The Vodka Affair
by paulaH

Sometimes Mark Slate wondered why UNCLE's top agent, Napoleon Solo, liked having Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE's resident Russian, as his partner. Certainly not for his conversational abilities. Before now, the British man had worked with Kuryakin only in a group setting. In those instances,the small blond agent that held the title of Number Two, Section Two, Enforcement, NY, seemed competent enough, but nothing special.

Now, in Mark's first experience working one on one with him, he was finding him boring beyond belief. Especially at this moment when there was not much else to do in this tiny THRUSH cell besides talk to each other. After several hours and an exhaustive search for an avenue of escape which yielded nothing, Illya's silences were getting to him. The gray concrete walls with the single slit of a window situated just below the high ceiling, concrete floor and heavy iron door made the eight foot by eight foot square enclosure pretty inescapable. Yet the senior agent continued to stalk the cell like a caged snow tiger, poking, prodding, searching for a way out.

It made Mark nervous just watching him. He wondered briefly when the Russian would sprout sharp teeth and claws. Judging from the rumors he'd heard via the UNCLE grapevine, the compact blond man was more than capable of doing just that, although he found it hard to believe. So far, Mark's experience had shown Kuryakin as an unassuming, bookish kind of chap. An intellectual. Intellectuals seldom had claws, much less knew how to use them. Even more seldom were they Section Two material.

He did seem rather good with explosives. Mark had listened to the office gossip concerning the Russian's affinity for blowing things up with a large dose of skepticism. He had heard stories about entire buildings disappearing without a trace under the tender ministrations of Number Two, Section Two. Then he got to experience the legend firsthand. The Russian never cracked a smile as he methodically placed the charges while quietly instructing Slate and another okie agent where to set theirs. He was so meticulous and precise.

"Not there!" Kuryakin scolded him at one point. "Two more inches to the left." Mark and his fellow junior agent exchanged a disgruntled look. Neither of them could see what the difference two inches made. But Kuryakin was the leader of this little band, so the peons had no choice but to hear and obey.

Illya ordered them out before he set the last charge. Mark and his fellow rookie ran like the Devil himself chased them. "That bastard's crazy!" the other man said as they stormed out of the soon to be demolished nesting site of the local THRUSH satrap. Mark had to agree. The satrap was located in an office building located in the heart of the city's downtown area. In his opinion, Kuryakin used more explosives than necessary for the job. The danger to surrounding buildings seemed to slip the Russian's notice altogether.

Thirty seconds after Mark and the other agent had exited, Illya pounded out of the building. "Get behind something and get down!" the senior agent yelled. The junior agents complied. Kuryakin ignored his own order. He stopped beside their hiding place, looked at his watch and spun around.

The explosion was spectacular. More of an implosion, really. The building just seemed to blow in on itself. Slate turned his attention to his superior. The light from the fireball gave orange highlights to Kuryakin's bright blonde hair. As if he could feel the junior agent's eyes on him, the Russian turned his head and met Mark's gaze. Although the face showed the same bland expression as always, the Brit got the distinct impression of a broad, triumphant smile.

Mark had to admit he had been impressed by Kuryakin's work on that mission. The building which had housed the satrap had disintigrated into a pile of dust and rubble. The buildings on either side of it remained unscathed. Mark never knew how the bloody hell the Russian had pulled off that trick, but knew it wasn't a fluke. The Brit concluded that was the main reason Kuryakin managed an assignment as an Enforcement agent.

Mark yawned. This was bloody boring! With not much else to do, he took stock of their situation. No one knew where they were. Hell, even he didn't know where they were. Three days ago they had been in Mt Ida, Arkansas, investigating a possible THRUSH nest. Found one, too. The hard way. Everything except their underwear had been stripped from them upon capture, including a homing device implanted in one of Illya's teeth. They pulled that out of the Russian's mouth first thing. THRUSH then transported them via a closed-in van to parts unknown.

From what Mark could tell from the bits and pieces of overheard conversation, a THRUSH higher-up visiting the local satrapy took a personal interest in the two UNCLE agents and insisted they be moved to his private installation. So nice to be wanted. From the indifferent attitude of Kuryakin, he'd been wanted this way far too many times, already. The thrill was gone. Of course, Slate discovered the thrill wore off for him, as well, within the first few minutes of capture. About the time he sat shivering almost naked in that van, arms manacled to the walls and feet chained to his those of his companion and five armed THRUSH guards watching over them. Illya had slept the whole way. Slate had marveled at how the man could manage sack time under the conditions.

He sighed as he brought himself back to his present circumstances. Well, that line of thought killed ten seconds at the most. Depressed him, too. Very productive. He ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair and sighed again. This was his first experience with captivity. What did one do to pass the time? Especially when locked in with a reticent companion that seldom talked in anything other than monosyllables. Got any bombs? and I'm hungry, pretty much covered Kuryakin's conversational repertoire so far. Maybe if he stuck to professional topics and not small talk he could get something more than a grunt out of the Russian. "You know, old chap, we've been all over this cage," Slate ventured, growing weary of watching his companion's stalking. "There's no way out."

Illya's icy stare shifted from the ceiling to his cellmate. A cold chill swept over Mark in reaction to the hard, blue-eyed gaze. The nicknames for Kuryakin which were whispered throughout the halls of UNCLE New York-never to the Russian's face, of course-suddenly made more sense. Ice Prince. Iceberg. Iceman. All fit the young man whose glare now pinned Mark. He squirmed under the scrutiny, feeling like a bug in one of Kuryakin's science experiments. "There's always a way out," the Russian said, returning his attention to the ceiling. The soft, lightly accented voice projected about the same warmth as his eyes. "We just need to keep looking until we find it."

Mark suddenly felt useless, sitting around while the other agent inspected every crack and corner. Right. Not much else for it, then. He finally stood up and started to explore their jail for what seemed like the thousandth time. That was one way to waste away the tedious hours. Count how many times they eyeballed the walls in hopes of finding an illusory weakness. He only covered a few feet before the door opened and two tan uniformed, hollow-eyed THRUSH guards wielding large guns stepped in. One took up residence on the left side of the door, his weapon trained on Illya. The other settled on the right, his rifle pointed at Mark's chest.

A third man wearing the uniform of an officer entered and glared at the two captives. Ah, yes. The THRUSH bigwig. Maybe now they would find out why the man had a personal interest in Kuryakin and himself. The THRUSH officer was a rather large man. Well over six feet, with a wide body. Mark had never before seen someone he would describe as a square. He ignored Mark completely. Not that the British agent minded. The officer's fishy gaze fixated on the Russian. "Illya Kuryakin," the man sneered. "I've often fantasized about owning you."

Recognition flared in Kuryakin's eyes for a split second before settling back to cold and aloof. "You have me at a disadvantage for the moment, Major Newberg," he said. "But I hardly think I'm your property."

The Major's smile grew feral. "Of course you are! You will never leave these premises. And you will reach a point where you will beg to serve me."

Illya let out a large, audible sigh, a bored expression on his usually passive face. "Yes, yes. I've heard that before." He fixed the Major with a look that could freeze hell. "They were wrong, too."

Mark cringed. The man finally talks and he baits the enemy! The bugger was going to get himself killed! And Napoleon would blame him, Mark Slate, junior agent, for letting it happen. He looked at Kuryakin with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

Newberg's smile disappeared. Anger flashed in his brown eyes, as well. "We shall see about that!" He gestured sharply toward the Russian. "Take him to the interrogation room and tell Doctor Bush to meet me there." He glared at Illya. "Let's see how a few hours with THRUSH's version of the Marquis de Sade affects our UNCLE agent's attitude." He spun on his heels and stormed from the room.

