Act I

"A Drive in the Country"

It wasn't often Napoleon Solo could get away like this.

Solo gunned the Nissan 300ZX down the narrow two-lane road. Living in New York City meant keeping the blue convertible in storage most of the time. He usually didn't need to drive from his apartment to the headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement and had access to a car from the motor pool when he did. And his U.N.C.L.E. work kept him on the road so much that Solo didn't often get the chance to take the Z for a spin.

On this late October Sunday, however, Solo received such an opportunity and he grabbed it by the throat. The bright sunshine belied the slight chill in the air, but Solo had taken down the roof anyway. He headed north out of the city and across the Hudson River on the New York State Thruway, taking the toll highway until the mass of concrete and buildings thinned out and there was a hint of green. He then meandered along on less-traveled highways, looking for isolated spots where he could test both driver and machine, taking tight turns as fast as he could.

The wind in his face caused Solo to smile an almost boyish grin. It had been a busy year, even by U.N.C.L.E. standards. Trips to England, France and Japan, not to mention the Midwestern and Southeastern United States. Encounters with too many thugs and their superiors. An occasional moment when he could enjoy the company of an intriguing woman and almost as many moments when he felt regret at thinking what could have been.

But all of that melted away as he came out of the tight turn and shifted to a higher gear as he traveled onto a straight stretch of road. It had been far too long since he had last gotten the Z out of storage. He had bought the car when a car collector went bankrupt and put the vehicle up for sale, along with other cars in his collection. Solo had always had a soft spot for the Z and was determined to get one. At first he thought himself a bit childish about the purchase. He quickly dispensed with the idea after he saw Nissan's "Barbie" ad featuring an animated G.I. Joe doll picking up an equally animated Barbie in a Z. The car had such an allure, Nissan kept using the image even though it no longer produced the model.

The agent's thoughts were shattered as he was nearly sideswiped by a passing car.

Solo felt a rush of adrenaline as he reacted, moving the car to far right side of the road to give the passing vehicle more room. He had caught a glimpse of the black car in his side mirror, zooming up from behind and moving into Solo's blind spot. The agent stared intently, memorizing the New York State license plate. Only then did he get a look at the car itself, a Mercedes-Benz as it roared away. What the hell was that? Solo thought.

Before he could collect his thoughts, he saw another car coming up from behind, this one a black BMW. This time, there was a mini-van approaching in the opposite lane. Solo quickly got over to the shoulder of the road, giving the BMW enough room to get back into the right-hand lane and avoid a head-on accident. The German car zoomed on by and still almost sideswiped the oncoming vehicle.

Solo moved back onto the road. With a quick glance to the rearview mirror, he could see the mini-van had pulled off the road and stopped. But the vehicle had no damage and Solo could see that the occupants inside -- they appeared to be a woman with several members of a children's soccer team -- were fine.

The agent then pressed the accelerator. I don't know what the hell is wrong with those two, Solo thought. But they're going to get an earful from me.

His heart was pounding now, every sense alert. Solo drove through two long S-curves. The anger was beginning to fade as the road began to straighten out. Then, he felt another adrenaline rush. The Mercedes was in a ditch by the side of the road, apparently forced off the road by the BMW. A figure standing by the Mercedes appeared to be attempting to force his way into the car. Another man stood on the other side of the Mercedes, a gun drawn.

Solo hit the brake. Now what? A police chase and arrest? Not too many police forces have BMWs. Still it might be some other law-enforcement agency.

The 300ZX skidded by the two German cars and Solo pulled off to the side of the road. As he passed, he could see the driver of the Mercedes -- who didn't looked armed -- was now out of the car, being slapped by one of the BMW occupants.

Law-enforcement agency, my ass, Solo thought. He reached for the U.N.C.L.E. Special from the shoulder holster hidden by his sports coat. As he opened the door, the man with the gun was already firing at the Z. Solo got out of the car, crouching down as he did so. The man got off several shots before stopping, apparently out of ammunition. Solo held his weapon ready to fire. "Drop it!" he yelled.

The man had a replacement clip already halfway in the grip of his pistol. He had a shaved head. His eyes blazed -- the look coupled with the man's red goatee almost suggested he was one of Satan's minions. The eyes held a hatred as if the man recognized Solo. The man rammed the clip home and drew to fire but Solo got off two shots, both striking the man's chest.

"Solo!" the other man yelled.

So they do recognize me, eh? Solo thought. He turned to see the other man, dark haired, also with a goatee, one arm around the neck of the Mercedes driver and holding a gun with the other.

"I'll kill this man unless you drop your gun," the gunman said.

The Mercedes driver struggled. He was a handsome, older fellow who was a few inches taller than his attacker. His eyes also locked on Solo.

"I doubt that," Solo said.

"How the hell did you find us? What tipped you off?"

Solo paused. The man probably wouldn't believe it was all coincidence. And maybe that was the way to unnerve him.

"Come now, do you really have to ask?" Solo said.

"I mean it, Solo. Drop the gun or this guy is dead!"

Just then, the taller, older man elbowed the gunman. The blow didn't have that much force, but caught the goatee man by surprise. He quickly fired a shot in Solo's direction but didn't have enough time to draw careful aim. Simultaneously, Solo got off a shot, striking the dark haired man just above the eyes. The man fell backwards as if he had been kicked in the head. He lay still and Solo could tell the man had already been gripped by death's embrace.

The tall man stood up against the Mercedes and panted, more from panic than exertion. Solo bent over the body of the gunman. On a hunch, Solo looked at one of the hands. No fingerprints, the tell tale sign of a Thrush soldier. He quickly got up and checked the body of the bald gunman. The same.

Solo now looked at the tall man, who was starting to regain his composure.

"Thank you, whoever you are," he said.

"I take it these are not friends of yours," the agent said. "Who are they?"

"I don't know," the man said. "I was on my way to a party out here and they began chasing me. I tried to out run them but they ran me off the road."

The tall man was wearing a suit, unusual in these days when almost no one dressed up on weekends. He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of the suit and began mopping his brow. Solo noticed the letters ROT on the handkerchief, with the "O" shaped like a diamond.

