Act I
"A Conversation Over Breakfast"

After a few hours of sleep and a warm shower, Napoleon Solo felt reinvigorated as he walked through the secret entrance to U.N.C.L.E.-Geneva. He approached the receptionist's desk and the woman sitting there attached an U.N.C.L.E. security badge to the jacket of his light blue suit.

"Mr. Kuryakin is already here. He sent word for you to join him in the records room," the receptionist said.

Solo smiled at her but said nothing. The layout of the Geneva operation was so similar to the New York headquarters where Solo was based that the agent knew exactly where to go. Two minutes later, he arrived in the records section. It was still early, about eight-fifteen a.m., and the only ones there were a woman clerk and Kuryakin working on a personal computer. Solo noticed Kuryakin had his suitcoat hung up on a coat rack and his tie was a bit undone. It looked as if Kuryakin had been at it for a while.

That probably meant Illya didn't get much sleep. Solo, for that matter, hadn't slept a whole lot. The two agents had been whisked away by a private U.N.C.L.E. jet after a team of agents arrived in the French Alps in response to a call from Kuryakin. The flight was fast but after securing the villa where Solo and Kuryakin had captured a leading official of the Black Hand criminal organization, it was quite late when they got to Geneva. Solo hadn't make it to bed until three in the morning.

"Any luck?" Solo asked.

"Not much," Kuryakin said, not looking away from the computer screen. Inquiries from various world intelligence agencies have been either negative or not yet answered. So we still don't know who the so-called Father Burke really is. I also sent off an image of Alicia Parkway but nothing there, either."

"Well, on the way over here from L'Alpe des Resseaux, I had records run a check on her," Solo said. "They had the answer waiting for me when I checked into the hotel early this morning."

"And?"

"She's exactly who she claims to be. Alicia Parkway, twenty-seven years old, raised in St. Louis, Missouri, USA, undergraduate degree from Washington University in St. Louis, master's of business administration, Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois. Has traveled around the world in the past year since receiving the MBA, spending the last four months in Europe. Has no ties to any intelligence or criminal organization. Moreover, she is adamant she has never seen the man we only know as Father Burke until a little over a week ago when she took a job as a waitress in the little tavern we visited in L'Alpe Des Resseaux."

"It doesn't make any sense," Kuryakin said. "If indeed this Father Burke -- or rather the man who pretended to be Father Burke -- is really the head of the Black Hand, why should he care about an American tourist he's never met?"

Before Solo could respond, the clerk on duty put down a telephone and spoke up. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, communications is receiving a signal from New York. Mr. Waverly would like to speak with you. It's rather urgent."

"We'll be in the communications room in a moment," Solo told the clerk.

"It's rather early in New York," Kuryakin said.

"Yes, and I have a feeling Mr. Waverly isn't in the mood to offer us congratulations on capturing Curtis Ditchman, the man we thought headed the Black Hand."

The two men walked a short distance to the communications room. The communications officer on duty patched the signal from Alexander Waverly, the Number One of Section One, based in New York, to a receiver where Solo and Kuryakin would have relative privacy.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, do I understand the real leader of the Black Hand escaped -- and was dressed as a priest?" Waverly said testily.

"Yes sir," Solo said. "He apparently had maintained the masquerade as Father Burke for some time. I'm under the impression it was actually a few years but we haven't been able to reach authorities of the Catholic church to find out the precise date the real Father Burke was to be stationed at the parish."

"Was the villa the actual Black Hand headquarters?"

"Unconfirmed, sir," Solo said. "The only Black Hand personnel were Burke, Ditchman and the three men who kidnapped me and Ms. Parkway. We've got interrogation teams with Ditchman and the surviving thug but it's hard to say when either man will break. During the evening, Ditchman admitted to being the one who carried out the assassination of the American general in Brussels."

"Nevertheless, this is most unacceptable, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "How could this ersatz priest just disappear?"

"I don't know, sir," Solo said. "The authorities were notified within minutes. That section of France is remote country. A vehicle Burke apparently used was found abandoned near the village. No clues at this point."

There was a pause at the New York end. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin we're just receiving some data now on this, eh, Father Burke based on the descriptions you provided. Rather interesting, to say the least. It would seem Father Burke is really Simon Riley, a former member of the Central Intelligence Agency. According to this, Mr. Riley had a gift for role playing in the context of deep-cover operations. He could assume an identity for months, in some cases years. Oh dear."

"Yes sir?" Solo said.

"The C.I.A. are being a little overly discreet but as best as we can tell from this material, Mr. Riley was involved in a deep-cover operation in the Soviet Union during the late 1980s, the waning years of the Cold War. During this assignment he did something rather uncharacteristic. He fell deeply in love with a Russian woman, a bit younger than himself. They actually married but she was killed when he was exposed. He made it out safely but resigned a few years later. Hasn't been seen since. We have no pictures of his late wife. Hopefully they will be available later. The computer section here will send you an encrypted summary of this material. Please digest it quickly, gentlemen. I would like to hear a plan from you on how to proceed as quickly as possible. Waverly out."

Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other. "As you said, he was a bit reluctant to heap much praise for the capture of Ditchman," Kuryakin said.
. "At least we have a real name for our subject," Solo said. "We're still left with the riddle about why Riley should care so much about an American woman he's never met. Hmmm."

"What is it?"

"Just before all hell broke loose, Burke -- I mean Riley -- said something funny about Alicia," Solo said.

"Yes, something about nostalgia, I believe," Kuryakin said. The Russian frowned. "What do you suppose is the significance?"

"Let's go back to your computer and call up that encrypted transmission from Mr. Waverly. Maybe there's something there."

Ten minutes later, Kuryakin was typing away on the computer keyboard and downloading the text and visual data transmitted by U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York. He called up the image of Riley, who still had some black in his hair when the picture was taken. There was no mistaking the rugged, somewhat handsome face. It was clearly the same man they had known as Father Burke.

"Mr. Riley had a career, based on this information," Kuryakin said. "Yet, there is nothing here to link a master spy with an industrious college student."

"There has got to be something," Solo said. "He seems to care about her for some reason."

"Where do we go from here?"

"Let's see if we can obtain more pictures and additional dossier information. This is a nice start but there has to be more there. Meanwhile, I'm going back and question Alicia Parkway about her relationship with Father Burke, er, Riley."

"May I ask why?" Kuryakin said. "Do you think there's something she's not telling us?"

"Not consciously, but she may have forgotten something. I have another reason for seeing her."

"Isn't it a little early in the day for that?"

Solo ignored his partner's dig. "We're going to need her help, Illya."

"For what?"

"At some point, if we're to stop Riley, we're going to have draw him out of hiding. Alicia Parkway may be the way to do that."

"It's too melodramatic," Kuryakin said. "The leader of a criminal organization obsesses over a woman, which the 'good guys' use to capture him. Too much like one of your American movies."

"If you have alternative suggestions, I'm open to them," Solo said. "I wouldn't call it obsession, based on what Alicia said last night. I got the impression that 'Father Burke' seemed to be friendly toward her but it was not as if he made any sexual advances toward her. Still...."

Kuryakin frowned. "I'm not sure I'm going to like this."

"We may not have an alternative, Illya," Solo said. "The Black Hand is planning something major. Burke -- I mean Riley -- made cryptic remarks to that effect. Seeing Alicia again might trip him up emotionally."

