Act I

One

    The note was simple, yet perplexing.

IK:

    Have emergency personal matter to which I must attend. You'll have to mind the store for a few days.

                                                                          Solo

    I pondered Napoleon's blasted American slang for a moment. "Mind the store." Evidently, his instructions were for me to substitute as chief enforcement agent of U.N.C.L.E. -- United Network Command for Law and Enforcement to you -- in his absence. A logical step being that I am the number two enforcement agent. That was the simple part of the message. The perplexing? It was wholly out of character for Napoleon Solo to bolt like this without telling anyone.

     The previous day, Napoleon had conducted himself in his normal manner -- briskly getting paperwork out of the way to concentrate on target shooting and flirting with the U.N.C.L.E. secretaries.  Toward the end of the day, he had raised the possibility of us going to dinner together. I assumed it was merely because he had been unable to schedule a date with one of his many dalliances. But around five, I remembered, he had taken a call in his office. He was still on the line at five-thirty. Since he had set no firm plans, I went ahead and left, figuring one of his many lady friends had sought to remedy that blank spot on Napoleon's social calendar.

    Looking again at the handwritten message, I pondered what had occurred. Despite the many years we've worked together, Napoleon Solo is not one to talk much about his personal life. In part, that's because the U-N-C-L-E really does not permit its enforcement agents to have much of one. That never seemed to bother Napoleon in the past, though on occasions I've observed the occasional moment when a woman was able to penetrate the glib remarks and quick wit. But, even then, it never prevented Napoleon from getting the job done. I suppose that's the one thing we have in common that transcends our many differences -- the job has always come first and foremost.

    That's partly why this note was so bothersome. U.N.C.L.E. has its bureaucracy, like any large organization, and one of its rules concerns taking a leave for whatever reason. Forms must be filled out, papers filed, et cetera. For a moment, I considered just calling him using my U.N.C.L.E. communications device. But that would have meant patching the message through the communications section, which would monitor and record the transmission. I had an odd feeling that would not be a good thing to do, at least not yet.

    I got up from the desk and walked down the hallway toward the office of Alexander Waverly, the number one of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section One. I didn't plan on bothering Mr. Waverly -- he prefers to be addressed in a formal manner and it's difficult for me to refer to him in any other way -- with this. But I thought someone at that end of the building might be able to help me.

    I arrived at an outer office area, where a tall brunette woman placed some papers in a file. She looked up, her brown eyes focusing on me.

    "Good morning, Illya," said Lisa Rogers, Mr. Waverly's secretary. "Do you need to see Mr. Waverly?"

    "I don't think it's advisable at the moment," I replied. "Do you have a copy of the Y form for Napoleon?" This was U.N.C.L.E. shorthand for a report an enforcement agent must file when they are going on vacation or some such.

    "What Y form?" Lisa said, an odd tone to her voice.

    I grimaced. I suppose I should have invented some fanciful story right then and there but decided for the open approach. I took the sheet of paper from the breast pocket of my suitcoat and handed it to Lisa.

    "Mr. Solo hasn't requested or received any vacation or leave time," Lisa said. Her use of the courtesy title meant she was speaking in the voice of U.N.C.L.E. officialdom. "Where did you find this?"

    "On my desk, this morning."

    "This is highly irregular," Lisa said, as she started to buzz Mr. Waverly.

    "Perhaps we should wait," I said as I placed my right hand in front of the intercom. "I am sure there is a simple explanation."

    "Mr. Kuryakin, you know regulations as well as I do," Lisa said.

    "Of course," I said. "By the way, do you have some blank Y forms?"

    "Certainly, but..."

    "Please hand one to me."

    Lisa had a puzzled look on her face but complied with my request. I took a pen from the breast pocket of my dress shirt -- a real pen, not the U.N.C.L.E. communications device -- and filled out the form in Napoleon's name. In the space listing the reason I scrawled, "R&R."

    "I believe Mr. Solo has ample time off to accommodate this request," I said.

    "Mr. Kuryakin, if Mr. Solo has gone missing..."

    "Then we'll handle that situation when it arises," I said, interrupting. "Generally, defectors don't leave notes behind and kidnap victims don't get the opportunity to do so. In any event, I'll determine if he's gone missing or is merely being excessively playful today."

    Lisa sighed. I could feel the brown eyes probing me. "I should have my head examined. I'll give you to the end of the day to make a determination."

    "Thank you," I said. "You won't regret it."