Illya's guard jerked his gun toward the door. "Walk slow, hands behind your head," He ordered. The Russian, still wearing the bored look, clasped his hands behind his neck and sauntered after the Major. The door slammed and locked behind the second guard, leaving Mark alone . Well. That certainly relieved the boredom. Not quite what he'd had in mind, though. He would have preferred a little entertainment from Illya. And what a show it had been. Illya managed to alienate an entire room within a span of a few seconds. No wonder he so often returned to New York bruised and battered. Mark felt like slapping him, and he was an ally. He could only imagine what Kuryakin's enemies felt like.

In contrast, Slate had kept his mouth shut and escaped the attentions of the THRUSH boss. Although, to be fair, one reason was the fact that the Major apparently didn't see him as important. He wasn't sure whether to feel lucky or insulted. Lucky, he decided. Getting insulted about not being interrogated bordered on complete stupidity. Since he didn't believe himself stupid, well . . .

He spared a concerned thought for his companion, undergoing possible, make that probable, torture at the hands of the bulky Major Newberg. Especially if Kuryakin unleashed the sarcasm again. He shuddered. Bugger it! On the chance that Illya was correct in his assertion that there was always a way out, Mark once again threw himself into the task of finding one.

Day Three of captivity. Or so Mark believed. An oblong sliver of sunlight had shined through the window slit and made its way down the wall for two cycles was now on its third iteration. By the looks of it, this day was slipping into early afternoon. He had just quit pacing and settled onto the floor when the door to the tiny cell opened. One guard stepped through and trained his rifle on him. Two more came in, dragging Kuryakin between them. Not a word was spoken as they dumped the bedraggled man on the hard, cold cement floor and then left, the guard with the rifle backing out last.

Mark knew he needed to check the other agent for serious injury. He contemplated the idea for several seconds, feeling guilty for his own continued health when Illya looked like he'd had a run-in with a lion. Still he made no move toward his roommate. Instead, he rubbed at the fingertip shaped bruises on his throat, reminded of the painful lesson he'd learned when Illya was returned on their first day in this godforsaken place. The Brit discovered the hard way the wisdom, or, rather, lack thereof, of touching the Russian when the slight man wasn't completely in his right mind. Mark highly doubted that, at this moment, Illya was in his right mind. He knew the hours spent away from this little cell hadn't been filled with fun and games.

He settled for surveying the Russian agent's nearly naked body from his vantage point of several feet away. Blood oozed from some new wounds. Knife cuts, maybe. Several weeping burns from yesterday looked infected. The bruising on his chest suggested possible cracked ribs. He wanted to inspect the injuries closer, but the situation called for extreme caution. Risking more injury at the hands of his superior was not high on his list of priorities. "Hey, Illya!" he called softly.

A low moan answered. Mark felt another twinge of guilt. Their captors had barely given him a second glance. They gave him a few drugs that first day, slapped him about a bit here and there, but that was it. On the other hand, they took Illya for hours each day, returning him looking worse for wear. Mark could only surmise what form of torture Major Newberg subjected Illya to during their sessions.

The Russian himself remained resolutely closed-mouthed during his lucid moments after whatever drugs raging through his bloodstream wore off a bit. From what Slate could discern from the guards' conversations, though, Illya had yet to give them anything worth a bloody damn. The Russian was apparently a lot tougher than he looked. Certainly more so than Mark expected from an intellectual. He found himself impressed by the small man's stamina and obvious tolerance for pain. Mark now believed Illya would die before giving in to THRUSH's demands. Whether the bloke held out from a sense of duty or stubborn pride was unclear. The Brit suspected a little of both. His opinion of the Russian rose.

"Hey, Illya!" Mark tried again. "Come on, Guv! Rise and shine!" A Russian curse issued from the otherwise still body. Mark smiled. He understood Russian, especially the colorful metaphors. In essence, Illya just told him to go away in the rudest way possible. "Are you okay?" Mark felt stupid asking the question, but it really was the best way to ascertain whether or not he needed to administer first aid. The unmoving form remained silent. Did he pass out? A little worried at the lack of response, Mark toyed with the idea of throwing caution to the wind and examining his dangerous companion.

"How do I look?" Illya said suddenly. A hiss of pain escaped him as he rolled over to face his cellmate. He propped his head on his hand.

Mark sighed in relief. "Like bloody hell," he said matter-of-factly.

Illya snorted. "Good. I'd hate to look better than I feel."

Mark was taken slightly aback by the comment. Was that humor he heard underneath those words? Hard to tell with the deadpanned delivery. "What's the damage?"

Blue eyes stared into space as Illya assessed his condition. "Nothing I can't handle," he said after a minute.

Mark regarded Kuryakin. The junior agent had spent three days with nothing to do but wonder what past Illya shared with the egotistical Major Newburg. His curiosity, a weakness he shared with the alley cats behind his New York apartment, burned a hole in his good sense. "So, guv. What's the story behind you and the Major?"

The look the Russian bestowed on him could have frozen Hell. Mark could have sworn he saw frost issue from Kuryakin's mouth. "Found a way to get us out of here yet?" Mark heard a myriad of statements were made in that simple reply. You don't know me well enough to ask personal questions; I won't answer personal questions; have you gotten over your ineptitude yet and found a way to escape?

Mark felt himself blush. Try as he might, he could see no way out of their present predicament. "Sorry. Not a clue."

"Hmm."

The Brit fidgeted under his superior's icy inspection, once again under the impression that Kuryakin saw him as just another specimen in a Petrie dish. "Not for lack of trying, old boy," Mark muttered, feeling defensive.

"I know." Illya didn't seem to notice Mark's surprise as he rolled away to face the door. He pillowed his head on his arm. "I hate THRUSH drugs. They leave the worst headaches. I need to take a quick nap." Within seconds, his chest rose and fell in a steady, even rhythm.

Mark shook his head. Napoleon once told him Kuryakin could sleep anytime, anywhere no matter what the distractions. The CEA seemed envious of the ability. Mark decided that right at this moment, so was he. He hadn't really slept much since their incarceration. The Major hadn't exactly followed a set time pattern. Sometimes they came and dragged Illya away within an hour of the last session; sometimes several hours would pass. Then he spent the whole time worrying what type of torture the Russian endured. When Illya was present in the tiny cell, Mark sat in vigil over his injured colleague, afraid of complications from that torture. As a result, he was exhausted. But he was still in better shape than his companion.

He sighed and leaned back against the concrete wall. So far this mission was certainly going well. Uh-huh. The first time working with the Russian outside of a group and they got captured. Although that seemed par for the course for Illya. Napoleon, too. Course, if assignments like this one were the type they normally got, that wasn't a real surprising thing. Anytime the mission calls for going into a nest of the enemy, risk of discovery is high. He suddenly felt glad his assignments tended toward the mundane more often than not. He didn't think he could get used to the constant abuse his companion obviously endured on a regular basis if the scars on the slight body were any indication. Top agents drew the most dangerous jobs.

The sliver of sunlight made its inexorable journey down the opposite side as yet another day slipped by. Bloody hell! Mark jumped to his feet and walked the perimeter of the cell, checking for possible escape routes yet one more time. For all the good it did. What was the count now? Oh, yes. One hundred thirteen. He flopped back into his place against the wall, more depressed than ever.

He studied the quietly sleeping form by the door. He considered asking what the Major wanted to know during the interrogation sessions, but decided it was a need to know situation. If the senior agent decided the junior agent needed to know, he'd tell him.