"That's a rather large assumption, Napoleon."

"At the moment, it's the only trump we have to play. I'm going back to the hotel. I told Alicia not to leave her room and we have a man outside her door."

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. "Never mind me, I have my computer to keep me warm."

Solo raised an eyebrow, shook his head and left the room.

Alicia welcomed the warm water flowing over her body. It was as if she were washing away a bad dream, the remnants of a surreal world. She stood for several minutes, her eyes closed, just letting the water from the shower flow down. Had it been just a dream? Intellectually, she knew that wasn't the case, but now in the solitude of the hotel room all of the incidents -- the kidnapping, the knockout gas, watching violence and bloodshed -- all seemed remote and far away. Alicia grabbed the bar of soap and lathered herself vigorously before rinsing off.

Several minutes later, she dried herself, put on a robe and began drying her hair. Normalcy. She was re-establishing her ties to the routine, the safe.

Then the telephone rang.

She looked out of the bathroom to the bedstand by her bed. For a moment, she could only stare at the telephone, which continued to ring. Who could it be? She took a deep breath and sighed. The memories of the previous night suddenly didn't seem that far away and would need more than a lather to remove.

She picked up the receiver. "Who is it?" she said, with resignation in her voice.

"Napoleon Solo. I'm down in the lobby. I'm wondering if we could talk."

Alicia sighed again. She actually liked Solo; there was some kind of roguish charm to the man that was disarming. But she also felt tense, on guard as if she were about to be grabbed away from this room and the sense of security it provided. "We talked quite a bit on the flight to Geneva. You asked a lot of questions and I couldn't answer many of them."

"I know," Solo said. "I have some information I can share with you. And maybe there's something you'd forgotten. Please, Alicia, it is important."

Alicia was torn. Part of her wanted to slam the receiver down and be done with the men with guns, the deception. But part of her knew that a lot of misery had been inflicted when "ordinary" people failed to act when they could. Her father in St. Louis wasn't a preachy man, but he stressed to his children they had responsibilities. "Could you give me a few minutes, Mr. Solo? Better make it fifteen."

"That will be fine. See you then."

As Alicia left the room the first thing she saw was the tall, dark man sitting in a chair outside the door. He rose as she came out. At least U.N.C.L.E. agents are always polite, Alicia thought. Before he could speak, she said, "I'm going downstairs to see Mr. Solo." Alicia's room was only two doors from the elevator but the U.N.C.L.E. agent kept watching intently until the elevator door closed.

A few moments later, Alicia exited the elevator and glanced around the lobby until she caught a glimpse of Solo. He was standing, his hands clasped in front of him. She thought that he looked quite good in his suit. Even when he dressed somewhat casually -- like when she first saw him at the bar in L'Alpe des Resseaux -- he had an air of formality about him. Somehow, she couldn't imagine him lounging about in cutoffs and a sweatshirt. He looks ordinary, yet extraordinary, Alicia thought. Average height, weight and all that -- I'm not that much shorter than he is -- but there is an aura of some kind, maybe a sense of poise. Also, he's considerably more dangerous than the average -- I saw that side of him last night.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo," Alicia said.

"Please, call me Napoleon, and good morning, Alicia. Have you had breakfast?"

"Not yet but I don't eat a big breakfast."

"It might be a little more comfortable to talk over breakfast."

"Do we have that much to talk about?"

"More than you think," Solo said.

Six minutes later, in a restaurant off the hotel lobby, Solo was being served a toasted bagel and cream cheese along with black coffee, to which he added a fraction of a teaspoon of sugar. Alicia was picking at a poached egg and occasionally sipping an orange juice.

"I realize this is all a bit difficult. And you're probably a bit distrustful of me because I hadn't identified myself as an U.N.C.L.E. agent," Solo said. "Mr. Kuryakin and myself were trying to blend in so we could discreetly look for the man we thought was the leader of the Black Hand."

"I understand," Alicia said. "It's just that....Well, I asked you to walk me to my rental room because I found myself kind of liking you and then all hell breaks loose."

"I am sorry about that. I was careless. I should have been more alert and probably should have declined the invitation in the first place."

Alicia started fidgeting with her hair. "I just don't know, it's very frightening. And on top of it all, here's a nice man -- a priest. Except it turns out he's not a priest and is the leader of ...what? A cult?"

"It's not a cult," Solo said. "As best as we can tell it's a well-oiled machine -- a criminally oriented machine."

"Why?" Alicia said. "Do you know any more about Father Burke?"

"Yes we do," Solo said. "He is a former operative of the Central Intelligence Agency. His real name is Simon Riley. Don't feel bad about being fooled by him. Apparently, he was something of a chameleon, able to assume a persona for months. Just the perfect man for what spooks -- intelligence operatives -- call 'deep cover.' The CIA could get him inside a country and he'd blend in. He even operated that way inside Russia -- rather the old Soviet Union."

"Is that why he changed his voice so much? When he was being Father Burke he spoke with an Irish brogue right out of an old movie," Alicia said. "But when he was being himself, he seemed...I don't know...almost like a machine."

"There's no way of knowing, but I assume that was part of his technique. When we were tied up, do you remember hearing him argue with Ditchman, the man we captured?"

"I sure do," Alicia said.

"I had heard 'Burke' speak not that much earlier at the bar and then heard him again at the villa. Comparing the voices, I would have sworn it was two different men."

"I still don't understand why Father Burke -- I mean this ex-spy -- is he doing what he's doing now."

"I'm not sure I can provide you too many details but apparently his last deep-cover assignment went badly," Solo said. "He apparently had even married a Soviet woman. I don't know everything but she died and I'm assuming that had an effect on him."

"He seemed a likable guy," Alicia said. "He was the first person I talked to in the village. My French is only passable and I had heard about the waitress job opening up at that bar. Yet, I was a little psyched out trying to carry on conversations in French with the villagers. So here's this guy who not only talks English but, I don't know, just seems like a warm human being."

"Listen, Alicia, I know we asked you some questions about that, but could we go over some of it again? Maybe you might remember something important."

"I don't know what it could be," she said. "After I got the job, I saw him most evenings. He'd come by and have a drink and we'd talk about things."

"What things?"

"Just things. He asked me about what I had seen and what countries I had gone to and when I might be going home. He'd mostly talk about news and world events, I guess. He didn't get too personal, or anything. He was just an easy, friendly guy to talk to. He seemed interested in what I had to say. But it wasn't until we heard him arguing with that creepy guy you captured that I had any hint he was overly interested in me."

"Well, based on the information I've seen about Riley there is no way you two could have met."

"I told you that last night," Alicia said, annoyed.

"I know but we had to check it out," Solo said, trying to soothe her. "Alicia, you've got to help us."

"But I've told you everything I know!"

"Not that kind of help."

Alicia squinted. "What kind, then?"

"Alicia, the Black Hand -- with Riley as their leader -- is going to do something big. We don't know what. Riley and his group are dangerous and must be stopped. For some reason -- we don't know why -- he is interested in you."

"What, you think I remind him of his mother or something?"

"Who knows," Solo said. "But it's possible -- just possible -- seeing you at a critical time could slow him up or catch him off guard."

"I'm just an MBA -- an unemployed MBA at that," Alicia said. "I thought U.N.C.L.E. was some kind of worldwide police force, or something."

