"So, what are you doing there, Illya?"
The blond head was bent low over some indiscernible objects on his desk. Napoleon Solo, being naturally inquisitive and otherwise nosey when it came to his partner's activities, wanted a better look at whatever was occupying the crafty Russian.
"Oh, ummm… it is nothing, my friend. I am just… Is that your communicator?"
Illya quickly covered the mysterious project with a piece of fabric that was lying too close at hand. Napoleon did not hear the whistle of a communicator.
"No, Illya. Should I ask why you're being so evasive about whatever it is you're doing there?"
The look on Illya's face could have served as a definition of innocent in Webster's. How a man capable of profound destruction could take on an affect like a member of the Vienna Boy's Choir was beyond the worldly wise American. He both admired and envied the ease of it.
"Okay, Illya. You're up to something, but I guess I don't need to know… yet. In the meantime, we do have a meeting with Mr. Waverly in …'
Napoleon adjusted his arm so he could see his watch…
"…five minutes. We ought to just make it if you can tear yourself away from whatever it is you're doing."
Illya reached for his coat, slipping into it as easily as water sliding over a rock. He seemed to have adopted an economy of movement that served him well in every task.
"Very well, Napoleon. If you don't mind, I will meet you there momentarily. I have a few things here to .. straighten."
Aha! Napoleon spotted another look this time. It was that strange twinkle in his partner's eye that indicated a secret; like the glee before a major explosion in a Thrush satrapy.
"Hmmm… okay, Illya. Whatever you say. Just, don't be late."
Napoleon turned on his heel and exited the office, shaking his head involuntarily as he tried to not obsess over Illya's little secret.
As the door closed behind him, Illya smiled like the Cheshire that he was. All mischief and riddles this one.
"Cкоро мой друг …Soon,myfriend.''