The Bear and Eagle Affair Continued

  This fit very nicely into a program that the Germans had devised to recruit collaborators from the British P.O.W. ranks. A sort of luxury camp was constructed near Berlin and designated Stalag 111d. There, Brown had made friends with the commandant, and a high ranking British traitor who secured him a position as a broadcaster on the German Concordia radio service. He then began to pass on coded information to a willowy opera singer named Margery Booth. He pretended to be infatuated with the lady; wanting to further her career even though she was a virtuous woman who remained loyal to her husband.

 Unfortunately, Adolf Hitler was a real admirer, and that made Booth a person of interest to Heinrich Himmler. The singer didn’t notice for quite some time, but Brown could spot a Gestapo agent in a full scale air raid and he feared for his lovely contact, even though she was tougher than she looked.

 Wendal saw things the same way. The only difference was that spying was his life’s calling, and as a true professional, he was able to view everyone as expendable, including himself. In the world of cloak and dagger, there were no mud filled trenches or gangrene infected wounds like in the first war. A few operatives even enjoyed champagne and chauffer driven limousines. But if you slip up, or Lady Luck steps out of the room----they shoot you. With or without the added discomfort of cigarette burns----they shoot you.

Brown was a very good man, but he was also a Christian in his own right. In Wendal’s eyes, that meant that he was flawed. Still--- his own hyper critical sort of way, Wendal always held on his sense of humanity, so when the Gestapo finally did smell something in the air and bring Booth in for intensive questioning, Wendal was positioned just across the street. The young woman earned Wendal’s respect and acceptance during that ordeal. She clung tenaciously to her cover story and eventually was allowed to go free. (With all of her fingernails in place.)

 The next day the careworn singer stopped briefly to make way for a furniture hauler, as he crossed a boulevard sidewalk with a large dolly. The laborer was five foot ten in height, with a powerful frame, bushy eyebrows and a gaze that was as cool as a mountain lake. She recognized him, but could not comprehend what his presence meant.

 “Eat lunch at the Schneithorst tomorrow,” said the burly man as they passed.

 If Wendal’s instructions were received, the woman showed no hint of it. She continued on her way and Wendal pretended that he had brought a piece of furniture to the wrong address. He then drove the moving van back to where he had hot wired it. Then he proceeded on foot to a nearby drinking establishment where he indulged in some beer and hardboiled eggs.

 Next order of business was of the most natural sort. While seated on the porcelain throne he was able to relax and let his guard down for a few precious moments. To his right was a hand drawn cartoon of Hitler with eyeballs gazing off in two different directions.

 “Stay away from Schneithorst’s, Herr Rembrandt,”  he thought as he prepared the toilet paper.

 Suddenly the stall door flew open and Wendal was looking up the barrel of a Walther P-38.

 Despite the smoked glasses and wide brimmed fedora, Wendal recognized the gunman immediately. His name was Wolfgang Stumph and he was just about as smart as Himmler’s dog. For that reason, he was the most dangerous man in the Gestapo.

 “I saw your little run in with the opera singer,” crowed the agent. “You do business with the traitor Brown, then have words for the opera bitch as soon as we let her go. That is just the sort of thing we were hoping to see. The next time we bring her in, she’ll get a special manicure, then she won’t act so high and mighty.”

 “For God’s sake, will you please allow me just one moment of dignity before you drag me off for a rubber hose treatment?” Wendal pleaded.

 “But of course---right after you kick off your trousers so that I can go through your pockets.”

 The seated man complied, then casually reached for a roll of paper that someone had left off it’s rack. Stumph holstered his weapon and backed away with the clothing. He had a very contented look on his face until the stall filled with a resounding boom. Wendal quickly retrieved his pants while the German stared up at him with wide eyed amazement. The derringer went back into it’s ankle holster, where it was kept most of the time, but obviously not always. The captured Walther was hastily stuffed into his waste band.

 Then Wendal opened a window and climbed out onto a first story ledge. With a supreme effort he was able to get hold of a fire escape platform above him. With a Tarzan like swing he managed to grab the bottom rung of the fold down ladder that would extend to the ground. Wendal used it to ascend, and with great precipitance since he could hear whistles being blown just around the corner.

 Pigeons flew off in panic as the secret agent gained the roof and then increased his speed in order to build needed momentum. The decision to jump had been made when he recalled how close the buildings were to one another. It did not require super human effort, just more daring than the average Berlin policeman would care to expend in order to avenge a dead Gestapo man.

 After completing his escape, Wendal sat down on a vegetable crate and took a closer look at the pistol he had acquired. The Walther P-38 sported the powerful 9x19mm Parabellum round that had been invented for the Luger pistol way back in 1902. Even after forty years it was the most respected handgun cartridge in Europe and would remain at the forefront of weapons production for a century. The name Parabellum is derived from the Latin: Si vis pacem, para bellum. (If you seek peace, prepare for war.)

 The British agent sighted down the barrel with a dubious expression on his face. The weapon he was holding was a modified version of the regular. It sported a snub nose barrel, which made little sense to Wendal. His reasoning was that some pistols were designed for concealment, and some for all out combat. The P-38 was built on a large heavy duty frame, therefore it would never be as easy to carry as it’s small cousin, the Walther PPK. So shortening the barrel would not significantly alter the size of the weapon

 Wendal could only shrug off what was obviously a silly ass Gestapo idea, and address the more important issue of pulling up stakes. Regardless of how he might feel about it, his superiors would not allow him to continue operating in the Berlin area after killing a Gestapo agent. They would order him out. But the Mi9 escape network wasn’t exactly a super highway. Wendal knew that those people would have their hands full just getting a celebrity like Margery Booth out of Berlin.

 Allied B-17s were pounding the rail yards again. That might help them both, since air raids tended to serve as splendid diversions. Wendal risked using a taxi to get back to his shop before nightfall. Upon arrival he quickly scrutinized the bottoms of both door frames. A single strand of thread still ran across both thresholds, unbroken. That didn’t mean he was safe, it only meant that he had a sporting chance of getting to the next square on the chess board of life.

  Inside his shop he dug out three sets of false identity papers and twenty-thousand German Marks. Most of the money was counterfeit, but it was jolly good stuff and would get him in less trouble than his spying escapades. In any case, his days as a used commodities dealer were now at an end, and in a way he was almost sorry. He rather enjoyed the challenge of building a business in a war torn economy. Everything had a place and a value in life. His cover as a second hand store owner had taught him how a society functions on the ground level, and that knowledge could prove useful at anytime.

 Wendal could play in that arena and never worry about one single poxy thing. The game within  the game was another matter. Logic and discipline were lifelines that he held fast to, but in the world of cloak and dagger he was not always in the company of kindred spirits. That became doubly apparent after making his way to a run down hotel in the river front district. In the reception area, Wendal was quickly intercepted by a certain Madam Adala Schrader, who was being slowly consumed by a liver disease.

 “I vemember you---unt I vemember der trouble you caused der last time you vere here,” rasped the middle aged woman. “I tink you should turn around and march out of here vhile your knee caps shtill point forvard.”

 “I’m here to give both you and Felicie a great deal of money,” said Wendal.

 The madam’s face was a mask of rouge and pasty white cynicism. 

 “Ya, but counterfeit money I don’t need.”

 Wendal’s eyes were already on the staircase. He hadn’t come for trouble, but he wasn’t in the market for rejection either.

 “Axel!” shouted the lady of the house when her threat went unheeded.

 Suddenly the view of the stairway was eclipsed by a mountain of a man with a shaved pate. Wendal saw no sign of a weapon, just three-hundred pounds of bouncer standing in his way.

 “I should very much like to preserve the civility of the house with a proposition that will put a smile on your lovely face, Madam Schrader. I ask that you take a moment to examine my paper. You will see that it is top drawer material, which could be easily passed. Fifteen-thousand Marks, in exchange for—“

 “Out the door mit him, Axel!”

 The giant approached Wendal with an odd expression, causing the British agent to suspect that drugs were in the mix. Well, the best way to take out a tank is to break it’s tracks, so the smaller man stepped back with his right foot and grimly waited for his target to come to him. Then when the moment was right, the left foot pivoted ninety degrees to the left, and the right foot swept in a low circle until it made contact with the outside of the bouncer’s left knee.

 Wendal wasn’t surprised to hear the big man bellow out in pain before crumbling to the floor. But he was taken back when suddenly the man began to cry like a three year old. Schrader’s demeanor changed instantly and several prostitutes who had been lounging in the entryway, also dropped down beside the giant to offer emotional comfort.

 “You big bully!” one of the whores shouted at Wendal.

 Then the lights came on in the Englishman’s head and for just a fleeting moment he registered an expression of regret.

 “Simple minded people shouldn’t even be in a place like this,” scolded Wendal.

 “He is mine nephew,” growled the madam.

 With a short sigh he made for the stairs and a room that hopefully would be occupied by only one person. It was, but the buxom blonde who resided there gave him an unwelcomed look just the same.

 “Whatever it is you want, the answer is no,” she said in the way of a greeting.

 “Five thousand Marks for twenty seconds of your time,” responded Wendal.

 The woman grinned with contempt in her eyes.

 “Ya---twenty seconds might be enough for you.”

 “I was referring to your contact at the Amsterdam airport,” Wendal specified without offense. “I need his knowledge of the airport operations. I need to steal an aircraft.”

 “To fly to England?” the prostitute asked incredulously. “You would be food for the crabs before you got halfway across the sea.”

 “Probably, but I have to try. I killed a Gestapo agent. I know a truck driver who can get me to Amsterdam, but without inside help, I can’t hope to steal a plane.”

 “I suppose your Mi9 contacts were thrilled to hear you plan.”

 “I didn’t bother them with this. They’ll be occupied finding Margery Booth a safe place to hole up.”

 That softened the prostitute’s tone a bit---but just a bit.

 “And then what happens to my contact?”

 “He won’t have to go out on a limb for me. I’ll just have him---“

 “You didn’t think Else Neuman would have to go out on a limb for you either, but she did.”

 Wendal took the verbal slap in the face and remained impassive.

 “She warned you that your precious store was being watched, and you showed your gratitude by sending her right back to that fucking street corner where she was bound to raise suspicion.”

 “It was her job,” stated the veteran spy. “You can’t call an agent in out of the cold just because some copper gives her the once over. We all get looked at from time to time. You can’t let that spook you.”

 “No---you stay calm until it’s time to kill the man who wants to take you to jail. But Else wasn’t big and strong like you. She didn’t carry a trick gun like yours; and most importantly---she didn’t have ice water in her veins like you.”

 Wendal still refused to take offense. He had heard this kind of talk many times in the past, and would probably hear it to the end of his days. His god was the god of logic. He couldn’t help it if so many people around him had to struggle daily with their nerves.

 “I’ll try very hard not to compromise your man at the airport. I’ll also have you jailed if you refuse to help me.”

 Meyer smiled at the threat. She was painfully aware of the fact that Wendal wasn’t bluffing.

 His name is Hermann Matthus. I will call him and have him look for you at Gate Four every morning at 9 o clock until you are able to meet.”

 “In all likelihood he will only need to look for me on Tuesday,” said the Englishman.

 The woman walked up to the door and opened it wide.

 “If you are killed, you will die a fitting death. You will die alone---in water that is as cold as your heart.”

 “It would be preferable to a death at the hands of the Gestapo,”  responded Wendal, as he walked out of the woman’s life forever.

 Three weeks later a stray bomb from a B-17 would destroy the bordello. Some speculated that The Fates were just keeping things even. A church had been destroyed in that same air raid.

Chapter Two.

As dawn cast it’s first rays of light on a cold and rain soaked field, Wendal climbed into the cockpit of a Messerschmitt Bf 109. A proud fuel truck driver stood just aft the port wing of the fighter plane and grinned at his confederate in crime.

 “Do me a favor, Wendal, tell your superiors that this aircraft comes courtesy of Hermann Matthus. I only wish I could strap Goering to the bomb rack.”

 “Wouldn’t work, Old Boy---this crate is only rated to carry 500 pounders,” joked the spy as he hastily studied the plane’s instrument panel.

 “Well, the sky is clearing very nicely to the west. The bad news is that the interceptors will be flying the new Kurfust models so you’ll need every minute of head start time Lady Luck gives you. Get up, and put the peddle to the metal, as the Americans say.”

 “Understood. Now get out of here. When they see this crate moving they’ll take an interest in anyone standing near by.”

 The man in coveralls threw Wendal a short salute and jogged off to hide behind the nearest hanger. Wendal taxied out onto the runway that would point him into the wind. He could almost feel the eyes of the control tower operators on his aircraft. He kept his radio turned off. His reasoning was that a silent radio was less suspicious than a pilot who had nothing correct to say. In any case, he had no way of knowing that the Gestapo had captured his truck driving acquaintance while he and Matthus were making their introductions.

 Right where the trucker was pulled over, the Gestapo agents made effective use of a cigarette lighter to acquire the name of the trucker’s recent passenger and his intentions.  Local security forces were called by radio and sent onto the air field and then directed towards Wendal’s aircraft when it failed to answer the tower. But as efficient as the Germans were that morning, Wendal’s fighter plane was even more so. It got him aloft faster than a home sick angel, leaving only Matthus to be hunted by the men who were occupying his country.

 The pump jockey had a safe house just five blocks from the airport. If he could get even halfway to it, he could more than likely lose himself in a farmers’ market that was set up on the south side of the field. But running to it would get him a rifle bullet in the back. What he needed was wheels, and only his fuel truck stood ready to take him off the field.

 Matthus hesitated for a moment. One bullet into that truck could turn him into a human torch. As much as he hated the idea of being shot, he hated the idea of being burned alive even more. Still, it was a chance. A pathetic chance---but a chance. So he jumped behind the wheel and rolled towards the section at the end of runway 90, where there was no inclosing fence.

 The resistance member waited for the sounds of gunfire but none came. The soldiers had orders to capture not kill. Matthus was drawing nearer and nearer to a place where he could possibly run for it. But a troop transport and a command car were hot on his heels, and they would certainly remain close behind. The pump jockey swallowed hard and made his peace with God. In another couple of minutes he would have to fish or cut bait. Either way, his day would end up a sad one.

 Then half way through his favorite prayer he heard a sound that reminded him of the first days of the war. It was the sound of an aircraft screaming down at full throttle. Suddenly the command car was ripped apart by 20mm shells. Fortunately for Matthus, the transport driver in back of the carnage had never seen this kind of action and veered off in panic. That gave the fuel truck it’s chance to get away.

 Back in the cockpit of the Bf 109, Wendal did something he almost never did: he laughed. He hadn’t flown an aircraft since his adventure in the Spanish Civil War. He wasn’t even sure he had enough ammo to strafe the poor lad’s tormentors, but he came screaming in anyway.

 Oh what glorious stuff of legends!

 The fighter then winged out over the ocean, and Wendal found that to be exhilarating as well. He had never flown beyond a shoreline before, and while he trusted his ability to read a simple compass, he never the less felt very small out over a vast expanse of water. It was then that the prostitute’s words came back to him:

 “You will die alone---in water that is as cold as your heart.”

 That memory prompted him to look back. In the distance there were four dots forming a horizontal line. Wendal kept glancing over his shoulder until his neck started to hurt. The dots grew larger over the next hour, but that served to puzzle the Englishman more than alarm him. His Island home was materializing in front of him and the pursuing aircraft were staying on his tail.

 “Don’t you buggers realize you’re on a one way trip?”  he thought as the other fighters grew into discernable shapes.

 Then the mystery became as clear as the skies around them. The war birds all took a crap. Four auxiliary drop tanks fell away from the pursuers, showing Wendal that even with the weight handicap of additional fuel, the new Kurfust machines were faster than the ship he was flying. So now the pursuit would begin in earnest, and the only good news was that the coastal village of Lowestoft was now beneath him.

 “Well, Felicie my dear, your expectations may be a bit off, but a dry death is just as permanent as a wet one,” Wendal muttered to himself.

 Suddenly the centermost of the pursuers opened up with his complete armament: a pair of 20mm cannon and also a pair of 13mm machineguns. Wendal had no experience as a dog fighter, but he knew that he couldn’t just keep flying west while praying for a miracle. So he did the only thing he could think of. He performed what was known as a Immelmann Turn. He climbed up and over in a half circle that put him on his back, now pointed eastward. He then righted himself and came around to engage his enemy.

 Sadly, his opponents had him hopelessly outclassed and had made their own turns before he could line up on anyone. Then suddenly one of the fighters raked him with machinegun fire. He went into a shallow dive and when he tried to pull out of it the stick refused to comply. At this point he was seven thousand meters off the coast viewing a line of yacht houses. He expected to catch more rounds in his tail section at any moment.

 He was ready for death, and all he wanted at that moment was to deliver the German fighter to the people who might benefit from it. So he decided to belly land in the shallow water, as close to the shore as possible. But the wind was at his back, and the joy stick was now anything but. So when the fighter touched down, Wendal realized to his dismay that he come in way too close to the yacht houses. In fact, he was actually lined up to enter one of the bloody things.

 A ton of water cascaded over the windshield and the tail section threatened to rise straight up. What stopped it was the fact that the wings had made contact with the huge door frame of the boat shelter. The engine compartment was actually inside the boathouse, and in a way, that appealed to Wendal’s sense of orderliness. The Messerschmitts each made a strafing run Wendal’s partially submerged rear end, and the Englishman knew he’s better clear the cockpit. But the canopy was jammed and cockpit was filling with water.

 The supreme irony was that he was back in England, on someone’s personal property, and the German whore’s prophecy was about to come true anyway.

 “And it’s only Tuesday,” he muttered as the water rose to chest level.

 The 109’s tail section took a few more hits before Wendal realized that he was no longer alone. Some incredibly brave fellow has managed to get a heavy hammer over to where the pilot was trapped, and was now creating an opening for Wendal to pass through. One more strafing took the rescuer’s head off and drove a sharp piece of steel into the pilot’s side as he hung half out of the cockpit. How he got to the nearest hospital was something he wouldn’t understand for quite sometime.

 In the emergency ward, a nurse tried to coax preliminary information out of the semi-conscious pilot.

 “Can you give me your name sir? We didn’t find any identification on you.”

 The pilot struggled to get his voice working for just one moment. He had lost a lot of blood waiting for an ambulance.

 “Contact--- Mi5. Tell them----you have----Waverly----Alexander----Waverly.”

 The information was handed over to the police who would pass it on along with a short barreled pistol. A gun that would someday stand for justice, in a faster moving world.

Chapter Three.

                                              Twenty Years Later                                                           

After refueling in Paris, the Boeing 707 once again took to the skies with a load of passengers  bound for New York City. Once the aircraft was secured at it’s proper cruising altitude, the pilot emerged from the control cabin and casually made his way back to a pair of seats that were located just forward of the kitchen. There, an immaculately groomed gentleman was making pleasant conversation with a woman who could have been a professional model. That pleased the captain somewhat. Not all of his old wartime friends had managed to adjust to normal living after the truce was signed with North Korea. It was strange how a combat pilot could go from hero to bum in just a few years, but Armstrong had seen it happen to a number of his comrades.

 Happily, the man seated in front of him seemed to be doing just fine----and then some.

 “Well, Napoleon, would you like to meet my flight crew now, or would you like to wait until  we’ve ripened a bit?”

 The incredibly handsome passenger grinned up at the pilot and asked, “Is this your quaint way of warning me that the air conditioning system is performing poorly, Chuck?”

 “Well, that, and the fact that I’m the only one who had a chance to change uniforms in Paris.”

  The tall willowy brunette in the aisle seat favored the men with an embarrassed smile and said, “You go ahead, Napoleon. Now would be a good time for me to visit the powder room.”

  The captain held a polite smile until the woman was out of earshot, then he turned to his old friend and said, “We’re bucking a head wind, so you’ll have exra time to convince the lady that she should let you show her The Big Apple after we’ve landed.”

 “Actually, she was born and raised there. But I did show her quite a bit of Stuttgart,” corrected the world traveler.

 Captain Chuck Armstrong rolled his eyes and then happily ushered his special passenger into a more private domain.

 “Napoleon Solo, this is my First Officer, Sam Cartwright. This fellow beside you is our Flight Engineer, Bill Colter.”

 The men shook hands and patiently waited for the background info.

 “Napoleon flew F 80 Shooting Stars with me in the 8^th Fighter Bomber Wing. Got himself shot down behind enemy lines and caused us a great deal of concern for damn near a week.”

 Cartwright shifted in his chair and said, “I was told the MiG-15 kind of put the F 80 out of business. Did you get to switch to the F 86 Sabre?”

 “No,” answered Solo. “I uh---went back to school after my little sojourn in the north.”

 There was an awkward silence, then the captain said, “Well, don’t drink too much, Napoleon, we might give you some instrument training later on, just to instill a proper respect for large aircraft piloting.”

 “Oh, you’ve got that already, Chuck. When I think of all the WACs we could have taken to Tokyo with this ship of yours……”

 The passenger grinned mischievously but had nothing more to say.

 “You’ll never change, Napoleon. I’m sure the ladies are grateful that you didn’t make a career of flying. You look so much prettier in that expensive suit than you would in a uniform.”

 The passenger’s grin intensified but he took a short step back towards the cabin door.

 “I’ll let you gentlemen get back to your coffee and doughnuts. I have a lady with a powdered nose waiting for me.”

 Everyone smiled until Solo was out of the cabin. Then the co-pilot said, “Nice enough gent, but there’s something kind of ---secretive about him. Was he like that back before he got shot down?”

 “No,” responded the captain without delay. “He was different back in his flying days. He had married young but lost his wife in an accident. Flying jets helped him get over his loss. He worked hard, and he was a real pal to everyone in the wing. I suppose getting shot down had some affect on him, but I’m inclined to think that the honeys have changed him more than anything. He was always a good looking kid, but I noticed that he’s hunting prime cut these days. That lady with the powdered nose is probably a professional model.”

 “Hell, I screwed me a few professional models a while back,” said Cartwright. “Still got the stag film in my apartment someplace if you’d like to see em.”

 The team chuckled briefly and then moved on to other topics.

 Seated behind an elderly couple, two men spoke in a tone that was muted by the murmuring of other passengers. The men were Latino in appearance. One was in his thirties, and the other looked to be barely twenty. Both sported fresh haircuts and were wearing suit coats that seemed a tad oversized. They spoke only Spanish, and convinced the stewardesses early on that they should be left to themselves as much as possible.

 The older man’s name was Amado Ramiero. Until a few hours ago he had been the lover of a French Human Resources worker at the Paris Roissy Charles de Gaulle Airport. That’s how he got his job as a cargo handler. With a forklift and a cargo van in position, Ramiero was able to place a crate in the hold of the aircraft, then peel off his coveralls and take his place among the waiting passengers. The younger man was Julio Clemente, who had been selected to function as Ramiero’s partner because of his choir boy appearance, and the fact that he hated Anglos almost as much as he hated his own impoverished background.

 Now the heavy lifting was over, but the most nerve wracking part of the assignment was about to begin. Both men were scared, but they had long ago convinced themselves that their individuality was nothing. Only the cause mattered. It not only gave them purpose, it gave them strength. So at the proper moment the two men got up out of their seats and made their way forward to the control room. Just before he opened the door, Ramiero pulled out his Beretta, knowing that Clemente was doing the same.

 Taking a deep breath, the older skyjacker advanced into the cabin and said, “I am here to place this aircraft on a new course. You will proceed to Santa Clara Cuba. There you will make a landing.”

 “I have no knowledge of Santa Clara,” responded the captain, “but I seriously doubt that it’s facilities can accommodate an aircraft of this size.”

 “A runway of four-thousand feet has been provided,” responded Ramiero.

 “And the government? queried the captain. “I resume that you are in league with Castro and his revolutionaries. Do you intend to use the passengers of this aircraft as hostages? Is that how you plan on staying out of a Batista prison after we land?”

 Ramiero knew that a Colonel Rubido was the military commander of that central region. Rubido would covertly allow the skyjackers to escape with their important possession. But that was information that needed to be kept secret.

 “We have something in your hold, Captain. Our plan is to take our property and disappear into the jungle before any Batista forces can arrive at the airstrip. A diversion will take place several miles to the west, shortly before we land. Hopefully that will enable my comrades to remove the crate from your hold without bloodshed. The only thing that should concern you, Captain, is the task of locating the airstrip before you run out of fuel.”

 “Visual sighting, by pilots that have never even been to Cuba,” Armstrong said with a hopeless expression. “Good God man---with this bird, I’d be nervous flying to Havana. Which is where we’ll end up if we encounter a tropical storm over your damn LZ.”

 “If there is a storm, you will attempt to get beneath it. This aircraft is not going to land at Havana, Senhor. We must be very clear on that.”

 “You would prefer death?” asked the captain.

 “Si,” responded the gunman without hesitation.

 The pilot let out a sigh of resignation.

 “Ok, Sam---find us Santa Clara on the chart so we can at least come in on the best compass heading.”

 In the center section, eighty-seven passengers stared dumbfounded at the man with the gun.

 “Are they going to hold us for ransom?” asked Solo’s frightened companion.

 “No. They want to go somewhere. I hope it’s not South America. I um----haven’t had my shots.”

 “Do we have enough gasoline?” the woman then asked.

 “Oh yea---loads of the stuff,” lied Solo.

 The plane flew on into warmer waters, and the passengers slowly convinced themselves that being high jacked wasn’t truly all that dangerous. In the cabin entrance, Ramiero placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder and said, “Time to switch places. Our comrades on the ground are waiting anxiously for our signal.”

 Clemente turned his back on the seated prisoners and faced the three uniformed men in the cabin. They were few in number but he was forced to stand much closer to them so maximum vigilance was required. To prove it, a well meaning Colter prepared to leap from his bucket seat. The young Latino was no slouch as guards go and sensed the danger. He jerked the muzzle of his pistol over to cover the engineer, then backed up half a step.

 Ramiero was only eight paces behind him, with a compact radio transmitter that had been hidden in a small travel case. With it he would send out a simple Morse signal that would inform other rebels that the plane was heading towards them. Clemente only needed to stay on top of things for a few more moments, but he sensed that the command crew was growing desperate, so he decided to do something about that.

 He reached into his pocket and pulled out a WWII surplus hand grenade, and quickly pulled the pin. Colter settled down in his seat when he realized that the young man was a lot more hard core than he looked.

 “No more Americano hero shit,” growled Clemente. “This plane stays in our control or we all go to hell.”

 With renewed confidence the skyjacker stepped forward with the pineapple in hand. But he made a mistake, (albeit an understandable one.) He tucked his pistol into the front of his waist band and held on to the pin with that free hand. A weapon in both hands would have been better, but the young man had never used a hand grenade before, and he wanted to be able to re-insert the pin without digging into pockets that now contained extra pistol magazines.

 “Son, we got a number of hours to go. Your pistol will serve you better over time,” said Armstrong. “Won’t you at least ask your partner if he wants you to hold on to the frag?”

 “You fly the damn plane!” snarled Clemente. “Don’t talk to your captor as if he were a child!”

 “Julio, what’s wrong?” Ramiero inquired from behind.

 “Nothing! I’m in complete control!” the young man shouted over his shoulder.

 Then in a low voice Clemente said, “You know what, Anglo? Before I leave this big fancy plane, I’m going to shoot somebody. A passenger. Whoever looks the richest to me. You won’t do anything. You got to save everybody else. But I get to kill my pick of the fat wallets on this fancy plane of yours. Pretty soon you will all learn. Poor people don’t want to serve you drinks and give you women to screw. They want tractors and houses---not hotels and casinos.”

 Armstrong had a pretty good idea where this kid was coming from and the captain wasn’t about to let all that emotional poison spill out with an innocent man’s blood.

 “He’s got his frag out,” said Armstrong as soon as Ramiero was back in the cabin doorway.

 “Re-insert the pin,” the senior gunman ordered.

 “I know what I’m doing,” growled the youngster. “There are many men on this plane. Maybe enough to rush our guns. But if they rush me, they kill the entire plane. They know that. Every Americano knows about weapons. They watch their John Wayne movies and pretend that they are all warriors at heart. Well, I know better. They will piss in their pants when I show them what I have.”

 Ramiero swallowed hard. He suddenly realized that he was paired up with the wrong partner, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

 “Ok, Julio---I let you scare the passengers a little. Just to teach them respect for our strength. But then you switch back to your gun, ok? We don’t want anyone getting too desperate on us.”

 Julio just heard the “ok” part, and smugly followed his partner out of the cabin to a spot where most passengers could see them with a bit of effort. But that turned out to be the second and most serious mistake made by the young terrorist. The men left in the control room were brave and conscientious, but not foolish. They could weigh the odds with clear heads. But that was not so of all the passengers.

 There was an Israeli named David Jabotinsky who had been at the mercy of some Palestinians just a few months ago. He had not quite gotten over the ordeal, and when he saw the grenade with the pin already pulled, he sprang out of his seat with a mindless determination to sell his life as dearly as he could. Colter for his part, couldn’t clearly make out what the hell was happening, but since the ruckus was taking place outside the all important control cabin, he decided in that instant to jump in.

 In his mind’s eye the engineer saw Armstrong’s old war buddy grappling with Ramiero, and he he was vaguely aware of the fact that three or four men would also pressing in around the young Clemente. The Latino was forced to his knees, then all the way down. Jabotinsky might have started the struggle in a mindless state, but when the grenade parted from Clemente’s hand, the man from Israel showed his full worth. It was he who forced the Cuban to lay on his own grenade. Then for added measure, Jabotinsky pressed himself down hard on his prisoner.

 The explosion was horrifying. It lifted Clemente’s body a good eight inches above a sudden hole in the aircraft. Both the Latino and the Jew were killed instantly. Everyone else was thrown off balance to land on the tops of seats or an aft section of the aisle. Solo was among them, but regained his footing as fast as he could.

 A vortex engulfed the passenger section, drowning out women’s screams and shouts concerning Ramiero’s pistol, which had stubbornly remained in the skyjacker’s iron fist. In another second or two, Ramiero would have found himself in another contest for the possession of a handgun, but the Latino bounded for the control room before anyone could reach out and get hold of the all important Beretta.

 Cartwright made for the control door but was shot in the stomach before he could reach the knob. Then Ramiero staggered in with Napoleon Solo just a split second behind him. Armstrong got a few inches out of his seat then dropped back down with a bullet through his heart.

 “Enough of this get the gun crap,”  thought Solo as he slammed his fist into the man’s left kidney, then began punching the throat with a series of rights while holding the gun wrist with his left.

 The plane went into a shallow dive but Solo had plenty of time to finish off Armstrong’s killer before taking his place in the co-pilot’s seat. Colter arrived a moment later and bent over the still figure of the co-pilot.

 “How bad?” asked Solo when he realized he wasn’t alone.

 “Pulse is weak---and he’s totally unresponsive.”

 “Make him as comfortable as possible in the rear. Also---I need to have Chuck taken out of the cabin as well,” said Solo.

 The strongest passengers came in and cleared the cabin, then another man entered and patiently stood beside the engineer.

 “I’m going to keep her at five thousand,” said the ex fighter pilot. “That hole in the ship’s belly was getting on my nerves.”

 “I’m good with that if you are,” responded the engineer, “but I think I’ve discovered a problem.”

 “Don’t tell me we’ve got a leaking fuel line.”

 “No. It’s the port side landing gear. My board says that we’ve got no electrical from section J-23 on. Of course, the board could be lying. We need to test it.”

 Solo hunted for the land gear controls and then hit the switch for the port side. Viewing a special mirror set up for that purpose, Solo concluded that the gear was not responding.

 “So we switch to a manual crank, right?” asked the substitute pilot.

 “Yup,” said the engineer who took a hand held radio with him so he could remain in contact with the control cabin.

 Solo, gave the engineer time to get to the mid section maintenance hatch and get hold of tools that were never really meant to be used. He received a heads up on the radio, then watched the tire assembly creep slowly out of it’s bay. Then after a few moments of patient observation, he turned to his radio.

 “Are you resting or are we in trouble?”

 “We’re in trouble,” the engineer responded. “These damn things never get used, so the mechanics like to pretend that they get inspected. Anyway, I’m gunna pick out the strongest guy on the plane and let him fight with it. We gotta keep trying.”

 “Actually it would make more sense to find the short in the wiring system and repair it,” said the man who had been loitering at the cabin entrance all that while.

 Solo detected a slight accent that was even more sinister than the black turtleneck shirt and cheap navy blue suit the man was wearing . The unruly blonde hair was probably the result of the hole in the plane, but just the same, the passenger didn’t look very trustworthy.

 “Are you a commercial aircraft electrician?” asked Solo.

 “Not in the strictest sense,” answered the passenger, “but if the engineer would be so kind as to show me his schematics for that section, I might be able to help.”

 The man was a tad smaller than Solo and looked to be maybe in his late twenties. His eyes showed a certain emotional detachment from his surroundings. Solo wasn’t sure that was good or bad.

 “Bear with me.”

 After a bit, Colter returned to the cabin and wasn’t pleased with what the “beatnik” had to say.

 “There’s enough wiring in that section alone to keep your eyes moving for a week!” protested the engineer. “That’s assuming you’re not some kind of nut who fancies himself a genius.”

 “Would he be in your way?” asked the pilot.

 “No,” admitted Colter. “The maintenance cowling is several feet forward of the manual land gear hatch.”

 “Well, then I think we should indulge Mr---“

 “Kuryakin.”

 “Well Gentlemen, I’ve decided to get back on track for La Guardia Airport. It’s runways are only seven-thousand feet long but I know the pattern like the back of my hand. So we’ll go for it.”

 “We can’t,” the blonde stated flatly. “We need a less populated area in which to set down.”

 “Why?” asked Solo with lead weight suspicions.

 “There is a large quantity of Soviet nerve gas in the aircraft’s hold. If the landing goes badly---“

 “What the fuck is nerve gas doing on my airplane?!” Colter bellowed.

 “The Cubans placed it there while you were in Paris. Their plan was to take it to Santa Clara and spirit the cargo into the jungle before the Batista authorities could recover from whatever diversion the rebels have planned.”

 “What sort of chemical agent are we talking about?” asked Solo.

 “The VR  type. Twenty-six liters. But I don’t know what sort of container they are using.”

 “How bad is that?” asked Colter.

 “Bad enough to forget about La Guardia.” admitted Solo.

 “I would recommend Titusville, Florida. It has a fifteen-thousand foot runway,” said the blonde with even more of his insufferable calm.

 “I’ll run that past the people at La Guardia while you two work together like a well oiled machine,” hinted the pilot.

 Colter’s jaw tightened at the prospect, but he wasted no more time getting a micro film viewer up and set to the right page for the cool eyed passenger. Forty-five minutes later the Russian had the top half of his torso under the deck where seats B-8 and B-9 had been.

 “Anything?” queried the engineer after another ten minutes.

 “Yes, it’s just as I suspected. The wiring bundle was pushed by the force of the explosion. No wires were actually severed, but a few of them became unsnapped at the secondary junction. It is most fortunate that everything here is so easy to dismantle. On a Soviet aircraft, I would need a cutting torch. I will have the last of the clips back together by the time you are ready to test the system.”

 That brightened Colter’s expression considerably. He scrambled back to the control cabin and gave Solo a hopeful squeeze on the shoulder.

 “Ready to test the landing gear, Captain Solo.”

 The ex fighter pilot ignored the compliment. Keeping the ship in level flight was nothing. Landing it would be something else again.

 “Lowering gear---now.”

 Both men held their breaths, then let them out when the wheels extended all the way down.

 “Well I’ll be damned,” muttered the engineer. “It would have taken me the rest of the day just to locate the correct wiring harness. That guy’s smarter than he looks.”

 Suddenly the Russian was behind him.

 “Are we going to Florida?”

 “Us and a great many Federal agents, Mr. Kuryakin. What are you, a KGB agent?”

 “You shouldn’t insult the man who just fixed your airplane,” responded the Russian with his first display of emotion.

 “You knew that those Cubans were going to highjack this plane, and you let it happen,” Solo countered.

 “I have an unfortunate tendency to discover things somewhat late in the day, Mr. Solo. For instance, how does one get a nerve agent past the Iron Curtain without official sanctions? By the time I discovered the answer I was very hard pressed to get to the shipment before this plane could take off.”

 “But you did catch up with it---and sadly without a gun.”

 Soviet Naval Intelligence does very little shooting. We let the men in the high boots do that. In any case I can assure you that the nerve agent would have been disposed of by me in good time.”

 “In a Cuban jungle? Well, Mr. Kuryakin, I wish you could have been that resourceful before my friend was killed.”

 “And Sam doesn’t look so good either,” put in Colter.

 “I’m fairly certain that he was shot in the large intestine. All things taken into consideration, Mr. Colter, I would say his chances of survival are around eighty percent,” said the Russian.

 “What are our chances of throwing the chemical weapon over board while we’re still over water?”

 “We would have to somehow cut out a huge section of the storage deck. A special pallet was selected to hold the chemical tank. It can’t be separated from the tank, nor can it be lifted without a fork truck.”

 “So we don’t know the honest weight of this beast. I wonder if that will make a significant difference in the trim characteristics.”

 “All depends on which way you miscalculate things, Captain Solo Sir,” the engineer responded.

 Kuryakin considered that for an instant and then asked, “I would be willing to take the right hand chair. I’ve done a bit of flying---in smaller aircraft that is.”

 “Multi turbo-jet?”

 “No, but I once landed a Mig 17 on a carrier deck.”

 Solo was tempted, but only for an instant.

 “Thanks for the offer, but I get carsick riding in back.”

 The Russian paused for an instant and then took his leave. “Jez---I gotta admit that he’s a brainy son of a bitch,” declared Colter.

 “Right on both counts,” Solo responded as he proceeded to bring the aircraft down to it’s normal approach altitude.

 Napoleon Solo continued his descent. The runway wasn’t discernable, but it would be in another minute of two. At the moment he felt horribly alone, even though he was flying an aircraft that was a great deal more accommodating than a two seater jet. He needed to remember where the key instrument gauges were, and the all important flaring characteristics of such a large aircraft.

 “Flaring” is that critical point in the landing phase in which the nose of the aircraft is raised so that the back landing gear will touch down first. If the aircraft flares too early in the landing, the plane will actually start climbing back into the air. But if the pilot flares too late, the plane’s landing gear snaps like dried kindling and the under carriage melts in the first few seconds of a belly landing.

 Solo thought about the passengers of an instant. But then his thoughts focused on the deadly cargo in the hold. He was still thinking about it when Colter returned to the cabin.

 “Hey Solo---I was thinking maybe I should stay here with you. I might be able to---“

 “Get the Russian back in here, quick,” interrupted the pilot as he lowered the flaps.

 The engineer snapped to it, and Kuryakin appeared in four seconds.( Colter had found him in a front row seat.)

 “The special pallet you mentioned: would it keep the chemical tank from rolling clear of wreckage if the landing goes bad? If so---maybe there’d be enough fire to burn most of it.”

 Kuryakin fixed the pilot with a hollow stare and said, “A water landing would better resolve the matter. I suppose I should have brought up the idea before now. In truth, I was hoping to talk you into letting me land the plane.”

 “Because you think you’re better than I am,” the American said with a small grin.

 “Yes. My only significant shortcoming is that I’m rather difficult to like.”

 “Really? Well, the passengers are expecting a dry landing, so that’s what they’re going to get. Best you get back to your seat.”

 Kuryakin never looked more inscrutable before sliding into the co-pilot’s seat.

 “I’ll tell you when to flare. You concentrate on your angle of attack until I give you the word.”

 The idea went against Solo’s grain, but he decided to do it. The runway came in like a bad dream, not because of excess speed but because Solo knew damn well that his techniques were all wrong for such a large aircraft.

 The ship came in, lined up like Robin Hood  shooting an arrow.

 “At least we got that part right,” thought Solo as he groped for the throttle handles.

 “Not yet,” said the Russian.

 “I know, I just want to hold it,” replied Solo.

 Ten seconds later he cut the power and tried to become one with the airplane.

 “Now,” said the Russian, but the yoke didn’t budge for another five long seconds.

 Kuryakin was about to take control when the nose was finally brought up, and then up some more. The fact that he almost lost confidence in the pilot’s judgment was a secret that he would carry with him to his grave.

 The rear wheels hit hard but they held. The front wheels followed suit with a bit less drama. Now Solo was driving, and he managed to stop the ship with three-thousand feet of runway to spare.

 “You were lucky,” the Russian said while running his fingers through sweat plastered hair.

 “I can only think of one time when I wasn’t,” responded Solo while thinking about his dead wife.

 “For whatever it’s worth---I tried very hard to win my race back in Europe. Obstacles were set in my path by some rather mysterious people.”

 “Mysterious?” responded Solo with knitted brows.

 “Yes. Men and women without a country. A shadow organization of some sort. But the evils of communism are easier to believe in. Especially in the west. So I shall continue my monster hunt alone.”

 “I would give you the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Kuryakin. Quite a few people here owe you a debt they will never be able to repay.”

 “And you,” said the Russian.

 As the two men peered down the aircraft’s center aisle, they saw some of the stronger men lifting the co-pilot up to get him closer to the main exit. A beautiful woman stood to the side and favored Solo with a look that was careworn but overflowing with gratitude.

 Solo emitted a sigh of regret.

 “I have a feeling those Federal agents will keep us busy for a very long time. What a pity. But at least I’ll get to find out what the hell you really are. Hope it’s worth a missed opportunity of the best kind.”

 The Blonde glanced at the grateful woman and grinned ever so slightly.

 “I wouldn’t say so.”

Chapter Four.

A feisty woman in her early sixties paused in front of an entrance and brought out a lip stick case. Using it as a marker pen she quickly scribbled a note on a now hiring sign.

 The message read: Tell the owner to put on a wig and falsies and wait on tables himself.

The object of the woman’s scorn was called The Mask Club, presumably so that the female employees could leave the establishment at the end of the night and return to a life style that their parents and sweethearts insisted on. It was located in Manhattan’s east section; where brownstone was the common background to everything along the busy streets.

 Alexander Waverly sat in a booth with his hands perched on top of a decorative umbrella handle. It was raining out; cats and dogs, and he was ever so grateful because that meant that business would be slow that evening. The seventy-something year old man was not pleased with his surroundings, and he would have been even less pleased if he had been subjected to an overabundance of cat calls and wolf howls It was good that the customers were spread out thin, so he and his companion wouldn’t have to mutter every bit of dialogue under a canopy of insufferable caterwauling.

 Araiwa Kentaro on the other hand, had a different mind set that evening. Gentlemen’s Clubs in America had little in common with Geisha houses, and Kentaro returned every smile that flashed from the long legged waitresses who could smell a high roller.

 “I’m going to replace everyone of these women with female operatives,” said Waverly. “We can’t afford to have these camp followers observing our people as they come and go.”

 “Alexander-san, how can you speak that way? You would throw these poor girls out on the street? I would venture to guess that half of them cannot even operate a typewriter.”

 “This is no laughing matter, Araiwa. The Washington headquarters massacre is the best kept secret in the history of that city. Every man and woman shot down. Some of them with as many as a dozen bullets in them. Those people weren’t just attacked---they were exterminated.”

 “Yes, Alexander, obviously someone wishes to do us great harm. But the United Nations Security Council does not have the financial resources to pay for all these things that you want. A dozen U.N.C.L.E. complexes spread around the world—just as a start. Each is supposed to be a variable fortress like the one here in New York. How can you justify the spending when you can’t even identify our enemy?”

 “We’ll get answers when the enemy starts taking casualties,” said Waverly.

