azdak

The Archivist




Summary: Everything you need to know for The Return of the Man from UNCLE to make sense.

Warnings: This one's got it all – angst, hurt, sex and death (although these last two are firmly canon-based, so if you know the show, you'll know who gets laid and who's for the chop).




Archive department. Yes, this is the archivist speaking. Oh yes, of course, I've been expecting you, do come down. The receptionist will arrange for someone to bring you – yes, it is rather inconvenient, but we've had to tighten security after that unfortunate incident with the Bronsky file. Can't have these things falling into the wrong hands, can we? Oh, here you are already, well, I must say those receptionists are splendidly efficient. Now then, what can I do for you? Really? Yes, well, that sounds like a most interesting research topic. Yes, yes, of course I knew Solo and Kuryakin personally. Well, as good as personally. I know every record in File 40 inside and out, and I think you could fairly say I'm a world expert on UNCLE's history and its personnel. Equipment? You mean cars and guns and so forth? Doesn't interest me as much, truth to tell. I'm more one for the wetware, ha ha ha! No, no, I'd be delighted to assist you in any way I can. Read your introduction? Certainly. Goodness me, what a pile of notes! Another damn thick book, always scribble scribble scribble, eh, Mr Johnson? No, that was a quotation; I do know you're not actually Samuel Johnson. Oh, never mind, just show me the thing. Hang on, where did I put my reading glasses? Oh yes, thank you so much. Now then.

Certain of the historical documents relating to the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement are tantalizingly inexplicit, and none more so than those dedicated to the Fifteen Years Later Affair. Indeed, the first question they raise is “Fifteen years later than what?” Close analysis of the files leads to the conclusion that the event referred to is the departure of Mr Napoleon Solo, then CEA of North America, from the ranks of UNCLE. This may make for a strange code name for an official mission, but it suggests that someone in the filing department had, if not a sense of humor, then at least a sense of history. But no amount of analysis of the documentation provides an answer to the question of why Solo chose to leave. We know that his departure constituted an irrevocable breach (irrevocable, at least, for 15 years) not only with UNCLE but also with his then partner, Mr Illya Kuryakin. We also know that they parted on terms so bad that neither subsequently attempted to contact the other, although both continued to live in New York City. Nevertheless, the files do not reveal how the rift occurred.

Yes, yes, I see. A very interesting question. Very interesting indeed. You have to understand that Napoleon Solo was a man who craved excitement. He craved it as an addict craves heroin, as a pregnant woman craves cabbage soup, as a Finn craves sunlight, as a starving supermodel craves chocolate, as – oh, yes, I do beg your pardon. Where was I? Ahem. Well, in the search for that “kick”, as I believe you young people call it, he at times behaved in ways that a sane man would frankly call crazy. And, as he approached forty, he grew increasingly concerned that his future at UNCLE would contain nothing more adrenaline-inducing than his pen running out of cartridges, or his secretary forgetting the sugar for his coffee. In consequence, when an acquaintance approached him with an extremely risky business proposition, for a venture that might make him a millionaire several times over, but was more likely to leave him personally bankrupt and a long term resident of Skid Row, he jumped at the chance. Risk, you see. He had had enough experience of computers to have a hunch that they might not only be of use to international criminal masterminds and mad scientists; and he had enough contacts in the world of Swiss banking to make funding his hunch a realistic proposition. The only difficulty was in deciding when and how to break the news to Kuryakin. I believe you will find that this file here fills in the blanks nicely. It's called The Clean Break Affair...



Napoleon knew what Illya's reaction would be, and so he made a policy decision to reveal the information only on a need-to-know basis. His conscience occasionally pricked him about this, but Napoleon was generally on good terms with his conscience – in that he generally listened to it and it generally approved of his actions – so the argument remained at the level of polite discourse and never descended into mud-wrestling. Napoleon pointed out that it was his life and therefore the decision was entirely up to him; Illya would only disapprove if he knew; Illya disapproved of many things about Napoleon, but that didn't mean Napoleon had to agree with him. For example, there was the issue of how far Napoleon's sex life interfered with his ability to do his job. Illya was all too vocal in expressing his opinion about this, which was annoying and tedious and fundamentally pointless, since he wasn't going to change Napoleon's behavior. It would be much better to avoid this sort of inconvenience altogether. Napoleon's conscience protested feebly that this was different, but Napoleon begged to differ, and the matter was shelved between them. In later years, Napoleon would become briefly involved with an actress who was appearing in a play in which a man carried his conscience around with him in a suitcase, only getting it out when needed. The romance left no lasting impression, but the play did - Napoleon would subsequently think of himself as having been, in that period of his life, very like that man, but at the time he was pleased that he and his conscience were getting along so well over what was, he might as well admit it, rather a tricky moral issue where dissent might have been expected. In fact, he was pleased all round with how things were progressing, and at how quickly, and with how little regret, he was able to make arrangements. It was, after all, his life, and only he could know what was best for him.

