The Clothes Make the Man Affair
by Charlie Kirby

Napoleon Solo took cover behind the garbage cans, popped up for a fast shot and then dropped back down. This was not exactly the way he'd envisioned spending his afternoon in Paris. Napoleon had intended to camp out in a café near their hotel and see what caught his eye. Sadly what had found him undeniably attractive had been a bevy of THRUSH agents.

Strangely enough, neither he nor his partner was here on business. They'd just gotten off an assignment safe-guarding a nuclear physicist to a conference and then safely back home to Austria. Napoleon had suggested they return to New York via Paris. They had the time coming and Waverly was pleased enough with their performance to grant them the time off.

Yet the city seemed to conspire against them from the moment they'd hit the city limits. Last night, a horrific storm had blown through, knocking out power and putting the kibosh on Napoleon's vision of a romantic night out on the town. Instead, he'd ended up hanging around their hotel while Illya spent time with some former classmates. He'd been invited along, of course, but the thought of listening to three scientists waxing poetic over this or that chemical reaction was not to his tastes. It wasn't until this very morning, when Illya had staggered in, looking, for want of a better word, thoroughly savaged, that Napoleon realized the former classmates were women and Illya had had his hands quite full most of the evening.

Napoleon had left him sleeping the Sleep of the Just back in their shared room and went out on the prowl. Only to wind up here, trapped in an alley with THRUSH breathing down his neck. Not his idea of a fun day out. He dipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and frowned at the discovery of just one remaining clip left. He wasn't going to last long...

There was a blur of movement to one side of him and he snapped off a round, dropping the THRUSH in his tracks.

Still, he was trapped; the two enemy agents had the end of the alley covered and there was no way out without exposing himself. Napoleon wished he'd brought along his communicator—a rookie mistake at best. He was never going to hear the end of it from Waverly, if he made it out of here alive.

There was movement again and Napoleon realized the downed agent was back up and moving again. This time he spared two rounds, planting both of them dead center in the man's chest and again the enemy agent crumpled to the ground.

There was a sudden explosion of noise from the end of the alley and the THRUSH agents looked panicked and scurried away. A moment later, a group of gendarmes arrived and Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief. Then he saw a familiar figure standing in place of the THRUSH and he shook his head.

"Napoleon, you always know where to find the action in town," Illya Kuryakin said, approaching him. "When I woke up and found you gone, I wondered what sort of trouble you'd get into. Then when I heard the gunfire, I knew."

Napoleon stood slowly and then stared. He could have sworn he'd killed that THRUSH agent, yet the man was attempting to struggle back to his feet, bringing his gun up for a shot. Illya didn't hesitate and fired. His bullet caught the THRUSH in his temple and the agent collapsed a third time.

"I've already shot him twice," Napoleon muttered as he approached the agent cautiously. "Once right in the heart, I know it."

"Are you sure?"

"Illya..." Napoleon's voice was hurt and he could see instant regret in his partner's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon, I didn't mean it that way. But it's the middle of the day, and you had a clear shot. How could he still be alive if you shot him in the heart?"

"Three times... Illya, I shot him three times."

"What?" Illya holstered his weapon and knelt beside the man, peeling his coat back. "That's impossible. There's no blood on his shirt." He paused running a hand over the shirt. "This material feels strange."

Napoleon joined him and fingered the cloth. "You're right; I've never felt anything like it." He unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it aside. "Illya, look at this."

Three large bruises decorated the man's chest, two in a close grouping around his heart.

"What the hell?" Illya started.

"What the hell indeed, partner..."

The three stood behind protective bulletproof glass and watched as round after round was unloaded at the shirt. It had finally started to show some wear in the form of scorch marks, but still resisted any and all penetration.

"This is incredible, gentlemen." Alexander Waverly tapped the glass with his pipe and waved the Section Three man off. "Not only is it bullet proof, but in THRUSH's hands."

"Reports are mixed on that, sir," Illya said, glancing up from a clipboard he'd been handed. "We've been monitoring their broadcasts and there is no hint at all that this is something of theirs."

"A third party? Working for THRUSH?"

"No way of knowing since Mr. Kuryakin invited him to step out of life." Waverly's voice was chastising, but the Russian ignored him.

It wasn't like he was going to let an enemy agent shoot down his partner. Still it would have been nice to have had more direct information about this garment. "Yes, sir," Illya acknowledged.

There was a knock to the door and a trim secretary entered. She immediately approached Napoleon. "Here is the report from the labs, Mr. Solo." Her voice was sultry and soft and Napoleon found himself grinning. "Thank you, Miss Dalber."

"Jessica, please."

"Turn it off," Waverly cautioned and Napoleon immediately switched his focus.

"Sir?"

"Your engine, Mr. Solo; I believe the term is racing."

Illya grinned and then sobered as Napoleon snapped a look in his direction. He passed the clipboard to his partner and watched the woman slip from the room. Illya dug out a pair of glasses and put them on.

"The lab is mystified, which is really no big surprise... it apparently has a synthetic base."

"Synthetic?

"Similar to plastic. A polymer, actually, made up of molecules that have a strong, ring-like structure not unlike that of benzene. These are often referred to as aromatic molecules. The ring-like aromatic molecules are connected together to form long chains. These run inside and parallel to the fibers a bit like the rebar in reinforced concrete."

"Can we replicate?"

"Not without some extensive testing. I'd recommend bringing Hamilton in from London. He's had some experience with aromatic polymers."

"I want you to spearhead that part of the investigation, Mr. Kuryakin. With your background, perhaps you and the gentlemen in the lab can come up with something substantial. Mr. Solo?"

"Sir?"

"I want to know everything there is to know about the dead man. I want his entire history from start to his untimely end. Retrace his steps and see what you can uncover." Waverly watched as a shotgun blast splattered against the shirt, having as much effect on it as a bucket of water would have had. "We are working against time, gentlemen, dismissed."

The two agents walked quietly from the room and Napoleon turned right as Illya turned left.

"Napoleon?"

"Yes, partner."

"Be careful. We don't know who we're dealing with yet and that can be even more dangerous than a known foe."

"Right back at you." Napoleon caught Illya's arm and squeezed it. "Don't blow anything up."

"Why should you have all the fun...?"

Yes indeed, why should I have any fun at all Napoleon thought as he watched the file clerk drop yet another stack of folders onto his desk. "Gee, thanks, Gene."

"Not a problem, Mr. S. Have a good time reading."

"Spoken like a man without a care in the world," Napoleon muttered as the young man slipped out of his office. There were days that he envied non-agents; days he craved a less demanding lifestyle. He opened the closest file and made a face. He didn't realize just how many THRUSH agents U.N.C.L.E. had on record.

