THE GYPSY CURSE AFFAIR

by

GM

February 1968

Dead leaves and a light dusting of snow crunched under his feet as Illya Kuryakin strolled along the sidewalk of the small parkland. Winter's frost made the scenic little hills and pond seem idyllic in a pristine, fresh, traditional example of European winter. Beside him, a dramatic sigh exploded into condensed air and the white puffs billowed across his vision. Kuryakin suppressed a smile.

"He's late." Coming up to bump shoulders, Napoleon Solo gave an exaggerated look at his watch. "Ten minutes. In the cold. In winter." Another sigh with white puffs of exasperated breaths. Fastidiously pulling the starched white cuff over his gold wristwatch, the American shrugged under his elegant and expensive black trench coat. "A German winter."

Kuryakin tsked. Although his face was straight, the smirk managed to color his tone. "You are too soft, my friend."

"Because I do not have your stout gypsy blood flowing through my veins?"

"Yes. You are a spoiled American."

“Tsk, tsk. What would your gypsy grandmother think about you slumming with the likes of me?” Solo shuddered and brushed drifting snowflakes off his coat. "I am impatient. And hungry and thinking of that little pub near the hotel where they serve that incredible kielbasa and fulsome beer --"

"And the fulsome bar maid," Illya completed with long-suffering.

With a grin Solo inclined his head. "Her too." He checked the watch again. "For a simple courier assignment this is messing up my plans: The evening by the big fireplace at the pub with -- what was her name -- Olga? -- and rich German lager --" Kuryakin's stomach growled so loudly they both heard it and laughed. Solo nudged his partner and leaned slightly to be at eye level. "And the pub is looking better and better, isn't it?" Solo tilted his head in the opposite direction. "I'll circle around one more time, and then I say we form a new plan of action."

Kuryakin agreed and he coursed his way around the park one more time. The simple courier mission was really beneath them, they had mutually decided during the long drive through the wooded scenery and rustic beauty of the Black Forest. Both longed to be in the more exciting Freiberg -- the nearest big city. On the other hand, to be anywhere else utilizing their skills to a better extent than meeting a courier with microfilm, was preferred.

Mr. Waverly had not mentioned what the film contained, so on the drive through the scenic splendors of the Rhine they exchanged theories about what earth-shattering/world-saving/extraordinary information they would be retrieving at the end of the day. Inane banter to be sure, but sometimes the life of a spy was banal, boring and incredibly dull. At these times, for fleeting moments, Kuryakin wondered why he had volunteered for Enforcement/Section Two, when he joined UNCLE. He probably would have been much happier pursuing his PHD field of quantum physics.

Glancing across the frosted park to his friend, he relinquished a faint grin. He would have never found fresh and intriguing ways to risk his life on a daily basis if he had stayed buried in the labs. He would have never met Napoleon. He would probably never have understood the meaning of friendship. Or fun.

With a creeping sensation he became aware of someone watching him. Illya scanned the area intently while he traced the pathway twice, his keen eyes finally discerning someone lurking in the woods. A moment later, the figure emerged and he was surprised to see it was an old, withered, bent woman in layered shawls who stepped out from the tree line. She assessed him with sharp blue eyes. A shivering frost snaked through his nervous system. Rooted in place, he was mesmerized by her look. Eyes locked with his as she slowly approached him.

"You must complete the curse."

The chill that shook him to the marrow confirmed that it was not the wind, but something primeval and haunting that covered him in cold. Her whisper was so soft he nearly mistook it for the forces of nature brushing against his ears. Something --? -- he hesitated to think -- something -- unnatural spoke to him in his mind!! She was not even talking! He wanted to look away, to anchor himself in reality, in the twentieth century, in sanity. The blue eyes gripped his and he could not turn to seek the comforting presence of his nearby partner, to call out for assistance.

"Death's time is now. Here. You are the arm of vengeance."

Instinct urged him to reach for his pistol, but those compelling blue eyes held him captive -- as frozen as the winter ground.

"Follow your destiny."

The command surprised him enough to shake off the confusing hypnotic stasis. "What?" His voice was hoarse. Backing away, he whispered, “What do you mean?" Why was he even listening to her ravings?

She inclined her head, spectral strands of grey hair falling across her face. "Death touches the dark one. It is your time to finish the curse." She nodded to some object behind him.

Despite his better judgment, he was compelled to look. Kuryakin turned, another cold front sweeping inside his nerves as he observed the form of his partner -- black coat, dark hair -- contrasted against the starkly white snow. Spinning back to stare down the crazed crone, Illya's throat knotted in abject fear unable to speak even if he could find the words.

"He is cursed," slithered the crawling voice in his thoughts. "The dark one -- his line has been cursed since the long-ago years; when his bloodline came. The time of slaughter. He is the last of his line returned to this land of destruction. Now he can not escape the curse. His line will end here -- forever -- he will not be spared. He has awoken our vengeful spirits." She stared through Kuryakin, her lips not moving. A skeletal finger stabbed at him. "You are the instrument of justice."

As if a telescope encircled his vision, his sight tunneled into a swirl of grey:

Napoleon appeared as someone else -- no longer the Napoleon he knew, but a man of similar features, wearing an English redcoat uniform circa the Napoleonic era, he categorized automatically with notable irony. Humor vanished from his thoughts as the man, and other English soldiers, converged on a small band of gypsies in a wooded glen. Someone remarkably similar to the gypsy woman was stabbed with a bayonet -- a curse spilling from her mouth along with a trail of blood --

Illya’s vision returned to normal and he gasped and turned to the old woman.

