"Mr. Kuryakin, it is a pleasure to be working with you again."

Illya looked up over the gun he was reassembling. It was quite a long way to look up, as the junior agent--Number 8, Section 2, badge number 22--was half a head taller than Napoleon. "We were more working against one another, as I recall, Mr. Westcott."

"Only for show. And you played your part beautifully."

Illya looked back to the pistol. He closed one eye to gauge the alignment of the sight. His mouth twitched in a small smile. "That was not the impression my partner received from your last conversation."

Westcott seated himself on the edge of the conference table, a foot away, and cocked his head to one side, watching Illya work with an air of polite interest. "I said you played your part beautifully. Solo was adequate, under the circumstances."

"Yes, well, a certain lack of information did aid the verisimilitude." Illya retrieved the ammunition clip from the table, clicked it back into place and nodded, satisfied. He stood and holstered the pistol. "If you are ready, Mr. Westcott, we can leave at any time."

Westcott slid to his feet and pulled Illya's suit jacket from the back of his chair as Illya reached for it. "Allow me," he said, holding it up.

Illya raised his eyebrows, but threaded his arms through the sleeves and shrugged into the jacket. Westcott clapped him briefly on the shoulders and stepped back. "Thank you," said Illya.

"Not at all. I'm ready to leave, too--my suitcase is waiting in front."

Illya looked Westcott quickly up and down, sizing up his replacement partner. Westcott was a much larger man than Illya, both taller and wider than Napoleon, with a wrestler's build. From all reports, he was quite a talented hand-to-hand fighter, and a fair shot. The temporary cosmetic surgery performed to transform him into a double of Thrush's number three had been reversed, leaving his square-jawed face somewhat smoother about the cheeks and chin. An uncanny resemblance nonetheless persisted.

Westcott spread his hands and smiled amiably. "Do I pass muster?"

"I will save my evaluation till later," said Illya. "Come, it won't do to keep the pilot waiting."

Westcott followed him out into the hallway, his long strides keeping him effortlessly abreast of Illya's brisk gait. "I jumped at the chance to join you on this assignment," he said as they stepped out into the security antechamber and returned their badges to Lucy.

"Oh, yes?" said Illya. "A deep interest in the French countryside?"

"None at all," Westcott said. "But I've been dying to partner with a truly experienced agent and learn the secrets of the art, and you're just never available."

Illya exchanged a look with Lucy and bid her good day. When he turned, Westcott had both their suitcases in hand. "I am Number 2, Section 2, not Section 1. Flattering me will bear little fruit, Mr. Westcott."

"You do me an injustice," said Westcott. He wrestled the suitcases to open the door for Illya. Illya preceded him through it into the tiny dressing room and through the curtain into the familiar scent of dry cleaning chemicals and steamed fabric. Del Floria nodded at him over the trouser press. "Thank you," said Westcott, when Illya held the front door of the shop open for him. "I truly admire you, Mr. Kuryakin. Ah..." He paused on the sidewalk.

Illya pointed down the street. "The garage." He set off and Westcott followed.

"Uh," said Westcott, "why is it Solo isn't accompanying you on this assignment?"

"Ah," sighed Illya. "We had occasion to visit Beirut during our last mission. Mr. Solo made the mistake of drinking water directly from the taps, unboiled. If you truly wish to learn from me, let that be lesson one."

The benefit of conducting surveillance on high-ranking THRUSH operatives was that they invariably had expensive taste. Consequently, they tended to "hole up"--if it could be called that--in five-star hotels, and the nice thing about that was that there was no such thing as a five-star hotel in a bad neighborhood.

The central figure of Operation Hypnos was no exception. Though the scenic countryside just outside Nice was not fertile ground for towering Hiltons and the like, THRUSH France's number four, Amandine Pascal, was currently staying in a charming white-washed building overflowing with flowers from pots on every flat outer surface. Only five stories, but a star for each of them. Across the street, as if built for U.N.C.L.E.'s very purpose, was a six-story brick hotel, no less profuse in flowering vines and planters. It was only four stars, but Illya was hard pressed to discover the difference. It wasn't the rating or the frippery that concerned him; he simply liked a room that was clean and relatively quiet from which to conduct an investigation, and the high class hotels provided that. Room service didn't hurt, either. At least, it didn't usually.

