Act I

"Motoring in the Motor City"

As he walked through Detroit Metropolitan Airport, Napoleon Solo felt a vague sense of disappointment.

The sprawling facility was a carbon copy of any big city airport. There was nothing distinctive, nothing to differentiate this place from anywhere else in the country. No real indication this was, indeed, the Motor City, one of the major industrial centers not only of the United States but of the world. As he picked up his suitcase on the carousel, Solo chalked it up to the homogenization of the country, where every place gradually seemed like any other place.

Twenty-five minutes later, Solo had his rental car, a gray Chrysler Concorde. It wasn't as fun as his own Nissan 300ZX he had taken out of storage just a few days ago -- an innocent time that seemed years ago now.

The enforcement chief of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement had memorized the directions to the hotel and knew which entrance to take to the freeway. Although he was quickly up to seventy miles an hour, Solo felt as if he were about to be run down by traffic. Even after he got it above seventy-five, he was only holding his own.

A few minutes from the airport, Solo suddenly got his reminder about his location. A giant model tire was on the south side of the freeway. A preposterous, ugly looking sign, it was an advertisement for one of the major tire makers. Then, not more than two minutes later, he came across another advertisement, this one a giant sign -- from yet another tire company -- keeping a running tally on the number of U.S.-made cars and trucks. At the same time, Solo imagined he was feeling a thud in the background, like the rhythm of the giant stamping machines that stomped on sheet metal, turning it into car doors, body panels and other parts.

Solo admitted his first impression had been incorrect as he tried to keep up with the swift freeway traffic.

As he drove, Solo once more replayed the scene at Alexander Waverly's office that led him to this place.

A few days earlier, Waverly had conducted a debriefing session with Solo, his partner Illya Kuryakin and an older married couple, Roger and Eve Thornhill. Little was what it seemed. Eve, as it turned out, once was part of an U.N.C.L.E. operation involving a Thrush operative named Phillip Vandamm. Roger, through coincidence and bad luck, had stumbled into the operation but didn't know about the U.N.C.L.E. connection. Roger had even met Waverly -- the Number One of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section One -- but thought he was U.S. intelligence.

But all of that had been fifteen years ago. Even odder was how the Thornhills had become involved once more in U.N.C.L.E.'s war against Thrush -- specifically Vandamm.

Waverly spoke gravely about what was at stake. "... 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."

"And how do we know that, sir?" Solo asked.

"Actually, it was I who stumbled on it, Mr. Solo," Eve said. "Roger was doing some advertising consulting work for Global Motors. One evening he brought some of his work home with him. I asked him what he was doing and he showed me some of his materials. They included some memos from some Global executives. I saw that one of the memos was really written in a code I remembered from when I, uh, was involved with Vandamm. I called Alex the next day."

"You called him and didn't tell me?" Roger said, sounding anxious.

"Roger, it was for your own protection," Eve protested.

"My wife, the spy," he replied.

"Just what was this memo supposed to be?" Kuryakin said.

"I asked Roger," she said. "He said it had nothing to do with the advertising campaigns. He just figured it was something that got sent to him by mistake."

"Oh, yes," Roger said slowly. "Yes, I do vaguely remember it. I meant to return it to Global, but I forgot -- probably because I never saw it again." He looked at Eve suspiciously.

"Your wife sent it to me," Waverly said. "We verified it was an old Thrush code. We didn't have all the code but we were able to translate part of it. Just enough to know that Thrush intends to take control, in some fashion, of Global Motors."

"To do what?" Solo asked. "Sabotage their car-making efforts? Despite its size, Global has struggled the last decade."

"Mr. Solo, please," Waverly shot back. "Remember some years back, when Thrush attempted to take over Western Nutumba in Africa? It was a small country, but controlling it would give Thrush access to diplomatic immunity and other privileges. Global Motors -- even though it's generally seen as big and clumsy -- still has enormous power, especially economic power. It operates all over the world and is expanding internationally. It recently gained a stake in a Japanese automaker named Mazuka. Global is opening new factories in Asia and Eastern Europe. The head of Global can gain an audience with any significant world leader. The company is working on various electronics technology, some of which, no doubt, have the potential to be corrupted into use for weapons. It would be a huge victory for Thrush to gain control of such a corporation, Mr. Solo. Losing Global Motors to Thrush would be ten-fold -- no a hundred-fold -- worse than losing Western Nutumba to Thrush."

Solo frowned. He had set himself up for that one.

Kuryakin, sensing his friend's unease, broke the silence. "Well, I understand that Mrs. Thornhill had once been involved in an U.N.C.L.E. operation. But I don't see why this newest matter wasn't turned over to regular U.N.C.L.E. personnel."

"I wasn't sure when or if Thrush would make a move on Mr. Thornhill so I figured Mrs. Thornhill could keep an eye on the situation until we could develop a more detailed plan of operation. Mr. Vandamm, however, moved faster than we thought. Mr. Solo's chance encounter with the Thrush operatives trying to kidnap Mr. Thornhill turned out to be quite fortunate."

Roger looked at Eve warily, then sat back and crossed his arms.

Waverly picked up on the body language. "Anything the matter, Mr. Thornhill?"

"No, why should anything be the matter? I get lied to fifteen years ago, I get misled now. I can hardly keep track of what's going on. First, you're the Professor, now you're the head of this U.N.C.L.E. or whatever. I thought I had a nice, normal life, now suddenly I find my wife has been one of your agents."

"Not an agent, merely a very concerned woman who cares deeply about her husband. She merely knew who to contact to remedy an extremely unusual situation. Which brings us to our next step."

"Next step?" Roger said. "Who said there's going to be a next step?"

"My dear sir, Mr. Vandamm is still at large," Waverly said. "Mr. Solo, I believe you had discussed some preliminary plans."

"Yes, sir," Solo acknowledged. "Not knowing about the Thrush document that Mr. Thornhill accidentally received, we had discussed retracing Mr. Thornhill's most recent movements, perhaps to go Detroit. There's some kind of Global Motors reception there that Mr. Thornhill was scheduled to attend."

"I think you should proceed with that course of action," Waverly said. "If Thrush does intend to gain control of Global Motors, our feathered friends most likely have a mole inside the company. No doubt a highly ranked mole. I think you and Mr. Kuryakin should accompany Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill to the Motor City."

The logistics were more complicated than that. A combination of airline schedules and U.N.C.L.E. paperwork -- a surge of paperwork for Solo, to be specific -- meant Solo had to travel separately to Detroit. As he turned the rental car onto to the Dodge Freeway to head toward downtown, Solo took out his pen communicator and buzzed his partner.

"Solo here, how is the happy couple?"

"In terms of safety, fine. We made it to the hotel without incident. My room is on one side of the Thornhills'. We've arranged for you to have the room on the other side."

"Any problems not of a security nature?"

"I think this affair has put a bit of a strain on the Thornhills' marriage. Roger still seems to resent the fact that his wife did not inform him about everything."

"He should try working for U.N.C.L.E. on a full-time basis," Solo said.

"Ah, betraying some of our own feelings, are we?"

"Perhaps," Solo said. "See you in a few minutes. Solo out."

The agent looked at his right hand at the top of the steering wheel. The gold ring with the red stone stood out. Of course the fact it would explode unless removed with special tools may have had something to do with that. "Since you've insisted on arranging to wear a Waverly Ring, Mr. Solo," Waverly had said just before Solo left New York. "Perhaps you should wear it a bit longer."

It was by wearing a Waverly Ring that Solo had identified Eve Thornhill as having an U.N.C.L.E. connection -- Waverly had put such a ring on her shortly after she alerted him about the coded message in Roger's materials from Global Motors. The ring was a sign of trust by Waverly; if and when he was ready to reveal her role in the affair, the ring would be a way for agents to identify her as being friendly to U.N.C.L.E. Waverly hadn't liked Solo's initiative in commandeering another ring to confirm his suspicions. Now the U.N.C.L.E. chief wasn't going to use his special tools to remove the ring, at least not right away.

"Uncle Alex can get a little testy at times," Solo muttered under his breath. He only hoped the improvements made since the last time he'd worn one of the rings might be useful.

The Pontchartrain once was the grand hotel of Detroit. The grand old lady had declined when it became the property of a savings and loan operator whose debt-laden empire went belly up. With the ownership in limbo for a prolonged period, it was only in the last twelve to eighteen months that Ponch, as Detroiters called her, had begun to show renewed signs of life.

Solo left the rental car with the valet and took an escalator up to the main floor to check in. As he reached the lobby, the agent quickly scanned the wide reception area. No known Thrush operatives, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Still, no signs of anything out of the ordinary. Solo quickly checked in and arranged to have his suitcase taken to his room. He then took the elevator up to the tenth floor. Once there, he strode to Room 1015 and knocked three times.