 “But there is the possibility that no more attacks of that magnitude will take place. Need I remind you that no other law enforcement agency in the world is experiencing such hostility. Even Interpol  is being left alone, and they are well known allies of ours.”

 “U.N.C.L.E. is different,” stated Waverly. “We don’t just help to enforce U.N. sanctions, we give carte blanche to special operatives who work outside of any international due process system.”

 The old man took out his pipe and began to fill it.

 “There’s something out there, Araiwa-sama. I don’t have a name for it yet, but I’m quite certain that it will dog us to the four corners of the Earth. It sees us as a great threat. That is why it attempted to put the fear of God into us back in Washington.”

 The Japanese bureau chief emptied his sake glass in one gulp.

 “Well, let us hope that the U.N.S.C. will be able to handle the financial end of all this planning. I certainly am glad that the United States is the major sponsor of U.N.C.L.E.. I’d hate to see---“

 Suddenly a young man approached from the bar side of the establishment. He wore a western string tie and walked with cowboy boots that were tucked in under his suit trousers. He would tower over the two older men, even when they were all standing, but his demeanor was very subservient.

 “Mr. Waverly sir---we got that back entrance fixed if you’d like to come in now. Don’t know why it stopped working. I guess coat hanger switches are a mite finicky compared to regular door knobs.”

 Cory Dupree was an ex-marine who had earned a Silver Star in Korea. He was also a Texan, which meant that fear just didn’t enter into his way of thinking. But he wasn’t the intellectual equal of his new comrades, who all possessed two or three science degrees a piece. For that reason he felt like an outsider most of the time. It would have pleased him to know that Waverly was dreaming of the day when they would have something called an U.N.C.L.E. Taskforce. Then men like Dupree would be able to go out and distinguish themselves far more than any U.N. Peace Keepers could ever hope to do. Not that the U.N. couldn’t come up with brave men, but Waverly had always felt that a soldier needs to belong to a unit that has it’s own identity. The U.N. wasn’t a family. It rarely instilled a strong sense of belonging.

 “Alright, Gentlemen, you know the drill. One at a time. Age before beauty, Araiwa.”

 The Asian bowed slightly as Waverly went off into the club’s coat room. There were seventy-five heavy coat hangers bolted into the back wall, but only one of them could be twisted ninety degrees to the right. The center two-thirds of the wall swung out in the form of a door, allowing Waverly to enter the south ground level of the hidden complex.

 At a reception desk to one side of a small foyer stood a young woman wearing a white blouse and a black skirt. Three years ago she held the title of Miss Boston, but lost the state competition because she didn’t know any of the Kennedys. She was used to smiling and she was used to people smiling back. For her, life was all about first impressions, and she fancied herself a master at it, even at her age.

 “I apologize for the delay, Mr. Waverly. I’m afraid that door has been acting up all day. If it ever happens again I’ll have a car sent around for you, sir.”

 “Do you think I’m too old and infirmed to walk to another entrance, Miss Galway?”

 “No sir,” the receptionist answered quickly. “But like today---the weather can be bad—“

 “I am from England, Miss Galway. When I am no longer able to walk in the rain, it will be time for me to pass on.”

 The slightly chastised woman had a triangular badge pinned to her blouse. It displayed the section that she belonged to. It was chemically coated so that if she were to stray into a restricted section, the badge would set off an alarm. Every person had to wear one, and she wasted no time taking Waverly’s badge out of a drawer and pinning it on his tweed jacket. Then she stood there, awkwardly at attention, even though that wasn’t part of the admissions procedure.

 The old man stared at her with his bushy eyebrows and asked, “Are you happy with your work, Miss Galway?”

 “Er---yes sir. Very much so, sir.”

 The old man nodded once and proceeded down the central corridor of that level. The complex had three levels; each one made up of at least three dozen atmospherically controlled chambers that could withstand an outside chemical attack. Some of the chambers were subdivided into offices or utility rooms. Most of the equipment therein was highly portable, so that if the chem lab people needed more space, they could conceivably take over the gym, the wardrobe room, or any other non essential area. 

 Like a newly launched ship, U.N.C.L.E.’s new headquarters complex needed to learn how to operate in the most efficient manner possible. But first and foremost came the matter of survival, and Waverly was very opinionated along those lines. So when he came to a large viewing window on his right, he stopped to watch a team of electrical engineers laboring in a temporary clean room environment. They were wiring up a communications array that would soon rival NASA. In fact over half the technology came from there, including one or two consultants.

  Kentaro and Dupree caught up with him but showed less interest in that facet of the complex.

 “You know, Alexander, your idea about replacing the waitresses with U.N.C.L.E. personnel has great merit. That receptionist for instance—“

 “Mr. Dupree, how long before we can tap into the C.I.A.’s computer mainframe?”

 “I was told eight days at the earliest, sir. But Agent Talbot is still feeding us information from his Washington post. We’ve been getting two updates a day.”

 “Two or two-hundred, won’t help us if Talbot misses some crucial hint of danger that might exist somewhere in the C.I.A.’s vast data stream. We need our own people going over the same information. This shiny new complex is nothing but a badger hole waiting to be flooded unless we can monitor the activities of every modern day warrior who is planning a trip to New York.”

 “Yes, Alexander, your concerns did not fall on deaf ears at the summit meeting,” Kentaro assured his associate. “I suspect that it was an ancestor of yours that said, “Forewarned is forearmed.”

 “Praemonitus, praemunitus,” responded Waverly. “My family tree does not have roots that extend back to the days of the Caesars.”

  “But I suspect that your book collection does,” quipped the Asian.

 Waverly wasted no more time getting back on track.

 “Fixed fortifications are monuments to the stupidity of man. Until the super computer is on line and feeding us information from all available sources, we shall act on the assumption that another attack is forthcoming. What about our defensive systems, Mr. Dupree?”

 “Well sir---the remote control machine guns are all in place. Sleep gas vents were tested out with laughing gas a couple of days back. That worked REAL good,” the agent reported with a broad smile that was cut short by Waverly’s icy glare.

Dupree swallowed hard and quickly finished his report.

 “Everyone is carrying the new U.N.C.L.E. Special side arm, but only about half the men have qualified at the range.”

 “What about the women?”

 There was an awkward silence.

 “Well sir, Mr. Johnson felt that it wouldn’t look good---having the women wearing holsters on their uh---skirts. He felt that with all the other precautionary measures in place---“

 Waverly marched away from the other men and didn’t stop speed walking until he reached the armory. Inside he found an assortment of bracketed rifles, pistols and shotguns. There was also a few grenade launchers, but Waverly wouldn’t waste his time with those.

 “Where are the holsters?” he asked as soon as the other men caught up with him.

 “Err—in one of the supply rooms, sir,” answered Dupree.

 Waverly picked up a snub nosed Walther P-38. It was very similar to the old German model, but with improved slide and barrel specifications. It was no coincidence that the pistol that Waverly once smuggled out of Nazi Germany was now the standard side arm of U.N.C.L.E.

 “I want some of the holsters modified so that the women can carry the pistols in the small of the back. The short barrel will keep the weapon from digging into the crack of the buttocks. “

 Waverly gestured to the modest thirty foot pistol range that was right there in the weapons room.

 “I want Miss Galway shooting on this range before she goes home tonight. Every woman is to fire two-hundred rounds after being briefed on the safe handling of a firearm.”

 Dupree nodded with enthusiasm, but the Japanese section chief wasn’t sold on the idea.

 “You command here, Alexander, and I suspect that in Berlin they will also adapt your methods. But in the Eastern regions, I do not think the women will be given firearms.”

 “I’m going to bring it up to higher authority at my first opportunity,” promised the American. “I am confident that I will have my way in this matter.”

 The smaller man shrugged with a slightly embarrassed smile.

 “Africa, and many parts of Asia are---“

 “--made up of people who can bleed,” Waverly finished. “Someone is out to destroy us, Araiwa, and I don’t want any sacrificial lambs guarding our doorways.”

 The section chief put the weapon back in it’s bracket and turned to Dupree.

 “Is Mr. Solo in the complex?”

 “Yes, sir. He’s putting in some time in the flight simulator. Learning how to fly a cargo helicopter I believe.”

 “Araiwa, why don’t you make yourself some tea in the kitchen and then meet us all in Conference Room B. Mr. Dupree, get on those holsters.”

 Waverly’s next stop was a room that contained something about the size of a Ferris wheel cage.  Mock instrument gauges had been snapped into an all purpose variable console, so that a student could experience different arrays with only one flight cabin. In the place of a windshield, a movie screen showed what a landing strip would look like with an aircraft set at a particular flight angle. The yoke, joystick and rudder peddles were also replaceable, so that a fixed wing aircraft could become a helicopter or vice versa.

 It didn’t really look like much, but it was a passable learning tool for men who needed to make do with what was available. The man in the cramped little seat kept his eyes on the screen even when his boss came to stand beside the improvised flight simulator. The mock view of a helicopter landing was less entertaining than that of a jet fighter coming in, but Waverly shared it with his usual professional demeanor. When the exercise was completed, the trainer climbed out of the cage so as to not keep his superior waiting any longer.

 “How many aircraft can be mimicked by that contraption?” asked Waverly.

 Napoleon Solo gazed up at the ceiling in thought.

 “Twenty-seven, not counting the light aircraft programs, sir.”

 “I’m glad you’re spending more time with the vertical takeoff machines, Mr. Solo. In my opinion, they are the way of the future.”

 “Yes sir. However, I asked Wally if he could come up with an ME 109 simulation. I thought maybe you’d get a kick out of that.”

 Waverly almost smiled.

 Almost.

 “I was almost killed in one of those---when I appropriated it from the Germans. No Mr. Solo. I don’t want any precious man hours wasted on such frivolous pursuits. But thank you anyway.”

 “Sir---I’ve always been curious about that. Why did you lean to fly a fighter? You spent your life writing the book on spying. It’s been your whole life.”

 “Mobility, Mr. Solo. The agent who is incapable of relocating is the agent who is going to die. More importantly: he will eventually fail in his mission. The world is moving faster, and we must keep pace with it. That is why I won’t rest until every field agent can at least fly a light aircraft.”

 The ex-Air Force pilot smiled at that.

 “Well, Jim and I certainly appreciate your sense of values, sir. We’ll probably never be as good as you were at this spying business, but we’ll do all that we can to make the U.N.C.L.E. agents as mobile as possible.”

 The old man’s expression turned deadpan, as it always did when it was time to deliver grim tidings.

 “Mr. Leavitt was killed two hours ago in Kaesong North Korea. We have someone in the organization who is qualified to respond to this. I will keep you up to speed on any future developments, Mr. Solo.

 The ex Air Force pilot took the news the same way he would have in the war.

 “What was Jim doing in North Korea in the first place?”

 “We have a sleeper agent there who wants out. He claims to have stumbled onto a piece of very important data. Supposedly, ten nuclear artillery rounds are being stored in a soap factory. He would also have us believe that the artillery rounds were shipped directly from the Soviet Union, but were moved by identified professional smugglers. Mr. Leavitt was posing as a commercial airlines pilot---um---suddenly enamored with a certain hotel clerk. Not the best possible cover but I thought it would suffice.”

 “He always liked Asian women,” Solo reminisced. “Back in Korea he must have fallen in love half a dozen times. He used to say that Asian women were either beautiful or cute—but they were always one or the other.”

 Waverly ignored the non essential data, and as always, was ready to get the conversation back on track.

 “He was killed by a truck. Hit and run. The Sleeper is waiting for a new contact that can get him out. Somewhat impatiently I might add.”

 “Do we have any reason to believe that the North would like a rematch with us?” asked Solo.

 “None what-so-ever,” Waverly stated emphatically.

 “Do you have any theories, sir?”

 “I do, but I won’t trouble you with them, Mr. Solo. Your going to be our in home flight instructor for the next two weeks. Then I might have something for you to do in Germany. I’m not certain yet.”

 The older man turned and headed for the door; moving a bit slower than usual.

 “Sir, you’re not giving me this duty because of Jim are you? Where we served, you don’t take time off when you lose a friend.”

 “It would never have occurred to me, Mr. Solo,” the old man responded with a stony expression. “But on a related subject---you might want to step across the hall and re-acquaint  yourself with the agent who is going to look into Mr. Leavitt’s death. His name is Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”

 “What?!” thought Solo as his boss left the room.

 The pilot stepped into the corridor three seconds after his boss. First he glanced at Waverly’s back, then across the hall to the clean room where half a dozen people were laboring in while environmental suits. Such attire had been a common sight in the headquarters complex since the last of the construction workers were debriefed and removed while wearing blindfolds.

 Solo stepped over and rapped on the glass partition. All six workers glanced over, but Solo immediately pointed his finger at a pair of eyes that stood out easily enough. That man knowingly approached the exit and stepped out into the corridor with an increased air pressure that created a mild breeze at his back.

 “How long have you been here?” Solo asked in the way of a greeting.

 “This is my fourth day,” replied the Russian while removing his hood like head covering.

 “Waverly just informed me that you’re going to work as a field agent. I’m going to look into that.  But for now I’ll settle for an explanation of what you are doing in there?”

 “I’m helping with the wire wrap work. Miles of it, actually.”

 “You mean for the super computer?”

 “Yes. There are many people in the city who are qualified to do the work, but the information gathering systems need to be built by people who possess top secret security clearances.”

 “And you have one of those?”

 “Of course. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

 “I can only hope. But since we’ve strayed onto the subject, why aren’t we going over to printed board circuit technology? I’ve been told that it’s all the rage these days.”

 The Russian smiled at Solo’s technical naiveté.

 “W.W. construction is more reliable than printed circuits. Connections are less prone to fail due to vibration or physical stresses on the base board---possibly brought on by nearby explosions. The lack of solder precludes soldering faults such as corrosion, cold joints and dry joints. The connections themselves are firmer and have lower electrical resistance due to—“

 “Sorry I brought it up,” Solo conceded, “and I do realize that Waverly is recruiting talent from all over the world. With that in mind I suppose I really shouldn’t be all that surprised that you’re on our team. I just want to say that Jim Leavitt was a friend of mine. We served in Korea together and I’ll be waiting for any information concerning his last assignment.”

 The Russian’s expression was cool, but not to the point of freezing.

 “My briefing with Mr. Waverly is at two o’clock. I will seek you out after it’s over. I was about to break for lunch. A new found friend and I were going to get a hamburger. Would you care to join us. I thought perhaps you’d like to know what I’ve been up to since the plane landing.”

 “Well, I can read all that in your dossier. I think I’ll go and write a letter to Jim’s family. I’m not much in the mood to do anything else right now.”

 A woman then stepped out of the clean room. She was short of stature and had eyes that appeared to be Latino. All other features were well hidden under the environmental suit.

 “This is Ada Castil. She’s an electrical engineer from Managua Nicaragua. She’ll help maintain the link between the satellite protocols and the stationary bi-links.”

 “Good to have you aboard, Miss Castil. Hope you enjoy working for U.N.C.L.E. We’re a fairly young organization, but I have a feeling that we’re really going to go places in years to come.”

 “I invited Mr. Solo to join us for lunch,” said Kuryakin.

 “Oh please do,” said the woman, who’s voice was somewhat muffled by her protective headgear.

 “No---thank you. I just leaned of the death of a friend. I’m afraid that I really wouldn’t be good company at this time.”

 “I understand,” the woman responded while placing a gloved hand on Solo’s chest.

 “Well---I suppose we had best get out of these bunny suits and be on our way then,” the Russian said with just a hint of awkwardness.

 The two of them went into a nearby changing room prompting Solo to head towards the administrations section. That was a favorite place for Solo because the majority of the female personnel worked there. He would talk to some of the girls about Jim, and if any of them needed a shoulder to cry on, that would be alright with him.

 Jim Leavitt had never reached Solo’s level of popularity with the home grown  girls, possibly because of Leavitt’s well known preference for Asian women. But he had helped a number of the ladies to plan vacations in Asia, and was well liked. Napoleon Solo would find solace that was to his liking in the secretarial pool. Even in mourning, he preferred feminine companionship, and he knew damn well that his old friend would not have been offended by this.

 U.N.C.L.E.’s number one ladies man approached the Dutch style door that enabled people passing by to see who was in the pool. Chief Administrator Margret Flancher had soon learned to hate the half door, and pointed out that it was the only non-compartmentalizing door in the air tight complex. All other doors slid open and shut, giving one the feeling that he or she was on a futuristic space ship. But Waverly liked the old fashioned door because it saved him precious time on his daily inspection round.

 He might spend twenty or thirty minutes in a single section, getting himself brought up to speed on the latest technologies. But when he passed the administrative section, he was content to just poke his head in for a second so that the ladies could rest assured that Old Lady Flancher wasn’t the top kick in the complex.

 Not that Flancher was really old. She was about forty, with a lean muscle mass body and piercing eyes that made the crows feet very easy to tolerate. All in all a very handsome woman who tended to stand alone for reasons that no one dared delve into.

 Paula Christenson was assigned to the door that day so Napoleon focused his charm ray on diminutive redhead as she looked up from her desk. While rising from her chair Christenson stole a glance to her left to see if her boss had detected the presence of the infamous Solo. Happily, the supervisor was busy counting pens.

 “Heidi isn’t here today, Napoleon. She seeing her podiatrist, who know doubt will remind her that it is not a good idea to wear shoes that are half a size too small.”

 “And what makes you think that I’m here to see Heidi?” 

 “Well---the two of you were planning a trip to Germany, as I understand it.”

 “Actually, Heidi was planning to visit a cousin in Europe, and I promised her that I’d scope out a couple of hotels on her behalf. Poor thing has been running around this complex since the first days when we were all working out of cardboard boxes.”

 “Those of us who are in the paper trenches are still doing that,” responded the redhead, “and it’s not our fault that Heidi can’t share her memo chores with the rest of us. This place is obsessed with security and Heidi is the only girl who is cleared to enter every work area.”

 “Paula, I swear that if it was up to me, you’d have a clearance that would be the equal of Heidi’s. I don’t know why she was picked first, but I’m certain that once the background checks are all completed, you ladies will be free to venture almost anywhere in the complex.”

 “Well---they don’t have to hurry on my account,” the woman assured Solo. “At least here we don’t have to worry about getting run over by a heavy cart loaded with gas bottles or huge pieces of metal. Why just the other day Susie got grease on her skirt trying to squeeze past a maintenance man. I don’t know, maybe they should finished the complex first, and had us move in afterward.”

 “Maybe so,” the man said with a diplomatic raise of his eyebrows. “The supercomputer is three stories high. They had to cut through two floors to install it, and the wiring would reach half way to the moon. But once it’s all done you ladies will receive technical training that will make you some serious money out in the private sector.”

 “Until the day of sad parting, I think you should keep that freckled nose to the grindstone, Miss Christenson. I’m sure Mr. Solo has a water cooler meeting waiting for him somewhere.”

 The field agent flashed an embarrassed smile and turned to face Miss Flancher.

 “Actually I was just wondering if you ladies had heard about Jim Leavitt yet.”

 The supervisor’s features softened a bit at the mentioning of that name.

 “Yes, we were informed about an hour ago. Naturally if this were a conventional office we’d be passing a card around to send to his next of kin. As it is---all we can do is pray for his soul.”

 “Do you think it’s in jeopardy, Miss Flancher?” Solo asked with a straight face.

 “Not nearly as much as yours, Mr. Solo. But praying for the departed is an old habit of mine. I was an Army nurse in Seoul during the war.”

 So you gave up nursing.”

 The woman’s back stiffened, but only for an instant. Then she surrendered to whatever private guilt she had been carrying around with her all those years.

 “I like a nice orderly work environment, Mr. Solo. But there’s nothing orderly about eighteen year old boys who look like mummies after being hit by white phosphorus. So---I got deeper into the administrative end of the business and---found my niche in life.”

 Solo flashed another diplomatic smile. But this one came from a fellow Korean War veteran.

 “People like you make things work, Miss Flancher. But like a good teacher, you’re rarely understood by the young. They have to grow up first, and then appreciate you with hindsight.”

 “Yes, and in the meantime some of them fall madly in love with men who aren’t worth a Kleenex load of snot. I don’t need men of that sort prowling around my secretarial pool, Mr. Solo. Hormones are another thing that tend to be dis-orderly, and it is my opinion that we should all keep our minds on---“

 Suddenly Kuryakin walked by with a dazzling Latino beauty. The woman’s hair was long and thick; running down the back of a dress that flaunted an hour glass figure. Solo’s eyes went wide, but no wider than Flancher’s.

 “Well I’ll be,” muttered the supervisor.

 “You know Kuryakin?”

 “Is that his name? Never would have guessed that she’d fall for a guy on the job. Damn hormones. Good Lord---he doesn’t even comb his hair.”

 “Could we back up—just a tiny bit, please?” implored Solo.

 “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, Mr. Solo,” the woman said with her usual frosty demeanor, “but if you must know, Ada Castil is my new roommate. Bought herself a ton of cosmetics a few evenings back and some outfits that belong in that trashy night club next door.”

 “But they don’t serve hamburgers,” Solo muttered half to himself. “Where would they go around here for a hamburger?”

 “What? Oh I see. You think you can horn in of that fellow, is that it? Well good luck. Ada maybe honey to a certain species of fly, but she’s also a church going girl. You won’t get to first base with her, Napoleon Solo. “

 Solo let out a grin of embarrassment as Flancher’s voice began to carry and the nearby women all turned their attention to the couple standing before them. Without another word the agent took his leave, opting to dine in the complex since his luck was obviously at a low point.

  Once the top field agent was out of earshot a worker named Sandy brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and said, “I think that blonde guy is cuter than Solo.”

 “He’s a stiff,” argued a Solo fan.

 “His name is Illya, and he’s a musician, and a gymnast. That doesn’t make him a stiff in my book,” said a worker with glasses.

 Suddenly fifteen women were trying to talk over each other as they argued for the better man.

 Flancer stood in the middle of all the caterwauling and looked very much like a general who had just discovered that her troops were not battle worthy.

 “These girls are going to carry firearms,” mused the supervisor. “Waverly, I sure hope you know that the hell you’re doing.”

Chapter Five.

 Illya Kuryakin spotted his new found associate coming out of the U.N.C.L.E. cafeteria quickly caught up with him.

 “Found your appetite?”

 “Fear and grief have something in common. You don’t want either one getting in the way of daily maintenance.”

 The Russian nodded his approval and started them towards the documents section.

 “I’ve been authorized to make the Sleeper a proposition: I get him to South Korea in exchange for the crate numbers that the alleged warheads are stored in. I intend to amend that proposition by insisting that he also help me steal the warheads.”

 “If it were up to me, I would arrange an accident,” responded Solo. Destroying the warheads would be much easier than stealing them.”

 “Agreed, but if I can get my hands on them I’ll be able to find out precisely where they came from.”

 “Don’t tell me: you think it’s another black market deal, just like the nerve gas we had on that airliner we both landed.”

 “That turned out to be a most frustrating investigation, admitted the Russian. “Several heads ended up on KGB platters, but I suspect that they were token  heads.”

 “Is that the reason Waverly gave you the assignment?”

 “In part---but also because I am still an official member of Soviet Military Intelligence. The North Koreans enjoy the company of Soviets in uniform. It assuages their fear that they are about to be abandoned.”

 Solo stopped the Russian at the entrance to the documents section.

 “Mr. Kuryakin, if I were running the United Nations Security Council, I wouldn’t ask the Soviets for anything but caviar. I don’t trust them, or the Chinese, and I never will.”

 The Russian’s gaze was inscrutable; so much so that the American agent made a mental note to never play poker with the man.

 “Mr. Solo, we now work for the United Network Command for Law Enforcement. In my country, treason, black marketeering, and theft are highly frowned upon. They are activities that need to be policed. The Soviet government will help us, so long as it is in their best interest to do so. As I inferred long ago: there are unusual criminal activities taking place that seem to be international in their makeup. Something very large, well organized and well funded.”

 “Yes, I’ve done a bit of reading on the subject since our last meeting,” put in Solo, “but it stands to reason that such activities would be profit motivated. How does one make money by restarting the Korean war?”

 “Well, if such a conflict were to escalate, bringing in China---the weapons manufacturers would---“

 “Kuryakin, did you spend any time at Berkley College by chance?”

 “No. You can’t get an education waving picket signs around all day,” the Russian responded dryly. “People of that sort are always missing a personal goal. I never had that problem.”

 “Good, then I won’t feel compelled to sell my North American Aviation stock,” Solo half joked.

 “I’d invest the money in computers,” said the Russian.

 Solo broke eye contact and gazed down the hall.

 “Jim Leavitt wasn’t trying to steal nuclear artillery rounds when he was killed. Someone marked him for death simply because he stayed on in Kaesong. You need the companionship of someone who is brave, resourceful, steadfast---and lucky enough to land a 707 with no prior experience.”

 Kuryakin joined Solo’s gaze and noted that the American was looking at Ada Castil, who’s back was turned to them at the moment.

 “I believe I shall bow to your irrefutable logic, Mr. Solo. Let us bring the matter to Mr. Waverly’s attention before he goes home for the night.”

 “But you don’t really need me for that, do you?”

 The Latino beauty suddenly turned and brightened at the sight of her new friend and the one called Solo.

 “Oh yes. Now is the time to employ powers of persuasion that are fast becoming legendary.”

 With that, the Russian grabbed hold of Solo’s arm and ushered him in the opposite direction from the smiling Ada.

The North Korean doctor checked the subject again and this time gave a slight nod to the man in uniform. The Pentothal  was now at it’s high mark, and the man in the chair would never be more suggestible than he was at that moment.

 Major Park Tae Hwan turned off the overhead surgical lamp and bent over the semi-conscious prisoner.

 “Your name is Kim Yu-na?”

 “Yes.” (After a slight pause that would precede every answer.)

 “And you wish that someone would help you move to South Korea.”

 “Yes.”

 “Did Jim Leavitt promise to help you move to South Korea?”

 “Don’t----remember.”

 “An American airlines pilot,” pressed the major. “He promised to take you to your parents in Seoul.”

 “Yes.”

 “He was run over by a truck. I will help you in his place. Is that alright?”

 “So---tired.”

 “You will be allowed to sleep. Then I will help you go to South Korea. But first I need to know who else I can call to get help for you.”

 The man in the chair shook his head slightly.

 “No. I’m done. I give you a number---then you kill me quick.”

 “I don’t want to kill you, Kim,” the major said in his kindest tone.

 “Spies are always---shot.”

 Park Tae Hwan turned his back on the prisoner, who’s chin was now resting it his chest.

 “I told you he would not forget where he is,” said the doctor.

 “No need to be defensive, Doctor. You carried out your orders precisely. That is all I intend to put in my report. Now let the prisoner sleep it off.”

 The Army doctor relaxed slightly as the major took his leave. Out side the Kiawah County hospital it was raining cats and dogs, but the man in uniform marched across the poorly draining street with his head held high. Along the opposite curb, an early model Gaz-18 was waiting with the motor running. The major slid into the front passenger seat and pulled out a cigarette.

 “It’s done---and you were right---even with an arm full of truth serum the Sleeper understood that he is totally fucked.”

 The driver smirked at his companion’s somewhat reluctant admission.

 “Of course. He’s had a number of years to come to grips with what he is. A Sleeper finds himself a wife; sometimes he even has kids. Works hard and is a model citizen until that day when duty calls. They are the strangest operatives on this Earth, and they upset a great many people when they finally show their true colors. It is our great good fortune that this Kim Yu-na decided that he didn’t want to waste anymore of his life in this shit hole of a country.”

 “Unless he’s doing exactly what his southern masters have ordered him to do,” theorized the major.

 “Yes, I admit that there is that possibility, but if that is the case, the cards will fall down somewhere in the south, where we have naught to do with anything.”

 Song Jin Woo was a well fed if somewhat plain looking man in his forties. He always wore a Mao suit when he wasn’t entertaining someone’s half starved sister or daughter. Like the major, he despised the poverty of North Korea, and had no intention of remaining in his native land to the end of his wayward days.

 “So what happens if a bigger fish gets hold of our prisoner before I can arrange for his escape?” asked the major.

 “The people we are now working with will not let that happen,” Woo assured his companion.

 “That would be nice---but it is a little bit like promising me that the south will someday only be inhabited by women.”

 The driver was about to suggest that Park Tae Hwan forget about South Korean women, but then thought better of it as they rumbled down a street that was strewn with rain filled potholes.

Chapter Six

                                       Somewhere over North Korean Air Space.                             

“This is the last one,” promised the long haired naval commander. “Napichite pazhalusta.”

 The man attired as a Russian warrant officer re-checked the empty seats around him before answering, “I’m supposed to write something down.”

 The commander nodded while gazing out the window at the city of Pyongyang as it looked from an altitude of ten-thousand feet. When the two uniformed men first boarded the Air Koryo turbo-prop, the junior officer smiled mischievously and said, “If anything happens to the pilots, I’m just going to open the back door and jump out when the crate is about ten feet above the ground.”

 “And I will taxi the plane back to your grease spot after setting the plane down,” the commander then responded.

 Such low volume frivolity was possible only because a full two-thirds of all the seats on the aircraft were unoccupied. That and the fact that the Korean passengers were treating the alleged Russians as if they had body odor. As unnatural as it seemed, that included a buxom blonde bombshell that had been sitting in front of the commander. She had spent most of the flight with her nose in a fashion catalog, but when the plane finally taxied to a stop, the woman got to her feet and fell into position between the two naval officers.

 Kuryakin had introduced her as Galina Bogdanovich. He had recruited her through his contacts as a part time member of the Soviet Naval Intelligence network. Solo only knew that she was drop dead gorgeous and seemed to have ice water in her veins. There was something especially odd about the woman, something Solo couldn’t quite put his finger on. But apparently she had passed muster with his Russian partner, so she had to be well qualified for the assignment.

  A driver was waiting for them in the terminal reception area. He would have recognized the so called Russians, even if they had been wearing civilian garb, but the sight of the woman caused the driver to frown in puzzlement.

 “Commander Kuryakin; I was not told that there would be three of you, sir.”

 “Don’t be alarmed, Gil, she is a part of the operation.”

 “That means you can speak freely,” Solo elaborated. “Where is Kim Yu-na?”

 “I’ve got some bad news,” said the driver. “Yu-na hasn’t been transferred to the capital---at least not yet. General Kwan-jin’s office was informed of the arrest yesterday morning, but for some reason, the prisoner is still in Kiawah County hospital. I can’t explain it. Normally whenever a spy is caught anywhere in the country, he or she is immediately transported to the capital.”

 Napoleon let out a sigh.

 “Well, we’ve got to go through with the performance, then hopefully get out of here on the next flight to Chita.”

 “I don’t wish to give up so easily,” said Kuryakin.

 “It makes no difference to me, as long as I am allowed to hold up my end and get paid for services rendered,” stated the woman.

 Solo noted that the young Korean was both curious, and visibly aroused. That was one amusing thing about native operatives. When in the company of Americans, they tried to act American. Even when speaking with an U.N.C.L.E.  agent who could speak their language, they still tried to be hip.

 “Alright, we’ll play it by ear. Gil, take us in.”

 Ten minutes later the government car pulled up in front of The Bureau of Internal Security.

 Illya and the woman got out together, but Solo hung back to have a last quiet word with the Korean driver.

 “This whole thing is supposed to work on the premise that Colonel Choe Deok-sin keeps his brains between his legs. I just want to know if there’s any danger he might want to borrow the prisoner to conduct his own field study work.”

 The driver gave a helpless shrug.

 “It has happened before, but Doek-sin is supposed to be scared shitless of General Kwan-jin, and the general tries very hard to get along with the Russians.”

 “You sure the general won’t get back before we’re done here?”

 “Eh, that’s more likely than you know, sir. He was called to meet with Kim ll-sung yesterday and hasn’t been heard from since.”

 “Nuts,” breathed Solo as he turned to catch up with the genuine Russians.

 In the reception area the trio were greeted by Captain Lee Sang-eui who like most honest North Koreans, was a tad on the thin side. They were quickly ushered down to the subterranean level of the complex, which consisted mostly of storage rooms and improvised offices for the lowest ranking officials. Each chamber measured sixteen feet square and smelled of moldy concrete and rusty pipes. Colonel Choe Deok-sin was found occupying a chamber that was somewhat isolated from the windowless offices.

 He rose from his padded chair and extended a hand to greet the two Russian officers.

 “Commander Kuryakin, I apologize for General Kwan-jin’s absence, and the fact that I must greet you in this miserable hole in the ground. Be assured that after this business is concluded, Captain Sang-eui will take you to our best hotel where you will experience the full measure of The People’s gratitude.”

 Kuryakin’s smile seemed a bit brittle, but then the room wasn’t exactly filled with diplomats.

 “Colonel Deok-sin, this is---a somewhat awkward development. I was given to understand that I would be meeting with the general. We came here to show him something of an extraordinary nature.”

 “Consider yourself in his presence, Commander. I am the general’s right hand man, and I have his complete trust.”

As a mere underling, Solo was able to ignore the colonel’s flawless Russian. He was also able to scan the particulars of the chamber. (Which didn’t require a whole lot of scanning.) A heavy chair fitted with arm and leg restraints was positioned in the middle of the room. It, and the chair that Deok-sin had borrowed were the only pieces of furniture in the chamber.

 “As it stands, Colonel, I am not in a position to return to Moscow with a syringe full of Vereorian X. Therefore I shall---reluctantly--- follow through with my assignment.”

 “Your misgivings will be assuaged when General Kwan-jin finally speaks with you,” the colonel fairly beamed with confidence.

 Solo looked past the well nourished but athletic body. The perfectly tailored uniform and the western style hair cut. He looked for and saw the son of a bitch that he had been briefed about. He prayed that Kuryakin was really on top of this whole thing, because Solo had never done anything in his life that he was truly ashamed of, and he didn’t want to ruin his perfect record in a North Korean basement.

 “Comrade, if you would be so kind,” Kuryakin then said while gesturing to the center chair.

 Solo took the woman by the arm and with moderate force positioned her in the chair. While fastening the straps he made the mistake of looking directly into the Russian’s dark blue eyes. Then he blinked as the woman spat squarely on his nose.

 “Her name is Galina Bogdanovich, and four months ago she killed her husband by driving an ice pick into his left eye socket,” stated Kuryakin. She also decapitated a neighbor’s dog some years before that, but my only point is that she is not what you would describe as, faint of heart.”

 The commander then took from his shirt pocket a small leather case that held a pair of 3ML syringes that had been designed to be carried in the field by combat medics. One was removed from the case and without ceremony, shaved against the arm of the Russian shrew.

 “I might also mention that she is not an amiable traveling companion, but she is intelligent enough to understand that every day away from Moscow is a day without blood stains on the back of her head.”

 “Virgins make the worst authority figures,” the prisoner muttered just loud enough so the Koreans could hear her.

 Kuryakin created an evil looking smile and gestured for the Koreans to draw closer to the Slavic spitfire. The woman’s expression turned guarded, then slightly apprehensive. She strained against the back of her chair as Deok-sin drew closer, and then suddenly every man in the room was gazing at an entirely different personality.

 “What comment did you just make?” queried the senior Russian. “Something about virgins?”

 The woman shook her head slightly, then her eyes filled with panic. She did recall making that joke, but for all the world she could not comprehend why she would do such a thing.

 “I—I didn’t mean it. I swear I don’t know why---“

 “You questioned my manhood three times on the plane. Do you remember?”

 “Like in a bad dream the female prisoner did remember, but she could no longer identify with the strength of will that had made such insults possible.

 “Comrade Kuryakin,” she began with a trembling voice, “a madness took hold of me. I swear to you sir, that I would never deliberately—“

 Kuryakin, who was now towering over the prisoner, struck out with the speed of a cobra.

 The woman half shrieked and her eyes lost their focus.

 “You also said back at the Moscow airport that if I saw your breasts, I would have an adolescent accident. Do you remember saying that?”

 The naval officer then grabbed a fist full of blouse and pulled with all his strength. The prisoner wasn’t wearing a bra, and the Koreans were mesmerized by the brutish unveiling, and oblivious to the hysterical sobbing that was now taking place.

 Solo focused on his partner, mindful that it was all an act, but also concerned that it might evolve into something else.

 “Are you ever going to spit on me again?” asked Kuryakin.

 “The woman was too engulfed in her fear and grief to answer. She simply shook her head as the tears continued to pour down.

 The commander then turned to Deok-sin and said, “It might interest you to know that this woman was severely beaten shortly after her arrest, yet she remained defiant.”

 “Impressive,” said Deok-sin, who kept his eyes on the prisoner. “And how very good of you to be willing to share such boon with those who have little to offer in return.”

 “That is easily explained,” said the commander. “The Soviet government acknowledges the possibility that hostilities here in Korea could resume at some future date. There are people in my government who would like to have a highly receptive ear in the Korean intelligence section. Of course, it is possible that our respective governments will not always be on the best of terms. China, after all, is an ally that needs to be placated. But if your department and my department can maintain a symbiotic relationship---that is all that matters.”

 The colonel nodded, but still kept his eyes on the woman, who was now beginning to get control of herself, albeit ever so slowly.

 “I see now why you wanted the general here. But fear not, you make no mistake confiding in me.”

 “What a pity you have no actual turncoats for us to medicate,” Kuryakin said with his usual cool expression. Cowing a murderess is one thing, but breaking a genuine article---well, obviously that would have made for a better demonstration.”

 With slightly trembling hands, the woman slowly buttoned her blouse, and may or may not have helped the colonel with his thinking processes.

 “Actually---there is a traitor under guard over in Kiawah County Hospital. He should have been transported here by now. I must confess I am at a lost to understand why he’s still in some back water band aid stand---“

 “Could we go to him?” asked Kuryakin.

 “Well, you are of course free to travel anywhere you desire,” responded the colonel, “but it would be simpler to have the prisoner brought here.”

 “Yes but that doesn’t seem to be happening,” Kuryakin pointed out.

 “Sadly, that is the way things stand,” admitted the colonel, who was secretly pleased that this would reflect on his superior and not on him. “It would be best if I could get a filming crew to document your interview with the prisoner. Perhaps your presence will shake the tree, so to speak and help me find out why the transfer of the prisoner has not taken place. We have never encountered this problem before.”

 “Very good,” said Kuryakin. “I’m sure we can rely on your local authorities to hold this Madam Bogdanovich until we can place her on the next available flight to Moscow. Escorting officers will be on hand to take custody of her.”

 “There would be less red tape if I had her confined in my building,” Deok-sin said with a calm that belied his true feelings.

 “But your office complex is across town I believe. This headquarters building is much closer to the airport,” the Russian pointed out.

 “When is the next flight to Moscow?” asked the colonel.

 “In six hours and twenty minutes.

 “Ah, then distance does not matter. I must return to my office, and my people can have the prisoner back here in time to catch the flight.”

 “No doubt,” said Kuryakin, “but since I am responsible for the prisoner, it would look better if she remained close at hand until she leaves for Moscow. Whatever issues you may have with Kiawah County, could very well drag on at least that long.”

 “I can have you and your aide on a small plane bound for Kiawah in twenty minutes,” declared Deok-sin when the prisoner decided to readjust her clothing. “I can state quite emphatically that those back water buffoons would not dare oppose visiting dignitaries at their very door step.”

 “And you are certain that she will not miss her flight? It would be very awkward for me if that were to happen.”

 “Rest assured, Comrade, the woman will not miss her flight,” pledged the colonel, who would waste no time on the formality of a bed

 “Well then, if you would be so kind as to jot down directions to the light plane, I will hand them to our driver and we will be off,” said Kuryakin.

 Solo, who had naught to do but look subservient during the Russian conversation, had plenty to say back in the car when he found out where Bogdanovich would be heading.

 “You know Kuryakin, when our business here is concluded, I’m going to arrange a three way meeting between you and Mr. Right Fist and Mr. Left Fist. Then I’m going to get you bounced out of the organization---but that comes after the beating.”

 Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was a man of medium size, but he was an accomplished gymnast, as well as a martial artist. His whole body was one tight muscle, and he couldn’t remember the last time he lost a fight. Would that matter to Solo if he knew? Undoubtedly not.

 “There’s something you need to know about Galina Bogdanovich.”

 “What? That she read the fine print at the bottom of the U.N.C.L.E. recruiting brochure where it says she might get raped?” asked Solo.

 “Americans never cease to amaze me,” the blonde muttered half to himself. “That Cowboy code of morality that places a rather heavy burden on women when you think about it.”

 “We’ll see how philosophical you are with a broken nose,” responded Solo.

 The driver grinned and the Russian let out a deep sigh.

 Bogdanovich is a prostitute and has stared in several adult films. Uh---what you would call skin flicks.”

 Solo gazed suspiciously at his associate.

 “You’re saying that she’s doing this just for money.”

 For a gigantic pile of money,” amended the Russian. “After today she’ll be able to enter the fashion industry as a clothes designer.”

 Solo’s eyes became somewhat apologetic.

 “Well---I certainly wish her good fortune---but I think she’ll find that you need more than just starting capital to break into the business. She’s going to need a bit of mentoring.”

 “I promised to help her,” Kuryakin stated in an even tone.

 “Will wonders never cease,” responded Solo. “Do you have a sister in the business or something?”

 “Or something,” muttered the enigmatic Russian.

 Solo’s face was still registering puzzlement when the car reached the light aircraft section of the airport.

Chapter Seven.

 The New York City police officer voided the three cups of coffee that had kept him awake thus far and then picked up his gun belt. He repositioned it around a waist that had grown a few inches since being transferred to the warehouse district, and trudged heavily back towards his car. At first the area had spooked him a little. Faint gunshots could be heard from time to time, but no matter how many times the buildings at Grant St and McKinney got searched, the result was always the same.

 No bodies ever turned up. Hell, no one would ever find so much as a broken window. The closest operating street gang would sometimes be seen in the vicinity, but if they were perpetrating anything illegal, they were doing a splendid job of keeping it secret. So now police protection amounted to urinating behind a dumpster that never saw any use. In actuality the Jefferson Warehouse complex was owned by a dummy corporation, and the reason their property never got vandalized was because the Silver Dragons were paid to prowl around the neighborhood, keeping vagrants out, so a police officer could take a leak in private.

 The people who paid for so much peace and quiet were always there; one level below the actual basement. They were connected to an abandoned subway tunnel and could always rely on certain city maintenance workers to change a burned out light bulb, or possibly look the other way when a corpse had to be removed.

 At the moment twenty-eight men were sitting in a improvised conference room, patiently waiting to learn why each of them had received a one-thousand dollar bill in the mail, an engraved invitation to earn more money, and a chauffeured limousine ride to this place under the city. Their host speaker appeared with cups of coffee about one minute after the guests arrived. He appeared athletic, especially decked out in his turtle neck shirt and leather jacket.

 He scanned the assembly with a knowing smile. They were all curious, and very very cautious.

 “Gentlemen, my name is Dominic Korchek, and I hope to recruit each and everyone of you for a very special job.”

 “You need twenty-eight guys to repair television sets?” asked a plain looking man in a windbreaker. “Cause that’s what I do for a living.”

 Korchek smiled politely and said, “That’s your cover job Mr. Schnieder. But on the average of three times a year you go somewhere in these United States----and you kill someone.”

 The two men stared hard at each other until the guest finally said, “Hey, Man, I don’t want to hear any more of this stuff. If you work for the mob, you can tell em for me that I’ll keep quiet about this here mistake. You can have your money back too. Just let me outta here.”

 “You killed an accountant named Darrel Lang on the 22^nd of last month,” Mr. Schnieder. We have a photograph of you standing in front of a bookstore not two-hundred feet from where the job was done. That pretty much goes for everyone in this room---but that’s not what we’re here to talk about.”

