The characters from ‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E’ are not owned by me.

Plot Summary: A devastating loss leads  Illya to confront his past.  Can Napoleon keep him from going over the edge? 

Authors note:  I have to warn readers on this one.  It’s a dark tale which deals with Illya’s past and prejudice in general.  It’s not quite a love story.  It’s a mystery.  The words and deeds that occur in this story are sad.  I hope they reflect life as it was in the past.  Please take no offence in  the words I have written.

Part one

Chapter one

The warm breeze ruffled the hair of the blond man sitting on the porch of the old Victorian house.  Illya Kuryakin sat with a book in his lap and his eyes closed when he smelled the faint scent of perfume.  He sniffed the air and opened his eyes, surprised to see a young woman standing on the porch of the house.  He chided himself for sleeping so soundly that a woman had been allowed to approach without him even sensing her presence.  Still, she hardly appeared dangerous.  She was a little shorter than he with long brown hair, midnight blue eyes, and skin the color of buttered-honey.  She wore a blue dress that intensified the deep blue color of her eyes.  The woman smiled and spoke with a British accent.

“Excuse me, Sir.  I seem to have a problem.  May I ask for your help?” 

He stammered as he rose from his chair.  She was breathtaking.  “Ah…ah, yes, of course. Illya Kuryakin at your service. What is the problem?”

“Well,” she answered.  “I was so stupid.  I locked myself out of the house.  Father won’t be home until late tonight.  I’ve no idea how I’m to get back in the house.  I don’t want to call someone in town.  I saw you and thought….”

Illya realized that her accent wasn’t British, but French.  She had obviously learned to speak English with a British accent the same as he.  He put those thoughts aside as he realized that he was just standing there gawking like a school boy.   The woman waited patiently as if she had all the time in the world.  Illya forced the silly grin he knew he had to be wearing from his face and spoke,

“Where do you live, Miss, Miss…”

“White, Lisa White.  I live a few doors down.”

“Ah, Miss White.  Is that White as in Roy White, the proprietor of ‘Old Roy’s General Store’?” Illya asked then cringed when he realized he had given the slang version of the store’s name.  It was actually called ‘Roy’s Grand Emporium’, but everyone in town called it simply ‘Old Roy’s’. 

Lisa lowered her eyes and Illya could see the slight smile as she attempted to hide her amusement at his obvious discomfort.  She spoke, her voice almost lilting as she looked at him. 

“Why, yes.  He’s my father. And please call me Lisa.”   She offered her hand and Illya clasped it shaking it apologetically. 

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Lisa,” Illya said, noticing his accent had become more British in the small time they had become acquainted.

Illya continued to hold her hand, faintly aware of her scent, and the smoothness of her hand.  She was feminine in the way women had been feminine in years past, with her blue dress, softly accented with lace, pearls that glistened around her neck and the almost imperceptible dab of makeup.  She was a woman from another time.   

He reluctantly released her hand, attempting at the same time to clear his head.  He was in a committed relationship and smitten by a beautiful, young woman at the same time.  So Napoleon, he almost said aloud.  Instead he said,” Let me retrieve some tools.   I’ll be right back.”  He turned and went into the house.

 He couldn’t believe how beautiful she was.  He wondered if that was why Napoleon had spent so much time at the Victorian house of late.   He kicked himself for acting like a school boy.  He was normally pretty aloof when it came to meeting women.  Now, he was stuttering.   He scolded himself; he was, after all, involved in a relationship with Carolyn.  And he was no Napoleon.

He retrieved his tool box and returned to the porch.  Lisa was standing there, her blue eyes looking at him expectantly.   He couldn’t help but notice the way the sun revealed the subtle auburn highlights of her hair.

“Lead the way.  We’ll have you in your house in no time,” he said.

They walked past several houses all with perfectly manicured lawns.  Illya wondered at the marvel of OakWood.  It was a tiny town, not far from New York. Napoleon had purchased the Victorian house to put down roots nearly two years ago.  Unfortunate events had taken place in the house which lead Napoleon to maintain his New York penthouse apartment while keeping the house in OakWood as a retreat, mostly for his two best friends— April and Illya who loved the house. The arrangement was more than pleasing to the Russian who came here to catch his breath between assignments.  Illya relied on this world of birds and flowers, and women who were like the delicate women of yore to erase the tragedies in life.