"The bloody past," she explained, her image wavering against the stark white snow. "His ancestor was part of the gypsy massacre. All the seed has been cursed. If ever they return to the ground of the killings, they will die." She jabbed the crooked finger at his chest and his bones seemed to burn with heat. "You are part of the gypsy blood. Do not fail your destiny. He bears the name of the one who started the evil. Finish the curse and kill him!"

Trembling now, Kuryakin again glanced at his partner and shook his head to deny the fantastic accusations, to refute the ridiculous vision he had seen. Again his reality telescoped, this time going grey:

fuzzing-out he saw himself finding Napoleon - his Napoleon -- standing near the woods. Something dark and threatening came from the right and Solo fell to his knees. Red washed across his chest to give a macabre -- garish -- tint to the half-tone scene. Blood foaming from his mouth, Solo toppled onto the snow -- scarlet staining the stark white -- he stared up at the falling snowflakes with dead eyes.

"No --”

"It must be --"

"I will save him --" He had no voice, not even his lips could move, but his mind was crying out in terrified confusion, in panicked refuting of the horrific images he had seen.

"Impossible. Cursed. He will die here. By your hand. Destiny."

"No! He's my friend. I would never hurt him."

"Do not betray your blood. Why should you try to stay the curse? You can not change a fated destiny --"

"Go away!"

From the periphery of his vision he saw the woman wave her hand and, as if by magic, the scene returned to the grey vision:

Solo near the trees, this time with Kuryakin beside him. Illya pointed to the right. In a nightmare often feared by the Russian, he saw irrevocable events unfold in slow motion: Napoleon perceived a threat. While reaching for his Walther he pushed Illya aside. Solo's body jerked twice and fell backwards into the snow, taking Kuryakin down with him. When the stunned Russian in the vision came to his feet, he saw again vivid red washed atop the dead body of his friend.

"Napoleon!"

"What?"

The mellow, calm, familiar voice jolted him from the torpor. Blinking, Illya realized with a start that the world was back to normal, in full color, and Solo was standing across the parkway from him. Jogging over, he closed the distance quickly to see for himself that his friend was all right. Grabbing Solo's arms he squeezed tight and stared into familiar, but startled, brown eyes.

"You're not hurt?"

Confusion flickered across the American's face, then he glanced back the way Kuryakin had come. "Did that old gypsy throw a hex on you or something? Of course I'm o --"

"What?" Still holding onto his partner he turned to glance back at the old crone. She was gone. How could she have moved so fast? The nearest tree cover or hill was meters away --! "Nevermind," he breathed. "Let's get out of here."

"What about Kline and the --"

"Nevermind. We have to go." He stopped in his tracks. Still holding onto his friend with one hand he also stopped the American he had been dragging along. "How did you know she was a gypsy?"

Visibly Solo fought down a shiver when he studied the path where the woman had been. "I don't know."

"What do you know of the curse?"

Solo cleared his throat. "What curse?" He scrutinized his shorter friend. "She wasn't just begging money, was she? What's going on, Illya?"

"Nevermind. It doesn't matter. We are leaving without Kline."

Still holding onto Solo, he propelled them forward. A muffled grunt to the right of the pathway stopped them both. Instinctively both drew their weapons and started toward the sound without thought or words. In a burst of speed Kuryakin shouldered past the American. Not to be outdistanced by anyone, Solo increased his pace but could not catch up to the determined Russian. They stopped when they found the bleeding body of a man. Illya pushed Solo back, and then halted when the crunch of feet running in snow came from just over the rise.

"Stay here!" he snapped to the senior agent and raced off.

Never appreciating taking orders from his partner, Solo nonetheless realized Illya already had the momentum, so he stayed behind and examined the body. Kline, he recognized, was gasping his last.

" -- fotografieren -- meister . . . . " The late Herr Kline's head rolled over in death.

With a sigh Solo searched through the pockets and even the shoes of the late courier. No notes, no microfilm. Familiar heavy breathing caused him to turn, knowing Kuryakin was at his back.

"Dead," he sighed, stating the obvious with rancor. "And no microfilm." He stood up and faced his friend. "What about you? That was quick."

Illya surrendered a sour twitch. "The worthless thug tripped as I chased him. He broke his neck on the way down --"

Without changing expression or saying a word, Solo suddenly brought his Walther up and fired just past Kuryakin's left shoulder. From behind the Russian a man tumbled out of the foliage to land nearly at their feet.

"And we have another dead body," Solo moaned.

Kuryakin grabbed his friend's shoulder and shook it mercilessly. "Don't EVER do that again!"

Completely non-plussed, Solo's mouth dropped open. "I know it was close," he supplied with wounded pride, "but give me a little credit, partner, I am a professional you know. I didn't even come close to hitting you."

"Not the shooting!" the Russian snapped angrily. "Saving my life!" He pulled Solo along and jogged down the slope. "Nevermind. We still have to leave."

Certain the cold had rotted his friend's brain, Solo humored him until they were down the incline and on the walkway of the spooky park that HAD given him the creeps. Suddenly he stopped. Staring at the ground he pointed at the spot where Kuryakin had spoken with the woman. Only one set of footprints was imprinted in the snow. Illya's footprints.

Gasping, Illya propelled his friend toward their car. Once inside the vehicle, Solo stopped the younger agent from starting the engine.

"First, you need to tell me what's wrong."

"No."

The bald refusal was another surprise. "What?"

"All you need to know is that we must leave."