 “You got something on each of us?” queried a man who was sitting in front of Schnieder. “Ya know, that could be real dangerous stuff to be holding.”

 “I don’t think so,” replied Korchek

 As if in response to some unheard signal, a section of brick wall swung inward and six men rushed into the room. Each man was wearing a strange set of combat coveralls and a black beret. More importantly, every man was carrying a very impressive looking assault rifle. Korchek extended a hand and was given one of the rifles.

 “It’s a beauty isn’t it? It was built on the M2 carbine design, except the barrel and action are made of a special alloy that is heat resistant. The action can kick out eight-hundred rounds per minute, but as you can see, it can do a whole lot more than just shoot fast.”

 Each man stared knowingly at the telescopic sight that was mounted on the top of the assault rifle. Moreover, there was an object perched over the “scope,” which vaguely resembled an automobile head light. It was an Infrared targeting device, that enabled the shooter to see the heat of a human body, either in the dark, or in smoke.

 “Some of you will be issued this weapon, while others will be given semi-auto loading shotguns. You will be wearing gas masks, and just before the assault begins, a large quantity of mustard gas will be fired into the entrance of the target facility. While I cannot promise you that there will be no casualties, I can say that the odds will be very heavily in your favor.”

 “No one has mentioned money yet,” put in a gentleman wearing smoked glasses.

 Korchek promptly took out a seven pound ingot of gold and allowed the man with the glasses to examine it.

 “24 karat?” inquired the handler.

 “I’d be real embarrassed if it wasn’t,” replied Korchek.

 “Why pay us in gold?” asked a man who had recently pushed someone in front of a train.

 “It’s just a temporary thing. We ran into this really well equipped treasure hunter. He had a salvage ship, and this great big vacuum cleaner that sucked stuff up off the ocean floor. Very cool operation. But he didn’t give enough thought to pirates. Funny how some really smart people have such a low sense of caution.”

 “Speaking of caution: what happens to those of us who opt out of this job you’re planning?” asked the only black man in the group.

 “Our organization is not only international in scope, but also possesses a very impressive pharmaceutical division. We give you a dose of new and improved benzodiazepine Enough to confuse a horse. It might not leave you as sharp as you were before, but it’s better than being dead.”

 “I want in,” said a man in a black leather jacket, “but this is a very strange hiring set up. It’s kind of hard to believe that you only want us for one job.”

 “Oh I never said that,” corrected the host. “I just didn’t see any point in bringing up the subject of continued employment until after you’ve demonstrated your ability to work as a cohesive unit.”

 “But if we do become what you call, a cohesive outfit, what would full time employment be like in this organization of yours?” queried a man in a jogging suit.

 “Well, why don’t I just show you the film now,” said Korchek as he handed back the rifle and then pulled down a hanging movie shade.

 A minute later a stream of light was emanating from a wall portal, and at least two dozen men were showing at least a grudging interest in the particulars of the color film. It showed a tropical resort community where people were playing golf, scuba diving and shooting trap. Seventy per cent of the population was female, and one-hundred per cent of those women were beautiful.

 “This is where you would live between assignments, Gents. You’ll be flown there immediately after this up coming mission is completed. I would also like to mention that no matter where we send you in the world, you’ll never see the inside of a jail. You’ll be under the protection of the organization. I won’t deny that you’ll be giving up some personal freedom, but I think you’ll find that it’s a step upward for all of you.”

 Schnieder looked very thoughtful when the film suddenly showed four naked women getting into a hot tub.

 “We don’t pay for the action do we?”

 “No---and there’s only one rule concerning them: Don’t talk shop with them. Let them think that you’re working for the Mafia.”

 “But who are we working for?” asked the man with the leather jacket.

 “A new firm,” said Korchek as he went to turn off the projector.

 “With Swiss bank accounts for it’s employees?” asked the man in the jogging suit.

 “Oh you don’t want to keep you earnings in one of those,” said Korchek.

 “Why not?” asked a puzzled hit man.

 “Because sooner or later---we’re going to get around to robbing them.”

 Two black clad figures stood poised to exit the open hospital window. That window had been draped with straight iron bars until twenty minutes ago. Now the two center bars were bent outward, because of a device that worked much like a car jack. One of the men advanced on the portal but was pulled back by the other, who was experienced enough to wait until a large cloud could drift over the moon and cast a deeper gloom over the south face of the building.

 The decision had it’s drawbacks. The two men were fighting the clock, as well as the security forces that were in and around the building. They had a lot to do in that single night and their operational plans were sketchy at best. Still, they waited for the cloud before making their way to the roof top, and the guide wire that extended from the roof to a large tree. Down below a man waited behind the wheel of a tall truck, and at precisely the right moment, the engine came to life and the truck rolled up under the wire that ran at a steep angle.

 The men rode the wire down to the point where they could land a top the truck. The now liberated prisoner remained on the roof, but Illya Kuryakin brazenly climbed down the side of the moving vehicle and then effortlessly slipped through the passenger window. The driver stole a side glance at the acrobatic feat and rolled his eyes in disapproval.

 “I hope nobody saw that.”

 “Are the street people all government agents?” Kuryakin asked with a slight grin.

 “Of course not. Just one out of four,” replied the driver.

 Suddenly Napoleon Solo poked his head through a canvass partition and duplicated the driver’s unhappy look.

 “Is Kim Yu-na on the roof?”

 “Of course he is. Didn’t you hear us both land?”

 “I thought I heard two distinct thumps,” admitted Solo, “but why didn’t you stay up there with him?”

 “Sleeper Agents are quite accustomed to being alone. If he could get through an interrogation without me, I suspect he is capable of doing without my company for the moment.”

 Solo turned away from the Russian. He wasn’t in the mood for another petty argument.

 Sung Moon, I found the sleep darts for one gun kit but not the other.”

 “You have to share. Four rounds per man. Sorry, that’s all they shipped me.”

 “Well---if we need more than that, we’ll probably be in a situation where killing is necessary,” said Napoleon.

 “No. We’ll have to withdraw and head for the Russian Embassy. My people in naval intelligence will get us out of the country, but we would be wise not to kill any Korean soldiers before then.”

 “You think you could manage that, Sung Moon?” Solo queried.

 The driver frowned at the dark road ahead of him.

 “We’re going to Kaesong. In case you don’t know, the capital is in the opposite direction. Damn long drive, even if you got plenty of gas. If it comes to that, it means that the plan has fallen apart. If that happens, we better be able to prove that we weren’t after atomic bombs.”

 “Did you hear that, Mr. Kuryakin? Sung Moon doesn’t want to go to Pyongyang. Our stout hearted guide doesn’t see that as a viable option. I hope you don’t find that too disconcerting.”

 “Hey, this is no joking matter you guys. I smuggle guns, currencies, and medicines---but this is a different kind of game all together. Anybody capable of shipping atomic weapons through this part of the world, might also have enough clout to nab us before we get half way to any damn embassy.”

 “But as you pointed out, we will only be in that sort of trouble if we acquire the weapons,” said Kuryakin.

 “And we need to acquire them,” added Solo. “If they reach their intended destination, they will most likely end up being used.”

 “Most likely as an instrument of coercion. Restarting a war makes no sense.”

 Solo shook his head sadly and resumed his work in the back.

 One hour later the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were performing a perimeter creep of the target area. A modest soap factory sitting on a twenty acre site of tall weeds and natural depressions. A chilly wind was coming off the nearby mountains, but the grounds were well suited for skulking after dark. Solo advanced to form a clockwise circle, while Illya circled around counter-clockwise. They linked up at the edge of a garbage dump, some two-hundred yards from the east wall of the soap factory.

 “Find anything?” whispered Solo as he scratched a spot on his blackened face.

 “A camera panning two walls. Nothing more.”

 “Same with me. How much time to get to your entrance?”

 “Give me ten minutes,” whispered the Russian.

 Solo nodded and then worked his way around to a dumpster that was fifty feet from a back entrance. Working by moonlight, he removed the fifteen shot magazine that fitted into the pistol grip of his weapon, then pulled back on the action while lifting on a small locking lever. Now the weapon was set to take a breech load. The first round would be a “bug” cartridge, then a bit later, the sleep darts would be employed. All delivered with a pin point accuracy that was essential to a commando’s purpose. The U.N.C.L.E. Special could be fitted with an extra long magazine, a barrel extension, a silencer, and a shoulder stock. But the most important feature in this case was the telescopic sight that was also attached to the weapon. With it, an agent could shoot the nuts off a squirrel, as it were. Solo’s target was a bit larger than that. He aimed for the camera lens that slowly panned right and left.

 The silencer spat out its first utility projectile; the likes of which few men had ever seen. Inside the soap factory a man was monitoring the outside security cameras, and because dereliction to duty was a capital offense, the viewing screen was never unattended. When a large insect splattered out across the camera lens, the plain clothes guard shook his head in disgust and called for his senior partner.

 “Look at that,” growled the guard. “How am I supposed to look past that?”

 “Well, we get relieved in another three and a half hours. Maybe those guys can get the cameras cleaned off in the daylight. I’ll keep an eye on the outside myself until then.”

 Back outside both Illya and Solo were utilizing another little item that Sung Moon the smuggler had brought them. A tooth paste tube full of expansive mortar powder that would break a simple locking mechanism when exposed to air. Not quite as interesting as the gelatin bug bullet that had just been used, but every bit as reliable.

 Once inside both agents breech loaded their weapons with sleep darts and began their hunt for the men who stood between them and a shipment of death. Illya got a break. The two men on his side of the building were separated, so he had plenty of time to drop his first man and then breech load a second dart. This was necessary since the sleep darts did not use enough gunpowder to work the semi-automatic action.

 Solo was not so fortunate. His two adversaries stayed together, and both had Schmeisser sub-machine guns dangling from their shoulders. The U.N.C.L.E. agent took out something that looked like a pen. He pulled one end out and flipped it around before reattaching it. The other end held an antenna that needed to be extended. He placed the device on the top of a packing crate, then quickly moved to a spot where he could sight in on the heavily armed men. Then he placed his cross hairs on the more alert looking of the two and slowly squeezed the trigger of his beefed up pistol. The dart flew into the side of the man’s neck, causing him to stagger for a second before crashing to the floor.

 The other man came up with is machine pistol at the ready. Solo quickly reloaded and was gratified that the communicator had not started beeping before the first man could be taken down. Now the guard advanced with caution in the direction of the almost musical sound. Solo gave him plenty of time to close the distance. He knew that if he showed himself too soon, the gunman would likely spot him and send an entire box of shells through the flimsy crates that the agent was hiding behind.

 When the time felt right, Solo brought his weapon out so that he was peering along the side of the telescopic sight. When he saw his target, he went to the cross hairs and zeroed in on the man’s vulnerable neck. The guard for his part also found his target, and swung the machine pistol around without any need to employ sights. The guard vaguely felt something bite into neck, but it didn’t stop him from squeezing off a burst. Solo hit the deck, then rolled onto his back to jam the ammo mag back into the weapon where it belonged.

 “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” he thought to himself as he prepared to fire lethal rounds at the better armed opponent.

 But that wasn’t necessary. The guard was found flat on his back with the smoking weapon at his side. Napoleon retrieved his communicator pen and then grimly made his way toward the center of the factory. He had screwed up (sort of) but perhaps the gunfire would serve the Russian as a proper diversion. Solo almost tripped over one of Kuryakin’s victims, and was further startled when a large loading dock door began to open.

 “How could you be so sure that I won?” he asked the Russian when he finally reached him.

 “I assumed nothing. The bay door needed to be opened, whether you remained alive or not,” explained the Russian. “Still—it seemed likely that one burst of fire would not be enough to do you in. John Wayne upbringing and all.”

 The truck backed up to the bay door with Kim Yu-na cautiously peering out the back end of the vehicle. A Russian burp gun hung from his shoulder, and he didn’t relax until he was able to cast a flashlight beam on the men he was depending on.

 “Takes us to the merchandise,” instructed Solo.

 Kim Yu-na lead the way running. Shots had been fired after all, and that meant they needed to move with haste. Solo was somewhat grieved to learn that there were four crates that needed to be moved. Each was two-thirds the size of a refrigerator and weighed about three-hundred pounds.

 “Any idea what the bore size might be?” asked Solo while Kim hustled to start up a fork truck.

 “155 mm or better,” guessed the Russian. “These things are always prototypes; which means they can’t be used in just any field piece of the same size. I need to open one of the crates and look inside before we take it away….”

 Solo waited calmly while the fork truck driver fidgeted in his seat.

 “Is it the Real Mc Coy?” Solo finally prompted.

 “What? Oh—yes, or a very impressive replica.”

 “I suppose the gun we’re talking about is on a mountain overlooking Seoul. But who in the hell wants to restart the war?”

 “Whoever is responsible for this shipment will get us closer to an answer,” said Kuryakin. “I’ve got the last depot location before the shipment left the U.S.S.R. I’ll get to work on that as soon as transport is completed.”

 “You mean as soon as we’ve pulled off another miracle,” muttered Solo as the fork truck advanced to take its first load. “This could be even trickier than landing that plane we were on.”

 “I shall defer to the gentleman loading the truck,” Kuryakin responded. “He doesn’t look like the sort of fellow who would go out on a suicide mission.”

 “Yes, that is encouraging, but let’s hope that he’s not playing a long odds game because his wife needs an appendix taken out.”

 As it happened, Sung Moon’s wife did need some anti-biotic medicines, but that only served to make the Korean more determined to avoid capture. Napoleon discovered just how determined when they rolled off the property and found a government car on their tail.

 “Nothing like the sound of machine gun fire to convince the local constabulary that something is amiss,” whispered Kuryakin to himself.

 “I should have known that I would never leave this country alive,” grumbled Yu-na.

 The driver quickly pulled on what looked like a parking brake, but it was actually a home made device that opened a box that was mounted to the undercarriage of the truck. The box contained nearly one-thousand spike balls, designed to tumble under the wheels of a pursuing vehicle and puncture the tires.

 “Do communist auto clubs cover that sort of thing?” asked Solo as the pursuit vehicle rolled into a ditch.

 “All they have to do is radio ahead,” Yu-na grimly pointed out. “The further south we go, the more guards we’ll have to deal with.”

 “This truck is equipped with a special jamming transmitter,” boasted the smuggler. “I was not willing to wager my life on your ability to over power the guards without any shots being fired.”

 “But in all likelihood, that will only help us until we’re about half way to the border,” surmised Kuryakin. “Then we will need to alter our plans in some manner.”

 “Yes. Another truck, hauling a fake load of concrete blocks. But our chances of getting to it were better before that machine gun went off.”

 “It’ll be in my report---assuming that I live long enough to submit one,” Napoleon said without resentment.

 The next six miles were traveled in silence; each man thinking of his weapon every time a pair of headlights approached from the south. Just as dawn was breaking they took a side road that lead up to a huge Quonset hut like structure. The truck was helped inside by a man who had been waiting, while preparing the vehicle that would now be driven out the opposite end of the barn.

 The U.N.C.L.E. agents stared at the replacement truck with interest, while the Koreans transferred the all important cargo. The truck was an ordinary flat bed, but the back end was now covered by a hollow shell that twenty men could easily stand up in. The outside of the shell was stone tiled; carved and painted in such a manner as to make it appear as if the truck was hauling a huge pile of concrete blocks. But the shell probably weighed no more than half a ton.

 “Yes. The surface is very authentic looking,” admitted Kuryakin, “but an observant guard might notice that the tires are well rounded, for a vehicle that is supposed to be hauling so much weight.”

 “Well, we could let some of the air out.”

 “No,” responded Sung Moon. “We will pray instead that the security forces along the DMZ are not as perceptive as Mr. Kuryakin. Of course, the ones I am paying can be as smart as they wish, when I’m not passing through.”

 “Passing through what---exactly?” asked Solo.

 “The mountain pass area south of where we are now. Patrol units that prowl the foot hill area on this side of the DMZ, then return to Kaesong to be relieved. Now if the three of you would be so kind as to get into the back, I’ll seal the back portion of our shell and get us started. Oh—there’s an intercom set up so you can speak to me as we’re travelling, and what I consider a truly praiseworthy system of mirrors that act like a periscope, so you can look around a bit.”

 “Is there a piss bucket?” asked Kim Yu-na.

 “In the corner.”

 “It still amazes me that anyone could come up with a smuggling route that does an end run around the established DMZ check points,” Solo marveled as he took his place on a bench seat. “I would have bet anything that it would be impossible.”

 “Who said anything about an end run?” asked the driver before slamming a heavy hatch door shut.

 Solo frowned at the question, then turned to his Russian associate.

 “Am I the only one who feels that he’s been left out of the loop?”

 Kuryakin showed just the slightest hint of amusement.

 “Top secret information is given out on a need to know basis.”

 “Uh-huh. So what’s your point?”

 “Well, the North Korean government is engaged in tunneling efforts some two-hundred feet below ground. The Soviet government has known about this for quite some time now.”

 “And you have plans to borrow such a tunnel so that we can bring atomic weapons into the south?” Solo asked incredulously.

 “Of course not. North Korean facilities are no more use to us than the Pillars of Hercules. I agreed to go along with this effort because we have our own tunnel. Not as grandiose as any of the government projects but at least we don’t need to share it with anyone.”

 Napoleon Solo’s jaw tightened for a moment. Then he asked, “Does Waverly know about this?”

 “No, but the fact that I knew about the tunnel beforehand will be in my report to him. How he will respond to the information is of course, anyone’s guess.”

 “And does Soviet Naval Intelligence normally handle things like Korean tunnels?”

 “It does when one of its operatives needs help getting atomic weapons out of the country.”

 Then as an after thought the Russian said, “Perhaps Mr. Waverly should have explained to you that not all intel is collected by people how own stock in IBM.”

 “I don’t see what the stock market has to do with anything,” Solo muttered while squinting at a mirror and noting a significant change in the terrain.

 They had been traveling southeast under the shadow of Mt. Samgak-san with the mountain on their left, and a rolling green low land to their right. Now the lowland was about to spread out as they drove clear of the mountain pass area. Solo spotted an observation post in the middle of the thus far visible low land. He had been told that the little watch towers were set up one-thousand yards apart, the length of the DMZ.

 “What exactly are we supposed to be doing with our non-existent concrete blocks?”

 “I had papers that state that a new bunker is being constructed some forty yards from the tunnel entrance. Also, there just happens to be a tree growing between the entrance and the nearest observation tower. We’ll be alright.”

 “That is the assumption, but I wouldn’t what to participate in any future operations,” said Napoleon. “I think this is all pretty reckless.”

 “And final. This is my last job. I’ve made enough from this one to set up a business in the south. My wife and kids are coming over by sea,” stated Sung Moon.

 “Fishing boat?” asked Solo.

 “Soviet sub, actually,” muttered Kuryakin.

 “Waverly’s reading material is piling up. Well, at least they don’t have to follow us through the tunnel,” said Solo.

 “Fact is, I was tempted to sell the location to a guy who stiffed me a while back, but then I sort of got religion. Anyway, this thing is so big, I couldn’t stand the idea of pulling off the job and then returning to a home that might get raided. So, I’m sticking with you guys. Next stop: up that a way.”

 The truck pulled off the highway and started bouncing it’s way across a thousand acres of tilled farm land. Solo retained his sense of foreboding. There just wasn’t enough tree cover to satisfy him, and he had trouble believing that two military powers could confront one another in the middle of a peninsula and yet turn a blind eye to all this open ground.

 “I’ve seen more than one army transport stuck in Korean mud. Hope we make it to wherever we’re going.”

 “Oh hell yes. I paid the farmers to keep this trail hard. Of course you have to be on top of it to see that it’s drivable.  A lot of water comes off the mountain this time of year. I’ve even seen tanks get stuck around here. But that all contributes to the project---and there she is, Gents.”

 The truck crawled up to a crude construction site where the beginnings of a structure were in place. Sung Moon stopped the truck and ran around to open the back hatch.

 “Ok, I got a block and tackle set up to get the crates down the hole. One of you guide me while I back this thing up.”

 Solo bailed out first and scanned his surroundings with a wary eye. They looked to be about a mile from the DMZ, but in plain sight of anyone with a strong pair of binoculars. He didn’t like that one damn bit. Kuryakin beat him to the hole in the ground, where a ring of camouflage netting hid a short block and tackle stand that straddled the hole. An ingenious system of roller ramps were employed to get the crates off the truck and onto the tackle weight bearing straps. In twenty tension filled minutes, all four crates were at the bottom of the hole, where the men could proceed on the last leg of the mission.

 “Rail road tracks,” the sleeper agent said with a voice that echoed down the length of the five foot high tunnel. “Very impressive, Mr. Moon.”

 “Got them from an amusement park,” the smuggler said with a grin. The four of us need to transfer two of the crates onto this second cart, then we can start rolling them to the other end of the tunnel. I’ll just climb back up and move the truck back to the block house foundation. That way it won’t attract attention for quite a while.”

 Four backs strained as one, then the U.N.C.L.E. agents turned on their flashlights and found that the little rail cars could be pushed easily enough down the tracks. They got about thirty yards when a breathless Sung Moon shouted at them from the end of the tunnel.

 “Soldiers coming. Get a move on. I’ll try and block the entrance with the truck!”

 The agents commenced to push with all their strength, but Yu-na ran back and climbed the ladder that had been sunk into the vertical shaft. He caught up with Sung Moon before he could climb back into the cab.

 “Let me do it. My wife died of cancer and my son is a hard core communist. He would spit on me now. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to leave like this anyway.”

 The smuggler stood for a moment poised on a fence between idealism and the much beloved practical.

 “You have no idea what paradise is waiting for you on the other side of this tunnel, Yu-na. A man like you could build a glorious life with one hand tied behind his back.”

 “You do it.”

 Moon hesitated and Yu-na drew his pistol and put it to his own temple.

 “Is it going to be a single sacrifice, or double?”

 The smuggler let out a quick sigh and headed back to the hole. Yu-na climbed into the cab and drove the truck up to the open shaft. He dropped the left front wheel into the hole, then climbed out and quickly let the air out of the other front tire. He was heading for the back right tire when a squad of soldiers took aim from forty yards and ordered him to drop his pistol. Yu-na smirked at the collection of automatic rifles and raised his pistol to a firing position. Even though there was no round in the chamber.

 Sung Moon heard the gunfire halfway between the entrance and where the agents were laboring with their loads. When he caught up with the carts, he was prepared to offer an explanation, but the two agents remained silent. They understood why Yu-na had gone back, and now there was nothing to think about except what lay ahead. When the time was right, Kuryakin took out his communicator and set it for transmitting.

 “Ground hog sees his shadow. Ready to deliver.”

 “Well done, Ground Hog. E.T.A. three minutes.”

Solo envisioned himself kicking the Russian in the seat of the pants.

 “You know, Mr. Kuryakin, you could have gotten a hernia moving the crates, and then it would have been up to me to carry on; sorely compromised by a lack of vital information.”

 “A thousand pardons,” responded the Russian as a armored troop carrier approached with a special lift truck following close behind.

 The Korean smuggler also watched the vehicles approach, and thought that this might be his last chance to speak to the agents in private.

 “Just so you know---Yu—na threatened to shoot himself if I didn’t let him stay behind. I swear it on the head of my son.”

 “We believe you,” replied Solo, “ and congratulations. This makes you the world’s greatest smuggler, at least in my book. “

 Sung Moon nodded thoughtfully. “Called in a lot of markers to pull it off. I just hope none of those people will suffer for what I’ve done.”

 “Hopefully U.N.C.L.E. will take the blame. I’d just like to know who will be doing the blaming.”

Three hours later the precious cargo was on the other side of the Imjin River, in a outer suburb of Seoul. Sung Moon had gone his own way leaving the U.N.C.L.E. agents to roll on to their destination with an army cargo truck, and a troop transport loaded with South Korean soldiers. It felt good to be in on friendly soil again, and while he never dwelt on the fact, Solo was proud that he had contributed to South Korea’s future as a free nation.

 Of course no one is ever totally free. Seoul was a city with growing pains. It seemed like every other street or neighborhood was always under construction. The noise of jackhammers and heavy diesel engines were common place, and men in hardhats directed motorists between monster earthmovers that were heavier than a semi rig. Solo, Kuryakin and their Korean escorts would not be spared their share of urban inconvenience. A flag man signaled the lead truck to turn left and head between two old buildings that were being demolished.

 The U.N.C.L.E. men were suddenly on their guard. No other vehicles had been directed into this pocket slum. Solo grabbed the truck’s short wave mike and was about to issue a warning when a huge lift fork impaled the truck cab at window level. Solo and Kuryakin both grabbed their knees and found themselves checked by a six-hundred pound bar of steel.

 “If this were an accident, I would gladly forgive whoever was responsible,” thought an unhappy Solo.

 Behind them another giant fork truck had grabbed hold on the troop transport from the side and was rolling it over and into a deep pit. The soldiers inside called out in anger, but did not fire because their powers of deduction were a tad slower than Solo’s. A real construction worker, who had managed to get himself untied, rushed at the fork truck driver with an improvised club. Sub-sonic rounds cracked his skull before he could strike with his heavy wrench.

 “These bad guys of yours are not lacking in audacity,” commented Solo as he stared at a scuff mark on his right shoe.

 “My bad guys?” queried the compressed Russian.

 “Well---you were chasing them long before I knew about them.”

 Kuryakin’s smile left him when someone began pouring gasoline in through the broken window.

 “Give me some useful info, and I’ll put a bullet in each of your heads before I heat things up,” said a man who was Asian, but not Korean.

 “That’s ok. We’ve got our own guns, thanks---and one of them is pointed in your direction,” stated Solo.

 “Shooting blind through a door. That could easily ignite the gas, don’t you think?” inquired the grinning antagonist.

 Before Solo could answer, another man shouted something in Mandarin Chinese. The cab was then flanked by men holding silencered pistols.

 “You guys are lucky. I just got word to take you alive. We’re going to remove the fork now,” explained the first man, “if you want to be heroic, we will indulge you. Personally, I’d wait for a chance to do a deal.”

 Tear gas grenades were popping in the pit that held the second truck. This would slow the escape efforts of the soldiers, and discourage locals from doing anything except calling the police. When the constabulary did arrive, they found one man dead, and a whole lot of men who were relieved not to be. The U.N.C.L.E. agents felt blessed as well. They were now being taken to a mysterious and elusive enemy; albeit in separate trunks.

Chapter Eight.

 The ex-marine gave a nod of encouragement after viewing the man size silhouette.

 “That’s better, but I got the feeling that your wrist is too loose. You can actually make the pistol jam that way.”

 “You’re joking,” responded Jane Galway as she reloaded her U.N.C.L.E. Special.

 “Not hardly. If the whole piece is moving backward while the slide is extracting, the action could fail to open all the way. The empty gets out, but the next round doesn’t quite make it into the pipe.”

 “Why can’t men speak English,” thought Galway.

 “Also, you should have the weapon centered before it gets up to eye level. That way if you have to fire early, you got a better chance of hitting something because your heart, the pistol, and the target are all inline. Got it?”

 “Yea, but my counter top is pretty high up. I could end up putting a bullet in my work station.”

 Dupree’s eyebrows scrunched up as he digested that.

 “Yea---I think you’re right.  Of course, the powers that be just hate it when anyone deviates from procedure, but in your case, I think you have a valid point. So, you go ahead and keep your form the way it is. If anyone says anything, I’ll pretend to be concerned about it, but we’ll leave it be.”

 The woman turned around and gazed at Cory as though she were seeing him for the first time.

 “You’re not going to be a stickler for details? Hey, Dupree, I’m really surprised by this. I mean, you’re an ex-marine, right? Mr. Waverly put you in charge of the shooting program. Weapons and tactics are just about the only thing you can do better than anyone else. In truth I was expecting you to be a pompous little firing range god, in all honesty. But now I see you as a co-worker who truly deserved my respect. Really.”

 “Well, that is good to hear, Ma’am. It pleases me to know that I am well thought of. Just the same, I do have responsibilities as a range master; even though it’s a very tiny range. Don’t you agree?”

 “Oh, yes. I don’t think that our modest surroundings in anyway reflect the seriousness of my training.”

 “Yes, Ma’am. But what I have to do now is call to your attention the fact that you are pointing your weapon at my groin, and that’s not allowed.”

 “Oh my God!! I’m so sorry!! I’m so embarrassed!”

 The receptionist turned beet red and quickly placed the weapon on a table as if it might otherwise blow up.

 “That belongs in your holster, Miss Galway. That’s another thing you don’t want to forget.”

 “Yes,” the woman agreed while retrieving the weapon.

 “I think we can call it a day. I’d appreciate it if you would tell Miss Porter that she’ll be first on the range tomorrow morning. Please remind her that she has to sign out her ammunition.”

 “I will do that,” Galway said with an extra helping of humility.

 When the woman was gone, Cory let out a small sigh and thought, “One down---thirty-four to go.”

Chapter Nine.

 The U.N.C.L.E. agents were blindfolded while still hogtied in the trunks. Then they were ushered some two-hundred paces before descending a very long ramp. On the other side of a heavy door, they continued to walk on concrete, but now the air was cleaner and there were no distant city noises what so ever. Only the sound of foot steps. After several turns the concrete turned into something softer, and the air grew slightly dank.

 They were steered around pieces of construction equipment and the lighting became weaker and emanated from different directions. Then the prisoners were shoved back against a cold stone wall and their handcuffed wrists were raised up over their heads. Another set of handcuffs was linked to the central chain and then attached to steel rings that had been hammered into the stone. Only then were the blindfolds removed.

 A single florescent bulb illuminated a basement compartment that measured roughly twenty square feet. They were shackled to the back wall, which was made of old lime stone. The other three walls were made of relatively new sheet rock. The ground was also lime stone, and Napoleon’s olfactory glands told him that someone had recently urinated in the corner to his left.

 “I suspect that people in our profession spend a great deal of time underground,” said Kuryakin.

 “With or without the benefit of toilets,” Solo added unhappily.

 The three escorting guards took their leave as soon as the prisoners were secured. One of them muttered something to his fellows in Chinese. The resulting laughter was cut short by two men who passed them in the connecting corridor.

 “I suppose that had something to do with us,” said the Russian.

 “Well, my Chinese is nothing to brag about, but I’m fairly certain the joke pertained to the after life,” said Napoleon.

 “Ah, well then we can let that pass and concentrate on that object on the floor,” said Kuryakin.

 Solo’s eyes returned to a tarp covered something or other that might have been the size of a cedar chest. There was a conduit riveted to the wall behind it that extended up through the ceiling. It didn’t look all that important, but if the Russian was interested in it, then Solo would focus on it as well.

 “Don’t suppose it’s a sump pump. Why would they bother with a tarp?”

 “Did you actually guess sump pump?” a man asked with a broad smile. “How comforting it is to know that this U.N.C.L.E. organization has people like you out in the field. I’m almost sorry we have to vaporize you.”

 The man standing before them was dressed in coveralls, but he didn’t quite look like the sort of fellow you would find working on a construction project. He was Anglo-Saxon, about thirty-five, and he looked as though he combed his hair even more often than Solo.

 “You have a small atomic device under that tarp,” stated Kuryakin.

 “Correct,” responded the stranger as he removed the tarp.

 “I didn’t get any hints,” thought Solo as he studied the now exposed mechanism with his associate.

 “My name is Tresk. I’ve been told that it is a rather difficult name to remember. But that is certainly not going to be a problem for the two of you. Mr. Kuryakin quite rightly guessed that this device is a modification of one of the four atomic artillery rounds that you smuggled into this country only hours ago. Ordinarily I would exhibit good form and congratulate you on a job well done. But in truth---you couldn’t possibly have failed.”

 Suddenly another man entered the chamber. The expressions of both U.N.C.L.E. men turned cold.

 “I thought you swore on the head of your son,” recalled Solo.

 Sung Moon smiled at the agent and said, “I told the complete truth concerning your sleeper agent. He was quite heroic. Oh—Mr. Kuryakin, it might interest you to know that you are not the only one who employs prostitutes to bring about a deception. The woman who is being transported in a Soviet submarine is also a whore. But at least the child is truly hers.”

 “Can you guess where we are, Mr. Kuryakin?” asked Tresk.

 “No, let me,” cut in Solo. “We’re under the South Korean capital building.”

 “Yes, Mr. Solo,” beamed the captor. “You have almost redeemed yourself.”

 “The conduit is an antenna lead. You have the bomb configured so that you can detonate if via remote control,” stated Kuryakin.

 “You are only half correct with that one, sir. I’m going to now set a timer that will detonate the device in thirty minutes. Just enough time for me to get on a chopper and clear the area. But just a split second before the bomb goes off, a transmitter signal in a flag pole will radio detonate a second bomb that is hidden on the roof of a medical building in the Yongsan garrison area.”

 “But that’s mostly set up for military family housing,” protested Solo.

 “Yes indeed. Can you imagine how the Korean military leaders will react when both their capital and thousands of loved ones are blown to bits? We’re betting that a new war will commence almost immediately.”

 “What of the other two devices?” asked Kuryakin.

 “They are already out of the country. They will be sold---eventually.”

 “And it’s your job to push the timer button? I would think that one of your Chinese goons could have done that for you.”

 “You don’t put goons in charge of atomic weapons, Mr. Solo. Besides, I agreed to personally supervise the demise of Mr. Kuryakin. There is a certain gentleman back in the Soviet Union who wanted to be sure that this fellow does not live to complicate things in the future. Which reminds me of something else that falls under the heading of clean up.”

 Tresk pulled out a snub nose revolver and promptly shot the Korean smuggler in the forehead.

 “That I suppose I could have had the goons do for me,” the captor half muttered to himself before bending over the atomic device and pushing a simple timing button.

 Then Tresk rushed out of the room without a backward glance.

 “You have your special watch?” asked Solo when the coast was clear.

 “But of course,” answered the Russian, who pushed on the watch crystal with his other wrist.

 In a few moments Solo could detect the odor of acid consuming steel. He winced slightly at the challenge that preoccupied the other agent. One wrong move and the acid from the watch spout would drop onto Kuryakin’s flesh, and burn him until the atomic device finally went off. But Illya Kuryakin was part gymnast, contortionist and jeweler. Napoleon suspected that his partner could probably thread a needle on a trampoline.

 “Oh dear,” the Russian suddenly muttered.

 “What?”

 “I’m out of acid. I don’t understand. There should have been more than just one drop.”

 “You mean the chain is still intact?”

 “No. It----uh---just needed a bit of coaxing.”

 Solo was relieved when his partner’s wrists flew away from each other.

 “Alright. Now you can make a handcuff key from your ink tube. Kid’s stuff.”

 The Russian glanced at his handcuff lock holes and then squinted at the ones over Napoleon’s head.

 “Problem: They thought to solder the holes shut. These manacles were designed to be used only once.”

 “Can you at least keep a signal from going to Yongsan?”

 “I believe so.”

 “Then do it and get out of here. Evacuate the area as best you can.”

 Kuryakin ripped out the top section of conduit and broke the wire. But then he sat himself down in front of the digital readouts and began to study the entire mechanism.

 “What the hell are you doing?” Solo demanded to know. “You don’t know anything about that machine. This is no time for delusions of grandeur. You can’t work that like a public aircraft. Get topside and get people moving.”

 Kuryakin had been deprived of his pistol and his communicator, but inside his belt he still had a hacksaw blade that doubled as a knife. With it he was able to turn the screws that held the cowling together, so that he could get a look at the guts of the deadly device. Solo wisely kept quiet for a time, resigning himself to the fact that the Russian was going to do things his own way.

 “It would appear that I have both good news and bad news,” announced the Russian. “The good news is that the timing mechanism is something out of The Anarchist’s Cookbook. The bad news is that there is a little box with some wires attached, that could be a anti-tampering device. Or it could be there merely to step down voltage.”

 “Well, you’ve wasted enough time looking at the thing. Nothing to do now but take you best guess,” Napoleon conceded.

 “The Russian gave a solemn nod.

 “Indeed. I also see no point in putting this off to the last second, but if you would like to---say a prayer, perhaps…”

 “God and I came to an understanding back during the war,” muttered Solo. “I don’t see any point in bothering him further until I see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

 “Delightfully pragmatic,” responded Kuryakin.

 “We’re still soldiers of a sort,” Napoleon added. “Still underpaid---that is for certain.”

 Kuryakin nodded again His expression just as deadpan as humanly possible.

 “Do you know why I was able to fix your landing gear problem way back on that airliner?”

 “Ah---because you once worked in an aircraft assembly plant?” Solo guessed.

 “No. I could do it, because I am a genius.”

 With that, the Russian pulled on a wire until the solder connections broke.

 Solo flinched slightly but the Russian’s expression had turned both confident and just a tad on the mirthful side.

 “More stimulating than Monte Carlo, but absent the somber aspects of losing. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Solo?”

 “Actually there has always been a compassionate lady on hand, ready to drive me to her home. Now would you be so kind as to summon help, now that the sands of time are no longer falling on our heads?”

 The city’s bomb squad was thrilled to become the custodians of two atomic weapons, and Illya himself cut the manacles from Solo’s wrists while U.S. military intelligence reported on the deaths of the men who had carried the four artillery shells into the jaws of a second ambush. Twenty-six men dead, and their relatives would be told that they died in a training exercise. This was the face of victory, in a modern cloak and dagger world.

 Solo and Kuryakin were given a car and instructed where to go in order to pick up airline tickets that would be waiting for them. One of the few advantages of working for U.N.C.L.E. was that local authorities would clean up after the field agents. In addition, Alexander Waverly was the only man who needed to read their reports.

 Solo wasn’t thinking about his boss when the two agents climbed out of their car on the basement level of the airport parking ramp. Thoughts of Waverly would have kept Solo on the straight and narrow; or at least on a path toward a nice quiet triple Scotch. But Solo wasn’t thinking about anything except how he felt when Kuryakin was playing with that A-bomb.

 The Russian loosened his tie and said, “I hope the schedule will allow us enough time to take a shower. Asian flights are---“

 Solo deftly punched the Russian right in the middle of his pithy banter. Kuryakin staggered back one step, shook the cobwebs from his oversized brain and then launched a spin around back thrust kick. The American shifted diagonally back with a surprised look then came in like a boxer. Russian could have front kicked, but instead adapted the same fight stance; wordlessly agreeing that the combat would be with fists only.

 Solo had a slight advantage in reach, and he was ever so proficient at guarding his face. But Kuryakin made the American pay in body blows for all time spent in the New York night clubs. It was a measured but relentless exchange of blows. Like two brothers fighting over a girl that neither of them would ever ask out again. After a four minute round, Solo shifted out of range; breathing heavily, and no longer angry.

 “We could try talking now----if you would indulge me.”

 Kuryakin’s breath was much shallower, and the expression on his face was one of cold resolve. But the words got through after a moment. Hands came down, but the eyes were still filled with righteous indignation.

 “Kuryakin;I don’t doubt that you’ve got a few I.Q. points on me---and you’re in very good shape for an egg head, or even a commando. But the fact is, you’re so focused on what you want to do that you act as though I’m not with you. Then when you decide that it’s time for a bit of levity, you create your very own atomic bomb joke, complete with a real bomb. I can’t deny that you are a very useful man to have around, but you don’t interact well with others. My guess is that Ada will come to that conclusion---“

 “As soon as you point it out to her,” cut in the Russian.

 Solo’s expression was blank at first, then he shook his head in dismay.

 “I don’t operate that way. Frankly, I don’t have to. Mind if I give you a piece of advice?”

 “I’m sure that was a rhetorical question,” muttered the Russian.

 “Ada might very well think that you’re the perfect man. But if the jealousy thing get’s between you, then your worst fears could actually come true.”

 “I’m not jealous. I’m resentful;” amended Kuryakin. “I’ve always despised politics in any form. That is one of the reasons why my superiors in Naval Intelligence were not heart broken when I was recruited for U.N.C.L.E.  I believe in hard work, not smiling with all your teeth.”

 “That explains why you threw so many punches at mine,” responded Solo.

 “If I had really wanted to hurt you---“

 “Same here,” the American cut in. “I just felt that the A-bomb shtick was in poor taste.”

 “It was,” acknowledged Kuryakin, “and I will make no attempt to defend my actions when Waverly gets your report.”

 Napoleon shook his head again.

 “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. But I suspect that you and I would be better off with a change of partners, once this business is completed.”

 “Indeed. I need to get to Yelizovo Airbase before the trail grows old, as you Americans would say.”

 “A New Yorker wouldn’t say that, but I get your drift. Now let’s go find our plane, and then we can cook up a plausible story to explain our puffy faces.”

 Kuryakin’s smile was almost microscopic, but Solo caught it just the same. The two agents headed for the nearest stairwell, each limping just a tad.

 The drive from LaGuardia to Manhattan’s East 40s was an uneasy one. The agents had attempted to call headquarters from their terminal, but all they got was ring tones. They took a cab, realizing that a rented car would afford them more freedom of movement, but would also delay their arrival. They wanted speed, so they bribed the cabbie and prayed that the money was being spent for nothing.

 It wasn’t. Panic stricken people were running out of The Mask Club, and Solo instinctively reached for a pistol that wasn’t there.

 “Without weapons, we would do well to enter via the parking area,” said Kuryakin.

 “Yes but the trouble is right up there,” countered his partner.

 The Russian nodded and the two agents bailed out of the cab in time to allow a frightened couple in. Illya picked up an abandoned hat and shoved it over his unruly blonde hair so as to disguise himself to some extent. Solo found a cane lying on the pavement and threw that to his partner, who then bent over slightly as a gunman rushed out of the front door. The trigger man pointed his weapon menacingly at Solo, who must have looked a little too brave to suit the fleeing criminal.

 Illya’s cane came down on the muzzle of the machine pistol, giving Napoleon an opening that was quickly exploited. A front snap kick to the testicles was followed up with a straight karate punch to the chin. His stance deepened for the punch so that the blow could be delivered at an upward angle. In this manner, more destructive force went into the chin. The man’s head snapped back and his knees buckled. The machine pistol was grabbed by it’s folding stock before it could fall to the pavement. Then Solo took the lead as they charged into the now empty nightclub.

 They rushed back to the cloak room and through the secret passageway that had been left wide open. In an instant Solo’s tension turned to despair as he spotted a woman’s hand gripping an U.N.C.L.E. special on the floor. Napoleon stepped around the counter and confirmed that the woman was Jane Galway. He noted that the pistol hammer was cocked, suggesting that it might have expended a round. Sure enough, there was a dead man some twenty feet past the reception desk, who must have taken a hit and then staggered for a bit before dropping.

 Kuryakin picked up the dead man’s weapon and turned back to Solo.

 “Solo,” the Russian gently urged.

 Solo’s jaw tightened as he turned away from the dead receptionist and closed with the Russian. The corridor on that level was four-hundred feet in length and featured nine doors on the right and eleven on the left. The entire walkway was divided into four sections that could be sealed off by sliding steel panels. Those barriers could be manually activated with a special key code, or automatically brought into play by an intruder who did not possess the proper chemically coated I.D. badge.

 The two agents silently noted that the security doors were still open, offering a view of the gore strewn hallway. Most of the victims were lying half in and half out of the doorways. Obviously they had died rushing out to meet the enemy, or retreating to a more defensible position. Empty rifle and pistol cartridges littered the floor. Kuryakin perceived that the U.N.C.L.E. personnel closest to the entrance had been shot in the forehead. But the ones further back had taken hits in the chest and stomach. That meant that the assailants had become hard pressed to defend themselves after reaching the center of the complex.