Lisa turned into the driveway of a small Victorian house.  The house was small in comparison to the other houses on the block and somewhat older.  It had a tiny porch with a single large swing and two white, wooden chairs.  

“Well, this is home.  Now if you can only get me inside.”

Illya walked up to the door and inserted a small lock pick in the keyhole.  He turned the knob and the door opened. 

“Oh, my goodness,” Lisa exclaimed.  “I never thought it would be that easy.  Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, Lisa.”  

“Would you like to come in and have something to drink?  Tea perhaps?” she asked.

Illya thought about it for a second.  Maybe it’s best to walk away from her now.  What could he offer the girl?  He was involved and rarely in town.  When he was in town, he was often recuperating from injuries.  He couldn’t marry her, because UNCLE prohibited marriage for field agents.  Yes, it was best to leave her alone.  But when he answered, he found himself saying yes and entering the house.

The house was surprisingly well decorated.  Illya had expected that Roy would live in a home populated with old, drab decorations in keeping with his usual demeanor.  Instead, he was ushered into a living room with a large fireplace dotted with pictures on the mantel, two over-stuffed, white chairs, blue-green scattered country rugs, and a sofa dressed with blue silk pillows.  Illya nodded his approval.  The decorations were unique, not something you’d see in any design shop.  

“You have a lovely home,” he said.

“I did most of this myself,” Lisa said.  “You should have seen it before.  I love my father, but his taste in décor leads a lot to be desired.  He tends to believe if a piece is still functional, it’s good enough for him.”

“Well, you’ve quite a talent,” he said as she led him to a sofa near the fireplace.  Illya sat down and Lisa went into the kitchen to prepare some tea.  She returned a few minutes later with a serving tray containing two steaming mugs and sat down on the couch next to Illya.

Illya took a mug and sipped the strong tea.  Lisa grimaced, “Oh, I forgot the sugar and cream.  I prefer nothing in my tea.  I sometimes forget that not everyone likes it that way.

“It’s fine.  Don’t worry about it,” Illya said, taking another sip.  “So, Lisa,   I’ve never seen you around here before.  Have you been away?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “I’ve lived in Paris most of my life.  My mother died recently and so I came to live with my father.”

Illya had never met a Mrs. White, so he was immediately sorry for having inquired. “I’m sorry for your loss and forgive me for prying,”

 “No, it’s okay.  My mother and father were married briefly, but divorced shortly after my birth.   Mother and I were never close.   I spent most of my life in boarding schools.  I came with my mother each summer to visit her family in Mississippi, but I was never allowed to come here.  Father would always visit me there, but it was always my dream to live with him one day.  You see, I never really had a family.”  She paused, a wistful expression on her face.   “Anyhow, father invited me after mother died so I moved here.”

Illya immediately felt a kinship with Lisa.  He, too, had been raised without family.  He found himself wanting to know more about her.

 “So what do you think of America?” he asked.

“It’s a beautiful country in many ways,” she said. 

Illya noticed the sad tone of her voice.  

“Why didn’t you visit earlier?  I mean with your father living here…” He kicked himself for prying yet again, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.  Lisa moved closer.  At first he thought she sought the intimacy of being next to him, but then he realized it was probably the coolness of the house.  Still, he didn’t move when he felt her presence near.

A sadness touched Lisa’s face.  Illya was sorry he had brought the subject up.  “Forgive me,” he said.  “I should not have asked.”

“No, Illya.  That’s all right.”  She paused.  “You’re the first person I ever wanted to talk about this with.  As you can see I’m mixed race.  My mother was black.   When they married twenty-five years ago, they both agreed to live in France.   You see France is somewhat more tolerant than America, especially twenty-five years ago.”

Illya was aware of the suffering of black people in America.  Interracial marriages had been banned in most states until a few years ago.  France had no such restrictions on marriages between the races.  It had become the home of many blacks who tired of the constant presence of racism.  

Illya  also knew what it was like to suffer prejudice—a prejudice that solely existed because of hatred for a group of people.  He had watched his family die at the hands of the Nazis when he was just a child.  His was not a privileged place during those times.  It was true that he had the blond hair and blue eyes of the Aryan, but he was small and still Russian and the Nazis made it clear that he was inferior because of it.

