Act I

“Fifth Avenue Encounter”

 It was hardly a perfect figure eight, but the skater had given it her best shot. She came out of the maneuver smoothly, though, and sped past the others who were going at a more leisurely pace.

 Napoleon Solo took a bite out of his hot dog and looked over the scene. The late February day -- sunny and calm, a welcome relief from weeks of sleet and snow -- had brought out the skaters in force to Rockefeller Plaza. The woman skater, he guessed, was not much older than 20. She was lapping the others at a furious pace as if she were racing them. Clearly, she was taking the whole thing much more seriously than the others on the skating rink.

 Solo finished the hot dog and glanced around. Others had gotten the same idea he had. Solo stopped counting past 25 when trying to estimate the number of people observing the skaters at the Rockefeller rink.

 He took a deep breath and turned away. Solo was in a race most of the time -- against violent adversaries, against inflexible deadlines, against next-to-impossible odds. Today was a day for a long, leisurely lunch hour. Let the swift woman skater rush about. He’d no doubt have to accelerate his own pace once again soon. But today, if only for an hour or two, he’d take it easy.

 Solo glanced at his Rolex. Twelve twenty-three. The conference with Alexander Waverly wouldn’t start until two. He had plenty of time to walk the six or so long blocks back to the office.

 How mundane sounding. The head office of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement still maintained the shabby cover after all these years. Solo thought of poor Del Floria, who complained they wouldn’t give him the budget to modernize the tailor shop with new equipment. Solo knew better, though. Del Floria loved to complain, but would blanche if he ever had to run modern dry-cleaning machines instead of the aging steam presses. And, amazingly enough, the place did have a surprisingly loyal clientele. Del Floria’s had enough customers that the enforcement agents occasionally had to mill about for several minutes until they could enter the hidden entrance unobserved.

 Suddenly, Solo felt a jolt as if he had walked straight into a brick wall.

 Just up ahead, a short woman  with almond colored skin was placing shopping bags into the back seat of a car that had pulled up to the curb. Her face was as round as Solo remembered. The clothing, however, was far more upscale than anything he had seen her in before. Her black-and-gray outfit was new, tailored to accentuate her figure. The last time Solo had seen her -- what, fifteen years ago? -- she had worn a plain shirt and blue jeans. Then again, in the South American jungle, such an outfit goes a long way.

 The woman scowled. The last package, from Bendel’s, was large enough -- Solo guessed it contained a considerable amount of clothing -- that she was having trouble getting it and another sack into the car at the same time.

 By this time, Solo had come up. “Do you need assistance?”

 The woman turned, caught off guard. The scowl lifted immediately, her eyes widened slightly.

 “Napoleon? I don’t believe it,” she said.

 Solo grinned, then looked at the Lincoln Continental. “A bit of a step up from the last time I saw you, Rita,” he said.

 For a second she was flustered and Solo took the opportunity to take the Brendel’s package and lay it down on the back seat. As he did so, Solo noticed the driver for the first time, observing with a sharp eye but staying quiet. For a split second, Solo felt a chill. While he had never seen this particular driver before, Solo sensed he could do more than handle a car. He had the air of a professional about him -- the kind of individual Solo had met far more times than he cared to remember.

 Rita’s voice cut through Solo’s thoughts. “Thank you, Napoleon,” she said. “God, I never expected I’d see you here.”

 “Well, I live in the city, but then...” His voice tailed off. “Do you still answer to Rita Verde, or is there some other way I should address you?”

 Rita smiled. “No, I never married,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

 “Well, you did pretty well for yourself,” Solo replied. He glanced at the rear seat for a second. “Brendel’s. Saks. Not bad.”

 Rita glanced down for a second, then looked up at him. Solo was not an especially tall man, an inch or two below six feet. But at five feet herself, Rita Verde had to look up to make eye contact.

 “You don’t look like you made out so bad yourself,” she replied. “That’s a very nice overcoat and from what I can see you didn’t get that suit off the rack.”

 “My superior never embraced the idea of dress-down days,” Solo said.

 Rita glanced at the driver for a second, then looked back at Solo. “It’s been a long time,” she said. “In a lot of ways.”

 Solo squinted for a second. The tone of the last sentence -- was there a note of wistfulness there? He decided not to press. “I don’t suppose you’d have time to catch up.”

 Her face brightened again. She looked back to the driver. “Drive around and come back later.”

 “That’s impossible,” the driver said, turning to look back at Rita. For the first time, Solo caught a good angle on the man’s face. The nose had definitely been broken at one time. The face was taut. The eyes were clear and probing. His voice had just a trace of an accent. Somewhere from the Mediterranean, probably Italy, Solo thought.

 “Just do it,” Rita said, a steeliness to her voice. “The flight doesn’t leave until this evening.”

 The driver fumed for a second but turned his attention back to the street. Rita slammed the rear door shut and a minute later, the Continental forced its way back into traffic.

 “Let’s find somewhere we can talk,” Rita said.

 Solo looked at the round face more carefully. He couldn’t quite define it, but there was something else that was different about Rita, a wariness underneath the smile.

 He shook off the thought. He had more than once caught a similar expression when he looked in the bathroom mirror. “Ready any time you are,” he said.

***

 Later, as Solo finished his salad, Rita Verde was still talking.

 “It is amazing how much safer the city seems to be these days. This mayor really must be on the ball....”

 But Solo was having trouble listening. Instead he kept thinking about the rain forest and the short woman he met there. He glanced down at the pinky ring on his left hand, the present she had given him just before he had to leave, to return to U.N.C.L.E.

 “...I get back over here three or four times a year...”

 Rita stopped, finally sensing the cloud Solo seemed to be in. It was only then she glanced down at his hand and noticed the ring.

 “You still have it.”

 “Hmmm?” Solo said, the mental haze clearing.

 “The ring, I mean,” she said. “You’ve worn it all these years?”

 Solo took another glance at the ring, then looked at her directly. “Yes. I’ve wondered, from time to time, what happened to the person who gave it to me. I guess I never really expected to see her again.”

 Rita tried to restrain a smile but was unsuccessful. “Well it wasn’t doing me any good. I’m glad to see it found a good home.”

 “I’m sorry, Rita, I suppose memories made it hard for me to follow everything you said. You said you’re living in Venice now, right?”

 Rita laughed. “Men...yes, Mr. Solo, I’m living in Venice.”

 “I don’t think you really told me what happened after you left the International Volunteer Corps,” he replied. “At least I assume you left. The pay there doesn’t exactly support a private car and a shopping trip to Fifth Avenue.”

 “It’s a long story,” Rita said, the smile having disappeared. “Not really very interesting. So, do you work for the same employer?”

 Solo arched his eyebrows. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “Guess I’m in a rut.”

 “That I doubt,” Rita said, the enthusiasm returning to her voice. “It was pretty important work, as I recall.”

 “I suppose.”

 “Don’t get too humble, Napoleon. It doesn’t become you.”

 “My way of deflecting the conversation, I suppose.”

 Rita laughed. “Of course,” she said. “So is there a Mrs. Solo?”

 “I’m afraid not.”

 “Do you still work with that blonde friend of yours -- the one with the fancy yoga trick?”

 Solo chuckled. “Illya,” he said. “Yes, we still work together.”

 “Really? After the way you guys argued, you seemed like a regular Odd Couple.”

 “It works,” he replied.

 Rita glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’ve got to run. I’ve got a hairdresser’s appointment.”

 “Your hair looks just fine to me.”

 “Silly, it doesn’t matter how fine it looks. I’m no spring chicken.”

 Solo squinted, then suddenly picked up the meaning. She was getting her hair colored.

 “Besides,” Rita continued, “it’s not like being a man where a few flecks of gray make you distinguished.” She reached up for a second and squeezed a few hairs from Solo’s temples with her thumb and forefinger.

 Solo felt a vague sense of disenchantment. This was the same woman he had known, all right. But she was coming across as some sort of aging party girl. The Rita he had seen in the Brazilian rain forest had lived with and helped residents of a poor village. And when G. Emory Partridge’s mad scheme to form his own country had been blown apart, she even provided medical assistance to one of the Squire’s dying men. What the hell had happened?

 Solo caught himself. Fifteen years happened, he thought. We all change in fifteen years.

 Still, the agent felt a sense of regret. He had periodically wondered what happened to the short woman with the almond skin who spoke without a trace of an accent. Rita had been born in South America but adopted by an American couple as an infant.  On occasion he would remember the night they had spent together, a respite from -- perhaps an antidote to -- the pain and blood caused by Partidge’s bizarre vision, a mix of medieval oppression and modern weaponry.

 “Well, I better not keep you,” Solo said. “Are you staying long?”

 “Got to leave for Europe tonight.”

 “Perhaps the next time you’re in the city.”

 “At least allow me to pick up the check,” she said. Before Solo could argue, Rita put a hundred-dollar bill on top of the plastic tray with the bill.

 Solo arose as she got up. She started to turn but looked back and stared for a second. For a moment, he sensed she had remembered that long-ago night as well. Rita leaned up, kissed him on the cheek, then left without a word.

 He stood there for a minute, watching as she went to the coat check, then left the restaurant. Suddenly, he had a nagging fear and glanced at his watch. One-fifty. Cripes, I’ll never make it back in time.

***

 Alexander Waverly frowned and looked at his watch. “Mr. Solo didn’t say anything to you about being late did he, Mr. Kuryakin?”

 Kuryakin cleared his throat. “No sir.” Napoleon had mentioned briefly something about walking toward Rockefeller Center, but Kuryakin opted not to volunteer the information.

 “Probably watching the skaters at Rockefeller Center. It’s a good day for it,” Waverly said.

 Kuryakin managed to avoid jerking his head. It had taken some effort. After all these years,  the Number One of Section One could still catch Illya off guard by the way he seemed to know what was on his subordinates’ minds.