When he'd ordered the files of every THRUSH fitting the description of the man in their morgue, he figured he'd get a dozen at most... not a hundred. So far, he'd gone through about forty of them, breaking them into three piles, no, maybe, and possibly. Once he got through the rest, he'd start comparing fingerprints. It would be nice if someone could streamline this process and eliminate the boredom and drudgery of doing this by hand.

His eyes were crossing and he felt as if he'd drunk his weight in coffee when his partner walked in. Napoleon stopped just short of using stormed in, but there was something very abrupt in how the man moved.

"Illya?" he asked as the Russian sat down heavily at his desk.

"Is it justifiable homicide if the victim is one of our own?"

"Ah, Dr. Hamilton has arrived, I take it..." he trailed off at his partner's glare.

"If I wanted to be treated as if I were a five year old in the lab, I would still be in grad school. He seems to forget that some of us are as papered as he is."

"Oh, do I hear just a bit of pride going before that fall?" Napoleon grinned and then rapidly sobered at the glare. "This has really got you going, hasn't it?"

Illya rubbed his forehead and sighed. "More than it should. It's just the implications of this are so far reaching and he is treating it as if it's just one more step up the ladder for him." He suddenly slapped his desk and Napoleon sat back in involuntary response. "Damn it, Napoleon! That joker almost killed you and Hamilton's acting like it's no big deal. It's all fun and games for him. He's sitting happy in a lab, not risking his life."

"It's okay, Illya. It's what we do, partner, and you had my back. He'll never know what that's like. He'll never have that sort of connection with another human being." Napoleon kept his voice level. They both knew what it was like to deal with the leftover baggage after an affair.

"But he should realize what's at stake. If THRUSH were to have this cloth at their disposal..."

"Illya." Napoleon waited until he was sure the man had focused upon him completely. "You know better than anyone that the guys in the labs and development have to disassociate themselves with their work, and you well know that. Imagine going home thinking, 'Well, I created something today that will let our guys kill other guys faster and easier.' They don't have the same barriers in place that we do, but they still have a means of defense."

"I know..." Illya trailed off. "He just..."

"Pushes all your buttons? Go deal with Rehnquist in Section Four for awhile."

"Steve? I don't believe it."

"Believe it, we all have our button pushers... so did you find out anything?"

"It's not completely bullet proof, but I think holding down your opponent and unloading a machine gun into his chest to be overkill..."

"In a manner of speaking."

The ghost of a smile began to play around Illya's lips, a sure sign that he was starting to relax. "Yes. It is highly effective at stopping anything that we routinely carry, but that doesn't necessarily stop the wearer from being injured."

"What do you mean?"

"That THRUSH? He was pretty dead before I shot him. He was going into cardiac arrest, according to our learned ME downstairs. All the tissue around his heart was severely damaged by your previous shots."

"So if I'd kept my head down a few second more?"

"He would have died of cardiac failure." Illya picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. "The material can stop the bullet from entering the body, but not the impact. I've seen bulletproof vests..."

"Flak jackets?"

"Those as well, but they are heavy and cumbersome. Body armor goes back to the 1500's, but this is the first material I've seen that's this light and flexible. It was as if he was wearing a lightweight knit sweater. His pants and undergarments were also of the same material."

"He had bulletproof shorts?"

"The mind struggles for the reason behind that."

"Well, some of us have more invested than others and more to protect."

Illya snorted and grinned. "The fact remains, the other THRUSH agents weren't wearing a single scrap of the new material."

"So the dead guy was a guinea pig?"

"Or, a more radical thought, THRUSH knew nothing about it... and this guy had a side line going."

"Now that's a crazy thought, Mr. K."

"Agreed and if he was operating outside THRUSH's influence..." Illya tapped his forefinger on the desktop, a sure sign that his mind was elsewhere.

"Then who was he working for? Do we even have a name yet?

"A few possibilities. They are processing his fingerprints as quickly as they can, but it's slow going, even with our equipment. I have another crazy thought to share with you, Napoleon." Illya tucked his hands behind his head and sighed. "What if he wasn't THRUSH at all? What if he was an outsider, just along for the ride as it were or out to prove something?"

"He was packing THRUSH weaponry."

"That does not make him a THRUSH anymore than parking a car in a garage makes you a mechanic. I think we need to start back at Square One."

"We, White Man?" Napoleon grinned, the memory of a bad Lone Ranger joke still playing in his head.

"Please, don't make me stay here, Napoleon. If I have to spend any more time with Hamilton, I will kill him."

"It's not me, Illya, take it up with Mr. Waverly."

"I beg you, Napoleon, send me somewhere, anywhere. You're my immediate supervisor. You can do that."

"You're asking me to pull rank on you?"

"I'll make it worth your while. I'll even do the reports for this assignment... please."

"Why, Mr. Kuryakin, what would your mother say?"

"That her son had finally come to his senses...." His communicator interrupted him. "Kuryakin."

"Illya, we have a hit." The communication op's husky voice made the announcement sound like an invitation to have sex. Napoleon's mind immediately turned to a sweet mental image and Illya scowled at him.

"Excellent. I'm on my way." Illya put the communicator away and rose. "Are you coming or is it already too late for that?"

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Not recently but if it gets me away from Hamilton, I'd happily kiss Mr. Waverly, Del, or anyone else you put in my path."

"That's a mental image I didn't need, partner." Napoleon stood and gestured to the door. "After you, my dear Alphonse."

"His name is Joseph Mayhem, a Kiwi by birth."

"He was born a bird?" Napoleon joked. "Appropriate since he died in the employment of THRUSH."

"Not the bird, a New Zealander, Mr. Solo." Veronica Corell's voice made the admonishment sound more like an invitation to her bed. Napoleon eyed her appreciatively, smiling at her, letting her know his mind.

"Focus, Napoleon." Illya nudged his partner's leg with his foot.

"Of course," Napoleon sighed and went back to the screen. "So he's from New Zealand."

"The South, actually, around Dunedin. He still has family there." The slide changed to a building. "His family owns a series of men's clothing stores. They specialize in custom fitted suits for the more hard to fit man." The slide changed again, this time to a shot of the man in their morgue. "When he was just fifteen, he took over for his ailing father and went on to build the business into a small empire. The business really exploded when a cousin started to experiment with new synthetic fabrics." The slide changed to a frowning man. His face wore his years with no pleasure. "Victor Mayhem—the man created a number of fabrics that were considered revolutionary in his field, including a disposable material that was comfortable enough to make underwear out of. They currently have shops throughout New Zealand, as well as Paris, London, and, of all places, Rio. He dropped out of sight about three months ago and hasn't been heard from since. For the record, his family did not file a missing person's report. There was possibly some foul play, but we have no way of knowing."

"Fowl play, perhaps. If THRUSH has gotten involved they may have him under their wing now."

"Oh, Napoleon," Illya grumbled, shaking his head sadly. "How the mighty have fallen. Then New Zealand and Paris is where we start," Illya said, pausing at Napoleon's reproachful look.

