Solo suddenly understood. "Your scars aren't you, Illya. They're just things that happened to you."

  "Yes." Illya rubbed the faded line from his wrist up his arm again, as if trying to memorize it. "Things that happened to me. My experiences. My memories. My reminders."

  It was a little shocking to hear Illya, who had an apartment virtually empty of possessions save for a record collection, who cared nothing for owning clothes, cars, guns, or any of the usual agent's toys, suddenly use a possessive three times in six words. He'd always admired his partner's self possession, but he'd never heard him talk possessively, until now. "Removing the scars doesn't take the experiences or memories away from you. And I can't see why you'd want to remember pain, anyway."

  Kuryakin's pale blue eyes darkened. "What right do you have to tell me what I should want to remember?"

  Solo froze, startled at the angry response, and then reluctantly agreed. What right indeed? His memories of pain weren't important to him, but he hadn't lost his entire family, his entire adopted family, his country. He hadn't seen his father murdered before his eyes at age nine, or been handed over to the KGB shortly afterwards. Painful or not, Illya's memories were in many respects all he had left of his first 22 years. "I'm sorry. You're right."

  "Damn you." Kuryakin clenched both fists, the pajama sleeve sliding down to cover the incriminating scar. "Why do you have to agree with me now?"

  "Illya?" he said, shocked and puzzled.

  "I don't want to be right," Kuryakin whispered fiercely.

  Solo realized his partner couldn't be right. He'd already committed to the assignment, to the necessity of the surgery. He didn't need to be told his last minute misgivings about it were valid. Solo wished suddenly for Sam Lawrence, or any of the other U.N.C.L.E. shrinks who would know the right words to say. "Then you're wrong, my friend."

  "Am I?" Kuryakin whispered.

  "Aren't you always?" Solo tried a little harder. "I was just trying to humor you when I told you that you were right before. A little courtesy before you go under the knife."

  Illya laughed harshly, but it sounded more like choking. "You'll think I'm crazy."

  "Don't I always?" Bolder now that Illya was deferring to him. The Russian's eyes were wide with worry and an unaccustomed fear. But Solo found himself warmed by the trust reflected there, too, that Illya trusted him to have the answers. Solo didn't know that he did or didn't, but it helped that Illya felt he did. Especially since Illya had given him a strong hint of what he wanted to hear, now that Solo had gotten it wrong the first time. His confidence reasserted itself and he took charge of the situation without a thought.

  "Come here." He slipped an arm around the slender shoulders and pulled the agent against him. Surprisingly, Illya let himself be enfolded, slumping against Solo as if he were utterly drained. Solo had expected more of a fuss and he frowned slightly at this unusual show of compliance. Illya didn't usually like to be touched and certainly never unbent to this extent in HQ, even drugged. Something was very wrong. "Why are you crazy this time? Illya?" He shook the Russian lightly. "Ve haf vays of makink you talk, Kuryakin."

  Illya choked out another laugh, but Solo could feel him trembling. "Tomorrow? After the surgery?" His breath was warm against Solo's shirt.

  "Yes?"

  "I feel a little like I am going to disappear, too. Along with the scars. I know that is stupid. But I can not stop thinking about it." His voice got even more hushed, even as his accent grew stronger. He still held the AEC report clutched in his hands as if the staid facts were some sort of lifeline. "They will take the past away from me. All the reminders. They will put a disguise on me I will never be able to take off. And I said I would do this. I must do this. I promised. Napoleon." His voice was so soft Solo had to strain to hear it over the pounding of his own heart. "Napoleon. I am so scared."

  He felt like his own heart was breaking a little, just from the force of his normally aloof, self-sufficient partner shaking in his arms. But his voice was remarkably light when he answered, "And so hungry."

  Illya laughed a little, but Napoleon's shirt, where his partner's face was buried was suspiciously damp. "That, too."

  Solo tightened his arms reassuringly. "You aren't going to disappear. You might have slipped away from the KGB, but you can't hide from me. I know you, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Through all of your disguises. You do this job and I'll bring you home. Then we'll go out for pasta and get you fattened up again."