 “Still, we had best begin,” Waverly said, slowly spinning the conference table top so a file was now in front of Kuryakin. Waverly continued to speak as Kuryakin opened the file.

 “This is one Stefan Kleskow. A rather shadowy chap, originally from Poland. Now living in Venice. Our information is he now controls a good deal of criminal activity, including terrorism and extortion.”

 The file contained reproductions of a number of grainy photographs. Kleskow appeared tall, with a long, thin nose and somewhat larger-than-average ears. The brown hair was cut short. Kuryakin froze, however, when he came across the last photograph. It was Kleskow, in a tuxedo at some black-tie affair. On his arm was a short, dark-skinned woman. He recognized her instantly.

 “Sir,” Kuryakin said, separating the photograph from the others. “Do you know who this woman is?”

 “What?” Waverly said, squinting at the photograph for a moment. “Oh yes. It’s in the file. It’s his mistress. From what we can tell she’s an insignificant jet setter. She’s had a number of rich boyfriends. Somehow she latched on to Kleskow. But a research check made out of U.N.C.L.E.-Rome didn’t turn up any particular criminal ties or anything. Any particular reason for your interest, Mr. Kuryakin?”

 “I’ve met the woman, sir. So has Napoleon.”

 “Oh?”

 “Yes, sir. Our first assignment together, in fact. That business with Partridge in the rain forest in Brazil.”

 Waverly picked up the photograph. “Oh, yes. A woman member of a volunteer organization who assisted you.” He now stared at the photograph. “You’re sure this is the same woman?”

 “Some slight changes in appearances but yes it’s the same one.”

 “Rita Verde,” Waverly muttered.

 “Yes sir, that was her name.”

  “How well did you and Mr. Solo get to know her?”

 “Well, I didn’t have that many dealings, but Napoleon...”

 “Never mind,” Waverly said. “Hmmmmm. Obviously our Rome station didn’t dig deep enough. Interesting.”

 A voice over the intercom interrupted Waverly’s thoughts.

 “Sorry to bother you, sir,” said Lisa Rogers, the U.N.C.L.E. chief’s secretary. “But Mr. Solo has arrived.”

 “Send him right in, Miss Rogers.”

 The automatic sliding doors opened and Solo entered the office and took his place at the conference table. “Sorry, sir, I...”

 Waverly ignored the apology. “Mr. Solo, do you remember this woman?” he said, handing the photograph to the enforcement agent.

 This time it was Solo’s turn to try and not express shock. “Well, yes.”

 “Mr. Kuryakin tells me this is the same woman who provided assistance during your original encounter with Mr. Partridge. Is that correct?”

 “Yes sir.”

 “Do you think there’s any possibility she might remember you?”

 Solo glanced at Kuryakin. The American was trying his best to keep a pained expression off his face.

 “Probably.”

 “Well, perhaps we can use this to our advantage,” Waverly said. “As I was saying to Mr. Kuryakin, we believe Stefan Kleskow has organized a new criminal network of frightening proportions. We need to find out more before we can take action. I want you two gentlemen to investigate. Gauge how extensive his activities are. If our suspicions prove founded, take him down. I’d strongly suggest utilizing Miss Verde, if you can.”

 Solo cleared his throat. “Sir?”

 “Yes, what is it, Mr. Solo?”

 The agent fell his heart sink into his stomach. “Nothing, sir.”

 “Good. I’ll leave the operational details to you. If you’ll excuse me, I have other work I need to do.”

***

 A few minutes later, in Solo’s office, the senior agent let out a deep sigh as he sat back in his chair.

 Kuryakin, sitting down in another chair, squinted at Solo. “What is wrong? You have encountered old acquaintances on more than one occasion.”

 Solo looked at the Russian for a second before speaking. “I saw Rita.”

 “So did I, about 15 years ago.”

 “No, this was more like an hour ago.”

 “What are you talking about? You mean here, in the city?”

 “Uh-huh.”

 Kuryakin sat up straight in the chair. “A pre-arranged meeting?”

 “No, no,” Solo replied, gesturing with his hand. “Chance encounter. I was over by Rockefeller Plaza, watching the skaters. There she was in the midst of a shopping spree on Fifth Avenue.”

 Kuryakin was silent for a minute. “You’re quite sure? It seems like an astounding coincidence.”

 “What are you suggesting? That Kleskow planted her? We didn’t even get the assignment until a few minutes ago.”

 “True,” Kuryakin said. “But perhaps Kleskow anticipated U.N.C.L.E.’s interest. Perhaps Kleskow decided to take the initiative.”

 Solo drummed his fingers on the desk for a minute. “If that is the case, she must be an astounding actress. I got the impression she had become little more than a gold digging jet setter. Not exactly the person I remembered.”

 “We all change,” Kuryakin said. “Circumstances. Time. Events.”

 “The Rita Verde we encountered believed in something. Remember after that bomb you planted blew up Partridge’s armory? She was right there tending to dying thugs. She was living in a shack in the rain forest.”

 He paused, as the contradictory memories -- those of 15 years ago and the eventful lunch hour just a while ago-- collided in his mind. “The woman I saw today seemed more interested in whether Bredel’s or Saks had more upscale merchandise. Now I’m told she’s the mistress of a major criminal.”

  Kuryakin looked at his friend for a moment, then spoke up. “This chance encounter -- if indeed that’s what it was -- may complicate the assignment. Perhaps we should inform Waverly. At the very least, he may want to revisit the strategy of using the woman as a possible way to getting to Kleskow.”

 “Or,” Solo said, “today’s meeting might lay the groundwork for exactly what Mr. Waverly envisioned. We won’t know until we try.”

Act II

“Blackjack”

Somewhere in Venice

 The three men walked down the long hallway. At the large double doors, they paused and glanced at each other. The lead man, Benaducci, then reluctantly led the way inside.

 The room was full of antique furnishings, including large grand chairs. On the far side of the room was a new desk that looked out of place because of the two personal computers and the laptop model that lay on top. Sitting at the desk was a tall, thin man in a black suit. One of the personal computers had a video hook-up. On the screen was a bald, bespectacled man with a double chin.

 “...final preparations are under way. The shipment should arrive in two days,” the bald man said.

 “Good,” Stefan Kleskow replied. He put on a pair of reading glasses and looked at some papers on the desk. “Everything else seems to be in place. That will be all.”

 The video connection went dead. Kleskow then removed the glasses and looked toward his three visitors.

 “Gentlemen, you’re prompt,” Kleskow said, getting up from his desk and gesturing for the three men to sit in the antique chairs more toward the center of the room.

 Benaducci sat down immediately. The others, Giulio and Papais, paused for a second and then followed suit.

 “Things have gone quite well over the past year, gentlemen. We have rebuilt from the debris left over from my predecessors. Yet...” Kleskow said, letting the word hang in the air for a moment, “....something has come to my attention that is quite disturbing.”

 Benaducci calmly looked on. Giulio and Papais, though, tensed in their chairs. None of the three spoke.

 “I was reviewing the financial documentation  from our most recent dealings. We were at least the equivalent of 500-thousand U.S. dollars short.”

 “That can’t be,” Giulio said. He perspired easily in most instances and was doing so here.

 “There is no mistake,” Kleskow said, beginning to pace. “This was a very stupid move, gentlemen. This is a relatively small amount of money, compared to what we’re about to accomplish. This is also foolish and short sighted. And I cannot tolerate that.”

 Kleskow removed a small envelope from the suitcoat of his Brioni suit. “It took some doing, but I traced the money to a Swiss account. It was in your name, Giulio.”

 “That’s impossible. I am loyal! I am not stupid!”

 Suddenly, Kleskow’s face reddened. “Do not talk to me about stupidity, my friend! You have no idea how I’ve planned for this moment...”

 Kleskow’s stare narrowed on the subordinate. Giulio’s eyes bulged, the sweat  practically pouring down his forehead.

 Then, Kleskow turned abruptly toward Benaducci and fired three shots in the man’s face. Benaducci had no time to react and avoid the attack. His face didn’t even register surprise before death came. The chair with his body fell backwards.

 The sounds of the shots reverberated for a split second and everything was quiet again. Giulio tembled while Papais was barely more composed.

 Kleskow’s voice again was calm. “Our late friend fancied himself something of a computer expert. He thought he could hide the embezzlement from me. But just in case, he concocted false evidence against you, Giulio.”

 Giulio fought the nausea, trying desperately not to vomit.

 “See about cleaning up this mess,” Kleskow said. “My woman will be returning from New York in the morning. She should not see any evidence of this.”

***

 Normally, Rita Verde could make herself sleep during  long trans-Atlantic flights. But this evening, she felt jittery. What sleep she had was shallow, despite the relative comfort of the first-class cabin.

 About half-way over the ocean, she decided to stop trying and just stared out the window. She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly.

 It was seeing Napoleon Solo again, she realized, that had unsettled her. Not only him but the memories he represented. She hadn’t thought about the International Volunteer Corps at all for years. That represented something that was dead.

 She shook her head. Rita hadn’t felt this reflective in a long time. How did I get here?

 With that thought, her mind began running images. Toward the end of her stint with the International Volunteer Corps, she had met Tom, an American working in Brazil for an automotive company. Instead of leaving for home, when her tour of duty was completed, she stuck around in Brazil. The affair had been brief, but intense. Rita had thought of marriage but one day ventured to Tom’s place at precisely the wrong time, catching him in bed with a co-worker.

 Tom hadn’t even made a half-hearted attempt to apologize and Rita was gone almost immediately. From there, it was back home to her adoptive parents for a bit. But, somehow, someway, Rita felt that didn’t work either. Her father had never approved of spending time at the International Volunteer Corps. Rita’s mother liked to paper over differences and couldn’t help relieve the tension between her husband and adoptive daughter. Rita felt stifled so she struck out on her own.

 Rita couldn’t even remember the number of jobs that followed. At  two of them, she had affairs with co-workers but they ended badly, just as the one with Tom had. One job called for a business trip to New York that included a large reception. There, she met a tall, charming Swede. One thing led to another and he was practically begging for her to return to Sweden with him. Rita hadn’t liked the job that much and it didn’t take that much coaxing.

