Chapter 1

Mr. Waverly's assistant couldn't help but scan the police report in her hands before delivering it along with the rest of the daily mail to her boss. After all, it wasn't marked 'Eyes Only' and Lisa Rogers felt it her responsibility to be kept abreast of all the goings on in the chief's office.

The smile she wore that morning quickly dissolved as she returned to her desk to summon U.N.C.L.E.'s Section 2, Number 2 agent. She nodded to Illya Kuryakin as he stepped through the doors into the heart of headquarters.

How she hated days like this. No one ever wanted to hear bad news. And it was only the beginning of the week...

When he emerged from Waverly's office twenty minutes later he was white as a ghost. As he paused just outside the door, Lisa wasn't altogether certain but she thought she saw him begin to tremble. She planned on engaging Kuryakin in a bit of verbal sparring but held her tongue when she saw the vacant look in his eyes.

The Ukrainian moved unfocused through the corridors towards U.N.C.L.E.'s agent exit at Del Floria's tailor shop.

Fellow agents and secretaries stepped out of his way when they saw his pale face and wide-eyed 'lost' expression.

One of his fellow scientists from research and development where he worked in his down time from the field approached and stopped in front of him to ask a question. Illya quietly stepped around him and continued on his way leaving the man to wonder what was wrong.

Mark Slate's "Good morning, Guv," as he passed by was flatly ignored.

Illya passed the receptionist without returning his U.N.C.L.E. badge.

"Mr. Kuryakin! I need your badge!" she called. As he opened the outer door and stepped through it into the tailor shop she ran after him, removing it from his suit jacket pocket herself.

"You know you're not supposed to take this outside of headquarters. What if T.H.R.U.S.H. got ahold of one of these?" she whispered and then wondered what made him so preoccupied that he forgot that.

He never stopped walking nor saw the tailor's nod and goodbye wave.

He found himself at his apartment. He had no recollection at all of leaving Waverly's office nor headquarters, nor did he remember how he arrived at his door. Unlocking it, he took a few steps inside.

An anguished sob escaped his lips. His knees gave out.

"No, no, no," he whispered as he curled up into a ball on the floor.

"Why does my heart feel like it's in a vise?"

Chapter 2

The mission he had been on three days prior had been a simple one. He and his partner, Napoleon Solo were to check out an abandoned building next to the interstate in nearby Montville,NJ.

It was thought the dilapidated barn was a clever storage facility for T.H.R.U.S.H.'s latest project. T.H.R.U.S.H. believed no one would suspect the hundred year old building was being used for such a purpose but that was surmised by U.N.C.L.E.'s Intelligence Section.

Napoleon and Illya easily captured three enemy agents and wounded two others.

A cleanup team responded quickly and the affair was over almost before it had even begun. Illya remembered thinking they should all be so easy.

Their report on the affair was written, typed up by the secretarial pool and on Waverly's desk before the end of the workday.

Successful missions always elevated the mood of the somber Ukrainian and he celebrated along with Napoleon at their favorite watering hole.

Kuryakin recalled the conversation they shared over dinner; crisp Caesar salad made with classic dressing and juicy Porterhouse steak served on sizzling hot platters with a side of baked potato swimming in melted butter and sour cream. And what would be a celebration without dessert? Warm cheddar crusted apple pie topped with vanilla bean ice cream rounded out their perfect meal.

"Any mission that ends with your trousers intact is a good mission," Illya mused.

"Any mission that ends with 'us' intact is a better mission, partner mine," Napoleon countered.

Solo made a toast raising his glass of scotch.

" To undamaged trousers and agents who wear them."

"Here, here," He raised his own glass of vodka and smiled.

They left the restaurant with Illya holding a pilfered slice of apple pie in a doggie bag that a pretty waitress had slipped to Napoleon; instead Solo kept her phone number in his pocket.

Good food and the company of a friend made the evening pleasurable.

That was three days prior...today was Monday.

"Black Monday," Illya moaned to himself. "No- black Friday. That's the day it happened," he recalled.

He struggled to stand and walked slowly to the living room window, opening it to let in the breeze, but he did not feel it. Dark rain filled clouds were rolling in but he didn't see them. There were loud traffic noises two stories below but he didn't hear them.

Vodka was the only thing on the Ukrainian's mind and he retrieved the ice cold bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer.

Sinking down into the couch he broke the seal and opened it, a second later he took a long swallow.

"What have I done?"

Chapter 3

A spring thunderstorm was still raging when Solo paid a late night visit to his partner, giving his coded knock on Illya's door. He'd tried earlier to reach him by communicator and then phoned but there was no answer. Now, no response to his knock either.

Napoleon reached for the doorknob and tried it, discovering the door was unlocked.

Suspecting trouble, he drew his weapon, removed the safety, and flattened himself against the wall. Without making a sound, he opened the door just a few inches in one smooth, careful motion and listened cautiously.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Go 'way Napoleon," a voice called from within.

Solo blew out a sigh of relief and stepped inside. The room was dark. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and he could barely make out the form of his partner sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.

