February, 1969

HAROLD Penman was a file clerk. He was a file clerk not only by job description, but also by nature. It thrilled him to be surrounded by information, by facts and figures that could be alphabetised, analysed, cross-checked and categorised. When everything was pinned down and pigeonholed, Penman was happy. In his younger days, he toyed with the idea of becoming a librarian or an accountant, but no, for him filing had been the way to go.

 Penman had made his choice thirty-five years earlier, and had not looked back. For the last ten of those years he had worked in the basement of the Geneva headquarters of Nemesis. His decision to offer his services to the international crimefighting organisation had not been a chance one. No, because it was a part of the quiet, unassuming file clerk's make up to indulge in a rich fantasy life. Harold Penman knew without a shadow of doubt that, with all the facts and figures filed in his head, he could have been Nemesis's most successful agent. He had all the information at his fingertips. He knew everything any of them had ever done and all the mistakes they had made. Armed with that knowledge, he believed he would be able to avoid all those mistakes, would be better able to complete any mission, in fact, than the agents themselves. He could outwit any one of them.

 In was this last belief that prompted Penman to offer his services to Thrush. The international criminal organisation had been happy to have a mole within the depths of Nemesis. For several years he had been sending snippets of information to his secret masters. Fortunately for Nemesis, nothing arrived in Penman's domain until the mission to which it pertained was complete, so his information was of minimal use to Thrush. Penman was aware of this, but patience was one of a file clerk's virtues. He bided his time, astutely avoiding the pitfalls in the periodic Nemesis personnel appraisals that might have shown his surprising unsuitability for his job. When he finally found the gem he knew would eventually come his way, he could hardly believe how precious it was.

 A pair of operatives, who had always been good, had suddenly become exceptional. Their names were Craig Stirling and Richard Barrett. The oddities he spotted coincided with their first assignment alongside Sharron Macready, who appeared to be equally exceptional. Their reports were written in such a way as to disguise the more outlandish elements of their assignments: the amazing escapes, the intuitive leaps that kept them one step ahead of their enemies, even the unbreakable bond which seemed to have been forged between the three. But Penman knew they were hiding something. He had read enough mission reports to spot gaps, read between lines, analyse and extrapolate. Yes, these three were hiding something, and thanks to the dedication and single-mindedness on which Penman prided himself, he was sure he had uncovered their secret.

 They had superpowers. They shared abilities no other Nemesis operative – and probably no one else on the planet – possessed. And he believed he knew where they had gained these powers. Sharron Macready could have been the catalyst, but he didn't think so. Background checks on her showed nothing unusual before the three met. No, he believed the powers could be traced to the time of that first meeting. That had been in early 1968. They had been on a mission to recover deadly bacteria being developed by the Chinese. During their escape, their plane was damaged and crashed in Tibet. They should have died, but they didn't. In fact, they returned in remarkable health. And after that the tone of their reports changed, the omissions and evasions began. Something happened in Tibet to give them abilities far beyond the norm. He believed they were super strong, super fast, had an enhanced resistance to pain and extreme conditions and possessed an intuitive or perhaps telepathic sense. The only question was how did they get those powers?

 Penman requested an urgent meeting with his Thrush contact. This was the big one, and Thrush would take it on his terms or not at all.

Monday, August 4, 1969

A PLANE crashed in the snowy mountains of Tibet. On board were three Thrush agents, two men and a woman. One resembled Craig Stirling, another Sharron Macready. They were the same age, the same build, had the same racial and cultural make-up and similar areas of expertise. The third bore little resemblance to Richard Barrett. He was short, overweight, balding and wore glasses. He was Harold Penman. Inclusion on the mission was the price for his information. More than inclusion, in fact. He had insisted he lead the mission. Thrush command agreed to this blackmail for a number of reasons: his store of information might prove useful on the ground, there was no firm evidence that matching the profiles of the Nemesis agents was important, and it would be a simple matter to remove Penman upon the completion of the operation.

 The plane had followed as closely as Penman could calculate the route of the plane flown out of China by Craig Stirling.

 Craig Stirling lookalike Adam Smith thought he saw the outline of the snow-covered wreckage of the Nemesis agents' plane before he deliberately ditched his plane. Although he, Penman and the third member of the team, Eve Jones, were expecting the impact and had been trained to handle it, each still sustained serious injuries. Adam and Eve were dedicated to the Thrush cause and accepted this. Penman believed the power he stood to gain far outweighed the risk.

THE old man watched the plane come down and wondered at the strangeness of the world beyond his own. It seemed no time at all since a similar aircraft had crashed in a similar spot and the three people on board had needed help from him and his race. He did not know what had happened to those three since, but he had sensed the good in them and was confident they had not let him down. Certainly they had rewarded his trust by keeping his people's secret, and they had not come looking for his city themselves. At least, he thought not. But could this be the same trio returned? He did not think so. Another group following in their footsteps? Possibly. Whatever their reason for entering his world, they would need help, and that was the least he and his people could give.

AN elite Thrush combat squad of half a dozen men surveyed the crash site from the far side of a ridge half a mile away. Dressed entirely in white they vanished against the snow. Their bodies were still, but perhaps more importantly, their minds were still. Thrush knew they could be dealing with a telepathic adversary – since telepathy appeared to be one of the traits demonstrated by the Nemesis agents – so the squad had undergone intensive training to combat this ability. As they lay in the snow, their minds were empty. They projected no emotion, they expressed no desire, they held no opinion. The six men, who had parachuted into the area in darkness the day before, only observed.

 They saw the small plane's fuselage almost split in two just in front of the wings, which were themselves ripped from the craft. They saw the motionless and possibly lifeless bodies of two of their fellow operatives. For a time this was all they saw. Then an old man with long white hair and a beard and wearing an orange robe came into view. None was quite sure where he appeared from, but all were careful not to register any surprise.

 Behind the old man came several other people. They were not as old as the one who led them and were dressed in white. The man in orange looked around him. He appeared to stare straight at the men hiding on the ridge, but they allowed themselves no expression of awareness of this. After a few seconds he looked away and signalled to those with him. They picked up the two bodies in the snow and went inside the plane to retrieve the third. Then they gently carried them away from the crashed plane.

 The men of the Thrush squad followed at a distance. No order was given, no conscious decision to follow taken. They simply did it.

THE old man felt uncertain. At the crash site he had experienced the feeling of being watched, but had been unable to see or sense anyone. At least, he didn't think so. He put the feeling down to a general apprehension about exposing himself and his people to the outside world again. In truth, he had experienced a similar feeling – if only briefly – before going to the aid of the earlier crash victims. On that occasion he had quickly sensed the good in those he helped and his fears had been allayed. That was not the case this time. An element of doubt remained. But what was he to do? Perhaps these people were not faultless, but was it his place to stand in moral judgement? No. They needed help and he was able to give it. Neither he nor any of his people would think of doing otherwise.

 They carried the invalids into their city, which had nestled undisturbed in the shadows of the Himalayas for countless generations. The old man did not doubt there were cities in the outside world. Perhaps they were as wonderful or even more wonderful than the one in which he lived, but he had no desire to see them. His city held a lifetime's wonder for him.

 It was a place of light and air, of art and science, beauty and industry. The three damaged people were taken into its bosom and made whole again. But the new whole each of them became was much more than the sum of their parts had been before.

THE six Thrush agents followed. They did not communicate, they did not think, they simply acted. It was a testament to their training – coupled in several of them with a deplorable lack of imagination – that their minds remained largely blank even when confronted by the splendour of a technologically advanced city of what may as well have been alien design. They did not speak about what they saw, they did not even communicate through expressions. They simply waited, confident that in time their three colleagues inside would come out, just as the Nemesis agents must have come out before them.

WHEN the healing was complete, the old man arranged for the trio to be returned to their aircraft, where they would awake, unaware – at least at first – that anything out of the ordinary had happened to them.

 He led the procession of half a dozen people who carried the three outsiders. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the outside world encroaching on the sliver of paradise he shared with his people in these mountains. He wondered how much longer they could maintain their isolation and how best to prepare should they be forced to face up to interaction with the big, brash, chaotic world beyond that which they knew.

 Perhaps it was because he was immersed in these thoughts that he sensed nothing amiss until it was too late.

 The Thrush squad stepped out of hiding behind the group and grabbed the young, dark-haired woman who was at the rear. All six trained their guns on her head.

 "No one move," said the squad's leader. "We know you may have special abilities, but I doubt even one of you could survive six bullet wounds to the head."

 The others in the procession dropped their charges in the snow and a couple of them made as if to jump the attackers, but the old man signalled them to be still. His heart sank. So much for the ideas he had been forming for a limited and measured – if still reluctant – integration into the wider world.

 "Very wise," said the Thrush leader. "Now, when our friends here have revived, we are going to return to your city. When we get there, I am going to make a call to some more friends of mine – quite a few more, in fact – and when they arrive, you are going to share your little secrets."

 He smiled, but the old man saw no joy in the expression.

The Far East, the same day

SHARRON Macready woke from her dream sweating and with her heart racing. She couldn't remember the details. In fact, she didn't think there had been any details, just an undefined sense of danger, as if something fundamental, something primal, was under threat.

 The feeling was so strong that it took her a few seconds to remember where she was, though her surroundings would not let her forget for long. She was sitting in a railway freight car rattling through a Far Eastern country to an unknown destination. A short chain ran between metal cuffs around her ankles. Similar cuffs at her wrists fastened her to two other women, one on either side. These women were in turn handcuffed to others. In all, there were about twenty-five women in the car. All were white and blonde.

 Sharron and her Nemesis partners, Craig Stirling and Richard Barrett, had been assigned to investigate the strange disappearances of the wives, mistresses and daughters of a number of high ranking government officials and business bigwigs throughout Europe and the USA.

 What the trio discovered was that all the missing women had their hair done at branches of the same exclusive international salon. There, the women were being brainwashed and later – at a prearranged command – they would simply leave their homes in the middle of whatever they were doing and present themselves at a rendezvous selected by the brainwasher.

 From there, they would be passed into the far from gentle hands of a gang of white slave traders, who would transport them to Africa and the Far East and sell them as playthings for the rich and depraved.

 Sharron hadn't been able to believe it. It was barbaric, it was medieval, it was something out of a twisted schoolboy fantasy. But it was happening and she was determined to stop it. Posing as an ambassador's mistress, she had made herself an appointment at the salon. Her enhanced mental powers allowed her to resist the brainwashing that followed. The women around her in the freight car were dazed, barely aware of what was happening to them, but Sharron was fully alert and could use her super-strength to free herself at any time. She would when the time was right, but that wouldn't be until she, Craig and Richard were in a position to nail the man at the top of the operation.

 Richard had managed to infiltrate the slave gang, while Craig was approaching the problem from the other end, trying to track down the buyers.

 Sharron wished she could speak to Richard and Craig now about the feelings her dream had aroused. They made no sense, but in the past eighteen months she had learned to treat such feelings – even if they came in a dream – with more importance than she would once have done.

 In a way, she could speak to her partners. She reached out with her mind, searching for their thoughts, knowing she could touch their minds even though they might be hundreds of miles away

 Richard was the first to respond.

 Yes, he said, inside her head, in reply to her unspoken question. I felt something, too. It has something to do with Tibet, the old man, the city.

 Yes, thought Sharron, he's right. Richard was perhaps more closely linked to their Tibetan experience, as he was the only one of them to meet and speak to the old man.

 We need to go there. There's some threat to the old man and his people.

 We can't. Craig entered the conversation. We have an assignment to complete, an important one.

 Yes, said Sharron.

 She looked at the women around her. She didn't want anyone else to go through this experience. She could feel that Richard knew she and Craig were right.

 All right, he said, after a pause. But let's wrap this up as quickly as we can. The Tibetans need our help.

Monday, August 11

THE Winnebago keeping a steady 55mph along the straight desert road looked like any other. It was bright blue, had chintzy curtains and pennants from tourist spots across the States stuck in the windows. But it wasn't like any other camper van. The bodywork was thick steel plate, the windows were bulletproof and the tyres would seal themselves and re-inflate if punctured. Inside, where mom, pop and a bunch of unruly kids would normally be found, half a dozen government agents sat in silence. They had switched their traditional dark suits for holiday gear, but they were armed. Two were up front, the others in the living area. But the living area was empty except for a lead-lined steel box about eighteen inches square. This was bolted to the floor.

 The low-key appearance of the outside of the vehicle was inversely proportional to the importance of the contents of that box. None of the agents knew what was in the box, but they knew they were to guard it with their lives. The low-key approach had been chosen deliberately by the powers that had sent them on this mission. It was felt an obviously heavily armed and closely guarded military convoy would have served only to attract attention to something which only a handful of people knew existed.

 The Winnebago was making its way from a research facility a little outside Clarksburg, West Virginia, to a secret government base in the Nevada desert, where the box and its contents were to be buried deep until a solution to the problem in the box could be found.

 The agents had been travelling for several days, stopping only to eat, drink and sleep, and the journey had been uneventful. Now, they were nearing their destination. The road was straight and almost deserted and the driver was thinking that, despite all the fuss made before departure about the importance of the job, he had pulled an easy assignment.

He saw the two cars up ahead partially blocking the road. Clearly they had collided head on. Probably one of the drivers had dozed off on the monotonous blacktop and had veered into the other lane.

Both drivers were trying to flag down passing traffic, which at that time consisted only of the Winnebago, but the agent had no intention of stopping. Then he saw the woman lying across the central white line, where she had been thrown from one of the cars. His reaction was instinctive. He braked hard, bringing the camper to a shuddering stop inches from the woman. Even as he did so, he knew it was against all his training. But what was he supposed to do, run right over her? Besides, from the way they were dressed, the people in the road were clearly tourists and this was just one of the thousands of shunts that happened on American roads every day. And if it wasn't, then it was still a woman and two men – one of them fat and clearly unfit – against six well-armed and highly trained government operatives.

The younger of the two men approached the driver's door.

"Thank God you stopped," he said. "My wife – "

As he was speaking, he reached up, grabbed the door handle and wrenched the door from its hinges before tossing it behind him into the road.

"What – ?" said the agent.

The young man reached in, grabbed him, yanked him out of the vehicle, spun him round, took his shoulder in one hand and his jaw in the other and twisted, breaking his neck. The agent was dead by the time his colleague in the passenger seat began to react. By then, it was too late for him, too. The fat man pulled the passenger's door off, pulled the soldier out and drop-kicked him like a football. He arced across the desert and landed a hundred yards away among the scrub with a bone-crunching thud.

In the rear of the camper, the other agents were in confusion. Everything was happening too quickly. They had their guns trained on the action at the front of the vehicle, and one even got off a shot before the rear door was ripped open. A young, blonde woman stood there.

"Hello, boys," she said, and leaped into camper.

She was joined moments later by the two men and thirty seconds after that all four agents were dead.

Between them, the three superhumans ripped the steel box from his bolts, took it to one of their cars and drove off.

Tuesday, August 12

"THE Seed of Destruction, sir?" said Napoleon Solo. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."

 "Very few people are, it seems, Mr Solo," said Alexander Waverly. "More's the pity. A little more inter-agency co-operation may have prevented the unfortunate situation in which we find ourselves."

 They were in the office of Mr Waverly, Number One, Section One, in the New York headquarters of The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. With Napoleon was fellow UNCLE agent Illya Kuryakin. They had been summoned by their superior to meet the fourth man in the room, Agent William Brown.

 "And what is the situation in which we find ourselves, sir?" said Illya.

 "Perhaps Agent Brown would like to explain," said Mr Waverly.