Concern wrinkled his brow. Illya was rather close to the door. It might hit him when the guards brought their daily bread and water. He wondered if he could move him without disturbing him. The nerves of his abused throat twinged and he discarded the idea. Hated to wake him, but that might be the best bet.

Before Mark could call to his cellmate, the lock clanged and the heavy iron door swung inward, its hard edge barely missing Illya's head. In keeping with their pattern, an armed guard entered first and took up residence at the end of the door, gun at ready. A second guard, a squat, stocky man, brought in two hunks of moldy bread and two small cups of water. He scowled as he almost stumbled over Illya's inert body. He stepped around him and set the food on the floor near Mark.

The armed man shifted forward slightly, training his weapon on Mark in warning. The man ignored Illya, obviously not seeing the bleeding Russian as a threat. The Brit frowned. A centimeter more and the guard would be standing on Illya's outstretched right hand. The very hand which suddenly lashed out with the speed of a cobra grasped the armed man's ankle and yanked it out from under him. The gun flew from the guard's hands and landed almost in Mark's lap. Illya scuttled up the downed man's body like a spider. He straddled his chest and sent a powerful knife hand into his throat. Something gave with a sickening crunch.

Mark noted the Russian's movements as he snatched up the rifle in front of him and pointed it at the second guard. The man's mouth formed a surprised "Oh!" as he stared cross-eyed at the gun barrel planted on his nose.

"Move him to the far corner!" Illya ordered. Mark gestured to his charge. The man scurried to the indicated corner. He cowered there, his terrified glances directed not at Mark and the gun in his hands but at the slight blond who'd just dispatched an armed man with absolute ease.

Illya let out a barely audible grunt of pain as he heaved the door shut. Mark spared him a concerned glance, expecting the Russian to be holding his ribs. Or at least moving deliberately. Instead, the senior agent nimbly straddled the dead guard, steady fingers divesting the body of its uniform. Kuryakin glanced up and caught the Brit's worried expression. An eyebrow rose questioningly.

Mark shrugged. Maybe his companion's injuries looked worse than they were.

Illya donned the dead guard's clothes. As he tucked the shirt into the overlylarge pants, and tightened the belt, he turned his icy glare on the quaking THRUSH man. "Strip!" the Russian ordered, his voice as frigid as the frozen wastelands of his home country.

Without taking his eyes off Illya, the terrified THRUSH man removed his clothing with shaky hands. Kuryakin no longer projected the image of an unassuming, whimpy, cultured scientist. Danger radiated from every pore, every cell. Good God! Mark thought. How the bloody hell does he do THAT? He wondered if Illya might teach him that shapeshifting trick when they returned to New York.

Kuryakin limped slightly as he moved next to Mark and took the gun. "Put his uniform on."

Mark reacted to the commanding voice without thinking about it. He had himself dressed up like a THRUSH guard in a matter of seconds. "What about him?" Mark asked as he cinched his own belt as tightly as possible. He frowned at the way the pants ballooned around his waist. They looked more like bloomers on him than uniform trousers.

Kuryakin's arctic gaze regarded their prisoner for a few seconds. Mark could almost see the mind behind that expressionless face working furiously. Finally, Illya jerked his chin at the guard and growled, "Take off your underpants!" The man's eyes widened as he hastily ripped his boxers off and held them out.

"Mark. Get those and tear the elastic out."

Mark gaped at the stained garment flapping in front of him. He did not want to touch it. He threw a surreptitious glance at his companion. Nope. No humor marked that face. Mark grimaced as he gingerly snatched the proffered underwear from the terrified man's grasp. It stunk. He held the ghastly thing at arm's length.

"Tear the elastic out!" Illya snarled, impatience coloring his otherwise dull monotones.

Mark eyed the dingy drawers. "How?"

Kuryakin's assassin's stare focused on Mark. Irritation flashed, making the blue of his eyes look almost electric. A neat trick, that, Mark decided. Also a horribly frightening one. He shifted uncomfortably. "I mean," he began, "it's not that easy . .."

Illya growled. Shivers ran up Mark's spine at the sound and settled into a nice throbbing within the bruises on his neck. The THRUSH guard reacted by losing control of his bladder. The Russian seemed oblivious to their reactions. "Hold this." He shoved the gun into Mark's hands and snatched the underwear in one fluid movement. He tore at the material with his fingers until he managed to get a piece loose, then liberated the elastic. He snapped it in half, forming it into one long piece instead of a closed circle. "Keep a close eye on him," he told Mark. Then he turned to the guard. "One wrong move and I'll do to you what I did to him," he threatened, flipping his head toward the dead man.

The THRUSH man's eyes crossed as he tried to look at his dead companion while keeping a wary eye on the Russian. He shrunk a little as Illya, elastic in hand, approached him. No limp. Mark wondered if he'd imagined it the first time.

"Lie down and turn over," Kuryakin ordered the guard. The man rolled onto his stomach, lying in his own urine. Illya didn't seem to notice. He yanked the man's hands behind his back and bound them with the elastic using unmercifully tight knots. The man groaned and moaned. Illya shoved the dirty underpants into their former captor's mouth, effectively cutting off the sound.

Mark felt a twinge of pity until he looked at the wounds that littered Illya's body after days of painful interrogation. Lounging in a pool of piss with stained underwear in his mouth suddenly seemed too good for the terrified little birdy. Too bad it wasn't Newberg lying there trussed up like a Christmas goose.

"How are you with a knife?"

"Huh?" Mark asked, shaking himself from his reverie.

"What?"

"A knife," Illya repeated as though talking to a slow child. "Can you use one?"

"Oh. Well, a bit. I can hold my own, I suppose."

Illya scowled impatiently. "Can you shoot?"

Mark's ego stung as the Russian impaled it with his sharp tongue. "Of course I can shoot," he sputtered. "I wouldn't be out in the field if I couldn't."

Illya just snorted. "Then you keep the rifle. I'll take the knife."

Knife? What knife? "Knife? What knife?" Mark parroted his thoughts.

The Russian shrugged as he crossed to the door and peered out. "The one I found on the corpse," he said matter-of-factly. He might as well have been discussing the weather.

Mark felt a little chilled. Not because Kuryakin had killed, but because he appeared so indifferent about the whole thing. Mark was no stranger to killing. Even in his so far short career, he'd had to take the lives of several men. Although he didn't shrink from it, he didn't particularly care for it, either. After every mission which resulted in someone else's death at his hands, he spent at least a couple of days working through the regret.

How many men did one have to kill in order to effect such an air of nonchalance about it as displayed by Kuryakin? Mark hoped he'd never find out.

He followed the senior agent into the corridor. Illya slunk down the hall in absolute silence, even though he was wearing shoes that looked at least one size too big for him. Mark's borrowed shoes actually fit pretty well-big man, small feet, who'd have thought? Still, he couldn't quite keep from making a little noise. He could feel the heat in his face as he wondered what his cat-footed superior must think about the junior agent clunking around behind him.

They were halfway down the up-to-now empty corridor when a THRUSH guard rounded the far corner. His bored expression changed to surprise. Especially when Illya's thrown knife imbedded itself into his throat, effectively cutting off any shouts of alarm. His rifle clattered to the floor as he fell. Illya never stopped, snatching up the weapon smoothly as he passed by, oblivious to the gun's previous owner drowning in his own blood.

Shrinking violet intellectual, my arse, Mark told himself. This chap's scary. He was suddenly glad the Russian was on his side. Ruthlessness could be a good quality in the man charged with watching one's back. A man capable of such would be a good partner.

