The Balkan Affair

                                                                                  By Bill Koenig

 

 

One

 

November 11

Hotel Pristina,

Pristina, Kosovo

 

            The soup wasn’t much more than gruel while the beef was stringy, better for binding things than for eating. Yet, Illya Kuryakin didn’t mind, slowly but methodically consuming everything on his plate. He had learned long ago not to waste a morsel, no matter how indifferent the taste. The coffee, at least, was hot and satisfying, helping to wash out the aftertaste of the meal.

            The hotel’s restaurant was dimly lit, but that had not produced the warm, intimate feeling usually associated with such scenes. This was a darkness full of fear and uncertainty. The restaurant’s mood matched the surrounding city. Nearly every passerby walked with his or her head down, afraid to peer beyond the immediate, afraid to face the impending catastrophe that surely awaited.

            Kuryakin put the coffee down. It was best not to think of such things. Such thoughts served only to distract from the task that lay ahead. He glanced around once more. There were no more than a half dozen customers in the eatery, all of them keeping to themselves trying to avoid unwelcome attention.

            The Russian sighed. The Balkans were like that. He had been to the region on numerous occasions. Something about this section of Europe seemed to inspire conspiracy and intimidation. Governments may change, but the mood did not. It did not matter whether one was in Albania, or Bulgaria or Terbuf, or, as he was this evening, in Kosovo.

            Kuryakin finished the coffee and thought once more of the events of a few days previous which had brought him to this cold, unforgiving place.

***

            “You’re familiar with Frommage, the Thrush assassin, Mr. Kuryakin?”

            Alexander Waverly, the Number One of Section One, had bore in on Kuryakin from the very beginning of the conference. Not that Waverly was one for sentiment. But there had not been the usually brief formalities.

            “Yes sir,” Kuryakin replied. “Unusually proficient, even by Thrush standards. Extremely deadly. Believed responsible for at least 50 kills, including a number of agents from various intelligence services.”

            “Precisely,” Waverly said. “Also, extremely hard to find. For someone so notorious, he is extremely adept at keeping his movements a secret. Until now, that is.”

            Kuryakin wasn’t surprised by the last statement. He had a feeling that Frommage must have turned up. Why else would the old fox call him into this meeting?

            “I see.”

            “You’re aware of the current situation in the Balkans?”

            “Serbian forces have been fighting a separatist movement in Kosovo, one of their provinces. Or at least the dispute is whether it should be one of their provinces. Part of an old feud, going back centuries.”

            “Mr. Frommage is in the middle of it.”

            Kuryakin shifted in his seat. “In what capacity?”

            “We’re not quite sure. But he has been seen in the company of the Serbs and the separatists.”

            Kuryakin calmly searched his memory. It was a familiar Thrush strategy, almost monotonous. The criminal organization was fond of playing two sides against one another, hoping to turn a situation to its advantage. How many lives had ended or been afflicted over the years by the great bird of prey?

            “I take it we have confirmation of this.”

            “Of his movements, yes. But we need to find out more about what he is doing. If possible, put an end to it. He has been sighted in Pristina, Kosovo. We believe he is still there. Unfortunately, the details are all a bit sketchy,” Waverly said, turning the round conference table so that a file was now in front of the Russian agent. “Nevertheless, we must move quickly. You should leave tonight.”

             “Of course, sir,” Kuryakin said, beginning to rise.

            “One more thing,” the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. “That region is quite unstable. Things may get a bit nasty. Be on your guard.”

            Kuryakin said nothing, only nodding before leaving through the automatic sliding door.

***

            The Russian pondered whether to request another cup of coffee but thought better of it. Over the past few days, he had been close to Frommage, catching a glimpse of the assassin at a bazaar. The skinny face, pencil-thin mustache and ruddy complexion matched the dossier picture. But the man had slipped away before Kuryakin could reach him. Since then, the agent had made contact with a variety of slimy characters, the kind who knew where to find vices of all kinds. Nothing.

            Before he could rise, the U.N.C.L.E. agent froze for a moment. Erik Frommage entered the restaurant of Kuryakin’s own hotel.

***

November 11

John F. Kennedy International Airport

 

            Napoleon Solo downed the Scotch in a couple of gulps, put the glass down and then looked at his watch again. At least another 15 minutes before the aircraft would start boarding. It was as if time were hardly moving, making him feel trapped.

            He had been in a foul mood for weeks, keeping to himself. A few days ago, at the U.N.C.L.E. commissary, George Dennell and Mandy Stevenson asked him if he wanted to join them at their table, but he had waved them off without a word.

            “What do you suppose that’s all about?” George said to Mandy. “Guess he’s mad at me about something.”

            Mandy, though, saw something different in Solo’s expression. “No, George. That’s not it. But I’m not sure what it is, myself.”

            Solo grunted at the memory. They probably didn’t think he had heard them. But he didn’t particularly feel like setting the record straight, either. Even if he had, it wasn’t as if George or Mandy could do anything about it.

            It had begun nearly a month earlier, when he realized the anniversary was coming up. One year ago, Clara Richards had died. He had been with her at the end, after the multiple sclerosis had ravaged her body. Of course, he had never really gotten over her, and receiving the summons she was about to die cut into feelings he had tried to keep buried.

            Solo looked at the glass for a moment and thought about ordering another drink but decided against it. He then put the glass aside.

            When Solo had realized it had been almost a year since Clara’s death, he hurriedly put in for a vacation. Lisa Rogers, Alexander Waverly’s secretary, had hinted Solo might need to change his plans. But the subject never came up again, though Solo noted that Illya had left on an assignment on his own. Had the old fox known? Or was the job something that only needed one man?

            None of that mattered now. He glanced at his watch again and began walking toward the gate.

***

November 10

Somewhere in Belgrade, Serbia

 

            When the man finally screamed, his yell reverberated throughout the cell. One long cry bounced around the walls, fading as it echoed. Then, he fell silent, his sobbing the only thing audible.

            The questioner withdrew the hot rod from the prisoner’s bare chest, which was red and black from the constant application of burning metal. The prisoner sat in a chair, his arms tied behind him. The interrogator looked to his superior, Colonel Kapstan Milovanich. The officer, however, remained impassive, saying nothing and only reaching for cigarette. It had been a long, hard three days. He had wondered if the man would break, but never let that doubt show on his impassive face.

            Milovanich held the cigarette for a moment, gazing upon the prisoner. He waited, then slowly put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

            “Once again,” the Serbian officer said quietly, “the meeting. We know it is tomorrow. Where?”

            The prisoner drew a breath between sobs. “Pristina.”

            “Who is representing the separatist?”

            The prisoner’s cries intensified for a moment.

            “You are broken. You know it.”

            “Benedetto.”

            Milovanich arched his eyebrows for a second. “The separatist leader himself? He risks coming out into the open? I know your side is desperate for weapons...”

            “These weapons are especially powerful,” the prisoner said, starting to regain his composure.

            “Who is this supplier?”

            “I do not know -- honestly. A name I am not familiar with. He referred to the name, Thrush or some such.”

            Milovanich looked at the questioner, who shrugged. Milovanich, though, knew the name. He himself had bought some weapons from a Thrush representative, a slimy man.

            “Could the man’s name have been Frommage?”

            “Fro--? I suppose. That sounds right.”

            The colonel turned away and paced for a minute, then two. A double game, eh? he thought. Milovanich knew the man was untrustworthy -- arms dealing is hardly a business where trust is involved -- but he had come across evidence of the man’s affiliation with Thrush. The reports were all very murky, talk about some kind of long-standing organization. But he put those thoughts aside. Crushing these separatist bastards must be my top aim.

            Milovanich looked at the prisoner once more. “One more question,” he said. “The time and the place.”

            The prisoner took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Hotel Pristina, around nine o’clock tomorrow evening.”

            The colonel took a deep drag from his cigarette, then dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his booted foot. “In that event, there is only one more thing to do.”

            Milovanich reached for the belt holster and, in one swift motion, extracted the semi-automatic pistol and fired three shots into the prisoner’s head. The interrogator jumped back, his face turning pale.

            “Clean up this mess,” Milovanich said as he replaced the gun in his holster. Without a glance in the direction of the corpse, he turned and left the cell.

***

November 11

Pristina, Kosovo

 

            Illya Kuryakin looked down but kept a watch on Frommage with his peripheral vision. The Thrushman sat down at a table and motioned to a waitress, fidgeting in his seat as he did so. He exuded a sense of entitlement, he wanted something and he wanted it now.

            Kuryakin looked into his coffee. All of his searching and his target walked here, no more than 30 feet away. His mind raced as he saw a waitress approach Frommage. The Thrushman spat out his order. As the waitress left, Frommage got up and went in the direction of the rest room.

            The Russian threw down a handful of notes to pay for his own meal and walked briskly out of the restaurant. It was a short distance to the dank lobby and registration desk. There, a heavy, oily looking man tended to business.

            “Pardon me,” Kuryakin said. “A fellow may have checked in a short while ago, about this tall,” he gestured, indicating the man was a few taller than himself, “a bit of a pink complexion, a very thin mustache.”

            “Yes, he is a guest. What of it?”

            Kuryakin frowned and withdrew a couple of notes. “He is a colleague. He is a bit late for a meeting. I just needed to give him some material. Personally.”

            The clerk took the notes. “I can give them to him.”

            Kuryakin took out more currency. “Personally, remember?”

            The clerk looked at the notes, licked his lips, then took the money. “Room 206.”

            A few minutes later, Kuryakin was outside Frommage’s room. The hotel was old and hadn’t updated its room locks. As a result, Kuryakin picked the lock with relative ease and slipped into the room. It was much as his own, the same size, with the same lack of luxuries. He looked around. A suitcase was on the bed, laying open. The man had not yet unpacked. Kuryakin took a quick look, not expecting anything. Thus, he wasn’t disappointed when all he found were a few shirts, socks and an extra pair of trousers. Scanning around, he spotted a case, larger than a briefcase, not as big as a trunk.

            Kuryakin hefted it up to the bed, laying it next to the suitcase. He examined the electronic lock. The agent reached into his suitcoat pocket and took out a small, rectangular object. It had a small stud, which he inserted into the lock. The device hummed for a second, followed by a click as the lock gave way.

            Illya opened the case. The interior was divided into compartments. Inside the largest was a rifle, evidently a modified version of the Thrush rifle. Other compartments held raw plastique explosive as well as a large, semi-automatic pistol. With the pistol, there were cartridges and Kuryakin picked up one of them. He recognized the design from U.N.C.L.E. briefing papers. This particular cartridge exploded upon striking a target.

            “A sample case,” Kuryakin whispered to himself.

            It all made sense, of course. And it fit a familiar pattern of Thrush, poised like another type of bird, ready to swoop in to devour the remains. In a country rife with conflict, Frommage was selling weapons. He would catch the eye of one side with offerings of sophisticated weapons that would surely give the client an advantage over the other side. And, most likely, Frommage would then go to the other side and make similar sales -- while perhaps executing a killing or two along the way.

            Kuryakin carefully replaced the cartridge in the compartment with the pistol, then closed and put the case back where he had found it. The agent double checked and made sure nothing appeared to be disturbed. He then left quietly, and headed down the hallway.

            A few seconds later, Frommage walked up to his room door. Looking in the direction Kuryakin had headed, the Thrushman smiled.

***

Two

 

November 12

Outside of Pristina, Kosovo

 

            Colonel Kapstan Milovanich walked into the mobile command center, which was a little more than a large tent. He strode confidently to the communications console, where an officer was sitting, watching him approach. Milovanich had a fearsome reputation, cruel to his men and his enemies. The communications officer looked outwardly calm but was furiously rubbing the forefinger and thumb of his right hand.

            “Are the tanks in position?” Milovanich asked.

            “Yes, sir. The planes are ready to take off.”

            “Send them into the air,” the colonel said, looking at his watch. “Action commences exactly one-half hour from now.”

***

            Kuryakin came down for breakfast, still pondering what to do about Frommage. The situation was too delicate -- the rising tensions between the Serbs and the separatists had already led to isolated skirmishes -- to move rashly. But quick action was needed, judging by the contents of Frommage’s sample case. The agent decided he could use another set of eyes and one person had already demonstrated his willingness to respond to monetary incentives.

            The clerk sat at the desk, a bored expression on his face. Kuryakin reached for his money clip, ready to provide the incentive.

            “Excuse me, my friend, I--”

            The glassy eyes caused Kuryakin to stop in mid-sentence.

            The Russian looked around, then stepped behind the desk. The corpse still retained body heat.

            “One shouldn’t rely too much on greedy vermin, my friend.”

            Kuryakin had never heard Frommage’s voice before. Yet, he had no doubt that was who it was as the explosion of pain started in the back of his head and enveloped him.

            ***

            Everything was still black but a sound had awakened him. Then he felt the toes of his shoes rubbing on the wooded floor. Keeping his eyes shut, Kuryakin could feel he was being carried, one man on either side of him. Frommage had help. Not good news.

            There was a pause, followed by the click of a key opening a lock.

            “Tie him up. We will find out what he knows.”

            Kuryakin’s mind struggled. The pain was intense and the room seemed to spin. He was lucky to even be conscious. But he needed to shake himself out his stupor. They were dragging him into the room -- probably Frommage’s room -- and he had only seconds to act.

            Suddenly, the whole room shook from an explosion.

            “What the hell?” It was another voice, not Frommage.

            Kuryakin’s body jerked, as if he had stuck a finger into an electrical socket. He lashed out at the first he saw, which was a tall, beefy man. The thug, caught by surprise, was unprepared for the blow. Kuryakin then tripped the man, sending him to the floor. He leaned over and struck the man in the neck, rending him unconscious. Just then, the room shook again from another explosion, a closer one this time that shattered the room’s windows.

            Illya stumbled as he tried to rise. He could see Frommage was also getting up.

            The Thrushman reached inside his suitcoat for a gun. Kuryakin didn’t wait, launching himself into Frommage. He collided with the assassin, forcing the man to drop the pistol. Before Kuryakin could press his advantage, Frommage flipped him over. The Russian screamed as he landed on his shoulder.

            The pain shot from the shoulder into Kuryakin’s torso. As he rolled over, he could feel his right arm hanging limp because of a separated shoulder. Illya’s vision began to cloud but he saw Frommage get up and start to rush him.

            A third explosion, the closest yet, shook the room. Plaster and dust filled the air.

            Frommage tripped and Kuryakin nearly lost his balance. The Thrushman fell awkwardly. Kuryakin could feel the pain engulfing him. Summoning all the force he could, Kuryakin used his good arm and struck a karate blow before Frommage could stand. The crack reverberated throughout the room, above the loud din of the noise outside.

            Kuryakin stood for a moment, then his vision began to clear. Frommage’s eyes were wide open as was his mouth. The man was dead, a look of hate frozen onto his face.

            The Russian took a deep breath. Outside, he could hear sirens and yelling. What was going on?

            Before he could think any more, another explosion shook the hotel. The world turned black again as the ceiling came down.

***

Three

 

November 13

A cemetery in Terbuf

 

            Petr Yellen approached the cemetery carefully. The Westerner in the overcoat was still there, having hardly moved from an hour or so earlier. The man just stared at the grave, his passive face betraying no emotion. He just stood there, rigid, gazing upon a tombstone.

