Clearly, like a solitary pearl in a velvet box, or the rose in its priceless vase, she intended to be the room's unique ornament. Without the floral screen, he could see that her dress was one of those simple little things that cost a small fortune, and displayed its worth in precision of fit and economy line rather than ornamentation or extreme of fashion. In fact, the handkerchief hem a trifle long to be fashionable, the gathered bodice a little too demure.

She was nude beneath the thin fabric, he was sure before he touched her, and when she bypassed his primly offered hand and came into his arms, he was certain. Her embrace was brisk and strong, no teasing or nonsense about it, and she offered her cheek for his kiss, accepting his lack of response with a smile. After a moment's hesitation, his lips brushed dutifully against her cheek, a kiss that promised nothing, and he breathed the subtle, expensive fragrance of her hair. She was tense and wary, for all she was smooth and yielding: he felt it in the way her weight sat her bones, the way her spread fingers clasped his shoulder- blades. Still, as she leaned back in his awkward embrace to look into his face, barefoot & laughing, he forgot to breathe until he found himself laughing too, to cover his embarrassment.

He dropped his arms and stepped away to allow a black lacquered mini-bar to hold him up while he recovered. One of the jewels at her wrist flipped back to reveal a tiny watch. This, she consulted gravely. "You are prompt, Illya Nickovetch. Won't you make yourself at home? The bar is quite well stocked, and I expect you'll like the wine."

"This is the second time today that someone has told me I was prompt," Illya said, "I had no idea that it was such a rare quality. Also, I had no idea when I was expected, I can hardly take credit."

"It is rare," she assured him solemnly. "And, very flattering, too. I expected you as soon as you received your assignment from Mr. Waverly. He told you to come here, didn’t he?"

"In fact, he told me very clearly not to come, Jessie. "

"And here you are. Why?"

"I had to know," he said simply, truthfully. "I know you are somehow involved Sandalia, I know you want me to go there, and I have to know why."

"You are correct, I do intend to spend part of my vacation in Sandalia, supervising a prisoner exchange. You are wrong about the other thing, however, I do not want you come with me Illya Nickovetch, quite the contrary."

"You asked Waverly for help, didn't you? You expected me to be assigned."

"I did ask for a senior agent, a folly I have had leisure to repent. Actually, I expected Mr. Solo to be assigned; hoped, rather. But, your Mr. Waverly has refused, and no one will be coming with me after all."

"Why did you expect Mr. Solo?" This was turning into an interrogation, exactly he didn't want to happen. Illya strove to make his tone lighten, his face relax. In the bar, he bypassed the wine, found ice and sparkling water. "Should I be jealous?"

She laughed again, but her body did not relax. "Surely not! I merely wished to avoid having you involved in this little matter. It could have been anyone else with the skill I required. I have no wish to baby-sit my travelling companion, that is all." She shook her head in response to his raised glass and questioning eyebrow. She restrained urge to pace with visible effort, settling in a deep armchair with a rustle of silk, burying her small white feet in the deep green shag.

"Why would Waverly do such a thing? What do you have on him?"

She sighed, a commotion of fragile brown silk, and tsked softly at his suspicions. "It is not anything so declasse' as blackmail, Illya Nickovetch. How you misjudge me! It is rather that I happened to have means at my disposal once to help Mr. Waverly when he needed it. I bought some information that might have ruined UNCLE on the black market, and I kept it to myself until I could sell it back, at a fraction of the price I paid, I might add. Your superior is one of those men who cannot be happy while they owe anyone, least of all an adventuress like me. I merely wished to end the suspense, and leave nothing undone."

"Tell me, do you like the art? I made a few business deals, not to have my visit a complete waste of time, and I could not bear to leave them in crates when they hunger to be admired; much as I do, I suppose."

Something didn't fit, and that something had to be right here, under his nose. Taylor seldom lied, relying upon misdirection and allowing her quarry to fall into of his own digging. What sort of trap was she laying, and who was the intended catch? Chances were that the unlucky one would be the last to know. He left his leaning post, and inspected each piece with a curator's eye, running his hand appreciatively up the silky green flank of the dragon, down the dancer's tapering thigh. "Lovely," said. "I expect that they are as costly as they are beautiful. Men must have given their lives for these, and believed they got a bargain."

"Everything has a price," she agreed, sighing again. "Still, sometimes appreciation is enough."

This was dangerous ground. Playing a hunch, he changed the subject. "Have you any thought to dinner? I know a place downtown which has excellent Chinese."

"I was rather hoping we could stay in, for dinner at least. Drinks at La Demesne later, if you like." "Certainly, anything is fine with me. What shall I order from Room Service?"