 Rita laughed and rang for a stewardess.

 “Yes ma’am?”

 “A glass of white wine please,” Rita said.

 A minute later, Rita sipped her wine. Why are you rehashing all this? Just because you saw a man from your past today? Don’t be silly.

 The images persisted. Indeed, as she drank the wine, they flowed more freely. The Swede was well connected and Rita saw a lot of the “beautiful people” during their relationship. By the time of that break-up, she didn’t lack for attention. It always seemed like some new, rich guy was around when she needed one.

 She coughed for a second. Stefan, whom she met a year ago, was the latest though he fit a familiar pattern. Initially, seeming quite attentive. More recently, seeming preoccupied and self centered. But, unlike the others, he was darker somehow. Off to various places at a moment’s notice. In the bedroom, he had interesting variations on love making...

 Rita shuddered for a second. She had initially thought Stefan’s preferences relatively harmless and she had enjoyed exploring them. Lately she wasn’t quite so sure.

***

 Kuryakin re-entered Solo’s office. “Are the travel arrangements set?”

 Solo looked up from the papers he was examining. “Hmmm? Oh yes, we leave tomorrow night on Trans Global flight 97.”

 “You seem preoccupied. Is it the woman still?”

 “Not exactly. It seems that Mr. Kleskow is a bit of a socialite. He’s having a large party at his mansion in Venice. Three nights from now.”

 “A rather public display for someone suspected of all sorts of nefarious deeds.”

 “That’s the problem with only being suspected,” Solo said. “Besides he wouldn’t be the first high-profile person in trouble with the law. Here in New York, we had a mafia chieftain who was practically a celebrity. Changing times, Illya.”

 “I suppose,” Kuryakin said, sitting down in a chair. “It still seems odd. I’ve been researching all the data bases. Kleskow has had suspected links to various criminal groups, but there’s no real pattern. Suddenly, over the past year, he appears to be amassing power, though there’s still precious little hard evidence of criminal activities. Much suspicion, no proof.”

 Solo drummed his fingers on the desk. “Yes, I came up with the same story,” he said. “Suddenly shows up in Venice, buys one of the oldest properties and almost instantly makes himself part of the social scene. The man with the shadowy past.”

 The agent then picked up a photograph of Kleskow and Rita from some party. “Always with a beautiful woman on his arm,” Solo said.

 “There’s still time to bring in other operatives,” Kuryakin said.

 “No,” Solo said. “Besides, I’m too intrigued about Mr. Kleskow to pass up this assignment now.”

***

 The Mercedes pulled into the garage. Rita paused for a second, looking at the view of Venice across Veneta Lagoon. She then went directly into the large house, leaving the driver to get her luggage and packages. She had taken a few minutes to freshen up at Marco Polo Airport.

 Stefan Kleskow was waiting for her. His face brightened, but only a little. Without a word, he went up and kissed her hard. “And how are you, my dear?”

 Rita smiled briefly. “I’m fine. A little tired. And you?”

 “Wonderful now that you are back.”

 It wasn’t what he said but how he said it that tipped Rita off what Stefan wanted.

 “Of course.”

 Kleskow put his arm around her. If Rita hadn’t anticipated the move, Kleskow would have been practically dragging her toward the stairway. A few minutes later, they were in the bedroom. Kleskow kissed her hard once more, this time more animal-like. He began to paw at the expensive dress, trying to peel it off. Rita relaxed, trying to make it easier, not wanting him to damage the garment.

 Moments later, the dress fell to the floor and Rita stepped out of it. Kleskow’s eyes widened at the sight of the garter belt and black stockings. But it didn’t stop him from pawing once more at the brassiere....

 Forty-five minutes, after some rather mechanical love making, Rita lay staring at the ceiling while Kleskow slept. While not inspiring, Rita breathed a sigh of relief that Kleskow hadn’t opted to use some of his more exotic techniques. Once again, her memories began to play themselves out once again. This time, her eyes began to moisten.

***

 For Solo and Kuryakin, the nine-hour flight from JFK to Marco Polo airport was uneventful and each agent was able to get a reasonable amount of sleep. The two agents had briefly discussed office protocol and flying through Rome to check in with the U.N.C.L.E. station there. But Solo didn’t want to deal with the pompous Rome station chief, Ricardo Cavetti. That might cause a bit of a row -- office politics in U.N.C.L.E. were drearily similar to those in any large organization -- but Kuryakin didn’t particularly care for Cavetti, either.

 The ride in from Marco Polo was orderly, by Italian standards. The journey from the airport to the edge of Venice was only 10 miles but took the better part of an hour. At least traffic never stopped totally. From there, the agents took a water taxi to the Metropole Hotel, which had a canal entrance.

 They spent the rest of the day unwinding from the journey. Kuryakin had brought a laptop computer and caught up with some routine paperwork. Each conducted separate workouts and Solo took a long walk around Venice. They didn’t see each other again until they met for dinner that night.

 The helpings were generous. Kuryakin finished everything on his plate, but Solo picked at the veal parmesan.

 “The hotel is excellent, though I suppose we should have selected a place on other side of the lagoon, closer to Kleskow’s mansion,” Kuryakin said.

 “I thought we’d keep our distance. No sense running the risk of another chance encounter.”

 “Assuming your meeting with the woman was a chance encounter.”

 Solo looked up. “Assuming that, yes.”

 Kuryakin took his napkin and dabbed his mouth. “Have we made arrangements to ensure entry to Mr. Kleskow’s gathering?”

 “I checked late this afternoon,” Solo said. “I’m told very convincing forgeries of the party invitations will be sent here by tomorrow morning.”

 “My tuxedo got a bit wrinkled on the trip over, but I’m told the hotel can remedy that,” Kuryakin said. “Unless, of course, I have to use something from the disguise kit.”

 “Not this trip,” Solo said. “Just a pleasant evening.”

 “I have one question,” Illya said.

 “Yes?”

 “Pleasant for whom?”

***

 The next night, the Kleskow estate was illuminated with many external lights. A special fleet of water taxis fetched guests across Vaneta Lagoon. Solo and Kuryakin had agreed ahead of time to catch separate craft and to wander in separately to the party.

 Kuryakin arrived first. The forged invitation wasn’t questioned at the main entrance and the Russian quickly was milling about with the other guests. As was usually the case with such gatherings, most of the attendees had broken into small groups, making idle chit chat. Kuryakin kept to himself, trying to establish a mental map of the interior. He noted, with some interest, the stairway had been roped off. Most of the guests would assume the bedrooms were upstairs, but perhaps some sort of office was, as well.

 From there, Kuryakin entered what appeared to be some sort of massive dining room. The long table in the center of the spacious room was covered with a tablecloth. On top of the table were various hors d’oeuvres. Meanwhile, four bars had been set up in each corner of the massive space.

 Kuryakin heard a mix of languages being spoken. Italian, of course, but many were also conversing in English and there were scattered conversations in French and German.

 Just then, Kuryakin heard a voice from his right side.

 “Illya?” the woman’s voice said. “It is Illya, isn’t it?”

 The Russian turned. He recognized Rita Verde instantly. Her figure was virtually the same as it was when he had met her in the Brazilian rain forest. He was caught off guard, however, by how she appeared in the black evening dress and makeup. Back in Brazil, she had had little time for either.

 “Hello,” Kuryakin said, extending his hand. “It has been some time.”

 Rita, however, didn’t take his hand right away. She stood there for a second, her mouth slightly agape. Finally she shook Kuryakin’s hand. Only then did she speak.

 “What are you doing here? I mean....”

 “Yes?”

 “I mean I saw Napoleon just a few days ago, in New York,” she said, an edge in her voice. “Now you’re here. I don’t suppose this is a coincidence.”

 “Perhaps not.”

 “Is Napoleon here?”

 “Somewhere.”

 Rita’s eyes darted back and forth for a moment. If she is acting, she’s doing an excellent job, Kuryakin thought. I can understand why Napoleon was so insistent that it was a chance meeting.

 “You’re not here on vacation,” Rita said. “Are you?”

 “It’s not the sort of thing one discusses in public.”

 Rita began to breathe quickly. “Oh, geez, that was a set up...”

 “What?”

 “The other day, that meeting with Napoleon.”

 “No, no it wasn’t,” Kuryakin said, reluctantly deciding to give her a piece of the truth. “Napoleon had no idea when he saw you in New York.”

 “Then why are you here?”

 “Perhaps we should take a walk.”

***

 Solo entered the mansion about five minutes later than Kuryakin had. He still wasn’t quite sure what he would say if saw Rita. He was mentally debating whether to take a direct approach or to attempt to deflect the obvious inquiry.

 In the middle of those thoughts, Solo noticed there was an exit in the back where a number of people were streaming. Curious, he followed them. At the exit, he realized a large tent had been put up immediately adjoining the mansion, covering a large patio area. Portable heaters maintained a feeling of comfort, a considerable feat considering the chill in the night air. Various portable lighting units also kept the tent’s interior nearly as bright as the mansion itself.

 He looked around and realized various gambling tables had been set up. A roulette table was just a few feet away, while further on there were blackjack and baccarat games.

 Before he could he do anything else, a tall man turned from one of the blackjack tables. It was Stefan Kleskow, who initially looked bored but whose face then lit up.

 Before Solo could react, Kleskow began walking straight toward the U.N.C.L.E. agent.

 “My goodness!” Kleskow said, enthusiasm rising in his voice. “Napoleon Solo. This is quite unexpected!”

 Solo was taken aback but tried not to show it. The dossier -- what few details it contained -- indicated Kleskow was an unemotional man at least most of the time. Although it had also been reported he showed an occasional flash of bad temper. But this reaction fit nothing Solo had seen.

 Kleskow was now in front of Solo, his hand extended. Solo tentatively shook the Pole’s hand.