Kuryakin opened the door. "Perfect timing," he told Solo. "Now perhaps you can spend some quality time with the happy couple."

"They're having a spat?" Solo said quietly, still standing in the hallway.

"I think Mr. Thornhill remains wary of Mrs. Thornhill."

"Well, I guess we're going to get him over it," Solo said as he walked in the room.

It was one of the hotel's larger rooms, with a small den-like area next to the bedroom. Roger sat at a desk reviewing some papers, or at least pretending to be reading them. Eve sat at the foot of the bed watching television. Neither seemed to go much for casual clothes. Roger still had a tie on, while Eve wore a yellow dress.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill, sorry I was delayed," Solo said. "I hope you haven't been too uncomfortable."

Neither answered so Solo continued as he hung up his overcoat. "Roger, I have something to discuss with you for a moment."

Solo took a folded manila envelope from the breast pocket of his suitcoat, took out the contents and pulled up a chair at Roger's desk.

"Now, you've done consulting with Global Motors for about six months, right?"

Roger looked up and took off the reading glasses he had been wearing. "Yes, that's about right."

"In that time, who within Global sent you memos?"

"Well, let's see, there was Harry LeMasters. He's the top marketing fellow. He was the one who contacted me. He's probably the person I've had the most contact with."

Solo put a piece of paper on the desk, took a pen and circled a picture of LeMasters, clean-shaven with a full head of dark, bushy hair and a round face. Looks happy enough, Solo thought, remembering the brief biographies he had studied. Hired from outside the company to revamp its struggling marketing efforts. But some people were questioning whether he was up to the job.

"All right but I assume there were others," Solo said.

"Robert Upton sent me quite a few early in the process," Roger said. "He's a bit of a financial whiz. But he was promoted a few weeks ago to be the lead Global executive at Mazuka."

"That's the Japanese automaker that Global owns?" Kuryakin asked.

"Not exactly. They own twenty-five percent of Mazuka. But Mazuka is struggling and turned to Global for help. So Upton is one of three Global executives who's going to Japan to run the place, in effect."

Solo circled the picture of the bald, bespectacled man with the thin mustache. A lifer at Global, a human calculator, Solo thought. Financial executives often rose to the top at Global, where the informal motto was "we make money first, cars second." If Upton were successful running Mazuka he could get the top job at Global some day.

"Those were the main fellows," Roger said. "Except for a couple of notes from Mike Johnson."

Charles M. "Mike" Johnson, Solo remembered as he circled a picture of a man in his mid fifties, with dark hair just now starting to gray at the temples. Another financial whiz, was running Global's highly successful European operation when Global stumbled badly in the United States in the early 1990s and ran up record amounts of red ink. The board forced out the CEO and brought Johnson over from Europe. He had performed "financial triage" as the business publications put it. But he was still grappling with the fact that Global made few vehicles that got people genuinely excited. Other smaller, and nimbler, competitors featured innovative designs while Global always seemed to follow.

"And all of these gentlemen will be at the reception tomorrow night?" Solo asked.

"Yes, it's a kind of going away affair for Upton. He's leaving for Japan day after tomorrow."

"All right, I think that should about do it for now," Solo said.

Eve turned her attention away from the television and glanced at Solo. She squinted for a brief moment, then looked away. But Solo suspected she had already guessed what he was doing.

"Well, I think we'd better let you people rest, you've been through a lot the past few days," Solo said. "Illya and I will be in the rooms on either side. It's probably a good idea if you stick to your room until tomorrow's reception."

"I suppose," Roger said glumly. "But will you be close enough to help?"

"I've put up some miniature motion detectors at points of entrance," Kuryakin said. "They will send a signal to devices we will be carrying."

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents nodded. Solo picked up his overcoat and he and Kuryakin left the room. A moment later, Eve stood up.

"Roger, you're being a baby."

"Advice from Mata Hari," Roger said.

"I had to alert Alex," Eve protested. "It was important. I had no idea things would get so complicated."

"Evidently, Alex, or the Professor, or whatever he calls himself these days merits a little more cooperation than I do," Roger said. "Suddenly, you're one of his agents again, and without breathing so much as a word to me."

"I never was one of his agents. I did what I thought was right. Roger, you're a darling but you have a naive streak in you." She walked up and put her arms around him. It was the first time in a few days he hadn't pulled back.

"Can't help it. It's the romantic in me, I suppose," Roger said.

"Why don't you demonstrate the romantic in you rather than just talk about it?"

"You're not going to use cyanide on me, are you?"

"Promise," she said just before she started to kiss him.

After leaving the Thornhills' room, Kuryakin motioned to Solo to go to the Russian's room. The American followed without comment.

"I take it you are developing a list of our prime suspects?" Kuryakin asked as he closed the door.

"Had to start somewhere," Solo replied. "My guess is Thornhill really did get the coded transmission by accident. He -- and I'm saying he because all the top Global executives are men -- probably was someone who sent memos both to Roger and to Thrush."

"A Thrush mole, you mean."

"Exactly. I don't think Thrush could hope to take over Global unless it already had a man inside -- someone who had worked themselves high enough they could influence the corporation."

"That's quite a guess, Napoleon. Not much to support it except supposition."

"I'm open to any other suggestions."

"If I come up with one, I'll let you know," Kuryakin said. "All right, for the moment, let us suppose Thrush has a mole. Do we try and meet him at the reception tomorrow?"

"Why not?" Solo said. "It may be our only chance to see all three of the main suspects in the same spot."

"I hope you haven't come up with another of your outlandish covers. I still haven't gotten over my embarrassment about that Dr. Van Konigsburg nonsense of a few months ago."

Solo reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and handed Kuryakin an envelope.

"I think you'll find this one more to your liking. You'll be a high-ranking engineer of a German car company. Don't worry, it's under your name. I'll be there as a reporter for an international business publication."

"Doesn't sound like you're trying to fool anyone too hard."

"Not hard at all," Solo replied. "Having two U.N.C.L.E. agents at the reception might spook our mole."

Kuryakin rubbed his head. "Yes, my head has felt it in the past when we were trying to spook somebody at Thrush."

Solo moved to the door. "That's why U.N.C.L.E. has such a great medical plan, Illya," he said. "Good night." With that he left the room.

Act II

"For A Good Time, Call Pamela"

A writer once compared the Renaissance Center to a thumb sticking out of a graveyard -- in this case a bright, gleaming series of towers in the midst of a decaying downtown Detroit. The Renaissance Center, or Ren Cen to local residents, had never met expectations of revitalizing the downtown area but it had held its own. Still, Global Motors had been able to buy the complex for a song -- less than half the price it originally cost to build it. Looking at it from the air, it looked like five cylinders, the tallest surrounded by four shorter cylinders. The center cylinder housed a major hotel and conference center, and Global Motors was using the hotel's major ballroom for the site of its black-tie reception.

The Ponch stood a few blocks away from the Ren Cen. Illya Kuryakin seemingly left the Ponch casually and started to walk to the next block which housed a station to the downtown "people mover," a monorail system that snaked through downtown. The people mover resembled a giant train ride at Disneyland. There was no way to feed passengers from outlying urban areas and the train cars only went in one direction, counter-clockwise. As a result, it was more of a curiosity item than anything, but convenient for tonight's purposes for the U.N.C.L.E. agents.

A minute or so after Kuryakin left, Roger and Eve Thornhill walked to the same station. Finally, another forty-five seconds passed and Solo, too, walked to the station. Each person paid fifty cents to get through the automated gate and took an escalator up to the station. A few other people were present, but passenger traffic dropped off considerably on most evenings. Tonight was no exception.

Kuryakin had suggested the maneuver. "If we took a taxi, Thrush might be able to tail us with another car," he told Solo a few hours before. "A tail, however, would have trouble looking inconspicuous getting on the monorail. There won't be that many people and it's only a five minute ride or less to the site of the Global reception."

"All right, the people mover it is," Solo said.

Now, as they stood on the platform, the four people were alone. They waited perhaps forty seconds before two cars pulled up. Kuryakin went with Roger and Eve while Solo rode in the second car. There was only one stop between here and the Ren Cen. Not much time for Thrush to make a move.

Solo could see through the large windows that the cars were pulling into the next station. A solitary female figure was standing there. Her head bobbed for a moment as if she were looking inside the two cars.

What the hell? I thought she was in prison, Solo thought.