After his family had been killed at the hands of the Nazis, he struggled to survive.   Days without food, without the love and companionship of family.  In its place, the ugliness of war.   He was seven years old and already an adult.

Eventually, the war ended and his life continued in a new fashion.  He could never replace his family but he enjoyed a small amount of freedom with the recovered Soviet Union that saw the value in his intellect and provided him with education and opportunity.  Yet it was a prison.

Illya tasted a bit of freedom when he was sent to Paris.  It was there that he faced more prejudice only this time he was just ignored.  He had left the prison of the Soviets only to face a new prejudice—hatred of him because he was Russian.  Few people asked if he embraced the Soviet philosophy, few people spoke to him.  He spent his nights without t friends.  He was a hated man and he suffered to the core of his being because of it. 

Eventually, Illya found himself in America at the invitation of Alexander Waverly.  He came with the hopes and dreams of so many other immigrants.  And maybe naiveté at the prospect of living in a land that claimed that all men were created equal, but the hatred followed him.  He was still Russian and the Cold War was at its peak. Again he found himself alone.  By now he had learned to turn a blind eye to the prejudice, to listen to the hateful words that proclaimed him an enemy and pretend he hadn’t heard them.  He became a man who pretended that he didn’t need the world.  He closed his emotions to the pain, and then Napoleon came along and his world reshaped itself—somewhat.  For even his friend couldn’t fight every time Illya was called a name, every time someone refused to work with him, or even sit down and share a meal with him.  It was strange. Women threw themselves at him because of his looks, yet few would take him home to meet their parents. 

Illya regarded Lisa again.  She was beautiful, charming, obviously educated.  Yet none of this would ever be shared with those who would hate.  And unlike him, she could not pass.  Illya always knew that a careful altering of his speech could allow him to pretend to be American.  It was pride in his heritage that prevented him from doing so.  Lisa did not have that option.  Wherever she went, her color preceded her.

Lisa looked at him as if reading his mind.  “Mr. Kuryakin, I’m proud of who I am.  I love my African lineage and would not change it even if it were possible.    I’ve lived in this country for one year now.  OakWood is beautiful, but it has an ugliness that runs deep.  Still, God made me this color and no one has the right to say that he was wrong.”

Lisa’s eyes blazed and Illya realized that she probably thought he felt sorry for her.  To a certain extent she was right.  He thought of the privileges he enjoyed by virtue of his skin color.  He was proud of his Russian heritage.  And he would never think of denying his ethnicity.  Still, he could go anywhere and not fear rejection until he spoke.  He had pitied her for not having the option of passing.  Now, he could see that she did not want it. 

“I apologize, Lisa.  It was not my intent to imply that you would want to change the color of your skin.  I really think it is quite beautiful,” he said, blushing.  

Lisa smiled.  “Thank you.  I’m sorry, Illya.  I didn’t mean to direct my anger at you.  I can clearly see that you are not like that.”

Lisa looked around the small house before continuing in a small voice.  “Did you know we received death threats when I moved here?  There were people who even refused to shop in Father’s store.  Only a desperate need for supplies, and the fact that his store is the only one for miles, prevented him from going out of business.”

“Why do you stay?”  Illya asked. 

Chapter Two

The following weeks went by in a blur.  Lisa and Illya were almost inseparable. Lisa was an aspiring photographer so she photographed OakWood with enthusiasm and it was contagious to the dour Russian who was starting to see OakWood in a different light.  He found himself not just noticing the delicate color of a flower, but the soft folds that made it a flower.  Being in Lisa’s presence brought joy and calmness to his world.  No matter what life had to offer by way of danger or impossible missions, Lisa could erase just by a brief smile or a comforting touch. 

Illya had all but given up his apartment in New York and spent most of his time with Lisa.  He was with her almost constantly as she photographed OakWood.  She was planning to publish a book of photographs, put OakWood on the map she had said.   Illya considered it a privilege to accompany her on her photographic excursions.  He watched as she photographed the sad old man who bore the scars of another time. He watched as she photographed the little girls who danced in the moonlight. He watched her come to life as she spoke of the future.  Interspersed between moments of joy was the ugly prejudice of OakWood.  They were the talk of the town.  Whereas Illya saw the beauty in their relationship, the town of OakWood saw a white man with a black woman. The Russian could not help but notice the glares of the population as they sat in restaurants or walked through the streets.  Still, there were many who were friendly and it was these people who gave the Russian hope for the future.