"What does rot mean?" Solo said.

The man looked puzzled for a second, then looked at the handkerchief. "Oh, that. Roger O. Thornhill. And you are?"

"Napoleon Solo."

Thornhill chuckled. "You can't be serious."

Solo returned the U.N.C.L.E. Special to his shoulder holster. "We all have our burdens to bear," he said.

Solo then extracted his U.N.C.L.E. communicator from his pocket. "Open Channel R, Solo here."

A moment paused before a voice answered. "Come in, Mr. Solo."

"Two carnivorous birds were threatening a motorist on an isolated stretch of road in rural New York, perhaps ninety minutes or so outside the city. Need some assistance with the local authorities who will probably be coming this way."

"We're establishing a fix on you now," the voice said. It was a woman from the communications section. "Who is this individual?"

"One Roger O. Thornhill. I'd say early to mid sixties but looks extremely good for his age. Quite unarmed and he seems rather mystified about it all. I suggest some further debriefing is in order but probably in a more private setting. I'll arrange that myself."

"All right, our fix is established. We'll send a unit up there. You'd better bring Mr. Thornhill home. Out."

"Solo out," he said as he turned off the communicator.

"Now see here, Mr. Solo," Thornhill said. "Just who are you, anyway? I never did see any identification."

Solo reached into a pocket and withdrew the official identification card. In "everyday" life, Solo maintained a basic cover -- a job description for neighbors or whomever. But on occasions like this, when it was useful in soliciting cooperation, he used the official card.

"U-N-C-L, oh, U.N.C.L.E.," Thornhill said as he examined the card. "I've heard something about that. But I have a party to go to. I'm supposed to meet my wife there. She'll be worried."

"I understand, but these fellows play rather rough," Solo said, gesturing to the two dead gunmen. "I think it behooves both you and me to find out why they're so interested in you."

Thornhill sighed. "I don't suppose you work for the Professor, do you?"

"Beg pardon," Solo replied. "The who?"

"Never mind," Thornhill said. "For some people, lightning strikes twice."

Solo arched his eyebrow at the remark but said nothing. As he motioned Thornhill to get into the Z, Solo made a mental note to bring it up again later

Illya Kurakin had decided to swing by the office to catch up on a little paper work. He had enjoyed a quiet weekend but wanted to put the finishing touches on a report that was due first thing Monday. It had only taken forty-five minutes to complete but the Russian noticed a buzz about the place. U.N.C.L.E. maintained only a skeleton crew on Sundays but what few people were here seemed excited about something.

As he passed by the communications room, Kuryakin decided to satisfy his curiosity. "What is all the commotion?"

The redhaired woman at the control console was caught by surprise. "Oh, Mr. Kuryakin," she said. "Mr. Solo is bringing someone in who apparently was attacked by Thrush. Research is looking up some material now."

"If Napoleon is involved, I suspect it is the proverbial damsel in distress."

"No, it's a gentleman named Roger Thornhill. The preliminary report is he's a retired advertising executive. Says he has no reason why he should be attacked."

"How close are they?"

"Should be here any minute."

Kuryakin said nothing, but walked in the direction of the after hours U.N.C.L.E. entrance through the Mask Club. On a weekend, the security entrance through Del Floria's would be closed. The Mask Club provided an extremely circuitous route that would be difficult for any outsider to remember. The Russian wasn't sure, but it was as if some sixth sense told him this may lead to a major affair of business for U.N.C.L.E.

As he pondered the idea, Kuryakin saw Solo leading an impeccably dressed tall man, presumably Thornhill. He had a clean-shaven face, someone who had aged like brandy, not beer. The temples were mostly gray while the rest of his hair had a salt-and-pepper appearance.

"Are you quite sure you don't work for the Professor? Only he could have conceived something like this?" Thornhill said.

Solo stopped and turned. "Just who is this Professor? You referred to him earlier."

"Some U.S. spy person I ran into sometime back," Thornhill replied. "Isn't that what U.N.C.L.E. is?"

"No, we're international," Kuryakin interrupted. "A sort of international law-enforcement agency."

"Well, you fellows could have fooled me," Thornhill said. Turning toward Solo, he asked: "And who is your friend, anyway?"

"Roger Thornhill, meet Illya Kuryakin, another representative from U.N.C.L.E. By the way, what brings you into the office on a Sunday, Illya?"

"I needed to prepare an addendum to that Fleming business in Hawaii," Kuryakin said. "There seemed to be a bit of commotion about the attack on Mr. Thornhill here. I decided to remain to see if you needed any assistance."

"Assistance for what?" Thornhill said, his voice getting testy. "I'm very appreciate of your help, Mr. Solo. You probably saved my life but all this cloak-and-dagger stuff gives me the creeps."

Solo motioned for Thornhill to continue following him. They walked a short distance when the automatic door to a conference room opened. The three men walked inside, with Solo instructing Thornhill to sit at the head of the conference table. Solo and Kuryakin sat on opposite sides.

"Is there anything we can get for you?" Solo said.

"No, except to call my wife. She's expecting me at the party. We were staying in our place out in the country when I had to come back to the city to pick up a few things."

Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who almost imperceptibly shook his head no.

"We will get to that as soon as we can, Mr. Thornhill," Solo said. "It's just that you were attacked by members of a rather large criminal organization that doesn't engage in ordinary muggings. If they're interested in you, that means it's probably something major."

"But I tell you, I don't know who those fellows were. I had never seen them before in my life," Thornhill protested.

"What was all that business about knowing someone in U.S. intelligence?" Kuryakin asked, his curiosity now piqued. "I just heard that you were a retired advertising man. I don't believe the C.I.A. goes in for publicity much."

"That was fifteen years ago," Thornhill said. "I stumbled into something by accident. It's probably still classified after all this time."

"Sounds a bit far fetched," Solo said.

"You call yourself Napoleon Solo, have an associate named Illya Kuryakin and work out of this place and you're complaining about something being far-fetched?" Thornhill said.

Solo frowned but before he could reply a telephone on the conference table rang.

The agent picked up the receiver. "Solo here."

"It's Mr. Waverly," the woman at the communications desk said. "We sent him a routine communiqué just after you called. He's come down to the office and wants to hear about this personally."

