When he arrived at reception, he was met by Waverly's secretary. She looked as though someone had died. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she insisted they go see Waverly immediately. Napoleon's soft prodding did no more than his half-hearted attempts at flirting. She seemed inconsolable.

He followed her silently, getting more uneasy by the second. What could possibly have happened that was enough to upset everyone to this extent and concern him in particular?

The walk to Waverly's office was taking far too long today, and the bleak corridors of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters seemed even more so than usually. An endless white tube - like a hospital corridor or that white light people talk about seeing when they have a near-death experience. Napoleon shivered.

Then he knew, with sudden inescapable clarity - Illya. Something had happened to Illya!

He stormed into Waverly's office, now desperate to find out what was going on.

Without unnecessary gestures of politeness, Waverly waved his secretary away and got straight to the point. "Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin is being held hostage by THRUSH. Can I trust you to amend that situation?" The old man seemed unusually distressed. After all, this was not the first time Illya had been abducted. What was so different?

"Sir, is there anything in particular I should know?" Napoleon Solo was trying hard to control the lump in his throat and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Yet again. If only there was a way to ensure he would always be the one to get into these situations. Anything to keep Illya safe!

Waverly looked nervous, for the first time Solo could remember. "Yes, I'm afraid there is."

Solo knew instinctively that whatever had to be done, it would involve putting himself in considerable danger. This kind of thing upset Waverly more than any other kind of case - the possibility of losing two agents at once.

"Mr Kuryakin is in the hands of Garner Jackson." He awaited the predictably distressed reaction.

Jackson was by far the worst character THRUSH had among their ranks. A couple of years ago, he had taken three U.N.C.L.E. agents hostage and promised their release in exchange for three THRUSH deserters which had been picked up by U.N.C.L.E. It had been decided that a fair exchange should be conducted. Unfortunately, through Jackson's own fault, one of the THRUSH people had escaped during the exchange, and he had called the whole thing off. As a punishment for U.N.C.L.E., he had tortured and killed all three U.N.C.L.E. agents and delivered their bodies to Headquarters. With a promise to do the same to any others he would get his hands on in future!

Solo had grown white-faced. Jackson had a personal vendetta. That was not the kind of thing, nor was he the kind of man, one could reason with.

Waverly continued, "Jackson isn't making any secret of having a trap at the ready for you as well, Mr Solo." He took a deep breath. "It would seem he has some kind of game in mind for the two of you. From what I gather, you are to win Mr Kuryakin's freedom from him - a bargain he undoubtedly does not intend to keep."

Before Solo could ask further, he continued, "According to Jackson's rules, if you lose, Mr Solo, you shall both be killed. If you should give up the game - and Jackson seems convinced that you will have no other option - you will live, but Mr Kuryakin will not. I am making this a voluntary assignment. We have reason to believe that whatever this game is, we cannot put a stop to it without risking both your lives. What do you say?"

"Just tell me where to go, Sir." Solo didn't need to think about this. Risking Illya's life was simply not an option. If risking his own for Illya was what it would take, so be it.

"Don't commit to this lightly, Mr Solo. We cannot provide you with any backup, and I don't think I need to clarify the dangers. Once you agree to Jackson's terms, you will be on your own." In a highly unusual gesture, the old man came up to Solo and squeezed his arm. "No one will hold it against you if you refuse. This is not an order, Mr Solo."

Solo straightened out his jacket impatiently. "Sir, Illya needs me. Please, let's not waste any time. What are the instructions?"

The abandoned warehouse on Horowitz Street looked like the perfect place to host Jackson's kinds of games. The bricks looked brittle with age, all the windows were smashed, the front door lock was broken, and the only thing with any life at all was a drawn set of yellowed and torn net curtains, blown violently in and out of broken windows by a rising late summer storm. For added gloom, it had started raining heavily by the time Solo had made it there.

Jackson, a tall athletic man with a sinister face, stood in front of the buiding, waiting under an umbrella. He smiled an insincere, cruel smile which only served to make his scar-ridden face appear more despicable.

"Mr Solo, how nice to meet you," he boomed. "From what I hear, you and your friend Mr Kuryakin are considered U.N.C.L.E.'s finest. I want you to know that it is only due to your reputations that I am content to play my game with just the two of you. Even so, the loss to U.N.C.L.E. will be immense." He laughed, not allowing Solo to respond.

