Illya looked pensively out the window of the old gray building. London, city of his youth, of his innocence. He snorted to himself; a Russian in London, even working on a doctorate at Cambridge, was never innocent. The KGB always watched - more so because he was one of their own. Making sure the capitalist West did not spoil the future leaders of society, despite the crumbling decadence of their own country. They ruled absolute; through terror and fear. The young charges were cowed before they learned to walk with straight and proud backs. He wasn't listening to the muffled conversation between his partner and the CI5 controller.

He liked Mr. Cowley, a strong-willed righteous man with a gentle smile when he cared to use it ,albeit when others were not looking, and a great sense of pride in his young warriors. Compared with the domestic enforcement agencies he had had to work with in the past, this one was different. George Cowley was different and in a comforting and odd way reminiscent of his own Alexander Waverly. It was no great surprise that both led such dangerous and just agencies, nor that they were close friends.

Illya came back to the armchair opposite the large desk in the old office. Cowley took off his glasses and chewed the ends, thinking slowly.

"Och laddie, you're sure that this little group intends to make a play in London?"

"Yes sir," Solo's cultured American voice said respectfully.

"Bad timing," Cowley muttered and then looked up at the slight young blond who sat opposite. "The Prince of Wales is due to start his holidays at Balmoral next week."

Solo nodded sympathetically. "Yes sir, we know. That is why Mr. Waverly has sent us to you. Our orders were to offer international support in case this terrorist group is a front for THRUSH."

"Which we believe it is, sir," Illya finally spoke, his soft voice lilting with a gentle English accent and edged with just enough of his own burr to make you listen carefully.

"Yes, we have had reports that your THRUSH is very active in London, but this is preposterous; to think we would let them just kidnap the Prince in his own damned country. Still we cannot ignore the threat."

"Sir," Solo said quietly. "For the duration Mr. Waverly has placed us in your hands, to use our international standing where your own men are tethered by diplomatic immunity."

Cowley smiled. "Remind me to thank Alexander when I speak to him."

"Might I assume, Sir that we will be working with some of your agents?"

Cowley nodded. "Aye, two of the best, Mr. Kuryakin. But we are in the middle of something of a housing shortage, gentlemen, and I cannot assign you yet to your own flat."

"I'm sure U.N.C.L.E. can pick up the hotel tab, sir," Solo offered hopefully.

"No, CI5 will look after our own, and since for the time being you are under my care, I have billeted you with Doyle."

"As you wish, sir." Napoleon nodded again and risked a glance at Illya.

Cowley thumbed the intercom on his desk and rifled some papers, requesting additional information from his secretary. Betty's voice was tinny through the small speaker and Illya paced again to the window to look out over London. Solo watched his reticent friend and wondered what waking dreams haunted this man. He turned as the door opened to admit two men.

The first was long legged, with a shock of dark auburn curls. He was clad in his working street attire, a scruffy pair of almost too-tight jeans and a leather jacket slung carelessly over the top of a striped T-shirt. His sea green eyes held the dangerous edge of one too young to see so much and his mobile lips quirked up into a slight smile as his level gaze raked the room. Behind him came his companion, dark, brooding and aristocratic, blue eyes the colour of ice, the gun under his jacket worn like a second skin. This one was a hunter, a killer, a dangerously sophisticated man, and Solo smiled. He understood both of them instantly.

Solo stood as Cowley made the introductions, the formalities as Doyle asked quietly if he liked Chinese food and could put up with football. Bodie scowled and Solo shot a glance towards Illya. The slight blond body clad in midnight turned from the window, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the window frame. A mixture of shock and apprehension clouded his expressive blue eyes and then disappeared behind a cold wall.

Solo felt the change in the air as Bodie and Illya's eyes locked. The big ex-mercenary paled visibly and the clenched set of his jaw as he looked at the blond did not go unnoticed. Doyle walked forward, crossing that difficult ground between two sets of partners and extended his hand.

Illya moved and shook it, speaking softly. Doyle turned. "This is my partner, Bodie."

Illya nodded. "Yes, we have met before."

All eyes locked now on the slender figure and Illya was absolutely still against the stares. It was Napoleon who reached back into his diplomatic training and continued the briefing.

Bodie spoke in clipped tones, always bordering on the edge of insolence and arrogance, and Solo smiled. He would find out what was going on between these two men, and he would do it this afternoon.

Bodie and Doyle left to organize themselves for their houseguests. Solo pulled Illya into the Escort assigned from the car pool and drove slowly to the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in London.

After a few minutes of silence, Solo finally spoke. "What's going on, Illya?"

Kuryakin shook his head. "I have no idea what you mean, Napoleon."

"You know very well what I mean." He halted the car on the Bromley High Street and pulled into a car space.

"Why are we stopping?" Illya's tone was carefully neutral, but his jaw jumped with agitation as he kept still.

"Tell me," Solo commanded.

"There is nothing to tell."

"Okay then, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees when you and Bodie saw each other. There is something there and I don't want to be caught in the middle of it."

"It's personal, Napoleon, leave it at that."

"The hell I will. I don't intend to get blown away because you have a personal problem with Bodie."

Illya turned cold eyes on his partner and now even after nearly four years, Solo still felt intimidated by the smaller man. How someone so young could generate so much danger he still was yet to fathom. "I am touched by your concern, Napoleon," Illya said, his voice frosty. "But it is personal and you won't be either tainted or involved in it."

Solo slumped, defeated against the car door and looked with incredulous brown eyes at his closest friend. "I really am worried, and despite what you think, I really am on your side."

"On U.N.C.L.E.'s side," Illya corrected.

"No, on your side."

Illya frowned and looked back down the street, refusing to be drawn into the stare.

"Please, Napoleon, we have work to do."

Solo nodded. "All right, but mark me, Illya. If he hurts you, I'll kill him myself"

Illya's head snapped around as Solo's words sank in and he gunned the little car's engine and pulled sharply from the curb.