"Mr. Waverly? Why?"

"He doesn't confide in lowly communications officers," the woman replied. "He should be there in a minute."

Solo frowned once again. "Let's not worry about me for the moment, Mr. Thornhill," he said. "Just what happened fifteen years ago?"

"Mr. Solo, they told me to never talk about it," Thornhill said. "I know that was a long time ago, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with the incident today. Now, couldn't you call Eve? I can give you the number."

"How can you be so sure what happened fifteen years ago had no bearing on what happened today?"

"Those fellows you shot had to be in grade school when that business happened," Thornhill said. "It was just too long ago."

Solo began to rub his chin. Before he could say anything, the door opened and Alexander Waverly, the Number One of Section One, U.N.C.L.E.'s policy making body stepped in.

"Oh, so you boys do work for the Professor, eh?" Thornhill said.

Act II

"Deja Vu All Over Again"

Kuryakin and Solo exchanged stares and then looked at Waverly, who seemed equally befuddled.

"You know this man?" Solo said after a moment of silence.

"Now don't play those silly spy games with me," Thornhill said, his voice indignant. "This is the Professor. What he's a professor of I haven't the slightest idea. But he's the big spymaster of U.S. intelligence. About ran me ragged. Professor, maybe you can tell these boys of yours to call Eve. I'm sure she's worried to death about me."

"My dear fellow, I haven't a clue as to what you're talking about," Waverly said impatiently.

"Now see here, Professor," Thornhill said. "I don't know what you're up to. I've had fifteen years of peace since that dreadful Vandamm business. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go..."

"Mr. Thornhill, please calm down," Solo interjected. "This is Alexander Waverly, one of the top five officials of U.N.C.L.E. I don't know what you were doing fifteen years ago, but Mr. Waverly was at U.N.C.L.E. then and I doubt he had time for moonlighting with U.S. intelligence." Solo cast a glance at Waverly. "You didn't did you?"

"Of course not, Mr. Solo," Waverly said impatiently. "But perhaps we could be more productive if you fellows let Mr. Thornhill call his wife. Might calm him down and we could address this affair in a calmer manner. Use the telephone in this conference room. I have another matter to attend to, then I'll rejoin you."

Kuryakin and Solo exchanged glances but said nothing for a moment. Each had the same thought. Over the years, Waverly had withheld key information if he thought it would be more effective in completing a mission. Perhaps this was one of those moments.

"Of course sir," Kuryakin said, breaking the silence.

Waverly left the conference room without further comment. Less than three minutes later, he approached his own office and went straight to his desk after the automatic door opened. He immediately picked up the receiver to a telephone, got an outside line and quickly dialed a number.

"Hello? Mrs. Thornhill? Yes, it's me. No, your husband is fine. Yes, I'm sure it's a bit of a shock. But I'm afraid we have a bit of a situation on our hands."

"So she left for the city a couple of hours ago? She wasn't too worried was she?" Roger Thornhill said into the telephone receiver. "All right, I'll call her there. Yes, thanks very much."

Solo, standing off to the side of the conference table, watched Thornhill tap another number. It struck Solo that Thornhill seemed to have some kind of grace about him, that he had a manner or charm that probably would appeal to most people. One of the secretaries had come in with a cup of coffee and seemed almost immediately smitten with the man.

"Afraid you'll lose your status in the office?" Kuryakin said softly, as if he had been reading Solo's thoughts.

Solo looked at the Russian and thought he saw the barest glimmer of a smile. The American chose not to reply.

"Eve? Oh yes, it's me, darling," Thornhill said. "Some kind of motoring accident, it's a bit complicated to explain. No, actually I'm here in the city, as well. Uh, I'm not exactly sure how long I'll be. Trouble? No, no, nothing like that." With the last sentence, he glanced in Solo and Kuryakin's direction warily. "Yes, I'll be home as soon as possible. Yes, I love you, too. See you soon."

As Thornhill replaced the receiver, the two agents approached the table and sat down.

"Everything fine at home?" Solo asked.

"Eve was a bit worried. She didn't stay at the party very long when it became apparent I wasn't going to show. But I think I put her fears to rest. I just wish you could put mine to rest."

"Well, let's go over the basics again. You never saw those two men until this afternoon. Correct?"

"Yes," Thornhill said, sighing once more.

"They just started chasing you, ran you off the road and were dragging you out of your car."

"Until you came along, of course."

"But you've had some experience dealing with intelligence types like this Professor?"

"Yes," Thornhill said impatiently. "A man who looks very much like your boss. So much so, I could swear your boss is the Professor. You don't forget a man like that."

"A man like what?" Kuryakin said.

"Oh, the Professor is a clever fellow, all right," Thornhill said, his voice quickening as if he were reliving the memory. "Very clever and very manipulative. I'm not supposed to say anything but it has been fifteen years. The Professor was pursuing a spy. He conducted a ruse and invented a phony spy. The Professor's people 'checked' this non-existent spy into various hotels as if he were pursuing the man the Professor was after."

"Non-existent spy?" Kuryakin said, his interest piqued.

"Check into a hotel, hang up a suit of clothes, put toiletries in the bathroom, the works. All to fool the man the Professor was after."

"How did you get involved?"

"The -- oh, what would you fellows call it? Ah, the opposition thought I was the man checking into all those hotels," Thornhill said. "About got me killed. I suspect the Professor might have let me get killed, too, except he thought I was endangering his real operative."

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances once more. Sounds like something Waverly might cook up, Solo thought. Except I know he was at U.N.C.L.E. then.

"And there's no way those two men today could have anything to do with all that?" Solo said.

"The Professor ended up getting his man. Went to prison, should be there still," Thornhill said.

Just then, an intercom on the conference table buzzed. "Gentlemen, could you please accompany Mr. Thornhill into my office?"

"We'll be right there, sir," Solo said into the intercom.

"You're sure he's not the Professor?" Thornhill said. "Sounds an awful lot like him. Looks almost the same as fifteen years ago. Except...:

"Except what?" Kuryakin said.

"Oh, the Professor wore glasses. You know, the kind that are dark on top and clear on the bottom."