"Chalupsie in tomato sauce with sauerkraut, pirogies with sour cream and bacon, seed cake, all those sinful things: things that taste of home. Do not trouble to call room service. Even at these prices, it is very slow. I have done a little shopping while waiting for you, and I have most of what we need warming now in the downstairs galley. I'll just ring and have Roxanne bring it up. Meanwhile, are you certain you won't have wine?" He gestured refusal with his glass of water and ice. "Roxanne?"

"The maid for this section of suites. She is very good and not at all obtrusive. Does she work for you?"

The blonde chamber-maid's face flashed in front of Kuryakin's inward eye. No match. "No, not for us. I was wondering if she worked for you."

"Chances are she only works for this hotel. How frightened of one another we become!

"I shall have some wine, since it is criminal to waste it, and we shall have a picnic here, and forget all about Sandalia for a time, all right?"

"We cannot forget about it entirely, Jessie. That is, after all why I am here."

He heard the faint hiss of silk as she moved, and turned to face her. Was that a tear, glittering just for a second in her eye, or was this another of her elaborate ruses? She was in his arms the next second, burying herself against him, heedless of her dress, and the water which splashed over both, and down the front of his jacket. She clung onto him as if he was disappearing hope, and pummeled his chest with tight small fist. It hurt, but he fought his impulse to swat her away. Her arm about his neck was luxuriously smooth, and the blows against his chest were like a knocking, as if on some resistant door. The occupant is at home, he thought, but, he will not answer: though if not to you, probably to no one. He felt the trembling rush of her heart through the shimmering fabric, heard a thunder in his ears that could only be his own. Soft, his mind said, and that was all, distantly he could make out another voice shouting about caution, all but drowned in the thunder. She had a bad heart, he remembered hearing somewhere, and certainly, this uneven gallop wasn't the way hearts were supposed to beat.

"Jess," he murmured. "Jess, don't. You'll hurt yourself!" He staggered under her rush, and fell back against the dancing girl, her cold breast hard against his back, Jessie's soft breasts warm against his front. "For a moment, just a moment, Illyusha! I promise to behave properly, and answer every question you have, but only not now! Trust me long enough to have the little supper I have arranged, and I will tell you all about Sandalia." She was pleading with him, and he must relent, but not too much. Though he must, at last, confess that she held all the cards; now was not the time to show his hand. Besides, an uneasy whisper spoke in his mind, she knows very well why you are here, what you are prepared to offer for the information Waverly wants. What she wanted, then, was for him to raise the ante, to sign on for whatever mad she had planned, heart and soul. Oh, Jess, he thought, what are you leading me to? He caught her wrists and gently, regretfully, he pushed her from him, and stood to ease the pressure of stone against his back. "If you wish, we can wait, just we have eaten." She gave way reluctantly, stood at arm's length, clasping his forearms, and looking solemnly into his face, her eyes dry, her expression opaque. He was surprised at the strength of her grip. She held his gaze a moment longer, willing some unspoken message across the distance between them.

She trembled with urgency, but all he heard was the dull, quick beating of his own heart.

"I will call Roxanne," she finally said, releasing him at last, and going to speak a few words into the house-phone. Illya put down his glass on the bar, waved to get her attention, then pointed at the open bedroom door, lifting a brow in a question. She nodded absently, and motioned that the convenience he wanted also lay through that door, and to the right. Already, she was engrossed in the intricacies of Russian cuisine the maid on the other end of the line. While Jessie was occupied, Illya wandered from room to room of the spacious suite, noting the picture window in the bedroom, the fancy toiletries and sunken tub in the bath. For all the elegance, she didn't seem to be living very comfortably; the drawers he opened were empty, the single suitcase, still packed, overflowed a foam of lace in the back of the dressing room closet.

Following another of those hunches, he locked himself into the bath, and rummaged quickly through the medicine chest. The contents of the chest were a disappointment, revealing nothing more sinister than a foil packet of Dramamine, and a prescription bottle with a medication he didn't recognize. The Doctor's name was given as Johannes Manjorsen, and it allowed four refills, none of which had been used. A black leather case, sufficient to hold a very small gun lay in a drawer under the marble sink. It was heavy enough to be full, but it securely locked. The suitcase in the back of the closet looked more promising, and it was. A pearly satin nightgown, a fuzzy blue robe, two dresses, several silk scarves and a lacy tangle of underclothes passed dispassionately under his hands. A paper folder photographs spilled out: a tall, dark-haired man with a prematurely aged face and sad, black eyes, two white-haired boys in identical sweaters and mittens tumbled in deep snow, and, a much stained and cracked photograph of a short, stocky blond man he was told he much resembled. Illya never could see it, himself, but Jessie had, one night in the moonlight. She had, for a while, confused the ghost with the spook, so to speak, much to everyone's distress and confusion. Even as he shrugged away the question, Kuryakin wondered whether or not he should be grateful to this long-dead stranger whose flat, Slavic features so complicated his life. He was about to give up the search in despair of finding anything interesting when glimmer of precious metal caught his eye. There in the bottom of the closet was a clutter of woman's shoes. The gleam he had seen was a silver ornament on a shiny black pump. Its mate was nowhere to be seen. That was odd. Jessie Taylor was an elegant if idiosyncratic dresser. It was out of character for her to tolerate a mismatched shoe. He dug a tiny penlight out a pants pocket to look more closely at the shoe. As he did so, the light revealed that was not the only one without a mate.