The cars came to a stop and the doors opened. Into Solo's car strode a skinny, almost flatchested, woman, her brunette hair pulled up in a bun and wearing gold, wire-rimmed glasses. The evening dress was a step up from her normal "mousy librarian" outfits described in her dossier.

"Why, Napoleon Solo, what brings you to Detroit?" asked Pamela Keystroke.

"Forgive me for asking, but I thought you were on your way for a long stay at a certain hotel in Kansas," Solo said. "You know, the kind the government runs."

"Ah, perhaps you didn't hear. I was on my way for a psychiatric evaluation. I killed the guard in transit." Keystroke smiled as if recalling a fond memory. Probably because it was.

"I hope you realize I'm a very fast draw," Solo said, smiling himself. "Besides, I have the feeling the city of Detroit might not appreciate blood stains on the inside of their people mover."

"Oh don't fret, dear," Keystroke said. "Besides, you know my preferred method of execution involves a different locale. No, after my escape I was ordered to assist in an operation in this area. I didn't know until I got here that the great Solo and Kuryakin were involved. I see your Russian friend is in the car ahead of us."

Solo didn't respond. Keystroke continued. "I also see we're coming to the Renaissance Center. Maybe I'll see you at the Global Motors reception.," she said, smiling once more.

The agent nodded and Keystroke left the car. Solo paused for a moment and got out and saw Kuryakin waiting for him.

"For a moment, I feared you might get out dead," Kuryakin said. "I wasn't aware Miss Keystroke was at large again after that affair in Birmingham."

"Says she killed a guard on her way to a psychiatric evaluation."

"Wonderful," Kuryakin said. "Isn't she a bit obvious?"

"Some might even say over the top."

"So it appears Thrush is quite aware we're here. Why do you suppose she announced her presence? Psychological warfare?"

"Probably," Solo said, seeing Roger and Eve waiting over near the edge of the platform, "Well, we might as well go ahead to the Global reception. No telling what additional surprises await us this evening."

As the agents approached the Thornhills, Eve spoke up. "Old flame of yours, Mr. Solo?"

Solo subconsciously rubbed the ear lobe that Keystroke had nearly bitten off during their last encounter. "Not exactly," he said. "Shall we go? Please be alert. Everyone may not be what they seem."

It took twenty minutes to reach the massive third-floor ballroom. First, the group had to navigate the jagged, irregular passageways of the Ren Cen itself before coming to the hotel entrance. More than once, the complex had been compared to a maze. Then, the foursome took an escalator from the main hotel lobby. Roger and Eve walked into the ballroom first, producing their genuine invitation. Kuryakin followed two minutes later, producing the forgery U.N.C.L.E. had made while Solo brought up the rear another ninety seconds later.

The gathering was well underway by the time Solo entered. In the middle was an enormous buffet of what looked to be basic American dishes, such as beef, sliced chicken, vegetables and the like. On the outer edge of the ballroom were smaller buffet lines for specialized ethnic dishes, including one place where sushi was being served. Solo looked around the room but couldn't spot Keystroke. Was she really here or was that a trick, also?

Looking around, he did see Roger and Eve talking to Henry LeMasters, the top marketing executive of Global while Kuryakin had already gotten to Mike Johnson, the chief executive officer. Then, he saw Robert Upton, the man Global was sending to take over Mazuka in Japan.

Solo angled to Upton who had just taken a glass of champagne from a waiter. "Mr. Upton?"

"Yes?"

"Hello, I'm Napoleon Solo of Business Weekly magazine."

"Is that your real name?"

"My parents studied European history in college."

Upton chucked. "I suppose you get that question quite a bit."

"More than once. So are you looking forward to taking the Mazuka post?"

"It's an enormous opportunity, I'm very excited."

"An opportunity for you or for Global?" Solo asked.

"For Global, of course. If Mazuka does all right, personal career matters will take care of themselves."

"Yes, I suppose if you can help turn around Mazuka, your career could soar like a bird in flight," Solo said.

Upton looked, for just a second, as if he had been slapped before resuming the facade of superficial civility. "You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Solo. This is merely a reception, not a formal press conference."

"Sorry, force of habit."

"Enjoy yourself, Mr. Solo, but I'm afraid I can't spare you any more time."

Upton moved on without waiting for a response

Kuryakin's conversation with Mike Johnson was almost as brief but a bit more pleasant.

"So what is your engineering specialty, Mr. Kuryakin?" Johnson said. "I almost studied engineering myself in college but ended up in finance."

"Actually, I have expertise in several areas," Kuryakin replied, not exactly lying. "But it must be very exciting these days from where you sit."

"We're turning it around, but it's hard and slow. Trying to change direction at Global Motors is like trying to steer an aircraft carrier -- it doesn't happen nearly as quickly as you'd like."

"I guess that's true. It's like a saying my uncle once said, "No man is free who..."

Just then, a couple of reporters elbowed their way into the conversation. One of them started talking before Kuryakin could even finish his sentence. "Mike, there's a lot of concern right now about the trade balance and whether Japanese automakers are making a comeback, coupled with..."

"Paul, do you always have to be working?" Johnson joked.

Kuryakin edged away as the reporter named Paul continued talking. If Johnson is a mole, he didn't rise to the bait, Kuryakin thought. Though given how he's handling that journalist, he doesn't look like he'd be phased by a mere verbal joust.

Henry LeMasters put his arm around Roger Thornhill, trying to guide him away from the reception.

"Now Roger, if I could just go over a couple of last-minute details..."

"Henry, the only person I let put their arm around me is my wife," Roger said in mock protest.

"And I get jealous," Eve added. "Besides, Roger's officially retired. He's only supposed to be a consultant, not a full-time executive on the campaign."

"Eve, your husband is one of the slickest ad execs I've ever seen. Every suggestion he's made is brilliant," LeMasters said.

"Well, I haven't seen him enough the past couple of months thanks to you, Henry," Eve countered. Besides you're of the people Solo and Kuryakin suspect of being a Thrush mole -- even if they won't say it to me, she thought.

Roger pulled away from both. "It's very lovely to be wanted, but I'm afraid nature calls. I'll be right back."

"Wait Roger, what I have to say won't take but a minute. Besides, I could stand a visit to the little boy's room myself."

"Uh Roger..." Eve said.

"Oh don't worry about it, darling," Roger said. "Maybe I can rid myself of this pest if I humor him. C'mon Henry."

"But wait..." It was too late, though. The two men were already walking away. Eve took two steps, then stopped. If she did follow them, it would appear conspicuous -- not to mention silly.

Eve sighed. A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne goblets. She grabbed one and took a big sip. Men -- they think they know everything, Eve thought.

As Roger Thornhill and Henry LeMasters entered the rest room, Roger noticed that two of the stalls were occupied. So he walked up to one of the urinals. LeMasters, however, just stood there and talked.

"Now, do think the advertising is sufficiently differentiated between Europe, Asia and North America?"

"We've been over that a thousand times, Henry," Roger said as he conducted his business. "You've seen the research and you've had plenty of times to look at the initial television spots. The second batch are almost done and the last of the print ads will be finished next week. Why don't you pester your full-time marketing people about all this?"

"Oh Roger, you and I both know that ninety percent of all this is based on your ideas," LeMasters said. "This campaign will live or die based on Roger Thornhill."

"I think you're exaggerating just a tad," Roger said as he was finishing up.

Roger still had his back to LeMasters when one of the stalls opened up.

"Excuse me, sir, but I believe there's a food stain on your tux jacket," the unseen voice said to LeMasters.

Roger froze. "Vandamm?"

Thornhill turned around just in time to see Phillip Vandamm strike LeMasters in the back of the head as the Global executive looked in the mirror trying to find the non-existent food stain. LeMasters collapsed immediately to the floor.

"What a bore," Vandamm said, as he turned to Roger. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you really were an ordinary advertising man."

"What?" The word choked in Roger's throat as a cloud of knockout gas shot from the flower on Vandamm's lapel. As Roger fell to the floor, Vandamm reached into his pocket and took out an object that looked like a pager. He pushed a button on it once. Twenty seconds later, a large Thrushman entered the rest room and picked up Roger. Vandamm went over to the other occupied stall and knocked twice. "You know what to do if any of our U.N.C.L.E. friends show up, eh?" There was a single knock from the other side of the stall door.

Kuryakin approached Eve Thornhill who sipped her glass of champagne.

"Where is your husband?" the Russian said, looking past her.

"LeMasters insisted on cornering him to talk shop," Eve said. "I caught several minutes of their talk, it all seemed to be about advertising. I think LeMasters is anxious about the new ad campaign Roger has been consulting on. They stepped out for a moment. I think poor Roger had to go to the rest room and LeMasters insisted on following him."