    "Must be the blue eyes," she said, muttering as she returned to the file she was working on.

    I turned away. I have been told my blue eyes have an effect on women but I am sure she was merely exaggerating.

    An hour later, I walked into the Aley Travel Agency and asked for Winifred. I was probably the only person inside of U.N.C.L.E. who knew about Napoleon Solo's secret weapon, his travel agent who was very adept at navigating the bureaucracy of airlines and finding ways for Napoleon to use his numerous frequent flier credits so he could upgrade coach tickets to first class.

    I was directed to a desk. There saw a blonde woman, wearing a red dress which she filled out quite nicely. Just Napoleon's type.

    She was turning away from a computer terminal at her desk and then looked toward me. She seemed to perk up, though I wasn't quite sure why.

    "May I help you?"

    "Yes, I am Illya Kuryakin. I am a friend of Napoleon Solo's."

    "Oh yes, I've booked flights for you when you were traveling with Nap, er, Mr. Solo. What can I do for you?"

    "Napoleon left town in a hurry," I replied. "He neglected some vital paperwork before he departed and I just need to get a copy to him."

    "Well, yes, I booked something for him late yesterday afternoon. Had to stay after work to do it," Winifred said. "But I'm afraid that's confidential."

    "It's really quite important I reach him."

    She looked at me intently. "How important?"

    "Very."

    Winifred smiled for a moment. "Well, if you say so."

    "I do."

    "I wish," she said.

    "Pardon?"

    "Never mind," she said, writing on a message pad. "He took TransGlobal Flight Ninety-Three late last night to Rome. It was quite a hassle to get him on. With such short notice, I had to book him a seat in the coach section."

    Well, Napoleon really must have thought it was important to fly coach, I thought, but didn't say so.

    "After reaching Rome, he was to travel to the eastern coast of Italy to catch a boat," she said. "Here's the information. I don't know much about his ultimate destination. He didn't have me book a hotel there or anything."

    She handed me the paper. It had the name of a ship, one that would have left in the early afternoon today, Rome time. I ran the time difference in my head. Napoleon was probably already on that boat. I kept reading until I saw the name of a coastal town in Terbuf.

    I winced and Winifred noticed.

    "Something wrong, Mr. Kuryakin?"

    "No, just a small pain. Thank you very much for your time."

    As I re-entered the agents entrance to U.N.C.L.E. at Del Floria's, I tried to remember what I had said to Napoleon years ago in Terbuf. "Ah love, love. The dangers it leads men into."

    He had gone to see her, of course. Clara Valdar, formerly Clara Richards, a one-time love of his. Though neither of them said much, I could tell it had been a serious affair. The most information I could obtain is that Napoleon's work at U.N.C.L.E. had driven them apart and she had married a landowner in Terbuf. She had sought his help when a friend of hers, a gypsy, was being hunted by Terbuf's secret police. It turned out the head of that unit was secretly stealing the country's foreign aid for his own purposes -- and the gypsy, named Emil, had come across evidence of this malfeasance. Clara thought Napoleon could help. I went along, knowing my friend's judgment might be clouded by emotion. The affair was more complicated than that, of course. For one thing Mr. Valdar was part of the plot. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say we got Emil and both Valdars out of the country, though Clara still wasn't aware of her husband's crimes.

        Within a few months, a new reform regime was installed and Emil returned to Terbuf. I never heard what had become of the Valdars. But I could only assume Clara must have returned if Napoleon was going there now. God only knows there would be no other reason for him to travel to Terbuf, an uninviting, rocky place.

    As I took my badge from the receptionist, I considered what to do. Somehow, I felt Napoleon wouldn't appreciate me calling him on his U.N.C.L.E. communicator, and it was not a call I particularly wanted recorded by the communications staff anyway.

    I must have been more lost in thought than I imagined because suddenly I saw Mr. Waverly in the middle of the hallway.

    "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, looking up from a clipboard he was carrying. "I was looking for Mr. Solo, but you'll do. I need a courier assigned to make a run to Europe. Geneva. The documents involved are mostly routine, but I'd prefer a personal delivery. Probably one of the younger men can handle it. Mr. Kapiloff, perhaps. I'll leave it to your discretion."

    He handed me a packet and walked on his way before I could respond. I felt myself arching my own eyebrows. If I followed my sudden impulse, it wouldn't exactly be disobeying orders. After all, Mr. Waverly did leave the matter up to my own discretion.