Curiouser and curiouser. She must have packed in a tearing hurry to make such a mistake. Now, why would she be alone, travelling exceptionally light, with a case full of mismatched shoes? The only explanation was a sudden, imperfectly planned exit. From where, and why? Jessie Taylor had more than her involvement in Sandalia to explain. Illya could hear the one-sided conversation in the other room clearly through the wall. The obliging Roxanne was being instructed in some detail about the food in the kitchen, and urged to bring it up without delay. He went back to the bathroom, and splashed a little cold water in his face. He ran hot water over his hands for verisimilitude as he heard the conversation ending, and came out; drying his hands on a thick rosy-mauve towel.

"Our picnic should be here in a moment," she said, pouring a crystal glass half full orangy-pink wine. "A toast, Illya Nickovetch, to the future."

"I never drink to the future."

"Very well. To us, then." He picked up his glass from the bar, raised it glass in solemn salute, then a large mouthful of tepid water. His grimace of distaste did not go unnoticed.

"I told you, you should have tried the wine." She sipped delicately at the glass she held, an expression close to ecstasy appearing on her face.

"No, thank you. I want to keep a clear head."

Her smile was arch and teasing again, as if her earlier distress had never happened, more likely, as if she wanted him to forget it ever happened. "Spoilsport."

He was saved from a reply by a soft tap at the door. "Come in, Roxanne. Please just leave the tray; my guest and I will serve ourselves." Jessie did not turn to watch the maid and bellboy as they quickly and silently laid the table. So it was that she did not see the small, snub nosed gun until it was pressed tightly against her back, and her hand was twisted sharply and hauled up between her shoulder blades. The elegant glass and its fragrant contents made no sound as they hit the rug. The bell-boy, who was still fiddling with tablecloth and cutlery, was taken by surprise, also, but he was quick to follow Roxanne's lead, pinioning the UNCLE agent in tight, professional full nelson. Illya and Jessie exchanged one urgent glance. In that eerie no-time between one and the next, Jessie saw her friend's head lift a fraction of an inch, and his eyes gently slide to the right. She grimaced in pain, but followed his unspoken instructions, allowing her right shoulder to sag just enough to pull against the hand of the woman behind her. Then, as accurately as if they had been doing it together for years, they thrust backward at identical instants and both on target. There was a loud pair of "oofs" as two assailants lost their guns and most of their will to fight. Still in complex, graceful tandem, the intended victims knocked the weapons flying. Their precise choreography broke then; Illya finished the struggle with a single chop to the back of the neck, while Jessie used the less elegant but more punishing expedient of several stinging slaps and, for a crowning flourish, some blunt object trauma the cut-crystal vase. "What do we do now," she asked, rubbing the sore place on edge of her hand.

"Secure these two and get out of here, I guess," the Russian replied unconsciously aping her gesture. "Is there anything useful downstairs?"

"Just the parking, a restaurant, kitchens, and the concierge service. Is that any good?"

"It might be. What about above?"

"I'm not sure what you're looking for, but there is a health spa with the usual sort amenities above the suite level. The rest are all single rooms."

"What I'm looking for is somewhere to disappear to, possibly a place where we disguise ourselves if necessary. You didn't tell me we were expecting guests."

"I'm as surprised as you are," she panted, coming from the bedroom with a handful multi-colored silk. "I don't have any handy rope. Will these do?"

"They'll have to." Together, Illya and Jessie bound their charges securely. "Take your key," he reminded her, "and, leave your watch."

"My watch? Why?"

"So that we can call the management of this fine hotel and inform them that while we were otherwise engaged, their help came in to serve dinner, and steal your jewelry.

" I'd leave my watch, but it does more than tell time, and I may need it yet, this evening. Come help me disarrange the bedroom a bit."

Jessie favored him with a smile that was complicit and disturbingly amused, but she nothing as she helped him rumple the fine linen coverlet and disarrange the pillows the bed. It was her idea to dampen two of the huge bath towels, and leave them in disarray on the bathroom floor.

"Let's go. They'll be coming around any second," she said.

"Right. Have you got their guns?"

"Of course. Before you ask, I've gagged them, too. This isn't my first time, you know."

"Sorry," he said sincerely. " If there are any more in the hotel, they are likely to watching the downstairs. Can you show me the way to the spa?"