 Illya was starting to feel guilty about his unfaithfulness to Carolyn.  He hadn’t crossed the line with Lisa, but they were becoming closer and he knew that some hard decisions had to be made.  He had met Carolyn a few months ago.  Carolyn lived in Chicago, so visits were few and far between.  Illya hated to admit it, but his relationship with Carolyn was purely sexual.  They had little in common and spent most of their time in bed.  He liked Carolyn, but the distance was making it difficult to have a normal relationship.  In addition, she was insecure and needy, often asking the Russian to spend time with her that he could ill afford to spend. 

Lisa was entirely different.  She was fiercely independent—happy to accept whatever time they had together and she was understanding when he was out of town and unavailable. He’d never explained what he did for a living and she had never asked.  In spite of the color difference, Illya felt that he had more in common with Lisa than any other woman.  She was a kindred spirit— a woman who had suffered prejudice.  A woman who had been raised without the love of family.

Lisa’s father Roy seemed to warm to the presence of the Russian.  He had lost his southern tinged accent to reveal a voice with strong echoes of the South Bronx neighborhood he grew up in.  Roy revealed that he had only imitated the southern accent as a way to enhance the charm of the store he owned.  He’d explained that people expected it.

It was another ending to a perfect day when Illya and Lisa sat before the roaring flames in the house she shared with her father.  They both sat on the floor, staring into the fire as it changed colors and permeated the air with its smoldering smell of wood interspersed with the soft fragrance of Lisa.  Lisa was radiant as she spoke of the beauty of the flames. 

“I’ve never been able to capture the essence of fire.  It can be beautiful or destructive, all at the same time.  Think of how the old man’s face was ravaged by such a flame years ago, yet I can’t think of anything more romantic then sitting in front of a fireplace.”

The old man was one of Lisa’s frequent subjects.  He was a quiet man, at least when Illya was around.  Lisa said he had been burned years ago in the war.  She described the suffering the old man endured because of his scars.  His name was Edward Finch.  He lived with his daughter in a small house on the other side of town.   His burns were intensive causing lung problems and difficulty moving about.  He relied on his unmarried daughter, Karen, for his care.  His burns set him apart from his neighbors and he had no friends besides Lisa. 

Lisa and Mr. Finch often spent afternoons together in the park.  Illya was invited to sit with them when he was in town, but Mr. Finch seemed uncomfortable in his presence so he seldom went.  Still, Illya thought of the old man as another kindred spirit, for all three of them suffered because of how the world perceived them.  Illya recalled the surprise he felt at Mr. Finch allowing Lisa to take his picture until she explained that he just wanted people to see him, to not turn their eyes away the minute they saw his scars.  They never look at him, Lisa had said, sadness in her eyes. Could you imagine a world where no one even looks at you?  And Illya could not.

 Illya’s mind was brought back to the present.  The light from the fire illuminated her skin, casting a warm glow that made her eyes sparkle.  Lisa seemed strong yet vulnerable, and for a minute Illya felt strangely protective of her. 

“So, do you find some of your subjects reluctant to have their pictures taken?”

“Well, I once tried to take a picture of the Klan headquarters here in town.  They weren’t to happy about it.”

Illya looked at her in stunned silence.

“Wasn’t that dangerous?”

“Of course, but I want to be a photographer who travels throughout the world and that includes even the dangerous areas.  I may find myself in countries in the mist of war.  Places like Viet Nam.  If I can’t deal with it here, I might as well know it now.”

Illya was aware of the Klan presence in OakWood. It had taken the small group longer to discover he was Russian.  But once the leader, Tom Horton, became aware, he made it clear that his presence was not wanted. 

“Lisa, please be careful.  They are a hateful group who would think nothing of hurting you just because of the color of your skin.”

“I know.  And I am careful.  But you have to know, the dangers are everywhere.  Not every bigot wears a white sheet and shouts hateful words.  No, there are plenty who quietly ignore you, but would kill you just as quickly if given the chance.”

“Is there anyone else who has given you problems?”

