As it turned out, rain was the least of their problems. They were not a minute from the city center when Illya spotted the tail.

"Do not bother looking back, Miss Taylor," he hissed. "It is a green sedan, two men in the front seat. They are not sightseeing, nor are they particularly hiding their intentions." He spoke a word or two in educated Greek to their driver, who responded with a grim nod and a few less formal words. They were agreed. Evasive action was required. Jessie said nothing, but she did not need to be lectured on the wisdom of keeping her head down.

She reached under her skirt and withdrew a small, stubby weapon from her garter. "Not much good at any range," she said critically. "But, it is easy to hide and in close quarters size matters less."

Illya did not have time to do more than nod. Their pursuers were taking advantage of the lonely location and the rain slick roads, and closing the gap between them rapidly.

The driver drew his own gun, and laid down a cover, forcing the other car back, but it was only a delaying tactic, and they knew it. The little sedan slued abruptly to the left as a tire popped, and the driver fought it with silent determination. Illya reached over Jessie to unlock her door. "Get ready to jump when we slow down!", he directed tersely as the car hit a long straightaway in the heart of a little grove of olive trees.

The car did not slow. In fact, it continued to gain sped, running on deflated rubber, and finally on steel rims in a shower of brilliant orange sparks. Illya spoke mildly, then sharply, the shouted at the oblivious driver, who continued to drive, demon possessed and hell-bent for the far side of the olive grove, and the lights of an Business Park just ahead.

Illya reached forward to tap the unresponsive driver, and get his attention. He hid his shock when he drew back his hand covered with something warm, sticky, and red. Grasping the wheel in both hands, he guided it from the back seat, racing for the lights that seemed to rush toward him as the metal whined and sparks flew. "Shoot!" he commanded. "It does not matter if you can hit anything as long as they think you might!"

Jessie Taylor did as she was bid, firing out her side window as Illya struggled to keep the car on the road. Only a little bit further...

Straining over the back seat, Illya could not reach the controls to moderate their speed, and the vehicle was travelling far to fast to make jumping out an option. They’d have to hang on and ride for their lives, and hope their luck held. A shot hummed past Illya’s ear, splintering the windshield. Blinded, speeding out of control, and running out of time, they hurtled on.

Desperate, the Russian hoisted himself over he back seat, and pummeled and pushed their late chauffeur, trying to force him aside. The body lurched over to lie across Illya, but his feet, jammed against the accelerator, did not move. Cursing, Illya slid down off the seat to untangle feet from machinery, with one hand, steering blind with the other. "Jessie if we’re about to hit a tree... "

Her voice was a little rough, tension blurring the usually clipped consonants. "You want me to tell you? I fail to see... "

"NO I don’t want you to tell me," he panted, forcing the dead man’s foot free of the pedal at last. "Tell me if we have already hit something." He shouldered the limp weight aside and took over driving in earnest, just as the straightaway ended in a sharp left turn.

He fought the wheel, and his passenger fought to keep her aim. By now , she could see the steely green eyes of her pursuer, and imagined she could see clean, precise notches on the barrel of his gun. "You carved the last one too soon," she muttered, and drew one tortured breath and fired blind, trusting her luck since her expertise had failed. The shot bounced off a fender, and exploded the right front tire.

"Illya... "

"I asked you not to tell me."

"No, they’re turning off. They’re going away."

Stamping with all his might on the brake and holding control of the car by main force, Illya skidded to a stop in a hail of gravel and a shower of blazing orange sparks. He popped the driver’s door, and rolled to the ground, to find himself aiming at a departing cloud of dust.

"You were right, she panted close to his ear. "Once they thought I might hit something they backed off."

Gunmen from the Business Park ran out to provide tardy cover, but there were no more shots. "Jessie, I want you to look now." Illya said seriously, "and, I want you to tell me if their guns are pointing the right way."

"It looks to me as if we are being welcomed," she replied. "Let’s get up and see." The Russian scrambled to his feet, and reached down to pull her up beside him. Guns still clenched hard in fists, they turned as one to face their Fate.

Fortune was smiling, and so was the brisk, brown woman who, thankfully, spoke English well. For her late companion she spared neither a word nor a glance. She was politely noncommittal to Jessie, but stared long and hard at Illya, as if posing questions she knew better than to voice.