            Upon his arrival, the other gypsies had treated the man with courtesy and deference. Petr guessed the man was roughly twice as old as himself. The gypsy had heard stories for a day or so before about this man. Yet, the Westerner was not especially imposing. He was of average height, not especially muscular. Yet, the gypsies Petr knew held the man in high regard, something extremely unusual of an outsider.

            The young gypsy looked over and saw Emil approach. The large man was the unquestioned leader of gypsies in this region of Terbuf, a gregarious man who always seemed to have time for everyone. Petr’s curiosity had seized him, he had to know more.

            Petr began to walk toward Emil. The large man noticed immediately. “Ah, Petr. Is there some aid you require?”

            “Emil,” the young gypsy said, nodding in the direction of the cemetery. “Who is that man?”

            “Him? It is merely Mr. Solo.”

            “But ever since he arrived, it is as if everyone I know has taken note of his arrival. What makes him so special?”

            Emil laughed softly. “You are a young man, Petr. You do not recall the oppression of the old regime.”

            “I have heard of it!” Petr protested. “We all have.”

            “I am sure,” Emil replied. “But it was some years ago. He was one of those instrumental in the events that caused the fall of the old regime.”

            “I thought the woman who died last year--”

            “She was part of it. So was he and another outsider.”

            “I still don’t understand.”

            Emil took a deep breath. “That man and the woman who died last year. They were once quite close. Once, they were very much in love. He came here and helped her and in doing so spurred the downfall of the old regime. Then, when Clara Richards fell ill, he returned just before the end. That was one year ago. Obviously he has a need to come back. So he has.”

            “I still don’t understand.”

            “When you are older, you no doubt will. For the moment, however, I suggest we leave Mr. Solo alone with his thoughts. It is the least we can do.”

            Petr began to speak in protest, but stifled the words. Instead, he slightly shrugged his shoulders and walked off with Emil.

***

November 13

Pristina, Kosovo

 

            The Jeep zigzagged through the Pristina streets, skirting a pile of rubble here, circling around a collapsed building there. As it approached the central part of the city, the Jeep slowed down. The debris and rubble had gotten higher and higher. Finally, the Jeep stopped at a sentry’s signal.

            Colonel Kapstan Milovanich didn’t wait for his driver before disembarking from the vehicle. A captain came up and saluted his commanding officer.

            “Colonel, we were not expecting you.”

            Milovanich returned the salute. “Quite all right, Captain. How did it go?”

            “If the separatists were in this sector, they have gone.”

            “What about that special target?”

            “This way, sir.”

            Milovanich’s driver caught up with the Colonel and walked behind the two officers. The group went a few blocks in silence before coming upon what was left of the Hotel Pristina.

            “As you can see our artillery men were successful,” the Captain said. “We’ve set up a makeshift morgue this way.”

            A few blocks away, the military officers entered what had been a large gymnasium. It was mostly intact, but inside the floor was covered with bodies. Several other people also lay on the floor, receiving only the most basic medical treatment.

            “As you can see, very few survived,” the Captain said.

            Milovanich didn’t respond, instead going up by himself to the nearest body and pulling away the blanket. After a quick glance, he tossed the blanket carelessly upon the corpse. He did the same with another four bodies. Then, after yanking the blanket off yet another corpse, Milovanich paused and exhaled. For just a second, the Colonel relaxed. The Captain tried to avoid staring until he saw Milovanich staring at the corpse intently. The only special thing the Captain noticed was the corpse’s pencil-thin mustache.

            “What of this man?” Milovanich said.

            The Captain moved closer to Milovanich. He pulled some papers from a pocket and began scanning them.

            “Oh, yes. We found him in an upstairs room. He was underneath some rubble but that hadn’t killed him.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yes. Preliminary report was a broken neck. More consistent with a blow of some kind. We found two other men, also buried. One died from asphyxiation, the other was still alive.”

            Milovanich arched his eyebrows. “Where is the survivor?”

            “Over there,” the Captain said, gesturing to the far end of the gymnasium, where the survivors were being tended to.

            The Captain led Milovanich to a blonde man laying atop a blanket. His head was bandaged and his right shoulder was in a crude sling.

            Milovanich squinted. This was not one of Frommage’s operatives, certainly not one of the ones he had encountered while buying weapons from Frommage.

            “Who is he? What was he doing there?” Milovanich said.

            “Illya Kuryakin,” the Captain responded. “Some sort of business man, apparently works out of New York City, according to the papers we found. Do you recognize him?”

            “Not at all,” Milovanich said. “Captain, this is classified above your level, but suffice to say there are some individuals who are not what they appear.”

            The blonde man’s head turned and groaned, but he remained unconscious.

            “Who is in charge here?” Milovanich said.

            The Captain began to look around. Just then, a physician approached.

            “Who are you?” the Colonel asked.

            “I am Dr. Frankovich, I volunteered when the Captain here was looking for additional medical help.”

            “That man,” Milovanich said, pointing toward Kuryakin, “when can he be interrogated?”

            “It is out of the question, at least immediately,” Frankovich said, his voice rising. “A concussion, one separated shoulder. He drifts in and out of consciousness.”

            “Doctor, this is a matter of extreme security to the state.”

            “And, Colonel, I’m saying an interrogation will be fruitless with the man in his current condition.”

            The physician flinched but Milovanich could tell his feelings were genuine.

            “All right. We shall delay for 24 hours. But that is all.” With that, Milovanich turned away and motioned for the Captain to follow him.

            “Is there any other assistance you require?”

            “One more thing,” Milovanich said. “I require some, eh, company.”

            “I do not understand.”

            “Captain, I can not believe you obtained your present rank by being dense. I require a certain type of woman -- tall, brunette, thin. I would imagine there is an appropriate bordello, even with all the shelling of the past 24 hours.”

            The Captain’s mouth went dry. He merely nodded and followed Milovanich out of the gymnasium.

            ***

November 14

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

 

            Lisa Rogers hurried to Alexander Waverly’s office. She had been the old fox’s secretary long enough to differentiate the urgent summons from the routine one. It was only a slight inflection in the voice but Lisa knew something was troubling the Number One of Section One.

            The sliding doors opened. Waverly stood at the solitary window, looking out at the New York skyline. He seemed in a world all his own.

            “Sir?”

            Waverly slowly turned around from the window. “Oh, Miss Rogers. Could you please take down a memo please?”

            “Of course sir,” Lisa said, flipping open a notepad and getting ready to write.

            “This is to be addressed to all Section One regional office heads and station chiefs,” Waverly began. “Ladies and gentlemen. Agent Kuryakin still missing in Kosovo. No communications. Within 48 hours, I would appreciate your recommendations for possible replacement if the worst should come to pass. Efficiency of Enforcement Section must supersede regret over loss of life. Only the highest level of individuals can be considered.”

            Lisa dropped her pen.

            “Miss Rogers, did you get all that?”

            “Uh, yes sir, of course,” Lisa said, bending her knees to pick up the pen.

            “Get that out immediately.”

            “Yes sir.” Lisa stood for a moment.

            “Is there something else, Miss Rogers?”

            Lisa shook her head no and headed out the sliding doors.

            ***

November 15

Somewhere in Terbuf

 

            Napoleon Solo felt he had slept the sleep of the dead. It was the kind of sleep where waking up is a struggle, requiring will power and patience. He felt as if he were at the bottom of a deep, black pool. Finally, he felt himself gradually rising to the surface and his eyes opened. He drew a deep breath and pulled off the sheet.

            For the first time in two weeks, Solo felt alive. The impending anniversary of Clara Richards’ death had battered him unexpectedly. Just knowing the anniversary was approaching had consumed his thoughts. Now, having come back to Terbuf and visited the grave site, he felt an obligation had been met. It didn’t mean he would forget Clara or what had happened. But he again pulled himself back into the land of the living.

            He bathed and shaved and felt a renewed sense of vigor. Upon dressing, Solo began to think about the journey home.                       

            A half hour later, Solo entered the Cafe Flora. He saw Emil was already there, sitting at a table by himself.

            The agent approached the big gypsy. “Emil, I just wanted to thank you--”

            Solo paused. He could tell Emil was distracted.

            “Huh? Oh, Mr. Solo.”

            “Something wrong, Emil?”

            “No. At least nothing that concerns you.”

            Solo pulled up a seat. “Well, after the help you extended, perhaps I can be of assistance.”

            “I doubt it,” Emil replied. “Some gypsies I know are in trouble with the authorities in Kosovo. They have been taken into custody.”

            “Kosovo? That’s part of Yugoslavia, isn’t it? There’s been a lot of trouble there recently.”

            “Correct. An area where there has been much trouble over the years. The fighting between the government and the separatists has gotten worse in recent days.”

            “How are the gypsies involved?”

            “Our people have never fit very easily within the various groups. Any conflict amongst the various ethnic bodies becomes an excuse to persecute gypsies.”

            Solo sighed. He felt helpless. The agent was used to identifying specific enemies and dealing with them. While Thrush was a massive conspiracy, he could focus in on specific operatives and leaders. But persecution hundreds of years old -- that was a faceless evil, that went beyond individuals.

            Emil continued. “There is news that gypsies will be punished by the government. There are more rumors than fact, but the rumblings are not good.”

            “There’s not much I can do at this stage,” Solo said. “But I do have access to other forms of information. Perhaps I can find out something.”

            Emil perked up. “At this stage, knowing something would be better.”

            Solo got up. “Let me see what I can do.”

            ***

U.N.C.L.E. Station, Vienna

 

            Elizabeth Hunt studied the incoming data. The job was fairly routine, monitoring news accounts and other “unofficial” communications and preparing summaries for the station chief. There was the usual array of political stories from around Europe. Those would likely rate a few lines. Also, there were the usual mishaps and accidents. Those would be listed without much detail, unless Intelligence asked special attention be paid to specific events. On this November day, no such requests were pending.

            The conflict in Kosovo would probably draw the lion’s share of attention, as it had the past few weeks. Elizabeth scanned various articles from leading newspapers, particularly looking for any stray bit of data or nuance that varied from conventional wisdom. She also fast forwarded through some video tape copies of any newscast in central Europe that might also stir some interest.

            The U.N.C.L.E. woman had already studied some BBC video as well as an Austrian report on the civil war. Then, as she went through the German video, something caught her eye.

            Elizabeth cursed under her breath that her German wasn’t as strong as it should be. She had trouble making out all of the rapidly spoken words. Something about video shot by free lance journalists who had just been expelled. But somehow the journalists had gotten into a jail.

            She squinted and hit the pause button on the video.

            After rewinding the tape, she put her reading glasses on and moved closer to the screen. A Serbian soldier was escorting a blonde man into the huge cell. His back was to the camera for most of the shot. But, at the last second, he twirled, and faced the camera just for a moment before the shot ended.

            She hit the pause button again.

            “It can’t be.”

            Elizabeth moved away and began pecking away at a keyboard. On the screen the words “computer enhancement” appeared. The picture began to clear slowly.

            Elizabeth moved her glasses down to the tip of her nose. Then, she resumed typing at the keyboard.

            “Initiating Identification,” now appeared on the screen. The picture from Kosovo was scrunched to the left half of the screen. On the right, a series of facial images sped through rapidly. Finally one image appeared.

            “Illya Nikovich Kuryakin. Number Two, Section Two, United Network Command for Law Enforcement. Probability of Identification: 78.5 percent.”

            Elizabeth reached over the console to the nearest telephone. Suddenly, her routine job was anything but.

***

            Napoleon Solo walked outside the Cafe Flora and, convinced no one was nearby, took the pen communicator from his pocket. For a moment, he thought about which U.N.C.L.E. office to call. It was still the middle of the night in New York, and only a skeleton staff would be available. Berlin was the nearest regional office. Rome was across the Adriatic, but if he radioed there, he might get patched into Ricardo Cavetti, the pompous station chief Solo detested. The stuffy bureaucrat would likely pick a fight than help out on an information request, especially if it weren’t entirely business. Vienna, on the other hand, was close enough to the Balkans it might have more specific information while Solo would avoid the Cavetti factor.

            “Open Channel D,” Solo said softly into the communicator. “Solo here.”

            “U.N.C.L.E. Vienna,” the woman communications officer said. “What is it you require, Mr. Solo? You are listed as being on leave.”

            “I have an information request. It concerns the situation in Yugoslavia, Kosovo.”

            “Kosovo? Why Kosovo?”

            Solo squinted. “I’m dissatisfied with the quality of the newspapers here.”

            “Pardon?”

            “Never mind,” he replied, trying to avoid sounding testy. “I know things are getting hairy over there. I was wondering if foreign nationals had gotten caught up in that mess. In particular, if we had anything about gypsies, perhaps.”

            “All sorts of foreign nationals. I-I, I better patch you into Mr. Hill, the station chief.”

            Now what? Solo thought. Something strange was happening. The agent searched his memory Robert Hill was one of the younger station chiefs, a former enforcement agent. Solo hadn’t been to Vienna since Hill had taken over but had heard good reports from other enforcement agents.

            “Mr. Solo? Napoleon? This is Robert Hill.”

            “Mr. Hill? Is something wrong?”

            “Please, call me Bob. Uh, actually I don’t think I’m supposed to be telling you this--”

            “Telling me what? I thought I was making a routine request.”

            “Yes. You wanted to know if foreign nationals had become involved in the Kosovo situation?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Quite a few. We think Illya Kuryakin is one of them...”

            Solo shook his head for a moment. “Bob, what are you talking about?”

            “I haven’t had a chance to make a full report to Mr. Waverly yet because of the time difference. But we’re pretty sure Illya is in custody, along with the separatists the Serbs have arrested.”

            “Illya?”

            “Napoleon, I’m taking a big chance telling you this much. We’re pretty sure he’s in the central jail complex in Pristina. The Serbs have been pretty indiscriminate. Chances are there are some gypsies in there, along with God knows who else. Listen, I can’t say anymore until I’ve consulted with Waverly. Hill out.”

            Solo stared at the communicator as the connection went dead.

 

Four

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters

New York

 

            Alexander Waverly arrived for work early, as usual. It was cold that morning, a sign of the winter to come. It hadn’t snowed yet this season, but it was on its way, to be sure. Waverly shook off the thought. Like anyone of advancing years, it was too easy to compare this particular season to this stage of life. And Alexander Waverly told himself he had too much left to accomplish to think about such matters.

            The U.N.C.L.E. chief entered his office through a rear entrance. He sat down on his desk and began paging through the overnight communiqués. It was the usual assortment of updates. A terrorist captured here, reports of renewed Mafia activity there, continued concern about the Russian Mafiya and its effects on the stability of the former Soviet Union. Waverly paused to stuff his pipe full of Isle of Dogs No. 22. The nature of the work rarely changed, only the faces.

            Finally, the dispatch from Vienna caught his eye. Waverly scanned it quickly, reading every line, taking in every word. He puffed furiously for a few seconds, then looked at his watch.

            “Please connect me with Mr. Hill in Vienna, please,” Waverly said as he flipped on the switch to the communications console. “As quickly as possible.”

***

            Napoleon Solo looked for Emil as he re-entered the Cafe Flora. But the large gypsy was gone. The place was mostly empty, except for a thin, young gypsy -- Solo guessed he couldn’t be older than 22 -- sitting at table. Solo vaguely recalled seeing him around the village.