Kuryakin fidgeted. "How long ago did he leave?"

"Just a minute ago. It's not like I could follow him into the rest room and I couldn't find either you or Mr. Solo."

"Well, perhaps I'll take a quick trip myself," Kuryakin said, trying not to display a sudden feeling of nervousness. Without comment, he began to work his way to the back of the room, and the entrance. Glancing around, he saw the sign for the rest rooms out in the main lobby of the floor. He walked quickly and entered the men's room. The first thing he saw was Henry LeMasters slumped by the sink, his eyes closed.

Kuryakin went up to the fallen executive, kneeling down to examine LeMasters. He was still alive but had a nasty knot on the back of his head. Suddenly, the Russian's senses were screaming at him. The assassin was silent; it wasn't a noise but a feeling that caused Kuryakin to bring his hand to his face, preventing the garrote from wrapping around his throat. But it was cutting into the heel of his hand, causing it to bleed. A second later, Kuryakin pushed back with his legs as hard as hard as he could. As a result, Kuryakin tumbled into the assassin, who released the garrote to keep his balance.

Illya turned around quickly, stood up and looked into the eyes of the Thrushman. He was young and dressed in black tie, like the other reception guests. The assassin rushed at Kuryakin, who easily sidestepped his attacker. Kuryakin kneed the man in the chest as he stumbled. The force of that blow caused the Thrushman to leave his neck exposed and the Russian hit him hard with a karate blow. The Thrushman fell backward, hitting his head on the floor.

Kuryakin grabbed a paper towel and held it against his bleeding hand. He guessed the Thrushman must have been waiting inside one of the toilet stalls and snuck out silently to try to eliminate his target.

Just then, LeMasters began to stir. "Wha?"

Kuryakin bent forward to help him up. "I think you must have been mugged. What happened to the man who came in with you?"

"Roger? I was talking to Roger when I got hit or something..."

Kuryakin grimaced and got out his pen communicator. LeMasters seemed woozy and there was no time to waste. He uncapped the pen and had it dialed to Napoleon's unit. After a moment, he established a connection with Solo. "Napoleon, our advertising man has been kidnapped again. Went into the bathroom with LeMasters. The latter is alive, but recovering from a blow to the head. One of our winged friends is here also, but in no shape to worry about."

"Dammit," Solo replied. "Do you need help?"

"I'll manage."

"Good, because I just spotted a lady Thrush who seems to be getting ready to take flight. Solo out."

Pamela Keystroke had been blowing Napoleon a kiss when the call from Illya arrived. The gesture caused a knot to form in the agent's stomach. The call itself confirmed it. Solo put the communicator back in the coat pocket of his tuxedo and began to walk quickly. Dammit all, he thought. Whatever Thrush had planned, Keystroke had to know something, however fragmentary.

Solo was almost jogging by the time he exited the ballroom and got to the escalators. He could see that Keystroke had reached the ground floor and was heading away. The agent walked at a brisk pace down the escalators. When he reached the ground floor, he went past the hotel's front desk and out to the Ren Cen's hallway. He looked around and paused. Off in the distance, back in the direction of the people mover station, he thought he heard footsteps, the kind a woman's dress shoes would make on a hard surface.

Solo began to jog once more until he was a few steps from a corner of the wide hallway. He almost had to skid to a stop just as a bullet struck the other side of the corner. He drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special. Another bullet slammed into the wall, then another. Then a laugh, almost a shriek. It was Pamela Keystroke all right.

The agent reached around and fired the U.N.C.L.E. Special twice. The footsteps resumed, quicker this time. Solo ran around the corner and caught a glimpse of Keystroke heading up another escalator, which led to the people mover station. Solo fired a shot in her general direction but he didn't have a good angle for the shot. The shrieking cackle resumed again.

Solo now ran at full speed up this escalator. Just before he got to the entrance to the people station, Keystroke fired two more shots. Solo dived for the floor but still got a look at the gun -- small, probably without much range but one that could easily be hidden in some kind of stocking holster.

She headed up yet another escalator, up to the platform. Solo got up and ran, hurdling the gate where a passenger deposited his or her fifty cents to get on the people mover. Solo rushed up the escalator, his weapon drawn. But when he got up to the top, Keystroke sprang up -- she had been hiding to the side of the escalator instead of going to the platform. Her karate blow struck Solo's forearm, causing him to drop the pistol. She moved to press her advantage by striking a blow with her other hand at Solo's chest.

The agent collapsed to his knees but shook it off long enough to grab Keystroke's legs. He pulled the legs out from under the Thrush assassin and she landed on her back with a resounding thud. Before he could attack her again, however, Keystroke kicked at Solo and connected hard. Now, Solo was on his back. She reached for something from her dress -- a knife.

Solo rolled to the side as Keystroke lunged with her blade. He slapped her hard with the back of his hand, stunning her and buying him the seconds needed to get to his feet. They circled one another, gradually easing their way onto the people mover platform. She tried a high kick. Solo mostly sidestepped the attack, but she did connect with a glancing blow to the side of his head. She landed off balance and Solo whipped around, hitting her with his arms, causing her to fall forward, off the platform and down onto the people mover tracks.

Keystroke lay there face down. Solo stood there, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He glanced up and saw another people mover train was seconds from coming into the station. Solo looked at Keystroke for a moment. How much he wanted to let her lie there. Instead, he sighed, stepped down and grabbed her by the back of her dress, yanking her up to the platform.

Her eyes opened halfway. "What the hell happened?"

"Where's Roger Thornhill?"

She laughed. "Vandamm has him by now."

"Where?"

"Go to hell," Keystroke said. She then looked over as the people mover car came to a stop at the spot where she had been. "You didn't save my life, did you?"

"Uh-huh."

"If I had had more time for this operation, I would have gotten you into bed to show you how I do my best work."

"I'm familiar with the dossier," he said. "You act like a schoolmarm, lure some unsuspecting target into a torrid sexual affair and kill him during unorthodox sex."

"You'd have died happy," she said.

Solo helped her sit up. "Good night, Pamela," he said.

"Good night?"

Solo headbutted her and she fell back unconscious. "I don't kill people for fun but there's no rule that I have to bring an assassin in unharmed," he said as the people mover cars pulled away.

Act III

"A Conversation Over A Fat Lip"

At the Ponch, Illya Kuryakin entered the hotel room with a bucket of ice. He poured about a quarter of the bucket's contents onto a hand towel and then wrapped the ice with the towel. He then walked over to the cot where Napoleon Solo was lounging.

"Here, might hold down the swelling," Kuryakin said.

"Swell," Solo said as he held the towel up to his jaw. "One consolation prize for a disastrous evening."

"I thought Alex said you two were his best men," Eve Thornhill said, pacing as she had done for the past half-hour. "God, for a cigarette."

"Well, it's nice to know we have a vote of confidence from our superior," Solo said. "Of course, it would have been nice if we had known about this Global Motors business from the beginning, instead of playing catch up. But Mr. Waverly can be the sly one on occasion."

"You're making jokes while my husband could be dead!" Eve protested. "You should have let me at that Keystroke woman."

"I don't think that would have been advisable," Kuryakin said. "Napoleon is hardly a pushover and it wasn't as if he left her, eh, unmarked in their confrontation."

"Two rousing votes of confidence in one evening," Solo said. "My, I am blessed."

"Oh, why did I have to call Alex?" Eve said, looking at neither agent. "Roger and I were perfectly happy for fifteen years. I shouldn't have picked up that telephone..."

"Self-pity, while understandable, will not assist us in returning your husband," Kuryakin said. "The same applies to you, too, Napoleon."

Solo squinted at his partner, but said nothing.

"We began the evening with three suspects as to which Global executive might be the Thrush mole," Kuryakin said. "Part of this exercise was to try and talk with each of the three. Have we any conclusions? I managed to get a few minutes in with Mr. Johnson, the chief executive. He failed to react when I used a phrase that might get a rise out of a Thrushman. Hardly conclusive, however."

"I don't think it's Mike Johnson," Eve said. "It's just a feeling. But he's always struck me as a straight shooter. Roger only had contact with him once or twice but he was fairly impressed."

"What about Mr. LeMasters?" Kuryakin said. "He was the one your husband probably knew the best."

"He seems to eat, drink and breathe the marketing and advertising business," Eve said. "Couldn't get him to stop. Seems a little absent-minded about everything else. If he's a mole, he's good."

Illya and Eve now turned their gaze upon Napoleon, who continued to hold the cold towel to his face. Solo pretended not to notice, as if he were milking the moment for all he could.

"Oh me? I definitely think it's Upton."