The sole point of unclarity was exactly when the need-to-know requirement would be fulfilled. Napoleon found himself postponing it longer than he had originally anticipated – although there had never been a set date as such – and in the end it seemed most sensible to present Illya with a fait accompli. Here, however, his conscience put up unexpectedly stiff resistance and insisted that Illya should know before Napoleon handed in his resignation papers to Waverly. Napoleon felt it might be better to ask Waverly to treat the resignation as confidential for the three months' notice period in order not to interrupt their working partnership, but his conscience pointed out that Waverly was most unlikely to assign him to active fieldwork in that time anyway. That meant there was no practical reason for the delaying the revelation, but given the likelihood of an atmosphere clouding their last three months of partnership, Napoleon felt that he was being generous to a fault in not waiting till the last possible moment. Really, it would be so much pleasanter for both of them to make it a clean break, with no time for recriminations – unjustified though they would be, of course – or lingering unpleasantness.

When the moment came, there was no easy way of working up to it – Napoleon had run through a variety of possible scenarios in the weeks, and especially the nights, leading up to this point – so he resolved to cut straight to the chase. He walked into the office that morning in the grip of a strange mix of feelings, part elation at the prospect of freedom, part thrill at standing on the threshold of an irrevocable decision, and part sheer, annoying nervousness. He covered the latter by whistling merrily, something by Sinatra that he had heard on the radio recently and that wouldn't get out of his head.

Illya was in his office, typing up the report on the mission they had just completed. Napoleon came in feeling unexpectedly awkward and endeavored to take a seat with casual elegance.

“Illya,” he began, “there's something I've been meaning to tell you -”

“One moment, Napoleon.” Illya didn't look up from his typewriter. “I'm having trouble phrasing this. Unless you have a suggestion for how I can make 'The Thrush witness managed to escape while Mr Solo was flirting with his nurse' sound like it was part of a clever plan?”

Napoleon winced. “Hey, we recaptured him,” he protested. “Besides, I was only temporarily distracted, it could have happened to anybody.”

“Of course,” said Illya drily. “Then I shall write 'Whilst engaged in rendering a second Thrush operative harmless, Mr Solo was temporarily unable to give his full attention to the witness'.” He banged away at the typewriter keys for a few moments, then looked up and rubbed his eyes. “What was it you wanted, Napoleon?”

Napoleon's conscience most inconveniently chose this moment to burst from its suitcase like a jack-in-a-box. Illya looked tired and there was a bruise on his temple where a piece of exploding diamond had struck him. He didn't look like a man in the mood to embrace the possibilities offered by a major upheaval in his life. Luckily, Napoleon had trained reflexes. He jumped on his conscience and thrust it back into the box, then sat himself firmly on the lid.

“I'm quitting UNCLE,” he said.

Illya stared. “What?”

“I'm sure I spoke quite distinctly. I'm quitting.”

There was a long silence. Illya was good at those. Although he could complain for Russia in the world grumbling Olympics, he could also hold an awkward silence longer than any man Napoleon had ever met. This time, however, Napoleon had the drop on him. He was quite happy to put up with silence, since it was infinitely better than a protracted and painful argument.

But there was to be no avoiding it. Eventually Illya figured out that Napoleon had no intention of being embarrassed into speech and said acidly “I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why?”

“For several very good reasons, Illya.” This part went smoothly, Napoleon had prepared his lines well in the uneasy nights. “The main one is, I need a new challenge. I've got a desk job looming in my near future and with the best will in the world, I can't see that giving me job satisfaction.”

“Not in your immediate future,” was supposed to be Illya's next line, to which Napoleon would have responded with soothing words about time to prepare, but instead he said “What's job satisfaction got to do with it? You work for UNCLE.”

“Well, I know that,” said Napoleon, knocked onto the wrong foot, “But don't tell me you don't enjoy fieldwork. All that running around and hitting people, it's right up your alley.”