            “I’m sorry, do you know Emil?”

            “Everyone knows Emil, Mr. Solo. He told me to wait for you. He had urgent business. He told me to let you know he had received a confirmation of that matter you had discussed.”

            Solo bit his lip for a second. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

            “No.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “Petr.”

            Solo looked around once more. “I need to charter a plane. Fast. The kind where the pilot doesn’t necessarily ask a lot of questions. Do you understand?”

            “Oh yes,” Petr replied. “Emil, of course, knows more of those people than I. But there is the American woman.”

            “American woman?”

            “She sometimes, how do you say....”

            “Provides commerce transportation -- unofficially, so to speak?”

            Petr smiled. “Something like that.”

            “That’s exactly what I need. Where do I find this woman?”

            “When she is in Terbuf, she stays in the Hotel Nationale.”

            Solo rubbed his chin for a second. “Hmmm. That’s my hotel. You say when she stays here?”

            “She is always moving, but makes frequent visits. Frequently, she arrives late at night. It’s possible you may not have seen her.”

            Solo sighed. Hardly the most promising prospect. “If she’s here, could you point her out to me?”

            “Well, I suppose. Emil said to provide you any assistance until he returned.”

            “Good, let’s go.”

***

            The Hotel Nationale was a modest inn, a two-story structure. It had a small kitchen and cafe. Solo was starting to head toward the registration desk, but Petr split off and looked into the cafe.

            “Mr. Solo,” Petr said, pointing toward the cafe.

            Solo headed back and glanced in the direction where Petr pointed. There was only one person there, a tall brunette woman, a bit on the thin side. Her hair was up in a bun. She ate from a large salad while reading a magazine. Her clothes were plain, denim shirt and pants. But Solo sensed some kind of self assuredness. Her erect posture, her very casual manner as she ate. This was a woman who was very comfortable with who she was and what she did. Then again, if she regularly flew for smugglers, she probably had earned the right to be confident. It was potentially a rough business and if she were good, she had to be tough.

            “Perhaps you could make an introduction, Petr.”

            The young gypsy led Solo to the table. The woman continued to read and didn’t look up.

            “Pardon me, Miss Hank?”

            Solo looked at Petr. “Hank?”

            Only then, did the woman look up from her magazine. “Hello, Petr,” she said, glancing up and down briefly at Solo. “Who’s your friend?”

            “Uh, this is Mr. Solo, Miss Hank. He is a potential client. Mr. Solo, I need to get with Emil.”

            “Thanks, Petr,” Solo said. As the gypsy walked off, Solo looked toward Hank. “May I join you?”

            “I always have time for potential business, Mr. Solo. I take it you know Emil.”

            “We’re old acquaintances,” Solo said as he sat down. “Forgive me for asking, but Hank?

            “Henrietta Van Buskirk,” she said shaking hands with Solo. “My father wanted to name me after his father. When he got a girl, he did the best next thing. I go by Hank.”

            “Ask a silly question,” Solo replied. “Here’s another: Could you fly me into Kosovo?”

            Hank sat back in her seat. “Kosovo? The way things are going most people are going to want to get out of there! You want to go in?”

            “I need to run an errand.”

            “You’re pretty ambitious with your errands. The Serbs aren’t real nice folks, in case you haven’t been watching television or reading the papers.”

            Solo reached into a fold inside his pocket and took out ten $100 bills. It was an emergency stash of money. He only  hoped he could bluff his way through.

            “I have access to more. Consider that a down payment.”

            Hank eyed the bills laying on the table. “Just who do you work for, Mr. Solo?”

            “Call me Napoleon.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “Hardly,” the agent said. “I can get you more if you’re interested. One flight into Pristina, Kosovo. One flight out. If you need another reference, here’s one.” Solo took one of his Hargrove Trading Company business cards and placed it on top of the money.

            “Trade consultant,” Hank said, reading from the card. “A little too cute.”

            “I’ll take that into account next time I order a refill,” Solo said. “Do we have a deal?”

            Just then, Solo could feel the vibrations from his pen communicator going off.

            “Excuse me, I have to return a telephone call,” Solo said, taking five of the bills off the table. “Consider that,” he said, pointing to the five remaining bills, “a retainer for you to stay for a few minutes.”

            Hank squinted at Solo but remained sitting. He then walked outside of the cafe and into the lobby, and toward an old fashioned telephone booth. He closed the booth door, then prepared the communicator to receive.

            “Open Channel D,” Solo said.

            “Prepare for a transmission from the office of the Number One of Section One.”

            Solo’s mind raced. If it was Waverly, what would he want? Solo doubted Waverly would approve of what Solo was about to attempt. He began to think of ways to avoid directly disobeying an order.

            Then, Lisa Rogers’s voice could be heard in the booth.

            “Napoleon?”

            It wasn’t Waverly.  No order to disobey yet.

            “Lisa, Solo here. I’ve been hearing some odd communications traffic. What’s up?”

            “You don’t know?”

            “Know what?” Try and sound convincing.

            “Napoleon....maybe you’d better sit down. Illya is missing.”

            Solo covered the speaker with his hand. He thought for a second. React like you’re hearing it for the first time. “How long? Where?”

            “He went to Kosovo. He was on the trail of Frommage.”

            “The Thrush assassin?”

            “The same,” Lisa replied.

            “What happened?”

            “The details are sketchy,” she said. “Frommage is dead, but we think he was killed in a fight. Had to be with Illya. but the hotel was shelled because of the fighting in the area. We haven’t heard from Illya.”

            “Hmmmmmmmm,” Solo said.

            Suddenly, there was a change on the other end. The agent sensed that Lisa was already thinking about what he might do.

            “Mr. Solo?” she said.

            Mr. Solo. Definitely assuming the official role now. “A moment ago it was Napoleon.”

            “Mr. Solo, the situation in Kosovo is highly unstable. All foreign nationals are being urged to keep out.”

            Well, you can’t disobey an order you never receive, Solo thought. “probably a sound thing to do,” he said. “Solo out.”

            “Mr. Solo...”

            He cut off the transmission, switched the communicator off and put the device back in his pocket.

***

Central Jail

Pristina, Kosovo

 

            Illya Kuryakin tried to concentrate. Gradually the cell seemed to melt away. The voices of the other prisoners faded. The guards outside the cell disappeared into nothingness.

            Kuryakin was surrounded by nothing but darkness. Relax. Let your body do its job....

            Slowly, all too slowly, the pain began to recede. It went from a shooting pain to a dull throbbing to being simply sore. But the injury wasn’t going to be conquered that easily. He felt a sharp twinge and the shoulder began to throb again, although at least it wasn’t as bad as before.

            The Russian opened his eyes and breathed deeply. Be patient.

            Suddenly, he noticed a boy standing, staring at the agent but not saying a word. Kuryakin guessed the child could not be much older than seven or eight. The boy’s eyes betrayed his curiosity.

            “And who are you my friend?” Kuryakin said.

            “Andre.”

            “Andre! Leave that man alone!” said a woman with dark complexion. A gypsy woman, he thought, judging by her clothing.

            “It is all right,” Kuryakin told her. “I meant no harm.”

            The woman bent over and hugged Andre. “I am sorry, I it is just...”

            “This is no place for proper introductions, I know,” Illya said, trying to reassure her. “That pendant you’re wearing is particularly handsome. I thought that style was more common to the tribes further south and west from here.”

            The gypsy woman stared for a moment. “You are familiar with our ways?”

            “I have known gypsies on occasion,” he replied. “Illya Kuryakin.”

            “Kuryakin? A Russian?”

            “Most of the time.”

            “No, I mean, they tell stories...”

            “Stories?”

            “My name is Maria. Andre and I, we are from Terbuf. They tell stories of how a Russian and a Westerner helped the country, helped Emil.”

            “Emil?” Kuryakin said. “You know Emil?”

            “He is my father.”

            Kuryakin thought back several years. The wily Emil, who commanded not only the loyalty of Terbuf’s gypsies but who also obtained some papers dangerous to those in power. Had it really been that long ago?

            “I don’t recall Emil having a daughter.”

            “He is, how do you say, not a conventional father figure.”

            Kuryakin tried to suppress a grin. “No, I suppose not.”

            “Mr. Kuryakin...”

            “Please call me Illya.”

            “Illya, what is going to happen to us?”

            The Russian didn’t answer, instead he looked around the huge cell. There were dozens of people crowded in. Gypsies, Albanians, other foreigners of indeterminate origin.

            “I’m not sure,” Kuryakin said coolly.

            “I thought the Serbs were friendly with the Russians,” Maria said, her eyes darting. “Why are you in this cell?”

            “Somehow, I do not think our captors have been terribly discreet in their work.” He dared say no more for fear of causing the woman to erupt into a panic.

***

            Napoleon Solo returned to the table. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief that Hank Van Buskirk was still there.

            “Thought about it any more?” Solo said, as he sat back down.

            “It’s going to cost you. I’d say $25,000 would be fair.”

            “I’m in no position to argue,” Solo said, putting the other $100 bills back on the table. “A down payment. I’d give you more, except Terbuf doesn’t have many ATMs.”

            “That’s all right,” Hank said as she arched her eyebrows. “I have the feeling this Hargrove Trading Company doesn’t exactly lack for funds.”

            Only when the job is authorized, Solo thought. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. “How soon can you be ready?”

            “If we’re gonna to sneak into Kosovo, we should probably fly in tonight. I don’t relish the thought, but I get the impression you don’t exactly want to announce your arrival.”

            “Something like that,” Solo said. “When and where do we meet?”

            “Front of the hotel, about six o’clock. I’ll take you to my plane. Pack light.”

            “Always.”

***

            Colonel Kapstan Milovanich walked into the office he had commandeered as a makeshift command post. It had been part of a small, three-story office building near the jail. Before he reached his desk, the Serb Captain acting as his aide knocked on the door.

            “What is it now, Captain?” Milovanich said, not looking at the officer but instead looking at some papers on his desk.

            “Sir, it is the man from the Red Cross. He has been quite persistent. Belgrade has also called. They want us to deal with the man.”

            “The President wants us to cleanse Kosovo, but he forces me to deal with bureaucrats.” Milovanich grunted. “Very well, I’ll talk to this man.”

            “Yes sir.”

            Milovanich sat down at the desk. Belgrade, indeed, had many plans for the Kosovo region, the nature of which were only known at this point to a few senior officers. Crushing the separatists was only the beginning.

            The phone rang, breaking Milovanich’s thoughts.

            “Colonel Milovanich here.”

            “Colonel, this is Allen Dean of the International Red Cross. I understand you’re in charge down there.”

            “Where are you calling from Mr. Dean?”

            “Belgrade. Your government wouldn’t permit me to travel to Kosovo.”

            “It is for your own safety. These separatists are very deadly. They are known to traffic in very illegal weaponry. They are quite savage.”

            “Colonel, I’m hearing some rumors that you’re planning something pretty deadly yourself.”

            Milovanich reached for a cigarette and lit it.

            “Colonel?” Dean said from Belgrade.

            “Go on, Mr. Dean. I am fascinated.”

            “There are some funny rumors you’re planning a big, public execution.”

            “Interesting rumors,” Milovanich said.

            “Are they true?” Dean’s voice now had an edge to it.

            “You can put your mind at ease, Mr. Dean,” Milovanich said.

            “I can?”

            “Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have many things that demand my attention.”

            “All right, but I am still going to press to observe things myself.”

            “We’ll see about getting you passage here in a few days. Good-bye, Mr. Dean.”

            Milovanich hung up the telephone without waiting for a reply. “By that time, we should have all of the bodies disposed of,” the Colonel muttered to himself.

 

Five

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

 

            “Mr. Waverly, it’s Mr. Cavetti from Rome. Again, sir.”

            “Tell him I’m busy -- again.”

            Alexander Waverly emptied the leftover pipe tobacco into an ashtray. “On second thought, Miss Rogers, I’ll take the call.”

            The intercom on Waverly’s desk buzzed. “Yes, Ricardo, what can I do for you?”

            “Alex, is U.N.C.L.E. going to do anything about the Kosovo situation?”

            “We’re going to exhibit patience for the moment, Ricardo.”

            “We’re picking up information that madman Milovanich is planning some sort of large public execution in Pristina. We need to do something. You know as well as I that we can organize most of the Section Two and Three operatives in Europe on short notice.”

            “U.N.C.L.E. does not routinely assault sovereign governments, Ricardo. If you have something more practical to add, I will be pleased to take it under advisement. Waverly out.”

            The Number One of Section One banged his pipe once on the ashtray, then flipped another switch on the console. “Miss Rogers, the next time Mr. Cavetti calls, tell him to submit any ideas in writing.”

            “Yes sir. Uh, sir.”

            “Yes, Miss Rogers?”

            “A call is coming in from Mr. Hill in Vienna.”

            “I’ll take it.”

            Waverly sighed. Section One officials in Europe had been deeply divided since the Kosovo situation had begun. Cavetti, in Rome, was the most vocal for intervention. Other field offices were more cautionary, but almost none of the station chiefs seemed to agree. The U.N.C.L.E. regional office in Berlin seemed unable to forge a consensus and had dumped the bloody mess in the New York office’s lap.

            The intercom buzzed.

            “Please be brief, Mr. Hill.”

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Waverly. I was wondering if you had heard from Nap, er Mr. Solo, yet.”

            “No, why should we? The man is on leave.”

            “Well, it’s just possible he might, well, try and assist Mr. Kuryakin, sir.”

            “Why should he? That hasn’t become public knowledge. The footage you showed me was very brief, and we still don’t have 100 percent assurance that was Mr. Kuryakin.”

            “Well, sir, it’s that...”

            “It’s what, Mr. Hill?”

            “I think Mr. Solo may have, uh, gotten wind of things, sir.”

            “And how did that occur, Mr. Hill?”

            “I’m not quite sure, sir,” the Vienna station chief replied. “But I think we should perhaps work on that assumption.”

            Waverly didn’t have to hear any more. He thought Hill had the potential to be a fine administrator, but he still thought of himself, deep down, as still a member of the Enforcement section. The man would learn to take a more detached approach in time. Waverly had to be patient, but he was damn tempted to put the fear of God in him right now.

            Instead, the U.N.C.L.E. chief took a deep breath. “Very well, Mr. Hill. Should Mr. Solo contact your station, inform him that he is to report back in New York promptly.”

            “Yes sir.”

            The connection went dead. Now, Waverly looked toward his door, and visualized Lisa Rogers sitting at her desk.

            “Miss Rogers,” he said, activating a switch on the console.

            “Yes sir?”

            “Come in immediately, please.”

            The brunette woman entered promptly. If she were nervous, she showed no sign of it.

            “Miss Rogers, have we heard from Mr. Solo, by chance?”

            “Mr. Solo, sir?”

            “Yes, Miss Rogers. Dark-haired man. Average height. He carries the designation of Number One of our Enforcement Division. Or at least he did until today.”

            “Well, sir...yes.”

            “And, in what context was this communication?”

            “Uh, it had to do with Mr. Kuryakin’s status.”

            “Did he say anything about, say, attempting to enter Kosovo?”