From his seat by the window, he cast a longing glance over his shoulder at the room service trolley standing by the door. Westcott had insisted on getting food elsewhere, in case the hotel staff was compromised by THRUSH, and their identities known. Illya was forced to cede the possibility, if not the likelihood, and so Westcott had gone to fetch dinner while Illya observed Pascal's suite and smelled the roast beef he'd ordered cool. His stomach growled--almost echoingly loud in the quiet room. As if in sympathy, his communicator sounded.

Illya pulled out the pen and twisted it into receiving mode. "Kuryakin here."

"Illya," Napoleon's voice came from the tiny speaker. "Where are you?"

"Nice," said Illya. "Where are you?"

"Precisely where you left me, like the heartless scoundrel I always knew you were."

Illya smiled. "Good. How is U.N.C.L.E. Beirut's medical wing treating you?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Except that all the nurses, for some confounded reason, are men. How am I supposed to recover in such a hostile environment?"

"I expect they've diverted the female nurses to other sections of the hospital. They did order bed rest, my friend, and your reputation certainly preceded you to Beirut Headquarters. Medical, it seems, was no worse informed."

"You don't have to sound so smug about it," Napoleon said sulkily. "I'm languishing for the lack of natural beauty, here!"

"Well, at least you aren't starving."

"Why are you?"

Illya lifted his binoculars again at movement across the street. "I'm conducting surveillance, and my temporary partner appears to have gone to China to fetch dinner."

"No room service?"

Illya glanced again at the trolley. He could probably tough out a little cyanide. Then again... He sighed. "No. I haven't had so much as a crust of bread since the aeroplane, four hours ago." His stomach gurgled in agreement.

Napoleon made a sympathetic sound. "I'm sorry. You should've stayed here. The food was excellent, when I was physically capable of eating it."

Illya thought back to his last meal in Beirut, shells of ground lamb and crushed wheat, stuffed with seasoned pine nuts and onions and fried to succulent perfection. His stomach chimed in vocally. "Now you're just being nasty," he said. "Did you actually want something, Napoleon, or are you using the international relay for social calls?"

"It's not unprofessional to check up on my partner--"

"You're off-duty."

Napoleon cleared his throat. "What are you up to in the south of France, anyway?"

"Just surveillance, for now. I could have used your help--we're watching a very beautiful woman."

"Beautiful?" Napoleon's tone told Illya he was sitting up straighter. "What does she look like? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?"

"Black hair," Illya said. "Long and wavy. A tall, statuesque woman with a voluptuous figure and elegant taste in sheer, floor-length gowns."

Napoleon made a short sound somewhere between a squawk of indignation and a groan. "You've been looking carefully," he said sullenly. "Your type, is she?"

"Not really," Illya said. "Just yours, though."

Napoleon grumbled something unintelligible. "Wish I were there, instead of this reverse harem. Come to think of it, who is there? Who did Mr. Waverly saddle you with as a substitute?"

A second person entered Amandine's room. Illya adjusted his binoculars to focus in and answered absently. "Section 2, Number 8. Paul--"

"Westcott!" Napoleon finished. "That obnoxious, ham-faced lummox?"

"Ah, you remember him."

"I remember that snake in the grass, all right--"

The second figure turned out to be room service, with a well-laden tray. Illya sighed and let his binoculars fall on their strap around his neck. He nodded through a long and colorful description of Westcott's assorted flaws of person and character. "Yes," he agreed, "you're absolutely right, Napoleon. Now, if you don't need anything, I really should keep this channel open. There's an active agent in the field who may need me."

"I can't believe--" Napoleon continued indignantly, but at that moment, a key clattered in the door lock. Illya pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and cocked it. There was a pause in the jingle of keys, then unseen knuckles rapped out the first ten notes of "Toréador" from Carmen. Illya relaxed slightly, but didn't lower his gun until Westcott's broad face peered around the door. He holstered it. "The cavalry has arrived, Napoleon. Get well soon." He twisted the communicator shut over a last, tinny, "Wait, Illya--" and stowed it inside his jacket.

Two large, white paper bags were suspended from one of Westcott's hands and, visible once he had maneuvered himself inside, there was a wicker basket over the other arm. Illya's nose twitched. "Fresh bread?" he asked, leaning forward.