    I walked to my desk, picked up the telephone and called Winifred. "Hello, this is Mr. Kuryakin. It so happens I have a quick trip to book. Can you get me on a flight to Geneva? Yes, and could you also look into how I might get to Terbuf from there?"

***

    Ten minutes later, I went by Lisa Rogers' desk.

    "I am quite convinced Mr. Solo has attended to a personal matter. I can only conclude he was in a hurry and forgot to file form Y," I told her.

    "Have you reached him?"

    "Not yet."

    "Mr. Kuryakin, you know regulations," she said with the voice of bureaucratic authority. "I am going to have to inform Mr. Waverly. For all we know, Mr. Solo could be in Thrush Central right now."

    "Do you really believe that?"

    She sighed. "No, but that's why we have the regulation in the first place. A sudden, unexplained departure by one of the highest-ranking people in this agency? You have to admit it's unusual."

    "You have your form Y."

    "The one you filled out? You know what Mr. Waverly will say if he sees such an obvious forgery?"

    "Then don't show him."

    "Illya," she said, exasperation in her voice. This was Lisa's own concern bubbling out. "Do you know what you're asking me to do?"

    "I believe it's called deception," I said. "And I don't much like it, either. But this is all relatively harmless, even if unorthodox. I took the liberty of sending you a delayed e-mail. This time tomorrow, you'll receive a full explanation. At least everything I know now."

    "We could simply try and raise Mr. Solo on his communicator."

    "Yes, at which time the communications section will record it and it goes on the record that he left suddenly and without authorization. Perhaps a suspension, maybe something worse, though with his years of service I would hope it would not come to that."

    "Illya," she said, again reverting to personal concern. "Do you know what you're asking?"

    "Yes," I said. "To do the right thing."

    She sighed. "It must be the blue eyes."

    Odd, that was the second time she said that today. But I'm sure she was only exaggerating.

***

    The next twelve hours were harried and uncomfortable. The trip to Geneva was dreadful. At one point, a falling laptop computer hit me on the head. The device was forced out of the overhead compartment when some buffoon tried to cram in a huge carry-on bag. As a result, I was in a bad humor the entire flight. I took my only solace in a Guiness I consumed on the flight.

    As the plane flew over the Atlantic, I again replayed in my mind the scene in Terbuf when Napoleon and I departed with Emil and the Valdars. Napoleon and Clara, who had been captured by the secret police, were handcuffed. The arrangements in the small boat were awkward as Clara tended to her wounded husband while she was still chained to my friend. At one point, Napoleon tried to use his chained hand to touch his brow, yanking Clara's hand, though the woman was oblivious to the fact.

    "We'll break the chain when we get to Italy," I told Napoleon.

    "There's no hurry," he said wistfully. "It's really holding nothing together." It was not until that moment I was sure Napoleon had finally put his affection for Clara in the past. The rest of the journey occurred in virtual silence, with Clara occasionally saying reassuring things to her husband but nothing else to Napoleon. I could feel his discomfort but also could tell he was in no position to discuss the matter. I busied myself instead in helping to navigate the boat. After we reached Italy and broke the chain, Napoleon and Clara told each other brief good-bye, but the farewell was only a verbal one. No kiss, not even a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. For all these years afterward, the name of Clara Valdar had never come up again.

    Until now, I thought. Napoleon, on occasion, can be impulsive. But most of the time he plays life like he plays chess -- often seeing moves ahead of where the game stands at this moment. To only scrawl a quick handwritten note made no sense. Then again, very little did about any of this.

    I looked at my watch. The flight was nearly half over and I had not slept. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and reclined the seat. Nothing I could do here would change anything. But I let out a quick, silent curse aimed at Napoleon before I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

Two

    Geneva was quite routine, not only with the plane's landing but with customs. I made sure I delivered the packet of documents immediately after departing the airport. I may be using a business trip to conduct a personal matter, but I wanted to make sure the business got done first. It took the better part of an hour to find the neighborhood of small shops and eateries, never mind where, that contained the secret entrance to the Geneva station. The office chief, a woman named Elaine Benson, seemed a bit surprised as I handed her the packet.

    "Mr. Kuryakin, I wasn't expecting such a senior agent to be a courier," she said as she removed the glasses. Her salt-and-pepper hair was drawn up. Her hazel eyes squinted at me for a moment.

    "Occasionally, even the most senior among us are drawn to routine tasks," I said.

    "Well, after your long journey, you must be tired or in need of refreshment."

    "Nothing, thank you," I replied. "I'm in need of making a side trip while I am here. So I probably should not remain too long."

