Act I

"Mafiya With a 'Y'"

It was cold, as are most February days in the Ukraine. Everyone in the Customs line at Borispol Airport had brought a heavy coat and hat. The line moved slowly. Westerners, and there were several, fidgeted, not caring for the delay. One of them, however, acted differently. He was under control, standing almost perfectly still. The thin man removed his hat, to reveal a bald head, covered only at the sides by gray hair. His eyes hidden behind a thick pair of glasses did not move, only looking ahead.

Finally, it was the man's turn. He presented his forms and said he had nothing to declare. The clerk stamped the man's passport and the bald man went on his way.

No more than fifty feet away, one of the airport security men exited the men's room. He caught only a glimpse of the thin man, who was carrying a small bag and putting his hat back over his bald head. The security officer did a double take. An image popped into his head of someone considered dangerous, someone to stop for questioning. The person he had seen didn't match the photograph exactly. The beard was gone, but it could be he. The security man quickened his pace. By this time, he was in the main terminal and had to spend long, painful seconds scanning the crowd. He again caught sight of his subject just as the man was leaving the building. The security officer grabbed his walkie talkie and quickly barked out instructions. He then dashed for the same door through which the thin man had departed. But upon exiting the terminal, he could see no one except for the two security officers who now ran up. Had he looked a little further, the security man would have seen a small bus that casually headed away from the terminal building, beginning its 38-kilometer journey to Kiev. Moreover, if the security man could peer inside the bus right now, he would have seen the bald man sitting by a window with only a hint of a smile.

The bearded homeless man gnawed at the toast while looking indifferently at the coffee. "Ya sure I can't just have a little something extra, mister?"

"It's just a little early in the morning for your accustomed beverage, don't you think?" the well-dressed man said inbetween sips of his coffee.

"Listen buddy, I ask for a dollar, not...."

"No cash, only a meal. That was the deal, remember? Try eating the eggs that came with the toast."

"It ain't that easy. And why are you doing this, anyway?"

"I have my reasons," Napoleon Solo said, finishing his coffee and putting the cup down on the counter. "Never mind what they are."

Just then, both men heard a whine. The homeless man looked around while Solo reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and took out his U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator.

"Open Channel D," Solo said, just as the bearded man turned his head around.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly requests your presence as promptly as possible." It was the voice of one of the women communications officers at the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

"On my way. Be there is ten minutes," Solo said as he ended the transmission.

"What the hell is that?" the bearded man said.

"What's what?"

"That thing!"

"What this? It's just a pen."

"But you were talking into it! And it was talking back!"

"Next time, you'll be telling me you saw pink elephants," Solo said, extracting his money clip from his pocket. He gestured over to a waitress and laid some bills on the counter. "This should take care of myself and my friend here." He waved at the homeless man, picked up his overcoat and walked away.

"What a loon," the waitress said. Turning to the homeless man, she asked, "Anything else for you?"

"Uh, maybe another cup of coffee," he said, looking as Solo left the diner. The man then picked up his fork, paused and decided to sample the eggs.

Nine minutes and 43 seconds later, Solo was through the agents' entrance at Del Floria's and taking off his overcoat. He smiled at the woman receptionist, who pinned on the familiar security badge.

"You're a little late, Mr. Solo," she said. "I think they've been a little anxious for you to arrive."

"Just a little matter I had to take care of first," Solo said.

He swung by his office to hang up the overcoat on a coat rack, then zipped over to Alexander Waverly's office. As he entered, he saw Waverly and Illya Kuryakin sitting at the round conference table.

"You're late, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, not looking up from the file he was studying.

"I'm sorry, sir. A personal matter that needed tending to. Took a little longer than I thought."

"Well, I suppose you can be forgiven," Waverly said, as Solo took his place at the table. Kuryakin, glancing in Solo's direction, thought he saw an odd expression on Napoleon's face.

"I hope both of you gentlemen have warm clothing. I think you'll need it," Waverly continued. "Are either of you familiar with Karl Spiegel?"

"Yes, some sort of free-lance terrorist," Kuryakin said. "German. Has an expertise with sophisticated electronics systems, particularly involving explosives."

"An operative of the former East Germany, gentlemen," Waverly said. "Went free lance after that nation was absorbed by West Germany. Wanted by more than a dozen countries for various acts of terrorism." The Number One of Section One handed each agent a photograph. "It appears that picture has been outdated. We think he has shaved the beard and what little hair he had remaining on the top of his head. There is a report out of the Ukraine that Spiegel arrived there only yesterday. But he went underground before the security people could apprehend him to make sure."

"And I take it you want us to go after him," Solo said.

"Quite," Waverly said. "That part of the world is a cauldron of bubbling instability. Mr. Spiegel has left a swath of destruction and misery in his wake. If he indeed has traveled to the Ukraine, he must have a client. Our fear is the Russian Mafiya, that's spelled with a 'y,' as distinct from the Sicilian variety."

Waverly stood up and fumbled for his pipe. "The Russian version operates on both sides of the Russian-Ukranian border. Many of its members are disaffected former security operatives," he said as he filled the pipe with tobacco. "A mixture of them and Mr. Spiegel is a little too combustive for my taste."

Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who this time seemed to have a look of discomfort. "You want us to leave for the Ukraine, then?" Solo said.

"As soon as it can be arranged," Waverly responded. "We don't have time to concoct detailed cover identities. In fact, in this case, I'm not sure it's advisable. I think something fairly flimsy and obvious. Probably the standard Hargrove Trading Company cover should do. If there's one thing we don't have it's time. So it's probably better if our Mafiya friends, or whoever Mr. Spiegel's employer is, move promptly upon your arrival."

"Section One is sure of all this?" Kuryakin said.

Solo wondered if there was something in his friend's voice. Some twinge of doubt, perhaps. It wasn't something Kuryakin usually displayed.

"Quite sure," Waverly said firmly. "Besides, it should be something of a homecoming for yourself, Mr. Kuryakin. I believe you spent some years there growing up."

"It was a long time ago," the Russian replied.

"I hope it wasn't too long. Your knowledge of the area might prove useful. Well, go on gentlemen. I'm sure you have arrangements to make. I have other work to do."

As the agents walked down the hallway, Solo looked at his colleague. "What's the matter? You seem a little less than your normal outgoing, gregarious self."

Kuryakin sighed. "Not now, Napoleon. I am not in the mood for the banter."

Solo arched his eyebrows. "Care to talk about it?"

"No."

The American stopped outside his office. "All right. Shall I call Winifred about booking passage to Kiev?"

"From what I've seen, she is capable," Kuryakin replied. "I will occupy my time downstairs at the shooting range." He walked off without waiting for a response.

Solo watched as the enigmatic Russian walked away. As he entered the office, he walked around his desk and hit the intercom. "Records, please," he said as he sat down.

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"Need to go over an agent's dossier please...."

Thirty-three minutes later, Solo had already called his travel agent. She replied it would take a bit to make all the arrangements. Chances are they would have to fly to Berlin and try to make connections there, but Winifred, who worked at the Aley Travel Agency, indicated she'd have to call back later. While he waited, Solo paged through Kuryakin's dossier. As the chief enforcement agent, Solo was familiar with his friend's record at U.N.C.L.E. But he was less well versed in his personal background and the dossier had only the basics. He knew about Kuryakin's numerous higher education degrees. Solo wasn't sure about the University of Georgia but knew the Sorbonne and Cambridge didn't take remedial students. Twice in the last year, Solo had met one of Illya's former classmates at the Sorbonne, a world-class physicist who -- not coincidentally -- was an old flame. Katarina Delgato wasn't mentioned in the U.N.C.L.E. dossier, either. So perhaps the answer wasn't here.

Nevertheless, Solo went through the sketchy background details. Illya was the son of Gregor Kuryakin, formerly an official of the former Soviet Union. Few, if any details about Illya's mother, one Kristina Kuryakin. And almost nothing about exactly what the elder Kuryakin did for the Soviet government. For a period, the older man was stationed in Kiev, during a period the Soviets conducted a "Russification" campaign to compel Ukranians to adopt the Russian language and customs.

Solo put the file down. If Illya had a secret or some other reason to dislike returning to the Ukraine, one of two possibilities would occur. Either Illya would tell him when he was ready or he wouldn't. Solo could think of several times the Russian hadn't cracked under intense interrogation by Thrush. So it was unlikely Solo would be able to get Illya to open up until he was ready. So, he closed up the file just as the telephone rang. A moment later, he picked up the receiver and Winifred began to tell him about the connections they would need to make to get to Kiev.

The large beefy man opened the door to the conference room and gestured for Karl Spiegel to enter. The German did so, walking nonchalantly to a small table in the center of the room.

"He will arrive shortly," the large man said in Russian, closing the door behind him.

Spiegel didn't look back as the door shut. Instead, he calmly sat down, took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and tossed the coat on one of the three chairs. He sat down on one of the others and took a lighter from his pocket. After lighting the cigarette, he took a deep drag and exhaled. He let out a small chuck, barely audible in the room. Spiegel had serviced a number of clients with his special brand of expertise. Many wanted to make an entrance, after an attempt to impress the German with their wealth and power. Many of them were fools. If their plans were ill-conceived, Spiegel would simply walk away. The others paid well enough that Spiegel had that luxury. He looked at the table and wondered in which category this new client would fall.