Westcott nodded as he kicked the door shut behind him. "I found this little bakery still open on my way back, and--Oh, thank you," he said, as Illya materialized at his elbow and relieved him of the basket. Westcott set to relocking the door. "I found a wheel of Camembert at a shop I heard of from Melanie in Translation, and a Beef Bourguignon from a restaurant nearby. I had to search a while to find anything non-alcoholic to drink, what with the stake-out regulations, but I eventually found a bottle of sparkling cider. I'm sorry it took me so long, but--" He turned around.

Illya was back at his seat by the window, holding in both hands a baguette stuffed with prosciutto, Munster and herbs--of which half was missing. "Mmyes," he said around a mouthful. "Well, I think I can forgive it this time."

Surveillance of Amandine Pascal revealed nothing over the next few days besides her taste in wine, the identity of her local tailor, and the fact that her romantic life easily rivaled Napoleon's in activity and variety. This would have annoyed Illya more had not Westcott been truly inspired in his gathering of dinner each night. As it was, Illya was beginning to get bored.

On the fifth evening, when Westcott came over to relieve him, Illya looked up from his chair and thought, A quick, double-footed kick at this distance would easily sprain his knees, if not break one. From his current position, he should stagger back and slightly to the right. I stand and follow with a blow to the stomach and sternum, then finish with an elbow to the face as he falls into range. Illya smiled.

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Hm?" said Illya.

"May I have the binoculars, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Oh, yes." Illya pulled the strap over his head and handed them to Westcott. He opened his eyes wide and ran his thumb up the center of his forehead. It was never a good sign when he started daydreaming about methods to take down his partner. That was always when his stakeouts fouled up.

He rose and went to make use of the en suite facilities. He returned with his face scrubbed and a modicum of renewed resolve. "Mr. Westcott," he said, "I believe I will go make another attempt to bug our esteemed Ms. Pascal."

"She's in her room, now, though." That had been the problem, so far. When she wasn't, one of her lackeys always was.

"Yes, but the guest in the adjacent suite is out. I may be able to plant something in the wall that will suffice. Any sound would improve upon trying to lip-read at this distance."

"I'll come with you."

"No, I'll be less conspicuous alone." Illya opened his suitcase on the bed and pulled out a plaid jacket and a camera whose strap he put over his head. He considered, then donned his glasses, as well. He closed the suitcase and looked up to find Westcott regarding him dubiously. "I'm a tourist," Illya said in a southern States accent. "That ain't conspicuous in Nice." Westcott tilted his head to one side, then the other, then shrugged.

Illya went to the door. "Continue surveillance from here. I shan't be long."

"You don't suppose...?" Westcott began. "No. Silly idea."

"What?"

"Well, you don't suppose she's actually just vacationing, do you?"

Illya raised his eyebrows. "THRUSH," he said, "does not go on holiday."

"They don't, do they?" Illya whispered into his communicator, in a corner of the downstairs lobby.

"I think they favor the working holiday," said Napoleon. "Do a spot of kidnapping, take in a little sun and seaside air, knock off a world leader in between times."

"Good."

"Look--" Napoleon's voice was cut off by the communicator snapping closed.

Illya slipped out through the kitchen doors, with a brief word to the cook to say how much he'd enjoyed last night's dinner. He took a long and winding route around the village, snapping pictures of a flower cart here, a cobblestone lane there. A half-mile from the two hotels, he took a running detour uphill and back down to work up a light sweat, then breathed shallowly and quickly for several seconds until he hyperventilated. A glance at himself in the lens of his camera showed his face flushed and general appearance suitably disheveled. No, wait... He tucked one side of his collar under his jacket lapel and pulled the other flat out. Now he was suitably disheveled.

Thus prepared, he walked the last few blocks to the hotel Fleuron du Sud in a rolling shamble and limped his way in through the lobby.

The concierge looked satisfyingly horrified to see him for all of a second before schooling his face. Illya reached the front desk and slumped over the top of it. "Je suis," he said in horrendously accented French. "Uh... no, je veux. Um, tu--"

"I speak English, sir," said the concierge, his smile flawless though a muscle by his left eye twitched. "How may I help you?"

