Graham smiled at Evans' slight shrug at the longtime habit. "Sounds wonderful, Simon. I've got Jack's medical information on Kuryakin here already. He had it delivered here about an hour ago." Norm patted the sealed envelope sitting atop the courier bag.

  Evans stopped and turned before he reached the door, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "How could he do that? He's still doing tests on the boy."

  "My understanding was that all testing was finished at twelve." Graham glanced at his clock.

  "Mine were finished then. Jack said he wanted to run a few more." Evans frowned. "I thought it was for the report, health concerns, but if he's already handed his report in—? Maybe he's just doing some work on the program." He looked across at Graham, meeting the concerned gaze with level eyes. The drawled words were careful, as if he knew he was treading on thin ground with his medical colleague, and he didn't want to cause problems or go into detail with his suspicions. "Just so you know, the drugs are mostly out of his system, but the kid's a little tired. Before I left, he laughed and told me that he wanted to sleep for a week. Maybe Jack could use a different subject if he's just doing tests on the program."

  "I'll mention it to him." Graham waited until Evans had left the office, and he had his temper suitably reined in, before heading down to the simulator room. The projectors were turned off when he arrived, Jack Mercer sitting alone in the observation booth writing notes. Norm could see Illya in the action area, curled in the corner, eyes shut, unmoving, his suit hopelessly wrinkled. "Hello, Doctor. Is my son ready to go?"

  Mercer's head snapped up, both at the intrusion and the crystal-clear meaning of the U.N.C.L.E. Chief's words. Graham was always careful to separate his business and private relationship with Kuryakin, and for Mercer to hear the Russian agent referred to as 'my son' was an intended challenge—and obvious warning.

  "I've finished the last tests," the doctor said, shutting his notepad and standing. Both were the same height, well over six feet, although Mercer was a great deal huskier. He stood now, arms crossed, a white lab coat over his dark suit, and looked calmly out at Graham through black-rimmed glasses.

  "I expect to see a complete detailed report on what transpired during these tests," Graham said easily, his hands resting on his hips, his open jacket pushed back casually revealing the edge of the shoulder holster. His eyes caught the camera trained on the simulator room. "Oh, good. You filmed the episode. Have that sent on to Mr. Waverly. I'm sure he'd like to view it."

  Mercer hesitated a moment. "Yes. Of course I can provide a copy."

  Graham tilted his head wordlessly toward Kuryakin in the other room and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  "He can go now, yes," Mercer said, quickly. "The drugs should wear off in an hour or two." He followed the Washington Section One officer into the action room. "Make sure he eats something later. I could prescribe something for headache, in case he feels the need for a pain killer. Some agents' constitutions are not as rugged as others."

  Graham crouched down and shifted Kuryakin upright. The blue eyes opened at the touch, but the distant focus saw nothing. "Illya?" No reaction. Graham glanced up at Mercer questioningly.

  "He was drugged by Simon Evans."

  "I know that. This is an unusual reaction, is it not?" The blond head resting against his hand was heavy, and Illya's face was paler than usual.

  "Everyone reacts differently to medication, and the simulations. As I said, he may possibly have a headache on awakening."

  "He is awake. And forty-five minutes ago, Illya was laughing and speaking with Simon Evans and Simon told me the drugs were no longer affecting him. How do you explain this setback, Doctor?" It hurt, to see Illya like this, to know that Illya had felt it necessary to protect himself, even at U.N.C.L.E. But that he knew how to protect himself, was always encouraging. KGB training had its uses, but whether this was drilled into Kuryakin in the USSR, or whether he had stumbled onto it himself, Graham had no idea.

  Mercer crossed his arms, nodding sagely. "I ran another simulator test and he threw himself into this catatonic state rather than deal with the program. Had I anticipated this reaction, I would have held off on handing in my report."

  "Catatonic? That's a rather severe diagnosis, isn't it?" Graham rose to his feet, pulling Illya up with him as he glanced over at Mercer. Despite Alexander's assurances of Mercer's competence and trustworthiness, Washington, D.C. was his office and Mercer would be on his way by the end of the month. Enough was enough. There were certain things one did not tamper with. Certain people.