Illya glared at him. “That's not the point,” he said. “I could run around and hit people for Thrush. Or I could not run around for UNCLE and work in R&D instead. It makes no difference what I do, the point is that I'm doing it for UNCLE.” He looked at Napoleon expectantly and then, when no response was forthcoming, sighed irritably and said “I save the world. We save the world. What does it matter if you do that in the field or behind a desk?”

“It matters to me. I need to get some satisfaction out of what I'm doing, and not just in the virtue-is-its-own-reward sense. I'm part of the world too, you know. I'm entitled to some quality of life.”

Illya glowered. “You're impossibly egotistical.”

“And you can't shake off your Soviet training. If you want to be a good little cog in the machine, Illya, that's your prerogative, but I'm making my own choices.”

There was no point in staying after that, so Napoleon left. He resisted the temptation to slam the door on his way out, and instead paused to say as silkily as possible “Perhaps you'd better rephrase that last sentence so it more accurately reflects my decadent Western selfishness.”

As he sauntered out the door he had the satisfaction of hearing Illya slam his fists down on the typewriter. Time to go and see Waverly. He continued to saunter, through the chrome, yet somehow homely corridors of UNCLE, still whistling that tune that wouldn't get out of his head. I'm packing my bags. I'm leaving today. Gonna make a brand new start of it...

That didn't go quite as you expected, said his conscience, putting in a sudden appearance.

“No,” Napoleon conceded. “I didn't think he'd be so cranky about it. All that holier-than-thou stuff. It gets my back up.”

It would have been nice to part on a friendlier note.

“What do you mean, part? I've got three months' notice to serve, there'll be plenty of opportunities to sort things out. He's just mad because he's upset.”

Exactly, said his conscience, retreating back inside its suitcase.

--

Regrettably, Waverly didn't take the news any better than Illya.

“This looks like a resignation, Mr Solo,” he said, frowning at Napoleon from across the table.

“Well, sir, that's because it, ah, is,” said Napoleon. “You see, it says right there just above my signature 'I hereby tender my resignation'.”

“Well, you can't do that.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “I can't?”

“No, it would be most inconvenient.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, sir, but as you always say, no one is indispensable. And I'm as expendable as everyone else.”

Waverly favored him with a bloodhound-on-the-scent stare. “Mr Solo, if you're worried about a lack of excitement once you turn forty, I can assure you that won't be an issue. I expect you to move into Section One as soon as your contract with Enforcement ends.”

“Thank you, sir. I'm flattered that you think so highly of me. But no, thank you. I believe the time has come for me to take an entirely new direction. I need new challenges. And frankly, sir, I'm not getting any younger, and although the UNCLE pension plan is undoubtedly an improvement on the Thrush one, it's hardly going to keep me in the luxury to which I'd like to become accustomed.”

“Isn't that rather a selfish attitude, Mr Solo?”

Napoleon was entirely fed up with people assuming an attitude of moral superiority over him.

“Sir, I've been shot, beaten, tortured, sexually assaulted” - Waverly raised an eyebrow - “ah, in a manner of speaking – drugged, and subjected to experimental interrogation techniques by my own side. I hardly think I need to prove my dedication to UNCLE. But the time has come to move on.”

“I see. Well, since you feel that way I'll sign your release forms immediately. You can hand your badge and your gun to security personnel on your way out.”

Napoleon felt the blood rush to his face. It was infuriating. He couldn't lose his cool now, of all times.

“Immediately, Mr Waverly?”

“I see no point in keeping you on if you don't want to be here. I can't afford to work with agents who are less than fully committed. Thank you for all you've done for us, Mr Solo, and I wish you all the best with your future enterprises. By the way, what are you planning to do?”

“I'd rather not say, sir, except that I have every reason to believe it's a job with a future.”

With that, Napoleon turned on his heel and stalked out, with the strong suspicion that his cheeks were flaming. He was furious. Furious with Waverly for treating him – him! The top UNCLE agent in North America! - like an unsatisfactory employee, and furious with Illya for trying to assume the moral high ground. As if everything he had done, all the sacrifices he had made for UNCLE, counted for nothing. This lot didn't just regard your body as being entirely at their service, they thought they owned your soul as well. He detoured briefly into the men's washroom to splash cold water on his face and ensure that his hair and tie were perfectly in place, then sauntered down to the exit. He was doing a lot of sauntering today.