"Oh, thank god for that," Illya said. He dragged a sleeve across his forehead and examined the smudge for a moment. "Lord a'mercy," he sighed. "I been all up and down creation lookin' for ya. Wouldn't think there'd be such a lotta ways to be lost in such a bitty town, but hoo-boy--"

"Sir," said the concierge, in a hushed tone meant to quiet his interlocutor--which Illya happily ignored.

"Why, do you know, I've been wanderin' since I got here this morning and not hide nor hair of a taxi or a sign in a civilized language. How do you expect a fella to find his way?"

The man's eyes darted from Illya to the one other guest seated in an armchair at the other end of the lobby, to the young, disinterested-looking bellhop lounging by the elevator who offered not so much as a twitch for moral support. "Sir," he began again, "do you have a reservation?"

"You bet I do, after coming all this way. All over town and not a speck of edible food in the area. You know I ate some whatchacallit--slugs. Snails. Been going right through me all day--"

"Your name, sir?"

"Yeah, it's under--Ooh."

The concierge looked like he might burst into tears. "Sir?"

"That whatsit," said Illya. He recalled Napoleon's face a few days ago and wondered if he could reproduce the same shade of yellow-pea green just by thinking hard enough. He made a perfect replica of his partner's expression, anyway. "Rest of it's about ta--"

"That way!" hissed the concierge, pointing to a narrow corridor left of the elevator.

"Thank you," said Illya, and shuffle-limped rapidly in that direction.

There was no one else in the lavatories. Illya chose the one stall with a small outside window. Door locked, he slipped out of his shoes and positioned them with the tips poking out under the stall door, shucked off his jacket, left that and the camera on the toilet lid and climbed onto the tank.

The window had been half painted shut, so it took some opening, and it was only a foot wide. Illya turned and squeezed out sideways. He had to drag himself the last half of the way by his grip on the sill, and got a fair amount of the old paint job stuck to him in the process. Once clear, he found himself within arm's reach of a wooden lattice covered in flowering Port St. John's Creeper. That supported his weight long enough for him to climb up a floor and over to a drainpipe more securely bolted to the building. From there, it was a quick shimmy to the top floor. The window nearest him, which he correctly judged to be that of Pascal's neighbor, was dark. Its latch succumbed to a single pass of a length of wire from Illya's sleeve. Once he'd shaken off the paint flakes, he slipped over the sill to land noiselessly on the carpet of the unoccupied room.

The light pollution in this seaside town was exceedingly low, and it took Illya's eyes a moment to adjust to what moonlight made it in the window. Once they had, he surveyed the room and made his way to the wall which adjoined Pascal's. It was wall-papered in two large sheets--not easy to get through without leaving marks. He narrowed his eyes and followed the path of a lamp cord to an electrical outlet. That would do.

Illya crouched and produced a tiny screwdriver from his pocket. The plate and socket came out smoothly. Illya produced the bugging device and reached inside. He smiled to himself when his arm slid in to the elbow. He affixed the bug to Pascal's wall and withdrew his arm. The fixture was replaced without sign of tampering. Illya climbed back out onto the drainpipe, and with a slightly more complicated twist of the wire, latched the window behind him. He had reached the third floor when his communicator went off in his back pocket. Illya froze, clinging koala-like to the drainpipe.

U.N.C.L.E. protocol dictated that an agent must answer his communicator if able, unless doing so would put him in direct danger. Illya could do it--it just wasn't prudent while climbing down a drainpipe. As well... it sounded like a direct agent-to-agent connection. There wasn't supposed to be a difference between the call signals, but Illya could have sworn direct and relay, and certainly channels A and Z sounded different when they rang.

He opted for caution and ignored the signal as he transferred gingerly to the trellis. This section felt looser than it had on his first trip across--it seemed his weight the first time had strained its moorings to the building. He climbed across and down towards the bathroom window carefully, testing each hand- and foothold. As he passed a second floor window, the communicator shifted in his back pocket and the call signal became louder. Illya winced. He'd frequently had occasion to wish for some silent signal, rather than this siren-like one, which would bring someone to the window at this volume. He muttered a curse and reached back for the pen. As soon as he did, he felt a more-than-appropriate shift in his weight distribution. The moorings of the lattice nearest the window had come free. It bowed out from the wall for a meter around him, and with several more pops, that section grew. Illya looked up. Any more and the whole trellis would come crashing down, alerting the entire building to his activities. Illya sighed and let go.

