A Questionable End
by Glenna Meredith

Crisp. It can describe so many things. An apple is crisp, if it's any good, that is. A suit can have a crisp crease in the trousers, and you can utter a crisp reply at a remark that it less than pleasing.

A piece of bacon can be burned to a crisp. So can a human being.

It was the stench of that now making Napoleon Solo sick to his stomach. The smell of burning flesh is unlike anything else in the world; that and the knowledge that beyond the horrific odor lay the remains of what was once a person.

Right now, Napoleon was trying hard to believe that the person was not his partner.

Illya had last contacted him while in pursuit of the man they had been tracking for the past two weeks. Finally, after a chase that had taken them across the borders of five countries, they had gotten a break.

The Thrush scientist they sought was a wild card, neither fully committed to the Hierarchy nor opposed to its purposes. He had a formula for disaster that he carried in a small vial on his person, and the game he played with UNCLE now was the folly of a madman.

Illya had assumed a disguise that appeared to have been successful for a few days, allowing him to accompany the man and gain some access to him as a wilderness guide. The two men had embarked on a backpacking journey that required Illya's knowledge of the mountainous area. The purpose had remained unknown, and looking at the campsite in its present state, Napoleon lamented to himself that it might remain so.

"Hey, Chuck, any idea yet what caused the fire? I mean, besides... you know, a fire..."

Napoleon was tired, and he was not communicating well. Illya had been here, but whether or not it was his remains in this ashen nightmare was still an unanswered question.

"Napoleon, you look like hell.'

Chuck Mangum was in charge of investigating the scene, and knew the probability of Napoleon Solo's partner being one of the victims was running very high. It wasn't often that UNCLE had to send in a crew under these circumstances; explosions and fires were usually in old buildings or new Thrush satrapies. Forest fires were something else again, and this... it was a mystery. He felt sorry for Solo, recognized the man's fatigue and... sadness.

"Why don't you go back down. One of the Section III guys can drive you down in one of the jeeps. You look pretty ragged, man."

Napoleon wiped his forehead, pushing back a lock of hair that was refusing to mould to his head properly. It made him think of Illya, of that mane of blond hair that had no restraints or rules to...

O my God. Illya, is this you?

The forest was not as dense through here. The higher elevation resulted in a thinning of the vegetation, and the scorched remains of the campsite stood out against the surrounding green like an ill placed paint splat on an otherwise pristine canvas. It was ugly, and the reality of what it represented even more so.

"Yeah, Chuck, you're probably right. I just... if Illya is here somewhere I don't want to miss finding him. You know...?"

The look on Napoleon's face melted Chuck's heart. This was agony, watching UNCLE's top man grieving over his partner, not yet sure if he was dead or missing, but facing horrible evidence to the former.

If there were just some story to accompany the scene, then it might be easier. Napoleon couldn't understand what had transpired here, and that was making him crazy. It was just a hot spot, one blackened piece of earth and the evidence of what had been a small tent, a circle of stones that must have been the fire pit, and some other metal bits that hadn't melted completely. The most damning of all was the Walther. It was Illya's, the initial K clearly visible still on the handle.

Someone was yelling, out beyond the first circle of investigators. The men had spread out in a cylindrical formation, attempting to look at every inch of the space for as far out as seemed necessary. The shouting was coming from well beyond the first two lines of investigators, and seemed a little frantic.

"Napoleon, they want you."

Napoleon's heart skipped a beat, accompanied by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as it roiled beneath the grim surroundings and a near certainty that bad news could only get worse.

Nonetheless, he set off at a run, knowing full well that it might not be what he feared. If Illya had gotten far enough away, then whatever had caused this incendiary flash might have missed the Russian. Napoleon caught himself speaking aloud.

"Let it be Illya... alive."

He came to the spot and stood next to the agent who had called out. The man put out an arm, holding his hand against Napoleon's chest, stopping him.

"What? Is it my partner?"

The man lowered his arm...

"We don't want to disturb the area, Napoleon, we're still investigating, remember. Just walk in slowly, I've already called for medical assistance."

He said that last with a hint of a smile. It wasn't all good, but it wasn't all bad, either.

Napoleon gripped the man's arms.

"He's alive."

A statement, not a question.

Napoleon didn't wait for the answer, he was moving past and into the patch of scrubby grass and slightly singed bushes. Two men were crouched by a body, pulling at something... bloody cloth. The shirt was bloody...

Napoleon knelt down next to Illya, taking in the inert body and the blood that had soaked his shirt. Cleve, one of the agents, had pulled the shirt back away from the wound. It was a bullet hole, and Illya had been bleeding for... How long?

"He has a pulse, Napoleon. It's weak, but it's there."

Cleve spoke softly, as though he might wake up the wounded agent.

"Thanks, Cleve... I... wow, I was afraid..."

The other man nodded, each of them understanding the chasm of dread that lay between life and ultimate sacrifice.

"What happened here? Do we have any clues as to why Illya is out here with a bullet in him, and the camp was torched? Anything at all?"

Bakari, the other agent, spoke up. He was Nigerian, if Napoleon remembered correctly.

