind was full of pine trees and lushly grassy meadows. A lake. Vermont again. And his partner, calling to him. Asking for help. Saying his name.

Vermont.

"Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon shook his head, hard, learning the headache wasn't gone yet. "Yes sir. I'm on my way in." He signed off and looked around the apartment again.

With all I've got to worry about, he thought as he left, I'm dreaming about some damn' meadow in Vermont.

But the image, and the anxiety, stayed with him the rest of the day.

Napoleon jolted awake, sitting up in bed, heart slamming against his ribs. Cries of pain -- his own, yet not his own -- faded into silence inside his head, and he realized he'd awakened himself by calling his partner's name aloud.

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and stared around his dark bedroom, waiting for his heart and lungs to calm. He felt ill, clammy. He raised a shaky hand to his face and it came away wet with sweat.

What the hell had he dreamed? He was being beaten. Held and beaten, methodically, almost dispassionately, although no one who hurt people for a living did it without some measure of enjoyment.

He remembered darkness. Grass. A brick house. And that all too familiar choking state of stifled panic -- the feeling of being trapped.

Napoleon leaned forward, resting his forehead on his palms. Now that his body had calmed down, his head was pounding.

He flung the covers off and got up, going to the window.

This hadn't -- still didn't -- feel like a dream. It wasn't over. The knot tightened in his gut, the killing pain of knowing Illya was calling to him for help, and he was unable to.

Cursing, Napoleon looked at the clock. It was a few minutes shy of one; it was now the fifth day since his partner had been taken, and he was no closer than before to knowing where or why.

Napoleon showered, dressed and returned to UNCLE HQ.

One faint hope after another had dried up before Napoleon's increasingly bloodshot eyes. And Lt. White's entirely proper questions had begun to make his trigger finger itch.

"It's a n-natural suspicion if a Soviet citizen in possession of potential military information disappears," White said, his military school aplomb rattled by Napoleon's cold anger. He was pacing the room.

"Your people have been watching every Soviet ship for five days," Napoleon said icily. "What success have you had?"

"No less than UNCLE," Lt. White said. Napoleon bit his tongue. That truth hurt. Another truth was that if he were himself, he wouldn't be wasting his breath bickering with some college pudding who thought every Russian was a Soviet spy. His nerves were frayed; he wondered what Mr. Waverly would do when he finally gave this officious army snot the belt in the chops he so obviously needed.

Napoleon turned his attention back to the frustrating pile of recent intelligence reports. Lt. White started to seat himself behind Illya's desk.

"Hey," Napoleon said. White looked up.

"Not there." Even as he said it, hearing the frigid edge of fury in his voice, some tiny rational part of his brain stated: You've lost your mind.

The look on White's face clearly indicated he too was of that opinion, but he also realized Napoleon was in no state to be brooked. He straightened, stepped away from Illya's desk and returned to the visitor's chair in front of Napoleon's desk.

"This situation seems to have disturbed you," Lt. White said.

Napoleon glanced at him. "Have you never had a friend, lieutenant?"

"I've read your dossier," Lt. White continued. "And Kuryakin's."

Napoleon heard the suspicion in the man's voice. He'd been waiting for this angle to surface. He knew that Mr. Waverly would no more let this man read their true files than he would dress up as the Easter Bunny, but it was best to let the army men think they knew all there was to know.

"I've also spoken to a number of your colleagues."

"I'm sure you found it edifying," Napoleon said. The words on the sheet in front of him blurred, became a rough sketch of a mountain lake surrounded by trees.

Napoleon slapped the folder shut and rubbed his eyes roughly. Wake up.

"Yes. You and Kuryakin have an exemplary record and an enviable .... one might even say legendary reputation."

Napoleon massaged his temples, not looking up. "I see they gave you the bowdlerized version." Vermont. Illya was in Vermont. The whispery voice would not be silenced.

I refuse to be psychic! Napoleon snapped at himself.

"However, there is some concern that your greatest loyalty might be to each other, not to UNCLE."

"Whether or not that's so, the two loyalties have never come into conflict," Napoleon said coolly. That was not strictly true, but never had that conflict caused irreparable harm, either to the partners or to their missions.

"If your partner -- your friend -- has sold his loyalties back to the KGB, I would call that  a conflict."

Napoleon glared wearily at the lieutenant. "The situation you suggest is not possible." Seething, he opened the folder again, appalled to realize his hands were shaking. He knew the shaking would stop the second he wrapped them around White's throat, but that was no comfort right now.

It wasn't the first time the U.S. military had questioned Illya's loyalties. Illya usually shrugged it off. Perhaps his cool acceptance of it was the reason it always made Napoleon so angry. Just now, listening to this fool's scornful accusations and cocksure insults, at a time when Illya might be hurt or even --

No. Not dead. He's in Vermont.

Napoleon shook his head sharply. Stop it.

"Your loyalty to your Russian friend blinds you to a likely scenario," White said.

"And makes your loyalties suspect as well."

Both men turned to see Gen. Cooke standing at the open door, Mr. Waverly behind him.