It was something like twenty feet, and despite his best effort to roll as he hit the ground, and the softness of soil much-turned for the sake of the garden, he was treated to the unpleasant sensation that all his internal organs had been bludgeoned to one side of his body by a particularly large cricket bat. Above him, the lattice snapped back to the whitewashed wall louder than he liked, but he heard no reaction indoors. It would give way the next time anything heavier than a squirrel tried to climb it, but that was the next spy's concern. He performed a quick diagnostic of his limbs before moving: he was going to be sore in the morning--scratch that, he already was, all along his right side--and he had a headache.

The communicator was still sounding. He rose to all fours amidst the petunias and felt around till his hand struck metal in the dirt. He snatched up the pen and twisted it open. "Napoleon?"

"How did you know?"

"It sounded like your ring. I wish you were here."

"Really?"

"Yes. I wish you'd been standing just here, thirty seconds ago. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Are you busy?"

"No, I just have to climb through a window with a broken arm."

There was a pause. "Is it really broken?"

Illya pushed himself upright one complaining limb at a time. "No, but I--" He frowned. "Napoleon, you haven't heard from your Aunt Gretchen?"

"Oh, no," said Napoleon. "No, nothing like that."

Aunt Gretchen was their current distress signal. So U.N.C.L.E. Beirut had not been overrun, nor a convalescent Napoleon abducted. In which case: "Good night, Napoleon."

Illya stowed the communicator and set to swiping the dirt off his clothes. "Ow!" he grumbled, as he dusted a particularly tender bruise, and, "Damn it, Napoleon!"

He looked down at himself and sighed, exasperated. It would have to do. There was a limit to the gastric distress a Frenchman would believe escargot had induced, even in an American.

He glanced over his shoulder as he began the climb back to the bathroom window. Hopefully, the crushed flowers and depressions in the soil would be attributed to a passing canine, not a falling secret agent.

The concierge, accompanied by a reluctant and still bored-looking bellhop, was making hesitant advances towards the washroom door when Illya emerged, jacket and camera restored. "Hoo-whee," Illya said, waving his arm in front of his face. "Wouldn't go in there a year or two, 'I was you. God'a meant man to eat slugs, they wouldn't smell like that on t'other end, I say." The concierge turned white. The bellhop appeared not to understand. "Now," said Illya, "about that reservation--"

"He actually did cry when I told him I must have got the hotel name wrong," said Illya.

Westcott tried and failed not to smile. "Won't he remember you quite clearly?"

"Forever," Illya agreed, "but he will never speak of me, in the vain attempt to forget."

Westcott chuckled as he turned back to the window. "Thanks to his sacrifice, I expect we'll have something more interesting to listen to tonight."

Two hours later, Illya and Westcott were staring at each other over the remains of their steak Béarnaise. A rhythmic thumping emanated from the speaker of their receiver, interspersed with muffled cries whose volume was little impeded by the wall between their source and the U.N.C.L.E. bug, if the entirety of their content was.

"Well," said Westcott, and cleared his throat, "I can guess what that one was."

"As can I," Illya said grimly. "No thanks to the sound quality."

They stared at each other for another minute. "Do we actually have to listen to this?" Westcott asked. "We haven't heard a single intelligible word since she came back."

Illya's eyes narrowed minutely. "Technically," he said, "U.N.C.L.E. protocol dictates that any tap on an enemy agent must be monitored until such time as it is terminated by the other side."

Westcott held his gaze for a moment, then reached slowly over and twisted the volume knob on the receiver down to zero. Illya gave him a solemn half-nod. He was pleased they understood each other. "We need a new strategy," he said.

Westcott looked well in a tuxedo. It hadn't been easy to find one for rent in his size in this sleepy town, but with a little elbow grease, and more palm grease, find it they had. It had a cummerbund rather than a waistcoat, which was giving Westcott some trouble. "I'm not sure about this plan," he said, his brow furrowed as his large fingers fumbled with the tiny clasps. "I mean, we were only supposed to observe her."