"Nothing could be simpler," she replied, her impish humor restored. "Though I had planned this for after dinner."

She led him quickly up a back stairway. Obviously she had already made a careful reconnoiter of the hotel. A grudging respect for her thoroughness began to grow in Illya's mind as she led him silently through the pink, red, and gold exercise room into a resident's locker room.

"We can find employee's uniforms through that door," she said, pointing to an unobtrusive and completely unmarked door. "The whirlpool sauna are through there. " She indicated a baroque catastrophe complete with Sirens, ships, and a school of sporting dolphins. "I don't suppose we have time for a dip?"

She was teasing, and he knew it. Still, he wasted a scowl on her. "No."

"Pity. Still, we can share a dressing room, can't we, if I promise not to peek?"

Illya’s scowl grew deeper, even as a flush of embarrassment crept up around his ears. His voice, however, was carefully expressionless. "It might be safer if we did."

The lock on the employee's dressing room door was meant to keep out curious guests, not resourceful master-spies. It evaporated in a puff of acrid smoke when Illya's shoelace fuse hissed down to the tablespoonful of beige putty he had scraped from hidden compartment in his boot-heel.

Like all dressing rooms, this one was damp and stark. Tall lockers took up all four walls, interspersed with narrow mirrors at convenient intervals.

The lockers were likewise vulnerable to Illya's chemical "keys", and soon yielded a ruffled pink and white maid's dress and a red, double- breasted bell-hop's uniform with black pants and jaunty satin stripe.

Jessie had promised not to peek. Illya turned his back on her resolutely, only to find himself facing a reflection of the scene behind him in a gleaming silver mirror. A hint of pearly skin, a brief unwitting glimpse of her told him that she had no tan line, a peculiar circular patch of un-colored skin at the small of her back. A birthmark, or a scar from some more recent trauma. He remembered seeing no such mark before. Just as he was turning away guiltily, he caught her eye in the mirror, and she smiled. Feeling his face heating, he grabbed a handful of uniform and began to fumble clothes on.

"Don't." her voice was muffled, her expression intent and soft. "Don't. I want to see them all." Even as he consciously wondered what they could be, his left hand strayed to cover one of the scars that marred the taut white skin of his belly. "You've seen me, before."

She had dropped her pink and white costume, and was staring at him with an at once intense and remote, her face shuttered, her eyes wide. "No," she replied. "I never saw you, not like this."

"Jess, really...," he began, then stopped abruptly as she pried his hand away, and fingers traced the wide paler-than-pale line, exploring the empty space where sinew and muscle had been twisted aside. Crossed nerve fibers jangled, and phantom pain awoke. "Don't," he said, and "please," but she was adamant. She would see and touch traces left by bullet and knife, accident and violence, cataloguing agony, awakening with her gentle, implacable search. Numbly, he dropped his handful of scarlet and gold clothing, and stood still, though skin rippled away from her, and long shivers passed through him, from cold or more primal sense, he could no longer tell. The first kiss was a stinging shock, cool lips pressed tenderly, firmly where two thin, appalling lines criss-crossed. Her face now grave and wondering, she searched until had seen and touched each savage mark; each touch, whether by hand, or lips or eyes confusing, somewhere in the shadow-place between pain and pleasure, tasting of both. Never had he felt more exposed, never had her face seemed more remote, at the moment she touched him more intimately than had anyone else, learning the history his career written in Braille on living flesh.

"I'm not fragile," he chided hoarsely, to dispel pity. "I won't break."

"No. You are strong," she agreed. "Which is why no one treats you gently. I am soft, and so no one treats me as if I'm strong.

Sometimes a body hungers for what it seldom finds. I would like to treat you as if you would melt in my hands." She underlined this remark with another of those tender, firm kisses, which made nerves sing like plucked guitar strings.

"Jess, " he said, forcing air into lungs which were abruptly starved, "We have to go."

Her shuttered, bespelled expression changed at once, animation replacing the calm of a heartbeat before.

"In that case, we had better get dressed," she replied. She did not look his way until she heard the chime of belt buckle against the cement floor. She smiled then, shrugged an invitation for him to come over and tie a stiff ornamental bow at the back of her candy pink dress. The brown dress, she rolled up and stuffed into an open locker, then she helped him do the same with his clothes.

"Where to, now," she asked.

"Is there a back way out through the whirlpool room? Maybe a special exit for staff?"

"I suppose there is only one really good way to find out." The huge gilt door swung open to reveal a writhing sea of steam. The white bows Jessie's dress, and the starchy cuffs of Illya's shirt glowed like beacons in the diffused light. Stepping into the fog, they immediately lost faces and hands, becoming ghosts and shadows, indistinguishable and anonymous as the rest. She was breathing shallowly. Illya could hear the characteristic catch in her throat, as she inhaled warm vapor. Acoustic distortion changed the sound, repeated it, put it in front of him, where he saw a flash of white, placed it behind him, where he saw nothing but mist.