A few minutes later, the trio entered Waverly's office.

"Sit down, gentlemen," Waverly said, without getting up from his chair at the circular conference table. Without waiting, he continued, "I think we have to assume Mr. Thornhill here somehow stumbled onto information concerning some Thrush operation."

"Thrush?" Thornhill said, skepticism in his voice.

"That's the large criminal organization which employs the fellows who attacked you," Solo said. "That's why they recognized me."

"I'm sorry but I've never heard of this Thrush or whatever you call it."

"Not that many people have, Mr. Thornhill," Waverly said, taking back control of the conversation. "Thrush is a very shadowy, mysterious organization. It will undertake any operation it considers in its own interests. Anytime Thrush is involved, it's very very serious."

"So, how do we proceed from here?" Kuryakin asked.

"I'd suggest you retrace Mr. Thornhill's recent activities. You're in advertising, are you not?"

"I was," Thornhill said. "I've been retired though I do some consulting work."

"Oh?" Waverly said. "What sort of consulting?"

Thornhill frowned. "I can't imagine what it would have to do with your Thrush or whatever you call it." Waverly didn't answer, so Thornhill continued. "I've done some work for Global Motors. They're trying to re-focus their advertising and marketing efforts. I've done a bit of traveling to Detroit and Japan."

"Japan?" Solo asked.

"Global owns a piece of Mazuka Motors, I gather," Thornhill said. "Did a bit of work on differentiating the advertising for North America, Asia and Europe. I'm due back in Detroit in a few days."

"Interesting," Waverly said. "Anything special at Detroit?"

"Just a reception of the top Global brass," Thornhill said. "They've opened a new headquarters in downtown Detroit, the city is hoping it can be a boost for that area of town. It's rather depressed, you know."

"Indeed," Waverly said. "I wouldn't want you to miss that reception, Mr. Thornhill. In fact, I think it might be a good idea if Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin would accompany you."

"These fellows? Why?"

"To be honest, it's the only semblance of a lead we have," Waverly said. "Thrush would not seek to capture you unless you somehow -- no matter how unwittingly -- found out something about an operation of theirs. This reception -- is it private?"

"No, it's a bit of a gala. Public officials, media types and others have invitations."

"Excellent," Waverly said. "Mr. Solo, I suggest Mr. Kuryakin and yourself prepare suitable covers."

Thornhill began to shake his head. "Now see here, I really don't feel...."

"Mr. Thornhill, I understand your confusion and anxiety," Waverly interjected. "But it's very important we have your cooperation. If, indeed, you know something about Thrush..."

"I never heard of this Thrush until tonight."

"Doesn't matter," Waverly said. "They think you know something and you won't be safe until we've figured out what it is. Mr. Solo, I suggest you take Mr. Thornhill home and arrange for around-the-clock security until you can depart for the Motor City. I think that's about all."

Solo squinted for a second at Waverly. Solo was sure Waverly knew more than he was telling. But to try and figure the old fox out was futile, at least for now.

"Very well, sir," Solo said.

The three men got up and exited the office. Once outside the door, Solo paused as if in thought. "Uh, Mr. Thornhill..."

"If we're going to have to stick together, why don't you call me Roger?"

"Uh, Roger, could you wait right over there for a second?" Solo asked.

"Now, what?"

"Just a moment, please."

Thornhill rolled his eyes but went down the hallway and waited.

"Are you as curious about this Professor as I am?" Solo asked Kuryakin.

"Probably more so," the Russian replied. "Why don't I make an inquiry with our cousins in Washington before we escort Mr. Thornhill home?"

"An excellent idea," Solo said. "I think I'd like to find out a little bit more about our friend Roger's espionage experience. I'll take the gentleman to the Mask Club entrance and we'll wait for you there."

A half hour later, the cab was approaching a luxury high-rise on the Upper West Side of New York.

"Well Roger, you did pretty well for yourself in the advertising game," Solo said, glancing at the neighborhood.

"I had a knack for it, I suppose," Thornhill answered. "I'd like to know what I'm going to tell Eve about you two."

The cab pulled up and Solo paid the cabbie. "This way, gents," Thornhill said, gesturing to the building's entrance. "It's on the 50th floor."

A security man was on duty and Thornhill told him that Solo and Kuryakin were guests. They walked over to a bank of three elevators, selecting the last of the three, which went to the highest floors. The lobby was quiet and it took only a minute for an elevator to arrive. The ride up was fairly quick. Upon leaving the elevator, Roger began walking briskly, obviously anticipating seeing his wife.

Thornhill had the key to the apartment out two steps before reaching the door. As he began to insert the key, a bullet tore through the door, only inches from his head.

Act III

"Gunshots and Discreet Inquiries"

Solo and Kuryakin were already in action. Solo dived at Thornhill, sending the tall man tumbling out of harm's way as another couple of shots ripped through the apartment door. Kuryakin, his U.N.C.L.E. Special drawn, stood next to the door, waiting for the gunfire to subside. When it did, Kuryakin fired a shot into the lock and kicked the door hard. He crouched down as he entered the apartment. Two thugs struggled to control a thin blonde woman while a third reloaded his pistol. Kuryakin aimed and fired in one motion, his shot striking the man near his shoulder. The sickening crack told Kuryakin the shot probably broke the man's collarbone. The wounded attacker lay sprawled on the floor.

"Hold it, Mr. Kuryakin," one of the other two said. "Stop or we'll kill Mrs. Thornhill here."

The woman still struggled but the silent Thrushman -- at least Kuryakin assumed now he was Thrush -- had enough leverage to keep her arms pinned back.

"Don't worry about me! Stop them!" Eve Thornhill yelled. The silent Thrushman yanked her arms back hard, causing her to wince with pain.

Solo now entered the room his weapon drawn. "Gentlemen, there's no way out so you're not taking Mrs. Thornhill anywhere."

"Quit fooling around, Solo," Eve said. "These men are killers and they work for a killer."

Solo squinted and out of the corner of his eye he caught Kuryakin's look of puzzlement. At the same time, a rumbling noise began just on the other side of the outer wall.