  But first—so the last two days weren't a total waste—he would let Mercer complete his reports and pass on whatever he was going to pass on to the CIA. Then he would be given his walking papers.

  Kuryakin stood on his own, his eyes open, pupils dilated. He looked at them, saw them, and Graham was positive he recognized them now, but Kuryakin did not respond to them.

  "So what do you think, Dr. Mercer?" Graham asked, keeping the sarcasm from his voice. Instead, he let the slight professional-query tone seep in, as though his questions, innocent on one level, also had deeper shades of implications that Mercer should take warning from. "Should I take him home, or is he schizophrenic as you've just implied?" He waved a hand experimentally before the unblinking eyes.

  Mercer said nothing, his gaze traveling calculatingly from Graham to Kuryakin and back again. "I have no other word, at this time, to describe this condition."

  "Hmm... Talk to Sam Lawrence in New York, then. Or Kuryakin's partner, Napoleon Solo. I'm sure they'll give you a reliable diagnosis. It's no secret to Kuryakin's medical file, as well. I'm surprised you are not aware of it; you better check that out. Come on, Illya, Trish has lunch ready for us."

  "He's done this before?" Mercer asked quickly, as they turned to leave.

  "Interesting, isn't it? Kuryakin has a defense mechanism, probably of his own subconscious design, that has kept him alive and protected him from those tampering with his mind, or going after buried or top secret information. I wish he could teach this to all our agents, and Alexander Waverly has made the same comment. It works better than the sleep conditioning we're using right now. Kuryakin will usually come out of this on his own within a few minutes, but I suspect the drugs are hampering him."

  "He does this often?" Mercer asked, his surprise obvious.

  "I've heard of about four instances since his coming to U.N.C.L.E. The last one was in the Middle East when he was captured and interrogated a few months ago. Napoleon Solo freed him from the palace prison, but it took an additional half hour before Kuryakin actually spoke or properly acknowledged them, although he certainly recognized Solo and was capable of rational independent movement. The longest time I've heard of him in this state was several months, over a year ago, when he was kidnapped by Thrush and tortured for information. They used everything they could think of, but they didn't get anything from him. Anyone else would have cracked. He beat them."

  "Why couldn't he talk to Solo then? Can't he recognize an enemy from an ally?"

  "That can be difficult sometimes, can't it, Jack? And add drugs to the scenario and it becomes doubly difficult to trust one's judgment. No, once he has removed himself from the situation, you must allow a reasonable amount of time for him to pull himself back together. It's not something he does lightly, only when there are no options left open for him. As I said, I would like to see that program you just ran and what scenario you presented for him. What were you expecting him to do? Kill his partner? Or was it Waverly he was supposed to rub out? As for not speaking—what he is attempting to do is precisely that, to keep himself from giving out information to the wrong people. It's quite effective, wouldn't you agree?" Graham steered his protégé through the door and down the hall.

  * * * * *

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

  1:30 p.m.

  The Safe House had never looked so welcome, the white structure rising with newly-painted freshness from the green manicured lawn. Hiring Charlie five years ago had been a bonus: the compound supervisor was also an avid gardener and landscaper, and while the grounds were laid out primarily for ease in safekeeping, the riotous flurry of color in the oval flower beds (hiding the security monitors) made the place look less like an institution and more like a house.

  Today it simply looked like home. Norm Graham was waved through the gate and he drove slowly down the long driveway. He glanced at the young man beside him, keeping a frown from his face. Illya had said nothing during the ride home, his head resting against the passenger-side window. Norm opened the car door and helped Illya out, aware of the fierce grasp of fingers on his jacket sleeve as the New York agent attempted to force his body to cooperate. "Steady there, buddy."

  The blue eyes opened at his remark—opened, but did not appear to be processing the information of where he was. The blond head tilted back to stare at the sun sightlessly, drugged eyes large and unfocused as they absorbed the light and warmth.