Solo removed the keys and dangled them just out of reach of the irate blond. "First you spill. What is wrong? That old crone really spooked you. Tell me what it is." Silence met his pleading demand. "Illya," he sighed; a rebuke to a recalcitrant child. "Come on, it's not getting any warmer." The slighter man made a grab again for the keys and Solo kept them out of reach with a deft flick of his hand. "Don't tell me she cursed us or something." At the sudden pallidness of his friend Solo nearly choked on his amused chuckle. "She didn't." He laughed. "As Sherlock would say, 'This agency stands flatfooted on the ground. NO ghosts need apply.' " His blood seemed to drain away and he was cold from the inside out when Kuryakin's expression did not alter. The Russian's demeanor -- more than the disappearing prints from the mysterious gypsy, more than the creepy setting of the German woods -- was starting to spook him. "We don't believe in curses, do we? And she was no ghost. Right?" He cleared his throat, his expression completely exhibiting his discomfort when Illya's foreboding grimace did not alter. "Well, right? We do not believe in the supernatural. Right?"

Fear in the close blue eyes sobered him completely. Fear was there so seldom, when it did come to the Russian, it was usually because Solo's hide was in serious danger. His throat was suddenly tight, his mouth dry. The anxious, bold eyes stared at him and with another dreadful chill Solo KNEW the answer. He didn't know how, but he KNEW.

"Napoleon please," the blond implored. "We must leave." He grabbed for the keys and Solo's nerveless fingers surrendered them.

A breath caught in a gasping recognition. As so often happened between them, he could read his friends mind; from the subtle but definable expressions, the tense muscles, the sharp tone -- the fear. The all too familiar fear for him was the most telling factor of all. Kuryakin didn't have to say a word, Napoleon understood.

"You know, Illya." Solo's blood seemed to freeze. "There is a curse? Is it mine?"

"No, I won't let it," Kuryakin fiercely refuted. "We will beat this as we have beaten every other threat against us, Napoleon."

With a nod, the American agreed. "Will you tell me about it?"

"No," the Russian flatly replied and put the Volkswagen into gear.

****

"I have a right to know, it's my curse!"

"I didn't say that."

Fuming, Solo turned from his glare at the immovable Russian mountain and stared at the fire. Hunched in an easy chair, safely ensconced in their shared room at a hostel on the main street of the little berg, all was comfortable. Except for the problem of a supernatural element messing up their mission and unbalancing his friend. This was a phenomenon Solo had to admit he had never experienced nor even imagined before.

“Then we just ignore it.” Kuryakin’s anxiety-pressed lips did not release a sound in response to the simple logic. “What we felt out there was just -- a -- cold -- wind.”

Pensive silence from the Russian.

"All right," he sighed through his teeth. Solo really considered his partner as close as a brother, but often found himself exasperated by the blond's stubbornness. "Then I take it you are in sympathy with my idea to say nothing --"

"Absolutely!"

"-- of the meister business to our boss. Best to hunt it out on our own."

"Rather than call New York?" Illya was incredulous. "I don't even want Waverly thinking about us."

"Well, then," Solo sighed deeply, still uncertain of the situation, "we better get to work."

Kuryakin still adamantly refused to discuss anything supernatural, so he was left to fall back on routine. His voice was far more confident than his mind, but the encouragement seemed to bolster the Russian, who sat up a little straighter and leveled his shoulders. So he proceeded. Tackle what we know. Discern the facts, just like Sherlock, and let the theories follow along.

"If my German translation is correct, fotografieren and meister mean photograph and mayor. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Nothing makes sense to me right now."

"Guess we're not doing too well, then."

Neither agent had been willing to call Waverly with the bad news of the death of Kline, the absence of the important microfilm, the death of enemy agents, or the reluctance of the hot-shot UNCLE operatives to do anything but leave the town immediately. An amused smile played fleetingly across Solo's face and he turned to study his friend. It was disturbing that the incident in the park had so unnerved both their cool, professional reserves. It was also quirkily humorous that a 'ghost' could so rattle Mister-Ice-in-the-veins-Kuryakin himself. The grim situation precluded Solo making merry of the feelings, however, since he was affected by the same fears plaguing his partner.

Logic, reason and experience told them a ghost with a hex could NOT exist yet both had felt the unnatural cold, the nerve-wracking chills, and the sense that something beyond reality and this earth had been present there in the park. Both accepted -- KNEW -- with uncanny certainty that the ghostly apparition had once been a mortal gypsy in this realm at one time. Illya believed, and Solo guessed, that an obligatory curse trailed along the phantom trail with the old crone.

Staring into the orange flames, Solo felt momentarily disoriented and his vision closed in to a grey cloud:

Within the cloud he saw someone resembling him -- in an old English red-coat -- standing by in shock as soldiers ruthlessly stabbed peasants. Murdering, among others, a familiar old woman with starkly arresting -- well-known -- blue eyes.

“What?” He shook his head to clear away the insanity. “My heritage?" he whispered with a start, and the vision evaporated.

Kuryakin was now kneeling beside his chair, gripping his wrist with bruising force. "You saw something?"

Dazed, nodding, Napoleon gave a slow affirmation. "Like a dream. But more."

"A vision," his partner shivered. "What?"

"Me -- but not -- like someone resembling me. In the past." He drew in a long, shuddered breath. "And the gypsy. She was there. And the carnage . . . ." he faded off with a shudder. "It was horrible."

Illya growled. "What do you know of your ancestors?"

Nothing should surprise him about his enigmatic partner, but somehow Illya always managed these startling little moments. He acted as if he knew -- had expected -- something like this. Napoleon maintained a silent glare at the younger man until the morose blond turned to stare back at him.