The two Thrushmen nudged Eve closer to a window. The rumbling kept getting louder.

"That's enough!" Solo yelled over the din.

"Eve, darling, what's going on?" Roger Thornhill said as he edged into the apartment. Damn fool, Solo thought. Stay out in the hallway, dammit.

"Roger, you stay back," Eve said, as if reading Solo's thoughts. "You were lucky once but you've had your one-in-a-million shot."

Solo tried to stay focused on the situation but Eve's comments kept bugging him. And how the hell does she know who I am?

The lead Thrushman took a step behind his silent partner and their prisoner. "Gentlemen, the time for talking is over." While maintaining his gaze on the U.N.C.L.E. agents, he pointed a gun behind him at the window and fired off three rounds. The insulated window shattered, causing a gust of frosty air to enter the room. Simutanenously, the silent Thrushman forced Eve to the window.

Then all hell broke loose.

The silent Thrushman shoved Eve out the window while his partner started firing at the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Solo returned fire first, one shot striking the man's chest, the second striking his left eye. The other man, had grabbed a weapon from a shoulder holster hidden by his suit but Kuryakin's shot struck the Thrushman's neck before he could fire. He held one hand over the wound but again tried to fire. The Russian's second shot hit the Thrushman in the chest and he collapsed on the floor.

The agents rushed to the window. Now the rumbling was more distinctive. They looked up and saw a large helicopter. It was ordinary except for some kind of cylinder that was being retracted into the aircraft's belly. Solo and Kuryakin opened fire but the shots didn't affect the mechanical bird.

Thornhill, distraught, shoved the men to the side. "Eve!" he yelled to no one in particular.

Kuryakin moved Thornhill back as Solo looked up into the night sky. He saw the helicopter complete retracting the cylinder and then it turn and fly away. The pitch black of the night swallowed the aircraft within seconds and Solo couldn't make out any identifying numbers.

"Oh my God, she's dead," Thornhill said as Kuryakin strained to keep the tall man away from the window.

"I don't think so," Solo answered forcefully, trying to snap Roger out of it. "That helicopter has her -- sucked her up like a vacuum cleaner."

The agent looked around the apartment. The first Thrushman lay moaning, the only survivor of the Thrush team. Solo took out his pen communicator. "Open Channel L, emergency. Solo here. We've had an encounter with some of our winged friends. No casualties but I'm afraid they robbed the nest. Need assistance with the authorities. Here's the address..."

Two hours later, the last of the police investigators prepared to leave, acting quite grumpy as they did so.

"Ya know, I get a funny feeling Mr. Solo when I get a call telling me to cooperate with some agency I don't know nothin' about."

"Well, sergeant...?"

"Briscoe."

"Well Sergeant Briscoe, into every life some rain must fall," Solo quipped.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Just keep your nose clean."

"They don't sound very happy," Kuryakin said as the detective left.

"Some people just have naturally gloomy dispositions," Solo replied. "How's Roger doing?"

"He's finally resting in the bedroom. But he's still under an enormous strain. What's our next move?"

Solo looked over at the shattered window, now covered by a thick plastic tarp that was heavily taped down. "Let's get the communications people over here and have them install some equipment so we can monitor his telephone. Then, we get him back to U.N.C.L.E. for the night."

"Napoleon, why did Mrs. Thornhill recognize you?" Kuryakin asked. "Had you met?"

"No, never," Solo said. "Our third move is to check back on that inquiry you sent off to our cousins in Washington. I want to find out more about Mr. Thornhill's past exploits before we plan any additional moves."

"Sorry it's a little cramped but it's the best we can do on short notice, Mr. Thornhill."

The woman was part of the night crew's support staff and was showing Roger Thornhill around the small apartment inside U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. There were cots in nearby rooms where agents could catch short naps. The apartment, however, was for U.N.C.L.E. to keep track of any "special" guests on an emergency basis. Thornhill certainly qualified.

Solo noticed the woman lingering, her eyes looking at Roger intently. The man has something, Solo thought. "Yes Denise, that will be all," Solo said.

"Oh, certainly, Mr. Solo. Good night, please let us know if you need anything."

"We will," Kuryakin said.

The door shut. It was only a two-room space, a den and a bedroom, the latter containing a shower stall. Thornhill on a chair, while Kuryakin sat opposite him on a cot. Solo remained standing.

"Roger, I know it's late," Solo began. "But this business fifteen years ago, was your wife involved also?"

Thornhill ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, up to her neck in it."

"What did she do?"

"Oh, I suppose you fellows are going to hear it all eventually, anyway," Thornhill said, his voice surprisingly calm after the last several hours. "Eve was the lover of a spy, one Phillip Vandamm. Until she found out he was a spy, anyway. Then, she contacted the authorities. That's how the Professor came into the picture. His people had her maintain her relationship with Vandamm. They set up the whole ficticious spy business to keep attention off Eve. She was feeding them information about what Vandamm was doing. Then, I stumbled into the picture, somehow." He sighed after the last sentence.

"You mean that's how you met?" Solo said, incredulously.

"Some people meet at parties. We met in the middle of a caper," Thornhill said.

Kuryakin got up before Solo could say anything. "I think I should go check the communications room yet again," the Russian said as he left.

"You fellows really don't think that has anything to do with all this? It has been fifteen years. We've been quite happily married ever since."

"I don't doubt it," Solo said, remembering how Eve recognized him. "Still, it's quite a tale and we can't rule out the possibility."

"So what do we do, next?" Thornhill said, the anxiety starting to creep back into his voice.

"We wait," Solo answered. "That phone," he pointed toward a small coffee table," is patched into your telephone at home. We're monitoring it. My guess is we'll hear from them sometime soon."

Thornhill lapsed into silence and Solo paced for a few moments. He didn't want to leave but wasn't sure there was much he could do. Then, after a few minutes, Kuryakin returned to the apartment.

"Napoleon, may I have a moment of your time?" Kuryakin said, barely pointing outside the door.

"Certainly," Solo said, picking up the hint. "Roger, we'll do everything we can. I promise."

Thornhill said nothing and sat back into his chair. Solo and Kuryakin walked outside into the hallway, where the Russian showed Solo a single sheet of paper.