 "Very well, gentlemen," said Brown. "The Seed of Destruction is a virus, or rather the container for a virus. This virus was developed at a, shall we say, exclusive research facility, the Colsterworth Center for Communicable Diseases, in West Virginia."

 "One of America's germ warfare factories," said Illya.

 "In fact, no," said Brown. "At least not in this case. The scientists there were working on a cure for the common cold."

 "Really?" said Illya.

 "Don't sneeze at the idea, Illya," said Napoleon.

 "No, please don't," said Brown. "Are you aware of how many man hours are lost to the common cold each year by the USA's military and security services? No, of course, you aren't, but let's just say it's enough to make research into the problem well worthwhile. However, the point is they created, entirely by accident, something else. It was something none of us could have imagined happening, or would have wanted to."

 "Please don't keep us in suspense, Agent Brown," said Mr Waverly.

 "They created a doomsday virus," said Brown. "It's a super-flu, and it's a killer. It's a virus that cannot be destroyed, that – once released into the atmosphere – replicates at a phenomenal rate, and which would kill every normal human being on the planet. It has a one hundred per cent mortality rate."

 "How do you know?" asked Illya.

 "We… extrapolated. Clearly, we couldn't put it to a practical test."

 "And the scientists who created it," said Napoleon, "they can't find an antidote, something to render it ineffective?"

 "The scientists concerned have been retired," said Brown.

 "Killed?" said Illya.

 "We're not barbarians, Mr Kuryakin. No, they are enjoying the hospitality at a small coastal retreat we have for such former employees, a village. However, all their knowledge is available to us, and their successors are working hard to negate the virus. So far without success, though they believe they are close to a breakthrough."

 "And how is the virus contained at present?" said Illya.

 "It is sealed within an egg, or seed, if you will, about the size of a football."

 "Let me guess," said Napoleon. "Someone has stolen your football."

 Agent Brown fingered his shirt collar. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable, and Napoleon was enjoying it. It was churlish, they were on the same side – at least he assumed they were – but inter-agency rivalry could not be denied.

 "Yes," said Brown. "It was being transferred to a… storage facility when the agents carrying it were ambushed and overpowered. Five of the six were killed. The survivor is in a critical condition."

 "Excuse me," said Illya, "but which agency are you and these others agents from?"

 "I don't think it's entirely necessary to say," said Brown.

 "CIA?" said Illya. "FBI?"

 "I could give you a set of initials, but I think you'll agree what we stand for is much more important than who we are."

 "And what is that?" asked Napoleon.

 "Why, truth, justice and the American way, of course, Mr Solo."

 Mr Waverly decided it was time to calm the situation.

 "Thank you, gentlemen," he said. "And why do you need UNCLE's help to retrieve this Seed of Destruction?"

 "As has been pointed out, one agency does not lightly ask another for help," said Brown. "I'm sure that's true of UNCLE, but I'm also sure you agree the seriousness of the situation makes it clear we all need to work for the common good.

"We don't know if whoever has it intends to hold us to ransom with it or simply break open the Seed and release it. We hope it's the former, that we can deal with. If it's the latter, we have no idea what timetable we're working to."

"Could they break it?" asked Illya.

"The Seed is tough," said Brown, "but not unbreakable. It was designed to keep the virus in, not people out."

"Glad to see you covered every contingency," said Napoleon.

"Mr Solo," said Mr Waverly.

"We need all hands on deck for this," said Brown. "Besides, the theft does have hallmarks which would tend to place it in UNCLE territory."

 "Such as?" said Illya.

 "It was… weird."

 "Weird's definitely our bag," said Illya.

 "Weird how?" said Napoleon.

 "The survivor was able to tell us the assailants – two men and a woman – were unarmed, and in the case of one of the men clearly unfit, yet were incredibly fast and strong. The wounds suffered by our agents testify to that. The ambushers did not appear to be normal human beings."

 "You said the Seed of Destruction would be fatal to every normal human," said Napoleon.

 "Yes."

 "You think these are something else?"

 "It seems possible. That brings me to my second point. There's the feel of a plot about this, a plot for world domination. Sound familiar?"

 "Thrush," said Napoleon.

 "Could be," said Brown. "And you boys are the experts on Thrush. We would appreciate your checking things out from that angle."

 "You believe Thrush may have created a group of… superhumans, who could survive the Seed of Destruction?" said Mr Waverly. "Could Thrush be planning to break the Seed, kill everyone, then repopulate the world with a superhuman Thrush master race?"

 "It's insane," said Illya, "but it wouldn't be the strangest thing they've tried."

 "But how would they know about the Seed of Destruction?" said Mr Waverly.

 "They're Thrush," said Illya.

 The other UNCLE men nodded. It was probably all the explanation they would get, and it was almost enough. They all knew Thrush had little birds nesting everywhere, and they were all happy to sing.

 "So," said Napoleon. "Do we have a place to start?"

 "Just this," said Brown.

 He opened his briefcase, took out an envelope and from that took three eight by ten black and white photographs. The likenesses were not great. The subjects were moving too fast. But the first showed a man, the second a woman. Both had movie star looks. The third showed another man, who looked more likely to be a bank clerk.

 "There was a hidden camera system in our agents' vehicle," said Brown. "It took these. We have nothing on the first two, but after running through international records we may have a make on the second man. We believe his name is Harold Penman. He's a file clerk for the Nemesis organisation in Geneva."

 "Nemesis," said Mr Waverly. "I know Tremayne."

 "Yes," said Brown. "We were aware of your friendship with the head of Nemesis. That's one of the reasons we thought UNCLE might like to follow this strand of the investigation. Also, we thought you may have a rapport, one enigmatic international organisation to another, you know?"

 None of the UNCLE men took the bait.

 "Of course," said Brown. "It may not be Penman."

 "Thank you, Agent Brown," said Mr Waverly. "That's what we will ascertain. Please leave a copy of your photographs."

 With that, he dismissed Brown from the conversation.

 "Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin, I suggest you make travel arrangements. I will call Tremayne and request he meets with you tomorrow."

Geneva, Wednesday, August 13, 1969

"SO the whole chain is shattered," said Richard Barrett, "from the kidnappers at this end right up to Mr Big, and the abducted wives, lovers and daughters are happily reunited with their loved ones."

 He was in Tremayne's office at Nemesis headquarters, along with Sharron Macready and Craig Stirling.

 "Amazing," said Tremayne. "I don't know how you three do it. I would expect it to take months to bring down an operation like that, yet you do it in a couple of weeks. I wish I knew how you got straight to the heart of the matter, the way you do time and again. It's almost supernatural."

 "Hardly that, sir," said Richard.

 "We just keep our ears to the ground," said Craig.

 "And our eyes peeled," added Sharron.

 "And believe in clean living and a positive approach to life," finished Richard.

 "Yes, well, I'm sure I'll read all the details in your reports."

 "Already on your desk, sir," said Craig. He flashed his broadest grin. "As we wrapped up this assignment so much sooner than you expected, you won't have any plans for us for the next couple of weeks."

 "Won't I, Craig?"

 "What Craig's trying to say," said Sharron, "is that the nature of the assignment has left us all rather drained, sir, emotionally. We could all do with some leave to recover, if that's possible."

 Tremayne looked from one agent to the next. Why did he always feel there was something going on with these three?

 "Well, you've all earned it, I suppose. Take a week. But be sure to leave numbers where you can be contacted if necessary."

 "Thank you, sir."

 "Just go before I change my mind," said Tremayne. "Oh, there should be two men waiting to see me. Ask my secretary to send them in on your way out, would you?"

One of the men in the secretary's office was a boyish blond, the other dark-haired and altogether more grown up, Sharron noticed.

 "Tremayne will see them now," she said to the secretary, and hated the way she sounded like a secretary herself. Too often she felt she wasn't much more than that.

 The dark one's gaze passed over her as he stood to enter Tremayne's office. Perhaps the blond's did, too, but he was more discreet.

 "Tibet it is, then," said Richard, as soon as the three of them were in the corridor beyond the office.

 "What are we waiting for?" said Craig.

 They both looked at Sharron.

 "Yes," she said, "I've booked the tickets. At least as far as conventional transport can take us."

 The three of them entered the lift as one.

"SIT down, gentlemen," said Tremayne as Napoleon and Illya entered his office. "Alexander has already spoken to me about the reason for your visit. You believe there is a Thrush spy within Nemesis."

 "We hope not, sir," said Illya.

 "But you understand we have to follow every avenue of inquiry," said Napoleon.

 "Of course."

 Napoleon took the photographs of the Seed of Destruction thieves from his briefcase and handed them across the desk to Tremayne.

 "Do you recognise any of these people, sir?"

 Tremayne took his time studying the pictures.

 "As you suspected," he said, "this one appears to be Harold Penman, an employee in our records department."

 He studied the other pictures further.

 "Anything else, sir?" said Napoleon.

 "No. These other two… they bear a passing resemblance to two Nemesis operatives, but clearly are not them. Just a coincidence, nothing more."

 "This Harold Penman," said Napoleon, "can we speak to him?"

 "I'm afraid not, Mr Solo. Since Alexander's call, I've done some checking. Penman took leave a fortnight ago. He was due back at work today, but has not appeared."

 "Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?"

 "Not at present. We're checking his home address and family and friends, but so far we have not located him."

 "In the meantime," said Illya, "perhaps we could look at his office."

 "Certainly. We've already done that, of course, but fresh eyes might see something new. I'll have you escorted down to the file room."

 The records department was fronted by a small reception area, beyond which were several small offices, including Penman's. Beyond them was the file room itself, and that was a warehouse, piled floor to ceiling with row upon row of box files. It was the Everest of paperwork. The young woman assigned to show Napoleon and Illya around explained that most of the files were also available on microfiche and there were plans to transfer them to computer as well, though that was a long-term project that would no doubt take years. In fact, she herself was convinced it would never happen.

 "Perhaps we should concentrate on Mr Penman's office for now," said Illya.

 "I've a better idea," said Napoleon, surveying the tons of files that might just have to be investigated. "Why don't you concentrate on the office and I'll go and see it I can learn where our Mr Penman decided to spend his vacation."

 "A splendid idea," said Illya. "Why didn't I think of it?"

 "It pays to think one step ahead," said Napoleon, and left Illya to the file clerk's office.

 Illya thanked the young woman and assured her he would call if he needed anything. He set about his task, though he didn't hold out much hope for Penman's office. There wasn't much there. His desk was neat. On it was stationery with the Nemesis letterhead, an I Love Lucy mug containing half a dozen pencils, all sharpened to a razor point, a ballpoint pen, a cartridge pen and three ink cartridges. A ruler and an eraser lay beside the mug. There was also Penman's logbook, which listed every file to pass through his hands.

 Illya opened it. Surely if Penman was working for Thrush, therefore no doubt raiding Nemesis files to pass on secrets, he wouldn't record those files in his log. On the other hand, Illya had some experience of the meticulous nature of file clerks. For some, it would have been almost unthinkable not to record the files.

 He began flicking back through the pages. At first he detected nothing suspicious and no pattern. Then, several months back, he noticed the same names cropping up time and again in the space for the name of the author of the reports Penman was examining. There were three: Craig Stirling, Richard Barrett and Sharron Macready. Illya made a note of the names and the file numbers and went to check them out for himself, along with the trio's personal files.

 An hour later, he was back in Tremayne's office.

 "So you're saying Penman was paying particular attention to these three operatives," said Tremayne.

 "Yes, and I think I can see why. As you know, we believe Penman and others may somehow have gained superhuman powers. I've read these assignment reports. More precisely, I've read between the lines, and one conclusion one could reach is that these three operatives have their own superpowers."

 Tremayne laughed, though to Illya it sounded a little forced.

 "There's certainly nothing superhuman about these three," said Tremayne. "Oh, in a sense you could say there was. Certainly they are exceptional agents, honed mentally and physically, but actual supernatural powers. No, that's ridiculous."

 Illya had the feeling Tremayne was trying to convince himself as much as Illya.

 "Besides, Mr Kuryakin, what are you trying to suggest?"

 "Nothing, sir, I'm just looking at possibilities. Was it these two – " he indicated photographs of Sharron and Craig from their personal files " – you were reminded of when we showed you the pictures of the other Thrush agents?"

 "It was, but that can be no more than coincidence."

 "Perhaps. Didn't I see these three leaving your office earlier as Mr Solo and I entered?"

 "Yes."

 "And are they still in the building?"

 "No. In fact, they are beginning a well deserved holiday."

 "Really? Do you know where they were going?"

 "No. Mr Kuryakin, Stirling, Barrett and Macready are not Thrush agents. Don't even entertain the idea."

 "But you wouldn't mind if I kept these files?"

 Tremayne sighed.

 "I'll have them copied for you."

 "Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make a call."

 After Illya left, Tremayne called his secretary.

 "Did Stirling, Barrett and Macready leave numbers where they could be reached?" he asked.

 "I only have their home numbers, sir," said the voice on the intercom.

 "Then try them, and keep trying them."

 Tremayne didn’t hold out much hope of reaching his people. Those three would give him an ulcer. What were they up to this time?

 In the corridor beyond Tremayne's office, Illya took his pen communicator from his jacket.

 "Open Channel D," he said. "Connect me with Napoleon Solo."

 He waited a moment.

 "Napoleon, any luck with our friend Penman?" He listened. "Good. While you're at the airport, see if these names crop up anywhere." He gave Craig, Richard and Sharron's names. "They're Nemesis agents. Actually, we've already met them. Yes. They were going on vacation. I'd be interested to know where they went."

 He arranged to meet Napoleon at the airport as soon as he had collected the copied files from Tremayne. He was there in an hour and joined Napoleon for tea.

 "Why are you smiling?" he asked.

 "All four went to the same place," said Napoleon. "Penman a fortnight ago, the other three today."

 "Do you tell me where, or do I get three guesses?"

 "Delhi."

 "India?"

 "I think there might be one in Wisconsin, but yes, India."

 "That wasn't the destination I was expecting."

 "Oh," said Napoleon, "what was?"

 "Lhasa."

 "Tibet?"

 "I think there might be one in Wisconsin, but..."

 "Very funny."

 "Still," said Illya. "Flying directly into Tibet wouldn't be easy for them. The Chinese might have something to say about it. On the other hand it's only a short hop over the border from Delhi."

 "Why would they want to go to Tibet?" asked Napoleon.

 Illya passed the copied files to Napoleon.

 "Read these. That one might be of particular interest, given our friends' destination." He tapped a folder.

 "You think the Nemesis agents are working for Thrush?" asked Napoleon.

 "Possibly."

 "They may just be onto Penman, like us."

 "We can discuss it on the plane."

 "The plane?" said Napoleon.

 "The UNCLE plane I'm about to order."

 "Ah."

ILLYA was right. Craig, Sharron and Richard had flown to Delhi with the intention of then hiring a pilot to fly them into Chinese-occupied Tibet.

 Luckily, Craig had contacts from a previous professional visit, but it still took a series of meetings in dark bars and every rupee they had to find a pilot who not only had his own plane but was willing to take them over the mountains.

 But a pilot was found, and the plane was now flying over the Tibetan snows. It was not unlike the small cargo aircraft they had flown over the same land eighteen months before. Craig gave the pilot details of the route they had taken during their escape from China, as well as he could remember it.

 Now, all three agents were peering from the small windows, searching for signs of… well, something. Craig felt it would help if they knew what. Before their crash, Sharron had briefly seen the lights of a city below them, but exactly where none of them was sure, and there would be no lights to guide them in daylight.