Locking the door, he moved to the kitchen and switched on the gentler light, not wanting to blind Illya with the bright overhead one.

He put on the safety and returned his weapon to it's holster, then carefully arranged his wet raincoat on a dining room chair to drip dry.

A curtain billowing wildly caught his attention, as did the moan made by the wind vibrating a window screen, sending a shiver up his spine.

The smell of ozone assaulted his nostrils and he crinkled his nose; a dampness hung in the air, giving the evening a heavy, sticky feeling.

"Maids day off is it?" Napoleon commented as he sidestepped discarded articles of clothing to find a seat on the sofa near his partner.

Illya was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, dressed only in his underwear; his blond mop in wild disarray. Like the blinding light of a photographer's camera flash, lightning briefly illuminated the room and the still form of Kuryakin.

"And you forgot to lock your door," Solo said firmly, driving home his point.

A loud thunderclap directly overhead rattled the windows, startling the Ukrainian.

Napoleon noted the raw nerves of his partner as well as the bottle in his hands. He snatched it away before the man could react.

"Embalming ourselves tonight tovarich?" He asked, holding it up to the light to see how much vodka remained.

"Tell me this wasn't full before you started?"

No answer.

Solo's eyes narrowed. "What's going on Illya?"

Kuryakin found his voice this time. "Leave me alone Napoleon. Jus' go home. I'm fine. Jus' fine."

Solo could make out his friend's lack of expression. As usual his face was unreadable.

"Well you don't look jus' fine! And what happened to your hand?"

There was dried blood covering the knuckles of Illya's right hand and he looked surprised as if noticing the lacerations for the first time.

"Hadda fight with the bathroom mirror," he mumbled; his glossy blue eyes dilated to the point of being black, staring straight ahead, unfocused.

"Who won?" Napoleon muttered as he hopped up to retrieve some first aid supplies from the medicine cabinet and stopped in his tracks as he noticed his partner's empty black shoulder holster lying on the floor.

He looked around quickly for the weapon, not finding it.

"Illya where's your gun?" Napoleon asked calmly and succinctly. His question was punctuated by the long rumble of rolling thunder.

"Waverly has it," Illya responded flatly.

"And why does he have your Walther?"

"Evidently I can't be trusted with it."

First aid supplies in hand, Solo sat on the floor beside his partner and set about cleaning and bandaging his injuries. Kuryakin's head dropped back to rest against the couch.

Seeing his partner like this was distressing for Napoleon. Something was terribly wrong. He wondered what the hell Illya had meant by that last remark but hesitated to ask him to clarify it. Instead he changed the subject.

"We've got an 8 a.m. meeting tomorrow. What are you doing drinking so heavily on a Monday night?"

'Suspended from active duty' meant no meeting for the blond, but he kept that news to himself for now. He lifted his head and sighed; feeling the weight of the world on his hunched shoulders.

Again there was no answer. Illya was avoiding eye contact and that was never a good sign. Solo knew from experience that large quantities of alcohol exacerbated his friend's already dark moods.

Napoleon was finally able to see that his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Almost afraid to say the words, he gently asked his next question.

"Have you been crying?"

Kuryakin lifted his eyes to finally meet his partners and found them full of concern.

"Talk to me," Solo whispered.

"Some water first?"

Napoleon eagerly complied as his usually taciturn friend seemed willing to answer his questions now. Getting him to open up was akin to cracking a complicated safe. Many different methods might be needed to discover the secrets hidden within; if one combination didn't work, another would be tried. It was always worth the effort.

The Russian's hands trembled as he accepted the glass, and Solo sat back down close by. The glass was emptied quickly and he met Napoleon's gaze once again.

Concentrating hard on enunciating his words without slurring, Kuryakin began to speak.

"I killed...a little girl."

Solo was caught off guard and his eyes widened. He started to say something but Illya countered.

"Please Napoleon! Don't interrupt me, I won't be able to continue if you do."

He chose his words carefully.

" showed me a report from the Montville Police Department. Their investigation concluded a bullet from an U.N.C.L.E. Walther P38 struck a family's car as it travelled the highway in Montville this past Friday."

Illya paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths before he began to speak again.

"The highway was beyond that barn where we had the shootout."

Solo opened his mouth to speak but Illya's hand gesture stopped him.

"Please Napoleon! I can't...let me finish. A bullet struck the car at around 11:02 a.m. That's the time we were at the barn and we were firing in the direction of the highway."

"Between us we fired three rounds. You fired once, hitting one THRUSH agent and I fired twice hitting the other, but one of my shots...missed."

His voice waivered on the last word and he paused again trying to maintain his composure. Illya's whole body began to tremble as he closed his eyes.

"The child was traveling with her parents…my stray bullet hit her and she died instantly."

He swallowed hard, taking another deep breath.

"Mr. Waverly confiscated my Walther to have the ballistics checked to corroborate what they already knew. So Napoleon, while you and I were out having our little celebration that girl's parents were…"

His voice broke into a muffled sob and he turned his head away, covering his face with his unbandaged hand.

