Act I
"Pass the Remote Control"

 No matter how many times he had done it previously, Napoleon Solo's adrenaline flowed as he prepared to lead a raiding party.

 Every sense seemed to operate beyond peak efficiency. Solo could hear the steady breathing of his men as they lay quietly, awaiting his word. Although it was a pitch-black night, Solo could see the target clearly -- in this case a mansion in the Hollywood hills. He felt as if he could smell skullduggery in the air.

 Solo glanced at the luminescent hands of his watch. Eleven-fifteen. He gestured to the other men with the pre-arranged signal.

 The mansion was in a remote section of the hills. There were few trees but plenty of shrubbery and brush surrounding the twelve-foot wall. Agents Mallon and Nelson, two relatively new men, emerged from the brush. Each wore a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and boots. Mallon quietly aimed and fired a weapon that sent a grappling wire and hook over the wall's edge. He yanked on the wire and began to climb. Nelson repeated the maneuver about fifteen feet away.

 Lying in the brush, Solo waited with four other agents. He held a small, plastic rectangular box, which resembled a television remote-control unit. A small red light was activated. That was the all-clear signal from the two men who had just gotten inside the grounds.

 Without a word, Solo waved and pointed, once right and once left. That was the instruction for the four men to split up. It was all part of a plan that had been in the works for the past three weeks. The two pairs of agents made their way to separate sections of the wall surrounding the estate. Within fifteen minutes, they, too, had activated the all clear signal.

 Solo reached for the backpack that lay near his feet. He unzipped it and pulled out a sports jacket. He stood up and put the jacket on over the dark turtleneck he wore. Unlike the others, however, Solo wore no camouflage paint on his face. He stood up, as if trying on clothes at a men's store, and walked nonchalantly around to the other side of the grounds. It took perhaps twenty minutes before he approached the front gate. There, a solitary man awaited on the other side. He was large, at least two hundred-fifty pounds, which looked like all muscle. His goatee had no flecks of gray and his face had few wrinkles. Solo guessed the man was no more than thirty.

 The man flinched as Solo approached. "Hey, private property, go away," the man yelled.

 Solo had his hands in his pockets. "That's some attitude. Is that how you treat all your guests?"

 "Mister, I don't know what you think you're doing, but you better get outta here," the guard said.

 Solo glanced up and down at the guard. He had no weapon drawn but Solo was sure at least one was nearby. Also, there was a small guardhouse just a few feet to the man's left. Almost certainly, there was some kind of rifle or machine gun there.

 "I'm invited to a party and get here a little late and somebody chews my head off," Solo said. "Not a nice way to treat guests."

 "Mister, I---"

 The karate chop from agent Mallon dropped the guard in his tracks. He fell forward, his head hitting the gate. Mallon dragged the man into the guardhouse, then flicked a switch that opened the gate. Solo quickly slipped inside after which Mellon flipped the switch again to close the gate.

 "Perimeter secured," Mallon said as Solo peered into the guardhouse.

 Solo took a small case from the breast pocket of the sports coat. He opened the case and withdrew a syringe. Bending over the unconscious guard,  Solo looked for a vein in the man's left arm and jabbed it with the needle.

 "This should assure our sleeping friend doesn't wake up before reinforcements arrive," Solo said as he placed the syringe back in the case. He then took the plastic box and pressed a button in the lower right corner. "Let's join the party, Mr. Mallon."

 Solo had signaled the other agents to converge on the mansion. The men had, in effect, formed a circle around the house and they quickly tightened the human noose. Two agents named Colan and Lee were the first to encounter guards, but they caught them by surprise and quickly overpowered them with karate blows. Another agent, Stanski, sneaked up on a guard at the rear of the house with a garrote, dropping him on the spot.

 By the time Solo and Mallon approached the mansion ten minutes later, it was all over. The operation had gone smoothly. Solo received another all-clear signal, this one indicating the mansion was secure. All of this went  too smoothly for Solo's taste.

 As Solo walked up to the large  two-story house, Colan and Lee were taking guards outside. Solo stopped the pair. "Is this all the resistance you encountered?" Solo asked.

 "There were some people who put up a fight but they were overcome pretty quickly," said, Colan, a thirty-five-year-old, clean-shaven man with prematurely gray hair. "But they seem like second stringers overall. Nelson is inside looking for papers and such."

 Solo squinted. "Signal the Los Angeles office it's all right to send in the mop-up crew," he said. "I'll see if I can assist Mr. Nelson. Have Mr. Mallon provide any help with prisoners that you need."

 Solo walked up a short flight of steps to the mansion's main entrance. He opened the door and walked inside. He stood in the mansion's front room. A staircase hugged a round wall leading the way upstairs. Solo heard the rustling of papers from a door just off to his left. He walked ten feet to the door, which was ajar. Solo opened it all the way and saw Nelson going through a large desk. Nelson, a baby-faced man of twenty-eight who looked much younger, looked up.

 "Finding much of anything?" Solo asked.

 "At first glance, no," Nelson said. "These materials look genuine but pretty routine. This is definitely some kind of Thrush outpost, based on what I've seen. But it doesn't look like a main center or anything."

 "You keep looking, I'll go upstairs," Solo said.

 As he exited the room, Solo drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special. Even though the all-clear signal had been made, Solo felt very uneasy. He walked up the stairs slowly and cautiously, his senses still alert. The first room was on his right. It was a bed room, with a king-sized bed on one side with a large dresser. On the opposite end of the room was a twenty-seven inch Mitsubishi television atop a large stand. Solo walked over to the dresser and began to rifle through it. Nothing but clean underwear and T-shirts.

 "Swell," Solo muttered to himself.

 Just then, the television came on by itself. Solo turned, his gun ready to fire. The image was a tight head shot of a man. Solo's mouth dropped when he spotted the soulless eyes surrounded by a face sagging from age. Although he had only met the man once, his image was unmistakable.

 "Ah, Napoleon Solo, so glad to see you once more," the man's voice said through the television. "I'm afraid this was all a bit of a ruse, old fellow. Oh, we had to sacrifice a few low-level personnel to make you think it was genuine. But this is simply my way of letting you know I'm coming for you. No one, of course, will believe that Wellington Fleming is alive. There will be no proof of this transmission. It will be our little secret, dear boy. Good-bye, for now."

 A plume of smoke arose from the set as its electronics burned themselves out. Solo raised his hand to his face, expecting more fireworks. But none came.

 Two days later, Solo sat in a conference room at the New York office of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

 "Napoleon, that's impossible," Illya Kuryakin said to Solo. "We recovered Fleming's body. It matched all available records. As you'll recall, the man was piloting a mini-helicopter at the time. The body was found in the wreckage. It simply cannot be."

 "Illya, I know what I saw," Solo said, nervously tugging on the blue pattern necktie he was wearing with the gray suit and white dress shirt. "This man, whoever he was, appeared to be the same age as Fleming. The camera was tight on the man's face, so I couldn't see what he was wearing and there was a plain black background so I couldn't get a look at his surroundings. If an impersonation was involved, this fellow could be a professional."

 "I hope you have more to show Mr. Waverly than your recollections," Kuryakin said. "He's not very happy about how little the raid yielded as it is."

 Solo sat back in his chair and absentmindedly fiddled with his U.N.C.L.E. security badge. "Yes, I suppose he would be unhappy. Three weeks of work resulting in next to nothing after receiving a trail of data leading us to believe we had identified a major Thrush center. That's generally not the way to get on Mr. Waverly's good side."

 A few minutes later, Solo and Kuryakin walked through the automatic sliding door into Waverly's office. The Number One of Section One sat at the round conference table. Waverly didn't look up from papers he was studying. "Sit down, gentlemen."

 The two men, the top U.N.C.L.E. enforcement agents, did as they were instructed. Solo raised his eyebrows, an expression indicating he was expecting to hear the worst.

 "Mr. Solo, let's start with you. Do you have any explanation for this affair on the West Coast?"

 "Obviously, some sort of Thrush disinformation effort, sir," Solo said. "The information identifying the estate as a Thrush center came in a transmission intercepted by U.N.C.L.E.-Los Angeles. Our cryptography section in New York decoded the message. Subsequent investigation indicated there were Thrush personnel there. I went to Los Angeles to supervise the resulting raid. The men captured were indeed Thrush agents, right down to the fingerprint erasure technique used on low-level personnel."