“Goodbye, Wanda,” he said to the young woman on duty, making absolutely sure he'd put the right name to the face, then tossed his badge and gun onto the desk in front of her and walked briskly out, drawing a pathetic little glow of satisfaction from her look of astonishment. UNCLE, he knew, would regret severing its association with him so precipitously. Waverly would find the transition to a Section 2 that wasn't headed by Napoleon Solo more difficult than he expected, and Illya would find being CEA wasn't all violins and roses either. They would be back in touch with him. After all, hadn't Waverly told him to hand in his badge and gun but left him his communicator?

All the more reason, then, to make sure that he sank without trace.

--

Illya was still staring at the typewriter, signally failing to find the combination of letters that would adequately sum up his and Napoleon's most recent mission, when the phone rang. It was Waverly.

“Mr Kuryakin, did you know Mr Solo was planning to resign?” he said without preamble.

“Yes sir,” said Illya, feeling absurdly grateful that he didn't have to say no.

“Well, why didn't you tell me?”

“Um, it didn't seem any of my business, sir. It was Napoleon's decision to take.”

“Well, I'm very disappointed in you, Mr Kuryakin, very disappointed indeed. Personal loyalty between agents is most desirable, of course, but in this instance it was misplaced. It's going to take weeks to induct you as a replacement for Mr Solo and it would have been very helpful to have his input. However it can't be helped.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but do you – do you mean Napoleon has left UNCLE already? I thought he had to give three months' notice.”

“Yes, well, he's gone. And you'd better come up to my office so we can start sorting out this mess as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” Illya put down the phone and stared for a moment into space. Then he pulled the half-written report out of the typewriter, crumpled it up and threw it in the bin. He could write it later, when he'd had a chance to talk to Napoleon...




What? Oh yes, the report was eventually filed six months later. But by then, of course, Kuryakin knew, or thought he knew, that Solo had no desire to talk to him ever again. And Solo was right, of course, computing was indeed a job with a future, and within a very few years he'd made fantastic amounts of money. The excitements of the free market are, in the nature of things, less physical than those of Enforcement, but they are no less - how shall I put it? - visceral, and it has to be said that Solo thoroughly enjoyed not being beaten, shot at, drugged or experimented on. At least at first. Gradually, though, the thrill began to pall, as thrills do, and the more successful his company became, the less it interested him. Getting is better than having, as Calvin would say. Sorry? No, not John Calvin, the other fellow, little cartoon boy. Stuffed tiger. You know the one. Anyway, for a while Solo found playing the stock exchange an adequate substitute, but then that thrill, too, started to wear off, and he turned to gambling. Cards are so much better than investments, you see. The payoff of profit or loss is immediate, concentration has to be total, and there is even the remote chance that some outraged opponent will try to shoot you. Solo had no regrets about leaving UNCLE, except, we may assume, a measure of corrosive bitterness at the way he had been discarded, but the evidence suggests that he found life outside the organization at times a little tedious. And, very occasionally, he remembered a detail from one of his missions and felt a tweak of nostalgia which explains why UNCLE was able to reach him when they finally woke up and realized he was indispensable. Of course it wasn't logical for him to have kept the communicator when he walked out of UNCLE, vowing never to darken its doors again, and even less logical for him to have kept it switched on, but when have human beings ever been logical creatures? And Napoleon Solo had more reason than most to trust his instincts rather than his intellect, they having served him in excellent stead over the years. The file you want is only a slim one, I keep it under J for Je ne regrette rien...



On the day Napoleon pulled off an astonishing deal, exporting mainframe computers to a China that was just emerging from the throes of the Cultural Revolution, he came back to his penthouse apartment and wondered why he wasn’t feeling exhilarated. He was due that evening at a ball at the Chinese embassy, for which he was planning to dress with care (elegantly – the Chinese liked their capitalist pigs to look like capitalists – but not flamboyantly, expressing sophisticated taste without crossing the line into decadence) but halfway through tying his bow tie, and before he had donned his tuxedo, he found himself reaching for the whiskey bottle he kept in the drawer of his bedside table. The truth was, he had absolutely no desire to go to the ball. Oh, he was pleased, of course, to have pulled off such an impossible deal, to have proved once again that Napoleon Solo was unique in his combination of intelligence, charm and political savvy, but for some reason it didn’t bring him any satisfaction. And the ball… the ball would not exactly be a glittering affair (Chairman Mao hadn’t approved of glitter) but there would be excellent food and exotically beautiful women, and the Chinese Ambassador served the best champagne in the whole of New York, it being the belief of the People’s Republic that nothing oiled the wheels of diplomacy like getting your opponents sloshed. And yet he felt no particular desire to go. Annoyed with himself, he drained the glass, and then another, in the hopes of generating a better mood. After all, these sorts of things – women, travel, excitement, glamor – were the frosting on the cake of life, they were what made it all worthwhile. Of course he wanted to go!