"Any particular reason or do you wish to dazzle us with your savoir faire?," Kuryakin said.

"Well, I suspect I used a similar phrase that might get a rise from a Thrush, something about comparing Mr. Upton's career to a bird in flight. He definitely did not care for it."

"Interesting, but hardly conclusive, either."

"I have been giving the matter some thought. I believe there are other reasons."

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. Ah well, Napoleon likes to have his moments. "Go on."

"Global Motors traditionally promotes from inside the company. LeMasters was an outside hire, largely because Global's directors thought the in-house marketing people were lacking. While it's an important job, Global generally makes one of its own the chief executive. LeMasters hasn't been around long enough to be considered family, and might never be. I don't think that's the kind of horse Thrush would try to ride."

"Let's assume for a moment that's true," Kuryakin said. "There is also Mike Johnson, the current chief executive. He doesn't strike me as Thrush, but that's only an impression. What makes you so sure?"

"Simple. If Mike Johnson were the mole, Thrush would be in the midst of implementing its plans," Solo said. "This whole business with Roger being kidnapped was Thrush trying to cover its plans, to try and prevent us from finding out what its objective is. No, I think Thrush may be close to having its man in charge but it isn't there yet. Mr. Upton, on the other hand, is just one step away. If he returns Mazuka to financial health, he's the odds on favorite to succeed Mike Johnson. And Johnson is older than sixty. General's management is at the point a successor will probably be named within a year or so."

"That's quite speculative," Kuryakin said.

"It's merely an educated guess," Eve interrupted. "You want to gamble with Roger's life on a guess?"

"I'm open to alternative ideas. An U.N.C.L.E. interrogation team will get some time tomorrow with Pamela Keystroke and that killer Illya fought, but I don't think they'll turn up much. We've got to move now."

"Move how?" Eve said. "Even if you're right, what can we do?"

"If it is Upton, it means we go to Japan, the sooner the better," Solo said. "Upton leaves for Tokyo tomorrow. At the end of the week, he's scheduled a media event at Mazuka's testing grounds. We get phony press credentials to get us on site. I've already established the business magazine cover; I'll just use that."

"But they know who you are. It won't fool them," Eve said.

"That just means I can draw their fire," Solo said, trying to sound confident.

"What about Roger? What if he's dead already?" Her hand rubbed at the outer edge of her eye.

Solo saw Eve's eyes were moist with tears. He got up off the cot. "If he's dead, there's nothing we can do to bring him back. If he's still alive, stopping Vandamm and Thrush is our best chance of saving him. Either way, Vandamm and Thrush can't be allowed to proceed."

"You don't have too much to base all this on," Eve said.

"We've succeeded with less," Kuryakin answered.

Eve lapsed into silence while Solo sat back on the cot. Kuryakin took out the pen communicator and started to call U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York.

Two days later, the trio boarded TransGlobal Flight Twenty-Three from Detroit to Tokyo. The flight had to fight headwinds of more than one hundred miles per hour, which added at least two hours of flying time. Eve and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents sat apart but were within two rows of one another. Kuryakin fell asleep immediately but it took Solo quite a while before he could rest, so he ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. He ran his own self doubts through his mind. They had come up the day before the flight when he and Illya had a final briefing session amongst themselves.

"New York sent these copies of the plans of the Mazuka proving grounds. It's quite a sprawling place and a good many places to hide things. Remote. It's at the base of Mount Fuji."

"Thank you," Solo said as he looked over the plans. "Very impressive. Looks like they have three separate oval tracks and a long road course where they test prototype vehicles. There's also a facility for performing crash tests and some laboratories for various proprietary items."

"Will Mrs. Thornhill accompany us?"

"I think so, but I'll make sure this evening."

"I was wanting to sound reassuring to her but it is true this is quite a gamble," Kuryakin said.

"I know."

"Is it just a guess or is there something else you're not telling?"

Solo paused. "In a way, it almost doesn't matter," the agent said. "You've read the file on that affair from fifteen years ago. Vandamm has a score to settle with Eve, not just her husband. If anything, he has more of a grudge against her, jilted lover and all that. Once Vandamm finds out she's going to Japan, then Vandamm will follow. This just isn't a Thrush operation for him. It's revenge. And it will be easier to lure Mrs. Thornhill if Mr. Thornhill is still alive."

"I just hope it's true what they say about you in U.N.C.L.E.," Kuryakin said.

"Oh, and what's that?"

"That you're both good and lucky," Kuryakin said. "I, for one, have never enjoyed games of chance."

Games of chance. The words repeated themselves in Solo's mind. Illya was right. It was a game of chance. Solo felt in his gut he was right. But was that enough to risk lives with? He swallowed the last of the Scotch and chewed on the ice. His gut. It had served him well in the past. He was going to have to rely on it one more time.

Narita International Airport is a madhouse, even on its best days. The facility needed at least one more runway, but Japanese farmers, who are very politically powerful, had prevented that from happening. It was also agrarian landowners who lobbied, successfully, so the airport shut down after midnight. As a result, international arrivals tended to bunch up, with two, three, or more coming in at roughly the same time. That, in turn, slows down customs. All of these factors were evident when Napoleon, Illy and Eve arrived. It took more than an hour to get through customs, most of the time simply spent waiting in line.

After completing the obstacle course, the trio exchanged their money for Japanese yen and bought tickets for a bus that stopped at the major Western hotels. They had lost a day by flying past the International Date Line. Solo wished he had slept longer on the plane after the bus hit heavy late-afternoon traffic on the expressway from Narita to Tokyo. He was sitting by a window on the bus and it was hard to lay his head down. He managed to catch a catnap but still felt dazed when they finally reached the Imperial Hotel, near the family grounds of the Emperor.

Upon arriving, each checked into their own room but Solo asked that they meet in a half hour down in one of the hotel bars.

Kuryakin was already there when Solo arrived. He pulled up a chair at the small table where the Russian was nursing a Japanese beer.

"What are you having?" Solo asked.

"Kirin. It's drier and better tasting than American beers," Kuryakin said.

Solo turned to order when he saw Eve Thornhill come up. Solo rose and offered her a chair.

A waiter came up. "Double Scotch for me," Solo said. "And for madam..?"

"The same please."

The waiter walked off. "I suggest we rest tomorrow, stay close to the hotel," Solo said. "Friday is the day Upton has his big show out at the Mazuka training grounds. I know one day isn't enough to shake off the jet lag but it's the best we can allow."

"It will be sufficient," Kuryakin said.

The waiter came back with the drinks. "Be sure and put it on my bill, waiter," Solo said, knowing most of the Western hotel employees spoke English sufficiently.

"That is all right sir," the waiter said slowly. "Your friend already specified that."

Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who subtly shrugged his shoulders, hiding his smile in his beer. The waiter went off.

"I hope you realize I intend on going with you to Mazuka," Eve said, ignoring their exchange.

"He wouldn't have it any other way," Kuryakin said.

Eve caught the dirty look that Solo gave Illya. "What does he mean, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, what do I mean, Napoleon?"

Solo frowned. "While I do believe that Upton is the Thrush mole, I strongly suspect Vandamm will show up here even if he isn't."

"Oh," Eve said. "Revenge? For me rejecting him, betraying him fifteen years ago?"

"Something like that."

"Well, Alex said I should be prepared for that. I kind of guessed that was part of your plan -- dangle me like bait."

"I wouldn't call it dangle--"

"You needn't sugar coat it, Mr. Solo," Eve said. "Phillip Vandamm would very much like me dead."

"Still, you came willingly."

"Yes," she replied. "If there's any chance -- no matter how small -- of getting Roger back, I'll take it. I don't suppose you'd understand. But Roger is a sweetheart. Oh, he can be tough when he has to be -- I think he surprised himself how tough he could be fifteen years ago. However, beneath all that charm and glitz, he's a real softie. I didn't have many good relationships with men before I met Roger. I'll do anything I must to get him back."

Solo looked at the middle-aged woman for a moment. She was quite striking. He could understand how Roger could fall in love with her even in the midst of the craziness he must have experienced when he became part of Waverly's game of spy versus spy.

"Roger is a lucky man," Solo finally said, breaking the silence. "If he's alive, I'll do everything I can to get him back. That's a promise."

Eve said nothing but her eyes moistened again as she took a sip from her drink.

Act IVM

"A Lovely Day for a Drive"

The next day was uneventful. Napoleon and Illya conducted separate workouts while Eve kept to herself. The only event of consequence took place when a courier from U.N.C.L.E.'s Tokyo station dropped off credentials and other papers as well as tickets for the bullet train west from Tokyo.

