"They'll be looking for two men, not a man and a woman."

Illya never failed to comply with Napoleon's orders presented as brilliant ideas, but a little rebellion kept Napoleon's ego in check. "And why must I be the woman?"

Napoleon eyed him as if he were being unreasonable. "Because I don't have the build for it."

Illya glanced down the length of his own masculine frame, looked at Napoleon again and raised an eyebrow, the words unnecessary.

Napoleon's mouth quirked at the corner. He laid his hands on each side of Illya's neck and stroked outward, measuring him. "I suppose you are a little broad in the shoulders."

Illya stood very still in his partner's grasp as Napoleon's hands stroked down his arms to his hands, lifted and examined them, finger by finger.

"And your hands are much too big," he said finally, letting them drop. He cocked his head to the left, examining Illya's face. The Russian looked at him sideways as Napoleon put two fingers under Illya's chin and tilted his head the opposite way. "Jaw's too strong."

Napoleon's eyes wandered down. If he had been anyone but Illya's partner, his hand would have never gotten anywhere close to Illya's groin, but the Russian stood in stunned silence as his genitals were cupped and weighed in Napoleon's palm.

"And you definitely bulge down here," Napoleon said, slightly stooped and level with his partner. His eyes danced as he gazed into Illya's, teasing but affectionate. "Very unladylike."

Illya had begun to respond to Napoleon's touch and casually - he hoped - brushed the invading hand away. His next words didn't stray from the subject. "So what is it about this inventory that convinces you I fit the part?"

Napoleon pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back, chin up, and looked down his nose. "You're shorter."

A quiet growl rose from deep in Illya's throat. He was reminded of a Beatles movie he'd seen in the Village. One of the characters in the film repeatedly told another, "Quit bein' taller than me." Illya'd been tempted to say the same thing to Napoleon a time or two, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

The unilateral decision that Illya would play the distaff side of a traveling couple prevailed, and Napoleon went shopping for the accoutrements needed to accomplish the transformation. He returned to the U.N.C.L.E. safehouse in an hour.

The blonde pageboy wig was the best Helena, Montana had to offer, but a snug fit. Napoleon stood in front of Illya, adjusting the hairpiece and tucking in stray wisps of Illya's own hair, then gripped the Russian's shoulders and swiveled him to face the mirror.

"It looks like a wig," Illya groused, accepting as a given how ridiculous he looked in it.

"That's why I bought the turban." Napoleon produced a navy hat that would fit tightly over the already tight wig. "This will cover most of it."

"Then why do I need it at all?" Illya said as he reached to yank off the wig.

Napoleon snatched Illya's hand in mid-air. "Because you need all the femininity you can get."

Illya seldom complained about what Thrush subjected him to, but frequently about what Napoleon did. "My head is in a vise."

"As soon as we get on board and out of sight, you can revert from being a foul-tempered female to a foul-tempered male."

"You don't think Thrush will spot us before we get on the train?"

"You apparently haven't been paying attention," Napoleon said as he pondered Illya's reflection in the mirror. "They won't notice a married couple. And after the train is gone, they'll abandon the station and expand their search for us and Professor DeMay's decoder at every rental car office, bus stop, and bicycle shop within fifty miles." He slapped Illya's shoulders. "Now get into your costume while I study the directions on these packages."

Illya moved to the bed and cautiously opened a large department store box that sat upon it. He found a smart navy blue traveling suit with white collar and cuffs, and a pair of white T-strap, one-inch heels.

"Napoleon, even I know that one does not wear white shoes after Labor Day."

Napoleon looked over at the shoes Illya was holding and shrugged. "They were on sale."

Illya tsked and tossed the shoes on the bed, then discovered some undergarments in an accompanying box. "Are these really necessary?"

Napoleon didn't reply but merely waved his hand distractedly, a gesture that Illya knew meant "get on with it."

The Russian donned the brassiere and plucked at its wilted cups. "What do you suggest I fill these with?"

Napoleon, sitting on the opposite side of the bed, had withdrawn a mascara wand from its case and was inspecting it. "You have socks, don't you?"

Illya's mumble was followed by a cry of alarm at the next discovery. "A GIRDLE?"

"It'll hold the stockings up," Napoleon said, "and your, uh, attributes in."

Illya began to tug it on.

"Don't forget to shave your legs."

Illya squinted at his partner. "Don't forget I have a gun."

Napoleon held his breath briefly. "It's for world peace, Illya."

Illya muttered something on his way to the bathroom and Napoleon knew better than to ask him to repeat the comment.

By the time Illya's legs were as smooth as a baby's bottom - depending on the species of the baby - Napoleon was familiar with the contents of all the products sold to him at the drugstore for the wife who'd lost her luggage, and joined Illya in the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub and directed Illya to sit on the lid of the toilet next to it.

"Okay, hold still," he said, applying pancake make-up to his partner's face. "This is a necessary evil."

"Someday I'd like to experience a necessary good."

Napoleon ignored the comment and eyed Illya from wig to nylon stockings, bra and girdle in between, then returned to studying his face. "Put your chin up. This has to go from the base of your throat up to your hairline, not unlike camouflage." He moved the foundation-soaked sponge around Illya's neck and face with efficiency, covering his skin up to the edge of the wig. "Your eyebrows are a little bushy, but-"

"I am NOT plucking my eyebrows," Illya snapped.

"I wasn't going to suggest it," Napoleon replied quickly. "The bangs will cover them."

The wind was taken out of Illya's surly sails for the moment. "Oh."

Napoleon looked at his friend closely as Illya turned his head left and right, up and down to accommodate the inspection. "All you need now is some lipstick and..."  Napoleon paused as he gazed into his partner's cool blue eyes for a few seconds, "uh, maybe some mascara. That should do it."

Illya stared back for a moment. "Can you apply them with any finesse?"

Napoleon answered while still studying Illya's face. "I've seen it done often enough." He picked up the lipstick and swiveled it out of its shiny cylinder. "Okay, go like this," he said, opening his mouth wide.

Illya did as he was shown, stretching his lips over his teeth, while Napoleon leaned close and carefully applied Petal Pink Frost. "You're lucky this isn't the fifties or you'd be wearing Ruby Red Rose."

"Ah don eel ucky," Illya said.