Illya peered around the corner from which the guard had emerged. He motioned Mark over. The Brit complied and glanced down the adjoining hallway. Illya pointed at a sign hanging over a doorway set into the far wall. An exit sign? Could it really be this easy? Mark regarded it suspiciously, then glanced at his companion with a raised eyebrow. Illya seemed to read his unspoken question and shrugged as if saying, "Why not?"

With a quirk of his lips, the Russian spun around the corner and quietly sped to the exit door. Mark took a second to recover from Illya's swift departure before following him. The senior agent inspected the door and silently pointed out the alarm system. He held up his hand, palm facing Mark. The Brit nodded in understanding and Illya dashed back the way they'd come.

Within seconds, he was sliding next to Mark once more, the blood-smeared knife he'd buried in the guard's throat in hand. Illya eyed the alarm wires for a minute before cutting one. He turned the doorknob and pushed it open a crack. A slight smile flitted across his face when no bells clanged their disapproval.

Mark felt a little awed. He could have disarmed the alarm, but not with such practiced ease. Definitely not so bloody fast. This bloke knew his stuff. Another point in favor of Napoleon's choice of partner. "What do you know?" he whispered as the Russian pushed the door open wider. A sidewalk led from the door to a half-full, dark parking lot. "It leads outside."

"I rather expected this," Illya said, his lilting voice low. "Newberg is quite full of himself. Men like him believe they're undefeatable and tend to get sloppy. They actually make their fortresses less than secure as proof of that. Stupid for them. Helpful to us. I've seen it before. Not often. But it happens."

He leaned out the door and looked over the parking lot. His shaggy blond hair bounced as he shook his head. "Or this could be too easy and they're waiting for us in order to recapture us thereby making us more desolate and likely to give in to their questioning." His eyes flashed with grim humor. "I guess we're going to find out." He motioned Mark to move ahead of him. "Go get us a car. If I'm not back in a few minutes, leave without me, find a telephone and give Waverly this location, as well as the location of the Satrapy we found in Mt Ida. Tell him to send a strike team as soon as possible."

Mark turned to him in surprise. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to move that body out of the hallway before someone discovers it." He gave Mark a shove. "Go!" He spun around and disappeared into the building. The door snicked shut behind him.

Mark closed his mouth, his protest dying in his throat. He stood rooted to his spot, torn between obeying orders and helping his companion. How the hell did Illya, who bled from numerous wounds and probably had at least a couple of cracked ribs, expect to carry a man twice his size? "Bloody Russian," he muttered, his sense of duty to his mission winning out. More like his sense of survival. Really didn't want to find out how the Ice Prince dealt with junior agents that disobeyed his orders. He thought of the trail of dead bodies they'd left behind and shuddered. Bloody well didn't want to find that out at all. He slinked into the darkness searching for a suitable getaway car.

Mark glanced in the rearview mirror for probably the hundredth time. No headlights or other signs of pursuit chased after the stolen car he drove. Surprisingly. Somehow they'd not only managed to escape the THRUSH satrapy, a feat he never thought possible an hour ago, but they'd also seemed to be getting away without being chased.

His gaze flicked to Illya, asleep in the passenger seat. Again. Mark felt a stab of irritation. How the bloody hell could the man sleep so soundly at a time like this? Even if he wasn't driving, Mark doubted he'd be calm enough to snooze. If not for the steady rise and fall of Kuryakin's chest, Slate would have thought his companion dead. The slight man hadn't moved for fortyfive minutes. Of course, he hadn't had much chance to rest between torture sessions. Between that and Illya's injuries, it wasn't really a wonder that he was so dead to the world. Mark grimaced at his turn of phrase. Oblivious to the world, he revised. He sighed as he checked behind them yet again.

"They won't be following us."

The unexpected sound of the lightly accented voice startled him. The car swerved into the opposite lane for a second before he brought it back into line.

"I'm pretty sure we're still in America, Mark. They drive on the right side here," Illya commented dryly. He sat up and stretched in that catlike way of his.

Mark ignored the remark. No point in returning sniper fire. He'd already seen first hand just how mistaken he was in his original assessments of the Russian. Kuryakin was as devastating with his sarcasm as he was with his knife. He concentrated, instead, on Illya's first statement. "Just because we can't see them, Guv, doesn't mean they're not back there." He punctuated his concern with another glance into the rearview mirror.

"If they haven't caught up with us by now the odds are that they won't." A ghost of a smile tickled Illya's lips. "Besides, I was able to leave them with a little surprise that should make us the least of their worries."

Mark knitted his eyebrows in puzzlement. "When did you do that?"

Illya ran his fingers through his longish blond hair. "When you were hot-wiring the car."

"Oh. I thought it took you too long to move that body. What did you do?"

"I saw where they kept the explosives on one of my many trips to the interrogation room. I made use of them." Illya's eyes shined in the light of the full moon, and a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

Mark snickered and shook his head. Kuryakin's trademark explosions were legendary throughout U.N.C.L.E. And he'd missed seeing it! Of course, he was more concerned with fleeing for his life at the time. He had noticed a flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder not long after their hurried departure. Obviously that was not a storm brewing as he'd thought.

He was beginning to understand why Solo kept the Russian as a partner. Surly, stubborn, difficult and, yes, sometimes boring. But Mark realized he was now seeing only a tiny fraction of Illya's wicked sense of humor. The bloke did have a few endearing qualities at that.

Headlights came at them from the opposite side of the two-lane highway. As the other car neared, Mark noticed the bubbles that adorned its roof. Copper! Out of habit more than out of guilt, he checked his speed. That was about the time he realized his speed was not what he needed to worry about. "Uh, Illya."

"Yes?"

"We're almost out of gas."

The Russian leaned over and glared at the gas gauge as though he thought he could scare it into filling up.

"I don't think staring at it will help, old chap," Mark intoned.

Illya rolled his eyes and scooted back to his side. He gazed into the night, lost in thought. "Do you know where we are yet?" he asked.

"The signs indicate that we are traveling north on Arkansas State Highway 71. Passed through a town called Fayetteville just before you woke up."

A frown creased his brow. "Fayetteville? I've been here once before. They don't like Russians."

Mark grinned. "Hate to tell you, guv, but they don't like Russians much in any part of this country." He cringed at the icy blast Illya threw at him. "Uh, no offense."

Illya snorted. "None taken. But Northwest Arkansas is KKK country. It's full of . . . oh, what did Napoleon call those cowboy types? . . . Redthroats?"

"Redthroats?" Mark shrugged. He didn't know all the American slangs either. "I've heard of redCOATS, but I'm willing to bet I'm one of the few British citizens around here."

"Redthroats, redcoats, whichever. It's another way of saying 'country bumpkin'. Either way, the Cold War seems to be strong here. They really hate Russians. I doubt we'd get much help from them." He sat silent for a minute.

"We need to find a phone," he murmured.

Mark studied the road in front of him through the small square of illumination put out by the car's headlights. The narrow Arkansas highway didn't sport much by way of a shoulder. He saw a lighted sign of some business about half a mile ahead. Budd's.

Cars pulled in and out of the parking lot. He pointed at it with his lips. "What do you think a Budd's is?"

Illya squinted out the windscreen. "Perhaps we should find out. Whatever it is, it should have a phone."

Upon reaching the sign, Mark turned the car into the full parking lot of a small but busy bar. Lovely. He could use a drink right about now. If he had any money on him, that was. Like Illya, all his personal effects were back at the THRUSH site. Blown to bits.