    "Anything I should know about?" Ms. Benson said. Perhaps it's the tone Mr. Waverly sets, but I am in the habit of using courtesy titles with almost every U.N.C.L.E. administrator.

    "It is not a matter for this station," I said, certainly not lying. "I should be leaving now."

    Ms. Benson put on her glasses and gestured toward the door. Her lack of comment wasn't reassuring. What if she contacts Mr. Waverly? I wondered. Part of the bureaucratic mind-set is to involve yourself even if it's an affair that doesn't matter your attention. What if Ms. Benson suddenly believes there is a major operation that she feels she should know about?

    My schedule was tight and I put the matter out of my mind. You cannot unring a bell. And this bell had been tolling for twenty-four hours.

***

    The trip to Terbuf made the flight to Geneva seem pleasant by comparison. Winifred had managed to book passage from Geneva to Albania by way of Budapest. The planes were small, bumpy and uncomfortable. While hardly the worst conditions under which I have traveled, at least on those occasions I knew it was for a good cause, or at least an understandable one. I still could not comprehend what the devil Napoleon thought he was doing. During the second leg of the flight, when the aircraft hit four or five air pockets in succession, I occasionally cursed my friend, and not always silently. By this time, I had consumed nearly the entire day. I got into the grubby airport at Tirane just after six .

    By seven-thirty, I made it to the train station. I had to wait ninety minutes before the train to Terbuf arrived. During that time, I could smell the stench of the internal security forces. While the Cold War ended years ago, old habits die hard and the Balkans are a place where observing travelers is all too common, an activity performed with an unhealthy amount of energy. I suppose someone not in my line of work would not be so offended. But to me, the Albanians were so ham-handed -- one of them even smoked his cigarette with a cigarette holder as if he were trying to call attention to himself -- that I found the whole thing almost laughable. I caught myself, however, from lapsing into overconfidence. While the cigarette man, as I started calling him, appeared to have no backup, that didn't mean he was alone.

    Finally, the old train headed for Terbuf creaked to a stop. I carried my one small bag onto the train and found my seat.

    What was I doing here? I wondered as I waited for the train to fire up its steam engine once more. Being alert, I waited to see if any Albanian security men entered the compartment, but there were none. After approximately twenty minutes, the train began its long, slow acceleration. If this had been a more-developed portion of Europe, I would have been tempted to rent an automobile and drive the narrow mountain passages. But I didn't want to draw my superior's attention to my activities any more than I had already. Napoleon sometimes refers to Mr. Waverly as the old fox. Surely, the old fox was aware by now that his number two enforcement agent had undertaken the task meant for a junior operative. I shook off the thought. It was hard enough to figure out the old fox -- er, Mr. Waverly -- under normal circumstances. There was no sense engaging in hypothetical mental exercises. Well all but one. I imagined what I might do if I found out that Napoleon had simply made a pleasure trip to romance Clara Valdar. Would I shoot him first or strangle him?

Three

    It was nearly five in the morning when the train pulled into the Terbuf station. I had caught perhaps four hours of sleep during the overnight trip. But I felt somewhat refreshed, perhaps feeling my curiosity over Napoleon's odd behavior might at long last be answered. At the station, I went to the rest room here simply called a W.C., for water closet. At a toilet stall, I closed the door and changed into what Americans refer to as casual clothing. It was a simple outfit, a black turtleneck and jacket with navy pants. I also switched to a pair of boots from the dress shoes I had worn. Terbuf was well populated with gypsies and I didn't want to put them off. I had a feeling contact with them might prove useful.

    I walked into the small town. It was still quite early and there were no signs of public transportation. Also, I wanted to see if I was being followed. While Terbuf was now regarded as a relatively democratic country -- at least for the Balkans -- I knew I could not relax my guard. What is more, I traveled a circuitous route to my destination. Satisfied I was not being followed, I approached the Cafe Flora just before seven. From my previous travels here, I knew this was a place where gypsies gathered.

    The door was not locked. I eased in, and saw a large man with curly black hair, mustache and dark complexion cleaning a counter.

    "Hey mister, we are not open for another five minutes," the man grunted. Then his eyes widened and he smiled. "My apologies, I did not recognize you, Mr. Kuryakin."

    I had encountered this man before, during the Terbuf affair. I thought hard for a moment and came up with the name. "There is no need to apologize, Krolik. It has been some time."

    "Are you here to see your friend, the American?"

    "Yes, where is he?"