"I thought you might want to see this yourself," Kuryakin said.

Solo squinted at the paper a moment. After a few seconds, he read the material out loud. "No Professor on our staff. Suggest you consult your own File Forty. Regards, Langley."

"As we clever Russians say, 'the plot thickens,'" Kuryakin said.

"Let's have Denise entertain our Mr. Thornhill for a few minutes," Solo responded. "Then let's take a quick trip to the File Forty area."

Thirty-five-minutes later, Illya Kuryakin felt elated.

"No question, this is the one," Kuryakin said, handing the file to Solo. The senior agent leafed through the contents quickly, periodically stopping to double check a sentence or comment.

"Quite a story," Solo said. "It would appear Roger Thornhill did indeed experience quite an adventure. Hmmm. Is chased by a crop-dusting plane in northern Indiana. Fakes death so Eve Kendall, a-k-a the future Mrs. Roger Thornhill can maintain her cover. Goes to rescue said Eve Kendall, who in turn has been discovered as a spy by Vandamm."

"It almost reads like a pulp novel," Kuryakin said.

"Ah, it gets even better," Solo quipped. "Said couple climbs down Mount Rushmore to evade their pursuers. And look at this--"

Kuryakin took the file back for a moment. He took out his tinted reading glasses and looked closely at the file and did a double take. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Nor do I," Solo said. "But we're going to find the answer."

"Should we talk to Mr. Thornhill now?"

"No, it's pretty late," Solo replied. "We'll let Mr. Thornhill get some rest -- hell, we could probably use some ourselves. But in the morning, I suggest another conversation."

Around nine a.m., Thornhill was picking at his breakfast. One egg was only partially eaten and the other sat untouched. So did the two strips of bacon. Only the bagel and orange juice had been consumed while the cup of coffee was still half-full.

Thornhill looked up as Solo and Kuryakin entered the guest apartment. "Feeling better?" Solo asked.

"Not very," Thornhill said. "I'm still worried to death about Eve. By the way where did you fellows get off to last night?."

"Some research," Solo said, sitting down in one of the chairs. "I suspect this affair with Eve does have something to do with your previous espionage experience. It seems Phillip Vandamm was released from prison recently. He had been such a model prisoner, he won parole after only fifteen years on an espionage charge."

"Good God!" Thornhill said. "You mean he's involved in kidnapping Eve?"

"There are some other things we must know," Kuryakin said, pulling his chair closer to Thornhill. "Your wife, Eve, does she wear a ring -- a gold ring with a red stone?"

Thornhill looked away for a moment, as if in thought. "Why, yes," he finally said. "Got a new ring a couple of weeks ago."

"Around the time Vandamm was released from prison," Solo said, looking at Kuryakin.

"See here, you fellows seem to know something," Thornhill said testily. "I want to know what it is."

Just then, the telephone in the guest apartment began to ring.

Act IV

"A Walk in the Park"

The three men froze, all staring at the telephone in unison.

Two rings then three. Solo pointed at Roger to pick it up. He did so but his hand was trembling as he put the receiver up to his ear. Kuryakin, in the meantime, was already out of the room, rushing to the communications section.

"Hello? Roger Thornhill here."

"Ah, old chap. Good to hear your voice again. Phillip Vandamm. It has been much too long, my friend."

"I'm no friend of yours," Thornhill said. "What have you done with Eve?"

"Precisely why I'm calling, old chap. I have her and she's quite safe. But it turns out you have something that belongs to me. Some papers. I want them back."

"What papers?" Thornhill said. "I haven't had anything to do with people like you for fifteen years. How could I possibly have papers that would interest you?"

"I must say you do a wonderful job, Mr. Thornhill, Kaplan or whatever your real name is. Although I'm a bit surprised you live so out in the open the way you do."

"Vandamm, I don't have any papers!"

"My dear man, I know you do. There's simply no mistake about it. Now will you dispense with the theatrics or do you want your wife back?"

Solo whispered. "It does no good to argue with him. He's probably wanting to set up a meeting."

"Of course I want Eve back," Thornhill said angrily to the phone -- though Solo suspected some of that emotion was aimed at him, too.

"Good," Vandamm answered. "Central Park, eleven a.m. today. West boundary of the park at 75th Street, near The Lake (cq). There's a series of pay telephones. Stand by there and I'll call you on one of them. Understand?"

Thornhill repeated the directions. "I think I've got it."

"You'd better. And none of your friends had better be in view. Good-bye."

"Vandamm?" Thornhill said excitedly but the line was already dead.

Solo had his pen communicator out and set it to a closed internal channel. "Illya? Did you get a fix?"

"A pay telephone in Grand Central Station," Kuryakin said from the communications room.

"OK, we'll have to do what Mr. Vandamm says.

Solo and Kuryakin met with Thornhill once more, this time in a conference room.

"Roger, we'll try to protect you, but there is danger involved," Solo said.

"I don't care, but I haven't the foggiest what he was talking about."

Kuryakin pressed the play button on a tape player sitting on top of the conference room table. "Precisely why I'm calling, old chap. I have her and she's quite safe," Vandamm said on the recording. "But it turns out you have something that belongs to me. Some papers. I want them back."

"No idea at all?" Solo said.

"None. I don't even work that much any more. The only papers I might have are from the clients I do consulting work for."

"It's almost ten. Even if we knew what we were looking for, we don't have the time. Illya, go forward on the tape just a smidge."

Kuryakin hit the fast-forward button for a split second, stopped and hit the play button once more. "...you for fifteen years," Thornhill's voice said on the recording. "How could I possibly have papers that would interest you?"

"I must say you do a wonderful job, Mr. Thornhill, Kaplan or whatever your real name is." Kuryakin hit the stop button.

"Who is Kaplan?" Kuryakin asked.

"He was the fictional spy the Professor dreamed up," Thornhill said. "Vandamm thought I was Kaplan."

Solo and Kuryakin cast each other a knowing glance. Thornhill noticed it. "What's wrong?"

"It's a little complicated and there isn't any time to get into it now," Solo said. "All right, Vandamm wants some papers. We'll put together something really fast. Won't fool anyone, but they won't need to."