He didn't have to wait long. The man opened the conference room door without knocking. Spiegel didn't look up immediately, instead taking another deep drag on the cigarette.

"Herr Spiegel, I bid you welcome," the client said in German.

"I am perfectly willing to speak Russian. You needn't seek to impress me by speaking the tongue of the Fatherland," Spiegel replied in German.

"The Fatherland, eh?" the client said, still speaking German. "It is a little old fashioned, is it not?"

"Think whatever you wish," Spiegel said. "You did not bring me here -- nor did I risk detection -- for you to lecture me on my own eccentricities."

"Quite correct. But I have already paid two hundred thousand U.S. dollars merely as a retainer. That is quite a handsome sum, merely to consider whether to accept our proposal."

"Considering the price on my head -- and the fact my photograph is on file with the security personnel of every major airport in Europe -- you got away cheap. In any event, time is money. Make your proposal now."

The client sat down, taking some folded up papers from the breast pocket of his suitcoat. He tossed them out on the table. Spiegel did not react immediately, instead taking the spent cigarette out of his mouth, dropping it on the floor and stepping on it with his shoe. Only then, did he pick up the papers, unfold them, and start his examination.

He leafed through the papers for several minutes before speaking. "You have access to one of these?"

"It is in our stockpile. It cost quite a handsome bribe -- actually a series of bribes -- but in the end it was money well spent. However, my people lack the technical expertise. You can prepare it, eh?"

"It is somewhat larger than most of the weaponry I am used to," Spiegel said. "But it can be done. Five million U.S. dollars paid in advance, another five million upon completion."

"Quite a high price."

"You can afford it," Spiegel said. "Besides, I assume that if I am successful in preparing this device you gain substantially, eh?"

"True enough," the client said. "We have a contract, then?"

"When I receive word that my Swiss account has expanded by five million dollars, I will be happy to begin preparations."

Solo and Kuryakin spent the better part of two days traveling to the Ukraine. They decided to stay over a day in Berlin, then flew to Moscow before changing planes to Kiev. Kuryakin was more moody than usual, at times virtually mute. He had spoken no more than a half-dozen sentences during the dinner the two men shared at the hotel in Berlin and even fewer the next day while flying to Moscow, then Kiev. Solo reflected it was hardly the way a man would act during a homecoming. But again he reminded himself to not press Kuryakin on any of this.

The Kiev airport seemed like a relic from the 1950s. The facilities were cramped and amenities were few. The washrooms seemed primitive and in need of aeration. Solo felt tempted to wash his hands twice. The wait in the line for Customs was long and mind-numbing. After finally getting to the clerk, Solo motioned for Kuryakin to go ahead. Illya paused for a moment, then presented his passport.

"Kuryakin? You are Russian, yet you reside in America?" the bald male clerk said, casting a wary eye at the blonde man.

"I have lived there for many years, but I retain my citizenship."

"At one time, we would have been considered countrymen, eh?"

"I was abroad when all that transpired."

"Too bad," the clerk said, stamping the passport. "Much has changed here."

"So I am informed," Kuryakin replied, taking the passport.

Solo watched the scene with interest. He got the impression the clerk would rather pull a Siberian tiger's eye teeth than process Kuryakin's Customs forms. As Illya walked away, Solo thought the clerk's face lightened considerably.

"Ah, an American. We do not receive that many Americans," the clerk said as he looked over the forms and studied the passport.

"Yes, I'm here on business," Solo said.

"You travel with him?," the clerk said, nodding in the direction of Illya, who waited for Solo.

"Our company does business all over the world," Solo said. "It sees fit to employ people from various countries."

"An interesting approach," the clerk said, handing the agent his passport. "But you might wish to do most of the talking if you hope to solicit new business here. Good-day, sir."

About thirty-five feet away, a brunette woman wearing a plain dress came toward the Customs area. As she glanced around, she noticed a dark-haired man of average height carrying a small suitcase emerging from Customs. He approached a blonde man, who stood there waiting for him, holding his own suitcase.

"Illya," she said, barely hearing the word herself. Her right hand touched her mouth for a moment. Before she could move the two men began walking into the main terminal.

The woman scurried up to the Customs clerk, showed him her identification card, gesturing toward the telephone behind him. He nodded and she picked up the receiver, quickly dialing a number.

"Page Agent Khudenko," she said in Ukranian. "Code word is delayed."

A rotund man in a heavy coat purchased a newspaper and some cigarettes from the small concessions stand. He paged through the paper rapidly, skimming headlines as he went. As he began to fold the newspaper, he looked up and saw two men. He recognized both immediately. He had met the dark haired man and knew his blond man by reputation. The American, the dark haired one, glanced in his direction, but the look was so brief, the large man was sure he had not been spotted.

Just then, the heavy man heard an announcement over the ancient public address system. "Flight Eight Nine Oh to Moscow is delayed." The heavy man ignored it. He tugged at one end of his thick mustache, as if by nervous habit.

"So the U-N-C-L-E is in the game too, eh?" he said to himself. He looked around one more time, picked up his bag and began to walk away.

Solo and Kuryakin hailed a taxi cab with surprising ease. That was the only easy thing, however. The cab, a small cramped auto, ran rough. Solo hadn't noticed the make of the car, but it was obviously a relic of the Soviet era.

"Well, quite a friendly place," Solo said, breaking the silence. "I couldn't quite make him out, but there was a jolly fat man in the terminal watching us pretty intently."

"That figures," Kuryakin said. "I thought it rather interesting a message is broadcast throughout the airport just as we are walking through. I saw no Flight Eight Nine Oh listed on the departure board we passed. Presumably some kind of code."

"Something else," Solo said. "The Customs clerk seemed unusually critical as well. He suggested I'd get better results if I did the talking to potential customers rather than you."

"Actually, that is fairly easy to explain. In some quarters there is not that much love between Russians and Ukranians. My guess is he is originally from the western section of the country. The anti-Russian feeling was always strongest there."

"Still hard feelings?"

"In this part of the world, memories are quite long," Kuryakin said. "Some of the most severe hardships suffered during the Soviet years was felt here. There was the Ukranian famine in the 1930s. Unfortunately, it was a planned famine, a way for the central Soviet government to force compliance in the Ukraine. No one knows for sure the total number who died but it was in the millions. It was hardly a glorious moment in Russian or Soviet history."

Solo began to rub his chin. "And let me guess. Let's say a family lived in the Ukraine -- a Russian family. And let's just say the father was a Soviet government official stationed here. Is it possible the family might just get shunned? Perhaps be treated like pariahs?"

Kuryakin glowered at Solo. "I will not dignify such a wild guess with an answer."

"Am I wrong?"

The Russian sighed. "No, but it was tempting to say that you were."

"Perhaps we should have altered your identification papers to indicate you were Ukranian."

"My personal feelings do not matter," Kuryakin said. "You know as well as I that Mr. Waverly is expecting our cover to be blown rather quickly."

"Oh, it seemed pretty obvious," Solo said. "If you need to find somebody in a hurry, make yourself into a target and take it from there."

The Dnipro Hotel in central Kiev was unusually busy for February and it had been difficult to secure rooms. So the agents, through Solo's travel agent, had settled for a single room with twin beds. The bell boy had just departed, when Solo pulled a small, rectangular object from his suitcoat pocket. He switched it on and walked across the room. He held it up close to the telephone on the night table between the beds, then pocketed the device.

"All clear?" Kuryakin asked as he started to open his suitcase on the far bed.

"For the moment," Solo replied. "I didn't see anyone tailing us to the hotel, so it would seem we have a breather."

"A what? You Americans and your slang."

"Sorry. A respite. But I'm sure it's only temporary."

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation.

"Who is it?" Solo said, his voice raised.

"A delivery," a woman's voice said in a heavily accented voice.

Kuryakin and Solo glanced at once another. Solo pointed toward Kuryakin's suitcase, and the Russian reached into it and opened the hidden compartment where his U.N.C.L.E. Special was hidden. The compartment hid the weapon from the security devices of airports.

Solo, in the meantime, walked up to the door. As he put his hand on the knob, Solo took one more look at Kuryakin, who held his weapon behind his back.

Solo then opened the door. A man and woman in drab looking clothes raised their guns. The woman asked, "Excuse us, Mr. Solo. But is Mr. Kuryakin available?"

Act II

"The S.O.B. From U.N.C.L.E."

Kuryakin tensed, held up the U.N.C.L.E. Special but didn't aim it. Solo raised his hands slightly. "Manners are something I admire in gunmen and women," Solo said.

The two people stepped in and closed the door behind them. Suddenly the woman, looking in Kuryakin's direction, began to smile. Then both the man and woman began to laugh. Solo, his hands still up, looked in Illya's direction. The Russian obviously recognized her, but hadn't yet put the weapon down.

"Forgive us, gentlemen. Petr, I think we should holster our guns," she said. It wasn't until they put the weapons in their coats that Kuryakin lowered his gun.

"Friends of yours?" Solo said, putting his hands down and looking in Illya's direction.

"I am Colonel Nina Demichev of the Ukranian Internal Security Force and this is Major Petr Khudenko," the woman said. She moved away from her colleague and toward Kuryakin. As she approached, Kuryakin seemed uneasy. She then wrapped her arms around the Russian and hugged him hard. He let his arms hang for a moment before hugging her back.