            “I gave him strict instructions that foreign nationals were supposed to stay clear of the region, sir.”

            “And what was his response?”

            “Something about that was a good idea.”

            “You’re quite aware, Miss Rogers, that any communications you had with Mr. Solo are routinely recorded.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Waverly sighed. “Very well, Miss Rogers. I’m sure Mr. Solo knows how to respond in an appropriate fashion.”

            “Yes, sir,” Lisa said, trying to restrain a smile. She turned and then exited the office for her own desk.

            Waverly thought about trying to contact Solo, but tabled the idea. No doubt he turned off the communicator, the U.N.C.L.E. chief thought. “One captured agent. One possible rogue agent. Meanwhile, U.N.C.L.E. squabbles,” Waverly said inside the now-empty office. “I must be getting sentimental.”

***

Somewhere in Terbuf

 

            Napoleon Solo separated his belongings. The bulk of his clothes he put in his suitcase. However, he put one change of clothes -- including a turtleneck sweater and dark trousers -- into the carryon bag he had taken from New York. Into the latter he also stuffed spare magazines for the U.N.C.L.E. Special and a couple of other special assorted items. A few minutes later, he checked out of the hotel, arranging to have the suitcase sent ahead to New York.

            He reasoned he’d need to travel light once inside Kosovo. In all likelihood, he’d probably end up dumping the suit and overcoat he was wearing today. He only hoped he’d survive to see the look of disapproval from Alexander Waverly when he tried to put the loss of the suit on his expense account. For that matter, if the tentative plan now taking shape worked, that might not be the only unusual item on the report....

            As he left the hotel clerk, Solo spotted the young gypsy.

            “Petr,” Solo said, “did you find Emil?”

            “Yes, but he was quite busy with various matters.”

            “I’m sure,” Solo said, reaching into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and extracting a small notebook and pen. He quickly wrote out a note. “Give this to him, will you?”

            The gypsy scanned the paper. “I am not sure I understand. Perhaps you should...”

            “I really have to shove off,” Solo said.

            “But Emil--”

            “Has been a very gracious host, and I am most thankful. Now I really must go. Good-bye.”

            Solo turned without waiting for a response. He glanced at his watch. One minute until six.

            Henrietta Van Buskirk sat in an old-style Jeep, bereft of any modern features. She glanced at Solo as he laid the carryon bag in the back. “I see you’re punctual,” she said.

            The agent only nodded. Hank fired up the engine and the Jeep sped away into the evening.

***

            They quickly found their way into the country. Solo had a vague recollection of the terrain. He had been here all those years ago, when Clara had summoned him to help Emil and get out evidence of the old government’s corruption. Somewhere along these roads was the army depot where he and Clara had been taken. If he had the time, Solo probably could have found it. But time was fleeting and the past he thought about was as dead as Clara was -- and as Illya could be if he couldn’t get him out.

            How many times had they saved each other’s lives? Solo chuckled. They had taken turns almost from the beginning of that first mission. Well, after they stopped the squabbling amongst themselves. God, how many years had it been? Squire Partridge and the plan to start -- oh what did he call it? -- New Britania? He glanced at the pinkie ring on his left hand. And what had ever happened to Rita Verde? He had once tried to reach her after her tour of duty with the International Volunteer Corps was up, but he never had the time to follow through. All these memories flooding back, all at once, were racing through his mind like a tsunami battering an island.

            “What’s up?” Hank’s voice said, cutting through the mental clutter. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

            “Sorry,” Solo replied. “Preoccupied, I guess.”

 

            “Well, we’re almost there.”

            The Jeep already was cutting off the main road onto a path. They approached a small farm house, with a barn across the way. Hank pulled up near the barn.

            “What’s this?” Solo said, reaching for his bag.

            “A sort of unofficial air field. The owner lets me store my plane and borrow his Jeep in return for a cut of the fees I collect.”

            “A sort of underground airport.”

            “Call it what you like,” Hank said. “Just give me a hand with this door, willya?”

            Solo swung open the large barn door as Hank went inside and began grabbing at a large tarp. As she pulled it away, Solo saw the large, twin-engine plane.

            “As soon as I get this taken care of, we’ll take off.”

            Soon, the plane was taxiing from the barn, past the small house and onto a flat field, one of the few level areas of terrain Solo had seen in Terbuf. Hank circled the plane around, revved the engines and began the takeoff. The aircraft jerked up at the last second and Solo momentarily felt his throat falling into his stomach before the plane leveled off.

            There were few stars visible in the night sky. Solo glanced at Hank, who exuded calm and confidence. She had to be flying entirely on instrument readings -- at least Solo could spot few lights or navigational aides amidst the rugged terrain below.

            “Quick question,” Hank said.

            “Go ahead.”

            “Are you wanting to go in the front door, or the back door?”

            “The back door would be preferable. Save all that messy paperwork and such.”

            “It might be helpful, then, if you had some more money.”

            Solo unconsciously patted the breast pocket of his suitcoat. He had one last emergency supply of funds he had taken out of a secret compartment in the suitcase now headed for New York. “I’ll see to it,” he said.

            Virtually nothing was said during the next half hour. Hank periodically took the plane up, then lowered the craft. Solo assumed this was because of the terrain, but his eyes strained to catch any detail. Just once, he thought the plane would clip a hilltop, but he wasn’t sure and there wasn’t any contact. They obviously were flying very low.

            Finally, Hank broke the silence. “Having second thoughts? It’d be kind of natural if you did.”

            “Oh no,” Solo replied.

            “Listen, I know you’re the client, but I can’t help but wonder what kind of errand you have in mind.”

            The agent cleared his throat. “I have a friend who needs a little help.”

            “Couldn’t you have sent his bail by Western Union?”

            Solo eyed her for a moment.

            “Sorry, bad joke,” she said. “But it does seem like you’re going to an awful lot of trouble for your friend.”

            “Anybody can be a friend when it’s easy,” Solo muttered. “But never mind me, what’s the appeal of this to you? Besides the $25,000, that is.”

            Hank laughed. “I didn’t have the most conventional of childhoods. Dad, well, dad was kind of shady -- no rough stuff but he didn’t have the patience for the standard ways of making a living.”

            “And he rubbed off on you.”

            “Mom died when I was a kid. Dad may not have been the typical parent but he was a good dad.”

            Solo smiled. “So you fly around Eastern Europe for various clients. Emil is one of them, I suppose.”

            “One of the best,” Hank said. “He’s one of the most reliable, certainly.”

            The agent looked at her for a moment. The conversation had reinforced his initial impression of Hank. He thought she was confident and, more importantly, extremely competent at what she did. It looked as if she did her business effortlessly, but Solo guessed this was a woman who could be very tough when she had to be.

            Less than two hours later, the plane began to circle. Solo could see lights off in the distance, a city of fair size. Hank brought the aircraft in at a steep angle and the plane bounced once as it landed. They were now on another field and the ride was bumpy but the land was level.

            “Sorry, but the back door isn’t as comfortable as the front. Guess you’re not used to that sort of thing, huh?”

            “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Solo said.

            Hank taxied the plane a short distance, until Solo could see a barn, very much like the one in Terbuf. A very tall man with a mustache awaited them.

            Hank cut the engine and got out. The tall man hugged her in a big brotherly sort of way. Solo exited the plane and walked up to them.

            “Velimir, a client,” Hank said.

            Solo took out a wad of bills. “Should this cover our expenses?”

            Velimir laughed. “What client? I do not see anything.” He then took the bills from Solo and counted them out. “I should say this will do nicely.”

            “One more thing to be settled,” Hank said to Solo. “Do you want to try for Pristina now, or wait till morning.”

            “With the soldiers out, I would advise waiting,” Velimir said.

            “I’ll defer to him,” Solo said.

            “Well, Velimir has a kind of guest room where I stay on occasion,” Hank said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to...”

            “Don’t worry,” Solo interrupted, looking at the barn. “I’ve roughed it on occasion.”

            Hank chuckled. “You’re not exactly dressed for it.”

            “I’ll manage.”

            The three pushed the plane into Velimir’s barn. After getting it parked, Solo spotted a bench. He took the turtleneck sweater out of the carryout bag and scrunched it up so it would serve as a makeshift pillow. He looked up to see Hank watching him from outside the barn. She paused for a moment, then turned away and began walking toward Velimir’s house.

***

 

Six

Central Jail

Pristina, Kosovo

 

November 16

 

            Illya Kuryakin was awakened by the nudge of a booted foot into his side. “The Colonel wants to see you.”

            Kuryakin was laying scrunched up in a ball on the cell floor. All of the men in the large cell had slept there, giving the women and children the opportunity to lay on the bunks. The Russian’s muscles were sore and the pain remained sharp in the injured right shoulder. Still, other than one groan as he stood up, he didn’t outwardly acknowledge his discomfort.

            Illya saw a second guard waited outside the cell, his rifle drawn in case the first guard inside the cell should be overcome. With all the other prisoners still asleep, many of them would be killed should the second guard open fire. So, Kuryakin resigned himself to complying with his instructions.

            The guards led the U.N.C.L.E. agent down two flights of steps into a bland, featureless basement. The furnishings were as drab as the room. The items laying on the tables, however, were a bit more interesting. Whips, brass knuckles, and, on one table, a large battery.

            Kuryakin took in the scene. An interrogation was coming -- very unpleasant, likely very crude. But good agents had died at the hands of clumsy thugs under the right -- or wrong -- circumstances.

            In the center of the room, sat a military officer, obviously a man of high rank. He sat, sipping a cup of coffee, which he held atop a saucer. The guards put Kuryakin down in a chair opposite the officer.

            “I am Colonel Milovanich,” he said, putting the cup and saucer on the table. “And you were found in the company of an enemy of Serbia.”

            Kuryakin said nothing. He had seen men like Milovanich before -- small-minded men who, when the opportunity presented itself, wanted to show off how important they really were. The agent suspected that Milovanich was no stranger to this room and the implements of misery it contained.

            “This man, one Erik Frommage, had been selling weapons to the separatists. Most sophisticated weapons. In what capacity were you involved?”

            “I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you I wasn’t involved.”

            “It would not.”

            “Then I won’t tell you,” Illya said.

            Milovanich smiled for a moment, stood up then hit Kuryakin with a backhanded slap. The Russian’s head whipped violently to the side with the force of the blow.

            “Again, what capacity were you involved?”

            “Frommage was Thrush. You must know that by now.”

            “I do not know what this Thrush is,” Milovanich lied. “And it is I who am doing the interrogating.”

            Kuryakin sighed. “Thrush is rather notorious amongst the world intelligence community, some kind of inquiry would turn up such information.”

            Milovanich slapped Kuryakin again. He is obviously not interested in finding anything out about Thrush, Illya thought. Perhaps he was buying weapons from Thrush as well. That would certainly fit the Thrush pattern. His primary interest may be in burying the evidence, not in inquiry. If so, then I am in for a very long day.

            Milovanich motioned for the guards to approach. “Hold him and remove his trousers.”

            The larger of the two guards held Kuryakin in a full Nelson while the other undid the Russian’s belt and then his pants. He then yanked the trousers and the underwear down by Kuryakin’s ankles. As this went on, Milovanich walked over to another table and brought back the large battery. It was then Kuryakin noticed the top of the battery had a switch.

            The Colonel put the battery next to his coffee cup and saucer, went back to the other table and this time carried a small set of wires. The guards then shoved Kuryakin back into the chair and tied him up there.

            “If you insist on not cooperating, I would at least advise you to move as little as possible to minimize the pain,” Milovanich said as he connected the wires to the battery. After completing the task, he now held up the other end of the wires, which were connected to tiny clamps. Milovanich reached down and attached the first clamp to Kuryakin’s scrotum, which bit into the delicate skin like an animal biting into its prey.

            “Comfortable?” Milovanich said

            Kuryakin didn’t reply, only gritting his teeth. Milovanich did the same thing with the other clamp. The Colonel then got up and flipped the switch.

            The electric shock felt as if Kuryakin had been struck with a jackhammer in his genitalia. Even the stoic Kuryakin couldn’t help but let out a short scream.

            “Again, my friend,” Milovanich said, “what do you know about Frommage? How many of these weapons had he sold to the terrorists?”

            Kuryakin shook his head. The Colonel made an adjustment on the battery control, then flipped the switch again. The pain was even worse, the shock pulsating up from the clamps, passing through his body.

            The guards looked forward, avoiding eye contact with the Russian and their Colonel.

            “I must know if Frommage had an opportunity to sell those weapons to the separatists.”

            “I haven’t any idea,” Kuryakin said, certainly not lying.

            Milovanich flipped the switch again. This time, however, the pain overcame Kuryakin, who screamed once before falling into unconsciousness. Milovanich tensed, as if ready to slap him. Just then, however, he saw the guards tense as someone else came into the room. Milovanich turned. It was the Captain who had been assisting him.

            “Sir, an urgent communiqué,” the Captain said.

            Milovanich was quiet, only taking the envelope the Captain held with his right hand. The officer, meanwhile, tried to avert his eyes from the sight in front of him.

            The Colonel grimaced for a moment. “Remove the hardware, gently. It seems this prisoner is to require special care. Thank you, Captain. That will be all.”

            The Captain mentally tried to contain the queasiness in his stomach as he turned to leave. About five minutes later, he would vomit inside the first water closet he could find.

            Milovanich, however, didn’t notice the Captain’s pale face. He looked off to the side for a moment, then turned back toward the guards. “Return him to the cell with the others.”

            “The others?”

            “Yes, the others.”

            “Yes sir.”

            The clamps were taken off as delicately as possible and one guard yanked Kuryakin’s pants back up. Then, the two men complied with their orders, carrying the unconscious man between them.

***

Somewhere in Pristina

November 16

 

            Henrietta Van Buskirk glanced at Napoleon Solo for a moment as she drove the truck. For a man who had slept in his suit -- out in a barn yet -- he still managed to look as collected as a GQ model. The crease in his pants may not have been as sharp, but it was almost as if the man had willed his clothes not to wrinkle.

            Hank parked the truck along a side street, near the center of the city. “OK, we’re here, Mr. Solo. Now what?”

            “Napoleon. And I think I’m looking for the type of gentleman who can provide unusual products on short notice.”

            “Uh-huh. The kind of things that go boom, maybe?”

            “Not necessarily. Something a little more gentle. And maybe some information on the side. I figure you might run into people like that -- from time to time.”   

             Hank arched her eyebrows. “There is someone I’m familiar with, but mostly by reputation. But he’s not the kind I feel too comfortable with.”

            “I may not have the time for a long search. Who is this fellow?”

            “He goes by the name of  Kreiger. I met him once, gave me the creeps.”

            “Could you find him if you had to?”

            “I can find him.”

            They got out of the truck and walked onto one of the main streets of Pristina. The people they passed had fear etched on their faces, all of them looking ahead, wanting to avoid the glance of any stranger. Some buildings had sustained major damage from the shelling of previous days. There was an edge to Pristina, a feeling of fear. As they neared the center of the city. Solo stopped.       

            “Uh, Hank, do you suppose I could catch up with you?” Solo said.

            “Why? This isn’t exactly a tourist center.”

            “Never mind that now. How about I meet you here in an hour? Is that enough time to set up a meeting with Kreiger?”