"This is a most fortunate situation for your partner, Mr. Solo. Had Mr. Kuryakin been closer to the campsite, he would surely have perished, sir. As it is, he seems to have been dragged out here after being shot."

Napoleon frowned at that. It didn't make any sense, because there was evidence of at least one body at the campsite. If Illya was shot first, then why wasn't he left there to die with Dr. Droste?

"And just who would rescue Illya from the fire?"

Napoleon was feeling for that pulse he had been promised. There it was, unrelenting, just like his friend.

The sound of helicopter blades whooshing through the air alerted the team to the arrival of the medical-rescue squad. UNCLE had resources in more places than Napoleon could fathom sometimes. This one had appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere. They were from a Swiss partner agency, he knew that, but the speed at which they had arrived was mind boggling. Good thing, too. Illya didn't look as though he would last much longer without attention from a doctor.

Without much conversation the wounded man was loaded into a basket apparatus and raised up into the helicopter. It was an operation that required some dexterity among the ground crew, and a fair amount of skill from the pilot and his men. Less than twenty minutes later and the Russian was aboard the aircraft, while Napoleon sped down the mountain road towards the facility that housed UNCLE Medical in this region.

Time crawled along the corridors of the hospital, through the surgical suite and back to a room shrouded in whispers and low lights. Illya Kuryakin would live. It hadn't been easy, and more blood than anyone wanted to believe had been transfused into the nearly dead agent. The bullet had missed his heart. That was the good and welcome news that greeted Napoleon when he finally arrived at the hospital reserved for UNCLE and other 'sensitive' medical emergencies. It otherwise served as a clinic for political and otherwise important international figures.

Napoleon sat in the semi-darkness and waited. He had filed a verbal report to Mr. Waverly. The body in the burned out camp was indeed Dr. Wilhelm Droste, the man whom Illya and Napoleon had chased over much of Western Europe. How Illya had escaped the fire was still a mystery, and not likely to be solved until the Russian awoke and told his story.

The investigative team had sent soil samples to the UNCLE lab in Geneva, along with some fragments of glass and metal found at the site. Illya's Special had also been sent to the lab in an effort to gain, if possible, fingerprints.

It now seemed likely that Illya Kuryakin had been shot with his own gun, a most unsavory aspect to this increasingly mysterious affair.

Illya had no blood pressure when he was brought in, and was in a coma. He was bleeding internally, and X-rays showed the bullet lodged just millimeters from his heart. The rush to get him prepped and into surgery was a race against imminent death. In spite of the proximity of the bullet to Illya's heart, it had not affected any major blood vessels; that had been good news in the face of a serious situation.

There had also been a concern about brain damage, and immediately upon his arrival into surgery a clamp was applied to Illya's aorta in order to keep blood in his head and heart while the repairs were made to the injuries. By the time surgery had concluded and the patient was in his room, IV lines and a ventilator decorated the blond much like a garland around the Christmas tree.

''A very white tree'', mumbled Napoleon. The variety of blinking lights and sound effects furthered his impression of a convoluted scene from a perverse holiday story. He was tired. Tired of gunshot wounds, and tired of hospitals and the smell of antiseptic. And he was just tired of this affair, and the long days and trans-continental zig zag they had been on in the chase for the vial in Droste's pocket.

Why was it they knew about the vial? He couldn't remember. Someone had told them...him and Illya...them...

He leaned over and put his tired head into his hands and nearly dozed off while praying the best version of a prayer that he could muster.

'If God is God then he'll hear me', he thought.

"Mr. Solo?"

Wow! Napoleon was wide awake. For the briefest of moments... When he opened his eyes however, it wasn't God looking back at him. It was a pretty young woman.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Solo. I didn't mean to wake you."

Napoleon smiled, the charm was on call.

"No, it's...it's quite all right. How may I help you, Miss...?"

"Sherry Landers. I...um... well, I work for Thrush."

Napoleon decided he didn't need the coffee after all. Instead he twisted his shoulder just enough to reassure himself that the gun was where he'd left it. Without sounding too impolite, he asked her:

"Why are you here, and what do you want Miss Landers?"

The woman was a real beauty, with long brown hair and luminous blue eyes that almost made him neglect her perfectly luscious body. Napoleon had a vague sense of unease concerning yet another Thrush Femme Fatale, and this one looked as though she would definitely qualify for the role.

"Mr. Solo, I know why Mr. Kuryakin was out in the woods traipsing around with Dr. Droste. The formula he was carrying belonged to us, and we would like it back. I assume that it is somewhere in Mr. Kuryakin's belongings."

Unlike most medical facilities, the rooms here were designed for the comfort of both patient and visitor. A comfortable sofa was on one end of the room, with furnishings scattered around in a fairly artful manner. Napoleon, who had risen to introduce himself to the woman, sat back down on the sofa and motioned for her to do the same. There was no point in being rude, after all.

"Miss Landers..."

"Sharon, please. And may I call you Napoleon?"

"Yes, of course. Well, then... Sharon,'

Napoleon twisted his head in a familiar gesture that Illya would have identified as his 'Okay, let's get down to business' look.

"Sharon, do you know what we found up there at the campsite? Because if you do, then you must realize that there was nothing left. It's a miracle that my partner isn't dead, because everything else up there was burnt to a crisp. There was nothing left."