 "That's just the problem, Mr. Solo. Every one of those men were low-level," Waverly said. "Their capture would not adversely affect Thrush operations any more than if Thrush had lost a box of paper clips. The question is why. I've read your report, Mr. Solo, and I have yet to see an answer. Do you think you can provide one? All I can see is some gibberish about a brief telecast. What was that all about?"

 Solo bit his lip for a moment. "I believe it was intended as a warning toward me, sir. As I searched a room upstairs, a television set came on by itself. There was a transmission from a man resembling Wellington Fleming saying he was coming for me."

 Waverly stared at Solo for a moment, his eyes resembling X-ray devices. "What was that? Wellington Fleming. He was killed months ago. You both were there. Wasn't it your gunshots that wounded Fleming and brought down his mini helicopter?"

 "Yes sir."

 "I believe we were quite thorough in identifying the body. I don't recall any doubt that Fleming's body was recovered."

 "Yes sir."

 "Yet, you are telling me that Wellington Fleming broadcast a special message to you that he intends to strike back at you? Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Solo, but I don't believe they have television studios in Hades."

 Solo caught a glimpse of Kuryakin trying to suppress a grin but pressed ahead. "Sir, I am aware of the events you describe. Just as clearly, I am aware the man on the television broadcast strongly resembled Wellington Fleming -- an identical match, based on the few seconds of the telecast that I saw."

 "And what happened after the telecast?" Waverly said.

 "The electronic circuitry of the set burned itself out. I believe you'll find a note about it in the inventory list that accompanies my report. Also, Mr. Nelson of the Los Angeles office did see the burned-out television. He arrived in the room a few seconds later after hearing noises."

 "Yes, I recall some mention in his report. But he did not see the broadcast, correct?"

 "Yes sir."

 Waverly looked off to the side for a moment, then returned his gaze to Solo. "Well, Mr. Fleming was known for flamboyant gestures. I suppose there are a number of ways such a broadcast could be carried out, computer animation techniques among them. I suppose I can also understand your reluctance to go into detail about this in your report. It's still rather puzzling, however."

 "Yes sir."

 "Perhaps it's an indication you both should be on guard. In any event, I have a new matter to bring to your attention. Do you recall Professor Lillian Stemmler?"

 "Stemmler? Oh yes, the Plus- and Minus-X solutions," Kuryakin said. "The scientist secretly in the employ of Thrush."

 "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "Plus-X would heighten the senses to near-superhuman levels while also increasing intelligence. Minus-X, a derivative of the same formula, could turn a grown man into a babbling child for a period of hours. Unfortunately, Professor Stemmler was killed and her research data never recovered."

 "Yes, the professor sacrificed herself to protect her daughter," Solo said. "Thrush was attempting to steal a new variety of plutonium from a U.S. installation. It nearly succeeded because the raiding party had ingested the Plus-X while the guards had taken Minus-X."

 "Attempts to duplicate the professor's research have been fruitless until now. But let me show you something," Waverly said, flicking a switch that caused a screen to come down from a slit in the ceiling. As it came into place, they saw the image of a blonde bespeckled woman. The face had a serious look but Solo thought there was something about the eyes. Even through the glasses they had a hint of life. He couldn't quite place his finger on it. At first, Solo thought she must be no more than thirty. But on closer examination, there was the slightest hint of age lines around the eyes. He still thought she was quite pretty, just that it might be a little hard to pin down the age. She looked like she could be anywhere from her early thirties to more than forty.

 "Doctor Caroline Travers, gentlemen. Age thirty-eight," Waverly said as if in answer to Solo's ponderings. "Based at the University of Alabama at Birmingham."

 "Alabama?" Solo said.

 "One of the largest medical schools in the United States, Mr. Solo. Over the past five years, Dr. Travers picked up on available threads of the Stemmler research. She is within a year of beginning to test animals. Her work is just now making the medical journals. I am rather concerned she may be making herself a target for Thrush."

 "Is there anything specific that points to Thrush interest in Dr. Travers?" Kuryakin asked.

 "Nothing specific, I'm afraid," Waverly responded. "Still, it's likely that Thrush feels some proprietary interest, as it were. Stemmler was their employee, after all. And Thrush certainly is a relentless organization."

 "How do we proceed?" Kuryakin said. "Do we travel to Alabama and guard her?"

 "Hardly, I would expect both of you to be more proactive than that," Waverly said. "I believe the best strategy is to encourage our bird friends to force the issue."

 "Do you have any suggestions how we might accomplish that?" Solo said.

 "Oh, I have a notion or two. I was thinking if the suggestion were made, discreetly and only in the right circles, that the research into recreating Plus- and Minus-X were a bit further along than is publicly acknowledged, it might force our friends out into the open."

 "I see," Solo said.

 "After all," Waverly said, "our Thrush friends are not the only ones who can use disinformation to their advantage. I leave it to you two to devise any cover identities you might need. But have an action plan on my desk within forty-eight hours."

 A few hours later, the two agents reconvened at Solo's office.

 "Dr. Egon von Konigsburg?" Kuryakin said. "Couldn't you come up with something Russian sounding? I don't think I'm going to fool anyone."

 "The idea is not necessarily to fool anyone for long," Solo said. "If a suspicious fellow is suddenly near Dr. Travers, it might force Thrush's hand."

 "Why do I have the feeling this is not going to be good for my head?" Kuryakin said. "And how do you figure into all this?"

 "Napoleon Solo, freelance journalist, specializing in medical matters, at your service." Solo replied. "The same medical conference attracting Dr. von Konigsburg has also drawn the attention of the media, at least the specialized media."

 "No doubt," Kuryakin said. "Doesn't seem like much of a plan."

 "Beats wearing a target on my back."

 "What do you mean?"

 "I just think I need a mission to keep my mind off that odd Fleming telecast I saw in Los Angeles," Solo said. "Obviously it was intended to unnerve me. I'd rather go on the attack against Thrush than wait around and figure out what Mr. Fleming's lookalike has in mind."

Act II
"Welcome South, Brother"

 Solo got his first glimpse of Birmingham as his plane circled the city and came in for a landing. From his window seat, he saw the large statue of Vulcan, the god of metal, on Red Mountain on the city's southern edge. A few weeks earlier, Solo had read a piece in The New York Times about how the statue, the second tallest in the United States next to the Statue of Liberty, was gradually falling apart because of lack of maintenance. Solo couldn't tell that from the air, but the giant statue seemed out of place somehow. For one thing, Vulcan was a symbol of Birmingham's past, when steel mills belched black smoke into the sky. Many had closed and the city now had a more diversified economy, according to the briefing papers Solo had seen. What's more, a residential area was close just south of Vulcan. Solo chuckled, again remembering The Times' story. Those homes were part of a suburb called Homewood. Old Vulcan only wore an apron, which left the god exposed on the back. That, in turn, had inspired a song called Moon Over Homewood.

 The flight looped east to the Birmingham airport. The plane was small and Solo had been unable to get a first-class seat on short notice. It had been a cramped and uncomfortable flight, which included changing planes in Atlanta. He felt relief when he could finally stand up after the plane landed. It was quite a bit warmer than in New York and much stickier. The humidity, Solo guessed, had to be at least eighty percent and he felt damp in his blue business suit. Although it was only spring, to Solo it felt like early summer, and a muggy early summer at that.

  The terminal was relatively uncrowded, much more orderly than the mess he had encountered at the sprawling Atlanta airport. He quickly picked up his bag at the luggage carousel and made his way within minutes to the rental car agency. Once there, he picked up a dark green Dodge Stratus. The car was surprisingly peppy. Solo romped along as he took the interstate highway into the city. He caught himself about to go over seventy miles per hour before easing off the gas.

 The drive was mostly relaxing, except for the badly marked interchange where he nearly missed his lane change. Solo cursed softly to himself but switched lanes in time and headed south toward the large University of Alabama-Birmingham campus. From what Solo could see from the highway, the university seemed like a limestone city unto itself, almost a separate community. Solo's look was brief, however, as his exit came up quickly. He turned the car east, or away from the university, to approach his hotel, a multi-level Hilton. Fifteen minutes later, Solo was in his eighth-floor room and ran a quick scan for any listening devices. Not finding any, he took out his U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator and set it for a local transmission.

 "Calling Dr. von Konigsburg," Solo said softly into the communicator.