"I've come to see what progress you've made," Cooke went on, exchanging salutes with Lt. White. "I have to say, Waverly, your man's attitude concerns me."

Mr. Waverly said calmly, "I might say the same to you, general. And your man, I regret to point out, has yet to establish the lengthy and enviable record of service to the forces of freedom that both of my men can boast."

Gen. Cooke harrumphed. "Point taken."

Lt. White flushed. Napoleon shot Mr. Waverly a brief look of gratitude.

"Any progress in locating Kuryakin?" Cooke barked.

"None, sir, " White replied. "We've broadened the watch to airports in Europe and South America."

Gen. Cooke turned to Mr. Waverly. "It's been a week without a word or a lead. We have to assume Kuryakin's disappearance isn't coincidence."

"We have," Napoleon said coldly. "But that doesn't mean it's treason."

Gen. Cooke glanced at him. "We, Mr. Solo, cannot afford to discount that possibility. It's known that Dr. Xavier planned to use his machine to infiltrate the U.S. government, planting brainwashed agents at the highest levels. If Kuryakin has gone over, the Soviets might even now be planning the same gambit."

"Illya hasn't 'gone over,' " Napoleon said, rising from his seat.

"Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly warned him mildly. "Arguing the possibilities -- or impossibilities -- will get us nowhere."

Napoleon sat down, smoldering, knowing he was too on edge to be opening his mouth around these military men -- and realizing that it might be best if they chose to believe Illya had betrayed UNCLE and the U.S. Since that could not be true, their assumptions could only lead them away from his partner.

Unfortunately Gen. Cooke wasn't stupid. His assignment of Lt. White to be Napoleon's shadow showed his understanding of the possibility that UNCLE might find Illya first. That made Napoleon determined to shake off Lt. White and any other of Gen. Cooke's flunkies before he ...

Napoleon stopped. Before he ... what? Drove off to Vermont like a lunatic, following the compulsion of a damn' dream?

He'd been shouting that tiny insistent voice down for days, watching hopelessly as one rational plan after another evaporated in his hands, leaving only that little voice that told him -- that showed him, when he slept -- that his partner was in Vermont. In the mountains. By a lake.

Napoleon put no stock in psychic phenomena as popularly understood, but he lived daily with the practical proof of the bond he and his partner shared, and there was no objective explanation for that, either. He'd long accepted that they could read each other's minds, and sense peril to each other, without labelling it supernatural. But this went beyond their very practical symbiosis. This was the stuff of crystal balls and magic.

Napoleon shot to his feet from an anguished half-sleep, gun clenched in a shaking hand, Illya's shriek of agony echoing in his head and his churning gut. Papers scattered from his desk and his chair hit the wall.

He wobbled, clutched at his desk, and dragged a ragged gasp of air into his lungs.

"Jesus." He straightened up, drawing his hand across his damp face, and looked at his gun vibrating in his aching hand. He holstered it, surprised he hadn't shot a hole in the wall of his office.

"Illya..." His stomach was knotted with burning frustration -- as if his partner were being subjected to hot irons within arm's length of him, and he could not reach out and help. Even as he stood there, wide awake, sick with anxiety, he was pierced by the certainty that these recurrent visitations were, not dreams, but Illya's cries for help.

"Vermont." Napoleon took a deep, steadying breath and straightened his tie, combing a hand through his hair. He glanced at himself in a mirror to try to reassure himself he didn't look as insane as he had to be. Then, sans reassurances, he strode into Mr. Waverly's office.

"Ah, Mr. Solo." Mr. Waverly glanced up at him, then did a concerned doubletake that did nothing to ease Napoleon's apprehensions.

"Are you .... quite all right, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon drew in another slow breath. "Yes sir." Yes sir, for a lunatic I'm perfectly fine, sir.

"Good. I have an assignment for you."

Napoleon, mouth open to vent his mad request, clamped it shut.  Have we both lost our minds?

"An ... assignment?"

"Yes. Moustapha has resurfaced. You'll reassign the search for Mr. Kuryakin to other operatives and take Mr. Slate with you."

Napoleon opened and closed his mouth twice before any words formed. "Mr. Waverly, I --"

"Yes, yes, I quite realize your concerns, but after a week with no progress whatever, I must regretfully return you to more active and urgent concerns. Your experience with Moustapha is required."

Napoleon forced himself to think, to speak clearly.

"Sir, I believe I have a ... a lead on Mr. Kuryakin's whereabouts."

Mr. Waverly's grey brows shot skyward. "You have?"

"Yes sir." Praying his superior wouldn't ask for details, he said, "I'd like your permission to follow it up."

"To?"

Napoleon kept his poker face on, full power. "Vermont, sir."

"Vermont?"

"Yes sir."

"You said you had a lead -- what sort of lead? Have you shared it with our military ... associates?"

"Um ... no sir. It's ... rather a long shot."

But Mr. Waverly was nobody's fool. "Apparently so long a shot you're disinclined to tell even me about it." He waited, keen eyes fixed on his top enforcement agent.

"Sir..." Napoleon ground his teeth together.