Napoleon reached out, clasping his partner's shoulders reassuringly.

After many long and silent minutes, Illya regained his composure. He wiped his face with his hands, and turned facing forward, a far away look in his eyes.

Solo spoke again, his voice soothing.

"Do you recall that time in Switzerland when those boys from the T.H.R.U.S.H. school fired at us?"

Illya responded to that voice and slowly tilted his head sideways toward Napoleon. Seeing kindness in those brown eyes, the Ukrainian nodded.

"École Figliano. They were being trained as assassins," Illya remembered with a shudder. He'd been tortured for information at that school.

"Yes and we both blindly fired our guns," Solo went on. "I've lost hours of sleep over what could've happened."

"You know Illya, any time we fire a weapon there's a chance an innocent could be hurt or killed. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know and it's not my intention to make light of what happened. I'm only saying it's a risk that every enforcement agent takes."

Kuryakin brushed his hair from his eyes with his good hand. Napoleon's words were comforting and he was glad his friend was here but now he needed to disconnect himself from his feelings. Sharing this personal 'dishonor' left him thoroughly exhausted and his mattress was calling him.

"You should g'home and I need t' get some sleep."

They helped each other up and staggering, Illya grasped Napoleon's arm for support, steadying himself but suddenly pulled away. Determined to stand on his own; he turned, heading to the bathroom.

"Careful of the glass on the floor in there," Solo called as his partner made his way to relieve himself.

"I'll just want to tidy up a bit," he added.

Napoleon stood by patiently, watching to make sure his partner made it safely to his bed.

"Thank you," Illya called to him a minute later, his voice muffled by a pillow.

Solo closed and locked the window; seeing the storm had finally passed.

He set about sweeping the broken glass from the bathroom floor and sink, making a mental note to have maintenance replace the mirror, most of which still hung on the wall. When he finished his chores, he kicked off his shoes, heading for the couch; resolved to spend the night.

* "The Children's Day Affair"

Chapter 4

Illya woke early to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a roaring headache. He stumbled towards the bathroom; the gauze encircling his hand and shattered mirror above the sink grim reminders of last night's alcohol-fueled rage at his own reflection.

After taking care of business he pulled a comb through his hair, momentarily startled by multiple reflections of himself in the splintered shards of broken glass. He retreated to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of tattered grey sweatpants to make himself a bit more presentable.

Glancing at his bed; the tangled sheets and missing pillow attested to his restless night's sleep. He finally wandered toward the source of the aroma and spotted Solo in the living room. He was standing in front of the window; bathed in rays of sunshine while particles of dust sparkled and danced around him.

Illya stopped in his tracks and noticed that his partner was still in the same clothes as the day before; his discarded shoes by the couch.

"You didn't need to stay."

Sipping from his mug of coffee, Napoleon turned to scrutinize his friend.

He knew Illya had slept fitfully as he heard him tossing and moaning throughout the night.

The Ukrainian was a textbook image of a hangover with dark undereye circles accenting his pale and cheerless face. His bloodshot eyes were unfocused and he was perspiring heavily, bangs plastered to his forehead.

"How goes it this morning, partner mine?"

Feeling more than a little grumpy, Illya interpreted the stare and comment as critical. Solo had that 'judgemental look' about him. He'd seen it before, and was well aware of how he looked from the previous night's binge but he'd seen his friend looking much worse.

"I was raised on vodka Napoleon," Illya said with an attitude.

As soon as the words left his lips he regretted uttering them. Napoleon deserved better than to be groused at, after all, his partner had stayed the night to watch over him.

Illya poured a mug of coffee for himself and settled in a chair at the dining room table. There was a tremor in his hand as he took a sip; his stomach sent him a stern 'queasy' signal and he set down the mug.

Solo eyed him carefully, half-smiling and spoke,"Not what I meant."

With elbows on the table, Illya rested his 'two sizes too big' head in his hands. The headache was worse and he winced as he shut his eyes.

"Sorry," the Ukrainian said softly.

"There will be no enforcement meeting for you this morning then."

"No meeting. I've been relieved of active duty. told me to be in his office at eleven. The ballistic report is due by then." He glanced up at Napoleon.

Solo rubbed his heavily stubbled chin. "Could have been T.H.R.U.S.H.'s bullet that was responsible."

Illya shook his head slowly. He needn't look at a report to know where the bullet had come from. Every instinct he had was pointing to that yet unproven fact. The vise began to squeeze around his heart again and the queasiness suddenly overtook him.

With a look of utter panic he jumped up and made a mad dash to the bathroom.

Napoleon frowned at the sounds of his friend retching.

"Raised on Vodka, indeed." He contemplated the lukewarm coffee at the bottom of his cup then dumped the remainder down the kitchen sink.

Solo paused outside the bathroom door and rapped. "I have to get going. We can meet for lunch if you're up for it by then. Give me a call, okay?"

All he heard was a muffled, "Fine."

Solo left for his apartment. He felt scruffy in his wrinkled clothes and unshaven face.