The Thrush agent listened intently as Napoleon talked. Short of strip- searching the UNCLE agent, she found herself thinking the options were appallingly sparse. She looked across the room to the blond man lying amidst a maze of tubes and machines. He looked young, she thought, although it might have been an illusion.

She had heard of these men, of course. Solo and Kuryakin were well known among the ranks in her organization. What she hadn't counted on was meeting them under these circumstances.

Solo looked weary, something that she could see now was the result of the shape his partner was in. Kuryakin was the blond boy wonder, to hear some tell it. He was a wunderkind; a PhD in Quantum Mechanics, and a devil in disguise if the trail of destruction he left behind was any indication.

"Napoleon, I can see that you are in a great deal of distress. What is the prognosis for your partner?"

That caught Napoleon off guard, just a little.

"The doctors did a good job saving his life; they tell me he's going to recover. Thank you for asking, it's not.."

"Not what you would expect? Mr. Solo, I work for Thrush. That doesn't make me insensitive, merely..."

"Not on my side."

She looked a little shocked, but Napoleon couldn't afford to let her find a soft spot. She worked for the enemy, and had come here looking for something. As far as he knew, that something was long gone by now and he wasn't about to let her endanger Illya's life trying to find it.

"Look, Miss Landers, there is nothing left up there. Illya was brought in here with nothing but jeans and a bloody shirt. He didn't even have shoes on. I'm telling you the truth, there is nothing left."

He looked so earnest, it was difficult to not believe Napoleon Solo. Perhaps he was telling the truth; Kuryakin certainly looked as though he'd come out of a dire circumstance.

"My people are not going to be happy, but I think I believe you, Napoleon.'

She looked once again at Illya, resisting the temptation to go over to his bed. It might make Solo uncomfortable...

"I hope your partner recovers. Try to get some rest."

She reached over and kissed him on the cheek, letting her fingers caress it slightly.

"Yes, I'll be sure and get a good night's sleep, Sharon. Thank you."

Napoleon watched her go, wondering if she would persist in the hunt for that missing vial. The clean up crew was finished up on that mountain, and he knew that they hadn't left anything behind. Whatever it was in that vial, Napoleon was more curious than ever, and more anxious than before to talk to Illya.

He turned his attention again to his friend. How had Illya managed to be attacked with his own gun? None of this made sense. Not the fire ravaged campground, not Illya being removed from it. Napoleon swiped at his hair for the umpteenth time that day and settled back down on the sofa. It wasn't a bed, but at least it wasn't one of the hard chairs back in New York.

Glass. There had been a small piece of glass recovered at the campsite; he remembered Cleve telling him so. Glass and metal. There was a trail here, and tomorrow morning Napoleon intended to start traveling it. Droste stole the vial from Thrush, and someone, or something, killed the doctor over it. He couldn't even begin to figure out why that same... whatever it was... hadn't finished off his partner. Unless...

"Illya, I need you to wake up and tell me what happened." ~~~~~: Outside of the hospital, Sharon Landers was on her communicator. In spite of her conversation with Solo, she was unwilling just yet to give up her mission as a lost cause. If UNCLE were to get the details of this item, the contents of the vial, it would be her head on the chopping block. No way was that going to happen.

Kuryakin hadn't died, that meant someone had saved him. That meant someone else had been in the campsite with the Russian and Dr. Droste. She just had to find that person. One question was eating at her, though. Someone shot Kuryakin, and someone else saved him from the fire. Who? ~~~~~:

When the first light of day finally crept through the Palladian windows in Illya's room, he was dreaming of the day he had just survived. The moaning that alerted Napoleon to his partner's discomfort was as much from the dream as the pain in his body. The drugs were in need of replenishing, and the dream was in danger of being replaced by wakefulness.

Illya woke up slowly under the watchful eye of his vigilant partner.

Napoleon had slept fretfully on the sofa in this most unusual hospital room. Regardless of how posh a place might be, a hospital never silenced itself from the beeping and ringing, whispers and continual movement that marked these halls of healing. The American was grateful for the few hours he did have, however, and especially glad to see his friend's blue eyes searching for him now.

"Hey, tovarisch, it's good to see you alive again."

Illya did not attempt to move after the pain in his chest reminded him in clearly defined details of the events from yesterday. He grimaced at the catch in his breathing, a clear indication that pain medication would be welcome about now. The ventilator had been removed late last night when it was determined that Illya was breathing well on his own. At the moment, that breath was painful.

"Droste?"

Just that; the name of the man who was at the center of this fiasco. Illya remembered the scene, the horror of watching the doctor engulfed in flames. He shuddered involuntarily at the images as they came flooding back through his memories of the strange events.

Napoleon noticed the slight tremor as it went through Illya's body.

"He's dead. I thought it was you, Illya... How did you... who shot you?"

That was the big question. If Droste was burned in the fire, then who shot Illya, and how did he get far enough away from the campsite to not be...? That same shudder that had slithered up Illya's spine suddenly shot through Napoleon.

"I see you are getting the idea, Napoleon. The entire scene was unbelievable, and I still do not understand fully."