"What is wrong?" Nina said in heavily accented English. "Is this how you react upon seeing a friend for the first time in years? Still the introvert, I see."

Solo glanced first in Khudenko's direction. The Ukranian still had a very serious look on his face. While his pistol may be holstered, Solo concluded the Major was still a very serious fellow. Then, the American looked over at Nina and Illya.

"Yes, my friend is still a bit withdrawn," Solo said. "But you must admit drawing your weapons is a unique greeting for a couple of international businessmen."

"Please, Mr. Solo, you can dispense with the facade," Nina said. "The Hargrove Trading Company is a well-known cover for the U-N-C-L-E. Actually, I believe it is more for the benefit of people outside the profession. It is almost as if you were notifying anyone involved in security and espionage of your presence. Besides, I saw this one," she pointed to Kuryakin, "at the airport."

She stepped away, but still looked at the Russian. "In many ways you are unchanged. Why still so reserved, Illya?"

"On a job, my first responsibility is to my firm," he replied.

"Of course," she smiled.

"Nina, I believe we should cease the socializing and conduct our own business," Khudenko said, looking at Illya.

"Certainly," Nina said. "Gentlemen, we are involved in a major investigation. I am not at liberty to discuss details. Your presence suggests you are aware of a great deal. The U-N-C-L-E does not involve itself in routine matters."

Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who remained still. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," Solo said.

"Mr. Solo, our assignment is of a serious nature," Khudenko said. "We will not accept interference in internal investigations."

"You're telling us to not get in your way, I take it," Solo said.

"Succinct -- and correct."

"Petr, there is no need to be so rude," Nina said, walking toward the night table. She stroked the table top with her right index finger. "Filthy. The maids did not do a good job. Anyway, Petr, you knew Illya also when he lived in Kiev. He is quite reasonable and intelligent." Then, she again came up to Kuryakin. "Perhaps there is still time to renew our acquaintance, when it is appropriate."

"The work comes first," Kuryakin said.

"With me, too," she said.

As the exchange occurred, Solo kept his eyes on Khudenko. They focused on Nina and Illya like a pair of laser beams.

"Well, perhaps we could all go to dinner to celebrate old times," Solo said, opening the room door. "But if you'll excuse me, I've had a long trip and would like to get a little rest."

Khudenko maintained his stony look as Nina gestured for him to follow her out. "Farewell for now," she said. She lingered for a moment, looking into Kuryakin's eyes, then walked away, with Khudenko following her.

Solo closed the door, then turned toward Kuryakin. "You didn't answer my original question. Friends of yours?"

Kuryakin grimaced for a moment. "Nina was a friend. Petr less so. We were rivals in school, though he was more friendly than he was here. To be honest, I had lost touch a good number of years ago."

"I thought Ukranians weren't the biggest admirers of Russians."

"To every rule, there are exceptions," Kuryakin said. "Those two were practically the only Ukranians who would associate with me. I knew a few Russian children, offspring of Soviet officials stationed in Kiev."

"Did Nina have a crush on you?"

"Crush? Bah, Napoleon, do not be silly."

"Let me guess: You thought she had kooties."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sorry," he said, waving his hand to indicate he was dropping the subject. "Well, we know the Ukranian authorities aren't going to be of much help--"

"What is wrong?"

Solo didn't answer, deep in thought. He then took the rectangular device out of his pocket, clicked it on, and went up to the night table. A small red light on the device came on. He felt around the table, reaching under the edge of the table. He then held up a small electronic bug between his thumb and index finger. With his other hand, he reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and took out his U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator. He held one end in his mouth as he used the free hand to prepare the device for transmission. Seconds later, he clicked the communicator on, emitting a loud feedback noise into the bugging device. He then dropped the bug and stepped on it.

"She's almost as good at sleight of hand as you are," Solo said, as he switched off the communicator.

"As you said, it is obvious we can not turn to the Ukranian authorities for assistance," Kuryakin said. "What is our next move?"

"I have a couple of ideas," Solo said. "And one of them involves going to the Ukranians. Well, one Ukranian, anyway."

The bump jostled Karl Spiegel so badly he nearly hit his head on the inside of the Range Rover, even with his high head room.

"Can't you be more careful?" he yelled in German at the driver.

The large man turned toward Spiegel and shrugged his shoulders. He obviously didn't understand German. Spiegel grunted and remained silent. A minute later, the cellular telephone rang. The driver picked it up, spoke a few phrases in Ukranian, then handed the phone to Spiegel.

"Herr Spiegel, press the pound key. That will convert your telephone into a scrambler," the Mafiya leader said in German.

Spiegel complied. "You did not inform me how uncomfortable this journey would be," the German said. "This trail is little more than a rut up in these hills."

"Forgive me, Herr Spiegel, but I think you will agree we need an isolated location for you to carry out your work. In any event, I did not call to inquire about your comfort."

"So why did you?"

"As I surmised, other agencies outside the country are showing signs of interest. We're fairly certain the Russians are prowling about. And today, two agents of the U-N-C-L-E showed up. I think you will agree you will need to work quickly, eh?"

"Do not worry about me or my work," Spiegel said. "Just be prepared to wire the money to Switzerland." He disconnected the call without waiting for a response.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm about to feel uncomfortable about your plan?" Illya Kuryakin said as he sat down in a chair in the hotel room.

"I just think you should renew your acquaintance with Major Demichev, that's all," Solo replied. "Strike up a conversation. You may be able to get some information out of her."

"I think that is quite unlikely."

"I don't know. Seems pretty obvious to me that she retains some kind of affection for you."

"I repeat, I think it is highly unlikely this plan will yield much in the way of information."

"That listening device is a sign she thinks we might turn something up," Solo said. "Regardless, if you spend some time with her, that stony faced partner of hers may elect to keep you both under watch. And that might give me more of a free hand."

"To do what?"

"I'm sure we're not the only ones looking into this affair. Old habits die hard. If it is the Russian Mafiya we're after, it wouldn't surprise me if Russian intelligence isn't involved as well. I may be able to make contact with one of their operatives, if the conditions are right. But my first move is to drop by the U.S. Embassy. Maybe pay a visit on the assistant deputy cultural attaché."

"Ah, yes," Kuryakin said. "The kind of innocuous sounding position where one of the ladies or gentlemen of Langley, Virginia, tend to be assigned within American embassies."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Solo said. "You're a smart Russian."

Kuryakin sighed, fighting the temptation to roll his eyes.

The Ukranian Internal Security Force hardly had the most luxurious quarters among the complex of governmental buildings. The gray, four-story building had inadequate heat most of the time, the antiquated electrical wiring strained to keep up with the demands of the computers, fax machines and other modern devices. But Major Nina Demichev still enjoyed walking to her small office. The building was near the center of Kiev, and she walked past Independence Square on her way to work. On this day, the sun was bright and even the cold had abated somewhat, just above 0 degrees centigrade.

As she walked up the steps to the second floor, Nina's mind raced over a variety of information, none of it conclusive, much of it contradictory. She attempted to approach the jumble of data like a jigsaw puzzle. Except, at this point, she still hadn't sorted out which pieces were at the edge of the puzzle and which were at its heart. Now, with U.N.C.L.E. poking its head into this business -- and her old friend Illya leading that contingent -- the assignment could get extremely complicated.

She hung up her heavy coat on a coat rack and sat down at the small desk. There were two internal memos awaiting her review. But Nina had trouble looking at them. Instead, she again remembered those many years ago, when she tried to befriend a Russian boy, not yet 13, very withdrawn. Very few of her friends had anything to do with the Russian. But there was something about his manner, not to mention the eyes. Nina laughed. She did find him attractive even then, and was surprised that feeling had returned so vividly when she saw the grown man Illya had become. Illya's father was recalled to Moscow only a year or so later and she never saw him again until now. She had pursued her own goals, first becoming a police officer. She had settled for that because she could not bring herself to pursue intelligence work during the Soviet era. There were too many stories about how the KGB punished the Soviet people almost as hard as it pursued foreign spies. But after the Soviet Union fell, and the Ukraine had gained its independence, she applied here at the internal security agency. Her scores were high and she was immediately accepted. Once she became part of that world, she had learned about U.N.C.L.E., just one of many entries in the glossary of the shadowy world of intelligence. During her reading on U.N.C.L.E., there was a recurring theme. While U.N.C.L.E. seemed to have many capable people -- assigned from various countries which belonged to the organization -- a pair of agents were particular active. One of the pair was a Russian, first assigned to U.N.C.L.E. by the former Soviet Union, now part of Russia's contingent. But Nina never thought they would again meet, at least not until yesterday at the airport.

The telephone rang, interrupting her thoughts. "Major Demichev."

"Would it be too soon to reflect on old times?" Illya Kuryakin asked.

Nina felt flustered, but only for a moment. "I thought I said something about having a job to do first."

"Perhaps you can combine work and nostalgia."

"An information exchange? I think you hardly are in a position to offer much in the exchange."

"One never knows. Certainly no one in your organization can know. That was a very good piece of sleight of hand but my friend got a bit suspicious."

Nina fumbled for one of the internal memos. "Listening device discovered quickly," it said in Ukranian. "No transcription made."

"Still, this is most irregular and I have much to do," she said.

"You will need to eat lunch sometime. I doubt that will take too much away from your day."