 Yet despite their seemingly hopeless task, they each believed that if the Tibetans really did need them, they would somehow just know when they were close. During the final week of the slavery ring assignment, they had each felt a constant nagging concern that would occasionally erupt in a sharp, but undefined sense of danger. Now that nagging feeling was a constant.

 But doubts began to creep in as the minutes ticked into hours with nothing but snow beneath them and the pilot became more garrulous. His English was poor, but his exasperation came through loud and clear. He made it clear they were running low on fuel and in his humble opinion they were wasting their time. It was what they were all beginning to feel. They were on their third sweep, having varied the flightpath slightly each time, and were on the verge of calling it a day when something in the snow caught Richard's eye.

 "Down there."

 The others came over to look from the adjacent windows.

 "It looks like a plane wreck," said Richard. "In fact, it looks like our plane wreck."

 "It can't be ours," said Sharron.

 "No," said Craig. "Ours will be long buried by snow."

 "Do you think someone else could have crashed and been taken in by the Tibetans?" said Sharron. "Someone less grateful than us."

 "I think we have to find out," said Richard.

 Craig went to speak to the pilot.

 "Take us in as close as you can by that wreck."

 The pilot made it clear he thought such a manoeuvre was crazy, and anyway, he said, what were they going to do then? Jump out?

 "Yes," said Craig. "You just get us close."

 The pilot shrugged. The fall would kill them, he said, and if it didn't, how did they expect to get back to Delhi? One way or another, they would die down there, he said.

 "Let us worry about that," said Craig.

 The pilot shrugged again. The gesture said: OK, you worry. He took the plane up and round to make a run over the wreck. Craig joined the others by the door. They each slipped on haversacks they had packed for the trip. A couple of minutes later, the pilot gave a thumbs-up from the cockpit.

 "OK," said Craig. "This is as close as we're going to get."

 Richard forced open the door against the airstream. The snow was about a hundred feet below. They jumped in quick succession. Air slammed the door shut behind them. They fell for only seconds before they hit. Sharron landed in a snowdrift and disappeared into darkness as the hole she made closed over her head.

 Funny, she thought, if something like this had happened to her eighteen months ago, she would have been thrown into a blind panic. But not now. She dug her way out to find Richard and Craig already brushing the snow from their clothes.

 "What kept you?" said Richard.

 For a moment the three stood there, uncertain what to do. What did they expect? wondered Sharron. Did they think the Tibetans, or the old man at least, would come to them? Perhaps he would, but if he and his people were in trouble, perhaps he couldn't.

 "Where do we start?" she said.

 "If this isn't too far from where we crashed, the city you saw shouldn't be too far away," said Richard. "So I suppose we start looking."

 "But which direction?" said Sharron.

 "All of them," said Craig. "Methodically, for as long as it takes. But first I suggest we check out the wreck. It might give us some pointers."

 They headed for the plane. For each of them, investigating the wreckage was unnerving. It was too much like stepping back in time to the day they almost died. Or perhaps the day they did die and were resurrected. They still didn't know if they had been dead or alive when the Tibetans found them. None of them voiced these feelings. Thanks to their gifts, they didn't have to. Each knew how the others felt.

NAPOLEON and Illya arrived in Delhi with a rough idea of where Craig, Richard and Sharron – and, they assumed, Penman before them – had gone. Napoleon had read all the files during the flight and had reached the same conclusions as his partner. Clearly the Nemesis agents' crash in Tibet was pivotal to whatever was going on and now they were returning to the scene of… well, that was what they had to find out.

 They didn't need to go through the same rigmarole as the Nemesis agents to get transport. They had already arranged to be met by a second UNCLE plane at the airport. UNCLE was aware of the Chinese research centre from which the Nemesis trio had stolen the bacteria, so with that knowledge and an assumption that the Nemesis agents had intended to fly to India after their ill-fated mission, Napoleon and Illya were able to work out a likely route. They gave the UNCLE pilot instructions and were quickly airborne.

 They got lucky. Weather conditions were fair, visibility was good, and in less than an hour they spotted the plane wreck.

 "Surely that can't have been there eighteen months," said Illya.

 "Perhaps not," said Napoleon, "but it's in the right area and it's the best clue we're likely to get."

 He instructed the pilot to take them to an altitude from which they could safely parachute. As the pilot did that, Illya and Napoleon dressed for the conditions below. Before jumping themselves, they pushed out two one-man ski-bobs and a pack of equipment and supplies. They watched the chutes open on all the items, then followed them out.

 On the ground, it took them a couple of minutes to work out the ski-bobs.

 "Bikes on skis," said Napoleon. "Do you think they'll catch on?"

 "They're big in Europe, I hear," said Illya.

Twenty minutes later they were pulling up beside the wrecked plane. Illya dismounted to inspect it.

 "No," he said. "This is recent. There's hardly any weathering on the fuselage and these broken edges still look fresh."

 "Not as fresh as these footprints."

 Napoleon pointed to the snow where slight indentations could be seen. Snow was drifting over them, but there were still discernible tracks leading away from the plane. Illya knelt beside them.

 "Three sets," he said.

 "And can you tell if they belong to two men and a woman, Tonto?"

 "No, kemo sabe, but I'd be prepared to make a small wager on it anyway."

 They set off again, following the tracks.

 It wasn't too long before they spotted three dark dots in the distance. They agreed to follow discreetly, to see where the trail led, before they intercepted the trio. If it came to a fight, it would be two against three – possibly a very strong three – but they were more mobile. They would have to use that to even the odds.

THE Nemesis agents had trusted to instinct when choosing a direction in which to start exploring. They soon learned they were heading the right way. Coming over a rise, they looked down on a dark blemish on the level snow of the shallow valley bottom. Long and thin, it ran for several hundred yards. Even at a distance, they had a good idea what it was, and closer inspection proved them right. The soft snow had been cleared away to expose the ice below. This had then been covered with fine grit to create a rudimentary landing strip.

 There was evidence of a lot of activity around the strip, signs of people leaving the area and returning to it. Even the constantly shifting snow could not obliterate the ruts they had made. The trio had no doubt the path would lead them to the city. The only doubts were over what they would find there. What they all knew, though none spoke of it, was that the nagging fears that had brought them here were growing stronger with every step.

 They climbed a snow-covered slope with a sense of mingled anticipation and trepidation, which grew until they crested the ridge and saw the city for the first time. Sharron's glimpse of it before the crash that changed their lives had been little more than an impression of lights in the snow. What they saw now was hard to equate with anything they had seen before. Certainly there was an impression of a great deal of light spread out before them. There were buildings and streets, but the designs and materials were like nothing elsewhere on Earth. The word that inevitably came to each of their minds was "alien".

 However, there was something in the city that was in no way alien. Walking the perimeters were men and women in combat gear carrying guns. Others walked the streets. The robed Tibetans on the streets were few, and each of them was closely guarded.

 Sharron, Craig and Richard lay flat on top of the rocks.

 "What do we do?" asked Sharron.

 "Watch," said Richard, "and wait."

 "And plan," said Craig. "We need to get down there, get inside to find out what's going on. But we had better wait until nightfall. We'll need the darkness. So, in the meantime, anyone have any idea theories?"

 "Someone's learned the secret of this place," said Sharron. "That much is obvious. And they are exploiting it for their own ends. It looks like an organisation. Could it be some group we've come up against before? Could we somehow have pointed them this way?"

 She looked from one man to the other.

 "Could this be our fault?" she said.

 Neither one had an answer. They waited. Time passed in that seemingly timeless place.

THE UNCLE agents found the landing strip and the tracks leading from it as the Nemesis agents had before them.

 "A lot of traffic for the middle of nowhere," Illya yelled above the sound of their vehicles' engines and the wind whipping past them.

 "Yes," Napoleon yelled back. "Looks like our friends are the latest of many."

 Coming round an outcrop of rock, they saw the slope at the top of which the Nemesis agents lay. They turned and rode back behind the outcrop before cutting their engines.

 "Are they acting as lookouts?" said Illya.

 "Or are they lying in wait for someone else?" said Napoleon. "We need to find out."

 "We could watch them," said Illya. "Wait until dark."

 "If you feel confident negotiating this terrain in darkness."

 "Good point. All right, we act now. Find out whose side they are on."

 "Yes, but let's approach… circumspectly."

"DOES anyone hear anything?" said Richard.

The others cocked their heads.

"The wind?" said Sharron.

"An engine," said Craig.

He turned in the direction of the sound. A ski-bob was coming up the slope from the left at speed. He pointed. Sharron tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at ninety degrees. Another ski-bob was speeding towards them from the right, kicking up snow. Both bikes stopped about ten yards from the Nemesis agents.

"Get ready," whispered Craig.

The three of them formed a defensive semi-circle.

"United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," called the man on one of the ski-bobs. "We're UNCLE agents."

"Nemesis," Craig called back.

The man on the ski-bob spoke into some sort of communicator. Craig and the others heard every word.

"They would say that, wouldn't they?" he said.

"Of course, Napoleon, and we know they aren't here officially," replied the man on the other machine.

"What are you doing here?" Napoleon called.

"What are you doing here?" Craig called back.

To Sharron and Richard he whispered: "How much do you know about UNCLE?"

"Not much," said Richard. "If anything, their profile's lower than ours."

"Do you think they could be responsible for what's going on down there?" said Sharron.

She cast a quick glance down towards the city.

"If not," said Richard, "how did they find the place and what are they doing?"

"The city could be an invaluable asset," said Craig. "If UNCLE stumbled across it, why wouldn't they exploit it? Hell, we don't even trust Nemesis with the truth."

"We need to talk," called Napoleon.

He felt the situation was verging on ridiculous. Here they were, out in the open shouting at each other. That sounded like a bad strategy no matter which side the Nemesis agents were now on. Said agents were whispering again, which he also didn't like. He signalled to Illya to edge closer.

"If they are behind what's happening in the city," whispered Craig, "then we have to stop them. If they aren't, we can't let them find out about it."

"Either way, it seems there's only one course open to us," said Richard.

"Well, if we must do it this way, let's get on with it," said Sharron.

Craig yelled to Napoleon.

"OK, let's talk."

Napoleon felt his neck hairs rise. The man's tone screamed trap.

"Come into my parlour…" he muttered.

"…Said the spider to the fly," finished Illya, picking up Napoleon's words on his pen communicator.

 The UNCLE agents rode close to the group and dismounted.

 "So, what are you doing out here?" asked Napoleon.

 "We're on holiday," said Richard. "You?"

 "Strictly business, I'm afraid," said Illya. "And we'd appreciate it if you'd interrupt your holiday long enough to share with us what's so fascinating on the other side of this ridge."

 "I'm afraid we can't do that," said Craig.

 "I'm afraid we'll have to insist," said Napoleon.

 He and Illya drew their guns.

 Neither was sure what happened next. The trio in front of them became a blur of motion. Napoleon fired what would have been a warning shot, but even as he squeezed the trigger, a hand grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm upwards so the bullet shot straight up. Then he was lifted up – by the woman, he was embarrassed to note – and flung through the air, before making an UNCLE agent-shaped impression in the snow. He sat up and shook himself in time to see Illya was not faring much better, but he was at least near his ski-bob, which was equipped with a rifle. He pulled it from its sheath and levelled it at the American – that would be Stirling, thought Napoleon – who was a few yards away on the other side of the ski-bob but advancing.

 "Are you faster than a speeding bullet?" said Illya.

 Stirling stopped. Macready and the Englishman, Barrett, who had been approaching Napoleon, also stopped and turned.

 "Over here, Napoleon," said Illya.

 Napoleon got up and, keeping his distance from Macready and Barrett, joined Illya by the ski-bobs. He unsheathed his own rifle, but for some reason didn't feel he and his partner had the upper hand. The Nemesis agents regrouped.

 "Now we really will talk, if you don’t mind," said Illya.

 The Nemesis agents said nothing, but advanced slowly. The guns didn't seem to frighten them, but Napoleon didn't think it was because they were bulletproof. It was just that they believed they could deal with them.

 Then they stopped. Napoleon realised they were looking beyond him and Illya. He turned to see a dozen men in uniform. They must have come from the far side of the ridge, quietly… and fast. They all had guns trained on him, Illya and the Nemesis trio. At their head were a man and woman he recognised from the Seed of Destruction theft photographs.

 The man beamed at him.

 "We can do what they can do," he said, nodding towards the Nemesis agents. "And we have guns."

 Looking beyond the UNCLE agents, he addressed Craig, Richard and Sharron.

 "You might think you can take us on," he said. "But you would lose, and these two" – he indicated Napoleon and Illya – "would be dead in seconds. Do you want the deaths of two UNCLE agents on your hands?

 "I thought not. I'm Adam Smith, by the way. This is Eve Jones." He indicated the woman by his side. "We'd be so grateful if you would join us in our frozen Eden."

 Napoleon and Illya were relieved of their guns and the five captives were herded together.

 "We really must work on inter-agency relations," Napoleon said to Craig. "We've already had one lesson in what happens when one bunch of spies doesn't talk to another."

 "It sure could have avoided this situation," said Craig. "So what are you doing here?"

 "The Seed of Destruction," said Napoleon.

 "That's quite enough, gentlemen," interrupted Adam. "The last thing we want is co-operation among spies. It would make Thrush's job so much harder."

 He poked Napoleon in the back with his rifle.

 "Walk on, man from UNCLE."

 The captives were led down a steep path towards the city. Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances. Neither could quite believe what they were seeing. They were used to coming across Thrush bases in far out places, but this was something else. It was a genuine city for a start, thought Illya, with a sense of permanence. While the title city might have been a grand one in terms of its size, it was undoubtedly justified by its splendour. In fact, it had an aura of great age and an architecture he could barely decipher, let alone recognise and understand. He understood one thing, though, as they neared the city. Thrush was an occupying force here. That much was clear in the way its troops patrolled the streets and the way the few members of the almost ethereal indigenous population kept as far as possible from the soldiers. Did everyone here possess the strength and speed demonstrated by the Nemesis agents, and were the agents originally from this place? Those would have to be questions for later.

 They walked through a street between buildings which seemed little more than light and colour given substance and were led into one of these buildings. Inside, a man stood in front of a white table, which seemed to be a part of the room rather than merely furniture. The man had his back to them and was writing in a large book.

 "You said they'd come," Adam said to him.

 The man turned.

 "It wasn't hard to predict," he said. "UNCLE were bound to make the Thrush connection, and these three aren't stupid."

 "Penman," said both UNCLE agents and all three Nemesis operatives together.

 Penman beamed.

 "It's so gratifying to be recognised," he said.

 "Harold Penman," said Richard. "Now I am confused."

 "You shouldn't be," said Penman. "After all, you, Stirling and Macready led me here. Did you really think no one would read between the lines in your fanciful assignment reports? Or perhaps a lowly file clerk was beneath your consideration."

 "Don't give us a sob story, Penman," said Craig. "Just tell us what's going on here so we can put a stop to it."

 "Ah, such bravado. Between you all, you should have been able to work out exactly what is going on, but then you secret agent organisations never talk to each other, do you? It'll be the death of you, quite literally."

Penman perched on the table beside the book.

 "You know," he said. "I must have read thousands of reports during my long career, so many of them boasting last-second escapes from seemingly certain death at the hands of the villains. It set me thinking. Of course, it's obvious where we bad guys are going wrong. We should just shoot you all in the head and have done with it. I dare say that's what you would do in our place. But you heroes are so dull, aren't you? No romance, no flair, no imagination or sense of the dramatic. That's what sets us villains apart. So, a fiendish death trap it has to be, I'm afraid. But, with my extensive reading on the subject, I think I've devised something that really will kill you. Let's find out, shall we?"