"Or something," Solo said. "Yes, we have trained agents, sophisticated equipment and talented people around the globe. But for some reason, Riley has some kind of emotional or psychological fixation on you. With all of U.N.C.L.E.'s resources, we can't match that. I'd like you to help us. We'll do all we can to protect you but there could be risk, I won't lie about that."

Alicia leaned back in her chair and sighed. "Why me, Napoleon? And what can I do?"

"I'm hoping we can get additional information so we can form a plan."

"Will I be some kind of bait with whatever plan you come up with?"

Solo tensed for a moment. Telling the truth would be risky but it was clear further deception wasn't the answer. "In all likelihood, yes. We can make you well-protected bait, but bait you will probably be."

Alicia stabbed at her poached egg with a fork. "That's a lot to lay on a person," she said.

Solo stared at her for a moment and Alicia could feel the gaze, as if she were being zapped with a high-powered X-ray. "You saw what the Black Hand is capable of," Solo said coldly. "Say somebody dies -- maybe the leader of a country or maybe just a man walking down the street who catches a stray bullet from a Black Hand operation. Can you live with yourself knowing you might have helped prevent it?"

Alicia returned the stare for a moment, then looked down at the table. "Dammit, you know I couldn't."

Actually, Solo didn't know but he was hoping. Before he could say anything, he heard the whine of the communicator. Normally, he'd be hesitant to show it in operation to someone outside of U.N.C.L.E. But he felt this moment was extremely delicate and he had to show Alicia trust if he expected her to cooperate with him. So he calmly took the pen out of his pocket and rigged it to receive. "Solo here," he said.

Alicia now stared at Solo but remained silent. Over the communicator she heard the voice of Illya Kuryakin. "Napoleon, you'd better return," he said. "It looks as if Ditchman has cracked and will talk."

Act II
"A Conversation Over Truth Drugs"

Solo reached into his pocket and took out his money clip, extracting several bills and putting them on the table. "That will more than cover it," Solo said. "Could we continue this discussion later?"

"I suppose," Alicia said. "I guess you want me to wait in my room."

"I'd feel better."

"That man you have outside my door isn't the greatest conversationalist."

"He's not paid by the word," Solo said, smiling.

Despite her distress, Alicia returned the smile. "How long will you be gone?"

"A little while, it's hard to say," he replied. "I'll telephone if it looks like it will be a long time."

Alicia took a last drink of her juice. "Swell," she said.

Solo rose. The occasion called for a reassuring remark but, for once, he lacked one. So he smiled and left without comment.

Seventeen minutes later, Solo entered a room in the bottom of the U.N.C.L.E.-Geneva complex. On the side of the room was a bed, where Curtis Ditchman lay, his eyes somewhat hazy and his head rocking gently back and forth. Kuryakin sat to the side while a physician checked Ditchman's pulse.

"He told some of the basics to the interrogation team," Kuryakin said, turning around to look at Solo. "The doctor here says he is ready for more detailed questions from us."

"I don't know how long he'll be able to go," the bespectacled doctor said, interrupting. "The interrogators used a combination of psychology and drugs. It was pretty intense. He will need a lot of rest fairly soon."

Solo looked down at the bearded Ditchman. "Well, no time like the present," Solo said. "Ditchman, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Ditchman said. Even in a soft voice, he retained the annoying metallic whine.

"Simon Riley -- is he the head of the Black Hand?"

"Yes."

"What is the origin of the Black Hand?"

"Not sure."

"When did you come into contact with Riley and the Black Hand?"

"I knew of Riley but we never worked together at the Agency," Ditchman said. "But he was a legend. He got in touch with me six years ago. I was being bounced out -- my superiors thought I played a little rough. He had a proposition. Said he needed a good operations man. Sounded good to me."

"How big is the Black Hand?" Kuryakin asked. "How many members?"

"Not certain, but it's not that many. Maybe a dozen, eighteen tops."

"A dozen?" Kuryakin said incredulously. "How can that be? The Black Hand has been linked to dozens of crimes and killings the past few years."

"The virtual corporation," Ditchman said, managing a weak smile.

"What?" Kuryakin said.

"The virtual corporation. The actual number of people who belong to the Black Hand is fairly small. We contract with free-lance operatives according to each client. It was Riley's idea. Got the idea from business."

"Business?"

"Riley has many interests. He's a voracious reader and knows a lot about business and economics. Said he was modeling the Black Hand on business principles. We'd be lean. We'd bring in people only as we needed them."

"You killed General Shaughnessy, didn't you?" Solo said.

"Yes."

"You headed the operation?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill the general yourself?"

"I activated the bomb."

"Why? What did the Black Hand have to gain?"

"We had a client," Ditchman said. "A terrorist group, bunch of anarchists."

"So why didn't this group kill the general itself?"

"Because we're better at it."

"Huh?"

"We're better at it," Ditchman said. "That also was Riley's idea. Terrorists and other clients often have a cause. They're emotional. Even if they're good, they have an ax to grind. The way Riley approached it, he 'sold' the Black Hand as experts. We had no cause, no stake. Hire us and you get the best -- no emotion, nothing to gum up the works. He dug up the history on the first Black Hand. Guess he's interested in history as well as business. Said the Black Hand could create a mystique. Everyone would think of the Black Hand as some kind of power unto itself. Sort of a poor man's Thrush." He smiled a thin smile once more.

Kuryakin spoke up. "And Riley ran the Black Hand out of a village in the French Alps?"

"I think he was a fan of old movies or something. He was really proud of that Irish priest routine. I told you the organization itself was small. Encrypted e-mail, coded telephone calls. The man was a pro."

Solo rubbed his chin. "What's the next job?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"You and Riley were arguing. There's something the Black Hand is about to do. What is it?"

"Boom," Ditchman said. "They'll all go boom. Might even knock over the Eiffel Tower."

Kuryakin looked at Solo. "The summit meeting between the American and Russian presidents," Kuryakin said. "It's in two days. They're meeting in Paris."

"What about that reference to the Eiffel Tower?" Solo said.

"I don't know."

Solo looked intently at Ditchman. "What about Alicia Parkway?"

"The blonde woman?" Ditchman said. "That damn fool."

"Why is Riley interested in the woman?" Solo said, his voice rising.

Ditchman let out a small laugh. "They could be sisters......" His voice tailed off as his eyes began to close.

The doctor reached over and checked Ditchman. "This man's going to be out for awhile. Maybe a long while."

"Can't you bring him out of it?" Solo said anxiously.

"The interrogation team took a lot out of this man. If I give him a stimulant -- even a relatively mild one-- it could do him great harm. The strain might even kill him. You fellows can play pretty rough."

Solo frowned. "All right, doctor. But keep a close watch on him. If he shows any signs of revival -- enough he can be questioned again -- please alert us."

Solo got up to leave the room and Kuryakin followed. "What do you think he meant by 'they could be sisters'?"

"Wait a minute," Solo said, stopping in his tracks. "What did Riley say last night? Something about nostalgia."

"Alicia Parkway reminds him of someone? Of his mother?"

"Not mother," Solo said. "Let's get back to the records room. I want to check something. Then we'd better call New York."

Kuryakin typed furiously at the keyboard. "I am now accessing the main U.N.C.L.E. computers," he said to Solo. "Let us see if any additional information has been received."

"In particular, have any additional images come in?" Solo said.

"Yes," Kuryakin said. "Downloading now."