"We?"

"Two spots, two of us and I've done as much as I can here, Napoleon. It's a waste of U.N.C.L.E.'s money to keep me chained up in the lab... and dangerous." His voice dropped on the last two words and Napoleon repressed a grin.

"How dangerous?"

"Very dangerous."

"Go pack." Napoleon returned his attention to the screen and the face that stared back at him. "I think I'm headed back to Paris. With any luck, we'll meet in the middle."

Illya walked slowly down the narrow street, his attention never resting anywhere for very long. He'd thought this was going to be a sleepy little hamlet, but it was quite the opposite. There was a major university here and a bustling city. He glanced down at the map he carried and then squinted up at the street sign. St. Paul's Cathedral was to his right, which meant if he walked straight, he'd hit Moray Place and Filleul Street would be off from that.

The air was cool and crisp and Illya enjoyed the feel of the breeze against his face. The air was sweeter smelling here than in New York. Even that however, didn't keep him from being very aware of his surroundings and anyone who passed too close or paid him more than causal attention.

A group of young girls passed by and bent their heads together as he walked by and they started to giggle. He just barely managed to keep from bowing and shaking his head.

It seemed very odd to be walking back into the same hotel he'd left such a brief time earlier. Napoleon had not taken any special precautions, outside of the usual ones, to mask his presence here. If THRUSH was indeed looking for him, he didn't want to make it too hard for them to find him. On the other hand, he didn't want to make it too easy either. Whatever else THRUSH was, they were not patsies and didn't like being played as fools.

"Mr. Solo, welcome back to Le Hotel de Ville!" The desk clerk looked delighted to see him again, probably remembering the very large tip Napoleon left him for not asking questions. "Would you care for your same room?"

"Not necessary. I'm sure that anything you offer will be fine." Napoleon slipped a photo of Joseph Mayhem. "Do you recognize this man?"

The clerk took the photo and studied it for a long moment. "No sir, I do not."

"That's a shame. His family was recommended to me as being a leading name in fashion and I understood they had a store here."

"Hmm, may I see the photo again?"

Napoleon kept the smile from his lips. "Yes, of course, his name is Joseph Mayhem."

"Of the New Zealand Mayhems?"

"Possibly."

"The store you want is a mere two blocks over on Rue Pernelle." That made sense to Napoleon. It explained why he'd run into Mayhem to begin with. The desk clerk passed the photo back again and began to do a rapid sketch on a piece of scratch paper. "Here are the directions, monsieur."

"Thank you." Napoleon passed a bill over as he took the paper and tucked it away in his coat pocket. Things were beginning to look up.

The door jingled happily as Illya walked into the store and he looked around for a moment. There were racks of sport jackets, suits, accessories, and shirts. He paused before one rack and fingered the material. It had an odd feeling to it, slick and soft. He glanced at the price tag and barely kept from clutching his chest. Even with the positive exchange rate between the two countries, this one suit was nearly four months of his salary.

"May I help you, sir?" The woman had approached him as he was examining the coat's lining. It seemed very different from any other material he'd ever felt. The fabric caught the rough skin of his fingertips, pulling at them. "It's a new form of Rayon. It's longer wearing than a silk, but just as soft."

"Do you do custom suits?"

"We do." She eyed his suit critically. "And you could do with a new one."

Automatically, Illya glanced down at the sleeves of his jacket. His coat cuffs were a bit frayed, but it was just getting comfortable. He didn't understand what was wrong with being comfortable.

"Do you know your measurement?"

"No." It was a lie, but it should be enough to get him into the back fitting room, which was his next goal.

"If you'd like to follow me, sir?" She led him to a curtained doorway and pushed it aside. "Arthur, will you take over for me?" she called to some invisible man. "Sir, if you wouldn't mind taking off your jacket?"

Illya pushed past her and glanced around the room. It looked like a dozen or so other fitting rooms. He was glad he'd left his weapon locked in his suitcase. The New Zealand authorities weren't keen on people walking around with concealed weapons. At the same time, he missed the comforting weight of it beneath his arm. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on a conveniently placed hanger.

"Now what exactly are you looking for, sir?"

"A new suit?"

She laughed and slapped her thigh. "I like a customer with a sense of humor. I meant fabric, sir. What sort of fabric and what as to the color, pattern, cut?"

Illya felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back as she slipped a tape measure from around her neck. "Something long-wearing and black."

"A real trendsetter then?" She walked over to a counter and picked up a clipboard.

A moment later a gentleman entered, rubbing his hands together. "So, I take it you are the man here for a new suit."

Illya was going to make a sharp remark, but stopped as he recognized Joseph Mayhem or his twin. He dropped his gaze quickly to the floor to avoid revealing himself. "Yes, please."

"Right-o, Darlene, prepare to write." The man wielded the tape measure as surely as Del used his and Illya began to relax. It was probably just a family resemblance. "Tell me , sir, do you like your jacket a bit generous around the shoulders, sir?"

"How did you..." Illya started before catching himself.

"You stay in this business for awhile, sir, and you start to recognize different types, sir." He went over to a rack of suits and pulled out a black jacket. "Try this one on for size, sir."

Illya slipped the jacket on and the man turned him towards a mirror with one hand as he reached for a pin cushion with the other. "It's a little loose." It hung on him as if he was a little boy wearing his father's suit coat.

"Right you are, sir. Let's take a tuck or two shall we, sir?" Illya winced as the pin grazed him, instinctively flinching away. "Sorry, sir, did I stick you, sir?"

"It's okay. Accidents will..." Illya blinked and took a step. "What...?" He swallowed and stumbled sideways. "What did you inject me with?"

"Nothing dangerous, sir, just a little something to help you relax, sir. So you can enjoy the trip, sir."

"Trip?" Illya dropped to his knees, still fighting the drug, his teeth clenched as he tried to order his muscles to obey him.

"To our other fitting room, sir, one where we keep snooping U.N.C.L.E. agents... sir."

Illya collapsed to the floor, fighting to draw his next breath and hoping beyond hope that Napoleon was having better luck.

Napoleon shivered and adjusted his jacket. It wasn't exactly cool, but a chill had hit him. He shrugged it off and walked into the tailor shop.

It was fairly run of the mill as far as tailor shops went. He began to look through the various suits that were racked.

"May I help you, sir?" The man appeared through a curtain doorway and Napoleon nodded his greeting.

"Yes, I'm looking for something special." Napoleon fingered the material of first one suit, and then another.

"Something in a pin stripe?"

"I'd prefer a solid and single breasted." Napoleon pulled a fabric swatch that he'd taken from the dead man's jacket. "Do you have something like this in a dark gray?"

"Where did you get this, sir?"

"A friend of mine. He just came back from New Zealand and has been making all sorts of claims. A man in my line of work, well, he needs a hard-wearing suit. He suggested I look here."