 "What's in the book, Harold?" said Richard.

 "This?" Penman patted the open page. "This is my record of the chosen. The clerk in me coming out again, I'm afraid. Here is the name of every member of Thrush, from the most powerful leader to the lowliest foot soldier. I entered their names as they underwent the… special treatment our Tibetan friends can provide. Each one of them is now a superhuman, as am I, of course."

 He ran a finger down the page.

 "Sadly, I don't see any of your names here. In fact, you just missed the last entrants. They flew out shortly before you dropped in."

 "Why are Thrush doing this?" asked Craig.

 "Really, Stirling, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you. Suffice to say, the new improved members of the Thrush elite are moving into place around the world to pick up the reins of power when they are dropped, as they all very soon will be."

 "And how is that going to happen?" said Craig.

 "We know," said Napoleon.

 "I dare say you do," said Penman, "but we don't have time to listen to your story. Just one last tantalising thought, though, Stirling, to take to your grave. Only a week ago you were within a hair's breadth of one strand of our plot. If only you had followed it to the root… well, who knows, all this could have been different."

 "What do you mean?" asked Sharron, though she already had an inkling.

 "Your white slavery affair, my dear. Surely you don’t really think all that was simply to satisfy the sexual foibles of a few rich men."

 "What then?" said Sharron.

 "Sorry, no time to explain. Besides, your cutting off that particular supply of stock did us little harm. We were running numerous similar operations around the world. Now, I really do have to leave shortly. And you have an appointment with death."

 Adam and Eve and half a dozen soldiers held the quintet at gunpoint as Penman led them back out into the streets.

 "Don't think of making a break for it," said Penman. "You wouldn't make it, but if you did, the good citizens of… wherever we are would pay with their lives for your escape. I hope that's incentive enough to behave."

They headed for the edge of the city.

Can you hear the old man?

 Richard sent the thought to his colleagues.

 I think I can sense him, Sharron replied, but there's nothing intelligible. How about you?

 Yes, I think so. He knows we're here, and he's grateful we came, but he's not in a position to help us at the moment.

 Looks like we'll have to help ourselves, Craig sent. As usual.

 Illya looked from the Nemesis agents to Napoleon, who raised his eyebrows, sharing Illya's puzzlement. If it wasn't for the fact the trio clearly weren't speaking, Illya would have sworn they were in conversation.

 "Mind letting us in on the secret," he whispered to Craig.

 "Nothing to tell."

 They reached the snowy wastes on the fringe of the city. There was a generator operating a pump. From one end of the pump a flexible tube with a two-foot diameter led into a drift of soft snow. Another tube protruded from the other end and rested beside a hole in the snow.

 Penman walked over to the hole and beckoned.

 "Come and have a look," he said.

 Encouraged by gun barrels in their backs, the UNCLE and Nemesis agents did as he said. The hole was like the neck of a bottle. It opened into a spherical chamber about twenty feet deep with polished ice walls.

 "I had this dug especially for you," Penman said to the Nemesis agents. "And whoever UNCLE sent, of course."

 "Thanks for the consideration," said Illya.

 "Now," said Penman. "As you no doubt realise, you are all going into the hole. This chute will then fit over the entrance and pump in tons of snow. It will be a simple grave, but with a degree of poetry to it, I feel. After all, you three – Stirling, Macready, Barrett – were born, or at least reborn, in these snows, and now you will be buried here."

 He paused, as if expecting to be complimented on his genius. No one said anything.

 "Well," he continued. "If you would all care to strip, we can get on."

 "Strip?" said Napoleon. "You want us to strip, all of us?"

 He glanced at Sharron, who stared defiantly at Penman.

 "You brought it on yourselves," said Penman. "Particularly you UNCLE types, you're positively alive with gadgets. Letting you keep your clothes on is a costly mistake many of my predecessors have made. So, if you wouldn’t mind."

 The five began to undress. Penman went through Napoleon and Illya's clothes as they were discarded.

 "See what I mean, Mr – " he checked their IDs – "Solo and Mr Kuryakin. Magnesium tape sewn into the collar, steel wire in a button, explosives in a boot heel… and much more besides, I imagine."

 The agents had stripped down to their underwear. Penman tutted.

 "I don't wish to appear prurient or voyeuristic," he said. "But I must insist everything goes. You see, I don't know what you might be keeping in your shorts, Mr Solo."

 "You’re both prurient and voyeuristic and much worse, Penman," said Napoleon.

 Penman shrugged.

 The underwear joined the rest of the clothes piled on the snow.

"Now," said Penman, "will you jump or do you need to be pushed?"

Adam didn't wait for an answer. He jabbed Richard, who was nearest the hole, in the back with his rifle. Richard lost his footing and slid into the hole, tumbling in silence for a second before hitting the ice floor with a thud.

Craig and Sharron turned to find Adam and Eve's guns trained on their chests.

"See if your friend's all right," said Adam to Craig and went to push him. Craig hopped backwards, avoiding the push, and vanished down the hole. He saw no other course of action that would not cost lives.

"Don't get left out, girlie," said Eve, and pushed Sharron in the stomach, sending her after her friends.

Illya and Napoleon stood back to back, ready to fight despite the hopeless situation.

"Highly commendable," said Penman, "but I'm sure you wouldn't want to do anything that would force me to take retribution on the good citizens."

Illya and Napoleon exchanged glances. There seemed to be only one way to go.

"You be the White Rabbit," said Illya. "I'll be Alice."

And they both disappeared down the hole. Craig and Richard caught them before they hit the rock-hard ice.

Penman called down.

"Wise decision, gentlemen. At least now you can hold onto the futile hope of escape. At least for a few minutes. Sorry I can't stay to watch. I'd really like to, but world domination beckons and I have a deadline to keep. Don't you like that word? Deadline. However, I will leave a couple of men here to shoot you, should you by some miracle get this far."

Penman's face disappeared from the hole above them and the chute was inserted, blocking most of the light.

"We haven't been properly introduced," said Napoleon. "This is Illya Kuryakin, I'm Napoleon Solo." To Sharron, he added: "So, do you often find yourself in situations like this?"

"Not exactly. You?"

"This sort of thing, yes."

"So you'll have plenty of ideas on getting out," Craig interrupted.

"You're the superman," said Napoleon.

"It seems to me there are two alternatives," said Illya in an effort to defuse the tension that seemed to be building and to hurry things along.

He was already shivering badly, as was Napoleon, and was hopping from foot to foot in a futile effort to stop his feet going numb. The Nemesis agents didn't seem overly bothered by the cold so far.

"We either try to go out the way we came in, or start digging," he said. "I suggest the former and I suggest we act fa-aahhhoowwww!"

A thick stream of snow poured from the chute above and landed on Illya. Napoleon pulled him out of the direct line of fire, but they were all splashed.

"We can try to climb out," said Richard. "We might be able to knock hand and footholds in the sides then either dislodge the chute or, maybe, go up through it."

"Then try it," said Illya. "I don't know about you, but Napoleon and I don't have much time."

Richard took one point on the wall and Craig took another opposite him. They punched the ice. Chips flew and they were able to gouge out holes. Richard looked at his hand. The knuckles were grazed and would be much more badly damaged by the time he reached the top, even with his enhanced rate of healing. It would also become more difficult near the top as the walls curved inwards towards the opening. But what choice did they have? He looked at Craig, whose expression said: None. They each punched another hole and began to climb.

"We ought to try to stay on top of the snow," said Napoleon.

It was spreading around his ankles.

"Y-yes," said Illya, stammering in the cold. "Try to pack it down. Keep on top of it and it'll lift us. Also, it's important we keep moving."

Sharron didn't know if the UNCLE men believed they could really beat the snow, but she admired their courage in the face of overwhelming odds. The trio began to run in circles, treading down the snow, but it was coming in too fast and they all knew they were fighting a losing battle.

Richard and Craig were nearing the opening. They had to be more careful creating the handholds, as they were now hanging upside down and violent movements could dislodge them. Richard had noticed that on the last three or four handholds he had left traces of blood. He and Craig were now only a couple of metres apart and the torrent of snow roared between them.

"What now?" he said.

"I don't think we can reach the chute to dislodge it from here," said Craig. "Someone has to get in there."

They looked down to see Sharron and the UNCLE agents forcing their way through ever-deepening drifts. They looked like extremely successful tribal snow-dancers.

"Sharron," Craig said quietly.

She looked up.

"Can you jump up here," he said. "We can catch you and you might be able to kick the chute out."

Sharron looked at Illya and Napoleon. She was feeling the cold quite deeply now, but they were turning blue. It was amazing they were able to keep moving. Napoleon caught her look and glanced downwards then back at Sharron with a grin.

"It's cold in here," he said. "That's my excuse."

Sharron smiled back.

To Craig she said: "How about if I throw one of the UNCLE agents up? They need to get out of here sooner than I do."

Craig exchanged thoughts with Richard.

"All right," said Richard. "Explain what we have in mind."

Sharron stopped the UNCLE agents' faltering run and briefly explained the plan. Napoleon and Illya looked up doubtfully.

"It will work," said Sharron.

"Let's try it," said Napoleon.

Sharron stood behind him and took hold of his hips. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Catch me if I fall," he said.

"Of course," said Sharron.

"Hurry up," called Craig.

He and Richard were holding onto the ice by one hand and one foot and were ready to catch Napoleon with their free hands. Napoleon raised his hands above his head. Sharron lifted him slightly to gauge his weight. She bent her knees then uncoiled and released him, launching him upwards.

As he flew through the torrent of snow, Napoleon felt as if he was swimming against a waterfall, except the current was on his side. He couldn't see a thing, so just held out his hands against the stream and hoped for the best. If he fell, he was sure Sharron would catch him, so at least there was one plus to the predicament.

Two strong hands grasped his wrists and held him firmly despite the battering of the snow against his body. He was shivering uncontrollably. Then the hands let go, only to grasp him again a fraction of a second later high up on his arms, just below the shoulder. He gripped the arms that held him in the same way, though his fingers were numb and his grip felt weak.

"We're going to swing you into the hole and hold you," said an English voice. That was Barrett, thought Napoleon, Richard. "The chute seems to be just pushed into the hole. If you can get your feet on the sides and push – with a little help from us – you might be able to force it out."

Great, thought Napoleon, I'm a living battering ram. And what would most of the snow be hitting while he was doing it? The things he did to save the world.

"Sounds simple," he tried to say through numbed lips and aching teeth. "What are we waiting for?"

Richard and Craig swung him into the entrance and held him there as he took the full impact of the snow at its most concentrated. He spread his feet, searching blindly for the rim of the chute. For seconds that felt like minutes he fumbled before first his left foot and then his right found a hard plastic edge even his tortured soles could feel.

"OK," he said. "Push."

In fact, from their precarious positions and holding him as they were, Richard and Craig could do little more than add support to Napoleon's efforts, but he had determination on his side. He was sure he had been in tougher spots than this – even if none came immediately to mind. He had escaped them and would escape this.

He pushed, ignoring the cold burn of the snow and the damage it was doing his body, and was rewarded with the wet grind of plastic on snow. He amazed himself by increasing his efforts and the chute began to slide.

"Push!" he yelled. "Push!" And the instruction was for him more than for the Nemesis agents.

Progress was slow at first, like a cork coming out of a bottle, but suddenly – also like a cork – it popped out and whipped away from the snow pit's entrance. Napoleon shot forward with the sudden movement, then fell back and slipped free of Craig and Richard's grip. Sharron caught him, as he had been sure she would. He only wished his body was in a condition to enjoy the experience.

From Sharron's arms, he looked up to see the head of one of the guards looking in to see what had happened.

"Send me back up, Sharron," said Napoleon. "Straight through the entrance."

"But you're in no condition," she said. "And he probably has … our abilities."

"Perhaps," said Napoleon, "but I have right on my side." In addition, he was more than a little annoyed. "So, what do you say?"

He tried for a winning smile and hoped it didn't look like a rictus grin, since he couldn't feel his face.

"All right," said Sharron, "but be careful."

"Careful's his middle name," said Illya, who was shivering thigh-deep in snow beside Sharron.

"It was," said Napoleon, "but I changed it to Trouble."

Sharron put him on his feet so she could take hold of his waist. Looking up at the entrance to judge the throw, she saw the guard was still looking in.

"Are you sure about this?" she said.

"I never go back on a decision," said Napoleon.

"All right," said Sharron, and launched him upwards.

He shot through the entrance tunnel like a human cannonball.

Illya tapped Sharron on the shoulder.

"He might need some help up there," he said.

"Of course," said Sharron, and began clearing a space in the snow around her to launch herself after Napoleon. Illya tapped her shoulder again.

"I meant me," he said.

Napoleon noticed with pleasure the looks of consternation on the faces of Richard and Craig as he sped past them. But he had no time to enjoy it before he thumped into the inquisitive guard, lifting him off his feet as they arced through the air together and landed in the snow bank beyond the pump.

The Thrush man may have had superpowers, but the UNCLE agent had the element of surprise and a survival instinct second to none. He was first to his feet. Grabbing the guard's rifle, which was slung over his shoulder, he yanked it upwards so the strap was around the man's neck, then twisted the gun a couple of times to turn the strap into a garrotte before pointing the gun over the man's shoulder. Unhealthy noises came from the man's throat. He clawed at the strap.

By this time, the second guard was moving forward. Napoleon trained the rifle on him.

"Stop right there," he said.

The man did stop, but only for a second. Then he leaped into the air towards Napoleon. A naked, flying Illya Kuryakin knocked him out of the sky and, recovering first as Napoleon had, executed a manoeuvre similar to his partner's. The Thrush men found themselves kneeling in the snow ten yards apart in strangleholds and each staring into the barrel of the other's rifle.

"Neither of you make a move," said Napoleon, "or the other one gets the first bullet."

The UNCLE agents pulled the men to their feet by their rifle straps. Standing up suddenly made Napoleon dizzy. They had to do this quickly, before either he or Illya collapsed. He would almost have appreciated help from the Nemesis agents, but he wasn't going to wait. Looking back towards the snow pit, he saw the clothes he, Illya and the Nemesis agents had been removed.

"Take off your pants and jacket," he said.

"And your boots," added Illya.

The UNCLE agents watched the Thrush men's faces closely, knowing they were looking for a chance to regain the upper hand. They didn't see one yet. Slowly, the men began to undress and drop their clothes in the snow. As they did so, Sharron, Richard and Craig jumped out of the pit in quick succession and landed lightly.

"You appear to have things well in hand," said Richard.

"Always happy to have someone lighten the load," said Napoleon.

Richard took hold of the guard Napoleon had captured while Sharron relieved Illya of his prisoner.

Napoleon picked up the dropped coat of one of the guards and offered it to Sharron at the same moment as Craig offered her the other guard's fur-trimmed coat.

"Take this," they said together.

For an awkward moment, the men held out the coats, then Sharron said: "Keep the coat, Napoleon. Your need's greater than mine. So is Illya's, Craig."

"But – " began Craig.

"Don't worry about my modesty," said Sharron. "Besides, this man is going to lend me his shirt." She swung the guard round to face her. "Aren't you?"

Once Sharron had the shirt and Napoleon and Illya had pulled on the guards' jackets, trousers and boots, the Thrush men – now wearing only longjohns – were marched over to the snow pit and told to jump in. They were reluctant, but a couple of prods from their own rifles persuaded them.