 Nine intruders lay motionless among their adversaries. After a quick inspection of the entire complex, it was ascertained that a total of fourteen intruders had been killed, and twenty-five U.N.C.L.E. personnel were dead. Only one agent had received a non-lethal wound. Cory Dupree had been in the weapons room when the assassination squad hit. He had just enough time to put on some body armor and arm himself with an assault rifle.

 He and one other agent then managed to convince the remaining attackers that a clean sweep of the complex was not a realistic goal. It was also fortunate for the defenders that the other two levels had been sparsely populated at the time. D’Vinci’s pizza emporium was offering a two for one special down the street. Otherwise the body count would have been worse.

 Dupree sat in his own blood. A 7.62 round had slipped in between two armor plates and missed his liver by half an inch.

 “You missed the party, Solo,” the ex-marine muttered with a whitening face.

 “We’ll get you to the nearest hospital. Secrecy be damned,” declared Solo as he knelt down in the blood.

 “The Old Man is seeing to it,” grunted Dupree. “Oh man---this vest---could use---some improvements.”

 Alexander Waverly suddenly appeared with two construction workers who were carrying a litter.

 “Take him to the roof. A helicopter will be landing in moments.”

 The electricians were sweating more from fear than exertion, but they obeyed orders as well as could be expected. The U.N.C.L.E. chief was still holding his own pistol, and only tucked it into his belt when Dupree was gone. Solo and Kuryakin noticed that the discarded assault rifle had been equipped with a fifty round drum. Maybe that made the difference. Maybe not.

 “We have an unconscious prisoner outside, sir,” reported Solo.

.

 “Bring him in immediately, Mr. Solo. We don’t want the police to take him into custody. If that should happen, he would likely be killed in his cell.”

 Solo nodded to his chief and marched off. Kuryakin followed until reaching the area that Ada had been assigned to . Three corpses lay in the clean room, but none belonged to the Nicaraguan. The Russian exited the clean air chamber to find the head of U.N.C.L.E. waiting for him.

 “Two hostages were taken out through the river tunnel exit,” said Waverly. “Miss Jenson and Miss Castil.”

 The Russian’s jaw tightened for just an instant.

 “I’d like to have first try with the prisoner, sir.”

 “Mr. Kuryakin, you are the last man I would select for that assignment. Kindly return to your electrical work. When we have the super computer up and running, we will be able to monitor any and all aircraft activity that is being used by possible criminal elements.”

 “Sir I am not indispensible in that area. If you won’t let me interrogate the prisoner, at least allow me to fly back to the Soviet Union.”

 “Why?”

 “I need to go to Yelizovo. The special artillery rounds were shipped to North Korea from that location. I am confident that I can—“

 “You’re not the only Russian working for U.N.C.L.E. Mr. Kuryakin. We have people who are already on the other side of the Pacific. Please communicate whatever leads you have to a field agent in that sector. Then return to your electrical duties.”

 “Excuse me, sir, but there is a man in Yelizovo who could be very useful to us, but he will not share his information with just anyone.”

 “I will double my efforts to replace you, Mr. Kuryakin, but without the super computer this complex is little more than a rabbit hole that the hounds would like to dig out. We need up to date information concerning enemy activities. Knowledge is our best possible weapon, not firearms; and the information has to be obtained first hand.”

 “Sir, if I were an American, I might say that you are preaching to the choir. But on this occasion—“

 “Mr. Kuryakin, the men who attacked us all have one thing in common: they all live a double life. That protects them from the Internal Revenue Service, and perhaps the F.B.I. for the most part. But they were recruited by someone, which means that someone was able to ascertain what they really are. We must also gain the ability to do this. We must monitor black market weapons dealers, private pilots, mercenary records and one-hundred other things that can tell us what our unseen adversaries might be preparing for. That is why the super computer is so vital to us.”

 “Sir, if I can shake something out of a tree in Yelizovo, it is possible that it could have positive repercussions here.”

 “We will wax theoretical when we are better staffed, Mr. Kuryakin. Now kindly return to your electrical duties and make certain that you have both a gas mask and a heavy weapon with you at all times.

 With that, the U.N.C.L.E. chief turned and headed towards his office.

 

Chapter Ten.

 Napoleon Solo frowned at the contraption that had been hastily assembled over a concrete floor drain. It looked like an ironing board with restraining straps, and it was tilted so that the prisoner lying on it could get his hair washed just inches above the drain.

 “What did you say this is called?” asked a new agent named Stan Flemming.

 “Water boarding,” answered Solo. “The procedure is pretty much self explanatory. You just keep pouring water up the man’s nose until he gets tired of the whole thing.”

 The younger man didn’t even try to hide his disapproval. “A soldering iron applied to some part that the sun don’t reach might work a little faster.”

 “Yes, except we’re the good guys, so we don’t resort to such methods.”

 “We should. A lot of good people are on their way to the morgue. On top of the fact that this guy probably works for an outfit that now owns a couple of A bombs.”

 “That’s why we’re here,” replied the senior agent. “That and the fact that Herman Gessel didn’t go out for pizza with the others.”

 “What? Oh—it would have been his job to do this?”

 “Him or Waverly. So here we are.”

 Two hours later, a red faced prisoner was blowing fluids like a whale, with mucus on everything including two unhappy interrogators.

 “We should have put on wet suits,” grumbled Flemming.

 Solo once again exchanged stares with the iron willed prisoner. There was no doubt that in time the man would break, but it didn’t seem right to the ex-pilot that so much time and effort should have to go into it.

 “Could you use a break?” Solo asked his assistant.

 “Yea, come to think of it. All this water---“

 “Take this bucket with you. Pretend that the toilets don’t work.”

 “Piss in it?” the agent asked incredulously.

 “Are you angry with this fellow or not?”

 The man took the container with a grin.

 “Solo, I take back everything I was thinking about you. You’re not half the gentleman I mistook you for.”

 “You’re bluffing!” shouted the prisoner while Flemming left the utility room. “Sooner or later you gotta answer for what you do. Even the Nazis at Nuremburg had their rights. You do this and the press with eat you alive. I know this place was supposed to be kept secret. But now that’s impossible. Too many people got the crap scared out of them in that nightclub. This place will be an open can in a few days.”

 Solo folded his arms with a deadpan expression.

 “You might be right. I honestly don’t know. But the people who were left alive in this place want answers, and we need to get them from you. So, until some outside authority comes through that door, you are going to get a great deal of urine poured up your nose. Do not doubt that there are enough people to contribute to the project.”

 The prisoner’s heavy jaw tensed as Flemming returned with the bucket. Then his expression changed to one of resignation.

 “Alright. I’ll do a deal. I’ll take you to a meeting place that belongs to the people who recruited me. But you gotta find a way for me to do time without a canary label. That’s only fair.”

 “The fairness department is down the hall,” said Solo. “But if you’re ready to help us, we’re ready to stop the enhanced interrogation.”

 “Well---it would have made a God awful mess anyway,” Flemming grumbled to himself.

 Solo quickly showered, changed and assembled a small but heavily armed task force. The basement complex that they were lead to was not only deserted, but also covered with a layer of dust to make it appear as though the basement had never been used. A forensic evaluation concluded that the dust belonged to materials that did not exist in the basement, which was certainly proof that the prisoner wasn’t lying. Perhaps when the super computer was up and running, a detailed look into the Jefferson warehouse might shed some light on the dummy corporation that had been paying the taxes on the property.

 Perhaps.

 In any case, Solo brought his team back to headquarters, and was not terribly surprised to learn that the prisoner was being transferred to a facility that specialized in gaining information from prisoners. That was fine with Solo. He was ready to get back out into the field. The problem was, there was only one logical place to go, and there was only one logical person to go there with.

 Solo first checked the super computer clean rooms, then the supply room. The cafeteria would be closed for quite some time, but a number of people were keeping the coffee pots working and there was some left over pizza that the original owners couldn’t bring themselves to eat. Napoleon approached a woman named Heather Lochwood and asked her about the improvised work schedule. Her answer was vague and it trailed off with here.

 Then an agent named Russ Broeberg arrived. Russ had been closest to Dupree and was always pestering the replacement switchboard operator to check on the progress of the ex-marine.

 “Say, Russ. Do you have any idea where I might find Kuryakin?”

 “Yea. Saw him go into the gym about an hour ago. Hope Waverly doesn’t catch him. The Old Man is working everyone’s tail off. Coffee and bathroom breaks are just about the only things that won’t get you yelled at. Not that I’m complaining mind you. Good lord what an awful day this has been. If it wasn’t for Korea, I’d probably be playing with my toes right about now. I can only guess how these poor kids feel. I guess in a crazy sort of way, you me and Cory are lucky in more ways than one.”

 “Yea, I guess so,” muttered Solo as he left the cafeteria and made his way to the gym. There he found Kuryakin on a set of parallel bars, looking a bit strange in his traveling clothes.

 “Uh---maybe you shouldn’t be in here, Kuryakin. I was just told that Waverly is really cracking the whip.”

 The Russian responded by raising his legs above his head.

 “Well, if he sees you doing that, he might take it easy on you,” joked Solo.

 “Waverly isn’t a man to fear. You Americans wouldn’t know a tyrannical boss if one fell on you.”

 “Maybe not---but I’ve heard more than one story about Soviet workers who would be drunk by 2:00 p.m. because there is no competition. Where’s the fun in being a tyrannical boss if you can’t push your workers to do better than they did last year?”

 “You sleep with their wives and buy American products on the black market. That is where the fun is for most of them,” responded the Russian.

 “Not to change the subject, but do you really think you could accomplish more in Yelizovo than any other field agent?”

 “Yes,” answered Kuryakin before gracefully swinging off the bars.

 “Then I suggest that we give it a go.”

 “I’ve been ordered to stay here.”

 “By our harmless fuzz ball of a boss? As I understand it, the Soviet Navy has the power to call you back, and Waverly would have to comply.”

 “That is true, but Admiral Gorshkov would not call me back. Some time ago I called on him at a most inopportune moment. I can’t imagine why any man would want to be tied to a bed.”

 That left Solo off balance for just an instant, then his brain resumed its train of thought.

 “The J-9 relay system has caused a lot of echo problems hasn’t it?”

 “What would you know about that?” queried the Russian.

 “Not much,” admitted Solo. “I was making small talk with Angelina Simmons shortly before we set out for your country. She picked up a signal that was false. It originated right here, but it appeared to come from Iceland. She said that such a false signal could occur anytime before they get the new aerial configured for that specific compass heading.”

 “I think I see what you’re getting at, but someone from Gorshkov’s staff would have to be on that imaginary line in the North Atlantic.  On a ship.”

 “I would prefer a fictitious submarine. Then when communication is lost, our people will assume that the ship is under an iceberg or some such thing.”

 Kuryakin brushed his sweat plastered hair away from his eyebrows.

 “I’m reasonably certain I could impersonate a staff member with the radio on the river patrol boat. All I need to do is get a few miles out to sea. But the woman in the com-center has a directional locater. If she happens to look at it while I’m transmitting---“

 “Signal me on your communicator when you’re about to broadcast, and I’ll make certain that the lady is distracted,” promised Solo.

 “Alright, but the dock master will be reporting that I took the boat out. Waverly will be initialing that report sometime tomorrow morning. Then I’ll have some explaining to do.”

 “We won’t have to explain anything if we bring back at least one of those little A bombs,” reasoned Solo. “Anyway, just keep reminding yourself that Waverly is not a man to be feared. Your own words.”

 “This is what I get for perpetrating a slight exaggeration for the first time,” mutter the Russian as he peered cautiously down the hallway.

Chapter Eleven.

  Generals Viktor Filipchenko and Konstantin Kozeyev staggered out of the officer’s club and made their way down a drizzly base walkway. As soon as they were far enough away from the military watering hole, they stopped acting drunk and commenced the meeting that dared not take place where hidden microphones might exist.

 “Bad news, Viktor; Kuryakin wasn’t in his new rat hole when it was hit. In fact he showed up just minutes afterward.”

 Filipchenko shook his head with a hint of amusement.

 “If I could have had just a portion of his luck, I wouldn’t have gotten the clap in that damn North Korean whorehouse. Not even after doing every slanty eyed bitch in the place.”

 “And I never would have heard of Mikhail Khrunov. The great puppet master. May he someday go down as hard as Rasputin.”

 Filipchenko undid his fly and proceeded to urinate while enlisted men made jokes from a discreet distance.

 “Now Konni, you’re not going to stand there and tell me that your wife isn’t worth the tiny bit of aggravation that comes your way every now and then?”

 Kozeyev turned away from his comrade. Filipchenko had the right of it, but Soviet Russia was a bad place to be criminal. The prospects for retirement were not exactly enviable.

 “Your woman never would have settled for public housing,” Filipchenko went on. “She would have rejected you if it hadn’t been for Khrunov. You’d still be a Lt. Colonel and the only joy stick you’d be using would be the one you find in a Mig.”

 “Could we stay focused?” growled Kozeyev. “Handing Kuryakin over to the Americans made you laugh very hard. Perhaps even Khrunov thought it was funny at the time. But now we are finding out that as a U.N. operative, he is even more frustrating than he was in naval intelligence.”

 “Da. People in North Korea are unhappy. People in New York City are unhappy. But non of that need concern us, Konni. By the time I retire to the flesh pots of Brazil, Kuryakin will be bare bones. Khrunov will  not suffer him much longer. Not even on the other side of the world.”

 “Kuryakin is back here,” stated Kozeyev. “He’s en route to Yelizovo.”

 After a pause Filipchenko started them walking towards the nearest phone.

 “He’s a persistent bastard, but he won’t find anything,” predicted Kozeyev.

 “Oh he’s going to find something, Konni. You can be certain of that. He’s going to find a great many hungry crabs. Old man Gorshkov won’t have to triple lock his bedroom door anymore because that little blonde snot will be just a reminder that people should mind their own business.”

 Kozeyev stared back with a hint of apprehension.

 “You’ve changed. Even back in Afghanistan you never wanted to order anyone’s death. What’s gotten into these past few years?”

 “I’ve joined a new team, Konni. We’re going to break away from the usual cold war bull shit and do something more interesting than building missile silos. We will not only get rich but also grow a hide too thick for the KGB to bite through. I’m getting you in Konni. You can thank me later.”

 “I’m not sure I want in,” responded the other general.

 “Actually, Konni, it’s one of those deals you can’t turn down. I suppose that’s the one thing it has in common with communism.”

 Filipchenko smiled broadly, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

 

Chapter Twelve.

Kamchatka Krai means nothing to the vast majority of the world, but anyone who would so much as glance at a map of the Soviet Union would be inclined to notice the gigantic eastern peninsula that lies between the Sea of Okhotsk and the Northern Pacific. On this cold and wind swept land mass the communists had long ago built an airport that could strike at the Japanese Islands, or the Aleutians. The air and naval base was called Yelizovo, and getting to it was even harder than flying to the North Korean capital.

 Needless to say, the U.N.C.L.E. agents flew there with the permission of the communist government. But they were kept waiting for more than a day, and then they had to fly in the cargo section of a rusty Li-2 transport that had served with distinction in the war against the Germans. The aircraft resembled a C 47, but it didn’t sound much like one when the twin engines groaned to life.

 Solo would have laughed long and hard at the sight of Kuryakin taking off in the piece of junk, but only if Solo could have done his laughing from the safety of the ground. The long flight from Khabarovsk  was filled with snide remarks about socialist production methods. Kuryakin nodded in agreement, until he got tired of the unending invectives, so as they approached the far east base, he decided to change the subject.

 “How many American aircraft have been lost playing games in this sector?”

 Solo’s back stiffened for an instant, then he relaxed and said, “The official count was eight the last time I checked. Lucky thing for your countrymen I can’t read Russian. I’d make a bee line for the operations building.”

 “Followed by another bee line to the guard house,” responded Kuryakin.

 Solo had referred to the fact that since the beginning of the cold war, a number of American aircraft had mysteriously disappeared while flying within range of Yelizovo interceptors. Admittedly, a large percentage of those U.S. planes were reconnaissance aircraft, but not all. As a Russian naval intelligence officer, Kuryakin knew a great deal about Yelizovo, but it wasn’t his job to share that information with the west. It was his job to straddle two cultures, and he did it fairly well, all things considered.

 Several hours later the two agents were seated in a Gaz-64 Russian jeep, viewing one of the base’s many small warehouses. Night had fallen, and they were staring at a solitary window that was lit. Kuryakin took out his U.N.C.L.E. Special and attached a silencer to the muzzle. Solo’s expression showed that the use of deadly force was not supposed to be part of the plan.

 “Is this another example of how you work independently of your associates?”

 “I’m not going in there to kill him,” the Russian assured Solo. “But I’m not going in there to die either.”

 With that Kuryakin climbed out of the small military vehicle and walked alone towards the Quonset hut. Entering it with stealth, he pulled out his long barreled weapon and crept to the second door. Valentin Parnakh’s original Russian jazz did a find job of masking the sound of that door being opened. Even more luck was waiting for him in the form of a fat supply sergeant who had his feet up on a cluttered desk. By the time the legs were back on the floor, Kuryakin was inside the room and displaying his weapon.

 “They’re not here anymore, Kuryakin. I swear on my balls, they were shipped out over a week ago,” the sergeant declared in the way of a greeting.

 “You are referring of course to the non-existent artillery rounds that were sent to North Korea. Quite a step up for you, Vasili. But now I am wondering what will become of you when your superior finds out that an U.N.C.L.E. agent came calling.”

 “What is U.N.C.L.E.?”

 “You might call it the sword arm of the U.N. Security Council, Vasili. Actually it keeps evolving from month to month, as more money is spent on it. The important thing is that crosses boundaries---including political ones.”

 “So you no longer work for Soviet government?”

 “Technically, I have two jobs---but like you, Vasili, I tend to work hardest for the employer who benefits me the most.”

 “That is understandable, but I was telling you the truth when I said that the atomic weapons are no longer here.”

 “I’m not looking for any weapons this time, Vasili. I only need a name from you.”

 “I cannot burn the delivery pilot and survive,” the supply clerk stated factually.

 “I don’t want him. I want the man who controls everything going in and out of Khabarovsk.”

 The clerk let out a deep sigh. He had been visited by Illya Kuryakin several times in the past. Back then, Kuryakin was just a harmless investigator. A highly intelligent man with suspicions but no evidence. Back then the smuggler had protection. Now, apparently, the game had changed, leaving poor old Vasili to fend for himself.

 “I will not deny that I used to be stationed near Khabarovsk. Back then Pavel Beregovoi was the regional boss. But word is that he caught a bullet two months ago.”

 “Who would benefit by such a premature demise?”

 “There must be half a dozen,” responded the clerk while helping himself to some Vodka.

 Kuryakin pointed the silencer equipped pistol at the clerk’s right knee cap.

 “Shall I do you a favor and convince your master that we are not on good terms?”

 The clerk good a hearty belt of his liquid refreshment and said, “I would bet on Yuri Komarov. I could provide you with the name of a go between. But I’ll do that only when we’re standing on South Korean soil. I have friends down there.”

 “Imagine that,” muttered Kuryakin.

 Suddenly Napoleon Solo was at the door.

 “There’s a troop transport truck coming across the field. I don’t think they’re making a delivery.”

 Kuryakin quickly removed the silencer from his weapon and said, “I don’t know if I can still honor our proposed agreement, Vasili, but I’ll give it a try.”

 “No, you don’t understand. They could be coming to shut me up. I know more than I was letting on,” wailed the clerk.

 “Imagine that,” Kuryakin muttered for the second time.

 “I can get us out, if you are willing to run from them,” stated the supply sergeant.

 “Ready, willing and able,” answered Kuryakin as he tossed the silencer into a box of aircraft parts.

 The sergeant rolled over a large hollow crate to reveal an opening in the floor. He lead the way down with the words, “Slide the box back so they don’t follow.”

 The tunnel only lead to the next hut, where a BA-20 armored car was parked.

 “What’s that doing here?” Solo asked Kuryakin in English.

 “Vasili didn’t speak English but he could easily guess what had been said.

 “I’m selling it for a friend,” explained the sergeant. “We’ll just drive over to the operations building and everything will be just fine. They wouldn’t dare try and kill us in that part of the airport. Tell your friend to ride up in the turret.”

 Everyone climbed in and moments later were driving past the troop truck.

 “The plane, the jeep, and now this. Our modes of transport keep getting progressively older,” Solo grimly observed.

 Not to be thwarted, an officer and eight troopers climbed back into the truck and took off after the BA-20. Solo guessed that the armored car was doing about 20 m.p.h. That was a bit disconcerting. Even for a pair of brave U.N.C.L.E. agents.

 “I’m sorry, but this old girl is running with an iron corset,” explained the driver.

 Solo didn’t want to be the first to start shooting, but as the big transport came up alongside their vehicle, he concluded that they weren’t going to make it to the other end of the field without drastic action. In the dark, confronting an unknown enemy, Solo quite logically aimed for the truck’s tires. The high performance rounds in the U.N.C.L.E. did not let him down, but even with two flat tires, the transport stubbornly continued to lumber forward, albeit at a sharply reduced speed.

 Some of the soldiers opened up with their assault rifles in anger. Solo leaned back away from the firing slit, reasonably confident in his armor protection. Then the truck wabbled off in a different direction, and Solo could only conclude that the men in the truck did not want to show themselves to the officers in charge of the airport. A few moments later the armored car rolled up in front of the operations building and Vasili opened his door to speak with two night duty officers. Even Kuryakin went wide eyed when the officers drew their pistols and open fired on the car.

 The driver slammed his door shut and coaxed the armored car to once again roll slowly away from unfriendly elements. Then in the darkness of the vehicle Kuryakin discovered that the sergeant had been hit in the right lung. Vasili smiled drunkenly while steering towards a distant object.

 “Nikolai Budarin. He is the man---you want to see.”

 “If we ever live to see anything,” muttered the blonde agent.

 “Show some balls---steal a plane,” wheezed the sergeant as he brought the armored car to a halt along side a Mig 15 trainer.

 Kuryakin then recalled that the first time he had visited the airport, he had flown himself in with a Mig. Not the same model but that wouldn’t matter.

 Hopefully.

 “I don’t think this is a good idea,” said Solo while his partner scampered up the side of the aircraft and opened it up.

 “Fuel gauge will have to read full,” said the Russian as he lowered himself into the pilot’s seat and brought the more vital control systems to life.

 Solo checked the sergeant for a pulse in the darkness of the cab. There was one but it was weak and fading.

 It didn’t much matter.

 “We’re good. Climb in.”

 Solo got in behind Kuryakin who quickly brought the transparent canopy down and then fired up the Rolls Royce “Nene” jet engine that the British had so thoughtfully provided before the Korean conflict took place.

 Designed in 1946, the Mig 15 was the aircraft that made the term “MIG” synonymous with Communist fighter jet. The plane came loaded with a lot of Soviet firsts, like a pressurized cabin and ejector seats. Solo recalled how the plane pushed the American F 80 and F 84s out of the skies over Korea. The F 86 brought technically superiority back to the Americans, but U.S. pilots still had a problem:

 If a Mig pilot got into trouble, he could just fly north over the Yalu River and land. The U.S. pilots on the other hand had to fly hundreds of miles back to their bases. In a way, it was like fighting over water, because the mountainous terrain was anything but accommodating. Now Solo was going to get a belated look at the other side. He had mixed feelings about that, but he couldn’t deny that the airport was plagued with too many unstable elements; all heavily armed.

 The ex Air Force pilot smirked with grudging admiration as his Navy partner made maximum use of his engine to get them into position for take off, then got them aloft with the speed of a home sick angel. But Solo became a bit disconcerted when the aircraft did not head north.

 Kuryakin leveled off at a mere two-thousand feet and proceeded west over the choppy waters of the Okhotsk. Solo kept looking over his shoulder, hoping for the continued absence of tracer rounds and or air to air missiles.

 “We’re going kind of slow aren’t we?” the American commented after a bit, “and I’m also a bit curious about our course heading.”

 “We can’t hope to out run their interceptors. The good sergeant selected this aircraft because it was one of the few two-seaters on the field. I do not fault him for dying alongside another outdated piece of machinery.”

 “Yea, your country seems to be just one big museum, not that I’m complaining.”

 “Hopefully our pursuers will give us a chance to land this plane at Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk.”

 “Yea, hopefully is the word alright. Trouble is: they’ll think we’re making for Japan.”

 “Without auxiliary fuel tanks? It can’t be done,” responded the pilot at the controls. “We barely have enough fuel to reach Yuzhno.”

 “Why didn’t you take us northwest to Magadan?”

 “It’s---rather complicated.”

 “I don’t mind. Anything to take my mind off of being a very easy target.”

 “Ever hear of someone named Mikhail Khrunov?”

 “Yea. He’s a big fish in the Soviet defense industry, isn’t he?”

 “Very good, Mr. Solo. Perhaps you’re not just a pretty face after all.”

 “That’s right, and I would have taken this bird to Magadan.”

 “Yes, well, the reason we’re not heading there is because three years ago I caught one of Khrunov’s friends trying to smuggle a new type of missile guidance system out of that very place. My evidence disappeared, and fish got off the hook. In fact, he’s still running the military branch of that area.”

 “Did this Khrunov have anything to do with that nerve gas we had with us back when we first met?”

 “Yes---same story. His immediate underlings get caught, and one of their underlings will then step forward to take the---um---“

“Rap?” offered the American.

 “Yes. Dedicated family men---usually over sixty-five.”

 Solo was still digesting that when two Mig 21s came up on both sides of the stolen aircraft.

 “This is Major Valery Kubasov of the people’s airbase at Velizovo. You are ordered to return to that facility immediately.”

 “This is Lt. Commander Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin with Soviet Naval Intelligence. It is imperative that I take this aircraft to Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk. You may provide escort if you wish.”

 “I have orders to the contrary, Commander Kuryakin. Please turn your aircraft around immediately.”

 “I have an American pilot with me,” Kuryakin said truthfully. “This flying rust bucket is not important. I am not important. But the prisoner is. He was going to be killed by incompetents who think that we are in league with a smuggler who—“

“Your statements are irrelevant, sir. You will turn your aircraft around or we will destroy you.”

 “Your General Pavlovich wouldn’t like that,” responded Kuryakin. “My comrades in Naval Intel would retaliate by exposing the money laundering operation that has been going on at Yelizovo for at least two years now. It is your choice, Major. I would simply remind you that if I am not who I claim to be, the authorities at Yuzhno will very quickly ship me back to the peninsula---won’t they?”

 Solo viewed the deadly lines of the state of the art Migs. The older Mig 15 might be able to out maneuver them for a few minutes, but their victory would be as sure as the sun rising in the morning.

 “Very well, Commander, we shall escort you to Yuzhno,” said the Kubasov.

 Solo let out a sigh of relief.

 “Well—I guess it’s time to time to call Dad and let him know that we’re in jail.”

 “What?” queried the blonde.

 Solo took out his communicator pen and placed it in functionary mode.

 “Open Channel D. Overseas relay.”

  A moment later Solo was speaking with the last man on Earth he really wanted to talk to.

 “Ah, sir—the fact is, Agent Kuryakin and I are in a Mig fighter plane heading for Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, and we’re in a little bit of trouble.”

 “Why aren’t you heading for Magadan?” inquired the U.N.C.L.E. chief.

 “Political difficulties, sir. The fact is we could use some help getting to Khabarovsk. We’re on the trail of those last two atomic artillery rounds.”

 “Ah--then you’ll be looking for Nikolai Budarin. Yes, that may very well be the perfect job for you two.”

  “He must have the super computer running,” Kuryakin whispered.

 “You Gentlemen will be happy to hear that we have the super computer running. Of course we could have had it operational even sooner if Mr. Kuryakin hadn’t run off without a word. On the other hand, it is somewhat gratifying to learn that men can still get things done in this world the old fashioned way. It does make it just a trifle bit easier to forgive mistakes. So I will pave the way to Khabarovsk, confident in the knowledge that you won’t require so much assistance in the future.

 Waverly out.”

 “I suppose he’s being mindful of our limited battery power,” muttered Solo.

 “No doubt,” responded Kuryakin as they continued across the moonlit water.

Chapter Thirteen.

 Two men in well tailored western style suits walked the broad Amursky Boulevard that was considered by many to be the main pedestrian artery of Khabarovsk. Both men were a tad on the heavy side, with thinning hair and bushy eyebrows. Both men were over forty, yet young enough to appreciate the many Asian women who came visiting from all parts south and southwest. Both men also hated headquarters buildings, because they were often wired, and these gentlemen had much to say in private.

 General Viktor Filipchenko paused to eye an unusually tall specimen of Japanese womanhood and said, “You know, Nikolai, if there really is a God, he should give the Asian women longer legs, and in many cases, bigger chests. It does not matter in bed so much, but it would improve the streets considerably.”

 The unofficial master of the city shook his head in mock disapproval.

 “Viktor Viktor Viktor, how many times must I remind you that you can create a perfect life for yourself, but you will never have a perfect world. I own three nightclubs where life is very grand indeed, but only within the confines of four walls.”

 “Yet even in those places we are afraid to speak our minds,” Filipchenko pointed out. “No matter what you own or have power over, you still need places like this, where Cossacks, Koreans, and even the Nips left their horse shit on the ground. Places where dangerous conversation is swallowed by the four winds.”

 “Yes, so let us speak no more of the dead. Who among the living could compel you to fly so far from the Moscow factories, Viktor?”

 “Have you ever heard of a Illya Kuryakin?”

 “No.”

“He’s a Lt. Commander with Naval Intelligence. He’s the one who lit a fire under Bykovsky’s rump over in Magadan.”

 “When I got wind of that I just assumed that it was a KGB problem,” said Budarin.

 “Oh no. This Kuryakin fellow has crossed many lines and stepped on many toes. They finally got a chance to get rid of him by giving him to a U.N. organization. But I’ll be damned if he hasn’t fallen into a nest of vipers that are just as troublesome as he is. So, I felt compelled to have him killed when I received word that he was bound for Yelizovo.”

 “But that did not work.”

 “No. That did not work. He stole a fighter plane and no one at Yelizovo was conscientious enough to shoot him down. Anyway, he’s heading for this city. He’s heading for you, Nikolai.”

 “By air or by rail?”

 “Neither. He would have beaten me here if he had chosen one of those routes. No, he’s probably coming in by river. He’ll stay under deep cover until he’s ready to strike.”

 “What the hell are you talking about, Filipchenko? You make him sound like some kind of assassin. He’s not coming here to kill me, unless you’re holding something back.”

 “There is something, Nikolai, but I don’t know how to explain it.”

 “Try real hard, Viktor.”

 “Well, I have reason to believe that many people in the military are caught between two opposing forces. Those of us who are with Khrunov, and those who are receiving some limited assistance from the highest possible circles.”

 Budarin didn’t know if he should laugh or get angry.

 “Viktor, you and I both know that if Khrushchev knew half of what we know about Khrunov, our meal ticket would be dead. Khrushchev wouldn’t rely on someone like Kuryakin to nibble away at Khrunov and his shadow organization.”

  “I used to think that too. But now I’m thinking that maybe Khrunov has something on our glorious leader. Maybe Khrushchev actually does need an outsider like Kuryakin. All I know for certain is that Kuryakin still has his official standing with the navy, despite the fact that he is hated by half the intelligence community. That is not possible without help from above, and I’m not talking about a God that redesigns women.”

 “But you still haven’t explained what this Kuryakin will do if he reaches me. Will he beat me with a rubber hose while my bodyguards stand by helplessly?”

 “I have already confessed my ignorance of things to come,” responded the general with waning patience. “But a loose cannon is a thing to watch out for, and that is what Kuryakin is. He can’t be frightened or bought, and it has become his destiny to straddle both sides of the globe. Keep lots of people around you until Kuryakin is gone. That is the best advice I can give you.”

Stolovaya was not the best restaurant in the city, but because of it’s abundant floor space it was the most crowded. Nikolai Budarin was a smuggling king pin  who liked to multi-task, so he would try to draw his enemy out into the open while at the same time maintaining his image as a respected member of the community. As a city planner he would make sporadic appearances in the more successful establishments and give people a chance to pretend that he wasn’t filling the shoes of a man who died as he had lived; namely as a gangster.

 Small shop owners would invite him to stop by sometime for a complimentary product, and the curmudgeons of the downtown sector would stop at his table to drop off a complaint. In any case, today all visitors were welcome. After all, if push came to shove, this Kuryakin fellow would likely not shoot through an innocent bystander.

 Budarin was half way through his pre-dinner drink of Lychee Wine when the establishment’s most attractive waitress approached to ask him if he’d like to sample a new hors d’oeuvre that was being offered that day. Budarin gazed at the woman’s ample cleavage and reminded himself that his mistress was both the jealous sort, and not terribly concerned with his image as a city father. The poor waitress could end up with half her hair ripped out before she could even beg to know what was going on.

 So he gave the ex milkmaid back to customers who in some small ways, possessed more freedom than he did. Such dour thoughts were followed by a dull pain in his chest. Like most middle aged men, Budarin was not quick to conclude that there was anything seriously wrong with him. Heart attacks were for the other fellow, after all. But the pain grew steadily worse, and the smuggler began to sweat like a boy virgin about to get his cherry picked. But he was in luck. At a neighboring table a professional looking gentleman with an observant gaze was already moving towards him

 Budarin became just a tad less panicky when the stranger identified himself as a physician. The doctor summoned the buxom waitress and handed her a business card and ordered her to call the number. Budarin’s two bodyguards had left the bar area but were wise enough not to get in the way of the doctor. Everyone was a bit less apprehensive when the ambulance finally arrived and the patient was quickly stretchered into the back of the meat wagon.

 The bodyguards had noticed that the ambulance attendants were Asian, but there was nothing really amazing about that. The Chinese border was less than twenty miles away, and Khabarovsk was known the world over as one of the few great open Soviet cities. That meant that you were not only free to visit the city, you were also free to come and find employment, if you had a marketable skill to offer.

 The ambulance attendants were typical Chinese; a good head shorter than the guards and maybe forty pounds lighter. The guards jumped in to help the Asians with their two-hundred and forty pound patient. Budarin was still conscious and might want to convey some last moment instructions. But as it turned out, there was only one piece of advice that would have been appropriate:

 Beware of Trojan ambulances.

 The guards were still holding the stretcher when the Chinese let go and delivered straight punches up under both chins. The Russians learned the hard way that being shorter than your opponent is not always a disadvantage. Especially if reach is not an issue. Two heads snapped back almost simultaneously. There was a distinct crunching sound and Doctor Napoleon Solo wasn’t sure if it was from jaw bones giving way or cervical vertebrae.

 Illya Kuryakin came out from behind a garbage dumpster and said, “Your accent was terrible. But foreign doctors are not unheard of so I suppose it does not matter.”

  “And once again I find myself outside the loop,” complained Solo.

 Kuryakin encouraged his partner to join him in the back of the ambulance while the Asians took to the front seats.

 Bob Liu and David Chen are the eyes and ears of U.N.C.L.E. along this sector of the Soviet-Chinese border. They may be American by birth, but they work in Soviet territory. Therefore it is not an affront to your standing that I know them and you do not.”

 “I stand corrected,” Solo responded as he administered the second of two drugs that the Chinese-American agents had brought with them. The first had been a simple pill dropped in a glass of wine. The second came in the form of a syringe that Solo used with little concern for the patient’s comfort.

 “Alright, Mr. Budarin---where were those atomic devices bound for after leaving South Korea?”

 “American?” the smuggler mumbled half to himself.

 “That’s right, American. Hollywood, John Wayne---Playboy Magazine,” prompted Solo.

 “Divorce lawyers----president who---thinks--- with- his- dick,” the prisoner drawled with a bit more clarity.

 “Well, we’re getting closer,” responded Solo.

 Kuryakin grabbed a fist full of hair and turned the prisoner’s face towards him.

 “We’re going to smuggle you into China,” the blonde agent said in Budarin’s native tongue. “Then we do one of two things: We get you to Japan for further questioning, or we bury you someplace peaceful and quiet.”

 “You got---no authority—“

 “We operate without it,” Kuryakin interrupted. “We’re going to transfer you to a large truck, and increase your dosage. If you answer my question, you cross sedated, but alive. If you don’t cooperate, you cross dead.”

 “Japan,” Budarin muttered with eyes that were glazed.

 “Geisha girls,” Solo added.

 “Not—in prison.”

 “We don’t want you---only what you know,” prompted Kuryakin. “Once we have verification of your claims, you will likely be cut loose.”

 The ambulance pulled into a large garage, and even in his drugged state Budarin knew that it was time to talk or call Kuryakin’s bluff.

 “Artillery rounds---shipped out with--- Rubido. General Rubido. He works—for Castro.”

 Kuryakin had heard enough. He climbed out of the ambulance with Solo and gave the Chinese agents their final instructions. Then he proceeded towards another car that had seen better days.

 “You seem quite satisfied,” put in Solo. “May I remind you that no sedative in the world can force a hardened subject to disclose that which he truly wants to keep secret. That’s why you needed an actress back in Korea.”

 “Budarin is currently unable to comprehend why we exist, but he is able to comprehend that we do exist. I suspect that my reputation has preceded me. In any case, I am acquainted with the name Rubido. In fact, you came very close to meeting him yourself. That Cuban’s name is proof enough that Budarin caved for us,” said the Russian.

 “How’s that?”

 “He was the highest military authority in Santa Clara, which is where we almost landed the 707.”

 “Now that is interesting,” replied Solo. “First a load of nerve gas, and now miniature A bombs.”

 “I regret to say that it is time for us to return to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters New York. We need to go to Cuba and we cannot do this without assistance from on high.”

 “Well, maybe he’ll let you go. I’m the senior agent in this. My guess is Waverly will need to make an example of me by putting me in the dog house for a while. Can’t blame him really. Managing field agents like us is probably like herding cats.”

 Kuryakin smiled ever so slightly but kept his opinions to himself.

Chapter Fourteen.

 Alexander Waverly towered over his two insubordinate field agents. His face was a mask of stone, but there was some cause for hope. The hard fisted Waverly had told the two men to be seated. A proper dressing down would have required them to stand. Solo glanced at his fellow agent, then at his boss, then back at the Russian.

 “The two most inscrutable men I have ever seen,” thought the American. “As much as I love poker, I’d never share a table with those two.”

 “The super computer has come up with some very interesting data, Gentlemen.

 Item: Coded messages sent to Cuba have increased two-thousand percent.

Item: Col. Gen. Ivanov and several missile construction specialists have gone to Cuba.

Item: Even as we speak, Raul Castro is in Moscow.

Item: Soviet shipping to Cuba has increased. Every cargo ship features large hatches.”

 Solo didn’t know if he should feel relieved or not.

 “Sir, the artillery rounds we were chasing, are part of a black market operation. Any Soviet state run operations aimed at Cuba would be entirely separate.”

 “Do you agree with that assessment, Mr. Kuryakin?”

 “Yes sir. I still maintain that a phantom terrorist organization is collecting weapons of mass destruction, in large part from the Soviet military. I doubt very much that these terrorists are contributing to a military buildup in Cuba.”

 “Yet both efforts point to Cuba as a hot spot. Add to that the circumstances in which the two of you met.”

 “Have our local people set anything up for us yet?” asked Solo.

 That was the first question Solo needed to ask. Field investigators were almost useless without native operatives. Sleeper Agents were just one example of how people like Solo and Kuryakin could go into a foreign country and hope to accomplish anything. The super spy was a myth. No man or woman could do anything without the benefit of an information gathering system.

 “I received a green light some five hours ago,” said Waverly. “That is why I am not overly perturbed with the two of you. If you hadn’t left the country, and almost gotten yourselves killed, you would have had to wait here with the rest of us. So no time has been lost, but I fear that Mr. Kuryakin may have earned the wrath of his former S.N.I. superiors.”

 “Only the preverbal rotten eggs, sir. But I would like to have the headquarters staff at Yelizovo investigated,” said the Russian. “For a while there, it appeared as though the entire air base had been corrupted by the people I am fighting.”

 “We are fighting,” Waverly corrected. “You’re not in this alone anymore, Mr. Kuryakin. Now kindly report to the make up artist. She has a great deal of work to do, transforming you into a Latino.”

 The Russian left, leaving Solo and Waverly alone.

 “These are dark times, Mr. Solo. Half our number murdered in what was supposed to be a fortress. Then my two most promising agents perpetrate a communications flim flam in order to run off on me. I will not deny that I was very angry for a while.”

 “I take full responsibility for that, sir.”

 “Oh, well I would be very disappointed in you if you didn’t, Mr. Solo. After all, Mr. Kuryakin is part of the great experiment, but you sir are the product of western thinking.”

 “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure I follow you.”

 The old man’s gaze turned inward for a time.

 “When I was your age, the Germans taught me that if you fight for justice, you will lose. Rather, you must fight to defeat your enemy. You don’t have to put people into gas chambers, but you must put aside compassion and employ cold logic in order to achieve your ends. To do this, you must be willing to commit injustices upon people who do not deserve them. That is why there is no such thing as a noble spy, Mr. Solo.”

 “I understand, sir, but how does that pertain to Kuryakin? Off hand I would assess him as being even more pragmatic than I am.”

 “But I don not speak of pragmatism alone, Mr. Solo. I have gotten down into the filth for England. You in turn believe in what America stands for. But Mr. Kuryakin, and millions like him, have nothing to cling to but their hatred of what they have seen take place around them. This fledgling organization of ours is attempting to unit these folks with certain common values. But I don’t know if they will ever understand freedom as we understand it.”

 “Sir, Kuryakin is a genius, and in some ways that makes him a hard fellow to understand. I’m only beginning to get used to him, but I guess I’d be a flat out bigot if I thought there was something inside westerners that is lacking in people who live on the other side of the planet.”

 “But this discussion is not about ordinary citizenship, Mr. Solo. This is about functioning as an U.N.C.L.E. field agent. The ability to think for yourself. To take calculated risks that might go against existing orders. To place certain values above the state. To do these things and then return home for voluntary discommendation if the job falls apart. That is not the stuff of genius, Mr. Solo, it is the product of human advancement.”

 The younger man stifled a sigh. Who needs philosophy when there are John Wayne movies to watch?

 “That is the great experiment,” Waverly continued, “to seek out people who are willing to gather information for us. To risk their physical safety and even the safety of their families so that we can bring a higher morality to every corner of the globe.”

 “Yes sir. Anyway, I’m just happy not to be in your dog house,” responded Solo.

 “Oh, you are most certainly in my kennel, Mr. Solo. A veritable mountain of paper work will be waiting for you after your return from Cuba. How’s your typing?”

 “Hunt and peck, sir,” Solo responded with a dour expression.

 “What a pity. Still---better than the Aleutians.”

 “Yes sir,” Solo responded as he rose from his seat.

Chapter Fifteen.

 In weeks to come Solo would realize that the vile threat of office paperwork had almost certainly been the old man’s idea of humor. A man like Waverly wouldn’t allow records keeping to pile up for a field worker who needed a bit of disciplining. Presuming of course that Solo could return from a country that had a .30 caliber solution for anything that might vex the new regime. To be sure, there was a great deal of high risk spying to be done on the Island, and the people that Solo and Kuryakin needed to spy on were very determined to avoid just that  sort of thing.

 In another eight weeks the world would be told that a major shift in the nuclear arms race had taken place. The Kennedy administration would describe the communist activities in the west as intolerable. Russian Premier Khrushchev would then remind the Americans that they had missile stations in locations such as Turkey and Italy. Intellectual honesty would fall under the wheels of two very large trucks intent on a game of chicken. But that was just a theoretical possibility in the early summer of 62.