“Andy Dodd.  He’s a truck driver who’s often in town.  When I first moved here, he asked me out.  I refused.  He is the type of man who only wants one thing from a woman like me.  I would have been something to be kept in the closet.  Hidden.  I didn’t want that so I turned him down.  He wasn’t too happy about it.  Now, every time I see him, he makes lewd remarks.  I try to avoid him, but it’s hard.  OakWood is a small town and sometimes I work in the store.”

“I can talk to him if you like.”  Illya offered.

Lisa smiled, lightly touching his arm.  It sent shivers up his spine. 

“Thank you, but I’ve got to fight my own battles and believe me they’re numerous when you’re black.”

The two sat in silence enjoying the dancing flames of the fireplace, the soft crackles of the flame almost lulling them into sleep.

“I’m starting to feel deeply for you, Lisa.” Illya said, avoiding her eyes.

“I know,” came the soft reply.

“I have no right to be with you.  I’m involved with someone else,” the Russian continued.  “Still, I can’t help how I feel about you.  I’m going to break…”

“Don’t.  You’ve know idea how our life would be.  It’s an impossible situation.”

Illya looked into Lisa’s deep blue eyes.  “I don’t care what others say.”

Lisa stood abruptly.  “I don’t want us to have to go through what my parents went through.  You don’t know what it’s like.  You see, my father grew tired of living in Paris.  He wanted to come home, be with his family.  When I was two, they moved to New York.  They couldn’t even find a place to live and wound up living in a slum in a black neighborhood.  Even there, they suffered.  Ignored by most.  No friends.  Family that refused to accept them.  It destroyed their marriage.  Don’t you see?  It’s not possible.”

“Nothing is impossible if two people….,”

“No, you’ve no idea.  We will not be accepted by whites, and blacks will only tolerate us.  I will not see a child of mine suffer as I have.  Not wanted by whites, tolerated by blacks.  Always different.”

Illya could see the strong resolve in Lisa’s eyes.  He didn’t want to pressure her.

Illya looked sadly at Lisa.  He took her hand.  “I hope, one day, you’ll change your mind.  But I don’t want this to affect our friendship.  Can we at least remain friends?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Lisa smiled. 

Chapter Three

In the end, Illya came to realize that he needed to end his relationship with Carolyn so he flew to Chicago to tell her in person.   The woman hadn’t been happy, cursing at him and making threats.  Illya had tried to reason with her, telling her it was for the best, and that she would find someone else.  Still, she had remained angry, demanding to know the name of the woman who had stolen him.  She had physically attacked the Russian before he left.  Illya wondered how Napoleon could juggle so many willing women, yet none had ever attacked him when he no longer wanted the relationship.

Illya returned to New York, never mentioning the incident to Lisa.  He knew she wouldn’t be comfortable if she knew that he’d ended the relationship with Carolyn.  She may even see it as a way to put pressure on her.  So for the most part, Illya continued to enjoy the platonic friendship he had with Lisa.  He had practically moved to the Victorian house, spending most of his leisure evenings with the blue-eyed beauty.  Sometimes they would spend the evening with Lisa’s father enjoying a game of Parcheesi or simply watching television.  Most of the time, Roy made himself scarce, giving the couple time to be alone. Illya couldn’t remember the last time he had been this happy.  He had started to believe that nothing could happen that would mare this happiness and then the first ugly incident occurred.

It was a cool, sunny afternoon as Illya stood watching Lisa photograph the old man when he saw a man purposefully stride toward them.  He was immediately on alert and moved protectively closer to Lisa.  He didn’t know what to expect, but he was determine to protect the woman who was becoming more important in his life than he would like to admit. 

The man who approached was large with piercing brown eyes and a thin mouth...  He wore a short-sleeved tee-shirt that displayed a series of tattoos on each muscled arm.  .He looked like a man who spent hours honing his body into a fighting machine and wanted to show it off.  

“So, what do we have here?  If it isn’t salt and pepper.  You know, I heard about you and the Commie bastard.” The man said, looking at Lisa.

 “Why don’t you leave us along, Andy?” Lisa pleaded.

“Yes, I would strongly suggest you do so.”  Illya said with a steel edge in his voice, his blue eyes darkening as he spoke.”

“Feisty little fellow, ain’t you.” Dodd said, laughing, his eyes glaring at Illya. 