 “We’ve never met that I recall,” Solo said.

 “No, but I feel I know you very well.”

 “Really?” Solo said, squinting.

 Kleskow chuckled. “In a way, I owe you a great deal.”

 Solo felt even more unsure of himself than before. Was Illya right? Was the meeting with Rita in New York some opening gambit aimed at me? But why? Kleskow couldn’t possibly have known I had been assigned this affair.

 “What could you possibly owe me?”

 “A kind of an opportunity.”

 You seem to have done quite well for yourself, Mr. Kleskow,” Solo said, gesturing to the mansion behind him.

 “Please follow me, Mr. Solo.”

 Solo did so, but tensed his body.

 They walked up to one of the black jack tables. The dealer was in the midst of shuffling cards. The three guests, two women and a man, were counting their chips.

 “I am sorry my friends, but may I please borrow this table?” Kleskow said. “I would like to play a very special game with this gentleman.”

 The guests looked at each other. Their reactions ranged from puzzlement to irritation but they all got up from their chairs and dispersed. Kleskow motioned for the dealer to step away. “I will take care of this personally, Max.”

 Solo took one of the vacated spots.

 “As you know, Mr. Solo, this little party is to raise money for charity. It is a good cause, eh? But I thought we might play a little blackjack, just you and I.”

 Kleskow took the shuffled cards and asked Solo to cut them. He took a plain yellow card and placed it about three-quarters way through. Kleskow then loaded the cards into a shoe.

 “I’m sure a man like yourself has enough money to make it interesting,” Kleskow said.

 Solo reached into a pocket. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had an opportunity to exchange the bulk of my funds,” he said. “Will U.S. dollars do?”

 “Absolutely.”

 Solo sensed that Kleskow was getting giddy, as if getting ready for a show. The agent produced $5,000.

 “Very well, we will use dollars. The white chips will be $100. The blue $500 and the red $1,000. Agreed?”

 “Agreed.”

 “Dealer must draw to17.”

 “Fine.”

 Solo started with a blue chip and two whites. $700. Kleskow dealt the cards. Solo had a king and a seven showing. Kleskow, as the dealer, only had to initially show one card, a three.

 “You mentioned something about a kind opportunity I provided,” Solo said. “What kind?”

 “Let’s not spoil the game,” Mr. Solo.

 Solo looked again at the cards and played the percentages. He assumed Kleskow had at least a 10 -- either a face card or a 10-card -- as his second card. Solo put his flat hand over his cards, indicting he was staying on 17.

 Kleskow flipped over his second card. An eight. Now he had 11. Kleskow took another card from the shoe. A ten. Twenty-one. The house -- Kleskow -- had won the first hand.

 “Very nice,” Solo said.

 Kleskow didn’t respond. Solo bet the same amount. This time, Kleskow dealt Solo two Aces. Kleskow’s only exposed card was a six. Solo had to assume Kleskow had at least 16.

 However, because Solo had two cards of the same number, he could split them -- doubling his bet. But with two aces, Solo had doubled his chances of getting a 21. Solo opted to split.

 “I don’t recall us ever meeting,” Solo said.

 “We haven’t.”

 Kleskow separated the Aces, and Solo now bet another $700. Kleskow placed an eight on the first Ace. Nine or Nineteen.

 Solo stood.

 Kleskow dealt Solo a Seven for the other ace. Eight or Eighteen. Once more, Solo stood.

 “A fine strategy,” Kleskow said. “Now it’s my turn.”

 The Pole now turned over his second card. A five, for a total of 11. Kleskow dealt himself a third card.

 A nine, giving him a total of 20. In the space of three minutes, Solo had dropped $2,100.

 “Don’t worry, Mr. Solo,” the Pole said. “Remember, it’s all for charity.”

 Solo didn’t back down, betting another $700. This time, Kleskow dealt him an Ace and a Jack for an automatic 21, or blackjack. Solo got $1,050 because a blackjack paid an extra 50 percent on the bet. Suddenly, Solo had recouped half his losses.

 “I’ll keep that in mind,” Solo said.

 Kleskow said nothing and dealt the cards again. The U.N.C.L.E. agent made another $700 bet. This time Solo only had a Queen and a three. Kleskow also had a three showing. Assuming Kleskow, too, had a 13, that meant the Pole had to draw at least one more card -- and would run the risk of drawing a face card and going over 21.

 Solo stood.

 “An understandable strategy,” Kleskow said. “If you like playing the odds.”

 Kleskow flipped over his other card. A two, for a total of five. He dealt himself a third card, another two. Seven. Another card, this time a Jack.

 Seventeen.

 “Although sometimes, the odds can change. Don’t you agree, Mr. Solo?”

 The agent said nothing but bet again, this time an even $1,000. Once more, the cards were dealt. This time, Solo had a King and a Queen showing. Kleskow had a Nine. Predictably, Solo stayed on 20. Kleskow flipped over his second card. An Ace -- for a total of 20. A draw.

 Solo mentally cursed his luck. He had kept a close eye on Kleskow’s hands. If he was cheating, it wasn’t through standard means. And, unlike a similar occasion some months back on an assignment, there nothing else on the table that might be a more sophisticated means of cheating.

 “You’re not tiring of the game, are you, Mr. Solo?”

 “Not yet.”

 Another deal, this time Solo getting a pair of tens. Kleskow, meantime, had a five showing.

 Solo motioned he’d stay.

 The Pole turned his second card over. A six, for a total of 11. Kleskow dealt himself one more card.

 Twenty-one.

 Solo glanced into Kleskow’s eyes. They had the look of cool satisfaction. He had Solo on the ropes -- and knew it.

Act III

“Spectres Of The Past”

 Rita felt dizzy. During the day, she had embraced the usual routine of the day of one of Kleskow’s parties. She had taken a long bath, went into the city for a beauty treatment and, at the end of the day, spent 90 minutes applying makeup and dressing for the black-tie affair.

 Now, in less than an hour, the blonde man had wrestled her from the feeling of security. Once again, she was being forced to confront what she had been -- and how that varied greatly from what she now was.

 She kept up with Kuryakin who was edging out of the mansion. What did Illya -- and Napoleon, presumably -- want? How could she possibly be of any use to them after all these years?

 “Illya, you don’t strike me as the type who normally attends one of these parties,” Rita finally said.

 “An occupational hazard,” he replied.

 “What does that occupation have to do with me?”

 “It perhaps has more to do with your friend, Stefan.”

 Rita stopped for a second. Kuryakin advanced a step before realizing she had halted. A moment later, she resumed walking and Kuryakin kept to her side.

 “U.N.C.L.E. can’t possibly be interested in Stefan’s business.”

 Kuryakin grimaced, then looked around. No one else was nearby.

 “You might be surprised,” he said.

 “You have to be mistaken.”

 Kuryakin didn’t answer, but pointed toward the rear door. “What’s going on out there?”

 “The gambling tables are out there.”

 Kuryakin edged out the door, sensing that Rita was staying close behind. After a quick glance, he saw that several of the guests were milling about one particular table. Kuryakin’s eyes widened when he saw who was playing there.

 Rita was now tugging at Kuryakin’s sleeve. “What is it?”

 “It appears Napoleon has met Stefan.”

 Rita sighed, and began to walk briskly toward the table. Kuryakin stood there for a moment. Mixed in with the guests were some tall, professional looking operatives. Then, Kuryakin began to back away, heading back inside the mansion.

***

 Solo looked down at the blackjack table in disgust. He could feel the smarminess of Kleskow’s expression. He was running out of funds. It was time to really take a chance.

 Solo put the rest of chips on the table, then began to take the Rolex watch off his left wrist.

 “Double or nothing,” Solo said. He placed the Rolex on top of the chips. “I think that will make acceptable collateral.”

 Kleskow arched his eyebrows, not quite expecting this latest move. “You’re quite sure, Mr. Solo? That’s quite the handsome timepiece.”

 “I’m sure.”

 Solo glanced to his side. There, straining to see over the guests was Rita.

 “Very well. One more deal.”

 Solo had an Ace and a two. Three or thirteen. Kleskow had a seven showing. Solo had to assume his opponent had at least a 17.

 Solo pointed down at the table, the signal for another card to be dealt.

 Another two. Five or fifteen.

 Solo gestured again, asking for another card.

 A seven. Twelve.

 One more time Solo pointed down at his cards.

 Four. His total was 16.

 Solo sighed. A 16 was something that distressed almost every blackjack player -- hardly the most comfortable number to stand on but he’d be pressing to take yet another card.

 What the hell, he thought. Solo signaled for one more card. A five. Twenty-one.

 The guests barely could contain themselves and Solo heard one woman squeal momentarily.

 Kleskow turned over his other card. A three, for a total of ten. If Kleskow could deal himself an Ace, the hand would be a draw.

 He dealt himself one more card. A queen. Twenty.

 The reaction was louder this time but Solo remained silent. He looked at Kleskow right in the eye as he reached and took the watch off the table and put it back on his wrist.

 “Overall, a draw,” Solo said.

 “Yes, not very satisfying,” Kleskow replied. “But it will have to do for now.”

 The guests were dispersing to other tables when Solo saw Rita. She looked around for a second as if looking for someone. Then, she approached Kleskow. He bent over and kissed her.

 “You missed an interesting game, my dear,” Kleskow said.

 “I saw the tail end.”

 Kleskow again looked at Solo. “Mr. Solo, Miss Rita Verde.”

 “How do you do?” Solo said, extending his hand.

 Rita reached for the hand and shook it. “Fine, thank you.”

 “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Solo, I must get Rita a drink. Perhaps we’ll see each other later.”

 Solo watched as the couple headed toward one of the bars set up in the tent. Wonder if Illya is having any luck?

***

 There was something about the two men.  Intangible, but for Illya Kuryakin it was unmistakable. They carried themselves differently than other men. They were probably not rich men, either the idle jet-setter or noblesse oblige variety that were drawn to affairs such as this one. They were professionals.