"You keep telling me I come from a long line of cowboys --"

"I'm serious!" he snapped. Certain his partner recognized the icy glare he was sending, he urgently clarified, "It's important, Napoleon."

"And relevant, I take it?"

Kuryakin twitched in an understated nod.

"As far back as I know my families are military men and spies," he offered with a grim smile. "Not much imagination," he almost sneered, "except for the names." He stared at the sizzling flames.

Briefly, he outlined what his friend already knew, that the Solo family was comprised of mostly diplomats, Navy men and/or espionage agents. Wellington Solo deceased, his paternal grandfather, an Admiral. American diplomats Douglas and Emily Thornton the maternal grandparents, were the last of a long line of members of the diplomatic corps. Nelson Solo, his father, was a Captain in the Navy and served in two wars.

"There were a few gunslingers in the last century. At least one notorious quick-draw met a bad end in Mexico."

"Cowboys," Illya shook his head. "I knew it." He relaxed slightly and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his partner. "You never talk about your family."

"Neither do you."

A grimace came and went quickly across his pale features. "This is not about me. I know my past. Your history is important, Napoleon, please humor me." Frustrated at Solo's silence, he prodded, "I must hear all about the notorious gun slingers."

Scowling at the sarcasm, Napoleon shrugged off his irritation. The memories brought back many unpleasant recollections about his childhood, the war years in England, the family he was connected to by name, but certainly not by sentiment. The past, he knew in his heart, did not matter any more. Family wrongs and slights, coldness and abandonment held no credence now. He was the only one left of the Solo clan and there would not be any others. He was the end of the line and there was no sense of disappointment or regret about that. From as far back as he knew, his genealogy consisted of duty-driven peoples whom selflessly, or selfishly, served country and King rather than each other.

"Darius Solo was my great-grandfather," he ruminated quietly. "Never knew him. Wellington my grandfather, was, like Nelson my father, as cold as the North Sea." He shook off the unhappy history. "My name -- well, you see the pattern. The women are usually upper class with money, born with title or pedigree, and/or spy credentials of their own. Equal opportunity danger in my heritage. My Aunt Amy was in the family business -- OSS during the war -- and had the distinction of having her betrothed -- another OSS member KIA -- killed in action." He pursed his lips together. "We just have a knack for attracting the lowly I guess." He offered a smile across the small space between them. "Even our best friends are in the business." This elicited no reaction. His voice became wry. "I, of course, economized with my usual efficiency and provided a partner who is also a friend." No reaction from the taciturn Russian.

Illya asked that he think farther back in the family tree. Without asking why, Solo indulged the requests. He knew his friend was not delving into his past without reason. And whatever it was had something to do with the spooky gypsy in the park and the addling vision he had just experienced. Reluctantly going along with the bizarre inquisition, Solo pondered aloud the long list of ancestors who had given their lives in service of Ireland, Britain or America. All he knew of his antecedents, of his childhood and personal family history, were the coldness of obligation rather than the warmth of affection. Even the marriages, from what he had seen of his grandparents and parents, had been matches made out of social acceptability and position, nothing to do with love.

Silently, he considered that he had never fallen in love with any woman -- in all honesty he had never allowed himself to be tempted to engage his emotions. April Dancer -- she had come close, but he had backed away from that brink without coming too near the precipice. Love did not mix with the life of a spy. Or, he imagined, with the family Solo.

"Is that the curse?" he wondered aloud. "No love, just duty?"

The plaintive inquiry elicited a reaction from Kuryakin and he seemed confused. "What?"

Shaking off the flash of introspection, the senior agent's dark eyes narrowed. "You think this has something to do with my family past? If so, I have a right to know."

The blue eyes turned back to the fire. "We are Twentieth Century espionage agents! This is nothing more than a fantasy brought on by bad bratwurst and black beer. We should be out discovering what meister meant to Kline, find the microfilm, and then we can leave this dark place." He shivered, as if the very atmosphere contradicted his bold speech. "This is an old land, Napoleon. The ways here defy logic and reason. But we can defeat the archaic powers."

Noncommittal, the American neither accepted nor rejected the opposing statements. "I'm listening."

"You leave. Drive to Freiberg now. Leave immediately." He shook his head; anger and irritation clear on his usually close expression. "Why didn't we think of that before?"

Sitting up straighter, Solo stared at his resolute partner, the clues finally coming together. "Is the curse on my family?" Nervously he cleared his throat, afraid to admit what he saw, but more afraid not to. With a certainty -- a clarity -- he didn't understand, he suddenly had all the answers. "My family -- someone in my family background killed the old gypsy woman in the past."

"I didn't say that!" Illya hotly refuted and jumped to his knees, intently close to Solo's face.

"There's something in my history --"

" -- no --"

"She looked so much like --" His voice choked. "--your family!"

Kuryakin launched to his feet. "It is an old woman's ravings!"

Solo shook his head. "I SAW it. In a dream. Someone who could have been my ancestor was there when that old woman was killed." He trembled as he stared at his friend. "The old gypsy who had YOUR eyes."

Visibly shaken, Kuryakin refused to accept his partner's words. "If you leave maybe you can escape the danger."

Solo shook his head.

Kuryakin gulped down a groan and abruptly seized onto Napoleon's arm, his eyes wide, and his eyebrows up near his shaggy hairline. "We're going to save you, Napoleon! I am not going to be responsible for your death!" He gasped as soon as the words left his mouth.

The American’s throat was dry. “I’m going to die?”

“I won’t let that happen!”