She held away the receiver for a moment. It was foolhardy to even consider the offer. Then she smiled. She knew she didn't really believe that. "Twelve-thirty. There is a small cafe near Independence Square. I can give you the directions...."

The secretary looked up and saw a dark-haired man of average height approaching. He carried his overcoat over one arm. The navy blue suit looked crisp, as though almost new. The man projected a sense of calm, as though nothing fazed him.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, my name is Solo. Napoleon Solo. I'm with the Hargrove Trading Company out of New York. We're interested in exploring the possibility of doing business in these parts. I was looking for the assistant deputy in charge of social and business matters."

"Yes, that would be Mr. Harris," the secretary said.

"Excuse me, is his name Samuel Harris?"

"Why yes, do you know him?"

Solo grinned. "In a manner of speaking."

The woman thought the remark odd but hit the switch on the intercom anyway. "Mr. Harris, a Mr. Solo here to see you."

"Solo? Wouldn't happen to be a Napoleon Solo, would it?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Send him in right away."

The secretary gestured to the door and Solo opened it and went inside.

A man in his early 50s with close-cropped dark hair and dark plastic glasses rose up from the desk. "Napoleon, you old son of a bitch, what the hell are you doing in the Ukraine?" he drawled.

Solo approached Samuel Harris. "Well, the Hargrove Trading Company is an international firm, after all," he said as shook Harris' hand.

"We got a saying back in Texas -- don't bull shit a bullshitter," Harris said. "I expect you're still working for the old man at the U-N-C-L-E."

"You're not one to talk, Sam," Solo said. "I mean come on -- assistant deputy in charge of cultural and business matters. You might as well paint the letters C-I-A on your back. And spare me the good-old-boy routine. You graduated from Princeton for christ's sake."

Harris laughed. "Well, don't just stand there, sit down," he said, pointing to a chair opposite the desk as he returned to his own chair. "I tried recruiting you to Langley but you had such a do-gooder streak."

"We're not exactly boy scouts," Solo said.

"We could argue that point all day," Harris responded. "But I have a funny feeling you didn't come here to chew the fat about all that again." The Texan reached into a desk drawer, brought out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "Sorry, I know you prefer Scotch, but the stuff's way too expensive over here."

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

"You son of a bitch, we see each other for the first time in years and you're clock watching," Harris said, handing the small glass to Solo. "My advice is to slug this stuff down in one gulp, the Russian way."

Solo did so and gasped for a second.

"That'll put hair on your chest," Harris said.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent's eyes watered for a moment. "Either that, or kill me first."

"All right, Napoleon, like I said you didn't come to talk about old times. What's up?"

"The Mafiya -- the Russian variety with a y, not the fellows from Sicily. Uncle Alex thinks they're going to make some kind of major move soon. The Ukranian security people seem to think so, too, and they're not particularly happy to see people from the outside showing an interest."

Harris leaned back in his chair. "What's the matter with uncle Alex? His Thrush birds not causing enough trouble?" Suddenly, the drawl wasn't nearly as noticeable.

"That's not an answer, Sam."

Harris grinned. "No, I suppose it wasn't. Well, as you've probably read the Mafiya is a criminal group. And while they spell it differently, the organization is pretty similar. Instead of 'families,' they've got cells. One active cell is based here in the Ukraine."

"Now they've imported some high-priced terrorist talent. At least that's what got uncle Alex's attention."

"Yeah, that sort of raised a few eyebrows at Langley, too. Is uncle Alex aware of the summit?"

Solo squinted. "If he was, he didn't impart that information to me."

"I'm sure the old bastard knows. Dammit, Napoleon why do you keep working for that cagey old..."

"Let's discuss that later. What summit?"

"The presidents of Russia and the Ukraine are supposed to get together in a just a few days. They want to coordinate some kind of joint plan to try and take the Mafiya down a peg or two. Not a lot of folks are supposed to know about it, but word gets around. The meeting had no sooner been set up than this Spiegel creep shows up. Now we got KGB -- or whatever those bastards are calling themselves these days -- prowling around as well as U.N.C.L.E."

"So what's the CIA doing?"

"If we were doing something, I couldn't tell you, you old son of a bitch. But, as it turns out, we're doing nothing."

"That I don't believe."

"Believe what you want. But we've been told to butt out for now. The Ukranians are a little sensitive to other folks trampling over their internal security boys and girls."

"Yes, we received a visit from them almost immediately after arriving yesterday."

"You still working with that little blonde Russian fella?" Harris said, talking in a drawl again.

"Uh-huh."

"Well, hope he's still as good as they say. You too, for that matter. These Mafiya fellas are a rough bunch. A lot of ex-KGB types. Ex-communist military intelligence. And a ton of big, ol' goons who'd be happy to snap you in two. Plus, this part of the world has never exactly been known as corruption-free. There's no telling who they've got in their pocket."

"You know, Sam, I was thinking I'd have to pull teeth to get this kind of information. You seem a little talkative."

"Who me?" Harris smiled. "Just helping out an international businessman who just happens to be an old acquaintance. Besides, if I'm going to be tied down by the bureaucracy, I might as well help out somebody who's going to get in on the fun. Who better than the boy scouts of the cloak-and-dagger set?"

Solo gave Harris a dirty look but said nothing immediately. Then, he smiled. "How about another drink?"

"Now you're talking, you old son of a bitch."

Nina sipped her coffee, which she drank black with a sugar cube. The small restaurant was only starting to fill up. She looked ahead, pretending to ignore Khudenko, three tables away reading a newspaper. Then the front door opened and she saw Kuryakin enter. She could see the eyes all the way from the middle of the restaurant. It was as if they locked on her like some kind of scanning device.

"Punctual as always," Nina said as he approached. "I see some things do not change."

"Actually, I am two-and-a-half minutes early," he said as he sat down.

"You make it so hard to reach you," Nina said. "A shield, perhaps?"

"Please do not try to psychoanalyze me." A waitress came up. "Coffee, black, for now, please."

"Illya, it is good to see you once more," Nina said. "I almost had forgotten what it was like, until I saw you and the American in the airport. In the intervening years I concluded it must have been infatuation. But now I am not so sure. I almost wished I had tried harder to get through that shell around you."

"What is past, is past. Regret is a useless emotion," he said. "It is good to see you again. I only wish it were under more pleasant circumstances."

"I suppose you will try to trade information with me."

"Perhaps we should dispense with that immediately," he said. "Is there any information you can share with me?"

"No."

"All right. I tried. Now we can talk about other matters."

She smiled. "Why do I have the feeling your mind is still on business?"

"Believe what you wish," Kuryakin said. "At least this way, we can still talk about the times that were. The business does not change that. Although I hope your partner is prepared to be bored."

Nina avoided the temptation to look back. "That is his problem."

Solo left the embassy, his mind still alert despite the two shots of vodka. He mulled over what Harris had told him. Was the CIA man on the up-and-up? Or was he playing some game, the rules of which weren't clear at this point. He dismissed the latter possibility -- at least for now. He recalled Samuel Harris as a man who didn't bluff. He might not show his hand, but he had a surprisingly straightforward manner for the espionage trade. Harris was not so much a front-line operative as someone who ran bureaucratic interference, giving his men the leeway they needed to do his job. Solo wondered if Harris' manner might have caused him to fall out of favor. The Agency couldn't have a big operation in Kiev, based on the budget cutting that had occurred the past decade.

He wasn't sure just when he picked up the tail, nor was he sure exactly how he noticed. By now, such things almost came second nature to Solo. But he was positive there was at least one man, a rotund fellow in a white coat and Russian-style hat following him. He glanced to the side periodically as he walked and made a turn at a side street where the foot traffic wasn't as heavy. There might be others, Solo wasn't sure. But the big man was clearly following. He saw an alley on his right and took it.

The rotund man quickened his pace when he saw the American duck into the alleyway. He paused for a moment, looked around, then went into the alley himself. He took perhaps a half-dozen steps before the dark-haired American rushed from behind a trash canister. The U.N.C.L.E. agent moved fast. Before the large man could react, the American had him pinned against a building with his left arm, the other holding a pistol against the man's stomach.

The man in the white coat struggled for a few seconds, then Solo jabbed the U.N.C.L.E. pistol into the ample stomach. He growled but kept still.

"Ah, Colonel Toptegan," Solo said. "I heard the KGB was out and about, but I had no idea your agency had sent such a distinguished representative. Perhaps we should have a little chat."

Act III

"Spy Vs. Spy"

Toptegan cursed at Solo in Russian. "There, there," Solo replied. "I can read and speak Russian but I admit I am not up on my Russian swear words. A little calmer, if you please."

"Idiot!" Toptegan said, his eyes red, his neatly combed mustache looking as if it were fraying. "I do not have time for these games. There is danger..."

Just then, three shots richocheted off the building, narrowly missing the Russian. Solo let go and both men dived behind the large trash canister where Solo had hidden. Another volley of shots hit where they had stood only moments before.

"All right, Colonel, suppose you tell me what's going on."

"Bah!" Toptegan said. "Is it not obvious? It is the Mafiya, they followed me when I saw you leave the U.S. Embassy."

"Could be your own men, so you could gain my confidence."

Before the Russian could answer, the loudest and longest volley of shots struck the other side of the canister.

"Then again...." Solo said.

"Mr. Solo, would you let me take out my weapon? If I am to die, I would like to die fighting, not like an animal in the slaughterhouse."