"If they have your abilities," said Napoleon, once the men were in the hole, "someone will need to stay here to stop them getting out."

"This should help," said Richard.

He had picked up the generator for the snow pump and now placed it over the entrance.

"But someone should stay," he said. "Perhaps you two." He indicated Napoleon and Illya. "You've been through a lot. You could use the rest."

"No," said Napoleon. "It has to be someone who can match them if they do make a break."

"Yes, well," said Richard. "Sharron?"

Perhaps she should be flattered, she thought. Perhaps offering her the job was a compliment, but it felt more like she was being sidelined, and not for the first time.

"All right," she said. "What's your plan?"

"Richard and I will take back the city," said Craig. "We'll bring the prisoners back here to you three."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other and communicated with a telepathy that had nothing to do with ancient Tibetan civilisations and everything to do with a long professional partnership and personal friendship.

"We're going with you," said Napoleon, confident he could speak for Illya. "Let's not have an argument about it."

In fact, Napoleon would have liked nothing more than to lay down and curl up. His battered body was begging him to do just that, and he would collapse anyway if he didn't do it soon. But not yet. Inter-agency co-operation was one thing, handing over an assignment was something else. There was professional pride at stake.

Craig and Richard shrugged.

Sharron watched the quartet walk away towards the barely tangible shapes and colours of the city.

Men, she thought. Even the ones who didn't have superpowers thought they did.

Napoleon and Illya had also retrieved the Thrush agents' caps and were trying to give the impression they were taking the Nemesis prisoners back into the city. They didn't believe the ruse would fool anyone for long, but it might gain them precious seconds, though so far they had seen no Thrush troops.

"Does anyone have a plan?" said Illya.

"Wing it," said Napoleon and Craig simultaneously.

They could have smiled at that, but chose instead to scowl.

"I can sense the old man," said Richard. "No, more than that. I can hear him. Craig?"

"Yes. He's giving directions, leading us to him."

"There's a warning, too," said Richard. "He's still under guard, he and others. There are Thrush scientists trying to force them to reveal the secrets of this place."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances and shrugged. This was beyond their understanding, but it was hardly the first thing they had encountered during their battles with Thrush that fell into that category. They were both more concerned by the fact that they had not yet seen any Thrush soldiers. But they needn't have worried. Two stepped into the street ahead of them and weren't fooled for one second by the prisoner/guard routine.

"Hey!" shouted one. "Don't any of you move."

He and his colleague raised their guns, but Illya and Napoleon stepped out from behind the Nemesis agents and shot first. The Thrush men fell.

"If we had any cover, it's just been blown," said Illya.

"Can you… home in on this old man?" Napoleon asked Richard and Craig.

"I think so," said Richard. "He's guiding us."

"Then tell him we'll skip the scenic route," said Napoleon.

Craig and Richard grabbed the rifles from the fallen Thrush men, but didn't waste time taking their clothes.

"This way," said Craig, and set off at a run.

The shots brought other Thrush soldiers running from various buildings and within seconds the UNCLE and Nemesis agents found themselves in the middle of a firefight, for which Napoleon and Illya found they were oddly grateful. At least it was something with which they were familiar, even if it did feel like they were fighting in the middle of a psychedelic dream. In fact, the city reminded Illya of a few discos he had visited.

The quartet found about a dozen Thrush men arrayed against them, but it soon became apparent that no more were coming.

"Can you ask your old man where the rest are?" Napoleon asked Richard.

They were sheltering at the corner of a building – except corner didn't quite do the geometric configuration justice. Craig and Illya were on the other side of the street, and between them they had the Thrush group pinned further down the street.

Napoleon felt dizzy with the cold that gnawed deep inside despite the borrowed clothes, so he hardly noticed Richard stare into space for a few seconds before replying.

"Gone," he said. "They left with Penman, Adam and Eve immediately after we were imprisoned. This is just a token force to support scientists trying to learn the Tibetans' secrets."

"Good," said Napoleon. "Then let's round them up then see if anywhere in this place serves very hot coffee, maybe with a shot of something in it."

He signalled Illya, who, he noted, looked as close to collapse as he felt.

Illya laid down covering fire and Napoleon – summoning energy from reserves he didn't know he had – dashed forward, gaining twenty yards before diving into a doorway. Richard joined him, then they provided cover for Illya and Craig to advance. Ahead of them, in doorways and at corners, two or three of the Thrush soldiers fell.

Then Napoleon saw something that made him think fatigue had finally overtaken him. Apparitions in orange and white were emerging from the city lights beyond the Thrush men. The inhabitants were turning on the invaders. With their guards forced into the street to tackle the escaped prisoners, dozens had risen up and now intended to take back their city.

Napoleon signalled to Illya to cease fire, though Illya didn't need the instruction.

The UNCLE and Nemesis men watched as the Tibetans advanced wraith-like and descended on the Thrush soldiers, who neither heard nor saw anything until it was too late. The Tibetans were not fighters, but they had numbers, stealth and the certainty that they had right on their side. Napoleon, Illya, Craig and Richard went to lend a hand, though none was needed. The Thrush troops had been subdued and disarmed and were now in the grip of the Tibetans.

"I'll bet you've been waiting a long time to do that," said Craig.

He wasn't sure they understood him, but he supposed they could read his mind, and they answered his smile in kind.

"Ancient civilisation 1, international crime 0," said Richard.

"Where are the Thrush scientists?" asked Napoleon.

"That way," said Craig, pointing. "I'll go."

"So will I," said Napoleon.

They set off. Richard and Illya exchanged a look that spoke volumes about their partnerships and their roles within them.

The building Craig said held the Thrush scientists and their captive Tibetans seemed to Napoleon to form the focal point of a large square. He had to use the word "seemed", because every thought about the city involved trying to contort its strangeness into recognisable concepts.

He considered making some comment to that effect to Craig, but saw the Nemesis man was staring into space. Probably hearing voices again, he thought, and he was right.

I'm relieved to feel your presence so close, Craig heard the old man say. The men here with us are men of science, not soldiers. They are already unnerved by the gunfire that drew our guards away. The sight of your weapon now would surely subdue them.

What was that, thought Craig, ancient Tibetan smut? Besides, in this cold he wouldn't frighten anyone. He hefted his rifle, caught Napoleon's eye, nodded towards the door and the pair of them burst in.

They met no resistance. The dozen Thrush scientists looked startled and the Tibetans they had been observing at work grabbed the opportunity to turn the tables. Within half a minute, without Thrush soldiers to restrain them, the captives had become the captors.

The room, Napoleon now had time to notice, was a cross between a laboratory and an operating theatre, but unlike any version of either he had ever seen. This, he imagined, was what Baron Frankenstein's lab might have looked like if Frankenstein had been a force for light and beauty rather than darkness and terror.

An old man in an orange robe separated himself from the group and came towards Craig and Napoleon. To Napoleon, he seemed to float, but that could have been an illusion, as the fatigue he had been fighting was now close to overwhelming him.

Craig smiled at the Tibetan like a child before Santa Claus.

"Welcome. You remember me perhaps as if in a dream," the old man said to him.

"Yes," said Craig, "a wonderful dream."

The old man returned his smile before turning to Napoleon.

"You also are most welcome," he said. "You have done us a great service and must rest now. Your body has been badly treated."

"Don't worry about me," said Napoleon. "I'm f…"

He was so exhausted he felt nothing as his battered body finally gave in and he hit the ground in a dead faint.

NAPOLEON woke to find himself lying on a simple white bed beneath soft light. He felt great. Every ache and pain from the battering he had taken in the snow pit was gone without a trace, as was the freezing cold that had eaten deep into his bones. He couldn't remember when he had last felt so rested and relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that he was reluctant to move and end the moment, but a minute after opening his eyes he forced himself into a sitting position.

 He saw Illya on an identical bed a few feet away. He was already sitting up and was smiling at Napoleon.

 "You too, huh?" said Napoleon.

 "Well, I didn't collapse like you," said Illya, "but then I didn't take quite the battering you did. I still needed plenty of rest and tender, loving care, which these people seemed happy to provide. And I was happy to take them up on the offer. I woke only minutes before you."

 A thought that brought a flood of mingled emotions struck Napoleon.

 "They haven't – " he began.

 "Made you something more than you were before?"

 The voice came from the doorway, where the old man stood framed.

 "No, Mr Solo. The treatment we administered to you and Mr Kuryakin was of a more… conventional nature, though rather more… complete than you would have received from your own doctors, I think. Your bodies are fully healed and refreshed, but beyond that you are as you have always been. No more was needed."

 Napoleon thought he was glad. His wits and natural physical prowess had kept him alive this long. He didn't want superpowers. Did he?

 "How long have we been asleep?" he asked.

 "Twenty-four hours," said the old man.

 Napoleon jumped off the bed, realised he was wearing only a sheet – a sheet, he noted, of a material softer and lighter and warmer than any he had felt before – and wrapped it around himself.

 "A whole day!" he said.

 "Yes," said Sharron, entering the room behind the old man. "But don't worry, the time has not been wasted."

 "No," said Richard, entering with Craig. "We've been interrogating our Thrush captives."

 All three Nemesis agents were now dressed in robes like those worn by the Tibetans.

 Illya wrapped his sheet around himself and joined Napoleon.

 "Learn anything?" he said.

 "Not from the soldiers," said Sharron. "They're more afraid of their absent masters than of us, and probably with good reason. They'd rather die than talk."

 "They probably don't know a lot, anyway," said Craig. "We've put them away for safekeeping."

 "Safekeeping?" said Napoleon.

 "They're in the snow pit," said Richard. "Under heavy guard. They won't be breaking out like we did. Maybe one of them will decide to talk, though I doubt it."

 "But the scientists are a different matter," said Sharron. "They are more open to persuasion."

 "Yes," said Craig. "From what we have managed to piece together from them, the Thrush plot is probably as I imagine you believe it to be. They have been forcing the Tibetans to give all their personnel, starting with the leaders and working down to soldiers like those here, the same enhancing treatment they gave us."

 "They have a device," said Richard. "The Seed of Destruction – I think you mentioned it. They plan to release this, killing everyone except themselves. Of course, we three would also survive, as would the Tibetans, though we are supposed to be dead and the soldiers no doubt had instructions to kill everyone here once the scientists understood their techniques."

 "But what would even Thrush want with a world empty of people for them to command?" said Sharron.

 "Ultimate power is always Thrush's aim," said Napoleon. "They would repopulate the world, reshape it in their own image."

 "Repopulate," said Sharon. "That's why they were kidnapping all those women. Penman called them stock. They wanted breeding stock. Were they planning to bring them here, have them changed in the hope they could breed superpowered children?"

 "I'm afraid it sounds all too like Thrush," said Napoleon.

 "They would create the Earth anew," added Illya. "They would be like gods. That's a temptation they couldn’t resist."

 "The question is," said Napoleon, "how do we stop them?"

 "And the first part of the answer to that," said the old man, "is on a full stomach. Your bodies may be refreshed, but they still need food, and you have not eaten in more than a day. Come, we will eat and talk some more."

 Napoleon and Illya were offered robes and left to dress before being led to another building, which they assumed to be the old man's home. Spread on a table before them was a fabulous meal of fruit and bread and cheese and wine unlike any they had tasted.

 "Where do you get such wonderful food?" asked Illya.

 "Surely every city must have its gardens," was all the old man would say.

 They ate in silence for a while. Illya and Napoleon realised how hungry they were. Their hunger made the food and drink taste even better, and they gave the meal their full attention.

 "You have some information which should be shared," said the old man when he judged they were ready to listen."

 "We do?" said Napoleon.

 "Yes," said Craig. "The Seed of Destruction. What is it?"

 They told what they knew, and when they had finished the old man said: "I, too,  have information that should be shared, though I am unsure whether it will bring you any comfort.

 "It is true they forced us to use the skills we have honed over many generations to give them abilities beyond normal men and women."

 "How many did you give the… treatment?" asked Napoleon.

 "Too many to count," said the old man. "They came in their hundreds and would not let us rest for a minute. We are a peaceful society, though we would have resisted if we had been able. But their threat to my people was real and left me no choice but to co-operate.

 "However, there was something we could do. While all of your enemies appear to have the same physical and mental abilities as these three champions of law, order and justice" – he indicated Craig, Richard and Sharron – "these are little more than an illusion. The only ones to receive our full care were the first three – Harold Penman, Adam Smith and Eve Jones. For all those forced on us, we modified our treatment so that their powers will fade and vanish within one month, leaving all the members of this Thrush organisation, except the three, just as they were before."

 "Cold comfort," said Illya.

 "I am afraid so," said the old man. "I foolishly prided myself on outwitting my enemies, until, through their loose thoughts, I learned more of their scheme. They will go ahead with their plan to release this evil disease, and while they may survive its initial onslaught, they too will soon die."

 "Which brings us back to my earlier question," said Napoleon. "How do we stop them?"

 No one had any immediate thoughts.

 "OK," said Napoleon. "We believe that wherever they break open the Seed of Destruction, it is virulent enough to encircle the world. But let's assume they want to go for maximum impact. Where would they release it?"

 "A major city," said Craig.

 "Perhaps, or a major gathering," said Richard. "Something that draws people from a wide area, people who could unwittingly take the virus back to their homes."

 "But where?" said Sharron.

 There was silence.

 "Are you sure Penman or the other two, Adam and Eve, said nothing?" Napoleon asked the old man.

 "Said, no. But they were unused to using the abilities we gave them and I did occasionally pick up unprotected thoughts. They meant nothing to me, being little more than stray words and half-formed images relating to people and places I know nothing of. However, I will relate them to you as well as I can remember."

 The UNCLE and Nemesis agents stopped eating to give the old man their full attention.

 "First, I sensed a parting between the three you mentioned, Penman, Adam and Eve."

 "Dissension in the ranks," said Richard.

 "No," said the old man. "More that their destinies, at least their short-term destinies lay in different directions."

 "Any idea of those directions?" asked Napoleon.

 "From the young ones, Adam and Eve, I picked up an image of going back to the source, of " – he held out his hands as if trying to pluck the thought from the air – "getting to the root of the problem."

 "Returning to their Thrush headquarters, perhaps," said Illya.

 "Or to the Colsterworth Center," said Napoleon, "where the Seed of Destruction originated and where they are still trying to discover an antidote – a discovery Thrush would not welcome."

 "So," said Craig. "They split up. Those two go to make sure no one finds a cure for their favourite disease, while Penman breaks open the seed somewhere else. But where? Any more clues?"

 The old man sat in silent concentration, delving into his memory.

 "There were thoughts from the other one," he said at last, "But they made even less sense. He was thinking of a gathering, as you suggested, but at the same time the words he associated with this gathering brought to my mind forests and, perhaps, animals."

 The old man tickled the air with his fingers again as if to tease out the meanings that were hidden to him.

 At last he said: "The words seemed to suggest a forest farm, if such a thing exists."

 "What words?" asked Illya.

 "Wood," said the old man. "And stock."

 "Wood and stock," echoed Richard.

 "Woodstock," said Illya, and laughed. "Woodstock."

 "And what's Woodstock?" asked Napoleon.

 "A rock festival in Bethel, upstate New York. Doesn't anyone read the papers? It's been making headlines for months, mainly for the wrong reasons: the locals aren't happy. Everyone's going to be there: Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who, Santana, Jefferson Airplane…"

 The blank looks from around the table stopped Illya.

 "A rock festival," said Napoleon. "So it's not just the shaggy blond haircut that makes you hip."

 They shared a smile.

 "It's due to run for three days, starting on August 15," said Illya. "If I haven't lost track, that's today."