"I see." The man handed back the bit of fabric and smiled tightly. "That was a special order, sir, not something we would normally rack."

The door jingled merrily as a large man came through it. He didn't look like a suit off the rack type. Napoleon nodded politely to him. "If you'd like to wait on him first, I will be happy to look around."

"Oh, no, sir, we couldn't do that! First come, first served. Would you like to step in the back and we will measure you."

"That won't be necessary. I'm a perfect 39." Napoleon said.

"Oh, no, sir, I insist." The large man grew closer and let his jacket gap open enough so Napoleon could see the weapon he carried. "I think we are all going to become very good friends."

Napoleon smiled and nodded. "I'm all for making friends."

The big man gestured towards the back room. "Then let's go get to know one another, shall we?"

There was something wet being pressed against Illya's lips and instinctively he swallowed. Mistake Number One. His stomach rolled and he sat up, gasping. Mistake Number Two. His stomach heaved and someone was helping him to something as he retched and vomited until he felt he was surely going to bring up his toes with the next attempt.

"It's the drug. Just take little sips this time." His vision was such that he still couldn't make out the speaker. He rinsed his mouth with the first bit of water, spitting it into what revealed itself to be a toilet. He sat back, panting, feeling rivulets of sweat pour down his body.

Taking a breath, he squinted over at the raggedy man who squatted beside him. "Who are you?" he croaked out and coughed. With a groan, he rocked forward to begin the process again.

"I'm a guest, same as you. Welcome to Hilton Hell, just off the lovely Who Cares Avenue and within a convenient walk of Rot and Burn Park. I'd offer to give you a guided tour, but aside from the cot you were passed out on and the toilet you're puking in, you've pretty much seen everything."

Illya brushed his lank hair out of his eyes and struggled to his feet. "Then I'm checking out."

"I'd sit tight if I were you. You gotta a couple of still not pleasant hours ahead of you."

Illya studied him for a moment and frowned, fighting both the wave of nausea and his memory. "You're not me... you're the man who created that fabric... Victor Mayhem."

"A legend in my own time." He gestured to the small windowless cell they were in. "And look at all that my wondrous discovery has wrought me. You find something that you think is going to make you rich and it only makes you miserable. Typical though, isn't it?"

Illya took a deep breath and rested a hand against a stone wall. "We must be some place tropical and above ground."

"How do you figure that, since we don't even have a window?"

"The stone is warm. It would be cool if we were in a temperate zone or beneath ground." The nausea surged again and he was otherwise occupied for a few minutes.

"Told you to take it easy. There's no way out, so you might as well relax."

This time Illya didn't move any further from the toilet than a few feet. "So," he paused to spit, "how did you come to find your way here?"

"I made some fabric that turned out to be pretty much impervious to bullets. Figured it would be great to sell to businessmen, folks in high risk positions, like cops and soldiers. My own kin decided that it would be better if we used it for other things... there was this company sniffing around... had a bird name... Robin? Blue Jays?"

"THRUSH?"

"That's sounds about right. They were interested, but I didn't care for their restrictions or what they were ultimately going to use it for. I protested and since I held the patent, I didn't think they could do anything about it..." He gestured again. "Guess I was wrong. So why are you here?"

"Went to see a man about a new suit."

"You look like you could use one. Yours is sort of the worse for wear."

Illya regarded the tattered remains of his pants and shirt. His belt, shoes, and jacket had been removed. They obviously knew some things, but he still had a trick or two up his... sleeve.

Napoleon sat quietly in the seat he'd been tied to. They were airborne somewhere, although being blindfolded limited his vision. He probably could have broken through his bonds, but it didn't seem worth the effort. There were at least five men on board and he couldn't take them all out. If Illya had been with him, it would have evened out the manpower. Not for the first time, he thought about his partner and hoped he was having better luck than him.

The beating the large man had given him had provided what Napoleon was sure would be some spectacular bruising. They hadn't really asked him any specific questions and Napoleon knew they might be in league with THRUSH, but they weren't THRUSH. Otherwise, the beating would have taken on a whole new level of persuasion.

Instead, they'd finally tied him up, gagged and blindfolded him, and trundled him onto a plane, flying who-knew- where. A whiff of perfume passed him and that was reassuring. If a woman was part of it, there was a chance that he could work the Old Solo charm on her... providing he could get the gag out of his mouth.

The whine of the plane's engines changed and Napoleon knew they started their descent. Once he got on the ground, the odds would undoubtedly shift again. He ignored the ache in the pit of his stomach and concentrated upon the words being softly spoken.

Tudo está pronto? (Is everything ready)?"

"Quase, mas nós não ouvimos de nossos amigos ainda (Nearly, but we haven't heard from our friends yet)."

"Você pensa que eles o quererão (Do you think they'll want him)?"

"Eu espero então, contrariamente eu não sei o que fazer com ele (I hope so, otherwise I don't know what to do with him)."

Hmm, they were speaking Portuguese... sort of. There was something just a little odd about it. And he had all sorts of suggestions as to what they could do with him. Letting him go ranked among the top three answers. Somehow, though, he doubted it would be an option offered him.

Their landing was frighteningly hard and Napoleon guessed that either they had a very inexperienced pilot or a very dangerous landing strip.

"On your feet." Napoleon was untied and dragged up. He stumbled slightly and was caught, the cool tip of a gun barrel resting just beneath his ear. "Try that again and I will remove your head. I am not that anxious to keep you alive." It was the same man who'd met him in the shop—BG, Napoleon nicknamed him, for Big Guy. Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and let the man propel him forward. Thankfully they had the common sense to remove his blindfold before making him climb down from the plane. It was at that point that he was thankful for the pilot's skill. The runway was practically nonexistent, broken and overgrown with vegetation. Napoleon didn't know how he'd managed to land at all, much less safely.

It didn't help much... they were someplace tropical and there were the shells of buildings all around him. At one point, this had been quite the community, but that had been a long time ago.

He saw the fragment of a sign, written in French, Très dangereux, empêcher d'entrer (Very dangerous, keep out)! Considering that most of the roof was on the ground, Napoleon reckoned he could have seen the danger without the signs. They crested a hill and Napoleon realized they were on an island. In the distance, he could see two other small islands.

It was hot and they were speaking Portuguese, so Napoleon guessed they were near Brazil. It would make sense. These guys did have a shop in Rio, but where was he...?

Then Napoleon saw another sign and he grimaced. This was going to take a bit of doing. Ile Royale part of the Iles du Salut group, and Napoleon glanced over at the island in the distance. God help him, he was on Devil's Island.

Illya sat cross-legged on the cot and carefully pulled a thread from the shoulder seam of his shirt. He squinted and held the material close. The dim light of their cell made it hard to pick out the thread he wanted. Finding a heat source wouldn't be hard, he already scoped out the light bulb that dangled above their heads. It was more than hot enough to light the fuse. No, the trick was getting enough of the thread to reach from the light to the door. Illya hated using all the thread, not knowing what awaited them on the other side.