  Now that they were on home territory, Norm felt his own anger, held under control for the past two hours, slowly boil, but he concentrated on keeping his tone quiet and reassuring as he monitored the Russian's progress. Illya did not appear to be in any pain, there were no visible injuries, just the drugs in his system and the gradual emergence from his self-induced withdrawal. It shouldn't have taken this long, but then Mercer should never had administered the second dose, not with a patient who had just come in from a strenuous assignment, who was on prescribed medication, and who hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a week.

  The kids... Norm took charge and steered him over to the building's front stairs, easing him down. "I'll be right back, Ilyusha. Don't go anywhere." There was a brief nod that seemed to come for a great distance. Norm slipped inside the building and ran down the corridor to his home. "Trish?" he called as he bounded inside. "Trish?"

  "Down here," came the reply from the rec room. He paused at the top of the stairs. "Where are the kids?"

  "Misha's at day camp this week, remember? Why?" Trish appeared at the foot of the staircase, a slightly puzzled look on her face.

  "And Tanya?"

  "She's shopping with Karen. They're staying in town for a movie tonight.'

  "Good." Norm leaned on the banister, relieved.

  "What happened? What's wrong? Ilyusha—?" Trish was halfway up the stairs, her gaze fixed with his before he could pull himself together to reply.

  "It's okay, hon. He's okay. He's just a bit, uh, strange at the moment and I didn't want the kids to see him like this."

  "Drugged?"

  "A zombie. Come see for yourself. He's out front and I don't want to abandon him for too long."

  Illya turned as they approached him. Norm watched his wife register the utterly blank stare, and he leaned over to ruffle the blond agent's hair affectionately. "See, he doesn't break."

  Graham was pleased when Illya smiled at the remark, but the effort obviously cost him and he closed his eyes again. Norm helped him back to his feet, steadied him, and the trio started walking around the side of the building. "Relax, Trish. He's okay."

  "He doesn't look okay. He looks terrible." She moved to Illya's other side, slipping her arm around his waist.

  Norm grimaced at her bitter tone.

  "Has Jack seen him?"

  "Yeah. Jack was there when it happened. I spoke with Sam Lawrence before we left, and he confirmed there is nothing to be alarmed about. The drugs are just slowing him down. Sam said to walk him around and let him have some fresh air. Trish, Jack did say he should eat something as soon as he can. What about something easy for him to digest? A bowl of soup, maybe, and some crackers."

  "I'll bring it to the patio downstairs in fifteen minutes." She looked reluctant to leave, but rallied when Norm smiled at her in encouragement.

  Illya's head turned as Trish left, and he cleared his throat. Norm kept his hand at Illya's elbow as they walked from the shade of the building into the sun at the back of the property. He stopped at the umbrella at the patio table and settled the young man on the bench. "Let's get that jacket and tie off, okay." Again the small smile and nod, but Illya helped more than Norm thought he could, even bending to pull off his shoes and socks. Clad in only a sleeveless undershirt and his suit pants, he walked slowly next to Norm from one end of the property to the other, stopping now and again to take a deep breath and steady himself. Trish came out on the balcony once, and Illya managed to wave to her.

  "Usually—not—this difficult." Illya leaned on his arm as a wave of dizziness swept over him.

  "Usually you're not fighting drugs as well," Norm reassured him.

  "Drugs?" Illya straightened up and looked him in the eye, the pupils closer now to their proper size. "Oh. Yes. I—remember."They walked a bit further, and he tugged at Norm's arm, stopping them in the middle of the lawn. "I—was in the—simulator." Tears welled from the corner of his eyes, and he blinked them back furiously. "They—He—Napoleon—the lab—explosion—" Words came out in gasps, as Illya stared off into some private horror. "It was just—the simulator—right? Napoleon—not dead?"

  "It was the simulator, Lusha. What did you think you saw?" he asked, then grabbed at Illya as the other man's legs buckled. Graham eased him to the ground, bending over him as Kuryakin knelt, his face buried in his hands. "Napoleon's fine. It was just the simulator," he repeated. "We can call Napoleon if you want."