A nurse entered the room, her crisp white uniform in stark contrast to the warmth of the sun that was filling the space. She nodded to Napoleon and proceeded to lift the covers off of Illya's torso, giving a quick but thorough check of his bandages while seemingly, in the same motion, inserting a thermometer into his mouth and adjusting the IV. The woman worked in a series of movements that made both men feel inadequate by comparison. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep.

When she had finished, she smiled and bid them both 'Adieu', then went in search of the attending physician. Napoleon watched her go, his eyes glazed from tiredness and tinged with admiration.

"So... where were we? Oh, yes... the good doctor. What do you remember, Illya?"

The blond, exhausted and wan looking, tried to imagine a beginning to the tale he would tell to his friend. His wounded chest was throbbing now, and the effort to speak would be a great effort on his part. It was, he reckoned, the emotional weight of it that was bearing down on him now.

"Napoleon, are you familiar with the term Spontaneous Human Combustion?"

The look on Napoleon's face spoke volumes. Not only had he heard of it, but he did not believe it was possible and wondered why his partner was bringing it up. All of that was easily read by the wounded man lying in the bed, and two days ago it would have been his reaction as well.

Things were different now.

"Illya, are you going to tell me that this spontaneous combustion, of the human variety, is what killed Droste? I have to tell you, my friend, that sounds a little far fetched."

Illya thought it was far fetched, too. He thought a great number of things were too far fetched for him to believe, but increasingly, he found that there was no alternative. His background in science precluded adhering to fairy tales and religious superstitions, but he had no choice to accepting what was witnessed with his own eyes.

"Yes, but the truth is, Napoleon, the man combusted in front of my eyes. I would not believe it myself had I not seen it, felt the heat and..."

The memory of it now made Illya feel ill, in addition to how damaged he was physically. Napoleon noted with concern a sudden pall that fell over his friend's countenance.

"Illya? Christ Almighty, Illya... he really?" The blue eyes sought something from his friend, solace or explanation... anything to replace the image of Droste igniting like a matchstick as he screamed in agony, his body engulfed in flames.

"He did..."

~~~~~: Sharon Landers was determined to find out what had happened up on that mountain. The Russian, Kuryakin, had survived. That was an impressive and mysterious feat, because the Thrush agent knew what Droste had in the missing vial. The team of scientists who dreamed up that little nightmare had included the esteemed Dr. Wilhelm Droste, and taken particular exception to his actions when he ran off with the only specimen of their success.

As the lovely brunette surveyed the blackened earth, she shuddered at the thought of this particular mission. She could think of nothing that would make her want to see either Solo or Kuryakin dead, particularly the handsome Napoleon Solo. Under different circumstances he was a man who might be very pleasant company.

Sharon didn't have time for that now, however. Thrush sent her up here to find that vial, and if it was truly gone, then she needed some proof of it. A few pictures and continued surveillance of the UNCLE agents would be all she could offer for the time being.

Droste's thievery had upset Central's plans, although Landers was not privy to what those plans were. Judging by what she was looking at now, and its connection to that vial, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

~~~~~:

Illya was given another round of pain pills and antibiotics. To his doctors' amazement, the patient was healing very quickly. Although still weak, his blood pressure had stabilized overnight, and he was asking for food. A returning appetite was a good sign, especially after such a traumatic injury. The only sure sign of the man's condition were the dark circles that underscored deep set eyes.

"You will need to recuperate fully, Mr. Kuryakin, before returning to your job. Mr. Waverly has been apprised of your condition as it has progressed, and has confirmed that he will not be sending you back into the field but wants you to return to New York as soon as I release you to travel."

Illya cut a quick look at his partner. Napoleon had a frown on his face that had crept through his normally expressive features. Where Illya could maintain the same frozen expression for hours on end, his partner excelled in a variety of pronounced reactions to pain, confusion and water, among other things.

"Doctor, is Illya in any danger? I mean, his heart, and whatnot..."

Whatnot? Illya thought that was the most unique way Napoleon had ever expressed concern for him. How amusing.

"Mr. Kuryakin is out of danger, yes. But, he is going to be in need of rest for at least the next week. Limited duty afterwards is recommended. Certainly nothing like whatever it was that brought you in here, Mr. Kuryakin. Do you understand?"

The doctor delivered that last sentence as he turned towards the blond man in the hospital bed. Illya looked his most innocent as he nodded and said:

