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He was lying in bed; a soft, comfortable bed with a white bedspread. Sunlight--early morning sunlight?--was pouring in through the closed venetian blinds.
After the few seconds' disorientation that always came after a leap, Sam gazed around and saw he was in a hotel room, or at least what looked like a hotel room: cheap, tasteless furniture; drinking glasses, wrapped in plastic, on a desk; a Gideon Bible and a "Do Not Disturb" sign on top of a dresser; a framed photograph on the wall of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II; and a television set with a rabbit ear antenna on a TV cart in the corner. The rabbit ears made Sam guess he had leaped into a time before cable television.
Cautiously, he pulled the covers out to see what he was wearing, and felt himself let out a breath of relief when he saw he was wearing a pair of men's briefs. He was a man!
Leaping into a man's body, and in a nice soft bed...good news. Maybe this would be a nice easy leap--
A deep sigh sounded next to him, and Sam felt the bedclothes stir. His eyes shot to the other side of the bed and he saw, with a jolt, that he was not alone. A mop of blond hair--hair that was almost white in its blondness--showed just above the covers.
He was in a sleazy hotel room with a blond?
Then he received another jolt when a very masculine voice murmured, "What time is it?"
I'm in bed with a man!
Belatedly realizing that he should answer the question, Sam stammered, "Uh...I...don't know." His voice came out a little weak.
"Well, look, will you?" said the male voice, sounding cross now. It had a vaguely foreign accent that Sam couldn't quite place.
Sam, seeing no watch on his wrist, looked on the nightstand next to him and, finding a watch there next to the lamp, picked it up. It was a Cartier; whoever he'd leaped into had good taste. "It's...ah...seven‑oh‑nine," he said.
The man muttered in disgust, "That early?" The covers moved down a little, and Sam found himself staring into a pair of blue eyes--blue eyes framed by long, gold‑colored lashes and set in one of the most beautiful, if male, faces Sam had ever seen.
In that startling second all Sam could think of was that this man's good taste included bedmates as well as watches.
"Napoleon?" The blue eyes blinked at him. "What's the matter?"
"Napoleon"? What kind of name is that? "Ah, nothing," Sam stammered. "I'm just...I had a nightmare, that's all."
The blond man's eyes showed concern now. "A bad one?"
Sam immediately realized this could be a good excuse for his disoriented behavior. "Yeah, it was pretty scary. Like something written by Stephen King."
"Who?"
Too late Sam, remembering the rabbit ears, realized he had probably leaped into a time before Stephen King, who hadn't had his horror novels published until the seventies. "Ah, nothing," he said quickly, and scrambled out of bed. "I'm going to go--ah, take a shower."
The blue eyes gazed at him silently for a few seconds, as if the man sensed Sam's edginess and was wondering the reason behind it. Then he said, "Don't use all the hot water."
"I won't," Sam promised, and, scurrying into the bathroom, closed the door.
"Oh, boy," he heard himself mutter. Not really wanting to, but knowing he had to in order to know who he'd leaped into, he looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink.
As he'd expected, a man's face looked back at him: a tanned, mid‑thirtyish, handsome face with neatly‑trimmed black hair, hazel eyes, a dimpled chin and flashing white teeth. Here, Sam suspected, was someone who expected to get what he wanted, and usually did.
Including that gorgeous guy in the other room?
He looked around the bathroom, hoping for a clue of who he was or where he was, but all he saw besides the usual facilities--including a bidet--were some tiny bars of soap wrapped in paper that said "DeVille Hotel" and a package of toilet‑seat liners. No pants or shirt or jacket which might have held a wallet with his--Napoleon's?--driver's license or credit card or some other form of identification.
My clothes and wallet are probably in the other room. Why didn't I look before I came in here?
The problem was, he knew why--he was rattled, that was why. Which was, when he thought about it, a little puzzling. After all, he had leaped into compromising positions before...even into beds that were occupied by other people.
But never with someone who looked like that...male or female.
He sat down on the rim of the bathtub. And as he did he noticed, with some embarrassment, that he had an erection--an erection which was very obvious in the blue‑and‑white striped bikini briefs he was wearing.
"Hiya, Sam."
Startled, Sam looked up and saw Al, his holographic guardian angel, looking natty as always in a red suit with a green shirt and bright silver tie and--also as always--holding the glittering handlink in one hand and a cigar in the other. Al, his best friend and his one link to the life he'd known as a scientist before he'd started his uncontrollable bouncing around through time--but right at this particular moment, Sam was not exactly overjoyed to see him.
"Dammit, Al!" he hissed. "Why don't you ever knock?"
Al looked hurt at this question. "Sam, I'm a hologram. I can't knock."
"Okay, okay. Forget it," Sam muttered. He wished he could reach for a towel to wrap around himself and hide his obviously tumescent state, but he knew if he did Al would be sure to notice it--and probably make some kind of crude remark too. He decided to just stay seated and hope Al wouldn't look down.
"Y'know, Sam, one of these days you're gonna give me an inferiority complex," the hologram complained. "I don't think you're ever even glad to see me."
"I'm glad," Sam said, having to fight the urge to cross his legs. "I'm overjoyed. Now who the hell am I?"
Al raised his eyebrows a little at Sam's snappish tone, but shrugged and looked at the calculator‑sized handlink. "Ah, well, since you asked so nice I'll tell you. According to Ziggy's super‑microchips your name is Napoleon Solo--"
"Napoleon what?"
"Solo. S‑O‑L‑O. That's the Italian word for 'alone.' This guy's Italian. Well," Al corrected, "American‑Italian."
"Ziggy knows that already?"
Al grinned. "Nah, Ziggy didn't tell me, but c'mon, Sam. I mean, a guy this good-looking has to be Italian."
Sam, knowing Al was part Italian, somehow managed to refrain from making a comment on that. "How about telling me the date?"
"Ah...Saturday, February 17, 1968. And you're in Hamilton, Bermuda, at a hotel called the DeVille."
"Al..." Sam didn't know how to put it, so he decided to just blurt it out. "There's a...a man in the other room. A blond man. Lying in...in bed. When I leaped I was--I was lying next to him."
"Yeah?" Al looked up from the handlink, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What were you doing?"
"What do you mean, what was I doing?" Sam demanded. "I was just lying there, what do you think?"
"Okay, smartass, then what was he doing?" Al asked, eyes still narrowed. "I mean, did he act like you two were just sharing a bed or were you really together? If you know what I mean."
Sam reflected on this for a few seconds. "I...I don't know," he said finally. "I mean, he didn't act like a lover. He didn't hug me or...or kiss me or anything."
"Yeah?" Al seemed to relax a little at that. "Well, then, your virtue is probably safe. Lots of guys back in the old days shared hotel rooms when they were traveling together, to save money, and not many hotel rooms had more than one bed in those days. Unless it's just that the guy's not a morning person--in which case, I'd suggest you get a very strong headache by tonight."
Sam felt a flare of irritation, although maybe part of it was due to the vulnerable--and embarrassing--condition he was in. "Would you just tell me if you have any line on who the guy could be, Al? He's blond and has some kind of European accent."
Obediently Al keyed up the handlink again. "Ah...here he is. Ziggy says his name's Illya Kuryakin. And hey, good news, Sam, he's not your lover--he's your partner."
"Partner?"
"Yeah--for the last five years. You two guys work together--travel together, too. You probably share quarters a lot, either to save money, like I said, or maybe for protection." More keys. "And Ziggy gives the possibility of the two of you being lovers at only four‑point‑three percent." Al looked visibly relieved. "That's great, isn't it?"
"Yeah, great," Sam muttered. For some inexplicable reason, he felt almost disappointed by this revelation.
"Anyway, back to this guy Kuryakin," Al continued, reading from the handlink again. "He's Russian. Illya's spelled with two L's, though--maybe that's a typo. Or maybe his parents just didn't know how to spell. Illya with two L's is the Greek spelling. But he's definitely Russian, born in Kiev, C.I.S.--back when it was the U.S.S.R. How about that? My mother was Russian too. And my father was Italian. Too bad you're not lovers, Sam," Al added, teasingly. "Russian and Italian is a great combination."
There were times when Al's perverse sense of humor was totally lost on Sam, and this was one of those times. "Al..." he threatened.
"Yeah, I know, you want to know more. Okay, let's see. Illya Kuryakin, thirty‑four years old...never married, no siblings, parents deceased...master's from the Sorbonne in Paris and a PhD in--hey, get this, Sam, quantum mechanics! Just like you. A'course that was back when it was called quantum mechanics and not quantum physics. He got the phid from Cambridge. Shit, Sam, this guy has an IQ you wouldn't believe! It's not as high as yours, a'course, but it's pretty high."
"A doctorate in quantum mechanics from Cambridge? That's a kind of strange background for a policeman, isn't it?"
Al looked up from the handlink. "Policeman?"
Sam blinked. "You said he and I were partners, so I assumed we were policemen. We're not?"
"Ah...no." Al looked a little uncomfortable. "Actually, you're...ah, you're not gonna like this, Sam."
"Not like what?"
"Ah, well, to be blunt, you and this Russian guy work for an organization called the United Network Command for..." Al gave the handlink a swat. "Law and Enforcement," he finished, reading off the view screen. "Or, in short, U.N.C.L.E."
"U.N.C.L.E.? I've never heard of it."
"That's because it's a secret organization--well, not exactly secret, but it's not widely known. It's amazing how many organizations there are like that--outfits funded by the government and yet mostly unknown by the general population. This U.N.C.L.E. is based in New York--that is, the North American branch is. But it has offices all over the world."
"What is it?" Sam asked. "I mean, what does this U.N.C.L.E. do?"
"Well...from what Ziggy says I guess it's a kind of multinational espionage organization devoted to the preservation of world peace. In other words, you and Kuryakin are international spies who go around stopping people who might be lighting a fuse to start World War Three."
"Spies?" Sam repeated blankly. "Oh, come on, Al. You've been watching too many old James Bond movies."
"No, Sam, really. I mean it," Al insisted. "Ziggy's super‑microchips haven't figured out why you're here yet, but she is sure on that. You two guys are spies. A Russian and an American working together for world peace during the Cold War--kind of inspiring when you stop and think about it, huh? Anyway," going back to the handlink, "your chief nemesis is something called THRUSH, a kind of worldwide Mafia that became well‑known after World War Two, lost its powers in the early 1970's but had a revival in the 1980's, and is still in operation nowadays. These guys are really bad eggs, Sam. You--that is, Solo--and your partner Kuryakin have been beaten, tortured, shot, chained up, drugged, and practically everything else by these guys. Once, in England, one of their crazier members even put Solo on the rack."
Sam swallowed; the possibility that he might be tortured on this leap was not a pleasant one. "Am I on any assignment now?" he managed to ask.
Al gazed at the handlink for a few seconds, then reluctantly shook his head. "Ziggy doesn't know. I can't even tell you much about yourself--ah, that is, Solo--except that he's thirty‑five years old, unmarried, veteran of Korea, and has worked for this U.N.C.L.E. for fourteen years. To tell you the truth, Sam, it's gonna be kinda hard for us to pull up any real information on these guys or on their organization--most of that jazz is classified, even nowadays."
"Great," Sam said sarcastically. "How can I do what I leaped here to do if I don't even know what it is?"
"Hey, relax, Sam," Al placated. "I'm sure I'll be able to dig up something eventually. You did just get here, you know, and even a super-computer like Ziggy needs time to find out stuff."
"Yeah, well, I hope you and Ziggy hurry up. Because I have the feeling a spy is not something I'm going to be at all good at."
"Yeah, it is a kind of specialized skill," Al said sympathetically. "Well, cheer up, Sam. Maybe next time you leap you'll wind up in the arms of a beautiful lady." He grinned. "And from the look of things, the company of a beautiful lady is just what you need right now."
"What..." Following Al's gaze to his swollen crotch, Sam felt himself blush furiously. "Al--why don't you just go back to Ziggy and find out why I'm here, okay?"
"Okay, Sam," Al said agreeably, not offended. "In the meantime, let me give you some good old Italian advice--a little self‑love never hurt anybody." With another cocky grin, he hit a key on the handlink and disappeared before Sam could reply.