 "Very funny. Next time you assume the odd cover identity," Kuryakin replied.

 "Have you made contact yet, Herr Doctor?" Solo said, smirking.

 "No, there's a reception tonight. Business dress. We've arranged for you to be on the guest list. Dr. Travers is supposed to be there. Has our uncle dropped hints about Dr. Travers?"

 "A day before I left, word was on its way that Dr. Travers had something of a breakthrough on the development of Plus- and Minus-X," Solo said. "I would say word has probably gotten around," Solo said.

 "Well, I've been here two days but haven't seen any signs of suspicious activity," Kuryakin said. "It's just been hot."

 "Are you at the hotel up the street?"

 "Yes, it's a Hyatt. And you're at the Hilton?"

 "Absolutely."

 "I might have guessed. The reception is at eight at a conference center at the University. I'm sure you can get adequate directions. Don't forget to set your watch. It's one hour earlier than in New York. Kuryakin out."

 The conference center was contained within the sprawling mass of limestone buildings that made up the campus. Three conference rooms with sliding walls had been converted into a large hall. The gathering had been underway for at least fifteen minutes when Solo arrived. He had changed into a navy suit after first taking a shower back at his hotel. He scanned the room but did not spot Dr. Travers immediately.

 "Your name, please?" a woman said as Solo approached the check-in area.

 "Napoleon Solo."

 The woman, a fiftyish American woman, squinted for a moment. "Is that your real name?"

 "Scout's honor," Solo said. "My parents wanted a first name that couldn't be shortened into a nickname."

 "How about Nappy?"

 "Yes, they found they had been mistaken during my childhood."

 Solo began to circulate around the room after first taking a glass of white wine from a waiter. As he scanned the room, Solo caught bits of small talk, little of which meant anything to him. Then, a tall, awkward looking man approached. He was about sixty, with graying hair and wire-rim glasses. Solo guessed he should be six-foot-two, or two or three inches taller than Solo. The U.N.C.L.E. agent stressed the "should" in his thoughts. The man bent over slightly and walked in short, clumsy steps.

 "Pardon me, but Ah don't believe we've met. Frank Capperstone, Ah'm a vice president of the university," the man said. His accent, though Southern, seemed to be from a different part of the region. Whoever he was, Solo guessed, he was not a native of this area.

 "Napoleon Solo. I'm a freelance journalist, here to cover the conference. I write for some specialty publications."

 "Good to meet you, Mr. Solo."

 "Are you from around these parts, Mr. Capperstone?" Solo asked as he made a mental bet with himself.

 "No, Ah'm originally from West Virginia. I've been here for ten years, though."

 "I see," Solo said as he collected his mental wager. "I understand there's quite a buzz about Dr. Travers of this university."

 "Buzz?"

 "Yes, that she's making strides in a pretty significant area of research, chemicals that can stimulate brain functions. That's one of the reasons I'm here."

 "Well, Ah was aware of some of her research but Ah'm not up on all the details. She's over here, if you'd like me to introduce you." As Capperstone spoke, a small fleck of spittle appeared on his lips.

 "Yes, I'd like that," Solo said, debating whether he should embarrass the awkward man. He tried pointing at his own mouth with his right index finger as a gesture.

 "Somethun wrong, Mr. Solo?"

 "No, not at all," Solo said as Capperstone failed to get the hint. "Let's meet Dr. Travers."

 Solo followed Capperstone. He found it hard to stay behind the tall gangly man. Capperstone's tiny steps reminded Solo of a vulgarism he'd heard as a child -- how people who walked this way must have something jammed up a delicate orifice. In any event, Capperstone walked so slowly that Solo found himself getting annoyed at the man.

 Solo put those thoughts aside as they approached a couple. On the right was Kuryakin, wearing a black suit and a pair of plastic-rim glasses with colored lenses. On the left was Dr. Travers, wearing a simple black dress with white stripes. She was wearing glasses just like the photo Solo had seen in New York. Solo thought she was quite attractive despite the glasses.

 "Pardon me, folks, but we have a visitor Ah'd like to introduce you to," Capperstone said. "This is Napoleon Solo, a journalist. Uh, who did you say you were with?"

 "I live in New York and I'm a freelancer for specialty publications," Solo said.

 "Of course," Capperstone said. "This is Dr. Egon von Konigsburg, from the University of Vienna. He's here to attend the conference that starts tomorrow."

 "Doctor, I've heard a lot of good things about your work," Solo said.

 "I'm sure you have," Kuryakin said, managing to avoid the sarcasm he wanted to display.

 "And this is Dr. Caroline Travers, one of our brightest faculty members," Capperstone said.

 "Doctor, it's a great honor," Solo said.

 "Well, thank you, Mr. Solo, but aren't you exaggerating just a bit?" Caroline responded. Her tone of voice suggested a direct, no-nonsense quality.

 "No, I mean it," Solo said. "I understand you've made some great strides in resuming the work of Dr. Stemmler. The so-called Plus-X. I was hoping to talk to you about it during the conference."

 "I don't know if I'd call it great strides, Mr. Solo," Caroline said. "Dr. Stemmler left only the most fragmentary information. Much of her research didn't survive her. It was not much of a starting point, I'm afraid."

 "I'm sorry, but you don't talk much like a Southerner," Solo said.

 "I'm a transplanted New Englander, I'm afraid. I've lived here for over a decade and pretty much lost the accent. Haven't quite adopted the native tongue but you won't hear me asking for claaam chowdah," she said, performing a mock Boston accent.

 "Well, ah have to attend to other guests, I'll see you later, Mr. Solo," Capperstone said as he began to walk away.

 "That's a relief," Caroline said as Capperstone slid out of earshot. "Sorry, Mr. Solo. I find Capperstone a bit of a bore. He likes the make a big deal of being the first member of his family to attend college and it's made him quite pretentious, I'm afraid."

 "No apologies necessary," Solo said, recalling the fleck of spittle on the man's lips.

 "Dr. Travers, I do not wish to talk shop, as I believe you Americans call it, but I am curious about this Stemmler matter," Kuryakin said.

 "I'm sorry, Dr. von Konigsburg," Caroline said. "Lillian Stemmler was a pioneer in studying the human brain and ways it could be stimulated. But she was involved secretly in some kind of criminal case. The details were all a bit hush-hush. All I know is she was killed and only small portions of her original reserarch could be found."

 "It must have been quite difficult for you," Kuryakin said.

 Caroline let out a sigh. "Next to impossible at times," she said. "But through some trial and error, I'm starting to put some things in place."

 "And that's exactly what I'd like to discuss, perhaps at a more appropriate time, Doctor," Solo said. "I was wondering if we could set up an interview during the conference."

 "Well, actually tomorrow, the first day, would be better. I'm scheduled to speak the second day and I have a class to teach that day as well."

 "Tomorrow at your office?" Solo said.

 Caroline's eyes looked to the side as she thought. Then she returned her attention to Solo. "All right, my office at ten-thirty." She gave him the name of the building and the number of her office.

 "Very well, thank you," Solo said. "I should let two colleagues resume their discussions. Dr. Travers, Dr. von Konigsburg." Solo slipped away and mingled elsewhere.

 "Hmmmm," Caroline said after Solo left.

 "What do you mean, Doctor?" Kuryakin/von Konigsburg asked.

 "Oh, nothing. He just seems fairly attractive," Caroline said.

 "Him?" Kuryakin said, pointing in the direction Solo had left.

 "Oh, yes. I guess it's the hair. He has sort of a classic hairstyle. I never cared for  bangs on a man." She paused for a moment, looking at Kuryakin's own bangs. "Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor. Nothing personal."

 Kuryakin  absentmindedly  touched his own hair. "Of course."

 Another woman caught Solo's eye as he made his way around the large room. She wore a long violet dress that extended down past her knees. Her brunette hair was worn up in a bun and she had on gold, wire-rim glasses. Her figure was on the skinny side, and she was almost flat-chested. But she was not unattractive. She gave off the image of a well-dressed librarian. But Solo knew better.

 The woman was by herself, sipping from a glass off wine when Solo came up from behind.

 "Ah, Pamela Keystroke, Thrush's mousiest lady assassin," Solo said softly from behind. "What brings you to the Deep South?"

 Pamela cocked her head slightly to the back. "Just because a woman doesn't have a busty figure like Angelique or Serena is no reason to make fun, Napoleon."