"You will be," said Illya, "just from a closer vantage point."

"I don't know how I feel about sleeping with a woman--"

"THRUSH agent."

"--even so--to get information."

"I didn't tell you to sleep with her. U.N.C.L.E. doesn't order anyone to do that. Think of it as a bonus."

"Hmmm."

"What's wrong," asked Illya, "isn't she your type?"

"I prefer blondes."

"Well, make an exception," said Illya. "I can't be seen at that hotel, again. Na--Mr. Solo always takes care of this aspect of our assignments."

"Always?"

"Yes."

"I doubt Solo is troubled with standards in that department."

"My partner is the consummate professional," said Illya. "He doesn't let personal preference interfere with the completion of a mission."

Illya took the near-pout that curved Westcott's lips as a compliment to his ability to lie through his teeth. The junior agent's jaw set and he yanked his cummerbund right way round. "There's no woman he can romance that I can't," he said.

Again, this didn't quite gel with Napoleon's version of the end of that particular affair, but all Illya said was, "That's all wrong. Let me," and reached both hands around Westcott's waist to fix the fastenings.

Westcott went quite still. Illya slid his fingers down the seam of the cummerbund and located the hooks that had been threaded through the wrong eyes. Westcott's hands rose to Illya's elbows and slid halfway up the undersides of his upper arms. Illya's eyebrow flickered, but he continued what he was doing.

"Mr. Kuryakin," said Westcott, "what are the U.N.C.L.E. protocols concerning amorous relationships between employees?"

"They are very particular about the treatment of junior agents by their superiors, and extremely strict as concerns the proper behavior towards one's female colleagues."

"I guess I'm safe."

Illya looked up to meet Westcott's eyes; they were hooded and intent. The look raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "Safe," Illya said, "is a relative term." He finished with the cummerbund and drew back, allowing Westcott's hands to drag down his arms as he went.

Westcott closed his eyes and inclined his head, conceding the point with a small smile.

Illya surveyed his handiwork. "You are ready for the casino, Mr. Westcott."

Westcott flashed him a grin as he pulled on his coat. "It's not ready for me."

It would take at least an hour for Westcott to reach the casino where he was to engineer a chance meeting with Pascal. That, and the subsequent machinations, Illya expected to take the rest of the evening, so he donned his tourist disguise again and went to forage for dinner.

He was installed in the hotel room with a huge bag from a local bakery, several wheels of cheese and a very passable Syrah when his communicator went off. "Kuryakin here."

"You don't sound like your arm's broken."

Illya sliced some more Gouda to put over a hunk of baguette. "I'm the consummate professional."

"You sound like you're talking with your mouth full."

"Static. International relay."

"Hmmm."

"Still no news from Aunt Gretchen?"

"No," Napoleon sighed. "I almost wish there were."

"How goes the recovery?" Illya asked.

"Now I know you're eating, or you'd still be angry about whatever I interrupted yesterday."

Illya huffed. "A very fine Gouda and bread that was baked this morning, with a 1954 Syrah." Napoleon made a sound that only years of friendship allowed Illya to classify as anything but a whimper. "What is it about man that makes him seek the truth which wounds him?"

Napoleon grumbled.

"Speaking of truths," Illya said, and took a sip of his wine, "I sent Number 22 off to woo our target."

"What? The voluptuous brunette? You let the junior agent have the good part?"

"I didn't want it."

Napoleon groaned.

"About that," Illya said, thoughtfully carving a wedge of Munster. "I told him to. That's against protocol, isn't it?"

"Officially it is," said Napoleon. "Actually, we do it all the time. You know that."

"Honestly, it's never come up when I was partnered with anyone but you. You enjoy it, and the women in question tend to switch sides for the continued privilege, so it never occurred to me to feel badly about it."

"A conscience is a troublesome thing to develop this late in the game, my friend." Illya could hear Napoleon smile. "I'm not that good. I never converted Angelique."

"The exception that proves the rule, I expect. I do wish you were here."

"Ohh," Napoleon said, pleased. "Do you miss me, Illya?"

"I miss being spared unnecessary work. You wouldn't need to seduce her for information--one kiss and she'd be the newest U.N.C.L.E. recruit. We could be done with this affair by breakfast."