Sam had to resist a childish impulse to make a face at the space where Al had vanished. Then, deciding with a sigh that as long as he was here he might as well prepare for the day, he yanked off his briefs and climbed into the shower.
To his surprise, the dousing of cold water didn't discourage his erection--in fact, it made it even harder. That was a real surprise. Sam, although he considered himself capable of being passionate on occasion, didn't generally get this aroused without some kind of stimulation. Whatever the cause, it didn't look as if his erection was going to go away by itself...which made Sam conclude, reluctantly, that maybe following Al's advice would be a good idea. A little self‑consciously he took his rigid penis into his hand and pulled on it--and was astonished all over again when he found himself able to reach a hard, explosive orgasm after only a few strokes.
Weird as hell, he thought, panting as he shakily washed off the semen. He hadn't come like that in--well, in some time. He had been more affected by the blond Russian named Illya than he'd realized...but no, that couldn't be it. He'd never been attracted to a man in his life. More likely it was just because he'd gone without sex for a while.
He climbed out of the shower, pulled on his briefs and had just finished shaving and brushing his teeth when a soft knock came at the bathroom door. Sam opened it to find his blond companion shyly waiting outside--and once again he found himself struck by the young man's physical beauty. Almost automatically his gaze traveled downward, across the smooth chest and lean torso...At the waistband of the white pajama bottoms, Sam abruptly realized what he was doing and forced his eyes back up.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I very much need to use the facilities if you are finished."
"Ah--okay, sorry," Sam stammered, feeling guilty he'd taken so long in the shower. He stepped away from the door, and swiftly Illya walked into the bathroom.
After Illya had shut the bathroom door behind him, Sam, seeing a jacket hanging over a chair, decided to take advantage of Kuryakin's absence to find out more about himself--especially since Al had admitted Ziggy might not be able to tell him much. Opening up the jacket, he was a little taken aback to see a pistol in a leather holster; then he remembered that, of course, Al had said these guys were spies. Carrying a gun was probably part of the job.
He found himself pulling the gun out of its holster to look it over. He had never dealt with guns in his "real" life, but he had once leaped into a combatant in Vietnam and a few other times into cops, and in those leaps he had learned a little about firearms. The pistol was a semi‑automatic, unusually large and heavy--perhaps two pounds--with a long clip and a comfortable grip. He checked the clip and saw it was fully loaded. Nine millimeter caliber. An efficient, powerful weapon. Subconsciously he fondled the grip, testing the weight and balance.
Then, realizing what he was doing, he slipped the pistol back into the leather holster. He didn't have time for fooling around; he had to find out something about who he'd leaped into. He pulled out Solo's wallet from a pocket of the jacket, an expensive leather wallet with a gold NS monogrammed on the leather. Inside were some American bills and a few English pounds; a yellow card with the name "U.N.C.L.E." and a logo of a man standing by a globe, which Sam assumed was Solo's ID; quite a few credit cards; and a New York State driver's license which was due to expire in 1970. Nothing personal at all--no saved news clippings or letters, no photographs of anyone.
Illya emerged from the bathroom. "Looking for something?" he asked, seeing Sam holding Solo's wallet.
"Ah--just seeing how much money I have," Sam improvised, slipping the wallet back into Solo's jacket pocket.
Illya smiled. "I suppose that's a good idea, since we're on vacation--unofficially, at least. I imagine that means you are planning one of your typically extravagant spending sprees." He walked to the window and pulled up the blinds.
"Crossed my mind," Sam replied with a returning smile, very relieved to hear that they were on vacation. Maybe that meant he wouldn't have to fire his gun or do any spy work on this leap.
Illya was looking out the window. "It seems as if it's going to be a pleasant day, too. Of course in Bermuda most days are pleasant."
"I guess," Sam said, watching him. He was aware of the fact that he was very much enjoying looking at the smooth, round curve of Illya's butt through the white pajamas--despite his recent experience with "self-love" in the shower. This, he thought, was distinctly weird.
"Do you have any plans for ways for us to spend the day?" Illya asked, still gazing out the window. "Or would you rather be alone?" There was an unmistakably resigned note in his voice as he spoke, as if he expected an affirmative answer to that last.
"Hey, I've been alone a little too much in my life to ever choose it voluntarily," Sam answered wryly.
Too late, he realized that that probably wasn't something Solo would say. Illya, however, gave no response other than a brief glance. Then he went back to looking out the window. "So what you're saying is that my company is better than nothing," he said dryly. "Thank you for the compliment."
Sam wondered why his partner sounded so...sad. "Illya, are you okay?"
"Hmm? Oh. Yes. Fine. I suppose the last affair tired me somewhat. Justin Sepheran was a quite formidable foe."
"Yeah, he was," Sam agreed, wondering who Justin Sepheran was. "But are you sure that's all it is? I mean, is something else bothering you that maybe you'd like to talk about?"
Illya shook his head. "No." He turned away from the window, still not looking at Sam.
He's lying; something is bugging him. Something more than just being tired from the last what‑he‑called‑it, affair. It--what was bothering him--could even have something to do with the reason why Sam had leaped. But it was obvious that, whatever it was, the Russian wasn't in the mood to talk about it, at least right now.
Feeling awkward with the fallen silence--and also from standing there just in his underpants--Sam decided to get dressed. Seeing a fresh shirt and some suit pants hanging in the closet, and noting that they were too large for Kuryakin, he started to pull them on. As he zipped up, he saw Illya was watching him.
The blond man looked disconcerted as he met Sam's gaze. He cleared his throat as he grabbed his own clothes, which were lying over a chair. "I shall dress and then we can go to breakfast, if you wish," he mumbled. "Excuse me, please."
Before Sam could say anything in reply, Illya had disappeared into the bathroom again, closing the door with a soft snick.
As Sam finished dressing he found himself wondering, once again, what had put that sad look on Illya's face.
And if it had anything to do with the event in history he had leaped here to change--whatever it was.
***
Al walked into the Waiting Room, feeling irritable. In the first place New Mexico--in fact most of the southwest--was under the blanket of a stifling heat wave. Second, he hadn't gotten laid in awhile, and that always put him in a bad mood. Third--and worst of all--he wasn't crazy about this leap. Not at all.
Spies! This was worse than Sam's leap into an undercover cop, worse than his leap into the Vietnam soldier--with worse, of course, being synonymous with more dangerous. From the little Ziggy had been able to pull up about this U.N.C.L.E., Al had already found out these guys Solo and Kuryakin were not men who led quiet, peaceful lives.
Meaning that Sam could get himself in some very deep shit very soon.
He hit the security plate outside the Waiting Room a little harder than necessary and, walking in, found Napoleon Solo was asleep on the bed and snoring softly. No surprise; many of the people in the Waiting Room slept a lot. Dr. Beeks called it "leap‑sleep," but that was just a buzzword; actually she, along with every other doctor on the Project, had no explanation for what caused the sleepiness of the people whose lives Sam leaped into. In any case it was a very convenient phenomenon, since if inhabitants of the Waiting Room had been awake a lot they might've used that time to think up some awkward questions--such as why they were suddenly living in the body of a scientist named Sam Beckett in the 1990s, instead of in their own body in their own time.
Al approached the bed, intending to check on how Solo was. Of course they had monitors which let them know if leapees were in serious trouble, but still, it didn't hurt to make sure the guy hadn't had a stroke or something...
The next second he found himself thrown against the wall, one hand on his throat, the other on the back of his neck, and Napoleon Solo, pinning him flat with astonishing strength, was staring into Al's eyes with dark intensity.
"Where's my partner?" Solo said, his voice deceptively soft.
Dammit--why didn't I guess he was possuming? Al inwardly berated himself. He'd gone to Vietnam, he'd been in combat, he'd should've known an international spy would have a few tricks up his sleeve. Must be getting old...
Solo increased the pressure on Al's neck infinitesimally. "I would prefer," he said blandly, "to only paralyze you when I break your neck, but I'm afraid I'm somewhat clumsy at times. It's just possible I might kill you instead. So I advise you to answer me. Where's my partner? Are you holding him somewhere or did you kill him?"
Belatedly Al realized that silence would, in this case, not be golden. "He's safe," he managed to bleat out. "He's back at the hotel--right where you left him."
Solo's grip on Al's neck didn't lessen. "Try again. If you abducted me, but not him, he would have rescued me by now...unless you, or one of your cohorts, killed him. Once more: where is he?" The grip tightened a little more. "And this answer better be the right one."
Al saw little specks dancing before his eyes. Loss of oxygen to the brain, he thought; he knew the feeling well, having been in oxygen‑deprivation experiments when he'd been an astronaut. Shit, I really hope he doesn't kill me. That would be embarrassing.
"I'm telling you the truth," he said, his voice now a strangled croak. "He's back at the DeVille, just where you left him...because he doesn't know you're gone. And if you'll just let me...breathe...a little, I'll try to explain."
Solo's eyes held Al's for a tense moment. Then, after what seemed like a couple centuries to Al, he released him and stepped back. Al fell forward a little, gasping for breath, rubbing his sore neck.
"You're not from THRUSH," Solo said, almost conversationally. "Unless they've severely lowered their standards. You're old and flabby and don't know the first thing about hand‑to‑hand combat or even self‑defense."
Sheesh, not only does the nozzle try and kill me, he has to insult me too! Al thought indignantly, still rubbing his neck. This was definitely not turning out to be one of his favorite leaps.
"No, I'm not from THRUSH," he said, his voice still croaky. "I'm a scientist and a Navy admiral, among other things, and I work for a project funded by the U.S. government, a project you wouldn't know the name of because it's top secret." And thirty years in your future. "My name is Al."
"Fascinating, if not very credible," Solo said coolly. "The last I heard the U.S. government doesn't hold innocent citizens against their will, at least not without a trial first. But all right, go ahead--explain about my partner. You said you could."
Al grimaced. He hated it when people in the Waiting Room weren't amnesiac or comatose--they always asked too many questions. Questions he couldn't answer without violating the Quantum Leap Project's security rules. Well, you see, Mr. Solo, this is Project Quantum Leap--a classified government project dedicated to proving Dr. Sam Beckett's theory that man can travel through time. Sam tried out the time accelerator before it was perfected and we can't get him home, so he's out there leaping from life to life, and each time he changes history for the better he leaps again--which he keeps doing in hopes that when he leaps the next time he'll leap back here, into his life in the present. And right now he's leaped into you and your life is the one he's trying to fix for the better--probably due to something stupid you did back in 1968. No, he didn't think he'd say that.
"Mr. Solo, please believe me when I tell you it's kind of difficult to explain. But like I said, your partner is fine. He doesn't even know you're gone. You see, there's a kind of...double...in your place."
"My partner would see through any double of me. It's true, it was tried once before, but that was a long time ago, when we first became partners--and even then he wasn't fooled for very long. Now he'd know the difference in about two seconds."
Al fervently hoped that wasn't true. This leap was bad enough without that Russian guy's asking Sam a lot of awkward questions...perhaps at gunpoint.
"But I'll let that pass for the moment," Solo said, once again in that conversational tone. "Tell me why this secret organization of yours kidnapped me."
"We didn't kidnap you. You came here--well, kind of by accident. But let me assure you, you'll be returned to where you were very soon, in a few days at the most. Maybe even in a few hours." And you won't remember anything that happened here either.
Solo's eyes narrowed; obviously he didn't believe him but, also obviously, he decided the point wasn't worth arguing any further. Or maybe he just thought Al was wacko. "All right, let's drop that too. But just out of curiosity, what's this outfit I'm wearing?" He gestured toward the white permasuit. "It's nothing like any prison outfit I've ever seen."
"It's called a permasuit--a suit manufactured to withstand the blast of kinetic energy transfer involved in a sophisticated form of..." time travel, "ah, scientific experimentation. If it's uncomfortable I can get you something else to wear."
Solo shook his head. "Not necessary. If this is what well‑dressed prisoners are wearing these days, far be it from me to be the one who gets out of step."
"Very prudent," Al said wryly. "Now if you're through asking your questions, I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Solo smiled--a smile that gave Al the shivers. "Come now, Al--or whoever you are. If you know anything about me, you should know I won't reveal anything about myself or my organization, even under torture."
"I don't care about your organization. In fact, I don't care much about you either." Rubbing his sore neck again, Al thought fervently that that was an understatement. "What I want to ask has to do with your partner."