“Please, Dodd.  There’s no need for violence.  Just leave us alone.”  Lisa was shaking in fear of the large man.    She moved protectively in front of Illya.

Dodd laughed.  “So the little woman gonna protect her man.  That’s the story?  You need a woman to take care of ya?”

“Lisa.  Go sit with Mr. Finch.  He seems nervous.”  Illya said, never taking his eyes off Dodd.

“But, Illya” Lisa started.

“Do it,” Illya commanded.  He watched as Lisa turned and slowly walked back to the bench where the old man sat.  Mr. Finch looked anxiously at her, grabbing her hand the minute she sat down. 

Dodd instantly reached for the Russian, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.  “Alone at last,” he hissed.  “What’s a Commie doing hanging out with a ….”  Dodd never got to form the final word.  Illya had kicked him in the shins sending the large man spiraling face down into the grass.  Dodd squirmed and yelped in pain.  Illya kneeled over him, grabbing his arm and roughly pushing it behind his back. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a crowd gathering. Lisa came and stood before the two struggling men.

“Now, I’m going to give you a choice,” Illya said, ice in his voice.  “You can offer an apology to the lady and leave, or you can stay here with me.  The choice is all yours.”

Dodd was shivering.  Illya pushed harder on his arm.  The man screamed in pain.  “I’m…I’m sorry Lisa.  Please make him stop.  He’s gonna break my arm.”

Illya could feel the man shaking.  He wanted to tear his arm from its sockets, but he looked at Lisa and saw the forgiveness in her eyes.

“Let him up, Illya.” Lisa said.

“Yeah, listen to the lady.  You’re hurting me.  I apologize to both of you.  Didn’t mean anything by it.  I was just foolin’.”

Illya reluctantly released him and stood.  Andy stood, swaying lightly.  He rubbed his arm and looked cautiously at the Russian. 

“You’re fit for a little fellow.” The big man looked incredulously at Illya. “You know they should put a warning label on you.”

“If I ever hear about you so much as glancing at Lisa, I’ll find you and make sure you wish you’d never been born.  Now leave before my patience deserts me.” Illya said narrowly.

“Okay.  Okay.  You wont hear a peep from me.  I’m going.”

Dodd turned and walked hastily away.  The crowd gathered around Illya, some patting him on the back.

“Bout time somebody did something about that bully,” one man said.

“somebody finally taught that idiot a lesson,” said another woman.

Soon the crowd dispersed leaving Illya and Lisa alone.

“I was so scared for you,” Lisa said, throwing herself in his arms.  “What was that, some kind of martial arts?”

“Something like that,” Illya answered. 

Illya still hadn’t told her about his allegiance with UNCLE.  Now the question begged to be answered and he wanted to be honest with her.

“We need to talk.  Let’s go somewhere and get something to eat.” He said taking her arm.  Lisa said goodbye to Mr. Finch who looked up as his daughter arrived.

Chapter Four

It was late in the evening.    Illya had decided that privacy was needed so they’d gone back to her house and Lisa cooked.  They had spent the meal in silence.  Illya was so worried that Lisa would walk away once she found out what he did for a living.  Now they sat before the blazing fireplace.

 “I’m an enforcement agent with an organization called U.N.C.L.E” Illya started.

“I’ve heard of that organization,” Lisa said clearly impressed by the knowledge.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”  He wanted to say lose you, but he knew that it was inappropriate.

Lisa looked down at her hands. “I always thought you were a scientist or something.   I don’t know, you have that air about you and you’re always reading those scientific journals.  I didn’t question you because I felt it was some sort of secret research you were doing.  I never thought you were some sort of cop.   It scares me that you could be harmed, but I would never stand in your way of doing something that so obviously brings you joy.”

Illya was stunned.  He had expected the knowledge that he worked for an international law enforcement agency to be disturbing, even appalling.  Instead, he saw the honest pleasure in her eyes.  He found himself falling deeply in love with her, although he knew the feelings were not shared. 

“Illya, I think I’m falling in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Illya felt his voice catch in his throat.  She felt the same way.

“Lisa, I know you don’t want a …..”

Lisa took his hand, looking deeply into his eyes.  The soft crackle of the fire surrounded them.  “I need time to think.  Can you give me that?”

“Yes, but please, give us a chance.”