Napoleon began to chuckle. "Don't make me laugh while I'm trying to stay in the lines."

For some reason Illya felt giddy himself. His lips stretched further into an open-mouthed grin as Napoleon concentrated on gliding the creamy stick back and forth, back and forth.

"Now do this, carefully," Napoleon said, rubbing his lips together.

Illya copied the action, carefully.

The two of them sat close, staring at each other's mouths, until Napoleon cleared his throat. "Uh, you'd better put the mascara on yourself," he said, backing away. "I might poke you in the eye."

A few minutes later the make-up was done, the traveling suit was on, and the need for tutelage in feminine movement was obvious.

"My body wasn't built for this," Illya said after his third promenade across the living room brought just as much criticism as the first.

"It's only five minutes from the taxi to the train, but they're critical minutes." Napoleon crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "If Thrush spots us, we'll have to find alternative transportation back to New York, and that won't be easy."

"I know this mission as well as you do so spare me the explanations." Illya prepared for another audition by straightening his skirt, smoothing his pageboy, and crooking his arm so his purse would dangle just so. He took a deep breath and sauntered across the room. His steps were smaller, his chin higher, and his hips swayed.

"Perfect!" Napoleon praised as Illya returned to him. "Being seen with you might not ruin my reputation after all."

"FIVE minutes," Illya said in a threatening tone, leaning into Napoleon's face.

"I'll be just as glad when things are back to normal as you will be."

The hint of sympathy surprised Illya. "Getting the two of us to safety is the only reason I'm putting up with this masquerade."

"I'm fully aware of that," Napoleon said. "Now let's get that turban on."

Illya didn't think he could be any more uncomfortable, but the turban was tight over the already tight wig. "The things I do for you and U.N.C.L.E."

"All in a day's work," Napoleon said as he turned to phone for a taxi.

"All in a day's humiliation," Illya muttered.

They soon found themselves deposited on the train platform. A southerly autumn sun hung behind the roof of the station, putting them in shadow. Illya's overnight case held the priceless decoder, and he guarded it as closely as any woman would guard her cosmetics and jewelry.

A burly man who looked uncomfortable in his too-tight suit was leaning against a post a few yards to their left, watching passengers walk by. Another was sitting on a bench, his head bowed as if reading a train schedule but his eyes never fixed on it. A third, dressed as a red cap, seemed to have little interest in luggage. None of them took particular note of the handsome man with the blonde wife.

"It's a Thrush convention," Illya said under his breath.

Napoleon offered his arm. "Shall we?"

Illya gave a little sigh, hid his large hand in the crook of his partner's arm, and they began a purposeful walk along the length of the train. "Slow down!" he said in an irritated whisper.

Napoleon slowed and smiled. Illya was usually the one who rushed ahead. He patted the hand that was holding onto his arm. "This is a first."

"It's also a last."

They came upon a porter and Napoleon asked where their car was located.

The main turned a page on his clipboard. "Constantine, Constantine," he murmured, running his finger down the page. "Oh, you're lucky, sir. You and the missus get to ride the old Pullman."

Napoleon looked ahead. "I didn't know those were still in service."

"They're not all in mothballs. We use them when we need the space." The porter looked at Illya and tipped his hat. "Somethin' you can tell your children about when you get home, ma'am."

Illya smiled and nodded with a grace that belied the homicidal thoughts he entertained against the porter, his partner, and all girdle manufacturers.

"Yes, darling," Napoleon said, looking at him fondly, "little April and Alexander will be fascinated with our vacation stories."

Illya looked adoringly up at Napoleon while his grip became a stranglehold on his partner's forearm. Napoleon winced a little as they walked on to the specified car, and another porter helped the blonde up the stairs. "Watch your step, ma'am," he said with concern. Napoleon hopped up behind Illya and they found their seats, 14 and 14A.

"I don't understand," Illya whispered when they were settled in. "I thought you reserved a compartment."

"I did, but this is a Pullman," Napoleon replied, leaning toward him.

"So I heard," Illya said. "Define Pullman."

"This car has sleeping berths that drop down," Napoleon said, pointing to the curved panels that bridged wall and ceiling above them. "They run parallel to the sides of the train, with the aisle in between. It looks like I'll be in the upper and you'll be in the lower."

"We can be spotted!" Illya said with alarm.

"No, each berth has a privacy curtain," Napoleon replied in a low voice. "Haven't you ever seen that Marilyn Monroe movie, 'Some Like it Hot'?"

Illya thought about it. "Where the two men dress like women to escape the criminals?"

"That's the one," Napoleon said.

"Unfortunately for me," Illya said under his breath, "life is imitating art."

Napoleon chuckled and looked around him. The car was old but clean, and possessed of a grace that modern passenger cars were not. Wood paneling lined the interior and milkglass domes softened the ceiling lights.

The two of them were seated toward the back of the car and most of the passengers had boarded ahead of them. The few that did notice the couple were too busy storing their possessions and finding seats to observe much. Illya opened a newspaper and lost himself in it while the final passengers boarded.

Napoleon watched the conductor on the platform just outside their window as the man looked up and down the length of the train, conversed with two of the porters and checked his watch. The all-aboard whistle blew several cars ahead and they dispersed. A minute later the train lurched into a forward movement, quickly gaining speed once it was clear of the station and the city, rolling into the twilight.

A porter soon appeared at the front of the car. "Dining reservations! Dining reservations!"

Illya's voice came from behind the newspaper. "I am not eating dinner in these clothes. This girdle is killing me."

"We passed the men's room at the back of the car." Napoleon leaned forward and craned his neck. "The ladies' must be in the front."

Illya looked at him from behind the newspaper, wide-eyed. "The ladies?" he said in a raspy whisper.

Napoleon sat back again. "You can't waltz into the Men's Room like that." He glanced at his partner's legs. "If you wait until the berths are made up, milady, you can change in your own private chamber."

It was tempting, but getting into comfortable clothes was ever more so. Illya stood and waited for Napoleon to let him by. "Pardon me, dear."

Napoleon got up and stepped into the aisle. "Certainly, my love."

Illya took his well-worn suitcase and marched towards the Ladies' Room, remembering halfway up the aisle to walk from his hips. He could almost hear Napoleon chuckling in his seat.