The agents invited Eve to dinner but she declined, preferring to have room service at the hotel. Napoleon and Illya had a drink in the hotel bar before going out to dinner. They had arranged for an agent from the Tokyo station to keep watch on Eve's room while they were away.

"Must we involve the woman?" Kuryakin said after taking a drink of Kirin beer.

"I didn't make that choice," Solo replied. "She's wearing a Waverly ring, remember? Mr. Waverly thought enough of her character to entrust her with it."

"You are not Mr. Waverly," the Russian said. "He may have entrusted her with the ring, but he did not devise the details of our operations, only the generalities."

"Perhaps," Solo said. "But it's too late to change now."

"A convenient rationalization for those who've made up their minds."

Solo looked at Kuryakin for a moment but he had no retort. So he finished his Scotch -- just a single this time -- and the two men left for dinner.

The trio got off to an early start, meeting just before 6 a.m. at the hotel lobby and grabbing a cab for Tokyo Station. Even at this early hour, the station was brimming with people; in another hour it would have commuters spilling out.

No wonder, Solo thought, remembering what he had learned in previous journeys here. Tokyo has a population of about fifteen million, but the daytime head count doubles as people unable to afford the high price of Tokyo living stream into the megalopolis.

The station signs were marked in Japanese and English and the facility was surprisingly easy to navigate. By 6:45, they boarded the train and found their reserved seats. Kuryakin had brought what appeared to be a small carry-on bag and placed it in the overhead compartment. The train pulled out gently and gradually began to build up speed. Within ten minutes, they were on the outskirts of the city and really started to accelerate. Yet the ride was smooth, so smooth it belied the quickening speed.

Eve, who sat by the window, watched the passing landscape, an odd mix of urban development and small farmers' fields. She turned to Napoleon. "You know, Roger and I met on a train," she said. "It was nothing like this, but it was nice. He was a ridiculously bad liar. It's amazing he was able to elude the police and Vandamm the way he did."

"You know the old saying. It's sometimes better to be lucky than good."

"Oh, but you're one of Alex's best. You don't need luck."

"We all need luck."

"Yes, some of us more than others," Kuryakin said, looking back from the seat ahead of them.

Eve smiled. "I suppose so."

There was almost no conversation the rest of the trip. Solo knew Eve must be thinking of Roger. He could only guess at Illya's thoughts; after all these years, the Russian's motivations were as much of a mystery to Solo as ever. He just knew Illya was the closest friend he'd ever have, not to mention the most capable. Whether Solo would ever admit as much out loud was another question.

Less than an hour later, the train stopped at the station nearest Mount Fuji. After walking down from the train platform, the three travelers found the main entrance where a series of Mazuka limousines were waiting. Their drivers held up signs in both Japanese and English. Napleon took out the credentials the courier had delivered the day before and got into the lead car, followed by Illya and Eve.

The limo pulled away and moved quickly through the small town and drove up the hills into the country. An old feeling began to grip Solo as tightly as he would squeeze a gunbutt. It was a feeling that the last hand was about to be dealt. He tried to shake off the notion. After all, this trip might prove uneventful. But somehow, Solo felt as if Thrush couldn't resist trying to crush resistance to its plans right here and right now.

The secretary bowed as Robert Upton prepared to enter the conference room. Upton waved, not accustomed to the bowing. "Please hold all my calls, I need a few minutes to prepare," he said. The secretary bowed again and walked off.

Upton closed the door and turned to look upon Phillip Vandamm.

"My dear Upton, if you're going to assimilate yourself in Japan, you're going to have to get used to the bowing. I was rather looking forward to being waited on by the office ladies. They make very good coffee and their service is next to none."

"How can you joke at a time like this?" Upton said. "And why did you bring Roger Thornhill here, anyway?"

"Actually, if you hadn't been so stupid as to accidentally send him that memo you intended as a coded message to us, we wouldn't have gone through all this."

"I admit I fouled up. But there's no way Thornhill would have made the connection between me and Thrush if you hadn't overplayed your hand."

"You don't know Roger Thornhill as I do, nor his wife," Vandamm said. "Even now, I'm not totally certain whether he's the luckiest man alive or an incredibly skilled operative. His wife is another story. She knew Alexander Waverly. Even after fifteen years, if she got one peek at that document she could spot it for a phony. Either way, I couldn't afford to take that chance. Not when we are so close to assuming control of Global Motors."

"But how can you be sure U.N.C.L.E. will make a play here at this morning's media event?"

"Force of habit," Vandamm said. "After the Keystroke woman and that other assassin failed, I'm quite sure they'll be headed here. I can feel it."

Upton rolled his eyes. "I tell you the best thing to do would be to lie low."

Vandamm pounded a fist on the table. The move was so uncharacteristic of the cool Vandamm that Upton actually took a step back.

"My dear fellow, don't let your lofty position at Global Motors and now Mazuka get to your head," Vandamm said, his voice still cool but with a feel of menace to it. "You are still our creature, after all." Upton swallowed and said nothing.

The limousine with Eve, Napoleon and Illya pulled up to a security gate. The guard waved the car in and the vehicle traveled another half-mile until it pulled up to a series of buildings. There were signs directing visitors to the center building. As they walked, Illya took a camera out of his bag and started to adjust its settings.

"Let me guess, we're reporters and he's a photographer?" Eve said as the group walked into the center building.

"The most natural cover for infiltrating a media event, wouldn't you say?" Solo replied.

"We're not going to fool anybody!"

"Don't be a pessimist."

"I'm beginning to think Alex has lost a step if you're supposed to be his best man."

"Well, in that case, why don't you and this scruffy fellow go over there with the other copy hounds," Solo said.

"Who's scruffy?" Kuryakin said. "I wore the turtleneck because photographers are famous for not wearing ties."

"Alex is going to get an earful from me when this is all over," Eve muttered under her breath.

Solo fought back a grin. He hoped annoying her might clear her mind, at least a bit, of worrying too much for Roger. If she got good and mad, it might get her attention back to the job at hand. He then looked at his right hand and appeared to twist his Waverly Ring.

The reporters, still photographers and video cameramen began to cluster in a large reception room. In the back there were tables with pots of coffee, cream and sugar. Solo poured himself a cup. He noticed it was harder to find artificial sweetener here in Japan, and forget about non-dairy creamers. He took a sip and almost instantly felt a jolt from the caffeine. The Japanese also didn't play around with de-caf. But he was glad for the effect, as his body clock still hadn't adjusted to the change in time zones.

Near the front of the room there were approximately fifty chairs with a small makeshift stage. A Japanese man in dark slacks and a white shirt with a Mazuka logo on it stepped up to the stage. In a soft voice, he spoke flawless English. "Ladies and gentlemen, could you please take your seats? Mr. Upton will be here in a minute."

The crowd shuffled to sit in the chairs. Kuryakin sat next to Eve, in about the middle row of chairs. Solo took a seat in the last row.

After two minutes, the media types were finally all seated. From the rear of the room strode Upton, wearing an outfit similar to the Japanese man who had just been on the stage. His manner exuded confidence, but then that was its purpose. He was the gaijin assigned by the big American company to help straighten the course of Mazuka -- a once unthinkable occurrence given the Japanese reputation for quality cars.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," Upton said upon reaching the stage. Off to the side, the Japanese man was talking softly into a microphone. Japanese reporters wore earpieces through which they heard the talk being translated. "This is a new era at Mazuka Motors. I am humbly aware of Mazuka's reputation for fine automobiles. I am not here to tell Mazuka what to do, but to help coach it back to financial health. As you know, I come from Global Motors. But there is much Global can learn from its association with Mazuka. I hope to make this situation a plus, a gain, for both parties. Our purpose is--"

Upton's mouth opened just a second as he scanned his audience and saw Eve. "--uh, to present a look at upcoming models we have in development. This session will be embargoed and my associates will inform you of the specific release dates for each of the four models you will see today. Afterward, we will have a very informal and short question and answer session."

The executive paused again as he spotted Solo in the back, who made a short wave of his hand.

"I have much to learn myself here at Mazuka," Upton said. "See you all later."

Upton walked quickly off the stage and out the back. His steps were short and tentative, not the confident stride of just a few minutes earlier. He looked down at the floor and averted eye contact with any of the journalists. The people started to get up. Another Japanese man at the back spoke up. "We will split into three groups, Americans, Europeans and Asians. You will walk back outside and go to the proper bus. By the end of the morning, you will have seen each model."

The journalists filed out of the room. They had to crowd through the double doors to get out of the room. They began to walk through the hall to the front entrance where the buses were waiting. Eve and Illya were still together when one of the Japanese men, this one wearing a Mazuka jacket, came up.