            “I suppose so,” she said. “What’s up?”

            “I need to run an errand that I forgot.”

            “Forgive me for saying so, but if you were of a mind to try to stiff me, this would be an ideal time.”

            “Except I need you to get out of here in a hurry.”

            Hank smiled. “Glad you haven’t forgotten,” she said. “OK, see you in a couple of hours.”

            The American woman walked off. Solo ignored her, and instead went in the opposite direction, then turned into an alley. He stood against the side of a building, then drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special and had it ready to fire.

            A man with dark glasses and short cropped hair walked into the alley. As he turned, Solo had the Special aimed right between the eyes.

            “You crazy son of a bitch! It is you!” Samuel Harris said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

 

Seven

 

            Solo lowered the gun, then quickly scanned the alley to see if any other visitors were lurking. “A long ways from Kiev, Sam,” he said. “I hadn’t heard you were reassigned.”

            “It’s not like the Agency exactly confides in the old bastard you work for,” Harris replied. “And, I haven’t exactly transferred. Just call it a little side jaunt. Well, do you want to chew the fat out in this alley, or can we at least grab a drink first?”

            Ten minutes later, the C.I.A. operative and the U.N.C.L.E. agent were in a small, dank cafe. Solo looked into Harris’s face, as hard to read as always, his eyes masked by the thick lenses of his glasses.

            “Well, do we play around the subject or do we get straight to the point for once?” Solo said.

            Harris laughed. “I’m not sure you’re exactly in the best of positions to be demanding candor, you old son of a bitch.”

            “Oh? Why might that be?”

            “Word is U.N.C.L.E. is a little hamstrung on this situation. One of the hazards of working for a multi-national group.”

            “Might be a smokescreen,” Solo said, sipping his coffee.

            “Don’t try and bullshit me,” Harris said in an exaggerated Texas accent. “The old bastard’s station chiefs are fighting among themselves while he’s trying some semi-diplomatic gambit to get your old pal out of the clink.”

            “Maybe I’m the insurance in case diplomacy doesn’t work.”

            “Napoleon, your lyin’ doesn’t work on me, remember? Now what the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish here? Unless, of course, you’re here on some kind of personal, one-man crusade to spring your Ruskie pal.”

            “Sam, I think you’ve been reading too many spy novels.”

            “And, old bean, I think you’re in way over your head,” Harris replied. “OK, since we’re old pals, I’ll show my cards. You know much about the Serb bastard who’s in charge of the military around here?”

            “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

            “Goes by the name of Kapstan Milovanich. He’s a beaut. He’s the kind who likes to torture people personally, get my drift? He’s also a little bit quirky in the way of personal habits.”

            “So, what brings you here?”

            “Uncle Sam is kind of frowning on what the Serbs have been doing around here. Word is they’ve been pretty nasty and are going to get a hell of lot nastier. You never know what might happen in a situation like that. The striped pants boys at Foggy Bottom are doing a lot of talking right now, but that might not last forever. Now, believe it or not, I’m being brutally honest. But I’ve got to know whether I’m dealing with somebody who has the old bastard’s blessing or if you’re some kind of wild card in all this.”

            “Well, let me answer your question this way, Sam. A lot of bad things have happened over the years when people just sat back and watched.”

            “Goddammit, Napoleon! This isn’t the Boy Scouts...”

            “I believe we’ve debated that topic before, in case you haven’t forgotten.”

            “I haven’t forgotten. Sure, you can be a sneaky bastard on occasion, and I’m still pretty pissed off that I forgot about that stupid communicator of yours. But a lot of bad crap is about to happen. And if an American were to get his tit in a wringer, Uncle Sam would get awfully distressed. And don’t forget he’s your uncle, too.”

            “I see,” Solo said.

            “Dammit, I never could talk any sense into you.”

            “We could debate that all night. One question. What did you mean about Milovanich’s personal tendencies?”

            “Oh, geez. You are being a maverick! You’re no more under uncle Alex’s orders than I am! If you had access to U.N.C.L.E.’s research, you’d know by now. All right, buddy boy. Kapstan’s a little hornier than the average. Likes a particular type of woman -- real thin, real brunette. Can’t keep his hands off them. I’ve heard he’s been sending one of his Captains around like a pimp to keep him satisfied on that score. In fact, it’s kind of funny, watching that poor son of a bitch in full uniform negotiating with prostitutes in the local red-light district.”

            Harris gulped the remaining coffee. “OK, Napoleon. Just watch your back. I got things to do. Here, I’ll pick up the bill. I got the feeling you better conserve all the funds you’ve got.” With that, Harris got up, taking the check with him.

            Solo watched as the C.I.A. man left. Maybe he is right. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe I should step back and take a deep breath....

            The agent grunted. No, if there was any chance to get Illya out, he had to take it. And if Harris was right, if Alexander Waverly was hamstrung, that was all the more reason to cut through the clutter and get the job done.

***

            Colonel Kapstan Milovanich looked one more time at the dispatch, then dropped it on his desk.

            “High probability prisoner Kuryakin is Russian,” it read. “This would greatly upset our allies. Separate from other prisoners.”

            It came from the High Command in Belgrade. Milovanich strummed his fingers on the desk. His dealings with Thrush had to be hidden at all costs. He had been played for by a fool by Frommage, whose body now rested in an anonymous grave, along with so many others -- a preview of the things to come when the plans now being drawn up were implemented.

            Milovanich grunted. Belgrade already was under pressure from the West. There was talk of war. The Westerners were talking about air raids any day now. But, Milovanich also believed the American president was weak and distracted. His nerve in launching an attack, at this time, had to be in question. Belgrade was quite busy trying to anticipate what the West would do. Perhaps this Kuryakin was not associated with Frommage. But the Colonel felt he couldn’t take that chance. Not now, not with the stakes so high.

            So, he again picked up the communiqué with one hand and a match with another. He struck the match on the top of the desk and lit the piece of paper. He held it for a few seconds before letting it fall into the ashtray. I can always make that idiot Captain the scapegoat if there should be too much of a protest about tomorrow’s execution.

***

 

            Napoleon Solo reached the rendevous point about five minutes ahead of schedule -- and affected the strategy he was devising.

            The agent was scanning the street when he saw Henrietta Van Buskirk approach. While she wore little makeup, the face was an attractive one, with high cheekbones and large, probing eyes. Hank was nearly as tall as he was. She was thin without being anorexic, shapely without being wildly out of proportion. Hank wore her brunette hair in a bun, but Solo guessed if she let her hair down...

            Likes a particular type of woman -- real thin, real brunette. Can’t keep his hands off them. I’ve heard he’s been sending one of his Captains around like a pimp to keep him satisfied on that score.

            “Uh-huh,” Solo said to himself. She’s got nerve and confidence, he thought. She’s got the ability to do it...

            “Beg pardon?” Hank said.

            “Oh, nothing, at least nothing yet,” the agent replied. “What’s the score with Kreiger?”

            “He’s willing to meet with you, at about three o’clock. There’s an area of small shops about eight blocks away. There’s a coffee shop. You’ll meet there.”

            “That’s something. How well do you know these parts?”

            “Fairly well.”

            “Let’s take a walk then.”

            Hank’s nose wrinkled and her eyes squinted.

            “I’m not asking for a date,” Solo said. Of course, when you find out what I might be asking later....

            Hank agreed, and the couple first walked in the direction of the central jail. The whole block around the building was thick with soldiers and police officers. But it had not been blocked off, and Solo and Hank were able to circle around. There was an open area in the back, bordered on the rear by a brick wall. The agent couldn’t help but notice how narrow the alleys on either side of the jail were. It wouldn’t be easy to move, especially if things got chaotic. Behind the brick wall, there were other narrow streets.

            “Napoleon, what are you thinking?” Hank asked.

            “Do I detect a note of concern?” Solo replied.

            “Yeah, concern whether I’ll collect the rest of my money if you do something foolish.”

            He looked into her face. The eyes belied the tough broad image and exuded worry. Or did they? Solo reminded himself that all he knew of Hank was what he had observed on the flight from Terbuf. If he were on an authorized assignment, he’d already know practically everything there was to know about Henrietta Van Buskirk. High school graduation date. College graduation, if any. Habits. Religion, if any. Left handed, right handed or ambidextrous. Now, though, he didn’t risk communications with U.N.C.L.E. Plausible deniability was the phrase. Waverly couldn’t order the end to something he didn’t know about, officially.

            Now he faced a choice. The wrong choice would probably mean his neck. Even a right choice wasn’t a guarantee.

            “All right, you want to know what I’m thinking?”

            “Sure.”

            “A friend of mine is there,” Solo said, gesturing toward the Central Jail they were now walking away from. “He’s among the people they’ve rounded up. They’re getting ready to do some kind of big execution. I’m not sure when, maybe tomorrow.”

            “What,” Hank replied, stunned for a second. “I mean, you don’t think--”

            “I don’t know if I can,” Solo said, interrupting. “But I have to try.”

            Hank rolled her eyes. “Henrietta Van Buskirk, collector of lost souls.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Never mind. Well, if you can get your friend out, I suppose I can be your pilot.”

            “Well, there might be something else you can do.”

            “Napoleon, don’t press your luck.”

            “What I’m about to suggest might seem a bit, eh, disconcerting. But it could do a lot to ensure we are successful.”

            “Disconcerting?” Hank said skeptically. “How exactly?”

            “Well, it requires using talents other than your skills as a pilot.”

            “What skills?”

            Solo began to gesture with his hands. Suddenly, Hank’s mouth was agape. “Oh, no, no, I’m a pilot, period!”

            “If we work it out right, you’ll only be a pilot,” Solo said. “It’ll be more like you’ll pretend to be something you aren’t.”

            “Like what?”

            “A prostitute.”

            “No way! There is no way you’ll be able to talk me into this!”

***

            A half hour later, Solo and Hank exited a shop in a less reputable part of Pristina. Hank still wore her denim pants and jacket, except this time the jacket was zipped all the way up. Also, she wore a considerable amount of blush and eye liner.

            “Do you know how impractical garters are, Napoleon?” Hank said, gritting her teeth. “This outfit I’m wearing under here is ridiculous.”

            “Hopefully you won’t be in that outfit for long.”

            “I thought you said I was supposed to pretend I was a prostitute.”

            “That’s absolutely correct,” Solo replied, his voice calm and in control. “If everything goes right, you’ll be the honey that will attract a very nasty bee...”

***

            Captain Vojislav Stosic again wandered into Pristina’s red-light district. It was only mid-afternoon but Stosic wanted to get the distasteful task out of the way early. There were many preparations to complete for the execution the Colonel had ordered for tomorrow. Stosic sighed, reflecting how Milovanich couldn’t curb his appetites for even 24 hours. The Colonel had spent more time with prostitutes than his own men during the past few days.

            Milovanich’s instructions were explicit. It had to be a new woman every time. He could not secure the same prostitute once the Colonel was finished with her for the night. Captain Stosic was running out of bordellos. Pretty soon, he would have to force women into servitude...

            “Captain?”

            Stosic stopped. A man in a gray suit and dark overcoat stood next to one of the grimy buildings.

            “You were addressing me?” the Captain said.

            “You have gained quite a reputation in some circles,” said the man, whose dark hair, parted on the left, formed a comma over his forehead. “I perhaps thought we could conduct some business.”

            A little bit of Stosic died inside. He was a proud military officer, he made the army his career. To be known for this disgusted his very being.

            “You presume a great deal.”

            “Captain, please, I am sure you are doing this on orders. But time is money.”

            Stosic couldn’t quite make out the accent. It was not Serbian or Albanian, or a tongue native to this region. But he couldn’t tell if it was American or Western, either.

            The Captain sighed. “You know what I look for?”

            “Follow me, please.”

            The Captain, looked wary.

            “Please, just over here.”

            They went to the closest alleyway. Stosic eyes widened. The woman was striking, the makeup accentuated the high cheekbones. Milovanich would surely salivate over her.

            “What do you think, eh?” the man said.

            “She may be acceptable.” The Captain reached for the zipper of the jacket. “May I?”

            The woman tensed, an odd reaction, Stosic thought. But her companion nodded and she relaxed. She removed the Captain’s hand and zipped down the jacket herself. Underneath the heavy coat, she was wearing a black bustier. Stosic found himself staring for a second, and she quickly zipped up the jacket.

            “She will do,” the Captain said, who reached into a pocket and whipped out several notes of currency.

            The man took the money. The woman’s left sleeve had a zipper, which the man unzipped and stuffed some of the notes inside the pocket. “Your share,” he said.

            Stosic gestured for the woman to follow to him. She paused for a moment, looked at the other man, then began walking.

***

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters

New York City

 

            Alexander Waverly puffed away on his pipe as he stood looking out his office window. The room was dead silent until the intercom buzzed. Waverly turned, then walked deliberately to the conference table.

            “Yes, Miss Rogers?”

            “It’s the call you were expecting. From Moscow.”

            “Patch in on my private line, will you?”

            The U.N.C.L.E. chief took a few steps over to the wall, flipped a switch, and the wall opened, revealing his own desk. He sat down and picked up the receiver of the red telephone on the surface.

            “Waverly here,” he said in Russian.

            “Alex, it’s Dimitri.”

            “Any news, Dimitri?”

            “The message has been delivered to Belgrade. My sources tell me it was relayed to Pristina, but...”

            “But what?”

            “Officially, the word is the matter will be addressed. I’m not so sure.”

            “How can that be?” Waverly said, testily, his accent ragged. “The Serbs are supposed to be allies of yours. I would think this would be a simple matter.”

            “That region is anything but simple. If some of things I’ve heard are correct, your own organization is not of one mind concerning this situation. And, besides, if you haven’t read the dossier on Milovanich yet, I suggest you do so. In any event, all that can be done, has been done. I’m sorry, Alexander.”

            “Not any sorrier than I am. Very well, thank you, Dimitri.”

            “Good-bye.”

            Waverly replaced the receiver, then opened a desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper. The desk also had an intercom and he flipped the switch.

            “Miss Rogers?”

            “Sir?”

            “Ask personnel to have the most recent updates ready for the personnel files of Miss Dancer, Miss Thorstrom and Messrs. Morton and Slate. No rush. But I’d like them first thing tomorrow.”

            “Yes sir.”

            After the connection broke off, Waverly spoke again, this time to himself. “Assuming Mr. Solo doesn’t do something to get himself killed.”

 

Eight

 

            Illya Kuryakin lay on the floor for what seemed like hours. The pain went away gradually and he faded in and out of consciousness. He finally began to dream. He envisioned the torture room, filled to capacity, with hooded men punching their victims with brass knuckles, others using pliers and other common tools. And there was the man operating the battery switch....

            Kuryakin awoke with a start. Andre stood there, bending over to stare at the Russian.

            “Are you all right, Mr. Kuryakin?”

            Illya tried to speak but could only groan. He caught his breath, then finally got the words out. “I have been much better, but for the moment I am fine.”

            Kuryakin slowly sat up. The large cell looked no different than before. The occupants displayed a variety of emotions, from anxiety to resignation. But the cell was quiet, the suffering was a silent one.

            “Why do they do this to us?” Andre asked.