 "Oh, I'm sure you put your equipment to its best use," Solo said. "Although, as I recall, you were too busy firing your gun at me on that last affair for me to find out."

 Pamela turned to look at Solo. "I'm sure it was my loss," she said.

 "You didn't answer my question," Solo said, politely but firmly.

 "We can't make it that easy, can we?" she said. "I might ask the same thing of the U-N-C-L-E. This is a little off the beaten track for your organization."

 "One cleans up messes where one finds them," Solo said.

 "As it turns out, I have been empowered to deliver a message," Pamela said. "A friend of yours wants to see you. Outside, in the parking lot."

 "Sounds like a trap -- and a poorly baited one at that."

 "Be that way. His initials are W-F."

 Solo's eyes widened for a moment. "I'm not sure to whom you refer."

 "Oh come now, Mr. Solo. He went to a great deal of trouble to provide you with a mock heroic moment just so he could announce his presence. You remember, in Los Angeles."

 "I'm drawing a blank."

 "Very well, Mr. Solo," she shot back. "Unless you're prepared to engage in a gun battle right here and now, I will leave this dreary reception. Good night, I'll relay your regrets to W-F."

 Solo watched as the skinny woman walked away. He wondered whether he should follow. But he was quite familiar with Pamela Keystroke's dossier. She specialized in infiltrating an organization, usually as a mild-mannered secretary or other low-level employee. She would gain the trust of a key executive or official and -- her mousy appearance to the contrary -- strike up an intense sexual affair before killing her intended target. Solo had encountered several, more glamorous, Thrush assassins over the years. But Solo guessed they didn't enjoy the killing in quite the manner that Pamela Keystroke did. Solo had gotten only one crack at her over the years and missed. I'm probably going to have to make up for that during this affair, he thought.

 Solo pondered his situation. Pamela had to be referring to Wellington Fleming, or his double. Solo let ten minutes pass, then headed for the exit.

 The surface parking lot was well lit, as was the exterior of the conference center. It was only a little after nine; most of the guests hadn't left, and the lot was still full. Solo walked briskly to his car, his senses alert. About halfway to his car, he heard a voice from his right, about a row away from him.

 "My dear boy, you like to keep a fellow waiting, don't you?" Wellington Fleming said.

Act III
"A Thrush Can Spoil a Date"

 Solo froze. Fleming -- no, his double, Solo reminded himself -- stood erect, a cigarette holder in his mouth. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a bow tie. His hands were at his sides. He held no weapon but Solo tensed, ready to draw his gun.

 "Mr. Solo, really. I'm not going to kill you now. Just want you to sweat a bit, don't you know?" The voice was the same he had heard in London, months ago.

 "Forgive me for asking, but why are you going to such lengths to dress up as a long-dead person?" Solo said.

 "Are you quite sure?" Fleming reached for his cigarette holder but put his arm back down as he stared intently at Solo, who was still ready to draw his gun.

 "Wellington Fleming's body was found in the Thames river, still aboard a mini-helicopter that went down," Solo said. "The match was quite positive."

 Fleming -- Solo couldn't help but think of the man that way -- started to chuckle. "Well, one shouldn't rely too much on science, you know?"

 "If you are Wellington Fleming, why shouldn't I gun you down right now?" Solo said.

 "Please now, Mr. Solo. I'm merely here to tell you this is your final warning. Until our next encounter..."

 Suddenly, an object dropped from Fleming's right hand. Solo's hand reached into his suit coat. But smoke had enveloped Fleming in the few seconds it took Solo to withdraw and aim his gun. He quickly fired off one shot in Fleming's direction. But Solo heard footsteps, running. He ran between two cars to the spot where Fleming had been and then through the smoke. On the other side of the parking lot, Fleming entered a large black car that quickly sped off. Solo couldn't see the license plate and the car disappeared into the night.

 "But enough about my work, Dr. von Konigsburg. We've hardly talked about your field of expertise at the University of Vienna."

 Caroline Travers was looking at Kuryakin intently. Kuryakin had been given some basic information for his cover but was hesitant to get into much detail for fear of giving himself away to the woman scientist.

 "Genetic engineering, of course, is fascinating but progress is slow," Kuryakin said.

 "I don't know about that. The recently reported cloning of sheep is quite exciting," Caroline said.

 Before Kuryakin could respond, he heard the whine of his pen communicator. "Ah, I am being summoned on my beeper," he said. "Excuse me, please."

 "Of course, Doctor."

 Kuryakin exited the room to a hallway where there were telephones and restrooms. The telephones were mounted on a wall with very small privacy barriers between the units. Kuryakin picked up the receiver of one, while holding the pen communicator in the palm of that hand.

 "Kuryakin, here. Napoleon?"

 "We definitely have some Thrush birds on the premises. Or did, I should say. They have flown for now," Solo said.

 "Have you identified any of them?"

 "I encountered one Pamela Keystroke at the reception. She was on the other end of the room from yourself and Dr. Travers."

 "Pamela Keystroke? Oh yes, didn't she once strangle one of her victims during a bout of unorthodox sex?"

 "Among other things, yes."

 "Any others?"

 "Just Wellington Fleming."

 "Quit joking please, Napoleon."

 "He said it was his final warning. The next time would be it."

 "You're joking aren't you?" Kuryakin said. After a pause on the other end of the transmission, Kuryakin spoke again. "You're not joking."

 "No. Try to see Dr. Travers home safely and we can confer later."

 Ninety minutes later, Solo heard three short knocks on his hotel room door. He got up warily from the chair he had been sitting in, then peered through the peep hole. Solo unlocked the door and Kuryakin walked in.

 "Ah, Dr. von Konigsburg, how did it go?"

 "She thought I was being a bit of pest," Kuryakin said. "She had a car so I couldn't give her a ride to her home. I invented something about being overly chivalrous and she didn't mind that I followed behind her car to make sure she got home safely. I also slipped one of our homing devices in her purse." Kuryakin sat down in another chair opposite the one where Solo had sat.

 Solo returned to his chair. "Now if Thrush kidnaps her purse, we'll be in business."

 "Very funny," Kuryakin replied. "I don't suppose you have any better suggestions at this point."

 "Touché," Solo said. "I don't know, Illya. There's something awfully strange about this affair."

 "What? Just because you keep having visions of a dead man threatening you? Just because one of Thrush's deadliest woman assassins suddenly shows up? Just because Thrush is swarming all over Caroline Travers barely hours after U.N.C.L.E. sends out rumors that she's close to perfecting Plus-X?"

 "For starters, yes to all of the above."

 "Good reason," Kuryakin said. "As much regard as I have for Mr. Waverly, I wonder if he has been manipulated himself."

 "What do you mean?"

 "This all seems too perfect," Kuryakin said. "Dr. Travers makes progress on developing Plus-X right around the same time you lead that raid on the so-called Thrush outpost in Los Angeles. What if the good doctor were a member of Thrush? If so, we've been led around like a dog on a leash."

 "Could be," Solo said. "There are no signs that she's anything other than a hard-working academic."

 "That was the case with Professor Stemmler, if you will recall," Kuryakin said. "She was one of them for years. Thrush is awfully good at placing its members at all levels of business and academia, not to mention governments."

 "You've spent more time with her than I have up until now," Solo replied. "What's your feeling?"

 "Doesn't seem to match, but a deep-cover agent is not supposed to be easy to catch."

 Solo sat back in his chair. "Well, you're right about one thing. I'd bet money all of this is related. Too much of a coincidence otherwise. What it means is anyone's guess. Like this Wellington Fleming double. Is he a distraction or the leader of the operation?"

 "We won't find out by speculating here," Kuryakin said. "What is our next move?"

 "For now, play out the hand," Solo said. "In my case, I go ahead with tomorrow's interview with Dr. Travers."

  Solo entered the reception area at ten twenty-eight the next morning. A short, squat African-American woman was sitting at the desk. "May I help you?"

 "Napoleon Solo. I have an appointment with Dr. Travers."

 "Is that your real name?"

 "Yes, my mother once had an affair with a Frenchman."

 The receptionist squinted and touched the intercom. "Dr. Travers, there's a Mr. Solo here to see you, says he has an appointment."

 "Send him in," Caroline said over the intercom.

 "It's the third door on your right, down that hall," the receptionist said with a hint of offense at Solo's joke.