 "Then we could already be too late," said Sharron.

 "We could be," said Illya. "But the crowds are likely to grow as the festival progresses, so Penman will probably wait until it's at its height."

 "But how many would be there?" said Craig. "A few thousand. Surely there must be better targets."

 "Perhaps Penman knows more than we do," said Illya. "Big names are performing, so it will draw people from across America, perhaps overseas, too. For better or worse, it certainly sounds like it's Penman's target."

 "So," said Napoleon. "We need to protect the Colsterworth Center and cover Woodstock. That just leaves the small matter of how we get out of here."

 "Like we said," said Craig, "we haven't been idle while you've been asleep. We recovered your ski-bobs and the equipment that was with them. This was among it."

 He slid across the table a spare pen communicator Napoleon had been carrying. Napoleon picked it up.

 "This might have been useful earlier," he said.

 "You didn't know what you needed it for earlier," said Craig.

 "Gentlemen," said the old man, "now your course is set, time is of the essence."

 A minute later, Napoleon was speaking to Mr Waverly in New York.

 "Yes sir, we need a plane to pick us up from somewhere out in the wilds of Tibet. I can't give an exact location, but if I leave this connection open the pilot can locate the signal. There's a makeshift landing strip close by. We'll make sure it's clearly marked."

 "Would you like to explain what has been going on, Mr Solo?" said Mr Waverly.

 "It's a long story, sir, but the gist of Thrush's plot is as we feared. The main things you need to know now, sir, are that at least two superhumans, possibly more, are on their way to destroy the Colsterworth research facility. We believe another, Penman, is heading for a rock music festival in Bethel, upstate New York, where he intends to release the Seed of Destruction. They left here a day ago. They could strike any time, but certainly within the next two days."

 "I'll inform our friend Agent Brown at once," said Mr Waverly.

 "Yes, sir," said Napoleon. "We'd very much like to be involved, so all haste with the plane would be appreciated. Also, we have with us three Nemesis agents who, er…"

 He looked at Sharron, Richard and Craig. They had kept their secret for more than a year. For now, at least, he felt he should do the same.

 "They have experience of this superhuman phenomenon. Their assistance could be valuable."

 "The plane is already airborne, Mr Solo," said Mr Waverly. "I will inform Tremayne that his agents are safe and well, and I shall look forward to a full report of your adventures, as I'm sure will Tremayne."

 Napoleon signed off, but left the channel open.

 "Right," he said. "Time to move."

 "Please," said the old man. "Finish your meal first."

 Napoleon looked at Illya, who picked up a piece of fruit and bit into it.

 "It is very good," he said.

 Two hours later they were setting flares taken from Napoleon and Illya's gear along the edges of the landing strip. They had not been able to find their own clothes, so the Nemesis trio were wearing uniforms taken from the Thrush soldiers and the UNCLE agents were dressed in a combination of spare clothes from their kit and borrowed Thrush gear. Illya had stuffed the robes he and Napoleon had worn in a pack. He had an idea they might come in useful.

 "How did you intend to get back if there hadn't been a handy landing strip?" Richard asked Illya as they worked.

 "Just wing it. It usually works for us. You?"

 "Walk. We've done it before."

 "Of course."

 It wasn't long before they heard the whine of the plane's engines. They lit the flares as it circled to make its approach.

 The old man had accompanied them to say his farewells.

 "We'll send another plane to pick up the Thrush prisoners," said Napoleon.

 "Thank you," said the old man. "Once we are rid of them we will be able to make ourselves safe again."

 "Do you really think so?" said Napoleon. "It will be hard to keep your secret. Some powerful people might come looking for you."

 "They may seek, but they won't find."

 "I admire your confidence."

 "We can… veil ourselves and our city. Your enemies tricked us. We are wiser now, if also a little less innocent. We won't let it happen again."

 "You couldn't veil yourselves earlier?" said Napoleon.

 "With the enemy still in our midst? It would have been fruitless."

 The old man shook Napoleon's hand and moved away to say goodbye to Craig and Sharron. Richard joined them. Napoleon and Illya boarded the plane first to give the others a little privacy. A few minutes later, they were airborne.

 On the plane, Napoleon spoke to Mr Waverly again and learned that security had been stepped up at the Colsterworth Center, but no attempt to breach it had yet been made. Agent Brown had also dispatched people to Woodstock, though apparently the UNCLE agents' information had been greeted with a degree of scepticism. Napoleon smiled at the image of Brown's agents shining like beacons among the hippie hordes that would no doubt make up the audience.

 "I would advise you and Mr Kuryakin to split up and take one site each," said Mr Waverly. "I feel an UNCLE presence may be of value."

 Which meant, thought Napoleon, that they had done all the hard work so far and their boss wanted them there for the finale.

 "I also suggest you each take Nemesis agents with you," said Mr Waverly. "I'll leave it to you to decide how to split up the teams."

 Napoleon signed off. He looked around his fellow travellers. Illya and Richard had struck up a conversation and seemed to be getting on well. That would seem to be one team sorted. Which left him with Stirling. Oh well. He had the nagging notion that one reason he hadn't hit it off with his fellow American was that they were too alike. Still, if he had to pair off with Stirling, he would have to make sure he had some compensation. Settling back in his seat, he tried not to make his appreciation of Sharron Macready's figure too overt.

Sunday, August 17

IT took the agents another day to reach the United States, and most of that day was spent in the air, with only brief stopovers to change planes. But when they finally touched down on American soil at John F Kennedy International Airport, the journey was far from over. Napoleon, Craig and Sharron immediately boarded another UNCLE plane, which had been sitting on the tarmac waiting for them, and took off for Washington, from where they would pick up their final flight into West Virginia.

 Illya and Richard were transferred to a helicopter, which was to take them upstate to the little town of Bethel.

 Neither was prepared for what they saw as they flew over the Woodstock festival site. The sun shone down on half a million people. The multitude packed the slope of the bowl that led down to the small rise housing the stage and spread its tendrils across adjoining land, down the roads that led to the site and into the town itself. Sunbeams bounced back at Illya and Richard from the chrome of hundreds of cars, which had been abandoned by their passengers when they could drive no nearer the festival along the gridlocked roads.

 "Three days of peace and music," said Illya under his breath.

 "Pardon," said Richard, though only out of habit. His highly sensitive hearing meant the quietest whisper sounded loud and clear to him.

 "That's the festival's slogan," said Illya. "Three days of peace and music."

 "It seems to have struck a chord with a lot of people," said Richard.

 The helicopter was beginning to descend. Illya tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

 "Do we have fuel to stay airborne?" he asked.

 "Sure," said the pilot. "For a while."

 Illya wanted as complete an overview of the site as possible.

 "Penman knew what he was doing," he said. "There must be half a million people down there, and he could be anywhere."

 He was close to admitting they had been outwitted, that Penman was going to crack open the Seed of Destruction sometime in the next few hours and there was no way they could find him in time. He was close to it, but he had learned never to admit defeat.

 "Any ideas?" he said. "You don't have telescopic vision, do you?"

 "No, and even if I did it would still be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I do have one idea. When one of us – Craig, Sharron or me – is in danger, one or both of the others can often sense it. Of course, we're never the cause of the danger in the way Penman is, but he might give off a similar signal. I might be able to home in on him."

 "That seems to be our best hope for now," said Illya.

 He tapped the pilot on the shoulder again.

 "Take us down."

 Earlier, Mr Waverly had explained that the option to evacuate the site had been considered and rejected because of the numbers involved and the jams on surrounding roads. Assuming the hippie crowds had believed an evacuation order, and not thought it just another ploy by the locals who didn’t want them there, it could still have turned an already chaotic situation into a crisis.

 Illya had received no reports on the plane or since of any of the agents on the ground finding anything and he didn't expect to. One might stumble across Penman by luck, but it wasn't likely. Richard being able to track Penman down using a sixth sense didn't seem likely either, but Illya had already seen some pretty unlikely things in the last couple of days.

 He and Richard were met off the helicopter by Frank Johnson, a representative of the festival organisers. Johnson had been told there had been an unspecific threat from a criminal organisation and the UNCLE agent and his Nemesis counterpart were there to check it out. He figured he wasn't being told the whole truth. Perhaps he wasn't being told any of the truth, but there had been times in recent weeks when the whole Woodstock experience had seemed like a strange mix of fact and fiction. By this stage, the only option seemed to be to go with the flow.

 "Anything we can do to help," he said to Illya, "just ask. The last thing we want is things getting out of hand."

 "We'll try not to let that happen," said Illya.

 "Is there any danger?" asked Johnson.

 "Generally speaking," said Illya, "there is always danger."

 "Yeah… right."

 "You'll be here if we need anything?"

 "Yeah, sure. By the way, interesting outfits… for secret agents."

 "Thanks."

 They were wearing the robes Illya and Napoleon had been given to replace their stolen clothes in Tibet. As far as Illya was concerned, they blended in nicely. Richard's hair could have been a bit longer, but that was all.

 "Any pointers?" he asked Richard.

 Richard adopted an expression Illya had noticed before: a blank-eyed stare into fathomless space. In fact, it was a look not out of place in that crowd.

 "Nothing," said Richard. "The problem is that if I sense him at all, it might not be until he is about to release the virus and the danger is at its height."

"Then I suppose we'd better start searching and hope luck's on our side. We'll split up, but keep in touch."

He made sure Richard understood how to operate the spare pen communicator he had been given on the plane, then the two said goodbye to Johnson and went in opposite directions. They weaved their way around knots of people and past sagging tents, squelching at each step in the mud churned up by a million feet after the rain that had fallen in the past two days. Each of them would make a sweep that would eventually bring them back to their starting point.

Illya hoped Napoleon was having better luck. The way things were going, the world would need an antidote. As Illya walked, the sun beat down. After almost freezing to death in Tibet, the heat should have been welcome, but there was something sickly about it. The extremes of temperature were probably doing him no good. He was bound to catch a cold. One way or another.

NAPOLEON, Sharron and Craig transferred to helicopter for the final stage of their journey. Napoleon sat between the two Nemesis agents, which seemed to irritate Craig and gave Napoleon a little malicious pleasure. His left knee brushed Sharron's leg. His right knee did not brush Craig's leg. He knew he was being mischievous. Stirling was only being protective of Sharron. He would have felt the same way, though he doubted Sharron needed protection from anyone or anything.

 Napoleon's pen communicator beeped. It was Mr Waverly.

 "Mr Solo," he said, "you should be approaching your destination."

 "Minutes away, sir."

 "Very good. The situation is this, Mr Solo. It has been decided not to evacuate the facility, for two reasons. Firstly, the scientists believe they are very close to a cure for this lethal cold they have created and do not want to delay their work by moving themselves and all their equipment to another location. Secondly, after the unfortunate attempt to transport the Seed of Destruction itself to a new location, it has been deemed wiser to fortify the facility and make a stand there if necessary."

 "Do you know anything about the defensive strengths of the facility, sir?"

 "They are good, apparently. Much of it is underground and it's blast-proof, as much from the inside as the outside, I understand, given the nature of the experimentation done there. Also, it is generally well guarded, and that guard has now been supplemented by a large contingent of troops."

 "Good," said Napoleon. "They do know they're dealing with – " he glanced at Sharron

" – extraordinary human beings?"

 "They have been told to expect a formidable enemy."

 "Formidable." He looked at Sharron again. "Yes sir."

 "Would you like to fill us in on what's happening?" said Craig.

 He looked as if he would like to fill Napoleon in. Napoleon waved Craig away, signalling him to wait a minute.

 "I want you and the Nemesis agents in the heart of the facility," said Mr Waverly. "You have some experience of the enemy, so will be there in an advisory capacity. You'll also be a last line of defence, but let's hope you won't be needed."

 "Let's hope, sir," said Napoleon. He signed off.

 "So?" said Craig.

 "Think you could handle an army of superhumans?" said Napoleon.

 "Bring them on."

 Napoleon wanted to smile at the reply. He wanted to make it a joke with Craig, but found he couldn't. He wondered what was stopping him. Surely he wasn't jealous of the man's powers.

RICHARD reached the top of the slope and turned towards the silent stage. He looked out over a sea of bodies. All dead. They had all fallen where they stood as the virus swept over them, some dancing, some eating, some sleeping, some tripping, some making love. But all now dead. Richard focused on the stage. There stood the only other living person at Woodstock. The enemy, the bringer of death: Penman. He laughed, and the sound grew and fell like slivers of glass on Richard's ears.

 The Nemesis agent squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again it was to a shifting sea of people. The colours of their clothes and hair were muted by the mud in which they had been living for the past two days, but seemed vibrant nonetheless. On the stage, a band played. He didn't know their name, but the music sounded sweet.

 The vision of death had struck him for the first time in the helicopter when he had seen the multitude below them. Mingled with the horror was guilt at the knowledge he would survive, though survival in such circumstances seemed worse than death.

 He had to shake the vision, bury it so deep it couldn't intrude on his thoughts. If he was to stand any chance of picking Penman out of this crowd he needed his mind to be open and empty. Questions raised by his experiences in Tibet the previous year had led him to investigate Eastern religions and philosophy. If there was a place for Zen, he supposed a festival of peace and love was it. Becoming still among the seething hordes, he cleared his mind.

NAPOLEON was reunited with Agent Brown in a room that had been turned into a command centre in the heart of the Colsterworth Center for Communicable Diseases.

 The facility was buried deep in woodland. It was at the centre of a circle with a two-mile radius. The circle was formed by a six-metre high fence complemented by sound, motion and weight sensors. The fence was hung at regular intervals with "Private: Keep Out" signs which threatened that the full physical and legal weight of the United States government would come down on anyone who chose to ignore the instruction. One road led from the perimeter fence to the facility. This was regularly patrolled by heavily armed guards, and the surrounding woods were also crawling with security personnel. Any unauthorised flights over the facility would also trigger sensors that would prompt a radio warning. Should that be ignored, a ground to air missile would quickly follow. If anyone fought their way past all of these security measures they would come to a squat, single-storey building with one steel door, no windows and blast-proof walls. This was the tip of the research iceberg. Ninety percent of the facility was underground.

 Napoleon witnessed most of this for himself as he arrived, but Agent Brown had run through it for him anyway.

 "So," Agent Brown finished, "I think it's fair to say we're pretty much impregnable. By the way, Mr Solo, I should thank you for your input on this one."

His tone suggested that was exactly what he meant: he should, but he really didn't want to.

 "Think nothing of it," said Napoleon.

He introduced Sharron and Craig.

"You may be well defended against stealth attacks," said Craig, "But I'm not sure how well you'll cope with an army of superbeings that can force its way in and doesn't mind taking losses."

"Yes, well, that's what you three are here for, isn't it? You've tackled them before, though if you'd got the better of them we might not be in this situation. Would you care to advise us?"

"Do you have monitors?" asked Craig.

"Of course."

Brown led them to a semicircular console where a technician monitored a bank of a dozen TV screens. Four of these showed various shots of the outside of the facility. The others showed sections of the fence and stretches of woodland. There was little activity. Occasionally a guard would walk into view, then out again. But Napoleon, Craig and Sharron knew Thrush's superpowered army would come. This was the calm before the storm.

"So," said Brown. "Your advice?"

"We wait," said Craig.

"How close is the team here to creating an antidote?" asked Napoleon.

"You'd better ask the top man," said Brown.

He walked to another desk and picked up a phone.

"Professor Hayes, could you join us for a minute?"

Craig and Sharron heard the reply perfectly: "I don't have a minute, Agent Brown. My work is at a crucial stage."