"I apologize that we could not find you accommodations in the city," she said, apparently without irony. "But, we thought it might be too dangerous. There is no nightlife there, anyway. No excitement."

"That is quite all right," Illya replied, shaking dust from his clothes, and holstering his gun. "We are here for business, not entertainment. Speaking of business, would you know who that was who just tried to kill us?"

"I can only guess that your arrival has not gone unheralded. There is another American in town, might they be friends of his?"

"No." Jessie said brightly. "I doubt they are friends of his. It is certainly a misunderstanding we will all laugh about in future years. For now, the important thing is to see that the exchange goes well. "I assume there are details to consider, and I had better get to them." She cast a doubtful look in the Russian’s direction, which he understood immediately.

"Do not think of me for a moment, Miss Taylor," he said gallantly. "I will spend my time getting acclimated. Leave security considerations to me, and immerse yourself in the politics you are so clever at." He worked at injecting the right note of patronizing with a hint of servility, playing the role of hired security specialist to the hilt. Dismissing her and turning to their hostess, he inquired, "May I see the area where the prisoner is detained?"

"Certainly, Mr. Kuryakin, this way. I expect he is still sleeping, but you will be able to see that our arrangements are both quite humane and secure."

A long, rickety flight of stairs led up to a guard’s platform which looked down through the barred ceiling of the detention cell. A thick layer of transparent plastic shielded it from rain, but not from the ever-vigilant guards. A very small toilet cubicle was covered by a dingy green tarp- providing only limited privacy. As prisons went, it was quite spacious, and well furnished, There was a worn but clean carpet covering the floor, and a thick comforter, which looked to be handmade, on his cot. All the comforts of home, Illya mused to himself sourly, though it didn’t much matter how pretty the wrappings were. A prison was still a prison.

The inhabitant of the cell was taking advantage of none of his amenities. He was sprawled in a curiously childlike tangle of limbs under the heavy covers, one hand tethered to the frame of his cot by a silvery chain. Perhaps that pale, slender hand caught the Russian’s attention, stopped his cursory glance, and made him look again hard. Perhaps it was the lax, untenanted posture of the prisoner’s body, somehow familiar.

Whatever it was, the Russian agent stared long and hard. Here was a boy, possibly 17 or so, short, and broad in the shoulder, narrow in the waist. His hair was honey blond, darkened in adolescence from its childhood whiteness and wavy with the damp. H is eyes, Illya knew with a shock that sank his heart into his belly with a sickening lurch, would be the color of a stormy sky when they opened. This was one of the children from that much creased and folded photo- one of the two boys he had seen and wondered about in Jessie’s hotel room. Now he was grown up enough to be in peril of his life for a cause he probably did not fully comprehend. "A talent for getting into trouble," Jessie had said. It apparently ran in the family. This boy was flesh of her flesh, of that there was no doubt, but other questions remained. Who was the father, and where was he? Could he be the man in the other photo, the one whom Jessie had insisted looked like him? The boy’s features were strong and square, but softened by youth and the blankness of sleep the resemblance was not so easy to see. Would that jaw clench stubbornly, that tender mouth twist into a cold and bitter smile? Had she known? That was inconceivable. She could not have known. Or, had she? What had this child done to make him so valuable to THRUSH?

"You’ll notice our guest is confined by one wrist," their hostess was saying. He cannot leave his bed without a guard standing by. He is sedated at night, and whenever he appears in public, he is manacled, gagged and masked. These precautions seem extreme, but trust me, they are necessary. Except when he is in public, however, his hands are free, and he may move about his cell as he wishes."

"Necessary," Illya echoed incredulously. "Why necessary? He looks to be little more than a child."

"He is a child, an extremely dangerous child. Do you remember a young revolutionary in your own half of the world, a young man named Che Guevara? This lad is like him a fiery orator, like him unconscious of anything but his cause, like him able to rouse the masses with a word, a gesture, a glance from his eye. There will be no glances, no gestures, and no words from him until he is safely delivered to his new masters. They will make a terrible weapon of him, I have no doubt. I can only hope the man he is to be traded for is worth it." Believing that she had said too much, she abruptly left the Russian agent alone with his thoughts, and the pitiful spectacle of the pinioned, dangerous child.

Obviously, he had to speak to Napoleon. There was no time to lose. He would consider what to say to Jessie when he had decided if he should say anything at all. He made his way down the stairs and inquired of a helpful guard the way to a telephone. Tourist hotels were not exactly thick on the ground in Sandalia, and anything less than 3 Stars was out of the question. That made finding the American "fashion photographer" relatively easy and quick.