He shuddered, remembering Illya's words,"I killed a little girl." Napoleon knew he was in a well of hurt and it would take time for him to climb out of it.

"There but for the grace of God…" Solo muttered.

He was resolved to help his suffering friend. They were partners, and partners always watched each others backs; no matter what kind of trouble they were in.

How complicated their lives were…

Chapter 5

Illya was grateful Lisa Rogers was away from her desk as he was in no mood for pleasantries since he was nursing his raw, untethered emotions as well as a hangover. Remnants of the headache were now a steady, dull throb at his temples.

Suddenly his shoulder holster felt strangely light against his ribs when he remembered there was no gun cradled in it.

"You're losing it Kuryakin," he muttered to himself.

It had become a habit, putting the holster on everyday without thinking.

Now it was just another unpleasant reminder of what was about to happen behind the cold grey metal doors of Alexander Waverly's office.

Though ever the fatalist, he held onto one small thread of hope that he was innocent but chastised himself for such a thought and reminded himself that a child was dead with parents mourning her loss.

The Number 2 agent was determined not to appear vulnerable to the most powerful man in the entire U.N.C.L.E. network. As he stood poised outside Waverly's office, he squared his shoulders, drew them back, and raised his chin high, mustering all his self confidence.

Illya fought the urge to shove his trembling hands into his pockets to hide them.

At precisely 11 a.m. he donned his poker face, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

Alexander Waverly stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out one of his office windows. Outside all remains of the previous night's storm had evaporated with the heat of the morning sun.

His was in a somber mood as this was an unpleasant business both for him and Kuryakin.

Dressed smartly as always in his grey tweed suit and burgundy silk tie; he slowly turned to face his number two agent and noted the stoic facade.

The older man had heard the demeaning nickname given to the Ukrainian shortly after his transfer to the New York office from London. He was annoyed at the use of such terms but had to agree that "Ice Prince" suited him well.

He recalled the last time this young man and his cohort were in this office together and the non-verbal communication that took place between them. An entire conversation occurred without a single spoken word, Waverly mused. Now, the face of man standing in front of him was expressionless, without even the slightest trace of what might be happening just under the surface.

Illya observed his superior. He searched those wise grey eyes for a glimmer of his own guilt or innocence, punishment or redemption? The old man's marble-like face was impassive.

At that moment each man shared the exact same thought about the other; "the man is a consummate actor."

"Please sit down son."

Waverly returned to his own seat at the conference table where a manilla folder waited for him. He reached for his pipe which seemed to have disappeared.

Kuryakin moved to his familiar chair a few seats to his boss's left and sat down. Unaware he was holding his breath, he folded his hands in his lap and stared at the table.

"The ballistics report is back. I'm afraid it's not good news," the chief began and spun the round table to present the folder to Illya.

The blond agent's heart sank. He struggled to suppress raw emotions that threatened to turn his cheeks crimson. He let out a silent sigh, drew in a long breath and opened the file. Pulling his reading glasses from his jacket pocket; he slipped them on and carefully read the first page.

STATE OF NEW JERSEY FORENSIC'S LABORATORY

DEPARTMENT OF SAFETY

DIVISION OF STATE POLICE

BALLISTICS REPORT

CITY OF: Montville

COUNTY OF: Morris

DATE OF SERVICE: April 22, 1968

MANUFACTURER/MODEL WEAPON TESTED: Walther P38/Carbine

SERIAL NUMBER: 1457623

REGISTERED OWNER: Classified

OWNER ADDRESS: Classified

REASON FOR TEST: Criminal investigation

TECHNICIAN NAME: Christopher Riley

Kuryakin scanned the next page to focus on the lab's results at the bottom.

FINAL ANALYSIS:

FIRING DISCHARGED BULLET FINAL MATCH: POSITIVE

His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard. It was as if he had been punched in the gut and all the oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the room. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and he wiped them away, pushing unruly strands of hair from his face with one quick swipe.

Even though in his heart he believed he was guilty, the pragmatist in him took over and seeing the official report, this fact hit home.

Responsibility for the little girl's death now rested squarely on his shoulders.

Illya had read the newspaper in his office earlier that morning. A scan of the obituaries revealed her name; Nadine. She had been three years old.

"Three years old forever," he thought, disheartened. There was a photograph of her shyly smiling and clutching a stuffed toy bunny. The obit stated that her funeral was this afternoon.

Illya wanted to apologize to her parents, let them know how desperately sorry he was. He had to make them understand that he would have willingly died in her place.

One question reeled to the forefront of his mind, "How do I live with myself knowing I have done this horrible thing?"

politely cleared his throat, jolting Kuryakin into the present once again. He glanced up at his boss and after mumbling, "Sorry, sir," turned his attention back to the report in front of him and focused at the top of the second page to read it in it's entirety.

Now, the Section 1 Chief waited patiently for the younger man to finish. Although this was not the first time an enforcement agent under his command was responsible for the death of an innocent child; it was his heart-felt hope this would be the last.

While his did not coddle his agents, he was not insensitive to the negative psychological effects a tragedy of this nature might inflict.