"What do you mean?"

"Even if you had the real papers, Vandamm would kill you and your wife," Solo said. "But if you show up empty handed, they might abort the meeting. No, you'll have something just for appearances' sake. But your safety, and the safety of your wife, will depend on us trying to keep track of you from a distance."

"Is that possible?"

"It is possible," Kuryakin said.

"Illya, you help Mr. Thornhill get ready. I need to go see Mr. Waverly."

A few minutes later, Solo approached the desk of Lisa Rogers, Waverly's secretary.

"Is Mr. Waverly in?"

"I'm afraid not, Napoleon," Lisa said, looking up from her desk. "He's off site at a meeting. I'm not sure when he'll be in."

Solo frowned for a moment. "All right. I need to execute a Code X-9."

"Only Mr. Waverly is empowered to do that," Lisa said tersely.

"Section Twenty-three, paragraph four," Solo replied. "If the Number One of Section One is absent, and if no other Section One personnel are present, the Number One of Section Two -- me -- takes command of this office. I see no Waverly present."

"Technically true, but those things are dangerous."

"I know, Miss Rogers. I've worn them."

"But -- "

Solo shook his head and bit his lip to avoid breaking into a smile. It wasn't often he won the argument by citing regulations.

At ten thirty-three, Solo and Kuryakin brought Thornhill out through Del Floria's tailor shop.

"I say, can't you fellows use a plain door to get in and out?" Thornhill said as they walked onto the sidewalk.

"Never mind that now, we need to hail a cab," Solo said.

Thornhill held up the cloth brief case he was carrying. "Is this going to work?"

Solo ignored the question and caught the attention of a cab. As the vehicle pulled up to the curb, Kuryakin opened the door while Solo nudged Thornhill inside. "Central Park, driver. This gentleman will tell you where." Solo gave the driver two twenty-dollar bills. The cab quickly roared off.

"We'd better move to the garage," Kuryakin said.

"Give it a minute, I don't want Roger catching a glimpse of us."

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Let's hope so," Solo replied. "After you."

At two minutes before eleven, Roger Thornhill made it to a bank of six pay telephones at Central Park. God, this had better be the place, Roger thought. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Vandamm, after all these years? Is this man Solo dependable? I'm not sure I trust that Russian friend of his, either. Oh, who cares about all that? God, just make sure Eve is still alive.

Thornhill paced holding the cloth briefcase with both hands. A minute passed, then two. Where are you, Vandamm?

One of the middle telephones began to ring.

Thornhill raced to the phone, and once again his hand trembled as he picked up the receiver. "Yes," he said as calmly as he could.

"Very good." It was Vandamm. "You are alone?"

"Extremely," Thornhill said.

"Head toward The Lake (cq)."

Thornhill took the nearest path and began walking east. He passed benches where New Yorkers of all shapes sat while the occasional jogger strode past. Off to the side, two men played chess, including a large, rotund older gentleman in a black suit. The other man looked tweedy and wore glasses, as if he were a college professor. Thornhill walked as briskly as he could. While it was chilly, to Roger it felt stifling and hot. His temple throbbed with the beginnings of a bad headache. He tried to ignore it, to keep his thoughts concentrated on Eve.

The path split into two directions and Thornhill took the left one, which angled toward The Lake. There was some heavy foliage to the left of the path. Suddenly, Thornhill felt himself being yanked off the path by the collar of his suitcoat. Roger spun around. At six-foot-three, Thornhill didn't look up to that many people. But this human gorilla was at least two inches taller and a great deal heavier. His shaved head and squinted eyes didn't make him look particularly friendly, either.

Vandamm came out from behind a tree, accompanied by another man who held Eve, arms were behind her, as well as yet another thug.

"Now, I believe it is time to end the formalities and conclude our business," Vandamm said.

Illya Kuryakin held the pen communicator in front of him, listening to the whine emanating from the device. He touched a switch and went to broadcast mode. "Napoleon? I think he must be heading toward The Lake."

"Yes, my signal gets louder going in that direction as well," Solo said. "Let's circle around. You come up from the north, I'll come up from the south."

"Vandamm, why do you have to come into my life again?"

"Mr. Thornhill, I can remedy that rather quickly," Vandamm said. "Hand over the papers."

Thornhill hesitated for a moment. He looked at Eve, whose eyes seemed cloudy. She stood there emotionless.

"What's wrong with my wife?" Roger said.

"She's been given a very mild drug to make her more compliant. She has been quite fierce to deal with, I can assure you. Now, the papers, if you please."

Thornhill gave Vandamm the briefcase and Vandamm quickly yanked it away. He opened the case immediately, tearing through the papers inside. He threw down the briefcase and Vandamm's face tightened and reddened, if only for a second.

"I believe I indicated there would be dire consequences if you didn't bring the correct papers," he said, as he regained his composure after the momentary lapse.

Roger looked at Eve for a second. Did her head move just then? For a moment, it looked as if her eyes had become clear. But he couldn't keep looking with Vandamm there.

"I told you I didn't know what bloody papers you were talking about! How would I even come into contact with anything you'd be interested in?"

"Too bad," Vandamm said. "Kill them both, now."

The man holding Eve began to reach for a gun when a shot rang out. The man grabbed at his arm for a second, then again went for the gun. He pulled it out and started to fire when two more shots struck him in the chest.

The farthest thug moved in closer but Eve suddenly came to life and executed a judo move, sending him to the ground. Before he could rise, she struck a karate blow to the back of his neck. Roger was paralyzed by the sudden shock of seeing Eve perform the maneuver. The largest thug then grabbed Thornhill and held him up in a bear hug. Vandamm, in the meantime, hadn't stayed around to watch. He ran away, narrowly avoiding being struck by three shots. The large thug ignored all this and seemed to be trying to crush Thornhill. Roger, caught by surprise, had no way to defend himself and groaned in pain.