            “Unfortunately, that is the dark side of man. That’s especially true of this particular region. Memories are long. The desire for revenge of long-ago incidents is great. It is nothing you, or your mother, have done.”

            “Are we going to die?”

            Kuryakin looked at the young gypsy. No life that young should be snuffed out. But the Russian knew the odds were increasing in that direction by the minute.

            “I honestly do not know,” Illya said.

***

            The guards looked straight ahead as Captain Stosic escorted the woman. The Captain could feel their contempt, even as the guard maintained their stony expressions. He had been humiliated by Milovanich with this ridiculous duty of securing prostitutes.

            As they continued walking, Stosic glanced back at the woman. There was something different about her, she seemed anxious. Not like the others he had brought here during the past few days. Perhaps she wasn’t an experienced professional, maybe she had been forced into it to survive. It didn’t matter to Stosic. All that mattered was whether Milovanich would be satisfied. Hopefully, Stosic thought, he’d be reassigned soon. Milovanich would return to Belgrade as the conquering hero, the man who secured Kosovo for Serbia. And Stosic could go back to being a career soldier.

            He opened the door to Milovanich’s quarters. The seizure of this building as the military headquarters had been sudden, and the room was Spartan for the highest-ranking military commander. Yet, the Serbs had managed to find a plush bed from a nearby hotel and have it brought it here. There was also a small refrigerator, appropriated from an Albanian-owned business. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket. Evidently another member of the military staff wanted to get his task out of the way, so he could get on with his real job.

            “It will likely be a few hours before your services are required. There is a modicum of food. But do not leave here,” Stosic said. “Your attire may be somewhat distracting to the others.” The Captain didn’t wait for a response and quickly left.

            Henrietta Van Buskirk unzipped the jacket halfway and began to pace. What the hell have you let yourself get talked into? she thought. Who is this Napoleon Solo, anyway? Some guy who says he’s looking to save a friend. Why the hell did I believe a story like that? Dammit, you’d better be right.

***

            Napoleon Solo sipped the bitter coffee. Outwardly, he appeared calm. His stomach rumbled, and not because it had been several hours since he last ate. Solo now pondered how to save one life, he was endangering another. His own voice, in a similar circumstance, now filled his head. “Of course I don’t blame myself. It had to be done.”

            Solo had never really believed that, of course. He was busier trying to figure his way out of a death trap to think about the ethical implications of having involved an innocent. But at least that was an officially sanctioned affair. Now, years later, he was on his own, trying to pull off, at best, an improbable feat. What would the odds be? If Illya were here, he’d probably compute the precise figure. Then again, if Illya were here, they’d be having a stiff drink. And Henrietta Van Buskirk wouldn’t be in some Serbian general’s bedroom.

            “It had to be done,” Solo heard his own voice saying. Maybe.

            Just then, a heavy-set, balding man with thick glasses approached the table. “Mr. Solo?” A trace of a German accent.

            “I’m Solo.”

            “Kreiger. May I join you?”

            Solo gestured for Kreiger to sit down. “I was rather hoping Miss Van Buskirk might be with you.”

            “Miss Van Buskirk is occupied with other matters.”

            “Too bad,” Kreiger replied. “Nevertheless, I understand you may be in need of products which I can provide.”

            “Perhaps,” Solo said.

            “I have a wide assortment. Very good quality.”

            “I had something else in mind from your usual product line. Something more in the perfume family.”

            “Perfume?”

            “Tear gas would do,” Solo said, looking at the German straight in the eye. “But I’d settle for simple smoke bombs. Quite a few.”

            Kreiger took off his thick glasses, wiping them with a lens cloth. “I think I can obtain a quantity of the material. Perhaps this time tomorrow.”

            “This evening, or it’s no deal.”

            Kreiger snorted. “I believe you Americans refer to that as a rush order. It is quite difficult to fill.”

            “Would $50,000 U.S. dollars ease your difficulty?”

            “As a downpayment,” the German said. “Against $100,000 total.”

            Solo arched his eyebrows. He recalled some details about Kreiger in an U.N.C.L.E. dossier. “Agreed. Where to meet?”

            Kreiger took out a piece of paper and a pen. “Outside of the city proper would be better,” he said, writing on the paper. “This map is a bit crude, but should be serviceable.”

            “Around 8 p.m.?”

            “Very well,” Kreiger said. “Until then.”

            The German stood up in a very deliberate manner and walked slowly out of the cafe. Solo paid his bill and again thought about the details of the U.N.C.L.E. dossier on Kreiger.

 

Nine

           

            Henrietta Van Buskirk managed to doze, despite her anxiety, by sitting in the biggest chair she could find, and propping her feet over the side. But her sleep was shallow and fitful and she instantly woke up when the key began to open the lock.

            Hank could feel the blood rushing through her body and tried to fight back the urge to hyperventilate. Remember the plan, remember the plan, remember...

            The door opened. Colonel Kapstan Milovanich stood there, still holding the key in the lock. He looked up, and then down at Hank. Just beyond the door, she could see a guard taking his place. “That will be all, Sergeant,” Milovanich said.

            Hank ran her right hand through her brunette hair. Milovanich had the look of a cruel man, she thought, something about the eyes. She could almost see the veins in the bulbous nose, and his face had the ruddy complexion of a man who drank too much.

            “Ah, you’ll do splendidly,” Milovanich said. “Except aren’t you somewhat overdressed?”

            Hank smirked momentarily, then began to kick off her shoes, followed by undoing her pants.

            “There is no rush, my dear,” the Colonel said.

            Hank smiled again, then began to slowly unzip the trousers. She removed the pants in a slow and exaggerated way. As the pants dropped to her ankles, she stepped out of them, kicking the trousers away. The garters that held up her stockings were now in plain sight. She then reached to the zipper of the heavy jacket, bringing the zipper down even slower this time.

            Milovanich’s face brightened.

            “May I put this garment some where it won’t get in the way?” Hank said.

            “Of course,” the Colonel replied. “There are things worth waiting for.”

            Hank bent over, picked up the trousers with one hand, while having the jacket draped over her other arm. She walked in a very deliberate manner over to a closet, first hanging up the pants, then putting the jacket on a hangar. At the last second, she fumbled the coat and it fell to the floor of the closet.

            “Excuse me,” she said.

            Milovanich nodded but said nothing.

            She bent over again, her bottom pointed in Milovanich’s direction. She hoped that would be a distraction as she reached for the zipper in the sleeve, reached in with her thumb and forefinger and extracted a small tablet. After hanging the coat up, she turned around, holding her arms behind her.

            “Colonel, I could not help but notice you had champagne on ice.”

            Milovanich glanced in the direction of the ice bucket, then returned his gaze to her. “Of course.”

            “May we?”

            Milovanich grinned. At last, someone who appreciates the rituals, he thought. A much higher class of woman than the peasant prostitutes Captain Stosic has been bringing me.

            The Colonel walked over to the table where the ice bucket lay. He aggressively reached for the bottle and began to squeeze at the cork. A second later, a loud pop filled the room as the cork flew and the champagne bubbled out of the bottle.

            Hank saw two glasses -- plain ones, not champagne glasses -- and walked toward the Colonel. “Allow me, Colonel,” she said, reaching for the bottle.

            Milovanich nodded in approval, as Hank took the champagne and the glasses back to the table. She turned her back toward him for a moment, beginning to pour the contents into the glasses. Hank dropped the tablet in while still pouring, seeing it dissolve. Then she poured the other glass for herself.

            “Cheers,” she said, handing the glass to him.

            He gulped down the champagne as she sipped hers. He then put the glass back on the table and moved toward her. “Now...”

            “Wait!”

            “What?!”

            “I mean, you said yourself there was no rush,” Hank said. “Come over here,” she said, gesturing toward the bed.

            Milovanich followed, scanning Hank’s bustier-clad figure. As he reached the edge of the bed, Hank nudged him, and he sat down on the edge. Hank then kneeled and began to yank at Milovanich’s left boot.

            “Ah, you do know how to treat a man correctly,” Milovanich said.

            That goddam tablet better work the way Napoleon said it woud, Hank thought, smiling and looking up at the Colonel.

***

Somewhere Outside

Pristina, Kosovo

 

            It was five minutes before eight, but Kreiger was already in place, along a path, a mile or so off the main road when Solo’s truck pulled up.

            “So, Herr Kreiger, you’re early,” Solo said as he exited the truck.

            “Do you have the money, Mr. Solo?”

            “Only if you have the merchandise. As the seller, I think it’s your initiative to demonstrate.”

            Kreiger grunted. He took a few steps, then appeared to grab at thin air. In reality, he was yanking at a camouflage covering of a small truck and pulling it off to the side. The covering had made the vehicle melt into the night. The German opened a door and took out a small box.

            “Two dozen tear-gas bombs, each with a timing mechanism,” Kreiger said, opening the box and extracting the contents. “Small but effective. The cloaking effect is quite useful.”

            “Seems like a high price.”

            “Consider the service and delivery charges,” Kreiger said. “Not to mention my discretion. I have trouble wondering why an agent for the U-N-C-L-E would have need of such simple devices when the organization has access to far more sophisticated ones. Unless, of course..”

            The sentence hung in mid air as the sound of galloping footsteps filled the air and the first thug rushed Solo. The barrel-chested man was trying to hold the agent as Solo elbowed him once, twice, three times in the ribs. The thug let go, and Solo turned around and connected with a right jab, then a right cross.

            The stealth of the second thug caught Solo off guard, tripping the U.N.C.L.E. agent and causing him to fall to the ground. Solo’s attacker tried to press his advantage, but Solo grabbed him by his arms, then got his feet under the thug and flipped him over. Solo scrambled up and rushed at Kreiger, who had relaxed as his men had attacked. Kreiger was just taking his semi-automatic pistol out of his shoulder holster when Solo connected with a karate blow. The German fell to the ground.

            Meanwhile, the second thug was rising from the spot where he had landed. Solo drew the U.N.C.L.E. Special and the phfft of the sleep dart firing was the only sound in the night air. The thug grabbed at his shoulder, then collapsed.

            Solo looked at his weapon, then took another glance at the second attacker. He was thin, rail thin. Solo breathed a sigh of relief. Beefier, larger subjects had been able to resist the effects of the sleep darts for long, critical seconds, enough time to seriously injure people. He had avoided using the darts for a long time, ever since one of Agnes Dabree’s lackeys had kept coming despite being hit with one. But he chanced using the darts tonight, his one concession to his unofficial -- and unauthorized -- status.

            The agent went to Kreiger’s vehicle and began unloading the smoke bombs into the rear of his truck. Solo mentally congratulated himself on arriving an hour before the rendezvous, nearly six minutes ahead of Kreiger who began laying his trap. The dossier indicated Mr. Kreiger liked a good double cross, he thought.

            He carried the boxes three at a time. As he was loading the last of the bombs, Solo suddenly heard the sound of flesh against metal. He turned, seeing Kreiger, his hand on his gun starting to take aim. “You should have made sure, Mr. Solo,” Kreiger said, standing up.         

            Solo tensed. That was damn careless, you idiot. You were too sure of yourself. Could he dive to the side soon enough?

            Then, the sounds of gunfire punctuated the night. Kreiger dropped his weapon instantly, falling forward. He landed in a heap, gurgling for a second.

            Solo had the U.N.C.L.E. Special drawn and waited. A second, then two, then three and nothing. Finally, Solo saw a familiar figure emerge from the shadows.

            “You cocksure bastard, you couldn’t listen to good advice, could you?” Samuel Harris said. “You deal with a snake, knowing he’s going to try something but you couldn’t stay away, could you? Damn! You are one stupid son of a bitch!”

            “Sam, what the hell?”

            “I look out for Uncle Sam’s interests, not your Uncle Alex, so don’t get any funny ideas,” Harris replied. “Plus, I may have owed you after that little shindig over in Kiev.”

            “You followed me, eh?”

            “I followed Kreiger after your little business discussion,” Harris said, pronouncing it “bid-ness.”  “I think it’s pretty obvious he figured you’re acting like some kind of one-man band, trying to get that Russian partner of yours out of the clink. Probably guessed he’d do better for himself cutting a deal with Milovanich.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “Son, you should read the newspapers more often. With the West putting pressure on Belgrade, don’t you think they’d love to have an American spy -- and don’t expect for a minute that everyone wouldn’t believe him.”

            Solo took a deep breath. Harris was right, of course. “I suppose I should thank you.”

            “Save the goddamn thanks,” Harris said, walking away. “I know I’m not about to change your mind. But this is the last help you get from me.”

            Harris paused for a moment. “If you make a grab for that Russian bastard, you better succeed. If not, then I’ll shoot you in the head to avoid embarrassing Uncle Sam. Be easier on everyone concerned.”

            A moment later, Harris was gone. Solo took a deep breath, knowing that Harris meant every word of what he said.

 

Ten

 

Colonel Milovanich’s

Quarters, Pristina

 

            Hank now had both boots off. As she stood up, Milovanich was beginning to strip himself of his uniform. In turn, Hank swallowed hard.

            “You are quite lovely, my dear,” Milovanich said, stroking the side of her face with his right hand.

            She smiled, then knelt down and slowly began to undo his pants. Hank glanced up for a moment and thought Milovanich seemed unsteady for a moment. She stroked his genitals for a second, causing him to smile. Then, his eyes closed and he stumbled backward onto to the bed. But as he fell, his foot popped up, knocking a lamp off the adjoining bedstand.

            The loud thump caused Hank to mutter an obscenity under her breath.

            ***

            The noise from inside the Colonel’s quarters caused the guard to jump. Since drawing this duty the past few nights, he had heard nothing quite like this. There were funny rumors about the Colonel’s proclivities. And he had seen one woman come out with a puffy eye.

            The guard banged on the door. No answer. Milovanich had left strict instructions not to be disturbed. But the guard felt queasy. What if the woman were an assassin?

            He forced in the door, his rifle ready to fire. But the sergeant froze when he saw the bare back of the prostitute, who was on top of Milovanich, who lay on the bed with an extremely happy expression on his face. She turned and snarled, but the guard was already out of the quarters and shutting the door behind him.

            Inside, Henrietta Van Buskirk pulled the bustier back up and let out a deep sigh of relief.

***

            Napoleon Solo knelt over the unconscious thug, found a vein in his arm and jammed the needle home. He pushed the plunger, administering a fluid, ensuring he wouldn’t awaken for another eight hours. The knockout fluid was more sure and lasted longer than the sleep darts. It was the second time in the past five minutes he had used the drug kit; it had taken a few minutes to admister the drug to Kreiger’s barrel-chested accomplice. Then, he rolled Kreiger’s body into a nearby ditch, and covered his vehicle with the camouflage material.

            Solo reflected about the events of the past hour. He never did hear the sound of a motorized vehicle when Samuel Harris left. If I do get out of this, maybe I’ll send him a bottle of Scotch, Solo thought. Or maybe not.

            The agent got into the truck he and Hank had borrowed less than 24 hours ago. It seems like days ago. And the longest part of the night is yet to come.

            Solo quickly changed out of the suit and into the turtleneck and other clothes. He just hoped Hank could do her end of the job. If she couldn’t, they were all dead. Hank, Illya, himself. Not to mention the various captives Milovanich intended to execute.