Refilling the glass seemed like a waste of time. Napoleon put the bottle directly to his lips and was about to take a slug, when it struck him with horrible clarity what he must look like: alone in his bedroom, half-dressed, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. “Perhaps,” said a small voice from somewhere within him, “man cannot live by frosting alone.” A good point, a very good point. Illya had been right, he reflected, the observation taking him by surprise. Doing what you enjoyed wasn’t what counted. You had to know that what you were doing served a higher purpose. He put the bottle down and, in a haze of nostalgia and sentiment, retrieved his communicator pen from his personal safe. It would be dead, of course. Nonetheless, he put it to his lips and said, only half-jokingly, “Open Channel D.” Nothing. Obviously. Just as he had expected. He installed a new battery and tried again. “Illya, come in little friend.” Still nothing. It didn’t look as if anything had corroded or worn out, so he presumed UNCLE had simply stopped using those channels. He wondered briefly if it were possible – in theory, of course - to reconfigure the communicator so that it could pick up on the conversations, commands, requests, reports, and all the other staples of UNCLE business that must still be whizzing through the ether. Illya could have done it, he thought, but hardware had never been Napoleon’s thing. Not that there was anything wrong with that, you had to play to your strengths, and Napoleon's gift had always been for dealing with people rather than things. It had made them a good team, each supplying what the other had lacked.

He shook his head abruptly, tired of wallowing in a past that was no longer relevant, and was turning back to the mirror, when a fragment of verse came unbidden into his mind. It was something Illya had been fond of quoting when missions went wrong, and although Napoleon had found it annoying at times, eventually it had stuck.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss...

“And never breathe a word about your loss,” Napoleon repeated softly. “I guess that's as good a creed as any for a man to live by.”

He wrapped the black silk of his bow tie neatly round itself, turned down the starched wings of his dress shirt and shrugged his way into his tuxedo. The white of the shirt glowed softly against the black of the tux, his cuff-links adding the occasional gleam of gold where the light caught them. There was a touch of gray in his hair, but, he told himself, it was a distinguished gray. All in all he looked impeccable, imperturbable, like Napoleon Solo. On impulse he tucked the communicator into his inside pocket, exactly as if it were the sterling silver pen it pretended to be. From then on he carried it with him, switched on and supplied with fresh batteries. He thought of it as a kind of lucky charm, an amusing accessory and, in moments of honesty, a talisman, to keep him away from the abyss...



Of course, human nature being what it is, gaining an insight is not the same as acting on it. The next day, and for many, many subsequent days, Napoleon found that the frosting still sufficed to numb the need for meaning that he had identified inside him. The days stretched into years, the thrills that lured him grew cheaper and cheaper, but it wasn’t until the day his communicator finally sprang into life that it was able to call him back into the land of the truly living. So you see, it all makes perfect sense, really. Next question? Ah, Mr Kuryakin and that unlikely-seeming fashion house. That certainly came out of nowhere, didn't it? But then the official files are tantalisingly laconic on the subject of Kuryakin's past - let me fill you in on a few details that expand on what you’ll find in them. This is the one you want, I call it The Fretful Porpentine Affair...


The night Janet Jarret became a star she ended up, not entirely unpredictably, in Napoleon's bed, where she once again disappointed that indefatigable lover by her inability to put Amor before Thespia. In spite of all the delightful distractions he offered her, she was unable to put the evening's triumph out of her head, and kept surfacing between kisses to analyze which scenes had worked and which had not, and which elements might prove to be recreatable and which had owed their impact entirely to their spontaneity. Napoleon tried his best to seem interested, for sheer politeness' sake, but his tastes in theater ran to the conservative and classical and he could not for the life of him see why Janet could think anything at all about In & Out had been any good. Eventually they reached some kind of compromise of interests and climax was achieved, but as Napoleon rolled off, thinking longingly of sleep (for it was by then approaching six in the morning), Janet caught him by surprise by asking “Which stage school did Illya go to?”