Of the six men with circumstances similar to the Ukrainian's; two transferred to other departments, three resigned from U.N.C.L.E. and one committed suicide.

Alexander Waverly studied Kuryakin with scrutiny, believing he was made of sterner stuff and briefly turned his attention to the control panel console behind him for the elusive pipe. Not finding it, he turned back to study his Number 2 agent once again.

When Illya finished he closed the folder, returned his glasses to his pocket and placed his hands out of sight under the table, balled into tight fists. His appeared serene, his inner turmoil well hidden as he gazed once again at his boss.

Their eyes locked.

"There are legal ramifications to this friendly fire incident," Waverly explained. "No contact of any kind with the victim's family is permitted under any circumstance. To do so would mean immediate dismissal from the Command with requisite deprogramming and in your particular case , you would be deported and returned to the hands of the Soviet Government."

Illya blinked, absorbing this information; his expression rigid and emotionless.

"You will present yourself to Medical today at 2 p.m. for psychiatric evaluation and any necessary treatment with Doctor...er.. Robert Marsh."

Waverly saw the grimace Illya failed to disguise, but the old man ignored it and continued.

"One week suspension with pay pending internal investigation. Section 1 will meet to review all the facts of your case later this week and you will present yourself to me next Monday at 5 p.m. when I will apprise you of our final decision."

Illya raised his eyebrows in surprise at this news and shrunk down in his seat ever so slightly, feeling like he was back at State school and had just received a reprimand from the headmaster. His boss's stern words had that effect on him more times than he'd care to remember.

"This means I don't want you anywhere near this building young man, unless you are traveling to or from Medical."

Waverly's voice softened as he added; "I don't expect any foreseeable objections to your reinstatement, son." There was a twinkle of kindness in his eyes. "Questions Mr. Kuryakin?"

One week suspension with pay? Illya was confused at that statement. He thought he'd be spending time in a holding cell or at the very least confined to headquarters until Section 1 made their final ruling. This was hardly what he had been expecting.

He had resigned to submit himself willingly to whatever fate Section 1 deemed appropriate.

Illya desperately wanted to argue against the rationale behind the no contact rule, but his apology or even attending the funeral were no longer options, to do that would bring a decisive end to his career and he did not relish the thought of returning home to the Soviet Union.

His reply to Waverly was delivered with a stone face, "I believe you've covered my questions sir."

"Then we are done here, Mr. Kuryakin. All that's left is to return your property to you; for personal protection only."

The old man rose to retrieve a box from the cabinets along the wall behind him and placed it on the table.

"Your pipe, Sir."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were looking for your pipe? It's there. On the cabinet shelf next to where the container was that you just removed."

"Oh yes quite, thank you, ahem...it's more elusive than T.H.R.U.S.H."

Waverly chuckled and recovered the errant smoking instrument, placing the unlit mouthpiece between his teeth for safe keeping.

He sucked on it thoughtfully as he spun the table one last time to present the box to his agent and studied him carefully for any reaction.

The blond stood with his arms at his sides. He reached over, removing the lid and set it aside. His hand hesitated over the contents of the box for one brief second before he reached inside.

In a literal blur of movement that left Waverly speechless; Illya removed his Walther with the initial 'K' monogrammed on the grip, checked the magazine, as well as the chamber and slipped the weapon into his holster.

When Waverly recovered, he spoke again,"Errr...firing range this afternoon might be a good idea."

Kuryakin nodded, turned and was gone.

Chapter 6

Dr. Robert Marsh was U.N.C.L.E.'s newest addition to the psychiatry department. The fresh faced twenty eight year old doctor was six months out of his psychiatric residency and eager to serve the Command. He'd been assigned potential employee interviews, depression counseling and mental hygiene lectures.

This was his first Section 2 agent assessment and right now he was a bundle of nerves.

"That man chewed me up and spit me out!" Marsh said.

"Come, come, now doctor," Dr. Bates started. The tall slender senior 'Chief of Psychiatry' sat at an oblong table in what was called the "Shrink Tank," a meeting room in a secluded section of U.N.C.L.E. medical.

This was the Friday 'Patient Review Conference' where the week's assessments and treatment plans were discussed.

A half dozen empty and almost empty coffee cups were scattered about the table and the offensive odor of stale smoke hung in the air.

"He is certainly difficult, I agree. Just think of him as a challenge. Sit down Bob. You look tired."

Dr. Marsh puffed away on an unfiltered cigarette. "I could write a book about that challenge."

"Tell me how your Tuesday session went."

The younger doctor walked to the table and slapped down his notes atop an eight inch stack of yellow folders stuffed with his patient's past psych charts. He lit up another cigarette from the stub of his last one and tossed the old butt into one of many ashtrays that littered the table. He started to pace.

"He avoided direct questions. He was aloof, guarded, distant, and evasive. And those deep blue penetrating eyes! They should be registered as lethal weapons. I actually shuddered from his icy glare. It was quite unnerving."

Dr. Marsh continued continued talking and puffing and pacing. He added hand gestures to punctuate his dialogue.