  Illya's eyes were tightly closed. He was very still in the circle of Napoleon's arms. But slowly, very slowly, Solo felt him relax. "And kielbasa."

  "Whatever you want."

  Kuryakin sighed as if all the breath were leaving his lungs and the slight figure in Solo's arms became suddenly heavier. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure," he whispered in answer. Solo waited until the sedatives won and Kuryakin was asleep before releasing him, tucking him securely under the blankets and clearing away the bulky AEC reports. His eyes went to where the scarred wrist lay, securely tucked away, and he thought, for the briefest moment, of tracing the pale lines himself. Then he cursed under his breath, leaned over and smoothed the untidy fringe of bangs covering Illya's forehead, and left.

  "Solo."

  The CEA turned irritably, to find Sam Lawrence's head poking out his office door. The last thing he wanted to see was a doctor. If it wasn't for them and their damn knives and drugs Illya wouldn't have been scared out of his mind tonight. Solo refused to consider the fact that they'd saved his partner's life on several occasions. And where were the damn shrinks when he needed the right words to say? "What the hell do you want?"

  "As a psychologist, I'd have to grade that an 'A plus'."

  Solo stared at him and then the implication that every word of their conversation had been overheard propelled him into physician's office. "You were listening? The whole time?"

  Lawrence gestured to the monitor. "What do you think? If you hadn't showed up, I would have had to talk to him myself."

  "If I hadn't shown up? Who's the damn shrink here?"

  "I am. And as 'the damn shrink', I'm telling you he needed to hear that from you. And you handled it very nicely."

  "You mean I stumbled through it by the skin of my teeth. I had no idea what to say to him. What if I said the wrong thing? Damn it, I did say the wrong thing at first!" He was infuriated as the physician laughed. "I'm no shrink. I didn't have the faintest idea what to say. I could have totally screwed him up!"

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I don't even remember!"

  "What did he say in response?"

  "I don't remember!"

  Lawrence laughed again. "You'll make a fine shrink, if you ever decide to give up being an enforcement agent. Go home to bed, Napoleon. You did good."

  Solo stared, confused, and then shaking his head, started down the hall. He stopped outside his partner's door and stared at it, then turned and went back to Lawrence's office.

  "Sam?"

  The doctor looked up from his paperwork. "Yeah?"

  "What did we say?"

  Lawrence shook his head, smiling a little at Solo's obtuseness, but shrugged and complied. "He told you he needed backup and you promised you'd be there."

  "Oh."

  "All right, now?"

  "I don't remember that."

  "Trust me. That's what you both said."

  Solo sighed. "If you say so. Surgery at 6:30 a.m.?"

  "Right."

  "I'll be there."

  Lawrence chuckled, his eyes back on his reports. "I know. Night, Napoleon."

  He was there at 6:15 a.m., but Illya was already drowsy from the pre-operative drugs. He opened his eyes briefly when his partner called his name, but only smiled slightly, his eyes unfocused.

  "Napoleon."

  "Ready for breakfast yet, partner?"

  "You...bastard. Don't...torture me."

  Solo chuckled, then paled a little as a circulating nurse taped several IV needles in Kuryakin's arm. Lawrence touched Solo lightly on the shoulder. "Tell him you'll see him later. We're ready."

  "Later, buddy."

  "Don't forget, Napoleon." Illya murmured, as the nurse chanted, "Four, three, two, one." She checked under an eyelid. "He's out, Doctors."

  "Let's go."

  "Sam?"

  Lawrence turned back to the frozen CEA. "He'll be fine. I've got to go."

  "What was I supposed to remember?"

  "What?"

  "Damn it, I need to hear the tape. Last night? When you were listening in your office? What the hell did I promise? A milkshake? Kielbasa? The latest Superman comic books? I don't remember!"

  "Backup, Solo. Backup. Remember?"

  "That was it?" Napoleon frowned, trying to remember the conversation. "That was all?"

  "For god's sake, he won't be able to read, eat, or drink for hours after he wakes. Just show up with a smile. Now, I've got to go!"