"Thanks to a lucky coincidence, your dear friend Mr Kuryakin simply fell into my arms. Too good an opportunity for a friendly reunion with U.N.C.L.E. to miss, wouldn't you say?"

"I have no interest in having a chat with you, Jackson. Tell me what your twisted mind has conjured up, and let's get on with it." Solo's hands balled into fists behind his back but outwardly, he looked in control and relaxed as always. After all, it had taken years of practice to keep his voice resonant and steady, no matter how hopeless the situation was.

"Now now, Mr Solo. Not so impatient! Give me a moment to lay down the rules." Jackson began to search Solo and systematically remove his weapons and other gadgets.

"First, the objective of the game: a heartfelt reunion with your Mr Kuryakin. The obstacles: me, a most interesting set of contraptions I have installed throughout this building behind me, and finally, Mr Kuryakin himself. You see, he is not in top condition. And even if you should make your way to him uninjured - a very unlikely occurrence - you will find him less than cooperative. In fact, I doubt he is able to walk by himself."

Solo's nails dug so deep into his hands that he broke the skin. But he managed to say quietly and with menace, "I have promised myself a further reward besides the heartfelt reunion. Should the game be decided in mine and Illya's favour, I will kill you, Jackson, and I will take great pleasure in doing so."

Only the barest flicker in his eyes betrayed Jackson's reaction. "That is of course something you may attempt. Only let it be understood that if you should kill me before our game is over, you will be killing your partner also." He pointed to the building. "I do advice caution, Mr Solo. You never know what lurks behind a dark corner or underneath the floorboards. I suggest you begin your treasure hunt."

Jackson turned and walked away, leaving Napoleon Solo to face his challenge - saving the life of the person most dear to him. And he absolutely had to, because during all the years they had worked together, he had never dared to take the chance of telling Illya that he was that person.

Solo entered through the side door only to find himself in a locked room. Presuming that this was a way to make him consider the front door, he decided to attempt getting out of this first entrapment.

He searched for something to pick the lock with. Without success. Finally, he decided on a more crude option. Picking up a solid wooden chair, he made his way to the door and began to pound the chair against it. It took a good dozen attempts before the door began to weaken and splinter. He set the chair aside and threw himself against the thick wood until it creaked heavily. One more time, and the door swung open.

Solo was faced with a dark corridor which seemed to lead nowhere. If there were doors, they were hidden by shadows. He remembered a matchbox in his jacket pocket and reached for it, only to be reminded that Jackson had taken everything from him that could possibly have been of use.

"Illya!" he called out, in the vain hope that his friend might be able to lead him in the right direction. But his call remained unanswered.

Instead, Jackson called out through some kind of speaker system, "But Mr Solo! We can't have your friend helping you. Look at this as a variation of the ever popular Hide and Seek. The person hiding shouldn't be helping the one searching."

While Solo was still pondering whether Illya would actually be able to call out to him, their mutual nemesis continued, "There is one more thing I neglected to mention, Mr Solo. I'm afraid you shall have to find your Mr Kuryakin within 1 hour. In fact, you will both have to leave this building before that time is up. You see, I have taken the liberty of installing a few explosive devices around the place."

Napoleon knew there was no point in looking for them. He would be incredibly lucky to find Illya in time, let alone any number of explosives. Explosives which, knowing Jackson, might well be set to go off just a little earlier. He didn't dignify the man with a reply, instead glancing at his watch and continuing his attempt to find a way out of the corridor he appeared to be stuck in.

Sliding his hands over the walls as he walked down the hallway, he finally found a doorhandle and turned it carefully, only to receive an electric shock which threw him backwards against the opposite wall. "Damn you, Jackson!" he swore, slowly getting back to his feet. He ignored the pain and staggered on, finally finding another doorknob. One which would not turn at all.

Solo continued down the hallway, moving carefully as he found himself stepping on a seemingly endless number of objects. Once in a while, he picked one up in case it was something that might come in handy. Without light, he had to feel his way through them, continually cutting himself. There were broken plates, clothing or some kind of fabrics, smashed lightbulbs and discarded scraps of food. He ignored all of them but eventually thought better of it and retraced his steps a few metres to pick up a broken piece of a glass plate, stuffing it inside his jacket pocket.