"Yes, of course doctor."

~~~~~:

Illya's hospital room was beginning to feel more familiar. The same nurse, whose name was Maria St. Germain, made regular appearances for the purpose of ministering to the bedridden patient. The first sponge bath left Illya strangely entranced by the process and the lovely nurse. Whether it was due to the pain meds or something else, he endured it with uncharacteristic grace and, something like pleasure. He was only mildly embarrassed by his reactions, while she remained professionally passive.

Napoleon stayed with his partner just long enough to miss that sponge bath. Much as he might have enjoyed watching Illya blush, he had some work to do.

The first thing on his list was to read the report from the labs. There was a hotel in the village beyond the hospital grounds, and that was where the UNCLE agents were staying while involved in this investigation.

The hotel was a little two-story building, owned by the same family for three generations. There was a sense of familiarity here, due primarily to the fact that the family was employed by UNCLE. The Hotel Dauphin was maintained as a permanent safe house for its agents, and others in need of a safe haven. If Thrush ever got around to looking up the habits of dolphins, they might figure out that this hotel was a way to stick close to the guys in charge.

Downstairs was a sitting room, kitchen and dining room, which is where Cleve and Napoleon were having coffee and sandwiches. The two had retreated to the room serving as an office upon Napoleon's arrival, earlier in the day; now a short break seemed reasonable.

The lab results had come back with interesting notes concerning the glass and metal. A high concentration of sulphur was detected on both fragments, along with a surprising element called calcium permanganate. According to the scientists in the UNCLE lab, the combination of those two elements could have been responsible for the fire. The question remained, how did it apply to Illya's story?

As Napoleon related Illya's account of the fire, specifically the spontaneous combustion of Dr. Droste, Cleve was stunned beyond words. Napoleon still had doubts, and a tiny margin for error existed when the older agent remembered the misery on his friend's face as he recalled the horrendous scene. It was rare that the Russian's cool demeanor was cracked open, but when he had told Napoleon about the sight of Droste going up in flames, Illya had seemed on the verge of losing control.

"Napoleon, it's possible. I mean, there are several cases that have been investigated fairly recently. Of course, the scientific community is not ready to get on board with SHC, at least not that I'm aware of."

Napoleon liked Cleve Manning. He was a good agent, intelligent and as ethical as they came. Like Illya, Cleve had a science background, something that made him a valuable addition to an investigation. When the scene presented difficulties like the one they were all working on, Cleve was the man sent in to spearhead the action.

"SHC, that's for Spontaneous Human Combustion?"

Cleve nodded, sipped his coffee and reached for the second half of his sandwich.

"Yes, and the weird thing is that, in spite of several known events that have been recorded as SHC, there is still nothing that science is willing to commit to regarding its veracity. If Illya actually witnessed this happening, it may be more valuable as an anecdotal entry than an UNCLE mission. It really is a very fascinating scenario, Napoleon."

Napoleon had to think about this. The lab results put an incendiary source within reach. The glass must have been a remnant of the vial that Droste was carrying.

"Cleve, what do you think the metal belonged to? The glass is most likely from the vial. If Droste was in possession of the vial, and whatever was in it contained the two elements... the sulphur and...''

Cleve inserted the other element.

"The calcium permanganate. It is a catalyst, and its presence among the other findings indicates that there was, indeed, the possibility of it interacting with sulphur in an altered state, possibly sulphuric acid. We're talking about Thrush here, and in spite of how illogical their protocols and policies sometime are, the scientific breakthroughs they have made are impressive.''

Napoleon was getting the idea now. He only wished that Illya were here to watch it happen.

"If Droste had this combustible combination in his pocket, then it's possible that what appear to be SHC could be a simple chemical reaction and a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Napoleon felt a certain level of excitement that he only imagined was close to discovering fossil fuel. The look on Cleve's face, however, brought him back down to a layman's level with a resounding thud.

"Look, Napoleon...um... there is a problem with this scenario. These two elements should have additional contact with another, organic component; something like petroleum or ethyl alcohol. I think we need another go 'round with the lab. But, we're onto something...definitely onto something."

~~~~~:

It didn't take Sharon Landers long to make a connection between the contents of the missing vial, and the blackened campsite. She had scouted the entire area, seen where Kuryakin must have been found (judging by the blood still visible in the dried grass), and paced off the area based on figures provided by the panel of scientists responsible for this mess.

From what she could see of the area, the substance had done precisely what it was designed to do: create a spark. Perhaps it had done a little more than the anticipated spark. Sharon wondered if the scientists back at Central had any idea how unstable their new miracle really was. She didn't imagine it was supposed to work that way.

~~~~~:

By the end of the day, Illya felt as though he had been shot all over again. His head and chest throbbed in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to have a purpose other than making him miserable. It was doing that, though, quite successfully.

When Napoleon walked in he recognized the fatigue on his partner's face, and in the slump of his shoulders. Even lying down the injured man had body language that said the day had been long.

"Hey, partner, do you feel as bad as you look?"

Illya rolled his eyes as far as he could without making his head explode.

"Hello Napoleon. Yes, I do feel that bad... unfortunately."

Illya leaned his head back gingerly. Someone, probably Nurse Marie, had adjusted his bed and pillows so that he was sitting up. It was typical of the tough little Russian to try and act like he hadn't just been shot and nearly killed just twenty-four hours ago.

"I know what you are thinking, Napoleon. I have been resting. I just prefer to rest like this.'

The blond head rose up a little, and with a sigh Illya inquired about Napoleon's day.

"Do you have anything new to report?"

Napoleon had spent about eight hours with Cleve, going over the lab reports, reading the various reports that had come in from the onsite agents. The mystery of the combustible materials would be solved, Napoleon was confident of that.

What was more puzzling even than the fire was the mystery of who shot Illya. Added to that was the oddity of someone removing him from the campsite.

Hopefully there were answers ready to rise up out of the ashes.

~~~~~:

Illya was skeptical about the lab reports, still visibly shaken by the recollection of what he had witnessed.

"I understand what you're telling me, Napoleon.'