The spacious dressing room was unoccupied, but Illya took no chances and squeezed himself and his bag into the cramped but private water closet. As soon as the door was shut and locked he yanked off the turban and wig and dropped them on the floor. Relief flooded through him as he rubbed his scalp with both hands, freeing his hair from captivity. Handcuffs weren't as restraining as the damnable wig had been, and his head throbbed in complaint. He raked his fingers through his hair again and again until he felt normal.

The jacket and skirt went next, followed by the stockings and the cursed girdle. Each brought another measure of liberation as it was peeled off and dropped to the floor. How did women stand these things, Illya thought, finally free of the binding garments. He stood in the nude in a puddle of discarded clothing and inspected himself, gliding his hands over his body, soothing the skin around his waist and thighs where the strong elastic and cruel seams had left their marks.

He inspected his assets in the soft light, suspicious they could have been damaged in some way. He held his penis tenderly in apology, gently stroking it with his thumb as if assuring it there would be no more bondage.

The feel of Napoleon's hand on him earlier leapt to mind.

His cock responded, asking, and he stroked it, answering. He slumped where he stood and closed his eyes, his head tipped back, face lit by the small ceiling light, dreamily caressing himself. With one hand braced on the wood-paneled wall of the tiny room, he permitted the other to work its magic, his fingers unleashed in familiar territory. He teased and tantalized himself, wanting to draw out the pleasure. He gave his testicles some soothing touches, then returned to his erection, sliding the foreskin up and back, baring the head, readying himself, savoring the anticipation of what would come in just a minute or two, or five, or ten. It all depended on how long he wanted to draw out the climb to completion, and he wanted the ride to last.

His hand left his cock and his fingers moved between his legs and massaged the inside of his thigh, putting his orgasm on hold for the moment. But the drive was irresistible and he fisted his flesh once again, obeying the urge to squeeze, to tug-

Giggling.

He opened his eyes wide, his hand frozen in place, his breathing stopped.

"You're kidding! He winked at you?"

Voices in the outer room. "Yes! I bumped his arm as we passed and said, 'oh, excuse me,' and he said, 'I'm sure the fault was all mine.'"

"You did it on purpose!"

"Well..."

More giggles.

Illya began to breathe again, but quietly. He heard various clicks which he deduced were purses and cosmetic cases being opened and closed, and prayed the girls were there only to primp.

"Do you like this shade of blush?"

"I think my peach would look better on you. Try it."

"Can I try that eye shadow, too?"

"Sure."

"Put it on for me."

"Okay, hold still."

"Oh, I like that color!"

"I told you so!"

"Say, do you have to use the john?"

Illya looked at the doorknob with alarm.

"Well, Mother always says..."

"...at least try."

More giggles in close proximity, just on the other side of the door. The handle jiggled and Illya's eyes darted to the lock as if he could make it hold fast by sheer willpower.

"Oh, is someone in there?"

Illya cleared his throat in as high a pitch as he could.

"Sorry!" the girl called, then said in a quieter voice, "Let's come back later. I want to check out that cute guy again."

"Judy, he's a MAN!"

"I KNOW!"

Illya sighed with relief as he heard the outer door open and the giggling die away. He fell back against the locked door with a thud. What had he been thinking? He had to be crazy to do this here. It was the sort of thing only an amateur would do. Or Napoleon.

He looked down and saw that, in spite of the threat of discovery, he was still half erect. He cursed under his breath and moved a step to the small window. With one hand, he snapped the shade up and tugged the sash open a couple of inches. The sudden blast of wind created by a train going ninety miles per hour blew across his middle, giving his erection the equivalent of an icy shower. Goose bumps rose on his arms, legs and torso but he forced himself to stand there for a minute, framed in the lighted square of the open window, exposing himself to any cattle or coyotes that cared to look, until his cock was soundly discouraged from taking a stand.

Illya took a step back, stooped and opened the bag that held his clothes and dressed in record time. He scooped up the women's clothes and accessories, rolled them into a ball and tied them all up with a stocking, then opened the window wider. His hair blew about wildly as he flung the bundle of femininity into the dark roar of the night and slammed the window shut. "Good riddance," he muttered.

He was himself again, except for the make-up. He opened the door a crack and peered out. The dressing room was vacant. He crossed to one of the sinks, soaped up his hands and began to wash off the pancake foundation. His own skin was revealed, smooth shaven and healthy but definitely not that of a woman. He rubbed it dry with satisfaction on the roll of linen in the dispenser, then smeared some petroleum jelly over his lashes and whisked it away with a tissue. In spite of a lingering headache and an unsatisfied libido, he smiled into the mirror, glad to be 100% male again.

With a touch to his tie he turned toward the door, only for it to open in front of him. A red-haired, matronly woman in a lavender pillbox hat stopped in her tracks and looked at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Illya clicked his heels and gave a little bow. "Madam, I assure you that this restroom has passed a rigorous inspection and will receive the Seal of Lavatory Excellence from the Commission on Railroad Hygiene."

"Oh," the woman said, the tension draining from her body, "why, that's most reassuring. Thank you."

Illya smiled as he stepped past her. "You're quite welcome."

Napoleon looked pleased when he saw his partner coming down the aisle with his usual gait.

"Pardon me," Illya said, smiling down at Napoleon, "is this seat taken?"

Napoleon glanced at the inside seat and then back at his partner. "There was a rather odd woman here but she must have gotten off." He moved his legs aside and lowered his voice as Illya brushed past him. "Or at least that's what I imagine she was doing in the restroom for so long."

A slight blush came to Illya's face as he sat down, but he decided the best defense was a good offense. "You're just jealous."

Napoleon lifted his eyebrows. "Of?"

"Never mind," Illya said, shaking out his newspaper.

They fell silent for a moment.

"Did something happen in there?" Napoleon said.

"You'd be surprised what goes on in a Ladies Room," Illya said, turning a page.

Napoleon looked ahead, thinking. "I saw two teenagers go in there. I hope you were a gentleman."

"No," Illya said, skimming the headlines, "I was just one of the girls."

Napoleon reached over and flattened the newspaper. "I order you to tell me."

Illya removed his partner's hand from the paper. "I am not duty-bound to satisfy your salacious curiosity."

"For all I know, those girls could have been 25-year-old Thrush agents, sent to seduce you."

"You mean Thrush lesbians?"