 Solo resisted the impulse to smirk and walked straight to the office. The office door was a standard wooden door with a glass window. Solo knocked three times, then Caroline asked him to come in.

 The office was relatively small and plain. Caroline had been reading a journal of some kind but had just placed it on the desk when Solo entered. The walls were an antiseptic white, the desk an ordinary basic brown model. There were a few framed photographs on the wall but this was hardly the workspace of a leading scientist.

 "Forgive me, these are pretty humble surroundings," Caroline said as she got up and shook Solo's hand. "I'm afraid they spent all the money on the fancy limestone exteriors when they constructed these buildings. But the lab facilities are first-rate and that's where I spend much of my time." She sat back down.

 "Quite all right," Solo said, pulling up a plain wooden chair. "I appreciate your time."

 "What would you like to know?" Caroline said, taking her glasses off.

 "Well, let's start with your interest in the so-called Plus-X," Solo said, taking a notebook and pen from the breast pocket of his navy suitcoat.

 "Not much to tell. Some of Professor Stemmler's papers turned up at a university on the East Coast. I guess they had been donated. Nobody was quite sure. I saw them at a conference out east and some of the notations seemed familiar. I heard the name Stemmler and did a little research. At first, it was something I did on the side. I found some old newspaper stories about Stemmler's research into Plus-X. I went over the papers and thought it was possible they were part of the Plus-X effort. It took some trial and error to check it out but they definitely were part of that research. Unfortunately, they were too fragmentary for me to go very far. The last five years I have been pretty much on my own."

 "I seem to recall there was something about a sort of reverse type of Plus-X, kind of the opposite effect," Solo said, sticking to his journalist cover story.

 "The old newspapers stories mentioned it but really didn't explain it," Caroline said. "Certainly there was nothing in the original papers I saw about such a formula. All my work has been on stimulation of the brain, the Plus-X, I guess. Really don't like that name, though. Too science-fiction for my taste. But I'm afraid the label has stuck."

 "Where do you stand on your research? How close are you to testing?"

 "I'm at least a year away from testing on animals, maybe two. It has potential, to be sure, but it seems like everybody is jumping the gun. Some people here at the university have been real interested and I've had to tell them to cool it."

 "Maybe it's the Stemmler angle. She was a pretty famous scientist," Solo said.

 "I suppose, but I wish some people would give me some breathing room."

 "Who is pushing it?"

 "You met one of them -- that Frank Capperstone person who introduced us last night. He keeps saying that Plus-X could really make the University's reputation and that he wants to be updated on it. He's probably been really interested for a year."

 Solo remembered his conversation with Capperstone. "Ah'm not up on all the details," Capperstone had told Solo. Why would Capperstone lie? Solo wondered. "I suppose it's his job," Solo said to Caroline.

 "Well, he's been a pain in the ass," Caroline replied. "Sorry, I don't mean to be crude but there are times I wish he'd go away."

 Solo wrote, "Check out Capperstone," in his notebook. He spoke up again. "Perhaps you could give me a better idea of how Plus-X could work...."

 Caroline spent the next twenty minutes in a detailed explanation of Plus-X. At this point, Solo asked if he could record the conversation, not wanting to make the slightest mistake in his notetaking. Caroline agreed and Solo took a microrecorder from his suitcoat pocket and activated it. Clearly, Caroline knew her stuff. Solo feigned interest as best he could but advanced brain chemistry wasn't his strong point. Still, he kept writing as if he were fastidiously taking notes.

 "That's the basic explanation. I could get more detailed if you like," Caroline said.

 "No, I think that's quite enough. Unfortunately, I've only been given fifteen hundred words to do the story."

 "Fifteen hundred words? That's hardly scratching the surface," Caroline said.

 "On those occasions I've freelanced for a newspaper, I'm lucky to get seven hundred and fifty."

 "Mr. Solo, er, Napoleon, may I ask you something?"

 "Certainly."

 "Would you like to go out to dinner this evening? I'm sorry to be so forward, but it's my nature."

 Solo was usually the pursuer and was a little taken aback. Still, he had noticed her blue eyes after she had taken off the glasses. "No need to apologize," he said. "I'd be happy to. Where would you recommend?"

 "Well, there's a surprisingly wide variety of choices. Birmingham is big enough to have at least one of everything and some of them are pretty good."

 "Even Thai?"

 Caroline laughed. "That might be stretching it a bit."

 Solo smiled. "Why don't I pick you up by around seven? I can check out some speeches being made at the conference today, type up my notes and go back to my hotel and change. Then, I can swing by and collect you. Where do you live?"

 "Vestavia Hills, it's a suburb south of here. Here, I'll write down the address and some directions..."

 Caroline picked up a pad off her desk, took a pen and quickly wrote out the address and directions. Her pen strokes were quick and efficient, her handwriting crisp and clear. She handed the piece of paper to him. He took the paper but held her hand for a moment, then kissed it.

 "An old-fashioned gesture," Caroline said, smiling.

 "When you're named Napoleon, it's a little tough to be trendy. So I try to preserve the best of the old traditions."

 A half hour later, Solo entered the conference center, the scene of the previous night's reception. It was nearing lunchtime, and the morning sessions were starting to break up. Attendees were starting to stream into the main reception area. Solo knew that lunch was being served off site. It looked like people were starting to break off into small groups to go to lunch. Off to the side, coming down a stairway, was Kuryakin, alone. Solo made a gesture and caught Kuryakin's glance. The two men walked past each other by a step and kept looking away as if searching for someone. They spoke softly enough no one could hear them but each other.

 "And how is the conference going today, Dr. von Konigsburg?" Solo said.

 "Getting a bit rough, even for the most attentive among us." Kuryakin said. "And yourself?"

 "We might want to keep an eye on that University official, Capperstone."

 "Why's that?" Kuryakin said.

 "I interviewed Caroline, eh, Dr. Travers this morning. She indicated that Capperstone has been highly interested in her Plus-X research. Apparently, he has gone on record as saying developing Plus-X could make the university's reputation. Evidently, he has been displaying this interest for a year or so. Yet he told me he didn't know very many of the details."

 "Interesting. I suppose we should watch her a bit more closely."

 "Well, I'm taking her out to dinner this evening."

 "Figures," Kuryakin said with a hint of disgust. "She mentioned something about finding you attractive last night."

 "She did? You didn't mention that."

 "I didn't want to encourage you," Kuryakin replied. "She said something about your hair. I gather she does not like bangs."

 Solo suppressed a grin. "Maybe she appreciates classic styling."

 "Or maybe she lacks taste," Kuryakin said. "I think I'll try to make a few discreet inquiries about our friend Capperstone."

 "All right, check in later."

 "What time is dinner?"

 "I'm supposed to pick her up around seven."

 "I'll call in about every fifteen minutes," Kuryakin said, holding back his own grin.

 "Don't be overly efficient. Over and out," Solo said.

            Kuryakin walked along the sidewalk, heading toward his hotel from the university. He had spent a few hours researching Capperstone. It hadn't been easy. As Dr. von Konigsburg, he couldn't show too deep an interest in any one person. As a result, the information was fragmentary. An anecdote from a professor, a stray comment from a secretary, a half-remembered story from another professor and so on. What emerged was a story of a plodding, cautious -- probably too cautious -- administrator who was a bit too full of himself. There was nothing much out of the ordinary. Either he was the typical academic bureaucrat or the perfect sleeper agent.

 "Doctor, wait up."

 Kuryakin turned around. It was Capperstone coming up from behind, in a brown tweed suit. He was alone.

 "Ah, Mr. Capperstone, what can I do for you?" Kuryakin said.

 "Ah'm just wondering why you're leaving the conference so early? We were planning a brief evening session and were hoping you might participate," Capperstone said.

 "I'm sorry, I have a bit of a headache," Kuryakin said. "Perhaps I can do more tomorrow."

 Suddenly, Capperstone took a swing at Kuryakin. A split-second of surprise delayed Kuryakin's reaction just long enough for a glancing blow to strike the side of his head. It landed with enough force that Kuryakin's tinted glasses nearly came off and lay askew on his head. Capperstone connected again, this time with a karate blow to the shoulder. Kuryakin began to tumble to the ground. But, as he landed on the pavement, he was alert enough to kick Capperstone hard on his right shin. The big man let out a scream. Kuryakin then whipped his legs around Capperstone's, sending him to the ground. Kuryakin rolled up off the ground and pressed his advantage. Capperstone was dazed and Kuryakin kneeled on the big man's chest and struck him with a backhanded slap. Capperstone lay still and quit struggling.