 The Soviet Government had selected eleven ports to receive the Russian ships: Havana, Mariel,Cabanas, Bahia Honda, Matanzas, La Isabella, Nuevitas, Nicaro, Casilda, Cienfuegos, and Santiago de Cuba. Only Bahia Honda, Mariel and Casilda were to receive actual nuclear weapons, and only after the launching devices were fully operational. Needless to say that was a deep dark secret. Napoleon Solo went to Casilda only because a brick laying informant had gotten word out that a huge privacy wall was being constructed in one of the sleepiest docking facilities in the world.

 Solo got to the little bay just as a big fat Soviet freighter arrived. True enough, a single deep water dock now had a brick half circle partition shielding the dock from the best vantage points available.

 Solo grinned at something the late General Patton had once said:

 “Fixed fortifications are monuments to the stupidity of man.”

A convoy of heavy trucks formed over the next several hours and that gave the agent enough time to find a tree that hung over the center of the Paseo Agramonte roadway. As the American labored to reach his perch, he again wished that Kuryakin could have taken this assignment. The Russian was the better climber, and of course could read Russian. But once again, Illya Kuryakin had chosen on a course of action that ran contrary to what Solo had in mind. So the ex-Air Force pilot did what had to be done.

 Shortly after sundown the truck convoy rolled slowly away from the quiet bay and proceeded towards the modest town of Trinidad. Eight trucks made the short trip with their headlights off. All Solo had to do was wait until the last truck began to pass underneath him, then drop down on the tarpaulin that covered the cargo section. The noise made by his landing was masked by the constant rocking motions of the heavy truck suspension.

 Getting into the back was a bit harry, but Solo just kept telling himself that if Kuryakin could do it, then he could do it; and he did. Unfortunately, the Soviets were so obsessed with secrecy, that they didn’t have anything printed on the heavy packing crates except shipping codes which would have been meaningless, even to Kuryakin. Trinidad was only ten minutes up the road and each crate was held together by dozens of heavy wood screws. So the mission was a bust. Still, it was obvious enough that the Soviets weren’t hauling caviar.

 Solo recalled how he almost went to Cuba with a load of nerve gas, and briefly contemplated the possibility that Castro might be assembling his own nerve gas manufacturing facility. Then suddenly his eyes and ears focused on a pair of headlights that were now illuminating the back of the truck. Solo needed to depart the truck with alacrity, but in a manner that would allow him to avoid flying lead in various sizes.

 Drawing his U.N.C.L.E. Special, he presented himself to the startled pair of Russians in the cab and gestured to the driver to turn the truck around. All he wanted was to separate from the convoy long enough to make a break for the jungle. Maybe the driver was brave, or maybe he was just stupid. In any case, he hit the brakes and left Napoleon with a simple choice: kill two men and take control of the truck, or surrender.

 For Kuryakin, it would have been an easy decision to make, but Solo took a harder line against communism, and the ex-Air Force pilot in him was telling him to fight. But he reminded himself that he worked for U.N.C.L.E. now, and that meant following a complicated set of rules. So with a sigh of resignation he handed his weapon over to the man in the passenger seat. With his hands tied behind his back he was allowed to sit between the driver and the passenger who had brought out his own Makarov sidearm.

 When the convoy was about one mile south of Trinidad, it branched off onto a goat path that angled forty-five degrees to the right. After passing through a thick curtain of trees they all came to a man made clearing that was illuminated only by the semi-covered truck headlights. A barbed wire fence ran along the perimeter of the clearing, and a Quonset hut was half completed in the front left corner of the enclosure. The whole thing measured about three-hundred feet square, and Solo wondered if it was a coincidence that the tallest trees in the area were standing just outside the wire.

 The American was quickly ushered to the officer in charge of the building project. When it became clear to him that he had a spy on his hands, his expression clouded, although it was difficult to discern as much what with most of the headlights pointed at distant ceiba trees.

 “You stupid son of a bitch! If you captured him on the road leading into town, why the hell didn’t you keep him out there? Now he knows where the launching site will be. He’ll have to be imprisoned, and that means contacting the Sugar Growers so that they can kick one more decision up stairs to their General. You are so damn lucky that your ass belongs to that rust bucket out in the harbor. If you were one of my people, I’d have you building the largest latrine in the world….”

 Solo didn’t understand a word of that, but he also perceived the notion that he was being shown something that was supposed to be a secret. Logic indicated that he would now be taken to a place where political officers could question him. But they might also keep him in the jungle, so that if a killing should become necessary, a remote grave site would be close at hand.

 “We go to town in morning,” the officer then said in broken Spanish. “You no lie---maybe you live.”

 Solo was then taken into the back of the lead truck and hog tied. All things considered, he was feeling optimistic. His chances of survival had increased substantially in the past few minutes, and there was one word of Russian that Solo had actually understood in the midst of the officer’s diatribe. The word Paketa meant missile. That meant that the trucks were bringing in concrete, steel frame work, electrical wiring, and lots of things you couldn’t get at the local hardware store.

 I should have guessed,” Solo thought to himself while lying on his side.

 Then the U.N.C.L.E. agent willed himself to relax so that sleep could take him. He would want all his wits on the morrow. Regardless of what fate would have in store for him.

Chapter Sixteen.

 The two story house ranked median in the category of suburban Havana homes. It had stood empty for nearly a year now, but it’s only external flaw was that several large trees would scrape hard against the roof tiles every time a strong wind came up. By order of the one night resident, those branches would be removed the next day. The fact that the house might remain unoccupied for another year was irrelevant.

 The men with the pruning shears and the wood saws could count themselves fortunate. They would be given orders that were simple enough to obey. The men in charge of Cuba’s economy and it’s infrastructure did not always sleep as well when their day was done. The man with the beard and the cigar was good at coming up with ideas, but then someone else would have to devise a plan to turn the idea into a reality. So it always is with dictators.

 But at least until morning no underling would have to move any mountains. A flesh and blood man was about to go to bed with his newly wed wife. All the daily cares could be set aside and forgotten so that a loving couple could revel in their carnal bliss.

 Or could they?

 Fidel Alejandro Castro Ruz sat on the edge of the bed and slowly pulled off his jungle boots. Hopefully he intended to take a shower, but his new wife had already learned that such things were decided by the whims of the moment.

 “I tell you, Celia, if any Russian guards ever challenge me again, I will make them wish that their fathers had never met their mothers.”

 The attractive Latino woman shrugged slightly before slipping naked under the bed sheets.

 “You cannot attribute such things to Russian arrogance, Darling. Would it hurt so much to have a few gold stars pinned to you collars?”

 “I am not a general, I am a premier,” the bearded man explained patiently.

 “Si, but you choose to look like a soldier, so you should carry some stars, in order to cut down on the misunderstandings.”

 Castro snorted at the last word.

 “I could travel the old mountain supply routes tomorrow, Celia. In the furthest reaches of this country I would be recognized instantly. Only at those secret Russian launching sites am I a mysterious figure.”

 “Do not pout so, Comrade Darling. It was one guard who probably had a snoot full of vodka.”

“I am not truly referring to him. The real point of it is that every time a Russian cargo ship unloads in the middle of no where, loyal Cubans report it immediately, but the Russian liaison officials play with themselves until every old woman selling chickens has spied out the latest building site. Only then do I receive a extremely vague assessment of what is going on. So I decided to make a short impromptu inspection of the latest site, and some idiot treats me like I am a photographer for that American magazine National Geographic.”

 “Well, every launching site is located just outside of a town. We could paste large posters of your handsome face in front of all the stores. Underneath each likeness would be the caption, “Our beloved Premier Castro.”

 “Premier Fidel Castro,” corrected the now naked leader.

 “So show me a little premier estrechez,” the mistress cooed.

 Resorting to his favorite tool of foreplay, Castro took out a fresh cigar and threw aside the sheets.

 On the roof above, Illya pulled the ear plug out and rolled over onto his back. He had had enough of this sort of work back in his home country. He had always wondered how the hell the K.G.B. people could take in so much “data” and then go home to their pet gold fish. Perhaps someday he could consult with Bogdanovich the prostitute on the subject. Most likely she would tell him to go do something that is anatomically impossible.

 No matter. The U.N.C.L.E. eavesdropper plucked a few leaves away that had been tickling his nose and then peered over the top of the tree branch that was shielding him from the guard down below. He was pacing the width of the front lawn, serene in the knowledge that his beloved leader would never catch a C.I.A. bullet in this sleepy upper end suburb. Kuryakin had privately come to the conclusion that Castro would live as long as it would take for him to contract mouth cancer. Anyone who is content to chomp on cigars and wear combat fatigues for the rest of his life would be judged harmless by the powers that be.

 While waiting for the faire l’amour to end, the Russian decided to tip a kidney. The section of roof he was lying on was steeply graded, so all he had to do was roll over on his side. There was just one problem: Illya was half way through his business when he realized that the house had no rain gutters. It shouldn’t have meant anything. The guard was at least fifty feet from that side of the house, gazing down both sides of the street most of the time. But there was a problem.

 “Mary mother of God!” someone exclaimed in the darkness.

 “Que?” responded the guard who Kuryakin had thought was alone.

 “I think a damn cat just pissed on me.”

 “Don’t be ridiculous, Chico. That big branch on the roof has probably trapped some rain water that has turned bad. The wind caused the water to finally fall over the edge.”

 “But it smells like piss, I tell you!”

 “So what do you want to do about it? You have no change of uniform available. The truck will not be here until morning and you dare not bother the premier with your cat piss problem. You will just have to be as disciplined as you were back in the days when we lived in the jungle. Remember those days, Chico? They were not all that long ago.”

 Kuryakin had eased a sleep dart into the chamber of his U.N.C.L.E. Special. If necessary he would use it on which ever guard was the farthest away. The closest man would have to be taken out with karate. Such a plan might prove ludicrous but the Russian had made up his mind that he would not kill. So he remained absolutely still, until he received a reprieve by the guard who he had not urinated on.

 Then he reinserted his ear plug and got back to the naked dictator.

 “I tell you Celia, Khrushchev understands nothing but strength. Even if he perceives me as a security risk, I must step in wherever the projects materialize, or my standing will shrink in his eyes.”

 The woman gazed down at the dictator’s membrum virile and let out a sigh of regret.

 “I will not be made into a puppet,” Castro continued, “I don’t need to have my finger on the launch buttons, but by God, the Americans will treat with me, not that bald fat man who sinks of fish eggs.”

 The mistress rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom which was immediately to her right.

 “Playa Giron is all the proof you need that the Americanos want you at room temperature, and they will not settle for anything else.”

 The dictator shook his head vehemently; as if to convince himself as well as his mistress.

 “No. The Bay of Pigs attack was nothing more than a giant scratching at a flea while half asleep. This Island is not Korea, Germany or Japan. Covert operations are not employed by the American voters. The C.I.A. will work up the courage to kill me if I stick my ass out far enough and long enough, but this I will not do.”

 “Tell me about it,” thought the woman.

 “I have recently had a very enlightening conversation with a powerful international capitalist—“

 “A Jew?” Celia.

 “I don’t think so. In any case, he is a man after my own heart. He has a plan to attack American capitalism which in turn will benefit Cuban business interests. It is multi faceted. Expel our criminal element to Florida, force the American government to spend money on heavy naval operations north of here….”

 “But Carino, the Americanos are so rich, they could bear such burdens easily. Besides, their government will not allow Cuba to prosper under you leadership. That is all there is to it. We need the Russians. We will be nothing but jungle bunnies without them.”

 “As things stand now,” amended the dictator, “but you must be willing to look far enough down the road. The population of Florida will go up. Military operations will create an atmosphere that will discourage leisure boat travel north of here. Of course it will not discourage our miscreants from immigrating north---until hell freezes over. Then when our infrastructure is working the way it should, we will allow this gentleman I know to go forth and convince the Americans that they should vacation in my Cuba.”

 The mistress rolled her eyes at the man’s delusions.

 “Carino, what makes you think the Americano government will ever bow to the wishes of a few fat gutted tourists who would like to come here?”

 “Not a few. When the north is overdeveloped, and we show all the virgin beach property that is available, then we will have much to entice the Americans with. But the important thing is that when there are many thousands of Americans enjoying themselves in Cuban run resorts, then the American voters will tell their war hawk leaders to ignore the Russian missiles, just as they are ignored in West Germany.”

 “You cannot compare Europas to Americanos,” warned the mistress.

 “Not yet I can’t,” amended the new master of Cuba, “but once we are safe from American military aggression, I will show you how fast the winds of change can blow.”

 Kuryakin was still listening when a Chico’s head popped up above the edge of the roof.

 “I knew it,” he growled half to himself.

 His Thompson submachine gun was still being brought to bear while Kuryakin slid three feet and applied his right foot to the soldier’s face. The ladder was well positioned, but the Latino lacked confidence and dropped his weapon in order to clutch at the ladder with both hands.

 “Fulco!” the man shouted as the intruder scurried over the top of the roof and down the other side.

 Kuryakin then need to make a split second decision: break through a skylight that was near at hand, or jump off the roof and land in the backyard. He chose the former, since the prospects of spraining an ankle at such an elevation were excellent. He cannon balled through the glass and was straightening up when the leader of Cuba entered the hallway with a 1911 Colt .45. The Russian turned his back on the naked man and ducked through a near by door just as the .45 roared in the hallway.

 Kuryakin felt something bite into his left anterior deltoid and guessed that it was only a surface crease. He was further relieved to discover that the bedroom he was now in featured a door with a double lock, although the lower one was a useless thing with an old fashioned key hole. The dead bolt might or might not hold up to the remaining six rounds of the Colt, but hopefully Castro would do the right thing and wait for his soldiers to take down the door. In the meantime the Russian applied his above average problem solving abilities to the challenge at hand.

 The bedroom had last been used by a woman. He drew this conclusion from a can of hairspray that was on the dresser. It might have been sitting there a long time, but hopefully that wouldn’t matter. He picked it up and let fly with a short burst of spray. Then he took out his lighter and rushed back to the door. When he peeped through the key hole he was amazed to see a darker eye ball staring back at him. Then the eye disappeared, and Kuryakin knew what to expect next.

 A .45 slug ripped through the hole missing the Russian by a mile. Now it was Illya’s turn, and his shot would not be so predictable. The Russian held the now lit cigarette lighter in front of the ruined hole and activated the hair spray can. The little flame thrower did not disappoint, judging by the exclamation of pain that came from the other side of the door. Upon hearing it, Kuryakin undid the dead bolt and rushed at the man with the injured hand.

 For the second time a Cuban had obligingly dropped his firearm, and Illya reveled in his good fortune by punching the premier right through his beard. He then fled from the building with his U.N.C.L.E. Special in hand. He didn’t have to go far to find Fulco who he deftly shot with his sleep dart. Sadly, the dart needed two seconds to take effect, and that gave the Latino time to empty half his magazine into a birdbath.

 Kuryakin ran through the neighbor’s backyard. A single round flew over his head, then Chico’s weapon jammed, possibly because of the fall. In any case, the Russian ran as far as he dared, then sought refuge in a garbage dumpster. Both Russian and American made jeeps sped up and down the city streets, and many people would be accosted that night because of an U.N.C.L.E. agent’s labors.

 It was well that Kuryakin’s communicator was designed to work in total darkness. The agent dared not so much as ignite his cigarette lighter under the present circumstances. He kept his transmission as short as possible, then hunkered down like mouse being hunted by an owl. The Russian wasn’t exactly glad that he had relieved himself on the roof of a building, but he was somewhat happy that the need would not arise within the dumpster. He was almost getting comfortable in his environment when a jeep pulled up close and a voice cut through the dark.

 “What are you doing out here?”

 “I dropped some flour on the floor, Sargento. I was about to throw it away,” explained a voice that was far milder than the first.

 “Oh yes, I forgot that there is a bakery here. But why are you baking at this hour?”

 “My wife is sick and I must do all the work alone. Besides, I would normally start in another hour anyway. We bakers start our work in the middle of the night you see.”

 “Do you have anything for me, Baker? I’ll be running around like this until dawn.”

 “Well, I don’t have anything fresh, but I have some rolls that are still decent enough for a soldier on the run.”

 The baker opened the dumpster and quickly dropped his load of contaminated flour. Kuryakin closed his eyes as the powder showered down all over him.

 “Could be worse,” he thought to himself. “This could be in back of a fish market.”

Chapter Seventeen.

 Solo’s truck rolled out at dawn, but on the outskirts of town it was stopped by a curious looking pair of men who did not appear to be Russian, or Latino. They looked like American tourists with their brightly colored clothes and expensive watches. They were both a bit older and heavier than Solo, but they seemed fit enough to do great mischief with the Uzi machine pistols they were carrying.

 One of them had a pug nose, and he flashed an I.D. card before asking something in Russian. The Soviet noncom nodded slightly and removed a pistol from a small carrying bag. Broken Nose took the pistol and smiled in satisfaction.

 “Oh yea. We got one of em alrighty. This aught to prove real interesting.”

 “Nothing more comforting than the good old English language when you’re stuck someplace in a foreign country,” quipped Solo.

 “Ain’t it the truth?” responded Broken Nose. “You’re lucky that we happened to be in the vicinity. The local political officer was fixing to ask you a few questions and then lock you up in the hold of that cargo ship down in the bay. You would have been stuck there until it sailed back to Rusky Land. Then you would have had your brain messed with, over a very long time. We sure would hate to see that happen to a fellow American.”

 “But my deliverance isn’t without its down side,” prodded Solo.

 “Nope. I’m afraid not. Take the passenger seat, Mr. Solo. We got a plane to catch.”

 Broken Nose slung his weapon on his left shoulder before getting behind the wheel of the American jeep. His companion took the back seat and watched the still bound prisoner like a hawk. When they got to the bay, Solo noted that a float plane had arrived and it appeared to be waiting for them.

 “Mind a bit of constructive criticism?” asked the chief captor.

 “Not at all. That’s how we improve,” replied Solo.

 “You can give your outfit a cute name like “Uncle” if you want to, but you shouldn’t aught to carry a customized piece. That gun marks you as an agent. It just don’t make any sense out in the field.”

 “Perhaps. But if you get your hand caught in a communist cookie jar, you’re in trouble regardless of who you work for,” said the captive as he climbed out of the jeep and made his way to the aircraft.

 “Yea, this is a commie cookie jar alrighty, but this ain’t where you’re gunna get your fingers slapped,” promised Broken Nose.

 Sure enough, the aircraft took Solo and his escort clear out of Cuban territory, all the way to the southern most tip of the Dominican Republic. Just off that coast Solo spotted a small triangular Island that measured about three miles across. Here was Beata Island, a fairly unremarkable spot in the Caribbean, made up mostly of jagged limestone and patches of mangrove. Solo didn’t see the dozen or so prefab cottages on the west coast until the plane was making its final approach. The captive perked up when he detected the presence of women waving at the aircraft. They were wearing a sort of semi see through sun screen material to protect their skin from the tropical rays.

 Sadly, the reception committee at the dock was less appealing. Three men looking much like Solo’s escort, also packing Uzis. The one in the center was smiling, so the U.N.C.L.E. agent concluded that he would have to be the leader. Thirty seconds later the man confirmed this by having Solo untied and given a cold soda.

 “Dominic Korchek is my name, Mr. Solo. I’m sorry that I can’t offer you something stronger, but the fact is, our medical people want your blood to remain alcohol free for some technical reason that is beyond me.”

 “Medical people?” queried Solo.

 “Yes, our people in Columbia. That is where you will be flown sometime tomorrow. There’s a storm blowing through farther to the south. The pilot is going to refuel on the main Island and then return for you when it’s clear to proceed onward. So, allow me to show you to your cottage where I hope you’ll be comfortable until you’re ready for the last leg of your journey.”

 “I’ve been given the impression that you gentlemen are not Russians. If in fact you are Americans, then you constitute a brand of traitor I am unfamiliar with,” drawled Solo.

 The men all laughed in unison. Clearly they were thick skinned as far as gangsters went.

 “Actually Mr. Solo, we are employees of an organization known as Thrush. Our roots are international, and so are our objectives. So while it is true that we are all Americans, that fact doesn’t mean a whole lot in this part of the world.”

 “May I ask what your relationship is with the Soviets?”

 “Oh I’m not nearly important enough to answer that question, Mr. Solo. But I can tell you this: When you were in North Korea a while back, you conned a low ranking official into thinking that you had a truly effective truth serum that you were willing to share with the North Korean intelligence people. Well sir, the fact is, we have a real one. Trouble is, it sort of robs you of some of your I.Q. points. Another words, it very hard on the brain.”

 “And you need an endless supply of guinea pigs,” guessed Solo.

 “In a word: yes. But I’m not here to talk about the preservation of your gray matter, Mr. Solo. I’m here to discuss the future of your temporary room mate.”

 By that time they had reached the front door of a quaint little beach cottage that measured about twenty feet square. Korchek advanced on the door and opened it wide. Just inside was a chair bound Ada Castil.

 “Mr. Solo! What are you doing here?” the woman asked in a state of shock.

 “I thought I’d come and rescue you,” the fellow captive answered smoothly.

 The captors laughed again, all but Korchek.

 “Is she also on the way to Columbia,” Solo then asked.

 “Actually Mr. Solo, that is entirely up to you. You see, most people at my level of the organization are business men. I’m in the information game, not unlike your Alexander Waverly. Now I know this fellow who could be of great benefit to me. He’s an Arab prince, and his business is the buying and selling of women.”

 “It wouldn’t work,” Solo responded with a hard look. “She’s far too intelligent to be held captive in some modern day harem.”

 “If so, you have nothing to be concerned about,” Korchek said with a smile.

 “And how precisely am I to buy this woman’s future?” asked Solo.

 “I simply need to know where Illya Kuryakin is operating. I know it’s in the Havana area, but that covers a lot of ground. Could you help us out there?”

 “Don’t do it, Senhor Solo!” Ada shouted while lapsing back into Spanish.

 Korchek held up a hand for silence.

 “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten the lady. I should have realized that she knows nothing about Kuryakin’s standing in the Soviet government. Be advised, both of you, that I have no intention of bringing Kuryakin here. I just need to take him out of circulation. I would let the Soviet security people send him back home.”

 “Where he would be shot as a traitor,” cut in Solo.

 “Maybe so, unless your organization can do something about that,” Korchek stated honestly. “In any case, the woman gets a chance at freedom, and Kuryakin. You’re more than likely screwed, but I could be wrong. I lot could happen between now and your date with the head doctors.”

 Solo smiled at the proposition and said, “He has a contact at the Hotel Inglaterra. But he looks just wonderful in his Latino makeover and you won’t catch him without her.”

 “What are you talking about?”

 “Kuryakin is in love with her. Put her in the hotel, and you got a chance. Personally, I like the idea because with luck the Russian will beat you, and the girl won’t have to go anywhere but home.”

 Solo’s smile was taunting in the extreme and it got him what he wanted.

 “Alright, Mr. Solo. I’ll take the woman back with me to Cuba. She doesn’t have to be delivered to her new home for quite a while anyway.”

 “Hey, I may be just an electrical engineer, but I have my own ideas about honor and responsibility,” growled the woman. “I will find a way to warn Illya. I swear it to God.”

 Korchek shrugged with just a hint of amusement.

 “Mr. Solo, I’m afraid we’re going to have to tie you to that other chair. We’ll see to your creature comforts after a bit. If you should manage to escape, you might bear in mind that there are a hell of a lot of bull sharks between here and the main Island. I know that you would risk it, but maybe you wouldn’t want that for the lady.”

 Solo was then trussed up and left in the company of the Latino woman.

 “Do you suppose they are leaving us together because they have a listening device planted somewhere in the cabin?” asked Ada.

 “In this day and age, that is a constant possibility,” replied Solo.

 “Well then, I suppose there is nothing for us to talk about except favorite foods.”

 “Oh I don’t know---I doubt the enemy would benefit if you were to tell me what it is about Kuryakin that you like.”

 The woman squinted at the question for a moment and then asked, “Are you jealous, or are you simply trying to get my mind off of all this danger?”

 “I’m jealous. There is no danger for you, Ada. You’ll be fine.”

 The Latino woman thought about that for a moment and said, “I cannot speak from experience, but I doubt that Illya would be able to lie as well as you can, Mr. Solo.”

 “Napoleon,” the man corrected with his warmest smile.

Chapter Eighteen.

 Illya Kuryakin lowered his newspaper just a tad and then raised it back up again. The old man was still seated at his station on the corner across the street from the hotel. Only by this time, Illya was certain that the old man was not really old at all. The Russian had paid a boy to perform an act of Christian charity by giving the old man a half a gallon of lemonade. It was hot out, and the old man was warmly dressed for the weather. The beverage got polished off in no time, but the man sought no bathroom.

 It just didn’t seem all that necessary.

 Kuryakin almost enjoyed these games of cat and mouse. Back in the Soviet Union you weren’t a real investigator unless you could consistently separate the wolves from the sheep. Of course the Russian was used to working with other Russians. Latinos were a bit different, but not too much so. In any case, no operative that he was familiar with had made any attempt to enter the Hotel Inglaterra, and that was probably bothering the old man as much as it was frustrating the Russian.

 Kuryakin had long since given up trying to contact Napoleon Solo by radio. Now all he could do was hope to make contact with the people who had taken him to the last place where he had been seen last. Those operatives were probably scared to death, thinking that the American would be spilling his guts under torture. (Figuratively or literally) So they might hole up for a very long time. Kuryakin understood how these amateur spies felt. They were operating in a place where they would grow old and die---if all went well.

 Suddenly the professional spy was given something else to think about. Something that both thrilled and frightened him at the same time. A voluptuous Latino woman was getting out of a cab and heading towards the hotel entrance. She had long thick hair and was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt. Because of distance and the possibility of a look a like, the Russian remained where he was and wrestled with the temptation to test his disguise on the old man. The fact that she would have to be cheese for a rat trap occurred to him instantly, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was the fact that she was alone.

 The Russian studied the windows that might frame a sniper. A small demon from his past whispered that perhaps the woman was without an escort because she was one of them. The voice was crushed even before he found an open window with an indistinct shape that didn’t move. Kuryakin back up several paces and then headed for a bar that was just around the corner. He had a plan. He didn’t know how well it would work in Cuba, but at least it was something that he was experienced with.

 Step one was to get himself a drink.

Ada was flanked by two smiling men the very instant she passed through the hotel’s front entrance. She had been warned about the sniper, and now she was elbow to elbow with men who were packing Uzis underneath oversized Hawaiian style shirts. The Nicaraguan scanned the confines of the lobby in an instant and was relieved to see no familiar faces. But the security detail ignored their fellow Cubans completely, which meant that as far as her captors were concerned, Illya Kuryakin was still outside somewhere.

 Not surprisingly, the two men already had a room reserved, and as soon as they were inside it, Ada found herself tied to a chair for the second time in her life. The men went to the fourth floor window and resumed their part in the elaborate stakeout.

 “Is it true that Edgardo is betting against Gomez?” one guard asked the other.

 “Si, a whole case of wine that he confiscated from someplace or other.”

 “But Gomez has never failed to get his man. Twenty-three stakeouts. Twenty-three arrests. The Old Man always gets his collar.”

“True, but Edgardo found out that this guy we’re expecting is a Ruskie. Edgardo figures that maybe this difference will break Gomez’s winning streak.”

 The first man shrugged slightly.

 “I suppose it’s no big thing to gamble with some else’s property. But what is Gomez putting up against the wine?”

 “His three newest stag films. One of the women is supposed to look exactly like Marilyn Monroe.”

 “Blondes,” Ada thought as she rolled her eyes at the partially understood dialogue.

 The U.N.C.L.E. technician endured twenty minutes of locker room conversation that the American movie star, might or might not have merited before one of the men all but stuck his head out the window.

“Maybe we got something. A woman just feinted at the curb.”

 The other Latino returned to the window, but by that time two men were bodily lifting the woman and preparing to carry her into the hotel.

 “Can’t see. Is she a looker?”

 “Si. About as good as my sister-in-law.”

 “A diversion would probably work best with a good looking woman. Don’t you think?”

 “Si, but Gomez hasn’t dropped his cover. He’s still at his station, like nothing has happened. So most likely the woman really did feint. I trust Gomez’ instincts.”

 “More than Edgardo,” the other guard said with a grin.

 Twelve minutes later an ambulance pulled up to a V.I.P. entrance, and two attendants rushed into the hotel.

 “Gomez is heading towards the ambulance, and he’s not doing his old man shuffle anymore.”

 The other guard had taken off his baggy shirt and placed his Uzi on a table. He quickly put the shirt back on and re-clipped the weapon to his trouser belt.

 “I’ll back up Gabrio at the elevator.”

 The guard then opened the outside door, and his eyes went wide at the sight of a man holding a sawed off double barrel shotgun. The weapon was used without hesitation, but Ada and her other guard heard nothing in the way of a deafening boom. Rather, they heard a strange spitting sound that might have come from an air compressor.

 In fact, the shotgun was no shotgun at all. It utilized an ingenious compressed air cartridge that launched heavy rubber slugs. One such projectile now caught the first guard in the midriff and sent him crashing to the floor. The other guard followed an instant later, but that did not end the assault. The man with the gun quickly advanced on his victims and deftly kicked each one in the head before they could recover from the massive stomach blows.

 Ada’s broad smile lasted only until she realized that they would not be able to leave the same way her deliverer got in.

 “The ambulance is suspect. I fear that we cannot return to it, my friend.”

 “That’s alright. On such a sunny day, I think we would be happier in a convertible,” responded Illya Kuryakin.

 “Not to change the subject, Carino, but these men are police officers of some sort. I think the entire hotel is probably surrounded.”

 “It should be but it isn’t,” corrected the Russian. “The west side has no exits or windows on the ground floor, so I parked our jeep beyond a delightfully tall hedge.”

 “But we’re on the fourth floor,” the woman pointed out.

 Kuryakin stripped off his white tunic to reveal his shoulder holster, and a tool pouch.

 “I’m not good with ropes, Illya. Of course I will try very hard, but I fear that you have risked your safety for nothing.”

 The Russian only half listened to her as he ushered her to the nearest west side window. He opened it quickly and then loaded his special weapon with something out of Moby Dick. A miniature grappling harpoon was front loaded into the right side barrel. Then a steel fishing line was attached to the exposed half of the shaft. With remarkable skill the U.N.C.L.E. agent then launched the protruding object out of the air gun so that it landed in the fork of a tree that stood beyond a nine foot hedge. He then secured his end of the steel line to a section of conduit.

 “Ada, I’m going to squat on the window ledge, and I need to have you kneel behind me on the widow frame and place your arms around my neck. Oh and please try as hard as you can not to choke me.”

 The woman perceived almost immediately that they would be sliding down the wire, but the particulars did not appeal to her sense of logic.

 “Illya, my brother tried to cross a river once using the same trick. He used a piece of leather, but it got hung up half way across.”

 “I’ve got something better,” replied the Russian who then produced a small wheel like device that would ride on top of the wire. The hub of the wheel was attached to a wrist brace that Kuryakin belted on.

 “We may have to raise our legs to clear the hedge,” warned the Russian.

 Ada didn’t respond. She just marshaled her courage and did as she was instructed. But her efforts were suddenly complicated by yet another pair of men wearing over sized summer shirts.

 “You want to jump? Go ahead,” said one Cuban before he spotted the outbound wire.

Ada flung her arms around Illya’s neck and said, “Now would be a good time.”

 The pair left the window just seconds before the Cubans could reach them. If it hadn’t been for the hedge, the Cubans might have fired on the fugitives, but that option disappeared by the time they could bring their weapons to bear. The Nicaraguan rode it out like a real trooper, but when it was time to let go of the Russian, she discovered that her legs had turned to rubber.

 Illya helped her up off the ground and get her into the passenger seat of the jeep.

 “Sorry. I should have mentioned that I’m a little bit afraid of heights.”

 “On the contrary; you didn’t waste time discussing that which is irrelevant,” Kuryakin replied while starting up the engine. “Fear is a given, the only thing that matters is what you are prepared to do with it.”

 The Russian then took the jeep down into a shallow creek that served as a minor tributary of the Almendares river and crawled down stream in first gear. Heavy brush shielded them from view on both sides of the little waterway, but there was nothing they could do about the sound of the engine.

 “I don’t think this will work for very long,” guessed the woman. This is a park area, not the jungle.

 “Indeed not. We would have been better off to go it on foot. Less noise that way.”

 “Then why are we in this jeep?” inquired Ada.

 “Because we need the power of it’s engine,” the Russian responded as he pulled up beside a culvert that measured four feet across.

 The entrance was closed by a steel grating that was rusted and covered by brush. Illya hooked a tow chain to it and got back in behind the wheel. A second later the grating gave way, but with a reluctant screech that caused Ada to cringe.

 “Yo los veo!” a uniformed police officer shouted from a bridge some fifty yards up stream.

 “Sometimes they get lucky,” the Russian half muttered to himself before ushering his companion up through the tunnel.

 With a cigarette lighter to guide them, they made their way into a huge tank that happily featured a ladder for them to climb. From there a service crawlway took them to another ladder that enabled them to descend to the factory’s main production floor.

 “What is this place?” queried Ada.

 “A sugar refining facility. Out of business for the time being.”

 “Surely you did not intend for us to hide here,” said the woman. “The forced grating would lead our pursuers straight here.”

 “Where they would search for us at great length,” added the Russian before taking out his communicator pen.

 “Voice command local two,” he said into the tiny device.

“This is the Soviet Consulate,” a voice answered in Russian.

 “May I speak to Anatoly Yaroshevsky please.”

 “One moment.”

 After a pause.

 “This is Yaroshevsky.”

  “Ana this is Illya. I’m holed up in a sugar refinery near the old Hotel Inglaterra. I need diplomatic asylum for myself and a Nicaraguan.”

 A pause.

 “Alright, but you need to understand that our political officer will be turning you over to the K.G.B. as soon as he finds out what you are about.”

 “Understood. We’ll be in a trash dumpster near the southeast corner of the complex. Hopefully the police will search the inside of the complex before resorting to an outside search.”

 “What have you been charged with, the usual breaking and entering?”

 “I’m losing battery power, Ana. I’ve got to stop transmitting.”

 “THAT much trouble eh? Well, I’ll bring some handcuffs and a cattle prod. I don’t want this to look like a favor from a friend.”

 “Good thinking,” responded Kuryakin before cutting the transmission.

 “Will Senhor Waverly be able to do anything for us once we are in the Embassy?” asked the Latino.

 “For you, I believe so. But my situation is a bit more complicated. Still, if the Cuban authorities show enough interest in me, perhaps we can find out what became of Solo.”

 “Oh my God I forgot!” exclaimed the Nicaraguan. “He is a prisoner of some criminals. They are flying him to Columbia. They are going to test some new drug on him.”

 “Well, I can’t reach an overseas relay station from here, but hopefully I will be allowed to use a phone soon enough. Now let’s get to that dumpster before the police surround the building.”

 “Illya wait.”

 The woman put her arms around Kuryakin’s neck.

 “Just in case things go bad for us outside.”

 The disguised Russian was then given the kiss of his life. So much so that he almost walked into an support column when he finally turned away.

 Chapter Nineteen.

The port city of Cartagena was founded in 1533 by Spanish Captain-General Pedro de Heredia. The town was named after Cartagena, Spain, where most of Heredia’s sailors came from. Because of it’s excellent docking characteristics, and superb geographical location, it would attract many Enterprising peoples. Unfortunately, the great majority of those people would be pirates and their kindred spirits.

 Thirty years after its founding, a French nobleman named Jean-Francois Roberval tried to take the growing community. A few years after that, Martin Cote, a Basque from Biscay also made an attempt. In 1568, Sir John Hawkins of England actually besieged the city, but like most sea rovers, could not make a prolonged effort. In 1586 Sir Francis Drake, who was the nephew of Hawkins, brought enough men and material to finally take the city.

 The Spanish crown chose to ransom the city and in 1639 the Spaniards started construction on what would eventually become the greatest Spanish fort ever built in the New World. Constructed on San Lazaro Hill, it commanded an imposing view of the bay and could support defensive operation along the city’s northern perimeter. But in 1697 Bernard Desjean, Baron de Pointis demonstrated that the city’s defenses still were not impregnable. After helping himself to fifteen million livres, Pointis set sail directly for France, cheating his buccaneer allies of their promised share of the loot.

 Outraged, the Buccaneers returned to the city. With no French soldiers to enforce civilized conduct, they took their frustrations out on the populace. If those people had known in advance what was going to happen to them, it is likely that Pointis would have faced a more spirited defense.

 In 1741, the city was forced to defend itself one last time, albeit from a foe that was a bit less inclined to enslave and rape. Admiral Edward Vernon arrived with a  fleet of one-hundred and eighty-six ships. George Washington’s brother, Lawrence Washington participated in that battle and was so impressed with the Admiral that he named his Mount Vernon estate after him.

 Yes, Vernon was a distinguished leader, but he could not command the weather or protect his mean from the dreaded Yellow Fever. The British forces withdrew and Cartagena remained Spanish until 1811 when the locals declared their independence from a country that had grown very weak. Soon there after the great fortifications of the city became nothing more than an anachronism that reminded the citizenry of their past. More generations came and passed on. 

 The stone works became as permanent as the sea and sky. After so many years, Castillo San Felipe de Barajas still stood ready to defend it’s mistress city from enemies that might advance from land or sea. Of course in the 20^th Century Cartagena no longer required such protection. It was no longer a slave trading facility. It was no longer a provisioning station for Spanish treasure ships. The world had long since moved on to other places of martial strife, leaving Cartagena to make its way as a quaint tourist facility.

 But not quaint in every respect, for Castillo San Felipe de Barajas had a secret. Within its miles of catacombs, large forgotten chambers still served men who would kill or enslave other men. Their latest prisoner showed no resemblance to the prisoners of old. He was well fed, clothed, and bore no marks of violence. But he was just as far removed from the sun as any pitiful wretch that might have rotted away in that chamber some three centuries past. It was still a place of hopelessness for victims brought there, and God was harder to believe in than the prospect of flying to the moon.

 Napoleon Solo was three sheets into the wind with an arm full of sedative. He was lying on a folding cot and hoping that his head would clear before nature’s call got too loud. The portable toilet had circled him at break neck speed the last and only time he had dared to raise his head up to a vertical position. There was a small battery powered light that held back the darkness, and it completed the short list of objects that belonged in modern times.

 Solo felt much better when something finally happened to take his mind off of the merry-go-round room he was in. Two men entered through a very heavy wooden door and gazed down on him as if he were a cake in the oven that was only half way up. Both men wore the uniforms of the Cartagena Harbor Patrol, but Solo was reasonably certain that these public servants had not arrived to liberate him.

 There names were Antonio Velez and Camilo Rovira, and the fact that they didn’t bother to speak to their prisoner would have had Solo on edge if not for the fact that he was so deathly ill.

 “Here is the fellow I was telling you about.  As you can see Rovira, the first injection accomplishes nothing to speak of. The subject feels as though he has downed a quart of rum, and that is about it. The second injection will be administered in three hours. That will open him to suggestions, but not to the point where he would forget his responsibility to U.N.C.L.E. Then six hours from now we will give him the third dose, and that will open his mind completely, or drop him into a coma.”

 “And the odds of coming out of that, Senhor Velez?”

 “Oh that’s not a problem, Rovira. The problem is that the subject would most certainly be left mentally retarded if the thoralym derivative remained at the same molecular level it was at when the last subject was tested. Dr. Tenorio has opted to raise the molecular level of the third stage, which we can only hope will bring improved results.”

 “This U.N.C.L.E. organization makes no sense to me,” said Rovira. “You say it straddles the line between the east and the west. How is such a thing possible in this day and age?”

 “All we know is that the people who are sponsoring Tenorio’s program regard this U.N. organization as an enemy.”

 “So shouldn’t we try and get some information out of him before his brain gets pickled?” suggested the underling.

 “Well, Tenorio is of the belief that extreme pain would compromise his three step process. Besides, only the U.N.C.L.E. chiefs carry information in their heads that would be of great use to us. Field agents are considered expendable; therefore they are not made privy to highly classified material. Of course that might not be entirely true. As I understand it, U.N.C.L.E. is a relatively new player in world events. It certainly has not been around as long as our employers.”

 “You keep calling them that,” Rovira pointed out. “I am more than a little curious as to who they are, exactly.”

 “So am I,” croaked Solo.

 Velez smiled briefly and stepped over to the side of Solo’s cot.

 “Forgive me, but I was told that the odds of you retaining your full mental processes are roughly ten percent. What value is knowledge that will survive but a few hours?”

 “How about, in lieu of a last request?” quipped the prisoner.

 Velez smiled again and nodded slightly. He was a pitiless man by nature, but he also fancied himself as a man with a sense of propriety.

 “Very well, Senhor Solo. Let me commence by asking you whether or not you have thus far encountered the name Thrush.”

 “Uh---only the bird, and I’m not up on Ornithology.”

  “It is an international criminal organization,” Velez said evenly. “Some say it originated in the Soviet Union, but do not suppose that really matters. They show great wisdom in their own way. They understand that people are the greatest resource there is in the world. Take Dr. Camilo Tenorio for example. No one would fund his pharmaceutical work until Thrush came along. They found out that he was manufacturing illegal drugs, looking for an opportunity to branch out into a related field. All over the world there are modest projects in various stages of development. Potential tools----potential weapons.”

 “So this Thrush is made up largely of investors. But how do they find the brain power that needs backing?” asked Rovira.

 “Who can say, Rovira? Who can say? As for myself: my ancestors were once part of the greatest empire in the world. Now I believe that we are being given a chance to belong to a new empire. An empire that flies no flags, nor is found on any map. An empire that cannot be destroyed because it is nowhere and yet everywhere.”

 “Should have asked for a sea sick pill instead,” muttered Solo.

 “I doubt that the doctor would have allowed it,” replied Velez, who didn’t much care if the prisoner was serious or not.

 “And Dr. Tenorio’s chemical lab? Is that part of the grand tour?” inquired Rovira.

 “No. We supervise the tunnel guards and provide escort for the prisoners. But even I cannot enter the clean lab unless the doctor allows me in, and that has not happened in the fourteen months that he has been working in his part of the labyrinth.”

 Velez saw the wheels turning in Rovira’s head, but expected nothing less during this period of indoctrination.

 “So, I am paid a great deal of money because I am an accessory to kidnapping, unlawful detention, and eventually murder. Correct?”

 “Precisely so,” Velez answered with strong eye contact.

 “How many government agencies need to be kept greased in order to keep these tunnels private?”

 “We keep the tunnels private,” Velez corrected, “what happens on a bureaucratic level does not concern you.”

 “And when Thrush chooses to abandon this old fort, what happens to us?”

 “I already told you, Rovira, we are part of something that is not dependant on any single geographic location. You may have to find yourself a new mistress in another city, but I have a feeling that Columbia will always be a place where Thrush will need loyal soldiers.”

 Solo closed his eyes to the cell room, the crooked cops and the prospects that were just ahead. He focused on that which was responsible for the deaths of people he had known. He focused on an enemy that now had a name. He willed his heartbeat to slow down. He held fast to the belief that he was not about to lose his purpose in life. The guards became as unimportant to him as he was to them. He held fast to something that was like a professional gambler’s faith in a reoccurring luck.

 “Its name is THRUSH.”

Illya Kuryakin and Ada Castil were both soaked in sweat by the time they heard the sedan pull into the driveway area.

 “That’s not a jeep engine,” Kuryakin said with a look of triumph.