Nightly Dancing! Pool Tables! Half Price Beer Tuesdays! declared red neon signs littering the clapboard building. Mark eyed the establishment dubiously. The place wasn't big enough to sport a dance floor. "Where do you suppose they dance?"

"They can dance on the roof as long as they have a phone," Illya muttered.

A metal door set in the center swung open and a man wearing jeans, a black and white fringed shirt and a cowboy hat came stumbling out. He turned left, staggered the length of the building and rounded the corner, walking into a phone booth standing in the shadows. He stood staring at it for several seconds before leaning one hand against the glass door and resting his head on his arm. His other hand appeared to fumble at his crotch. Mark fervently hoped the man was just trying to take a piss and not doing something much more disgusting. A puddle started to form between the man's feet, directly in front of the phone booth door.

The Brit scrunched his nose. "Say, old boy," he said to his companion. "You're the senior agent here. It's up to you to call in, isn't it?"

Illya's gaze flicked sideways, then back to the urinating man. The drunk shook himself, then lurched away. He barely cleared the booth when he fell sideways and passed out. A sigh escaped the Russian as he stared at the still, prone figure. "Stay here," he said. He got out of the car and headed to the phone. He sidestepped the wet spot, flung the door open, stepped over the puddle and into the booth.

He stumbled a little, reminding Mark that the Russian had not been treated well by their captors. Mark felt a little bad about suggesting Illya cross the parking lot while injured but he managed to squelch it.

After several minutes on the phone, Illya exited. Although the Russian's face was as blank as always, somehow Mark could tell he was furious. Illya said not a word as he slid into the passenger seat. The junior agent waited for a minute, assuming the blond would fill him in on their status.

Illya remained mute as he stared at the windscreen, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well?" Mark prompted after several minutes of watching a Russian winter setting in over the passenger seat. Illya glanced over at him, his normally ice blue eyes now looking a stormy indigo. Not a bloody good sign. The car was getting cold, but at that moment, he wasn't sure if it was because of the Arkansas autumn weather or the mood of the senior agent. Mark suspected the latter.

"Waverly won't send anyone after us," the Russian grumbled.

Mark's mouth opened and closed in astonishment. He must have heard wrong! How were they supposed to get back to New York with no gas and no money? "Wh-what?"

"The UNCLE NY office is over budget for the month," Illya said, his voice flatter than usual, something Mark wouldn't have thought possible.

"Wh-what?" Mark knew he sounded stupid, but couldn't seem to get any other words past his suddenly dry lips.

"Mostly due to the number of expensive Italian suits that needed replacement in the last few weeks."

"Wh-what?" Bloody hell! He sounded like a scratched record and couldn't seem to get past the skip.

"Napoleon is going to hear from me when we get back to New York."

"WHEN?!?" the junior agent finally managed to blurt. "WHEN?!? IF is more bloody like it!"

"Oh, we'll make it back," Illya said. His voice dropped to a sinister growl. "And when we do, I shall dance on Napoleon's face. Cossack style."

Mark blinked as he imagined the slight blond, maniacal grin on his lips, squatting with arms folded in front of him as his feet kicked in succession on top of the CEA's face. Despite himself, he snickered at the absurd picture. Probably not a good idea with the mood his superior was in at the moment, but he just couldn't help himself.

Kuryakin's face remained rigid as he turned and regarded his companion. But Mark thought he saw a glint of humor in the back of the Russian's eyes, now reverted to their normal cool blue. The storm was over.

"I can't believe Waverly is leaving us out in the cold because of Napoleon's suits," the Brit grumbled.

"I've always suspected he does it to test our ingenuity and resourcefulness. Budgetary concerns are merely a convenient excuse. One that saves him money." Illya sighed and went back to staring at the bar's door as he said, "If we can make it to the office in St. Louis, they can help get us back to New York. Mr. Waverly says he has the utmost faith in our ability to solve this little problem. And we're supposed to be able to do this without resorting to theft."

Mark found it odd how such a melodic voice could manage to be so devoid of inflection. Made it hard to know whether or not the Russian was serious. Illya had such an intense nature, Mark decided it was better to take him seriously for the most part. "In other words, no pinching some chap's pickup."

"Exactly."

"That makes it hard."

"Exactly." Long pause. "I wonder," Kuryakin mumbled. He rummaged through his borrowed THRUSH uniform and pulled a battered wallet out of the trouser pocket. He pilfered through it. "Hmm. This guard must have had a big night planned." He drew out several packets of condoms. "Ribbed for her pleasure," he read. He put the condoms back in the pants pocket. The ghost smile flitted across his face again. "Napoleon will need these." After a few seconds of searching, he flung the wallet into the backseat. "His paramour must be a cheap date. He had no money." He looked to the British agent. "How about you?"

Mark rifled through his own borrowed uniform. He pulled a wad of penny candy wrappers and some lint from one of the pockets. From another he pulled a dollar and some change. He shook his head in dismay. "This won't get us to St Louis."

Illya nodded absently, his attention focused on the bustling bar. "It might be enough for a bottle of vodka."

Mark's eyes widened. "You want to get drunk NOW?"

"No." Illya looked at his companion. His eyes had a sly glint in them. "I'm going to make us some gas money."

The Brit regarded his companion with amazement as he outlined his plan. It had never occurred to him that when Napoleon called Kuryakin a crazy Russian the CEA meant it literally. He was beginning to wonder, though. The bloke didn't seem to have all his sparkplugs firing properly. He wondered anew as to what could possess Napoleon to want someone so obviously unstable as a partner. Surely the dangers of depending on a lunatic outweighed said lunatic's exceptional skills as a spy. Maybe the THRUSH doctor's drugs were to blame. Yes. That must be it.

Several moments later, Mark found himself and the Russian entering the dim establishment. A wooden bar, polished to a high gloss, lined the wall on the left side of the room. The stools dotting its length were all occupied by men and women of all sizes and shapes. Pool tables lined the wall to the right, also full. Numerous other patrons sat at the small square plywood tables that littered the center. He smiled as he spied a tiny empty space in front of a jukebox on the far side.

The dance floor. The customers were dressed one of two ways: jeans and multicolored button-up shirts adorned with fringe. And cowboy hats. Or overalls and plaid shirts. And cowboy hats. In contrast, he and Illya still wore the tan THRUSH uniforms, now sans insignia.

"You sure you're up for this?" Mark asked, a little worried about Illya's injuries.

"I'm fine," Illya insisted. "I've felt more pain from nicking myself shaving."

Mark shook his head. "If you say so, guv. Lead on." He didn't believe him, but now that they had started on this course of insanity there was no turning back. And Kuryakin was walking without the limp from earlier. Mark's brows beetled in confusion. Had he been playing up the injuries? He might in order to convince THRUSH they were getting to him, but why would he keep it up? Mark finally shrugged. Just another Illya mystery. He didn't suppose it mattered, anyway.

He followed Illya, who was rudely shoving his way to the bar. "Beer!" Kuryakin demanded with a heavy gutteral German accent. During the planning of this little escapade, they had decided pretending to be German would best give them what they needed. World War II was recent enough that some old animosities and cultural competition lingered, but not as recent as the current Cold War which would almost guarantee Illya's Russian heritage would get him pummeled first thing.

The nearby patrons quieted down and watched as the bartender assessed the Russian unblinkingly. Illya had rolled up the shirt sleeves in an attempt to look a little more like his true age and less like a teenager. It didn't quite work. He still looked incredibly young. "You got ID on you, buddy?" the bartender asked.

Kuryakin plastered an astonished expression on his face. "Vhy need you my identification? You must know the name of customers for to serve them?"