Solo nodded his head and Toptegan drew a Browning 9mm pistol from inside his coat. While Toptegan fired, Solo reached inside his coat for the attachments to the U.N.C.L.E. Special. The Russian got off three shots before a round of return fire occurred.

"I couldn't get a good look, but I fear they have a firepower advantage," the Colonel said.

The American decided to give it a try, barely peering over the top of the canister and squeezing off a couple of shots. He caught a glimpse of three men, at least one of whom was firing a machine gun, before he had to duck.

"I'm afraid you're correct, Colonel. I suspect they're going to charge our position fairly soon."

Toptegan reached around and fired the Browning two more times. "If you have a suggestion or a strategy, Mr. Solo, I think now would be a good time. I have one spare magazine of ammunition, that's all."

"Well, I really liked this shirt, but no sacrifice is too great, I suppose."

The Russian looked quizzically as Solo started yanking buttons off his dress shirt, then tossed them over the canister.

"What?"

"Seven, eight, nine...."

The explosion rocked the alley, as smoke and debris filled the air. Solo motioned the Russian to start running. The U.N.C.L.E. agent followed, firing the fully assembled U.N.C.L.E. Special. Through the smoke, he saw the thug with the machine gun double over. He turned away as the Mafiya men started firing. He got around a corner, where Toptegan had paused to catch his breath. Both men pressed themselves up against the building and Solo tensed, prepared to counter any attack. There was silence for a moment until they heard a police siren in the distance.

"Come on, Colonel. I don't think either one of us will want to explain our weaponry to the authorities."

"That was a bit artless, was it not, Mr. Solo?"

"Colonel, I believe that's twice I've helped save your life -- just now, and last year in Hawaii, as I recall."

"If you were not so clumsy just now, I would not need your assistance."

"Why is it Russians have such a hard time saying thank you?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Move it."

A few minutes later, the two men ducked into a coffee house.

"Did you see anyone following us?" Solo asked.

"Not for the moment," Toptegan replied. "I should probably be going."

"Just a moment, Colonel," Solo said. "I want to buy you a cup of coffee first. If you're thinking of declining, I believe I can draw my weapon faster than you."

"Bah! Must you Americans engage in such spectacles?" Toptegan paused. "Very well. But I am not here to do the U-N-C-L-E's work for it.

Kuryakin cast a wary eye toward Nina's partner as he got up to leave.

"It is time for me to depart," the Russian said. "Nostalgia has its place, but it is beginning to encroach upon the present."

She looked at her watch, dropped some currency on the table and got up. "It was good to see you again. Perhaps later."

"Perhaps when you can truly spend the time alone," he said, walking away and up to Khudenko. The Ukranian security officer still held the newspaper up over his face. Kuryakin scrunched the paper to look directly at the man. "Petr, if you're going to look nonchalant, you try something original."

Khudenko scowled. "When I need help from the great Russian, I will let you know."

Kuryakin nearly rolled his eyes but instead walked back to Nina. "As I said, next time if you can meet alone, it would be preferable." He then left the restaurant.

Khudenko folded the newspaper. "So what did this visit accomplish, Colonel?"

Nina squinted her eyes at her partner. "It showed me that perhaps you need a refresher course in surveillance. And that you lack proper respect to a superior officer, Major."

"All right, enough parrying, Colonel Toptegan. When is the summit?"

The Russian finished his coffee. "What summit, Mr. Solo?"

Solo sighed. This frustrating conversation epitomized the entire affair -- Illya's moodiness upon being assigned to travel to the Ukraine, security officers with a chip on their shoulders when dealing with outsiders, the unexpected reunion with Samuel Harris and now the cagey KGB man. "I believe the president of your country is scheduled to meet with the president of this country. From what I understand, the subject is that group that was just trying to kill us. You know, the Mafiya?"

Toptegan laughed. "If such a gathering were to occur -- and I am not confirming whether it is -- it would be of a highly classified nature."

"Well, considering how sensitive you and your counterparts in this country feel, it must be soon. Perhaps imminent."

"Mr. Solo, in Hawaii, it was I who was at the disadvantage -- something you and Stephen McGarrett took advantage of. While we are not exactly on my home grounds, we are just next door. You, I'm afraid, will have to struggle to cope, as I did."

"Oh, I see. When assassins are nearby, you can be pretty chummy. When the bullets stop flying, you want to assert your prerogatives."

"As I recall, the U-N-C-L-E was not invited to participate in this affair by either government," Toptegan said. "I think you should choose your words more carefully."

Solo grinned. "Have it your way, Colonel. But if something should go wrong, you may find trouble has a way of catching up to you faster than you can guess. I don't think you're any more invulnerable to Mafiya bullets than I am. And since we're so close to your home grounds, I'll let you play the role of proper host. You get the check."

With that, Solo got up and left the coffee house. Toptegan squinted at the U.N.C.L.E. agent for a moment before the waitress came up to inquire about the check.

After hearing the pre-arranged knock, Kuryakin opened the hotel room door. In came Napoleon Solo, looking tired and dejected.

"So how did it go with me to draw the attention of the Ukranians?"

Solo threw his overcoat on his bed. "As it turned out, I saw both the Americans and the Russians. For all the good it did me."

Solo sat down, slipping his stocking feet out of his shoes. "First, there is something about to happen..." He stopped when he saw Kuryakin shaking his head. Solo had a look of exasperation on his face as he took the electronic device out of his pocket. The red light came on. He got up, stared at the device and walked over to a table. He reached under it and found yet another bug. He bent over and grabbed one of his shoes, then put the listening device on the table. Then, Solo brought the heel of the shoe down hard on the bug. He looked again at the rectangular detection device, which indicated no other bugs were in the room. Then he sat back in the chair.

"As I was saying, something is about to happen. A summit meeting between the presidents of Russia and the Ukraine. That tidbit is from the Americans. One Samuel Harris, to be precise. He has a fancy title, but is indeed a CIA operative attached to the embassy staff."

"Well, that is something."

"Not enough. The Americans are observing but not participating. Foggy Bottom has apparently decreed this is none of their business."

"Foggy what?"

"Slang name for the U.S. State Department. The man who informed me of this, the aforementioned Mr. Harris, is an acquaintance of mine. Before I joined U.N.C.L.E., he tried to recruit me into the CIA. Considers us the Boy Scouts of the espionage game."

"But you saw the Russians as well?"

"Your old admirer Colonel Toptegan. During that affair in Hawaii last year, I think he said he hoped you would join the KGB. Anyway, he was following me after I got out of the embassy. We were shot at by some Mafiya operatives. I had to use the explosive buttons. Of course, my shirt looks ridiculous with no buttons, but we got away. Once he was safe, he was rather quiet. Wouldn't confirm the summit."

"Is it possible Mr. Harris might be misleading you, for reasons of his own?"

"Anything is possible. I can't call Harris a close friend, but our paths have occasionally crossed. He's as straight forward as you're likely to find among the CIA. So what did you get accomplished?"

"I had lunch with Nina Demichev."

"Rough duty. Did she provide any information?"

"No."

Solo sighed. "Wonderful."

The telephone rang. Kuryakin, who was closer to the telephone, picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

"Illya, it's Nina. Perhaps I have been too terse. I think we should compare information. Can we meet again this evening? At my place?"

"That depends," Kuryakin said.

"On what?"

"If you're sincere. And whether Petr will be lurking about."

"You can be the most infuriating man," she replied. "Petr will not be here, nor will he be nearby. Come around eight. The apartment building is near the Dniepper River. Here is the address..."

He took a small pad near the phone and copied down the address. "Yes, good-bye," he said.

"What's that all about?" Solo said.

"Major Demichev. She says she wants to possibly exchange information, this time alone, without her partner shadowing us, like he did today."

Solo grimaced. "We've been on the defensive since arriving here. Harris, Demichev, Toptegan all seem to have various agendas. I'm getting tired of it. And who knows if this might be some kind of trap."

"What do you suggest? I could simply not show."

"No, I get the feeling that time is running out," the American said. "But there's something I can do to take the initiative. You, meanwhile, will make the appointment."

Kuryakin paused before he knocked on the door of the apartment. Did this make any sense? Did Napoleon really think he was going to find out something useful this way? He took a deep breath. Napoleon's wild hunches were often better than other agents' most detailed planning. At least he repeated the thought to himself a couple more times before finally knocking.

It took a minute for Nina to answer the door. When she did so, Kuryakin first noticed the bright red dress. A simple garment, about what one would expect on the salary of a civil servant. But he had to admit it complimented her face. He couldn't help but stare into the eyes for a moment. If she was playing a game, she was very good at it, Kuryakin thought.

"So you did come," she said.

"You made it too enticing to refuse."

"Come in, please, " she said. As he entered, she held his arm for a moment, as if she were guiding him into the room. She closed the door behind them.

"Based on that last telephone conversation, I was not sure whether you were coming or not," Nina said. "I am afraid I haven't prepared any food."

"I am not hungry for the moment," he replied.

They walked to a couch. The apartment was small, the kitchen area particularly so. It was only a few steps beyond it to what passed for a living room.

"I am serious. I do want to exchange information. But forgive me for being forward, I did want to see you again. You make quite an impression."

"You are too kind."

"Illya, have you ever given any thought to returning?"

"Not to Kiev. I was an outsider then and am an outsider now. Occasionally, I wonder about going back to Russia. But my work prevents me from thinking too much about personal matters."