Moving away, the taller man stood near the fire, compelled to stare into the flames again. Solo saw another vision:

Solo standing near a snow back. As usual, Kuryakin was at his side. A dark threat came out of nowhere advancing on Kuryakin. Solo snatched his friend as red blood spread across his chest. Both bodies fell lifeless into the white snow.

Gasping, Solo was startled to find himself on the floor. Illya was kneeling close clutching onto his shoulder. He must have collapsed -- he felt weak and faint. "Uuugh."

"What was in the vision?" Illya demanded.

Solo refused to respond.

The Russian's grip tightened. Leaning against the recumbent man, he shook his head. "I promise I will not let you die."

"I won't let you die either, tovarich."

"That was the vision, wasn't it?" he agonized. "Your death or my death." He continued to deny the prognostication. "I won't let it happen."

Still dizzy from the powerful affect of the hallucination, Napoleon remained on the floor. He gripped onto his friend’s arm as an anchor to reality. "This can't be happening. It must be the water."

Illya backed away in anger. "This is no time to joke!"

Rubbing his face, Solo reoriented his senses and slowly sat up. "What do you expect me to do? This is insane! Do you really believe I'm being haunted by a dead gypsy woman?"

Kuryakin launched to his feet and swept into the other room. "It doesn't matter what I believe. You have to leave," he demanded, tossing Solo's suitcase onto one of the beds and throwing clothes out of the closet. "You will leave. That is the only solution. Without me. We separate, that's what we need to do."

Hands in pockets, Napoleon casually leaned against the door jam while his partner rambled obstinately. The silence was more affective than debate and Kuryakin finally stopped his frenzied activity and turned to stare at his partner.

The blue eyes were as resolute as the defiant statement. "If you're not here, in this old land, with me, then maybe the curse will be -- cancelled . . . ." he floundered.

Solo's eyes widened. "Why? What does it have to do with us being together?" Illya started to back away, but the American grabbed onto his arm. "Tell me." Staring into his partner's eyes, he knew. Once again some otherworldly premonition spoke to his very thoughts and he comprehended supernatural messages he could have never imagined. "You ARE her ancestor. You're part of this?" Kuryakin grimaced and tore away, continuing to pack, but Solo clutched his arm again, forcing him to a face-to-face confrontation. "Tell me the truth."

"There is no truth! It is all a fantasy! A demented dream --"

"Stop it!" Solo commanded. "We can't ignore this -- force -- whatever it is, Illya! This -- illusion -- just laid me flat on the floor! It's got you running scared! Now tell me what you know --" Denial sprang into the alarmed blue eyes. "Tell me what you suspect. Please."

Kuryakin pulled away, crossing to the far side of the room, distancing himself from his current antagonist, as if he could run away from the demand. "I told you there are old energies at work. We have felt them," he began in barely a whisper. "The gypsy -- I am of her blood."

"What else?" the American gently prompted.

Illya would not go that far and adamantly shook his head.

"Well," Napoleon sighed dramatically, his expressive face twisted with irony. "I will just explain to Waverly that I'm running out on my partner, in the middle of a dangerous and perplexing mission, because I'm saving myself from a gypsy curse that dates back -- when? -- last time one of my family was here in the area? Before I even knew I had ancestors here?" Scoffing, Napoleon crossed the room and paced near the window, then leaned against the wall. "I'd like to save the mission, Illya. I'd also like to save our sanity. But it doesn't seem a good idea for us to stick around. Why don't we both leave?" It was a rhetorical question. "Because we don't really believe this. Right?" There was doubt in his weak statement. He shook his head. "It's not that simple. Is it?"

Kuryakin's tone was wry. "I'd also like to preserve my job and reputation. Which won't happen if we accept this nonsense and abandon our assignment, that is true." Sitting on the bed he morosely dropped his chin in his cupped hands. "But the old ways, Napoleon. They are not to be lightly scoffed away." He stared at the floor. "I would rather return to New York and admit we failed."

"Not me! Are you daft? Waverly will have our skins!" Abruptly coming to a desicion Solo walked into the other room to retrieve his coat from the hat rack by the door. "I'm going out to find out about meister. Maybe it's as simple as the local mayor, Illya. I'm not going to let spooky apparitions, or your ancestral hauntings affect me."

Kuryakin was beside him instantly. "You can't go. I'll explain it to Waverly, but you must leave the area -- "

Numbing cold gripped him suddenly, and with it some answers. He didn’t know how he knew they were right, but he simply knew, and it sickened him, twisting his insides. “It won't do any good." Shaking his head, he tumbled out, “It played out just as I saw. We saw, hmm?” In his friend’s eyes he saw the confirmation, the acknowledgement that would not be uttered. “My ancestor killed your ancestor?" Solo was suddenly sure, feeling again the emotions undulating through his soul when he experienced the vision. "This is vengeance.”

“No,” Illya denied fiercely.

Solo gripped onto his friend's shoulder and moved in close, capturing the slighter man in his grip and arresting the fear-filled blue eyes with the intent ire emanating from his glare. "This curse must be something pretty heavy. It’s scaring you, Illya. It's my life . . . ." He saw from his friend's fleeting, near panicked expression, that it was literally the case. "My life." He swallowed the dryness in his mouth. Slowly he backed away until he hit against the wall. "I'm going to die?"

"NO! I won't let that happen!"