Napoleon Solo emerged from behind the huge man and struck a karate blow to the back of his neck. The huge man paid no heed and continued to crush Roger. Solo, with a stomping motion, used his foot to strike the rear of the big man's knee. The thug yelled in pain but still held onto Thornhill. Solo then dropped to the ground and used his legs in a whipping motion, causing the large man to lose his balance. He dropped Thornhill as he stumbled. Solo got back onto his feet, with his gun drawn. But the big thug was as quick as he was large and slapped at Solo's arm, causing the agent to drop his gun. The thug lunged at Solo, but instead of trying to dodge him, the agent grabbed the lapels of the man's suitcoat and rolled backwards. Solo used his opponent's momentum to hurl him over. The man lay stunned and Solo got to him quickly and clipped his head with another karate blow, this one enough to put him out.

Kuryakin approached, smoke still coming from the barrel of his U.N.C.L.E. Special. "That was some fancy shooting, Tex," Solo said, pointing to the body of the dead thug.

"Tex?" Kuryakin said.

"Never mind. What about Vandamm?"

"Disappeared into the park. I gave chase but he had slipped into the crowds."

The two agents looked at Eve tending to her groggy husband. He still lay on the ground, but Eve had him propped up on her lap as she stroked his head.

"Oh darling, if I thought harm would have come to you..." Eve said.

"S'all right," Roger said, trying to sound gallant. "Not as strenuous as that climb down Mount Rushmore. After all, I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Mrs. Thornhill, do you mind for just a moment?" Solo said. "No need to move, but could you hold up your right hand, please?"

"Why?" Eve said, with a bit of a harsh tone.

Solo reached down to her right hand. He didn't touch it, but held his own right hand, with which he had formed a fist, next to hers. Both hands had a gold ring and the red stone of each ring began to glow."

All of this was happening close to Roger's head. He squinted and pulled his head back as he stared at the glowing rings. "Hey, what the hell is that? Where'd you get those things?"

Eve was silent, but her eyes glowered at Solo.

Kuryakin spoke up to break the silence. "It's from a very special jeweler, Mr. Thornhill," the Russian said. "And this is probably not the time nor place for explanations."

Alexander Waverly was furious.

"You did what, Miss Rogers? A Waverly Ring is only to be given out by me. I know I instructed you on the procedure in case of an emergency, but this hardly qualified."

"I'm sorry, sir, but technically Mr. Solo was in charge in your absence. He quoted the specific regulation."

"Did Mr. Solo say what he intended to do with the Waverly Ring he took?"

The control console on Waverly's round table buzzed. "Security, sir, urgent."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Messrs. Solo and Kuryakin are coming through the security entrance right now, sir, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill. We started to ask her who she was when she showed..."

"Yes, yes I know all about it. Thank you very much."

Waverly looked at Lisa, who was still standing by the table. "Never mind, Miss Rogers. I believe I know the purpose Mr. Solo had in mind. Please have that group come to my office if they're not already on their way here, will you?"

"Yes sir."

Two minutes later, Solo and Kuryakin entered the office first, followed by the Thornhills, with Eve helping to steady Roger.

"Sit down, all of you," Waverly said. "Mr. Solo, there is the matter of the unauthorized use of the Waverly Ring."

"Actually, sir, its use was authorized. Section...."

"Yes, yes, I'm quite familiar with the regulation. Still, Mr. Solo, there is the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, as it were."

"Yes, Professor, eh, I mean sir."

Waverly's eyes looked like they were going to explode.

Roger, however, perked up. "You mean he is the Professor after all? After all those denials? And, you, Eve, where did you learn all those judo moves, anyway?"

Waverly took a deep breath. "She learned them from us, Mr. Thornhill. U.N.C.L.E., that is. I'm sorry for the deception, but it's a rather complicated matter -- not helped by field agents assuming responsibility for policy decisions, I might add."

Solo took in a deep breath while Kuryakin tried to avoid looking in his colleague's direction.

"Still, I may have erred by not taking Messrs. Solo and Kuryakin into my confidence. Whatever their faults, they are extremely capable field agents and I should have expected they would put it together sooner or later." Turning toward Solo, "And just what was it that caused you to take the actions you did?"

"Quite simply, we made an inquiry with the C.I.A. for more background after Mr. Thornhill told us this was not his first encounter with espionage types. The C.I.A. basically told us to read our own files before bothering them. We found the material in the File Forty section, where it was disclosed that Mr. Thornhill's previous adventure was a case of U.N.C.L.E. versus Thrush, not Americans versus the then-Soviet Union. That's also where we learned the then Miss Kendall was working for U.N.C.L.E. in that affair, though, not, I gather, as a full-time agent but an outsider who volunteered for the assignment. It occurred to me she might be playing a similar role in this affair. After I heard she was wearing a new ring, I wanted to have a Waverly Ring to test out my theory."

"I suppose I should let you try and take it off yourself," Waverly said sharply. Both he and Solo knew the ring would explode unless it was removed in a specific manner.

"You're one of them?!" Roger said to Eve.

"No, not exactly, darling," Eve said.

"And what was all that Professor business anyway?" Roger said to Waverly.

"My dear fellow, in that business fifteen years ago, you were a wild card. Things were happening rather quickly, if you'll recall. I merely referred to Vandamm as being on the 'other side.' You read into it what you wished. As it happened, it did start out as an American operation. But when it was learned Vandamm was part of Thrush, we were brought into it."

"Why bother to deny you were the Professor?"

Waverly shook his head. "I was rather hoping you wouldn't notice. That Professor business was a nickname our American cousins gave to me because they didn't know much about Thrush. I had hoped you would have forgotten about me after all these years."

"You're not exactly a forgettable fellow, Professor, or Waverly, or whatever your name is," Thornhill said. "So is my wife one of your agents?"

"As she said, not exactly. Actually, she was exactly what you thought she was -- your wife, happily having nothing to do with intelligence matters. Until you received something, that is."

Thornhill simply stared at Waverly. Solo broke the silence. "You mean Mr. Thornhill actually does have something Thrush wants."

"Yes, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Mrs. Thornhill contacted me when this material emerged. I requested her assistance. That's why she has a Waverly Ring. And while we don't know all the details, it appears Vandamm is involved in a major Thrush operation that could have severe consequences economically if it succeeds."
-----------------------------

To Proceed to Part Two

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