Solo's eyes changed--subtly, but Al caught it. "What about him?"
"I want to know if you have any reason to believe that he'll be in any danger for the next few hours, or days. Or if you will."
"Why do you want to know?"
Because I'm worried sick about Sam, and Ziggy is getting a hernia trying to download stuff about you and your partner due to your damned U.N.C.L.E.'s tight‑assed security codes, that's why. Al, however, once again refrained from speaking his thoughts. "Because my organization has a good reason for wanting both you and your partner to stay out of danger," he said instead. "And we want to know what we're up against."
Solo's eyes grew cold again. "If this is what you and your organization call skilled interrogation, it leaves a lot to be desired," he remarked. "And please forgive me if I don't feel inclined to tell you a damned thing."
"Mr. Solo, believe me, I'm on your side."
"Then why did you abduct me?"
"I didn't. We didn't. I told you, it was a kind of accident."
"And you put a double in my place by accident? No good. Try again."
"I can't try again!" Al protested. "It's the truth. I can't go into details, because my organization is--like yours--top secret, and it involves some scientific principles that you couldn't comprehend. But it is the truth."
Solo just shook his head, obviously still not believing him. Al sighed inwardly; he should've known nothing was going to go right in this leap.
"Okay, have it your way, Mr. Solo," he said, walking to the door and pressing his thumb to the plate for security clearance. "I just hope your partner isn't in any danger. Because if he is, we might find out too late to save him."
He walked out, but not before he saw a faint--very faint, but definite--anxiety flash in Solo's eyes at his last words.
So...he cares about his partner, Al thought. Here's a guy who's trained to kill, has killed in the past, has ice water for blood and chromium steel guts--but he still cares about his partner. A lot.
It was a feeling Al could identify with, and--against his will--he felt an empathy for the man, even though he'd threatened to break Al's neck.
Then the doors to the Waiting Room swished shut, cutting Napoleon Solo off from his view.
***
After his Russian "partner" emerged from the bathroom, shaved and showered and dressed, Sam watched him stand in front of the mirror to button his shirt. Whatever had been bothering Illya before, he thought, he seemed okay now. Maybe Sam had imagined it.
Which put him back to square one. Why was he here? Usually he leaped into the middle of a crisis, or at least a tense situation, but there was no crisis here. He and his partner were on vacation, in good health, no apparent danger. Even the weather was perfect.
"You're being very quiet," Illya remarked as he smoothed down his long, gold hair. Sam noted that the Russian didn't bother to comb it--instead, he just ran both hands through it, pushing it behind his ears and then patting his bangs in place. Sam found himself wondering if he even owned a comb.
"Ah...I guess I am," Sam said, conscious of the fact that Solo would probably have a witty response ready but unable to think of one himself. "Sorry."
Illya's eyes met his in the mirror. "I hope you are not feeling guilty about our last mission. Yes, I was held by Mr. Sepheran for three days before you rescued me, but I assure you, it was not the worst experience I've ever had. It would be foolish to blame yourself for the fact that it took you some time to find me."
"Ah...I guess it is, but I still do," Sam said. "After all, I'm your partner. I'm supposed to take care of you."
"And you did an excellent job. I'm still alive, am I not?"
"Yes, you are," Sam admitted.
Illya smiled at him in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt cuffs. "Good," he said. "I am grateful we're agreed on that, at least."
Sam smiled back. Obviously, he thought, these two guys cared a great deal about each other. Smiles could be faked, even affectionate words, but eye contact was a dead giveaway. When a man held another man's eyes for longer than a few seconds, that man was someone he cared about and trusted.
Illya reached for his suit coat, and Sam said impulsively, "Let me help you with that." He took it from Illya's hands and held it out for him to put it on.
Their eyes met in the mirror again, making Sam feel a strange tingle at the base of his spine. He was also uncomfortably conscious of the proximity of Illya's hard, muscular body. There was no denying it; even though he'd never been attracted to a man before he was attracted to this one. He felt an almost compulsive desire to wrap his arms around Illya from behind, squeeze him a tight hug, inhale the soft fragrances of his hair, nuzzle his neck...
Then his hands dropped as Illya pulled his suit coat up over his shoulders and--with the air of a man who doesn't care much about clothes--absently straightened his lapels.
"I suppose we should go have breakfast," he said. "Since we're on a vacation, if an unofficial one, and we have only the weekend since our flight to New York leaves tomorrow, it wouldn't do to let the culinary delights of this island go to waste."
"Ah...I guess not," Sam said, although he wasn't really hungry. Consciously he stepped back from Illya's enticing warmth; if he stood too close he couldn't be held responsible for his actions. "Ah...I'll even let you pick the restaurant."
"Really. You are being uncharacteristically generous this morning," Illya said teasingly. "That is an opportunity I shall not turn down. Come along, then. I have just the perfect place in mind."
***
"The perfect place" turned out to be a sidewalk cafe not far from the hotel, small and not too crowded; Illya selected a table by the street, and Sam sat down across from him. After a glance at the menu he decided on cafe au lait and a croissant, but Illya put on a pair of black‑rimmed glasses and spent several long minutes studying the menu as if it were the most fascinating and absorbing of novels, while the pretty waitress--a black woman in a psychedelic miniskirt and long false eyelashes--waited impatiently.
Finally Illya glanced up from the menu and, looking a little embarrassed at having taken so long to make his decision, said to the waitress, "I'll have French toast with butter and extra syrup. And a fruit salad. And tea." He handed the menu over.
The waitress took their menus and left.
"Sounds like you're really hungry," Sam said.
Illya smiled. "Making up for the last few days, I suppose. Somehow being in the company of THRUSH agents makes me lose my appetite."
"Ah--I know what you mean," Sam said, remembering what Al had told him about the many times Solo and Kuryakin had been tortured and otherwise abused by the criminal organization. "They make me feel a little nauseated myself."
"Really. Even if they're female, young, and pretty?" Illya gave him a teasing smile.
Solo must be a real skirt‑chaser, for Illya to remark on it so often. And Sam, staring into the blue eyes, couldn't help but wonder what ailed Solo, to be chasing after women when Illya was in the world...
Good grief, what a nutty thought. In fact, Sam was starting to wonder if he was cracking up. It had happened once before--when he'd leaped into that mental patient and received a shock treatment. He'd had a real breakdown then. But he didn't feel nuts...just confused.
The waitress arrived with Illya's tea and Sam's cafe au lait and croissant. Sam, buttering the flaky roll, noticed Illya was watching him intently.
"Want a piece?" he asked.
"No, that's all right," Illya said, not totally convincingly. "I can wait for my order."
Sam was amused by the blond's politeness. "Oh, come on, Illya. This is big enough for two people." He cut the croissant in half and held out the plate.
Obviously too hungry for any further pretense at decorum, Illya mumbled, "Thank you," and helped himself to one of the halves, taking a healthy‑sized bite. Sam wondered if the Russian ate this enthusiastically all the time; if he did, it was a wonder he was so slender. Maybe he has some kind of freaky metabolism. Maybe that's why I'm here--to make a scientific study of how one man can eat his own weight in food every day and still remain only a hundred‑forty pounds...
"I wonder how long it will be before Mr. Waverly begins to wonder where we are," Illya remarked, his mouth full. "Frankly I doubt he'll believe our excuse that our flight from Brazil was waylaid here."
Mr. Waverly? Who was that? Maybe their boss, Sam thought, remembering what Illya had said earlier about an "unofficial vacation"--meaning, perhaps, that the time off had not been approved by their supervisor. Hoping he sounded a little like the real Napoleon Solo, Sam hazarded: "Maybe he'll believe it if you explain it to him. You've always been a much better liar than I am."
Illya grunted as he sipped his tea, but Sam could tell by his partner's eyes he wasn't insulted. "Very funny," he said. "Flattery will get you..."
A sound intruded--a singsongy, two‑note beep that was coming from somewhere very close by. Sam glanced around, wondering what it could be, but Illya didn't look startled at all. He only put down his tea cup and muttered, "Speak of the devil, as they say. Is that my pen or yours?"
Pen? "Ah, I think it's yours," Sam managed to say.
"I think you're right--unfortunately." With a sigh of resignation, Illya pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, uncapped it and then, to Sam's fascination, spoke into the top. "Kuryakin here," he said.
"Mr. Kuryakin," snapped a male, elderly voice. Sam felt his eyebrows rise up to his hairline; the voice, although not loud, was perfectly clear, and coming right from the pen. "Where are you and Mr. Solo? You told me yesterday your assignment had been completed."
"Sorry, sir. Our plane experienced some mechanical difficulties and had to make an emergency landing in Bermuda. The flight was canceled, so unfortunately Napoleon and I are stuck here temporarily."
"Indeed." Sam heard a dry, if amused, note in the elderly voice. "It strikes me as quite interesting, Mr. Kuryakin, that whenever you and Mr. Solo have difficulties obtaining flight accommodations you seem to be in tropical paradises. I don't recall this ever happening when you were in the Yukon or the Sahara."
Illya made a noncommittal noise, at the same time giving his "partner" a sheepish look which made Sam grin.
"If it isn't presumptuous to ask," Mr. Waverly continued, his voice even drier than before, "when do the two of you think you will be able to return to New York?"
"Oh, no later than Monday, sir," Illya said hastily. "We were able to get tickets on a flight returning to New York tomorrow."
"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. I will expect you both back in New York first thing Monday morning to hear your reports. Nine a.m. sharp. Please try not to be late."
"Yes, sir. Kuryakin out." Illya promptly recapped the pen and tucked it away. "Well, at least that gives us a day," he sighed with apparent relief. "It seems you were correct about my storytelling abilities after all."
"I guess," Sam said vaguely, hoping that he wasn't making Solo sound like too much of a dullard.
As if reading his mind, Illya looked at him curiously. "You have a thoughtful look," he remarked. "It looks rather strange on you."
Sam smiled, instinct telling him that this was the kind of banter Solo and Illya exchanged regularly. "I was just thinking--how grateful I am that we're both alive," he improvised. "I mean, that we survived our experience with Justin Sepheran."
Illya's eyes showed his understanding. "I am feeling a little grateful, myself," he said. Then, after a pause: "I believe I never thanked you for saving my life."
"It's not necessary."
"I know, but all the same...I should thank you. You didn't have to risk your life to save mine, but you did. Thank you."
"You would've done it for me," Sam said, not knowing if it were true or not but thinking it was something a partner might say to another.
Illya nodded. "Yes," he said, almost casually, as if affirming that the sky was blue, "but that doesn't lessen the fact that you took a risk you didn't have to take." His eyes met Sam's again. "One question. How did you know I was still alive?"
Sam, not knowing the answer to that, realized that he'd have to fake it. "I didn't," he said. "I just hoped you were."
Illya's eyes warmed a little, then dropped again, as if he were embarrassed. Here was a man, Sam thought, who wasn't used to talking about his feelings--even with his partner. Well, he could understand that. It was the sixties, after all; the liberal 1970's, when men could feel free to talk about their emotions and even cry if they wished, were several years away.
Unsure whether he should pursue the conversation further, Sam sipped his cafe au lait--and then nearly spilled it when the Imaging Chamber door opened and Al appeared. Sam looked at him mutely, unable to say hello with Kuryakin sitting there next to him. And Al, of course, took gleeful advantage of the fact that only Sam could see and hear him.
"Hiya, Sam," he boomed cheerfully, hitting the key on the handlink to close the door behind him. "How's it going?"
Sam just glared at him, irritated by Al's enjoyment of his discomfiture.
"Not feeling chatty, eh, Sam?" Al said, pretending to be hurt. "Well, here's something that'll cheer you up. You won't have to do any spy crap on this leap--Ziggy finally managed to dig up some of the less confidential U.N.C.L.E. records, and found out you and Kuryakin are here on vacation. Solo thought up the idea of their stopping over in Bermuda for the weekend after their last assignment was over, and talked Kuryakin into it. And you both need it, you just finished a really rough mission putting away a nozzle named Justin Sepheran. Before Solo got him out Sepheran tortured Kuryakin for three days."
Sam cast a surreptitious glance at Illya, who was watching the passers‑by, still sipping his tea.