"Can you meet me somewhere?" Illya said urgently into the phone when his friend answered. I must talk to you before the exchange, and we have no time to waste."

"I am so glad you decided to talk to me," Napoleon said with real warmth. "Did your deal with that Taylor woman go sour?"

"In a manner of speaking, it did, yes. I want to talk to you but there are too many interested parties here. Where can I meet you, assuming I can get wheels and do not get killed on the way there."

"I can meet you at the end of "Little Doves" street. There is a Retsina stand there, and they are used to artistic types hanging out. We only have an hour or so, so I would step on it. Whatever you have discovered, I’m sure our Uncle would be interested."

"I’m sure he would be. I’ll be there in half an hour. Nowhere is more than half an hour away from here." Hanging up the phone, Illya went to find another helpful functionary, one of what seemed to be a Government owned fleet of uncomfortable brown sedans, and directions to the small café/bar at the north end of the street called "Little Doves."

When he arrived, he found Napoleon waiting for him, a flaming glass of Sambucca on a little plate before him. Solo was a sartorial vision in puttees and many-pocketed shirt, set off by a flaming scarlet scarf wound dashingly about his throat. Theatrical, certainly, but also an excellent disguise for a master spy on the prowl.

Seeing the urgency in his partner’s face, and reading tension in his body language, Solo dispensed with small-talk. "What is it? Is something going to go wrong with the transfer?"

"What do you know about the parties involved," Illya hedged.

"Nothing much. Our guy is an old hand, not likely to crack no matter what THRUSH does to him. The other side of this is pretty well known around here, something of a fire-brand, from what I’ve been able to pick up. He has a foreign name, something like Alex"

" Alexei," the Russian muttered, too low to be heard by his friend. "What precisely are your orders, Napoleon? This is vital. Did Mr. Waverly send you here to preserve the information at all costs? Are you here to keep the exchange from happening at all?"

"It did cross Mr. Waverly’s mind that that might be the prudent course, but I have to tell you my orders are not specific. If there is any sign of a double-cross, of course, all bets are off. Other than that, I am a free agent- so long as the information stays in friendly hands. Mr. Waverly was quite specific about that. I may tell you that I don’t relish the idea of upsetting this place’s politics for decades to come, but if I have to, I know where to shoot, and I will."

"I suppose you do," Illya replied, a shade more bitterly than usual. "If you had to choose, who would you shoot? The old man who should have died, and saved us all the bother, or the young man who is unlucky enough to be talented, articulate and vulnerable?"

"Have you seen this kid? What’s he like?"

"Trouble," the Russian admitted. "A lot of trouble. What do you think of this? Couldn’t we just `rescue’ him? He might be grateful enough to turn to U.N.C.L.E.’s side, and as much trouble as he is, he could be a benefit in the right hands."

"He must have really impressed you," Napoleon replied. "But, how? I understand security is pretty tight."

"Not too tight for us. I am nearly the same height, though I’m a bit heavier. We could steal a leaf from Dumas, and try the old Monte Cristo ruse, let me go to the exchange in his place. You’d just have to get me away from THRUSH before they discovered our trick. What do you say?"

"I think you’ve lost your mind, but I must say I like it better than killing anyone. Can you get away from Jessie Taylor long enough to pull this off? I know the kid will be bound and masked, but what if someone realizes you aren’t he?"

"That would be unfortunate in the extreme, and I trust you will not let it happen. Leave the details to me. The only road from the complex leads through a thick and thrice- damned grove of olive trees. You be there, not at the exchange, and you look for a prisoner in heavy clothes and body chains. With luck that will be me, and with a bit more luck no one has to die, especially me."

"I don’t think you have thought out the consequences, but when has that ever stopped you? I’ll be there. Promise me you will explain all this when we get home, assuming we will."

"I will explain as much of it as I understand, Napoleon. You have my word." So saying, Illya left his friend sitting open-mouthed, and quit the street called "Little Doves".

Though he had talked a good game to Napoleon, getting access to the prisoner’s cell was not easy. It was only by insisting in his best security specialist’s tone, and brooking no opposition, that he was at last let into the "cage."