Napoleon narrowed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. "Liar, liar, pants on fire."

Illya grinned. "I'd prefer flaming pants to that girdle."

Napoleon grinned too. "Did I, ah, remember to welcome you back?"

"Thank you," Illya said with a glance to his partner before resuming his perusal of the paper. "It's very good to be back."

Napoleon settled back and dozed until he was awakened some time later by a touch to his arm. "You made reservations for the last seating, didn't you?"

Napoleon looked at his watch, alert. "Five minutes." He stretched his arms as wide as he could. "Last one there has to pay the check." Napoleon was sitting in the aisle seat and his advantage was obvious.

"That would be me, I suppose," Illya said, resigned to picking up the tab. They stood, buttoned their jackets and proceeded up the aisle. Napoleon carried the overnight case with the decoder inside.

As they headed for the other end of the car, both agents took subtle note of the other passengers' reflections in the windows, looking for any faces that didn't fit the circumstances. The car was only half full and everyone appeared innocent, involved in chatting or reading or playing cards.

But between their car and the next, Illya touched Napoleon's elbow. Napoleon stopped and turned and Illya tilted his head, motioning. "That woman back there seems to be watching us."

"Where?" Napoleon said, looking over Illya's shoulder and back through the window of the door.

"Middle of the car, left side."

Napoleon searched the seats Illya had indicated and made eye contact with the woman. She looked away quickly and he frowned. "She doesn't look like an agent."

"That would be quite advantageous, wouldn't it?" Illya said, raising an eyebrow.

Napoleon's mouth drew into a tight line. "I'll check her out." He handed Illya the overnight case, maneuvered around him and entered the car again. Investigating females was his forte. He smiled at the woman as he walked back to his seat. "Forgot something." When he came back up the aisle he stopped and leaned over her. "Excuse me. Do you have the time? My watch seems to have stopped."

"Oh, yes," she said in a loud voice. "It's 9:25." She looked up at the handsome man hovering over her and winked. "I won't say anything," she whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

She crooked her finger twice, motioning for him to lean lower. "I know you and your associate are here to inspect things, but I won't tip off the railroad people."

"Ahh," Napoleon whispered back, "that's most discreet of you."

"Mum's the word," she said, stifling a chuckle.

He smiled again and straightened up, adjusted his jacket and looked to the end of the car. Illya was nowhere to be seen.

Napoleon made his way three cars ahead and arrived in the dining car to find his partner seated at a table, examining the bill of fare. He joined him.

"The trout looks good," Illya said.

Napoleon glanced at the menu. "The trout looks expensive."

"That too," Illya said with a smile.

Napoleon took on an expression of mock annoyance as they filled out their orders with the pencils provided and handed them to the waiter. To Illya's surprise, a bottle of wine was delivered.

"Always the gentleman," Illya said, holding his glass in the air in a small salute to his partner.

"Sometimes the lady," Napoleon toasted back.

"Once in a career is quite enough, thank you."

Napoleon looked him up and down. "I have to agree."

They sat back as the waiter produced plates of food, fell silent as they shared the meal, then lingered over two more drinks, peering out into the darkness past the reflections of themselves and the other diners until there were no reflections but their own. The object of the mission was secure and they could finally draw a few unhurried breaths together.

It was after 10:30 when they returned to their car, Napoleon's wallet a tad lighter. About half the berths had been made up to accommodate the overflow passengers from the modern cars. All seemed to be occupied, their dark green curtains drawn and snapped together in the middle. The overhead lights in the car were dimmed.

The two agents leaned down to inspect Illya's lower berth, then stretched to look into Napoleon's upper.

"These look cozy," Napoleon said, removing his grey suit jacket and pulling at his tie. He folded both carefully and set them on the mattress above, then climbed the four-step ladder and crawled in, turned around and sat with his legs dangling over the side.

Illya had been grinning at the display of Napoleon's rounded rear end.

"What's so funny?" Napoleon said in a loud whisper.

Illya's grin became an innocent smile. "I don't know, what's so funny?" he said, matching the whisper.

Napoleon gave him a look, then glanced left and right. There was no sign of life from any of the other berths. "Make yourself useful, Godfrey," he said, holding one foot out to Illya.

Illya untied and removed Napoleon's expensive leather wingtips and handed them up to him. "Anything else, my liege?"

Napoleon stored his shoes and jacket in the woven hammock against the top edge of his berth, tucked his legs in and took hold of each curtain. "I'll let you know," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. He slid the curtains shut with a swoosh.

Illya's smile faded as he stood in the aisle alone, looking at the closed curtains, watching them sway with the movement of the train. He glimpsed a sliver of light at one edge and imagined Napoleon inside getting ready to sleep.

They weren't home free. They would both sleep in their underwear, perhaps even leave their dress shirts on, their trousers at the ready in case of trouble. For all they knew Thrush might have figured out their deception and have agents waiting to board somewhere along the two-thousand-mile route to New York.

Illya slipped off his jacket, toed off his shoes, sat down and pulled himself into his berth, switching on the reading light in the upper inside corner. He pulled one curtain to the middle, then the other, and worked at the snaps that assured him privacy.

The berths were roomy enough to allow a person to sit up a bit, and wide enough for two people if those two people didn't mind being close. The space was certainly more generous and private, Illya thought, than the Wagon-Lits of European trains in which six people shared a compartment, shelved in shallow bunks like so much baggage. He and Napoleon had slept in a few of those. Still, it was a bit tomb-like, or even coffin-like, with curtains on the outside and covering the window as well. It was drafty too.

He stretched out on his back and unzipped his fly, easing his trousers down his legs, then laid them at his side, smoothing them so they wouldn't wrinkle. He left his shirt on and pulled the sheet and blanket up to his chest, keeping his shoulders and arms uncovered, his Walther lying next to him between his hip and the window curtain.

Illya looked up at his temporary ceiling as if suddenly he might be able to see right through it, see Napoleon grinning down at him, accusing him of spying. He reached up and touched the underside of the berth, his fingers lingering on the wood veneer. It was smooth and polished, cool to the touch yet warmer than metal.

On impulse he took his communicator out of his jacket pocket and twisted it.

"Solo."

"What are you doing?"

"I've got three girls up here and they're making me a soufflé."