"He's all right now, though," Al added, reading Sam's glance. "Both of you are. Just wiped out from the mission, is all. But here's the really good news, Sam. Ziggy's figured out why you're here."
Sam almost gave himself away by sighing audibly in relief, but thankfully, Illya was at that moment distracted by their pretty waitress arriving with Illya's meal. The Russian's face showed his delight as she put the steaming plate in front of him.
"Geez, that looks yumola," Al said enviously. The hologram, stepping forward to examine the meal more closely, accidentally walked into the table--meaning that his holographic image was superimposed over it, making it look as if the table was stabbing him in the midsection. A rather disconcerting sight for Sam.
"Would you like a taste, Napoleon?" Illya asked, already drowning his French toast in syrup. "I believe I have enough to share."
"Thanks, but I'm full," Sam said, and immediately thought of a reason to leave the table so he could talk to Al. "I do need to go wash up, though. Excuse me. I'll be right back."
Rising from the table before the Russian could ask any questions, Sam made his way to the men's room, which was inside the cafe. He was relieved to find the room empty. A few seconds later Al walked in through the wall.
"Seems like every time we talk, it's in a bathroom," the hologram groused. "Y'know, so many people throughout history have thought that traveling through time would be exciting and romantic, but is it? No, not for me. For me it's just been one toilet after another."
"It's usually the most private place available," Sam said, consciously keeping his voice low in case someone should walk in. People couldn't hear Al--but they could still hear him. "You said you and Ziggy found out why I'm here?"
"Yeah, we have. Like I said, it's been hell to find out anything since U.N.C.L.E.'s records are classified, but Ziggy's been able to pull up a few things, bless her little computer banks. And she's managed to formulate a theory. She gives it a 95 percent probability."
"What is it?"
"Well...we couldn't find anything traumatic or earth‑shattering that happened to Solo and Kuryakin this weekend, but after a little digging, Ziggy found out that one month from now Solo quits U.N.C.L.E. Just up and splits. Surprised a hell of a lot of people, too, since it was believed that he would take over for Mr. Waverly--that's the boss--one day. Anyway...Ziggy's theory is that the reason you're here is to stop Solo from quitting."
Sam frowned, puzzled. "But you said that doesn't happen for another month. Why would I leap in now, a month ahead of time? Or are you saying Ziggy thinks something happens this weekend that makes Solo decide to quit? Something I have to stop from happening?"
"Exactly."
"What?"
"Ziggy doesn't know."
"Why did I know you were going to say that?"
"I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam felt a rush of guilt at Al's contrite expression. He knew Al often worked overtime trying to help him all he could on his leaps. "It's okay, Al. I know you and Ziggy are doing all you can. Maybe you can answer this one--how would Solo's staying at his job change history for the better?"
"Because after Solo quit U.N.C.L.E. both his and Kuryakin's lives went to hell in a handbasket. Especially Kuryakin's."
"What happened to Illya?" Sam demanded.
Al looked up from the handlink, his lips in a tight line. "You really care about him, don't you, Sam?" he said edgily.
"What?"
"I said, you really care about this guy. The way you were looking at him earlier...and now you're acting all worried about him. If I didn't know you better I'd say you had a thing for him."
Sam was exasperated. "Come on, Al. Illya's my partner, at least on this leap--I'm supposed to care about him. Now what have you got? Hurry up, we might not have much time."
"Okay, okay." Grumbling, Al went back to the handlink. "You asked what happened to Illya? Well, he stayed at U.N.C.L.E. awhile after Solo split, but it was rough. He couldn't adjust to any of his new partners and finally just started going off on missions on his own--taking crazy chances and almost getting himself killed a couple times. Then he went on a really bad mission, in Yugoslavia. It was a mess from the beginning, but what really made it rough was there was a girl Kuryakin was assigned to protect, a twenty‑year‑old girl whose father was a big wheel in the Yugoslavian government, and she got killed. It wasn't Kuryakin's fault--the man who was supposed to be his backup was a traitor--but he still blamed himself for her death. That was in 1971."
Al hit more keys. "And if that wasn't enough, get a glom at what happened next. The girl's death led to what's known as an 'international incident' and the Soviet government got its balls in an uproar about it and demanded that U.N.C.L.E. send Illya back to Russia for 'disciplinary action.' Alexander Waverly refused, but Kuryakin, to avoid a breakdown in the relations between his country and U.N.C.L.E., quit--and then refused to go back to the U.S.S.R. Guess he knew what was waiting for him there--disgrace, loss of status, maybe even time in a labor camp. The Soviet government, in retaliation, revoked his citizenship. Y'know," Al added somberly, looking up from the handlink, "for a Russian his country's like a member of his family. The Motherland, they call it. To have his government reject him must've hurt like hell. Kuryakin lost his best friend and then his self‑respect, his job and his country, all within just a few years. That's a lot of crap for any guy to have to deal with, no matter how you slice it."
Sam felt a tightness in his throat, thinking about what Illya must have gone through. "What'd he do then?"
"Well, it was really weird, Sam. With his degrees and experience he could've done just about anything he wanted, but he became a fashion designer."
"A what? You're kidding."
"Nope. And it's kind of funny how it happened." Al was looking at the handlink again. "Several years before, in 1967, he met a guy named Jerry during a spy mission. Jerry credited Kuryakin and Solo with helping him start a career as a fashion designer, and also with getting him together with his wife, a model named Ramona--remember, she once did the ads for Machismo aftershave? A really hot babe." At Sam's blank look, Al sighed. "Guess that's another thing you've forgotten with your swiss-cheesed brain. Anyway, Solo and Kuryakin said something to her, in 1967, that made her agree to go out with this Jerry, and later she married him--and the guy was so grateful that, years later when Kuryakin lost his job, he got Kuryakin a job working in his clothing salon in New York. Three years later, the guy died--a plane crash. He left his wife all his money, but he left his business to Kuryakin."
Sam felt his heart thud at a sudden thought. "Al...I know Ziggy doesn't always have records like this, but is it possible..." His voice trailed off.
"What?"
"Well, that Kuryakin and that designer were...intimate. You know."
Al gave him a look. "You think this guy Kuryakin's gay?"
"No...not exactly, but..." Sam stopped, not sure, at that point, what he thought.
"But you were just wondering," Al finished. "You seem to have sex on the brain, Sam. I thought I was the one with that problem."
"I guess you've had a corrupt influence on me. Tell me what Ziggy says, okay?"
Obediently Al hit keys on the handlink. "Ah...no record. But it looks like this designer and his wife were happily married, so it's my guess he and Kuryakin were just good friends. Jerry probably just left him his business because Kuryakin was kind of his second‑in‑command. Either that or he was still feeling grateful to him for helping him get together with this Ramona dish."
Sam withheld a sigh. Al was right, he thought; he was getting weird about Illya. He pulled his mind back to business. "What happened then? To the fashion business?"
"What happened? Oh, yeah, what happened. Well, Kuryakin took over the business, renamed it Vanya's, and..."
"Ran it into the ground?"
"No, he made millions of dollars. C'mon, Sam, you've never heard of Vanya's?"
"No."
"No, I suppose not," Al said, a little pityingly. "Some guys don't have any fashion sense, I guess."
Sam looked at Al's outfit--he had changed into a suit of bright turquoise and a shirt with pink flamingos on it--but refrained from making the comment he wanted to make. "I thought you said Illya's life went down the drain after Solo left U.N.C.L.E.," he said. "Well, having a successful business and becoming a millionaire doesn't sound all that bad to me."
"Yeah, but his personal life was a shambles," Al said. "When he started raking in the bucks he also started taking drugs--cocaine mostly--and hanging around with a really bad crowd. Leeches, hangers‑on I guess they call 'em."
He was reading from the handlink now. "Anyway he didn't get straightened out until there was a crisis in the early 1980's when THRUSH, that criminal organization I told you about, pulled a honey involving nuclear blackmail, then tried to snatch Air Force One--fourteen years before that Harrison Ford movie, Air Force One, was made. Illya rejoined U.N.C.L.E. to help Solo get the guy who was behind both schemes--coincidentally it was Justin Sepheran, the same guy Solo and Kuryakin just put away in your present time, who'd escaped from prison. And after they got the bastard he and Solo became friends again--that is, Kuryakin and Solo, not Sepheran and Solo--and Kuryakin straightened out his life. Went into therapy, quit with the nose candy, dumped the leeches, the whole nine yards. Probably due to Solo's influence, although that's just a guess. Right now, in the present time, his business is still doing well, he's still going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and he and Solo are still friends, live just a few blocks away from each other and have lunch together a lot. Showing that even nuclear blackmail can have a silver lining, I guess."
"What about Solo? What happened to him after he left U.N.C.L.E.?" Sam asked.
Al hit keys on the handlink. "Well, his life wasn't a bed of roses either, apparently," he said finally. "He had a series of well‑paying jobs, but he got involved in some shady deals with some shady characters in Las Vegas--probably due to a gambling compulsion. Finally he bought a faltering computer firm and built it up to a business that made big bucks--and then lost all his fortune gambling...all of it, that is, except for an apartment in New York given to him by his maiden aunt in her will. Then U.N.C.L.E. bailed him out of his gambling debts when they wanted him to rejoin in 1983, and--like Kuryakin--he got his life back on track after they nabbed Sepheran. Quit gambling and remade his fortune with the big PC boom in the eighties." Al looked up from the handlink. "But the point is, Sam, that fifteen‑year separation was hell on both of them, and--to get back to what I was saying--Ziggy's hypothesis is that you've leaped to keep it from happening. You have to stop whatever it is that made Solo decide to take a powder in 1968 so none of this crap happens during that fifteen‑year split."
"And you said Ziggy thinks something happened this weekend that made Solo decide to quit--even though she doesn't know what," Sam said. "And that's what I'm here to change?"
"Yeah, that's the hypothesis," Al agreed. "And since Solo and Kuryakin aren't working this weekend, chances are his reason for taking a powder--whatever it was--was personal, not professional. You got any ideas what it could be?"
"No, I don't. Is it possible Solo left because he and Kuryakin had a fight or something? And I'm here to prevent the fight?"
Al keyed in some information on the handlink, then read the view screen. "Nah, Ziggy gives that only a 29 percent probability. For one thing, from what Ziggy can dig up, they never fight. For another, they immediately became friends again after the fifteen‑year separation, without any animus whatsoever. Kuryakin even saved Solo's neck from some KGB agents two seconds after they met up again. No, a fight's not very likely."
"Maybe it does have something to do with their jobs," Sam suggested. "Their last assignment, from what Illya was telling me, was pretty rough. Job burnout, maybe?"
Al shook his head. "I already thought of that. Ziggy gives it a probability of only eleven percent."
Sam stared at the peach‑colored tile of the bathroom wall, trying to think. Why would a man quit his job? "Maybe he quit to make more money?" he tried. "You said he was a compulsive gambler."
"Solo didn't have any money problems in the sixties," Al said. "It was only in the seventies that he got a gambling problem and his bank account went phut. Besides, if wanting more money was the reason Solo split, there's not much you could do about that, could you? You have to've leaped for some other reason, Sam." He hit another key on the handlink, and the Imaging Chamber door opened behind him with a swoosh. "I'll tell you what. I'll go back to Ziggy and see if I can get her to come up with some kind of scenario as to what happened this weekend that made Solo decide to chuck it. And I'll come back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, hang tough and keep your eyes peeled. Maybe you can figure out on your own why Solo left U.N.C.L.E.--and think of a way to prevent it."
"I'll do my best," Sam promised.
"I know." Al gave him a small smile. "You always do, don't you, Sam? The time‑traveling Don Quixote. Fighting windmills with no help but a holographic Sancho Panza and a computer with a big ego."
Sam blinked. It was a strange thing for Al to say--Al, who was always so cynical, who snorted at anything that smacked of sentimentality.
But before he could think of a reply Al vanished.
***
After breakfast Illya suggested they go shopping, and Sam, unable to think of an alternative suggestion, agreed.
To his surprise he found the excursion quite pleasant. Although the tourist traps had little in them but junk--knickknacks with "Bermuda" written on them, multitudes of postcards, t‑shirts with funny sayings, necklaces made out of shells, and other typical "souvenirs"--and they occasionally had to dodge motorscooters in traffic (there were few private cars on the island), he found the British‑accented populace warm and friendly, the air sweetly scented with tropical flowers and ocean breezes, and the weather flawless: sunny, warm but not humid.