 They were having a discreet drink just off one of the bars that had been set up for the party. But their range of movement was limited by all the party guests. To get very far would have required wading through people. Instead, they decided to have a quiet conversation.

 Twenty feet away, Kuryakin an opportunity. He took the pen communicator and opened it up and made a slight adjustment. He had turned the device into a projection microphone. He made sure the volume was as soft as possible.

 “...Kleskow is a crazy bastard, Papais,” one of the men said in Italian.

 “Perhaps, but one does not wish to court death, eh?”

 “I suppose not.”

 “He was right about one thing. The shipment made it. I checked the warehouse. Every crate is there.”

 “At least one thing that went well today.”

 “Oh-oh. I see Kleskow now. He is motioning...”

 Kuryakin turned the device off and looked around. Spotting a bathroom, he checked the door and saw it was unlocked. He went inside, locked the door and adjusted the pen once more.

 “Open Channel D,” he said softly.

 “Ah, Signore Kuryakin,” said one of the women communications officers at U.N.C.L.E.-Rome. “Signore Cavetti has been cursing you and the American for bypassing him.”

 “He’ll survive,” Kuryakin said. “I have a priority request for security research.”

 “Ready.”

 “I need to pinpoint a warehouse owned by Signore Kleskow. No doubt it’s listed under some front.”

 “Most of the staff has gone home. It will take a bit of time.”

 “Try to expedite if possible,” Kuryakin said.

 “Of course, as long as you report here when the mission is complete.”

 “Is Cavetti that irritated?”

 “Who is talking about Cavetti? I want to see the blue eyes everyone tells me about.”

 Kuryakin frowned. “Channel D, out.” I am sure she is only joking, he thought.

***

 Solo took a glass of champagne from the waiter and looked around. So how the hell does Kleskow know me so well? He might know about U.N.C.L.E., maybe even the names of operatives. But he sure sounded like he knew more than basic facts.

 He took a sip of the champagne. None of this made sense, unless Rita had told Kleskow all about him. But why would she? She had changed but had she changed that much? What was really going on?

 Solo happened by a table and left the half full glass there. He looked at the glass for a moment, just watching the bubbles rise to the surface of the alcoholic liquid. Maybe this was a mistake,  after all.

 Then, Solo could sense someone was standing there. He looked up from the glass and saw the woman with the almond colored skin.

 “Long time no see,” Rita said.

 “Hello, Rita. Where’s Kleskow?”

 “He got busy.” A pause. “Why are you here, Napoleon?”

 Solo glanced down for a moment. “Business, I’m afraid.”

 “So were you watching me the other day?”

 He scratched his forehead for a second. “I doubt you’ll believe me,” he finally said. “But that was strictly a chance encounter. I never heard of Stefan Kleskow until after you and I met in New York.”

 Rita breathed deeply and let it out. “You’re right. I find it hard to believe.”

 Solo sighed. “And I find it hard to believe you’re the same Rita Verde I met in Brazil.”

 “Good-bye, Napoleon.”

 “Rita,” he said, reaching for her arm. She glowered at him in return.

 “This isn’t my idea of a practical joke,” Solo said, his voice firm. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you. But we do need to talk. I’m staying at the Metropole. It’s up to you.”

 With that, he let go and walked away.

 “Wait...” Rita said but then froze.

 The memories again flooded her mind. Of a dark-haired man who came to a remote part of a Brazilian rain forest. Of a tall Englishman, perhaps mad, who wanted to start his own country. Of a night that ended in a fiery explosion and death but that set things right once more.

 She looked up and saw a glimpse of Solo leaving the room, headed toward the exit. Rita felt dizzy and then looked around for the nearest bathroom.

***

 Solo walked to the waiting water taxis. He spotted one that was nearly full, waved his arm and the craft’s operator took notice. Solo stepped aboard and, a few moments later, the boat was on its way.

 The night chill cut through the overcoat he wore over the tuxedo. The agent shuddered for a second then closed his eyes. That was stupid, he thought. Why should she help you?

 He glanced back at the mansion, which grew smaller as the boat continued. Solo began to think of two women. The first, in her early 20s, assisting villagers, giving of herself. And of another woman, 15 years or so older, giving nothing, who only knew the good life, bouncing from relationship to relationship, as long as it was in comfort and riches.

 It’s like trying to catch a mirage, Solo thought. The more you move, the father away the image gets. You were reaching out to a mirage, an intangible thing that exists only in the past.

 Then, Solo felt the vibration from his U.N.C.L.E. communications device. He glanced around and saw the rest of the passengers, no more than six in all, were couples, all very much satisfied with each other’s company. He adjusted the volume control and readied the device to receive a transmission.

 “Channel D open,” he said softly.

 “Sorry I didn’t watch the end of your match,” Illya Kuryakin said. “I hope it had a satisfactory outcome.”

 “Not exactly,” Solo said. “A wash.”

 “Beg pardon?”

 “We’re all even.”

 “Well, I used the opportunity to observe some of Mr. Kleskow’s men. I think I picked up some useful information.”

 “Where are you now?”

 “Back at the hotel,” Kuryakin said.

 “I’m glad to hear one of us had luck. “Come to my room in about 45 minutes.”

***

 The last of the guests drifted out of the mansion just before midnight. By 12:35, the servants had conducted a preliminary cleaning up but Kleskow insisted they depart now and return in the morning for a more thorough job. Only when the last servant left, did Kleskow activate the alarm system, remove the rope from the stairway and head up to the bedroom.

 As he entered the bedroom, he felt a renewed burst of energy as he saw a topless Rita hanging up her formal evening dress. He spotted the ring in her right nipple and licked his lips. All she had on were black thong panties, a garter belt and black stockings.

 Kleskow walked up behind her just as she had the dress on the hanger in her closet. He wrapped his arms around her awkwardly.

 “Oh, Stefan, I’m not up to it, not tonight.” The tone in her voice had an anxiety Kleskow hadn’t heard before.

 He tightened his hold. “Relax.”

 She squirmed away. “I said I don’t feel like it, not tonight.”

 Kleskow’s face turned red. “You bitch. This is not a request.”

 “What the hell that’s supposed to mean?”

 “That should be obvious,” Kleskow said, an edge to his voice. “You have fine clothes. You consume fine food. You want for nothing. There is no question what you are. The only question is your price -- a price that has been paid many times over.”

 Rita’s face now was flush. She slapped him once, hard. Without thinking, he nearly connected with a backhand slap, stopping less than an inch from her face. Rita’s eyes widened, surprised by the ferocity of the move. Kleskow’s right eye twitched. He finally relaxed the right hand.

 You idiot. That’s how your predecessors failed -- by giving in to their emotions, their drive for revenge.

 He stood there for a full minute, breathing so hard he almost began to hyperventilate. Then, almost as quickly as he had turned angry, Kleskow began to relax.

 “That slap indicates you know I am correct,” Kleskow said. “I suggest you sleep in the guest quarters tonight. Give it some thought. But if you’re still of the same mind you are this evening, I’ll be happy to send you on your way.”

 Rita gritted her teeth but said nothing. Instead, she turned around, grabbed at a night shirt and walked out of the bedroom.

***

  Solo heard the pre-arranged knock on the door. He got up slowly from the cot but drew the U.N.C.L.E. Special anyway. When he got to the hotel room door, Solo paused, opened it very carefully and relaxed when he saw it was Kuryakin.

 The Russian entered but sensed Solo’s distress. His partner had said very little about the woman but Kuryakin knew Solo too well. He must have seen her, Kuryakin thought. And the meeting apparently went none too well.

 “How it is going?” Kuryakin asked.

 “It goes.”

 Just then, Kuryakin felt the vibrations from his U.N.C.L.E. communicator and extracted it from the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

 “Open Channel D,” Kuryakin said.

 “Signore Kuryakin, we believe we have located the warehouse. A company tied to Signore Kleskow owns such a facility. The address is as follows...” After she stated it, Kuryakin repeated the address.

 “Thank you. Channel D out,” Kuryakin then said, ending the transmission.

 Solo sat back down on the cot. “Is that the useful information to which you referred?”

 Kuryakin pulled up a chair and sat down. “Yes. I eavesdropped electronically on a couple of Kleskow’s men. They referred to a shipment that had arrived at an unspecified warehouse.”

 “Hopefully that’s useful,” Solo replied. “It sounds like you fared better than I.”

 “You saw the woman, I suppose.”

 “Yes,” Solo, lingering on the s. “She seemed a bit offended. I got the impression she’s quite content with her living arrangements.”

 “You’re sure?”

 Solo sighed. “Not a hundred percent. But she certainly didn’t seem ready and eager to help.”

 “But something else is bothering you,” Kuryakin replied. “Isn’t it?”

 Solo shrugged. “I guess I hoped I could reach the person she once was. It was foolish on my part.”

 “You attempted more or less what Mr. Waverly wanted you to attempt.”

  “I suspect he was hoping for more success than that.”

 “There is little point in brooding over the matter,” Kuryakin said.

 “You’re correct,” Solo said, looking at his watch. “It’s getting late. Let’s check out the warehouse tomorrow.”

 Kuryakin glanced at his fellow agent. After all these years, Kuryakin had witnessed Solo’s sentimentality toward women many times. It would be easy -- very easy -- to dismiss Solo as a womanizer. And, on occasion, his knowledge of women was channeled in very cynical ways, particularly when one of their opponents was a woman.

 More often, however, Solo developed relationships with other women who had become involved by chance. They were the kind of relationships that could -- perhaps would -- for other men develop into full fledged romances. The nature of Solo’s work precluded that but, for a few days, such relationships reminded Solo of what a so-called normal life might bring.

  Rita Verde had been one of those women. Moreover, Kuryakin had learned after the fact that Solo had met Rita a few months after his break up with Clara Richards. In short, their brief passion had been fueled by a number of combustible elements -- avoiding death by the thinnest of margins, plus, for Solo, the risk of falling for a woman prematurely following an abrupt end to a powerful relationship.