It was amazing that a man in his condition could still glower, but Illya managed it.

"The problem with your hypothesis concerning these events is that I saw the man literally combust, right in front of my eyes. It started in his torso and then he just went up in flames. It was..."

Illya stopped there. The sight of it was still vivid in his mind. Napoleon pressed on.

"Okay, let's just let that one rest a minute. Who shot you, Illya? How did that happen? We haven't actually had time to sit down and discuss this, for you to debrief."

Illya's body went rigid, the tension in his shoulders apparent from where Napoleon stood. If it were possible, he thought his friend went several shades of pale beyond the white sheet stage.

Suddenly every beep, every swish of air in the room was magnified. To Illya it felt as though time slowed down as his memory of the previous day began to unwind into a swirling mass of light and pain. He had witnessed many atrocities in his life, but the sight of Droste bursting into flames...

"He shot me."

The pronouncement came without emotion, void of any inflection whatsoever. Flat and without resonance, it was a simple statement.

"Who? Droste? What was he doing with your gun, and... I don't understand, Illya."

Napoleon tried to imagine a scenario in which Illya would relinquish his weapon to the doctor, become a target and still be witness to the man's fiery end. None of it fit together in a way that the agent could comprehend.

This was the moment that the Russian had been dreading. He must not only admit to having lost control of the situation, and to being caught unarmed; he was being required to explain a series of events that he could not, himself, fully grasp. He laid his head back onto the pillow; closing his eyes he tried to regain the scene, make sense of it in order to retell it to Napoleon.

"We had decided to make camp for the evening, even though it was only mid-day. Droste had a propensity for spending long periods of time in his tent, either reading or... I am not certain, really. He would disappear into his space and not come out until time to eat something. I was in charge of setting up camp, cooking the meals and making everything secure for the night.'

Napoleon noted the weariness in his friend's voice. Illya was going through the narrative very slowly, cautiously almost, by the sound of it.

"We had only just settled on the location, and the positioning of the tent when we heard something coming from beyond the first line of trees. You might have noticed the campsite itself was in a clearing, of sorts.'

Illya looked at Napoleon when he said that. It was an aside to the narrative, but apparently important. Napoleon nodded, he remembered the setting vividly.

"Well, that would turn out to be a good thing, actually, considering what happened next."

A sigh, and then Illya continued.

"Droste, Dr. Droste...'

Another sigh...

"He turned to me and asked how long we were going to play our little game. I, of course, acted surprised. I was, actually, as it had not seemed to be the least contrived on my part. I was unaware that he had discovered my ruse. Obviously, I feigned ignorance of the implications...'

Napoleon could just imagine that scene.

"Droste would have nothing of it. He lashed out at me with the cane he had used for hiking, knocking me backwards. I tripped over a rock, probably the only rock in the entire space... Anyway, I was down on my back and he lunged at me. Somehow he managed to get my gun, at which time he sprang back up and aimed it at me, rather clumsily."

Napoleon winced a little at the admission. An agent disliked many things, but losing one's gun to the enemy was at the top of the list in any situation. Losing it to a deranged scientist was one of the worst of its kind.

Illya let that shiver of remorse pass, and then continued with his story.

"He backed up towards the tent, waiving the gun at me and talking some gibberish about his discoveries; the lab rats at Thrush who tried to steal his miracle and all of the money he would make when he took it to the right people. He had, it seems, decided to jump ship, as it were, and go on his own to try and market whatever he had in that vial. It was the only sample of a year's worth of work."

Napoleon whistled at that. Imagine escaping from Thrush with their investment in a small vial, and thinking you could succeed. The man must have been deranged.

"Illya, did he ever tell you what he had?"

Illya shook his head.

"No. But, with everything you've told me, and from what I witnessed.... Let me finish and we'll talk about it."

Napoleon agreed, nodding his head as he sat down gingerly on the bed next to his partner.

"All right, where was I? Oh, yes... He took the vial out of his pocket, and for the first time I could see that it had not one but two tubes within a single cylinder. It appeared to be a mixing device; the tubes kept the contents separate until you poured them out, at which time they would, naturally, be combined."

Illya let that settle a bit, watching Napoleon's face for a reaction as he prepared to continue.

"At just that moment, we both heard something beyond the trees again. It was a rustling sound, almost like an animal, perhaps, although we saw nothing. I took that opportunity, while Droste looked over his shoulder, to try and tackle him and get the vial and my gun. He turned abruptly, before I could get to him, and before I could duck he had simultaneously shot me and burst into flames..."

Illya looked past Napoleon now, his eyes transfixed on something well beyond the walls of the room. What he saw was that moment when the bullet entered his body and the doctor exploded with a burst of flames around his chest and head. For the first time since the event, he saw it in a different frame of reference.