  Solo wasn't needed to monitor the surgery, partly because it was being done in U.N.C.L.E. HQ, partly because only top ranking intelligence physicians would be present, but mostly because Kuryakin had a tube put down his throat seconds after being knocked out and wouldn't be able to talk through the surgery anyway. Solo thought about breaking into Lawrence's office, finding the tape (he knew the room was monitored and conversations routinely recorded) and playing it, but his own memory was fairly intact, now that he had calmed down, and he couldn't remember promising his partner anything on waking up from surgery.

  He went back to his office and read up on the CIA's plan for extricating his partner, but it was incomplete. He tried to read more of the AEC documents stacked in the corner, but the jargon and the equations gave him a headache. He went down to talk to U.N.C.L.E.'s resident Sovietologist about the CIA's plans, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, he turned his attention to prosaic paperwork until his partner came out surgery and woke up.

  Except his partner didn't wake up on schedule. Solo was standing anxiously by, damning all CIA surgeons, as the minutes ticked by when Kuryakin was supposed to wake up from the anesthesia. Lawrence pulled an eyelid, examined the results, checked Kuryakin's vitals, and shrugged. "He was under a lot longer than we expected—the reconstruction job was greater than anticipated. It's normal for the recovery time to be longer with that much anesthesia."

  "You didn't tell me about the bandages."

  "Since when does surgery not imply bandages?"

  "You've got him wrapped up like a mummy. How do I know he's really in there?"

  "He's not, Solo. This is all a CIA plot to rob you of your partner."

  "Don't joke. You happened to be standing next to a trained assassin."

  "More like a natural ass. Come on. It's time to awaken our sleeping beauty."

  "Wrong story," Solo noted and turned to his partner. If it weren't for the tousled mop of golden hair, he wouldn't have even been sure it was Illya.

  "Hey, Peter Pan. Time to wake up."

  The Russian's eyes flickered, slowly opened and tried to track in the general direction of Solo's voice. Solo was absurdly relieved to recognize their crystalline blue.

  "Who?"

  "Peter Pan. You know, from the kid's story?"

  "Didn't he want to become a real boy?" Illya's voice was raw and raspy from the breathing tube.

  "That was Pinocchio. Who the hell had charge of your education? Peter Pan never wanted to grow up, remember?"

  "I don't want to wake up. Go away."

  "Sorry. You've already slept too long. Sam's kicking you out; you've overstayed your welcome."

  Illya groaned. "No. Can't. Have to sleep."

  "How about food? Milkshakes, ice cream, jello, anything your raw little Russian throat desires?"

  "Sleep," Illya mumbled and his eyes closed.

  Solo turned as the Lawrence came up beside him. "He's out again."

  "That's all right. He's rational."

  "Sam," Solo fixed the physician with a meaningful look. "He was never that."

  Lawrence grinned. "You know what I mean. You have to learn OX3, but I'm satisfied for the moment."

  "OX3?"

  "Oriented to person, place and time.

  "He knew me. And he was crabby as usual. But when he turns down food..."

  "He'll be fine. We'll let him sleep; it's the best thing for him now."

  "When do the bandages come off?" Solo eyed his partner uneasily.

  "Another day or so." Lawrence followed the direction of his eyes and frowned slightly. "You're not taking on his worries, are you?"

  The Chief Enforcement Agent shrugged. "I don't know. You know I hate this impersonation stuff. And Illya was pretty rattled before the surgery, himself. How did it go?"

  "Well, I think. Illya didn't have much to correct, apart from the scars. No moles, no birthmarks, just a few facial lines Tomlinson lessened. The scars, of course, were the big problem and he thinks he got most of the them. A better job than he expected on the old ones. At worst, they'll have to look close to see them. Hopefully, if they strip him for a physical exam, they'll miss what's left. It's an amazing technique. Classified, you know. But someday, Tomlinson is going to make a bundle."

  "It couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Solo said sarcastically. "What about the scar on Illya's arm?"