The images began to fill the screen. Kuryakin began to scroll them up the computer screen. "Some contacts and....do you see what I see?"

Solo paused a moment. "Blonde, mid-to-late twenties."

"It's the Russian woman Riley married on that last undercover assignment in the late 1980s," Kuryakin. "Says her name was Vadya. She could be Alicia Parkway's..."

"Sister?" Solo said.

"She's not. They're no relation, of course," Kuryakin said.

Solo looked closely at the screen. The hair wasn't as long as Alicia's and the nose was a tad longer. But the image of the woman in front of them could certainly pass for a close relative of the American woman, now sitting bored in her hotel room. "I'd say it's time we call Mr. Waverly," Solo said.

"You're quite sure?" Waverly said.

The carrier signal from New York was patched into the U.N.C.L.E.-Geneva telephone system and into the receiver Solo was now holding. "It's unmistakable, sir. Mr. Riley's dead wife, while not a twin, certainly resembles Alicia Parkway."

"What you're suggesting is like something out of a Hitchcock film, Mr. Solo."

"Perhaps, sir," Solo said. "Nevertheless, the fact remains that Riley -- a dedicated intelligence agent -- fell in love with and married a woman while on a deep-cover assignment. He must have fallen for her very hard to take that kind of risk while operating behind the Iron Curtain in the latter years of the Cold War. She gets killed as the authorities are coming for him. I'm sure it was devastating."

"Spare me the melodrama, Mr. Solo," Waverly said.

"No melodrama, sir," he replied. "Seeing Miss Parkway obviously reopened some of those emotions in Riley. He obviously hid it pretty well. Miss Parkway had no clue Riley, alias Father Burke, was so interested in her. It's also obvious that Ditchman thought Riley was obsessing on Miss Parkway."

"How does that help us now, Mr. Solo? Assuming Ditchman is correct, the Black Hand will attempt to assassinate the American and Russian presidents in two days."

"Then we've got to put Miss Parkway in Mr. Riley's view -- the sooner, the better," Solo said.

"What do you suggest?"

"I'll need a schedule for the summit meeting, what each president will be doing while in Paris," Solo said. "Depending on that, we've got to get Miss Parkway to Paris -- in as public a way as we can manage."

"Still seems ludicrous he would attempt such a major operation so soon after the assassination of the general."

"If anyone can manage it, it's Riley," Solo said.

"I suppose you're right," Waverly replied. "Still, what do you have in mind regarding this so-called public display of Miss Parkway."

"Well, I do have something in mind, sir," Solo said. "I'm just hoping he watches CNN. But I won't know for sure until I've seen their schedules."

"Very well, you'll have the itinerary of the two officials within the hour," Waverly said.

"Thank you, sir."

Alicia jumped when the telephone rang. Up until then, she had been feeling quite bored. Here I am in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and what I am doing? Watching television! How did I end up like this -- a rat in a plush cage? The telephone cut through those thoughts. Is it Napoleon Solo? Oh my God, what if it is? What happens to me next? She paused, then cautiously picked up the receiver. "Hello?" she said, her voice trailing off.

"This is Solo. Can you get packed for a quick trip to Paris?"

"Paris?"

"Well, you did want to travel the world. No trip around the world is complete without a stopover in the City of Lights."

"I haven't even gotten to see Geneva yet!" Alicia snapped. "Why do we have to go to Paris right now?"

"Alicia, I can explain on the way. This is a serious request and we don't have much time."

Alicia stared at the television. Ironically it was an American movie dubbed into French. She recognized Al Pacino but he was just sitting in a chair on his lawn. Bored with the image, she reached for a remote control and turned off the set.

"What are we going to do in Paris?"

"Have you ever sat in on a presidential press conference?" Solo said.

Act III
"A Conversation With the President"

The press room was beginning to fill up. The press center was set up in a conference room of the hotel where the President was staying in Paris.

Press briefings for the President of the United States are a bit of a circus, with hundreds of correspondents accredited to cover the office. Those reporters represent a variety of media outlets ranging from major television networks and prestigious dailies like The New York Times to regional news services and free-lance reporters. An overseas trip, like this one to Paris, thins out the press corps a bit but the press plane is quite crowded. To make sense of this chaos, there is a pecking order when it comes to seating arrangements. White House correspondents for networks like NBC and CNN are seated at the center of the front row, with writers from the big newspapers edged out toward the side of the row. It's fairly easy to determine which media outlets White House officials consider important by the seating chart.

Sam Davidson certainly knew the pecking order. On the beat for a number of years, he had a reputation for shouting sometimes ridiculous questions during "photo opportunities" -- public appearances by the President where he didn't make formal remarks or take questions but was trying to get on television anyway by greeting a dignitary or members of a winning sports team. But there was a method to Davidson's behavior. Frequently, the President found himself responding if only because Davidson got under his skin. A question would be so sharply phrased, the President couldn't ignore it. When that happened, there was a better chance of getting a provocative "sound bite," where the President wasn't reading off a prepared text. And good video of the President making a sharply worded statement made it easier for Davidson to get a story on the evening newscast.

Davidson made his way through the mass of men and women who were standing around making idle chit chat while waiting for the press conference to start. Why do they let so many so-called journalists get press credentials? Davidson thought. Who are some of these people, anyway? Every year, there are more and more of these people who take up space, who couldn't ask a tough question to save their lives.

As he approached the seat, he touched his hair piece just to make sure it was in place. The President was going to take questions a day before his summit with the Russian leader. It had been three months since his previous press conference and there were lots of questions. Davidson knew he was certain to make tonight's broadcast back in the States -- and making the evening news broadcast was what counted for a television reporter. There are only twenty-two minutes on the evening news and every second was precious. Disappear from the evening news program for very long, and people forget who you are. And that wasn't good at contract time.

Finally he circled around and approached the front row. Davidson squinted when he saw two people he'd never seen before. A young blonde woman in a blue dress was fidgeting, looking around the room. Her fingers were tapping the white purse on her lap. Next to her was a dark-haired man, looking almost bored with the whole thing, his arms crossed.

"Excuse me, but you're in my place," Davidson said with annoyance.

The woman turned to look at Davidson, her eyes darting between him and the man sitting next to her. The man looked ahead for a moment before turning his head to look at Davidson.

"Excuse me?" the man said.

"Sir, you are in my place. I'm Sam Davidson. I cover the White House and this is my place."

The man grinned for a moment. "Not today," he said.

"Excuse me, but I always sit in the center of the front row during presidential press conferences. And just who are you, anyway?"

The man reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and took out a business card. "I'm Napoleon Solo of the United Network. This is my associate, Miss Parkway."

"United Network?" Davidson said. "I've never heard of it!"

"Well, with cable and satellite television, new networks spring up all the time," Solo said. "But I suggest you check it with that gentleman over there."

"Harry! What is going on here?" Davidson said to a short, bald man carrying several file folders. "As assistant press secretary, you know how this is done. Why are these people in my spot?"

"Uh, sorry, Sam, you'll have to sit on the end today. I've already heard some griping from the Los Angeles Times person I had to bump a row back. If you'll excuse me..."

"But Harry, I don't..." Davidson's voice trailed off as he attempted to follow the harried assistant press secretary.

Alicia Parkway watched the scene, then leaned over and whispered to Solo. "Could you explain this to me again?"