 Now, all these years later, Solo was being forced to confront those memories. He was, in effect, comparing the all-too-imperfect present to a fond memory of the past. It was a comparison where the present would likely be found lacking, even under the best of circumstances. And these were not the best of circumstances.

 Kuryakin put all of these thoughts out of his mind. In the end, Napoleon would work it out, like he always did.

 “It is getting late,” Kuryakin finally said. “Let us regroup in the morning.”

***

 Rita Verde sat up in the guest room bed, her head resting on her knees. A series of images played themselves over and over in her mind. In particular, she kept remembering Stefan Kleskow’s closest associates, whom she saw glimpses of almost every day since she had met Kleskow.

 There had always been something disconcerting about them, a roughness that belied the fine clothes they wore. The one called Papais, in particular, had a look in his eyes, like he would not be afraid of cutting you in two. It was a visceral feeling, not pegged to any incident. But she had never much thought about it. She was too busy enjoying the lifestyle of expensive clothes and parties.

 That was before he had barged back into her life, like some spectre from the past, a reminder of when she was naive. Living in a shack, helping remote villagers with medical care, teaching new farming methods. That wasn’t the way of the world. People were selfish. You take or you get taken.

 And yet, here was Napoleon Solo traipsing into the present, saying the man she was living with was some kind of criminal....

 Her body felt as if it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. The various, disconnected images all made sense. Stefan Kleskow was not a kind man -- she knew that all too well by now -- but she had separated that from all of the things that seemed to happen around him. She was aware of Kleskow’s image in Venice, but had written that off. Europe was full of wealthy rogues who skirted the limits of the law. That was part of the game,  after all.

 Listen to yourself, Rita thought to herself. How did you get this cynical?

 Now, a different set of images were playing themselves in her head. Her adoptive parents, the day she joined the International Volunteer Corps....of a couple of eventful days in the Brazilian rain forest....

 Her eyes moistened again, for the second time in two days.

***

 In the morning, Kleskow’s body tensed as he heard the footfalls in the bedroom. He lay perfectly still, barely raising one eyelid. He saw Rita approach, wearing the nightshirt she had taken when she left the room.

 She came up to Kleskow, leaned over and kissed him.

 “Am I to take that to mean you will not be leaving?” he said.

 Rita smirked. “Of course, darling.”

 Kleskow sat up and looked at the bedstand. Not enough time....

 “Let me make it up to you,” Rita said. “I’ll make tonight special. I promise.”

 She kissed him again. Kleskow was taken aback. Of late, Rita had shown little of this sort of passion. Even before last night, he was tiring of Rita and was considering sending her on her way.

 “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a bath now,” she said, walking away from the bed. “I have to go into the city and get a few things.”

 “Certainly,” he said.

 As he heard the bathroom door close, Kleskow arose and put on a robe.

 Her renewed passion might be a bit too convenient, he thought. One of my predecessors had a weakness about women. That will not be the case with me.

 He walked next door to his study and picked up a telephone and dialed a number. He paused for a second, waiting for his call to be answered. “Yes it’s Kleskow,” he said when he got a response. “I have a small job for you.”

***

 Solo had just finished tying his necktie when the telephone rang.

 He glanced at the clock next to the phone. A few minutes after ten. He had gotten off to a late start this morning and Solo guessed it was Illya calling, anxious to get to the warehouse.

 “Solo here,” he said after picking up the receiver.

 “Napoleon. It’s Rita.”

 “Rita? Where are you?”

 “I’m near St. Mark’s Basilica...I’ve got to see you.”

 “All right. Is there a public building near you?”

 “Let’s see,” Rita said, pausing. “I’m pretty close to the Hotel Concordia and there are some shops nearby.”

 “That’s not too far from my hotel. All right, I’ll see you in the lobby in about a half hour.”

 Solo replaced the receiver but the telephone rang again almost instantly.

 “Solo here.”

 “Napoleon, are you ready yet?” Kuryakin said. “I wanted to get a look at that warehouse.”

 “Change of plan.”

 “Now what?”

 “Rita called, no more than a minute ago,” Solo replied. “She wants to set up a meeting.”

 “You’re not completely sure of her alliances,” the Russian said. “Is this wise?”

 “Something about the tone of her voice. I’ve got to take the chance. Besides, Waverly was hoping we could get help from Rita.”

 Solo could almost feel Kuryakin rolling his eyes.

 “Very well,” Kuryakin said after a few seconds of silence. “But you might want to approach this rendezvous with a certain amount of caution.”

 “I’ll keep that in mind. Good-bye, Illya.”

 Solo put the receiver down and walked to the closet and put on his suitcoat and overcoat. He paused to collect his thoughts. There were times to be clever and there were times you had to play out the hand. His instincts told him this was the latter. So he took a deep breath, let it out slowly and exited the hotel room.

 A few minutes later, Solo was in the lobby and checked with the concierge to make sure he had the correct directions. He avoided taking a direct route, however, just to ensure he wasn’t being followed. After twelve minutes, Solo satisfied himself there was no one tailing him and began heading north and west toward the Concordia.

 The day was bright and the sun had taken almost all of the chill out of the air from the night before. Solo found the hotel with a few minutes to spare. The hotel lobby had the appearance of a different era, when hotels had their own character. The Concordia’s character was that of a grand lady, one who didn’t care about the styles of the day, one that was confident in who she was and what she was.

 Rita, wearing a gray dress, sat in a chair, looking at a newspaper. She put it down, and arose, walking quickly to Solo. She stood and looked at him for a moment, then came up and hugged him. He hesitated at first, then put his arms around her and squeezed.

 “I’ve been such an idiot,” Rita said, looking up at him.

 “It’s all right,” Solo said as they separated.

 “I’ve been ignoring all sorts of warning signs,” Rita said. “I don’t know if I can tell you anything useful but Stefan definitely interacts with all sorts of shady characters.”

 Solo glanced around. The hug was hardly an inconspicuous way of starting a meeting but he wasn’t going to tell Rita that. “Let’s just take a walk outside.”

 ***

 The two heavy-set men in Brioni suits walked around the piles of crates. One held a clipboard while the other counted by hand. When they were done, the two seemed satisfied.

 “Ninety-three crates, as specified,” the man with the clipboard said in Italiano his co-worker.

 “Good. We will get the order out first thing tomorrow. Signore Kleskow should be pleased.”

 As the two began to walk they barely noticed the fork-lift truck go by. A thin man with a knit cap and work clothes drove the vehicle but they saw no more than that. The fork-lift truck continued on by the stack of crates and headed out the back of the warehouse. By that time, the two men had left.

 Five minutes later, the fork-lift truck doubled back and stopped. Illya Kuryakin got off the vehicle and walked up to the crates.

 About an hour before, Kuryakin had spotted the two men, among the many visitors to Kleskow’s mansion. They were among several people who carried themselves differently -- they had the air of a professional operative, the kind of bearing one has whether involved in espionage or law-enforcement or, on the other side of the coin, criminal operations.

 Kuryakin took a small lump of what looked like clay from his pocket. He tore a bit off and put some under the lid of one of the crates, a solitary one that lay next to the pile. He attached a wire from his watch and plunged the other end into the plastic. The wire unwound, letting Kuryakin stand about ten feet away from the crate.

 There was a puff of smoke and small blurp of a noise. The lid of the rectangular crate popped open.

 Kuryakin opened the lid and his eyes widened. Inside were four Stinger missiles.

 The Russian replaced the lid and looked at the piles of other crates, which came in various sizes. If all of these contained similar levels of firepower, they would produce a considerable bang.

 His mind probed the possibilities. Kleskow could be shipping the weapons -- assuming the rest of the crates contained weapons -- to any number of clients. The Russian Mafiya or any number of terrorist groups on either side of a number of nasty conflicts around the world.

 Kuryakin began to feel anxious. He didn’t have the time to check the remaining crates individually and this one was more than enough proof for him that Kleskow was the threat that U.N.C.L.E. had suspected.

 He replaced the lid to the crate but froze when he heard the footfalls. He looked over. The two heavy-set men were first walking toward him, then were breaking into a run, drawing weapons as they did so. Kuryakin scrambled onto the fork-lift truck as the first shots rang out. He fired up the vehicle and had it headed out the rear entrance. As Kuryakin glanced back, he saw one of the men reach into a pocket and take out a cellular telephone.

 Illya turned his attention forward, trying to tune out the sounds of more gunshots striking just behind the fork-lift truck. He was almost at the rear door when he grimaced. Four men were shutting the heavy doors. Kuryakin tried to make a hard right turn, but still skidded sideways into the massive doors. Kuryakin was stunned for a second, then got down. The warehouse employees were now going for him. Kuryakin executed a rear kick, hitting one of them just above the left knee, causing him to fall. But the others, while clumsy, were faster than the dazed Kuryakin. Illya elbowed one of them and could feel the breath go out of the man. But the other two were now pummeling him with their fists.

 If only he had a second to clear his head, he could take them. Instead they kept up the assault until the first of Brioni-clad thugs arrived. He struck Illya’s head with the butt of his semi-automatic pistol. A few seconds later, Illya fell to the floor.

***

 Rita Verde had trouble concentrating. “I can’t believe I was so stupid...”

 Solo reluctantly interrupted. “Start at the beginning, Rita. One thing at a time. Do you remember much about the people Kleskow associates with?”

 The couple was walking away from the shops of the Concordia. “There are three men, all Italians. Papais, Benaducci and Giulio. Sorry, I never heard Stefan call them by their first names. They all look pretty similar. Black hair, dark complexion, average height, I guess. When you’re short, everybody else looks tall.”

 “That’s all right. Go on.”

 “Well, they all hang around, usually in a group. Always bringing Stefan things or having meetings with him. Except...”

 “Yes?”

 “Benaducci.”