"If they're not U.N.C.L.E. employees you'd better tell them to go back to their own berths," Illya scolded. "Besides, I'm in charge of soufflés."

"What can I do for you, mon soufflé specialist?"

"I merely wanted to suggest that we sleep in shifts, for safety's sake."

"You worry too much."

"Perhaps," Illya said to his ceiling.

There was a pause in the conversation until Napoleon spoke. "Are you okay?"

Illya's left eyebrow twitched. "What do you mean?"

"I just thought...you seemed a little quiet over dinner, after your earlier mischief."

Illya tsked. "Mischief keeps you on your toes, Number One."

"Number Two is supposed to back up Number One, not harass him."

"But Number Two is Number One's best friend, and therefore is entitled to harass. Especially after what you've put me through today."

"What I put you through only saved our lives," Napoleon said.

"Next time I might choose dignity over death. At least people will say I left a handsome corpse."

Illya expected to hear a chuckle, but heard a sigh instead, and no comment.

"You know I'm joking."

"I can do without the gallows humor."

"Sorry."

Napoleon cleared his throat and changed the subject. "You have the case with the decoder stowed away, don't you?"

Silence.

"I thought you had it."

"Don't kid around about things like that, Illya."

Illya sat bolt upright, hitting his head on the bottom of Napoleon's berth. "Napoleon!"

"Shhhh," Napoleon said into the communicator. He rolled to the side and pushed the curtain away from his berth to see Illya looking up with alarm. "Yes, I have it."

Illya looked daggers at him, then ducked back into his own berth.

"I should put that exchange in my report," he snapped into his communicator.

"Just a little righteous retaliation."

Illya shook his head. "You know the fable of the boy who cried wolf."

Napoleon slipped into a lecherous tone. "I am the wolf."

"In wolf's underwear," Illya mocked.

Napoleon conceded. "Well, presently."

Illya smiled to himself. He could never stay angry at his partner even though he wanted to at times. "Goodnight, Napoleon."

"Goodnight, tovarishch," Napoleon said. "Knock on the pipes if you need me."

Illya closed the communicator and smiled at it, then tapped it on his lower lip while thinking about the day's events, especially one event in particular. He shouldn't have been so surprised when Napoleon fondled him. They'd been growing closer lately. Illya couldn't pinpoint any particular instance that had changed their relationship. He only knew that the casual touching had become more frequent, more meaningful, on both their parts. Friendly affection had been evolving into something else, something like sexual tension, until Illya had boldly stated, "We have each other." Napoleon hadn't replied, but was silent and thoughtful for hours afterward.

Illya glanced about his space again, flicked off the reading light in the upper corner and waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the darkness. He reached up and held the flat of his hand to the bottom of Napoleon's berth until the cool wood became warm.

"Sleep well," he whispered.

Even at the age of nine, the boy knew something of the laws of probability. There was less of a chance of getting the shortest straw if you were the first to draw. The rest of the boys watched closely as he eased one out from the oldest boy's fist.

Possibility overcame probability.

"You know what to do," the oldest boy said. "Be sure to run out the back so we can grab the bread in the front window when she chases you."

He nodded. He'd been taught never to steal, but since the Occupation, hunger had changed the rules.

The six boys took separate routes to the targeted shop, and the little blond urchin sauntered in with his hands in the pockets of his short pants. He stopped in amazement. The cornucopia of fruit and pastries and other delectables was nothing like he'd ever seen, even before the war.

"Little boy!"

Startled, he looked up at a red-haired woman in a lavender hat who was slicing a brisket on the counter.

"What do you want?"

He swallowed. The woman looked formidable with the butcher knife in her hand, her face harshly painted with red rouge and lipstick.

"My ma-mama wants a loaf of bread."

"What kind?" the woman snapped.

"She wants..." He looked around and saw a door covered with a dark green curtain that apparently led to the back exit. "...a big one."

The woman shook her head with impatience. She left her task and turned to some shelves where loaves of all shapes and sizes lay in their assorted baskets. "Wheat, black, sauerkraut, what?"

"Uhh..." It was the right moment. The boy's eyes darted from the bags of hazelnuts to the round cheeses to the fancy molded chocolates. He lunged sideways and grabbed the item he wanted most, then bolted to the curtained door and disappeared through it. He found himself face-to-face with a bulky man in a tight blue suit, sitting in an overstuffed armchair and reading a train schedule. The boy stopped long enough to think about that. He couldn't even remember when the passenger trains still operated. The man made no move to block his way, indeed didn't seem to notice him, so the boy darted through the living area until he found a door, then escaped into the back street.

He ran with his prize until he could barely breathe, until a pain in his side forced him to stumble behind a tree and double over, only to bump head-first into the red-haired woman waiting for him, and wielding the butcher knife. He ducked and ran the opposite direction, this time into a courtyard where dozens of lines of laundry were hung. The billowing bedclothes pawed at him as he dodged and weaved through them, wave after wave of cotton and wool, seemingly never-ending. Exhaustion overtook him at the center of the courtyard and he stopped, surrounded by clothing of all shapes and sizes, all feminine, and some appallingly so. He looked wide-eyed at the assorted unmentionables whipping on the lines like absurdly-shaped flags.

At least the eye of the fabric hurricane gave him some temporary safety. He took the opportunity to catch his breath, bent over and braced with his hands on his knees, his back and shoulders heaving with his lungs. Again and again he spat out saliva that would've taken valuable time away from breathing to swallow.

"Where are you, you little THIEF?!?!"

The woman was on the edge of the courtyard. The boy began to run again toward the opposite side, but backtracked when he spied a girl's cotton dirndl. He snatched the skirt down, clothespins flying, and pulled it up his legs over his short pants, then ran again. The last line he passed held a woman's shawl and he grabbed that as well, throwing it over his head and holding it tight under his chin.

A short sprint between two buildings brought him out to a street again, only to collide with a pair of legs whose trousers had a red stripe running up the side. The boy looked up and stared. He had never seen a Negro before.

"Watch your step, little lady," the man said.

The boy, his mouth hanging open, backed up a few feet. In spite of his predicament, his mother's lessons in manners came to mind. "I beg your pardon."

"THERE you are!!!"

The voice of the red-haired woman jolted him and he ran into the street and hid behind a parked vehicle. The woman stood on the sidewalk, arms crossed, looking both ways, searching. She took a step into the street. The boy reached up to the handle of the car door, found it unlocked, and opened it just wide enough to slip inside.