“Stage school? He didn't. You must be thinking of Survival School,” said Napoleon and yawned heavily, in a hinting kind of way.

“Sure he went to stage school,” said Janet, equally surprised.

“Janet, Illya is an UNCLE agent, not an actor,” said Napoleon as patiently as he could, given how fed up he was getting with the way her head, undeniably pretty though it was, could encompass nothing beyond theater.

“I know that,” said Janet, “but he's still had theater training. You saw his Man Is A Horn number.”

“Mmmm,” said Napoleon politely.

“You can't tell me UNCLE teaches you guys to act like that, with the accents and all,” Janet persisted.

“That doesn't require any special talent,” said Napoleon, slightly miffed. “I myself pretended to be a talent scout - for Mr Whatshisface - Sternmacher, remember him?”

To his annoyance, Janet started to giggle.

“What's so funny?” he demanded. “Your horn player bought it.”

“Oh, Napoleon darling, your face! I'm sure you do a wonderful job of pretending to be a talent scout, but that's not the same as being on stage in front of an audience. I could see you squirming when you guys took your bows at the end, and Illya was right at home. ”

With considerable reluctance, Napoleon thought back to Illya's “performance.” Perhaps Janet had a point – the mere thought of prancing about in public in those ridiculous black tights made him shudder, let alone having to chant that – thing (Napoleon refused to dignify it with the name “poem,” and a song required a tune). It was true that Illya had learned the choreography, such as it was, surprisingly quickly. And, come to think of it, he'd been positively eager to get on stage when Napoleon had rescued him from the tunnel – in fact, he'd been in such a hurry, he'd even left blowing up the computer to Napoleon, which was unprecedented. The more Napoleon dwelt on it, the more suspicious incidents he recalled, like Illya leading the way through the stage entrance when they arrived, and asking Blinz, or Linz, or whatever his name was, how he was going to stage the new Act II. At the time Napoleon had assumed he was being sarcastic, but Linz, or Blinz, had given the question a serious answer. Hmm, this was food for thought indeed. After the rigors and disappointments of the day, Napoleon finally dropped off to sleep with the gratifying prospect of acquiring entirely fresh ammunition with which to annoy Illya.

The next day, in spite of a severe shortage of sleep, he set about his research project. As he had thought, there was nothing in Illya's file about drama school, but then then was nothing about anything, apart from his parents' names and his place and date of birth, until he started military service in the Soviet navy. Napoleon had wondered about this when he first saw the file, but his natural tact had prevented him from raising the issue with his partner. After all, anyone growing up in a country that had been occupied first by the Soviets and then by the Nazis might have had experiences they didn't wish to become public knowledge. The stint in the navy was followed, in remarkably quick succession, by the Sorbonne, Cambridge and then UNCLE. Napoleon found it difficult to see how Illya could have crammed drama school in there on top of everything else, but in spite of this he had a hunch that Janet was on the right track. The answer must lie in those intriguingly blank years. Presumably Waverly knew the details and had seen fit to keep the information from prying eyes – and at that moment a memory popped into Napoleon's head, of Mr Waverly saying enthusiastically “I'm looking forward to Mr Kuryakin's performance.” Waverly, who didn't usually turn up personally for a front line operation, and who had seemed genuinely disappointed that Thrush had interrupted the play before Illya's ghastly Horny Man number started. Napoleon tapped his pencil thoughtfully against the edge of his desk. The Old Man definitely knew more than he was letting on – but how to winkle that knowledge out of him? Bare-faced cheek, he decided, was the best approach, and so he headed up to Waverly's office.

“Good morning, sir,” he said breezily, “I'm sorry you missed Illya's performance yesterday, it was quite remarkable. You'd think he'd have forgotten all his training by now, but not a bit of it.”

“Ah!” Waverly exhaled heavily and sat back in his chair. “I was sorry to miss that, it must have been quite something. His Little Eyolf is still a byword amongst the cognoscenti of Soviet theatre, you know.”

“Little Eyolf?”

“Yes, Ibsen. Oh come, Mr Solo, I know you don't frequent the theatre much, but you must have heard of Ibsen? It was a ground-breaking production, you know.”

“Er, what production would that be, sir?”

“The Moscow Art Theatre, 1946.”

“The Moscow Art Theater?”