Kuryakin's fervent passion made the American smile at the incredible loyalty they had within their partnership. They shared the kind of family bond neither enjoyed in their own blood relations. Only a serious threat would cause the cool Russian to react like this and now that he knew, the mystery was over, and oddly, Solo felt better. He should have known from the first. Only such a dire peril would drive the Russian to the edge like this. An omen against his life. He didn't like the thought of being cursed to die, but he could handle a known threat, not an ethereal spectre of an idea.

With a sigh, Illya reluctantly encapsulated the conversation with the gypsy woman. Solo was surprised at the strange -- even cosmic -- events. Centuries before his ancestor really had killed Illya's progenitor. Now, the last of both lines were on the same ground -- not enemies -- but closest friends. Brothers. The family lines had blurred into the merged partnership that was the only family they acknowledged.

Napoleon placed a hand on his friend's neck and gave a grip of reassurance. "We're going to beat this, tovarich. Some old dusty ghost is not going to ruin what we have. If we have a curse, it's the curse of our friendship. And it's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Nothing is going to destroy that without a fight. Hmm?"

Inspired by the bravado, Kuryakin responded with a forced, faltering, familiar, death's-head grimace/smirk that denoted evil tidings for their foe. "I agree. We will not let the past endanger our present."

"All right. Let's go finish this meister thing, then we can go home. Kline's dying words seemed to imply that the meister had the microfilm. Let's go find out. Maybe this will be simple and we'll be out of here within the hour." He ignored Illya's look of disdainful doubt at that possibility. "And in the future, let's request assignments anywhere else besides Germany."

***

Illya insisted they drive the short distance to the meister 's office. Since snow had started to fall, the clouds close and cold, Solo readily agreed. The small line of businesses holding the meister's office were backed against wooded, icy hills. Kuryakin's German was more fluent than Solo's so the senior agent allowed his friend to cover the necessary amenities with the receptionist. Napoleon perused the pictures on the wall and stopped to stare at a recent photo in an old-fashioned, intricately scrolled pewter frame. The picture was of a short blond man shaking hands with the late Kline.

Photo and mayor, Kline had said. Fotografieren -- meister. Could it really be this simple? Believing in his innate luck, Solo gave a little smile to his partner -- who was still engaged in conversation with the receptionist. Deftly, Solo removed the picture from the wall and slipped it into his coat. Excusing himself, supposedly to appreciate the beautiful gardens spreading out to the hillside, he stepped out the back door.

Walking along a snow covered path between hedges, concealed from the office windows, he slipped the photo out of the bulky frame and breathed a sigh of relief. Attached to the back of the picture was a tiny black strip of microfilm. He folded the picture around the film. Wanting to hide the evidence of his robbery, he walked the snow covered path of the back gardens to find a rubbish bin. It was a shame to ditch such a nice old pewter ornament, but in this business, one had to sacrifice sometimes. Since there was no place to toss the frame he returned the folded photo to the protective frame and secured it into his inner pocket

***

German secretaries must be the most tenacious lot in the world, Kuryakin pondered as he went through his fabricated story for the third time. They were posing as associates of Herr Kline and were requesting a meeting with the mayor. The mayor was very busy and did not have time today for unscheduled appointments. As a ploy to put him off, she agreed to speak with her employer. Illya glanced around the back gardens, surprised his partner was gone. Moving closer to the rear door, glancing out the window, he saw Solo strolling through the far side of the extended garden. At the very back hedges, coming down from the hill and blocked from Solo's view, were two armed men!

Kuryakin rushed out the back door and onto the snowy path. As he was about to call out a warning to his friend, a cold blast -- like a frosty hand -- plowed into his chest and flung him to the ground. Winded, he gulped for air, his head dizzy from lack of oxygen and from the impact with the hard, cold dirt. Dark mist surrounded him and he gasped when the old gypsy woman hovered above him, then transformed into a cloudy, dank, icy wave that penetrated to his very bones.

"THE DARK ONE MUST DIE AT YOUR HAND!" The mist formed into the image of the gypsy woman again. "IT IS TIME FOR DEATH!"

"No!"

"You must step away and let Fate take control. If not you are doomed to walk the earth with the curse forever."

Illya struggled to his feet. He could not see Napoleon, but the two men had just disappeared around a corner of the garden. Angry, desperate, he pushed against the mist and was repulsed again. Once more he staggered to his feet, weakened by the violent blows, but wrathfully defiant.

"I will not let him die! If the curse is friendship then I happily accept it! Let me save my friend!"

"So be it," the gypsy apparition wailed and smothered him, pressing the Russian into the numbingly frozen ground.

***

Out of sight of the offices, Solo intended to double back and return to the car to await his partner. Confident and pleased that the mission was now completed -- and so simply! --he lightly skipped over the snow covered path. A swell of icy draught blew seemingly right through him and he nearly collapsed, his knees weak. What was that? Staggering, he fell against the nearest tree for support. In the misty, frosted distance where the trees and bushes merged with the vaporous snow, he thought he saw the image of a bent old crone. The gypsy woman. She laughed at him with a wicked, evil cackle that penetrated through to his bones.

Was she a hallucination again? This phantasm felt different from the visions he had experienced in the hotel room. There was no fear, past-remembrance, only the numbing cold isolating him from everything. Forcing himself to move, he slowly stepped forward, the sub-zero temperature dropping with each pace closer to the vision. He tried to move aside, but she blocked his path with a wall of vaporous mist. Well, she was between him and the car so he would have to go through her to get out of this miserable place. The thought sent shivers of alarm along his spine, and for once he was glad to have the prickling of fear returned. It helped overcome the foreboding that encouraged his feet to stay rooted in place. He couldn't do that. He had to get away. If he could get beyond her all would be well. He stepped forward, embracing the grey mist, and all his worst nightmares kaleidoscope into his brain in a stunning blow.