 He rose to full height, pushing the dumpster lid up and over. Then the triumphant look was wiped from his face. The 1955 Ford was a police cruiser, and the police officer drew his revolver as he got out of the car.

 Ada tried to rise to her feet, but the Russian pressed down on the top of her head.

 “Ustedes estan bajo arresto!”  the patrolman bellowed at the Russian.

  Kuryakin became very cooperative, since the dumpster was made of thin metal, and Ada would be in the line of fire.

 “I claim diplomatic immunity,” lied the Russian.

 “You can make that claim to my sergeant when he gets here,” stated the officer as he advanced to the side of the dumpster.

 “Climb out of that damn thing. Now!”

 Kuryakin feigned difficulty with the climb. He didn’t want the policeman to know just how limber he really was. A split second after his feet touched the ground, there was a Jack in the box  appearance to the police officer’s left.

 “Hola!”  the woman piped up.

 The revolver swung around instinctively, but to the officer’s credit, he didn’t cut loose in panic. Illya’s foot became a blur of motion and the gun went sailing from the owner’s fist. The cop then drew his night stick and raised it over his head. The U.N.C.L.E. formed an X with his wrists and raised it up to catch the piece of wood before it could travel more than thirty degrees in its downward arch. Then the Russian kneed the Cuban where the tropical sun does not shine.

 Kuryakin was in a merciful mood, since the cop hadn’t overreacted to Ada’s hair brained stunt. So he simply threw the cop over his hip and then quickly helped the woman out of the dumpster.

 “Now what do we do?” inquired the Latino.

 “We borrow the patrol car and head for the Russian Consulate.”

 Kuryakin snatched up the revolver as the two of them made for the cruiser.

 “This is more fun than working on a wiring harness,” exclaimed the woman.

 “You almost got yourself shot,” retorted her companion.

 “No no. You are mistaken. He would not have shot me.”

 “What makes you say that?”

 “A Latino man would never kill a woman in a state of panic. He might kill her in a fit of jealously, but never in blind panic.”

 “Racial stereotyping is not logical,” muttered Kuryakin as he got behind the wheel and fired the motor back up.

 “It is not racial if you are talking about your own kind.”

 “It most certainly is.”

 “Not if you have good intentions.” the woman then specified with a slight grin.

 Before Kuryakin could respond to that one, a jeep with three soldiers appeared from around a corner and sailed past them before they could notice Ada. The jeep came to a screeching halt, then awkwardly turned around to give chase.

 “Jeeps are not as fast as regular automobiles,” Ada stated emphatically. “I know because my bother-in-law has one.”

 “True, but in down town Havana traffic, I’m not sure your statement has any relevancy.”

 Sure enough, in the time it took to cover two blocks, the squad car found itself packed into bumper to bumper traffic.

 “This is ridiculous,” declared Ada. “The country is supposed to be poor. Who owns all these vehicles?”

 “Bureaucrats,” answered the former Soviet as he activated the car’s siren.

 Many of the vehicles ahead of them stubbornly held their positions on the road, but enough of them pulled aside to give the squad car a chance to gain speed. Unfortunately, as the Russian had stated, a jeep could match the prevailing traffic speeds.

 “Those men will be right back there to arrest us when we reach the entrance to the consulate,” Ada grimly predicted.

 Kuryakin allowed the jeep to get a bit closer and then said, “Brace your feet against the dashboard.”

 A second later the brakes were applied and the jeep rear ended the cruiser with extreme prejudice. The driver of the jeep got four of his ribs broken by the steering wheel and the other two soldiers were thrown from the open vehicle. One of the two was fit enough to draw his 1911 Colt from his holster, but could not jack a round into the chamber because his left hand was broken. Both Latinos cursed the fugitives over the sound of honking horns as the police cruiser resumed its quest for sanctuary.

 “How far are we from the consulate now?” inquired Ada.

 “One block dead ahead.”

 “That means we made it,” the woman presumed with flashing white teeth.

 The Russian stared warily ahead at a T shaped intersection. If word had somehow gotten out where they were heading….

 Suddenly a twin of the vehicle they were in came rushing out of an alley and blocked the consulate driveway. Kuryakin turned right at the intersection but found that street totally blocked off. A dozen guns were resting on the hoods of the blocking vehicles, and the U.N.C.L.E. agent knew that if he tried to back up they would catch a barrage of .45 rounds.

 From a vantage point on the consulate grounds, Anatoly Yaroshevsky observed the results of his betrayal. He let out a sigh of relief when his old friend was in handcuffs and could no longer do anything rash. Of course Kuryakin still wasn’t safe; not by a long shot. But hopefully his American friends would get to him before he could be shot while trying to escape.

 “Forgive me, Illya, but in here, your American friends would not be able to help you. Only out there, in the midst of Castro’s idiocy do you have any chance at all. If you manage to get off this Island, I hope you go to the United States and stay there. Watch the television programs, and maybe see this Island die a giant ball of fire while you are eating a pizza.”

 The Russian turned his back on the street and found a political officer staring at him from the center of the front lawn.

 Chapter Twenty.

 Napoleon Solo was barely in his thirties, yet death had approached him many times both in the air and on the ground. Never had he asked for more than a fighting chance to survive. But now, bound in a straight jacket and being stretchered down a centuries old tunnel, he found himself facing pure helplessness for the first time. Worse yet, he carried the knowledge that he was not going to die right away. His self identity would be stripped away first. All because he couldn’t resist Waverly’s challenge to become an entirely new kind of fighting man.

 Solo passed out of the 17^th Century in the time it took to cross a stainless steel threshold. Suddenly the air was no longer moldy. Bright modern lighting was above him and clean tiles below. Portable tables, trays and cards held all manner of equipment that would be found in a modern hospital, plus a few gadgets that were prototypes.

 The guards turned and left the forty square foot chamber as soon as the prisoner could be strapped onto a gurney. Despite the vast array of equipment that had been packed into the large chamber, only one person had been occupying the facility when Solo was brought in. That mysterious figure was clad from head to toe in surgical white. Only the eyes were visible to the prisoner, and even they are deformed by thick corrective lenses.

 Solo’s drug befuddled mind took all this in with an adequate measure of fatalism. His number was up and that was all there was to it. So he smiled at this last opponent and came up with some appropriate last words.

 “I’ll bet your golf scores are nothing to brag about.”

 The mystery man took a hypodermic syringe from one of the many trays and wordlessly applied it to the side of the patient’s neck. Solo didn’t squirm. It wouldn’t do him any good to get a broken section of needle in his flesh. No, he remained still and held on to his smile until he was in the arms of Morpheus.

 When Solo awoke, he was no longer fettered, and his thoughts were as clear as a bell. He climbed off of the gurney he had been sleeping on in time to accept a cup of coffee from Dr. Camilo Tenorio. The old gentleman smiled at him kindly, now clad only in white pants and a T shirt.

 “The one good thing about this part of the world is that you can get some truly fine coffee,” the doctor said in the way of a greeting.

 “Uh, does this mean that you worked the bugs out of your truth serum formula?” asked a much relieved captive.

 “No. In fact the only thing I have perfected is a curious form of amnesia drug. But I certainly don’t want to use that on you my good sir. You are my only hope of deliverance. God bless you for your courage.”

 “Well---I’m certainly glad to help, Doctor. But, as I understand it, your experimental drug causes a sharp reduction in I.Q. Does it not?”

 “Only temporarily,” the doctor responded quickly. “After a few weeks the subject regains everything except his recollection of what happened a few weeks before the injections. But I haven’t told my sponsors that, for fear that they would murder my patients.”

 “Doctor, I hate to break the news to you, but the fact is that your sponsors are not above murdering the mentally handicapped, children, or the elderly. They don’t play by any rules you care about. Also, they have a bad habit of buying local police. I guess that’s why people like me are needed.”

 “Are you with the American C.I.A.?”

 “No. I’m with an organization called U.N.C.L.E.”

 “Oh. Well, I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of that one. But it is a type of law enforcement agency is it not?”

 “Absolutely,” confirmed Solo.

 “Good, because I am already aware that I have fallen in with gangsters of the worst possible sort. You see, I thought I would be experimenting on monkeys. They allowed me to think that until the facilities were set up. Mind you, I knew that my drug would not ruin anyone’s health even before I was forced to use human test subjects. Much of my research was built on previous experiments conducted on death row inmates that were being held in the Soviet Union.”

 “Or Germany,” thought Solo.

 “In any case, when they brought me my first human subject, I protested, and they then made it clear to me that I would not be allowed to leave the project until it was concluded to their satisfaction. As I said, I feared for the safety of my patients so I convinced the gangsters that every failed experiment would result in permanent retardation. Since the prisoners were never allowed to know where they were, I at least thought that I had persuaded them not to kill anyone.”

 “You only test a subject once?”

 “Another necessary subterfuge,” explained the doctor. “I reasoned that my poor patients would be forced to remain here unless their usefulness was limited. But please tell me sir, do you have any evidence to suggest that the subjects have been murdered?”

 “No,” admitted Solo. “I’m just saying that I wouldn’t put it past them.”

 “Then let us do what we can to put an end to all this. The other subjects weren’t bound when they were escorted out of the fort. I can provide you with a syringe filled with a fast acting sedative. If you do a good job of play acting, the guards will see you as just another harmless idiot and hopefully that will give you your chance.”

 “I would also like a scalpel,” said the agent.

 The doctor frowned for an instant, then nodded.

 “One last question before you call someone in: Do you have any idea how long it will take you to actually come up with a practical truth serum?”

 “Impossible to say, Senhor…”

 “Solo. Napoleon Solo.”

 The Doctor nodded politely.

 “It could take years, but I know it can be done. The Germans had some success, but the records were destroyed because the research was judged unethical. Holocaust victims you understand. If it had been up to me, the data would have survived. Knowledge can always be used for the good of mankind, Senhor Solo, even if it stems from vile efforts.”

 “And what would you use a truth serum for?” asked Solo.

 “That is not the question, Senhor Solo. The question is: what would you do with it, in your battle with villainy?”

 Solo let the question pass. He didn’t like to wax philosophic in the middle of a lion’s den.

 “For now all I want to do is distance myself from the villainy. Then I can call in the Marines and get you out of here, Doctor. Let’s start with a crash course on how to behave like an idiot---and I sure am glad that my partner isn’t present to hear that.”

  Havana’s Chief of Police Manuel Conde resembled more than anything, an obese werewolf stuffed into a uniform that featured campaign ribbons of questionable origin. He smelled of stale tobacco and had a bad habit of coughing long and hard into people’s faces. Only female prisoners would have anything to do with him, and only if the bath water was close at hand. He was tolerated by his peers because he made them look good, and more than one cook had indulged himself by spitting on his food.

 But Conde did have one redeeming quality: He would never let a foreigner get the upper hand on a Cuban. Maybe it was because he was treated like crap by the Yankies who wanted the girls for next to nothing. Maybe it was just because foreigners always had more money than he had ever seen back then. In any case, he knew every Russian and Canadian in his town, and he only liked the female ones.

 Illya Kuryakin had made quite a few enemies in the past day or so, and Conde wanted to pick the Russian’s brain before anyone else could get at him. For this reason Kuryakin was alone with the Chief, behind wall that had muffled more than one scream of pain.

 “What is this?” Conde asked while waving the U.N.C.L.E. communicator under the Russian’s nose.

 “It’s a miniature radio receiver.”

 “And what do you receive on it?”

 “Instructions from a Russian fishing trawler.”

 “Ha! That would have been easy to believe before the revolution. Now we have half the Soviet Merchant Marine tied up in a dozen of our ports. You need trawlers like I need another asshole.”

 “Yes, but you see, my countrymen spend a great deal of time and energy monitoring each other. Big Brother, as it were. Not very sensible really, but we all have to obey orders.”

 “Oh---Si. Orders to darken your skin. Orders to darken your hair. I think you would do better with the chica de compania if you kept everything the color of a fish’s belly.”

 “Yes---when I’m off duty.”

 “Tell me Senhor Kooyakin, were you on duty when you assaulted one of my patrol officers?”

 “Regrettably, yes. Oh, and that’s Kuryakin. Illya Kuryakin. I wouldn’t want you to get the name wrong when you contact my people. They of course will put everything to right.”

 “Will they now? Well maybe they will get their chance, and maybe not. A man answering your description assaulted Presidente Castro last night. If you should turn out to be that man, I think I will make general.”

 “Does that mean you’re not interested in making a deal?” asked the Russian.

 The fat Cuban grinned like a sly cat.

 “What is your offer, Senhor Kerraykin?”

 “I show you how to operate the receiver so that you can monitor the next transmission. Then you let me make a phone call.”

 “You trust me, Senhor?”

 “Yes, because the men who will come for me will be men your Presidente will want to know about.”

 “Well I’ll be a bull member. That sounds too good to turn down. Alright, Senhor Ruskie, we have a deal. But you just tell me what to do. You keep your hands on the table.”

 “Certainly, but with my wrists cuffed together, a big man like yourself has little to fear.”

 “Perhaps, Senhor. But if the handcuffs are not used from time to time, they might get rusty.”

 “As you wish. Now the first step is to remove the cap and turn the ring counter clockwise ninety degrees.”

 The Cuban complied and then waited for further instruction.

 “Now pull the antenna down all the way until it clicks.”

 The Latino complied and suddenly a puff of dark smoke rose up out of the pen like device.

 The Russian deftly plucked it from Conde’s hand as he dropped to the floor. Using his mouth to aid him, Kuryakin set the transmitter for short wave.

 “Pedro, please tell me you are outside police headquarters.”

 “Si, Senhor Kuryakin, but how did you know that you would not make it to the Soviet Consulate?”

 “I didn’t. But there was that distinct possibility. You are Contingency Plan B. I am very pleased that you are up to it.”

 “Oh, sumamente listo, Senhor.”

“Good. In three minutes I want you to cut electrical power to this police station.”

 “But Senhor, I do not have the tools needed to cut the power line.”

 “You still have that truck?”

 “Uh---si.”

 “Good. Just ram the power pole. That should do it.”

 “But Senhor, the truck is not mine. It belongs to my sister’s husband’s brother, and he carries a very big knife.”

 “Ask him if he’d like to leave the country with his entire family. You now have two minutes.”

 Kuryakin then tested the door and was not surprised to find it unlocked. Only a brave man wants to be locked in a room alone with a dangerous man. Conde wanted privacy, but only to a point. The U.N.C.L.E. agent kept his hand on the door and when everything went black he sprang from the room knowing that he would only have seconds before someone produced a flash light or even a lighter.

 He hit his leg on a desk but by the time the first flashlight came on he was heading down a side corridor that brought him to an open window. The agent was on a winning streak for a number of reasons. Most of the officers were still out searching for Castro’s assailant, and the headquarters had not yet been moved to the new building, which was designed to prevent what he was doing now.

 Kuryakin bailed out of the second story window and was promptly captured by an officer who was just getting off patrol. The parking lot was dark but the officer would have no trouble hitting his target if the Russian made a false move. Voices could be heard just around the corner of the building and was forced to turn around and kneel with his fingers interlaced on top of his head. This cop knew his stuff, and more than likely would get Conde’s job someday.

 But not in the near future.

 A projectile sailed out of the dark and hit the officer square in the back of the head. Not enough to kill, just enough to rattle his cage. Kuryakin looked over his shoulder, got to his feet, then round kicked the officer when he realized that it was necessary. He didn’t bother to pick up the baseball, he just stared at it for a second before making for the officer’s hastily abandoned patrol vehicle.

 “Where is my ball?” asked Pedro as he immerged out of the dark.

 “Just get into the car,” instructed the Russian.

 Kuryakin drove for only ten minutes before parking the squad car in someone’s back yard. Then they made their way on foot to the house of a priest, where Pedro made a few very carefully worded phone calls. There was no question that the primitive Cuban phone system would be monitored and Pedro needed more than ever before to keep his relatives looking and sounding like law abiding citizens of the new government.

 Seventy-two nerve wracking hours later a group of refugees were crouching in the brush at the edge of an abandoned air strip. With a great deal of help from his uncle, Kuryakin had procured for them a DC-3 transport plane that was painted with Cuban government markings. Men women and children rushed into the prop wash and made their way to the plane’s side entrance. Kuryakin was the only one to not get on board. Pedro stuck his head back out the door with a look of puzzlement and concern.

 “Senhor, what are you waiting for?”

 “I have to go back for a friend. You have a good life now.”

 “No, I will go back with you.”

 The Russian shook his head.

 “I don’t need you. But your relatives will.”

 “It’s not fair,” the young man said with tears in his eyes.

 “Actually it is,” Kuryakin responded with his hair blowing in the manmade wind. “You’ll just have to take my word for it, Pedro.”

 The Russian then jogged out of the clearing and assembled his communicator with the sound of aircraft engines droning ever fainter.

 “Voice command local two.”

 “This is the Soviet Consulate.”

 “Anatoly Yaroshevsky please.”

 After a pause.

“Yes?”

“Hello Ana. I hope the political officers aren’t making things too uncomfortable for you.”

“They are too concerned with you to bother with me. Illya my friend, if you don’t have sense enough to go back to America, then you don’t deserve to be a free man.”

 “Tell your masters that I want Ada Castil flown south. To any Latin American country that is convenient to them. When I have your assurance that it is done, I will turn myself in to whoever is holding your strings, Ana.”

 “How many John Wayne movies did you have to sit through before your brains dried up, I wonder.”

 “The American western is a gross historical distortion. I will call back in three hours. Don’t disappoint me Ana.”

 The Russian embassy worker hung up the receiver and turned to face the man who had been listening in all along.

 “Are his terms acceptable to you, Comrade Klimuk?”

 “I believe so; presuming that we can trust him.”

 “You can.”

 “Then we will do it. We need to serve him up to Castro. Its one thing to build secret missile sites on his land, it is quite another thing to have some second story man fly through a window while he’s under the sheets with a woman. In truth I still can’t entirely believe that it happened. Everything I’ve read about Kuryakin indicates that he is a very logical minded person. Politically dysfunctional, but other wise logical. It is most strange.”

 “Politically dysfunctional. Yes, that is an excellent way to describe him. Still---he deserves better than what Castro will give him.”

 “Oh really? Has anyone ever broke in on you while you were three legged? queried the political officer. “Come to think of it, I recall an old rumor to the effect that Comrade Kuryakin broke in on another tryst. That one involved the head of Soviet Navel Intelligence no less. So it is quite possible that his sins have merely caught up with him. In any case, we will get the woman released so that our KGB people can follow her in whatever bean eating country she ends up in.”

 Yaroshevsky was mildly pleased to hear that, and could now  that Fidel Castro would not be the one to bury Illya Nickovich Kuryakin.

 Chapter Twenty-One.

Solo took short, slightly stiff legged steps. His expression was child like, and he feigned great apprehension when ordered to quickly mount the stairs that lead back up to the world of sunlight and open air. Several victims ago, the guards would have chided him, but they had since learned that a strong arm brought better results than strong words. So the frightened man was almost lifted bodily up the stairs by the two beefy Lantinos.

 In the midst of this play acting, Solo noted that the exit was brand new. Someone had chiseled a exist in a wall that had always been blank. On the outside a thick formation of creeper vines covered the exit so that you could only make it out if you were standing right in front of the portal.

 Their timing was calculated as always. Tourists, young couples looking for privacy and everyone else were cleared from the acreage beforehand. No one would witness three men leaving the fort and climbing into a windowless van. No one would see the van leave the city and proceed to a isolated barn that sheltered a powerful grinder. The maw was eight feet long and five feet wide. When it was part of a fertilizer factor, road kill and other dead animals would be dropped into it.

 Huge spiked wheels would turn in on each other reducing any form of flesh and bone to a bloody pulp. That material would then be dried and reconfigured into pellet form. It would then end up as cattle feed, poultry feed, or perhaps in someone’s rose bush. Solo noted that a diesel generator was needed to run the metal monster. One man went to bring the generator to life, the other man took out a garrote, assuming as always that his next victim would not be able to indentify the deadly weapon.

 When the diesel was brought up to it’s normal rate of R.P.M., it made the Devil’s own racket. That was just fine with Napoleon Solo. He allowed the murderer to close in behind him, then just before the noose could drop down to it’s killing position, Solo pivoted with blinding speed and straight punched the man in the throat. The killer was still on his feet with eyes bulging as Solo quickly frisked him and found the .45 Colt automatic that was so popular throughout Latin America.

 By now the other man had turned around and was drawing his own weapon, but the man had never taken to the use of a shoulder holster, because it gave him heat rashes. Instead, he simply tucked his big automatic in his pants. As always, an over sized shirt served to cover the grip portion of the weapon. This made the shoot out somewhat one sided. (Not that Solo would feel any guilt after the contest.)

 The .45 ACP round has tremendous knockdown power. That is why the U.S. Army chose to adopt it after the turn of the century. Solo reaffirmed this when the first of his shots slammed into his enemy’s chest. The 200 grain bullet shoved the man back like a giant invisible hand. But Solo didn’t wait to see if that would stop the man’s draw. A second round followed after the first and that bullet caused the teetering man to fall backward against the maw of the grinder.

 The rotating spokes were too far in to snag the man’s sliding torso, but his left hand has flailed back far enough for the spikes to catch hold. With remorseless efficiency, the metal monster pulled in the arm, then the rest of the carcass was forced to follow. Solo fed the monster a spare wheel from the van. Then he got into the van and headed back for the main event.

 Presidente Fidel Castro stared down at the bowed and bloodied man who had been worked over thoroughly by two men with pieces of rubber hose. The man possessed dark features, but his facial characteristics were not Latino, and they had discovered that he had been wearing contact lenses that had turned blue eyes to brown. Three days ago he would have ordered the man shot immediately, but fortunately for Kuryakin, he had cooled down a bit since them.

 “Molina, are you absolutely certain that it was the Russians that enabled our police to apprehend this fellow the first time?”

 “Si, El Presidente. We have the telephone recording if you wish to hear it. We also have recordings of this man speaking with a contact inside the Russian Consulate.”

 “And you are convinced that he was on my roof for the sole purpose of eavesdropping?”

 “Si, El Presidente. He entered the house in an attempt to evade the outside guards. It is highly unlikely that he came as an assassin.”

  Castro assumed a wistful expression.

 “During the revolution, I rarely needed to know what a man was thinking. I only needed to know which side he was on. If he was on the wrong side, he would get a bullet in the face. But now everything is more complicated. The higher you sit in the world, the more tribulations you have under your ass.”

 Castro grabbed a fistful of dyed hair and brought the battered face into full view.

 “Senhor, it is not wise to trespass on the leader of a country, but happily, a means of redemption is at hand. Give me the name of the man who ordered you up on my roof, and you will allowed to rejoin your countrymen.”

 “Alexander Waverly,” the prisoner answered without hesitation.

 “That is not a Russian name. Are you implying that you work for the American Central Intelligence Agency?”

 “No, Mr. President, I work for the United Network Command for Law Enforcement. It is a branch of the United Nations.”

 “I must confess ignorance to this organization of yours,” said Castro.

 “It has only recently been formed, and it functions with a certain degree of anonymity.”

 “And its function is to spy on heads of state.”

 “Only when they do something interesting, Mr. President, such as pointing nuclear missiles at another country.”

 “I believe that the United States and your own country are the grand champions in that arena, Senhor Kuryakin. Obviously there are those who would like to keep the Nuclear Club very exclusive, but I do not think they will have their way for very long. In any case, I am curious what you would have to say if you were conversing with Senhor Tarasov. Would you also refer him to this Waverly fellow?”

 “No, Mr. President. I am not acquainted with anyone involved in the missile project, but if I were in their company, I would mention my background in Soviet Naval Intelligence.”

 The Cuban dictator mulled that over for a moment and then said, “I believe I will keep you under wraps for a while, Senhor Kuryakin. But if you should think of anything that you would like to share with us, Colonel Molina will be on hand to assist you in that area.”

 That was the last time the U.N.C.L.E. agent would ever meet with Fidel Castro. Considering the particulars of their first encounter, Kuryakin had to admit that his luck wasn’t all bad. But he would be getting a good long look at the Cuban penal system, which consisted of a toilet bucket that would accommodate nine unhappy men.

Chapter Twenty-Two

 Solo drove down the Pedro De Heredia until he could barely make out the entrance to the famous tourist attraction. It was now nearing sundown and the man from U.N.C.L.E. had not wasted any portion of the dying day. He had visited the city library to peruse various diagrams of the Castillo San Felipe de Barajas. Then he marched into police headquarters (posing as a disgruntled tourist) and managed to steal several tear gas grenades. The temptation to enlist the help of the local constabulary was almost overwhelming, but it would only take one paid informer to send the cockroaches scurrying.

 So the American opted to have the police arrive in their own good time and in whatever manner suited them. In the interim he would have to be a one man S.W.A.T. team, and the first step would be to locate all the air vents located in the area of the courtyard. Those vents would feed the maze of tunnels located underneath. Solo doubted that the entire tunnel complex could be gassed by only one man, but he only needed to start a good fire fight. Hopefully the strategic advantage of being in the courtyard would serve him until help arrived.

 Hopefully.

 At 0230 hrs Solo had all five vent openings located and he was all through saying his prayers. With a deep breath he ran to each air port and inserted a single tear gas canister. Then he over turned a heavy table and bellied down on the cool stone behind it. Minutes dragged by but none of the fort’s defenders appeared. In a way that was bad. Solo had counted on lots of gunfire on and near the courtyard so that citizens walking or driving nearby would summon the police. Gunfire taking place inside the fort would be muffled. That might keep things private.

 With a sigh of resignation the American got to his feet and gained a view of the stairway that lead down and into the keep. No bullets flew up to strike him. Apparently his opponents had no interest in the courtyard, and that meant that Solo would have to give it up and descend into a far less defensible part of the complex. That required a bit of recklessness. The stone passage ways were marked with a phosphorescent paint, but dark spots abound where a gunman could be waiting.

 Solo kept advancing with his Colt in hand; measuring out his life one dangerous step at a time. It seemed to take him forever to reach Dr. Tenorio’s now abandoned research lab, but it was probably more like ten minutes. That is when Napoleon Solo learned something very important about his enemy. They would abandon a satrap rather than fight to defend it. This was logical enough since their operating facility was under the noses of thousands of people.

 Now Solo threw caution to the wind and hurried to the exit where he had so recently impersonated a helpless victim. As he approached the private exit, he was able to discern some vague movement. In fact it was two men loading a van with equipment that the enemy was loath to leave behind. The U.N.C.L.E. agent ceased running because the tunnels had a way of amplifying the sound of a man’s foot steps. The exit was thirty feet ahead when a man suddenly stood in its midst with a silencered pistol.

 The weapon could not be heard by the nearest neighbors some eight-hundred feet away, but Solo could hear it, and it was the sound of death. The American doubled over with the third shot and collapsed heavily on the tunnel floor. Satisfied with his work, the gunman joined the others and soon the three of them were rolling out onto the highway bound for a privately owned pier some two miles distant. A forty foot yacht awaited them there. Gassed up and ready to sail at a moment’s notice.

 The van backed up to the entrance of the dock and the three men bailed out thinking to transfer the equipment to the boat’s cabin. They were unhappy, but not terribly so. They were a new breed of vagabond criminal; highly mobile and ready to set up shop wherever their bosses would direct them. Payment arrangements never changed and every Latin-American city in the Western Hemisphere had hotels where a man with money could live the life of Riley. Running from the Law every now and then was just part of the life style. It was something they accepted along with hypertension and fast food.

 The first of the three came around to the back of the van while gazing briefly at a woman who was sunbathing on the neighboring pier. It was the last thing he ever saw as a .45 round took him in the heart. The other two men drew their weapons in an instant and were ready to earn their pay. But they weren’t up against a fellow mercenary, they were dealing with a man who .as an end to anything. He was a adventurer idealist, and you could scoff at him until he killed you.

 The second man made the mistake of waiting for a target. A .45 slug took him in the ankle when the wiley adversary fired a round under the van. Another under the carriage shot finished him. That angered the last man who charged furiously around the corner, thinking to have down with this cat and mouse game. But the van’s front passenger door suddenly flew open, which distracted the gunman for an instant. The American brought his shooting arm and half his face around as the gunman kicked the door with an oath.

 Both men fired, but not with equal standing. The .45 slug caught the Latino in the shoulder and turned him to the side. A  second round broke his shooting arm and caused him to stumble to the sandy ground.

Napoleon Solo advanced with an empty gun to find Dr. Tenorio in the front passenger seat with his writs handcuffed in front of him.

 “Thank you for the assist, Doctor.”

 “Well, it might have worked against you, Senhor. That fellow might have thought to shield himself with the door.”

 “No. Every gunman is aware of the fact that a car door won’t stop a bullet at close range. It might make targeting a bit more difficult, but not much.”

 “What happened when you were escorted out of the fort, Senhor. Did the authorities rescue you?”

 “Solo didn’t want to talk about the meat grinder, so he decided to change the subject.

 “Doctor, did these men give you any hint as to where they would be taking you?”

 “Not the slightest. Senhor Velez poked his head through the door and ordered me to quickly gather all my notes and important papers. After that I was escorted out the secret exit. I could smell tear gas everywhere but it was not so bad. I suppose the police had no way of knowing how to properly use the gas in such a large network of tunnels.”

 “Uh,--- I suppose not,” responded Solo.

 “Senhor---do you think I will go to prison for what I have done?”

 The American let out a sigh.

 “Well, I suppose you’ll be incarcerated until they can establish your degree of involvement in---everything that’s been going on in the area. In truth, I’m not sure I can keep myself out of jail until things get sorted out. You see, in my new line of work, I’m supposed to have people around who can smooth things out for me wherever I am. But this is a big planet and the United Nations Security Council is little more than a impressive title.”

 “In that case, Senhor. I can only hope that we become cell mates for the time being. I think I would enjoy your company.”

 The American smiled at the half joke and then gazed at the yacht.

 “Of course, we could just sail out of here on this boat.”

 “Are you not underestimating the abilities of the coastal authorities, Senhor?”

“Those guys on the ground weren’t terribly worried about them. Maybe the local Navy had been greased.”

 “Greased, Senhor?”

 “Bribed to look the other way,” explained Solo.

 “Do you know how to operate a craft this size, Senhor?”

 “If it is very expensive and paid for by someone else---I’m always willing to give it a go,” quipped the ex Air Force pilot.

 “It must be a grand thing to be an American,” the old man half muttered to himself.

 Illya Kuryakin didn’t care much for his greasy bowl of soup, but he couldn’t very well hand it over to certain broken nosed gentleman without suffering a serious loss of prestige. So when Broken Nose placed the palm of his hand against Kuryakin’s chest and tried to push him back, the Russian gave up on Détente.

  Placing both of his hands on top of the Cuban’s, the blonde then dropped down and in on one knee. Broken Nose needed to drop as well and didn’t, so he was rewarded with a broken wrist. Kuryakin then silenced the man’s bellow of pain by rising back up and round kicking the man in the side of the head with his forward leg. Of course wouldn’t endear him with the jailors, but the men on his side of the bars suddenly gave him more room.

 Twenty minutes later he was removed from the cell and escorted down a long corridor by a single guard. He was placed in a solitary holding cell which actually had spider webs hanging down from the ceiling. Obviously the cell wasn’t a favorite tool of the corrections officers, but since Illya preferred his own company to others, he saw the move as a positive occurrence.

 Since he hadn’t attempted to sleep in the company of Cuba’s finest, he was more than ready to sack out now that he was alone. He fell asleep in short order and only woke when he had a dream about an earthquake. But after a moment he realized that his bunk really was vibrating, because it was being scraped across the cement floor. In fact, the entire wall behind his bunk had shoved him out some three feet.

 The prisoner got to his feet and stared in wonder at the opening that had been created. A Little Person or Midget suddenly appeared out of the dark. He was dressed in a kind of combat coverall and sported a beret on his head. The little man signaled the prisoner to follow and then turned to march back into the secret passage. Kuryakin warily complied, noting that the trick wall secured itself only seconds after he passed through. The modern cement passage way went straight for seventy-five feet and then turned left to extend another forty feet. A single bare light bulb had been wired to illuminate the tunnel at its bend.

 Then he passed into the basement of another building; perhaps a hotel since there were many pieces of furniture piled about that would normally be found in such an establishment. Kuryakin navigated around the piles until he came to the basement stairs where his guide patiently waited for him.

 “This is a most unusual way to leave a jail,” Kuryakin said in Spanish.

 “Your Spanish is far better than mine, sir, but I don’t think you’ll be needing it anymore,” the little man responded in Russian.

 “And why is that, pray tell?”

 “Perhaps you did not have the opportunity to observe that there is a Russian restaurant located just to the south of the police station. I recommend the pirozhki if you are given time to eat.”

 “You’re not going up with me?”

 “No sir, I am not properly attired.”

 “I didn’t know there was more than one such establishment in the city.”

 “There are three, sir. All with very limited life expectancies I’m afraid.”

 “Why is that?”

 “I don’t believe it’s my place to say, sir, but don’t concern yourself, you’ll be receiving a proper briefing upstairs. Just turn left at the top of the stairs.”

With that the miniature soldier left the prisoner and marched on to another secret exit somewhere on the other side of the basement. Halfway up the stairs the sounds and smells of a typical restaurant assailed the Russian’s senses. At the top of the stairs he went to the end of a short back corridor and knocked on a door that was labeled manager.

 “Come in Mr. Kuryakin,” responded a deep base voice from the other side of the door.

 Kuryakin entered a fairly plush office where a huge bearded restaurant owner languished behind his desk.

 “Vassily Ivanchuk at your service.”

 The big man cracked open a bottle of vodka and poured three fingers worth into a couple of glasses.

 “I need to test this new brand, and I imagine you could probably use a bit of fortifying after all you’ve been through.”

 “The climate is a bit trying on my sinuses, but an abundance of parking space more than makes up for it,” Kuryakin responded.

 Invanchuk forced a smile.

 “I was referring to your game of wits with the police, and your subsequent incarceration.”

 “Oh that. Well, the important this is that I’m here now, in your very fine company.”

 “Waiting to find out the how and why of it all.”

 “I’ll settle for the why part. Tunnels are not all that difficult to dig.”

 “Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, tunnels are not that difficult to dig---and missile sites are not that hard to erect either. But can you imagine how challenging it would be to launch a missile, and then have it alter course when it is only two miles from its supposed target?”

 “What does a two stage trajectory system have to do with me?” inquired Kuryakin. “Rocket science is not in my job description.”

 The big man glanced at his watch. Kuryakin had noted that Ivanchuk also glanced at his time piece while Kuryakin took his first sip of vodka.

 “A few years ago someone tried to smuggle a new type of radar gun sight out of the U.S.S.R. in the hold of a Soviet naval vessel. You prevented that from occurring. That was in your job description, as a member of Soviet Naval Intelligence. But soon after that you began to branch out so to speak. You went after a poison gas shipment in Paris. You went after a new type laser in Amsterdam.

 You stopped working through channels, and began to step on people’s toes. A transfer to that new U.N. organization seemed the logical solution to the problem. But you---never stop wondering---do you, Mr. Kuryakin.”

 “Those other instances had to do with criminal acts of smuggling,” Kuryakin stated. “This covert missile project has the blessings of the Soviet State. Are you about to make the case that my past investigations have anything to do with my present predicament?”

 “Oh yes,” responded Ivanchuk as he once again glanced at his watch. “You see, the two stage guidance system that you just mentioned, does not have the blessings of the Soviet State. One of the missiles that has been sent to this Island is not meant to be used as a deterent. It is going to be fired at the United States in a few days. As if in a nightmare it will soar in a majestic arch over the southeastern part of that country and almost come down in the District of Columbia. But at the last possible moment it will alter course and land in the Atlantic ocean.”

 Kuryakin felt a moment of light headedness and tried to shake it off.

 “The device will detonate about five-hundred feet under the surface. Should make quite a splash. Our government will quite rightly take the position that the launch was a horrific accident. The Americans will accept this, but they will not allow Castro’s communist regime to continue existing only ninety miles from U.S. soil. Cuba will be invaded by American troops. Our government will protest ever so strongly, but they will still have egg on their faces from the missile mishap that almost started World War Three.”

 Kuryakin struggled to his feet. The officer was spinning around him and Ivanchuk’s voice seemed to be coming from someplace much further away.

 “Mikhail Khrunov is going to defect to the United States and gain the trust of the western intelligence community,” the restaurant owner continued, “and some of his friends will own much of the real-estate here on the Island after Castro and his followers are gone.”

 Kuryakin fell onto the desk and then slowly slid back off it.

 “He wanted you to know these things, Mr. Kuryakin. Personally I regard his spiteful behavior as quite unprofessional, but in Thrush, we sometimes have to indulge people.”

 Ivanchuk stepped over the fallen man and opened the office door.

 “Sasha, I’m ready for the packing crate now.”

 Then he knelt over Kuryakin and said, “Oh, I just thought I’d mention that the vodka wasn’t drugged---just the inside of the glass. I hope you’re over the nausea before the plane takes off. If not, be comforted in the knowledge that it will be a very short flight. Forty minutes at the most. For now, sweet dreams, Mr. Kuryakin.”

 Illya closed his eyes and soon found himself on a beach walking hand in hand with Ada.

Major Samuel Westen double checked his course heading, took a deep breath, then put his RF -8 Crusader into high gear. The photo recon pilot knew that he had only two things going for him on this run: The fact that the S.A.M. operators were on the look out for high level bogies like the paper thin U-2, and the fact that the Crusader could push out to Mach 1.8. But a S.A.M missile could go twice that speed, so the idea was to be there and gone before someone could get up the nerve to make a defensive strike.

 Westen was lucky that day. He earned the distinction of being the first Crusader pilot to buzz the Russian trained Cubans. Unfortunately he would never be allowed to tell anyone about it, but at least he would live long enough to father three children and eight grandchildren. (That is the only real victory for any military man.)

 In less than an hour Westen was back on the carrier U.S.S. Independence where his camera footage would be rushed to anther aircraft, and the aforementioned pilot could get a change of drawers. He would spend later years trying to find out why history had to be written in reverse. For the records would show that on October 14^th, 1962, a U-2 spy plane discovered missile launch sites being constructed in Cuba. Afterwards, President Kennedy would order confirmation made with daring low lever reconnaissance flights like the one that Westen had already braved.

 Westen beat them all, and probably lived through it because the Cubans didn’t know how to respond to that first photographic run. But to his dying day the ex-pilot would wonder why his fellow pilots had to risk additional low level flights in the same damn area. From his point of view those runs were a needless gamble.

 Further south in the Caribbean, an old PBY Catalina was working to lift free of its watery runway. A few feet behind the pilot, Illya Kuryakin was struggling to hook a loose seat spring under his gag, so as to partially remove it. He succeeded with this some ten minutes after the flying boat became airborne.

 “There’s a bomb on this plane. You need to get back down on the water before it explodes!” Kuryakin shouted over the noise of the twin engines.

 “What? You’re full of it, Ruskie,” the Latino pilot responded over his shoulder.

 “Why do you think they bothered to gag me?” the prisoner demanded to know.

 “I don’t know, man---maybe you got some dangerous information in your head that has to stay there. I don’t get paid to ask questions about the cargo.”

 “You have no more than twenty minutes before the time bomb goes off. Land the plane. If nothing happens, you can kick my ribs in for lying and take off again. But if I’m telling the truth, you’ll be very happy that I was able to get the gag loose.”

 The pilot wrestled with the choice for a moment. What tipped things in Kuryakin’s favor was the fact that the pilot was carrying a secret, and maybe that secret wasn’t really secret after all.

 The flying boat landed just far enough from the coast to be invisible to anyone who might have watched them take off. That and a heavy squall kept them from being noticed by coastal water craft. The pilot immediately began to search the boat’s interior with a mood that matched the weather outside.

 “Who said there is a bomb?”

 “A man named Ivanchuk.”

 “You gotta be lying, man. He owns the plane.”

 “Yes. A museum piece that is probably insured. Take these handcuffs off me in case we end up in the water.”

 “Why should I, man?”

 “Ivanchuk expects you to die. My guess is that you disappointed him to some extent. The people I work for can help you start over. But first you have to earn their gratitude.”

 The pilot didn’t seem to hear that. He suddenly peered out the starboard cabin window.

 “When I first approached the plane, a man in coveralls was walking away from the starboard pontoon with a tool kit. I can get the cover off with my army knife.”

 “No. It will likely blow up in your face,” warned Kuryakin. “Just unlock these handcuffs and radio for help.”

 The pilot scoffed without humor.

 “Without this flying tub, I have no chance of leaving Cuba alive. I’m still hoping that you’re wrong, Ruskie, but I got an ugly feeling that you aren’t.”

 The Cuban swam out to the pontoon and examined the sheet metal screws that held it together.

 “Hey Ruskie, this pontoon hasn’t been messed with. I can tell by the rust. I think you’ve been lying to me. I guess that means I’ve got some kicking to do before we get airborne again.”

 Kuryakin ignored the threat and focused on various alternate possibilities. Then suddenly he began to crawl forward; as difficult as that was with his wrists handcuffed behind him and his ankles bound together as well.

 The pilot was almost back onboard when the tail section of the plane fragmented with a deafening roar. A piece of metal imbedded itself in the side of the pilot’s neck and he splashed on the surface of the water for a moment before slipping beneath the surface. The wing pontoons were unaffected, and since the tail section was positioned high on the aircraft, less than two feet of water invaded the interior.

 Kuryakin was stunned by the nearby blast, but took no shrapnel. The incoming water helped revive him, and after struggling to his feet he was able to take stock of his surroundings. It didn’t look as though the flying boat was in any danger of sinking, and thankfully, the fuel tanks were still sealed. He tried to start the engines but for some reason they wouldn’t fire. That was unfortunate, but not the end of the world. He would just have to wait for someone to come out and rescue him. That might take a while, but he had every reason to believe that it would happen.

 With a bit of blind trial and error he managed to get the radio transmitter set to a frequency that the U.S. Navy would be monitoring. He transmitted a long series of maydays in which he identified himself as Uncle Igor. He wasn’t certain that he was actually sending because he didn’t know if the radio’s aerial had been damaged in the explosion. All he could do was keep trying.

 Four hours went by before his efforts were rewarded by the approach of a thirty foot cruiser. The Russian wasn’t pleased to discover that his rescuer was a Cuban Coast Guard boat of a sort. It had four men aboard and a Browning .50 caliber machine gun was mounted both fore and aft. Kuryakin could only shrug to himself. At least he could show them the secret way out of the cell he had occupied. That would help him even if Ivanchuk couldn’t be found.

 The patrol boat circled the crippled flying boat even as Kuryakin called out at the top of his lungs. At first the Russian feared that the growl of the patrol boat’s engine might be drowning out all other noises, but eventually he was able to place his face near a window while two uniformed men stared right at him.

 Still the boat only circled while men conversed with one another.

 “What do you need, help from the Soviet Navy?” Kuryakin asked through the transparency.

 Almost as if in response to the derision, the heavy machine guns were manned and pointed at the rear hull just at the water line. The guns fired short five to seven round bursts that would not over heat the barrels. Then after enough damage had been inflicted, the pontoons were also riddled with gapping holes.

 “Oh dear,” the Russian muttered as the patrol boat leisurely withdrew.

 The wreck drifted further out to sea. The Catalina stubbornly held on to life, just as its lone inhabitant did. But as the sun approached the horizon, the flying boat settled so deeply in the water that Kuryakin could only breath by placing his face near the cabin’s ceiling. With his life now measured out in inches, it occurred to him that he was going to die the death of a stupid trapped animal. No law of physics or engineering principal could save him. At that moment he was no better than a 19^th Century beaver caught in a leg trap.