She touched his arm again. "That's the pity. My job infringes on my personal life. But it does not obliterate it."

"We cannot change what was. But I think we are straying from business."

"True enough," she said wistfully. "It is time to be honest about what each of us knows about this matter...."

For the eleventh time, Solo looked out the car with the night-vision glasses. Late in the afternoon, he had rented a car, primarily to have a place to protect him from the evening cold. Although Kiev was several degrees warmer than Moscow, the temperature was still dropping quickly. Before he could think too much more about the cold, Solo spotted three men talking near the alleyway to the Demichev woman's apartment building.

He changed the setting on the night-vision goggles to zoom in on his subjects. The two facing him were large men but he didn't recognize either. Then, the one with his back to Solo turned around briefly. Solo arched his eyebrows as he saw the face of Major Petr Khudenko. These other men must be fellow operatives of the Ukranian security agency. No uniforms, all were dressed in street clothes. One of the large men walked off, leaving Khudenko and the other beefy looking operative.

So it was a trap. Or was it? Solo closed off those thoughts. He took one look around and saw no one else near the modest apartment building.

"How much longer should we wait?" the big man said in Ukranian.

"At least another five minutes..."

"Shhhhh," the large man, nodding his head behind Khudenko.

A man staggered behind them. His head was bowed as if he were watching his feet. He was humming some tune but the beefy man didn't recognize it.

"Get rid of him," Khudenko whispered.

The large man stepped forward, obscuring Khudenko's view of the unwanted visitor. The big man started to reach out but his target moved swiftly, sidestepping his attacker. He delivered a knee to the groin, and Khudenko's man hunched over. A karate blow then knocked him out.

Simultaneously, Solo had his U.N.C.L.E. Special aimed at Khudenko. "Careful, Major. I don't know what game you're playing, but I think it's time to discuss matters with your partner upstairs."

Khudenko's face reddened as he scowled.

"It seems we have gleaned much of the same information from different sources," Kuryakin said. "But I sense there is something else troubling you."

Nina arose and began to pace. "The Mafiya has so much money and power, I fear they have a mole either in our agency or somewhere else in the Ukranian government. Maybe other governments. With these Russian operatives present, some of them may be working for the Mafiya as well."

Before she could continue, they both heard four short knocks on the door. Kuryakin squinted. It was Solo. The Russian got up and opened the apartment door. In came Petr Khudenko, followed by Napoleon Solo holding a gun at the Ukranian's back.

"Petr, what are you doing here?" Nina said.

"You mean you don't know?" Solo said. "He was outside with a couple of his fellow operatives."

"What operatives?" she said angrily. "The instructions were specific. No one was authorized to observe my meeting with Illya. I had not even told Petr."

"Nice try, Colonel," Solo said.

"Napoleon, I believe she is telling the truth," Kuryakin said.

Solo had a look of realization on his face. Before he could say anything, however, the door burst open.

Act IV

"Resolutions"

Solo had been distracted for only a moment, but that was all it took for Khudenko to strike a karate blow, sending the U.N.C.L.E. agent to the floor. Kuryakin and Nina reached for guns -- hers was under her dress -- but froze when they saw they were outnumbered and outarmed. Four men had burst into the apartment, with the lead two hoisting large assault rifles.

Khudenko looked down, and slowly stepped on Solo's right hand, forcing him to let go of the U.N.C.L.E. Special he still held. One of the thugs was already taking the pistols from the other two.

"I am sorry, I had intended for you two to share a tender moment. But Illya's clumsy American partner seems to have forced the issue."

"Petr, you are Mafiya?" Nina asked angrily.

"I am not only Mafiya, I am the leader of the Kiev Mafiya cell," he said, a grin on his face. "It is far more lucrative and what better place to maintain surveillance on what the authorities will do, eh?"

Solo groaned and started to reach for the back of his head.

"Careful, Mr. Solo, any sudden moves will result in a burst of gunfire, all aimed at you."

"He is the one who killed Ivan," one of the Mafiya thugs said.

"Is that so?" Khudenko said, then looked down at Solo. "So how did you manage to spot the surveillance so quickly? My men were to isolate you first. They got a little anxious when you made contact with someone we were unable to identify."

Solo fought the temptation to grin. He had been the target, not Toptegan. He had been lucky, yet again, that Toptegan thought the Mafiya men were following him. But he wasn't about to tell Khudenko this.

"Does it really matter?" Solo said.

"In the end, no. You may get up. But very, slowly and carefully. I heard about the explosive device you used to get away. Search him, we do not want to see that repeated. In fact, also search the Colonel and Mr. Kuryakin. Nina, I would suggest you give up the second gun you have hidden in your brassiere. We would not want to ruin that dress."

Long moments later, the U.N.C.L.E. agents and the Ukranian Colonel walked slowly out of the apartment building toward a waiting Range Rover. The search had been thorough, except for one glaring omission. The Mafiya thugs had left Solo his pen communicator. But there was no way to use it now and he wasn't sure whether he'd get the chance. Meanwhile, the ruckus hadn't aroused anyone in the apartments. Solo initially thought that odd but then again, this was a part of the world where one didn't act too hastily and learned to ignore strange noises in the night.

Solo, the last of the three prisoners, cursed himself mentally, then tried to recall the area. He wasn't sure why but he felt he had to act now. He remembered the Dniepper was off to his left. There were mostly warehouses nearby -- the apartment building may have been converted from one judging by its appearance.

Before he could strategize any further, Solo found himself acting, almost automatically. He turned, and clipped the gunman behind him on the side of the head. The blow caused his head to turn and the agent struck at the exposed neck. He had already turned to run to the river when he heard the crack of the neck breaking. The next seconds ran by as if in slow motion. It was only fifteen feet to an overlook that provided a view of Dniepper, but each step seemed to take minutes, not seconds. Gunfire exploded in the air. He heard a burst of bullets exploding just inches from his heels. But he kept running, then planted his foot and launched himself into the air and over the railing. Just then, he felt a sharp pain in his right rib and grabbed it. He wasn't sure what was down and what was up until he felt his head going into the icy cold water.

Khudenko couldn't believe it when he saw the American run for the overlook. He barked at the Mafiya thugs to get the other prisoners first, then shoot at Solo. The lead thug fired his weapon in the air, causing Nina and Kuryakin to freeze. The other two still standing then turned their weapons and fired at Solo. Khudenko saw Solo grabbing his right side as he flew over the railing.

"Get him, make sure he is dead!"

The two thugs ran up to the railing and looked down. Nothing was stirring in the water, but they aimed down at the river anyway and got off a short burst. Kuryakin began to move toward the river, but the lead thug cocked his gun and aimed it straight at the Russian's head. Khudenko joined his men at the railing and looked down. There was nothing but blackness and the water remained still. He waited another thirty seconds, then motioned everyone to go to the Range Rover.

"He must be dead," Khudenko muttered. "We had better depart before all this noise finally draws the authorities."

Kuryakin stood his ground for a moment until the thug jabbed him in the side with the barrel of the assault weapon. The Russian said nothing but looked at the large man with a hatred visible through the darkness. He relented, and started to walk to the Range Rover. Is this how it ends? Kuryakin thought. Do not worry my friend, yours will not be the only death this night. I swear it.

The inside of the Range Rover was as quiet as a tomb for the next forty minutes. It wasn't until the vehicle got out of the city and off any paved highway that Khudenko spoke up.

"You know Illya, you have no idea how much I hated you back then," the Mafiya leader said. "In school, you were always smarter. In athletics, you were always better. Then, of course, you were one of the people who sought to repress the Ukraine, make it an annex of Russia."

"I believe I was a bit young to participate in the Russification program."

"Ah, but your father wasn't. He was part of the Soviet state. You would be one day, too. When you surfaced in this business, after Nina alerted me that you had become involved, I made an inquiry. I read the dossier. The one the Ukranian Security Force has is rather skimpy, but it was clear you were favored by your father's Soviet masters. All the finest schools. Yet you enter this grubby profession."

"It's a living."

"And you, Nina. The Iron Woman. Hah! I remember how you felt about this Russian pig."

"You're a traitor, yet you criticize me for some schoolgirl attraction?"

"The Mafiya is a rather loosely organized confederation. This cell is Ukranian run and organized. But you are not one to criticize, either, dear partner. If you had not let your feelings for this pig get in the way, you might have still stopped us. It was you I worried most about. How absurd."

She started to speak but caught a glance at Illya nodding his head no. The rest of the drive took place in silence.

"So Sam, how come you didn't go to the reception at the Embassy tonight?" Matilda Harris asked her husband, as she brought him a double Scotch.

He looked up from the book he was reading and took the drink. "Scotch. Haven't I told you how expensive this stuff is over here?"

"I know all too well," said Matilda, a woman of around 50 who had maintained her figure. One of the few concessions to her age was the salt-and-pepper hair, but Samuel Harris didn't care. She had followed him all over the world, including through some difficult times. He still loved her as much as the day she married him. She knew her husband liked to act gruff and played along.

"You've been acting a little overly stressed lately, so I decided to get you out some of the good stuff."

"Now don't try and get me to talk about it," Harris said, starting to sip the drink.

"I learned not to prod a long time ago," she replied as she went to the kitchen in the small house in an area where Americans lived. "You have to take that attitude when your husband is always checking for listening devices. You'll either tell me in your own way or get over it."