After what seemed like far too long a time, considering he was working to a deadline, he bumped into a step. Bending down to feel, he realized there was a staircase ahead of him. Carefully, he began to climb, hoping desperately that they would actually lead somewhere. They did. Having counted 67 steps, Napoleon finally arrived on the landing at the top of the staircase. Now the question was, which way to turn?

He had a brief flash of a memory. Something he had noticed when he had first arrived. He knew it would help him find Illya but he couldn't remember what it was he had seen. Cursing himself, he proceeded, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to go through every room in this godforsaken building, only to have to give up and let Illya and himself be blown to pieces.

He shuddered violently at the thought. A life without Illya was simply unthinkable. Why had he never admitted this to himself, and to his partner? He knew suddenly, with absolute clarity, that if he should not be able to save Illya's life, he would welcome the end of his own.

Forcing his mind back on the task at hand, he touched a railing to his left. There had to be something in that direction. He proceeded, clinging to the wooden bar, until it suddenly stopped. His hand grasped thin air and he tripped, falling to the floor and at the same instant being kicked hard in his side. He rolled away to the left.... to the gap in the balustrade. He grabbed for support, anything that was nailed down, but without success. His legs went over the side first, dragging the rest of his body along. He didn't have the slightest chance. With the thought that he would be too late for Illya, he fell into darkness.

Something freezing cold hit him in the face, waking him up to indescribable pain in his head and back. Napoleon blinked, trying to focus through the wetness. Jackson was standing in front of him, laughing.

"At this rate, Mr Solo, you are spoiling my game. I had to stage a little accident to slow you down. You now have no more than 30 minutes left to find your handsome friend." Jackson grabbed hold of Napoleon's wrist and tore off his watch unceremoniously, only to drop it to the ground and crush it with a heavy army boot. "Let's make this a little more interesting, shall we?" he chuckled.

Napoleon's heart sank. He got to his feet as fast as he could manage, swaying unsteadily. The nausea, the throbbing headache, and his inability to remember how he had wound up back on the ground floor, told him he probably had a severe concussion. He did, however, remember why he was in this building. There was no more time to lose.

"I am not a sadistic person, Jackson, but I will enjoy your death immensely." He ignored the arrogant snort and stumbled back along the wall and to the stairs. This time, he climbed faster, doing his best to ignore his disorientation. Praying that he wouldn't lose consciousness, he counted the stairs aloud this time. Thankfully, he remembered how many there had been.

On arriving upstairs yet again, he very carefully made his way past the missing rail and down yet another pitch dark hallway. He kept trying doorhandles, but every single door was locked. He realized that Illya could be behind any one of them, although he presumed he was held in an unlocked room. Jackson would want him to get to Illya before killing them both.

'If we have to die,' Napoleon thought grimly, 'I want to at least be with Illya when it happens.' Despising himself for the defeatist attitude, he decided that his progress was simply too slow. He walked faster, ignoring his badly aching back, and frantically tried every door until he finally saw a fine beam of light a few metres ahead.

He focussed as well as he could and walked towards it. It turned out to be a window. A cool breeze blew in through parted curtains and Napoleon took a deep breath.

The curtains!

Thinking as hard as his nausea would allow, he tried to work out which side of the building he was in, retracing his steps since he had entered through the side door.

The window which had caught his eye on his arrival... it had been all wrong. The wind blew so strongly, it should have parted the curtains of all the windows. Yet the one he had looked up at had drawn curtains. Had they been held closed to hide something? Someone?

Napoleon finally worked out that he was on the right side of the building but at the wrong end of the corridor. He hastily retraced his steps all the way back to the treacherous landing and past the staircase.

By then, his head was throbbing violently. He found it hard to form a clear thought, and his entire being focussed on nothing but finding Illya. At any cost.

Trying door after door, he eventually found one which stood half open, as far as he could make out. It was a sliding door, and he pushed it very hard to open it.

Leaning in, trying to find something to hold onto, he realized it wasn't a room at all but an elevator shaft. Rigged to allow him to fall right down to the ground floor. Napoleon took a deep breath and moved back rapidly.

Oh god, what was the time? It seemed to him as if he had woken up hours ago. Evidently, it had been less than 30 minutes, because he was still here and somewhere, so was Illya. Illya...