    "It is so sad. A gypsy is no stranger to tragedy. But even a gypsy can still feel the need to shed a tear."

    "What are you talking about? Is Mr. Solo all right?"

    Krolik looked puzzled. "You do not know?"

    "Is Mr. Solo all right?" I said, detecting anxiety in my own voice.

    "I suppose he is," Krolik said. "But I think it is better if I show you. Then you will understand."

    I sighed but knew better than to protest. A gypsy tells what he knows when he is ready and not before. So I said nothing as Krolik grabbed a coat and gestured to me to follow.

    Twenty minutes later, Krolik and I approached a large house. I did not remember this structure from my previous journey here, but I saw a faded sign that said "Valdar" on its front gate. Krolik had been silent the entire time and I did not press him, though my own nervousness began to rise as we approached the front door. Krolik knocked three times before a rotund, clean-shaven man opened the door.

    "Mr. Kuryakin." Emil said. He looked somewhat tired but there was emotion in his voice as if he were addressing an old friend. The gypsy was quite a likable sort and I found myself glad to be in his company once more. "It is good that you come. I think your friend could use your help."

    "I'm sorry, but I am a bit confused," I said.

    "Mr. Solo -- he has been with her all night. It is getting close to the end, I am afraid."

    I walked in and put down my bag in a chair. "I assume by her you mean Clara Valdar," I said.

    "She calls herself Clara Richards once more," Emil said. "She divorced her husband after the authorities discovered his role in the theft of the foreign aid contributions. The courts were in no position to be charitable to Stefan Valdar. She took possession of this farm."

    I recalled Krolik's comments. A gypsy is no stranger to tragedy. But even a gypsy can still feel the need to shed a tear.

    "Is the Richards woman ill?"

    "I am not sure what the Westerners call it, but she has almost no control over her muscles any more. She cannot eat solid food. She has wasted away. The doctors can do no more for her..."

    "Where are they?" I said.

    Emil pointed to the stairway and led me to a bedroom. He merely nodded his head. So I opened the door quietly. Near a large widow was a bed. I recognized Clara Richards, despite the gaunt appearance of her face. Her hair was still a striking shade of red. She slept but her breathing was quite labored. Off to the left sat Napoleon Solo, dozing in a large chair. There were bags under his eyes and, if I didn't know better, I would have sworn he had been crying. His head tilted slightly to the side. He seemed to be in a deep sleep despite the bright light coming through the window.

    I approached Napoleon cautiously. His gray suit was crumpled and wrinkled. Obviously he had slept in it all night. His face had a day's growth of beard.

    I turned to Emil, who seemed to read my thoughts. "He has not changed clothes since he arrived," Emil said softly. "He has spent almost the whole time here, except for an occasional walk."

    I gently nudged Napoleon. He squinted his eyes and finally opened them. It seemed to take him a minute to focus. "Illya?" he said weakly. "What the hell? You're supposed..."

    "To be minding the market," I interrupted.

    "Minding the store," he said.

    "Whatever," I replied. "And it's generally considered bad form for departing agents not to fill out form Y. It tends to make those who are security conscious suspect all sorts of devious behavior."

    "Crap," Napoleon said as he rubbed his eyes and face. "Forgot all about it. I probably wasn't thinking too clearly."

    "Was this the subject of the telephone call you received two days ago? The personal matter you referred to in the note?"

    "Yes," he said, standing up. "It was a message that Clara is...is..."

    "Dying," I said as softly as I could, not wanting to wake the sleeping woman.

    "Dying," he repeated. "A lot of old emotions came back. I should have called in but I really wasn't thinking."

    "Do not concern yourself about that now, my friend," I said, feeling a bit guilty about the anger I had felt during the long trip to Terbuf.

    Napoleon began to squint at me. "So how did you get here?"

    "A courier's job opened up and Mr. Waverly said it was up to my discretion concerning who was assigned the task. So I selected an intelligent and experienced operative. Unfortunately, the destination was only as far as Geneva. It's a bit of trip from Switzerland to here."

    "Illya, I'm sorry, but you didn't..."

    Just then, Clara Richards began to stir. She opened her eyes but it appeared it took a superhuman effort for her to do so. "Napoleon?"

    "I'm here, Clara," he said, turning toward the woman.

    "I know I'm not very good company," she said.

    Napoleon bent over and held her right hand. "Don't underestimate yourself," he said.

    "Is that your friend, the one who helped us years ago?" The words came haltingly.