 "All right, my friend, what was the meaning of that?" Kuryakin said in a firm and threatening tone.

 Capperstone gazed up, anger in his eyes. "Ah don't know what you're talking about."

 "University administrators don't attack guests unless they have something else on their mind," Kuryakin said. "What is on yours?"

 Then, there was a hiss and haze. Capperstone somehow had sprayed Kuryakin with a gas from his lapel.  Kuryakin felt disoriented. He struck out at Capperstone but the man was already getting up. Kuryakin hit the ground as Capperstone rolled to his side to get Kuryakin off. Kuryakin's vision was clouding but he could hear footsteps. The Russian could tell he was being lifted when everything went black.

 Solo pulled the Stratus into the driveway. Caroline's directions had been easy to follow -- simple and direct like the woman herself.

 He looked the house over. It was a two-story brick home with a two-car garage. There were fancier houses nearby, but this home seemed unpretentious, much like its owner. Caroline struck Solo as uncommonly normal, despite her somewhat unusual occupation. She pretty much said what she thought, and came to the point pretty quickly. No having to ask twenty questions to find out what was on her mind.

 Solo, in fact, was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt. Although it had been Waverly's idea to use Caroline as bait, Solo was beginning to feel like an accomplice. Based on the interview that morning, Solo had concluded her research was indeed promising but hardly guaranteed to duplicate Professor Stemmler's success. Yet, here he was hoping that Thrush would conclude she was nearing a breakthrough. Solo felt himself starting to slow down as he walked to the door. Perhaps he should break the date. Yet, he found himself continuing until he reached the door and knocked.

 Several agonizing seconds passed as Solo continued to debate the morality of his actions. I suppose it has to be done, he thought, but it doesn't seem right, somehow. How many people had he involved in his assignments over the years? He hadn't given it much thought before. Now, over the past year, he was beginning to have doubts about the tactic of dragging in an "innocent."

 "Napoleon! Right on time," Caroline said. Solo had been lost in his thoughts and hadn't even noticed the door opening.

 Her words broke Solo's mood. He handed her a single rose he had carried to the door. "Not much, I realize," he said.

 "Oh, don't be silly come in." Caroline wore a dark red dress cut to the knee with black stockings. Her hair was down, but she still wore the glasses. She took the flower and walked several feet to a kitchen area and placed it in a vase. "Thought any more about where you'd like to eat?"

 "I'm new to these parts. Anywhere you'd suggest is fine."

 "Oh,  I think there are some pretty passable Mexican places not too far from here," she said with a smile. "You look like you're a million miles away. Anything wrong?"

 "Nothing," Solo said, managing a weak smile. "Journalists aren't supposed to get too chummy with their sources."

 "Maybe you should find a new profession," she said, briefly stroking his cheek with her index finger.

 Solo sighed. This is a hell of a time to develop a conscience.

 Solo's car moved quickly up the ramp onto a freeway known locally as the Red Mountain Expressway. It was early evening but the highway already was seeing traffic thin down from the afternoon rush hour levels.

 Caroline looked at him from the passenger seat. She had put her glasses away in her handbag. Solo felt the intensity of the gaze even as he looked ahead at traffic.

 "I think you'll like this Mexican restaurant. It's real Mexican, not a chain," Caroline said.

 "You're the Doctor."

 She sighed playfully. "You know how many times I've heard that joke?"

 "Probably as many times as people ask me whether my name really is Napoleon."

 Caroline smiled. "You know I don't go on that many dates."

 "Now that I find hard to believe," Solo said.

 "I think it's my work. It's pretty absorbing. Sometimes I get so busy I lose track of things, like having fun."

 "Nobody should be that busy."

 "Maybe if I met more men who at least seemed interested in what I do," Caroline said. "Like you, for instance. You're awfully conversant about Professor Stemmler and Plus-X."

 "The woman was a major scientist. If you specialize in writing on scientific matters, you get to know of such people," Solo said.

 "Maybe," she said. "But Stemmler has been dead for several years. And it's not like even leading scientists are celebrities or anything."

 Just then, Solo realized that a BMW had been behind him for several minutes. He tried not to give it away to Caroline. "If I wanted to write about celebrities, I would have tried for a job on People magazine," he said.

 "Is something wrong?"

 They felt a bump from behind. The BMW had just rammed the rear of the Stratus. Solo, surprised the car came up that quickly, concentrated on righting the car so it wouldn't go into a skid. A second contact shook the Dodge.

 "Why is that man ramming us?" Caroline said anxiously.

 Solo shifted from the middle lane to the right. The German car didn't miss a beat and stayed right behind. The Dodge might have had a peppy engine but Solo knew it was no match for the BMW. The car was inches from the Stratus' rear bumper when, in a move reminiscent of precision flying, it moved to the middle lane Solo had just vacated. The BMW now was parallel to the Dodge but wouldn't be there for long. Solo took a quick glance to his left, his first look at his pursuer.

 Wellington Fleming smiled, then rammed the BMW into the side of the Stratus. Solo was now on the shoulder of the highway and slammed on the brakes. The car's tires  screeched as Solo tried to keep the vehicle under control. Another BMW came up from behind. Solo caught a glimpse of a skinny, nearly flat-chested woman dressed in a tight leather outfit running up to his car, a gun in her hand. A large, beefy man was right behind her.

 Pamela Keystroke held the gun in a two-handed grip and stood a foot away from the driver's door of the Stratus. "Get out now, or we'll kill you both!"

 Had Solo been alone, he could have made a fight of it. But he couldn't take the risk with Caroline in the car. "Do as she says," he said.

 Solo put his hands up to show he was surrendering. Pamela Keystroke kept a close watch as he opened the door. Knowing the gun was trained on him, Solo got out deliberately, keeping his hands raised. A smile crossed Keystroke's lips and her eyes narrowed on Solo. She let go of the gun with her left hand, so she now held the weapon only with her right. Then, she swung the gun across Solo's left temple. Solo fell to the ground, his left hand touching the side of this head. He saw blood on his fingertips as he passed into unconsciousness.

Act IV
 "It Hurts So Good"

 The forms were without shape or color, just a mass of black, white and gray blobs, gradually shifting. Eventually, the blobs began to lighten. As they did so, Solo began to feel the left side of his head throb. As the pain began, the blobs seemed to disappear. Now it was just dark.

 Solo realized he was now awake but was in no hurry to open his eyes. He tried to figure out his position. The first realization: he was laying on his right side. He could feel a hard surface on his face. The second: he was tied up, his hands behind him, although his legs didn't feel encumbered.

 "He's been laying there an awfully long time, Dr. von Konigsburg. Can't we do something?"

 It was Caroline's voice, nervous and anxious. Still, Solo hesitated. So he kept his eyes shut.

 "I'm afraid neither of us is in much position to do so at the moment. Though I think he may be stirring."

 Illya's voice was calm and deliberate. They must have gotten him, too, Solo thought. Wait a minute. Who's they? Solo drew a blank until the mental images of Wellington Fleming and Pamela Keystroke appeared.

 Solo groaned as he tried to sit up. The body didn't want to respond at first but he finally began to establish some momentum.

 "Napoleon, take it easy," Caroline said. "You may be badly hurt."

 Solo doubted it, but he guessed the left side of his face might be a bit bloody. He tried to communicate but could only groan.

 He opened his eyes and, a second or two later, Caroline and Illya came into focus. Both sat on a floor, their backs against a wall and their hands tied behind them. The room was dimly lit. Solo wondered about their location for a moment, then saw what appeared to be crates some distance behind them.

 "Where would villains be without warehouses to hide in?" Solo muttered under his breath.

 "What was that? Are you all right, Napoleon?" Caroline said.

 "I'm fine," Solo said. "Where are we?"

 "I'm not sure. They knocked me out with some kind of gas," Caroline said. "It wasn't for very long, I was awake by the time we were in this warehouse. Dr. von Konigsburg was sitting here, tied up when we arrived. I was worried about you, though. You were awfully still."

 "And Dr. von Konigsburg, how did you end up in this place?"

 "That was Mr. Capperstone's doing," Kuryakin said. "He used gas on me as well."

 "Swell," Solo said. "Now what?"