"You're just an old sentimentalist, is what you are."

Illya stabbed a piece of cheese with his knife and brought it to his lips. "Guilty as charged. How are you enjoying the hospital food?"

"As much as you'll enjoy the extra three weeks you spend on this affair due to the inferior skills of your shoddy knock-off partner."

The shoddy knock-off returned near midnight in Pascal's limousine. Illya saw him hold the door for her and escort her into the hotel across the way. The usual two bodyguards followed them at a respectful distance while the driver went on towards the garage a few blocks away. Westcott and Pascal appeared at her window shortly thereafter, then the curtains were drawn.

He might not know his way around a cummerbund, but he had at least one skill set to compensate. Illya switched the feed on the receiver to that of the second bug--the one he had sewn into Westcott's lapel.

"...chéri, you simply must let me make you more comfortable." So that was what Amandine Pascal sounded like. It was strange to put a voice to a face this long after beginning surveillance. She had a low voice, for a woman--smoky and sensual, Napoleon would have said.

"How could I be more comfortable?" Westcott drawled. "I've got my feet up, sipping wine with the most beautiful woman in France."

Pascal laughed. "You are charming, chéri. Well, at least let me relieve you of this..."

There was rustling of cloth, and the conversation became more distant. The jacket had been put aside. An adjustment of the volume solved the problem, but there was nothing to hear for the next minute or so--nothing verbal, at any rate.

"Mm, I'm going to go slip into something more comfortable," murmured Pascal.

Illya had never quite understood this as an immediate prelude to slipping into nothing whatsoever, but his not to reason why.

"What shall I change into?" she asked.

"Anything," Westcott said, "but a boy."

Illya chuckled. Ah, U.N.C.L.E. basic training. He had to give credit to Napoleon and Westcott for being able to get that line out with a straight face--Illya never could. He'd been marked down in that class.

It seemed to be well-received by Pascal, who murmured something Illya wasn't sure he wanted to decipher and apparently moved away. Shortly thereafter, she returned and invited Westcott into the bedroom. The door closed, and the bug couldn't pick up anything further, no matter how high Illya turned the volume. He frowned at the receiver. Westcott had said he would contrive to leave the jacket in the relevant room, but had either forgotten or been unable to formulate a pretext for it. Well, he would have to pay close attention to whatever else she said, and report afterwards. Illya hadn't been terribly keen to listen in on a bedroom scene, anyhow.

Illya was nodding off, head against the window, when the transmitter speaker hissed. "--this here," Westcott whispered, mouth close to the microphone. "Going out the window."

Illya sat forward, blinking. "No, don't take the--damn," he said, remembering this wasn't a two-way channel. It sounded like he shouldn't risk the communicator signal. He grabbed his jacket and ran out the door.

By the time he'd circled round to the back of the Fleuron du Sud, Westcott was nearing the bottom of the drainpipe. "Westcott!" Illya hissed. "Westcott! Don't take the--"

Westcott turned his head at Illya's voice, just as he reached out for the lattice. Illya dove to one side as the entire structure thundered down the side of the building. Westcott crashed to earth with it, more or less upright, his fingers trapped between collapsed slats of wood. His face twisted through a spectacular series of contortions, but to his credit, he didn't make a sound.

"--trellis," Illya said. He hauled himself up from the dirt. "You all right?" Lights were blinking on on every floor.

"Dandy," said Westcott, as Illya pulled open the wooden bars to free his hands, "apart from a few severed fingers and my stomach taking up residence in my knees."

"You'll have to run around it," said Illya, seizing his arm. "Come on."

Windows were being thrown open above them as they fled the lot. Illya led the way down a side-street, up a sloping alleyway, and along a small service road behind a row of shops, into someone's tiny garden. They dropped down behind a hedge.

"Nothing broken?" Illya asked, when he'd caught his breath.

"Just my dignity, and that trellis. You didn't mention that."

"No," said Illya. "It didn't occur to me you might make use of it. Why did you?"

"The woman at the desk."

"Woman?"

"Yes, she seemed to be filling in for the night shift."

"Blonde woman, green dress?" Illya asked.

"That's the one. Her name's Yvette. I knew her. In Nice."

"Ah."