He intended his stay in the sanctum of the grey Mercedes to be brief, to huddle on the floor of the car only as long as it took the outraged shopkeeper to search elsewhere. But as he peeked out the window to see if the coast was clear, he saw a German officer approaching with a no-nonsense stride, the bottom of his long leather coat flapping with each step. The boy lunged to the other side of the car and reached for the handle of the opposite door, only to find another German preparing to open the door for the first one, who was coming around that side.

The boy shrank back to his original position, his heart beating fast, and covered himself with a red lap throw that had been lying on the seat. As the officer got into the back, the boy froze under the wool, willing himself to be a toolbox or a piece of baggage - an inconspicuous, inanimate bundle of no importance.

The driver shut the door, walked around the car and got behind the wheel. There was no conversation between the two men as the car drove off with its stowaway. The worn but polished black boots of the officer were inches from the boy's nose. All was quiet inside the car.

"Show yourself."

The voice was calm but commanding, even in a choppy version of the boy's native tongue.

On the slim chance that the officer was addressing someone else, the boy didn't move. He felt what he suspected was the barrel of a gun pressed to his head through the red wool.

The boy put his hand out and pulled on the edge of the throw, dragging it off his body and revealing himself. He looked up at the officer, a plea for mercy in his eyes.

The major frowned at the little girl in front of him. "Put your hands up," he said. It was rare for a child to be an assassin or a human bomb, but not unheard of. The boy put his hands on his head where he knelt, and the shawl opened to reveal the short hair. "Are you a boy or a girl?" the officer said, lifting the shawl to see the child better.

The boy let the shawl fall off his shoulders. "Boy, sir."

The officer did a quick search of him and felt a bulky object under his clothes. "What do you have there?" he said, keeping his gun pointed at the boy.

"I beg your pardon, Herr Major?" said the chauffeur.

The major waved his hand in the air as if swatting a gnat. "Tend to your driving, corporal."

"Yes, Herr Major."

The boy reached down his pants and pulled out his prize from the shop. He hadn't the faintest idea why he'd chosen to steal a fish, and the warmth of his body had not enhanced its fragrance.

"Give that to me," the major said with distaste. He took the trout by the tailfin between thumb and forefinger. "I won't have my automobile smelling like a fishcart." The boy watched it disappear out the window to be immediately rescued by a man on a bicycle.

The major laid his gun on the seat beside him, sat back and crossed his legs. His grey uniform pants were jodhpurs, his boots tall enough to cover his calves. The boy was relieved he didn't wear the black uniform of the SS. "What are you doing here?"

"Hiding," the boy said in a small voice, thinking how the frying pan had definitely been preferable to the fire he was in now. "From a shopkeeper."

The corporal had stopped at an intersection and turned his head to see who the major was talking to.

The major addressed his driver in crisp German. "Corporal, go to the square and park the car, then go through the shops and see if you can find me a bottle of wine."

"Herr Major, I don't think I'll be able-"

"White wine," the major said, loosening his leather gloves finger by finger, then slapping them onto the seat next to him. The corporal drove to the destination and parked as he was told, then set off to find the impossible.

The major unbuttoned his coat and removed his hat, setting it down on the gloves. The eagle insignia was level with the boy's eyes and sent a chill right down to the soles of his bare feet.

"So," the major said, faintly amused, "you stole that fish."

"Yes, Herr Major," the boy said, hanging his head.

The major chuckled and reached into the breast pocket of his coat, extracting a gold cigarette case. He offered a cigarette to the boy, teasing, and the boy got up on his knees for a moment and boldly snatched one.

The major appeared surprised. "Do you smoke, little tovarishch?"

The boy was wary of the friendly tone. He'd witnessed German officers use that tone before they'd set their dogs on someone. "No, sir," the boy said, shrinking back on his heels again.

"Ahhh, a cigarette is worth something in the street, yes?"

"Da."

The major put a cigarette into a holder and lit it. "Where are your parents?"

The boy shrugged. He didn't want to explain for fear of showing his anger at what the Germans had taken from him.

The major deduced the answer, took a drag on the cigarette and let the smoke escape his nostrils with a sigh. "Where do you sleep?" he asked solemnly.

"I know a place," the boy said, his hair a blond tangle above a face that was older than its years.

The major nodded and looked out the window, thinking.

The boy barely breathed for some time, then spoke quietly, "Are you going to put me on a train?"

The major looked back to him. "On a train?" He stared at the fear in the boy's eyes and softened his tone. "On the contrary, I wish I could keep you safe."

For the first time, the boy studied the officer's face. He saw a ruggedly handsome man with a strong chin, a patrician nose, and liquid brown eyes. Those eyes contradicted the facade, however. They were windows to what seemed a battered and lonely soul. The boy shook his head. "There is no such thing as safe."

"No," the major said with regret in his voice, "you're right." He gazed at the boy for a minute longer, then twisted to look out the back window. "At least we have left your pursuer far behind us."

The boy raised up on his knees to peek out the side window, his heart beating faster at the hint that he might be set free.

"Before you go," the major said as he reached into his breast pocket, "take this." He extracted some coins from a change purse. "Buy some food. And some shoes."

The boy looked at the money and shook his head.

"They're silver. Anyone will accept them."

He shook his head again, and the major seemed to realize the reason behind the refusal. "There is a time to be proud, and a time to be practical."

The boy looked away, and the major put the coins back in the leather purse. "Very well, but listen to me." He leaned forward and took the boy's small hands in his, speaking confidentially. "If you're ever in trouble, say you know me. My name is Major Krueger, and my office is in the building that was the town hall." The boy stared at him. "Do you understand?"

The boy nodded slowly. No one had expressed concern for him in a long time.

"Can you remember?"

The boy nodded again, more positively. "Major Krueger."

"Yes," the major said, letting go of the boy's hands and sitting back again. He hesitated as if he didn't want to say goodbye to the boy. "Go now, and stay out of German staff cars."

The boy was suddenly in no hurry to leave. "Herr Major," he said, "if you are ever in trouble, you can hide with me in the theater in Lypska Street."

The major made a show of seriously considering the offer, then remembered with a frown, "But that building is in ruins."