Harris laughed and took a sip of his drink. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "You expecting anybody, honey?"

"No, Sam."

Harris reached under his cardigan sweater and held up the small semi-automatic pistol. It was probably nothing, but he had learned a long time ago to be wary of unexpected guests.

"Who is it?" Harris said as he put his hand on the door.

No answer except for a small thud. Harris had the pistol ready to fire and yanked open the door. In tumbled Napoleon Solo, who managed to catch himself before falling to the floor. He was wet and shivering, his lips trembling. "Do you mind if I come in for a minute?" Before Harris could answer, Solo collapsed.

The sharp pain awakened Solo. He wanted to scream but wasn't sure if he could. As he opened his eyes there was an explosion of light. He shook his head and concentrated and saw he was laying on a couch, his shirt off and someone attending to his side.

"Ah, the patient awakes," said an African American man. "You're damn lucky the bullet only creased your side. It didn't even break a rib. Blood loss is minimal. But you look like you went for a swim in the river or something."

"Something like that," Solo said weakly.

"It was the exposure that had me the most worried," the man said as he arose. "But I think we've taken care of that. You need some rest, but you should be fine."

"Doc? Has that old son of a bitch come around?" Harris said, entering the living room. He brought a cup of coffee.

"Yes, Sam, Mr. Solo should be fine. I suppose I should ask what really happened, but my predecessor as Embassy staff physician warned me to not inquire too closely when old Sam Harris asks for a favor."

"G'night, Doc, me and old Napoleon I think have to chew the fat a little," Harris said, leading the doctor to the front door.

As the doctor left, Matilda Harris came in. "Mr. Solo, do you need anything for your coffee?"

"No, he's just fine, now could you go in the other room for a few minutes?" Harris said to his wife. "Got some business to discuss." He pronounced it "bid-ness."

Matilda rolled her eyes. "Men. Very well, hope you're feeling better, Mr. Solo."

After she left, Harris pulled up a seat. "So how the hell did you know where I lived?"

"I'm a spy, remember?" Solo said. "After finding out you were the CIA's resident spook, I decided finding your residence would be a useful piece of knowledge to have."

Harris laughed. "Well, go on you old son of a bitch, what's coming down?"

"Could you hand me my coat first?"

Harris looked puzzled but did as he was asked. The coat was still quite damp and Solo took out a pen from the suitcoat. "Huh. I thought for sure I had lost this."

"You can write your girlfriend about your harrowing adventures later you old son of a bitch," Harris said. "You run into the Mafiya?"

"Yes. Sam, we've got to move. They've got Illya and Colonel Demichev. Her colleague, Major Khudenko is the leader of the Kiev cell of the Mafiya. Whatever he's got cooked up, I think he's moving soon."

"Dammit," Harris said. "Hey, why are you playing with that thing?"

"Just making sure it still works," Solo said as he fiddled with the pen.

"I can't do anything until the morning. The Ambassador is having a reception tonight at the Embassy. It's a big formal thing. In fact, you're lucky I was home, it took all my cunning to get out of going to that shindig."

"Sam, we need to find out where the Mafiya might be holed up. Some men wouldn't hurt, either."

"Listen, you old son of a bitch, it's not like Langley has a big plush station here. There's three men, including me, and at least one of them is not reachable tonight."

"Maybe we can get help from the Ukranians. Also, we should get in contact with Toptegan. He may have more manpower and probably a good lay of the land."

"That fat son of a bitch? Hell, that old Cossack probably wouldn't mind the Mafiya succeeding."

"When is the summit between the presidents of Russia and the Ukraine?"

"Tomorrow. Nobody's supposed to know that."

"Dammit, Sam. You can bet Khudenko knows that. He imported Karl Spiegel to help him out, remember? You can't sit on your ass and do nothing."

"Listen, Napoleon, I'm kind of fond of you, but I ain't married to you. Covert operations aren't in favor these days in Washington. It ain't like the old days. And the pinstripe boys at Foggy Bottom specifically told us to keep out of it. It's an internal Ukranian-Russian problem."

"Sam, do you think the Agency is going to look good if it comes out the CIA could have prevented the assassination but didn't?"

Harris bolted up from his chair. "That's a fine way to treat your host, you old son of a bitch. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, this conversation never happened. It'd be your word against mine."

"Not exactly, Mr. Harris," Alexander Waverly's voice said over the pen communicator. "All transmissions made through the U.N.C.L.E. communications apparatus are recorded. I'd say the recording of this conversation would be of interest to members of the press -- if the assassination should prove successful."

Harris' face reddened. "You and your goddam toys, I should have remembered..."

"I told you we weren't Boy Scouts," Solo said.

"Mr. Harris, I think I know one or two fellows at the State Department who'd be willing to see things my way. If you assist my man, I'm sure there will be no repercussions within the U.S. government."

"Now this is blackmail, you old bastard!"

"Eh, more like persuasion to entice you to do something you know to be correct."

Harris steamed for a minute then picked up the phone. "Napoleon, you've got a way of straining friendships. You should also be damn glad I know where Toptegan is staying."

The Range Rover stopped outside a plain building. The last forty-five minutes the vehicle had traveled a rutted trail obscured by the snow. The building wasn't anything remarkable, a single-story gray structure. The front was lit and the thugs herded Kuryakin and Nina in that direction.

"I do have something I'd like to show both of you," Khudenko said.

They said nothing but continued on their way in. One of the thugs opened the door ahead of them. They were in a receiving area. Two more thugs with automatic weapons stood in front of another door. The group went through that entryway into a large, cavernous space, which was mostly empty except for several electronic devices which seemed to surround something, but Kuryakin couldn't yet tell what it was. They walked another thirty feet. Kuryakin's eyes opened wide for a moment.

"What is the meaning of this, Herr Khudenko?" said the bald man with the plastic rimmed glasses who came away from the electronic machinery. At least I know where Karl Spiegel has spent his time, Kuryakin thought. Fine tuning a cruise missile.

"These are prisoners, two people who wanted to stop our project. The woman is my partner in the Ukranian security service. The man is an U.N.C.L.E. agent. His partner is dead but there may be other operatives we don't know about.

"U.N.C.L.E., eh?" Spiegel said. "Did you take his pen?"

"What pen?" Khudenko said.

The German didn't answer, instead went up to Kuryakin and checked in the breast pocket of his suitcoat. He took out the pen, dropped it on the floor and stomped on it. "The U-N-C-L-E is unduly fond of exotic communications devices. You said you killed the other man?"

"Yes."

"If you had left that unattended, he very likely would have radioed for help," Spiegel said. "You are an excellent organizer, Herr Khudenko, but you take your own genius for granted. I'm sure some of your Mafiya colleagues -- the ones who used to work for the KGB -- would be aware of this."

Khudenko stared at Kuryakin and then slapped him. "Embarrass me to the last, eh?"

Spiegel watched the scene with interest. "If you have some personal vendetta, please take it somewhere else, Herr Khudenko. All I need from you is a confirmation of the time and the coordinates."

"The meeting is in Russia, just over the border." He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the German. "That should be precise enough for you to program the missile. The meeting convenes at 0700 hours, but both men are staying at that hotel tonight."

Spiegel looked at the paper. "Indeed, this is more than adequate. It will not take long to prepare the launch."

"Colonel, are you really sure this is the way?" Solo said as the off-road vehicle hit yet another bump.

"Mr. Solo, I believe in your country you have a saying to not be -- what do you call it? -- a back seat driver," Toptegan said. "I still think we should have waited until the Ukranians were ready."

"Well, you don't have a partner in jeopardy, you old fat bastard," Harris said, sitting in the front passenger seat.

"And Mr. Harris, you have a quaint way of expressing gratitude that I agreed to be part of a joint operation."

"You old Cossack, I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't in it with them."

"Calm down, gentlemen," Solo said from the rear seat. Now dressed in fresh clothes, he put on a white parka over his black turtleneck and pants. The lined, insulated boots caused his feet to finally begin to feel warm after the swim in the icy river. "Mischa, what makes you think they came this way?"

"Once you told me that Major Khudenko was our man, it was the only place that made sense. This was a small warehouse facility for the Red Army in the days of the Soviet Union. It was abandoned when the troops withdrew. If the Mafiya needed an isolated place, they could do no better than here."

The vehicle pulled off the trail and into the middle of a group of trees. Solo looked at his watch. "All right, 0130 hours. The Ukranian force will be here in about a half hour. That gives me a half hour to see if I can sneak in and free the prisoners."

"If they're still alive," Harris said.

"The Ukranians are likely to shoot first," Solo said. "The Mafiya might execute the prisoners -- or Illya and Colonel Demichev could get killed in the melee. I'll take a chance."

"That's for damn sure."

Solo zipped up the parka and put the hood up. "I'm an U.N.C.L.E. agent. If there's any chance at all, we go back for our own."

"Damn B-" Harris cut himself short and simply sat quietly. Solo got out of the vehicle.

"It's about one-half to three-quarters of a kilometer that way," Toptegan said quietly, pointing in the direction of the suspected hideout.

Solo gave a small wave and began hiking.