"Jessie," he whispered, and all four corners of the world replied, mocking. "This way." Judging distance as well as he could in the encircling fog, he lunged the direction of white flash, and connected solidly with something hard. A marble woman supported one corner of a triangular cornice with her head. She held an immense jar, from which poured eucalyptus-scented clouds. If he could find the control, and turn this off, he might find the door quicker, and time was something of they had very little.

Jessie had the eerie feeling that she was leading a phantom parade, stalked by unseen and half-seen things. The door had to be to the right, between the two colossal women supporting an ornamental lintel. There was another pair on the other side of the room. These she remembered from her earlier reconnoiter, and the steam arose from both pairs in billowing, ghostly trails of white. She groped in the shadows, and gasped with when her searching hand met a sleeve in the dark. "Illya! You startled me!"

The material she touched was warm and damp. She felt along the sleeve, touched sharp, stiff cuffs, and round, orate cuff-links. The hand at the end of the sleeve was also warm and damp, and clutching a very cold, very shiny gun.

There were no switches or controls evident anywhere on the marble woman with the vase. Illya ran his hands cautiously across the slippery stone, climbed up upon a jutting marble haunch, to examine the huge jar she held. He could see vents like those in commercial air-conditioners lining the bottom. Stripping off his bellhop's jacket, he stuffed it into the vase, blocking the vents and much reducing the flow of mist. It would take a moment or two for the fog in the room to settle out, but his visibility was improving. On the giantess' left shoulder blade he found a button which probably controlled the lights. He slapped it into the on position just as he heard Jessie shout. "Illya, run left! Left!" He didn't waste any time looking back, but followed her directions, keeping low, dodging into thick patches of mist. In the pearlescent light of the overhead lamps, he saw her, backed against the far wall, facing a behemoth in a white masseur's uniform. He was only a step or two from a darker patch in the fog, an opening into the massage room, a scant hair's breadth from escape.

If he could only draw away the fire, she might get out unhurt. The man in white allowed Kuryakin no time to plan his route. He swung his gun to fire, following the Russian's zig-zag dash for cover with an assassin's eye. Shots pinged off marble facings, buried themselves in plaster Dellarobbia fruits and cherubs. Fortunately, none found their mark. Kuryakin returned fire on the run, but succeeded only in driving his adversary back into a better position to guard their exit. Cursing his luck, Illya squeezed in behind one of the vase-ladies to rest and watch developments. One wild shot ricocheted uncomfortably close to where he crouched, and Illya, on sudden inspiration, answered it with a low and realistic groan. He knocked sharply on statue, and moaned again, stepping up onto a sagging fold of the statue's shiny robe. It was hot and close inside the vase, but the wreathing steam concealed him friend and foe alike. Recovering from her shock, Jessie raced a similar zig- zag, hoping to lose herself in fog. She skirted the steaming whirlpool, sliding to an unsteady halt, half-hidden by a gilt and faux pearl screen masking an impressive assortment of control levers and dials. Knowing that she could run no further, Jessie concentrated on doing what she could to help Illya's escape. The fog, which had been a screen for their enemy might also be a screen for them. She pulled switches and pressed buttons at random, filling the echoing room loud piped in music, and boosting the temperature in the roiling water to cooking, but having no effect on the mist which Illya had so effectively stifled. "Oh, run, Illusha," Jessie prayed under her breath when she heard Illya's groans. "I'll find you I get out of here, if I ever do."

"I wouldn't wait that long," a familiar voice answered her from above. "Come up, and join me now." Jessie turned her eyes toward the marble woman who had apparently spoken with Illya's voice. Fading trails of mist still flowed from the vase the statue held, but they were thinner now, and careful examination revealed the blond agent's hiding place.

Fighting the clinging dampness of her now-wilted costume, Jessie climbed up the warm marble, and slid soundlessly into the vase next to Illya. In a hurried whisper, the Russian told her why she had had no luck in increasing cover. "Pretty clever, you Russians," she whispered back. "I expect you want to open the vent and sneak out under the fog, but we'll have to get by the fake masseur to it, and I wouldn't take a penny for our chance of doing that."

"I'm glad you're all right, too," Illya replied with a bitter smile.

"I'd still like to find the off button for the steam machine. Failing that, I plan to another way out of here. When do they close the Spa for the night?" He felt her sigh and shrug, her wilted dress clinging damply to her body.

"Ten P.M. I think," she said uncertainly. "But we'll be pretty well cooked by then we stay here. It sounds as if we need a diversion if we are to escape. The problem is, what? You don't happen to have any more explosives on you, do you?"

"A small detonating cap on a tooth, Illya admitted ruefully. "Not enough to stop anyone that size."