"Oh miss?" the man said in slightly accented English. "Do you have a moment?"

"Should I wait?" Illya muttered to Eve.

"Go on out to the bus," Eve said.

"Are you sure?"

Eve nodded. "Bait dangling, remember?" she said softly. "Let's hope your friend knows what he's doing."

Kuryakin sighed and walked outside.

"Miss, someone needs to see you for a minute," the Japanese man said.

"I'm sorry, but--" She stopped talking when she saw the gun bulge through the jacket pocket.

"Miss, it's quite urgent."

Eve looked around for a moment but the room had emptied out. The Japanese man pointed toward a side door and Eve went in that direction. They came into a hallway and turned left and walked down a long corridor of unmarked offices. When they reached the end of the corridor, they paused at the door on the right. The Japanese man reached into his pocket and took out the gun, raising it in the direction of the door. Eve opened the door.

"Roger!" she said, her eyes open wide.

Ignoring her armed escort, Eve ran up to her husband, who sat bound in a chair in front of a single table. His head drooped toward his chest and his hands were tied behind him. Eve hurried to Roger and knelt beside him, stroking his face.

Roger raised his head a bit. "You've drawn them into your trap, I see," he said weakly. "My wife the spy."

She heard a noise behind here. Into the room came Phillip Vandamm and Robert Upton, along with a large, hulking man. "My dear, you are so predictable," Vandamm said.

The Japanese Thrushman patrolled the empty corridors of the office building. The journalists had left, eliminating a security risk. Then he stopped in the lobby. A gaijin was bent over, pounding a soft-drink vending machines.

"Come on, you --" the foreigner said, apparently cussing. The Thrushman knew most conventional English but swear words were a weak spot for him.

Looking up, the foreigner acted as if had just noticed the security man. "Not like they make 'em in America," the gaijin said.

"Sir, you were supposed to go to your bus," the Japanese Thrushman said, resuming his guise as a helpful Mazuka employee.

The gaijin stood up slowly, and then turned to face the Thrushman. "Well, if it's all the same to you I prefer a 300ZX to a bus," Napoleon Solo said.

The Thrushman was surprised for only an instant but it was enough. Solo kneed him in the groin, causing the Thrush to double over. The U.N.C.L.E. agent struck him in the back of the neck with a karate blow. Looking around, Solo spied a closet, where he dragged the unconscious thug. After a quick search, Solo found the man's handgun, which he dropped in the pocket of his suitcoat.

After shutting the closet door, Solo took out his pen communicator, which was already set to Kuryakin's frequency.

"Come in scruffy, come in, please," Solo said softly into the microphone.

"You have an odd way of asking for help," Kuryakin answered.

"As expected, our Thrush friends couldn't wait to grab Mrs. Thornhill. I'm on my way to find her, and hopefully her husband as well. Are you close to the test drive?"

"We're almost there. Shall I come back?"

"Not yet. But do me a favor will you, Illya?"

"Yes."

"When it come time for the reporters to test drive that car, elbow your way to the front of the line. Solo out."

"Now I must ask you, m'dear," Vandamm said. "Just how much does the U-N-C-L-E know of our plans?"

"I don't know what--"

The slap from Vandamm cut off Eve's words. "That is only a taste, m'dear," he said. "I have men scattered about these grounds. They will isolate your friends from U.N.C.L.E. They won't be able to get away and send help."

Solo had quickly gone down one corridor and it turned up empty. He walked with his right hand forming a fist, held about chin high. Then, the Waverly Ring suddenly started to glow a feint red. The agent tensed, and he kept looking back. The further he kept walking, the brighter the glow got. As he approached the last set of doors, the ring began to flash. Solo smiled to himself. He had read about the new feature of the Waverly Rings where, with a slight adjustment, it could be turned into a device that indicated if another wearer of a Waverly Ring was nearby. It had been disclosed in an addendum to a technical report George Dennel in Section Four had sent him. Good old George, Solo thought. I had almost blown him off. I may have to buy him a drink when we get back.

Solo withdrew his U.N.C.L.E. Special as he tried to listen to what was happening inside. After a moment, he put the gun back in his shoulder holster, then reached into his pocket and took out what looked like a small clump of clay.

"You bastard," Roger said, his strength slowly starting to return. "Hit her again and I'll kill you."

"Oh, you're not in much of a position to harm anyone, Mr. Thornhill," Vandamm said, pulling up a chair and staring at his old nemesis. "You're finally where I want you -- and your wife is as well."

Just then, a tiny cellular phone being carried by Upton rang. "I told you I wasn't.. what? Well, where is he then? All right, keep the other one under surveillance."

"What was all that about?" Vandamm asked.

"Solo isn't on any of the buses. I know he was in the room when I addressed the reporters. Kuryakin went on the American group bus. That bunch will be taking a test drive of one of the new models."

"Damn amateurs."

"I told you we hadn't had a chance to get very many of our men at this facility yet!" Upton said. "But you--"

At that moment, the door was forced open by a small explosion that still shattered the opaque glass of the door. Napoleon Solo entered, his gun drawn. But the huge Japanese thug hadn't been rattled by the blast and rushed and pinned Solo, causing the agent to drop the U.N.C.L.E. Special. The big man held Solo's face with one hand, almost entirely covering his mouth and jaw. Solo strained but couldn't move.

A half-mile away, the American group bus was parked on a large patch of concrete. A series of cones formed a winding, narrow circular path.

"This, ladies and gentleman is the Proteus, a new hybrid car, part electric vehicle, part conventional gasoline engine," said a Japanese man, who had identified himself to the group as one of the vehicle's designers. "The electric motor starts the car moving, the gasoline engine kicks in to get it up to highway speed."

"What is the top speed?" asked a blonde man with a camera around his neck, who stood in front of the journalists.

"Well, the main advantage of this car is the fact it reduces emissions. We feel the Proteus may be a useful--"

"But how fast can it go?" the blonde man persisted.

The designer rolled his eyes. "As fast as most conventional cars. I think we've gotten it past 200 kilometers per hour, but again it's not--"

The blonde man raised his camera and acted as if he were taking a picture. Suddenly, a plume of smoke enveloped the group. The designer felt woozy and his knees bucked. The other reporters started to choke. But the blonde man went straight for the Proteus.

Illya Kuryakin turned the key, but instead of the familiar rumble of starting, the car edged forward like a golf cart that had just been engaged. When he had gone about a hundred feet, the gasoline engine kicked in and Kuryakin hit the accelerator. He ignored the cones and turned the Proteus back the way the bus had come from the administration building.

The big man banged Solo's head against the wall once, twice.

The thug was at least six inches taller than Solo and the agent knew brute force wasn't the answer. Time to fight dirty.

Solo stomped on the man's foot, hard. The thug only slightly wavered, so Solo stomped again. This time, the hand gave way from the agent's face and Solo got enough leverage to break his hold. He dove for the floor and the thug, recovering quickly, was starting to come after him. Solo hit the floor, rolled, grabbing his gun and fired almost randomly. But the thug was so close that two of the three shots hit their mark, one in the chest the other in the head. The thug loomed over Solo for a minute and then collapsed just in front of him.

"Solo!" Vandamm yelled.

The Thrushman now held Eve, his forearm choking her. Upton stood nearby. Solo, his weapon still drawn, slowly stood up. He glanced sideways and saw that Roger, while struggling with his bonds, was unharmed.

"Mr. Solo, I'd advise you to put down the gun and give up."

"I don't think so."

"I'll kill her if you don't."

"You'll kill her if I do," Solo said. "Besides, my presence here shows that U.N.C.L.E. is on to you. Do you think our friend Upton here can take over Global Motors now?"

"Ah, but you're the gallant type, the one who can't endanger innocent people," Vandamm said. "You'll take the chance, even if it's only slim, if it means saving Mrs. Thornhill."

With that remark, Vandamm produced a knife with his other hand and held it up against Eve.

"Five seconds or she is no more."

"Eve!" Roger yelled, trying to get free of his bonds.

The scream caught Vandamm's attention for less than a second, but it was enough for Eve to elbow Vandamm to the ribs. The blow staggered him only for a second and Eve moved away toward Napoleon and Roger. Vandamm recovered, but moved faster than Solo expected, exiting out of the office. Upton tried to run behind him, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent caught him at the door and hit him with his gunbutt. Upton collapsed on the spot, but blocked Solo's way out of the door. The agent finally got around the unconscious Thrush collaborator and fired down the hallway. But Vandamm was rounding the corner and Solo's two shots missed.

Inside the office, Eve nearly had Roger free. They embraced as the last of the ropes fell. "Oh, Roger," Eve said as they kissed a half-dozen times.

