Graham felt a rush of pride that was probably wildly out of proportion, but reflected his admiration and paternal love for this multifaceted young man. You always surprise me, Ilyushechka. "Keep all that in mind, son, and you will have no problem on the evaluation."

  "In Russia, there is a saying—" Illya ignored Norm's groan, and continued, "'Live with wolves, howl like a wolf.' I have not stayed alive in the business this long without learning how to howl with the best of them."

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York

  4:30 p.m.

  Napoleon Solo stripped off his suit and hung it in his gym locker. He needed to hit something. Badly. And the punching bag would have to do the trick, since Waverly had conveniently relocated his partner to Washington for an undetermined length of time.

  He'd only discovered it when he'd checked with Heather McNabb as to his partner's whereabouts, and she'd quietly informed him that Illya had left for the airport hours before. She wasn't sure why, other than to courier a package. However there was no return ticket booked.

  Waverly had been doing a lot of things lately without taking his Chief Enforcement Office into his confidences, and it was becoming a growing concern for Napoleon. And to top it off, a lot of his questionable actions seemed to revolve around Illya, as though he was testing him for some reason.

  But why would Waverly go to all the trouble to bring them together as partners, if he now was pulling them apart? Napoleon steadied the punching bag, staring at it, thoughtfully.

  Unless, together they were more dangerous to him than they were separately?

  WHAM. Napoleon hit the bag with full force. WHAM. WHAM.

  It was like that damned chess game in Waverly's office. It had been going on for years, with sometimes months between moves. Waverly had never answered Napoleon's queries over who he was playing against. Well, the old man was now moving his own agents around as though they were the pieces, leaving them no choice but to go where he directed.

  There was something not right about it all, something that made the hackles on Solo's neck rise.

  Waverly wouldn't do what he was doing without a reason, right?

  But what if the reason had nothing to do with U.N.C.L.E.? Some agenda of his own?

  After thirty minutes of endless pounding, Napoleon wiped the sweat from his brow and stood back, weaving in exhaustion. He'd wait for now, he'd decided. He'd give Waverly the benefit of the doubt one more time, and wait for a few more days to see what was going to happen to his partner.

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC

  5:00 p.m.

  Norm Graham glanced at the clock on his desk as Illya walked back into his office not even fifteen minutes later. The shifts in Kuryakin were interesting, shocking actually. As much as Graham lectured others about the light switch effect of Russian emotions, he was primarily accustomed to seeing Illya-as-son in his relaxed state, the 'at home' persona: smiles, laughter, jokes, tears, and anger. He rarely dealt with Kuryakin-as-agent: efficient, cool, a man of few words. A man. Two halves still so separate, so compartmentalized. There was an aloofness in Kuryakin's stance now, an impatience in the drumming of the fingers on the back of the chair, his hands closing over the smooth leather as he leaned against it. A sigh seemed to drain him of air, the intake slower, almost reluctant.

  Suddenly Graham felt unsure of how to address him, whether this was Ilyusha or Agent Kuryakin. "So... is everything all set up? That didn't take long."

  The shrug said it all. "I have an appointment tomorrow at 10:00 with Dr. Mercer. The afternoon with Dr. Evans."

  As Graham studied him, Illya looked around the office with a slightly lost look. He seemed disoriented. Not confused, just hesitant to speak, as off-balance as Graham, caught between one side of his life and the other here in Norm's office. Without that certainty of his current role, he had no secure footing with which to brace himself. Illya moved to where he had left his briefcase, stared down at it for a moment, then shook his head as though clearing his thoughts, and picked it up.

  Graham watched him silently. How does Napoleon interact with you as his partner? Who are you then? Did Solo only see the professional agent? Or were there times they laughed together, shared a meal or a joke, confided a secret? He would hate for there to be only this nebulous uneven territory that Illya was not sure how to navigate through, where signals were difficult to read.

  "You okay?" he asked, as Illya turned back to him.

  "Yeah. Listen, Norm, if you don't mind, I'll just head home on my own. I don't feel up to waiting around."

  Norm nodded, trying to catch the wandering eyes. "Do you want someone to drive you?"

  "No, I'll take a cab."

  "Need some money for—"

  Illya shook his head, a smile forming briefly on the somber face. "I've got money, Papasha." The eyes twinkled as he jingled the change in his pocket. "I do get a paycheck."

  "Sorry." Norm put down his pen. "Habit, I guess."

  "I'll see you later, then."

  "Tell Trish I have a short meeting at five-thirty. I should be home by six-thirty or seven."

  "Sure."

  * * * * *

  The cab was waiting outside and Illya gave his destination address, sinking back against the seat. His energy was running out. At the moment, he wanted nothing else than to be at home with his Washington family. To play and read with Misha. To talk and dance with Tanya. To find a nightclub with Tony and get plastered. To sit on the deck under the stars and be with Trish and Norm and not do anything at all.

  Apparently that was not to be the case. He was going to be evaluated by U.N.C.L.E. once more. It was their right. He leaned against the door, uncomfortable. The bandages on his foot itched.