'Damn Russian, why can't you make a sound so I can find you?' he fumed in a silent panic, continuing to try every door he walked past.

There. He suddenly was unshakably certain that he had found the right room. The doorknob turned more easily than the others had. He needed to be careful. Jackson was bound to have prepared a special surprise for him, should he actually have found Illya.

Finally, he had turned the knob all the way and decided to kick the door open for added distance. Just in case.

The heavy door swung open and revealed a room not quite as dark as the rest of the house. There were a few candles burning on a table, and the expected closed curtains were allowing a little light in. Napoleon was about to step inside when he heard a muffled whimper.

Blinking rapidly, trying to focus, he saw something moving in a dark corner. "My god, Illya!"

His partner was gagged and tied to a set of hooks hanging from the ceiling. His feet were not quite touching the ground, and his hands were in thick ropes. He was stretched out to his full length. But worst of all, he had been beaten badly. What would once have been an immaculate white shirt was torn to shreds, revealing welts, bruises and wounds. Some of them were old and dried and probably infected, some were still bleeding profusely.

Napoleon shivered but stood frozen in place, convinced that Illya was warning him of something. His friend's wide eyes stared at him in horror and he was shaking his head frantically.

Solo wanted nothing more than to get to him and release him, but he followed his instincts and stood still, looking up and around himself, seeing only darkness. Nevertheless, he took a step back and removed his jacket. When he threw it into the doorway, he got his explanation.

A guillotine-like contraption came slamming down to the ground just inside the room. Napoleon was aware only of Illya's body briefly relaxing in its restraints.

Stepping carefully over the top of the blade now embedded in the rotting wooden floor, Napoleon entered the room and ran to Illya, slipping on something which he in horror recognized as blood, and stumbled the rest of the way.

Quickly beginning to work on the ropes binding Illya's wrists, he almost didn't pay attention to another fearful moan.

"You don't want me to untie you?" Solo asked. "Why not?"

Illya's eyes rolled up and Napoleon followed his line of vision. A net full of bricks was dangling from the high ceiling just above Napoleon's head. Had he undone the ropes, Illya - who must have been holding onto that weight for who knows how long - would have watched him being killed instantly.

0 "Thank you," Napoleon said softly, moving around behind Illya. He quickly cut his ropes with the piece of glass he had brought and pulled him backwards with a jerk.

The bricks shattered on the floor, a frightening sound which sent a tremble through Illya's battered body. He turned around and threw his arms around Napoleon's neck, clawing onto him for dear life. "I knew you would come for me," he said weakly.

Napoleon was too moved and shocked all at once to do anything but lightly pat the back of his head. He dared not touch his partner properly; there was barely a spot on his body which wasn't covered in cuts or bruises. Yet far more frightening than the injuries was the fact that Illya's spirit seemed to be shattered and in a thousand pieces. He didn't dare think about what Jackson must have done to him to achieve that.

"We have to leave, Illya, as fast as we can!" he urged, reluctantly pushing his friend away.

Illya nodded, silently.

"Is there any way to get out of this window? Anything we can use to climb down?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr Solo!" Jackson's voice came from the doorway, and Solo found a gun pointed at them.

"A touching scene to be sure," Jackson mocked. "You made it. This far at least. You do realize of course that I cannot let you go. It would spoil the game."

An evil glimmer in his eyes warned Napoleon that he was not making idle threats. And then, Jackson suddenly turned towards Illya and aimed the gun.

In a split-second, Napoleon knocked his partner down to the ground and threw himself in front of his broken body. "You'll have to kill me first!" he said coldly.

"If that is what you wish." Jackson aimed again, this time at Napoleon's heart.

Solo felt Illya shifting behind him, and a moment later, some kind of object flew across the room, aimed right at Jackson. It didn't hit him but was enough to confuse the man and make him lose his aim. Just long enough to give Napoleon the opportunity to jump up, race across the room, and pounce on him.

Once he had Jackson on the floor, he kicked first his gun away from him and then proceeded to use his arrogant face for a punching bag. Once he had him subdued, he began feeling for whatever Illya had thrown. His fingers closed around the shard of glass and he raised it above Jackson's face.