"Then perhaps a few seconds of your valuable time," said Brown. "I have colleagues here from UNCLE and Nemesis who would like to know how your work is progressing."

"It isn't progressing at all while you keep me on the phone, Brown. If they must know what I'm doing, let them come through to me. But make sure they suit up first."

Craig and Sharron heard the click as Prof Hayes replaced the receiver.

"The Professor would be more than happy to let you view the work first hand," said Brown.

He missed the wry smiles that passed between Sharron and Craig.

"I'll go," said Napoleon. "You two keep an eye on developments here."

"We work for Nemesis, not UNCLE," said Craig.

"My apologies," said Napoleon. "Would you mind keeping an eye on developments here?"

"Not at all," said Sharron.

"Thank you," said Napoleon. "Both of you."

He was led into another room by another technician. Craig and Sharron returned their attention to the screens, as did Brown. All seemed to be as it had been.

"Did you see that?" said Sharron.

"What?" asked Brown.

"Someone leaped over that section of fence," said Craig, pointing to one of the screens.

"Leaped? I didn't see anything."

"He was fast."

"There's another one," said Sharron.

"Where?" said Brown. "What is this?"

"Can you show us more sections of the fence?" Craig asked the technician.

"Sure." Lengths of fencing appeared on all the screens.

"They're coming over all the way along," said Sharron.

"But I don't see anything!" said Brown.

"You need to know what to look for," said Craig.

"The motion sensors are setting off alarms, sir," said the technician.

Sharron looked at Craig with a worried expression that made her look vulnerable, even though she was anything but.

"It's started," she said.

NAPOLEON found that the top man was actually a top woman. Prof Amanda Hayes was petite and dark-haired, wore rimless spectacles on the end of her nose and was the most attractive boffin Napoleon had ever seen. She also wore a paper overall and a surgical mask, as did Napoleon. She looked up from the microscope she was peering into and pushed the glasses back up her nose. Several similarly dressed men and women worked behind her in the room.

 "I'm very busy," she said.

 "I can see that. Let me introduce myself. Napoleon Solo, UNCLE. I need to know how close you are to an antidote. Is there a hope we can combat the virus if my colleague is unable to prevent its release?"

 Prof Hayes stood up straight and approached Napoleon. He decided that if they all got out of this without catching a cold, if might be time to brush up on some of the science he had never grasped as a child.

 "We're very close, Mr Solo," said Prof Hayes. "Hours, perhaps only minutes from a solution."

 "I see. But you would then need to manufacture sufficient quantities to inoculate, well, the whole world. That would take, what? Days, weeks, months?"

 "We're a little brighter than that, Mr Solo. The virus, if it is released, will be released into the air. That is where we would combat it, with the release of an airborne antidote."

 "And that would save… everyone?"

 "Hardly, Mr Solo. There would still be great loss of live before our antidote killed the virus."

 "But millions would survive."

 "Yes."

 "And Thrush doesn't want that, making it even more imperative for them to destroy this facility. Would Thrush know what you were capable of?"

 "I don't know, Mr Solo. They're supposed to be your area of expertise. But they have their own scientists, I understand, so they might assume this is how we would try to solve our problem. Now, if you have no more questions, perhaps you'd like to go about saving the world in your way and I'll do it in mine."

 She returned to her microscope.

 Perhaps this wasn't the time to ask for her phone number, thought Napoleon. But later, if there was a later.

 Sharron burst into the room, without a mask or a paper overall.

 "Napoleon," she said. "They're here!"

EMPATHY, that was what was needed, thought Illya.

 He was also on the rise above the stage, but on the far side of the site from Richard, and the sheer weight of numbers had been driven home to him by the struggle to get that far. There was no way he would simply stumble across Penman. His only hope was to second-guess him. He sat down, not worrying about what the mud would do to his robe. Dirt was already creeping up from the hem, and he supposed a bit of grime helped make him look like he belonged. Besides, his own attire didn't matter: he had to step into Penman's shoes.

Harold Penman. Who was he? How would he act? He was a file clerk. He had spent his entire career working in windowless rooms, poring over dusty documents. During his time at Nemesis, at least, he had been aware of the adventures that waited in the world beyond his rows of filing cabinets, but he had never experienced that world himself. Clearly he had wanted to. Why else would he become a mole for Thrush? Then one of the world's best kept secrets had landed in his lap and suddenly he was the big man, the main attraction. The spotlight was on him.

This was his moment, but it wouldn't last. In a world full of superbeings, would the Thrush chiefs really allow Harold Penman to be any more than a superpowered file clerk? No, once he had served his purpose he would find himself in a new windowless room, and he must know it. So he would want to make the most of his brief, shining moment. There was no way he would simply crack open the Seed of Destruction in a quiet corner of the field. He would want centre stage.

Illya was already up and pushing his way towards the stage when Richard came through on the pen communicator.

"I think I've got him," said Richard. "He's moving towards the stage. So am I."

"See you there," said Illya.

It seemed they had both found a route into Penman's head, each in his own way.

NAPOLEON, Craig and Sharron watched chaos on the dozen monitors. Thrush soldiers and the US forces clashed in running battles throughout the forest.

 "We should be out there, helping," said Sharron.

 "We're supposed to be the last line of defence," said Napoleon.

 "Sharron's right," said Craig. "We won't need a last line if we get out there on the front line."

 "People are dying out there," Sharron said to Napoleon.

 She and Craig headed for the door.

 "Wait," said Napoleon. "People aren't dying out there. Thrush isn't trying to win. Those soldiers aren't trying to get in here."

 "I think you'll find," said Agent Brown, "that our boys are just doing a damn good job of keeping them out."

 "No," said Napoleon. "Watch."

 Sharron and Craig returned to the monitors.

 "There's a pattern," said Napoleon. "They're hitting and running, doing just enough to keep your boys busy without risking their own lives. But they're not pushing their advantage, they're not advancing."

 "He's right," said Craig.

 "Everything out there is a decoy," said Napoleon.

 "A decoy for what?" said Brown.

 "Are there any other ways into this place?" said Craig.

 "Of course not," said Brown.

 "What about the air conditioning and ventilation?" said Napoleon.

 "Well, of course, there are a couple of vents," said Brown. "They come out in the woods. But they are guarded twenty-four hours a day, they're crawling with alarms, the steel grills are embedded in concrete. You'd need artillery to get through them. Nothing we've seen out there could do it."

 "You haven't seen half of what's out there," said Craig. "Could a person pass through the vents?"

 "I… suppose so, at a squeeze."

 "Where do they enter the building?" asked Napoleon.

 "They branch off into several rooms," said Brown.

 "The lab?" said Napoleon. "Where Prof Hayes is."

 "Normally, the room is sealed tight during experiments," said Brown, "but sometimes ventilation is essential. So yes, there is a vent that can be opened into the main lab."

 Napoleon and the Nemesis agents had no more questions. They headed for the lab as one and burst in. Prof Hayes turned towards them with a glass slide in her hand.

 "What now, Mr Solo?"

 Before he had time to reply, a pair of booted feet kicked out a wire mesh in the ceiling and Adam Smith dropped to the floor, followed closely by Eve Jones, who landed nimbly at his side.

 "Well," said Adam. "If it isn't Mr Solo and friends, distressingly alive and well. But never mind, that won't last."

 "What on earth?" said Prof Hayes. "All of you people, out of my lab. Now!"

 Adam and Eve laughed. Adam reached out, lightning fast, and snatched the slide from the scientist. He smeared his thumb across the culture on the glass, then wiped it on his trousers.

 "Oh dear," he said. "That wasn't the cure, was it?"

 "No," said Prof Hayes. "That was mucus. And don't ask where the cure is, because nothing would make me tell you."

 Napoleon believed that might well be true.

 Adam looked at his thumb with distaste and rubbed it more vigorously on his trousers.

 "Never mind, darling," said Eve, patting his shoulder. "The cure's here somewhere, that's all we need to know. Let's trash the place."

 "Let's," said Adam. "And while we're at it, let's kill everyone."

 He swept his arm along a workbench, sending equipment crashing to the floor. Craig and Sharron leaped into the air, easily clearing the benches between them and their foes. Napoleon resorted to drawing his gun. The other scientists piled in on Adam and Eve, but were instantly tossed aside.

 "Mind my experiments," yelled Prof Hayes. "Or someone will be in real trouble."

"WHERE is he?" said Illya.

 He and Richard were standing twenty yards from the stage. Illya couldn't name the song the band was playing – he wasn't quite as hip as Napoleon might believe – but he knew his ears would ring with it later.

 "Close," said Richard. "Very close. Pinpointing him exactly is difficult because I don't want to let him know I'm here. I do sense him becoming increasingly agitated. I'd guess he's about to make his move."

 "And I think we can all guess where he's going to make – "

Feedback screamed through the speakers. Illya, Richard and everyone in a fifty-yard radius slapped their hands over their ears.

"Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen," called a voice through more screeching feedback.

Illya and Richard turned to see Penman on the stage, a microphone in one hand, the Seed of Destruction held high in the other. One band member sat on his backside where Penman had pushed him, but the others had recovered from their surprise and were moving in, and their roadies were on the stage.

"Back off," yelled Penman. "This is a bomb, a bomb unlike any other. I hold the end of your world in my hand."

The musicians and road crew stopped short.

"Wild," said someone near Illya.

"He's crazy. Rush him."

"No! He's serious, man."

"Is he with the band?"

Richard leaned close to Illya.

"He could just have broken that thing open without anyone knowing," he said. "He's superhuman now, and probably thinks he's invincible. Perhaps he could fight his way through this lot afterwards, but why take the risk?"

"He said in Tibet it was romance and flair that set villains like him apart," said Illya. "It's not. It's ego. He can't help himself. He needs to have his achievements recognised."

"I suppose we should be grateful," said Richard.

"I always am," said Illya.

"Don't anyone move," said Penman.

He swept the Seed round in a semi-circle to make sure everyone got a good look.

"It's a football," said someone.

"It's an egg."

"No, man, he said it was a bomb."

"Richard," said Illya, "can you make a twenty-yard jump from a standing start?"

"Let's find out. What will you be doing?"

"Improvising."

Richard bent his legs. He would have liked a firmer launchpad than the quagmire of the festival site, but it would have to do. He sprang forward and sailed over the heads of the crowd.

"Hey, get me some of what he's on," said someone.

Richard had aimed for Penman, hoping to knock him down and wrestle the Seed from him. But Penman saw him coming and, being every bit as fast as Richard, stepped out of the way. Richard hit the stage and rolled, getting to his feet quickly only to see Penman holding the Seed above his head.

"A stand-off," said Penman. "Except, oh look, I seem to be holding the only ace. It's so tiresome to find you still alive. Next time I'll settle for delivering a bullet in the brain."

Penman heard the soft footfall of a tennis shoe behind him and kicked out, catching the roadie creeping up on him in the midriff and launching him across the stage to crash through the skin of the bass drum.

"Time to finish this," said Penman. "I hate crowds and it's time this one, shall we say, dispersed."

He raised the Seed of Destruction as high above his head as he could. Richard was diving forward, hands outstretched, even before Penman flung the Seed downward, intending to smash it on the stage. Richard had his hands under the Seed, even felt it touch his fingers. But Penman had anticipated him and swung a kick at the Seed, striking it perfectly and sending it sailing over the heads of the crowd.

Illya watched its arc. He knew where it was going to land, but he also knew he couldn't reach the right place in time, not with the crush of people around him. Then, as if in answer to an unspoken prayer, everyone backed away from the spot where the Seed would land. The madman on the stage had said it was a bomb, and they wanted to be nowhere near it. For a moment Illya was pushed back by this hippie wave, then he was through it and running at full tilt to make the catch of his life.

And that's when he tripped on the hem of his robe. He was flung forward just an instant too soon, but he thought there was a chance he might still make the catch. He got his fingertips to it and fumbled it back into the air. As it turned lazily and clumsily above him he pushed himself forward, slithering through the mud and rolling onto his back at the same time. He caught the Seed an inch from his nose. He spun it through one hundred and eight degrees. As far as he could tell, it was intact.

"He's got the bomb," said someone.

"Will it go off?"

"Tell you what, you stick around to find out."

Illya stood up as the circle around him widened.

"Bravo!" Penman called from the stage. "Well caught, Mr Kuryakin. However, I'm afraid it was in vain."

Illya saw Richard was lying face down on the stage with Penman's foot on his neck and a pistol pointed at his head. The stage had cleared of musicians and road crew.

"Bring me the Seed of Destruction or I put a bullet through your friend's brain," said Penman.

"That's not a choice," Illya called back.

"No, reason would say not. One life against the lives of everyone on the planet. But I suspect you have an heroic nature, Mr Kuryakin. I believe you will refuse to accept the loss of even one life without a fight. Am I right, Mr Kuryakin?"

EVE had her hands around Sharron's throat and was doing her best to squeeze the life out of the Nemesis agent.

Napoleon had lost his gun somewhere in the melee. He had been reluctant to use it, anyway, fearing the reaction a stray bullet might trigger in a lab full of no doubt highly sensitive and quite probably dangerous materials. However, this was a fear he would have now overcome had he still possessed the gun, because Adam had him boxed into a corner and was pummelling him. Napoleon had no room to manoeuvre and no space to land a telling blow. All in all, things looked bleak.

Craig stood between the struggling Sharron and the helpless Napoleon, uncertain which to help. He looked across at Sharron. She was his colleague and – after what had happened to them and Richard – much more. They shared an intimacy no one else could hope to understand. He wondered if that was why he had been so annoyed by Solo's attempts to flirt with Sharron.  Probably, that and the fact he saw himself reflected in the UNCLE agent.

Go. Help him, said Sharron in his head. So he did.

He grabbed hold of Adam's shoulders and wrenched him away from Napoleon, tossing him across the lab where he slammed into a workbench and lay dazed for a moment. Prof Hayes, who had been taking cover at the far end of the bench, picked up a retort stand and dropped it on his head. The test tubes clamped to it shattered.

"What the hell," she said. "Everything's broken anyway."

Craig reached out a hand to Napoleon. The UNCLE agent took it.

"Thanks for the help," he said, as Craig pulled him to his feet. "Of course, I had the situation totally under control."

"Of course you did," said Craig, and they shared the smile Napoleon had wished they could have shared earlier.

Craig looked across at Sharron. She and Eve seemed not to have moved. Eve's fingers were still around Sharron's throat, but Sharron's fingers were clenched around Eve's wrists and she was slowly but surely winning this bizarre wrestling match. Gradually, Sharron forced Eve's arms apart, breaking the grip around her throat. Eve's arms were trembling under the strain. Finally, she could resist Sharron's strength no longer and in one swift movement her arms opened wide, leaving her vulnerable to attack. Still holding Eve's wrists, Sharron drew back her head then jerked it forward, headbutting Eve across the bridge of her nose. There was a sound like ice breaking.

Napoleon stared open-mouthed. Craig laughed and applauded.

"Good one, Sharron."

Sharron smiled back, sheepishly.

"I don't know what came over me," she said, "but this woman is really annoying."

She released Eve's wrists and delivered a kick to her chest, sending her crashing into a corner. Eve put a hand to her bloody nose. It was broken, but her superpowers meant it would heal quickly. Of course, there was every chance it would heal crooked.

Napoleon glanced over at Adam who was struggling to his feet.

"Knock him down again for me, would you?" he said to Craig.

Craig obliged.

"Let's parcel up the trash," he said.