"She was talking to the bellhop when I went in, so she missed me, but I couldn't take the risk twice. She might have said something to Amandine. In fact, she almost certainly would have."

Illya smirked, then schooled his expression. "So, your cover, as far as Ms. Pascal is concerned?"

"Airtight," said Westcott. He stretched his legs out with a sigh and brushed at the dirt on his trousers. "I mentioned Yvette to her in the elevator, and said I might have to sneak out, owing to her jealous disposition, and jealous husband who's dying to get his hands on me."

"Does she have a jealous husband?"

"She has a husband."

Illya raised his eyebrows. Westcott shrugged. "So," said Illya, "what did you discover?"

"Didn't you hear?"

"Not through the door, no. I hope you left the bug somewhere more useful."

"Tucked into a flap on the underside of her purse."

Illya nodded and cocked his head to one side, listening. He didn't particularly expect pursuit. Nothing had been stolen, and nothing besides the trellis broken. If the small hotel staff decided they had a case of peeping Toms, they wouldn't expend that much energy to find them. Illya stood, and Westcott followed suit.

"She's leaving for Casablanca tomorrow," Westcott said, as he hopped a fence after Illya into an empty cobblestone lane. There were no streetlights here, but the moon was high and full overhead, turning the village silver bright.

"Morocco," Illya said thoughtfully. "It's been a while."

"Great food," said Westcott.

"Yes," Illya agreed fervently. He closed his eyes a moment in reminiscence.

"Especially now--it's Ramadan."

"Oh? I've never been during that month."

"The rush hour traffic's a lot worse," said Westcott, "and everyone's in a bad mood or half-asleep during the day, but the evening meal is heavenly."

"I look forward to our continued surveillance, then," said Illya, smiling widely.

"As do I," said Westcott. "You know, Mr. Kuryakin, moonlight becomes you."

Illya looked up at the junior agent and flicked his bangs back from his forehead. "Yes, I've been told it goes with my hair."

Westcott chuckled.

"Mr. Westcott," said Illya, "was it really so arduous procuring that information?"

"Not arduous. Just unpleasant. As I said, she's not my type."

"Brunette."

"THRUSH."

"Mr. Solo is of the opinion that that adds 'spice.'"

Westcott harrumphed. "I don't set much store by the opinion of a man who can work with you for five years and never make an amorous advance."

"How do you know he never has?" asked Illya.

Westcott met his eyes for a moment, then lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug.

"My partner prefers the company of the fairer sex, in such matters."

"Well, who doesn't," said Westcott, "when they actually are fairer."

Illya smiled. He was not immune to flattery. "Tomorrow," he said, "book us on the first flight to Mohammed V Airport."

"Yes, sir."

Illya's communicator went off before his alarm clock. He fumbled it twice before he managed to turn the microphone right side up. "Kuryakin here."

"Good morning, sunshine," said Napoleon, with all the cheer afforded by an hour time difference. "What's new in the south of France?"

"Imminent revolution over the rampant abuse of power by the bourgeoisie."

"Are you fomenting, again?"

"No, you are. What on earth do you want at this hour?" Illya scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand and peered across at the other queen bed. It was empty and made. Illya sincerely hoped Westcott was somewhere procuring breakfast and coffee.

"Just checking in on my favorite secret agent. I have to make sure you're not getting into trouble without my supervision."

Illya narrowed his eyes at the communicator. "We're going to Casablanca."

"On the road to Morocco, eh?" Illya could hear him grin. "Has anyone ever told you moonlight becomes you?"

"Yes," said Illya. "Last night, as a matter of fact."

There was a momentary silence on the other end. "Who?" Napoleon spluttered.

Illya grunted and made to twist the communicator shut.

"Westcott!" Napoleon exclaimed. "That slime! You watch him, Illya! You watch him like a hawk! He's a no-good, weasel-faced, underhanded rat! Beware--"

"Mr. Westcott," Illya said archly, "is Number 8 in Section 2. I sincerely hope that when I have cause to be wary of Number 8, I will have been demoted to Number 9." He was stuffing the communicator vehemently under his pillow when the signal knock sounded at the door and Westcott entered.

He had coffee and baked goods. Illya was not immune to that, either.

Act II: Indisposed

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The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction
East of Sanity