Kuryakin thought of the first few missions he had worked with Solo. The brash American seemed so reckless. But he had an uncanny talent for survival and timing. He could devise a complicated strategy and play a wild hunch with equal ability. He couldn't be dead. Yet, even if he had survived the fall into the river, even if he had avoided the shots fired by the Mafiya thugs, even if he could hold his breath until they Mafiya had left, Solo couldn't have survived long in the water. And then to have to try and get assistance? The Russian sighed. Perhaps his friend really had lived on borrowed time and tonight the balance had come due.

"Illya, we've got to get out of here!" Nina said, her voice rising.

"I am sorry, I was preoccupied. You are right, of course."

Kuryakin sat on the floor of the dingy room. Another affair, another makeshift cell. His hands were tied together in front of him and his feet were bound as well. Nina had been bound in an identical way. He brought his feet as close to him as he could, then leaned his torso to the side so he could reach for his heel. He pinched his forefinger and thumb, then pulled away a small object. It was a small blade of some sort.

Nina began to speak but Kuryakin shushed her. He began to work on his bonds but it was a strain on his fingers and they soon hurt. Yet he kept sawing at the ropes until, little by little, they gave way. Soon he had his hands free and quickly cut the ropes at his feet.

For the next fifteen minutes, Solo walked in a circuitous pattern around the isolated warehouse. He counted at least six guards, with more undoubtedly inside. Time was running out so he decided to try one of the oldest ploys in the book. Jules Cutter, if he were watching now, would no doubt scold his former pupil for even thinking of it.

Solo reached into a bag he was carrying and took out a flare gun. An old car was parked at the edge of the clearing. It was perhaps fifty feet from where Solo stood. He aimed the flare gun carefully and fired. A second later, the flare broke through the rear windshield and exploded inside the vehicle. Suddenly the car was aglow as the flares went off inside the car. The guards moved in, with one firing his machine gun at the car. Solo scampered toward the rear entrance of the warehouse. One guard was coming back to his post. Solo dived, hitting the ground and then whipping his leg out at the guard, causing the Mafiya thug to trip. Solo got right back up, pounded the man in the head with his fist, then followed up with a quick karate blow. The U.N.C.L.E. agent grabbed the guard's machine gun and went inside.

Kuryakin now had Nina free when they heard the noise. Both looked at each other but the confusion in their faces indicated it was not a diversion that either knew about. Then, the door opened. The eyes of the Mafiya thug widened but he reacted quickly, and got his machine gun ready to fire. The burst of bullets was deafening. But it was the thug, not Illya or Nina, who fell.

Both tensed for a moment until Napoleon Solo, dressed in a white parka came to the doorway.

Solo thought he caught a glimpse of a smile on Kuryakin's face, but it disappeared in an instant. "Miss me?" Solo said.

"Of course not," Kuryakin replied, deadpan. "But if you had gotten killed in the manner it appeared, it would have soiled U.N.C.L.E.'s reputation."

"And I'm happy to see you, too. The same goes for you, Colonel Demichev. Now let's get out of here."

"We can't. We've got to stop the missile," Nina said, the anxiety rising in her voice.

"Missile?"

"It's not nuclear, but Khudenko is going to shoot a cruise missile. He's going to do it by 0200 -- it will go from here to the summit site, killing both presidents."

"We have at least seven minutes," Solo said. "What's the rush?"

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. It indeed was his friend, not his imagination.

A few minutes earlier, Karl Spiegel cringed with the noise outside.

"What is that? Are we under attack?"

"You tend to the controls, Herr Spiegel. I will take care of this," Khudenko said.

The Ukranian looked briefly at the makeshift ramp for the small missile, aimed at the large opening in the side of the storage area. The door had been opened a few minutes ago, letting the cold night air in. It was not an ideal condition for a launch but all that was needed was to get the missile airborne. The guidance system would take over from there.

Before Khudenko could say any more, one of the doors burst open. It was Kuryakin and Nina, each firing machine guns. Spiegel ducked as the guards came running in from another entrance. Chaos reigned in the large storage area as bullets richocheted, lights broke, and men cursed out loud. Spiegel attempted to tune it out and looked at the control panel as he locked the device in to fire.

Suddenly, a man in a white parka rappelled down from a catwalk up at the top of the huge storage room. He kicked Spiegel, knocking the German to the ground and away from the control panel.

"All right, Herr Spiegel, it's over," Napoleon Solo said.

The American, however, had made a mistake and stood too close to Spiegel, who whipped his leg around and knocked Solo over. The U.N.C.L.E. agent cursed himself for leaving himself open to the same tactic he had used on one of the guards earlier. Both Solo and Spiegel scrambled and got up.

"You should have simply shot me, Herr Solo."

"Sorry, I didn't have enough guns to go around."

Spiegel launched himself into a kick, striking Solo in the head. The agent had managed to anticipate the kick so it was only a glancing blow, but he still stumbled backwards. Spiegel pressed the advantage, clipping Solo in the head with a karate chop. Solo formed fists with both hands and pounded Spiegel in the head. The German staggered and Solo grabbed him by the ears, yanked his head forward while simultaneously lifting his knee up. The collision was loud and Spiegel fell to the floor.

Just then, the missile roared to life and moved up the ramp slowly but building speed by the second. Solo raced to the control panel. The labels were all in Russian. His mind raced, trying to remember the Cryllic alphabet. It had been some time since he had read Russian, and he hadn't much chance to brush up on this affair. Then, he spotted it. At least he hoped it was right. He could hear the missile was now off in the distance. It wouldn't be in range long. He pressed the button.

The explosion was deafening, shaking the building. Solo started to feel a surge of self satisfaction when he heard a volley of machine gun bullets behind him. He quickly turned around and Spiegel was there, holding a knife above his head as if ready to lunge. But his eyes had a glassy look to them and a stream of blood began to run down the corner of his mouth. A second later, he fell, dead. Solo looked over and saw Colonel Demichev making a small wave.

She came up to him. "You were looking so intently, you didn't see him coming up from behind," Nina said.

"I owe you one."

"That merely evens the account."

"Where's Illya?"

"He was going after that dog Khudenko."

"Show me the way."

Khudenko was fleeing down the side of the snowy hill when he felt the burst of heat and saw the flash of light from above. A second later, the roar of the explosion nearly knocked him down to the ground. He looked up and saw the missile had exploded only a short distance from the launch site. He began to curse in Ukranian.

He looked up just a few seconds too long. Illya Kuryakin jumped off from further up the hill, landing on top of Khudenko. They rolled further to the bottom of the steep hill and took a moment to gather their strength. Kuryakin was up first, kneeing his slumped opponent in the stomach. He held the Mafiya leader with his left hand as he used the right to punch the Ukranian in the face. Khudenko tried to counter attack, but Kuryakin side stepped it and struck the man once more. Khudenko fell and lay sprawled on the snowy ground.

Kuryakin stood, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He felt a trickle of blood in his mouth but he ignored it.

"Why don't you kill me and get it over with?" Khudenko said, barely able to lift his head.

"I do not think so," Kuryakin said. "Petr, I do not know why you hate me so much. Somehow, I think the humiliation is a more fitting punishment. That, and between the Ukranians and the Russians, I do not think your capture will prove pleasant."

Khudenko grabbed for something in his coat pocket. Before Kuryakin could lunge to stop him, the Ukranian put something in his mouth and bit down.

The Russian bent over, but knew he was too late. Khudenko let out a laugh. "I have won after all...." The sentence died with him.

"If you call that winning," Kuryakin said.

"You old fat Cossack. I'll bet you have 50 pounds on me. But I'll still drink you under the table."

It was the next night at a small tavern in Kiev. The day had been spent ironing out bureaucratic matters between U.N.C.L.E. and the Ukranian, Russian and -- unofficially -- United States governments. Samuel Harris now arched his head back and gulped down another shot of vodka. Then he grabbed the bread and took a big bite. He sat uneasily on the bar stool but then again, so did Toptegan.

"You Americans are so arrogant," Toptegan said. "You think you know the right way to consume vodka. But I will still emerge triumphant."

"Do you fellows really want to continue with this?" Solo said.

"Damn right, and no lip from you, Napoleon," Harris said, with a hint of slurring his words. "You're just the referee. What's that make?"

"Eight," Solo said. "In a little over two hours."

"Just getting my second wind --"

Just then, Illya and Nina entered the bar. Solo excused himself and walked over to them.

"What's the good word?"

"Mr. Waverly was more or less satisfied with the outcome," Kuryakin said. "At least he had no complaints."

"And my government is pleased. They are a bit unhappy with trying to explain away the missile explosion but that is only a minor complaint," Nina said.

"We were going to dinner. Would you want to accompany us?" Kuryakin said.

"Normally, I'd like to, but I let myself get talked into refereeing a drinking match over here between our American and Russian friends. They don't trust each other to keep an honest count. Since I am a representative of an international organization, I got the job. Besides, I better keep an eye out and water down their drinks if necessary so it doesn't get out of hand."

"That's too bad," Nina said, looking at Illya. Solo could tell she was lying but only smiled.

"Perhaps breakfast tomorrow morning," Kuryakin said.

Solo took one more look at the couple. "I suspect lunch would be better."

"Mr. Solo, if you please," Toptegan's voice roared through the bar.

"Duty summons," Solo said. He walked back to the bar but glanced back for a moment where he thought he saw Kuryakin put his arm around Nina just as they left. He smiled for a moment, then turned back to the vodka contestants. "All right, Colonel Toptegan. I believe it's your turn."

The End.

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