After shopping for a while they took a walk on the beach, deserted except for a few scantily clad sun‑worshipers and a handful of sandpipers who were digging in the sand for mid‑morning snacks with their long beaks, running so fast after each wave that their tiny legs were a blur. Sam laughed out loud watching them, then stopped when he saw Illya give him a puzzled, if pleased, look.
I guess Solo isn't the kind of guy to laugh a lot, Sam thought, and said meekly, "Sorry."
Illya shook his head. "Don't apologize. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. After the last few days, you deserve it."
"We both do," Sam ventured.
"I hardly think that's true," Illya said. "After all, you were the one who took all the risks. I did nothing."
Sam heard a trace of sadness in the soft voice--or was it wistfulness? It was a reminder of the sad note he'd heard in Illya's voice earlier. "You would have done something if you'd had to," he said. "That's the important thing."
Illya shrugged but didn't reply.
Something is definitely bothering him, Sam thought. He decided to try to find out what it was by drawing Illya out, get him to talking.
"Illya..."
"Yes?" Illya had been looking out at the pounding ocean waves, but when Sam spoke he looked up at him.
"I just want to say...I'm really glad I'm your partner," Sam said. If he bared his soul, he thought, maybe Illya would do the same. "I mean it means a lot, having someone I can depend on. You know what I mean?"
Illya looked puzzled, but he answered readily. "Yes," he said.
"Good," Sam said. "I just wanted you to know that--well, I'm appreciate all you've done for me. And that I'm glad we're friends."
Illya looked out at the ocean again. The wind rumpled his gold hair a little. "Yes. Friends," he repeated. But he didn't sound happy. In fact, his tone was almost...bleak.
Sam, responding automatically to that desolate voice, impulsively reached out and gave Illya a little one‑armed hug.
Illya's response startled him. He yanked away as if burned. "Don't," he said sharply.
What'd I do? "I'm sorry," Sam stuttered. "I just wanted to show you--what you mean to me..."
"No, I'm sorry," Illya interrupted. "Napoleon, your touch is not repugnant to me. I just..." He stared out at the ocean again. "I am sorry," he repeated.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Sam said, still wondering why Illya had reacted so violently to just a simple hug.
Then, abruptly, he knew.
It all came together like stray pieces of a jigsaw. Illya's looking sad earlier. Illya's harping on the subject of Solo's women. Illya's looking so wistful now when he repeated the word "friends." And his pulling away when Sam tried to hug him.
"Oh, boy," he blurted, involuntarily.
Illya snorted, a half‑laugh that was almost a moan. "I wasn't going to tell you," he said, "but it seems as if you've discovered it on your own. My congratulations." Sam saw his hands clench into fists, as if he were preparing himself for a physical altercation. "I knew coming here, on a vacation, was a mistake. Dammit, why did I let you talk me into it?"
"Illya, it's okay," Sam said, hardly knowing what he was saying.
"No, it's not okay, Napoleon." Illya's face looked pale in the sunlight. "And don't try to pretend now that you haven't guessed. Obviously you have, judging by your behavior--the way you looked at me when you woke up this morning, your hiding out in the men's room for almost our entire breakfast--and your trying to tell me just now, in your tactful American way, that we will never be any more than friends." The pain in his voice, and in his face, was almost palpable.
"Illya...please, don't," Sam pleaded. Not the best reaction, certainly, but all he could think of at that moment.
"Don't what?" Illya demanded, blue eyes blazing at him. "Don't say the words? Or don't feel the way I do about you? Because if you're telling me not to feel this way, it's far too late for that. About five years too late. Does that disgust you?"
"No, it doesn't," Sam denied quickly, hoping somewhere along the line he would think of something to say to fix this. Or that Al would show up and tell him what to say. "Illya, however you...you feel about me, you're still my friend. And my partner."
Illya's eyes softened for a brief moment, then hardened again. "I am grateful for your kind sentiments, Napoleon, but don't pretend that this isn't an awkward situation. It is, however, one I have already decided how to remedy. The moment we return to New York I shall put in a transfer request. That is the most logical solution."
Sam was stunned. Ziggy hadn't mentioned Illya's putting in a transfer request. "I don't want you to transfer," he burst out.
"Really, Napoleon," Illya said sarcastically. "Are you that broad‑minded? Or are you trying to lead me to believe that you--the suave, sophisticated ladies' man--can possibly understand how this situation makes me feel?"
"I...I can understand that how you feel...makes you feel a little uncomfortable with me. But we can work it out. The important thing is that we stay together." If only Illya knew how true that was.
"No, you don't understand, Napoleon. But let me explain it to you."
Illya sighed, staring out at the ocean.
"As I said, I wasn't going to tell you, but I should have known you would figure it out. We know each other so well. But, to put it baldly, I'm in love with you."
Sam could feel Illya's pain almost palpably. He longed to reach out and squeeze his arm--something to show his partner that he was okay with what he was saying--but remembering how he'd pulled away when he'd tried to hug him, he refrained. He just listened. After a few seconds Illya went on:
"And living this way, feeling the way I do, watching you with all your women, knowing I can never have you...it has been more than I can bear. Do you know when you give me that damnably irresistible smile of yours I feel my knees tremble and my heartbeat speed up, as if I were some silly callow schoolboy? Do you know what I did one time? I went into your office looking for you and you weren't there, you had gone downstairs to the gym, but your suit coat was hanging over a chair. And I went over to it and picked it up and--not even knowing what I was doing--I buried my face in it. Inhaling the scents of your body." He spoke the words with cold contempt--contempt, Sam realized, not for Solo but for himself. "Chyort, just the smell of you drives me insane. And when we're forced to share the same room, the same bed, as we had to last night because we had no hotel reservations--how disgusted you would be if you knew how that made me feel..."
Was this why Solo had left, Sam wondered? Had Solo, like Sam, guessed Illya's feelings and, unable to deal with the situation, had quit? Or had Illya just told his partner during their time in Bermuda that he was transferring without telling Solo how he felt, and Solo had been so unwilling to go on without Illya by his side that he'd turned in his resignation? Sam guessed the latter. Napoleon Solo had grown up during the Depression and World War II, they had been more innocent times than the seventies, when Sam had grown up; the thought that his partner could be in love with him had probably never crossed Solo's mind.
"Illya, I'm so sorry," he said, knowing these words were inadequate but unable to think of other ones. "Honestly. I had no idea. But it's okay. I mean...I care about you." He felt so helpless, wondering how he was supposed to play this. Why the hell wouldn't Al show up, give him some clue? "And you don't disgust me. How could I ever feel disgust for you, my partner, my best friend?"
"You will once you think about it," Illya said, his voice trembling now. "After this past affair I finally realized the truth. All the while I was being held by Sepheran I prayed that you wouldn't rescue me, because I knew he would kill you if you tried--and it made me see that my feelings for you are never going to change. And I can't bear it anymore, Napoleon. I have to leave."
Abruptly, as if regretting that he had talked so much, Illya bolted. Sam, watching his partner half‑run off the beach and towards their hotel, longed to go after him but realized, even in his sympathy, that probably what Illya needed now was some time alone.
And he needed time alone too, to figure out what the hell to do.
He swallowed, thinking of those incredible blue eyes and the anguish behind them. Just then he was not worrying about the leap; he was only thinking about what agony Illya must be suffering. And he wanted to kick Solo for hurting Illya this way.
Suddenly he heard a familiar voice mutter, "Hubba, hubba!"
He turned around and saw Al standing just a few feet away--and, predictably, staring at a woman whose large breasts were almost spilling out of her pink bikini. Al, seeing Sam's look, appeared a little sheepish.
"Just enjoyin' the view," he mumbled as he walked up to Sam. "Where's Blondie? You two have a tiff?"
Sam wasn't in the mood for banter. "Illya's in love with Solo," he said bluntly.
Al stared at him. "In love...? Dammit, Sam, what did that commie fruit do to you?"
Sam was, for one of the few times in his life, genuinely angry at Al. "Dammit, Al, Illya is not a 'commie fruit'! I don't want you using language like that around me again, do you hear me?"
Al looked contrite. "Okay, okay," he said. "Don't get your balls in an uproar."
Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "I'm sorry, Al. I'm just...I'm really worried about screwing up on this leap, that's all. As to your question, he did nothing--I just guessed how he felt and he confirmed it. Actually, we should've guessed this sooner. Illya's behavior after Solo left U.N.C.L.E., his bent towards self‑destructiveness--that kind of behavior is pretty indicative of a broken heart."
"Yeah. Could be," Al said quietly. "I pulled a lot of the same kinds of stunts when Beth divorced me. Takin' crazy chances, sleeping with anybody that moved..." His voice trailed off.
"Yeah, me too. I mean, after Donna left me at the altar I was shattered. I was just lucky I had you to help me through it. Dammit, Al, what are we going to do? This isn't something I can just talk him out of--he really loves me."
Al was giving him a look. "What?" Sam asked.
"You mean Solo, Sam. Illya loves Solo. Not you."
"Of course, Solo," Sam said impatiently. "He even told me he's transferring to another office, just because of the way he feels about Napoleon."
"Ah...yeah, I know. That is, I know about the transfer part. In fact that was just what I was coming to tell you. Those damned U.N.C.L.E. records are locked up tighter than a politician's ass, but Ziggy finally managed to crack them. Two days from now, on Monday, February 19, Kuryakin puts in a request to transfer to the Paris office. Then, after Solo quit, Kuryakin came back to U.N.C.L.E.‑New York--until, like I said, that crap in Yugoslavia all happened. Anyway, Solo obviously quit because of that transfer request. It's that--the transfer--that you've got to stop. You do that and you'll stop Solo from quitting too."
"Yes, but how do I do that?"
"You try talking to him?" Al suggested.
"I tried that just now. I told him that the way he felt about me didn't bother me, that I wanted to stay his partner--and his friend. But he didn't listen. He said he couldn't stand working with me anymore, seeing me with all my women--that was the way he phrased it--and knowing he could never...have me." He spoke the last words a little self‑consciously.
"Shit," Al muttered. "He really has it bad. That's rough."
Sam attempted a wan smile. "I never thought you would be able to understand unrequited love, Al."
"Hey, I know a little," Al defended. "Not all the woman on this planet are crazy about me, y'know. I'd say no more than 80, 90 percent tops..."
"Spare me the details of your love life, Al. The question still is, what do we do now? Does Ziggy have any ideas?"
"Ah...gimme a second." Al hit keys on the handlink, waited a moment, then sighed. "No, nothing. And the history's still the same, the separation, everything else. You were right, your trying to convince Illya to stick around didn't have any effect."
Sam sighed too. Then he had a thought. "Al, you said Solo's resignation was directly the result of Illya's putting in for a transfer. That means he left U.N.C.L.E. because he couldn't stand to be partners with anybody but Illya. At least that's a good guess, right?"
"That makes sense, I guess. What's your point, Sam?"
Sam spoke carefully, already knowing how Al would react to what he was about to say. "My point is...maybe Solo feels the same way about Illya that Illya feels about him, but never told him because it never occurred to him that his feelings were returned. It was the sixties, remember, when men lost their jobs if they were even suspected of being gay, when a man loving another man was considered wrong and even sinful. Maybe Solo's love for Illya was why his own life went to hell after they split up, just like Illya's did. You told me he became a compulsive gambler, even lost all his money due to his gambling addiction."
"You're saying he became a gambling addict because his heart was broken?" Al frowned, considering this. "Yeah, maybe. But I still don't see your point, Sam."
Sam let out a breath. "What if I'm here not just to keep the transfer request and the fifteen‑year separation from happening--but to get these two guys together?"
Al looked almost comically shocked--eyes bulging, mouth agape. "What?"
"Well, think about it, Al," Sam said. "I've been on matchmaking leaps before. Maybe this is another one. They obviously care about each other. And the way they both acted, in the original timeline, when they were apart--and how their lives straightened out when they got back together--Al, it makes perfect sense. You said Solo's quitting was such uncharacteristic behavior that it surprised everyone--that they all expected him to take over for the boss one day. And resigning after fourteen years with U.N.C.L.E. was a pretty drastic reaction just because his partner put in for a transfer, wasn't it? Maybe...maybe he feels the same way about Illya that Illya feels about him but just never told him, never realizing that Illya loved him too. But suppose Napoleon did tell Illya that he loves him. That would stop Illya from transferring and Solo from quitting, wouldn't it? And their history will be changed for the better!"