"Well, you remember how I told you how you look an awful lot like Riley's deceased wife?"

"How could I forget?"

"Maybe if he sees you he'll come out of hiding. That's when we'll make our move."

"So how does sitting here accomplish that?" Alicia asked.

"Believe me, I think Riley will want to watch this press conference."

"Why?"

"Never mind that now," Solo said. "Short of putting you up with the President, getting you seated in the front row will get you on television. This is being aired live on CNN. They frequently cut back and forth between shots of the President and the reporters."

"Kind of assuming a lot, aren't you?" Alicia said. "I doubt the camera lingers very long on the reporters."

"It will if you ask a question."

"Me? What am I going to ask him?"

"Ask him if he thinks the Russian president has lost weight and looks healthier than he used to. I don't know, ask him about the weather back in Arkansas. Just ask him something -- the camera will stay on you for the twenty or thirty seconds it takes to ask. With any luck, they'll cut back to you as he answers."

"But there are a couple of hundred people in this room!" she protested. "What if he doesn't call on me?"

"My superior has a pretty interesting Rolodex," Solo said, motioning Alicia to keep it down. "Don't worry. Just state your question clearly."

Alicia frowned. What have I gotten myself into? she thought.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States," a man said from the front of the room. From behind a rear door, the President emerged and walked up a step to the lectern that had been set up for the press conference.

"Ladies and gentlemen, no formal statements today except it's good to be here. As you know, I'll be meeting with the president of Russia tomorrow and we'll have a statement then. But it's been awhile and I thought today would be a good day to take some of your questions."

Hands shot up from virtually everyone in the room shouted, "Mr. President," trying to get his attention. In previous years, the news people might have stood up to get attention, but a previous administration instituted a rule that no one would be called on who did that. It stuck and other presidents had adopted the approach. The only people without their hands up were Solo, who kept his arms crossed, and Alicia who looked back at the mass of people, looking confused and disoriented.

The President glanced down at the lectern, where his staff had placed the seating chart of reporters. The chart enabled the president to know the name of any questioner. It always looked better if he mentioned the reporter's name, enhancing the image of the president -- he looked more personable that way. "Miss Parkway, do you have a question?" the president asked.

"Uh, me?" Alicia said.

"I just thought you might have a question."

"Well..." Before Alicia could stammer anymore, Solo nudged her lightly in the ribs. "What do you think of the Russian president's health? He looks like he's lost some weight," Alicia spat out, before giving Solo a dirty look.

"I'm glad you asked that question, Alicia," the president said. "Some of our critics in Congress have questioned our support for the Russian president. They say he's awfully sick, that we can't count on him. But I want to tell you..."

Few things surprised Simon Riley. When adopting another persona, he knew every answer, thought up every contingency. That's what kept him alive when, for months, years at a time, he had gone behind what used to be known as the Iron Curtain. No inconsistencies could be permitted -- none -- or else it could have been the end. The one time he had failed to do so had cost him dearly.

So he turned on the television set. It wasn't often his target would go on live television. Perhaps there was a mannerism he might notice -- something, anything that might affect the job. He had seen the President many times before but he must avail himself of the opportunity to observe once more.

Then, the picture switched from the President to...her.

Riley's eyes widened. It was her! The American woman who looked so much like Vadya, had the same blonde hair. He knew she wasn't, of course. Yet, he couldn't help but stare. What was she doing there? She's in the front row asking the President a question? His eyes squinted as he saw the words "Alicia Parkway, United Network" superimposed under her name. United Network? Wait, who was that sitting next to her? It looked as if he nudged her for a moment. The picture returned to the President and failed to return to the woman; the President was going on and on. Was that the U.N.C.L.E. agent Solo sitting next to her? Of course. "United Network."

Riley stood up. His mind raced. He tried to recall all he could about U.N.C.L.E. At the Agency, we steered clear of U.N.C.L.E. In those days it was a war -- you didn't trust anyone. U.N.C.L.E., with its multiple nationalities, was viewed with suspicion at Langley. Just too naive an organization in that regard. But Riley had trouble maintaining that line of thought, his mind kept going back to the blonde hair.

A trap, of course, Riley thought. Still.....

The President exited through the rear door and the reporters rose from their seats. The wire service reporters, who had been writing at their laptops even as the president spoke, left immediately. The others, the ones whose deadlines were impending, milled about in their various cliques, examining and critiquing the answers they had just heard.

As Solo got up from his seat, Alicia tugged at his arm. "What are my parents going to think?" she said. "How do I explain that?"

"You found your true calling?" Solo said.

"That's not funny," Alicia said, trying -- with some difficulty -- to keep her voice low. "You didn't say anything about asking a question."

"Would you have agreed if I had told you?"

"No."

"Well, there's your answer."

"Napoleon Solo, you are incorrigible," Alicia said.

"Smile," another voice said as a camera whirred.

Alicia turned and saw Illya Kuryakin walking up to them, holding a camera. "I just called Philippe Raymond. He says the desired video was shown," Kuryakin said as he pretended to adjust the camera.

"Excellent," Solo said, looking past the Russian.

"Does she have all her jewelry?" Kuryakin said.

"Well let's see," Solo said. "Necklace in place. Same for the watch."

"I suppose those are secret transmitters," Alicia said, sarcasm in her voice.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Solo said. He snapped his fingers. "I forgot one thing. Sit down, will you?"

Alicia sat. "Extend your leg, please," Solo said. Alicia's eyes bulged but Solo ignored them to kneel down as he removed an ankle bracelet from his suit coat and placed it around her right ankle.

"What's that, a bomb?" Alicia said.

"You watch too many movies," Solo said. "Actually I thought it complimented the dress."

"Well, I hope you two have a good time," Kuryakin said as he began to walk away. "Some of us have work to do."

"What did he mean by that?" Alicia said.

"Now we see Paris," Solo said.

Thirty-five minutes later, they were walking in a neighborhood full of small shops, bakeries and restaurants.

"Still mad?" Solo asked.

Alicia tried to sound gruff but her annoyance had almost entirely dissipated. "I guess not," she said. "Do I really look like Riley's wife?"

"You could be sisters."

"You really think that's the reason that 'Father Burke' came by to visit me at that little bar?"

"Unfortunately, we don't have much else to work with. Seriously, you're very brave for agreeing to do this."

"Yeah, well, don't push your luck with something like that press conference." Alicia was still trying to sound gruff but this time her lips betrayed a hint of a smile.

Just ahead of them, a Renault cut across a lane of traffic and parked at the curb in front of Solo and Alicia. Two burly-looking men in suits got out and rushed at the couple. Solo pushed Alicia to the side and met the first man. The thug attempted a karate blow, which Solo blocked with his right hand. The agent then struck the man in the solar plexus with his left. As the thug gasped for breath, Solo struck a karate blow to his neck, sending him staggering to the sidewalk. The other attacker was fast and had gotten by Solo and was grabbing at Alicia. She was attempting to fight him off -- she was using some elementary moves -- but the thug was parrying her attempts easily. Solo turned to the second man, ready to attack.

Suddenly, he felt a prick on the back of his neck. He reached back and extracted a small dart. Already his head was spinning, but Solo had the presence of mind to glance back. In the quick fight, he had turned his back to the Renault. From the car emerged a white-haired man holding what appeared to be an ink pen.