"I've got it," she whispered urgently. "Do we have enough material between us to up all four vents?"

"Possibly, but we can't go anywhere naked. I'm afraid it won't work. But, maybe can convince them to turn the steam off for us."

"We can? How?"

"I am not at all sure this plan has merit, but as it's the only one we have... We can't block the vents, which is a pity, since the resulting overload would..." Stung by his didactic tone, Jessie interrupted. "You've already told me what won't work. Perhaps now you'll tell me what will ?"

"...certainly get us some welcome attention," he continued unperturbed. "However, I think I can start a small fire here, which should set off automatic sprinklers and alarms all over."

"That old trick never works," she whispered.

"The reason it got to be an old trick is that it does work. While we're arguing, that man with the gun has time to look for us, fog or no fog. We'll be wetter and colder, and will have to breathe steam for a moment or two, but we will get out, and that's important, don't you agree?" He took her injured silence for consent, though he could feel annoyance replacing distress in the way she held her body, and allowed himself an grin. Nothing like anger as an antidote for fear, not to mention other, more problematic emotions. He had the satisfaction of being thoroughly annoyed by her lack of confidence. His brief preparations finished, he nudged her roughly in the ribs.

"When I signal you, climb out of the vase and down the statue. Head for the door, and, don't look back. I'll be behind you, and keep you on my right. All set? Go!"

She didn't choose to argue, and placed her foot squarely in Illya's joined hands, and pushed over the rim of the vase smoothly. Illya heard the slick, damp sound of her retreat, felt the warm pressure of her body against him abate. He set the tiny cap as close to the vent as he could manage, hissing a little as the hot steam stung his hands. A flimsy bit of magnesium fuse trailed from the cap to a spot just under nozzle of the sprinkler system used to extinguish fire. He pulled the two ends of the light fuse free of their insulation, breathed one of his life's more devout prayers, and let the naked wires touch. The effect was gratifyingly swift and explosive. Illya boosted himself up the slippery vase, and down the statue just in time. The magnesium burned brightly, the sprinkler head melted , and fountains of hot, choking steam rose from the heated floor. Jessie's flight was nearly noiseless, but he could see the white trim on her dress, ghostly in the mist, and he was careful to keep it directly on his right. She did not falter, but performed a steady, deft end- run around their captor, who was momentarily stunned the explosion and noise of the alarms. They burst through the sole unlocked exit, plowing between towel racks, grabbing as many barrels of damp laundry as she could, and shoving them into her pursuer's path. Their enemy was right on her heels. He had to jump the rolling obstacles, and sprint to keep up. They were only one step ahead of disaster, and Jessie's breathing had a ragged sound; but she kept firm at his side through the last rush, and only stopped they were both leaning against the wall by the elevator, trying hard to look casual they caught their breath.

"We had better call about the `jewelry thieves' from La Demesne," she panted as soon as she could speak. "And, I owe you an apology about `old tricks'. "

"Accepted. Besides, if you had known how uncertain I was that it would work..."

"...I wouldn't have apologized," she finished for him. "Do you think we can get cab looking like this?" she whispered as the elevator doors closed. "I don't think I want to walk 10 blocks looking like a parlor maid."

"Cab drivers in New York have seen everything," he assured her, gallantly. "It takes more than a pink dress to make you look like a parlor maid."

She answered with a curtsey so profound that her sodden skirts left wet marks on floor, then rose, and led him past the goggle-eyed elevator operator and desk clerks, out under the ornate awning, where a frozen- faced doorman summoned a cab without a second glance. The ride to the private club passed in a dizzy blur. The cab barely stopped long to deposit two bedraggled passengers, and the driver collected his fare and a calculated tip without comment, and squealed away in search of less bizarre, (and more liberal} patrons.

The doorman at La Demesne was anything but stony faced. In fact, his face was garishly animated; white-face enhanced by soaring purple eyebrows and wide scarlet and yellow smile. "Darlings!" he caroled, sweeping Jessie and Illya into a jovial, rum-soaked embrace, "You're just in time for the coronation! And, such clever costumes !"

Kuryakin shot Jessie a questioning look, but allowed himself to be towed along into a high-ceilinged room where the season was always Mardi Gras, and never, never Lent. Balloons sailed, propelled by lazily turning fans, the air was heavy with perfume and the dense, white scent of gardenias massed on every table. The light was strictly candles, except for a small red-lit stage whose only furniture was an ample velvet- upholstered couch. Revelers in silk and feathers, leather and laces made way for Jessie, Illya, and the clown-painted MC. The gaudy crowd closed behind them in an irregular line, and musicians struck up a fervid tarantella. Dance broke out here and there among revelers, and the parade that swept them up proceeded with mock dignity around the swirling dancers.

"You brought Mr. Waverly here?" Illya's shocked whisper tickled Jessie's ear.