The bartender scowled. "I need to know the age of my customers before I serve them."

Illya slammed his hand on the wooden surface, the resulting slap sounding like a gunshot.

All chatter ceased and an unnatural silence fell over the entire place. Mark, still standing behind the Russian, shifted uneasily, ready to provide backup in case they had to fight their way out.

Kuryakin appeared unfazed by the undivided attention now turned their way. "I haf been drinking beer since I vas fourteen," he crowed. He turned and surveyed the crowd, his gaze landing on the man glowering at him from the stool to his right. The fortyish man looked about six foot, two hundred fifty pounds with brown hair going gray. He was of the overall-wearing set.

"In my country," Illya went on, his gaze holding that of the big man, "I vas thought to be a man at that age!" A sneer settled on his face. Mark thought it odd how it looked so natural on Kuryakin's usually passive features. He was playing his part well. The British agent glanced around nervously as a wave of tension rippled through the bar. Too bloody well!

Illya's scornful glare remained on the large man on the stool. "I guess in America, the boys stay sucking at their mother's tits much, much longer." His German accented voice hung in the stifling air.

Mark goggled at the slight blond man. The entire bar goggled at the slight blond man.

Stool-man's face turned beet red. Oh, bloody hell! Mark thought. What do we do if he has a heart attack? Waverly would not be pleased. But the man was steady as he stood and drew himself to his full height. The bar patrons nearest them suddenly stepped back, giving the two agents and the furious Arkansas native a wide berth. Mark stifled a groan. They were going to get killed! He just knew it. After living through the not-so-tender ministrations of THRUSH, it would really be a shame to die at the hands of a few "redthroats".

He tapped Illya's shoulder. "Uh, Il . . ." He paused and cleared his throat. "Uh, Hans," he corrected, using the name they'd decided on for Illya. He, himself, had gotten saddled with 'Fritz'. He hated that name. Sounded like a bloody dog. But it was Illya's plan and Illya chose the names in a variation of 'it's my ball so I make up the rules'. 'Fritz' affected his best German accent. "Maybe ve should just go. I am not that thirsty." He meant it, too. At this point, hitchhiking to St Louis looked promising.

Illya seemed oblivious to the junior agent. The Russian was engaged in a silent battle with Stool-Man, his gaze locked with the mountain in overalls towering above him. In a loud voice, Kuryakin delivered his challenge. "I can drink any you men here-how do you say-under the chair . . ."

"Table," Mark whispered, his voice catching in his dry throat.

" . . . table," Illya corrected smoothly. "I can outdrink ANY of you, you, REDTHROATS!" He threw a haughty glance around the bar.

"Redthroat?" Stool-Man repeated, puzzled. Realization dawned on his face and, although it didn't seem possible, he turned redder. "Yew mean REDNECKS?" he roared, his booming voice ricocheting off the wooden walls. Shouts of anger and indignation erupted throughout the bar. Oddly enough, though, everyone kept their places. With one exception. A man who had just emerged from the restroom took in the situation at a glance and started to make his way toward the action.

Illya nodded with a silly grin. "Rednecks! Yes. That is the term. Danke.

Mark cringed as he noticed that the necks of the bar's inhabitants weren't the only things that were red. Everyone's faces took on the same crimson hue as Stool-Man. Time stopped. So did Mark's heart.

The second man arrived at that point. "What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?" he drawled, his tone civil but with a threatening undercurrent. Although he was a couple of inches shorter than Stool-man, he exuded an air of authority that made him seem as big, if not bigger. His stocky, powerful build lent even more credibility to that impression.

The bartender pointed to Kuryakin. "This guy ain't got no ID, Sheriff Lee! And he insulted your brother!" He turned the pointing finger to Stool-Man.

Mark's blood froze. Sheriff? And his brother? Oh, bloody hell! They were in for it now. They should have just WALKED to St Louis. Now they'd be spending the night in yet another cell. Go. Now. Must go. NOW! Please? Kuryakin seemed to have the ability to read Napoleon's mind. Would it be too much to hope he could read a certain British agent's mind, as well?

Illya tossed his blond fringe, apparently unaware of Mark's psychic pleading, as well as unconcerned about the size and anger of the two men facing them. "And I vas telling dis man," he waved a dismissing hand toward the bartender, "I am old enough to drink. That in my country, even fourteen-year-olds drink."

The Sheriff turned a jaundiced eye on the disheveled blond man. "Well, son," he drawled in his slow Southern accent, "I don't know anything 'bout where y'all are from. But here in Benton County, the law says a man has to be twentyone. "

"I haf been drinking for many years and can hold my liquor vell! I am villing to prove this by putting, oh, how you say it, my money where my lips are? I have seventy-five dollars, American, that says I can outdrink any man in bar." He yanked what looked like a wad of bills from his pants pocket and waved it aloft for about a half-second before quickly sliding the bundle back from whence it came. Slow enough to see the flash of money-green; fast enough no one could notice it was really just a pile of paper wrapped in the one bill they possessed. "ANY man." He lifted his chin and threw his challenge at the two men in front of him. "AND his brother."

The Brit grabbed ahold of his companion's arm. "Uh, Hans, I don't tink this is a good idea. Ve need that money to get home." The line was part of the plan, but the Brit agreed with it wholeheartedly. The Russian was definitely a crazy bastard.

Illya yanked his arm away. "I can do dis!" he growled.

Bloody hell! Nothing for it but to go through with Illya's scheme. "Vhat iff they vant you to drink vodka?" Mark snarled in a hoarse whisper, making sure it was just loud enough for Stool-Man and his lawman brother to hear. "You know you cannot hold that Russian swill." The quick flick of Illya's gaze was almost imperceptible. Yet somehow he managed to make it feel to the British agent as though he'd just gotten a full-blast glare. Another interesting talent.

The bartender started to say something, but the Sheriff held up a hand to quiet him. "It's all right, Jimmy." He turned his dark brown-eyed stare on Illya. "Randy and I will take that bet. Give us three bottles of vodka." He flashed a feral grin at Kuryakin. Stool-Man mirrored the smile.

Mark stifled a grin of his own. This, of course, was exactly what he and Illya had been trying for. According to Kuryakin, he would not get overly drunk as long as he stuck to vodka. Anything else was another story.

The Russian affected a concerned expression, and shook his head. "I did not say I vould drink vodka for this contest!"

"Now, little fella, yew said yew'd outdrink any man and his brother," he drawled. "My brother and me are taking that bet. But since you made the challenge, we have the right to name the poison. And we choose vodka!" Illya opened his mouth to protest, but the big man interrrupted. "Or, would you rather spend the night in my nice, warm jail? Underaged drinking is a serious offense, boy."

"Okay," Illya said, hanging his head in defeat. "Vodka it is." He flashed 'Fritz' an apologetic look and a weak smile.

'Fritz' reacted as expected. "Hans, you vill lose all our money! Then vhat vill ve do?"

Interestingly enough, no one in the bar seemed to think it strange that the two foreigners spoke to each other in English, rather than discussing their difficulties in strategies in German, a language the opposition probably didn't know. Good thing, too. If someone did think about it, he and Illya didn't have a bleeding chance of getting out in one piece.

Slate spat a German curse at his companion, pretending to be furious. He grimaced. Pretending his bloody arse. He WAS furious. And everyone at UNCLE thought Napoleon was the more irresponsible one in their partnership. When, make that if, they made it back to New York, Mark would set the record straight. Unless the Russian's behavior was a result of the THRUSH torture Illya endured over the last few days, frying a few more brain cells than he was willing to admit.