"Hey, calm down a minute, Sam," Al said sharply. "This is all speculation, y'know. And if you're wrong, you'll screw up everything...no pun intended. I mean, imagine what a hissy fit Solo would have if he leaped back into his own body and found himself and Kuryakin in a clinch! He'd split so fast it'd make your head swim."
"Only if he's not in love with Illya."
"Yeah, but saying Solo's in love with Illya--well, that's a pretty big supposition, Sam. If Solo has the hots for this guy, why didn't he do something in the original timeline?"
"Maybe he was hoping to sometime, but when Illya put in for the transfer, he thought that proved Illya didn't care for him, that he'd never have a chance. Or maybe he didn't fully realize his feelings until after he lost Illya. Or maybe he just hadn't quite figured out how to tell him. The realization that you're falling in love with another guy isn't something that most men would take with equanimity, you know--especially in the sixties."
"Yeah, I know," Al said. "I grew up in the forties and fifties, and that was the pits. Hell, if you had even the teeniest feelings about another guy you might as well be dead."
Sam looked at his friend, startled as he wondered--for the first time--if Al had ever had feelings about another man himself. It seemed incredible; but it would explain some of his homophobic comments of the past, as well as his posture as a lady killer. Sam knew from his medical training that sometimes people who acted the most blatantly heterosexual were hiding gay tendencies. But there was no time to get into that now.
"Yeah, some attitudes towards gayness in the past were pretty primitive," Sam said. "So, as I said, maybe Solo was in love with Illya but just wasn't aware of how Illya felt--or didn't know how to tell him. It's possible, Al."
"Sure, it's possible. And it's possible someday we'll all fly to the moon on gossamer wings--but I doubt it. My vote is that you're here just to persuade Kuryakin to keep from transferring--period. You don't have to get him in the sack to talk him out of busting up the partnership, do you?"
"Maybe I do. I've already tried talking him out of transferring, and it didn't work. I really think this could be a matchmaking leap, Al."
"Uh‑huh," Al said skeptically. "Or maybe you just want it to be a matchmaking leap, huh, Sam?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"I mean maybe you have the hots for this blond com--ah, Russian, and just want some justification for giving him a tumble. Because of those middle‑class Puritan ethics of yours you can't just hump somebody when you get the itch, so you have to think up logical reasons. I've seen the looks you've been giving this kid. You were sure as hell hot for him this morning--you were sprouting a boner that would make the Empire State Building ashamed of itself."
Sam was a little taken aback by Al's bluntness, but his basic honesty made him consider this possibility. "Well, maybe," he admitted. "But I still wouldn't deliberately mess up a leap, no matter how...ah, passionate I was. And besides, my feelings aren't important. Solo's feelings are what count."
"Yeah," Al agreed. "And since there's no record of that, there's no way for Ziggy to find out if Solo's in love with Blondie the way you think he is, or not."
"That's right," Sam said. "But," he added, after a significant pause, "there is a way for you to find out."
Al's eyes widened with something like horror. "If you're saying what I think you're saying--the answer is N‑O, no."
"Come on, Al. How else are we going to find out what to do on this leap? You said yourself Ziggy was no help."
"I don't know, but I'm sure as hell not going into the Waiting Room and ask that Neanderthal a question like that! You don't know how crazy that guy Solo is, Sam. If I ask him if he's in love with his partner he'll tear me apart. The guy's a trained killer! You shoulda seen him earlier, when I tried to talk to him." Al rubbed his neck. "I don't want to go through that again."
"I know it won't be easy, but you have to do it, Al. There's no other way I can find out what I have to do in order to change history and leap again."
"Sam, be reasonable," the hologram pleaded. "This guy Solo wouldn't tell me the time of day in ten billion years. He told me so himself--U.N.C.L.E. agents don't reveal anything, even under torture."
"There are ways besides torture to get people to talk," Sam said.
"Yeah? Like what?"
"You can think of something. You're a Navy admiral, Al, you've had to deal with tough problems before. Tell him how important it is. Appeal to his better nature."
"This guy doesn't have a better nature. Trust me on that, Sam."
"Come on, Al, you want these guys to be happy, don't you? You don't want them to spend fifteen years apart and alone. And if they were meant to be lovers, we owe it to them to get them together."
"But, Sam..."
"Please, Al."
Al glared at him. "Stop givin' me that sick puppy look, Sam. I'm not doing it! No! No way! Cut it out."
Sam just continued to look at him.
Al let out a moan of frustration and punched up the exit code on the handlink. The Imaging Chamber door appeared. "All right, dammit," he muttered. "I'll go talk to that crazy bastard in the Waiting Room. But if I get killed, I hope you feel guilty as hell."
Sam smiled. "You won't get killed, Al. You're too tough and too mean."
"Uh‑huh. Well, hold on till I get back. At least you're in a nice place--with great scenery." He checked out another woman in a bikini as he spoke that last.
"Goodbye, Al," Sam said pointedly.
Al stepped through the Imaging Chamber door. "Bye, Sam," he said, and disappeared.
***
In the Waiting Room, with Verbena Beeks, Al stood over Napoleon Solo, who was, at that moment, lying on his back, unconscious, hooked up to a myriad of monitors which Beeks, the psychiatrist and medical doctor for Project Quantum Leap, was watching with a scowl.
"This is really highly irregular, you know," she said, her voice oozing disapproval.
"I know," Al said. "But we don't have any choice. He won't talk to me, and I don't have time to reason with him. And Ziggy can't help us. This is the only way we can find out what we need to know."
"Illya," muttered Solo, his eyes flickering.
"He's not under enough," Al said. "Better give him ten more CC's."
Beeks straightened indignantly. "I will not," she said. "Giving him a classified truth serum in the first place was crazy enough. And too much might cause physiological damage."
"Yeah, well, as we used to say back at the orphanage--tough noogies," Al snapped. "You should've seen some of the physiological damage he tried to inflict on me not too long ago."
"You're not thinking very clearly, Admiral," Beeks snapped back. "Are you forgetting that this is Dr. Beckett's body?"
Al was startled, realizing that yes, he had forgotten that. He saw Solo as Solo, due to his neurological link with the "real" Sam--just as he saw Sam as Sam. But everyone else at PQL saw the leapee in the Waiting Room, whoever it happened to be at the time, as Sam Beckett. Properly chastised, he muttered, "Okay, we'll try it your way--with the standard dose. I just hope it's enough." He leaned over the gurney where the drugged man lay. "Mr. Solo? Can you hear me?"
"Aarggh," Solo said indistinctly.
"Just answer yes or no, please."
"Y...yes." Solo's voice was low and raspy. "I can hear you."
"Good." Al remembered the lieutenant who had delivered the serum had advised him to ask the subject a few routine and innocuous questions first, to test the effectiveness of the drug. "Tell me your name."
Solo let out a breath. He obviously didn't want to talk; part of his U.N.C.L.E. conditioning, no doubt. But the drug--at least according to the Navy Intelligence man who had handed over a sample of the stuff to Project Quantum Leap half an hour ago--was powerful. Finally he mumbled, "Napoleon Anthony Solo."
"Where and when were you born?"
"Topeka...Kansas. November...22, 1932."
Older than I am, Al thought, and wondered why that fact amused him. Then he realized why--it was because Napoleon, who was still a young man in 1968, had called Al "old and flabby" just hours before. "What's your occupation?"
"CEA for...the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Number one, Section Two. Enforcement."
Al looked at Beeks, who shrugged. The drug was working beautifully. Encouraged, Al went on.
"Mr. Solo, I want to talk to you about your partner. Illya Kuryakin."
"Illya..." the drugged man whispered. His face twitched a little. "Illya's in...trouble..."
"What makes you think that?" Al asked sharply. If Illya was in trouble, maybe Sam was in trouble too.
"If he weren't, he would be here...would've rescued me." Solo's face twitched again, and his voice came out choked with emotion. "He must be dead...or badly injured."
Al started to reassure Solo--and then refrained. Maybe he could use the other man's fear to his advantage. "You care a lot for him, don't you?" he asked.
Solo didn't answer the question directly. "He's my partner. My best friend," he mumbled.
"Maybe that's too abstract an idea for him to deal with, in his condition," Beeks suggested.
"That was the wrong question anyway," Al said. He bent over Solo and tried again. "Do you love him?" he asked.
"N‑no." It was not an answer, but a reaction to speaking under the serum. It was as if Solo had some deep inhibition against talking about his personal life, even deeper than his U.N.C.L.E. training, so strong that he could resist the most powerful truth drug the government had. Al sensed that Solo was a very private man--someone who kept his innermost feelings under lock and key. He could understand that; he was like that himself.
"Are you and Illya Kuryakin lovers?" he asked; speaking more gently this time.
Napoleon flinched, as if in pain. "N...no..."
"Would you like the two of you to be?"
He didn't answer.
"His BP's rising," Beeks snapped. "I don't like it."
Al ignored her. "Dammit, answer me, Solo. Your future and Illya's depend on this. Are you in love with your partner?"
Napoleon answered, once again, as if he were fighting every word before it left his lips. "It's...impossible," he mumbled. "Just impossible. Illya could never feel...that way..."
Al felt his heart pound. "But if Illya did feel that way about you, you'd want to be lovers?" he pressed.
A long pause as Solo shuddered, struggling with whatever internal demons had been dredged up by Al's relentless questioning. "Can't," he muttered finally.
"Come on, Solo! Answer--yes or no! Are you in love with your partner? Is that why you left U.N.C.L.E., because you were in love with your partner, and after he put in for the transfer you thought he could never feel the way you do?"
Solo was visibly trembling now, his face glistening with sweat, his eyelids twitching as if he were trying to waken from a nightmare. But he said nothing.
Al looked at Beeks. "Was that a nod? What d'you think?"
"I think we should end it now," Beeks said bluntly, her voice harsh with strain. "BP, respiration, pulse are all too high."
Then they were both stunned when Solo opened his mouth and, incredibly, started to sing.
"You're the top, you're the Colosseum! You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum!" He had a surprisingly pleasant baritone voice.
"What the hell?" Al squeaked.
Beeks almost smiled. "That's a reaction to the questioning," she said, raising her voice to be heard over Solo's solo. "Some secret agents are programmed to do that, I've heard--when they're submitted to interrogation that they can't resist, such as when they're put under drugs for example, they're pre‑programmed to sing to avoid giving away what their superiors don't want given away. Obviously Solo is fond of Cole Porter. In any case, it's my guess you're not going to get anything more out of him."
"...You're the top, you're Mahatma Gandhi! You're the top, you're Napoleon brandy! You're the purple light of a summer night in Spain..."
"Sonovabitch!" Al said, with feeling.
"Relax, Admiral," Beeks said. "I think you got enough from him to know how he feels, don't you? Now do I have your permission to take him back to the Waiting Room?"
Yeah, he knew enough, Al thought glumly, looking down at the U.N.C.L.E. agent's handsome face. Sam had been right, damn him. Solo was obviously in love with Illya; he'd just never dared to tell him because he'd thought his feelings could never be returned.
But Al didn't feel happy about this revelation. Not one bit.
Admit it, Calavicci. You're in a pissy mood because you hoped you could tell Sam that he didn't have to get cozy with Kuryakin after all. Because the thought of Sam and that good‑looking kid doing it together... He didn't let himself complete the thought.
"Okay, bag it," he muttered, and turned and walked out of the room, feeling disgruntled and sour. Solo's deep baritone voice followed him.
"I'm a toy balloon that's fated soon to pop...but baby, if I'm the bottom, you're the top..."
***
Sam reluctantly unlocked the door to his and Illya's hotel room at the DeVille. He had stalled coming back to the hotel room as long as he could, taking several walks up and down the beach as he waited for Al to show up and, hopefully, tell him what he'd found out from Solo. But then it'd hit him that staying away might do more harm than good; it might even make Illya think that he was uncomfortable with his declaration, make him more determined than ever to go through with the transfer. So he'd reluctantly decided to come back to the hotel, Al or no Al, and hope the hologram would show up later.