"The stage is intact, under the collapsed north wall. There is a little door on the side that leads to the wiring for the footlights." The boy looked the officer up and down, sizing him up. "You could fit through it."

"I see," the major said with a thoughtful nod. "And there's room for two?"

"It is a small space," the boy said with hope in his eyes, "but we could squeeze together."

The major looked kindly at the child. "Then if I ever need a refuge, I will join you there."

The boy grinned, grabbed the handle of the door and was gone from sight in seconds.

He headed for the old theater immediately, made his way over a hill of rubble and crawled through the maintenance hatch that led under the stage. He used his homemade latch to lock the door behind him and huddled there among the wires and switches. This place had been his secret for over a year - his hiding place, sleeping place, shelter from rain and snow. His solitary confinement.

But now he had a friend. It was strange to think of himself and a Nazi officer as friends, but he felt that this man had been caught up in something he could not control, much like the boy had. And even though the major seemed to be in a powerful position, fortunes changed suddenly in war. He thought about the Aesop's Fable of the lion and the mouse. Maybe the major would need him some day. Maybe the man would seek him out very soon. "I wish I could keep you safe," the major had said. The boy wanted to keep the major safe, too. There in the dark. Together.

Illya sighed at the feel of a warm body against his back, an arm around his middle, a hand holding his.

No. Gripping it.

His eyes flew open at the realization that this was not a friendly embrace but a restraining one. The thought occurred a few seconds too late, and he felt a gun pressed to his temple.

"Make a sound and it'll be your last."

That was a trite but promising threat, Illya thought. At least he wasn't going to be killed right away. He waited to hear what the man had to say.

"Where's the decoder?"

"The wha-?" Illya was pinned painfully in response, his nose smashed against the wall. He guessed that this was the burly Thrush from the station, and if the man's weight didn't kill him, his breath just might. "What gave us away?" Illya gasped.

The thug murmured in his ear, "No dame wears white shoes after Labor Day."

Illya rolled his eyes and made a mental note to berate Napoleon for weeks to come.

The man explained in a quiet but menacing tone. "The others dismissed it, but I followed my hunch and bought a ticket. Lo and behold, I says to myself, a guy gets on the train with a blonde, but he shows up in the dining car with another blond - a guy." He tightened his grip and Illya grimaced. "Now where's the decoder?"

Illya glanced at the berth above him and gave a nod upward, and the man looked up too. "So your partner's got-"

A sharp elbow landed in the thug's solar plexus, taking the breath out of him. His gun hand flew out and he fired by reflex, the silenced bullet splintering the wood of the berth above them.

Illya twisted around and seized the man's wrist to push the gun down between their bodies, away from where Napoleon lay.

The man's finger was still on the trigger. The gun went off again. A sharp intake of air was the last breath of his life, and he slowly lost that, his bulbous eyes staring unfocused into Illya's. "Hawwwww..."

Illya shinnied out from under him as he fell forward, then kneeled up and straddled the body. He pried the gun from the man's fingers and checked for a pulse to confirm that he was no longer a threat, then twisted his neck to look at the bullet hole in his wood ceiling.

Napoleon!

His head bumped the top berth as he scrambled out of his own, heedless of his bare feet and legs and the blood that soaked the front of his white shirt, shiny wet. No one was in the dimly lit corridor to see him take the ladder in two steps, duck under the curtains and dive into the upper berth, and into Napoleon's lap.

Napoleon was holding his Walther, poised to jump down the ladder, but Illya's weight flattened him onto his back again. Illya lifted his chin off Napoleon's chest.

"Napoleon!" he said in an urgent whisper. "Were you hit??"

Napoleon ignored the question. "What's going on down there?" he rasped with alarm. He struggled in vain to sit up again. "What the-"

A warm wetness was seeping through his undershirt. Napoleon switched on the reading light, took Illya by the shoulders and pushed him up, revealing the blood that now covered both their clothes. He looked into Illya's eyes, his own filled with alarm. "Illya!"

"It's not mine," Illya assured him, managing to kneel up and straddle his partner, who was thankfully half the size of the thug who'd so rudely awakened him. "Did the bullet hit you?"

"Bullet?" Napoleon said, still staring at the blood. "What are you talking about?"

"A shot went off!"

Napoleon frowned and reached under him with his free hand to rub his lower back. "I did feel something."

"Roll to your side," Illya ordered and Napoleon obeyed. Illya pulled up Napoleon's undershirt to see a tiny bruise blooming on his skin at the waist. He dug into a hole in the mattress and his whole body sighed in relief when he retrieved the bullet. "The mattress saved your life. We must remember to thank the nice train people for its solid construction."

He let Napoleon roll onto his back again and sat back on his partner's thighs.

Napoleon looked at Illya's torso, reaching to finger his bloody shirttail. "Thrush?"

"A late Thrush, to be precise."

"And you're sure not one drop of this is yours?"

"I'm fine, Napoleon." Illya stripped off the soiled dress shirt and pulled his undershirt over his head, being careful not to get blood on his face or hair. "From what he told me, he's the only one on board."

"That was helpful," Napoleon said, staring at Illya's bare chest and abdomen. He reached for his handkerchief and gently wiped away some of the blood that had soaked through to Illya's belly. "Where's the body?"

"Downstairs." Illya worked in close quarters to roll the stained clothing into a ball so the blood was on the inside. "It would be a good idea for you to have a word with the conductor before morning." He stopped and held still as Napoleon wet a corner of the handkerchief with his tongue and stroked at a blotch of red just above his navel.

"It seeped through your shorts," Napoleon observed.

Illya looked down to see that the blood had indeed spread over his groin, soaking into the thin white cotton boxers. Without thinking he opened the snap at the top and pulled the boxers open, shoving the sides down as far as his position would allow. He looked up and froze. Napoleon was staring at what the open shorts revealed. Illya dropped his arms to his sides and held his breath as Napoleon's hand moved lower, blotting carefully from Illya's navel down to his thatch of hair, then withdrew. Napoleon's expression remained solemn.

Illya filled the awkward moment. "I'm afraid your clothes are soiled, too."

Napoleon looked down at his own shirt and shorts. He crossed his arms and pulled up the hem of his undershirt. "Give me a hand, huh?"