"It's quite a different place by daylight." She replied airily, dancing a little, her skirts swinging in the clown's colorful wake. Illya saw her cock her head when the clown whispered something too low for him to hear, saw her face glow with a pretty blush, heard her laugh. She spun a tentative reel around his hand, tardily outstretched to catch her, drawing an appreciative waft of laughter from the crowd, then hurried to match the MC's pace. "Max says we can stay here at least until daylight. With a little luck, we'll still be here for breakfast. He'll send us a drink to take the chill off, and feed us if he gets the chance. Let's slip into a booth as soon as we can." She looked into his solemn bewildered face, and laughed again. "We are among friends, I promise. Let's catch our breath, get warm, and think of where to go next. We can't return my hotel, and I expect your own apartment is being watched by both sides, so..."

"Friends?" Masked and painted, costumed and nude, the room swelled with laughter, much of it friendly, some of it mad. "More to the point, what both sides? When I walked into your rooms, Miss Taylor, I was only aware of two sides, the U.N.C.L.E.'s and yours, if they were different. Now, it seems that there are at least three sides. I think you owe me a bit of clarification. Are your two sides the same as mine?"

Taking their cue from the clown at the head of the parade, the invisible musicians began to play a soulful air from a popular movie. A whiskey baritone in the crowd began to sing along. "Each time we kiss, I worry and wonder... " "How sweet," Jessie murmured, dancing again. "They have remembered my song."

"Sides, Jess. You promised to explain."

"A triangle is unstable, Illya, " Jessie said. "It spins on one point or the other on slightest provocation. For stability, one must look to squares, though, I confess a fondness for circles." Her gaze was clear as water, and sorrowfully, she met his gaze. "Illya, you promised to wait."

"I can't. I mustn't. Not when our lives are at stake. Not when I don't know who is shooting at me or why."

"Come and have a drink. Get warm and dry," she urged. "I promise to tell you I'm doing, in Sandalia and here. Then you will be at ease, and we can make plans."

Illya's private opinion was that he could never be entirely at ease here on this side the looking-glass. Still, the notion of sitting and making plans for what promised to be an exciting, if short, future with Jessie Taylor was more exciting than he was comfortable admitting. They fell out of the procession, and slipped into a narrow booth, curtained with paisley shawls. The interior was close and warm, and the banquettes lushly upholstered in cranberry velvet. The curtains cut off most of the sound, and all of the light from the dance-floor. No sooner the chill began to fade than a tall, silent woman in scant black cat-suit arrived with a tray. She set two steaming mugs and two tiny glasses of garnet liqueur on the table's leather upholstered top, and disappeared without comment or payment.

"I'm a regular." Jessie remarked, by way of explanation, and alternated thirsty gulps of the hot liquid with delicate sips of liqueur. After just a moment, she sat back, a faint, pink flush appearing above the neckline of her gown. "Much better. Now I can do something about the cold." From some hidden place underneath the banquette, she drew a heavy, stiffly brocaded comforter, stuffed to exploding with down. He accepted the cushiony wrap, but approached the steaming mug with more caution. It smelled of coffee and cinnamon, and tasted normal, hot and strong. The cordial in the tiny glass was spiced too, coriander and clove, and something foreign danced on the tongue and warmed from within. "Better," he agreed. "Now, tell me all about Sandalia."

Jessie seemed about to protest again, then shrugged it away. "It isn't important, who's fighting who, and what about. THRUSH has its paws in both sides; any excuse to embarrass UNCLE and stir up a little trouble will do for them." Kuryakin knew the rules of the Silence Gambit. He drew his brows together sternly, expressing a polite amount of doubt, and opened his eyes a fraction wider. Tell more, his unspoken invitation said. I'm interested, but I don't quite believe the story, yet.

"The kidnapped courier," he prompted gently. Her eyes were dreamy, prismatic with sudden wetness. Tears? The heat in the booth was drawing steam from their soaked clothes, and might account for the glisten, he couldn't be sure.

"No one important", she shrugged "Except that every one is crucial when playing for such high stakes. What is at risk is a set of very important documents, a record, if you will of every species of international double-dealing in and by the new head of the provisional government. Thrush would like to indict the whole movement for this man's crimes, and install a criminal of their own choosing. The U.N.C.L.E. wants to keep the current criminal in place until a suitable puppet can be found which will do its will. And so, the dance goes on."

"THRUSH's propensity for setting both ends against the middle is well known," said Illya, cautiously. "Where do you come in?"

"I was asked to be a mediator; to supervise a prisoner exchange. I agreed, I happen to be aquainted with one of the principals. I knew nothing about the trade at first. Then, as these things do, it got ... complicated." She spread her hands in a pretty gesture of helplessness. "So, I have to go to Sandalia, and I had hoped you wouldn't go with me, because there's really nothing you can do, but you'd be bound try anyway, and..."