  The tests were of no concern. Not really. As he had said to Norm, the only family he had was here in Washington, D.C.; his life roots started from June 21, 1961, when he arrived on their doorstep. His family. This was home, in his mind and heart.

  Here, and in New York. Over the past year, New York had become increasingly more his home, the small apartment a welcome oasis from the bustle of the city. Much as the Safe House had been a place of refuge against the world in general, his apartment was a place of refuge from the responsibilities of his job, and from the watchful eyes of his colleagues. But it was more than that, more than a place to hide, it was a place to come home to. A place to throw off his coat and relax with a book, with his feet up on the coffee table. A place to burn his own dinner and talk to cats and study his physics texts. He basked in the privacy, the richness of his existence, the wealth of opportunities and choices he could make each and every day.

  Illya shifted and stared out the window of the cab. Rush hour: the vehicle was hemmed in by the volume of traffic, the city clearing its throat for the day. Thousands jammed the sidewalks and streets, the crowds of suits and briefcases weaving in and out of buildings and crossing lights and getting in and out of cars. The impulse came to jump from the taxi and lose himself in the noise and bustle and crush of pedestrians on the sidewalk. To be anonymous again. There had been a time when he had done that, when he would slip away from one life and start another without a second thought.

  The moment passed, and he looked away.

  This was his life now. By his choice.

  How could he possibly explain himself to Napoleon, who felt that they were nothing but pawns? This had nothing to do with Alexander Waverly. How could he explain to Napoleon the security and confidence that he felt these last few months? He knew his partnership and friendship with Napoleon was responsible for much of that security. It was impossible to find words to explain how comfortable it was to walk into a room with Napoleon at his shoulder, or to look across the office during a meeting and know what the other was thinking. Even under attack, they rarely conferred on who would do what: they just knew. At home in his apartment, he was not alone in the building. Napoleon was upstairs. The greatest of both worlds, to be alone, yet not alone.

  "I HAVE CONSIDERED YOU MY CLOSEST FRIEND," Napoleon had written recently in a note.

  How do I explain this to you, then? Illya wondered.

  "I told Kelly that you were all the family I needed."

  Illya could hear Napoleon's words clearly, still feeling the quiet shock of them.

  Yes, New York had become his home, as well.

  He was too tired to be angry now. Going to Langley today had brought back memories of countless CIA interrogations through the years and everything he had endured to be in this country. And he would do it the same, if he had to live it again. If I'm a pawn, Napoleon, I am by my choice. It has not been forced on me. I have not been manipulated to perform for Alexander Waverly, despite what you, or even he, may think. I have willingly done what I have done... How do I explain this to you?

  The cab pulled onto the Safe House property, and Illya realized with a start that thirty minutes had passed. He breathed a hollow sigh of relief, pressed a bill into the driver's hand, and ran up the stairs to the front door.

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York

  8:00 p.m.

  Napoleon Solo poured himself another cup of coffee, trying to shift some of the tension from his shoulders before he rejoined Sam Lawrence at the commissary table. He had been attempting for several hours to put the day into some sort of perspective, to balance the growing unrest he still felt. The Section One Head had not contacted him for the remainder of the day, and Solo felt much like a punished son banished to his room.

  Except it was Illya who had been banished, it seemed. Or Waverly had deliberately separated them, knowing somehow of their conversation. Perhaps his office was bugged, despite Security's assurance that it wasn't.

  The tension in his last conversation with his partner was something he had not anticipated. Not now. Not after everything that they had been through. His partner's absence wore at him, scraping against his consciousness as the hours passed.

  Solo had walked the streets for almost an hour, trying to cool down in the August heat, and the course his thoughts had taken was not reassuring. If it was as he suspected, that he was just a chess piece or a puppet in the aging puppeteer's control, then he had some choices of his own to make. There was nothing saying he had to stay with the Network. He could resign. Napoleon had certainly been up against that choice before, during his affair with Serena when Illya had been injured, and even when he went after Jud Carter.

  But he hadn't then, and he wouldn't now.

  He believed in what U.N.C.L.E. stood for; he was proud of what U.N.C.L.E. stood for and what they had accomplished. If he stayed—and there had never been a real desire on his part to leave—then he had to move carefully. Illya obviously believed in U.N.C.L.E. as much as he did, but to Illya, U.N.C.L.E. and Waverly were firmly intertwined. His partner could not see one without the other.

  Waverly was brilliant, there was no denying that. The old man had been a driving force behind the creation of the Network, and that U.N.C.L.E. enjoyed the respect of the world had everything to do with the vision that Waverly and the other four founding officers had shared.

  He was brilliant, yes, but Waverly was well advanced in years, and one day that light would go out altogether. That it was already beginning to dim was the concern Napoleon Solo was facing. Alone, apparently.

  Somewhere in the course of this, a small thought worked its way through Napoleon's irate deliberations like a determined weed through concrete. Hope came from unexpected places, he acknowledged finally, for it occurred to him that two months ago, it would have been unlikely that Illya would have felt the freedom to be that angry with his partner—or to let it show—and that this very situation showed an enormous trust on the Russian's part.