"Ah, Mr. Solo you ought be watching your back at all times. Didn't they teach that in spy school?" Riley said in his Father Burke voice.

Solo started to lunge but he only got a step before blackness came. He just hoped he would wake up alive.

The second thug now had Alicia under control and his colleague stumbled to his feet and assisted him. By now, there were a dozen onlookers on the sidewalk but none moved as Solo and Alicia were shoved into the car and it took off. The only person who reacted was a blonde man who reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pen.

Act IV
"A Conversation With a Madman"

The first thing Solo noticed was how much his head hurt. It pounded as if there were a pump in the middle of his brain, sending wave after wave of pain. The sensation forced Solo awake when he discovered he was laying on a bed. There were also two men -- the same duo who had attacked Alicia and himself -- sitting in chairs at the foot of the bed with guns drawn.

Seeing the weapons, Solo lay still and merely scanned the room. It was a large bedroom with a large window. White drapes were drawn at the window but the room was still bright with sunlight. One of the men reached into a coat pocket and withdrew an object about the size of a pager. He pressed a button without comment.

Solo debated whether to sit up but thought better of the idea. Whatever Riley had in mind, the agent would learn of it soon enough. He began to think of Alicia. Where is she? Has Riley hurt her? Intellectually he realizes that it's a coincidence Alicia looks like his late wife. But will he let his emotions get carried away -- well, carried away beyond kidnapping us -- and somehow start to think of Alicia as really being his wife?

Three knocks on the door. The two thugs didn't react and the door opened. In came Riley, wearing an all-black outfit that looked similar to his Father Burke clothes. All he needed was the white collar.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo," Riley said in his "normal," flat voice without a trace of an accent.

"Good morning?"

"Yes, you've been out for more than twelve hours. I decided to use my most potent knockout serum. Obviously, by your presence here, I can only assume Ditchman talked."

Solo said nothing. Riley grinned for a moment. "If you're careful, Mr. Solo, you can sit up. But these gentlemen will open fire the second you try anything."

The agent slowly saw up on the bed. The throbbing got worse when he completed the move and for a moment he was tempted to lie back down. Instead, he forced himself to slowly swing his feet over the edge of the bed and then slid, putting his feet on the floor. He glanced at his clothes. He was wearing the same suit from yesterday, all wrinkled. He wasn't wearing his tie but Solo spotted that on a bedstand adjoining the bed.

"My tailor will never forgive me," Solo said weakly.

"Sorry about that, but I didn't have any extra bedclothes. But I did relieve you of your gun and holster, not to mention that communications device and all those other knick knacks. I had always heard U.N.C.L.E. liked its men to be well equipped but I think you had even more on you than back at L'Alpe des Resseaux."

Solo frowned. "Where's Alicia?"

"She's resting. Really, Mr. Solo -- tracking transmitters in her watch and necklace? I think you fellows have been watching too much television."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Come with me, Mr. Solo -- carefully," Riley said. "I'd like to have a chat but I have a number of men in this chateau. I advise you not to try anything."

Solo pointed in the direction of his necktie on the bedstand and Riley gestured to take it. Solo grabbed the tie and started to put it on as he got up. Riley began to exit the room and Solo followed him. The agent kept looking ahead but heard footsteps behind him. At least one of the thugs was behind him.

Solo looked around as he tied the knot of the necktie. Extremely tall ceilings, stone walls with an occasional painting. "A bit of an upgrade from Father Burke's quarters in L'Alpe des Resseaux, I imagine," Solo said.

"Something of an operations center for the Black Hand," Riley said. "We obtained it when a formerly successful businessman ran into some financial reversals. I will regret having to leave it -- it has served our purposes well."

Leave it? Solo wondered. What does he have in mind?

The three men -- Riley, Solo and one of the thugs -- walked to a circular stairway and came into the main room of the chateau. Riley gestured them to turn and Solo complied. They walked into a dining room, which was dominated by a long, rectangular mahogany table. Riley sat down at the head of the table and pointed for Solo to sit at his left. The agent pulled out the chair and looked at Riley. He seemed to have an entirely different personality than the "priest" Solo had met not so long ago. Much quieter, no trace of emotion.

"I took the liberty of ordering Eggs Benedict," Riley said. "My cook is very good."

"My appetite might improve if I could see that Miss Parkway was all right," Solo said.

Riley took a small cellular telephone from the pocket of the black suit jacket he was wearing. "Send down the woman."

The two men sat at the table for a few minutes in silence. Then, another beefy-looking thug escorted Alicia, who was wearing a simple white dress and black shoes. She still had the ankle bracelet on. "Napoleon, you're all right?" she said.

"Just a bit of a headache," Solo replied.

"The knockout serum from the dart is a bit more powerful than knockout gas," Riley said, interrupting.

"Where did you get the dress, Riley?" Solo said. "It's almost as if you were expecting Miss Parkway."

"It was Vadya's dress, Mr. Solo," Riley replied, still with no emotion detectable in the voice. "I am sure you are aware, by now, of my late wife. At least I assume that's why you brought Miss Alicia, as 'Father Burke' called her, to Paris."

"Maybe."

"Then you get the poor woman on television? Quite the gambit, Mr. Solo. You were betting that I would not only be watching the press conference but also be moved to seize her."

"No bigger a gambit than someone actually seizing her," Solo said. "You knew there was no way she could be at the press conference unless it was a trap for you."

"Touché," Riley responded. "You're right, Mr. Solo. It was quite reckless. I'm sure the Black Hand's client on this operation wouldn't appreciate me kidnapping her on the eve of a major assassination."

"I don't suppose you'd mind telling who that client is," Solo said.

"I would," Riley said. "Let it suffice to say it's a nation that has never been very fond of the United States -- the representative we have dealt with keeps using the phrase 'Great Satan' -- while at the same time feels somewhat abandoned by the lack of assistance it used to draw from during the old Soviet regime."

"Wouldn't want to betray a confidence," Solo said.

"That's a good choice of words, Mr. Solo," Riley said. "It's betrayal that has brought us all to this point."

The driver of the motorcycle came up the drive to the guard shack and got off the vehicle.

"Hey, get out of here!" the security man said in French. "This is private property."

"Pardon me," the motorcyclist said, his face obscured by the tinted visor of his helmet. "I am lost and need directions back to Paris."

"What do I look like? Go find you own way!"

The guard didn't notice the object in the motorcyclist's hand until it emitted a spray of gas. The man reached inside his jacket for a pistol but began to fall before he could withdraw the gun. the motorcyclist caught him and quickly dragged the man to the guard shack. Once there, he took off the helmet, revealing he was wearing a small gas mask.

Illya Kuryakin then reached into his pocket for his pen communicator. "Closed channel for Monsieur Raymond," he said softly.

"Raymond here."

"Code green," Kuryakin said. "I have a sleeping friend who has a very heavy piece of artillery on him. It would appear our tail was correct in identifying this chateau as the place the kidnappers went to."

"All right," Raymond replied. "Proceed to the chateau. You have forty-five minutes before we make the assault. Raymond out."

"What betrayal?" Alicia said, still trying to cope with this new image of the man she knew as Father Burke.

"I cheated death many times," Riley said. "I survived because I could blend in, because I could lose myself in a cover identity. In a way, I had to seal off the real Simon Riley. Then, I met Vadya. I can't explain it. She somehow pierced all that. I hesitated at first, of course. The mission always came first. But I knew that I loved her and would never meet another like her. I should have broken it off but I could not. So we married, even though it only increased the danger. Yet, nothing happened. The Soviets still weren't onto to me. We were married for more than a year until..." Riley's voice broke off.