 His raspy breath suddenly grew into an involuntary grunt as something clamped hold of his legs and pulled him down into the darkening water. Looking down, he half expected to see the horrifying image of a large shark biting into his legs, but the creature was far less toothy and considerably more argumentative. The Russian held his breath as he was pulled out of the death trap and into open water, where he would be even more dependant on his miraculous benefactor.

 Kuryakin exhaled gradually and then inhaled the fresh sea air when a strong arm hooked under his chin and guided him to the side of a tall boat. Then he was transferred onto the rescuer’s back in preparation for a short but very demanding ladder climb. Both men then fell unceremoniously onto the deck, their chests heaving from lack of air.

 Napoleon Solo looked like a wet cat, and that’s just about how happy he was. Kuryakin on the other hand was grinning from ear to ear.

 “Yea, you should be glad to see me,” declared Solo as he sat up in his wet pants.

 “More amused than glad,” counter the Russian. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen your hair in a muss.”

 “Oh yes. Nothing like a bit of skin diving to give a fellow the Illya Kuryakin look.”

 “How did you find me?”

 “Ah---that requires a bit of telling. I got myself captured and taken to Columbia. There I ran into this fine gentleman. Illya Kuryakin, meet Doctor Camilo Tenorio.”

 “Allow me to help you with your restraints,” the doctor said while producing a handcuff key.”

 Kuryakin lifted one eyebrow in surprise but held his tongue so as to not interrupt Solo’s briefing.

 “The good doctor was working on a new type of truth serum for a criminal organization called Thrush. What I’ve learned about this organization will keep me at a typewriter for I don’t know how long.”

 “Eventually, but not for quite a while,” predicted the Russian. “I need to get on that radio of yours and present Mr. Waverly with some very bad news. My guess is that we’ll be staying in the area for a while---and we won’t be happy about it.”

 “The Old Man must know something about that. Waverly ordered me to sail full speed north on a heading that brought us to you. If all you needed was an extraction, it could have been done without my help. Of course no one knew about all the bullet holes in the PBY, or I’m sure the sub would have come in closer and sent out a diver.”

 “I almost drowned with a submarine near by?” the Russian asked with a hint of emotion.

 “You stated in your mayday that the flying boat was remaining afloat. You only mentioned the destroyed tail section. Small problem if you’re willing to stay out of the air.”

 “Yes. The Cuban military shot up the plane after I sent the mayday. I suppose I should be grateful that things worked out as well as they did.”

 “Right, so now please explain to me why we have to go back to Cuba. We’re liable to get arrested just sitting out here.”

 “That is a very good point, Mr. Solo. I believe it is now my turn to get on the radio and explain to Mr. Waverly why he should enlist further assistance from the United States Navy. We will need that submarine in a few hours.”

 “I have the feeling that I won’t need a comb for a while,” Solo half muttered to himself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The 52 Ford pickup rolled down a lonely section of Highway 122 until it came to a bend in the road. There it slowed down enough for two men clad in wet suits to jump into the back with their bundles and strip off their rubber garments. Switching to black shirts, trousers and tennis shoes they were transported sixteen miles north to an old farm house. Since the house was at the end of a long driveway, and since it was a moonless light, the two would be commandos where received at the front porch and directed to sit themselves there.

 The host offered the men some nuts and lemonade which were politely dismissed. It would have been awkward eating and drinking in the dark, and both men had been taught that if you are in danger of being shot in the stomach, it is best if the stomach is empty.

 Sindo Gomez was a man in his late thirties. Boney and sun baked with a classic Latino mustache. He made Solo a bit nervous when he lit up a cigar, but there wasn’t much the U.N.C.L.E. agent could do about it. He and Kuryakin were in this man’s hands.

 “Mariel is the only missile site that is completed. It is the closest to the United States. It is also the only site that has been visited by Russians who posses security clearances for the site, but do not seem to have a function to speak of. There is no doubt that it is the one you what, Senhors.”

 “It’s close to midnight and we still have a long way to go,” Solo commented.

 “A couple of hours by truck,” responded Gomez. “It is better this way than to have soldiers barging in every other week to frighten my wife and children.”

 “We appreciate your need for distance, but my associate and I are concerned that there will not be enough time to creep in, fire the LAW and then escape into the jungle as planned,” said Kuryakin.

 “A logging truck will create an instant barricade that will stop the four wheeled pursuit vehicles, but not the off road motorcycles that we have ready for you. But the driver of that truck dare not spill his load and flee until a scheduled Russian patrol has cleared the area. Otherwise the poor man would be caught and no doubt shot.”

 “So we’re talking what---0300 hrs?” asked Solo.

 “0245 if the Russians remain consistent. “

 “It will have to do,” said Solo. “Now for the question I’ve been dreading since we left the sub: How close can you get us to the missile?”

 “If there are no search lights being used---five hundred yards.”

 “I was afraid of that,” muttered Solo.

 “We do have the improved U.N.C.L.E. version of the Army prototype,” Kuryakin said with some optimism.

 “I do not understand,” said Gomez.

 “L.A.W. stands for Light Anti-tank Weapon,” explained Solo. “Its designed for targets that are about two-hundred yards distant. Our U.N.C.L.E. model has more range, but five-hundred yards is still a bit further than what the launcher is designed for.”

 “Perhaps you could postpone the attack until you have a better weapon,” suggested Gomez.

 “I’m afraid not. They might launch the missile tomorrow, now that the cat is out of the bag. We can’t take that risk,” said the American.

 The Cuban put down his drink and squinted in the dark.

 “Senhor, my English is pretty good. Perhaps we should converse in that language. I don’t think you know what you are saying. This Cold War game that the Russians are playing has nothing to do with the actual shooting of missiles.

 “The is a third faction that is willing to risk nuclear war in order to bring about significant change to this region,” said Kuryakin

 “This information is very distressing,” said Gomez. “I was told that you would destroy the missile for the sole purpose of slowing down a Soviet takeover of the country. There are no mad men willing to fire on the United States for God’s sake.”

 Solo glanced over at his partner.

 “I think we should fill him in. It is his country after all.”

 Kuryakin nodded and then proceeded to relate all that he had learned as a Thrush captive. When the briefing was finished, the Cuban sat quietly for a moment and weighed all that had been said.

 “This is a chance to take down Castro, and bring real freedom to this Island.”

 “Yes,” admitted the Russian, “but countless millions of lives will be on the gaming table.”

 “But, you said that the missile will not hit any American city. It will detonate in the ocean depths. Surely no one would start a world war over that.”

 “The criminal organization of which we speak will act on the presumption that there will be no military response until after the missile reaches its final destination,” said Kuryakin.

 “But it’s a distinct possibility that there will be a response before the missile reaches the water,” Solo added.

 Gomez let out a long and very unhappy sigh.

 “In that case, Senhors, we will leave immediately. I need to gather a few supporters on the way to our destination.”

 “Make sure they all have a pair of sunglasses,” advised Solo.

 “Did you say, sunglasses, Senhor?”

 “That’s right. It’s very important.”

 “But the attack will take place in the dead of night---will it not?”

 “Yes. We’ll remain faithful to your time table.”

 The Cuban got to his feet with a forlorn expression. With all the American slang expressions to learn, he was never really sure of what he was hearing.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Admiral Horacio Rivero, Vice Chief of Naval Operations folded the three page report and proceeded to place it in his attaché case.

 “I don’t want that leaving this office,” said Alexander Waverly.

 “Then you made a big mistake giving it to me,” stated the Admiral. “I’m taking it to the president---right now.”

 “You’ll be permitted to leave at daybreak,” Waverly responded flatly.

 Rivero glared at the operations chief as if he were an enemy agent.

 “Waverly, if you play God with me and I’ll make you wish your momma never met your papa.”

 The Englishman slowly ignited his pipe and allowed the smoke to drift over to the other side of the large conference room table.

 “I have some people working to resolve the matter. They will require the rest of this night.”

 “Are you talking about a commando operation? Waverly, you better contact those Davy Crockett types and order them to abort. The president will undoubtedly put the fear of God into those atheist Russian bastards, and when that happens, we’ll need to give the Ruskies a chance to address their own security issues. A commando strike might cost us the moral high ground, and that is something we do not want.”

 “Our first priority, Admiral, is to make certain that the moral high ground does not have a mushroom cloud rising over it,” explained Waverly. “President Kennedy would most certainly cut to the chase, but only with the Soviet high command. As stated in that report you have, the true villains are not answerable to Khrushchev.”

 “Yes, that was made clear to me, but if the Soviets replace all of their people at the aforementioned launching site—“

 “That course of action will come too late, Admiral. That is why this organization is being formed. We are first responders of a sort.”

 “You have become an authority unto yourselves in very short order,” observed Rivero.

 “To effectively counter the opposition. Yes.”

 The admiral let out a deep breath while getting a grip on his Latino temper.

 “Look Waverly, you know that I have an international mind set. When I first heard about U.N.C.L.E. I thought it was a great idea. But we cannot, and we will not leave the safety of millions of civilians in the hands of a few people who work with pen radios and exploding buttons. We maintain a very expensive military, not so that we can have fun sailing around the world, but so that we can protect a culture of freedom that we all belong to.”

 Waverly gently tapped his pipe on the top of his ashtray.

 “I would compare this Thrush organization to a deadly virus. You can shoot the host, operating on the theory that the virus will not survive such a drastic action. But in any case, the host will be dead. Our killing is a bit more selective.”

 “No commando operation has ever brought about a significant change in any war effort,” said the admiral. “You expect to dig a canyon with a spoon. I cannot sit idly by while precious time is wasted on stuff that belongs in comic books.”

 With that the admiral rose from his chair and stepped towards the back of the conference room. The door slid open and he managed to cover some twenty feet of corridor before setting off an alarm. With a deadpan expression, the head of U.N.C.L.E. shuffled out into the conference room and casually approached two officer workers and a field agent who were all aiming their pistols at a frowning Rivero.

 “I’m going to see it that the C.I.A. gets every single dollar that currently goes to support this lunatic asylum,” vowed the admiral. “Am I supposed to believe that these people would shoot a man of my position just because I refuse to stay here?”

 “No. They would shoot you because your badge has informed them that you have entered a forbidden section of the complex,” explained Waverly.

 “But I passed though this area before,” argued the naval officer.

 “Yes. Most badges are treated with a permanent chemical activator, but yours was treated with a temporary masking agent that allowed you to move towards the interior of the complex for approximately ten minutes. I would also remind you, Admiral, that in our world of cloak and dagger, things are not always as they appear. For that reason your uniform and facial appearance means nothing. Your badge told these people that you are an intruder. Nothing else matters to them, that is why you must not run off in a huff.”

 “I don’t huff,” growled Rivero, who then marched angrily back to the conference room.

 “Perhaps some Irish coffee is in order,” Waverly said after a moment’s reflection. “Miss Jenson, you will find a bottle in my lower left hand drawer. Kindly bring it, and a pot of coffee to the conference room, please.”

 After Waverly was gone the field agent looked at the remaining office worker and said, “Here that? We almost shot a real admiral. Between false alarms and real hit men, I’m inclined to think that U.N.C.L.E. has no rear echelon.”

 “Yea,” responded the woman. “All in all, I think this is a lousy place to find a husband.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

 Solo watched the sweep second hand climb up to twelve. He might have been counting off the remaining moments of his life, but he chose to think that he was merely ending another hated waiting period. A miserable time of jungle humidity and biting insects. So there was no hesitation as he raised a fat barreled pistol over his head and pulled the trigger.

 The Very Pistol is a type of flare gun, named after it’s inventor Lieutenant Edward W. Very of the United States Navy. There was nothing special about the flare gun that Solo was using, but the flare itself was something that men would remember that night. Similar to the M26 Parachute Flare, the projectile would burn like an artificial sun while floating downward under a small parachute. Like most everything that U.N.C.L.E. agents employed, the flare was a technological improvement over previous models.

 The enemy was not only revealed by the light, the elite guards were temporarily blinded by it. This was important to everyone, but especially to Illya Kuryakin as he advanced with his LAW rocket launcher. He had been given just ninety seconds to advance, sight in his target, and let fly with his sixty-six millimeter armor piercing round. The target was roughly sixty feet in length and just over five feet in width. Not a difficult object to zero in on with the improved telescopic sight. But the rocket itself would not fly as true as a rifle bullet. That was the problem.

 The crosshairs of Solo’s telescopic sight drifted first to the right of his partner and then panned off to the left. He hunted specifically for guards that could challenge Kuryakin’s line of advancement. Gomez had positioned four men on the right flank and he and his brother took the left flank with hand held M60 machine guns. For a minute and a half, the attacking force enjoyed the tactical upper hand, but two-thirds of the Russian force wisely hugged the ground and waited for their time to counter attack. The more foolish guards fired blind and were expertly taken down by Gomez’s people or Napoleon Solo.

 Illya brazenly rested his LAW on the post of a barbed wire fence. Half blinded men on their bellies might have been no more than fifty feet from that spot. The U.N.C.L.E. agent placed his crosshairs on the missile launching site and gave himself three seconds to stead himself and gently squeeze the firing mechanism. The rocket streaked to it’s target, dropping almost eight feet in its trajectory, but that was alright because the agent knew enough to aim half way up the missile’s length.

 What happened then horrified men on both sides. The armor piercing round ignited a fuel cell and the giant tube of metal became a spinning fire stick that whipped and gyrated at tree top level. Since the guards were closest to the convulsive metal monster, they were inclined to once again kiss Mother Earth. Kuryakin ran back to Solo, who handed him his U.N.C.L.E. Special, with its rifle attachments.

 Gomez had instructed them to run straight south to where their trail bikes would be waiting. The Cubans would withdraw on diagonal lines, maintaining a cross fire on the agents trail until the very last moment. Then the Cubans would lose themselves in the thick jungle that was close by and stay there until it they could creep back to safe ground.

 But the U.N.C.L.E. agents didn’t turn and run. They backed away slowly, using their telescopic sights to zero in on advancing guards that were illuminated by a dying metal flying machine. Vegetation was chopped up around them but Solo and Illya kept both their pace and their nerve. The notion that they should be the first to stop fighting went against their nature, and it was one mistake that they shared equally.

 Gomez perceived this and further endangered himself by expressing his disapproval.

 “Run you stupid Anglos!”

 An advancing guard swung his own telescopic sight around to zero in on the reckless Latino. The Thrush rifle was in its best element, now that the jungle was fading back into darkness. Solo had a feeling that the Cuban’s rebuke would be costly, so he worked his scope to the left one last time. He had no infra red working for him, but he saw a movement at the last possible second and fired a spread of four rounds into the phantom shape. One of them hit the enemy in the right lung, shoving him backward.

 “Are you deaf?!” shouted Gomez.

 Solo frowned at the fact that the other Cubans had disappeared leaving Gomez to caterwaul as if he were bullet proof.

 “He’s not going to run unless we do,” Kuryakin logically concluded.

 Solo brought his weapon down to chest level and pivoted with his partner to the south. When they realized that they weren’t going to take anymore fire, the surviving guards charged through the brush, raking the area ahead of them with long bursts. Gomez waited a bit then targeted the three closest muzzle flashes with his remaining ammo. That choice earned him a shot through the spleen.

 Now down on his knees, with his weapon on the ground, he took another round in the upper chest. Almost laughing at his own bravado, he drew out his fragmentation grenade and yanked the pin. The safety lever was released and the little bomb was raised painfully up to face level. When it went off it removed the Latino’s face, which is exactly what he wanted. Now his family would be safe, and they would most likely bury him where he died.

 The U.N.C.L.E. agents reached their off road motorcycles a minute later. A pair of Triumph Meridens.

 “You better take point,” Napoleon said in a low voice.

 Kuryakin nodded once and was twenty yards away before Solo got his own bike into gear. Every U.N.C.L.E. field agent was trained to ride a motorcycle, but didn’t care much for them. They messed up his hair, and he wasn’t partial to leather. It would have surprised no one to learn that Kuryakin loved bikes, and he could fix them as well as ride them.

 The task was to run along a machete cut trail until reaching a gravel round where a truck would be waiting. On the flat bed would be a load of sugar cane that the agents would lay in until reaching the opposite coast. Solo thought about Gomez for a while, then put the matter behind him much in the way he had done it back in Korea.

 “You thinking about Ada?” asked Napoleon.

 “Khrunov,” corrected the Russian.

 Solo was tempted to say that thinking about Ada would be more fun but his sense of wisdom prevailed.

 “I need to find out if he was sponsored by Thrush or if he is an actual co-founder of the organization,” said Kuryakin.

 “Well---if he’s a top dog, he would be more useful as a surveillance tool than as a jail bird. Would you be comfortable with the idea of him remaining free?”

 “If he is a top dog as you say, he will not be manipulated by U.N.C.L.E. or anyone else. Also, I am of the opinion that my lack of popularity back home is largely his doing. I don’t mind living in New York, but I resent my refugee status.”

 “I predict that a lot of refugees will be trying to sail out of this country in time,” said Solo. “Revolutionary types like Castro come up with all kinds of grand ideas for a utopian society, and in the end, people find themselves wishing they had shot their glorious leader back when he was one step ahead of the old constabulary.”

 “What insightful commentary. Please wake me when we reach our beach cottage.”

 Kuryakin’s beach cottage turned out to be a long abandoned and rusted out saline filtering tank that had been thrown on its side during the last hurricane. It was on the edge of the jungle and offered a satisfactory view of the ocean. Sometimes local children played around it, but for the next twenty hours or so, Gomez’s associates would keep the kids away. The U.N.C.L.E. agents were left with dried meat and a jug of water, but they didn’t complain. They understood all too well that while they waited for their freedom, people all over the Island were being dragged out of their homes in response to what they had done the past night.

  With his usual wit, Kuryakin predicted that the submarine would be a long ways from the beach. Solo was very philosophical about the whole thing until a shark fin passed him by. But they made it to the sub with enough strength remaining to climb down the ladder with just a little bit of help. The agents were immediately ushered to the communications station so that their chief would have an opportunity to speak with them right away. That was one nice thing about Waverly; he never subjected people to the same old banter.

 “Open channel D,” Solo said while trying to rub some sea water out of his ear.

 “Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?” inquired the slightly distorted voice of their chief.

 “Yes sir. We just got on board the sub.”

 “How very fortunate for you both. President Castro is even more vexed by your behavior than I was earlier. I take it the missile has been neutralized.”

 “Yes sir, it’s a penthouse for monkeys now, and Mr. Kuryakin and I are more than ready to come home.”

 “Indeed? I thought perhaps the two of you might want to sail over to San Fernando.”

 “Mexico?” queried Solo.

 “Trinidad, Gentlemen. We received a phone call from Miss Castil. She seems quite ready to return to New York, but I rather doubt that she would survive the trip to the airport.”

 “How is that, sir?” asked Kuryakin.

 “Her Thrush handlers only let her go in hopes that she would draw more important operatives to her. A trip to the airport would suggest that no such meeting will take place. Then she will have outlived her usefulness.”

 “They’re really playing hardball with us, aren’t they sir,” said Solo.

 “Yes, if I understand you correctly. You will rendezvous with a float plane in a few hours. The pilot will have Miss Castil’s address. You won’t be able to step into a well conceived trap without it. But please don’t get yourselves killed in Trinidad, Gentlemen. Ever since the attack on this headquarters, I’ve had trouble finding suitable replacement staff. I might have to recruit from Chicago, God forbid.

Waverly out.”

 “I suppose we could do the ambulance bit again,” suggested Illya.

 “Better not, cautioned Solo. “Our exploits may already be the best of Thrush legend. We should come up with something fresh and innovative. Something that has never been done before. How long would it take to build a giant horse that we could hide inside of?”

  “Yes---your sense of humor is certainly Greek to me,” responded the Russian, “but I am developing a tolerance for it. In any case, I believe I have a plan that will get us into Ada’s building. Unfortunately we will require the assistance of the city government.”

 “Forget it,” said Solo. “Local law enforcement will be compromised on every level.”

 “That goes without saying,” Kuryakin replied while accepting some dry clothes from a crew member.

 The following evening, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents climbed onto the roof of a building that neighbored the one being occupied by Ada Castil. The roof afforded a passable view of the Gulf of Paria at sundown, but the agents weren’t there for sightseeing. Solo alerted the public servants who had been recruited by U.N.C.L.E. fixers back in New York while  Kuryakin readied a satchel that could be easily thrown over the space between the two buildings.

 “With our luck the timer will break with the fall,” grumbled Solo.

 “No. I cushioned the device with some underwear,” the Russian assured him.

 “From where? We don’t have any luggage.”

 “I stole it off a clothes line.”

 “Hope you left some of the money we were given by our last pilot.”

 “Of course. I may have to kill people and blow things up, but otherwise my scruples are impeccable.”

 Solo was still frowning at that when the bag went flying through the air and landed some fifty feet away. The two agents were halfway down the fire escape when the smoke bomb ignited and covered the roof with a man made cloud. The special fire fighting detail was parked two blocks away at that time, and one of those men jumped off the truck just short of the scene with two sets of personal equipment. He rejoined his fellow firefighters a few moments later, with two additional workers in tow.

 Solo and Kuryakin tried to look occupied until the truck’s hydraulic ladder was ready for them to mount. Kuryakin went first, since he was a bit more skilled at climbing and therefore would be the first to pass through the four story window. The Russian would also have the task of applying some special putty to the portal that awaited him . A high tech form of silent explosive that wasn’t used by any fire department, but was gaining favor with people in the cloak and dagger trade.

 Major stress points were severed with four rapid puffs of smoke enabling the agent to push the window in with a mild crack and follow in after. The agents were relieved to discover that the room they had selected was completely empty. They entertained the happy thought that they had stumbled onto a vacant apartment. But that notion lasted but a few seconds. Then they detected the sound of---something familiar enough. The two phony firemen proceeded to the next room where their fears were confirmed, with an additional surprise.

 A man and a woman were indeed copulating with great enthusiasm, but perhaps only for the benefit of two additional men. One was a camera man and the other was in charge of a microphone that was well positioned to pick up the nude woman’s exclamation when she saw the firemen appear in the doorway. The three men remained mute. Bug eyed but mute.”

 “Don’t do anything that might create a spark,” Solo ordered in Spanish. “We had reason to believe that this entire floor is flooded with gas. Just get dressed and proceed in an orderly manner to the nearest exit.”

 With that two agents vacated the apartment and made their way to the suite that Ada was supposed to be in.

 “Looks to me like we’re protecting a world that’s getting more and more naked,” muttered Solo while drawing his U.N.C.L.E. Special.

 Kuryakin knocked on the door then likewise armed himself. A moment later an ecstatic Latino rushed through the doorway to squeeze the daylights out of her Russian friend.

 “Ah---I’m here to help too,”  ventured Solo.

 “Oh but of course,” responded Ada with a second if somewhat less enthusiastic embrace.

 “A light plane is going to pick us up just west of La Retraite in two hours and forty-five minutes,” Illya explained quickly. “When we get you a few blocks from here I’ll be able to appropriate suitable transportation.”

 “He means steal a car,” Solo translated.

 “But first you’ll need a disguise,” mused the blonde while stepping into the suite and scanning it’s interior.

 The agent studied the window drapes for a instant and then quickly tore them down.

 “We’re going to wrap her up in those Cleopatra style?” asked Solo.

 “She used a carpet,” his partner corrected, “but your guess is close to the mark.”

 Solo watched in amazement as Kuryakin took out a small box of safety pins and covered Ada with a tent like garment that only showed her face and hands. Then he went and got some toilet paper and handed it to her.

 Stuff it in your cheeks to make your face look fatter.”

 “She’s going to impersonate a Muslim? Solo asked incredulously.

 “I’m tempted to make her a pair of lifts for her shoes, but I fear that tall women tend to stand out more in a crowd.”

 “The pin work is straight as an arrow. You have a knack for this sort of thing,” beamed the woman.

 “I thought I’d dabble a bit in the fashion industry when I get to old to do field work for U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya confessed to the woman.

 “Better get into it now,” advised Solo, “while people are still wearing clothes.”

 With that remark Kuryakin became all business. He lead the way to the elevator and called it to their floor.

 Holding the elevator car door open, he gazed into Ada’s dark eyes.

 “Take the car to the top floor. Wait there for two minutes and then proceed down to the lobby. Try to walk briskly. Muslim women are quite nimble in floor length attire,” said Illya. “We’ll catch up with you at the corner of Couva and Marabella.

 Ada smiled bravely and entered the lift. The two men kept eye contact with her until the doors closed.

 “Illya, I don’t think her chances are too good,” Napoleon said flatly.

 “Not without a diversion,” agreed the Russian. “I’ll be seeing to that next. You just get to that intersection before she gets tempted to strike off on her own.”

 “I sense we are about to have another disagreement,” said Solo, but he was already speaking to the Russian’s back while Kuryakin made a beeline toward a stairwell exit.

 Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was no longer in stealth mode. When he entered the lobby he immediately focused on a man pretending to read a newspaper. The lobby was spacious, and the only other occupant at present was a desk clerk who was busy sorting through some mail a fair distance away. Illya approached his target not really caring if the man might look up or not. In fact the stakeout man didn’t stop pretending to read until a snub nosed automatic began to press against the newspaper where the clerk wouldn’t see it.

 “May I borrow your paper for a moment?” the Russian asked in a soft voice.

 The Thrush agent let go of it and Illya smoothly draped it over his weapon.

 “Lead me back into the stairwell.”

 “And if I don’t?” the guard asked fearlessly.

 Illya palpated the man’s oversized shirt and felt the unmistakable outline of a .380 pocket auto.

 “In that event I would have to shoot you in self defense.”

 “That would be more of a temptation in the stairwell,” reasoned the guard.

 “Only if you insist on sparing yourself a wrap on the back of the head,” stated the U.N.C.L.E. agent.

 With a reptilian gaze the stake out man got to his feet and walked slowly towards the exit door. Just as that door closed behind Illya, the elevator door opened on the lobby floor and Ada stepped out in her makeshift disguise. She exited the front door just as Kuryakin struck his prisoner with the butt of his pistol. She was a block away when the thrush agent regained his feet, thinking that the U.N.C.L.E. agent had botched the non-lethal blow.

 In fact, Illya had deliberately administered a light blow so that the Thrush man would get on his portable radio and alert his fellow agents to be on the lookout for the Russian. Naturally they would also check to see if Ada was still in the hotel and would be very perturbed to find her missing. By then Illya would be leading the hounds on a merry chase that hopefully, would not leave the Latino lovely with one less admirer.

 Solo’s thoughts ran along the same lines as he scanned the intersecting boulevards for a woman wrapped in drapes. One way or another, this was going to be his last assignment with Illya Kuryakin. The man just wasn’t a team player.

“Now I’m standing here with no girl and no partner,” Solo grimly mused while pretending to admire what was in a store window display. “How can a man be so smart while being a loose cannon at the same time?”

 Solo was focused on the many pedestrians strolling around him, so when a car pulled up to the curb behind him, he didn’t note its significance until a familiar voice hailed him in the gathering dark.

 “Napoleon, it’s me. Please get in before we loose the green light.”

 Solo turned to see a drape covered woman seated behind a steering wheel and gesturing him to hurry. He complied with alacrity until he realized what she was driving. That caused him to hesitate, and she almost swore at him in Spanish. But soon enough they were rolling down the street in moderate traffic.

 “How did you get this?” Solo asked as soon as his door closed.

 “It was fate, Napoleon. My brother had one nine years ago, and he showed us all how to hot wire it since the ignition key housing had been—uh—tampered with.”

 The man let out a sigh. They were cruising along in a Citrogen Ripple Bonnet; the most pathetic excuse for a car the French ever came up with. Not only did it have the power of a lawnmower, it possessed all the charm of a corrugated shed on wheels. Solo wasn’t sure if he could blame this on the Russian or not.

 “We’ve got to ditch this thing right now.”

 “No. We need to find Illya first,” corrected the driver. “With his skills, we can steal any car we want.”

 “I feel a tantrum coming on,”  thought Solo as he brought out his communicator.

 A moment later the Russian’s muffled voice was with them.

 “Where are you?”

 Picadilly.”

 “How could you move that fast?” inquired Solo.

 “Not London. They have a small street by that name right here in Port of Spain.”

 “I know that,” responded Solo with a long suffering look. “But according to my pocket map, you’re about a mile away from us. How did you get that far on foot?”

 “Rode piggy back on a delivery truck. Now I’m hiding in a garbage dumpster at the corner of Picadilly and St Joseph.”

 “Well, at least it’s not too muggy tonight.”

 “In any case, it’s a hardship that I’m growing accustomed to.”

 “Good man. E.T.A., ten minutes if the traffic doesn’t worsen. Solo out.”

 As it happened, there was a reason for the light traffic in Solo’s area. A street festival was commencing six blocks north of Kuryakin’s location, and like so many celebrations of its kind, it was mobile. Illya noted with dismay that the lively band music was growing louder. That meant that his ride might get stopped by a road block, and his hideout might also be intruded upon. So after a nine minute wait, the Russian climbed out of his sanctuary, gaining the attention of only one drunk who had trouble understanding why a man would emerge from a dumpster.

 Pedestrian traffic was growing by the minute but the commercial street remained open. Apparently the locals all knew that motorists needed to steer clear of Picadilly during the night parade, so when Illya’s ride showed up, there was still a chance to roll past indignant cops carrying their portable barricade stands.

 The festival parade was somewhat chaotic in nature. The lead float was a spectacular light display that would have been the crowning achievement of any midnight Christmas program. The float blazed the trail for the marching band that came next, but it also made it very difficult for people to make out visual details in a growing crowd of revelers. Illya kept his back to the dumpster and waited on Solo. There wasn’t much else he could do except smile politely when a passing woman would give him a ninety proof smile.

 Solo nearly got punched when he placed his hand on Illya’s shoulder and gestured for him to follow. Not even a highly trained agent could make clear sense of the throng of people who were never content to remain in one spot along the parade route. Hunters and hunted were cloaked in a blaring storm of humanity where light and dark traded places in the blink of an eye.

 But the hunters had an advantage. Many street people had been recruited by Thrush. Fliers had been distributed in preparation for a trap. The posters bore the likeness of Ada Castil. That would be more challenging than searching for a blonde like Kuryakin, but far from impossible. The two U.N.C.L.E. field agents anticipated as much, which is why Kuryakin reiterated Solo’s earlier statement, as soon as he saw the car Solo was getting into.

 “Si, we get a different car now,” agreed Ada, “but I do not understand what is so bad about this car. It has many redeeming qualities.”

 Suddenly a spider web pattern appeared on the back window. At its center was a small bullet hole. Illya was in the back seat in a flash.

 “Show us the escape qualities,” ordered Solo as he searched in vain for a silencer equipped weapon.

 Ada’s little Bonnet didn’t have enough power to burn rubber, but that kind of take off would have been foiled by a pedestrian anyway. All the Nicaraguan could do was lay on the horn and smile in triumph when an angry drunk chose to stand in their wake and wave a fist at them. That would make it more difficult for any pursuers.

 “We don’t dare drive this heap to the airstrip. We’ve got to get clear of any tailgaters before we get to La Retraite,” explained Solo.

 Ada rolled her eyes at that and decided it was time to come clean with something.

 “Napoleon, my brother was not a bad man, but in a third world country it is not always possible to stay on the right side of the law.”

 “I suppose not, but I think we need to remain focused on the task at hand,” lectured Solo.

 Suddenly the car cut right and jumped a curb. Then it proceeded down a boulevard sidewalk that paralleled eastern Main Street.

 “My point, Napoleon, is that we all learned how to play what you Americans call ditch. The game of losing a pursuer.”

 “And you think we can win this game by running down a sidewalk?”

 “No, we can win it by running in a ditch.”

 Even Illya’s eyes went wide when the light weight car took another turn and barreled straight on at a four foot hedge. Solo grabbed for the wheel but the Latino woman slapped his hand. Then the car ripped through the botanical barricade and rolled down a steep embankment.

 “Did you just put us in a river?” asked Solo as the car began to bounce its way along in a foot of water.

 “It’s just a creek bottom. Very shallow this time of year; and it just happens to flow in the direction of the airstrip we need to get to.”

 “But you didn’t steal a jeep,” pointed out Kuryakin. “When you and I last employed this tactic, we had the benefit of four wheel drive.”

 “This car is so light weight, two strong U.N.C.L.E. agents can lift the back end out of a sink hole when such things are encountered,” said the driver with a slight smile.

 “How did you know about this waterway?” inquired the Russian.

 “This is a tourist town. People try to sell you maps everywhere you go.”

 “And did those maps also indicate how many bridges we’ll have to pass under?” inquired the American agent. “If the glow from our headlights don’t give us away, we’ll certainly be an object of curiosity to anyone on those bridges.”

 “Half the city is getting drunk this night,” Ada reasoned. “My hope is that we will be taken for people who cannot hold their liquor.”

 Solo shot a warning glance at his partner who up until now had been far too indulgent.

 “Ada, these waterways usually feature launching ramps for canoes. If we find one in time, we will use it to get out of here. Our progress on this rocky bottom is too slow, even if the police do leave us alone, we cannot follow the stream bed all the way out of town. We would reach the plane too late.”

 “Perhaps we should miss the plane,” suggested Ada. “Both of you are pilots. We could hide now and steal our own plane after our pursuers have given up the hunt. You saw what the streets look like right now. A high speed chase could prove just as impractical as what we are doing now.”

 “There’s a ramp,” announced Solo.

 Moments later the two men were at the back of the car helping it gain purchase on a slippery grade. They were now in a small park, and they could hear people laughing as they got back up to normal ground level.”

 “We need to travel on Western Main, but we dare not go that way in this vehicle,” said Illya.

 Solo frowned at the darkness around them. There were dozens of couples in various positions throughout the park, but they must have all walked in search of privacy because he couldn’t spot a single car.

 “We’ll risk the main drag until we find a car we can borrow. I’m sure our luck will change in a block or two.”

 Ada said nothing. It was obvious that the field agents had rejected her plan to hide. Four blocks to the west they found a Ferrari 250 that was parked beside the entrance to a private driveway. Ada had to admit that it was a thing of beauty, but her brother had always said that you should never steal from someone who has ties with the government. Clearly, this car did not belong to a fisherman.

 “Any tools in the back?” asked Solo.

 “Yes. It’s not surprising that the owner of the Citrogen could not afford to patronize a mechanic. He has everything I need. I’ll remember his plate number so I can arrange suitable compensation at a later date.”

 The woman smiled at the agent’s sense of justice until she detected the sound of a police siren that was distant but growing.

 “Ada, take the Bonnet up the driveway as far as you dare. We won’t be far behind you,” said Solo.

 The woman hesitated for an instant, then got back behind the wheel and chugged up the private road to a large open gateway some four-hundred yards distant. A security guard wearing a cheap suit was beside her in an instant, and he carried a two way radio in his hand.

 “Are you one of da extra cooks?” he asked with a Jamaican style accent.

 “No. I was curious to seen what was down this road,” said Ada. “I didn’t realize that I’d be intruding on a large estate.”

 “Dis is da mayor’s home,” the guard said while stealing glances at Ada’s body. “His daughter got married today and da reception is being held here. I don’ tink you are a party crasher, but you gotta go anyway.”

 “Yes of course. I didn’t mean to cause any concern. I---“

 Suddenly there was the sound of gunfire.

 “Oh my God,” breathed Ada.

 The guard stared unhappily down the roadway and said, “Turn da car to da right. You’ll see a golf cart. Park next to dat and don’ leave your car for any reason. I will get dee word from da police.”

 Ada did as she was instructed while the guard closed the heavy driveway gate. The security officer then went into the nearby guard shack to telephone the police. He got a recording the first two attempts and was trying a third time when a resounding crash compelled him to drop the receiver and rush out to a now badly damaged iron work. To his utter amazement, the vehicle that was now hissing steam and pressing against severely bent metal was a police cruiser.

 “Well, we bent the gate bolt real good,” one Anglo Saxon was saying to another. “I warned you we’d need all the thermite cream to weaken the bars before ramming.”

 “They used a surprisingly high grade of metal in its construction,” responded his companion. “But it should be easy enough to climb.”

 The guard looked around for men in uniform but all he could see was two white men standing beside the wrecked squad car.

 The man with the nicer clothes squinted unhappily down the length of the security fence and then spotted the dumbfounded guard.

 “You go ahead. I’d better show the officer here my credentials so he won’t get any wrong ideas about us.”

 “I tink you get da Mayor mad as hell at you, Mon. Dat’s what I tink,” the rent a cop declared as he moved closer to the bars so he could inspect Solo’s I.D. under the gate light.

 “Crazy or stoop-id , hittin da gate like dat.”

 Solo held the card between the bars and when the guard was about to take it, the card jabbed forward an inch, pricking the guard’s finger. The guard’s eyes fluttered slightly while staring at the minor cut, then he staggered two steps before collapsing into the arms of Illya Kuryakin.

 “Effective---but I would have chosen the new gas pen. What if he would have refused to touch the card?” critiqued the Russian.

 “Neither gimmick would have worked against those phony cops,” put in Solo. “I must confess that I almost had a fit when you gunned them both down. What tipped you off?”

 “I ran into one of them in the lobby where Ada was staying. Even in the bad light there was no mistaking those bushy eyebrows of his. Also; he wasn’t wearing a police cap because his head was sore. I had something to do with that.”

 Solo spat on both his hands and then engaged the iron obstacle that challenged him. He didn’t complete the twelve foot climb as quickly as Kuryakin, but he did touch down before the Russian could think of something biting to say about the effort. They dragged the sleeping guard into his shelter and closed the door. Thankfully the mansion was just as far from the gate as the gate was from the mouth of the driveway.

 Whoever this mayor was, he was a man who liked his privacy. Kuryakin estimated that the private property consisted of some two-hundred acres of thinly wooded land. Although most of the timber had been cleared along the fence land, there were enough trees further up the road to completely hide the house and reception grounds. Area maps indicated undeveloped woods on three sides of that property.

 “Illya---is that you?” queried a soft Latino voice.

 The two U.N.C.L.E. agents jogged in the direction of the voice and found Ada still obediently sitting in her French shopping cart

 “Ada, we might have to follow your suggestion and hide out until we find another way to leave the Island,” said Solo. “We had to shoot a couple of Thrush agents that were posing as police officers. I’m afraid this area will be crawling with real cops before we can even get off the estate.”

 “I am fine as long as I am with you two,” the woman responded.

Suddenly an amplified voice came drifting out of the Caribbean night.

 “My dear friends, my family and I want to welcome you to our home, and also thank you for choosing OUR modest get together, when there are so many lavish events taking place on this festival evening…….”

 “Sounds like an outdoor event, but there’s nothing to see except that bit of glow over yonder,” mutter Solo.

 “The moon has been hidden all this time, but I think there is a grove of trees between us and the center of the estate,” guessed Ada.

  “Good. We should hug the fence perimeter until we get to the back of the estate. There’s bound to be residential property back there somewhere,” said Kuryakin.

 “Yea, and if the fence does extend all the way around---no sweat---we still have some thermite left over,” muttered Solo

 The American’s statement was followed by the sound of sirens approaching their location.

 “Lets see how far we can get with the golf cart,” suggested Solo.

 “But the car has far more power,” put in Ada.

 “Also more noise,” countered Solo.

 With perfect timing a band began to play somewhere in the direction of the distant glow. The opening number was a cheesy variation of an American pop tune that no one would be able to dance to.”

 Solo rolled his eyes slightly and climbed into the back of the car saying, “If we escape in this washing machine, I’ll want to take Ada with me to Vegas. Some good luck charms are hard won.”

 “We’d be delighted,” responded the Russian as he got in next to the driver.

 The little engine was brought to life and on Illya’s recommendation the lovely chauffer placed the car on a parallel course with the tall fence to their right. Tall weeds and scrub brush rubbed ceaselessly against the belly of the car, but the ground was dry enough so that the wheels never dug in more than an inch. Best of all, the fence must have been designed with birdwatchers in mind, because the neighboring properties were devoid of structures or even couples looking for a bit of privacy.

 The sirens eventually ceased in the direction of the estate’s entryway and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents wondered how the police would deal with the unintended gate obstruction. Optimism was growing inside the little car until a change in the terrain appeared out of the gloom. Ada stopped the car and took it out of gear. Illya climbed out quickly and marched forward and slightly downward.

 Then he quickly returned and said, “It’s a small river. Much deeper than what we’ve made use of recently. I suppose we’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot.”

 “This area is much wilder than we thought it would be,” responded Solo. “The city maps don’t tell us anything. I think we should risk getting closer to the party grounds. We might learn something useful, and there might be an accommodating bend in the river just a little further down stream.”

 “Alright---since the property is so big. But every time the band stops playing, the engine should be turned off,” said Kuryakin.

 Not wishing to go another round with his temporary partner, Solo quietly nodded and stared in the direction of the music. The car then crept ahead in first gear until the distant glow became a partially obstructed view of a large brightly lit lawn and house.

 “Ok, from here we go on foot,” declared Solo.

 Suddenly there was a flash of light two-hundred yards behind them and the sound of an engine could be heard when the band took a break.

 “No, we don’t go on foot,” Solo amended. “We shake our collective tails before those cops back there realize they’re close to catching us.”

 Ada coaxed her little car into something resembling a dead run and burst onto the well manicured lawn with the headlights on high beam. No less than five-hundred people were milling around on a three acre lawn. The well attired guests were drifting from the outdoor bar, to the band stand dancing area, to the array of folding chairs that accommodated both the elderly and the eventual drunks.

 The highly moral driver certainly didn’t want to injure anyone so she hooked clear of the dance area and steered a zigzag course towards a four car garage. Ada got to the point where she was ready to pat herself on the back for missing so many deer brained individuals. Screams could be unnerving and male obscenities were a difficult thing not to take personally. But the truly memorable mishap quite naturally had to come when the little car was almost clear of the nocturnal soiree.

 A tent had been set up on the other side of the lawn in case of rain, and it’s single wall tarp hid two men carrying a huge wedding cake on a elaborately designed palanquin. Like all wedding cakes, it was a display of first class professionalism. Large enough to treat several hundred people and give the local patissier  something to boast about for years to come. Ada caught the most fleeting glimpse of it as she speed turned around the tent. The lead carrier panicked and pulled the palanquin across her path of advance.

 Miraculously, neither carrier was injured, but the windshield wiper was needed to remove much of the white frosting that was spread liberally across the front of the car.

 “I could just die,” the woman said mostly to herself.

 “I’m sure the bride will laugh about the whole thing during her golden wedding anniversary,” commented Solo.

 “I don’t think so,” replied Ada.

 “I don’t think so either,” said Illya. “All the more reason to hope that one of those cars has a key in the ignition.”

 “I thought you could hot wire anything,” said a near panicking Ada.

 “I can, if I have enough time. But I don’t think we’ll have a lot of that.”

 Back on the other side of the grounds a police jeep was now clearing a path with its siren and getting directions from a hundred irate witnesses. Illya jumped out of the Bonnet before it could even come to a complete stop in front of the garage. The doors had been left open. No doubt to impress the guests with the fine collection of vehicles. Solo also bailed out and helped inspect the cars.

 “This one has keys in the ignition,” reported Illya.

 Solo’s jaw dropped open when he realized what the Russian was standing next to.

 “Good Lord---that’s a Kellison J-4. There’s only about three-hundred of them in the entire world. How does a Caribbean bureaucrat rate something like that?”

 “Or so much prime real-estate for that matter,” Kuryakin added.