He still had his wedding ring, though, and the garrote inside. And his tooth, but he didn't really want to think about having to dig it out of his mouth. Considering what his hands looked like, he'd probably give himself a host of diseases during the effort. Still, it was an option and Illya was all about options.

"This is an explosive?" Victor kept out of his light, but was fascinated as only a person with nothing else to do could be.

"Not very strong, but certainly enough to take out a door or two."

There was a noise at the door, the sound of a lock being disengaged, and Illya hastily pulled his now sleeve-less shirt back on. He took one of the sleeves and wound the ends around his hand. If their guard got close enough, he would be able to...

The door opened outward and a man was shoved in. He stumbled and fell, but Illya didn't have to see his face to recognize the cut of the shoulders, the build of the frame.

"Hello, Napoleon," he muttered, scrambling off the cot and going to the man's side. "Welcome to your Waterloo."

Victor had retreated to his cot and stared at the newcomer. "You know him?"

"My partner."

"The one who was going to rescue us?"

"That was the plan, yes." Illya eased the gag from Napoleon's mouth and smiled as his partner worked his jaw for a moment. "Turn around and I'll untie... they gave us rope?"

"They gave us pretty much everything," Napoleon managed. He coughed and tried again. "Do you know where we are?"

"Not a clue."

"Devil's Island. Even if we escape..."

"That rather limits our choices." He undid the last knot and the rope fell to the floor. "We could always swim for it."

"Through shark infested water? Not my idea of a good time." Napoleon noticed Victor and frowned. "Ah, Mr. Mayhem."

"His relatives decided to take their chances with THRUSH as opposed to the slower more predictable route of capitalism," Illya explained. "How many are there?"

"There were seven on the plane."

"You came by plane? That must have been an interesting trip."

"The only thing scarier will be the take off when we leave."

"Leave? We're leaving?" Victor looked from one man to the other.

"You want to stay? Be my guest." Illya rested a hand on Napoleon's arm. "You get me a plane and I'll fly us out of here." He studied his partner's face. "Whoever hit you didn't really know what he was doing, did he?"

"Not really." Napoleon patted his stomach tenderly. "But what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm."

"But you are basically uninjured?" At Napoleon's shrug, Illya continued. "Did you see anything?"

"We're being held in what's left of the women's infirmary. There are a couple buildings closer to the landing strip that have been cleaned up and it looks like some houses are along the shore. I'm guessing whoever lived here is long gone though. Supplies are either flown or brought in by boats. I'm not sure why they set up shop here -"

"I do. It's defensible," Victor said from his cot. "They have something to protect, where better to protect it than on an island with only a couple of ways in."

"This is THRUSH you are talking about, not some fly by night organization," Illya said, returning to his plucking of thread. "They are one of the best armed, solely focused groups in the world. If they truly want this miracle fabric of yours, they will take it and you won't be able to stop them."

"I don't know, my relatives are pretty devious."

"So are ours."

"Who the hell are you guys?"

Grinning, Napoleon reached into his jacket and pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D please." He waited and then shook the instrument. "Channel D? Channel F? Anyone?" He sighed. "We need to get outside if we are to have any chance of contacting someone."

"Thought you'd never ask." Illya walked to the door and wound the thread around the latch. "Do you have your lighter?"

Napoleon patted his pockets and came up with one. He tossed it to Illya who lit the end of the thread and nodded. "We should take cover."

The explosion wasn't big, barely audible—a bright flash, a hiss, and a pop. A minute later and the three of them were moving cautiously through the narrow corridor. Outside there was the hiss of rain, a deluge that had driven people with common sense indoors. U.N.C.L.E. agents weren't always festooned with the greatest of common sense and Napoleon led the charge out the infirmary and under the cover of a narrow stone structure.

"Wonderful, so you decide to take sanctuary in solitary confinement?" Illya wiped the rain from his face and grimaced. "How those men must have suffered from the heat and contagion."

"They were murderers; they deserved what they got. That's why I developed my fabric armor. To protect the innocent."

"By offering it to THRUSH?" Illya shook his head. "That is what I would call barking up the wrong bush my friend."

"Tree, Illya," Napoleon corrected automatically.

"Bush, tree, greenery is greenery. What is your plan?"

"How about getting out of here?" He pointed to the plane.

"Not even I'm reckless enough to take off in this."

"Steal a boat?" Napoleon shook his head. "We could only get to the next island and that probably wouldn't help that much." He took out the communicator and opened it up. A blast of static answered him. "Somehow, I'm thinking that channel is closed to us as well."

"What do we do? Wait for THRUSH?"

"Is THRUSH even here?"

"I can't tell. Basically these guys are sort of the junior league of baddies. Rank amateur." He patted his stomach. "Although a couple of them do pack a punch..."

"They took me down with a sedative. They might not be of THRUSH caliber, but they have already learned a few tricks of the trade."

"Hey, you're talking about my cousins, you know. I know these guys and they aren't dumb... well, Cousin Frankie... I bet he was the one who punched you. He's always sort of been the strong arm of the family... more balls than brains. He told me they were taking me on a world tour, just before practically knocking my block off."

"Nice. I don't think I want to trade cousins any time soon." Napoleon stepped further back, out of the rain as it splattered inward. "I'm guessing THRUSH is on its way to lay claim to your product."

"So can't we just hitch a ride back with them?"

Illya caught a handful of rain and splashed it on his face. "As attractive it would be to get off this island, I am not exactly sure I welcome THRUSH's tender loving care."

"They do make dartboards out of your picture and—" Napoleon broke off at the sound of gunfire. "The natives are restless."

"And I am assuming that THRUSH is in the middle of it."

"I agree. You stay here. I'm going to go have a look around."

Victor looked from one man to the other. "What about me?"

"You stay with Illya. I may need a second wave."

Napoleon eased his way carefully around a building. There was a rustling in some bushes and Napoleon froze. A moment later an agouti stuck its nose out and made a break for it, dashing across the open grassy area in front of the building. Napoleon guessed it had probably been a beautifully manicured lawn at one point, probably belonging to the island superintendent.

Off to one side of the building, he saw a large helicopter and figured that was how THRUSH had come in, not wanting to chance a plane. He didn't blame them.

There was more gunfire and Napoleon pressed back against the wall and shook the rain from his head—or at least tried to. The rain was coming down so hard, it was difficult to see. When he felt the unmistakable prodding of a rifle in his kidneys, he added hard to hear to the list as well.

He raised his hands slowly. It wasn't as if he had a weapon, but if this was THRUSH, it paid to play it safe.

He was pushed into the church and as delightful as it was to get out of the rain for a moment, the sight of several bodies wasn't exactly what he wanted or needed to see.