The man merely laughed. U.N.C.L.E. agents weren't trained to kill defenseless unarmed men. And Solo had disarmed him rather efficiently. "You know, Mr Solo," A cruel grin appeared on his face. "I might have allowed your friend to live. There are ways in which his companionship might be quite delightful. Subject to trying him out, of course."

Solo raised his right hand - the one holding the shard of glass - and slammed it hard into Jackson's neck, instantly severing vital arteries beyond repair.

A low gurgle was the last sound that was heard from him while eyes forever frozen in shock still stared up at Napoleon.

Then... "Illya!" Napoleon raced over to his friend who was still lying motionless on the ground. "Illya, please hear me! We have to go! Now! This place is full of explosives which could go off any moment."

Illya tried to move, reaching out a hand to Napoleon. "I... can't... Go, Napoleon! Tell Waverly... Jackson dead."

Napoleon shook his head. "No! Get up, damn you! I'm not leaving here on my own." He pulled the Russian up off the ground by his torn clothes. "I'll carry you out of here if I have to. I didn't risk my life for you to leave you behind now, you hear? Now, come on!"

Lifting a groaning Illya to his feet and finding that he may indeed be forced to carry him, at least part of the way, Napoleon couldn't shake the thought that they were out of time.

"Staircase!" he ordered, half carrying, half dragging Illya over Jackson's body, from the room and out into the hall. He tried to run, tried to make Illya run, too, but it was like one of those nightmares where something is trying to catch you and you can't get away. It feels like the Earth is going to swallow you up and your feet keep sinking into the ground. Every step is an insurmountable obstacle.

Illya finally gave up resisting and did his best to make Napoleon's load easier. He wanted to run, but his legs hadn't been used for too long, he was starved, cold, and bleeding, and every movement hurt.

"Please, Illya, you have to try!" Napoleon had gotten his partner as far as the top of the staircase, but the Russian's meagre energy reserves seemed to be exhausted.

Illya shook his head, slouching in Napoleon's arms. "Can't," he sobbed.

Napoleon would have no part of it. "You have no choice, you hear me?" When he wasn't satisfied that Illya had indeed heard him, he knew he had to use harsher meassures. He gripped Illya's face and pressed a hard kiss on his lips, then watched the blue eyes widen in stunned surprise. He quickly explained, "I need you Illya! Please, walk. Run if you can! For me!"

A nod of understanding.

They made it down the stairs a little faster now. and Napoleon prayed they would get out the door in time.

"Just a few more steps," he urged Illya on. "Almost there." He knew the front door had to be close by, and he also knew they would have to risk using it. There was no time to go in search of the side entrance.

That was when the first explosive went off. Thankfully, it came from the direction in which Solo remembered the side door to be. The one he had been tempted to use again.

Another explosion! Right behind them. The staircase came crumbling down.

Napoleon dragged Illya to the door and turned the handle. Without success. "Stand still," he ordered, before throwing himself against the old door. It took several attempts, but eventually, it swung open with a creak.

He pulled Illya along by one hand and they were outside, not a moment too early. A series of further explosions went off, and they barely made it to the other side of the road before rubble and rocks were thrown out of every window and the door they had left open. Napoleon pushed Illya to the ground and covered him, taking the bulk of the assault. And it was enough to make him pass out.

"Napoleon..." Illya murmured, his face safely in the crook of his partner's neck.

No reply.

"Napoleon!" he called out anxiously, clasping Solo's shoulders.

Nothing. Illya was in too much of a daze to be able to tell whether his friend was even still breathing. He shifted, letting Napoleon roll off him but cushioning his body with one arm. "Please, Napoleon, say something!" he pleaded desperately.

A groan.

Happy beyond belief, Illya hugged him close, ignoring the pain from his bleeding wounds which was nothing compared to the warmth spreading throughout his abused body.

"Illya!" Napoleon hugged back, relieved. He opened his eyes and they were met by a very familiar pair, looking at him inquisitively. "Yes?" he asked, deciding not to let go just yet.

"There's something... we need to talk about this... this urge of yours to risk your life for me."

Napoleon smiled, pulling Illya's head back against his neck. "There's a very good reason for it, I assure you." He was certain he could feel Illya's lips twisting into a smile against his skin.

"I love you too, Napoleon."

THE END