 "Now, now, Mr. Solo. You shouldn't be that surprised."

 Solo and the others looked up. From across the way strode Wellington Fleming and his entourage. Pamela Keystroke was still wearing the leather outfit that was so unlike the mousy librarian clothes she was so known for wearing. Capperstone ambled a step behind them, followed by the large man who had been with Pamela Keystroke on the Red Mountain Expressway.

 Solo sighed. Trapped with no backup. Also, it was time to come clean with Caroline. "I admit the plastic surgeon did a good job, Mr. Fleming, or whoever you really are. But why all these theatrics?"

 "Plastic surgery?" Fleming laughed as he reached for a cigarette and his holder. "What makes you think that, my dear boy?"

 "You and I both know that Wellington Fleming -- the real Wellington Fleming -- died in London. Months ago," Solo said.

 "Napoleon, what are you talking about?" Caroline said.

 "Oh, he's quite right, my dear. I'm afraid your Mr. Solo isn't quite what he appears. He is an agent for the U-N-C-L-E, a multi-national, law-enforcement organization. This other man, the one you know as -- Dr. von Konigsburg is it? -- is another man from U.N.C.L.E. His real name is Illya Kuryakin. They both came to this rather humid city believing that my employer was interested in your Plus-X research. And we are, of course. Afterall, it was commissioned under our auspices some years ago."

 "Your research?" Caroline said, with anger in her voice. "And who are you?"

 "Anton Fleming, at your service," he said as he lit up his cigarette. "I am a top operative of an organization simply known as Thrush. It's not what you think. We're not affiliated with any government. Rather, we pursue our own ends, wherever they might be."

 "Anton Fleming?" Solo said. "A --"

 "Twin brother, of course, old chap," Fleming said. "You see, Mr. Solo, there were always two of us. But, for our own amusement, we decided to credit Wellington with all of the operations the two of us performed. You see, that record of murder, sabotage and skullduggery built up Wellington Fleming's reputation to the point that red alerts went out anytime either of us appeared. That, in turn, proved quite useful. Authorities would become alarmed when the mysterious Wellington Fleming appeared.  That enabled other, less conspicuous operatives to complete their assignments with relative ease."

 "You act like this is some sort of amusement," Caroline said, anger rising in her tone.

 "Life's an amusement," Anton Fleming said, gesturing with his cigarette.

 "He's Wellington Fleming's twin brother all right," Solo muttered.

 "Ah, but Mr. Solo here ruined everything several months ago when he killed poor Wellington." Fleming let out a brief laugh. "We weren't that close, despite being identical twins. But I certainly could not let Wellington's passing go unchecked. It would be bad for business."

 "Ah really think we should dispose of these two U.N.C.L.E. men, Mr. Fleming," Capperstone said. "It's going to be difficult enough for me once Dr. Travers disappears."

  "When I want your advice, I'll ask for it," Fleming said as he looked back over his shoulder at Capperstone. He then glanced at Pamela Keystroke. "My dear, why don't you clean up Mr. Solo's wound. All that dried blood is a bit messy."

 "Of course," Keystroke said. She turned and walked away. Solo couldn't keep track of her very long in the dimly lit room, though he could hear the heels of her shoes for a bit.

 "Just where am I supposed to disappear to? And I suppose this lummox is part of your Thrush," Caroline said, her head bobbing in Capperstone's direction.

 "Never mind him, my dear," Fleming said. "His nose is a bit out of joint. Yes, he is a member of Thrush. We have all manner of people planted in positions of trust in many places in the world -- universities among them. He was keeping an eye, a rather keen eye, on your Plus-X research. Had it been up to him, it would have been another year or two before Thrush would have acted, to give you time to advance your work."

 "I don't understand," Caroline said.

 "You see it was I who speeded up the timetable. Oh, I was quite aware -- thanks to Mr. Capperstone -- that you were some ways away from recreating Professor Stemmler's work. But I was planning an operation to avenge poor Wellington's death. I needed something that would attract U.N.C.L.E.'s attention. We let out little hints -- hints that U.N.C.L.E. picked up -- that Thrush might be interested in your work. Nothing definite, but enough to whet that organization's appetite. Plus, both Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin here were assigned to the affair involving Professor Stemmler. They thought they were safeguarding the professor, unaware of her affiliation with us. I won't bore you with all the details but Stemmler had a change of heart and it proved fatal. In any event, knowing U.N.C.L.E. as I do, it wouldn't take much to get their superior to assign these two men to investigate. Around this same time, I initiated a little operation of my own elsewhere. U.N.C.L.E. believed it was raiding a small Thrush facility. Basically, I set up the capture of some of our less useful people to give Mr. Solo a phony moment of heroism to announce the so-called return of Wellington Fleming. It was a maneuver intended to make Mr. Solo restless. Later, we caught wind of hints -- supplied by U.N.C.L.E., no doubt -- that you were supposedly more advanced on your Plus-X research than you were. Once I was aware of that, I knew U.N.C.L.E. had taken the bait. And it has worked out so splendidly."

 Pamela Keystroke returned, carrying a rag. She bent over and applied it to Solo's left temple. He recoiled in pain and let out a small yell.

 "Sorry but I felt like I should use the strongest disinfectant I could find," Keystroke said. She then rubbed at the dried blood rather indelicately.

 "That's enough, my dear," Fleming said, and Keystroke rose and walked behind Fleming.

 Caroline's anger hadn't subsided and she was starting to turn red. "You're all despicable."

 "Ah, Mr. Solo, I wouldn't count on you getting another date from Dr. Travers," Fleming said.

 "I always knew a Thrush could ruin a date," Solo said.

 "You're rather quiet, Mr. Kuryakin," Fleming said, turning toward the Russian.

 "You've done quite enough talking for all of us," Kuryakin replied.

 "Now don't be a sore loser, Mr. Kuryakin," Fleming said. "I have some travel arrangements I must take care of now. Mr. Capperstone and Ms. Keystroke will look after you." Fleming paused for a moment and then looked at the Thrush operatives. "If they even look at you wrong, shoot them. Boris, come with me."  Fleming then disappeared with his henchman into the large warehouse.

 Solo tensed. He had few, if any options. Even with his hands tied, he could sense he had none of his U.N.C.L.E. escape devices. Fleming had undoubtedly relieved him of all of them. There was only one chance but it would be painful. It was clear Pamela Keystroke had sadistic tendencies; U.N.C.L.E.'s dossier on her -- describing how she had killed her victims, frequently luring them into sado-masochistic sex -- made that clear. Solo would have to play on that to goad her into doing something stupid. It wasn't much of a plan and potentially quite painful.

 "So Pamela, if you make enough off this job, will you have enough to afford breast implants?" Solo said.

 She squinted at the bound U.N.C.L.E. agent. "That's hardly befitting your reputation as a wit, Mr. Solo."

 "Sorry, but it's hard to work up much of a witticism on someone who's wearing such a preposterous outfit."

 Kuryakin's eyes widened under the tinted lenses of his glasses but he remained quiet. Caroline started to speak but was so angry she couldn't voice her thoughts.

 "Mr. Solo, I'd advise you to be quiet," Pamela Keystroke said.

 "Spare me, Pamela," Solo said. "You're just a lackey in all this. Fleming selected you because of your overblown reputation."

 Keystroke now focused on Solo as if no one else were in the room. Her head shook for a moment. Then she let out with a backhanded slap across Solo's right cheek.

 Solo paused for a moment. "Not bad for an idiot," he said. "Although how you could trick anyone into bed with you is beyond me. You must be lucky enough to select some real imbeciles as victims."

 Keystroke slapped Solo again, this time across his left cheek and even harder than before. At least I was right about one thing, Solo thought. She's not the most mentally stable person around.

 "Miz Keystroke, Ah don't think this is what Fleming had in mind," Capperstone interrupted.

 "Shut up, you worm," Keystroke said. "I'm going to show Mr. Solo a little trick right now."

 She bent over toward Solo's head. Without warning, she bit down hard on Solo's right earlobe. Solo yelled as he the bite drew blood. "A little sample of what I can do in bed, Mr. Solo," she said.

 Solo had his chance.

 He kicked sideways at Keystroke with his right leg. He wasn't able to get much force into the kick but Keystroke's balance was precarious because she was bending over. The kick upset that balance and she tumbled to the floor, just below Solo. He then tumbled over on top of her. She was yelling but was more surprised than hurt. Solo knew he had only a few seconds before she'd regain the advantage. He took his only option -- a headbutt that caught Keystroke square on the jaw.  Her head went straight back to the floor. Solo gave her a second headbutt to keep her dazed.

