THE WARNING -- by Jean Graham and Lisa Kirk

Illya Kuryakin was half way between the Italian and Portuguese
translating offices when Napoleon Solo caught up to him. "Medical
section's been trying to reach you," Solo said, falling into step.
"They just brought in the survivors of the aborted Budapest
mission. Thrush hit the plane on the way in."

Illya glanced up from the sheaf of translations he held,
peering at Solo over his seldom-worn glasses. "Is Lorimer all
right?" he asked.

"Fine. But his passenger was injured badly. The medical team
doesn't think she'll make it."

Still walking, Illya said sincerely, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Illya... I think you know her. At least, she knows you." At
Kuryakin's questioning look, he went on. "Does the name Anya Irini
Pavalanovka mean anything to you?"

Illya stopped walking abruptly, and the glasses came off with
one swift motion of his hand. "Anya is here?"

"She was working with Lorlimer in Budapest. We've got a
translator with her, but he says she's done nothing but ask for you
since they brought her in."

Without further comment, Illya headed for the elevator,
tucking the glasses into a pocket as he walked. Solo followed
quietly after.

U.N.C.L.E.'s medical section, like all the New York complex,
was steel grey and over-lit. The room Solo and Illya entered
contained six hospital beds and a cadre of U.N.C.L.E. personnel
surrounding a woman in the only occupied station. All of them
looked up at Kuryakin's arrival. Next to the bed, a Section Four
man spoke to Anya Pavalanovka in Russian, and Solo caught Illya's
name in the rush of unfamiliar words. The dark-haired woman, her
eyes covered with gauze bandages, said something in return. Then
the translator and Illya looked at one another, and Kuryakin
nodded.

The Section Four man walked away from the bed toward Solo.
"The lady requests a private conference," he announced to the room.
Several people moved at once toward the door. Solo lingered,
looking concernedly at Illya, but his friend did not return his
gaze, did not even seem aware that he was still there.
Reluctantly, Solo followed the others out of the room.

When the automatic door had rumbled shut, Anya Pavalanovka
reached out a hand and said anxiously in Russian, "Is it really
you, Illya Nickovetch?"

After an extended moment, he took hold of the hand. "Yes," he
said. "It's good to see you again, Anya."

She tried to smile. "All the way from Budapest, I hoped that
when I reached New York I would be able to see you." She laughed
bitterly. "And now I am here and I cannot see you. My eyes..."

Without releasing her hand, he sat down beside the bed, the
memory of eyes that had been dark and young and always laughing
coming unremittingly to mind. It all seemed so very long ago...

Anya's fingers tightened over his, and for a moment her
breathing grew ragged. Illya started to get up, to call for the
doctors, but her voice stopped him. "Please, don't," she begged
him. "There is nothing more I can say to them. It is you I had to
see, Illya. To warn you..."

"Warn me? Of what, Anya?"

"Of one who still hates you enough to kill you. And he will
try. I know he will. You must be careful."

Though she had mentioned no name, Illya knew she referred to
a man who years ago had driven him and Anya apart. The same man
that Anya Irini Brezhni had later married.

"Oleg is no longer a threat to me, Anya," he said.

Again, her fingers tightened. "You are wrong," she insisted.
"He is KGB now. He knew that I would escape Budapest, and that
U.N.C.L.E. would bring me here. And he will follow, not to find
me, but because he also knows that _you_ are here."

Illya frowned. "Why should Oleg still want to kill me?" he
asked, mystified. "Our differences were many years ago. Surely by
now, the KGB has better things to do."

He started to say more, but stopped, aware that she had begun
to cry softly. "I'm sorry, Illya Nickovetch. I'm so sorry..."

"For what, Anya? I don't understand.

"For all the years that I wasted with Oleg. Until finally I
hated him." Her sobs made the Russian words nearly unintelligible.
Illya strove to make sense of it, and failing that, tried to calm
her instead.

"It's all right," he soothed. "You should rest now."

"No," she sobbed. "Please listen to me, Illya. Oleg is here,
in America. I know it. And he will try to kill you. He will."

"All right," he told her, trying to ease the trembling in her
hand. "I believe you. And I'll be careful. But you still haven't
told me why."

An incongruous laugh found its way through her tears. "My
stoical, invulnerable Illya," she said. "You are still the same.
Just the way you were in Kiev, all those years ago. When I made my
foolish choice. Can't you see? That is why Oleg hates you so."

Bewildered, Illya shook his head and started to ask a
question. Her fingers, gripping his own still tighter, stopped
him.

"I love you, Illya," she whispered. "I have always loved
you."

As promptly as they had tightened, the fingers released their
hold on him. Illya's hand moved instinctively to her wrist,
searching for a pulse that faded inexorably away even as he found
it. He never heard the door come open, or the sound of the
returning medical team. It wasn't until Solo's hand lightly
touched his shoulder that he was aware of anyone else in the room
at all.

"I'm sorry, Illya," Solo's voice said.

Illya stood, watching a medical technician impassively cover
Anya Irini Pavalanovka with a sheet. "So am I," he said softly,
and turned away from the harsh, sterile white of the hospital bed.
"So am I..."

--End--