  "Tomlinson worked hard on that one, since it could be easily visible."

  Solo nodded, remembering Kuryakin's fingers tracing the faded lines.

  "Napoleon? He'll be all right."

  "Waverly has asked me to fly down to Washington to go over some things with the CIA."

  "You're on this assignment?" Lawrence asked in surprise.

  Solo scowled slightly. "First the CIA and now you. I may not be a physicist or a Russian, but I'm the best U.N.C.L.E. has. I think I can contribute something to this little junket."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't. But I see the problem. You did promise to be here when he wakes."

  "An excuse that will hardly go over big with Waverly."

  "How long?"

  "Just a day."

  Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. "I don't usually do this, but I can keep him under that long. No longer, though."

  "Just twenty-four hours," Solo promised. He glanced down at the sleeping figure and touched him lightly on the arm. "Later, buddy. And thanks, Sam."

  ***

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Solo wished he had spent more time practicing his Russian when he had the chance. With Kuryakin, his chief tutor, recuperating for at least the next twenty-four hours, he flew down to Washington to join Baker at the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to follow up on Waverly's instructions and finalize the plans for the mission. Solo wanted to keep a close eye on his responsibility, but his poor Russian was a serious drawback. This was still a CIA operation and every agent on Baker's roster for this assignment had worked undercover in the Soviet Union in the last three years. He could tell Baker considered him a liability, but the CIA agent was caught. To get Kuryakin, they had to agree to an U.N.C.L.E. agent in a surveillance role and they didn't have the right to choose or refuse whomever U.N.C.L.E. sent. Solo knew he didn't have any of the right qualifications for this assignment, except for two: Waverly had personally assigned him and he'd also be damned if he'd be left behind.

  Solo stood in the doorway of Baker's office. "I want to review the exit plans. These," he held up the folder Baker had left with him, "just don't cut it."

  Baker glanced up, gauging the determination in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's face. "How's your partner?"

  "My partner is still recovering from his surgery, as you damn well know. If he wasn't, you'd have someone shadowing him. Let's cut the crap and get to work."

  Baker carefully locked up the paperwork currently on his desk and rose. "Come with me." He led Solo down the Langley corridors and opened the door of a large conference room. A half dozen men gathered around a map strewn table glanced up and then turned at their approach. "Gentlemen, this is Napoleon Solo, from the U.N.C.L.E. He'll be joining us on this assignment. Solo, the contact team: Nelson, team leader; Elsnic, power consultant; Hawkins, ordinance and electronics; Markowitz, our physicist; Jackson, communications and medicine," Baker introduced them one by one.

  Solo studied their faces, noting the lack of welcome, the careful scrutiny in each pair of eyes. His own were probably similar. He walked over to examine the maps and blueprints spread over the conference table, frowning at the Russian legends. "I thought you needed Illya because you couldn't get anyone else in the complex to get the plans?"

  There was a silence around the table and Solo glanced up to see the contact team eyeing Baker with expressions of incredulity or careful blankness.

  Baker cleared his throat. "These aren't plans of the reactor, Solo, they're of the associated power plant. The security and personnel for the two complexes are separate and we have been able to place some agents in the power plant. The contact team will be replacing them and selected others we've made arrangements with, when the time comes."

  "Baker, what do you mean 'Solo will be joining us'?"

  "He means," the U.N.C.L.E. agent paused, studying the speaker, the leader of the field team, "I go where you go, as close to Kuryakin as I can get."

  "Is he kidding? A man who can't recognize the difference between a power plant and a nuclear reactor? Jesus, it's even spelled out on the map." Nelson tapped the Cyrillic characters with a heavy fist. "How's your Russian, Solo? When was the last time you worked undercover in the Soviet Union?"

  "Nelson, enough. As part of our agreement with U.N.C.L.E., Solo accompanies us."

  "He's a liability, Baker."

  "Without Solo, we don't get Kuryakin. It's as simple as that."

  "You're jeopardizing the success of this mission," Elsnic added. "Not to mention our own lives. It's bad enough we have to take the Russian—"