Illya Kuryakin offered his passport to the Customs Officer and concentrated on taking one even breath after another. As was too often the case, the passport's name was not his own, nor was the picture it contained quite him.
In his world, identity was fluid. He was Russian one day and English the next. His eyes were brown on Tuesday and blue at week's end. There were no constants, no guarantees.
Or almost none. A light touch at his elbow made him turn to see the one enduring touchstone in his life: Napoleon Solo, a smile in his hazel eyes.
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