"Come, man, no hemming and hawing. If you've a lead on Mr. Kuryakin's whereabouts, out with it. I may still send other agents to investigate it. I need you on this Madagascar case."

Madagascar! "Sir, I'm the only one who can follow this lead ..."

"Mr. Solo, I'm well aware of your ... personal interest in the situation, but you are not the only competent operative in UNCLE's employ. Surely there are colleagues you would trust with this."

"Not with Gen. Cooke's guard dogs following them," Napoleon said, on the spur of the moment. "I wouldn't put it past Lt. White to put a bullet into Illya as soon as he saw him." Besides, no one else can use my dreams as a guide. He winced inwardly. You are out of your mind.

"Don't be melodramatic. Gen. Cooke wants Mr. Kuryakin back alive as much as we do--"

"I doubt that. Sir."

"--if for different reasons. Speaking of the devil, the general and White will be here any moment, so whatever this long shot is that you are attempting so clumsily to avoid delineating, you'd better tell me."

Burning, Napoleon told him, watching, despairing, as Mr. Waverly's eyes got bigger, then smaller.

Silence. Silence.

Mr. Waverly's tone was arid. "If I didn't know of your genuine concern for Mr. Kuryakin, I would suspect you of making a very poor and extraordinarily ill-timed joke."

Stiff, Napoleon said, "It's no joke, sir. I know how it sounds. I also know that nothing else has given us the faintest lead as to Illya's abductors or whereabouts. I don't pretend to understand it, sir. I don't even pretend to believe in it. All I know is this ... whatever it is is giving me no peace. I have to go. If I don't --" He clamped his jaw shut on the words 'I'll go insane' but saw that Mr. Waverly heard them anyway.

"Mr. Solo ... obviously the strain of these past few days has taken a toll on you--"

"It has, sir. Part of that toll has been trying to ignore, to dismiss ... whatever this thing is." Napoleon waved one hand. "But whatever it is, maybe some psychic connection, maybe only me losing my mind, I need to follow up on it."

Mr. Waverly considered, scowling. "I need you in Madagascar. Moustapha is a very real and immediate threat, something you can put your hands on. Which is precisely what I want you to do. I'll have our Vermont office do some checking for the sake of your peace of mind."

"Sir--"

"I've made my decision, Mr. Solo. We aren't abandoning the search for Mr. Kuryakin, but I need you where you'll be of most use." The intercom beeped and Mr. Waverly flipped the switch. "Yes?"

"Gen. Cooke and Lt. White have arrived, sir."

"Send them up."

Napoleon stood there, trying to think clearly. Maybe he was already thinking clearly, but he doubted that. His more usual disobedience to explicit orders generally came in the field, not right in front of his superior. But he could no more leave that office and head for Madagascar than he could fly. He couldn't sit still for one more minute -- but there was only one road for him, and Madagascar was not at the end of it.

"Now, Mr. Solo, I ... Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon drew his UNCLE Special and laid it on the table. Under Mr. Waverly's increasingly disbelieving gaze he removed his communicator and his ID card, setting them beside the gun. He'd need his badge to get out of the building.

"Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said heavily. "This is hardly ..."

"I'm sorry, sir," Napoleon said. One part of his mind was yelling at him in panic. Another was saying Get this over with; you have a job to do.

"You leave me no choice. Either I'm the only hope Illya has of being found, or I'm insane. Either way I know what I have to do, and I'm of no use to this organization until I do it."

He turned and headed for the door. It slid open to reveal Gen. Cooke and Lt. White. Napoleon strode between them and kept going.

"Mr. Solo!"

Napoleon quickly analyzed the tone of Mr. Waverly's voice. He stopped. Turned. Gen. Cooke and Lt. White still stood in the doorway, looking back at him in puzzlement. Mr. Waverly stood by the table, within reach of Napoleon's gun and other UNCLE accoutrements.

"You won't need to leave these here, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said, picking up gun, pen and card. "Even an agent on leave is still an agent."

On leave? Napoleon thought.

"On leave?" Lt. White echoed. "You're putting him on leave?"

"Stress leave," Mr. Waverly said smoothly. "The current situation has been too great a strain for Mr. Solo."

Napoleon clamped his jaw shut against the automatic denial.

"I think a few days' rest will do him a world of good." Mr. Waverly held out Napoleon's things. "Perhaps somewhere out of the city."

Napoleon let his immense relief and gratitude show in his eyes and smile as he came back into the office to recollect his career.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you. I'll be in touch."

"Yes, Mr. Solo. You do that."

"You can't just--"  The closing door cut off Gen. Cooke's protest.

Knowing Lt. White was likely to be sent to follow him, Napoleon dashed for the elevator, eager to get as much headstart as possible. After days of miserable failure, inactivity and self-doubt, it was exhilarating to be moving, to be doing, and -- most of all -- to finally be silencing that constant shouting in his head.

Not stopping even to pack a bag, Napoleon took his car and drove out of the city northward. He knew he ought to feel bad about having surrendered to insanity. Instead, he found himself baring his teeth in a fierce smile.