“Yes, one of the most important theatres in the world. Founded by the great Stanislavsky. Now don't tell me you haven't heard of Stanislavsky? I thought method acting was all the rage these days.”

“Oh, ah, yes, of course. I just didn't realize Illya had started when he was quite so young.”

“Well, he comes from an old Moscow theatre family, and his father was in the ensemble. As a matter of fact, I saw Kuryakin père in Uncle Vanya when the MAT toured Europe in 1922. All in Russian of course, but absolutely unforgettable.”

“Illya's file is strangely silent on this subject, sir.”

Waverly's eyes twinkled. “Ah well, we have Jules Cutter to thank for that. I knew he was going to have a hard enough time of it dealing with a godless Communist without telling him the chap was a luvvy as well. Jules never could see the appeal of theatre. I dragged him off to see Olivier in Hamlet once and all he could say was 'Bunch of pansies'. Fellow's a complete philistine.”

“I didn't realize you were a keen theater-goer, sir.”

“Oh, I trod the boards myself in my young days, on a strictly amateur basis. I believe my Richard III is still spoken of at Oriel – I based him on the Master, caused a great scandal in the SCR. But it's not the sort of thing one wants to make a career of. Far too trivial, when there's real work to be done. Speaking of which, we've just received this report from Geneva...”


Napoleon was excessively pleased with the results of his research. That Illya, who was notoriously close-mouthed about his past, should turn out to have been some kind of child star was a gift of a discovery. This would put an end to caustic comments about admirals and ambassadors and being born with a silver spoon in various orifices (sometimes Napoleon suspected that Illya's failure to get to grips with English idioms was entirely deliberate). And as an added bonus, he had uncovered potential blackmail material about his boss, although the pleasure of digging up a photo of Mr Waverly in hunchback and tights would have to wait. His immediate goal was to find a suitably provocative way of raising the subject with Illya.

He didn't have to wait long. Illya had had an off-day on the shooting range and came into the office disgusted with his scores.

“Perhaps it's time to give up the day job?” Napoleon suggested, his voice oozing sympathy. “I'm sure they'd welcome you back to In & Out with open arms. Blinz was practically swooning over your performance.”

“It was crap,” said Illya dispassionately.

“I find it hard to disagree with that assessment, but aren't you tempted? You could rename the show Don't Put Your Agents On the Stage, Mr Waverly. Or is that beneath you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it's not exactly Chekhov is it? Stanislavsky must have been spinning in his grave.”

“What are you talking about?

“Come on, Illya, don't play the innocent with me. Waverly told me all about your family heritage and your extraordinary performance as Little Eeyore. Gee, I bet you were the cutest thing!”

Illya stared at him in astonishment. “Mr Waverly told you this?” Seeing Napoleon's answering grin, he fell silent for a moment, just long enough for a gleeful “Gotcha!” to pass through Napoleon's head, and then said seriously “Much as I appreciate Mr Waverly's determination to protect my privacy, he shouldn't have lied to you. You're my partner, you have a right to know.”

“Know what?”

Illya fixed him with soulful blue eyes. “I – I can't really find the words,” he said softly. “It was – we were – you know I grew up in the Ukraine?”

“Er, yes,” said Napoleon uncomfortably. He wasn't used to Illya in full-on confessional mode and it made him embarrassed.

Illya was staring into space now, one hand clenching a pencil, the other rubbing abstractedly against his knee.

“I ought to have told you,” he said finally. “My parents – when the Germans came – I was seven - ” The pencil in his hand snapped in half. One piece flew across the room and caught Napoleon just above the eye. Illya flinched, like a child expecting a blow. Napoleon felt like the worst kind of cad.

“God, Illya, please, you don't have to talk about it. And don't blame Waverly, I pushed him and he covered up for you, that's all. There's no hard feelings.”

“I should have told you,” said Illya again, “But finding the words, it's so hard - 'I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood'. Funny how Shakespeare always knows, isn't it?” He smiled weakly.

“Please, Illya, forget I ever mentioned it. After all, I'm not exactly forthcoming about my own previous lives.”

Feeling truly horrible, Napoleon left the room, grimly determined never to raise the subject with his friend again. So preoccupied was he with berating himself for his insensitivity, however, that he failed to hear Illya's voice on the other side of the wall, shaking with rather exaggerated emotion:

“I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combinèd locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.”

After all, every actor may dream of playing Hamlet, but the Ghost isn't a bad part either...


Go to Part 2