            As he started up the truck, Solo grunted to himself. This had started out as a way to get Illya the hell out. The body in the ditch and Samuel Harris’s intervention here had upped the stakes. And there was no telling what the old fox would do. But all that could wait.

***

            A half hour later, Solo drove the truck into Pristina. He took the pen communicator from his pocket and activated it. The device’s volume was low, a sign he still had driving to do.

            Solo had placed the homing device in Hank’s jacket as a way to track her down later. Hopefully that jacket won’t end up too far from where she is, Solo thought.

            The agent kept to side streets but headed in the general direction of the Central Jail. Sure enough, the volume of the communicator got louder. Finally, about a block east of the jail, Solo could see a two story structure. Even in the distance, he saw the guards in front.

            He parked the truck in an alley, about as close as he dared. He zipped his jacket, got out of the truck and locked it, then made his way toward the building. 

            Solo figured Milovanich would seize something convenient for his stay in Pristina. He only hoped Hank would be skilled enough to drop the capsule in a way the Colonel wouldn’t see it. What the hell have you done, Solo?

            Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Solo made his way to a rear alley. There was an old drain pipe that ran down the side of the structure. Solo tested it as best he could and figured it might support his weight. So he grabbed at it, found a toe hold, then worked his way up the edge of the building. Luckily, there was a narrow ledge at the second floor, enabling the agent to stand. Keeping to the side of the building, he used the communicator to guide him. After moving about fifty feet, there was a narrow window, with the curtains undrawn.

            Solo peered in, where he saw Hank, wearing her trousers but not the jacket. He noticed for a moment how the bustier hugged Hank’s form. He sighed for a second, then gently knocked at the window.

            Henrietta Van Buskirk jumped for a second until she recognized Solo. She grabbed for the jacket and put it on, though she left it unzipped.

            “That took you long enough!” Hank said, in a low, quiet voice as she unlocked the window.

            “Sorry, but our friend Kreiger had a double cross in mind,” he replied as he stepped gingerly inside.

            “You didn’t?...”

            “I didn’t,” Solo said, not exactly lying. “He’s not a threat, but there’s still plenty of danger to deal with.”

            “I’m sorry, Napoleon, but this is nuts. I still don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

            “I needed to get Milovanich out of the way to make the rescue work.” Solo took a deep breath. “Hank, you’ve done more than I could reasonably expect. If you want to bug out, go ahead.”

            She grimaced. “Now don’t try and lay a guilt trip on me...”

            “I’m not,” Solo said. “You’ve taken enough chances already. I’ll get my friend out, one way or another.”

            Now it was Hank’s turn to sigh. She glanced back on the bed at the sleeping Milovanich. “Oh, wishful thinking. How did you know I was such a softie, anyway?”

            Solo smiled. “Your eyes.”

            “They give me away every time,” she said. “OK, what do we do now?”

            “How many guards outside?”

            “Only one I know of.”

            Solo rubbed his chin for a minute. “All right, help me undress him.”

            “Huh?”

***

            A few minutes later, the guard heard a thumping from the door.

            “Please, I think he may have had a heart attack!” It was the voice of the woman prostitute.

            Again, he readied himself, then leaned hard on the door, forcing it open. The woman was in the bed, the sheet held up all the way to her face, while Milovanich lay there on his stomach.

            Before the guard could react, his world turned dark.

            Napoleon Solo, dressed in Milovanich’s uniform, connected with the karate blow. The guard fell straight to the floor, and the agent clipped the temple of his head just for safe measure. Solo got up, and shut the door.

            Hank threw off the sheet, still with the jacket and trousers covering her bustier. “How long will he be out?”

            Not answering, Solo reached into a pocket and took out the drug kit. The agent didn’t want to chance people waking up too soon. He extracted the syringe, checked the dosage, then bent over and found a vein in the guard’s arm. He quickly administered a shot. “He’ll be out long enough, I imagine. OK, what time is it?”

            Hank looked around for a clock. “About 12:30.”

            Solo looked off for a moment. “About five hours or so till the execution. Maybe we can screw up their timetable.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “I’ll fill you in as we go along. How good are you at climbing?”

                        ***

            Ten minutes later, Hank was shinnying down the drainage pipe on the side of the building. “I don’t think I’ve ever had to work this hard to earn a fee.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            She didn’t answer Solo, who was beneath her  and reached the ground first. He stayed there in case she fell, but Hank was athletic enough to climb down without incident.

            “All right, stay close to me,” he said.

            They spent the next fifteen minutes making their way back to the truck. After double checking, Solo determined they hadn’t been followed and they got in the vehicle’s cab.

            “The tear-gas bombs are in back,” Solo said. “I’ve checked them out. They’re fairly easy to operate.”

            “All right,” she replied. “But just when do we get the chance to operate them?”

            “Let’s see. About 12:45 now. We’ll set them for 3 a.m. Let’s spread them around the rear of the Central Jail.”

            “Are you nuts?” Hank said testily. “That place is probably crawling with soldiers.”

            “We wait an hour, we keep to the shadows. Don’t risk getting too close, just plant them as close as possible.”

            “Do you really have a plan, Napoleon?”

            Solo arched his eyebrows. “Enough of one, I think.”

            ***

            An hour later, they took a circuitous route to the Central Jail, taking as many tear-gas bombs as they could carry. A half block from the jail, they rested in an alley behind the facility and Solo took one of the smoke bombs out of its container.
            “Simple,” Solo said, holding it up. “Here’s the timer. Set it for an hour from now.” He put it behind a nearby garbage can.

            “Now what?” Hank asked.

            “Let’s spread the wealth. But be careful. Set each one so it goes off a few minutes after 3 a.m.”

            Over the next fifteen minutes, they covered as much ground as they could, each one putting smoke bombs where ever they could, under trucks, inside garbage containers, just inside of sewer gratings. They met where they started, at the alley behind the jail.

            “Any signs of being followed?” Solo asked.

            “No, it’s as quiet as a grave. Now what?”

            Solo glanced at his watch. “Let’s wait a half hour. Then we walk to the jail.”

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

***

            Dragoljub Barac squinted as he saw the Colonel approach. He wasn’t sure for a moment but his eyes hadn’t deceived him. He had a woman on his arms. But it wasn’t that pig, Colonel Milovanich. It was another man, but one clearly wearing the uniform of the Serbian army. What is it about these Serbian officers and their appetite for women? Barac thought. First Milovanich, now this one. They apparently feel the need to show these women how powerful they are. Bah!

            Barac cursed under his breath. Normally, he’d be in bed, after having worked a day shift as a member of Pristina’s police. But he had been forced into service, virtually enslaved by the Serbian army, carrying on glorified guard duty.

            “Pardon me,” the officer said. “I am Colonel Solovian.”

            “Yes Colonel,” Barac said, looking instead at the brunette woman. “Pardon me for asking, but is it wise to have the woman here?” A foolish question, Barac thought. The man is probably cut of the same cloth as Milovanich.

            “I will take full responsibility,” he said. “Now, to business. We need to round up the prisoners and carry out the execution.”

            Barac did a double take. “But that is not scheduled...”

            “There has been a change in schedule. Colonel Milovanich has been relieved of his command for the moment. This ridiculous spectacle has drawn ridicule from Belgrade. I am in command now.”

            Barac stared for a moment. “But I do not understand...”

            “You do not have to understand!” the Colonel said. “How many of you are there?”

            “Just three of us. We are to be relieved at four, when preparations are to begin.”

            “I do not have all night. Take me to the prisoners.”

            Barac looked into the angular face of Colonel Solovian. He saw a stern, serious expression. Clearly this was not a man who suffered fools. He changed his mind. This was man not a theatrical figure like Milovanich. If Solovian wanted you dead, he’d kill you. Barac felt a momentary chill down his spine.

            “This way, Colonel.”

            The group walked by one man at a desk, just inside. They walked down a corridor where a single guard was at the cell door. Barac looked inside the cell. He thought he saw one of the prisoners, a blonde man lying on the floor, stir and open his eyes wide. But Barac quickly turned his attention to Colonel Solovian.

            “Unlock the cell door, please,” Solovian said.

            Barac did as he was told. The other guard remained in place. Barac motioned to the prisoners who were awake and began raising his voice. “Get up! Awaken! You are being transferred.”

            Solovian looked at the blonde prisoner, who arose as the others awakened.

            “Obviously, you are the shame of your family,” the Colonel said to the blonde man. “Your uncle, no doubt, would be gravely disappointed.”

            The blonde man nodded for a second, then shrugged his shoulders.

            Then, all hell broke loose.

            Barac felt the breath rush from his body as the blonde prisoner struck him once in the solar plexus. Everything began to cloud up as he bent over. The blonde man struck another blow, to ensure Barac would remain unconscious. Solovian, simultaneously, outdrew the other man, his pistol only emitting a phftt before the guard could fire. Seconds later, the guard at the front rushed the group, but the man in the Colonel’s uniform was ready, firing a dart that caused the man to stumble and fall unconscious.

            The other prisoners, now wide awake, were on the verge of panic. Illya Kuryakin tried to quiet them down. “You must be still! This is our only chance!” The Russian exuded authority and the group quickly fell silent.

            “Illya, are you all right?” Solo said.

            Kuryakin glanced at the woman nearby. “Who is she?”

            “She helped me.”

            “Of course.”

            “You didn’t answer my question,” Solo said.

            “A separated shoulder and other assorted injuries. Now, how do we proceed?”

            “Let’s head out to the courtyard out back.”

            Illya and Hank helped keep the other prisoners calm, and they all left the cell single file. Solo was at the front, heading toward the jail’s rear exit. He paused for a moment, then turned to Kuryakin.

            “Illya, you and Hank stay with me. We all stay together till we reach the rear wall. Then everyone scatter. Pass the word.”

            “Who is Hank?” Kuryakin asked.

            Solo nodded in Henrietta Van Buskirk’s direction.

             “I should have known,” Kuryakin said.

            The U.N.C.L.E. agent opened the door, and began heading the group toward the wall at the rear of the courtyard. Just then, a sentry moved from the side of the building toward the large group. Solo waved at the man for a moment, then drew the U.N.C.L.E. Special and shot a sleep dart. The agent then waved his arms and began to trot. The prisoners didn’t need to ask what to do and were running already.

            Just then, smoke began to envelope the courtyard as loud bangs could be heard.

            Somehow, the prisoners kept enough poise not to trample one another. The wall was low enough the men could raise themselves up with little trouble, despite stiff muscles and other ailments from their confinement. Some men paused, helping women and children over the wall. Illya moved over to the structure to boost a woman over. She stayed at the top long enough for Kuryakin to hand her a boy. The mother and child -- at least Solo assumed they were mother and child -- disappeared, though the agent thought he heard her thank Illya.

            The smoke was now heavy. But Solo, assisting Hank with getting Illya over the wall, could hear rushing footsteps from behind them. He couldn’t see, but figured the commotion had stirred the police, or soldiers or both.

            “Hurry!” Solo yelled to the prisoners, of whom half were still at the wall, trying to get over.

            He looked back into the fog. Even in the dark, he could see the form of various soldiers. The whole plan involved getting in and out quickly. Dammit, we’re not going to make it...

            Just then, from above and to the side, Solo heard machine gun fire. He tensed, half expecting to be hit himself. Instead, he saw the onrushing figures, crashing to the ground. Others, behind them, rushed back in the direction of the jail, looking for cover. Solo looked up and, on the roof of a nearby building, thought he saw something.

            It was Petr Yellen, leading a group of gypsies firing a type of machine gun that the agent couldn’t make out. Petr, amazingly, caught Solo’s glance and saluted.

            The agent instantly remembered what Petr had said when Solo asked what had happened to Emil. The big gypsy was unavailable because “he was quite busy with various matters.” Apparently, Emil had organized his own rescue party for the gypsies.

            Solo returned the salute in Petr’s direction, then looked back, seeing that Hank had Illya over the wall. Solo then scrambled over the wall himself. It now looked as if everyone was away. The sound of gunfire continued to fill the air, but Solo didn’t look back.

            For the next fifteen minutes, Solo and Hank helped Illya as best they could. The Russian couldn’t run very well, and fell down more than once. But the fire from the gypsies held back the soldiers long enough they could reach the truck in the alley a few blocks away. Hank took the wheel, fired up the engine, while Solo shoved Illya in the middle of the seat, and took the passenger side.

            “I thought you were supposed to be on leave,” Kuryakin muttered.

            “You’re welcome,” Solo said.

            Hank looked at the agents for a second, rolled her eyes, then concentrated on driving the truck.

            ***

            Lisa Rogers came into the office of the Number One of Section One. Normally, he’d be gone by this time of night. But now, around 3 a.m. New York time, he seemed to be dozing in one of the chairs by the round conference table.

            “Sir?” Lisa said, trying to gently nudge Waverly.

            “Oh?” Waverly said, opening his eyes.

            “Sir, it’s very late.”

            He looked at his watch. “Dawn has come and gone in Kosovo. Have we received any word?”

            “None, sir”

            “I don’t understand. I thought that idiot Colonel planned some kind of public spectacle.”

            The communications console buzzed. Waverly flipped a switch. “Yes, what is it?”

            “Sir,” one of the women in communications said, “we’ve just received a dispatch from the Rome station. It says this is very preliminary but that there’s some kind of confusion.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “They think the Kosovo prisoners were freed somehow. They’re not quite sure.”

            “Thank you.”

            Waverly looked at Lisa for a moment. Her face brightened, but she tried not to show it. Then, a telephone began to ring.

            “Miss Rogers, patch that call into the speaker, will you?”

            Lisa complied, moving to the console and working a couple of switches. Then, they both heard a man with a Texas accent.

            “You old bastard. You’re goddamn lucky, you know that? That son of a bitch should be working for me.” The connection went dead before Waverly could speak.

            “Who was that sir?”

            “Never mind, Miss Rogers.” Alexander Waverly then began looking for his pipe.

            ***

            The truck roared out of the city, out into the darkness of the country. Kuryakin was mostly silent, but groaning noticeably when the truck hit bumps in the road. Solo, too, said little, permitting Hank to concentrate on navigating the narrow dirt road. An hour out of town, they reached Vojislav’s farm. The truck skidded past the barn. Hank scrambled out, opened the barn door and took the covering off her plane. Solo, meanwhile, helped Kuryakin gingerly out of the plane. The Russian walked unsteadily, his stance very awkward.

            “Are you sure you only separated your shoulder?” Solo said, helping him hurry to the plane.

            “I will be fine,” Kuryakin said.

            “Come on, quit yapping!” Hank said, getting into the plane.

            Two minutes later, the agents were inside the cabin and Hank fired up the engine, the propellers coming to life. She taxied out even before the men could buckle themselves in. She ran the plane down to the end of a path, turned around and was airborne. The plane jerked into the air and Solo again felt his stomach move around. A few seconds later, however, his spirits rose as the plane stabilized and began its ascent.

            “Napoleon, tell me the truth,” Hank said, finally breaking the silence. “You don’t have any more money do you?”

            “Not $25,000. At least not on me.”

            “So I just risked my life, not to mention my dignity, for about $1,000 and change. Correct?”

            “Something like that.”   

            Kuryakin stared at Solo for a second, then looked over at Hank. “Who is this woman?”

            “A collector of lost souls,” Hank said. “First his and now yours. Well, I should have known. OK, where to?”