The boy was no longer sleeping. He sat in a metal chair beside the metal shelf that served him as a writing desk/bookshelf, reading a narrow book of poetry.

"Has anyone but me been to see you?’ the Russian asked gruffly, praying that Jessie had been too occupied with her own affairs to visit the prisoner.

The eyes were, as Illya had imagined, precisely the color of a sky about to rain. They fixed him with candid surprise, and a bit of fear, all but hidden in their depths. "No. No one. Why are you here? Are you one of those who are coming to take me? "

"I will help you if you let me," Illya whispered hoarsely, close to the boy’s ear. Do you want to get out of here, start a life somewhere safer, or are you truly interested in becoming the tool of one or another combatants? You will never be free if you do not decide to come with me. Even then, I cannot promise you freedom, just a chance to get it if you are smart, strong and daring enough. Do you trust me?"

Those storm colored eyes pierced him through, their expression unreadable and cold. It was a look so much like Jessie’s that breath caught in the Russian’s throat as he was weighed, measured, classified, and judged. Satisfied, the boy turned his disturbing gaze away. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do they inject your sedation in the evening?"

The bitter twist to the child’s smile went to Illya’s heart like an arrow, though he did not look away. "Only if I am uncooperative. "

"Be as docile as you can tonight, my young friend, and hide the pills in your hand or in your cheek. Pretend to have trouble sleeping, toss a bit, then ask to go to the toilet about twenty minutes after they put your mask and shackles on in the morning. I will be in the toilet stall and I will trade places with you. Stay hidden in the stall until someone comes to get you. If we are lucky, I will be rescued from one side before the ruse is discovered, and you will be rescued from the other side at the same time. I can promise you nothing about your future, only that you will have one if you do as I say, none if you do not."

"Then, that is not a hard choice. But why? Why would you risk death yourself to set me free?"

"I cannot answer that. Just say I owe an old friend a favor, and lucky for you, another old friend owes me one."

"I will do as you say," the prisoner replied, and for an instant Kuryakin saw a gleam of that hazardous potential. Armies would march for that smile, riots would erupt at that voice’s command. He was all Jessie’s son, and a dangerous child, indeed.

Slipping away from his rooms in the pearly gray of the next dawn was easy. "You won’t see me this morning, if all goes right, he had told Jessie. "But, be assured, I shall be in the thick of things. Just leave it to me. You brought me along to do a job. Let me do it. Your job is to keep the information in friendly hands. Leave the details to me."

She had been on the verge of protest when something in his eyes stopped her. She suddenly knew that there were things she did not want to know. Mercifully she was not inclined to pursue them. Not at the moment, anyway.

Getting past the guards and into the cage was not as simple. Timing was all, and he was nearly seen twice on the stairs, but evaded the guards by becoming a shadow among shadows- a shadow with sticky fingers and a sharp eye for where keys are kept.

Illya hid in the dank cold shed until he heard footsteps, quick and sharp and slow and dragging. The clink of chain was chilling in the cold morning, and Illya offered a silent prayer to the whatever forces controlled his destiny that he would not be discovered. He heard his erstwhile hostess make a sound of annoyance, and felt a cold wind blow in as the tarp parted and a heavily masked and bound figure shuffled in.

Switching clothes unlocking the shackles was accomplished quickly and silently, and wrapping Illya in the borrowed mask and veil was likewise swift and quiet. The only words was a muttered, "Sorry" as handcuffs and belly chain were locked into place, and heavy shackles bound around each ankle. "I know it hurts. Sorry."

Illya wanted to say he didn’t mind, wanted to make a gesture of comfort, but he could not. He could only stare through the eye-holes of his mask and smile as hard as he could. Then he let the deeper mask of drugged somnolence drop over his features, and half closed his eyes, hiding their revealing blue color.

In this half blind state, it was easy to stumble, easy to pretend to be uncoordinated and helpless. He was loaded into yet another of the ubiquitous brown cars, and sitting next to Jessie in the backseat, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, dropping his head sleepily near her shoulder. "Let him rest, Illya heard her say to the driver. It’s all right."

They were to meet on a deserted bridge, at the end of an unnamed road far out in the country. Illya was to exchange no greeting with his "opposite number", merely to keep walking until his new captors took possession of their prize. Still, the Russian could not resist looking up, catching the eye of the man for whom he was risking his life.