He trembled, barely keeping his stance. From an image? He had known stark, numbing fear before and this was the real thing. His reactions were not imagined. Fear -- yes, but he never got anywhere by succumbing to fear. Willing himself to conquer not only the obstacle, but the inner demons as well, he doggedly trudged ahead -- one laborious tread after the other, slowly delving through the vapor toward the taunting, haggard wraith ahead. If that ugly ancient did not move out of the way, he was going right through her.

***

Hardly able to function, Kuryakin staggered to his feet and stumbling, raced after his friend. The path had curved away, obscured now by the misty snow-wafts and the vaguely outlined trees and bushes of the garden. White wisps of air condensing and puffing around him as he huffed for air, he jogged across the cobbled stones, slowly gaining strength and speed. Around a large Evergreen he came to an abrupt halt almost atop his partner.

"Napoleon!"

Dazed, Solo was hardly moving, as if each footfall, each breath was a struggle.

"Napoleon!"

Before either could react, the two stalkers emerged from another intersecting path. As so often happened in their profession, events cascaded in a blurring surrealism of motion, color, sound and emotion. The two thugs, weapons already gripped in their hands, quickly brought the pistols up to bear on the UNCLE agents.

Illya's right hand reached for the Walther under his arm -- and was stopped by a frozen clamp of ice on his wrist. He had only time enough to just realize what was happening -- discern the vaporous apparition smothering him -- as terror washed his mind. His muscles, his voice, were useless. To his horror, much as he had envisioned it in his earlier hallucinations, time seemed to slow like stop-motion photography.

Instinctively, Solo reached for his gun while simultaneously leaning back and to the side, pushing Illya out of the way. It had all happened like this before; different assignments, different circumstances, differing bad guys and geography. A tragic play continuously looped through a viewer where the minor characters changed, but the principal protagonists remained the same. Just like the visions they had both seen. But this time it was real. In this eerie, perverted story the crisis was upon them and the calamitous climax was unfolding before him without the power to change the horrible, inevitable end.

Strangled by the icy, tendril-clutch of the spectre, Kuryakin felt cushioned from time and space as the momentum of the shove plunged him into the powdery snow and he felt the individual, feathery flakes waft onto his upturned face as he smacked the earth. Concurrently, two spurts of gunfire sizzled and the sound bounced around the haunted garden, echoing through a filtered gauze of displacement. Still in slow motion, Napoleon fell back almost on top of him. Helplessly tumbling, they rolled down a slight incline, where the Russian came to a stop against a fir tree.

As if a switch had been turned -- motion, sound and senses all returned instantly to normal. When the two enemy agents loped over to finish them off, Illya brought up the Walther still clutched in his hand and shot off four rounds, hitting both men and killing them before they hit the snow.

Solo was only a few feet away; still, face down and sunk into the thick snow. White slivers drifted all around him, peppering the black trench coat with tiny, frozen dots. Illya scrambled on his knees toward his friend, hoarsely regaining his voice enough to call out. All too still, the American did not respond. Shouting now, Illya grabbed the recumbent agent and turned him over, horrified to see his worst imaginings had come true.

A bright red stain covered Solo's black trench coat and blood trickled down the side of his face from his parted lips. Frantic, Kuryakin found a pulse along the limp wrist and demanded his friend wake up. From just beyond the prone body, he spotted the ghostly image of the old gypsy woman. As she approached them, her form became even more transparent, less than a shadow, barely more than invisible. She was fading even as he watched her with stunned fascination.

Self-loathing trembling his voice, he viciously condemned her. "You did this. It's what you meant -- what you wanted. Napoleon would die at my hand. He's dying! Because he saved me!"

"The curse was upon him."

Illya shook his head, his damp hair splashing drops of melted snow over himself and his fallen comrade. "The curse was our friendship," he accused, the anguish cracking his words into harsh weapons of self-loathing. "It doomed him all along, didn't it?" He stared at his friend with miserable comprehension. "I've killed you, Napoleon. You did this for me."

"You tried to alter Fate and could not. Now I am free . . . . "

Moments later she was gone, faded into the grey of the trees and the snow and the landscape. Kuryakin blinked, trying to think beyond the horror of what he had done. Magic or not, curses or not, he had been the instrument in destroying his friend, he berated as he pressed on Solo's chest.

"Ohhhh," the downed agent moaned. "Watch the shoulder."

Reflexively withdrawing momentarily, Illya stopped. Petrified. "What?"

Blood was seeping through the ragged tear near Napoleon's shoulder. The Russian checked the bullet hole that clearly indicated a wound near the center of Solo's chest. No blood was coming from the chest wound, he realized upon careful study. Tentatively he pressed again, certain his friend was bleeding to death from a serious wound near the heart.

“Owww!”

"What?" Illya repeated, stunned.

Instead of reacting with pain, Solo's eye's flashed open when a strange crunching sound came from his mid-section. "Huh?"

"What is that?" Kuryakin asked, now completely confused.

Tearing open the coat, he was stunned to see shards of broken glass littering the American's white shirt. With his knuckles he tapped the breast pocket of the jacket and was rewarded with more crinkling noises. From the pocket he pulled a broken metal photo frame and glass. In the photo’s center, through Heir Kline's face, was the bullet mark where the ricocheted lead had scored a furrow.

"I don't believe it," Kuryakin sighed, rocking back on his haunches to stare at his friend. “You aren’t dead!”