            “The Adriatic Coast. If we can get to Terbuf, we’ll be OK.”

            Hank shook her head. “What an idiot I am.”

            Solo reached into a pocket and extracted a card holder. He took out a card, then reached for a pen and began writing on the card.

            “Here,” he said, handing the card to Hank.

            “What’s this?”

            “An IOU. Take it to that address in Rome. They’ll yelp, and I may have to eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch for the rest of my life. But you’ll get your money sooner or later.”

            Nobody in the plane said anything else for the rest of the trip.

           

Eleven

 

            Hank brought the plane as close to town as she could, landing in a field a mile or so outside of the Terbuf capital.

            “Are you sure, you want to do this?” Hank said as Solo and Kuryakin got out of the plane.

            “Things will go better for you if we make ourselves scarce,” Solo said. “And, Hank?”

            “Yes,” she said, her brown eyes widening.

            “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

            Henrietta Van Buskirk smiled, not noticing that Solo’s friend was rolling his eyes. The agents stood there for a minute as the plane began to taxi away and took off into the sky, just as dawn was breaking.

            Kuryakin began to hobble, but was walking better than he had earlier. “I hope you have some ideas.”

            “Come on, gimpy,” Solo replied.

            An hour later, Solo took his remaining funds from the carryon bag and paid off a fisherman. Solo navigated his new boat by himself as Illya lay, exhausted on a seat.

            ***

            The mood in the U.N.C.L.E. office in New York was jubilant, though it was tempered by an underlying feeling of uncertainty. U.N.C.L.E. employees, on their way to work, had heard unbelievable reports on radio and television. The planned mass execution half a world away had not taken place. Word had spread through the rumor mill that Illya Kuryakin was among the prisoners to be killed. Few knew the hard facts, though the expressions on the face of the women in the communications section had betrayed that there might be truth to the rumors.

            Lisa Rogers, though, was beginning to feel depressed. The initial high had worn off and, with the lack of sleep, she began to imagine the worst again. By mid-morning, news accounts had confirmed the execution had been stopped -- no one knew how. But the prisoners had obviously gone underground. The euphoria disguised the continuing danger of the situation. At noon, Lisa had seen a brief speech by the President of the United States on televison expressing cautious optimism over the situation.

            Why hasn’t anybody heard anything? she thought. The exhaustion was getting to her. She rubbed her eyes and looked at her watch. It was now 1:15 p.m., but she felt as if she had been trapped in some kind of limbo.

            Suddenly, she heard a voice on the intercom. “Miss Rogers!” one of the women in communications said. “You won’t believe it. Standby.”

            Lisa’s eyes widened for a moment as a signal was being patched through.

            “Hello Napoleon,” she said. Somehow she just knew it was him.

            “We’re back to Napoleon, are we?” Solo said.

            Her eyes glistened. “Where are you?”

            “We’re in a small boat in the Adriatic Sea.”

            “We?” Lisa said. But she already knew the answer.

            “An LBG and myself.”

            “A what?”

            “Illya. He’s all right.”

            “Napoleon, he’s...”

            “Alive and kicking, yes. Slightly worse for the wear, including a separated shoulder and a few marks here and there, but on the whole in pretty good shape.”

            Another voice interrupted. “I’ll remember that the next time you separate your shoulder.’

            “You lay down and be quiet,” Solo’s voice said. “Lisa, this boat will run out of fuel soon and we’re no match for anyone who might pursue us.”

            Lisa smiled. “Understood. We will try to effect a rescue as soon as possible. Uh, Mr. Solo...”

            “Uh-oh.”

            “I mean, how did you...”

            “I happened to be in the neighborhood. I’ll save the rest for later. I’m activating the beacon function of this communicator.”

            “Acknowledged,” Lisa said. “We’ll get something in the air as quickly as possible. Section One out.”

            ***

            Everything that followed seemed to be on fast forward. The plane from Rome arrived swiftly and the personnel on board were prepared to treat medical problems. Within a couple of hours, the plane arrived back in Rome, where a special ambulance awaited to whisk the agents to a hospital.

            Solo hadn’t felt that tired, until the flight to Rome. It was as if someone pushed a button so he could relax and the agent quickly fell asleep. Before doing so, he glanced over and saw that Illya seemed to need more attention than only a separated shoulder warranted. But he knew the Russian would talk about it only when he was ready....

            The trip to the hospital was a haze, as Solo faded in and out of consciousness. It wasn’t until mid-morning of the next day, laying in his hospital bed, that Solo was fully alert. The sight of Alexander Waverly sitting in the chair next to the bed did that to him.

            “Uh, sir, I...”

            “Quite all right, Mr. Solo. I haven’t been here long. Mr. Kuryakin is still resting, but I thought I’d begin the debriefing with you.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “My position requires me to say a few things, first, however. What you did, Mr. Solo, was one of the most irresponsible and reckless acts I’ve ever seen. You may have artfully dodged being formally ordered to stay out of Kosovo, but I think you were quite aware of the consequences, were you not?”

            Solo frowned. “Yes, sir.”

            “It was a delicate situation. Diplomats of multiple nations were working hard to effect a solution. Yet you traipse in under the very nose of the authorities and commenced a rescue operation of some sort. U.N.C.L.E., need I remind you, is not in the business of invading soverign governments.”

            “Actually, as it turned out, I wasn’t the only one. Apparently some gypsies were involved in their own action.”

            “Oh?” Waverly said, raising his eyebrows. Solo thought he saw the U.N.C.L.E. chief chuckle but wasn’t sure. “In any case, Mr. Solo, you acted completely on your own. It was a considerably risky maneuver.”

            “Yes, sir. I know.”

            Waverly cleared his throat. “Good job.”

            Solo squinted for a moment. But he knew Waverly wasn’t about to repeat the remark. So he let it pass.

            “I need to attend to something over at the Rome station, Mr. Solo. We can do the full debriefing this afternoon. I believe Mr. Kuryakin should come around by then. I’ll see you later.” With that, Waverly picked up his overcoat and left the room.

            Some time later, Solo had relaxed and dozed again. This time, he was awakened by the ringing telephone next to his bed.

            The agent looked puzzled, wondering who could be calling. When he picked up the receiver, Solo heard a familiar voice.

            “Mr. Solo, how is your health?” Emil said.

            “How’d you get this number?”

            “I am sorry, Mr. Solo, there is only so much we can reveal, even to outsiders we consider friends. How are you and your friend?”

            “Illya took quite a bit of punishment, but I think he’ll be fine. I should be all right. What about your people? As things transpired, they were an enormous aid -- even if that’s not what you intended.”

            Emil paused. “My people made it safely. Tell Mr. Kuryakin that Maria and Andre are safe. He will know to whom I am referring.”

            “What about Petr?”

            “Wounded, but it is almost a point of pride,” Emil said, then let out a short laugh. “The whimsy of youth.”

            “Still, I was glad he and his friends showed up,” Solo replied. “And at least he has a chance to gain additional maturity.”

            Emil laughed again, louder this time. “Good-bye, Napoleon. The Balkans are always an interesting place when you arrive.” The connection went dead.

            Solo replaced the receiver slowly. “Perhaps too interesting.”

           

***

Somewhere in

Belgrade, Serbia

 

            Colonel Kapstan Milovanich was led into the President’s office. The official looked up, bags around his eyes. His thinning gray hair was cut in a flattop style. The large nose flared when the President saw that Milovanich was in the room.

            “Sit down, Colonel,” the President said, gesturing to the seat opposite his desk. Next to the President stood a bald man with wire glasses and a thin mustache. Meanwhile, Captain Stosic had accompanied Milovanich and stood at his side.

            “Colonel Milovanich, I’m sure you are aware of the plans we are implementing in the Kosovo province, are you not?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “It has been a dream for centuries for Kosovo to be safe for Serbians, to rid ourselves of these Muslim pigs. And your actions, in addition to bringing great embarrassment, are a potential threat to those plans. Do you comprehend, Colonel?”

            “Sir, this obviously was the result of actions taken by some sort of intelligence agency, perhaps more than one.”

            “Oh, shut up,” the President said. “Do you think I was not aware you were dealing with this Thrush? You paid good money for their weapons, and they turn around and sell the same devices to the separatists in Kosovo. They played you for a fool, Colonel.”

            “Sir, I--”

            “Get out of my sight,” the President said.

            Milovanich’s face turned ashen, but he turned and prepared to leave. But Captain Stosic lingered for a moment, long enough to see the bald man, the President’s aide, nod his head. Stosic returned the nod, then turned to follow Milovanich out the door.

            Five minutes passed, and the President and his aide began to study papers on the President’s desk. Then, the sound of a single gunshot reverberated, somewhere off in the distance.

            The President looked at his aide. “Prepare the papers giving Colonel Stosic the command in Kosovo. He knows what needs to be done.”

***

Somewhere in Rome

 

            The nurse who pushed Napoleon Solo’s wheelchair made the plain uniform look sexier than most nightgowns. Solo enjoyed the ride, but asked her to take a slight detour to Illya Kuryakin’s room.

            The Russian was sitting up in bed, tending to a meal of bland hospital food. “You look considerably healthier than when you arrived,” the American said.

            “I’m a fast healer,” Kuryakin said, not looking in Solo’s direction.

            “How much longer are you in for?”

            “A couple of days.”

            “Well, I’ll have to find a way to pass the time until you’re free to go out to dinner.”

            Kuryakin glanced toward Solo, then looked up at the nurse. “Somehow, I think you will manage.”

            “I’ll swing by tomorrow,” Solo said. “Au revoir.”

            The nurse began to wheel Solo out, when the Russian spoke up again.

            “Napoleon?”

            The nurse stopped for Solo to answer. “Yes?”

            “Thank you. And Andre, no doubt, would thank you also.”

            Solo smiled for a moment. If the explanation were ever to be offered, Illya would do so in his own time. “Take care of yourself.”

            A few minutes later, the nurse had taken Solo to the hospital lobby.

            “I am a bit surprised,” she said.

            “Why is that?”

            “Many men say they feel -- how do you say? -- silly when riding in the wheelchair as mandated by hospital policy.”

            “Some men just don’t appreciate the logic behind a situation,” Solo said, smiling.

            They passed through the hospital lobby. “This is as far as I can take you,” the nurse said.

            “Too bad,” Solo said, getting out of the wheelchair and kissing her hand.

            The nurse smiled, then turned and took the wheelchair back inside the hospital. Solo then began to look out toward the chaotic street, looking for a taxi.

            “Hello, stranger. Need a lift?”

            The agent turned. It was Henrietta Van Buskirk, this time in a sensible, but attractive, yellow dress.       
            “Hank,” Solo said, his spirits rising. “I mean, I didn’t expect...”

            “Well, I needed to come to Rome if I was going to collect on that fee. Although, from what I gather, this isn’t your home office.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I went to that address and ran into this funny old man. Dressed in a tweed suit, very proper and mannered. Very nice and all. But he took one look at that card, went away and came back with a cashier’s check. Said he was visiting from the home office.”

            Solo smiled. “I picked Rome because the head of the office and I, well, don’t quite get along. Figured I’d get under his skin a little. The man you met is top man of the head office.”

            “He also said something about a plane the authorities had seized from some sort of criminal group. He was very fuzzy, but said the authorities had to dispose of the plane and I could have it. Turns out my bird has just about had it. So I picked it up this morning. What’s going on, Napoleon?”

            “Just don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Hank. So what brings you here?”

            “The man in the tweed suit told me you were here. I think, well, what you did...”

            “Forget it,” Solo said. “People usually do the right thing when given the chance. You did, certainly.”

            Hank smiled. “How’s your friend?”

            “He’ll be staying here a couple of days. I was just in for observation. I’m fine.”

            “Been to Rome much before?”

            “Several times.”

            “Perhaps you could show me around?”

            Solo smiled again. “I’d be delighted.”

 

Epilogue

 

            The days in Rome were lovely, but all too few. Solo saw Hank fly her new plane off. She didn’t say where and he didn’t ask. But, out of curiosity, he had checked the U.N.C.L.E. files he could not access while in Kosovo. It turned out Henrietta Van Buskirk was a sort of black market trafficker in cigarettes and other products. Solo still didn’t know much about her motivations, aside from what she had told him when they flew into Kosovo. He wasn’t sure what kept her involved in the life she led and Solo didn’t bring it up when they said goodbye. They only kissed, then he watched as the plane departed. Solo guessed she was headed back to the Balkans.

            Illya left the hospital, almost as good as new. Solo again was amazed at how quickly the man could recuperate quicker than anyone he had ever seen, but he let the thought pass because their schedules demanded they return quickly to New York.

            The next months passed quickly. Almost immediately upon coming back, there was a nasty business involving the return, and ultimate demise, of Leonard Exeter, a particularly troublesome and cruel Thrushman. The cracked rib Solo suffered would be a painful reminder of the affair for a while to come. Then, without any time to catch their breath, Solo and Kuryakin were plunged into a series of other assignments, including the return of another Thrushman, Anton Fleming, who oversaw an operation that proved especially difficult.

            Finally, by spring, things had slowed down. The respite gave Solo a chance to catch up on heaps of paperwork while Illya tended to routine enforcement matters.

            In early spring, though, Solo found his attention drawn to the news accounts. The situation in Kosovo had finally spilled over, and Western countries had commenced aerial attacks, citing reports of massacres by the Serbian authorities. Periodically, he wondered about the thin, brunette woman with the silly nickname.

            On his first day back in the office following an assignment, Solo was trying to catch up on his mail, when he saw a letter, sent to him via the Hargrove Trading address, which was written out by hand. He began opening it just as Illya Kuryakin entered Solo’s office.

            “Mr. Waverly would like to discuss this most recent affair,” Illya said. “He indicated there were some minor questions.”

            “All right, just a minute,” Solo said, opening the letter.

            The American’s face turned pale, but he said nothing, only putting the letter down on his desk.

            “Illya, could you tend to Mr. Waverly? I’ve got an errand to run.” He left without explanation.

            Kuryakin squinted, then picked up the letter. He scanned the message within moments, then sighed.

 

            Napoleon:

                        Henrietta Van Buskirk’s plane was shot down trying to move refugees from Kosovo to Terbuf. Petr told me she helped you last November. My regrets.

                                                                                         Emil

 

            Kuryakin immediately headed for Alexander Waverly’s office, pondering what to tell the old fox.

***

            For Father Lawrence Stephens, the Easter season provided a sense of renewal. He’d see many wayward parishioners, making one of their few trips to church every year. But the optimist in him felt he could always snare a few into attending church on a more regular basis. And, even if he should fail, Easter appealed to the performer in him -- it was the chance to give a sermon that would reach a much wider audience. That alone could gear him up.

            On this day, he was moving about the church, checking preparations for Holy Week. Then, he stopped in his tracks. Although it had been some months, and he had only seen the man from the back, he recognized the gentleman in the navy suit kneeling at the pew. He had given a highly unusual confession, one that Stephens could still remember.

            The Father approached the man carefully. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

            The man looked up. “No, Father. I just need some time by myself.”

            “Of course. You’ve come to the right place.”

            Father Stephens walked off. Then, for the first time in a very long time, Napoleon Solo began to pray.

 

THE END