"Until what?" Alicia said.

"You remember a few spy scandals several years ago -- how a few small men in Washington sold out their country, sold it out for years?" Riley said, the first sound of anger in his voice. "I later saw the news accounts. You would hear in passing how these men had sold out U.S. operatives. I was one of those men. I barely got away but the authorities shot Vadya through her eye. I saw her killed in front of me yet I had to flee. There was nothing I could do. Through some good luck, I was able to get out of that country. When I heard later how I was betrayed, I was devastated. Then, a couple of years later, the Soviet Union fell. It turned out it was a good deal weaker than any of us believed. All those risks I had taken were mostly unnecessary. But Vadya was dead. It was all quite senseless. So I decided to take another path. Looking out for number one, as it were. I had more than enough contacts to assemble an organization -- except mine would be tight-knit. It would not be a large organization. We could contract with people as necessary."

"The 'virtual' organization," Solo said. "At least that's what Ditchman called it."

"Yes, Mr. Solo. I used a business model. I had read about the original Black Hand -- you must admit, it's an imposing name. I intended to be a true businessman, selling services to whomever could afford my group's services. To avoid detection, I would use the same skills I used all those years for the Agency."

"Until you met Miss Parkway."

"I couldn't help myself," Riley said. He turned toward Alicia. "That day you asked me for directions, I thought I'd have a heart attack."

"But I don't remember you showing any kind of reaction like that," Alicia said.

"Instinct," Riley said. "All that training, all that experience. You start to lie and keep on lying. Do not get me wrong, I do not believe in reincarnation or anything like that. But I had to see you again. So 'Father Burke' developed a taste for ale and a daily visit to the pub. I couldn't help it."

The man has lost it, Solo thought. He's mentally ill. What is he going to do? How is going to kill the officials? They're meeting in Paris. We can't be especially close. What can he do from here?

After binding and gagging the guard, Kuryakin found the machine gun hidden in the shack. He peered out the shack and looked up to the chateau. It was a good quarter-mile to the house. He'd be seen before he made it halfway. Off to the left of the drive there were woods, not very thick with trees but they'd at least provide some cover. Kuryakin quickly took a small kit from his pocket and extracted a syringe. He used it on the still-unconscious guard; the knockout serum would ensure he'd stay out of it for another three hours.

Kuryakin took the machine gun then ran to the woods and began making his way toward the chateau.

The first time Solo and Alicia had been abducted by the Black Hand, the U.N.C.L.E. agent had been off guard. This time, he'd hoped Riley would make another grab at Alicia and Solo had fully expected he'd be abducted as well. But time was running out. Where was Illya? Had the agents positioned for surveillance been unable to keep the kidnappers in sight? Solo decided it was time to take the mental offensive with Riley.

"Riley, you know she's not your wife, don't you?" Solo said. "Or is the line between reality and fantasy getting a little hazy?"

"For someone who has been captured twice by the Black Hand you're tempting the fates, aren't you, Solo?"

"So far, I see a lot of fancy talk. Ditchman, as far as I can tell, was your operations man -- he was the one who assassinated General Shaughnessy in Brussels. I don't know if you can pull off killing the two presidents without him."

"Psychological battle, Mr. Solo?" Riley said, his voice calm. The anger had passed quickly. "Look out the window and you'll see a large clearing behind this chateau. About in the middle you may notice something."

Solo squinted. Was that a pit or something?

"There's a small, but particularly accurate missile set up for launch. It's not a nuclear weapon, but it will more than do the job when it strikes the building where the presidents are having their summit. We've set up a mini-silo, if you will. It's amazing the kind of things you can find on the arms market if you just know where to look. After all those years in the Agency, I knew where to look and whom to contact. In about twenty minutes, that missile goes off. The two presidents are meeting near the center of the city and I have the coordinates."

"What?" Alicia said, her voice jagged with emotion. "How many people will that kill? I didn't believe any of this for sure. You're serious!"

"Very serious," Riley said.

"You bastard." Before anyone could stop her, Alicia had leaned over the table and slapped Riley hard. The Black Hand leader was so surprised, he couldn't stop the slap. The thug watching them quickly grabbed her arms and was forcing her back to her seat at the table. Riley's face began to contort.

It was the moment of delay that Solo needed. He jumped over the table, grabbing Riley and knocking both of them onto the floor. Riley used his free hands and hit Solo on both sides of his head. The agent's head resounded with pain but all Solo could see was Riley's face. He struck Riley's Adam's apple hard with a karate blow, causing the former U.S. intelligence operative to choke.

The thug in the room now came for Solo. Alicia managed to trip him but the man only stumbled for a moment and still had a lot of momentum. Solo caught a glimpse of the man coming and rolled to the side as the thug dived. Solo staggered to his feet, however and the man, too, was able to stand up. They circled for a moment before the Black Hand guard kicked, connecting with Solo. The U.N.C.L.E. agent rolled with the kick and Solo had the presence of mind, upon hitting the floor, to trip his attacker. The man fell straight backwards to the floor. Before the thug could move, Alicia threw a vase that shattered near the his head. That caught the man by surprise and gave Solo a chance to press his attack, clipping the side of his opponent's head with a karate blow. The man was only dazed, so Solo struck three more times until he was sure the guard wouldn't get up.

Solo arose and touched his face. It would bruise pretty well by tomorrow, assuming he'd be in condition to care then. Suddenly, there was a scream. "Napoleon! He's choking!"

Solo's head began to clear. He saw Riley writhing on the floor, his face turning blue. The agent leaned over. Riley's eyes bulged in hate and he made a last try at lunging for Solo's throat. Solo, however, easily avoided it and stood back. Then Riley was still. Solo looked at the dead man. Apparently the blow to the Adam's apple was harder than Solo thought. It appeared his larynx or windpipe, or both, had been crushed.

Alicia was turning white as the dress she wore. But before Solo could say anything he heard two noises simultaneously -- footsteps and gunfire.

Kuryakin had been spotted just as he came out of the woods. Three men outside the chateau were drawing machine guns, preparing to fire but the Russian was ready and got off some shots. He hit the guard nearest to him with the first couple of shots. But return fire from the Black Hand guards forced Kuryakin to retreat back into the woods and hide behind a tree. I hope I haven't spoiled any chance for Napoleon and the woman to get out of this alive, he thought. He had to put that out of his mind. So he reached into his jacket pocket for another kit prepared especially for such an occasion. Inside were what appeared to be a clip of normal cartridges. Kuryakin could see the cartridge at the top of the clip had a red tip. Kuryakin took out the U.N.C.L.E. Special from his shoulder holster, removed its clip and inserted the one from the kit. The machine gun fire kept him pinned down so it wasn't easy to aim. So he squeezed off a shot in the direction of the gunfire. A second later, a small explosion rocked the exterior of the chateau, stunning the two gunmen. The cartridges were really mini-mortar shells. A version had been in use for rifles, but this was a new, experimental variation for use in the U.N.C.L.E. Special. Kuryakin cautiously stepped out of the woods but the two gunmen made no attempt to stop him. The Russian rushed across an open, grassy area to the chateau.