"Why don't we get comfortable?" the Sheriff said. He shooed three guys sitting at the nearest table out of their seats. He looked to Mark. "You in this contest, too, fella?"

Slate shook his head. "No! I vant no part off dis!" The Sheriff nodded, then proceeded to arrange three chairs around the table. One on the side nearest the bar and two on the opposite side. Illya sat in the single chair, facing his opponents across the table. The brothers stood arguing for a couple of minutes, both dipping into their wallets and pulling out some bills. As they sat, the Sheriff slapped a wad of crumpled money onto the tabletop beside him. "Seventy-five dollars, exactly," he proclaimed. He motioned to Jimmy and the bartender brought over three bottles of vodka and three shot glasses.

The bar errupted into pandemonium as everyone crowded around the trio's table. Several people called for bets on the outcome. That didn't go far, though, since most of them wanted to bet on the Lees as victors. Slate retreated to the edge of the mob, within Kuryakin's eyesight, backup in case something went wrong.

Illya stared morosely at his glass. Mark decided the Russian had morose down to a science. Must be part of that brooding nature Napoleon always attributed to his partner. Mark had often wondered why Napoleon didn't get annoyed, or worse, from the chap's pouting. But he didn't. Instead, Solo seemed to derive some sort of pleasure from his partner's moodiness. Not malicious pleasure. More like . . . a comfort.

Mark never understood Napoleon's reaction to it. But he was seeing how the brooding Russian act could come in handy. It took the two Arkansas "redthroats" right off their guard. They smiled in smug victory even though the first round had yet to be drunk. Slate felt the brothers' overconfidence would serve his companion and him well.

Sheriff Lee and Randy poured themselves a shot from their individual bottles and drank them down, slamming the glasses to the table almost as one. "Well, drink up, boy!" Randy ordered as he opened Illya's bottle and poured the shot.

Kuryakin regarded the drink, blinking rapidly as though trying to hold back tears. His bottom lip quivered. If Mark didn't know better, he'd think the Ice Prince was going to burst out crying! Illya slowly lifted the glass to his lips. His hand shook slightly. Enough to make him appear nervous, but not enough to send the liquid sloshing over his fingers. He poured the shot down his throat and clamped his lips together. He coughed in distress, holding the back of the hand that delivered the drink over his mouth. Sheriff Lee and Randy scooted their chairs back, ready to jump if Illya decided to empty the contents of his stomach.

If Mark hadn't seen Illya drink vodka on several occasions before, he'd be scheming for a quick exit. The man could bloody well act! No wonder Napoleon assigned any impersonations needed for a mission to his Russian counterpart. Mark watched the proceedings in fascination. As did the rest of the patrons. The Brit spared a quick study of the people crowding around the drinkers. He shivered a little. They looked like a bunch of vultures waiting for the lions to finish feasting so they could swoop in and pick at the bones of the little blond victim. Mark thought of the burly THRUSH guard cowering in a corner pissing himself because of that little blond. He snorted. Victim,my arse.

The Russian gave his drinking buddies a wan smile as he brought his coughing under control. He waved his free hand at them as he placed the glass back on the tabletop. "Is okay," he rasped. "Vent down . . . oh, how you say? . . . wrong piping." The next few shots also apparently went down the wrong piping.

A half an hour later, half of the vodka had disappeared down the three men's gullets. Illya's eyelids drooped at half-mast and a silly grin plastered his face. The Lee brothers looked only slightly affected. By the time Jimmy delivered the next round of bottles forty-five minutes after that, Illya had his drunk act going full throttle. "I vant to tell you someting," he said, waving a full shotglass around. Still without spilling a single drop, Mark noted. "You fellows are not bad arschloecher at all." He tossed the vodka down his throat.

Mark's eyes widened in shock. Bloody hell! Kuryakin just called the bloody Sheriff and his bloody brother bloody assholes!

The Sheriff choked on his drink. His brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wha' d'yew jush ca' ush, boy?" he snarled, his words thick and unsteady. Randy tensed, his own shot of vodka frozen in midair.

Illya graced the Arkansans with a drunken smile. "Means buddies. Pals. Good friends," he lied smoothly.

The Lee brothers relaxed. Mark decided relaxed was a little too relative a term for the posture now adopted by all three men. They slid so far down in their seats as to make them beds. Randy managed to down his drink. His hand shook as he poured his next shot. A good amount of vodka coated his hand before hitting his glass. The Sheriff was having almost as much trouble with his. But Illya. Illya, a man Slate knew could shoot a mosquito dead on from fifty feet away, couldn't seem to find the glass sitting right in front of him.

Illya picked up his bottle with his right hand. He swerved it over and around the glass, almost, but never quite, dumping the vodka on the table. Spectators shouted, "Yee-haa!" and "Whoa, boy!" with every missed pass. Finally, he grasped the bottle with both hands and brought it under enough control to pour the next shot. Once again, not a bit of the liquid fell where it wasn't supposed to. He carefully set the vodka bottle down, teetering almost, but not quite, on the edge of the table. He made several swipes at the shotglass before snagging it in apparent nerveless fingers. He hiccuped as he brought the drink to his lips.

Mark fidgeted nervously. The crazy bastard WAS just acting. Right? He hoped so. Almost as though he heard the junior agent's apprehensive thoughts, Kuryakin caught Mark's gaze for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for the British agent to see the glint of wicked humor in the clear, sober, blue eyes. Just long enough for the Russian to let his companion know that he was enjoying the little scenario. Immensely.

Kuryakin turned his gaze back to his drinking cohorts. "In fact," he continued as the Lees slunk further in their chairs, "I'd even go so far as to call you arshficker. He held up a shaking hand to forestall any objections on the part of the other two. "Is a term for closest relationship two men can share."

Mark choked back a groan. Of course. Assfucker would be considered a very close relationship between two men. Good thing no one else in this bar spoke German. He sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever Gods watched over insane spies. Especially Russian ones.

Mark noticed Sheriff Lee and his brother Randy were somewhat wet. Drenched in the heavy perspiration that came with too much alcohol running rampant through the bloodstream.

Illya, on the other hand, hadn't broken a sweat. His face was a little red, perhaps, but didn't show the same sheen of moisture as his opponents. No matter how good Kuryakin's drunk act was, that lack would tip off an astute observer. Mark glanced around at the noisy patrons. Well, astute seemed to be the missing link in this crowd, so he and the other agent probably had nothing to worry about.

He turned his attention back to the action. Not action, exactly. The trio seemed a bit subdued at this point. Randy slid a little further in his chair, his head now resting halfway down the back. The full shotglass held loosely in his right hand drooped in direct proportion to his sagging eyelids. The same instant his eyes closed down completely, the glass tipped its contents onto his groin, the vodka spreading into a wet stain on his lap. A loud snore erupted from his slack-jawed mouth.

Illya rose an amused eyebrow at the raucous snorts issuing from Randy's mouth. Sheriff Lee blinked at his brother as though he'd forgotten about him. "Hey, Ranjjjie," he slurred as he shoved his brother's shoulder. The momentum of the push sent Randy's boneless body slithering under the table. A murmur of disappointment rose from the mob, many of whom glared at Kuryakin as though he was personally responsible for Randy's inability to hold his liquor.

Don't lose it now, old chap, Mark thought as he saw the corner of Illya's mouth tick with suppressed humor. No doubt only the blond man's iron will kept it under control. His eyes were hooded. Probably so no one could see the maniacal glee Mark had a sneaking suspicion shone in them. Slate worked at keeping his own amusement in check. He and his Russian companion were surrounded by redthroats that would probably fail to see the humor in the embarrassment of their Sheriff's brother passing out in front of a couple of dumb German immigrants.