 “What about him?” Solo asked.

 “I haven’t seen him the past couple of days. I mean he hasn’t been around since I got back from New York. Usually, if the other two are around, Benaducci is around.”

 A disappearance? The fatal kind? Solo thought. He remained quiet.

 “He has other associates,” Rita continued. “I guess they all gave me the creeps in varying degrees. But Stefan never really talked about business and I just sort of tuned them out.”

 They were now off the main thoroughfares onto side streets.

 “Stefan goes away at least one day a week, usually two. He travels all over Europe, but doesn’t usually talk about it. He usually sends me away for a few days around the first of the month.”

 “Every month?”

 “Yeah. I usually leave the first Sunday of the month and come back three or four days later.”

 “Like a monthly board of directors meeting or something,” Solo said.

 “All I know is he sent me to places like New York, London and Paris. Even went to Tokyo once. Gave me a lot of money, said I could spend it any way I wanted.”

 Solo suddenly heard an inner voice screaming at him. He glanced backward. A half block away -- the pedestrian traffic had thinned out considerably by this time -- was one of the people from Kleskow’s party.

 “Uh, Rita, don’t look back too quickly but a little ways back there’s a well dressed man.”

 Rita looked back. “Oh my God. It’s Papais.”

 “Keep walking,” Solo said, his voice firm.

 Suddenly, from an alleyway, a man on a bicycle emerged. He pedaled hard and swerved close to Solo. The agent was caught by surprise, barely able to duck. As the bicyclist passed he tossed something. The next moment, smoke was choking Solo’s lungs.

 “Rita, run!” Solo yelled as he tried to draw his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He barely had gotten the weapon out of his shoulder holster when it felt like a lead weight in his hand. The next thing he saw was Rita, on the sidewalk, overcome by fumes. Solo intended to aim the Special but everything turned black before he could do so.

Act IV

“I Got My Job Through Mr. Solo”

 It was black at first. Then, a pinpoint of light showed through in the upper-hand corner. Gradually, the pinpoint became a spot, then a blob of light. A few minutes later, the black was gone entirely.

 Napoleon Solo opened his eyes. The world was blur for a second then, absent-mindedly he tried to touch his head with his right hand. He felt the metal of the hand cuff bite into his wrist and the pain caused everything to come into focus.

 Solo lay on a plain bed, handcuffed to one of the bedposts. He looked around and saw another bed, this one with Rita laying on top of it, also handcuffed.

 “Rita,” Solo said weakly. He cleared his throat and began again. “Rita! Are you all right?”

 Rita stirred but when she tried to move her right wrist she, too, was yanked into consciousness by the restraining power of the handcuff.

 “What?”

 “I’m afraid Kleskow wants to renew my acquaintance,” Solo said, calmly. “Apparently your boyfriend had you tailed.”

 Rita’s body jolted, as she now was very much awake. She strained at the handcuff, frantically trying to get rid of it.

 “Don’t, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

 Rita didn’t listen. “We’re going to die! He’s going to kill us...”

 “He hasn’t done anything, yet,” Solo said, trying to be reassuring. “If we wanted us dead right away, he could have done it.”

 “What can we do? What...”

 “We stay calm.”

 Then there was a knock on the door. “Do not be alarmed,” a voice said from the other side. “Your friend is not in too bad a shape.”

 Solo’s head faced away from the door. He strained to get as good a view as he could. The door opened and a large, no-necked man in a suit tossed Illya Kuryakin into the cell like a doll.

 Kuraykin’s dirty work clothes were torn. He groaned, trying to sit up once but thinking better of it.

 “Illya?” Solo said.

 “I’m all right,” Kuryakin replied. “This is more injurious to my dignity than anything.”

 Kuryakin took a deep breath and successfully sat up on the second attempt.

 “I seem to recall we spent some time in a cell with this woman once before,” Illya said. “I think this is revisiting old times a bit too far.”

 “What happened?”

 “I’m not entirely sure,” Kuryakin said, rubbing his head. His face was puffy, the result of swelling from the attack he suffered. “I was only half conscious but I thought I heard one of Mr. Kleskow’s associates saying he had forgotten something at the warehouse. That led him to return while I was investigating. He brought some friends.”

 “I don’t suppose you found anything.”

 “You would suppose wrong,” Kuryakin said, groaning after he did so.

 There was another knock. The same voice again spoke. “We’re about to come in. I would advise Mr. Kuryakin to remain still on the floor, otherwise there might be a fatal occurrence.”

 “That’s an easy request at this point,” Illya responded.

 The first man came in again. Behind him were two thugs, holding rifles. They were poised to fire.

 “Mr. Kleskow requests your company. But any sudden moves will be met by gunfire. Also, I am not armed. If you attempt to overpower me, you will not gain a weapon and they consider me to be expendable.”

 The man took out a key, first releasing Rita and then Solo.

 “I suggest you arise very slowly,” the lead man said. “First Miss Verde, followed by Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin, you arise last.

 They complied. The man motioned for them to leave the room and they found themselves in a dank, windowless corridor, illuminated by a single overhead light. They followed the man, with the two thugs behind them.

 Solo glanced at his left wrist. The Rolex was still there. Thank goodness for small favors. Now if I can just use it.

 The group went up one flight of steps and could see they were now in a warehouse. Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who nodded. It was the same warehouse Kuryakin had investigated. There was a door at the side and they went up another flight of steps. At the top, there was a battered door. The lead thug opened it to reveal a very modern looking office. In the front was a conference table, while in the rear of the compartment, there was a work station with several computers and monitors.

 Stefan Kleskow sat alone in the rear section, his attention focused on a computer when the group arrived. He looked over and his face lit up. He departed the work station and walked over to the conference table. He gestured for them to sit down. They did so, with Solo and Rita seated along one side and Kuryakin sitting at the end to Rita’s left. The first man left but the two thugs with rifles remained.

 “I told you we’d have another match, Mr. Solo,” Kleskow said.

 “You’ll forgive me for saying so,” Solo said, “but you sound a bit presumptuous, like we know each other somehow.”

 “In a way, I suppose I do,” Kleskow said, beginning to pace. “In a way, I have you to thank for my present position. I wanted you to know that before I killed you.”

 Solo and Kuryakin glanced at each other.

 “How so?”

 “Thanks to you, I was promoted.”

 “Beg pardon?”

 “You eliminated both Simon Riley and Wilhelm Guber.”

 Solo grimaced. “Don’t tell me, you’re the new leader...”

 “...of the Black Hand,” Kleskow said, completing the thought.

 “What are you talking about?” Rita said, anxiety in her voice.

 “It’s a long story,” Kuryakin said.

 “Allow me,” Kleskow said. “The Black Hand combines the latest business techniques with crime. Some time ago, Mr. Solo here killed the most recent leader, Mr. Guber. I was the one who had to refund the money to our client as a result of that fiasco. It was quite embarrassing.”

 “Into every life, a little rain must fall,” Solo said, deadpan.

 Kuryakin spoke up. “I suppose the weapons in the warehouse are for clients of your organization.”

 Kleskow smirked. “Ethics prevent me from disclosing that. Let us just say there are some people anxious to receive their order.”

 The Black Hand leader looked at the group for a few seconds before speaking once more. “Actually, you taught me a very valuable lesson, Mr. Solo.”

 “Oh?”

 Kleskow now looked at Rita. “You see, my dear, both Riley and Guber had very long-standing grievances involving the losses of people close to them. The details are unimportant. It’s just Mr. Solo was able to use those feelings against both men.”

 “So what is the lesson?” Solo asked.

 “Simple,” Kleskow said. “I have no such grievance. My parents died peacefully of natural causes. I was not molested as a young child. I was not misunderstood growing up. I am, however, very good at organizing criminal activities. The risks invigorate me and the compensation is ample.”

 “The well adjusted criminal mastermind,” Solo said. “There’s a first time for everything.”

 Rita began to perspire. “God, no. How could I?”

 Kleskow smirked. “Oh don’t be so melodramatic.” He came over and stroked her round face. “You asked no questions. All you saw was a chance to continue a very comfortable lifestyle after you were discarded by some jet-setter.”

 “You bastard,” Rita said, her voice almost in a growl.

 “I was getting tired of you, Rita, but all of a sudden you begin to act presumptuous. You are a love object, nothing more.”

 Maybe he’s not as well adjusted as he thinks, Solo thought. His eyes darted toward Kuryakin. The Russian caught the glance.

 “Maybe you’re right Stefan, but don’t act so goddam superior. You’re not so special yourself!” Rita said.

 Kleskow laughed. “You know, I would have given you money and sent you on your way. Instead, you go running to the man from U.N.C.L.E. What a silly, foolish bitch.”

 “You idiot! I only did it because I knew Napoleon.”

 Suddenly, Kleskow’s face betrayed a touch of anxiety. “Knew him? U.N.C.L.E. agents are the Boy Scouts of espionage. How could you have met him? You’ve been bouncing around Europe for years in the bed of one rich man after another...”

 Before Kleskow could finish, Solo had the Rolex facing Kleskow and touched a hidden stud. A small plume of gas ejected from the watch, and swirled in Kleskow’s face causing him to fall to the side. Simultaneously, Kuryakin tilted the table. He and Solo grabbed onto it and rushed the two thugs

 The men in Brioni suits tried to fire their rifles but the table slammed into them with a huge thud. Kuryakin kept the table pinned against the men, but the agents could feel the men strain. The table began to come back at Solo and Kuryakin as the thugs pushed the table to get enough room to fire the rifles.

 The table only went down to the waists of the thugs. Solo spotted a semi-automatic pistol on the hip of one of them. Solo reached down, grabbed the gun and fired twice, hitting each man in the stomach. The thugs went limp and the rifles fell to the floor.

 Rita screamed. The agents turned around and saw Kleskow was jumping out a large window. Solo rushed over and saw him land hard one floor below on some crates with some canvas bags stacked on top of them. He lay for a second, then began to stir and got off the crate.