"So he came in and just stood there kind of staring at me. I think he was irritated to be in a psychiatrist's office at first. You know; checked his watch a couple of times as if he had somewhere else he needed to be and kept looking around to see if we were alone but he did it quite subtly. I asked him to sit and he just ignored me. He strolled around the office reading the diplomas on the walls, checked out the library and pointed to one particular book on a high shelf. He asked about the author so when I got up to see which volume he was talking about he casually settled into my chair. MY CHAIR! That left me to sit on the couch! Then he started asking ME questions."

"Such as …" Dr. Bates was now chuckling softly to himself.

"Where did I get my Psychiatry degree? How long had I been practicing? How long had I been with U.N.C.L.E.? Why did I join U.N.C.L.E.? Did I have any children? What are their names and ages? He complimented me on my suit. Asked where I purchased it. Would I recommend my tailor? Did I have my tailor's phone number?"

"Take a breath Bob. He's very talented in the art of misdirection. You do understand he's a master spy? And highly intelligent? His I.Q. score is almost the sum total of your's and mine combined."

Dr. Marsh finally stopped pacing and sat at the table across from Dr. Bates flicking ashes into an overfull ashtray. The chief of psychiatry tried to wave the blue haze of smoke away from his face.

"I asked how he'd been sleeping," Marsh continued, "and did he have any nightmares? He ignored the question and asked for my views on dream interpretation and the importance of the R.E.M. cycle."

"I asked him some questions from our standardized form. His answers came so easily it was as if he knew what I would ask before I even finished the question."

He swallowed the last of his cold and bitter vending machine coffee with one big gulp and made a face.

"Never engage him in a battle of wits. You will lose." Dr. Bates countered. "Did you get a chance to go through his records?"

Dr. Marsh's mood changed suddenly from annoyed to concerned as he rested a hand on the eight inch stack of his patient's charts. His voice softened and as he continued to puff away; the exhaled smoke formed a hazy cloud around him.

"I scanned them briefly. He's suffered some pretty severe trauma from interrogations and torture courtesy of T.H.R.U.S.H. He's developed a high tolerance to truth serums, theirs and ours. Oh yeah, he was hypnotised by our department after several particularly bad incidents. The results were questionable." He paused to light another cigarette and snuffed out his old one.

"When I asked how he felt about using the same gun he dropped his defenses I think."

"What was his reply?"

"Something about... where's my notes?" Marsh reached for them with yellowed fingers. "And I quote, the gun didn't kill the girl, my stray bullet did."

"I reviewed his firing range report. There was no significant difference from his 'pre-incident' scores."

"Did he seem remorseful?"

"He was serious about that I think. His demeanor changed and I can't be sure but I may have seen a brief frown on his forehead and I noticed his dilated pupils. He said he wanted to apologize to the family but was told it's against U.N.C.L.E. policy. He said he would give anything to do over that day again. I believe he was sincere."

The two psychiatrists studied each other for a moment before the older one wrapped up the discussion.

"Section 1 dropped his suspension and exonerated him of any wrong doing. I think we can go ahead and let Waverly know we've cleared him for active duty. He's not going to give us any more insight than he already has. Type up your report and get it up to the old man ASAP."

Dr. Marsh spoke again; his cigarette now dangling from the corner of his mouth, "You know, it was kinda strange. As he left my office he paused at the door, turned around and told me I should look at an article in the latest issue of JAMA (Journal of the American Medical Association) about end stage pulmonary disease. Why would he tell me to do that?"

"I have no idea," Dr. Bates said as he stood and emptied the ashtrays into the trash. "But I would follow his advice if I were you."

Chapter 7

Three missions, two round trip plane rides and one ruined suit later, the two partners sat side by side at the bar, back at their favorite watering hole.

It was too early for the Monday dinner crowd and the music in the place was just loud enough to mask their conversation.

Solo nursed his second glass of top shelf single malt scotch and Kuryakin sipped on his third ice cold draught beer. The cheese and fruit platter they ordered was long gone. Illya devoured the last of the pretzels and was eyeing a bowl of peanuts a few empty stools away.

Napoleon tried during the last few weeks to get Illya to open up about the shooting incident. Little by little, his partner and friend seemed more like himself and was quicker to smile or offer a bit of dry humor that was his usual style. Solo's instincts told him this still wasn't over yet.

Physically Illya looked better but there was an uneasiness about him and still a hint of sadness behind those blue eyes.

The American was keenly aware of his rather complex partner's ability to set aside his emotions; a skill that made him a better enforcement agent. Eventually those emotions would boil up to the surface as anger or sadness, both of which were now occurring on a fairly regular basis.

While sharing a hotel room when out of town on assignments this past month, Solo was a first hand witness to the 'wake up shaking' nightmares that his partner was experiencing. Illya flatly refused to talk about them at the time.

Napoleon could handle the anger. It was the constant melancholia that was a problem in their down time. The frequency of the nightmares eventually lessened, but Illya was still having them.