And what if he does, and tells you that he's found out Solo feels the same way Illya does? Sam's mind‑voice whispered. What would Sam do then? Would he actually take the Russian to bed?
He honestly didn't know.
He walked into the hotel room, pocketing his key.
Illya, sitting in a chair with a pair of black glasses on his nose and reading the London Times, hardly glanced up when Sam entered. He looked like hell, Sam thought with sympathy. With his body tense and rigid and his eyes determinedly focused on the paper, he was a pathetic tableau of a man who was trying to look as if nothing was wrong--when obviously everything was wrong.
Sam found himself unable to think of anything to say except a very weak and inane, "Hi."
"Hello." Illya's voice was completely expressionless as he turned the page of his paper, although Sam doubted if he were really reading much of it.
He sat down on the bed, feeling awkward. Dammit, if only Al would appear. It had been more than an hour. Well, Sam would just have to stall.
"Having a good time?" he asked, then bit his lip. Dammit, he was making Solo sound like a cretin.
"No." Illya turned another page of the paper. Sam noticed he was looking at the fashion section--a bleak reminder to Sam of what was going to happen to Illya if he messed this leap up. Then Illya added, implacably: "Did you? You've been gone for over an hour."
"Ah..." Sam improvised quickly. "I just thought a walk along the beach would clear my head. You know, sea air and all that."
"I see." Coolly; obviously Illya thought this was bullshit. Which, of course, it was. "Do you feel revived?"
"Yes, I do."
"Good. I am grateful your head is cleared."
Beginning to feel that this was the worst conversation he'd ever been engaged in, Sam stood up from the bed. "Illya...I've thought it over, and I've decided I'm not going to let you transfer."
"You can't stop me."
"I could talk to Mr. Waverly, ask him to reject your request." Sam hoped silently that that wasn't a mistake, that it wasn't against U.N.C.L.E. procedure.
"Napoleon." Patiently, Illya took off his glasses and lowered the paper, and Sam noticed, with another jab of sympathy, that his eyes looked as lost as a little boy's. "If you do that, I shall merely go back to Russia. I have that option, as you know. It is futile for you to try to threaten me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm just trying to persuade you not to go. We have a good partnership, Illya. I don't want to lose it."
"It is not a solution I would wish either. But I can't be your partner anymore. I can't look at you every day and know how I feel and that you can never feel the same way."
But I can, was on the tip of Sam's tongue, but quickly he swallowed the words. If he told Illya he cared, and it turned out Solo didn't, that could hurt Illya even more later when Sam leaped and the real Solo came back.
"I...I know it's tough for you," he said. "But I'm asking you, in the name of our friendship, to try to deal with it. I...I can try not to have anything to do with women, if it really bothers you that much."
Illya didn't look as if he believed him. In fact, he looked decidedly skeptical. "You would do that for me?"
"Yes, to save our partnership." Sam fervently hoped that he wasn't behaving too much out of character for Solo.
After a few moments' hesitation, Illya folded the paper, put it down. "I am...grateful for your offering that sacrifice for me, Napoleon. But believe me, I have tried to--to live with this for a long time. And I honestly don't think there is any way I can...bear it any longer. This last affair, with Sepheran, has proved to me that my feelings are out of control. I might, at some point, be so distracted by my torment that I might be a danger to you in the field. Perhaps even cause your death." His voice seemed to break a little on that last word. "And I couldn't bear that."
"I know you couldn't," Sam said softly. "I couldn't bear your death either." This wasn't working, he realized. Illya was obviously going to go through with the transfer--and nothing Sam could say would have any effect.
It was time to either fish or cut bait. The question was: which one? Al obviously wasn't going to show, and Ziggy, who had in her memory banks practically every record that had ever been made, knew nothing about the human heart. Sam was on his own.
Inwardly he agonized over the decision. To continue to fight for Illya and Solo's staying partners and probably lose...or to suggest they become lovers? Which would it be?
Then, out of nowhere, Sam remembered what had happened earlier that morning. His physical reaction to Illya which Al had so crudely commented on. His enjoying looking at Illya, even enjoying the mild intimacy of helping him on with his jacket. And the affinity he had felt for the gun in Solo's holster...and Sam had never felt any affinity towards any gun in his entire life. Could it be that his crazy reactions had been due to some kind of bleed‑through from Solo?
It had happened before in leaps; not often, but it happened. There'd been that time he'd leaped into that teenage boy and had a craving for junk food, or that time he'd leaped into a cop and had those terrifying flashbacks about the time the cop had witnessed his mother's autopsy. Or the time he'd had started channeling that sex therapist he'd leaped into, Dr. Ruth--that had been scary. If his attraction to Illya was a bleed‑through from Solo, that proved that Solo and Kuryakin belonged together, didn't it?
On the other hand, he couldn't be sure. Illya was a very attractive guy, and Sam had never thought there was anything wrong about two men being intimate if they both wanted it. What if, as Al had said, Sam believed this was a matchmaking leap just because he wanted Illya himself?
The Russian had stood up and was by the window now, staring out at the pink beach, the bright Bermuda sun kissing his hair. Sam could sense his tenuous control; obviously Illya had reached his emotional limits. Time was running out...
Swiftly Sam made the decision. As he had in the past when Al or Ziggy hadn't been able to help him, he would go with his gut.
"Illya...look at me."
Illya obediently turned his eyes to Sam's.
"I don't know, exactly, how one goes about this," Sam said. "I've never...been with a guy before. But if this is what you want, I'm agreeable to trying it. Because..." He let out a breath. "...I love you."
The Russian didn't seem to understand his words for what felt like years. His eyes stared into Sam's as if he were trying to fathom a complex code. Then, finally, he said, "You don't mean that. You can't."
"But I do," Sam said. He reached up and touched Illya's hair, feeling a strange kind of electric pull shiver through him. It wasn't quite sexual...but it was very close to that.
Illya's eyes closed, then opened. "Napoleon," he choked out. "You can't...this isn't possible..."
"Yes, it is. I've...I've felt this way about you for some time, but I just wouldn't let myself believe it. But now, the idea of losing you has made me realize..." He felt his voice trail off.
"Napoleon--I...I appreciate this." Illya was almost stammering. "But...for you to sacrifice yourself just to save our partnership...I can't let you do that."
"It's not a sacrifice," Sam said, almost stammering a little himself. "I just know I can't live without you."
"Napoleon," Illya whispered, and then--almost automatically, as if guided by destiny--they moved into each other's arms. Another thrill went through Sam at the gentle contact; whether it was due to the fact that he and Illya were a lot alike and he felt an affinity for him, or whether this was an echo of Solo's feelings, he didn't know.
For a split second he hesitated; then he told himself, well, he'd kissed guys a couple times when he'd leaped into women, and it hadn't killed him.
He leaned down and kissed the full, pouty lips.
Illya seemed to freeze in his arms for a fraction of a second. Then he was kissing him back, his lips fresh and sweet. And, as Sam's tongue lightly probed, they opened eagerly, welcoming him in.
Oh, God, Sam thought. That was all he could think. His heart was thudding.
Their tongues met and dueled for a moment, licking, teasing, caressing. Sam felt his breaths get short and his erection, now rigid in his pants, throbbed painfully, demanding more.
Then, abruptly, a thought penetrated his passionate haze. If he kept on with this, he and Illya were going to go to bed together--and while the prospect didn't exactly bother him, he realized that this experience, their first act of lovemaking, belonged to Solo, not to him.
"What's the matter?" Illya murmured, when Sam broke the kiss. "Have you--changed your mind?" He looked, oddly enough, not sad so much as resigned, like a man awakening from a pleasant dream.
Sam gave Illya a reassuring squeeze. "No," he said. "It's just that...I know this is going to sound goofy, Illya, but I want our first time together to be--back home, in my apartment or in your apartment. Someplace where we'll feel as if it's--permanent, not just some stark, anonymous hotel room. Do you understand?"
Illya smiled, if a little wryly. "You always were a romantic," he said.
"Part of being Italian," Sam said huskily. He kissed Illya again, relishing the taste of the Russian's lips against his. As he did he felt a flash of envy for Solo. Imagine being loved this much...this deeply... Did Solo realize how lucky he was?
Probably not. How many of us realize how lucky we are?
Reluctantly, Sam broke the embrace again--before his resolve could crumple completely. "You know what I feel like doing?" he asked. "Having some lunch. It's almost noon. How about it?"
Illya, his face flushed, his eyes shimmering with desire, just nodded.
***
Al stumbled back into the Control Room from the Imaging Chamber, his throat tight over what he'd seen--that blond Russian and Sam in a clinch. Kissing. Hugging. And Sam obviously enjoying it, not just doing it because it was part of the leap...
Shit!
At least Sam hadn't seen him. After seeing what was going on, Al had quickly stepped back through the IC door to return to the present, fast as a bat out of hell. He wasn't about to stick around and watch Sam do it with another guy--hey, he might be a voyeur at times, but he was no masochist. Besides, there was no need now to tell Sam what he'd gone into the Imaging Chamber to tell him--that chances were Solo really did love that guy Kuryakin.
As the IC door closed behind him, Al leaned against the wall, trying to pull himself together. He and Gooshie had grown to be friends the last year or so, ever since Tina--the source of their rivalry--had transferred out of PQL, but he still didn't care for the idea of the gnome‑like programmer with a bad case of halitosis seeing him like this...
"Al? Are you all right?"
Not Gooshie's voice. Al's head jerked up--and he felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated shock.
He was looking into the face of the man he'd just left, ten seconds ago, in the arms of Sam Beckett.
Thirty‑odd years older, perhaps ten pounds heavier, a few more lines around his eyes and a few white threads amid the gold in his hair, and wearing a lab coat and blue jeans rather than a rumpled suit, but unquestionably...
"Illya," Al squeaked out involuntarily.
"Who else?" Illya Kuryakin said lightly, then looked concerned. "Al, what's wrong? You look as if you're going to faint. Is everything all right with the leap?"
"Everything's...fine." Al groped for a chair. "Except that I need to sit down."
"It's those damned cigars," Illya said, half‑sympathetic, half‑exasperated. "I've told you a hundred times, a cigar is no substitute for a good meal." Then, as Al sat, almost missing the chair with his rump, Illya moved to examine Ziggy's console.
A second shock--not as strong as the first, but still a shock--struck Al as he watched Kuryakin. Illya isn't just visiting here. He works here. Not only was there the fact he was wearing a lab coat and working on Ziggy as if he'd done it all his life, there was also the fact that he was here in the Control Room...alone. No outsider--not even the president of the United States--could get in here without being flanked by guards; it was the most classified part of PQL.
Then it came to Al what must have occurred. In stopping the fifteen‑year separation from happening, Sam must have also altered the timeline so that Kuryakin had not become the fashion designer he had been in his original history, but had somehow become a scientist working at Project Quantum Leap instead. Well, why not? Ziggy had told Al, at the beginning of the leap, that Kuryakin's doctorate was in quantum mechanics. And that he had a high IQ.
Geez, Sam, when you go about changing history, you really do it up brown, don't you?
"How is Sam doing?" Illya asked.
Sam, Al thought. Not Dr. Beckett. That meant he and Sam were friends; that Illya had been here a long time, since before Sam had leaped.
"Uh...fine," he said, sounding, to his own ears, a little dazed. "How's...ah, Solo doing in the Waiting Room?"
Too late, he realized that it might not be Solo in the Waiting Room. After all, history had been changed--it could be someone totally different in there. Illya, however, didn't look at all surprised by the question.
"Fine, rather," he said. His accent had smoothed out a little in the thirty‑odd years since Al had last seen him, but there was still a trace of it left. "He's still asleep. Dr. Beeks is with him now."
Something else hit Al then--something he should've thought of before. He jumped up. "Oh, geez, Sam's changing history! That means that he must be getting ready to leap again..."
Kuryakin shook his head. "That's not happening yet, Ziggy says. We have a bit longer, by her calculations. Half an hour, approximately."
"Oh? Good," Al said. He still sounded dazed, he thought. And Illya obviously thought so too, because he gave him another concerned look.
"Are you sure you're all right, Al?" he asked. "Your color doesn't look good. Would you like me to get you something to eat?"