    "Yes, it seems I played hooky and he's the truant officer," Napoleon said, trying to smile.

    "Don't tell me I got you into trouble."

    "No, Illya is just being a friend," he said.

    "You know, I really did make a mistake turning you away all those years ago."

    Napoleon shook his head. "You mustn't think that. A wise man once said to me, 'Don't think too much of what might have been. Things are what they are.'"

    I swallowed hard, the memory beginning to lodge sideways in my throat.

    "I know," she said, managing a weak smile. "It's just we would have been so good together."

    "We still are," he said.

    She stopped smiling. "Oh my," she said. Just then her hand went limp in Napoleon's. My friend bit his lip for a second. He lay the hand down and felt for a pulse. I could tell he found none. The eyes remained open, of course, but I had seen death too many times not to recognize its presence in the room. Napoleon knelt beside the bed, placing his head on her shoulder.

    I turned away. Emil and Krolik had retreated from the room. I walked out the door, closing it softly behind me, not looking back. Just outside, the two gypsies got up from chairs they had set up in the hallway. Both had their mouths agape until Emil broke the silence.

    "Is she..."

    "I'm afraid so," I said. "I suggest we leave him alone for a few minutes. I suppose we will have to make some sort of burial arrangements."

    "Mr. Solo has already done so, it was one of the few things he did besides sit in there with her," Emil said. "The church is small, but I imagine there will be a great many people. Clara Richards was a friend of my people."

    "Yes, I know," I said, looking back for a moment at the door to the bedroom.

    "I can notify the mortician," Krolik said. "It is a short walk from here."

    "Certainly," I said. The three of us walked slowly down the stairs. Krolik went out the front door and I motioned to Emil to stay.

    "You have questions, eh?" Emil said.

    "Yes," I replied. "How long?"

    "The first pains occurred not that long after you and Mr. Solo were here before," he said. "It did not seem that consequential at the time. But shortly after she and Stefan Valdar divorced, the pain began to itensify. She developed trouble walking."

    "Multiple sclerosis," I said. Pointing upstairs, I added: "How long as he known?"

    "A little over a year ago, Clara began to need a great deal of assistance. Some of my people would come and perform routine tasks she could no longer do. I looked in on her one day and she began to talk about Mr. Solo. I told her he should know of this. She begged me not to tell."

    "And did you?"

    "Her eyes told another story," Emil said. "I got a message to him. It was not easy."

    Napoleon, of course, had said nothing to me. I tried to recall when this must have occurred but I was starting to feel weary again and it was hard to concentrate.

    "He arrived shortly thereafter, but he could only stay one night," Emil continued. "She said she did not want to see him at first -- she did not want to see what had happened to her. But she relented. I think they may have talked all night, I am not sure. I know she seemed more at peace after his visit. But before he left Terbuf, Mr. Solo approached me. He gave me instructions on how to contact him. He made me swear I would reach him before the end."

    "It was you who telephoned him the other day," I said, a statement not a question.

    "It was I," Emil replied. "I should go help Krolik with the mortician. You should stay. I am sure your friend will appreciate your company."

            Emil turned and left, saying nothing as he departed.

    I slumped into a couch. I suppose Napoleon had always had feelings for Clara. He must have, to simply drop what he was doing to come all this distance. I felt embarrassed by my suspicions and complaints about his actions. I simply felt happy to be able to call him my friend.

    Just then, I heard the whine of my U.N.C.L.E. communications device. I took the pen device out of my pocket and set up to receive a message.

    "Open Channel D," I said.

    "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. I see you took that courier assignment upon yourself," Mr. Waverly said from thousands of miles away.

    "Yes sir," I said.

    "I trust there were no incidents."

    "None, sir," I said.

    "Good. The Rome office could use your assistance on a small matter. Can you be there in, say, two days?"

    "Certainly, sir."

    "Good. Please remind Mr. Solo, when it's appropriate, the standard bereavement leave is three days. After that, we should have to take any time out of his vacation allotment. Also, I will need him back here by Tuesday in any event. That's five days from now. Waverly out."

    I stared at the device. In a split second, many questions ran through my mind. Had the old fox known all along? If so, how? Was it only coincidence he should call now? I shook the feeling off, remembering a quote I heard at the U.N.C.L.E. training school. You can no more try to figure out or anticipate Waverly than you can capture an ocean. I looked at my watch and figured I would wait another few minutes to see if I could help my friend.

THE END

To Continue to 'The Land of the Living Affair"

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