"Napoleon, I think I know what happened."

~~~~~:

Napoleon stood over Illya, waiting to hear the explanation. Illya seemed to have recovered from his headache, and the pale complexion had taken on a healthier color, all from deciphering a mystery.

At that moment (isn't it always that way?), Napoleon's communicator emitted its insistent tone, causing the agent to waiver momentarily between responding and wanting to hear Illya's explanation.

"Solo here... oh, Cleve. Yes. I'm here in Illya's room, I... okay. See you soon."

Illya looked expectantly at Napoleon, thinking that perhaps the labs had turned up something more concerning the case.

"What does he have, Napoleon?"

Napoleon slipped the communicator back into his inside pocket, his own expression unreadable.

"Cleve has the latest lab reports, so he's bringing them over. He sounded sort of... excited."

Illya nodded at that, his own speculations were beginning to make sense, and offer a better explanation than his more emotionally charged response to the events.

"Napoleon, remember I told you that the vial actually had two smaller cylinders inside; for the purpose of mixing the contents, I imagine. Once mixed, the two solutions would produce a reaction of some sort.'

He had engaged Napoleon eye to eye, hoping that the cobbled theory would make sense.

"The sulphur, which was no doubt in the form of sulphuric acid, mixed with the calcium permanganate, could create the type of fire that I witnessed..."

"Like what burned up Dr. Droste?"

"Yes. What I am starting to hypothesize is that there was a third element involved. I believe that Thrush was attempting to produce an alternative fuel for propulsion in automobiles."

Napoleon wrinkled his forehead and tried to form the question. He wasn't sure he was following.

"Alternative... you mean to gasoline?"

Illya was grinning now, the scientist was forgetting the horror and concentrating on how it happened.

"Yes, exactly. Droste had been drinking, and..."

Illya didn't finish the sentence, but was interrupted by the entrance of Sharon Landers into his room.

"Very good, Mr. Kuryakin. I wondered if you would figure out our little secret."

Napoleon reached out to grab her arm, but her reflexes were swift. She pulled her gun out and pointed it at him, motioning for him to sit down in the chair that was next to Illya's bed.

"I was hoping that this story about Droste going up in flames was an exaggeration, but now, listening to this and with the evidence I've seen up at the campsite, well... that lunatic really has ruined everything. That vial held the future; it was the best step so far in finding an alternative to fossil fuels, and Thrush would have owned it, controlled it just like the Middle East controls gasoline production."

Illya snorted, his usual response to what he considered ludicrous or inane. Sharon didn't appreciate it.

"What? Do you doubt that this would have worked?"

"Miss Landers, do you doubt that it would have failed? Look at the results thus far. Droste merely broke open the vial accidentally, and just the proximity to the alcohol on Droste's body and breath caused him to go up like a Roman candle. The formula is flawed, and whatever these scientists dreamed they were achieving with this concoction has failed. Miserably."

Sharon was so incensed with Illya and his dismissal of the great hopes Thrush had for their alternative fuel experiment that she failed to hear Cleve enter the room. He moved up soundlessly behind the Thrush agent, disarming her with one swift motion.

"What... Oh, you!"

Cleve pocketed the woman's gun, smiling as he did so. Napoleon decided right then and there to buy the man dinner.

"All right, it seems we have the goods on this lousy formula. Sorry Miss Landers, but it seems yours and Thrush's hopes for a lock on this particular pipe dream is over."

Napoleon looked over at Illya, whose expression was a little less gleeful than it had been. What was left?

"Illya, do you have any idea who moved you away from the fire? That seems to be the only mystery left."

Illya looked up, his eyebrows furrowed in consternation at this one remaining question.

"I do not have any idea. I was unconscious quickly; except for seeing Droste on fire I have no recollection of anything after the gunshot."

Sharon shuffled her feet, cleared her throat and indicated she had something to say.

"Yes, Sharon. Do you have something to offer?''

Napoleon was trying very hard to not think about asking the lovely Thrush agent to an intimate night of dining and... maybe something more. Illya must have known what was going on in his mind, because he rolled his eyes as he watched the interaction between the two.

"Has anyone ever considered the possibility that I merely ran, or walked away from the fire? I realize it might have been difficult, but the bullet did miss my heart."

Illya eyed Sharon, daring her to disagree.

"Mr. Kuryakin, at the risk of insulting your... um... obvious abilities, even under the most difficult conditions, I think the truth of the matter is that you were simply... blown away."

Illya was stunned. Not because he felt slighted in any way, but because, in a flash of recognition, he agreed with her.

Cleve stepped forward now, ready to add the latest lab findings to this potentially hazardous conversation.

"Illya, Napoleon... um... Miss?"

Napoleon was trying to keep up. This was one of the more interesting Thrush encounters he could recall.

"Oh, Cleve... this is Miss Landers, and Sharon Landers... Cleve Manning."

They two nodded to each other, acknowledging the unlikely circumstances of this meeting, and each other.

"Okay, nice to meet you. Well, I think it's entirely possible that Miss Landers has the right idea. Sorry, Illya.'

"I assure you, all of you, I am quite willing to accept this scenario. It actually makes quite a bit of sense, even if we cannot actually prove it."

Illya was nothing if not pragmatic and willing to accept the logical. Cleve continued...

"What the labs have discovered is the presence of not only the combination in the vial, but alcohol. It was, in the simplest of terms, a result of combining the sulphuric acid, calcium permanganate and ethyl alcohol. In other words, it looks as though the doctor had been drinking, and when he cracked open the vials, for whatever reason, it combined with the alcohol on him and... kaboom."