 A second earlier, Capperstone started to come forward. But Kuryakin, taking his cue from Solo, tripped the Thrushman. Capperstone stumbled as he was trying to draw a pistol from a shoulder holster. Kuryakin's move caused a delay but Capperstone did not fall. Instead of looking back at Kuryakin, Capperstone stared straight ahead. He ignored both Kuryakin and Caroline Travers, both at his right. Capperstone began to aim his weapon at Solo. Just then, Caroline Travers kicked at Capperstone, striking him in his genitals. Both Solo and Kuryakin saw this and grimaced, almost as if they were feeling  pain themselves. Capperstone bent over immediately, dropping the pistol. Caroline kicked at him again, tripping him over. Kuryakin got to his feet, knelt on Capperstone's chest and pinned him down.

 "Is everyone all right?" Solo said.

 "Yes, but I suggest we get ourselves unbound before Mr. Fleming returns," Kuryakin said.

 "Caroline, listen to me. You've got to inch your way over here so we're back to back."

 "Why should I trust you? You're just some kind of spy and no better than these people," she said, still angry.

 "Yes, but the other people are going to enslave you or kill you. I don't care what you think about me but this is your only chance."

 Caroline grunted but sat back down on the floor behind Solo. She could feel him feeling around her bonds, probing for ways to undo them. Despite her feelings, she tried to do the same on Solo's bonds. She began to make some progress just as she could feel her wrists becoming free. She quickly got up, turned around and finished the job on Solo's bonds. Solo picked up Capperstone's weapon, putting it in the side pocket of his suitcoat, then freed Kuryakin. The U.N.C.L.E. agents spent the next ten minutes tying up Capperstone and Keystroke.

 "That should do it," Solo said as they finished.

 "Did you really have to do it that way?" Kuryakin said.

 They both looked at Pamela Keystroke. She lay on her stomach, her hands behind her. They were tied to her feet; her knees were bent so her legs extended toward her head. Next to her was Capperstone, who was sitting up, with his hands and legs tied together.

 "It's known as hog tying," Solo said. "I suspect given her sexual tendencies she might even enjoy it a little." He felt at the ear where Keystroke had bitten him.

 Kuryakin frowned but said nothing, only taking off his tinted glasses and returning them to the breast pocket of his suit coat.

 Suddenly, there was the sound of a gun shot, which buzzed off to Solo's left. Kuryakin lunged at Caroline, taking her to the ground. Solo ducked. He saw the flash from a second shot. He took the semi-automatic pistol that he'd taken from Capperstone and squeezed off a shot. Solo paused and heard footsteps running away. He bolted up and began running in that direction, but stopped. He shot one more time in the direction of the footsteps. Silence. He then held the gun in a two-handed grip as he began to probe the area.

 Footsteps again, this time sounding as if they were going up steps. Solo looked off to his right and caught a glimpse of Fleming's expensive shoes as their owner was running up the stairs. Solo had a flashback to the affair in London where he met the man's brother. He walked quickly, but did not run blindly, toward the steps. The last time he had dealt with a Fleming, the man had caught Solo off guard up at the top of a stairway. That wouldn't happen this time. At the top of the steps was a door. Solo opened it quickly but stood back for a moment. Nothing. Solo approached the doorway carefully, fully expecting an attack. But nobody was there.

 Solo got up to the roof of the warehouse and began to search for some sight of Fleming. Suddenly he heard the whine of an engine firing up. It was Fleming wearing -- No it couldn't be, Solo thought -- a jetpack. Fleming quickly rose, moving straight up. He then began to fly over Solo. The U.N.C.L.E. agent took a shot at Fleming but Solo knew the gesture was futile. Solo heard an object strike the ground but continued to stare  as Fleming rocketed off to the distance.  He then looked in the direction of the sound he heard from the thing hitting the roof. Solo bent forward. It was possible it could be a weapon of some sort, but Solo suspected that wasn't the case. He bent over and picked it up. Anton Fleming's cigarette holder. Had he dropped it accidentally or had he left a calling card? Solo concluded it was probably the latter. He sighed and pocketed the cigarette holder.

 Two days later, Alexander Waverly held the cigarette holder over the conference table in his office at U.N.C.L.E.-New York.

 "We've scanned it quite thoroughly. No weapon or listening device or explosive. Just a simple cigarette holder," Waverly said. "Another Fleming. That's hardly what we needed. I still can't believe it.  On top of all that, you couldn't even capture his henchman, this Boris person you told me about."

 Solo frowned. He wore a small bandage on the ear lobe that Pamela Keystroke had bitten. His swollen lip, another Keystroke souvenir, was beginning to subside. "At least we ruined his operation and captured a couple of operatives, at least higher-ranking operatives than the ones we captured in Los Angeles."

 "Have there been any ramifications from any of this?" said Kuryakin, dressed in one of his trademark black jackets and turtleneck sweaters.

 "We were able to keep things quiet with the conference in Birmingham, if that's what you mean, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "Although there were a number of disappointed delegates when Dr. Travers had to cancel her speech. One can't blame the woman -- she was a bit shaken up by the whole experience."

 "Yes I know," Solo said.

 "Is that remark an indication there is something else you'd like to say, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked.

 "Not really," Solo said. "I guess I'm feeling a bit guilty about deceiving her, that's all."

 "It had to be done, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Don't assume I like it any more than you do. Occasionally, innocent people must become pawns in affairs like this. It doesn't make it right. But sometimes it's effective. Please don't go soft on me, Mr. Solo. While I have no doubt you'd do well in a desk job, I still believe you are at your most effective out in the field. Is there anything else, gentlemen?"

 "Not at this time," Kuryakin said. Solo sat silently.

 "Then good day," Waverly said. As Solo and Kuryakin began to get up. Waverly spoke again, though he did not look up from the papers on the conference table. "One more thing, Mr. Solo. There's somebody at the reception desk to see you. I'll see you both later, I have work to do."

 As they stepped into the hallway Solo looked at Kuryakin. "Who do you suppose is here?"

 "Actually, I think it's Dr. Travers," Kuryakin said. "Mr. Waverly called me in so we could debrief of her."

 "Why does she want to see me?" Solo said. "We didn't part on the best of terms. She was particularly sore by the fact I misrepresented myself."

 "I don't know," Kuryakin said. "Then again, given her nonsensical preferences in hair styling and other matters, I can't figure the woman out. Anyway, I have my own work to attend to." Kuryakin walked off.

 A few minutes later, Solo arrived at the reception desk. An Asian woman was at the desk and across from her, Caroline Travers, wearing a blue dress.

 "Caroline -- er, Dr. Travers, I just heard you were waiting to see me. I had no idea you were here," Solo said.

 Caroline stood up. "Your superior arranged for me to come in this morning to discuss all I knew about that horrible Fleming person. There wasn't a whole lot I could tell but he seemed quite interested in Capperstone's role at the university and how it may have benefited this Thrush group."

 "I see," Solo said.

 "I also wanted to apologize," she said.

 "You don't have to apologize," Solo said. "It was a perfectly reasonable reaction. And you were quite a help in a tight spot."

 Caroline reached over and touched Solo's bandaged ear. "How badly were you hurt there?"

 "I was a little worried the ear lobe might come off when she first bit it but the doctors say it will be fine."

 "You know, we never got to finish our date," Caroline said.

 "I know but I didn't think you'd want to because of all the deception."

 "I cooled down," Caroline said. "Besides your Mr. Waverly can be quite persuasive when he wants to be."

 Solo raised his eyebrows but didn't comment directly.

 "By the way, Napoleon is your real name, right?"

 "That's right."

 "Then it all wasn't a deception, was it?"

 "I suppose not."

 "Then, I'm open to try another date. You don't get abducted on most of your dates, do you?"

 "Not usually," Solo said, smiling.

 "All right," Caroline said. "But I think you should be prepared to spend a little more here in New York than you would have in Birmingham."

 "What if I don't want to go on a date?" Solo said.

 "I think you do," Caroline said. "While medical matters are my specialty,  I'm not a bad amateur psychologist. I wouldn't be surprised if we didn't have a great time tonight."

 They did.

 THE END