Napoleon checked Prof Hayes and her fellow scientists were not seriously hurt, then, with cable provided by the professor, he and the Nemesis agents set about tying Adam and Eve up together. They were just finishing the job when Agent Brown walked in.

"Ah," he said. "You people seemed to have things well in hand in here, so I ordered up some reinforcements to help us in the grounds. There are a thousand troops on the way. We'll mop up out there."

"Do you have a Tannoy system that can broadcast in the grounds?" asked Napoleon.

"Yes. Why?"

"Tell them we have their leaders. It might help demoralise them."

"Tell them they've lost," said Prof Hayes. "Tell them we have the antidote."

Napoleon looked around the lab. He couldn’t see anything that wasn't broken beyond repair.

"We do?" he said.

Prof Hayes pulled a sealed glass dish from her coat pocket. Inside was what looked like a pink fungus.

"Do you really think I would have let you lot trash the place if this wasn't safe?" she said.

Napoleon didn't have a reply.

"Well," he said. "It's good to know we have the antidote, but if I know Illya Kuryakin we won't need it."

"And don't forget Richard Barrett," said Sharron. "He'll have a say in the matter."

"DON'T give it to him," yelled Richard as best he could with his face pushed into the stage.

 Illya was walking slowly towards the stage along a muddy path that had cleared of festival-goers as if by magic. Carrying the ultimate bomb meant never having to get stuck in a crowd, it seemed. Richard's instruction was unnecessary. He had no intention of giving the Seed to Penman. He would sacrifice Richard's life – and his own – if it meant keeping the Seed out of Penman's hands, but that wasn't a route he intended to take until he had exhausted every other option.

 Where were the government agents who had been sent in before he and Richard arrived? Surely they must have seen what was going on. But if so, there was no sign of them doing anything about it.

 Illya was almost at the stage and still had no plan beyond getting as close as possible to Penman and then trying to, what, jump him? He wasn't sure. He was open to suggestions. Even a little divine intervention wouldn't go amiss. Perhaps Penman would be struck by lightning.

 "Hold it right there. Nobody move."

 Illya looked around him. It seemed he would have to settle for government intervention. Six armed men, presumably the government agents, had their guns trained on him and the two men on the stage. Two were in the clearing that had formed behind Illya and two had appeared on each side of the stage.

 "Let's all take this nice and easy," said the agent, one of those on the stage, who had spoken earlier.

 "Thank God you're here," said Penman. "I'm Richard Barrett of Nemesis. These men are threatening to trigger that device." He pointed at the Seed of Destruction. "It would kill us all."

 "I'm Richard Barrett," said Richard, but it sounded less than convincing coming out of the side of his mouth as he lay flat on the stage.

 "This man's lying," said Illya. "He's an agent of Thrush. I'm Illya Kuryakin, of UNCLE."

 "Yeah, the guy on the stage is the mad bomber," said someone.

 "Yeah, but which guy on the stage," said someone else.

 "Nah, man, blondie here's the one with the bomb. Better watch him."

 "Quiet!" said the agent on the stage. "Like I said, let's take this nice and easy. You" – he indicated Illya – "get up here on stage, where we can all be one big happy family."

 The two agents behind Illya advanced on him and he felt the barrel of a gun in his back.

 "Hand over the egg, real slow," said one of them.

 "You're making a mistake," said Illya. "I am who I say, he is who I say."

 "Got ID?" said the agent.

 Illya hadn't. It had been taken with his clothes in Tibet. So had Richard's.

 "No, but – "

 "Then make nice with the egg. I'll shoot you if I have to."

 Illya handed over the Seed. He supposed there was no reason not to. It would be as safe with the government agents as with him, at least until the confusion was sorted out.

 "Be very careful with that," he said. "And whatever you do, don't give it to him."

 "On the stage, blondie."

 The agents ushered Illya to steps at the side of the stage and up to join the others. There were two agents on either side of the stage, Penman and Richard at the centre of the front and Illya with his guards off-centre at the front. Illya looked down at the crowd, most of whom stared back, as enthralled by this drama as they had been by the music. The agent who had first spoken – presumably the leader – addressed Penman.

 "Let that man up," he said. "We've got him covered now."

 "He's dangerous," said Penman. "He has physical and mental powers far beyond you or I."

 "Yeah, what's his name? Clark Kent? Let him up."

 "Is it a bird, is it a plane…" said someone in the crowd.

 "Very well," said Penman. "But if he makes a move, I suggest you shoot to kill."

 He removed his foot from Richard's neck and took a couple of steps backwards, but he didn't put his gun away. Richard slowly pushed himself to his feet.

 "No sudden moves," said the agent.

 "Hey, what's going on here?"

 Frank Johnson, the festival organisers' representative who had met Illya and Napoleon off the helicopter, strode onto the stage.

 "Who are you?" asked the leading agent.

 Johnson told him.

 "Do you know any of these men?" asked the agent.

 "I know these two. They're UNCLE and Nemesis agents."

 "Did they show you any ID?"

 "Well, no, but…"

 "Thank you, sir," said the agent. "Now, for your own safety, you should leave the area."

 Johnson backed off. He intended to make some calls and sort this out. A scene like this was the last thing he needed. The agents were momentarily distracted, watching Johnson back down the stage steps.

Penman seized the moment. He shot the agent holding the Seed. The man flew backwards off the stage, but even before he hit the ground Penman was diving after him. He landed on top of the man in the mud and came up seconds later with the Seed clutched close to his chest. He waved his gun around to keep the crowd at bay, then fired once wildly towards the stage, hitting an amplifier, which gave a horrible shriek of metallic noise.

Then he put the gun against the Seed.

"Now I must say farewell, gentlemen," he said. "Please don't follow me, you'll simply hasten everyone's demise." He backed into the crowd, which parted to let him pass.

"If you don't mind," he said to the crowd at large, "I'd appreciate some of you filling the gap to form a human shield so those nasty men up there don't try to shoot me."

One long-haired young man in dirty denims and a Grateful Dead T-shirt stepped in front of Penman.

"How dare you bring a gun here?" he said. "This is a festival of peace and we won't let you – "

Penman shot him in the leg. Others from the crowd rushed to his aid, unintentionally forming the shield Penman wanted.

"You've killed him!" screamed a woman.

"I don't think so," said Penman. "Not yet."

He put the nozzle of his gun to the Seed again and had begun to increase pressure on the trigger when something stopped him. He looked around uneasily. From somewhere an inexplicable sense of dread had fallen upon him.

On the stage, Richard stood straight and still.

IN the Colsterworth Center, Craig and Sharron exchanged glances, acknowledging they had each heard the same unspoken command.

 Give me your fear.

 They didn’t ask questions, trusting Richard to know what he was doing. Instead, they dug deep within themselves, raising fears long buried, experiences they had shared with no one before, not even each other. But they made these memories live again, shared them openly with each other, mingled them and passed them to their friend far away.

 "What's happening?" asked Napoleon, but he received no reply.

"WHAT'S happening?" asked Illya, but he expected no reply.

 Richard was doing something, reaching Penman in a way no other there could. Illya knew there was no way he could reach Penman on foot before he put a bullet through the Seed. Shooting him from the stage was also risky. It might not stop him putting a bullet through the Seed. A stray bullet could even hit the Seed, or one of the festival-goers that now virtually hid Penman from sight. But Richard had a way of bridging the hundred yards between him and the Thrush man in an instant.

 Richard felt sick. Although he had been sharing emotions and responses with his friends for the past year, he was still not yet entirely used to the experience. To feel the threat of danger for no apparent reason was always disorientating. Adrenaline would flood the body as the stress response kicked in, but there would be no release. Concern for the person whose feelings he shared was always accompanied by at least a slight feeling of physical sickness.

 That was magnified many times now as Craig and Sharron deliberately bombarded him with their darkest fears.

 But as he added his own fears to theirs and focused on Penman, he knew his discomfort was nothing compared to what the novice superhuman was feeling. His onslaught was relentless, and he had plenty of ammunition. In addition to the nightmares which were the legacy of some of his assignments for Nemesis he had the oh so present horror of the impending end of human life on earth to add to his arsenal. He began to sense the bombardment having an effect on his enemy.

 "Get him," he croaked.

 The words were barely audible, but Illya heard and understood. He jumped down from the stage.

 "Hey," called the lead agent behind him. "Where do you think you're going? Come back here."

 Illya ignored him.

SOMETHING was in Penman's head, and he couldn't get it out and he couldn't make it go away. It was like a sandstorm, a gale of fear and loathing whirled around his skull, lifting a billion grains of sand that scoured his brain. And he was in the centre of this storm, panic-stricken, immobilised by dread.

 Oh, but he knew where the storm had blown up from. Oh yes, he knew. And he would show them, he would show them he could ride this storm. And he knew the best way to show them.

 The hand holding the gun was pressing against his temple, trying to squeeze out the pain, but he knew that wouldn't work. No, the gun had to be somewhere else. It had to be on the Seed, and he had to pull the trigger. It was then he realised he couldn't see. Blinded by fear. He had heard the expression, like a rabbit caught in headlamps, but now it had really happened to him. He could not see through the storm.

 But the fear was not his. He had to keep telling himself that. He was not afraid. He was better than the Nemesis agents. He had read all their files, he had learned from their mistakes. He could outsmart them, them and the UNCLE men. All he had to do was put the gun to the Seed.

 He was dripping with sweat. Both the gun and the Seed threatened to slip from his fingers. And he was trembling, but he would not fail.

He found the Seed with the gun, the barrel chattering against the Seed's casing in his shaking hands. His greasy finger tightened on the trigger.

"I'll take that, thank you."

Illya lifted the Seed from Penman's grip. It popped free like slippery soap in a shower.

"And that," said Illya.

He took the gun, which was also slippery with sweat, from Penman. He dried the grip on his robe, then turned the barrel on Penman.

"Will you come quietly?" he said.

He had the distinct idea Penman was having trouble focusing on him.

"You can't do this to me," said the Thrush man. "I'm a superbeing."

Illya hooked his foot round Penman's ankle and tripped him. Penman landed on his rear in the mud.

"Hmm, if you say so," said Illya.

The government agents arrived, followed by a shaky Richard Barrett.

"I guess we owe you an apology," said the lead agent.

"Never mind," said Illya. "Just take this man into custody. And watch him, despite his current stupor he's a lot more dangerous than he looks."

The agent ordered his men to pull Penman out of the mud and keep a firm grip on him.

"Hey," he said to Illya, "I hope your report won't reflect too badly on us. After all, we weren't to know which of you was telling the truth. I mean – "

Illya held up a hand to stop the man's whining. He simply didn't want to hear it.

"Let's just get out of here and let these people enjoy their music," he said. "Let's give peace a chance. What do you say?"

The agents led Penman away. On the stage, a couple of roadies were tentatively sticking their heads out from the wings. Illya turned to Richard.

"That was pretty impressive," he said. "Whatever it was. How do you feel?"

"Tired," said Richard.

"You need rest and relaxation. You need a quiet night out with good company and great food. And I know just the place."

They walked off through the crowd, Illya supporting Richard, and peace descended once more on what was left of the Woodstock festival.

"WHAT happened?" said Napoleon. "Are you all right?"

 "We're all tired," said Sharron.

 "But everyone's OK, and they got Penman," said Craig. "Before he cracked the Seed."

 "I never had any doubt," said Napoleon.

 "Apparently, Illya is suggesting we all unwind at a little restaurant he knows in New York," said Sharron.

 "Sounds good to me," said Napoleon. "And if it's Illya's choice, you can be sure the portions will be generous. You're not in any hurry to return to Geneva, are you?"

 Sharron looked at Craig.

 "No," he said. "No hurry."

 "Great," said Napoleon. "Just give me a minute."

 He went over to Prof Hayes.

 "You were wonderful during the, er, disturbance," he said. "I'll have to give a full account of your role in my report and it would be helpful if I knew where to reach you, just in case I need to clarify details, you understand."

 "I'm always here, Mr Solo," she said. "Agent Brown can give you the number."

 She gave him a smile that held a challenge. Napoleon smiled back. He was always up for a challenge.

 As he followed Sharron and Craig out of the lab, Brown stopped him at the door.

 "Solo," he whispered. "How did those two know what was happening in Woodstock?"

 "Radio earpieces," said Napoleon. "This big."

 He held his thumb and index finger about a quarter of an inch apart.

 "You mean you don't have one?" he said. "I thought they were standard issue these days. I'd have a stern word with my superiors if I were you."

 As Brown pondered that advice, Napoleon left, but not without memorising the number written on the phone in the control room.

The following day

"I DIDN'T know there were any British restaurants in New York," said Richard.

 "I didn't know there were any British restaurants period," said Napoleon.

 But Illya had found one. They were in the Union Jack on 51st Street. The walls were adorned with Union Flags and the Cross of St George, along with huge photographs of the Tower of London, Carnaby Street and other swinging London scenes. The menu included such English delicacies as steak and kidney pie, cod and chips, mushy peas and black pudding.

 "What the hell's black pudding?" asked Craig.

 "Don't ask," said Richard.

 "It's delicious," said Illya.

 "Does this remind you of home?" asked Sharron.

 "I'm Russian," said Illya.

 "Oh, I'm sorry."

 "It's an easy mistake to make," said Napoleon. "It's his breeding, and he did study at Cambridge. So, who's going to try the black pudding?"

 And so the conversation continued through a surprisingly acceptable meal, until it turned back to work over coffee.

 Adam and Eve and many of the Thrush soldiers who had attacked the Colsterworth Center were in custody, along with Penman. His record of Thrush personnel made in Tibet had been found and would no doubt prove extremely helpful in leading UNCLE to Thrush agents around the world.

 It also pointed the way to the location of hundreds of women who had been kidnapped for use as superhuman breeding stock in Thrush's brave new world. Releasing them was the top priority of a joint UNCLE/Nemesis operation that was already under way.

 "That's one file Penman's going to wish he never opened," said Napoleon.

 "Our files kind of got us into this mess," said Craig. "We don't want to create the potential for another one with our reports of this affair."

 "What we're saying," said Richard, "is that we'd really appreciate it if you two could keep any reference to our, em, abilities out of your reports."

 "You don't even have to ask," said Napoleon. "Let's see if we can come up with a story we're all happy with."

 He caught a waitress's eye.

 "More coffee here, please," he said.

 "And another helping of spotted dick," added Illya.

One month later

A PLANE with no commercial, military or state insignia flew over Tibet. It returned day after day for a week during daylight and darkness. On one of these sorties, an observer believed he saw lights below, but a second and third run over the same area revealed nothing and the sighting was put down as a mirage created by staring at snow too long.

 The men who sent the plane had read the reports of the UNCLE agents Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin and the Nemesis operatives Craig Stirling, Richard Barrett and Sharron Macready concerning their time in Tibet. Neither UNCLE nor Nemesis was aware these reports had been seen by an outside agency. Disappointingly, the reports held nothing to suggest where the enhanced physical abilities displayed by captive members of Thrush had come from. And Thrush's people weren't saying, despite being introduced to the agency's most persuasive operatives.

 The enhancement had proved temporary in all but three of the captives. Those three would be subjected to what Agent William Brown described as "intimate scrutiny" should the source of their powers not be discovered elsewhere.

 Still, the agency had no doubt that source lay in Tibet, so after the aerial survey revealed nothing, ground forces were sent in. They scoured the land for a month and saw nothing, though they themselves were observed closely and constantly.

Finally, they left, empty-handed, and an old man in an orange robe watched them go.

  -----------------------------------

Authors love feedback.

To send Martin Feekins a note, click below: Martin Feekins