Solo had seen the unveiling of the mystery object that had saved his life and offered a goofy grin. "Well, how about that." Then he dropped his head back in the snow. "My shoulder still hurts." He groaned. “And I bit my lip.”

Shaking himself from the amazement, Illya leaned over and carefully peeled back part of the torn jacket. "I don't believe it," he repeated incredulously. "The bullet must have glanced off the pewter and sliced up along your shoulder."

Napoleon grimaced in pain. "I could have told you that."

Dazed at the incredible, tumultuous emotions of the last few moments, Illya took a deep breath and readjusted his thinking. A miracle had somehow saved his friend's life despite gypsy curses and haunting old crones. And despite a clumsy Russian who had failed in what he had vowed was his primary duty -- to keep Napoleon safe. Time enough later to sort it all out, he speculated silently. For now he had more important obligations.

Solo fell back into the snow. “I think encounters in the supernatural are bad for my health,” he wheezed out. “I’m so drained I can’t even sit up.”

"Hang on. I'll go get the car."

"Where would I go?" Solo asked crossly, settling his head back into the snow that he was realizing was cold and wet. Or was that his blood? At least he was alive to feel the discomfort, he shrugged, and winced when the habitual movement torqued his injury. Cold was starting to penetrate deep into the bones. He wasn’t completely sure it was the outside temperature. "But please hurry."

With a last, careful look around, Illya scrambled up the hill toward the meister's office. In his old, slightly superstitious bones, he felt the dangers -- mortal and supernatural -- were behind them now. However, one couldn't be too sure, he decided as he stood on the slope, suspiciously glancing down at his friend to make sure no more threats encumbered Solo, then he turned and raced for the building.

***

"A Deutsche mark for your thoughts."

Kuryakin started, turned from the window and impassively studied his friend.

"Contemplating our -- experience -- here?"

Nodding, Illya turned to look back out their hotel room window. The park seemed placidly, deceptively benign in the cascading curtain of falling snow. Even now, two days later, it was hard to believe the awful events they had lived through had happened at all. Except for the tangible injury to Solo, it all seemed like a terrible nightmare.

"Stop worrying about what Waverly will think. I told you --"

"Yes, all he cares about is the microfilm. Which was miraculously spared from damage when the bullet glanced off the frame." Too unsettled, he refused to voice the pragmatic laws of physics that resolutely decreed a bullet was more powerful than a pewter frame. How could the thin metal have saved Solo's life? And did he really want to know the answer to that? Wasn't it enough to accept the miracle and move on? Settling on a compromise for his troubled conscience, he surrendered a derisive, incredulous snort. "Only YOU could have such luck."

Solo came to stand behind him, their reflections meeting in the glass. The taller agent indicated his shoulder. "You call this lucky?"

Illya shivered, frosty psychic tentacles scarping along his spine. "It could have been much worse."

With a pat on his friend's arm, Napoleon winked. "But it wasn't. We're alive, we finished the assignment, and the best news," he forced a smile. "No more ugly old gypsies." When his partner did not respond he scowled. "Illya, let's not dwell on this. We know what we saw and heard. And whether we believe in ghosts or not, the old crone didn't win. We did. For at least one more day we live to tell the -- strange -- tale of our adventure in the Black Forest." His fingers tightened. "Isn't that all that matters?"

"I couldn't save you," Illya dourly confessed, staring at the reflection of his friend. Somehow it was easier to unburden his failings this way -- without really being face to face with his partner, but at least having the courage to admit his deep sense of guilt. "No matter if it was a gypsy curse or THRUSH agents. I failed you. The idiotic picture saved you!"

A gentle smile played on Solo's face. "Don't worry, your reputation is safe with me."

"Napoleon!"

"What do you want me to say?" With a sigh he moved to sit on the windowsill just to the side of his friend. No longer conveniently a reflection, he forced himself into the Russian's field of vision. "I don't know what it all meant, or what really happened out there." He patted Illya's arm. "Except that we are a bit more clever than that old gypsy ghost. And still better than the best THRUSH can throw at us."

Negatively shaking his head, the Russian would not be budged from his morose mood. "I could not save you." He couldn't get over the failure and no matter what he said he could not convince his friend it WAS a failure. Because Solo felt just the opposite -- glad to have saved him. Sometimes he wondered how they managed to survive at all considering their cross-purposes with saving each other from peril.

Maintaining his hold on the Russian's arm, Solo slowly came to his feet and stood close. "But I kept you safe. And the picture saved me. So did the curse of our friendship save us both? I think so. We have to console ourselves with that thought, otherwise we'll go crazy with all this metaphysical jazz."

Seeing the odd logic behind the fantastic explanation, Kuryakin reluctantly shrugged his shoulders. "As usual, you make no sense, Napoleon, but somehow you've managed to describe things in your typical muddled fashion." He sighed dramatically. "And I owe you. Again."

The Solo smile was dazzling and wicked. "That's three times in a row I've saved your life, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm sure I'll think of some suitable payment for my courageous and valiant services."

Illya rolled his eyes. Napoleon moved toward the door before he could see the small smile that quirked at the Russian's lips.

"Don't forget my bags," came the imperious command from the American.

Kuryakin turned and grabbed the luggage, heading for the door. For some unknown reason, he stopped and glanced one more time out the window. A draught of freezing air swept around and THROUGH him. Was that a swirling grey mist just on the other side of the glass? Stumbling backward, he floundered through the door and down the stairs. He crashed into Solo.

"Ouch! Hey!"

"Keep going!" None too gently, Illya pushed him along. "Don't ask, just get moving and don't look back. And don't ask!"

THE END