"Why, Mr. Solo, whatever are you doing here?" Treg Santos rose from the spot where he'd been kneeling, examining one of the fallen men. "And tell me, do you have that little powerhouse with you?"

"No idea who you mean." That garnered Napoleon an uppercut to the jaw and he staggered backwards from the blow.

"Now, we shall try again... is the Russian with you?"

Napoleon looked left and looked right, then shook his head. "Don't see him."

"Oh, God, Luis, 'talk' to him for a moment."

The rain was starting to let up and Illya scanned the horizon anxiously.

"Do you see him?"

"No, but you don't see Napoleon unless he wishes you to." Illya moved from the shelter of the ruins.

"Where are you going? He said to stay here."

"Knowing full well I wouldn't. You can either stay here or come with me. I intend to find out what's happening."

Illya went the back way through the brush, wincing as rocks and other debris jabbed his feet through his socks. He knew why they had taken his shoes. Without them, you couldn't move very fast. He could hear Victor gasp and hiss as he tried to keep up with him. Illya had the concern for his partner firing his will, permitting him to temporarily ignore the discomfort he was feeling. Victor didn't.

They drew close to a structure, a church Illya decided from the stained glass windows, and he stood up on tiptoes to peek inside. He didn't like the sight that greeted him. Napoleon was being used as a punching bag and that didn't set well.

Illya felt Victor at his shoulder and reacted as Victor blurted out, "Hey!"

He clamped his hand over Victor's mouth and pulled him to the ground.

"Keep quiet," Illya hissed as Victor struggled in his arms.

"Those are my relative all over the floor in there."

"Are you that anxious to join them?" Illya whispered. At the head shake, he continued. "Then be quiet." He removed his hand and held up a finger. Slowly, he eased back up, and released the breath he'd been holding. Apparently they had gone undetected.

Or at least that was his thought the split second before feeling the solid clout of the rifle barrel to the back of his head. Every frigging week, was actually his very last conscious thought.

Napoleon sat quietly in the back of the helicopter, doing his best to ignore the rattling and shaking of the craft. Not that he had much of a choice. He was trussed up like a Christmas goose and sat back with an assortment of boxes and sacks. Illya was on his side, still apparently very much unconscious, a fact that was beginning to concern Napoleon. If he'd gotten hit that hard, well, it was only a matter of time before it was the last straw. Their skulls were dented and scarred now. Still, Illya's breathing seemed regular and there was a chance he was playing possum.

Victor was staring glumly at the side of a crate. He'd developed a slight greenish tinge and looked just plain miserable. "Where are they taking us?" he asked finally.

"No idea, Rio, probably or someplace close to it. Wherever THRUSH has set up camp."

"Why didn't they kill us?" Victor sighed. "Dead seems so good right now."

"Illya and I are valuable commodities. We will most likely be tortured in an attempt to make us talk and when we don't, they will kill us."

"What if you do talk?"

"They kill us sooner," Illya muttered from his position on the floor. He struggled to get upright and winced at the steady whup whup of the rotor, then got slammed into a sack by a sudden downdraft. "Just what I needed on top of everything else."

"Welcome back to the waking world." Napoleon struggled to keep his tone light. "Wasn't sure you were going to wake up for the party."

"Neither was I." Illya closed his eyes again. "I am assuming we are the whole and sum of the group coming back."

"All my relatives were killed," Victor moaned. "I didn't like them, but I didn't want them dead. It wasn't their faults they were idiots. "

"Actually it is," Napoleon purposefully kept his voice low. "The only reason you are alive is because they couldn't recreate the fabric that you invented. Once you do that, I suspect there will be a family reunion in your future."

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, that would end badly for you, sweetheart."

Napoleon and Victor looked towards to voice; Illya had either passed out again or was purposefully being unresponsive. The man standing there was holding onto a strap to keep upright as the copter bucked and kicked in the turbulence.

"Who are you?"

"Where are my manners. I am Treg Santos." He extended a hand towards Victor and then withdrew. "Sorry, you are a bit tied up for the moment." He chuckled at his joke and Napoleon rolled his eyes. "I take care of the fashion needs for THRUSH, as it were. And we are very interested in that new material of yours, Mr. Mayhem."

"No deal."

"Oh, I think you're wrong. I think when the time comes you will be most delighted to deal with us." He smiled again. "Your type always are. Is Mr. Kuryakin still unconscious?"

"Looks like."

"Appearances and all, darling. I will send Brutus back to wake him up when we get close to landing. It's so much better if you are mobile when we walk into the office." He waggled his fingers and disappeared.

"Is that guy for real?"

"That guy is very much for real and don't fall for that limp wristed act. He's more dangerous than Illya and me put together."

"Amen to that. I have several scars thanks to him." Illya murmured.

"I take it you decided not to wait for Brutus to wake you up."

"Was Brutus the guy working you over back on the island?"

"I suspect so."

"No, I'm awake." He sat up again and took a deep breath. "I've been thinking, Napoleon."

"Huh, I wondered what that sound was."

"Funny, but I'm serious. If we could get THRUSH to allow Mr. Mayhem here to recreate his fabric, I might be able to get into the lab, given my background."

"To what advantage?" Victor had resumed staring at the crate. "They are just going to kill us."

"No, they are going to try. We're harder to kill than we look."

"You get me into that lab and I might be able to get us out."

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I said to get me into the lab." Illya rotated his hands in the manacles that held them above his head. "I had thought it to be more of a participatory situation."

"Best I could do," Victor muttered, his attention focused upon a beaker. "What's his face wanted to kill you outright, but I convinced him that you would be of more benefit as a lab rat than a corpse."

"And you are sure you remember the formula?"

"Pretty sure..."

"Be very sure."

Napoleon was sitting in his cell, contemplating his options, not that he had many open to him. He knew they were severely overdue to report in and Waverly was no doubt putting additional agents out into the field, but the people responsible for their capture were dead. No help there.

He looked up at the noise and was off the bunk as his partner was half dragged, half carried to the cell and tossed unceremoniously inside. Napoleon caught him and helped him to the bed. The man was shirtless and several spectacular bruises were forming on his back and chest. At the center of each was a bright red spot, almost like an insect bite.

"Illya, what happened?"

"They shot me... several times." Illya grumbled. "Bastards..."

"But you're not wounded..." Napoleon sat him back against the wall. "Certainly it must hurt though."

"That's your take. From where I am, I might as well be. If we have the option to get our hands on this stuff, pass."

"You're just whining now."

"Okay, you can be the guinea pig next time and take a .38 slug point blank in the belly. It's an experience."

"Look at it this way, at least the fabric worked."

"Sort of. It stopped the bullets; it's impervious to everything."

"That's bad?"

"How do you cut it, Napoleon? Or sew it into anything? They ended up just wrapping it around me and firing into it."

Napoleon carefully touched one of the bruises. "That's from how many layers?"