  Napoleon latched onto the reflection and found himself steadied by it. It presented the problem in a different light; it meant Kuryakin's anger was not necessarily directed at Solo personally, but at what Napoleon had insinuated about their superior that Illya could not tolerate.

  And just as clearly came that conviction that while there were many things Napoleon was willing to sacrifice for his career, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was not one of them.

  Solo had turned back to HQ as hunger edged frustration and won eventually; he went down to the commissary for some food. The doctor's appearance while he was eating dinner had been fortunate timing, although the enforcement agent wasn't totally convinced anything this day was coincidental. What finally encouraged him to talk about the situation was knowing Sam's own intense dislike of being manipulated by anyone.

  He returned to the table and sat down, facing the doctor straight on. "So you think Illya will be okay with these tests?"

  Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. "As I've said, I understand your concern about the tests. Alexander's methods are rarely in conjunction with how I would do things and yet—" He had glanced up to smile the comment away when he saw a scowl flicker across Solo's face. The doctor stopped, the rest of his sentence lost.

  Solo winced at his inadvertent reaction, offering a weary smile of his own. "There was a disagreement this morning."

  "Between…?"

  "Illya and me. Something I found out." And then Waverly shipped him off before I contaminated him further.

  "A disagreement over the psych evaluations?"

  "No, I didn't even know about them yet. I just found that out forty-five minutes ago, when I read the Section One amendments to the Operations and Enforcement assignment postings for tomorrow and I saw what Illya was scheduled for. I don't think even Illya knew about them; all the initial assignment read was courier duty... Off the record, Sam, I've been flipping back and forth between being angry with them both, to being angry with myself, to being apprehensive for him. That's when I came down here."

  The doctor left the table to refill his own cup. "Napoleon," he said, when he returned, "there's, uh, no reason for you to be concerned about these tests, is there?"

  "No." Solo glanced around the room, almost empty now the dinner hour was past. "No, not really."

  "Are you sure? Has Illya mentioned any more... uh..."

  "Angels?" Solo provided.

  "Yes."

  "Why? Do you think he's crazy?"

  "No, of course not. Just... if he mentions them during the tests..."

  "So you really think Illya's scars went away because he got a sunburn?"

  Lawrence tensed up. "I don't know how they went away, but I am skeptical about his explanation."

  "So he's lying then?" Napoleon asked flatly.

  "No. I can't see Illya lying. Not about something like this. But I find it hard to believe he would put something like this in his report."

  "I told him to."

  "Why?"

  "Because I said if that's what he believed happened, then that's what he needed to put down."

  "So he discussed it with you first? He's lowered his guard around you?"

  Solo lowered his voice, speaking confidentially. "There have been times the last few weeks that I have felt as close to him as I've ever been. It meant something to me, him coming after me to Los Angeles in May. Because ultimately he wanted to, not because I ordered him to join me. He seems to be settling in here, settling in our partnership, trusting me with not only his life—that's easy for him—but trusting me with his... with his... Well, I described it to April Dancer in Section Three as a partner learning to trust you with his heart. It sounds a bit odd—"

  "Not at all. That's a good analogy. The signs of a solid partnership are if you are communicating thoughts and actions on a multitude of levels, if you've gotten past the superficial fronts and have let down those barriers you need with the rest of the world."

  "Then we hit a wall and it all falls apart."

  "That doesn't mean you can't get up and keep going. You're going to be hitting walls now and again; it's part of life. But by this point, you should be accepting that and learning to anticipate the walls, or else you should be finding a workable game plan to help each other breach those walls."

  Solo looked away, studying the table top with some intensity, one well-manicured nail tracing the grain of the wood along the scarred surface. "But what if we disagree on what the walls are? "

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C., Safe House

  11:15 p.m.

  Norman Graham slipped his leather holster off and placed it on the top shelf of the Safe House entrance closet next to his automatic. In any household with a curious eight-year-old, locked closet doors were a necessity. Misha had shown little interest thus far, but it only took once.

  He shut the door firmly, reaching up to slide the bolt in place, then turned and brushed his sandy gray and gold hair from his eyes. He needed a haircut. Trish would be sure to point it out again, but there had really been no time to see to such details, despite his appearance at a reception scheduled for the next evening. He had planned on being home for dinner on time tonight, but the caterer for the reception had backed out unexpectedly. That meant U.N.C.L.E. then had to confirm the reason for the cancellation as being authentic, secure another company, and then check their credentials, each annoyingly important step requiring his signature and go-ahead before they could precede to the next.

  The hectic day had spilled over into evening, then night, and now—now it was past eleven and he still had not had dinner after discussing food for hours. He walked quietly down the dark hallway—the massive living room on his left, the dining room, behind curved arches, on his right—until he came to the sprawling country kitchen that had always been one of his favorite places in the house. Not only did it contain food and coffee, but the breakfast nook also looked out onto the sloping grass and the Potomac River that rushed by their property.

  "I'm warming it up for you," Trish said from the darkness at the table.

  "My dinner or the bench?" he asked, sliding in beside her, one arm draped over her bare shoulders.

  "Both, actually. Carmen called that you were heading home, so I put the leftovers in the oven on warm."