 “I’m going after Kleskow, you keep Rita safe,” Solo yelled to Kuryakin.

 Kuryakin reached down to the floor, grabbed a rifle that lay near the dead men and checked it. Only then, did Solo jump after Kleskow.

 Illya had the weapon ready to fire as he heard footfalls. He opened the door and heard a half-dozen thugs coming up the stairs. Kuryakin fired a burst at the stairway, causing the men to stop. Illya grabbed Rita by the wrist and headed over to the work stations.

 He shoved the rifle into her hands, then sat down at the nearest computer.

 “What the hell are you doing?” Rita said, her voice on the edge of panic.

 “Just fire the weapon if the door starts to give way,” Kuryakin said, his fingers stabbing at the computer keyboard.

 “This is no time to be surfing the Web!” Rita said.

 “I was relieved of my communicator,” Kuryakin said, his attention firmly focused on the computer screen. “So I am having to get word out another way. There.”

 “What did you do?”

 “An emergency e-mail address. I am hoping U.N.C.L.E.’s Rome station can alert the authorities very quickly.”

 Suddenly, they heard a loud thump. Rita jumped but still had the presence of mind to pull the trigger and get off a burst. Illya took the gun and yanked her by the wrist to the window. He jumped out, landed hard on the crate and canvas bags. He picked himself up and looked up toward Rita.

 “What am I supposed to do?”

 “Jump. I will try and catch you.”

 “That’s ridiculous!”

 Kuryakin could hear another thump all the way out here.

 “Not as ridiculous as staying there when the door opens.”

 Rita’s face betrayed her growing sense of panic, but she closed her eyes and jumped. While she landed in Kuryakin’s arms, they both crashed down into the crate.

 “Anything injured?” Kuryakin asked.

 “I would say my pride but I didn’t have much left before all this,” Rita said.  Kuryakin thought he heard her chuckle, the first time she had shown any sign of joy since he had seen her on this assignment. But he lowered her off the large crate and they began to run as best as they could. Moments later, there was gunfire coming out of the warehouse’s open window but the couple was out of range.

***

 Two blocks away, Solo stopped to catch his breath. He was now on the edge of one of the canals. He was in the middle of a commercial district full of other warehouses and other businesses.

 Where had Kleskow gone? He had seen him running in this direction. He was sure Kleskow hadn’t ducked into any building. But all he saw were more crates and a large dumpster.

 Just then, from behind the dumpster, Stefan Kleskow launched himself into a kick, connecting with Solo’s chest. The agent stumbled backward and dropped the pistol.

 Solo felt dizzy but got back up to his feet. However, he was a second too slow and Kleskow connected with a sidekick to the ribs. Solo felt the breath rush from his body. Kleskow swiveled and executed another sidekick. This time the Pole was close enough that Solo could connect with a left hook, followed by an uppercut.

 Kleskow stumbled back. He recovered quickly and, in a swift motion, whipped out a stiletto knife. He lunged at the U.N.C.L.E. agent but Solo grabbed him by the wrists. The two men struggled and Solo was tiring.

 The American glanced over to his left. he could see they were now right on top of the canal. With his remaining strength, Solo shifted his weight toward the canal. A second later, the two men splashed into the grimy, cold water.

 Solo felt a jolt, almost like sticking his finger into an electric socket. His senses were alert and he could feel something coming toward him. There was a splash and Solo saw Kleskow’s right hand holding the knife, but now with the blade facing down. Solo avoided the lunge and grabbed Kleskow’s wrist. The agent dug his fingers as deep into the wrist as he could, forcing Kleskow, forcing him to drop the knife.

 The Pole grabbed at Solo. The agent knew he had to put him down, now. Splashing about the canal made it hard to get leverage but Solo managed to strike the heel of his right fist into Kleskow’s face. He connected again quickly with his other fist into the side of Kleskow’s head. Solo then slammed his right fist into Kleskow’s face with all the power he could muster.

 The last blow finally took the fight out of the Black Hand leader. His eyes remained open but he was dazed. Solo got behind Kleskow, and put his right arm around the man’s neck while paddling with his left arm. He got to the side of the canal, then hoisted himself out and hauled out Kleskow.

 Kleskow shook his head, trying to get his bearings. Solo’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of police officers -- a lot of them -- getting closer.

 ***

 The next 24 hours were a blur. The authorities had rounded up many, but not all, of the Black Hand’s men. Kleskow, however, had been whisked away to U.N.C.L.E.-Rome, where he was the focus of a particularly intense interrogation. Meanwhile, the detested Ricardo Cavetti flew up directly from Rome to take charge of the mopping up operation in Venice. A makeshift office was set up in the Hotel Concordia.

 After nearly two hours of debriefing, Cavetti was doing his best to test the patience of Solo and Kuryakin.

 “This entire business with the Verde woman was quite unusual, wouldn’t you say?”  Cavetti said.

 “Yes, Mr. Cavetti,” Solo replied. “I believe we covered that topic in our preliminary report.”

 “If you had not been captured, she would not have been in jeopardy.”

 “Yes,” Solo said very slowly. “That was unfortunate.”

 Off in the corner of the room, the telephone rang. One of Cavetti’s aides, a man in his mid 30s, picked up the receiver. “Yes sir, this is a secure line. We made special arrangements. Why, yes, he is.”

 Cavetti looked back and the aide held up the receiver. The Rome station chief arose and took it from the assistant.

 “Cavetti here. Ah, Alexander. Yes....two hours. Pardon?” Cavetti frowned. “I suppose it is sufficient....Yes....Good-bye, Alexander.”

 Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances but kept their poker faces.

 After Cavetti hung up the telephone, he spoke once more. “I think that should do it for now, gentlemen.”

 Solo nodded and left the room, almost having to bite his lip to avoid breaking into a smile.

***

 It wasn’t until the next day that Solo knocked on the door of a room in the Concordia hotel.

 The door opened slowly. On the other side, Rita Verde, clad in a denim shirt and blue jeans peered out, then relaxed when she saw who it was.

 “Hello, Rita,” Solo said.

 She sighed. “I’m so glad it’s you. Come in.”

 Solo closed the door behind him. Rita sat down on the nearest chair and stared blankly.

 “I’ve screwed up my life so badly,” she said. “I had no real money of my own. God, how could I have been sleeping with a bastard like Kleskow?”

 “I don’t know,” Solo replied. “Things happen. You move on.”

 She laughed, but it was not a joyful sound. Rather it was almost like a grunt, a way of trying to stifle embarrassment.

 “You must really think I’m a brainless bimbo. I have no way to pay for this hotel. I haven’t a real idea of what I’m going to do.”

 He came up and sat down in another chair. “Well, U.N.C.L.E. put you up here, so U.N.C.L.E. will pay that bill, of course. As to the other, I’m sure it will get taken care of.”

 Rita extended her right hand. Solo leaned over and held it firmly. When she began to sob, Solo stood up and drew her closer and then hugged her.

 After several minutes, Solo put his hands on the side of the round face and tilted her head upwards.

 “None of that matters now,” Solo said. “In the end, when it counted, you did the right thing. Not everyone does.”

 He held her for a considerably longer time after that.

***

 The next day, Solo and Kuryakin took Rita to Marco Polo Airport. After an arduous security check, the group headed toward the international departures area.

 “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Rita said. Her voice had no anxiety, no edge. Her face seemed relaxed, almost as if years had been washed away.

 “And why didn’t we go through the ticket counter?” Rita asked.

 “U.N.C.L.E. made some special arrangements,” Solo said.

 Rita perked up, reflecting her curiosity. Before she could respond, Kuryakin spoke up.

 “Excuse me, I need to attend to something.” The Russian left, leaving Solo with Rita.

 “What’s that all about?” Rita asked.

 “He has a habit of going off at moments like this.”

 “Napoleon, you’re acting funny.”

 “No, not funny. Actually, we’re not going anywhere.” He reached into his suitcoat pocket and took out a ticket and handed it to her.

 She scanned the ticket. “A ticket to Chicago?”

 “Somebody will meet you there,” Solo said. “Someone -- actually two people -- you haven’t seen for a while.”

 “Who?”

 “Your adoptive parents,” he replied. “I don’t know if it’s the right thing, or not. But they sounded quite anxious to see you, if it matters.”

 Rita shook her head. “I don’t know, I don’t know what I would say--”

 “I think the words will come.”

 She looked down for a second before gazing at him again. “I thought we might, well,..”

 “That would be lovely,” Solo said. “And I may take you up on it -- later. Right now, you need a fresh start, away from all this.”

 He swallowed before talking again. “I’m just a mirage from your past. We’re both different people from the time we met in Brazil. We have to deal with each other the way we are now, not as memories, no matter how good.”

 She reached for his left hand and again looked at the pinky ring.

 “Just don’t lose that ring, okay?”

 “Okay.”

 He leaned over and kissed her, one long, lingering kiss. They separated and looked at each other for several seconds.

 It was only then they heard the announcement from the gate. “We now continue boarding for Trans Global Flight 87 to Chicago, Illinois, USA.”

 Solo looked at passengers getting on the plane. “I tried to get you a first-class ticket, they were all booked,” he said.

 Rita smiled but her eyes were also moist. Solo couldn’t tell if she was going to cry or not.

 “It’s all right, Napoleon,” she said. “I’ve had my fill of first class for a while.”

 This time, Rita reached up and brought his face down to kiss him. “Good-bye, Napoleon.”

 “Good-bye, Rita.”

 She only had a small carryon bag and walked briskly to the gate. She gazed downward as she walked and never looked back. Just before she entered the gate, Solo thought he saw her rub her eyes with her right hand.

 The agent took a deep breath. As he let it out, Illya Kuryakin returned.

 “That’s precise timing,” Solo said, squinting.

 “Anticipation is everything,” Kuryakin said. “Plus, you looked like you wanted to buy me a drink.”

 For the first time in days, Solo laughed. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

THE END

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