He wanted to help his friend find a way to put this whole affair behind him and move on, and perhaps now, in this relaxed setting and after a few beers in him, his partner just might talk about it.

"You never told me how your psych eval went?" Solo broke the ice as he observed Kuryakin return with the other snack.

He knew full well that Illya toyed with shrinks like a cat using a dead mouse as a plaything.

"There was a new psychiatrist. I think he had to change his trousers after I left his office," Illya said with a sly grin.

"No wonder there's such a high turnover rate down there," Solo smirked.

He turned to face his partner and continued now that he had his foot in the door.

"You're sleeping a little better. Nightmares letting up?"

Illya rolled his eyes and groaned.

"You might as well tell me about them. I'm not going to let up on this until you do," Napoleon said with a determined look, trying to crack open that safe again.

Illya shrugged his shoulders, rubbed his eyes and sighed. He knew this discussion would be coming. They'd been dancing around the issue ever since his reinstatement. Perhaps now was the time to cast off some of this burden his stoic Soviet nature forced him to carry alone.

'Napoleon knows it's time talk about it,' Illya thought to himself, 'why don't I?'

He felt his persistent partner's eyes on him, waiting for an answer, so he decided to start by sharing his dreams.

"My nightmares always begin the same. I find myself back at that barn, only now the highway is much closer and I see the girl in the back seat of the car, watching me."

He turned and faced Napoleon.

"Sometimes I wait just a fraction of a second too long to fire; she dies anyway and you end up wounded or dead. Other times I reach for my Special, find my holster's empty and you shoot her. The car drives on."

No matter what he did in his nightmare, this outcome was always the same.

He withheld one portion. Napoleon would never know about the worst part of his dream; that which would forever be etched in Illya's memory though it was only imagined; how he watched in horror as his bullet struck that tiny child and ended her life in an instant, how he watched her eyes turn lifeless as blood trickled down from her temple and how he heard the anguish in her mother's screams.

"Now you're worried about hesitating." Napoleon's interruption was welcomed as it startled Illya back into the present.

The blond swallowed hard and nodded.

There are many factors that an enforcement agent has to take into consideration when discharging a firearm, proximity to fellow agents, flammable substances, the decision to wound or kill or even the noise that the gun would make and draw attention to oneself, just to name a few. Of course in a kill or be killed scenario the decision has to be instantaneous.

Solo knew that second guessing one's self in this business could be hazardous or fatal for any agent in the field. Certainly, Illya was not just any agent and had proven his marksmanship was spot-on in their latest assignments. As CEA if he felt his partner wasn't performing to his usual standards; he'd send him back to psych for treatment in a heartbeat.

"Your hesitating hasn't been a problem on our missions since Montville. In fact Illya, I've never known you to hesitate. That's one reason we remain relatively intact and we're both still alive."

Napoleon paused before injecting a bit of sarcasm into the conversation.

"If you're really concerned about it I can arrange for a little remedial training with Jules Cutter at Survival School."

"You'd just love to send me back there!" Illya shook his head, shooting him an icy smaller agent tensed momentarily, then to Solo's relief laughed out loud, realizing it was a joke; typical Solo humor.

Illya shook his head and he rolled his eyes; typical Kuryakin disapproval. Napoleon's hearty laugh proved to be a tension breaker, for a moment anyway.

"Mark saw you leaving the chapel a few days ago. Don't bite his head off for letting me know about it, but he's concerned for you too. A lot of people are."

Solo raised his eyebrows, waiting to see if one more tumbler would fall into place, still hoping to crack Illya's safe.

He was well aware that his friend was an atheist and it was thought it highly unusual for him to go to U.N.C.L.E.'s non-denominational sanctuary.

"This whole situation is new to me Napoleon. I wanted to..." the blond paused, suddenly being at a loss for words. He watched his partner carefully for any reaction as he continued.

"Don't be upset, but sometimes it's easier to talk with someone you don't know and I'd never met the chaplain before," he hesitated again. "I'm not quite sure how to explain. It felt safe? She does grief and crisis counseling."

He sighing before continuing. "Not having been able to come in contact with the little girl's family; she showed me another way. I didn't know how to get past the guilt and between the two of us we came up with a fairly decent plan. Talking with you about this is part of it."

"Hmmm...a 'she?' Solo chided. "Good looking? Single? Did you ask her out?"

Illya smirked at his partner's response, obviously peeved. "Bozhe moy Napoleon! I went there for help, not a date!"

"Seriously my friend, I'm glad you spoke with someone," Napoleon said sincerely, but asked, "And the other part?"

Illya turned back to the bar, staring into his now empty glass.

He had taken a three year old's life. She would never again run and play, be excited about her first day of school or hug her mother and father. Nor would she grow up to become a woman with hopes, dreams and perhaps a child of her own.

A life wasted.

It was entirely unintentional but he was responsible just the same.

The second part of the plan was something he had to do alone and not all of the details had been worked out yet. Before he left his meeting with the chaplain she suggested he find his own way to make it personal. He knew it would bring him the closure that was necessary to move on.