"About five. I don't even want to think what a single layer would feel like." Illya shook his head. "It works, but it doesn't. The resulting pain from the bullet is still there and will drop you. Granted you can get back up after a couple of minutes, but one shot to the head and it's game over, even if you could make a hood out of the stuff."

"What do you mean?"

"You take a blast to the head and the impact would collapse your skull. That's not exactly the way I'd want to die."

"So what do we do?"

"Get the hell out of here and let them have their damned cloth. It will be just a matter of time before they come to the same conclusion that I have."

At the sound of approaching footsteps, they fell silent. Two guards appeared. One unlocked the door while the other held a rifle on them. Both were dressed in floral jumpsuits and Napoleon had to struggle to keep his face somber.

"On your feet." The flowered paisley ordered.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? Again?" Nevertheless, Illya got to his feet with Napoleon's help and moved slowly to the door.

Treg had his feet up on his very exclusively designed desk when they entered, under guard, and he stood up, staring at Illya.

"Incredible! They told me they shot you a dozen times." He approached and then bent to examine one of the bruises. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been shot a dozen times." Illya's game face was on now, any sign of discomforted tucked carefully away.

"Always the smart ass." Treg chuckled. "I am so going to miss you, Kuryakin." He straightened and slammed a fist into the bruise. Illya's knees buckled and he dropped. Napoleon took a step and the rifles moved in his direction. "And you, without the benefit of magic cloth, would not fare as well, Mr. Solo."

Treg moved back to his desk and resumed his position as Napoleon helped Illya to his feet.

"You okay, partner?"

"Five minutes, just leave me alone with him for five minutes."

"And you'll do what?" Treg laughed. "Regale me with stories of your childhood? Whine about how sad your wife will be with you dead."

"Wife?" Napoleon grinned and then caught the glint of gold on Illya's ring finger.

"Trade secret," Illya muttered.

"It would be more of a secret if you didn't wear a wedding ring." Treg reached for a glass and sipped the contents delicately. "This isn't bad for a Cab. A little oaky, but not bad."

"It's not a wedding ring. It's a weapon," Illya said, straightening.

"Sure it is. I've heard marriage called many things, but never a weapon."

"Come closer and let me demonstrate."

"Not in a million years." Treg set the glass back down and glanced over at the pair of guards. "Never take your eyes off them. If one of them moves, shoot the other one. Now where were we?" He put his hands behind his head and smiled benevolently at them. "Ah, yes, we were about to discuss the haves and the have nots. This time THRUSH is the haves." He dropped his feet and leaned forward. "What do you think Mr. Waverly will pay to have the two of you back?"

"Nothing. U.N.C.L.E.'s policy is non-negotiation."

"Even for you two?"

"Especially for us." Napoleon exchanged a glance with his partner. "Unfortunately."

"Well, that's not very convenient. We extend to you our hospitality, feed and clothe you." He looked at Kuryakin and grimaced. He snapped his fingers at Plaid. "Do bring him a shirt. I am tired of looking at him."

"But, sir, you said..."

"Do you want your next assignment to be the toilets of the Kabul satrap?"

"No, sir."

"Then take him and dress him... appropriately while Mr. Solo and I discuss business."

Plaid did everything, except bow, as he took Illya from the room. Napoleon watched their departure uninterestedly. Then he glanced back to Treg, who was again lounging.

"You, Mr. Solo, unlike your partner, strike me as a man of refinement and culture. I am a man of refinement and culture. Surely we can come to some mutual understanding without resorting to violence. Blood is so hard to get out of some fabrics."

Illya moved stiffly down the corridor, playing up his injuries and biding his time. Inside he knew he had a better chance of escape if he was dressed. Plaid took him to a locker room and towards a rack of garishly colored jumpsuits.

"What size are you? And do you care about color?"

"I would rather stand naked in a field of brambles than dress like you."

"You and half the men here." He glanced away for just a second to the rack. It was his last action on Earth.

While Illya didn't like killing outright, he also didn't like taking chances that Plaid would wake and alert his fellow agents. He made it quick and clean, then buried the body in a laundry cart, piling mounds of soiled jumpsuits upon him. With any luck, it would be a few hours before he was noticed.

That accomplished, Illya looked through the uniforms until he found one he didn't hate and slipped into it. It was tempting, this close to the showers, to grab one, but his partner was still being held and that took precedence.

He continued and then stopped and almost gasped. Now there was something Napoleon would like.

Napoleon sipped the Cab and had to agree with his captor. It was good. Not great, but it held up well enough.

"Now, Napoleon, let's discuss this as reasonable people."

Napoleon glanced over to where Treg sat on a designer, over stuffed couch, his feet resting on the most hideous coffee table Napoleon had ever seen. "What is that?" He gestured toward the piece of furniture. "It looks like someone has been messing with it vertical and horizontal holds."

"This, you heathen, is a Lewis Townsend Exclusive. It's called the Twenty Six Pyramids and it meant to capture the excitement of the pyramids and the mystique of those magical times. Do you see how some of the very tips of the pyramids violate the surface of the glass and burst through to the other side?"

"That makes the top unusable as a table."

"This isn't furniture, Solo, this is art."

"I see."

An alarm sounded and Treg's head jerked in the direction of his desk. "Watch him." He was to the intercom in four wide strides. "What is it?"

"The prisoner has escaped." The voice was strangely deadpan for delivering such news. Napoleon frowned.

Treg gestured to Paisley, who dragged Napoleon to his feet. "Where would he be likely to head, Mr. Solo? Back here to find you?"

Napoleon forced a light chuckle. "You don't know Illya very well. It's been, oh, about twenty-four hours since he's eaten. He'll head for the kitchen and then the labs."

"Before rescuing you? I don't think so."

"Ready to bet your life on it? Because that's what you are doing. I'm expendable, Illya knows it."

"You're partners! You're lovers!"

Napoleon choked on that and coughed. "Come again?"

"It's a well known fact."

"You wouldn't mind me being in the same room with you when you tell Illya that, would you? I can't wait to see his face."

"But you are...!"

"But we aren't." Napoleon laughed now, holding his stomach. "I can't believe it—even THRUSH?"

"Find Kuryakin and bring him to me!" He spun on Napoleon. "I will prove it to you!"

"I most sincerely cannot wait."

"Take him back to his cell and watch him! Kuryakin will be after him like a bear after its honey."

Paisley grabbed Napoleon and shoved him towards the door.

Napoleon walked quietly, turning back down the corridor, past a man wearing muted Hawaiian print. There was something in the way he was standing...

Napoleon suddenly doubled over and Paisley grabbed his arm to straighten him. He was practically dead where he stood at that point. Illya had the garrote around his neck in a matter of seconds.

"You're...um... looking very manly in that outfit, partner."

"Thanks, you should see what I picked out for you..." Illya pushed Paisley into a supply closet and shut the door.