For just a second, Solo wanted to admire the scene but blocked out those thoughts. "Come on! We've got to get Vandamm."

Kuryakin approached the administration building, still adjusting to the right-hand drive of cars made to be driven in Japan. Then, he saw a figure in a black suit run out the door and to the side of the structure. It looked like he was getting into a black Mazuka sedan, which soon roared to life.

As the black car pulled away, Illya saw Solo and the Thornhills exit the door as well, though Roger seemed to stagger. "Hurry!" Kuryakin yelled out the driver's window.

Solo ran around to the front passenger side -- the left side -- while Eve assisted Roger into the car. The Proteus moved forward just as Eve shut the passenger door.

"What did you steal -- an overgrown golf cart?" Solo quipped as he bucked his seat belt.

"Next time, you're in charge of stealing the car," Kuryakin said, as the Proteus' gasoline engine kicked in.

Off to the side, a Mazuka sport-utility vehicle pulled up, and Solo spotted one of its occupants carrying a Thrush rifle.

"Those aren't normal security guards," Solo said. "Step on it, Scruffy."

"Why do I get all the odd nicknames?" Kuryakin said.

"All right, people can ask you whether your name is really Napoleon."

"I think I'll stick with Scruffy."

A bullet shattered the rear windshield, causing Roger and Eve to duck. Solo looked around and saw nobody had been hit by the shot. Even before, he had reached to the back of his pants, where the carrying case with the U.N.C.L.E. Special attachments had been covered by his suitcoat.

Another shot had ricocheted off the roof when Solo completed assembling the Special's attachments. "If you don't mind ducking, I'd appreciate it," Solo told the Thornhills over the noise of the wind being sucked through shattered rear windshield.

Eve and Roger did as they were told, giving Napoleon a clear shot. He squeezed off six shots in rapid succession, the third of which hit the passenger side of the sport-utility vehicle's front windshield. For a second, he saw the security guard grasp his throat. Solo squeezed off several more shots, before the rest of the front windshield shattered. The sport-utility vehicle suddenly went out of control, tilting on its side and tolling over several times, spewing glass and metal with each revolution.

"I sent a rescue signal to U.N.C.L.E.-Tokyo," Kuryakin said.

"Good, because I had sent instructions with the courier who came to our hotel that a raiding party be ready to pounce," Solo said. "But I don't think they'll get here quick enough to get Vandamm. That's up to us."

Just then, they spotted Vandamm's sedan about a third of a mile up the road leading to the main gate. The Mazuka vehicle took a sudden, hard right turn.

"Now where is he going?" Solo said.

"If I remember the diagram I studied, it should be one of the test tracks -- the road course," Kuryakin said.

The Russian now floored the accelerator and, as he approached the turnoff, he cut the corner. Up ahead, Vandamm went through the entranceway to the road course.

"Are we gaining?" Solo asked.

"Not enough," Kuryakin said.

Vandamm was now on the course, hitting a section of S-curves. Kuryakin ignored them, going more or less in a straight line over a grassy hill. The Proteus' rear end slid to the left and Kuryakin had to adjust his steering to correct for it, preventing the car from going out of control. In less than thirty seconds, Kuryakin had cut the distance between him and Vandamm in half.

Solo looked back. Roger was rubbing his head, as though he had bumped it. "You fellows sure can give a man a queasy stomach," he said, noticing Napoleon.

Vandamm was rounding a long turn and Kuryakin pressed his luck even more, once more cutting the curve and driving on the infield of the road course. Kuryakin strained to keep control as his tires chewed up the turf of the infield. He had nearly overtaken Vandamm when Kuryakin floored the accelerator, squeezing every last ounce of speed. The Proteus hit the rear passenger door of Vandamm's sedan. The two cars spun away from each other upon collision. The Proteus nearly flipped over on its right side, but fell back to the ground with a resounding thud. The car body shook violently for several seconds and the Proteus' occupants remained still for a minute.

Solo stirred first and shook his head. Where was his gun? He had dropped it somewhere. He looked over and saw Kuryakin still dazed, hunched over the steering column.

Then there was the sound of footsteps on pavement. It was Vandamm, holding a pistol, walking around the rear of the Proteus, circling from the driver's side to the passenger side. He was parallel to the left rear door and just behind Solo.

"Don't move, Mr. Solo. You are going to pay for this indignity," Vandamm said, straining to maintain his normally cold demeanor. "I helped coordinate this operation while I was in prison."

Solo sat, his hands still. Kuryakin was dazed and the agent couldn't tell if either person in the back seat could help. Solo's forehead glistened with a single bead of sweat.

"After all this time and effort, Thrush will be satisfied with nothing less than my head. But I will have yours first."

At that moment, the right rear passenger door opened, slamming into Vandamm. He lost his footing for a few seconds but Solo was already out of the car. Vandamm fired a shot in Solo's direction, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent came in low, tackling him. The Thrush flailed his arms, trying to aim the gun once more. Solo beat at the side of Vandamm's head but the Thrush official was still fighting as fiercely as he could. Solo was a bit dizzy from the accident but tried to focus nonetheless. Vandamm forced Solo off him and aimed his gun. But Solo managed to grab at Vandamm's hand before the Thrush could fire. They lay on the ground for agonizing seconds, struggling over the weapon. Solo felt his finger get around the trigger and pulled hard twice. The gun fired, but Vandamm jumped away, yanking the gun with him.

The Thrush got up and started to smile. "You lose, Mr. Solo." Then he stopped smiling for a second and looked down at his white dress shirt. A red stain was blossoming. Vandamm touched it for a moment and stared. His mouth opened but he said nothing. He fell to his knees, then headfirst into the grass.

Solo got up off the ground and cautiously approached Vandamm. The Thrush had dropped the gun, which lay an inch or two from his right hand. Solo gently kicked the weapon away, then bent down and felt at Vandamm's throat. The man was dead.

The agent rose and looked back at the Proteus. Roger Thornhill leaned out of the passenger door -- the same one he had opened, staggering Vandamm just moments before. Roger still looked confused, but seemed to be coming out of it. Eve now exited the other side of the car and came up to her husband and they hugged.

Solo walked past the couple and looked in on Kuryakin, who was shaking off the effects of the accident.

Kuryakin's eyes cleared when he saw Solo. "Did we get him?"

"Mr. Vandamm is in no condition to be planning future operations for Thrush," Solo said.

Illya Kuryakin winced as the group approached the train platform. His head was bandaged and he was sore all over. Napoleon Solo walked a little easier but he, too, hurt all over.

Ahead of them were Roger and Eve Thornhill, listening to Alexander Waverly, who had removed the special Waverly Rings an hour earlier at U.N.C.L.E.'s Tokyo office.

"I am sorry for all the confusion, Mr. Thornhill," Waverly said. "But whatever you think of me, please don't take it out on your wife. She's a very brave woman. An extraordinary woman, in fact. You're quite lucky to be married to her."

"I know, Mr. Waverly, or Professor, or whatever you call yourself," Roger said. "But if you don't mind, I'd prefer you keep any future communications with Eve strictly to social calls."

"Roger, you don't have to worry about me," Eve said as the couple walked arm-in-arm.

"But I like worrying about you."

"Well to show our appreciation," Waverly said, reaching into the breast pocket of his tweed suit, "here are your train tickets and your hotel reservations in Kyoto. It's a lovely city, I hear."

"It's been a long time since we've been on a train," Eve said, looking at Roger.

"Yes, but this train is so fast there's not a sleeping berth," Roger said. "No need for a sleeping berth, I fear."

Eve walked to Solo and Kuryakin and kissed each on the cheek. "I'm sorry for being so hard on you. Alex was right after all," she said.

"You were worried about your husband," Solo said. "Perfectly normal reaction."

She then shook Waverly's hand. "Alex, next time you hear from me, I hope it's not a business call."

"Take care, my dear," Waverly said.

Eve took Roger by the arm and they walked to the bullet train. Solo stood for a moment, watching the Thornhills enter one of the passenger cars. He again considered Roger Thornhill to be an extremely lucky man -- not because he had survived danger, but for finding a woman he could share his life with. That was something Solo realized he might never have. He thought for a second of the women who passed through his life, often here for an evening or two before they disappeared. The best of these were women he might have loved given the chance -- a chance that always seemed to get lost with the arrival of the next mission, the next menace, the next threat.

The agent shook himself from those thoughts as he noticed Waverly and Kuryakin were already walking away. He glanced back at the train as it began to leave the station and nodded his head slightly. Solo sighed before turning back to catch up to his U.N.C.L.E. colleagues.

THE END

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