"Napoleon wouldn't?"

"Probably not," she sighed. "Not on my account, anyway. He has not such an inconvenient sense of loyalty." She took another swallow of coffee, chased it with the last of the cordial, and offered him a tentative smile. "He is not so enamoured of intrigue. For him, all of this espionage is no more meaningful than that masquerade!"

Her gesture swept aside the paisley hangings, and sound and light blossomed in the booth. King and queen, or two queens, or even two kings, it was impossible to tell, the revels had been chosen, and were led with much mocking ceremony to seats upon leather chaise. "What is your will," the Master of Ceremonies asked, in a serious tone belying his painted grin. The voices that answered, a heartbeat before the chorus of revelers took up the chant, were male and female, but whether the feathered creature was king and the floral fantasy was queen, or vice versa, Kuryakin could not tell. "My will is to do my will!" The two "royal" personages then began a lively of forfeits, each command more ridiculous than the last. To Illya, it seemed as if point was to get as many people as naked as possible, as quickly as possible, in the most amusing way. Jessie dropped the curtain, obscuring the scene, but the sound of the crowd was now louder, and they heard plainly that the revelry grew wilder, and swept to a loud climax, punctuated with fanfares and clash of cymbals and drums. She dropped her hand on Illya's: a cold sliver of ivory and rose. Her eyes were lambent with those curious tears, and pale as moons. Jaguar's eyes, Illya thought, glowing in a private jungle she carries in her head. "Your will," she breathed. "What is it?"

"I will..." he began, and she kissed him, one hand rising to toy with the long hair that brushed his collar, the other pressed flat and chill against the bare skin of his chest, under the still damp shirt. In mid- breath, the command became a promise. "I will."

Her lips were warm, and scented with spice. Her kiss was tender, gentle, fire banked and waiting. Her damp hair came loose, and fell over her shoulders, down her back, between her breasts which were suddenly bare as the sculpted dancer's had been, as perfect, and only a little warmer. He leaned back against claret velvet, adjusting himself to her weight, and cupped her chin in one hand, forcing that pale gaze to focus on his. "This doesn't change anything, Jessie."

"I know. It isn't meant to." She kissed his hands; both sides, mysterious, warm touches, sealing some compact he hadn't heard. She pulled the comforter closer around them, snuggling under it with him, her naked skin warming where it touched his own. Clever hands worked his damp shirt from his shoulders, and she kissed the hollows under his collarbone, murmured endearments into his throat. His eyes closed, and he felt deep growl of pleasure rising from somewhere inside, forcing its way out despite his will to be silent. He had let her begin, and now, there was no turning back, though he knew that a word would end it all, he could not summon the wish to resist, to throw back enveloping satin of the coverlet, to refuse the warmer, silkier touch of her rose and pearl flesh. He pulled her up to kiss her lips, and tasted salt-water, then spice. Her smooth tongue urged his mouth open, and the heat between them escalated. Soft, all over soft and smooth, her body, solid and sinuous against his yielded everywhere he touched: soft of nether hair, satiny flanks, and round, hard nipple-buds. Yet she was strong, yet she was inexorable and gentle as a tide of sea, and though stone denied her, yet she would conquer all at last. Her petticoats scratched his skin briefly, were kicked triumphantly into oblivion the curtain. "Jessie," he managed, around another kiss, "We can't. Not here. Someone may come in." The woman in the cat suit had seen all of this and much more, still he was uncomfortable.

His intensely private self seized control, and hung on like grim death.

"Trust me," she whispered, and he did, or desperately wanted to, which amounted to the same thing. His clothing was a restriction, and he sighed with release as her fingers undid his belt. The buckle grazed his belly and thighs, tickling as cold, wet fabric slid away, leaving him free to feel her all along his body. She stretched herself out upon him, and gripped his hands tightly, stretching them up above their heads. "Don't," she whispered, emphasizing her words with a gentle upward tug, "Let me do it." She freed one hand to stroke, intent and delicate between his thighs, until his body tightened, and his need was a separate will and mind of its own, then capturing his desire and guiding it gently, surely home. They stayed locked for a moment, her flesh cool and tender without, hot and molten within. Then she began to move, slowly and gently, using her own pleasure to increase his, and establishing a rhythm, regular and even as a clock. He was giddy, though he had had next to nothing to drink, and felt as if he rode a roller- coaster, up to swirling red stars, and down to sweet, perilous depths. She shuddered, and falling down upon him, bit his shoulder to smother a cry. The deep, trembling brought his own peak, and the roller coaster left the track, and blasted into space. She sat astride, motionless and watchful, until his body stilled, then slid down him, accepting an affectionate, drowsy kiss as accolade. "We are safe, here," she whispered. No one will find us, no one will know."
Part Three