Still obsessed with food, Al thought, remembering the man he'd seen just a few hours ago, happily tucking in a huge breakfast. He felt a very strange impulse to giggle.
"Al?"
"Ah...no, that's okay," he managed to say, and Illya, looking skeptical but obviously knowing better than to argue, went back to Ziggy, frowning at some figures on a tablet and then keying them into the hybrid computer.
Al couldn't stand the suspense any longer; he had to find out what the hell had happened. Trying to be unobtrusive he keyed up the handlink, typing Illya's name and birth date and hitting "search."
Within moments it gave him the poop. Sam had, indeed, changed history. Napoleon had not left U.N.C.L.E. in 1968, and he and Illya had moved in together six months after this leap ended, obviously as lovers. They both worked for U.N.C.L.E. as field agents until they turned forty, the mandatory age of retirement for field agents: Solo in 1972 and Illya in 1973. After that Napoleon had taken over the computer section at U.N.C.L.E. at twice his former salary, and Illya had become a professor at Columbia University, teaching the subject of his doctorate, quantum physics--although the two of them still tackled some special field assignments for U.N.C.L.E. on occasion. And all through that time the two men kept the same residence: moving from an apartment to a condo to, later, a house in Yonkers. Also taking vacations together, Al noted.
When Alexander Waverly died in 1983, Napoleon Solo was offered the position of U.N.C.L.E. chief but refused, citing "personal reasons." Al guessed that meant that he hadn't wanted a job that would take up pretty much all of his waking hours, that he wanted some time free for his lover. The position had promptly been offered to a Britisher, Sir John Francis Raleigh, who was, according to his record, doing a damned good job.
Then, five years ago, Illya had been offered a job at Project Quantum Leap by someone he had met when guest‑lecturing at MIT in the 1970s: Dr. Sam Beckett. He had immediately moved to New Mexico, and Napoleon, along with a moving van filled with designer clothes and four computers, plus cartons of software, had made the move with him. Then Napoleon had started his own computer business--working, as so many people did nowadays, over the Internet.
Neither Solo nor Kuryakin had become millionaires in this timeline as they had been in the original one, but they looked--at least in the photos brought up by the handlink--much happier. And healthier. Neither of them had any record of problems with alcohol or drug abuse or compulsive gambling...or, Al would guess, promiscuity.
Because they had each other.
"Checking up on Sam? Is he all right?" Illya asked, obviously, despite his preoccupation, noticing Al's activity with the handlink and guessing that Sam was the reason.
Al looked up. "Ah...yeah. He's fine."
"You worry about him too much, Al."
"I can't help but worry about him. That's my job."
"I know," Illya said softly. "But it goes even deeper than that. You're in love with him, aren't you?"
Al was startled, and more than a little embarrassed, by the question. But he saw no reason to hem and haw, at least not with a guy like Kuryakin, who could certainly understand what hell it was to fall in love with one's partner. "Yeah," he admitted.
How strange that after years of denying that fact--even to himself--he could confess it aloud. And to a complete stranger, to boot.
"How'd I give myself away?" he asked.
"Anyone who's been there can see the roadsigns clearly," Illya said with a faint smile. "One is your jealousy of me during this leap--that's a sure sign for an Italian, you know. But I've been noticing the symptoms for a long time. Why don't you tell him?"
Al looked away. "I can't. It'd be too much of a...a burden for him to bear."
"I once thought that my love would be a burden to the one I loved too," Illya said. "I was wrong." Then he smiled again, a little sheepishly this time. "Sorry. I'm probably the last person qualified to give advice on romantic entanglements. That's usually Napoleon's department, not mine."
"No, it's okay."
"Maybe you should ask him for advice," Illya suggested. "Of course you can't talk to him in the Waiting Room since he's been sleeping throughout this leap, but if you want to talk to the slightly older version, you could come have dinner at our place the next night you're free. Napoleon could make you that dish you like, spaghetti alla puttanesca."
By the breeziness of Kuryakin's tone it was obvious this invitation had been made many times before. So he and Solo were friends with Al--good friends--as well as with Sam. "That sounds good," Al said sincerely. "In fact, it sounds great, Illya. Thanks."
"Anytime. In the meantime, I've gone through these calculations for the hundredth time, and I think, as I suggested this morning, that I'm ready to try it now, at the end of this leap--with your approval, of course."
"Try what?"
Illya looked at him through his glasses, a little irritably. His tone, however, was insufferably patient. "The retrieval program, of course."
Retrieval program?! The unexpected words stunned an already‑dazed Al right down to his socks.
Retrieval program! Retrieval program?
No, it couldn't be...
In the "universe" he'd just been in a half an hour ago, everyone at the Quantum Leap Project had all but despaired of ever bringing Sam home through their own efforts; everyone had just hoped that Sam might, someday, leap home accidentally, by chance. Or Fate. Or God.
But Illya Kuryakin, with his PhD in quantum mechanics and his brilliant IQ, had obviously thought up a way to bring Sam home now...or at least a way to try.
Sam...home at last...Was it possible?
Al sincerely hoped he wouldn't start bawling.
"Dr. Beckett will be leaping in approximately five point two minutes," Ziggy intoned in her low, sexy voice that made her sound like a cocktail waitress. Illya began checking and rechecking figures on the computer calculator, his fingers flying so fast they were a blur.
"Everything looks good," he said, not looking up. "Do I have your permission to try the retrieval in five minutes, Admiral? As I told you before, there won't be any harm if it doesn't work--at least, not to Sam. The only harm will be a rather costly expenditure of energy."
Sam home...
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Go ahead."
Illya pushed his glasses up his nose to frown at something else on Ziggy's panel, seemingly unconcerned by Al's vagueness. Well, Al thought, maybe Illya had seen him emerge from the Imaging Chamber like this many times. Although Al would bet he'd never looked quite as dazzled as this before. He sure as hell had never come back to the Control Room to face such a monumental change in history.
Suddenly he grinned--if shakily. No matter what, he couldn't say he minded this change in history. Not at all. In fact, he had to admit Illya Kuryakin was a great improvement over Gooshie. He even had good breath.
He decided to go see Sam. He didn't know why, he just had to see him one last time in the Imaging Chamber before he leaped again--and maybe came home for good. He and Illya--the 1968 Illya--were probably done doing...whatever it is they'd been doing by now.
"I'll be back when Sam leaps," he threw over his shoulder, and without waiting for a reply he headed for the Imaging Chamber door, handlink in hand.
***
Sam, who had just arrived back at the hotel room after his and Illya's lunch at the hotel restaurant, saw Al pop in out of the corner of his eye. He thought quickly. "I'm kind of sweaty from that long walk I took this morning," he said to Illya. "I'd like to take another shower. Then maybe we can go out again, take in some more sights, huh?"
Illya nodded, wrapping his arms around Sam. "Just tell me you love me...one more time," he whispered, sounding almost like a little child delaying bedtime.
Sam tried to smile, although he was strongly conscious of Al's eyes watching this scene. "I love you," he said, trying to put as much feeling into the words as he could. "No matter what happens between us, Illya, always remember that I love you...even if it's hard for me to admit sometimes. Now I'll see you in a few minutes, okay?"
Illya nodded and, reluctantly, released him. Sam, with a sidelong glance at Al, quickly walked into the bathroom and, shutting the door, turned on the shower full blast to drown out the sound of his voice when he talked to the hologram.
Then, as he looked at Al, he was startled by the way his friend was looking back at him. It was not the look of amusement Sam had expected--nor was it disgust either. No, it was more like a look of...longing. And hope.
"It took you long enough to show up," Sam commented.
"Actually I came by earlier, but you were...ah, busy. I don't know, Sam. I leave you alone for a few minutes and you wind up in a clinch."
"We were not in a clinch," Sam denied, embarrassed to have been caught in a compromising position. "We were just kissing."
"Yeah, I noticed. I know this guy's cute, Sam, but couldn't you have waited for me a few minutes longer?"
"Never mind, Al. What'd you find out?"
Al shrugged. "Well, Beeks gave Solo a truth serum--a highly classified one, by the way. I kind of lied about what I wanted it for--said I was afraid one of our employees was a threat to security and we wanted to question him. The Navy will have my ass in a blender if they find out I used it on a civilian. But anyway, he talked long enough to tell us--more or less--that he is in love with Kuryakin, just like you thought."
"Thank God," Sam said fervently. "My instincts were right, then?"
"Yep. He was in love with Kuryakin, he just was afraid to tell him--the guys who are physically brave are sometimes the biggest chickens about expressing their emotions, y'know. And Illya, never guessing how Solo felt, and not having the guts to tell Solo how he felt either--more sixties homophobic bullshit--put in for a transfer as soon as they got back to New York. So, as we guessed, that's what made Solo split. Neither of them dared even write each other for years--all churned up about their supposed unrequited love for each other, probably. Irony--life is full of it. But you fixed everything, Sam. Thanks to you, Kuryakin and Solo became lovers, and in another six months they move in together. Now there's no fifteen‑year separation--and, by the way, they're still together. Very contented, and very close." He grinned, as if at a private joke. "In fact, you wouldn't believe how close they are."
Sam wondered what his friend was looking so amused about, but was too relieved over the leap's turning out to be successful, after all his worries about screwing it up, to ask. "That's great," he murmured.
"Yeah," Al agreed. "And get this, Sam. As an added bonus, because these two guys stayed with U.N.C.L.E., taking special assignments even after their official retirement, you changed history so that the two of them, in this new timeline, wiped out THRUSH completely. That guy, Justin Sepheran, who tried the nuclear blackmail in 1983--it never happened because THRUSH was nonexistent by then. How about that?"
Sam blinked. "Wait a minute, Al. Are you saying that just because Napoleon and Illya stayed together an entire criminal organization was wiped out?"
"Yeah, Sam. Just because they stayed together. Kuryakin and Solo are an unbeatable team."
Sam felt, all of a sudden, very happy. "Just like you and me," he said.
"Yep," Al said. "Just like you and me." Then his smile faded as he glanced, as if involuntarily, towards the hotel bedroom, where Illya was. "Ah, Sam..."
"Yes, Al?"
"How far did you go with him? Ah...if you know what I mean."
"How far?"
"Yeah." Al looked embarrassed but determined. Obviously he wanted an answer. "And don't give me that innocent look, Sam. You know what I mean."
Sam decided not to tease his friend. "We kissed several times," he said. "And I...well, I told him I loved him. But that's all. I didn't want to steal this experience from the two of them, so I told Illya I wanted us to be home when we--well, got together. So you can relax, Al--my virtue, as you put it earlier, is still intact."
Al sighed with relief. "Thank God."
"Jealous?" The word was out before Sam thought.
"Well...a little," Al admitted.
Sam smiled. "Good."
"Good?" Al echoed.
"Yeah. Good. Because I love it when you show how much you care about me."
Sam had expected Al to look taken aback by that, but he didn't. In fact his eyes, as they held Sam's, glistened a little.
"Al...when I leap home..." Sam stopped, not exactly sure what he wanted to say.
Al managed a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, Sam," he said huskily. "When you get home--we'll talk." He looked at the handlink. "Get ready to leap, partner."
Just as he spoke the last word Sam disappeared in the familiar blaze of blue light.
***
Al watched his friend leap out, his heart pounding so hard he thought it'd burst.
He knew he had to hot‑foot it back to the Control Room. See if Kuryakin's retrieval plan worked. But not just yet. He wanted to wait here--just for a few seconds--and enjoy the anticipation...
The leap, he realized, hadn't been just for Napoleon and Illya; it had been for him and Sam too. It had been to change history so that Illya would wind up working at Project Quantum Leap instead of as a dress designer...so that Illya could help bring Sam home.
And you could also say it'd been to help Al--and maybe Sam, too--realize how they felt about each other.
No matter what happened later, with the retrieval and, if it worked, between Sam and himself, you couldn't beat this for a leap to end all leaps.
He hit a key on the handlink and the Imaging Chamber door opened. In another ten seconds, he thought--as soon as he stepped into the Control Room and saw Illya's face--he would know whether the retrieval program had worked or not. Maybe it hadn't. Even Illya Kuryakin wasn't perfect, after all.
But as he stepped through the IC door he had the strong feeling that his horse was about to come in.
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