The face which turned toward him in the cold morning was more a suffering Christ than a flaming revolutionary. The eyes Illya saw for a brief moment in passing were sad and weighted with untold pain, the shoulders sloping with weariness, and the burden of the things he knew. He was passing mutely from one prison to another, and he knew it. Tragic and solitary, he trudged past Illya to meet his new masters and if he was lucky, end his days with other spies who had lived beyond their prime.

There on a catwalk above him stood Jessie Taylor, tense with expectation and quivering with her purpose. She leaned over to catch his eye, and stared full into his masked face before he could turn away. Emotions chased themselves across her face like leaf-shadows from the encircling olive trees. Shock, disbelief, wonder, and hope appeared and disappeared behind a disciplined façade as her gray gaze clashed with his blue. Fortunately all assembled were watching the two men shuffle across the bridge, and no one saw but he.

Roughly, hands grabbed him, and his stumble into them was real. He was spun around and tossed into more hands, dizzied and thrown off his feet. A sound like a cheer went up from one side of the bridge, a groan that was half a prayer from the other. Buffeted by the sudden noise, he could barely keep his feet as he was shoved, and pulled by his chains to a waiting transport. This was a W.W.II vintage troop carrier, a roof of tarp over a truck-bed, no seats, no comfort of any kind.

"Are you who we waited for, you skinny thing?" a voice asked him mockingly. "Let’s see that famous face!" The mask was jerked free from Illya’s face.

It was the last thing his captor saw. Taking advantage of the guard’s surprise, Illya responded by instinct, bringing down his bound hands in a heavy clubbing motion. The nameless THRUSH guard died without a sound. It seemed an eternity later, but could only have been moments when he heard the soft thump and scrabble of someone landing on the roof of the speeding vehicle from somewhere above. The tarp parted, and Napoleon dropped into sight, clad all in black, with a wicked looking knife clenched between his teeth.

"It is you who will end up on the cover of Privateer," Illya hissed. "Wherever did you get the idea for this?"

"If you aren’t glad to see me, I could just leave." Napoleon replied calmly, retrieving Illya’s stolen key from its hiding place in the collar of the Russian’s shirt, and going to work on his chains. "We still have to get out of here, and someone has to go back and pick up the real revolutionary, right? I’d save the back-talk till you are safe, if I were you."

"Just how do you plan to get us off this transport, old friend? I don’t think we can count on a convenient roadblock to help us."

"You can never tell," Napoleon replied mysteriously. "This kid was popular. If someone just happened to get drunk last night and talk too much to the right people, well you never know what might happen."

As if cued by Napoleon’s words, the swaying truck began to slow. Somewhere ahead there was trouble, and though he driver seemed determined to avoid it, the trees were impassible and there was nowhere to go. Words were shouted and several shots were fired while the U.N.C.L.E. agents hunkered in the drafty truck, trying to preserve the masquerade until the last moment.

Loud in the silence, above the beating of his heart, Illya heard a familiar voice. "Illyusha, come out! Bring your friend Mr. Solo with you!" The two agents looked at one another, shrugged, and crept cautiously out of the truck.

Jessie Taylor stood there, against the dying light of the sun, her hair reddened by the sunset, her gun silver and deadly in her hand. "You have double-crossed me," she said solemnly. "Not a wise choice. Still, I chose you for a companion precisely because I trusted you to do what you did. I can hardly complain. We will be departing by different flights this evening, you to your prison, I to mine."

"The prisoner you were to exchange," Illya asked softly, catching Jessie’s eyes and compelling an honest answer.

"Fled," she said briefly, revealing nothing of the answer he sought. "He was gone when we returned. Your secret is safe, and we are done with this round of the game. You will forgive me if I cannot say I look forward to the next."

"I forgive you, Miss Taylor, though my employers may not. It would probably be wise for you to avoid their sphere of influence for awhile."

"Thank you, Illya. I shall have quite enough explaining to do when I get home to occupy me at least until I am forgiven, or maybe only until you have need of me again. Take the truck, I have other means of transport coming." Her smile was smug, calculating, and revealed nothing of her thoughts.

Napoleon laid his arm around his friend’s shoulders and steered him toward the waiting truck.. "You win some, you lose some, old man. In this case, I think we were lucky."

"I think, Napoleon," Illya said simply, "That I must revise my notion of what trust is. Did you know what Leonardo says on the subject? It is really quite fascinating. Listen... "
The End