For the first time Illya took her in his arms and kissed her.  It was a soft kiss but it sent shivers through the Russian’s body.   He touched her face for an instant, finding himself lost in her eyes.  “I better leave,”

“Yes, but please come by tomorrow.  We need to talk.”

Illya stood and pulled her into another kiss, this one deeper and more sensuous.  They broke apart quickly when they realized  things were moving too quickly.  Illya looked into her eyes and saw the love there.  He turned and reluctantly left.

It was several hours later when he heard the pounding at his door.  Illya had fallen asleep in the library and reached for his gun, cursing himself when he realized the gun was upstairs instead of by his side.  Sometimes he became entirely too relaxed when it came to spending time at the Victorian house.  He realized this could be a fatal mistake and resolved to remedy it in the future. 

Illya got up and  crept cautiously toward the door.  He didn’t bother to turn the lights on, he knew the house by hard now and leaving the lights off gave him an element of surprise.  Still, who would be pounding on the door that loudly if he needed a surprise? 

Illya approached the door cautiously, “Who is it?”  He yelled.  There was silence for a moment, but then he heard a quiet almost tentative voice. 

“It’s Roy,”

Illya relaxed and opened the door.  Roy was standing there, face white, body shaking.  He looked as though he was in shock. 

Illya quickly ushered him into the drawing room and seated him on the large sofa.  He poured some vodka into a large tumbler and handed it to Roy.  “Roy.  What’s wrong?”

Roy sat there, staring straight ahead, the glass of vodka untouched.

 “Roy.  What has happened?”  Illya asked again.  He was becoming afraid.

“Where’s Lisa?” Illya asked, panic rising in his voice. 

Roy just sat there, his eyes straight ahead

 “Where’s Lisa?  Is she okay?” 

Roy broke down in tears.   “My baby.”

“You mean Lisa.  What happened to Lisa?”  Illya urgently demanded.

“She’s dead.”  Roy said.

“Dead.  That’s impossible.  I saw her just a few hours ago.”  Illya said this as if the mere act of seeing her earlier meant that she could not die.  “How?  Where?” he asked.   

“I found her in the upstairs bedroom.  At first I thought she was asleep.  But then … I called her.  She didn’t answer.  I went to her.  Her eyes were open.  Just staring.  But her face…her face… How could she be dead?”

“Let’s go.  Let me see, Roy.”  Illya said with a shaky voice.  He wouldn’t believe it until he saw and maybe not even then.

The old man got up.  It was as if he had aged twenty five years.   Illya went upstairs and grabbed his gun.  He locked the house and walked silently with Roy to his house.

“She’s upstairs in the bedroom, the first door” Roy said as soon as they entered the house.

 Illya had him sit on the couch and went up the stairs, his legs growing heavy with each step.

Lisa’s bedroom door was closed and Illya didn’t want to open it.  To open it would mean losing her.  If the door stayed closed it meant she was still alive and tomorrow they would meet, maybe have a picnic.  Maybe… just maybe have a life together.  But now, he knew that he had to walk into that room.  He braced himself, the picture of cool professionalism. 

The cops found Illya still sitting on the floor a half hour later.  They’d come with a full crime scene team.  A kindly coroner who went into the room and pronounced her dead and then checked on the two men who were so shattered that neither could talk.  

“Hello, I’m Dr. Hamilton,” the man said as he looked at Illya.  “Are you the one who called the crime in?”

“Da,” Illya said.

“Young, man we need to get you to a hospital.”  The doctor said while taking his pulse.  Illya’s pulse was racing and it worried the doctor.  Here was a man consumed with the shock of death.  He had obviously loved the woman.   The doctor noted the gun Illya wore and for a brief instant he wondered if it had been he who shot her.  But, no.  Such a man would have fled into the night.  He wouldn’t be sitting on the floor crying and shaking. 

“Is there someone I can call for you?” the doctor asked.

Illya didn’t answer and the doctor wondered if he spoke English.  He had answered in Russian.  Doctor Hamilton knew Illya was Russian.  He had seen Illya a few times in the store with the beautiful woman who had just died.  He’d seen how enamored of each other they were.  Now she was dead and he left a shattered man.  He tried talking to him again.

“Who can I call?” he asked in Russian.

Illya looked at him for the first time.

“Napoleon, Napoleon Solo,” and he gave him the telephone number.

TBC