Illya was trying to contain something like enthusiasm, but it came across as an irritation at the lackluster description.

"Kaboom? That's it? It was a horrendous sight, I assure you, and when the man went up in flames he shot me."

Napoleon intervened, concerned for his partner, and at the same time wondering how much Sharon knew.

"Illya, is there any possibility that there was an accompanying explosion? Anything more powerful than the combustion?"

Illya looked at his friend, took in the other two people who were both watching him.

"I.. I suppose. I do not remember. It was... '

He stopped, closed his eyes and tried to remember. Illya wanted to see it again, to know what had happened. Not because it would make a difference, but because as a scientist he needed to know.

"Droste came up behind me, and because he had been drinking I was not overly concerned. But then, quickly, he had my gun. I am not certain how he managed it, but the man was fast. He held it up and taunted me with it, and then took out the vial.

'This is what you are after, eh UNCLE man? I bet you wish you could have it right now.'

"I backed away from him, towards the trees...''

Napoleon stopped him.

"You mean, towards where we found you?"

Illya looked puzzled.

"I suppose. I do not actually know where you found me, Napoleon."

Cleve was picturing this, going back over the initial discovery. They had used a homing device in Illya's communicator to find the campsite. The signal had been constant since he first joined Droste, so when Illya failed to check in, they had been close by and able to move in quickly. That's what had saved the Russian's life, for which they were all grateful.

"Gentlemen, and Miss Landers... the lab results definitely tell us that the explosion and subsequent fire happened as a result of the contents of the vial, and the presence of alcohol. I'm saying explosion because, well the place was leveled around the campsite. Every indication is that in addition to the fire that burned up the good doctor, there was an explosion of some sort that came as a result. It is possibly the force of that explosion that, quite literally, blew Illya into the woods behind him."

Sharon spoke up next. She had been waiting for the right moment to interject.

"Listen fellas, the explosion makes sense. This fuel alternative was supposed to be like a spark plug, a catalyst. The problem was that the explosion, or spark, always came before the spark plugs could engage. It was sort of a.. Failure. Thrush knew it, which is why Droste took off with it. He thought he could go to a big oil company and find a way to fix it. Thrush needed to stop him before he got to someone with the right formula."

Sharon stopped there. It might not have been the smartest thing for a Thrush agent to do, spilling the beans, as it were, to UNCLE. However, the formula didn't work. Might as well acknowledge it now and get UNCLE off their backs.

Illya was thoughtful. He couldn't remember the explosion, but neither did he doubt that it had occurred. Being blown away, so to speak, was the only reasonable answer to the last question in this affair.

"I accept that this is the way it happened. I can neither prove nor disprove it, and the only other explanation is that some strange, unknown creature dragged me from the campsite and left me. And that, I believe, is an even less acceptable scenario."

Napoleon looked around the room, taking in the expressions on each face. He settled on Illya, who had laid his head back onto the pillow. This group encounter had taken its toll on the still recovering man.

Sharon joined Napoleon's gaze, then spoke up to the men in the room.

"I guess that just about does it for me. Maybe we'll all meet again someday, gentlemen. Good luck, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm sorry... um... get well, soon. Good night."

With that she turned and walked out of the room, leaving the three men to watch as she disappeared from view. Napoleon looked at Cleve who shrugged his shoulders, obviously unable to add more to what had been said.

Napoleon gave up the idea of chasing her down and asking for a date. Somehow, the lingering doubt about the details of this incident had taken a toll on his libido.

Illya was tired. He found himself wishing for Nurse Maria to come in and offer some comfort, which made him smile a little.

"Illya, are you satisfied with these conclusions? I can't come up with anything that answers everything the way this does."

The blond was ready to call it a day. Either he had been blown back by an explosion that was the result of hyperactive agents in the Thrush formula, (that had also caused the immediate combustion of Dr. Droste), or there was no answer at all. A mystery rescue was not acceptable, because... because it just wasn't. He needed a concrete explanation, and the unstable Thrush formula provided that. Something else, something unnatural, or supernatural, was not acceptable.

"Napoleon, Cleve... I believe that we have our explanation. I am content with that. The report should read well, especially if we have a concise and unquestionable end."

The other two men agreed, although Napoleon noted something slightly askew in his partner's demeanor. Illya didn't totally buy the explosion theory, but he wasn't going to allow for anything else. No leprechauns or elves, no magical creatures or Unicorns for the sensible Russian scientist.

"Okay, tovarisch. You need to get some rest; I'll see you tomorrow.'

He turned to Cleve and pointed to the door.

"Cleve, you feel like getting a drink and some dinner?"

The other man nodded, waived to Illya and then headed out the door ahead of Napoleon.

"You okay, Illya? You look sort of unsettled."

Illya was ready to nod off. He wondered if Nurse Maria would be in to tuck him in for the night.

"Yes, Napoleon. I am fine... as always. I am alive, and I do not believe in strange creatures that save injured UNCLE agents. We will not include anything like that in our report. Agreed?"

Napoleon smiled.

"Agreed. Good night, Illya. Get some rest."

As Napoleon left, Nurse Maria was coming into the room, a sweet smile on her pretty face. She nodded at him, wishing him a good evening.

At least Illya would have that to send him off into dreamland.

finis