Alicia's face betrayed the panic that engulfed her. Solo ignored her for a moment, leaning over Riley's body, patting it down. He reached into his coat and found a semi-automatic pistol. He quickly went over to the unconscious guard and found another weapon.

"Alicia, snap out of it!" Solo said sternly. "Riley's men are coming. You've got to take cover..."

That's when they heard the explosion, the noise roaring through the dining room. The blast had come close, probably on this floor of the chateau. "Wh-wh-what was that?" Alicia said as she trembled.

"Let's hope it's the cavalry. Stay still for a second." Solo put the guns aside for a second, then bent down and removed the ankle bracelet he had given Alicia.

"Wha?" Alicia just stared, unable to get the words out.

"We're going to need this," Solo said, pocketing the bracelet and picking up the guns. Just then, he heard steps from behind, coming from the front of the chateau. He whirled, caught a glimpse of another guard preparing to fire. Solo was faster, getting off two shots, both striking the thug in the chest. Another explosion rocked the dwelling and there was a quick exchange of gunfire. Solo gestured to Alicia to get under the big, heavy table and prepared his weapon to fire. The large front room was now smoky but there was only a single set of footsteps, the sound coming slowly as if someone were walking deliberately. Solo tensed, almost jumping out of his shoes. Then he saw Illya Kuryakin holding an U.N.C.L.E. Special and a machine gun, its barrel pointed up toward the ceiling.

"I think we should tell the laboratory technicians these special miniature mortars are a trifle too powerful," Kuryakin said. "Where's Riley?"

Solo pointed toward the corpse. "We don't have time to relax," he said. "I think we have ten minutes, at the most."

"Ten minutes for what?"

"Our late friend has dug himself a small silo to launch some kind of mini-missile. What's the state of the opposition?"

"He must have only a handful of men here. I encountered one down toward the road and three up by the house. But there could be others. Monsieur Raymond will be sending his men in about twenty minutes." Kuryakin took out the pen communicator, and rigged it to send out a data message. "There. Monsieur Raymond's men should be here in just a few minutes now."

"Come on, we can't wait," Solo said. Alicia was now standing by the table, still upset by the death she had witnessed. Solo walked over to her. "Alicia, I know it's rough. Keep it together another few minutes. Hurry, we've got to find a way out the back."

Solo took Alicia by the hand, tugging her a bit to get her moving. The two agents and the woman moved out of the dining room, quickly finding a rear exit. Kuryakin moved out first, checking for any hazards, then signaled the others to follow. Solo and Kuryakin spotted a Jeep parked at the rear of the chateau.

"Do you have the key?" Solo said.

Kuryakin nodded and the trio went to the Jeep. Solo checked the rear right door and, finding it unlocked, motioned for Alicia to enter. He then got into the passenger door. Kuryakin was already in the driver's seat.

"How can you start it?" Alicia said.

"I have a sort of skeleton key for automobiles, I just hope it works on these types of vehicles," Kuryakin said just as the engine roared to life.

"See about the middle of that clearing?" Solo said. "That's where the missile will be launched. Drive by it."

The Jeep roared off. Solo reached into his pocket and took out the ankle bracelet and held it up.

"Now what?" Alicia said.

"Napoleon, is that steam coming from the hole?" Kuryakin said.

Solo didn't answer, instead twisting off the first link of the ankle bracelet and opening the passenger door. From the back seat Alicia could see they were nearly at the pit. Solo leaned out and tossed the ankle bracelet into the pit as they passed. Kuryakin gassed it even more as Solo shut the door. Alicia looked back just as a huge burst of flame shot up to the sky. A millisecond later, she could hear the loudest explosion yet just before the Jeep titled onto its side.

"It's remarkable you escaped with only a relatively few bumps and bruises," Alexander Waverly said in Philippe Raymond's office at U.N.C.L.E.-Paris.

"Yes, I suppose the seat belts did their job," Solo said. Kuryakin was unmarked, but Solo's face was a little puffy, most of that from the fighting at Riley's chateau. Alicia Parkway, also sitting at the table, had suffered some bruises, though none on her face.

"Monsieur Raymond tells me his agents found some records indicating there are other Black Hand officials," Waverly said, nodding toward Raymond. "We have some leads but it appears there is more to the organization than we've taken into custody. Still, with their leader dead, it may take quite some time for them to recover, if they can at all."

"Mr. Riley was something of a tragic figure, it now appears," Kuryakin said.

"Perhaps," Waverly said. "Still, we are responsible for our own actions. It would have been easier all around if he had sought psychiatric help instead of organizing a criminal group. I'm told the authorities have now located the body of the real Father Burke, who was buried near that village in the French Alps. A reminder, gentlemen, that our sympathies for Mr. Riley should be limited. Well, I should think that concludes the matter, except for you, Miss Parkway. Our organization is extremely grateful."

"It all seems so unreal, somehow," she said, not really looking in Waverly's direction. "All except the look on Riley or Father Burke or whoever when he died. I may never forget that."

Solo glanced at her. On other occasions he had felt regret about involving people -- innocents -- in the affairs of U.N.C.L.E. This occasion was particularly odd, with Riley's fixation on Alicia's resemblance to his dead wife. Solo thought he could anticipate ways to protect her, to minimize her exposure to danger. Somehow, it never turns out so neat and clean, Solo thought.

"My dear, I know you've been through an ordeal," Waverly said, interrupting Solo's thoughts. "I don't expect you to forget. But please remember this -- people get the opportunity to do extraordinary things but often don't. You were drawn into this by chance but you were still involved when it mattered. Try to remember that as well. Now, I must be off. Good day, everyone." Waverly arose and walked out the door.

The next day, at DeGaulle Airport, Solo and Kuryakin walked Alicia to the gate of TransGlobal Flight Seventy-Two.

"U.N.C.L.E. didn't have to buy me a first-class ticket, I still have money for my air fare home," Alicia said.

"I think Mr. Waverly wanted to show a tangible side of our organization's gratitude," Kuryakin said. "Excuse me, I need to check travel arrangements for Napoleon and myself." The agent walked off, without waiting for a reply.

"Is your Russian friend being discreet?" Alicia said.

"I have a somewhat exaggerated reputation with women," Solo replied.

"I doubt that," she said.

Solo cleared his throat. "In any event, I guess he wanted to give me a chance to say good-bye myself. I also wanted to apologize for the ordeals you went through. If we hadn't gone for that walk together back at L'Alpe des Resseaux, none of this might have happened."

"Well, I wanted to go on that walk," Alicia said. "Still, things got a little crazy. I doubt anyone would believe it if I could talk about it. Anyway, don't apologize too much -- except maybe for that crazy business at the press conference. That nudge kind of hurt."

"I apologize for that also."

A voice came over the intercom. "Now boarding TransGlobal Flight Seventy-Two. We will start with first-class passengers and anyone needing special assistance."

"That's you," Solo said.

Alicia started to turn away but looked back at Solo. She leaned up and kissed him hard on the mouth. He held her for a moment before letting go. "Take care of yourself," Alicia said. She then turned and walked to the gate and then out of sight. Solo watched her disappear and stood there for a moment.

Kuryakin returned. "Our flight leaves in ninety minutes. Do you want to go back to the locker and retrieve our carry-on bags, or would you prefer to spend a few minutes at the bar?"

"I think I'd like a stiff drink right about now," Solo said.

THE END

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