"I'll pass and take my chances."

"Dressed like that and you will. Dress like this." Illya indicated his jumpsuit. "And no one will look at you twice."

"One can only hope."

Illya nodded to a room as they passed a group of two other similar dressed agents. "In here, U.N.C.L.E.."

Once the door shut, Illya ran up to a cubist style chair and pulled it out from the Daliesque melting table.

"Here you go."

"I can't believe they let this guy get away with this." Napoleon started unbuttoning his shirt.

"They probably don't have a clue. You know how easy it is to fix vouchers so that they say what you want them to say." Illya used the moment to lean down against the table and let his head sag down.

"How are you holding up?"

"Very tired, very hungry, and I would kill for some aspirin." He cast a sidelong look over at Napoleon who was staring at the garment he held in his hands.

"Then how about I put you out of your misery right now? I'm not wearing this!"

"It's the style and it's in your size. Nothing else was."

"I don't believe that."

"Then would you believe it is the best they had to offer?"

"That I would swallow."

"Good, then get dressed and let's get out of here. We still have an inventor to rescue in our very stylish and hip outfits." Illya pushed off the table and smiled.

Napoleon paused in his dressing. "Illya, do you know THRUSH thinks we're lovers."

"Okay."

"That's doesn't make you insane?"

"You know the truth, I know the truth, and Waverly knows the truth. Who else matters?"

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Napoleon, THRUSH has us captive and they have the potential to achieve something close to immortality on the field of combat. Believe me, what people think of my sexual orientation at the moment is very low on the list. Are you nearly... polka dots really do become you, Napoleon. I might swoon." He set a matching beret on Napoleon's head and patted his cheek.

"I ought to smack you..." Napoleon raised a fist and Illya winked at him.

"Let's go."

Napoleon walked confidently into the room and glanced around. The three guards there paid him very little attention. Victor was perched on his stool, the fingers of one hand tangled in his hair as the other hand hurriedly scribbled on paper.

"We'll take over now," Napoleon said in a brusque voice.

"We still have three hours—" Illya took out the man before he finished. The other two guards moved, but Napoleon had them down and out before Victor even knew something was going on.

"What's happening?" He looked from one man to the other, no sign of recognition on his face.

"We are getting out of here."

"Wait... who...? Solo? Kuryakin? What the hell?"

"Yes, that just about sums it up," Napoleon muttered. "Let's go find Santos and get out of here."

"Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why do we need to bother with him? Let's just go."

"You don't understand, do you?" Illya resettled his beret on his head and looked anxiously to the door. "This is what we do. We stop them ; they try to stop us stopping them."

"I created this cloth to put an end to it."

"An end? Not likely," Napoleon said, checking the ammo in his rifle. "The rules will change, but men will continue to kill men. It's what we are."

"No." Victor hung back.

"You're not staying, Victor. We will take you out under force if need be. We can't let THRUSH have you."

"And then what? You take me away and lock me in some lab somewhere for my protection. You are as much barbarians as they are. Maybe worse because you hide behind what's supposedly good and right."

"Well, when you say it like that, it doesn't sound that attractive, but basically, yes. " Illya moved to the door. "We are clear, Napoleon; we need to move now."

"Let's go, Victor."

"I am my own man and the writer of my own destiny." Victor grabbed a beaker and drank from it, a look of defiance on his face.

Illya's warning of "Napoleon, stop him!" came a second too late. Within a minute the man was writhing on the ground in death throes.

"Not exactly how I saw this ending," Illya murmured, as he stood from his crouch by the body. "How could anyone be that idealistic? Present company excepted."

Napoleon shook his head and gathered up the man's notes. "No idea, let's blow this place, partner, and go home."

"And that is your report, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, sir, the lab and all the notes were destroyed with the exception of the set we sent to you by courier."

"And Mr. Santos?"

"We are assuming he was killed in the resulting blast. Mr. Kuryakin got a little carried away in the end."

"Mr. Kuryakin frequently does when it comes to explosives. Waverly out."

Napoleon tucked the communicator into the pocket of his shirt and looked over to where Illya was currently baking himself in the sun. The tan was muting the bruises and Napoleon had been amusing himself listening to the various excuses Illya had been coming up with for the passersby. And there had been a steady stream of them, pausing to let their eyes travel down Illya's torso until the small bit of fabric that passed as swimming trunks in Rio hid the rest of his partner's assets.

Napoleon had looked in the hotel shop, but hadn't really found anything to his liking, so he wore a pair of lightweight slacks and a loose shirt. Staying in the shade made the outfit perfectly comfortable and women paused by him, intrigued as to what he was hiding.

"You are looking well done on that side, partner." Napoleon leaned over to pat Illya's shoulder.

Illya's head came up and he pushed his sunglasses up onto his sun-streaked hair as he looked down at his stomach. He ran a hand over his belly and, sighing, he rolled over and settled back down.

"You know, there should be a limit to how tan a man can get in just a couple of days," Napoleon grumbled good-naturedly. All the women who had passed by earlier sat up and took notice of the new view Illya offered them.

"When you figure out who to take it up with, let me know. What time is it?"

"You still have three hours before dinner."

"Tea then? I became very fond of that habit in England."

"After what you put away for lunch, I'm surprised you can move, much less eat."

"You're just jealous."

Napoleon watched two women slow and checked them out thoroughly. Another day and he'd have been on his feet, wooing them quietly and quickly, but today, he just wasn't in the mood and that bothered him. "I don't know that jealous is exactly the term. What say we call it a day and head back up to the room? We have an early flight in the morning."

Illya rolled and glanced over at his partner. "Napoleon, we are sitting by a swimming pool with several very lovely and topless women and you talk about retiring early? Are you all right? You are not feeling ill?"

"No, just a little disillusioned by it all." Napoleon folded his towel neatly and then started to refold it.

"I don't understand." Illya had already collecting his towel and room key and watched Napoleon closely before reaching out and setting a hand on Napoleon's. "What is wrong, my friend?"

"Do you ever think that maybe Victor Mayhem was right? We are barbarians."

"I prefer the term warriors. We do a job few other men can, Napoleon. We have our own rule of conduct unto ourselves."

"That doesn't make us right and them wrong, not always."

"No."

"Do you ever wonder if it's all worth it? All the pain, all the suffering and for what?"

Illya gestured to where a dozen people lounged, laughing and drinking. "For them, for this, for each other. And for you. Yes, my friend, you are worth it."

"I don't know..."

"Here, I got something for you." Illya retrieved a bag. "I was going to give it to you later in a more appropriate setting, but I think now is as good a time as any."

Napoleon grinned. He loved getting gifts and Illya's were no exception until he pulled the polka dot bathing trunks out of the bag. He looked over to where Illya was grinning and shook his head.

"Run!" He was half a pace behind his partner all the way up to their room.