Illya dragged the shirt over Napoleon's shoulders and head, leaving a shock of Napoleon's thick dark hair tumbling down over his forehead. He used the clean side of the shirt to rub at the drying red stains on Napoleon's stomach.

"I've got water here," Napoleon said. Illya recognized the wine bottle from dinner, now filled with water. Illya pulled the cork out and tipped it to wet Napoleon's undershirt, then cleaned his partner's stomach as Napoleon watched, his arms raised to accommodate.

"There's a spot on your boxers, too."

Napoleon's mouth drew into a straight line. "Thanks a lot."

"A hazard of the profession," Illya said, unapologetic.

They looked at each other for a moment, then Napoleon raised his hips and the message was clear. Illya pulled the boxers down over Napoleon's hips past his own knees, still planted on each side of his partner. "I'd better get off you."

Napoleon grabbed Illya's arms and stopped him. "Wait. Thrush blood does nothing for your skin tone."

Illya settled back again while Napoleon fished in the pocket of his trousers with one hand. "What are you after?"

"This." Napoleon drew out his pocket knife, opened it, and brought it toward Illya's hip.

Illya watched as his partner sliced through one side of his boxers, then the other, and pulled the blood-stained garment free.

"There, that's better," Napoleon said, folding the knife again. He reached for the cotton undershirt and water bottle, and didn't just dampen the material but soaked it. He looked down at Illya's groin and paused. "This will be a little cold."

"I can take it," Illya joked, mockingly gritting his teeth.

Napoleon looked up at him and smiled, then went about his work. The first cold wet touch to Illya's belly made him flinch. "Sorry," Napoleon said. "Another hazard of the profession."

Illya returned the smile while he watched him work. Napoleon had adjusted the reading lamp so he could see what he was doing, and his eyes on Illya's spotlit genitals were causing a reaction. Illya looked down at his swelling cock, then at his partner.

"I hope you realize that's just a reaction to being touched," he said, trying to conceal the thrill that touch had given him.

"Uh-huh," Napoleon said, his cotton-covered fingers now rubbing high inside Illya's thighs. He was no longer smiling but taking his task more seriously. When he reached the root of Illya's cock, he found another clean spot on the T-shirt and soaked it, then stroked up Illya's length meticulously. Illya breathed shallowly above him, wondering as his cock arrowed up to his belly just how hard he could get. Napoleon took advantage of its position by scrutinizing the underside, his touch following a prominent vein, getting ever closer to the flare.

The Russian's eyes were nearly closed when Napoleon broke into his haze. "Hey."

Illya looked down at his partner - the partner he had so recently feared was dead - from under half-closed lids.

"Should I keep going?"

Illya stared at the head of his leaking erection. There wasn't a trace of blood left. He looked further, beyond Napoleon's hand where another cock no longer lay limp, and nodded dumbly.

Napoleon put the undershirt aside and poured water over his fingers. Illya gasped as Napoleon's cool wet fingertips caressed the head of his cock, a trickle of water running down the length of him. Touches danced over and around him while a second hand braced itself on his leg, thumb pressing into his inner thigh. As his hips began to move involuntarily, Napoleon's hand surrounded him, fisted him, and the gentleness was gone. He was in this hand's power, in its control, and he gave himself over to it completely. His mouth was open and his eyes shut tight as he thrust in steady rhythm with the hand until he came with a silent cry, his whole torso quivering with sensation. He breathed hard, still kneeling over Napoleon, until he felt two hands around his waist, pulling him.

Napoleon spoke softly. "Come down here."

Illya let himself down onto his partner, feeling Napoleon's hands coming around his back. Napoleon spoke in his ear, quiet but desperate.

"I should have known better than to separate us," he whispered. "We're safer together."

Illya's breath stopped for a second. The words echoed his dream. He nodded into Napoleon's shoulder, then slid to the side until his hip met the mattress. He reached to grasp Napoleon and kneaded him gently, lovingly, then more firmly, insistently, watching Napoleon's reactions, savoring every sigh and grimace and gasp, until semen spilled over his fingers. He continued to hold Napoleon afterwards, not wanting to let go of what was entrusted to him, what he held in the palm of his hand.

Napoleon lay very still while his chest rose and fell.

The wheels rumbled under them. The coach rocked gently. The whistle blew a few cars ahead, signaling a crossing. The world was all around them, yet they were alone in a space that belonged to them and only them.

Illya finally whispered to Napoleon, "Well?"

Napoleon chuffed quietly. "Of all the things I expected to happen tonight, this wasn't one of them."

Illya's heart skipped a beat. "You wish it hadn't?"

Napoleon turned his face toward Illya's. "No." He caressed Illya's shoulder, then his neck, reassuring him. "No."

"We don't have to...do it again," Illya said, still not positive of Napoleon's feelings. "These were extenuating circumstances."

"The circumstances were what they always are, mission after mission," Napoleon said, his hand now tucking Illya's hair behind his ear. "Only this time..."

Illya waited for Napoleon to finish the sentence.

"I don't know what it was," Napoleon said. "Maybe we were just ready."

Illya nodded in agreement. "Would you care to seal our new state of readiness with...?" He stared at Napoleon's mouth.

Napoleon moved his face closer to Illya's, his breath on Illya's lips. He kissed him tenderly, and Illya's emotions swelled in his chest. The Russian had never expected a kiss could be more intimate than what they'd done minutes ago, more personal, more...  

He pulled back an inch. "I could lose you tomorrow."

"That's a fact of life," Napoleon whispered. "And not just ours."

Illya averted his eyes from Napoleon's gaze. "Yes."

"But I don't want to be counted among the people you've lost in your life," Napoleon said, skimming his hand down Illya's ribs until it rested on his waist. "And I'll do my damnedest not to be."

Illya heard the determination in Napoleon's voice, saw it in his eyes, and felt buoyed by it. He gave his partner a confident smile. "We have weathered many a storm in our lives, Napoleon, and will probably endure many more." The gaze between them was steady. "If you'll be my shelter, I'll be yours."

"It's a deal," Napoleon said softly, his hand on Illya's waist moving around to the small of his back, pulling him closer. He felt for the blanket behind Illya and drew it over them. They kissed again, for only the second time in the years they'd known each other.

Illya lay relaxed, filled with a serenity he hadn't known in a very long time. Napoleon switched off the reading light, and they squeezed together against the chill.