Not that Slate was unsure of his ability to hold his own in a fight if the need arose. No question about Kuryakin's skills in that regard. Certainly a good man to have watching one's back. Napoleon's mindset behind his defense of his partnership was becoming quite clear to a certain previously clueless British agent.

Illya tilted his head and stared at the man now snoring at his feet. "We seem to have lost a brother," he intoned. He hiccupped.

The bleary-eyed Sheriff waggled an uncoordinated finger in the air. "But I'm shtill in the game, boy!" He grinned. "You don' win lesh I pash out, too!" He turned the finger-wag into an unsteady wave. "An' that ain't gon' happen!"

Kuryakin and Sheriff Lee faced off over yet another glassful of the Russian poison. Illya raised his into the air. "To drunken brothers!" he toasted. He giggled.

Snickers broke out among the watching mob. Especially the few collecting bets on who would go down first. "Randy never could hold his liquor," crowed one onlooker as he relieved another man of several bills.

Illya tossed his head back as he launched the booze down his throat. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and slammed the glass onto the table. His blue eyes challenged his opponent to keep up. "You can beat 'im, Sheriff!" one patron shouted. The rest of the crowd screamed other inane words of encouragement. The Sheriff sneered at the blond man. He raised his glass mockingly in an imitation of Kuryakin's movements. Lee's head snapped back.

The imitation ended there. The drink, instead of flowing smoothly passed the Arkansan's thick lips, flew into the audience, along with the glass. Sheriff Lee seemed to move in slow motion as his eyes rolled into his head and his body followed the backward momentum. He smashed to the floor with a resounding crash.

The onlooker's whistles and calls ceased. Everyone stared wide-eyed at the Sheriff passed out on the dirty bar floor like a common drunk. Mark quietly sidled his way to the door. Another part of the plan: keep the patrons between them so they could hit on both sides if a problem came up. Slate had to admit it was a good idea. One he doubted he'd have thought of. It would be best, however, if no problem reared its ugly head. Just don't do anything stupid, old chap, he thought at his conman companion.

Illya waited until Mark was well clear before standing, placing his hands on the table and leaning over to look at the large man sprawled across what was left of his wooden chair. "Guten nacht, sweet Prince!" he muttered as he swept the money from the table. He turned and staggered toward where the British agent waited. Slate made a show of helping his drunken friend out of the bar. The patrons were too stunned to notice their departure.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Illya shook out of the junior agent's grasp. The smile that stretched Illya's lips transformed him from a drunken sot to a Siberian wolf. Icy fingers ran up Mark's spine. The junior agent amended his previous impression of scary to terrifying.

"Arrogant redthroats," Illya muttered as he walked a straight line to their car. He never even stumbled.

"Well, well, well," Napoleon Solo said as he approached the table where Illya Kuryakin and Mark Slate sat in UNCLE NY's commissary. "The prodigal sons have finally returned." He surveyed the men's meals as he pulled a chair over and sat down between them. Mark's plate held a modest lunch of soup and salad.

Illya also had soup and a salad. An appetizer, no doubt to the huge turkey on rye sandwich, potato chips and double portion of rich chocolate cake.

Napoleon reached for a chip off his partner's plate. Almost faster than Mark's eye could follow, Illya's fork, which had been poised over his salad, speared the intruding hand. "Get your own," the Russian said flatly.

Napoleon glared at his friend as he wiped the blood welling from the four puncture wounds in the back of his hand. "I wouldn't have thought you'd miss one little chip out of that feast. Not enough to attack your CEA, at any rate," he muttered.

"I was hungry when we got here, but we had to debrief, first. Now, I'm starved. I am sorry if I injured you," Illya said. Mark didn't think he looked very sorry. The Russian's blue eyes held a wicked gleem as he wiped his partner's blood from his fork and went back to devouring his salad.

Napoleon smiled as though Illya's explanation seemed perfectly valid. Before this mission, Slate would have thought it sounded perfectly insane. Now, after having spent over a week in the Russian's company, he, too could see the validity in it. Wonderful, he thought. After a few days exposure to Illya, I'm now as crazy as he is. He smiled to himself, remembering all this crazy Russian had accomplished with his brand of insanity. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing, after all.

Napoleon watched fondly as Illya inhaled his lunch. "I heard it took you three days to make it from Northwest Arkansas to St Louis," Solo said, a touch of amusement in his voice. "Tell me, my friend, how come it took you three days to make a five and a half-hour drive?"

Kuryakin shrugged as he shoved the empty soup and salad bowls in front of his partner, making it look like Solo had polished them off.

Another smile graced the American's suave face at the gesture. "Well, tovarisch?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

"Well, what?" Illya said between bites of turkey.

"What took so long?" Now that the Russian was no longer armed, Napoleon went for another try at a chip. Illya's left hand lashed out, barely missing the chip which zipped from his plate and into Solo's mouth. Napoleon smiled broadly as he munched.

Mark shook his head at the speed of both men. Bloody hell, they were fast! He felt a an uncomfortable kinship with the tortoise. He made a note to go put in some extra time in the gym, especially working with his karate instructor.

"Napoleon!" the Russian said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "If you are hungry, I will buy you something! But, please, keep out of my plate!"

Solo's brown eyes widened in surprise. He looked to Slate questioningly. Mark just shrugged. He didn't understand the question.

Apparently, psychic Illya did. "Yes, Napoleon, I'm willing to spend my hardearned money in order to see your fingers stay away from my food. And I just happen to have a little extra this month."

Mark choked on his soup. Hard-earned? A little extra? If one could call stopping at every bar between Bentonville, Arkansas and St Louis, Missouri and outdrinking redthroats for money hard-earned! And if the winnings of which added up to an extra two hundred in each their pockets could be called a little extra!

Two pairs of eyes, one set of brown, one set of blue, regarded him. The brown ones held a small warning, reminding him of who was boss around here. The blue ones held a warning of their own, reminding him of the Russian's capabilities. A hint of humor flickering in the background let him know that, although Illya wouldn't harm him, his brand of payback could be very painful, indeed.

Illya's threat scared him more. Mark coughed and held the back of his hand to his mouth. "Is okay," he rasped in his very best German accent. "Vent down . . . oh, how you say? . . . wrong piping."

An eyebrow crept up into Illya's blond bangs. His face remained an impassive blank, but his eyes laughed out loud. Mark could feel his own twinking in return as he shared the private joke with the not-as-reticent-as-he-ledeveryone -to-believe Russian. Napoleon, who didn't like being left out of a joke, especially one involving his partner, sported a sour look on his face.

Illya stood. "Mark, we have a report to write. I'll see you later, Napoleon." He pulled out his wallet and retrieved a couple of dollars, which he handed to Solo. "Buy yourself some lunch." He flashed a small grin. "Don't forget to clean up your mess." He walked away, leaving his empty dishes on the table. He'd stacked them in front of the American, implicating Napoleon as the one who ate it all.

The look Solo gave the Russian's retreating back was priceless. If looks were bullets. "Hey, old man," Slate told the CEA. "If you ever decide you don't want to be his partner anymore, I'll take him off your hands." The look Solo gave Mark at the mere idea of giving up his partner was even more priceless. The Brit couldn't help grinning as he left.

While he followed the Russian out of the commissary, Mark pondered the lessons learned during the assignment. One: There was always a way out. You just had to keep looking until you found it. Two: A great facial expression was more intimidating than a big gun. And perhaps the most important lesson: Illya Kuryakin was anything but boring.