He just needed a little more time.

"No Napoleon...that's private."

Solo nodded and gave his partner a pat on the back.

"And Napoleon?" Illya asked softly.

"Hmmmm?"

"Thanks again."

With that being said, their conversation about the friendly fire incident was finished, and they ordered another round.

Chapter 8

Three white helium balloons twisted and danced around the ribbons once used to tie them to a bouquet of sunflowers, but now they floated free, rising gracefully up into a blue cloudless morning sky. Unfettered by gravity, they soared into the heavens; becoming smaller and smaller until they were no longer visible to their earthbound observer.

He found this place easily enough and parked his borrowed U.N.C.L.E. car in the small, empty gravel lot across the country lane. The day was quite warm and breezeless so he left his suit jacket in the car and crossing the road; he stepped through a wrought iron gate onto a well-worn path.

A large tree-lined newly mown meadow stretched out in front of him. It was surrounded on three sides with fields of wildflowers, with their sweet fragrance wafting on the breeze. Birds were singing and bees were buzzing. It was a lovely summer's day.

Illya Kuryakin had little patience for such trivialities. He was focused on the task at hand and began to count off numbers in his head as he navigated his way to a particular spot. When he found what he was looking for he stopped.

He slowly knelt in front of the pink marble tombstone and carefully placed the bouquet of small sunflowers there on Nadine Kimberly's grave. They were the national flower of his homeland.

Reaching out, placing one trembling hand on the stone; he closed his eyes and whispered softly to her as if she were right there beside him kneeling on the grass. His voice faltered slightly over the words.

"I am sorry."

He waited...for what? Something to happen?

At a loss as to what he should do next, he buried his face in his hands.

This simple act was so important to him as it had dominated his thoughts for weeks, keeping him awake nights.

He felt no different.

Somehow he believed if he completed this task, this...mission, fulfilling this obligation; he would feel relief and the almost constant pain he carried in his heart would disappear.

Letting out a long sigh Illya twisted from kneeling to sitting next to the stone, loosened his tie and bowed his head in thought.

After a few minutes he stood and scanned the area, doing a 360 visual sweep. There was no one around, no one watching or listening, just an occasional bird in flight squawking at him. No one would disturb them.

He sat down once more and began speaking to Nadine about his life after he left Russia and joined the Command; why he believed so strongly in it's principles, about how his partner Napoleon Solo had become a trusted friend, how all these events changed his life for the better and lastly why he was here now, telling her these things.

Once again he rested his hand on the cold, smooth marble stone and with the other lightly traced over the date of Nadine's death with his fingertips.

Suddenly all of the emotions he'd tried to suppress came flooding through, his disbelief and shame that he had done such a thing, the anger at himself for not being more careful, and all the "if only's" that had been eating away at his psyche.

There was no one here for whom to put on a brave face and no use hiding it from himself anymore.

With trembling hands and tears in his eyes, he opened his heart, letting out all of the poisonous anguish and pain he'd been keeping bottled up inside.

When he was done saying almost everything there was to say, a few more words escaped his lips.

This time Illya Kuryakin's apology came from the depths of his soul.

A cold gust of wind blew and he gasped, momentarily startled, feeling as if something had passed through him.

The concept of ghosts or spirits was something he never accepted, being raised a Soviet. Others might believe, his partner among them, but without scientific proof, Illya did not.

Here and now, he could see no explanation for that gust of cold air nor the warm overwhelming feeling of tranquility that followed. It was as if the child's spirit was indeed here and that she forgave him.

So he decided he'd make a rare exception to his scientific dogmatism and upbringing, just this once.

With sudden clarity he understood his true purpose for being here.

He needed to forgive himself.

It had been an accident pure and simple and there was no use holding himself amenable any longer.

He would honor this little girl's memory by continuing his quest to protect all innocents and fighting the good fight with Napoleon at his side. Together they would keep the world safe from those who would do it harm.

Illya sighed, and with that one breath all the tension left his body. There would be an emotional scar from this that he would forever carry with him, but the sting of it, the pain in the center of his being, was gone.

The burden that he had been carrying on his shoulders was now lifted.

Lost in reverie, he lingered a little while longer, not wishing to disturb the calmness that had settled on him.

He had indeed noticed all the details of this place but found no enjoyment in them until this moment and took pleasure in the throaty song of a meadowlark closeby; the grass was somehow greener, the sky intensely bluer.

This was a serene resting place for Nadine and he knew somehow she was at peace.

And now...he would be as well.

Illya stood, stretching while looking at the hundreds of grave markers surrounding him in this rural cemetery. Some looked to be over a hundred years old; the names having eroded away with time and weather.

The blond paused before the newest headstone and glanced down at it one last time.

Why had he not noticed it before? The child's name had it's roots in the Slavic word for 'hope', nádeje.

It lightened his heart and he smiled.

He reached down to release the three balloons that were tied around the sunflower bouquet.

As Illya watched them disappear into the sky he whispered to her once more,

"For you Nadine...and for me."

Kinets' **

**'The End' in Ukrainian.