  "No." Illya shook his head. "I don't—know what to say—yet."

  "I can talk to him then and tell him what happened. He won't mind if you don't answer. You could just listen to him."

  "Norm, I don't know—what to say—to him!" The urgency in the slightly slurred words was clear enough.

  "What do you want, Lusha?"

  "Not know." He took a deep breath, suddenly calm again. Norm started to help him up again, but Illya raised his hand. "Let me get changed. I will—will feel better."

  He pulled himself to his feet, walked unaided to the patio, and disappeared through the sliding doors and around the corner to his bedroom.

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, he emerged in his swimming trunks and carrying a towel and walking much steadier. The grass felt good beneath his feet. The faint breeze blowing was refreshing as it brushed against his prickled skin. He felt calmer; life was in a little more perspective than it had been all day. He smiled affectionately over at Norm, who was trying not to notice that he had come outside. "Hi. Have you been hovering around waiting for me?"

  Norm looked up. "Can't a guy sit with his feet up and enjoy the scenery?" He nodded at the steady balance Illya showed as he dipped his toe in the pool. "Why don't you swim after you eat?" he suggested from his lawn chair.

  "Come now," Illya said, approaching the older man. "You know Trish would never let me swim on a full stomach." He dropped the towel on the chair next to Norm.

  "I want to get in a few laps before lunch." The thought of the cool water on his skin was invigorating.

  "You're sounding more full of life. Take it slow, though."

  "Yes, papasha. For your information, I'm also seeing depth vision again, I can touch the tip of my nose with my eyes closed, and my bowels work perfectly."

  "Smart aleck."

  "Thank you." He walked over to the edge of the pool and eased down the stairs into the water in the shallow end, taking his time moving into the water. "Ah!" he whistled as he forced himself into the last few feet. "The water is nice today!" He sank beneath the surface, rising a moment later to shake the water from his hair and peer up at Trish frowning at him. "Two minutes and I will eat whatever you have brought, kind lady." She held up two fingers, and he pushed off the side of the pool into a leisurely front crawl.

  Four short laps later, Norm had to help him out of the pool. "Not as together as you thought?"

  Illya shook his head, his teeth chattering, as they dried him off and steered him to one of the patio chairs. He settled back into it, letting the sun warm him. It was good to be home. No, it was wonderful to be home. How often had he thought that?

  He relaxed into the pampering, enjoying the love and care bestowed on him so enthusiastically. Ten minutes passed before he could eat anything, then he devoured the soup and sandwich and crawled off to his room to sleep it all off. "Wake me up tomorrow morning, okay?" he mumbled, waving a halfhearted goodbye.

  * * * * *

  UNCLE HQ, New York

  8:00 p.m.

  "Frozen information," Napoleon muttered to himself. "So what else could it mean? Where would they be based?" There was a pause, where Illya was supposed to supply the information.

  "Who are you talking to?" Heather McNabb stood casually at the door of his office. "Your partner?"

  Solo looked up at her, irritation at being "caught" fading quickly. Sometimes McNabb's efficiency went too far. But aside from Waverly and Sam Lawrence, no one knew their partnership better than McNabb. "I don't know, Heather. Maybe Mr. Waverly is right," he said, leaning back and stretching. "Time was when I did all this alone. And I was good at it, too. Maybe I've worked with him too long. I've grown to depend on him too much." And I'm talking to you, Illya, even if you're not here. "How's John?"

  "He's fine. He's got a bad headache, but that's to be expected. He got grazed by a bullet, after all. And don't change the topic on me. You're efficiency rating is up 29% when you work with Illya. Look at your track record together. You can't argue with success." McNabb perched on the corner of his desk, much as Illya often did, and handed him the telephone receiver. "Call him. Straighten this all out."

  "This isn't some petty little disagreement. There are some major differences here that—"

  "Sounds like a petty little disagreement to me." She let the receiver fall back with a crash. "You two are squared off with each other on this, neither willing to listen to the other's view. I think Mr. Waverly was right in separating you both. Maybe seeing how much you do need the other half of your partnership will open your eyes a little."