 “Ada will have to sit on someone’s lap,” Solo pointed out, since the vehicle was a two seat sports car.

 Illya’s eyes bored into Solo’s for a moment and it was the American who then got behind the wheel.

 “Well, you’ve got your babe and I’ve got mine,” Solo thought as he brought the American sports car to life and roared out into the driveway.

 The police all terrain vehicle rounded the cake smashing site and got on the tail of the smaller auto as it roared past a dozen fist waving guests.

 “They’ll radio ahead to the officers at the other end of the driveway,” Ada warned unnecessarily.

 “Yes indeed. Lucky thing for us that we got a good tour of the grounds while on our way to the garage,” said Solo. “I think we need to take a closer look at those rose bushes.”

 “What rose bushes?” Ada asked a helpless Illya Kuryakin.

 Through every pointless turn the jeep was never more than two car lengths behind them. The Port of Spain police officers thought they were chasing cop killers, and they would patiently wait for the pond scum ahead of them to make a mistake that would bring the chase to its inevitable end. So when the stolen sports car took aim at a long row of bushes, the jeep stayed on its tail, with many spectators, (including the bride) urging them on.

 Solo hit the bushes and immediately went into a tight turn. The area on the other side of the bushes was not illuminated, and the U.N.C.L.E. agent was responding to what he knew was ahead, rather than what he was actually seeing. The jeep followed suit, but it did not attempt to turn as soon as possible. That made a difference, and the police jeep slid helplessly into the mayor’s swimming pool.

 “Are they ok?” asked Solo as he set course for the only perimeter section that was yet to be explored.

 “Si---they are alright,” reported Ada, who suddenly broke out into a nervous laugh.

 “Oh, I feel so terrible. We ruined that beautiful reception, and here I am laughing about it.”

 “You’re just venting your emotions. Anyway--- at least they didn’t have bombs dropping on them like folks I knew back in Korea,” remarked Solo.

 “I do not think that is a fair comparison,” said Ada.

 The sports car distanced itself from the yelling cursing reception guests and zigzagged between the trees until it reached a lonely section of fence. Illya got out long enough to apply the last of the explosive cream to a barrier that was much lighter than the front gate. Pretty multi colored sparks lit up the fence as Illya waited to give the barrier a good kick. Then he returned to his enviable position under the Latino woman and the sports car trekked forward until they could make out distant street lights.

 “Interesting that there is so little development around here,” commented Solo. “Want to bet that the mayor has a symbiotic relationship with the Island’s top land speculator?”

 “I’d be more interested in any relationship he might have with Thrush,” said Kuryakin. “Leaders who are unusually well off sometimes have strings attached to their arms and legs. More and more you’ll find Thrush at the other end of the lines.”

 “It will be annoying if they get into the habit of impersonating police officers and---“

 Suddenly the American’s chest started beeping. Solo stopped the car and assembled his communicator pen.

 “Yes.”

“Hey Napoleon, why’d you stand me up, man?”

 “Harvey? Harvey Dent?”

 “None other. Are you being fashionably late, or are you in real trouble?”

 “We’re free and clear at the moment, Harvey. Trouble is we’re about three miles east of the rendezvous point. I’m guessing that the police will locate us as soon as we get back on the streets. We shot a couple of Thrush agents posing as cops so we are now persons of interest to put it mildly.”

 “Well I got good new for you buddy. I’m flying a chopper with a cable winch set up. I had a feeling you’d need more than just an air cab.”

 “That’s wonderful, Harvey. Just home in on my signal and we’ll find a window in the trees.”

 “You mean, a helicopter is going to land around here?” queried Ada.

 No, it’s too tight a squeeze in the dark. I’m hoping that the police will mistake our chopper for one of theirs. At least for a while. But if Harvey lands in the nearest street, the cops will be all over us before we can get airborne again. So we’re going to use a rescue cable,” explained Solo.

 “How does that work?” the woman asked with deep concern.

 “Nothing to it. The pilot will hoist you up along side the chopper. All you have to do is unhook yourself when you get up there and slide over into the back seat.”

 “I don’t think I can. I’m scared of heights,” confessed the technician.

 Solo paused for a moment and spoke into his pen.

 Harvey, is that hoist strong enough to take two people at once?”

 “I suppose, but the safety harness is designed for one,” said the pilot.

 “I’ll go up with her,” said Illya.

 “Without a harness?”

 “It’ll be alright. I’ll have all sorts of things to hold on to,” the Russian joked for the sake of the nervous woman.

 Five minutes later the car was parked in the largest open spot Solo could find. The three of them stared up at a sky that was now clear and packed with stars until a large silhouette hovered in to block the view. In no time Ada was buckled into the harness, with Illya gripping the harness straps with his arms and his legs wrapped over the woman’s rounded hips.

 “Don’t make her sick, Harney. I’m right beneath her,” Solo cautioned the pilot.

 The couple twisted and turned in the night air like dancers performing a strange aerial waltz. Solo’s resentment was temporarily replaced with concern for their safety until both of them disappeared into the four seat helicopter. Sirens were moving from the south to the west but that wouldn’t matter once the harness was strapped to his body. The harness was just ten feet above him when the sports car was suddenly bathed in a pool of light.

 The man from U.N.C.L.E.  threw the J-4 into gear and sped out before the police could even announce themselves. Solo was now on his own, and in a strange sort of way, it felt good. High above him, Illya Kuryakin appraised the situation and spoke into his communicator pen.

 “Proceed straight ahead to the first street and then turn right.”

 Solo ignored the instructions and cut left between the trees on a parallel course with the street that Illya was referring to. With two squad cars now on his tail he said, “Let me know when you think the street cops are north of me.”

 “Why haven’t you come out yet?” the Russian asked somewhat irritably. “All we have is your homing signal and that doesn’t tell us enough.”

 “Just give me your best guess,” responded Solo, who continued to abuse the under carriage of the low riding auto.

 “You’re running south aren’t you?” the Russian said in an accusatory tone. “Napoleon, you can’t do that. There will be back up units entering the area any moment. You’ll be driving right into their laps.”

 “Are the units on the street now north of me?” Solo asked with a forced calm.

 “If you’re south bound in the trees, I would say yes,” concluded the Russian.

 “Then it’s time to get back on the black top where this car belongs,” stated Solo before shoving his pen into his inside pocket and cranking the wheel to the right.

 Tense moments later a small car emerged from the trees and turned left to show its tail lights to four police cruisers that were prowling in the opposite direction. Solo took a deep breath of open air and smiled at the sound of Kuryakin’s second wave of vehicles that were heading towards him. He was an urbanite, and the outer sections of Port of Spain were akin to Hicksville in the eyes of a New Yorker like himself.

 He aimed the J-4 at the distant flashing lights and built up a full head of steam now that most of the holiday partiers were home and going to bed. Three black and whites turned broadside to his advance and tried to bail out of their cars fast enough to take shots at his windshield. But by the time they were clear of their own vehicles, the J-4 was getting back off a shoulder and continuing towards the downtown section of the city.

 “What is he doing?” asked the chopper pilot. “Doesn’t he know that we picked an out of the way extraction point for a reason? I can’t rescue him if he’s going to a damn night club or something!”

 “Napoleon. Come in Napoleon.”

 The Russian had to keep trying for several minutes before he got a response.

 “I’m heading for the Queen’s Park Hotel. I’ll meet you on the roof, Harvey.”

 “I’m not sure I can find it,” confessed the pilot, who had only been on the Island for a little while.

 “I can find it,” said Ada.

 “So can the police,” growled Harvey.

 “Yes, but we counted quite a few units converging on the mayor’s neighborhood. It would take a small army to search all that undeveloped land, and it would appear that the mayor called for nothing less.”

 “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to call Mr. Waverly and have him intercede on our behalf,” asked the woman. “All he has to do is explain that the dead police officers were Thrush agents.”

 “Who may or may not have had the support of real members of the department,” Kuryakin put in. “I’ve been through this sort of thing before, Ada. A corrupt bureaucracy makes for a very poor information conduit. Mr. Waverly could indeed get things cleared up---in a day or two.”

 “If you say so, Illya. Anyway, the hotel roof in right down there,” reported the woman.

 The Bell UH-1 Iroquois cruised past the flat topped building and then executed a sharp one-hundred and eighty degree turn. That sudden maneuver made it possible for them to discover that they were not in the air alone.

 “Ah crap,” said the pilot. “We got company.”

 Illya stared hard at the silhouette that was now banking to resume a parallel course with them.

 “Looks like a Sikorsky S-51 or some variant. Pity you couldn’t keep the airborne constabulary out of this.”

 “In fact I did,” barked the pilot. “I had Burt Mendez sabotage the police chopper an hour before I called you guys. That fella over yonder ain’t with the local police. They got a Bell, just like this one. I don’t know who that guy is.”

 “I think I do,” said Kuryakin, “but I can’t do anything about it with just a pistol.”

 “I got a fully equipped Special under your seat,” offered the pilot, “but that still ain’t what I’d call an anti-aircraft gun.”

 The Russian dug out a small attaché case. Snuggly fitted into recessed cavities he found another U.N.C.L.E. pistol. But he also found a silencer barrel extension, a high capacity magazine, a shoulder stock and a four power telescopic sight. He assembled the portable rifle in less than half a minute but kept it away from the window.

 “Napoleon’s car just entered an indoor parking facility,” reported Ada.

 Illya kept his eyes on the other aircraft while guess-timating how long it would take Solo to ascend the nearest stairway.

 “Put us on the roof, but keep the ship light,” the Russian finally ordered.

 “Of course I’m gunna be ready for a quick takeoff,” the pilot thought with a sour expression.

 The Bell touched down and three pairs of eyes stared hard at the roof access door. Napoleon Solo didn’t keep them waiting long, and the chopper’s door opened to receive a third passenger. But before Solo could enter the cabin, his partner leaped out of the aircraft with the portable rifle partially hidden under his coat. Solo stared hard at Kuryakin’s back as the Russian went around to the back side of the stairwell shelter. Then he noticed the other helicopter hovering fifty yards off to the southwest.

 It was too dark for Solo to make out the newly designed Thrush rifle that was now protruding out a small shooting port, but he knew that violent death was only seconds away. He drew his useless short barreled weapon and pointed it at the aircraft, hoping to make himself the primary target.

 “Ada, get down low!” he shouted into the man made wind.

 Napoleon stood and waited for the hot metal to rip into his flesh. For the sensation of blood welling up from within. For the end of a long string of good luck that had been denied to many good men he had known. But no muzzle flashes emanated from the aircraft. Instead, the aircraft turned lazily to the right and descended to the ground with shattered glass work. Both pilot and gunner were now critically wounded, and both would be murdered in their beds in the very building that Solo was standing on.

 But the only thing that mattered to Solo was that his partner had reappeared with his little rifle and was now more than willing to board their aircraft and get the hell out of town. No words were exchanged until the helicopter began to fly out over the ocean.

 “You don’t have enough fuel to reach Macuo do you?” asked Solo.

 “Ain’t going there,” responded the pilot with a grin.

 All three passengers were burning with curiosity but each of them expected someone else to ask where in the world they were going. The answer came twenty minutes later when a huge dark shape appeared underneath them. The U.S.S. Thetis Bay was the American Navy’s first assault helicopter aircraft carrier, and it just happened to be in the neighborhood.

 “This is amazing,” commented Ada. “Mr. Waverly could not save us from the Port of Spain police department, but he arranges transportation for us on this huge ship. It is all very ironic to me.”

 “Someday we’ll be better connected to conventional law enforcement,” predicted Solo, “but I’m sure that Thrush bribe money will always be a difficult problem to reckon with.”

 “So what happens now?” asked the Latino.

 “I’m going to ask for a shower and a bunk,” responded Solo. “As for Mr. Kuryakin: I suppose he’ll spend the rest of the night standing between you and the imaginary advances of a ship load of sailors.”

 The pilot chuckled at that until he caught sight of the Russian’s dangerous looking stare.

Chapter Twenty-Six

 Two hours later Napoleon Solo was sacked out on a folding lawn chair that had been set up on the port side of the ship’s fantail. Ada and Illya had been given similar accommodations on the starboard side. It was a beautiful night, and both Ada and Illya agreed that none of the officers should be inconvenienced by a lady requiring their bed for the remainder of the night. So they ended up at the stern of the ship, under a silent flight deck.

 Solo was dead to the world, and Illya was studying the star constellations that could be seen from the semi open deck. Ada was also appreciating the beauty of the heavens, since she was a bit too keyed up to sleep. Solo and Kuryakin had gotten into a pretty heated argument while waiting for their lawn chairs. Solo complained that Illya should have gotten the woman off the roof before engaging the Thrush chopper in combat, and Illya criticized Solo for running downtown with the sports car.

 But now there was peace and quiet, so naturally Ada had to risk losing it by getting into an argument with her friend.

 “Illya---I am not taking Napoleon’s side over yours---but I think he has made a valid point concerning your way of doing things.”

 “You mean in the sense that I am not a very good team player?” inquired the Russian.

 “Si. I realize that because of your high I.Q. you quite naturally have a habit of relying on your own judgment---but surely you understand that the men and women of U.N.C.L.E. do not deserve to be kept at arms length by you.”

 Illya smiled affectionately and said, “I shall keep you closer than that at every future opportunity.”

 Ada rolled her eyes at that and returned her gaze to the stars. Kuryakin did likewise, but he was really looking at something many thousands of miles away.

 “At the beginning of my military service I was stationed at a naval air base near Severomorsk. I had met a wonderful girl who worked in the administrations section and was the most unbelievable ice skater you ever saw.”

 The Latino grinned sheepishly and said, “Until I came to the United States, I saw very few ice skaters.”

 “Her name was Elana Kostina,” the man continued. “She could play seven different musical instruments and got me started on the base fiddle. One day we had a lunch date but first I had to drive over to a high security warehouse to let a man in. It was just a small errand I had to perform for my immediate superior Lt. Sergey Bezrukov. The supply officer didn’t have the right level clearance and several hours would have been wasted waiting for someone in his own section to get him past the guard.

 One of the shortcomings of my country is that it is far too preoccupied with security. Especially since it only serves to discourage small time thieves who would take automobile parts and the like.”

 “So how did the lunch date go?” asked the woman, who wasn’t particularly interested in the other facets of the story.

 “We never had lunch. The man who went into the warehouse entered with an attaché case. But when he left the building he was carrying a different one. They looked almost identical but not quite. I made the mistake of inquiring about it. Looking back with 20/20 hindsight I now realize that the agent wasn’t prepared for that. When the guard decided to hold him for questioning the agent panicked and took out a Steyr machine pistol and relieved the guard of his rifle. I carried no sidearm in those days so all I could do was watch.

 The agent experienced some difficulty carrying the rifle, the substitute case and his weapon, so he dropped the rifle when Elana drove up in the government car we were going to use. His vehicle was much further away so he ordered her to move over and he got in. The guard rushed for his weapon and retrieved it before the agent could drive away. I think Elana tried to exit out the other door and the gunman held her back. I’m not sure. In any case, the guard fired his entire magazine into the car. Both Elana and the agent were badly wounded.

 I rushed to the car. I had to hold her intestines in until the ambulance arrived. I went with them. She died a few moments after we got to the hospital.”

 Ada was wise enough to focus on the agent.

 “What was being stolen?”

 “A measuring device that could detect minute traces of tetram nerve gas.”

 “And who desired such an item?”

 Illya finally took his eyes off the stars and said, “People stealing tetram.”

 “Thrush?”

 “No. What might be referred to as the Russian Mafia. But even that statement is far too simplistic. In any case, as a matter of professional courtesy I was allowed to know that someone was stealing tetram. But of course as a member of the Soviet Navy, it was not my job to find out who was doing it. I was very angry with the guard who shot Elana, but in truth he was nothing. The man who tried to steal from the warehouse died the following night. His importance was limited to the fact that he was a supply officer who occasionally reported to my superior.”

 “The man who sent you on a small errand,” said Ada.

 Illya nodded slightly.

 “It took me almost two years to connect Bezrukov with a bigger fish named General Viktor Kappel. As it turned out I was just one of many dogs that wanted to run that bear down, or he most likely would have defended himself with ease. But Kappel was eventually found guilty of selling Mig parts to a weapons dealer and that made me look good to someone.”

 “Que?” put in the Latino, who was having difficulty believing that the narrative was going anywhere.

 “Anastas Mikoyan,” the Russian said with thinly veiled pride.

 The electrical engineer didn’t want to admit that she had never heard of the fellow, but she really didn’t have any choice.

 “He is Khrushchev’s deputy,” Illya stated simply. “I met with him face to face, and he recruited me to find out why Soviet military hardware is showing up in the wrong hands.”

 “You joined U.N.C.L.E. for that reason?” inquired the woman.

 “No. Someone in the Soviet Admiralty came up with that idea to get rid of me. It might have been a man named Gorshkov, but more and more I’m thinking it was someone else.”

“And this Mikoyan person did not intervene on your behalf?”

 “He couldn’t. My association with him was secret.”

 “But now that you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent, you can put all that business behind you and be more useful than ever before. You can see that can’t you?”

 “Yes, but there remains a problem, and his name is Mikhail Khrunov. He is very big in the Soviet defense ministry and I’m certain that he’s tied in with Thrush. That man is not going to let me stay in New York City and work on computers. Not that I had that in mind anyway.”

 The woman nodded sadly. She sensed from the beginning that Illya Kuryakin was much more than a man with a slide rule.

 “What will Mr. Waverly do for you, if this Khrunov wishes you dead?”

 “Not much I’m afraid. U.N.C.L.E. agents make enemies. Our best survival tool is the fact that the world is a big place. If we keep our place of residence a secret, perhaps we can stay out of reach of the people who hate us. It is a choice that every field agent will have to make”

 “But whenever there is trouble in the Soviet Union, they will want to send you,” pressed Ada. “Well---Mr. Waverly has been given other Russian men and women to call on, but I must admit that thus far none of them have my credentials. Mr. Waverly is not a pitiless man, but he’s not afraid to send his people into harms way. After all, that is his function.”

 “God help you,” the Latino woman thought as she closed her eyes and struggled not to cry.

 Napoleon Solo also kept his eyes closed, but his mind kept working. As far as he was concerned, he was once again at war, and you don’t win a war by hoping that you can hide from the enemy indefinitely. In the morning he would have another discussion with his associate. Most likely it would turn into an argument but that didn’t matter. He would win it, and then they would move on from there.

Twenty-Seven.

 The German Sheppard raced happily up the stretch of beach to retrieve the throwing stick that was now rough with dozens of teeth marks. The handler pushed his AK-47 further behind his hip and bent to regain possession of an object that was dense enough to be thrown a fair distance, even when a cross wind would come up. The security guard was standing with the Black Sea to his left, a three year old mansion to his right, and a smiling salivating pooch in the sand before him.

 It was great duty. The fishing trawlers were always far out of rifle range, and nothing could get close to him so long as the dog was at his side. Best of all, when his shift was up he could go into town, and everyone in that part of the world knew that Sochi was no ordinary town.

 Sochi was established as a fashionable resort area under Joseph Stalin, who built one of the first dachas that would enable a powerful northern home owner to escape the harsh winters and spend a few days or weeks in a warmer climate. Before 1864 the area was populated by the Muslims, but the immigrating sophisticates where not comfortable with that culture, being somewhat more hedonistic in nature.

 The outdoor patrol guard was certainly grateful for that. It would be unfortunate indeed if he had to go all the way to Zaporozhye to find a good whore. What was the point in earning high wages if all you could do with the money was spend it on the local beverages? So when the sun dropped below the water line, the guard kept his eyes glued to the unpaved road that connected the beach area to the house that stood four-hundred meters distant. His relief would be coming down that road, along with a different guard dog.

 Illya Kuryakin placed the crosshairs of his dart rifle on the neck of the canine. He was one-hundred and fifty meters upwind of the animal and his night scope was functioning perfectly. Both dog and handler would live through this night, but in all probability the man would incur the wrath of whoever he would need to report to after waking up.

 One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be reporting to anyone in the neighborhood. Each country estate sat on over two-hundred acres of land, and most of the residents didn’t want to see anything, hear anything or say anything after getting word of an incident. Sochi was eight kilometers away and the police was not encouraged to venture beyond the city limits.

 Kuryakin dropped both targets and then ran inland until he spotted another canine unit lying still on the side of a jeep path. Then another man clad in black rose to his feet while holding an identical dart rifle.

 “Are you ready?” asked Napoleon Solo.

 “Is that a rhetorical question?” asked the Russian.

 Solo grinned and leaned his dart gun against a nearby tree, right beside another weapon that ,”he then took up. It was a Sterling L2A1 submachine gun with a modified sound reduction barrel.

 “If we time this thing right I will take back everything I said about us working together,” said the American.

 “Not the most outstanding incentive imaginable but I’ll take it,” replied the Russian.

 “Great. Now let’s compare charm bracelets,” suggested Solo.

 “What? Oh.”

 Two digital readouts were held next to each other and were counting precisely the same.

 “See you inside,” said the American who then rushed off toward the south side of the house.

 Illya stared at the man’s back for a moment and then went his own way toward the north side of the huge domicile. Reaching the second story was child’s play for the gymnast, and the grand skylight was certainly a boon to the man who had come to break in. It required the use of a new type of glass cutter that worked in conjunction with a rubber suction disk that would keep the severed glass from falling to the floor below.

 Kuryakin didn’t remove the giant circle of glass until there were only a few seconds remaining on his watch. Then he readied himself like a paratrooper over the skylight, and made his jump when Solo burned up his first magazine on a couple of men who had been watching television. Illya hit the bedroom floor while the men were dying and drew out his U.N.C.L.E. Special just as a woman came rushing in. The frightened woman had just left the bathroom and correctly reasoned that the bedroom would be safer than the hallway.

 Illya put a gloved finger to his lips and motioned for the woman to come closer. She was wearing a house coat that was designed to keep the bodyguards focused on their duties instead of her. But it also could have hid a small arsenal, and Illya wasn’t about to leave that possibility unexplored. He pulled the coat open with a professional demeanor that was not shared by the woman. Without thinking she slapped him soundly across the face.

 Kuryakin’s eyes were still fluttering when a man charged into the room bent of reaching the night stand. The blonde intruder shoved the woman back with his free hand and leveled his pistol at the master of the house.

 “By all means, Mr. Khrunov. I will be more than happy to shoot it out with you.”

 The older Russian froze in his tracks, but his mistress was animated enough for the both of them. She instinctively rushed to take up a position behind one of the most powerful men in all of Russia. It was one of those mistakes that people tend to make when they don’t have time to think things through. Khrunov confirmed this by grabbing the woman and then a letter opener.

 Kuryakin sighted over the barrel of his pistol with a blank expression.

 “She’s not big enough to hide behind, and if you kill her it will be just one more reason to end your miserable life.”

 “But you haven’t fired yet,” pointed out the older man. “You’re giving lovely little Vera a chance to live because at your core you are still an officer and a gentleman.”

 “I’ve been made into something else,” responded the intruder.

 “You have found a line of work with more personal freedom. Do not blame me for that, Mr. Kuryakin. All this while you have simply been following your own nature. But let us not waste time waxing philosophic.  What matters is that if I leave here as your prisoner, and later tell you all I know about Thrush, you will gain something far more important than mere revenge.”

 “You suggest this because you believe that you will escape me,” said Kuryakin.

 “That would be a happy turn of events for me. Yes. But in truth, I will have to work very hard to regain Thrush’s confidence in me after this troublesome episode. I have a great deal of money in my Swiss bank accounts, and was entertaining no thoughts of growing old in the Soviet Union. So you see, Mr. Kuryakin, I can be quite flexible, if you can.”

 Suddenly Napoleon Solo was at the door with his machine pistol trained on Khrunov and his beautiful shield.

 “I was wondering what the delay was. Are we going to have to pierce the lady’s ears in order to bag our quarry?”

 “No. We’re taking a prisoner,” responded Kuryakin.

 Khrunov nodded slightly and turned the woman around to face him. He then deftly punched her on the chin and placed her unconscious form on the bed.

 “Faster than tying her up,” he explained briefly.

 The kingpin then took several steps toward the door but stopped when Solo placed the muzzle of his weapon under the man’s chin.

 “Just so we understand one another, Mr. Khrunov: We won’t be taking you straight to any western authorities. We’ll first take you to someplace very private. You will then answer my questions to my satisfaction. After your information has been verified we will bring you out of seclusion. If you conduct yourself properly all that while.”

 “But first we have to meet the trawler by 0430. We’ll need a personal floatation device for him. Preferably something that is not brightly colored,” said Illya.

 “Ah---so you came in from the sea,” said Khrunov. “Then I have good news for us all. I have my own diving suit here in the house. Just give me a moment to collect everything.”

 “I’ll give you half a moment,” responded Solo as he stepped aside.

 The prisoner very wisely did nothing to indicate that he was stalling for time and soon enough the three men were on the ground floor heading for the front doorway. Kuryakin had his hand on the doorknob when two sedans roared up the driveway with their headlights off.

 “You had better be very persuasive when you order them to drop their weapons,” warned Solo while placing the muzzle of his weapon under Khrunov’s nose.

 Illya stared dubiously down the driveway and then said, “Take up a firing position at that port hole window.”

 “Why?” asked Solo.

 Kuryakin smiled at the American. It was a look that was both a request and a friendly challenge.

 “I would like to test a theory, and all I require is a partner with nerves of steel.”

 “Well since you put it that way…” Solo muttered as he stepped over to the small window.

 “Mr. Khrunov, would you be so kind as to stand in front of me?”

 The kingpin stared grimly at the front door. He knew what was on Kuryakin’s mind and he could only hope that on this occasion the ex Navy pilot was wrong. With a bit of coaxing the bigger man stepped forward and then the heavy oak door was pulled open. Kuryakin placed the muzzle of his U.N.C.L.E. Special against the prisoner’s temple and commanded the men out in the yard to disarm. The response was both immediate and disconcerting.

 Wood splinters erupted all around the kingpin and Kuryakin hit the deck while his prisoner collapsed in the opposite direction. Solo opened up with his Sterling and that gave Illya enough time to grab Khrunov by the collar and drag him in front of a stone fireplace.

 “You hit bad?” Kuryakin asked while seeing for himself.

 The kingpin couldn’t respond right away. He stared foolishly at a pierced anterior deltoid and right upper thigh.

 “Might as well eliminate him,” said the American while slapping a fresh magazine into his smoking weapon. “We’re not going to be able to get him out of here. Even if we make a clean sweep outside.”

 “No wait!” shouted the prisoner. “I can help you. Just get me to my feet.”

 Kuryakin hesitated, but only until his partner announced that two men had gotten clear of the cars and would soon be flanking them. 

 “Alright, Comrade, show me how to save your sorry backside,” Illya said in Russian.

 Khrunov limped to a common closet and opened the door. He made no attempt to get hold of anything, he just stepped aside and allowed his captor to appreciate the sudden windfall. The prisoner was ordered back to his spot in front of the fireplace, and Illya soon returned to his partner to deliver an AK-47 and a bag load of extra magazines. Illya was likewise provisioned but also carried a half a dozen hand grenades that he had definite plans for.

“I’m going back upstairs,” yelled the Russian so that the semi-deaf American could hear him.

 Illya took three steps at a time until he reached the upper level then headed for the nearest east window, scaring the ex mistress back into the bathroom in the process. He punched a hole in a guest room glasswork and then held back a moment while a burst of gunfire entered the room from outside and below. Kuryakin was glad for it. He pulled the pin on a pineapple and lobbed it out into the dark. The resulting explosion shattered the rest of the window, but by then the Russian was already heading fro the south side of the mansion.

 Solo was a tad startled when Kuryakin’s first grenade went off. That and slightly disappointed that his partner had not shared any explosives with him. Alone in such a spacious domicile, he was tempted to drag his bleeding prisoner to a more defensible position. But he held his ground, determined to make the invaders flank the house instead of charging straight in. Those flanking movements proved costly as one shock wave after another slapped the sides of the house, along with bits of gore and blood.

 The vehicles in front of him were now riddled with holes and the last living man behind them lowered his weapon while slipping into shock. Khrunov had wrestled briefly with the temptation to grab a dead bodyguard’s pistol, but his minor limb wounds had unnerved him and made him realize that he wasn’t as tough as he had always thought he was.

 “You can nurse those scratches at the bottom of the stairs,” said Napoleon. “I’ve been a stationary target long enough.”

 “There are battle dressings and morphine in a closet next to the upstairs bathroom,” said Khrunov.

 “You’ve been a perfect host to a less than perfect guest,” admitted Solo. “I think you’ll like it in the United States, although I can’t say that I’m thrilled at the prospect of you becoming a citizen.”

 “I would prefer a quiet place in the Caribbean after I’ve told you all I know. I can only hope that Mr. Kuryakin will permit it. He had no respect for the wishes of his superiors in this country. It is possible he will be just as unruly as an associate of yours.”

 “One of your collection efforts caused the death of a friend of his,” said Napoleon.

 “You mean Elana Kostina? She was yet another person who was working for me, albeit indirectly. Emergency back up transportation in case anything went wrong during the theft operation. What a pity she was killed. She could have been used to keep Illya Kuryakin working where he belonged: in the Navy. But the only thing that matters now is that I will be of great benefit to U.N.C.L.E., and I am willing to travel with you if you would be so kind as to gather the first aid materials I spoke of. These wounds of mine are burning like fire.”

 Solo took out a plastic tie strip and bound the prisoner to the stairway railing. While gathering the first aid things he could hear his partner speaking in Russian to a woman who would now have to find a new place to live.

 When he got back downstairs he cut the prisoner’s strap and handed him the dressings and morphine.

 “You and I need to make a little deal of our own, Mr. Khrunov.”

 “Oh? What did you have in mind sir?”

 “You forget about Kostina. Because if you don’t, you won’t live long in the Caribbean.”

 “Ah, I did not realize you were such good friends. Yes of course. It is a very small price to pay in order to keep you out of my neighborhood.”

 Illya descended the stairs in a flash; somewhat puzzled by the last few words spoken by the prisoner but not really all that much.

 “There’s only one way to find out if the coast is truly clear,” he stated evenly.

 “Yea, we’ll just have to go out there and see if we missed anyone,” agreed Solo. “Just as soon as we plug our prisoner’s leaks.”

 “We’ll do that at the shore line if we get that far,” said Kuryakin while grabbing the prisoner by the arm and ushering him out of the shambles that had been created a mere thirty minutes ago.

 Solo took point, and Illya slung his SMG over his shoulder so that he could guard the prisoner with the less awkward U.N.C.L.E. Special. Khrunov was sweating like a pig by the time they reached the beach. All through the strategic retreat, the prisoner expected a bullet to streak out of the dark and crash into his skull. It didn’t matter who had given the orders. It could have been any one of five high placed associates. All that mattered was that he would live with his captors or die with them. Quite a fall from where he had stood less than a hour ago.

 “Patch him up, give him his painkiller and get him suited up,” ordered Solo who got down on his belly and readied his weapon for a long shot.

 “Did you see something?”

 “No,” admitted Solo.

 Kuryakin applied the battle dressings and gave the prisoner a shot of morphine. Then he backed off a safe distance and proceeded to don the wet suit and scuba gear that had been hidden under a camouflage net. Khrunov was still struggling with his suit when a shot rang out from the general direction of the estate. Solo was ready and sited in on the muzzle flash. He fired semi-auto until his magazine was empty.

 “Well, if I was missing him he had plenty of time to zero in on my muzzle flash and he didn’t,” grumbled Solo as he crawled over to the camo-net and removed his outer clothing.

 Kuryakin lightly pushed his prisoner toward the water while holding his SMG.

 “Were you planning to take that thing back to show everyone what a great gun the Russians have?” Solo inquired.

 “No, I’m just waiting on you.”

 “Don’t. Get your prisoner moving.”

 Illya let out a sigh and threw his weapon into the water. Then he gave his prisoner a heavier shove.

 “Hope the wet suit protects the bandages,” the prisoner said with a drunken slur. “Don’t want the blood to attract sharks.”

 “You’ll be safe as long as you keep moving,” said Kuryakin. “They love to eat the dying so you don’t want to look the part.”

 In truth The Black Sea was a very safe place to swim. Man eating sharks were not fond of it, possibly because of its unusual salinity level. In any case, Illya had once spoken to a Navy diver who had twenty years experience in the warmer climates. The man claimed that he only saw two large sharks in all that time.

 The trio of swimmers were some three miles from shore when a thirty foot boat arrived to comb the shore line with a powerful search light. Obviously someone had concluded that the U.N.C.L.E. agents would be fleeing parallel to the shore.

 “That worries me,” said Illya. “They are presuming that we are not out here. Is that because they have radar and know that there are no boats in this area?”

 “Our homing signal has only been activated for five minutes,” Solo pointed out. “I think we should maintain a little optimism here.”

 “Optimism is good, but if we are forced to return to shore, I would like to engage your services as um---special escorts----for a short period of time,” said Khrunov.

 “What are you talking about?” asked Solo.

 “Diamonds. One-hundred thousand dollars worth for both of you if you keep me safe until you can collect. That, on top of all the information your organization will gain from me when we finally get out of the country.”

 “If we don’t get picked up tonight, we might be hard pressed to earn those stones,” said Solo.

 “You would earn them by not killing me before turning yourselves over to the military, which is what Mr. Kuryakin would do if we are not picked up.”

 “Correct,” confirmed Illya, “and you are wasting your breath, which you can ill afford to do.”

 Khrunov treaded water in silence for a few moments, the frustration and the pain in his limbs mounting until he finally shouted, “What is wrong with you?! You hate communism yet you despise me for undermining it!”

 “The Soviet government sits on its weapons stockpile the way some Americans sit on their money,” responded Kuryakin. “It doesn’t matter. But now there is a third player in the game, and those people are not ideologically driven. They are not interested in any sort of balance of power. They will take what you provide and use it. They will kill millions and let the Soviets and the Americans blame each other. THAT is the filth you have your hands in.”

 “Not anymore, thanks to you and your self-righteousness. Even if I could escape, I would be judged incompetent because I couldn’t get shed of Mr. Kuryakin back when he was operating within the framework of the law. Functioning as a consultant to U.N.C.L.E. will not be too bad I trust. A few weeks to put U.N.C.L.E. on the offensive, then I will go to work for myself and disappear in the Caribbean.”

 “First you have to disappear from these friendly waters,” Solo reminded him.

 “Why do you speak as though it is up to me to get a boat here to pick us up? I am floating in the dark like a good little prisoner. What more would you have of me?”

 “Well, you could tell us who your next customer was going to be,” Solo suggested.

 Illya remained silent. He knew that the prisoner wasn’t about to diminish his own worth as an informant so long as his position remained precarious. Hopefully Solo was capable of realizing this.

 Hopefully.

 “I was going to have lunch tomorrow with a gentleman from Central America, but I think you would be more interested in the people who are planning to crush your New York headquarters once and for all.”

 “A Gypsy fortune teller would have been easier to abduct,” grumbled Kuryakin.

 “The next target will be the super computer,” Khrunov shot back. “That marvelous three story high machine that I’m not supposed to know anything about.”

 When it was obvious that the prisoner wasn’t going to elaborate, the U.N.C.L.E. agents slipped into a period of silence to conserve energy as moderate swells replaced the flat water they had enjoyed previously. Three hours passed and the prisoner was beginning to have trouble keeping his face out of the water.

 “He’s getting paler,” commented Solo.

 “Yes but the prolonged outing has done wonders for his disposition,” Kuryakin pointed out.

 “We’re not going to get picked up,” Khrunov said with just a slight slur. “We should get back to shore before my condition worsens.”

 Solo frowned at the thought of hauling an unconscious man all the way back to shore. Then something occurred to him. Pulling out his communicator, he assembled it while kicking hard with his fins.

 “Be careful,” Illya warned him, “Those things don’t respond well to water.”

 As if voicing it’s own mechanical warning, the pen like device emitted a terrible high pitched screech that continued until Solo disconnected the receiver.

 “We’re being jammed,” Napoleon stated unnecessarily. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it earlier.”

 “I didn’t either,” responded Kuryakin.

 “It will be alright. I’m sure I can keep us all safe until you can arrange another pickup,” the prisoner assured them.

 The U.N.C.L.E. men decided to head back toward land. Cold, tired and mindful that their prisoner was totally untrustworthy, they put their fins to work. They only got about a mile when Khrunov slipped beneath the surface and was quickly retrieved by Solo. The other Russian watched Solo struggle with the prisoner for ten minutes before speaking up.

 “I made a bad decision. We should have killed him. These odds are ridiculous.”

 “Yes they are---but I’d rather be out here than back at headquarters. If we can get this man someplace safe and interrogate him, we just might be able to deal Thrush a crippling blow. Maybe avenge the people that we lost.”

 Kuryakin thought about that for a second and then grabbed the prisoner’s left arm.

 “Swim with him between us.”

 The three men continued by swimming on their backs with the stars overhead.

 Suddenly Kuryakin noticed a light that was much brighter than any of the other dots of light. It continued to grow until it took on man made characteristics.  Illya pulled out a small but very well designed flare gun and fired it into the air.The Russian seaplane approached, circled once and then came in for a landing. Illya wasn’t able to identify it as a Beriev Be-6 until he had one foot inside the cargo hatch.

 “Lets just hope that we’re not fish out of the water and into the frying pan,” whispered Solo.

 Kuryakin had a quick word with the pilot and then returned to his fellow passengers.

 “Well?” prompted Solo.

 “We have naught to fear. We’re in the hands of the Alexander Waverly Travel Agency,” Illya said with a slight grin.

 “How did they get close enough to flared in?” asked Solo.

 “The pickup boat got within eight miles without a homing signal. The plane just swept the area southeast of it until we could give them a visual.”

 “Wish I was in Vegas right now. With this kind of luck going for me, I’d bet the farm,” quipped Solo.

 “I would settle for a steam bath,” responded the blonde agent.

 “With or without Ada?”

 Illya extended his right arm and lightly punched Solo in the side of his face, even though they were seated next to each other.

 “Why don’t I not bring up Ada anymore,” Solo suggested while rubbing his cheek.

 “That would be good,” responded the Russian with a slight nod.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 Forty eight hours later Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were standing in front of the desk of their boss, who was now blowing huge clouds of smoke in their direction.

 “Gentlemen, in the short time that you have been employed by U.N.C.L.E., you have managed to commit acts of insubordination in almost every corner of the planet. Cleaning up after the two of you has been exhausting as well as expensive. I can only hope that your earlier decision to work separately will prove beneficial to the organization as well as my nervous system.”

 Solo cleared his throat and reluctantly took the floor.

 “Uh, about that earlier decision, sir---I was thinking that it might not be a good idea for Kuryakin and I to go our separate ways just yet.”

 “Oh, and why is that?”

 “Well sir, the other agents are already hearing rumors that Kuryakin and I can’t get along. That’s not the sort of thing I want people whispering at the water cooler. It goes without saying sir that personality clashes cannot be tolerated in this organization. We need to maintain a strict code of professionalism. The needs of U.N.C.L.E. must come before anyone’s ego. This isn’t high school after all.”

 Waverly held back on his pipe.

 “Do you concur, Mr. Kuryakin?”

 “Yes sir. Of course in the Soviet Union such disciplines come naturally.”

 Then the Russian looked over at Solo and added, “Just as loyalty seems to come naturally to Americans.”

 “Hmm. Very well, you may remain a team of sorts until further notice. Now please finish your paper work. That is another way in which you can set a good example for the others.”

 Fairly dragging their feet, the two field operatives left the office just as Mary Lou Nelson was entering. The secretary searched both faces for some hint as to what had just taken place, but all she saw was the usual large smile on Solo and a diminutive one on Kuryakin.

 “What did accounting have to say, Miss Nelson?”

 “We’re running about thirty-thousand dollars over budget, sir.”

 “Did Hendricks have any thoughts on the problem?”

 “Yes, he recommended that we shoot people instead of bribing them to keep silent.”

 “That is the reason I never invite him to any staff meetings.”

 The woman nodded slightly but did not ask to be dismissed. Her chief seemed to forget her for a moment while rummaging through his drawers for his supply of pipe cleaners. While opening the packet he looked up at his secretary and said, “I sense that you have some thoughts you would like to share.”

 The woman proceeded to exercise a prerogative that few people at U.N.C.L.E. possessed. Nelson had been brought over from Waverly’s last job, and that made her a minor confidant of sorts.

  “Sir, may I remind you that Khrunov was in the custody of the C.I.A. when he was killed. Also I would like to point out that Mr. Kuryakin was fighting Thrush even before it had a name, and he needed to show those Russian crooks that he’s part of a team that can fight back.”

 “Our engineer from Nicaragua must not have been properly debriefed,” Waverly stated for the benefit of the coffee room crowd. “I am not pleased with her lack of discretion.”

 “She had a bit much to drink sir. It was girl’s night out. First one we’ve had since---the attack.”

 “Next time you might try bowling. I judge it to be a very fine American activity.”

 “I average 160, sir.”

 “I am not going to sack them. I am not going to transfer them. I am not going to pair them off with other agents. Satisfied, Miss Nelson?”

 “Yes of course sir. Thy will be done.”

 That is the illusion that I cling to, Miss Nelson. Also, please inform Miss Kelso that if she ever uses her pistol to crack walnuts again---“

 Suddenly the chief’s private line began beeping.

 “That is all, Miss Nelson.”

 After the door closed the old man flipped a intercom switch and said, “Araiwa-sama, it is a pleasure to hear from you again. How is everything in the exotic Orient?”

 “Copy machines keep breaking down. Should have bought American, but never mind that. I called to thank you for you far sightedness, my good friend. My son was taking his afternoon massage when suddenly, ‘BANG.”

 “I’m sorry?”

 “A Thrush agent tried to assassinate him, but his masseuse drew out her pistol and expertly shot the villain dead! Oh I am so grateful to you my friend. I will never doubt your wisdom again!”

  “That is very gratifying. To be sure.”

 “Yes, and please extend my congratulations to Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. I can only hope that some of Khrunov’s information will be useful to my operatives.”

 Waverly’s eyes suddenly lost a bit of their sparkle.

 “Actually my friend, I must inform you that Khrunov is dead. He was killed while in the custody of the C.I.A. But in truth, I’ve been given something far more important: young men who can take the fight to the enemy with resourcefulness and audacity. Of course some rule breaking will go on, but they have the judgment for that. Yes, I’m very pleased with my people. This organization has a bright future. I am certain of it.”

 “Will you tell your people that?”

 Waverly thought about that for a moment. He recalled all the times he had been accused of being heavy handed and remorseless in his long and bloodstained career. How many of those old detractors would now counsel him to change? It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to pamper his U.N.C.L.E. agents and that was that.

 “No---I don’t suppose I will,” he answered into the conference mike. “But we’ll reach an understanding as they mature. That’s how it works with good people.”

 “That is wisdom,” the Asian responded politely.

 “Of course----we can also have a bit of fun from time to time,” the Englishman said while nodding to himself.

 “How so, my friend?”

 Waverly took his pistol out of the top right drawer and placed in on his desk.

 “I believe I will stroll over to the firing range, and give some youngster a lesson in humility.”

 The Japanese sector chief grinned on the other side of the world.

 “Yes, that IS a great deal of fun.”

 The author has been a factory worker for thirty-five years. His hobbies are camping, cross country hiking, kayaking, and playing the Boehm type flute. (Irish folk music and some marches)

When the weather is too God awful for anything else, he writes and practices a bit of Karate kata. He is not a cool person, and he is aging rather quickly.